Wild Dream

by Duncan, Alice

“You didn’t tell us that female’d be plumb crazy, dammit.”

  “Crazy, my hind leg. If the two of you wasn’t such lame-brains, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “If you didn’t hire us to bother that blasted girl, dammit, we’d’a been in El Paso now like we was s’posed to be.”

  With a long sigh, Fermin said, “Well, shoot.”

  “Shoot nothin’. When’re you gonna let us out o’ here?”

  “Fer gol’s sake, I’ll let you go pretty soon. If you didn’t bungle it up so bad, nobody’d’a seen you and I coulda let you go then. But ever’body seen me bring you into town. I gotta hold you until the Methodist Ladies’ Fair. Then I kin let you go and say you escaped ‘cause Waldo’ll be watchin’ the jail then, and I kin say he done it.”

  “Why in hell cain’t we escape now?”

  “Because if’n I let you go now and say you escaped, ever’body’ll blame me and say I cain’t do my job right.”

  “Well, ya cain’t.”

  Fermin scowled into the cell. “Just hold yer damned tongue, Garland, or I’ll keep y’all in there fer attempted rape.”

  “Ha! We’ll tell ever’body you hired us,” Garland spat back.

  Since he didn’t have an answer to that unpleasant probability, Fermin slammed the door to the cells and walked closer to the dirty window, holding a smudgy and much-read letter in his long skinny fingers. He watched the band until the dust settled behind Homer Paul’s horse, then unfolded the letter and reread it slowly.

  “Well, Miss Pansy Blewitt,” the sheriff said to the letter, “I reckon you made my day, all right.”

  Fermin chuckled when he plunked his long frame into his chair and lifted his long legs to relax his feet on his desk. A self-satisfied smirk settled over his features as he tipped his chair back to rest against the wall. He miscalculated his distance, however, and landed on the dusty floor with a crash.

  Lifting himself painfully to his feet, he scowled and rubbed his rear end.

  He blamed Charley Wilde for this, as for everything.

  # # #

  “They say the deposits will all be made by the weekend after the Fiesta, Charley.” Harlan Lewis cradled his bass horn like a baby. He didn’t look especially happy.

  “That soon?”

  If Charley hadn’t been so depressed, he might have found his question comical. Shoot, the fiesta was only three weeks away. The day after tomorrow he and the boys were going to play at the Methodist-Episcopal Ladies’ Charity Fair and Bake Sale. When he’d first arrived at the Blewitt farm several weeks ago, waiting for mid-June sounded like waiting for eternity. Now it sounded like no time at all. He and Addie had only three more weeks to be together.

  “Yup.” Harlan stroked his horn as if it were a pet.

  Charley was so involved with his own misery that it took him a second or two to realize Harlan looked glum. Harlan’s disposition being taciturn by nature, his moods often looked alike. But Charley had known him long enough to recognize this mood as one of unhappiness.

  “What’s the matter, Harlan?”

  Tucking his whiskers in, hugging his horn tighter, Harlan appeared embarrassed when he mumbled, “I don’t reckon I feel very good about robbin’ these here folks in this here town, Charley. They’ve been mighty good to us. I ain’t sure I wanna leave here.”

  “You don’t?” Charley’s heart skipped a beat, the first exercise it had performed since being filled with lead several days before.

  Harlan’s shaggy gray head shook slowly back and forth. Then he sent Charley’s fragile hopes crashing into one another when he pinned Charley with an expression of absolute faith and muttered sadly, “But I reckon we ain’t got no choice. Got to keep the band together, huh?”

  It took Charley a moment to gather enough energy to say, “I reckon.” Then, in a fit of unhappy honesty, he added, “Besides, somebody’s sure to recognize us sooner or later, Harlan, and then we’ll all be locked up.”

  With a heavy sigh, Harlan mumbled, “I ‘spect that’s so, Charley.”

  Charley didn’t add that he feared one of the band members would blab. He didn’t have the heart to wound Harlan’s sensibilities with his own lack of faith.

  Harlan dragged himself off and sat down on his hay bale as though he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. Charley knew he didn’t though; those heavy burdens were reserved for Charley’s own shoulders.

