by John Shirley
“And you made the bread?”
“Of course. But the butter is from the store.”
“Dang good bread. Here you are, pretty as the dickens and a good cook—I expect half the men in town are swooning after you.”
“Swooning? I have had some offers. None of them were acceptable to Papa.”
“You’re old enough to choose.”
“You do not know Papa. Anyway—none of them were men I wished to fight for. Also—I am Catholic. Maybe not many men want to marry a Catholic girl. We are the only Catholic family I know of hereabouts.” She sighed. “I miss going to Mass on a Sunday morning. . . .” She looked around at the fair day, the trees shimmering their leaves in the soft breeze, the chuckling stream, and added, “Perhaps this is Mass enough.”
He cleared his throat. “You know—back down in Chaseman, we’ve got the mission church. My grandma was Catholic, and she married there. Now, if you wanted to go to a Mass, if you came to Chaseman, why—”
“Oh—it is not so easy to move away from here. And you? Do you go to church?”
“Once a year on Christmas, I go to the mission church with the Catholic folks. But I don’t know if I’m a religious man.”
He almost said, I’d become one for you, Josette. But he held his tongue.
They finished their bread and jam, and she handed him an apple. He tossed it up and down in his hand and asked as casually as he could, “You never thought of going back to Chaseman?”
“I don’t know. This is a nice town. But I do miss Chaseman. Papa would not go there again.” She smiled ruefully. “He left Texas in an awful hurry.”
“He did at that. Well, now, me, Josette—I’ve got some land picked out there, two miles south of Chaseman. Lord willing, it’ll be there when I get back. I’ve got enough money saved to make an offer on it—and start my own spread. Now, I’d start with raising horses for cattle drives—for the remuda, you know—and then . . .”
Seth told her, at some length, of his plans. She surprised him by seeming captivated. At last she said, “Oh, but that sounds wonderful!”
He wondered if she understood why he was telling her all this. He dared not be more explicit, not yet.
She looked over at Mazie and said, “You know, there is one man who has asked permission to court me. And Papa said yes. His name is Heywood Kelmer.”
Seth’s heart sank. “Is that right?” He drank a little water and said, “You know, I worked beside that very gent all yesterday. Staying over for a few days, why, I wanted some work . . . just till I head south . . . and he had me and Franklin ropin’ and brandin’.”
“Truly? How was he to work with?”
“He didn’t get his hands dirty, which is maybe good—most of the time he didn’t get in the way.”
Seth felt a little guilty for giving what might have been a prejudiced opinion of Heywood Kelmer to Josette—considering that he was a rival. But then, he reflected, he’d only spoken the truth.
He dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “So your pappy wants you to marry Heywood?”
Josette gave a different sort of shrug now—a resigned one. “Yes, I think so. He has some understanding with the Kelmers. There is land Papa wants to buy from them to start another business, and he cannot pay the full price of it. But if I am to marry Heywood, then they give it to him at a good price.”
Seth rocked back a little at that. “Why, trading you for land, that—that’s . . .”
She grimaced. “Papa says that the money for the land is like a dowry—in Quebec, a dowry is still the custom—and the land like a wedding present. But . . . I don’t know. . . .” She drank a little water from a mug and said, “He hasn’t made it, what would you say, official—not yet. Heywood has asked me to the summer dance, out at Black Creek Acres, and I am expected to go with him. It’s in about two weeks. Maybe there he will ask me to marry him.”
Two weeks, Seth thought. That’s some time yet. . . .
“What do you think you’ll say if he asks you?”
Josette blushed. “That is a very personal question.”
“I’m sorry.” But he badly wanted to hear the answer.
“Oh, I don’t know, Seth. It would be wise to marry him, I’m sure. He’s got money. And . . . he’s a man of . . . of influence hereabouts.”
She didn’t seem any too certain of Heywood, Seth told himself.
The cloud cover was burning away as the day warmed, and even here in the shade, they began to sweat. Gnats rose up from the brush and darted at them. “Well,” she said, looking around, “it will soon be hot, and perhaps I’d better start for home.”
