by Sharon Ihle
As the "princess" stepped forward, eight men scrambled to the front of the small crowd, each one proclaiming terminal symptoms. The princess paused before each man long enough to brush her fingers across his forehead. Then she raised her hands and began to wail.
"Oh, great Sagawaka. Help me to choose correctly." She squeezed her eyes shut, chanting all the while, and then suddenly opened them as if struck by lightning. Pointing to a flabbergasted farmer, she said, "Et tu, Brute," and fell to her knees as if exhausted.
Morgan had seen enough. He remembered the warnings his father had issued during the one medicine show he'd attended as a young man as clearly as if he'd heard them yesterday. "Some poor farmer lucky enough to be deemed in the most ill of health will buy that bottle of medicine, son," Matt Slater had said, his tone stern and all-knowing. "Then that poor fool will guzzle it on a regular basis, and become addicted to the major ingredient therein—alcohol, cocaine, or even opium. This swill is nothing but the devil's brew, and you're watching the devil himself as he's brewing it."
Egged on by memories of his father's harsh, unforgiving voice, Morgan broke through the crowd, shouting, '"Et tu, Brute,' princess? Don't you have your Romans mixed up with your Indians?"
Hearing the anger in the man's tone, Mariah Penny lifted one eyebrow and cautiously peered up at him. "Beg pardon?" she said, trying to sound as if she couldn't quite understand English.
'"Et tu, Brute,' my ass." Morgan dismissed the young woman with those words and turned to face the crowd. "Show's over, folks. These people don't have anything to sell you but grief. Go on back to your homes."
Mariah watched openmouthed as, incredibly enough, several members of the audience did just that. It was as if the stranger's deep, authoritative voice had snapped the crowd out of a collective fugue—and, just as easily, wrested command of the situation away from her father, Zachariah Penny.
Zack, who'd stepped between the stranger and his daughter, drew all six feet of his skinny frame up to meet the man's gaze, but fell some two inches short. "Begging your pardon, suh," he said. "But I'm afraid I'll have to ask y'all to kindly step back and—"
"The kindest thing I intend to do for you, old man, is keep you out of jail." Morgan shot him a glance filled with hot indignation as he tore his rawhide vest aside to reveal a shiny gold badge.
Zack went pale. "Oh, ayuh... in that case, I do believe I see your point."
"I thought you might."
Turning from the quack doctor, who by now had been joined by the older woman and the "princess," he addressed what was left of the crowd once again. "My name's Morgan Slater, U.S. Marshal, and I'm telling you for the last time to go back to your homes. This show is definitely over."
Whispering amongst themselves, the disappointed townsfolk slowly disbanded and went on their way.
Zack glanced at his wife and heaved a weary sigh. "Damned if it ain't time to move along, missus."
Oda struck a match against the side of the wagon and lit her stogie. "Damned if it ain't."
Only Mariah took exception to the marshal's orders. It certainly wasn't the first time the Penny family had been thrown out of a town, and it most likely wouldn't be the last, especially if they should venture too close to a Mormon settlement as they had done last spring. But she couldn't remember ever being asked to leave in such a rude and degrading manner.
The show wasn't quite legal in status in some areas, but they certainly had never done anything to invite prosecution. From town to town, and sheriff to sheriff, the terms of the ordinances varied, but even in the few places where the show was judged to be unacceptable, the law had always been polite about their dismissal, if not downright friendly. Exactly what had they done to anger this man so?
As Zack and Oda began to collect their props, Mariah approached the marshal, hands on hips.
"There's no call for you to talk to any of us that way, Marshal Slater. We're just good honest folks doing our best to make a living."
"Honest, you say?" Taking her by surprise, Morgan caught her chin in the web between his thumb and forefinger, and then turned her head from side to side, examining her. "What kind of honest Indian do we really have here beneath all the phony ceremonial baubles? Surely not a Kickapoo. How about a Comanche? Or should I have said... Apache?"
