The Prairie Thief

by Melissa Wiley

  Dedicated to

  the Plains Conservation Center

  in Aurora, Colorado,

  where the pronghorn roam

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  It Ain’t Right

  CHAPTER TWO

  Not a Critter

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Plain as Pie

  CHAPTER FOUR

  No More Spiders in Our Stew

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Evangeline

  CHAPTER SIX

  What in Tarnation?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Seven-Day Clock

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Badger Hole

  CHAPTER NINE

  The White Stone

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Critter with Hands

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  How Softly They Gleamed

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  May as Well Get It Over With

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Goose Indeed

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  What Sort of Fool

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ignore the Spiders

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Underhill House

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Horseradish Tea

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Spilling Over with Secrets

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A Very Good Question

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the Dugout

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sudden Moves

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A First in the History o’ the World

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Three Miles from Town

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Best Worst Day

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Town Jail

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Especially When It’s Hard

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Potato Chowder

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Elflocks

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A Hair Bow Ain’t a Hatchet

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Top o’ the Mornin’

  August 9, 1882

  Dear Judge Callahan—

  I sorely hate to ask this of you, seeing as we weren’t expecting you back in Fletcher until next month. If it ain’t too great an inconvenience, I’d be obliged if you’d catch the next stage back to town. I’ve got just about the last person on earth you’d expect sitting in my jail right this minute. Jack Brody’s been accused of thievery. Got to say, Judge, it don’t look good for him. I hope you’ll come back and get it sorted for us.

  —Chester Morgan, County Sheriff

  CHAPTER ONE

  It Ain’t Right

  THE SMIRCHES TOOK LOUISA IN WHEN HER PA WENT to jail, but they weren’t happy about it.

  “Another mouth to feed,” griped Mrs. Smirch. Her cold eyes looked Louisa up and down. “And she’s too puny to be any help around this place. I can’t fathom what got into your head, Malcolm.”

  Mr. Smirch shrugged. His lips were pressed into a thin line. He had the same grim look on his face Louisa’s pa always had when it was time to kill a pig—the look of someone who can’t get out of doing a thing he hates to do.

  “Don’t see as we had much choice in the matter, Matilda,” he said. “Sheriff only had the one horse.”

  Louisa blinked hard, trying to stop picturing Pa riding away on that horse, hatless, his red hair blowing back, sitting in front of the sheriff with his hands tied, looking over his shoulder at her until the sheriff cuffed him on the arm and made him face front. Before he turned away, Pa had winked at her; that was the worst part. She had almost cried then. But Mr. Smirch had been standing beside her, and she would sooner have died than shed a tear in front of the man who had called the law upon her father.

  Now here she was in that man’s own house, being scowled at by his wife, a wispy-haired woman with sharp eyes and a greasy apron. The little Smirch boys, Winthrop and Charlie, stood behind their mother, making faces at Louisa when their pa wasn’t looking. Near the table, a young girl with long straggly braids stood working butter in a churn that was almost as big as she was. She was staring at Louisa, smiling a little as she thumped the wooden dash up and down, up and down. Louisa remembered Mr. Smirch telling her pa—was it really only the day before yesterday?—that his nine-year-old niece had arrived on the train from Topeka a week or two earlier. That had been right before Winthrop came charging down the hill from the old dugout, jabbering about Mrs. Smirch’s missing clock and Mr. Smirch’s lost hatchet. Louisa could still picture the way the friendly look on Mr. Smirch’s face had gone sharp and wary, his eyes narrowing at Pa.

  “I never heard of such nonsense,” muttered Mrs. Smirch, hands on her hips. “Man robs us blind, and the sheriff expects us to look after his young’un? Trained to thieve herself, I shouldn’t wonder. You best not try any tricks here, girl, you hear me? There’s room in that there jail cell for you too, and don’t you forget it.”

  Louisa breathed hard, too angry to speak. My pa’s no thief, she wanted to holler, but she couldn’t say one word. All she could do was stand there stone-faced, looking at Mrs. Smirch.

