The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 5, Part 2

Posted 01-06-20

Revised 02-07-20  

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 5, Part 2

Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued

“I think there must be a lot more bad outlaws out there than good ones,” Dale responded soberly.  “I could have liked Myron better if only he was nicer.” Suddenly she blinked.  “Oh, say, I almost forgot to mention that I'll be attending the church service for your cousin. It's too bad it happened. I like Mrs. Fanning a lot, and I like you, too, Myra.”

“Look!” exclaimed Miss Grimsley. “Some boys are looking at us!”

“I hope one of them asks me to dance,” said Dale. “If no one does, I'd rather be partnered with with a girl if it means being left out entirely.”

“If no boy asks first, I'll dance with you,” Kyley promised her friend.

Myra grimaced inwardly. Soon, the two of them would be shuffling off together, leaving her behind to look like a wallflower. Maybe if Tor Johansson didn't show up soon, Irene would get tired of being ignored and decide to go home. That would be a blessing.

“I think I'll go inside and get something to eat,” Myra told her companions.

“You'll miss the first dance!” Kayley warned.

“I'm not much of a dancer. It's no big deal to me.”

“You shouldn't be so shy,” Dale stated. “I used to be, too, but I got over it the first time a boy called me pretty.” Just then, the Miss Severin looked up and announced, “Here comes the band.  They're going to set up!”

Myra took a critical look at herself. The way she was dressed would give men the wrong idea about her. No good could come from staying where she was.

“I'm really hungry,” Myra reminded them.

“We'll see you later,” chirped Dale.  “We want to watch the band get ready.”

“See you later, Myra,” Kayley added in parting. The Olcott girl watched them walk away.

#

Irene Fanning had been passing time with people she knew. She'd already been asked several times about the carefree style of her dress. She repeatedly needed to explain how she had bought it at the last minute from the limited stock available at the Silverman's store.

“They didn't have anything I liked this year,” said Zenobia Carson. “Their rack looked extremely picked over.”

“Mrs. Fanning,” Livinia Mackechnie put in, “doesn't the cut of that dress leave you feeling chilly?”

Irene, smiling patiently. “I have a warm shawl on the buckboard. I'll fetch it promptly should the night grow unpleasantly cool.

“How is your spirit holding up?” asked Grace McLeod.

Irene wondered whether this was a subtle form of censure.  “I'm sad for Myron,” she explained, “but I'm also overjoyed that Myra has come to stay with me. She's new to the West and I wanted to bring her to a place where she could make new friends right away.”

“I haven't met your niece yet,” mentioned Hilda Scudder. “Maybe we can exchange introductions at the memorial Tuesday.”

Irene nodded. “Yes, she'll appreciate that, I'm sure. For one so young, she's had more than her share of sorrow.”

“Isn't that always so?” said Hilda. “Especially at Christmas, it's important that all of us open our hearts to the stranger.”

At that moment, Irene was straining to see over her companions' heads, hoping to locate Tor Johansson. She was actually trying to suppress any feeling of eagerness. She couldn't keep from thinking about Darby in heaven, and how her behavior might make him feel.

Suddenly, she espied a man taller than anyone else next to him.  He seemed to be carefully scanning the crowd. When his fair eyes fixed on her face, her nerve almost failed. Irene clenched her fists and made a brave effort to show a pleasant face. Tor flashed a smile and started her way.

When the Swede was at a small distance, he remarked,“Mrs. Fanning, how nice it is to see you again.  Have you had a nice veek?”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Irene said as she stepped out from the knot of church friends and toward the big Swede.

“The last few days have been busy,” she confided, “but I have been looking forward to this gathering.”

“I like your new style of hair. You look like a lady of high society.”

Irene's cheeks warmed slightly. “I'm hardly that. But the bun I usually wear would scarcely have been in the spirit of the season.”

“I vould agree.  And your dress is very handsome.”

“I'm happy you think so. Some of the ladies seemed to imply that it's too bold.”

The prospector grinned broadly. “Ladies!  Tat's vhy we love tem so much.”

Irene nodded, feeling awkward but trying not to show it.

Tor beamed. “Vhen I came in, da band outside vas ready to start da music. I suppose you have a dance reserved already?”

“Not at all. And it would be sad to miss the opening dance.”

“Yes, dat vould be yoost terrible,” he said. He offered her his arm.

The ladies standing nearby took note of everything. The faces of the majority did not register approval.

#

Myra and her aunt passed one another, going in opposite directions. They exchanged glances, but neither spoke. Tor Johansson, next to Irene, looked huge. It occurred to the redhead that Irene would be lucky if Tor's big ox feet didn't leave her toes black and blue. Then the girl continued on, toward the tables. She was glad for the interior warmth, due to the lightness of her apparel.

Myra, looking at the clock behind the teacher's desk, winced. So little time had been passing. Eating, she hoped, would kill a good piece of it, so she paused to sample several delicacies: bread pudding, a jelly omelet, mince pie, cheese, and stewed prunes.  All this fare she washed down with glasses of punch, but was disappointed that it hadn't been spiked. 

“Hello, you must be new in these parts,” someone remarked.  Myra looked over her shoulder and her lips pursed at the sight of Winthrop Ritter.

“I'm new in every part,” Myra answered back flatly. “Aren't you the Mex I saw cleaning pens over at Ritter's stable?”

The young man scowled.  “I don't clean pens. And I'm sure not any Mexican. My pa owns the stable, like he owns a whole lot else in this town. I'm Winthrop Ritter.”

Myra pretended to sniff.  “Did you come straight over from work? Sometimes things get stuck to a person's shoes.”

Winthrop exchanged one scowl for a harder one. “There's a lot of poor folk hereabouts. One never knows what they drag  in.”

“If you say so.”

He didn't didn't feel charmed by the girl's tone, but, with effort, he maintained an amiable front. “I saw you coming in with some sort of fancy gal,” he said.

Myra shrugged.  “That was my aunt, Mrs. Fanning.”

