Silver Moon

by Sigmund Brouwer

He groaned. Served him right for tweaking me with Clara and Rebecca.

  Silence again as we retreated to our own thoughts.

  Then Doc shuffled out of his chair. He left the room. When he returned, he held an envelope.

  “I got to thinking about Eleanor Ford and Lorne Calhoun,” Doc said. “I’d decided if I could find you anything that another person might have been able to get outside of being a doctor, that it’d be fair to pass it along.”

  He extended the envelope to me. “So I used my privilege as an old friend. I went through everything in his room at the boarding house. I was hoping for a diary,” Doc said. “Tried to convince myself that Lorne wouldn’t mind, since we’re both set on finding the same answers that I suspect he died looking for.”

  I took the envelope. It was thin. Didn’t have much in it.

  “It’s only a letter,” Doc told me. “Ticket stubs. A telegram. I searched for two hours. That’s all I found that was of interest.”

  “Why of interest?” I tucked the letter beneath my vest in my shirt pocket.

  “No,” Doc said. “You read it first. I’d like you to come up with your own opinion without me coloring it first.”

  “All right.” A spasm of pain shook my leg, and I couldn’t hold back the groan.

  “It’ll hurt,” Doc said. “For more than a couple days. But it could have been worse. The bullet only took muscle. And it passed clear through. The boys got you back into town quick enough. I washed it good, cleared it of sand and dirt. Then cauterized it. You’re strong, healthy. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, a cane should be all you need.”

  I thought of the dust that had kicked from the shirt of Clayton Barnes. Thought of how Doc had said we’d didn’t know from day to day if we’d live to see the sunset. “Give me the pain anyday, Doc. Beats a coffin.”

  Doc agreed but did not sit.

  It probably had been a long day for him. He wasn’t young. And somehow, he was seeming more frail. He was probably aching to rest.

  I struggled to my feet, then grinned at the effort it took, because it was effort that reminded me my bed tonight would be a bed, not a coffin.

  “You’ll watch yourself,” Doc said. “Whoever did the shooting was serious about his intentions.”

  “I’ll watch myself,” I agreed. “But right now, I’m more worried about walking half naked through town. You didn’t leave me much for pants when you got at my leg.”

  “Keep the blanket,” Doc said. “Return it tomorrow.”

  Doc walked me down to the street and nodded goodnight.

  I stumped it back toward my rented house, glad for the darkness of the streets and the lack of passersby.It was awkward to use the crutches, more awkward to keep the blanket around myself. I made progress only after I decided practicality took precedence over modesty, and slung the blanket over my shoulder. Even at that pace, it took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the small house at the back edge of town.

  I wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the night.

  Usually, tiredness was all the cure I needed to get through the dark of night. Enough tiredness that when my head touched the pillow, I’d be asleep.

  I knew tonight, by the pounding throbs of my left thigh, I’d be lucky to catch a catnap before morning. Which meant I’d be alone with the thoughts of Rebecca, and how she as Evening Star was building a life apart from me among the Sioux.

  I was right about the lack of sleep. But wrong about being alone.

  I dropped the blanket at the door and fumbled with a box of matches that I kept near the solitary lamp in the small front room of the house. When the burning wick flared light into the small front room of the house, Dehlia Christopher called my name from the shadows where she sat on a corner chair.

  Chapter 24

  I leaned against the left crutch, dropped the one in my right hand, and drew my Colt. Leveled it at her head. Cocked the hammer.

  I sighed. Pointed the Colt at the floor. Eased the hammer back. Holstered the revolver.

  “You’ll excuse me for jumpiness,” I said. “The afternoon did not treat me kindly.”

  “You don’t consider me dangerous?” Her voice was a teasing pout.

  “Extremely,” I said. “But if you — or maybe brothers nearby — wanted me dead, it would have happened as I lit the lamp.”

  “Why would anyone want you dead, Marshal?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I should know the reason?”

