A rancher carrying an ax handle and a tin of tobacco came and stood behind Vashti, ogling the young woman’s back as he waited. Libby took her money and handed her the change and her package.
“I’ll see you at the shooting practice on Monday.” Vashti watched her, expecting a response. “Uh, yes, I expect so,” Libby said.
By the time she’d totaled up the rancher’s purchases, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson had entered. Mr. went straight for the tools, while Mrs. made a beeline for the ready-made clothing. Morrell was still in the hardware, and Milzie had wandered to the far end of the store. Mrs. Ingram approached the counter with her notions and a bolt of muslin. Libby forced out another smile and told herself a busy store was a good thing.
“How many yards would you like?” she asked Mrs. Ingram.
“Six, please. Did you hear that the livery was robbed yesterday?”
Libby gulped. She didn’t like to think about other business owners having trouble. “Yes, I did.”
“They say Griffin Bane was attacked in broad daylight.” Mrs. Ingram shook her head. “I’d think it would take a brazen criminal to attack a man as large as Mr. Bane.”
“I … suppose so.” Libby measured out the material. “Lovely and warm this morning, isn’t it?”
More customers came through the door. A few minutes later, she looked up into Jamin Morrell’s face.
“Oh, Mr. Morrell, I’ve neglected you.”
“That’s all right. You’ve been busy, and I found what I needed.”
Libby glanced toward the yard goods. Several people browsed the merchandise, but Milzie was nowhere to be seen.
“Looking for the old woman, by any chance?”
“Well, yes.” Libby fingered the lace at her collar. “I was going to give her some crackers.”
“She left a moment ago.” Jamin leaned toward her over the counter and lowered his voice. “You might want to check over your stock of safety pins.”
Libby stared at him then looked toward the open door.
That evening, Gert walked slowly up the street toward the Walkers’ house. She didn’t really want to spend the evening quilting with a half dozen older women, but Orissa Walker had made a point of inviting her. The flying geese quilt would go to the Walkers’ married daughter in Silver City. Libby had promised to meet her at the quilting bee, so Gert had agreed. She trudged along the boardwalk with her sewing basket—minus her overdue mending—on her arm.
Orissa welcomed her with a dour face and ushered her into the parlor. Isabel Fennel was the only other woman within twenty years of Gert’s age. Where was Libby? She didn’t ask. She figured she had to put in at least an hour without the risk of being thought horribly rude and becoming the subject of the quilters’ gossip as soon as she left.
She settled in between Annie Harper and Isabel on one side of the quilting frame.
“How’s school?” she asked Isabel.
“Not bad. We’ve another month. Then we’ll break for the summer.”
“I expect you’ll enjoy a bit of a rest when the term ends.”
Isabel’s lip curled as she eyed her, and Gert felt her face flush. Was her face dirty? Why did Isabel look at her that way?
“I don’t suppose I’ll rest much this summer.” Isabel bent over her needle.
Gert blinked. Had she just been snubbed? If this were Boston, she might just care.
“Do you know if the sheriff’s found out who robbed the livery?” Mrs. Runnels asked as their hostess sat down in the chair nearest the door.
“No, I haven’t heard anything new,” Orissa said.
“Seems to me he ought to have arrested someone by now,” murmured Annie.
Isabel humphed. “Ethan Chapman is incompetent. Father says he has no clues at all on Bert Thalen’s murder, and now this. Why they picked him for sheriff, I have no idea.”
“A poor choice to protect us.” Mrs. Runnels jabbed her long needle down through the layers of the quilt.
A knock at the door summoned Orissa, and a moment later she ushered Libby into the parlor.
“Hello, ladies. I’m sorry I’m late.” Libby smiled at the circle in general, but she gave a pert nod when her gaze rested on Gert.
“Sit right down, Elizabeth,” Orissa said. “You can work on this part and stitch your way over to meet Bertha.”
Libby slid into the seat between Orissa and rotund Bertha Runnels. She soon had her needle and thimble out, and the work progressed, along with the chatter. No one mentioned that the husbands of the married women present were probably out at one of the town’s two saloons, knocking back whiskey. Instead, they focused on domestic topics. Gert let it flow around her as she made the boring up-and-down stitches.
