Grant came right out with it. "You mean he thinks she's a hooker?"
Rollins coughed. He would never get used to that word. "Yeah, I think so. And it's tearing him up. So what he did was, he wrote to the mayor of Noble and offered himself up as sheriff—hiding most of his over-qualifications, of course. Well, they haven't had a sheriff in Noble for five years and they were pretty damn glad to get one. The council just voted him in. He's at the Willard packing right now."
"All this for a woman . . . it's hard to believe . . ."
"She was a fine-looking woman, sir. Beautiful, actually." Rollins stroked his mustache, a habit when he was pensive.
"Beauty is fleeting. Doesn't Cain know that?"
"Yes, he knows it. If there ever was a man who's never lacked the company of beautiful women, Cain is it. But this one's different, sir. It almost worries me. He might be headed for trouble."
"How so?"
"You know how Cain is. He took a beating in the war. It really ravaged him. All his values and morals were ripped in two when he had to put down his arms and give up the fight. He lost his family, his whole hometown." Rollins stared at Grant. "I won't kid you, sir. When he offered his services to the marshals, I didn't think he'd make it. He was a strong man, and a good fighter, I give you that, but I wasn't sure he could work with the same men he'd fought against at Shiloh and Gettysburg.
"And didn't he surprise us all. He's as loyal to the law as a man can be. I've figured it out."
The President seemed to hang on every word. "And what is it?"
Worry crept into Rollins's gaze. "It's very simple. When he lost his country, the law became his country. When he lost his family, the law became his family. He holds the law as dear as any man I've seen, and I fear he is unyielding in its interpretation. You see, he cannot bear the ambiguity the Cause thrust upon him ever again."
Grant stared at him, understanding dawning. "This girl's past seems fraught with ambiguity."
"Indeed." Rollins looked forlornly out the window at the Pennsylvania Avenue winterscape. "Cain may find himself in the war once more. This girl's air of mystery makes her most attractive, but she's dangerous to him. Her past could be the thing to break him."
The President stood straight and commanding. "I could tell him not to go. I'm the only man he might listen to besides Lee . . . and Lee, God rest his soul, is gone from us now."
"You could ask him. But he won't stay." Rollins released a deep, resigned sigh. "Cain's going to go after her, and having seen the girl, I can almost understand his obsession. She had an aura of tragedy that surrounded her almost like the widow's veil she wore. If she were an actress, she would have made a great Ophelia."
Grant slowly turned back to the blinding white landscape, his once handsome features haggard, puffy, and sad. "I suppose Shakespeare knew human nature better than you or me: '. . . for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. . . .'" Grant grew silent, then whispered, " 'The fair Ophelia! ... be all my sins remembered.' "
January 1876
If the town records were correct, there had been only three noble deeds ever performed in Noble. Wyoming Territory wasn't known for its altruism; still, towns like Noble sprang up, born with good intentions, then grew into something else altogether.
The first noble deed ever done in Noble was the cry of "Silver!" when old man Grizzard found a vein ten years back. Share the Wealth was his motto, and the wealth was shared until it ran out, which, unfortunately, happened just about the time it began.
The second noble deed was eight years ago when the townfolk began putting up the Lutheran church in the west side of town, where the foothills of the mountains broke through the stretch of plains to the east. It was a pretty church, with colored glass for the windows ordered all the way from St. Louis.
Back then, they even had high hopes for getting a preacher.
The third and final deed had occurred last spring.
The town had fallen on hard times with old man Grizzard dead and gone, and his silver, if you will, even more deceased. Noble was becoming more famous for its ignoble deeds than its noble ones. Folks earned their living the best way they knew how, and with a final shrug of resignation, this was written in a scratchy, illiterate hand in the town records:
April 13, 1875-Niver found no preacher. Rectory sign removed, this day, from Mrs. Delaney's cathouse.
But if some looked upon Noble, shook their heads in despair, and rode on, one didn't—a young woman who stood at the frost-covered window of F. A. Welty's Saloon, stretching her back as if she'd been sitting for a long time. This one didn't despise Noble, it was clear on her face. For now, the town was just fine with her, snow and all, and she peered down the strip of frozen mud that made a road this time of year, a strange, worried expression in her eyes, as if she were afraid some cowboy were going to lope into Noble and take the whole damn thing away.
