Training Ivy [How The West Was Done 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Bum-sucking? So it’s common knowledge in town what we do behind closed doors? Ivy was distracted for a split second by the bison, crouched down serenely with its front legs curled under its chest. The bison regarded the scene with wise eyes, apparently unperturbed at who might shoot whom next. In fact, the bison looked way too worldly to be Minerva Shortridge. She was an apparently uneducated woman from the same bog-hopping area of Ireland as Ivy’s ancestors and wouldn’t look that sagaciously at anyone. It must just be a real bison.

  “How many times do I have to shoot you?” Harley shouted. “You must be mighty stupid to want to rile an ex-convict and a captain of the East India Company.”

  “Hah!” barked Ace. “I knew you were a convict, Tempest! I could tell by your loco lingo. I was telling everyone our head of security was nothing but a criminal jailbird. Agh!”

  Ace did drop his revolver then in order to grab his thigh. A critter of some sort scurried up the cuff of his pants, now burrowing around underneath the fabric, little bustling bumps appearing up Ace’s bloody leg.

  “A rat! A goddamned rat is attacking me!”

  Harley chuckled and lowered his rifle. The men advanced on Ace, and Ivy came out from hiding. Neil snatched up the fallen revolver and took some bracelets off his gun belt to shackle Ace. Ace squirmed and hopped about, leaning on his good leg and shaking his bad leg so assiduously that droplets of blood flew, decorating Harley’s face.

  Harley gripped the homicidal buffoon and spat, “Not too smart, warning Neil you intended on making him your next victim.”

  The rat was apparently still scuttling around in the vicinity of Ace’s crotch. Ace flailed so thoroughly Harley had to grip his wrists together in the small of his back for Neil to snap on the cuffs. The helpful rat must have been chewing away at his testicles or supping on the blood from the wound, for Ace jerked like a man in the throes of religion.

  “Get the rat out of my pants!” he squealed in a high pitch. “Take it out! Take it out!”

  Harley looked Neil calmly in the eye. “Do we feel like reaching our hands inside his odiferous pants?”

  Neil shook his head. “I don’t particularly feel like it, Harley.”

  The bison eyed the whole act calmly, blinking.

  To add drama to the scene, another now-familiar earthquake shook the ground beneath their feet. Ivy staggered uncertainly, as though wallpapered, and a large crack in the earth opened up in the field beyond the stables. Horses whinnied and shied about, but the bison didn’t move a muscle. As Ivy clutched a rail to steady herself, the canyon opened up toward them, ripping a deep opening in the grass about eight feet wide, heading right toward the three men.

  Ace’s back was to it, but Neil and Harley leaped apart as it came, abandoning the thrashing murderer. It was a sight to see, the ground opening up beneath Ace’s feet, tearing apart the soil between his legs so that now he had one foot on opposite sides of the canyon.

  “What the hell?” Ace wailed. He tried to balance, straddling the new canyon, his shackled hands of no help. Just as the rat fell out of his trouser leg and into the darkness below, a solid object shot through the air, walloping Ace on the skull with a resonating thud that could be heard even over the ripping and cascading roar of the soil. The clout was enough to knock the teetering Ace off his last grip on gravity, and he followed the poor rat into the gorge below. Only one boot could be seen over the lip of the hole, so it must have been very deep, and suddenly Ace didn’t utter a peep.

  Neil raised his hand to the bison. “Thanks, Minerva!”

  “The bison isn’t Minerva.”

  A new voice came from behind the reposing bison, and a slender, elegant fellow stepped into view. It could have been Ivy’s imagination, but just as that happened, the cunning sagacity in the bison’s eyes seemed to evaporate, and it got to its feet, looking about itself in confusion.

  The new fellow grabbed a handful of the bison’s shaggy black mane. The animal placidly allowed itself to be led to a corral, where the fellow latched the gate.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Harley, leveling his rifle at the calm man.

  He was ethereally attractive, his nearly silver hair falling in ringlets about his shoulders, shimmering with a heavenly glow. He was clad in Sioux style, with a pictorial bison robe slung about his shoulders and a headdress of eagles’ quills and ermine skins flowing in a crest over his back, nearly to his moccasined feet. Ivy had never been near an Indian and was pleasantly surprised at the intricacy of the quillwork on his shirt, quills made into vibrant yellow and turquoise arrow and dart patterns. The pictures on the robe showed men dying in battle with shields, horses falling, and a blazing sun.

