The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “Say, Sheriff, how are things in town this evening?” Cyrus Fennel called as he approached.

  “Quiet so far, Mr. Fennel.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Cyrus took a puff on his cigar and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Mr. Walker, I’d like to talk to you, if you’ve got a minute,” Ethan said to the mayor, who sat on Fennel’s left.

  Bitsy smiled at the men. “Well, enjoy your drinks, gents. Bring you anything, Sheriff?”

  “No thanks, ma’am.”

  She nodded and moved away, greeting the cowhands at the next table as though they were long-lost relatives.

  “What is it, Chapman?” The mayor’s shrill voice almost made Ethan smile. How many times had he imitated that tone to make Hiram laugh? The realization that he now answered to the mayor, when this morning he’d answered to no man, made his stomach churn. That and the cigar smoke.

  “It’s about Bert Thalen.”

  “God rest his soul,” said Oscar Runnels, who ran a freight business consisting largely of several dozen pack mules.

  “What about him?” The mayor cradled his glass between his hands and smiled up at Ethan as though he hadn’t a care in this world, which he probably didn’t, this far from Mrs. Walker.

  “Well, I …” Ethan glanced at Cy Fennel and Oscar Runnels, suddenly wondering if he’d ought to spill all he knew in public. “Could I have a private word with you, sir?”

  “Official town business at this time of night?” The mayor’s voice escalated into a whine. “Just spit it out, Chapman. Is it about Bert’s personal property?”

  “No, sir. It’s about … about how he died.”

  “Hit his head,” said Fennel.

  “That’s right.” Walker nodded vigorously, almost slopping his drink. “And we gave him a right good sendoff this afternoon.”

  “Well, sir …” Ethan saw that the miners and poker players had begun to take an interest in their conversation. He pulled up a chair and sat down so he could lean close to Walker and drop his voice. “It’s true his head hit on something, all right, or rather, something hit his head. And I think I’ve found out what that something was.”

  The three men at the table stared at him. The others in the room had resumed their conversations, and Augie poured another round for two men leaning on the bar.

  “Not his bunk bed?” Cyrus asked.

  Ethan shifted his gaze to Fennel. The man’s steely eyes made his neck prickle. Best to bring in the fact that Hiram could corroborate what he’d found. “No, sir. Hiram Dooley and I set out to redd up the jailhouse after the funeral, and we found a stick of firewood with blood and hair on the end of it, like someone had been smacked hard with it.”

  Fennel took a quick drink from his glass. The mayor continued to stare, but Runnels asked, “Where’d you find this here stick of wood?”

  “Er, yes,” Walker added.

  “In the wood box beside the jailhouse stove.”

  The three sat in silence for a moment. Ethan waited for them to say something. He hadn’t ever thought about it much, but Cyrus often seemed to speak when the mayor was addressed. Sure enough, he spoke next.

  “If that was used as a weapon against someone, why didn’t the person who used it throw it in the stove and burn it up?” Cyrus asked.

  “That I don’t know, sir.”

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  Ethan gulped. He remembered Gert saying, ‘I think the mayor chose the right man for the job.’ But what did Gert know anyway? Guns and bread dough, yes. But law enforcement? She knew as much as he knew about tatting lace, which was nothing.

  “I’ve sent a telegram to Boise,” he managed. Fennel and Walker looked at each other.

  “That’s probably best,” the mayor said grudgingly.

  “Are they going to send a deputy marshal up here?” Cyrus again had the probing questions.

  “I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “I suppose we should inventory Bert’s things,” Oscar said.

  “Yes, we should.” Cyrus picked up his glass. “I told the mayor earlier that I went by Bert’s place this afternoon to make sure his livestock was all right and there weren’t any animals in the barn. His horse is over at the livery. The cattle will be all right in the pasture for a day or two, but we need to make sure no one steals them or the things in his house.”

  The mayor nodded decisively. “That’s a good job for you to do tomorrow, Chapman. Take a couple of fellows with you and list everything of value.” He turned to Cyrus. “Where’s Bert’s son living now?”

  “Oregon City, I think.”

