"Those letters wouldn't happen to be for me or my men, would they?"
Amos looked down himself, seeming to realize for the first time that he held a batch of mail in his fist. "Uh, yessir, right enough." He made a production of thumbing through the envelopes. "Something for Leon, another two for Henry Dobbs. None for you this time around. But that Dobbs sure has been getting more than his share of letters lately. Why, he must have had four letters just this past month."
For a split second, Del wondered why the postmaster would bother to count how many letters anyone in town received. But he tamped down the mild curiosity. He wasn't going to discuss Henry Dobbs' personal business. Maybe that was how Stanislaus got so much gossip from folks. He tricked them into volunteering details about their lives that were nobody's concern.
"I'll see he gets these," Del replied, reaching to take the mail out of the older man's hand.
"That sure was a shame about the Fourth of July celebration, wasn't it? Oh, I forgot. You and Leon and the others were gone…so you didn't even hear about it yet."
There was a distinct gleam in the man's eyes. "Widow Pratt try baking her awful pies again?" Del couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. A couple of years before, at least a dozen men spent all day July 5th in their outhouses after the widow's pies got donated to the pie-eating contest. Luckily for him, Del wasn't much for pie. "Thank the Lord I never enter those eating competitions. Pie, watermelon, whatever. I avoid 'em."
"Unless it's whipped cream and chocolate syrup. They say you pretty much took the honors in that one," Amos quipped.
Del had heard more than enough about that debacle and made his feeling clear to any man who dared broach the subject of his aborted wedding. Apparently Amos' memory was slipping. "Don't want to hear about that again, Amos. There's times when a man has to learn to put a muzzle on before his flapping jaw gets him into trouble."
Amos flushed and glanced around. "Well, there is and there isn't. I figure since you missed all the commotion and it sort of affects you…in a roundabout sense, you should be told. And it's exactly the sentiment you just expressed that will keep others from informing you about it."
Del bit down on his tongue so hard, he could swear he tasted blood. He really didn't want to know what other folks said about him, even if it was only "in a roundabout sense." He damned well knew better than to ask. You didn't poke a sleeping grizzly to ask if he thought you'd make a nice dinner. But frigging Amos had hooked him. Nothing to be done but regret it later.
"What happened, and why's it any concern of mine?"
Del hunkered over the counter and rested his elbows on it. Stanislaus really ought to put in chairs, like the barber had. Picking up mail was an hour-long endurance test. The postal customers should at least be allowed to sit while their postmaster bent their ears.
Amos went over and locked the front door, flipped his sign to "Closed."
A premonition skittered down Del's spine and pooled in the heels of his boots. Amos had never locked up to confide a malicious rumor before. Which meant one of two possibilities: either it wasn't just a rumor, but could actually have some basis in truth…or it was going to be way beyond malicious. Something truly heinous. Downright vile.
Dear God, no.
"Jesus, don't tell me Jordy finally went too far?" Del seized the older man's collar in his fist. "Did they hang that bastard while I was out of town? They get up a lynch mob or something, Amos?"
Amos slapped at Del's fingers. "Christ, of course not!" His shirt collar freed, Amos smoothed it and glowered at Del. "Everybody knows that horse's ass is a horse's ass. He ain't worth the rope it would take to hang him. Zoyer isn't even at the core of the trouble this time. No, this time it's a woman."
Del was swamped with relief. "Oh, well, that's a whole other kettle of fish. You know those painted cats. If it's not a disease or dispute over money, then it's some woman's husband run off with the best piece of pussy he's ever had. Who's the fella? Anybody I know?"
Amos cleared his throat. "That's the oddest part. It ain't one of …them." When Amos paused significantly, Del knew he was steering back in the other direction. A direction that could lead to a gal like Betty Lee…and he really wasn't going to listen to any tale concerning that particular woman. But before he could say so, Amos stunned him into silence.
"It's that new Miss Bell, from the emporium. I heard about your horse tearing up the place. Folks say you were there yourself. Same morning you left town for the sale, in fact. You met her?"
