Letty was proud of the way Mike handled the car. He was a much better driver than the doctor; stayed in the middle of the road and didn’t swerve toward the ditch. He didn’t drive as fast, but the speed was consistent.
The spunky little Ford ate up the miles. It was daylight when the car stopped in the yard between the house and the barn. Mike was at the wheel with Letty sitting close beside him. The doctor, fast asleep, snored on the other side of her and their trussed-up prisoner moaned in the back seat.
* * *
It had also been an eventful night for Oscar Phillips—one he would never forget. The dreaded Thursday night had arrived, when the shipment of whiskey was to be unloaded from the boxcar on the siding, loaded into the wagons, and delivered.
Already apprehensive, Oscar had a severe attack of jitters when he discovered that Cecil Weaver was drunk as a skunk! Elmer Russell would be furious when he saw the condition of his delivery man.
Oscar realized that he had better keep out of Elmer’s way or he’d have to take Cecil’s load into Blatsberg. Wishing Sharon were with him, Oscar sat in the dark peering out the window. When a heavy pounding sounded on his back door, he silently slid under the bed lest whoever was out there should decide to come in. It would probably be Arlo, Cecil, or the deputy, and he didn’t want to see any one of them.
A long while after the pounding ceased, Oscar went from window to window and peered out. After he had made absolutely sure no one was lurking about outside, he slipped out of the house, crossed a field, and moved into the woods.
The desire to know what Elmer would do to Cecil drew him to the railroad yard. He approached the siding cautiously and found a place behind a pile of ties and scrap iron where he could see the boxcar. The back of a wagon had been drawn up to the gaping doors. Arlo and the deputy were carrying cartons from the boxcar and stacking them in the wagon. As soon as the wagon was full, they began to break open bales of hay to scatter over the boxes. When the load was covered to the deputy’s satisfaction, Arlo crawled up onto the seat. The men talked for a moment. Oscar wished he were close enough to hear what Elmer was saying. Judging from the tone of Elmer’s voice, Oscar had no doubt that he was angry.
The wagon made a creaking noise when the mules, straining in the harnesses, pulled it away from the siding. It was a dark night and in seconds the wagon was out of sight, but Oscar could still hear the ring of the iron horseshoes striking stones.
Elmer paced back and forth beside the open door of the boxcar. Oscar saw him take out his pocket watch, look at it, then put it away. Minutes passed. Then he heard the sound of a wagon approaching and a drunken voice raised in song:
“I ain’t got me no use fer the wom-en;
A true one can’t never be found.
They use a man fer his mon-ey;
When it’s gone they turn him down.
They be all alike at the bottom—”
“Hush your mouth!” Elmer stepped out quickly, grabbed the harness, and stopped the team. “Damn you! Want everyone in town to rush down here?”
“Howdy-do, Mister Deputy.” The slurred voice was exceedingly loud and carefree.
“Gawddamn! You’re drunk! Shut yore mouth up or I’ll break your blasted neck!”
“Ya won’t do no such.” Cecil’s voice was loud and full of bravado. “Ya’ll treat me with re . . . spect.”
“Get down and start loading that wagon.”
“Not till I have me a drink. Not till ya ask me . . . nice.” Cecil snickered, climbed off the wagon, reeled drunkenly, and fell on his hands and knees in the cinders. “Hell, Elmer, ya pushed me.”
“Gawd! I ought to beat the drizzlin’ shits outta ya!” In a red rage, Elmer grabbed Cecil by the shirt front and hauled him to his feet, shaking him so hard that his head whipped back and forth.
“Ye . . . ow! I’ll have the law on ya, ya big-bellied bast—” A slap across the face cut off his words.
Elmer pushed him up against the side of the wagon box. “Bastard! Worthless piece of trash! You’re in no shape to drive a team.”
“Ya hit me!”
“I’ll do it again if you open your trap—”
“Ya do and . . . I . . . I . . . I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Cecil didn’t answer and Elmer said again, “You’ll do what, flap-jaw?”
“Tell . . . S-S-Sheriff Ledbetter what yore up to.”
