Saved by the Bullet

by Preston Shires

  I know that I haven’t spoken well of Prudence, but pity filled my heart. I ask her for the source of her distress and she hesitated before confiding.

  “I so wanted to help you, dear Addy. I wanted to do something right and good. I find it so hard. I hoped to save you from yourself, from your waywardness, but you seem to have such joy, and I’m the one who suffers.”

  She put down a frying pan and fell on my shoulder, and I found myself patting her on the back to comfort her.

  “There are things I appreciate, Prudence,” I said diplomatically. “You are so very attentive.”

  “And I thought you and Jonathan would be so good for each other.”

  “Well, I do have Cameron, you understand.”

  She attempted to straighten herself and looked at me with searching eyes. “You don’t understand. I fear for Jonathan. I know I say wonderful things about him, because I love him so, and deep down he is a good fellow, but he seems indifferent to things of the heart, like he keeps putting off thinking about things that really matter by going on and on about where he’s been and what he has done. It’s always the past and never the present.”

  I have to admit I was a little stunned, as I realized how perceptive Prudence really was. “Prudence,” I said gravely. “I think you mean well, and that you make herculean efforts to please, but I also think that just may be the problem. Your father is a hard man, demanding, and I just fear that you’re always trying to live up to his expectations, just as your brother is. Your brother does it by always claiming to be the smartest, the most accomplished. You do it by trying to follow all of the rules society has laid out for us. You both need to realize that you only need to live up to God’s expectations. God made you a woman to enjoy life, to dance with David, to feast with the disciples, to converse with the guests rather than run around working all the time. You don’t have to be Martha, you can be Mary. It’s much easier, much more fulfilling.”

  “You think I ought to have danced with Mr. Whitt?”

  “Maybe not with Mr. Whitt, but if the music enlivens your heart, follow it.”

  Prudence wrapped her arms around me and melted my own heart. I fear dew formed in my eyes too, and trickled down my cheeks. She kissed me and thanked me and said she thought it best she stay home at present. I didn’t discourage her. She needed the comfort of solitude to let her new thoughts convert her emotions.

  Teddy soon appeared at the house with a wagon to load me up and take me on down to Main Street to meet with the stage coming up from Nemaha City. He told me I picked the wrong day to leave because a band of minstrels would be entertaining the town tonight, but I had no regrets, considering my favorite minstrel was by now in Saint Jo.

  The stage arrived in its own good time, it had stopped behind the post office where the passengers descended and the driver switched out the horses, then he went in to the post office to collect some mail and tell tall tales to Mr. Brown, who reciprocated. Eventually he brought his coach to the front of the post office, and we ascended.

  Entering the coach, first, was a healthy German family, the wife of which had apparently consumed half her family’s allotment of pretzels, so she wouldn’t have to carry them in hand. She held one of their boys on her lap while the brother occupied that of the father’s, who appeared to have consumed the remaining pretzels. The two gentlemen on the far end of the facing benches, having entered by the opposite door, made themselves as thin as possible to squeeze into their seats.

  We all looked silently at one another, like children at the dinner table on Sunday afternoon.

  Of course, silence by children at our dinner table, now that I reflect upon it, was justifiably instituted by Mother. I remember the very Sabbath she established the rule; it was the day when stuffy parson Totley and his self-effacing wife came to dinner. He asked us what usefulness we had accomplished before his arrival, and I told him all about Mother dropping the chamber pot on Muffin, the cat, and all my brothers and I chasing Muffin about the table to shoo him out the door without touching him. “But Muffin ended up on your chair, Reverend Totley,” I said, “and we had to scoot him off with a broom. What a mess.”

  Seeing that it was not Sunday dinner, I broke the silence and introduced myself to my German neighbor and easily entered into conversation with her. She was good-natured and immediately began a lengthy discourse about the new high school to open up on the second floor of the bank building in Nebraska City. I wondered if she might not be an acquaintance of Mr. Martin or Mr. Whitt.

  “The phrenologist, you mean?”

  “The same.”

  “Oh, isn’t he an informed person. So much knowledge and logic wrapped up into one brain.”

