“Fermin Small’s gonna kill somebody by accident someday and then people will realize what an idiot he is.”
Charley shook his head. “I wish Francis would take over that job. This town deserves a better lawman than it’s got in Fermin Small.”
“It sure does.”
Charley looked at Addie keenly. She’d sounded mighty grim. She’s also sounded surprisingly determined. He wondered what his little Addie was up to now.
He lifted her to the ground when they got to the mercantile. She didn’t weigh much more than a minute. Sweet Lord above, he wished he could undo the deeds of the past couple of months. But it was too late. He and the boys had fallen from grace; the law was after them like a hound dog on a scent. There was nothing Charley could do about it now except pay the consequences.
“Got a list for me, Addie?”
“I sure do, Charley. Thanks for taking care of this. I have quite a few things to do.”
He considered asking her what kinds of things, then thought better of it. If he knew her, she’s perform some miracle as if it were no more trouble than breathing, and tell him about it later. He decided he wanted to be surprised.
Addie gave him a discreet peck on the cheek before she sailed off down the street, her parasol held aloft to keep the sun’s rays from decorating her pert nose with more freckles. Charley grinned. He loved her freckles.
“‘Morning, Cletus,” he called when he entered the mercantile.
“‘Morning, Charley.” Cletus Phipps gave him a big, welcoming smile. “Doing some shopping for the Blewitt ladies today?”
“Sure am.” Charley handed over his list.
“Well, let’s just see what we have here. I hear tell one of them ladies might just be changin’ her name pretty soon, too.” Cletus winked and looked as though he were happy for him, and Charley gulped.
“I reckon that might just be true, Cletus.” He guessed it wasn’t much of a lie. Lester planned to marry Ivy, anyway, even if Charley couldn’t marry Addie.
“I’m right glad to hear it, Charley. Right glad.”
Charley, who had almost forgotten how satisfying it was to be part of a community, felt his heart go all warm and melty at Cletus’ honest good wishes. He mumbled, “Thanks, Cletus,” as a strange lumpiness invaded his throat. Nevertheless, he shook Cletus’s proffered hand, and wished the grocer’s congratulations were for him.
A loud noise behind them made both men jump. Charley turned just in time to see Fermin Small, gun drawn, reel away from the wall, which he’d apparently bumped into, and crash into a large pickle barrel.
Cletus hollered, “Don’t shoot the pickle bar—” right before the gun went off. He muttered, “Tarnation, that man’s gonna be the death of me,” and slid under the counter.
Charley and Cletus ran to where the sheriff lay sprawled on the floor. While Charley kicked Fermin’s gun away from Fermin’s groping fingers, Cletus inspected his pickle barrel.
After first picking up the gun to make sure Fermin couldn’t wreak any more havoc with it, Charley reached down, grabbed the sheriff’s hand and none too gently hauled him to his feet.
“‘Morning, Sheriff.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
“I reckon some folks just shouldn’t ought to be allowed to carry guns around with ‘em,” Cletus said darkly. “At least you didn’t hit the dad-blamed pickle barrel.”
“I think it went into the floor, Cletus.” Charley looked pointedly at a bullet hole in the wood planking.
Fermin, blushing furiously, muttered, “Leave go o’ my arm, Wilde.”
Charley obliged willingly.
“Cripes.” Cletus looked from his holey floor to the sheriff. His lips thinned and he sounded as though he were holding himself back only reluctantly from doing Fermin Small physical harm when he said, “I’ll add the cost of a new floor board to your bill, Fermin. You still owe me for a barrel stave and a barrel of pinto beans.”
“I still don’t reckon the whole barrel o’ beans was ruined, Cletus.”
Taking a step towards the sheriff and leaning close, Cletus said through gritted teeth, “Fermin Small, you might be willin’ to fix up a mess o’ beans that’s had your big ugly feet all over ‘em, but I don’t aim to inflict ‘em on the rest of the town.”
Fermin tugged at his vest, which had twisted askew during his fall. “I don’t reckon my feet’s that big, Cletus.”
Cletus threw his hands up in the air and said, “Lord, give me patience.” He turned to Charley. “Reckon we can work on your list now, Charley. The sheriff’s just leaving.”
