Ferris’s face fell.
“Mrs. Kirkland, you may set up your camera. We’ll bring in the perpetrator now.”
Leah was left alone. She rested her case on the corner of Marshal Scudder’s desk and loaded her camera. She was figuring out the best angle of light in which to shoot the mug shot, when Deputy Moon and Marshal Scudder came through the doorway. Bean had the cowboy’s shoulders, and Ferris had his legs—visibly mindful of those can-opener spurs at the heels of his boots. When they got the prisoner to the cell, they put him on the bed none too gently. The rough handling didn’t rouse the man at all.
Scudder, who was panting from the exertion and had worked up a sweat, plopped into the chair behind his desk and switched on his five-inch Little Hustler fan to high. The appliance ran eight hours on one charge and was rearing to go when Scudder needed to dry his perspiration. Unfortunately, Leah had seen him engage the fan on several occasions, and on each of those occasions the marshal hadn’t had the foresight to move the papers on his desk out of the way. As in past times, they flew across the room like a flock of pigeons. A Pinkerton warrant stuck to the dusty windowpane, and Bean peeled it off.
“Hang it all!” Scudder swore, then turned the fan in the other direction, where the only damage it could do was ruffle the Mister Brew beer calendar hanging on the wall by a thumbnail tack.
Leah politely said nothing about the papers sailing to the floor. She picked up the few that landed at the tips of her shoes and set the documents on the marshal’s desk. “If you would be so kind as to sit the man up for me,” she said.
“Certainly,” Bean replied. “Deputy Moon, frisk the prisoner for contraband, then sit him up. After that, throw a bucket of water in his face.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Leah volunteered. “I believe I can still capture a perfect likeness with his eyes closed.”
“But he won’t look the same,” the deputy commented as Leah entered the open cell with sunlight streaming in through a high northern window.
“Well, Deputy Moon, this man is probably arrested more times with his eyes closed than when they’re open. An accurate picture for future reference would be one of him in his present condition, I think.”
Ferris Moon scratched his head, alternating his gaze on the prisoner’s face and the sorry state of his appearance. “I reckon you could be right, Mrs. Kirkland.”
The deputy left and she set her camera on the bedside. The smell of liquor was strong on the man, and she held her breath as she made a few minor adjustments to his posture. She placed his right hand across his middle, and his left hand on his left thigh. Picking up the camera, she stood back and looked through the lens. Not quite right. Several more fine-tuning positions of his body, and she was satisfied he looked like a drunken cowboy with a slightly Napoleonic pose. She’d put his hat on his lap to cover the one button she’d noticed had been left undone. A blush stole into her cheeks, along with a quick glance at the deputy to see if he’d witnessed her embarrassment. But he wasn’t paying her any attention. With a puzzled frown, he sorted through the papers that had danced around the office with its four cells.
Leah took the picture and stowed her things in the case as Marshal Scudder came inside, his hands cradling pieces of colored glass from his beer bottles. They made a crunching sound as he dropped them in the rubbish bin. With a combined grievous sigh and snort, he looked at Leah. “It galls me to see this sort of defacing of property. What is this world coming to?” Scudder’s gaze fell on the hardwood ice chest, and he licked his lips. “I’ll have to drink a few extra beers today to make up for the broken bottles.”
Leah raised her brows. She didn’t condone telling a person he should have a drink—especially if the person was known to overindulge. But neither did she think an occasional drink was a sin. The Italians drank wine. Vino, she corrected in the language she’d been diligently trying to learn.
“Get out of my chair, Moon,” the marshal grumbled with a wave of his hand.
The deputy stood and stuffed his hands into his pockets with a bewildered gleam in his eyes. “I can’t figure out all those papers.”
“Lock up that cell, then go outside and clean up the rest of that glass.” Scudder slumped into his swivel chair, which had a wide seat for wide seats. “This has put me in such a state of aggravation, the next stranger who comes through my town, I’m liable to lock up if he so much as looks at me the wrong way.”
Leah wouldn’t want to be that unsuspecting soul, for once Scudder made a threat he always went through with it.
