“So do I.” Libby felt tears spring into her eyes. She’d known Hiram was a praying man, but it touched her deeply to hear of his faithful pleas for the saloon owner. “Do you and Hiram pray together? He’s so quiet.”
“Usually I pray, and he just says, ‘amen.’ But I know he prays inside.” Trudy frowned. “Since Rose came, we’ve quit reading scripture together. Used to do it after breakfast every morning, but now …” Trudy sighed. “Rose being here sort of puts us off kilter. She makes Hi nervous as a cat.”
“I’m sorry about that. Any indication of how long her visit will last?”
“Not yet.” Trudy fastened the gate to the chicken yard. “She made gingerbread yesterday because she remembered he used to like it, and she’s talking about piecing a wedding ring quilt, of all things.”
It was a bit blatant, but Libby couldn’t bring herself to comment on Rose’s choice of quilt patterns.
“Now that she sees my brother as a wounded hero, who knows?” Trudy asked. “If she had her way, I think she’d make mollycoddling him her life’s mission, if you know what I mean.”
Libby knew all too well what she meant.
CHAPTER 13
Ethan slid his prisoner’s breakfast through the slot at the bottom of the cell wall. It was a little late, but the Thistles had fed their roomers first before bringing flapjacks and bacon for two to the jailhouse. He poured himself a mug of coffee, set the pot back on the small woodstove, and went to his desk to eat his own meal from the tray. He’d left the door of his office open, since the stove had heated things up all too well.
He’d just finished the stack of flapjacks and wished there were more when the prisoner decided to talk.
“You gonna keep me here all day?”
“Maybe.” Ethan shoved the tray aside and tilted his chair back, resting his boots on the desktop. He sipped his coffee. “How’s the headache this mornin’?”
“Tolerable.”
Ethan grunted and drank more coffee. So far all he’d gotten out of the prisoner was his name—Eli Button. Didn’t sound like a real name to Ethan. Probably made it up, though he’d met some folks with strange names. But none of the current wanted posters had a name like that.
When he’d drained his mug, he lowered his feet to the floor with a thump and stood. “You want more coffee, Button?”
“Much obliged.”
“Slide your cup out here.”
When the prisoner had stood back from the bars again, Ethan picked up the tin cup he allowed inmates and took it with his ironstone mug to the stove. He poured Button’s drink first and took it back to the cell. “There you go.” When he had his own refilled mug in hand, he went back to his desk. “I can’t let you go until I know who you work for. I need to notify your boss about your dead partner.”
Button scowled. “I’m sure the other boys told him.”
“We’ll see.” Ethan settled his boots on the desktop again. “I’m not letting you go until I see your ranch foreman in here.” He hadn’t voiced the thought that perhaps Button wasn’t really employed at a local ranch at all. He’d never seen any of the men who’d caused trouble at Bitsy’s last night. Odd for a rancher to hire an all-new crew, and even odder for the folks in town not to hear about it.
“We h’aint been here long.” Button’s voice bordered on whiny. “The fella that owns the ranch is named Fennel.”
Ethan froze with his mug an inch from his lips. After a moment, he set it down. “Cyrus Fennel.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t work on Fennel’s main ranch, though.” Fennel was a close neighbor of Ethan’s, and they saw each other almost daily on the road or in town. Ethan couldn’t believe he wouldn’t know if Cyrus had doubled his crew overnight.
“Naw, it’s about ten miles from here. But he owns it.”
“Who’s the foreman?”
“Eastern fella, name of Smith.”
Ethan let out a short puff of air, just short of a snort. Smith sounded even more bogus than Button.
The doorway darkened, and he looked up. Griffin Bane, the big blacksmith, filled the space.
“I can stay for an hour. No more.”
“Shouldn’t take that long.” Ethan swung his long legs down off the desk. “I don’t expect trouble, but it’s possible someone from the ranch where this hothead works will come by to bail him out.”
“Where you going to be if I need you?”