  Ethan cleared his throat. “I guess I can get an inventory made and send it to him. Peter Nash would have his address at the post office.”

  “Well, there’s not much else we can do, is there?” Walker took a deep swallow that emptied his glass. He set it on the table with a thump. “I need to get home, gentlemen.” He rose and donned his hat. “Sheriff, keep me informed.”

  Cyrus and Oscar pushed their chairs back. Ethan surmised the interview was over. As Fennel pushed past him, he said, “Yes, Chapman. If there’s going to be federal lawmen coming here, we need to be prepared.”

  Ethan stared after them, holding his hat. Didn’t they care that Bert was murdered? Weren’t they anxious to have the killer apprehended? They didn’t seem worried about anything except government men coming to Fergus and upsetting their routine.

  “So Bert’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  He turned his head. Bitsy stood at his elbow, looking at the door where the men had just exited.

  Ethan wished Walker had let him tell him in private. Too late now. Everyone at Bitsy’s place knew, and the news would be all over town within an hour.

  Libby hurried down the stairs Friday morning to let Florence in at the back door of the Paragon Emporium. Punctual as usual, Florence untied and removed her bonnet, revealing the rusty red locks that clashed with her rosy cheeks.

  “Miz Adams, you’ll never guess what Myra Harper told me this morning.”

  Libby smiled as she headed for the counter. Her daily preparations for business would take most of the half hour that remained before opening time.

  “You’re probably right, Florence, so just tell me.”

  “The sheriff was murdered.”

  Libby stopped in her new high-topped, eleven-button calfskin boots and eyed her clerk cautiously. “Bert Thalen was murdered?”

  “Well, sure. Not the new sheriff.”

  “I should hope not.”

  Florence giggled. “Me, too. Sheriff Chapman’s a sight cuter’n Sheriff Thalen ever was.”

  Libby tried to scowl at her but failed. Ethan was a well-favored young man, and she supposed it was only natural for eighteen-year-old Florence to sigh over him, though Ethan probably had ten or twelve years on her.

  “Now, Florence, don’t speak ill of the dead. After all, you’ve no idea how Bert Thalen looked thirty years ago. Could be he was the handsomest man in the territory.”

  The girl giggled again as she hung up her bonnet. “I doubt that, ma’am. He was a nice man, but handsome he was not.”

  Libby sobered. “So, someone killed him? It wasn’t an accident?”

  Florence sidled up to the counter, puffed up with importance. “Myra stopped at the post office for her daddy’s mail, and she asked Papa if he’d heard.” Florence’s father, Peter Nash, kept the post office on the family’s front porch, and Florence was privy to a lot of gossip. “She said she had it from her father, and that he’d heard it from the mayor, who got it straight from Ethan Chapman last evening. Someone clobbered the old sheriff over the head with a stick of his own firewood.”

  Libby stared at her for a moment then swallowed. “I see.” She leaned over so she could read the case clock near the front door. “Florence, I’m going to get the cash box out and run over to Gert Dooley’s for a minute. You go ahead and get the ledgers out, and if Mrs. Harper brings eggs and m
ilk around, pay her the usual rate.”

  She went to the storage room, opened the safe, and took the cash box out. She carefully put back most of the money, leaving only five dollars in change to start off the day. After closing the safe door on the rest, she carried the cash box out into the store and set it on the shelf beneath the counter. Florence had laid out the ledgers containing the regular customers’ accounts and was now dusting the selection of housewares with a feather duster.

  “I shan’t be long.” Libby tied on her bonnet and grabbed her gray shawl. She dashed out the back door and around to the alley between the emporium and the stagecoach office. A wagon rattled down the street, and a couple of people ambled along the boardwalk. She ran across and down to the Dooleys’ house, set back from the street. Gert would be up and about her morning work. Libby hurried to the back door.

  Gert answered her knock almost at once. She’d tied her pale hair back in a careless knot, and several strands had escaped and fluttered about her face. If Gert would just tend to herself a little more, she could be quite pretty, but she never seemed to care about the impression made by a crooked apron or untidy hair.

  “Why, Libby Adams, what are you doing here so early?”

