Crazy Woman Creek

by Welch, Virginia

  Deputy Davies broke from his concentration then and turned to Sheriff Morris, who was reaching into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch.

  “Polite?”

  “For the lady,” said the sheriff, pulling on the pouch string. “It was the nicest thing I could think to say about that struttin’ rooster she married. Crowing all the time.”

  “James Rose is dead,” said the deputy. He looked back to the window, choosing to ignore the sheriff’s rant. Only two days sharing office quarters with the veteran lawman, and already Luke knew that it was best not to blow more air on the fire when Cyrus got to pumping his bellows.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Not sure, just figuring.”

  “How’s that?”

  “No man in his right mind goes off and leaves a woman who looks like that all alone to fend for herself. James Rose is dead.”

  “If you insist,” said the sheriff, fingering a few shreds of tobacco.

  “If he isn’t dead, he’s addle brained beyond redemption or blind. Of the three, I say—dead.”

  “You haven’t seen James Rose blow his mouth to kingdom come when he’s convinced some fella from one of the big ranches has rustled one of his steers.” Sheriff Morris stuffed a wad of the fragrant chewing tobacco in his cheek, pulled the drawstring closed, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Don’t need to,” drawled Deputy Davies in his thoughtful Tennessean way while reaching for his hat and overcoat and starting for the door. “I’ve seen Mrs. Rose.”

  “Where ya headed?” said the sheriff.

  “Out," said Deputy Davies as he ducked his head to keep from banging his noggin on the door frame. "I have more questions for Mrs. Rose.”

  Chapter Two

  Luke swept his eyes up and down Main Street, searching for the lovely Mrs. Rose while he pulled his gloves from his pocket. Spring ignored the calendar this year, choosing to come on its own schedule. Consequently everyone in Buffalo had rolled into town to purchase necessities before the next blizzard shuttered businesses and scattered shoppers to their isolated ranches. The air glistened as rays of icy sunshine made the day brilliant but still bitterly cold. The heavens overhead were cloudless, endless, and sparkling blue, surveyed only by the Big Horn Mountains to the South.

  A cloudless sky, Luke knew, meant the temperature would drop cruelly when the sun started to set; Mrs. Rose would not dawdle in town. She would hurry to finish her other business, if she had any, and rush back to her ranch before sundown. And as sure as he was born and raised a ranching man, Luke knew also that, dolled up as she was in such frippery, Mrs. Rose had not come to town on horseback.

  Not finding Lenora on the street, Luke turned right to walk the two blocks to Olathe’s Feed and Livery Stable, the logical destination for a visitor who arrived in town by any kind of horse-pulled rig. As his boots clunked along the boardwalk in a southerly direction, his mind worked methodically, sorting Mrs. Rose’s responses to Cyrus’ rude inquiries.

  Cyrus was a bully, but his bullying had gotten the information he wanted from Mrs. Rose. Cyrus was first and foremost a lawman, always rough, aggressively thorough, and even crude at times, but a lawman with a reputation for bringing ‘em in.

  And a woman’s tears didn’t always stem from sorrow. Mrs. Rose could be a first-rate actress. It wouldn’t be the first time a lawman had been bamboozled by a pretty face. Yet it irked him that Cyrus had been so hard on her. She was so young. Clearly she was upset over her husband’s disappearance, and in his gut, Luke doubted that her worry was feigned. But why did she wait two days to come to town with her report? She was hiding something for sure. But what?

  Luke's musings over Mrs. Rose were not solely the result of a trained analytical mind unwinding the threads of a tightly wound story. Her hair. His thoughts kept returning to that thick bundle, the color of rich coffee, pulled into a perfect bun at the nape of her neck and festooned, feminine-like, with a gossamer net of crocheted silk under that fashionable, velvety hat. In all his twenty-six years, Luke had never seen a woman dressed so elegantly, except in Ma's Godey’s Ladies Book, but that was so long ago his memory of those gauzy fashion plates had dimmed, rendering them more angelic than mortal.

