Posted 11-07-19
Revised 12-07-19
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 4, Part 2
Saturday, December 23, 1871
It had been a restless night for Myra. She lay on her mattress thinking – or trying not to think -- about Irene's strange letter. The maid was trying hard not let her imagination run wild. This was all very unexpected and worrisome; she needed to find out exactly what had happened.
Though tired, the girl felt not at all sleepy. Time seemed to hang. She could heard the palo verde tree behind the house rattling in the December wind. Outside, darkness still held sway. Chores only began at dawn, when there was no longer need for a lantern. Until that hour, the Myra had nothing productive to do, other than to collect her thoughts and try to put together a plan to prove that her parents were good people.
What she knew was that Irene had been told something about the mystery of 1866, something that had upset her and made her write a peculiar letter. Later on, she might have found out even more about what had gone on.
Damn it! If it wasn't for that stupid Indian potion, Myra told herself, she could simply go to her aunt and demand answers. Instead, as things were, she didn't dare let on what she knew, or suspected.
The seventeen-year-old knew – and knew for certain – that before 1864 her folks had talked a lot about money problems. She had watched them scrabble for extra income, cut corners, and pinch pennies. But, suddenly, all those worries about money had seemed to vanish. How could that have been, unless they had suddenly become prosperous? But how does a person bring that off in Eerie, Arizona?
It seemed to her that to get ahead, a man had to find gold, or else do a robbery or a swindle. If the Caldwells had hit upon gold honestly, they would have crowed about it and let everyone know. But whenever wealth came to somebody through flim-flam, he almost always had to fly by night. But her parents had lived peaceably in Eerie for years afterwards and no one had anything damning to say about them.
The other way to get rich quick, the one that Myra was most familiar with, was to commit theft. But what could Addie and Edgar Caldwell have stolen in a countryside so barren? One possibility, she thought, was that they might have robbed a store. But that couldn't really explain it. A single cash box wouldn't have kept them going for the next two years, not after paying off all the debts that they'd been carrying. If something was stolen, it would have to be both compact and very valuable. If not actual cash, it needed to be something that was easy to turn into cash.
Like, could they have robbed a traveler, some person with a fat wallet? People from the East sometimes carried satchels of currency with them into the West, to invest in land or mining projects. Or, might her folks have stolen a big poke of nuggets from some prospector? If that had happened, there should be some record concerning the prospector's complaint -- unless the prospector had died and told no tales. Myra didn't want to think about that, not in connection with her ma and pa.
Myra made fists in frustration. There was just too much about those days, the days of her childhood, that she didn't remember. She needed to talk to people who were keeping track of public affairs back then. But going out and questioning random citizens would attract a lot of attention. Folks would be wondering why a young newcomer was asking about acts of brigandage that had occurred in years gone by.
No, she had to be very selective in choosing which people to question.The question was, who should those people be? Wouldn't the best information come from lawmen and newspaper publishers? But if she was making suspicious inquiries, wouldn't it get back to her aunt lickety-split? If it did, wouldn't Irene shut down her searching with just a few words? She sure as hell would – if it meant saving the family's reputation, or protecting herself. Yes, the girl wouldn't have been surprised if Irene's hands had gotten soiled, too. It was easy to do, whenever easy money came within reach.
Suddenly, Myra realized something. A lot of the old-time locals would be turning up at the Christmas party! And the party was going to be held that very night! If she went to it, she could speak to almost anyone, and do it in a completely innocent setting. Suddenly, the Eerie town Christmas party looked very different in her mind. It had become an affair that she'd be a fool not to attend!
Just after the farm girl and her aunt had finished with breakfast,
George Severin arrived at the barn. At the window, watching him setting
up, it occurred to Myra that the snoopy hired man might be a good source
of information. He must, after all, have learned a few things after
eighteen years of prying into other people's business. In that light,
the timely appearance of George presented her with a fortunate
opportunity.
Putting on a coat and stocking cap, she went outside.
“Finally showed up, huh?” the ginger said to the youth, hoping that merely looking him in the eye would start the chatterbox chattering.
