The Bride's Prerogative (5 page)

But that seemed to be the hand God had dealt him. He frowned and pulled his hat off so he could scratch his head. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right to think of God dealing him a poker hand.

“You understand, Lord,” he mumbled. “It’s what You gave me, I reckon. So I guess that means I have to play it out.”

He sighed and turned back to the school yard. He’d left his paint gelding tied to the hitching rail there before the funeral. Little did he expect when he’d left his ranch this morning to come home a lawman. He might never get that fence strung.

Scout stood with his head drooping, sound asleep.

“Hey, fella.”

The paint whickered as Ethan untied the lead rope and stowed it in his saddlebag. He took out the bridle and held the bit up. The gelding smiled then opened his teeth enough for the curb to slip into his mouth. Ethan slid the headstall over Scout’s ears and buckled the throat latch. He stood stroking the horse’s long, sleek neck for a moment, knowing he was stalling.

At last, he tightened the cinch and swung into the saddle. Scout minced around toward the ranch. “Not yet, boy. We got one more stop to make.” Ethan reined him the other way, toward the center of town.

The main street seemed strangely subdued in the waning afternoon. Half the buildings stood empty since the bust that had followed the gold rush, but usually folks were about this time of day. Ethan guessed they’d either had enough socializing at the funeral or had gathered in small groups indoors to keep discussing the recent events.

Scout’s hoofbeats echoed off the facade of the three-story building that used to be a boardinghouse. Those were the days, when the miners poured into town to have their gold dust weighed and find a hot meal and a stiff drink. But the boardinghouse had stood vacant for nigh on ten years. Ethan had been only eleven when his family moved here, but the town’s population had been at least triple what it was now. He remembered the time when three general stores served the needs of the hundreds of miners with claims in the area.

A few of the old buildings had been cannibalized for lumber, but most were still owned by someone who objected to such activity. In fact, a large proportion of the vacant buildings were owned by Cyrus Fennel. He’d bought up a lot of property, in town and outside it, when the boom collapsed. Cyrus kept saying the town would prosper again and then he’d make a fortune selling the storefronts and empty houses. And if anyone tried to steal lumber off one of his buildings, Cyrus put the law on them. Ethan wondered if he’d have to lock people up for pilfering boards. Lumber was in high demand here.

He came to the jail and pulled gently on the reins. Scout obliged by stopping. Ethan gazed toward the weathered building. No smoke puffed from the chimney, and from outside, the jail looked like one more abandoned house.

Scout shook his head and nickered.

“Take it easy, fella.” The saddle leather creaked as Ethan lowered himself to the ground. He felt old today. He was only twenty-nine—at least, he thought it was twenty-nine. That or thirty. But he felt like an old man.

Was it because Bert Thalen was fixing to be an old man, and now Ethan had to take the old man’s place? The town had always had an old sheriff. Ethan remembered Sheriff Rogers from back when he was a kid. Rogers had supposedly been the first sheriff, elected when the young town erupted with gold seekers. Then Rogers retired, back in ‘70, and the town elected Bert in his place. Bert had quit placer mining by then and taken up ranching. He must have already been over forty then.

Ethan tied his horse to the hitching rail and looked up at the gray sky. “All right, Lord, I guess I’ve got to be sheriff. But I don’t have to be old, do I?”

He strode purposefully toward the jail, refusing to enter like a doddering oldster. He flung the door open. The dim interior smelled of ashes and scorched beans. A pan with crusted-on food sat on the cold stove. The door of the single cell was open, just as it had been yesterday. Inside, a wooden bunk was attached to the far wall, which had a small barred window. A straw tick and a chamber pot were the only other amenities.

Ethan glanced around the outer room. Across from the stove stood Bert’s desk and a chair. In one corner, a stool sat beneath several posters tacked to the wall. Hanging from a nail was a large key Ethan assumed went to the cell door. A kerosene lantern hung from the ceiling. Another window—also barred—shed a little light on the surface of the desk. A few sheets of paper and a tin can holding a pencil lay on the scarred desktop.