It was kind of hard to say just what kind of lady this woman was. Her heavy black wool shawl covered a dress of blue calico, the seams worn white in the bodice from many a washing, the skirt patched with newer pieces of the same cheap cotton. That was all respectable enough, but the dress was obviously a dance hall dress, short, to reveal the petticoats, scarlet stockings, and button-top boots she wore beneath it. In Denver, maybe even in Cheyenne, her dress might have been satin. But this was Noble, and there just wasn't enough business to afford something like satin dresses.
"Christal! Has he arrived? See any life out there, girl?" The voice was booming and anxious. Faulty—F. A. Welty, the owner himself—straightened up from behind the bar lugging a jug of whiskey from the cellar.
The girl gave another long look down the street. Noble consisted of only about eight or ten wooden false-fronted buildings, not including Mrs. Delaney's, which was down the lane a piece, where they'd hoped to put the church and the town graveyard. The road through town was empty. Not a movement rippled the frozen tableau of prairie all the way to the horizon.
As if in prayer, she raised her eyes toward the sky. It was slate gray, heavy with snow, an endless howl of ice just ready to fall. A couple of flurries worked their way down and a hopeful smile tipped her lips. Maybe he wouldn't come. She hugged the black shawl closer to her, and returned to the bar to help Faulty, the bells on her ankles giving a flirty little jingle as she walked.
"Why did they go and get a sheriff anyway, Faulty?" a girl in a saffron-colored calico dress asked from the piano. She was petite with smooth, coffee-colored skin—a mulatto, some thought, but no one was quite sure; she had a mysterious ethnic beauty that could have been Cheyenne as well as Japanese.
"Ivy Rose, now don't you go complainin'," scolded another female from the corner. Dixiana always wore purple because she fancied she had violet eyes. In the gloaming her rouge would sometimes look purple, but never, unfortunately, her eyes. "Ah'm lookin' forward to this here sheriff. As long as he's under fifty and can pay his bills, Ah'll take him." Dixiana flashed dark blue eyes in disgust at the empty saloon. Last night's smoky haze still hung from the ceiling with the volatile smell of whiskey, but there were no men anywhere—except for Faulty—and wouldn't be until probably seven o'clock when the cowhands came in from the range. None if the weather grew bad. Christal braced herself for another bout of her whining. Dixiana didn't disappoint. "We had customers day and night in Laramie! Why, Ah could buy me stockin's for every day of the week! And there was a washwoman to come and do mah laundry—!"
"We've heard," Ivy Rose interrupted, drowning her out with the tune of "Lorena," which she tapped on the ivory piano keys.
Faulty looked at Christal, obviously used to turning a deaf ear to Ivy and Dixiana. The proprietor was a dapper man with a gray mustache and muttonchops, and tufted, brushed-up eyebrows that left him with a constant surprised expression. "You been quiet today, girl. You thinkin' about that sheriff too?"
A new sheriff. Christal could hardly believe
her ill fortune. If the truth were known, she wanted that new sheriff gone more than the lot of them put together. "I—I guess I don't quite understand why they thought we needed one here." She polished the bar glasses to try to show she didn't care as much as she really did. The road had been long and difficult since she'd left Camp Brown and Macaulay Cain. It had taken all her resources just to get to Noble, but it had been worth it. The hiding had been good here. While it lasted.
She couldn't bury her anxiety any longer. "I just can't figure out why they thought they had to go and elect some stranger we don't even know. If they suddenly decided they wanted a sheriff, why couldn't they have picked Jan Peterson to do it? He owns the general store, and he's mayor. Why not sheriff too? That would have been so much better a choice."
"It sure is a surprise, darlin'." Faulty put his arm around her and squeezed. "But don't you worry none. That sheriff ain't gonna change this saloon. Not if I can help it. Besides, I can't get you girls to do what I want, so how's he gonna?"
