Saved by the Bullet

by Preston Shires

  “Well,” she said as if repeating a catechism lesson, “to see you, to deliver your stipend, and then to render your father a first-hand account of your life on the frontier.”

  “And your brother? He seems to wander off. Where is he now?”

  “I imagine he’s strolling about the boat, smoking a cigar. What’s wrong in that?”

  “I thought he was chaperoning us, that’s all.”

  “We’re not going to be any danger on a boat, unless we hit a snag.”

  “But in Saint Jo he didn’t seem concerned that you were entering the house of an unknown. He wasn’t even standing at the door when Mrs. Lincoln opened it to you.”

  “He would have heard me had I called out, just like he heard the blast of the gun.”

  “It’s not the first time he’s been to Saint Jo is it?”

  “He has traveled a lot in his business ventures.”

  I looked back out at the passing landscape. She seemed to have an answer for everything, but I did observe that noticeable lip of hers quiver when I criticized Jonathan. And then, I wondered, how did he know of a bookstore in Saint Jo? Something wasn’t quite right. Did Jonathan know the Lincolns? That would explain why he wouldn’t come inside with Prudence. Following this line of reasoning, other things about Jonathan now struck me. Why did he so easily go out to the Friend farm with Mr. Whitt and me? And what’s more to the point, how did he go directly to where the cabin had once stood? Is he somehow mixed up in all this? Why did he want to escort his sister out west to Brownville in the first place, if he had business to attend to? Had he heard I planned on investigating the Friend murders? All of a sudden, I felt like I didn’t know Prudence’s brother at all. He became foreign to me in an instant.

  * * *

  In the afternoon, after many stops along the way, including places like Stephen’s Landing and Nemaha City, where we just treaded water long enough to let people climb aboard from row boats, we finally attached ourselves to the wharf of Brownville. For the first time, I really felt like the frontier was not an exotic wilderness, it was home.

  We went directly to the Nebraska House to find Kitty to tell her of our adventure. While waiting at the desk for Kitty, whom the clerk had gone to fetch upstairs, I looked over the newspapers, hoping to see my gazette. Not finding it, I opened up the Nebraska Advertiser and was pleased to see that the Republicans carried the Constitutional Convention in Minnesota by a vote of 61 to 47.

  While reading I heard a familiar voice outside in the distance. “Get your copy of Brownville’s latest! The Brownville Beacon, it’s a lady’s gazette, but good reading for all!”

  I dropped the Advertiser on the counter and hurried outside. “Teddy!” I called. “Bring that over here!”

  Teddy trotted over from the wharf where he had been selling copies to the emigrants. He still had a number of papers under his arm. “Good to see you Sis, you made it. Hey,” he said excitedly, “I found some advertisers and believe it or not I think we’ll turn a profit!”

  I couldn’t help myself. I kissed my little brother on a cheek that immediately turned crimson. “Ah, shucks,” he said. “I was just doin’ what I expected I ought to be doin’.”

  The two of us went arm in arm into the hotel amidst a throng of emigrants and found a place to sit down at the end of a long table. Kitty soon joined us and Prudence, who was desperate to tell Kitty all about the incident at Mrs. Lincoln’s.

  I heard the story more than once that afternoon, because when Stewart arrived a quarter of an hour later, she had another go at it, and I must say the second version was an improvement. In this second rendition, Prudence had seen the shooter and had attempted to maneuver around me, to shield me, but the shot had been fired and I had fallen before her, at which moment she leaned over to protect me from further assaults. Jonathan’s role improved as well. The blast had come from a rifle he deduced, because he had a long experience in firearms and could recognize the make and model of not an insignificant number simply by listening to the report. He too had come flying in my direction, looking left and right for the assailant, but seeing no one, thought it best to come to the succor of the women folk.

  “What kind of rifle was it then?” I asked.

  “Well, what would you imagine, Stewart?” he asked in return.

  “I would have no idea.”

  “Teddy, you familiar with rifles?”

  “Pa had a type of Kentucky rifle. I’ve hunted with a few others, and keep a shotgun.”

