by S. L. Stoner
The whap of a privy door shutting woke him the second time. Sunlight shone brightly through the window’s rectangle. The room had grown too warm for the coverlet. He flung it aside. His watch showed close to eight o’clock. Stepping to the window he looked out just in time to see a woman’s skirt swish out of sight beneath the back porch overhang. “Damn,” he muttered.
Splashing water on his face, he decided not to shave, although his moustache drooped and whiskers darkened his chin. Not exactly how he’d like to look when Lucinda set eyes on him for the first time in almost a year. But John Miner, gold prospector, needed to look rough. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time she saw him that way. She knew of his double life. More than once, she’d helped him switch from John Adair, Mozart’s proprietor, to John Miner, itinerant worker.
Less than an hour later, Sage exited the hotel to stand in the shade of its covered porch. They’d served a plentiful breakfast. No doubt hard-working cowboys expected a ranch-style breakfast whenever they came to town.
A giggling gaggle of girls, dressed in ankle-high walking dresses, wheeled past on their safety bicycles. As one, their young appraising eyes turned toward Sage. Then, like a school of fish, their attention snapped forward as their bicycles formed two lines. They pedaled by on either side of a fire cistern’s wooden cover that anchored a nearby intersection. A call drifted back to him, “Maisy Bell, I saw you a’look’n. Don’t you be shopping. Billy won’t like it!” More giggles trailed behind them as they rode up the street.
Sage stepped into the street, taking in the hodgepodge of false-front clapboards and new brick buildings. Definitely a bustling place. In the distance, a dramatic jut of yellow rimrock stood against a blue, cloudless sky. Sage slowly turned, surveying this spot people had picked to build a town. Plentiful water flowed in lazy loops across the flat, grassy valley. Pine dark mountains rising in the east meant lumber and firewood were close to hand. A tree-dotted hill and a majestic plateau cupped the valley on the south. It seemed a sheltered place.
For the first time, he felt the beauty. A spare, merciless land, yes. Yet there was an awe-inspiring grandeur, too. It reminded him of those times he’d stood on a mountainside above the tree line, his eyes following the dramatic granite up thrusts that stretched away into the distance. The big sky and expansive landscape seemed to stretch a man’s thoughts out, make them bigger. “Well, Tourist,” came a familiar drawl, “you stand there gawking too much longer and those sheep are going to plant you into the dirt with their pointy little feet.”
Sage whirled. The lanky figure of Charlie Siringo leaned against a porch post. Behind Sage came a baaing and bleating that was growing louder. Sure enough, a flood of dingy white wool rounded the street corner, flowing toward him up the wide dirt street. Sage joined Siringo on the porch.
Bells tinkling on their leaders’ collars, the noisy herd advanced in a rush, two dusty men keeping pace on either side. Black and white dogs raced along the edges, keeping the noisy critters tightly bunched and moving forward. The woolies’ slanted eyes, in their black triangle faces, seemed fiercely intent.
People appeared on the boardwalks to watch. Some onlookers were merely interested. A greater number scowled. A few spat into the dusty street before returning inside, their backs stiff.
Sage looked toward Siringo. The cowboy’s narrowed eyes were scanning the scene, his face expressionless. The man looked every inch a cowpoke just ridden off the range. His brown, wide-brimmed hat was sweat-stained. A dark blue kerchief set off the faded red of his long sleeved shirt. Well-worn denim trousers were tucked into scuffed, pointy-toed, boots. He looked like he’d been born to wear the outfit.
“More and more folks are taking exception to those animals trotting up Main Street,” Siringo said out of the side of his mouth. More softly he said, “Since I saw you last, there’s been some mighty big saloon talk.” Siringo’s mouth twisted in disgust, “And some fool folks are listening. Never ceases to amaze me just how many folks are right glad to turn their thinking over to somebody else. They’re not much different from those sheep. Damn, glad you got here,” he finished up.
“She’s in the pesthouse, isn’t she?” Sage asked. “Is she sick?” The Dickensen detective tore his eyes away from the street scene to study Sage, his gaze sharpening. “No. She’s tired but she doesn’t have the pox. When folks took sick, Xenobia cleared out her house and started nursing. Next day or so, Ms. Lucinda Collins arrived on the stagecoach. She went right to helping out. She didn’t stop at the hotel or nothing. Went straight into the pest house and hasn’t been out since.”
