The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 4, Part 2

Posted 11-07-19 

Revised 12-07-19 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 4, Part 2

Saturday, December 23, 1871

It had been a restless night for Myra. She lay on her mattress thinking – or trying not to think -- about Irene's strange letter. The maid was trying hard not let her imagination run wild. This was all very unexpected and worrisome; she needed to find out exactly what had happened. 

Though tired, the girl felt not at all sleepy. Time seemed to hang. She could heard the palo verde tree behind the house rattling in the December wind. Outside, darkness still held sway. Chores only began at dawn, when there was no longer need for a lantern. Until that hour, the Myra had nothing productive to do, other than to collect her thoughts and try to put together a plan to prove that her parents were good people.

What she knew was that Irene had been told something about the mystery of 1866, something that had upset her and made her write a peculiar letter. Later on, she might have found out even more about what had gone on.

Damn it! If it wasn't for that stupid Indian potion, Myra told herself, she could simply go to her aunt and demand answers. Instead, as things were, she didn't dare let on what she knew, or suspected.

The seventeen-year-old knew – and knew for certain – that before 1864 her folks had talked a lot about money problems. She had watched them scrabble for extra income, cut corners, and pinch pennies. But, suddenly, all those worries about money had seemed to vanish. How could that have been, unless they had suddenly become prosperous? But how does a person bring that off in Eerie, Arizona? 

It seemed to her that to get ahead, a man had to find gold, or else do a robbery or a swindle. If the Caldwells had hit upon gold honestly, they would have crowed about it and let everyone know. But whenever wealth came to somebody through flim-flam, he almost always had to fly by night. But her parents had lived peaceably in Eerie for years afterwards and no one had anything damning to say about them. 

The other  way to get rich quick, the one that Myra was most familiar with, was to commit theft. But what could Addie and Edgar Caldwell have stolen in a countryside so barren? One possibility, she thought, was that they might have robbed a store. But that couldn't really explain it. A single cash box wouldn't have kept them going for the next two years, not after paying off all the debts that they'd been carrying. If something was stolen, it would have to be both compact and very valuable. If not actual cash, it needed to be something that was easy to turn into cash.

Like, could they have robbed a traveler, some person with a fat wallet? People from the East sometimes carried satchels of currency with them into the West, to invest in land or mining projects. Or, might her folks have stolen a big poke of nuggets from some prospector? If that had happened, there should be some record concerning the prospector's complaint -- unless the prospector had died and told no tales. Myra didn't want to think about that, not in connection with her ma and pa.

Myra made fists in frustration. There was just too much about those days, the days of her childhood, that she didn't remember. She needed to talk to people who were keeping track of public affairs back then. But going out and questioning random citizens would attract a lot of attention. Folks would be wondering why a young newcomer was asking about acts of brigandage that had occurred in years gone by. 

No, she had to be very selective in choosing which people to question.The question was, who should those people be? Wouldn't the best information come from lawmen and newspaper publishers? But if she was making suspicious inquiries, wouldn't it get back to her aunt lickety-split? If it did, wouldn't Irene shut down her searching with just a few words? She sure as hell would – if it meant saving the family's reputation, or protecting herself. Yes, the girl wouldn't have been surprised if Irene's hands had gotten soiled, too. It was easy to do, whenever easy money came within reach.

Suddenly, Myra realized something. A lot of the old-time locals would be turning up at the Christmas party! And the party was going to be held that very night! If she went to it, she could speak to almost anyone, and do it in a completely innocent setting. Suddenly, the Eerie town Christmas party looked very different in her mind. It had become an affair that she'd be a fool not to attend!

#

 

Just after the farm girl and her aunt had finished with breakfast, George Severin arrived at the barn. At the window, watching him setting up, it occurred to Myra that the snoopy hired man might be a good source of information. He must, after all, have learned a few things after eighteen years of prying into other people's business. In that light, the timely appearance of George presented her with a fortunate opportunity. 

Putting on a coat and stocking cap, she went outside. 

“Finally showed up, huh?” the ginger said to the youth, hoping that merely looking him in the eye would start the chatterbox chattering.

The farm boy stabbed his manure fork into the ground and touched the brim of his straw hat in greeting. “Howdy, Miss Myra. I figured to come by yesterday, but my pa got it in his mind to have me help him fix up one of our old sheds, before worse weather comes in. He himself was going to be away, looking for your unfortunate cousin. The sun was sitting pretty close to the hills by the time I'd finished, so it've made no sense for me to come over so late. By the way, I'm plum sorry that Pa and the neighbors couldn't find any trace of Thorn. I hope you and Mrs. Fanning aren't feeling too badly.”

Myra shrugged. “We were upset enough yesterday, but life goes on.”

