Courting Faith

by Kay Stuart

  They walked among the trees growing on the west side of town. Away from the businesses that housed the unsavory and often immoral practices of mankind. The sky overhead looked as if it might open up and drop buckets of rainwater. The wind was cold. Faith noticed Laurie was shivering in her thin dress. Her bare feet must feel icy cold.

  The wash tubs stood on the back porch where Faith and her mother had left them. Clothes were still soaking in water.

  “Come inside,” Faith invited. Sheriff Walden nervously removed his hat handing it to Faith. She hung it on the rack inside the backdoor which contained coats and bonnets. “Do make yourself at home. Mother keeps a pot of coffee warming on the stove and cups are in the cupboard. I will be back as soon as I wash my hands.”

  Sheriff Walden watched Faith and Laurie disappear through a door. He could hear their murmurs as he followed Faiths instructions, located a cup and poured coffee.

  The small room contained a washstand. Setting on top was a porcelain bowl and pitcher of warm water. Laurie watched curiously as Faith poured water into the bowl and picked up a bar of soap. After lathering soap on a washcloth she washed her face then rinsed out the cloth and removed the soap. “You next,” Faith said and handed Laurie a clean washcloth. She watched as the child imitated what she had done. “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” Faith instructed. Under all the dirt and grime Laurie was a pretty child.

  “What would you like to eat,” Faith asked.

  Laurie stared at her clean hands and humped her shoulders up and down.

  “How about bacon and eggs,” Faith suggested knowing most children like eggs.

  Laurie looked up. Tears were running down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. “Pa is dead isn’t he,” she asked.

  “Yes,” Faith said simply.

  “I got to go to him,” Laurie replied. “He ain’t got no body but me.”

  “After we eat,” Faith said feeling inadequate. She was waiting for her father and Mother to return. Then the decision what to do with Laurie could be made.

  Sheriff Walden pushed back his chair and stood when Faith entered the kitchen.

  “We are having bacon and eggs,” Faith announced. “Do you want some?” She pulled out a chair and motioned for Laurie to sit down. Sheriff Walden looked like a man uncomfortable in his duties. He wanted to ask Laurie questions and was apprehensive his probing would cause tears. Men never liked tears, Faith remembered.

  “Thank you,” Walden said, “Just coffee.”

  After opening the firebox on the stove and putting in wood. Faith went to the back porch and came back with a bottle of milk. She poured Laurie a glass. “You have questions,” Faith asked.

  “Yes ma’am,” Walden gave her a grateful look. He had been wondering how to open the conversation. Dealing with women was tricky. Dealing with children was nearly impossible.

  “Did you see the man that shot your father,” Faith asked. She stood at the table breaking eggs into a bowl. Hoping her presence would reassure the child.

  Laurie bit her bottom lip. Her eyes were dark with fear. She nodded her head yes. “There . . . there were three of them,” she whispered leaning in her chair so that she was closer to Faith.

  “Do you know them,” Faith asked. Hoping Sheriff Walden would not scold her for interfering. Laurie was afraid and she wanted to comfort the child.

  Laurie opened her mouth then closed it. Her breathing was raising and lowering her shoulders showing just how agitated the child was.

  “You have seen the men before,” Faith guessed.

  Laurie bobbed her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Where did you see them,” Faith asked. She cut strips of bacon and placed the strips in a heated skillet before turning back to Laurie. The child was silently crying.

  “In . . . In Cooper Creek,” Laurie said. “Some men rode up and Pa told me to stay in the wagon. I peeked out and saw them. They were the three men that shot Pa.”

  “Do you remember anything about them,” Faith asked. She glanced towards Sheriff Walden and he nodded his head encouraging her to continue.

  Laurie was considering Faith’s question. She scrunched up her face and nibbled on her bottom lip. “One had a funny looking horse,” Laurie said after a few minutes.

  Faith looked at Sheriff Walden. She was not sure what to ask next. “Funny how,” Walden asked.

  Laurie’s shoulders rose and fell. “It was all,” she struggled to come up with a word to describe what she wanted to say. “Poke-a-dotted,” Laurie declared.

  “Poke-a-dotted,” Walden said, mystified.

