by Deeanne Gist
She gave him a sad smile.
He stilled. ‘‘You ain’t gonna marry me, are ya?’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
He searched her eyes. ‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Marriage is a sacred and blessed thing. I’m beginning to realize entering into it only because we had relations would be a very foolish thing indeed.’’
‘‘Then why did the sheriff traipse all over the state just to track me down?’’
‘‘Because he loves me and I’m sure he thought you were what I wanted. So he must have decided to go and get you for me.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Yer lucky to have him. And your ma and pa, too.’’
‘‘You have a father and grandfather who love you. Perhaps you should go and see them.’’
Lifting her hand to his lips, he placed a soft kiss against her knuckles. ‘‘Maybe I’ll do that, Miss Spreckelmeyer. Maybe I’ll do that very thing.’’
She gently withdrew her hand. ‘‘Good-bye, Adam.’’
He put on his hat and tugged its brim. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer, I’ll never forget ya and I wish you nothin’ but the very, very best.’’
————
Essie scrubbed Papa’s shirt against the washboard, her hands shriveled from being in the water so long. Washing was never pleasant, but washing when the weather turned wintry was downright onerous. The hot water burned her fingers, the cold breezes chafed her skin.
She glanced at the back door. Inside, Papa sat cloistered with Mr. Davidson, the oil scout, discussing the future of the still-dry well. The well she’d been forbidden to so much as inquire about.
Mother wrung out the clothes, then hung them on the line.
The back door slammed.
‘‘Doreen?’’ Papa called from the porch.
Mother stopped.
‘‘I need you to take a message to Melvin for me. Tell him I’m with Mr. Davidson right now, but that I’ll collect everyone and meet him at the jailhouse in thirty minutes.’’
‘‘What’s happened?’’ Mother asked.
‘‘Looks like Harley’s gotten himself into some trouble.’’
Essie released the shirt she’d been cleaning, allowing it to slide into the water. ‘‘My Harley? Harley North?’’
‘‘I’m afraid so.’’
Drying her hands with her apron, she crossed the yard. ‘‘What kind of trouble? What did he do?’’
‘‘It’s a long story. Melvin’s got him locked up for now.’’
‘‘Locked up! He can’t put a seven-year-old in jail.’’
‘‘He can if the boy committed a crime. He can if he wants to scare the living daylights out of him.’’
Essie quickly removed her apron and flung it over the back-porch rail. ‘‘I’ll go.’’
‘‘Would you like me to go with you?’’ Mother asked.
‘‘No. I’ll send word if I need you.’’
She raced to the barn, not bothering to change out of her work dress or to remove the handkerchief from around her head. ‘‘When will you be done?’’ she hollered back at Papa.
‘‘Hopefully within half an hour.’’
————
She had to hike her skirts clear up to her knees in order to keep them from tangling in Peg’s chains. With one hand holding her skirts and the other on the handlebars, she couldn’t go as rapidly as she wanted, but it was quicker than saddling Cocoa. Ewing would just have to understand this was an emergency. After this, though, she’d put the bike away.
She whizzed through the heart of town. Katherine Crook swept leaves from the Slap Out’s porch, gasping when she saw the spectacle Essie made. Mr. Klocker’s horse became spooked by the bike and pranced to the side, forcing an oncoming buggy to swerve out of the way.
Essie didn’t slow so much as a mite. She had to reach Harley. She turned onto Jefferson Avenue, spotting the sheriff ’s office and jailhouse.
Ever since Uncle Melvin had returned with Adam in tow, things had smoothed out between her, her uncle, and her parents. Both Melvin and Papa were relieved she wasn’t going to marry the cowboy and they had wasted no time in sending Adam on his way. She hoped this time he had gone home to his family.
The bike had not come to a complete stop when she jumped off and barreled up the steps leading to a small red-brick structure. An oversized, five-pointed star emblazoned with the word SHERIFF was attached to the brown wooden door she burst through.
Uncle Melvin looked up from a modest, scarred desk stacked with papers and books. A kerosene lamp cast a golden glow over his half-empty bottle of stomach bitters and a crusted mug of coffee. A pair of handcuffs and a set of keys doubled as paperweights.
