by Pamela Morsi
"What are you laughing at?" she asked him, scarcely able to talk through her own giggles.
Henry Lee couldn't answer, he just pulled her close. With strength born of sexual desire, Henry Lee raised himself from the floor and pulled his wife up beside him.
"Can I have this dance, Mrs. Watson?"
Hannah's head was spinning from the sudden movement from sitting to standing, but she agreeably assumed her position as he led her in a waltz. Spinning, spinning, spinning, the room seemed to be going too fast for Hannah. The light seemed to be getting blue, a strange dark unfathomable blue.
She slumped against Henry Lee, getting his immediate attention.
"Hannah! Hannah! Are you all right?"
When she didn't answer, Henry Lee pulled her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Laying her out on the bed, he fumbled with the lamp, finally managing to light it.
She lay completely immobile on the bed, slightly flushed, but basically healthy. Henry Lee put his hand on her head to check for fever. She was cool and neither too dry nor clammy.
He sat stunned, staring at her for a moment until a slight sound escaped her. It was a snore, a very ladylike and dignified snore, but a snore nonetheless.
She'd passed out.
He continued sitting there just looking at her, not quite believing what he knew to be the obvious truth.
Finally the humor of the situation got the best of him.
"I must be born under an unlucky star!" he proclaimed raising his hands in a mock entreaty to heaven. "On the floor, on the ground, in alleyways, she's ready. But when I finally get her to a bed, she passes out!"
He finally stood. Laughing and pacing the end of the room, he remained amazed at his bad luck.
"Henry Lee," he told himself, "this marriage business is more trouble than meets the eye!"
After a few moments he was finally able to accept his wife's unintentional rejection. He tenderly undressed her, trying, for his own sake, not to look at her scantily clad body. When he had her down to her chemise, he carefully covered her with the sheet and took a blanket for himself and headed into the sitting room to spend a miserable night on a too short settee.
* * *
Tom Quick was furious. He had orchestrated a huge net to capture an annoying little minnow, and somehow that wily little fish had managed to get away.
The raid on the Ambrosia Ballroom had taken seventeen men to capture forty-six local citizens. Of those arrested, the only charges that could be filed were three counts of "public drunk" and eleven of "consumption of intoxicating beverages." The three drunks were sleeping it off in the jail and the eleven others had paid their fines and gone home embarrassed and angry with the marshall's department. Threats from those arrested but not charged continued to pour in. They had managed to haul in several important local businessmen whose wives were not aware that they patronized Mrs. Byron's establishment, one off-duty deputy marshall, and the legal counsel for the territorial governor.
But they hadn't been able to nail one no-account whiskey peddler.
The talk would start all over again. Marshall Quick is not too quick anymore, they would begin to joke. The retirement talk would begin soon. Suggestions that a new leader, a younger man, might be better suited to the job. The citizens would say that the territory no longer needed desperado hunters, but a civilized police force that concerned itself with the rights and property of the citizens of the territory.
Tom Quick had heard it all before. He had fought it all before. And when he'd finally beaten it, he'd sworn to himself that he would never let himself in for that kind of criticism again. But now he had. Henry Lee Watson had made a fool out of Tom Quick, and he was going to be right sorry, before it was over.
A light rap on the side entrance got Marshall Quick's attention.
"Come in!"
Neemie Pathkiller slogged through the door looking like he'd been ridden hard and put up wet. He had taken his eyes off Watson during the raid and had lost him in the chaos. It had taken over three hours to figure out where he'd got off to.
"They left over the roof," he told the marshall. "He was the one that went up through Mrs. Byron's apartment. He removed a board from her balcony overhang and they climbed up onto the roof and made their getaway by the rooftops."
The marshall just stared at Pathkiller, boiling with anger.
"You keep saying they, are you sure he took the woman with him?"
"Seems likely since we couldn't find her. Also, I leaned on the Indian selling the whiskey. He spoke to the woman and she claimed to be Watson's wife, for whatever that is worth."
"His wife." The marshall considered this new development. "Wonder what kind of woman would marry herself up to a whiskey peddler."
"Slutty little saloon girl, no doubt," Pathkiller offered.
"Did she seem that way to you?"
"No, not at all," he admitted. "I would have guessed her to be the prayer meeting type. But it could be that she's a good actress. She was drinking whiskey like it was water and those Sunday School girls sure aren't known to be partial to it."
"It's certainly worth looking into," the marshall decided. "But right now we've got us a whiskey peddler to find."
"The trail is plumb cold, Marshall. I could never follow him now."
The marshall shook his head in exasperation. "Use your brain, Pathkiller. It's the middle of the night. What would a man with money in his pocket and a pretty woman on his arm be looking for?"
Pathkiller considered for a minute, then a thin smile broke out on his face. "He'd be looking for a bed," he answered the marshall, who smiled back and nodded in agreement.
