“I had decided that I had no choice and was just about to tell Doc that I was well again. My idea was to return to the living, unable to remember the assault, and anxious to sell the store. I figured Doc could protect me from any questions pestering me about that decision.” Miz Myrtle grinned at Doc Watkins who grinned back at her in acknowledgment of the left-handed compliment. “I reached this decision the very morning that you left off with that awful John Bowden, unbeknownst to me. If I’d had any idea of what you had planned, I can assure you, Donnie Summersdale, you would not have walked out of this house that morning. It was my unfortunate luck that Doc was out delivering that baby and therefore, unavailable for my Lazarus-like healing until nightfall.”
I patted Miz Myrtle’s hand to encourage her. “You can imagine how astounded Lucinda May was when I asked her to please fetch the Doc for me.” Lucinda May, nodded in agreement. “Lucinda May was present during my talk with Doc. She said that it was too bad Donnie wasn’t here to celebrate my return to the living but that he had left with Mr. John Bowden early that morning and had not yet returned. I immediately told Doc that it was Bowden and Suggs. I left out the part about Beloved, sure that Doc would question my sanity.” Miz Myrtle’s voice had grown strong with anger, not at me I knew, but at Mr. John Bowden and his irksome companions in crime.
“As soon as I heard” Miz Myrtle, overcome with emotion, looked to Doc to continue the story.
“About the time that Miz Myrtle filled me in on what had happened, Clyde ran into the room to tell us that Prospects had returned to the house without his rider, and as they say, the rest is history. We set out to find you, Donnie, with the valuable help I might add, of our very own Sister Sally Sees. None of us had any idea that Bowden was back in town arranging for his men to apprehend you should you try to come home.”
I looked to Sister Sally for an explanation, as I had not yet heard the specifics of her assistance in this endeavor.
Sister Sally was in no hurry it seemed, as she took the time to lick cake crumbs from her fork before speaking. “From the time I was a child I’ve had the vision, or as my family liked to call it, the sight. It has plagued my family for generations. I’m proud that I did not sell this gift at the circus. I sold a good time at the circus, which is what my customers wanted. But in times of crisis, the gift has often been a boon to those in need. What makes the gift work, is pure love. Someone’s love has to pave the way for my sight.
Sister Sally thrived with attention. She used her husky voice to create drama, as if we hadn’t had enough of that all ready. “Donnie’s love for Miz Myrtle, and her love for him, had what I believe is the most trustworthy sign of real love—humility. By that I mean each of them was able to focus solely on what was best for the other. I relied on that quality of love to shine the path of my sight, and it did.”
Miz Myrtle squeezed my hand when Sister Sally said this. I felt tears gather, and so I cleared my voice in the manly way of men who know better than to cry.
Sister Sally laughed, “In my vision I saw carrots. I knew that carrots were associated with prosperity, and with the thinking of that word the picture of a horse presented itself. I remembered, curious how the mind is able to make connections, that Banker Clyde rode a horse called Prospects. But the horse I saw in my mind had lost his rider. At first I thought the vision was telling me that Banker Clyde had been hurt. Then I heard the shimmering sound of the tambourine, a sound the wise ones associate with youthful joy. Donnie Summersdale came to mind instantly. The final part of my vision was three men riding into what appeared as a solid sheet of darkness. Before disappearing into the darkness, all three men turned into black crows. I knew that a flock of crows is called a “murder.” Alarmed, I went in search of Banker Clyde.”
Banker Clyde chimed in. “Sister Sally told us what she had seen and we followed her advice with confidence. No sooner than we had entered the densest part of the forest when Old Red Hound discovered your boots and followed your scent. Within two hours we approached their camp.”
Doc asked Miz Myrtle why she didn’t know about Lester, Beloved’s twin brother.
“When we married he told me that he had no family. You remember the man, Doc. He’d not allow any prying for explanations.”
“Now I understand why Suggs and Lester didn’t separate to find me when they were searching for me,” I said. “I bet Lester wasn’t familiar with this part of the country, being as how his family hailed here from Tennessee.”
