Outcast

by Gary D. Svee

  “I have a list, here,” Standish said, handing it to the man.

  “You certainly do,” the storekeeper said, perusing the scrap of paper. “You expecting to set up a store of your own?”

  Standish grinned, “Wondering if you could tell me where the courthouse is.”

  “Well, we don’t have a courthouse, not really. But they’ve set up in that building just down the street. Looks like a barn. Supposed to have our real courthouse next spring.”

  Standish nodded. “Would it be all right to leave the wagon here? Maybe you could get it loaded while I get my horse shoed and take care of business at the courthouse.”

  The shopkeeper looked down at the counter and scratched his head. “Don’t mean to be impolite, but we’re carrying about all the credit we can, and.…”

  “I pay cash.”

  The shopkeeper looked up and smiled. “Didn’t mean to.…”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The shopkeeper thrust his hand across the counter. “Myron Kennedy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Standish said. “I’ll be back soon as I can.”

  The shopkeeper stared at the door long after Standish stepped out.

  Standish stopped for a moment in the sun, feeling its rays on his body, treasuring the warmth. He took a deep breath and sauntered to Sally. She nodded several times, apparently pleased to see him.

  “Let’s get this paraphernalia off,” Standish said. “A fine lady like you shouldn’t be seen in town in such a drab outfit.”

  Standish slipped off the harness, and tossed it in the wagon box. Then he slipped a rope around Sally’s neck and led her down the street. The blacksmith’s shop stood on a corner with a wagon-wide door opening on both streets. The blacksmith looked up from his forge as Standish stepped through.

  “What I do for you?”

  “I’d like to have Sally shod and brushed. I’d like to leave her here for a couple of hours.”

  The blacksmith stepped to a bucket beside the forge. He dipped his hands into the cold water, scrubbing them against each other and wiping them on his trousers. He walked to Sally holding his hand toward her and talking softly in a language that Standish didn’t understand.

  Sally nodded and pawed at the street.

  “Ja, she is a good horse. A very nice horse, but she has had some hard time?”

  “We just came out of the mountains.”

  The blacksmith nodded. “She take good care of you?”

  Standish nodded.

  The blacksmith returned his attention to Sally. “Perhaps you would allow me to look at your feet, ja?”

  Sally nickered.

  The blacksmith reached down and picked up her hoof. He nodded. “Ja, she needs new shoes. The man he shod her last time he was you?”

  “No.”

  “Good, then I can tell you that he didn’t do a very good job. I will do a good job, ja?”

  Standish nodded.

  The blacksmith stuck out his hand. “Kabanov.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kabanov,” Standish said. “Two hours time enough?”

  “This Sally, she will be dancing when you get back.”

  Standish grinned. “I’ll be back in two hours.”

  “You didn’t ask how much.”

  “A workman is worthy of his hire.”

  Kabonov nodded and bowed slightly. “Ja, this Sally she will be dancing when you get back.”

  Standish waved and stepped back on the street. He waded through the sunshine, wishing that he could take off his hat and open his face to the warmth, but that would come later. Now he must hide his face in shadow.

  The courthouse wasn’t the barn-like structure the shopkeeper had described. It was a barn. Standish stepped through the door into a dark, ill-lit building. Employees sat at desks, wrapped in their coats and lap blankets.

  One bundle of clothing looked up as Standish entered. A pale glimpse of a face appeared. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  For a moment, Standish forgot his purpose in coming to the building. “Is it always this cold in here?”

  The bundle of clothing shook her head. “No, this afternoon it will be intolerably warm. Still, it will be just as dark, and by that time, smoke from the lanterns will have erased any light they emit. So we will sit in the dark and perspire. In the mornings, we sit in the dark and shiver.”

  “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Not in here.”

  “I have a stick of licorice.”

  The bundle of clothing cocked its head. “That might help.”

