Horse With No Name

by Alexandra Amor

  Julia shook her head. Now that Hunter was safely in the doctor's care, the adrenaline was leaving her body. She cleared her throat, "No. There was no one. The shop was quiet. I almost left because I thought he wasn't there."

  Parker turned away from the examining table and walked to a cabinet filled with glass jars that held various sharp and dangerous-looking instruments. He grabbed a pair of scissors and two towels off a pile on a lower shelf.

  "Did you see any horses around when you arrived?" Merrick continued questioning Julia. "Any wagons hitched nearby?"

  Julia cast her mind back to the scene on the street. She had been so preoccupied with angry thoughts about her status as a project in the minds of the town's matchmakers that she doubted she would have noticed a stagecoach even if it had run over her. She shook her head.

  Dr. Parker undid the buttons on Hunter's vest and pushed it aside. The shirt underneath was still white in the places where the vest had protected it. Parker leaned across with his scissors and began cutting away the shirt from around the broken arm.

  Suddenly Hunter lifted his head off the bed. He groaned and began struggling, trying to sit up, although without much steam behind the attempt. Merrick moved a step closer to assist, but Parker was able to calm the man with a few words. He placed both hands on Hunter's shoulders and eased him back down.

  Hunter said something that Julia didn't catch, and Dr. Parker had to lean in and turn his head to place his ear close to Hunter's mouth. Things were quiet for a moment and then the doctor straightened up and turned to Merrick, "I think you can leave us now. He'll be fine with me. I'll set this arm and look after his cuts and bruises." He turned to Julia. "Miss Thom, could you find Eleanor, please, and send her? She's probably at the Mitchell's store."

  Julia nodded and Merrick followed her out of the room and then out of the house.

  Five

  Betty Mitchell ladled a generous portion of stew from the large Dutch oven into a smaller pot that Julia held out for her. The stew smelled richly of onion and roasted venison. It made Julia's mouth water.

  When the smaller pot was full, Julia waited while Betty wrapped up two loaves of bread and six scones. They were heading over to James Hunter's house to check in on him and make sure he was eating.

  Betty was Julia's closest friend in Horse. On the surface they had very little in common; Betty was married and had come to British Columbia from Canada's far eastern maritime provinces. She and her ridiculously handsome husband, Christopher, owned and ran the General Store. They were childless, which brought tears to Betty's eyes every time it was mentioned in Julia's presence. The couple poured their love and attention into their shop and it showed. It was the loveliest little store for hundreds of miles and the Mitchell's were justifiably proud of what they'd built. Betty and Julia had bonded initially out of necessity, perhaps. The ratio of men to women in a place this remote was overwhelming. Secretly, Betty wanted to keep an eye on Julia; to keep her safe from the possibly predatory men who might want to hitch their wagons, and their kitchens, to Julia. She needn't have worried. Julia was far too enamored of her new status as a single working woman to throw it away for some man with a quarter section and most of his own hair.

  Betty kissed her husband goodbye, which made Julia avert her eyes, and the two women proceeded down Main Street toward Hunter's little house that was tucked away in the street just behind his shop.

  Doctor Parker had set Hunter's arm in a splint. He said the break wasn't too bad and that Hunter should regain the use of the arm in no time. Julia assumed this was a huge relief to Hunter. A watchmaker with only one working arm was like a clock with just one hand.

  "Yoo hoo! Mr. Hunter!" Betty called as she tapped gently on the front door and then opened it without waiting. Julia loved her friend's implacable friendliness. It was totally without guile and one of Julia's favorite things about Mrs. Mitchell. It would never occur to Betty that someone might not appreciate her barging into their home. In her mind, she was there on a mission of goodwill and closed doors didn't mean much to her in that case.

  "Hello?" the querying voice came from the back of the house, unsure of itself.

  "Mr. Hunter, it's Betty Mitchell and Julia Thom. We're here with provisions. May we come in?" Betty was already standing in the front hall, eyeing the kitchen.

