A Man for Temperance (Wagon Wheel)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I wish I could go help—”

  “You’ve got plenty to do with these three children. It’s pretty much of a chore, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t know how much work children are.” A plaintive note touched Temperance’s voice, and he saw a strange expression in her face. “You know, Pastor, the only thing I ever really wanted was a husband and children—a family, you know. But it was all kind of an idealized dream.” She laughed self-consciously. “I saw myself in our nice house back East with everything in place and the children all well behaved and the husband making money. There we were with everything going fine.”

  “You didn’t dream about dirty diapers or measles, I take it?”

  “Oh no! My dreams were much more sanitary than that.”

  “Well, you’ll find out one day, I hope, that it’s worth the trouble.”

  “That time’s past for me, Brother Blevins.”

  “I’d not be so quick to say that.”

  Temperance was disturbed by the conversation and said, “Let me know if I can do anything.”

  * * *

  BRENNAN WAITED UNTIL THE preacher left. He avoided preachers whenever possible, but as soon as Blevins drove off, he drew the mules to a stop and came to the house. He stepped inside and found Temperance holding the baby and rocking. “When I was in town yesterday, I met a man named Wilson. He owns three sawmills. Rich fellow.”

  “What about him?” Temperance saw that Brennan looked nervous, which was unusual for him. He was one of the most unnervous men she had ever seen.

  “Well,” Brennan cleared his throat and said, “he offered me a job running a sawmill down in Oregon City. He’ll be paying me three times what you’re paying me here. I could have my fine paid off in a month.”

  “You said you’d work here.”

  “I agreed to work here until my fine is paid off, and now it’s all down to the word I gave you.”

  “You led me to believe you’d stay.” Temperance felt suddenly that she was going to begin crying, and she couldn’t bear for him to see it. “I suppose you’ll be leaving then?”

  “I’ll finish this last field today. That’s all the plowing. A man’s got to look out for himself, Peabody.” He stood there for a moment and then said abruptly, “You never want to trust people, Peabody. They’ll let you down. I ain’t the only one. Everybody does it.”

  She looked up, and her lower lip was trembling. “You’re the most worthless man I’ve ever seen.”

  “If you was a man, I’d bust you for that. I didn’t agree to work in no nursery. Kids make me nervous. I can’t stand them! I’ll be leaving as soon as I plow the rest of that field.” He turned without another word and stalked out.

  Temperance passed her hand across her face and by sheer force of will kept the tears back. “Go on then,” she said. “It’s all you’re ever good for, running away or getting into trouble. Who needs you?”

  * * *

  BRENNAN DISMOUNTED, SLAPPED AT Judas—who halfheartedly tried to bite him—tied the horse up, and then walked up to the door of the judge’s office. A handwritten sign in pencil said: “Gone. Back at four o’clock.”

  “Why don’t that worthless judge stay in place?” Brennan turned disgustedly and walked down the sidewalk. He had come to town to make arrangements with the judge over his fine. Wilson had agreed to pay the fine off and would take it out of his pay. Brennan was highly pleased, for he knew sawmills and though it was hard work, he told himself, At least there wouldn’t be a holier-than-thou preacher woman and a bunch of snot-nosed kids around to put up with!

  He passed by the door of the Dancing Pony, hesitated, and reached into his pocket. He found two silver dollars he had stolen from a stash Peabody thought was well concealed. Not enough to get drunk on but enough for a drink.

  He shoved through the door and saw three men playing poker at the table. Two more rough-looking individuals headed for the mines were at the bar. Al Sharpless was behind the bar, watching Brennan cautiously. “What are you doing in town?”

  “Came to see the judge, but he’s gone.”

  “If you got any money, you can have a drink.”

  “Let’s have it then, Al.” He took out one of the silver dollars, put it on the bar, and Sharpless poured him a full glass. “The best liquor you’re likely to get around here.”

  “It’s tolerable, but I don’t reckon it ever won any medals.”

  “What do you want to see the judge for? To beg off of that fine? You’re wasting your time.”

