by Deeanne Gist
Groans of disappointment followed. Luke smiled. Nothing like leaving on a high note—literally. He watched the battalion of feet head back the way they’d come, some running ahead, some lagging behind, several hovering about Georgie. He stayed hidden until the sound of their voices and footfalls had long since passed.
Finally, he slithered out from under the shrub, wincing as he pushed himself to his feet. No sense in continuing his search for Comer. The day was almost over.
Returning to Honey Dew, he praised her for her patience, then swung atop her. He contemplated all he’d learned from listening to Georgie, admitting to himself she was right. Killing birds for no other reason than to decorate hats was not worth the price of depleting the species.
The question he didn’t want to face, but could not ignore, was if killing birds for sport was worth the price.
Chapter Thirteen
Now that the ladies of the newly formed Plumage League had voted in their officers, Georgie decided her first duty as president would be to disrupt the milliner’s contest.
Her gaze wandered about Mrs. Zach’s parlor. They’d moved their meetings to the mayor’s home since the Zachs not only had more space, but Mrs. Zach and her daughter, Rachel, were both members. The sitting room stretched almost the entire length of the house, opening onto a grand veranda outside.
Georgie rubbed a hand along the cheerful blue-and-apricot sofa with dolphin arms, its rich upholstery echoed in the wallpaper and drapes. The pièce de résistance, however, was a colorful needlework rug with bouquets of various flowers. She couldn’t imagine the patience it must have taken to stitch such a large and intricate piece. Seemed sacrilegious to set her boots on it.
Crossing her ankles so only her left toe touched the carpet, she made a mental note of the ladies assembled in a half dozen chairs, two easy chairs and two divans. They were a cross-section from the crème of society to the very humble. From the elderly to the young. From the doers to the followers.
Resting her cup and saucer on her knee, Georgie cleared her throat. “I was wondering, have any of you read about Mr. Ottfried’s Easter bonnet contest?”
The idle chatter fizzled as the ladies turned their attention to her.
“Read about it?” Vicki Lee asked. Her husband, Joe, was the local lawyer and a member of the Gun Club. His court performances were so theatrical, folks would drive from miles around to hear him argue a case. Much of his reflected glory fell onto his wife, making her as much a star as he. “That’s all anyone is talking about.”
“His motives were less than honorable, you know.” Mrs. Yoakum patted the corners of her mouth with a hanky. The judge’s wife had slicked her dark hair back into a topknot, accentuating her receding hairline. “Mrs. Oodson ran to him straightaway after your first meeting. If you ask me, his contest is nothing short of a call to arms.”
“Well, I say we answer with a battle cry so loud, that fella won’t know what hit him.” Kathy Patrick had a big smile, a big heart, and big ideas. There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t love her. She chaired the Ladies’ Reading Circle and had taught Bettina to read.
“What did you have in mind?” Georgie asked her.
She scrunched up her mouth. “Well, he’s chosen his weapon—a contest. All we need to do is come up with one bigger, better, and more enticing.”
“What could possibly be more enticing than a new Easter bonnet?” Heather Martin was not native to Brenham but was well respected, having married the town’s banker. “And with Easter right around the corner, we don’t have time for a contest of our own.”
“What if we had ours during Maifest?” Miss Gladstone, her voice melodious even when she wasn’t singing, had been last year’s Maifest Queen.
Excited murmurs whisked through the group. The German tradition of celebrating spring’s arrival had been observed in Brenham since 1874, making this their twenty-ninth festival. Along with the usual eating, drinking, and singing, the fair offered a Maypole, a parade with elaborate floats, and the coronation of a Maifest Queen.
“Perhaps we could hold a hat-making contest,” Mrs. Zach suggested, refilling Georgie’s coffee.
Georgie held her cup steady, watching the rich dark liquid pour from the silver spout, its aroma filling the room. “We’d have to make a rule stating the hat can’t have any bird parts on it.”
“But what would the prize be?” Miss Rachel asked, her wavy hair tucked up with fancy combs. The mayor’s daughter had been voted secretary of the Plumage League and held her pencil in readiness.
