The Eye of the Hunter (6 page)

Rip's boots came tramping back, the dog barking as it ran alongside him. “This ain't even legal!” he shouted. “What about my husbandly rights? Open this door or I'll chop my way in!”

“Leave me alone, Rip! I warn you!”

An ax or sledge struck the door. Dust flew. Another blow opened a wide crack from top to bottom. Frances sat on the bed and raised the revolver with both hands. She took a wavering aim at a knot high in the door, too high to hit him but close enough to scare him. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The world exploded with a blinding flash and a roar. A wind struck her face. After the orange flash faded, she could see nothing whatsoever. Absolutely deaf and blind, shocked by the colossal explosion, she sat on the bed wondering whether she had blinded herself. At last she realized the concussion must have blown the candle out.

She sat there waiting. She heard nothing from outside but recognized that she probably could not have heard a cannon shot. What was Rip doing out there in the darkness?

She lay back on the bed to wait for what should come next, which might be her own death. Then, so relieved that she began to cry, she heard Rip playing the banjo and singing. With the relief came exhaustion; she let herself fall back on the cot, to lie with ringing ears in a sort of coma. She dreamed that Rip came to the door and said, “This is a plate of food, Panchita. I'll be over at the fire. If you need anything, just call. I won't fuss with you anymore. I'm truly sorry.”

But it was not a dream, she fathomed at last. What kind of creature is this, she thought, who says and does cruel things when he's sober, and kind things when he's drunk?

When she heard him picking and singing again, yawning and getting sleepier by the minute, she sneaked the plate of food into the cabin. It was cold and greasy, of course, but eased out some of her tension and raised her spirits. After eating, she lay down again. She dared not unbar the door, which seemed to make her a prisoner and him her jailer.

I suppose
, she thought,
what I am doing is illegally denying my husband his marital rights
. Remembering the cruel thing he had said about her father fixation, she comprehended at last that he was right: She might never be able to love a man fully, since no man could ever take Papa's place in her life. Yet some man must, or she was doomed to be an old maid, at least in her heart.

Crying softly, she curled up on the cot and slept.

Frances was about to write the final page of her story when she realized that the young auburn-haired man with the liverish complexion was standing at the foot of the grave, only a few feet away! Despite his smile, in his black frock coat and trousers he looked like Death's dark angel come for someone in the cemetery, possibly herself.

She closed the writing tablet quickly and banged the desk closed, then shot him a single angry glance and prepared to leave, hoping he would be intimidated and go away. But he remained, and she heard him ask, most respectfully: “Excuse me, ma'am—aren't you Mrs. Parrish? I knew you from your wedding picture. I'm Henry Logan, from Kansas City, a friend of John Manion's. I don't mean to intrude, but we really do have to talk.”

The woman in the cemetery turned in surprise to stare at him, her face pale. He had studied that face so many times that every feature was familiar, as though he had known her for years. But the archness he had seen in it was missing—in fact, now that he was noticing the flared nostrils and quick breathing, what he saw was fright.

“I'm sorry?” she said. “My wedding picture? I don't understand.”

“I'm Henry Logan. Your husband sent the picture to my attorney friend,” Henry said. He had already checked the marker and found that two names were carved into it, neither of them Richard Parrish's.

ELIZABETH MOTLEY WINGARD. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE WINGARD.

He remembered that she was a Wingard—that the bride's name on the photograph had been inscribed “Frances Wingard Parrish.”

Again she thrust her fingers into her hair, distractedly, as though a bee had lodged there. “Well, I can't talk to you now! I have to see my attorney before I can talk to anyone. And
please
don't leave the flowers!” she exclaimed, brushing him away as he went to one knee to place them in the vase on the grave. “Put them ... on his uncle's grave.” Her hand continued to wave him off like a beggar.

But Henry smiled and went on arranging the wildflowers. “Oh, my,” he said. “I knew there was fire behind that face. Now, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm here to help you, not make trouble for you.”

“Ha!” she cried. “Well, I don't need a gunman's help!”

Henry looked up from the flowers. Then he laughed. “A gunman? I'm not a gunman, Mrs. Parrish. Where did you get that notion?”

