After touring the house, I took the east bedroom which featured a grand fireplace, which is of little use in July. After bidding Mr. Lash a good night, I closed the door and laid down on the bed, listening to the sounds of insects outside. But their calling was interrupted by a thud next door. I rose and went to my door and pressed my ear against it. I could hear a metallic clanking sound. Mr. Lash had opened his box and was emptying its contents on the floor.
Suddenly, I realized that the long object I saw in the box was the barrel of a pistol. Its scratch marks indicated the number of victims he had assassinated. Noticing the key on the door, I turned it sharply and it clicked home. Mr. Lash stopped whatever he was doing. I don’t think he had planned on me locking the door so soon.
I could hear him moving about again, and I realized my room had a south exit door opening onto the path to the privy. It too had a key in it. I ran across the room and locked it. I then went to my reticule and drew out my pistol, and thus armed, I laid back once again on the bed.
The window, I thought: he could simply break the window and shoot me. I closed my eyes and sent up a prayer. If God would preserve me, I would be ever so dutiful in the future. Did this mean I would have to confront Cameron about his faith? I struck a deal with God, I would ask Cameron about his faith, eventually, if I were to survive the night, or, if that didn’t please God, I was willing to join my Lord in heaven...right after I solved the Friend murder. I mean, how can God expect a woman to die before satisfying her curiosity. He didn’t even demand this of Eve.
Then I tried to look at my situation optimistically, hoping to build up some earthly courage. Why would Mr. Lash kill me? He would be the first suspect, being the only other person in the house.
Of course optimism at night can only last a matter of seconds. I had to look at the situation rationally. In this frame of mind, I quickly questioned if the man’s name really was Mr. Lash. Afterall, who knew he was Mr. Lash? He simply told everyone that that was his name. His real name may be “Smug Man” for all I knew. And he, being a horseman, he would simply steal a mount after dispatching me, and ride off into the night to join the Sioux, mortal enemies of my Pawnee relations.
There was only one thing to do, and I did it. I ripped off the blanket from the bed, leaving the sheet, then I stuffed the pillow and carpet-bag under the sheet in such a way that it would appear that I were fast asleep. I stood in front of the window looking back upon this bedroom landscape and was satisfied. The greyness made it really look like someone lay in the bed.
Then, I took the blanket with me, removed the key from the back door, stepped outside and locked it. I went around to the east side of the house, found a soft spot upon the grass and rolled myself, fully clothed, into the blanket, with pistol in hand. Now I awaited my prey. When alias Mr. Lash would attempt to pick the lock to the door or smash one of the front windows, I would hear him, approach him from the rear, jab the pistol into his back and escort him to the sheriff.
It then crossed my mind that I didn’t know where the sheriff resided in Nebraska City. Oh well, I would march him up to the hotel clerk and he would find the sheriff. It’s always good to have a backup plan.
Laying there in wait, I discovered I was not alone. Not less than one-hundred thousand mosquitoes had decided to hide out with me. The buzzing was infernal, but shooting them one by one was pointless, so I tucked my head under the blanket.
I must not have kept vigil for long. It’s true the coach ride had taken all the wakefulness out of me, so I feel no shame for having fallen asleep within minutes.
The next thing I remember, after tucking my head under the blanket, was a feeling of shaking. I dreamed I was back in the coach and a wild driver by the name of Wrangler was running the horses at top speed over a trail filled with gullies, rocks, and logs.
“Miss Furlough! Miss Furlough!” I heard.
I opened my eyes to discover that at some point during the night the mosquitoes had lifted the blanket off of my face and settled down to a feast on my cheeks, forehead, ears, chin, and neck. I was aflame.
But this surprise was nothing next to what my eyes beheld in the blinding morning sunlight. It was my assassin, Mr. Lash, with a metal rod in his hand. I looked at the rod. It had scratch marks on it.