“All right, Cletus,” Fermin muttered. “I’ll leave, but give me back my gun first, Wilde.”
Charley stared at the gun in his hand doubtfully. “Well—”
“I’ll be hornswoggled if I’ll let him give that gun back to you, Fermin,” Cletus Phipps said. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one morning with that dad-blasted gun. You ought not be allowed to carry a weapon, blast it.”
Fermin’s long face squinched up belligerently. “Now, just a durned minute here, Cletus Phipps. That there’s an official gun, and I’m the official sheriff of Rothwell. I demand it back.”
Cletus glared back at the sheriff, unfazed. “Not for long, you ain’t sheriff of Rothwell. And as for your gun—” He frowned at the gun in Charley’s hand for a second, then his eyes lit up. “—I’m makin’ a citizen’s arrest on that there gun on account of it’s disturbed the peace twice already this mornin’, and it’s only gone on towards ten o’clock.”
Charley grinned at Cletus’s brilliant solution to a tricky problem.
Cletus continued, “If any rowdy cowboy or outlaw shot off his gun twice before ten in the morning, you’d have him locked up, Fermin. Mebbe I can’t lock you up, but I sure as the dickens can lock up your dad-blasted gun, so that’s what I’m doin’.”
Scowling, Fermin took another long gander at the two men opposing him and slumped. He gave his hat a yank and his vest another tug. Then, appearing very much like a chastised hound, he slunk out of the mercantile, grumbling the whole way.
Charley heard Fermin say, “It ain’t right. It just ain’t right, and I’m a-goin’ to prove it,” before he disappeared from sight.
He turned around to find Cletus still staring at the door, a big scowl on his face. “I swear, Charley, that man’s worse’n most of the bandits we got around here.”
“Guess I won’t argue with you there, Cletus.” Charley marveled when he realized he, Charley Wilde, was held in greater esteem by this honest grocer than the sheriff.
Cletus helped him carry the Blewitt purchases out to the wagon. Then, since Addie was nowhere to be seen, Charley guessed he’d visit the smithy. He wanted to ask Harlan, who was an expert with metal fixtures and ironwork, about rebuilding the Blewitt stalls. An idea that he and Addie—or, rather, Addie, Ivy and Lester, after he was gone—might breed horses had begun to niggle at his brain. Harlan used to do iron work for the biggest horse breeder in Georgia back before the war, and Charley wanted his advice.
An uneasy prickle caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, and Charley turned to see what was causing the sensation. When he spied Fermin Small hulking in a doorway, watching him, he sighed and guessed he’d just have to put up with this nonsense until he left town.
Glumly, he acknowledged it was his due for having turned to crime in the first place. Oh, it was true he and the boys had never actually stolen much of anything, but they’d tried to. Just because they were no good at being criminals didn’t mean they shouldn’t have to pay for their evil intentions.
Still and all, as Charley rubbed his neck trying to rid himself of the unpleasant sensation of being stalked, he wished Fermin Small would ease up. This was pretty hard on a man.
The owner of the blacksmith’s shop, Raleigh Woolrich, stood over the fire in his shop, his enormous muscles glistening with sweat. He greeted Charley with a hearty, “‘Mornin’, Mr. Wilde. Your little lady was here only a minute ago. You just
missed her.”
Surprised, Charley returned Raleigh’s greeting and said, “Addie was here?”
“She shore was. I reckon congratulations are in order.” Raleigh set down the horseshoe he’d been working on, wiped his hands on his dirty apron, and stuck out a hand. “Miss Addie Blewitt’s a mighty good catch. You’re a lucky man, Wilde.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Charley gulped and felt his throat lump up again. “You’re right. Addie’s a real good catch. The best.”
Shoot, with the support of good people like Raleigh Woolrich, maybe he really could stay here, if—no. The image of a furious woman, eyes glinting in the dark over a long row of bottles, aiming a gun at him, was almost immediately supplanted by the image of his men—sociable men, friendly men, men who weren’t used to thinking before they spoke. Charley’s momentary illusion shattered like the Blewitts’ pane of glass had shattered from Fermin Small’s bullet. Charley had turned himself into an outlaw, and now he had to pay the price.
