Scryer's Gulch

by MeiLin Miranda

  Episode 22: Sapheads

  Sheriff Runnels brought Annabelle’s plans for a nap to an abrupt halt. He was standing outside the jail when he saw her walking back to the Hopewell from church; now would be a good time, he decided, to discover what her interest was in Jamie. He strode across the street, dodging horses, pedestrians and Sunday drunks, and caught up with her before she could escape. “Miss Duniway, good morning to you. Might I take some of your time? I’d like to talk to you about my son.”

  “Why--I hope there’s nothing wrong, Sheriff,” she said.

  “That’s what I want to ask you, ma’am. Would you come back with me to the jail, where we can talk in private?”

  She nodded, a trifle hesitant. As they crossed the street together, she looked sideways at him. “Will our conversation truly be private in the jailhouse, though?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I merely wonder how discreet Aloysius is.”

  John held open the jailhouse door for her, and laughed in spite of himself. “That ghost knows what’s good for him. Coffee, Miss Duniway?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Aloysius.

  “Put a cork in it, spook.”

  “I think I shall follow his advice, Sheriff. Too much coffee is overly stimulating to the nerves,” said Annabelle.

  John offered her a seat and started to take his own, then changed his mind, pulled it out from behind his desk, and sat down. “I shouldn’t think you have much in the way of nerves no matter how much coffee you drink, ma’am.”

  Annabelle sat up straighter. Her eyes flicked up to his own, and held him in a piercing cornflower glare; he met it, with outward calm and an inward shiver. “I do wish you’d say what you mean, sir,” she said. “You have been suspicious of me almost from the day I arrived. You wonder about my income, you wonder about my character, you hint at this and that. It is past time I took offense. What is it about me you find so dubious?”

  John pursed his lips and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he held. “Miss Duniway, I find nothing about your character in the least dubious,” he said carefully. “I merely observe that as a schoolteacher, your nerves must be quite hardened. If you can manage a classroom of miscreants, then I am convinced you might handle any challenge life may present. I do apologize for any affront I may have given you, now or in the past.” Annabelle’s eyes softened; a smile bloomed on her perfect lips. John half-heard an acceptance of his apology, and a great chunk of ice chipped and fell from his wintry heart. He found he’d leaned closer to her, and shifted self-consciously. “The miscreant in question is Jamie,” he continued. “I fear he may be causing trouble for you.”

  “Trouble?” she said, her gaze closing. “Why would you think that?”

  “You’ve kept him after school more than once, and he’s come home more puckery than usual even when you don’t. In fact, he’s been in a plain sulk for a few days now.”

  “Ah,” said Annabelle. “Yes... I wasn’t going to tell you. I promised Jamie I wouldn’t if he behaved himself, but... I’m afraid he’s angry with me because I confiscated his penknife.”

  John rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Oh, no, what did he do?”

  “Nothing a thousand boys his age don’t do every day. He was carving one of the benches. Please, Mr Runnels, I beg you not to punish him. I did promise not to tell you, and he has been good, if unhappy. He’s paid his penance already. In fact, I’ll give his knife back tomorrow.”

  John shook his head. “It’s been a trial for him since we lost his mother. Rabbit and Mrs Smith help me do for him, but I confess, he’s still heartsore and likely to be for some time to come.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Sheriff,” she murmured, and let a sympathetic silence hang between them for a time. He imagined she almost touched his hand, and it surprised him how much he would have welcomed that kid-gloved caress. “It’s clear in school that he’s unhappy,” she went on. “I’ll do everything I can to help him.”

  “I imagine you do that for all of the children.”

  “I try,” she said, her smile both pleased and surprised.

  “I’ve seen you over to the Prakes, visiting Georgie. I’m surprised you’d do that, considering what he did.”

  Her face turned serious. “More than ever, I believe in Georgie’s innocence.”

  “Until you come up with a better suspect, Miss Duniway, I fear he is our delinquent.”

  She picked fretfully at the cuff of her coat. “I have one,” she said, forcing the words out. “I have one, and as much as it pains me to say it, Sheriff, I believe him to be your son.”

