by W E Monroe
Chapter Three: Nate Cooley
Nate Cooley, grading papers in his classroom saw the confrontation between Jesse Grant and Hester. When he heard her loud voice, punctuated with whistles he went to the window, but by the time he got there, it was almost over. He chuckled about her "cast-iron britches" admonition and the 'dance' she put Jesse's horse through. Jesse's horse in the parlor -- that was the icing on the cake.
"There's a girl with some backbone!" he chuckled to the empty room. "Guess I'd better go help Widow Brewster straighten-up that parlor."
Nate had never met Hester and was unaware of her intentions to get married, or that he was the prime candidate. As he strode back across the room to his desk to gather the unfinished papers, the spunky girl lingered in his mind. She hadn't been at the usual social events. That explained why he hadn't met her. She'd be more interesting than the other single and widowed females. He was weary of fending them off.
The offspring of Murphyville townsfolk had a reputation for chewing up school teachers and spitting them out almost before they got their bags unpacked. Three teachers had come and gone in the previous year.
Nate Cooley had a way with kids, especially the ornery ones. Although a quiet man, his size commanded respect. He had a problem with doors. Most of them weren't high enough. Occasionally he forgot to duck, and a scar on his forehead and another above his left eyebrow commemorated the worst of those oversights.
Axel Nordfer was the only kid who ever sassed him in class. Nate hoisted the sixteen-year-old smart aleck by the shirt collar and seat of the pants, marched outside, and dropped him in a brimming rain barrel. This in full sight of a classroom window packed with would-be discipline problems. There followed a respectful silence. An era of schoolhouse rowdiness was over!
That afternoon Axel's pa came thundering down, fighting mad about this abuse of his son. In the heat of describing the terrible treatment, Axel forgot to describe the teacher. Minutes later Jake came backing out of the school house door saying, "Yessir, Mr. Cooley,.yessir, Mr. Cooley." All Nate had done was stand up.
Hester knew that every Saturday morning Nate rented a horse at Nestor's Livery Stable and rode down to Harrellson Corners in the valley. She’d heard gossipy remarks from the women in town that he visited his Aunt Flo, his uncle's youthful widow. Hester had watched him pass by her and her daddy’s cabin on his way back late on Saturday afternoons. It was time she met that man. And, she had a plan.
Saturday came and Nate went to pick up the horse he always used.
"Howdy Mr. Cooley," said the liveryman. "I suppose you want ole’ Mavis again. He paused. "Yessir, you two sure been getting’ on fine. Ever’ Saturday, regular as can be."
Nate cocked his head. Nestor was leading up to something.
"Ol' Mavis ain't feeling too good."
While digesting the liveryman’s comment about the state of Mavis’ health, the peaceful calm of the stable was interrupted. "What in blazes was that?" He spun around in surprise. "That's the strangest noise I ever heard!"
"It's Mavis. I think she's got a cold. She's a-sneezin’. I'd give you another horse if I had one what could carry you, but..."
Thoroughly annoyed, Nate glared at the uneasy little man. "Oh, for God's sake. Next you'll be telling me she's got a runny nose."
"Well, yessir, she does, but I think she'll be all right as long as you walk her a bit when you’re goin’ uphill." Another blubbery blast came from the stall as he led out the ailing, sway-backed horse. Watching him saddle her, Nate debated. Perhaps he shouldn't go. No, he decided, he had to. Although Flo took pleasure in the visits, his own motives for going went a little beyond pure duty.
Nate slipped his Winchester into the leather saddle scabbard. Throwing one rein over Mavis's head, he put a foot in the stirrup and swung up easily, accompanied by the familiar squeak of leather. A couple of firm kicks and the horse reluctantly agreed to leave the comfort of the stable. Soon they were heading down Main Street, weaving through the Saturday morning bustle.
Nate tipped his broad brimmed hat at Widow Brewster, sweeping the porch of her rooming house, where he was a boarder. His mount hesitated in midstride and tensed. Nate felt the sneeze building. The explosion that followed arched the horse's swayed back and raised him five or six inches into the air. ‘I won't ever live this down,’ thought Nate. Embarrassed, he rolled his eyes skyward and looked around, praying that no one had seen. He tried to hurry the horse on out of sight.
"C'mon Mavis, C'mon." The mare resumed her stolid pace. He rode impatiently down the street with his gaze glued to the road ahead. Nate didn't see the sympathetic, inviting smile from Edna Frost lounging at the tavern door. After a year without a husband, Edna needed the comfort of a gentleman's arms. She got chills whenever Nate went by and she stood there stroking goose bumps on her forearms.
At twenty-six she was Murphyville's most recent widow. Rolly Frost, her husband, was hanged over at Carlisle, the county seat, six months back. Cyrus Eaton, a tavern customer, had made a play for Edna. Rolly, a hothead and a jealous husband, shot twice. It was Rolly's stray bullet that accidentally killed Aunt Flo's husband, Frank Cooley. Rolly's next shot that afternoon hit its mark.
Feeling her eyes on him and his lackluster steed, he slouched down and tipped his hat over his forehead. His face mirrored the disgust he felt at the spectacle he made astride the pathetic animal. He shuddered at the dismally slow 'clip clop--clip clop' of its hooves on the hard clay road