Scryer's Gulch

by MeiLin Miranda

  He glanced over at the Prake house and caught sight of Georgie, staring despondently out of an upstairs window; Mayor Prake had kept him home from school. He spotted the Sheriff. John kept his gaze cool and neutral, but Georgie flushed angrily; unshed tears shone in his eyes before he turned away. That could be the look of a boy caught out, thought John, but it also looked a lot like outraged innocence. Maybe Miss Duniway was right about the schoolhouse vandalism.

  Miss Duniway. He absently patted his pistol, and walked out to Main Street. He checked himself; there she was, coming toward him down the boardwalk on her way to the school. He touched the brim of his hat. “Miss Duniway. Good morning.”

  He expected her to greet him and keep moving, but instead she stopped before him, putting out a white-gloved hand; he wondered if she still had the derringer rig on, and whether she’d ever pull it on him. “Sheriff Runnels--your brother...?” Her face was all concern, genuine concern as best he could tell, and he usually could.

  “Thank you for enquiring. He is much better this morning, though I fear his complaint will return again this evening.”

  “To be sure,” she murmured. “Can I be in any way helpful to you or your brother--perhaps care for Jamie?”

  “Mrs Smith is our housekeeper. She’s there for Jamie while Rabbit and I are otherwise occupied.”

  “I do like to be useful when there’s trouble, you see,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m convinced you’re drawn to trouble, Miss Duniway, and that you make yourself quite useful.”

  Her face changed minutely, that hidden, wary look in the back of her eyes re-appearing, and he almost regretted saying anything. “I had better get to school, I’m nearly late. Good day, Sheriff.”

  He touched his hat again--“Miss Duniway”--and continued on his path toward the ethergraph office. His instincts conflicted. One told him she was not was she seemed and to run her out of town before she did something terrible; the other told him to take her in his arms and help her do it. If hermetauxite could influence people’s minds, he’d think she was ‘casting on him somehow. He had no evidence she was a spellcaster, anyway. Unseemly thing for a girl, especially one like her.

  John found Simon behind his desk, writing a letter. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “Can we go into the back room?”

  “Certainly,” said Simon, standing up in surprise. He put the letter into a drawer and locked it. Showing the way into the tidily cluttered office, he added, “What’s up?”

  John shut the door firmly. “I need you to do something for me. It’s important, and I don’t want to hear about scruples. I need you to watch someone’s communications for me.”

  “I can’t do that, John!” said Simon. His curiosity got the better of him, though, and he added, “Who is it?”

  “Annabelle Duniway.”

  “The schoolteacher?”

  “Simon, I know it’s hard to believe, but that girl is no schoolteacher. Has she sent any messages through the ethergraph?”

  “I’m not saying she has or she hasn’t.”

  John flattened his lips into a line. “Listen. I can’t tell you how I know, but she’s a Brinkerton. Or worse. Do you know what that means? Trouble. Trouble for the town, and trouble for your father.”

  “Oh.” Simon furrowed his smooth, dark brow. “I don’t know. Our clients’ privacy is paramount. It’s against everything we do as ethergraph operators.”

  “Are you under any kind of vow? I doubt it.”

  “No, no, of course not. It’s just that...” Simon sighed. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  “I want to see copies of any messages she’s sent or received.”

  “Can’t do it. I burn them as soon as they’re sent, and the rough copies of the ones I receive.”

  “I want those copies from now on. Get them to me as soon as possible--before they’re sent or delivered if you can.” John opened the door to the outer office. “I know I can rely on you, Mr Prake. Thank you for your help.”

  Simon gave a resigned nod. He waited until John left the office, then unlocked the drawer to his desk and pulled out the letter he’d been writing to his former partner in the hardware store and ethergraph office. He wondered what Cole would think if he knew Simon had agreed to compromise the privacy of a client. There was no way of knowing; Cole hadn’t answered any of his letters or ethergraphs in a year. He didn’t even know where Cole really was. In his last letter, Cole said he was leaving their old firm in Jackson; he’d accepted an offer at the Treasury Department for a job so important he couldn’t talk about it.

