Ropin' the Moon

by Deborah Camp

  “His dinner has already been sorted,” Lacy said. “But thank you. Really. Don’t worry about him. He’s in good hands.”

  Caroline’s catlike green eyes narrowed to slits. “Why can’t he speak for himself? When did you become his keeper?”

  Before Lacy could answer, the door opened to allow in a cold gust of wind, followed by none other than Junior Pullman. Displaying his usual jaunty stride, his cocky smirk deepened when he spotted Lacy. Caroline glanced over her shoulder, spied him, and ducked her head.

  “I must be going,” Caroline murmured, trying to edge past Junior, unnoticed.

  “Miss Filmore,” Junior said, touching the wide brim of his black hat. Instead of leather or a ribbon band, a silver rattlesnake skin circled it, the cone-shaped rattler placed front and center. “Please say ‘howdy’ to your parents for me. And do remind your father about the important meeting coming up soon, won’t you? He’ll know what I’m talking about.”

  She made a squeaking sound and scurried away.

  Lacy turned from him, hoping she wouldn’t even have to waste any words on him. She stuffed her parcel into her skirt pocket and grabbed her straw hat off the counter where she’d left it.

  “How is the world treating you, Miss Tyrell?”

  Placing her hat over her hair, she spun about and stalked past him, not bothering to answer. He clamped a hand on her elbow, jerking her to a stop. Stunned, Lacy lanced him with a injurious glare that he returned with a smile that chilled her to the bone.

  “I asked you a question.” His tone was softly ominous. “Mind your manners, why don’t you.”

  “Unhand me,” she ordered, her voice equally ominous. “Now, Mr. Pullman.”

  Slowly, finger by finger, he released her, his grin frosted with insolence. “You’re a cantankerous little filly, aren’t you?”

  “Mr. Pullman!” John Tankersly walked briskly from the back of the store, his hand outstretched. “Good to see you, sir. I trust your family is planning a festive Thanksgiving.”

  Junior shook John’s hand. “Tankersly. My beautiful Carmella tells me that she left some pecans here to be shelled?”

  “Oh, yes. I have them right here.” Amelia bent down to rummage under the counter. “I finished shelling them just this morning.”

  Lacy would have made a swift exit if not for her uncle choosing that moment to pop in. “Uncle Otis,” she said, glancing from him to Pullman.

  “There you are. I was looking for you.” Otis grinned, but it faded when he spotted Junior. “Oh, howdy, Mr. Pullman.”

  “Deputy Gentry. Or are you the marshal again now that Moon ran into someone’s bullet?” Junior chuckled. “I heard about his unfortunate trip back from Topeka. Seems that a hunter mistook him for a turkey.” He threw back his head and barked a laugh, then reached out and whacked John Tankersly on the shoulder. John smiled and tried to chuckle. “Easy mistake, right there, Tankersly?”

  John coughed up another feeble laugh, glancing nervously at Otis and Lacy.

  Still chuckling to himself, Junior withdrew a folded bill from his vest pocket. He tossed it onto the counter. “There you go, Mrs. Tankersly. My wife will be pleased.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get your change,” Amelia said.

  “No need. Keep it.” Junior tipped back his head and made a slow circle, surveying the merchandise arranged on the shelves and in bins. “This place is all right, I guess. I like trading here – most of the time.”

  Lacy was at the door, but she paused, curious as to what Junior was getting at.

  “We’re happy to hear that,” John said, glancing nervously at his wife. “Aren’t we, dear?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m always pleased to order anything Mrs. Pullman wants that we don’t already have.”

  Junior hung his thumbs in his vest pockets and beamed at Amelia and John. “Funny thing, I was approached by a young couple interested in opening another general store in Far Creek. They’re looking for an investor and came to me, hoping I’d be interested.”

  Lacy leaned a shoulder against the facing, feeling as if she were watching a scene from a play where a villain threatens to ruin innocents.

  “Is that right?” John’s skin had taken on a sickly pallor. He ran a fingertip around his shirt collar. “I don’t know if the town is big enough for two such stores.”

  “Guess we’d have to decide which one to favor,” Junior agreed. “Competition is supposed to be good for business, though, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “But, like I said, I don’t mind trading here and asking my cow hands and friends to trade with you – for now.” He held up a finger. “Oh! I’d like you to post this in here, Tankersly. And I expect you to attend.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and laid it on the counter.

