The Reckoning

by Mike Torreano

  Just then, the man looked up in Lorraine’s direction. “Lookee here, Miss Lorraine.” He pulled Ike’s blanket off his chair and held it up. “I went to bed night before last with nothin’ on top of me, and I woke up with this blessing coverin’ me. I must have a guardian angel for sure.” He smiled and looked over at Ike. “Name’s Buster,” he said, and saluted with his fork. “I do some odd jobs around here for Miss Lorraine. I’m what they call a handyman. Keep the place lookin’ all nice and tidy, I do.” Buster swept his arm around the room as if to confirm what he’d just said.

  Ike noticed Buster’s rheumy eyes and scanned the dining room’s tired surroundings.

  Buster stared back at Ike. “Say, there’s a U.S. stamp on this blanket that looks just like the blankets that was Union issue during the war.”

  “Suppose it could have been,” Ike said and left it at that.

  Buster rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Were you in the war, mister?”

  “I guess it don’t matter much anymore, does it?” Ike’s tone brought an end to the conversation.

  Lorraine came in, set a second helping of eggs and pancakes in front of Buster, and returned to the kitchen.

  In between bites, Buster smiled at Ike. “The food’s real good here. It sure is. Miss Lorraine’s the best cook there is in town.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ike saw a small smile appear on Lorraine’s face as she tended the kitchen stove.

  She called out from the kitchen, “That’s hardly a compliment, Buster. You’re always more than a mite hungry in the morning. You’d eat anything I put in front of you and say it was fine.” She came back in and set flapjacks in front of Ike and Walnutt, then bustled about, but remained within earshot.

  The professor cleared his throat. “You may be wondering why I am in a small town in these mountains of Colorado, sir.” He looked expectantly at Ike.

  Ike stared back. A pause, then, “Nope.”

  Walnutt pushed on. “Well, it so happens that I am en route to San Francisco to present a series of lectures. On morality and literature.”

  Ike nodded slightly at him.

  “I am in Cottonwood because in Denver I heard of some happenings around here that do not sound exactly top drawer. When I learn what they are, I might use some of the information in my presentations.”

  Ike looked up at him for the first time with some interest. “What kind of things?”

  “Why, that’s what I’m trying to inquire about. They say a rancher around here runs this valley with an iron fist. An iron fist that he uses on the good people of Cottonwood.”

  “Go on.” Ike wondered if this was the same man Sue had written about.

  Before the prim Englishman could respond, Buster interrupted and said to Ike, “Mind if I say something personal?”

  “Does it matter if I mind?”

  Buster pushed right through that. “You look like you been rode hard and put up wet, mister.” The handyman said it so matter-of-factly that Ike took no offense. “And so does that cat that’s been followin’ you around. Maybe not the rode hard part, but the ‘put up wet’ part for sure.”

  The cat seemed to be staking a claim to him. Ike eyed Buster’s unkempt hair and unshaven face. The pot calling the kettle black. “Maybe so. Guess that’s what rough ridin’ day after day will do. Hard ridin’ helps you forget things too.” But there were some things Ike would never forget. The professor was reduced to an afterthought.

  Lorraine cut in. “Now don’t you boys be hangin’ around here all day, jabberin’ away. I got things to do, and I don’t want a bunch of no-account men underfoot. Finish up and clear out, please.” She looked at Ike. “And take that cat that’s out on the porch with you.” Her tone was harsh, but there was a crinkle in the corners of her eyes. She brushed back that same unruly lock of curly hair and turned back to the kitchen.

  Ike debated following her and mentioning their encounter two nights ago on the trail. Then his thoughts turned to Sue again. The landlady had to know something about Sue since she stayed here. But the first stop this morning was going to be The Sew Pretty. As he got up to leave, he nodded to the professor and Buster.

  “Hey, wait a minute, mister,” Buster said. “What’s your name? I never did catch it.”

  Ike yelled back over his shoulder. “Porter. Ike Porter.”