  “I’m sorry, Gert. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all. Can you take a cup of tea? Hiram’s gone with Ethan Chapman and Zachary Harper to inventory Bert Thalen’s belongings.”

  “No, really I can’t. I’m glad to hear they’re looking after Bert’s things. I just came to see if you’d heard the … well, I guess it’s a rumor.”

  Gert folded her arms across the front of her apron. “A rumor?”

  “Well, yes. That Bert was murdered.”

  Gert shook her head regretfully. “It’s no rumor. That there is the honest truth.”

  Libby raised her hand to her lips. “Oh dear. I was afraid of that.”

  “My brother was at the jail yesterday when Ethan found what they’re calling evidence. Someone cracked Bert across the skull with a stick of fir from his wood box.”

  Libby’s stomach went a little twitchy, as though she’d drunk a glass of sour milk. “Are they sure?”

  “Oh yes, they’re certain.”

  “Well, I … I don’t know what to say. Are we safe in this town?”

  “Now, that’s the question, isn’t it? Ethan’s got no idea who did it, which means it could be anyone.”

  “Anyone?” Libby licked her dry lips.

  “Anyone at all.” Gert nodded firmly, and another strand of hair slipped from her coif.

  Libby raised her chin. “If I bring Isaac’s pistol over here after closing time someday, can you show me how to shoot it?”

  Gert arched her eyebrows. “Sure, I could. What have you got?”

  “It’s his old Colt.”

  Gert nodded slowly. “Oh yes. A Peacemaker, isn’t it? Hiram made a new walnut grip for that gun four or five years back.”

  “Did he? I don’t remember. I never paid much mind to it when Isaac was alive.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t sold it by now.” Gert eyed her with speculation in her gray blue eyes. “You might feel safer with something like that behind the counter.”

  “I sleep with it under my pillow.” Libby flushed as soon as the words were out. Would Gert think her a ninny?

  “Not loaded, I hope? If you don’t know how to handle it, I mean.”

  “I had Cyrus Fennel check it for me after Isaac passed, to be sure it was empty. He offered to buy it, but I told him I thought I’d hang onto it for sentimental reasons.”

  Gert nodded. “Come by tonight if you want. We can shoot out back. Or we can ride out of town a ways if you want more privacy.”

  “Thank you, Gert. I appreciate that.”

  Libby bustled back across the street. Cyrus was opening the door of the stagecoach office and tipped his hat to her. Libby ducked down the alley and around the back of the emporium. Folks saw her as self-sufficient. Now she was one small step closer to being safe.

  CHAPTER 7

  There now, hold it steady with both hands, and this time, don’t jerk. Just squeeze gently.” Gert gave Libby an encouraging smile and a nod.

  “What?” Libby cocked her head toward her shoulder. “You had me put wool in my ears, and now I can’t hear you.”

  Gert leaned closer and spoke with exaggerated enunciation. “Gently. Take it slow and easy.”

  Libby nodded and turned to focus on the target. Gert had hung a hank of knotted dried grass from a fir tree branch fifty feet away. She liked a bright piece of cloth or a slip of white paper for a target, but last year’s crop of grass stood up free for the taking. The dry stalks were pale enough to stand out against a dark background of woods or a black rock.

  Gert placed her hands on her hips and waited. Libby took aim, wavered, straightened her shoulders, and looked down the big pistol’s barrel again.

  “You’re taking too long,” Gert said.

  “What?”

  Gert sighed, leaned in close, and yelled, “The longer you wait, the shakier you’ll get.”

  Libby raised her eyebrows and nodded, her lips parted as she considered the instructions.

  “Put it down to your side,” Gert yelled, pantomiming the action.

  Libby lowered the pistol. It nearly vanished among the folds of her dark blue skirt.

  “Now, when you bring it up, do it all at once, and shoot when you first focus on the target.”

  Libby nodded, but her eyebrows drew together and she looked far from confident.

  “Like this,” Gert shouted. She turned to face the target, drew up her pretend gun, raising her left hand at the same time to meet and steady her right. “Pow!”

  She looked over at Libby.