“That's the spirit,” George said. “Anyway, I've come over for an early start because I want to go into town as soon as I can and take one of those fancy baths. After that, I need to be getting ready for the Christmas Dance.”

“George, I've been wondering,” Myra began, “was that stagecoach robbery last week the biggest crime that ever came off around Eerie?”

Her question made his eyebrows rise. “Well, now,” he began, “I reckon that it would be one of the biggest. But Eerie can oftentimes be a rip-roaring piece of real estate. Like, last summer, the Hanks gang rode into town. It seems like they were dead-set on shooting down Sheriff Talbot like a mangy dog.”

Myra frowned; the boy had potion girls on the brain! She remembered wheln the news broke. The papers around Arizona, the previous July, had carried the story of how the whole gang had been gunned down on the streets of Eerie by a posse. Only too late had she found out that the public record had been a pack of malarkey. The outlaws were all still alive, as saloon women! She had even met the one of them, the one who was now calling herself Bridget Kelly. Had Myron known that such a goshdarn horrible thing was even possible, he'd have never come within ten miles of such a crazy town.

“What's wrong, Miss Myra? You've got on the most peculiar expression.”

“I'm all right. What makes Eerie so rip-roaring? What else has happened around here? Was it already so rough and tumble back during the war years?”

“The war years?” George found himself getting a smidgen curious. “That's an awfully long time ago, missy. When the war started, I was only about eight. What makes you so interested? Have you been reading too many of those dime novels?”

She gave a toss of her right hand. “I read them sometimes. They make me think about how a person's life doesn't have to be so dull and ordinary.”

George scratched his temple. “After the rowdy way that the Bertram gang treated you, I'd have have put money down that you'd never want to think about outlaws again.”

Her blue eyes challenged his hazel ones. “If you think I'm yellow, I'm not.”

George grinned. “I'm glad you're not yellow. Blondes are fine, but I like that red hair of yours a whole lot. Say, I've got some magazines at home, full of deeds of blood and thunder. Would you like see them?”

“Sure. Bring them over.” Myra was doing her best to come across as friendly, so she could keep him talking. “I like hearing about old-time crime better than the recent stuff. Those vintage tales of hard-riding outlaws aren't so sad and ugly. They seem more like something out of a storybook.”

Young Severin shrugged. “Well, it just so happens that I caught wind of a few good yarns back when I was just a kid.” 

Myra tried to smile. A girl's smile could warm a man quicker than a shot of whiskey, she knew. While she didn't care at all for her present situation, it made sense to take advantage of it as much as possible. “I really would like to hear about what went on back then. I want to hear it all.”

#

 

George told his employer's niece about several cases of claim-jumping, gun-play, and robberies -- of prospectors, stagecoaches, banks, and assay offices. Most of them had occurred at nearby towns, not in Eerie.

After a lengthy stream of jabber, he said, “But the biggest robbery that I ever heard of hereabouts was of a mining company.”

“Bigger than the stage job?”

“I'm not sure. But that slick mine thief got away with the loot.”

“Who was involved?” Myra asked carefully.

“Just one man.”

“How did he do it?”

“He didn't use a gun. He was more of an embezzler. The company'd hired him on as a clerk and trusted him enough to leave him working alone after hours. One night, he opened the safe and cleaned it out. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't been rounded up to this day.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Back several years ago. I don't recall exactly when.”
Though George was enjoying the conversation, he'd already passed along all his best stories. With his crime-related recollections growing vaguer, Myra started to look uninterested. 

“I really got to started with this cleaning,” the youth said of a sudden, deciding not to wear her out with jabber. “I'd be fine with chatting with you, except that your aunt is counting on me to get this parcel of work done. Maybe we can speak longer at the party tonight.”

“Maybe,” she said without much conviction. 

“So, you've really decided to go?”

“Why not? It wouldn't hurt if I got to know a few more of the people around town. I'll have to live here for a while, it appears.”

“Is there anyplace you'd rather be?”

“Not exactly -- not until I figure out how to make some decent money.”

George smiled. “That's fine -- that we'll be neighbors for a while, I mean. If you want to meet the local folk, there'll be some great characters at the bash. And I bet those old timers keeping warm around the stove will be able to tell you even better robber stories than I can.”

“That's something I'd like to find out,” she agreed.

#

 

George set to work with determination, needing to free up the afternoon for himself. When the last forkful of dung was loaded into the manure cart, he drove it out into the field and spread it around as spring fertilizer. Pen-cleaning was long, hard work for a solitary man, but he'd gotten used to it on the home farm and doing the unpleasant work was a necessity. He couldn't expect Mrs. Fanning's struggling farm to lay out wages for extra help during the off season. And Myra didn't look like the pen-cleaning type.

