by Ralph Cotton
“I told her not to look,” said Dawson. The two swung down from their saddles and stood back looking at all the buckshot and bullet holes in the bloody ragged shirt.
Seeing the two long-handled shovels propped against the chair back, Shaw offered, “Looks like somebody thought they needed target practice.”
Looking first at the dark thick blood, then staring up at the sun for a moment, Shaw said, “This was yesterday, most likely this time of evening. It takes buzzards a while.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Dawson. Looking toward the corral he said, “There’s Cap’s sorrel mule.” Turning, he walked onto the porch and in through the open front door. Seeing the corpse sprawled back across the counter, he deftly drew his Colt and held it poised and ready. “I still have a hard time thinking Clarity can do something like this,” he said. Turning, he walked to the window and looked down at the countless number of empty cartridges lying strewn on the floor.
Shaw, also with gun in hand, walked across the floor and looked first at the corpse’s slit throat, then into the room where Clarity had washed herself. “I don’t,” he said firmly. He turned, facing Dawson with Clarity’s pantaloons hanging from his gun barrel. “Look familiar?”
“Ummph,” said Dawson in a gesture of regret. Holstering his Colt he looked all around. “I suspect she’s grown capable of doing just about anything.”
With a bemused look, Shaw said, “Let’s not forget she set me up to be starved to death or fed to a bear. Guess what weapon she used then.” Without waiting for a reply he continued. “She’s been capable for a long while. All she’s been doing is finding herself some better weaponry along the way. Now she knows that a shotgun and a rifle go farther than a straight razor.”
“I was a fool to ever let myself . . .” His words trailed.
Shaw only nodded in agreement.
Outside, Villy called out, “There’s a stagecoach coming.”
Through the window, Dawson saw the driver and guard above a cloud of dust. “Let’s get some shovels,” he said. “We’ll get the driver and his shotgun rider to bury them. We’ve got no time, if we mean to catch Clarity before she finds out where Madeline Mercer lives.”
“Good, I hate burying anyway,” Shaw murmured, walking toward the door.
Outside, the two stood facing the coach as it rocked to a halt. Seeing both men standing with four shovels lying at their feet and their gun hands free and ready, the driver called out, “No need in having your bark on, boys, we know you had no hand in this. We saw you riding in from a long ways back.”
Shaw and Dawson relaxed a little. Shaw motioned toward the mangled corpse, with bits of bone and flesh splattered about on the ground. “I expect you two know this man?”
“Sure do,” said the driver, standing from his seat and stepping down from the side of the coach. “From what’s left of him I believe he’s Ben Stoval.” The guard watched and waited, shotgun in hand, until the driver stood firmly on the ground. “His brother, Abe Stoval, owns this place,” the driver continued, stretching his back as he looked all around.
“There’s another man inside,” said Shaw, “probably the brother you’re talking about.”
“I’ll be blasted,” said the driver. “The Stovals are good men, the both of them.”
“Then you and your guard won’t mind burying them, before the buzzards swing in,” Shaw said, reaching out with his new boot and kicking one of the shovels on the ground.
“What’s wrong, you can’t help bury them?” asked James, still in his seat atop the coach.
“We’re after the woman who killed them,” Dawson said. “We’re trying to stop her before she kills again.”
“A woman?” Dillman looked shocked. “You don’t mean the dove who works in Black’s Cut!”
“You’ve seen her?” Dawson asked quickly.
“We sure did,” said James, getting more interested, and less suspicious. “She’s riding a horse that I just knew was ill-gotten.” He gave the driver an I-told-you-so look, and said, “Dillman here gave her directions this morning before she rode off.”
“Directions to where?” Dawson asked quickly.
“To the Mercer spread, off the trail before Crabtown,” said the guard.
“We’ve got to go,” said Dawson.
“Where does this stage go from here?” Shaw asked.
Dillman said, “We swap rigs here with a coach that runs back to Black’s Cut and points north. Then we take their mail and cargo back to where we started, southeast all the way to Winston, sometimes as far as Townston.”