  Simon read over what he’d written so far. Too formal. It must be from the heart or not at all. He crumpled it up, and threw it in the basket of paper destined for Mrs Jenkins’s cookstove back at the Prake house. He pulled out a new sheet, abandoned his best copperplate hand, and wrote:

  “Dearest Cole,

  “I don’t know why you haven’t responded to any of my letters. None have returned to me, and I can only think that you are not writing me for a purpose. I tell you again: I had to leave Jackson. The nearness of you was intolerable to me, knowing we must live as brothers there, when here in Scryer’s Gulch we could be everything to one another with no one the wiser.

  “Cole, please come back. Please come back to me. Or tell me where I may come to you. I miss you and love you more than you will ever know.

  “Your

  “S”

  Simon stuffed down a sob, folded the letter carefully into an envelope, and searched for a stamp.

  Episode 14: Waste Not the Hour

  From the front window of the Hotel LeFay, Anthony Bonham watched Miss Duniway and John Runnels exchange pleasantries. He knew the look on the man’s face; Miss Duniway had fallen afoul of the Sheriff’s crime-fighting instincts. What could he suspect the schoolteacher of, besides being beautiful, and that was no suspicion. Outwardly, Tony eyed her dispassionately. But within him, he formulated plans. A young woman, all alone in a town like this--she was bound to be lonely. He could use that.

  A tiny chime sounded nine times; he withdrew a gold watch from his silk waistcoat. He opened it, and read the inscription as he always did:

  Let diligence flower

  And waste not the hour

  Your Loving Mother

  “I try, Mother, I try,” he murmured. He noticed the watch had nearly run down; he tapped the button at the top, and the hermetauxite workings within rewound themselves.

  At nine, his father would be going over accounts with Mr Wrangle; he should do the same. Before Tony made it to the stairs, his stepmother rustled through the front door, and courtesy stayed his step. “Well, now, Mother,” he said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Good morning, Anthony. I should like to speak to you on a business matter,” said the former Miss Grant, taking his arm. “Will you give me my morning coffee?”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” he said, turning them toward the public parlor off the lobby.

  She squeezed his arm. “No, no, I want to speak with you in private.”

  Tony gave her a measured glance. “Very well. Charles!” he called to the front desk man. “Please bring a coffee tray to my office.” Charles rolled his eyes and rang the bell.

  Charity leaned on her stepson’s arm as they walked up the stairs. “Your office?” she murmured. “I would have hoped for more privacy than that.”

  He gave no answer, but detached her arm and opened the door to his office. “Well?” he said once they were settled on the plush leather couches. “It’s only been six months since the honeymoon--I should think you’d still be busy spending my father’s money. What do you want?”

  “Don’t be like that, Tony,” she cooed. “You know--” The door opened, and Charity scowled at Charles as he placed the coffee tray on the table. He returned the scowl, smirked at his boss and closed the door too hard on departure. “You should fire that man!” she said. “His impudence is intolerable.”

  “His
impudence is excusable, the way you behave,” retorted Tony. “Why are you here?”

  Charity sulked into a corner of the couch. “I miss you.”

  “You’re going to have to keep on missing me.”

  Charity slipped onto the couch next to him, pressing into his side. “Jed pays no attention to me. I’m lonely.”

  “That was your business with me--that you’re lonely?”

  “Don’t you want to take advantage of me?” she said. She ran a finger under his collar.

  “Who’d be taking advantage of whom?” he said, pushing her away. “If I had known when I took you under my protection in New York that you’d somehow work your way not only into my father’s bed but my mother’s place--”

  “You weren’t going to marry me! What was I supposed to do?” she shrilled. “And I didn’t kill your sainted mother!”

