He hesitated before pushing the saloon door open. A sour rendition of “Camptown Races” plinked from the piano inside, and the fumes of tobacco smoke and liquor made him brace himself. Could his mama see him from up in heaven? He hoped not. Although his purpose in entering the den of iniquity was innocent, Mama most certainly wouldn’t approve.
He shoved the door open a little harder than was necessary, sending it flying back to bump the wall with a thud. Everyone in the Nugget swiveled and stared at him. The girl at the piano in the corner stopped playing and sat with her hands still poised over the keyboard.
Morrell had been leaning on the bar, conversing with a customer, but he straightened when he saw Ethan and smiled at him.
“Well, Sheriff. Welcome to the humble establishment.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “Evening, Mr. Morrell.”
“It’s a quiet night tonight.” Jamin looked over at the bartender, Ted Hire, who was wiping up a spill on the polished surface of the bar. “Ted, set up a glass for the sheriff.” He turned back to Ethan. “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”
Ethan stepped forward. “No, thanks.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Jamin slapped his temple as if he were the most forgetful old codger in Idaho Territory. “You’re on official business.”
Ethan didn’t contradict him, but they both knew he’d never darkened the door of the Nugget since it opened last summer. Jamin probably knew he never drank liquor. Morrell was sharp. Ethan figured he knew which men in town imbibed and which didn’t, and which ladies liked a nip now and then as well.
“Just stopping in to tell you to call on me if you need any help keeping the peace,” Ethan said. His right eye tried to twitch. He stared hard at Morrell, determined not to blink.
“That’s kind of you, Sheriff.” Morrell pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket, consulted it, and put it away. “You’re welcome here anytime. Mr. Tibbetts and I were just discussing how badly this town needs a doctor. Isn’t that right, sir?” He looked to the dust-covered rancher leaning on the bar for confirmation.
“We sure do.” Tibbetts upended his glass and drained it. When he set it down, the bartender refilled it without asking.
Ethan nodded. “Can’t argue with you there.” If they’d had a doctor when Bert was killed, the doctor could have looked at the dead man’s wound and maybe known right away poor Bert had been murdered.
“A physician would be a fine addition to the community.” Morrell settled again with one elbow resting on the bar.
“Need a bank, too,” called a man who sat at a small, square table holding a half dozen playing cards in one hand. Ethan recognized him as one of Cy Fennel’s stage drivers.
“Yes, indeed,” Morrell said. “That’s another thing that would help this town grow.”
“How about a preacher while you’re at it?” Tibbetts blinked at Jamin. “That’s what my missus is always sayin’. We need us a preacher.”
Jamin started to laugh then sobered. He flexed his shoulders. “Your missus may be right, Jim.” His eyes narrowed.
Ethan wondered what the saloon keeper was thinking. When a town got a church and a minister, it usually forced restraint on its houses of entertainment. Surely Morrell didn’t favor that.
Ethan glanced around. Besides Tibbetts and the poker players, only two other customers and the girl at the piano kept Morrell and the bartender company. The night was young, of course, but it gave him satisfaction to think Bitsy Shepard had kept the greater part of the saloon traffic despite the new competition.
Thoughts like that always muddled Ethan, since he knew deep down that any saloon was bad. As a nondrinking citizen, he’d avoided both and ignored their existence. But as sheriff, he’d need to make his presence felt and even cooperate with the owners to keep things from getting out of hand. Saloons being legal, he had to live with the facts.
But that didn’t mean he had to linger.
“Have a nice evening.” He nodded to Morrell.
“Come again, Sheriff.”
Oh, I will, Ethan thought as he strode toward the door. I surely will.
As the door swung shut behind him, he heard someone say, “I dunno if the new sheriff’s man enough for the job.”
He stood still for a moment on the steps, fighting the urge to charge back in there. But he wouldn’t know who the speaker was, and besides, that wasn’t the way to prove him wrong. Only time and diligence would do that. He walked on toward the jail.