  That was Mrs. Rose. A living, breathing illustration stepped out of the pages of Godey’s, as foreign to the rough environment of the Territory as an angel. How long was her hair? Surely to her waist or longer. No woman in Buffalo or Fort Laramie dressed or carried herself with the grace of the alluring Mrs. Rose. She was pretty, but Buffalo had its share of pretty women. Mrs. Rose had something more.

  He would ponder what that more was later.

  #

  The air inside Olathe’s livery stable was musty with barn odors. Clouds of grain dust swirled lazily where shafts of sunlight sliced through the few high windows and near the wide, double-door entrance. Horses munched noisily in their stalls, oblivious to their visitor. Luke paused inside the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Olathe was talking to someone at the far end of the stable.

  “Deputy Davies,” Olathe called out. “Morning. What can I do for you today?” Olathe stood up from where he had been squatting on the barn floor, partially underneath Mrs. Rose’s one horse, checking to see if the quarter strap was secure.

  Lenora was seated in the buckboard, draped in the emerald-green cloak she had stored in the wagon, her back to Luke. When she heard the deputy’s name, she turned around in her seat. Her eyes widened with surprise. What’s he doing here?

  Luke tipped his hat to Lenora as he approached the wagon, shook hands with Olathe, and inquired about his health. The men exchanged the usual pleasantries. “I’m here to see Mrs. Rose,” said Luke, not bothering to look at Lenora. “I’m going to accompany her home.”

  Lenora's mouth fell open in a mix of surprise and alarm, but realizing that Olathe would overhear if she responded, she closed her mouth, pulled her cloak a little more tightly around her shoulders, turned herself to the front of the buckboard, and stiffened her shoulders in a prim, determined way.

  “I see," said Olathe. He glanced between Luke and Lenora as if he hoped for an explanation to this odd arrangement. But Luke wasn't volunteering information and Lenora let her obstinate posture do her talking. The elfish little man, who had to stand on a milking stool to groom his four-footed clients, must have decided to leave well enough alone. "I’m almost done here," he said. "You want me to hitch your horse to the wagon?”

  “He’s not used to a harness. I’ll just tie him to the back,” said Luke.

  “Alright then. I'll be only a second." Olathe brushed a few wayward gray hairs from his forehead and then squatted again to give the strap one last tug. Soon he stood up and motioned with his hand to Luke that he was finished.

  While Olathe watched them both with extraordinary interest, Luke finished tying his steed to the iron ring at the rear of the wagon and climbed aboard. Lenora continued to stare straight ahead, as stony as the Great Sphinx of Giza, while Luke sat down on the buckboard seat.

  "Thanks, Olathe," he said as the stable owner handed him the reins.

  Before Luke seated himself, Lenora scooted to the farthest edge of the buckboard seat and pivoted her legs at an angle to ensure no bodily contact. She scooted so far to the right that half of her thigh hung off the edge; she had to grip it with her right hand for balance. Even so, once Luke sat down there was no empty space between her hips and his.

  Fear seized Lenora, with two thoughts crowding out all others. One, in a few minutes all of Buffalo would see her shamelessly parading down Main Street seated next to a man not her husband, and two, Deputy Davies was the manliest man she'd ever seen. She’d hardly noticed him in the sheriff’s office, where the distraction of her upsetting report had kept her focus on the sheriff. But now he was smashed against her, their hips closer than a litter of nursing piglets. His bigness overwhelmed her, a bigness exaggerated by his all-male trail overcoat, heavy denim pants, and rough ranch boots. B
oth realizations caused her heart to beat a little faster. She stared straight ahead, hoping stupidly that if she acted as if everything were perfectly normal, somehow, magically, to town folk she, the deputy, and the wagon would be invisible.

  In a moment Luke was leading the single horse in a wide arc to exit through the high barn doorway. Lenora's heart pounded in her chest. What did this mean? Why was the deputy pursuing her? How would she survive the ride through the two blocks of town?

  "You aren't going to pull this thing down the middle of Main Street?" Lenora sat frozen faced, only her lips moved. She didn't dare to turn and look at Luke.

  "Do you know a better route?" Luke responded, calm as a Louisiana swamp on a sultry August afternoon.

  "People will talk!" whispered Lenora, her hand still one with the buckboard seat.

