Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) (32 page)

Sidney
put his glass back on the counter, the hackles rising on the back of his neck. But he ignored the stupid oaf. The last thing he wanted was to get in a fight and be part of the trouble. No, he intended to lay low until the marshal tipped his hand.

The man knocked his hat off. Now that was a fighting offense! Still, he fought for control of his anger, refusing to allow this pissant man to get in the way of his goal.
Sidney
took another drink. The man goosed the glass, dousing whiskey all over
Sidney
’s face.

“Towel, barkeep?” he asked in his calmest voice.

Pete tossed him a cloth, but the obnoxious drunk caught it and wrapped it around
Sidney
’s throat, pulling tight. He could barely breathe, and started to put a move on him, but then stopped. He didn’t want to bring attention to his Kung Fu skills—not yet, at least.

“Let him go, buddy.” The man’s voice was low and firm.

“Oh, hi, marshal.” The drunk guffawed, then let loose of the towel. “Just having me a little fun here.”

“I see anymore of your ‘fun,’ and you’ll being having fun in a jail cell.”

Sidney
, irritated that the man whom he intended to bring down was the one and the same who’d cared enough to help him out, watched as the would-be marshal stared down the drunk, who slunk back to the bar.

The marshal nodded his approval. “Looks like you owe this man a drink.”

Pete placed another shot of whiskey in front of
Sidney
, then stared at the drunk, who begrudgingly threw a quarter on the bar.

“That’s more like it. I’ll be around, just in case you get any more stupid ideas.” Then he looked at
Sidney
—right in the eye. “Welcome to Oreana.” He tipped his hat. “Let me know if you need anything. The folks in this town are the best you’ll find.”

“Take the carpets out and beat them, Daisy,” her mother said as she dusted the mantel. “We have less than two days to get this place in shape. Tomorrow, we have to cook.”

Daisy rolled her eyes, but obediently took up the parlor rug. The carpets had already been beaten, and they’d scrubbed every inch of the house. Her mother had been all in a twitter, though, since the day she and the marshal had set the wedding date, and Daisy knew the easiest way to deal with her was to do what she wanted done, no matter how many times.

“Do you have Iris’s bed aired and fluffed?”

“Yes, Mama. This morning.”

“Good, she’ll be here on tomorrow’s stage, you know.”

Daisy sighed. Yes, everyone in Oreana knew, and were reminded on a daily basis. Her mother refused to admit that she missed Iris, but her true feelings were evident every time Iris scheduled a visit.

“Did you look under Forrest’s bed for dirty underwear? I’m going to do one last washing this afternoon.”

“No, Mom. I’ll do it right after I beat this already beaten carpet.” Although a ten-year-old boy ought to be able to put his own blasted union suits on the laundry. “Why don’t you let me take what few dirty things we have to the laundry? Washing clothes will mess up what we just cleaned.”

Her mother stopped dusting and pressed the back of her hand to her brow. “You’re right, Daisy, and I am a might tired.”

“It’s no wonder—you’ve been working yourself to the bone.”

“Yes, and that sister of mine has made herself scarce. I don’t know what’s been keeping her so occupied lately.”

Daisy gave the carpet one last tug and dashed out of the house with it. She knew what kept Aunt Grace occupied, but she wasn’t about to let on to her mom. She pounded the carpet a few times, then brought it back in. Luckily, her mother was on to another subject.

“We need to get dishes and linens together for your new home. What do you have so far?”

“I already have them packed—a set of sheets and pillowcases, two towels, some dishcloths—”

“Where’d you get all that?”

Daisy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Well, every now and then, I picked out a few things from the stor
e …
”

Her mother sighed. “Daisy Marie Gardner! You
stole
from your own father?”

Yes
. Instead she said, “Dad would have given them to me, but I didn’t want him to know what I was planning. You know he’s not all that fond of the idea of me marrying a lawman.”