He walked four paces to the door of the small back room. Bert’s bunk—where Ethan would probably spend more nights than he wanted to—took half the floor space. On the bare board floor beside it, a dark, irregular stain marked the spot where Bert’s smashed head had rested. A shelf held two cups, two tin plates, assorted silverware, a bullet mold, a can of kerosene, and a tobacco tin. In one corner, a mismatched china bowl and pitcher sat on a low stand, and near it on the wall, a grayish towel and one of Bert’s flannel shirts hung from pegs.

Ethan felt the small room closing in on him. His ranch house, with two snug bedchambers, a loft above, and a huge, open kitchen and sitting room, would make three of this jailhouse. He inhaled deeply and recalled Gert’s words to him at the school. He wouldn’t have to stay here unless he had prisoners.

“Thank You for that, Lord.”

Yesterday the old sheriff had lain on his back, here by the bunk, with his feet sprawled right about where Ethan stood. He stepped aside quickly, then gave himself a mental kick in the backside. He couldn’t avoid the spot where Bert died forever. He’d have to sleep in the dead man’s bunk.

“At least I can wash the bedding and clean up that bloodstain.” He stepped forward, deliberately planting his boots where Bert’s body had lain on the planks, and yanked the crazy quilt off the bunk. Beneath was only another straw tick. A small pillow covered with a linen case lay at one end, and he shook the pillow out and wrapped the case up in the quilt. Dust filled the air and set him coughing. If it ever warmed up outside, he’d empty out the tick and the pillow and fill them with new straw.

Bert probably never dusted or swept this place. Ethan had yet to see a broom, though there must be one somewhere. He walked back into the outer room, seeking the tools he needed. A bucket half full of water sat between the stove and the wood box. He hadn’t noticed it before. He could get more water and scrub the floor in there. And if he couldn’t find a broom, he could walk over to Hiram’s and ask to borrow Gert’s.

He opened the stove and stooped over the wood box. Plenty of kindling, but tinder seemed in short supply. He grabbed a split log and began peeling off slivers and placing them in a strategic heap in the belly of the stove. Over them he built a tepee of kindling sticks. Bert had left a matchbox conveniently on the back of the wood box. Ethan lit the tinder and blew to coax the tiny flames.

He eased the stick he’d taken the splinters from into the stove, then stretched to reach another log. As he started to put it in the stove, he looked at the stick and jumped back, dropping it. The firewood clattered to the floor, thunking his knee on the way down.

Ethan stared down at the stick of wood. Slowly he stooped and retrieved it. He held it up by one end, like he would a gopher snake by its tail. The dark blotch wasn’t much—just a reddish smear on the edge of the light, rough wood. As he brought it closer and peered at it, he nearly gagged. A clump of graying hair was lodged in the dark spot where a sliver had split from the rest of the log.

“Ethan?”

He jumped and turned toward the doorway. Hiram ambled toward him, frowning. His gaze traveled to the firewood and back to Ethan’s face.

“I found this in the wood box.” It sounded stupid. Ethan stepped toward his friend and held out the split log. “See that?” He pointed to the dark patch and the hairs.

Hiram raised his eyebrows. He reached out and took the two-foot piece of wood by the other end.

“It must have been there last night when we took Bert out of here,” Ethan said.

Hiram nodded. “Musta been.”

“Yeah. Must have.” Ethan swallowed hard. “Good thing we didn’t build the fire up and toss it in the stove without noticing.”

Hiram’s eyes were plain gray in the dim light. “How come …?”

“What?” Ethan tried to follow Hiram’s thoughts as he studied the wood again. “That’s got to be Bert’s hair and blood.”

Hiram nodded again.

“I wonder if there were wood slivers in his scalp.” The thought bothered Ethan. They should have paid more attention. “Someone hit Bert with that stick of fir.”

Hiram eyed Ethan thoughtfully. “Not his heart.”

“I’d say not.”

Hiram pursed his lips and said nothing.

“If it’d been a woman, we’d have had the ladies lay her out,” Ethan said. “They’d have changed her clothes and washed the body. They’d have cleaned the wound in the back of his head—her head. Oh, you know what I mean, Hi. They’d have noticed things.”

