Hey, Virge.”
“Ma. Give me a minute. Mail’s just in.” Virgil stands behind the narrow cage at the Jericho Post Office and adjusts his wire-rimmed spectacles. He holds a letter up to light. It’s addressed in a large, flowery scrawl to Judd Turpin, Jericho, A.T. Clearly, there’s cash inside. Virgil puts that one aside.
Ruby shakes her head. “That how you swell your wages?”
Virgil colors. “Does nothing get by you, Ma?”
“I’ve wondered.” She peers over the counter. “Like those new shoes.”
“Judd gets plenty.”
At precisely 12:10 p.m., Margaret Stern comes through the door. You could time your watch by it. Three times per week the mail arrives, on the Tucson to Mammoth run with stops in Catalina, Jericho, Oracle, American Flag, Southern Belle, and Willow Springs before horses collapse at the end of the line. Although mail delivery is at times uncertain, the schoolmarm is there at noon Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, without fail.
“Up to the ‘F’s, Miss Stern,” Virgil says.
“I’ll wait.” Margaret Stern smooths her brown leather gloves and brown wool skirt. It’s March, and temperatures this year are already hovering at a hundred. But Stern’s attire never changes. Fall, winter, spring, summer, Margaret wears brown: brown cloak, brown skirt, brown vest, brown boots, brown gloves, brown hat. Only the hint of cream flowers out at her neck, where her blouse peeks through. She has divested of her solemn cloak today, it being this hot. Margaret removes her specs from an eyeglass ring pinned to her vest and wipes them with a cloth. A stray wisp of hair falls across her narrow face, at once attractive and harsh, as if she can’t make up her mind who she is.
“Good day, Miss Stern,” Ruby says.
“And to you, Mrs. Fortune.” Margaret busies herself with her spectacles.
“Up to the ‘N’s now,” Virgil says, slotting bills and postcards and letters into boxes behind him beneath twin photographs of President Theodore Roosevelt and Jericho’s current postmaster, Harold M. Cleaver. “Nothing today, I’m afraid,” he says, as he finishes the stack of mail. “Perhaps next time.”
“Thank you, Virgil.” Margaret pulls on her gloves. “Until then.” It’s the same conversation every time, and still no letter.
Sheldon Sloane clatters into the post office just as Margaret goes to pull the door open.
“Miss Stern.”
“Mr. Sloane.”
Sheldon holds the door until Margaret passes. “It’s going to be a scorcher,” he says.
“Is it?” Margaret descends the steps to the dusty street.
Sheldon turns to Virgil and shakes his head. “I don’t understand that woman.”
Virgil places his hands on the counter to steady them. He pushes a thick stack of mail toward the sheriff. “You know what Ma says.”
They all answer in unison, Virgil, Sheldon, and Ruby. “Don’t even try.”
“About my mail, Virge?” Ruby asks.
“I’ll bring it over later. I’m really only up to the ‘N’s, but there’s never a letter for Miss Stern, so I just said that.” He continues slotting letters into cubicles, holding each one up before filing.
Through the dust, three men ride up Jefferson from the west. They stop in front of the post office, dismount, and tie their horses to posts. Two of the men remain outside; the taller of the two lights a cigar.
The door bangs open.
“How can I help you?” Virgil, ever the salesman, asks the short man who enters. “If it’s stamps you’re after, they run two cents. A postal box’ll run you fifty cents a month, but we’ve got a waiting list. A dollar a month and I’ll find you one.”
Sheldon motions to Ruby. They walk to the single shelf on the western wall. Sheldon keeps one eye trained on the stranger.
“Can send a telegraph, if you like,” Virgil says. “Or make out a money order. What’s your pleasure, sir?”
“Not here for the mail. Where can a man find a cheap roadhouse in this town?”
“Got any room tonight, Ma?”
“Sure do. Come on over, sir, we’re across the street, couple of doors up.” Ruby tilts her head toward the middle of town. “Two-story shingled affair begging for a new coat of paint. Big porch. On the right. You’ll see the sign. Jericho Inn. I’ll be back in a quarter hour.”
