The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  He shoved the door wide, and it clattered as it hit the wall. “Mrs. Harlson!”

  Wide-eyed, the woman froze. Her children shrieked, the littles scrambling under the table. PJ’s gun was in his hand, though he’d not leveled it at the woman. Clay flung a staying hand toward his friend.

  “Stand down, PJ.”

  PJ’s rigid stance eased, though he didn’t holster the pistol.

  “What do you want?” Mrs. Harlson spat.

  “Let us check your house and barn. Make sure Richards isn’t here.”

  “Fine. Check. Then get out and don’t come back!”

  PJ entered first and disappeared through the door immediately to their right.

  Clay stepped inside, indicating a spot in the center of the kitchen, away from everything. “Stand there and don’t move, please.”

  “May I comfort my children?” The older girl had also hidden under the table, trying to quiet the littles.

  “Once we’re done, ma’am.”

  She glowered but complied, and he scanned the kitchen area. He checked behind a small door, finding a pantry with scant supplies, then eased toward the bedroom. As he reached the doorway, PJ stood from checking under the two beds and shook his head. Clay backed out again and faced Mrs. Harlson.

  “We’ll check the barn and be on our way. Just one more question.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure with your husband gone and three young’uns to care for, it’s hard to get out to hunt, chop wood, that sort of thing. Is there anything you need?”

  Her harsh expression softened, and her eyes misted. “A neighbor, Peter Anderson, said he’d help us, thank you.”

  “Very good. I’m sorry we upset your children, ma’am. You may go to them now.”

  He and PJ exited and checked the barn. Once they’d mounted up and started back toward Kearney, PJ pulled alongside him.

  “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “You weren’t seriously plannin’ to hunt her some supper, were you? Her husband’s accused of train robbin’ and he’s escaped the jail.”

  “Oh, I suspect she’s a lot more guilty than she’s lettin’ on. But her children are innocent in all this. They shouldn’t go without just because their pa’s of the criminal persuasion. Besides, did you notice the woodpile?”

  PJ twisted, craning to see the distant house. “No.”

  “Since the last snowfall, either she chopped a whole lot of wood or someone’s done it for her. And now we know who. Peter Anderson. We’ll head over to see him tomorrow.”

  Stephen cursed the frozen ground. January in Nebraska was hardly the time to dig, even if only to cut sod bricks. Yet agreeing to help homesteader Peter Anderson build several sod buildings had given him a place to hide while the hubbub died down in both Kearney and Hastings. And it kept him close enough to Mary, five miles away, that he could look in on her and the kids.

  Near frozen and his belly grumbling for food, Stephen trudged back to Anderson’s house a half mile away. He’d worked alone the last two days after Anderson locked himself in the bedroom, supposedly ill. He’d left Stephen to sleep on the floor of the outer room—another source of irritation. So it was no welcome sight to find two empty kindling buckets waiting outside the door. Aggravation needling him, he grabbed the containers and trudged off to fill them. Only when he got around to the woodpile, it was dangerously low. What had this fool been thinking, not laying in enough wood to see himself through the winter? Tossing aside the buckets, Stephen put a log on the chopping block and set to work.

  An hour later, he’d chopped enough wood to see them through a short while, so he slipped inside and kicked off his dirty boots, rattling the tools Anderson had left next to the door. He stripped out of his winter garb and found the other man at the potbellied stove. The scent of pork filled the house.

  “Feeling better?” Annoyance dripped from the words. It was the first he’d seen the man in days.

  Anderson glanced Stephen’s way then returned to his cooking. “Did you get da wood?” Fatigue punctuated his thick Swedish accent.

  What would Anderson do if he weren’t there? Sick or not, he’d drag his lazy bones outside and do what needed done. Instead, he’d crawled in bed and left every chore to Stephen. Cutting sod, feeding animals, chopping logs. He’d better start pulling his weight or Stephen would leave—hubbub or not. He’d agreed to help build sod buildings, not become Anderson’s slave.

  “Yes, I chopped wood.” He cursed the man. “Why is your supply so low?”