The gunsmith nodded and scrunched his face up in distaste. “Gert said as much. Said we ought have changed Bert’s shirt. But he was wearing his best one when he died.”

“If we had, maybe we’d have looked closer. Did you notice anything odd about that gash on the back of his head?”

“Only that there wasn’t any blood on the edge of the bunk where everyone said he must’ve hit his head.”

“Yeah.” Ethan walked over to Bert’s desk and sat down in the oak chair behind it. “I guess I wanted it to be that way. There wasn’t anything in the room that could have been a weapon. I didn’t want to think someone did him in.”

“Nobody wanted to,” Hiram said.

“We could ask Griff. Maybe he noticed something.”

“He’da said so.”

Ethan nodded. Hiram was talking more than he had in years, but the things he said were small comfort.

“All right, what do we do? There’s nobody to tell.” Hiram laid the stick of wood carefully on top of the desk so that the stained end stuck out off the edge.

Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. He hated being the sheriff. Less than two hours, and the job already scared him silly. Was a murder investigation his first duty? “All right, let’s think about this. Maybe there’s a U.S. marshal somewhere in the territory.”

Hiram shrugged. “Boise, maybe?”

“Yeah. I’ll send a telegraph message to Boise. That’s good thinking, Hi. I’ll ask who the territorial lawman is.”

That settled, Ethan felt much better. He stood up. “Right. Let me finish building that fire. While the water for scrubbing the floor heats, I’ll go to the telegraph office. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.” He looked at the stove. The door still stood wide open, and his little kindling pile was consumed. The flames had vanished, leaving the one split log forlornly smoldering.

He stepped toward the wood box, but Hiram put out a hand to stop him. “Go.” Hiram reached down for another supply of kindling.

“Right.” Ethan strode to the door and looked back. “Thanks.”

CHAPTER 6

T
hat evening, Ethan walked to the mayor’s house. He’d sent his terse telegram. After that, Hiram had helped him clean up the jail, though they couldn’t completely get rid of the blood stain on the floor in the back room. Gert had offered him a small rag rug the Dooleys had used by their back door for some time. It neatly covered the spot.

He’d ended up eating at Hiram and Gert’s again. Ethan had to admit, Gert Dooley did two things very well: cook and shoot. He’d have to be careful not to wear out his welcome in her kitchen now that he’d be spending more time in town. The three of them had agreed over coffee and bread pudding that he needed to advise the mayor that he’d found evidence of foul play and initiated contact with the U.S. marshal.

The Walkers had a comfortable frame house on Main Street. It boasted a wide front porch and yellow paint, which made it stand out from all the weathered board buildings. Lantern light glowed through the checked curtains. Ethan knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, Orissa opened it. Her hair, as usual, was fixed in a high bun that seemed to pull her face up into a tight grimace.

“The mayor’s not home.” Mrs. Walker never referred to her husband as Charles. He was always
my husband, the mayor
, or
Mr. Walker
.

“Where might I find him, ma’am?”

She huffed her displeasure. “I’m sure I don’t know.” Ethan took that to mean Walker was at one of the saloons. Where else would Fergus men go in the evening?

“Thank you kindly.” He descended the steps and headed south on Main. The mayor being the mayor—and having to maintain his civic dignity—Ethan figured he would choose the Spur & Saddle over the Nugget.

As he passed a few businesses now closed for the night, some homes with lanterns glowing inside, and as many empty storefronts, the burden of his new office settled on his shoulders.

People complained about the noise and carryings-on at the Nugget. A lot. Would he have to wade through the drunks every Saturday night and attempt to keep order? Maybe he’d have a talk with Jamin Morrell before his first Saturday night as sheriff rolled around. It was only two days distant, which didn’t give him much time to strategize. What did Bert do about the Nugget? Ethan always spent weekends quietly on his ranch, beyond the reach of the music and shouting, but he’d heard people talk about it. Miners and cowboys rode miles on Saturday to sample the offerings of the tiny town of Fergus.

