Saved by the Bullet

by Preston Shires

  I humored Stewart by saying, “Of course, I’m not a sheriff or judge or marshal, much less a hangman. I am but a weak woman, and violence doesn’t befit our sex.”

  Teddy guffawed at this and received a sharp elbow in his ribs to tighten him up. “However,” I continued, “I do think it important to get the measure of the culprits; Mr. Lincoln to begin with. I don’t imagine he had any worse upbringing than any other, but he made choices that set him down the path of perdition. In my gazette, I believe that if I can demonstrate the importance of making the right choices, and of mothers in particular in encouraging those choices, then I might be a benefit to society.”

  I heard a snort from the phrenologist. “My dear woman, how innocent, how naïve, how unmodern, how unscientific, how typical of your sex. Now you take the Reverend Henry Beecher, brother of Catharine Beecher and Mrs. Stowe, he understands, in spite of his religious position, the scientific certainty of phrenology and how a man’s behavior is dictated by his physical characteristics.”

  “Reverend Beecher may be a grand abolitionist, and I laud him for that, but he’s not my brother, and it seems to me like he’s found a way to blame a man’s sins on the Creator’s way of fashioning his skull. Sounds like that gives license to Reverend Beecher to act as he will without regard to his conscience.”

  Mr. Martin turned his attention to the one who actually is my brother. “Now Mr. Furlough, you’re a bright and attractive gentleman, would you care for me to take the measure of your head. I think you have potential, given the outline I see.”

  Taking a good look at my brother’s skull, I could just see the water wheel beginning to turn inside. “Now don’t you take any notes from him,” I warned Teddy. “And as for you, Mr. Martin, keep your calipers in your pocket.”

  “All I have here,” he began to say as he tapped his pocket, “is....” He dipped his hand into his pocket and then searched the others. “By gad, I’ve misplaced my pipe. It’s a one of a kind, porcelain.” He then went into a lengthy account concerning his prior movements during the day to establish when and where his smoking device could have fallen from his pocket. He did prove himself to have a good memory, and to a fault.

  I decided it was time to drop the curtain and bid all an au revoir. But as I reached for the door, I did announce to Mr. Whitt that I understood he now owned the old Friend property, and I would be obliged if he were to show it to me some day.

  “There’s nothing out there to see,” he said coolly.

  “And that’s why it won’t be a bother for you to show me,” I said as I exited.

  CHAPTER 3

  In the evening, I revisited my gueridon under the window. It was fine for a cup of coffee or tea, and might even manage a teapot if one had no appetite for a plate of biscuits, but it was inconvenient as a medium for writing. I could lodge a sheet of paper on it, but if I decided to lay aside my pen, put my elbow down, rest my chin on the points of two fingers and a thumb and ponder romantically about my next well-chosen word, I would have to reach to the floor to collect my pen in order to proceed. I definitely needed that side table on the wharf.

  Nevertheless, I managed to compose a dozen messages to friends and family in the States. In each I entreated the addressee to dote me with a little feminine news or bit of wisdom that I might include in my gazette. Pioneer readers are always anxious to read a word from their home state, or even just something from the East.

  The next day, Friday morning to be more precise, I gathered up my letters, put them in my basket, and set off toward the Post Office via Mary Turner’s millinery. Her shop sells much more than hats and bonnets, she deals in all sorts of articles and notions, basically anything to do with cloth.

  Along the way, beside a building where Water Street and First Street join, I espied a small cloud of smoke, underneath which sat a cluster of young boys huddling together and passing around a pipe. The aroma of tobacco disgraced the morning air by wafting to my nostrils. While one of the boys puffed away, I could hear as I approached, another youngster recounting a ribald story sprinkled with descriptives drawn from a dubious lexicon.

  The conniving band, rehearsing vices they intended to expand upon as adults, had no knowledge of my presence until I had grabbed the largest ear of the group. The owner, whose gingered head, freckled face and protruding teeth no doubt found their likenesses in Fowler’s taxonomy, squealed noticeably. Increasing the pinch, I demanded to know the names of their parents. The boy with the ear was immediately abandoned by his fair-weather friends, their little feet kicking up puffs of dust as they disappeared around the corner. My only prisoner squealed out “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” which earned him bail and I released him. He proved as quick a magician in disappearing as had his comrades.

