Jackson's Woman

by Judi Lind

  Ignoring the muttered threat, Jericho turned back to Tug McMillan. “So, what’s happening here?”

  Tug scratched his grizzled red beard. “Fire down in number three shaft at the four-hundred-foot level. Don’t look good.”

  Jericho nodded. Dust from the sulphide ores was highly combustible, and, when dumped into a haulage shaft, often ignited spontaneously. Although bulkheads were erected to contain the frequent fires, they were often unsuccessful. Down at the United Verde Mine, they’d had a fire burning steadily in one of the shafts for several years. Jericho hoped they didn’t have a similar situation here.

  But he needn’t have worried about anyone recognizing the fugitive he’d brought into their midst. Other than Jess Wiggins’s lecherous interest, the other hundred or so people gathered around the mine opening had more serious matters concerning them than Jericho’s new saloon girl.

  Crossing to the other side of the wagon, he helped Vera to the ground. “Stay close to me and follow my lead,” he whispered. With an arm slung casually around her shoulder, he led her to where a group of women were busily tearing sheeting material into bandages.

  “Mornin’, ladies.” He tipped his black Stetson. “This here’s my new chanteuse, Mizz Vera LaFleur. She thought maybe she could help care for the injured when we haul them out.”

  The oldest woman present, a short dumpling in a lavender calico dress sprigged with tiny yellow flowers, stepped forward and thrust out a pudgy hand. “Martha Femple, Mizz LaFleur. We’d be glad of the help.”

  Taking Vera’s hand between her two smaller ones, Martha asked curiously, “What is it Jericho said you were?”

  “A chanteuse,” he repeated, not giving Vera a chance to object. “A singer. A world-famous entertainer we imported all the way from San Francisco, California to bring some culture to our town. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.”

  Martha pressed a chubby finger against her cheek. “You know—I believe I have heard your name. A world-famous singer right here in Jerome. Oh, my.”

  The other women twittered in excitement.

  Dropping her voice, Martha continued in a confidential tone, “You know, I used to sing in the choir before we left Saint Louis and some said my vocalizations were rather sweet.” She raised her voice as if to ensure being overheard by her confederates. “I always thought I should have gone on the stage.” She turned to treat the other women to a discourse on the difficulties of singing professionally.

  “A singer!”

  “How exciting!”

  “Exciting is hardly the word,” Vera murmured so that Jericho alone would hear. She laid her hand on his shoulder and pressed her warm lips against his ear. “If these people ever have to listen to me sing, they’ll probably string you up beside me.”

  Jericho ignored her stricken expression. She was just being modest. He’d once heard her singing a lullaby to one of the babies and thought she’d possessed a nice voice. At least she’d carried a tune. So when it came time to explain her presence to the townspeople, he’d decided “chanteuse” sounded more respectable than “saloon girl.” Maybe Min-e-wah wouldn’t be so quick to flay him alive.

  Following Martha Femple’s lead, the other women gathered close to introduce themselves, anxious to catch a firsthand glimpse of the glamorous “chantense.”

  Relieved by their ready acceptance, Jericho left Vera on her own to embellish the famous singer story and headed for the mine opening.

  Before she had time to trip herself up in her own lies, a sharp cry from the mine entrance sent them all scurrying.

  A man, his face coated with thick red dust, burst through the timbered mouth. “They’re comin’ out! We’ll need ever’ able-bodied man to help tote ’em.”

  The gathered men surged toward the mine in a single, eager swell. The women hurried to get a glimpse, too, each hoping in her heart that the men would be carried out alive.

  Martha Femple was the first to dare voice her fear. “Are they all alive, Frankie?”

  The dirt-shrouded miner shook his head. “Cain’t tell yet. Some are moanin’ but others are dreadful still.”

  He turned and darted back inside, followed by the sea of men ready to help their friends and co-workers.

  The clearing was deserted, quiet Then a young woman with a babe bundled in her arms started to sob. Martha moved swiftly but unobtrusively to her side and wrapped the younger woman in her ample arms. “Don’t fret, hon. Your man will be fine. You just wait and see.”

  The seconds ticked by. Slowly. Dreadfully.

