by Jo Goodman
He slowed his steps a little as he saw that two more citizens had joined the brothers. He recognized Bob Washburn, the longtime manager of the Jones Prescott Bank, and Amanda Springer, the president of the Presbyterian Ladies Giving Circle for the last twelve years. Ben had no idea how to prepare himself for what surely was coming and, for the second time that day, wished Jackson Brewer had not got it in his head to take his wife to Paris.
When the group parted as he approached, Ben saw there was a fifth person there to greet him. Buzz Winegarten, the proprietor of the town’s only saloon, was sitting in Ben’s chair with his left foot propped on the stool that Ben had fashioned for himself. The foot was shoeless and sockless and wrapped in enough gauze to make it half again its natural size.
“Shall we go inside?” Ben asked. “No need to conduct business out here.”
“There is,” Washburn said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Give it a moment.”
Ben had his hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t push. He waited. It was only a matter of seconds before he heard the reason the gathering had chosen to remain outside. Jeremiah Salt was making one hell of a racket.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. He went inside and shut the door firmly behind him. He was tempted to cover his ears as he walked through the front office to the pair of cells at the back. In addition to his caterwauling, Jeremiah also had a lot of percussion going on. It sounded as if he was running a tin cup back and forth across the bars of his cage.
Ben waited for a natural pause in the cacophony before he entered the back room. Jeremiah’s cell was littered with the detritus of his cold breakfast since he hadn’t woken to eat it hot. At some point the tin plate had been hurled against the bars, and in a miscalculation on Jeremiah’s part, the plate had sailed between the bars and now lay on the floor at Ben’s feet. Ben kicked it aside and regarded Jeremiah rather dolefully. He shook his head to add to the appearance that he was disappointed, not angry.
“Quite a mess you made, Mr. Salt, and if you think I’m only talking about this little tantrum, you’d be mistaken.”
Jeremiah Salt did not reach Ben’s six-foot height, but he had powerfully broad shoulders, thickly muscled arms, and fists like anvils. He owned the forge and had been standing over molten metal most of his life, fashioning shoes for horses, hoops for barrels, rims for carriage wheels, and every other thing that folks needed. He made nails, tacks, and spindles to order. He made hinges and handles and hammerheads.
He was a hard worker, a fair-to-middling provider, and when he wasn’t drinking, a decent family man. The problem was he drank often and often drank well past his tolerance. While he was friendly, even gregarious and good-natured when he was sober, he was as mean and unpredictable as a rabid dog when he was drunk.
Jeremiah stepped away from the bars, retreating until he felt the bed frame against the back of his legs. His knees folded under him and he sat down heavily on the cot. The tin cup clattered to the floor as he unfolded his fists. He bent his head and plowed his fingers into his unruly black hair. He held his head steady in a vise fashioned by his own hands and stared at his knees.
Ben was familiar with Jeremiah Salt’s penitent posturing and remained unmoved. His experience with the blacksmith went back to his earliest days as a deputy when Sheriff Brewer sent him to remove Jeremiah from the Songbird. Brewer hadn’t made it clear that Ben should escort Jeremiah to a cell, so Ben wheedled and cajoled and finally managed to get Jeremiah home, where he could sleep off the drink in his own bed.
After Ben left, Jeremiah gave his wife the beating he’d wanted to give Ben.
“I’m not letting you out yet, Mr. Salt. I’m not sure you’re sober. Did you eat any of the breakfast I left for you?”
Jeremiah’s head came up. “Why would I? It was stone cold.”
Ben shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped since you wouldn’t get up. Figured you didn’t need a lunch brought in since your breakfast was still untouched when I left.”
“Yeah, about that. What kind of lawman are you, leaving me locked up and unattended? Brewer never did that.”
“Brewer had me to keep an eye on you. I don’t have a deputy yet. A few men have expressed interest but I haven’t made my choice.”
“Better not be that Springer kid.”
“Jim Springer’s son?”
“Amanda Springer’s son. He’s been a mama’s boy from the cradle. Jim’s got no stake in raising him. Never has.”