“Irene Fanning?” He shook his head. “I really didn't recognize her. She looks like she could be one of Lady Cerise's gals.”  Then he caught himself.  “Maybe I shouldn't talk that way in front of a nice girl.”

“Where in tarnation does one find nice girls around here?”

“One is standing in front of me,” Winthrop answered with an ingratiating smile. “What's your name?”

“I'm traveling under the name of Abigail Myra Olcott.”

The youth laughed.  The frontier was full of rascals who'd come out from the East. A lot of them were trying to keep out of the hands of the law. What's your  name? was considered to be an impolite question if put to an outsider. Instead, folks would ask, “What name are you traveling under?” This girl Abigail had answered like a horse-thief on the dodge, and that tickled his funny-bone.

“That's a mighty fine handle. When I hear a name like Abigail, it always makes me imagine a lady of distinction.”

“And I always think of some old grandma with a cane. People call me Myra, and that doesn't set very well with me either.”

Winthrop nodded. “I hated my name, too. Back in school, there was a smart-mouthed kid who'd always try to make me sore by calling me 'Winnie.'”

Myra regarded her unwelcome companion. There was about a ninety-nine percent chance that he was remembering Myron Caldwell, who'd been just a grade behind him. “Did you let him get way with it?” she asked, wondering what he'd say.

“Not a bit. I whooped him a few times and that taught him some manners. Before I graduated, he was bowing and scraping like some sort of black slave.”

'You lying S.O.B.' thought Myra. The only time Ritter had ever hit him without getting get hit back worse was when two of his bully friends had been holding his arms.  The boy had gotten revenge, though.  He'd slipped a carmel-covered onion into his enemy's lunch pail and laughed like hell to see Winnie's face change when he bit into it!  For a different offense, Myron had put a “Bankrupt, Going Out of Business” sign on Clyde Ritter's office door. He'd purposely done it on a Sunday morning, when there was only an illiterate hired man there to tend the horses.  The stableman couldn't read the placard, so he'd left it up all day, supposing that his boss wanted it to be seen.

Outdoors, a lively tune had just started up.

“Say now,” Winthrop said, “they've commenced the opening dance.”

“Do you like to dance?” Myra asked.  “You don't look like the type.”

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

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 5

By Aladdin 

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Revised and posted Jan. 21, 2019 

Chapter 5

THE ANGEL AND THE APE

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears
Did he smile, his work to see;
Did he who made the lamb make thee? 

William Blake

After Penelope Lammars had gone off to nap, Evie and I watched The Miracle on 34^th Street for the next couple hours. I was restless, but would have nothing productive to do until I could link up with Barbara Freeman. Once Evie was properly cared for, I could start searching for the means to get back my personal reality. But maybe it would be easier to say than to do; I felt responsible for the Evie and Gus of this world. On top of that, I couldn't get Penny's perplexing condition out of my mind. What had driven her to drink?
 
By the time the movie had ended, it was time to rouse up my friend and take her and my daughter over to the Budget Inn. The traffic in that part of San Francisco was pretty bad, but we manged to get to the motel shortly before Barbara Freeman arrived. After very brief introductions and a few pleasant words, the still-tipsy Penny excused herself and retired to the car. Evie and I then assisted “Mom” to move into a room of her own. Whatever she thought of Pinnacle's sobriety, she didn't bring it up directly, but instead expressed relief that I'd already found a psychiatrist. 

Frankly, I think she would liked me to find one years sooner. The cover story I served her regarding Penny Lammars was that the two of us had been friends in college. I creatively claimed that she had worked with a clinic in the East for several years, and arrived a year before to set up a San Francisco private practice. As soon as I could, I excused myself and left Evie in the care of her grandmother, on the excuse that I was meeting with the doctor for dinner to begin discussions of my problem.

Once I rejoined Penelope, I took her back to her own place.

It was after seven by the time we got there. My overriding thought was to speak to Lauren. I used directory assistance to get her father's number. The phone rang only a couple times before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Sherwood? This is Eden Blake. May I speak to Lauren?"

"Oh, of course, Mrs. Blake. Lauren told me that you'd moved away from Canoga Park just yesterday. I guess nobody could blame you, after all that's happened. Hopefully we aren't going to lose you permanently."

"I hope not either. But I left town in too much of a rush to get everything done. I think Lauren could help me out, if she has the time."

"Maybe she can. Just a minute!"

I waited tensely. After a minute of quiet, Lauren's voice came on.

"M-- Eden?"

Embarrassing moment. Her stumble reminded me that the Lauren of this world now knew that I was -- or used to be -- Mantra. That meant that the relationship we'd had back home would be radically altered in this dimension.

“Where are you?” the girl asked.

"San Francisco. Lauren, we can't talk over a public line. But I've gotten into a kind of situation and you're one of the few people who can help out."

"Sure."

“Just a minute, Lauren.” I looked back at Pinnacle.

"Penny, I need to ask Lauren to call me back on a secure line. Can you recommend one?"

The melancholy blonde nodded. "My line is secure. I threw out all stops to make it NSA-proof.” She jotted down a number on a pad and handed the page to me. "Here, give her this."

I took the sheet.

"Lauren, I can't say too much just now. When can you get to a phone – a public phone, maybe -- without your dad becoming suspicious?"

"At about one tonight," she whispered.

"Will be you safe on the street at that hour?" I asked.

"Are you kidding?"

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5, Part 2

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber 

Posted 04-21-18  

Chapter 5, Part 2

December 17, 1871, Continued


Myra, seated uncomfortably on a crate, was glowering down Riley Canyon Road.  Behind her, George continued chopping wood, using rapid, powerful blows.  Myra didn't want to be anywhere near the neighbor boy, but she had received her orders and the spell held her fast.  The slaves in the South must have felt more free than she did.  They, at least, could run away.

The young workman finally paused to catch his breath.  Though Myra faced away from him, he started talking.  “The stage that brought you into town in must have been the same one that got robbed right afterwards, when it moved up into the Gap.  Ain't that right?” he asked.