Siringo looked away, “She tells me she had the pox as a kid, same as me. ‘Course it hasn’t been easy. Folks are mighty sick. Some have died. And, she can’t leave since the house is quarantined. I guess you know why I didn’t tell you.”
“You thought I wouldn’t come if I couldn’t even talk to her,” Sage answered dryly.
That comment brought a nod from Siringo. “I am doing all I can with the cattlemen but I got no one on the sheep side that I can trust. Since I saw you last, more sheep are dead. Worse, a young shepherd and his dog were murdered a few days ago. That’s one barn, two flocks of sheep and two shepherds and their dogs killed. I don’t know how much longer the sheepmen will hold back.”
The detective looked straight at Sage.“The violence is building. Those deadlines are going up all over. Hell, I’ve tacked up a few signs my own self just to prove I’m a true blue, sheep-hating cowboy. I’m still trying to figure out which group of cattlemen might be involved in the violence. I need someone to learn whether the sheepmen are planning to retaliate. I’d sure the heck be thinking about it if I wore their boots.”
He paused to study the street. The sheep had disappeared around the far corner and most of the observers had turned back inside. Stepping closer he told Sage in a low voice, “There’s a fellow that’s part owner of the Rimrock Saloon. His name’s Asa Rayburn. He used to work for Charles Bellingham, a sheep rancher up north. He doesn’t strike me as an upright fellow but he knows all the sheepmen hereabouts—ranchers and shepherds. I’m thinking you might spend some time getting to know him. Maybe, through him, you can get in with the sheepmen.”
Just then a group of men exited the hotel behind them. Siringo touched his hat brim, turned and clumped away down the boardwalk. Watching Siringo leave, Sage murmured to the man’s back, “You were wrong, Siringo. I would have come anyway.”
The two-story clapboard house sat low, needing only a single step to reach its covered porch. There a man sat on a wooden chair. Only his bare shins and feet basked in the morning sun. He seemed to be dozing. Ten feet into the street stood a wooden freight box with a single pole nailed to one corner. The pole held aloft a limp flag, white with a single red cross. Willow baskets sat atop the crate. Two small kegs were on either side, evidently serving as stools for the stand’s attendant and guest. No one was there.
Sage went to the stand. Inside one basket he saw folded notes addressed to various people. In another, a jagged rock held down sheets of blank paper. A nearby jar held a collection of hand-sharpened pencils. He gazed up and down the street. It was empty of life except for a sand-colored dog. It trotted onto a neighboring porch and lay down with a sigh, its pink tongue lolling in the heat. Sage sat on one of the empty wooden kegs.
“Ed took medicine out to the Carter place for Doc Belknap. After that, he’s delivering a few groceries. He’ll be back shortly,” called a voice from the porch. The dozing man had woke and stood, his hand on the doorknob.
“Wait,” Sage called as he jumped up. Maybe this man, who looked like some kind of accountant with his black arm braces and wire-rimmed glasses, could at least confirm that Lucinda was inside. But the man raised a hand, “I’m not supposed to be out here. Just had to get some fresh air. Rough night.”
He gave a tired wave before disappearing inside and closing the door softly. “Oh, hell’s bells,” Sage said. Ten minutes later a solitary, smallish fellow p
eddled up the street. Reaching the stand, the man hopped off his safety bicycle, leaned it against the box, dusted down his clothes and turned to Sage, saying cheerfully, “Howdy, stranger. Ed Harbin’s my name. Can I help you?”
Sage reached out a hand, “John Miner’s mine. I am sure hoping you can help me out. I’ve heard tell of your great doings during this epidemic.” As they shook, Sage studied the small man who was in his early fifties. He had a full head of scruffy hair dusting a smooth brow above straight eyebrows, wide-spaced eyes, snub nose and square jaw. The total package was a likeable face that would appear youthful no matter what his age.