  “Don’t you glare at me, child. You ought to be grateful we was willin’ to take you in.” Mrs. Smirch whipped around to stir something in a pot on the iron stove, clattering her tin ladle angrily against the sides. Winthrop Smirch, the six-year-old, snickered and stuck out his tongue at Louisa. And to think I gave you fresh biscuits the other day, Louisa thought furiously. She remembered how that visit had ended and had to swallow hard again. If Winthrop and Charlie Smirch hadn’t poked their noses where they didn’t belong, she might not be standing in this miserable kitchen right now.

  Mrs. Smirch resumed berating her husband. “Sheriff ought to come back for the child himself, if you ask me. It ain’t right, our havin’ to keep her.”

  “It’s thirteen miles each way, Matilda,” said Mr. Smirch wearily. “Man’s got a job to do in town. Can’t be traipsin’ back and forth across the prairie.”

  “Then he ought to send someone else to fetch her,” snapped Mrs. Smirch.

  “She can ride in the wagon when I take the wheat in,” said Mr. Smirch. “We ain’t got to keep her all that long.”

  His wife snorted. “It’ll be weeks before you get that crop in. And her eatin’ us out of house and home all that time.”

  Louisa opened her mouth to protest, but she was stopped short by a giggle from the girl at the butter churn. Mrs. Smirch whirled around, clutching her ladle.

  “Jessamine! What are you snickerin’ about, girl?” she demanded.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said the little girl. “It’s just . . . I don’t guess Louisa could eat us out of house and home, seeing as she’s so puny and all.”

  “Don’t you dare sass me, girl!” Mrs. Smirch brought the tin ladle down—smack—on top of the girl’s head. Louisa gasped. The little girl’s face turned red, and her lips pinched together. She went back to churning, thumping the dash over and over with all her might.

  Louisa felt sick to her stomach. She had never seen a grown-up hit a child before. But then, living so far from town, Louisa had hardly ever been around any other families. After the Smirches, the next nearest neighbors were some six miles away.

  Maybe, thought Louisa, that was how people in other families treated each other. A horrible ache rose in her throat.

  Oh, Pa, she thought. How could you let this happen?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Not a Critter

  NONE OF IT SEEMED REAL—NOT PA’S ARREST, NOR having to stay with the very people who’d
had him arrested, nor finding herself, that night, squeezed onto a prickly straw tick alongside three other children. Louisa lay in the stuffy darkness trying not to think of Pa, far away in town, sleeping behind bars in the county jail. She’d never been this far away from him her whole life; he’d always taken her with him on trips to town, letting her pick some ribbon candy and licorice whips out of the big glass jars in the Fletcher general store. She hated the feel of the lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away.

  It was hard to sleep, crammed between the rough wall and Jessamine, with Winthrop and Charlie breathing heavily on Jessamine’s other side. Straw poked Louisa through the mattress cover. When she rolled over, the straw shifted inside the canvas so that she was lying in a flat trough on the hard plank floor. Around her the air hung heavy with heat and shadows. She ached for her own bed in her nice, neat, whitewashed room at home.

  It was still dark when Mrs. Smirch commenced rapping on the wall with something—probably that battered ladle of which she seemed so fond—to wake the girls and Mr. Smirch. Louisa couldn’t see the room around her as she fumbled into her dress and knit stockings. When she bumped into a chair, Mrs. Smirch fussed at her for making noise.

  “You’ll wake the little’uns,” she hissed, as if she hadn’t just been hammering on the wall with a large tin spoon.

  Louisa ate a breakfast of thick, lumpy, unsalted cornmeal mush across the table from a silent, brooding Mr. Smirch, while Mrs. Smirch huffed around the small kitchen with her creased skirts swishing. Jessamine sat beside Louisa, eating mechanically, with her eyes on Mrs. Smirch. When she glanced at Louisa, an eager little smile darted across her face.

  Poor thing, thought Louisa. It’s probably awful for her here too. She couldn’t imagine having Mrs. Smirch for kin.

