Scryer's Gulch: Magic in the Wild, Wild West
Vol I: Episodes 1-53
by MeiLin Miranda
~ Smashwords ebook edition ~
Scryer's Gulch: Magic in the Wild, Wild West
Vol I: Episodes 1-53
Copyright © 2012 by Lynn Siprelle writing as MeiLin Miranda
licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/
or send a letter to:
Creative Commons,
444 Castro Street, Suite 900,
Mountain View, CA 94041
This work is published by
Sans Culotte Press
4110 SE Hawthorne Blvd #428
Portland OR 97214
* * *
Other books by MeiLin Miranda:
An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom
Book One: Lovers and Beloveds
Book Two: Son in Sorrow
Short stories: Accounts and The Gratification Engine
Scryer's Gulch
Fears Moon Woman
Aria Afton Presents
The Amber Cross
The Mage's Toy
Dalston Junction
All available at Smashwords
* * *
Table of Contents
Episode 1: Annabelle Arrives
Episode 2: Red Eye Gravy and Fellow Travelers
Episode 3: Near Revelations
Episode 4: Detectors and Detectives
Episode 5: Most Honored Cat
Episode 6: One-Way Cat Fight
Episode 7: An Accusation
Episode 8: A Confession
Episode 9: Rabbit's Time of the Month
Episode 10: A Jailbird
Episode 11: Moonrise
Episode 12: Creature of the Night, Pistol on the Right
Episode 13: Messages
Episode 14: Waste Not the Hour
Episode 15: What's in Its Pocketses
Episode 16: Culling the Herd
Episode 17: Evidence
Episode 18: Servitude
Episode 19: A History Lesson
Episode 20: Ethergrams and Homilies
Episode 21: An Enthusiastic Hour
Episode 22: Sapheads
Episode 23: Cleaning Up Messes
Episode 24: On Fair Authority
Episode 25: Powerful Stuff
Episode 26: Private Matters
Episode 27: No Offense Intended
Episode 28: A Demonstration of Skill
Episode 29: A Demonstration of Knowledge
Episode 30: Sucker
Episode 31: A Full-Blooded Evening
Episode 32: Hands All Around
Episode 33: Aloysius on the Town
Episode 34: The Ghostly Convocation
Episode 35: An Invitation
Episode 36: Acceptances
Episode 37: A Little Song
Episode 38: Escort Service
Episode 39: Indigestion
Episode 40: Duchess Soup
Episode 41: A Challenge
Episode 42: A Reproachful Chat with a Cat
Episode 43: A Prognostification
Episode 44: Friendship
Episode 45: Ace in the Hole
Episode 46: The Piano Lesson
Episode 47: Twinkle Twinkle
Episode 48: A Little Look-See
Episode 49: Let 'Er Rip
Episode 50: Gonna Be a Show-Down
Episode 51: Trouble Is Expected
Episode 52: The Devil You Know
Episode 53: Justice
Episode 1: Annabelle arrives
With all the money pouring in and out of it, you’d think Scryer’s Gulch would be more scenic. It’s still no looker, but in the early days it hunkered down and at the same time sprawled in its valley like a cold sore, crouching near a gaping, toothless mouth that swallowed up men and spit out the ore that gave the town both its name and its fortune. I’m speaking, of course, of hermetauxite, without which little that we call modern life would be possible.
So much of it veins the Big Blavatsky Mine that, for example, anyone with any scrying talent at all can look into a glass of water, a mirror, a candle flame, the odd crystal ball, a shiny window, and catch a glimpse of the future. Anyone with a measure of telekinetic power can bend a spoon a little. That sorta thing. The original inhabitants of this land of ours were strangely absent from the area, odd considering its rich supply of wildlife, but they were wiser than we are, or perhaps just less greedy: living so close to that much hermetauxite eventually drives folks crazy.
But I digress.