She glanced across at Libby, who stitched industriously with a slight smile on her lips. She always looked as though she’d welcome an adventure. Funny, Gert thought of Libby as her own age, though the widow was probably eight or ten years her senior. Isaac Adams had been a friend of Cy Fennel and Charles Walker, but he’d married a younger woman. Libby never spoke to her of truly personal topics, but Gert had the distinct impression she’d loved her husband. She liked to think Libby had enjoyed some happy years with Isaac. Few of the married couples in Fergus seemed content. Rather, they survived.
“Gert, I can’t say as I approve of this latest enterprise of yours,” Mrs. Walker said.
Gert jerked her chin up and stared at her, unsure of how to respond.
Libby jumped into the silence. “If you mean the shooting club, I do.”
“Club?” asked Annie. “What’s this?”
Gert felt her cheeks flame, but Libby’s musical laugh rang out. “That’s what some of the women call it. We practice shooting together two afternoons a week, and Gert instructs us. We’re all learning to protect ourselves.”
Orissa shook her head. “The mayor thinks it’s nonsense.”
“The mayor is on hand to protect his wife,” Libby pointed out. “Some of us ladies have no husband or son or brother to defend us in time of need.”
“Well, my father says it’s dangerous, and someone’s going to be killed by accident,” Isabel said.
Gert scowled. Leave it to Cyrus to say that.
“We’re extremely cautious whenever we shoot, aren’t we, Gert?” Libby asked.
Gert looked up at her. Libby’s rosy cheeks and gleaming blue eyes would qualify her for the girl on a soap advertising card. Libby smiled gently and nodded ever so slightly.
“Oh yes,” Gert responded. Better to follow her friend’s lead than to get upset and cause more talk. “We always follow safety measures.”
“More than you can say for some of the men,” Annie Harper muttered.
Bertha nodded, frowning. “I heard Emmaline Landry has joined.”
“That’s right,” Gert said. “Her husband’s out on the range a lot, and she wanted to know how to use a gun in case a drifter showed up at the ranch.”
“She joins us on Thursdays,” Libby put in.
“It’s a wonder Mr. Landry lets her,” Isabel said.
“She probably doesn’t tell him.” Bertha shook her head in disapproval.
Libby surveyed their project. “My, isn’t this quilt coming along nicely?”
“Yes, we’ve made good progress.” Mrs. Walker stood. “I think it’s time for tea.”
“Let me help you.” Libby jumped up and headed toward the kitchen with Orissa. Gert wished she could make a graceful exit through the front door, but Libby had rescued her so kindly that she didn’t want to leave her friend alone.
Right now all she wanted to do was get home and fix a bite for Hiram. She pictured him sitting alone in the front room, reloading cartridges for his rifle. Poor man. Loneliness had settled over him. She tried to be good company. She’d rather be sitting with her near-silent brother than with this bunch of cats. And without her, Hiram was practically helpless, though she would never utter such a thought aloud.
“Good coffee.” Ethan raised his mug in Hiram
’s direction before he took another swig. “You make it?”
Hiram just nodded, but he smiled as he picked up his horse’s bridle and a rag.
“I don’t know what to do next,” Ethan said. “Oh, not tonight. I know what I have to do tonight. Go over to the Nugget again and tell them to pipe down.” He cocked his head to one side and listened. Was it his imagination, or could he hear loud music and laughter from the saloon? “It’s what I should do about the crimes that’s got me puzzled. What does a lawman do when he can’t figure out who’s committing crimes in his town?”
Hiram frowned and polished away at the leather cheek straps. “You’ve asked everyone if they saw anything.”
“Yes, I think I’ve talked to every adult in Fergus, and a few of the children and horses.”
Hiram laughed.
Ethan stretched out his long legs and sipped his coffee again. “Did I tell you Spin and Johnny showed up at my ranch on Monday?”
Hiram nodded and picked up a can of neat’s-foot oil. He tipped it up, sloshing a little on his rag.
