Courting Faith

by Kay Stuart

  Royce crossed the road and stepped upon the boardwalk. The afternoon sun was bright in the western sky. The breeze blowing off the mountains was pine scented. September could be a changeable month. One day cool and the next hot. Few people were on the boardwalks in front of the many businesses. The road was rutted from recent rains. Pools of water still stood in the deeper ruts. Passing the stage station Royce glanced across the road at the building housing the gunsmith. The sun caught the barrel of a rifle on display in the front window. Royce crossed the road and stopped. His heart pounded in his chest as blood rushed through his veins. The rifle had a winged metal plate on its wooden stock. The wooden stock had been sanded smooth and stained a dark brown. Yet Royce could make out where the initials GD had once been carved above the metal plate. He was looking at Marshal Dean’s rifle.

  Royce pushed open the door and stepped into the shop. The room smelled of oils and gunpowder. The man seated behind the work counter was tall and good looking with blond hair and blue eyes. He had the appearance of a man that spent most of his days indoors. “Something I can do for you,” the man asked.

  “I am Mr. Hargadon the new schoolteacher,” Royce said. “Mr. Morse talked me into signing up for the shooting contest.” He added in friendly tones, “May I look at the rifle in the window?”

  Roger Cobb walked with a limp leaning heavily on a cane. He picked up the rifle running his left hand over the polished barrel. “She is a work of art,” he said handing the Springfield rifle to Royce. “Finest I’ve seen in these parts.”

  Royce silently agreed. He had one like it back at his Pa’s ranch. Leaving it behind had been a real challenge. He had brought along his Henry rifle instead. “I’ve seen one like it before down near Waco,” Royce stated wondering what Cobb would say to his revelation. “The bronze plate is the giveaway. I believe they were special made for the Cavalry.” This was a lie. He knew the rifles were gifts from Marshal Tinsley to his new Territorial Marshals. “You remove that plate and it will give you information on which troop the rifle was assigned.”

  “I don’t believe . . .,” the man halted in his speech his face turning beet red. “We will see,” Cobb declared as he limped to the back of his shop. A moment later he was seated behind his work bench removing the bronze plate from the rifle barrel. Turning it over in his hand he read, “To George Dean for exemplary service . . . Marshal Tinsley. Dean! Why that’s the man that was murdered a few months back.”

  “Marshal Tinsley,” Royce replied glancing over the man’s shoulder. “I heard they were Cavalry issue. Tinsley is a Territorial Marshal.”

  “That makes Dean a Territorial Marshal. I wonder if Walden is aware of this fact,” Cobb said before replacing the bronze plate. “I paid out good money for this rifle. Said it would be first prize in the shooting contest. What do I do now?”

  “Can’t say,” Royce replied. “You best talk this over with Walden. Let the sheriff make the decision. Dean is dead. Likely Sheriff Walden won’t do anything about the rifle. She is a honey. I wouldn’t mind owning her.” Royce hoped he had convinced Cobb he had not known the rifle belonged to Dean. He was on thin ice and could feel it breaking beneath his feet. Hoping Cobb would reveal where he had gotten the rifle. The man had not and Royce did not want to ask.

  “I will,” Cobb declared agitated. “Did you want something,” he asked as if just realizing Royce was still in his shop.

  “I signed up for the shooting contest,” Royce repeated. “Mr. Morse said you were putting up a rifle so I came along to have a look at it,” he stated.

  Roger Cobb pulled off his soiled leather apron looking around the shop as if hunting for something. His hat was on the counter in back of the store. “I’ll see Walden right now,” he declared.

  “I will walk along with you,” Royce said casually. “I was on my way to see the sheriff when I stopped to have a look at the rifle in the window. When the sun shone off that bronze plate I remembered seeing one like it before. It might have gone undetected otherwise.” Royce waited while Cobb closed and locked his front door. If the man was pretending he was a good actor. His hand shook when he turned the key in the lock.

  Amos Walden was in his office when Royce followed Cobb through the door. The gunsmith placed the rifle on top of the sheriff’s desk looking at Walden with trepidation. “This is Dean’s rifle,” he blurted. “I sure didn’t know it when Layfield brought it into my shop and asked if I would trade it for that new colt I had on display.” Cobb ran out of steam and plopped down on the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk.

