Outcast

by Gary D. Svee

  “A waitress at the Range Café spilled coffee on my husband, yesterday. That clumsy oaf ought not be permitted to serve the public. I told Mr. Jensen that if he hires clumsy people, they can expect to pay for their faux pas.”

  Her nose went an inch or two higher, and a sneer slipped into its accustomed position on her face. “Faux pas means mistake for those of you not familiar with the term.”

  Standish stepped forward, a wide smile on his face. “Actually ma’am, faux pas is French. It means false step.”

  The woman glared at Standish, her nose climbed a bit higher. She turned to the clerk, “I did not come to this store to be corrected by a buffoon. You know the shirts my husband wears. Wrap one up—now.”

  The clerk shook her head. “I’m afraid we don’t have one of those shirts that would fit your husband. I was telling Mrs. Belshaw.…”

  “Belshaw!” The intruder whirled around, seeing Iona for the first time. Her mouth wrinkled into revulsion. She turned back to the clerk. “You are catering to whores?”

  The clerk blanched. “Ma’am, I.…”

  “I will not frequent a store that serves trash.”

  Pain wrinkled Iona’s face. Standish stepped forward. “Madam, I share that impression.”

  Mrs. E.J. Burkhart, wife of the president of Last Chance’s only bank, turned to face Standish. A handsome man, and while not dressed properly, he had a certain grace in the way he walked. Mr. Burkhart was more the proverbial bull in the china shop.

  Iona stepped back, her face a mask.

  Standish leaned forward congenially. “Trash stores are not high on my list, either. I mean why should we buy somebody else’s trash, when we have such a plethora of our own.”

  A shadow crossed Mrs. Burkhart’s face. Of what was this man speaking?

  Standish continued, “Now as far as catering to whores. I feel the same way you do. You should have equal access to this store as women who aren’t…professionals. I must say madam, that your choice of clothing fits your business to a T. I personally do not indulge in your profession, but I hold you in no less esteem than I would—the clerk was standing behind Mrs. Burkhart shaking her head. She mouthed the words, banker’s wife.” Standish continued, “Than I would the banker’s wife.”

  Mrs. Burkhart turned a thousand shades of red and purple. She thrust her nose in the air, and with a harumph stomped toward the door. She turned as she reached the door to say something, but Standish was quicker. “I would like to thank you madam for sharing a view of your nasal hairs, so heavy and svelte.”

  Mrs. Burkhart slammed into the door jamb, setting her hat askew. A caterwauling scream fled through the door with her.

  Standish turned to the clerk. “Nice lady.”

  The clerk stared at him a moment and then whooped. “That gas bag is meaner than a scalded cat. Her husband deserves her. He is a dolt.”

  Her words were broken by another whoop of laughter, and then she continued. “He spills coffee on himself, and she sets out to blame the waitress. No doubt the waitress will have the price of a new shirt taken from her pay. Mrs. Burkhart is.…She.…”

  Standish leaned forward. “She certainly is,” he said.

  The clerk whooped again.

  A smile teased Iona’s face. “Perhaps we should go now.”

  Standish turned to her.

  “Miss…?” he asked staring at the clerk.

  “Mrs. Thomas Simpson, Estelle.”

  The clerk extended her had to Iona, a warm smile lighting her face. “I think I heard something about you.”

  Standish stepped in. “You know how it is in a small town. If they don’t have anything to say, they’ll make something up”

  Mrs. Simpson smiled. “Nothing truer. Now that the dreadnought has steamed away, can I help you with anything?”

  Iona shook her head, but Standish stepped forward. “We’ll take this,” he said, handing the clerk the maroon dress.

  Iona stepped back. “No, you can’t…”

  “I believe I can,” Standish said. He turned to the clerk. “I can buy this dress, can’t I?”

  “You certainly can,” the clerk said. She held the dress up, envisioning Iona wearing it.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Iona.”

  “Iona, you will look beautiful in this.” The words rustled like the sound of the silk in her hands.

