The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 16

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006
Posted December 21, 2019

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Gang of Four

Four Mighty Ones are in every man.

A perfect unity cannot exist

But from the Universal Brotherhood of Eden

The Universal Man, to whom be Glory evermore. Amen

William Blake

"What, exactly, did War...? What did Strike tell you about what we're doing here?" I asked the ultra.

Hardcase shook his head. "Nothing much -- just that there was some grade-schooler running wild in Canoga Park packing super magic. But I thought that the guy I was fighting looked more like a circus dwarf."

"He's a kid all right," I said with a sigh. "Did you take notice of that story last spring, about something that happened in Canoga Park, something involving a local boy?"

He returned an uncertain glance.

"News about a boy who had been inexplicably changed?" I coaxed.

The blond man frowned. "Come to think of it, I did hear something about a youngster becoming disfigured. His name was, umm, August Blake." His face suddenly lit with understanding. "Oh, God! Your son?"

I nodded.

"But what happened? Those reports didn't say anything about the boy gaining magical powers."

"The magic just came on him suddenly, and I'm not sure how. But strange things are happening all over the world tonight. Whatever's ensorcelled Gus has affected his mind, too. He sees enemies in everyone and everything. He's willing to attack even members of his own family."

Hardcase shook his head. "And with powers like I've seen, he can really vent!"

"We've got to stop him from hurting people and causing damage," I said, "but even the two of us together aren't strong enough to butt head with a power like his. Strike is coming to join us, as you already know. Yrial of the Strangers has also promised to pitch in."

He rubbed his chin. "Yrial, huh? Yeah, I met the Strangers right after they first got their powers. The whole troop of them showed up in my Malibu house, asking for advice on how to become first-rate ultra heroes. I've been asked crazier things, so I took them out for a shakedown mission. We checked out an Aladdin facility at Groom Lake, Nevada. I still regret getting a batch of newbies into Aladdin's gun-sights.”

“Those people never forget and they never forgive,” I said.

“So you've taken Aladdin on, too?”

“Oh, yes,” I affirmed, “but it's a story that I can't go into.”

He nodded sympathetically. "By the way, where's that excitable fellow that you were with on the Godwheel? The one who wore a high-tech power suit? It seemed like the two of you were more than just friends. Lukasz he was called."

I hoped he didn't see me swallow. "We're not together anymore,” I told Hardcase. But then something made me say more. I had held it bottled up for just too long. “Necromantra came after us right after we returned to Earth.  I beat her off, but not before she'd killed him.” There was more to the story than that, but I didn't want to share it.

“But Necromantra was a disembodied spirit. Did she take over someone else's body after the Godwheel?”

“Yes, and the way she did it made the tragedy doubly bad. It's too painful to talk about.”

He knew better than to push his curiosity further.  “Eden, I'm left without words.”

I needed to change the subject. "'What's I've been hearing about you leaving UltraForce?"

He sighed. “I hated to do it. I was there from the start, you know, building that team up from nothing. We did a lot of great work.  But then people showed up saying, 'We're from the government; we're here to help you.' I was against it, and I told the group so. I argued myself red in the face, but the group couldn't seem to understand that this wasn't our grandfather's national government anymore; it was Deep State.  I found myself alone in my position, so I pulled out until they could come to their senses.”

I grimaced. “I was disappointed myself to hear what they'd done. Outfits like Aladdin begins softly, but they always suck their victims in and turn them into Stormtroopers. They'll regret it, sooner rather than later.”

"You know, Mantra, I could have used you on my side. Why was it that you didn't join the Force when we started up? Magic was something that the UF was badly in need of."

I shook my head. "Prime arrived with his invitation at a time when I was almost ready to get out of the hero business. But I wasn't in that mood for very long. I've done things I'm sorry for; having the ability to help people lets me make up for some of it."

"Well, maybe you can get a little moral support if you join the Paladins."

"The Paladins?"

"That's a working title for the new ultra-team that Strike and I are talking about. Choice suggested the name."

I knew that “Choice” was his super-heroine girl friend.  She was a multifaceted ultra with a shadowy and rather complex past.

"I'll have to give all my attention to my family for the time being,” I explained.  “Your offer interests me, but until I can get my life into better order, I'm locked out from any long-term commitments." Offhandedly, I added the question, “How is it that Choice didn't come with you tonight?"

Concern flicker in the man's eyes. "She shouldn't be overexerting herself -- especially not now."

