by David Boop
“Whoa, now, sheriff,” interjected Chambers. “You’re putting the cart before the horse.” He turned a professional smile on Prudence. “Copper Creek, which we represent, is about two hundred miles from here.”
“About two hundred miles from anywhere,” muttered the sheriff. Prudence didn’t think she was meant to hear, but then she had extraordinarily good hearing.
“The majority of our population does work related to the mines. However, we also have a timber mill and various commercial concerns. Additionally, we are attracting homesteaders who have found the area salubrious. Although we are not served by a rail line, we have hopes for the future. In the meantime, there is a regular stagecoach service.”
Reverend Jenkins took over. “Copper Creek boasts a good one-room schoolhouse, newly refurbished. Although the schoolhouse does double duty as the town’s meeting hall and chapel, most times, it is the schoolteacher’s domain.”
They went on, talking up their little town, never knowing that Prudence would actually prefer a small town to a larger metropolis. True, she’d be required to teach children as young as five—even younger, if one included the inevitable three- or four-year-old who was often sent along with an elder sibling to get them out from being underfoot at home. Prudence’s older students would include those who would be considered adults in a year or so, but Prudence didn’t mind the variety. This was the sort of schooling she herself had had, when she’d had any formal education at all.
“We can offer,” Mr. Chambers concluded, “a reasonable salary, in addition to room and parlor board with a respectable widow.”
“How about stabling for my horses?” Prudence asked. “I have two.”
The men exchanged glances, but when they learned that Prudence would ride to her new post, thus saving them coach fare, they agreed that stabling and reasonable fodder would not be an excessive request.
Prudence asked a few more questions, just so she wouldn’t seem too eager, but she’d already made up her mind. That the three interviewers didn’t ask more questions of her, she put down to the recommendation of the local school board. After the plates were cleared away, she carefully reviewed the proffered contract, then signed.
“We’ll be in town for another two days,” Chambers concluded. “If you wish, you may ride out with us then.”
Prudence accepted, knowing that the men were offering their protection, but thinking wryly that, if trouble came, she was more likely to be protecting them than the other way around.
* * *
The day after her arrival in Copper Creek, Prudence stopped by the stables to check on her horses, Buck and Trick. As she was leaving, she was met by a freckled minx of about nine, with bright copper curls and shining green eyes.
“I’m Eileen Murphy,” the girl said. “I’ll be one of your students. I think you’re gonna be nicer than Mr. Hale. Meaner, too, but that’s all for the good. This is one of those times when the friendship of one who shares the blood of those who chase the sun and moon will be helpful.”
Eileen darted off before Prudence could even think of a response to this peculiar greeting. Shaking her head, she moved on to inspect her new domain.
As promised, the schoolhouse had indeed been recently refurbished. The walls were freshly whitewashed, and the chalkboard looked to be new. Prudence wondered what had necessitated the replacement of a considerable number of floorboards toward the front of the room. Flooding, perhaps? But the roof looked sound. Maybe someone had spilled paint and replacing the floor had been easier than scrubbing it clean. Mayor Chambers had said there was a lumber mill near town.
Prudence dismissed this minor mystery and set herself to inspecting the stationery cupboard. The former schoolmaster—Samuel Hale—had left a number of books, including his lesson plans from prior years. The course of study was surprisingly ambitious, especially for a one-room schoolhouse in the middle of nowhere, but Prudence decided that, with a little cramming, she’d be up to it. Her own education had been, if nothing else, eclectic, and one of the advantages of being mostly solitary, as she had been these last few years, was that she’d had ample time to read.
* * *
When, on the first day of the term, Prudence’s scholars filed in, she was immediately struck by two things: how strained many of them looked, and how impossibly well behaved they were. Now, it was natural enough for returning scholars with a new teacher to be on their best behavior—but it was equally natural for at least some to test the limits. Prudence had expected the latter, especially since their former instructor had been a man of some years, while she was a young woman.
“As all of you already know, I am sure,” she introduced herself, “I am Miss Bledsloe. I have met some of you already, after services or about town. Nonetheless, I think we should begin with roll call. When I call your name, stand up and tell me something about yourself. Let us begin with the youngest scholars.”
The little ones, with their charming shyness as they stammered out their names and ages, should have broken the tension. Instead, they augmented it. Mary Filmore, age six, broke into tears when she accidentally introduced herself by her nickname, “Daisy.” Two other members of the infant class rose to their feet, then stood in wide-eyed terror, name and age forgotten as they stared glassy-eyed at their new teacher. Prudence pretended not to notice when siblings on the benches behind coached the infants through in their replies.
The middle students did better, but the way they recited name, then age, offering nothing more, reminded Prudence of military drill. Finally, she started asking a question here and there: “Your father’s the Reverend Jenkins, isn’t he?” “I believe I met you at the dry goods store when I was shopping with Widow Schuler.” “Your mother takes in sewing, I think. Your frock is quite a credit to her.”
These questions relaxed the scholars, perhaps too much, for when the roll call reached the oldest scholars, a lanky young man whose efforts to grow a mustache made his upper lip look soiled, finished his recitation of “Filbert Ditwaller, age sixteen. My pa came here to work in the mines, and I helped with the diggings this summer” with a pert “and, frankly, I’d rather be there now, than stuck in here.”
