The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “Listen to me, Ethan Chapman. This town needs a lawman. Not just any man, but an honest and diligent man. I’m not just talking about the carryings-on at the Nugget. We’ve got a killer in Fergus.”

  The blunt statement jarred him. “Are you scared, Gert?”

  “Maybe.” She frowned and tossed her head. “Think about what would happen if you went over to the mayor’s house today and gave him your badge.”

  “I expect he and the town council would appoint someone else to do the job.”

  “Maybe so, but who? What man in this town could do as well as you?”

  “Seems to me anyone could. Besides …” Ethan shook his head. “Hiram here seems to think I’m Walker’s puppet, or rather, Cy Fennel’s.”

  “Why would he think that?” She didn’t look at her brother but fixed her stare on Ethan.

  “Just for agreeing to be sheriff, as near as I can tell. Because that’s doing what they want. You know Hiram looks down on anyone who does what Fennel wants.”

  “Hogwash.” Now Gert turned her ire in Hiram’s direction. “You quit making Ethan feel useless, you hear me? We need him in this town. If you get him to feeling bad, he’ll up and leave.”

  “That wouldn’t be a big loss,” Ethan said.

  “Oh yes it would. It’d be one less decent man in Fergus. Don’t you get all proud of your humility on me, sir. What would happen if we got someone like Augie Moore for our sheriff?”

  “Augie?” Ethan stared at her, startled.

  “Yes, Augie. I’ve heard it whispered that he’d be a good sheriff. He could knock heads together with the best of them—maybe better than some. But the man’s got no morals; you understand me, Ethan?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Of course you do!” He winced. “I reckon.”

  Gert nodded. “That’s right. Now, I dunno if you can catch Bert Thalen’s killer or not, but if I get my purse stolen and I need to go tell the law, I don’t want to go to someone like Augie Moore about it. Or Jamin Morell or Zachary Harper.”

  “Well, if you put it that way …”

  “I do.”

  “All right. I hear you.” Ethan looked over at Hiram, who nodded. “Yeah, I hear you, too.”

  Gert crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “Hiram apologizes for making you mad earlier.”

  “Oh?” Ethan glanced at her brother again.

  Hiram gave a grudging nod.

  “So. No more of this ‘I don’t want to be sheriff anymore’ business.” Gert picked up her cup and sipped her coffee.

  Ethan hadn’t felt so much a part of a family since he’d left home ten years ago to join the army and come home from the Indian wars to find his parents dead and buried.

  “I still don’t know why they picked me.” Ethan shot a quick glance at Hiram. “And don’t you say it’s ‘cause they can push me around.”

  “Partly it’s because you’ve got no family,” Gert said.

  Ethan didn’t like that thought, but it wasn’t the first time he’d had it. Bert hadn’t had a family either, other than his grown-and-gone son. Did Fennel and Walker want a lawman whose family wouldn’t be destitute if he got killed?

  “You’re not needed at home all the time,” Gert said.

  “I have work to do at my place. I may not have a wife and young’uns, but I’ve got stock and a homestead.”

  Gert pursed her lips. “I reckon you do. Whyn’t you post a bill on the jailhouse door saying the sheriff will be out to his ranch if needed.”

  “I dunno. Think folks would cotton to that?”

  “Womenfolk do like having the sheriff within hailing distance,” she acknowledged.

  Ethan reached absently for his cup, but it was empty. Gert rose and brought the coffeepot over. She refilled his cup, and Hiram held up his for the dregs. Ethan took a swallow. The brew was strong and bitter now, and he got a few grounds in his swig. He grimaced and swallowed them down.

  “I don’t want to give up my ranch.” He hadn’t really meant to say it aloud, but it seemed it was either/or. Sheriffing or ranching.

  “Don’t,” said Hiram.

  When his best friend spoke, Ethan always listened.

  Gert set the empty coffeepot on the sideboard. “Hi’s right. This is a temporary job. Just do the best you can, at least until they hold an election and you know if you’re going to keep on being the law.”

  “I could decline to run for the office.” Hiram shook his head.

  Gert eyed her brother and said, “You’re right again, Hiram. You may not be the best shot in town, Ethan, or the scrappiest fighter, but you’re honest, and you’re not afraid to call a spade a spade.”

