Easy Pickings

by Richard S. Wheeler

  The canvas lay on the floor, cold and soaked, leaving pools. But it had saved her life. The humble, tight-woven fabric had stayed the storm. She huddled around the still-hot furnace for a while, reviving, alone in the dark. Alive. She felt her way back to Wittgenstein’s little hideaway in the corner, and found the welcoming cot. After a while, when the shaking had ceased, and the heat had lifted her spirits, she slipped into troubled sleep.

  She knew nothing of the stormy night.

  A tapping on the door awakened her all too soon.

  “Forgive me, madam. Business hours approach.”

  She couldn’t stay there by day.

  “One minute,” she said, springing out of the cot.

  She found a dry dress, actually her shapeless Warm Springs one, got into it, jammed everything into the carpetbag, and opened.

  “You were out in the storm,” he said. “Here’s this.” He handed her the canvas, neatly folded.

  He had started up the furnaces, and dawn was breaking. She must go.

  “This place was the most welcome in my life,” she said. “The rain caught me coming from my mine.”

  “Not much to see, was there?”

  “Not a soul was there. I can’t imagine it. I thought they’d be digging out.”

  He stared through the window at the dawning sky. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done—talk about someone else’s assays. Your mine is probably dead. The ore pinched out in one lateral, is declining to a two-inch seam in the other, and not present at all on the face of the main shaft. The last batch of assay samples were, shall we say, the death rattle. The ore they brought in was so devoid of gold it wasn’t worth mining. Four samples, and none of them promising. One had no metal at all. A pocket, exploited and gone.”

  She felt numb. “Nothing? All this for nothing? I’m a fugitive for nothing?”

  He nodded. “They didn’t bother to reopen the shaft.”

  “All for nothing,” she said. “I’ve been running, homeless, for nothing.”

  He spoke softly. “And they’ve been hounding you for nothing, breaking every law for nothing.”

  She wanted desperately to lie down on the cot again. The world outside was cold and cruel.

  “Are you well? If it’s necessary, stay here for a while.”

  “I will go,” she said.

  He seemed ill at ease. She wanted to hug him, but instead, slipped out of the door, even as the half-light of the new day brightened. She hastened through empty streets, cleaned of manure by the rain, and found her way to Tipperary’s saloon. As usual, the alley door was open, and she entered the cold dark confines, suddenly desperate for food. She plucked up two pretzels from the jar, settled on top of the billiard table, and tried to process what all this meant. What was she fighting for now? What could she expect? Why was she here? Where could she go? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t shake the idea that her troubles were worse than ever. She didn’t know why, only that the Roach cabal wanted to catch and silence her worse than ever before.

  Twenty-nine

  March heard the thump of feet, the sound of people running, muffled shouts, a clatter of wagon wheels, and whistles. She lay on Tipperary’s billiard table, desperately trying to make sense of anything, and no more rested than when she fell into the assayer’s cot.

  Something was amiss. Fear lanced her; there were men here who wanted badly to return her to Warm Springs. She crept to the fogged window, peered out, and saw men hastening, all heading one direction. And just vanishing from her view was the Laidlow ebony hearse. Death, then.

  She weighed the consequences of stepping outside. She sensed this was something she needed to know about, but couldn’t say why. She wore only the shapeless dress of the institution she had fled, but maybe that was good. She didn’t wish to attract attention. It would not be like wearing a pink dress and a straw hat laden with silk flowers. On a peg she found a cape, something some customer had left behind, and now she borrowed it, wrapped herself tightly, eased out the alley door, past the odorous outhouse, and up the empty alley.

  Ahead, all noise had vanished and there was only a strange, oppressive silence. She walked steadily toward Second Street, her chest tight with fear. But no one stayed her, and then she reached the cross street and beheld the crowd, several hundred strong, crowded about the law chambers of Hermes Apollo. Something terrible was happening. The hearse stood there, and at the door stood Constable Roach, a brown folder clutched under his arm. Suddenly she understood what that folder contained, understood what this was about, and felt terror course through her. She chose to stop there, at the edge of the alley, even if the distance kept her from seeing everything. The awful thing was that she already knew.