Her reaction was delayed by sheer astonishment, and the fact that the marshal seemed to know that something wasn't quite right about her. When Mariah finally took a swing at him, the lawman easily ducked the blow and stepped aside.
He laughed, and then issued an ultimatum. "You have exactly one second to get your crooked fanny aboard that wagon, princess, or I'll confiscate this entire operation just as it sits and drive it off a cliff." His gaze shot over to Zack and Oda. "And I'll give you folks five seconds more than that to pack up, or that's precisely what I'll do." Then he turned on his heel and whistled for Amigo.
Stunned by the anger she'd seen in the marshal's green eyes, the sheer force of his malevolence, Mariah brought her hand to her chin. Worried the lawman may have left finger marks in the cinnamon-colored greasepaint she used to make her fair skin darker and redder, she smoothed the makeup and then walked backwards toward the wagon, muttering to herself under her breath. When she reached her parents, she turned to them wide-eyed, and whispered, "What a rotten... bastard. What a dirty, rotten bastard."
Within the allotted time, Doc Zachariah's Kickapoo Medicine Show was packed and rolling down Main Street, dragging the supply wagon behind it. The pair of sturdy mules, used to the double load, moved along at a steady, if unspectacular clip, leaving Marshal Slater and his best friend to bring up the rear in uncharacteristically poky fashion.
They traveled for nearly three hours under increasingly overcast skies, and although it was early afternoon, the temperature began to drop to almost winter-like conditions. The folks riding on the front seat of the wagon didn't seem to notice the sudden chill, but Morgan tugged his hat lower on his forehead and buttoned the collar of his dark blue shirt. Cold and weary of the snail's pace set by the wagon, he decided that since he'd put some ten miles between Bucksnort and the medicine show and guided the troublemakers into an unpopulated area, it was time for a parting of the ways.
Morgan galloped up alongside the lead wagon and glanced over at the occupants. The man was driving the mules, with his wife silently puffing away on her stogie beside him, but there was no sign of the "Indian princess." In fact, now that he thought of it, he realized he had seen neither hide nor hair of her since she'd stormed into the wagon back in Bucksnort and slammed the door in his face. Nor did he care. All he really cared about was putting this particular medicine show and its quacks out of business. That and wiping the Doolittle Gang off the face of the earth.
He instructed the man to pull up the mules and then prepared to take his leave. That would have been the end of it, but as the medicine wagon skidded to a halt, the supply cart slid down off the edge of the muddy embankment, burying the wheels up to the axles.
Morgan sighed heavily, knowing his progress would be delayed even further. No matter how little he thought of the troupe, or how much further ahead of him the Doolittle Gang might get, he just couldn't ride off leaving a crippled old man and two women stuck in the mud.
"You've buried your supply wagon, old man," he said, his anger over the delay reflected in his tone. "Set your brake and get back there. We'll be shoveling mud at least until nightfall working it free." He pointed up at the sky, where thunderheads were quickly collecting. "And if I don't miss my guess, we'll be digging under a lot nastier conditions than these before the hour is out."
As he started to dismount, a small dog popped through the privacy beads at the mouth of the medicine wagon and joined the doctor and his wife on the bench seat. When the dog began barking, Morgan's horse widened his eyes and then shied away from the rig, nearly unseating his rider before Morgan had a chance to get his foot out of the stirrup. Remembering that he'd been unable to persuade Amigo to get over his fear of
dogs, even pint-sized little mutts like this one, Morgan reined the gelding up sharply.
"Lock that damn dog up," he snapped at the old man. "We've got work to do."