  Standish held the sack of candy toward the woman. She reached for it, fumbling. “Sorry,” she said. “I should have known better than to try to find licorice in the dark.”

  Standish chuckled and so did the woman.

  “So what can I do for you, purveyor of treats?”

  “You could tell me where the clerk and recorder is.”

  “West four steps and south three.”

  Standish chuckled again.

  “The man with the black suit, black tie and black heart.”

  “This has been an enlightening meeting,” Standish said.

  “’Twas sweet indeed,” she replied, reaching for another piece of licorice.

  The clerk looked up as Standish stepped in front of his desk. Standish was a black shadow against the pale light in the building. Hints of Standish’s rough wool pants and flannel shirt was enough. The clerk sighed. He seemed fated to deal with one damn honyocker after another. Still he would be on bended knee to them when the next election rolled around.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I’m interested in some land.”

  The clerk’s grin stretched a little wider. At least this one could speak English. Then his grin faded. “Have to say that most of the good land has been taken. We have a few areas left, but they’re more suited for buffalo than wheat farming.”

  “I was thinking of the Bele place.”

  The clerk cocked his head. “I remember that. He died recently, didn’t he?”

  Standish nodded.

  “Cholera, if I remember correctly. I don’t think you would like that place. No way to make a living on it. Mostly trees.…”

  “I’d like to see the file if I could.”

  The clerk nodded, rising as though the effort were more than a man should have to bear. He walked to the ladder leading into the barn’s loft “Mabel, I need the Bele file.”

  Standish couldn’t hear the muffled reply.

  “I’m sorry, Mabel. Could I please have the Bele file?”

  A moment later a box suspended on a string descended from the loft.

  The clerk turned to leave, but the box swung behind him and bumped into his back. Even in the shadowy room, Standish could see the man’s face turn red. He turned and looked up the shaft. “Yes, thank you, Mabel. Sorry I didn’t mention that.”

  The clerk returned, tossed the file on his desk and sat down. “Mabel is the wife of the chairman of the county commission. Wonderful woman,” he grimmaced.

  Standish nodded.

  “Now, let’s see,” the clerk said, pulling the kerosene lamp on his desk closer to his work. “Yes, here it is. He died in November. Neighbor said he had tuberculosis, but women like her, well.… Let’s see, no known relatives. Turned over to a public administrator.”

  The clerk cocked his head and looked up at Standish. “Maybe you should go out and take a look at this place. Not much chance of making a living on it.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Well, nobody has claimed the property yet. You could pay the back taxes. That would give you first claim to the property, but.…”

  “How much would that be?”

  “Seven dollars and forty-five cents, no forty-six cents.”

  Standish reached into his pocket.

  The clerk held up his hand. “There are some liens on his property, too.”

  “Liens?”

  “Yes,
the bank has one for.…” The clerk cocked his head. “Five hundred dollars. I wonder what…?” He looked up. “I wouldn’t pay any five hundred dollars for that place.”

  “Any others?”

  The Emporium has a bill for $12.18, and Ivan Kabanov, the blacksmith, is caring for the horse at $5 a month. You would have to take care of that.”

  Standish nodded. “I’ll pay the back taxes now, and then I’ll bring back receipts on the liens.”

  The clerk leaned back in his chair, cocking his head. “You find some gold up there Mr.…?”

  “That’s all limestone country,” Standish said. “No gold there.”

  “You are a miner, then?”

  Standish pulled some coins from his pocket. He gave the clerk a gold half eagle, two silver dollars, a quarter, two dimes and a penny. “This is the only gold I’ve found.” The clerk chuckled, and Standish asked. “Could I have a receipt for that, please?”

  The clerk stared at Standish for a moment, and then nodded. “And to whom should I address the lien”

  “Standish, M.J. Standish.”

  The clerk rubbed the palm of one hand across his chin. “Standish, that sounds familiar.”

  “It should. I just introduced myself.”

  The clerk grinned. “Yes, I guess you did.”

