Ralph Compton Guns of the Greenhorn

by Matthew P. Mayo

  Atop the contents sat a small white envelope with faded indigo ink writing on the front. It read plainly: To: The Treasure.

  “The treasure?” whispered Fletcher. He glanced at the lawyer, but the man’s face was unmoving as it studied him.

  Fletcher lifted the envelope, felt its thickness, several sheets inside at least. Then his eyes rested on what sat beneath the letter in his hand.

  A gold locket on a thin gold chain sat in the middle of a soft green cloth. The locket was worn but polished and offered a warm glow. Scrollwork on its face was so ornate that Fletcher could not make out the letters represented. He picked the locket up and for the first time noticed how grubby his fingertips had become. He was usually fastidious about his appearance.

  With a grimy thumbnail, he popped open the coin-size locket and it butterflied wide, revealing two tintypes. They were tiny, facing each other, a man on the left and a woman on the right.

  The man was young and black haired and he wore trim but thick mustaches and bold dark eyebrows. His hair was slicked and parted in the middle, and he wore a stiff white collar with a high-knotted black tie and the slope of his shoulders was black.

  The man appeared to be smirking, and instead of gazing across the hinge toward the young woman, he looked ready to shift his gaze toward Fletcher. The man looked oddly familiar.

  A worm of suspicion wriggled in Fletcher’s gut. Then he looked at the woman. She, too, was young, perhaps the same age as the man. Twenty, if that, ventured Fletcher. She was handsome, her hair gathered behind her head, lighter in color than the man’s.

  Fletcher imagined it to be auburn. Ringlets framed her pleasant smiling face. She, too, bore a strong chin and a long, pretty nose above a near-fully smiling mouth. This struck him as odd because most people did not smile when photographed.

  She wore a brooch pinned at the throat, high up beneath the chin, securing a tall lace collar.

  “They look like a happy couple,” said the lawyer, who, unbeknownst to Fletcher, had walked over to peer over his right shoulder.

  “Yes, it would appear so.”

  “The man, if I may say so, could well be your brother. The resemblance is strong.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Fletcher wished the man would leave him be.

  As if his unspoken desire had been heard, the lawyer returned to his chair. “There is a reason for that, but of course by now you must be able to tell for yourself.”

  Even though Fletcher knew it, hearing the lawyer practically say so confirmed his suspicions. The people in the locket must have been his parents. They had to have been. So how had he come to be an orphan, then? And what was Millicent Jessup to him? She had said “aunt” in the telegram. Was she a sibling of one of these people in the locket?

  “I suggest you open the letter here,” said the lawyer. Then he held up his hands. “You don’t have to read it aloud, but I have other items to share with you, and it would be in your best interests to know the contents of the letter before we proceed.”

  Fletcher regarded him, then nodded. “Okay, then.”

  He turned over the letter and noted it was sealed with a wax stamp bearing the initials MJ.

  “Millicent Jessup,” he whispered.

  “That’s the one,” said DeMaurier.

  Fletcher found this scrutiny annoying. He wanted to take the letter to a cool, quiet place, a polished reading room in a library back in Providence. But he was here, in this dusty office. He worked a thumbnail beneath the wax seal and popped it open. His lips felt dry and he ran his tongue over them. The lawyer once again appeared to read his mind. He poured two glasses of water and set one before Fletcher.

  “Thank you.” He drank the glass dry and set it down and the lawyer filled it once more. Fletcher opened the envelope and pulled out four folded sheets of stationery. He unfolded them. The faintest scent of rosewater tickled his nostrils. The first sheet faced him, bearing the same indigo ink, slightly darker than that on the envelope.

  The hand was fine, graceful, the lines straight and did not meander, and looked to him to be the writing of a woman—a lady, cultured perhaps, of breeding. Someone to whom penmanship was a mark of distinction.