The farm boy stabbed his manure fork into the ground and touched the brim of his straw hat in greeting. “Howdy, Miss Myra. I figured to come by yesterday, but my pa got it in his mind to have me help him fix up one of our old sheds, before worse weather comes in. He himself was going to be away, looking for your unfortunate cousin. The sun was sitting pretty close to the hills by the time I'd finished, so it've made no sense for me to come over so late. By the way, I'm plum sorry that Pa and the neighbors couldn't find any trace of Thorn. I hope you and Mrs. Fanning aren't feeling too badly.”
Myra shrugged. “We were upset enough yesterday, but life goes on.”
“That's the spirit,” George said. “Anyway, I've come over for an early start because I want to go into town as soon as I can and take one of those fancy baths. After that, I need to be getting ready for the Christmas Dance.”
“George, I've been wondering,” Myra began, “was that stagecoach robbery last week the biggest crime that ever came off around Eerie?”
Her question made his eyebrows rise. “Well, now,” he began, “I reckon that it would be one of the biggest. But Eerie can oftentimes be a rip-roaring piece of real estate. Like, last summer, the Hanks gang rode into town. It seems like they were dead-set on shooting down Sheriff Talbot like a mangy dog.”
Myra frowned; the boy had potion girls on the brain! She remembered wheln the news broke. The papers around Arizona, the previous July, had carried the story of how the whole gang had been gunned down on the streets of Eerie by a posse. Only too late had she found out that the public record had been a pack of malarkey. The outlaws were all still alive, as saloon women! She had even met the one of them, the one who was now calling herself Bridget Kelly. Had Myron known that such a goshdarn horrible thing was even possible, he'd have never come within ten miles of such a crazy town.
“What's wrong, Miss Myra? You've got on the most peculiar expression.”
“I'm all right. What makes Eerie so rip-roaring? What else has happened around here? Was it already so rough and tumble back during the war years?”
“The war years?” George found himself getting a smidgen curious. “That's an awfully long time ago, missy. When the war started, I was only about eight. What makes you so interested? Have you been reading too many of those dime novels?”
She gave a toss of her right hand. “I read them sometimes. They make me think about how a person's life doesn't have to be so dull and ordinary.”
George scratched his temple. “After the rowdy way that the Bertram gang treated you, I'd have have put money down that you'd never want to think about outlaws again.”
Her blue eyes challenged his hazel ones. “If you think I'm yellow, I'm not.”
George grinned. “I'm glad you're not yellow. Blondes are fine, but I like that red hair of yours a whole lot. Say, I've got some magazines at home, full of deeds of blood and thunder. Would you like see them?”
“Sure. Bring them over.” Myra was doing her best to come across as friendly, so she could keep him talking. “I like hearing about old-time crime better than the recent stuff. Those vintage tales of hard-riding outlaws aren't so sad and ugly. They seem more like something out of a storybook.”
Young Severin shrugged. “Well, it just so happens that I caught wind of a few good yarns back when I was just a kid.”
Myra tried to smile. A girl's smile could warm a man quicker than a shot of whiskey, she knew. While she didn't care at all for her present situation, it made sense to take advantage of it as much as possible. “I really would like to hear about what went on back then. I want to hear it all.”
George told his employer's niece about several cases of
claim-jumping, gun-play, and robberies -- of prospectors, stagecoaches,
banks, and assay offices. Most of them had occurred at nearby towns, not
in Eerie.
After a lengthy stream of jabber, he said, “But the biggest robbery that I ever heard of hereabouts was of a mining company.”
“Bigger than the stage job?”
“I'm not sure. But that slick mine thief got away with the loot.”
“Who was involved?” Myra asked carefully.
“Just one man.”
“How did he do it?”
“He didn't use a gun. He was more of an embezzler. The company'd hired him on as a clerk and trusted him enough to leave him working alone after hours. One night, he opened the safe and cleaned it out. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't been rounded up to this day.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Back several years ago. I don't recall exactly when.”
Though George was enjoying the conversation, he'd already passed along all his best stories. With his crime-related recollections growing vaguer, Myra started to look uninterested.
“I really got to started with this cleaning,” the youth said of a sudden, deciding not to wear her out with jabber. “I'd be fine with chatting with you, except that your aunt is counting on me to get this parcel of work done. Maybe we can speak longer at the party tonight.”
“Maybe,” she said without much conviction.
“So, you've really decided to go?”
“Why not? It wouldn't hurt if I got to know a few more of the people around town. I'll have to live here for a while, it appears.”
“Is there anyplace you'd rather be?”
“Not exactly -- not until I figure out how to make some decent money.”
