by Gary D. Svee
Mac stared at the floor at his feet.
Drinkwalter stood, “Come on, Mac, we’re going to go talk to that unholy trio.”
Mac shook his head. “No, I’m not going back.”
The sheriff strode past Mac, catching the boy by the arm. “Yes, you are, Mac. We’re going to go over to the school and give those good ol’ boys a little education.”
Martha Jenkins’s eyes widened as Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter swept past her desk toward Superintendent Gibbs’s office, Mac McPherson in tow.
“I … he …”
“Don’t you worry yourself about it, Mrs. Jenkins. I’m sure that Mr. Gibbs will be pleased to see me.”
Gibbs, a portly man with pork-chop sideburns and impeccable suit, sat at a corner of his dark oak desk. He and Major Stilson were huddled over a sheaf of papers. As the sheriff appeared, Gibbs swept the papers into the top drawer of his desk.
Drinkwalter tipped his hat: “Mr. Gibbs. Freddy.”
Major Stilson bristled. No one called him Freddy anymore. He was Major Stilson, a man who served with the Rough Riders in Cuba. Freddy was a diminutive, a belittling of the honor and respect the major had won fighting for his country in the jungles of that plague-ridden backwater. To belittle Major Stilson was to belittle the red, white, and blue, and he would not put up with that, not from this penny-ante public servant.
“Sheriff, I find your breaking into this office totally—”
“Yes,” Drinkwalter said. “I’m pleased that you will give me a moment of your time. I understand that you have expelled this young man from your school for assaulting another student. I’m here to investigate that charge.”
Stilson stared at the sheriff through squinted eyes. This might work out better than he had thought. A charge of assault against the McPherson boy would be a mark of stature for the Stilson family. Mess with one of the Stilsons, and you would likely find yourself in court.
“Yes, an investigation is called for,” Stilson said. “This bully blackened my Matt’s eye. He attacked Matt without provocation and without warning. Only through Matt’s physical prowess was he able to give this boy the thrashing he deserved. Yes, I believe the incident deserves further investigation. Perhaps charges of assault should be filed.”
Mac blanched. He hadn’t wanted to come back to the school, and now the sheriff was selling him out. Stilson was one of Eagles Nest’s community leaders. The sheriff, an elected official, wouldn’t want to cross swords with him. Mac glowered: He should have conducted some tests of his own before agreeing to work for Drinkwalter.
“Will Miss Pinkham still be in her classroom?”
Superintendent Gibbs smiled smugly at the sheriff. “Of course she is. I believe in giving the taxpayers of this great district an hours’ work for an hours’ pay. She remains at her desk eight hours every day.”
“Even though the students she teaches have gone home?”
“Students,” Gibbs sneered, “are only a small part of a teacher’s duty. She must keep her room straightened and cleaned. Her records must be up to date and without error. I grade my teachers, Mr. Drinkwalter, and I do not grade on a curve.”
“Perhaps, then, you gentlemen would show me to Miss Pinkham’s room.”
Gibbs stood, pulling down his coat to straighten any wrinkles. He nodded to Stilson and led the procession toward the hall and Miss Pinkham’s classroom. The door was shut, and Gibbs stormed through without knocking. Teachers in his school learned early on that classrooms were not their private domains. Gibbs might pop in at any moment. That kept his employees on their toes. That was the way Gibbs liked his employees—on their toes.
Miss Pinkham was standing with her back to the door, straightening books, rocks, and shells that lined a shelf just beneath the windows on the wall opposite the door. She turned at the sound of the door opening. When Mac stepped through the door, her face pinched together. The teacher’s eyes were red, her cheeks stained with tears. “Mac, I—”
Gibbs interrupted, “The sheriff’s here to investigate Mac McPherson’s assault on Matt Stilson for the purpose of filing criminal charges.”
Miss Pinkham stepped back, steadying herself with a hand on the shelf behind her. “Assault charges? But—”
The sheriff stepped up to Miss Pinkham, taking her by the elbow. “This won’t take very long. I just want to establish what happened yesterday, during class and afterward.”