  The crowd kept expanding. It looked like most of the males of Marysville were collecting in front of the law office. Constable Roach stood on the front step, watching the crowd quietly. He seemed a model of calm. Apart from whispering, that occasionally hissed in the breeze, this army of males was silent.

  Someone from Laidlow Funeral Home was pressuring people away from the black drays that stood, tails switching, in black harness. She studied these men, thought she spotted Tipperary, but at that distance was not sure. Finally, Laidlow’s two flunkies edged out the door, carrying a stretcher, and eased through the gawkers, with Laidlow himself pushing men out of the way.

  March got only a glimpse, when the pall was being carried out the door of the law office. On it lay Hermes Apollo, his white shirt and dark waistcoat bloodied, streaked with red, long, cruel cuts. He had been knifed. He had perished from multiple stabs and slices and gouges. His reddened arms flopped over the pall, even as Jerusalem Jones and Bum Carp pushed their way through the gawkers to the ebony hearse, and pushed the late lawyer inside.

  Oh, Hermes, she thought. Oh, Hermes. Because of me.

  “A fiendish murder,” Constable Roach said. “I will pursue the killer to the ends of the earth, down into hell if I must. Now be gone. Let the streets be safe again.”

  But no one moved. Laidlow conferred with Roach on the steps, each of them carrying folders stuffed with paper, and then he walked through the horrified crowd, climbed up on the hearse, took the lines, and gently slapped croups, urging the black horses through the spectators, who continued to watch in deep silence.

  March knew what was in those folders.

  And knew she would be next.

  And felt a powerful arm wrap her, a hand across her mouth preventing a scream, and then the prick of a knife in her side.

  “They want a suicide,” the tramp said. “Fits the note you left.”

  She writhed, struggled, briefly pulled him out from the alley into the view of the others, who were all watching the hearse wind its way to the funeral home. But no one saw, and no one came.

  He force-walked her ahead of him, expertly pressuring her in ways that made the steps seem almost routine. But the slightest resistance brought the blade into her side, so she felt its sting, its heat, and its terror.

  She searched for help, both wanting it and knowing that if it arrived, that blade would sink deep into her. No help came.

  “Too bad I didn’t peg you in the boxcar,” he said. “Wrong description. But it don’t matter now. Where do you want to commit suicide?”

  She kept silent. They walked further. Her limbs ached from the pressure.

  “My mine,” she said. “It’s two miles out.”

  She would live that long, anyway.

  “Two miles out? Fat chance.”

  “It’s where I lost my husband. My baby boy. And the mine.”

  “You’ll croak in a boxcar. That’ll do fine. I’m going to let go of you. Walk in front of me. Don’t run, don’t try nothing. I’m a lot faster than you.”

  She felt herself freed, and it was all she could do not to run. She turned abruptly.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “My mine.”

  He yanked her violently and steered her toward the rail siding that ended at the Dru
mlummon at the edge of town. A man on the street stared.

  “I’m going to my home,” she said, and veered again, and again she was yanked violently and now cakewalked directly toward the rails. Her heart was hammering. She walked faster and he was right behind. She saw a string of flatcars but no boxcar. Not one.

  “Sonofabitch,” he said.

  “My mine,” she said. She turned abruptly, started up Third Street, walked straight through town, past people now, the tramp one step behind, muttering. She speeded up; he speeded up. She swerved; he swerved and caught her, his iron grip instantly crushing her shoulder. She felt the prick of steel in her side, and stopped at once.

  “Walk slow and easy,” he said. “You’re dead if you mess around.”

  “Then I have nothing to lose,” she said.

  Tipperary was walking beside, white apron, axe handle in hand. He passed forward of her, paying no attention. One of his patrons, dust cap and all, was coming up fast.

  Her every instinct was to break loose and run. Instead, she halted abruptly, and the tramp slammed into her, unbalanced, and she twisted right.

