by Alan Black
She peeled her poncho off and hung it on a stringer set for exactly that purpose. It already had clothes drying there. The heat from the fire bounced off the rock and was trapped by the overhead tarp, warming the whole area. A pair of saddles, saddlebags, and horse blankets sat on a dry log in a corner.
A large pile of wood was stacked at the edge of one side of the four square. It almost made a small wall. She tossed a couple of mid-sized logs onto the fire, causing it to flare up and sputter, the flames fighting to take hold of the damp wood. The fire had not been tended to in a while, but it roared back to life throwing enough light around the clearing for her to take stock of the conditions under the canvas tarp. It was comfortable enough for a few nights stay, if the weather cooperated. Since this was Missouri, the spring weather rarely cooperated.
She could see two bedrolls, twisted and thrown to the side. Braunawall and McDonald must have been asleep and startled awake at Taradittles’ shout. Items were strewn about in the men’s haste to avoid capture by the law. They, like most men sleeping outdoors, must have been fully dressed. They would not have time to get clothed before running off into the dark.
She turtled her hand into her dress sleeve, covering her fingers with material. She reached down with the cloth-protected hand toward the fire and pulled out the coffee pot. It had been sitting near the ashes, but the flames re-invigorated it to its purpose.
She was not sleepy and did not plan to nap between now and dawn. She knocked the dirt out of a tin cup and poured herself a coffee. She snorted, tasting not the stale coffee as much as the cup’s last drink. The alcohol residue coated the inside of the tin cup, giving the coffee a harsh after taste.
She was not a novice when it came to drinking. She and Clayton both liked a hot toddy on a cold night, a cold bourbon on a hot day, or a cold beer on any day. The word ‘a’ was appropriate as it would be an uncommon occasion when they indulged in a second drink.
She and Clayton mourned the coming of prohibition with the death of a dear bottle of brandy. But, Clayton had been a lawman and a lay preacher. He knew both the law and the sin, as did Grace. He said he had to enforce prohibition even though he did not agree with it. There was a sin in drunkenness, but not drinking, although the Methodist point of view was that it was best to avoid alcohol completely. It was so much so with their church that they had done away with wine during communion, using unfermented grape juice instead.
The view point held by many, especially the late Carrie Nation and the temperance movement, was that all alcohol was evil. That point of view made only limited sense to Grace. Logic and reason in adherence to God’s word was a solid tenet of the Methodist doctrine. Reason said many people could not manage the temptation from drink. Logic said drink made other temptations look as if they were available and acceptable. Removing deliberate temptation from weak minded people should improve many lives.
She and Clayton had not been heavy drinkers and as people of large size, a drink or two had minimal effect of their day-to-day activities. Neither was of such weak character to allow the demon rum to affect their logic and reason. Evil was evil, whether drink was involved or not. However, for some people even a little was too much.
She had never felt hypocritical about drinking alcohol and being a Methodist at the same time. She was more than passing familiar with the scripture 1 Timothy 5:23, ‘Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine often infirmities’. She and Clayton discussed it and he had shown her the scripture required emphasis on the word ‘little’.
As the new sheriff of Oasis she would have to enforce prohibition. She would feel like a hypocrite for doing so, but it was the law. She would shut down Watkin’s saloon whether it was called a coffee shop or not. She would bust up the still of anyone making moonshine for sale. Making moonshine for a drinker’s own consumption wasn’t illegal, but making it for sale was wrong. It was making money from another person’s weakness.
She looked around the dry area under the tarp. Gear, clothing, food, and all manner of goods were scattered about. Braunawall and McDonald dropped everything in their haste to get away. They must have ridden off bareback.
She smiled. Riding bareback was fun if it was a short trip on a warm sunny day. Sitting on the back of a wet horse with wet clothes for a long ride would be more than uncomfortable. She felt sorry for the horse as they would get sores long before the rider’s skin gave way, but the rider would eventually rub his thighs and backsides raw.
