Jo and the Pinkerton Man

by Dorothy A. Bell

  “Yes, yes, I see,” Jo said, still a bit confused. “Very pleased to meet you. But your fathers, and your brother, Miss McAdam, they were the brave ones today. I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s not what we heard miss,” said Twyla-Rose. “We can’t stay. We have to get back before bed check. But we’ll find time tomorrow to fill you in on the ins and outs of this place.”

  “Leave it to Festering Ester to stick you in this hole,” said Dodie. “She uses this tent as punishment, solitary confinement. You know what I mean? You’re a hero, Miss Buxton. We’re gonna take care of you, don’t you worry.”

  Jo shuddered to think of the implications in their promise. If these young ladies were anything like her friend Birdie-Alice, she was in a lot more trouble than she’d originally thought.

  “Come on,” said Twyla-Rose, tugging on the sleeve of Grace’s night rail. “We have to go. Now.”

  Quietly the three girls filed out of the tent, leaving Jo standing in the dark holding a soggy linen napkin that smelled of fried chicken and a large cinnamon bun.

  Chapter Nine

  Squabbling birds and the opening and closing of the privy-house door woke Jo from an unsatisfactory slumber. She rolled over, groaned, and burrowed down under her quilt, the one she’d carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper before packing it in her traveling trunk. Mr. McAdam had not taken the same care. He’d stuffed it in the smelly wooden crate. For a brief moment, and with a sharp pang of longing, she wished she were back home in her own bed.

  The chorus of incessant chirping birds and the louder, more irritating sounds of young women bickering, brought her reluctantly, yet fully awake. Irked by the necessity of having to get up and get dressed, she lurched off the cot and nearly fell over on her nose. Listing sideways and hanging onto her cot, she waited for the interior of the tent to stop sloshing around like water in a bowl.

  Water. She needed a drink of water. Water would help.

  The fear of being late for breakfast and her first proper meal in twenty-four hours propelled her through her morning routine quickly. Watchful of time ticking, she brushed at the wrinkles in her dark, navy skirt with one hand and ran a brush through her unruly hair. Satisfied with her clothing, she focused on arranging her braided hair into a tidy coronet on top of her head. Poking a stray lock of hair into her braid, she squared her shoulders to face the music. Wearing her blue cardigan to hide the wrinkles in her white blouse, she checked the watch pendant that dangled from the silver brooch she’d pinned to the collar of her blouse. By her estimation, she was dressed with a good ten minutes to spare. Pulling her shoulders back and chin up, she emerged from the tent.

  The flap closed behind her, and a cheer went up. Her three nocturnal visitors came forward out of the twenty or so young ladies gathered, big smiles on their cheery faces.

  “Good morning Miss Buxton,” said the sprite, Dodie McAdam, if Jo remembered correctly. “We’ve come to escort you to breakfast and welcome you as our heroine. It’s all over the school, and Cherry Grove, the part you played in the capture of the Payasos gang of train robbers. I speak for all of us and, even though we don’t know you well, we know you are a woman of strength and good sense. We applaud you.”

  And they did. The round of applause and cheers was indeed a warm welcome, but with it went Jo’s hope of sliding into her new role unnoticed.

  The girls marched with her to the great hall, chattering and jostling one another to introduce themselves. Ahead of them, the sun shone brightly upon the dour aspect of Principal Ester Jones. She stood facing the rising sun as Centurion upon the porch of the great hall, arms folded across her non-existent bosom and a scowl on her sour countenance.

  “Please, girls,” Jo said, stopping the parade short of the porch. “Thank you for the welcome, but I need to take up my position with the staff.”

  In a hushed aside, Miss McAdam said, “We understand, believe me, we do.” Then she quickly added as Jo placed a foot on the porch steps, “You’re allowed two rations of toast and two rations of meat. Take all you can get. We don’t get a mid-day meal on Sunday, and supper is late in the day at half-past six.”

  Having delivered her advice, Dodie turned to the others and waved. The girls ducked their heads, and moving past Jo, proceeded up the porch steps in neat single file. Each paused to bob a shallow curtsy to Mrs. Jones and one to the gaunt, poker-faced man standing next to her.