‘‘Papa said he’d have everyone you needed in thirty minutes. What has happened?’’
Melvin tipped his chair back on two legs and hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. The movement caused his impressive shoulders to expand, displaying his badge to advantage. It also disclosed the gun strapped across his waist—a waist that was perhaps even broader than his chest.
‘‘Well, Mr. Harley North has broken the law,’’ he boomed, combing the edge of his bushy moustache with his bottom teeth. ‘‘And folks who break the law go to jail.’’
Essie recognized this performance for what it was. And it wasn’t for her benefit but for Harley’s. She glanced over at the cell in the back corner of the room. Harley had wedged himself on the floor between the cot and the opposite wall. He sat huddled, his arms wrapped around his legs, his head resting against his knees.
‘‘May I see him?’’ she asked.
Melvin stayed as he was for a moment, then dropped his chair with a thud and grabbed the keys. ‘‘I want you to be careful. He might be dangerous. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll be right here within shoutin’ distance.’’
Her heart squeezed with compassion. Whatever trouble Harley had gotten himself into, it was serious. Otherwise, Melvin would not have been so unsympathetic.
‘‘I’ll be careful.’’
Melvin opened the cell door, locked her in, then returned to his desk. The small cubicle had unpainted, barren plaster walls barely wide enough for a folding cot to fit between. Beneath it sat a gray enamel chamber pail with no lid. And in the corner was Harley.
What on earth had happened between yesterday, when the boy had swung by the house to pick up his new trousers, and now?
She butted the cot up against the far wall, then bent down next to him. ‘‘Harley? It’s me, Miss Essie.’’ She stroked the mop of hair on his head. ‘‘What happened, honey?’’
He lifted his head, tears streaking down his face. ‘‘I ruined my new pants,’’ he cried.
‘‘You did? Let me see.’’
Straightening his legs, he pointed to a jagged tear in the fabric of his trousers. But it was the large stain of blood that captured her attention.
She gasped. ‘‘My stars and garters. Are you hurt?’’
‘‘No, ma’am. That ain’t my blood. It’s Mr. Vandervoort’s.’’
‘‘Mr. Vandervoort’s?! How did his blood get onto your clothes?’’
‘‘I shot him, Miss Essie. I killed him dead.’’
chapter TWENTY-SIX
ESSIE TWISTED AROUND to look at Melvin. Did he kill Mr. Vandervoort? She didn’t say the words out loud. She didn’t have to. Melvin knew what she wanted to know.
He gave a very slight negative shake with his head.
Releasing the pent-up breath within her, she turned back around and settled herself on the floor, legs crossed. ‘‘Tell me everything that happened. Start at the beginning.’’
‘‘Ewing was supposed to take me huntin’ today. But somebody in Cryer Creek needed a preacher to say some words over a fella who died. So he went there instead. Said he didn’t know when he’d be back. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not.’’
‘‘Yes, he told me the same thing. Were you disappointed you couldn’t go hunting?’’
‘‘I guess so. Then I thunk to my
self, I could go without him. I mean, how hard could it be to shoot a gun? You jus’ point and pull the trigger. Thing is, I didn’t have no gun.’’
‘‘Go on.’’
He stuck his finger in the hole of his trousers, tugging at it. ‘‘So I borrowed one.’’
‘‘From who?’’
‘‘From the Slap Out.’’
‘‘You stole a gun from Mr. Crook’s store?’’ she exclaimed.
‘‘I didn’t steal it. I jus’ told you. I borrowed it. I was gonna bring it back.’’
‘‘And the shot?’’
‘‘I borrowed that, too.’’
‘‘And just how were you planning on bringing that back?’’
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘‘It weren’t shot. It were bullets. Colts don’t use shot. I was gonna dig the bullet outta the bird, wash it off, and put it back in the box.’’
‘‘A Colt? You took a Colt? You thought to use a revolver for shooting dove?’’
‘‘What’s wrong with that?’’
Good heavens. ‘‘So what happened?’’
‘‘Well, I would’ve gotten clean away, but that Mr. Vandervoort saw me and I didn’t know it.’’ His little eyebrows furrowed with indignation. ‘‘He followed me, only when I heard him, I thought he was a big bear or somethin’. So I shot him.’’