  Confusion. Indignation. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally said, “I would like to hear what evidence you may have against him, Miss Duniway.”

  Struggle played out over her face; her lips parted to reveal clenched teeth before she said, “May I hasten to say that I don’t believe he knows what he did.”

  “You may, indeed, and you may also hasten to tell me how you come by this conclusion.”

  “I believe him to have been compelled,” she said in a rush, as if against better judgement.

  “Compelled? By whom? If you mean to say Georgie Prake put him up to it--”

  “No, no,” she said. “No one put it up to him, and he truly believes himself innocent.”

  John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “And how is this possible?”

  “My father--my father was a lawman,” she said. “I fear I have acquired my habit of investigation from him. Something isn’t right in Scryer’s Gulch, Sheriff Runnels, we both know it, and I may have discovered part of the reason. I found...a very disturbing item on your son, more disturbing than a penknife, by far. Do you know much about etheric engineering?”

  “I never was much for it, Miss Duniway. I only know that my pocket watch runs, that trains move from place to place, that Mr Simon Prake can pluck messages from the air, and that I wish I had one of the newfangled etheric rifles to examine. But I don’t encode, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I do not dabble in it, either, of course, but I know some little bit about it.” She sat forward in her chair, and the kid-gloved touch he had earlier wished for found his hand. “Sir, I must ask if I may take you into my confidence. Will you take what I say no further?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Very well... I found a nugget of hermetauxite on your son. It appears to have some disturbing and unusual characteristics.”

  He reared back. “Now wait here, are you accusing my son of stealing ore, now?”

  “No, not at all. I believe it came into his possession by chance, or perhaps on purpose, but not a purpose of his own. The chief disturbing characteristic it displays is a propensity to--to--” She wrung her hands. “Why am I telling you this!”

  “Miss Duniway,” he said, taking her hand in his, “you may trust me with this confidence. I swear.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “Yes,” she said, “I believe I may, in this. The ore--this certain ore, not all hermetauxite--has been altered somehow. It can compel a person to commit acts he might not ordinarily commit, with no memory of the act. I--I know this first hand,” she faltered, “and I do not care to tell you what occurred. Suffice it to say, I believe this ore compelled your son to deface the schoolhouse, and gave a magical assistance to his strength as well.”

  John released her hand, and stood up. “I need to see this nugget.”

  “It is a dangerous, dangerous thing, sir!”

  “That I do not doubt, which is why I object to your possession of it.”

  Annabelle stood herself. “Do you think that perhaps I might do something untoward with it?”

  “No, I’m afraid you might do yourself an injury.”

  “You needn’t worry about me,” she said, straightening her shoulders.

  He cocked his head to one corner, and brought his forward eye to bear. “No, I don’t reckon I do. Annabelle Duniway, what are you?”

  Her hands balled into fists for
a scant second. “I am a schoolteacher,” she replied. “I would have remained silent, but the murder at the miners’ encampment convinced me that this is far, far more dangerous than a schoolboy prank.”

  “You must give me the nugget. Or we can take it to Simon Prake--”

  “No!” she cried, then swallowed hard. “No. I cannot give it to him. I have my reasons. Please believe that I will keep it safe--that it will be safer with me than with anyone in this town.”

  John stepped closer, still peering into her face. “Annabelle. When you’re ready to tell me what you are and why you’re here--and before you start in on me, I believe your purposes to be honorable, or you wouldn’t have told me this much--when you’re ready, I’ll be here to help you. Do you understand?” She nodded, wide-eyed; a change came over her, as if she’d unexpectedly stepped onto uneven ground, and John almost reached out to steady her. “And you must promise me that if you can no longer keep the nugget safe, that you will bring it to me.”

  “I promise,” she whispered. “Good day, Sheriff Runnels.” She ducked her head, hiding her face with the brim of her straw bonnet, and fled the jail.

  John leaned back against his desk, watching the bell over the door shake without really seeing it. He blew out a long breath, shook his head, and scratched at the neatly trimmed patch of beard below his lower lip. “Well, Aloysius, what do you think?”

