Sweetwater (44 page)

“Back to town? Why?” Arvella’s voice quivered.

“’Cause I said so. You’ve got no right here now. Alvin’s dead.”

There was silence. It seemed to go on and on. Pud’s heart thumped as he waited to hear what Arvella would say. The man had dominated her for so long that she was a different person in his presence.
God help her to keep her wits about her
.

“Alvin’s dead?”

“You heard me. His house burned down last night with him in it. You’re a widow now, and back under my roof.”

Silence again.

“His house burned with him in it,” she echoed his words when she finally spoke.

How could he have died in a fire? He was killed trying to carry off the teacher.

“It’s what I said. The bastard burned to a crisp.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I’m not … really. I hated him.”

Longfellow paced the room. Since he’d discovered Alvin’s safe empty, he’d had a gut feeling that Havelshell had been storing away documents to save his own hide and put the blame for their rustling activities on him. During the night he had decided the best thing to do was to take what money he had on hand and his other
asset
and head for the coast of California. There he was sure to find a man who would marry Arvella and get her with child.

“Why are you standing there? Get some things together—”

“I’m not leaving. I’m Alvin’s widow, and I’ve got a right to stay until another agent arrives.”

The preacher exploded in a spate of angry curses. Pud wished that folks in town who believed him to be so
Christian
could hear him.

“You damned bitch! You’ve no right to do anything, say anything or think anything unless I tell you. Get your fat ass in there and get a bag packed or you’ll go without one.”

“I’m not going.”

“Don’t you dare say no to me!” The preacher’s voice had risen to screech.

“I’m not leaving. As Alvin’s widow, I’m entitled to whatever he had.”

“You’re
entitled?
You’re entitled to whatever I give you.”

Pud heard the sound of the slap and the small cry that came from Arvella. He opened the door and went into the room. Longfellow’s hand was raised.

“Don’t hit her again.”

Longfellow spun around in surprise, came up against Pud’s solid frame and backed away. Pud’s interference was totally unexpected.

“I told you to get the hell out!”

“I quit workin’ for ya the day I rode out here.”

Longfellow’s eyes went from his daughter to Pud.

“Are you horny for this fat cow? I’ve heard about men that liked fat meat. There’s even a whorehouse in Denver that keeps one or two. I’ve been thinking of taking this tub of grease—”

“Hush up your mouth!”

“Ho! Ho! So that’s the way the wind blows.”

“Pud—” Linus stood in the doorway. “McCall’s here with two other fellers.”

Longfellow looked alarmed, then issued the orders crisply.

“Get out there. See what they want.”

Pud looked at Arvella. Her eyes begged him not to leave.

“See what they want, Linus.”

“I didn’t tell Linus. I told you,” Longfellow said irritably. “And close the door.”

Pud didn’t move. And then heavy bootheels sounded on the plank floor of the store. The screen door slammed.

“Golly-damn! This is ’bout the sorriest Agency store I ever did see.” The voice had a Texas drawl.

A tall man in a Texas-style hat came to the door and Linus moved out of the way.

“Who’s in charge here?”

“I’m Mrs. Havelshell.” Arvella crossed the room.

“Marshal Cleve Stark, ma’am.” Cleve removed his hat. “Have you heard the news about your husband?”

“My father, Reverend Longfellow, just told me.”

Until now, Cleve had not looked at Longfellow although he had recognized the buggy and knew he was there. The man came forward and held out his pudgy hand.

“Reverend Henry W. Longfellow, Marshal.” He had the same pious look on his face that he wore in church. “I can see that you recognize my name and are wondering about my connection to my famous relative. We were cousins and close friends.” He chuckled. “Folks are always expecting me to render verse after verse of Henry’s poems. He’s been gone for a couple of years now. God rest his soul.”

“Golly-bill, Cleve! The little dude talks like a snake-oil salesman, and he cleans up pretty good, too.” Dillon lounged in the doorway with a crooked grin on his face. He lifted his nose and sniffed. “I do believe he got that horse-hockey washed off.”

Longfellow’s eyes hardened. He shot Dillon a look laced with enough venom to drop an elephant; but when he turned to the marshal, he wore an expression of regret.

“No need to apologize, Marshal. I understand brash young folk. I’m sorry you had to witness my loss of patience yesterday morning. I was out of my mind with worry over my son-in-law, Mr. Havelshell.”