“Now, you’re not saying that because you heard Mrs. Springer talking outside, are you?” Ben watched Jeremiah Salt shrug those powerful shoulders and knew he was right. The Presbyterian Ladies Giving Circle was also the temperance society, and Amanda Springer was once again their leader. “I’m going to give you a broom. You can sweep your mess onto this plate.” Ben picked up the tin plate, set it on its side, and rolled it between two bars. “A little work will help you sober up.”
Jeremiah pointed to the pail in one corner of the cell. “I pissed away most of the drink.”
“Not emptying the bucket yet,” said Ben. “Getting you a broom now, and when you’re done, you slide it through the bars. I won’t be standing where I am now if you’re holding a broom.” There were some who might describe what Jeremiah did as grinning. Ben thought of it as a baring of teeth. That, more than anything else, let Ben know that Jeremiah hadn’t used the bucket nearly often enough. The man was still full of piss and vinegar.
Ben retrieved a broom and set it inside the cell while Jeremiah was still sitting on the bed. “I’m going to deal with the folks who came by to see me. I’m advising you now not to make another ruckus. I feel certain the Saunders brothers are here to see me about that. Unless you want me to put one of them in charge when I leave again, you’ll find another way to entertain yourself. Nod if you understand.”
Jeremiah Salt nodded. He was no longer baring his teeth. In fact, when Ben left him, he looked every bit as glum as Hank Ketchum.
Ben shut the door to the cells and then invited his visitors inside. He had two chairs opposite his own behind the desk and a bench against the wall below at least twenty wanted posters and governmental notices. Amanda immediately seated herself in one of the chairs while Buzz Winegarten hobbled to the other. Dave and Ed Saunders paired up on the bench and offered to make room for the banker. Bob Washburn thanked them but decided to remain standing. He took up a position beside the cold stove and rested one hand on the top. It was a statesmanlike pose and served as a reminder to everyone present that he meant to run for the general assembly in the next election.
Ben took a seat at his desk. He moved some papers around, cleared a place to set his folded hands, and waited to see who would speak first. He had his money on Amanda Springer, but there was a reason he did not make wagers. He lost.
Dave Saunders was sitting directly below a poster that offered five hundred dollars for a man who looked suspiciously like Dave Saunders. Ben refrained from interrupting Dave to point this out.
“Ed and I came here because we could hear Jeremiah carrying on something fierce from across the street. Seemed unusual, even for him. Thought maybe we should investigate.”
“Did you?” asked Ben.
“Well,” Dave drawled, “we didn’t. We weren’t sure it was our place once we got here.”
Ed spoke up. He was the younger brother, less apt to speak first but always there to support Dave. He had a cherub’s round face and a bit of a double chin. His wide blue eyes lent him an innocence no man in his forties deserved. In contrast, Dave was lean and square-jawed. He also had blue eyes, but the expression was shrewd and faintly suspicious. The brothers worked well together. They married the Hoover sisters. Dave and Dotty lived above the land office. Ed and Abigail had a home on a side street not more than a stone’s throw away.
“We got to talking,” said Ed. “Dave and me first, then Bob here joined us. T
he question of your deputy came up. Or the lack of the same. Could have saved ourselves a passel of worry if you had a deputy to see to things while you’re out of the office.”
“Odd you should mention that. Jeremiah just expressed that same sentiment to me.” Ben turned his attention to Amanda Springer. “Is your son still interested in the position?”
Amanda Springer stared at Ben, her eyes widening in equal parts shock and horror. “Hitchcock? My Hitchcock?”
“You have just the one son, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Hitch didn’t tell you he expressed interest in being my deputy?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Tell him to stop by tomorrow.” Given Amanda’s reaction, Ben doubted she would mention anything except her strong disapproval. “Mr. Washburn, what about you?”
“There’s a bank matter I’d like to discuss, but it can wait until morning. It wouldn’t be proper to talk about it in front of others. You’ll be here?”
“I will.”