Del didn't understand why simply affirming that basic fact made him squirm mentally, but it did. Mighty peculiar, the vague unease creeping into the back of his mind. Sure, he'd met her. If you could call exchanging two sentences with somebody while your horse chewed their clothing a formal introduction. And that's all it had been. Five minutes of—
No, it wasn't, his mind argued. You thought about her afterward. About the color of her hair, the look in her eyes. Not just their rare golden color, but the silent look in them that spoke volumes to you. She looked…confused, and yet interested.
Hell of a thing, when a man wanted to muzzle his own thought processes almost worse than he wanted to muzzle Amos Stanislaus.
"I met her briefly," Del said. "Seemed a shy little thing. So what's all the big commotion about?"
Amos glanced around before speaking, which only made Del more uncomfortable. The man had locked the damned front door. He knew full well nobody else was around to hear them, yet he kept checking. How bad could anything concerning that mouse of a Bell girl possibly be? Unless her uncle had hurt her or had unnatural leanings…or there was some other dark family secret Del had no business butting into.
"Her uncle didn't…do anything, did he?"
Amos didn't seem to hear the whispered question. "I've got to tell you, Mitchell, I'm being as honest with you as I know how. You're one of the solid citizens of this town, and it just isn't right. Sure, I make mention of improprieties and maybe think folks could be a little more proper, for all that this is the frontier…but they've taken things too far. It's not Salem, Massachusetts, for God's sake!"
What in the name of green peas and horseradish sauce was this idiot blathering about?
Here Del had pictured…Well, he'd imagined her uncle with spittle on his chin and an unholy gleam in his eye, going into the girl's room late at night with a switch. Wanting to bare that little bottom for a good spanking—
Whoa. Del wasn't going to complete that nightmarish scene. But what did either of the Bells and the people of Wadsworth or the frontier have to do with Massachusetts? "You saying those folks came here from the Eastern seaboard? I never heard where they hailed from. Don't really care, but—"
"I'm saying they're calling her a witch!" Amos blurted.
If he hadn't had his elbows propped on the wood counter, it was just possible Del Mitchell might've fallen back on his ass. He wasn't sure he'd heard right. He tried to repeat the word, got his lips almost in a pucker for the W, but only managed a strangled whistle.
Probably because his brain still hadn't decided whether to whistle in amazement or hoot with laughter.
"You can't mean…? Pointy hat, dances in the woods late at night? Are you serious?"
"I'm not joshing," Amos vowed, raising his right hand. "A broom-waving, curse-casting, daughter of Satan, witch."
Del couldn't contain himself a second longer. He began shouting and shaking with laughter. Glee so magnificent, tears rolled down his cheeks by the third good breath he sucked in. He was barely able to wheeze between whoops. "Amos! If anybody…if the Devil wanted a servant…He could find a whole lot…worse that that! She wouldn't hurt a fly."
Amos, Del finally noticed as he began sobering himself, didn't seem amused. In fact, if Del didn't know better, he'd say the older man looked disconcerted. Wary. He'd backed up a couple feet and was looking at Del strangely. "You're sure of that? There's no credence to any of it?"
Now Del ceased to be amused himself. "Any of what?
All you've told me is some nonsense about people saying a certain female is one of Satan's minions. Didn't give me the least clue why, or how folks could come to that bizarre conclusion about someone who just moved here. Or even how it all came to be on Independence Day. What did she do, light off one of those Chinese firecrackers without using a match? Grow a wart on her nose while passing out fried chicken at the picnic?"
"You were there when it started. Folks say you saw her bewitch that horse and knock her cousin off the ladder, just by waving her broomstick."
"Oh, for God's sake! She was sweeping the floor inside the goddamned emporium. The man was outside on a ladder, hanging up a banner, and he's the one who spooked that claybank!"
"I wouldn't call it a 'damned' emporium, if I were you. There are enough folks in town who refuse to set foot in the place without—"
"Let me out of here, Amos," Del barked. "Now. Unlock that door and let me out of here. Miss Bell did not bewitch that animal, and this whole story is skewed so far out of whack, it's going to take some serious straightening…but I'm just the man to do it. Leon was with me that day. He saw the whole thing, too."
