by Jim Woolard
Regardless of Ellie Langston’s physique, her touch was softer than a caressing feather. “Hmm, the swelling’s diminishing already. Mr. Tanner, you are an extremely lucky young man. The blow didn’t shatter your skull and the cut it made in your skin is knitting together. And there’s no sign of proud flesh.”
Ellie Langston discarded the old bandage and gingerly applied salve that stunk like blazes in the area of Nathan’s greatest pain. Unrolling fresh white gauze, she placed a square of the material directly on the open wound, then bound it place by rewrapping his head.
With a pat of Nathan’s shoulder, the female doctor rose and returned leftover gauze, scissors, and the salve can to her satchel. She snapped the satchel closed and trained her owlish eyes on Nathan. “I provided the Chinaman with laudanum for you if the pain becomes too great. You must rest as much as possible. I don’t want you even walking down the hall to the necessary. Mr. Ming will provide a chamber pail for your bodily functions. I can’t stress enough, Mr. Tanner, how important bed rest is to your recovery.”
“How long will I be laid up?”
“Until you can stand on your feet with no dizziness, however much time that requires. If all goes well I’ll let you try to stand in a day or two.”
Ellie Langston lifted her satchel from the bed. “Constable Allred of the Alamosa Police Department is waiting in the hallway. He has some questions dealing with the assault on your person. He’s been here a number of times and if you’re not too tired, I’ll allow him to speak with you. I’ve cautioned him he’s not to stay more than five minutes.”
Despite his pain and discomfort, Nathan was anxious to learn what, if anything, the Alamosa police had uncovered in their investigation. “Send him in.”
The female doctor departed and Constable Allred eased into the room. Where Sam had ignored Ellie Langston, he was on his feet and growling in a flash. Constable Allred, carrying a straight-backed chair, stopped in his tracks. “Forgot the big bastard was with you,” he whispered.
The chunky constable looked ridiculous standing tipped-toed, clutching the chair as if it were made of eggs. It gladdened Nathan to observe another person petrified of Sam, but wishing the constable no embarrassment or harm, he copied Alana Birdsong and ordered Sam to “Stay!”
Though he remained on his feet, Sam licked his chops and ceased growling. The relieved constable set his chair down as far away from the huge dog as possible and lowered himself onto its seat. “Thank you,” he said, doffing his braided police cap. “I’m not partial to fanged animals.”
Nathan found this incongruous, for the constable’s sunken eyes, pug nose, bulging upper lip, and heavy jowls matched those of an English bulldog. Nathan would have thought it perfectly natural had the constable growled back at Sam. Neither was it a surprise that his voice was a wheezing rasp. “I’m Constable Jack Allred, Mr. Tanner. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have a few questions for you.”
“Ask away, Constable. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Mr. Tanner, exactly what happened to you and Charlie Swain in that stable?”
“I don’t know. No matter how much I wrack my brain, I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything, not a solitary thing after I parted company with my aunt and Sam in front of the Payne store.”
The chunky constable shifted his weight from one ham to the other, disappointment bunching his bulldog features into a solid lump. “Mr. Tanner, that’s most unfortunate. Much as we’ve asked about we still have no witnesses. The scuffmarks they made indicate there were two of them. From what your aunt told us her dog there got his teeth into of one of them, which accounts for the splatters of blood that led through the rear door of the stable. We followed that trail of blood with a lantern until it petered out. Whoever it was probably wrapped his wound on the run, and once they gained the next street, the surface was too dry and hard for us to read their tracks.”
Constable Allred fingered the badge pinned to the breast of his high collared shirt. “Ain’t no sense beatin’ a dead horse, Mr. Tanner. You got any idea who it was tried to rob you and Charlie?”
Jack Allred’s query established the thinking of the Alamosa Police. Having no evidence to the contrary, they assumed those responsible had been intent on robbery, not murder. Nathan saw how correct Alana Birdsong had been earlier in the day: Groundless accusations wouldn’t alter the opinion of the Alamosa Police one iota.
“I’ve no idea who it was either,” Nathan said. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.