The receipt of another prying question made the girl scowl.  She hadn't worked out every detail of her made-up story, but had to bluff through.  She met him eye to eye, and said, “Yes.”

He shook his head.  “It must have been awful, to hear about your cousin dying on the day you came in.”

She shrugged.  “Well, I've heard better news.”

“I've been wondering.  Where did that new riding horse over yonder come from?”

Another hard question.  “I don't know.”

“Didn't your aunt buy him?”

Myra pondered.  She couldn't tell George the same story that she'd already spun for the gang.  “It wandered in by itself.  It was trying to get at the hay when Irene and me came from in from town.”

“Does you aunt recognize the critter?”

“She never saw it before.  The saddle neither.”

“If it was saddled, it must have strayed away from its rider.  Do you think it could have been Myron's horse?  It might easily have walked a couple miles from the Gap.”

“I haven't thought about that.”

George glanced at the animal in the corral.  “It's a fair-looking cayuse.  It'ld be nice if you and your aunt can hold on to it.  I don't know about Mrs. Fanning, but you ride as smart as an Injun.  How did you learn?”

Myra didn't like the way he'd asked that.  He had the eyes of a hunter tracking a coyote.  “We kept horses back home,” she answered.

He suddenly changed the subject.  “I've been wondering.  If the stage men saw Myron shot, and if he was dead, what happened to him afterwards?  Your aunt didn't mention that there'll be any funeral.”

She tossed a hand into the air.  “Search me.  The bandits must have hidden the body.”

“Could be.  But you don't seem too broken up about your cousin not getting a proper burial.”

Myra changed her tone.  “I – I feel sorry for Aunt Irene.  But I never met Thorn.  He never did so much as send us a card back East.”

“If you didn't really know Myron, when did you find out that he wanted people to call him Thorn?  I've never heard your aunt speak that name in front of me.”

Damn him!  “That – That's the name the judge and the deputy were using when they came to talk yesterday.”

“Judge Humphreys was out here?  Why so?”

Blast it!  Did he have to haggle over every word?

“The judge knows Aunt Irene.  He wanted to let her know that Th – Myron was suspected of robbery, and also to express his sympathies.”

“Was he already sure that Myron was dead, even with no body?”

“The stage people's message said that he was shot bad.  The sheriff sent somebody up to look around, but there was no sign of anything.  So everyone just assumes.  If he wasn't fit to ride off, he must have died and his body was hidden.”

George's brows knitted.  “It seems kind of odd that those outlaws rode out for three days, but then came back to Myron's house for no reason.  Or was there a reason?”

Myra thought quickly.  “They knew Myron lived close-in to the Gap, but that wasn't why they came.  They needed some pack horses to carry off the gold that they'd hidden before.”

“So, if they only came for horses, why did they need to take you back up there with them?”

Myra was again tempted to tell George to go to hell, but held herself in check.  “A couple hours before they showed up, I'd gone to the Gap with that Deputy Grant, to search around.  We found the gold and then Grant hid it in a different place, so the robbers wouldn't be able to find it if they happened to sneak back.  But by the time we left the canyon, the gang was already hiding up there, watching us head out.  They must have followed us, out of sight, and saw where I stopped at.  Then they barged in after dark to make me show them where the box was.”

“I thought you said they just came to steal a couple horses.”

“They did steal horses!” she replied sharply.  “They would have come to get horses no matter what.  It's just that they had two reasons to come.”

“What I can't get is why the deputy seemed to be so all-fired sure that the chest was hidden up there in the first place, if nobody told him.”

“Ask him.”

George wasn't put off.  “Another thing makes me wonder.  Why on earth did you need to ride up to the Gap with the deputy?  I figure he already knew where Stagecoach Gap was.”

Myra glanced away again.  “No reason.  I just asked if I could go along, for the adventure.  Buried treasure; that's exciting.”

“That gets back to the main question.  How did anyone know there was buried gold?”

The girl's fists were clenched; her nosy neighbor was just begging for a slam to the jaw.  Carefully, she said, “Nobody knew anything, but they suspected.  The law in town knows how strong and heavy those stage company boxes are, and how the drivers don't carry the key with them.  The deputy and the judge were talking about how the outlaws might have needed to hide the gold close by, so they could come back later, with tools and pack horses.”   Then she added, “Also, one of them said that a lot of stage robbers did that sort of thing.”

“I see.  But how did the deputy find the chest so quickly?  Wasn't it buried?”

Myra stood up to storm away, but couldn't move her feet.  Sitting down again, Myra finally replied, “Sure, it was buried under a pile of rocks.  But the stupid outlaws left a corner of the box still showing.”

The youth again shook his head.  “They surely do sound stupid.”

“I met them.  Believe me, they're as dumb as they come.  Why are you so interested?”

George shrugged.  “There's not much excitement around Eerie.  Anyhow, a little conversation might help us get acquainted.  I already know you've got spirit.  My oldest sister would still be shaking like a leaf if she'd been put through all that you were.  If you think I’m asking too many questions, you can get even by asking me anything you want to.”

She sniffed.  “Why should I be interested in anything that concerns you, Mr. Severin?”

“No reason; we're just passing time.”

“It seems like time isn't passing half so quickly as I'd like it to.”

“Whenever I'm busy, it just flies by.  Did your aunt ever write and mention that she had someone helping her work the farm?”

“She never wrote.”  Damn; that didn't sound likely.  “Almost never.  Just a card now and then, like at Christmas. She never said much more than 'I hope you've been well,' or 'Merry Christmas.'”

George nodded and resumed chopping for a few minutes.  Then he took another break, drew a sip from his canteen, and said, “You mentioned you're from back East.  Whereabouts?”

She raised her chin.  “My aunt told me that I had to...that I should...chat with you, as annoying as you are.  But she didn't say that I had to answer a thousand snoopy questions.”