"Well, it's a relief to hear that at least part of that incident was misconstrued, but then there was situation at the picnic."
Amos unlocked the door, knowing full well Del wasn't going to storm out of it without that second shoe hitting the floor. Hard to believe there was more of this tripe. Del braced himself. "What happened at the picnic? She fly overhead on her broom singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic?"
"A live toad jumped out of Miss Margie Dayton's blackberry pie. Miss Bell and her relations had just taken the bench across from hers at the supper tables when the crust sort of bulged, and—"
"Did you actually see that with your own eyes, Amos? You actually saw the pie bulge when the girl sat down?" Del demanded, fists on his hips.
"Uh, not entirely. I saw Miss Dayton swoon, and of course, we'd all heard the shrieking and her accusations. I did see the offensive creature hopping away, but I wasn't seated right at that same table. There was a live toad, Mitchell. Covered in fruit filling," Amos said with a defensive sniff.
"Those Foster boys take real pleasure in tormenting Miss Margie, and you know it. One of them probably hid under the table with that toad for a prank. Was there only one blackberry pie?"
"Uh, no. One for each table. I reckon some had cut into one of the others," Amos admitted, looking a little penitent. Not enough for Del's blood pressure, but a little.
"Has everyone in this place gone around the river bend while I was away? Somebody distorts a tale about a gal sweeping with a broom and a runaway colt, and the next thing you know, we got folks ready for barbecued female trussed to a stake?"
Amos shrugged. "Well, you know how people talk…"
Del couldn't believe how furious he was. How ridiculous they were all behaving, how utterly unjust it was to spread a nasty rumor over nothing. He also couldn't understand why he was so passionately aroused to jump to the Bell girl's defense, but he couldn't recall being this angry since he'd read that damned note from his erstwhile fiancée. And he wasn't sure he'd been this furious even then.
"Let me set one thing straight, here and now. You say a lot of things you oughtn't about people, Stanislaus. I never have liked coming to claim my mail because the only other man in this town as fond of an open mouth is the dentist, and at least when he's done, someone's the better for it. This is beyond gossip. This is cruelty, plain and simple. Those people just moved here, and she hasn't done a thing to warrant being treated like some leper. I'll do what I can to put things to right, but you better watch what you say from here on out."
Del banged out of the post office and realized he'd better go have a drink or two. His blood was boiling and he needed a chance to cool both his head and his heels. Besides, watering holes were always rife with rumors of their own. Maybe he could start the patch-up with a bottle.
"You got a letter here, Leon," he snarled at the wrangler, who'd been waiting across the street for him.
"What did you do, open and read it, then copy it over neater and seal up a fresh envelope? You were in there so long, thought maybe Amos decided to ride out to meet the mail courier back in Reno."
Normally Leon's good-natured teasing made Del smile. Now he just glared at the boy until Leon visibly shrunk in front of his eyes. "Golly, Boss. I was just pullin' your leg a bit. What happened? You get a letter from Miss Lydecker again?"
"Worse than that," Del blurted without conscious thought. "Seems that while we were off horse trading, the townsfolk decided that poor Miss Bell had somehow put a hex on the horse and made him jump into the store. Knocked her cousin off his ladder, probably made some cow someplace give birth to a lamb…you name it. All because she had a broom in her hand that day. You ever hear such nonsense?"
"Not in all my born days! That's what old Amos had you tied up in there for, to ask about her hexing our pony?"
It even sounded ridiculous when this kid said it.
Del took a deep breath, tried to slow his heart rate. "That's what started it, but there was some foolishness at the picnic on the Fourth that we missed, added fat to the fire. We got to straighten at least the menfolk out on this. Maybe get Bet—hell, I forgot! Betsy and Avellina were there, too."
Leon nodded. "That's right, and Betsy knows that other gal didn't do nothing but help her brother get them garters off his scalp." Leon looked to be fighting back a laugh at the memory.