Nodding, her mother said, “Patrick Dugan would have been a safer choice. And you’re right that your father would have gladly given you anything you need within reason. Nevertheless, I’ll have to take inventory so we can mark it correctly on the books. Show me what you have.”

Daisy took her upstairs and opened her trunk.

“Well, it’s a start,” her mother said. “A very meager start.” She motioned for Daisy to follow her. “Let’s get you set up.”

One thing her mother knew how to do was shop. She picked out three pots, two frying pans, a coffeepot, and curtain material. Daisy could hardly get one item packed before her mother tossed her something else.

“And you’ll need provisions, too. Cyrus, get her some flour, sugar, salt
…
”

Daisy’s mind blurred with all the details. She didn’t want to set up a house. She wanted to solve crimes. She took out her carbon dust and brushed it on the counter, then pressed blotting paper on it. It would be interesting to see who’d been in the store that day.

“Daisy Marie Gardner, put that nasty stuff away and clean that counter!”

Daisy breathed out a tortured sigh and put the carbon dust back in her bag. Her parents had no appreciation whatsoever for advanced crime-solving techniques.

Chapter 17

Mike Flynn
studied the two miners, appreciating both their stupidity and their eagerness, although even eager, stupid men should manage to take a bath now and then. “Tell me what you found out.”

Gib grinned, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “They’re shooting off the firecrackers a ways out of town—over Pickett Creek. Tomorrow night at ten-thirty. They’ll take both water wagons down there in case of a brush fire.”

“Yeah,” Porker said, bobbing his head. “There won’t be a soul in town all day and all night.”

Flynn nodded. He could set a diversion fire a ways out—he’d have to think about that. Might not be necessary, though, and with these two idiots as accomplices, he’d best keep it simple. “And the banker? Roth?”

“Don’t know about him,” Gib said, “but he did go to the dance a while back, so I expect he’ll be at the picnic.”

“Not good enough. Find out where he’ll be. And what the marshal and that idiot deputy have planned.” They should be easy to fool, considering the marshal was a fake. The real marshal had Flynn’s bullet in his leg, and was probably still laid up in
California
.

Porker chuckled. “The marshal won’t be a problem. Seems he messed a bit too much in the mercantile owner’s daughter’s drawers, and now he’s gitting hitched. The day after tomorrow. But I s’pose he’ll be partying hearty on the Fourth, bein’s it’s his last day as a free man.”

“Might be his last day, period.” Flynn mounted his horse. “I’ll meet you behind the saloon, ten o’clock.”

All he had left to do was get the dynamite and blasting caps he had stashed.

Daisy’s eyes blurred, they were so tired. She’d been up before daylight working on the fingerprints she had collected. She flexed her fingers, trying to shake the numbness from them, then started drawing again.

The silver dollar that Iris had brought her from the bank robbery had proven to be quite a challenge. The prints from it turned out to be smudged, and besides that, the surface was bumpy. She’d only taken prints from smooth surfaces before. And it appeared that there were several prints overlapping. Coins just weren’t that large. She surmised she’d find two different people’s prints on it— Iris’s and the robber’s.

She congratulated herself on the fingerprints she’d taken so far.
Mike Flynn
’s turned out perfect. So had the marshal’s. Looking at his print brought a spark of desire. Those fingers could do such amazing things! She sighed happily, then refocused her attention to the drawings.

Mrs. Mueller’s print was the first one she’d drawn and looked pretty lopsided, but the lady could hardly be called a hardened criminal, so Daisy hadn’t redrawn it. The others had all turned out pretty well, and, upon close examination with the magnifying glass, she was satisfied that each person’s fingerprint was unique.

Now that she had a considerable amount of practice, she tackled the toughest print—the silver dollar. She didn’t think she could prove anything, though. Still convinced that Mr. Flynn, the most likely suspect, had shot the marshal, she knew he’d have been south, in Winnemucca, not west in
Silver
City
. And the idea that the robbers had come to Oreana was slim at best, but she had nothing else to go on.