Perhaps I’m not being fair when I say Scryer’s Gulch in those days was a cold sore, a carbuncle on the surface of the earth, a muck pit lined with hastily thrown-up buildings of questionable architectural provenance filled with humans of questionable parentage. There were a few beauties: the arrestingly ostentatious bulk of Jedediah Bonham’s mansion, built with the proceeds of the mine; the spun sugar and gilt Hotel LeFay, with all the most modern conveniences Bonham’s son Anthony could provide his guests; and the opulent Mamzelle’s Palace, whose beauties were on the inside--a good thing, considering they were barely dressed and likely to cause riots were they actually on the outside.
In those early days, Scryer’s Gulch was a wide-open town, filled with all the vices lonely men with no families and too much money usually indulge in. Anatole Prake, the first mayor, tried his hardest to bring civilization to town--he hired Sheriff Runnels with his own money--but you can’t fight demand by reducing supply; it doesn’t get rid of vice, it only makes it more expensive. Higher prices for drink, cards and girls meant more money for Jedediah Bonham. Mamzelle’s name may have been on the Palace, but everyone knew Jed really owned it; he owned her, after all. Making Bonham richer rankled the sheriff no end, for if there was one man John Runnels hated, it was Jed Bonham, and that consideration was returned, in spades.
So Sheriff Runnels and Mayor Prake bowed to reality, and worked on keeping things down to a dull roar. A minimum of murders; discretion in fleecing the yokels come in to prospect--at least leave them their underwear; respect for the genteel variety of womenfolk: that’s all they asked for. Most of the time, they got it. Some of the time, they didn’t.
But no matter how hard Bonham tried to keep the town free of the law except when it suited him, he couldn’t stop the natural progression of things. Some of the men settled permanently, and brought their womenfolk and families out. By and by, there were a dozen children in town, and no school yet. Mayor Prake had two children of school age, besides his grown son. Bonham himself had a little girl, Lily, who he loved more than anything in the world--even his fortune. And while his new wife Charity pestered him to send Lily away to school after her three older brothers, he couldn’t bear to part with her. Besides, look how his oldest, Anthony, had turned out when he came home from the east. He could advertise for a tutor, but he’d promised his late wife Lillian that not matter how rich he got, Lily would have a normal life. And so, Bonham reluctantly agreed with Prake that it was time the town had itself a school.
Mayor Prake sent for a schoolteacher. What he got was Miss Annabelle Duniway.
The day the new teacher was expected, a small knot of local luminaries milled before the Hopewell Hotel, the local stagecoach stop: all to one side were square-sided Mayor Prake, plump and comfortable Mrs Prake, their oldest son Simon and two stiffy-dressed children, along with straight-backed Sheriff Runnels, his shy little boy Jamie hanging behind; suave Jedediah Bonham stood to the other side, holding his daughter Lily’s hand. The girl was turned out as pretty as a doll, but her face was pink with stifled laughter; Georgie Prake, he
r best friend Amelia’s twin brother, kept making faces at her behind their fathers’ backs.
Julian Hopewell hovered near the door of the hotel that bore his name, his assistant Ralph hovering near him. Hopewell glanced back at him, then turned with a jerk, his usually cheerful face covered in outrage. “Get outta that bib, Ralph, you got pig’s blood all down your front! Don’t want people in the front seeing that, ever! Especially Miss Duniway!”
“I don’t see why this Duniway lady’s so special, boss,” Ralph grumbled, stripping off the offending apron. “Then, I don’t know why you kicked the girls to the curb, neither. They was good custom.”
“They was bringing the tone of the establishment down, is what they was,” snapped Hopewell. “Goodtime girls renting rooms was okay when we started, but new people are coming to town. Respectable people, people with kids. They don’t want some--some woman of ill repute next door, banging the bed against the wall all day, and they don’t all want to spend the kinda money Tony Bonham wants for a night at the LeFay. We can get more money from respectable folks than from those girls, and the teacher on the premises’ll raise our reputation.”
“If you reckon so, boss, but I don’t figure it,” said Ralph, shaking his head. “Them girls paid regular. And I do wonder where they’ll go,” he added in a murmur.