  Crack! The ever-present ladle came down suddenly on Louisa’s head. Louisa yelped, her hand flying to her head. The pain brought tears to her eyes.

  “Eat up, girl!” snarled Mrs. Smirch. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Now, Matilda,” faltered Mr. Smirch.

  Mrs. Smirch whipped around, turning her buzzard’s glare on her husband. “Don’t you ‘now Matilda’ me, Malcolm Smirch. If you had the sense God gave a gopher, we’d be chargin’ this child board.”

  Mr. Smirch abruptly pushed back his chair and stood up. For a moment Louisa thought he was going to light into Mrs. Smirch, but all he said was “Got my chores to do,” and clomped out the door in his heavy boots.

  Mrs. Smirch whirled back to Louisa, brandishing her ladle ominously. “You best not let that good food go to waste, you hear me?”

  “Good” is a bit of a stretch, Louisa thought, but she dutifully choked down another spoonful of the unsavory paste, resisting the urge to rub her still-tingling scalp.

  Mrs. Smirch eyed her a moment, then turned and strode across the room to the lean-to.

  The moment her aunt was out of earshot, Jessamine leaned close to Louisa.

  “Don’t mind Aunt Mattie. She’s always cross in the mornings.” She seemed to consider a moment. “Well, and also the afternoons. Anyway, listen: I know a secret!” Her head was so close to Louisa, they were practically cheek to cheek. “There’s something living in our hazel grove,” Jessamine whispered. “Something peculiar. Don’t tell anyone, ’specially not the boys.”

  Louisa didn’t see what was so secret about something living in the hazel grove. Probably lots of things lived in the hazel grove: snakes and birds and mice and maybe even a raccoon or two. But tiny Jessamine with her spiky braids and quick smile was the only person in the Smirch home who’d been nice to her, and Louisa didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She nodded, promising not to tell.

  “What kind of critter is it?” she asked, playing along.

  Jessamine shook her head, glancing toward the lean-to.

  “Ain’t a critter,” she said. “It’s about the size of a woodchuck, but it wears a hat.”

  Louisa blinked. “A hat?”

  “Yup, a funny brown one. It’s pointy.”

  Mrs. Smirch came clattering back into the kitchen, a wooden pail in each hand. Jessamine stared a message at Louisa with imploring eyes.

  Don’t tell.

  “Ain’t you girls done yet? Hurry up! You got to fetch the water so’s I can get them boys dressed.”

  Louisa didn’t see what the one had to do with the other, but she didn’t mind being sent for water. That was one of her jobs at home, too. She always liked to go out on cool summer mornings like this one, when the meadowlarks were singing love songs to the sky and the little blue-striped lizards were just coming out to sun themselves on the rocks. Today she was doubly glad to get outside—anything to get away from silent, glowering Mr. Smirch and his irritable wife. She carried her breakfast plate to the dishpan beside the iron stove and, taking up one of the water pails, followed Jessamine through the lean-to and out the door.

  The sun was just rising above the undulating eastern plain, spilling gold onto the low-drifting clouds. As soon as the girls were clear of the house, Jessamine began to chatter, picking up right where she’d left off at the table.

  “It wore a hat, Louisa, honest it did. Like the dunce cap on the picture of the bad boy in my ma’s old lesson book.”

  Louisa stared at Jessamine, unsure what to make of her. She looked so bright and earnest; she didn’t seem like the type to tell tales. Then again, maybe she needed tales to cheer herself up. Louisa had heard Mr. Smirch tell Pa all about how Jessamine’s family had died of the cholera. All of them—her mother and father and big brother. It was the worst thing Louisa could imagine: losing Pa and having to come live with Mrs. Smirch not just for a while, but forever.

  “Poor mite,” Pa had said to Mr. Smirch. “It’s a mercy she has you folks to come to. Be nice for your wife to have her company too, I bet. There’s nothin’ beats havin’ a little girl around to talk your ear off and keep you lively.” He’d shot a wink at Louisa, who’d been scattering scraps in the barnyard for the chickens. That time, Louisa had winked back. It was their special signal, their secret I-love-you.