Someday, she hoped, the marshal would be hired in a larger city. Then there’d be lots of crimes to solve, and she’d help him every step of the way. Like Honey Beaulieu said, men use brawn but women use brains. And she’d have access to more information, not just what she conjured herself.

“Daisy, do you have your dishes packed?’ her mother called from downstairs.

Startled, she smudged the already smudged print on the coin. “Yes, Mom,” she called, quite happy with her calm voice, since the mistake made her madder than a hornet. She wondered why her mother had gotten up so early.

“Does the marshal have a place for you to live?”

“No, Mom.” Frankly, she didn’t care where they stayed—he’d take care of it.

“Are you dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Get your bonnet and come downstairs.”

Daisy blew the wisps of hair off her face and laid her pen aside. As usual, her investigative work would be overshadowed by mundane chores.

Once downstairs, her mother told her, “I want you to look in on Mrs. Courtney for me. I fixed breakfast for her, and after that, I still have things to do to get ready for your sister—the stage’s due in at four.”

“Mom!” Daisy frowned. “I spent a whole night with Mrs. Courtney a few days ago, and I’ve been there several times since. Can’t Sarah or her mother visit her?”

“Don’t be ungrateful, young lady. Sarah’s finishing up your dress, and Ruth’s busy preparing food for the picnic tomorrow
and
your wedding dinner. You’ll have to do it.”

Nothing like a little guilt from your mother to start the day. Yes, she’d go see the old bat, but not for long. She stepped onto the dirt street and looked to the east, letting the rising sun kiss her face. She’d visit the marshal. In fact, she’d ask him where he planned for them to live so her mother wouldn’t accuse her of improprieties. She giggled.

Maybe she could convince him to commit a few improprieties!

* * * * *

“I’m telling you, Cole, it was the gol-darnedest thing I ever did see.” Bosco shook his head, then slouched in the chair and plopped his boots on the desk. “That little feller, Sam, had his racing mule out about the town without a bridle, or halter, or even a rope.”

Cole shrugged and continued cleaning his Colt. “That’s not so unusual.”

“It sure as hell is. Why, she was follering him like a puppy. He says, ‘If you wanna run, go ahead. Just be back in five minutes.’ Well, that there mule took off down the road. I stood right there and watched. Sure ‘nuff, five minutes later, here she comes.” Bosco shook his head again. “Damnedest thing you ever saw.”

“I’ve got to admit, I’ve never seen a mule that could tell time.”

“Well, this one can. And then he says, ‘Take a drink before we head back to the livery,’ and she shook her head, ‘no,’ and then he said, ‘Why not?’ and then she smellt her hooves. He says, ‘Got a rock stuck in your foot?” and she tosses her head. So he asks her which one, and she stuck her back foot out there. He picked the rock out and says, ‘Come on, now,’ and she follers him pretty as you please. Takes a drink, too.”

Bosco leaned forward and frowned. “Now have you ever tried to get a critter to drink when you wanted it to? Ain’t that the damnedest thing?”

Cole opened his mouth to comment, but Bosco hadn’t wound down yet.

“Nope. You might’ve tried, but it don’t work. No, sirree.”

“Sounds like Sam’s mule is well-trained.”

“Yup, and that ain’t even the half of it.”

“I suppose then the mule recited the Ten Command
-
ments.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing—go on.”

“Then Sam says, ‘Go on back to the livery now, Katie. Jonas has some oats for you.’ And that danged mule trotted right down to Jonas.” He slapped his thigh. “I’m telling you, Cole, it ain’t natural.”

“Smart mule,” Cole agreed.

“So I hightailed it down to the livery just in time to see that crazy mule jump into her stall. Flat-footed, too.”

“Good morning, marshal.” The pureness of Daisy’s sultry voice made the birds’ songs sound flat, and his blood roar. She smiled and handed him a basket.