by Julie Weston
Before she left, she removed her extra coat and sweater. The sun had warmed the day and she wouldn’t need them. Without her sled and because the snow had settled slightly, the walking was easier.
“Moonshine, why didn’t you wake up?”
Moonie cocked his head, his ears flopping slightly at the ends, and looked around. He marked a spot by the house, spied a piece of kindling that was well-mouthed, ran to it, brought it back, and dropped it at her feet. Bark.
“No, I’m not going to throw it. I don’t want you mucking up whatever tracks we can find.”
He lay down, his tongue hanging out, and barked again, then put his head on his paws.
The trough led to the river. If Nell stepped in it, she could muck it up. She decided to move to the right edge of the snowfield and follow it from there. At the edge of the river the track ended. Now what? On the other side, she could see another indentation that continued toward a grove of aspens. If someone had crossed the river carrying a body, surely she could cross too. Then she spied a snow bridge. She hesitated, wondering whether to retrieve her camera. No. As long as the sun was still too high to take good photos, she would carry out her self-assigned task.
The snow bridge creaked as she hurried over. In the grove the track widened and became a large circle, as if someone had tramped around, looking for something. She rested against one of the trees and carefully studied the white ground. Just as she decided there was nothing to see and therefore nothing to report to the sheriff—let him destroy the track—the sun moved enough to cast a shadow from a mound of snow. Moonie stepped away from her leg, where he had been patiently waiting. He lifted his nose and sniffed and took two steps in the direction of the hump.
Nell weaved around several aspens. The dog nosed into the snow, then arped and pawed at the edge. When she, too, leaned over to scrape snow away where Moonie pawed, she saw the snow had been packed hard by a shovel or some other instrument. Other paws had been digging at one end, without much success. The coyotes! Was this what they had been yipping over?
With one of her walking sticks, Nell dug through the snow pack, then reached in with her hand. Her fingers touched cloth and under it, something hard and frozen. The body. She jerked her hand out. This was different than moving the ice-faced man in the dark of the cabin. Then, she had assumed the man had frozen to death, a grim ending, but not all that unusual in winter. Now, what she touched, buried out of sight of the cabin, the road, and men’s eyes, was sinister. The grove was quiet. Shadows extended on the snow. Time to return to the cabin.
“Come on, Moonie. Let’s leave.” She re-packed the snow around the hole she’d dug, hoping the coyotes wouldn’t find the body before the sheriff did. The dog began to cross the snow bridge, then stopped, barked, and returned to Nell. “Come on!” Nell tramped onto the narrow bridge. In the middle, she understood why Moonie had stopped. The snow groaned. She stood still. Now what? Go forward or go back? One more step. Ice under the snow rasped like a saw on wood. The bridge broke. Nell dropped and heavy blocks hit her back, her leg, and then her head as she fell sideways. Snow brushed against her face. The river swirled around her. Water does rush, she thought, before it covered her head.
CHAPTER 6
The river filled Nell’s mouth as the current bumped her against the rocks. She choked and scrambled for air. She still clutched one walking stick and shoved it down to stop herself. Her head poked above the river and while she gasped for breath and labored to bring one snowshoe under her, she leaned on the stick to push up, discovering she had almost drowned in water hardly deeper than her knees! Her clothes were drenched, and clumps of ice splashed around her. The icy shock dizzied her. Moonie leaped up to grab her arm, almost tipping her over again.
“I’m all right. Stop!”
He barked and butted against her, pushing her toward the snowbank. Wading in snowshoes was easier than she expected. They and her stick lent stability in the rushing river. Getting out and up the bank was more difficult, but finally she succeeded. Already, her clothing felt stiff, and she shivered so much, she could hardly walk.
Sunshine still flooded the field, adding a touch of warmth to her hands when she removed her gloves. Not again, she thought. If she had to be rescued a second time, she’d give up and return to Chicago. Moonie huddled next to her and she warmed her hands on his belly, and then slogged back to the house. There, she stripped off her clothes, hung them on the rock fireplace, and wrapped the Chinese robe around herself—twice—as she had guessed. Still trembling and hardly able to function, Nell slumped down to the couch. What next? Moonie barked, and she jumped, startled. Wood. Paper. In a dazed slow motion, she crumpled paper, and stacked three pieces of wood. Then what? Oh, light it. Matches. In her pocket. Wet.
