The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 2, Part 2

Posted 07-07-19 

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 2, Part 2

December 19, 1871, Continued

George Severin couldn't shake off the feeling that something wasn't adding up. Didn't it stretch reason that Myra should arrive in the town riding on the exact same stagecoach that her cousin would rob an hour later? And why had she show up with hardly any clothes? Was the story about some kind of flood credible? And why did she so dislike talking about her past? Beyond that, the youth couldn't help wondering about the saddled horse that suddenly showed up in the Fanning corral. Had Thorn ridden to the farm after the robbery, maybe wounded? Could Thorn still alive and the women were hiding him?

George had just come back from a talk with the clerk at the stage depot. He'd asked the man about the flood where some people's belongings had been lost.  The man on duty hadn't know what in Sam Hill he was talking about. According to him, no river-crossing problem had been reported, and no one had put in a claim for loss, not even Miss Olcott.  In fact, he'd never heard that name before.  No one who had come in with the stage had matched her description.

The interview had only increased young Severin's doubts. Someone was not telling the truth and he couldn't guess why. If the horse wasn't Thorn's, had Myra brought it into town herself? But if it really was her own mount, why hadn't she just owned up to it? Had she stolen it, or had someone stolen the critter for her to use?

So, what was really the truth? The stage guard and driver were the best people to question, but they wouldn't be back until late in the week. Luckily, the young man still had one option. Everyone knew that Mrs. Lurleen Deeters had witnessed the robbery personally. She had, in fact, already returned to Eerie, the theft of her shopping money having ruined the Phoenix trip she'd planned.

George hoped that the elderly lady seen Myra leaving the coach as she was joining it. Things would be so much simpler if he could start believing what the ladies at the farm were saying.  With that aim in mind, he was now making for the Deeters' home. But he didn't go to the door.  He preferred to wait out of sight, hoping to see the lady strolling outside. If that happened, he could intercept her, casual like, and strike up a conversation. In such circumstances, it would be natural enough for him to inquire about her recent, frightening experience.

Partially concealed by a leafless apple tree, the farm boy watched for movement on the Deeters' porch. He was becoming both hungry and restless by the time the front door opened. The youth first saw Mr. Ezzard Deeters step out, tall, lean, and a bit stooped. The old gentleman was holding the door open while his wife shuffled out to join him. Ezzard was a good old soul; George knew him slightly.

The farm boy now got up and circled around, to make it look like he was coming directly from Main Street. The old couple had almost advanced to the end of their footpath by the time he'd sauntered into hailing distance. “Hello, Mr. Deeters. Mrs. Deeters.”

“Oh, George,” the man called back. “What brings you out from the farm?”

“I'm just making a produce delivery along the way,” the eighteen-year-old answered, showing them the bag in his hand.

“Anything we can do for you, lad?” Ezzard asked.

“I hope I'm not being too forward, but I heard people say that Mrs. Deeters was on the stage when it was robbed. I know that my folks would want me to pass along our family's condolences.”

“Well,” nodded Mr. Deeters, “that's a fine sentiment. You Severins are neighborly people.”

George smiled. “I'm sure glad that Mrs. Fanning's niece left that stage just in time, before it got robbed. All that gun-play would have frightened an Eastern girl something dreadful.”

“I didn't know that Mrs. Fanning had a niece visiting,” remarked the old woman.

“Why, yes she has. You must have gotten a glance of Myra when she was getting off the same stage that you were going to take. Red hair and awfully pretty. She's a little younger than me, I think.”

“I can't say that I noticed anyone like that,” Mrs. Deeters confessed. “And I was sitting on the bench in front of the depot the whole time. Are you sure that the young miss came in on Wednesday?”

“Well, that's what I've understood. Did anyone at all get off the stage in Eerie that day?”

“Only Ben Meldrem,” Mrs. Deeters said, “and nobody could mistake him for a young lady.”

“I'm not sure I know the fellow. Does he live here in town?” George asked.

“Why would you want to know?” inquired old Ezzard.

Young Severin was thinking quickly. “Well, Miss Myra, the niece, said that there was a man on the stage who was very kind and gracious to her all the time they were riding together. She said he got off at the same time that she did. Mrs. Fanning wants to thank the gentleman for making Myra's difficult trip so much more cordial. I know she'd like to give him a big  jar of her fine plums, if only someone can tell her who he was.”