  Hiram nodded.

  Gert’s eyes blazed as she gathered steam. “If I had to pick a man in this town who would stand up against evil when it came his way, I’d pick you, Ethan Chapman. So, no matter why the mayor picked you, I’d say he picked right.” She scowled across at her brother. “You got anything to say, mister?”

  Hiram shook his head.

  CHAPTER 10

  Milzie Peart rubbed her belly. Her root vegetables and flour had long since given out. She had a few lead balls for her husband’s old rifle, but no gunpowder. She’d tried to snare a rabbit, without success. With only a quart of dry beans and a few herbs left, she knew it was time to make another foray into town.

  The people in Fergus shunned her, mostly. Bitsy would maybe give her a bite. Or she could go through the trash heaps in hopes of finding something. And if Libby Adams would give her a few seeds, she could plant some sort of a garden and maybe harvest a few crops later on. She’d have died last winter if she hadn’t put by so many turnips and carrots. When her cabin burned in early March, she’d been able to salvage only a few things and set up housekeeping in the cave that Franklin had shored up as part of his mining claim. Nothing good had ever come out of the cave, so since he died, Milzie had used it to store things.

  After the cabin’s ashes had cooled, she’d hauled the charred box stove step by step over to the cave’s entrance. If it had been any bigger, she never could have done it. That was two months ago. She’d hung on to life by her broken, sooty fingernails since then, huddled up in the cave when she wasn’t out foraging for firewood or something to eat. She’d sifted the ruins of the cabin and come up with a few things she could use—one blackened pot, a few nails and hinges, a fork and a tin cup. She’d even found a crock of sauerkraut that hadn’t shattered and burned. That had kept her going for near a week.

  What she wouldn’t give for a mouthful of fresh beef now. Some nights she lay awake on the rock floor thinking about stew. Broth teeming with potatoes and onions and chunks of beef as big as hen’s eggs.

  Eggs. Sometimes an egg found its way into Milzie’s pocket when she ventured about town. She kept away from the ranches with dogs. Lots of women in town kept a few hens, and on occasion she’d borrow an egg with no one’s permission but the biddy’s.

  It had turned warm, and she didn’t need Franklin’s wool coat today, though she’d miss its deep pockets. A sugar sack would do for any bits she collected. She wound a raveling shawl that had once been blue about her shoulders and left the cave.

  An hour later, she hobbled around behind the Spur & Saddle. Franklin had spent many an evening here. She wished she had a penny for every dollar he’d spent on drink. That would get her through a winter, it would.

  Voices came from inside the kitchen. Likely that brawny Augie Moore was cooking. He was a good cook, but he didn’t like folks to know it. Milzie smiled. Did he expect people to think Bitsy stood around all day in her fancy clothes hacking up chickens? And those little saucepots of girls who worked for her couldn’t cook; you could bet on that. Nope, the barkeep did most of it.

  She shuffled over to a small window and squinted against the glare of the sun. Sure enough, there was Augie, back to her, pounding away at a huge lump of brown dough. Rye bread, maybe. Just thinking about it set her to hankering for it. Over in the corner, ano
ther man hunched over a bucket into which he dropped potato peelings as fast as he could get them off the potatoes. He raised his chin to speak to Augie, and she recognized him. Old Ezra Dyer. He used to have a claim on Cold Creek. Had he given up sluicing at last and moved into town? Maybe he’d bring the bucket of peels outside and she could carry some off. Men always peeled potatoes too thick. Likely she could make a good soup out of his leavings.

  “Hey!”

  She jumped. Augie glared at her, raising a floury fist toward the window. Milzie scooted back out of his sight. She’d best move along and come back later, when he was tending bar. That was the best time to forage for scraps at the saloon.

  She walked down the street, keeping to the back side of the businesses, until she was certain she’d passed the mayor’s house on the other side. Then she eased through an alley. Not many people were about, and she picked up her skirt and trudged across the street, winding up in front of the feed store. A couple of men lounged on the steps talking, so she didn’t stop, but in passing she noticed where a bag of oats had spilled a little of its contents. Probably a mouse had chewed a hole in the sack. She could come back later and scoop up that handful of oats. It might grow out back of her cabin, where Franklin used to grow oats when they’d had a mule.

