“Ike,” Jake said, “it’s not the boys who need a nursemaid anymore. It’s my baby brother. Every time I go away you get into trouble. Right?”
“Right, Jake. Next time I’ll wait ’til you get back.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. . . . Ike, I heard what that son of a bitch said to you. . . .”
“So did I,” Ben softly interrupted.
“Fellas, it’s all over. Let’s forget about it.”
“It ain’t all over, brother Ike, not so long as a certain party named Lessur is around.”
“Jake’s right,” Ben agreed, “and you know it.”
“We’ll take ’em as they come.” Ike smiled.
Jake nodded. “Okay, but next time include me.”
“That goes for me, too,” Ben added.
“All right, fellas, but in the meantime those wagons have got to be delivered to Fort Whipple.”
Jake pointed as Colonel Crook and Captain Bourke dismounted. “It looks like the colonel’s come in himself to take the delivery.”
The rest of the army contingent remained on their horses as Crook and Bourke approached the front of the stable. And as they did, they were joined by Mayor John Davis, who scurried up beside them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Crook said.
“Yes, good morning,” Davis chimed.
Good mornings were exchanged all around except for Captain Bourke, who maintained his silence.
“You come in to escort us out to the fort?” Jake asked.
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary, but I heard about what happened over at the Emporium.”
“So did I,” Davis added.
“Are you all right?” Crook looked at Ike.
“Just fine.”
“So’s that gunfighter,” Jake said, “and right where he belongs. I hope they bury him face down so he can see where he’s going.”
“I agree,” Davis said, “and I still think we ought to have a sheriff here in Prescott.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it, Mister Mayor?” Jake suggested.
“I’m working on it, but it’s got to be done according to the—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jake mocked.
“Did you get everything on the list?” Crook pointed at the loaded wagons.
“You bet, Colonel.” Jake nodded.
“Good. I’ll be meeting with Colorados at Spanish Flats, and I think we’ve got something worked out that’ll be satisfactory to all concerned.”
“That’s good news, Colonel,” Ike said. “And Ben, after you make delivery, make sure your wagon’s in good shape. We’ll be bringing in that first shipment from the Rattlesnake.”
“It’ll be ready, Ike.”
“Well,” Davis said, “I’d say everything’s in good shape.”
“Yes, Mister Mayor,” Jake remarked, “and we thank you for all your help.”
“Uh-huh.” The mayor cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve got to get over to the office. Good day, gentlemen.” The mayor walked away as fast as he could without trotting.
Jake nodded toward the departing mayor. “I think the worm is beginning to turn.”
“He knows which side his bread is buttered on,” Crook said.
“It doesn’t matter to him,” Jake observed. “He’ll eat both sides.”
Ike smiled. “Brother Jake, you’re a cynic.”
“No, brother Ike . . . a philosopher.”
“We’ll see you at the fort,” Crook said. “All right, Captain, let’s mount up.”
Crook and Bourke headed toward their animals.
“Well,” Ike said, “I’ll go see how Scotty’s doing.”
“Stay out of trouble ’til we get back,” Jake declared.
“Who, me?”
The slim rubber sling snapped, sending a wad of paper through the air and smacking against the back of Jed’s head as he sat in the former storeroom—the present schoolroom.
Sister Mary Boniface stood in front of several rows of students in attendance. Among them were Jed, Obie, Benjie, four Mexican children and other boys and girls of assorted complexions and ages.
“Jedediah,” Sister Bonney asked, “did you say something?”
“Uh, no, ma’am—I mean Sister.”
Jed launched a threatening look at angelic Obadiah as Sister Bonney continued where she had left off.
“‘. . . A new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are . . .’”
The oldest girl in the room, red haired, with a face full of freckles, who appeared to be about twelve, raised her hand.
“Yes, Elizabeth.”
“What about women?”
“How’s that?”
“I mean, what about us? Why did President Lincoln leave us out of his speech?”
“Well, in the first place, Elizabeth, that line of the Gettysburg Address is a direct quote from the Declaration of Independence. In the second place, the word ‘men’ actually means ‘people.’ All people are created equal . . . men and women.”
Jed raised his hand.
“Yes, Jedediah.”
“Then how come women can’t vote?”
The students all laughed.
Jim Gallagher had been passing by outside the open window and paused when he heard the laughter. Gallagher poked his head closer to the window to find out what was so funny. But he did so discreetly, so as not to be seen.