LillieBeth dragged a half-dazed Taradittles into the ring of light. The man had a small trickle of blood oozing from his scalp. It mixed with the rain and flowed quickly down to drip off his chin. The young woman kicked the back of his knees and forced him into a sitting position on the ground. She took the loose end of the manacles, wrapped it around a log, locked the wrist bracelet through a chain link, and stepped back into the rain without comment.
Grace ignored Taradittles mumbles and complaints. She wondered if LillieBeth had hit him hard enough that it addled his brains or if the girl had hit him again. She did not blame LillieBeth. It was the man’s fault they didn’t have Braunawall and McDonald in custody. It was his warning that allowed one of the men to take a blind shot at them.
She did not like the feeling of being shot at. She had heard the story of LillieBeth being shot at by a man from Chicago and how the twelve-year-old shot back and hit the man more than once. Grace did not imagine LillieBeth liked being shot at a second time anymore than she had liked it the first time. It did not seem like something a reasonable person could get used to.
Grace straightened one of the sleeping pallets and folded it into a thick pad. She sat on the ground and dumped the contents of a discarded saddlebag into a small pile in front of her. There was little of value. She still made a mental catalog of the items. She did find a white sheet with a red St. Andrews cross sewn on the front. There was a matching hood in the bag. She shredded the sheet and the hat, feeding them slowly into the fire.
LillieBeth brought in a saddle, bridle, blanket, and bags. It was Jezebel’s tack. The girl sat the gear on the ground, propping up the saddle on the pommel and horn. That exposed the underside to the warmth of the fire. It was close enough to warm and dry the leather, but not close enough to heat-shrink the treated leather. She pulled down the clothes drying on the stringer, tossing them in a pile on the other sleeping pallet. She hung Jezebel’s saddle blanket where the clothes had been.
Grace dumped out the second saddlebag. She found another sheet and hood. The second set of vile coverings followed the first into the fire. She also found a bottle of red-eye. There was about three quarters of the whiskey still in the bottle. She shrugged and poured a small shot into the tin cup and topped it off with coffee.
She smiled. Now she would be a hypocrite.
Taradittles spoke up. “Sheriff Grissom, how about a bit of that red disturbance for me?”
She found another cup and poured it full for the man. She put the cup in his hand where he could reach it. It took both of his hands to hold the cup steady. The manacles chained to one wrist forced him to lean his head down to the log to drink.
Grace said, “You might as well drink up, because I have no intention of letting you go.”
Taradittles whined, “You promised if I showed you the camp-”
“You shouted a warning at Braunawall and you helped him get away. That makes you guilty of aiding and abetting a felony escape. That should be worth a few years in prison.” The man sputtered in his drink at the information. “I may not have been a sheriff except for a few hours, but I was married to one for years. My Clayton was never shy talking about his work and I read every book and pamphlet on the law in his office.”
LillieBeth set Fletch’s tack on the ground, balancing the saddle on the pommel and horn. She hung the saddle blanket on the stringer. She stood over Taradittles, her slicker dripping water on the man. “Should you give liquor to a man with a head injury?”
Grace said, “I don’t know. It’s his head, not mine.” She was surprised she really did not care. It was not a very Christian attitude. As a Methodist in good standing, she should be speaking to him of the evils of drinking and the goodness of God. She decided she was not in a Christian mood, nor was she feeling particularly Methodist-like. She knew she would soon have to change her thinking to put her mind in harmony with the Bible, but she wanted to wallow in her grief and anger for a little while longer.
Taradittles tried to cover his head with his free arm, ducking away from LillieBeth, but making every effort not to spill his whiskey. “She hit me. Don’t let her hit me again.”
LillieBeth said, “Yes, I hit you. I am truly sorry I hit you. But, I promise you the next time you get me shot at I will not hit you. I will shoot you.”
“Not if I shoot him first,” Grace added.
LillieBeth walked back into the rain without another word.
