Sweetwater

by Dorothy Garlock

  “Be glad to.” Armstrong looked steadily at Havelshell. “I ain’t nobody’s bought man. I thought I made that straight when I took the badge and told ya that Hartog wasn’t fit to shoot.”

  “You two-bit, gutless piece of horseshit. Hartog’s got ten times the guts you got. You took my money quick enough.”

  “I thought the money came from the city, or I’d not a touched one dirty dime of your money,” Armstrong said quietly.

  Smoldering in rage, Alvin stomped out the door.

  Frank, feeling the sudden hostility of the other men in the saloon, followed.

  “Thanks for speakin’ up.” Travor stuck his hand out to the merchant. “Travor McCall. You may know my brother, Trell.”

  “It needed to be done,” he said after shaking Travor’s hand. “I’m puzzled some. Aren’t you Trell McCall?”

  “I’m Travor McCall, Trell’s brother. Only our maw could tell us apart. At times it’s more trouble trying to explain that there are two of us than to let it go. Crocker was sent to kill me. He ambushed my brother instead.”

  “Well, horse-hockey!” Oscar exclaimed. “Was it you who come in here last week and twisted Hartog’s tail?”

  “It was me.” Travor grinned.

  “If that don’t beat all! Trell’s been in here off and on for several years. Yo’re as alike as two peas in a pod.”

  “Yeah. Trell and I got used to that a long time ago.”

  “About Hartog. He’s a bad’n.”

  “The sheriff, here, told me that last week.” Travor turned to Armstrong and stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

  “No thanks necessary. I was just doin’ what I thought a sheriff ort to do.”

  “Gettin’ us a town council and a law-and-order sheriff calls for a drink on the house. That is—”

  “Gawdamighty, Oscar! You sick or somethin’?”

  “—That is, if I get help washin’ the glasses.”

  “He ain’t sick. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Mr. Havelshell,” Frank called, as Alvin stepped off the porch and into the street. “Mr. Havelshell—”

  Alvin turned on him like a snarling dog.

  “Get the hell away from me, you stupid son of a bitch.”

  “I was tryin’ to help, Mr. Havelshell—”

  “Help? You dumb ass! You’re like the others … trying to drag me down to your level. I won’t be dragged down. Understand? I’ve got a law degree from the best law school west of the Mississippi. I was appointed Indian agent because I’m the most qualified man for the job. I’m not an ignorant clod like the rest of you.” Alvin’s voice rose to a screech. “Get away from me! Get away! Get away!”

  Frank stopped in shock and backed away. Alvin hurried down the dark street toward his house, the blood pounding in his head so intensely he could hardly walk without stumbling. The humiliation he had endured at the saloon ate into him like a canker sore. He’d never be able to hold his head up in this town again. They’d had a council meeting without him. He’d received the messages but figured they’d not hold a meeting without him. He was the most important man in this town.

  Alvin shoved his shaking hands into his pockets, then brought them out and hit the rough bark of a tree with his closed fist.

  “Bastards! Bastards!” he croaked in a cracked off-key whisper, not even feeling the pain of the broken skin across his knuckles.

  Alvin had been a total wreck, hardly able to concentrate on business at hand since he had realized that Longfellow was going to have him killed. Since that time he had not had an hour of uninterrupted sleep; fear haunted his dreams, food had stuck in his throat and when it did go down, it settled like a rock in his stomach. The only time he felt reasonably safe was when he was behind the locked doors of his house.

  For four days Alvin had waited anxiously for Hartog to return. Aware that he was a marked man, he had kept himself in near seclusion, not even venturing out when he got the messages about the merchants forming a town council. Tonight he had gone to speak to the one man whom he had believed loyal. Then the shooting had occurred.

  Alvin had planned to tell Armstrong about Longfellow’s threat. Because if Hartog didn’t come back, and the opportunity presented itself, he could kill the preacher himself and have an alibi of self-defense. Now that plan was shot to hell. Armstrong had gone over to the enemy. The whole damn town was against him after all he’d done for them. He hadn’t had to come here. He would have been welcome in a hundred, no, a thousand towns in the West. He’d chosen the stinking town of Sweetwater, and they hadn’t appreciated him; instead they’d been taken in and looked up to a two-bit phony preacher.

  Alvin’s mind whirled out of control and into a frenzy of self-pity.

  Thinking it possible that Jenny had slept with McCall, he shook with rage and frustration. He stumbled, then stopped and leaned against an oak tree. Jenny was not for a cowboy; a piss-poor horse rancher who could hardly read and write. She deserved an educated man, like himself. He could give her the kind of life she deserved. As soon as she understood him and what they could accomplish together, she would be grateful that he had saved her from a life of drudgery at that blasted Indian school.

  They would leave this one-horse town that didn’t appreciate a man of his caliber and a woman of her breeding. He and Jenny would go to San Francisco, where he would set up a law practice and build her a fine home. They would be the toast of the town, he for his business sense and Jenny for her grace and beauty.

  He began to smile, and then his high-pitched laughter rang in the stillness of the dark night. He headed home again with a jaunty spring to his step.