“It’s not a revolver?” I asked
“What?” he asked in return. Then he looked at what he held in his hand. “This? It’s a shaft for my mower. It’s broken, and I was headed to town to see if I could find a replacement.”
“But the scratches, they’re not for dead people?”
“Are you alright? Do you have measles?”
I felt of my face. There were little welts all over it. “No, Mr. Lash, I often break out like this when I sleep outside with the mosquitoes.”
“What are you doing out here?”
By this time three other well-meaning citizens of Nebraska City had come off the street to investigate.
“Well, I needed to go to the privy but lost the key to the house.”
“With a blanket?”
“Really, Mr. Lash, you should know better than to ask indiscreet questions of a lady.” Having given this rather ambiguous answer that always confounds a male audience, I made an effort to raise myself, which induced my entire retinue to gather round me and help me to my feet.
I thanked them graciously, then walked toward the privy ever so carefully until I was distant enough to exclaim, “Oh, here it is!” and reach down to retrieve the invisible key from the path and put it in my reticule with the real one.
CHAPTER 20
I had to wait until Thursday, the sixteenth of July, to catch the next stagecoach, so I had all of Wednesday to enjoy the sights of Nebraska City and its partner along the Missouri bank, Kearny City.
Like in Brownville, Nebraska City’s Main Street has its source at the river, and from there, as the town heads eastward, it is crossed successively by streets creatively named First Street, then Second Street, and so on toward the western horizon. At Sixth Street I found the bank with the high school. I gathered some information about the school and the need for teachers.
I then proceeded down to Fourth Street where I found a gunsmith. I pulled from my handbag my precious bullet, which I had retrieved from Hope Leslie without telling anyone I possessed it, and asked him what type of gun might fit it. He held it up to the light for a moment.
“Why this thing’s been fired,” he said.
“Yes.”
“A tad mashed, but it’s still a peculiar ball. Don’t know if I have something to fit it, as you put it.”
Then I withdrew the pistol from my handbag. “How about this one?”
He took out a caliper and applied it to the ball and the barrel. “Should work. Are you wanting to buy a mold?”
“No, it came with a dozen balls and I don’t plan on shooting more than twelve people.” As I put the pistol back in my handbag, I asked him, “You say it’s a peculiar ball, which means I must have a peculiar pistol. Do you think a man who owns such a pistol would have two similar weapons?”
“If he has a second pistol, it most likely is of the same variety, but not necessarily.”
“Why would it be the same?”
“So he doesn’t have to have two types of ammunition.”
I thanked him for his help and assured him that if ever I needed a second such pistol I would inquire of him first.
On my way back to the house, I considered what I had learned. It was probable that my would-be assassin had come and stayed at the Nebraska House. He wasn’t from Brownville or he would have been recognized. He had to be a hired assassin, and a forgetful one.
Just my luck. I was being pursued by an absent-minded killer.
Why would the assassin leave behind the tool of his trade though? Suddenly it dawned on me there on Main Street in Nebraska City. The gun may not have belonged to him. Perhaps whoever hired him supplied him with it, and when he got spooked by Sheriff Coleman entering the hotel, he decided not
to go through with the job and left the gun behind.
I didn’t know exactly why someone wanted me dead; I hadn’t any real proof of who did what for anything. In fact, I didn’t even really know why anyone would have wanted to kill the Friend family. But it seemed to me it had something to do with the land warrant.
Regardless, one thing was evident: The man who wanted me dead didn’t want me to reach the Omaha land office. That’s why the wheel on the stagecoach had been sabotaged.
I just hoped I could get to Omaha and back before the mastermind, or one of his assassins, tracked me down.
* * *
I did survive long enough to get the stagecoach out of Nebraska City. It was a long, hard, hot ride, and when we reached the Platte River, we all had to descend and unload to take ourselves and our belongings to a nearby ferry. The boat was no longer than two Cincinnati houses, or about twelve paces. Once we walked on, the water came up to the edge of the deck, and I began to imagine what it might be like to swim in a dress.