  “No, I ain’t begging the judge for nothing.” He started to tell Sharpless about the job with Wilson, but then he remembered he promised himself to whip Sharpless before he left town. He studied the man with anticipatory delight. It would be a joy to pound Sharpless into the floor of his own saloon. He didn’t want any more fines, though, so he’d catch him away.

  Ignoring Sharpless, Brennan turned and saw Ed McAfee playing solitaire. He was a gambler who dealt faro and blackjack. An impulse came to Brennan, and he took the silver dollar out of his pocket. Holding his drink in his right hand, he walked over and said, “How about a hand of blackjack? I got one dollar.”

  “I always like to take a man’s last dollar,” McAfee grinned. He had a thin face and a pair of penetrating black eyes, and he manipulated the cards like a magician. It was hard to cheat at blackjack, so he didn’t like the game much.

  Brennan sat down and McAfee dealt the cards. Brennan looked at the king on top and said, “I’ll play these.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve got. That may be a two or a three under there.”

  “I’m riding my luck, McAfee.”

  McAfee said, “I’ll take one.”

  He threw the card down and grimaced. “Busted!”

  “Well now, I’ve got two dollars. Let’s get down to some serious gambling.”

  Ten minutes later Brennan had run his luck up and had forty dollars in front of him. That was the way cards ran for him sometimes. “You know why you’re losing, McAfee? You don’t go to church. That’s why.”

  “I suppose you go to church yourself.”

  “I never miss a Sunday.” He scooped up the money, and McAfee protested. “Aren’t you going to give me a chance to get even?”

  “No, I’m going to win the money from all those fellows in that poker game.”

  Brennan rose, and walked over to the poker table, and looked down. He knew two of the men, rough-looking sorts, but one was a small fellow dressed in fancy Eastern clothes. His hair was pompadoured, and he had a thin handsome face. “You fellows need another player?”

  “You got any money, Brennan?”

  “I got forty dollars here.”

  All three nodded and one of the miners said, “This here is Brennan. He’s a vicious criminal, Simons.”

  Simons grinned then. One of the saloon girls was sitting beside him, running her hand down the back of his neck. “Well, we’ll take that vicious criminal’s money. I’m Frank Simons.”

  “Thaddeus Brennan. Glad to know you.”

  Brennan sat down and began playing. His luck was running high, and he saw at once that Simons was a short-tempered individual. Every time Brennan won a hand, he got a cutting word from Simons, but he ignored it.

  The saloon girl, the woman sitting beside Simons, began to tease him. “You going to let this dirty fellow take all your money, Frank?”

  “He’s not taking everything,” Simons said. The pot was big in front, and Simons said, “I’ll just raise that ten dollars.”

  “I’ll call,” he said, and the other two players dropped out. The pot continued to grow, and the woman was urging Simons on. “You promised me that necklace, Frank.”

  “It’s in this pot right here as soon as I beat Daniel Boone.”

  “Daniel Boone. That’s good,” Brennan said. “I always liked Daniel.” He had shoved practically all of his money out and said, “I’ll take two cards.” He dealt the cards, looked at them, and said, “I raise you ten.”r />
  “You’re bluffing, Brennan.”

  “Cost you to find out.”

  Simons cursed and put the money out and then turned his hand over. “I’ve got a flush.”

  “Not good enough, old son. This is what they call a royal flush. Don’t see these very often, do you?”

  The woman squealed, “You lost my necklace, Frank!”

  “I ain’t lost nothing,” Simons said. “You cheated, Brennan.”

  A silence fell across the saloon, and every eye turned toward Brennan. He sat loosely, his hands on the table. He had reached out to bring in the pot, but he now froze. “Nobody cheated you, Simons.”

  “I saw you. You dealt from the bottom of the deck. You’re a liar and a cheat!”

  Suddenly Simons’s hands darted beneath his coat. He came out with a Derringer, and Al Sharpless, who was watching, could not believe the speed with which Brennan drew the Navy Colt at his side. The two shots sounded almost at once, although Sharpless felt that perhaps Simons’s shot came first. The slug whistled past Brennan’s ear, but Brennan’s own bullet took Simons in the chest. It drove him over backward, and he let out a wild cry and then lay still.