  “Yes, rather tightly isn’t it?”

  “It’s funny you should mention him because he asked me about the high school when I was in the drugstore. He seemed most interested, as did the druggist. The phrenologist went as far as to say to the druggist that he’d come across some money that he’d like to invest in such an enterprise at Brownville, but if there were shares to be bought in the one at Nebraska City, he would be very generous in that direction as well.”

  “He came across some money?”

  “Oh yes, a great aunt of his, an old maid as I understood it, had passed away and left him a tidy sum.” She turned her head a bit, looking amused. “You know, the druggist said he might be able to help out too. He could build a drugstore in Nebraska City, and he thought they might make a good pair of professors. Seems he must have money too.”

  Her husband chimed in. “With the Territorial government licensing all these empty banks to print up money with nothing to back it, it’s no wonder everybody’s got money nowadays.”

  Opposite me in the coach sat a Mr. Emmor Lash, a pioneer accompanied by a sizeable wooden box. It had taken all of his teeth gritted together to hoist the box into the coach. I asked him why he didn’t just toss it on our roof rather than burdening his leg space. I questioned him partly to bring him into our conversation and partly because I did wonder as to why he’d put such a thing in the tight coach.

  Mr. Lash just looked at me kindly and nodded. I took another tack, inquiring as to what he had in his box, and he thought about my question for a moment, then said in as few words as possible that it contained parts for a McCormick machine. Having made a little headway, I again asked him why he didn’t stow it away, and he again looked at me friendly-like and said mildly, “So I know where it is.”

  This struck me as odd because I really don’t believe anyone is going to steal mechanical parts, considering all the variety of machines. Now children might. I remembered Teddy stealing Mary’s lunchbox at school, while leaving his behind. He was interested in her cakes, which she had languidly munched on in front of him the day before. The stolen lunchbox, of course, contained only blood sausage, which Teddy then and now abstains from. Mary thanked Teddy not only for returning her lunchbox to her but also for the cookies she had extracted from his. I think that was the day Mary decided Teddy needed some looking after.

  As we moved across the countryside, I glanced from time to time at Mr. Lash. He was a slight man, reserved, but he exuded a certain control over his immediate environment. It was a strange blend of pleasantness and seriousness. It made me uncomfortable. I think it best to be one or the other, hot or cold. The Bible has very little good to say about someone who’s lukewarm.

  Another thing that bothered me about the man was his Mona Lisa eyes. Every time I glanced at him, his eyes seem to meet mine. It was as if he were keeping watch over me.

  Our coach made it well past Mount Vernon before a wheel wobbled. This obliged the driver to stop at the mill on Camp Creek to mend it. He cursed freely at the situation until he remembered ladies were aboard. Then he vociferated against whoever had trafficked his axle and wheel.

  “Had to have sawn through this back behind the post office,” he growled. “We could have had a serious accident.” Then, putting his head through the window, he said, “Yo
u’d best all get out while I do the repairs, it’ll make it lighter to jack up the axle to straighten it out and band it back together.”

  We all descended, though Mr. Lash offered to remain near the coach to make sure our belongings were unmolested while we exercised our limbs.

  This behavior made him rather more suspicious. Perhaps he was carrying a load of gold in his box. As I walked in the direction of the mill, I peeked back over my shoulder. There stood Mr. Emmor Lash, leaning against one of the rear wheels, and of course he noticed my movement. Was he keeping an eye on me? I really wanted to get a look inside that box of his.

  * * *

  A Mormon by the name of Jimmison ran the mill operation, and we found a group of pioneers awaiting their turn, but a thirteen-year old was ahead of them all, and this boy said he’d been there since dawn waiting for his grist to be ground. He thought it would have been faster to hire a squaw to grind the wheat by hand, but he hadn’t seen an Indian for four days.

  Mr. Jimmison, being in earshot, called out to the boy to explain that the squaw would want her wampum just like everyone else.

  “I’ve got all the flour I need,” the miller said eyeing the young man, “what I want is hard money and none of them phony bank notes.” He said this while his fingers touched the side of his mouth, as if he were putting a coin between his teeth and biting down.