I sensed that some subtext was hiding behind that comment, but didn't feel like prying. "I'm grateful for whatever help you'll be able to lend," I told him. “I'm sorry we haven't had the chance over the last couple years to become better friends.”

“Maybe that will change,” Hardcase said, then glancing back at the smoldering schoolhouse. "So, I take it that your boy suddenly got ultra powers and decided to burn down Canoga Park Elementary. That's a mean payback for getting too much homework!"

The joke fell flat with me. “Before that, he tried to kill me.”

The world's most famous ultra hero turned about, looking surprised.  “Why?”

"I'd confined him to his room for misbehaving."

"You're joking."

"My whole life would be a joke, except that it's so -- gut-wrenching." I took a deep breath and tried to brace up. “I should check in with Strike and Yrial. By the way, Hardcase, did you notice that there was an Aladdin squad at the school?"

He blinked. "No, I didn't. It seems like those guys alway turn up when you least expect them."

"They're with a new leader called Wrath."

His brows knit. "I've heard that name before."

"The name is being recycled. This is a different person."

"If he's Aladdin-issue, he can't be trusted."

"Probably true," I replied, “but I've seen him do a decent act or two.”

“Well then, I'll try to avoid taking him out, if I can.”

“Fine,” I said.  “But right now I've got to be doing some mind-to-mind communication."

He looked on curiously as went off a little distance. I touched my fingertips to my temples and projected my thoughts: "Mantra here, Strike. Whereabouts are you?"

I repeated the telepathic call twice more before an answer came:

"Mantra, I had to swing into one of my local hidey holes to pick up some equipment. By the way, Hardcase will probably be showing up soon."

"He already has. He's standing here beside me now. I don't know how to thank you enough."

"Normally, I could do plenty with a straight line like that, Mantra, but it's no time for jokes. Where should I meet you guys?"

"Runnymede Park. That's several blocks east of my house. We'll be waiting for you. If our plans change, I'll give you another buzz."
 
"Okay, Strike off."

Immediately afterwards, I sent out another probe, this one aimed at Yrial's mind. Quite quickly, I felt the contact.
 
"Mantra, I was just about to get in touch with you," the she-ultra responded. "I am somewhere north of of you, in what I believe is called Thousand Oaks. I wasn't able to reach Shadowmage."

“I hope it isn't because Shadowmage has gone back to the Godwheel.”

“Shadowmage?” echoed Tom Hawke.  “Strike told me that you were going to get into touch with her. She shouldn't be so hard to reach. I spoke to the young lady just last month.”

“Where is she?” I asked.

“She was in Arizona.  Lela Cho, the ex-captain of the Solutions team, gave me her number. I can dial it up for you.”

“Please do. Neither Yrial nor I have been able to connect with her telepathically – and that's worrisome because she's highly psychic. You should definitely give her a call, even if it is just to make sure that she's not in any trouble,” I said. 

Big man drew out his phone and I continued resumed my conversation with Yrial.  "We've gotten an unexpected lead on Aera's last whereabouts, Yrial.  We'll handle that. But for now, I'm glad you're almost here. Try to get a fix on my magical feed," I said. "It'll guide you to us like a beacon. Then we'll rendezvous with Strike."
 
"The mercenary for hire?"

"He's got a checkered rep, I know, but Strike is probably the best friend I have." I hoped I was right about that. This wasn't my world anymore and Tark was no longer the same man I knew. Even so, I was depending heavily on this version of Warstrike to help me bring Gus back from the brink. 

#

“It's strange,” Hardcase spoke up behind me, his cellphone gripped in one hand.  “I couldn't get a ring from the other end.  I called Lela right away to ask what she knew. She didn't know what the problem was, but went ahead and called Shadowmage while I waited.  She came right back to say that Aera isn't even answering on the special linkup that the Solution members have.”

“Well, this is a crazy night and a lot of people have been hurt.  Some have even been wiped out of the memory of man.  Like Contrary,” I added.

“Who?”

I saw what was an earnest question in his looks. “Ah, that's someone I know, but it's too complex to go into now.”  Incredible!  Hardcase and Contrary had both been founding members in UltraForce and had been serving together for a year!

“If someone's memory has been wiped out, how do you still remember them, Mantra?”

“I'll be glad to tell you later.  But right now we have to focus on saving Gus from himself.” 

He sighed and nodded. “I've got a bad feeling about Aera going  incommunicado,” he said.  “When we're done here, I should try to find her.  I'm pretty sure that Lela will be willing to lend a hand.”

