Crazy Woman Creek (16 page)

“All the downstream towns reported back yet?” asked Luke, changing the subject.

“Every last one.” Sheriff Morris sat up again in his chair and, using a rusty nail he’d pulled from his pocket, began scraping the grunge beneath his fingernails.

Luke knew there was no need to ask for elaboration. If any of the downstream towns near the creek had reported finding a body or personal effects thereof, Cyrus would have told him by now.

“No one’s seen hide nor hair of James Rose,” said Luke, stating the obvious. Lost in thought, he looked beyond the sheriff to the street, though his mind was far from the sights and sounds on the other side of the grimy window. A lumber wagon rumbled slowly down Main Street and stopped in front of the sheriff’s office to let some shoppers on foot cross from one boardwalk to the other. “And he left his house without a weapon.”

“I told you he was in a hurry when he left. How long it been now? I don’t keep track.”

“Twelve weeks last Saturday,” said Luke. Then, as if realizing for the first time the full import of what that meant, he said, “Doesn’t it bother you that after three months his body hasn’t been found floating downstream from where we found his horse?”

“Obviously it bothers you.” Sheriff Morris didn’t look up as he said this, just kept his eyes on his fingernails, scraping away.

“His body, or what’s left of it, should have surfaced by now,” said Luke, thinking aloud.

“S’pose so
.” 

“Even if a wolf or coyote got him, there’d be bones.”

“Uh huh,” mumbled the sheriff. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly in a smirk. Slowly he said, “Which reminds me: Some folk around this town think the Roses got a wolf problem of another sort.”

Luke became rigid in his chair. “What do you mean?” But Luke suspected he knew. His heart beat a little faster and his breathing quickened. Instantly his deal with the Slocombs surfaced in his mind. He hoped that the elder Slocombs had kept their promise not to speak to anyone about his payments to Ben. But to deflect any interest the sheriff might show in his reaction to the bait he’d thrown his way, Luke made a pretense of reviewing the notes he’d just made, keeping his eyes trained on his paperwork to avoid
eye contact with Cyrus.

Sheriff Morris slipped the rusty nail back into his pocket and sat up a little straighter. “Finding a dead James Rose would make things easier for you.”

The sheriff’s statement was so replete with innuendo that it took Luke off guard. Frantically he cast about trying to form a safe response. “Finding James Rose would make things easier for everyone,” he said, this time turning toward the sheriff to show he wouldn’t be intimidated, “most of all, his wife.”

The sheriff gave Luke a skeptical look.

“And it would free us to move on to other tasks,” added Luke, knowing how lame he sounded and hoping his face didn’t give him away. His heart beat so hard he feared that Cyrus could hear it from where he sat across the room.

A stagecoach pulled by four brindled horses flashed past the window just then. The dust they kicked up was so thick that even through the closed door Luke imagined the taste of it in his mouth.

“Other tasks?” asked the sheriff in an oily tone. The smirk was back. “And what task would you move on then?”

“If you got a pebble too big for your gizzard,” said Luke, annoyed, “spit it out.” He knew where this was going, but he deemed himself man enough to defend himself from Cyrus’ insinuations or whatever silly gossip was going around town. Not only that, he had a clear conscience. No mud could stick on him.

“Buffalo has a number of ugly widows that need assistance,” said the sheriff, coyly, “but you picked the prettiest one in the Territory to investigate.”

“I didn’t pick her.
She
picked
us
. She came to us, remember? None of the ugly ones have come looking for our help in finding a missing husband. And Cyrus, if they do,” Luke said, drawing out his words for effect, “they’re all yours.”

Sheriff Morris laughed and Luke smiled, mostly from relief that the interrogation had lightened up.

“Well,” said the sheriff, getting up to pour a third cup of coffee, “you realize you showed up here in town the same time Rose went missing. People love a good story. Some are making hay of the coincidence.”

