by Paul Bagdon
“You gotta understand that poor Margaret’s been gettin’ a whole lot worse in the past few months,” Vergil answered. “She sent a couple of my men into the mercantile over in Holland’s Crossing and had them buy a bunch of cases of her medicine. She keeps it locked in Stephen’s old bedroom, like she’s afraid somebody’s gonna take it away from her. I figured I should be the one to tell her about Jonas, an’ I did, but I’m not sure she got it. She cried real hard for a minute or so, an’ then just stopped, an’ a little smile come on her face. Then she asked me to make sure Stephen weren’t pesterin’ the boys to let him ride one of the stallions. She said there’s not a reason on earth why a nine-year-old should be around a stud horse.”
Lee’s tears started again, and she brushed them from her face with her sleeve. “I pray for Margaret every day, and I’ll pray with her while I’m here, whether she knows what I’m doing or not. And I’ll pray for strength for you, Vergil. If anyone can keep the Dwyer Horse and Cattle Company running as it should, it’s you.”
They walked the rest of the way to the barn in silence.
When they arrived in the barn, Lee looked around. Jonas’s barns were as clean as hers, and they had the same wonderful scent of wood and leather and horses. Vergil called a ranch hand and told him to take care of Lee’s mare and surrey.
“She’s done a good job for me today. Please go very easy on the water. She isn’t hot, but I’m always afraid of founder.”
“Yessum,” the hand said, smiling. “No hoof, no horse. I’ll be real careful.”
There was no need for him to explain the old horseman’s axiom. Lee had heard it all her life. If a horse’s hooves weren’t sound, the animal was of little value to anyone.
Vergil stripped the saddle and blanket off his horse and began rubbing the tall gelding’s back with a piece of burlap feed sack.
“Is Pirate in his usual stall, Verge? I think I’ll take a look at him before I go to the house.”
“Ma’am?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“I asked if Pirate is in his usual stall.” She looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
“I thought you knew, honey. Margaret sold Pirate the day Jonas was killed.”
* * *
7
* * *
Ben Flood stepped out of his office and pulled the door shut behind him. He blinked in the bright sunlight, then glanced up and down the length of Main Street—not because he thought something was wrong, but because it was his habit. What he saw stopped him in place. A stranger was riding down the street on Jonas Dwyer’s horse Pirate.
Ben looked more closely at the horse, but he knew he wasn’t mistaken. Pirate, to a horseman, was almost impossible to miss: The burnished bay of his coat, the powerful lines of his legs, and the depth of his massive chest made him stand out from other horses the way an eagle stands out in a gaggle of geese.
Ben knew that horse theft was a relatively rare crime in the West—primarily because the penalties for it were severe. A captured horse thief’s life often ended as soon as the captors came to a tree with stout enough limbs to support the weight of a man and a length of rope. Justice frequently came even more rapidly than that; men on horses they didn’t own and had no reason to be riding were often summarily shot and killed.
Pirate’s rider, however, didn’t look like a horse thief—or at least any horse thief Ben had ever seen. This man was tall enough to look well matched with the horse’s sixteen-hand height. He sat in the saddle a bit stiffly, perhaps because he didn’t spend enough time there to make it a completely natural position for him. He wore a pinstriped suit, a white shirt, and a foulard tie, and his boots glistened like polished ebony. He reined in when he saw Ben approaching him.
Ben stopped and stood a few yards in front of Pirate, his right hand hanging easily at his side, his fingertips just grazing the grips of his Colt. The sun was at a tricky position—behind the rider and white-hot bright against a clear blue sky.
“Afternoon, Marshall,” the man said. His voice was that of a banker or perhaps a judge—authoritative, deep, the type of voice that never had to ask for anything more than once. “Nice little town you have here,” he added.
Ben assumed there was a smile behind the words, but he wasn’t sure. To look at Pirate’s rider’s face would be to look straight into the sun.
