Summer of the Star

by Johnny D. Boggs

  My attention returned to the scene unfolding in the Star Mercantile. There was that sour feeling in my gut again. Assistant Marshal Happy Jack Morco was trying to court Estrella. But he had called her Star. That’s right. Estrella meant star in Spanish. I’d ridden with enough Mexicans in my three years up the trail to have learned that. So she was that familiar with him. Without even thinking, I placed the shirt on the counter.

  “Yes, Marshal Morco, but I have a prior commitment,” Estrella said.

  “Break it. They say Leroy is the greatest dancer since Morlacchi introduced the can-can.”

  Well, now I knew who Morlacchi was.

  “Yes, well ... watching a woman lift her legs high on stage in Nauchville isn’t really my idea of romance.”

  “What is, Star. We don’t have to go to the theatre.”

  I practically crushed a box I hadn’t even realized I had grabbed from the counter while I was watching Morco. The man had no right to get so forward with a girl.

  “What would your wife say, Marshal Morco?” Estrella said.

  He paused long enough to pull on his smoke, exhale toward the rafters, and shake his head. “My wife ... she doesn’t understand me.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, then, come with me. I can teach a girl like you all sorts of things. Things that’ll come in handy.”

  Of all the gall. Speaking to a fine girl that way. I looked for Estrella’s pa, but he was busy with another customer and out of earshot. I was trying to work up enough nerve to step up to that cad, when I heard Estrella say: “In Nauchville, most likely. But I have committed to spending my night elsewhere. Now if you’ll excuse ....”

  “Going courting, Star?”

  She scanned the store for help. I almost ducked so she wouldn’t see me. I didn’t think she’d spotted me, when she said: “Indeed, sir.. She removed her apron, adding: “And I’m late. Hello, Madison. I thought you’d never arrive.”

  Mouth hanging open, I watched her sway across the room—that was some dancing that neither Morlacchi or Leroy would ever master—and then she kissed me on the cheek. “Are you ready, Madison?”

  By Jacks, it took me a moment before I realized: She remembers my name!

  Leaning against the counter, Happy Jack Morco ground his cigarette into the floor.

  “Father!” Estrella called, and led me past Morco, pulling me by the arm.

  Happy Jack shook his head. I expected him to trip me, but the bullying lawdog tried no tomfoolery.

  Estrella’s pa had finished with the woman he had been helping, and now was writing something in a book with red ink. He looked up, smiling, and held out his hand. “Son, we were not allowed a proper introduction last time we met. I am Alroy O’Sullivan. You’re looking better.”

  Maybe he said that because I’d healed pretty well since the last time I’d seen him. Or maybe on account that he wasn’t looking too hard.

  The bell chimed above the door. Shaking the man’s hand, I stared into the mirror behind him. I smiled. Happy Jack Morco had walked out of the mercantile.

  “Yes, sir. I am Madison MacRae.”

  “I know.”

  I blinked.

  “Father,” Estrella said, “is it all right if Mister MacRae escorts me to Nellie’s. I’m baby-sitting tonight.”

  He released his grip, stepped back, looking me up and down. “He seems like a decent, honest chap. What say you, Madison. Are you up for baby-sitting?”

  My voice was gone. I nodded.

  “Very well. You two have fun. I’m going to close up and head to the theatre to see Kitty Leroy.. He pulled off his sleeve garters and said, his voice now stern: “But you, young man, will have my daughter at home no later than ten-thirty.”

  Another nod. It was all I was capable of doing.

  “And are wishing to purchase that, Mister MacRae?”

  Again, my head bobbed slightly. I held out what I thought was the red print shirt.

  Alroy O’Sullivan had to grip the counter to keep from falling over he was laughing so hard. My face turned red as I saw the writing on the crumpled paper box I had picked up when watching Morco and now had placed on the polished wood.