  Faith searched her mind wondering what Laurie meant. Surely with four younger sisters she could come up with an answer. “Big spots on his coat like a pinto,” Faith asked.

  Laurie shook her head no. “Little spots.” She held up one hand and made a circle using her fingers. “Poke-a-dots,” she insisted again.

  “What color were the poke-a-dots,” Faith asked. Hoping more information might jar her memory.

  “I don’t know,” Laurie replied, “Just poke-a-dots!”

  “Brown, black, red,” Faith asked. Laurie’s face registered a blank as she shrugged her shoulders. It was plain the girl did not know the different names for colors. “Can you show me,” Faith asked. “Is there something in this room that looks the same.”

  Laurie looked about the room. Her face was scrunched in concentration. “There,” she said after a time. Pointing to a scarf Imogen had knitted their father using black and white yarn. The two colors were mingled together.

  “Sam Turner,” Walden said. “He rides a speckled gray horse,” he looked at Laurie, “A horse with poke-a-dots.” A smile widened his lips. “Thank you,” he said. Laurie’s father had refused to answer his questions. Men of his caliber, right or wrong stuck together. Mr. Hogan had chosen to take the names of the men who shot him to his grave.

  Standing, Sheriff Walden walked to the backdoor and retrieved his hat. “Thank you,” he told Faith. “I am not sure anything will come of it. Sam Turner has a lot of friends who will swear the man was twenty miles from here when Mr. Hogan was shot. I won’t reveal it was Laurie that informed me.”

  “I understand,” Faith replied.

  “Good day,” Sheriff Walden said before stepping through the backdoor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Royce was standing at the open door saying goodbye to his last student when he noticed Miss Ferguson hurrying towards him through the falling rain. “Miss Ferguson,” he greeted successfully hiding his revulsion for the woman.

  “Mr. Hargadon,” Miss Ferguson replied. Coming into the Secondary School she shook her damp shoulders before brushing wet strands of hair off her face. Miss Ferguson would never be considered attractive. “I have received a letter from Mr. Hervey,” she said triumphantly. As if she relished the School District’s Superintendent visiting their school so she could expose Royce’s lack of teaching skills. Or was he imagining things.

  “I believe it is usual to have a program when the Superintendent visits. Inviting the parents to see what progress the students are making,” Royce replied after searching through his mind to a time when he was in school.

  “Yes,” Miss Ferguson replied. She puckered her lips together as if sucking on a sour pickle. Her blue eyes gazed at him innocently.

  In a Pig’s eye! Royce thought. The old crow is enjoying herself. He walked to the first window and looked out. The road beside the school was empty of traffic. Water puddles were forming in low places. “First a Spelling Bee,” Royce said turning his back to the window. “Then the younger students reading scriptures aloud followed by older students giving an overview of history,” he asked. “Is this what you have in mind?”

  Miss Ferguson folded her hands together in front of her ample bosoms. She tilted back her head and looked down her nose at Royce. “Mathematics,” she said as if Royce had forgotten the most important subject. “Eddy Layfield won last year. He won’t be ready for Secondary School for anothe
r year,” she praised.

  “Some children are gifted,” Royce replied. He had faced down outlaws and notorious gunmen. Surely he could look Miss Ferguson in the eye without flinching. When he did a chill slid down his spine. The woman was a menace in petticoats worse than any outlaw Royce had ever run across.

  “A Spelling Bee is an excellent suggestion,” Miss Ferguson said in her squeaky nasal voice, “Followed by my students reading aloud. Next, Mathematics starting with addition and subtraction.” She walked across the floor and placed one hand on top of Johnny Meyers’ desk. Her movements were awkward. “A history lesson from the older students,” she elaborated after clearing her throat, “Followed by a contest in Multiplication and division. We can work out the details later,” she suggested. “I have papers to grade before cooking supper. Milton likes his meals hot and on time.”

  Royce wondered why Miss Ferguson always mentioned her brother in every conversation. “I have an errand to do,” Royce replied and escorted Miss Ferguson to the front door. Feeling, if he had to be pleasant to the irritating woman another minute his head might explode with the effort. He locked his jaws together to keep from saying what he thought.