“Yup, I suppose so,” the man acknowledged without a trace of pride. “Already had smallpox myself so’s I can’t get it again. Folks need to communicate with those who’ve got the pox. Keep their spirits up and maybe mend fences that got broke down some time ago. And, the sick need medicine and food and sometimes, may God protect, burying,” Harbin’s voice trailed off.
Sage let the man work through his memories and out the other side. And Harbin did sort it out because, after taking a deep breath, he continued, “So here I am, delivering messages, medicine and such. I suspect you’re wanting a message carried?”
“Mr. Harbin, I really would like to get a message to someone I think is inside the pest house over there,” Sage nodded toward the house. “Her name is Miss Lucinda Collins.”
The man’s eyes widened and brightened at the name. “Oh, she sure is there all right. A real vision,” he said. “Not that I get to see her much. They’re supposed to stay inside, you know. You a friend of hers?”
Sage had thought long and hard about how he was going to answer that particular question. If he claimed too close of an acquaintance, his activities might place her in grave danger. On the other hand, he had to have a good excuse for seeing her. “I’m a friend of her brother actually. Only met her once, briefly. But I told him I’d look in on her. Make sure she’s all right,” he told Harbin.
“Far’s I know, she’s doing fine, if a bit overworked. There’s just the three of them in there taking care of folks—Miss Collins, Frank Hart and the house’s mad . . . ah, proprietor, Miz Xenobia Brown.” He looked at Sage speculatively before saying, “She arrived right after the quarantine started. Said she’d had smallpox and was an old friend to Miz Brown. She insisted on going inside and helping. Been there some weeks now.”
“So, she’s still healthy?”
“Was the last time I saw her, a few days ago. She’s gone a bit pale and skinny but you’d expect that. You want me to take her a message?” Harbin asked as he gestured toward the blank paper in the wicker basket. “I’m the only one allowed on the porch, other than the doctor. Can’t bring a message out though. People think smallpox can be carried on paper. That’s why the postmaster in Silver Lake rejects all Prineville mail. It’s causing all sorts of problems.”
“A good idea, Mr. Harbin. I’ll write a note,” Sage said as he sat again on the nearest keg. Harbin stretched his arms over his head and then twisted his waist like a pugilist loosening up before a fight. Reaching for the paper and taking up a pencil, Sage asked. “You stay here all day?”
“Pretty much. I’d just started up a whipsaw mill when the epidemic struck. Figure, once it’s over, I’ll be back to feeding
wood through the planer. I go home at dark, of course, but I’m right back here first light in the morning. Daytime, the hotels and restaurants take turns bringing me food. So, I pretty much stay put here at the box unless I’m gone on deliveries.”
“How soon do you think it will be over?” Sage asked. He hated the idea of not being able to talk privately with her. She was so close after all these months when he’d wondered where and how she was. His fault of course. At least, that was the point his mother had made repeatedly.
Harbin raked stubby fingers through his thick hair. “Well, right at the start Dr. Hutchinson come in from Portland. He brought vaccine. Gave shots to over 2,000 people hereabouts. Dr. Rosenberg’s kept up with it after that. The vaccinating and fumigating seems to have slowed the disease pretty good. We’ve only had one new outbreak in the last two weeks. Everyone else has either died or is on the mend. I’ve been delivering medicine out to the Carter place. Both of them are better. The fellow inside also seems to have made it through last night. He’s the last one who took ill with it. I expect I’ll be back at my mill soon.” The man sighed, an expression of regret flitting across his face.
Prineville’s shingle maker was going to miss his role of town hero. Sage understood. Having a higher purpose in one’s life was more satisfying than the humdrum of merely making a living.
As Harbin talked, Sage wrote, “Dear Miss Collins. My name is John Miner. You may not remember me since we only made acquaintance one time. I am a friend of your brother, Philander. He asked me to stop in Prineville and ascertain that you are all right and have no unmet needs. I await those reassurances. Your servant, John Miner.”
He handed the note to Harbin who promptly folded it without reading it and hopped down from his keg. “I’ll run it over there right now,” he called over his shoulder as he strode toward the pest house.