  John craned his neck to read it and his skin paled even more. “Uh, oh, well. Certainly, we’ll put that up behind the counter where everyone can see it.”

  “And you’ll be at the meeting,” Junior said, giving him a wink. “Important meeting, Tankersly. I want you there. Don’t be late.”

  Lacy glared at him, despising how he intimidated, insinuated, and berated people into doing his bidding. He pivoted, his sack of pecans in hand, and reached into his jacket pocket again to pull out another sheet of paper. “Have Dutch post this in the saloon.” He shoved it at her so that she instinctively clutched the notice.

  His callous command and the rude way he’d thrust the paper at her, goaded her into retaliation. “Sam Louder is in prison now, thanks to Marshal Moon. It’s good to have that heathen locked up so that he can’t hurt anyone else.” She felt her uncle’s fingers bite into her forearm in a warning.

  Junior glanced over his shoulder at John and Amelia and then looked at Otis before he turned his attention full on her again. “I know about you and the marshal. Everybody’s been talking about how you’re all tangled in your petticoats over him.” He chuckled, flicking Otis a warning glare when he made a strangled sound of displeasure. “Got him tucked up in your bed now, I hear. I have to admit that I’m dismayed that you’d squander your reputation as a lady on that scalawag.”

  “Hey now!” Otis pushed his way to stand between Lacy and Junior. “Watch your tongue there.”

  “Or what, old man?” Junior bumped chests with Otis. “You need to do a better job keeping that trigger-happy buck in line.” He poked a finger in Otis’s chest. “If he ever draws on my boy or even threatens to again, I’ll kill him. You got that?” He pointed a quivering finger between Otis’s eyes and his lips stretched into a line of malice. “You best remember who owns you, Gentry.”

  Lacy rested her hands on her uncle’s back, lending him support. Over his shoulder, she glared at Junior, but he paid her no heed as his attention was totally on Otis Gentry. She felt her uncle draw in a long, shaky breath.

  “Nobody owns me. You best remember that.”

  Junior’s thick brows lifted with a modicum of surprise before they lowered to add mordacity to his arrogant smirk. “Oh, yeah?” He winked. “You’re forgetful in your dotage, Gentry. You might need to retire – or be retired.” Shoving past him, Junior left the store.

  Lacy patted her uncle’s back, commiserating with him. “He’s vile. I despise that man.” She shoved the paper he’d given her into her skirt pocket. “I’m proud of you for standing up to him, Uncle Otis.” She looked toward John and Amelia, who also seemed relieved that Junior was gone. “We should all stand up to him. We can’t expect Marshal Moon to right all the wrongs in this town with no help from anyone. If we all refuse to allow Junior Pullman to rule us like he’s our king, then we’ll be better for it.”

  “Lacy, I admire your spirit,” John said with a sad smile. “But Junior Pullman is a dangerous man. We’ve seen what happens when people stand up to him, haven’t we? I mean, the marshal was gunned down after he arrested and testified against one of the Pullman ranch hands.”

  Amelia nodded, her eyes as round as an owl’s. “John’s right. We don’t want trouble with the
Pullmans, and we sure don’t want to displease him so that he helps another couple open a store like ours in Far Creek! We’re barely holding on as it is.”

  “Don’t y’all worry none,” Otis said, hooking his hands around his suspenders in a prideful stance. “Put all this behind you and have yourself a peaceful Thanksgiving. Come on now, Lacy. We’ve tarried long enough here.”

  Taking her defeat in stride, she fell into step with him. She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and pressed her cheek against his shoulder in a quick squeeze of affection. “You’re joining us for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow night in the hotel kitchen, aren’t you? I’m sure that Bobbie Sue has already invited you.”

  “She has, and I’ll be there.”

  “It won’t be anything elaborate. No time for that with a full hotel. But with the saloon closed for the evening, Dutch and Britta will set a nice table for the workers and their families and the food is always delicious.”

  “You think Dalton will join us?”

  “Yes, I believe so.” She chewed her lower lip. “Uncle Otis, about what Pullman said concerning Dalton and me . . .”