“What’s school got to do with the assault on Matt?” Stilson demanded. “Let’s get to the case in point and stop this dawdling.”
Drinkwalter fixed the school board chairman with a stare. “Allow me to continue.”
“But you are obviously not investigating the assault on Matt.”
“I said I was investigating an assault. I didn’t say who I was investigating.”
Stilson sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. “I demand you stop this charade!”
“You can’t demand the end of any investigation, Freddy. That’s against the law, and I don’t think either you or Mr. Gibbs would like to break the law. You wouldn’t want to break the law, would you, Freddy?”
“The good people of Eagles Nest are accustomed to calling me Major. I expect no less of you, Sheriff. Perhaps if you had served with the Rough Riders in Cuba, you would have a little more respect for those of us who did.”
“I do have respect for those who served with the Rough Riders, Freddy. I intend to talk to you about that in just a few minutes. In the meantime, you stay out of my investigation.”
There was a quiet assurance in the sheriff’s voice, and one eyebrow crawled up Stilson’s forehead. He stepped back.
The sheriff continued. “Miss Pinkham, were you teaching here yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Did anything unusual happen … shortly after the first bell rang?”
Miss Pinkham’s eyes darted to Superintendent Gibbs. She wilted under his glare.
“I …”
“Miss Pinkham, you can’t get in trouble for telling the truth. Surely, you know that.”
Her back stiffened, and she continued. “It was right after the bell rang. Mac came in after the other children. Usually he’s here before anybody else, but yesterday he came in last. All the children were already seated, and—”
Gibbs broke in: “Late, the little bastard … He was late. He’s been a problem for as long as he’s been going to school here. We simply won’t put up with it anymore.”
Miss Pinkham stiffened. “No, Mac’s never been any trouble. He’s never caused—”
“Miss Pinkham are you calling me a liar?” Gibbs snarled. “If you are so discontent with your work here, I’m sure we can find a replacement for you.”
Stilson nodded.
“That’s enough of that,” the sheriff said. “Intimidating a witness is a felony offense. If I hear a word from either of you, I’ll put you both in jail. Do you understand that?”
Stilson stepped forward to be impaled again by the sheriff’s eyes.
“Do you understand that, Freddy?”
“Yes.”
The sheriff turned to Miss Pinkham, his voice softening. “What happened when Mac came into the room?”
“Well, he was walking toward his desk, and he tripped and fell.”
“Was he hurt?”
“Yes, he fell face first into a desk, and his nose was bleeding something awful.”
“What was the reaction from the rest of the class?”
“They were all laughing.”
“What was Matt Stilson’s reaction?”
Stilson butted in. “Sheriff, I’ve had enough of this! My boy was probably laughing like the rest of the class, wasn’t he, Miss Pinkham?”
“Freddy, intimidation is a felony offense. Another word and you’ll await Judge Jimison’s next visit in jail.”
“You can’t … I won’t…”
“Freddy …” The words crawled low and ugly from the sheriff’s throat.
Stilson blanched.
“He raised one arm—you know, the way that prize-fighters do when they win a match.”
“What did the other boys do?”
“Some of them patted him on the back.”
“Why do you suppose they did that?”
“Because he …”
The teacher’s eyes turned to Stilson. He glared at her.
“Miss Pinkham, the truth.”
Miss Pinkham looked back at the sheriff. “Because he tripped Mac.”
“Now, see here!” The superintendent’s interruption was cut short by the sheriff’s glare.
“And what did you do about that?”
“I got a cold compress for Mac’s nose.”
“What did you do about Matt?”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you did nothing?”
“Yes.” Tears spilled from the teacher’s eyes, and sobs racked her words. “Yes, I did nothing.”
“And what were you doing after class?”
“Straightening and cleaning the shelves.”
“Did you see the fight?”
“Yes. First, Mac fought with Matt. When Matt got a bloody nose, he ran for home. Then Jimmy Bronson hit Mac from behind, and Mac knocked him down, and then they all started hitting Mac. They were hitting him and kicking him, and he went down and they didn’t stop. They just kept hitting and kicking him.”
