CHAPTER 5

All semblance of order disappeared after the mayor declared it was time to eat. Gert squeezed between people to get to the front of the room where the tables of food were set up. She found her apron and joined several other women to help dish up beans and stews.

People in Fergus had practical funeral customs. Women took food and aprons. Men took tin plates and cups and their appetites. After the deceased was laid to rest, an hour of good food and conversation followed, as sure as the corpse stayed in the grave.

Libby smiled wanly at Gert as she tied her apron strings behind her back. “Afternoon, Gert. What did you bring?”

“Four pies.”

“Good for you. I hope there’s some left for us.” They didn’t converse much as they served the long line of townsfolk, at least three-quarters of whom were men. Some of the ranchers made cheeky comments to the women serving the food. Gert noticed that they teased Florence, the young clerk from Libby’s store, the most. A few made comments to Gert. A couple of men stared outright at Libby. Though most folks knew she wasn’t looking to remarry, a few diehards continued trying to impress her.

“Well, Miz Adams,” one cowpoke from Micah Landry’s ranch said with a grin as Libby plopped a large square of corn bread on his plate. “You look purty as a peach orchard today.”

“Thank you, Parnell. I’ve never seen a peach orchard, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s a mighty purty sight, ma’am.”

Libby chuckled. “Thank you. Next.”

“Oh, wait,” Parnell cried. “I was gonna ask if I could call on you, ma’am.”

“No, thank you,” Libby said. “Next.”

Gert marveled that Libby could brush off a suitor so serenely.

Parnell huffed out a breath. “But—”

“Just move along, Parnell,” said the next man in line.

Gert straightened her spine and dipped her spoon into the bean pot without meeting the man’s gaze. Jamin Morell ran the Nugget, the new saloon in town. Gert held him personally responsible for the noise on the Nugget’s end of the street on Saturday nights.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” After he’d stepped over in front of Libby for corn bread, Gert sneaked a disapproving glance at him. His suit must have come from back East. The material was finer than what Libby stocked at the Paragon Emporium, and anyway, Gert doubted any woman in Fergus could tailor that well. His swirly-patterned silk waistcoat would be something to stare at if she didn’t have to worry about him staring back.

Jamin beamed a toothy smile at Libby. “Good day, ma’am. That looks delicious.”

Gert turned to serve the next man in line.

“Howdy, Gert.”

Ethan’s strained smile melted her heart. She could tell he’d hated to take the sheriff’s position, but when he saw the need, he’d stepped up and accepted the duty. Ethan Chapman had to be the finest man in Fergus. After Hiram, of course, though her brother had slacked off on taking part in civic activities since Violet died. Before that, Hiram used to talk and even laugh with his customers. He’d squired Violet around town when she needed to shop, and he’d offered to help ranchers who were laid up. All that politeness and neighborliness had ended when Violet drew her last breath.

Well, no sense thinking about that. Right now the town’s new sheriff was smiling at her.

“Congratulations, Ethan,” she said softly. “I think the mayor chose the right man for the job.” Of course, Cy Fennel did the actual choosing, and Mayor Walker had carried out his wishes, as always, but she would never say that to Ethan. It was fitting that he’d been chosen, no matter who orchestrated it.

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know about that, but it seemed someone needed to do it, and we wouldn’t get any food until they did.”

Ethan could always make her laugh. She loved it when he spent time with Hiram and coaxed a smile or two out of him as well.

“You’ll do a good job.” She ladled a generous serving of beans onto his plate.

“This your mess?” He nodded toward the bean pot.

“No, Annie Harper brought ‘em. I brought pies.”

He glanced down the tables toward where the desserts waited. “I’ll be sure and get some. I know they’ll be good.”

Gert was still smiling when she turned to the next in line—sour-faced Orissa Walker.

An hour later, she and the other women scraped out the pans and retrieved the biscuits and pie they’d hidden away to be sure they got something.

“I should get back and open the emporium,” Libby said as she sank onto a bench.

“I could open for you, Miz Adams,” Florence said. She sat down, balancing her plate and a tin cup of cider.

“We’ll both go,” Libby replied. “As soon as we finish eating and cleaning up.”