* * *
Wyatt Holloway stood in the shadow of a towering cross, not feeling the least bit spiritual. Instead, he gave the mountainside some of his best blasphemous words.
Encountering the landslide some hundred feet down from the cross’s base was a hell of a note to end the trip on, but what had he expected? That the area would have remained exactly as it had been seventeen years ago? That he’d retrieve the buried sixty-thousand dollars in twenty-dollar gold pieces, with five- and ten-dollar coins and a balance in currency. Be able to buy a ranch right off, settle down, and get married so he could have some kids? Nothing in life fell into place that easy. He should have learned that by now.
Lowering to a crouch, Wyatt ran the palm of his hand over the loose stone. There were small rocks and big chunks of light yellowish pink sandstone. As if he hadn’t had enough of sandstone.
Wyatt shaded his eyes and looked up, gauging the distance to the cross, hoping that he’d miscalculated. No. He was in the right spot. But the crevice and its markings were gone. Years of nature had taken its toll. Heavy snows had probably done the most damage. The spring thaws hadn’t helped any either. From the looks of the terrain, the landslide wasn’t recent.
Standing, Wyatt removed his hat and rubbed the sweat off his brow with the back of his duster sleeve. At least the cross was still here. Without it, finding the money would be like searching for a calf lost on a thousand acres of mesquite—if indeed the money was still here. Could be that some lucky miner unearthed the extra gallon-sized Yellow Crawford apricot cans years ago. Then where would he be without the money bags that had been hidden inside? He didn’t want to accept the sixty-thousand dollars not being here as a possibility. Because without it, his fresh start was no start.
Wyatt grew thoughtful, pondering his next move. Buying his horse, the saddle, gear, and tack had set him back. All he had to his name was twenty-two dollars and eighty-seven cents. He’d been planning on using the cash to buy himself a fine woman and a few nights of unbridled pleasure. To really live it up for a couple of weeks, then claim some prime acreage in either Montana or Wyoming and settle down. Now he couldn’t even spare a quarter for a kiss. He’d have to purchase a pick, ax, shovel, chisel, and hammer, to name a few items. Tools that fit into his hands like second nature.
Wyatt took in his surroundings, thinking that if he had to be stuck somewhere, this place rivaled Eden. Walking to a slope of silky meadow grass, Wyatt sank down into the inviting cushion and reached into his shirt pocket. He unwrapped a piece of strawberry taffy, popped the confection into his mouth, and slowly chewed, savoring each sweet burst of the treat against his tongue. For a long while he sat there, taking in the palette of countryside colors that seemed brighter and more vibrant than he’d remembered.
The breeze was soft and warm and drowsy. Perennial streams as pure as crystal came dancing down from the high peaks. The foothills were thick with cottonwood, piñon, juniper, and aspens. Bluebirds and sparrows sang from the branches, a music Wyatt thought sweeter than the saltwater taffy. He could stay where he was indefinitely, marveling in the freedom of wide-open space around him. The sun, the same one that had held him prisoner as he’d toiled and sweated on Table Rock, was no longer an enemy he couldn’t flee. Wyatt could move out of its simmering rays whenever he wanted. Right now, he preferred to bask in the hypnotic warmth while he ate his candy.
From his position on the mountain, Wyatt could see all four
boundaries of the town below him.
Eternity.
Well, it hadn’t stayed eternally the same. Back in ’87, the town had been nothing but a tent city with not more than four hundred miners and nary a woman in sight. Wyatt’s vantage point allowed him to see four streets running north and south, and seven running east and west. False fronts, what looked to be native stone, and wooden structures made up the town now. The streets were wide enough for two-way traffic. But at least there wasn’t a single one of those skunk-smelling automobiles scaring the hell out of the horses and leaving a trail of smoke to choke a person. Though Ford’s Boss of the Road and the Model B Cadillacs weren’t present, the electrical wires were. Wyatt had seen them so thick in Boise City that there was hardly a visible speck of sky left.