  Dr. Ortloff’s

  FEMALE PILLS

  FOR WEAK WOMEN

  • Better Complexion •

  • Stronger Nerves •

  • Instant Beauty •

  • No More Weak Blood •

  Guaranteed

  chapter

  13

  My feelings soared. I didn’t even mind walking, having left Lazy Lucia tethered at the mercantile. For once, the boot heel co-operated. Didn’t come loose. I strode as if I were six-feet-four.

  We got to the house, pretty small and plain—the picket fence around the front yard sure needed a fresh coat of whitewash—but compared to the dogtrot cabin I lived in back home, it seemed a mansion. I even muttered a—“Wow.”—when Estrella turned the knob that rang the bell inside. She tried to stifle a giggle, and I felt foolish, having shown her just how ignorant and country I was. Boot steps clopped inside. The door swung open. I felt sick again.

  “Hello, Estrella. And isn’t this a pleasant surprise. How have you been faring, Madison?. Sheriff Chauncey Whitney held out his right hand.

  My reply must have been feeble, just like my grip as we shook, but Whitney stepped back inside, motioning us to come on in. I let Estrella enter first, then I stepped through the threshold, and took off my hat. I might have been a hick, but at least I knew my manners.

  The walls were papered, featuring pictures of tulips and roses, and the ceiling in the parlor was pressed tin. A painting hung on one wall, and some photographs on another.

  Sheriff Whitney motioned us toward the large sofa, and we sank into the plush cotton tapestry as he hung my hat on a steer horn hanging above the fireplace.

  “I figured you’d be gone to Texas by now,” he said, turning around and smiling while he fished his pipe out of a vest pocket.

  “No, sir,” I said. “Mister Justus hasn’t sold his herd.”

  He busied himself filling his bowl, and, as he struck a match, said: “That Holyrood farmer been by your camp?”

  I waited till he had his pipe going before answering. “He come by today.. I decided not to tell him that the only hands he had seen were me—again—Fenton Larue, and Tommy Canton.

  “Give you any trouble?”

  “No, sir. Just looked us over, took on off down the prairie.”

  Estrella cleared her throat. “Who are you talking about?”

  Withdrawing his pipe, Whitney smiled and walked in front of one of the two matching parlor chairs that faced the couch. “I’m sorry, Estrella ... bringing up business on a lovely evening like this.”

  I realized the sheriff was all duded up—boots polished, navy britches without a speck of lint or dust on them, a pearl-buttoned silk shirt, vest, gold watch chain, silk cravat, and a navy coat folded over the back of the other chair. A fancy $4 hat rested, crown down, on that chair’s seat. I knew it cost that much because I had ogled one just like it that evening at the Star Mercantile. He turned toward a closed door.

  “Nellie!” Whitney called. “Estrella’s here.”

  Estrella’s eyes locked on me. She nudged my shoulder.

  “Just a farmer,” I told her in a whisper. “Looking for somebody.. Those eyes of hers didn’t leave me. I was looking at Sheriff Whitney, but I could feel her stare. “You know how farmers feel about us Texas cowboys. They ....”

  I didn’t finish, was saved when the door opened and a handsome young woman in a summer linen suit swept out of the back room, smiling, holding a little tot in her arms. “Hello,” she said, then stopped when she spotted me.

  I shot to my feet again, reaching to tip the hat I wasn’t wearing.

  “Nellie,” Whitney said, “thi
s is a friend of mine, Madison MacRae.. Those words cut me to the quick. A friend of mine. My lips trembled, but I gave Mrs. Whitney a pleasant-like smile, my head bobbing slightly, my knees shaking. Honestly I don’t know what kept me from bolting out of the house.

  “It’s a pleasure, Mister MacRae,” Mrs. Whitney said, and crossed the room, handing the baby to Estrella, who, likewise, had risen from the sofa.

  The baby was wrapped in a polka dot blanket, and Estrella pulled back the cloth so I could take a peek. That was something. Estrella, I mean. She was holding that baby practically in one hand, letting me get a good look. Precious little thing. Rosy cheeks. Eyes closed. Blonde curls. Sounded like she was snoring, but nothing like the snores you’d hear at our cow camp.