  Jo followed the last girl, stopping before Mrs. Jones to say good morning. Before she could utter a word, Mrs. Jones puffed out her flat chest and glanced at the little timepiece pinned to her blouse. “Miss Buxton.” She said with faint surprise, “You are on time. You will keep your adornments simple and utilitarian. We do not approve of gaudy geegaws. Your pendant is borderline. A timepiece is acceptable. A scarf, if it is a solid color. No red, yellow, no bright colors.”

  Jo nodded.

  Mrs. Jones harrumphed and tipped her head toward her companion. “Mr. Jones, may I present to you, Miss Josephine Buxton, our new teacher just arrived last night.”

  Jo nodded.

  “Miss Buxton, may I present my husband, the Reverend and Ascension School Superintendent, Ira Douglas Jones.”

  Mr. Jones’s gimlet eyes, a curious shade of yellowy green, peered at her over the rims of his thick, wire-framed glasses. Fleshy lips pursed, he cleared his throat before saying, “While Mrs. Jones and I applaud your…your success of yesterday in giving assistance to the law, we are concerned about having a person of such notoriety here at the school in a position that might adversely impose influence upon the minds of impressionable young females. This morning’s antics are a prime example of why.

  “If you continue to inspire such lapses of decorum, we shall have to reconsider your application, Miss Buxton. Mrs. Jones will want to see you in her office tomorrow morning one hour before class time. You will be assigned your topics of study, as well as your chore duties. I hope we shall not have any cause to speak to you further about your conduct, Miss Buxton. You are the youngest of our teachers. We are taking a risk. We do not tolerate shenanigans or slovenliness in our teachers, no matter the noble excuse.”

  Jo wisely surmised to say anything in her defense would be construed as impertinent and simply nodded. “I understand.” She did. Oh, yes, she really, truly did understand all too well. These two prigs had set their minds against her.

  “You may go, Miss Buxton,” said Mrs. Jones. “The teacher’s table is at the back of the hall. Proceed to the kitchen. We serve cafeteria style here. Chapel is at nine o’clock sharp. You are required to attend. Your afternoon is free. I suggest you use your time to study your pamphlet and put the information to memory.”

  Mr. Jones offered his arm to his lady to lead her into the hall. Jo followed. The savory sausage and egg aromas coming from the kitchen, far from tempting her appetite, turned her stomach.

  »»•««

  No one could mistake upon whom the Reverend directed his pointed sermon on the sins and pitfalls of notoriety. He never took his eyes off of her. During the sermon, she put her chin up and met his pointed stare with defiance. At the end of the service, as soon as she could, she politely retreated to her tent, sat down on her cot, and indulged in a good cry.

  Inside her head, she cast a bucket of recriminations at one Ryder McAdam’s head for the part he played in setting her on this disastrous track. If he hadn’t set his trap to catch those train robbers on the train she was on, she would’ve arrived on time. And she wouldn’t have blood stains on her riding coat. She would have her traveling trunk. And she would’ve presented herself as a proper, responsible person qualified to instruct young ladies in every course. And darn it, she would have her pretty hat.

  Playing her own devil’s advocate, she did an about face and gave herself a stern lecture concerning her own silly, naïve expectations. Sniffing back her tears, she contemplated packing the smelly shipping crate with her belongings and heading home with her tail between her legs. The only thing st
opping her, according to the train schedule, was she would have to wait three days to flag a train going south.

  A tentative slap on the flap of her tent put an end to her bout of self pity. She swiped at the tears on her cheek and bade her visitor to enter.

  Her three beauties, as Jo now thought of them, entered and stood before her with bowed heads and chastised demeanors. The sprite spoke first. “We’ve been talking. First of all, we want to apologize for getting you into trouble. We weren’t thinking. We were just so excited to have you here. You’re, you’re so very young and different from Miss Ott and Miss Ames. They’re dried up old prunes.”