“And what did you do?”
“I went in and told Mr. Gibbs, but he said let them handle it. But I couldn’t stand it, so I went out there and told them to stop.”
Tears were flowing freely down Miss Pinkham’s cheeks. “I couldn’t sleep last night. All I could think about was all those boys hitting and kicking Mac. Every time I shut my eyes …”
Mac stepped over to his teacher. “There wasn’t anything you could do. It’s always been that way.”
A growl crept into the sheriff’s voice. “So we do have an assault charge here. Matt Stilson and those other boys obviously assaulted Mac. And we have an accomplice, Mr. Gibbs, who was aware that the beating was going on, but failed to do anything about it.”
Major Stilson was shaking with rage. “No, what we have is an overwrought woman who is obviously not suited to be a teacher in the Eagles Nest school district. I admit some of the blame in that. I approved Mr. Gibbs’s recommendation, but now that we’ve found out what a mistake we made, I’m sure that we can correct it immediately.”
Gibbs nodded, a little smile turning in a sneer that he directed at the sheriff.
The sheriff’s voice came so softly that the two conspirators had to strain to hear it.
“Major, it would be in your best interest if you stepped into the hall with me for a moment.”
“I have no intention …”
The sheriff reached out as though to shake Stilson’s hand. Stilson was a glad-hander, a politician in the making, and he could no more resist an offer of a handshake than a child could resist an ice-cream cone. But there was no ice cream in the sheriff’s grip, only a tremendous pressure that bent the school-board chairman’s wrist back in agonizing pain.
“Would you have a word with me in the hall, Freddy?”
Stilson, eyes wide, nodded. The sheriff stepped toward the hall, then, and Stilson followed hand in hand, stiff-legged with the pain.
The sheriff closed the door to the classroom with his toe. He shoved the school-board chairman against the wall with a thump that could be heard inside the classroom. The sheriff edged up to Stilson, then, until their noses were about two inches apart.
“Went on a vacation last year to Denver, didn’t you, Freddy?”
“No, not a vacation, not really. I was working on—”
Drinkwalter twisted Stilson’s wrist. “Uh, yes, I guess you could call it a vacation.”
“And you met a young woman at the Denver Club?”
“Uh, no, uh, yes, I believe I did.”
“You impressed that young lady, Freddy, with the tales of your valor in the war. She was taken with your tale of woe about how you had played a key role in the Charge of the San Juan Hill and never received any recognition for your bravery.”
“Well, that young lady’s father is a general, Freddy, and she made him promise to set the record straight. I got a letter from the Department of War. They said they had no record of a Major Stilson. They did have a record of a Frederich J. Stilson who listed his address as Eagles Nest. That’s you, isn’t it, Freddy?”
Stilson nodded.
“But Frederich J. Stilson was a private in the quartermaster corps. Seems that Private Frederich J. Stilson didn’t see any action at San Juan Hill or anywhere else. Have you been stringing us along all these years, Freddy, waving this nation’s flag in the face of anyone who disagreed with you?”
Stilson’s chin dropped to his chest, and his “yes” was more the wind escaping his chest than the spoken word.
Drinkwalter released Stilson’s wrist, and the school-board chairman grimaced, massaging the wrist with his left hand.
“I told the War Department that I had no knowledge of a Major Stilson, Freddy. I didn’t see why I should intrude on your little play, because it didn’t seem to be hurting anyone. I figured that you would grow out of it. But you started to believe your own lie, Freddy, and now you’re trying to bully that boy. I won’t allow that, Freddy.”
The sheriff rubbed his hands down his cheeks, settling his chin in the cup the heels of his palms created. “Now, I’ll tell you what I think is a reasonable solution to this affair, and if you agree, this will be the end of it.”
“This is what I would like you to do …”
Stilson slouched into the classroom, face white. The man had been stripped of his arrogance, and there was little left. He stepped up to Miss Pinkham.