  “What did you say,” Walden demanded picking up the rifle. He eyed Royce with suspicion.

  “I saw a similar rifle once,” Royce said elaborating on what he had told Cobb. “I was curious enough to mention the fact to Mr. Cobb. He removed the bronze plate and found George Dean inscribed on the inside. I was told the rifles were ordered special for the Cavalry. In Arizona the Apaches are still causing trouble and a Springfield Repeater can do a lot of damage in the hands of a man that knows how to use one.”

  Walden turned the rifle over in his hand his brown eyes turning nearly black in appearance. “I knew Dean was a Territorial Marshal. He was here on assignment. He did not tell me what that assignment was,” he added. “He asked a lot of questions around town. I guest he asked the wrong question to the right person. I contacted Marshal Tinsley after Dean’s death. He sent a telegraph wire that he would get back with me. But never has.” He looked at Cobb. “You say Layfield brought you this rifle.”

  “Yes Sir,” Cobb replied. “What do I do about the Shooting Contest? That rifle was to be first prize.”

  “I will have to keep it until Marshal Tinsley says otherwise,” Walden replied.

  “Well, I guess that is that,” Cobb stated coming to his feet. “The town’s people are not going to be happy about this. No Sir. Not happy at all.”

  “I suggest you talk to Mayor Pillsdale,” Walden retorted. “A first prize can be worked out. This rifle is evidence in a murder investigation. I will have a talk with Layfield. See what he knows.” He placed the rifle inside an empty slot in the rifle case behind his desk.

  Royce wondered how much of their conversation was hogwash and how much was the truth. Walden admitted he knew Dean was a Territorial Marshal while Cobb confessed no knowledge of the fact. Had Dean asking questions gotten the man killed. What questions and with whom had Dean talked.

  “Being a new comer I’m not sure I followed all of your conversation,” Royce said.

  Cobb stood and reached for his walking stick. “I’ll see Mayor Pillsdale right away,” he said. Leaning heavily on his cane Cobb made for the front door to the office. “I’ll get back with you,” he told Sheriff Walden.

  Royce took the chair Cobb vacated and leaned back placing one ankle over his other knee. “This Dean, you said you knew he was a Marshal.”

  “Yes,” Walden replied. He reached for the coffee pot on top of a potbellied stove standing in the corner of the room. “I just wish he had been more forthcoming with what he was doing in Junction City. I have little to go on. The Territory doesn’t like it when one of their Marshals is murdered and nothing is done about it.”

  Royce looked longingly at the coffee pot on top of the stove. “My coffee tastes like last night’s dishwater,” he stated and watched Walden’s lips widen into a smile.

  “Help yourself,” Walden said.

  Royce did not need a second invitation. The coffee was hot and bitter and strong enough to take rust off horseshoes. After the first sip Royce sat back down on the chair giving a deep sigh. “Just like my Pa makes,” he complimented. “I miss the comforts of home when away teaching,” Royce declared.

  “When you are not teaching school what do you do for a living,” Walden asked. Royce was not his idea of a teacher. The young man had an outdoor complexion and work roughened hands.

  “Pa owns a thorn and rock ranch outside of Clear Valley. Imagine a piece of dust and desert being called Clear Vall
ey,” Royce answered. “Summer months I herd cattle and brand calves. We can’t make a living ranching so during the winter months I teach school. Better than starving,” he said simply. “I think Pa enjoys my being away. He complains I work him too hard.” Royce smiled over his words. He was stretching the truth and then some. His pa could out work him any day of the week. But having said his pa was once a sheriff he wanted to paint the man as shiftless. He was sure Walden knew the type and credited Royce with similar traits. Too lazy to make a living ranching so he preferred teaching school instead.

  Leaning back in his chair Royce felt at home inside the sheriff’s office. He had spent most of his younger days cleaning up around a jail and making himself useful to his pa. There had been only him and Pa after his mother’s death. He barely remembered the woman except for her fiery red hair and green eyes. His green eyes were his mother’s gift. He also inherited her strong will. Stubborn pride Tinsley often referred to his nature. It was this stubborn will that had kept him alive after being shot and left for dead. When he had caught up with Gunter a few months later the man had been surprised. Royce had eventually brought in every man that had been in the shootout that day. He was still alive and they were all now occupying a six foot piece of ground.