“Josette—I’d be honored if you’d let me . . .” He began to offer her a ride on the back of his horse but was not sure that would be proper, the two of them on one horse. “If you’d mount Mazie there, she’s a good ’un with the ladies, and I’ll walk her back to your place. I’ll carry the berry pail.”
“You’re sweet, Seth! But—I don’t know if Papa is home. He might be. He was threatening you with a shotgun!”
“I remember it clearly!”
“Still—yes, that would be nice. But likely it’d be best if I walked the last little ways myself. . . .”
She put on her sunbonnet, packed up the basket and blanket, tucking the blanket under its handle. He went to get Mazie and the bucket of berries. She climbed onto the horse with no hesitation or awkwardness. Grace in everything, he thought. He handed her up the basket, took the reins, and they started off on a path between two harvested fields. She could have ridden without his leading the horse, but it felt more gentlemanly this way. It encouraged him that she permitted it.
After a while, she said, “I expect you’ll be on your way back to Chaseman soon?”
Seth knew Franklin wouldn’t want to cool his heels in Prairie Fire. But that was just too bad for Franklin. He would find his pard again down in Chaseman.
“Oh, I might linger about awhile,” he said, “if I can get a little work. Don’t think I’d cotton to working for the Kelmers again.” He told her what had happened with Mazie and the bet.
“And he would not pay the bet? That doesn’t seem honorable. Look!” She pointed at a goodly farm across a field from them. “That’s the Hamer place over there. Sol was talking of needing a hand to do some farmwork. If a rough cowboy would consider such a job . . .”
“Why, I’m no stranger to farmwork. I’ll ask the man tomorrow.”
Seth smiled to himself. That farm was not far from the Dubois place. Maybe that was just by chance. But maybe it wasn’t. . . .
* * *
* * *
Lane Dawson rode into Newton on a warm, moonless night, leading a column of weary townsmen. After dismissing the tired, discouraged posse, Sheriff Dawson gave his horse over to the care of the livery and walked wearily up the stairs of the courthouse to his office. He felt like he was rode hard and put away wet.
Charlie Buford was leaning back behind Dawson’s desk, booted feet up on it, reading a newspaper in the glow from a gaslight wall lamp, a crooked cigar smoking in the carved-horn ashtray. The old lawman had white hair that grew long because he didn’t trouble to cut it much, a square-cut white beard, and pale blue eyes in a florid face. Charlie had a silver sheriff’s star on his chest, and as soon as he saw Dawson come in, he tossed the newspaper aside, took the badge off with a pleased grunt, and tossed it on the blotter. “Glad you’re back. Tired of being sheriff.”
“Don’t look like you’re wearing yourself out doin’ it, Charlie,” said Dawson, bending over the desk to sort through the mail.
“Had to drag three men for street fighting to the calaboose about an hour ago, me and that no-account you call a deputy.”
“Which no-account exactly?”
“Pierson. Some deputy!”
“He’s not much use—it’s true. Why didn’t you get
Hornby?”
“Hornby fractured his leg trying to work on his barn the very day I came out looking for him.”
“Well, the damn fool,” Dawson said, straightening up. “I’ll get you Harry Shug to help you.”
“Wait a damn minute—did you come back without catching that Fisher?”
“Lost their trail. Roved over the county and beyond, looking, asking everyone. Could not find hide nor hair.”
“And you’re going back out again?”
“The man killed my jailer, Charlie. Him and Diamond, they killed my jailer, stole two horses, and made us all look like fools. They’re looking to hang him in Kansas City for another killing, so Kansas City ain’t pleased neither.”
“That old fool Mundy was to blame, not you! He knew better’n to get close to that cage!”
Dawson tossed a wanted circular aside. “That old fool was my friend!”
Buford sighed and swung his legs off the desk. “I spoke too hastily, Lane. I’m sorry. But I’m in a foul mood, trying to keep up with this job. I’m going to be sixty-eight in a month, and that’s too old for sheriffing—”
“You’re still the best lawman this county ever saw!”