  “I take some to a neighbor who need my help. Then I get sick—too sick to chop more.”

  “I’m just about frozen through right now, so don’t ask me to do anything else today. I’m gonna sit and thaw myself out.”

  He walked past the man, glaring on his way to the fireplace at the far end of the room. There the fire was long burned out and the air around it cold.

  Irritation seized him. “You couldn’t have dragged yourself out of your bed to keep this fire going?”

  “I tell you. I been too sick.”

  He set the buckets down and faced the man, noting there was only one piece of pork in the pan. “Not so sick you can’t cook yourself some supper, I see.”

  Anderson glowered in his direction. “The food you cook tastes bad. How do I get my strength back eating it?”

  “You ingrate!” He paced toward the other man, cursing as he went. “I have picked up all the chores while you’ve lounged in your bed, including the cooking. And you want to complain about it?”

  “Go away.” Anderson waved the fork he was holding, a weak attempt to shoo Stephen.

  “The least you can do is throw an extra piece of meat in that pan for me.”

  “I didn’t know you would come so soon. Dis all da pork I bring up from da cellar.”

  Something cold swirled in his gut. “I ought to hit you, you unappreciative, selfish fool.”

  Anderson turned his back to Stephen. “I am not afraid of you.”

  Laughter bubbled through him, ugly and humorless. “You should be.”

  The Swede brushed the threat aside with a disinterested motion.

  Stewing, Stephen paced back to the fireplace and, grabbing his bag, fished several of Emma’s letters from inside. Opening one, he skimmed the note, then crumpled it and tossed it into the fireplace. He followed suit with several more, then laid a few pieces of kindling atop them. Striking a match, he lit the papers, watching them shrivel and burn. As the fire took, he tossed on a few bigger logs, eyeing Anderson’s progress as he did.

  Once the man transferred the pork to a plate and headed toward the table, Stephen rose and walked to Anderson’s side.

  “Is it good?”

  The Swede looked up. “I have not taken a b—”

  Stephen shoved him hard, sending Anderson sprawling. The plate hit the floor and skittered across the planks. Rushing in, Stephen dropped to a knee and hit him three times, bloodying his nose and lips. He stepped back to survey the damage.

  While Anderson lay blinking, half aware, Stephen rose and walked toward the door. Rummaging through the tools, he grabbed one and returned. The other man pushed himself up slowly, then turned a startled gaze up at him.

  Stephen swung. The head of the hammer caught Peter Anderson above the left eye and toppled him backward again. Bending over him, Stephen landed two more savage blows, caving in the man’s forehead.

  The hammer slipped from his hand with a clatter as blood crept across the plank floor. Stephen watched it, then nudged his victim.

  No response.

  Squatting beside him, he twisted Anderson’s face toward him. “I told you, you should be afraid of me.”

  The scent of the pork lured him, and he retrieved the fallen plate and the piece of meat a few inches away, then stood. Nudging Anderson’s body out of the way, he sat, cut a bite-sized piece, and savored the salty flavor.

  The following afternoon

  “Mr. Anderson?” PJ’s vo
ice and the sharp rap of his knuckles echoed between the house and barn.

  Clay took a look around the yard. His eye snagged on the woodpile—or rather, the lack of one. If what Mary Harlson said was true, that would explain why Anderson’s supply was so small.

  “Hellooo? Anderson!” Again, PJ rapped sharply.

  Clay returned to the front. “Not home?”

  “Isn’t lookin’ like it.”

  “Woodpile’s pretty low.”

  “Mr. Anderson?” Again, PJ knocked, then stepped around to peer in a window on the side of the house. “Clay? C’mere.”

  He joined PJ, who motioned for him to take a look. Leaning in, he cupped his hands around his eyes and scanned the simple house. Table and ladder-backed chairs, stove, and well beyond those, a couple of more comfortable seats. “What am I lookin’ for?”

  “The large stain beside the table?”

  He pulled away from the window, his heart pounding.

  PJ disappeared around the corner. “Door’s open.”

  Clay hurried after him, drawing his gun.

