Saved by the Bullet

by Preston Shires

  “I know he said he’d done some bad things in his life,” I nearly whispered, “and that he regretted them, but I couldn’t help but think others had pushed him to it.”

  She lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if reminding God what had happened, whilst saying, “He thought he was in a good cause, going into Kansas to whip some of them Yankees. It’s there that he killed one and took the poor man’s five dollars. He was braggin’ about the deed as if it were some noble act. I asked him if that were what the good Lord wanted of him; if that’s the way he loved his enemies by clobberin’ ‘em over the head.”

  She lowered her gaze and looked me in the eyes. “You know what he told me? He said he weren’t responsible for any misdeeds ‘cause that’s the way he was got up by his Creator. He knew better than that. At least he hadn’t been raised by me to think that way.”

  Mrs. Lincoln rose from her chair and walked over to a pine buffet, dented here and there as soft wood is, and marked with notches along its edge where the bread had been habitually cut. She left behind on her chair a string of beads betraying a Catholic faith. I saw her slide open a drawer and retrieve a leather-bound journal. “He kept his thoughts in here, I believe.” She shut the drawer slowly and held the journal in her hand as if weighing it. “It’s no good to me. I can’t read and I don’t want none reading it to me.”

  As she began to step toward me there came a knock upon the door.

  “Mercy,” she said. “I ain’t had a caller in two months and now I gets two in one afternoon.”

  She opened the door and I heard her say, “I don’t suppose your another of George’s long-lost friends?”

  “No Ma’am, but I’ve come to find a friend.”

  I turned quickly in my chair and to my horror saw Miss Straightlace entering the room. “What a surprise,” I exclaimed. “However did you know to find me?”

  “Oh my, you are addled. You left me this note with the address on the back of it; so I thought, why would we wait for your return, when we could meet up with you and enjoy an evening together.”

  “You two know each other?” Mrs. Lincoln asked as she walked back across the room to face me.

  “We’re old friends, childhood acquaintances,” said Prudence. “And my brother has been an admirer of hers as well.”

  “Hasn’t he been, though,” I answered, as I saw him slip away from the door and down into the street. “But that was long before, you know….before last year. Because last year I was befriended by another.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Prudence. “You were at Oberlin with me, Addy.”

  “Addy?” queried Mrs. Lincoln. “I thought you was Genevieve, affianced to my George.”

  “No, no, Ma’am,” explained Prudence, as if coming to my rescue. “You’ve mistaken Miss Furlough for another. Miss Furlough is an Oberlin graduate and is owner and editor of a Nebraska gazette.”

  CHAPTER 12

  There was a moment of silence reigning in Mrs. Lincoln’s home after Prudence’s announcement. Not unlike that experienced in a salon, when a virtuoso strikes the last note on the piano to end his exceptional performance. Of course, in the case of a virtuoso, one expects, after the quiet interlude, an explosive applause. Surprisingly, nothing of the sort occurred in Mrs. Lincoln’s salon. Rather, there was a slow turning of the hostess in my direction, and the casting down of her eyes upon me, followed by a low-pitched sound, almost as deep as that of a well-respected guard dog, emanating from her lips. Albeit in this case, the growl formed the words, “Is she now?”

  There was another moment of silence, and then indeed came the explosion. “You should be ashamed for working up a sorrowful mother’s feelings! You’re lucky George isn’t here, ‘cause he’d teach you a lesson sure enough. Maybe one of his acquaintances will. You both find your own way out.”

  As she opened the door to the kitchen to exit, she held the journal above her head and declared, “And you’ll never lay your lying little hands on this, Miss Furlough, ‘cause I aim to give it back to my son by committing it to the flames of hell.”

  “Well isn’t she unpleasant,” remarked Prudence. “No wonder her son went astray.”

  Mrs. Lincoln scowled at Prudence, gave a theatrical “Humph,” which communicated very little, and slammed the door behind her. I believe I heard her turn the bolt.

