Adobe Moon

by Mark Warren

  The pencil stopped scratching, and the man gave another nervous laugh. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile tonight,” he said. “I had the sense you might not be comfortable in a gathering such as this.”

  Wyatt turned his attention to the Sutherland girl. “I had my doubts coming in.” He nodded. “But these seem like the kind of people worth knowing.”

  The reporter followed Wyatt’s gaze to where Aurilla Sutherland fussed over a shawl draped around the shoulders of the mayor’s wife. “Might I call on you from time to time, Mr. Earp? I’d like to keep our readers up to date on the goings-on inside the constable’s office.”

  “I’ll be available.” Wyatt looked the man in the eye. “You got your job to do, just like me.”

  They shook hands, and Wyatt watched the reporter cross the room to the refreshment table, where he began to interview the mayor. Though the newspaperman had some of the qualities of a proper woman who had never soiled her hands, Wyatt figured he could tolerate him. The reporter knew how to put a man at ease in conversation, and there might be something to learn from that.

  A melodic laugh pulled his attention back to Aurilla Sutherland. Her smile transformed her face, like a bright flower blossom opening after a rain. Though he did not speak to her that night, he did learn that she liked horses. Each time one of the citizens shook his hand, he pushed her from his mind to concentrate on the person before him. Learn the name. Remember it later when he would patrol the streets. It was part of the job to know people.

  More than once when he returned his gaze to the Sutherland girl, he caught her studying him. And each time, she looked away at nothing and let a smile linger on her lips. That smile pulled at a memory. It was the way Valenzuela Cos had received him when she believed he had led the wagons over the Rockies. But on this Missouri girl, the smile was more a portent . . . something more relevant to his future. She was his kind. An American. And no whore.

  One week into the constableship, Wyatt adjusted his expectations. At best the job was lackluster—serving papers for court appearances, seizing personal property from men who could not satisfy debts, shooting stray dogs, shooing hogs off the street, and locking up drunks. For the rowdy and inebriated, Wyatt made use of an abandoned stone building as a jail. For a better cut of prisoner, he made arrangements through the town council to rent out a room at the Exchange Hotel, where nineteen-year-old Aurilla spent her afternoons behind the desk.

  Wyatt waited for an opportunity to house a prisoner at Sutherland’s, and it came with an Irish tanner named Kennedy, who could not pay his creditors. While Wyatt filled out papers on him at the city office, Kennedy paced to the front window and stared out at the busy street.

  “Mr. Kennedy, if you’d like to rest a spell, you can use the cot there,” Wyatt offered.

  The tanner turned from the window. “How’s a man to make bond when he’s unable to meet his debts? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Wyatt opened a drawer, filled his ink well, and went back to his writing. By the time he had completed the form, the tanner was pacing the floor, so that he could alternate glaring out at the unjust town and at the constable who worked at a snail’s pace. For the fourth time, Wyatt extracted the pocket watch from his vest and opened the face.

  “One fifteen,” he said. “How ’bout we walk over to the Continental for a meal.”

  The man’s perpetual scowl tightened. “I don’t have the money for that.”

  “You’re a guest of the town for a spell, Mr. Kennedy.”

  In the hour they spent eating, Wyatt listened to the travails of an independent tanner, who had struggled against the newly incorporated tannery operating on Clear Creek. Wyatt nodded at each point, reducing the man’s dilemma to the lessons that he might one day employ in his own ventures, whatever they might be: When choosing an enterprise, study the odds first. Know what you’re up against. Then back yourself up with people you trust.

  Wyatt was thinking of his brothers—Virgil, Morgan, James, and Warren. And half-brother, Newton. Maybe they would all go into business one day, but before broaching the idea, he would need to pin down that business. Meanwhile . . . there was Aurilla Sutherland.

  When Wyatt finished his meal, he checked his watch again, returned it to his pocket, and looked out over the restaurant as he spoke to his prisoner. “What about some pie, Mr. Kennedy? You’re not likely to get any pie on the regulation meal doled out by the city.”