As he shook Raleigh’s hand, sadness welled in him. Oh, how he’d miss all this. Until the war, Charley’d always been part of a community. Until the war, he’d expected to continue being part of a community. He’d never even imagined his life would take so many unexpected twists and turns that he’d become an outcast. It would feel so good to be member of this tiny frontier village.
To keep himself from getting emotional, he asked, “What was Addie doing here?”
Raleigh winked at him. “Oh, she just had a couple little requests to make.” He turned, chuckling, back to his bellows, leaving Charley as much in the dark as he’d been before.
“Is Harlan around?”
“Sure is. He’s inside, working on the books.” Raleigh sighed contentedly. “It’s good to have a man workin’ here who can think and write and handle the bellows, I can tell you. I hated doin’ them damned books.”
Charley was about to go inside the shop when an involuntary shiver crept up his spine. Turning, he thought he saw a long leg whip behind the next-door building. Good Lord, Fermin Small was following him. With a scowl, he decided to ignore the skulking sheriff and continued into the shop.
After he, Harlan, and Raleigh conducted a useful discussion about stalls and fences, Charley still didn’t see Addie anywhere. He decided to pay a call on Francis and George at the newspaper.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilde.” Mr. Steadlow, the Rothwell Weekly Record’s editor, gave Charley a bloodshot smile from his seat behind his scarred desk. “I’m afraid you just missed Miss Adelaide, but she gave me the news of your engagement. Congratulations to you, my friend.”
“Er, thank you, Mr. Steadlow,” Charley said, amazed by the speed at which Addie seemed to work. So far, he’d just missed her in two places. He cranked up a grin and spread it over his face. He felt like crying.
“Howdy, Charley,” George called from the back of the room, where he was busily setting type. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, George.”
“Francis is out talkin’ to the preacher about the fair tomorrow. Mr. Steadlow’s gonna write about our performance. It’ll be in next week’s issue.” George grinned from ear to ear, obviously pleased as punch to be written about.
Mr. Steadlow cleared his throat when George finished his little speech. “I am indeed going to write about your band, Mr. Wilde. It’s not often a small territorial town is graced with a professional musical group like your fine band.”
The editor’s fancy talk sounded a little out of place in this rough community, but Charley guessed that was just the way editors were. “Thanks,” he said, since he couldn’t think of anything better to say.
Charley was disconcerted to see Mr. Steadlow’s eyebrows dip into an uneasy V over his nose. “What’s the matter?”
Still frowning, the editor said, “I think somebody’s out there, Mr. Wilde. Hiding. Now, who can it be?”
With a big sigh, Charley said, “I expect it’s Fermin Small.”
Steadlow’s eyebrows shot up. “That idiot? What the devil is he lurking outside my office for?”
“He thinks I’m a crook, Mr. Steadlow.”
“What?”
With a nod, Charley said unhappily, “He seems to be following me around town today.”
“God grant me patience.” Mr. Steadlow shook his head in dislike. “I expect I’d better start on another editorial. That man’s an embarrassment to the community. Not to mention a menace.”
Charley was amazed at the remarkable series of events which had so far transpired on this one tranquil spring morning. It was hard for him to believe that he, a true—albeit inept—criminal, seemed to be held in greater respect than the duly elected sheriff of Rothwell.
He wondered what would happen if he stopped by the bank and decided it would be worth a trip to the institution to find out. Besides, he might be a **heat and an evil seducer, but he’d be damned if he’d desert Addie without seeing to her future. Charley aimed to set up a bank account for her. He didn’t have much, but he planned to give her that. Maybe he could add to the account in years to come.
The Rothwell Bank’s building was larger than most in town, which did not mean it was big. Still, it boasted two tall glass windows. Although Charley hadn’t lived here long, he’d been around long enough to have been told, often, that those two windows were Mr. Pinkley’s pride and joy. Mr. Pinkley aimed to establish Rothwell as the cattle capitol of the West, and he wasn’t about to scrimp on the trappings of success.