George smiled. “That's fine -- that we'll be neighbors for a while, I mean. If you want to meet the local folk, there'll be some great characters at the bash. And I bet those old timers keeping warm around the stove will be able to tell you even better robber stories than I can.”
“That's something I'd like to find out,” she agreed.
George set to work with determination, needing to free up the
afternoon for himself. When the last forkful of dung was loaded into the
manure cart, he drove it out into the field and spread it around as
spring fertilizer. Pen-cleaning was long, hard work for a solitary man,
but he'd gotten used to it on the home farm and doing the unpleasant
work was a necessity. He couldn't expect Mrs. Fanning's struggling farm
to lay out wages for extra help during the off season. And Myra didn't
look like the pen-cleaning type.
When he had wrapped up the arduous job, he headed out directly, without pausing to take lunch at Mrs. Fanning's table, as he so often did. Once in Eerie, he tied his mule to the hitching post at the stage depot and then waited there, seated on the bench by the door. Only a short while later, the Prescott stage entered the town from the east. Its canvas curtains, as usual, were shabby and dirty, its wheels bounced along kicking up a consarned volume of dust. Nonetheless, the kids, and even some of the adults who saw it were watching with an air of excitement.
When the creaking coach drew near and braked, George walked toward it. He didn't know the company men on the high box seat by name, but the station manager, Matt Royce, had given him the monikers of the guard and driver who had lately been robbed. “Hullo!” he yelled. “Are either of you gents Harry Cole or Robert Moorman?”
One of the dusty coachmen glanced his way. “I'm Rob Moorman, kid. What of it?”
“Hello, Mr. Moorman. I take it that your driver isn't Mr. Cole.”
“Not today. What's your business, kid?”
“If you've got a minute...” George began.
“What we've got a schedule.” Moorman said, climbing down from his perch and striking the ground with a short hop.
“You were the guard on the stage that was held up?” the youth asked.
The older man stepped past him, toward the depot door. “I was, lad. Is that important? You don't look like a reporter.”
George, trailed along, ready with a plausible story. “My family lives on the edge of town. We were expecting a visitor to come in on Wednesday last week. Our wagon didn't arrive until after you'd pulled out, but she wasn't around the depot.
"Stranger still, Mr. Royce told us that he'd never seen such a miss. She still hasn't shown up and we've started to get concerned. Might you have seen her? She's a pretty girl with ginger hair, about my age. Was she on last Wednesday's stage?”
“A relative, or a lady friend?” the man asked wryly.
George grinned. “My cousin. We got her telegram from Ogden. It said she was about to take the stage south, but there's been no word since then. Ma's beside herself, thinking the young lady might be lost somewhere between northern Utah and Eerie.”
The company man paused at the depot's threshold. “I don't know nothing about it! No girl was on that stage. No one got off in Eerie at all, except a rough-looking man in his forties. Another feller boarded us here, and so did an old lady, but I don't suppose you'd be interested in the likes of them.”
“No, sir,” George said.
“Well, I hope the lass is all right. Maybe you'll be getting that letter you're hoping for soon.”
“That would be a relief,” the youth replied. “My folks aren't going to calm down until we hear that she's safe.”
“Best of luck,” Moorman said with a nod. “This is a big country; too big. There's more than enough room for a greenhorn to get lost in it. Excuse me now, boy, the wheels have got to keep on turning, you know.” He went inside the station office.
It was a thoughtful George who walked away. Moorman had said what he'd expected him to say, that Myra Olcott had not been on his run the week before. So, how in blazes had she gotten into town, and when?
One thing he knew for sure, Miss Myra wasn't a ghost, she wasn't a fairy. She was somebody real who had come from some real place. But where was that place, and why were both her and her aunt trying to throw dust into people's eyes? And, also, he had to ask himself, why did he care so much about it?
George thought on that. Maybe it was because mysteries always fascinated him. But more than that, having something fascinating hanging over Myra's head made her even more interesting than she would have been otherwise.
The youth grinned inwardly. Beauty and mystery seemed to go well together. Part of him was glad to have an out of the ordinary situation to think about, the days being humdrum otherwise. Still, a lot of people had secrets, he knew. Maybe this secret was no big deal. Maybe the best thing to do would be to hang back, to watch and listen until it all became clear.