“Well, that's nice,” said Ezzard. “I wouldn't have supposed that Ben Meldrem was the friendly sort. One never knows about people. If Mrs. Fanning wants to find him, he's holed up in one of those squatter shacks along the south edge of town. But you should let Mrs. Fanning know that Ben can be quite be rude and rough-talking when he's in his cups. And that seems to be most of the time.”

“Miss Irene will be mighty grateful for your information,” George said. “Now I guess I gotta get my errand done. There's lots of chores waiting for me back home.”

“Well, nice seeing you...young man,” Mrs. Deeters said, George's name having slipped her mind. “Merry Christmas to you and your folks!”

“And to both of you, also,” the youth answered.

Severin walked briskly away. When he was out of sight of the Deeters, he veered toward his real destination – the spot where his mule was tied.

A few minutes later, having ridden his beast to the edge of town, George saw that one of the shacks located there was distinguished by a twist of smoke trailing from its chimney. It also seemed to be the most livable structure remaining along that sorry row, so he decided to make it his first port of call.

The youth tapped on the rude old door. There was mutters of annoyance from inside, and the sound of someone struggling through clutter. A bewhiskered man of about fifty finally opened the door, his face flushed – probably from the same whiskey that the youth could smell upon his breath and clothes.

“Can't you let a person sleep!” he declared. “What're bothering me about, boy?”

“Are you Ben Meldrem?” George asked.

“I am. What of it?”

“Sorry, sir. People are saying that a gentleman of your name was on the Phoenix stage that got robbed. I wanted to write to tell my uncle all about the stick-up, but people hereabouts don't know much about it. I thought that you'd be the best man to talk to.”

“Go away, pup! I wasn't at the robbery. I got off in town before it happened, and I'm glad I did.”

“It's that how it always is? A person can't ever depend on common gossip. But maybe you can answer another question. Some folks think that the robbers could have put a confederate of theirs on the stage, someone to spy out the value of it shipment. Was there any suspicious type who was riding with you, someone who got off in town? That person could have tipped off the robbers.”

Unkempt man shook his head. “Nobody else got off! There was a couple of dudes riding with me, but they both stayed with the coach.”

“Just a couple fellows? Wasn't there a girl-passenger, too? Someone said that a maiden of about my age got off the stage at the same time that you did.”

“He must have been drunk! No girl rode in with us!”

“You mean that she got off somewhere else?”

“No! There never was any girl. Now go away, boy. I got nothing more to say to you.”

“Yes, sir,” George responded respectfully. “You've really set me straight about what happened that day. I appreciate it.”

“Fool kid,” the drunkard mumbled, shutting the door in his visitor's face.

The farm boy walked back to his mule, digesting the information. It now seemed likely that Myra had not come in on that stage. So why was she saying just the opposite? And why had Mrs. Fanning been backing her up? It could only be because the two of them knew something that they didn't want anyone else to know. He couldn't help but wonder yet again whether they weren't hiding the outlaw Thorn Caldwell.

But it was a terrible thing to be reckoning that a neighbor was working with outlaws; George didn't want to jump to conclusions. He needed to talk to more people. If the stage-company men also denied that Myra had come in by coach, it would certainly cast a bad light upon the farm ladies. But what sort of picture would that light reveal? What on earth was going on that they thought was so unsavory or so embarrassing that they had to lie about it?

Young Severin shook his head. Maybe he was just being snoopy, like Myra had accused. Still, George was the sort of person who had a natural instinct for going after every puzzle that crossed his path. And this time he had an especially good excuse. Most girls whom he met around the small town were not very interesting. Myra Olcott seemed different. He couldn't imagine that anything that concerned the young lady could be anything less than fascinating.

#

The sun had gotten high by now, and the wind less chilling. The Fanning farmstead lay not far ahead.

“What did you and the girls talk about?” Irene asked the girl beside her.

“Nothing much,” the latter grumbled.

“You must have said something. I'd like to hear that you're making friends. It's especially nice that they're our own neighbors. Friendly neighbors are a blessing.”

“They just wanted to to talk about girl-things that I wasn't interested in.”

“Such as what?”

“The dance, mostly.”

“Maybe you'll get to see them there,” suggested her aunt.

“I don't care if I do or I don't. They never liked me as...they never liked me before.”

“Maybe they'll like you now.”