When he had wrapped up the arduous job, he headed out directly, without pausing to take lunch at Mrs. Fanning's table, as he so often did. Once in Eerie, he tied his mule to the hitching post at the stage depot and then waited there, seated on the bench by the door. Only a short while later, the Prescott stage entered the town from the east. Its canvas curtains, as usual, were shabby and dirty, its wheels bounced along kicking up a consarned volume of dust. Nonetheless, the kids, and even some of the adults who saw it were watching with an air of excitement.

When the creaking coach drew near and braked, George walked toward it. He didn't know the company men on the high box seat by name, but the station manager, Matt Royce, had given him the monikers of the guard and driver who had lately been robbed. “Hullo!” he yelled. “Are either of you gents Harry Cole or Robert Moorman?” 

One of the dusty coachmen glanced his way. “I'm Rob Moorman, kid. What of it?” 

“Hello, Mr. Moorman. I take it that your driver isn't Mr. Cole.”

“Not today. What's your business, kid?”

“If you've got a minute...” George began.

“What we've got a schedule.” Moorman said, climbing down from his perch and striking the ground with a short hop.

“You were the guard on the stage that was held up?” the youth asked.

The older man stepped past him, toward the depot door. “I was, lad. Is that important? You don't look like a reporter.”

George, trailed along, ready with a plausible story. “My family lives on the edge of town. We were expecting a visitor to come in on Wednesday last week. Our wagon didn't arrive until after you'd pulled out, but she wasn't around the depot. 

"Stranger still, Mr. Royce told us that he'd never seen such a miss. She still hasn't shown up and we've started to get concerned. Might you have seen her? She's a pretty girl with ginger hair, about my age. Was she on last Wednesday's stage?”

“A relative, or a lady friend?” the man asked wryly.
George grinned. “My cousin. We got her telegram from Ogden. It said she was about to take the stage south, but there's been no word since then. Ma's beside herself, thinking the young lady might be lost somewhere between northern Utah and Eerie.”

The company man paused at the depot's threshold. “I don't know nothing about it! No girl was on that stage. No one got off in Eerie at all, except a rough-looking man in his forties. Another feller boarded us here, and so did an old lady, but I don't suppose you'd be interested in the likes of them.”

“No, sir,” George said. 

“Well, I hope the lass is all right. Maybe you'll be getting that letter you're hoping for soon.”

“That would be a relief,” the youth replied. “My folks aren't going to calm down until we hear that she's safe.”

“Best of luck,” Moorman said with a nod. “This is a big country; too big. There's more than enough room for a greenhorn to get lost in it. Excuse me now, boy, the wheels have got to keep on turning, you know.” He went inside the station office.

It was a thoughtful George who walked away. Moorman had said what he'd expected him to say, that Myra Olcott had not been on his run the week before. So, how in blazes had she gotten into town, and when?

One thing he knew for sure, Miss Myra wasn't a ghost, she wasn't a fairy. She was somebody real who had come from some real place. But where was that place, and why were both her and her aunt trying to throw dust into people's eyes? And, also, he had to ask himself, why did he care so much about it?

George thought on that. Maybe it was because mysteries always fascinated him. But more than that, having something fascinating hanging over Myra's head made her even more interesting than she would have been otherwise.

The youth grinned inwardly. Beauty and mystery seemed to go well together. Part of him was glad to have an out of the ordinary situation to think about, the days being humdrum otherwise. Still, a lot of people had secrets, he knew. Maybe this secret was no big deal. Maybe the best thing to do would be to hang back, to watch and listen until it all became clear. 

But what if it turned out that the women had something to hide? Would that make it any business of his? He liked Mrs. Fanning and didn't want to get her into trouble – not unless she was involved in something that would hurt people. As for Myra, well, the gal was a fireball, a light in the night that made a person look and wonder, but he didn't want to hurt her, either. 

For the moment, the farm boy seemed to be up against a blank cliff. He had business to get done and couldn't just stand in the street puzzling over things that didn't add up. He first needed a bite to eat, and then he had to hurry over to the bath house to clean up and change his clothing. The bath would be vital, otherwise no gal at the party would tolerate standing next to him for as much as two minutes! 

Just then, a moving cloud spread sunlight across downtown and the young man looked up. The sky was clearing and the breeze out of the hills felt more pleasant than it usually did this close to Christmas. From all appearances, there would be fair weather for the dance. Since Myra's mood had noticeably improved, this was going to be a party that he surely didn't want to miss. The thought of seeing her prettied up in that trim yellow dress again made him feel all warm inside.

#

 

Carrying a crate of prepared food, Sheriff Dan Talbot led his wife Amy into the schoolhouse. He set his burden down next to the already-loaded tables. Mrs. Talbot was looking fine, gussied up in her best socializing outfit. Behind him, their son Jimmy walked distractedly, gazing right and left. Dan knew that the boy would soon catch sight of some friend of his and make a beeline away from his parents. The lawman was thinking that the youngest Talbot, almost before they'd known it, had stopped being a toddler. Hadn't it been just a little while ago that Jimmy couldn't take more than a couple steps at a time before falling down?