  He handed Standish a slip of paper.

  “I s’pect you’re off to see the banker, now.”

  “I’spect so,” Standish said. He turned, and then stopped. “I suspect I should have a copy of the death certificate, too.”

  The clerk nodded. “Just go.… Just wait here; I’ll get it for you.”

  A pretty young woman in a blue dress stood in a wrought-iron cage. She was staring at him, blinking. Standish flinched, and then he realized that he was silhouetted in a shaft of light coming through the door. He must look like a ghost to her. He stepped up to the cage, nothing but his smile showing beneath the brim of his hat.

  “I was hoping I might see the bank president about some land.”

  The young woman smiled. “I’ll take you to him.” She stepped out of the cage, and Standish followed her. Something teased his nose. She was wearing a lilac scent. It was too early for lilacs, but the fragrance brought back memories of Standish’s childhood. He shook them from his mind, not wanting to be distracted in his talk with the president.

  The young lady stepped in front of the banker’s desk. “Mr. Butler, this gentleman would like to speak with you.”

  The bank president was bent over his desk, doodling furiously. He didn’t look up at his teller’s introduction. He had seen the bank’s visitor. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over a bearded face. The flannel shirt was long on wear and short on clean, and his woolen trousers seemed capable of walking off on their own if they were given the opportunity. Perhaps more odious was the wafting odor of horse that proceeded the man.

  E.J. Burkhart was a professional man, a banker who held Last Chance’s financial reins in hand. He didn’t like to have his day interrupted by riffraff. Burkhart sighed. Public service was public service. He pulled a scented handkerchief from his vest pocket and held it to his nose.

  “What can I do for you, mister.…”

  “Thank you,” Standish said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “I’m interested in a place west of here and discovered that you have a lien filed against it.”

  Burkhart’s eyes darted around his desk, as though he were following the flight of a housefly. “Perhaps you could give me the name.”

  “Bele, Klaus Bele.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. B-e-l-l.” Burkhart drew the word into a sneer. “So you have come to pay off his debt.”

  “I’d like to see the lien, please.”

  Burkhart’s eyebrow curled. “You can read?”

  “Tolerably well.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” The banker turned to the young lady in the teller’s cage. “Miss Smythe, would you please give me Mr. Bell’s papers?”

  The young woman was torn between counting a deposit on her desk and complying. Burkhart resolved the issue. “Now, Miss Smythe!” She jumped a little at the tone of her boss’s voice, apologized to her customer and walked to Burkhart’s desk.

  “I need the Bell file.”

  Miss Smythe nodded, bent down and opened the top drawer on Burkhart’s desk. She thumbed through the files for a moment and handed the Bell file to her boss.

  “Hard to get good help, here,” Burkhart said, and Standish noticed a soft pink spreading across Miss Smythe’s face. She walked back to the teller cage and apologized again to her customer. He nodded, but knots rippled through the muscles of his jaw.

  Burkhart refocused his distaste on Standish. “This is the lien. Please don’t…muss it.”

  Standish pored through the lien, pausing to ask the banker. “You ever seen his place?”

  The banker’s eyes darted around his desk as though they had suddenly broken their bonds with his brain. He opened the middle drawer on his desk and began rearranging the pens, pencils, pads and forms there.

  Standish stopped reading and starred at Burkhart, awaiting a reply.

  “Uh, yes I have. Not worth a dime, that place. Can’t see why you’re interested in it.”

  “Pretty place.”

  Burkhart laughed, a chortling little laugh. “Can’t sell pretty.”

  “I guess not,” Standish said. He leaned against the back of the chair. “This lien is very interesting.”

  Burkhart stiffened. His head cocked to one side as he studied what he could see of Standish’s face in the shadow of that wide-brimmed hat. He could see only Standish’s lips moving as the stranger said, “This lien was taken out…let’s see on the twelfth of December.”