“Any other choices?” the man asks. He is dressed like a solicitor gone rogue, as if he hasn’t bathed in days.
“Maybe Judd’s,” Sheldon says. He elbows Ruby.
“Judd’s?”
“Best saloon in town. And best girls.” He needles Ruby again.
She rolls her eyes. “Really, Sheldon.”
“What, may I ask, are three fellas like you doing in here in Jericho?” Sheldon asks as he glances out the post office window to the men lingering outside. “Ten-day miners?”
“Squires—the tall one there—he’s an Indian agent. Met up with him in Tucson and thought we’d ride north together. Protection, you might say.”
Ruby glances out the window toward the agent. He wears a long black frock coat and a large hat. He turns just then and she averts her eyes. He looks like a sneak.
“For a price, you mean,” Sheldon says.
“Everything’s got a price, mister,” the stranger says. “You the sheriff?”
Sheldon nods. “One and the same.” He picks his teeth with the edge of a letter and doesn’t take his eye off the stranger.
“My partner and I might be interested in a few days’ work.”
Virgil motions to the far wall. “Silver Tip might be hiring. Check the classifieds.”
“What is it that you do, exactly?” Sheldon asks. By now, he has gathered up his mail.
“Little bit of this, little bit of that,” the stranger answers.
Sheldon points next door. “Well, if you’re looking for quick cash, try the livery.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.” He turns to leave and addresses Virgil. “Be seeing you around, son.” He tips his hat to Ruby. “Might be over.”
Sheldon guides Ruby toward the door. “The two grifters there, they’re probably harmless. The Indian agent, though. Don’t like the looks of him.”
Sheldon opens the heavy post office door and stands in the doorway. It’s equally warm outside as in. He casts a long shadow on the wooden floor. “You take care of yourself, Virgil. And your ma here. I’m off to Tucson again, be back the day after tomorrow. This business of trying to find a deputy is getting tiresome.”
THAT NIGHT, THE TALLEST OF the three lodgers stretches his legs out onto the low table between the sofa and the fireplace at Jericho Inn. He tilts his head back and exhales a halo of smoke. The other two, one noticeably shorter than the other, argue over cards.
Ruby sweeps through the parlor and gathers dirtied glasses. Virgil limps through the sitting area and enters the small bedroom off to the left. “’Night, Virge. And I’ll be saying my good nights to you fellas, too,” Ruby says. “Breakfast’s at eight.”
“You wouldn’t know where we might find some ladies?” the shorter man asks.
“None to be had here, if that’s what’s you’re asking. No lady guests, either,” she says. “So don’t go getting any ideas.”
“That sheriff fella suggested Judd’s,” the taller man says. “Why don’t you boys head over there?” He motions toward the door. “I’ll help the little lady with the mess and be right behind you.”
“That’s no concern of yours,” Ruby says. Little lady, really? Again? “Been doing this for years without as much as a lick of help. If you boys are headed to Judd’s, bring your key. About to lock up now.” The two other men crash out the door, still arguing.
“Just thought you might want some company,” the taller man says.
“Not needed,” Ruby says. She uses her rear to push open the parlor door and heads for the kitchen through the dining room, now set for breakfast. Depositing dirty glasses on the counter, Ruby wipes her hands on a towel.
A strong hand grabs her shoulder. “Jerusalem!” Ruby jumps. She turns to see the tall man bumped up behind her. “Get your hands off me,” she says.
“I’m in the mood for some company.”
Ruby shoves his hand away. “Won’t have none of that here.” She tries to wrench away, but he pins her to the counter.
“On your knees,” he says.
Ruby glares at him through slit-like eyes.
“Wouldn’t want something happening to your boy, the gimpy one, would you? Saw that he works the post office alone.”
“You filthy cur.” Ruby claws at the man’s shirtsleeves. “Step back and we’ll forget this conversation ever happened.”