  Ivy had no doubt he wasn’t their enemy but understood why Harley would question him. It was quite unusual how he had popped up from behind the mysterious bison just as they were arresting Ace Moyer.

  “That’s Caleb Poindexter,” breathed Neil.

  Ivy and Harley sucked in surprised breaths, Harley slowly lowering his rifle.

  “You,” Harley whispered. “You predicted my peaches and the water falling on Whit Gentry.”

  The visionary sauntered to the edge of the canyon and peered down into it. Bending, he picked up the object that had brained Ace—one of the heavy, clunky wooden stirrups favored by Mexicans. “Yes,” Caleb admitted. “The water fell, did it not?” From this angle Ivy could see he wore a very small juvenile bison skull hung from a thong down his back.

  Neil’s lips sputtered. “That was a coincidence. You’re just a blacksmith who chooses to live with that band of floored Indians who are constantly attacking the tracklayers. You’re lying like a rug.”

  Harley interrupted. “Blacksmiths are highly regarded as mystics by many tribes. In Ethiopia, they are wizards who can change into hyenas.”

  Neil scoffed. “No wonder the Ethiopians don’t manufacture their own firearms. They probably killed all their blacksmiths.”

  Ivy had taken an instant liking to the mild-mannered, composed seer. He felt to her like a long-lost brother—the brother she always wished she had. “My father has spoken of you. He said you cured the gout in his back.” Perhaps Simon viewed Caleb as the son he never had.

  Caleb regarded her with crystalline eyes so light blue they were nearly gray. Eyes normally associated with a lunatic. “I did.”

  Harley continued, “These Ethiopian boudas are said to roam about at night as hyenas wearing earrings. How much of this Ace Moyer affair were you aware of? Could you not have just arrived here earlier and told us he was the murderer?”

  Caleb splayed his hands out. “I can never be sure. Visions don’t just come to me and spell everything out in plain English, unfortunately. I spoke with Minerva Shortridge a few nights ago, and she didn’t even know Ace Moyer was the murderer. She had never met him, and he was wearing that hat and moustache when he murdered her.”

  Ivy asked what, to her, was the most vital question. “Were you that bison just now? He’s been acting entirely different since you appeared. Out of nowhere,” she added.

  Caleb tilted his head. “I have the ability to enter the spirits of animals and use their bodies to accomplish different things. I knew it would gain your attention if I used this bison to lead you to the livery.”

  Neil folded his arms stubbornly. “Humans entering animals? Impossible!”

  Caleb regarded Neil calmly. “Then how do I know that Ace Moyer just called Captain Park a sharpshooting bum-sucker?”

  There was a stunned silence, which Neil broke by blurting, “Because you were hiding behind the barn the whole time!”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” said Ivy. “And he appeared from behind the bison. Fact, I didn’t actually see him step out from behind the bison. He was suddenly just there. Give him some credit, Neil. He was the one who had the original vision of the bison, the earrings, and the Hudson coat of arms. You could probably use a seer with these talents in your security operations.”

  Neil grumbled, but as Ivy had pred
icted, he didn’t protest. She smiled inwardly. Already she was able to convince Neil to at least pretend to see things her way.

  “Yes,” said Caleb. “I knew a woman would be arriving in town who was associated with that coat of arms. But the visions don’t come right out and say ‘Miss Ivy Hudson will arrive,’ if you know what I mean. Just as I knew water would fall from a great height but not that a prostitute’s bathtub would fall on Whit Gentry.” He turned to Neil. “So I’m not terribly helpful in matters of crime.”

  “On the contrary!” Harley smiled widely. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Do you think,” said Neil, erasing all signs of derision from his face, “that now we’ve arrested Moyer, Minerva can move on to a more…a more heavenly place?” He looked at his companions. “I’d hate to think of her being stuck around Laramie City forever, braining people with stirrups and forty rod jugs.”

  “Indeed, she can move on now,” said Caleb, just as a shimmering silhouette began to materialize next to him.