Ethan stood and reached for his hat. “Over to Mayor Nash’s house. The council’s meeting. I don’t know why they need me there.” He gritted his teeth, hoping they weren’t going to give him any grief over last night’s shooting.
“Glad I’m not on the council this year.” Griff plopped down in Ethan’s chair and eyed his mug speculatively. “You done with this coffee?”
“Yeah. Help yourself to more. See you shortly.”
Ethan hoofed it for the Nashes’ home, where Peter kept the post office on the boarded-in front porch. He’d hoped to catch Cyrus as he left his office, but the Wells Fargo station was empty when Ethan passed.
He walked into the post office—you never knocked on the outer door—and rapped on the door to the house. Ellie Nash opened it.
“Good morning, Sheriff. The council is all here, I believe. They’re in the parlor. Can I bring you coffee?”
“Just had some, thank you, ma’am.” Ethan pulled off his hat and entered the small parlor. Though it wasn’t so fine as the Walkers’, it felt cozier. Meetings here always seemed more cordial than the ones last year, when Charles Walker had presided.
Ethan nodded at Libby Adams, the newest member. Folks had debated long and hard last fall over letting a woman sit on the town council. Since they hadn’t achieved statehood yet, the town pretty much made its own rules. The Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus had strong opinions that they lobbied for, one of them being that women should be able to hold town offices and vote on local questions.
A lot of men had protested, but in the end, the ladies and the minority of men supporting them had won. Bitsy had pointed out that widows and unmarried women who owned property were already allowed to vote on special property-tax issues in the territory. It was only a small step, she declared, until they gained equal suffrage with men. Throughout the territory, the push for women’s voting rights was strong.
Personally, Ethan was glad they had a female council member. It kept Cyrus, Oscar, and Zack from swearing and smoking those infernal cigars they liked so much.
“Welcome, Sheriff,” Peter said. “Take a seat. We have several items to discuss, but we’ll put the one that concerns you first so you can get back to your duties.”
“Thank you.” Ethan tried to ignore the tickle in his chest. How bad could it be?
“First of all, as the current leaders of the town, we would like to thank you for the boldness you exhibited last night in protecting the lives and virtue of our citizens and the property of one of our leading business owners.”
Ethan looked down and adjusted his position in the chair. What other town would commend a man for defending a saloon? “It’s part of the job, I reckon.”
“Nevertheless, we extend our gratitude to you as sheriff. This council is in agreement that we ought to raise your pay a dollar a week.”
Ethan jerked his chin up and met Peter’s gaze. A dollar a week would go a long ways. Because of all the time he spent in town fulfilling his duties, he’d had to keep his ranch hands longer in the fall and hire them back earlier this spring.
“Why, thank you very much. I appreciate your confidence.”
Libby said, “And we appreciate your valiance.”
Oscar frowned as if puzzling over that word.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ethan said.
“Did you find out who the fella you plugged is?” Zack asked.
Libby winced, and Ethan felt his face flush in sympathy.
“Not yet. The prisoner’s pretty tight-lipped, but”—he glanced at Cyrus—“Mr. Fennel,
if I might have a word with you when you’re finished here, I’d appreciate it.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Are you implying that I had something to do with last night’s shootout? Because I haven’t set foot in the Spur & Saddle since—”
Ethan held out one hand. “No sir, not at all. It’s just …” He looked around, wondering how much he should spill in front of the others.
“Spit it out.” Cyrus glared at him.
“All right. The prisoner—that is, the man Hiram Dooley knocked out during the fracas—says he and the other troublemakers work on one of your ranches.”
“What—” Cyrus stopped abruptly and clamped his lips shut in a bitter frown. “I see.”
“Do you? Because I don’t, Mr. Fennel.”
Cyrus harrumphed and took a gulp from his cup.