  The boys had just finished “Garry Owen” and begun “Fireman’s Quick Step” when Charley realized Fermin Small’s long nose rested on the windowsill. The sheriff’s beady hound dog’s eyes scanned the interior of the barn.

  Well, Charley had taken just about enough of this. Shoot, he knew for a fact t184 >hat at least six robberies had been committed in the vicinity of Rothwell recently, any one of them more serious than his band’s failed attempt to rob that mercantile in Arleta. Yet Fermin Small seemed determined to dog Charley’s own personal footsteps to the exclusion of any of the other criminals roaming the area.

  All right, maybe Charley and the boys were crooks, but they were mighty poor ones compared to some of the others in the neighborhood. Why, he and the band had never actually succeeded in stealing a blasted thing—well, barring a bag of moldy dried beans and some tortillas—yet this paltry sheriff seemed to have his heart set on locking them up. It wasn’t fair.

  Slowly and deliberately lowered his horn. The band, startled, stopped playing one by one. One by one, too, they turned their heads to peer at the window and Fermin Small’s long nose.

  “What’s he doin’ here?” George Alden asked, frowning.

  “Don’t he have a job in town?” Francis Whatley shook out his alto horn and looked aggrieved. “Cripes, I used to be a deputy sheriff back to home, and I never got to stand around peerin’ into winders and listenin’ to bands rehearse. If this feller don’t want his job, I’ll take it.”

  Peachy Gilbert scowled at the window. “I hear tell Small’s a rotten sheriff. They say there was a shootin’ three, four weeks ago and he never did look fer the men what done it.”

  Charley cleared his throat. “I reckon that was us, boys.”

  “Us?” Harlan looked at Charley, astounded. “We never shot nobody, Charley!”

  Charley’s gaze visited the ceiling. When he saw the gay ribbons billowing around the arrows stuck there, his heart gave a painful throb and he quickly returned his attention to Harlan. “I know we never shot anybody, Harlan. The people who got shot at was us, is what I mean.”

  Harlan’s brow cleared momentarily and then creased again. “But that was because that lady in Ar—”

  Charley had never known Lester Frogg to be a quick thinker before, but he had to hand it to Lester today. Harlan’s speech ended abruptly when Lester kicked him off of his hay bale and onto the barn floor. Charley bent to help Harlan sit again and whispered, “We don’t want the sheriff to know we tried to rob that lady, Harlan.”

  Pulling straw out of his teeth, Harlan muttered, “Oh, right. I fergot there fer a minute.”

  “It’s all right, Harlan,” Charley said kindly, patting the dust off Harlan’s shoulders.

  Peachy Gilbert still frowned at the sheriff. “Do you reckon that man was a Yankee in the war, Charley? Do you expect that’s why he’s the way he is?”

  “I don’t know, Peachy.”

  “Well, it’s upsettin’, him always pokin’ his nose into our rehearsals and all,” George Alden muttered.

  “I don’t guess I’d argue with you there, George.” Charley wondered when Fermin would realize he had been discovered. Thus far, his squinty gaze seemed to have gotten stuck at the open barn door and he was no longer paying attention to the band.

  After another several seconds, Charley decided the sheriff’s gaze seemed too petrified to be normal. He, too, turned to look at the barn door.

  “Miss Addie don’t like Fermin Small,” announced Sun in His Eyes. He stood in the doorway, looking as magnificent as a carved mahogany god in the setting sun. He’d noc
ked an arrow and aimed it at Fermin Small’s nose, which still rested on the windowsill.

  “Holy moley,” breathed Harlan, “it’s an Injun.”

  “It’s all right, boys,” Charley told his band hurriedly in order to spare them any misunderstanding. “Sun’s a friend of mine.”

  “Miss Addie don’t like Fermin Small,” Sun repeated dourly.

  “Nobody else does neither,” muttered Francis Whatley in disgust.

  “How are you, Sun? Haven’t seen you for a while.” Charley smiled at their visitor.

  Fermin seemed to find his voice at last. “I’ll leave,” he squeaked.

  “Good.” Sun didn’t crack a smile when Fermin scrambled down from the window, turned tail, and ran for his horse.

  The band, however, all of whom raced for the window as soon as Fermin’s nose disappeared, burst out laughing when they saw him slip on the loose pebbles in the yard and fall face first at Addie Blewitt’s feet.