  When he got back to his room, Ike checked his pistol, wedged the gun back in the holster, and strapped it on his hip. He put his long coat on and headed down the narrow hall toward the front door. On the way, he passed the small kitchen where Lorraine was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing. He leaned in. “Ma’am, you wouldn’t have any scraps I could feed that cat, would you? I’ll pay extra.” He’d just offered something he didn’t have.

  Lorraine squinted back up at him. “No. I don’t have anything for him, and he can’t stay here. No cats.”

  Ike wanted to say, “That’s not my cat,” but he let it go. He did say, “I think he’s a she.” He smiled a small smile. “Say, you haven’t shot at any more riders in the dark lately, have you?”

  She looked up, a startled expression on her face. But Ike was out the door before she could say anything. The cat was still on the front porch, one leg stretched straight out for licking. As he walked down the muddy street, Ike looked back to see Lorraine place a small bowl in front of the animal.

  Chapter Seven

  Margaret Pinshaw swept along the grayed wooden sidewalks on the way to her dress shop. The Sew Pretty was a little place, but it occupied a prominent spot in the middle of Cottonwood’s main street. Her light blue and white dress stood in stark contrast to her jet-black hair and pale skin. The town’s brown buildings seemed to fade into the background as she walked by them. She fished a key out of her matching blue bag at the door and placed her wide-brimmed hat on a clean shelf behind the counter. A Parisian hat she’d wear this weekend to church. Anything to turn heads in this two-bit town. The early morning sun streamed through the large front window, casting soft, warm light on the cloth-laden tables inside.

  Margaret had owned the shop for several years. It was a staple for the women of Cottonwood. They depended on her to get fashionable cloth and other millinery items to sew for new dresses, trousers, and shirts. She did all the cowboys’ and miners’ new clothes and alterations for them as well. Gold and silver mining had drawn lots of newcomers to the surrounding hills. Margaret’s hats were her calling card though, with about twenty of them—all shapes, sizes, and colors perched on wall hooks around the smallish shop. Hats for Easter, for Sunday church, other special occasions. She especially liked to brush her hand over the ones from Europe first thing every morning. The rest from back east she kept for the local women. She always lingered over one in particular, the blue brocade with the beige hatband. She’d never part with that one. Whenever a customer wanted to buy one of her more expensive hats, she’d coyly maneuver them to the ones from Chicago or New York. Except for her best customer, Emerald Tompkins. Margaret made a special point of squiring Emerald toward the European finery when she visited the shop. Hats from Europe made Margaret’s world larger somehow.

  Winter was just around the corner, and that usually meant one last burst of business before the heavy snows slowed things down. The Sew Pretty had always just scraped by, but lately business had been better. Mostly thanks to Emerald. Margaret was busy with her embroidery when the doorbell ting-a-linged and Emerald herself walked in.

  “Well hello, Mrs. Tompkins.” Emerald was the wife of the wealthiest man for many miles around, Major Zeke Tompkins. She wore a flowing green dress that suited her name and status. “You’re my first customer this morning. What a nice way to start my day.” As she said it, she envisioned Emerald already walking back out the front door with something new. Preferably one of the European hats, but she didn’t see how Emerald could possibly need another one of those.

  Emerald nodded. Margaret watched her glide around the store, indifferently drawing her hand slowly across the various bolts the
tables held. Margaret tried not to watch as Emerald strutted. She busied herself with straightening out the already-straight dresses that hung on forms around the shop.

  Emerald said, “By the way, Mrs. Pinshaw, I heard you had a visitor”—she drew the word out—“yesterday, a man, but your shop was closed. He was apparently peering in your front window. No one seems to know who it was. Someone from out of town, perhaps?” She smiled at her question.

  Margaret forced a return smile. So that was the real reason Emerald was in her shop. Margaret tugged at a dress form harder, her knuckles whitening as she did. “I don’t rightly know, Mrs. Tompkins. I’ve heard about it from some of the ladies already. Said they saw him rattle the doorknob for a bit. Whoever it was, he’s gone now. I don’t know who it was, and I can’t concern myself with something I know nothing about.” Horrid woman.