Arvella backed up into a corner. The marshal, like everyone else, would be taken in by her father’s smooth talk. Her eyes sought Pud for reassurance. She didn’t understand why they were saying Alvin died in a fire. He was killed by the Indian boy. Linus had seen it, and Linus wouldn’t lie about it.

“Come outside.” Cleve beckoned to Longfellow.

“Of course.” Longfellow headed for the door, then turned to speak kindly to Arvella. “Get your things together, dear. I’ll take you home.”

Pud lingered after the men left the room.

“Are ya goin’ with him?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then ya won’t. Just sit tight. I’ll see what’s goin’ on.” Pud went through the store to the porch. He stopped so abruptly Linus bumped into him.

Longfellow stood with his arms around a porch post and his wrists shackled. A flood of foul language was spewing from his mouth.

“Goddamn you! What the hell are you doing? You sonofabitchin’ bastard! Folks won’t stand for you treating me like this.”

“Now, now, preacher. You ain’t never goin’ to get to heaven a-cussin’ like that.” The young Texan patted Longfellow on the head as he would a child. “Settle down, little feller. Ya just might pull this porch top down on ya if ya keep yankin’ on that post.”

“Get your hands off me, you ignorant, two-bit bastard!”

“That’s the second time ya called me that. Do it again and ya’ll go to that brand-new Federal pen in Laramie with yore chin between yore eyes and yore eyes tied on top a yore head.”

Pud and Linus gaped at Longfellow. He was livid with anger, but not so angry that he didn’t realize the tall blond deputy was dangerous when pushed.

“Stay with Arvella, Linus, so she’ll know what’s goin’ on.” Pud prodded the boy back into the store, then stepped off the porch.

“Howdy, McCall,” Pud said. “What this about?”

“You’ll have to ask the marshal. He’s the man in charge. His deputy is takin’ care of the prisoner.”

“Prisoner?”

“Marshal Stark, this is Pud,” Travor said. “Sorry, I can’t remember your other name.”

“Harris,” Pud said, and stuck out his hand.

“Are you and the boy the only men who work here?” Cleve asked as he shook Pud’s hand.

“There’s a couple of Indians that come in from time to time. Not much goin’ on until the cattle come in.”

“Were you here when the last allotment arrived?”

“No. I just hired on a couple months ago.”

“Do you know if anyone made a count?”

“Mrs. Havelshell keeps tab on what comes
here
,” Pud said.

“Glad to hear it. I’ll have a look at the books.”

“Will she have to leave right away?”

“I see no reason for it. It will take a month or so to get another agent here. McCall vouched for you—said he didn’t know ya, but folks in town said ya was pretty straight. I’d like ya to stay on and keep thin’s goin’ till then.”

Pud nodded. “Do ya mind tellin’ me what Longfellow’s done. Mrs. Havelshell’ll want to know.”

“I don’t mind tellin’ ya, and I’ll tell her before we go—that is, if she don’t already know it. Federal agents have been looking for him for a long time. Longfellow isn’t even his real name. It’s Morris. Clarence Morris. But he’s gone by half a dozen names. He killed a miner and stole the gold the man had worked for so he could bring his family out from Missouri. He’s a rustler and a swindler. He’s slicked more folks outta money than a dog’s got fleas. He and Havelshell have been helpin’ themselves to the Indians’ cattle. When I get him to the Territorial capital, he’ll be put away for a long while—if they don’t hang him.”

“Mrs. Havelshell had nothin’ to do with any of that.”

“I figured as much. Longfellow’s ranch will be sold to pay for what he has stolen. Havelshell was fixin’ to hightail it out of the country. I have a bag with papers and quite a bit of cash money. I’ll see to it that Mrs. Havelshell gets some of it.”

“Talk to her, Marshal. She’s a smart lady. I think ya’ll find out a bunch ya don’t know.”

“I’ll do that, Harris. Thanks for yore help. My deputy and I will take Longfellow to the Territorial prison. If ya can take care of things till I get back I’ll see yo’re paid by the Indian Agency.”

“Will ya be back before the herd gets here?”

“I ain’t knowin’. I understand they graze ’em on Stoney Creek land. If they come, get a tally from the army.”

“The army will bring ’em and go. It was Longfellow’s men who drove the cattle onto Indian land.” Pud’s homely face showed his contempt for the action. “I’m thinkin’ he figured I’d go along with the thievin’, is why he sent me out here. Indians is folks like us. Some good, some bad.”