  Jonathan looked at the faces around the table, moving from one to the other in a slow sweeping fashion. The mannerism seemed familiar to me. Zach Thrumbrill had employed it once when he wanted to tell the class about a locomotive. Looking everyone in the eye to make sure no one had ever seen one, he gave a rather detailed description, to include the two paddle wheels on either side propelled it. When I repeated the description to my father, who worked on the new rail lines, he suggested Mr. Thrumbrill patent his idea.

  As Jonathan finished studying our faces, he announced, “It was a Mississippi rifle.”

  “Shoots water, does it?” I asked. “No wonder it created such a cloud.”

  “Trust me,” he said, “I’ve handled Kentucky, Remington, you name it. But that was a Mississippi rifle.”

  “Goodness,” replied Stewart. “If you think this person was trying to shoot you, and from what you say, he aimed to, then you need some protection. I’ve heard about you and the parasol, but you’re going to need something with more punch. Let me buy you a lady’s pistol, Adeline, you never know.”

  “You really think Addy’s in that kind of danger?” asked Kitty.

  “Ahrg!” I growled. “No!”

  Everyone looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, which was not far off the mark.

  I panted breathlessly, looking across the room. I felt like I’d fallen backwards and landed on my back again. There, seated across from me was the most elegant lady, perusing Brownville’s one and only lady’s gazette. On the back page, which she couldn’t see, but in bold enough letters for me to read from across the room were the letters spelling “LIQUOR FOR SALE.”

  * * *

  “Teddy!” I exclaimed. “You put into my temperance promoting gazette an advertisement for liquor!”

  He gave me that big-eyed owl look, then shifting his head atop his neck one direction and then another, he spotted the incriminating evidence. “Oh, uh, well, umm, it’s Mr. Davis’s grocery. They sell lots of things, and among them the occasional bottle of spirits.”

  “Exactly, it’s his bottles of spirits that causes mayhem in town and family. You take a man who’s merely disagreeable, open his mouth, and insert one of those bottles and he becomes a swearing, violent, abusive husband and father.”

  “So, if he’s not married...”

  “Don’t you start with your rationalizations. You’ve set me up for ridicule. I’ll never hear the end of it. I can hear it now as I walk down Main Street, ‘Here she is boys, let’s all lift a glass in honor of the temperance lady. Courtesy of Mr. Davis.’”

  “Now I don’t see it that way, Addy. I figured that if you put an advertisement for alcohol in the paper, people like Fred, or at least the ones who can both drink and read, will buy a copy. And then they’ll read your temperance articles and come into full knowledge of the errors of their ways.”

  Teddy, having finished his rationalization, observed me carefully, like a fattened penguin might look into the eyes of a lean polar bear. I was standing with my arms crossed and my right foot tapping faster than a feisty cotillion. “Okay,” I said, trying to salvage what I could of an already compromised reputation. “First, you’ll return Mr. Davis’s money to him. Then, I want you to print up a disclaimer of sorts. An explanation stating that we hoped the advertisement, for which we took no money, might entice imbibers of alcohol to read our lines for their own reformation. Something in that style. Wait, I’ll write it, and you print it, and you distribute it, and you do both those things by early t
omorrow morning.”

  I procured paper and pen from Kitty and dedicated a full-length essay to my topic.

  Meanwhile, the others round the table, other than Prudence, didn’t seem as concerned as I about the tainted gazette. The conversation wandered, with Kitty giving us the latest gossip. She told a story about a guest who exited by an upstairs window but had neglected to pay his bill. If caught he would be assigned to the sheriff’s gang of men leveling Main Street.

  Stewart talked of the great work being done at the Big Blue River Settlement, and how he intended to invest a modest sum in the venture. He had seen Judge Kinney pass by on the Deroin Trail, and figured if the justice considered the colony a viable enterprise, it certainly must be.

  * * *

  When I finished my composition, I looked up, feeling better, but then I noticed the number of guests at our table had increased by one. The new arrival sat across from me.