  “Tomorrow after school I will bring you a list. Three weeks is not a very long time to prepare for Mr. Hervey’s visit,” Miss Ferguson said.

  Royce locked the front door heaving a sigh of relief before making his way upstairs. He changed into denims and plaid shirt strapping on his gunbelt. Back downstairs he took his revolver out of the top desk drawer where he had placed it earlier. A precaution while in the classroom. He let himself out the side door stopping to glance up at the overcast sky. Wind blowing through town felt icy cold and the sky overhead not showing any signs the rain would let up soon.

  Walking along the boardwalk Royce met very few people as he made his way towards the Baptist Church. He wanted to follow Milton Ferguson on the man’s next midnight ride but was at a disadvantage not having a horse. Marshal Tinsley had believed it was better for him to arrive in Junction City by stagecoach. Royce could hire a horse from the stables when needed. At the moment Royce trusted very few people in Junction City and therefore was reluctant to answer questions when hiring a horse. Then he had thought of the Ladies Horserace and decided to ask if he might borrow Get-a-long for a few days.

  The bell over the door of Morse’s General Store jingled when Royce opened the door. Wind and Rain preceded him into the store blowing around items on the shelves. “Close the door,” Mr. Morse barked a moment later.

  “Yes sir,” Royce replied. He stood dripping rain from his oilcloth slicker. Inside the store was stuffy from the heat given off by the potbellied stove in the middle of the room. Old Mr. Morse was rocking in a chair placed next to the stove. “Good day,” Royce told the old man.

  “What’s good about it,” Mr. Morse Senior snapped. “Rain is leaking in my room upstairs,” the man complained, “Has gotten my bed all wet. That crazy Milton shot up the store a couple of days ago. Drunk he was. Shot holes in the roof he did.”

  Royce looked up wondering how Milton Ferguson could possibly have shot holes in the roof. The man would have had to shoot through the ceiling overhead and the Morse’s living quarters before reaching the building’s roof. Mr. Morse Senior was not forthcoming with more information. He sat in his rocker grumbling to himself.

  Miss Florence was in her regular place behind the Post Office window. Her fingers were busy knitting a warm shawl. “Another letter so soon,” she asked pleasantly. Morse family resemblance was strong in her blunt features. Her eyes were the color and shape of Mr. Morse Senior’s eyes. Brown hair was pulled back in a bun on the back of her neck. Her teeth were large when she smiled. Her look stopped Royce’s heart in his chest. Miss Florence was making eyes at him! The shock almost had him running for the front door.

  “Yes,” Royce replied. “There are only Pa and me,” he explained. “The ranch doesn’t bring in enough to hire a man.”

  “More is the pity,” Florence replied. “A man shouldn’t live alone.” Her smile broadened and her eyelashes fluttered up and down.

  Royce gulped for air. “A stamp please,” he said and handed over two cents. Miss Florence licked then pressed a red two cent stamp on the envelope. Royce believed it was Thomas Jefferson he was viewing upside down. Trying to remember which President was on a two cent stamp was a challenge after the shock he had just received. He was sure Florence Morse was not a woman any man would willingly court. She would probably someday inherit half of the General Store. The thriving business could induce some man to give the woman a second look. Or was he being too critical of other women after meeting the five attractive Gaines sisters.

  Outside of the general store Royce stopped suddenly. Why had Miss Ferguson waited until today to inform him of Mr. Hervey’s letter. Mail arrived on the Wednesday morning stage. Today was Monday nearly a week later. One more puzzle in the long line of puzzles in dealing with Miss Ferguson. Walking along the boardwalk Royce wondered once again why Mayor Pillsdale and the town’s school board put up with Miss Ferguson’s atrocious manners.

  Now sure there was a connection between Milton Ferguson and Frank Barlow perhaps he should investigate Junction City’s school board members. He might find something very interesting. Royce made his way to the Baptist Church then crossed the cemetery arriving at the Gaines small two stories home.

  Royce stepped up on the front porch, removed his hat and shook off water. It was a miserable day to go visiting. His knock was answered by a young girl dressed in clothes obviously too big for her. Large safety pins keep the hem of her dress from dragging the floor by raising the waist. Her eyes were blue. Not a Gaines’ trait.