  The emporium was the first building she dared enter. Like a shadow, she scooted away from the door and behind the racks of merchandise. Libby Adams and her redheaded clerk girl were at the far end of the store, where the yard goods and ready-made clothing were displayed. Milzie padded past a pile of flour sacks to a table heaped with canned goods. It would be easy to slip a tin of fruit under her shawl.

  “May I help you with something today?” Miz Adams smiled. Her eyes sparkled a bright blue, even inside the store, where the light wasn’t good.

  Milzie straightened her bowed shoulders as far as she could. “Why, I was in town today, Miz Adams, and I wondered, would you have any extra seeds?”

  “Seeds?”

  “Yes’m. You know, to plant. A few beans, maybe, or squash.”

  “Oh. Well …” Libby glanced toward a shelf where neat little sacks and paper packets sat in an orderly array.

  “I don’t need much,” Milzie said quickly. “I thought p’raps you’d spilled a mite when you was a-measurin’ things out for someone.”

  “Well, I might have something in the back room.” Libby nodded. “Yes, I think I might. Would you like to wait just a minute?”

  “Yes’m, be happy to.” Milzie hobbled toward the stove in the middle of the emporium. They hadn’t built up the fire today, but habit drew her to the gleaming firebox. A couple of minutes later, Miz Adams came from the back room with something in her hand. Milzie eyed the twists of paper Libby held out to her.

  “Here’s a bit of carrot seed, and a few squash, and enough peas for a row.”

  “Thankee, ma’am.” Milzie bobbed her head and put the paper twists into the sugar sack she’d hung at her waist. She shuffled slowly to the door.

  Where next? She’d had no food yet. True, she’d got some seed. That was good, but it didn’t help now. Milzie looked back up the street toward the mayor’s house. No, she wouldn’t try to forage in the mayor’s slops, at least not in daylight. His wife would likely get the sheriff if she caught her. A vague notion entered Milzie’s mind that there might not be a sheriff anymore. She’d seen Bert Thalen laid out dead and cold.

  She walked slowly past the stagecoach office and saw Cyrus Fennel inside, sitting at a big desk. That was one man she didn’t care to meet up with. She glimpsed the blacksmith shop on the next corner, and the livery stable beyond it. If she could slip in there, she might be able to sit down in the hay for an hour or two. She might even pick up some corn or oats from the barrels of horse feed.

  A shortcut took her behind an abandoned store building, past the smithy, to the back of the livery. Used to be another man who ran the livery, back during the boom. But he’d gone away. Now the smith owned the livery, too. Like as not, he barely made a living from the two businesses nowadays, with the town’s population so small.

  Five horses stood in a corral munching hay. She hobbled past them to a path between two fences. In a second enclosure, four big horses stood in the shade. Probably a team for the stagecoach. The others looked like saddle horses, none of them too spirited. Must be the ones the liveryman rented out. Slowly she sidled up to the back door, beside the manure pile. It was partway open, and a wheelbarrow full of dung sat just inside.

  Milzie peeked into the barn. Across the dim, hay-strewn floor, two men stood talking near the big front door, which was rolled wide open to the late morning sun. She recognized one as the owner. Bane, that was his name. His bushy hair stuck out beneath his hat brim, and his voice boomed and echoed off the barn rafters high above.

  “Well, if you think you know who did it, you ought to tell the sheriff.”

  The other man, middle-aged and as wrinkly as the Idaho prairie, shook his head. “I don’t know any better than you do. I’m just saying if Thalen was really murdered, the law ought to have found out who done it by now. And if Chapman wants to be the sheriff, he ought to do what a sheriff does.”

  “Which is?” Bane towered over the older man.

  “He ought to find out who killed Thalen. People don’t like to think we’ve got a murderer runnin’ loose in this town. My wife hates to walk down the street to the emporium by herself anymore. She’s right upset about it. Says the kiddies ought not to be walkin’ clear out to the schoolhouse without a grown-up to watch out for ‘em, in case the killer shows up.”