“They’re taking care of the place while I loaf around town doing nothing.” Ethan shook his head. “Useless, that’s what I am.” He looked around the Dooleys’ comfortable kitchen. Did the plant on the windowsill and the bright tablecloth make the difference that marked this as a home?
“Do you think the same person jumped Griff as killed Bert?” Hiram asked.
“I’ve thought about it, and I can’t begin to tell you. It would seem likely.”
After a few minutes of silence, Hiram put the bridle aside and walked over to the cupboard near Gert’s worktable. He returned with the coffeepot in one hand and a plate of ginger cookies in the other.
“Thanks. Gert make these?”
Hiram nodded and set two cookies on the table in front of his own chair and topped off his cup of coffee.
“Gert’s a good woman,” Ethan said around a bite of cookie. He’d almost said girl, but she wasn’t a kid anymore. He chewed appreciatively. She knew how to bake. And shoot. And sew. And do a thousand other things. Hiram was a lucky man to have a sister so steady and diligent. And willing to keep house for him.
“She’s all right.”
That was high praise from her brother, as Ethan was well aware. He’d heard tell how Gert had come on the stagecoach to Boise, before it ran all the way to Fergus, and Hiram had driven over there to fetch her. She’d come three thousand miles of hard road, expecting to find Violet and a new baby to care for. Instead, Hiram had met her with the news that he was all alone now. That was back while Ethan was off in the army. And Gert had stayed. She’d grown from a lanky girl to a competent housewife—only she wasn’t a wife.
“Has she got a name, other than Gert?” he asked. Somehow, he felt she ought to have a softer name, the same way he sometimes thought she ought to have a softer hairdo or a fancier dress.
“Trudy.” Hiram sat down again and shoved half a cookie in his mouth.
“Trudy? Oh, of course. Gertrude.”
Hiram nodded as he chewed. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Our pa used to call her Trudy.”
They lapsed into silence again. Ethan pictured a little girl with flaxen braids tagging along after her big brother. That would have been in Maine, though, not out here. What did Maine look like? Lots of forest that came down to the ocean shore? Maybe he’d ask Gert someday. Hiram wouldn’t string enough words together to give him a proper picture.
When his cookies were gone and his mug was empty, Ethan stood and stretched. “Well, Hi, thanks for the grub. Time to mosey.”
“Watch yourself.”
Ethan nodded and went out the back door, grabbing his hat from a peg on the coatrack. The noise from the Nugget hit him as he rounded the corner of the house. With a sigh, he headed north on the boardwalk, past the jail and the vacant boardinghouse.
“Trudy,” he said to no one.
CHAPTER 13
Ten women showed up for shooting practice on Monday, counting Gert and Libby. Gert could barely trust her eyes.
“Where’d they all come from?” she asked Libby as they dismounted.
“Word gets around.” Libby ground tied Hoss and took the Peacemaker from her saddlebag.
Gert hefted her Sharps rifle and walked slowly toward the waiting women. Bitsy and the two girls who served drinks and who knew what else at the Spur & Saddle had come in their short skirts and low-cut blouses. Emmaline Landry had brought her neighbor, Starr Tinen. Both wore faded housedresses with aprons tied over their skirts. Florence was there. Libby had given her the afternoon off, leaving Oscar Runnels’s oldest boy, Josiah, who helped her unload shipments of new merchandise, to watch the store for an hour. And to Gert’s surprise, Annie Harper and her oldest girl, Myra, had come.
Annie walked toward her with a sheepish smile on her face and an old shotgun resting on her shoulder.
“Hello, Gert. Will you take two more pupils? I told Myra about this club, and we both decided we wanted to learn to shoot.”
Gert eyed her for a long moment. “You could have asked Mr. Harper to show you.”
“I’d much rather learn from you.”
“Pa’s got no patience,” Myra noted.
Gert nodded. She wouldn’t want to learn shooting—or anything else—from an impatient man, and she’d seen Mr. Harper lose his temper over little things. What would he say when he heard his womenfolk attended the gun practice?
“Well, let’s see your weapon. You got shells?”
“Only eleven. Figured I’d stop by the emporium for more on the way home.”