The youth leaned the ax against the stack of cord wood.  “Why not let a person know a little something about yourself?  Are you some kind of outlaw on the dodge?”

Myra felt a jolt, then quickly forced a laugh.  “Do I look like an outlaw?”

“No, but... ” he paused.  “No, you surely do not.  By the way, why is it that you don't want to go with me to the Christmas dance next week?  Do you have a fella already?”

“Stop the questions!”

“Okay, no more questions.  What would you prefer to talk about?”

“I don't want to talk at all.”

George sat down on the woodpile.  “So, you're a girl who doesn't like to talk too much?  I didn't know that kind existed.”  He grinned broadly.  “Finding a sensible gal is like finding buried treasure.  I definitely want to get to know you better, Miss Myra.”

“I've only known you for four days and I already know everything I want to.  It's as plain as the sun in the sky that you can't stop jabbering like a parrot.”

“People say I grow on them.”

“Yeah, like a wart!”

He chuckled.  “Yessirree, you're a girl full of ginger.  I like that.”

“Maybe so, but you bore me to tears!"

This reply only added to his mirth.  “If you really don't like me being around, you can tell your aunt that you want to do all the chores by yourself.  Is that what you're aiming for, Miss Back-East Girl?”

Myra frowned.  “I can learn farming easily enough if I want to.  For all I care, you can go off and annoy someone else.”

He gazed at the cut wood he was seated upon.  “The chopping you did earlier seems decent.  You're already used to doing certain chores, ain't you?”

She stood up again, rested her hands on her hips, and faced him boldly.  “Certain chores yes, some chores no.  When are you going to stop jawing and start earning your pay?”

“I'm not getting paid in coin.  Chatting with the pretty new girl in town is my pay; I said that straight-out to your aunt.”

“Hah!  My aunt thinks I'm a kid.  She's got no call to be deciding who my friends are going to be.”

“Don't you care for your aunt?  I like her just fine.”

“You aren't the one she's always bossing around.”

“Of course I am.  She pays me to do things for her.”

“If you think she's so nice, you should take her to the Christmas dance.  Lord knows that no other man is going to ask her.”

George made a click at the side of his mouth.  “She's got a few years on me.  I want to spend time with the calibre of gal that I could get serious about.”

“That sure ain't my kind of...gal.”

“I hope that won't always be true.  There's precious few young ladies of the right sort out here.  The two of us are about the same age, I reckon we go to the same church, and neither of us is seeing anybody.  Maybe we're neighbors because Providence is working its magic.” 

She suddenly looked like a volcano ready to blow.

He smiled again, in a way to let her know that he'd only been funning.

Myra, still holding in her temper, said, “Providence is like a mule, if you ask me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because a mule is stupid and stubborn, and all it's good for is kicking a man in the teeth when he least expects it!”

“You sound like you've been kicked lately.  What happened?”

She gave that a second's thought, then answered carefully.  “I lost both parents, or maybe you didn't get the news.”

The youth look abashed.  “Pardon, Miss Myra.  I plum forgot.”

“If that's the case, you should be working on your memory, and also working on that wood pile.  If you don't, there's no reason you should be keeping me out in the wind jawing with you.”

George seemed to accept that observation and set to work in earnest.

#

About an hour later, the light was failing and the air was getting colder.  George went to put away the ax for the night.  At the same time, Molly O'Toole got back into her carriage and set out for town, while Mrs. Fanning stood waving goodbye from the front door.   Suddenly, Irene started toward the wood pile.  At first sight of George, she called him over to speak, but Myra didn't wait to listen.  She no longer felt compelled to stay put, and so went back to the house.  About five minutes later, she heard the farm boy riding off.  Her aunt joined her indoors a minute later.

“Did you and George have a good talk?”

“No, we didn't.  I don't care much for the fellow, but you told me I had to keep him company!”

“I suppose I did.  Anyway, did you two discuss the Christmas party?”

“He talked about a lot of things.  He almost talked my ears off.”

“Young men often jabber when they happen to like a girl.”

“I know what boys do!  And I especially know George Severin.  If he hadn't been around so much when I lived here, I probably wouldn't have headed out as soon as I did.”

“You didn't like any of my helpers.”

“Good riddance to the lot of them!”

Irene changed the topic.  “I asked George if he'd be willing to clean the hog pen as soon as he has time.  If you don't care for having him hereabouts, would you be willing to take on that job yourself?”

The girl looked fit to be tied.  “Hell, no!  That work is too hard for...”

“For a girl?”

“I'm not a girl.  The work is too hard, period.  But what does it matter what I want?  Go ahead and bust my back.  You'll get me crippled.”

“You're so dramatic about everything!” Irene stated in exasperation.  “Girls clean pig pens, and do even harder chores.  I need help to work this piece of land.  Whatever you do on this farm helps us make a living.  George is at least willing to pitch in while he earns a wage.  We could save a parcel of money if you would do more of the things that I've been asking him to do.”

Myra looked away, annoyed.

“By the way, Molly suggested that I should make it clearer when I'm...I'm telling you something that is really necessary.”

The girl turned.  “When you're giving me an order, you mean.”

“That's not the way I'd like to put it.  But this is my idea.  For now, when I making a statement and call you 'my girl,' it means that I'm telling you something important and I want you to do what I say.”

“You're always bossing me around.  You're not either one of my parents.”

Irene shook her head.  “I loved your folks, too, Myra.  What happened to them wasn't anyone's fault.  Or are you only using them as an excuse to avoid necessary work?”

“I just want to have some time to do the things that I want to do."

“I don't like ordering you about like a servant, not at all.  What would you prefer?  To run off again and become a girl outlaw?”

“What's wrong with trying to better myself?”

“Better yourself with stolen money?  Look what it's cost you already?  Would you ever have robbed people if you knew that it might get you turned into a young lady?”

The girl threw up her hands.  “My only mistake was coming home to the craziest town in the world.  I don't see why a person should be criticized just for taking care of himself, as long as he doesn't get caught.”