  “Did you hit it?” Libby asked.

  Gert laughed and gestured for her to proceed. Her pupil was far too pretty and proper to be toting a Colt Peacemaker.

  Libby inhaled deeply, held her breath, swung the pistol up, and pulled the trigger.

  Mildly surprised that she’d carried through, Gert looked barely in time to see a fir twig flutter down. Libby hadn’t hit the target, but she’d clipped the branch just below it.

  “Good job.” They both laughed.

  Libby dug the wool out of one ear. “I’ve only got three more bullets.”

  “You shoulda brought more.”

  “That’s all I had.”

  Gert frowned. “Don’t you have more in the store?”

  “No. I guess I should order more.”

  “Yes, you should. Don’t you stock ammunition regularly in the emporium?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to order for this gun. Isaac used to do all that. Lately I just reorder what people are buying.”

  Gert grinned at her. “You’re just too dainty to be true, Libby. The bullets for a Remington rifle same as Ethan uses will fit that pistol, right as rain.”

  A muffled shout drew Gert’s attention toward the dirt track she and Libby had followed out from Fergus after supper. Cyrus Fennel, on his big roan, had pulled up at the edge of the road and hailed them.

  Gert and Libby both stuck their fingers in their ears to ream out the wool.

  “Did you say something?” Gert called to Fennel.

  “I most certainly did. I asked what you ladies were up to.”

  “Just shootin’,” Gert said.

  “I see that. You usually shoot behind your brother’s house, Miss Dooley.”

  “It’s my fault, Mr. Fennel.” Libby advanced toward him, holding the Peacemaker at her side between the folds of her skirt. “I asked Gert to give me a shooting lesson off where the whole town couldn’t see. I guess we were close enough for you to hear us though.”

  “I was on my way home for supper and heard a few shots. Thought I’d check to make sure everything was all right.”

  “We’re fine,” Gert said.

  Cyrus kept the rein short, and the gelding pawed the ground. The big man shook his head. “I’m not s
ure it’s safe for you ladies to be out here shooting. What if I’d ridden up on that side of you?”

  “You’da been foolish if you had,” Gert said.

  Cyrus glared at her. “Someone could get hurt. Miss Dooley, I know you’re quite the marksman—or should I say markswoman? But still, you don’t know who might be on the other side of those trees.”

  Gert puffed out a breath. Where to start? Anyone could see they fired only in the direction of a steep dirt bank that would catch all their lead. Yet he insinuated that he wasn’t safe riding down the road behind them. Of all the nerve.

  Before she could speak, Libby took two more steps, bringing her to within a few yards of the horse. “It’s my fault. I heard Bert Thalen was murdered, and I wanted to be able to defend myself if need be, so I got out Isaac’s pistol and determined to learn to use it.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t do for nervous females to keep loaded guns. You could injure an innocent person. Why don’t you let the sheriff worry about the killer, Mrs. Adams?”

  Gert scowled. “What if the killer strikes again before the sheriff can stop him?”

  Libby glanced at her and nodded.

  “Oh, ladies.” Cyrus sighed. “Let the men of Fergus worry about public safety. I’m sure Sheriff Chapman will find out what really happened to Bert. If he was murdered, it was likely by some miscreant he tried to arrest. That person won’t hang around town waiting to be caught.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Libby said. “I do feel better knowing men like you are looking out for our well-being.”

  Cyrus tipped his hat. “Good day, ladies.” He turned his roan and cantered toward home.

  Gert looked at Libby. After a long moment, Libby’s mouth skewed into a grimace. “Nervous females, my foot.”

  Gert smiled. “You’ve still got three bullets. And you’ve got more .44 cartridges back at the store, right?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Then let’s see if you can shoot that bunch of straw down, and then we’ll go home.”

  That evening, Ethan slowly approached the Nugget. His palms sweated and his throat was a little dry, though it was chilly. He walked steadfastly, giving his sidearm a quick pat. His first visit to the Nugget had better not be on a rowdy Saturday night. Tonight would be bad enough. Best to show his face and let Jamin Morrell know he’d keep an eye on things regularly.