Constable Allred hitched his feet beneath him, stood, and slapped his uniform cap against his thigh before donning it. “If you should remember anything of importance, please send for me.”
The constable tugged his police cap down to his ears. “You know, it’s a goodly thing you young bucks have thick skulls. Even at that, I don’t know how the bastards missed killing you like they did Charlie Swain. Good day, Mr. Tanner.”
Then the constable was gone into the hallway. Nathan lay frowning and thinking.
Missed.
Young buck.
The constable’s parting words stuck in his mind like signs nailed to the wall of a building. He had a dim recollection of having heard them before, and recently to boot. He couldn’t fathom what, if any significance they might have. Tired and frustrated, exhaustion overwhelmed him and he drifted off again.
* * *
The electric light above his bed had been switched off for the night and he came awake in the dark. Someone was mumbling, talking gibberish. He looked about. He was alone except for the snoring Sam. He, not someone else, was the source of the mumbling gibberish.
Missed.
Young buck
Now that he was fully awake, he realized that’s what he’d been saying over and over again.
He could never explain how or why it happened at that particular moment, but with the speed of a rushing torrent of water he was back in the Payne stable with Charlie Swain; pistol in hand, his palm slippery with sweat, reliving everything that had happened in stark detail.
The stable reeked of fresh manure, floating dust, and fresh blood, a smell familiar to Nathan. He heard the scrape of his boot heels as he sidled toward the inert body of Charlie Swain. With a last glance roundabout he leaned over Charlie. His head seemed to explode, and then he was falling.
He rolled onto his back and a hissing voice said, “Didn’t miss this time, bucko.”
Nathan lay motionless in his hotel bed, his breath labored and shallow. This time implied the speaker had attempted to kill him before. It took no mental effort for him to realize the club wielder had to be the man that had shot at him on the St. Louis waterfront and missed not once, but three times.
There was no longer any question as to whether the murders of his father and his uncle and the attempt on his life were connected, not when the same hired killer showed up a thousand miles from St. Louis to have another try at him.
Fear almost gagged him. Even with the ferocious Sam sleeping nearby, and a pistol under his pillow, he felt as isolated and exposed as a target on a shooting range.
He’d sat beside his mother on the padded pews beneath the vaulted ceiling of the church on Bedford Street nearly every Sunday with his mind everywhere but on what was being said from the pulpit. He’d prayed only during Sunday church services, and then without feeling or any sense of commitment. He hadn’t really considered the Lord’s blessing all that critical . . . until now.
He threw the comforter and coarse sheets aside, slid to the edge of the bed, turned on his stomach, and lowered his knees to the floor.
Once there, Nathan Lucius Tanner, uncertain his Maker would deign to listen, bowed his head.
First, he begged the Lord to forgive him.
Then he asked for strength.
And saving his greatest need for last, he prayed for the courage to withstand his enemies.
Thirteen
Nathan slept fitfully and awakened with his mouth dry as gunpowder. Daylight brig
htened the hotel room. The sharp pain that had plagued him for four days and four nights was gone, replaced by a nagging throb that hurt only when he moved any part of his body in haste. He experienced no dizziness as he slowly, ever so slowly, raised his head and cast about for Sam.
Nathan wasn’t fond of Sam and didn’t trust him not to bite. But he was down and hurt and unsure of his enemies, and having a guard dog that would sacrifice himself before he’d allow you to be harmed couldn’t be discounted.
Sam was awake and alert, sitting on his haunches beside the room’s single window. He growled at Nathan, walked across the room, and scratched at the door. As if he’d been waiting for just such a signal—and Nathan didn’t doubt that possibility—Mr. Ming shoved the door open with his hip and hove into sight bearing a water pitcher, tin mug, and steaming pot of tea on a chipped ceramic platter. The Chinese servant placed the platter on the seat of the chair left behind by Constable Allred. He poured water into the tin mug and passed it to Nathan. “Master drink. Lady doctor, she order it.”
Nathan was suddenly thirstier than a water-starved camel. He bolted the first mug, then a second, and a third. Mr. Ming’s broad smile seemed to occupy his whole face.
“Master like tea?”
