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Authors: Martin H. Greenberg

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BOOK: A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters
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“I’ll be back in a moment, guys,” she said softly. “Then we’ll get you out of all that tack and comfortable.”
Prudence had one boot on the wooden sidewalk when it hit her what she had seen in the eyes of the locals. Fear, yes, but fear mixed with something else, something she never expected.
That something else was relief. Relief that Prudence wasn’t whatever it was that had them so deeply concerned.
If they were that scared, she’d probably come to the right place, but could she get folk to talk to her? That was the biggest problem about going it alone. When Jake had been around, he did the talking to strangers. Now, bridging the gap was up to her.
Riding boots echoing on the boards, Prudence strode over to a shop that the neatly painted sign over the door announced was Eli’s Mercantile.
A round-faced man with a fringe of graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard looked up too fast from where he’d been counting stock. A round- faced little girl, fair-haired, probably no more than ten, jerked back behind the counter, then peeked around, her blue eyes wide as the western sky. Her rosebud mouth was working slightly. She smelled of peppermint.
“Afternoon,” Prudence said conversationally. “Mr. Eli, I need some supplies.”
“We’ve got ’em,” the man said, acknowledging his name with a slight dip of his head. “Grub over there, blankets there, ready-made clothes there.”
As Mr. Eli mentioned each category, he jerked his bearded chin in the general direction where the stock was shelved or stacked.
The shopkeeper gave Prudence and her unusual ornamentation a long look, then added, “Ammo and gun supplies are behind the counter. If you’re needing reloads I think I have what you’ll need. Looks like you’re carrying a .32 Smith & Wesson.”
Prudence nodded. “You’ve a good eye. I’ve a .56-.50 Spencer rifle out on my saddle. Could use reloads for that, too.”
“Got ’em, and you’re welcome to ’em.”
Prudence spent several minutes stacking items on the worn but lovingly polished wooden counter. Casually, she made certain that Mr. Eli caught a glimpse of her weighted coin purse, just to reassure him that she could pay. He’d been more polite than many she’d met, even when Jake was still around.
There’d been that about Jake that made people give him and Prudence service, even as they dripped disapproval.
The little blond girl watched intently as Prudence asked for coffee, bacon, and beans. For new socks. For a little bag of peppermint drops. Prudence ventured a smile. The little girl vanished behind the counter again.
The child had fair skin to go with her fair hair. She was surprisingly untanned for one who lived under the punishing southwestern sun. Prudence took a second look when the round face peeked out again. No. This child hadn’t always been kept away from the sun. Her fairness was that of tan fading, not of one who had always been kept inside or with her face ruthlessly shadowed by a sunbonnet.
That meant the little girl’s parents—Prudence took a look at Mr. Eli, now stiffly climbing a ladder behind the counter to reach something on an upper shelf—her grandparents must watch over her carefully.
Prudence felt her face tighten, remembering a time she had not watched carefully, a time she had failed, and someone else had paid the price.
When her purchases were spread on the counter, they dickered a bit over the prices. In the end, when Mr. Eli threw in a couple of cotton bandanas to sweeten the deal, Prudence felt that the mood was such that she could ask a few questions.
“Any news of the road?”
“What sort of news?”
“Trouble someone traveling alone should avoid,” Prudence said. Watching the shopkeeper carefully, she added, “Things like sheep being killed. Cattle, maybe, too, but definitely sheep or smaller domestic animals. Maybe a person or two going missing, especially a young person. Maybe a very old person, but more likely someone young.”
And fat, and tender . . .
Prudence thought, but didn’t say aloud.
Mr. Eli went tense. The little girl looked flat-out scared, but there was something else in her expression, something about the set of the chin that Prudence noticed.
Neither said anything. That lack of answer was almost as eloquent as a speech would have been.
Prudence gathered up her purchases. When Mr. Eli bent to help her with one of her bundles, Prudence slipped a bag of peppermint drops to the little girl.
“I followed a stream into town,” Prudence said as Mr. Eli was helping her load her purchases into Trick’s saddle bags. “Anyone mind too much if I camp there?”