Tears gathered and spilled, warm on her cheek. “Need matches. Fire.” So tired.
Moonshine nosed around his dish, pushing it out of sight under the counter. Was he thirsty again? Nell stood. She had to move. He had helped her; she could help him. The sideboard was plywood with linoleum tacked to the top. Underneath were shelves behind a dirty curtain of sorts. On one of the shelves was a jar of wood matches.
“Fire. Then water.” The floor was so cold, her feet turned numb. Once the fire started, she pumped water for the dog and then lay down as close to the flames as was safe. Moonie trotted over, his toenails clicking, and sidled up to her back, making a fire-Nell-dog sandwich.
She couldn’t sleep, but she did.
Beep, beep. Beeeeeeep. Beep.
Nell came to, shoved out of a dream where coyotes yipped and chased her, gnashing at her heels with jagged teeth, while she struggled on snowshoes. Moonie still slept.
She crawled to her feet and went to the door. On the porch, she saw that it was still afternoon, almost gone, but not quite. Henry had returned early. Waving her hand, she shouted, “I’m not ready yet.” In the distance, she could see him wave, too. His bass voice carried better than hers, but all she could gather was that he would wait.
Back inside, Nell discovered her clothing was dry, except for her socks. She dug in her pack and found the extra pair Jack Lane had given her, and dressed in a hurry, adding the sweater and coat she’d left there earlier. The light was perfect. While she was waving and shouting, she’d noticed that pillars of cloud, textured gun-metal gray and white against the blue, had marched into the sky south of the house. This photo would be exactly what she wanted.
“Moonshine, wake up!” He lay as if dead. She shook him. He roused and licked her hand. How strange, but she couldn’t worry about it now. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
The dog scrambled to his feet and watched her gather her camera and then followed her out the door. This time as Nell left, she felt as if she were leaving something she owned, and strangely, leaving something behind. She paused at the doorway and studied the room. What was it? This cabin had sheltered her twice and saved her life the second time.
Close to the location where she had taken the moon photo, Nell again stood her tripod and camera. A rosy glow suffused the meadow and the mountains behind. She waited a few minutes more. The light turned almost blue, chilling her again, but she knew the photo would be worth the wait. At the edge of her vision, she saw Henry watching from the road. From no men in her life except a boss who treated her like a cipher, she now had Rosy, Sheriff Azgo, Bert the Butcher, and Henry. All were curious about what she did. Once she printed the negative of the body, she could tell the sheriff the full story.
Nell set the aperture and shutter and exposed the film, pleased at how the light again changed the cabin. This time, it appeared sinister, although perhaps her guilt colored it. She turned to face the opposite direction and saw another scene—a sky filled with cloud patterns like fish scales and a single sunbeam pointed toward the Boulder Mountains. As quickly as she could, she turned her camera, re-focused, and slid in another film holder. The beam grew larger rather than disappearing and she thought this photo might be the one. Even if it was sentimental
.
The sky changed yet again, but it was too late to try for another. Something moved close to the river, catching her eye. She saw a dark figure, but couldn’t tell if it were man or animal, the way it hunched over. Bears were in their winter caves, so if it were an animal it would have to be wolf or coyote or maybe a deer. “Moonie, do you see what I see?” She pointed the dog’s nose toward it, but he wasn’t interested. Soon, the scene was empty and growing dark. Henry no longer stood waiting for her.
Fifteen minutes it took to dismantle camera, tripod, and pack everything onto the sled. The effects of her earlier dunking had worn off, although she shivered from time to time, and the elation she felt over the newest photographs buoyed her spirits. Pulling the sled no longer seemed such a chore and she joined Henry in the car and they bumped back to town, this time with Nellie talking about the light, her photograph, the beauty of the area, how the snow sparkled, the silence in the trees, the difference between this scene and the noise, smell, and dankness out her window in Chicago. Henry could hardly tell a single story.