She extended her arm down the hill toward the depot. “The telegram. It came yesterday. That man in Kansas City, he said for my husband to extend all ... courtesies or something, to a gunman named Logan, who was going to ask some questions.”

Henry stood up. “That's rich. I'm a gun
smith
, which has nothing to do with my being here, anyway.”

Frances said, “Oh, that idiotic telegrapher! You want to know where my husband is, is that it?” She definitely had a faint accent—another intriguing element in her, like a peekaboo blouse promising hidden charms.

“That's it,” Henry said. “I simply need to find and talk to Richard.”

The uptilted blue eyes mocked him. “So do a few other people, Mr. Logan, including a number of merchants and his wife.”

“He's missing, then?”

“To put it ... prudently....”

Henry could not take his eyes off her, and his persistent gaze finally drove hers down. She began readying her desk, book, and chair to carry to the buggy.

“Mr. Logan,” she said, “I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'm going back to the ranch pretty early—it's a long drive—but I'll talk to you first. Where are you staying?”

He told her. The intent blue eyes scrutinized his face. “What are you doing for your jaundice?” she asked suddenly.

“What? Taking quinine.” He shrugged. “Know of anything better?”

“That's basic, of course. But my father had another remedy that is excellent for the liver. Unfortunately I didn't bring any into town with me. He was a doctor,” she explained.

“So your husband wrote. He gave Manion the impression that your father was highly regarded as a healer.”

“Ho, ho, ho! Not in this town!” Frances said scoffingly. “What else did he say about Papa?”

“That he took care of a lot of important people—a governor, French geologists, and the like.”

“That was in
Hermosillo
, Mr. Logan—in Sonora, Mexico. He practiced there in the winters. It gets hot enough to addle a pit viper's brains in the summer, so we'd come up here. Well, I'm glad Rip had something good to say about him....”

“Here, I'll carry those,” Henry said. She was trying to pick up the desk and chair at the same time with the book under one arm.

He loaded them into the buggy for her, placed the stone anchor on the floorboard, and helped her up. He checked the harness for her, said, “All set!” and then remembered the carbine. “May I look at this?”

“Certainly. It was—it's my husband's.”

Henry drew the weapon, clicked his heels and came to attention, then did his little manual of arms routine, and Frances laughed as he finished with a mock shot into the air.

“'Ease!” Then he relaxed and looked the rifle over. “It's been well taken care of,” he commented.

“Yes ...” A quick sidelong look.

“I'd like to fire it sometime.”

“Certainly. Mr. Logan, if you like, you may ride out to Spider Ranch with me tomorrow morning. I'll tell you everything I know, which may be less exciting than what you might hear from some others in this town but which happens to be true. There are some papers of my husband's ... things like that.”

“That would be bully, as my commanding officer used to say.”

She raised her brows. “Colonel Roosevelt?”

“Teddy, himself. He scratched out a foreword to a little Army manual I wrote in Cuba. So many of these city boys were accidentally shooting themselves—totally mystified by guns. I have some copies at Allie's.”

“How interesting! I'd love to read it. What did you call it?”

“
The Law of the Gun
. Too Fred Fearnot?”

She smiled. “Well, I don't think boy recruits would jump at
Some Thoughts on Firearms
. No—bully for you, Henry!”

He grinned. “Manion wrote something, too—just for you. If Richard is deceased, these papers will attest that you are the widow, and, ab, the trust would then be transferred to you as your sole and separate property.... If it's desertion, well ...”

“Oh, that's nice. Although the problems are really just ...” She raised and dropped her hands. “It's hopeless!”

“Nothing is hopeless, Mrs. Parrish. We'll tackle the problems tomorrow. One at a time. All right?”

“Thank you. I'm sorry we had to meet in a cemetery, because that's where I met Rip, and what a terrible mistake that was! I'll come to Alice's at, mmm, nine o'clock?”

“Fine. I've got to buy some Arizona clothes—I look like an undertaker in this outfit. It goes back to before I met that Cuban mosquito.”