  “Madison,” Estrella said, “this is Mary Elizabeth.”

  “We call her Bessie,” Mrs. Whitney said.

  “She’s tiny,” I said.

  “But growing like a weed,” the sheriff added.

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  “She turned one year old today,” Mrs. Whitney said.

  I looked away from little Bessie. “And you ain’t celebrating?”

  Sheriff Whitney set aside his pipe on a brass ashtray. “She’s a mite young for cake, Madison,” he says. “But we sang to her this morning. And Nellie and I are celebrating tonight by going to see Kitty Leroy.”

  “Huh.. It was all I could think of saying. Then I thought of something else, and I peered up at the lawman, grinning, forgetting all about Hagen Ackerman, André Le Fevre, and a dead farmer’s daughter. “You sang?”

  “Sandy has a fine voice,” his wife defended him.

  “Not compared to yours,” he said to Mrs. Whitney, who informed him before he could say anything else: “Now, hush up, Sandy. You nag me about getting ready, but where’s your coat. Where’s your hat. We had better get moving.”

  “Yes’m, yes’m, yes’m.. He snatched up his jacket, and she helped him into it, and it suddenly struck me that Chauncey Whitney was human. Even had a nickname—Sandy.

  It never occurred to me that he’d be married, especially to a fine-looking woman like Nellie Whitney. I’d certainly never ever pictured him as a daddy of a baby girl in diapers. He and his wife even carried on like plenty of those married couples I’d seen at the Pleasanton Meeting House’s picnics.

  Estrella held the sleeping young ’un out toward me. “Would you like to hold her?. And everybody laughed when I jumped back as if she had offered me a rattlesnake.

  By then Whitney had his hat on, and he took hold of his wife’s left arm. “We’ll be back by ten, I’m guessing,” he said. “There’s tea in the kettle on the stove, and some cheese and crackers on the table. Estrella, you know where to find the nursing bottle and diapers.”

  “Diapers?” I said. Nobody had mentioned diapers to me.

  Without answering, Chauncey and Mrs. Whitney smiled, and walked out of the house. The door closed behind them.

  Estrella brought the sleeping baby up to her shoulder, and sank back into the sofa. I peered out the window, watching till the shadows covered the Whitneys, then looked across the room at the empty fireplace, the pipe Sheriff Whitney had left in the ashtray. Finally I looked down at Estrella.

  With a smile, she nodded at the empty cushion beside her.

  So I sat down.

  “What’s Texas like, Madison?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Big.”

  “Do you like working cattle?”

  Another shrug. “Reckon so.”

  The silence needed filling, therefore I added: “It’s ... well ... I’m .... There’s ..... The silence, I decided, did not need filling after all, so I crossed my legs. The heel slid off my boot.

  “You need a new pair of boots, Madison,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We have a nice selection at our store,” she said. “And many people, Texians as well as Kansans, swear by those John Mueller makes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s your family like?”

  I had become adept at shrugging. “Like any other, I suppose.”

  “Brothers. Sisters?”

  “Mike. He’s fourteen. Wanted like the devil to ride up the trail this time, but Ma wouldn’t let him. Says it’s hard enough sending one of her boys to Kansas. And she needed him to help out ... what with Larry McNab and the major gone, too. Grace is thirteen. Then there’s the twins, Mildred and Mabel. They’re eleven. They all help out. They ..... I stopped myself, hearing all my chin music.

  “Who are Larry McNab and the major?”

  “Larry’s our cook. Not much of a cook, but he’s a good fellow. The major’s the trail boss, Luke Canton.”

  “And your father?”

  My shrug lacked its previous power. “He died. During the late war.”

  “I’m sorry, Madison.”

  “It don’t matter. I mean, it wasn’t like he got killed in battle or nothing like that. Died of fever.”

  This time, the silence went on for the longest while. I got tired of looking at that painting of some castle from Europe, and turned to Estrella. She stared at me with haunting dark eyes.

  “My mother died of fever, too,” she said.