“Is there a railhead in Winston?” Shaw asked.
“Yep,” said Dillman, “trains run in and out as long as the weather allows.”
“I want you to take on a passenger,” said Shaw. “I’m paying her fare.”
“You mean the child—the young lady, that is?” Dillman asked, correcting himself, looking closely at Villy, who sat with a stick of candy in her mouth.
“No, you were right the first time,” said Shaw. “She’s a child.” Giving the stage driver a look of warning, he added, “All the way to Winston you keep telling yourself over and over that she’s a child. Do you understand me?”
“I sure do, mister. I have children of my own,” said Dillman.
“Good.” Shaw eyed him sternly as he reached into his shirt pocket for stage fare. “Then you can appreciate my concern.”
Before the first light of day had spread wide and wreathed the horizon, Clarity stepped down from the horse and tied its reins to a fence post behind the stock barn. She waited, watched, and listened; and when a lamplight grew to brightness in the rear window of the indoor kitchen, she moved forward as silent as a cat, rifle in hand.
Inside, Madeline Mercer carried fresh coffee into the dining room in a china serving pot she’d filled from the metal coffeepot atop the small cookstove. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to the ink, pen, and writing paper she had laid out earlier for herself. This was the morning she would force herself to write a letter to Cary Dawson and leave it with Jedson Caldwell in Crabtown.
My dearest, darling Crayton, she said to herself, rehearsing her words even as she began writing them down. She stopped for a moment and thought further on how to tell him that she had left the ranch, but that she would be longingly awaiting his return to her in her mansion in—
“No, that won’t do,” she murmured aloud in the large empty room, cutting herself off. She went back with the pen and scribbled through what she had written down. Then she crumpled the sheet of stationery, tossed it aside, and took a fresh sheet and spread it in front of her.
Crayton, my dearest, she wrote. Pledging to you once again with all of my heart, that nothing will ever come between us, I travel forthwith to my estate in New York where I await your return with
Stopping only long enough to consider her words for a moment, she sipped her morning coffee and began writing in earnest. By the time she had finished, she had poured and finished another cup. Finally, she sighed, signed the letter across the bottom, sprayed it with a small bottle of perfume, and folded it neatly.
Outside, at the lower corner of the dining room window, Clarity stood atop a wooden crate she carried with her from against the side of the barn, and peeped in carefully. She saw Madeline Mercer folding the letter. She watched her pick up an envelope. But before Madeline slipped the folded letter inside the envelope, both women’s attention went toward the sound of a wagon as it creaked and rumbled up to the house.
From the wagon seat, Acting Deputy Madden Peru thought he’d seen something or someone look around the front corner of the house. But upon sitting for a few seconds without seeing any other movement, he dismissed the matter, climbed down, and tied the wagon at the iron hitch rail. Still, his senses were piqued as he walked to the front door and rapped on it with the ornate iron knocker.
Hidden around the corner of the house, Clarity listened as the door opened and Madeline Mercer said, “Good morning, Deputy. I w
as expecting Jedson Caldwell. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Peru, taking off his hat. “Sheriff Caldwell is meeting with the territorial judge this morning. He asked me to come escort you to town. I hope that is all right . . . ?”
Clarity wasted no time. While the two were speaking, she hurried around to the back door and slipped inside quietly, her rifle levered, ready to cock and fire. She stood against the kitchen wall for the next few minutes hearing them talk back and forth, while Madeline put on her coat and hat, and walked out to the wagon. Behind her, Peru walked out carrying two large leather travel cases. In the front foyer two more heavy cases still sat waiting on the floor.
Seeing him walk back up toward the house, Clarity hurried past the leather cases and into the parlor room where a large window faced the front yard. At the front gate sat the wagon. Beside the wagon Madeline Mercer stood looking out over her land. This would have to do, Clarity told herself, knowing this would be a much farther shot than she had practiced for.
She stood against the parlor wall until she’d heard Peru come and go from the foyer. Then, seeing him walk along the pathway to the wagon with the large travel cases in hand, she eased the window up and kneeled down, leveling the rifle out across the window ledge.
