“No, they don’t. But she does. Which goes to prove she’s a witch, don’t it?”
Chuckling, Rosie pushed a clothespin over the shoulder seam of a wet shirt that kept trying to slap her. “Mrs. Sneed is strict, and that’s an essential attribute for a teacher, in my opinion.”
“She whupped Lucy yesterday.”
“Lucy? Oh, no!” Rosie clutched a dripping tablecloth as she pictured the responsible girl who had been left in charge of the recitation. “What on earth did Lucy do to deserve a whipping?”
“Didn’t get her composition wrote. Lucy’s grandpa up and died last week, and she loved him something fierce. Ever since, she ain’t been the same. Ol’ man Pete was a good feller. Cheyenne Bill gave a speech at the funeral. Tom and Griff came to the buryin’, and you know if a dog’ll come to a funeral, Pete must have been a fine man.”
“I’m sorry to hear he passed away.” Rosie fretted as she hung the last of the clothes. Whipping a child in mourning didn’t sound like the act of a loving teacher. There must be more to the story.
“Did you hear about the charity ball last Monday night?” Manford asked. “Folks had them a fine dinner. Leg of mutton, capers, mincemeat, roast beef, chicken, cake, oranges…”
He stopped speaking and glanced toward the trail. “Say, look who’s coming up the road. It’s Sheriff Bowman. Hey, sheriff!”
Manford waved and began trotting down toward him, but Rosie grabbed his sleeve and held him back. “Mannie, run tell my husband the sheriff is here. And make sure he understands it’s Sheriff Bowman.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
Heart hammering, Rosie gave the boy a gentle push. Scanning the fields, she could just make out Bart’s back as he bent to the plow. The sheriff was climbing down from his horse, rifle in hand and six-shooter slung on his hip. He took the reins with his free hand and started toward Rosie.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Springfield,” he called.
“Sheriff Bowman. This is a surprise.” Rosie wiped her hands on her apron as she greeted him. “What brings you out here?”
“I’ll be plain with you, Mrs. Springfield,” the sheriff said. “I’ve come out here with some news.”
“Oh?” Rosie tried to remember her Harvey Girl smile. “I hope it’s something happy.”
“’Fraid not. There’s trouble. Trouble with the law. And your husband is involved.”
“My husband?” Rosie asked, lifting up a fervent prayer that God would allow Bart time to escape into the woods. “What can you mean by that? My husband is an honest man, Sheriff Bowman. I know for a fact that he registered our one-hundred-sixty acres in Springer. He showed me the homestead papers. The claim is legal.”
“The homestead ain’t the problem, Mrs. Springfield.” He reached out and took Rosie’s hands between his large callused palms. “It’s a different sort of thing. Your husband’s been accused of…well, of attempted murder.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Howdy, sheriff,” Bart called out as he approached the house. “Young Manford tells me you’ve come on business.”
Bart observed Rosie’s startled expression as he leaned an elbow on the dugout roof and adjusted his hat against the sun.
“’Fraid we’ve got a problem, Mr. Springfield,” the sheriff said, straightening his cartridge belt.
“Call me Buck,” Bart offered.
The moment Manford told him the sheriff had come, Bart knew he was through living life on the run. He also knew he would protect himself and Rosie. He didn’t want to take up his outlaw ways again, but he didn’t intend to have his neck stretched either.
“Well, Buck,” the sheriff was saying, “I hate to cut short your plowing, but I’ve got trouble in town.”
“What kind of trouble, sheriff?” Bart put an arm around Rosie’s shoulders and drew her close.
“A feller came to see me at the courthouse yesterday. He claims you tried to kill him.”
“Kill him?” Bart searched for memories of any number of men who might have tracked him down. Men from his past bent on vengeance. “How did he come up with that piece of hokum?”
“Says he was out for a ride a few weeks back, and he came upon you and the missus having a picnic. Says you took offense at something he said, busted up his face and knocked out five front teeth. Then you tied him on his horse and sent him out in the desert to die.”
Relief pouring through him, Bart let out a low whistle. “All that, huh?”