Peter looked around at the others, and his gaze came back to Cyrus. “If you can shed any light on this situation, Cy, we’d appreciate it. Zack said the four roughnecks were all strangers, but if you know them …”
“I don’t know them.” Cyrus shot Ethan a dark glance then heaved a sigh. “I suppose they’re out to the old Martin ranch.”
“You don’t know?” Oscar sat up and poked a stubby, accusing finger toward him. “You mean to tell me you don’t know who’s living on your property? That don’t sound like you, Cyrus.”
Fennel rubbed the back of his neck and met Peter’s gaze. “The truth is, I have a tenant out there now. Didn’t know he would hire a bunch of rabble-rousers. I had no idea until this minute that those men came from out there.” He turned toward Ethan. “You sure that’s where they’re from?”
“No sir, but the prisoner says it’s about ten miles from here.”
Cyrus nodded reluctantly. “That’s about how far it is to the old Martin place. My most remote property.” He sighed again and slumped in the armchair. “I haven’t been able to do anything with the place. A fellow came along wanting to lease with an option to buy. He seemed like a decent man, and I agreed to let him live out there. He said he’d run some beef on the land.”
“What’s his name?” Libby eyed him keenly.
“Uh … Smith.”
Ethan wondered at the little frown that puckered Libby’s smooth brow.
“I don’t know where he got his hands. Maybe some fellows who had worked for him someplace else. Anyway, I’ll ride out there this afternoon after the stagecoach comes in. You can be sure this won’t happen again.”
“I should hope not,” Peter said.
“I’ll lay down the law to him.” Cyrus reached for his coffee.
“You want me to let the prisoner go?” Ethan asked.
Zack let out a whoop of laughter. “Still can’t believe Hiram Dooley put out his lights. Never would have expected him to do that, him being such a quiet man.”
“Does the prisoner owe anything?” Cyrus asked, ignoring Zack.
Ethan shrugged. “I generally charge a buck a night, to save the town from paying their expenses. He had a couple of dollars on him. I can take it out of that if you want and pay the Thistles for his meals. But someone ought to pay for the damage at Bitsy’s.”
“How bad was it?” Oscar asked.
“Not much. I had her give me a list this morning. She says they broke one chair and three glasses, and the man that fired the gun made a hole in the wall. A couple of dollars ought to cover everything.”
“I’ll stop by the jailhouse later and pay you,” Cyrus said. “And I’ll speak to my tenant about making sure his hands stay out of trouble.”
“Oh, and the other two—the ones I let go—I’ve got their six-shooters over at the jailhouse. You could return them, I guess, if you get a pledge they won’t come fixing to bust up the town again.”
“All right. I’ll see you after lunch.”
Ethan nodded. “We done?”
“I guess so,” Peter said, glancing around at the other council members. “And again, Sheriff, we thank you for your excellent service.”
Ethan left the house, wondering if Cyrus would be able to control his tenant’s hired hands. He didn’t want to walk into another gunfight anytime soon.
CHAPTER 14
Late Saturday afternoon, the Ladies’ Shooting Club met at its customary practice range. Libby almost skipped the extra practice session, but knowing her store could be the next place targeted by ne’er-do-wells spurred her to ask Josiah Runnels to take charge while she and Florence attended.
“This is awfully good of you,” Bitsy said to her as they climbed down from Annie’s wagon. “I know it’s hard to leave off during business hours.”
Libby put her arm around Bitsy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “The ladies rallied around me last year when I needed help. I think it behooves us all to be ready.”
“I admit I was a little on edge last night. When Trudy said we ought to hold an extra meeting and show we can’t be scared by a bunch of tough cowpokes, well, it seemed the right thing to do.”
“I agree,” Libby said. “It makes me feel stronger when we get together to shoot.”
“Shooting is a skill every woman should learn, like plucking a chicken or making soap.” Bitsy picked up the handful of bright rags they had brought along. The orange wool Annie had donated clashed with her red bloomer costume. “Don’t like men messing up my place, though. Sometimes I wonder if I’m in the wrong business.” She gave Libby a rueful smile.
