Friends and Enemies (23 page)

“What happened?” she gasped.

“Mr. Moraine met him at the depot and called him out!”

“He did what?”

The dark-headed Quintin Troop stared down at his dusty black boots. Quint was a year older than Little Frank but a good four inches shorter. “He tried to provoke him into a gunfight.”

“When?”

“Mr. Landusky at the depot told Daddy that Moraine showed up just as the train pulled out. He wanted Mr. Fortune to face him in a gunfight.”

“Has it gone that far?” Abby gasped.

“What happened?” She felt Abby's arm slip into hers.

Little Frank pulled off his hat and rocked back on his heels. “Daddy told Mr. Moraine that it was all a lie about Fortunes hating the Irish, and he refused to draw his gun.”

Jamie Sue tried to take a deep breath, but it turned out to be so shallow she coughed. “Then Robert didn't get hurt?”

“No, ma'am. That's what Mr. Landusky told Quiet Jim who told Quint who told me,” Little Frank explained.

“What happened after that?” Jamie Sue inquired.

“Daddy walked away from Mr. Moraine and boarded the train.”

“Moraine threatened to shoot him in the back,” Quint added.

“But he didn't,” Little Frank consoled.

Jamie Sue clutched Abby's arm. “This whole thing is thundering out of control. It's almost demonic.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Abby replied. She peered out the window, then shouted, “Be gone with you, Satan! In the name of Jesus, be gone with your lies and deceit.”

Jamie Sue flinched.

Quint and Little Frank jumped back.

Veronica and Patricia scurried up front, wearing their old dresses and carrying their new ones.

“What happened?” Patricia called out. “Aunt Abby, what are you yelling about?”

Veronica headed for the two boys. “Hello, Quint,” she drawled. “Did you come by to see me in my new dress?”

Jamie Sue sat on the sofa, facing Lincoln Street. She counted the stitches in the half-done, ecru-colored dresser scarf that lay in her lap. She held a small number 9 crochet hook in her right hand.

Now Lord, this is such a peaceful scene. There is no wind blowing down the gulch. The sky is a beautiful Dakota light blue. The temperature's so mild. I don't need gloves outdoors or a wood fire in here.

. . . single crochet in 2nd chain from hook in back loop only . . .

Robert is at work with a job that fits him perfectly. Little Frank is helping build a racetrack. His broken finger is healing nicely. I have a lovely home, . . . dear friends and family nearby, a sense of place and permanency.

. . . single crochet in next five stitches in back loop only. Work three single crochets in next stitch in back loop only . . .

So why on earth am I so anxious and nervous?

Besides the fact that my twelve-year-old daughters went on a carriage ride with their cousin, Amber, who loves to racehorses, on a trip up the gulch to Central City and Lead? Which, of course, should cause everyone in all three towns sincere worry.

. . . single crochet in back loop of next six stitches. Skip next two stitches . . .

It is like putting on a very comfortable pair of old shoes . . . and having a stone in one shoe. Deadwood is the old shoe. It fits us well. We are at home. But something keeps causing me pain and keeping me away from contentment.

. . . single crochet in next six stitches backloop only . . .

Part of it's the animosity with the Irish.

Not just Irish in general, but the Moraines. I can't believe that we just arrived in town and we already have someone who hates us so.

. . . three single stitches in back loop of next stitch . . .

It doesn't seem fair. It should take time to make enemies. Why is it that it takes years to make new friends and only seconds to make enemies?

. . . repeat pattern from single crochet in back loop of next six stitches . . .

Jamie Sue carefully laid her crocheting aside as she spied Eachan Moraine trudging up the sidewalk in front of the house. She scurried over to open the front door.

“Eachan!” she called out. “Would you wait a moment? I have something for you to take home!”

He brushed his curly blond bangs off his forehead and shaded his eyes with his hand. “Mrs. Fortune, I'm not supposed to go in your yard.”

“I'll bring it out to you.”