  "Can't disagree with you there," Luke said, tilting his head a little closer to hers but keeping his eyes on his task. The wide brim of his hat brushed the face-framing brim of hers. "But then, I've learned that people will talk no matter what you do, good or bad, so you might as well just go on doin' what you're doin.'"

  And he did. As they pulled onto Main Street, a hundred pairs of eyes, or so it seemed to Lenora, fastened onto her horse and wagon. Her Morgan had never clippety-clopped so loudly or moved as funeral slow as it did now while they jostled and creaked over the frozen ruts of Wyoming mud. Lenora kept her eyes fixed on the Morgan's back side as if a big brown pooping behind was the most mesmerizing thing on earth. Though they passed the hardware store, the millinery, the tobacconist, the bank, the town’s six saloons, a dentist-barber shop, the doctor’s office, and other trading establishments, Lenora never saw anything but the pooper and the people, shoppers and clumps of laughing soldiers from nearby Fort McKinney, all of whom she was sure were taking note of the rolling spectacle. She desperately wished she had chosen a poke bonnet to hide behind today instead of her open-face kiss-me-quick. She refused to look at Luke. Doing so might make the whole scene real, or worse, make it appear to townspeople that she knew him.

  She must be dreaming. This was not happening!

  They were nearly at the edge of town and approaching French Creek when out of the side of her eye Lenora saw with horror that three elderly lady members of the Johnson Ebenezer Christian Church, her church, had paused from their shopping chores to watch Lenora roll by. Despite her partial vision, Lenora could see the startled looks on all three faces.

  Just then, the buckboard slipped into a deep rut, which caused the forward part of the wagon to dip suddenly and lurch to a stop. Lenora slid to the right, grabbing wildly for the front of the wagon with both hands to keep from being thrown off the seat, but failed. Her shiny beaded reticule slid off her lap with a whoosh and her with it. Embarrassed, she picked up her bag and righted herself. With a gloved hand she swiped at dirt from the wagon floor that had soiled her skirt, not so much because it was soiled, but to avoid looking in the direction of the all-too observant church ladies.

  "Take my arm," said Luke.

  Lenora looked down at the bag on her lap and pretended she had not heard him.

  "Take my arm," he repeated, more urgently now. "It will give you some balance."

  Hesitantly, and still fixing her eyes on the horse's fascinating rump, Lenora obeyed and slid her arm into his. But she held her arm stiffly, so that her elbow formed a rigid triangle to protect her from jostling against him, as effective as a cattle prod and every bit as friendly.

  Finally, blessedly, they were beyond the stares of the curious people of Buffalo. About a half mile beyond the edge of town, Lenora wordlessly removed her arm from Luke’s, never leaving the safety of the far edge of the buckboard seat. Then, for the first time, she turned to face him.

  “Why did you tell Mr. Olathe you were accompanying me home?” Her tone was fraught with annoyance.

  "I wanted to spare you.”

  “Spare me?" said Lenora, so flummoxed she hardly felt the cold.

  "Yes, spare you."

  "What are you talking about? Do you have any idea of the trouble your foolish act has created for me?"

  Luke took his eyes off the horses and looked directly at Lenora. "I told Olathe I was accompanying you home ma’am because, considering your circumstances, it seemed the wisest thing to say."

  "I fail to comprehend such wisdom, sir.” Lenora was deeply engaged now, emboldened by the privacy afforded by an empty prairie. She returned his eye contact without a trace of self-consciousness. “Your actions have only added to my distress. You have increased my burdens during a very difficult situation.”

  Luke raised his eyebrows.

  “It is incomprehensible to me that you think you have somehow acted wisely on my behalf," she continued.

  The clatter and creak of the buckboard rolling over rough ground filled the taut silence. The reins squeaked rhythmically as the horse’s shoulders pulled against the leather while the curb chain at its mouth jangled each time he turned his head.

  Luke took a while to answer, and when he did, his tone was sober. Again he turned directly toward Lenora, so that their faces were only inches apart.

  “It seems, Mrs. Rose, that you are unhappy to be seen by the citizens of Buffalo riding with me through town like a free and law-abiding citizen who has gone to the sheriff for help.”

