Simon stood facing Werner Swartz in the general store. “Just help Gus clean up and unpack shipments and stock da shelves,” the grumpy German said. He sat at a paper-cluttered table, slouched back in an armchair, his feet nestled in the mess on the tabletop. “And when you haff that done, we will see if smart you are as that schoolteacher say.”
His German accent grated on Simon’s nerves. “Yes’ir.”
“And Gustav says you like to be some lazy, yes? Every time I find you not work I take fifteen minutes from you. Ya?” The question was obviously not a question. “And that five percent you look for, you don’t get until in my pocket I have what you safe me, ya?”
“Yes’ir.”
“So. Get to work with Gustav. Is full of new goods, the back of store. I can’t sell if the shelves not have it.” He smiled condescendingly as though he had just imparted to the village idiot the secret to running a mercantile store.
“Yes’ir.” Simon turned to find Gus standing in the doorway. “Morning, Gus.” He said it more cheerfully than he felt.
“Let me show you what we have to do today.” Gus turned and disappeared, Simon’s greeting left to hang in the musty air, unattended.
Simon followed Gus into the store, and there Gus stopped and showed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of all the shit that came on the wagon last Wednesday. You’re lucky you weren’t here to help unload it. But, seeing as how I was, you get to unpack it. I’ll watch and make sure you get it right.” Gus hiked his ample butt up on a barrel labeled “CRACKERS.”
Simon looked at the chaos of the large room. “If this was here last Wednesday, why are we unpacking it on Monday?”
“You were hired to work, not ask stupid questions.” Gus scowled at him.
Gus’s sharp reply surprised Simon for a moment, and then surprise turned to irritation. Barrels, wooden boxes, cloth and burlap bags, and paper-wrapped packages were stacked and strewn all over. “Where do we start?”
“First thing, not we, you. Hand me those papers on top of that biggest box.” Gus pointed to a three-square-foot box that stood about four feet high. On top lay a folded sheaf of papers. Simon handed them to Gus.
“Says here there are thirty-one items in this shipment, so look for stuff with a number dash thirty-one on it.”
Simon saw many such items. He pointed at 13-31. “That one okay?”
“Sure.” Gus riffled the papers. “Says it’s yard goods. Know what that is?”
“Cloth and thread and such?” Simon knew exactly what yard goods were.
“Very good, schoolboy. Knock the top off and see if you can take down the sides without spilling shit everywhere. There.” He pointed a pudgy finger at an iron bar. One end had been flattened and the other given a slight bend. “Pry it loose with that.”
The top of the box came off easily and inside were rolls of cloth, over a dozen of them. It looked to Simon that if he took the sides down everything would fall over. He grabbed the first roll and started to lift it out of the box.
“Knock the sides down,” Gus said from his perch.
“Everything will fall over. I can—”
“Knock it down.”
Simon pried one side away and it flopped down on the floor. Followed immediately by half of the cloth bolts. He looked at Gus.
“You get the cloth dirty, Pa will make you pay for it.” The smirk on his face showed he’d achieved the desired outcome.
Simon picked up the bolts and leaned them against those remaining in the box. “Where do these go when I have them out?”
“Some go into the store, some go on the storage shelves behind me, and some go to the shelves by the door. Those are special order, and whoever ordered it will pick it up in the next few days.”
“Am I supposed to guess which is which?”
“Don’t get a smart mouth. I’ll tell you what goes where. You just unpack it.”
By the end of the day, Simon had managed to get through about half of the shipment. Gus spent the entire day either parked on the barrel, or following Simon about the store, pointing and criticizing. Simon decided at the end of the second day that the alternate Wednesdays, freight days, were not going to be the highlight of that week.
Simon stood on a small step stool stacking cans of fruit on a shelf. “A-hem.” The sound of a female gently clearing her throat turned his head. There stood Sarah. “Well, hi,” he said, climbing down. Boy, does she look nice today. He wiped his hands selfconsciously on his pants. “Nice to see you. What you doin’ in here?”
“What do you think I’m doing in a store, in the middle of the morning, with a shopping basket on my arm?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Okay, I’ll be the storekeeper. Can I help you find something, ma’am?”
“Why, yes’ir, you can. I need sixteen oyster-shell buttons, about quarter-inch size.”
“Right this way, ma’am.” Simon led her to a large double-door cabinet, which he opened. He pulled out a drawer, and inside, segregated in dozens of small boxed sections, were hundreds of buttons of all sizes and colors. “Do you see what you want, madame?” Simon motioned to the selection with a sweep of his arm and the tiniest hint of a bow.
Sarah giggled. “Why Mr. Storekeeper, you have such a complete collection of buttons. You do run a fine store.” She looked at the open drawer for a moment, and then turned to face him. “I’ve missed talking to you, Simon. Do you think we can try the picnic again Sunday?” She put her hand on his arm, her giggly mood gone, and her gaze direct and intense.