When Washburn nodded, assured now that he would have Ben’s ear, his spectacles slid from their perch. He pushed them back. “I’ll see you then.” He left the office and was followed in short order by the Saunders brothers.
Ben’s gaze returned to Amanda and then shifted to Buzz. “What can I do for you?”
Buzz spoke through gritted teeth, pointing to his swollen foot. “I want to know when the damn doctor is going to get here. My big toe is killing me, and I can hardly stand long enough to pour drinks. I got my nephew Lincoln helping behind the bar, but I don’t trust that he doesn’t have his fingers in the till when I’m not looking. Could be when I’m better, I’m gonna have you arrest him.”
Before Ben could formulate an answer, Amanda inserted herself into the conversation. “I also want to know what happened to the doctor. I saw you driving a woman in the direction of the Butterworth. Did she distract you from your purpose? I was under the impression that Dr. Woodhouse was arriving today.”
Grimacing, Buzz looked her over in a most unfavorable way. “What’s so wrong with you that you need to see the doc?”
“Nothing is wrong, and I would not entertain the subject with you if there were.” She sniffed disdainfully and turned her attention back to Ben. “The Ladies Giving Circle would like to invite Dr. Woodhouse to a tea to welcome him and introduce ourselves.”
“Self-important biddies.” Buzz spoke out of the side of his mouth but that did not stop him from being understood.
Ben gave the saloonkeeper a quelling look that was mostly for Amanda’s benefit. It would not stop Buzz Winegarten from speaking his mind. A Colt Peacemaker aimed at Buzz’s head was likely to be similarly ineffective, so Ben did not bother drawing his piece for show.
“Dr. Woodhouse will be along directly,” said Ben.
“That’s hardly a satisfactory answer,” Amanda said.
It was the second time today he’d heard that. It did not bode well that Dr. Woodhouse said it first. “I can’t hurry it along, Mrs. Springer, but when I see Dr. Woodhouse, I will be certain to bring up the subject of your tea.”
Buzz pressed Amanda’s point. “Tomorrow? The day after that?”
“Can’t Mickey help you, Buzz? He must have something in the apothecary to ease your pain.”
“He has lots of things, but he won’t give me anything without the doc’s okay. Damndest fool notion I ever heard. I bought a bottle of Ebenezer’s Elixir from the last fellow that came through town carrying a case of cure-alls. Drank it down and threw it up. Good for a purge but not much else.”
Amanda blanched. Ben shrugged apologetically, but Buzz was either oblivious or uncaring. Ben suspected it was the latter.
“She’s a New York actress friend of Mrs. Frost’s,” said Amanda, recovering her voice.
“Pardon?” asked Ben.
“That woman you were taking to the Butterworth. She’s a friend of Mrs. Frost’s.” She didn’t wait for Ben to affirm her statement. “Young Mrs. Frost, I mean. Phoebe, not Fiona. Although her hat put me instantly in mind of Fiona Frost, so maybe she is a mutual acquaintance.”
Ben said nothing and wondered how long it would be before he heard the same thing from someone else’s lips. Amanda required nothing but her own assumptions to create a story worth repeating.
Amanda Springer stood, drew back her shoulders until they were squared and her bosom was a shelf. She laid a hand on Buzz Winegarten’s shoulder. “Come along, you old reprobate.”
“I’m the same age as you, you old biddy.”
“I’ll make you a poultice for that toe of yours like a wife would do if you still had one.”
He gave her a sour look. “Would still have one if you’d married me.”
“You should have asked me, then.”
“Thought it was understood.”
“In your mind. Not mine.” Satisfied that she had the last word for now, Amanda slipped a hand under his elbow and helped him to his feet.
Dumbfounded by what he’d heard, Ben still had the presence of mind to hurry to the door and hold it open for them. They managed to get to the sidewalk before they started arguing again. Ben closed the door on them and waited until he could no longer hear them bickering before he let loose the bark of laughter that was lodged in his throat.
“Everything all right in there?” Jeremiah hollered from the back.
