by S. L. Stoner
The Poindexter’s dining room was busy. He paused in the doorway to gaze at each patron and give any would-be assassin ample time to see him. The town regulars were there, a few strangers and his boss, Congressman Newt Thomas. No one twitched in surprise nor showed dismay, although some started showing curiosity at his overlong pause. Thomas signaled to him, his genial face all smiles. Sage sauntered over, meeting various gazes, exchanging nods with a few. Not a hint of guilt in any of them. He felt his shoulders relax. His would-be murderer wasn’t here.
“Mr. Miner, please do join me,” invited Thomas, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “I am awaiting Dr. Van Ostrand, but I am sure he won’t mind your joining us. I understand that you did a bang up job on the map survey and records search.” The congressman had not waited for his partner because there was an empty plate before him, knife and fork crossed to signal he’d finished.
Before Sage could respond, he saw Thomas straighten as something behind Sage caught his attention. Sage turned to see Van Ostrand standing in the doorway. The man’s face was set in angry lines and there was a thin-lipped bristle about him. Those entering at the same time gave the dentist as wide a berth as the archway allowed. Apparently, the townspeople were familiar with Van Ostrand’s moodiness.
“Oh great. Looks like he’s cantankerous this morning. Wonder what’s set him off this time?” Thomas said more to himself than to Sage.
Sage thought he knew. Van Ostrand had finally learned that the partners were losing their accountant’s services for good. Sure enough, that was it.
The dentist yanked out a chair, sat down, waved the waiter over and silently pointed at the empty coffee cup before him. He addressed Thomas, “I suppose Miner has told you that ungrateful wretch of an accountant has decided to remain in Portland? He has the audacity to ask that we arrange for the shipping of his household goods. Hah! I will write that ingrate and inform him that he can make his own damn arrangements!”
Van Ostrand snapped open his napkin, laid it on his lap and instructed the waiter, who was pouring the coffee, to bring an order of biscuits and gravy.
Thomas looked alarmed. “Why no, Harold. Mr. Miner just arrived and said nothing about our accountant not returning. That is bad news indeed.” Thomas turned to Sage, “Well, Mr. Miner, since you have proven yourself a capable fellow, how about working for us permanently?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sage caught the sudden angry flush across Van Ostrand’s face and hastened to say, “Thank you for the kind offer, Congressman Thomas, but I’m afraid that I still have a bit of that gold fever. I want to try my luck up there on Scissors Creek.”
Thomas started shaking his head even before Sage finished his refusal. “A young educated man like yourself can make something of himself here in Central Oregon. It will be a waste of your time to rush off into the woods. That gold’s been tapped out for years. The real gold hereabouts is in timber and ranching.”
Van Ostrand interrupted, “Let Miner think for himself. He doesn’t want to stay in town, don’t try to make him.”
Thomas shrugged and changed the subject, addressing Van Ostrand. “Has McGinnis returned to Gray’s Prairie and the sheep?”
If anything, Van Ostrand’s scowl worsened. “No, the damn fool insists he’s staying in town until he figures out who killed O’Dea. A waste of time. The killer’s long gone. Besides, that shepherd brought it on himself. I told him not to fight back if the sheepshooters turned up. He chose to ignore my instructions and paid the price.”
Sage studied Van Ostrand and admitted to himself that he didn’t like the dentist. Up to this moment, he’d excused the man’s rudeness and seeming lack of compassion, telling himself that it came from Van Ostrand’s financial woes. But, to blame Timothy O’Dea for his own murder was a step too far. “I understand from Twill, that O’Dea was protecting his sheepdog, Felan,” he said in mild reproof.
“Only an ignoramus would put a cur’s life above his own,” was Van Ostrand’s surly rejoinder. Thomas looked dismayed.
Sage felt his own brow wrinkle. From what he knew of sheepdogs, a good one possessed great value in its own right. And according to Twill, the murdered Felan was one such dog. It seemed odd that a sheep rancher like Van Ostrand, didn’t share that understanding. But then, Van Ostrand struck him as someone who cared only about dollars and cents. Sheep ranching didn’t appear to be in his soul. He had neither Twill’s appreciation for the land nor Thomas’s deep ties to its history.