  Burkhart regained his confidence. “Notarized. Right there,” he said, pointing to the seal stamped into the page. “That proves that the lien was filed on the twelfth.”

  “Yes it does.” Standish said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is Mr. Bele’s death certificate. Estimated time of death was the tenth of December. Hell of a man, Mr. Bele was, to walk in here two days after he died and borrow $500 on his property.”

  Standish leaned back in his chair.

  Burkhart’s shoulders were shrugging as though he had a facial tic that had migrated down his spinal cord. “That’s an estimate. Bell lived alone. How could anyone possibly know when he died?”

  Standish sighed and settled into his chair. “You’re right. Living alone like that it’s impossible to know when he died.”

  Burkhart sneered. “We’ve established then that the lien is valid and you will have to pay it in full if you want to establish any claim to that land.”

  A smile appeared below Standish’s wide-brimmed hat. “Quite to the contrary, sir, we have proven that the lien is bogus, fraudulent.”

  A dull red spread across the banker’s face. “I have no more time for this. If you want to establish a bona fide claim on the land, you must pay the lien. That’s all I have to say on the matter. Leave now, or I shall call the sheriff. He shall deal with you as ruffians such as yourself should be dealt with. I have more important things to do.”

  “Thank you,” Standish said. “That will save me the trouble.”

  “The trouble?”

  “The trouble of calling the sheriff myself.”

  “And what business do you have with the sheriff?”

  “I’ll file charges of fraud against you.”

  “I tire of this charade.”

  “Good, I’ll try to make this as simple as possible so we can move on. First, we don’t know when Bele died, but we do know that he died before this lien was filed. His body was found on the tenth. There’s no way of knowing how long before that he died.”

  Burkhart’s eyes were chasing dust motes through the air. “I don’t see how this.…”

  “Of course you do, but there are some points you might not know. The lien is signed with an X.”

  “Yes, most of these honyockers c
an barely speak English, let alone write it.”

  Standish interrupted, “But Bele was a very well-educated man. He wrote a large part of a journal—in English.”

  “But.…”

  “And you misspelled his name. Not smart, Burkhart to misspell a name on a lien.”

  Burkhart’s voice rose until it was little more than a squeak. “You will hear from my attorney.”

  “You don’t want to deal with my attorney.” Standish replied, an edge creeping into his voice.

  “A vagabond like you with an attorney? I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

  “The county attorney will represent me,” Standish said. “The charge will be fraud.”

  Burkhart slumped back in his chair. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as though looking for an answer there. Finding none, he leaned forward and whispered, “I’ll destroy the lien.”

  “No,” Standish said. “You will write me a release of lien that I can file with the county clerk.”

  “I will not.…”

  “You will, and you will notarize it.”

  Burkhart shrunk, his suit wrinkling about him. He pulled a form from his desk and slashed at it with his pen. The lien and his fist hit his desk with a thump, and he growled, “Miss Smythe must I wait forever for you to notarize this?”

  Burkhart glared at his clerk as she stamped the form.

  Standish took the lien release and rose. He walked by Miss Smythe’s grin to the front door. Burkhart watched as the door closed behind Standish.

  “Who the hell was that?” he muttered.

  Kabanov bent over the forge, putting the finishing touches on a pair of hinges. He peered at the door as Standish stepped through.

  “That Sally she is pretty girl.,” Kabanov grinned. “You know you put new shoes on a pretty girl, and she will dance. Come see.”

  The two stepped to a corral behind the shop. Sally turned at the sound of Standish’s voice and pranced to the fence.

  Standish reached over the corral pole to run his hand down the mare’s neck. “My aren’t you a pretty girl, Sally. All decked out in new shoes.”

  Sally whickered, and nuzzled Standish.

  “She really does look fine brushed out like that.”

  “Ja, she is pretty horse. Better, she is nice horse, good horse.”

  “Ja,” Standish said, and Kabanov smiled.