Pecos Valley Diamond

by Alice Duncan

  Suddenly the sound of scuffles and grunts came to us from outside the cave. Mrs. Copeland gave a gigantic start, but apparently didn’t dare aim the shotgun away from us. I held my breath for fear her finger would tighten on the trigger due to her state of alarm.

  “Judith!” she cried over her shoulder. “Judith! What’s going on out there?”

  No answer came to her, although the scuffling stopped. Mrs. Copeland’s hand was remarkably steady after her initial jump. She was one cool customer. Again she sneered at us. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s probably only that old horse of yours objecting to having to move.”

  “What are you going to do with Bartholomew?” It was the first question Phil had asked the woman. I gave him a small frown, thinking he might at least have asked about us first.

  “Not a thing. We’ll let him and that sorry donkey go. They’ll probably find their ways home.”

  They probably would. Because I considered it pertinent, I said, “What are you going to do with Phil and me?”

  “Ah.” She drew out the syllable in a manner that conveyed satisfaction. “The two of you are going to suffer an unfortunate and fatal accident after foolishly going into a cave to explore.” Her expression hardened. “That will teach you to stick your nose into business that doesn’t concern you.”

  “Doesn’t concern me?” I cried indignantly. “I found the darned body!”

  “Annabelle.” Phil again, and rather urgently.

  “I still say that body was a mistake,” muttered Mrs. Copeland.

  I could tell she was getting nervous. She kept shooting glances over her shoulder, but the wretched woman still didn’t lower her guard.

  “Judith!” she called out again. “Will you tell me what’s taking so long?” She scowled at Phil and me. “Damn the woman.”

  Now that shocked me. In those days, one didn’t expect to hear words like damn coming from the lips of respectable females. Or, I guess I should say, from the lips of females who are presumed to be respectable. Obviously, we’d all been fooled by Mrs. Copeland.

  “Maybe you ought to check on her,” I suggested without any real hope.

  I was right. “Don’t be an ass, Annabelle Blue. You’re not going to get out of this one.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  And yet, at that very moment, a new voice, gravelly and low, spoke from around the corner of the cave opening. “Put the gun down,” it said. “Or I’ll shoot.”

  Phil and I looked at other in astonishment.

  Mrs. Copeland whirled around and let off a shot that hit the wall and created a shower of chunks that spewed into the cave. It also darned near deafened both of us. Deaf or not, we took advantage of her moment of distraction.

  Having gone to all the football games Rosedale High played against teams in Carlsbad and Artesia, I knew all about tackling people. Therefore, I tackled her, grabbing her legs and plowing into her from behind and sending her sprawling. I fell on top of her, and we hit the ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of both of us.

  Phil snatched the shotgun as it went slithering across the floor of the cave.

  Mrs. Copeland gave a howl that was probably a mingling of rage and pain, since she was on the bottom of our two-person heap, and started fighting like a maddened cat with a dog hanging onto its tail. She’d managed to grab my hair and rip out several strands, which hurt like anything, when the gravelly voice stopped us all cold where we were.

  “That’s enough of that,” said the voice. “Get up, Miss Blue, and back off. You there.” He spoke to Mrs. Copeland. “Stop your strugglin’.”

  I crawled backward on my hands and knees. Mrs. Copeland quit squirming. I stared, astounded, at Mr. Olin Burgess, his hideous face and form backlit by the afternoon sun streaming into the cave opening. His shotgun was pointed straight at Mrs. Copeland’s head, which was bare since her hat had fallen off.

  “M-Mr. Burgess.” I can’t say that I was especially reassured by his presence. True, he’d saved Phil and me from the murderess sisters, Copeland and Longstreet, but since I’d pegged him as a murderer, too, his intervention might prove to be a mixed blessing.

  “Mr. Burgess!” Phil plainly had no such qualms. “You saved our skins!”

  “Huh.”

  “Want me to tie this lady up?” Phil offered.

  I was still hanging back a little due to the aforementioned qualms about the overall white-knightliness of Mr. Burgess.

  “Good idea, sonny. I got more rope in my wagon outside.”

