The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

Golden light from a small window in the west wall of the building illuminated the room. The sun had just hit the horizon, and its last fiery rays streamed in, showing the empty bunk and a small stand with a bowl and pitcher.

  Bert Thalen lay sprawled on the floor beside the bunk, staring up at the ceiling. His face was a horrible purple red. Or maybe it was just the reflection of the sunset.

  Milzie took two steps into the room and stared down at the sheriff for a long minute. He didn’t blink. A dark ooze stained the floorboards under his head. A large, shiny safety pin held his suspenders together on the near side. Milzie stooped and unclasped it. Her aching fingers resisted, but she managed to pin the front of her coat together where the last button had been.

  She walked slowly out to the stove again and scooped the wooden spoon into the beans. The sheriff wouldn’t be needing those.

  CHAPTER 3

  Libby Adams flipped the bolt of black bombazine over several times, spreading yards of the sturdy fabric on her counter. She could tell from long practice when she had laid out the four yards Mrs. Walker wanted. She could have cut it to within two inches without ever consulting her yardstick, but she measured it anyway, under the eagle eye of the mayor’s wife. Mrs. Walker always bought dark colors and practical fabrics.

  While Libby folded the cloth, Mrs. Walker browsed the notions counter, selecting buttons for her new dress. Her husband, meanwhile, hovered in the emporium’s hardware section. The few groceries they had chosen were already tallied and waiting in a crate, but the mayor usually wound up cooling his heels while his wife shopped for her personal wants. He found rancher Micah Landry eyeing a posthole digger and greeted him with relief. Libby’s part-time clerk, Florence Nash, was diligently restocking the cracker and candy jars. A housewife selecting soap and lamp oil was the only other customer at the moment. Well, Milzie Peart huddled near the box stove, but she seldom bought anything. Libby was tempted to ask her to leave. Her body odor, worsened by the heat, kept other customers away from the stove.

  Mrs. Walker brought her sundries to the counter and placed a card of a dozen black buttons and a paper of straight pins on the folded length of fabric.

  Libby smiled at her. “All set, ma’am?” She’d known Mrs. Walker for years. Their husbands had been friends in the old days. But the mayor’s wife kept herself slightly aloof, and Libby never felt herself on an equal footing with Orissa Walker.

  “You don’t have any new silk floss?”

  Libby tried to keep her smile from drooping. “Not yet. I’ve ordered a better selection, but these things take time.”

  She hoped her investment in expensive embroidery threads didn’t prove a poor one. Only a few women in Fergus had time to fritter away on decorative arts, and she knew she might never sell all the skeins of fine floss she had ordered. Still, some of the girls who worked at the Spur & Saddle or the Nugget were handy with a needle, and they all liked to add fripperies to their costumes. Libby shuddered when some of them entered the emporium wearing scanty dresses, but they were good customers. For them, she maintained one of Fergus’s best-kept secrets: a supply of garish satins and sheer muslins stored in the back room. She had even special-ordered ostrich feathers, satin garters, and beribboned, glove-fitting corsets for Bitsy Shepard and her employees. Mrs. Walker would probably die of apoplexy on the spot if she saw the items that Libby procured for Bitsy. In the year and a half since Isaac’s death, Libby had been forced to support herself, and that meant ordering merchandise that would sell.

  The sleigh bells on the door jingled, and the door swung open. Cyrus Fennel charged in, bringing a blast of cold air. His gaze settled on the mayor’s wife.

  “Mrs. Walker! Is your husband here? I went by your house, but—”

  “I’m here, Cyrus.” The mayor stepped away from the wall of hardware. “You wanted to see me?”

  Libby shivered. “Shut the door if you please, Mr. Fennel.”

  Cyrus glanced at her and hastily closed it. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Charles, we have a crisis.”

  “What is it?” The mayor stepped closer, as did Micah Landry and the shopping housewife. Florence paused with a handful of jawbreakers suspended over an open candy jar. Mrs. Walker eyed Fennel critically through her small spectacles.

  Cyrus held the mayor’s gaze. “Bert Thalen is dead.”

  Libby drew a sharp breath, and the others gasped.

  “What happened?” Mayor Walker asked.