“Don’t you threaten me, shithead! You work for me. Understand?”
“I quit! I ain’t workin’ for the likes a you no m-more. Gimme two bottles a whis . . . key,” Cecil demanded belligerently. “It’s what ya promised. Two bottles and . . . and my pay right now, or . . . I’ll tell the s-sheriff.”
“You . . . son-of-a-bitch! You . . . you—” Elmer croaked. He was so angry that he choked on his words. “You breathe one word. Just one word and . . . I’ll rip out your guts and use ‘em for shoelaces.”
“Ya ain’t scarin’ me none.” Cecil made an attempt to stand straight but swayed back against the wagon. “Ya need me ’n’ Oscar ’n’ Arlo ta do yore dirty work. Ya think yore a big muckety-muck with yore b-badge ’n’ folks jumpin’ when ya holler.” Too drunk to realize he was pushing the deputy into an uncontrollable rage, he rambled on. “Ya’ll not be so high ’n’ mighty when ya get yore ass throwed in a jail cell. Ain’t nobody goin’ to treat Cecil Weaver like ya done.”
Oscar heard every word. Fear that something terrible was about to happen sent chills up and down his spine. The drunken fool was going to get himself killed as sure as shooting. Lifting his head for a better view, Oscar saw Elmer standing on spread legs, fists clenched, and his head jutted forward.
In a last act of defiance, Cecil shook his fist in Elmer’s face and reeled down the track toward town.
The deputy bent over and picked up a thick stake as Oscar watched in horrified fascination. His head throbbed viciously with the realization of what was about to happen. He screamed a silent warning as Elmer took several running steps after the unsuspecting man. The club smashed into the back of Cecil’s head with such a force that it propelled him forward before he dropped face down in the cinders.
Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oscar was sure he was going to faint.
Elmer stood over the fallen man, the club raised to strike again. Finally, he dropped the club, nudged Cecil with his foot, then grabbed his hair so he could look into his face.
“Ya had it comin’, ya son-of-a-bitch! World’s better off without ya.”
He stood for several minutes as if thinking about what to do, then he lifted the inert body as if it were a bag of grain and dumped it over the side rails into the wagon bed.
Eyes wide with shock, Oscar stood stone-still. The thump of the body hitting the boards made an empty hollow sound. It brought him to his senses. He dropped to the ground and hugged the earth, his heart slamming against his chest, his ears ringing. He had been sure Elmer had a streak of meanness in him, but this was murder!
Oscar had no idea how long he lay hidden behind the discarded railroad ties, but it seemed an hour. Then he heard the boxcar door slam shut and Elmer speak gruffly to the mules. The squeak of the wagon wheels told him it was leaving the rail yard.
All was quiet.
When the soft music of the cicadas and crickets mingled with the sound of a nocturnal animal scurrying through the dry leaves, Oscar got to his feet. His stomach roiled. Vomit gushed from his mouth. After he had emptied his stomach, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He could still hear the sound of the club connecting with Cecil’s head. It was the same sound he had delighted in when, as a kid, he used to squash rotten melons with a baseball bat.
Lordy mercy! He couldn’t go home. Elmer might come looking for him. The only person besides Arlo who knew about his connection with Elmer and the bootlegging operation was Sharon. He had to go to her. She would know what to do.
CHAPTER
22
“Can I have one? Please—”
Patrick was on his knees i
n a chair watching Helen place hot molasses cookies on a cloth she had spread on the table.
“Say please, pretty please with sugar on it.” Helen adjusted the rag she was using to hold onto the pan she had just taken from the oven.
“Oh, all right. Please, please with sugar on it. Now can I have one?”
“Just one or you’ll ruin your supper.”
“Goody! Can I take one to Dol . . . to my daddy?”
“No! And don’t you tell him. They’re a surprise.”
“Well . . . gol-darn—”
“Patrick Graham! Stop swearing. It ain’t nice.”
“Mama said my name is Patrick Dolan now.”
“Well, whatever your name is, stop swearing.”