His lips pressed together as he considered that. One could really appreciate how quickly time flew when taking notice of the changes in a child of one's own. Jimmy was growing fast, while he and his wife were simply getting older. He realized with some regret that he and his mate were not so much a youngish couple anymore. They were, in fact, middle aged, or soon would be. That was a tough bite of skunk pig to swallow down.

He sighed and looked around. The school's pot-bellied stove was warming the big room sufficiently well, the night being so mild. Lamps were lit in the far corners, ready for the darkness that was soon to fall. Near the unlit fireplace, a fresh-cut jack pine had been set up, topping out at seven feet. The ladies had dressed it up with festoons, strings of popcorn, colorful beads, ribbon bows, and candles. At the top of the tree, there had been fixed a metal star, obviously snipped from the lid of a large tin can.

Dan saw that the beams above their heads had been decorated with pine boughs with additional cones fastened to them, apparently with fishing line. The tree and the evergreen trimmings together scented the room very agreeably. 

The row of tables nearby held an admirable spread of good eating. Bread, pastries, meat confections, jellies, jams, salads, soups, and even a box of store-bought chocolates were presented to all comers. Jimmy was going down the line, picking out treats for himself. “Dan,” said Amy, “I'd better put the things we bought on these tables while there's still room enough to hold them.”

“You do that, dear,” the sheriff agreed. “I see Otto Euler. I'd like to say hello to the fellow.”

“Ask him about his wife, Marcha, would you?”

“I will,” promised Dan.

The lawman picked his way through his jostling neighbors and reached the side of the brewer. 

“Howdy, Otto,” he said. “Are we going to be sampling any of your fine wares tonight?”

“Hello yourself, Sheriff,” he replied. “If you move fast enough, you can get all da beer dat you can svollow, I dink!”

“My wife is busy setting out her baked goods, but she wanted me to inquire after your wife's health.”

Euler's broad face became more sober. “Her cough ist much better, but she vonted to stay home tonight. She doughted dat she should risk da season's drafts. But da veather ist much better dis year dan last year. People den vere coming in to varm up betveen every dance, I recall.”

“Pretty near,” agreed the lawman.

“Oh, and by da vay, Dan, how did dat hunt for the outlaws go? I hear dey slipped da noose.”

“They did. Those varmints are young but foxy. They let us ride out, then doubled back and made another try at the strongbox that they'd hidden close-in. I feel damned bad about getting hoodwinked.”

“But dat deputy of yours got back most of da gold. He ist a good man! Hast Paul come home yet? Last I heard, he vas still oot with anutter posse.”

“That's so. They found the outlaw's pack horse between here and the Gila River. It's looking like the rascals are hightailing it toward Yuma. They can't have much loot with them anymore. We don't expect Paul's posse to chase them all the way to the California line, though. We've already sent Yuma an alert to be on the lookout.”

“The bandits vill get a breather if dey get all the vay to California,” Euler said with a scowl.

“That's the truth. It's touchy business to go chasing outlaws over a state border.”

The brewer just then shifted his glance toward the door. “Who are doz loverly ladies? From out of town, maybe?”

Dan turned about. “Well, well. That's the widow Fanning. She's dressed up right fancy tonight. I see her now and then, but never in a dress like that one. And the young lady with her must be...” Dan tried to remember the name that Shamus had told him. “...Myra. Myra, her niece from back East.”

This was the first time that Dan had set eyes on the new potion gal. As always, the changes that it ushered in amazed him.

“Doz two vill get a lot of dancing ift they're villing,” said Otto. “It ist at times like dees that I vish I vasn't a married man. Almost vish, I mean.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5, Part 1

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 4, Part 1

Posted 09-07-19 

Revised 12-07-19

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 4, Part 1

Friday, December 22, 1871

As soon as the sun came up, Irene set out for her errand in town, taking most of the holiday baking with her. One of the church ladies there had volunteered to collect the parishioners' food contributions; it would be the responsibility of that person and her helpers to set up the Christmas feast. For the time being, Myra would be left at home to keep abreast of the chores.

The girl didn't mind getting out from under Aunt Irene's watchful eyes; a little privacy was what she wanted and needed.

Miss Olcott moved swiftly though her routine, making good haste so that she could have most of the afternoon to read the remaining letters. As she worked, she kept wondering why those correspondences needed to be so well hidden in the first place. Did they show Irene in some discreditable light? If so, perhaps they could provide the girl with material for blackmail purposes. Myra's anticipatory smile quickly faded. How could she extort demands from any of the three people whom she had to obey absolutely?

