“It’s called a mezuzah, Sister.”
Sister Mary Boniface had been passing by on the street when she saw that Ike Silver had just finished attaching a small narrow box on the right side of the entrance to the store.
“Mezuzah?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a part of your religion?”
“Yes.”
“And is it permissible to tell me what is contained inside?”
“Yes, of course. A scroll containing three verses from Deuteronomy to fulfill the commandment ‘Write them on the doorposts of your homes and on your gates,’ as prescribed in the Torah.”
“I think I understand. We have medals, Saint Christopher, Saint Anthony . . .”
Ike nodded. “It’s customary to place a mezuzah on each doorway of each room in a house or business, but out here, just this one will have to make do.”
“I’m sure that it will more than suffice.” Sister Bonney smiled. “But I wonder if you’d mind . . .”
“If I said a little prayer to go along with it?”
“Not at all, Sister. Not at all. We’d very much appreciate that.”
“Good. I have some business to attend to. I’ll see you later . . . Big Ike.”
Underneath a sign, R. LESSUR, in front of an elaborate and well-equipped office and stable, Rupert Lessur stood lighting a long, slender cigar. Jim Gallagher was nearby, and both men watched Sister Mary Boniface approach at a brisk pace from the direction of the general store.
“Good day, Sister.” Lessur smiled.
“It is a good day, Mister Lessur. And I’m in hopes that it will be an even better day if you have something for me.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“I asked Mister Gallagher, and at the time he said he didn’t know. Has a crate been delivered to you from Sante Fe addressed to me?”
“Why yes it has, in our last shipment.”
“Good.”
“Quite heavy, as I recall.”
“Yes. Books for the new school . . . along with a few personal items.”
“I see. Well, as I said, it’s quite heavy. Much too heavy for you to carry. If you tell us where, we’d be happy to deliver it to you.”
“I’d be happy to tell you . . . if I knew where.”
“Oh. In that case, we’ll be happy to hold it until we get further instructions.”
“Very good.”
“So, we’re going to have a school, are we?”
“We are. If I can find a place to teach in.”
“I’m not of your persuasion, but you can count on me for a contribution.”
“And, Sister, there will be no charge whatsoever for the handling and delivery of that crate. Compliments of Lessur Freighting.”
“Thank you again.”
“Uh . . . Sister,”—Gallagher took a step forward—“are you going to start a church, too?”
“No. Just a school.”
“For Catholics?”
“For anybody who wants to learn.”
“I never went to school much . . . or to church.”
“Well, it’s never too late.”
“Too many hypocrites.”
“In school?”
“In church.”
“You’re right, Mister Gallagher. But there’s always room for one more.”
Sister Mary Boniface continued on her way at an even brisker pace.
“What’re we gonna do, Mister Lessur?”
“About what?”
Gallagher nodded toward Ike Silver’s newly acquired general store and livery.
“About them.”
“They’re just mice.”
“Huh?”
“What do cats usually do with mice? Right now I think I’ll pay a little visit to the new proprietor of Belinda’s Emporium.”
High up, from a hidden vantage point, Quemada and a half-dozen Apaches watched as Captain Bourke and his troop rode back toward Fort Whipple.
Quemada looked at the young brave mounted next to him, then back to the troopers.
“It is no longer Apache land, Quemada. It belongs to them. To the army,” the brave said.
“Not just to the army, Secorro.” Quemada pointed to a dust cloud in the distance as Sean Dolan and the miners came into view. “Those are not bluecoats.”
“What will you do?”
“I know what I will do. But first we will see what Colorados will have us do. We will see if he is still a cougar—or if the white man’s prison has turned him into a coyote. We will see.”
Even though it was still morning, there were about a dozen customers at Belinda’s Emporium, a few drinking at the bar, the rest playing poker at a couple of tables.
Belinda sat at a distant corner table indulging in a glass of whiskey and a game of solitaire. Even just playing solitaire, her fingers looked like they were fashioned for dealing cards.
She wore noticeably less war paint than the night before, almost as if she had just stepped out of a bathtub. And she had, less than half an hour before.
Lessur came through the batwings, long, slender cigar in hand, paused, smiled and walked to the corner table.
“May I join you?”
“You may.” Belinda motioned to the bartender “Henry, bring over Mister Lessur’s bottle.”
Henry did, and poured.
Belinda and Lessur clinked glasses.
“Congratulations,”—Lessur looked around the room—“on your new enterprise and on being the sole owner.”
“Confusion to the enemy.”
Lessur pointed to the deck on the table.
“How did you get so good at cards?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have plenty of time.”
“Some other time.”
“Very well. May I say you look radiant this morning?”
“Thank you. Anything else?”
“Yes. A little business. You and me.”
“I’m out of that business, Mister Lessur, as of last night. But one of the ladies upstairs can accommodate you.”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“About you being the sole owner . . .”
“What about it?”
“The sign in front of my building says ‘Freighting.’ ”
“So?”
“I’m also in many other businesses here in Prescott—without any signs. A sort of silent partner. The bank. A couple of mines. Livestock. Several ranches . . .”
“So?”
“So I would like you to consider making an arrangement with me . . . as your silent partner.”
“Why didn’t you make such an arrangement with Brady?”
“I knew that sooner or later he’d lose the place to you, so why complicate matters? Besides, I’d rather make such an arrangement with you.”
“Why would I consider doing that?”
