CHAPTER 16

After the first Sunday service, Cyrus and Isabel left the new sanctuary just behind the Walkers. Pastor and Mrs. Benton stood at the door, shaking hands with the parishioners.

“Now you be sure and come over for dinner as soon as you’re done here,” Orissa Walker said loudly enough for all those still in the building to hear.

“Thank you,” Apphia Benton said.

Her husband smiled and took Mrs. Walker’s hand. “We’ll be there shortly, my good woman.”

Cyrus nodded at Mrs. Benton and shook the minister’s hand heartily. “Good sermon, Reverend.”

“Thank you.” Phineas Benton’s face barely contained his ear-to-ear smile. “And thank you again for your generosity, Mr. Fennel.”

Cy left the building and put his hat on. Isabel came out behind him.

“Are you coming straight home, Pa?”

“I may drop in to see someone for a minute. Go ahead and get dinner on though. I’ll be right there.” A month ago, he might have gone to the Spur & Saddle for his Sunday dinner, but Bitsy’s venom was too much to face lately. He’d as soon eat at home. But first he wanted to stop by the Nugget. He went to the back door and knocked.

Jamin Morrell came to open it in his shirtsleeves.

“Well, Mr. Fennel, what brings you out?”

Cyrus nodded with a half smile. “Just thought I’d tell you, the church service was packed. But I think the reverend was disappointed that you didn’t show up.”

Jamin laughed. “It’ll be a hot day in January when I start going to church.”

He walked inside to a table in the corner, where he had writing materials spread out, and picked up a stoneware mug of coffee. “Just catching up on some correspondence and bookkeeping.” After a quick swig, he set the mug down and slid a sheet of paper over the one he’d been working on.

Cyrus had glimpsed the salutation of a letter: Dear Dr. Kincaid.

“Why do you keep the Nugget closed Sundays if you don’t believe in religion?” he asked.

Jamin gave him a tight smile. “Everyone needs a day of rest, Mr. Fennel. If Bitsy Shepard wants to serve chicken dinners instead of taking a day of rest, let her. I doubt she makes much profit from it. I give my employees the day off. You can tell the reverend that if you want. He can do his business on Sunday, but don’t expect me there.”

Cyrus left him, noting peevishly that Morrell could at least have offered him a cup of coffee. Oh well, Isabel would have dinner ready at home.

As he walked, he pondered how he could bring the Reverend Mr. Benton over to his way of thinking about the shooting club. Dooley and Bane had driven all the way to Boise to fetch the ammunition Libby Adams had wanted to bring in on the stagecoach. On his visit to the emporium yesterday, he’d seen several new guns displayed. Those hadn’t been there before. Oh, she’d ordered in Bibles, too, the hypocrite. Did she think that could offset the way she encouraged all those women to defy their husbands? Much as he admired her golden locks and sweet visage, he was glad he hadn’t pursued an entanglement with Libby. She would buck him all the way on both domestic and business matters, unlike his pliable and obedient daughter.

Maybe he and Isabel could entertain the Bentons for dinner next Sunday. If he could get the minister away from distractions, they could have a serious talk about a woman’s place in society and how the shooting club was detrimental to the town and the congregation. Reverend Benton needed to understand the danger of an organization that prompted women to abandon their duties in the home.

Milzie set Franklin’s Hawken rifle against the stone wall of the cave and carefully unwrapped her bundle. She had so few possessions she took great care to make sure they stayed in a safe place. The bundle consisted of her ragged shawl, for which she was thankful. That, with a wool skirt, one bodice she’d made from one of Franklin’s old shirts, and a tattered nightdress, made up her entire wardrobe. She’d saved Franklin’s wool, army-issue coat the night of the fire, and her shoes, but they were nearly in pieces now. Her stockings had long since worn through at the toes and heels.

The cave served her better as a home than it had as part of Franklin’s mining claim. He’d dug about inside for weeks, twenty years or more ago, hoping to find some ore, but without success. It only went back thirty feet or so into the rock. Frank had shored up the ceiling while he was at it and built a little shelf on one side of the opening, between two timbers. An old lantern hung above it. Her only furniture was a wooden crate she’d salvaged and used as a stool.

She peered at the jumble of items she’d brought back from her latest trip into town. The light streaming through the cave entrance revealed her new treasures, mostly bestowed on her by the ladies of the shooting club.

The bright red kerchief was a prize she’d almost passed up. She felt guilty as she stroked it. Miz Dooley likely would miss it, but it was so cheery, she couldn’t walk off without it. And she could tie it about her throat when the weather turned cold again. She’d also picked up a few brass shell casings after the shooting practice. She wasn’t sure what she would do with them, but they must be good for something. A bread roll and a clump of raisins—Bitsy Shepard had slipped her those, bless her heart. And Miz Adams had brought her a few crackers wrapped in brown paper. The final item was one she’d found when she cut behind one of the ranch houses on her way home: a button that looked all shiny in the sunlight, like silver. She held it up to the light. The design resembled a knot, cast in metal. She stroked it lovingly and placed it on the shelf.

The shell casings looked fine, next to her neat row of shining safety pins, including the big one from the livery. She raised her hand to her mouth and licked the spot on the back where she’d been burned in March, the night the cabin went up in flames. It didn’t hurt much now, but the skin was still rough. She folded the red kerchief and set it next to the blacksmith’s knife and the matchbox that held the few coins she’d found at the livery last week.