“I want another cookie—”
“Darn you, Patrick! Put that back! I’ll get you and . . . and knock your block off.”
The children’s voices drifted up the stairwell to the room upstairs where Letty had just finished hanging Mike’s clothes in the wardrobe alongside hers. She heard the screen door slam shut and recalled Mike telling about grabbing cookies from his sister’s fresh batch. From the sound of things Patrick was bedeviling Helen in the same way. Letty looked out the window to see him racing for the shed where Mike and Jacob worked on the hay rake. She would have to tell Mike to be careful about relating his childhood escapades to his son.
Patrick was copying him in every way he could. Just this morning she caught him trying to tie a bandanna around his neck because Mike had tied one around his. At noon, when they came in to dinner, Mike’s handkerchief was sticking out of his back pocket and so was Patrick’s.
Letty smoothed the cover on the bed and plumped up the extra pillow she had brought up from downstairs. Tonight she and Mike would share this bed as man and wife. They were finally married. Even though it was a ceremony performed by a justice of the peace in the middle of the night, they were as legally married as if they had stood in front of a preacher with a church full of witnesses.
Her eyes fell on the scrap of blue ribbon lying on the dresser. Someday she would put it in a small frame along with the valentine Mike had given her so long ago, but for now she wanted it where she could see it. She fastened it to the wooden frame of the mirror with a straight pin and stood back to look at it. That little scrap of ribbon had been all the way to France and back with Mike. Suddenly, she felt a stab of sympathy for her sister, for any woman, who would never know the joy of being Mike’s love, Mike’s wife.
Wallace had stayed only long enough to eat a bite of breakfast. He left the farm with Fellon still asleep in the car. Mike had volunteered to go with him, but the doctor had refused the offer.
“Weaver might show up here today. You’d better stay here just in case. Fellon won’t be in any shape to give me trouble. When I get to Boley, I’ll have him put in a jail cell.” Even though his eyes had been bloodshot from lack of sleep and he had needed a shave, the doctor’s face had broken into a grin, and his blue eyes had lit up. “I’ll claim he attacked me, or . . . something—”
“I’ll declare! Wallace, you’re the limit here lately. You’ve got all kinds of deviltry hidden under your mild manner. You’re usually so nice,” Letty had teased.
“I like to think that I am . . . most of the time. But nothing gets my dander up like the sham that preacher woman is pulling off on my patients. The sheriff will hold Fellon. I’ll telephone Doc Perkins. If he can’t come to Boley and testify, he’ll send a wire stating that Fellon had been walking right up to the day Sister Cora healed him.”
“That oughta put a crimp in her meetin’,” Jacob had chortled gleefully.
Letty looked about the room once again to make sure it was neat and orderly, but her thoughts were elsewhere. When Wallace exposed Cora’s sham, she would probably leave the state. Now if only this ugly business about Helen could be straightened out . . . Wallace was reasonably sure that he could persuade Mrs. Knight to leave Helen here, but there was a good chance that even if she didn’t send her back to her father—and Letty shuddered at the thought—she would be taken to an orphanage or to another family. If Helen were allowed to stay here, would that mean they would have to contend with Cecil Weaver from now on? With Mike beside her, Letty felt sure she could handle that.
When Letty came into the kitchen, Helen was taking another pan of cookies out of the stove. Her face was flushed and damp from the heat. Her hair stuck to her damp cheeks. With the pancake turner she carefully lifted the hot cookies from the pan and placed them on the table to cool.
“My, they smell good!”
“Patrick snatched some and ran.” Helen’s grin wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t care, but I let him think I did.”
“Small boys have a way of getting in the cook’s hair.”
“He did it ’cause his . . . his daddy said he did that when he was little. He wants to be like his daddy.” Helen turned her face away but not before Letty saw the look of utter longing on the child’s face.
“Helen, honey—” Letty put her arms around her and with a gentle hand brought her head to her breast. “You are such a wonderful little girl. Honey, things are going to work out. Doctor Hakes is helping us.”
“I’m . . . afraid—”
“I know. But you’ve got me and Mike and Grandpa and Doctor Hakes. We want you here. Mike and I want you to be our little girl. We’d be so proud.”
