Wild Dream

by Duncan, Alice

She beamed at him and Charley felt a speck of irritation rub up against the ache in his conscience. Shoot, he’d only offered to fetch her aunt. And he planned to steal her rubies, to boot.

  By the time he’d managed to locate Ivy and get his message across, though, he wasn’t so sure he didn’t deserve Addie’s gratitude after all. He was absolutely exhausted when he finally got back out to the yard. He found Lester walking Prunella up and down complacently. Good old Lester. He’d wait until hell froze over if somebody told him to.

  “A spool of thread this color’s all they need, Lester.” Charley handed him a snippet of cornflower-blue calico. Lester took it, looked at it for a moment as if memorizing it, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

  “Now you remember what you’re supposed to do, Lester?”

  Lester nodded. “She saved our bacon, Charley. She purely did.” He spoke with the reverence one might use when speaking of one’s revered grandmother or a saint.

  “She did that, all right.”

  By two o’clock in the afternoon, five former members of the America City, Georgia, Brass Band were straggling down the beaten path toward the Blewitt farm. Addie was on hand to greet them with cider and gingerbread. Charley had told her such largesse was unnecessary, but she disagreed.

  “I insist, Charley. After all, you’re musicians.”

  When he looked at her as though she were crazy, Addie realized Charley had no idea how dull life could be in Rothwell, New Mexico Territory.

  As for herself, she was in raptures. Imagine: A real, honest-to-goodness professional brass band had come to her home. To rehearse! Her heart beat a thrilling rhythm in her breast in anticipation.

  “You know, Charley,” she blurted in her excitement, “if your band should ever get tired of being wandering minstrels, it would be ever so nice if you could think of settling in Rothwell.”

  Immediately, she became embarrassed. As if these splendid musicians would ever even dream of staying in such an out-of-the-way place. Why, they deserved a much better audience than Rothwell could provide.

  It was a daunting thought in more ways than one. Unless Charley settled in Rothwell, how could he rescue her from her humdrum life? The farmhouse was liable to collapse around them if somebody didn’t see to it soon, for heaven’s sake. And she sure didn’t expect another knight to ride into her life any time soon.

  “Are there any carpentry jobs available in Rothwell?”

  Charley’s prosaic question interrupted the train of Addie’s tumbling thoughts and she had to think for a minute before she could fit it logically into them.

  “Oh. I’m not altogether sure.”

  “How about a jeweler’s shop? Any jewelers in Rothwell?”

  Addie knew Charley was using these gentle questions to point out the idiocy in her suggestion, and she was very embarrassed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  Addie didn’t know what Charley’s “Hmmmm” meant, but it didn’t make her feel any less foolish. She said, “I reckon it was a stupid idea, Charley.” The scraggly band of musicians had begun to steer their mounts into the yard now, though, and Addie decided to put embarrassment aside. “Here they come.”

  She clasped her hands together, ecstatic at the thought of her home being used for the band’s very first rehearsal in the Rothwell area. Almost immediately she began spinning daydreams about her Charley as leader of the Rothwell Brass Band. She wanted to put an “Imperial” in the name between Rothwell and Brass, but couldn’t quite see how it would work out. Maybe “Civic” would do.

  Charley jolted her out of her reverie when he bounded down the porch steps and hurried over to hail his pals.

  “Come on in, boys.” He made an effort to keep his tone jovial but business-like, as though he were actually a band director—as he used to be—greeting his musicians—as they used to be. “Miss Blewitt says you can lead your horses out back and let them graze in the meadow while we rehearse.”

  The meadow to which Charley referred was a forlorn patch of desert dotted with a couple of sprawling creosote bushes, some prickly pears, and a patch or two of wild mustard. Fortunately, the Blewitt Apple orchard abutted the fenced area, so the horses could have some shade. Queen Elizabeth, the Blewitt cow, chewed her cud placidly beside the wooden fence and seemed to smile at the musicians and their mounts. According to Addie, she’d always been a friendly cow.