On Monday afternoon Libby took off her apron and hung it behind the counter. Finally the air held the warmth of May and the promise of summer. She wouldn’t need a wrap today. She’d chosen a large needlepoint handbag in which to carry her pistol and a supply of ammunition. She reached for a crisp green calico poke bonnet that would be perfect headgear for a spring day.
“Florence, I’ll be back by three o’clock.” Traffic in the emporium was always light after noontime, and her clerk could handle it without her.
“Yes, ma’am.” Florence’s hazel eyes held a hint of solemnity as she looked about the store.
Libby went out the back. She didn’t like people to see her leave by the front door. The mayor’s wife might try to go over and talk Florence down on prices, thinking she could get a bargain from the inexperienced girl. Libby smiled at the thought. For the first month of Florence’s employment, Libby had made her repeat over and over before opening each morning, “Only Mrs. Adams makes deals with customers.”
She lurked in the alley between the emporium and the stagecoach office until she was sure no one paid any mind to the foot traffic on her part of the street. As she dashed across the way, she noted smoke puffing from the jail’s chimney. Ethan must be in his new office. He’d been sheriff less than a week, but he seemed to take the position and its responsibilities to heart. Already she’d heard complaints. When Ted Hire came in wanting some lamp oil, he’d mentioned how the sheriff had come into the Nugget three times on Saturday night and told the boys to keep the noise down. It put a damper on the usual hilarity, to hear Ted tell it.
At the Dooleys’ house, she cut straight around to the back. Gert had already saddled the two horses she and her brother maintained. Hiram Dooley’s Sharps rifle protruded from a leather scabbard on the saddle of Gert’s dun mare, Crinkles. The other horse, Hiram’s docile bay gelding he called Hoss, stood with his head drooping, eyes closed, and tail swishing now and then. His reins hung down from the bit, the only restraint Gert had used on him. That was about all the excitement Libby liked in a horse.
“Howdy,” Gert called with a smile.
“Good afternoon. Am I late?”
Gert glanced up at the sky. “Not on my account.”
“Are you sure Hiram won’t mind if I take his horse?”
“No, he’s got the mayor’s rifle in. He’ll be working on it all afternoon, I dare say.”
Gert unhitched Crinkles and swung the mare’s head around. “Need a boost?”
“Well …” Libby gathered Hoss’s reins and moved him to an uneven spot in the ground, where she could stand a few inches uphill from him. She was able to lift her left foot to the stirrup from there. “I’ll be fine,” she called, but Gert led Crinkles over anyway.
“Forgot to put the stirrups up. Go ahead and mount. I’ll run ‘em up the leathers once you’re on.”
Libby swung up and threw her leg over, struggling to arrange her skirt and keep her bag from bumping Hoss’s side.
“You ought to alter one of your skirts,” Gert said. “It’d be easier to ride in.”
“Oh, I know.” Libby had ridden sidesaddle before she’d come west to marry Isaac Adams, but out here, the practice was out of fashion. She doubted the town of Fergus boasted a single sidesaddle.
Hiram’s legs were a good deal longer than hers, and her toes slid out of the stirrups. In seconds, Gert had adjusted the straps. “All set?”
“Feels just right.” Libby bounced on her toes, and Hoss swung his head around, fixing her with a reproachf
ul gaze. “Sorry, Hoss.”
Gert hopped easily onto Crinkles’s back. Her divided skirt settled with modesty about her. Libby decided she would look at the pattern book when she got back to the emporium. Maybe it was time she had the practical Western version of a riding habit. Gert gathered her reins and clucked. Crinkles set out at a swift walk. Libby squeezed Hoss. When he didn’t move, she kicked him lightly, and he shuffled off in the mare’s wake.
They ambled behind the row of houses and businesses that faced Main Street and soon were beyond the edge of town. Gert urged her mare into a quick trot, and Libby, with some effort, persuaded Hoss to keep up. They rode to a stream that gushed down out of the mountains on its way to the river. This time of year, the streams around Fergus looked as though they meant business, but by the end of July, most would be bone dry.
Gert led her up the ravine to a secluded spot between the hills, where she halted and jumped to the ground.
“Are we on Ethan Chapman’s land?” Libby asked as she dismounted. She looked about for a place to tether her horse.
