“The Lord’s work,” Alexander replied, feeling sure of it now. “That is a splendid animal you have!”
“Isn’t he a daisy? When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk! He trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it!”
“Homer …? No! Wait—Henry V!”
“Full marks!” Doc cried, reining around. “Father von Angensperg, may I present Dick Naylor? A quarter-miler to be reckoned with.”
“And this is Alphonsus,” Alexander replied, “a mule aptly named for a saint of many virtues.”
As though no time had passed since their first meeting, they tumbled into a conversation that began with Alexander’s now unabashed admiration for Alphonsus and Doc’s gracious admission that mules were highly prized in the South and considered superior to horses for many purposes. This led to a discussion of mule breeding, and that to horse breeding, and that to Wyatt Earp, who hoped to build a stud farm around Dick Naylor.
“I fear you have missed Wyatt again, sir,” Doc told Alexander. “He’s in Topeka, at the state convention of the Republican Party—” His lip curled at the words, and he added a confession dark with melodrama: “I have fallen in with evil companions.”
From there, the conversation veered off toward the score for Brahms’ Second Symphony, which Alexander had sent two months earlier, and that became a discussion of its orchestration. Music persisted as their topic until Dodge became visible in the distance, and Doc suggested that they have lunch together after he attended any patients that might be waiting for him. “Have you ever tried Chinese food?” Doc asked. “I have developed a taste for it, myself.” It was an enthusiasm he had passed on to Morgan and Wyatt, he told the priest, and with the expansiveness that comes with recovered health, Doc had urged Jau Dong-Sing to open a restaurant on Front Street, even promising that he and Kate would invest in the venture.
“Ah … so Athena has rejoined you?” Alexander asked carefully.
“Adjustments made,” Doc said briefly. “Compromises reached.”
The couple had come to an agreement about his working hours after Doc conceded that he’d been burning the candle at both ends while getting started in Dodge. Things were going well now, and he felt sure he would one day have as large a practice as he had cared for back in Georgia. People were even coming in by train, some from as far as Wichita.
Struck by this news, Alexander asked if he might propose a short trip east. The students at St. Francis would benefit from the attention of a dentist, he told Doc. “We couldn’t pay you much,” the priest admitted. “Perhaps a train ticket—”
“Nonsense!” Doc cried. “I will do the work pro bono, of course. My Catholic cousin Martha Anne will be happy to know I am assistin’ you in your work at the mission. Can you wait until October? I hate to leave Dodge during the cattle season, but I expect things to quiet down in the autumn.”
Just then a black-tailed jackrabbit flashed by. Alphonsus walked steadily on, but Dick Naylor shied and danced.
“He has taken a dislike to dogs recently,” Doc remarked, wheeling Dick until the horse settled. “I imagine anything crossin’ his path looks fearsome now.”
This reminded Alex of a cavalry charger he’d once owned. (“Valiant under cannon fire! Terrified of chickens!”) The rest of the ride was passed in an amusing exchange regarding the irrationality of horses, during which Doc alluded to his participation in the Fourth of July race. (“Do tell, sir! I am agog with anticipation!” Alexander cried.) The story of the fall was alarming, but the dentist assured the priest that he had recovered fully and felt entirely well now. Certainly he looked and sounded vastly better than he had in May, when he was exhausted and a good deal paler.
“When, exactly, did your condition begin to improve?” Alexander asked. “May I guess? A fortnight ago?”
“About then. Why?”
“I am curious, only,” Alexander said, giving silent thanks to Mary Clare, for he had been praying for John Henry Holliday since turning north toward Dodge. “If you come east in October, we could perhaps go to St. Louis for a few days! I understand the orchestra there is excellent.”
When they reached the tollbooth, Doc insisted on paying, and insisted as well that Alphonsus should have a night of luxury at the Elephant Barn, and that Alexander himself be Doc’s guest at Dodge House before continuing his circuit around Ford County. When Alexander began to thank him, Doc held up a hand.
“My pleasure, sir, but I would like to ask for something in return, if you don’t object.”
