by Ralph Cotton
Curious… Sam watched Emma Vertrees leave the sheriff standing with his hands spread. As Sam watched he asked himself again what the connection might have been between the lawman’s widow and Memphis Warren Beck.
“Here’s your reply, Ranger Burrack,” said the telegraph clerk, laying his pencil down.
But Sam’s attention lingered for a moment longer on Emma as she disappeared around the far corner of the boardwalk. Had he been reading her and Beck both wrong? Had this woman simply been stricken by Beck’s charm? Had Beck only been responding to her the way any outlaw of his caliber would? Sam knew that a man like Beck stayed on a constant lookout for someone he could dupe into helping him should the opportunity ever present itself. Was that it? Or did they know each other? That was more the way it had struck him, Sam thought, picturing their expressions, the way their eyes had met. He’d have to give it some more thought….
Turning to the clerk standing behind the counter, he said, “Obliged, young man,” and took the telegraph from his outreached hand.
“You’re welcome, Ranger. Please feel free to call me Rodney,” the clerk replied.
“Thank you, I will. Tell me, Rodney,” Sam said, looking down at the telegraph as he spoke, “how long did Sheriff Vertrees and his wife live here in Little Aces before he was killed?”
“Oh, it must have been six or seven years,” Rodney said, rubbing a wisp of a reddish goatee as he thought about it. “I was just a young boy when Sheriff Vertrees took over. His wife joined him shortly afterward.”
“She fitted right in here, did she?” the ranger probed effortlessly. “Sometimes it takes a woman a while to get used to a place where her husband has taken a new job.”
Rodney glanced out through the dusty window as if the street might reveal more information to him. “It seems like it took her a long while to fit comfortable here,” he said in reflection. “She was shy, never left the house much at first.”
“I see.” Sam turned his attention to the letter, not wanting to appear too nosy about the sheriff’s widow. “But after a while she began to fit right in,” he said idly.
Rodney shrugged. “Yeah, that’s how it was.”
Sam fished a coin from his vest pocket and laid it on the counter. “Keep the change, Rodney. I’m much obliged for your help.”
“Thank you, Ranger.” He slid the coin off the counter and into a wooden cash drawer.
Sam turned toward the window reading the ranger outpost’s reply to his telegraph. No current charges against Memphis Warren Beck in any western territories at this time, Sam read to himself. Just as he’d suspected. But as he read the next line, his senses piqued. Three members of the Hole-in-the-wall Gang sighted and identified by stagecoach driver seven days ago near Lobo Lupo Springs, headed east toward New Mexico Territory… He paused at that point.
That made sense, he decided, beginning to understand why the Western Posse were hot on Beck’s trail. They were acting on information about more than one member of the gang being here. Memphis Beck just happened to be the one whose trail they found first.
Reading on across the three names, he murmured each one as if to implant it more clearly in his mind. “Collin ‘the Blade’ Hedgepeth…Bennie Drew…Thomas ‘Cat’ Weaver.” Not only did this explain the big posse being so far off their graze, he told himself, but two of these three names were on his wanted list.
Bennie Drew and Tom Cat Weaver had been wanted for murder long before they’d taken shelter in Hole-in-the-wall. It was about time they decided to show their faces, he thought. Folding the telegraph, Sam shoved it down into his shirt pocket and looked back across the street where Sheriff Gale had taken off his hat and stood scratching his lowered head.
Put her out of your mind, Sheriff, Sam said to himself. He had a feeling things were about to get busy in Little Aces.
Emma returned home determined to stay cool and calm and go about easing Omar Wills out of her house and out of her life quietly without any problems, and without causing a scene. She could do it, she told herself, entering through the back door and setting the basket on the kitchen table.
“I’m back,” she called out through the house toward the bedroom where she’d left Omar still lounging naked beneath the covers. Omar, not having heard her come into the house, had been busily riffling through an oaken dish cabinet when her voice caught him by surprise.
