by Ralph Cotton
“Gentlemen, this poor woman is still healing, and I’m afraid it’s too upsetting for her to talk about right now. You heard her. She just wants to leave here and get on about her life.”
Knowing he had won, Plantz took a step forward toward Julie and said to Major Gerrard, “Since a militiaman might have been a party to this, Major, I feel responsible for looking after this young lady’s well-being as long as she’s in Umberton. That is, provided the army has no objections?”
“I see no problem with you making such an offer, Captain Plantz,” the major said. “Of course it’s up to Miss Wilder whether or not—”
“No! Please!” Julie said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as desperate and frightened as she felt at the idea of having these men around her.
But both her words and the words of the major fell lost beneath several random blasts of gunfire from the middle of Umberton’s main street. “What the—?” Major Gerrard hurried to an open window, his hand already unsnapping the flap on his army sidearm holster. Plantz and his men followed suit, snatching pistols from their holsters and gathering near the window.
From the street, amid the gunfire, came loud cheers and applause. “It’s over . . . It’s over . . . It’s over!” an old man shouted joyously, as he danced an excited jig in the dirt.
A young boy came racing barefoot past the front yard in a wide circle, leaving a cloud of dust in the air behind him and waving a stick above his head. “Lad! What is all the commotion out there?” Major Gerard shouted.
“It’s over! The war is over! General Lee just surrendered his army!” the boy shouted back without slowing down. “My pa is coming home!”
“Oh my,” the major said with a gasp, turning away from the window, all color gone from his face. “Dear God, can it be so?” he whispered, looking back and forth between Plantz and his men and Constance and Julie. A second passed before the women saw the great welling of tears come to his eyes. “I—I must excuse myself, with your permission of course,” he said to Julie, sounding dumb-struck. “It’s—it’s over.”
“Yes, it’s finally over,” said Constance, left equally tearful by the unexpected good news.
“I will have to confirm the information right away, of course,” said Gerrard. He pulled a folded handkerchief from inside his tunic, pressed it to his eyes, recomposed himself and said, “So, I must get back to the camp. There will be an emergency meeting of staff officers, I’m certain.” He paused, then said to Julie, “Rest assured, young lady, this atrocity will not go unattended. With the war over, it may even mean we have more resources to pursue this matter.”
Constance accompanied the major to the front door. The other militiamen followed a couple of feet behind. Peerly and Kiley gave Julie a sharp knowing glance and a faint scornful smile, confirming for her that each of these four had been involved in her assault.
“Yes, wouldn’t that be great?” said Plantz, turning to look back at Julie, who had stopped and stood at the doorway of the parlor. Giving her a guarded glance while the major opened the large oak door, he said, “You can go on to where you’re headed, and know that we’re all back here giving this matter our undivided attention.”
Julie looked away, avoiding Plantz’s grin as he, Peerly and Kiley followed the major and Constance out through the front door onto the porch.
“And, until you do leave here,” the parson said, lingering behind the others and speaking to her in a low sinister voice, “we’ll remain close behind you, watching every move you make, whether you’re awake or asleep, just to be on the safe side.”
Julie gave him a stunned look, knowing no one else had heard him.
“That’s the least we do for our dear old colonel’s daughter,” he grinned slyly and winked. Then his smile vanished and he added in a harsh whisper, “Don’t count yourself more wronged than you are. I know you are nothing but the bastard daughter of an army camp whore.” With a dark, critical stare he stepped past her and out the door.
Julie’s knees went weak beneath her, to think that this man knew so much about her. She clung to the parlor door casing, catching her breath, feeling trapped here by these men, into some sort of cat-and-mouse game. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered desperately to herself, realizing that her ribs, her face and, more important, her spirit still had a lot of healing left to do.
Outside, the revelry had begun to grow, with more gunshots, cheers, wild laughter and music swelling along the dirt street. While Constance stood on the porch and stared off at the growing celebration, Julie made her way to her small room, sat down on the side of her bed and buried her face in her cupped hands. She cried silently, and in doing so she told herself to get all the weeping out of her system. After today, there would be no more tears. Not for herself or for anyone else.
Chapter 12
In spite of her pains and soreness, at first light, Julie arose from her bed and looked at the clothes Constance Whirly had foraged for her from among items left behind by countless guests over the years. Holding a modest gingham dress up against herself in front of a dressing mirror, Julie saw that the clothes were not a perfect fit, nor were they the type of garments she would have ordinarily worn. But she would make do with them until she purchased some more suitable trail clothing with the hundred dollars Baines Meredith had left in the envelope for her.
Looking closer into the dressing mirror, she touched her healing nose cautiously, noting the tenderness still even though the swelling was all but gone. “You weren’t that pretty to begin with,” she sighed, whispering to her face in the mirror.
She unwound the length of gauze binding from around her mending ribs and stood naked for a moment, looking herself over before stepping into the clean, soft cotton undergarments. Satisfied that her bruises, cuts and scrapes were healing steadily, she cupped her tender left breast, examining three purple bruises made by one of her attackers’ knuckle prints. By Plantz himself . . . ? She wondered. Or by Parson Oates, or one of the other two, Peerly or Kiley?