‘‘Heavens to mercy. And you hit him?’’
‘‘ ’Courst I hit ’im. You just aim and pull.’’
‘‘Oh, Harley. What happened then?’’
‘‘Well, he hollered, that’s what. And there was blood everywhere.
Lots and lots o’ blood.’’ He crooked his finger.
She leaned in close.
‘‘And lots o’ swearin’,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Lots and lots o’ swearing.
Then his eyes rolled back and he died. Just like that.’’
‘‘What did you do?’’
‘‘I ran, Miss Essie. I ran as fast and as far as I could. I emptied the gun and I snuck it back in the Slap Out and put it back in that glass shelf. The bullets, too. Only, I was too scared to get the one I used on Mr. Vandervoort. So the box full o’ bullets is missin’ one.’’
‘‘Did you find a doctor for Mr. Vandervoort?’’
‘‘He didn’t need a doctor, he needed the grave-man.’’
‘‘Did you go to Mr. McCabe’s funeral parlor, then?’’
‘‘I couldn’t. Just as I was putting the bullets where they go, that mean ol’ Mrs. Crook grabbed my arm and started screamin’ she was being robbed. She must be dead between the ears or something ’cause she weren’t bein’ robbed, I was puttin’ the stuff back.’’
‘‘Oh dear.’’
‘‘That’s when I tore my pants. She was tryin’ to take me to the sheriff. I wrestled her somethin’ good.’’
‘‘You wrestled with Mrs. Crook?’’
‘‘Yep. And she’s a fair ta middlin’ wrestler, Miss Essie. I had to work awful hard to escape her.’’
‘‘You got away?’’
‘‘Shore did. But the sheriff caught up to me. And ain’t nobody wrestles with the sheriff. I been in jail ever since.’’
Now that the telling was over, the magnitude of what he’d done seemed to hit him again. His eyes filled with tears, his lips quivered. ‘‘I didn’t mean to hurt nobody. I ’specially didn’t mean to kill Mr. Vandervoort.’’
‘‘I know you didn’t.’’
‘‘They’re gonna send me to the big jail or the cottonwood tree or the Poor House. Mr. Wortham, he don’t put up with no funny business.’’
She didn’t agree or disagree with him, for part of what he said was true. The State Orphan’s Home was not for boys who misbehaved, but for children with no relatives. And the two did not mix.
The front door opened. Papa, Hamilton, Katherine, and Mrs. Vandervoort all crowded into the small building. Essie quickly rose to her feet, prompting Harley to do the same.
Melvin greeted everyone, then slipped a key into the keyhole, unbolting the lock with a loud thump. The door squeaked open. He stepped into the cell and reached for Harley’s hands, cuffing them and squeezing the ratchets until they fit his tiny wrists.
‘‘Is that really necessary?’’ Essie asked quietly.
This Melvin was not the amiable man who’d once bounced her on his knee. Nor was he the outraged uncle who had discovered her with her lover.
This Melvin was an unbending man who fought for law and order. A man who showed no weaknesses, no sympathy.
‘‘He robbed the Slap Out, shot Mr. Vandervoort, left him for dead, and attacked Mrs. Crook. He’s lucky I’m not putting him in leg irons.’’
Essie searched Melvin’s eyes, but this was not a performance. The charges against Harley were hanging offenses, and though Essie knew it would not come to that, she was unsure of what it would come to.
‘‘Come on, son,’’ Melvin said, placing his large, calloused hand on the boy’s head and guiding him to the center of his office.
Papa set a Colt revolver and a box of bullets on the sheriff ’s desk, then offered seats to Katherine and Mrs. Vandervoort. When they were settled in stark bentwood chairs, he looked at Essie.
She shook her head. She had no intention of sitting down to watch these proceedings like some spectator. She’d stand beside Harley throughout the entire thing. Her only regret was that she would do so in a worn brown work dress and headscarf. Not the best costume when needing to put her best face forward, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
A wall of accusers faced them. Her father was front and center, Melvin on his right, the Crooks on his left. Hamilton stood with his hand on Katherine’s shoulder. For someone who’d been in a tussle, she looked very put together with not a hair out of place.