The hull or bottom of the boat consisted of hewn cottonwood logs. The captain and his crew of one made use of ropes and poles to ply the river, but the ferry didn’t have much ambition to cross and it hung itself up on a submerged sandbar to rest awhile. Shoving on their poles with all their might, the two men, joined in their efforts by two travelers impressed into service, succeeded in tipping up one side of our ship, the action of which sent the rest of us, with some of our belongings, toward the far railing. The added weight on that side fortunately gave the boat the lift needed to free it from our sandbar, but there was much talk coming from the polemen about the necessity of our returning to a more central position. In my willingness to oblige, I daresay I surpassed my fellow passengers and made it well past midship and successfully latched on to the opposite railing.
Once ashore, another stageline picked us up and took us on to Bellevue, where we stopped at the Bellevue House to take a quick dinner while the horses were switched out. We were expected and the proprietor was well stocked in macaroni, as we enjoyed a macaroni soup followed by an entree of macaroni cheese. I neglected to inquire of dessert because I feared a macaroni pie.
A hostler came in to tell us that we would have to make ourselves comfortable because we were awaiting another party, a Mr. Samuel Allis.
While digesting my macaroni, Mr. Allen, the hotel proprietor, boasted the attributes of Bellevue. He notified me that the town, as of yesterday, included a school to train the eager minds of its youth. A Mrs. Nye, finding a room above a store, now instructed boys and girls in writing, grammar, arithmetic, and geography for five dollars a term, and for only one dollar more, they would be endowed with the knowledge of French.
Decidedly schools were the thing, but in a roundabout way this talk of schooling led me to think again about the Friend murders.
I knew someone inspired George Lincoln to lead a gang to the Friend house and murder its inhabitants in order to rob the Friend family of its money. In the end, there wasn’t much money, if any, to be found, but he was still obliged to burn down the house to mask the murders.
I also knew that a “smug man” put Mr. Lincoln up to the deed, even contributing a whiskey bottle full of turpentine to set fire to the house. Why engineer such a hideous crime?
Because the Friend family possessed a land warrant Mr. Smug desired for himself.
You might think Mr. Smug told George Lincoln to get the warrant from Jacob Friend’s corpse or cache and bring it to him. But George Lincoln never mentioned a warrant, and none was found on his person. This led me to the conclusion that the warrant was already in the possession of Mr. Smug, but for some reason, in order to validate it, he needed to get rid of the Friend family.
I couldn’t explain how that might all work out, but I thought I was on the right track. I also thought I needed to confront the man I believed to be Mr. Smug, however I had more than one suspect. What I needed to do was to get my suspects in one place and question them both. If I exercised my skills in rhetoric properly, the answers of one would undoubtedly convict or exonerate the other.
Mention of Mrs. Nye’s school gave me a grand idea for executing my plan. I wrote a note to Kitty to round up my three suspects. Of course, I wouldn’t tell Kitty what I was up to. That would make her so nervous as to incite suspicions.
Dearest Kitty, I wrote. I have been to Nebraska City and to Bellevue and have come up with a most fantastic idea that I would hope might inspire you and all those interested in joining me in a worthy enterprise. Nebraska City is proposing to open a high school in its bank building. They would be in need of teachers of science as well as English. I would wish to discuss such a project with Messieurs Whitt and Martin at Mr. Lipscomb’s dwelling in Nebraska City. I am thoroughly sold on the idea and am willing to pay not only your fare but also those of Messieurs Whitt and Martin, as well as of Prudence’s and Jonathan’s and Teddy’s. I’m certain Prudence will be interested, and I can’t imagine her leaving her brother up to his own devices. Teddy, I need present to attend to some errands. I will arrange for the schoolmasters of Nebraska City to confer with us. I do think you, Kitty, would not be averse to exchanging your cleaning brushes for chalk and join in the venture with us.