  Then the muted sound of voices grew into a loud buzz and the women drew even closer to the opening. The first rescue team was coming out.

  “Okay, ladies, you all step aside now and let me see to these fellas.” A heavyset man of about forty lumbered off a wagon and pushed the gathered women aside. He swiped at a stream of perspiration that trickled down his face.

  Carrying a homemade litter fashioned from a wool blanket and a couple of mop handles, four men dashed out of the mine with the first bloody miner.

  They laid the inert body in front of the heavy man and stepped aside.

  The large man, obviously the physician Jericho had referred to earlier, knelt over the injured miner. Before he could tell the assembled women whether or not his patient was still alive, the second rescue unit toted out another bloodied survivor. And another. And still another.

  The small clearing broke into pandemonium.

  The doctor hurried from one man to the next in an obvious effort to triage the most desperately wounded. But he’d no sooner start to examine one, when someone would call him away.

  Ignoring her pretty new dress, Vera stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve had nursing experience. What can I do?”

  “Roll up your sleeves.” He rummaged in his bag and drew out several rolls of white bandage material. “Go around and try to stop all the bleeding if you can. If you find one that’s hit a spurter, call me!”

  Understanding that the man meant she should watch for anyone with a severed artery, Vera grabbed the bandages and ran to the nearest man.

  She worked for thirty minutes, wiping, bandaging and running her practiced hand over arms and legs, searching for broken bones.

  There were so many injured men scattered on the rocky red ground that it looked like a war zone. So far, thankfully, none of the men she’d treated had been fatally injured.

  “Ma’am!” One of the rescue workers called out, “Over here!”

  She patted the shoulder of the miner whose arm she’d just bandaged and raced across the clearing to examine the newest patient. His face was caked with heavy coppery dirt, segmented by streaks of bright red blood.

  Grabbing a damp rag from the outstretched hand of one of the women, Vera swabbed his wound. He’d taken a blow to his left temple. Blood seeped out almost faster than she could blot it off.

  Placing her fingertips slightly behind the seepage, she applied enough pressure to slow the bloody flow. Keeping those fingers firmly in place, she swabbed around the wound with her other hand.

  Although the gash was wide and long, it wasn’t deep. She didn’t know whether the doctor would be able to stitch it, but she did her best to fashion the bandage so it would hold the raw edges of the wound together.

  When she’d finished, she took a clean cloth and wiped the man’s face.

  His eyes fluttered open and she saw he was young, not more than twenty-three or twenty-four. “Hi,” she said softly. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

  He licked his lips, leaving a clean streak on their parched surface. “Lucky to be alive, I reckon.”

  “Yorkie! How’re you doing, boy?” Jess Wiggins leaned over her shoulder, his malodorous breath fouling the air.

  “I’m doin’ okay, I reckon. Least ways now that Miz Ver—”

  Sensing what he was about to say, Vera hurriedly placed her fingertips on his lips. “Shhh. Don’t talk.”

  She turned to Jess Wiggins.
“He needs water. Would you ask one of the women to bring us some?”

  He frowned, obviously displeased at being handed such a menial chore, but eventually grunted and stood up. “Anything for ole Yorkie.”

  When he’d moved away, she withdrew her fingers from the young man’s lips. “Yorkie. is that your name?”

  “Well, shucks, Miz Verity, you know that.”

  She glanced around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My name is Vera...LaFleur. I’m a singer at the Copper Penny.”

  Yorkie raised up on his elbows. “Well, I’ll swan. Iffen you don’t look to be the spittin’ image of her.” He shoved a large hand in her direction. “Folks call me Yorkie. Yorkie Delong. I’m from Louisiana, case you was wonderin’.”

  Smiling at the boy who seemed gifted with looks if not intelligence, she said, “Well, Yorkie, you seem to have survived the collapse without any serious damage. So, I’d better see if I can help someone else.”

  “That’s okay, ma’am. You go on. But I surely do think you must be related to that girl of Rafe Wilson’s.”

  “I don’t think so,” she murmured as she rose to her feet.

  She smiled at the young man one last time and turned around.