But what if it turned out that the women had something to hide? Would that make it any business of his? He liked Mrs. Fanning and didn't want to get her into trouble – not unless she was involved in something that would hurt people. As for Myra, well, the gal was a fireball, a light in the night that made a person look and wonder, but he didn't want to hurt her, either.
For the moment, the farm boy seemed to be up against a blank cliff. He had business to get done and couldn't just stand in the street puzzling over things that didn't add up. He first needed a bite to eat, and then he had to hurry over to the bath house to clean up and change his clothing. The bath would be vital, otherwise no gal at the party would tolerate standing next to him for as much as two minutes!
Just then, a moving cloud spread sunlight across downtown and the young man looked up. The sky was clearing and the breeze out of the hills felt more pleasant than it usually did this close to Christmas. From all appearances, there would be fair weather for the dance. Since Myra's mood had noticeably improved, this was going to be a party that he surely didn't want to miss. The thought of seeing her prettied up in that trim yellow dress again made him feel all warm inside.
Carrying a crate of prepared food, Sheriff Dan Talbot led his wife
Amy into the schoolhouse. He set his burden down next to the
already-loaded tables. Mrs. Talbot was looking fine, gussied up in her
best socializing outfit. Behind him, their son Jimmy walked distractedly,
gazing right and left. Dan knew that the boy would soon catch sight of
some friend of his and make a beeline away from his parents. The lawman
was thinking that the youngest Talbot, almost before they'd known it,
had stopped being a toddler. Hadn't it been just a little while ago that
Jimmy couldn't take more than a couple steps at a time before falling
down?
His lips pressed together as he considered that. One could really appreciate how quickly time flew when taking notice of the changes in a child of one's own. Jimmy was growing fast, while he and his wife were simply getting older. He realized with some regret that he and his mate were not so much a youngish couple anymore. They were, in fact, middle aged, or soon would be. That was a tough bite of skunk pig to swallow down.
He sighed and looked around. The school's pot-bellied stove was warming the big room sufficiently well, the night being so mild. Lamps were lit in the far corners, ready for the darkness that was soon to fall. Near the unlit fireplace, a fresh-cut jack pine had been set up, topping out at seven feet. The ladies had dressed it up with festoons, strings of popcorn, colorful beads, ribbon bows, and candles. At the top of the tree, there had been fixed a metal star, obviously snipped from the lid of a large tin can.
Dan saw that the beams above their heads had been decorated with pine boughs with additional cones fastened to them, apparently with fishing line. The tree and the evergreen trimmings together scented the room very agreeably.
The row of tables nearby held an admirable spread of good eating. Bread, pastries, meat confections, jellies, jams, salads, soups, and even a box of store-bought chocolates were presented to all comers. Jimmy was going down the line, picking out treats for himself. “Dan,” said Amy, “I'd better put the things we bought on these tables while there's still room enough to hold them.”
“You do that, dear,” the sheriff agreed. “I see Otto Euler. I'd like to say hello to the fellow.”
“Ask him about his wife, Marcha, would you?”
“I will,” promised Dan.
The lawman picked his way through his jostling neighbors and reached the side of the brewer.
“Howdy, Otto,” he said. “Are we going to be sampling any of your fine wares tonight?”
“Hello yourself, Sheriff,” he replied. “If you move fast enough, you can get all da beer dat you can svollow, I dink!”
“My wife is busy setting out her baked goods, but she wanted me to inquire after your wife's health.”
Euler's broad face became more sober. “Her cough ist much better, but she vonted to stay home tonight. She doughted dat she should risk da season's drafts. But da veather ist much better dis year dan last year. People den vere coming in to varm up betveen every dance, I recall.”
“Pretty near,” agreed the lawman.
“Oh, and by da vay, Dan, how did dat hunt for the outlaws go? I hear dey slipped da noose.”
“They did. Those varmints are young but foxy. They let us ride out, then doubled back and made another try at the strongbox that they'd hidden close-in. I feel damned bad about getting hoodwinked.”
“But dat deputy of yours got back most of da gold. He ist a good man! Hast Paul come home yet? Last I heard, he vas still oot with anutter posse.”
“That's so. They found the outlaw's pack horse between here and the Gila River. It's looking like the rascals are hightailing it toward Yuma. They can't have much loot with them anymore. We don't expect Paul's posse to chase them all the way to the California line, though. We've already sent Yuma an alert to be on the lookout.”