Nathan wasn’t partial to the oriental brew, but anything wet would pass muster until his thirst was satisfied. He nodded and Mr. Ming poured. The tea was hot enough it had to be sipped.
After pouring a second mug of tea, Mr. Ming pushed Constable Allred’s chair against the bed, putting the teapot within Nathan’s reach, and excused himself. He returned straightaway toting a square wooden tray. He motioned with a jerk of the chin for Nathan to sit up, and then balanced the tray on his lap.
One whiff of the tray’s contents and Nathan was salivating. He removed the lid of the covered bowl on the tray and discovered boiled oats topped with milk and butter. Poached eggs filled the plate resting next to the oat bowl. Wedges of bread for sopping ringed the poached eggs. True to his training, Mr. Ming had wrapped tin knife, fork, and spoon in a red handkerchief, the clean handkerchief substituting for a proper napkin.
It wasn’t necessary for Mr. Ming to invite Nathan to eat. It was a breakfast partaking dominated by busy hands and rampant chewing. A pleased Mr. Ming sang in his native tongue while carting off the dirty dishware.
Nathan adjusted the pillow behind him and enjoyed a final mug of tea. He was full of belly, relaxed, and the pain at his temple had diminished another notch. Now, if only he could solve the problem of his nakedness. He needn’t have fretted. The resourceful Mr. Ming reappeared, this time bearing a shin-length, flannel nightshirt.
The Chinese servant waited patiently for Nathan to peel back the bedclothes and inch his bare legs over the side of the bed. Though he moved slowly to avoid it, dizziness threatened Nathan’s balance once he was on his feet. Fingers clutched his elbow, an arm with the strength of steel wrapped around his middle, and slender Mr. Ming steadied him as he slipped the flannel nightshirt over his head. The Chinese servant continued to support Nathan until he was prone on the bed, and then helped pull the covers over him.
“Master have visitors soon. Must not embarrass self.”
“Visitors?”
“Yes. Mrs. Tanner, she come, then lady from town.”
The prospect of visiting with both his aunt and Laura Payne bolstered Nathan’s spirits instantly. “Seems like I’m in for a busy day,” he observed, rubbing where he’d been shaven earlier.
Reading Nathan’s mind, Mr. Ming said, “Bring razor quick, quick,” and fled the room.
Nathan chuckled. “Sam, a bullet’s got nothing on Mr. Ming.”
He was still pondering how he’d just spoken to the hostile Sam as if they old friends when the Chinaman burst through the door carrying the requisite pan of water, towel, and bar of soap, a straight razor clasped between his teeth. The barbers practicing their trade at St. Louis’s finest hotels had nothing on Mr. Ming. He worked up a thick lather, his stroke was firm, yet supple, and he frequently stropped the razor on the leather belt draped over his shoulder. Nathan received a fine, close shave with nary a nick. He wanted to protest the bottle of cologne Mr. Ming pulled from his belly sash after toweling him dry, but the scented toilet water, while harsh on skin tender from the scrape of the sharp razor, overpowered the rank odor of medicinal salve.
Mr. Ming collected his shaving supplies. “Master ready for Mrs. Tanner now?”
Nathan laughed and said, “Bring her to me, Mr. Ming. Bring her to me.”
Alana Birdsong again wore her hair loose, but this particular day she was dressed in a ladies’ Bolero suit, the style Nathan’s mother had preferred. He had loved any opportunity to run his fingertips over the mohair and silk trim of his mother’s Bolero jacket, and the rustle of the suit’s taffeta lining as Alana Birdsong approached his bed conjured up an image of his mother descending the carpeted stairs of the Tanner Mansion. The loss of his mother had carved a gaping hole within Nathan, and sadness stalked him every waking moment, ready to spark further weeping if he dwelled upon her murder. It was an odd twist of fate, but his present difficulties, no matter how dangerous, were a welcome diversion in his weaker moments.
Alana Birdsong patted Sam and twirled the handle of her parasol. “Good afternoon, Nephew. You’re looking better. There’s color in your cheeks and I expect you’ll be up and around before I know it.”
Nathan sighed. “I hope so. Being in bed around the clock gets awfully tiresome. That’s a mighty attractive suit you’re wearing.”