  “Great. I’ll go get it.” Phil had begun striding toward the mouth of the cave, but stopped after a step or two. “Say, did you tie up the other lady?”

  “Yup.” A man of few words, Mr. Burgess.

  Phil’s grin was as wide as the cave’s mouth. “Good for you!”

  Turning his attention to me, Mr. Burgess said, “Told you t’wasn’t safe for you to come out here, gal. Shoulda listened to me.”

  Since he still held his gun pointed at Mrs. Copeland, I didn’t scream or anything. “Yeah, I guess you were right.” Because I appreciated him, at least conditionally, I added, “Thanks a lot, Mr. Burgess.”

  He said, “Huh.”

  I remembered something. “Mrs. Longstreet said something about organizing some men.”

  “They’s all gone. Run ‘em off.”

  Boy, Mr. Burgess was one enterprising individual. I actually admired him.

  Phil trotted back with a coil of rope. “You did a good job of hog-tying Mrs. Longstreet, Mr. Burgess. Never saw a better job.” He chuckled merrily.

  I was beginning to believe that Mr. Burgess actually was the hero of this particular episode in my life, so I dared move toward Phil. “I can help you, if you want.”

  “Sure, Annabelle. Hold her wrists.”

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” said Mrs. Copeland, who had been glowering at all of us indiscriminately. “I will allow you to bind my hands, young man, but you’d better not do anything else to me.”

  “You’re a fine one to be giving people orders!” I told her wrathfully. “You and your murdering sister ought to be horsewhipped.”

  “It’s all right, Annabelle,” Phil said, aiming for a soothing tone of voice. “Worse than that’s going to happen to these two, once we get ‘em to town.”

  Mrs. Copeland’s scowl deepened. I didn’t feel sorry for her in the least. And I also held her wrists together, despite her loud and profane protests, while Phil tied the rope. So there.

  Phil had been right about Mr. Burgess’s skill with a rope. Mrs. Longstreet was lying in the bed of Mr. Burgess’s old, dilapidated wagon, trussed up like a Christmas goose and with a gag in her mouth. I was glad for the gag, because I had a feeling she and her sister would otherwise have harangued us all the way to town. As it was, Mrs. Copeland remained ungagged, but it didn’t matter, because she didn’t have anybody to talk to except us, and we didn’t give a care. She must have known it, because she was silent, probably because of the following condition, which was placed upon her by Phil:

  “So long as you don’t say anything Miss Annabelle would object to, we won’t gag you.” He winked at me.

  Mrs. Copeland glowered, but she didn’t open her mouth.

  I thought he was a peach. And so was Mr. Burgess, although he was a kind of damaged one. And then there was the problem of “Little Girl,” whose grave still sat out there behind his house.

  Phil drove Mr. Burgess’s wagon to the sheriff’s station, which was a trifle east of town. It was a long ride, and the two woman bumped along in the back of the wagon, while the three of us sat on the wagon bench. Mr. Burgess held his shotgun aimed at the criminous duo the whole way.

  Once, worried lest his poor injured arms ache with the strain, I asked him if he’d like me to take over villainess-covering duty, but he shook his head. Guess he didn’t trust me or something.

  When we pulled the wagon up in front of the sheriff’s office, Phil said, “Do you want to go in with us, Mr. Burg
ess?”

  After a significant pause, he croaked, “Reckon I have to.” He pulled his hat down to shade his face, and I felt sorry for him.

  Phil and I helped Mrs. Longstreet and Mrs. Copeland climb down from the wagon bed. I guess the jolting journey had been difficult for them, because they didn’t argue with us or try to fight us. They were probably all over bruises, since the wagon bed wasn’t padded, and they hadn’t had the use of their hands or feet to brace themselves. I still didn’t feel sorry for either of them.

  We shoved the two women ahead of us into the sheriff’s office. I was kind of sorry there was nobody out walking around, since it wasn’t every day I assisted in the capture of a couple of hardened criminals, but it was probably better this way.

  Sheriff Greene was astounded when we told him why we were there. In fact, his mouth fell open and stayed that way during the whole of the explanation, delivered by Phil and me. We took turns. I made sure to give Mr. Burgess most of the credit for everything having turned out all right. By that time, I’d decided he really was a hero, and that if it hadn’t been for his intervention, Phil and I would probably be buried under tons of caved-in cave by that time.