Dixiana laughed. Christal shot her a quelling look, but before she could get out a reprimand, Faulty turned Christal away and thrust some more glasses into her hands.
She polished, every now and then giving Faulty a rebellious glance. She didn't mean to cause him trouble. He'd been the best thing ever to happen to her. His face was not pretty—red from drink and pocked from smallpox when he'd lived in New Orleans—but in many ways it was a kind face, and she'd been glad to see it when she'd arrived in town last September. Bedraggled and skinny, she was hired anyway, and so far he'd kept his part of the deal: She was only to sell dances. But all along he made it clear that he preferred she make him money upstairs and not on the dance floor.
She concentrated on a smudge and her thoughts grew dark, dwelling in places she had futilely trained them never to go. Despite Faulty's blessed appearance back in September, she knew he was not really the best thing ever to happen to her. The best thing that had ever happened to her was back in Camp Brown. He was tall, with cold gray eyes, and a smile that could blind a cougar at fifty paces. Even now she wondered if she'd fallen in love with Macaulay. The situation was hopeless. Unless she vindicated herself in New York she could never seek him out, and by the time she managed to do that, surely he would be married, perhaps with a family.
She sighed, something she was prone to do ever since she'd come to Noble. It was no use dreaming of things she could never have. But the temptation was great. Did she love Macaulay? She knew without a doubt that if she ever set eyes on him again, she would know for sure.
And then he would bedevil her the rest of her miserable days. Perhaps she was fortunate things had worked out this way.
She replaced the glass and got another, turning to Faulty. Quietly she said, "You may not be able to change me, Faulty, but I still make good money for you, just the same. You can't complain."
Faulty grumbled, appearing quite put-upon. "You're our princess. Maybe I've just got to accept that. And maybe that's good. You holdin' out keeps your price high." His words said one thing, but he never quite got that hopeful look out of his eyes. It was clear she perplexed the hell out of him. Slyly, he added, "But, darlin', don't you think there's gonna come a day when—?"
"He's here!" Ivy left the piano stool and ran to the window. Faulty, Dixiana, then Christal, last and slower, more reluctant than the rest, followed.
Through ice-covered panes they saw a man on a sleek, dark horse making his way along the frozen rutted road. The flurries were stronger now and they blurred the details. Still, Christal could see he wore a caped Federal-issue greatcoat and the buff-colored gauntlets of the cavalry. She'd seen too many men dressed like that back at Camp Brown.
"What does he look like? Oh, please say he's not too ugly—I don't even care if he don't bathe—just . . . oh, please make him a little handsome . . . just a little ..." Dixiana pressed her cheek against the cold glass pane to get a better look. Her palms were clasped as if in prayer.
"He's a tall one, all right," Faulty said, nervously wiping his hands on his apron.
"You can't see his face for the hat," Ivy whispered in a voice tinged with fear.
Christal strained her eyes to get a better look, but the snow worked against her. The man went by, his face obscured by falling snowflakes and a large black Stetson. He stopped down the road and hitched his mount in front of Jan Peterson's general store. He disappeared into the building, but even after he was gone it took her an eternity to catch her breath. For some reason, he scared the hell out of her.
"Well ... I guess I'd better get on over there and welcome the new sheriff to town. No sense in him gettin' the idea we're not friendly-like." Grimly, Faulty removed his apron and went to get his sheepskin overcoat.
"If he's even a little handsome, Faulty, you tell him it's on the house. Otherwise, it's half price, all right, Faulty?" Dixiana said in a little-girl's voice.
"Ohhhh, I hope he don't close us down," Faulty groaned as he slammed out the door and into the bitter cold.
The girls watched him trudge over the frozen waves of mud in the road, some as high as his knees. When he disappeared into the mercantile, the saloon was like a graveyard.
"Do you think he'll give Faulty a hard time?" Dixiana whispered.
Ivy sighed. She looked in the other direction. "I don't know but right now they're coming in early. Must be the weather."
Six men stopped their horses in front of the saloon. As if on cue, Ivy walked to the bar to get out the glasses, Dixiana primped on the piano stool, and Christal got out the dealer's box.