“Why, thank you,” a delighted Alana Birdsong said. “This is my Eldon Payne attire. Eldon’s bluster disappears when he must deal with me as a lady and not the uncultured horse woman he believes Seth Tanner rescued from spinsterhood in a brief fit of passion.”
Nathan blushed, but he was becoming accustomed to his aunt’s forthright nature. Alana Birdsong didn’t let sleeping dogs lie. Nathan often wondered how she and his roughshod uncle had gotten together.
“I’ve an appointment to meet with Eldon in less than an hour,” Alana Birdsong continued. “He’s avoided any review of the store’s ledgers with me since Seth was killed. After I threatened him with legal action yesterday, he’s finally agreed to let me examine them.”
Nathan couldn’t help blurting, “Would Mr. Payne enter into a deal with Roan Buckman?”
Nathan’s query didn’t shock or surprise Alana Birdsong, but she was slow in answering. “Maybe, though I can’t really say for certain one way or the other. A few months ago I would never have imagined Eldon so much as discussing the time of day with Roan Buckman. It’s obvious you think as I do. That meeting at the store the other evening seemed contrived, didn’t it? Like Eldon and Roan were in cahoots and hoped to catch me off-guard and feeling weak.”
Nathan was gratified his aunt’s thinking matched his own. “What I don’t understand is why Mr. Payne wants to sell now. His store is having a banner year because of the silver boom at Creede, and it seems an unlikely time for him to sell his share of the business. Just from my reading of invoices for mining machinery shipped from St. Louis to Alamosa the past year, Mr. Payne stands to amass a fortune. Much, much more than the twenty-five thousand he’d make if we cave to the Buckmans.”
“Eldon’s sudden urge to sell perplexes me, too,” Alana said. “His whole life is devoted to that store. Except for his weekly poker game at the Alamosa Club, Laura says he hardly ever engages in any activity that takes him away him from his office.”
Alana Birdsong tilted her head and studied Nathan. “Nephew, do you have any experience with company ledgers?”
Nathan, not wanting to mislead her, said: “Enough to read invoices and take inventory. Father had just started to teach me the banking and accounting end of things.”
“I don’t know much more than that either,” Alana Birdsong admitted. “I’ve been keeping the books at the ST for Seth, but ranch ledgers are child’s play compared to those of Payne Merchandise, and your father’s sup
ply company. Ignorant as we are, it would be tough to determine from the ledgers how Eldon is operating the store. For all we know he could be stealing money right and left. And if he’s merely in cahoots with Roan Buckman to force a sale, that’s not necessarily illegal. We’d have to prove in court that we lost money because of their conniving. Wheeling and dealing in cattle like Seth did, he reminded me more than once that there’s a big difference in the eyes of the law as to what’s merely unethical versus what’s illegal.”
Alana Birdsong tapped the floor with her parasol. “Let’s pray Eldon proves an honest soul. Maybe we’re building a fire where there’s nothing to burn. Well, I best not be late. You should be aware if Ming hasn’t informed you that Laura Payne would like to pay you a visit today.”
“I’d like that. I’ll not mention our suspicions about her father,” Nathan promised.
Alana Birdsong rested her parasol on her shoulder at a jaunty angle and walked to the door. Sam rose, but his mistress ordered him to stay and he dropped back down on the floor beneath the window.
“Maybe you should take Sam with you,” Nathan said. “You can’t tote a rifle dressed in a walking suit. That would be a little much even for you.”
There was a trill in Alana Birdsong’s laughter. “Some day you’ll have to tell me what you’ve heard about me, Nathan. Sam stays with you. He knows their scent, and if your would-be murderers come anywhere near you, he’ll attack immediately unless you call him off. Besides, I have Brick Redman shadowing me everywhere I go. I’ll be back after my meeting. Enjoy your visit with Laura.”
Alana Birdsong swept from the room with the same elegance and grace with which she’d entered it. She was a creature of rare beauty. She was also smart and resourceful and didn’t hide behind her own skirts. Female or not, Nathan was glad Alana Birdsong was his aunt and not his enemy.