Mrs. Patrick straightened. “What if the new Maifest Queen is crowned with the winning hat?”
“That’s a marvelous idea,” Georgie exclaimed. “Mrs. Abney? Would you mind asking the fire department if we could do that?”
Mrs. Abney wore her Sunday best, though the blue woolsey had faded from multiple washings. Her husband was a member of the fire brigade, and since Maifest was put on by them, she’d have a good chance of smoothing their way.
“I’m sure they won’t mind,” she said. “With businesses squawking about the cost of sponsorship this year, I know the boys could use a show of support.”
“We should also have a float.” The doctor’s wife sat tall and elegant in a cutaway bodice fitted over a beaded blouse. “I’ll ask Friedrich if we can use the basket phaeton.”
Exclaiming, the ladies applauded with gloved hands. The basket phaeton was a sleek carriage used mostly for parks and beaches. The doctor was the only man in town who owned one, and Georgie could hardly contain her excitement.
“Let’s decorate it to look like a bird,” Mrs. Patrick suggested. “It could have wings and everything.”
Georgie couldn’t imagine how to turn a basket phaeton into a bird, but if anyone could do it, Mrs. Patrick could.
“Do I have a motion for Mrs. Patrick to be float chair?” Georgie asked.
“I so move.”
“I second.”
“All in favor?” Georgie asked.
The vote was unanimous. Smiling, Mrs. Patrick ran the rest of the meeting, forming committees, assigning jobs, and setting deadlines.
“We need someplace to hide all the hat entries,” Mrs. Lee said. “Someplace which doesn’t have children.”
“Georgie?” Mrs. Patrick asked. “Your cottage would be perfect, with you all by yourself over there.”
Though Georgie’s home was tiny, it was the envy of many in town. A woman with a job and her own place was as rare as hen’s teeth.
“Of course,” she heard herself saying. “I’ll store them in my bedroom where none can see.”
Miss Rachel recorded their decisions along with the rest of the minutes. Sitting back, Georgie sipped the last of her coffee, pleased with the afternoon’s work.
The only signs of life at the run-down, board-and-batten farmhouse were chickens strutting about a fenced-in hen yard. No smoke drifted from the chimney, no woman washed linen in a cauldron, not even a dog barked in greeting.
The von Wredes were first in a long line of families Luke planned to visit over the next several weeks. He’d pored over Georgie’s ledgers and the county’s land registration books in an effort to familiarize himself with all outlying farms.
Tying Honey Dew to a tree, he surveyed the pared-down array of outbuildings. The barn looked more like a child’s playhouse than a structure for housing animals. Four hogs slept soundly in a mule pen. And a once cone-shaped potato bank sat deflated beneath a giant elm.
Testing each board before putting his weight on it, Luke climbed the steps to the porch and front door. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Nothing stirred. The place didn’t look like anything a train robber would own, nor a place which could afford phone service. And deserted as it was, he figured the entire family, including women and children, were in the field weeding and cultivating as much corn as possible before cotton planting began.
Returning to his horse, Luke decided to cross the von Wredes from his list. The men he was looki
ng for would be living higher on the hog. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, how many von Wrede children were in the fields and how old they were.
His uncle’s farmhouse had looked a lot like this one. When they’d moved to Rusk County, Luke had been ten, with Alec only eleven months behind him in age, but a foot behind him in size. Their uncle made a special cut-down hoe for Alec and demanded a man’s work from them both. The dawn-to-dusk, backbreaking labor was a far cry from the hunting, shooting, fishing, and swimming they’d done with their father.
Shaking off the memories, he guided Honey Dew toward the next farm. A hint of breeze teased the leaves on the trees like an invisible finger running along a line of fringe. A woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatted in the distance. Luke scanned the area, spotting the bird at the top of a dead tree hammering the final touches on its oval nest. He hoped the woodpecker’s chicks could fly on their first try. Otherwise, it would be an awfully big drop.