“There’s a stand of cottonwood,” Mr. Eli said, not quite answering her questions. “When folks come in for market and don’t want to stay at the hotel for one reason or another, they often camp there.”
“Thank you,” Prudence said. “Good afternoon.”
She swung into the saddle, but didn’t head directly to that stand of cottonwoods. Instead, she found a reliable-looking livery stable and arranged to have Buck and Trick cleaned up and fed.
“I’m going for some grub,” Prudence said, sliding her rifle out of the saddle boot.
“You may leave your saddlebags here,” the hostler said. He was a short, thickset man, and his words were flavored with the music of a Spanish accent. “I will watch them for you.”
“Gracias,” Prudence said. Buck was a good judge of character, and the stallion was already lipping the hair on the hostler’s arm. Her bags would be safe. “I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“If you go to the hotel, ask for my niece, Maria,” the man said. “She waits tables there and does some of the cooking. She’ll set you up real good if you tell her Ricardo sent you.”
“I appreciate it,” Prudence said. “Let me get a few things from my bag. They’ll like me better in the dining room if I don’t have trail dust on me.”
Ricardo smiled a short, humorless smile. “They’ll like having you. Business, it has been slow.”
Ah,
Prudence thought.
That explains the welcome. Ricardo must have seen Mr. Eli helping me with my purchases. I bet the old man only does that for a cash customer. Good as a written reference then. When times are tough, even a woman in trousers is welcome if she can pay her way.
Ricardo turned to the horses. Prudence went over to the hotel.
A weary-looking young woman met her at the entry to the dining room.
“Ricardo told me I should ask for Maria,” Prudence said as the young woman escorted her to a good table.
The young woman smiled. “I am Maria. I will take good care of you here. The stove is a little cold, but I can do something with fresh eggs, bacon, tortillas, maybe some beans if you can wait just a little.”
“Is there a place I can wash up while I’m waiting?” Prudence asked.
“Oh, yes, if you don’t mind coming back to the kitchen. The boss is resting, but he wouldn’t mind, probably.”
Prudence pumped her own water and carried it to a little room off the kitchen. A short while later, face washed, braids coiled into a loose bun rather than looped at the base of her neck like she wore them on the road, dusty shirt and vest replaced with a clean blouse, she looked almost respectable—as long as no one looked under the table.
When Prudence re-emerged, Maria was doing something wonderful-smelling with not only the promised eggs and beans, but with onions, chiles, and cheese. Prudence nodded and went back to the dining room. There she chose a seat where she could overhear the conversation in the adjacent bar.
As Ricardo had indicated, there weren’t many customers. Except for Prudence, the dining room was empty. In the bar, three men were playing a lazy game of cards. The bartender was chatting with a fat man with printer’s ink staining his fingers.
They all noticed Prudence when she took her seat, but after she pulled out a Bible and began to read, they went back to their other activities.
Jake had taught her the Bible trick. The Bible wasn’t the kind of reading matter a “soiled dove” would favor. Nearly as good as having crossed eyes or spotty skin to keep the men away.
Jake . . .
This time the Bible didn’t work. Prudence smelled printer’s ink. Then a shadow spilled over the pages. The fat man was standing beside her table.
“May I join you?” he asked, and slid out the chair across from her without waiting for her reply.
He had the mellifluous tones of a professional preacher, squint lines around his eyes as if he did a lot of reading in poor light, and nothing of the unctuous manner Prudence had come to dread from the hucksters who went from town to town, pretending to be holy men.
“Mr. Eli at the mercantile said you were asking some mighty strange questions,” the fat man said.
Maria came in and set Prudence’s plate of eggs, bacon, and beans in front of her. She gave the fat man a fleeting smile.
“Coffee, Reverend Printer?”
“Yes. Black as night, sweet as sin,” the man answered, rolling his words with gusto, “and hot as hell . . .”
Maria giggled. Prudence guessed this was an old joke between them.
She rolled some of the bacon, beans, and eggs into a flour tortilla and took a bite. Heavenly. She ate another bite.
Maria looked inquiringly at Prudence.
