Both doors flung open, the effect was immediate; silence creating as if someone tripped on a cord powering the chorus of small talk. A rough nut calling Randy Rabbit, at the third card table quietly leaned forward to whisper at his companion Cotton, while taking a quick squiz at her cards and bosom, ‘That’s N N Wattle, from Cut Bank, don’t mess with him. He’s meaner than a rattlesnake on heat. Killing things up there is as natural as digging for spuds in Idaho. I saw him kill six women over in Oregon, shot them like dogs for crying at their men folks' funeral. They say he reckoned those guys weren't worth crying over. For Christ-sake don’t look at him he’s liable to shoot me too.”

N N Wattle, slowly moved the short distance to the bar, he had one of those exaggerated, slow, packing heavy, constantly turning, at times walking backwards, walks; a walk used by all who live with an expectation of being shot in the back by a lesser villain. He parked his frame at the bar, one foot on the spittoon, torso resting on an elbow, an eye and a half scanning a skilfully positioned mirror behind the top row of half filled bottles.

The barman approached his demeanour confident, outgoing even. “What’ll it be stranger,” he said as he placed a whiskey glass down, pulled a cork with his teeth, before leaning forward to use the spittoon just inches from N N Wattle’s foot. A dangerous move, but one designed to break the ice and demonstrate he too had skill as a marksman. Getsbetter, the barman pulled his strike your fancy sash back into position and continued, “We don’t get a lot of drifters packing low, off the high plains through Livingston anymore. Not since the railroad came through with their regulators everywhere. You fixing to do some business in these parts stranger?”

N N Wattle raised one eyebrow a touch and without moving the focus of his eyes dragged his face longer, enough to have ‘whisky straight up’ come from the up turned corner of his mouth. Getsbetter pulled another two glasses from somewhere and filled all to capacity, knowing the first wasn’t going to touch the sides with this cove. A swipe of his towel for the bar, with a single follow through to pick the still tumbling quarter out of mid-air and guide it into his waist coat pocket concluded the business on hand. Getsbetter moved back to his corner near the scattergun. He gestured a head flick to the parlour maid, Aedara-Wren who quickly mounted the stairs to fetch a gaggle of working girls to present for the eyes of this low packing drifter, with enough money to cause a jingling in his coat pocket over whisky.

In the quiet of the occasion Aedara-Wren could be heard to say in her amusing cockney accent, ‘Boss wants a showing of bosom along the rail, there’s money rattling down there’. No one knew for sure how a polished foreign lass finished up in Livingston. There were stories she was the last of Quakers from England, who all lost their scalps up by the Power River. It was said some trappers swapped her for jerky and shot. A slick talking easterner named Tudor Rose, once said it was traumatic stress or something, she not knowing her real name and such. But, before Tudor Rose could explain what that meant, he was shot dead by a drifter named Lyndon, who had the fever. Lyndon thought he knew Tudor Rose as the dog that stole his horse down Casper way; caused him to walk to Livingston; it was touch and go. It turned out to be an honest mistake brought on by the sickness, but Lyndon was strung up for it just the same. Anyway, whatever the reason a girls got to do what she can in Livingston, Aedara-Wren started moving the chamber pots, waiting for her slender chance at riches on the railing when one of the girls gets her break and leaves a vacancy.

Sure enough, ladies shuffled out of the rooms, in no particular order. They placed their credentials over the railing such that the viewing was best from the bar mirror, where the hungriest of eyes would always be sharpest. There was room for eight, nine if Queen had her melons in use down stairs. Queen would always be on the end nearest the stairs she needed the corner post for separation, she was a big hit with the cowboys, thus far she could always control them. It’s their damn obsession with wanting to put a brand on everything, it's important not to drink too much with them. Poor FifthDove was a real looker until those TeeBar boys got her drunk and wanted to take her out the back for some air. She’s the cook now; not even the gunfighters, who are normally in and out in a jiffy, want to follow after some guy who put his mark so prominently in their face.