  I ended my narrative with, “And Mrs. Copeland confessed to murdering her husband.”

  “Nonsense!” she cried.

  “I heard you say so,” Phil told her.

  “Me, too,” said Mr. Burgess.

  “Her shotgun’s in the wagon. Can’t you compare shells or something?” I asked Sheriff Greene. I’d read in the newspaper about tremendous advances in stuff like that in recent years.

  “Yeah,” said the sheriff.

  He’d finally shut his mouth, but now he’d commenced shaking his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe that the two women could actually perpetrate not merely murder, but a bootleg operation as well. In fact, to judge by the nature of his questions after Phil and I finished talking, he seemed to doubt the bootlegging aspect more than the murdering one. I guess when you’re a sheriff you expect certain things, and a female or two in charge of business isn’t as common as a wife shooting her husband. As Mr. O’Dell said, It’s a sad world.

  We left the two women locked up in the holding area behind the sheriff’s office. They had to share a cell since in the ordinary course of things, the sheriff didn’t have any need for more than one. Sheriff Greene, a kindhearted man, took the gag out of Mrs. Longstreet’s mouth. Phil and I heard the two women arguing as we headed out the door.

  “It was stupid to shoot your husband.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Judith. You ought to have shot Elbert, too.”

  We didn’t stick around to hear any more.

  Because I was sorry for having suspected Mr. Burgess of evil deeds, I asked politely, “Do you mind if I stop at the store and tell my mother what happened before we go back to Minnie’s place, Mr. Burgess?”

  “Naw. Go on.”

  “Won’t you come in with us?” Me. Still polite.

  He shook his head. “Reckon I’ll wait out back.”

  My heart squished. He didn’t want to be seen by any more people than he could help. Poor man.

  I gave Ma the bare facts, which Phil corroborated. Naturally, she uttered several exclamations of surprise and dismay, and she paled visibly when we went into the scene in the cave with the two sisters.

  “Mrs. Copeland?”

  “Mrs. Copeland. She killed her husband.”

  “Mercy sakes!”

  “And Mrs. Longstreet is her sister. They were in cahoots.”

  “In a bootlegging business?”

  “Yup.”

  “And they held a shotgun on you?” Her hand was pressed to her heart, as if to hold it in place.

  “Yes. They were going to kill us.” I said it starkly and with no embellishments, figuring Ma deserved a little brutality for putting me through the ordeal of the past several days. Not that she knew when she sent me to Minnie’s that things would turn out the way they did, but I still felt entitled.

  “Good heavens.” This was said faintly, and I tried to stuff my conscience, which had reared its ugly head, back into hiding.

  “But Mr. Burgess rescued us,” said Phil, who was more charitable than I.

  “Bless the man,” whispered Ma.

  Then I said, “SO, may I come home now, Ma? I’ve done my duty. Aunt Minnie won’t be bothered by ghosts anymore.”

  “Yes, Annabelle. You may come home.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turned and would have skipped out of the store, my heart was so light, but I heard her voice behind me.

  “You’re a good girl, Annabelle. I’m sorry you had such a terrible time.” Then she sniffled, and I knew she was trying to keep from bawling.

  I don’t think people give enough credit to the emotion of guilt. Guilt has sure kept me on the straight and narrow more than once. It kicked in then. I turned, saw my mother’s pallid features and recognized her horror and dismay, and I relented. “It’s okay, Ma. Everything worked out fine.” Remembering something else, I said, “Will you call Minnie and tell her we’re on our way back to her place? She probably wonders what happened to me.”

  “Of course.” And she headed to the telephone as Phil and I left the store.

  “You didn’t have to be so mean about telling her everything, Annabelle. It was a terrible shock to her.” Phil. Of course.

  “A shock to her?” I said indignantly. “What about the shock to me? Darn it, Phil, I didn’t want to go to Minnie’s in the first place. She made me.”

  “Annabelle Blue, sometimes you’re not very nice.”