  “He’s gonna get it now,” predicted Peachy Gilbert.

  “And how,” agreed Francis.

  Charley’s insides went all mushy when he watched Addie plant her fists on her succulent hips and open her mouth to holler at the sheriff. Lord above, he loved that woman. If only—

  No. Shaking his head, Charley reminded himself of the futility of empty hopes. He watched the action between Addie and Fermin with his whole soul aching.

  “What I don’t understand,” said an angry Addie after she’d chased Fermin Small away with a flea and several hundred well-chosen, accurately delivered words in his ear, “is why he seems so determined you all are crooks, when you’re obviously splendid musicians.”

  “Reckon we all wonder that.”

  Charley knew it was wrong, but he kept his arm around her shoulders as he sipped the refreshing cider she’d brought him and the band. Shoot, everybody thought they were engaged; he guessed he might as well act the part. Lord knew, he had little enough time left to do it in.

  “Well, it makes me mad as fire,” Addie said.

  “Fermin Small stupid man,” Sun announced. He downed his cider and smacked his lips.

  “He surely is.” Addie seemed to realize how unusual it was for Sun to show up so soon after one of his visits, because her eyebrows shot up all of a sudden. “Why are you here, Sun? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything all right. Want to learn horn.”

  Charley straightened in surprise when Sun reached into the cloth sack he’d slung over his shoulder and pulled out a battered cornet. Charley stared at it hard.

  “For goodness’ sake, where’d you come by that?”

  Sun’s white teeth glinted. “I just get.”

  Charley saw the emblem etched on the bell of the horn and felt a little sick. “Oh, my God. It’s U.S. Cavalry issue.”

  Since the war, the United States Army had renewed its Indian campaigns out here in the territories, and there had been several bloody battles, although most of the Mescalero in the vicinity had been rounded up and hauled off to the Bosque Redondo Reservation years earlier. Visions of an army bugler, scalped where he lay, a feathered arrow piercing his heart, crept into Charley’s brain and made his stomach ache. He drew away from Sun instinctively, bringing Addie with him.

  Sun watched him and shook his head, obviously amused and not terribly amazed by Charley’s incorrect interpretation of events. “No worry.” He gave Charley a big grin. “Poker.”

  After a second or two, during which Charley tried to slam the door shut on the awful images cluttering up his inner vision, he gulped and said, “Poker?”

  “Sure. Soldiers stupider than Fermin Small. Play poker worse than you.”

  Oh, good grief. Of course. Charley relaxed and squeezed Addie tight. “Thank God.”

  “So you teach? If you teach me good, I let you teach my boy, Cloud, too.”

  Charley and Addie exchanged a glance. Addie smiled and gave a little nod.

  “Well, I reckon I could teach you, Sun. Homer here takes lessons twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays. You can come then if you want. He comes out here around five in the evening.”

  Sun pulled out an elaborate gold watch on a heavy chain and squinted at it carefully. Charley stared at the watch, wondering if Sun had won that at poker, too. He didn’t doubt it. The blasted Indian played poker better than anybody Charley’d ever met.

  “Okay,” Sun said. “Monday and Thursday, five o’clock.”

  In an impulsive gesture, Addie put her hand on Sun’s arm. “Come to town this Saturday, Sun, and bring your boy. The band here’s going to be playing at the Methodist-Episcopal Ladies’ Charity Fair and Bake Sale at the Methodist Church.”

  “Mr. Topping?” Sun asked.

  “That’s the one, all right.”

  Sun’s appeared to think for a moment. “Mr. Topping don’t play poker,” he muttered, as though it were a fact much to be deplored.

  “I don’t reckon he does at that,” murmured Addie. Charley could tell she was trying not to laugh.

  Finally, Sun said, “Maybe I come.” It sounded like he considered coming to town on Saturday a major concession.

  Charley kept his arm around Addie’s shoulder when they waved the band, Homer Paul and Sun in His Eyes away that evening. He noticed Ivy and Lester holding hands, too. He hadn’t asked Lester his plans yet, and guessed he probably should.