“It’s a fact he’s missing most of his front teeth.”
“Did this fellow say what got me riled?”
“He’s a little vague on that. Says he thinks you’d been drinking and were cozying up to the lady. Says when he interrupted to ask directions, you jumped him.”
“Directions, huh?” Bart laughed. “Sure, I remember that fellow. Short and raggedy with a mop of greasy hair?”
“That’s him.”
“He was trying to rob us!” Rosie exploded. “We had gone to Springer on the train to get married. Just ask Mr. Gable at the Harvey House.”
“Already did, ma’am.”
“We took a wagon out to have a picnic,” she went on. “Then that awful man appeared. He put a shotgun to my head and threatened to shoot us both! He said he intended to tie up my husband and…and…”
“Mannie, run check on the horses for me,” Bart cut in. As the wide-eyed boy hurried to obey, he lowered his voice. “My wife is telling the truth, sheriff. That low-down snake declared his intention of robbing us and having his way with my wife. When he was tying me up, I got the jump on him. I rearranged his face a little and tied him onto his horse. Any man worth his oats would protect the woman he loved.”
The sheriff nodded. “I reckon so. All the same, the fellow’s mighty hot under the collar. He checked the train records and found out who you were. He declares he’s come to town to find you and make you pay.”
“Pay?” Rosie retorted. “Look around, sheriff. My husband works at the livery six mornings a week, and every afternoon till dusk he’s in his sugar beets. We’re not rich!”
“Now, calm down, Mrs. Springfield.” At that, the sheriff began coughing and couldn’t speak for a moment.
Bart knew the man had been sick, but he was worried more about Rosie. The constant fear she lived with would do her in one of these days. She must be doubting her decision to trust that Bart could be a good husband. He had to do something to put an end to her worries.
“Buck, I want you to come back to town with me,” the sheriff said after gaining his composure. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll send a wire to the law in Springer. I’ll send another to your hometown. Get a few facts on your character. Where do you come from, by the way?”
“Mighty hard to say. I lived here and there until this pretty gal helped me make up my mind to settle down.”
“Like a lot of men. Well, with you and the missus claiming the same thing, and with that rascal smelling so thick the lamps won’t burn, I reckon any jury would let you off the hook. I hate to haul you in with your homestead up and going and the good work I hear you’ve been doing over at the livery.” He paused and scratched his chin. “Besides that, you’re Cheyenne Bill’s cousin. That’ll hold weight in a court of law.”
Rosie shut her eyes and sagged against Bart. She looked like she was going to be sick. He knew the web of lies he had spun was just about to kill her.
“Mrs. Springfield,” the sheriff said, “you’d better come with us. A woman’s word won’t hold much water, but you’ll be safer in town. Bring the boy, too.” He gave a quick laugh. “I almost forgot I came out here for another reason. There’s somebody in town wants to see you, ma’am.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Mr. Kilgore. Says he needs to talk to you about a teaching job. Seems Mrs. Sneed didn’t work out so good after all.”
Five times on the rutted track to Raton, Bart had to stop the wagon so Rosie could get off and throw up. He’d never seen anyone so sick. From the m
oment Sheriff Bowman had announced that Bart was accused of attempted murder, Rosie’s skin had turned from its usual soft pink to a pale shade of green.
Not that the others in the party felt dandy either. Although Manford was asleep in the wagon, Sheriff Bowman rode just ahead and was about to cough up his lungs. It occurred to Bart that he could do the man in and leave his body on the trail. Folks would probably think he’d passed out and died from consumption.
But the minute the thought entered Bart’s mind, he concluded it must have come from the devil and snuffed it out. He wasn’t about to add another killing to his name, even if no one guessed he was the culprit. Rosie would know. The Almighty would know, too. He didn’t want to have to reckon with either of them.
Bart acknowledged he had sent more than one man to an early grave. But the killings had always been in self-defense. Not one time had he shot a man just for spite. In fact, he hadn’t even witnessed the killings the James brothers committed during their infamous train robberies. A deadeye shot, Bart served as lookout—a role that kept him a fair distance from the doings.