Three men on horseback who had followed Pirate out of the livery stable hung back, silent, apparently at ease. One had kicked his left foot out of his stirrup and cocked his leg over the saddle horn. Another built a cigarette, his fingers moving with the economy and skill that come with repeating a task thousands of times. The third drank from his canteen, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and jammed the cork back in, tapping it with the flat of his hand.
“I’ve seen this horse before,” Ben said.
“Oh? Well, he’s been around, I suppose. Doesn’t seem strange that you’d remember a creature as beautiful as this fellow.”
Ben heard condescension in the voice—and the tang of mockery, as well.
“I’ll have to ask how you came by him,” he said.
Slight creaks of saddle leather and the shuffling of hooves from behind the man on Pirate told Ben that the three men were suddenly very interested in the conversation between the lawman and their friend.
“And I’ll have to ask you to get out of my way, Marshall. My name is Harley Botts. This animal is bought and paid for, all legal and aboveboard. You have no right to brace me in the middle of the street like you would a common thief.”
Ben kept his eyes moving between the speaker’s chest and the group of men behind him. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “This is my town, and I make the rules. I know that horse, and I need to see somethin’ that proves to me that you own him. Otherwise, you’re goin’ to jail.”
“Move or we’ll ride over you, tinhorn. I have things to do.”
Ben took a half step back and spread his boots another few inches apart. His right hand now hovered over his pistol. Botts obviously didn’t miss Ben’s repositioning. He sighed. “Like I said, he’s mine. I’ve got the bill of sale right here.” His hand moved to the lapel of his coat.
Ben’s pistol appeared in his hand, its barrel pointing at Botts’s chest. He caught a flash of movement within the three-man group. “Don’t do it!” he shouted. “This man will go down dead if you do!”
Botts chuckled. “Are you a bit nervous, Marshall? I was reaching into my pocket for the bill of sale.”
Ben backed away a few steps, his Colt still centered on Botts’s chest. “Take it now—and do it very slowly. Like you said, I’m nervous. If I get just a little more nervous, I’ll pull this trigger.”
Botts unbuttoned his suit coat and opened it with his left hand. With his right, he reached into the inside pocket and withdrew a letter-sized envelope. He held the envelope out toward Ben.
“Put your boys at ease,” Ben said. “There doesn’t need to be a fight here.”
Botts waved his hand casually, as if brushing away a fly. The tension left the street as the men relaxed, holstering their side arms.
Ben stepped ahead and took the envelope from Botts. After a moment, he dropped his weapon into his holster. The page of neatly folded paper was headed “Bill of Sale.” Ben read it carefully.
On this day I have sold my horse named Pirate to Mr. Harley Botts for the sum of two hundred dollars ($200.00). Cash was paid to me this date.
Signed: Mrs. Jonas (Margaret) Dwyer
Signed: Harley Botts
Witnessed: Luke M. Tryon, Circuit Judge
“This won’t hold up, Botts,” he said, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. “Mrs. Dwyer has been sick for a long time—she’s not capable of selling anything to anyone. And this price—two hundred dollars isn’t a tenth of what Pirate is worth.”
“It’ll hold up, Marshall. Mrs. Dwyer has been signing legal documents all along—checks, receipts, bank deposit and withdrawal slips—just like anyone els
e. With her husband gone, his property belongs to her. She’s free to do with it whatever she wants.”
Ben dropped the page and the envelope to the rutted street. “This is dated the day Jonas Dwyer was murdered.”
Botts smiled. “Should I have waited maybe a week, so he’d be more dead than he was that day?”
Ben swallowed, choking off the words that were formed in his throat and burning to be released. “I’ve heard of Judge Tryon. He hasn’t had his nose out of a whiskey bottle in twenty years. He had a man hung last year for stealing a pair of horseshoes. He’s a crazy, drunken fool, and—”
“And,” Botts continued, “he’s a duly appointed circuit judge in good standing in the great state of Texas.”
It was several moments before Ben trusted himself to reply. “We’re not finished yet, you and me,” he said. “Not by a long shot.”
Botts laughed again, but didn’t reply. He motioned to one of his men, who then dismounted, picked up the envelope and the bill of sale, and handed them to his boss. Botts refolded the page, slid it into the envelope, and put it back in his jacket pocket. Pirate danced a bit, impatient, and Botts reined him around Ben and set off down Main Street at a walk.