  “I don’t know. I was coming from Hiram Dooley’s place, and I stepped in to have a word with Bert. He’s lying on the floor in the back room of his office, dead as a plucked chicken.”

  “Oh dear.” Walker fumbled in his pocket and produced a handkerchief, with which he dabbed at perspiration on his brow. “I suppose we’d better get someone to lay him out.”

  “You’d best come and take a look,” Fennel said. “Thalen’s the law around here, and there’s no one else we can fetch to tend to him.”

  The mayor cleared his throat and glanced at his wife as he shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Hmm. Well … I suppose Hiram Dooley will make a coffin for him.”

  “But someone needs to take some kind of official notice that he’s dead,” Fennel persisted.

  “We don’t have a doctor,” Mrs. Walker pointed out unnecessarily. Everyone in Fergus was painfully aware of the fact.

  “It would take days to get someone up here from Boise,” Landry said. “You’d best look at him, Mayor.”

  “Hmm … well, I suppose.”

  Fennel and Landry headed for the door. The mayor followed with slower steps. He glanced back at his wife. “You’d best stay here, m’dear. I shan’t be long.”

  “Nonsense. I’m coming.” Mrs. Walker wrapped her woolen cape snugly about her and walked away from the counter, leaving her purchases behind. “We haven’t had a funeral in more than a year.”

  The Walkers and the housewife went out. Libby glanced over at Florence and said, “Or a wedding in twice that long.” She tore a length of brown paper off the roll beneath the counter and wrapped Mrs. Walker’s material and sewing notions. On the boardwalk outside, several people hurried past.

  “Sounds like word’s gettin’ around.” Florence screwed the lid onto the jar.

  Libby felt a sudden urge to go over to Thalen’s office. The mayor’s wife was right about Fergus; the town had spent a dull winter. The sheriff’s death was big news. Bert Thalen had been a friend of her husband’s when Isaac was alive, God rest his soul. Besides, as owner of the emporium, she ought to get the details so she could tell her customers all about it. The store was empty. Milzie Peart must have slipped out while the others were talking.

  “You mind the till,” Libby told Florence. Quickly she took off her apron and grabbed her coat and bonnet.

  A farm wagon approached from the north end of town, but Libby tore across the street before it came within hailing distance. A knot of curiosity seekers had gathered outside the sheriff’s office. She sidled up to Gert Dooley.

  “What happened to the sheriff?”

  Gert glanced at her then turned her attention back to the office door. “Dunno. I was just dishing up supper for Ethan Chapman and Hiram when Griff Bane came pounding on the door and told Hiram he needed to get over to the jail ‘cause Bert was dead. Hiram and Ethan are in there now with Griffin, the mayor, and Cy Fennel.”

  Libby nodded. Griffin Bane owned the smithy and livery stable. Most likely the sheriff, a widower who lived alone just outside town, would be laid out over at the stable. Fergus lacked a lot of things besides a doctor, an undertaker being one of them.

  The mayor came out of the sheriff’s office and latched onto the handrail by the steps. His face held a greenish cast, and his knees seemed a mite wobbly.

  “Folks,” he called out, and the crowd went silent. “Folks, our beloved sheriff, Bert Thalen, has breathed his last. I’ve asked Hiram Dooley and Griffin Bane to take care of … what needs to be done. Funeral tomorrow at the graveyard, one o
’clock sharp.”

  The people began to murmur. A few walked away, but more arrived, having just received the news or seen the gathering.

  The mayor joined his wife on the walkway. “Well, m’dear, we need to retrieve our bundles from the emporium.”

  “Mayor, wait!” Cyrus Fennel hurried down the steps. “There’s something else you need to take care of, Mr. Mayor.”

  Everyone halted, eager for more news.

  Walker frowned at Fennel. “What is it, Cy?”

  “Why, we’ll need a new sheriff. I think you should appoint someone.”

  “Sheriff’s an elected position,” Gert called out.

  Fennel’s eyebrows lowered. “We can’t leave the position open while we wait for an election. Can’t go long without a lawman.”

  “You could appoint someone temporary-like,” Micah Landry suggested.

