“Whiskey. And don’t serve those two men any more tonight, you hear me? They’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir, I hear you loud and clear.” Ted set a glass on the bar and filled it.
A lull in the tinny music set off snatches of conversation.
“—twin calves, both bulls.”
“—told the mayor that was hogwash.”
“—ladies shootin’ up a storm, out the Mountain Road.”
Cyrus turned and homed in on the last speaker—a miner he’d seen before but couldn’t put a name to.
Ralph Storrey, who had a small spread at the south edge of town, said, “Oh, that’s likely Hiram Dooley’s sister. She can shoot the whiskers off a gnat at a hundred yards.”
“There was three of ‘em,” the miner said, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by a shaky rendition from the piano of “My Grandfather’s Clock.”
Someone jostled Cyrus’s elbow, and he spilled part of his drink. He whipped around. A young cowhand stepped back and yanked his hat off.
“Sorry, sir. Don’t pay me no nevermind.”
Cyrus gritted his teeth. No point in making a scene over it. When he turned around again, Ted had already wiped up the spill.
“Let me refill your drink, Mr. Fennel.”
When the girl finished the song, the card players were still discussing the female shooters.
“I say the women of this town don’t seem to know their place,” said a hardware salesman who had come in on the afternoon stage with Ned and Bill.
“That’s right,” Storrey grunted.
By now Cyrus had downed two and a half drinks, counting the one at the Spur & Saddle, and he thought the salesman showed a rare sense of propriety.
“I’ve got to agree with you, mister,” he called out. “I saw a couple of ladies out shooting last week. Said they wanted to be able to defend themselves.”
“Ha!” Ned yelled. “Ain’t that what you got a new sheriff for?”
“That’s right,” said one of Micah Landry’s cowpokes, who lounged at another table with the saloon girl now hanging over him. “Old sheriff died one day, and we got us a new sheriff the next.”
“Well, them ladies don’t seem to think much of the new lawman,” said the miner. “Iffen they did, they wouldn’t be out shootin’ when they’d oughta be tendin’ their young’uns.”
The salesman nodded. “They should be home keeping house.”
“My daughter Isabel would never go gallivanting around doing such things,” Cyrus said.
“Well, you never know,” drawled another cowhand. “She ain’t got no man to keep house for but her father.”
The saloon went as silent as a church.
Cyrus slammed his glass down on the bar. “What do mean by that, you jolt-headed lunk?”
The cowboy and three of his friends stood. Ted quickly scooped all bottles and glasses off the bar.
“What’d you call me?” the cowboy asked.
Cyrus squinted at him. This was no time to back down. “I said you’re a—”
“Easy, now,” Griffin Bane said, rising. All eyes swung his way. “You gents got no call to get riled up. If a few ladies feel safer knowin’ how to fire a rifle, where’s the harm?”
“I’ll tell you where’s the harm,” Cyrus said. “They’re like to blow somebody’s head off while they’re out blazing away at sticks and old bottles.”
“The sheriff oughta put a stop to it,” said Bill Stout. Cyrus wondered if he said it just to stay on his good side, but he nodded in Bill’s direction.
“If the sheriff can do that,” Ralph Storrey said. “I’m not so sure the new sheriff could handle a pack of gun-totin’ ladies.”
The young cowboy who had slopped Cyrus’s drink laughed. “Yeah, he ain’t got a woman. Maybe he’s scared of petticoats.”
“The new sheriff happens to be a friend of mine.” Griffin’s heavy words again cut through the bluster.
“Yeah? Well, he’s s’posed to be a big Injun fighter, but I ain’t seen him do nothin’ since he come back to Fergus.” Landry’s cowhand glared at Griffin through the smoke.
Cyrus wondered, not for the first time, if pushing the mayor to appoint Chapman as sheriff was such a good idea. They wanted a man they could control, but Ethan was showing initiative, telegraphing the U.S. marshal on his own and patrolling the town regularly. If there was going to be real trouble … He reached for his whiskey glass, but Ted had moved it.
“Give me another drink,” he snarled. Ted produced the glass from beneath the bar and poured while darting glances toward the men and the door.