  “You kill the memory of her every day! You don’t want me, you just want me dancing attendance on you. You won’t rest until every man in town is on your string, and I’m telling you this man has cut loose.” He stood and walked to the door. “You chose my father over me, and that’s the end of us.”

  “It doesn’t have to be!”

  “So you keep saying. I disagree.” He jerked the door open. “Leave. We are done.”

  Charity rose from the couch and walked to the door. “We are not done, Tony Bonham. You still want me, and if you don’t, you will again, I swear it!” she hissed.

  “Don’t stake your reputation on it,” he said.

  She turned white, then red; she snapped her rich brown skirts out of the way and marched down the stairs, nose first.

  Bitch, thought Tony. She might be the worst mistake I ever made. The watch chimed fifteen minutes after; he listened to its command, sat down at his desk, opened his account books and let diligence flower.

  Charity left the LeFay seething. Across the street she saw Mamzelle standing on her balcony with her coffee; Mamzelle gave her a lazy smile and a raised middle finger. Demon bitch, you’ll regret that! she said to herself. She turned her back, pretending she hadn’t seen it.

  What to do now? She’d been hoping to spend at least part of the morning with Tony, though not in his office. She considered visiting the dressmaker, but she knew that fumblefinger had nothing she wanted, and so she walked uptown toward the mansion. She would just have to coax Jed into letting her go to San Francisco for decent clothes. He would be dead-set against it, but she’d brought him round her finger before.

  No, she admitted, she’d never wheedle a trip out of him. He was back at the mines, and they were his obsession--the mines and that insipid daughter of his.

  It was all her mother’s fault. All she ever harped on was landing a man with money. Well, Charity’d done it, hadn’t she? Fascinated him, in fact, her Tony. He lavished her with presents before she’d even let him kiss her, and after... She remembered her beautiful apartments in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, always filled with white camellias no matter the season, just like Sarah Bernhardt, her model in all things. Sure, her acting career hadn’t worked out to rival the Divine Sarah, but there was still time. One day she’d make Jed leave this hellhole and go somewhere her beauty and talent would be recognized--San Francisco, or New York. Maybe even London! Just not Chicago.

  No, Tony had treated her well, but then her mother had started in. No security, he’ll cast you aside, what happens when your looks fade, all that bosh. She would have used Tony’s patronage to move even further up the social ladder, maybe even find a man who’d finance her acting ambitions, but oh no, Mother had to have her married to a rich man, not just sleeping with him, and Tony had no intention of marrying her. When he’d started showing signs of boredom, she’d transferred her affections to his father in an attempt to make him jealous, but to her surprise Jed proposed, and Mother screeched at her until she accepted.

  And now she was wasting herself here.

  Maybe she’d leave him. No, he’d set the demon after her, she knew he would.

  By the time she reached the mansion she’d worked herself into a fine mood. She said nothing to Mrs Walters when the door opened and almost knocked the housekeeper over as she stalked toward the stairs. “What’s the matter with you?” cried Mrs Walters.

  “Shut up,” said Charity. She made her way to her husband’s office and paused outside the door; she thought of the saddest thing she could--her own face, as old and crabbed as her mother’s--and tears sprang to her eyes. Ready, she flung open the door. “Oh, Jedediah!” she sobbed. “I have been so humiliated!”

  “Why, darling, what’s happened?” said Jed. He dismissed Mr Wrangle with a curt nod and took Charity onto his lap, wiping her tears with his handkerchief.

  “That--that--thing of yours! She insulted me, right in the middle of the street!”

  “Now, Cherry, you know you shouldn’t take any public notice of the Palace and its residents. There’s propriety to think on.”

  “Propriety!” she cried. “Do you know what she did? She--she--” Charity dropped her voice and whispered, “she raised a finger at me! In front of everyone!”

  “Did she, now?” said Jed, amused. “Well, don’t you worry. She’s just wanting some of my attention, and she’ll get it, don’t you worry.”

  “I want your attention, Jed,” she murmured into his ear.