I successfully located a traveler bound for Kansas, an abolitionist I suspected, because he refused to talk of slavery in the open, and I asked him to deliver my letter to Brownville. I offered him a coin for his trouble but he declined to take it. He said it would weigh him down, and besides, from what he’d heard of the Platte River Navy, there was no guarantee that the letter would make it to the southern bank.
* * *
Finally, Mr. Allis arrived. He made an impression with his strong square jaw, outlined with a healthy and trimmed beard, and with a clean shave about a pair of firm, precise lips. Above this rather stern physiognomy, one observed two clear eyes that expressed an inviting gentility. Encouraged by the latter, I asked him about his affairs, as fellow frontier travelers do with one another when on the trail, and his answer electrified my soul.
He said he preoccupied himself with the welfare of the heathen and spoke passionately of the Pawnee, insisting it “our duty to encourage them to abandon hunting in favor of the raising of stock, of agricultural skills, and of manufacture of goods, and thereby prove to themselves that less land and labor will maintain them better than in their former mode of living.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but your solution only addresses their physical needs.”
“It is but a first step in bringing them to the knowledge of repentance and divine forgiveness.”
I heard a gentle cough beside me and Mr. Allen said, “Sorry to interrupt, Miss, but I’m afraid you’re unacquainted with Mr. Allis. He has spent decades living among the Pawnee as a missionary of sorts and speaks their language.”
My mouth dropped open and I immediately said, “Hair on Fire!”
The two men looked at each other and then back to me.
“Hair on Fire,” I repeated. “Have you ever heard that name?”
Mr. Allis sat back in his chair. “Oh yes, Miss, it was given to only one squaw, and I doubt anyone named a child after her.”
“That’s my aunt, my Aunt Adeline. I’m searching for her.”
It was Mr. Allis’s turn to become electrified. His clear eyes expanded as he studied me. “Good Lord, yes! And I say not his name in vain. You are she, some twenty or more years ago!”
“Can I see her? Where is she?”
He mulled these questions over for a moment. “I can’t tell you where she would be now, or even if she yet lives. But I’m assisting with the treaty negotiation with the Pawnee that should wrap up this fall.”
“I’ve heard of this,” I said.
“Well, you come to the pow-wow and I’ll help you. If she’s not among them, someone will know what has happened to her or where to find her. If you go looking for her now it could be a wild goose chase, or rather a wild buffalo chase.”
I promised him I
would be there, Lord willing.
* * *
After our conversation, we took the stage and were in Omaha by late Thursday night. I found a room at the Washington Hotel, which was actually a refitted and moored steamboat that formerly chugged up and down the Missouri under the name of Washington City. In spite of the exhaustion attendant to a coach ride, I slept very little as I imagined Aunt Adeline out on the plains, scraping buffalo hides. I tried to envision what expression she would display when I would approach her for the first time. Would she be like Esther in Hope Leslie, shorn of her native language and only at home in her beaded buckskin dress? Just before dawn I finally laid my mind to rest in sleep, but in the morning my imagined portrait of Aunt Adeline returned.
No matter how exhilarating it had been to think of my Aunt, by now, even though I yearned to find her, I was becoming somewhat nauseated by my obsession. I needed to think of something else for a bit, so I ventured out, even though it was too early to go to the land office, and perambulated about town.
Omaha City is a bustling concern, especially at the end of the week, on a Friday, and touring it did change my mind. Like other frontier cities, she hoped to become the capital of the Territory, and had already begun work on a capitol building as evidenced by elevated pillars awaiting the finishing touches.
The city had as many businesses as Brownville or Nebraska City. On Farnam Street, I successfully forced myself past the ice cream saloon and easily glided by Dr. Verdi’s dentistry. I eventually reached my objective: Woolworth’s bookstore, which held a copy of Mr. Kingsley’s Westward Ho!
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