  Jess Wiggins was standing directly before her, a tin mug of water in his hand.

  Vera swallowed. There was no way he’d missed Yorkie’s last remark. No way.

  She dipped her head in a slight nod and hurried around the burly miner. When she was ten feet away, she clasped her hands together to quell the trembling and slowly looked back.

  Jess Wiggins was still standing in the same position, cup of water in his huge hand, staring at her.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m telling you I can’t sing.”

  “Trust me, sugar, these ole boys aren’t all that interested in your voice.” ,

  Vera stuck her head around the corner and grimaced. At least a hundred women-starved miners, farmers and assorted cowboys were gathered around the little stage in the corner. Two or three were already stamping their feet in anticipation. “Maybe I could just deal poker. I can play poker.”

  Jericho patted her bare shoulder and adjusted the black feather he’d stuck into her hair. “Nothing to it. Twitch your, er, seat a little and smile a lot, yon’ll have them lying at your feet.”

  She shuddered at the very image of a couple dozen filthy, horny miners groveling at her feet. Think of this as an undercover assignment, she repeated like a litany. The only way to approach these men was to make them trust her, make them want to answer her questions. She could do this. She could. Vera tossed her head, elevating her chin. “All right, don’t say I didn’t warn you. But I’m not twitching anything!”

  Thunderous applause followed her slow passage to the tiny stage. Nodding once to the piano accompanist, Vera broke into the modest repertoire they’d rehearsed earlier in the day. Realizing that she would never be confused with a balladeer, Vera had hummed the only three songs whose words she knew. Not surprisingly, Hank the pianist had never heard any of them. Still, after four hours’ work they’d smoothed out a couple tunes she hoped she could carry.

  Now, smiling at her eager audience, she waited for her musical cue and sang the opening line to “Proud Mary.”

  The miners loved the raucous beat. By the end of the number, toes were tapping and the men were singing the chorus of “rolling on the river” better than Vera. Feeling a bit more confident, she surged without a break into “American Pie” and ended up with a rousing rendition of a medley of show tunes.

  Despite her initial misgivings, Vera LaFleur was an instant success.

  When she stepped down from the stage, with the gentle assistance of at least a dozen men, she heard a familiar voice over the din. “Mizz LaFleur, over here.”

  Looking up, Vera spotted the burly Jess Wiggins beckoning her. “I’ve got us a table,” he called.

  Jess Wiggins was the last person in Jerome she wanted to share a drink with, but Jericho had told her earlier that Wiggins was one of Rafe’s buddies. No one was more likely to have information about Rafe’s business dealings. If she wanted to solve this murder so she could concentrate on getting back to her own time, she had to push aside her personal repugnance and pretend to enjoy Wiggins’ company.

  Smiling brightly, Vera crossed the room and took the chair he was holding out for her. He frankly eyed her cleavage. “Jackson wasn’t storyin’. You sing sweeter ’n a morning warbler. What can I fetch you?” He broke off as another man approached the table. “Get the hell outta here, Yorkie. Can’t you see the lady’s with me?”

  The young man called Yorkie smiled shyly. “But I just wanted to thank Miz LaFleur for patching me up today.”

  “Hello, Yorkie, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

  He patted the bandage that circled his head. “Yes ma’am, I do feel some better.”

  “Good,” Wiggins said tersely. “Now, go find somebody to buy you a drink.”

  Yorkie shuffled his hat in his hands as if he wanted to say more, but when Wiggins started to stand up, the younger man waved and swiftly moved away.

  “Damned cheats, always trying to jump somebody else’s claim. Don’t know what Rafe saw in that useless kid What was it you said you wanted?”

  “Beer,” she answered, her voice a faint reed. Obligingly, he whistled for one of the bar girls. “Hey, Sweet Sue, bring us two beers and two shots.”

  Why, Vera wondered, hadn’t she taken Drama 101 in high school? Pretending to enjoy Wiggins’ company was going to stretch her acting ability beyond its limits.

  While they waited for their drinks to arrived, she pondered how to approach the subject of Rafe Wilson. “You work at the mine?”

  “Don’t ever’body?” he snorted.