He tightens his grip on Ruby’s shoulders. “I said, on your knees.” He slaps Ruby square across the face.
Stunned, Ruby dabs her face. Her lip is bleeding and her face stings. “Damn you.”
The man shoves Ruby to her knees as he opens his trousers. “You know what to do. We’ll call it a deal. Nothing will happen to your boy.”
Ruby is squeezed now between the man’s legs and the cabinet. Unable to budge, she glares up at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I? I hear your sheriff friend is out of town.”
Ruby scowls.
“Do we have a deal?” The man leers over her. “Wouldn’t want to read about your boy in the papers.”
Ruby doesn’t budge.
“I said now, whore.” He cuffs the top of Ruby’s head.
Ruby takes his member in her hands and stifles the urge to jerk it from his body.
“Wasn’t looking for a hand job.” He shoves his pelvis toward her face.
Afterwards, liquid spilling from the sides of her mouth, Ruby slumps, her backside against the cabinet. The man buttons his trousers and steps back. “You’ve done that before.”
Why is Sheldon always in Tucson at the wrong time?
“We’ll keep this little secret to ourselves,” the tall man says. “Don’t want the boys in on it.” He hitches up his trousers. Then he bends down toward Ruby and whispers. “I’m thinking about changing the terms of our agreement. Meet me tomorrow after breakfast in my room.”
“You said …”
“I said I’ll see you tomorrow after breakfast. In my room. Under Squires, Jake Squires. Your boy will be off to work by then, I suspect. Don’t come and I’ll send my boys over to the post office to finish the job.”
Squires bangs out the back door, whistling. Ruby, by now sprawled out on the kitchen floor, begins to shake, more with anger than fear. She rises to her knees, gags, and spits on the floor. She steadies herself on the lip of the dry sink, slugs a mouthful of water straight from the pitcher, and spits again, this time into the sink. She rushes to her bedroom and grabs her pistol. She hears the kitchen door creak open and braces for another assault. This time, Squires won’t be so lucky. She rounds the corner with the pistol cocked, the front of her shirtwaist still wet and stained.
“Miss Ruby!” Wink stands at the kitchen door. “What in heavens?”
Ruby lowers the gun and hobbles to the door. “Sorry, Wink. I was looking for—”
“The one just come out through the back door? Tall?”
Ruby nods.
“Just say the word and I’ll go for the sheriff.”
“He’s out of town, Wink. I’ll have to sort this one out myself.”
“Get yourself to bed now, Miss Ruby. I’ll keep watch tonight.”
During the night, Ruby wakes to the sound of a door opening. Her heart jammers. God in Heaven, if you’re there, I beg you, not Squires again. She sits up, grabs her derringer, and braces for the door to crack open. No one comes in. Maybe a guest going out or coming in from the outhouse? She really needs a lock on her bedroom door. She doesn’t sleep a minute all night.
At breakfast, Ruby avoids eye contact with Squires. She replenishes breakfast rolls and scrambled eggs on the buffet, refills coffee cups, and clears plates. She forces a smile to the other guests and bustles between the kitchen and dining room, lingering by the sideboard until she hears the diners clearing out.
When she peeks into the dining room, it’s empty. She finishes the clearing up and stacks dirty dishes and cups in the sink. There’s no time for washing up. She checks the boys’ bedroom; Virgil has left and Sam has gone off to school. The upstairs guests have retreated back to their rooms and the parlor is eerily quiet. The mantel clock ticks inexorably toward 9 a.m.
Ruby checks the register, even though she’s certain of what she’ll find. It’s right there, in large scrawl, J. Squires, registered in Room #2. She reaches for the key, her hand trembling. No, she thinks, no. She returns the key to the hook.
Ruby hefts a basketful of dishcloths and rags and heads out the kitchen door. She bleached them twice in a bucket after cleaning up the rest of Squires’ mess. Ruby pegs out the washing, her mouth full of clothespins. She keeps her eyes trained on the kitchen door.