  I picked up what I at first assumed to be Mr. Smith’s pipe. It was singular, though. I had never before beheld a white porcelain pipe with a colorful escutcheon upon it, with the letter ‘J’ in a gothic hand emblazoned in the middle. I tapped out the tobacco, and deposited it in my reticule. I wasn’t going to promenade about town with pipe in hand like a backwoods matriarch, nor was I to leave the instrument behind for the children to recuperate. I had an inkling as to whom the pipe belonged, but I thought to keep it to myself for the moment.

  I reached Mary’s shop in a cheerful mood. Mary’s a dear childhood friend and sweetheart of Teddy. She welcomed me with an embrace.

  “What brings you my way?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Annie Medford.”

  “Did she now? She’s such a lovely woman. You know her husband and Teddy are putting up a house for Mr. Whitt on Atlantic Street.”

  One thing I do have to credit Teddy with is his carpentry skills. His tendency to take short cuts seems to serve him well in his profession. If you want a house built in a jiffy, Teddy’s your man.

  “Yes, she is lovely,” I said. “At church she invited me to come quilting this coming Monday. Her excuse is to have a quilt ready before her baby’s due, but I think she enjoys company as well.”

  “Oh, yes, I know exactly what she’s up to and what you might need.”

  As Mary gathered items for me, I saw a copy of our local Nebraska Advertiser on the chair. In its columns, there was a long list of citizens who owed taxes. I rapidly glanced down the names to make sure I had not earned a place in print. I wondered if our wholesale man Mr. McPherson would be obliged to pay his since they misspelled his name so horribly.

  Underneath the paper I discovered a booklet entitled, Now Rapidly Approaching, Will It Strike the Earth? “What’s this about?” I asked.

  Mary, arms full, glanced at the book. “Oh, nothing to worry about. A comet was expected to land upon us. Went right by, apparently.”

  “Yes,” I observed, “it does seem that every so many years we humans demand a catastrophic event of our God. And now, thanks to Mr. Newton, we have more ways than one to doom ourselves.”

  “I imagine someday God will humor us,” said Mary, spreading out her accoutrements.

  I picked out what I needed, paid for the items, and then stowed them in my basket.

  “Addy,” Mary said as she returned my change, “I have it from Teddy that you’re to put out a lady’s gazette. If you do, I would like to support the cause. Could I place an advertisement?”

  “Certainly, and up front for you!”

  “A mutual help, I’m sure. But your monthly, if that’s what it’s to be, will have wholesome stories to encourage women in their work and leisure?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and what better work and leisure than to sew and the like. But,” I warned her, “it won’t be simply about the economies of a household, nor a collection of moralizing pieces of literature like something Miss Straightlace would write.”

  Mary burst out laughing remembering Miss Straightlace, otherwise known as Miss Prudence Withers. “She even followed you to Oberlin didn’t she? And that brother of hers. He was so charming with you, always bending your ear after church.”

  “Remind me
not.”

  “But,” insisted Mary, “he was the most handsome and intelligent of God’s creatures, and so knowledgeable.”

  “You must have got that from him, not God.”

  “In so many words, yes,” confessed Mary. “But I wonder what became of him?”

  “When I left the county for Oberlin, I don’t believe I saw him again, not that I complain.”

  How those two came packaged together, Prudence and Jonathan Withers, I mean, I could not decipher. She was the most prim, moralistic, judgmental, restricting, and controlling personality born since the inventor of the automaton. Her ban on strong drink I support, as it alters personalities and transforms dutiful husbands into brutes and miscreants. However, her scowling at music, dance, and certain novels written or performed by clearheaded and gay souls, I cannot abide. Of course, her greatest fault is her devotion to her obnoxious know-it-all of a brother. It’s strange how men who think the world of themselves are constantly trying to prove themselves to the world.