“I hope so,” I said.  

Yrial arrived before Strike did. The magic-wielding Stranger looked just as I remembered, except that her ethnically-inspired costume was now a basic green color instead of violet. Tastes differed between universes, it seemed. It was hard not to get the willies from those rosy, pupil-less eyes of hers. They gave her otherwise comely face a demonic cast. I wondered whether this peculiarity was common amongst her tribe, or if it was unique to Yrial herself. At least by reputation, the ultra was not evil, though I knew her to be a practitioner of death-sorcery. I certainly wasn't at ease around death-sorcery. It had taken too much from me.

Without any more conversation, I led my two companions across Topanga Canyon Boulevard, widely avoiding the smoldering schoolhouse where there were still many firemen and police on duty. We were mostly concerned about being sighted by the highly dangerous Aladdin team. 
 

#

Yrial and I flew while Hardcase kept up by casually leaping more than a block at a time. We quickly intersected with Sherman Way, and this we followed to Runnymede Park.

"Even if we can temporarily subdue a sorcerer of such power," I addressed to my companions, "does anyone know how to control the boy without making him suffer too much?"

This question seemed to resonate poignantly with Yrial. "We are fortunate, Mantra. I was recently forced to control a loved one who had become an enemy. Do you remember Atom Bob?"

"Of course. Did he ever come back from his sabbatical?”

Indian woman mirrored sorrow. "There was no sabbatical; the Strangers imprisoned him. Evil had taken possession of Bob. He had become the bitter enemy of the rest of us."

"How did you subdue someone as powerful as him?"

"I placed him into a magical coma. Then we conveyed him to a remote European clinic where the doctors have had experience with supernatural problems. They have been committed to expunging his demons, but thus far they have reported only failure."

I shook my head. "What you say sounds a lot like what's happened to the boy we're looking for. If the coma spell becomes necessary, is it teachable? Or would you be willing to perform it?"

"Please allow me to do it, Mantra. My race has already been cursed by black sorcery and I would urge you not to follow after us. In centuries, we have not found our way back to the light.

I sensed her pain. Even Archimage, though he was at heart an S.O.B., had avoided using the necrotic arts, despite every temptation. Except for Yrial, all the necromancers I've met had been evil. I'd supposed that they'd gone into dark sorcery by choice, but having met the Amerind princess, I couldn't be sure of that.

"I would be willing to sacrifice myself, if it would make this terrible thing right!" I told her frankly.

“Do not attempt to do good by evil means, Mantra. That was the mistake that ruined my own people.” Then Yrial looked at me with heightened interest. "Why do you care so much about this unfortunate boy?"

"I -- I know his family," I explained lamely. "They deserve better than this."

She touched my arm lightly. “So do you,” she said.

Hearing an engine roar, I looked back. Some kind of custom-job was tearing up the turf of Runnymede Park. When the high-octane monster skidded to a halt under the lamplight, I could recognize it for a large, souped-up motorcycle. But the figure in the saddle didn't look like the man we'd been expecting -- or, more precisely, the one that I had been expecting.

He was of the same size and build as my friend Warstrike – not much smaller than Hardcase himself -- but I'd never seen him wearing that costume before. This edition of Tark retained his red-blond hair and showed a taste for Spandex, but under his long, green, unbuttoned coat I saw red-colored chest-and-shoulder armor. He was also masked, his eyes concealed by means of two-way lenses. I would have given him a hard time for wearing a fashion atrocity, but I found a cold, hard lump where my levity should have been. Actually, I appreciated that this version of Warstrike looked so unfamiliar. I needed to be cautious in dealing with the man – at least until I knew for certain that he was a true friend.

Strike dismounted; my two other companions greeted him, correctly, if not effusively. Tark apparently didn't know Yrial at all, and his acquaintance with Hardcase appeared businesslike. After brief amenities, the masked vigilante asked me to fill him in on what had been going on.

"Gus has already tried to burn down his own school," I told him. "When I tested his strength earlier, I couldn't stand up to him at all. Even though the boy has had no combat training, his instincts for defending himself are incredible."

"Do you have a plan, Mantra?" Yrial asked.

I gave a weary nod. "That depends. Strike, what did you bring?"

"Based on our short talk earlier, I've rustled up a cannister of knockout-gas and some other gadgets that my man Gizmo designed a while ago."

“Designed for what end?”