* * *
Fortunately for Henry Lee, Neemie Pathkiller judged all men using himself as a yardstick. When he went looking for a bed, he generally looked for the cheapest in town. Assuming that Henry Lee would also, Pathkiller began a systematic search of the cribs and flophouses. It took time, since most of the proprietors of these establishments were not particularly willing to get up in the middle of the night to discuss who might or might not be sleeping upstairs.
Pathkiller was sure that Watson would not use his own name, so he merely gave a description of the couple. This led to two false leads, where Neemie broke into rooms to find that the "good-looking part-breed and the big blonde" were not the Watsons.
It was midmorning before Neemie worked his way up to the Williams Hotel. The desk clerk was jabbering on the telephone contraption and Neemie had to cool his heels a good five minutes before the man deigned to speak to him.
Pathkiller didn't hold out much more hope. If he'd been Watson, he would have split town at first light. He'd had someone check all the westbound trains, but Watson hadn't left on any of them. It was as if the man had been swallowed up into thin air.
He was not, however, going to stop looking until he had covered every possibility. It was a matter of pride with him now. He had taken his eye off his target and had missed. He would be careful not to make another mistake.
"May I help you, sir?"
"I'm looking for some people. A married couple, should have come in town yesterday or the day before. The man's tall, well-favored, dark, part Cherokee from his looks, and the woman's kinda blonde, kinda brown hair, a big woman but shapely." Pathkiller used his hands to describe the woman's shape.
The desk clerk recognized them immediately.
"Oh, you must mean the Watsons!"
Pathkiller was stunned. "You mean they are here!"
"Well, they aren't here right now. I think I saw them head out a couple of hours ago, but yes, they are still staying here." He quickly checked the register. "Yes, they have their room reserved for one more night."
* * *
At 10:30 a.m. Marshall Tom Quick paid a visit to Hattie Byron. Ostensibly, he went to apologize for the trouble and inconvenience the raid had caused her. Actually he was there for information. He'd always believed himself to be very persuasive with the ladies, so with his shoulders dust
ed and his hair slicked down, he went to find out what the proprietress of the Ambrosia Ballroom knew about Henry Lee Watson.
Hattie Byron was not in the best of moods. And seeing Tom Quick was just what she needed to set her off.
"Good morning, Marshall." Her voice reeked with sarcasm. "I certainly hope that it is a good morning for you, because it has been one of the most terrible that I have ever spent in my life!"
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Byron."
"You are sorry to hear it? Why, you should already know it, Marshall. After all it is your fault, isn't it?"
The marshall cringed slightly. She was some fiery woman, he thought. He secretly wondered if she was as excitable in the bedroom as she seemed to be in the parlor.
"That is exactly why I came over this morning, ma'am. To apologize for the terrible ordeal you suffered through last night. I can imagine that you are devastated to think that criminal activities were taking place in your own establishment, against your knowledge."
The marshall was no fool. She made money on whatever whiskey was sold last night, but there would never be any way to prove it and she could be of more help working with him instead of against him.
Hattie wasn't about to accept his apology, even if he was offering her a deal.
"You have no idea what I went through, Marshall Quick. First, my business is nearly destroyed. Many of the draperies are beyond repair. Then I am dragged to jail, actually to jail! Where I am forced to sit for hours, until I am finally allowed to come home. I find that my apartment had been broken into in my absence. Now tell me, Marshall, why weren't you busy arresting the person who broke into my house instead of persecuting an honest, hardworking widow woman?"
Her flashing eyes and dramatic gestures intrigued the marshall and all during her tirade he found his gaze drifting to her ample breasts, so decently covered with black brocade.
"Was anything missing in your apartment?" the marshall asked hopefully.
"Not that I've noticed, everything was pretty much in place. But the lock on the door was destroyed and must be replaced."
Tom Quick was grateful she was angry at the intruder. He was more than willing to use it to help his cause.
"Actually, Mrs. Byron, I am looking for the man who broke into your apartment."
He had her attention now. As if suddenly remembering her manners she said, "Marshall, please take a seat. Let me get you some coffee." She brought him a cup and a plate of cookies.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, mimicking a courtly bow.
"I just hate the idea of strangers being in my quarters," she told him. "I want to know who they were and why they broke in."
"The man we sought in last night's raid is a moonshiner and whiskey peddler from out near the border, by the name of Henry Lee Watson. Ever heard of him?"
Mrs. Byron was as good a poker player as she was a businesswoman. "No, Marshall, I can't say as I have ever heard that name before."
Quick knew that she was lying, a secret shared with this woman would be a secret forever. He wondered if she had a man sharing her secrets. If not, he fully intended to be that man shortly.
"Watson was the only person we were looking for last night," he said. "Seems he's trying to move some of his whiskey business down this way and we want to nip that in the bud."
Mrs. Byron nodded and offered Marshall Quick another cookie. She was aware of the marshall's speculative interest in her, but business was business. A woman didn't get ahead in this world by thinking between her legs instead of between her ears.