“The bandits vill get a breather if dey get all the vay to California,” Euler said with a scowl.
“That's the truth. It's touchy business to go chasing outlaws over a state border.”
The brewer just then shifted his glance toward the door. “Who are doz loverly ladies? From out of town, maybe?”
Dan turned about. “Well, well. That's the widow Fanning. She's dressed up right fancy tonight. I see her now and then, but never in a dress like that one. And the young lady with her must be...” Dan tried to remember the name that Shamus had told him. “...Myra. Myra, her niece from back East.”
This was the first time that Dan had set eyes on the new potion gal. As always, the changes that it ushered in amazed him.
“Doz two vill get a lot of dancing ift they're villing,” said Otto. “It ist at times like dees that I vish I vasn't a married man. Almost vish, I mean.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5, Part 1
It had been a restless night for Myra. She lay on her mattress thinking – or trying not to think -- about Irene's strange letter. The maid was trying hard not let her imagination run wild. This was all very unexpected and worrisome; she needed to find out exactly what had happened.
Though tired, the girl felt not at all sleepy. Time seemed to hang. She could heard the palo verde tree behind the house rattling in the December wind. Outside, darkness still held sway. Chores only began at dawn, when there was no longer need for a lantern. Until that hour, the Myra had nothing productive to do, other than to collect her thoughts and try to put together a plan to prove that her parents were good people.
What she knew was that Irene had been told something about the mystery of 1866, something that had upset her and made her write a peculiar letter. Later on, she might have found out even more about what had gone on.
Damn it! If it wasn't for that stupid Indian potion, Myra told herself, she could simply go to her aunt and demand answers. Instead, as things were, she didn't dare let on what she knew, or suspected.
The seventeen-year-old knew – and knew for certain – that before 1864 her folks had talked a lot about money problems. She had watched them scrabble for extra income, cut corners, and pinch pennies. But, suddenly, all those worries about money had seemed to vanish. How could that have been, unless they had suddenly become prosperous? But how does a person bring that off in Eerie, Arizona?
It seemed to her that to get ahead, a man had to find gold, or else do a robbery or a swindle. If the Caldwells had hit upon gold honestly, they would have crowed about it and let everyone know. But whenever wealth came to somebody through flim-flam, he almost always had to fly by night. But her parents had lived peaceably in Eerie for years afterwards and no one had anything damning to say about them.
The other way to get rich quick, the one that Myra was most familiar with, was to commit theft. But what could Addie and Edgar Caldwell have stolen in a countryside so barren? One possibility, she thought, was that they might have robbed a store. But that couldn't really explain it. A single cash box wouldn't have kept them going for the next two years, not after paying off all the debts that they'd been carrying. If something was stolen, it would have to be both compact and very valuable. If not actual cash, it needed to be something that was easy to turn into cash.
Like, could they have robbed a traveler, some person with a fat wallet? People from the East sometimes carried satchels of currency with them into the West, to invest in land or mining projects. Or, might her folks have stolen a big poke of nuggets from some prospector? If that had happened, there should be some record concerning the prospector's complaint -- unless the prospector had died and told no tales. Myra didn't want to think about that, not in connection with her ma and pa.
Myra made fists in frustration. There was just too much about those days, the days of her childhood, that she didn't remember. She needed to talk to people who were keeping track of public affairs back then. But going out and questioning random citizens would attract a lot of attention. Folks would be wondering why a young newcomer was asking about acts of brigandage that had occurred in years gone by.
No, she had to be very selective in choosing which people to question.The question was, who should those people be? Wouldn't the best information come from lawmen and newspaper publishers? But if she was making suspicious inquiries, wouldn't it get back to her aunt lickety-split? If it did, wouldn't Irene shut down her searching with just a few words? She sure as hell would – if it meant saving the family's reputation, or protecting herself. Yes, the girl wouldn't have been surprised if Irene's hands had gotten soiled, too. It was easy to do, whenever easy money came within reach.
Suddenly, Myra realized something. A lot of the old-time locals would be turning up at the Christmas party! And the party was going to be held that very night! If she went to it, she could speak to almost anyone, and do it in a completely innocent setting. Suddenly, the Eerie town Christmas party looked very different in her mind. It had become an affair that she'd be a fool not to attend!
#
Putting on a coat and stocking cap, she went outside.