Then he climbed down off Amigo, grabbed the shovel that was lashed to the side of the wagon, and headed toward the cart. Zachariah joined him moments later, and set to work on the other side of the rig with his bare hands and a sugar scoop he'd removed from the back of the cart. A light mist had begun to fall by the time Morgan felt they'd dug enough to try using the medicine wagon to pull the cart out. Determined to get the task accomplished before a full-blown storm hit, he ordered the old man to the front of the rig to take control of the mules, and then he braced himself against the back of the medicine wagon. He would have to give the wagon a shove, and then move quickly to get out of the way so he wouldn't be hit by the cart. Coiling himself into a push-and-run position, he shouted, "Now, old man. Go."
The rig groaned for a moment as its big wooden wheels clung to the bank, and then it popped free, lurching up the incline with a surprising burst of acceleration. As Morgan was about to leap to the side, his boot slipped on the recently dampened mud and he went down on his knees. Before he could regain his footing, the rig slammed against the back of his head. In the next second, he felt as if a great wall of ice was surrounding his skull. And then he felt nothing.
* * *
When the marshal's big white hat came blowing down the road, tumbling end over end until it was out of sight, and he wasn't running along behind it, Zack figured something had gone awry. As he started for the back of the wagon, he spotted the lawman lying near the side of the road. He was sprawled out on his belly, arms spread, one leg bent at the knee and tucked beneath the other, looking like he'd been flung out with the bathwater. His head was turned to the side, his mouth was open, and his tongue listed at the edge of his bottom lip, ready to fall out at any moment.
Getting down to ground level with his thigh-high wooden leg was always a difficult task for Zack, and he knew that he was the least medically inclined of the three Pennys. So Zack turned to the back of the medicine wagon and knocked on the door. "Mariah. Come on out here. The marshal's had an accident."
Inside the wagon, Mariah was brushing the plaits from her jet-black hair until it hung like a curtain of the finest crushed velvet. She'd changed into a shrimp-pink cotton blouse and a dark brown jacket with matching skirt. The reason she'd stayed inside the wagon and out of sight during their forced departure from Bucksnort was the other change she'd made in her appearance. She'd taken a wad of cotton soaked in mineral oil and smoothed it over the exposed parts of her skin, removing all traces of the greasepaint which made her look more like a Kickapoo Indian. Now that her true, peachy complexion had been exposed, there was no telling what the arrogant marshal would do to her, no matter how effective or authentic her medicines might be. He might even jail her.
"Mariah, baby," Zack called again. "This poor fool is out for the count, and looks to be hurt pretty bad. Get on out here."
She opened the door a crack. "I'm out of costume. What if he sees me like this?"
"I wouldn't worry too much about that, girl. This fellah looks like he's close to dead. Get on out here and see if you can't do something for him."
Her nursing instincts overriding her fear of being found out, Mariah climbed out of the back of the wagon and knelt down beside the lawman. After flipping him onto his back, she checked his pulse, noting that it was erratic, but strong, and then forced his auburn lashes apart. The whites of his eyes were jittery, and the deep green irises rolled up out of sight. In an effort to bring him around, Mariah slapped the lawman's cheek and said, "Marshal? Are you still in there?"
More than happy to repeat the procedure, she slapped him again, harder yet, but still he didn't respond. Morgan Slater was out about as cold as a man could get, and completely helpless. For one fleeting moment, Mariah wondered why they couldn't just leave him there in the mud. It would serve him right.
Instead, she leaned over the unconscious man and said, "You're not only a bastard, but a lucky one at that." Then she glanced up at her father. "Would you ask Oda to get me the smelling salts and our medical pouch?"
Zack limped off without another word, and as she awaited her father's return, Mariah slipped her hand beneath Slater's head. Feeling an irregular ridge as his scalp met her fingertips, she gently pushed against it. The spot felt a little softer than she thought it should. Concerned, Mariah eased his head back down to the ground, and her fingers came away bloody. She was staring at that hand when her father came hobbling back with her dog, Daisy, bounding along beside him.
Zack dropped the bag on the ground. "How bad is he?"