  If Lester wanted to stay here and marry Ivy Blewitt, then Charley didn’t believe it would be right for Lester to participate in the bank robbery. It would be hard enough for Lester, a semi-innocent man, to remain behind after the band absconded with the money and he had to face Fermin Small with only prior knowledge on his conscience.

  He’d forgotten to tell the band about the rubies, too. Charley shook his head and wondered why life had to be so complicated all the time.

  Lester caught him in the washroom just before they went inside for supper.

  “You find them rubies yet, Charley?”

  Charley, startled at Lester’s appropriate question, splattered water on himself. He turned quickly to find Lester staring at him somberly, a faithful hound awaiting his master’s command.

  With a sigh Charley said, “There aren’t any rubies, Lester.”

  Lester’s eyes squinched up, and his pointy nose wrinkled. “Huh?”

  “Addie’s father sold the real rubies and had paste ones made up. That’s how they financed their move to the territory.”

  Lester digested Charley’s information slowly, as was his wont. Charley waited patiently. Lester’s foray into the realm of conversation was most unusual. Charley figured there must be a reason for it, but he also knew he couldn’t press Lester for information.

  After a long time—long enough for Charley to wash and dry himself and begin to feel terribly hungry—Lester said, “Reckon I’m glad o’ that, Charley.”

  Charley thought about Lester’s comment for a moment. “Reckon I am, too, Lester.”

  Together they walked toward the house. “Didn’t seem right, stealin’ from Miss Ivy,” Lester elucidated.

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “Sorry they had to sell ‘em, though. They was right pretty.”

  Charley stared hard at Lester. He’d never known him to be so chatty. “I’m sure they were, Lester.”

  Lester nodded glumly. “Right pretty.”

  Charley put a hand on Lester’s arm. Lester dutifully stopped and turned around, ready for whatever Charley wanted of him.

  “Are you going to stay here, Lester? After the band leaves? With Miss Ivy?”

  A dull stain inched up Lester’s neck and crept across his withered cheeks. He tucked his head in, making his chin recede into his shirt front. “Reckon I like Miss Ivy pretty well.”

  With a sigh, Charley said, “I figured you did, Lester. She seems to like you pretty well, too.”

  Since Charley didn’t expect a response from Lester, he was not disappointed when silence greeted his observation. He sighed again. “You gonna marry her, Lester?�
��

  He barely heard Lester’s, “She done proposed to me, Charley.”

  In spite of his worries, Charley found himself grinning. “She did, huh?”

  He saw the top of Lester’s head nod up and down.

  “Did you accept her proposal?”

  When he lifted his head to peer at Charley, Lester gave Charley the impression of a man sorely beleaguered. Charley patted Lester’s shoulder comfortingly.

  “I wouldn’t blame you, Lester. I wouldn’t blame you at all. It’s nice here, and Miss Ivy’s a nice lady.”

  Lester’s big sniffle took Charley by surprise. He was even more surprised when Lester hauled out a red bandanna and wiped his eyes. Charley’d never suspected Lester of having emotions before.

  “But you won’t have no baritones in the band if I stay here, Charley. Not with Pernell and me both gone.”

  For a minute Charley didn’t know what to say. And here he’d thought he was the only one who worried about the band. His hand, which still rested on Lester’s shoulder, gave a compassionate squeeze.

  “We’ll work it out somehow, Lester,” he said gruffly. “Don’t you worry.”

  A brief, flickering grimace visited Lester’s features—Charley recognized it as Lester’s version of a smile—then faded into his wrinkles. “Reckon I’ll miss you, Charley.”

  With another weary sigh Charley said, “I’ll miss you, too, Lester. You better believe I will.”

  Lester, who Charley had always before assumed never noticed anything, almost knocked Charley down when he said, “Reckon you’ll miss Miss Adelaide, too.”

  Charley had to swallow before he could say, “Reckon I will, Lester.”

  # # #

  Addie sat on her window seat and stared at the waning moon. Odd how one’s life could change in only a few short weeks. Just over a month ago she’d been staring at this same moon and dreaming about her Prince Charming, wondering if he’d ever come to her. Now her prince slept right down the hall in this very house.

  She smiled when she remembered how sweetly they’d made love just an hour or so ago. They’d renewed their love by the riverbank, bringing to Addie’s mind delightful memories of the very first time they’d loved each other.