  “Admirable habit, Dehlia. Answering with questions. Like you’re working hard to keep a man on edge.”

  No response.

  With the help of my remaining crutch, I moved ahead to the small bedroom just beyond her chair.

  “If you don’t mind actually receiving an invitation, feel welcome to make yourself at home as you wait,” I said as I passed her. “It’ll take me a few minutes get a fresh pair of pants.”

  She stayed. Her brothers were not hidden in the bedroom. As it was the only bedroom in this small, woodframe house, and as the small kitchen was in plain view of the front parlor, I concluded she was here alone.

  As I struggled out of my torn pants, then into the next pair, I broke into a sweat again. The drops felt like blood on my forehead. In short, no matter how good Dehlia looked, and she did look very good in the soft yellow light of a room that had been barren of any woman since I’d moved in, I was not predisposed to light conversation when I returned to the parlor and took a chair opposite her.

  “I’d heard,” she said, “that you’d been shot.”

  I let my grunt of pain as I sat serve as an answer.

  She stood from her chair, crossed the short distance between us, and placed her hand on my shoulder.“That’s why I took the chance of coming here.”

  “Not my boyish charm? Or my wonderful manners?” I did my best to keep my voice surly. It bothered me, that I was so conscious of her light touch, and of the waft of perfume and of the slimness of her body and of the fit of her pants.

  She smiled as she looked down on me. “In your way, you have considerable boyish charm. And manners that intrigue me.”

  She sat on her haunches, and smiled again as she stared upward into my face. “Truly, Marshal, I’d like to know more about you.”

  The tilt of her flawless face and gleam of teeth from parted lips, and slow, lazy smile combined to make a good painkiller, for I barely knew my bandaged leg existed.

  “I’d like to know where you got that scar.” She traced its lines along my cheek with the fingernail of her other hand.

  There was that medicine bundle in my bedroom to remind me of Rebecca. This woman was beautiful, but I loved another. I pushed her hand away.

  “As I reckon this is just a game to you,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll cut to the chase?”

  That lazy smile only grew lazier as she stood. “I like a horse that doesn’t take easy to the bit. Shows spirit.”

  “It’s a real shame you hold that what passes between a man and a woman is a matter of who’s got the reins,” I replied after a moment. “Situation like that, you can honey the bit all you want, it don’t hide the taste of steel.”

  She laughed. Low and teasing. “A philospher lurks within all that brawn.”

  “If you say so. I’ll remind you that whoever lurks there is tired. Gunshot and real tired. So if you don’t mind…”

  “I don’t mind.” She became intent. “The bank vault murders. I’m here to save your life. Drop the search.”

  My turn to smile lazy triumph. “Which brother you trying to protect?”

  She paced several steps. I liked that, she had to pause for an answer.

  “Ignorant fool,” she said without passion. “You have no idea. That’s what’s going to get you killed.”

  “I have an idea now,” I said. “You gambled you could turn me away. Gambled that against what I might do with what I learned from your visit tonight. And what I learned is that you and your brothers are tied in to the killing.”

  She shook he
r head. Those full lips were tight in frustration. “Think what you like, Marshal, you have no idea what’s happening.”

  “It’s a gamble you lost,” I said.

  “Listen.” Her voice was urgent. I almost believed she wasn’t acting. “Just wait a week. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “One week. Then what?”

  “Then I’ll deliver everything. Seven days won’t make a difference to the dead men.”

  “Why not now?” I persisted.

  “I’ve risked everything, just to warn you.”

  I snorted sarcasm. “Because of my pretty face, no doubt.”

  “Listen to yourself. Arrogant, insufferable. So centered on yourself that you need to somehow believe I’m here because of you.”

  She spun on her heel and pointed at me. “Chew this. Just happened that I did think it’d be a pleasure to try honey as a way to make my request. But I’m here for me. Two men already dead, three including the cowboy that died out there with you today. I don’t want it on my conscience that a fourth followed, and I don’t care if that fourth is old, young, ugly, fat or stupid.”