“Anything,” Alexander said, “that is not sinful or illegal.”
“Neither of those. A little more than curiosity, I should say. A little less than suspicion.”
Doc outlined what he wanted. It was simple enough. Alexander was happy to oblige, but puzzled. “Why not ask about this yourself?”
“The sin of pride, I suppose,” Doc said. “Such an inquiry might invite others to believe that I am hopin’ to be recompensed for the expense of the wake, and that is most surely not my intent.”
“Daddy? Daddy! A man just came into the store.”
Bob Wright looked up from the order he was working on in the back room. It takes a fair amount to unnerve a child raised in Kansas, and a man coming into the store was not what you’d call unusual, but Belle was standing in the doorway, half-hiding herself, holding on to the jamb. It had been a long time since Bob had heard that little-girl uncertainty in her voice. His reaction was swift: grip the shotgun he kept under his desk and go directly to her side.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Daddy,” she said with quiet urgency, lifting her chin slightly toward the front door, “that man is wearing a dress!”
Frowning, Bob scanned the customers for someone sporting a beard and a bustle. He’d seen stranger things in his day … But when he spotted the gentleman in question, Bob put the shotgun away.
“Father von Angensperg!” he called, going out to the counter with his hand extended in welcome. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
Belle recognized the name. It was that of Johnnie Sanders’ favorite teacher at St. Francis, back in Wichita. So that’s a Jesuit, she thought, not a crazy person!
This realization failed to make her feel a great deal better because everybody knew Jesuits took orders straight from the pope. Her father said that they were in league with Irish immigrants to take over the United States, which was why she wasn’t allowed to attend Johnnie’s funeral: because there might be some sort of papist uprising, or riot, or something. Even at the time, that seemed a little far-fetched, but the day of the funeral, Belle couldn’t argue with a locked door, and that was exactly why she took this opportunity to meet the man Johnnie had liked so much.
The moment her father stopped to take a breath, Belle said, “Daddy, would you introduce me to the gentleman, please?” Which he did, because there wasn’t really any courteous way to get out of it.
So there she was, little old Isabelle Wright, surrounded by shirts, hats, boots, canned goods, flour barrels, hair tonic, and neckerchiefs, saying howdy-do to an international conspirator wearing a dress! And she didn’t know what she might have expected such a person to be like, but it wasn’t this handsome older man with his sunburned face and smiling blue eyes and lovely manners. She was sort of thrilled by the way he straightened and clicked his heels and took her hand like he was going to kiss it, although he didn’t really—he just bowed over it and brought it close to his lips like he was going to—and said how pleased he was to meet her.
Except—and this might have been her imagination—there was something sort of strange in his expression, like he’d noticed something about her and felt concerned about it. That was disturbing, but Belle covered her confusion by telling him that Johnnie had spoken of him often.
Before she could say much more, her father cut in—so friendly in that embarrassing, fake way of his—to ask, in his heartiest voice, “What can I do for you on this fine day, sir?”
“I was wondering if
I might have a minute of your time,” the Jesuit said with a refined-sounding German accent. “I would like to ask a few questions about some money Johnnie Sanders might have left in your care, if that would be convenient.”
Which caused Belle to prick up her ears, and don’t think she didn’t notice the way her father made clear that it wasn’t a bit convenient, letting his attention be interrupted three or four times for things that one of the clerks could have done perfectly well, like quoting prices for a cowboy who wanted “a bran-new rig,” and penciling a long order on some brown paper for a trail boss, and generally stalling around like anything.
Suddenly international papist conspiracies were less intriguing than her own father’s odd behavior, so just to see what would happen, Belle said in her best Helpful Hannah voice, “Daddy, I’d be happy to take the gentleman into the back until you have time to speak to him.” And before her father could say no, she asked the priest, “May I offer you a cup of coffee, sir?”
Well! That changed her father’s mind about what would be convenient and when, because he took the priest right back into the office and closed the door behind them. But Belle was determined to find out what was going on, so she stood right by the door to listen and didn’t care a rap if anybody saw her do it, either.
