Ralph Compton Guns of the Greenhorn

by Matthew P. Mayo

  A woman in a long silken robe of black-and-blue design and belted about the waist stopped on the bottom step, one hand on the newel post. She was striking in appearance, thick in a buxom, wholesome way, and was, he guessed, a mulatto. She gazed at him through narrowed eyes down a long nose. Her head was canted to one side, and her dark hair was partially covered with a scarf that matched the robe.

  “Huh,” she said. “A stranger in Promise.” She nodded and stepped down to the floor.

  She was still taller than him.

  “Okay, then,” she said.

  Fletcher cleared his throat. “I wonder, ma’am,” he said, hoping to rein in the edge of annoyance these thin-skinned folk of Promise apparently felt whenever someone from the East spoke. “I wonder if you might help me. I am looking for a . . .” He suddenly doubted himself. Was that the name on the telegram? He should know it by now, having read it hundreds of times in the weeks since receiving it.

  “Excuse me,” he said, fishing it out of his inner pocket. He unfolded the worn paper, its memorized creases so hinged and worn, it had begun to come apart here and there. He held it to his face and squinted at it once more. “Yes, that’s it. A Miss Millicent Jessup.”

  The woman snorted. “ ‘Miss.’ ” She held a hand to her nose and shook her head. “Pardon, but Millie’ll like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Being called a miss. Been a long time since anybody’s done that.”

  “Oh, you know her? Do you know where I might find her? I’ve been up and down this godforsaken street for what feels like days.”

  “Well, why didn’t you come in here to begin with?” She shook her head and turned, holding the timeworn railing. “Come on, she’s been waiting on you. We all have.”

  “What?”

  She turned and looked at him. “Are you hard of hearing?” Her brows knitted and she spoke in a loud voice. “I said, follow me. I’ll take you to see Millie.”

  “You don’t mean . . . Millicent Jessup is the Millie of Millie’s Place?”

  She looked at him as if he’d just asked her if the sun had risen that morning. “Are you simple in the head?” She tapped her temple. “Millie didn’t say so but . . .” She shrugged. “Come on now. I’m busy. Got one waiting and it’s been a lean week.”

  Again, he had no idea what she was talking about.

  She stopped again and looked at him. “You are him, aren’t you? The one from back East, I mean.”

  Fletcher cleared his throat. “I am Fletcher J. Ralston, yes.”

  “I know.” She eyed him up and down again. “I’m Hester.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, not feeling pleased in the least. “I do indeed hail from back East, as you say. Specifically from the fine city of Providence, in the fair state of Rhode Island.”

  “Yeah, I figured it was you. Just checking. And I know where Providence is. We’ve been hearing all about it—and you—for years.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Course you don’t.” She began trudging upward once more. “You being a dandy and all, how could you know?”

  Fletcher thought he saw her smile. He was too tired to respond, but he’d be damned if he was going to follow this obviously somewhat deranged woman.

  She stopped again and sighed. “Leave your bag there. Nobody in Promise is going to steal from you. Especially you. Now come on. She won’t hold out much longer.”

  He did as she said, in part because his arms were tired from lugging the battered satchel. As Hester and he trudged up the stairs, the woman said, “There’s four of us, plus Millie. I imagine you’ll want to know that.”

  Fletcher could not imagine why anyone should presume such, but grunted as if it were information of value to him. “Why?”

  But she kept climbing. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him.

  As they ascended, there appeared to be more light. Hester paused a moment on the first landing, but said nothing, then resumed her climb before he reached the landing himself. The second half of the staircase continued at an angle to the first.

  They reached the top of the stairs. “Here’s where most everything takes place.” She waved an arm behind her down the long hallway.

  He saw three doors on each side of the hallway and a window at the far end. The carpet runner continued down the hall.

  To his right, a dented pail stood wedged in the corner. Hester must have been glancing at him because as he looked at it, she said, “That’s to catch a leak. Of course, it hasn’t rained here in I don’t recall how long, so it’s not much of a concern.”

  He felt as though he should offer something to the conversation, so he said, “That’s a shame.”

  “About the leak or about the rain?”

  “Oh, well, both, I imagine. Yes, both.”

  She chuckled. “I wondered if you’d be the serious sort. Should have placed bets on it.”

  Again, Fletcher was confused and on the verge of asking her what she meant when she gestured to the door facing them at the top of the stairs. “That’s Millie’s. She’ll be waiting.”

  Then Hester stood and folded her arms. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” he said.

  “Aren’t you going in? She’s been waiting on you for . . . well, for a mighty long ol’ time, Mr. Fletcher J. Ralston.”

  She shook her head and walked away, her heavy steps making the floorboards creak down the hall. “Everybody here knows who you are, Fletch. Everybody.” Her chuckle petered out as she opened a door on the right at the far end of the hall. “Okay, you ready?” she said to someone inside her room. Then her door closed.

  More confused than he’d ever been in all his twenty-four years, Fletcher J. Ralston, whom the woman had had the audacity to call “Fletch,” nonetheless straightened his back, ran his hands down the front of his dusty, rumpled, and soiled suit, and slid his tongue over his teeth. They felt as though they needed a good cleaning, too. Everything about him did. Too late for all that.