Silence fell over the trio. Sage cast about in his mind for something to say, finally settling on, “I heard that the government finally let the Indians homestead some land and that they are leasing that to sheep ranchers. Any of that land around here?” Van Ostrand acted as though he hadn’t heard the question, seemingly focused on cutting his biscuit into small bits.
Thomas, however, said, “Nope. That would have been a real help to us but most of the Indian homestead land is up closer to the Columbia. Besides, the government is poking its nose into those arrangements. Claims they don’t want the Indians taken advantage of. Humph, treats them like they are children.”
After shaking his head disgustedly, Thomas drained his coffee cup and stood. “I best be off, Gentlemen. May you have a good day, the both of you,” he said as he clapped his bowler onto his head. Without further comment, he meandered his way to the lobby, pausing to shake hands at every table.
Sage twisted in his seat to watch Thomas depart. He realized he liked the man. That thought turned him around to face Van Ostrand. The dentist was staring at him. Sage arched an inquiring eyebrow.
“I am trying to think what we need you to do next. You heard, of course, that Dr. Rosenberg is lifting the quarantine. You’re now free to leave Prineville on your wild goose chase.”
Sage feigned surprise. “Why no. Now, that’s good news! I take it no one else has come down with the pox?”
Van Ostrand nodded and took a deliberate sip of his coffee. Clearly the man was considering what he planned to say next. He cleared his throat, “You’ve involved yourself in the Rayburn murder. For the second time, let me give you a bit of advice. Newcomers to Prineville can get themselves into a lot of trouble when they intrude into local matters. You’re just passing through. I strongly suggest you gather up your equipment and head for Scissors Creek. That’s the best way for you to stay out of trouble.”
“I wasn’t aware people knew I was trying to prove Mr. Fromm’s innocence,” Sage lied.
“I very much doubt there is anyone in this town who doesn’t know that you’ve promised to help him. That’s what I am trying to tell you. This is a close knit town. You can step on toes without even knowing you’re doing it.”
“Otto Fromm didn’t kill Rayburn. His wife is a fine woman. I promised her that I would help and I intend to honor that promise,” Sage said, his tone emphatic and final.
Van Ostrand didn’t respond to Sage’s declaration. Instead, he was staring at someone who’d just entered the dining room, his attention locked on the newcomer. Sage twisted around and saw that it was the U.S. District Attorney, Heney. The man glanced at their table and his eyes narrowed. Van Ostrand’s hand twitched, knocking his water glass over. Water flowed and the waiter rushed to mop it up. Van Ostrand paid no attention. Instead, he abruptly stood, threw his napkin onto the spreading pool, dropped a coin onto the table and tossed some folded bills in Sage’s direction. He said to Sage, “Do what you please, Miner. But never say I didn’t warn you. We have no work for you today. I will contact you if we ever need your services again.” His tone told Sage that was highly unlikely.
Sage twisted again to watch Van Ostrand stride out. He glanced toward Heney. The district attorney was scanning the room, his eyes calculating and watchful above the top of his morning paper.
TWENTY ONE
Sage switched to the congressman’s vacated chair so his back wasn’t to the room. Before he got fully settled, bustling in the lobby caught his attention. Lucinda had strolled in and wa
s approaching the hotel desk. She wore neither faded calico nor her hair in straggling wisps. Instead, her honey-colored tresses were elegantly upswept beneath a flowered straw hat. Her dark brown dress suit was the latest style—no doubt a Chicago purchase. Expensive looking, the suit had three rows of copper satin trim around its bottom flounce. The same trim encircled her jacket cuffs and edged the fashionably-wide lapels of her jacket. His breath caught, first at her beauty and then with the realization that the carefully tailored suit hung loose on her body—silent testament to the long days she’d spent nursing the sick.
He glanced around the room, noting that others were staring in Lucinda’s direction, some with admiration and, on a few faces, disapproval. At one table, all six matrons turned to look toward the lobby, even though some had to twist awkwardly to see. These well-dressed, confident women were, undoubtedly, Prineville’s aristocrats.