  “Yes she will,” Standish whispered.

  Iona shook her head. “I really can’t.”

  “You really must,” Standish said.

  Iona nodded, a slight smile on her face.

  “I think it will fit perfectly. Perhaps taken in a bit at the waist. Would you please try it on?”

  Iona took the dress and stepped into the change room.

  Arch had his hands on his hips. He was just on the edge of kicking up a fuss. The clerk stepped over to him. “Could you help me with something, Arch?”

  Arch stood arms akimbo, head cocked to one side. “Doubt it.”

  “Well, I have a jar of peppermint sticks. They don’t last very long in this dry heat. I was wondering if you would take one off my hands?”

  Arch nodded. “S’pose I could do that for you. Course. I’d have to charge you another peppermint stick for the service.”

  Estelle whooped. “You have a lot of your uncle in you.”

  Arch’s eyes squinted almost shut. “Hope not.”

  Estelle whooped again.

  “Two peppermint sticks it is.”

  Arch stuck one in his mouth, the other in his pocket.

  Iona stepped out of the change room, grooming her hair with her fingers.

  Estelle sighed, a long, soft sigh.

  Standish smiled.

  Arch squinted, “Don’t see why you would wear a dress like that to feed the chickens.”

  Iona squealed. “You’re absolutely right, Arch. What good is a dress like this for feeding chickens?”

  Estelle didn’t seem to hear the banter, concentrating instead on the dress. “It should be taken in around the waist.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a seamstress right now.”

  “Iona’s a seamstress,” Standish said.

  Estelle beamed. “Maybe you could do some work for me.”

  “I would be pleased to,” Iona said.

  “Not as pleased as I,” Estelle said.

  “When we going to get that licorice?” Arch said.

  Last Chance Banker E.J. Burkhart leaned across the sheriff’s desk. “I want that son of a bitch arrested.”

  “Which son of a bitch?”

  “That newcomer. That Standish fellow, took up the Bele place.”

  “On what charges?”

  “He brutalized my sweet Mable. How would you like to have him brutalize your wife?”

  Sheriff Jeff Dolby leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have a wife, Elmer.”

  “If you did have a wife, would you like him to brutalize her?”

  “Maybe brutalize is a strong word, Elmer.”

  “He humiliated her in public.”

  “Maybe he twisted her words a bit. I talked to the county attorney about that. He said twisting a person’s words isn’t the same as twisting her arms.”

  “She had a bruise on her cheek!”

  “She ran into a door jam, Mr. Burkhart. If I were going to charge anyone, I would have to charge your wife for that.”

  “He called her a whore!”

  “No, he didn’t. She criticized Mrs. Simpson for catering to whores. Since, Mr.—the sheriff looked at a piece of paper on his desk—Standish didn’t know her, he assumed she must be speaking about herself.”

  “She was speaking about that Belshaw whore!”

  “Have you ever been out there to avail yourself of Mrs. Belshaw’s services?”

  Burkhart’s face turned purple. “Of course I haven’t,” he sputtered. “I do not frequent whores.”

  “Do you know anyone who has availed himself of her services?”

  “Well, I have heard
talk.”

  “Well if anyone ever says he has, I would like his name.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  Suspicion slipped over the banker’s face. “Why?”

  “Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “All business is my business. I am the business of this town. If I weren’t here, this community would be nothing more than a patch of dust on the east slope of the Rockies. If it weren’t for me.…”

  Dolby sighed.

  Burkhart’s eyes squeezed shut. “I will tell you something I haven’t told you before. You cannot count on my help in the next election. Quite to the contrary, I will support anyone who runs against you. As I understand it, Clive Jenkins intends to run against you.”

  Dolby shrugged. “Don’t know why this election would be any different from the others. Jenkins has run against me every time. In between times, he’s a fine deputy.”

  “You…you.…”

  “The expression is son of a bitch, Elmer,” Dolby said. “Would you please excuse me now so I can get some work done.”