I smiled at Banker Clyde, then leaned over to kiss Miz Myrtle’s forehead. “Ma’am, would it be against refined manners to ask for seconds on the cake?” After the laughter died down we had our fill of molasses cake and sweet milk. A good long visit was had before Doc scolded folks for overtaxing Miz Myrtle’s strength.
Miz Myrtle and I said goodbye to our friends and shut the door. Lucinda May and Banker Clyde had taken their things and returned to their own home.
“Songbird,” Miz Myrtle said as she made her way to the rocker, “Give me a tic and chigger report on the store.” By this I knew Miz Myrtle did not want me to leave out even the smallest details. We talked at great length before eating our supper of hot corn bread, stewed tomatoes, and beans.
That night as I lay in what had been Banker Clyde’s bed, I fancied I could still smell the man-scent of him. My dreams were like a sweet hot relish.
Chapter 19
Our newspaper, the Husonian, reported at length on the skill of Sheriff James Winston Baxter in apprehending the culprits. He was feted as a true hero, although to give him credit, he did say that solving the crime had been wrapped up and given to him like a present. He began to call on Miz Myrtle with some regularity. Sister Sally’s promise of a morning-glory, blue-sky life for Miz Myrtle, now seemed remarkable for its accuracy.
Sheriff Baxter has apple pie with Miz Myrtle every Friday evening. She tells me with a wink, that he is just smart enough for what ails her, but not so smart that he interferes with business. Old Red Hound likes Sheriff Baxter well-enough, as would any dog that gets a steak every Friday night.
Banker Clyde and I are reading Indian Territory—World of Frolicsome Adventure together on the front porch. We can’t sit too close or folks would run Banker Clyde out of town for iniquity. After the culprits had been apprehended, Banker Clyde had insisted upon teaching me how to properly ride a horse. On our first lesson when we were within a mile of Sister’s Sally’s house, he suggested that we rest ourselves a spate down at the creek and give the horses a drink. No sooner had we dismounted but what Banker Clyde grabbed me and gave me one of those forever kinds of kisses. When he finished he apologized profusely. He told me he had lost his mind and could not be around me any more. In fact, he advised me to forget the whole thing and find myself a pretty young girl. Seeing his dismay, I could not punish him with my secret any longer.
“Banker Clyde, I’m a girl,” I said as I wrapped my arms around him and presented my lips for my second forever kiss. But he could not kiss me for laughing, much to my chagrin.
“Banker Clyde, how did you know?” My pride was hurt. I thought I had done such a good job of being a boy and all.
“I heard you speak to Miz Myrtle in your girl voice. It was the voice of an angel, a girl angel.” He obliged me with another kiss.
All those shenanigans of trying to get me to bed down with him at Miz Myrtle’s house, the threat of making me shave my face, all of it came down hard on him when I slapped his face. That done, I allowed as how he was free to make amends, which he did, and smartly too.
Though he wanted a traditional courtship, I could not agree and insisted upon our reading Indian Territory—World of Frolicsome Adventure together. Now he understands why I must remain a boy, at least for awhile. My thirst for adventure has not been quenched and I will not have it ruined simply because I’m a girl. He does not like my decision, but has agreed to abide by it, for a price. In the dense dark woods, where once I was held captive—I now go of my own accord. If you had Si
ster Sally’s sight you might see a grown man kissing a young boy in a most disturbing way. But I’m betting you don’t. Sister Sally tells me that her sight came to her with her cloudy eye. Being as how you’ve two good eyes, mister, I figure Banker Clyde and me are safe as money in the bank.