Bane still stood glaring at the young cowboy. “Take back what you said about the sheriff, you buffoon.”
“Make me.”
“As for keeping the law in town,” Cyrus began, reaching for his glass, “time will—”
“And speaking of the new sheriff,” Ted shouted in his ear.
Cyrus jerked his head toward the door. Great. The one time he nearly lost control of himself, and that annoying young man they’d pinned a badge on had to walk in. The fact that he’d seen him half an hour ago at the Spur & Saddle, when he’d only imbibed one drink, wouldn’t help now. He pulled in a deep breath. “Sheriff Chapman.”
Ethan nodded gravely. “Mr. Fennel. I see you’re making the rounds tonight.”
Cyrus clenched his fists. “Just came to remind a couple of my men that tomorrow’s a workday on the stagecoach line.”
Ned Harmon jumped to his feet, swayed a little, and sat down again.
Bill Stout shoved his chair back and stood more slowly. “That’s right, Mr. Fennel. We’re calling it a night; ain’t we, Ned?”
“Whatever you say.”
Bill latched on to Ned’s collar and pulled upward. “Come on. Let’s get over to the livery and get some shut-eye.”
“Hold it, boys,” Griffin said. He walked over and stood deliberately in front of Cyrus. “If your men are going to bed down in my stable all the time, I think it’s time we came to a financial understanding.”
Cyrus felt his jaw twitch. If he couldn’t see Ethan watching him with keen, dark eyes over Bane’s shoulder, he’d have hit him. His drivers had sacked out in Bane’s hayloft for years without any question of pay.
“It doesn’t cost you a cent to let them sleep there,” he said through his teeth.
“It’s still my barn.” Griffin’s solid form didn’t budge, and neither did his stare.
“I’m sure we can work this out, Griff.” Cyrus managed a smile. “You know we’ve got no boardinghouse in this town anymore. The boys have to sleep somewhere.”
“That’s right.” Ned raised one hand, as if what he said carried vast importance.
Griffin Bane still scowled at Cyrus. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you own the building that used to be the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, I do.” Cyrus didn’t like the quiet that bespoke the men’s attention. This run-in would be all over town by morning. He’d better come out looking good. “If someone wanted to rent the place and open up the business again, I’d be happy to discuss it.”
“Maybe you should put that daughter of yours to keeping a boardinghouse,” the salesman said, and all the men but Cyrus and Ethan laughed.
Cyrus’s eyes flashed. “My daughter is the town’s schoolmistress.”
“That right?” The salesman shrugged. “Beg pardon.”
One of the bar girls swaggered toward Cyrus. “I’d like to keep a boardin’house, Mr. Fennel. You could set me up to run it for you.”
Ted scowled at her. “Good thing Mr. Morrell ain’t around to hear you say that. You just be glad you’ve got a job here.”
“Where is Mr. Morrell tonight?” Ethan asked, looking around.
“He went to Mountain Home a coupla days ago. He ain’t back yet.” Ted shot a nervous glance at Cyrus. “I heard the stage broke down in Grand View. Likely he’s staying there tonight.”
“Yeah,” Ned Harmon said dolefu
lly. “They got a boardinghouse in Grand View.”
“You insolent—” Cyrus drew back his hand but suddenly recalled that the person who had raised the topic was the sheriff. He lowered his hand and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be heading home. You boys get over to the livery and hit the hay.” He frowned at Griffin Bane. “Come by the stage office tomorrow and settle up with me. We’ll discuss how much it’s worth to let a squiffed messenger and a reckless driver sleep it off in your barn.”
Cyrus clapped his hat onto his head and strode out the door. As he passed the sheriff, Ethan said, “Have a good evening, Mr. Fennel.”
“Yeah,” called the hardware salesman, “and you might want to think about that boardinghouse. It’s mighty hard to get a room in this town.”
On Sunday afternoon Gert forced herself to attack her overflowing mending basket. She and Hiram always spent Sundays in quiet occupations—no shooting or splitting wood. Occasionally Gert experienced vague twinges of self-reproach, not so strong as guilt, telling her that sewing didn’t constitute a proper pastime for the Sabbath. But since they had no preacher to tell them so, the full weight of conviction eluded her, and she told herself that tranquil industry, performed away from the prying eyes of their neighbors, could not possibly cause one of weaker conscience to stumble.