“Fine,” Ben said. He poked his head through the doorway so Jeremiah could see him. “I’m going out again. You mind yourself. I’ll send dinner down from the Butterworth if there’s someone willing to bring it. There aren’t many do-gooders who want to do good for you. You might have to wait until I get back.” He ducked out before Jeremiah could offer opinion or objection.
The Salt family lived in a two-story frame house a block back from Main Street but within sight of Jeremiah’s forge. The whitewashed front had faded to gray. The sides and back of the house had never known a coat of paint. The windows were small, gray like the rest of the house, and made the neglected flower boxes attached to the sills just seem that sad.
Ben had sufficient experience with the Salt family to know that Jeremiah provided his wife with an allowance, provided she asked, and provided he thought her request was not frivolous. If there was going to be extravagance, Jeremiah was the one to provide it, and in that way he kept everyone under his large, meaty thumb.
Ben knocked on the door and waited. He could hear scurrying on the other side, a shout, and some bumping and thumping as there was a race to answer the door. It was the oldest boy, a rail-thin lad of ten with hair every bit as black as his father’s, who opened the door just wide enough to peer out. The boy regarded him suspiciously, and Ben suffered the inspection without comment because he was certain Clay Salt had his reasons. When the boy nodded as though satisfied, Ben said the first thing that came to his mind. “Shouldn’t you be in school, Clay?”
“Ma said I could stay on account of I asked and she said I could.”
“Huh. That never worked for me.”
“You probably didn’t ask right.”
“Probably didn’t.” Ben tried to look through the small opening that Clay provided, but the interior of the room was too dark for him to see inside. “Is your ma here?”
“Sure. Where else would she be?” A small hand inserted itself between Clay’s legs and tugged on his trousers. Clay wriggled and slapped at the hand. Its disappearance was accompanied by a squeal. “Little ones are here. Lizzie and Ham. Hannah’s in school. Ma made her go.”
“I see. She didn’t ask right?”
“She didn’t get a chance to ask at all. Ma pointed her to the door and she left.”
“Are you going to let me in?” asked Ben.
“What for?”
“I want to speak with your mother.”
“She’s not receiving
visitors,” he said rather grandly.
“She’ll receive me.”
Clay squinted and tried to look around Ben. He pulled a frown. “Pa still locked up?”
“He is.”
“You letting him out today?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I get to speak to your mother or not. Now step aside, Clay. I appreciate you’re the man of the family when your father’s out.”
Clay raised his pointed chin and set his gaze firmly on Ben. “I’m the man of this family when my father’s in.”
“I understand,” said Ben, and didn’t doubt for a moment that it was true. He gave Clay a few moments to save face before he placed the flat of his hand on the door. He did not have to exert any pressure. Clay opened it for him and escorted him to the front room.
“It’s Sheriff Ben,” said Clay.
Lily Salt was lying on her side on the sofa, a pillow under her head and a blanket pulled all the way up to her shoulders. She was holding a damp cloth over her right eye. She murmured something, perhaps a greeting, and started to rise. Her moan was easily interpreted for what it was.
“Stay where you are, Lily,” said Ben. “There’s no reason you have to get up for me.” He felt a tug on his trousers and looked down. Little Lizzie was pulling on his leg. Unsure what to do, he patted her on the head rather awkwardly.
“She wants up,” Clay told him. “Go on. She won’t hurt you.”
Ben was more concerned that he would hurt her. She looked fragile, as skinny as her brother and a third of the size. Now if young Ham had been asking for the same, Ben would have scooped him up without a second thought. Ham was a sturdy boy who raced from pillar to post on chubby legs and chortled every time he bumped into something. Lizzie continued to tug and Ham was nowhere in sight, so Ben bent and picked her up. She snuggled up to him like the coquette she was, blond curls sliding over his shoulder. One of her small sticky hands clutched the lapel of his jacket. The other batted lightly at his face.
“Clay,” Lily said. “Take her. Sheriff Ben doesn’t need her pestering him.”