  Havelshell reached home unaware that his thinking process had gone awry, that his mind was no longer functioning normally. The logical part of it had shut down. In an almost joyous mood, he pulled out a leather satchel and began to pack the things he wanted to take with him: money that he hadn’t wanted the banker and Longfellow to know he had, his certificate from law school, a set of clean clothes.

  He made a quick trip to his law office and brought back to the house the contents of his file cabinet and his safe, took out what papers he wanted and strewed the rest over the dining-room table. He didn’t want Longfellow to get his hands on a single piece of his correspondence that might tie him to the theft of the reservation cattle.

  In the stable at the back of the house, he saddled the thoroughbred mare he had planned to ride in a parade down through the center of town when he was officially made mayor of Sweetwater. He brought the horse to the front of the house and tied the leather satchel on behind the saddle.

  Back in the house he went through it and methodically opened all the windows. When he was satisfied that he had created a sufficient draft, he splashed lamp oil onto the papers on the table, the floors and walls.

  At the front door he looked back at the disarray that had once been his tidy home, and without a pang of regret, tossed a lighted match to the floor. He waited until the ribbon of fire had traveled to a large pool of oil and begun creeping up the dining-room table legs before he calmly walked off the porch, down the path and mounted his horse.

  At the edge of town, he turned the horse to look back. All the downstairs windows of his house were alight with the fire growing within. He felt strong, relaxed, content, and almost unbearably pleased with himself. There was a special exhilaration in seeing the results of his actions.

  He licked his lips and rode recklessly through the night toward Stoney Creek.

  This was to be washday.

  The dark clouds that rolled in from the southwest held a strong promise of rain. Colleen, her blue eyes dark-circled from worry about Travor and lack of sleep, went about preciated him; instead they’d been taken in and looked up to a two-bit phony preacher.

  Alvin’s mind whirled out of control and into a frenzy of self-pity.

  Thinking it possible that Jenny had slept with McCall, he shook with rage and frustration. He stumbled, then stopped and l
eaned against an oak tree. Jenny was not for a cowboy; a piss-poor horse rancher who could hardly read and write. She deserved an educated man, like himself. He could give her the kind of life she deserved. As soon as she understood him and what they could accomplish together, she would be grateful that he had saved her from a life of drudgery at that blasted Indian school.

  They would leave this one-horse town that didn’t appreciate a man of his caliber and a woman of her breeding. He and Jenny would go to San Francisco, where he would set up a law practice and build her a fine home. They would be the toast of the town, he for his business sense and Jenny for her grace and beauty.

  He began to smile, and then his high-pitched laughter rang in the stillness of the dark night. He headed home again with a jaunty spring to his step.

  Havelshell reached home unaware that his thinking process had gone awry, that his mind was no longer functioning normally. The logical part of it had shut down. In an almost joyous mood, he pulled out a leather satchel and began to pack the things he wanted to take with him: money that he hadn’t wanted the banker and Longfellow to know he had, his certificate from law school, a set of clean clothes.

  He made a quick trip to his law office and brought back to the house the contents of his file cabinet and his safe, took out what papers he wanted and strewed the rest over the dining-room table. He didn’t want Longfellow to get his hands on a single piece of his correspondence that might tie him to the theft of the reservation cattle.

  In the stable at the back of the house, he saddled the thoroughbred mare he had planned to ride in a parade down through the center of town when he was officially made mayor of Sweetwater. He brought the horse to the front of the house and tied the leather satchel on behind the saddle.

  Back in the house he went through it and methodically opened all the windows. When he was satisfied that he had created a sufficient draft, he splashed lamp oil onto the papers on the table, the floors and walls.

  At the front door he looked back at the disarray that had once been his tidy home, and without a pang of regret, tossed a lighted match to the floor. He waited until the ribbon of fire had traveled to a large pool of oil and begun creeping up the dining-room table legs before he calmly walked off the porch, down the path and mounted his horse.

  At the edge of town, he turned the horse to look back. All the downstairs windows of his house were alight with the fire growing within. He felt strong, relaxed, content, and almost unbearably pleased with himself. There was a special exhilaration in seeing the results of his actions.

  He licked his lips and rode recklessly through the night toward Stoney Creek.

  This was to be washday.

  The dark clouds that rolled in from the southwest held a strong promise of rain. Colleen, her blue eyes dark-circled from worry about Travor and lack of sleep, went about preparing to wash regardless, saying the clothes could be dried later. Knowing that Colleen needed the work to help her through the day, Granny agreed.

  Ike set up the iron washpot beneath the shelter of the shed overhang and built a fire under it. When finished, he announced that he was going to the river to catch a mess of fish for supper.

  At daylight Jenny took breakfast to Trell. She found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his splint-encased leg stuck out in front of him. He was rubbing his knee.

  “Morning,” she said softly. “Are you hurting?”

  “Morning, sweetheart. Set that coffeepot down before you burn yourself.”

  She placed the pot and the plate of food on the extra chair.

  “Are you hurting?” she asked again.

  “No more than usual. I could get up and hop around if it wasn’t for these damn ribs.”

  “McGriff said he’d be back as soon as possible with the crutches. Maybe he’ll come today.” She pulled the chair with the plate of fried meat, biscuits and gravy closer to the bed. “Granny said this would give you strength.”