  That hurt, but I’d never let on. I only sniffed and climbed into Mr. Burgess’s wagon for the ride back to Minnie’s place.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mr. Burgess drove the wagon that time, since we didn’t have any prisoners to watch. I was feeling quite kindly toward him by that time. “Want to come in and have something to eat and drink, Mr. Burgess? You must be as thirsty as Phil and me.”

  “Naw. I’ll go on home.” Going through the ordeal with the villainous sisters and rescuing Phil and me from certain death didn’t seem to have softened his attitude toward humanity any. He still sounded as gruff and gravelly as ever.

  But Minnie and Libby were standing on the porch waiting for us when the mule came to a stop, and Minnie had other ideas. She darned near ran–quite a feat for the chubby Minnie–to the wagon. “Come in, come in! Olin Burgess, you’re one in a million! Come in and take some tea and cake with us. Susanna called me up and told me everything!” Susanna is my mother. I like her name better than mine, not that it matters.

  “Well . . .”

  “Please come in, Mr. Burgess,” I wheedled. “I’d love for you to be able to tell Minnie about the stuff Phil and I didn’t see.” I also wanted to make up for my suspicions of him. Not that he knew about them, but I felt guilty anyhow.

  He eyed me out of his one good eye, and I got the feeling he didn’t like me much. I felt bad about it.

  “Well . . .”

  “Get on in here, Olin Burgess,” Libby said, at last making her presence felt. “I got a special cake with coconut on it.”

  “Coconut?” Boy, you didn’t get to eat coconut very often back then. Not in Rosedale, New Mexico, at any rate. Libby must have baked it up special after Ma called Minnie.

  “It’s for everyone, girl,” Libby snarled at me, as if I had announced my intention to eat the whole cake. Darn her, you’d think she’d let up on me a little bit since I’d almost been murdered a couple of hours earlier. But no. Not Libby. She’d go to her grave snapping at somebody. Probably me.

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Burgess.

  Everybody took it for agreement, an assumption that was confirmed when he set the brake and climbed down from the wagon. After leading the mule over to the water trough, he limped up the porch steps and into the house, and we all gathered in the kitchen. I guess Mr. Burgess didn’t count as a guest, or we’d have met in one of the parlors.

>   I served the cake. Libby watched me like a hawk every time I cut a hunk of cake, which was white and fluffy and had coconut sprinkled liberally over the frosting. It was delicious, but I never would have been rude and eaten more than my share, Libby or no Libby. I was so glad I was going home soon!

  “Would you like another piece of cake, Mr. Burgess?” I asked after he’d polished off the first piece I gave me.

  He gave me an unfriendly squint. Guilt, that oh-so-useful emotion, erupted within my bosom like Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii. I wanted to apologize to him for suspecting him of evil deeds, but didn’t quite know how to go about it. Instead, I opted to ask a few questions.

  “Did you know about that cave being used to store bootleg liquor before yesterday, Mr. Burgess?”

  “Uh.” He nodded, though.

  Another stab of guilt prompted my next statement. “So you followed me out there the other day to protect me?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Phil looking smug.

  “Gal shouldn’t ought to go out to them caves alone.” His scraped-up voice was firm.

  “You’re right.” I was feeling quite humble by that time. “I should have known better.” Then I took a deep breath and apologized. “And I’m sorry I was afraid of you, Mr. Burgess. I . . . I didn’t know you meant me no harm.”

  He squinted at me for a full half-minute, which is longer than it sounds when you’re the one sitting there being stared at. “Mrs. Minnie and Miss Libby are my friends, gal. I’d never let one of theirs come to harm ‘f’I c’n help it.”

  I bowed my head. “I should have known. I’m very sorry.” I swore I wouldn’t cry.

  Nobody spoke for a long time–it probably seemed longer than it actually was, given the nature of time, as noted above–and then it was Mr. Burgess who did it. “It’s all right, gal. You can’t help but be afeared of a feller looks like me.”

  That galvanized me. My head snapped up. “But it’s so unfair!”

  He shrugged his hunched shoulder. “Way ‘tis. Can’t nobody do nothin’ ‘bout it.”

  “I’m ashamed of myself,” I told him, as if it would help for him to know it.