“Some’ll go to Mamzelle’s where they belong, some’ll start their own place, some’ll take to the gutter. Not my lookout. Aw, now, Ralph, don’t look at me like that,” said Hopewell apologetically. “Some things just hafta be done.” He squinted up the road. A promising cloud was moving down the switchback toward town; the roads were still dry in the fall, but soon the stagecoach would be throwing up mud, not dust.
“I just don’t figure it,” said Ralph, looking the other way down the boardwalk. He poked Hopewell in the ribs. “Here comes Tony Bonham, boss, all done up like the President’s coming insteada some old biddy.”
“He always dresses like that,” said Hopewell with a wistful air. “I would too if I had that kinda money.” Tony stationed himself a decent pace down from the hotel, and nodded politely at Hopewell, who gave a faint, nervous grin in return. Hopewell adjusted his collar, shot his cuffs, and kicked behind him at Ralph, who sighed and headed back to the kitchen, bloody apron in hand, just as the stagecoach clattered to a stop before the hotel.
Mayor Prake stepped forward, but Bonham beat him to the coach door. It opened; a blonde head in a modest straw bonnet emerged, followed by the rest of a striking young woman in a dusty blue coat. Her figure was tidy, her ankle well-turned, her nose pert, and her slightly smudged cheeks were roses on porcelain. Hopewell let out a long, almost silent whistle. “I’d go back to school fer that!” said a nearby lollygagger.
Jedediah handed her down from the coach. “Miss Duniway?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered with a flutter. “Oh! Oh, dear. I was hoping I wouldn’t meet anyone until I had freshened up!”
A loud meow came from inside the coach, and a wicker cage came flying through the door; Annabelle barely caught it before it hit the ground. “There’s your infernal cat, miss!” cried the passenger who’d thrown it. He descended from the stagecoach and shook a finger at Annabelle. “Take the creature down the mineshaft and let him return to hell where he belongs!”
“I am sorry, Mister Smith,” she said, “but I did tell you not to stick your fingers in his cage.” Bonham took the wicker enclosure from her; its occupant threw itself against the sides, yowling, and nearly knocking it from Bonham’s grip. He finally got the cage settled on the ground, where the huge black cat inside picked itself up, glared round with slitted amber eyes, then commenced to cleaning its whiskers in an attempt to recover its dignity. Just like that beast to cause a scene, thought Annabelle.
Prake took advantage of the ruckus, and extended his hand before Bonham could finish with the cage. “Miss Duniway, may I welcome you to Scryer’s Gulch. I’m Anatole Prake, and this is my wife, Mary,” he said.
“Ah, Mayor Prake! You are the one who sent for me. I have been anxious to make your acquaintance--sir, Mrs Prake,” smiled Annabelle. She shook the mayor’s hand; it was as gentle and protective as her own father’s, and Mrs Prake beamed at her so sweetly from behind her round spectacles that Annabelle completely warmed to her.
“May I also present my son Simon, John Runnels our sheriff, and our most prominent citizen, Mister Jedediah Bonham, owner of the Big Blavatsky Mine, to which we all owe our...prosperity.” Was that a sour note at the last?
Annabelle went round the circle.
Simon Prake is not supposed to be here, she thought. He was supposed to be in Jackson, working at an ethergraph research firm. Why was he back in Scryer’s Gulch? He was close to her own age--no older than 24, she’d forgotten exactly. Had she packed his dossier? Misi would know. She smoothed the surprise from her face. Simon’s smile was warm, genuine, a little shy; he was in the tail end of his reedy youth, but already showing signs of filling out into the kind of well-built man his father had probably been in his prime. Good-looking, too, with lovely brown eyes in a guileless face, and his handshake was as gentle as his father’s. She turned to the next man.