“For money and other advantages.”
“How much money?”
“Say four thousand dollars for twenty percent of the profits. You keep the books. You run the business, with absolutely no interference from me. The sign stays the same, everything stays the same.”
“Except my profits. What are the ‘other advantages’?”
“I freight in your inventory. From now on that will be at a sizable discount.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. A sizable reduction in your rent. You do know I own this building.”
“And you know, Mister Lessur, that Brady had a five-year lease . . . signed over to me.”
“Five years is not such a long time.”
“In five years I’ll be rich and retired.”
“Leases have been known to be broken.”
“I wouldn’t advise that, Mister Lessur. Look what happened to poor Brady.”
“I don’t play cards the way he did.”
“And I don’t play games. Not with you. And you know something else, Mister Lessur? Word is you may have some competition in the freighting business.”
“We’ll see . . . five thousand instead of four?”
“A thousand times, no.”
“Suppose I keep the offer open?”
“Suppose we say ‘so long.’”
“Very well, Miss Millay.” Lessur stood and smiled. “Suppose we do . . . for now.” A plume of cigar smoke trailed in his wake as he left.
In a moment Binky stepped from behind one of the corner curtains.
“Ah, yes . . . one can smile and smile and be a villain. At least it’s so in . . . Prescott.”
“Why, you son of a bitch!” She grinned.
“Yes, ma’am . . . and your obedient servant.”
“I appreciate your opening up and letting me in, Mister Silver.”
“Well, we’re not officially open yet, still taking inventory, but what can I do for you, Mister . . .”
“Knight. Oliver Knight. I publish the newspaper in town, a weekly—The Prescott Independent.”
Oliver Knight was pale, bone-thin, wore spectacles and smelled of printer’s ink.
“Glad to meet you, Mister Knight. Please sit down. You like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m on a deadline, got a little open space right on the front page. Thought I’d do a little story about you coming to town.”
“That’s fine.”
“Could be next edition you’ll buy a little ad.”
“Could be.”
“You own this place alone?”
“Nope. Got a brother, Jake, upstairs and two young sons. They’re cleaning up the place.”
“Uh-huh. I also heard you might be going into the freight business.”
“No, sir. Not ‘might be.’ We are.”
“You’re aware of a fellow named Lessur?”
“I am.”
“A smiling scorpion. Got his hand in just about everything in town, except my newspaper.”
“And my store.”
“Has he made you an offer . . . for your wagons?”
“He has.”
“Why didn’t you sell?”
“Has he made you an offer for your newspaper?”
“He has.”
“Why didn’t you sell?”
“The paper’s called Independent. That’s what I am. Independent.”
“So am I, Mister Knight.”
Gunshots. One. Two. Three. Four. From outside on the street in front of the store.
“Goddammit! It’s the Keeler brothers, Claude and Charlie, shooting up the town again. They’re crazy and usually drunk.”
“Don’t you have any law in Prescott? A sheriff, marshal, or—”
“Nope. Mayor Davis is the law and he’s got a committee to keep order, drunks and such. If it gets serious, he sends for the army.”
Two more gunshots.
“Where is the mayor?”
“Outta town today.”
“What about the committee?”
“Probably under their blankets.”
Another gunshot. This one shattered a second-story window of the store.
“My boys are up there.”
“I wouldn’t go outside, Mister Silver. They might go away.”
Ike strapped on the gun belt lying on top of the rolltop desk.
“They might not.”
He started toward the door.
“Mister Silver . . .”
Ike stepped out of the door, past the mezuzah, and stood on the boardwalk.
Claude and Charlie Keeler had dismounted and were tying their horses to the hitching post.
They had leathered their guns and each held a whiskey bottle in his left hand.
“All right!” Ike barked. “That’s enough!”
“Who the hell are you?” Claude said.
“I’m the new owner.”
“Well, we need some supplies.”
“Open up.” Charlie took a swig. “We’re comin’ in.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Who’s gonna stop us?” Claude grinned.
“I am.”
“How?” Charlie smirked.
Both Charlie and Claude’s right hands inched toward their holsters.
Ike’s hand streaked and his gun flashed twice.
Both whiskey bottles shattered. Both men’s guns were still leathered. Both brothers trembled where they stood.
“Now get on your animals and get the hell out.”
They started to move.
“Just a minute.”
They froze.
“That’ll be one dollar for the broken window. Put it on the hitching post.”
Charlie took a silver dollar out of his vest and complied.
They mounted and spurred away.
Ike holstered his gun, walked to the hitching post and lifted the silver dollar.
Oliver Knight came out of the door, followed by Jake, then the boys.
“Ike, are you all right?” Jake asked.
Ike nodded.
Ben Brown, Melena and Benjie were now out front, and so were several citizens of Prescott.
“I’ve never seen anything like that!” Knight gasped.
“Would you care to continue the interview, Mister Knight?”
“I’ve got more than enough material, Mister Silver. By the way, would you consider that job as sheriff?”
“Not interested, Mister Knight, I’m just a storekeeper.”
“You’re not a just anything.”
Oliver Knight walked away.
Lessur and Gallagher stood in front of Lessur’s office.
“Yes, sir,” Knight mumbled as he passed by them, “somebody’s come to town.”
“In my whole life,“ Gallagher whispered, “I never seen anybody as fast and accurate.”
“There’s always somebody faster and more accurate.” Lessur smiled. “And I know who.”