“I apologize, Like most fathers, I like to believe that my son always tells the truth. I see now that is a false assumption.”
Mr. Gibbs stepped forward, “Now, see here …”
Stilson shook his head, “No, I was wrong. Matt was picking on Mac. He got what he deserved. When I get home, he will get what he deserves from me.”
Stilson looked at his friend. “Mr. Gibbs, I would very much appreciate your calling all the boys concerned into your office tomorrow morning. I would like you to tell them what a cowardly thing they did. Each of them must stand up in Miss Pinkham’s classroom and admit their cowardice and apologize to Mac.”
“No!” Mac was shaking his head. “No, don’t make them do that.”
Mac was accustomed to hiding in the class, seeking corners and shadows so that no one would laugh at the scarecrow. Being the center of the room’s attention was more than Mac could bear.
Drinkwalter put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. “It’s got to stop, Mac. You’ve put up with it for so long that you think it’s your fault. You helped create those bullies by doing nothing. You have to help undo that, Mac. You owe them that.”
Mac’s face wrinkled into a question mark. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I guess I do.”
The sheriff looked up. “I think the three of you owe Mac an apology, too.”
Stripped of his arrogance, there seemed little left of Major Stilson. He apologized to Mac and Superintendent Gibbs and Miss Pinkham. They left the room in a chorus of apologies to walk back to the courthouse.
For the first time in Mac’s life, someone besides his mother had stood up for him. He glanced at Drinkwalter occasionally as they walked. He must be about the best man who ever walked the face of the earth.
Mac thought about his father, then, and guilt edged into his mind. But he hardly remembered his father. He had only the picture of his ma and pa at home to remind him. His ma had changed from the image in the photo, but his pa stayed always the same. He didn’t seem real to Mac anymore. Not real, anyway, the way the sheriff was.
9
Yellowstone County Sherif
f James Thompson rattled toward the east hill just outside of Eagles Nest, watching the countryside jolt past the train’s smoke-stained windows.
Milk run! Hell, they ought to call this the butter run. Cream from Guernsey cows fat with river grass would turn into thick, rich butter after a pounding like this. Add a little salt and this train could serve up butter fit for a king.
He imagined one of Tilly’s sandwiches slavered with that butter. Beef, it would be, lean beef sliced thin with Tilly’s secret mix of salt and pepper and some other spices and roasted to perfection.
The sheriff swallowed at the thought. Anyone who could get Tilly’s recipe would make a fortune, have enough money to eat like a king. Course, anyone who had Tilly’s recipe wouldn’t have to be rich to eat like a king.
Sheriff Thompson growled: life was nothing but a bunch of damn paradoxes.
Thompson hadn’t eaten breakfast before leaving Billings, and the thought of those sandwiches made his mouth water. Drinkwalter better make good on his promise to have three of Tilly’s sandwiches ready for this fishing trip, or there would be hell to pay in Eagles Nest, Montana.
The Yellowstone County sheriff fidgeted, trying to stretch his legs, but the coach’s seats were better suited for children. Of course, no mother worth her salt would ever put her child aboard this bone-rattling, butter-churning excuse for a railroad train.
Thompson hunched his six and a half feet of self down in his seat to peer out the window at the Yellowstone. The Northern Pacific had built a wall of dark basaltic rock here to keep the river from washing out the railroad’s roadbed. The wall was built at an angle of about forty-five degrees and hell to walk on, but if Sheriff Thompson knew anything about fish, they would be lined up for their turn to take a fisherman’s fly.
The river swirled by in eddies, pulling hoppers and freshly hatched nymphs into the depths and offering a veritable buffet for any bull trout big enough to rule his piece of this river. Rainbows and lochs, the fish would be. No cutthroat lived this far away from Yellowstone Park.
The sun had chased the sheriff all the way from Billings, and now its rays slanted down into the green waters of the Yellowstone. If this damn train wasn’t so damn rough, he could probably see fish out there as they rose from the depths to snatch a passing fly.