“Bert Thalen’s ranch, actually, but he won’t mind.” Gert didn’t seem to notice what she’d said about the dead man, or if she did, she hadn’t considered it disrespectful. Libby liked Gert, but sometimes she seemed a little indelicate.
Gert looked at her. “Did you know that Ethan heard back from Bert’s son?”
“No, what did he say?” Libby asked.
“He wants Ethan to sell off his livestock and keep an eye on the place until he decides what to do with it.”
“Oh my.”
“Griff Bane said he’ll buy Bert’s horse. Ethan thinks Micah Landry might buy the beef cattle.” Gert added, “Don’t worry about Hoss. He’ll ground tie.”
“Even when we start shooting?”
“Yes, he’s too dumb to run away.”
Libby let the reins fall and looked about. “It’s beautiful out here. I should get away from town more.”
“You can ride Hoss or Crinkles anytime,” Gert offered.
“Thank you. Isaac used to keep a team and wagon, but I sold them after he died. Too expensive. I just hire freighters to haul stuff for me.”
“It’s an extravagance for us,” Gert admitted. “Hiram and I like to be able to ramble around when the fancy strikes us, so we put up with these nags.”
Libby pulled some small pieces of bright flannel from her reticule. “You asked for some scraps of cloth.”
Gert’s eyes lit. “Thanks. Those are perfect.” She nodded toward a knoll a short distance away. “I’ll set up the targets over there, and we can shoot from beside the stream.”
Libby watched her easy gait as she went to prepare the mark. Gert walked like a boy, though she must be twenty-four or more. Libby could remember when she’d come all the way from Maine to help Hiram’s wife, Violet, with her new baby. Or such was Gert’s intention when she set out on the long journey. As soon as Violet Dooley had learned a baby was on the way, she’d sent a gushing letter, begging Hiram’s little sister to come stay with them and help her keep house when the child arrived. Gert had gladly answered the summons.
She was sixteen when she arrived, of that much Libby was certain. Tall, raw-boned, and gangly as a colt. No one considered her a beauty. Gert had plain, honest features and a temperament to match. She probably could have married in those first few years here in Fergus. But she’d arrived to find her brother in mourning, with Violet and their sweet baby buried out near the schoolhouse. Gert had made it plain to all that she’d come to help her brother. Any young men who’d fluttered about the gunsmith’s house soon learned she didn’t intend to cook and clean house for anyone but Hiram. And so, eight years later, she still lived in her brother’s home.
As she piled up a few stones and anchored a bright slip of cloth on top for them to aim at, Gert frowned in concentration. She wasn’t homely, Libby told herself again. Some might say so if they saw her gritting her teeth like that, with worry lines creasing her brow. But Gert had potential. Libby wished she could coax her into the emporium when a new shipment of fancy goods came in from St. Louis. But it was the bar girls who hurried over in search of ways to pretty themselves up, not plain, honest Gertrude.
Gert finished constructing three targets at varied distances and walked back toward her. Libby realized she didn’t have her gun out of the bag yet. She took her handbag down from the saddle and walked toward the stream. Gert went to Crinkles and drew Hiram’s rifle from the scabbard.
“Ready?” She walked over to Libby’s side with the Sharps resting on her shoulder.
“I haven’t loaded yet,” Libby confessed. “Go ahead and shoot a few rounds.”
Gert shrugged as though it was nothing to her.
“That’s a nice rifle.” Libby nodded at Gert’s weapon.
“Hi got it off a miner. He’d gone broke on his claim and needed enough cash to get out of the territory. Someone told him the gunsmith might buy it.” Gert shook her head. “Of course Hi gave him more than he should have.”
“Your brother’s got a soft heart.”
“No, he didn’t like the look of the fellow. I think he wanted to make sure he got far away from Fergus.”
Libby laughed. “I hope he didn’t give more than the gun was worth.”
“Did I say that? He could have got it for less though.” Gert swung the Sharps up to her shoulder.
Libby jumped at the sharp crack. To her, it seemed Gert fired as soon as the rifle reached a horizontal position.