  There was some rustling and a thump from the bedroom and then Hunter appeared in the doorway, clad in a striped dressing gown over what appeared to be a long nightshirt. His hair was rumpled from his pillow and he held the splinted arm gingerly with the other.

  "Um..." he said, looking confused.

  "Don't fight it, Mr. Hunter," Julia said, smiling at him. "You'll not win. We won't stay long. We just brought you some bread and scones, and some of Christopher Mitchell's famous venison stew."

  "I ...uh..." the man blinked several times but was at a loss for words.

  "We'll just put these things in the kitchen, shall we?" Betty marched off into the small kitchen, and Julia followed in her wake.

  For the next hour Betty bustled about, lighting the stove to keep the stew warm, tidying and washing the dirty dishes, and generally making herself very much at home. Julia soon realized that she would only be in the way, so she asked Mr. Hunter to join her in the living room where they could chat.

  The swelling had gone down around Hunter's eyes, and they had reopened slightly. His face was several different shades of blue and purple. There was a cut on his lower lip that Julia hadn't noticed when she'd been helping him. His nose, which had been the source of most of the blood at the scene, was swollen as well, and from where Julia sat, it also looked slightly crooked now. Although she thought that could just be an illusion of the swelling.

  She got Hunter settled on the sofa, putting a pillow in his lap to rest his broken arm on. She took the blanket off his bed and put it over his legs.

  "I'm not an old woman," he said, protesting slightly.

  "I know, but let me fuss," Julia said. "You helped me the other night. Let me return the favor."

  Julia's first meeting with Hunter had been a week earlier. He had come to her house to repair her grandmother clock, one of the few possessions other than clothes that she had brought with her from her family home. At the time, while she had watched him work, she had experienced him as a man who was reserved to the point of near-muteness. He was polite with her, and very competent at his job - he had the clock fixed very quickly with seemingly no difficulty at all - but he seemed decidedly uncomfortable in her presence.

  When they were settled, Julia looked around the room, which was much like her own little living room; it had a small parlor stove in one corner, a bookcase against a wall, the upholstered chair she was sitting in and the two-seater sofa where Hunter rested. The furniture looked well taken care of, though not new. And around the room Julia saw several clocks, mounted on the walls, all ticking gently.

  "You'll never be late for anything will you, Mr. Hunter?" she teased him.

  "Hazard of the trade, I'm afraid," he said, "Every once in a while someone wants to sell a real beauty. They make a good investment so I buy them, and then I can't seem to bring myself to sell them." He shrugged, obviously willing to accept his own weaknesses.

  Just for something to say, Julia asked about the history of the clocks. Hunter spent a very content fifteen minutes telling her where each one had come from, its pedigree, and its manufacturer. Even some background on each manufacturer and where they stood now in the world of clock making.

  He glanced at Julia after a story about pendulums and stopped mid-sentence. "I'm boring you."

  "Not at all," Julia lied, "I had no idea the world of clocks had so much intrigue."

  There was a pause and Julia listened to the clatter of dishes and crockery in the kitchen. She and Mr. Hunter smiled at each other in a shared moment of chagrin about getting in Betty Mitchell's way.

  Finally Hunter said, “How are you feeling after your...encounter on Saturday evening?"


  Julia shifted in her chair, remembering her fright on that night, and Mr. Hunter's gallantry.

  "I'm sorry," the man said, noticing Julia's discomfort. "I didn't mean to upset you all over again."

  "No, it's no trouble. I just hadn't thought about it for awhile what with..." she gestured toward Hunter himself.

  Hunter grimaced. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

  "Please, don't, Mr. Hunter. I am so happy I came into your shop when I did. I hate to think what would have happened if I hadn't."

  "As do I. Your timing was impeccable." Hunter paused, thinking. "Did Dr. Parker come to the shop and take me to the surgery?"

  "Don't you remember?"

  Hunter shook his head.

  "Well, no," Julia explained, "Constable Merrick and I walked you to his office." Now it was Julia's turn to ask a question, "Do you know who it was that attacked you?"

  Reflexively Hunter reached up and touched his nose and then pulled his hand away quickly. "I really don't remember very much."