  The thud of the axe handle hitting the tramp’s head, and then a groan, was all she heard. She landed on the clay street. Another thud, some cursing, and yells. She crawled up, turned around, found the tramp sprawled in the road.

  “Be you safe?” he asked.

  She felt her side, and the stickiness there, but it was nothing. “Think so.”

  Now men flooded in, mostly gawking.

  The tramp groaned. Someone collected a long, bloody knife with a narrow blade.

  “Killed the lawyer,” someone said.

  “You’re bleeding, Miss.”

  She was. “I’ll put a plaster on,” she said.

  “What’s this?” someone asked.

  “It’s him that killed the lawyer and tried for her. And we’re not done, not yet,” Tip said.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It was hired, and we’ll go for them.”

  She was handed a rag, and she pressed it to her side, and it reddened. She felt dizzy.

  “Who’s this woman?”

  “March McPhee, she whose mine was stolen, whose boy was killed.”

  “You’re her are you? I thought you were a madwoman.”

  “And her freedom was stolen, too,” Tip said. “A good place to shut away a woman whose mine they took from her.”

  “And what’s all this? A tramp loose on the streets, Leary?”

  “It’s silence they were buying, right when they were about to be exposed, the whole bloody lot of them. You’ll see it come together soon enough. We need men. Come along to the constable.”

  She knew some of them now. They were Tip’s customers, but there were others. Her side smarted, but there wasn’t much of any blood.

  “Mrs. McPhee, wait safe in my place of business, and put a little spirits on your cut.”

  “Later,” she said. “I will come along.”

  “There’s a Celt,” Tip said. “Lift him up now, and carry him.”

  The tramp had a bloody lump on his skull, and his breath was rasping. His fingers clutched and unclutched the knife that was no longer there. He opened his eyes, closed them, and went limp again. Two men in dust caps lifted him awkwardly.

  March felt faint. But she was not going to miss any of it.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” yelled Constable Roach, pushing his way through the crowd. There he was, natty blue uniform immaculate, mustachios trimmed to the last hair.

  “Here’s the killer, and he tried for her,” someone said. “See, here’s the bloody knife, and it’s the lawyer’s own on it.”

  “The madwoman,” Roach said. “Got her. She’s behind this.”

  “Constable, hand me that billy club,” Tipperary Leary said.

  “What are you talking about? I’m taking you in.”

  Tip’s axe handle cracked down on the constable’s hand. He howled.

  “You getting us into a jackpot, Leary?” a man asked.

  “He hired it done; him and his clan. Laidlow’s one. It’ll come clear. Check the constable, see he’s clean, and bring him.”

  “You’ll pay for this; twenty years in Deer Lodge,” Roach said.

  “You won’t live to see it, because you and this here tramp, and a few more, you’ll see the noose and nothing after.”

  The constable’s face drained of color.

  “Bring him along,” said Tip.

  Hesitantly, the crowd caught Roach.

  “You’ll pay, you’ll pay,” Roach said. “You’ll pay the price, and do time. Get your hands off me. I’m a peace officer.”

  The crowd hesitated.

  “Guess I’ll haul you there myself,” Tip said, and began marching the constable toward the village lockup. Uneasily, the rest followed, two of them carrying the tramp. It was an uneasy, uncertain bunch that dragged the tramp and the constable straight through town, catching stares and glares at every hand, from every storefront. This was something unheard of in quiet Marysville.

  Strangely, as they passed the assay office, Wittgenstein joined them, wearing his thick canvas apron. “Are you well, Mrs. McPhee? Do you need help?”

  “I’m getting help from the truest men in town.”

  They reached the city building, with its little lockup. The constable’s office was orderly. She looked in vain for the brown folders, the papers that Hermes Apollo was about to file, and saw nothing. That shot fear through her.

  “There’s never a paper on the man’s desk, Mrs. McPhee,” Tip said. “We’ll look in a minute. He directed the men carrying the tramp to settle the man in the cell, and then the constable.

  “Check him for a key,” he said.

  They found a ring of keys on the constable, and nothing more, and pushed him in.