“To help me bring ultra-powered bad guys back alive -- instead doing what comes naturally."

I winced at this blunt jibe, imagining Gus's body tied to the fender of that monster cycle. But I didn't think the man was speaking in deliberate bad taste. That was just the blunt, bluff way that Brandon Tark talked when among friends -- unfortunately.

Strike gave us a run-down on the other equipment he'd brought. It seemed harsh and makeshift by the standards of Aladdin's ultra-subduing equipment, but they were all we had to work with. "Good," I replied with more affirmation than I felt. "We can pick a spot and make this park our battlefield. Here's my plan...." 

#

A few minutes later, with everyone in their place, I was ready to send out a telepathic call -- this time to myself.

"Mrs. Blake! Mrs. Blake, can you hear me?!"

I answered my own question: "I do hear you, ma'am. But how can I be hearing you inside my head?"

"I have many amazing powers, for I am Mantra!" 

"You're the famous ultra?! Thank you for helping my children so much! I've heard all about the wonderful things you can do! If anyone can possibly help us, it will be you! Have you found Gus yet? People say that he set fire to the school! Oh, Mantra! I didn't raise him to be such a bad boy. You have to bring him home to his family before the police catch him and put him in jail."

"You can count on us," I responded. "But what did you do to make him so angry?"

"It was just a silly little thing. I slapped Gus because he made his sister cry, and then told him he had to stay in his room until he apologized."

"A slap? Mrs. Blake, that was a mistake. A parent should be much more severe when it comes to childish misbehavior."

"I didn't want to be hard on him. Gus had always been a good son, until this terrible thing happened."

"Spare the rod, spoil the child," I told my alter ego. "Because of what he's done, Gus must now spend many years in reform school. Otherwise, he will just get worse and worse, harming people and stealing things."

"Reform school? That would be terrible! Wouldn't it be enough punishment if I have him take the garbage out whenever the basket gets full?”

"Well, yes, I suppose that could be sufficient rehabilitation. It is my instinct to always be firm with a villain, but we must all try to remember that Gus is a first-time offender. But that may change if he puts any more people in danger.  Here's what we'll do. The mighty Hardcase and I shall find your missing son and return him to you safely. It is important that we locate him before he learns that we're tracking him, because that way he could take us by surprise. After we return him home, you'll have to be very strict parent if he's ever going to become good enough to be invited to join UltraForce one day."

"I hope that can happen. But where are you, Mantra?"

"Hardcase and I are at Runnymede Park, quite close to your own home. We sensed strong magic somewhere near it, but it turned out to be no more than an ultra-powered robber whom we easily subdued. But don't worry, Mrs. Blake; we always get our man. No super-villain has ever escaped justice for very long. But I promise that if Gus surrenders peacefully, we will treat him well. The next time you see us, Mrs. Blake, we will have your son with us."

"That would be wonderful, Mantra. I so love him. I don't think he's eaten yet tonight and I want to fix him something nice for supper."

"You do that, Mrs. Blake.  Mantra out!" 

The charade was over. Gus knew where we were, and I'd given him a motive to come to us as soon as possible. I wasn't looking forward to the coming fight, but for the boy's own sake I had to be up for it.

A green flash overhead drew my attention upward.  The sky still crawled with unnatural illumination, making the night seem very unreal.

"How did it go, Mantra?"

I looked back at Hardcase. "I projected my thoughts directly at Gus, trying to make it seem like I was talking with his mother. I wanted to make the boy angry enough to stop hiding and come here looking for us, where we'll be ready for him."

I looked around. Strike and Yrial had already concealed themselves, so that Gus wouldn't know that we had reinforcements.  "Be alert and ready, everyone," I whispered.

Only a minute later, I heard a mental declaration – one that came with such strength that it made me lurch.

"Mom! I know you can hear me! I'm going to fix Mantra for wanting to be mean to me!
 
"And then I'll fix you, too!”


TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 5, Part 1

Posted 12-07-19

Revised 02-07-20

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 5, Part 1

Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued

Out of earshot of Talbot and Euler, Myra was telling her aunt: “Everybody's gawking at me. I look stupid!”

“No you don't,” Irene assured her. “It's just that people are wondering who you are.  And, by the way, they surely notice how well you're dressed.” 

“Stop saying that!”

Irene held her voice low.  “Isn't it better to be admired, treated like someone that they'd like to know, instead of as a person that they don't trust or are afraid of?”

“I'd rather make them them afraid. And I'd be glad to be homely if would make me fewer problems.”