Damn it! Life was still kicking her around. Why couldn't it ever play fair?

After a quick mid-day lunch, Myra at last had time to deal with the letters. This time, she's decided to leave the box up in the loft and bring down just a handful of correspondences at a time. Then, if some caller surprised her, the packet would be easier to hide than would the entire box. Settling down to her task, she casually checked the clock. It was getting on to 1:00 pm and so far there had been no sign of George. It was becoming unlikely that the farm boy would be coming at all, the December days being so short. That was all to the good.

After reading several of the letters, whose contents she could hardly find interesting, Myra opened another epistle, one of the many sent by Aunt Irene, dating from the spring of 1866.

“Dear Addie,

“Your last letter has alarmed me. What has put you into such a sad and nervous state? You refer vaguely to past misdeeds. What misdeeds? And why are you so sure that God cannot forgive you and Edgar? It shouldn't be necessary for me to remind my older sister, who taught me so much about faith, that He can, and will, forgive any evil deed, as long as it is earnestly repented. Imagine! He will forgive even a repentant murder. You are a good and tender person, precious Addie, and your husband is an honest man of rectitude. The two of you could never stray so far away from virtue that you would place yourselves beyond God's forgiveness. How long have you been suffering? From the way that you refer to this mysterious sin it makes me think that it occurred not recently, but years ago. That dismays me even more. How long have you been carrying such a load of pain and sorrow? Dear beloved, why could you have not alerted me sooner, so that I could have sooner begun assisting you in redemption, and even in restitution, if necessary?

“I sincerely hope that you have overstated the direness of the situation. It cannot be as terrible as you imply. I know you so well and believe in you steadfastly. It is only a good person who beats his breast and pours ashes on his head, not the careless and consistent sinner. Help me understand what has happened, so that I may better reassure you. The Good Book names very few sins that are are beyond the pale of forgiveness, and you are surely not of the debased type that could have committed any of the most terrible transgressions. Whatever you have done, or believe that you have done, the anguish I sense in your words tells me that your moral sense remains strong and unbroken. How can you have forgotten so easily that repentance always brings the soul to salvation, and my heart tells me that Edgar's opportunity for redemption can hardly be less than your own.

“You frighten me, truly, when you say that, if the truth were known, you and Edgar would be forced to abandon your land and leave the territory entirely. And you also seem to be saying that you and your mate might both be put into jail! It is sadly true that good people may commit many wrongs. I have lived long enough to know that this is true. But even if you have fallen, and fallen shamefully, the heart that is honestly contrite never needs to fear the condemnation of the Lord. Perhaps what you are mostly afraid of is the disapprobation of your neighbors. Sadly, the easy anger of mankind has done great hard to many a repentant sinner. I well know that the heartless sorts among us can be very rash and unkind in their judgments. But it is equally true that God always sees the truth at the root of every difficult matter and ignores the calumnies of the self-righteous.

“Wasn't the blameless Stephen stoned to death in Jerusalem merely for celebrating the glory of Christ Eternal? Don't you see? What is a crime in the eyes of of one is not always so in the eyes of another. But though wickedness dealt to Stephen a cruel death, we can hardly suppose that the sainted man was denied a heavenly home. Remember what is written. 'Fear not them which may kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear Him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.'

“I believe this, and believe it with unwavering conviction: Cling to God in all your troubles, sister, for He is the mighty rock that no wave can sunder. I myself journeyed into a very dark place when my dear Darby was lost in Tennessee. It seemed to me, during that evil hour, that the Lord was punishing us both together and I did not understand why. But through prayer and many days of thoughtful meditation, I found the presence of mind to grasp this truth: The Lord promises the righteous not happiness on Earth, but joy in Heaven. Grief comes to all of us while we dwell in this mortal veil. Think. Who was less deserving of grief than Christ himself, but did he not lose his step-father Joseph at a tender age? And though he embodied every virtue, was his entire life not one of painful and unjust persecution? And what of Mary, the most blessed of all women? Can you doubt that she keenly felt the daggers of sorrow at her husband's and her son's deaths? Oftentimes, our suffering has nothing at all to do with our deserts.

“You say that you can give to me no details because they would make me ashamed of you. Dear Addie, do not think that I am so faithless. My love will be unbroken no matter how far you have strayed. Allow me to help you. Whatever you choose to let me know, I will listen with compassion and shall not unkindly judge any words spoken in regret. Nor will I abandon you, no matter what your culpability may be. Until I hear from you again, my love, I will be praying for you and Edgar constantly.”

Myra blinked, amazed. She looked again at the letter's date and bit her lip in dismay. It had been written not long before her mother and father had both died!