  The top right corner bore a date. With a start, he realized it was his birth date. The same date that had been in his personal files that he’d snuck in to the headmaster’s office at Swinton’s School for Boys to read when he was eight years old.

  He’d learned nothing that he’d wanted to know, no hint of parentage or place or date of birth differing from which he’d been told. He sipped from the water once more, then read the letter:

  Dear Fletcher Joseph Ralston.

  If all has gone according to some sort of plan (I never have been all that great at making such things work in life, but who knows? Maybe this time.), you will be reading this in the office of Chisley DeMaurier, attorney at law (tell him I said hello), a man I trust eminently. I, however, will be among the dead. I have been failing for some time now and I find that there are certain of my affairs that require tending to.

  You’ll no doubt have found the items left for you, as now that you are of age (whatever that means), they are no longer mine to keep watch over. Your mother’s name was Rose McGuire. She was the woman pictured in the locket. The man is Samuel Thorne, and yes, he was your father. About him, I’ll say no more, except that the guns in this box were his, though in truth I deliberated much over whether to give them to you or not. In the end, I decided they were not mine, but yours, and you should do with them as you see fit. I hope you will dispose of them in the manner befitting a gentleman such as I know you have become.

  Your mother died shortly after birthing you. I was there and helped bring you into the world. Your mother was in my employ. In addition, she was a good, dear, and trusted friend. Of your mother’s family, sadly, I know nothing I might pass on to you. I am sorry for that. It is good to know of one’s family.

  On your birth, your mother knew her time was short and so asked me to see to it that you be given the opportunity to receive a fine “back East” education. And so I did, the wherewithal to do so having come up unexpectedly yet fortuitously at that time. At the last, she held you, swaddled, and gazed on you with the love only a mother can offer her very own and called you her “treasure.”

  That brings us to me. I have referred to myself as your aunt, and in truth, I feel as though I am and have been throughout your years, firmly occupied in that venerable role of not-quite-mother. That I chose to maintain a distant, aloof demeanor or relationship with you has been a decision that troubled me the entire time.

  I told myself, however, that you were better off not tied to the peripatetic vicissitudes (how about those words, eh, college boy?) of once-promising Promise, Wyoming Territory. Time has proved me somewhat correct in this. And yet, as always, I feel there is promise in Promise, enough so that I have maintained a life and, what’s more, a business here. And that brings me to the aim of this letter.

  The money I have relied on to fund your schooling and your lifestyle of somewhat conservative finery has, alas, dried up. I had hoped that by the time this finite resource should have reached its end, you would have found a pastime, an occupation that suited you, as the locals say, “down to the ground.”

  That you have somewhat done by clerking at Rhodes and Son. This has the whiff of possibility lingering about its edges. I take it to mean you have a keen interest in figures and in business. I will climb farther out on the wagging limb and say that you secretly wish to be the owner of a business. A proprietor, a merchant, a businessman. As I have been such for many years, a longer time than I care to recount here, and as I have come to regard you, albeit from a distance, as my only heir, I suggest you may as well take your life by the collar and drag it along—speed the plow, as they say—and go into the family line of work. Lawyer DeMaurier will kindly provide the details to you.


  I wish you the very best this life has to offer you, young man. May the past be dead and the future be alive.

  Finest regards, and all my love, your ever-doting “Aunt” Millicent Jessup

  Fletcher’s mouth hung open, slack and as wide as his eyes. His mind writhed in question like a tangle of snakes.

  That’s where the letter ends? he thought. He flipped over the pages, then spied one last, separate sheet of paper, smaller than the others, and with a faded pen-and-ink illustration of a rose in the top left corner. It bore two simple lines, once more in Millicent Jessup’s hand:

  This is from a poem I found to be most fitting to your circumstance:

  “From a rose, a thorn / and so, a thorn a rose.”

  Did that mean at his birth he had been considered a thorn begot by a Rose (clever) or a Thorne meant to beget roses? It sounded silly any way he considered it. He blew out a breath and folded the sheaves back together into their memorized creases.