Do it now! she demanded of herself, knowing that this might be her last chance.
“Oh, one more moment, please, Deputy,” said Madeline, seeing Peru place the last large leather case on the wagon bed. “I’m afraid I forgot something.”
“Yes, ma’am, no hurry,” said Peru. He leaned back against the side of the wagon as she turned and walked along the path to the house.
Even better, Clarity told herself. Madeline was walking back to her, alone! She quickly searched herself for the folded straight razor, excited by the prospect of keeping this simple and silent after all. But in her excitement as she started to draw the razor from inside her coat, the rifle wobbled unsteadily on the window ledge. As she grabbed it, the barrel went sideways and banged noisily against the side of the window frame.
Seeing a rifle pointed at Madeline, Peru shouted, “Ma’am, get down.”
Hearing him caused Clarity to panic. No time for the razor!
Madeline had stopped, frozen in place, first at the sound of Peru’s words, then at the sight of the rifle barrel pointed at her. Finally, she found the voice to scream, “Deputy!”
Hurry! a voice cried out in Clarity’s head. Snatching the rifle, she dropped back to one knee at the window ledge, cocked it, and fired. But as she pulled the trigger, she felt the sharp sting of a bullet hit her high in the shoulder, twist her around, and send her backward onto the polished wooden floor. Her rifle flew from her hands. She scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the back door, feeling blood pumping from the wound. The black-handled Remington fell from under her coat, onto the floor behind her.
“Stay down!” Peru shouted at Madeline, running past her, shoving her sidelong to the ground before bounding into the house. Inside the front door, his Colt cocked and ready, he saw the blood trail through the house. He saw the Remington. To the left in the parlor, he saw the rifle. He caught a glimpse of the tall Stetson fly from atop Clarity’s head as the kitchen door swung open and she raced outside toward the barn.
A woman? he asked himself, seeing her hair coming undone more and more as she ran.
His answer became conclusive when Clarity stopped and steadied herself against the barn wall. He saw her breasts as the leather coat lay open, blood running down the front of it. Keeping his gun on her, he said, “Ma’am! Stay where you are. Keep your hands up.”
“I’m shot!” Clarity said, gasping, as if she’d just realized it that second. She spread her hands and staggered in place. “Don’t shoot me, please!” she pleaded.
Peru stood with a hand raised toward her. “Stay put,” he said again, stepping closer, spreading her coat open more, to see if she might have another gun stuck down in her waist.
“I’m unarmed,” she gasped. “I’m all through. Please, just help me.”
Stepping to the side, Peru turned and saw Madeline Mercer walking toward them. The discarded Remington looked huge in her delicate hand. “Everything’s all right, ma’am,” said Peru. “I’ve got to get her bandaged and get her to town. She’s bleeding bad.”
Behind him, Clarity’s right hand went into her coat and found the razor. She jerked it out and flipped it open. Peru didn’t see it; Madeline did. What Peru saw was Madeline raise the Remington with both hands, cock it, and let out a scream. “Noooo!”
Peru felt the razor go across the shoulder of his coat as the gun exploded in Madeline’s hands, causing her to step backward and steady herself from the recoil. Turning quickly and looking down, Peru saw the razor fall from Clarity’s hand. He turned slowly to face Madeline Mercer. “Ma’am, you just saved my life.”
“No, Deputy,” said Madeline, “you saved my life.” Stepping forward, she looked down with him at the dead woman on the ground. Then both turned their eyes to the vicious slice that had gone through his thick coat sleeve and managed to nick his upper arm.
“I think we might have saved one another’s life,” Peru said, offering some middle ground.
Madeline found herself staring into his eyes, as if now she saw him in a whole new light. “Let’s go inside and take a look at this shoulder.”
“It’s nothing, ma’am,” said Peru, but only halfheartedly.
“Don’t argue with me, Deputy,” Madeline said softly. She reached out and took his hand, the Remington hanging loosely at her side. She pulled him along gently yet firmly. “And please call me Madeline.”