  Lenora opened her mouth to object but Luke cut her off.

  “So,” he said, looking intently into her puzzled green eyes, “if you prefer, I’ll turn this wagon around right now, and go back and lock you up for the murder of your husband.”

  Chapter Three

  Lenora shut her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. It took her a few seconds to respond. “I didn’t kill my husband, Deputy Davies. I love my husband. I would never do anything to harm him. Never.” Her voice cracked as she started to cry. She pulled her hands through the slits in her cloak to retrieve her wet hanky from her bag. She fumbled under the cloak a few seconds, found the hanky, and dabbed her eyes.

  “That may be true. But there’s going to be a lot of people in this town who will have their doubts if your husband doesn’t come home soon.” Or if we don’t find him and his horse rotting at the bottom of some steep ravine. The ragged, flesh-tearing crags of the canyon southwest of town rose in Luke’s mind.

  Lenora nodded in understanding, her eyes fixed on her hands, which now sat motionless on her lap.

  “You haven’t helped things any by not going to the sheriff sooner,” said Luke, more gently now.

  Lenora nodded again, too distraught to speak, tears spilling faster down her reddened cheeks. She turned her soiled hanky over and over, trying to find a clean corner to wipe her eyes. The only dry spots left were the pink crocheted roses on the edges.

  “Here,” said Luke, pulling a faded red handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Use mine. It’s clean.”

  Lenora took his hanky, shook out the folds, and blew her nose. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “How long you and Mr. Rose been married, Mrs. Rose?”

  “Four years.”

  “You got kin around here?”

  “No. We came out here to homestead. Alone. Both of our families are back East, in New York.”

  “What’s your pa do?”

  “He manages a mill. A fabric mill. On the side he deals in international fabrics, beautiful imports from all around the world.”

  Luke nodded. “You happy homesteading?”

  “Yes. Very. This is our grand adventure.”

  “You like living in the Territory? Never wanted to sell the ranch and head back East?”

  “No, never. Why do you ask all these questions about our personal lives, Deputy Davies?”

  “Just trying to get a full picture of your husband. Piece clues together. Motives. He’s not here to explain his actions.”

  “I see.”

  “Who’s watching your little ones today, while you came to town?”

  Lenora grimaced silently and then p
ut both hands over her face, tears streaming again. After a few seconds she removed her hands and wiped both eyes.

  “I’m sorry to upset you, Mrs. Rose.”

  “I know you mean no harm,” she said, after taking a gulp of air. “The good Lord has not seen fit to give us children.” She said this softly, as if confessing to a terrible sin.

  Poor woman. No husband, no kinfolk. No children. With this sad revelation hanging in the air between them, Luke decided to delay his interrogation out of respect for her feelings. They rode a few minutes without talking, each looking straight ahead, listening to the rhythmic rattle of the wheels on ragged dirt road.

  “Now,” he said, turning to face her, “ready to talk?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me what happened. After he left the ranch, what did you do?”

  Lenora took another deep breath and began. “I waited. It was after dark, like I told you, and drizzling too—it rained all night—so I stayed in the house and waited.”

  “You didn’t search in any of your outbuildings? The barn?”

  “No. Not that night. But the next morning when I woke up, Sunday, and he still wasn’t home, I looked everywhere. The barn, the pens, the privy. When I realized he wasn’t anywhere near the house, I saddled Beast—”

  “Beast?”

  Lenora pointed toward her Morgan. “That one’s Beast. James took Beauty when he left.”

  Luke gave her a blank look.

  “From a fairy tale I read in French class,” she explained.

  “I see.”

  “Then, when I didn’t find him near the ranch, I saddled Beast and went farther out. Almost to the border of our property. I tried to follow his tracks, but the rain from the night before made it difficult. I was out looking for him for hours.”

  “Did you get help from any of the neighbors?”

  Lenora paused before she answered and looked down at her lap. “I figured I could cover a lot of ground by myself.”

  Luke nodded to show he was listening, and after he’d heard enough, they rode in silence a while. The wagon wheels turned slowly to the clip clop of the tired horse in front, straining to pull the load by himself, echoed by Luke’s horse clip clopping in the rear.