Emma heard the sound of his bare feet hurrying across the wooden floor. “Omar?” she said, stepping into the other room curiously. Looking around, she saw a door on the dish cabinet swing open slowly, and she knew without a doubt what the young cowboy had been up to. All right, stay calm, pretend not to have noticed anything, she told herself, stepping over and closing the cabinet door quietly.
She walked into the bedroom and saw him lying beneath the covers, pretending to be asleep. A big stupid child, she thought, looking down at him. She noted to herself that his trousers were no longer hanging over the chair back by the wall. “I’m back,” she said, raising her voice enough to penetrate his feigned sleep.
Omar opened his eyes groggily and stifled a waking yawn with his hand. “Oh, you’re back. I must’ve fell back to sleep.”
“I see….” Not wanting to play along with his deceitful game, Emma said flatly, “I’ll have your breakfast on the table in a few minutes.”
In the kitchen she tied a white apron around her waist and began working coolly in spite of a burning rage that had begun to boil inside her chest. She had no doubt now of what had happened to the gold coins in her change purse. Wills had robbed her. He was nothing more than a sneak thief—a low-life penny-ante purse robber. Whipping her biscuit batter into a frenzy, she said under her breath, “To think that you gave yourself to such an animal.”
Later, when the smell of warm biscuits drew Omar into the kitchen still buttoning his shirt, Emma had set out a plate, a cloth napkin, and knife and fork. Beside the plate sat a cup of steaming coffee she’d poured as she’d heard him walking through the house.
“Aw, this smells like heaven to me,” Omar said. Grinning, he stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her against him, his hands managing to cover both of her breasts. “After I eat, if everything is to my liking, we might just roll back in that feather bed and I’ll show you the kind of morning any woman wants to wake up to.”
“Please, this is hot,” said Emma, holding the tin pan of hot biscuits with a thick kitchen cloth. Her skin crawled at the feel of him against her. But she kept calm, wrenched herself away from him, set the pan of hot biscuits on the table, and said, “There, sit down…let me get your eggs and bacon for you.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m all set to dig in!” Omar said, rubbing his hands together.
After she’d set the food before him, Emma pulled a chair out across the table from him and seated herself with a hot cup of coffee of her own. She watched him eat for a moment, then said, “After breakfast, I think it would be a good idea if you leave.”
Omar stared at her blankly as he chewed a mouthful of food and swallowed it. “I hope you didn’t forget the peaches.” He gave his wide grin. “I love peaches after a good meal.”
“Yes, I remembered the peaches,” Emma replied, keeping her temper in control in spite of wanting to scream out that she knew he’d stolen her coins and searched her house while she was gone. “See?” she said evenly, nodding toward the jar of golden peaches sitting on a shelf on the wall.
Omar nodded and continued eating.
“Did you hear me, Omar?” Emma asked quietly, sipping her coffee.
“Yeah, I heard,” said Omar. But he forked more egg into his mouth and ate in silence for a moment longer, putting her off, she decided. Finally he said, “I’ve been thinking. You don’t really want me to go.” He offered a knowing smile and added, “Not after last night.” He winked suggestively. “You’re just playing a little hard to get. But that’s all right—an older woman like you. I figure you need to go that extra step to make sure a man is inte
rested.”
Emma just stared at him, her finger crooked in the coffee cup handle. She couldn’t believe only three days ago she’d been so starved for affection…. Forget it, she told herself. What’s done is done. Now to get rid of him…
“Omar, I hope you will take this the right way, but I just don’t want a man in my life right now. You see, after losing my—”
“The right way?” He wiped his mouth, using his sleeve instead of the napkin she’d laid out for him. “Let me tell you something about the right way. Running your mouth while a man is trying to eat his breakfast is not the right way. Keep that in mind.” He pointed his finger at her. “Keep this in mind too. You might not have wanted a man, but you’ve got one. I know you’ve been on your own for over a year, so it’s going to take you a day or two to get used to me being here. But now you best get used to having a man tell you the way things are going to be from now on.”
Emma turned loose her coffee cup. “Omar, leave. This is my home. You are not welcome here.”
