A nod.
“And what time of the day was this?”
“It-it was just gone on towards ten.”
“Ten o’clock.”
Another nod.
“Broad daylight or pitch dark?”
Pansy, apparently sensing a trap, stammered, “Well—well, it was at night, but—”
Addie ran over Pansy’s equivocation as if her aunt hadn’t uttered a word. “It was night.”
“Yes.”
“Ask the old cow what she was doin’ there at ten o’clock at night,” somebody hollered from the crowd.
Addie, sparing a glance at the audience, decided that wasn’t a bad idea. “What were you doing in your mercantile at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, Aunt Pansy?”
Pansy said nothing, but her expression darkened. She looked like she was really crabby as well as intolerably nervous.
Interesting, thought Addie, and pressed her advantage. “Well?”
“Nothing,” her aunt whispered.
“Nothin’, my ass!” came a deep bass from the crowd. “Night’s when she sells her likker!”
Addie’s eyes popped open. “Liquor!”
The same bass voice elucidated. “Don’t want nobody to know about it, neither. Preaches the pledge durin’ the day, and sells corn likker at night!” The voice gave a couple of high-pitched hee-hees, as if it found the situation humorous.
Addie’s shock was profound. So was her fury. “Is this true, Aunt Pansy?”
Pansy declined comment. The abundance of affirmations from the audience, however, confirmed the accusation. Addie cried, “Why, you miserable old hypocrite. You scold your own sister for making apple brandy and dandelion wine, and yet you sell corn liquor at night in your mercantile. So nobody can see you do it. Hah!”
Pansy shuffled miserably and said nothing.
It took Addie a minute to get her indignation under control, but a glance at the swarm of humanity at the foot of the stage made her gather her sensibilities together.
“Now, you wear eyeglasses, don’t you?”
Since Pansy’s spectacles caught the sun’s bright rays and sparkled at the end of her nose as she stood there, Addie’s question might have seemed superfluous if everyone present wasn’t riveted to the scene. Nobody so much as snickered.
Ever so slowly, Pansy nodded.
“I seem to recollect you writing to your sister, Ivy Blewitt, that you have trouble seeing at night.”
“Well, now—”
Addie hollered, “Yes or no?”
Somebody in the audience called out, “Answer the question, damn it!”
Pansy shot another nervous glance at the crowd. Addie stared at Pansy, her expression set.
“I—I reckon I might have done that.”
“Did you or didn’t you?” Addie rapped out, unwilling to allow her aunt to waffle.
“I guess I did.”
“You guess? You guess?” Addie’s voice rose menacingly. “Did you write to Aunt Ivy that you have trouble seeing at night or not, Aunt Pansy? Yes or no?”
The rolling grumble began again. Pansy’s gaze skittered to the crowd and apparently didn’t like what it saw. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“All right.” Addie didn’t fancy having to go through that nonsense again. “It was dark. You wear spectacles. You have trouble seeing at night.”
The grumble from below gathered strength. Pansy began to look seriously frightened.
“All right. Now, are you going to tell me, as a good Christian woman—”
“Ha!” rang from the audience.
Even Addie looked this time, because it was her aunt Ivy’s voice which had inserted the insolent syllable. She saw Ivy glaring at her sister and her heart swelled with love for dear, dear Ivy.
Pansy only looked scared.
Before she returned her gaze to Pansy, Addie took the time to give Fermin Small a prolonged, comprehensive stare. He couldn’t hold her gaze, but dropped his and shuffled his feet nervously.
Satisfied, Addie looked back at Pansy.
“Are you going to tell me, Pansy Blewitt, as a good Christian woman, in the clear light of this perfect summer Saturday, that you can be absolutely certain these men—” Addie swept a gesture at the band. “—these fine musicians, these gentlemen, who have just given the citizens of the combined cities of Rothwell and Arleta such a rousing, inspired performance, are really the bestial fiends who tried to rob your mercantile?”
“Well, I—”
“Are you?”
“Well, Addie—”
“Are you?”