“If this is what you do on the spur of the moment,” Prudence said, “I’m coming back when you’re ready. I’ll join the gentleman in a cup of coffee, and put his on my bill.”
“I thank you,” the man said, when Maria had left, “for your hospitality. I started poorly. Let me introduce myself. My name is Gerald Holman. I am an ordained Lutheran minister, but I am also the editor of the local newspaper.”
“Thus the nickname,” Prudence said.
“As you say. As editor of the local paper, I was interested when a prominent local citizen told me a curious tale.”
“Did he bring it to you?”
“No. I stopped in for some supplies. Eli was still trying to figure you out.”
Prudence smiled. “Good luck to him. I’m Prudence Bledsloe, by the way.”
“Of?”
“Currently, that stand of cottonwoods down by the stream, if no one objects.”
Reverend Printer’s eyebrows rose. Prudence knew her choice of doss would create comment, but comment was what she wanted.
“No one should object,” Reverend Printer said. “Now, Eli said you were asking about . . .”
A loud, almost human scream from outside interrupted him. Prudence’s table was next to a window. They leaned forward as one to get a better line of sight.
A muscular, stocky man was walking down the middle of the street, leading two pack ponies. Or rather, trying to lead two ponies.
One pony had apparently been struck by a rock and was now trying to bolt. Only the handler’s considerable strength kept it from doing so. A laughing group of men on the porch of the saloon across the plaza made amply clear where the rock had come from.
Despite being dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, the man now quieting the frightened pack pony was obviously an Indian—Navajo or Apache, Prudence guessed. He wore his dark hair to brush his shoulders, beneath a high-crowned hat that shaded the sculptured lines of his face.
“Nathan Yaz,” Reverend Printer said quietly. “He’s courting Maria—the woman who cooked your lunch.”
“He doesn’t seem overly welcome,” Prudence said.
That was an understatement. None of the several people watching Nathan Yaz’s ordeal were coming to his aid. A tall man wearing a sheriff’s star pointedly turned and walked into the nearest building.
“We’ve had Indian trouble lately.” Reverend Printer said, pushing back his chair and heading for the door.
Prudence thought about joining the minister, but decided that the appearance of a woman in trousers might only make matters worse.
She settled for easing open the window and resting her rifle barrel on the sill. She was a good shot, and if those rock-throwing drunks threw another rock, a warning shot might make them think twice.
But there was no more trouble. Reverend Printer escorted Nathan Yaz around the side of the hotel. There was a sound of angry voices from the kitchen. When these quieted, he returned, bearing the coffee pot.
Prudence had already slid her rifle back under the table, but kept it where she could get to it quickly.
When Reverend Printer had filled her cup and resumed his seat, she asked quietly, “Indian trouble?”
“Sheep killed—messily. Cattle stolen. In a few cases, cows were found mutilated. Worse, a little boy who lived on one of the outlying ranches disappeared. Later, a little girl, not more than three, also went missing. Her mother—a reliable woman—claimed the child had been stolen out of her bed.”
“And folks are sure it’s Indians?” Prudence said.
“Who else?” Reverend Printer’s tired voice said that he knew there were other options, but also that in a case like this people took sides along race lines pretty fast. “Rustlers would sell cattle, not butcher them. Still, until the children vanished, it could have been rustlers. When the children started going missing, well . . . Everyone knows that the Indians keep slaves.”
“So did white folk,” Prudence said softly, “not that long ago.”
“I know. I know.”
“So that’s why Nathan Yaz got such a warm welcome?”
“Not so long ago the Navajo were the enemy,” Reverend Printer said. “Never mind that they’ve been relocated to lands where it’s a full time job keeping body and soul together. People don’t forget.”
“Neither have the Navajo, I bet,” Prudence said. “They’re going to be saying things like, ‘Look. We live peacefully, and still they blame us. Why should we stay peaceful? What is there to gain?’ ”
“So you can see why I wondered at you coming to town as you did, asking questions like you did,” Reverend Printer said. “As editor of the local paper, I’ve been exercising a little censorship, playing down the sensationalism, but people do talk.”
BOOK: A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters
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