  “I will tell you Mary, in my gazette there shall be words of wisdom and etiquette and stories to edify the faltering heart, but I shall include a column about other serious matters. Abolitionism will make it into my pages, and so will the Friend murders.”

  Having said this, a thought came to mind. I searched into my reticule and produced the fine porcelain pipe I’d recently acquired. “Funny,” I said. “Just look at this pipe I requisitioned from some naughty boys. It’s got a ‘J’ emblazoned upon it, like the first initial of Mr. Friend’s first name...Jacob.”

  Mary took a look at the pipe. “Probably stands for Jaeger, they’re a company that manufactures such things.”

  “Jaeger?”

  “Yes, made in Germany.”

  I returned the pipe to my reticule thoughtfully, and as I directed my steps toward the Post Office, I thought, even if the initial on the pipe indicated Jaeger, it still could be connected to the Friend family.

  * * *

  I returned to my house for my noon repast. Soon after I’d cleared, washed, and stored away my dishes, I received a welcome caller on my front porch, Mr. Cameron Davenport. He said he had actually arrived earlier aboard McCary’s stagecoach. He had seen me down the street walking away from the Post Office, but didn’t have the courage to topple the coachman to get to the reins and stop the stage.

  “I didn’t know you were afraid of coachmen,” I remarked.

  “Well, there was also the matter of getting my money’s worth for the fare. We still had another fifty yards to go.”

  “True, you mustn’t let businessmen take advantage of you. Besides, I’m sure you were dusty and unfit to embrace a lady.”

  “Truly stated. And so I’ve shaved, washed up, put on dapper clothes, and I’ve been all over town looking for a lady.”

  “Then step into my parlor and I’ll see if I can find you one.”

  With the door closed to the outside world, my beau kissed me ever so gently on the cheek. “You know,” he said, “the artists have it all wrong in their celestial inspirations. They don’t know that a true angel has hair as red as love.”

  “And freckles?” I asked hopefully.

  “Only as many as yours.”

  Then he looked down at Hope Leslie, the novel I held in my hand. I felt obliged to explain the story and how touching it was that the author herself had an ancestor taken up by the Indians and found happiness in marrying a brave.

  “I hoped,” he said with a note of concern in his voice, “that I might convince you, before you slipped out onto the plains to become a squaw to a lucky warrior, that you might join me in an afternoon promenade into the countryside.”

  “Let me get my buckskin and feathers,” I said, ducking into my bedroom before reemerging with my bonnet, basket, and parasol.

  We stopped by Mary’s and I invited her to join us, so as to stump the gossips. As business was slow, or so she said, she willingly came along to play the role of chaperon.

  We took up a small trail paralleling the embankment of the Missouri. It was narrow and Cameron let me pass before him, mentioning something to Mary about it being good policy to let an Indian guide take the lead. I, for my part, felt protected having a proven frontiersman commanding the rear guard.

  Mary, who trailed immediately behind me with her basket, surprised me with a question. “Do you think Teddy happy?”

  I must admit I cannot picture Teddy unhappy, but I sensed what she was getting at. “Do you mean you think he could be happier?”

  “That’s a way to put it. I just wonder what you once said to me, that I might be better paired with a businessman. Don’t get me wrong, I love Teddy dearly, but I think he…” Mary was at a loss for words, so I supplied them.

  “…fears you like a sister?”

  “I see you know what I mean. He’s attracted to women who know what they want and know how to get it. However, I fear it’s because he’s afraid of making choices and prefers to have another do the task. I don’t believe it a benefit to him. Now Stewart, on the other hand, knows what he wants and always carries sound advice. He’s someone even a strong-willed woman might lean on in time of need. With Teddy, well, when adversity strikes of a certain nature, as in business, I’m afraid I’m on my own. But I wouldn’t want to offend Kitty, she’s become your dear friend and hence is becoming mine. It’s all so confusing.”

  I could sense Cameron losing ground on us, no doubt wondering if his guide hadn’t led him into an ambush of feminine conversation.

  “What do you think, Addy?” Mary asked.

  I am ashamed to say I had nothing substantive to offer. I equivocated by asking weakly, “Perhaps Teddy shall harden into a man of iron will? I simply didn’t know what to suggest.