Simon swallowed hard. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but I wasn’t sure if you had gotten over our last trip.” Which was more than just the truth. He’d been thinking about it daily, but hadn’t been able to figure out how to approach her.
“I was being thickheaded that day. I will never interfere with your choice of friends again.” Sarah blurted out the promise. “Can we go then?”
“I’d really like that. Do you want to go at the same time as we did last time?” He suddenly felt light as a feather.
“Perfect.” With the color rising in her face, she quickly turned her attention to the button drawer. She pointed. “Give me sixteen of those pink ones.”
Simon pinched out a few and counted the number into her hand. “Anything else?”
“I need a spool of white thread and . . . just a minute, I have a list.” She pulled a slip of paper from her cloth bag and handed it to Simon. He quickly gathered up all the items and set them on the counter in front of Mr. Swartz.
“That is it all, Miss Kingsley?” the shopkeeper said, peering up from his arithmetic.
“Yes, thank you.” Sarah spoke to Mr. Swartz but her eyes were on Simon.
“You pay now or want it for your fadder’s account?” Swartz scowled at Simon.
Sarah finally looked at Swartz and smiled. “Please, write it down.”
“Ya.” He laid the few items on a sheet of brown paper, wrapped them, and put the package in Sarah’s basket. “Tank you for your business.”
“You’re welcome. Good-bye, Mr. Swartz.” Sarah headed for the door.
Simon hurried to open it for her. “See you Sunday then, noon?”
“Yes. We’ll have a good time. I promise.” She swept by him, and the smell of lavender wafted past his nose.
“And is fifteen more minutes I don’t pay for you,” Swartz grumbled from the counter. “On your own time your picnics you arrange. Ya?”
Simon barely heard the admonition. It had become a regular event, at least four times a day and always as warranted as this one. Right now, Simon could not have cared less. Sarah had forgiven him for his rudeness at the river, and Sunday could not come soon enough. He went back to stocking the canned goods, the task now much lighter.
Sheriff Staker sat at his desk and stared out into the street. He liked this small town—quiet, friendly and law-abiding. He knew everybody, and everybody’s business, and he liked it that way. He had expected that maybe some trouble might blow in with the Texas herders, but that hadn’t materialized. They’d been to town three times since that first raucous night, but no trouble had ensued. One pair favored Luger’s; the others seemed to like Lancer’s place. Only two of them carried pistols, and only one of them, the one named Lacey, wore a holster. Yep, nice and quiet.
His mind wandered back six years to Cincinnati. His work as a detective had been interesting, but the brutality some men, and women, were capable of, had eventually soured him. In a particularly nasty case, he had caught a murder suspect in the act of cutting and wrapping his three young victims into neat packages. It had been the final straw. He left, headed west, and stopped when he reached Carlisle. A conversation with Judge Kingsley had convinced him this was going to be a good place to live. And he was glad they’d had that conversation.
He rearranged his bottom in the chair. Across the street, Matt Steele strode into the telegraph office. Again? That’s about a dozen times in the last six weeks. Nobody sends that many telegrams. A few minutes later, Matt come out again, and stopped to study a piece of paper he held in his hand. He flicked one corner of it with his finger, creased it twice, and put it in his coat pocket. Then he stepped off the boardwalk and angled across the street. Looks like he’s going to Lancer’s again and that’s strange too. Matt’s never been a drinker, but now he seems to be in Lancer’s nearly every day.
Matt stepped up on the boardwalk and as he passed the jailhouse door, Staker caught his eye. The faint smile Matt was wearing vanished and his eyes snapped away. Staker heard his pace quicken. Now, that was the look of a downright guilty man.
A door closed across the street—Prosser at the telegraph office. He took his key out of the lock, and disappeared around the side of the building. Going home? Too early for lunch. He leaves at twelve, sharp, returns at one, sharp. Staker pulled out his watch and looked at it. Odd.
Staker had always thought Alex Prosser a bit strange and his wife was without a doubt the shyest creature the sheriff had ever met. They mostly kept to themselves. Staker thought the skinny telegrapher, always punctual and correct, would sooner choke than cheat someone. To look at him as he scurried about his business, sleeves rolled down and collar buttoned up tight on the hottest day, Staker could not imagine him having a deceitful bone in his body. He smiled as he visualized the little puffs of dust Alex kicked up as he hurried home. For all that, Staker liked Alex Prosser.
He adjusted his butt again, but it didn’t do any good. Swinging his feet off the desk, he stood and stretched. Might as well take a little walk. Yessir, nice quiet town. Few strange people, but still . . . He stepped out into the warm July morning.