Her mood was as changeable as the clouds. In the boarding house, Nell climbed the stairs reluctantly, her pack too heavy, her boots still a little squishy and leaving marks. Mrs. Bock had scolded her for missing dinner and ordered her to return for something to eat. Nell wasn’t hungry. She had to talk with Sheriff Azgo, tell him what she’d done. Her tale sounded like a flight of fancy. And she still didn’t have a print to confirm the first part. The negative would have to do, for now.
When she passed the bathroom, she spied the tub. A hot bath—that was what she needed, not food. She turned on the spigots and scurried to her room to retrieve her exotic robe and some bath salts. Against all the rules, Nell filled the tub to within six inches of the top and let herself down until she was immersed to her neck. Her eyes drooped and a nap threatened when she heard a commotion.
“What are you doing?” A woman’s voice shouted. “Stop, thief!”
Clunkety-clunk. Boots pounded down the stairway, along the hall. A door slammed. The boots ran out the back way.
“Oh, noooooo!” The wail died away, and then Moonie howled from the back porch.
Hands pounded on the bathroom door. “Miss Burns! Miss Burns! Better come out!” The voice belonged to Mrs. Bock.
Nell pulled the plug to let the water out. She didn’t want her landlady to scold her again. She stepped carefully out onto the rug, glimpsed herself in the mirror, pink and “healthy looking,” grabbed her new robe, smelling again the lavender from the sachets she hadn’t yet removed from the pockets, unlocked the door, and poked her head out.
“What is it? What happened?”
Mrs. Smith, the woman with the kewpie-doll face, stood at Nellie’s door, turning one way and then another. “I tried! Stop him!” She moaned like an old lady, which she was not.
Fear stabbed at Nellie. “Stop who? What happened?”
“Your door. It was open.” Mrs. Smith spoke in jerky phrases. “That man. He had—things. The drawer.” She faced the stairway. “He ran.”
Nellie dashed out of the bathroom. The door to her room was open, and inside, everything was tumbled. The bedclothes had been pulled off, the mattress spilled to one side. Every drawer in the dresser was open with clothes and personal possessions hanging out or scattered on the floor.
Her pack! When Nellie saw the pack was still there, she was so relieved, she almost cried. Nothing else mattered. The camera was irreplaceable. Then she realized the pack, too, had been rifled and the contents perhaps dumped on the floor. She sidestepped the mess to assess the damage. Her camera was behind the pack, one box panel cracked, but the lens was intact. The tripod she found on the floor next to the bed. The film holders from her day’s work were beside the tripod, thankfully not broken, and the film case, although open, still had its contents intact.
“Who did this?” she demanded of Mrs. Bock and Mrs. Smith, both wringing their hands in the doorway. “Why did someone ruin my things?” Moonie howled again from the porch. Nell turned on her landlady. “If you’d let Moonie stay here, this wouldn’t have happened!” Shouting wouldn’t help. She tried to calm herself.
“Who was it?” Nell asked Mrs. Smith. Although upset, Nell’s indignation was not as keen as if her camera had been truly broken and her film stolen.
“I don’t know! His face. Bandanna around his nose.” Mrs. Smith’s mouth opened in O’s before each phrase and her black bun of hair slid sideways each time she turned her head. Unlike the night the woman wanted in the bathroom, her voice was breathy and soprano with excitement. She pointed to the room, to the stairs, and then she mimicked someone limping, clutching her breast. “Carried things.” The woman’s long skirt was a remnant of pre-war fashions, and she nearly caught her foot in the hem. The hallway was dim with only one light at the top of the stairs, but Mrs. Smith’s cheeks glowed red, as if she’d lavished rouge on them.
“But what—?” Nell scanned her room quickly. Was anything missing?
Only then did Mrs. Bock realize what Nell wore. “Where did you get that Chink robe?”
“I—I brought it—” Nell stumbled on her words and jammed her hands in the pockets, rubbing against the sachets.