  She stopped to draw a breath, then raged on. “Instead, with that smirk on your face, right now’s when I start praying the next person dead is you.”

  She stomped past me.

  I clamped her wrist. She was mad enough, she almost pulled me from the chair.

  “You know the murderer,” I said, equally fierce. “Tell me who it is. Whether or not I win your popularity contest.”

  “Good night,” she said.“You’re under arrest.”

  She laughed. A nasty laugh, this time. “Under arrest for what?”

  “Accomplice to the murder.”

  “You have a witness to swear I told you anything I did? Or do you want me to start screaming for help right now?”

  I dropped her wrist.

  She reached the door. Smiled sweet venom at me. Then slammed it shut with a force that made me grateful not to have paintings on the wall.

  ******************

  As I laid in the dark, my mind worked through all the implications of the Dehlia’s words. She’d as much as admitted that she knew the murderer and why the men had been murdered. She’d gone as far as accepting some of the blame for their deaths.

  Couldn’t I somehow tie that in with the scattered pieces of information I’d managed to glean over the last few days?

  I didn’t make the attempt.

  Whenever I managed to think beyond the pain of my leg, my mind returned instead to my worry and fear and love for Rebecca. Every night here in Laramie I counted the time that would pass until I reached her next spring, took out and polished every memory I had of her, and fell asleep filled with mingled sadness and hope.

  I could not sleep.

  I threw the covers back, and hobbled to the uncurtained window of the bedroom.

  The cool air of the open window did little to ease my frustration. Dehlia had made it clear a kiss was there for the taking, and it had led me to wonder if Rebecca had faced the same temptations as Evening Star among the Sioux. What if I was being the fool here while she gave her love to others there?

  Jealousy flitted close.

  I told myself I was being irrational. I told myself that I was working myself into a frenzy. I told myself to sleep.

  But when dawn broke and gray began to fill the bedroom, I was still sitting on my bed, legs in front to ease the pain, exhaustion not even enough to shut out my thoughts.

  Next spring seemed too far away.

  Chapter 25

  At some point, I did doze.

  When I woke, mouth dry, knives of pain in my leg, I remembered what I had intended to do until the powerful distraction of Dehlia’s presence — read the content’s of Doc’s envelope, tucked into the back pocket of my torn pants.

  I went for the jug in the kitchen first, splashing cold water against my face to remove the chalky exhaustion that hurt my eyeballs. I kindled a small fire in the pot belly, set a pot of coffee to brew. Then I drank near a quart of water, which reminded my system of all the water I’d taken in the previous evening, so I hopped and cussed each step to the privy, and hopped and cussed each step back.

  The sun was bright by then, and for a moment, I wondered about Brother Lewis. He’d been alone in the marshal’s office almost twenty-four hours. I only wondered briefly, for I knew I had more to complain about than he did, and contemplating his suffering improved my mood.

  I took my time dressing. Noticed the sweat didn’t pop out near as much. Then I tracked down an old set of boots, as I had no urge to continue wearing a set with only one heel.

  Coffee was good and strong by the time I had a mug and was able to set myself in the chair that in earlier darkness had supported Dehlia Christopher.

  I read the letter first.

  August 26, 1874.

  Dear Mr. Calhoun,

  I appreciate your willingness to go above and beyond the normal call of bank duty, especially in light of the suspicions we share.

  I have enclosed sufficient, and I hope generous, funds to defray the expenses you might face. Receipts will not be necessary; if I cannot trust you, there is no one I can turn to with any certainty.

  I feel the urge to repeat, even after our lengthy discussion, the caution you must use. I have also changed my mind since our discussion — please do not risk being openly seen asking questions.

  As to your kind advice, please know that I have changed the will to safeguard myself as you suggested.

  Yours sincerely, Eleanor Ford.

  The telegram shed no light on this letter. It was dated four days later, and simply said: “RETURN AT ONCE STOP” The telegram had been sent from Laramie, and received in Denver, signed for by L. Calhoun.