  Jo opened her mouth to rebut. Miss Ott was but two years older than she, and Miss Ames, four years older. If she had to guess, she’d say they’d simply learned to suppress their livelier sides. Miss Ott had a sharp wit, which she used without mercy to describe Mr. and Mrs. Jones and their pontificating posturing. And Miss Ames, if she would soften her hairstyle and take off her glasses, would be a real beauty. Miss Ames had hinted her time at the school was limited. She had a secret beau and intended to leave immediately if she should receive a proper offer of matrimony.

  The blonde beauty, Grace Buttrum, quickly interjected, saying, “We’d be honored if you would join us on a stroll through the orchard this afternoon. The apples are getting ripe. We could have a picnic. Mr. and Mrs. Jones don’t go into the orchard. Gerald, their son, he’s gone. He leaves the school grounds right after supper on Saturday. He’ll drag himself back here sometime around midnight tonight, reeking of corn liquor and cigar smoke. I think he gambles. He’s had to come back on foot several times. I think he bets his horse.”

  The curly-headed brunette, Twyla-Rose, giggled and gave her friend a little poke on the shoulder. “Please, join us. We’ll be very discreet. We’ll go out to the orchard, and you follow. The other girls won’t say a word. We want to hear all about the train robbers and the part you played.”

  “Fresh air and an apple sound tempting,” Jo said more to herself than to her visitors. She sobered and shook her head. “I can’t afford to get into any more trouble.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jones spend their afternoon in their parlor praying. And I know they have a huge meal at noon. If you go past their quarters you can smell the roast beef, or turkey, or goose,” said the brunette, her face puckered up in disapproval. “For our Sunday supper, we usually have a game pie, depending on what Gerald has managed to shoot or trap. Anyway, it’s usually awful.”

  “Don’t worry about being seen. We’re going to protect you now,” said Dodie. “We stick together. We need to fill you in on what’s been going on around here. There’s a path behind the tent, it goes through the woods, down to an irrigation ditch. You’ll see the orchard to the north. Follow the track beside the canal, and we’ll meet you three rows in. You’ll see us.”

  Chapter Ten

  The path to the orchard, winding beneath a stand of giant black walnut trees, lent a fairytale atmosphere to the afternoon. The sun sent shards of brilliant light between the dancing leaves. The gentle trickle of water in the irrigation ditch added to the sweet smell of early fall. To the west, the apple orchard stretched out. The farther Jo ventured in among the trees, the more overgrown the grass.

  The three beauties appeared out of nowhere, giggling and prancing, their delight at being free for the afternoon infectious. With tablecloths laid out in a circle between tree rows, the rest of the girls waited for them in the middle of the grove, well out of sight of the school.

  Before she sat down on the red and white checked cloth, Twyla-Rose withdrew from her pinafore a bulging cloth pouch full of sausages and bread slathered with butter. “Did you bring your lunch? We have plenty,” she said.

  Jo giggled. “Yes, as advised, I took the extra rations,” she said, taking the space beside her.

  “Here,” said Dodie, tossing Jo an apple and plunking down next to her. “I oversee the making of the sausage. I help butcher out the hogs and the chickens—sometimes a turkey. You can have as many apples as you want. They’re pretty good fried up. I’ve enjoyed a thorough education here.” Sarcastically, she continued, expounding on her many accomplishments. Soap making, knitting socks, chopping wood, scrubbing floors, digging privies, mentoring, setting out teacher supplies, giving comfort to homesick children.

  Detecting the bitterness in the girl’s voice, Jo didn’t know how to respond. The other girls giggled nervously, but Jo recognized the hurt in Dodie’s eyes.

  All the girls talked and talked and talked. Grace’s parents had enrolled her in the Ascension school a year ago to broaden her horizons. Twyla-Rose, not wanting to be left in Laura Creek without her good friends, decided to follow. Grace and Twyla-Rose were three years younger than Dodie, which Jo found difficult to believe as Dodie was so very petite and young in appearance.

  Jo offered a brief and succinct biography of her life so far.