  The young man, obviously ashamed, cast his eyes toward the ground. “If you won’t take the flour, we’ll get you paid in cash Mr. Jimmison, just as soon as harvest is all over and sold.”

  One of my stagecoach compatriots, the German lady, asked the youngster where his father was, and he said his pa had gone to Saint Jo to buy some items for a store he’d opened up near the Peru settlement, next to Mount Vernon.

  That piqued my interest, as Cameron was in route for that city, so I stepped into the conversation and asked him when his father left.

  “Sometime in June of last year.”

  There was a weighty silence as we all realized the boy’s family had been abandoned.

  However, the date of the man’s disappearance interested me. “What’s your name young man?”

  “Frank.”

  “And your father’s?”

  “Al, well that’s what folks called him. His real name was Alfred, like the king. Mr. Alfred Medley.”

  A warmth swept through me. I don’t know how else to describe it, but no doubt not unlike that feeling overcoming a prophet of the Old Testament when God reveals a vision to him. Something clicked in my mind as George Lincoln’s final words came back to me: “Some smug man gave me the means, and if you don’t know him a medley....” Maybe the word “medley” was actually a proper noun? Maybe George Lincoln was referring to Mr. A. Medley. This would mean Frank’s father knew who the “smug man” was, but he was slain while in Saint Jo, just like someone tried to kill me there.

  “Did you hear of the Friend murders?” I asked.

  At this point Mr. Jimmison entered into the discussion. “Did we hear of it?” he said sardonically. “Why they grabbed Amos didn’t they? Just because he knew the truth. Knew the truth about Joseph Smith and about that miscreant who egged ‘em on to rob Jacob Friend. Wouldn’t be no trouble at all, he told them, there being no law in the Territory, and, even if there was, no one would lift a finger against the good deed of killing the Friend family, bein’ Negro-loving folk, as they was.”

  When I heard this, the whole affair became very personal. “And Mr. Medley knew who this evil, smug man was?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it. He was terribly riled when I told him Amos got penned up. And that ain’t like a Gentile to get worked up if one of us Saints gets a beating or a lynching.”

  “No Ma’am,” chimed in Frank, “Pa didn’t like to see no unfairness. He said they all ought to hang together, and if someone didn’t do something about that blowhard, he would, but he never did. He just went down to Saint Jo and that was the last we saw of him. Ma figured he just found someone more likeable than herself and with less appendages.”

  “You know, Mr. Jimmison,” I said, opening my reticule. “I’d like to pay for the grinding for Frank.”

  Now it was Mr. Jimmison’s turn to be embarrassed. “Oh Ma’am, you don’t have to do that. I’ll take my portion out of his grist like usual.”

  “Well cap the climax!” cried young Frank looking into my reticule. “Why here we talk of Pa and you’ve got a gun just like his!”

  CHAPTER 19

  I took out the pistol and had Frank examine it closely. He insisted that it resembled his father’s to a T. In case it were the exact same gun, I told him, I would indeed like to recompense him for it. Having said this, Mr. Jimmison finally accepted my coin and I rejoined the stagecoach. Mr. Lash had absented himself for a moment, no doubt a call of nature, and I, being alone inside the coach, took the opportunity to pry open his box. I espied a collection of tools--wrenches, a small hammer, and a Bowie knife--mixed in with sharp triangular metal teeth, but as I shifted through them, I saw something metallic and long and round with scratches incised in it.

  “Miss Furlough,” I heard as the door opened suddenly. Mr. Lash stood there like the grim reaper who’d forgotten his scythe.

  “I just wanted to see if you had pieces to a mower or a reaper. Just plain curiosity.”

  He reached in and slammed the box shut. Then he returned to his seat eyeing me coolly, sending a shiver down my spine. I went into a lengthy discourse on the variety of machinery, remembering a most boring conversation between a group of farmers that I’d once overheard. I mentioned mowing machines engineered by Ketchum, by Allen, by Manny, and by a half a dozen other tinkerers. I also threw in the Young America by Rockafellow & Howell, a mower and reaper in one.

