Scryer's Gulch

by MeiLin Miranda

  “Aloysius, I don’t need your assistance,” said John. “Go back to sleep.”

  “But I am a help, Pa!” cried the little boy. “I help feed everyone--”

  “‘Everyone’ is two or three men most days, Jamie,” retorted his uncle.

  “--And I help you and Uncle Rabbit patrol! I’ve told you all kinds of things going on!”

  “True, but I think we can manage without you, son. It’ll be hard, but we’ll struggle through. Besides, you can patrol just as easily in the schoolyard. We’ll go down to Prakes and buy your slate and pencil later today.”

  “I can go get it myself,” mumbled Jamie.

  “Naw, you’ll tuck yourself into Mr Parson’s hayloft and then say you can’t go to school on account of not having a slate and pencil,” said Rabbit, just as the door opened and Miss Duniway came in. The men all stood up; Jamie shuffled his feet and tried to hide behind his father.

  “Good morning, gentlemen--Jamie,” she said.

  My, she looked pretty this morning, thought John. Stunning, in fact; he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He knew enough about feminine style to know that hers was completely modest and appropriate. And yet she wore it so well that he couldn’t help imagining what was underneath, and how that luxurious, golden hair might look spilling down her bare back. He shook himself inwardly. Her beauty was almost enough to distract him from that overly observant look deep in her cornflower blue eyes...her bright, entrancing eyes-- It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, clearly. He smiled briefly, and said, “Good morning, Miss Duniway. Let me introduce my brother, Deputy Robert Runnels.”

  “Everyone calls me Rabbit, miss,” said the deputy, rather awestruck. He took her offered hand and shook it.

  “Very well then, Deputy Rabbit,” she smiled. “I couldn’t help but overhear when I came in. Do you not have a slate, Jamie?”

  “Oh, he’ll have a slate, in time for school next week,” declared his father. Jamie himself hung back. “What can we do for you, Miss Duniway?”

  “I came to see Jamie, actually. Since I have a little more time than I thought I would, I’m visiting all of my new students at home.” Jamie shook his head at her, scowling, and Annabelle knelt down to look at his face. “You seem a little shy. I was shy when I was a little girl,” she coaxed.

  “Not shy. I just don’t like you,” said the boy.

  “Jamie,” warned his father.

  “‘M sorry,” he grimaced.

  “No, you’re not,” said Miss Duniway gently.

  All three Runnels stared.

  “You don’t like me at all,” she continued. “You don’t want to go to school, and I’m the schoolteacher. Of course you don’t like me. I wouldn’t like me, either, if I were you.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “Mm-mm.” Annabelle straightened up. “It’s all right, Jamie. I hope that when you get to know me a little better, you’ll decide maybe I’m all right for a girl.” She smiled round the room. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business. Goodbye, Jamie! Sheriff, Deputy.”

  The men said their goodbyes and watched her out the door. When she was gone, Rabbit gave his brother a sideways look and let out a soft whistle. “I’ll say she’s all right fer a girl!” said the voice in the corner cell.

  “Be quiet, Aloysius,” said Jamie. “Can I go find Georgie?”

  “Go on, son,” replied his father, still gazing in absent concentration at the door. Jamie ran out, and John sat down at his desk, tumblers in his mind trying and failing to fall into place and unlock a thought.

  Rabbit gave him a sharp look. “Lookin’ kinda ponderous, Johnny,” said Rabbit. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Miss Duniway.”

  “She’d be on anyone’s mind, I’d think.”

  “No, no, Rab, something’s not right with her. She’s up to something. I can just smell it.”

  Rabbit snorted. “Can you, now. Well, then, if you’re sniffing around her, I’ll be sure to stay out of the way of your nose.”

  John turned to his brother, brows drawn tight. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, isn’t it!” said Rabbit. He opened the door. “I’d best go down to the schoolhouse, oughtn’t I?”

  Left alone, John put his feet up on the desk. What could Miss Duniway be doing here? To marry money? A woman that fine could do that back east and have a much more comfortable life to boot. Was she a Brinkerton? Why would anyone hire an undercover detective instead of coming to him? And what was her angle? However and whyever she’d come, he didn’t want her here. He had enough trouble with respect for the law as it was without Brinkertons moving in.