The shooting club was the greatest adventure she’d had in years. Franklin’s Hawken bought her entrance into the company of the finest ladies in Fergus. True, she was reduced to “borrowing” ammunition to practice with. Libby or Gert brought her powder and lead for two or three shots each meeting. She was getting good at shooting, too. Under Gert Dooley’s tutelage, her aim had improved dramatically. Milzie had visions of bringing down a pronghorn for meat someday. Wouldn’t that be fine?

Her pitiful inventory mocked her. How would she survive with only these few things? But she’d made it through since March, and the warm weather was on her side. She’d planted the seeds Libby Adams gave her a couple of weeks ago. Already, feathery little carrots sprouted in the garden spot behind the charred remains of the cabin.

She would rest today and forage again tomorrow. Today she’d saved one lead ball for the Hawken. Somehow, she’d figure out a way to salvage a bit of powder next time and bring it home to the cave. And sometime soon, she would go hunting.

Gert drove the wagon to Bert Thalen’s ranch on Monday afternoon with Libby and Mrs. Benton on the seat with her. In the back rode Florence, Annie, Myra, Vashti, and Bitsy. Libby had hired the wagon from the livery so that Mrs. Benton could attend the shooting practice in comfort.

When Gert reined in the team, six more women, wives of ranchers and miners, awaited their arrival. They swarmed around the wagon to greet the ladies from town.

“Ladies,” Gert called, standing up on the wagon, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce Mrs. Apphia Benton.”

Mrs. Benton smiled warmly and nodded at the women assembled on the meager grass.

“Some of you met her yesterday at the church service,” Gert said. “For those of you who may not have heard, she is our new minister’s wife.”

The women crowded in closer, and Emmaline reached up to help Mrs. Benton descend from the wagon seat.

After allowing a few minutes for greetings and chatter, Gert nodded at Libby, who raised her melodic voice.

“Ladies, if I may have your attention, please. Since our numbers have grown so, Miss Dooley and I have formed a plan for dividing the shooters into teams. Each team leader will be responsible for seeing that safety procedures are followed and that all targets and debris are cleaned up before we leave.”

The women nodded and murmured their approval. With Ethan’s permission, they continued to meet in a draw on Bert Thalen’s ranch, but he had warned them that the site of their meetings would probably have to be moved if Bert’s son sold the ranch or decided to come live on it.

“Before we name the team leaders,” Libby said, “Miss Dooley has one other announcement.”

Gert tried to smile, but her stomach lurched a little. She wasn’t used to speaking to a crowd. “It has come to my attention that certain people in the town have given our group a name.” The women waited in utter silence. Gert swallowed and went on. “They’re calling us the Ladies’ Shooting Club.”

“Could be worse,” Vashti said, and they all laughed.

Gert was able to smile then. “Yes, it could.” She’d thought of several possibilities herself, none of them good. “I wondered if you would like to formally enact a resolution to take the name ‘Ladies’ Shooting Club.’ That would make us an acknowledged organization.”

“Acknowledged by whom?” Bitsy called.

Gert looked at Libby, a panicky dismay squeezing her innards.

“Why, by us, of course,” Libby said, still smiling, and a ripple of amusement ran through the group. “And by all the kind gentlemen who have shown their support in various ways—the sheriff, Hiram Dooley, Griffin Bane, and others.”

Annie called out, “The way I see it, if a man isn’t carping about our shooting habits, he’s on our side.”

“What good will naming the club do?” Emmaline asked.

Gert looked to Libby with a silent plea for her to continue. Libby rose to the occasion.

“As an entity, we can have a voice in the town. Miss Dooley and I thought the club might even approach the town council concerning safety. We could urge them to allow the sheriff to deputize men to help him patrol the town at night, for instance.”

“Why couldn’t we help with that?” Myra asked.

“Hmm, I’m not sure the town fathers are ready for that.” Libby reached to squeeze the girl’s arm and looked over at Gert.

Gert cleared her throat. “May I hear from those in favor of this resolution—to be hereafter known as the Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus?”

“Aye,” chorused the women.

“Any opposed?”

Blessed silence greeted her. “Thank you. The resolution is enacted. And now, I would like to institute a new tradition for the club. I’d like to ask Mrs. Benton to lead us in prayer.”

“I’m delighted to be here with you as a part of this group.” Mrs. Benton pushed a wisp of dark hair back beneath her bonnet. “Thank you all for your welcome. Shall we pray?”

The ladies bowed their heads—even Vashti, after Bitsy elbowed her sharply.

Half an hour later, as the teams worked smoothly through their shooting routines, Gert moved from group to group to give pointers on aiming.

In Emmaline’s group, she heard Apphia say to Goldie, “Why of course you would be welcome at the church services. No one would turn you away from the Lord’s work.” The saloon girl eyed her dubiously.

When Gert reached Libby’s team, her friend gestured for her to join them.

“I was thinking that perhaps on Thursday you could give us all a lesson in gun cleaning.” Libby’s blue eyes glinted with eagerness.

“Sure. That’s a good idea.” Gert looked over the orderly ranks of women and frowned. Milzie was hobbling away, past the row of tied horses and toward the road. “I gave Milzie her last bullet and powder load, but she’s leaving, and I don’t think she’s fired it yet.”