"Watson managed to get away from us last night by breaking into your apartment and getting onto the roof from your balcony."
"That's impossible!"
"Come let me show you."
The two made their way to the porch where Marshall Quick located the loose board.
"They climbed up on something, got on the roof and headed on down the street."
"The chair." Mrs. Byron snapped her fingers. "There was a kitchen chair sitting right out here next to the wall and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why."
"Well, that's why, Mrs. Byron. Your burglar is that whiskey peddler and we intend to get him."
Hattie Byron considered that for a moment. The marshall seemed very determined and if he caught Watson, there was always the possibility that he might implicate her. It was best to cover yourself first and worry about the next guy when you have the luxury to do so.
"What did you say this man's name was again?"
"Henry Lee Watson."
"I believe I have heard of him, Marshall. A handsome, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties?"
"Yes, that's him."
"I did see him here last night," Hattie admitted. "He was with his new wife. I understood this was their honeymoon trip."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, just a few weeks ago he married a preacher's daughter from over in the Oklahoma Territory."
"A preacher's daughter!"
"Yes." Hattie moved closer as if she couldn't bear to speak such gossip above a whisper. "They say her father caught them fair and square and that there was nothing left for the man to do but marry up in a hurry."
The marshall was really getting somewhere now. If he could keep this woman talking, maybe he could find out a way to get Watson.
"Perhaps we might sit in the parlor and discuss it," he suggested.
"Certainly," she said, turning to make her way back through the house. Hattie could feel the marshall's eyes on her and she turned to catch him watching her behind with appreciation.
Mrs. Byron had heard it said that Marshall Quick was randy as a goat, but very discreet. This could turn out to be more pleasure than business.
* * *
CHAPTER 16
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The early train from Muskogee to Sallisaw was not crowded, but it made frequent stops to deliver mail and pick up milk and eggs from local farmers.
Henry Lee and Hannah sat together, not touching, both lost in the sober recollections of the night before. For all the laughing that was done the previous night, the situation wasn't nearly so funny this morning.
Her head splitting and her eyes blurry, Hannah felt worse than she'd ever imagined possible. Her stomach had been squeamish the night before; after an abrupt emptying of its contents this morning, she felt hollow and achy.
When Henry Lee had awakened her this morning, she'd felt as if her eyelids were nailed shut. She had vivid recollections of the previous evening and she was shocked at her own behavior. Who would have thought that such a small amount of that clear, innocuous-looking liquid could make one act so strange, or feel so bad the next day?
Her behavior, both in public and later in that darkened alley, was personally embarrassing and morally inept. She was the churchgoer, she should be setting an example for her husband. Instead, she proved to be no match for the temptations of the flesh, dancing and drinking. She had wanted to prove herself as sophisticated as a woman he might have chosen on his own. How could she forget that her best features were her strong back and God-fearing heart? She had ignored every lesson her father had ever taught her, defiling her body with demon liquor and degrading herself by her wanton behavior.
Humiliated and ashamed, she decided that a good lesson had been learned. Never again would she compromise with the ways of the flesh. She would remain stalwart and controlled. Now that she was personally versed in the evils of corn liquor, she would use that knowledge to work for temperance in the territory.
Henry Lee was feeling as much regret as Hannah. After the ironic hilarity of the night had passed, he had been chillingly aware that he had placed his wife in danger.
The thought that she might have been taken into custody brought on a cold sweat. A woman like Hannah should never see the inside of a jail. And what would she have said going up before the judge? She knew nothing of the whiskey business, she would be totally innocent. And because of her ignorance, totally humiliated. He shuddered at the thought.
He turned to look at her sitting so stiffly beside him. He had vowed to love and protect her, no matter that it wasn't his idea. No one could have made him marry her if he hadn't been willing. He had wanted to have a decent woman for a wife, but he had proved unworthy of the gift.
Hannah looked pale, drawn, and weary. A wave of unexpected tenderness washed through him. He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her to him.
"Just rest here against me," he said as she started to pull away. "You look so tired, you need a little nap to begin the day."
"I am so ashamed of the way I acted," she confessed. "I wanted to impress you with how sophisticated and citified I could be."
She hid her face in the front of his shirt, not able to face him squarely and riddled with guilt. Confession was good for the soul, it was said. She intended to be honest about her behavior.
"Mr. Harjo told me that other ladies that you escorted in the past drank intoxicating beverages, and I wanted to prove to you that I was not a bit less worldly than they."
Hannah couldn't see Henry Lee's smile. He was surprised that she chose to apologize. He had expected her first concern to be his part in the liquor raid. But it pleased him that she was willing to go against her own upbringing to try to get his attention.
"Hannah," he whispered gently. "I haven't a thought for any of my former companions. None of them could hold a candle to you, of that I'm sure." He squeezed her shoulder lightly hoping to reassure as well as comfort her.