He glanced at Lucinda. She was waiting for the clerk to finish with a sales drummer. Idly gazing around, she appeared oblivious to the attention she’d attracted. An abrupt movement at the ladies’ table drew Sage’s attention back to them.
His ears caught an angry hiss of words. The women were now leaning toward each other across the table, engaged in a whispered argument.
Abruptly, the most dignified of the six women folded her napkin, laid it carefully on the table and rose to her feet, determination etched in every line of her face. A few of her companions murmured objections, clearly trying to dissuade her from taking her intended action. With a flick of her hand, she silenced their protestations. Fixing her gaze on Lucinda, the woman advanced toward the lobby.
Sage rose too. No way he’d let Lucinda suffer insults or ridicule. Not after all she’d done for this town and its people. She might consort with the town’s bawdy house madam but she’d done work that none of those biddies were willing to do. Anger surged and his fists clenched as he strode swiftly across the room, heading for the lobby.
It was as if Lucinda felt his approach. She looked directly at him, her blue eyes widening in surprise and brightening. When she saw his expression, her brow furrowed. The woman was now just a few paces from her. Sage advanced faster.
Then, he halted abruptly because the woman was reaching out a friendly hand. Lucinda first looked startled before smiling and also reaching out. He couldn’t see the woman’s face but it must have shown kindness because both of the woman’s hands now clasped Lucinda’s. Sage shied away. She didn’t need rescue. His supposition had been wrong. He glanced back at the woman’s table to see a mix of scowls and smiles. Obviously Prineville’s proper ladies were not of one mind when it came to the town’s smallpox nurse. Good. At least some in this town could still make up their own minds and heed their own moral compass.
The matron finished her greeting, giving Lucinda a hug around the shoulders before turning back toward the dining room. As she came towards him, Sage saw the woman’s smile fade and her chin lift. There was both determination and pride in the woman’s eyes. As she swept past, Sage bowed slightly. She nodded gravely, her back straightening at his signal of approval.
Now in the lobby without an obvious excuse, Sage had no choice but to head for the water closet. Lucinda was busy talking with the clerk so there was no opportunity to exchange looks or words.
Minutes later he exited the small room to a sight that hit his solar plexus like a blow. Charlie Siringo was pushing his way into the lobby, his hands and arms full of traveling bags and cases. The cowboy strode over to Lucinda and piled them around her feet. A young boy immediately stepped forward and began gathering them up.
Sage’s teeth clenched and bitterness washed through him. Of course her man friend would help the little lady move. Sage’s gut twisted painfully; She was smiling up into Siringo’s face, her hand on his forearm.
“Stop it,” he ordered himself. “You’ve got no call to be jealous. She was yours and you lost her. It’s your own stupid fault. Let her be. Accept it. Wish her well.” Still, it took effort to keep his face bland as he passed the two of them on his way back to the dining room.
Once seated, he ordered breakfast and waited, casting casual glances around the room and out into the lobby. For a while, Siringo and Lucinda conversed. At long last, the cowboy raised his hat and headed toward the hotel doors. Lucinda turned to follow the young boy and her luggage up the wide stairs.
“At least they’re not so brazen that he goes to her room in the sight of everyone,” he muttered into his plate.
Breakfast arrived. Unlike previous mornings, the eggs were stale, the toast dry and the coffee bitter.
Freed, by Van Ostrand, from the need to work, Sage decided to follow up on Rayburn’s murder. He hadn’t spoken to Twill in a couple of days. Maybe talking to the Shakespeare-quoting Irishman would take his mind off all the damn romantic nonsense he’d been feeling. He sucked in air while counting to four, breathed it out for another four and then held it for another four counts. It seemed to work. He felt calmer, more in control. Yet another of Fong’s helpful lessons in the art of living.
The Rimrock was half full but conversation was desultory. Most were silently eating or staring into the distance. Twill stood with his forearms resting on the bar, shoulders rounded and head drooping. He didn’t look up when Sage stopped beside him.