“I doubt it would.  You'd still have a parcel of sorrows, only they'd be different ones.  I was considered pretty at your age, but I was too shy to really enjoy it, even before...Darby passed on. Don't make light of God's gifts.  What ever problems you're having, there's always someone, somewhere, who is having an even worse time of it.”

“So what?  I'm betting that there are plenty who're having things a lot better than I am.”

“Envy is a deadly sin, my dear.  Can't you at least be grateful that you're not starving in China?” Irene glanced to the side, at the tables arrayed with treats. “Think about it. When do all those hungry people over there ever get to eat their fill, like we can?”

“I don't see how me eating like a hog once in a while is going to help anyone in China,” Myra replied.

“I'm not sure about that either, but you should be using this opportunity to settle gracefully into the community. Mingle and let people know who you are. Act friendly and they'll be friendly to you, later on.”

“What's the point?” the girl asked. “I never had a friend who didn't end up stabbing me in the back.” She was especially remembering Ike Bertram -- the leader of the gang who'd accidentally shot her during the robbery at Stagecoach Gap. Worse, only a half-hour later, he'd threatened to finish her off, to keep her from talking to the law. The skunk would have pulled the trigger, too, she supposed, except that Myron had slipped away when Ike was busy burying the stolen strongbox.

“I shouldn't wonder that your friendships never seem to go well,” stated Irene, “since you're determined to quarrel with everyone close to you.  I'm trying hard to understand your way of thinking.”

“You're just not listening carefully.”

“Here's some advice that I hope you'll listen to: It's easiest to get along when you're kind and respectful. Whenever you're able, be generous, too.”

“Is that what's made you so happy and successful?”

Mrs. Fanning sighed.  “I'm still learning the lessons of life, myself.  Above all, don't make trouble because it will usually come back to hurt you. Don't invite trouble, because you'll have more than enough of it through no fault of your own. While we're here, just be pleasant and avoid arguments.  If you're still miserable after about two hours, we can leave.”

“What am I going to do in this chicken coop for two hours?”

“Eat, make conversation, and enjoy the music. Also, you can do some dancing.  Kayley and Rosedale did their bet to prepare you, after all.  I'm sure that the two of them must be around here somewhere. If not, they'll soon be showing up. If I know that pair, they'll have plenty of cheerful topics for discussion.”

Girl talk!  That was the absolute last thing that Myra was looking for. Frustrated from talking to her aunt, the girl just stood there sullenly, until Irene drifted away, having noticed somebody whom she knew from church.

Two hours in this place! the farm girl thought again. The span of time that Irene was taking so lightly seemed to her as long as a life sentence. The only people that she'd needed to speak to was the Sheriff and Ozzie Pratt, the man from the newspaper.  Hopefully, they were wandering the room somewhere, guzzling whiskey and filling their faces with free food. But, if they weren't, she'd be putting herself through one hell of a mortifying experience for no reason at all.

Myra looked around and didn't like what she saw. People – the men especially -- were still eying her, like hunters determined to bring home a dead duck.  Grown men, old men, and pups still wet behind the ears.  She frowned and let everyone see the frown, sending out a clear message that she didn't want to speak to any of them.  But just when her glower was at its angriest, she realized that one of the men looking her way was Sheriff Dan Talbot!

#

Now that the lawman and the teenage girl were making eye-contact, the latter's resolution wavered. The faithful conversation, she realized, lay only minutes ahead in time, and she could hardly remember what all she intended to say.

Myra, in fact, couldn't have felt more daunted had she been squared off against a gunslick in the middle of a dusty street.  She wished that she could just leave.  Unfortunately, the girl had come here for a good reason, and had to see it through if she was ever going to set her mind at ease. 

It occurred to Myra that maybe Dan Talbot didn't actually know who she was.  So far, he hadn't met him face to face as a girl. Under better circumstances, she might have liked to trick him, lead him on, and then make a fool in front of everybody.  But there were two things wrong with that scheme.  First, she didn't want to do anything that would place her in a bad light in front of so many people, and, secondly, she needed his advice, not his anger.

Myra let out a resigned sigh and steeled herself for what had to be a grim encounter. Then, still jittery, she stepped toward the peace-keeper as if walking on thin ice.  The eyes of the crowd continued to be overly-interested in her, some taking a bead on her profile, some viewing something lower. She cursed the snug corset she was wearing, not just for leaving her short of breath, but for foisting on her such a noteworthy outline.