  Fletcher was angry and more confused than ever. “She is obviously dotty in the head,” he said, leaning back for the first time in the stiff wooden chair across the desk from Lawyer DeMaurier. He looked at the man for the first time in long minutes. The man was studying him with intent.

  “This is . . .” Fletcher held up the letter and envelope in his hands, let them drop to his lap. “Is there nothing else? The telegram said, and I quote: a ‘significant inheritance.’ ”

  The lawyer held up a long finger and slid both the mysterious heavy flour sack and the open wooden box farther forward on the desk. Fletcher looked at the box and reached for it, saw that the locket and the letter had not rested at the bottom of the box. He probed the depth, found a fingerhold, and lifted. There sat, on soft emerald felt, a pearl-handled two-shot derringer with a dozen shiny silver bullets nested beside it.

  “Ghastly,” he said. He’d never owned a weapon any larger than his penknife, which he used primarily to clean and trim his fingernails once safely at home in his rooms. “What am I to do with that?”

  “Paperweight?” said the lawyer, no hint of a smile on his face when Fletcher looked up.

  “And that?” said the young man, nodding toward the flour sack.

  The lawyer spread his hands. “Open it.”

  Fletcher did so and his eyes widened. Two nickel-plated six-shot revolvers, also with pearl handles, sat polished and in their respective holsters, coiled about with a black leather gun belt with tasteful carving and stamping on the leather’s smooth, shining face. The belt was studded with a full complement of silver bullets as well.

  “I . . . I’ve never owned weaponry before.”

  “You now have quite the arsenal. Handsome, too, as well as deadly.”

  “But what am I supposed to do with them?”

  “They are your father’s, after all. Perhaps you could keep them as is until you’ve had time to decide.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” Fletcher swallowed, and his gaze fell on the letter. His plight consumed him once more.

  “What of this family line of work she mentioned? And who does she think she is, intimating that my hard-won appointment as a junior clerk at Rhodes and Son isn’t a sound career move?” He leaned forward, eyes blazing. He felt his face heating. “Dotty in the head!” He circled a finger beside his temple and shook his head. He wagged a finger at the locket. “She’s confused me with a charlatan whom someone has mistaken as my father!”

  The lawyer sat behind his desk, fingers steepled before him, now a slight smile on his face. He waited for Fletcher to silence his sputtering. “If you’re quite through . . .”

  Fletcher’s ears reddened once more and he nodded.

  “Okay, then.” DeMaurier leaned forward, his wooden chair creaking. “The family line of work Millie mentioned is her business, the one she has run for . . . oh, since the town came to be many years ago. She was one of the first wave of gold seekers to settle here. Then there was silver, and then there was . . . well, not much else. But by then the town had been established, people were raising families, and the stage line came through. Rumor has it, too, that two railroads are showing interest in running through these parts. If that’s the case, Promise is well sited to be an important hub for commerce. The future is bright.”

  “That’s all well and good, Mr. DeMaurier, but the business?”

  “Ah, yes, sorry about that. I tend to wax rhapsodic where Promise is concerned. You live here long enough and you’ll feel it, too.”

  “Ha. I don’t intend to stay here any longer than is required for me to claim my significant legacy.”

  “Well, yes, as to that . . . You have inherited Millicent Jessup’s business, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Her business?”

  “Yes.”

  “What . . . what exactly is her business?” Fletcher felt he knew the answer and he wasn’t certain he wanted to hear it.

  For a moment, DeMaurier looked confused, then smiled. “I see. You have a subtle sense of humor about you.” He lost his smile. “Oh, you’re not joking.”

  “No, Mr. DeMaurier, I am not joking.”

  “Millie’s Place is . . . Well, it’s a bagnio, Mr. Ralston. A bordello.” Fletcher showed no sign of recognition. “A home for wayward doves. A brothel, Mr. Ralston?”

  Still, the young man wore the knitted brows of confusion.

