Time of the Wolves
Page 19
The crowd’s noise grew louder, an ugly, ominous growl that made the skin on my arms prickle.
“The Cornishman has no regard for human life,” Tod went on. “Ours, yours, or your children’s.”
He spoke on in that vein, inciting the crowd. Perhaps the Cornishman deserved retribution, I thought, but not at the hands of an angry mob. And what of his woman, Addie Lawton? She could also become their victim.
I knew what I must do. After fetching my cloak, I slipped out the rear door of the office into the alleyway and hurried to the stable where we kept our horses.
Drinkwater Creek had been a mere trickle when we arrived in early autumn, but recent rains had swelled it to a fast-moving stream. I followed its banks some five miles from town through thick woods, my horse stepping gingerly over rocks and tree roots, until I came to a lightning-split eucalyptus that Lionel had once told me marked the boundary of the Cornishman’s claim. Then I turned east, away from the creek, toward a plume of wood smoke that drifted above the pines. Emerging from the trees, I found a clearing where a rough board shack stood. As I approached, a woman stepped out, a rifle cradled in her arms. Her hair was disheveled, her long skirts dirty and torn, her face bore deep lines that told of long exposure to the harsh elements.
“Addie Lawton?” I asked.
“I am. And you are that woman from the mining company.”
Of course, in a town as small as Seven Wells she would know who I was. “Elizabeth Lazarus,” I told her. “May I speak to you?”
“If you must.”
“And Mister Trevelyan, if he is at home.”
Her lips twisted mirthlessly. “He is at home, yes. But can you speak to him? I think not.”
“This is a matter of life or death.”
Again, the strange humorless smile. “Then come in.”
Addie Lawton and I were waiting outside the cabin when the mob arrived, Tod in the lead. He drew his horse to a halt when he saw us, rifles in our arms. The others followed suit.
“So,” he said, “the coward sends out women to defend him. What are you doing here, Lizzie? This is no affair of yours.”
“It is my affair when unjust accusations are flung about.”
“Then you should be with us, and against them.” He motioned at Addie Lawton, then the cabin. To her, he added: “Go inside and send out the Cornishman.”
She stared at him, her eyes hard.
I said: “I’m afraid she can’t do that.”
“Why? He’s here, isn’t he?”
“He is, in a fashion.”
The crowd was silent now, listening closely. Tod glanced back at them. “You speak in riddles, Lizzie.”
“Very well, I’ll speak plainly. Andrew Trevelyan died this morning. Of pneumonia. He became ill two weeks ago and has been bedridden ever since. It’s quite impossible that he smashed our office windows, shot John Estes, stole our cyanide, or poisoned those wells.”
Tod’s face reddened. “Did she”—again motioning at Addie Lawton—“tell you that?”
“I saw his body with my own eyes. He could not have done those things. But an enemy of his could. An enemy who had access to our office . . . and to the cyanide at the Knob. And who claims he saw Andrew Trevelyan ‘skulking’ around the mill the night the cyanide was taken. Yet the same person was unsure earlier today as to when the drum disappeared.”
The men with Tod were beginning to cast suspicious glances at him. He saw their expressions and, without another word, whirled his horse and galloped off into the woods. A murmur of unrest traveled through the crowd. One man shouted: “He’s the one she’s talking about!”
Fearing the mob would now turn its rage upon Tod, I said: “Leave him be. Mister Horton has gone into Talbot’s Mills for the sheriffs deputy.”
“But he’ll escape before the deputy arrives!” another man cried.
“Mister Schuyler won’t go far. Men like him are unaccustomed to fleeing on horseback, particularly in a snowstorm.”
A few flakes had touched my cheeks in the past minute. The men in the crowd turned their faces to the sky and watched the snow begin to fall more thickly. Then, in silence, they turned their horses toward town.
Tod Schuyler was apprehended while struggling through the high drifts near Talbot’s Mills the next morning, after being thrown by his horse and spending the frigid night in an abandoned cabin. Although there was no substantial proof of my allegations against him and formal charges were never brought, his career with Denver Precious Metals was over. Early in the new year, he abandoned his family and disappeared into Mexico.
The poison in the wells diluted quickly, and, with the spring run-off, they were pure once more. The memory of the incident so remained in the consciousness of Soledad County’s populace, however, that they took to calling Seven Wells Cyanide Wells. Several years later, it became the official appellation.
The Forrest-MacArthur process proved very successful for us, and eventually earned great profit for the company. In April, John Estes was appointed mill manager at the Knob. He and his wife, the former Dora Collins, and their son Noah still live in Cyanide Wells.
Uncle Hort went back to Denver, but within a year he was off to Montana’s copper country. A restless man with an insatiable appetite for new places, he nevertheless stays in contact with those he holds dear.
In July of that fortuitous New Year, Lionel and I boarded a stage for Virginia City, Nevada and the Comstock Lode. There we became known as the first husband-and-wife cyaniders—a title that might sound ominous to many, but to us signifies a sharing of the life we love.
About the Author
Born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, Marcia Muller has been a full-time novelist since 1983. She received her bachelor’s degree in English literature and master’s degree in journalism from the University of Michigan. Upon graduation she worked for Sunset magazine, and then as a freelance writer as well as being a partner in an editorial services firm. She is the author of thirty crime novels, twenty-two of which feature her much-loved San Francisco investigator, Sharon McCone, who made her debut in 1977. Recipient of numerous awards, including the American Mystery Award and the Private Eye Writers of America Shamus Award, in 1993 Muller was presented with the Private Eye Writers of America’s Life Achievement Award for her contribution to the genre. With her husband, Bill Pronzini, collaborations have included co-editing twelve mystery anthologies and 1001 MIDNIGHTS, a guide to mystery and detective fiction. Her interest in the Western story stems from her love of history and research. She has lived in northern California since 1967.
Additional copyright information:
“Sweet Cactus Wine” first appeared in The Arbor House Treasury of Great Western Stories (Arbor House, 1982) edited by Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg. Copyright © 1982 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“The Sanchez Sacraments” first appeared in The Ethnic Detectives (Dodd, Mead, 1985) edited by Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg. Copyright © 1985 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“Cave of Ice” first appeared in Boys’ Life (6/86). Copyright © 1986 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“Time of the Wolves” first appeared in Westeryear (M. Evans, 1988) edited by Edward J. Gorman. Copyright © 1988 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“Sisters” first appeared in New Frontiers 1 (Tor, 1990) edited by Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg. Copyright © 1989 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“The Lost Coast” first appeared in Deadly Allies II (Doubleday, 1994) edited by Robert J. Randisi and Susan Dunlap. Copyright © 1994 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“Forbidden Things” first appeared in The Mysterious West (HarperCollins, 1994) edited by Tony Hillerman. Copyright © 1994 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“Knives at Midnight” first appeared in Guilty as Charged (Pocket Books, 1996) edited by Scott Turow. Copyright © 1996 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“The Indian Witch” first appear
ed in No Place for a Lady (Five Star Westerns, 2001) edited by Vicki Piekarski. Copyright © 2001 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.
“The Cyaniders” appears in print for the first time.
GREAT BOOKS E-BOOKS AUDIOBOOKS & MORE
Visit us today
www.speakingvolumes.us