Her brother sat near the window, patiently carving and smoothing a gunstock for one of the stagecoach line’s “shotgun messengers,” the men who kept watch on the Wells Fargo stagecoaches.
Gert groped the bottom of her basket for a darning egg, gasped when she found a needle instead, and jerked her hand out.
Hiram paused in wielding his sandpaper and cocked an eyebrow.
“Stuck myself.” She sucked the injured finger. She’d always categorized sewing as a necessary evil. A few minutes later when she was sure she wouldn’t bleed all over her project, she snatched one of Hiram’s shirts from the basket. Buttons first. The darning could wait until she’d worked her way down the layers in the basket and prospecting for the egg was no longer so hazardous.
A knock at the kitchen door annoyed her slightly, as she’d just gotten her needle threaded. People dropped in at all hours to seek Hiram’s services, but since he didn’t like to talk to anyone, Gert was the designated door opener and greeter. She laid her mending aside with a sigh and rose. Her brother watched with mournful eyes as she walked across the room, but he never paused in rhythmically sanding the piece of walnut.
Gert swung the door open to the mild May sunshine and stared in surprise at her visitor.
“I want to join your club,” Bitsy Shepard said.
“Club?” Gert tried not to be rude, but Bitsy’s idea of Sabbath wear was one garter short of shocking, which made staring almost mandatory. Her deep blue satin dress, shot through with threads of silver, had been caught up over one knee with a rosette of ribbons to reveal a frothy underskirt of vermilion net. Though Bitsy wore a dainty hat with two bright feathers curled down over her left eyebrow, it didn’t detract from the effect of her low-cut bodice. Gert cast a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure Bitsy was out of Hiram’s line of vision. “Did you say ‘club’?”
“Yes. I heard you have a shooting club for ladies.”
The question of whether Bitsy would qualify to join any association for ladies barely grazed Gert’s mind. It was the word club that seized her attention.
“Oh, it’s only me and one or two others. Mrs. Adams wanted to learn to handle her husband’s pistol after Sheriff Thalen was killed, and then a couple of ranchers’ wives joined us to practice loading and shooting, what with all the petty thievery that’s been going on lately. It’s not a club.”
“I don’t care what you call it. I want in.” Bitsy’s deep red lips quivered, and Gert realized two things. Bitsy was upset, and her lips matched her underskirt.
She glanced once more toward her brother’s chair. Hiram, bless his heart, must have overheard enough to realize who had come calling. He’d taken his gunstock and sandpaper and retreated to his bedchamber. Gert inhaled deeply and stepped back.
“Would you like to step in for a minute, Bitsy?”
For the first time, Gert admitted a saloon girl to her home. Of course Bitsy was more than a saloon girl, some might argue. As owner of the Spur & Saddle, she was a businesswoman, the same as Libby Adams. Even as she thought as much, Gert knew comparing Bitsy and Libby was inherently wrong.
“Do you have a weapon?” she asked.
Bitsy hiked her skirts up even farther and leaned over to disengage something from a loose pocket hanging between her petticoat and net underskirt. She straightened, tossing the dark hair back from her powdered brow, jeopardizing the stability of her hat. The feathers quivered next to her temple.
“I’ve had this since I was fourteen.” She held out a pistol not much larger than the palm of her hand.
Gert stared at it for a moment. “May I?”
“Sure.”
Bitsy surrendered it, and Gert walked over to the window to hold it up in the light. The beautiful little gun had a black walnut stock, smoothly curved into a bird’s-head shape. The round barrel, only about three inches long, was flattened along the top. Silver fittings on the stock bore engraved swirls and the gun maker’s name.
“I don’t know’s I’ve ever seen a genuine Deringer before.” Gert held it tenderly and gazed at the big hammer spur and the low sight on the end of the engraved barrel.
“Oh? I thought they were pretty common.” Bitsy stepped closer.
Gert looked up at her quickly. “Would you mind if I showed this to Hiram?”