  Milzie slithered through the opening and along the shadowy wall. Harness and tools hung on pegs, and she tiptoed past them and around the end of a tall wagon tongue that stood leaning against the wall. To one side, a tie-up stall held several large barrels, and she figured they were full of grain. She slid into the small area and noticed an enameled cup and a biscuit tin on a shelf formed by the framing members of the stall. Curious, she moved closer and stood looking down at the tin. She used to buy Huntley & Palmer biscuits once in a while, back when Franklin was alive and they had a little cash to spend at the emporium.

  She reached out and caressed the smooth green metal. The gold lettering and swirls formed a pleasing design. She was vaguely aware of the men’s conversation as she opened the tin. The wad of paper money inside made her catch her breath. If Bane had that much cash money, would he miss the few coins in the bottom? Quicker than she could blink, the coins were in her little sack.

  Sunlight filtered through a knothole and glittered off something else inside the tin. She smiled as she picked up a huge safety pin. Milzie stroked the smooth metal. The pin was open, and she stuck it through her shawl, then eased the cover of the tin shut. Her gnarled fingers were barely strong enough to squeeze the pin closed.

  The men’s voices seemed louder. Were they walking toward her? She ducked behind the barrels and hunkered down.

  “I heard some ladies are starting to carry pistols,” Bane said.

  “Tomfoolery.” The other man sounded annoyed.

  Milzie blinked, wondering if that was true. Maybe the schoolmarm could tote a gun to the schoolhouse to protect the scholars. She couldn’t feature Miz Walker with one though. Maybe Bitsy Shepard. She was tough as two-penny nails. Milzie peered over the tops of the barrels. Assured that the men were still occupied, she thought she might sneak out the back without being seen.

  “Well, I’d best get back and see if my wife’s done with her shopping,” the older man said. “Like as not, she’s run up a bill I won’t be able to pay till harvest.”

  Bane laughed and said good-bye, then turned toward the back of the barn. Too late, Milzie realized he’d probably come back here and finish the job he’d started of cleaning out the stalls.

  The closer he got, the smaller she tried to make herself. She squeezed down and back into the corner, soundlessly contracting into a heap of rags. Bane grasped the wheelbarrow’s handles and pushed it out t
he back door. She heard the creak-thump-whup as he tipped it up and emptied the contents at the edge of the manure pile.

  When he rolled the barrow back inside, he took it to one of the stalls along the side of the barn and shoveled manure into it. Milzie relaxed. He had no inkling she was there. Maybe she could sneak out while he worked in the stall.

  Furtively she crept out of the tie-up he used as a grain bin. Only a half dozen more steps to the door, and dark shadows masked the back wall. She took one step. Bane turned with a shovelful of manure, and she stiffened against the wall. A horse collar she’d bumped slid off its peg and thunked to the floor. Bane jerked his head up to stare, and Milzie dove behind the nearest barrel.

  She heard his steps, cautious and stealthy. Her poor old heart raced. He was coming over here. If he caught her, he’d find the coins in her pocket and call her a thief. She held her breath. Maybe she could duck past him and out the door.

  The barrel was shoved aside, and she jumped up, pushing past the huge shadow, toward the streak of light shining in the door. She forgot about the wagon tongue. Her foot caught it, and her shin connected, too. She sprawled in the straw and covered her head as the heavy thing fell.

  Bane gave a gasp almost simultaneous with the thud of wood on bone. The barn shook as the big man and the wagon tongue hit the floor together. Milzie scrambled over them. Her hand landed on the spongy expanse of Bane’s stomach, and she yanked it back. The man wasn’t moving.

  She hesitated until he pulled in a long, shuddering breath. Relief swept over her. She hadn’t killed him. Clambering over his massive body, she saw a knife lying on the floor just beyond his limp hand. He would have stabbed her if that wagon tongue hadn’t hit him. She scooped up the knife and darted out the back door. The horses lifted their heads and stared at her. Milzie hobbled around the corner of the corral and flattened herself against the wall of the smithy, between it and the livery. She stood panting and listening for pursuit.

  CHAPTER 11

  Cyrus hustled outside as the stagecoach rolled down Main Street. The driver, Bill Stout, halted the team outside the office door in a flurry of dust. The shotgun messenger, Ned Harmon, jumped down and saluted Cyrus with a touch to his hat brim before opening the door of the coach.