  Harlan Lewis, the E-flat bass horn player, said, “‘Lo, Charley. Lester says you got shot all up. Didn’t reckon a lady could shoot that good.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Harlan, shut up.” Charley flapped his hand in a shushing gesture and peered over his shoulder at Addie. It didn’t look like she’d heard Harlan’s indiscreet observation.

  Charley’s command was an easy one for Harlan to follow since he was of a phlegmatic disposition anyway. He only shrugged and led his horse where Charley indicated.

  “The Blewitt ladies have given us the use of the barn for however long we need, boys. We won’t lose any rehearsal time at all.”

  He was afraid the laugh he gave after his announcement sounded a little too jolly for credibility, but another glance at Addie disabused him of the notion. Her worshipful gaze was firmly in place as she watched him herd his group of well-worn musicians together.

  “Did you get the thread, Lester?” Charley hoped Lester hadn’t forgotten, as his goal was to keep the Blewitt ladies happy for as long as it took to secure the rubies.

  When Lester pulled from a lumpy pocket not merely one spool of blue thread, but a spool each of white, black, red, green, and yellow, said, “She saved our bacon, Charley. Damned if she didn’t,” Charley guessed he needn’t worry about Lester foiling his plan.

  The barn was actually an ideal rehearsal hall. The Blewitts were apparently not bruising riders. The only horse they owned was in use at the moment, having been confiscated by their hired man to pull some old stumps out of a distant field. The Blewitt mule, Duke of Essex, munched his hay placidly and eyed the gentlemen as though he didn’t know who they were and, what’s more, didn’t care. Charley had set out hay bales in a little semicircle for the men to sit on, and he’d put his in front of him, just as the director of a band might. Looking at the set-up reminded him of the bandstand back home and he grew nostalgic for a second or two.

  “Lordy, it’s been a long time,” Peachy Gilbert observed. Peachy played the tenor horn and had a turn for the sentimental. More than once Peachy had been observed with tears dripping from his chin during “When This Cruel War is Over,” but nobody ever alluded to it so as not to embarrass him.

  Harlan Lewis looked around the barn as though he were searching for spies. He’d apparently taken Charley’s admonition to be quiet to heart because he whispered, “Ain’t it, though? It’ll feel good to blow my horn again, I’ll tell you.”

  In fact, the men were so excited to be playing together again that it was some time before Charley could capture their full attention. Then it seemed to take forever before they were able to carry on an unobserved conversation.

  First Addie entered with the cider and gingerbread. Then Ivy came in. She made eyes at Lester, much to everybody’s merriment, and thanked him for the abundance of thread. Lester returned her flirtation with a solemn mien. After Ivy left the barn, he turned a furious brick red.

  As soon as he could, Charley shut the barn door. Then he pulled his hay bale up and leaned forward. “All right, men, gather ‘round close. I don’t want to have to holler.”

  Obediently, the men scrunched nearer to Charley.

  # # #

  Sheriff Fermin Small hated it when Addie Blewitt made him feel like a fool. And she did it. Every time he saw her. She thought he was incompetent; Fermin knew it.

  “But she ain’t gonna get away with it this time,” he muttered under his breath as he slithered up to the window of the barn. “I know them fellers is crooks, and I’m gonna get ‘em.”

  Fermin could use a feather in his cap. It seemed
as though every time he turned around lately things went wrong. His mustache drooped with his frown as he shuffled through a list of recent disasters.

  It weren’t my fault them hogs got stole, he thought bitterly. And it weren’t my fault Billy Pike got kilt by them bandits. And it ain’t my fault I couldn’t find ‘em, neither. Nor it weren’t my fault when them Apaches et old man Goodloe’s stud bull. Hell folks just know how rugged it is to be sheriff in these parts.

  Well, he was through with all that. He’d lurked in wait for this moment, hiding in a clump of creosote behind a boulder, until he saw the band of so-called musicians rambling up the road. He was ready for ‘em now.

  Using all the cunning he possessed, Fermin peeked in at the barn window and strained his ears to hear what was going on. He couldn’t, so he squinted his eyes up, scrunched up closer, and tried harder.

  # # #

  Charley didn’t notice anything amiss when he leaned over to talk to his band. “All right, boys, we’ve got something to discuss here and I want you to listen hard. You know I want this to be a democratic band, so I want every man’s opinion.