  He covered her hand with his. “I don’t recall a thing he said, honey. Sounded like a nasty, old horsefly buzzing around making a danged nuisance of itself.”

  Laughing, she squeezed his arm again. “I love you, Uncle Otis.”

  He grinned. “I know, honey bunch, and I’m mighty glad of it.”

  “He’s lucky, okay?” Dutch told Lacy that evening as he washed his hands outside by the well pump. “The wound isn’t infected. I did a fine job on him. Learned a few tricks when I worked in the hospital tents during the war.” He winked a blue eye at her. “When wounds get infected, that’s when trouble brews. But his is as clean as a hound’s tooth, so he’ll heal up right quick. He’ll be sore and stiff, but he’s young and tough. He won’t let that bother him any.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Lacy said, handing him a towel to dry his big hands on. He’d checked on Dalton’s progress and re-dressed his wound. “I ran into Junior at the store and he demanded that you post this in the saloon.” She gave him the sheet of paper.

  Dutch squinted at it and scowled. “He’s holding another Leaguers meeting out at his place next Friday night. I heard that he sent word to the railroad company that he’d hired a Regulator and anybody trespassing on his land would be shot.”

  “I think that Regulator is who shot Dalton.”

  “Maybe.” Dutch shrugged, moving with her into the hotel kitchen. “Dalton didn’t see who plugged him.” Dutch balled the paper in his fist and tossed it into the stove’s fire. “Those Leaguers are looking for a reason to shoot off their rifles and puff out their chests, okay? Bunch of hotheads led by a fool.” His surly expression switched to one of merry mischief in the blink of an eye. “I hear that you’ll be supping with Dalton Moon this very evening. That’s probably the only reason he’s still in that bed. If you hadn’t agreed to sup with him, a ball and chain couldn’t keep him there. He’s raring to get back on the job.” He giggled like a boy and elbowed her in the ribs. “He thinks you’re the sweetest, prettiest thing this side of the mighty Mississippi. You got Moon all moony-eyed, Lacy girl.”

  “Oh, stop.” She elbowed him back. “I’m leaving the door wide open, so there won’t be any gossiping.”

  “Too late for that. The whole town is buzzing about this evening’s bedside tryst.”

  “It’s not a tryst!” She popped him with the towel, making him dance out of the way. “I agreed to have dinner with him because he wanted some company. And he is certainly not well enough to go back to work.”

  “He mends quick. He’s well enough. He’s only lying abed because he’s waiting for you.”

  She gave him a playful shove when he pulled a comical face. “You’re the worst gossip of all, you know that? I don’t know how Britta puts up with you.”

  Giggling again, he checked his pocket watch. “Go gussy yourself up, Lacy. I’ll be sure that Appolonia fixes a nice meal for you two to share. You never know, you might get lucky. Moon might pop the question tonight!”

  She shook her head at his comment even as her foolish heart skipped a beat. What a load of horse feathers, she grumbled to herself as she went upstairs to Bobbie Sue’s room. She changed out of her skirt and blouse, thinking that she should put on a fresh outfit. Nothing fancy, though. This wasn’t a soiree or tryst. She chose another dress that she usually wore at work – a simple, green one with a print of tiny, lighter green sprigs of clover. Checking herself in the mirror, she ran her hands along her waist where the dress fit snugly, and then over the pleats in the skirt. She wound her blond braid into a crown and pinched her cheeks to bring more color to them. Standing back from the mirror, she decided it was the right dress for the occasion, enhancing her figure without being too fussy.

  As she stepped from the room, she heard raised voices and she hurried down the steps to see what the commotion was about. Her eyes widened and she choked back a cry when she saw her uncle, barely conscious, being helped into the lobby by the mayor and Riley, the stable hand. Blood smeared his haggard face and one of his eyes was swollen shut. His shirt hung in tatters.

  “Good heavens! What happened!” She rushed forward. “Uncle Otis!”

  “We found him out back of the jail like this. Somebody beat the stuffing outta him,” Riley said, his voice cracking with concern.

  “Where shall we put him?” Mayor Stover asked.

  “Into the saloon,” Dutch said, from the doorway. “There’s a cot in the back. We can put him there for now.”

  They carried Otis to the saloon and toward the back of the building where a room, hardly bigger than a broom closet, held a rope cot amid barrels of liquor.