HATS, HEALING AND HOMICIDE
IN TULSEY TOWN
Peggy Moss Fielding
Peggy Fielding is an Oklahoman who spent several years outside the USA in Cuba, Japan and the Republic of the Philippines. She now lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma where she is a teacher and writer of both fiction and nonfiction. Many of her former students have gone on to publish short stories, articles and more than 350 books. Fielding has published hundreds of articles and short stories, several nonfiction books and has sold both contemporary and historical novels. Hats, Healing and Homicide is her first mystery. She belongs to Romance Writers of America, The Author’s Guild, Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc., Oklahoma Mystery Writers and the Tulsa NightWriters. Visit Fielding’s web site: www.peggyfielding.com
Fielding’s Great-Grandfather made one of the Runs into Indian Territory where he platted out and established a still-in-place small Oklahoma town.
Chapter 1
September 1897
“Scootch yourself over here next to me, Missy. We got us a long trip to Arkansas.” The driver of the wagon gestured toward Eula Mae Kent as if to entice her to his side. “We might as well get ourselves better acquainted.”
“Mr. Montmorcey, please. I paid you for a ride and that’s the only thing I am interested in.” She sighed and shook her head. “We’ve discussed this before, sir.”
“Well, I think we could get friendly whilst we roll toward your Aunty’s house.” He grinned at his passenger. “We could have us a little fun. Just a kiss, girlie. I ain’t asking for much, now am I?” With the filthy rag from his pocket he swatted at a fly that buzzed about his face. “Now, Miz Euly, times a wasting. What’s it going to be? Are you in or out?”
Eula Mae looked at the man’s lips. They reminded her of the loose purple mouth of an old horse they’d once had. They’d called him, “Liverlips.” She shuddered. She’d rather kiss that old horse than kiss this gross creature. She turned her gaze away from the wagon owner. She and her Granny had shared a cabin in Indian Territory for more than fifteen years but they’d stayed pretty close to home and neither she nor Granny had ever traveled in this direction. Her friend, Te Ata, and Te Ata’s children had lived a five-minute walk south of their cabin so she’d really had no reason to come up this way.
The brush seemed thicker up here, the ground more uneven, hills were visible in the distance, the trees looked larger as they’d rolled each mile northeast, closer to Siloam Springs.
She swallowed and forced the threatened tears back. Now Granny was in Heaven with Mama and Papa, and Eula Mae’s future would lie with an Aunt she didn’t even know.
“Look forward,” she told herself, “Your life’s going to be different. You’ll be a town girl, no longer a country mouse.” She smiled inwardly at the memory of the story her mother had read her about the city mouse and the country mouse. It had been years since she’d thought about it. She’d loved that big book with all the stories. After the death of her parents she hadn’t seen it again. Not much room in the cabin hidden in the woods so nothing much but her parents’ pictures had accompanied her to the territory when she had taken over the care of her grandmother.
The wagon slowed and Eula Mae looked at the overweight driver.
“Why are we stopping?”
He sprayed tobacco juice over the side of the wagon, then set the brake.
“We ain’t stopping, just you getting down here, girlie. Iffen you can’t be friendly I’m leaving you here. What do you say to that?”
“Leaving me? But I’ve paid you for the trip, Mr. Montmorcey. We’re miles into the woods. I can’t stop here.”
“Reckon you can, Missie.”
“I am certainly not getting out of this wagon.”
“Well, your flour sack and your trunk and your carpet bag are. They’re all staying right here, girl.” He clambered down and moved to the back of the vehicle. He opened the backboard, grabbed the leather handle of her Granny’s old camelback trunk and dropped it crashing to the ground. Her portmanteau followed with a thud of its own.
“I’d a just kept that old trunk for myself, but I done looked inside and they ain’t nothing in there a body’d want. Nothing but weeds and books and girly froufrou.”
“Mr. Montmorcey, I’ve paid you. You are required to take me to Siloam Springs, Arkansas.”
“Better get on down, girlie. Me’n old Prince is heading on.”
Eula Mae stood as the large man shinnied himself back up to his driver’s seat and clicked at the white horse. Eula Mae grabbed the metal bar that stretched across the front of the wagon to steady herself.
“Wait! My trunk!”
He made no reply other than a click of his tongue to encourage his horse to motion.
“Stop. Stop. I’ll get out,” she shouted but she continued to hold the metal bar. He just had to take her on to Arkansas.