After a goodly amount of time reckoning with God and his own conscience, Bart decided to keep the wagon headed for Raton. He would take his medicine and trust God to keep watch over Rosie.
As the wagon rolled into town that evening, she groaned. “Oh, Bart, I’ve never felt so awful.”
He slipped his arm around her. “I’ve got you, darlin’. You just relax now.”
She shut her eyes and rested her cheek against his arm. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Kilgore,” she murmured. “I’m going to tell him I don’t want that teaching position.”
“Rosie…” Bart could hardly make the word come out of his throat. “Are you sure, Rosie? You’ve wanted that job for so long. You even married me so you could—”
“I’m married to you, and that’s why I won’t take the job.” Her brown eyes searched his. “I may be sick, but I’m happy, Bart. Our homestead is good for me. You’re good for me.”
“I’m doing my best, Rosie-girl. I’m doing the best I can to be the kind of husband you want.”
“I just…I just…oh, no!” Pushing him away, she held her stomach and moaned.
Bart pulled the wagon up to the Central Hotel and sent Mannie along home. After arranging for a room, he helped Rosie up the stairs, put her to bed and covered her with blankets. On his pillow he laid the small pistol he had hidden in the waistband of his britches. As he stood by the window and studied the shadowed street below, he decided he’d better do some more praying.
“Lord,” he murmured, looking up at the moon so as to fix his focus on something visible, “I’m sorry about telling Sheriff Bowman my name was Buck. I should have ‘fessed up, but You know what a passel of trouble that would have brought. Rosie didn’t take it too good, and seeing as how You and I care so much about her, I need to ask You to work this thing out for us.”
He fingered the twisted blue fringe on the curtain a moment before continuing. “Lord, I’m doing my dead level best to go straight, You know I am. And You know I wouldn’t hurt Rosie for the world. I reckon I’d better turn all this mess over to You to fix up. Chances are, I’ll tangle things up worse than they already are with that no-good snake who meant to hurt Rosie.”
Bart watched a cloud drift across the blue face of the moon. “Anyhow…amen.”
As he crossed to the bed, Bart wondered if God really listened to the prayers of sinful, wicked men like him. Seemed doubtful. But even as he pondered, an idea flickered to life in his mind. He would write a letter to his closest pal. The man who had taken him in. The man who had given him the best advice he’d ever gotten. Frank James, the older brother of Jesse James.
At ten o’clock the next morning, Rosie knocked on the front door of Mr. Kilgore’s one-room schoolhouse. She had managed to eat a dry biscuit and sip down a cup of hot tea. Feeling a little better, she had washed her face, knotted up her hair and dressed in a simple green gingham.
“Mrs. Springfield,” Mr. Kilgore exclaimed when he saw his visitor on the stoop. “I’m so pleased to see you. Do come in.”
Even though she had planned to take care of matters on the porch, Rosie couldn’t resist stepping into the classroom.
“Good morning, Mrs. Springfield,” the children chanted.
“Good morning, students.” Rosie surveyed the garden of bright faces. “Lucy, I see you’re leading the geography recitations today.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the little girl replied shyly. “Mr. Kilgore put me in charge.”
“A very wise decision.”
When Lucy’s face broke into a brilliant smile, Mr. Kilgore took Rosie by the arm and escorted her to the front of the room.
“Students,” he said, “Mrs. Springfield has spoken with me on several occasions about her desire to become your teacher. Not only has she passed her school board examination with distinction, but she’s qualified to teach every subject we offer, and more besides. Although we have only a few weeks of school remaining, I’m pleased to inform you that until the summer break, Mrs. Springfield will fill our vacancy. This autumn, if she’s willing, she’ll become our full-time schoolteacher.”
At that, the students clapped and stomped their feet on the wooden floor. Mr. Kilgore beamed at Rosie.
As the children got back to work, he addressed her in a low voice. “Mrs. Springfield, I am prepared to offer you four dollars and fifty cents per week until the summer. For the 1883-84 school year, I will pay you the grand total of two hundred and fifty-six dollars—a good deal more than you were earning at the Harvey House, I should think.”