Stop it . . . ! She demanded of herself, seeing each of the four men’s faces staring knowingly at her. The mental image of them made her skin crawl. She had to force the smug leering faces from her mind, pick up the dress, slip into it and button it up the front, hurrying, busily, in order to keep both the faces and the dark images of her ordeal from overwhelming her.
When she’d finished dressing, she seated herself on the side of her small bed. She put on a pair of ladies’ shoes, buttoned them, then stood up stiffly, smoothed her clothes down and stuck the envelope with the money in it down into a dress pocket.
In the kitchen at the back of the house, Julie found Constance Whirly taking a pot of freshly boiled coffee from atop the black iron cookstove. The smell of hot biscuits, eggs, pork and gravy filled the air, awaiting the arrival of the four other boardinghouse guests. “Are you sure you feel up to this, child?” Constance asked, seeing Julie steady herself with a hand on a chair back. “Maybe a day or two more, before you try to ride? My home is your home. I won’t even charge you board.”
“Obliged,” Julie said. “But I’m going to be all right. You’ve done a fine job taking care of me.” She offered a brave smile. “I’m good as new.”
“I have my doubts about that,” Constance said, eying her closely. “Careful you don’t overpush yourself. You still need some healing time.”
“I’ll be careful,” Julie said. She liked the way the older woman had taken to mothering her, even though Constance could at times be a little abrasive.
“I should hope so,” said Constance. Stepping closer, she pushed aside a loose strand of her graying auburn hair and wiped her hands on her long white apron. “I saw how those men looked at you, Julie Wilder,” she continued in a lowered tone, glancing around as if making sure no one heard her. Her hand slipped into the apron pocket and came out holding a small pocket revolver. “I want you to carry this in case anybody tries to harm you today.”
Julie took the pistol and slipped it
into a dress pocket. “Hopefully things won’t go that far,” Julie replied. “If I can get myself a good fast horse today, I’ll ride away unnoticed.”
“Listen to me,” said Constance, insistently, taking her firmly but gently by her shoulders. “Don’t you hesitate to use that gun if you have to.”
“I won’t, Constance,” said Julie. “But I don’t want to have to shoot anybody if I can keep from it. There are too many of them; I have no idea who they are.”
“I understand.” Constance wanted to give more advice, yet realizing the difficult spot Julie was in, she could only shake her head and say, “Child, just be damned sure you shoot to kill.”
“I will, Constance,” said Julie, patting her dress pocket. “I can promise you that.”
“Will you be coming back today, before you leave?” Constance asked. “I’ll make you up some food for the trail.”
“I’ll try,” said Julie, “if things feel peaceable enough.”
Leaving the boardinghouse, Julie walked through spent cartridges and empty whiskey bottles left over from a night celebration. She went first to the livery barn, where she found old Merlin Potts pitching hay over a rail into a stall. Seeing Julie, Potts leaned slightly and looked past her toward the street. “Young lady, you are the first sober person I’ve seen all morning.” He grinned; then as if he remembered something unpleasant, his grin vanished. “The Free Kansas Militia has told me I better let them know straightaway if you come here looking to buy a horse,” he said grimly.
“So, you’re going to tell them?” Julie asked.
“Hell no!” said Potts. “Nobody tells me what I better do!” His crooked grin returned. “They said I better not sell you a horse either. But just watch me, if a horse is what you want.”
“A horse is what I want,” said Julie. She gave a look around over her shoulder as she spoke. “I want one that’s about half-green, spooks easy and is faster than a skyrocket.”
“You can handle a horse like that?” Potts asked, noting the bruises on her arms and throat, and the stiff way she had walked into the barn. He remembered the condition she’d been in the day Baines Meredith carried her in his lap; like everyone else in Umberton he had since heard what had happened to her.
“Yes, I can,” said Julie, confident in spite of her sore condition. “Can I count on you picking out such a horse for me and having it saddled and ready when I return later today?”
“Whoa! I’m no keen judge of horse flesh, young lady,” said Potts. “I’ve just been looking after this livery since Davis Beldon got himself killed—I’m doing sort of a public service you might say, until the town decides what’s to be done with this place.” He chuckled and shrugged. “But you don’t want me picking a horse for you.”
“All right,” said Julie, “then show me the corral stock; I’ll pick one for myself.”
She followed the old man to a corral behind the livery barn and looked at the string of horses milling amid a pile of fresh hay that Potts had thrown in only moments earlier. Looking them over, some of them the same horses her father, Shepherd Watson and she had brought to town, Julie’s gaze went to the other side of the corral where she spotted her buckskin bay standing saddled, at a hitch rail beside a silver gray. Her heart seemed to stop for a second. Then, composing herself, she forced herself to say with no expression in her voice, “These are all good-looking horses, Mr. Potts.” Nodding across the corral toward the other two horses she asked, “What about those two horses? Are they for sale?”
“No, ma’am,” said Potts. “They belong to a couple of militiamen, Nez Peerly and a fellow they call Kid Kiley. I doubt they’d sell them. Peerly just acquired the buckskin since last I saw him in town.”