  The trail finally branched out into a tiny meadow rising slightly to the west against a hillside. We stood breathing in the salubrious air, as if we’d finally reached Paradise, and Cameron rejoined us. Mary, noticing some black-eyed susans, turned toward the river to pick them. Cameron took me by the elbow and directed me up the gentle slope.

  “I don’t know why I can’t give Mary a straight answer,” I confided. “Goodness knows, you’d think I possess enough opinions to spare a few.”

  “Because, whether you fully realize it or not, you see Teddy better suited to Kitty, and therein lies the dilemma, she’s spoken for.”

  It’s not that Mr. Davenport sees through me, but rather that we see together. “And how do you come to this conclusion, concerning my subconscious quandaries?”

  “Because we’re looking at the same landscape, from atop the same hillock,” he said as we turned and glanced down toward the Missouri. His eyes followed the course of the river, and having looped my arm in his, I held it tightly, I knew what he was about to say.

  “Tomorrow, this time, I intend to be down to Saint Jo. I’m expecting a delivery.” He looked down upon me with his smiling blue eyes. “I’d much rather spend tomorrow here, with my Indian maiden.”

  “You won’t let anything happen to my warrior, will you?”

  “I’ll keep,” he said. “It’s those around me that fall away.” A certain sadness clouded over his eyes, and now it was I who looked out to the disappearing river.

  “When I remember,” he said poetically, “all the friends, so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall, like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one who treads alone…” He paused, took my chin in his hand, and approaching my lips to his, said, “finding you, to all replace.”

  “I don’t remember that last line the way you do,” I confessed, “but I like it much better.”

  Mary appeared with a basketful of black-eyed susans. “I think these ought to brighten up the shop.”

  I looked at her bounty, but must admit I thought more about a black-eyed Mary than anything else. She was such a conscientious chaperon.

  I surveyed the meadow and the deer track leading across it which we had followed. “It’s rather peaceful out here, and lonely. The Friend far
m lay beyond a bit farther, I suppose. Strange.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Mary.

  “How many people have we crossed paths with?”

  “None.”

  “That’s just it, strange.”

  Cameron turned to Mary. “I think Addy’s trying to say that because the farm was so isolated, even more so then than now, that it’s strange the murders were discovered so quickly.”

  “Just so,” I said.

  We began our trek back to Brownville, and I couldn’t help but notice Mary humming the tune of “Oft in the Stilly Night,” and remembering Cameron’s rendition of it.

  * * *

  At home on Saturday morning, I did my accounting. Father had supplied me with the wherewithal to come west and establish myself. Teddy, being a man with a vocation, did not receive the same financial backing. Besides, I was on a mission for father, locating Aunt Adeline.

  Though Father was generous, his contributions did not account for the full expenses of setting up my business or building three houses in one. The printing press alone emptied much of my purse, and I’m afraid I lifted my little bag before my eyes and surveyed it in the same way the town drunk contemplates a diminishing bottle of rum.

  Considering my resources, I remembered I still owed Mr. McPherson for furniture. My father’s stipend would cover this, but it was late in coming. I was also in arrears in regards to the monthly rent for my Atlantic Street office, a standalone cabin that shelters my printing press and my print man, Teddy. My landlord, J.D. Thompson, being both land agent and attorney, was not someone to let a criminal act slip by unnoticed.

  Then there was my French gardener, Monsieur Carr, who would want his monnaie de poche. Thinking of the garden brought to mind another expense in the offing. I desired a pair of those unusual shoes made of rubber, so that I might walk around like a lady of the manor, directing the plantation of petunias and pansies. And, I confess, I planned to have an appropriate dress for the July Fourth celebration, something sharp and smart to honor our Republic by. Cloth suited to the occasion hung upon the wall at Mary’s shop. Having intimated my fancy for the color to Mary, my friend took my measurements and set aside the necessary yardage. And who can do without a new book every fortnight? I’ll tell you: the woman who manages to buy a new one every week. I soon realized I was a master of expenses; what I needed was income.