  I rose from my chair and stood there a few minutes. Odd that she would leave us alone in her parlor, although there wasn’t anything of value to steal, even if we’d had had the mind of her departed son. I half expected Mrs. Lincoln to return to the stage. My mother used to walk out on my father in a huff in the middle of a hotly contested debate, announcing to one and all, as she exited, “I will say no more on the topic, Mr. Furlough.” He would quietly try to count to twenty but never quite made it before her return, like a conquering general, dishing out declarative statements very much on the topic.

  Well, after counting to twenty, I concluded Mrs. Lincoln was having a dashed awful time coming up with a response to Prudence’s remark.

  I took the opportunity to study the little room, and I walked over to the mantelpiece to see what had attracted Mrs. Lincoln’s attention. I saw two pictures. One was a rough painting of a middle-aged man and the other a daguerreotype of two little girls. The three votive candles next to the pictures indicated they were all three deceased. If any likeness of George Lincoln had graced the mantelpiece, it had been removed. It then dawned on me that Mrs. Lincoln’s disappointment with her son could have only come about because she had so trusted him as a youth. His surroundings were no worse than another’s. He chose to embrace evil.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” I asked, noticing for the first time his absence.

  “Not far. He wanted to smoke a cigar, but he’ll be here soon. Don’t you think him handsome?”

  “I suspect a familial consensus on the subject,” I replied vaguely.

  Prudence lifted up her chin, obviously irritated that I just didn’t come out and openly admit that Jonathan struck my fancy.

  Gathering up my things rather brusquely I told her it was time to leave.

  She stepped sideways to let me pass through the door, reminding me of a matador, and I half expected to be lanced by a pica. I wasn’t all wrong. As I descended the steps, I caught sight of a dark figure in the shadows at the edge of the building across the street. Then a blast with smoke veiled him, as if he were a disappearing magician. Immediately I felt myself falling backwards. My matador had yet to step up to the door to catch me, so I landed on my back. A nightly darkness closed in on me, as if I were looking through a tunnel that got smaller and smaller.

  I forced my eyes open, and looking up I noticed Prudence’s face leaning over mine. “What’s happened? What was that noise?” she asked.

  I sat up, winded and dazed. My thoughts turned to my childhood sweetheart, Zachariah Thrumbrill. He must have felt something of the sort when I punched him in the stomach for yanking on my braids.

  Prudence, with little respect for my reminiscences, repeated her question.

  “I don’t know,” I said mechanically. “I saw a flash and smoke, and then I was on my back.”

  Looking at my reticule, I noticed a hole in it. Sitting up and opening it, I found poor Hope Leslie pierced as well, with the bullet lodged in her. I glanced across the street, but the figure had disappeared.

  Standing up with Prudence’s help, my mind reeled, and I steadied myself against the doorpost, looking left and right down the alleyway. I saw no one.

  A faintness seemed to enrobe me. I must have hit my head hard when I fell over. I forced myself to stay upright. Suddenly, I saw a man emerge from behind the building across the street. He was running toward us. I had the impression I was dreaming but I wasn’t. It was Jonathan.

  “What was that noise?” he asked. “It sounded like a gun!” He looked at me strangely. “Why are you staggering about?”

  “Someone shot at her!” exclaimed Prudence. “Oh, my, you haven’t been wound
ed have you Addy?” I told her I had not.

  She continued to fuss, saying, “Oh my, we mustn’t stay here. Let’s get her back to the hotel.”

  I had the oddest feeling come over me, as if my mind hadn’t kept pace with events and that it was now catching up with what had just happened. I tottered this way and that, then moved back into the parlor. Mrs. Lincoln was nowhere to be found. Apparently, she had either not heard the noise, or she chose to disregard it.

  Prudence turned me around and guided me out into the alley. Little by little the world around me fell back into place. Who would want to kill me and why?

  * * *

  We returned to the hotel straightaway. I was dazed and Prudence thought I ought to report what had happened. She sent Jonathan out to round up the constable and she obliged me to lay down. Meanwhile, to change my thoughts, she brought a package over to me and asked me open it. She stood there, hands folded before her, awaiting my response. I untied and unwrapped the paper and found a book, in French. I’d never heard of it. Madame Bovary.