“They’re connecting me to his disappearance?” Luke was stunned at this news. Heretofore he’d worried that others might link him to Mrs. Rose in a romantic way. Such a notion had been front and center in his thinking of late. But he had never had an inkling that someone might think he had anything to do with the disappearance of her husband. It was an absurd notion, unfounded, outrageous in the extreme. How could anyone suggest such a tenuous connection between dots located so far apart? One man comes to town and another goes missing. If anyone saw a relationship between these two events it was because they wanted to.

Sheriff Morris sat down with his cup of coffee. He took a long, noisy slurp. “Like I said, people are always hungry for a good story. Pretty young woman. Handsome young deputy. Kidnap. Murder. Missing body. Now all we need is a murder weapon and a bag full of gold coins to make a happy ever after.”

Luke was incredulous. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I know,” said the sheriff. “But it keeps the womenfolk busy.” He chuckled to himself. For a moment neither lawman spoke. Sheriff Morris took another noisy slurp of coffee. “You’re new in town Luke. People don’t know you real well. You make a good target for gossip.”

Luke’s heart skipped a beat. Did Cyrus know him well enough not to be suspicious? Was this a fishing expedition? Is that why Cyrus threw out the bit about a wolf?

“
You
know me,” said Luke, trying not to sound defensive. “You got my credentials from Sheriff Clarke before you hired me.”

“Yeah,” said Sheriff Morris, eyeing Luke over the top of his cup. “I know what he told me.”

It seemed to Luke that his boss enjoyed this charade, toying with Luke like a soul on a string suspended over the flames of Dante’s Inferno.

In that instant the office door handle turned and through the doorway ran a boy about eight years old. His faded, too small, cotton shirt was open at the neck, his hole-y pants were held up with rope, his hair needed a good shampoo, he was barefoot, and he was out of breath. He shut the office door with a whack, making every window in the room rattle, not just the window on the door.

“Hey, what’s the ruckus?” growled Sheriff Morris.

“I gotta talk to the deputy,” said the boy, unmoved by the adult’s obvious displeasure. His
sweaty chest heaved from running. “I got a telegraph message for him,” he said, panting, “from my pa.”

“I’m Deputy Davies,” said Luke, standing up. “Who’s your pa?”

“Mr. Aeschelman.”

Luke walked to where the messenger boy stood by the sheriff’s desk. The boy pulled a grubby envelope from the pocket of his pants. It had been folded several times over. Luke pulled a penny from his pocket and handed it to the boy.

“Thank you,” he said, breathless. He handed Luke the telegraph message and ran out the door as fast as he had come in, slamming it just as bone jarringly as he had when he entered.

Luke stood in front of the sheriff’s desk and looked at the envelope.

“What?” said the sheriff. “Who’s it from?”

“It’s from Fort Laramie.”

“Yeah?”

“I telegraphed Sheriff Clarke about Sam Wright a while back.”

“What for?”

“Because Mrs. Rose is looking to hire him to help on her ranch till her husband returns.” Luke regretted the last four words the minute they left his lips. “I want to know if he has more vices than just liquor.”

Sheriff Morris shook his head in disgust. “That’s not the kind of help she came to us for.”

Luke
gave the sheriff a determined look that made it clear he would not incriminate himself. He pulled a knife from his pocket and used it to slit the envelope. He removed the single sheet of paper inside, unfolded it, and began to read silently.

“Well?” demanded the sheriff.

Luke began to read aloud:

Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, June 25, 1880

Deputy Davies:

I apologize for
the delay in responding to your inquiry. I have been overtaken by pressing concerns related to the current flurry of exercises at Fort Laramie.

Samuel Theodore Wright born Richmond, Virginia 1838. Implicated in the beating death of
a Leesburg, Virginia woman, 1859. Insufficient evidence to convict. Implicated in suspicious death of his wife, Amelia Flora Wright, Alexandria, 1861. Insufficient evidence to convict. Known to have a vile temper. As you are already aware, he has been arrested multiple times for public drunkenness at the settlement here by Fort Laramie.