Close-up to Talbot, she at last said, “S-Sheriff.”

The tall man watched her approach with a look of interest on his lined, sun-browned face. “Miss Olcott,” I presume,” he said.

That address irked her.  As bad as it was keeping company with people who didn't know the truth, it was even worse being with those who did.

“Sheriff Talbot,” Myra pronounced carefully, “I came to this party mostly to speak to you. Any objection?”

“Speak about what?”

“Important stuff.  But it's too private to chew through inside this turkey pen.”

Dan regarded her quizzically.  “All right. Let's step outside.  There'll be a lot of open space under the stars, and we'll be losing the light fast.”

Myra nodded and followed Dan out the front door. They stepped into the winter darkness.  The breeze was  cool, but not uncomfortably so – not even with a good portion of her skin uncovered. There was not much left of the dusk and the people whom she saw in the torchlight were mostly clustered in groups and couples. There being no music as yet, no one was dancing. Pretty soon, she supposed, the band would come out of the schoolhouse and then the silly “skip to my Lous” would get under way.

“This good enough?” the lawman asked.

“A little farther out,” she urged.  “I don't want any of these busybodies eavesdropping.”

Dan humored the young lady and her ushered a little farther out, finally stopping by a hedge of bushes that marked the edge of the schoolyard.  “What can I help you with, Miss Myra?”

“Don't make fun of me. Without you, my life wouldn't have turned into a train-wreck.”

He smiled guardedly. “Did I wreck your life or save it?”

“This isn't the kind of life I ever could have accepted, if given a choice. I'm mad enough to shoot somebody, except for that damned magic. But I sure as hell ain't going to thank any person who's set me up for what feels like a life in hell.”

“I didn't have any part of what happened,” Dan told her, “except that I took your aunt over to see to Judge Humphrey.  And it isn't your Mrs. Fanning's fault, either; she only wanted to save you.  She must have thought that you were worth keeping around.  Maybe you'll prove her right someday.”

“Good; we'll both can be honest.  You never liked me and I never liked you.  But, for now, we've got business to discuss.”

“And what would that business be?”

“I've got to ask you about an important matter.”

“Is that so?  I expected that you were all set to rave and swear.  I was going to go along with it, since it might help you to settle down, once you got all that bile out of your system.  But if you hanker to talk civilly, I'm much obliged. What's bothering you?”

Myra looked down at her own feet, as if trying to find enough inner steel to brace herself up enough to seem formidable.  When that steel proved elusive, she took a hard swallow and met his glance sternly.

“I want to know if there was a serious crime committed a few years ago, one where you never caught the outlaws.”

Sheriff Talbot blinked. “Are you talking about some crime that you made happen?”

“No, not me.  But before I say anything more, I want you to promise that you won't repeat what I tell you.  Not to anyone.”

He gave back a serious look.  “If you're holding back information about a crime, and if the criminal can still be dealt with, I can't agree to let him off scot free.”

“The...the people who may have done..the thing... are dead.  But there are innocent folks who could still get hurt if a lot of loose talk got turned loose.”

“Who'll get hurt?”

“The...the family.  There's no one to arrest, and that's the honest truth, but if word escaped that somebody did something wrong, there might be plenty of disgrace to spread around.”

“All right.  Unless I have to arrest some guilty person, I'll keep things  confidential.” 

Myra felt she could go along with that, but hated to deal with the law. “And don't you say anything to Aunt Irene either, you hear?” she added. “I think it would hurt her most of all.”

“I won't, not unless I absolutely have to.”

“Shake on it?”  The ginger extended her hand.  Dan took it.

Myra then stood back, straightened herself, and seemed to grope for words.  “I-I found a letter sent to my mother the other day. It sounded like Ma had just told somebody that she'd done something bad.”

“Who did she tell, and what did that person say?” 

“I don't want to get into that.”

“That's not reasonable.  If you went to a doctor, I don't think you'd be so sly about fessing up to what was hurting.”

Myra frowned.  It surely did seem futile to be too coy. Anything that she tried to keep from Talbot he could probably guess, like some detective inside a story.  How had she ever gotten backed into a corner as this one?

With effort, she said, “I found out things from that letter.  It was written a little after the war, about the time that my folks started acting sad-like.”

Dan's eyes narrowed.  “So, are you going to tell me why they were acting so sad?”

“I-I don't know, exactly.  But I'm thinking that they might have been sorry about stealing something.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because the always talked about owing money before, but then they stopped.