  “Miss Furlough, seeing you haven’t your parasol, I took the risk.” Mr. Martin paused before proceeding. “If I may, I was wondering if, setting aside differences, we might not put our heads together for mutual benefit.”

  “I would think yours big enough to grapple with any problem.” I said this whilst passing my essay to Teddy and giving him a curt nod in the direction of the printing press.

  “Oh no, Miss Furlough, it takes all kinds in a functioning society. In spite of our little disagreements, you and I share an educated background, and you, bringing your womanly arts to a cause, can be of benefit.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with opening a school, would it?”

  “It may indeed. I think we, as a team, inclusive of Mr. Whitt, could recruit a sufficient number of young scholars to both increase our income and benefit society.”

  I told him the population at Brownville would not sustain a high school, but Omaha City may be fertile ground for planting such an institution.

  “I truly hate to differ with you on any point,” he said, gently and abstractedly rubbing the back of his skull. “But think about it. It would be foolish to open a school of any sort today at the Big Blue River, but that colony today is what Brownville was but a year ago, and Omaha City is what Brownville will be in a year.”

  “Have you been to the Big Blue River?” interrupted Stewart. I noted a dose of skepticism in the question.

  “Why yes, I just returned. I’ve been on the trail for a week. Just seeing if there were opportunities there and elsewhere, but the Big Blue isn’t as advanced as I had hoped.”

  “Did you see Judge Kinney?”

  “Who?” asked Mr. Martin. “Can’t say I did, can’t say I didn’t. He’s unknown to me, even if he’s a financier of the settlement, besides, I was moving at a fast clip. We could have crossed paths on the trail.”

  “I think you would have recognized him well enough. Buggies are not a common commodity, especially on the trail.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Martin as if he’d just returned from the Road to Damascus, “I see what you mean. Yes, yes, a buggy. Did seem strange on the trail, as rough as it is.”

  “So, did you talk to him?”

  Mr. Martin considered the question. “No, don’t believe I did, but I may have said ‘Good day,’ or something to that effect.”

  I observed Stewart more closely than Mr. Martin throughout this exchange. Kitty’s fiancé had a look about him I couldn’t define. He acted the part of an attorney questioning a witness, and he didn’t look like he received the answers expected.

  Mr. Martin abruptly rose, saying that he hadn’t really come for dinner but merely wanted to discuss the high school idea with me, hearing that I had descended at the wharf. He promised to call on me at a later date.

  Before he departed, however, I extracted from my reticule the pipe emblazoned with the letter J and set it on the table.

  “Why that’s my pipe,” said Mr. Martin.

  “I suspected as much, I found it in unauthorized hands.”

  “Unauthorized hands?”

  “Yes, some young boys had it and I confiscated it. You may have it back, I have no need of it.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Furlough,” he said, picking up the pipe.

  After Mr. Martin left, I asked Stewart, “Why did you question Mr. Martin so?”

  “Just curious. I didn’t know he was out at the Big Blue, but if he saw Judge Kinney in his buggy, I suppose he was there.”

  Kitty soon arrived with our repast, but as we said grace and partook, I couldn’t help but noting to myself that Stewart had unwittingly supplied Mr. Martin with the knowledge that Judge Kinney went to the Big Blue in a buggy. What if Stewart had asked Mr. Martin to describe the man in the buggy? Could the phrenologist have identified the judge’s fine physiognomy?

  CHAPTER 14

  On Thursday morning I rose early, before Prudence, gently moved Gunshy from my bed to hers, and then set out for the livery station where I found the owner, Sheriff Coleman. I had to trust that Teddy was out distributing my latest publication.

  “Good morning, Miss,” the sheriff said a little too cheerfully as I approached. He was tightening up a saddle.

  “Good morning to you, Sheriff. I’m glad to have found you before Balaklava took you off to parts unknown.”

  He smiled. “It might have been to my advantage.”

  “Now Sheriff, I know you don’t mean that. I suspect just now you were saddling up to come over to my place to tell me when and where you’re auctioning off the effects of Mr. Lincoln and his cohort.”