“Yes, but Mr. Kilgore—”
“I know,” he said, holding up a hand to halt her protest. “I realize you received tips at the house along with room and board. I’m aware that you were entitled to free train rides. Of course I don’t have those things to offer. My budget is determined by the school board, but I’m certain that, as a married woman, you will be housed and fed by Mr. Springfield.”
“Mr. Kilgore, two hundred and fifty-six dollars—”
“And summers off, don’t forget. Should you start your own family, my wife has agreed to take your baby into our home as part of her little flock during the day while you teach.”
“Truly, that won’t be necessary—”
“And as added incentive, I will allow you to manage the classroom exactly as you please, Mrs. Springfield. I’ll rent McAuliffe and Ferguson’s Hall for any performances you would like for the children to give. I’ll even sponsor an end-of-the-year picnic as part of Raton’s July Fourth festivities.”
As weak as she was, Rosie felt a surge of excitement at the generous offer. Here was her dream, placed in the very palms of her hands! Yet she had told Bart she intended to spend her days at their homestead.
“I’m honored,” she said when she could find the words. “Honored by your confidence in me.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mrs. Springfield. Unless you’d like to start right now?”
Rosie inhaled the scent of chalk and old textbooks. “I’ll have to speak with my husband.”
“Of course, Mrs. Springfield. Loyalty to a spouse is highly commendable.”
After the requisite farewells, Rosie shook his hand and stepped out onto the street. Leaning against the white picket fence that surrounded the school, she shut her eyes and tried to quell her excitement. The classroom could be hers after all! The slates and inkwells and chalk. And so many children! Even the fine salary. Would Bart want to deny her this dream?
But would she really be willing to change the life she had come to love? It wouldn’t be long before Bart would need her in the fields. She thought of the soddy, her chickens, her pots and pans, the garden full of vegetables. If she taught all day, those would have to take second place in her life.
But how would she surrender the classroom? She could be a teacher! A real teacher!
As she made her way down the street, Rosie felt as if she were floating
. The New Mexico morning sky was as blue as the pattern on a willowware plate, not a cloud to be seen, the mountains aglow in shades of olive, gray and violet. Wearing fresh coats of paint, the clapboard houses, hotels and saloons fairly strutted down the street. The adobe homes sported new layers of white caliche in preparation for the long, dry summer. The railroad had brought the bulbs and seeds of eastern flowers to town, and every yard was bursting with roses, peonies and hollyhocks.
“Good morning, Mrs. Springfield,” Mr. Pace called from the post office as Rosie walked past.
“Morning, Mr. Pace.” She gave him a little wave.
“Howdy, Mrs. Springfield.” Raton’s photographer tipped his hat as he hurried by with his dog, Tom, close at his heels.
“Hello, Laurie!” Mrs. Bayne tapped on the window of her dress shop, where she was setting up a display of calico fabrics.
Although she had been queasy that morning, Rosie felt positively perky as she stepped onto the depot platform outside the Harvey House. “Morning, Mr. Gable!” she called when she spotted the manager at the far end of the platform.
“Welcome back, Laurie! Go on into the lunchroom, and tell those girls to fix you a bowl of ice cream. On the house!”
“Thanks, Mr. Gable.” Rosie hurried toward the front door, excited to see Etta and the other girls again. Her heart brimming with joy, Rosie almost breezed past a white poster tacked to the wall just inside the door.
Reward, it read in bold black print. Bart Kingsley.
Rosie froze as she absorbed the message.
REWARD: Bart Kingsley $50, dead or alive. This armed and dangerous criminal is wanted by authorities in the state of Missouri for train robbery and murder. Vitals: black hair, green eyes, 200 lbs., 6´2". Half-breed Apache.
As the blood rushed from Rosie’s cheeks, she read the list of offenses her husband was accused of committing:
Robberies:
October 7, 1879—Glendale, Missouri, Chicago & Alton line
The Gunman's Bride Page 13