  “Minerva!” Neil seemed overly happy to see the ghostly woman. Ivy chastised herself for feeling jealous. He reached his hands out to the image. “We’ve caught Ace Moyer, did you see?”

  “Yes,” said Minerva, her voice imbued with peace. Her image focused, became sharper, and Ivy could make out her thin, smiling lips, her eyes like a doll’s buttons sewn on. “I cannot thank you enough, Neil Tempest.”

  Ivy frowned. “What about Harley, Minerva? He’s the one who shot Ace, several times.”

  Minerva turned to Harley and held out her hands. “You always believed in me, Captain Park.” She turned back to Neil. “But Cornelius Tempest is the one who has captured my heart.”

  Neil frowned, too. “How did you know my given name is Cornelius?” He looked around. “No one in town knows that.”

  “I know many things!” Minerva said, louder and more forcefully. Neil and Ivy stepped back from her in fear, but Harley and Caleb remained rooted to the spot. “When one leaves the human world, one’s vision is a lot clearer. It is much easier to know things without reading them in books. I know, for example, that you were run out of the Army for congress with Indian men in tents that you were stupid enough to document it in a report.”

  “I freely admit that,” said Harley, and Ivy thought she saw Caleb’s eyes light up.

  “And you,” said Minerva, turning to Ivy. “Your sister caught you sucking on a man’s penis in your parlor, so your father forced you into that engagement with Mr. Prahl.”

  Ivy felt her face redden. “Is that all you know about—things of a sexual nature?”

  “I only know things that create large turmoil in a person’s life. Your mother’s lingering death, Ivy. Neil’s father’s fondness for the vine and how it forced Neil to steal from people.”

  “And what about dear Caleb?” questioned Harley, perhaps having discovered a kindred spirit in the seer. “What turmoil made him head west and live with the Sioux? You have to admit,” he said to Caleb. “It’s not your usual white man’s occupation.”

  “I make no bones about that,” Caleb agreed.

  Minerva intoned, “Caleb was assaulted many times during the recent war. He decided he didn’t like the violence and brutality of modern man, so he came to a place where meditation and visions are more highly valued.”

  “Guys!”

  Four heads turned toward the barn, where Zeke’s face, still blotched brown with forty rod, emerged from the darkness.

  “Oh, thank God I found you! What was up with that bison running down the street?” Zeke came toward them, arms swinging with zeal. “Hey, Caleb! Were you the bison running down the street? I know you’re capable of—dear God, what’s this?” Recoiling, he pointed a trembling finger at Minerva’s form. She was clearly not of this plane and world, as one could see through her to the bison lying calmly in its pen.

  Neil smiled. “Zeke, meet Minerva. You must recall her from your earlier encounter.”

  Zeke whispered, “Yes, but…earlier, she was a bit more…a bit more solid.”

  “It’s all right, Zeke,” Minerva said serenely. “I’m ready to move on now.” She turned to Caleb. “Will you assist me?”

  “Of course,” said Caleb, withdrawing a rattle of some sort from a belt at his waist.

  “I must say my good-byes to Neil first.” Minerva moved as though on wheels to Neil’s side. When she clasped his hands in hers, his fingers seemed to slip through hers, as hers were not entirely substantial. “Please kiss me, Neil. Remind me that not all men are drunken, violent fools.”

  Ivy nearly laughed, watching Neil pretend to kiss the flimsy face, his lips probably pressing against a cottony fluff. A twinge of jealousy still flared in her bosom, but Zeke’s guffaw soon erased that.

  “This is ridiculous!” Zeke pointed out. “Neil, you’re kissing a ghost!”

  “Oh, yeah?” Neil snarled. “And a ghost grabbed your ass, Vipham.”

  Caleb was now shaking the rattle about and incanting some things in the Sioux language, presumably. Minerva drew back from Neil and squared her shoulders, prepared to meet her future. Caleb’s voice, too, took on that tinny spiritual tone Minerva had exhibited. High and wavering, it seemed to float above their heads.

  Minerva’s image fluctuated as though she were in a desert, heat waves obscuring her form. “Good-bye, Neil Tempest!”

  “Will we be able to talk on occasion?” Neil asked. “Maybe in my dreams?”

  “I will still know what you’re doing,” said Minerva. “I will be there on the day you wed Miss Ivy Hudson.”