Hastily, the girl began searching her stack for Irene's follow-up letter, the one that would have carried on the discussion. When an envelope from her aunt, postmarked in late June or any time later, was not to be found, she hurried back up the ladder to bring down the entire box of correspondences. Unfortunately, a most diligent search could not locate any later missive originating from Irene. Further, a hasty skimming of all the thus-far unread letters did failed to throw any new light on the mystery. Whatever secrets Myra's mother had imparted to Irene, it seemed that she had shared them with no one else. The girl sat back. What could her parents have possibly done to plunge themselves into such a state of self-condemnation? Only Irene might know anything more. Myra felt determined to confront her aunt for the facts, and would be in no mood to brook evasions and lies.

But it took only seconds for Myra to sink into discouragement. That letter represented a secret that Irene had been withholding for a very long time. Had she wanted the story to be revealed, she could have told it anytime during the last five years. If challenged too boldly, her aunt would most likely give Myra orders not to bring the subject up again, not with her, and not with anyone else.

So, the girl wondered, what could she possibly do? At a loss, she began to search the perplexing letter again, word by word, for clues that might inspire a useful course of action.

Myra noted that Irene had written on April 29, 1866. It would have taken a couple weeks for a letter to reach Arizona from Pennsylvania. No, it had to have taken more time than that. In 1866, the Union Pacific was still in Nebraska and mail into the West was still being carried by stagecoach or else by wagon along special postal routes. People talking about the “old days” mentioned that it required maybe three weeks for a letter to travel from the Northeast to southern Arizona, even in good weather. By her estimate, this missive would have reached Arizona in latter May. Giving her mother a week to write an answer, the reply would have been received by Irene a month later, around the last part of June. Irene's June reply, if she sent one, should have arrived at Eerie about mid to late July, after both Myra's mother and father had died.

What had happened to Irene's missing epistle? the girl wondered. In July, 1866, the newly-orphaned Myron had been taken in by neighbors. He didn't visit the empty family home in all that time, and didn't want to. His heart was aching and his mind was dulled by misery until his aunt arrived in October. Myra searched her memory. Who would have been receiving the Caldwell mail during the period that the house had stood empty? These days, she knew, the post which was addressed to the closer-in farmers was kept for them at the postal station in Eerie. 

Currently, Aaron Silverman was the postmaster and his dry goods shop served as the local post office. She asked herself, what happened to any mail that wasn't picked up? She understood that it was normally returned to the sender, but that didn't always happen. Sometimes unclaimed mail was handed to the main surviving heir. So, shouldn't those letters have been turned over to Myron? But the only mail that he'd gotten between July and October had been a letter from his aunt, telling him that she was coming West to join him at the farm and would be leaving for the West as soon as her affairs at home were settled.

Myra thought hard. She recalled that it had been neighbor Severin who had brought Irene's letter to Myron at the Grimsleys' house. Where had Walt Severin gotten it from? Had the Severins written to Irene and received a reply from her directly? Or had the Severins been handling all of the Caldwell mail? They were the closest friends that the family had in the area. Even if Mr. and Mrs. Severin didn't already know the Fanning address, surely would know the name of Irene Fanning, which would have come up in the course of the many talks they must have had with her parents. Most likely, it would have been they who had reported the bad news back to Pennsylvania.

But wait, if Irene's earlier letter had been collected by the Severins, had they also read it? If so, how much did they know about the family's secrets? On the other hand, maybe they knew nothing, unless they had stooped to reading other people's mail. Anyway, it seemed reasonable that if Walt Severin had the mail, he would have given it to Irene when she came West in October.

At that moment, Myra heard the clopping of shod hooves outside. She went to the window and espied the neighbors -- Singer, Severin, and Grimsley -- dismounting. She growled like a hound dog approached while devouring a killed chicken. This was not a time when she wanted to deal with visitors.

The ginger went outside. “What news, neighbors?!” she called out, trying to make her voice sound even and controlled.

“Bad news,” I would say,” said Tully Singer. In his forties, Singer sported a wide brown mustache and chin beard. His hair was worn longer than his goatee and was held down by a slouch hat sporting a large gray feather. He had on garments fit for the brush country – an antelope-skin jacket and stiff jeans. “We searched high and low,” he said soberly. “There's been no sign of your cousin's body.”

Myra took in his words without reply, unable to believe that her family's most disagreeable neighbor would truly regret any bad luck that befell the Caldwells.

Walt Severin spoke up next. “Is you aunt at home, Miss Myra?”

“No, sir. She's in town. She'll probably be home before dark.”

“Well, then you can fill her in. We're sorry we can't bring better news, but it's a big country out there. At first, we followed the hunch that Thorn was probably killed at the holdup site and the outlaws took his body only a short distance away to hide it -- not wanting it to be identified, but also not wanting to be seen carrying a dead man.”

“Where did you look?” Myra asked.