Margaret Dwyer’s smile was disconcerting to Lee—as out of place as a bull buffalo in a Sunday school class. Margaret was a tall woman—five foot, seven inches—and her emaciation was all the more striking because of her height. Her face, once beautiful and full of life, was sallow, with deep pockets below her high cheekbones. Her hair, which Lee could recall as being luxuriously long and a sunny, almost sparkling auburn, was much shorter now and a flat gray color, tugged together in a sloppy bun at the back of her neck. In her right hand, she held a teacup; in her left, the saucer. Lee had once seen a dead Cherokee child who had died from diphtheria. The infant’s wrists had been like dried sticks, and that image leaped into Lee’s mind as she looked at the wife of her old friend.
“Well, if it isn’t ... how good to see you, dear!” Margaret gushed, the smile remaining fixed on her face as if it had been carved there. She drank from the cup and then set it and the saucer aside on a table in the foyer. She turned to embrace Lee.
Margaret’s body smelled gamy and unwashed, and her breath was redolent with the overripe sweetness of rotted fruit. Her frame against Lee’s body felt like a scarecrow, and Lee shuddered involuntarily.
Margaret stepped back. “Shall we sit in the parlor and visit?” she asked, sounding like an excited child. “It’s time for my medication, but I’ll be with you in a moment and we can catch up on simply everything!”
Lee walked quietly to the table in the foyer and picked up Margaret’s cup. Even before she raised it to her nose, she was assailed by the strong scent of alcohol and a cloying, heavier odor. She replaced the cup on the saucer and headed to the parlor. She sat in a chair across the parlor from a long, leather-covered couch, where Margaret sat when she entered the room.
“Well, now,” Margaret began brightly. “You’re going to have to help me out just a little bit, dear. You see, I seem to have forgotten your name. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, of course, but I can’t bring it to mind. Isn’t that awful? I’ve been so busy, though. I hardly have time to catch my breath.”
Lee hoped her face didn’t show her shock. “I’m Lee Morgan, Margaret. My uncle Noah was great friends with Jonas.”
“Of course you are! You and Stephen played together like brother and sister—always sneaking rides on Jonas’s horses.” She paused and took a sip out of a narrow bottle she had taken from the pocket of her dress. Her hand covered the label, but the smell of it reached Lee almost immediately—the same fetid scent the teacup had offered. “Stephen’s not here right now—the boy doesn’t stay still for a minute. He’s always in the barn or chasing across the pastures after a horse. Why, Lee, I can hardly keep track of him myself.”
Lee nodded, unsure of what to say. A silence began and then grew to the point of awkwardness. “I was so shocked when I heard about Jonas, Margaret,” she finally said. “He was a wonderful man. We’ll all miss him. I wish I could have been here for the service. Carlos and Maria send their sympathy and prayers. They’re very fond of both of you.”
For a moment, a weak light flickered in the dull depths of Margaret’s eyes. She doused that light with another sip from her bottle. “Thank you,” she said. “I expect to be moving soon. It doesn’t seem right to ... to ... be here. I’ll sell the ranch and the stock, I suppose.”
“I understand you sold Pirate.”
“Oh yes, I guess I did. But Jonas had already made the deal with the man. All I did was take the money and sign the bill of sale.”
“Jonas would never—” Lee caught herself, lowered her voice, and began again. “It’s strange that Jonas sold Pirate. We had plans for a sale of your horses and those of the Busted Thumb, but I never thought Jonas would part with his Pirate. He was planning on entering him in a race.”
“A race?” Margaret asked. “Oh yes, the man said he was going to run Pirate in it—said he promised Jonas he would. I forget his name, but he seemed very nice. Paid me in cash. He brought me a bottle of medication too. There was another fellow with him, I think.”
“Margaret,” Lee said slowly, “I’m not sure you did the right thing. There are people who try to take advantage of a woman alone.”
“Alone? Dear, I wasn’t alone, and I’m not alone. I have Stephen.”