“Well … no, I guess not. There’s nothing wrong with it though. I just don’t have any ammunition for it. Haven’t shot it in years. I figure it’s time I brushed up my shooting skills.”
“You’re not the only one who feels that way.”
“Well, with Bert being killed in broad daylight …” Bitsy choked a little, and Gert wondered just how close Bitsy and Bert had been.
“I think my brother would like to see this.” Gert crossed to Hiram’s bedroom door and tapped on the pine panel. “Hi? Can you come out and look at a pistol?”
A moment later, he opened the door a crack and peered out at her, eyebrows arched in skepticism.
“Miss Shepard’s got a gun for you to look at.”
Hiram opened the door a little farther and shuffled into the room, looking everywhere but at Bitsy. Gert stuck the pistol into his hand. He gave a curt nod in the general direction of their visitor without ever making eye contact and gave his attention to the gun.
Gert watched his face. She could tell by the way he inhaled slowly, his lips slightly parted, that he’d fallen in love. He cradled the weapon tenderly and examined it from both sides. He rubbed the cross-hatched lines carved into the butt and stroked the iron barrel—round at the front, octagonal where it fit precisely into the stock. He opened the lock and peered into the breach.
At last he looked up at Gert and smiled.
Gert touched his arm gently and turned to Bitsy.
“My brother says it’s the real thing, made by …” She glanced back at her brother. “What was his first name?”
“Henry,” said Hiram.
“That’s it. Henry Deringer Jr. of Philadelphia. Most of the ones you see nowadays weren’t really made by him, and they’re not nearly so nice.”
“Can I get bullets for it?” Bitsy asked.
Hiram nodded.
“It’s a percussion pistol,” Gert said, frowning. “Most of the newer ones they call derringers take cartridges. But I’m sure we can fix you up. If Libby Adams doesn’t have what you need at the emporium, you can ask her to order it. I know she has powder, caps, and patches. Or you can make your patches. But it looks like a large caliber to me.” She looked to Hiram.
He nodded. “Fifty-one.”
“Ouch,” Gert said with a smile. “You don’t have a mold that size, do you, Hi?”
Her brother shook his head.
&n
bsp; “What does that mean?” Bitsy took a step toward them, and Hiram stood his ground but pulled his shoulders back a little. “It takes an odd-sized bullet,” Gert said. “Libby might have some lead balls that size, but I doubt it. Where’d you get fixin’s for it before?”
“A friend brought me some. But that was in St. Joe, years and years ago. Like I said, I haven’t used this since I came to the territory. I’ve … let Augie handle any roughnecks lately.”
Gert shrugged. “Well, one way or another, we should be able to fix you up.”
Bitsy eyed Hiram up and down, and this time he did step back. “Do you know anyone else in town with that size firearm?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“If anyone had one, he’d know it,” Gert said.
“Maybe I should buy another gun.” Bitsy raised a hand and brushed her hair off her brow, setting the feathers dancing.
Gert felt a soft touch on her sleeve. “What is it, Hi?”
He held the little pistol up and gazed meaningfully into her eyes.
Gert smiled and said to Bitsy, “My brother says, will you sell the Deringer? He’d like to buy it.”
Bitsy blinked her artificially long lashes and turned her gaze on Hiram. “He said all that?”
Hiram’s face flushed, and Gert suppressed her annoyance. Bitsy had lived in Fergus long enough to know Hiram rarely spoke the way other people did.
“Yes. If you’re interested, he’ll make you an offer. Maybe enough so you could buy a new revolver.”
Bitsy smiled. “Sorry. I’d keep it even if I couldn’t get the bullets for it. It was given to me by—” She stopped and shrugged. “Sentimental value, you might say.”
Hiram nodded and handed the Deringer to Gert, though Bitsy was only two feet away. He turned and oozed back into his room, closing the door quietly.
Bitsy stared after him. She opened her mouth as though to speak and then shook her head. “Well, then, I need some bullets.”
“Libby’s closed today for the Sabbath,” Gert said. “You can ask her tomorrow. If she doesn’t have them, she can order them from Boise.”
“All right, thanks. And may I shoot with you and your friends?”
The Bride's Prerogative Page 7