“Finally showed up, huh?” the ginger said to the youth, hoping that merely looking him in the eye would start the chatterbox chattering.
The farm boy stabbed his manure fork into the ground and touched the brim of his straw hat in greeting. “Howdy, Miss Myra. I figured to come by yesterday, but my pa got it in his mind to have me help him fix up one of our old sheds, before worse weather comes in. He himself was going to be away, looking for your unfortunate cousin. The sun was sitting pretty close to the hills by the time I'd finished, so it've made no sense for me to come over so late. By the way, I'm plum sorry that Pa and the neighbors couldn't find any trace of Thorn. I hope you and Mrs. Fanning aren't feeling too badly.”
Myra shrugged. “We were upset enough yesterday, but life goes on.”
“That's the spirit,” George said. “Anyway, I've come over for an early start because I want to go into town as soon as I can and take one of those fancy baths. After that, I need to be getting ready for the Christmas Dance.”
“George, I've been wondering,” Myra began, “was that stagecoach robbery last week the biggest crime that ever came off around Eerie?”
Her question made his eyebrows rise. “Well, now,” he began, “I reckon that it would be one of the biggest. But Eerie can oftentimes be a rip-roaring piece of real estate. Like, last summer, the Hanks gang rode into town. It seems like they were dead-set on shooting down Sheriff Talbot like a mangy dog.”
Myra frowned; the boy had potion girls on the brain! She remembered wheln the news broke. The papers around Arizona, the previous July, had carried the story of how the whole gang had been gunned down on the streets of Eerie by a posse. Only too late had she found out that the public record had been a pack of malarkey. The outlaws were all still alive, as saloon women! She had even met the one of them, the one who was now calling herself Bridget Kelly. Had Myron known that such a goshdarn horrible thing was even possible, he'd have never come within ten miles of such a crazy town.
“What's wrong, Miss Myra? You've got on the most peculiar expression.”
“I'm all right. What makes Eerie so rip-roaring? What else has happened around here? Was it already so rough and tumble back during the war years?”
“The war years?” George found himself getting a smidgen curious. “That's an awfully long time ago, missy. When the war started, I was only about eight. What makes you so interested? Have you been reading too many of those dime novels?”
She gave a toss of her right hand. “I read them sometimes. They make me think about how a person's life doesn't have to be so dull and ordinary.”
George scratched his temple. “After the rowdy way that the Bertram gang treated you, I'd have have put money down that you'd never want to think about outlaws again.”
Her blue eyes challenged his hazel ones. “If you think I'm yellow, I'm not.”
George grinned. “I'm glad you're not yellow. Blondes are fine, but I like that red hair of yours a whole lot. Say, I've got some magazines at home, full of deeds of blood and thunder. Would you like see them?”
“Sure. Bring them over.” Myra was doing her best to come across as friendly, so she could keep him talking. “I like hearing about old-time crime better than the recent stuff. Those vintage tales of hard-riding outlaws aren't so sad and ugly. They seem more like something out of a storybook.”
Young Severin shrugged. “Well, it just so happens that I caught wind of a few good yarns back when I was just a kid.”
Myra tried to smile. A girl's smile could warm a man quicker than a shot of whiskey, she knew. While she didn't care at all for her present situation, it made sense to take advantage of it as much as possible. “I really would like to hear about what went on back then. I want to hear it all.”
#
After a lengthy stream of jabber, he said, “But the biggest robbery that I ever heard of hereabouts was of a mining company.”
“Bigger than the stage job?”
“I'm not sure. But that slick mine thief got away with the loot.”
“Who was involved?” Myra asked carefully.
“Just one man.”
“How did he do it?”
“He didn't use a gun. He was more of an embezzler. The company'd hired him on as a clerk and trusted him enough to leave him working alone after hours. One night, he opened the safe and cleaned it out. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't been rounded up to this day.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Back several years ago. I don't recall exactly when.”
Though George was enjoying the conversation, he'd already passed along all his best stories. With his crime-related recollections growing vaguer, Myra started to look uninterested.
“I really got to started with this cleaning,” the youth said of a sudden, deciding not to wear her out with jabber. “I'd be fine with chatting with you, except that your aunt is counting on me to get this parcel of work done. Maybe we can speak longer at the party tonight.”
“Maybe,” she said without much conviction.
“So, you've really decided to go?”