  “She got ya by the short hairs already, Sheriff?” came the voice from the corner cell.

  “Will you shut up, Aloysius? Go haunt somwhere else for a while!”

  “Cain’t,” answered the voice in pragmatic tones. “I’m fair stuck to the spot, I’m a-feared.”

  John sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Then hold your peace or I’ll send for Parson Bill.” Apparently cowed by that threat, the voice fell silent. No wonder the Indians never lived in these parts, he thought for the tenth time that day. Hermetauxite encouraged the wrong sort of energy.

  Episode 5: Most Honored Cat

  Some smart aleck in the peanut gallery pointed out that I called Tony Bonham, Jed’s oldest son in one part of this story, and Nathan Bonham, the oldest in another. Well, smart aleck, here’s how it went: Nathan was the oldest, then came Tony, and then Jedediah Junior, called Junior to his great frustration--his middle name was Franklin, and he could never get anyone to call him Frank. I called Tony the oldest because he was Jed’s oldest child in town, Lily being quite a few years younger, Nathan being in New York City whooping it up on his daddy’s money, and Junior still being in his fancy boarding school. That’s my story, smart aleck, and I’m sticking to it.

  Any other questions or comments? No? I could’ve wished my children paid this close attention when they were still home. Damn kids, never listen unless you’re doing something you don’t want them hearing, like your private time with your spouse. By the time they’re out of the house, your private time with your spouse is more likely to sound like snoring than anything else.

  But I digress.

  When demons meet, it’s always hard to tell if they’re fighting or courting. Maybe it’s the same thing, I dunno. Maybe they don’t know either.

  Mamzelle stood on the second floor balcony of the Palace, sipping her afternoon cafe au lait as she watched the hurly-burly crowds below. More than a few men tipped their hats to her; she gave them a lazy wave of her elegant hand, and a curl of her cherry lips that at a distance could be taken as a sultry smile.

  Before Jed Bonham enslaved her, she had only the disdain for humanity carried by all her kind. But now, she hated the men below her, and this town, with all her black cherry heart, and Jed most of all. The day she was free was the day she would kill them all and burn Scryer’s Gulch to the ground.

  She leaned against the balustrade, and dreamed as usual of setting fire to the Palace. The fire would nibble at the draperies, then slither through the walls, licking at the foot of the stairs, lapping at the valleys of the roof until the shingles shivered and the beams spread for the tongues of flame. In her mind’s eye she watched the blaze chase down the hallways, consuming the couples inside each room--the girls she always sent to a quick, merciful, crispy death, but the men she roasted slowly, picturing them screaming in agony as they cooked. Finally, the fire would reach the door of her own luxurious apartment. She saw the doors collapse in smoking ash, and then the fire almost creeping, circling around the enormous, despised bed. Staked to the bed would be Jed Bonham, naked and struggling, or trying to struggle; real stakes would be involved, and she’d drive them in as the fire approached. “Staked to the bed.” That always made her giggle.

  Would she un-man him first? Mamzelle wasn’t sure. Perhaps. Demons didn’t consider humans meat very often any more, but
she might make an exception. Then again, the last thing she wanted was the taste of Jed Bonham, ever again. She would watch her by-then-former master writhe and squeal like a little girl, pleading with her to have mercy and kill him cleanly, but no, she’d watch as the fire crawled up the bedcurtains, chewed up the silk sheets, and slowly, slowly burned Jed Bonham to death, his blood boiling, his hair flashing up all at once, his handsome, brutish face distorted in terror and agony...

  Oh! Such a beautiful dream! Through all the days and nights she spent shackled to Bonham’s whims, the dream warmed and sustained her.

  And now, another demon was in Scryer’s Gulch. Would it help her? But how could it? A demon here was either a slave or about to become enslaved; a free demon around this much hermetauxite would be ecstatic but defenseless in minutes. She wished she could say she’d been young and stupid when she came to bask in the deposits after the white man found them, but no, only stupid. Arrogant and stupid.