  After a half an hour of my blather, Mr. Lash relaxed and asked me where I was headed and where I planned to stay.

  Suddenly I was sorry we were once again on speaking terms. Did he want to follow me? Was he the one who had fired a shot at me? I didn’t know how to extricate myself from revealing too much, so I just told him the simple truth. I intended on spending the night in Nebraska City before journeying on to the land office in Omaha. That seemed to satisfy him, as he turned toward the window and closed his eyes.

  Now I took a good hard look at the man. Though his hands were rough, he was otherwise fine-featured. He didn’t quite look the part of a pioneer. The roughness of his hands could have come from handling horses, which would mean he traveled a lot on his own, on horseback. But then why was he taking the stage? Oh my, it was because I was in the coach!

  But why would he saw through the axle of a coach he was riding in? The answer was obvious. Because in the confusion of the stage toppling over, he would discreetly bash me over the head with his hammer, or slip a Bowie knife blade through my fifth and sixth ribs. I stared at the murderer until I reasoned that I couldn’t keep vigil all evening, and furthermore, he wouldn’t do me any harm inside the coach with the other passengers in attendance.

  By the time the stage arrived at the environs of Nebraska City, its rocking motion had forced my own eyelids to slip half way down across my eyes. I viewed the world as a dream, with the greyness of night playing upon the shapes of the fields, or upon the occasional tree or house or business we trotted by. Every so often I sensed more than noticed, a glimmer of candlelight glowing from a cabin. Then as my mind slid from this world into that of dreams, the flame of the candle engulfed the little structure. Smoke poured forth but through its haze I witnessed men, women, and children with misshapen heads roasting in the fire. Finally, the horses instinctively brought the stage to a halt, and the alteration from a see-sawing motion to stillness awakened me completely. And there I saw Mr. Lash puffing on a cigar whose smoke lingered under our nostrils.

  I shook my head while my hands felt for my reticule and carpet-bag. All was as it should be. Emmor Lash motioned for me to exit first, and I wasn’t one to discourage gentlemanly acts, even in an assassin. I also allowed him to
carry my carpet-bag, which I think did him good because its weight offset that of his tool box in the opposing hand, plus it made access to his stock of weapons difficult.

  We made our way into the hotel lobby and I found myself thinking ill of emigrants. They were everywhere, lounging about with their soiled clothing and matted hair; but what irritated me most was that they had taken up all of the rooms.

  The hotel manager was nowhere to be found, and I think he played his cards well, because no one should want to deal with tired, dirty, grumpy customers when running a hotel with no open lines in its registry. Mr. Lash, seemingly unconcerned about his own condition, insisted that the clerk find an accommodation for the young lady, and I thanked him for his concern, somewhat in the spirit of the criminal who pays his executioner.

  The clerk went into a back room and after a pow-wow of some sort, he reemerged with a key. He told us that a Mr. Thomas Lipscomb had a new brick house on Nebraska Street, between Seventh and Eighth, that had two bedrooms in it and no occupant. He would be willing to rent out the two rooms at the same price as a hotel room.

  “If it’s not too much to ask,” I said to the clerk while nodding toward the door behind him, “I’d like to reserve a room there for my return trip from Omaha as well.” I believe I subconsciously thought that if I reserved a room for the future, I would somehow survive the night.

  The young man disappeared and reappeared as before and agreed to the proposal upon receipt of payment, which I duly accorded him. The clerk specified, after handing Mr. Lash the house key, that each bedroom had its own key, which we would find on our respective doors. I didn’t see this as any insurance against an assassin, because I imagined Mr. Lash held, within his box, tools adequate for picking any lock.

  The house was a fine structure with a cellar underneath equal to the length and breadth of the ground floor. Here below were located on the west side the kitchen and a dining area, complete with a table and enough chairs to outfit a family of ten. The room on the east side was for storing produce and wine. Upstairs, at ground level, were an east and west room, one obviously designed to be a parlor and the other a living room or bedroom, but for the present each had been arranged as a bedroom. The high ceiling dissipated very little of July’s heat and I would have gladly slept in the cool cellar except for the humidity that is ever so anxious to infect us with consumption.