  Sheriff Walden was in his middle thirties. A big man with black hair and brown eyes. He was lean to the point of gauntness. “Finding the offspring of Junction City’s citizens a handful,” Walden asked. His look was friendly as he settled onto his chair and propped one boot on top of his desk. He tilted back his chair balancing on the chair’s hind legs. The chair groaned under the man’s weight.

  “Until they settle into my way of teaching,” Royce replied. “Always takes a few weeks. Have to stay on guard against every prank known to boys and a few I haven’t heard about.” Royce grinned at his words. He was relaxed in his surroundings.

  “A sheriff has to know about boyish pranks,” Walden admitted. “Last month a couple of boys tied a rope around one of the public outhouses and drug it away. Mrs. Schmitt was inside at the time. The woman nearly had apoplexy. When we found her Doc had to give her a dose of Laudanum. The good woman took to her bed for a week.”

  “Discover which boys,” Royce asked.

  “That wasn’t difficult. Mrs. Schmitt had scolded one of the town boys for picking fruit off her trees. By the way the lad is not one of your students. He runs with a wild crowd and I’ve tried to reign in some of his stunts. In a couple of more years he is sure to be spending time in the big House. I can try and reason with some of these roughnecks but it does little good. Not when they have older brothers that egg them on.”

  Royce wanted to ask more question but refrained. After all he was in Junction City to teach school, not enforce laws. The information would come to him if he did not force the issue. Patience was the game he was playing.

  “You’ve been making the rounds,” Walden said changing the subject.

  “Getting acquainted,” Royce replied easily. “I’ve learned it pays to be friendly with folks. There will be fewer misunderstandings in the future if folks get to know me.”

  Walden rubbed the back of his neck with one big hand. “Mayor Pillsdale has his opinions on how things are to be done,” Walden said. “He will get around to the school in time. Will try and tell you which Ts to cross and which Is to dot.”

  “I know the type,” Royce replied “Your warning is appreciated.”

  The sun was hanging low in the western sky when Royce left the Sheriff’s office. He had not really learned anything new and wondered as he walked towards the school building what he had expected Walden to confide if anything. Wind blew from the north causing trash and debris to scudder across the road in front of him. Loose shutters and boards banged against the sides of buildings. It was approaching suppertime and few people were out and about this time of evening.

  Royce stopped at Junction City’s Newspaper Office to read the week’s headlines post on the blackboard out front. ‘BARLOW GANG ROBS WESTBOUND TRAIN,’ was the glaring headline. He read the particulars before stepping inside the office to buy a newspaper.

  “Mr. Hargadon,” McLain greeted. The man was seated behind his big desk going through pages of notes.

  Judith McLain, his daughter came across the room. She was dressed in a blue cotton dress and white pinafore apron. Her brown hair was braided and hung down both sides of her face. “Mr. Hargadon,” she said giving him a serious frown. “You want a newspaper,” she asked.

  “Yes,” Royce replied.

  “Two cents please,” Judith stated as she folded a newspaper. At seven years old she was a serious young girl.

  Royce handed her two copper Indianhead pennies. “When did the robbery take place,” he asked. His was more than a passing interest.

  Judith’s frown deepened. She glanced towards her father before giving Royce an answer. “Wednesday night,” she said softly, “Around midnight. The train slows for the steep grade outside of Beaumont. No trouble at all for a man mounted on horseback to step aboard.” Royce wondered if they were Judith’s words or her father’s.

  “Thank you,” Royce said. Mr. McLain was a grumpy sort of man. His newspaper articles reflected his attitude on life. Royce tucked the newspaper under one arm. He would read the account of the robbery later.

  Beaumont was how far away he wondered. Not more than fifty miles. On a fast horse a man could rob the train and be back at Junction City by sunrise.