Grace went back to looking through Braunawall and McDonald’s saddlebags. She found a box of shells. They were .45 caliber shells and fit Clayton’s gun she had taken back from Abe Braunawall in Oasis. She pulled out the Peacemaker, realizing she had never even checked to see if it was loaded. She had been just carrying it around all day as if it was some sort of talisman that would protect her. The gun was loaded. Every chamber had a cartridge in it. She pulled out the sixth bullet and eased the hammer back down on the empty chamber. It was safer to carry a revolver that way, rather than have it completely full. Everyone knew that except those few idiots who did not mind shooting their own foot or shooting something worse depending on the angle of the barrel when they stuck a gun in their waistband.
She looked up at LillieBeth bringing in the last saddle. What had the girl called the cartridges in her revolver? Five beans in the wheel. The phrase sounded so much like something the young woman’s father would say it almost made Grace laugh.
Grace leaned across and poured another long slug of red eye into Taradittles cup. She shoved the cork deep into the neck of the bottle. She leaned across and dropped the bottle into her own saddlebags.
LillieBeth sat on the second sleeping pallet. She rubbed her right shoulder and winced.
Grace said, “Are you hurt?”
LillieBeth shook her head, “No, Mrs. Grissom. The Winchester has a harder recoil kick than Daddy’s old pump action .22. It kind of surprised me a little bit. I will know next time to hold it tighter to my shoulder.”
The young woman grabbed a reasonably dry shirt from the pile Grace had taken off the stringer. Slipping the Winchester rifle free from its saddle ties, she levered the rifle empty. It only ejected two cartridges. She began wiping the gun down. A small bag made an appearance from her saddlebag and she cleaned the lever action gun. She brushed and oiled every nook and cranny, then retrieved a box of cartridges and reloaded ten shells. She double-checked, making sure the chamber was empty and the safety was on. She did not put the rifle back in the saddle straps, but lay it close by her side.
Grace pulled another revolver from Abe Braunawall’s saddlebags. It was empty and there were no cartridges in the bag. “Look what I found in Abe’s possibles bag.”
LillieBeth said, “The Braunawalls must have an attraction to .38 caliber revolvers.” She pulled her revolver from its shoulder holster. “This is the .38 I took from Abe’s cousin Trance.” She started cleaning her revolver. “It would be right to keep that other gun. It belongs to you or Mrs. Washington now. Abe owes you both for… you know.”
Grace did know. Abe was guilty of killing Odie, but she was tracking him down for how he helped Trance and Dangle kill Clayton. She started to wonder if Mercy was right. She was placing a white man’s murder over the lynching of a black man. She stopped her self-doubts. She knew she was placing Clayton over everyone else, black or white was not the issue. It was her husband’s murder that took priority.
She tossed the gun back into Abe’s saddlebags. Maybe she would sell the gun and split the money with Sariah. For now, it was useless without ammunition. She bet herself LillieBeth had a box of cartridges in her bags, but with Clayton’s Peacemaker at hand, she didn’t need another revolver.
Grace started to say something to LillieBeth, but the young woman had finished cleaning her guns and was asleep. She envied youth that allowed her to sleep anywhere. She looked across at Taradittles. The man was slumped down. She did not know whether he had passed out from the liquor, succumbed to a concussion and died, or had just fallen asleep.
She finished her coffee and poured herself another cup, this time without the scamper juice for flavoring. She dumped out a small crate of food. It was a good find since neither she nor LillieBeth planned on a long ride. She put the food into three piles. One pile she put in her saddlebags, one pile she put in LillieBeth’s bags and she set the third pile aside for their breakfast.
She sat, leaned her back against a log, her feet to the fire, and fingered Clayton’s…her Peacemaker. She stared into the dark eastern sky willing the sun to hurry. She was hungry and ready for breakfast. Her Peacemaker was hungry and ready for justice or revenge. The gun did not care what motivated it or who carried it. Her fingers twitched in sympathy with the Peacemaker’s hunger and its eagerness to release a .45 caliber fury.