“Figured as much. Ain’t no one here would wear such as that, except those two Chinese in Hailey. Damn Chinamen. Them and their opium. Burned theirselves down near Hailey. Most of ’em left where they ain’t wanted.” Mrs. Bock sniffed. “Smells like ’em.” Then she took Mrs. Smith’s elbow. “Come on, Gladys. I’ll call the sheriff and warm up some dinner for you and Miss Burns.”
Gladys Smith, too, looked at the robe, as if noticing it for the first time. The O of her mouth widened and drooped. Then the two women slipped down the stairs.
Nell was thankful they left, but surprised they didn’t offer to help clean the mess. The venom in Mrs. Bock’s voice shocked Nell. And what was missing? The first place she checked was beneath the paper lining in her underwear drawer. When she felt the little store of bills, all of her money, she breathed easier, although her camisoles and personal things had been pulled forward and most were on the floor.
One by one, Nell sorted her belongings, folded her clothes, replaced her belts and scarves, all the while thinking she knew what was gone, but couldn’t place it. Then she did know. The negatives on the dresser top. Her moon shots. Who would want them? And the body. Then, she too wailed. Her proof! She dropped to her hands and knees and felt all along the floor, under the carpet. Nothing. She sprawled on the floor. Maybe they flipped under the bed. The sachets balled up against her stomach and she sat back on her feet. That was it! The extra sachets she had taken from the drawer at Last Chance Ranch were gone, too. The man must have been after them and maybe the robe.
How would anyone know she had both the robe and the sachets? She felt violated. And frightened. The sheriff and Rosy knew she had a photograph of the man she mentioned, but they hadn’t believed her. Nausea threatened her. Maybe she did need some tea. She began to take off her robe but decided to wear it to keep it safe.
“Mrs. Bock,” she called down the stairs. The landlady appeared at the bottom.
“Dinner’s ready. You come down here and we’ll help you clean up later.” Her voice was back to normal, even though Nell still wore the robe.
“Would you send Moonie up, please? I won’t leave my room unguarded again.”
Without an argument, Mrs. Bock turned back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Moonie bounded up the stairs, tongue hanging out, and yipping with pleasure. He rubbed against the robe, sniffed at the pockets, tramped out a circle in front of the dresser, and then lay down near the door.
“Good dog.” Nell patted his head, then leaned over and hugged him. She closed the door and went down for tea and something to eat. She was famished. Just let the thief try again.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Bock stopped talking when she arrived. Mrs. Smith sat at the table with one foot in a pan of water. Her landlady brought them pieces o
f warmed shepherd’s pie. “I called the sheriff, not that he’ll do much good.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith, for trying to stop the man,” Nell said. “Are you all right? Did you hurt your foot chasing him?” She moved to Mrs. Smith and touched her shoulder. It felt like a bird wing.
The woman shook her head and stirred her foot around. “Blisters.”
“Did you see who it was?”
Her mouth full, Mrs. Smith shook her head and gestured with a fork, pointing toward the ceiling. Finally, she said, “Tall, he was. He knocked into me and I tried to grab him.” She was an ordinary woman of thirty-five or so with gray streaks in her black hair, vertical lines framing her mouth—not laughter marks, Nell surmised—and eyebrows so faint, she carried a look of surprise.
“I hope he didn’t hurt you. You were so brave to try and stop him.”
Mrs. Smith nodded, ate rapidly, and shoved her plate away. She dried her foot off in a towel, poured the liquid into the sink, and donned a pointed toe shoe. She drummed the table with her fingers, groped in her pocket, found nothing, and stood. “I need sleep—long day tomorrow.” The lines in her face deepened. Her cheeks no longer glowed.
Rosy stomped in the back door.
Mrs. Smith lifted her shoulders and smiled. “Why, Rosy. You missed all the excitement. I almost caught a thief!” She leaned toward him and raised her hand as if to touch him. “If you’d been here, you could have saved us.”
Rosy snorted and sidestepped. “Wondered why that no-good hound was howlin’.” He turned to Mrs. Bock. “Got anythin’ for a feller to wet his whistle?” Then he glanced at Nell, a glance that turned into a stare. “What in the devil—?”