“Well, what did they steal?”

“I don't know that either.  I'm not sure that they stole anything.  But if they'd gotten out of debt somehow, it should have made them happier. Instead, they acted like they'd plum lost the knack for enjoying life.”

“When, exactly, was this going on?”

“The letter was dated 1866 near the end of May.  But the way that the writer talked, the thing the folks did must have happened a couple years back.  That would be before the war was over.  Maybe a year before.”

The lawman frowned off into the distance, looking toward – but not seeing – a darkening row of locust trees.  “So, you're talking about 1864 or thereabouts?”

“As far as I can reckon.”

“What exactly do you remember from those days?”

“Not much.  I was only about ten in 1864 and they didn't talk business with me. We ate good eats, I know. They also started fixing the place up some, like putting in that windmill, digging a new well, buying more cattle. They even had money enough to buy me a few toys.”

Myra's expression made it hard for Dan to stay on guard. He'd always thought of Myron Caldwell as a shallow brat, a bad kid with no sense of right and wrong.  Maybe, though, beneath his former armadillo shell, there was a person with some ability to feel. If those feelings were still alive, he'd like to see them grow. He let the girl stand quietly for a minute, appreciating the pain that he saw in her face.

“Let me get just one thing clear...Thorn.  Are you wanting me to prove that your folks are guilty of something bad?”

“No!” she said sharply.  “I want you to prove that they didn't do anything.  I'm thinking that if no serious crime is known about from five years ago, I'd be able to sleep easier. Unless I know for sure how things really were, I'll never be able to think about them properly...the way used to remember them.”

The sheriff pushed up his hat brim; his lips were pursed with the heaviness of his reasoning.  “This is a funny business. Most of the time, I get a complaint about some crime and then I have to catch the parties that committed it.  Sometimes, I have to dig a little first, to find out who exactly was the culprit.  But here, you seem to want me to check around and see if any crime was committed, all the while hoping that I won't find one. Well, strange as the business sounds to me, I can take a shot at it. Would that make you happy?”

“Maybe.  I hope so.”

“But if I find something about your folks that doesn't smell right, how will you feel then?”

“About as bad as I'm feeling now. I don't want to go on suspecting that they did something awful, especially since I might be completely wrong about it.”

“Well now, maybe the best way to move ahead is for you to tell me who knows more than you do.  Who sent that letter accusing your mother?”

“I don't see why you need to know.”

“You're protecting somebody, I reckon.  Your aunt maybe?”

Myra looked away.

It was obviously to Dan that a family concern was affecting Myra, and he didn't feel like poking that kind of wound.  “You haven't told me much,” the Sheriff said. “As for crimes, there've been robberies and killings hereabouts long before I ever took the badge. I wasn't even Eerie's town marshal as far back as 1864.  The best way to clear your parents' name is to prove that they didn't have a motive for doing whatever may have happened.  Tell me, were your folks carrying debts with the bank, or with the merchants in town? I mean, was there anything that might have made them desperate for money?”

The girl looked back, nodding slowly. “They surely had a peck of things.  Like I said, after a while they stopped fussing about what they owed. But I was still pretty young at the time; I saw and heard a lot that I didn't understand.”

Talbot frowned thoughtfully. “Banks keep good records, and most merchants do, too.  I can ask Dwight Albertson about the Caldwells' finances, and also question the store owners that were here that long ago.  Most farmers tend to be in and out of debt over the whole course of their lives.  That's normal for honest people. But, all too often, there's somebody who gets out of debt sudden-like, and stays out of debt. That could be a bad sign.”

“I – I guess so.”

Observing Myra in her present state of mind, it was hard for Dan to see the Myron that he'd known.  She seemed younger than the young hellion had, so much more of a child.  “Ordinary folks might not notice if a neighbor comes into money,” the sheriff began again, “not if the person keeps to himself and is careful about not spending too much, too quickly.  For now, for your own good, you ought to stop investigating. You could open an old wound, and a scandal would make it harder for you to settle down into a new life. I can look into things without drawing so much attention to myself.  People expect a sheriff to be asking strange questions and they usually don't expect him to explain himself.  The first thing I'd do in this case is to pick people's minds about any unsolved crimes they know of, going back a few years. If I need to mention the Caldwells by name, I'll say as little as possible.”

Myra raised her chin. “Just don't let any polecat wheedle more than that out of you, Sheriff. I don't trust anybody with that kind of information.”
 “You're right to be careful, but I'm used to working with matters like these.” 