“I—”
“Yes or no, Aunt Pansy. Are you?”
“I—”
A swelling rumble, this time sounding like a swarm of angry yellow jackets chasing a herd of stampeding longhorns, rose into the air. Pansy whipped her head around to look at the crowd.
“Well?” Addie didn’t even bother glancing at the audience. She kept her attention solidly on this aunt of hers whom, she just realized, she’d always detested.
“No.” Pansy whispered the word, but everybody in the glen heard her.
An ear-splitting roar, as if the yellow jackets and longhorns had just thundered into town being chased by a steam locomotive, filled the air. The sound was as big and solid as a wall, and it made Pansy Blewitt wince.
Addie shot a glance at Fermin Small, ready to take him on if it proved necessary. Fermin, however, was occupied in staring at the crowd clumped up at the foot of the stairs below, and didn’t seem inclined to move, much less protest. Addie’d never seen him appear so terrified.
Then she looked at Charley.
He had his attention fixed upon her, but snapped out of his rigid pose as soon her gaze caught his. With two jerky steps he covered the space between them and stood before her.
Addie looked up at him, and thought how very much she loved him. How utterly he’d betrayed her. What a romantic, nonsensical fool she’d been. Just like he’d always told her she was.
“Addie—” Charley’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Addie, I don’t know what to say. I—”
He put a hand on her arm. She shook it off.
“Don’t you touch me, Charley Wilde,” she hissed for his ears alone. “Don’t you lay one of your thieving hands on me ever again for the rest of your worthless life!”
“Addie—”
Charley stared helplessly as Addie whirled down the steps and raced down the dusty road.
Chapter 20
His heart lurching painfully, Charley tried to run after Addie only to be thwarted by the citizens of Rothwell. As a unit, they swarmed up the stairs to embrace him. Stunned, Charley found himself lifted onto a sea of brawny shoulders.
Loud cries and whoops filled the air. Somebody cried, “Three cheers for the band,” and three ear-splitting “Hurrahs” accompanied Charley into the air. It was a frightening feeling, being tossed in the air and caught by a bunch of powerful arms, but Charley endured. He didn’t dare not endure, as these people had pretty nearly just saved his life. Them and Addie. Oh, Addie. He felt like weeping.
“Hear, hear!” a voice rang out. “Hear, hear! Put that young man down! I have a question to ask him!”
The jovial voice belonged to Cleveland Untermeyer, Rothwell’s mayor. Slowly, the happy mob responded to it, and Charley discovered himself being set, very gently, on his feet again. He was profoundly grateful.
As soon as he stood upright, though, he found his hand being wrung fiercely, as person after person came up to shake it and offer congratulations.
More than a little bewildered, Charley muttered, “Thank you,” over and over to his many well-wishers. He tried to peer over the boiling mass of citizens to locate where Addie’d run away to, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. He had no trouble at all, however, in locating Fermin Small and Pansy Blewitt. They huddled together at the back of the stage, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.
Fermin squinted at Charley every now and then to let him know that although Char
ley’d won the war, Fermin knew he and his band were criminals. Now that he no longer feared for his freedom, Charley didn’t even resent the sheriff for being right.
Pansy Blewitt’s features had crinkled up unpleasantly, and she sniffled and sobbed into a handkerchief. Charley didn’t feel sorry for Pansy at all. After all, while she might indeed have had a legitimate complaint, he figured it had been more than satisfied when she shot him. Besides, she was not only as sour as a swig of straight vinegar and a hypocrite, she’d also been mean to Addie and Ivy. Anybody who was mean to the women in his life earned nothing but enmity from him.
He longed to look for Addie. The optimistic bubble in his breast had collapsed at least a half-hour ago and he felt foolish to hope, but he did. He had to talk to her. He couldn’t leave Rothwell and Addie without at least trying to explain himself.
Downheartedly, Charley guessed even an explanation wouldn’t go far to justify his outrageous deception. He aimed to give it a try, though, even if she never spoke to him again afterwards. The idea of Addie hating him made his stomach turn over and his blood run cold.