  Mayor Walker hooked his thumbs in his coat pockets and stood for a moment, staring toward the doorway. At last he said, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  The people let out their pent-up breath and shuffled away. Hiram Dooley and Ethan Chapman emerged from the office, and Gert advanced to meet them at the bottom of the steps. Libby followed on her heels.

  “What happened in there?” Gert asked her brother.

  Hiram shrugged.

  Ethan said, “Not sure. Looks like he might have fallen and hit his head on the edge of his bunk. He’s lying on the floor beside it.”

  “Tripped and fell?” Gert probed, frowning up at the tall rancher.

  “Maybe.” Ethan didn’t sound convinced. “Coulda been heart failure, I guess.”

  “Bert was a strong man,” Libby ventured.

  Ethan glanced her way and nodded a greeting. “Miz Adams. He was gettin’ along in years. Must have been well past fifty.”

  Closer to sixty, Libby thought, but she kept silent. Her husband, Isaac, had been fifteen years her senior, and he would have been fifty this spring. His friend, Bert Thalen, was several years older.

  Gert persisted. “So somehow or other, he hit his head.”

  “All I know is, the mayor wants Hiram to build him a casket.” Ethan clapped the gunsmith on the shoulder. “I’ll help Griffin move the body over to the livery, and then I’ll come help you.”

  Hiram nodded.

  “That’s it?” Gert asked.

  “Well … I’d say someone needs to examine the body closer. Someone who knows what they’re doing.” Ethan gritted his teeth. “There’s some blood on the floor, and it looked like he whomped his head pretty hard. Stove his skull in some.”

  Hiram nodded, and Gert eyed her brother critically, as though his silent opinion counted more than Ethan’s.

  “I did notice one other thing when they rolled him over,” Ethan said.

  “What was that?” Gert asked eagerly.

  Ethan stuck his hand in the pocket of his Levis and pulled it out, then turned it over and opened his fist. A coin lay in his broad palm.

  “A penny?” Libby stared up into Ethan’s face, but he was looking at Gert.

  “It was underneath him,” Ethan said. “Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  “He might have had it in his hand when he died.” Gert’s forehead wrinkled.

  Ethan nodded. “Might. And dropped it as he fell.”

  Griffin Bane appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Ethan, you ready? I can use some muscle here.”

  “Coming.” Ethan shoved the penny back into his pocket and hurried up the steps.

  Gert eyed her brother. “I suppose you need to see if you’ve got the right lumber for a coffin.”

  Hiram nodded, his lips clamped together.

  “Well, come on then.” Gert turned toward their nearby house. “Finish your supper first though. I’ll put Ethan’s plate in the pie safe until he comes back. If he doesn’t forget and go home without his supper.”

  Brother and sister moved off, and Libby felt suddenly chilled. Full darkness had fallen, and she quickened her steps toward the emporium. Closing time had arrived, but if she stayed open, folks might come in to talk. The emporium made a good meeting place—not as good as the saloons, but a respectable place where decent women could gather. And when they did, they were apt to purchase an item or two.

  Her speculation proved correct, and small groups of people wandered into the emporium over the next two hours, drawn by the lights. They leaned on the counter or clustered about the stove, debating the recent state of the sheriff’s health and possible candidates to take over the office.

  Libby sent Florence home at eight o’clock, and soon afterward, she locked the door behind the last lingerers. She locked her cash box in the safe in the back room. Heading up the stairs to her living quarters, she shivered. The apartment was cold, so she left the stairway door open to let some of the warmth up from the store. She set her lamp on the table and washed her hands. While she prepared her solitary meal, she thought about what Bert Thalen’s passing would mean to the town. Her husband had respected him. Libby felt less secure just knowing Bert was dead. Cyrus Fennel had a point: Though Fergus was not a lawless town, it might become one if it had no sheriff.

  When at last she lay down to sleep, she slid her hand under the pillow beside her—Isaac’s pillow. The sheets were cool, but the polished wood of the Colt Peacemaker’s handle felt the same as always. Solid. Dependable. Libby wished she knew how to handle the gun better. When Isaac was alive, she never worried about guns. Now she felt safer just having it handy. If someone broke in, she could point it at them. Chances were they’d listen to her. But maybe it was time she learned to load and shoot the big pistol.