“Shall we set up the targets?”
While Trudy gathered the other women for a safety review, Libby and Bitsy walked across the new green grass to fasten bits of cloth to sticks for the ladies to use as practice targets. Libby’s mind roiled with possible comments. Of course you’re in the wrong business, she wanted to scream. But that wouldn’t help Bitsy or their tenuous friendship.
As Bitsy worked a scrap of orange fabric into the end of a split stick, Libby said cautiously, “You’re such a good businesswoman. You’ve been on your own a long time, and you’ve made a success of it.”
“Yes, I have.” Bitsy pushed the other end of the stick into the soft earth. “Twenty years and more I’ve had my own place. Yes, twenty-three now. I came here at the height of the boom in these parts.”
“About the time my Isaac came.”
“True enough.”
They walked a few yards to the spot where the next team would aim. Libby stood up the fallen stick they’d used to hold a rag on Thursday. “Do you ever think of doing something else?” she asked.
“Not really. What else could I do? I know liquor, and I know men. Oh, I know how to turn a dollar all right. But what else could I do now? Everyone knows I’m a saloon keeper.”
“You could carry the same success into a new venture.” Libby swallowed her jitters and went on. “I was glad to see you in church Sunday.”
“Augie and the girls have been pestering me to go for months.” Bitsy shrugged. “I still don’t think I belong there.”
“Why not? God welcomes anyone who comes.” Libby expected a sharp rebuff, but Bitsy’s expression softened.
“Maybe I’ll go again. But if I go tomorrow, folks will expect me to be there every Sunday morning, and then who will set up the dining room? We were barely ready to serve dinner on time last week, and then only because Augie got up an hour early to bake his pies and biscuits.”
Libby smiled. “I’m going to come over there for dinner one of these Sundays if I can get a handsome man to escort me.”
“Naw! You wouldn’t.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You know why.”
A flush tingled Libby’s cheeks. It was true, she and a few others avoided the saloon, even though the chicken dinner was served without alcoholic beverages on Sunday. Many families went. She’d heard the meal complimented by her customers. But the Sunday dinner had been instituted at the Spur & Saddle after Isaac died. Libby had never felt it proper, as a single woman, to be seen there.
“I wouldn’t be embarrassed to come into your place for
a meal. As I said, I’ll just have to find someone …” She eyed Bitsy thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought of going into the restaurant business?”
Bitsy waved a hand in dismissal. “There ain’t enough folks in Fergus to support another eatery. Miz Thistle serves three meals a day now at the boardinghouse. I think she kinda resents us offering dinner on Sunday.”
“Well you were here before she was.” Libby smiled. “Come on. One more target.”
As they set up the last one, Bitsy frowned in concentration. “You know, you’re not the first to suggest I clean up my act, so to speak, though if I do say so, my place is always clean as a whistle.”
“I’m sure it is.” Libby waited, hoping she’d continue.
Bitsy straightened and brushed her hands together. “There. All set. I think Augie would like it if I switched to another line of work. He’s not a jealous man, but he doesn’t like it when drunks come in and point guns at him.”
Libby arched her eyebrows. “You surprise me. I mean … I didn’t know.”
“About me an’ Augie?” Bitsy shrugged. “He’s been with me eight years and trying to get me to marry him for seven.”
“Really!”
“Yup.” Bitsy winked at her. “Didn’t know I could keep a secret so good, did ya?”
“Well, no, I didn’t.” Libby opened her mouth again and then closed it. She was dying to ask Bitsy why she didn’t marry Augie if he was so keen on it. The muscular, bald bartender seemed like a reliable man, and he’d shown more than once that he would protect Bitsy and work hard to help her succeed. Libby had always figured he was a loyal employee whom Bitsy paid well to tend bar and run out rowdies. No more. Now she’d discovered that he cooked the succulent meals people raved about and secretly wooed his boss. Quite a character, Augie Moore.
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