  “I’m powerful convinced she ain’t no schoolmarm,” said the ghost.

  “As am I, spook, as am I, but I’d be obliged if you’d keep that dry.”

  “I ain’t a-gonna tell no one. No sir! Why, even before I wuz cold as a wagon tire, ever’one knew I may’ve been a horse thief, but no one ever got a secret outta me, ‘less they greased me good or got me likkered up. But money don’t mean nothin to a ghost, nor whiskey neither, and you ain’t listenin to a ding dang thing I’m sayin, are ya, Sheriff?”

  He wasn’t.

  Annabelle. He’d gotten far, far more out of her than he’d expected--than she’d expected, from the looks of her. She seemed genuinely concerned, about his son and the town. He still didn’t know what Annabelle was. She might still be a Brinkerton, but if she was, she wasn’t here to threaten his jurisdiction. Her father had been a lawman. Perhaps that explained the strange recognition when she looked into his eyes, as if he faced a kindred soul.

  Or perhaps he was just a saphead when it came to beautiful women.

  No, Charity Bonham was beautiful, there was no denying it, and she’d given him many an approving glance. He was fair certain of a pleased reception were he to pursue her. But when it came to the second Mrs Bonham, no saphead, he.

  Just for Annabelle. And, a satisfied voice said inside, the way she behaved today, she might just be a saphead for him.

  Episode 23: Cleaning Up Messes

  Ralph Johnson came whistling into the back door of the Hopewell after church. It might seem odd that Julian’s general factotum and cook was a churchgoer at all, let alone an Enthusiast, but he needed all the encouragement he could get, he figured. It put him in a good mood every week, even though it wasn’t all that often that Brother Fattipickel offered a Great Encouragement as he had this service. Just being in a group of people, all making a Joyful Noise and basking in the Truth of the Mother did it for him. He belonged somewhere.

  He felt the same about the Hopewell, most of the time, and seeing Miss Duniway at church reminded him it was high time he did up her room. “Hey, Emmy,” he called to the hotel’s girl of all work. “Grab some clean sheets, we’re doin’ up Miss Duniway’s.”

  “On Sunday?” she said.

  “Yes, on Sunday. Then we don’t have to do it tomorrow.”

  “‘We’ means me, Ralph Johnson.”

  “Then I’d think you’d welcome the help,” he said, shooing her up the stairs with her arms full of sheets.

  “She don’t like it done any day anyhow, so I don’t see how come we gotta,” grumbled Emmy, just before they disappeared into Miss Duniway’s apartment.

  When Annabelle returned to her rooms, Misi got up from a patch of sunlight in the bedroom window and stretched. “What’s up, cutie? Where you been?” he said. “Good Joyful Noise this Sunday, or did stage fright get the better of you?”

  “It’s not a performance, kitty, it’s a worship service,” snapped Annabelle, throwing her best straw on the bed long enough to fetch her hatbox down from the wardrobe. She stopped abruptly; several small traps she’d left had been triggered. The small clean streak in the dust on the nightstand was gone, for one. “Someone’s been in here, Misi.”

  “Oh yeah, Ralph came in with the chore girl, changed the sheets, dusted, swept, you know.”

  “I prefer doing it myself,” she growled, going through her drawers. She pulled out her valise and checked the false bottom: undisturbed. “What possessed Ralph to come do it himself this time?”

  “He likes you. It’s all right, I was right here the whole time watching.”

  “Well, why didn’t you do something!”

  “Like what?” said Misi. “I’m a cat, who cares what I do? If you’d just let everyone know I’m a demon, no one’d come within ten yards of your rooms!”

  “Maybe I will let everyone know,” she said, a choke in her voice. She sat down on the bed, narrowly missing her bonnet, and burst into tears.

  “Aw, sweetie! What’s the matter?” said Misi, creeping up to put a paw on her arm.