“You're right to be careful, but I'm used to working with these matters.” 

“Should I keep clear of Ossie Pratt, too?  Wasn't he living in Eerie back then?”

Dan's brows knitted.  “Yes, he was, but it's always risky to talk to a newspaper man.  Their job is to print things that people don't want printed.  Let me handle Ossie Pratt, if he needs talking to at all.”

Myra nodded slowly.  “So, where does all this talk leave us?”

“My advice is to put your troubles out of your mind as best you can.  You should just settle back and enjoy the party.”

When Myra made no reply, Dan continued, “Like I said, I'll do what I'm able, and let you know right quick what I find out.”

“Thanks,” the girl replied faintly.

Dan stood where he was, watching the potion girl move off.  He had always felt sorry for Myron Caldwell. The boy could have been so much better, except that he had lost both his parents at the same time. That was a terrible mule kick for a kid so young. Thorn had been left broken inside; for him, being broken meant growing up mean and sour. Starting over again as Myra was the best chance he had to change for the better. The lawman had seen such a thing happen with the Hanks gang. If this new hammer blow tore open all of Myra's wounds again, she might lose her chance.  The right elements might never come together again, and young Caldwell might never fix what was a messed up life.

#

Although the talk with the sheriff hadn't gone as badly as she had feared, Myra didn't like leaving something so important to someone else, especially to a lawman. The tin-star men were always looking for someone to blame, guilty or not.  Usually, a bucker could get a better shake from almost anyone else, even an outlaw.

“Myra!” someone shouted.

She turned to see Kayley and Rosedale running from out of the crowd. Miss Grimsley had on a burgundy-dress and her expression was bright-eyed and excited. Rosedale was dressed up, too. Miss Olcott wished she could turn invisible, being in no mood for company.

“Oh, Myra!” exclaimed Dale.  “Now I see why George admired your dress so much! It's almost perfect! It makes me embarrassed to be seen in the faded thing I have on!” The Severin girl's frock was light blue cotton and patterned with small red blossoms. The thing didn't look so bad to Myra's glance, though it had clearly been washed a good share of times.

“I didn't pick it out myself.  A friend of Irene's did,” said Miss Olcott.

“Do you mean Molly O'Toole?” asked Kayley.

Myra scowled.  “I guess George doesn't leave out very much when he gets to gossiping.”

Dale glanced back at the school.  “Pretty soon the band will come out and the boys will be asking the girls to partner up.”

“Maybe they'll ask you two,” Myra replied, wanting to change the subject. 

“And you, too!” chirped Kayley.

The ginger shook her head. “Who'd want to dance with me, anyway?”

“Don't be so modest!” said Dale. “You're as cute as a chickadee, and that dress makes you look even better.  A lot of boys will be wanting to swing you around the play-yard, mark my words.”

“But if you're not used to young men,” advised Kayley, “you'll be surprised how shy most of them are. The best way to get a shy boy to dance with you is to start talking to him – about anything all all, except dancing.  Like, do you know anything about fishing?  If he's already been admiring you, your being friendly and going easy might be enough to make him ask the question.”

“It seems to me that the braver person at a dance should ask the question,” observed Myra.  “Who set the rules that girl's shouldn't speak their mind?”

“Mama says that only a hussies will ask boys straight-out to dance,” explained Miss Grimsley.

“So what's wrong with hussies?”

“I'm not sure,” replied Kayley, “but no one wants to be called one.”

“Too many people are too quick to make up rules for everybody else to follow,” adjudged Myra.

“I know,” agreed Rosedale.  “But when we're their age, we'll be the elders making up the rules. We'll just have to be careful to make up much better ones.” 

“By the way, it was awful that pa and the others couldn't find Thorn,” put in Kayley.

Myra looked at the golden-tressed blonde, trying to think of a reply. “No,” she finally said, “it was better than having him found him dead. Maybe it means that he got away.”

“Pa said you were thinking that,” spoke up Dale.  “Thorn wasn't very nice, the Lord knows, but it would surely make your aunt feel better if he came back someday fit and fine.”

Myra shook her head. “There was nothing wrong with Thorn, except that he wanted to live the way that he wanted to live, without everybody else telling him what to do.”

“But he wanted to be an outlaw,” said Dale.

“So was Robin Hood,” Miss Myra replied.


TO BE CONTINUED IN Chapter 5, Part 2