  “This is where I take a nap when things are slow,” Dutch said with a wry smile. “Ease him down there and I’ll get my medical kit. Bobbie Sue, fetch a bowl of water and rags.”

  Lacy stood at the foot of the cot as the men lowered him onto it. Dutch sent her a speaking glance.

  “You think it has something to do with the Pullmans?”

  She bit her lower lip, not wanting to voice it, but feeling in her gut that he was right.

  “They’re trying to get Dalton out of town, not Otis,” Bobbie Sue said, arriving with a pail of water.

  “They’re reminding Uncle Otis whose side he should take,” Lacy said, mostly to herself.

  Dutch took the pail from Bobbie Sue. “Someone light a lantern and move it over here so I can see what I’m doing.”

  Lacy followed his instructions and held the lantern aloft as Dutch wiped blood from her uncle’s face so that he could see the cuts and how deep they ran.

  “Nothing needs sewed up, but his nose is busted,” Dutch said after a closer examination. “Gonna have black eyes. Let’s strip off this shirt and see if he’s got any broken ribs.”

  Bobbie Sue and Dutch managed to remove Otis’s blood-smeared shirt. Lacy winced at the red marks on her uncle’s sides and stomach where he’d been kicked. Anger pawed in her and she wanted to scream to release some of it. She couldn’t let this pass. Suddenly, she knew exactly where she stood. She stood with Dalton.

  “He’s got to rest. That’s what he needs now.” Dutch finished cleaning the cuts on Otis’s face and plumped up the pillow behind his head. Otis’s eyelids twitched and opened to slits.

  “What . . . where?” He coughed and grimaced. “Some men jumped me.”

  “They sure did,” Dutch agreed. “Who was it, Otis?”

  He coughed again and swallowed hard. “Hard to tell.”

  Lacy leaned closer, letting the lamplight bathe her face. “Uncle Otis, you know who it was, so just say it. Which of the Pullman men did this? Was Junior or Trey with them?”

  “It happened fast. I didn’t see much.”

  Lacy looked over her shoulder at Dutch. He shook his head, silently telling her that she was wasting her breath.

  “Let him be for now, okay?” Dutch said. �
��We should give him a chance to get his head back on straight.”

  Lacy sighed with resignation. She didn’t really need her uncle to name anyone. By feigning ignorance, he’d as much as admitted to her that the Pullmans were responsible. They’d sent another message about their brand of law and order. She sat on the edge of the cot and placed the lantern at her feet. “I’m staying with him awhile to make sure he doesn’t need anything,” she said, resting a hand on her uncle’s shoulder. He felt frail and helpless and she wasn’t used to thinking of him in those terms. Uncle Otis had always seemed to be in charge and able to handle everything. She picked up the damp rag and dabbed at a trickle of blood under his broken nose.

  “You sure? I can sit with him,” Bobbie Sue offered.

  “Later,” Lacy said. She drew a light blanket up over Otis’s battered torso.

  After the others had filed out of the small room, Lacy wet the rag in the cool water and held it to the bruises forming on Otis’s cheeks, chin, and eyes. How could they beat him like this? He’d gone out of his way to appease Junior Pullman.

  Otis moaned and his eyelids lifted fractionally again. “I’m okay, honey. Don’t need to hover over me.”

  She ran her fingers through his thinning, white hair. “Pullman will answer for this, Uncle Otis.”

  “Now, now. This ain’t your fight.”

  “Of course, it is! You’re my flesh and blood. I won’t keep my mouth shut and pretend that Junior Pullman didn’t order his men to beat you. And why? What did you do that was so terrible?”

  “It’s the damned railroad that’s got him all fired up. Pullman don’t want to give even a patch of his land to the railroad.” He wheezed. “I could use a swaller of whiskey, honey. That’ll clear my old brain, I reckon.”

  “Okay.” She patted his shoulder and went into the saloon. Dutch was behind the bar and only a few men sat about, playing poker and sipping beer. “He thinks a swig of whiskey will cure what ails him.”

  Dutch grinned. “He’s probably right.” He poured a measure of amber liquid into a squatty glass. “There you go. He’s going to be fine, Lacy girl. He’s as tough as buffalo hide.”