  “Did that on Saturday,” he said, visibly pleased with himself.

  “No, Teddy didn’t mention it.”

  “Not many people knew of it, except a few hawkers.”

  “You did that on purpose!”

  “Just protecting my favorite citizen from getting herself into more trouble. Advertising alcohol. What fodder to your newspaper. Promoting the poison and then, through your captivating columns, troubling old dears about the worrisome epidemic. It’s kind of a self-sustaining business you’ve created there, very calculating of you.”

  “No more than privately selling off public property to cronies so that they can make a profit and then vote for you come August first.” He didn’t bother to respond, so I was obligated to take up the slack in the conversation. “Shouldn’t the proceeds go to the Friend family?”

  “Never did find any relations that way. Mr. Friend was an immigrant, you could tell by his accent.”

  “And his helpmate?”

  “She rattled off English as well as you or me.”

  “As you or I.”

  The sheriff put his foot into the stirrup and then hoisted himself up into the saddle. Balaklava backed up and shook his head, anxious, no doubt, to live up to his name and charge up some hill amidst a light morning shower of cannon balls.

  “Who bought them?” I asked.

  “The few trifles were purchased by a Nebraska City merchant with a warehouse up at Mount Vernon, a Mr. Stephen Nuckolls. There was a letter as well, but of no interest to Mr. Nuckolls.”

  “You still have it?”

  “Nope, I passed it on to Mr. Muir. He seemed interested.”

  I reached out and took hold of the bridle to prevent the sheriff’s escape. “Who wrote it and what was it about?”

  “How persistent are you going to be?”

  “You remember the lady in the Bible who kept pestering the judge until he answered her?”

  “I’ve heard the story.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt but she’s a relation of mine.”

  “Okay, just let go of the reins so Balaklava doesn’t get any more nervy than he is. The letter was addressed to ‘Dearest Daughter.’ That’s all it said in the way of a greeting, and it was just signed ‘Your loving Father.’ It was about a bounty deed and the father said he’d leave the recipient the bounty, if I remember correctly, and I usually do, ‘upon my demise, which seems to be around the next corner.’ I told Mr. Muir he might want to track down that bounty if �
��Loving Father’ hasn’t rounded that corner yet.”

  “I suppose Mr. Lincoln picked up that letter from the Friend family.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I doubt George Lincoln’s father would have addressed him as ‘Dearest Daughter.’”

  “Could have been to a sister of his. Maybe he kept it for her.”

  “I doubt his father would have penned a letter to his daughter.”

  “Oh?”

  “Number one because his father died years ago, and number two because his sisters aren’t any more alive than their father.”

  “How in the world would you know such things?”

  “Well, I plan on knowing a lot more things by the time I’m done.”

  “Well you’re not going to find them out from me!”

  I think he meant this to be his departing statement, given the fact he dug his heels into Balaklava’s flanks as he delivered it. However the animal seemed to enjoy our conversation and refused to move out. With a subsequent jab to the sides, the steed reared up and shook its head as it came back down hard on its front hooves, but the beast hadn’t advanced the length of a horseshoe. There ensued a variety of words issuing from the voice of the law, all intended to encourage the horse to move forward, but to no avail.

  I indicated to Sheriff Coleman that I would help send him on his way, which caused him to look back over his left shoulder at me with the same owl eyes I had exhibited atop Hezekiah. What generated this unusual expression, of course, was the sight of my hand slapping Balaklava on the hindquarters. If I had been Teddy, I would have placed all my money on Balaklava, because that horse reached top speed way before Hezekiah could have.

  * * *

  After checking up on Teddy and having a meal with Kitty and Stewart at the hotel, I headed home to find a copy of the Nebraska Advertiser on the kitchen table. Prudence told me the gardener had laid it there, which made sense since he sometimes serves as a pressman for Mr. Furnas.

  I picked up the paper and noted that bids were being taken for building a suitable schoolhouse in town. I imagined that’s what generated Mr. Martin’s interest in teaching. The paper also announced bids open for a fine brick hotel.