# # #
Addie ran down the street. She didn’t know where she was headed; she only knew she had to get away from Charley.
Tears blinded her and she didn’t see Garland and Luther when they turned the corner onto Main Street. She didn’t see Garland stick his hand out to stop his friend, nor did she see Luther bump into Garland’s hand, let out a “Whuh!” and double over.
She didn’t see Luther straighten, and didn’t see his eyes goggle as he stared at her. She didn’t see Garland step back around the corner and yank Luther’s shirt tail until he followed suit.
The first time she realized her two erstwhile ravishers were no longer locked up in the Rothwell jail was when she raced past the corner and felt an arm snake around her waist. Her scream was muffled by a big, dirty hand.
“Hell, Luther,” she heard Garland smirk, “Mebbe this damned town kin give us some sport after all.”
It took Luther a second, but soon a grin slathered itself over his slack features. “It’s the girl what got us arrested.”
“It shore is.”
Addie’s heart pitched crazily when she saw Garland’s smile turned into a feral parody of a grin. “And she’s alone.”
“Kin I have her this time?” Luther asked, almost slobbering.
“You shore kin, Luther.”
Terrified, Addie began struggling like a wild thing. She even bit Luther’s hand, which earned her a vicious cuff on her head, knocking her bonnet askew.
“Nothin’ won’t do you no good, little girl. Nobody won’t hear you, and ain’t nobody goin’ to see us. They’s all too busy havin’ fun.”
Addie realized with depressing clarity that Garland was speaking the absolute truth.
# # #
Ever so slowly, it began to dawn on the citizens of Rothwell and Arleta that Mr. Untermeyer still had a point to make. His, “Hear, hear! Hear, hear!” rose with increasing insistence over the babble of the throng. Eventually, the noise dulled to a loud hum, and the mayor shoved his way to the front of the stage.
“Hear, hear!” he cried once more, holding his arms up for silence. He almost got it, but didn’t press his luck. Lifting his voice to be heard above the left-over buzz, he said, “I have a question to ask these here fellows!”
“What question’s that, Mayor?” a wag shouted.
“My question is this: What do you fellers think about staying right here in Rothwell and being our very own town brass band?”
A cheer went up as Charley’s jaw dropped. He gaped at his men, who gaped back.
He heard a grumpy voice mutter, “Aw, hell,” and turned with trepidation. It had come from a tidy-looking individual with fluffy side whiskers and a big mustache.
“Don’t sulk, Fred,” Cleveland Untermeyer advised the natty newcomer with a satisfied chuckle. “We asked first.”
Somebody, Charley never did know who, whispered in his ear, “That’s Fred Jones, the mayor of Arleta.”
He said, “Oh,” and stared, dazed, at Cleveland Untermeyer.
“Well?” Cleveland asked. “Aren’t we good enough for you?”
“I—” Charley was too startled to form a coherent answer. He found his men all staring at him. They looked like a pack of starving hounds who’d just been offered an entire dead cow to eat. He jerked his head back to the mayor.
“Yes,” he said loudly. Then he cleared his throat when the full impact of Mr. Untermeyer’s question struck him. “Yes.” His voice had gone gravelly.
His men swarmed to their feet, hollering and throwing their hats in the air. Charley’d never seen them so excited. He felt somebody pounding on his back and turned to discover the thumper was Mr. Untermeyer, with a huge smile on his face.
“I guess we showed those folks in Arleta just who appreciates fine music best, didn’t we, Charley Wilde?”
“I—we did?”
“Well, I reckon we did! That Fred Jones was just about to ask you to be their band—in Arleta!” Cleveland chortled so hard, he began to wheeze and Charley got to pound him on the back for a while.
“You mean they wanted us, too?”
“Why, son, didn’t you see his face? The man was plumb green with envy! Green as Ioway grass!”
# # #
By the time Charley escaped the commotion to search for Addie, he was so tense his skin felt too tight to hold his jumping nerves. He had no idea where even to begin looking for her, but guessed his best course of action would be to go down the road the way he’d seen her headed.