Eternity was a regular civilized place, yet still looked like one of the sleepy little Western towns he was used to from the old days, except for the wires. Its bypass from the evils of present-day vices was most likely attributable to the fact the city was in a deep valley, fifty miles from anyplace, and surrounded by ranges—notably the San Juan.
Glancing up, Wyatt estimated the time. Several hours past noon. The sky was like a blue bowl of soup. Clear, with cloud dumplings to cast slow-moving shadows over him. When the clouds hit he was given a few minutes respite from the shimmering August sun, but when they moved on he was reminded of the heat.
He could use a cool drink. One of those Coca-Colas would have been just the ticket. The carbonated beverage was about the only thing the new century had to offer him that he could see was of monumental importance. All the rest was nothing but trappings and useless gadgets.
Finishing the taffy, Wyatt rose and went to his horse, July. The black was put together well and had a lot of bottom to him. Wyatt had been lucky to pick up the gelding for twelve dollars. After untying the lead rope, Wyatt mounted and nudged July down the winding trail of the mountain.
As he entered the town, he rode past a fancy house with music and diaphanous curtains flitting through the open window sashes. A man sang with orchestra instruments, but Wyatt couldn’t understand a word. The singer wasn’t from around these parts. He sounded like a foreigner. There must have been some kind of important concert going on, though there didn’t seem to be an audience in attendance. The curb was empty of buggies. The white-and-blue stone residence itself was decorated with gables, dormer windows, and scalloped trim that looked like a gingerbread house. The placard planted in the grass read Leah Kirkland, Photography Gallery.
Wyatt had never heard of a female photographer before. He shied away from cameras and the people behind them.
While approaching the center of the town, Wyatt came upon an oddity that caught his attention. Different-colored beer bottles were strung out on a tree like Christmas ornaments. Next to the tree was an office.
Usually Wyatt could spot a lawman about as far as he could see one. They had a certain way of conducting themselves in an official manner that was like a red flag. But in this instance, the sign nailed to the building front tipped him off that the man in the shade was United States Marshal Benard Scudder. That, and the slice of sun—just enough to cut across the man’s chest—flickering off the badge pinned to his fishing vest. He sat beneath the awning on an overturned apple crate drinking a High Hog beer. A cold one from the looks of the water droplets sliding down the bottle and dribbling on his pants leg.
A vague pang for a drink hit Wyatt but was gone before the old need came to fruition. He’d had his last taste on September 18, 1887. He’d gone too long without a whiskey to start up again. Liquor was nothing but trouble for him. It always had been.
Lifting his gaze to the marshal’s face, Wyatt gave his craggy features a cursory look. Nothing stood out more than the handlebar mustache that appeared to have been given a good grooming with a heavy coat of pomatum wax. The russet twist of facial hair was a whopper, the biggest growth Wyatt had ever seen on an upper lip.
In Wyatt’s experience, lawmen weren’t always worth what they were paid. There were those who liked doing nothing at all, and those who liked to detain a person for doing nothing so they could throw their weight around. From the bulge of the marshal’s stomach and the glint of purpose in Scudder’s eyes, Wyatt sensed this man was a combination of both.
He was about to avert his gaze—because eye contact with the marshal would spell a challenge—but he was too late. Scudder saw him and pursed his lips. Standing, he hitched his pants with his left hand, though his suspenders were doing most of the work. Scudder’s stomach started at his celluloid collar and didn’t end until his belt. Or rather did, but his belly didn’t know that. It flowed over his buckle like bread dough left to rise too long.
“You there!” he sternly called to Wyatt. “Get off of that horse and come on over here, boy.”
Wyatt hadn’t been a boy in over two decades, and he resented the degrading remark. But the last thing he wanted was trouble from the fat marshal, so he dismounted and led July to the sidewalk.
Stepping down the few steps of the porch, Marshal Scudder shuffled to the decorated tree and shoved the High Hog bottle on one of the empty branches. He took two steps toward Wyatt, then stopped as if to say, “You’ll come to me, not me come to you.”
Wyatt moved in as far as he could without putting his horse on the walkway. Even standing in the street, he had the lawman by a good head and a half.