  “I compromised us, that’s what!” she cried. “John Runnels caught me right after church, and my defenses are always down then, and we started talking about his son Jamie and Georgie Prake, and...” She cried for a pace. “I hate to see poor Georgie falsely accused like this, and I worry about Jamie.” She lapsed into tears.

  Misi leaped to the top of the dresser. “Hands, please.” She waved consent; dewclaws shifted into thumbs. The demon fished inside the top drawer for a handkerchief, and took the linen square’s corner in his mouth; his paws returned to normal. “You’re takin’ thish shkoolmarm act a little too sheriously, kiddo,” he said, returning to his mistress’s side.

  She plucked the handkerchief from his teeth. “They’re children, Misi!” she said, wiping away her tears. “They’ve been entrusted to me, whether I’m a real teacher or not. If you want to put it in mercenary terms, caring about the children is part of my disguise.”

  “What exactly did you tell him?”

  Annabelle traced the patterns on the coverlet with her unoccupied hand. “I told him about the ore. Not everything,” she hastened, “and I didn’t tell him we’re with Treasury.”

  “I can’t believe you of all people did that!” said Misi. “That’s--Annie, I can’t believe you did that! Are you all right? Did you put the ore in your pocket and forget about it?”

  “No, no,” she said irritably. “I don’t know why I did it, but that’s not it. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I think we can trust him. I think we can trust him with the whole story, though I’m not ready for that yet. In future, it might be that we’ll need his help. I never have thought keeping local law enforcement in the dark was a good idea.”

  “Annabelle Duniway, after Toledo, I’d think you’d know better than to trust a copper,” chided Misi.

  “Well, I got us out of that one, didn’t I, and Sheriff Runnels is a far better person than Chief DuPont ever was.”

  “Yeah, and you dished him good in the end, I must say, but I wish you’d be more careful with this Runnels.”

  “I did throw him off the scent a little. I intimated that the ore might have something to do with the murders.”

  “That surprises me most of all!” said Misi. “I’d’ve thought you’d tell him about Mamzelle before you’d tell him about the ore.”

  “I want to wait until a little closer to the next full moon, or shut her down ourselves. I don’t want to tip our hat to Bonham quite so soon.”

  “This is becoming a dangerous game, Annie.”

  “I know,” she said. She put aside the handke
rchief, and flashed the demon a smile. “But we’re playing it to win, kitty, and we always do.” She stood up, put her best straw tenderly into its hatbox and thence to the top of the wardrobe. She stretched out on the bed. “It’s time for that nap I’ve been putting off.”

  Emmy the chore girl didn’t have time for a nap, though her workload was light. It was Sunday, after all, not that she went to church. She didn’t have any use for the Method or the Mother--they made it clear they didn’t have any use for her, never had her whole life. Her pa had always said if any of ‘em ever stepped inside a church, the roof’d fall in.

  She could use a rest. Not that she’d get one, but then, she thought as she peeled potatoes for dinner, she was lucky to have the job. There weren’t many who’d take on a girl like her. Hopewell hadn’t wanted her. Mamzelle didn’t want her, neither, no matter what Hopewell said; the goodtime girls were renting at the Hopewell on account of Mamzelle not wanting them in the first place. Without her own room, Emmy would be in the gutter, and she’d do ‘most anything not to turn tricks in the streets. But she didn’t have the money for a ticket out of town to somewhere no one knew her, nor any money to keep herself alive until she found some kind of job other than the one she knew.

  After Hopewell tossed all the girls out, Ralph insisted he needed help if the Hotel was going to go all swank, and Emmy was the help he wanted. Between Ralph and Johnny Runnels, they convinced that skinflint Hopewell to hire Emmy on as a girl of all work. Sure, she did Ralph a personal favor now and again, but she had something to eat, a roof of sorts over her head, and she got to keep her pay, such as it was.

  Emmy knew her place, unlike that piece who called herself Mrs Bonham. A girl like her could spot another girl like her, no matter how many silks and satins were draped on her frame. Oh sure, Charity might have married Bonham, but that didn’t make her anything other than the tart she was, Emmy sniffed. She swiped her peeling knife on her apron and picked up the next potato.