  "Do you think it was the two men who were..." Julia wasn't sure what word to use, "being so rude to me on the night of the dance?"

  "I don't know, Miss Thom. I really can't say. The men at the dance were almost impossible for me to see, with the darkness and the shadows from the trees. Can you remember what they looked like?"

  Julia shook her head. "I just have a vague impression. It's their voices I remember most. Did your attacker or attackers speak to you?"

  Hunter hesitated slightly, thinking, "My memory of the event is quite muddled. I really can't remember much at all."

  "Did they steal anything?"

  The clockmaker had been looking away in the middle distance, perhaps remembering the beating. He brought his eyes back to Julia now. "Anything from the shop?" he asked, seeming puzzled and then recovering. "Oh. I see what you're asking. Well, no, I don't think so. But to be honest I haven't been back there since Dr. Parker brought me home last night."

  "I'm sure Constable Merrick will ask you this, if he hasn't already. But I must ask: do you have any idea why you were attacked?"

  Hunter seemed to be growing increasingly uncomfortable. He gently raised his broken arm and shifted the pillow in his lap. Even taking into consideration the bruising around his eyes, he looked frightfully exhausted. Julia wondered if he'd slept at all. It couldn't be easy with the arm the way it was.

  Julia stood up, feeling she'd been insensitive to Mr. Hunter's discomfort. "Do you have any whisky?" she asked.

  Hunter looked at her with a furrowed brow. "It's not yet noon, Miss Thom."

  "Never mind that. You're obviously in considerable pain."

  Hunter pointed to a short, narrow cabinet that stood in a corner of the room. In it Julia found a small bottle of whisky. There were no glasses present so she went to the kitchen to find one. Betty had found an apron and tied it around her waist. She was stirring the stew and had placed thick slices of her bread on the kitchen table on a plate. The butter dish was standing at the ready, as was a bowl for stew. "You can ask Mr. Hunter to sit up at the table, Julia. It's time to get some food in him."

  Julia took a short glass, which was delicately etched with a leaf and vine motif, off one of the shelves and took it back in the living room. She poured a measure and waited while Hunter drank it.

  "Betty says lunch is ready," she said when Hunter handed her the glass back.

  "I confess I'm not all that hungry."

  Julia returned the whisky bottle to its cabinet and turned to face the patient. "I'm not sure that's going to matter to Mrs. Mitchell," she said, grinning.

  ***

  The watch maker's shop was exactly as Merrick and Julia had left it the day before. Julia could even see drops of blood on the floor behind the counter.

  Hunter had been falling asleep in his stew when Betty showed some mercy and let him leave the table without finishing. She took him to his room, propriety be damned, and tucked him into his single bed, his arm resting beside him on the pillow he'd been using in the living room. Something Dr. Parker had not thought to do the night before.

  "Men!" Betty scoffed when she returned to the kitchen to help Julia wrap up the bread and scones. "Dr. Parker is an excellent physician but as a nurse he is sorely lacking. Leaving that man in his bed without any relief for his arm. It's such a simple thing to do. That pillow makes all the difference to him. He's asleep already." Betty fussed and muttered, her maternal instincts getting a rare opportunity to be in full sail.

  The ladies left a small fire going in the stove, and the pot of what stew remained on top, so that Hunter could have more when he awoke. They had promised Hunter they would look in on the shop.

  The front was tidy, as it had been when Julia had been there the day before. It was in the back, the workshop area, where the evidence of the battle that had occurred lay.

  Hunter had told them that he had a vague impression that whoever had attacked him had come in through the back door that led out onto the laneway that ran behind this row of shops on Main Street. Hunter had no real use for the lane, as his deliveries were small and periodic. Unlike the Mitchells, who had a small paddock for their horse and a parking spot for the delivery wagon, the back of Hunter's shop was simply a bare patch of dirt with a dry watering trough set to one side and an outhouse. Julia and Betty glanced at it briefly and then went back inside.