“But you did get caught – caught by a strange fate that you truly did bring upon yourself.  Every time you look into the mirror from now on, think about how different your life could have turned out if you'd only worked a little harder at being honest.”

Myra swung away again, her arms crossed.

Irene sighed.  “You certainly don't seem in any mood to talk sense.  Now, listen, my girl.  Change out of your nice clothes, and take care that you don't dirty or tear them!”

The girl felt this new form of command taking a grip upon her.  Angry, with teeth clenched, Myra scooped up her pile of cast-off everyday clothing and stomped into the pantry, preferring to change out of sight.

Irene then went to finish supper.  This new quarrel had gotten her thinking.  Myra didn't like farm work, no more than Myron had.  Would the girl take to household tasks any better?  She considered asking Myra for help with the evening’s meal.  Then she shook her head.  That would probably be pushing things too quickly.  Patience would be needed.  If Molly knew about these things from experience, Myra should eventually start looking at life the way that most young ladies did.  It might be wisest to nudge her in the right direction bit by bit, trying not to force things too insistently, especially when she was in a mood to get her back up.


December 18, 1871

The next morning, George Severin returned for a full day's labor, already game to take on the pig sty.  Irene appreciated that her youthful neighbor was able to give her so much of his time  It would have been different, probably, if he hadn't had four younger brothers and sisters at home, all old enough to take over the chores while he was away.  The youth deployed the manure cart in a convenient spot before entering the pen carrying the farm's four-tined manure fork.  He had worn his wet-weather boots; the mess at his feet was gummy; the exacting task required a strong back.

Mrs. Fanning's niece had slipped away the instant that she'd seen the young man coming in.  The girl's aloofness disappointed her aunt; one thing that hadn't changed from when Myra had been Myron was the way that she still wore a chip on her shoulder.  Locals generally liked George and he wasn't known to misbehave – other than by pulling a few pranks.  Myron, she was aware, hadn't found it easy to make friends – at least not nearly as easy as he made enemies.  He had often complained that no one liked him, and that had probably been one reason why he had left home at just sixteen.

Irene was starting the noonday meal when someone rode in through the gate.  Through the window, she recognized the same big man who had been helping Paul Grant.  The deputy and two others, including this one, had, finding her tied up in the kitchen, cut her loose.   The two posse men had spoken with some sort of Scandinavian accent.  Her visitor was large, broad-shouldered, and very strong-looking.  She recalled that his eyes had been the color of shadowy ice.

The townsman was getting down from his horse when the farm woman stepped out to meet him.

“Is there any news about the outlaws?” she asked.

“Some gude news,” he replied with a single, exaggerated nod.  “That pack horse of deirs must have bolted loose when dey vere running and vee found it vit lots of gold in da saddle bags.   Paul kept after da bandits vith two of da men, but he sent my brother and me back to town with the gold.  They're slippery as seals, deese outlaws, and dey yoost may git avay.”

“If they do, I hope they never come back to Eerie!”

“How is Myra doing?” the Scandinavian asked.

“She's doing well.  She's a brave girl.”  Irene then frowned perplexedly.  “Excuse me.  I can't seem to recall your name.” 

“Tor,” he said with a good-natured grin.  “Tor Johannson.”

“You're from... Norway?”

“Sveden!  I come over vith my brothers during da var and right off we got drafted into da army.  After a lot of bad things, it vas over, and ve vent gold-seeking.  Ve came down to Eerie dis year.  Ve've been finding gold enough to pay for our beer and beans, but not much more!”

“You speak very good English.  Gracious!  I don't think I could learn Swedish in a hundred years.”

“Tank you, Mrs. Fanning.  You are very kind.”

“Did you come to tell us about the robbers?”

“Yes, and no.  It's a funny ting.  Out hunting outlaws, I kept tinking that it vas too bad dat you and me didn't get to speak a little more.  I t’ought you vere... a handsome woman.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“I am very sad dat your nephew was killed.”

Irene regarded Tor.  Obviously, the deputy had not shared the whole story with him. 

“Paul said dat the boy was shot by da outlaws,” he continued.  “He said dey hid his body somevhere.”  Then the man winced.  “I am sorry.  I shouldn't be talking about anyting so awful.”

“Yes, it's very hard.”

“Vhat I came for vas to ask if you vhould let me take you to da Christmas dance next veek.  Please forgive me if you are already planning to go vith someone else.”

This surprised the widow.  She had almost no social life in Eerie and, when she thought back, she realized that she had kept making excuses to avoid socializing, until the local men had stopped asking her. 

“No, I haven't been going to the Christmas parties.  I haven't been invited in a long time.”

“Dat is a shame!  A lady like you!”

“I don't wish to be rude, Mr. Johannson, but there are bad stories about gold miners.  Do we have any mutual friends who...who could vouch for your good character?  Other than Deputy Grant, I mean?”

“Vell, I go to Styron's hardware store.  Dey know me at da Lone Star Saloon, and at da Eerie Saloon.”  He looked abashed.  “I know dat deese do not sound like very gude places to a church lady like yourself.  I yoost to go to church a lot in Sveden, but not so much in America.  Ve've spent a lot of our Sundays up in da hills.”

“Myra has said that you fought bravely to rescue her.  I'm very grateful.”

“I did vhat I had to.  I'm sorry you don't troost prospectors, but I von't be one for long, I tink.  Paul says dat da sheriff is tinking about hiring a new deputy...   Say, Paul mentioned you  know Molly O'Toole.  I know Molly, too, and her husband, Shamus.  I think they vill tell you dat I am a gude person.”

She smiled, liking the way that Tor Johannson pronounced his long 'O's', as when he said O'Toole.  “I was planning to take my niece to the Christmas party,” she said, not entirely truthfully.  “We might meet one another there on the dance floor.”

He returned the smile.  “Yes, it is very possible that ve may.  I von't be vith anyone else.”