  Burkhart stormed through the door, slamming it behind him.

  Dolby put his feet on his desk, leaning back in his chair. Estelle Simpson had been in earlier to tell him about what happened in her shop. Something was going on. Looked like Standish was beginning to push back. He had introduced himself as Iona Belshaw’s brother. Could be, but that didn’t seem likely. Something was afoot, and it was in the sheriff’s best interest to figure out what it was. He’d best go out and talk to Standish tomorrow morning, catch him early before he got off somewhere. Catch him early, before he got away.

  CHAPTER 13

  The rider poised at the edge of the trees. Standish caught the movement from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t look up. It was best that the stranger didn’t know he’d been seen. Standish stretched, using his arms to hide his study of the horseman. Couldn’t see much in the shadows, but the threat was clear.

  Standish walked to the barn and stepped into its darkness. He stood there watching. Just the one as far as he could see, but another might have worked his way behind the cabin.

  Standish stepped to the barn’s west window. He studied the woods, seeking anything out of place. Sometimes a flicker of an ear will set a hunter on a deer. Sometimes the shine of a boot by a tree trunk will tip off a man’s presence.

  Nothing there that he could see. Of course that proved nothing. Could be the others were better at hiding than Standish was at spotting. Standish walked back to the front of the barn, remaining in the shadows. The rider was still in the little copse of lodge pole pine. He wasn’t exactly hiding, but he wasn’t making a social call, either.

  Standish slipped from his pocket the silent whistle Arch had shown him in Last Chance’s general store. He blew soundlessly, but it was only a moment or two before he heard the clop of trotting horses headed for the barn.

  The rider stood in his stirrups, trying to get a better view of what was going on. If he was after Standish, he would have to make a move now. The horses trotted into the barn, and Standish gave each a bucket of oats. Their heads jerked up about halfway through their treat. The rider was coming. Standish slipped out the back of the barn and worked his way toward the front.

  The creaking of the old leather, and the sound of the stranger’s boots revealed the man’s movement toward the barn. He wouldn’t step blind into the darkness any more than Standish would peek around the corner. The intruder would be just inside the barn door, peering at the vague outlines of two horses.

  Sally nickered. The man was stepping in. Standish eased around the corner and stalked toward the door, ducking as he came to the east window so his shadow wouldn’t give him away.

  Standish eased up behind the stranger. “Something I can help you with?”

  The man jumped, jerking in the air as though he had been shot. He reached for the pistol hanging from his belt, but the holster was empty. He sagged. Hell of a thing to be in a barn with a cannibal and an empty holster.

  The rider turned slowly. The Moose Creek Cannibal Miles Standish was standing behind him, the missing pistol in his hand.

  “Maybe you’d like to join me for breakfast?”

  Sheriff Jeff Dolby shook his head violently. No way was he going to share a table with a cannibal.

  “I’m having ham, eggs and biscuits,” Standish said.

  The sheriff’s mind traversed a dozen possibilities, settling on Standish fattening him for the feast. “No, I.…”

  “I insist.” Standish said, gesturing toward the cabin.

  Dolby’s life flashed before his eyes at each step. He should have married. At least then, he would have some children to carry on his name. Now he would be remembered only as a curiosity, the sheriff the cannibal ate.

  The cabin was neat and clean. Dolby had half expected to see human heads grinning down from the walls. A scent in the air. What was it. Could be anything. Could be.… Spasms wracked Dolby’s throat, and he thought he might vomit.

  Standish gestured toward the chair on the far side of the cabin. Not good. Standish would be behind him while he was at the stove. The cannibal could walk up behind him and cut his throat.

  “Uh, if you don’t mind. I’d like to sit in this chair.”

  “I mind.”

  Dolby gritted his teeth. He didn’t have much choice, not with Standish holding the only pistol. He sat stiffly at the table, listening to Standish’s steps behind him. The scent increased. Ham, it was ham, all right. Certainly not.… Dolby flinched. How the hell would he know how that smelled?