  The lawyer sighed. “A whorehouse, Mr. Ralston. You have inherited a whorehouse.”

  Fletcher’s mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, it’s true, Mr. Ralston. And what’s more, it’s a business of much promise, no pun intended.”

  “But . . .”

  “And there’s more, Mr. Ralston.” He picked up a paper, perched spectacles atop his long nose, and read. Finally he saw what he wanted. “Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “ ‘Mr. Fletcher J. Ralston, aka Samuel Thorne II, is to inherit the business, which includes all physical property including the home on Main Street, as well as the double lot on which it sits. Provisions are made for the women who currently reside there. They must be retained and kept on as employees and residents of Millie’s Place for a period of no less than five years, and the business is to be run as a going concern for at least that period of time.”

  He finished, set down the paper, removed his glasses, and regarded the younger man. For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Fletcher leaned forward, slid the paper toward himself, spun it around, and read it. “Samuel Thorne II?” he whispered, his brows pulled tight. Then he stood and wagged the paper, all his previous bluster and bravado crowding back in. “How legal is this?”

  “It is as legal as it gets.”

  “But . . . but what am I going to do with a . . . a brothel of all things!”

  “Seems to me it’s an enviable position for a young man to be in.” DeMaurier smiled, but was not met with one in return. The lawyer sighed and stood, his face tight. “Perhaps you should talk with Millie. She’s a fine woman, and she has nothing but your best interests in mind.”

  “My best interests?” Fletcher thumbed his chest. “How does she or anyone but me know what’s best for me? Hmm? They weren’t the one left orphaned by whoever these damn people were!” He shook the letter’s pages, still clutched tightly in his left hand.

  “But you are correct, sir. On one count, at least. I will most assuredly go talk with Millicent Jessup or, as she prefers to be called, ‘Auntie.’ ” He opened his broad-mouthed satchel and stuffed his newly acquired possessions inside in a jumble, thrusting the letter atop and strapping the bag closed once more.

  The lawyer stood by the door. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure your arrival here surprised Millie. I believe she had thought she’d be deceased before you were able to venture out this way.”

  “Yes, well, if you lived a modest, quiet, unassuming life in a city back East, w
ith a circle of few acquaintances, and you received a telegram promising a significant inheritance, I just bet you would pursue it with all haste. Am I correct?”

  “You are, yes. I cannot deny it.”

  “As it turns out, however, Aunt Millie’s definition of ‘significant’ and mine differ. Vastly.” Fletcher stepped through the door. “Good day to you, sir, and thank you for your time.”

  “Drake’s Hostelry,” said the lawyer.

  “Pardon?”

  “The best and, at present, the only hotel in town. Two blocks up thataway.” He pointed northward. “Can’t miss it. Duck on the sign. Good food, clean beds, real walls, not those canvas affairs they used to put the miners in. Only place I’d recommend to a fellow gentleman.” He nodded. Fletcher didn’t detect any hint of condescension in the man’s tone.

  “That’s good to know. And again, I thank you.” Fletcher offered a quick bow with his head and departed, still seething inside.

  Out on the street once more, he said, “Okay, Aunt Millie, here I come. And I demand answers. Even if it kills you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fletcher J. Ralston passed a half dozen people on his way back up the street to Millie’s Place, not that he noticed. He stalked by the toddler Dickerson twins and their stun-faced mama just emerging from Doc Hoadley’s office with the confirmation of Miss Dickerson’s seventh pregnancy echoing in her head. Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Baskers and young Bo Dover, part-time deputy.

  They all paused along Promise’s main street and watched the young dandy in soiled, wrecked clothes and reeking of dung and who knew what else as he stomped his long legs back up the street to Millie’s.

  Most folks in town knew, or thought they knew, who he was. Millie’s nephew. But none knew the full story. And so they were more than happy to tease apart what scant, choice tidbits they felt they did have, then suture them back together to suit their own purposes and desires.