  Mamzelle returned her gaze to the street and reached out her senses into the crowds, hoping to see which one of the men might be the other demon. A good number of the men were strangers--so many arrived every day to try their luck, or to rob another man of his luck. But while some of them could be called demonic, none were her mystery demon. She closed her eyes, just before a jolt of recognition raised the downy hair on her arms. Not from the street--from nearby, quite nearby. Had it come into the Palace? It had--it was inside the Palace!

  She bolted from the balcony, shattering her dainty coffee cup. Cafe au lait dripped down the front of the Palace as Mamzelle raced down the broad staircase, through the front rooms and the casino, scattering astonished clients and startled girls as she chased the thread of awareness to the back of the house. The kitchens? She dashed through the double doors into the steam and sweat, and stared wildly around her.

  The head cook and his two assistants broke into agitated Chinese before the cook shushed them and said, “Miss Mamzelle okie dokie?”

  “I’m fine, Chen,” she answered in Chinese. “Has anyone--a stranger--come through here in the last few minutes?” Speaking Chinese was such a luxury; she didn’t have to use the stupid accent Jed liked when she spoke Chinese, but now she didn’t have time to savor it.

  “No see nobody, Miss!” said Chen. In Chinese, he added, “I’m practicing my English, ma’am. It’s a very hard language, especially after years spent studying my own.” He shook his head. “A soul stuffed with the most elegant poetry of my people, and I end up frying eggs in a gwai-lo’s bordello.”

  “Yes, yes, Chen, but is anyone possibly hiding in here!” she shouted.

  He drew himself up all dignified and said, “I say it! No see nobody, Miss!”

  Mamzelle made a search of the kitchen all the same, shooing cooks out of the way and a straggling girl back to the front of the house. No one. But she could feel it, right here in the room! She sensed eyes on her, and looked down.

  There by the open door was a black cat with saucer-shaped amber eyes, chin white and dripping from a saucer of milk. “When did that cat arrive?” she demanded.

  “I apologize profusely, ma’am,” said Chen with a deep bow. “I am afraid I cannot resist cats, especially polite ones. This is a very polite cat. And we have mice. I thought--”

  “Eet’s all right, Chen,” Mamzelle replied in English. “Jus’ fine--okie dokie.” She and the cat never took their eyes off one another. One by one, the hairs on the cat’s back rose, and it arched; Mamzelle’s eyes turned a strange shade of red, and her incisors bit slightly into her lower lip. “Kitty, kitty,” she cooed menacingly. “I wonder what I’d do eef you slipped into my room via deh front balcony. Such a sweet petit chat, I might eat you up.” She looked over her shoulder at Chen, who instinctively backed away at her changed eyes and longer teeth. “Chen, you may give this cat whatever it wants, but don’t tell Mr Bonham about it. He hates cats.”

  “Demon no eat cat, dui?” he asked, polishing his shaking hands with his apron.

  “Demon no eat cat,” she mocked, then relented. “No, I won’t eat the cat, Chen.”

  Chen stopped wiping his hands, and cocked his head sideways, looking west across water he could not see, as he often did. “A poem I recall,” he intoned, “by most honored Song poet Mei Yaochen:

  “When I had my Five White cat,

  The rats did not invade my books.

  This morning Five White died,

  I sacrifice with rice and fish--

  “Chen, I have not deh time. I’m sure eet’s a very nice poem.” Mamzelle gave the cat a last, hard look. “Come upstairs some time an’ see me, petit chat. I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

  Misi watched her leave the kitchen, the hair on his back still on end. He recovered himself enough to lick his chops and rub against Chen’s legs in thanks before bounding out of the kitchen. Wow! What a demon! he marveled as he chased over the rooftops in elation. Never had he seen such perfect red eyes, such beautiful sharp teeth! Boy! You bet I’m gonna be coming up to see you some time, babe! Dammit, why do I have to be a cat? He paid no attention to where he was going, exulting in the sun on his back and the sheer joy of running on four legs, until he pulled up short.

  Mamzelle was owned. She knew who and what he was. Judging by her abode, and the form she took, she belonged to Jed Bonham. If her master asked her, would she give him away? Oh, Dark One--Annabelle! I’ve put Annabelle at risk! He looked around wildly, but saw no sign of her on the street, nor at Hopewell’s when he raced back to peer in the window of their rooms. Was he already too late? Had Mamzelle given them up already? What should I do?