He’d barely begun walking up the church steps to start his search when the first bars of “The Blue Tailed Fly” made him stop in his tracks and turn around. In spite of his heart-sickness, Charley couldn’t help but crack a tiny grin. George Alden, Francis Whatley and Harlan Lewis stood at the front of the stage, instruments to their lips, playing up a storm, while Peachy Gilbert jigged a little hornpipe to the accompaniment of claps from the crowd.
More astonishing yet was the sight of Lester Frogg and Ivy Blewitt, who stood by watching, their arms around one another. Ivy beamed like a girl at her first party. And Lester. Charley had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t there.
Nope. By God, it was there all right. A smile. Right smack on Lester’s face. Charley shook his head in wonder, then turned and continued his quest.
She had every right to be mad at him, Charley thought as he searched for Addie. In fact, she didn’t even know how much right she had. For pity’s sake, he’d even aimed to steal her family fortune before he knew she didn’t have one. How low could a man sink?
Pretty damned low, he guessed miserably.
She wasn’t in the church. Charley even looked under the oilcloths the Methodist ladies had put over the tables holding the baked goods. He peeked into both rooms in the church, searched in every corner. No Addie. He was so depressed, he didn’t even steal a cookie on his way out.
He walked slowly down the street until he hit the end, peering into every store, peeking down every alley, looking into every window. Most of the establishments were closed for the festivities; Charley rattled every doorknob to be sure.
Riotous frivolity still shrilled from the park end of town. He and Addie should be celebrating, too. They should be rejoicing in their commitment to one another; their engagement; their love. It was his fault they weren’t. It was his fault he now had to search for her and beg her forgiveness. He wouldn’t blame her if she never relented. The prospect sat in his heart like ice.
Lordy, people were really getting carried away on that stage. Charley frowned as an ear-splitting scream reached him.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks. That scream hadn’t come from the stage.
The thunder of hoof beats assaulted his ears a scant second before two horses rounded the corner of the building at which he stood. He barely jumped out of the way before they trampled him.
“Addie!”
Terror clawed through Charley, leaving him shaking, when he realized it was the two villains from the meadow. Addie struggled like a madwoman in front of the dark one, screeching fit to kill. Her pretty party bonnet flew from her head to land in the dust at Charley’s feet, and he knew complete despair.
He snatched Addie’s bonnet from the ground, and quickly looked around for help. There wasn’t any, of course. The entire town was still in the park.
With a muttered, “Damn,” Charley leapt into the saddle of a sleek-looking Morgan horse. He didn’t consider it theft. He figured if the good citizens of Rothwell hanged him for a horse thief after he’d rescued Addie from the clutches of Garland and Luther, they were welcome to him; he’d at least have performed one good deed in his misspent life.
The Morgan was swift as a bird in flight, and Charley blessed his luck in finding it. It tore out of town after Garland and Luther.
Addie was giving them hell. Even through the distance and the dust, Charley saw her arms flailing. Charley’s fear for her safety grew as he worried how Garland would react to her struggles.
“Addie, please don’t rile them,” leaked from his throat when he saw her try to land a kick at Luther, riding hell for leather next to Garland.
The Morgan gained rapidly on the fleeing desperadoes, and Charley wondered when the villains would realize they were being pursued.
His question answered itself a moment later when Luther cricked a look over his shoulder. Charley could almost see realization land in Luther’s empty brain.
“Aw, hell,” he muttered when he realized the idiot had pulled his sidearm.
A second later he heard the report of a gun. He had no idea where the bullet went, but he suspected it was nowhere near him. Charley’d never yet seen a man hit anything from a moving horse except once, by accident, when some damned Yankee dinged the bell of Harlan Lewis’s bass horn during a battle. He understood Comanche Indians could ride, aim, and shoot all at the same time, but he’d believe it when he saw it.
Five more shots rang out.
Luther’s bullets hit nothing, but spurred Charley’s ire. He urged the gallant Morgan to gallop even faster. To Charley’s amazement, the horse obeyed.
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