  The workshop bore the evidence of the melee. Gears and rods and springs were scattered all over the floor like cherry blossom petals in spring. The two women tip-toed around them, trying not to crush anything under their buttoned boots. They spent twenty minutes carefully picking up every piece of hardware and every tool they could find.

  A second table, separate from the one where Hunter appeared to do most of his work, had been knocked over, and this seemed to be the source of most of the confettied clock pieces. Julia and Betty lifted it back into position against the wall that bordered the front of the shop and put the clock pieces on it.

  Lining the walls of the workshop were shelves that reached almost to the ceiling. These were filled with small and larger clocks, either awaiting repair or perhaps awaiting pick-up by their owners. Smaller shelves over Hunter's workbench held pocket watches, also in wait of repair or cleaning. Each one had a small tag attached to it with a string, usually tied around the chain, with the owner's name written in a neat and precise script. Julia saw Walt Sheehan's name on one of the watches. Its face was liberally scratched but when she picked it up and turned it over she saw that it had a beautiful Celtic cross carved into the back.

  "Look at this," Betty said from behind her.

  Julia put the watch back where it had been, and joined Betty by the back door. Her friend was standing over a third, narrow table that stood under the widow on the back wall of the shop. The window overlooked the lane and provided what Julia assumed was much-needed light in the space. The three tables in the workshop were separate but they formed a U-shape in the room, leaving space in the middle for Hunter's chair. The table Betty stood beside was only eight inches deep and had two hand-made wooden trays lying side-by-side on it. The trays were divided into smaller compartments and each compartment seemed to have a specific type of gear, spring or mechanical object in it. Julia looked at the trays, not understanding what Betty wanted her to see.

  "No, here." Betty pointed to the floor below the table. There was a single work glove lying on its back, fingers slightly curled.

  Julia bent down and picked it up. It was leather and well-worn. There was a hole beginning to form in the index finger, and the entire thing seemed covered in layers of stains. Julia imagined it had been the light tan of deerskin originally.

  Together both women scanned the shop for the glove's mate, but the only other piece of clothing they saw was Hunter's apron, which was hanging on a hook affixed to the wall between his primary workbench and the doorway to the front of the shop.

  "That doesn't look like a watchmaker's glove to me," Betty said.

&nbs
p; Julia turned it over in her hands. "Look at the size of it. Hunter's hands are not even close to being this big. They're delicate. Perfect for a watchmaker."

  The two women raised their heads in concert and looked at one another. "It was dropped by whoever assaulted Hunter," Betty said.

  Light came into Julia's eyes and she smiled. "It's a clue."

  Six

  “Merrick won't thank you for interfering, Julia Thom," Betty said as they walked back from Hunter's shop toward Merrick's office, but she had a big smile on her face. Watching her new friend torment the normally kind and even-tempered constable with her meddling had become a great source of amusement for Betty. She was not a natural meddler herself, but she had no problem watching Julia get involved where she shouldn't.

  "I'm not interfering," Julia countered, though she knew full-well this wasn't true. "I'm helping."

  But Merrick wasn’t in his office. The door was closed and when Julia marched in anyway the room was quiet and the stove cold.

  So the two friends carried on down the street and when Betty returned to her store, she winked at Julia and said, "Promise me you'll tell me what expletive Merrick uses when he sees you."

  "Oh, pffft," was the only retort Julia could come up with at the time.

  The rhythmic clang-clang of Walter Sheehan's hammer meeting its target found Julia's ears long before she reached the blacksmith shop. She wondered briefly what it was like for Walt knowing that everyone in town knew where he was by following that noise. He was a quiet man, only given to speaking when he had something to say. And like most quiet people, he was keenly observant. Though Julia had only known him a few weeks, she could already tell that very little slipped past Walt. In this way, he was invaluable to his friend, Constable Jack Merrick.

  Julia walked past the sleeping forms of the three dogs that were never far from Walt's side. The blacksmith nodded to Julia when she entered the shop but kept hammering for a moment. The nail he was forming was still red from the fire. Julia glanced around but Merrick was not in the blacksmith shop.