Lee took a deep breath. “Maybe we should have a lawyer come out and talk about some things with us, Margaret. If you’re sure you want to sell the ranch, you’ll need a lawyer anyway, to make sure—”
Margaret stood quickly. She took a swig from her bottle and then slammed it down on the table next to the couch. “This ranch is not for sale! It’s my husband’s legacy, and it’ll stay in the Dwyer family. Who do you think you are to come here talking such nonsense? This visit is over, miss.” She weaved slightly as she strode to the stairs. “None of the land and none of the horses will ever be sold,” she added. “And certainly not to a woman I don’t even know!”
“Margaret, please ... I’m not trying to buy anything. I want to help you make some sense out of all that’s happened. Please, will you pray with me? Can we seek the Lord’s help together?”
The mention of the Lord’s name seemed to jog something in Margaret’s mind. She stood for several moments with her bony hand on the stairway rail, half turned toward Lee. After a long moment, she said, “I’m very tired, dear. I need to rest.” She started up the steps.
Lee stayed in her chair and listened to Margaret’s footsteps ascend the stairs and then cross the room directly above the parlor. The silence that followed was only an outward one. In Lee’s mind, there was chaos.
Pictures of Margaret pounded through her brain. Margaret pouring cold buttermilk for her and Stephen. Margaret in a silver-garnished sidesaddle atop the horse Jonas had imported from Europe for her. Margaret laughing while Uncle Noah and Jonas pitched horseshoes. Behind each image, Margaret’s new voice bellowed with such tremendous volume that Lee feared her ears would explode from the din. I seem to have forgotten your name.... The boy doesn’t sit still for a minute.... Not alone. I have Stephen.... To a woman I don’t even know!
Lee wasn’t sure how long she sat in the Dwyer parlor, but when she finally stood, she crossed the room and picked up the bottle Margaret had left on the table. There wasn’t much light left; Lee had to bring the bottle close to her face to read the fine print on the label. As she did so, the fumes from its open neck caused her to gasp. The label read:
Doctor Theophilus Turnwell’s Guaranteed Elixir Cure
For Nervous and Physical Problems
ABSOLUTELY GUARANTEED!
Made from the mysterious roots of specially selected
shrubs and trees in Africa, Egypt, and Australia,
this elixir is a positive cure for sleeplessness, anxiety,
all female problems, ruminative thinking,
melancholy, and n
ervous distraction.
The patient will see immediate and profound
improvement in his or her condition. Sadness will depart
within moments of the patient’s first dose, and all ailments
of the mind and spirit will be banished forever through
continued use of this product.
DIRECTIONS:
Mix liberally with tea or other beneficial beverage or
ingest by itself. Drink when required for the ailments or
afflictions cited above. Dr. Theophilus Turnwell’s
Guaranteed Elixir Cure is available in economical
cases of 24 bottles per each case. See your druggist.
There was three-quarters of an inch of yellowish liquid in the bottom of the bottle. Carrying it between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead rat, she walked to the window and poured the thick, greasy liquid onto the parched grass below. I know she has more—lots more, Lee thought. But it feels sooooo good to do this.
The night for Lee was a long one. She ate a plate of beefsteak and beans Vergil had brought to her, along with a tall glass of fresh milk, which was a rare luxury on the Busted Thumb since one of the ranch’s milk cows died a year ago. Margaret hadn’t extended an invitation to her to spend the night, but Lee realized her friend was out of touch with many things, including social amenities. The couch was comfortable, and there was a quilt neatly folded over the back that would make a warm covering. The arrangement would do just fine for a night or two.
Lee found comfort in the night sounds of Jonas’s operation, which were much like those of the Busted Thumb. The stomping of a hoof on the floor of a stall, the bark of a dog, the nickering of a mare to her foal were background music that helped her ease into sleep. The only discordant note was the occasional lowing of a calf or cow from the nearest pasture; the Busted Thumb didn’t run any livestock but horses and a few chickens for eggs and for the pot. Several times, the cattle sounds jerked her back to full wakefulness.