"Cousin. He's her cousin." Del started walking Leon toward Minerva's Pleasure Palace.
"Oh, right," Leon said. Then he squinted up at Del. "The other man's some sort of kin, too. Why do you think they'd let people hereabouts get such crazy notions and talk like that for? Can't be good for business. You'd think that puffed-up fella who runs the place would put a stop to it."
Del silently swore. Unless he missed his guess, that puffed-up fella Bell might have been the one to start it. Del recalled only too well the words the furious proprietor had shouted the morning of his grand opening. Something about a family curse and hell.
Then Del realized that for all he knew, Betsy or the other whores might have started the rumor. There were few enough decent women in a town like this one. The soiled doves didn't much care for competition, even though there were plenty of men to go around. Hard truth was, a lot of the railroad workers and local fellows would bed a strumpet, but they wouldn't marry one. The working gals had to look after their own futures however they could. Even if it meant slurring the reputation of an innocent newcomer to take her out of consideration.
A low blow, but then, so was taking off with a blackleg in the middle of the night.
Del had learned firsthand that some people would bend or break polite society's rules when it suited their purpose. Anybody could have started this rumor mill grinding.
He and Leon arrived at the Palace. Del narrowed his eyes at the bardog, a burly fellow known to be tight lipped and ham fisted. "What's this horseshit about the Bell gal putting a hex on one of the horses I sold to Gordon? You know who's spreading that? How the hell am I supposed to sell ponies, if folks are reporting my nags are half crazy?"
The barkeeper snorted in derision and set glasses of rye whiskey in front of Del and Leon. "I heard something of the like. Betsy told a couple of the men there weren't nothing to that. But you know the minister and how he can get to frettin' over a problem."
"The minister?" This stunned Leon, and Del was inclined to agree. He hadn't even considered the local preacher in the equation…but hadn't Del himself just been thinking recently that attendance was down at the House of the Lord? And Phillips believed himself personally responsible for every soul in Wadsworth—or what he stubbornly called Big Bend—making it into Heaven. The barest ripple of the Devil coming within a mile of the Truckee...other than the half-mile section of whorehouses and casinos Satan had already stuck his pitchfork in, and Franklin Phillips would come sniffing for evil like a coon hound.
> "You know how preachers are," the bartender said. "I wouldn't, but I figure you stop by church now and again." Del knew there was a barb in there about his busted wedding plans. He hadn't been back inside that church since.
He turned and hefted his whiskey glass toward a quintet of men playing poker at the corner table. "Hey, gents! Good to see you. Pretty funny, that tale about my pony and that gal over at the emporium. Girl and a magical broomstick. But a man has to wonder, if she could do all sorts of incantations and wave her broom, why'd she want to go busting up her own family's store? Seems to me she'd have had the claybank jump into the dry goods shop."
"Hey, that's right! Why wouldn't she do that?"someone inquired.
"Because she can't," Del said loudly and firmly. "She had nothing to do with that horse shying. Leon would know."
"That's right," Leon verified. "Del told me that bronco wasn't ready yet, but I'm stubborn. Knew he was a good piece of flesh, bring a good price. Now Del's got to pay for the window and that broken china. So I guess bein' greedy isn't always so smart. Specially when part of it's probably coming out of my pay."
Del had actually considered such a punishment, but abandoned the idea now. Leon had just made a sacrifice more important than money. He'd lopped off a chunk of male pride for a lady's honor. Time was, young fellows were knighted for that kind of bravery. Del slapped the wrangler on the shoulder. "Naw. You just get to break that black."
Leon grimaced. The horse in question was probably the meanest creature on four legs. Leon got the appropriate expressions of sympathy, and wandered over toward the table to join the others.
Del turned back to the bardog and lowered his voice. "You think the girl's uncle had anything to do with any of this ugly talk? He's about the nastiest-tempered dandy I've had occasion to meet. Not hailing from the East myself, I can't say what's proper and what isn't, but I never would've talked to my ma or any women kinfolk the way he groused at his niece when I was at his emporium. Said something about her being the family disappointment."
Hell's Belle Page 4