  Emerald sniffed a reply. “Well, I don’t see why someone visiting your shop should be big news. This town’s growing, with more and more people arriving all the time. But frankly, why anybody’d want to come live in this godforsaken wilderness is beyond me.” She paused and her face fell, as one of her hands played with a bolt of blue cloth. “It’s a shame, though, that so many of the newcomers only seem to be soldiers from that awful war. They do no credit to this town. Perhaps we’d be better off if the war had killed more of them.” Her face sprang to life again, and she flung a hand in the air dismissively.

  Margaret drew in a sharp breath and resisted the impulse to cover her mouth with her hand. What a horrible thing to say. She pictured Emerald riding a broomstick.

  Emerald didn’t apologize and looked directly at Margaret. “Still…it does seem strange that a tall young stranger would show an interest in a dress shop.”

  “Yes, perhaps it does,” Margaret said, flushing at the inference. Emerald was a true wretch of a woman. “What catches your fancy this morning, Mrs. Tompkins?” Emerald’s lack of fashion sense was the talk of the Cottonwood women as she strolled through town with one mismatched accessory after another atop her head.

  “Well, I just don’t know yet, Mrs. Pinshaw. Are you getting in new cloth anytime soon? Green perhaps? I just must have a warm new dress for the winter.” She stared around at the cloth-covered tables as if they were filled with vermin.

  Margaret saw the look and felt her face flush. “I suspect it will be soon. I ordered some of the latest fabrics two months ago.” Truth be told, Margaret had no idea when the stagecoach from Denver would bring her treasures. But even though the rancher’s wife was her best customer, Margaret hoped that whenever the next stagecoach came, it would leave with Emerald Tompkins on it.

  Emerald raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s a shame, I thought you would know when, since it’s your shop.” A small smile flickered across her face. “I’ll just have to check back with you again and again, I suppose. It’s such a bother. Oh, by the way, did your little helper ever show back up? She was such a pretty little thing.”

  The remark caught Margaret off guard. She searched Emerald’s face for meaning. She wanted to say, “No, and the last time I saw her she was headed out to your ranch with your hats,” but instead she just said, “No, she hasn’t,” and broke eye contact with her scheming customer.

  Emerald tisked, tisked, and swished toward the door. “You know, I never did get that other hat you promised to send me when I was in here a couple months back. It was the gold creation with the silver plume on top. You remember it, of course. Lovely thing.”

  Margaret nodded silently.

  “Please credit it back to my account.” She looked back at Margaret with a slight smile.

  Margaret pursed her lips, several different retorts flying through her head. George was supposed to deliver that one, but he never made it further than that little stream. What was he doing out there?

  On her way out, Emerald said, “Oh, and I’ll take that hat over there.” She pointed to a red and white eyesore.

  It was Margaret’s least favorite, one from Chicago she actually wanted to get rid of. “Perfect. I thought you might like that one,” she said with a genuine smile.

  “Make sure it gets to me this time, please.”

  A picture of George flashed through Margaret’s head. “Yes, I will.”

  Emerald raised the back of her hand and, with a condescending “Ta-ta,” disappeared out the door.

  Margaret had successfully sidestepped Emerald’s fishing expedition. But she knew that wouldn’t stop Emerald from starting more rumors, something she was the queen of around here. But Margaret did wonder about the stranger. She considered riding out to the ranch to tell the major about him. The rancher had done so much for her after her husband died. No. Surely, Emerald would take care of that. The only thing she could do at this point was wait and see if he came back. She spent the rest of the morning tidying up, waiting for her next customer.

  ****

  After breakfast, Ike lingered outside the boarding house, lit a cigarette, and looked up and down the main street. The street and wooden sidewalks were a mess of late-fall slop during the day. He stubbed the cigarette out and had just started toward The Sew Pretty when he heard boards creak behind him. “Better stop right there, mister,” Ike said, turning toward the sound.

  “It’s just me, Mr. Porter.”

  Buster was walking toward him and stumbled on a loose plank. Ike grabbed the handyman as he fell and caught a faint smell of cheap whiskey. If the smell of alcohol didn’t tell a tale on Buster, the early morning hour did.