“You acquainted with the tribe elders?”

“I’ve met up with a few of ’em. The Shoshoni are good drovers, but Havelshell wouldn’t let ’em off the reservation to drive their own cattle.”

“I don’t hold with that. There’s no reason a peaceful Indian can’t leave reservation land. Speak to the elders and tell them that there’ll be changes made here. I’d tell ’em myself if I didn’t have to take my prisoner to Laramie.” Cleve looked toward the porch where Longfellow was shackled. “Does Mrs. Havelshell have relatives nearby?”

“She ain’t got nobody, Marshal, but that little flimflammer. He married her to Havelshell, and they moved her out here to get her outta sight. Havelshell come out here once or twice a month is all. The boy in there is Havelshell’s kid. He’s taken a likin’ to Mrs. Havelshell and her to him. ’Tween the two of us, we’ll see to her.”

“Glad to hear it, Harris. I don’t like to see a woman left to fend for herself. Now, I’ll go have a talk with her.”

As soon as breakfast was over, Ike left to go to Forest City. Travor had offered him a five-dollar gold piece if he could get the preacher back here in two days’ time. Colleen considered that with help from Granny and Cassandra it would take that long to cut down and fit the dress that Jenny insisted she wear for her wedding.

“Please, please take it,” Jenny begged. “The clothes I brought from Baltimore belong to my former life. I’ll never wear them again.”

Marshal Stark and Dillon made ready to ride over to the Agency headquarters. They asked Travor to go along. Beatrice was delighted that Trell was settled in one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace. She brought him her hairbrush and insisted that he be the one to brush and braid her hair.

“I think Cassandra’s sweet on Dillon,” Jenny whispered to Trell.

“At nine? You Gray girls start lovin’ early.”

“We’re just smart enough to know when we’ve found the right man,” Jenny said, giving Trail’s arm a secret squeeze, “and I’m going to hang on to mine.”

Jenny wanted to go to the Indian camp and see Whit. She left Cassandra at the school and went to fetch the children. They were waiting and all stood as she approached. Whit was nowhere to be seen. Feeling anxious about him, but hesitating to convey her worry to Posy, Jenny led the children back to the school.

For the next few months the children would be taught English. They were more comfortable with Cassandra and watched her with large dark eyes. Whit had taught them to say “teacher.” Cassandra taught them one word at a time, then went back over the words she had taught them the day before. Yesterday they had learned two words—water and food. Today she was aiming for three—eat, sleep, drink.

The children were happily chanting, “Eat, sleep, drink,” when Whit came silently into the schoolroom and squatted on the floor, his back to the wall. Relief swept over Jenny. She went to talk with him, but she could tell that it was an effort to keep his head up and his eyes open.

“Whit? Are you all right?”

“I am here.”

“I can see that you are,” Jenny retorted, irritated at his logic.

“Did you and Head-Gone-Bad … do what you—” She knelt on the floor beside him.

“It is done.”

“I must talk to you.”

“Talk.”

“A marshal came yesterday.”

“White lawman no friend of the Indian.”

“He’s a good man—a friend of Trail’s.” Jenny eased down onto the floor beside the boy. “Whit, he said the agent’s house in Sweetwater burned to the ground. Folks think Havelshell died in the fire.”

“Folks are wrong.” The boy’s expression never changed.

“I told the marshall how Havelshell died. I hope you don’t mind. The marshal said as far as he was concerned the agent died in the fire.”

“He say so now. But later—”

“He has no proof that anything else happened. Just because I told him does not make it so. He
thinks
he has proof that Havelshell died in the fire.”

“How is that?”

“He has a tin star that Havelshell put in his pocket just before the fire. We don’t have to worry, Whit The marshal said you can leave the reservation anytime you want to. I want you to come live with us at Stoney Creek. Trell says we will build another cabin just for you. You can decide where you want it. The house your father built is yours, but we’ll have to use it while I fulfill the contract so that the land can’t be auctioned off. Whit—Whit?”

She looked at the boy, waiting for his response. His head was up, his hands clasped atop his upraised knees, his eyes half-closed.

He was sound asleep.

Shortly before noon the peddler, McGriff, arrived with crutches for Trell, an order he had filled at the store in Forest City for Jenny, and mail for both Jenny and Trell. McGriff declined the invitation to stay for the noon meal, saying that he had goods to deliver in Sweetwater and would stop again on his way back.