“Why not? It wouldn't hurt if I got to know a few more of the people around town. I'll have to live here for a while, it appears.”
“Is there anyplace you'd rather be?”
“Not exactly -- not until I figure out how to make some decent money.”
George smiled. “That's fine -- that we'll be neighbors for a while, I mean. If you want to meet the local folk, there'll be some great characters at the bash. And I bet those old timers keeping warm around the stove will be able to tell you even better robber stories than I can.”
“That's something I'd like to find out,” she agreed.
#
When he had wrapped up the arduous job, he headed out directly, without pausing to take lunch at Mrs. Fanning's table, as he so often did. Once in Eerie, he tied his mule to the hitching post at the stage depot and then waited there, seated on the bench by the door. Only a short while later, the Prescott stage entered the town from the east. Its canvas curtains, as usual, were shabby and dirty, its wheels bounced along kicking up a consarned volume of dust. Nonetheless, the kids, and even some of the adults who saw it were watching with an air of excitement.
When the creaking coach drew near and braked, George walked toward it. He didn't know the company men on the high box seat by name, but the station manager, Matt Royce, had given him the monikers of the guard and driver who had lately been robbed. “Hullo!” he yelled. “Are either of you gents Harry Cole or Robert Moorman?”
One of the dusty coachmen glanced his way. “I'm Rob Moorman, kid. What of it?”
“Hello, Mr. Moorman. I take it that your driver isn't Mr. Cole.”
“Not today. What's your business, kid?”
“If you've got a minute...” George began.
“What we've got a schedule.” Moorman said, climbing down from his perch and striking the ground with a short hop.
“You were the guard on the stage that was held up?” the youth asked.
The older man stepped past him, toward the depot door. “I was, lad. Is that important? You don't look like a reporter.”
George, trailed along, ready with a plausible story. “My family lives on the edge of town. We were expecting a visitor to come in on Wednesday last week. Our wagon didn't arrive until after you'd pulled out, but she wasn't around the depot.
"Stranger still, Mr. Royce told us that he'd never seen such a miss. She still hasn't shown up and we've started to get concerned. Might you have seen her? She's a pretty girl with ginger hair, about my age. Was she on last Wednesday's stage?”
“A relative, or a lady friend?” the man asked wryly.
George grinned. “My cousin. We got her telegram from Ogden. It said she was about to take the stage south, but there's been no word since then. Ma's beside herself, thinking the young lady might be lost somewhere between northern Utah and Eerie.”
The company man paused at the depot's threshold. “I don't know nothing about it! No girl was on that stage. No one got off in Eerie at all, except a rough-looking man in his forties. Another feller boarded us here, and so did an old lady, but I don't suppose you'd be interested in the likes of them.”
“No, sir,” George said.
“Well, I hope the lass is all right. Maybe you'll be getting that letter you're hoping for soon.”
“That would be a relief,” the youth replied. “My folks aren't going to calm down until we hear that she's safe.”
“Best of luck,” Moorman said with a nod. “This is a big country; too big. There's more than enough room for a greenhorn to get lost in it. Excuse me now, boy, the wheels have got to keep on turning, you know.” He went inside the station office.
It was a thoughtful George who walked away. Moorman had said what he'd expected him to say, that Myra Olcott had not been on his run the week before. So, how in blazes had she gotten into town, and when?
One thing he knew for sure, Miss Myra wasn't a ghost, she wasn't a fairy. She was somebody real who had come from some real place. But where was that place, and why were both her and her aunt trying to throw dust into people's eyes? And, also, he had to ask himself, why did he care so much about it?
George thought on that. Maybe it was because mysteries always fascinated him. But more than that, having something fascinating hanging over Myra's head made her even more interesting than she would have been otherwise.
The youth grinned inwardly. Beauty and mystery seemed to go well together. Part of him was glad to have an out of the ordinary situation to think about, the days being humdrum otherwise. Still, a lot of people had secrets, he knew. Maybe this secret was no big deal. Maybe the best thing to do would be to hang back, to watch and listen until it all became clear.
But what if it turned out that the women had something to hide? Would that make it any business of his? He liked Mrs. Fanning and didn't want to get her into trouble – not unless she was involved in something that would hurt people. As for Myra, well, the gal was a fireball, a light in the night that made a person look and wonder, but he didn't want to hurt her, either.