Her frowning eyes challenged her aunt. “Why should they?”

“Because just as it's easier for boys to make friends with boys, it's easier for girls to make friends with girls.”

“I'm not a girl!”

Irene shrugged. “You have the right to think that way, but just be careful about what you say out loud, in case someone might be listening.”

Myra didn't reply, except to make a face.

“What else did you talk about?”

“They asked me to visit them at their homes, or to let them come over to our house.”

“That's a very good idea. A farm can be a lonely place, especially if a person has no friends living close-in.”

“Like you're lonely?” Myra flung back.

The older woman drew a deep breath. “I have some friends. And I've just made a couple more.”

“Like Molly O'Toole and that lunk Tor Johannson?”

“Well, yes.”

“Molly O'Toole's half crazy, and Tor Johannson just wants to get you into bed.”

Irene flushed with exasperation. “You've been running with outlaws for a year, my girl. You've started to talk just as wickedly as they do. If you have any wrong ideas about Mr. Johannson, please keep them to yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Myra replied through gritted teeth. Thanks to that damned magic, she was being given an order that couldn't be disobeyed.

Then Myra got an idea. “You shouldn't always be keeping me from saying what I need to say. What if Johannson goes out of his head from rotgut whiskey and I find out that he wanted to murder the both of us? Wouldn't we be in a bad way if I couldn't warn you?”

Her aunt sighed. “I'd say that such a misfortune would be very unlikely. But I'll tell you this, my girl, if it happens that you want to inform someone about something that you honestly think do him or her some good, and you're not just trying to be insulting, you can say whatever you need to say.”

“Hmmm,” said Miss Olcott, not much satisfied. Maybe in the future she shouldn't speak with her aunt at all. Whenever she did, it only seemed to make matters worse.

“There's someone up at the house,” Irene said suddenly.

Myra looked in that direction. There were three saddled horses tied to the corral rails.

Mrs. Fanning continued forward, but cautiously. Only the Saturday before, outlaws had come out of the hills to terrify her and her niece. At last, nearing the gate, the farm woman could recognize Mr. Grimsley's horse. The man himself was standing nearby with his eldest son and also Walter Severin, George's father. Irene relaxed.

When she reined in, the men and the boy came up.

Howdy, Miss Irene,” Grimsley said. Though not yet fifty, he was gray of hair, with a face lined from years of work under the wind and the sun. The farmer had on a socializing jacket -- dark brown with a double row of buttons. Also, he was sporting a black derby and a blue silk tie.

“What can I do for you, Neighbor Grimsley?” the young widow asked.

The man tried to smile, but doing so seemed difficult for him. “Well now, is this the young niece of yours that we've been hearing about?”

“It is,” Irene affirmed with a nod. “Her name is Myra.”

“I'm sitting right in front of you,” the girl told the suited man. “We all speak English back East.”

“Of course,” the land owner corrected himself. “My stars, but you are a pretty little thing! You'll probably be married off in two shakes.”

Myra scowled.

Grimsley read her expression rightly and shook his head. “Don't be so afraid of compliments, missy. They're a privilege for young ladies to enjoy. Sooner than you think, the bloom goes off the rose.”

The girl tossed her head. “I suppose so. By the way, how _is Mrs. Grimsley?”

The farmer's grin became a stiff line.

“Have you gentlemen come over to welcome my niece to the neighborhood?” asked Irene. “If you can stay for very long, I'll get the coffee heating.”

“That's not necessary, ma'am,” spoke up Walter Severin. George's pa was a little younger than Grimsley, and remained ruggedly handsome. His clothes were not so formal as his neighbor's, but they looked newly washed. Close-shaven, he was wearing a pale violet bandanna and a wide-brimmed gray hat. “We've come by to talk about giving you some help, if you'll let us, that is.”

“What sort of help, Mr. Severin?” the widow asked.

“I reckon the whole town knows that your boy – your nephew – was killed by the outlaws up in the Gap. People are saying that the body wasn't found.”

Irene shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, yes. We can only suppose that the bandits have hidden it.”

“Well, the two of us and a couple more of your neighbors would like to lend you a helping hand. It must be hard not being able to hold a proper funeral. Since the law is still out chasing the desperadoes, we can't ask them to scout the countryside for Thorn's remains. That leaves it to the people themselves to step forward and bring the boy home for burial.”