  The carefree mood of the group took a downward turn when Dodie explained her true position at the school. “I have Indian blood. Mrs. Jones explained to me that by all accounts I should be on the reservation. It is out of the goodness of their hearts they accepted me. As my parents have paid my tuition, the Jones’s have generously allowed me to absorb any subject of interest as long as I get my chores done quietly and efficiently. You see, I’m more or less a slave to all the students and faculty. But there’s a bright side, at least I don’t have to worry about being abducted, I have black hair, and I’m too scrawny,” she said with her usual aplomb. She shrugged and bit into her apple, chewed it up with efficiency and swallowed. “Fair-haired girls are preferred. You should have a care, Miss Buxton, your hair is an unusual shade, not blonde exactly, almost red, definitely not brown.”

  Ashamed of herself, Jo pressed her lips together, reluctant to admit she too had Indian blood running through her veins. Indians, even half-breeds, were discriminated against when it came to assuming positions meant for whites only. She knew that. But she couldn’t resist asking, “Your parents, are they aware of all of this?”

  Dodie shook her head. “No, I haven’t told them. And I’m not going to. I want to be here with Twyla-Rose and Grace. If I went home I wouldn’t have any friends. Laura Creek is a really small town.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Even the birds ceased their chatter. Grace cleared her throat and broke the tension. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but three of us were approached…almost abducted…we think. I don’t know if Dodie’s brother told you about our near abductions,” she said. Grace’s long legs were folded Indian style, her shoes discarded and her black skirt hitched up so that her stockinged calves and feet were on display, a definite infraction of school rules.

  “I don’t know if I was the first to take the bait, I only arrived here last fall. There’s no way of knowing if there have been others. One or two girls left the school. We don’t ask direct questions. The teachers don’t really know, but the pat answer is, their parents came and retrieved them. None of the girls here this year have been here longer than two years. The school opened three years ago. You’re the sixth teacher to pass through here. You took Miss Pollard’s place. She didn’t come back after winter break. She was a blonde. No one knows where she went, not really. We all went into town to do a bit of Christmas shopping before leaving for our winter break. We never saw her again. We were told she caught the stage in town and went home.”

  Intrigued, Jo asked, “Where did your failed abduction take place, Grace?”

  “In town. We’re allowed one Saturday a month to shop in town, but always with the teachers as chaperone. Miss Ames and Miss Ott accompanied us. I stopped to look at a pretty bonnet in a store window, and the other girls went on up the street. An elderly couple called out my name. Which is odd, don’t you think? They knew my name. Anyway, they said they’d gone to the school to find me and discovered I was in town. They told me the church in Laura Creek, my hometown, had burned to the ground and my father had been badly b
urned. They’d come from Pendleton and passed through Laura Creek on their way to Baker City. When they learned of the fire, they offered to come and fetch me home to support my mother through this trouble.”

  “The goose started to go with them to a waiting carriage behind the mercantile,” said Twyla-Rose. “I stopped her. I had to practically wrestle her from the old lady’s arms.”

  “I did not willingly go with them,” said Grace in her defense. “I kicked her. You came around the corner as I was about to run.”

  Twyla-Rose waved off her rendition of events. “Well, anyway, that one lady was really, really strong, and big. We marched across the street and asked Miss Ott if we could send a telegram to my father. My daddy’s a sheriff. Oh, but you know that. You’ve met him. I figured he’d know if there was trouble. He wired right back the church still stood, and Grace’s daddy was alive and well, full of bluster and bombast as usual.”

  “When we got back out on the street,” said Grace, “the old couple were nowhere in sight. We didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “Then in January at the start of the new term, Paula Harris had the same thing happen. She threw up on the old lady’s shoes before they could drag her off. She had the flu at the time, and the old lady let her go,” said Dodie. “Paula said they called her by name too. Then, a few weeks before the end of the school year, we had a picnic along the river behind the mercantile and the very same elderly couple, by Paula’s description, approached Burl Oldman while she was picking wildflowers. She’s only eleven years old. She’s over there picking apples,” Grace said, pointing to the only girl who hadn’t sat down to eat their lunch. “She looks like a little doll, doesn’t she? I heard her scream, and we all rushed to see if she’d hurt herself. We found her covered in mud near the creek, but unharmed.”

  “By the end of the year, last year, we all took a vow to keep a better eye on each other,” said Grace.