“I'm quite sure that I won't be either.”  She made a daring decision.  “Mr. Johannson, I am forgetting my manners.  Myra and I owe you so much.  Won’t you stay and join us for dinner?”

He beamed.  “I vould be very pleased.”

Irene led him inside and showed him to a chair.  “The table will be set in about an hour,” she said.

He nodded thoughtfully.  “Vell, dat is a good long vhile to be joost sitting around.  Vhould you mind if I helped out vith da farm chores till den?”

“Oh, Mr. Johannson.  That's not at all necessary!  You have done so much already.  But if you really want to, maybe George, the boy outside, will have some suggestions.”

He excused himself and exited.  Irene went outdoors at the same time, around to the west side of the house, where Myra was doing the laundry.  The homemaker had earlier decided to test Myra's willingness to be helpful.  The girl had been predictably resistant to her suggestion, but Irene had ordered her to stop complaining and try to do the wash as best she could.  At the very least, Mrs. Fanning hoped, having some busy task to perform would take the edge off her brooding.

She now addressed the girl.  “Myra, I've decided that it would be a good idea for us to attend the dance.  I'll drive us to it in our buggy.  George will also be coming, with his family, I suppose.  You won't have to speak to him there if you don't wish to.”

The girl stopped scrubbing.  “What do you want to go to that dance for?” she demanded.  “You'll only be a wallflower, and I'll be miserable.”

“I'll fare all well enough.  This is a chance for both of us to make new friends.  Anyway, I might even find someone willing to dance with me once or twice.”

Myra frowned.  “Who are you talking about?”  Then she remembered the man who had ridden up.  “You're planning to see that foreigner, aren't you?” she accused.

“He's Swedish.  Anyway, he helped you, didn't he?  Wasn't he a good and brave man?” 

Her niece, looking peevish, said nothing.

“Please answer, my girl, wasn’t he?”

“I got no complaints,” Myra felt obliged to reply.  “But it sure was irritating, listening to him mispronounce everything, all time.”  

Irene was not really listening.  She was considering Myra's hair, liking the way that Molly had arranged it.  It had looked even nicer before her niece had slept on it.  Mrs. Fanning then, on impulse, reached back and touched the tight bun that she had been wearing ever since her widowing.  The style had grown to be so much a part of her sense of being that she hadn't even considered changing it.  But now, for some reason, it no longer seemed that tomorrow always had to be exactly like the day before yesterday.

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she said absently.  “Mr. Johannson will be joining us.  I'll call when things are ready.”

Myra was left where she stood, feeling infuriated.  ‘Aunt Irene’s acting like a gooney bird,’ the maiden thought.  'And I’m gonna have to go to that tomfool dance and be a public spectacle, if she gets her way!’  It was at moments like this one that she almost wished that that dumb yak Ike Bartram had shot her dead.

Almost.


The End.

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

 

The Falling Star

 

Posted 11-10-17

Revised 02-08-21

 

 

An Angel from Hell story

CHAPTER 5, Part 1

by Christopher Leeson

 

Driving fast along Federal Highway 80, Jezebel checked every car she passed, looking for a silver Subaru Forester. She was a hard woman, but the odds were beginning to worry her. How many failures would the Father tolerate before she was put back onto the Lake of Fire track?

Well, actually, she had never gotten off that track. There were rules for getting off of it, but she hadn't felt like obeying them.

Frustrated, the fallen angel increased her already-law-breaking speed.

Then she heard the siren and saw the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror. Too pressured to stop, she unwisely gunned the engine to outrun the patroller.

Two car chases in twenty-four hours! Once again the speed of her Toyota Corolla was disappointing her. An hour before, Jezebel had let another speed cop off lightly, with a mental command to go away and to stop making a pest of himself. Before he'd gone, she had thought to ask, “Wait, did you send my license number in already?” When he answered affirmatively, she decided to take precautions. 

At the next roadside gas station, Jezebel deftly removed a random motorist's license plates and affixed them to her own vehicle. This would, she wagered, afford her some needed anonymity. These were only humans, after all. It shouldn't be overly difficult to outsmart them.

The highway patrol car came up even beside her and the driver pointed to the shoulder. Jezebel pulled over, trying to decide whether or not this new problem was serious enough to warrant a homicide.

The uniformed man who came out of his car flashed his light into her face. She couldn't take his measure through the glare. But her night-blindness drove home the fact that her power was fading yet again.

“It's not good manners to force law enforcement to chase you, Miss,” the state trooper told her.

She was already concentrating, attempting to fog the man's mind. The officer, however, seemed to shake off her effort. Frowning down at a hand-held device, he asked, “Why aren't your license plates registered for this make of car? Also, you don't look like a man named Maurice Linnsey.”

The girl shrugged. “A lot of women are given boy's names. Modern parents are idiots, you know.”

"Let's see you driver's license," was his comeback.

She hadn't gotten those effects that had been with Jill Arendel when she died. "I'm sorry. I left home with so much on my mind I didn't bring my license along. Would some other form of identification help?"

"Well, it can't possibly get you into more trouble than you're already in," he replied. “Step out of the car, please, and show me what identification you do have.”

No wonder human beings so hated bureaucracy! Jezebel carefully emerged. Despite her best efforts to keep out of trouble, switching plates had only made matters worse. She had to be more careful in the future. Jezebel started to open her purse.

“Pour the contents out on the shoulder, under the headlights, please,” the man said, his right hand resting on his holster.

She felt the weight of the purloined Walther inside her bag. A policeman would probably ask about a permit. That's what they did in the movies, anyway. The girl was guessing that giving him more lame excuses wouldn't cut it, nor would a seduction attempt be useful. That only left the violence option.

Jezebel let the contents of her bag tumble out upon the concrete, weapon included. The sight of the formidable handgun startled the patrolman, a reaction that gave her the second of distraction she needed.  