“You’ve done enough,” Gert said. “We’ve got plenty of women to clean up. If folks will remember to take their dishes, there won’t be much to do anyway. Hiram will put all the benches back.”

The crowd continued to thin. Bitsy Shepard and Goldie, one of her saloon girls, collected the four large pans in which Bitsy’s contribution for the meal had arrived—sliced roast beef, a mess of succotash, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a deep-dish dried pumpkin pie big enough to feed two dozen people.

“Thanks for sending all that food, Bitsy,” Gert called.

Bitsy’s gaze lit on her, and she smiled. “‘Tweren’t nothing.”

“Sure it was,” Libby said. “Most folks hereabouts don’t eat that well unless they go to the Spur & Saddle for Sunday dinner.”

Bitsy flushed, which Gert thought a remarkable feat for a saloon owner of twenty years’ standing. “I do thank you.” She and Goldie hustled toward the door, their satin skirts rustling. Gert wondered if they’d chosen their least flamboyant dresses for the funeral. Bitsy’s was a deep wine red, and Goldie’s too-short green overskirt showed a ruffle of gold beneath and a scandalous hint of dark stockings.

Gert turned back to Libby and Florence. “Bitsy always thought a lot of Bert.”

“Yes,” Libby agreed, “but she’d have done the same for anyone in this town.”

Libby took the prize for genuine sweetness, Gert decided. Some of the town’s women wouldn’t give Bitsy the time of day. But Libby always had a kind word for anyone—a ranch hand, a saloon girl, or the mayor’s prim wife. She was more than passably pretty, too, with her golden hair and vivid blue eyes—the way Gert had always wished her own had turned out, instead of this scraggly hair the color of dishwater and eyes like the smoke coming out of the chimney when Hiram burned greasewood. No wonder all the men in town hankered after the lovely widow. But Libby gently discouraged all who came courting.

Gert lifted her last forkful of roast to her mouth. Bitsy surely could cook, no denying that. Or maybe the rumors were true and Augie Moore did a lot of the cooking for her during the day, putting on his bartender’s apron when the men began to gather after supper.

Libby stood. “If you’re sure you don’t need me …”

Gert shook her head and waved a hand at the nearly empty food tables. “Git. There’s barely a thing left.”

Her friend hesitated and looked around the hall. She leaned close to Gert’s ear. “Have you heard anyone say for sure how Bert died?”

“Just what Ethan said yesterday. He hit his head.”

“I can’t help thinking about it and wondering.”

Gert studied Libby’s face. “You mean … maybe someone hit it for him? Nobody’s said as much.”

“Good. I probably worry too much.” Libby turned toward the door. “Come on, Florence. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss some business.”

As the two left the schoolroom, Gert’s gaze drifted again to Ethan. He stood near the stove with the mayor and Cyrus. She wondered what Mayor Walker was saying so earnestly. To one side, Jamin Morrell sat sipping from a tin cup. He almost seemed to be listening to the men’s conversation. Gert had no use for Morrell. He’d come to Fergus a year past and opened the Nugget Saloon on the opposite end of Main Street from Bitsy’s establishment. Not that Gert approved of Bitsy’s business, but compared to the Nugget, the Spur & Saddle was practically genteel. Morrell took a long pull from his cup, and suddenly Gert wondered if he’d sneaked a bottle of spirits into the schoolhouse.

After a moment, the two older men clapped Ethan on the back and left him. Cyrus went out the door, and Mayor Walker joined his wife and a couple who owned a ranch east of town.

Gert busied herself setting the few remaining pans closer together so she and Mrs. Landry could clear off one table. No sense letting folks see her making calf eyes at her brother’s friend—the new sheriff, that is. She smiled to herself. Ethan might not be overly comfortable with his new position, but she couldn’t think of a better candidate for the job. Not another man in Fergus could be as impartial and honest as Ethan Chapman.

“Hey, Gert.”

She jumped and looked up to find the object of her thoughts looking at her with brown eyes fit to make a schoolgirl swoon.

“Ethan.”

“Seen Hiram?”