His voice broke from high pitch to low in the middle of the sentence. “It ain't somethin' spiteful, is it?”

“Heavens no, it's a big cherry pie.”

“Really?”

“Yes, would you take it to your mother for me? I'm not allowed to go in your yard, either,” she called back.

A sly grin broke across his smooth, narrow face. “I reckon I could tote a pie.”

Lord, I know I promised Little Frank I'd bake us a cherry pie . . . but . . . You said, “If thine enemy hunger, feed him.” And that's what I intend to do.

She slipped the pie into a blue, quilted pie carrier and hurried back outside. The aroma of the pie and the warmness of the late June sun that blazed down from high above McGovern Hill seemed to clear her mind and lift her spirits. She hiked out to the sidewalk. Eachan was slightly taller than she was.

“Take this to your dear mother, and tell her to enjoy it. Tell her I'm praying that these misunderstandings end quickly so that our families might become good friends,” she instructed.

Eachan scratched the back of his neck, then grabbed hold of the pie carrier. “Daddy's a good man, Mrs. Fortune,” he said. “He just had some bad things happen to him when he was growin' up in Ireland. It's made him fearful. Mama says he still has bad nightmares about it.”

“Mr. Fortune didn't write that hateful letter, Eachan.”

The boy peeked under the quilted cloth and sniffed the pie. “Yes, ma'am, that's what Mama said. Who do you reckon did write it?”

“I don't know. It's certainly someone who didn't want our families to be friends, wasn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am. I reckon it was.”

“What do you think we ought to do about it?” she probed.

“We ought to find out who they are and punch them in the nose,” Eachan declared.

“Oh, dear, I think that would be letting them off too easily,” Jamie Sue challenged.

“Oh, yeah? You think we should hang them?”

“Heavens no, there is something even worse than that.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“We don't know who they are, but we know the worst thing that could happen to them is that your family and ours became good friends. They are working very hard to see that doesn't happen.”

“Whoa, I never thought of it that way. If we were good friends, we could spy out who's angry about it,” he suggested.

“I believe you're right.”

“So me and Little Frank should continue to be pals and keep an eye out for who is mad about it?”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

“Maybe me and Patricia Veronica could become chums too,” he added, “and see who would be upset with that.”

“I can tell you exactly who would get angry about that right now,” Jamie Sue grinned.

Robert Fortune slouched down in the backseat of the second and last passenger car. He had visually inspected the passengers and dismissed them all. He had checked the manifest of baggage and freight and determined the most valuable thing on the train was the diamond tiepin on the short man with a silk suit and starched, brimmed straw hat who snored away just across the aisle.

The most interesting person, though, was a well-dressed lady who was reading a book to two boys as they huddled in the front seat. Her black hair was immaculately tucked into her white, plumed hat, and she had a small beaded bag at her side.

Occasionally she glanced back toward Robert.

My guess is there's a pearl-handled sneak gun in the beaded purse. And she's not studyin' me because I'm such a handsome head-turner.

Robert leaned his head back against the leather seat. With hat pulled low, he could still squint his eyes and see everything in the car.

Is it because I'm the most suspicious-looking man in the car? I inspected her . . . and now she inspects me. I wonder if she would do that if Jamie Sue were sitting by my side. I wonder if I'd be having this thought with Jamie Sue by my side.

Robert closed his eyes. The image of an angry Riagan Moraine emerged.
I don't think I've faced anyone who hated me so since that band of Chirachuas down in the Sierra Madres. Somebody wrote that slanderous letter. Someone who wanted to get at me . . . or the whole family. Who would want to do that in that kind of way? If they want to shoot me, they can shoot me.

He realized his right hand was resting on the walnut grip of his holstered revolver. He let his hands drop down to the leather seat cushion.

But whoever it was didn't write Hawthorne Miller's book. It seems too amazing to be a coincidence.