He stopped the horse and smiled up at Eula Mae. He reamed out his nostril with his thumb then motioned over his shoulder with that same thumb.
“They’s a little town up thataway. They call it Tulsey Town.” From the wooden seat between them he drew out and tossed the flour sack of food stuff she’d packed for the trip. It landed in the weeds next to the road.
He again clicked his tongue and Prince and his owner once again moved along the rutted road that led to Arkansas. Eula Mae still stood galvanized in front of her wagon seat. She glanced out at the barely visible trail he’d pointed out. “You can’t do this, sir!”
Montmorcey’s answer was a mocking laugh.
When she realized he was truly leaving all her belongings behind she made one last attempt before she had to leave the wagon, “Mr. Montmorcey!”
He shook his head and clicked to the horse to speed up to a walk.
She gathered her skirts on one hand, trusted her hatpin to keep her hat on her head and sprang from the wagon, then crouched in the dust, staring in disbelief at the still moving wagon until it disappeared from sight. She straightened to walk back to the trunk and her portmanteau. Fear rose in her throat.
“You’re a grown woman,” she said aloud. “You’re nearly thirty years old. Buck up.” She struggled to pull the heavy trunk a few feet down a nearby slope then let it rest behind some sumac bushes. Sticks, leaves and branches served to disguise the container holding nearly all her worldly goods. Should she stay here or go on to the village which Montmorcey had mentioned? Perhaps there really was a town.
She looked once again at the well-traveled road. Maybe Montmorcey would come back? No. Better get on with what lay ahead. She lifted her carpetbag portmanteau with her left hand, held her purse in her right hand, scooped up the food sack then turned north onto the barely discernible path that might or might not lead to a town.
“I hope he starves,” she said aloud and hefted the victuals bag over her shoulder. Old Montmorcey had made mighty free with the food she’d brought along. He’d eaten most of the fried chicken, and he’d stuffed his craw with a ton of biscuits this morning. She had only a few biscuits and the neck, head and feet of the chicken left. Not much meat but they’d taste good with the tomatoes left in the bag.
Excitement, shock and anger warred within her.
“One step at a time,” she said aloud, “Find this so-called town and then everything will be all right. Someone will help me get to Arkansas.” She felt comforted by the stash of Granny’s silver dollars that lay hidden in a handkerchief at the bottom of her reticule, the black velvet purse she’d made for herself for the trip, made from Granny’s well worn Sunday skirt. At least that fat, ugly bastard, Montemorsey, hadn’t stolen her coins when he’d left her stranded.
She touched the velvet hat she’d also fashioned for herself from her Granny’s skirt. N
o one in this place called Tulsey Town, could say she didn’t look respectable.
After a short trip into the trees to attend to private business, using cool, clean leaves for clean up, she wiped her fingers on the inside hem of her dress just to be sure she was stepping into this new adventure with clean hands.
Chapter 2
Although the path remained visible Eula Mae felt reluctant to continue. She was getting further and further away from her belongings, her ribbons and feathers, her books, her sewing equipment. Should she go on?
A blackjack tree to the left of the trail seemed to offer a pleasant place to stop and rest. A stump for a chair and leaves for a roof beckoned to her. She stepped aside and put her carpetbag in the Y between the stump and the tree, then held her velvet handbag as she leaned against the trunk of the sheltering tree.
“Ah.”
She closed her eyes. Fall in the territory was nearly always warm, nearly as warm as summer. Eula Mae smiled as she remembered her Granny saying, “I like the weather out here in the territory. Most of the time it’s pretty warm but I’d sure rather boil than freeze.” When the sun began to set she’d have to find a safe place to sleep if she didn’t reach Tulsey Town before nightfall. If only she knew how far distant the place was it would make things easier for her. She brushed that fear aside. The sun wouldn’t set for four or five more hours, time enough later to start looking for a safe place.
Foxy Statehood Hens and Murder Most Fowl (The Foxy Hens) Page 17