  “May I speak with Miss Gaines. Miss Faith Gaines,” Royce added hastily for all the young women in the house were Miss Gaines.

  “Laurie, who is at the door,” Faith asked coming into the room.

  “A man,” Laurie replied. She looked Mr. Hargadon over with great suspicion.

  “Mr. Hargadon,” Faith said a moment later, “How nice to see you. Father is not home at the moment. Is there something I can do for you? Do come in,” she rushed on to say willing her heart to stop its wild thumping in her breast.

  “I am dripping water,” Royce declined the invitation. “Perhaps you will step outside for a moment so we may talk,” Royce suggested. “It is quite dry under the porch roof.”

  Dry or not, it was cold outside. “I will get my coat,” Faith replied. Closing the front door against the cold she returned a few minutes later wearing her warm coat. She placed her hands inside the pockets to keep them warm. It was miserable out. Mr. Hargadon had moved to the end of the porch and was staring towards the lights of town dimly seen through the falling rain. Dusk came early these days.

  Royce looked at Faith’s upturned face not sure how to say what he had come to ask. Faith knew he was a Marshal or he would not be asking her for the loan a horse. “I need a horse,” Royce blurted out then felt his ears turning red. He rammed his hands into the front pocket of his denims. His first impulse had been to take Faith into his arms and kiss her delectable lips. Remembering her response to Milton Ferguson’s attempt at kissing her, he rethought the issue.

  “A horse? You want to borrow Get-a-long,” Faith asked. She was puzzled and it showed in her brown eyes.

  “I don’t want anyone to know,” Royce replied. “Or I would hire a horse from the stables. You do understand.”

  “You know something,” Faith said stepping closer to Royce.

  Her movements did not help Royce concentrate on his errand. He stepped back finding Faith’s attractiveness was more powerful than he realized. “I need to follow Milton Ferguson on his next midnight ride. I am sure he is part of Frank Barlow’s gang. I want to know where he goes and what he does. So, I need the use of your horse.”

  “You need not explain,” Faith replied calmly while all the time her heart was racing. Trust was in her eyes before she turned and sat down on one of the woo
den chairs on the front porch. Her parents enjoyed sitting on the porch in the evenings. It was now too cold. Winter had arrived along with cold winds and colder rains. “You are not planning to ride through this rain,” she asked concern in her voice.

  “If need be but I shouldn’t think so,” Royce replied. “I have spotted Ferguson leaving on Wednesday evenings,” he elaborated.

  Faith slid back in her chair and folded her hands together on her lap. A graceful movement that contradicted Miss Ferguson’s clumsy movements earlier in the day. The schoolteacher was not blessed with grace or good manners.

  “Wednesday,” Faith said looking up at Royce. “Why did you weather the rain to come and ask about Get-a-long today.”

  Why? Royce wondered himself for a brief moment. He had not stopped to consider the rain. He chuckled softly feeling self-conscious. “Truth is I did not consider the rain. A man that spends most of his time out of doors rarely thinks about the weather. He works rain or sunshine.”

  Faith found Mr. Hargadon’s response insightful. Town born and raised she found rain a nuisance. Never venturing out into bad weather unless absolutely necessary. Mr. Hargadon on the other hand never stopped to consider the pouring rain or the cold.

  “May I sit,” Royce asked indicating the chair beside Faith.

  “Please do,” she replied.

  Royce’s oilcloth raincoat crinkled as he sat down. He cleared his throat. Being seated beside Faith had his senses stampeding in all directions. He was uncomfortable and found the thought disturbing. “What do you know about Junction City’s School Board Members,” he asked, sure Faith knew every man on the board.

  “School Board Members,” Faith repeated. She was having trouble keeping up with Royce’s changing subjects.

  “Is Mr. Pillsdale a member,” Royce asked. He had disliked the pompous little man from the beginning. It would not come as a surprise to discover he was somehow tied in with Barlow.

  “Yes,” Faith replied. “All members must have a child in school. Mr. Cobb had insisted the prevision be included in the rules.”