“I see,” said Julie, feeling her blood boil at the sight of her horse—a horse her father had given her—in the hands of one of the animals who’d killed her father and assaulted her. Easy . . . , she cautioned herself, realizing that under the law Peerly could say he purchased the buckskin almost anywhere, and probably produce a set of phony papers to confirm it.
This was the Free Kansas Militia’s home ground, she reminded herself. Now wasn’t the time to step forward boldly and start making legal charges against these men. This was the time to stick to her plan, to get out of town and out of the reach of these killers. “Forget I asked,” said Julie.
Potts saw something in her eyes, and heard something in her voice that gave him pause for a second. He gave her a questioning look, then said, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll forget you asked.”
Julie looked back at the horses in the corral, away from her buckskin, trying to swallow yet another mouthful of hurt and outrage. After a moment, she pointed out a black rawboned Spanish barb that seemed to stand itself off away from the other horses, its ears perked as if trying to hear what she and the old man had to say. “That one will do.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” asked Potts. “He’s out of the old Comanche breeds. He might be too green for anybody to ride right away, let alone . . .”
“Let alone a woman?” said Julie, finishing his words for him.
Potts looked embarrassed, but then covered it over, saying, “I’m no horse expert, but that black barb is wilder than a spring antelope. I expect he spends over half his life with no saddle on his back.”
“He’ll do,” said Julie, unable to keep her eyes from going back to the buckskin. “How much?”
“Well,” said Potts, “like I said, I’m new at this livery business. I’m told horses are selling for eighty dollars and up—”
“I’ll give you fifty,” said Julie cutting him off, seeing he wasn’t as new to dickering over horses as he pretended to be.
“I’ll take sixty,” said Potts.
“After telling me he’s too green for anybody?” said Julie. “I’ll give fifty-five, and another ten for a used saddle and some usable tack that’s not dry-rotted.”
“Done,” said Potts with a broken-toothed grin. “I’ll get him saddled and papered and ready for you.”
“Thank you.” Julie managed to smile. “I’ll be back for him this afternoon.” She turned slightly, lifted the envelope from her dress pocket and counted out fifty-five dollars. As she started to close the envelope to put it away, she found it peculiar that someone—Baines Meredith? she wondered—had written directions on the underside of the flap. Never mind . . . She closed the envelope and attended to the business at hand.
Upon paying for the black barb, Julie left the livery barn and walked along the empty boardwalk toward her father’s attorney’s office. A few yards ahead of her, out front of the office, she saw an open-topped buggy pull up to a hitch rail. Before she reached the office, she saw a large man wearing a stovepipe hat and a wrinkled swallow-tailed coat step down from the buggy, his left arm cradling stacks of folders, a battered book and a bulging attaché case.
Julie walked closer as he hitched the horse and stepped up to the door of the office, pulling a key from his baggy trouser pocket. “Excuse me, sir,” Julie called out, seeing the door open and the large man start to walk inside.
He stopped and turned, facing her. “Yes?”
“I’m Julie Wilder,” she said, keeping her voice lowered and guarded, lest there be militiamen around. She gave a quick glance along the nearly empty street, but saw only farmers arriving early in their wagons, merchants tidying out front of their stores.
“Oh my! My indeed!” said the large man. He shuffled to the side and gestured his thick free hand toward the inside of his office. “I’m Horace Freedman, attorney-at-law, at your service!” He reached up and adjusted a pair of wire-rims on the bridge of his wide nose. “I have been meaning to come see you, Miss Wilder . . . being your late father’s attorney.” He paused as Julie stepped past him and into the office, taking a last quick glance along the street. “I—I’m terribly sorry, both for your father’s untimely demise and, of course, for having heard what has happened to you.” He offered a detached smile. “I trust you are feeling better?”
“My father told me he had hired you to work on having me officially become a Wilder.”
“Yes, that is correct,” the attorney said, looking more comfortable now, behind his desk. “The papers have been filed and accepted in Topeka. It is now only a matter of waiting until they return to me by mail.”
“Then I am now legally a Wilder,” Julie said, relieved. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
She started to stand up, go buy herself some trail clothes and get ready to leave. But the attorney stopped her, saying, “I’m sure you want to know about your father’s estate, don’t you? After all, you are his closest surviving kin . . . his only child as it were?”
Julie looked at him curiously. “Yes, I suppose I am, at that.”
“In that case I must assist you in filling out the papers—”
“I don’t have time to fill out any papers today,” Julie said, cutting him off. “I have some things planned that I have to do.”
“—for the transfer of the deed to the farm,” Freedman continued as if he’d never stopped. “And for the acceptance of his money from the colonel’s account at the bank.”
“You mean, the col—that is, my father left me everything, his farm, his money?”
“Yes, indeed he did,” said the attorney. “Shepherd Watson would have had an interest in the farm and a modest set-aside amount of cash. But owing to these unfortunate circumstances, poor Shep is out of the picture. It’s all yours.”
Julie sat staring at him. “How much money is in the account at the bank?”