by Ron Schwab
Thad heard the sheriff exclaim, “Jesus Christ.” After that the voices went soft, and he could hear only their secretive mumbling.
“When they come back out,” Cam spoke softly to Kirsten, “answer no questions about what happened to Max. If they want to ask about what he did to you, it’s okay to answer unless you see me tug my ear.”
Finally, the sheriff and county attorney returned from the bedroom. Fuller looked at Cam. “I take it, Cam, you’re representing Mrs. Brannon?”
“I am.”
“Do you mind if I ask her a few questions?”
“Try one, and then we’ll see.”
Fuller walked over to the table where Henry and Thad were sitting. “Excuse me, Doctor.” He stepped past Thad and grabbed a chair and slid it over next to Kirsten and sat down beside her. ”Mrs. Brannon, where did this alleged beating by your husband take place?”
“Out here. In this room. It was in front of the fireplace. He started out using words not fit for a lady’s ears, and then he commenced beating on me.”
Thad wondered what words were not fit for Kirsten’s ears. This was not a stupid woman.
“Something must have triggered the altercation. What happened that caused your husband to start beating you, assuming that’s what happened?”
Cam tugged his ear, and instantly Kirsten clutched her stomach, commenced to moan and fell forward in her chair. Thad plucked Henry off his lap, set him on the floor and moved to Kirsten’s side, as Fuller got up and moved his chair out of the way.
“Kirsten, what’s the matter?” Thad asked.
“I think it’s my ribs,” she groaned, “where he kicked me.”
Thad probed her ribs gently with his fingertips.
She shrieked with pain, her eyes closed and her head flopped down limply on her shoulder.
Cam interceded. “That’s all, Frank. My client will have nothing else to say at this time. You’re welcome to speak with anyone else . . . Mrs. Brannon is off limits.” He turned to me, “Thad, would you check her out while Frank and the good sheriff speak with Pilar?”
The county attorney glared at Cam suspiciously, and then asked Pilar if she would join them at the table.
Thad felt Kirsten’s pulse and it seemed fine, and then he placed his hand on her forehead to see if there was any indication of fever. At that moment she opened one eye and winked. Her obvious ruse annoyed him, and he just looked at her disgustedly before he got up and told Cam. “She’ll be okay, but I strongly suggest she have her bowels purged; it might be character building.”
Cam frowned at him disapprovingly, but did not respond.
“I’m ready to head home,” Thad said. “Can you get your lawmen to speed things up?”
An hour later Thad had finished his interview with the law. They were not pleased that he could tell them so little. He was not a witness to any of the previous night’s events, and he could only relate the facts relevant to Kirsten’s injuries and verify that, yes indeed, Max Brannon was as dead as you get. He knew nothing about the circumstances, and, no, Kirsten had told him nothing. He was assured they would want to interview him further and that Dr. Horace Kleeb would be sent out that afternoon to confirm Thad’s diagnosis of Brannon’s condition and to make a detailed analysis. Thad assumed that Kleeb would be sober by that time and suggested he be accompanied by the undertaker, Simon Longtree, as the corpse would be ripening quickly.
Before Mallery and Fuller departed, they met at some length with Cam on the porch. Meanwhile Kirsten made a remarkable recovery.
When Cam returned, he promptly took command of the gathering. “Kirsten, you’re not going to be placed under arrest pending further investigation. But Frank Fuller will likely file charges at some point. He’s just trying to figure out the politics of the situation first. A battered and beaten woman and a dead husband . . . he has to calculate where public opinion is going on this and lay the groundwork for what he’s going to do.”
“And what’s he going to do?” Kirsten asked.
“Well I’m going to have another chat with him tomorrow, but you have to face up to the possibility he’s going to charge you with the murder of your husband.”
Kirsten’s face blanched, and her eyes widened as if the possibility of legal charges had not even occurred to her.