  I almost took her hand in mine. Probably would’ve, only she was still holding Bessie. Instead, I said: “Well.”

  This time, we both studied that painting as if some wart-nosed schoolmaster with a hard ruler was going to test us on it the next morning.

  It was Estrella who broke the silence. “What about that farmer from Holyrood?”

  I couldn’t help the exasperated sigh. When I turned back to look at Estrella, I said: “I don’t think we should talk so much, ma’am. We might wake up the baby.”

  “Bessie is awake,” she said, and handed me the bundle, then laughed that lovely, musical laugh as she went into the kitchen. She came back with a stone-glazed bottle full of milk.

  “That’s a one-year-old you’re holding, Madison,” she says, “not a hot loaf of bread.”

  My hands were so sweaty, I feared I’d drop the baby. My head shook nervously, and I said: “Yes, ma’am.. To my eternal gratitude, Estrella took Bessie from me, settled back into the sofa, and let the hungry tot drink.

  I watched in amazement. I’d seen heifers nurse their calves, but never a one-year-old human child suckle a wooden nipple affixed to the end of an earthen device. When the bottle was empty, Estrella set it on the cushion beside her, brought the baby up to her shoulder, and started patting its back. Eventually the baby burped, and Estrella smiled.

  “You have three younger sisters, Madison,” she said when she saw my dumbfounded look. “Didn’t you ever help your mother with them?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not that much older than them,” I informed her.

  She shook hers, too, but not for the same reason I had, and rose.

  “Never even changed a diaper?”

  “No, ma’am.. That, I said, with a measure of indignation.

  “Well, you’re about to.. Once again the baby was in my hands. I followed her to a crib in an adjoining room, still carrying Bessie like she was a hot loaf, but this time I had good reason.

  And I thought cow dung stank.

  The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough. Bessie cooed and said words like “bye” and “apple” and “mama”. She knew her own name. She laughed when I’d make a funny face at her, or hide my face behind my battered old cowboy hat.

  Estrella leaned back, slapping her thigh, and telling me: “You make me laugh, Madison MacRae.”

  This scene suddenly struck me, funny-like. I was on my knees in front of the couch, playing a game something like hide-and-seek with a one-year-old and a sweat-stained, dust-covered hat whose inside band had rotted off two years earlier. Estrella was laughing so hysterically tears wer
e rolling down her cheeks. The room smelled like the tea that was heating up on the stove. The baby said—“Ap-ple.”—and farted. And Estrella cackled even harder.

  I just looked at her. I recalled how Chauncey and Mrs. Whitney had carried on, and I saw Estrella and me in our own house, married, with our own little kid. ’Course, ours was a boy, and he didn’t fart.

  She caught me staring at her, but I didn’t look away. Our eyes locked. The baby cooed. The silence didn’t need filling.

  But the moment vanished a second later. The front door opened, giving Estrella and me a bit of a start, and Nellie Whitney stepped inside, followed by her sheriff-husband.

  We both stood up. I was sure the Whitneys could read the lustful thoughts in my head concerning Estrella.

  “How was it?” Estrella managed to ask.

  I shot her a glance. Had to look up at her, too. I decided that, yes, indeed, I did need a new pair of boots.

  chapter

  14

  “You’ll never make money selling five-cent beer.”

  The story goes around in Kansas that that’s what John Mueller told a gent named Anheuser when both were living in St. Louis, after the future beer magnate had asked the Bavarian to join him in his brewery business.

  I don’t think Mueller ever regretted those words, if indeed he did speak them. He did all right with leather, instead of hops.

  I never told anyone in Mr. Justus’s camp how I’d actually spent my Thursday evening, never owned up to it at all, in fact, till I just now scribbled down those words.

  Bright and early Saturday morning found me back in Ellsworth for the third consecutive day. I had been there the previous night, the 4th, because, Thursday, after baby-sitting, Estrella had happened to mention that a ball was scheduled for the following night. I had taken the hint, and asked her to it. She accepted, and then ducked inside her home before any other notions got the better of my judgment.