“Jedediah,” Sister Bonney said as the laughter subsided, “that is a question I would like to put to the men in the Congress of the United States. But, children, we must remember,”—she looked first at Benjie, then at the other boys and girls in the classroom—“it took time for slaves to be free in the United States and other countries, and in time, and I’m sure it will happen, we women will be free to vote and even run for office. Of course, some of us women, myself included, have chosen another calling. Now then, Elizabeth, Jedediah, does that answer your questions?”
“Yes, Sister.” Elizabeth nodded.
“Sort of,” Jedediah said, barely audible.
“How’s that, Jedediah?”
“Nothing, Sister.”
“No, don’t say ‘nothing.’ I heard you say something. Now, whatever you have in mind, speak right up.”
“Well, if I ever go to Congress, I’ll vote for girls to vote.”
“Very good. We ‘girls’ thank you very much and if you need any assistance in your campaign, I’m sure we’d be glad to help.”
More laughter.
“Now, time’s up, so tomorrow we’ll continue with what President Lincoln, who is now in heaven, said in his Gettysburg Address, ‘All men . . . ,’ ”—Sister Bonney smiled at Elizabeth—“‘. . . and women are created equal.’ Class is dismissed. Get home before dark.”
The boys and girls bounced out of their seats and bounded toward the door.
“We are home!” Obie hit Jed on the arm.
“That’s two I owe you,” Jed said and chased him out of the room.
Sister Bonney leaned over to Benjie, who was still in his seat, and whispered something. Benjie nodded and smiled, then walked toward the door.
When the children had left, Sister Bonney heard Gallagher’s voice.
“That’s a lot of hogwash, Sister.” By now Gallagher was leaning well into the window.
As Sister Bonney reacted and walked toward him, Ike appeared at the doorway of the classroom and stood there without saying anything or being seen.
“What’s a lot of hogwash, Mister Gallagher?” Sister Bonney asked.
“That hooey you’ve been spoutin’ to them kids.”
“This is a classroom, Mister Gallagher, not a weed patch. What we try to cultivate here is learning, if not wisdom. To what ‘hooey’ are you referring?”
“That stuff about all men being equal.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“The point is, Sister, a lot of other people don’t, too many other people. There’s a lot of signs back East that say ‘Irish need not apply.’ ”
“There’s no such sign in the Senate—or in city halls all over the country, and that’s why your people came to this country.”
“They came because of the potato famine.”
“That’s one reason, but where else would they, or you, be better off?”
“Aww, come on now, you know we’re looked down upon, Sister.”
“Nobody can look down on you without your own consent, Mister Gallagher, no matter what your religion or nationality.”
“You really believe that, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You are Irish, ain’t you, Sister?” Gallagher smiled.
“I don’t know.”
“How’s that?” Gallagher was genuinely perplexed.
“I said I don’t know. . . I was a foundling.”
“You mean you don’t know who your mother . . .”—he hesitated slightly—“. . . and your father were?”
“The important thing is . . . I know who I am.”
Gallagher seemed even more perplexed.
“Don’t you agree, Mister Gallagher?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Think it over, Mister Gallagher, and you’re welcome to drop by any time. Now, would you help me shut the window? It sticks sometimes.”
“Uh, sure, Sister. Sure.”
After the window was shut, Sister Bonney turned and saw Ike smiling near the entrance. He walked toward her.
“I’d say Mister Gallagher is your oldest pupil.”
“We can all go on learning at any age.”
“I’ll try to remember that. And I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I did learn something about you.”
“Oh, about being a foundling? Well, I’ve never tried to keep it a secret. I’m not ashamed of it. I was just a few days old when left bundled in a basket at the stoop of Saint Francis Orphanage in Baltimore and reared by the Sisters of Charity there.”
“Is that why you became a nun?”
“Actually, I’m still ‘becoming.’ I’ve a year to go before taking the final vows . . . if I’m worthy.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that . . . being worthy, I mean.”
“It’s good of you to say that, Ike, but the answer lies with someone else. And, no, I didn’t take this path because of where I was reared.”
“No?”
“No. When I was old enough, I left Saint Francis.”
“But you went back.”
“Not to Saint Francis. To where I decided, with God’s help, I belonged, if the Sisters of Charity will have me.”