“I am certain,” Prudence replied coolly, “that your parents know best.”
She’d forced herself to swallow a more sarcastic retort. Indeed, in a more usual schoolroom, she would have said something quite tart, then set Filbert to spend his recess chopping wood, but these students were already nearly frozen with fear.
And it’s not as if they know enough about me to realize that there is actually something to be afraid of, Prudence thought ruefully.
Then she remembered Eileen Murphy’s peculiar comment and wondered.
After roll call, Prudence put the older students to written exercises up at the chalkboard, while she ran the younger ones through their rotes. From his lesson plans, Prudence had gathered that Mr. Hale had been an advocate of public recitation. By the end of the morning, Prudence had taken the younger children through their alphabet and counting; the middle children through their times tables and required they read a short passage aloud.
When Prudence released her scholars for lunch, she was certain of two things: the children were exceptionally well drilled, and Mr. Hale had been a believer in both the ruler and the cane. Many a child, after fumbling a letter or number, a phrase or figure, had flinched, drawing back his or her hand inadvertently as if to avoid a blow. Some had actually extended a hand for the anticipated strike.
Nor did the scholars relax when Prudence’s most severe penalty was a request that they begin again. Clearly, as they saw it, it was only a matter of time before the pain began.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, Prudence garnered more about her predecessor. Samuel Hale had been a true believer in the value of education. As the best educated man in Copper Creek, he had set himself above everyone else, although he did condescend to socialize with the minister and the banker, always making clear he was doing t
hem a great honor by sharing his elevated presence with them.
By all accounts, Mr. Hale had been a sternly charismatic man, supremely capable of wooing others to his belief in his own superiority. When asked why he had settled in an isolated town like Copper Creek, Hale had explained that he was a true advocate of democracy and desired nothing more than to elevate those without education to where they might someday join him among the select.
Prudence thought that it was more likely that Samuel Hale knew his belief in violent corporal punishment for the least infraction would earn him rebuke in a larger, more enlightened community. Even those who advocated “Spare the whip and spoil the child” would surely hesitate at caning a six-year-old until her legs bled merely for mixing up the middle of the alphabet, as had been done to Daisy Filmore. Punishments should fit the crime, and only Mr. Hale thought his fit.
Nonetheless, Hale’s despotic rule had continued until near the end of the previous school year. Rebellion came when Ralph Bolton, one of the older boys, had refused to stand meekly by while his little brother, Charlie, was caned for forgetting that six times six is thirty-six. Springing forth, Ralph had torn Hale’s walking stick from the indignant teacher and broken it over his knee.
As Ralph headed for the door to take Charlie home, Mr. Hale had ordered the door barred, threatening unspeakable retaliation if he were not obeyed. Then, before his horrified students, Hale had seized a chunk of sapling from the wood pile and beaten Ralph about the head and shoulders until the youth had fallen unconscious. The doctor had been summoned, but there was little he could do. Ralph had lingered for several weeks before dying from his injuries.
Mr. Hale wasn’t charged with murder, as he might have been, but he had been told his services would no longer be needed.
After that, the accounts varied. Everyone agreed that Samuel Hale had raged that he would take his revenge, but whether his death was an accident, as Prudence had been told, or suicide, as some had hinted, Prudence could not confirm. What she did learn was that Samuel Hale had died in the schoolhouse, and that the extensive renovations had been necessary to remove the mess. There had even been talk of closing the school entirely, and making do with dame schools to be offered in various homes. However, the town fathers of Copper Creek were ambitious for their town, and a school was necessary for proper standing. Moreover, Prudence gathered, they felt that failure to reopen the school would encourage the scandal to linger.
But they made sure to go far afield seeking a teacher, Prudence thought. No wonder those children looked so frightened. Coming into that schoolhouse, with all the desks returned to their neat rows, must have been like walking back into hell.
* * *
Some women might have grown nervous when they learned that where they stood—although on different boards—a man had died, possibly by his own hand. But Prudence wasn’t “some women,” nor even most women. She’d seen things and done things that would make the fate of Samuel Hale seem pale and tepid. So, mystery solved—so she thought—she turned her attention to teaching her students not only the four R’s, but also that although failure had consequences, those consequences need not be paid for in shame and pain.
Some of Prudence’s students grew to love her for being strict without resorting to cruelty. Prudence even grew friendly with most of the older girls, although she was careful to present herself as a mentor to them, rather than a pal.
Others, especially the older boys who had almost admired Samuel Hale for his brutal strength, the way boys often admire a successful bully, resented having to obey a “weak as dishwater” woman. Prudence dealt with their rudeness and rowdiness with ease. These “almost men” were nothing compared to roughnecks she’d come up against in her wanderings.
Rather than argue with the big boys, Prudence set them physical chores to wear them out. When a few refused to carry wood or water, she gently chided them by demonstrating what a mere woman could do. This was somewhat unfair, for there was nothing “mere,” about Prudence, but what the boys didn’t know wouldn’t do them any harm.