  “I’m not really very hungry. Had a big breakfast.…”

  Standish set a pan on the table. He sat down in his chair, black against the light streaming into the cabin. The pistol lay on the table, muzzle toward the sheriff. Standish reached toward the sheriff. “Plate, please.”

  Dolby shook his head. “I’m stuffed. I don’t.…”

  “Plate.”

  Standish shoveled a large helping on Dolby’s plate. “It’s ham and eggs. Nothing else. Ham’s sitting on that little table by the stove if you want to look.”

  Dolby cringed. “I didn’t mean.…”

  “Eat.”

  Dolby picked at the casserole and tasted it. Ham, all right, good ham.

  Standish noted the star on the sheriff’s vest and nodded. “I want you to know that I’m pleased you came.”

  The fork paused halfway to Dolby’s mouth. He had been right. Standish was fattening him. “Uh, I really don’t.…”

  “Eat. We have a few things we need to talk about.”

  Dolby nodded. Might be his last meal. No reason not to enjoy it.

  They ate in silence for ten minutes. Standish was the first to speak.

  “I suspect you’re out here because Mrs. Burkhart sicced Mr. Burkhart on you.”

  Dolby nodded.

  “Second, you did a little primary investigation and discovered who I am.”

  Dolby blanched. “Nope, don’t know anything about you, nothing at all.”

  Standish leaned across the table. “We need to be honest with each other. First, after we’ve talked, I’ll give your pistol back to you. You will be free to leave then, or to arrest me for.… What did Burkhart say I did to his wife?”

  A tentative smile twitched across Dolby’s face. “Said you brutalized her.” The sheriff shook his head. “I know that’s not true. I talked to Mrs. Simpson. You didn’t lay a hand on her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Said that you called his wife a whore.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “So…?”

  Dolby fidgeted.

  Standish leaned across the table, taking another slab of ham. “Please eat. It is a sin to waste food.”

  The two ate, each watching the other. When the sheriff settled back in his chair, Standish said, “So you’ve come all this way to see the cannibal of M
oose Creek.”

  Dolby leaned back, shaking his head. “No sir, I.…”

  Standish sighed. “Coffee?”

  Dolby shook his head.

  Standish refilled the sheriff’s cup and his own. “I want you to know that I have never killed anyone. Nor have I ever…eaten anyone. I am pleased that you are here, because I am hoping that you will help me prove that. First, I want to talk to you about what happened to Mrs. Belshaw.”

  Sheriff Dolby squinted across at Standish, trying to peer into the man’s soul. He nodded. “That’s bothered me for sometime. Say what you have to say.”

  Standish picked up the pistol. “I’m going to put this away until you’re ready to leave. That all right with you?”

  The sheriff nodded, and Standish walked over to the box beside his bed. He laid the pistol there, and came back carrying the Klaus Bele’s journal. “Would you please read this?” Standish opened the journal and handed it to the sheriff.

  Dolby didn’t see where he had any choice. He leaned over the book.

  Sheriff Jeff Dolby slammed the journal shut with a vigor that left the sound echoing through the cabin. “That son of a bitch. That ugly, stupid son of a bitch.”

  “Not right to speak ill of the dead.”

  Dolby glared across the table. “He’s roasting in hell right now. Doesn’t matter what I say about him.”

  “What about the others.”

  “I don’t know who they are.”

  “You could ask the bartender.”

  Dolby scratched the back of his neck, chagrin creeping over his face. “I really screwed this up, didn’t I?”

  Standish shrugged. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. All you did was allow an entire community to devastate a woman whose only sin was to help a neighbor in need. You stood by while those sons of bitches who brutalized her bragged about their exploits, and you left an eight-year-old boy alone to protect his mother.”

  Dolby sighed. “What the hell can I do?”

  “Not much. You can charge those bastards for what they did and drag Iona’s name through the mud again.”

  “That’s her name, Iona?”

  Standish sneered. “You don’t even know her name?”