Two rapid blows had the officer down, all the fight knocked out of him. Jezebel swiftly added his Smith and Wesson 940 to her collection of firearms. Then she frisked the downed man while he still lay stunned, but didn't find handcuffs or other restrains Why was nothing ever simple on the planet Earth? How the angel wished that the trooper was a full-fledged Cabalist agent with a purple aura. Her license to kill would have come in handy.

“I'd prefer to keep you alive,” the Watcher told the trooper, “but only if you don't make things difficult for me. I need your handcuffs, keys, and something to tie your legs with, too. Cooperate and you'll get home with no more than the few bruises you already have.”

Though shaken, the trooper's indignation blazed hot. “You crazy bitch! You don't realize how much trouble you're in!”

Jezebel wasn't afraid of very much, least of all bluster, but she wanted to avoid an all-points bulletin for homicide. So far, her face had been in the shadows, except for that brief flashlight glance at close range. Probably the police officer would only remember that she had been a knockout; without a real name or a real license number, she'd be hard to track. Also, with out giving the man any more bodily injury than she had already done, they probably wouldn't spend a lot of police resources on her.

Jezebel now cocked the Smith and Wesson. “I'm not a criminal, just a...lady who's tired of being pushed around. If you want me to be nice, you have to be nice right back at me. And stop trying to make out my face or else – Oh, hell, I might as well just show you what I'm going to do.”

She kicked him in the gonads, just hard enough to make her point.

With her victim assuming a fetal position, Jezebel adjudged that the lesson had been learned. Just then, a solitary car came their way, driving under fifty, as most people do when passing a flashing police car. The motorist wouldn't be able to see the officer on the ground behind the car and the latter couldn't yell for help, since he was gasping for breath. The sedan simply moved on past. A little ways beyond them, it picked up speed.

“If you don't want another toe in the crotch, tell me where your cuffs are,” she advised her prisoner.

“In the utility case, on the passenger side,” he groaned.

Her movie-watching experience came into use again. “Roll over on your face and spread your legs,” she said. When the officer complied, she opened the patrol-car passenger door, keeping the the gun pointed at him. She plucked the case from the floor and found it unlocked. There were things inside she could use, including zip-strips and handcuffs.

“Stay the way you are,” the Watcher said, “but put your hands behind your back.” When the man had done this, Jezebel quickly figured out how to work the cuffs and secured her captive. Then the girl took the longest zip-strip available and fastened his ankles together As a finishing touch, she took a handy-wipe from his car, stuffed it into his mouth, and held it in place by means of another long zip-strip.

Now Jezebel stepped back. It didn't look like a bad truss-up job, but as a precaution she turned off the police car lights, took the keys out of his ignition, locked all the doors, and then tossed the key chain into the nearby field.

“This should slow you up for a while. If I get into trouble over this, your bosses had better not make a big deal over this, or else I'll give them back worse than what Ive given you.” She re-stuffed her purse, filling it with everything that looked potentially useful from the officer's utility case.

Jezebel, now seeing the distant lights of more cars approaching, hurried back to her own vehicle and pulled out. She resumed an eastward trajectory until she came upon a highway patrol turnaround. That gave her an idea. Cutting the headlamps, she made the turnaround, and then clicked the lights on again. This way, she reasoned, when the trooper was rescued, he might be sending search instructions in the wrong direction. The angel still wasn't sure how clever this generation of human beings might be, but over the last couple days it hadn't  done much to earn her respect.

#
 

The Watcher didn't want to go far in the wrong direction. When she saw an exit sign marked Brady, she took it. Once out of sight of the highway, the young woman stopped to check her map.

The police encounter had been a near thing, caused by unforced mistakes. These errors had cost her time and had made a messy situation even messier. Among her problems was the ridiculous way that she was dressed. If somebody saw her, they wouldn't be forgetting her.

Worse, even if Jezebel found Holly, she lacked any certain means to rescue her. She had two guns, but the opposition would have many. She absolutely had to get her powers back to even out the playing field, but there was only one way to do that.

The girl put her car into gear and drove through the town of Brady. It had a population of over three hundred, according to the welcome sign, and she now took note of a roadside tavern. Such a place might give her a recharge, but Jezebel didn't want witnesses telling police about seeing a young blond in a short red dress. Suddenly, the angel noted directions to a highway rest stop. If people were parked there, it might serve as a convenient place to acquire a change of clothes.

When Jezebel reached the rest stop she could see that it was not only an auto rest stop, but also had a turn-off lane for overnighting trucks. She could make out several tractor-trailers lined up. She continued on into the car section, but found it empty. There would be no women's clothes available, but she got an idea. Upon stopping, the first thing she did was to switch back the plates.

Then Jezebel drove back to the truck area, where she could safely assume that there would be an assortment of men available. She needed a man, the right kind of a man. But how could she arrange to make contact with the truckers in a non-suspicious way?

The Watcher parked close to the vehicles. At this hour, the tractors were all empty. The drivers were no doubt settled down in sleeping bags or fold-away cots inside their boxes. The casual approach she'd used to meet a male in Alliance wouldn't work here; this was neither the time nor place for subtlety.
She pressed the horn with a series of irritating honks. After a couple minutes, sleepy men started lumbering out of their rigs.

“Stop honking, you idiot!” the closest one yelled at her headlights. She let the gaggle of truckers stomp close-up before she cut the noise and stepped outside, lit up by the lights of her own vehicle. From the way that the men's grumbling fell off, they must have been suitably impressed with her silhouette.

“Lady, what's wrong. Why all the racket?” one asked.

“I'm sorry I had to wake you all up, but this is an emergency.”

“What? A wardrobe crisis?” one guffawed.

She smiled at the one who had spoken and he smiled back.

Someone else stepped up, a husky man of about forty, wearing an unclosed winter coat thrown over a sweatshirt and jogging pants.

“I – I need a lift into North Platte,” the girl said. “My car has been making these terrible grinding noises. I'm afraid that I'll wreck it if I drive any farther. But it's important that I get where I'm going by breakfast time.”

“What's so important?” a trucker asked.