Nonetheless, when Filbert Ditwaller—the ringleader of the troublemakers—failed to show for school one day, then a week later the word came that he’d run away, probably with riders escorting a load of ore, Prudence felt relieved. Without Filbert to egg them on, the other troublemakers would certainly be better behaved.
But then Josie Garcia, daughter of the hotel’s cook, vanished after lipping off to Miss Bledsloe over an incomplete essay. Next, Henry Schuler, grandson of Prudence’s landlady, disappeared after failing to show up for some afterschool tutoring his grandmother had arranged with her parlor boarder. Mrs. Schuler remained as polite as ever, but Prudence heard her sobbing every night when she thought no one could hear.
Prudence began to feel apprehensive both for the children, and for herself. First, she tried searching after dark, using techniques that would have horrified the dwellers of Copper Creek. However, she found neither hide nor hair of any of the missing children. What Prudence did learn, she wasn’t about to share, for the knowledge would only increase her own danger. Both Henry and Josie had gone to the schoolhouse shortly before they’d disappeared. Quite likely, that building had been their final destination.
Prudence inspected the schoolhouse carefully, inside and out, wondering if a secret door or hidden room might have been added during the reconstruction after Samuel Hale’s “accident.” She was in the woodshed, knocking at the back wall, when she was surprised by Sheriff Dixon—an event that in itself showed how worried she’d become. The last time someone had snuck up on her, she’d been five and playing hide-and-seek with her brother, Jake.
“I was thinking,” Prudence said, stammering and, to her dismay, even blushing, when the sheriff’s shadow darkened the door, “that if we cut a door through here, then no one would need to go outside to fetch firewood. The children have been telling me how incredibly deep the snowdrifts pile up.”
“True enough,” the lawman drawled, his tone mild, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “There’s just not enough thaw between storms. Come spring snowmelt, though, you’d be surprised at what we discover.”
“I’m sure,” Prudence replied inanely, bending to pick up the kindling basket. “It’s probably too late in the season to cut a door now. Maybe next year, when the paint is being freshened.”
“Maybe so,” Sheriff Dixon said, reaching for the basket. “Now, why don’t you let me carry that kindling for you?”
But, for all his politeness, from that point on, Prudence was all too aware of how often the sheriff’s gaze, eyes narrowed between deep-cut crow’s feet, followed her as she made her way about Copper Creek.
* * *
When Rosemarie Dubois, a gentle girl of fourteen, vanished after failing her Bible recitation, Prudence’s apprehension turned to fear, not only for her missing students, but for herself. People began to look at her sideways. During religious services, despite the chapel being crowded, Prudence sat with a gap on either side of her. Only the fact that Prudence had always comported herself with propriety in public, and that she was boarding with Widow Schuler, who swore (incorrectly, as Prudence herself knew) that Prudence could not have left the house without her knowing, kept anyone from making a direct accusation.
That and the fact that, to this point, no sign of missing children—alive or dead—had been found. The winter snows drifted deeper. Prudence knew that if, when the thaw came, bodies were found, questions would be asked. Judging from how the victims had been chosen, there would be evidence pointing to her. People would believe the accusations that would inevitably follow. After all, their last schoolmaster, a pillar of the community, had beaten a boy to death with a piece of firewood.
Lacking confidants, Prudence found herself talking to Buck when she took the horse out for exercise.
“I could run,” she said, “but I don’t much like the thought of leaving you and Trick behind. Besides, if I run, I’m never going to be able to stop running, and I�
��m hermit enough as it is without being barred from every town and ranch. Sure, the West is wide, and has plenty of empty space, but rumor has always had broad wings, and these days it has the telegraph as an ally. Let’s face it, there just aren’t that many young women with yellow eyes.”
Buck snorted, then whickered as he caught scent of another horse. Prudence had already noticed Sheriff Dixon riding a discreet tail. Doubtless if she let on she’d seen him, he’d say he was just keeping an eye on her, as a courtesy, that was all.
Knowing she was out of earshot, Prudence continued her soliloquy. “Worse yet, I don’t dare let anyone get so worked up that I find myself facing a lynch mob. Won’t make matters any better that I’d probably live through being hanged. The consequences of that just might make being accused of mass child murder seem mild. Besides, who am I fooling? I can’t leave those children to be picked off one by one. The only solution—for me and for them—is to find out how this is happening. Then I can reveal the truth or leave a trail of clues so that someone else figures it out. Sheriff Dixon isn’t stupid. He just lacks my specialized knowledge.”
As she reined Buck around back toward town, Prudence considered what she should do. There was an obvious culprit, but how could Prudence prove her case—especially since everyone in Copper Creek knew for certain that he was dead?
* * *
Despite the number of scholars who began to be kept home on the slimmest excuse of weather or illness, Prudence had her stalwarts. First to arrive each morning were Eileen Murphy and her brother, Dylan, freckles faded now, noses pink with cold. They were both middle students, nine and eleven. After her strange statement at that first meeting at the stable, Eileen had shown herself nothing other than a very usual student with a fondness for books of fairytales. Her brother, Dylan, had the makings of a naturalist, and Prudence had started letting him take home some of the illustrated natural history texts.