“Hmmmph.” Omar forked another mouthful of eggs, chuckling at her as he chewed. “I’m not going no-damn-where. I’m the man of this house now.” He thumbed himself on his chest. “Now shut up and get those peaches.”
Emma felt herself about to lose control. She held on, clenching her jaw, and said in a tone that was little more than a growl, “Get them yourself.” She started to rise from her chair.
But Omar came half up from his chair quickly. His powerful hand swung sharply, backhanding her across her face. She flew sideways from the overturned chair and lay half conscious for a few seconds shaking her throbbing head.
“See? That’s what sassing me will get you every time,” Omar said, settling back into the chair and casually swabbing a biscuit around on his plate as if nothing had happened. “That was just a little slap—sort of an attention getter, because you didn’t know any better. So, now, let’s try it again. Get those peaches for me.”
Emma shook off the hard slap, struggled to her feet, walked to the shelf, and took down the jar of peaches. Without a word, she set the jar on the table. Seeing the harsh look in Omar’s eyes, she picked up the jar, lifted the sealing wire, and twisted the lid off.
Omar smiled. “That’s more like it. I’ll say one thing, you older women catch on fast, having been with a man before.”
As she turned and left the kitchen, she heard him say behind her, “It might be that you’re one of them who can’t get the day started without a good slapping—sort of an eye-opener,” he chuckled. “Hell, maybe you’re one of them that like it rough. Are you? Because I don’t mind accommodating a woman’s peculiar needs.”
Emma didn’t answer. She walked silently into the bedroom and returned with the gun Omar had left in its holster hanging from a bedpost. Omar looked at the gun and gave her a short laugh. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”
“Yes,” Emma said with resolve. She struggled at trying to cock the hammer.
Omar watched, taking a bite of biscuit and chewing it slowly as he shook his head. “Use two hands, fool,” he said. Then as if speaking to himself he said, “This is why a woman should never be allowed to carry a gun.” He swallowed his food, took a sip of coffee, and watched unconcerned as she continued to struggle with the heavy gun. “Here, want me to cock it for you?” he asked.
But as soon as he said it, Omar heard the hammer click back and saw Emma raise the gun barrel toward his head.
“All right, put it down now before I have to slap you again…this is how folks get hurt.”
The single shot hit him in the center of his forehead and sent his chair toppling backward. As the contents of his skull streaked up the wall ten feet behind him, he hit the floor still seated perfectly, a stunned look on his face, eyes and mouth open wide, arms outstretched on the floor.
“There’s that,” Emma said aloud, her voice calm and even. “You had no idea who you were messing with, cowboy.”
With the heavy gun still smoking in her hand, she stepped around the table and looked down at Omar, wondering what to do next.
Chapter 7
Sheriff Gale had returned to his office; but after considering Emma’s sharp attitude for a few minutes, he’d decided that whether she liked it or not, he needed to speak his mind to her. He still felt if she’d only listen to him he could convince her of just how perfect they were for each other. He a sheriff, she the widow of a sheriff. What could be better…? He rehearsed the conversation in his mind.
Closing the office door behind him, Gale had started walking along the boardwalk in the direction of the Vertrees cottage when he’d heard the single muffled gunshot. At that time a few heads along the boardwalk turned toward the sound, but only in reflex. A raised hand from the sheriff let the townsfolk know he had matters in hand.
Since the gunshot came from the same direction in which he was headed anyway, Sheriff Gale hastened his step a little, knowing that it never hurt for townsfolk to see how seriously he took his job. Besides, he reminded himself, loosening his Colt in its holster, with a man like Memphis Beck in town, who knew what sort of trouble Beck might have conjured up?
But the closer Gale drew to the Vertrees cottage, the more he began to realize the possibility that the shot could have come from there. “Easy now…” he cautioned himself. Stopping out front and looking the cottage over for a few seconds, he continued forward quietly, stepped onto the front porch, and sidled up to a window instead of knocking on the front door.