"I don't know for sure." Mariah reached inside the pouch for a strip of clean white cotton to bind the marshal's wound. "But whatever hit him split his scalp open."
Oda lumbered up beside her husband then, and peered down at the fallen man. "Something split that thick-skulled head? Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellah."
Chuckling to herself, Mariah snapped a small glass vial apart, cradled the marshal's head in the crook of her arm, and waved the salts beneath his nose. He stirred slightly, and she did it again.
The first sensation to reach him was an intense chill. He was colder than he'd ever been in his entire life and could feel the few sparks of heat still left in his body flickering, and then slowly dying, one by one. For some reason, he didn't really care. He was content to drift away on that frigid cloud. But then a new sensation swept over him, something bitter, a bright, hot odor that filled the inside of his head with tacks, and nails, and shards of glass. He shuddered violently, and then slipped back down into the sleepy comfort of his icy cave.
Mariah watched the marshal's eyelids flutter and then grow still. Glancing up at her father, she said, "He's worse than I thought. He's going to need a lot more care than I can give him out here."
Speaking in her usual drowsy manner, Oda made her own observation. "You know how serious a bump on the head can look at first. I bet he'll be up in no time."
Again Mariah parted the marshal's auburn lashes. "I don't think so. Take a look at those eyes."
Both Oda and her husband peered down at the injured man. Zack chuckled at the sight. "He looks just like that big yellow dog of yours did the day he tangled with our mule a few years back. Remember him?"
"You mean Cain?" Mariah thought back to her childhood and her very first pet. She'd been sure that the mule had killed her precious dog, what with his brown eyes rolled back into his head and his tongue hanging out, but Cain had surprised her by leaping to his feet a few minutes after the incident, and running off as if nothing had ever happened. She laughed at the memory. "I guess the marshal does look a little like Cain now that you mention it. Even his tongue's hanging out."
"Not only looks like him," Oda said. "The way this fellah struts around flapping that ornery tongue of his, he and that dog could be twins when it comes to just plain raising Cain."
Chuckling to herself over the recollections of why they'd chosen such a name for the dog, Mariah continued to sweep the salts across the marshal's upper lip as she playfully said, "Come on, Cain the Second. Wake up."
He stirred again, tasting something vile. The horrid, bitter odor had returned. Through the pain inside his head he heard voices, words too vague and fuzzy to understand except for the one: Cain. Cain this and Cain that, he thought he heard them say. That loathsome smell reached his nostrils again, this time permeating his brain and burning the backs of his eyeballs, jolting him to wide-eyed consciousness.
"Take it easy," Mariah said, pinning the marshal's shoulders to the ground. "You've had a little accident."
His blurred gaze darted to the woman, and then beyond her to a pair of vague figures who stood staring down at him. The trio might have been wooden statues for all they meant to him. "What—what happened? Who are you?"
Mariah shot a curious gaze to her father as she spoke to the lawman. "We're the Pe
nny family. Who are you?"
He opened his mouth to speak before he realized he didn't know what to say. It was a ridiculous state to be in—confused, here in body, but not in mind. He knew his name. Of course he knew his name. It was... hell, he didn't know. He sighed, straining to remember, knowing the answers were lying there in the folds of his injured brain, not knowing how to reach them.
He made another effort, and became enraged at his lack of instant success. Any damn fool knew his own name, any damn idiot at all. He tried harder. Everyone knew their name. Everyone. And his was...
The Law and Miss Penny
A Historical Western Romance
by
Sharron Ihle
~
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The Law and Miss Penny
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Bestselling author, Sharon Ihle has written more than a dozen novels set in the American West. All have garnered rave reviews and several have foreign translations. Many of Sharon's books have won prestigious awards, and as an author, she has been a Romantic Times nominee for Career Achievement in Love and Laughter. A former Californian, Sharon now makes her home on the frozen plains of North Dakota. Hard to believe, but it's true.
You can contact Sharon through her website: www.sharonihle.com