“The way we figured it,” said Grimsley, “the best direction that the outlaws could have taken would be West, cutting south of Phoenix to avoid the law there, and then moving on to Yuma, maybe. We think they wouldn't have wanted to go East, which would have taken them by Eerie. Heading north would be foolish, because the mountains would have made for hard going. The way south is pretty rough, too; there's only desert, Indians, and Mexico. To move fast and find food, their best route would have lain in the direction of California. The Gila River could have provided the three of them all the water they'd need.”

“But when we didn't find anything among the rocks and ravines to the West, we circled back and rode a ways toward Mexico,” put in Tully Singer. “Same story. No trace.”

“Now we're coming around to think,” remarked Walt Severin, “that you might have been on to a good hunch. Maybe Thorn was still alive when they fled. Maybe he went out a good distance with the outlaws before he died. Or maybe he's still living.”

Grimsley shook his head. “From here on, I don't think anyone is going to find that boy, except by accident. If dead, the animals will soon make his traces disappear. Oh, I guess I shouldn't have said that.”

“All this sounds really bad,” Myra returned. “But dead or alive, you can bet that he'll never be coming back into these parts again. Everyone knows his face around here. It would make no sense for a man to show up at a place where he'd be arrested in two shakes.”

“We're inclined to agree,” said Singer. “We're durn sorry that we weren't able to bring you ladies better news for a Christmas present.”

“Well, as long as there's no body, we can still hold onto hope,” the girl replied. “You've done all anyone could expect from good neighbors. I thank you, and my aunt thanks you, too. Just get on home and rest up. It's the exact right time of year to be with your families.”

“Right you are there,” agreed Grimsley. “Take care, Miss Myra.”

“Just a moment,” said the girl. “I was wondering. Would any of you gents know about what happened to all the mail that must have come addressed to the empty Caldwell house before Aunt Irene arrived in '66?”

The men looked at one another. Walt Severin took the question. “That's a long time ago. Why do you need to know, missy?”

“I'm interested in family history,” replied the red-haired girl.

“Well,” said Severin, “we let Aaron, the postmaster, know that we were taking care of things for young Myron – tending to the animals and all – and that we wanted to get into contact with the family back East. I asked him to give us the addresses appearing on the incoming mail that might be from people who should be notified. Aaron gave me a list of names and I right off recognized Irene Fanning as Mrs. Caldwell's sister. My wife wrote her a letter. When Mrs. Fanning wrote back, I delivered the reply to young Myron over at Matt's place. Once Irene arrived, I reminded her that the post office was holding some of the family's mail. I assumed that she would have picked it up right quick. Doesn't your aunt remember handling those letters?”

“Everything's been in such a mess around here since I arrived, the topic never came up,” Myra said.

“I remember the day that Mrs. Fanning hit town just like it was yesterday,” offered Grimsley. “You're aunt looked so young, and was darn pretty, too. We didn't think she'd last a week out here, an Eastern girl trying to farm a difficult country like this. I offered to buy her out a couple times, but she held on to the land and seems to have made a go of things.”

“Yeah,” Myra said indifferently, “she's a pretty one, if she fixes herself up.”

“That's a trait seems to run in every woman in your family that I've seen,” remarked Singer. Myra only frowned.

Without much more ado, the neighbors wished the girl and her aunt well, and then moved off toward their own homes.

When she couldn't see more of them than their cloud of dust, Myra returned all the letters to their hiding place, but held out the important piece. It was the one epistle that she had to keep safe. Why in tarnation had her parents done whatever it was that they'd done? And what could they have done that was so bad that years later it could still bring her mother to tears? All her memories about her folks were good ones, and that was exactly the way that she wanted to keep on remembering them. But that damned letter had left muddy footprints all over those comfortable recollections. She absolutely had to find out the truth, so that she could put to rest the ugly doubts that the mystery had raised up.

Myra took a warm, sunny spot by the corral and then tried very hard to remember everything she could about those long-ago days. As far as her memories ran, the war had still been on when her parents had started acting differently. The noticeable change had come at the same time that people were talking about General Lee whipping the hell out of Grant at Cold Harbor. That was in the summer of 1864.

The deepness of her thinking made the time pass swiftly. A breath of cold wind caused the girl to notice that the sun was hanging low. Myra got up; she didn't want to chill herself and get the croup. In a bemused state, she went inside, eager to lose her chill beside the warm fire.

Myra piled a couple sticks of mesquite into on top of the little blaze and sat down on one of the two available stools. Her delving into the past reminded her of how her folks had never cared when young Myron listened in on their conversations. They'd complain regularly about how expensive things were, how they couldn't buy this or that. They also discussed how much “red ink” they were running up at the stores in town. They wondered how they would ever pay it all off. And she remembered how glum they got whenever they had to go into town and talk to the banker. Suddenly, though, things changed. They'd started keeping mum about the important things when he was around.