“He’ll . . . come. I know he will.”
“If he does, he’ll have Mike and Grandpa to contend with. You and I will hide upstairs under the bed,” Letty said lightly.
Helen’s lips trembled and tears wet her lashes. “Really?”
“Really. I hid from Patrick one day and he never did find me.” Letty’s fingers wiped the tears from the child’s cheeks. “It’s almost suppertime. We’d better get something ready for our men. Shall we have a picnic on the porch? I’ll make potato salad if you’ll put on some eggs to boil. When Mike sees your cookies he’ll not want anything else.”
During supper Mike teased Helen and the child’s face was radiant.
“Is this all the cookies?” His complaint brought a proud smile to the child’s face.
“Patrick got some . . . and run.”
“What? That rascal stole my cookies? I’ll hang him up by his heels.”
Both children giggled happily.
Letty had eyes only for the smiling curly haired giant of a man who watched her with such tenderness. She was going to spend the rest of her life with him right here on this farm. A wonderful, warm feeling of permanency wrapped around her as happiness filled her heart and shone in her eyes.
“Tomorrow,” Mike was saying, “we’ll go fishing in the creek if Patrick will dig us some worms.”
“Gol . . . ly! I’ll dig a whole can of ’em.”
“Can I go, too?” Helen asked breathlessly.
“Of course. I wouldn’t think of going fishing without my cookie-maker.”
Letty realized with a gigantic surge of pride that Mike clearly understood that Helen needed attention badly. The loving look in the eyes he turned on the child brought a flush to her cheeks and a smile to her lips.
Letty’s eyes kept straying to him. His head and shirt collar were wet from the dipper of water he had poured over his head before he came to eat. He was so handsome with his unruly black hair and dark face. His eyes caught hers and held. He smiled and winked. In spite of the fact he hadn’t slept the night before, he looked younger now that his face was free of the sober expression it had worn when he first came to the farm.
* * *
Evening shadows softened the outline of the huge trees that surrounded the homestead. It was the gloaming time of day that poets wrote about. Before now it had been the lonesome time of day for Letty, reminding her of the stolen moments spent alone with Mike when they were young. Tonight she welcomed the golden time of the evening. Soon she would take Mike’s hand and lead him to the room upstairs.
With Helen’s help she washed the supper dishes.
Mike played a game of catch with Patrick. Jacob smoked his pipe and watched from his chair on the porch. The sounds were familiar: the clatter of the dishes, Patrick’s laughter, Mike’s deep voice, the chirping of birds settling in the treetops for the night.
The sound of a motor car turning into the lane beside the house sent Helen scurrying to grab Letty’s skirt and look at her with fear in her eyes.
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know, honey. Stay inside until I find out.”
Letty pushed open the screen door and went out onto the porch just as a big touring car jerked to a stop not a dozen feet from where Mike stood in the yard. The door flew open and Deputy Russell leaped out, a shotgun in his hand.
“Hold it right there, Dolan, unless you want this shotgun to go off.”
“What in the tarnation—” The front legs of Jacob’s chair hit the floor and he stood.
Letty leaped off the porch and ran to Mike, only vaguely aware that another man was getting out of the car.
“Get away from him,” the deputy ordered and gestured Letty back with the barrel of the gun.
Sheriff Ledbetter strode to Mike, jerked his hands behind him, and fastened them with a pair of handcuffs.
“What the hell is going on?” Mike demanded.
“You’re Mike Dolan?” Sheriff Ledbetter asked.
“Yes, but what have I done?” Mike turned to the deputy. “You’re the one who went through my things a few days ago? Why?”
“Looking for evidence. Perfectly legal.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“It ain’t legal to come in a man’s house and destroy his property. Do you know what he done?” Jacob demanded then answered his own question. “He tore this man’s place apart, then went into the house and ruined my crock of brandy. That’s what he done.”
“I’m sorry about that, Jacob,” Sheriff Ledbetter said. “But that’s a trifling affair compared to what we’re arresting Dolan for.”
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