  “Well, now, darlin, I’d dearly love to give you some attention and maybe tonight you’ll get some. At present, though, I have my account books, and then I have to attend to business elsewhere.” He dumped her off his lap onto her feet. “Send Wrangle in on your way out, there’s a girl.”

  She strode out the door and held it open for Wrangle. “Your presence is required,” she said, then headed to her boudoir.

  Was there any booze there? She remembered a decanter of bourbon by the bedside. Time to find that bourbon, get plowed, and plot the downfalls of the Bonham men.

  Episode 15: What's in Its Pocketses

  Between the pricking of her detector bracelet and John Runnels’ cutting words, Annabelle had a time of it keeping her concentration on teaching. No one else in town seemed to have any inkling she was anything other than she seemed. Why did the Sheriff suspect her of something--and had he guessed her real mission, or did he suspect something else? And what? She couldn’t help but wonder if he were in on the scheme himself. She was almost certain he had no encoding knowledge, but perhaps he was protecting the real culprit.

  When she brought Jamie up to her desk from his seat in the second row to go over his spelling words, the pricking of her bracelet turned unbearable as she leaned over his slate. She had to find whatever set off the detector, if only to save her wrist. So far today he’d behaved himself; normally she’d be glad of it, but today she needed a pretext to search him.

  His attitude had improved, she thought as he shuffled back to his bench. He didn’t scowl at her as much, and he did his work without too much complaint. The empty space beside him where Georgie Prake usually sat seemed to bother him, but he said nothing. He was a bright boy, and she liked him; she only hoped that however this all shook out, the Runnels family wasn’t involved.

  All was quiet until after lunch, when she got the chance she’d been waiting for. Fanny Lockson was dutifully reciting her piece before the class--”The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart”--when Annabelle looked up to see Jamie carving something into the bench. Perfect, she thought.

  “James Runnels,” she said in her sternest voice. “You will see me after class.” Jamie jumped, eyes wide and scared, and snuck his penknife back into his pocket.

  The rest of the children filed out not long after, and Jamie faced Annabelle across her desk, sullen and scuffling his feet. “Do you know why I kept you after?” she said.

  “I dunno,” he scowled.

  “So you didn’t know you were carving something into your seat.”

  “Oh,” squirmed Jamie. “That. Yes’m.”

  Annabelle rose and walked to the bench. Sh
e squinted at the faint scratch: “‘Georgie plus Lily’--is that what you were attempting, Mr Runnels?”

  He met her gaze. “Please don’t tell my Pa, Miss Duniway!”

  “We’ll see,” she said, returning to her desk. “Empty out your pockets.” After a moment’s reluctance, Jamie fished out a top, a penny, a length of string, two marbles, a rusty nail and a piece of penny candy covered in pocket lint. Annabelle shook her head. “All of it, Jamie.”

  “There ain’t no more!” he said.

  “‘Isn’t,’ Jamie. We’ll see,” she said again. She came round the desk faster than Jamie could escape, and turned his pockets out as he twisted in her grasp. She let him go, and scooped up the penknife. A faint gleam caught her eye, and she put her foot atop it as if she hadn’t noticed it; the bracelet burned, and she stifled a cry. Jamie bent down, searching the floor in a panic, until Annabelle’s voice caught him up. “I’ll keep this knife for now, Mr Runnels. If you behave yourself for a week, I’ll give it back, with no word to your father. I think that’s more than fair.”

  “Yes’m,” said the miserable Jamie.

  “Very well, then, go on home.”

  Jamie fled.

  Annabelle waited until she was certain she was alone, and lifted her foot. The pain at her wrist abated, and she slid the bracelet into her pocket; the skin underneath looked sunburned, an angry red. She picked up the object on the floor. As she’d expected, it was a nugget of hermetauxite. She set her mouth in a satisfied line, and put it in her other pocket, unsure what the bracelet would do if the two came in contact.