From that point on, in 1864, Myron no longer heard conversations about debts and bankers. He would instead hear talk about bills being paid off, and about improvements they wanted to make -- like putting in the windmill. And something else had changed. The food had gotten better; Ma was buying more canned goods and even fresh produce from Ortega's grocery. The rusty and beat-up tools that his pa had been using were replaced with newer ones. Also, at the same time, the blackened pots and rusty pans that his mother had been cooking in mostly became pans for feeding the hens. The kitchen shelves got loaded down with kettles and utensils that were shiny and new. Most memorable of all, more than once, when they saw Myron leaping with excitement over some toy that he'd see in a store window, his folks would sometimes go in and buy it for him. Thinking back, it seemed like those were happy times. So, why had her folks grown so gloomy?

Those troubling memories brought back other recollections. Pa had started to go into Phoenix quite often, though it was darn far away. Unless he pushed himself hard and wasn't encumbered by a wagon, he'd have to overnight it in the town. For some reason, Phoenix seemed to become his favorite place for doing the family's serious shopping. When he returned from the big town, he always had something flashy to show to his son.

Oddly, at the same time, his folks almost always talked about having a hard time of it whenever visitors dropped in. Also, her his ma and pa kept their new things out of sight as much as possible. If ma fixed something for the guests on the stove, she'd show off a worn-out coffee pot or skillet. And they had also made Myron promise not to leave any of his nice bright toys in plain sight either. “Visitors'll think we're spoiling you,” was the only excuse they ever gave him.

What did all these bits and pieces mean, Myra wondered? Her folks had suddenly gotten prosperous. Even a boy of eleven or twelve could notice the improvement, but they always acted secretively about it. Was it possible that her elders had started profiting from doing something dishonest? Was that why they didn't want their neighbors to know how much money they were spending?

The girl didn't like to imagine that her parents had been involved in thievery. How could they be? What was there to steal in such a miserable, burnt-out countryside? Well, sure, there was gold around Eerie. Myra knew that prospectors had occasionally been robbed up in the hills, and that some of them had been killed.

A shiver run through the seventeen-year-old. Though she could imagine herself being an outlaw without feeling shame, she didn't like to think such a thing about her own parents.

#

Myra, by now, was feeling sleepy; sinking into a mental fog, she sat staring into the flames inside the firebox. Of a sudden, Aunt Irene came in though the door.

“Haven't you started anything heating for supper yet?” her aunt asked after a quick look-around.

Myra shook her head to clear it. “I – I was sitting by the fire and fell asleep.”

The woman put her packages on the table. “Well, we'll have to make up for lost time. Have you milked the cows yet?”

“No.” The girl got up, a bit unsteady. “I'll do it now. But there's something I need to tell you.”

Irene glanced over her shoulder. “What's that?”

“The neighbors came by. They've given up on the hunt for my body.”

“What exactly did they say?”

“What do you think? They said they couldn't find anything.”

The older woman shook her head. “It's too bad that we had to let them waste their time. But I couldn't think of what else to do.”

“Don't worry. They all came back alive. Oh, and even though George promised to show up to finish his work, I haven't seen hide nor hair of him. That one seems pretty quick to make promises, but then he'll do the slow-walk when it comes to putting in a day of hard work.”

“Well, maybe he'll be here tomorrow. Everyone is extra-busy near the holidays. But I have something else I need to tell you about.”

“Will it make this day even worse?”

“It depends. I was approached by one of the Ladies' Society from church. They've already taken a plan to Reverend Yingling about having a memorial service for you after Christmas.”

“More tomfoolery!”

“I couldn't come up with any good excuse to dissuade them. I did offer the idea that some of our neighbors were searching for the body. I told them that before we have a memorial, we ought to wait to find out if the body is going to be found. But now that excuse isn't going to carry any load. Our friends at church want to help us get closure on Myron and I'm supposing that we should go ahead and let them do it.”

“Why can't people just forget about that shooting and leave me be?”

“Their hearts are in a good place, Myra. They want to honor us, just as they would honor any other decent family in Eerie.”

“We're not such a decent family.”

“Are you talking about yourself, or me?”

“They didn't like me alive and they can't possibly care about me dead. Did they ask you to provide the food? Maybe getting another free lunch is the thing that they're really after.”

“I doubt that. I think it's best that we handle this affair with good manners. We've come a long way toward fitting you comfortably into this community and we must not let ourselves stumble now.”

“Yeah? Well, how much grief over what happened are you really feeling?”

Irene stared at her niece. “I don't know what you mean. You're not dead.”

Myra looked deeply into the fire again. “I'm not quite so sure about that as you are,” she remarked.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4, Part 2.