“Murder?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Kirsten, your husband’s stretched out on the bed in the next room with a bullet between his eyes. It’s understandable that the sheriff and prosecutor might suspect he did not do that to himself.” Kirsten started to respond, but Cam raised his hand. “Stop. No more discussion. What you and I talk about is protected by attorney-client privilege. Pilar and Thad may be subpoenaed as witnesses, and they could be required to testify about our conversation. Remember? We discussed this earlier. I am the only person you discuss this situation with. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good. You will be coming home with Pilar and me immediately. You will not return here until I say so. The sheriff’s sending out a deputy to watch the place, and the coroner and undertaker will be here this afternoon sometime.”
“But there’s work to be done here, and I have a meeting tomorrow with Clem Rickers about buying a half section.”
Cam’s temper flared. “Kirsten, get your head screwed on here. Murder’s a hanging offense. Your life is at stake. Another half section of land isn’t going to do you a damn bit of good if you’re swinging from the gallows.”
She had evidently blocked her dilemma out of her mind now, and she turned to Thad. “Doc, can you take Henry home with you? I think he’s taken a liking to you. He doesn’t care much for Chet. Killer gets along fine with Chet, though, and he’ll be fine here.”
How could he say “no”? Thad replied reluctantly, “I guess so.”
“And Doc, I was going to get ahold of you today about Clem’s place. I’ve got an idea.”
Thad was bewildered now and was saved by Cam. “Enough,” Cam snapped. “Pilar, Chet and Myles are bringing up the buckboard from the barn. Would you grab some blankets and see if you can make up a bed in back for Kirsten. I’ll hitch our saddle horses to the rear and we can ride up front.”
Cam turned to Thad. “Myles will help you get your gear home—”
“And Henry,” Kirsten interjected.
Cam sighed. “And Henry. Why don’t you ride over for supper tonight and you can check on Kirsten.”
“We can talk about Clem’s place then,” Kirsten said.
12
THE NEMESIS SAT alone at a wobbly table in a dark corner of the tavern, nursing a warm beer as he watched the after-work crowd stream into the filthy barroom. They were a worthless lot, drunks and other riffraff, all well-suited to the run-down, uncouth environment, he thought. Certainly, he would not ordinarily frequent a place like this. He lowered himself to enter the premises only when the black mood set in, so he would be unlikely to encounter any of his colleagues or would-be friends. His only real friend had been ruthlessly murdered last night by his crazy bitch of a wife.
He generally found Father here, and he would find understanding, and Father would tell him what he must do. He waited and remembered.
His mother and father had been arguing in the barn on their small Missouri farm, and the Nemesis had been drawn to the structure’s half-open doorway by the angry shouting. His parents had just returned from a shopping journey to the village that prospered not far from the farmstead.
He saw Father slap his mother, and she responded in kind, which further enflamed Father’s rage. “Slut,” he yelled, “I saw you making eyes at that storekeeper, and then you buy up half his dry goods. I can’t afford you. I told you when we went to town we wasn’t buying nothing but foodstuff.”
“I used egg money I saved up. It was my own to do with as I pleased. And if you can’t afford me, let me go, and I’ll take the boy with me.”
This sent shivers down the fourteen-year-old
boy’s spine. He adored Father and understood that a woman’s job was to serve. Father had told him many times over the years that his mother was not an obedient wife. His mother had always seemed gentle and loving to the boy, but she was sometimes mean and insolent with Father. Now that he was beginning to notice such things, he was aware that she would be thought quite pretty by most men. At thirty-three years of age, she was fifteen years younger than Father, and this may have increased her husband’s watchfulness.
Father suddenly turned and marched to the barn wall and plucked off the bullwhip that was hanging there. His wife’s eyes widened in terror, and the boy backed away as he saw his mother running for the door. The whip cracked like a rifle shot, and just before she reached the door it coiled about his mother’s neck like a black snake. Father yanked on the whip and dragged her back into the depths of the barn toward the hay piled there. The boy saw Father tearing at his mother’s clothes until she stood whimpering and naked in front of him, and he saw his mother’s bare breasts for the first time in his memory.