  A few more shakes of the rattle, some more poetry in the Indian lingo, and Minerva’s shape turned into the tall flaming column they’d seen in the telegraph office.

  “Good God!” shrieked Zeke. “She’s being burned alive!”

  “A ghost can’t burn, Zeke,” Ivy told him. “Notice how there’s no heat?” On the day you wed Miss Ivy…Ivy was pleased they had met Minerva Shortridge, and she was almost sad to see her go.

  Caleb gestured dramatically at the sky with his rattle, and the fiery column shot into the sky. Like a rocket it went, a reverse comet leaving this plane, heading for a place more serene and peaceful.

  All five humans shaded their eyes against the setting sun. But Minerva’s form was gone. A palpable calm settled on the corrals. The bison snorted into the dust.

  Harley was the first to break the silence. “Were you the rat that went up Moyer’s pants, too?” he asked Caleb.

  Caleb’s brow furrowed. “Rat? What rat?”

  “Let me out, you bastards!” Ace shouted from the ravine.

  Sighing deeply, Harley and Neil went to yank the murderer from his deep prison.

  Ivy took Caleb by the arm. “Caleb, tell me. What is the ‘steel magnetism’ that is coming? That was one of your prophecies. Neil, of course, thought it meant the Union Pacific Railroad. Is that what you meant?”

  “I think that prophecy was a combination of things.” The setting sun filled Caleb’s irises with color. Smears of ruby red and burnt orange lit up his eyes, and his very pale skin took on a more human shade. “The train, of course. I heard it will reach Laramie City by the day after tomorrow. And in many ways I am the steel magnetism, dealing as I do with metals every day.”

  Ivy had the feeling that wasn’t all of it. “And?”

  Caleb looked directly at her, and the flame in his eyes vanished. “And I believe there will be a lot more mystical and spiritual doings in Laramie City in the near future.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You shouldn’t be seeing this, my dear.”

  Ivy pouted. “Well, it’s my telegraph pole he’s hanging from.”

  Neil took Ivy by the arm and turned her to face away from the sight of the dangling Ace Moyer, his boots hanging only six inches from the dirt. “We need to cut Ace down before the train gets here. Wouldn’t do for the passengers’ first sight of Laramie City to be a criminal pushing up daisies. Hey, McClure!” He gained the attention
of one of the undertaking brothers. “Can you cut down old Moyer here and bring him to your shop?”

  McClure looked at the body skeptically. “He ain’t dead yet. His feet’s still twitching.”

  Neil cringed. A vigilance committee headed by another rancher named Boswell who feared he was Moyer’s next victim had torn Moyer from the lockup and lynched him that morning. It was frontier justice, pure and simple, at the hands of Judge Lynch and much simpler than having a trial. They would’ve had to send for a justice of the peace from Yankton for that, and it would have taken months, costing the newborn town a ridiculous amount of money just to feed Ace. They didn’t even have a proper jail yet. No, this was all for the best. Neil had found the other fringed and beaded gauntlet in Ace’s house during a search, and a local gambler had told him that Ace had tried to sell him Minerva’s emerald earrings but he hadn’t had enough money to buy them.

  Neil just wished Ivy didn’t have to view the repellant body, but she had insisted. She could hardly ignore it, when they were stringing Ace up from the telegraph pole directly outside her office. There was a flurry of telegrams to be received and sent today, but Ivy had locked up the office to join the festivities by the train depot. First Street was packed like a sardine tin with tracklayers, rowdies, prairie flowers, and hoodlums from the moveable Hell on Wheels shanty town, and Neil kept a close hold on Ivy. He wanted to get her alone, but her father had driven out in advance of the train’s arrival, and Simon now kept asking the same question over and over.

  “So how’d his brother Con Moyer die?”

  Neil rolled his eyes. He pitched a vendor some peso coins and accepted the whiskey refill with which he’d been hoping to shut up Simon Hudson.

  Simon slurped down the offering but insisted on repeating, “Did the bullet strike Con?”

  It sounded incredible, but it was true. “Yes. The bullet Ace shot into the air two days ago when we were in the corrals,” Neil said wearily. “It came down a mile away over near Boswell’s ranch, where Con was talking to Boswell. It struck Con in the shoulder and pierced his heart.”