“I think he went back to the graveyard with Griffin. They wanted to make sure the dirt got tamped down good.”

Ethan nodded and turned his hat around in his hands, holding it by the brim. “Thought I’d ask Hi to go over to the sheriff’s office with me. The mayor and Mr. Fennel think I oughta go over it to see if there’s anything that will tell us more about Bert’s … demise.”

She nodded. “Hiram will go with you if you ask him. Just don’t expect him to hold forth with his opinion.”

Ethan actually smiled. “Right. He’s restful, your brother.” Still, he stood there, turning the hat round and round. “I guess I’ll have to sleep in there some now.”

Gert searched his face. Fatigue etched little lines like pine needles at the corners of his eyes, and his eyebrows drew together.

“I don’t expect you need to stay there tonight. Bert only slept there when he had prisoners, didn’t he?”

“I guess. But I’ll have to make arrangements for someone to tend my ranch when I’m in town.”

“Don’t you have any ranch hands?” Gert asked.

“I had two last year, but I let them go in the fall. You know, Spin and Johnny McDade. Couldn’t afford to pay them all winter.”

She nodded. The two had ridden over from Boonville last summer, if she remembered right. Good, steady boys. “I expect they’ll come back, now that it’s warming up again.”

“Maybe. If so, they’ll watch things for me while I’m sheriffing, I guess.” Ethan sighed. “Can’t say I like this turn of events.”

Gert laid her hand on his sleeve for an instant. “You’ll do fine, Ethan. Just fine.” She pulled her hand back lest he think she was being forward.

“Well, thank you kindly. Guess I’ll go see if Hiram’s done.” He walked toward the door and clapped his wilted hat on when he reached it. As he half turned to close the schoolroom door behind him, his gaze again met Gert’s, and he gave her a curt nod.

She stood looking at the closed door for a long moment until Mrs. Landry called, “Gert, is that Laura Storrey’s dish?”

Ethan walked out of the school yard and looked toward the grave site. Sure enough, Hiram and Griffin were out there, filling in the last few shovelfuls of dirt. He took a few steps toward the graveyard, then stopped.

Since when did he need a friend to go with him into a scary, dark place? Not since he was a boy. Maybe it was time he faced reality. When his enlistment expired after the Indian wars, he had come back here looking for some peace and quiet. He minded his own business and worked his own land. Now the townsfolk wanted him to mind everyone else’s business and make sure no one tried to mess with their property. Not Ethan’s choice, not by a long shot.

But that seemed to be the hand God had dealt him. He frowned and pulled his hat off so he could scratch his head. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right to think of God dealing him a poker hand.

“You understand, Lord,” he mumbled. “It’s what You gave me, I reckon. So I guess that means I have to play it out.”

He sighed and turned back to the school yard. He’d left his paint gelding tied to the hitching rail there before the funeral. Little did he expect when he’d left his ranch this morning to come home a lawman. He might never get that fence strung.

Scout stood with his head drooping, sound asleep.

“Hey, fella.”

The paint whickered as Ethan untied the lead rope and stowed it in his saddlebag. He took out the bridle and held the bit up. The gelding smiled then opened his teeth enough for the curb to slip into his mouth. Ethan slid the headstall over Scout’s ears and buckled the throat latch. He stood stroking the horse’s long, sleek neck for a moment, knowing he was stalling.

At last, he tightened the cinch and swung into the saddle. Scout minced around toward the ranch. “Not yet, boy. We got one more stop to make.” Ethan reined him the other way, toward the center of town.

The main street seemed strangely subdued in the waning afternoon. Half the buildings stood empty since the bust that had followed the gold rush, but usually folks were about this time of day. Ethan guessed they’d either had enough socializing at the funeral or had gathered in small groups indoors to keep discussing the recent events.

Scout’s hoofbeats echoed off the facade of the three-story building that used to be a boardinghouse. Those were the days, when the miners poured into town to have their gold dust weighed and find a hot meal and a stiff drink. But the boardinghouse had stood vacant for nigh on ten years. Ethan had been only eleven when his family moved here, but the town’s population had been at least triple what it was now. He remembered the time when three general stores served the needs of the hundreds of miners with claims in the area.