Irene was losing none of her discomfort. She didn't want to have her neighbors troubling themselves on a wild goose chase. They could never find Thorn's body, because Thorn's – Myron's – body was sitting right in front of them, in the guise of a youthful miss. “This is hard,” Mrs. Fanning began. “I scarcely have any right to ask such a sad favor from friends, especially in what should be the season of cheer.”

“Christmas is about helping others,” said Severin. “Nobody expects you or this tenderfoot gal to trounce off into the cold hills to search every hole and ravine for the boy's remains.”

“Maybe he's not dead,” spoke up Myra.

“What do you mean, missy?” asked Grimsley.

“I was taken up into the hills by the outlaws, you know. Now as I think back, they never once said that Thorn was dead. In fact, one of them mentioned something about 'Thorn's share' of the gold. That got me to wondering. What if he was still alive and they wanted to take his cut of the loot back to him?”

Irene gave her niece a sharp look.

“Well, we hope for his family's sake that he's still living,” said Severin with a thoughtful nod. “But, even so, it would be a good idea to make the search. If we can't find anything, it might give you ladies a real hope that he could possibly be alive. On the other hand, if we bring him home in a less happy condition, the town can at least pay him its decent respects.”

“Bless you gentlemen,” Irene said. “No matter what happens, my appreciation is almost more than I can express.”

“It's nothing ma'am. We'll be heading out to the Gap the first thing in the morning. After that, the plan is to spread ourselves out across the rough country, since that's where outlaws on the run would most likely hide a body.”

“Why would they need to hide it?” Myra suddenly asked.

“That question crossed my mind, too,” replied Grimsley. “But if Thorn was a friend of theirs, they might not have wanted to leave him lying cold on the ground like a dead badger. Or maybe they weren't sure whether anyone on the coach knew who he was. In that case, they wouldn't want to have his identity found out. I mean, someone trying to trace Thorn's recent movements might get wind of which particular owlhoots he was associated with.”

“How long will you be searching?” asked Irene.

“Hard to say,” answered Severin. “Probably for more than one day. We aren't sure yet.”

“Well, please do return in time to pass Christmastide with your families. It would be sad if you missed it. And the Christmas party is coming up on Saturday, too.”

“That's four days from now, ma'me,” said Grimsley. “If we haven't found Thorn by then, we're probably out of luck. The coyotes get hungry this time of year.”

“What a thing to say, Matt!” Severin put in. “I apologize, ma'ma, for all the rough talk you've probably had to listen to these last few days.”

“There's nothing to apologize for,” said Mrs. Fanning. “You're doing the work of the Lord, and I bless your kindheartedness.”

Severin nodded. “You're mighty welcome. By the way, that's a hefty load you're toting on the buckboard, Mrs. Fanning. We'd be glad to unload it for you.”

“Thank you,” Irene said. “You'll be in my prayers of gratitude.”

When the job was done and the three neighbors had ridden off, Irene and Myra entered the house. The first thing the latter did was to open the stove and pile in fresh firewood atop its red, glowing embers.

“I hate to have our friends wasting their time,” she heard her aunt muse.

“Nobody is asking them to,” the auburn answered back. “If they wear themselves out for no reason, it's all on them.”

“Myra! They're trying to do the decent thing.”

“It's doing the decent things that usually gets people into the worst kind of trouble.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” her aunt inquired skeptically.

“Sure. I've done folks a neighborly turn or two, and I've always come to regret it.”

“Never mind that. What I want to know is why you suggested that Myron might still be alive? Wouldn't it be better to have people thinking that he's dead, so that they can put him out of their minds?”

“I don't see it that way. If they figure that Thorn is still on the dodge and living far away, maybe they'll give up on the hunt and not be suspicious. The fewer facts they have to gnaw on, the more dust we can kick into their faces, the better off we'll be.”

“Maybe you have a point,” Irene admitted. “Still, it's a risky business. The more lies that a person tells, the more lies he'll have to tell later on, when the old lies aren't standing up so well.”

“What makes you into such an expert on lying, Aunt Irene?”

“Nothing. That's something that I'd never want to become expert at.”

“Isn't it a little too late to bail? We've both been telling whoppers lately and pretty soon we'll need to back them up with better ones. I can hold up my end, I think, but you're going to need plenty of practice at steering people into the wrong direction,” her niece advised.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3, Part 1.