  Buster brushed at his clothes and straightened up. “Thank you, sir. Say, you wouldn’t have a coin to spare, would you?”

  Ike studied the man staring up at him. Ike was at least six inches taller than Buster, even with the man’s old fur hat. “Reckon I do.” He brushed aside his worn long coat with a sweep of his arm, worked a hand into his pocket, and fished out a silver half dime.

  Buster took it and smiled. “Why, thank you. Anything I can help you with? You bein’ new around here and all.”

  “Just gettin’ my bearings. But there is one thing. Can you tell me anything about the young blonde woman who used to work at the dress shop?”

  “Oh, the one over at Miss Pinshaw’s place? Sure can. Pretty little thing she was. Sue somethin’. She was real nice to me. A real lady. She’d see me on the street and always say hello. There’s hardly anyone around here who says anything to me.”

  Ike interrupted. “But she’s not here anymore.”

  “No, and that’s a curious thing. She seemed to like working at the shop, and everyone seemed to like havin’ her around. Then one day, she was just up and gone.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “Can’t say as I did, come to think of it. I just overheard one of Major Tompkins’ hands talkin’ about it over at the Wildfire Saloon.”

  “Who’s Tompkins?”

  “Why, he owns the Emerald Valley Ranch. Biggest spread for miles around here.”

  The name of the ranch registered with Ike. That was where Rob should be working now. He looked back down at Buster. “When was that?”

  “Don’t rightly remember. I declare, sometimes the days just all seem to blend together.” Buster rubbed his bearded chin and looked sideways up at Ike.

  “Would another half dime help your memory?”

  “Why, it just might, it just might at that.” Buster brightened at the shiny new coin Ike dropped in his hand. “Reckon it was a little more than a month ago, pret’ near.”

  “Thanks, Buster.” Porter turned and headed down the street.

  Buster yelled after him. “Why’d you want to know, Mr. Porter?”

  “Thanks, Buster.” Ike gave him a cursory wave and kept walking. That time frame would fit.

  When he got to The Sew Pretty, he stood outside for a moment pretending to brush something off his brown long coat. He glanced up and down the nearly-deserted street, then twisted the metal doorknob and stepped in.

  When the bell over the door rang, Margaret Pins
haw looked up from her desk with a smile that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

  “…May I help you, sir?”

  “Name’s Porter, Ike Porter. Are you Miss Pinshaw?”

  “That’s Mrs. Pinshaw. What can I do for you, Mr. Porter?”

  Porter fixed her with a steady stare. “I’m looking for my sister, Sue Johnson.”

  Margaret fidgeted in her chair for a moment. “…You’re her brother then,” she said, as she looked him up and down.

  “I said I was.”

  “Well, how do I know you are? I’ve never seen you before.” Margaret got up from her desk and stood behind a display table.

  It seemed an odd move to Ike. “I noticed you didn’t say you hadn’t heard of me before. Sue would have talked about me to you, unless she didn’t like you.”

  Margaret gave a little huff. “We got on just fine, thank you, and she did mention a brother, but she’s no longer here. But it seems like you know that already.” Margaret stared at Porter, her hands fiddling with a bolt of cloth on the table in front of her.

  “The only reason I know she’s gone is because the sheriff told me. Sue never wrote me that she was leaving. And she would have.”

  He maintained eye contact with Margaret until she dropped her gaze to the table. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what’s happened to…I mean, where she is. One day I sent her on an errand, and she just never came back. Haven’t seen or heard from her since.” Her hands strayed to another bolt of cloth.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Well, I declare, I’ll not be interrogated by a stranger in my own shop.”

  Ike was in no mood to be cordial. “Maybe if I get the sheriff, that would loosen your tongue.”

  Margaret blanched. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Porter. Can you at least describe Sue to me?”

  Ike adopted a softer tone. “She’s early twenties, long blonde hair, has an easy smile.” He hesitated. “One of her arms—her left one—is a little weak.”