Buford grabbed his cigar and puffed it alight. “The best retired lawman, anyhow.”
“I’ll chuck you right back into retirement soon’s I get back, Charlie. People here trust you, and I need you to watch the town while I hunt down Fisher and Diamond. It’s the shame of this town that they got away—and killed Mundy in the bargain. They were pretty rough on us in that newspaper you were reading.”
“Hows about you get Shug to do it. He can be interim sheriff as well as I can.”
“No, he can’t. He’s too young. I’ll get him to watch the jail tonight. You go on and have your drink and get some rest and be here tomorrow after breakfast.”
“You do know that I can say no to that, don’t you?”
“I know you, Charlie—and I know you’ll do the right thing.”
“That always was a failing of mine.” Buford stood up, cigar clenched in his teeth, and stretched. “I’m going. You look like you need a good night’s sleep.”
“I’ll sleep like a drunk sow soon as Pierson takes over. I’m riding out at eight in the morning. . . .”
“To where? You lost their trail!”
“Been thinking on it. I calculate he’ll go south toward Mexico. I’ll just see if I can catch up.”
“No posse?”
“They’d slow me down too much.”
“Don’t try too hard to bring those owlhoots back alive,” said Buford, heading for the door.
Dawson nodded grimly. “I won’t. I surely won’t. . . .”
* * *
* * *
Papa was still asleep, having come home last night fully drunk, and Josette knew he’d be late to open the store this morning. It gave her time to have a talk with her mother.
Mama’s grave was a pretty one at the moment, bedecked as it was with wild prairie flowers—the daisylike yellow tickseed alongside flamelike petals of red catchfly and golden butterfly weed. There was still dew on the blossoms catching the morning light. Josette, standing by the grave, smiled though her eyes stung with tears. Mama had admired the wildflowers of the prairie.
The grave was tucked into a corner of the town cemetery, half circled by chokeberry bushes where yellow finches fluttered, twittering cheerily as they fed on the berries. The cheap wooden marker was tilted askew now; it had cracked from many frosts, and Mama’s name was scarcely readable. Josette was afraid that if she tried to straighten the marker, it would break off entirely.
Losing their home in Chaseman, fleeing in disgrace, coming here, and starting over that hard winter—all of it had contributed to killing Mama. Much of Papa’s money had been seized by the court, and leaving in haste, they’d had to abandon most of their furniture in Chaseman. They’d slept on the floor for close to a month, and Papa had started his general store in little more than a shack. He’d invested some of their remaining funds in four milk cows, having heard there was a shortage of butter locally, and compelled Mama to work at milking and churning in the crooked, drafty little barn that had come with the property he’d leased, whatever the weather.
When she wasn’t milking cows and churning butter, Mama had worked from dawn and into the night, keeping house, cutting wood, washing, making most of their clothing, cooking, scrubbing pots, helping to load the wagon for the store, looking after the stock. That’s how it was day after day, in a fiercely cold winter, when there never seemed enough wood for the stove, and it made Mama bone weary. Though just a girl, Josette had helped, but there was always more to do. Mama came down with pneumonia and died after ten days of sickness. The next day, Papa sold three of the milk cows.
The memory of that ice-shrouded winter made Josette shiver, even in the midst of a warm summer morning. She sat by the grave, laying a rose among the wildflowers, and said, “Mama, I don’t know what to do.”
It was a curious thing, the way folks talked to the dead at a cemetery. Curious but commonplace, for the dead were good listeners. Josette did not suppose the corpse in its coffin was listening, but she had a foggy notion that the spirit of a dead loved one, somewhere in the next world, would listen if you spoke at their grave. She had no genuinely close friends. No one else to talk to.
“Papa seems to be sinking ever deeper into the downing of spirits,” Josette said, speaking to her mama in French, “and sometimes he throws a pot at me or a boot and curses at me! He has picked up his shotgun and waved it about right there in the kitchen! He threatened Seth with it at the store. . . .”