  The tanner’s face wrinkled, and he stopped chewing. “Ain’t I on the city plan now?”

  Wyatt nodded at the man’s plate. “For the meal. The pie’s on me.”

  Confused, the tanner pinched his eyebrows into a peak as Wyatt ordered for them.

  It took the better part of an hour for Wyatt to finish a single slice of pie. Then they took a leisurely walk back to the constable’s office to get the papers. From there they strolled the two blocks to the hotel. Wyatt stopped at the last store window and checked his reflection. The tanner stared at Wyatt’s back.

  “Earp, I think you are the slowest man at his job I have ever come across.”

  Wyatt turned. “You in a hurry to get locked up?”

  Kennedy’s cheeks inflated as he exhaled. “No,” he admitted. “I reckon not.” When Wyatt stepped into the hotel, the tanner followed. At ten minutes past three, Wyatt set down the papers next to the registration book. Aurilla Sutherland looked up from her work, and her eyes widened with surprise.

  “Oh . . .” she said and blushed.

  “Afternoon,” Wyatt said. “I’ve got some papers here on this man. He’s to be accommodated tonight on the city’s tab, if you have a room.”

  She took the papers and scanned the contents of the document. When she looked back at the constable, she allowed a modest laugh to show that she was flustered.

  “I’ve just come on duty,” she said. “Let me check the register.” Her finger slid down the page. “We’ve sometimes used number thirteen for female prisoners. Will there be a guard?”

  Wyatt waited for her to look up, and then he turned to the tanner. “Will you be trying to run off tonight, Mr. Kennedy?”

  Kennedy opened his mouth but said nothing. Wyatt turned back to Aurilla Sutherland.

  “Reckon I’ll keep watch,” he said. “Just to keep things official.”

  Wyatt studied her as she reread the legal papers. Her hair—several shades lighter than his—shone atop her round face as if she had just run in from the rain. Her skin looked cool and smooth as a china plate. Compared to the whores of the railroad camps and Peoria, Aurilla Sutherland was spun out of royal cloth and had materialized in this world like a mother’s sweet song to her child.

  “Mr. Kennedy is not a dangerous man, Miss Sutherland. Just a little low on money at present. Just the same, I’ll be on duty while you’re here.”

  “All right,” she replied, and then, carrying the beginning of a smile, she looked away to the panel of keys hanging in rows on hooks. Wyatt admired the straightness of her back and the way her neck rose erect from her shoulders. Most of the town women twisted their hair into some kind of painful knot and secured it with a long treacherous pin, only to cover the whole affair with a frivolous hat. He liked Aurilla’s simple style. And he liked it that she had handled the prisoner’s accommodations without her father’s help.

  After shutting Kennedy in his room, Wyatt took a chair in the lobby and read the newspaper as he listened to the sounds of Aurilla going about her work: the rustle of her dress when she moved, the scratch of her pen, her light step. Now and again she made a faint humming sound in her throat that accompanied certain phases of her bookkeeping. Three times he caught her looking at him, and on that third time, she finally smiled as she went back to work.

  Her replacement, a short, stooped man with long, gray sideburns, came in at seven, and she briefed him about a few details—the new occupant in thirteen being one of those. When she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, Wyatt stood and intercepted her at
the door.

  “I’d be proud to walk you home, if you don’t care.”

  “Aren’t you on guard duty, Mr. Earp?”

  “I got to get Kennedy’s supper. I don’t reckon he’ll run off in the next ten minutes.”

  “Can’t someone from the restaurant bring over a plate?”

  “Could . . . but I don’t mind.”

  Her eyes were so clear he might have been looking up at the scattered blue of the sky through springwater. Unlike his own, that blue seemed to contain its own source of light. Valenzuela Cos had told him that his eyes were washed out like blue-tinted ice.

  “My house is not on the way to the restaurant, Mr. Earp.”

  “Don’t mind that either.”

  “Someone usually walks me home. I imagine he’ll be here any minute.”

  Wyatt nodded and kept his eyes on her. “Are you expecting him for certain?”