I trust you have settled in comfortably in Buffalo. I am sure you are of great assistance to Sheriff Morris. Let us know how you are faring.

Cordially
,

Sheriff Hiram Clarke

“A baby? That’s not possible!” Lenora trembled with the shock of Dr. Biggerstaff’s diagnosis. “I’ve been married four years. I’m not able to conceive.”

Across his desk Dr. Biggerstaff raised his eyebrows. His hands were clasped, resting in the center of sloppy mounds of paperwork along with his churchwarden pipe, his stethoscope, and various other medical oddments. His glasses slipped down his nose. With an absent shove of an index finger he pushed them up again.

“Well, you can and you have,” he said gently, smiling a small, guarded smile. “However, I wish you had come in sooner, like I asked. This could have been avoided. You’re not well.” His smile disappeared.

Lenora sat across from him flushing with embarrassment, mostly because the doctor had asked so many personal questions. Perhaps she should have come to see him after she had fainted in church, but financial matters were such a sticky wicket, and she had had no reason to believe she was in a family way. 

But above all else she was in a panic, her thoughts running in every direction like wild horses out the barn door of her mind. How would she care for the ranch
and
a baby without James? How would she meet all the financial obligations that came with a new mouth to feed? Being in a family way meant she must no longer dawdle. She must hire Sam Wright immediately if she had any hope of keeping the ranch. Then again, when it came to the ranch, was she being bone headed? Was it wise to waste her limited energy and dwindling bank account trying to hang onto the ranch? Should she ask her family in New York for help? Should she lease the ranch and move into town? Maybe she should consider taking in boarders. Or should she sell the ranch and move back East? Why oh why had James run off and left her with all these difficult decisions?

Lenora bent her head and covered her eyes with her hand to think. She felt very small. But mostly she felt alone, acutely alone, like a speck of driftwood in a vast sea, tossed to and fro, no power of its own to dictate its course. Things just happened to her, outside her control and without reason. Life was grinding her to powder. Where was God? What had she done to deserve so much
loss and sorrow? Did God hate her? Surely He was punishing her for her sins.

She felt a rush of heat behind her ears. She began to weave in her chair. It was difficult to sit up straight. Blackness encroached upon the area behind her eyes.

“Lenora! Here, put your head between your legs.” Dr. Biggerstaff jumped up from his chair and rushed around his desk to her aid.

Lenora found it easy to obey, letting herself fall forward in her chair. The doctor leaned over her, both hands on her shoulders.

“You’re staying in town tonight. I’m going to get you a room at the Occidental,” he said.

“No!” Lenora jerked her head sideways to speak. Intuitively she knew that if she stayed away from her ranch even for a short time, slowly she would lose her hold on it altogether and with it, James’ dream and hers. “I have to get back to my ranch.” 

“You’re not fit to travel. You need to be in bed at least a week to stop the bleeding. And you are so thin. I can feel nothing but bones in these shoulders. Now put your head back down and be still before you end up on the floor.” Dr. Biggerstaff’s tone was firm but not unkind.

After a
bit the doctor left Lenora’s side and busied himself, opening and closing a cabinet somewhere in the back of his small office. In a few seconds he returned, wafting an exceedingly sharp, foul smelling rag under her nose, redolent of ammonia, which caused her to wince and shrink back. Whatever was on the rag cleared her mind at once. Still woozy, she forced herself to sit up. She let her reticule float on her lap while she gripped the edge of the chair with both hands to steady herself. She was embarrassed to be so incapacitated in the doctor’s presence. Through the door the mantle clock in the parlor chimed twelve times to mark noon.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, looking up at the doctor. “I have Ben Slocomb in the evenings to do chores. And I’ll hire Sam Wright. Today. I’ll hire him today. He can come in the mornings.”