“I think the Sisters of Charity are very lucky . . . and so are we.”
“And so am I.”
He started to turn toward the door.
“Yes, Sister.”
“After we came home, I said a prayer for you . . . and for that Mister Cord.”
“I figured you would.”
“Hello, Scotty.”
“Hello, Miss Belinda. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Haven’t seen you around the Emporium lately.”
“No, ma’am. And you’re not gonna. From now on I’m strictly a storekeeper. Too much excitement for my nerves over there.”
“Speaking of excitement, is he around?”
“He is, and speakin’ of nerves, I don’t think that man has any. He acts as if he just went for a walk in the park last night.”
“Well, it was no cakewalk, I’ll tell you that.”
“So I heard, and so has everybody else. That’s all everybody . . . oh . . .”
Ike had just come in the back door as another customer came in the front door.
“There he is now, and there’s Mrs. Dalrimple. I’ll take care of her, and you two can talk over old times.”
Scotty moved toward the front and Mrs. Dalrimple, while Ike walked toward Belinda.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy yourself.”
“Feel like a cup of strong coffee?” Ike pointed to the pot on the stove.
“No.” She smiled. “But I did feel like a shot of strong whisky this morning . . . a double.”
“Don’t blame you.” He looked at Belinda’s bruised face. “I see Cord left his mark.”
“So did you. Ike, are you all right?”
“I know it sounds silly to say, but I’m glad that things came out the way they did.”
“Couldn’t have come out any other way . . . between Sister Bonney’s rosary and this.”
Ike pulled a silver dollar out of his pocket and held it in his palm.
“You still got the silver dollar I gave you, I—”
“You said it was for luck. Didn’t expect me to spend my luck, did you?”
“I never expected a lot of things when I met you, Mister Silver, I . . .”
The front door banged open and Oliver Knight charged past Scotty and Mrs. Dalrimple, who was holding a bolt of patterned cloth across her expansive frame.
“Excuse me . . . beg pardon,” he rumbled as he brushed past both of them, waving a couple of telegraphs he held in his right hand.
“Oh, hello, Belinda, they told me you were here.”
“Who’s they?”
“Henry and Binky. Stopped at the Emporium for a snorter on my way over. Great jumping Jehosephat! Never will forget what happened there last night . . . neither will a lot of other people when I write up that story. You’ll be famous Ike, and Belinda, so will the Emporium. But first off, look here. . . .” He slapped the papers against his left palm. “I sent out some telegraphs to a couple of colleagues of mine inquiring about James Butler Hickok, and Ike, you’ll be pleased to know he’s alive and well . . . marshaling in Abeline, where John Wesley Hardin opted to ride out of town like his ass was on fire after Wild Bill gave him ten minutes to say adios. Hardin’s killed over a dozen men, but he wisely wouldn’t face your mentor. Now, about you and Cord, I’m gonna—”
“Not gonna,” Ike said.
“What?”
“Oliver, I’m asking you for a favor as a friend. Please don’t print anything about Cord or me . . . or what happened at the Emporium.”
“But Ike, it’s a hell of a story. You’ll be famous, you’ll be—”
“I don’t want to be famous, not as a gunfighter. Every story’s got to have a finish, and I know how this one’ll end.”
“Sure. With Cord dead.”
“That won’t be the end. Just the beginning.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on this chest. ‘I killed Quentin Cord. Now somebody try to kill me.’ That’s what that bull’s-eye’ll be saying . . . to every short-bit drifter looking for a reputation.”
“He’s right, Oliver,” Belinda said.
“I’ve got a family and a business. Gunfighting isn’t my business. So, my friend, I’m asking you . . . don’t print that story.”
Silence.
Then Oliver Knight crumpled the telegraphs and tossed them on Ike’s rolltop.
“I said once that I didn’t want to write your obituary . . . besides, what’s one more byline, more or less.”
Belinda smiled. “Oliver, I’d be pleased to buy you a drink.”
“Sure.” Oliver Knight nodded. “I got nothing else to do . . .”—he looked at the crumpled telegraphs—“. . . now. Ike Silver, that’s two stories you stopped me from writing about you. First Rawlins, now Cord.”
“But Ike,” Belinda said, “mind if I give you a little advice?”
“Go ahead.”
“From now on,”—she pointed to the gun and gun belt on Ike’s desk, “wherever you go, carry that pistol.”