“Did you lose track of time?” a voice says. Ruby feels the sharp edge of a knife at her back.
What the hell?
“We had an agreement, Mrs. Fortune.”
“There’s nothing I agree with you on, Mr. Squires.” Ruby whips around and kicks Squires in the crotch, clothespins flying out of her mouth. Squires doubles over and lunges for her. Ruby runs toward the shed. There is sure to be a shovel handy. Just as Ruby grabs for one, Squires pushes her hard from behind, sending her sprawling into hay and dirt.
Ruby scrambles toward the back of the shed on hands and knees and attempts to get a handhold on the back wall. Squires catches her and shoves her against the wall. He pushes up her skirt from behind and rips at her drawers. Ruby yells and he puts his hand over her mouth. With his free hand, he fumbles with his trousers and shoves his member into Ruby’s warm flesh.
“Whore.” As he begins to pant, a sudden wham crack like a splitting log at the end of an ax. A gush of blood and slime pours over Ruby’s head and blouse, red everywhere. He slumps forward. She screams and turns toward the open shed door. Through a mass of red, she sees a figure retreat. Squires slides, limp arms and legs, onto the shed floor. Ruby gags as she steps over him and stumbles toward the light outside.
VIRGIL MEANT TO TELL RUBY RIGHT away, but didn’t until later, about that morning one of the men who had just spent the night at Jericho Inn burst into the post office, his crony keeping watch at the door, not the tall one, but the other shorter one. Virgil lowered the book he was reading and put a used envelope in as a placeholder. He snapped the book shut and put it aside.
“Last chance to make today’s mail,” Virgil said.
“Hands up, young man,” the man whispered, brandishing a pistol.
Virgil raised trembling hands above his head. He had to pee.
“Open your cash drawer. Hand it over, all of it.”
Virgil lowered his hands and reached for the drawer.
“Don’t pull a fast one on me. You show a piece and you’re done for.”
“No firearms here,” Virgil said, his voice shaky.
“Hurry it up, runt. I don’t like waiting.”
Virgil’s hands trembled as he grabbed bills from the cash drawer. He laid them on the counter in a heap.
“Is that all? Coins, too.”
Virgil scooped all the coins into his palm. One clattered to the floor.
“Don’t go after that one,” the man said. “Keep it. My tip.” The man swept all the coins into a leather purse and stuffed the bills inside. “Like I said, be seeing you around.” He slammed the door behind him.
Virgil came out from behind the counter and locked the door. His chest was tight.
When he was convinced the thieves didn’t aim to return, he went back behind the counter. He bent down to retrieve the coin he dropped, as well as the bills his shaking hands let fall to the floor. Of the fourteen dollars he took in that day, he salvaged more than half.
Virgil placed the remaining cash and coin in a worn pouch and took his coat from the hat tree behind the counter. He locked the post office and walked up Jefferson toward the bank, looking back over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him.
“I knew I’d get a talking to,” he told Ruby. “But no one was killed over it. And Uncle Sam got his share, even if I did have to make up the difference from my wages.”
No one was killed over it? What you don’t know, Virge.
“MISS RUBY?” WINK KNOCKS at the kitchen door.
Ruby sits at the kitchen table, a cup of tea cold in front of her.
“Miss Ruby?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Wink, come in.” She starts to rise.
“Sit, sit. I’ve come to see how you’re faring. After …”
She looks at Wink with expressionless eyes. He nods and shuffles toward the table. A dark red stain covers his sleeve. He smells like rust.
“You?” Ruby exhales. “I couldn’t see anything except …”
“Don’t waste another breath on that good-for-nothing. He’s done for.”
A breath catches in her throat. “What? Where?”
“The less you know, the better,” Wink says. “As the Bard says, ‘We are often happier in our ignorance than in our knowledge.’ Trust me, here, Miss Ruby. You don’t want to know.” He takes her small hand in his filthy one. The warmth burns her skin, and somewhere deeper.