  Brennan dropped the Colt back in the holster and looked around the room. “You saw it,” he said. “He drew first. He drew on me.”

  “If I was you, Brennan, I’d get out of here,” one of the miners said.

  “What do I want to run for? It was a fair fight.”

  Sharpless said quickly, “He’s right, Brennan. If you got a horse out there, get on him and ride out.”

  Brennan stared around him and saw the same shock on every face. He reached out, picked the money up, and stuck it in his pocket. The girl was kneeling over Simons’s body. “He’s not dead,” she said.

  “Quick,” Sharpless said, “let’s get him to the doctor.”

  “Well, I’ll help you.”

  “You’d better get out,” Sharpless warned.

  “I’m not running from no law, not when this fellow drew on me first.”

  The doctor’s office was just down the street, and Brennan was one of the four who carried the inert body. He saw that his bullet had struck Simons somewhere high in the chest, but the man was still breathing.

  The doctor opened the door, took one look, and said, “Put him on the table.”

  Brennan and the others deposited the limp form of Frank Simons, and then he turned to go. He was met by Joe Meek who, without warning, reached forward and pulled Brennan’s gun from his holster. “I’ve got to arrest you, Brennan.”

  “Arrest me! For what?”

  Meek made a big form in his tight buckskins, his muscles bulging. “You ought to be more careful who you shoot, Thad. You killed the son of a senator. Senator Harlan Simons is pretty small game even for a senator, but he’s got pull. The next time you shoot somebody, be sure he ain’t got no important relatives.”

  “But he ain’t dead!”

  “You better hope he’s not. If he dies, you’ll hang. If he don’t, my guess is you’ll be doing ten or fifteen years in the federal prison.”

  Brennan stared at the man. “But he pulled first.”

  “You think anybody’s going to testify on your behalf? You’re nothing but a two-bit hoodlum, Brennan. A prisoner working for a woman. He’s the son of a United States senator. Who do you think the jury’s going to believe?”

  Brennan stood there, staring at Meek. Finally he said, “This is Monday, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I knew something bad would happen as soon as I woke up this morning. Nothing good ever happens to me on Monday.”

  “Well, nothing good happened today. Come on. I’ve got to lock you up.”

  Chapter Five

  “BE STILL, RUTH!” TEMPERANCE leaned her head against the goat’s rough hide and continued to drain milk into the tin bucket she had placed on the ground. Ruth usually was a placid animal who did not object to being milked, but on this day she was nervous and irritable. She bleated, turned around, and stared at Temperance. The goat’s eyes had the strange vertical slit that gave them an evil look somehow or other. Ruth, however, was the gentlest of all goats and produced kids and milk with equal fecundity.

  “There. That’s enough. Thank you very much, Ruth.”

  As Temperance rose and started for the house, she looked down the road toward the sound of hoofbeats. She had excellent eyesight and made out the bulky form of Marshal Joe Meek mounted on his huge iron gray stallion. It took a big horse to carry a big man like Meek, and as the stallion pulled up, Meek stepped out of the saddle with a grace unusual for a man his size. His face had a fine layer of dust, and taking out his handkerchief, he wiped it, first taking off his hat. “Howdy, Miss Temperance.”

  “Hello, Marshal. What are you doing out here?”

  “Well, I reckon I’m the bearer of evil tidings,” Meek said. A disgusted expression crossed his blunt features, and he looked down at the ground for a moment and seemed reluctant to speak.

  “What in the world is it, Marshal?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, Miss Temperance, it’s your hired hand, Brennan.”

  “Oh, my! Did he get drunk and wreck the saloon again?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s a little bit worse than that this time. He come into town yesterday, went into the saloon, and got into a card game. There was a disagreement, and he shot a man called Frank Simons. I’m having to hold him in the jail.”

  Temperance’s hand went to her breast, and she asked quickly, “Is the man dead?”