  Now, walking alongside Jessamine to the Smirches’ spring, which seemed to be a good piece from the house, Louisa had to blink hard to keep the tears back. She missed Pa so much. Mr. Smirch had been nice the other morning, not sullen and glowering at all. Louisa didn’t see how things could change so fast—how suddenly your friendly neighbor was calling your pa a liar and a thief and accusing him of stealing all sorts of valuables right out from under his nose.

  It isn’t true, she thought fiercely. I don’t care what they found in the dugout. It isn’t true. My pa’s no thief.

  “What do you suppose it is, Louisa?” Jessamine was asking. Louisa wrenched her mind away from thoughts of Pa and tried to pay attention to whatever this tall tale was that Jessamine was going on about. The younger girl was staring at her with eager eyes. Her faded gingham dress was too small, so that her wrists stuck out of the sleeves.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Louisa faltered. “I never heard of a critter that wears a pointy hat.”

  “That’s why I say it ain’t no critter,” said Jessamine. “I don’t know what it is. I only saw it from the back. It went down a hole by that big old boulder in the hazel grove. It was carrying a sack, like a flour sack, with bulges. It heard me squeak—’cause I was so surprised, you know—and it looked back over its shoulder and popped down that hole, quick as a jackrabbit. I only saw it for a second.” She was talking rapidly, swinging her pail with excitement. “It wore some kind of little old patched-up coat and, Louisa, I could’ve sworn it had a beard.”

  Despite herself, Louisa laughed. A pointy hat and a beard? Maybe Jessamine was spinning tales to amuse herself and was little enough that she half believed them. Louisa didn’t blame her. A couple of weeks in a house with Mrs. Smirch, and anyone would need some good stories to take her mind off her misery.

  She decided it wouldn’t do any harm to play along with the little girl’s game.


  “What color was the beard?” she asked.

  Jessamine broke into a radiant smile. “Oh, Louisa! You believe me!” She shifted her pail to the other side and took Louisa’s hand in hers. “I’m real sorry your pa’s in trouble, but I’m glad you’re staying with us for a while. Later I’ll take you to the grove and show you where the hole is. Maybe we’ll even see him again.”

  “Maybe,” said Louisa. If an honest man like her pa could be carted off to jail in the blink of an eye, then most anything could happen.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Plain as Pie

  JUDGE CORNELIUS P. CALLAHAN SPEARED A POTATO with his fork, wishing he could pin down truth as easily as a spud. His bristly brows drew together into a frown as he chewed. His cook-and-housekeeper, Mrs. Mack, was offended, and she let him know it in no uncertain terms. Her exasperated humph roused him, bringing his thoughts back to her excellent herb gravy.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said, for Judge Callahan prided himself on his good manners. “My mind, it runs away with me.” He forked another chunk of potato and swirled it in the rich brown gravy. “Ah, me, ’tis good to be home, and early to boot. I do miss your fine cooking when I’m on the circuit.”

  Mrs. Mack sniffed, mollified, and stalked off to the kitchen, where there was a pie waiting to be cut. Judge Callahan smiled. Mrs. Mack was a touchy sort, fiercely proud and sharp of tongue. But there wasn’t a public kitchen in the county that could beat her cooking—and that, the judge asserted to himself, was fact, not speculation. As a traveling circuit judge, he’d had occasion to eat at every boardinghouse and restaurant in a hundred-mile radius. Not one could boast a meal half so savory as Mrs. Mack’s cooking. It was almost uncanny, thought the judge, the way that female put a meal together.

  But as he scraped up the last bits of gravy from his dish—he’d have licked it clean, were it not a gross breach of manners—his mind returned to the troubling situation that had met him on his hasty return to Fletcher after he’d received Sheriff Morgan’s letter. Jack Brody, a man Judge Callahan would have testified was one of the most solid and upstanding citizens in the county, was locked up in the town jail on suspicion of theft.