“Sorry,” Gert said. “We didn’t plug our ears yet.”
Libby reached into the depths of her reticule once more for a wad of wool. Within a few minutes, they were taking turns firing their weapons. Gert aimed at the farther marks while Libby shot at the nearest.
After firing six rounds in succession, Libby lowered the Peacemaker and exhaled in disappointment. She looked over at Gert and said loudly, “I’m just no good at this.”
“I was watching. You’re getting closer. Remember what I told you last time—aim, steady, squeeze.”
“I thought I was doing that.”
Gert lowered the stock of the rifle to the ground. “Load up again, and I’ll pay closer attention, but I think you’re improving.”
Libby noticed a woman walking toward them from the direction of the road. “There’s Mrs. Landry.”
Gert swung around. “Sure enough.”
“Hello,” Emmaline Landry called.
“She lives out here, doesn’t she?” Libby asked.
Gert nodded toward the nearest hill. “Yonder. Her man’s ranch backs up against Bert and Ethan’s spreads.”
Emmaline trudged along holding her skirt up a few inches. She still wore her apron and had a smudge of flour on her cheek.
“I misdoubt my eyes. What are you ladies doing out here? I heard shooting like a battle and thought I’d better investigate.”
Gert laughed. “No fighting, Mrs. Landry. We’re just having a little target practice.”
“Shooting? Whatever for?” The rancher’s wife looked at Libby. “Now, Gert I can understand. But you, Miz Adams?”
Libby smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve decided I no longer want to be helpless. Part of my husband’s legacy to me was this pistol. After what happened to Sheriff Thalen, I thought it was time I learned to use it.”
Emmaline’s eyes darkened. “The other day, one of our neighbors had a bucket of milk stolen—bucket and all. Can you believe it? But what’s that you’re saying about the sheriff? We was at the funeral, and all I heard was he’d fallen and hit his head.”
Libby looked at Gert, and Gert inhaled and pulled her shoulders back.
“Sheriff Thalen didn’t bump his head,” Gert said. “He was murdered, and that’s the honest truth.” Emmaline’s jaw dropped. “No.”
Libby nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Landry. We’ve no idea who did it, and so I asked Gert to teach me to shoot. If anyone comes creeping around the emporium at night, I want to be ready.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Are you planning to do this again?”
Gert looked inquiringly at Libby. “Maybe. If Libby wants to practice again.”
“Could—” Emmaline looked over her shoulder toward the road and back again. “Could I join you? Micah’s got a shotgun I think I could handle.”
“Sure,” Gert said.
Libby smiled. “You’d be welcome. How about Thursday afternoon?”
“Suits me.” Gert hoisted the Sharps onto her shoulder.
“I’ll be here.” Emmaline caught her breath and lifted her skirts. “I ‘most forgot. I left bread in the oven. Thursday!” She ran for the road with her shawl and bonnet strings fluttering behind her.
CHAPTER 8
Cyrus Fennel was nearly sober when he entered the Nugget on Saturday evening. He’d already visited the Spur & Saddle, where he’d shared a drink with Oscar Runnels. The Nugget wasn’t his usual haunt, but he wanted to speak to a couple of the men who worked for him on the stage line, and he had reason to believe he’d find them at Jamin Morrell’s establishment.
He pushed open the door and squinted in the thick smoke. At a corner table, he spotted Ned Harmon and Bill Stout, one of his shotgun messengers and the driver he’d ridden in with that afternoon. The two were deep in conversation with Griffin Bane, the owner of the livery stable. Cyrus strode over to the table.
“You boys going to be in shape to take the coach on to Silver City in the morning?”
“What? We don’t get our Sunday off?” Ned scowled up at him.
“Not this time. The Mountain Home coach broke down. Don’t know when they’ll get here. You’d best call it an early night and show up ready to roll at sunup.”
“Sure, Mr. Fennel.” Bill Stout looked up at him and hiccupped.
Cyrus turned and walked over to the bar.
Ted Hire smiled a welcome and shouted over the loud voices and off-key music from the piano. “Mr. Fennel. What can I get you, sir?”
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