A few of the old buildings had been cannibalized for lumber, but most were still owned by someone who objected to such activity. In fact, a large proportion of the vacant buildings were owned by Cyrus Fennel. He’d bought up a lot of property, in town and outside it, when the boom collapsed. Cyrus kept saying the town would prosper again and then he’d make a fortune selling the storefronts and empty houses. And if anyone tried to steal lumber off one of his buildings, Cyrus put the law on them. Ethan wondered if he’d have to lock people up for pilfering boards. Lumber was in high demand here.

He came to the jail and pulled gently on the reins. Scout obliged by stopping. Ethan gazed toward the weathered building. No smoke puffed from the chimney, and from outside, the jail looked like one more abandoned house.

Scout shook his head and nickered.

“Take it easy, fella.” The saddle leather creaked as Ethan lowered himself to the ground. He felt old today. He was only twenty-nine—at least, he thought it was twenty-nine. That or thirty. But he felt like an old man.

Was it because Bert Thalen was fixing to be an old man, and now Ethan had to take the old man’s place? The town had always had an old sheriff. Ethan remembered Sheriff Rogers from back when he was a kid. Rogers had supposedly been the first sheriff, elected when the young town erupted with gold seekers. Then Rogers retired, back in ‘70, and the town elected Bert in his place. Bert had quit placer mining by then and taken up ranching. He must have already been over forty then.

Ethan tied his horse to the hitching rail and looked up at the gray sky. “All right, Lord, I guess I’ve got to be sheriff. But I don’t have to be old, do I?”

He strode purposefully toward the jail, refusing to enter like a doddering oldster. He flung the door open. The dim interior smelled of ashes and scorched beans. A pan with crusted-on food sat on the cold stove. The door of the single cell was open, just as it had been yesterday. Inside, a wooden bunk was attached to the far wall, which had a small barred window. A straw tick and a chamber pot were the only other amenities.

Ethan glanced around the outer room. Across from the stove stood Bert’s desk and a chair. In one corner, a stool sat beneath several posters tacked to the wall. Hanging from a nail was a large key Ethan assumed went to the cell door. A kerosene lantern hung from the ceiling. Another window—also barred—shed a little light on the surface of the desk. A few sheets of paper and a tin can holding a pencil lay on the scarred desktop.

He walked four paces to the door of the small back room. Bert’s bunk—where Ethan would probably spend more nights than he wanted to—took half the floor space. On the bare board floor beside it, a dark, irregular stain marked the spot where Bert’s smashed head had rested. A shelf held two cups, two tin plates, assorted silverware, a bullet mold, a can of kerosene, and a tobacco tin. In one corner, a mismatched china bowl and pitcher sat on a low stand, and near it on the wall, a grayish towel and one of Bert’s flannel shirts hung from pegs.

Ethan felt the small room closing in on him. His ranch house, with two snug bedchambers, a loft above, and a huge, open kitchen and sitting room, would make three of this jailhouse. He inhaled deeply and recalled Gert’s words to him at the school. He wouldn’t have to stay here unless he had prisoners.

“Thank You for that, Lord.”

Yesterday the old sheriff had lain on his back, here by the bunk, with his feet sprawled right about where Ethan stood. He stepped aside quickly, then gave himself a mental kick in the backside. He couldn’t avoid the spot where Bert died forever. He’d have to sleep in the dead man’s bunk.

“At least I can wash the bedding and clean up that bloodstain.” He stepped forward, deliberately planting his boots where Bert’s body had lain on the planks, and yanked the crazy quilt off the bunk. Beneath was only another straw tick. A small pillow covered with a linen case lay at one end, and he shook the pillow out and wrapped the case up in the quilt. Dust filled the air and set him coughing. If it ever warmed up outside, he’d empty out the tick and the pillow and fill them with new straw.

Bert probably never dusted or swept this place. Ethan had yet to see a broom, though there must be one somewhere. He walked back into the outer room, seeking the tools he needed. A bucket half full of water sat between the stove and the wood box. He hadn’t noticed it before. He could get more water and scrub the floor in there. And if he couldn’t find a broom, he could walk over to Hiram’s and ask to borrow Gert’s.