For the moment, the farm boy seemed to be up against a blank cliff. He had business to get done and couldn't just stand in the street puzzling over things that didn't add up. He first needed a bite to eat, and then he had to hurry over to the bath house to clean up and change his clothing. The bath would be vital, otherwise no gal at the party would tolerate standing next to him for as much as two minutes!
Just then, a moving cloud spread sunlight across downtown and the young man looked up. The sky was clearing and the breeze out of the hills felt more pleasant than it usually did this close to Christmas. From all appearances, there would be fair weather for the dance. Since Myra's mood had noticeably improved, this was going to be a party that he surely didn't want to miss. The thought of seeing her prettied up in that trim yellow dress again made him feel all warm inside.
#
His lips pressed together as he considered that. One could really appreciate how quickly time flew when taking notice of the changes in a child of one's own. Jimmy was growing fast, while he and his wife were simply getting older. He realized with some regret that he and his mate were not so much a youngish couple anymore. They were, in fact, middle aged, or soon would be. That was a tough bite of skunk pig to swallow down.
He sighed and looked around. The school's pot-bellied stove was warming the big room sufficiently well, the night being so mild. Lamps were lit in the far corners, ready for the darkness that was soon to fall. Near the unlit fireplace, a fresh-cut jack pine had been set up, topping out at seven feet. The ladies had dressed it up with festoons, strings of popcorn, colorful beads, ribbon bows, and candles. At the top of the tree, there had been fixed a metal star, obviously snipped from the lid of a large tin can.
Dan saw that the beams above their heads had been decorated with pine boughs with additional cones fastened to them, apparently with fishing line. The tree and the evergreen trimmings together scented the room very agreeably.
The row of tables nearby held an admirable spread of good eating. Bread, pastries, meat confections, jellies, jams, salads, soups, and even a box of store-bought chocolates were presented to all comers. Jimmy was going down the line, picking out treats for himself. “Dan,” said Amy, “I'd better put the things we bought on these tables while there's still room enough to hold them.”
“You do that, dear,” the sheriff agreed. “I see Otto Euler. I'd like to say hello to the fellow.”
“Ask him about his wife, Marcha, would you?”
“I will,” promised Dan.
The lawman picked his way through his jostling neighbors and reached the side of the brewer.
“Howdy, Otto,” he said. “Are we going to be sampling any of your fine wares tonight?”
“Hello yourself, Sheriff,” he replied. “If you move fast enough, you can get all da beer dat you can svollow, I dink!”
“My wife is busy setting out her baked goods, but she wanted me to inquire after your wife's health.”
Euler's broad face became more sober. “Her cough ist much better, but she vonted to stay home tonight. She doughted dat she should risk da season's drafts. But da veather ist much better dis year dan last year. People den vere coming in to varm up betveen every dance, I recall.”
“Pretty near,” agreed the lawman.
“Oh, and by da vay, Dan, how did dat hunt for the outlaws go? I hear dey slipped da noose.”
“They did. Those varmints are young but foxy. They let us ride out, then doubled back and made another try at the strongbox that they'd hidden close-in. I feel damned bad about getting hoodwinked.”
“But dat deputy of yours got back most of da gold. He ist a good man! Hast Paul come home yet? Last I heard, he vas still oot with anutter posse.”
“That's so. They found the outlaw's pack horse between here and the Gila River. It's looking like the rascals are hightailing it toward Yuma. They can't have much loot with them anymore. We don't expect Paul's posse to chase them all the way to the California line, though. We've already sent Yuma an alert to be on the lookout.”
“The bandits vill get a breather if dey get all the vay to California,” Euler said with a scowl.
“That's the truth. It's touchy business to go chasing outlaws over a state border.”
The brewer just then shifted his glance toward the door. “Who are doz loverly ladies? From out of town, maybe?”
Dan turned about. “Well, well. That's the widow Fanning. She's dressed up right fancy tonight. I see her now and then, but never in a dress like that one. And the young lady with her must be...” Dan tried to remember the name that Shamus had told him. “...Myra. Myra, her niece from back East.”
This was the first time that Dan had set eyes on the new potion gal. As always, the changes that it ushered in amazed him.
“Doz two vill get a lot of dancing ift they're villing,” said Otto. “It ist at times like dees that I vish I vasn't a married man. Almost vish, I mean.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5, Part 1
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