  Episode 6: One-Way Cat Fight

  You know, I’m getting too old and crotchety to tell stories like this. I might be back, but I don’t feel like saying much today. I don’t feel so good.

  While Misi stood on the windowsill at Hopewell’s worrying about Annabelle, she herself was still visiting students. She’d met Jamie Runnels and the Prake twins, and the two children of L.L. Lockson, publisher of the Voice of the Gulch. Now she walked back up the boardwalk toward the great mansion on the hill to acquaint herself with Lily Bonham.

  Just past Prake’s Hardware, her detector bracelet buzzed and pricked at her wrist. She returned to the store, masking her excitement as she pretended to windowshop; the sensation faded. She strolled back up the street until the pricking became nearly unbearable: it came from the ethergraph office.

  The door swung open and Simon Prake came barreling out, just avoiding a collision. “Oh--! Miss Duniway, please forgive me! I’m terribly sorry, I’m--I have an urgent ethergram to deliver to Mr Bonham.”

  “I’m calling on the Bonhams myself, Mr Prake,” she smiled up at him.

  “Please, then,” he said, “let me escort you.”

  She took his proffered arm, and they walked toward the Bonham mansion. Such a pretty young man; she always had a soft spot for the boyish ones. If Simon were the source of the disturbance, charm or no she’d have to take him in, but the thought saddened her.

  “What business brings you to Jed Bonham, if I may ask?” said Simon.

  “You sound like Sheriff Runnels,” she said. “He’s always asking me questions like that!”

  “I’m sorry--that was impertinent, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re forgiven,” Annabelle laughed. “I’m not calling on Mr Bonham. I hope to meet his daughter, Lily, and her mother.”

  “Bonham’s wife, you mean,” said Simon, his lips thinning. “Mrs Bonham isn’t much of a mother to Lily. Lily’s my sister Amelia’s best friend, and my own mother tries...but I shouldn’t gossip.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder about you, Mr Prake,” Annabelle teased. “Impertinent questions, gossip. Is the ethergraph business so very slow?”

  “Not at all,” he grinned. “It’s a very exciting business. Most days I have plenty to do, and then on the few days when I’m not as busy, I have my own projects to work on.”

  “Oh?” she prompted. She knew very well h
e was more than just an ethergraph operator; he was a highly skilled engineer, but she wouldn’t let that knowledge slip.

  “You see, I’m working on this new way of encoding hermetauxite for use in ethergraphy--I’m so very close! If I can just--”

  He stopped abruptly, and Annabelle followed his icy gaze. There in the middle of the boardwalk before the Hotel LeFay stood Tony Bonham, coatless but otherwise elegant, a small diamond winking from his silk cravat. Tony gave Annabelle a very civil bow, but all he gave Simon was the briefest of nods. “Do you have an ethergram for me, Prake?” he said.

  “It’s for a Bonham, but not for you,” snapped Simon.

  Tony ignored him. “Miss Duniway, I haven’t seen you since your arrival. I hope the town agrees with you? This business at the school hasn’t troubled you too much, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, not at all, Mr Bonham. Teachers are accustomed to resistance from their pupils, of all kinds. Were I to let a few misspelled words bother me, I’d have quit the profession before I began it!”

  “And your accommodations? The Hotel LeFay’s offer of lodgings still stands, miss.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said, watching Simon’s darkening face out of the corner of her eye, “but I’m well-established at Hopewell’s. Perhaps I might ask the parents to add a little room onto the schoolhouse for me.”

  “Even so--”

  “The lady said she’s fine, Bonham, drop it,” grated Simon.

  “You’re an ethergraph operator. Don’t you have an ethergraph to operate?” hissed Tony. “Miss Duniway, if you’d prefer some refreshment to standing in the street...?”

  “You’re very kind,” she said again, “but Mr Prake was just walking me up to your father’s house, to see Lily and your mother.”

  “My mother?” stared Tony. “Oh--you mean the current Mrs Bonham. My mother’s buried in the Methodic Church graveyard, Miss Duniway. I have no other mother. But you will perhaps take tea with me some time soon?”