  The house was still. Unnaturally so. While PJ moved farther into the room on cat feet, Clay bent over the sizable stain. Blood. Sticky, but it looked to have been there several hours, maybe longer. He rose.

  Across the house, PJ neared a fireplace, then circled to a door on the far wall. Catching Clay’s eye, he pantomimed that he would check behind that door, and Clay motioned he would take the one nearer to where he stood. As he drew his door open, he found a steep flight of steps leading to a dark cellar. A worn lantern hung on a peg beside the door. Clay lit it and descended, gun ready.

  All was unnervingly still. The heavy scent of musty earth filled his nostrils. The large cellar held shelving with a good amount of provisions on one end, two piles of coal on the other. He took in the space, then walked to the piles of coal. Edging around the smaller one, he caught sight of a man’s leather boot protruding from the pile.

  Lord, no. Please … He moved to a better angle, and the whole foot came into view. He eyed the shovel propped in the corner, but with his shoulder still healing, he’d struggle to use it.

  “Clay?” PJ called from upstairs. “There’s nobody up here.”

  “Come on down. Think I found Anderson, but I need your help to get to him.”

  PJ’s footfalls filled the cellar, and when he came around the end of the stairs, he carried a sheaf of papers.

  Clay motioned to the pile at his feet.

  PJ came around the other side and stopped, scrubbing his bearded face. “Richards is getting worse. More deranged.”

  “We don’t know it was Richards who did this.”

  He handed Clay the stack of papers. “This’ll change your mind.”

  PJ shoveled coal while Clay perused the papers. Emma’s crisp white stationery and pretty script were overly familiar, but rather than scriptures and prayers, these were the flowing words she’d addressed to Stephen.

  “Where’d you find these?”

  “In the tinder bucket upstairs. There’s a few charred scraps of paper in the fireplace as well.”

  “So we can place Richards in the house.”

  PJ cast another couple of shovelfuls aside, then squatted. Carefully, he brushed away the final layers covering the rigid body and stopped with a startled grunt. “Clay.”

  He glanced up, finding a bloodied corpse with its forehead caved in. “Lord have mercy. You’re right. He’s growing more violent by the day.”

  For the past two hours, nothing had stirred at Mary’s homestead, other than when she dashed to the woodpile and back. No one had come, and she’d not left. With dusk upon him, Stephen finally felt comfortable enough to approach.

  He entered her barn where he rubbed down and fed his horses, then took the crate of food he’d brought from Anderson’s house and walked to the door.

  “Mary?” He knocked.

  A scowl on her face, she opened the door, shotgun in hand. Recognition flashed in her eyes, but she looked past him, scanning the dark yard before she hooked his arm and drew him inside. Once the door clapped shut, she smiled up at him.

  “Stephen. It’s good to see you.”

  She was a pretty sight.

  “Is everything all right?” He motioned to the gun. “Someone bothering you?”

  She skirted around him and stood on tiptoes to hang the gun in place above the door. As she struggled, he shifted the crate to his right hip and, standing intimately close, lifted it in place. With it safely stowed, he pulled her in for a hug.

  “Nothing unexpected.” She wiggled out of his grasp. “Lawmen come by every day or two, asking questions about Jasper.”

  Daisy stood at the potbellied stove, with Mabel and Jesse playing on a quilt near the warmth.

  “The two who came yesterday weren’t askin’ about Papa,” Daisy said, stirring something in the large pot on the stove. “ ‘Member, Mama?”

  “Hush now, child.” She spat the words over her shoulder, then turned back to him. “Might not be safe to stay real long, given they come so frequently.”

  The comment irritated him. He’d been looking forward to this visit. “I was planning to stay the night, make sure you have what you need. I can leave before dawn if need be.”

  “That’d be best.” Mary peered over the edge of the crate and sucked in an eager breath. “Is this for me?”

  Her enthusiasm thrilled him. “All of it.”

  She set the crate on the table, almost giddy with anticipation. As she rummaged through the contents, her brown eyes sparkled. It was good to see her happy.

  Stephen stripped out of his winter clothes and tossed them over a chair. “What were they here for? The men yesterday.”