He studied the bird’s markings: black-and-white body with a brilliant scarlet head. He’d seen plenty of them over his lifetime but never gave them much more than a glance. He took note now, though, of both the bird and where he was so he could tell Georgie in case she wanted to bring out her students.
Much as he hated to admit it, the lesson she’d given the children had fascinated him and made him more sympathetic to the birds’ plight. That didn’t make hunting a sin, though. Especially if he ate what he killed.
Even for next week’s tournament, the local restaurants would pick up the shot-down birds and serve them to the spectators. Either way, he didn’t think God would be too upset. The Bible said He’d caused so many quail to fall dead from the sky, the Israelites ate them until they literally came out their noses. And even then, they couldn’t finish them all.
No, there was no sin in shooting a few birds. And the tournament would bring enthusiasts from all over the state. He’d bet money every one of Comer’s gang would be there. Maybe even Frank Comer himself.
Problem was, Luke didn’t know what they looked like. Between the neckerchiefs they covered their faces with and the citizens unwilling to point fingers, the gang remained unidentified. But he knew they could shoot. Especially Comer. Surely the hundreds of dollars worth of cash prizes would be more than they could resist.
Winding his way between two fields, he couldn’t help but be impressed with von Wrede’s work. The farmer might only have seventy-five acres, but all Luke had passed had been plowed and planted with corn. Nary an acre was left open for cotton. He must have grown cotton last year and was rotating out. That would explain, to some extent, the disrepair of his house and outbuildings. The year 1902 had not been a good one for cotton.
Finally, he crossed into Peter Finkel’s land. Unlike von Wrede, Finkel had close to four hundred acres, yet field after field lay fallow. No cornfields. No plowing or preparation for cotton planting. Just neglected, overgrown ground.
Honey Dew gave a long, blustery exhale, as if disgusted by the waste of fertile soil. Luke had to agree and began to despair of finding any cultivated fields. But a few acres from the farmhouse a good amount of redtop cane had been planted for feed, along with several rows of molasses cane, a half-acre potato patch, and a full-acre garden.
He smelled the cow pasture before he saw it, then rounded the corner to find a giant, fenced-in grazing area. Even though there was room a’plenty to spread out, the black cows plastered themselves shoulder to shoulder in tight clusters beneath a smattering of shade trees.
At the top of the rise a typical one-story house with a front porch faced southward. A flock of guineas in his path scattered, squawking an alarm and pumping their heads like rocker arms on a locomotive wheel.
A young girl in braids and calico scattered shelled corn from her hand to a gaggle of turkeys, chickens, and geese gathering about her feet. She paused and looked his way, shading her eyes from the bright sun. “Mutti, somebody’s coming.”
A boy in a straw hat and overalls churned butter on the porch, his eyes tracking Luke all the way to the yard. The old hound at his feet lifted its head, then thought better of it and lowered it back down.
Pulling Honey Dew to a stop, Luke touched his hat. “Howdy.”
The boy switched hands, then continued churning, the swish, swish, swish letting Luke know he hadn’t been at it very long.
The girl smiled, her two front teeth missing. “I’m Dewiller.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Dewiller. I’m Mr. Palmer. Your ma or pa around?”
A woman in a brown dress stepped onto the porch, drying her hands with the serviceable black apron about her waist. Though her face still hinted of youth and her eyes sparked with interest, her posture was bent and her blond hair didn’t have near the luster Georgie’s did.
“Hallo.” She scanned the area behind him. “Vhere’s der Wagen?”
Dismounting, he touched his hat. “Mrs. Finkel?”
She nodded.
“I’m Luke Palmer, the troubleman for Southwestern Telegraph and Telephone.”
The tiny bit of animation in her eyes receded. “You’re not der Peddler?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Nodding, she indicated a set of rockers to her left. “Haf a chair, Herr Palmer, and I’ll get my Mann.”
Luke schooled his features, offering no reaction to the fact her husband was home in the middle of the day, during planting season, no less. Tying Honey Dew to a scrub bush, he smiled at the girl, who’d ceased feeding the chickens.