Libby glanced at Gert. “I keep having to order more ammunition. It’s a hot commodity in Fergus right now.” She turned her lovely smile on Annie and Myra. “We’re glad you ladies could be here.”
“I had no idea how popular this shooting circle was.” Myra turned wide eyes on Gert. “Miz Dooley, I’ve never fired a gun before. You’ll show me how to do it right, won’t you?”
Gert looked over the cluster of eager women and pulled in a long, slow breath. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at Myra. “I surely will. But this is a lot of people. We’ll take turns in an orderly manner. Everyone gather in close. First, let’s talk about how we make sure none of us gets hurt while we practice.” She looked at Libby and gave her a firm nod.
“Ladies,” Libby called in her cheerful voice. “I didn’t know how many of us there’d be today, but I’ve brought a small prize for the lady who shoots her personal best today.” She held up an embroidered velvet needle book.
“Aw, now ain’t that fine,” said Emmaline.
“And if more than one of you qualifies, I’ll bring extra prizes when we meet next on Thursday.”
They murmured approval at Libby’s promise. She was an excellent merchant, Gert noted, and would no doubt have all these ladies inside the Paragon Emporium ere nightfall.
An odd, unpleasant smell struck Gert’s nostrils. She turned slowly. Another woman had come quietly down the path to join them.
“Mrs. Peart!”
Milzie grinned at her, revealing a gap where one of her front teeth had once resided. “Miz Dooley. Miz Adams. Ladies.” She looked around the circle of faces a bit defiantly. “Mind if I shoot with you’uns?”
Gert eyed the Hawken rifle resting on Milzie’s shoulder. With its heavy barrel and chunky stock, the gun would take down a grizzly with one shot if need be.
“This here was my husband, Franklin’s, buffalo gun.” Milzie lowered the stock to the ground and stood waiting. “I got some bullets for it, but no powder. Thought p’raps I could borry a mite.”
Gert’s stomach churned as she surveyed the old woman. Her heart did a little squirming, too. She tried to ignore the stench that hovered around Milzie. The other nine women were as silent as the school yard on Saturday, waiting for her to either cast Milzie out or …
She forced herself not to look to Libby for aid. This was a matter for the Almighty. I think I hear You whispering in my ear, Lo
rd. She looked straight into the watery gray eyes.
“You’re welcome here, Milzie. Show me what you’ve got for ammunition. We can help you with powder for today. But let me check your rifle over first, to make sure it’s safe for you to fire.”
Hiram jumped from his chair when Libby followed Gert into the kitchen. Libby hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him by coming home with his sister after the shooting practice.
“Hello, Hiram. Gert said I’d best consult you before I place my next order for ammunition.”
His soft, gray blue eyes widened, and his pale eyebrows rose. #x201C;Ma’am?”
Hiram didn’t come into the emporium much. Libby seldom thought about him, but when she did, she pegged him as a quiet young man, probably about her age, who liked peace and solitude. In another time and place, she could imagine Hi Dooley as an artist or an inventor. Here in Fergus, he was the sad-eyed gunsmith.
Gert pulled off her bonnet and hung it on a peg near the door. “We’ve got all sorts of ladies coming out of prairie dog holes with odd-sized guns. Libby needs to know for certain what ones will take the same size cartridges. Then there’s the odd ones, like Bitsy’s Deringer. Annie Harper’s got a shotgun—”
Hiram blinked, and Gert went on as if he’d spoken aloud.
“Yes, Annie was there, and Myra, too. You know, her big girl. They both want to learn to shoot in case the killer comes around when Mr. Harper’s away.”
“Killer?”
Hiram’s single word set Gert off again.
“You know what I’m talking about. The man who murdered Bert Thalen and tried to kill Griffin Bane. All the ladies in town are scared, and the men don’t seem to be doing anything about it. Except for Ethan. I know he’s trying to run down the killer, but so far, he hasn’t had any luck. And the ladies are nervous, I’ll tell you.”
Hiram drew in a breath as though he would speak, but then he closed his mouth and shook his head.
Libby stepped forward and smiled. “So, Hiram, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate your advice. Milzie Peart brought the oddest rifle today.”
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