  “Well . . .” She looked through the glass in the door. “I don’t suppose ‘for certain.’ ”

  Wyatt looked out at an evening made for walking. “Well, it’s for certain I’m here.”

  She looked into his eyes, and he wondered if she saw ice there. “Yes, you are,” she said and presented a smile that changed her face into something from which he could not look away.

  After the droning heat of the woodstove in the lobby, the autumn night was a blessing. They walked the first block in silence, each enjoying the change of atmosphere. Wyatt knew her house was only two blocks distant, so he listened to their footsteps tap on the boardwalk like a clock ticking away their time. Moving in and out of the glow of the street lamps, he kept his eyes straight ahead, glancing at her only in the shadowed interludes.

  “You’re not curious about who usually walks me home?” she said.

  “I reckon you’ll tell me if I need to know.”

  “I have a feeling it wouldn’t bother you one way or the other, no matter who it was.”

  “I’d be pleased if you’d go for a ride with me sometime. Just us . . . on horseback.”

  She laughed at the sudden change in the conversation, and the melody in her laugh seemed to him as personal as if she had touched his hand. “Do you really think your prisoner will remain in his room just because you want him to, Mr. Earp?”

  “I’m satisfied he’ll stay put. I reckon all my prisoners will have to sit tight long enough for me to walk you home.”

  She laughed again. “It doesn’t sound like you will be our constable for too long, Mr. Earp. I imagine the town will want its prisoners locked up more tightly.”

  Wyatt thought about that and nodded at her good sense. “Well, could be I don’t want to always be a constable. I might like to do something a bit more profitable.”

  “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

  “I’m still thinkin’ on that.”

  “So you have ambition.”

  He looked at her. “Yes, ma’am. I reckon that’s why I’m walkin’ you home.”

  “So you intend to do this often?”

  “As often as I can.”

  “Then you’ll have to do away with the ‘ma’am’ and ‘Miss Sutherland,’ Mr. Earp. Why don’t you call me ‘Rilla’?”

  They reached the Sutherland house just as two young men stepped off the porch to the stone walkway. Rilla stepped through the open gate and turned to Wyatt, who stopped in the road.

  “What about that ridin’?” he said.

  She lowered her eyes and smiled but did not get a chance to answer.

  “God, Granville! Where’d you get that outfit? Are you preaching somewhere tonight?” Laughter bubbled up from the two men approaching from the house. Then the laughter cut off sharply, and they slowed their walk.

  “This is Constable Earp,” Rilla announced. “These are my brothers, Burdette and Frederick.” Wyatt shook hands with them in silence.

  “Where’s Gran, Rilla?” the taller brother said.

  “Mr. Earp walked me home. I haven’t seen Gran.”

  The two Sutherland boys looked toward town, then back at Rilla and then briefly at Wyatt. The silence seemed to belong to the brothers, so Wyatt waited to see what they would do with it.

  “Well . . .” Frederick said. Without another word they passed through the gate and started for town. Wyatt could hear their muted whispers on the crisp, cold air. He turned back to Rilla.

  “Reckon you better call me ‘Wyatt,’ ” he said.

  “All right. But maybe with my brothers it ought to be ‘Constable Earp’ for a while.” She flashed an apologetic smile. “You have brothers, don’t you, Wyatt?”

  He nodded. “Newton is the oldest.” He nodded down the street toward the square. “He’s working in my pa’s bakery. James is somewhere in Oregon. Virgil is in Peoria. I’ve got two younger brothers livin’ with my folks.” Wyatt stepped backward into the dirt lane. “Time for me to take some food to my prisoner. You might think about that ride with me.”

  Rilla smiled, looked down at her shoes, and brought the same smile back up to him. “Good night, Wyatt. Thank you for the escort.”

  He pinched the brim of his new hat and started down the street. In front of the barbershop the two Sutherland boys stood in the middle of the street with a third man with sloped shoulders and trousers a little too short for his long legs. As Wyatt approached on the boardwalk, they turned in unison to watch him. They followed his progress past the post office until the third man disengaged from his friends and walked a line to intercept Wyatt. When the man stopped six feet from the boardwalk, Wyatt turned and faced him.