“It's a personal reason,” she said coyly. “But, really, I can use some help.”

“Call a repair truck out of North Platte,” said the man with the jogging pants.

“I was hoping that there might be a mechanical genius among so many robust males in their prime.”

Another of the several truckers shook his bearded head. “It could be a transmission problem, and transmissions are serious jobs, Missy. You're going to need a check up at a regular shop for that kind of work.”

She felt a sensation, standing there under the gaze of the men. The tingle was making her goosed-bumped flesh feel warmer already. Encouraged, the Watcher stepped closer to the crowd, trying to sense which one was beaming the hottest unbridled lust at her flesh. “Can we talk about this inside one of your trucks?” she asked no one in particular. “My luggage got stolen from the last club parking lot where I stopped, and I'm freezing.”

“Turn on the heater,” said Jogging Pants. “That should hold you for a few hours.” He then turned and walked back toward his truck. That was one cold hombre, she observed. A family man?

She shifted her attention to the trucker wearing a Stetson hat. He had wide sideburns and big arms, and presented a figure that seemed to suggest a fondness for beer and donuts. She suspected that he was the randiest man there. “Your companion is not very gentlemanly,” she told him with a pout. “How would he like to have a daughter out all alone and half-dressed on a night like this one?”

“You're a pretty one. What do you do?” the man with the Stetson asked.

Jezebel made a wry face. “It's not nice to ask a person questions like that. Before you've bought her a drink, I mean.”

“I mean, what's your job?”

“I sing with a band.”

“Yeah? What kind of songs?”

“Anything you want,” she promised, “but first I need a thick blanket and something warm to drink. And is there anyone here so kind that he would let me into one of these big, exciting trucks. When I sleep, I like to stretch out.” She surveyed the faces around her. “If someone is going toward North Platte in the morning, and wouldn't mind a little company, he could drop me off close to a fix-it garage.”

Most of the men seemed well-disposed. “That sounds like an idea,” said the Stetson hat.

“Oh, I'm just full of good ideas,” agreed Jezebel.

The man held out his hand. She took it cordially.

Jetrel had lived among humans for centuries, and had spied upon them for millennia. She had seen many times  how women could make men agreeable. At the touch of the hand, she could tell that the trucker had a lot of pent-up lust to give away. Jezebel was drinking it in like a health tonic. She already felt like she could lift him off the ground with one hand.

#

When the man became too yawny to carry on with his petting and pawing, the Watcher used her revived mind-power to put him into a deep slumber. She also hypnotized her host to remember a wild and wicked night of just the kind of action that he most wanted. Then the fallen angel stole silently from the truck and returned to her car. Though the air must have grown even colder by then, the breeze felt like room temperature brushing over her energized flesh.

For now, having no other choice, the Watcher headed back through the tiny town of Brady, and from there took a secondary highway, L, to Gothenburg, where there would be found another entry ramp onto Federal Highway 80. Hopefully, if the handcuffed trooper had told his story by now, they would be looking for a Toyota at points east from where she actually was. Regardless, as long as she had a few angel powers, she wasn't going to be very afraid of new encounters with the eager beavers of the law.

Jezebel glanced at Jill's tiny wristwatch. How much time did Holly have before she would be sent like a parcel to the West Coast? Once the Cabal got her outside of Nebraska, her rescue would become immensely more difficult, and Jezebel’s present resources were few.

But, at some level, what bothered her most seemed to be something other than the mere prospect of failure.  She wanted to succeed before the girl was hurt. Why? Had Holly somehow gotten under her skin? Had she imperceptibly come around to thinking of the girl as something like – a pet?

#

Jezebel expected to reach Kearney well before her energy dwindled to inefficacy She had to go after Holly wherever she could find her well before dawn There would be almost no chance for her to acquire some inconspicuous clothing, not unless she broke into a shop, and that would cause additional time to be lost.

Had Shekinah acted out of mere whimsy by hiding a red dress, with all its accessories, inside her luggage? Probably not; back when the archangel had still been a graybeard named Enoch he/she had displayed not the slightest nugget of playfulness. It had to be the Father himself who had put her up to it.

The Father, for certain, had a whimsical side to his nature. He had shown it to the world only two months earlier, when he had taken the American election away from the Cabalists' choice for president and given it to his own Chosen One, a man who was as unlikely a deliverer as Gideon had been in ages past, one who had never held elective or appointive office before. So what sort of whimsy did the red dress represent? It wasn't that the Father cared for immodest display nor, of course, for fornication. In spite of that, he had saddled her with a custom-made Jezebel spirit, one intended to incline her toward both? 

Were his inexplicable actions merely a rebuke to Jetrel's pride? Was it a harsh payback for the Watchers' previous use of demons to steer people into perdition? Or did the Father wish to give her no choice but to sin constantly, just so he could cast her into Hell? She shook her head. It had to be more finessed than that. He didn't need any additional reasons to damn her. The very first prophecy in Scripture had been spoken to Satan by his Creator, promising that for what he had done in the Garden he would die. The sins of the other fallen angels had been lesser, but they were still damning.

Jezebel knew that even if she never sinned again, ever, she would still be doomed to the Lake of Fire. There was a way to escape that fate, but it would be a bitter shame to stoop so low. But everything that the Father did had a purpose, everything. What was she not seeing? Was it possible that not only she, but also Jill Arendel was a main principle in this mystery?  Though the fallen angels held humans to be of no worth at all, the Father saw things differently. In fact, that was the galling thing that had made Jetrel sin. Still, it didn’t seem possible that the murdered adulteress could be considered any sort of meaningful factor in this affair.

Suddenly Jezebel received a flash of recall, the tapping of a memory buried in Jill Arendel's physical brain that she had never tapped before.

The very idea of it!

“The worthless bitch!” the angel exclaimed out loud.

For the next twenty or so miles Jezebel tried to bury, to forget that recollection.

But she couldn't.


To Be Continued in Chapter 5, Part 2