  Chapter Five

  Royce held open the door to the general store and watched as a man stepped onto the boardwalk. He had stooped shoulders with a rounded back. His brown hair was unkempt and stringy. Blue eyes were furious looking in a deeply tanned lined face. He held his lips in what could only be described as a snarl. His teeth were large and tobacco stained. The man muttered to himself as he walked along the boardwalk. There was something familiar about his hard features.

  “Good morning,” a soft feminine voice greeted while Royce stood his hand still holding open the door as he stared after the strange looking man.

  Royce pulled his attention away from the stranger. Imogen Gaines stood in front of him. Her brown eyes were friendly. Dressed in yellow she looked like a golden Angel. “Good morning Miss Gaines,” Royce replied hastily removing his hat. “Do you know that man,” he asked indicating the stranger.

  Imogen pulled her lips back into a grimace as she wrinkled up her nose and scrunched up her eyes. “Mr. Ferguson,” she said trying hard not to show her revulsion. She witnessed surprise registering on Royce’s face.

  “Milton Ferguson? Miss Ferguson’s brother,” he asked for clarification.

  “One and the same,” Imogen replied. “He’s as mean as a badger let out of his cage,” she confided. “The man has a crush on Faith.”

  “A crush on Faith? Your sister Faith,” Royce repeated before turning back to Imogen. His mind was working overtime. Was Milton Ferguson the reason Dean had tried to get cozy with Faith. More to the point had George Dean discovered Ferguson’s connection to Barlow. Royce turned his head and watched Milton Ferguson shuffle across the road. Then the man pushed open the swinging doors to the saloon and disappeared inside.

  “Don’t mention Mr. Ferguson’s name in front of Faith unless you want a fight on your hands. That sister of mine might look docile but she can and has whipped her weight in wildcats. Miss Ferguson hates Faith for what she did to Milton when he tried to force his attention on her.”

  “Milton Ferguson tried to force himself on Faith,” Royce’s words were harsh as blood rushed through his veins and his heart pounded in his ears. He discovered he was boiling mad over the insinuation.

  “Not that kind of force,” Imogen replied, intrigued by Royce’s reaction. If she did not know better she would think Mr. Hargadon was in love with her sister. “He tried to kiss Faith,” Imogen explained.

  To a young woman like Miss Gaines trying to be kissed by a hooligan like Ferguson would be unacceptable. “What did your sister do to Mr.
Ferguson,” Royce asked intrigued by what Imogen would say.

  “The next morning there was a note on the school door dismissing classes for a week while Miss Ferguson nursed her brother back to health. Or so she says.” Imogen’s laugh was soft and husky. “Since then Mr. Ferguson has stirred clear of Faith. Only sometimes I wonder if he isn’t plotting revenge. He’s that type of man. I know father worries about my sister. He insists she not go out alone.”

  “An admirable decision,” Royce replied. “A young lady can never be too cautious.”

  “Come to dinner,” Imogen said impulsively. “It is Faith’s turn to do the cooking,” she added mischievously. It was about time some eligible young man became interested in Faith. That is, someone other than Mr. Cook. She understood why Faith loathed the man.

  “Being invited to dinner to a man that does his own cooking sounds like ambrosia,” Royce replied.

  “Ambrosia. Food for the gods,” Imogen smiled sweetly. “You haven’t tasted Faith’s cooking yet.”

  “Pa says my cooking is not fit to feed Arkansas hogs,” Royce replied.

  “As bad as all that,” Imogen said impishly with a smile in her voice. “Then, you will enjoy Faith’s cooking,” she continued. “On Saturdays we girls take turns cooking. It gives Mother a break.”

  “Which week do you cook,” Royce asked.

  “Next week,” Imogen replied. “You might want to give next week a pass. As you just said my cooking is not fit to feed Arkansas hogs.” She smiled at Royce. Not in a flirtatious way. Imogen was just friendly by nature.

  “Since I am invited to dinner I must finish my shopping,” Royce replied. Conscious the good citizens of Junction City were becoming too interested in him standing outside the general store talking with Miss Gaines. After all he was the new schoolteacher and she was the Minister’s daughter. “Twelve o’clock,” he asked.

  “Yes,” Imogen replied before she continued down the boardwalk. Royce resisted the impulse to watch her. Not wanting to add speculation to curiosity.