Robert hadn't meant to close his eyes, but the whiff of strong violet perfume and the swish of a silk skirt forced his eyes back open. He caught a glimpse of the lady with white, plumed hat as she brushed by and shoved open the passenger car door behind him.

A flood of mild air and steel-on-steel noise flooded the railroad car. She paused for a moment with the door open.

“Is the conductor in that car?” she called out to Robert. Her voice was lower, more forceful than he had imagined it would be, but still with a musical quality.

He stood and pulled off his hat. “No, ma'am. That's the baggage car. The conductor should be up in the next passenger car.” He pointed in the opposite direction.

She fumbled with the door latch and finally got it closed. Then she brushed her fingertips across the smooth, pale skin of her forehead. “Would you know if he has smelling salts?”

“I would think so, but I really don't know. Are you feeling ill?”

She dropped her chin slightly and tilted her head to the right. “Yes, I don't do well on mountain curves. Would it be alright if I sat back here in one of these empty seats in front of you and opened a window?”

“There's plenty of room. Your boys can come back here too.”
Why did she ask me for permission? Does she know I work for the railroad? I'm sure I've never met her before.

“Oh my, yes.” There was a slight smile on her wide, full lips. “They've hardly left my side since my husband passed away.” She started to return to the front. “I think I'll check on those smelling salts before we move back here.”

“Would you like me to fetch the conductor for you?”

“Thank you, but the walking seems to perk me up. The fresh air between cars might just clear my head.”

Robert plopped back down. The lady returned to the front of the railroad car. The thick bustle of the gray-and-pink silk dress waved from side to side in what Jamie Sue had once labeled the “San Francisco Strut.”
I suppose some women are never too sick to wiggle a bit.

She spoke to the boys, then exited the car and closed the door. Robert was still staring at the door when she returned, without the conductor. The door wouldn't close, and she had to slam it several times. Before she reseated herself with the boys, she nodded her head slightly at Robert.

That widow lady's flirting with me. Now, Lord, I can't get up and walk away, but I can surely keep my eyes to myself.

Suddenly, there was noise up front. The woman slumped over in the aisle. The oldest boy, who looked about ten, jumped up and yanked on the emergency brake cord.

The train abruptly slowed and the passengers lurched forward. Robert staggered up the aisle past the alarmed passengers. He struggled to lift the lady in his arms as the train came to a stop. He was placing her on the leather seat when an explosion behind the passenger car shook the train. Every window rattled. There was a chorus of screams. Robert pitched forward, almost falling on top of the lady.

The baggage car! Someone dynamited the baggage car!
Robert yanked out his .45 revolver and shoved his way past gawking passengers to the back door of the train car, only to find it wouldn't open.

With the train stopped on a curve in the track, he couldn't see what was happening on the far side of the baggage car, but he heard shouting. “Get out of the aisle,” he hollered. “Everyone stay away from the windows on the east side!”

Reaching the front of the car, he noticed the two boys still huddled over the woman. “Open that window, boys, and give your mama some air!” he hollered. Grabbing the handle on the front door, Robert cranked on it, but it didn't budge.

Both doors locked? How can that . . . ? How did they lock them when I didn't even see them?

The window above the fainted woman was now open. Robert shoved his revolver back into his holster and crawled over the top of the lady and out the window. Dropping on the rocks below, he limped along, sneaking up on the baggage car. He had just reached the coupling between cars when a shot was fired from behind him. It ricocheted inches from his head.

He dove under the railroad car and tried to peer back to see who fired the shot.
They have the train surrounded? And there is not one thing worth stealing. They are going to a lot of work for nothing.

Lying flat on his belly, Robert crawled forward over the gravel and railroad ties between the railroad tracks. He felt brass buttons on his wool suit pop off, and a hole ripped in the right knee.

There were no more shots behind him. He concentrated on watching the feet of two men who were loading something heavy on the back of a farm wagon.

With the shredded remains of the baggage car door concealing him, Robert crept forward. As he started to swing out from under the car, a man shouted, “He's under the baggage car, Dunny!”