The priest’s voice was pretty quiet, but her father’s had a sort of carrying quality to it. Belle was familiar with some of what he was saying, so it was easy to figure out what she couldn’t hear. Bob didn’t know anything about any money, but allowed as how Johnnie might have booked his cash and put it in the safe without mentioning it. Bob himself used to keep all the transactions in his head, but he was out of town a lot, what with being a state representative and so on, lot of responsibilities, you see. He’d trusted Johnnie to do the books in his absence. Then the boy died in the fire just as the cattle season was picking up steam, and Father von Angensperg could see for himself how busy the store was. Bob had been more careful about accounts back when he had business partners in the old days, but since he bought out Charlie Rath and Henry Beverley, he’d gotten careless because there was nobody else to answer to, and that was why he’d hired Johnnie to take over the books in the first place.
Now, it was Belle’s observation that when people gave a whole lot of reasons for something, it was because they were trying hard to make sure you didn’t notice something else. And she was trying to figure out what her father was covering up when he said, “I haven’t really looked at the account books since Johnnie passed on. What kinda figure are we talking about here, do you know?”
The answer was so startling that her father repeated it, and Belle gasped, which set off one of those coughing spells that had been giving her trouble lately. It was probably just hay fever, which doctors said now wasn’t really a fever and didn’t have anything to do with hay, but Belle did feel awfully warm, at night especially, and she would be glad when the first frost hit because she expected she’d feel better after the goldenrod died back.
She was still coughing when her father opened the door and frowned at her like he knew she’d been eavesdropping and didn’t like it, but he couldn’t say anything about it because he was still talking to the priest.
“Well, I sure don’t know anything about a sum of money like that, but I’ll check into it for you, and I’ll let you know if I find anything out,” he said. Except he had a sort of stiff look on his face that meant, Hell will freeze solid before I tell you anything about my books, you Catholic fiend. You probably want that money for the pope.
Belle could tell that Father von Angensperg wasn’t a bit fooled either. He thanked her father for his time, though his eyes were on Belle as he spoke, and he had that look of compassionate concern again, which gave Belle the cold creeps because she didn’t know as there was anything to be concerned or compassionate about. Personally, she thought she was the last person in Kansas anybody should feel sorry for, given that she was tolerably pretty and her daddy was indecently rich and her whole life was laid out before her like a banquet on a fine lace tablecloth, and yet …
Wordlessly, Alexander von Angensperg reached toward the girl’s pale and pretty face. His fingers felt cool when he touched her cheek, flushed and pink.
Mary Clare’s age, he was thinking. Poor child. Poor child.
“I will pray for you,” he promised softly, cupping her chin in his hand.
Hope smiled.
The Fates laughed.
Belle frowned.
“Um. Thank you, sir,” she said.
Under the Table
At speed, steel wheels clicking over rail joins have a cradle’s rhythm. Lulled by the heat and the train’s sway, at least half the people in the second-class car were dozing. Wyatt was drowsy himself and Mattie Blaylock was sound asleep, her head drooping against his shoulder.
He was pretty sure Mattie had enjoyed going to Topeka. On balance, anyways. She liked looking in the shop windows and there were some good shows in the theaters, but she was kind of spooked by how the political people acted when Wyatt introduced her. Men would smile and tell Wyatt how he was a lucky fella to have such a lovely lady on his arm, and so on. Mattie’d just stand there without saying anything back, the suspicion plain in her face. The silence would go on until Wyatt said something like “Yes, sir. I guess I am.”
First time that happened, Mattie rounded on him when they got back to their hotel room, like it was his fault when other men paid her a compliment. “I ain’t lovely and I ain’t no lady, and you ain’t lucky to have me, and you know it!” she told him, and he couldn’t tell if she was going to cry or spit. “What am I supposed to do when people say shit like that?”
Wyatt blinked. “Well,” he said, trying to be helpful, “Lou says thank you.”
“A man talks nice, he wants something,” Mattie muttered.