  “Are you sure you know what’s what, Leary?” A town merchant named Spreckels was objecting.

  Tip circled behind the constable’s desk, opened desk drawers, found some brown pasteboard folders and pulled them out. Written on one was McPhee vs Laidlow, Roach, et al.

  “The lot of them, this shadowy clan, all kin one way or other, was about to be exposed. The lady and her attorney, God bless his soul, were going to file papers in Butte, since Judge Roach in Helena’s a part of it all. The complaint’s here. The McPhee Mine, it’s gone, a pocket is all, but this lawsuit had to be stopped, and they tried.”

  “Oh, horsepucky, Leary,” another merchant said. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “There’s the tramp’s knife, and it’s bloody to the hilt,” Tip said. “And who was paying him to protect their reputations?”

  The crowd jammed into the little office seemed uncertain, divided, and fearful.

  Then Mortimer Laidlow burst in, armed with a shotgun. Jerusalem Jones and Bum Carp followed, with drawn revolvers. The crowd edged back, isolating Tip Leary and March McPhee at the desk.

  “Heard it was like this,” the undertaker said. “We’ve come to restore law and order.”

  Thirty

  Oddly, nothing happened. The undertaker crouched at the door, shotgun in hand, backed by two nephews, revolvers in hand. Over in the jail, the tramp was coming around, shaking his head. Constable Roach stared. Behind the desk, folders in hand, Tip Leary stood, and beside him, March. And a dozen other citizens stood about, paralyzed.

  It could turn into bloody mayhem. March planned to hit the floor. If she lived.

  Constable Roach spoke quietly:

  “Mr. Leary, release me. You are holding the key. Mortimer, lower that shotgun. You might hurt someone. You young men, holster your revolvers. The rest of you, stand quietly.”

  Tip paused only long enough to see whether Laidlow would comply instead of firing, saw that the undertaker was reluctantly lowering his weapon a few inches so the barrel pointed at ankles rather than faces and chests, carefully unlocked the cell, let the constable out, and closed it again, keeping the tramp within. The lock snapped hard.
/>   Constable Roach stepped toward his desk. There were tears in his eyes. He was as natty as ever, not a speck of dirt on his blue uniform, neatly shaven, his mustache trimmed, his gaze observant. But his lip twitched. It was one thing he could not control.

  “Mortimer, the shotgun, please.”

  There was a strange aura about the constable. He was without weapons, yet at that moment the most commanding mortal present, a Moses carrying the Ten Commandments.

  Reluctantly, the undertaker surrendered the weapon. The constable did not heft it or point it; instead, he placed it on his desk.

  “Boys, unbuckle your belts, and hand me the revolvers in their holsters.”

  Slowly they did. They handed him the belts. Jerusalem was glaring, and the glare announced that he was being betrayed.

  March marveled. The constable was disarming men on the very edge of madness.

  “Is anyone else armed?” the constable asked.

  No one was, except for Tip’s axe handle, which Roach saw and ignored. Tip simply tucked it in his arms.

  “Very well. We’ll try not to keep Mr. Laidlow busy. You wonder about me now. I have been struck by lightning,” the constable said. “Put it this way. I’m a copper, sworn to keep peace and order. I wasn’t keeping my oath of office until just now. But we sometimes receive guidance. Who knows what and when and where? Or maybe it’s just conscience. I am not who I thought I was. It’s a revelation. While I did not commission various crimes, I have known of them and did not object to them, and share the guilt of them. I should not be wearing this uniform.”

  He held out his hand to Tip. “The keys, please.”

  Tip handed Roach the jail keys. Roach headed for the iron-barred jail door, and flipped the lock once again.

  “Mortimer, you and the boys walk into that cell.”

  “But, Thomas,” the undertaker said. “This is all nonsense.”

  Roach said nothing, a quiet pillar of blue, and such was his power, even unarmed, that the three meekly entered, joining the tramp. March could not imagine what powers the constable had that would achieve these things.

  Roach swung the squeaking iron door shut and locked it.