The whip cracked again, carving a thin red line across his mother’s breast. She screamed pitifully. “No, no, please no. I’m sorry.”
“You have no money of your own. Submit to your own husband as to the Lord. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. Forgive me,” she begged. The boy almost felt sorry for her, as he heard the whip crack twice more.
Then he saw Father drag her deeper into the shadows of the barn and unbuckle and drop his britches. Father fell into the straw and mounted his wife as she sobbed and wailed. The boy watched, mesmerized as his Father’s white buttocks moved up and down with each thrust, until he became aware of his own excitement and stepped away from the barn window and unbuttoned his trousers and quickly spilled his seed.
Then he peeked back into the barn and saw Father standing and fastening his trousers and then coiling the whip as he took it back to the hook on the barn wall. He didn’t notice his mother until she ran full force at Father with the pitchfork, driving the long, rusty tines into his middle back and kidney.
The Nemesis picked up the unmistakable scent of stale sweat intermingled with tobacco, and he knew Father was near. He pulled out a chair, for he knew Father’s gimpy leg made standing in one place too long difficult. He ordered another beer but did not put it at Father’s place on the table. It might seem strange to observers.
Momentarily, he felt Father’s presence and turned his eyes toward the empty chair, listening intently for his voice. Finally, Father spoke with a raspy voice in a near whisper. “We haven’t spoken in some months, Son. You must be troubled.”
“Deeply, Father. My best friend . . . my only true friend . . . was murdered in his own bed by his evil bitch of a wife last night.”
“You know this to be true?”
“A deputy sheriff told me. He was at the ranch home and saw Max Brannon dead in his own bed with a bullet between his eyes. They said there was an argument . . . just like with you and Ma . . . and she must have shot him while he slept.”
“Do you know this woman?”
“I met her several times in business situations. She was not obedient. To the contrary, she would not share ownership of the ranch she inherited, and she treated Max like a common cowboy. She was bossy and nagged at him constantly. He drank sometimes to escape his misery, and we met in a saloon . . . not in this shitty place . . . and became fast friends. I, of all people, would understand the pain that can be inflicted by a disobedient woman.”
“Yes, of course you would.”
He did not feel comfortable telling Father that he and Max Brannon had been whoring buddies, often spending long weekends at the Junction City bawdy houses, occasionally sharing the same whore for a full night of frolic. He never understood Max’s penchant for whores, given that his woman was strikingly handsome and unconsciously seductive and alluring. If he had not known her for what she really was, he might have been quite attracted to her himself.
“I feel such hate and contempt for this woman, Father. I must avenge Maxwell Brannon’s death. What should I do?”
“Yes, you must avenge. But you must be very careful. Who knows of your friendship with Max?”
“No one. A few may have seen us sharing drinks at a saloon . . . or having lunch on occasion . . . but the depth of our friendship would have been unknown. For the sake of respectability much of our association took place outside of this community.”
“Has this witch been arrested?”
“Not yet. The investigation is still underway. The deputy believes it is just a matter of time.”
“Then you must wait and see if the law acts.”
“But I want to punish her.”
“You must wait. Be patient. There will be opportunity. I promise.”
“Father,” he said with near panic, “I will need to speak with you again . . . soon.”
“I will be here when you need me. You have been a fine boy.”
Summer 1874
13
THAD COULDN’T REMEMBER a longer week in his short lifetime. He had been baffled by Serena’s reluctance to have him stop by the Belmont farmstead. They had been welcomed by three stair-step little girls who had raced to meet them as they came into the farmyard. They followed with excitement, calling for their mother as they approached the house. The remarkably youthful-looking Rachael Belmont, once assured of her daughter’s condition, had been effusive in her appreciation, had instructed the oldest of the three girls to fill the canteens from the well, and had insisted he wait while she fetched ginger cookies from the house for him to snack on during his ride home.