She was pretty bitter about that. You could tell. And truth was, Wyatt did want something, but he was getting better at living with a woman again, and figured now wasn’t the time.
“Nice ain’t always a trick,” he said, watching her undress. “You’re prettier’n you think,” he added, realizing that it was true just as the words were coming out of his mouth. He didn’t say anything about the “lucky” part. Mattie might’ve noticed that, because she just looked at him hard and snorted before she turned her back to him.
Later that night, lying in bed, thinking, it struck him that Mattie’s story was like Dick Naylor’s. It was natural that she was nervy and suspicious. All men had ever done was ride her hard and hit her. But if a horse could change, so could a person, and Wyatt thought maybe Mattie would get used to being treated better, like Dick had. He hoped so, because Morg was right. Mattie wasn’t such a bad person. She’d just been ill-used in her youth.
Sure enough, a couple of mornings after that, when they were getting ready to go out for breakfast, he noticed Mattie gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She tried a little smile then, and he could see her lips shape the words “Thank you,” like she was practicing, the way he had practiced “Mississippi” and “fifty-five.” Before she could catch him looking, he turned away because he didn’t want to spoil it for her. He knew how different you could feel when you saw yourself different, and he liked that he was helping Mattie the way Doc had helped him.
That was when, without warning, a wave of feeling washed over him. It wasn’t love, like he had for Urilla. Even so, it felt pretty good.
As the convention went on, Mattie started saying “Thank you” out loud when somebody said something nice to her, and then she’d glance at Wyatt and he’d nod, sort of proud of her. She still looked embarrassed, and never said more than two words if she could help it, but she started standing up a little straighter, like maybe it wasn’t so bad to be noticed.
Course, nobody in Topeka knew what she used to be. As far as anyone at the convention knew, Mattie was Wyatt’s real wife. And without really wanting to, Wyatt began to wonder how it would be if he and Mattie didn’t go back to Dodge. Like
: what if they just got on the train and stayed on it? What if they rode to the end of the rails, out in Colorado? They could get a clean start, both of them. Wyatt could quit busting heads and getting shot at. He wasn’t as good as Johnnie Sanders or Doc Holliday, but he guessed he could make a living dealing faro in Denver. And Mattie could be a new person. Happier, maybe. Less afraid.
Trouble was, a lot of men in Topeka had just spent two weeks telling Wyatt he should run against Bat Masterson for sheriff of Ford County, and how the party would back him if he did. And when Bob Wright came up for reelection, they said, Wyatt ought to challenge him for representative on the Republican ticket. That’s how Prohibition would get passed: one Dry representative elected at a time, until the legislature finally had enough anti-saloon men to do the right thing. But it would mean settling in Dodge for good. Which put Wyatt in mind of the train joke Eddie Foy told, where a conductor comes along the aisle and asks a drunk where he’s going. “To hell, I reckon,” the drunk says, and the conductor answers, “Ticket’s a dollar. Get off at Dodge.”
Halfway across Kansas now, listening to the chug and click of the train, Wyatt stared out the window, letting his thoughts settle some while he watched the land go by. Funny how you were traveling faster than a horse could run, and you knew you were moving, but there was no sense of the land under you. You lost the smell of grass crushed under your mount’s hooves and the sound of the leather creaking beneath your hips. You couldn’t really see anything small. The world was just two big slabs of color. Blue above, green below. Things got simpler.
It came down to this. If he was going to run against Bat, he needed more than suspicion. He needed a reason.
Put up or shut up, he thought.
It was early evening when the train pulled into Dodge. Lou and Morg were there to meet them but not Doc, who was laid up with a cold. Morgan wanted to go to Delmonico’s for a meal, so Wyatt could tell him and Lou about the convention, but Mattie had one of her headaches starting and couldn’t stand the thought of food. They stopped by Tom McCarty’s pharmacy to get her a dose of laudanum; that was the only thing that kept her from throwing up until she had dry heaves. Wyatt got her home and helped her into bed, but soon as she was asleep, he left to take a walk around town.
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