EIGHT
It took forever for the door to open and for her to step across the threshold onto the porch. Her eyes shone bright in the pallor of her face. Beneath a faded calico dress, her figure seemed slight, lacking its customary roundness. Her hair was a piled jumble atop her head. Their eyes met and locked. Sounds of robin warble and prairie twitter muted. Lucinda’s eyes flicked to one side and he realized that Harbin was avidly observing this meeting between brother’s friend and brother’s sister.
Lucinda recovered first. “Mr. Miner, how nice to see you again.” Her clear voice was warm, carrying just a hint of laughter. He stepped toward her only to have Harbin hustle forward to block any further advance. “Here, now. The sheriff and Doctor Rosenberg issued very strict orders. There’s to be no mingling between folks outside the house with those inside the house. I could already get in trouble with the Doc for letting Miss Lucinda come out onto the porch. Don’t you move any closer, Mr. Miner.”
The urge to smack the fellow upside the head was strong until Sage reminded himself that Harbin was Prineville’s hero of the hour. It wouldn’t do to get on the wrong side of him. So instead he said, “Oh, sorry Mr. Harbin. I forgot. Smallpox is something new for me.”
“Precisely why it is all the more important that you be extra careful,” said Harbin, a smile softening the bite of his words.
Over the man’s shoulder he could see Lucinda grinning. When Harbin turned to look, though, her face had already composed itself into one of polite interest.
Harbin turned back, his broad forehead creased. The man was clearly receiving weak signals from his something’s-not-exactly-right intuition. “If you’ll promise me that you won’t take another step closer, I’ll let you two converse a few minutes more,” was all he said.
Sage held up both hands in surrender. “Not one step closer, Mr. Harbin. I won’t move one step closer,” he promised, stifling his own grin.
Harbin nodded and then turned on his heel, strolling toward the end of the block.
“How are you doing, Lucinda?” was all Sage could think to say.
Her hands went to her hips and she said with some exasperation, “Well, really Sage. After over a month cleaning up messes and changing bed linen, I can’t say I’m feeling my best!” The sternness vanished as she flashed him a smile, “And you, how are you? You don’t exactly look like a cowpoke from around these here parts.”
He laughed at her attempted cowgirl talk. “Well, that’s because I am a gold panning fool, looking to make my fortune in the Ochocos over east of town, Ma’am,” he added, with a shy duck of his head.
She stepped forward to the edge of the porch and for the first time the sun struck her full on, catching at the rich honey glints of her hair and the cornflower blue of her eyes. There was welcome in her face. She was happy to see him.
>
She chuckled. “Smart choice. You’d have a hard time pretending to be a cowboy since you’re afraid of horses. And, how was your trip out?” she added primly.
“Well, I had a runaway stagecoach ride down Cow Canyon. That left me with a few bruises. And, despite two scrubbings. I swear that fumigating powder is still on my hide. Other than that, I can’t complain.”
He saw her eyes shift to one side so he followed the direction of her gaze. True to his word, Ed Harbin had turned and was slowly ambling back in their direction.
“Listen,” Sage said hurriedly. “We need to talk without our chaperone hanging on every word. “I’m in the Poindexter, right behind the house here. Any chance of meeting, after dark tonight, in your back yard?”
She nodded. “I’ll head to the outhouse at ten-thirty. You know we can’t stand close to each other, right?”
He nodded grimly. More than anything he just wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight until they reached that place where things had been right between them.
She must have read his thoughts because her smile turned sweet and wistful even as she raised her voice to say loud enough for Harbin to hear, “I thank you for stopping by and bringing me word of Philander. Please let him know that, if there are no new smallpox cases in the next few days, we expect Dr. Rosenberg to lift the quarantine. Then I can travel on. I just couldn’t leave my good friend Xenobia to fend for herself once she decided to turn her boarding house into a hospital.”
“Is it just the two of you doing all the nursing then?” Sage asked.
“No, we also have a man helping us, Frank Hart. He’s an accountant who was traveling through and he’s also had smallpox. Between the three of us, we’ve nursed ten people back to health. Only one man died, early on.”
Harbin reached them and stood nervously by Sage’s side. Clearly he was afraid the doctor would catch them conversing. Their goodbye’s said, Lucinda entered the house and softly closed the door.