“Hey there, Irishman, why the long face?” Sage asked as he clapped his hand onto his friend’s shoulder. He noticed that shoulder seemed stiff and the face Twill turned toward him lacked its usual good humor.
“I figured you’d turn up here some time or the other,” Twill said. “Van Ostrand told me that you’d finished most of the work he had for you. Said you did a good job and thanked me for the recommendation.” Despite the positive words, the sheepherder’s voice was toneless, almost mechanical in its lack of expression.
What had made the sheepherder so down-hearted, Sage wondered. “Twill, it sounds like you’ve lost another friend. Has something else happened?”
That question triggered a morose nod of the head and heavy sigh. “Ah, there you have it. One friend murdered, another one proved false,” he responded before quoting, “My heart is drowned with grief.”
“Gloucester, King Henry the VI.” Sage automatically supplied the citation. “I am sorry to hear of your friend’s betrayal.”
Twill raised his head and looked at Sage. “Some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.”
The Irishman’s face was so bleak that Sage was left with nothing to say. “Can I get you anything, mister?” the bartender’s voice broke the silence.
After ordering coffee, Sage turned back to Twill. The Irishman seemed to have snapped back into his normal self because he stood erect.
“What are you plans for today?” he asked.
“Well, Van Ostrand told me there was no more work, so I thought I’d get my gear together and head out to Scissors Creek. Now that the quarantine has lifted, I’m free to leave town. Before I do that, I thought I’d go visit that group of Indians camped across the river. They did me a favor. I’d like to thank them. Maybe buy a few of their trade goods.”
Twill snorted and said a bit portentously, “Yes, it is important to return favors, keeps the world in balance.”
Ignoring the man’s foul mood Sage asked, “You want to come along? Keep me company in my wanderings? I could use some cheering up.”
After a hesitation the Irishman said, “Well, it is not as if I am finding myself busy at the present. So, I may as well be keeping you company.”
They walked to the Indian encampment, Twill providing a running commentary on all the new construction along the way. A flurry of activity was underway on the far side of the bridge. The small group of Wyams was dismantling their tipis and piling their belongings atop calm ponies. Sage found his host, George Henry, and thanked him again for his hospitality.
The man acknowledged the thanks with a dip of his head, but it was clear he was eager to finish packing and get his small troop on its way.<
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“When I was here before, I noticed a basket of beautiful deer skin gloves. I was wondering whether your wife was selling any of those?” Sage asked.
Henry spoke to his wife in a low tone. She picked up a woven basket and stepped toward them. He greeted her, smiling as he said, “I also want to thank you very much. I know that you cooked that fine dinner and made that perfect coffee last night.” She smiled in return, saying, “You are welcome. It is not often our tipi is visited by white men with such good manners.” She held the basket out and Sage took it.
“I would like to buy a number of pairs if you don’t mind. These are so finely sewn and the deer skin is velvet soft. I have friends who will prize them.”
His interest brought forth more smiles and the transaction was quickly completed. Six pairs of gloves became his. This included two pair of women’s gloves with delicately stitched flowers decorating the cuffs. One pair was for his mother, the other for Lucinda. He chose that second pair at the last minute, even as a ridiculing voice in his head noted that it was not his place to buy a gift for another man’s woman.
During most of the exchange, Twill stood silent, watching. At the last moment he stepped forward and purchased a thick pair of heavy work gloves for himself.
As they crossed the bridge back to town, Twill made a pointed observation. “Six pairs are a lot to buy. You don’t seem to be shy in the pockets, I’m thinking.”
For a moment, Sage didn’t know what to say so he lied, “Van Ostrand paid me off. And I brought a bit of money along because I knew I’d have to purchase various items to complete my prospecting outfit.”
Twill grunted, then asked. “You been out Scissors Creek way yet?”
That question was mystifying because the Irishman knew that Dr. Rosenberg had quarantined Sage the minute he’d stepped off the Shaniko stagecoach. Thinking that maybe the Irishman had forgotten, Sage told him again.