  For the first time since she had arrived, I felt goodly about Prudence. She so wanted to please. The only problem was that she was one of those women who believe that pleasing another means directing that person’s life.

  I sincerely thanked her and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Now you read this book right now. Don’t you think at all about that horrible shooting. It’ll drive you to madness if all you think about is someone trying to kill you.”

  She was right. There’s something strange about being shot at. I mean, I suspect soldiers at war take a bullet in stride, but when you’re simply stepping out of an old widow’s residence and catch a ball of lead in your reticule, it’s unsettling.

  I immediately grew very fond of my hotel accommodations and didn’t see the need to leave them. Jonathan returned to tell us a policeman was on his way. He seemed rather dismissive of the whole affair and related to me the time he was shot at in Saint Louis and simply continued on about his business as if nothing had happened. For once I believed him, because I could easily imagine someone wanting to shoot him.

  While I was pondering this, a knock came upon the door. Prudence answered it and in came our policeman, Mr. O’Reilly. He was tall and lanky, in his twenties, seemingly new on the job, and nearly impossible to understand with his Irish brogue.

  “All right, Miss,” he said. “Recount if you might your wee incident.” This directive that he gave me I understood after his third attempt.

  “Well, all I saw was a flash, smoke, and I heard a loud bang.”

  “And the bullet, it knocked ya down did it?” Again, I had him repeat himself thrice, but it didn’t seem to irritate him.

  “I can’t say that. It might have just been the surprise that made me step backward and trip over the doorsill.”

  “Ya mind if I have a wee look at where ya were hit?”

  I understood this question perfectly. “Yes, I do mind, and partly because there’s nothing to see and partly because there’s too much to see. You understand I wasn’t hit directly. In fact, I don’t believe I felt much at all except a thump maybe.”

  He told me it wasn’t much to worry about in his opinion, but that I might want to stay away from that side of town and confine myself to the thoroughfares.

  “I wouldn’t stay long in yer room,” he added. “You’ll become a recluse. It’s best to face the world right away after such an incident.”

  Prudence agreed with the policeman’s therapy and cajoled me enough to where I ventured out the next day.

  * * *

  With the shops being open on the morrow, I revived. I could have spent the whole day in the fabric store, though I couldn’t bring myself to buy anything without feeling disloyal to Mary. We moved on to a store of general merchandise, run by a man aptly named Mr. Tool. He was originally from Ohio and so we entered into conversation as one does. Being a good salesman, he eventually brought up the subject of products dear to a woman’s heart: a delightful bonnet with a soft crown of periwinkle blue, the cutest patent leather gloves, and porcelain of various design.

  He accompanied me over to the window arrayed with Queensware, rather bland for me but solid fare for the quotidian, and gold rimmed China, too formal for my taste, and finally some Cyprus in Davenport ironstone. The latter would have been beautiful in blue, but its dark grey looked rather funereal.

  Then something caught my eye on the other side of the street, I think it was the door of the land agent’s office as it closed. But between the land agent’s and the jeweler’s shop next to it, I saw something disturbing. I shuddered. There stood, not twenty paces away, Mr. Whitt, lighting a cigar. It had to be him. And as I withdrew from the window his eyes seemed to look my way, his face expressionless. He blew out his match and then slowly walked away. I approached the window carefully, leaning forward to see where he went. He went by the jeweler’s, paused, and then continued on. I stretched forward until I heard a clatter and crash of dishes.

  “Oh my!” exclaimed Prudence. “Have you fainted again? Are you shot? I didn’t hear a shot.”

  I looked down and saw three ugly and broken Cyprus plates looking up at me. Suddenly my Ohio connection to the owner counted for very little. He wanted payment before I left the store. I thought about explaining to him that the dishes in question were better out of the window than in it, but he didn’t look like a man who listened to logic, so I paid him.