Inside the house, Peru sat at a table in the kitchen, shirtless, while Madeline cleaned and dressed the cut across his upper arm. Tying strips of cloth around the bandage to hold it in place, she said finally, “There, all done. Good as new.”
Standing, putting on one of her late husband’s clean white shirts, Peru said, “I expect this is a lucky day for both of us, Miss Madeline.”
“Yes, I feel the same,” she said, studying his eyes in the sunlight through the kitchen window.
Peru left the house to wrap Clarity’s body in a blanket in order to take her to town. Madeline picked up the envelope lying on the dining room table, wadded it up, and shoved it down in her coat pocket.
Chapter 25
Knowing the sorrel mule would slow them down, Dawson and Shaw turned the animal loose. They did not wait for the stage driver and his guard to finish burying the Stovals. But by the time they had reached the place where the trail rounded out of sight of the trading post, they looked back and saw the two climbing up onto the stage seat. Villy stood on the step with the stage door open, waving like any child would do.
“Yes, Villy, good-bye,” Shaw said, as if the girl could hear him from such a distance. “Now please get inside the damn stage before they take off.” He shook his head and said to Dawson, “I love that kid for what she done. But I worry about her. I don’t think it would take five minutes for somebody like Violet or Clarity to bring her right back to becoming a dove.”
“I hate to say it,” Dawson replied, “but everything about her says ‘dove in the making.’ ” Turning their horses back to the trail, he asked, “How old is she anyway?”
“She said she thinks she’ll be sixteen this fall,” Shaw replied. “Lot of orphanages don’t keep real good records. Some like to push the age up a year or two if they think it will help get somebody to take the girl in.”
“Yeah, somebody like Giddis Black,” said Dawson, gigging his horse up into a faster gait. “Maybe with the money you gave her she can build herself a life somewhere, never have to think about being a dove again.”
“I’d like to think so,” Shaw said. “That’s all I can do.”
They rode on, pushing the horses hard, only stopping for short rests and to water the animals from converging streams as they crossed narrow stretches of deep-lying canyons and flatlands. During the late afternoo
n, they stopped at the crest of a low rise, seeing the Mercer house in the near distance. “I’ll stay back and keep her from seeing me,” said Shaw. “If it’s okay for me to ride in, give me a wave.” Looking at the quickly falling sun, he added, “If it’s dark, wave a torch. I’ll do the same if Landry and any of Black’s men come riding down on us.”
“She wouldn’t even recognize you unless you stood a foot away,” said Dawson, noting the thick dark beard hiding his face, the shaggy hair hanging beneath his hat brim.
“All the same, I’ll stay back here,” said Shaw. He lifted a boot and crossed his leg over his lap, letting Dawson know he’d made up his mind.
“I’m beginning to think Madeline had a lot to do with you faking your death,” said Dawson, already turning his horse toward the Mercer house.
“Think what you will.” Shaw reached back and pulled the remains of the ham from his saddlebags.
“I can’t believe I came up here looking for peace and quiet,” Dawson murmured under his breath.
A thin purple darkness had set in by the time he reached the hitch rail, stepped down, and spun his reins. A lamp should already have been lit, he reminded himself, noting the darkened windows. He looked down at the wagon tracks in the dirt, then walked the path to the front door and rapped soundly on it with the iron door knocker.
After two more tries with no response, he turned the door handle and found it locked. Walking around to the parlor window and finding it locked as well, he peered in with the last wispy trace of daylight over his shoulder and saw enough to tell him something had gone on inside. A smear of blood and an overturned corner of a rug was all he needed to see. He drew his Colt, cracked the glass with its barrel, and reached in and unlocked the window.
“Madeline? It’s me, Cray Dawson,” he called out into the large silent house, not wanting to get himself shot as he stepped forward, seeing the next splotch of blood. “Are you here?” He stepped over into the adjoining foyer. “Can you hear me?” With his Colt drawn and ready to cock, he followed his gun barrel and the blood trail into the hallway and toward the back door.
