“Ah’ve got th’ worst gawddamn timing,” Tom swore, leaning against a whitewashed wood wall and tapping tobacco into a sheet of wrapping paper.  “Gawddamn mine’s<i>closed</i>.”<br/><br/>He twisted the paper together and licked the edge to seal it, then struck a match on the wall and puffed it alight. Unfiltered smoke burned his throat as he took a drag, then streamed blue-white from his nostrils as he considers his options. Onyx Landing was supposed to be rich, he knew, and rich sounded a damn sight better than punching dogies for a living. So he’d spent most of his pay on tools and lit out for the mines.<br/><br/>Course, it turned out that prospecting was a mite more involved than just getting a job at a mine. Particularly when the one was closed.<br/><br/>He took another drag, and considered. It wasn’t a complete loss. He still had all his kit, and a book he’d picked up on prospecting. Maybe he’d still strike it rich in his own.  Smiling at that thought, he took a final drag and ground out his cigarette. Right now, he decided, he needed a little liquid inspiration. And the Dusky Belle looked promising.<br/><br/>-*-<br/><br/>“Give me s whiskey,” Cassie said, plunking a nickel down in the bar.<br/><br/>The bartender eyed her strangely, which made her fist itch, then shoved the coin back.  “Outta whiskey,” he grunted, flicking her eyes at a collection of women at the end.<br/><br/>Cassie looked at them as well, because they were worth looking at. “They’re drinking,” she pointed out.<br/><br/>“Madam Vickie owns the place,” the bartender answered. “She wants whiskey, I aim sayin’ no.”<br/><br/>“Fair enough.”  Cassie shoved the nickel back. “Got any beer?”  The bartender did, a fact he proved by taking the nickel in one scarred fist and producing a dark brown bottle. Cassie smiled, then worked the cap off and took a long pull. “Good stuff,” she told him.<br/><br/>“Brew it myself,” the bartender replied.<br/><br/>Cassie nodded and took another drink, working hard to ignore the stares she was getting. Most folk held there was only one type of woman who drank in a saloon, and she'd had to bust a few heads over that assumption before. The way she looked at it, the type of woman who drank in a saloon was a thirsty woman with money.<br/><br/>Course, she decided as she looked over the knot of women at the end of the bar, there’s thirsty and there’s thirsty.<br/><br/>Picking up her beer, she casually strolled over. “Afternoon, ladies,” she said, saluting with the bottle. “Mind if I join you?”