  Her full lips rounded at the sight of a can of peaches, then curved into a smile.

  “Mary, why were the men here?”

  Daisy turned. “They were asking about you, Uncle Stephen.”

  Mary dropped the can she was holding and, grabbing the girl’s arm, gave her a sharp pop on the rump. “I said to hush, girl. Go lie on the bed until you learn to mind.”

  The child wailed and, hands covering her backside, scooted into the bedroom and shut the door.

  Stephen watched her go, something in his chest tugging at the pitiful sight. “You’re being a bit hard on the girl, don’t you think?”

  Expression full of guilt, she turned his way. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say anything that might upset you.”

  “I’m more upset that you’d try to keep it from me. Who were these men, and why were they asking about me?”

  She returned to perusing the crate’s contents. “There’ve been so many lawmen here since the escape, I can’t keep ’em straight.”

  Mary was nobody’s fool. What wasn’t she saying? “You must remember something.”

  She shrugged. “One was from … Hastings, maybe?” She returned to the crate, and her eyes lit as she pulled a large slab of salt pork from the bottom.

  Hastings. Where he’d been only days ago. Where he’d fired a couple of wild shots in the direction of the cowboy Timmons. Had he hit the fool? Perhaps he’d killed him. If so, good riddance.

  “I think they were trying to get to Jasper but somehow figured you were in on the jailbreak.” Mary lined several jars in the pantry neatly. “They were usin’ you as a fresh angle to get to him. Nothin’ more.”

  Her words rang hollow, but he wouldn’t press her—for now. Especially since little Mabel toddled up. He scooped the child and bounced her, eliciting a giggle. Soon Jesse pulled at his trouser leg, and Stephen picked him up as well. With both littles in his arms, he danced, the children squealing in delight. When he sashayed into Mary’s path, he blocked her movements until she danced a few steps with him. Then she swatted his hip with the back of her hand.

  “Move, you big galoot. You’re as incorrigible as Jasper!”

  Stephen winked at her. “You think I could go get Daisy? She’s been in there awhile now.”

  �
�If it’ll get you out from under my feet whilst I add some things to make this bland soup tastier, yes.”

  He pecked her on the cheek, then scurried off with the young ones to fetch Daisy. In the other room, the lantern glowed softly, and the eldest Harlson girl sprawled across one mattress. Stephen put Mabel and Jesse down on the other and knelt beside Daisy’s bed.

  She sniffled and looked at him. “I miss Papa. Mama’s not so short-tempered when he’s around.”

  “I miss your papa too.” He opened his arms, and Daisy burrowed into them.

  “I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “I know you didn’t. You were just telling Uncle Stephen about the men, weren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Who were they? Do you remember their names?”

  “No.”

  Disappointment wound through him.

  “But one of ’em had a funny name like … dirt. Or mud.”

  “Clay?”

  “That’s it.”

  He cursed silently. Then he’d not hit Timmons. “What’d they say to your mama?”

  Both Mabel and Jesse piled onto the bed with them, tumbling around and making it hard to concentrate on Daisy. Stephen whisked her from that bed and deposited her onto the other.

  “They said you killed people. A bunch of ’em. They told Mama to be careful around you.” Her brow furrowed. “Why would they say that?”

  Stephen looked her in the eye, unblinking. “They’re liars. They don’t like Uncle Stephen. They’re bad men, Daisy girl, and if they come back, don’t trust ’em.”

  “Not the mud guy, but the other one—he said you’re … a special kind of tetched, and he tapped his head.” She demonstrated.

  Did he now?

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s an ugly lie about Uncle Stephen.”

  “I don’t like those men.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  Mabel and Jesse again slipped to the bed where they talked, and this time he tossed Jesse down and tickled the boy. His cackles of laughter livened up Daisy who, along with Mabel, piled into the mix.

  The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Mary’s soup was bland, the bread half stale. By an hour after their meal, the children all fell asleep, and he helped tuck them into bed—the two girls on the big mattress and Jesse in the crib at its foot. With them out of sight, Stephen led Mary back to the kitchen and held a chair for her. He took the one facing her.