Next, to Queen were the Utah twins Charliesangel and Sarah957, the Utah quads was the standing joke downstairs with the cowboys. They were always the subject of much bravado, and popular with the thirsty boys from Arizona who would be on the trail for nine months; Utah is close enough to home for them in this saloon.

Then came the Bronte sisters, well that’s what they were called, although no one could remember why. They were all supposed to be foreigners, before they found themselves out west. They were always sprouting, stuff about ‘How doth thee love me,’ through the constant grunting, belching and farting of the occasion. They said it was their escape, or something. Anyway, Cynthia, Tash and Wolf Dancer could attract and pull the patrons, and that was all Getsbetter really cared about.

Next in the line was scentedangel78, a tasty dish from back east, she carried herself better then the others, always trying to match the latest fashions from those faded catalogs she would nick off the stage. The miners’ wives would leave them on the seat as they freshened up for the remainder of the journey to Butte.

Filling up the gaggle was the youngest; no one knew her real name anymore, the cowboys called her Self Made Hell. She was popular with the ringers they would buy her for the clean shins who had just signed on. All of them had gone through it; hell, some still had the scars. Her whips, handcuffs, leather apparel and especially the taped spurs were talked about on the range more then beans. They all thought she was great, but it’s just as well there were always new cowboys coming through Livingston because thus far not one had gone back for more.

Imme was on first call; she was waiting in the room, her head stuck in a romance book, what ever that is. Aedara-Wren always whistles when someone is summoned down. Of cause, if it were Queen who is picked, then sgloveslevi would be called as well as there would then be plenty of room for two petite young ladies from back east to replace the formidable westernized Queen.

Down below where the normality had started to settle in again, Huntress had already been at it for quite some time. She was all over a big spender calling himself love-is-suicide, the story goes that he was fresh out of California where he had struck it rich and was just passing through Livingston. He was heading up north to Great Falls, where he had purchased a spread from some guy call Turner and was fixing to settle down, raise cattle and kids. Now that was enough to have Huntress come down after him as a special.

Over in the corner three cowboys stood out for not standing out. They were often there; kept to themselves, quite types. Well they were a little rowdy from time to time what with shooting holes in the ceiling and punching out anyone who bumped them. There was that drifter they shot for spilling beer on their back, and the trapper they cut up for missing the spittoon. He was trying to make it from a table behind them. No, as I said, these guys were quieter then most, Lostsouls7, Bellafreespirit and Rejected Romantic kept to themselves a bit more then most. There was a rumour once that they were all Sheilas but that was laughed at, christ, who ever heard of a Sheila being a cowboy west of St Louis, besides they all wear pants and chaps.

Meanwhile one side of the saloon door quietly opened, no one appeared to notice as Aldo the great, the livery boy walking in and made a circular move for the bar to stay out of trouble. He walked up to N N Wattle and said, ‘Excuse me Mister; I watered your horse like you said and put him in the stable for the night with fresh straw.’ N N Wattle, didn’t look down, but he showed some compassion towards the kid. He already had a silver dollar out for Aldo the great, as he had watched his entry in the mirror; a gunfighter lives by his wits. He reached in his coat and made it two silver dollars; the kid spoke with respect in his voice. So he wasn’t seen as a push over N N Wattle said, ‘Good work kid’ and deliberately dropped the dollars in the spittoon for Aldo the great to retrieve and wipe down somehow.

Using the same entrance method la petite sirene, made her way to the bar beside N N Wattle and said, ‘Excuse me Mister, your bath is ready now.’ N N Wattle reached for a silver dollar but before he could deposit it, the buxom Queen had him held firmly by the gonads saying, 'You put that dollar in there and you go in after it, you hear.’ N N Wattle turned to face Queen, but upon seeing her up close, he immediately backed down. He knew he was no match for Queen, the dollar went in la petite sirene’s hand, as did a second one, after Queen gestured her head in a sideways motion. N N Wattle smiled at la petite sirene; it wasn’t affection it was Queen letting go of the monkey grip.

As N N Wattle made his exit for the door, he heard Queen’s voice following him, ‘You get you arse straight over to that bath house and don’t be coming back in here until the prairie is all washed away, you hear.’