  From the beginning, when the six men set out to make their way in the wild West, Charley had insisted on operating the band as a democracy. Of necessity, they’d ultimately set themselves upon a path of theft and illicit activities, but he remained unswayed from his initial resolve. Of course, it helped that the other five members of the band were happy as clams to let him make all the decisions.

  “Right, Charley.” The agreeable Peachy Gilbert squinted up his eyes and doubled over, his usual posture when concentrating on something.

  “I was talking to Miss Blewitt last night while she doctored my arm, boys, and she told me something very interesting.” Charley winked to let them know he wasn’t fibbing. He opened his mouth to tell them about the rubies when Lester kicked him. Charley looked at Lester and frowned.

  Lester found speech difficult most of the time. When, as now, he had to convey an important piece of information quickly, he found it nearly impossible. He kicked Charley again, tilted his head slightly toward the window, and grimaced horribly.

  Understanding dawned quickly since Charley had known Lester for a long time. He shot Harlan Lewis a meaningful look. Harlan peeked slanty-eyed at the window, being careful not to turn his head. Then he made a show of yawning and covering his mouth politely.

  “It’s a sandy-headed feller what looks like a beagle, Charley,” he reported from behind his hand.

  Charley rolled his eyes. His glance got stuck on the ceiling for a minute when he noticed several arrows poking out of it. They weren’t ordinary arrows, but had gay ribbons attached to them. The ribbons fluttered in the warm spring breeze wafting in through the window. Addie, he thought, although he had no idea why. Determining he’d ask her about them later, he lowered his whisper.

  “That’s the sheriff, boys. He doesn’t believe we’re really a band. Thinks we’re criminals who tried to rob that mercantile in Arleta.”

  George Alden scratched his head as though he were trying to find fault with the sheriff’s reasoning. He apparently failed because he murmured, “He’s right.”

  “I know he’s right, George,” Charley hissed, annoyed. “But we don’t want him to know that.”

  The fire of understanding lit in George’s brain and his mouth fell open into a big round “O.”

  “Look natural,” Charley commanded.

  George’s mouth snapped shut.

  Then Charley sat back, picked up his cornet and held it out in front of him as though playing the cornet were the only reason for his being in the barn. He gave his band a broad smile.

  “All right, boys, now that the business session’s over, let’s take a swipe at ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’ to warm up.”

  Harlan and Peachy were first to understand Charley’s intention. They raised their horns to their lips.

  It wasn’t the first time the uncharitable wish that he were traveling in brainier company crossed Charley’s mind. He shook his head and glared at the rest of the men. One by one they caught on and lifted their instruments.

  “Ready?”

  As one, the men nodded.

  “All right, then. And, four, three, two, one—”

  Fermin Small scowled as the first rousing notes of the old Irish folk tune which had become a rallying song for the failed Confederacy sailed through the air. “Dad blast it.” Then, with a bitter smile, he said, “Well, they ain’t gonna fool me. I’ll just wait here.” And he sat himself down under the window.

  From “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” the band went through “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and “Dixie’s Land.” After that they charged through a Stephen Foster medley.

  While the band warbled through the last stirring strains of “The Old Folks at Home,” Charley crept to the window and looked out. He saw nothing. Then, craning his neck and looking down, he beheld the grizzled head of Fermin Small. Gentle snores drifted up and caressed Charley’s ears.

  A satisfied smile curved his lips. Deciding they’d better give old Fermin a lullaby or two to keep him sleeping, he had the band play “When This Cruel War is Over” and “Long, Long Ago.” Peachy Gilbert wept.

  With another quick peek to make sure the sheriff was still in the arms of Morpheus, Charley quietly shut the window and returned to his group.

  “Now, boys, listen up. I have to make this quick.”

  He waited until they’d all nodded to make sure they were paying attention.

  “The Blewitts have some old family jewels; a bunch of rubies. Lester’s seen ‘em and they’re worth a bundle. Right, Lester?”

  Lester gave Charley his stare of agreement. The other men nodded again.