Her large brown eyes took a thorough survey of him. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new to die Gemeinde?”
He pushed his hat back. “Reckon I am. New to Washington County, anyway. I guess you must know just about everybody around here.”
Her smile grew. “I reckon.”
The boy on the porch glared at his sister. “Mutti wird bald Hilfe mit dem Bügeln brauchen.”
Luke didn’t speak much German, but he recognized business, mother, and help.
Rule #5: Go about your business cheerfully and quietly. When you enter a residence don’t overlook the foot mat. If requested to go around to the back door, don’t consider yourself insulted. Say “good morning” or “evening.” It doesn’t cost anything and shows you started out right at home.
Before he could smooth the boy’s feathers, a burly man in his early thirties stepped onto the porch. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown mustache, brown suspenders, brown pants.
He gave Luke the same once-over his daughter had. “You on your way to town for das Gun Tournament? You’re a bit early.”
Luke stretched out his arm. “No, sir. I’m Luke Palmer with SWT&T. Sure is an impressive place you have here.”
“SWT&T?” He accepted Luke’s hand. “You must be lost. Ve don’t have das Telefon. Nearest one to us is over at die Vampler place.” He nodded his head toward the east. “About twelve farms ofer.”
Luke whistled. “That’d be a pretty good stretch if you had a hankering to talk to somebody mighty quick.”
Finkel raised a brow. “Vell, I’m not often in a hurry.”
Pushing the screen open with her back, the missus held a tray with two steaming cups. “Möchten Sie einen Kaffee, Herr Palmer?”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Luke accepted the coffee, its aroma teasing his senses. As a rule, he didn’t drink stimulants, but if he didn’t take this, they’d most likely offer him a beer.
Settling into a rocker, Finkel accepted the second cup on the tray and indicated the chair next to him. “You come from town, then?”
“Sure did,” Luke said, joining him.
“How are die Roads?”
“Good and dry. So if the rain holds off, there shouldn’t be any slowdowns for the folks coming next week.” He paused, expecting the man to offer up an opinion. As far as farmers were concerned, rainwater for their corn was much more important than the condition of the roads. But Finkel said nothing.
Luke cleared his throat. “The manager of the shooting tournament thinks
this year’s competition will be the biggest gathering of shooters ever seen in these parts. Claims he’s even expecting folks from outside the state.” He blew on his coffee. “You planning to go?”
Finkel leaned his rocker back. “I plan on being in it.”
Luke whistled. The man hadn’t been to Gun Club practice. Wasn’t even a member as best he could tell. “You must be mighty good. I hear Winchester’s sending their professional.”
“F.M. Faroute has a lot of followers, but I can gif him a run for his money. Vhat about you? Are you going?”
“I’ll be there all right. I’m helping with the pigeon crates. I wouldn’t stand a chance in the competition, though. Anybody else around here signing up?”
Shrugging, Finkel spit to the side. “Von’t really know until opening day, I guess.”
Luke wondered if he knew about Necker, the judge, and the gun shop owner participating, or if he was simply keeping his cards close to his chest.
The rhythmic swishing of the butter churn changed in tone as the cream thickened. Luke glanced over. The boy switched arms and kept his head down, but Luke knew he was listening to every word—assuming he understood English.
Swiveling his cup, Luke watched the liquid within it swirl. “You know, if you had a telephone, you’d be able to find out right now which of your neighbors were competing.”
Finkel harrumphed. “I’m not die one all curious about it. You are.”
Smiling, Luke propped an ankle on his knee. “I guess I am. But don’t you think having a telephone might come in handy? You could discover the conditions of the road anytime you wanted. You’d be able to keep abreast of the coming elections. You’d know the minute the new cotton mill is up and running. You’d know Hodde has a car of white corn on track for cheap. You’d know Thornhill’s planted ninety acres.” He paused. “But most important, if there was some kind of emergency and you had to talk to somebody quick, why, you could just call them right up.”
Finkel stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Thornhill’s planted neunzig already?”