  “No, he’s alive, but he ain’t in good shape. Brennan will be tried, of course, for attempted murder unless the fellow dies. Then it will be for murder.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. He’s an aggravating sort of person, but he didn’t deserve this. What do you think will be the outcome of the trial?”

  “Oh, I never speculate on that. One thing I never bet on is horse races and juries. You’ll lose every time.” Meek jammed his hat on top of his head and said, “I got a couple worthless loafers in jail. They got no money for their fines, so instead of them working the judge’s road, I’ll bring them out and they can do Brennan’s work.”

  “That would be kind of you, Marshal.”

  Meek gathered his reins and stepped into the saddle. The horse groaned under his weight, and Meek reached out and slapped him on the neck. “You know, he ain’t a bad fellow—him.”

  “You mean Brennan?”

  “Yeah, he reminds me of myself when I was younger.”

  “I can’t believe you were ever like Brennan.”

  “I was a pretty bad cat. Like I said, I feel sorry for him.” He pulled his hat down over his forehead and shook his head. “He’s finished now though. The best he can hope for is ten years or maybe fifteen in a federal pen. That takes it out of a man. Myself, I’d rather die than go there. Well, I’ll bring them fellows out early tomorrow morning, Miss Temperance.”

  Temperance watched the marshal ride out, then turned to go back into the house. She moved slowly, for her mind was occupied with the news she had just received. It was bad news all the way around, but a sudden impulse came. “I’ve got to go see him,” she said aloud. Going into the house, she began to make preparations. It was not the same as when she was alone. All she had to do was put on her bonnet and hitch the team. Now she had three children to get ready. Rose was excited about getting to go into town, and with her help they were soon on their way.

  Rose was silent for a great part of the way, and finally she said, “I miss my mama and daddy.”

  Quickly Temperance cast a glance at the girl. It was the first time she had mentioned the parents she had lost. Temperance reached over, put her arm around the girl, and drew her close. “I know you do, honey. I miss mine too.”

  “Were you a little girl when they died?”

  “No, I was a grown woman.”

  “Sometimes,” Rose said in a small voice, “I cry when I’m in bed after it gets dark.”

/>   “It’s all right to cry, honey,” Temperance said and leaned over and kissed the girl’s forehead. “I do it myself sometime.”

  * * *

  BRENNAN WAS SITTING ON his cot with his head down in his hands, listening to Benny Watts, who had come into his cell to practice on his guitar. His excuse was that he needed an audience, but that was the last thing he needed according to Brennan’s thinking.

  “I’m going to Alabama with my banjo on my knee.” Benny attacked the guitar with all of his might, squeezing the neck and striking the strings with his callused thumb. He had a high-pitched voice and seldom managed to get through a song without butchering it. When he finished, he said, “How was that, Thaddeus?”

  “Well, Benny, I’d have to say you never missed a wrong note.”

  “Why, thank you, Thad! Mighty nice of you to say so. What would you like to hear now?”

  Actually Brennan wanted to hear nothing, but Benny’s company was better than none at all. He had spent the night thinking of the prison where he’d be spending the next ten or fifteen years. He had a vivid imagination and saw himself coming out of prison an old man, broken and sick, fit for nothing, with life all passed by him. “How about ‘Oh! Susanna’?”

  “Oh, yeah, I got that one down real good.” Benny launched into “Oh! Susanna” and finally Benny’s company was outweighed by his off-key singing.

  Brennan looked up and said, “I guess that’s enough serenading for awhile, Benny.”

  Benny grinned at him foolishly. “You know, you’ll be an old man when you get out of the slammer, Thaddeus.”

  “Nice of you to come in and cheer me up, Benny. You ever been in prison?”

  “Not a federal prison. I knowed some fellows that went there. It’ll drive some men crazy,” Benny said cheerfully. “Lots of them kill themselves before they serve their term. Why, I remember one fellow whose name was Roscoe Yates. He was—”

  Suddenly Benny lifted his head. “Hey, somebody’s coming.” He left the cell, locking the door, then moved down the hall and closed the door.