Reverend Belmont had shown up at the sound of the commotion in the yard, shook his hand firmly and thanked him for helping Serena, and then asked him if he had been saved.
“I . . . I don’t understand,” Thad had responded.
“Accepted Jesus?”
Thad had been momentarily speechless and responded awkwardly, “Oh, I think Jesus is just fine.”
The preacher had stared at him incredulously. He looked to Serena for rescue, but she just gave an impish smile and, with her mother’s help, turned and hobbled off to the house.
“Well, goodbye, Sir,” Thad had said.
“May the Lord be with you, young man.”
Thad felt foolish now about how he had handled the encounter with Serena’s father. He wondered for a moment if Serena, after watching the clumsy country boy display his eloquence, would show up for their agreed rendezvous. He pulled out his watch. Ten minutes until noon. He looked off to the north in the direction of the Belmont farm. No sign. Then he cast his eyes to the southwest and saw a rider approaching.
He watched until Serena, astride a buckskin mare, came into view. When she arrived and dismounted, he noticed instantly that her attire was sharply changed from their first meeting. She still wore moccasins, only a thicker sort, but today she was dressed in washed-out dungarees and a baggy, long-sleeved cotton shirt. A battered, wide-brimmed straw hat was pulled down over her head, nearly covering her forehead. And he thought she looked absolutely stunning.
She smiled. “Am I on time?”
He looked at his watch. “Two minutes ahead.”
“I sneaked out a couple of slices of Mama’s fresh-baked bread . . . I love bread and she sort of expects that anyway . . . and picked up a small slab of ham we can cut up and found a few apples in town. It’s not much, but we won’t starve. Can you wait an hour to eat?”
Food wasn’t close to being on his mind right now. “I can wait as long as you want. You were in Manhattan?”
“I couldn’t tell Mama and Papa I was meeting you . . . well, not Papa anyway, and Mama doesn’t like to keep secrets from Papa. Even if she suspects, as long as she doesn’t know for sure, she doesn’t feel like she’s keeping a secret. So I said I was riding into Manhattan for the day to see if they had any school things in the shops. I’m always visiting Fox’s Bookstore, although they don’t seem to be too friendly
to colored folks . . . until you show your money for a book.”
“Your father wouldn’t approve of us meeting?”
“You met him didn’t you?”
“I guess he wouldn’t.”
“I’m a grown woman, in case you hadn’t noticed. Mama was married by my age. I can do what I please. I just don’t want a big squabble with Papa during my short stay.”
“Follow me,” she said, mounting the buckskin.
As they eased the horses carefully along the steep trail winding down to the Big Blue Valley, Serena pointed to a rocky butte rising like a giant molar from a forested shroud of oak and ash to the east. “That’s where I was headed.”
“To the mesa?”
“Yes. We’ll have to climb when we get there. We can tie the horses in the shade near the spring at the base of the bluff. There’s tallgrass for them to graze on.”
“What about your ankle?”
“Almost as good as new . . . if I have trouble, you can carry me.”
He squinted one eye in disbelief. “You’re not serious, I hope.”
“You were so chivalrous when I was hurt. You’re no longer the knight in shining armor?”
“I’ll carry you.”
She laughed. “You probably would. Don’t worry; I’ll be fine. You’re way too serious sometimes.”
Spring 1885
14
FOR PROPRIETY’S SAKE Thad insisted on Pilar’s presence when he examined Kirsten in Cam’s study. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Maxwell Brannon had rendered the beating, but Kirsten’s recovery was remarkable. There was no indication of infection in the head and face wounds. Upon a cursory examination of the breast, he determined that the wounds, while still ghastly-looking, had not worsened and the bleeding had been sealed.
“Are you experiencing much pain?” he asked.
“Not a lot. When it gets too bad, I take the aspirin. It does work, Doc.”