Josette grimaced. She had been mortified when Papa had driven Coe from the store. “You remember Seth Coe from Chaseman. He was just a boy then. He’s a man now, Mama, a drover, and he came into the store on his way to Texas! We renewed our acquaintance—we even had a little picnic—and I believe he’s hinting that he might make a good husband for me. I am not certain I could ever care for him so much as that, but then again, perhaps I’m too old for girlish romances. And, Mama, Heywood Kelmer, too, seems to be honoring me with courtship—he seems to think it’s an honor for me! If he proposes, I should say yes, because it will profit Papa, and because Heywood is rich and a fine figure of a man. But he is only a gentleman on the outside. The last time I was alone with him, for a few minutes at the dance last year, he tried to kiss me—and I told him no, I was not ready for such familiarity. And, Mama—he tried to force me to kiss him! He left bruises on my shoulders!” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I pushed him away and ran back to the dance. He has never apologized. I have been kissed, it’s true, a time or two. Once by a handsome drummer passing through, but I kissed him willingly. Now, Seth—he would never behave as Heywood did. He would know the proper time.”
A crow lit on the wooden fence nearby and tilted its head as it regarded her, seeming to wonder whom she was talking to. “Oh, yes, Mama, I know I should be sensible and marry Heywood. Are not all men beasts, with their pawing hands, after all? But something in me rebels against that man, even when he’s on his best behavior. Seth, now, I do enjoy his company. He is a hard worker and has plans for a sizable acreage in Texas. . . .” She brushed an ant off her dress and went on. “I don’t know if I could fall in love with Seth. But I do know that he is a good man. I can feel it.”
She reached out, picked one of the flaming-red flowers, and sniffed at it.
“It may scandalize you, Mama, to know that I have thought of simply leaving Papa, even without marrying. He says himself he can get someone to take care of him—and I might find work in Kansas City or Dodge. But I have little money for such a trip . . .” She sighed. “I should go and make his coffee. Perhaps set out some willow bark for his morning head. I’m sorry to complain so much. You should enjoy the fields of heaven and not have to sully it with worrying about me!”
Josette stood up, brushed herself off, tossed the wildflower onto her mother’s grave, and started toward home, daydreaming about simply passing the house and keeping on to the next road, the next town. . . .
She knew, though, that she would only go home and start Papa’s breakfast.
* * *
* * *
Franklin shook his head in disgust. “Two weeks!
“Well,” said Seth, hooking his thumbs in his trouser pockets, “she’s got to make up her mind and . . . you can’t rush a lady, Franklin.”
“You haven’t really proposed to her, Seth.”
“No, I haven’t. But . . . I will!”
They were standing on the wooden sidewalk in front of the little hotel, shaded from the bright morning sun by the porch roof. Down the street, in front of the Wells Fargo office, a group of people was gathered around the stagecoach, which had just trundled and bumped its way into Prairie Fire. People getting off the stage were being greeted, and one of the greeters looked to be a local newspaperman, for he had a pad and pencil in his hand and was scribbling something about the new arrivals. The Prairie Fire News would be out tomorrow with a column about visitors to town.
“Well, I will here and now inform you, Seth Coe, that I will not remain in this town for two weeks more,” Franklin declared. “I’ve got a girl myself I hope to see back in Chaseman. My brother expects me to go hunting with him. I told him soon’s the drive was over—”
“Franklin—you can keep the rest of your almighty plans to yourself!” Seth said. “I’ll follow you—only I can’t follow you to Texas, not right now. I’ll be back there soon enough. I’ll not hold it against you if you ride south this minute.”
Franklin’s face had gone glum, not a look that was usual to him. He took off his hat and slapped it against his hip, something he did when he was making up his mind. Then he nodded to himself and put it back on his head. “I’m riding out. I need me some time off, and being as I’m not in love with a pretty store clerk, there’s nothing to do here but work! I have sworn off work for a month or more!”