“What’s your name, boy?” Scudder asked, his hand slipping on his revolver butt to emphasize his authority.
“Wyatt Holloway.”
“Wyatt Holloway.” He tapped his temple with a pudgy finger as if to get things working. “Wyatt Holloway.” The repetition of his name made Wyatt think the gears in the marshal’s brain were spinning, arbitrarily trying to connect him with some unsolved criminal act and make the lawman look like a hero for apprehending the culprit right in front of the city jail. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Wyatt Holloway’s record was so clean, it was invisible. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“It wouldn’t.”
‘Where you from?”
Scudder was really pressing his appointed duty. There was no law saying Wyatt had to give up that information if he wasn’t under arrest, so he figured a lie was in order.
“Billings.”
“What in the hell are you doing so far away from Montana?”
“Checking out possibilities farther south.”
The marshal gave him a stern going-over with a narrowed gaze. “Where’d you get that antique gun?”
Wyatt glanced at the ’79 Remington-Rider .44 caliber double-action revolver at his hip. He didn’t favor the newfangled automatic pistols. This was the gun he’d been trained to sharpshoot with. He knew how it operated, and he was used to compensating its kick for perfect accuracy. “Picked it up in a secondhand shop.”
Scudder cracked a snide smile. “Does it still work?”
“Last I fired it.”
The corners of the lawman’s mouth went grim. “You won’t be needing to fire it in my town. Just how long do you think you’ll be checking out prospects in Eternity?”
Wyatt couldn’t exactly say he was passing through, even though no one had the right to know his business. But if the digging was slow to bring results, he might be here for a week. He’d have to come to town if he ran out of food, and he couldn’t sneak around. He wondered if there was a claim office to check whether someone might have already put a stake on that land not knowing that Wyatt had a stake in what was buried beneath the rocks.
“I can’t rightly say how long I’ll be.”
“Then you need for me to set you straight. If you stay, you got twenty-four hours to get yourself a job. You don’t have one by”—Scudder checked the time on his pocket watch—“four thirty-nine tomorrow, you’ll be run out of my town, boy. I’ll be considering you a vagrant at precisely four-forty.” The marshal snapped closed the lid on his watch and shoved the timepiece into his tight pants. “Seeing as there’s only one open
ing in town, I suggest you act on it. Quick. Before someone else snaps up the position.”
Wyatt didn’t have the opportunity to ask Marshal Scudder what job he was referring to. A woman approached them holding a small envelope. She was tall and slim, wearing one of those shirtwaists with a man’s tie at the throat. He couldn’t get used to a woman putting on an article of a man’s attire. Her skirt was narrow, pronouncing the slender shape of her thighs, yet she wore one of those bustles that gave a man a false image of a lady’s derriere. The rest of the skirt fabric flowed to a wider hem at the bottom where her lace-up shoes—which were only halfway laced up—peeked from beneath the cotton print. One of the laces was untied, though she apparently didn’t care. She stepped on the black ribbon without putting a hitch in her purposeful stride.
“Excuse me, Marshal Scudder, but I have your documentation ready.” She handed the lawman the flat envelope, then gazed in Wyatt’s direction. “Pardon the interruption.”
She had straight brunette hair that was messed up beneath her straw hat with a plum-colored ribbon on it. Wispy strands fell into her golden brown eyes. The way her hair tumbled in a flyaway manner around her face gave off the effect of a woman who’d just been in bed . . . and not alone.
Wyatt checked himself before he thought further on that. In broad daylight, a lady like this wouldn’t have been doing something like that. His base need for a woman had him thinking along those lines. But still, she did have that look about her. That radiance . . . like she was content about something. He made a quick search of her left hand. No wedding ring. Could be she had herself a lover.
A dark smudge was at the hollow of her cheek, but he passed that by, gazing at her mouth, the lips full and pink. Her eyebrows arched with a slight pitch to them. He found that attractive in a woman. Especially when her complexion was pale and her brows darker.
“Benard!” a shrill female voice called from around the corner and had Wyatt cringing. “Benard Scudder!”
Portraits Page 3