The whiskey was poured; Christal dealt the men their game of faro. Three of the men were up from Nevada and full of gold coins they were just aching to lose. She dealt game after game until her fingers grew stiff from throwing out cards. One of the men, a blond, handsome man with a beard, gave her a sideways look every now and then, obviously hoping to catch her gaze and be dealt something a little more than faro. But, well practiced in the art of avoidance, she just kept her eyes on the cards, with each flip counting the seconds until Faulty would be back with some news of the sheriff.
The clock ticked, the cold made her fingers stiff, the wind kicked up and blasted against the outside walls. The men quit their faro and bellied up to the bar for more whiskey. If Joe were around to play the piano, Christal was sure the blond man would have bought a dance. And something more . . . if it were for sale.
It was dark before Faulty came back to the saloon. He burst through the door, covered in snow from head to foot. His beard had icicled just during the short walk from the general store to the saloon.
Dixiana, Ivy, and Christal all stopped what they were doing to look at him. Was he angry? Afraid? As if to prepare themselves, they wanted to see it on his face before he told them.
"Christal, I got to talk to you, girl," he said, shaking his beard dry over the potbelly stove.
Christal felt her stomach drop to her knees. "Wh-what about?" She couldn't imagine what the sheriff could have said that'd make Faulty single her out. Suddenly her heart hammered in her chest. Had she been discovered? Was the sheriff somehow sent by her uncle?
"C'mon over here, girl. We got to talk." Faulty took her arm and led her up the rough wooden stairs that stood at the back of the saloon. He pulled her into her room and didn't even bother with a lamp. They stood in half-darkness, the only light coming from the hall.
"My God, what is it?" she blurted out.
He put both of his hands out in supplication. "Christal, darlin', you just gotta listen to me. I talked to that there new sheriff and by the look in his eyes, he sure ain't one I want to cross."
"But what did he say?" Her voice was calm, partly because it was choked by fear.
"I—I wanted to get some sort of understandin' from him. I told him that I had the prettiest girls in town and that dances were on the house." Faulty paused, as if he knew she wasn't going to like what he had to say next. "He told me he'd be real happy to do business with me, but he said he was pa
rtial to blondes, Christal, only blondes."
She felt the easing in her chest. Her heartbeat slowed. The drumming ceased in her ears. "Is that what you're talking about? You gave him a free dance with me?"
Faulty shook his head. "No, girl. That ain't it."
"Then what?"
"We weren't talking about dances. Not at all."
Suddenly she understood. It didn't surprise her that the new sheriff was already putting his hand in the till. After all, what upstanding man would want to be sheriff of Noble? Ominously she said, "You mean you tried to sell me to him?"
He grabbed her arm. "Girl, you got to see the eyes of that man! I had to promise him! He's gonna shut me down if he gets a look at you and you refuse him!"
"There are blondes over at Mrs. Delaney's. Send him there."
"Aw, Christal. You gotta help me! He'll leave us alone if we make him happy. If we don't—anything could happen. I might even lose the saloon!"
Disgusted, she turned away from him. Her room faced the street and through the window, she could see men leaving Jan Peterson's. In the darkness and snow, she didn't know which one was the sheriff. Boys had already put his horse in the livery. "You don't run a whorehouse, Faulty, you run a saloon. If Ivy and Dixiana like making some extra coins, and give you a cut for providing their room and board, well, that still doesn't make this a whorehouse. You've just got to explain to the man that not every girl here is for sale."
"Help me, Christal," he pleaded.
She took a deep breath, her mind whirling with troubles. She still dreamed of that Overland money. For months she had longed to write and have it sent to her, all five hundred dollars. But she'd been too afraid of reporters, and of Cain tracking her down, asking questions she didn't want to answer. So she was back to doing what she had done before, working like a dog because she wanted to keep her honor, and saving what little money she could so that one day, a day far off in a misty, obscure future, she could return to New York, find a way to expose her uncle's crimes, and redeem herself. Sometimes she wondered if she was mad or just dreaming.
Fair Is the Rose Page 15