“A very good idea, Mr. Wilde.” Mr. Pinkley gave Charley a firm handshake when Charley told him he wanted to open an account. “You just missed your intended bride. She only left a minute before you arrived.”
After what had already taken place this morning, Charley didn’t find Mr. Pinkley’s news surprising, although he did wonder what Addie was up to.
He was about to respond to Mr. Pinkley’s friendly words when he noticed the banker glance at his special windows and frown. With a sigh, knowing what he’d see when he did it, Charley turned to look, too.
Sure enough, the toes of Fermin Small’s scuffed boots peeked out from beneath the long draperies covering one of the bank’s elegant windows.
With a grating whisper, Mr. Pinkley asked, “Do you suppose it’s a bank robber, Mr. Wilde?”
“I expect it’s Fermin Small,” Charley confessed cheerlessly.
“Fermin Small? What the devil is he lurking behind the curtains for? I know the man’s a fool, but I’ve never seen him hide behind the curtains before.”
“He thinks I’m a criminal, Mr. Pinkley. He’s been following me around all morning.”
Mr. Pinkley eyed Charley in blank astonishment for a second. Then he murmured, “Heavenly days. The man’s gone ‘round the bend at last,” and rose from his chair.
Striding majestically to his curtains, Pinkley reached out and twitched the one covering Fermin away from the window. Then he jumped back, shocked, when Fermin’s gun wavered in front of his face. Fermin looked as frightened as the banker, and Charley feared for Mr. Pinkley’s safety.
The loud click as Fermin’s finger tightened on his trigger, echoed in the bank, and sounded as loud as a cannon blast. Charley shut his eyes tight and grimaced. His heart thundered wildly when he lifted his head and realized that for once in his misspent career, Fermin had pulled the trigger on an empty chamber.
Relief and guilt in equal measure flooded through Charley. The gloomy thought struck him that if Fermin’s gun had not misfired and he’d managed to shoot Mr. Pinkley, Charley would be as guilty of murder as the sheriff.
He had to get out of here. And soon. This nonsense was enough to ruin a fellow for life.
He ran up to the two men, both of whom stood as if petrified before the bank’s window. Charley put a hand on Mr. Pinkley’s shoulder and felt him tremble.
His touch seemed to galvanize the banker into fury. “Get out of my bank, Fermin Small,” escaped from between Mr. Pinkley’s white lips. “Get out of here right
now and I won’t press charges.”
Fermin, still staring at his gun in horror, swallowed convulsively. He didn’t protest when Charley reached out and gently pried the gun from his shuddering fingers, although the action seemed to snap him out of his horror-induced stupor. All at once his brows snapped together.
“Gimme my gun, Wilde.”
“Don’t you dare give that man his gun, Mr. Wilde.” Mr. Pinkley’s words shook as if a hurricane blew them. “This man’s a dangerous lunatic and shouldn’t be allowed to handle weapons of any kind.”
“I ain’t no lunatic, Mr. Pinkley.”
Pinkley grabbed Fermin by his vest and proceeded to shake him violently. “You almost killed me, Fermin Small! What do you mean by coming in here and lurking behind my curtains and pulling the trigger of your gun at me?”
“I didn’t mean to shoot you, Pinkley,” fell, corrugated, from Fermin’s lips.
His head whipped back and forth so hard, Charley wondered if his neck would snap. Such a solution would save everybody a lot of grief, he guessed. Nevertheless, since it was his own fumbling foray into crime which had prompted Fermin’s misplaced obsession with him, Charley felt obliged to rescue the sheriff. He put a restraining hand on Pinkley’s shoulder, and gently pulled him away from the sheriff.
Pinkley was still furious. He pointed a quivering finger at Fermin Small. “You get out of my bank right this minute, Fermin Small. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll have you arrested! I’ll have you locked up as—as—as a vagrant!”
Considerably rattled himself, Fermin took a step away from the window. He gave Charley a good, hot glare, before he slumped toward the door. Right before Fermin exited, Charley heard him grumble, “I ain’t neither fragrant. I took me a bath last Monday. And I’m still sheriff around here, too. I’ll be fried if I’ll arrest myself.”
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