Peeping inside the house, he saw the gray haze of gun smoke drifting lazily into the parlor from the next room. That gave him every right and reason to slip inside and see what was going on without announcing himself and putting his life in danger. Here goes…. He crept over to the front door, turned the knob silently, and, finding the door unlocked, slipped inside, his Colt out of its holster, cocked and ready for anything.
In the kitchen, Emma had wasted no time. She’d gone to a closet and brought back two blankets and a ball of heavy twine. From a kitchen drawer she’d taken out a long, sharp butcher knife. As Sheriff Gale eased into the doorway behind her, she stood over Mills’ body, rolling up her dress sleeves.
“Oh my God, Emma!” Sheriff Gale said in a hushed tone, staring at the body.
Emma spun toward him, startled, her knife coming up in a defensive position until she saw the Sheriff’s Colt raised and cocked. Then she lowered the knife and said in a tearful voice, “Oh, Sheriff, thank God you’re here! I was afraid no one had heard the gunshot. I didn’t know what to do!”
“You—you did this?” Gale asked, stepping sideways for a better look at the body, Mills’ boot soles facing him from the back-turned chair.
“Yes, I did, I had to, Sheriff!” Emma said with a trapped look in her eyes. Yet, even as she spoke, she began getting herself collected, ready to say whatever it took to keep herself from going to jail. “He—he came in here while I was gone shopping! He stole money from my purse.” She pointed at the spread-armed corpse. “Look in his pocket, you’ll find it there! He went through my things, stealing whatever he—”
“Take it easy, Emma,” Sheriff Gale said, cutting her off. “Are you saying he’s a burglar?” His voice sounded skeptical.
Hearing the sheriff’s dubious tone, Emma said, “Yes. Maybe. Why, don’t you believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe, Emma,” Gale said. “Most burglars don’t stay for breakfast.” With a wag of his pistol barrel Gale gestured for her to lower the butcher knife and lay it on the table. As she did so, he kept a close watch on the pistol already lying there.
When she stepped away from the table, the sheriff looked relieved and continued. “Are you saying he forced you to fix his breakfast? Because, if you are, that sounds a lot more believable.”
“He did force me to fix breakfast for him,” Emma said quickly. “It was terrible. He—he threatened me!” She grasped for what to say next. “Look at my face, where he slapped me! I was afraid he was going to kill me.”
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Gale looked closely at her swollen red cheek. “How did you get his gun from him?”
Emma froze for a moment, not wanting to say that the gun and holster hung from her bedpost. “It’s all so confusing,” she said finally, holding her hand to her forehead. “But it was self-defense. You do believe it was self-defense, don’t you, Sheriff?” She gave him a look of desperation.
“I’m trying hard to believe you, Miss Emma,” said the sheriff, looking back at the body on the floor, then letting his eyes follow the streak of blood and brain matter up the wall. “I know how things can happen. But whether or not a jury would believe—”
“A jury!” She looked stunned. “Oh no, please, you’re not going to arrest me for killing him, are you?”
“Arrest you, no,” said the sheriff. “But any time something like this happens and there’s no witnesses, I have to take a full statement from you and turn it over to the circuit court judge. He decides what to do, if anything.”
“Please, Sheriff Gale,” Emma said, “I don’t want to go before a judge, or a jury, or anybody else. Can’t you help me?” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m the victim, please don’t treat me like a criminal!”
The sheriff looked into her eyes, contemplating the matter. After a pause he pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “I was on my way here, you know, when I heard the gunshot.”
“You were?” Emma said, taking the handkerchief and touching it to her eyes.
“I was,” said Gale. “I wanted to try one more time to see if I could get through to you about how I feel.” He gave her a patient smile. “After the way you cut off so fast this morning, I felt like I needed to say something on my own behalf.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Emma replied. “I haven’t been myself of late.”
“Please, call me Vince,” the sheriff said, more insistently than he had ever said it before.
Emma began to see a way out of her predicament. “Yes, I will…thank you, Vince. I know you might not believe this, but I had been thinking about you all the way home. That may have been what caused me to walk in unsuspecting on this man.”