John Runnels was as grim as she had expected: upright, brooding, angular, watchful, and tense as a spring. Sun and grief had etched lines on his face before his time, and she felt the hardness of his hand even through her glove. When their eyes met, she felt a shock and did her best to suppress a blush, and from his face, he felt it too; the sheriff gazed at her as if he were taking her measure from the inside out. Even standing on a massive hermetauxite deposit she had no mind-reading abilities, but she could almost hear his questions: Was she trustworthy? Was she what she seemed? Or would he have to watch her--the same questions she asked herself about him, and about everyone else she would meet here. Even so, she found herself drawn to him; in his suspicion and watchfulness, he was a kindred soul. She already wanted to confide in him, to trust him, though she knew she couldn’t.
Jedediah took her proffered hand in both of his, and Annabelle’s guard went straight back up. Here was a man who expected obedience, hard-eyed and yet charming; the first thing he said in his smooth voice was, “Miss Annabelle, what a pleasure. I do hope you’ll accept my invitation to stay at our family’s hotel, the LeFay--gratis, of course. My son, Anthony, is the proprietor,” he added, gesturing to the dapper young man standing on the boardwalk.
The young man strode into the street, and said, “Miss Duniway, while my father’s invitation stands, it would not be an offer from the Bonham family, but from myself. I am the sole owner of the LeFay. My father forgets himself. Please, though, feel free to consider the hotel your home here.” Annabelle smiled inwardly. Everything she’d read about the strained relationship between Anthony and Jed Bonham was apparently true. Perhaps they were too much alike; the younger Bonham didn’t take her hand in that proprietary way, but he had his father’s smooth, hard surface and hooded eyes.
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about staying at a hotel, Mr Bonham,” Annabelle demurred. “I expected to stay at the schoolhouse. Is there not a room attached to it for me?”
“I’m afraid not, my dear,” Jedediah smiled.
Her heart sank; this was not the plan. “I would feel obligated and awkward, accepting a free room at your hotel,” she said, turning to Anthony. “And I am afraid I could not pay you for such a grand accommodation. Perhaps I might let a room somewhere? Surely there is a boarding house?”
“I would certainly be happy to let you a room in my house, Miss Annabelle,” said Jedediah. Anthony shot him a startled glance.
“Oh, I could not impose on a private family--”
“Miss Duniway!” came a voice. “Miss Duniway!” She looked up to see a genial man in a checkered waistcoat, coming down the hotel steps. “Julian Hopewell, miss, the proprietor of the Hopewell Hotel behind me. I have the perfect rooms for you, a little suite, very private, convenient to everything, and while I would never insult you by offeri
ng you free accomodation”--he shot a significant glance at Anthony--”I will say that the Hopewell’s rates are quite reasonable. Board included, and chits for the bath house.”
Annabelle smiled up at him. While she wanted to get close to the Bonhams, resting under their roof was a little too close; she would never feel safe. If she was going to be observed, better to hide in plain sight, observed by all and not just Jedediah. “I think your establishment will do nicely, sir, thank you!” she told the ecstatic Hopewell. She looked around. “And you would be some of my scholars?” she said to the Prake children.
“Yes’m,” said the boy. “I’m Georgie and this is my sister Amelia. We’re ten. That’s Jamie. He’s only eight.” Jamie hid himself further behind his father’s pant leg, only to have the sheriff push him back to the front.
“And this is Lily, she’s our age,” said Amelia, ignoring Jedediah’s cold stare and crossing to take her friend by the hand.
“Is that your kitty?” said Lily.
“Yes, his name is Misi,” answered Annabelle.
“Missy? That’s a strange name for a tomcat,” sniffed Georgie.
The cat hissed. “Not ‘Missy,’ Georgie--M-I-S-I. Mee-see,” laughed Annabelle. She shook the hands of her new students, and then excused herself from company; she’d had a long journey and wanted nothing more than to refresh herself and perhaps rest a bit in her new rooms. Hopewell triumphantly called for Ralph, who came stumping out of the building sans apron to cart Miss Duniway’s trunks to her rooms. The schoolteacher herself followed behind, carrying her cat in its wicker cage, and Hopewell brought up the rear, smirking coolly over his shoulder at the furious Jed Bonham. “You can’t have everyone under your thumb all the time, Jed,” he heard Anatole Prake say just as the doors swung shut.
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