  “In for a penny,” he muttered, and stepped forward, then knocked lightly on the big wooden door.

  There was no response. He stretched his neck, ran a finger under his sagged collar, and knocked once more, louder this time.

  “Come in,” said a thin, frail voice.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fletcher pushed open the door, a heavy thing with carved angles and filigree that caught dust and held it.

  The door swung slowly, emitting a low, long squawk. He peered in. Across from him, afternoon sun offered dim light through gauzy once-white lace curtains.

  “Come in, come in,” said the voice of an old woman.

  He nudged the door wider and looked to his right. There sat a huge four-poster bed, again built of dark wood, decorated ornately with pineapple carvings topping the posts and what looked to be green velvet drapes tied back at the corners. In the midst of the bed, against mounded worn pillows, lay a thin old woman with a long face framed in silver hair.

  Fletcher supposed in her youth she had been considered a beauty. It was difficult to tell what the years had done to her. But she was old—that much was certain. Seventy or perhaps eighty. He had no idea.

  She raised a bony hand and beckoned him with bent, knobby fingers to step closer. “Come on in. I can’t see so well that far away.”

  Fletcher nodded and, leaving the door open behind him, stepped into the room. The scent reminded him of old flowers dusted in talcum powder and something else, a liniment that tickled his nostrils and cloyed at the back of his throat, threatening to make his eyes water.

  To the right of a bedside table on which were stacked books and a tall drinking glass half filled with something tea colored, another window let in light. He also noted it was partially raised at the bottom, letting in a light breeze, as the softly swaying curtain told him.

&n
bsp; “Closer, for Pete’s sake. I’m not going to bite.” She chuckled. “Those days are behind me.”

  He walked closer until he stood beside the right side of the bed. If he leaned forward, he could have grasped her hand, which he had no intention of doing. She didn’t move, except for her watery old eyes. They studied him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. He wanted to say something, but somehow could not speak yet. Instead he returned her stare and saw an alertness in her eyes that belied the rest of her haggard, worn appearance.

  He became aware of a steady, soft, regular sound and recognized it as a clock tick-tick-ticking somewhere in the room. It was faint, combined with the near-silent whistling of the old woman’s breathing.

  “Who . . .” He paused and found he didn’t know where to begin. He had gone over and over so many questions in his mind throughout the long journey, but now that he was here, none of them felt clear enough to ask.

  She interrupted his thoughts with a quiet, wheezy, chuckling sound. “I expect you have more questions than I have answers for.”

  That annoyed him. “You . . . Pardon me, but you had better have answers for me. I have journeyed quite far. . . .”

  She stared again for a long minute. Then she sniffed and waved a long, bony finger at him, let it drop to the quilt once more. “You look like your father, but you remind me of your mother.”

  “You knew my father?”

  The old woman nodded. “Of course. And your mother.”

  “Well, tell me,” he said, crossing his arms and looking about himself, wanting a chair, wanting suddenly to know every single thing this old crone could think to tell him. He felt certain he could commit to memory every letter of every word she uttered.

  She smiled and waved to the bed. “Sit down. I still don’t bite.”

  “Thank you. I’ll stand.”

  She nodded again. “Just like your father. So prideful. And I bet the big reason you’re here isn’t so much that the telegram mentioned you had an aunt, but that there’s an inheritance. Am I correct?”

  Fletcher felt his face heat. “Tell me about my parents. Please.”

  She surprised him by shaking her head. “Not just yet.”

  “What?”

  She sighed. “After I’ve rested. I don’t have the strength just now. Go to the lawyer’s office. His name is Chisley DeMaurier. He’s been instructed. He knows what to give you. You’ll have more questions. Come back after you’ve read through it all, and then I’ll tell you everything. I’d thought to be dead before you came to Promise. I didn’t think you’d actually show up. I didn’t think I’d ever see you.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Not so sure I’d have come if I got such a telegram.”

  “Then I guess you didn’t grow up alone, not knowing your family.”

  He thought he saw her face tighten, as if he’d insulted her. And for a moment, he felt good about it.

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself, young man. You assume too much in life, and someone’s going to call you on it. And they won’t always be a feeble old woman knocking on death’s door.”

  Her face pinched and her eyes closed. A dry cough caught hold of her and seemed to rattle inside before echoing up and out. It stopped and she looked as if she were remembering something painful. She pulled in a long, fluttery breath and let it out, then opened her paper-thin blue eyelids and looked at him once more. “Go see the lawyer. I’ll be better later. Then I’ll answer any questions you have. I promise.”

  From behind him, a familiar voice said, “Leave her be just now. Come back in a few hours.”

  It was the woman who’d let him in. She’d said her name was Hester. He wanted answers, but she beckoned him to the door. Fletcher looked down at the old woman, but her eyes were closed. Hester waited while he passed back into the hallway; then she swung the door closed and made for the stairs. Fletcher didn’t move.

  “I want answers. I’ve come across the nation to get here.”