He gained the boardwalk in front of Bitsy Shepard’s establishment. The murmur of conversation reached him as he opened the door. Cigar smoke wafted through the air. The scent of a good dinner lingered, and the quiet atmosphere almost comforted him. A man could come here without embarrassment. He could even bring his wife, if he had one, on Sunday when Bitsy closed the bar and served a fried chicken dinner to all and sundry. Once when they rode fence together on opposite sides of their property line, Bert Thalen had told him that he was seldom called to the Spur & Saddle. Bitsy ran a tight ship, with Augie Moore as a competent bosun. Ethan understood that to mean that Augie didn’t take any nonsense from the patrons.

Bitsy herself worked the room tonight. As Ethan entered, she stood next to a table where three men were seated. All were focused on Bitsy, who had changed her deep red funeral wear for a shimmering blue and silver dress with a plunging neckline. Other than that, the dress was quite modest, and Ethan tried to keep his attention on those other features. Even so, he nearly stepped on young Goldie, who carried a tray of drinks toward a table of card players in the corner.

“Oh, excuse me, miss.” He jumped back out of Goldie’s path.

“Don’t mind if I do, Sheriff.” Goldie gave him a saucy smile, and Ethan blushed to his hairline.

Walker sat at the table Bitsy graced with her presence, so Ethan turned in that direction, being more careful where he stepped. The room held a dozen ranch hands and miners, in addition to a handful of the town pillars. One of the pillars beckoned to him.

“Say, Sheriff, how are things in town this evening?” Cyrus Fennel called as he approached.

“Quiet so far, Mr. Fennel.”

“Glad to hear it.” Cyrus took a puff on his cigar and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Mr. Walker, I’d like to talk to you, if you’ve got a minute,” Ethan said to the mayor, who sat on Fennel’s left.

Bitsy smiled at the men. “Well, enjoy your drinks, gents. Bring you anything, Sheriff?”

“No thanks, ma’am.”

She nodded and moved away, greeting the cowhands at the next table as though they were long-lost relatives.

“What is it, Chapman?” The mayor’s shrill voice almost made Ethan smile. How many times had he imitated that tone to make Hiram laugh? The realization that he now answered to the mayor, when this morning he’d answered to no man, made his stomach churn. That and the cigar smoke.

“It’s about Bert Thalen.”

“God rest his soul,” said Oscar Runnels, who ran a freight business consisting largely of several dozen pack mules.

“What about him?” The mayor cradled his glass between his hands and smiled up at Ethan as though he hadn’t a care in this world, which he probably didn’t, this far from Mrs. Walker.

“Well, I …” Ethan glanced at Cy Fennel and Oscar Runnels, suddenly wondering if he’d ought to spill all he knew in public. “Could I have a private word with you, sir?”

“Official town business at this time of night?” The mayor’s voice escalated into a whine. “Just spit it out, Chapman. Is it about Bert’s personal property?”

“No, sir. It’s about … about how he died.”

“Hit his head,” said Fennel.

“That’s right.” Walker nodded vigorously, almost slopping his drink. “And we gave him a right good sendoff this afternoon.”

“Well, sir …” Ethan saw that the miners and poker players had begun to take an interest in their conversation. He pulled up a chair and sat down so he could lean close to Walker and drop his voice. “It’s true his head hit on something, all right, or rather, something hit his head. And I think I’ve found out what that something was.”

The three men at the table stared at him. The others in the room had resumed their conversations, and Augie poured another round for two men leaning on the bar.

“Not his bunk bed?” Cyrus asked.

Ethan shifted his gaze to Fennel. The man’s steely eyes made his neck prickle. Best to bring in the fact that Hiram could corroborate what he’d found. “No, sir. Hiram Dooley and I set out to redd up the jailhouse after the funeral, and we found a stick of firewood with blood and hair on the end of it, like someone had been smacked hard with it.”

Fennel took a quick drink from his glass. The mayor continued to stare, but Runnels asked, “Where’d you find this here stick of wood?”

“Er, yes,” Walker added.

“In the wood box beside the jailhouse stove.”

The three sat in silence for a moment. Ethan waited for them to say something. He hadn’t ever thought about it much, but Cyrus often seemed to speak when the mayor was addressed. Sure enough, he spoke next.