  CHAPTER 4

  The mayor took center stage at the funeral the next afternoon. He spoke at length—too much length, Ethan thought—about Bert Thalen’s contributions to the town. Ethan had pulled his hat off for the service, as had all the other men, and the wind cooled his ears to the point of discomfort.

  “Bert was liked by everyone.” The chilly wind caught Walker’s thin voice, making it hard to hear at times. “When we came looking for gold back in ‘63, Bert Thalen, Isaac Adams, Cyrus Fennel, and I met up in the assay office. We immediately became friends. Bert was square. He always kept his word, and if another miner needed help, he’d lend a hand.”

  The mayor went on, but Ethan let his mind wander. True, most folks respected Bert, at least enough to keep electing him sheriff every fall for the last fifteen years. But he did have a temper. Thalen’s ranch bordered Ethan’s, and they’d ridden fence together several times. Ethan had heard Bert cuss and carry on when things didn’t go his way. He liked his tobacco chaw, and he’d gotten set in his ways. But he was all right—better than most men would be if they wore the star.

  Cy Fennel took the mayor’s place at the head end of the grave, facing the crowd. Word had traveled fast, and most of the town’s one hundred or so residents had turned out, along with a few outlying ranchers.

  “I well recollect the first winter we prospected in these hills.” Cy was putting on a bit of a folksy tone today. “My wife, Mary, and I homesteaded, but I spent a lot of time the first two years out on the claim I’d filed with Bert, Charles, and Isaac. The first winter, we got caught in a blizzard. We like to have froze to death. Cold! Wasn’t it cold?” Cyrus shook his head. “Yup, those days it took a lot of grit to survive out here.”

  “It ain’t no picnic nowadays,” called Micah Landry, who ran a few cattle on his ranch out Mountain Road.

  Everyone laughed uneasily.

  “Yes, sir, Bert was a tough one.” Cyrus nodded soberly, not focusing on anyone in the crowd.

  He opened his mouth as though to speak again, but Mayor Walker called out, “Anyone else want to say something about Bert?”

  “He was always a gentleman, and I never saw him drunk.”

  The crowd swiveled around to look at the speaker, Bitsy Shepard, who owned the Spur & Saddle Saloon.

  “He encouraged me to keep the business after Isaac died,” Libby
Adams said.

  Her voice was so quiet that Orissa Walker piped up with, “What’d she say, Charles?” No one had any trouble hearing the mayor’s wife.

  The murmuring increased, and Walker raised both hands. “Now, folks, quiet down. Let’s have a psalm and a prayer, out of respect for the dead.”

  Griffin Bane stepped forward holding a worn, leather-covered book. His thick eyebrows nearly met as he opened it. If Ethan hadn’t known him so well, he’d have thought Griff was angry. But he always scowled like that on somber occasions.

  “Psalm 23,” the blacksmith said. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’ “

  A lot of the townsfolk recited the chapter along with Griffin, without the aid of a Bible—mostly older folks. The town had yet to acquire a church or a man to fill the pulpit and bury their dead. Some of them heard scripture only in snippets at funerals and such. For years, the only times Ethan had heard preaching came when he rode to Silver City or Boise.

  Still, he didn’t need every-week services to remember the verses he’d learned as a child. His mama had coached him for weeks until he could recite the Shepherd’s Psalm and the Old Hundredth word perfect for his Sunday school teacher. But that was before they came to the ranch near Fergus.

  “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,’ “Ethan recited softly, along with Griffin and the others. “‘For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’ “

  He glanced over at his friend Hiram. While the gunsmith mouthed the words silently, his sister, Gertrude, spoke evenly, in unison with Griff. Only three Bibles were in evidence besides Griffin’s. Libby Adams held hers open at the middle, while Orissa Walker clutched one close against her chest. To Ethan’s surprise, Augie Moore, the bartender at Bitsy’s place, also held one and followed along as Griffin read.

  “‘… And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ “Ethan hoped Bert had crossed into the house of the Lord. “Amen.” Griff clapped his hat on with one hand while flipping the Bible closed with the other.