  “If we could get our hands on those rubies, we’d be fixed for a long time. Maybe even long enough to get us somewhere—maybe Albuquerque—and keep us in chow until we can find real jobs.”

  A chorus of murmuring approval greeted his suggestion. To a man, they hated having had to turn to crime. When they’d done it in the first place, they’d been desperate and planned only to rob Yankees. But out West, Yankees weren’t as easy to spot as they were back home. In order to keep food in their bellies, they’d had to broaden their scope. Even that hadn’t worked. They hadn’t perpetrated a successful crime yet.

  There wasn’t a one of them who didn’t feel guilty about their new profession, though. Charley figured if they ever came across an unattended pile of gold the men might not mind taking it, as long as nobody ever found out about it. But they absolutely hated robbing people who might suffer for it or take exception and shoot at them. He didn’t blame them.

  “Charley,” Harlan said suddenly. “Did you know the only bank in a couple hunnert mile is in Rothwell?”

  “What?” Engrossed in the excitement of his rubies, Charley didn’t fathom Harlan’s point.

  “The only bank in two hunnert mile is in Rothwell,” Harlan repeated patiently.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Charley said uncertainly, “That’s good, Harlan. That’s just fine.”

  “Ranchers all use it,” added Harlan.

  Charley waited, wondering if Harlan planned to add anything more to his thrilling report on the wonders of Rothwell. When it looked as though he’d said his piece, Charley began again.

  “What I’m going to do is—”

  “Cattle drive’s next month,” Harlan broke in as though Charley hadn’t spoken.

  Everybody looked at Harlan. He licked his lips nervously; Harlan wasn’t much of a one for the limelight.

  “Well,” he continued, staring at the straw at his feet, “thought you might like to know.”

  Now, while it was true Harlan wasn’t much of a one for talking, it was also true he generally had a purpose when he did speak. Charley began to perceive he had one now, too. “Why’d you think that, Harlan?”

  “Gonna deposit all their money in the bank come next month is all,” Harlan finished with an embarrassed shrug.

  �
��Good Lord.” Charley sat up abruptly. “Good Lord. Rubies and a bank.”

  The rest of his men stared at him as if they were looking upon God. Charley was used to it.

  Suddenly all six men were startled into a unified jerk of pain when Ivy Blewitt’s screechy voice pierced the walls of the barn and their eardrums.

  “What are you doing sleeping under the window of the barn, Fermin Small? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  Quickly, Charley whispered, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow boys. Same time. Come here. We’ll call it another rehearsal.”

  “Felt good to blow my horn again,” murmured Harlan.

  “We done all right with Dixie, but we need work on Bonnie,” George observed.

  “Lotta work,” agreed Harlan.

  “We’re damned good on War, though,” said Peachy, looking a little misty.

  “I think we oughta practice William Tell tomorrow, Charley. We ain’t done that in a gazillion years.” Francis Whatley was wrapping his alto horn lovingly in the chamois which had accompanied him from America City, into the war, through far too many battles, into a prison camp, and out West. It, like Francis, was well-traveled and looked it.

  As he strode over to the window, Charley said, “We’ll do some more tomorrow.” He opened the window, leaned out, and smiled at Ivy Blewitt and Fermin Small. The sheriff’s nose had gotten sunburned during his nap, Charley noticed. Good. Charley hoped it hurt.

  “Afternoon, Miss Blewitt. Afternoon, Sheriff. What’re you doing here? Listening to us practice?”

  “He’s been spying on you, is what he’s been doing,” Ivy announced acidly. “What’s the matter, Fermin? Life too slow in Rothwell? Got no crooks there to chase? Got to manufacture yourself some?”

  “Durn it, Ivy,” grumbled the sheriff. “I was just tryin’ to do my job.”

  “By sleeping under my barn window?” Ivy looked the sheriff up and down scornfully. She turned scorn into a high art, Charley decided with a grin. “Small wonder decent folks have such a hard time of it around here, if the law sleeps all day whilst listening to music, Fermin Small.”

  Without dignifying Ivy’s comment with an answer, Fermin crammed his hat onto his grizzled red head and stomped off.