“If that was used as a weapon against someone, why didn’t the person who used it throw it in the stove and burn it up?” Cyrus asked.

“That I don’t know, sir.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

Ethan gulped. He remembered Gert saying, ‘I think the mayor chose the right man for the job.’ But what did Gert know anyway? Guns and bread dough, yes. But law enforcement? She knew as much as he knew about tatting lace, which was nothing.

“I’ve sent a telegram to Boise,” he managed. Fennel and Walker looked at each other.

“That’s probably best,” the mayor said grudgingly.

“Are they going to send a deputy marshal up here?” Cyrus again had the probing questions.

“I haven’t heard back yet.”

“I suppose we should inventory Bert’s things,” Oscar said.

“Yes, we should.” Cyrus picked up his glass. “I told the mayor earlier that I went by Bert’s place this afternoon to make sure his livestock was all right and there weren’t any animals in the barn. His horse is over at the livery. The cattle will be all right in the pasture for a day or two, but we need to make sure no one steals them or the things in his house.”

The mayor nodded decisively. “That’s a good job for you to do tomorrow, Chapman. Take a couple of fellows with you and list everything of value.” He turned to Cyrus. “Where’s Bert’s son living now?”

“Oregon City, I think.”

Ethan cleared his throat. “I guess I can get an inventory made and send it to him. Peter Nash would have his address at the post office.”

“Well, there’s not much else we can do, is there?” Walker took a deep swallow that emptied his glass. He set it on the table with a thump. “I need to get home, gentlemen.” He rose and donned his hat. “Sheriff, keep me informed.”

Cyrus and Oscar pushed their chairs back. Ethan surmised the interview was over. As Fennel pushed past him, he said, “Yes, Chapman. If there’s going to be federal lawmen coming here, we need to be prepared.”

Ethan stared after them, holding his hat. Didn’t they care that Bert was murdered? Weren’t they anxious to have the killer apprehended? They didn’t seem worried about anything except government men coming to Fergus and upsetting their routine.

“So Bert’s death wasn’t an accident.”

He turned his head. Bitsy stood at his elbow, looking at the door where the men had just exited.

Ethan wished Walker had let him tell him in private. Too late now. Everyone at Bitsy’s place knew, and the news would be all over town within an hour.

Libby hurried down the stairs Friday morning to let Florence in at the back door of the Paragon Emporium. Punctual as usual, Florence untied and removed her bonnet, revealing the rusty red locks that clashed with her rosy cheeks.

“Miz Adams, you’ll never guess what Myra Harper told me this morning.”

Libby smiled as she headed for the counter. Her daily preparations for business would take most of the half hour that remained before opening time.

“You’re probably right, Florence, so just tell me.”

“The sheriff was murdered.”

Libby stopped in her new high-topped, eleven-button calfskin boots and eyed her clerk cautiously. “Bert Thalen was murdered?”

“Well, sure. Not the
new
sheriff.”

“I should hope not.”

Florence giggled. “Me, too. Sheriff Chapman’s a sight cuter’n Sheriff Thalen ever was.”

Libby tried to scowl at her but failed. Ethan
was
a well-favored young man, and she supposed it was only natural for eighteen-year-old Florence to sigh over him, though Ethan probably had ten or twelve years on her.

“Now, Florence, don’t speak ill of the dead. After all, you’ve no idea how Bert Thalen looked thirty years ago. Could be he was the handsomest man in the territory.”

The girl giggled again as she hung up her bonnet. “I doubt that, ma’am. He was a nice man, but handsome he was not.”

Libby sobered. “So, someone killed him? It wasn’t an accident?”

Florence sidled up to the counter, puffed up with importance. “Myra stopped at the post office for her daddy’s mail, and she asked Papa if he’d heard.” Florence’s father, Peter Nash, kept the post office on the family’s front porch, and Florence was privy to a lot of gossip. “She said she had it from her father, and that he’d heard it from the mayor, who got it straight from Ethan Chapman last evening. Someone clobbered the old sheriff over the head with a stick of his own firewood.”