  “My name’s Brummett,” he stated flatly. “I’m the one who walks Aurilla home.” His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “Meanin’ . . . nobody else does.”

  Wyatt made a concerted effort to keep the hardness out of his voice. “I already did.”

  Brummett hesitated too long and tried to compensate for his failed script by pouring some venom into his voice. “She’s spoke for.”

  Wyatt glanced at the Sutherland boys, who had not moved from the middle of the thoroughfare. He stepped down from the boards into the street and lowered his voice to be heard by Brummett alone.

  “She don’t appear to know that.”

  Brummett gestured toward Wyatt’s lapel, then curled his lip until his teeth showed. “That badge mean you can carry a gun?”

  Wyatt paused, letting himself settle from the man’s surly tone. “It does.”

  “Easy to talk big with a gun.”

  “I don’t need a gun to talk. You’d best go cool off, Mr. Brummett. You’re disappointed and frustrated and about to make a mistake.”

  People slowed on the boardwalk to watch the development. Brummett straightened his spine and started to step forward, but stopped when one of the Sutherland boys called out.

  “Gran, come on down to the billiards parlor with us.”

  Brummett turned at the waist, but it was Wyatt who spoke to them. “I don’t want to arrest your friend over something personal. Best get him off the street.” Brummett took a step back as if the words had physically pushed him. He did not retake the ground he had given up.

  The brothers didn’t speak as they approached and carried out Wyatt’s request, but Brummett began making a bigger fuss. He needed to do this, Wyatt knew, to save face. Wyatt listened to the abusive words and watched the three figures move away down the street.

  In almost any other context, Wyatt would have knocked the joker on his ass and had done with it. But as it was, he knew he had played his first political hand like a seasoned officer. With less than a month into the job, he didn’t need any marks against him with the council, not over a woman. And he didn’t need Rilla to hear about him laying this jaybird out in the street.

  When he looked toward the boardwalk and nodded, the bystanders moved on, and once again alone he felt the prudence of his discretion. He had handled this in a proper way. This would get back to Rilla, he knew. He gazed down the dark street toward her house,
recalling that Brummett had referred to her as “Aurilla” . . . not “Rilla.” He thought about that as he walked to the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Early winter, 1869—fall, 1870: Lamar, Missouri

  Two days before Christmas Wyatt and Rilla rode out to a juniper flat that sat high over Clear Creek. Rilla sat her bay gelding with a fluid grace, the certainty of her control reminding Wyatt of the way she had led him through the steps at the Christmas dance three nights before in the community hall. There she had been gently instructive without being commanding. On the big gelding she moved as easily as the steed’s dark mane, swaying naturally to the horse’s gait and melding with its passion for speed and open space.

  They stopped for lunch at a broad beach, where Wyatt broke up ice near the shoreline with a found barrel stave and picketed the horses near the water’s edge. As Rilla spread out the few provisions that she had folded in a cloth, he built a driftwood fire and heated water in the trail pan he had packed to make coffee. He liked the way she did not overdo the meal: biscuits, ham, and a small jar of preserves. He saw to the coffee and watched her sort out the meal on a checkered cloth, her cheeks flushed in the biting air. She had worn sensible clothes for riding: a union suit, a man’s trousers, and a knitted sweater under her woolen overcoat. Even bundled up so, her irrepressible relish for being alive radiated from her face like a jewel shining from the folds of a black velvet bag.

  “You ride like a Indian,” he said.

  “An Indian, Wyatt.” She always smiled when she took the opportunity to improve his speech. He knew it was not for her pride but for his ambitions in the community. He had told her he needed to know how to talk to men who had been properly educated.

  “You ride like an Indian,” he corrected. “Reckon I talk like one.”

  She laughed. That he could make her laugh was a miracle to him. There was no sound he liked better. When she saw the way he was looking at her, she walked to him, rose up on her toes, and kissed him. Stepping back she smiled and touched her fingertips below her nose.