  “I’ve not got much of an appetite, honey.”

  “I know. You’re worried about Travor. We all are. Colleen looks like she’s been dragged through a knothole. You said that he was capable of taking care of himself. We’ve got to hold on to that until he comes back.”

  “Travor takes chances … sometimes.”

  “He’ll be all right, Trell.” She knelt beside him, leaned over and kissed him on his good cheek. “Do you need more salve on your cheek? Granny said that if it started feeling tight we should keep the skin soft with the salve.”

  “I’ll put some on later. You’re so pretty, honey. How can you stand to look at me?”

  “I stand it very well because I love you. I didn’t fall in love with just your face, Trellis McCall. I fell in love with all of you. You make me angry, Trell, when you think I would be put off by a little scar.”

  “It isn’t little, sweetheart. But I’ll say no more about it.” He put his arms around her and placed his good cheek next to hers.

  “I wish I could stay here with you.”

  “So do I. Kiss me. It’ll have to do until you come back.” They kissed, gently, sweetly.

  She sighed and leaned against him. He pulled her hair aside and kissed her neck, made a chain of kisses along the smooth, sweet skin. Against his lips he felt one of her arteries throb, a strong pulse, a rapid pulse, faster now and faster still.

  She seemed to melt back against him. Nothing had ever felt this soft, this warm, this achingly wonderful to him.

  She murmured wordlessly, a feline sound.

  He slid a palm up and over her breasts, cupping and squeezing.

  She drew back only inches. Their eyes met; hers were a fiercely bright shade of green and his were dark with longing.

  Another kiss. This one was harder and hungrier than the first.

  She moved out of his arms and stood. Both knew there would be other times when they would come together, when there would be no obligation to put a curb on their passions.

  “Go to your students. I’ll be all right.”

  At the door, she glanced back at him, smiled and lifted her hand.

  The picture books Jenny carried to the school were meant to stir the curiosity of the children and inspire them to want to know what the pictures were about. She also carried the alphabet cards. If she taught them a letter each day it would take more than a month for them to learn the alphabet. It seemed an overwhelming task.

  She wished that she’d been able to talk to someone who had been through this before. Cassandra was a great help. Her further education and Whit’s would have to be put off a while.

  Jenny was thinking these thoughts as she opened the door, entered the school and walked across the plank floor to the table that served as a desk. She had set the books down and stooped to pick up a cylinder of chalk when she saw him. She made no sound, but her heart almost stopped, and her skin tingled with fear.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Virginia.” Alvin Havelshell moved out of the corner and came toward her.

  “You just surprised me,” she said calmly, despite her splintered nerves. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you come to the house?”

  “Because I didn’t want anyone to see me. I’m leaving the country. I came here at considerable risk to myself to tell you that you and your sisters are in great danger.”

  “Danger? From whom?” Jenny was baffled by his statement.

  “From a source you would never suspect. It’s important that I talk to you … privately.” His anxious eyes shifted about the room, then looked into hers.

  “It’s private here.”

  “Someone could come in.”

  “It would only be my sister or one of my students.”

  “No one must know that I’m here! It would mean … my life!” He paused, then said, “You went to the bunkhouse this morning … carrying the coffeepot.”

  “Ike is sick.” Jenny was grateful the lie came so fast.

  “We can go out back, Miss Gray. Just out of sight … in case—”

  It
was the respectful way he had said Miss Gray that chipped away at her suspicion and began to make her think that he was sincere. That … and the way he constantly kept watch out the window toward the homestead to see if anyone was coming.

  “I would like to be on my way. I’d hoped to be away from the reservation by now.”

  “Why are you leaving? Who will be the agent?”

  “I’m leaving because I’ll be killed if I stay.” He went to the small door in the back of the building, opened it and peered out, then retraced his steps to the window. “Your sister is coming!” He hurried back to the small door. “Please. Let me help you. It’s the least I can do to make up for the inconvenience I’ve caused you.”

  Jenny went to the door and stepped out into a light drizzle. Alvin closed the door behind them and took her elbow to urge her into the wooded area behind the school building. She shrugged loose from his hand and would have stopped as soon as they were behind a screen of dense brush, but his pressure on her back urged her on.

  “I’ve got some papers in my saddlebag you should have. My horse is just a little way from here.”

  “I don’t understand any of this—”

  “You will. We’re almost there.”

  Jenny had no idea how far they were from the school. They had been walking rapidly for several minutes and had gone so deep into the woods that only small patches of sky were visible. She had begun to feel a twinge of doubt when she saw a saddled horse behind a screen of scrub and brush.

  “Here we are.”

  Alvin opened a leather bag tied behind the saddle and took out a handful of papers. He looked at them intently, then shoved them back into the bag.

  “What do you have to tell me? I must be getting back to the school.”

  “Before I give you the papers, I’ve got to explain a few things.”

  Jenny waited for him to say more. He took his hat off and hung it over the saddlehorn. It was a cool morning, yet there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He wiped a hand over his face and took several deep breaths. He went on, then, trying to keep his voice calm, but only half-succeeding.