  I exited the shop with Prudence at my side. “Tell, me, Addy, are you sure you haven’t a case of nerves?”

  “No,” I said, striding into the street. I had just one purpose in mind: Either find Mr. Whitt or find out what he had been up to.

  I stood in the middle of traffic looking up and down and saw nothing of his smart tailored suit. Prudence, of course, was curious, but I wasn’t about to let her in on my investigation. For one thing, Jonathan made me uneasy, and for another her lack of common sense might lead her to divulge information best kept secret. I put her off by saying that I wanted to see about a necklace.

  “Really, Addy, is not a necklace going too far? The Apostle would have ‘that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with decency and propriety; not with braided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.’”

  “Obviously he was not a woman, but more importantly, if one is modest, decent, and proper, jewelry is worn for the pleasure of others to enjoy. As the lover praises his beloved in the Song of Songs, ‘Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold.’”

  “I fear your reason leads you away, dear Addy.”

  “We’ll see about that in a moment,” I said upon entering the jeweler’s store.

  Herr Dwanst had a thick German accent, noticed immediately in his “Guten tag meine damen.” Without saying his name, I described Mr. Whitt and asked if Herr Dwanst had seen anyone of that description.

  “Unt vye do you vant to know?”

  I explained, much to Prudence’s consternation, that I was looking for my husband and thought he may have come in to make a purchase on my behalf.

  “Like ein vedding ring?” He asked skeptically, looking down at my finger.

  Prudence attempted to come to my rescue. “Oh, she’s not married. She was shot at. Someone’s trying to kill her.”

  Without Prudence observing, I rolled my eyes to indicate to Herr Dwanst that my companion was a little daft. “Yes, Prudence,” I said taking her by the elbow, “we must be wary of assassins.”

  “Nein, I haven’t seen diss mahn,” he said, understandingly.

  “Thank you, sir, and come along Prudence, we must go now.”

  We exited the jeweler’s and went next door to the land agent’s office. On the door hung a notice: “Closed for the afternoon, will be back tomorrow, Mr. Beach.”

  CHAPTER 13

  In the evening, we made our way down to the wharf and awaited our steamer. It came in due time and was flooded with emigrants. We spent much of our time at the railing,
observing the tree-lined landscape slowly pass by. Gazing upon it thoughtlessly, one might find it monotonous; but picking out the individual shapes of cottonwoods and hackberries and the fortuitous evidences of wildlife, whether birds calling from a perch, a startled deer, or the occasional raccoon ambulating about, revealed an endless and living tapestry. I could almost understand why my Pawnee relations withdrew from the idea of clearing the Missouri’s banks, overturning the soil, carving out roads, and establishing farms and erecting cities. Why spoil paradise?

  But if we hadn’t taken to heart God’s commandment to cultivate the land, which work brings forth first farms, then cities and civilization, from whence would have come our Bunyans, our Miltons, our Shakespeares? I think something would have been lost if Much Ado About Nothing had been born of our red brothers’ sign language. Perhaps parts of Hamlet? But how would one “Be or not to be” in sign language?

  I must have muttered this last concern aloud, as I heard Prudence comment that I ought to be more self-conscious and mindful of my behavior if I were to win the affections of someone gallant and true.

  “I beg your pardon, Prudence. I’ve told you Mr. Davenport and I are very close, and I can think of none better.”

  “Oh!” She uttered the expression as a hiccup. “I dare say your Mr. Davenport is a mysterious man, and, though I don’t wish to offend, mysterious men hide nothing good. They can’t be trusted. And to think he made a spectacle of you, and at a dance! I’m sure you resisted, but still, it impinges upon your reputation, and not in a good way. You shall see, someday, dear friend. You may not be left at the altar, but you may well be left.”

  “Prudence,” I said. “Why did you come out west, and to Saint Joseph?”

  She looked away and ignored my question. “I just thought of something,” she said. “This is the first Wednesday of the month, the day our first edition comes out. I can’t wait to see my words in print. You’ve done such a wonder.”

  “Prudence,” I repeated. “Why did you come out west?”