The longer she sat waiting for the sun, the colder the fire grew and the hotter her anger flared.
TUESDAY - NOON
The sudden blast of a steam whistle startled Jezebel causing the Belgian to shy sideways. Grace grabbed the saddle horn again to keep from being unseated. It was embarrassing to have to grab the saddle horn with a crowd of people watching. It made her look like a greenhorn, but it would be more embarrassing to land on her backsides in the muddy street.
LillieBeth whipped her revolver from the holster; she spun Fletcher in a tight circle. The horse danced with excitement, stepping high, tail fluttering in the misty breeze, his hooves splashing mud and water from the Forsythe street onto the pedestrians standing on the sidewalk.
Taradittles horse just hung its head wearily. The man barely looked up with bleary eyes. Grace had allowed him to finish the bottle of whiskey for breakfast and the ride to Forsythe for him had been a mixture of half-drunken stupor and unpleasant hangover.
“Ease up on that lead pusher, hillbilly,” a man shouted. “Control your horse or I’ll drag you off there and do it for you.”
LillieBeth reined Fletch to a stop within a single step. She faced the man, her revolver still out, but pointed skyward. She stared at the man but did not speak back to him.
Grace could see the look of conflict on the young woman’s face. She had been taught not to sass back an adult. Yet she had reached an age where insults carried an exceptional sting. “Matthew five verse thirty nine says in part, ‘But whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also’.”
LillieBeth spun the wheel on the revolver and eased the hammer onto the empty chamber. She slid the gun smoothly back into its holster. She smiled without politeness, pleasure, amusement, or remorse. “I am sorry to have disturbed your noonday, sir.”
There were quite a few people on the streets. Grace had not expected this many people in town on a Tuesday. Forsythe was much larger than Oasis, but Tuesday was a workday and she wondered why all these people were not at work where they belonged. She looked up and down the street. Their group was not the only one startled by the blaring steam whistle. She guided Jezebel up next to LillieBeth and Fletcher. She spoke quietly. “Clayton and I came down here last year for a little fishing. The dam keepers blast the whistle to warn anyone downstream when they’re going to let water out of the lake.”
“Why would you build a dam to keep water back and then let it go again?” LillieBeth asked.
Grace said, “It’s still raining here and up river. The White River is pushing against its banks and threatening to flood. They can lower the lake level if they let water go here just a little at a time. That’ll let the lake take in more water and keep the flooding f
rom being so bad.”
“It does not seem to help Oasis much. It floods up there every time two rabbits whizz in a stream at the same time.”
Grace laughed, “That’s the truth. But Oasis is too far up river for this dam to do much good. Say, let’s go closer and see if we can watch them let the water out.”
Taradittles moaned, “Closer? That whistle noise was already way too loud from way back here.”
LillieBeth said, “Shut your pie hole.” She looked at Grace. “I think going to see the water would be good if it does nothing else except discomfort our companion.”
Grace nodded and turned Jezebel toward the dam, but pulled up quick. A man stood in the road, blocking their way. He had a badge on his jacket.
The sky took that moment to convert from a mist to a drizzle mixed with a little sprinkle. It was almost as if there was more water in the air than in the nearby lake.
The man glanced skyward and frowned. He shook his head in disgust, scattering rain drops from the wide brim of his hat.
“Ladies, might I have a moment?”
Grace nodded. “Of course, Sheriff.”
The man smiled, “Actually, here in Forsythe we call me the marshal.”
Grace eased the poncho away from her chest. She tapped the badge sitting high on her shoulder. “I’m Grace Grissom, the new sheriff of Oasis over in Stone County.”
The man smiled. “Woman sheriff? I don’t think so, but I’ll check if you don’t mind.”
Grace said, “There’s a phone over at the bank in Oasis. Ask for Mayor Cummings, he owns the bank. This young lady is a volunteer deputy.”