  I reread it.

  Denver?

  I turned the envelope upside down, shook it. Four train ticket stubs fell into my palm. I knew, before I looked, what the stubs would tell me. Laramie-Cheyenne, Cheyenne-Denver, Denver-Cheyenne, Cheyenne-Laramie. Lorne Calhoun had gone to Denver from Laramie and back, at the request of Eleanor Ford.

  Bob Nichols had returned from Denver, anxious not to see his wife, but Eleanor Ford. The rebels owned new saddles made in Denver, and I had to recall no farther than Dehlia’s visit hours earlier to understand that these rebels were involved.

  Denver. I could no longer avoid it. Or who might be waiting me there.

  *****************

  Jake Wilson rose from my chair as I hobbled through the doorway of the marshall’s office.

  “Talked Mayor Crawfish into giving me a spare key late yesterday afternoon when you hadn’t made it back,” Jake said, from behind my desk. “Then I heard from Doc and we figured you might need some help, what with your leg and all.”

  I wasn’t listening to Jake. I was looking beyond him, at the cell and Preacher Lewis.

  “Oh that,“ he said as he noticed the focus of my attention. “Your prisoner tends to aggravate a man. He complained about supper. Same with breakfast. I don’t appreciate food thrown at me. And yelling gives me a headache.”

  I scratched my head. “But a …”

  “Horse? Does fill the cell, don’t it. You’ll notice your preacher friend ain’t saying much. This horse, as I was careful to explain to him, is about as highstrung as piano wire. Sometimes just a sneeze sets him off. Bucks, kicks, throws himself like it’s been possessed. I’ve seen that horse tear apart a stall in minutes.”

  I grinned in admiration at the huge black horse that stood in the center of that cramped jail cell.

  Pressed against the wall, Brother Lewis had room to stand, but not much. If he wanted to lay down on his mattress, or sit on the end of, he could do that too. It boggled my mind, however, to imagine how that space would disappear quick if the horse took it into his mind to prance, even a little.

  Brother Lewis glared at my grin. He didn’t, however, so much as whisper his disapproval.

  “I have apologized to your preacher man repeatedly
,” Jake said. “Last night, one of my fool stablehands fed the horse a goodly portion of cabbage.”

  Jake shook his head in sympathy. “Fearful, how cabbage will bloat a horse. Why, if that horse weren’t able to air itself out every five minutes, it would probably die right there in jail.”

  Jake waved his hat several times to emphasize exactly how that gas affected him. “Marshal, I consider myself fortunate to be able to step outside when it happens. A well-mannered prisoner might be invited to join me in the fresh air, but I don’t hardly see how that might be possible with this preacher man.”

  “You’ve shown fine judgement, Jake.”

  He beamed.

  “Except for one thing, Jake.”

  He squinted.

  “Don’t you figure a judge might consider this to be cruel and unusual punishment?”

  “Well, Samuel, I—”

  “After all, Jake, that horse didn’t do no wrong.”

  Chapter 26

  “Town council has just hired itself a deputy,” I announced to Crawford as I stepped inside his office without knocking, and without saying hello. I laid my cane across the edge of his desk and sat down opposite him, also unasked.

  “On whose say so?” He left the cane where it was.

  “Yours.”

  Crawford capped his fountain pen and set it on top of the papers he’d been reading. His suit jacket hung on a coat hook behind him, and his belly pushed hard at his vest. His sleeves were rolled up, and he left his fat forearms on his desk, his hands flat and palms down each side of the papers. He stared at me for a few seconds.

  I smiled. Told myself to keep smiling as if I held four aces and was about to show. “It’s going to come to light, your doings with Eleanor Ford. Best thing for you is to appear to bend over backwards in assisting me.”

  His hands flopped briefly, like the dying spasm of a beached fish. “Eleanor Ford? She’s a customer. There’s nothing there to come to light.”

  His twitchy hands, however, had rewarded my shot in the dark.