Mrs. Vandervoort, however, looked a mess. The barrel-shaped elderly woman had dressed in her best, but she’d obviously done so in a rush. Her clothing was wrinkled and smelled of camphor. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘‘State your name,’’ Papa said.
‘‘Harley North.’’ His little voice came out plenty loud, if a bit quivery.
‘‘Sir,’’ Melvin scolded. ‘‘That’s the judge you’re talking to.’’
‘‘Harley North, sir,’’ the boy corrected.
‘‘Your full name,’’ Papa said.
‘‘I don’t remember it and nobody else knows what it is, neither.’’
Papa waited.
‘‘Oh! I mean, I don’t remember, sir.’’
‘‘Your age?’’
‘‘I think I’m seven, but I don’t know fer shore, sir. Mr. Wortham just kinda guessed when they brought me to the Home.’’
Essie’s heart squeezed. It had never occurred to her that he didn’t know his real age or, she imagined, even his birthday.
‘‘Did you rob the Slap Out?’’ Papa asked.
‘‘I borrowed somethin’, then put it right back where I found it, sir.’’
‘‘Mr. Crook?’’ Papa asked without breaking eye contact with Harley. ‘‘Are you in the business of loaning out goods, or of selling goods?’’
‘‘I sell goods, sir,’’ Hamilton answered.
‘‘Is anyone ever allowed to take stock from your store without paying or signing for it?’’
‘‘No, sir.’’
‘‘Harley,’’ Papa said, ‘‘what’s it called when a person secretly takes something that doesn’t belong to him?’’
‘‘But I gave it back.’’
‘‘Did you or did you not take a Colt revolver and a box of bullets out of the Slap Out in secret and without paying for it?’’
‘‘I took the Colt, sir, but I didn’t take the whole box o’ bullets, only a handful.’’
‘‘Did you do it in secret and without permission?’’
Harley glanced at Hamilton. ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ he mumbled.
‘‘Speak up!’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ he repeated, overly loud and thus
magnifying the ensuing silence.
‘‘Then you are guilty of stealing.’’
Harley looked up at Essie, his expression full of distress, but there was nothing she could do. What Papa said was right, and they both knew it.
‘‘And did you shoot Mr. Vandervoort with that same gun?’’ Papa asked.
The boy looked at Mrs. Vandervoort. She was watching him, her handkerchief now pressed against her mouth. And though she was clearly upset, her eyes conveyed a touch of compassion.
‘‘Not on purpose, ma’am. I liked Mr. Vandervoort. He was always real nice and gave me a ‘howdy’ whenever he saw me. I didn’t know it was him comin’ up behind me. I thought it was a bear.’’
The woman’s eyes flickered with the faintest amount of understanding.
‘‘And when you shot him,’’ Papa continued, ‘‘did you run away and leave him for dead?’’
‘‘No, sir. He died first and then I run off.’’
A stunned silence filled the room.
‘‘And did you run off in order to go and get help?’’ Papa asked, softening his voice for the first time.
‘‘No, sir. I run off ’cause I was scared. I didn’t want the sheriff to play cat’s cradle with my neck, so I decided to run away fer good. Start fresh somewheres else. But I needed to give Mr. Crook his Colt and bullets back. And I needed to tell the grave-man about Mr. Vandervoort. But I never got to warn the grave-man ’cause that woman grabbed me and started in with her caterwaulin’.’’
He’d pointed his finger at Katherine, but because his hands were cuffed, both came up together.
She stiffened in her chair. ‘‘Well, I never.’’
Essie gently pushed Harley’s hands back down. ‘‘It’s not polite to point,’’ she whispered.
‘‘Mrs. Crook thought you were robbing her,’’ Papa said.
‘‘Well, she must not have anything under that hat but hair, then, ’cause I was puttin’ everything back.’’
Katherine sucked in her breath. Hamilton scowled. And Papa exchanged glances with the sheriff.
‘‘Watch your tongue,’’ Melvin said.
‘‘Meant no offense,’’ Harley said to Hamilton.
‘‘She said you attacked her,’’ Papa accused.