  The waitress approached. She leaned against the table, her hand pressed on her outthrust hip. With a toss of her suspiciously flame-colored hair, she smacked Wiggins on the shoulder. “Pay up. I ain’t got all night, you know.”

  “Susannah, all you got is time.” Jess slapped her backside through her ruffled green dress and dropped two coins on her tray. After giving Vera a frankly curious once-over, she shrugged and walked off.

  Wiggins handed a foaming, warm tankard of beer to Vera, and clinked her mug with his. “Here’s to a long, and close friendship.”

  Vera smiled tightly. “To friendship,” she agreed. After she’d swiped the foamy residue from her upper lip, she tried again to broach the subject of Rafe Wilson. “I heard one of the foremen was killed the other day.”

  Wiggins frowned and shook his head. “You was at the mine when we hauled the boys out yestiddy. They all made it.”

  “No. I was talking about a few days ago. Wasn’t one of the foremen killed?”

  He thunked his mug onto the scarred table, golden liquid sloshing over the edge. “You must mean Rafe. Yeah, that murderin’ bitch shot him.”

  Leaning closer, Vera chose her words carefully. “I thought there was some...uncertainty, as to who actually killed him.”

  “Uncertainty! Where you from? Talk like a over-schooled city woman. There weren’t no uncertainty about it. That snooty half-breed stepdaughter of his did it.”

  His rage shimmered like a fetid odor between them. Vera edged away. She wanted to drop the subject, wanted to get away from this disagreeable man altogether, but too much depended on him. If she wanted to stay alive long enough to escape this nightmare that had shoved her out of her own world, she had to clear Verity’s name. And Jess Wiggins was the only lead she had.

  To allow time for his temper to subside, she asked, “What did you think of the show?”

  A grin split his face, exposing tobacco-browned teeth. Two were missing altogether. “Now that was somethin’. Never heard such songs. Can’t say as I understood what you was getting at, but had a good time listening. Say, what is a Chevy, anyhow?”

  Vera knew he was referring to a line in one of the songs where she sang abou
t driving a Chevy to the levee. For one tantalizing moment, she was tempted to tell Jess Wiggins that it was a popular make automobile, and that the song was in fact a tribute to a rock singer from the early ’50s. The 1950s.

  She sighed. It would be fun to watch his reaction, but with her recent luck, she’d surely end up in a loony bin. “It’s a brand of buggy. Haven’t you heard of them? They’re all the rage in San Francisco.”

  Wiggins nodded slowly, greasy, unkempt hair flopping over his eyes. “Yeah, reckon I have at that. So, tell me, purty lady, what brings you out here?”

  Anxious to get the conversation back on track, Vera replied, “Tve always been fascinated with stories about Arizona. Gunfighters, mines, things like that Guess that’s why I’m so interested in that man who was shot the other day. What was his name? Ray Wilson?”

  “Rafe. Rafe Wilson. Don’t know why you’d take on so about that. Weren’t much of a puzzle. His squaw’s kid plugged him. Ungrateful whelp. After Rafe took her in and fed her all these years, she just up and shot him.”

  “But I heard a different story. I heard there’d been a fight and that the girl hit him with a pan or something.”

  “Then you heard wrong. Why are you taking up for a cold-blooded murderer?”

  “I didn’t realize she’d been convicted.”

  “She ain’t been caught yet Then she’ll be convicted. And hanged.”

  “You don’t seem to have any doubt about her guilt.

  “Who else woulda hurt Rafe? He was ornery on occasion, but not bad oncet you got to know him.”

  Vera pretended to ponder his question. “Maybe someone he owed money to, a gambling debt, perhaps? Or a business associate. Did Rafe have any business interests outside the mine?”

  Scratching his grizzled beard with his fingernails, Wiggins seemed to consider her question. “He was an enterprising sort. Had a lot of irons in the fire. Matter of facet, he was goin’ on the other day about some discovery he’d made. Said he’d got himself a business pardner.”

  “There you go then,” Vera replied with a smile. “Doesn’t it make more sense that he would have been killed over a business deal rather than by his stepdaughter? Do you know who that partner is?”