  She sighed. “Look. Half of what I know about you I expect isn’t right, and the other half you can’t trust, so save your questions for the lawyer and Millie. Later. Give her time to rest.”

  “But she called me here.”

  “Yeah.” The woman nodded. “But she didn’t expect she’d still be kicking when you got here.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Keep your voice down, mister. Or I will show you the fast way down these stairs. Do you understand? Now get gone and come back in a couple of hours.”

  “Will she last that long?” he said, his voice harder than it had been.

  “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  “That’s rich, considering you just threatened me. Is there a soul in this forsaken town with a modicum of couth?”

  He snatched up his satchel and stomped out the big front door. As it closed behind him, he turned. “Hey, wait a minute! Just where is this lawyer’s office anyway?”

  The door slammed.

  “At least remind me of his name.”

  The door remained closed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The lawyer, as it turned out, was easier for Fletcher to locate in the bustling burg of Promise than had been Millicent Jessup. His office lay across the street and down but one building.

  From the start, Chisley DeMaurier, Esq., as his name on the shingle out front read, was a conundrum of a man to Fletcher. Beyond his burning desire to know the why behind his summoning to Promise by Millicent Jessup, he found he wanted to ask DeMaurier, Esq., just what brought such a learned man to Promise. And so he did.

  The thin, well-dressed, obviously cultured man smoothed his shining black hair and twisted one, then the other of the ends of his waxed mustaches. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  Fletcher had assumed the man would speak with a French accent, but in that he was further stumped. The man’s accent was of the Deep South and bore a touch of Cajun, perhaps. Judging from his perpetual half grin, he was obviously pleased by it.

  “Now,” said the lawyer, “if I may ask a question of you . . .”

  Fletcher noticed that the man had not answered his own question, but he lost his urge to know as quickly as it had come upon him. “I am—”

  “Wait!” the lawyer held up a long finger, a smile spreading on his thin face. “I do believe I know who you are.” He looked Fletcher up and down, nodded, circled the room, one hand in his watch pocket as if he were about to pluck out the timepiece, but not quite doing so.

  “A stranger, yes, yes, one who has had of late a rather difficult time of things.” The man stood behind him. Then as quick as Fletcher turned to see what he was doing, the lawyer circled around to face Fletcher, that sly smile still on his mouth.

  “You have acceptable taste in clothing. Indeed, in fashion. Though your clothes could use laundering in the worst way.”

  “Sir,” said Fletcher, “I ask you to please excuse the sorry state of my appearance, which has resulted from more hardship than I care to go into at this point.”

  “No need, good fellow. I already know of your rather surprising arrival in town.”

  “News travels quickly.”

  “That’s why it is called ‘news’ and not ‘olds.’ ”

  “Hmm. As to my second point, I wish to know the details Millicent Jessup assured me you would provide.”

  “Indeed,” said the man. With a sigh, he settled himself in a chair behind the large desk. “Very well, then. Your arrival is a bright spot in the pervading dull brown shade my days normally wear.”

  The lawyer ran a fingernail through a stack of papers, stopped midway down the stack, and tweezered out a sheaf. Settling pince-nez at the end of his nose, he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, I recall drawing this up some time since.”

  “Some time?” said Fletcher. “How long has she been c
ooking up this scheme to get me out here?”

  “Millie isn’t devious enough to cook up anything, Mr. Ralston. She was planning for her future and she kindly included you in it. Do you want me to continue, or would you like to insult someone else for a while?”

  Fletcher felt his face heat up and shook his head.

  The lawyer cleared his throat once more. “Very well, then. Since you seem like a man bent on progress . . .”

  The lawyer rose from his desk once more, tugged out his watch, from the chain of which dangled two small brass skeleton keys. One of them unlocked a tall chifforobe, which apparently doubled as office furnishing. He opened one door, careful to not swing it wide enough for Fletcher to see inside.

  He pulled out a wooden box and tucked it under one arm, then reached back into the dark interior and pulled out a flour sack bulging with something heavy, judging by the whitening of the man’s knuckles as he shifted it in the crook of his arm. He relocked the door and seated himself at the desk once more.

  He set the sack down beside the box, tapped the box, and looked at it, nibbling his top lip as if considering something of importance. Fletcher scrutinized the box, too, admiring it. Polished unadorned dark wood, perhaps mahogany. It was half as long as a cigar box and twice as tall.

  The lawyer spun it around and pushed it toward Fletcher. Fletcher leaned forward and was about to set his hands on it when the lawyer said, “You know, Mr. Ralston, haste in youth is forgivable, to a point. Then it becomes mere greed.”

  Fletcher sighed. “Mr. DeMaurier, I understand how my seeming briskness may appear as such to you, but you, sir, have not been through what I have been through. If the contents of this box are life altering, then, perhaps my efforts—Herculean they have been, I don’t mind saying—may have been worth it. If not, I must return to my home forthwith. Or I risk my position.”

  The lawyer regarded him. “Home . . . position. Hmm.” He shoved the box another couple of inches forward and nodded. Then he leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, watching Fletcher.

  Fletcher lifted the latch-free top. It was hinged at the rear and the soft scent of oiled wood and something metallic rose to his nostrils.