He opened the stove and stooped over the wood box. Plenty of kindling, but tinder seemed in short supply. He grabbed a split log and began peeling off slivers and placing them in a strategic heap in the belly of the stove. Over them he built a tepee of kindling sticks. Bert had left a matchbox conveniently on the back of the wood box. Ethan lit the tinder and blew to coax the tiny flames.

He eased the stick he’d taken the splinters from into the stove, then stretched to reach another log. As he started to put it in the stove, he looked at the stick and jumped back, dropping it. The firewood clattered to the floor, thunking his knee on the way down.

Ethan stared down at the stick of wood. Slowly he stooped and retrieved it. He held it up by one end, like he would a gopher snake by its tail. The dark blotch wasn’t much—just a reddish smear on the edge of the light, rough wood. As he brought it closer and peered at it, he nearly gagged. A clump of graying hair was lodged in the dark spot where a sliver had split from the rest of the log.

“Ethan?”

He jumped and turned toward the doorway. Hiram ambled toward him, frowning. His gaze traveled to the firewood and back to Ethan’s face.

“I found this in the wood box.” It sounded stupid. Ethan stepped toward his friend and held out the split log. “See that?” He pointed to the dark patch and the hairs.

Hiram raised his eyebrows. He reached out and took the two-foot piece of wood by the other end.

“It must have been there last night when we took Bert out of here,” Ethan said.

Hiram nodded. “Musta been.”

“Yeah. Must have.” Ethan swallowed hard. “Good thing we didn’t build the fire up and toss it in the stove without noticing.”

Hiram’s eyes were plain gray in the dim light. “How come …?”

“What?” Ethan tried to follow Hiram’s thoughts as he studied the wood again. “That’s got to be Bert’s hair and blood.”

Hiram nodded again.

“I wonder if there were wood slivers in his scalp.” The thought bothered Ethan. They should have paid more attention. “Someone hit Bert with that stick of fir.”

Hiram eyed Ethan thoughtfully. “Not his heart.”

“I’d say not.”

Hiram pursed his lips and said nothing.

“If it’d been a woman, we’d have had the ladies lay her out,” Ethan said. “They’d have changed her clothes and washed the body. They’d have cleaned the wound in the back of his head—her head. Oh, you know what I mean, Hi. They’d have noticed things.”

The gunsmith nodded and scrunched his face up in distaste. “Gert said as much. Said we ought have changed Bert’s shirt. But he was wearing his best one when he died.”

“If we had, maybe we’d have looked closer. Did you notice anything odd about that gash on the back of his head?”

“Only that there wasn’t any blood on the edge of the bunk where everyone said he must’ve hit his head.”

“Yeah.” Ethan walked over to Bert’s desk and sat down in the oak chair behind it. “I guess I wanted it to be that way. There wasn’t anything in the room that could have been a weapon. I didn’t want to think someone did him in.”

“Nobody wanted to,” Hiram said.

“We could ask Griff. Maybe he noticed something.”

“He’da said so.”

Ethan nodded. Hiram was talking more than he had in years, but the things he said were small comfort.

“All right, what do we do? There’s nobody to tell.” Hiram laid the stick of wood carefully on top of the desk so that the stained end stuck out off the edge.

Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. He hated being the sheriff. Less than two hours, and the job already scared him silly. Was a murder investigation his first duty? “All right, let’s think about this. Maybe there’s a U.S. marshal somewhere in the territory.”

Hiram shrugged. “Boise, maybe?”

“Yeah. I’ll send a telegraph message to Boise. That’s good thinking, Hi. I’ll ask who the territorial lawman is.”

That settled, Ethan felt much better. He stood up. “Right. Let me finish building that fire. While the water for scrubbing the floor heats, I’ll go to the telegraph office. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.” He looked at the stove. The door still stood wide open, and his little kindling pile was consumed. The flames had vanished, leaving the one split log forlornly smoldering.

He stepped toward the wood box, but Hiram put out a hand to stop him. “Go.” Hiram reached down for another supply of kindling.

“Right.” Ethan strode to the door and looked back. “Thanks.”