“Yes, you'll need jeans and a strong shirt. Your Army boots will be fine for the canyon ride. A brush-popper jacket, maybe.”

“The canyon ride,” Henry said, closing one eye.

“The ride to the place I'm going to show you. It's way out in the canyons....”

Driving back, she had nothing to say until, as he went toward the porch, she called after him: “Mr. Logan? As a doctor's daughter, I'd advise you to take no spirits at all. None—including beer.”

“I'll remember. Thank you.”

She gave him a wan smile, clucked up her funereal gray horse, and he knew his goose was cooked.

He was in love with this woman. Whatever she might have done with her husband. Whatever surprises might lie below the quiet beauty of her face. Come what may, he was in love with Frances Wingard Parrish. And, God forgive him, he hoped her husband was dead.

Using an overturned dresser drawer for a desk, Henry scribbled a message for John Manion: “Interesting error by telegrapher: Gunman for gunsmith. Visiting ranch tomorrow.”

Then, tormented by the supper smells, he hurried to wash up, using the nice flowered porcelain washbowl attached to the wall. He walked down the hall to the dining room and glanced inside. He saw that Alice Gary set a nice table. On a clean white cloth rested cut-glass cruets for vinegar and oil, silver napkin rings, even a decanter of red wine and cut-glass goblets. As Henry stood behind his chair, Allie introduced the other boarders.

“Miss Leisure? Arthur B. Cleveland?” her hand pointing, huge golden eagle flashing on her wrist. “This is Mr. Henry Logan, from Kansas City.”

At Henry's left sat a very old lady in a black dress with jet buttons. She sat on a pillow that enabled her to reach the table. Tiny, frail as a thistle, she looked as though a puff of wind would blow her away. She offered a yellow-toothed smile and a brittle hand protected by a lace mitt.

“So nice to meet you, Henruh,” she said in a soft accent.

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am.”

“What church d'y'all go to?” Miss Leisure asked.

“Well ... I haven't gotten settled as yet, but—”

Sensing that he might be a backslider, Allie hastily introduced the old man, also in black and nearly as old as Miss Leisure. He was a retired bookkeeper from Portland who had come here for his asthma. He had a long skinny neck, a small head, and an oversize beak, and made Henry think of a baby eagle. His watery eyes were red-rimmed under bald brows.

Everyone seemed to have wine at his place, so Henry poured himself a couple of fingers—remembered what Frances had said about alcohol and hesitated—but decided a good time to start self-denial would be tomorrow, after a night's sleep.

It seemed to him, as serving dishes were passed, that they all stole looks at him as though he were a magician and they didn't want to miss a move—that his hand might be quicker than their eyes. Allie seemed troubled. He still heard her laughter as he had left, but now she was quiet and sober.

Henry finally asked her: “Anything wrong, Allie? Was my money counterfeit?”

“No, Henry. I'm just thoughtful.”

“Uh-huh. Well, penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“Pshaw. I'm not sure you're going to like the story the
Globe
ran on you tonight. At least I don't....”

The old man eagerly thrust a folded newspaper at him. “God's Gunman!”

“What?”

Henry opened the paper, saw the banner line,
NOTED GUNMAN IN TOWN TO DRAW BEAD ON KILLER OF MISSING MAN
. He looked out the window. “My God,” he muttered. “Is this man—what's-his-name, Ambrose?—insane?”

Allie thumped her brow with the heel of her hand. “He's a snake,” she said. “But, Henry! I didn't pry, but I couldn't help seeing the guns in your luggage—and I have to say that, that if you plan any thing—”

“Let me read this first....”

“God made me a sharpshooter,” Henry Logan told the
Globe
this morning, “and Colonel Roosevelt recognized my unusual gift and made me a sniper in his regiment. Shooting ability like mine is given to few men, and I am one of the fortunate. I can take the ash off a mosquito's cigarette at a hundred yards. I lost count of how many Spanish soldiers I drilled. But gunman? Well, I wouldn't say that....”

Henry raised his eyes from the paper, gazed through a window down upon the business district. Streetlights were coming on, haloed by dust. He whistled and resumed reading.