15
He settled Cougar into a livery stall himself, since he couldn’t find the stableman to save his life. Then he hiked up to the saloon and hotel for a belt and a room. Maybe a little grub, too. He was getting growly in his stomach.
For a Saturday night, Slocum figured the crowd at the bar to be about average. There was a fistfight going on in the corner, a shouting match in progress across the faro table along the opposite wall, and some duded-up card-sharp was about to be run out of town on a rail.
Slocum wasn’t acquainted with any of the parties—and there wasn’t anyone from the Bar C that he recognized—so he just slid through the crowd and got himself a room and a whiskey.
He carried the whiskey upstairs and let himself into the room, which, thankfully, was at the back of the building, so the sounds of fighting and yelling didn’t come up through the floorboards.
Much.
He stomped to the room’s single chair, sat down, and stretched out his legs. He took a drink. He began to think over his plan.
He supposed that somebody ought to clue in the sheriff, although based on what he’d heard from Abel, it wouldn’t do much good.
Well, screw Abel, anyway.
He wasn’t helping at all, what with his hired guns probably killing the horses in the first place.
He moved to one hip to reach the two double eagles, and brought them out of his pocket. He hadn’t examined them closely yet, although he doubted it would do much good.
He was beginning to think that nothing would do much good. Nothing aside from blasting the Bar C and most of its inhabitants into the next life, that was.
He leaned forward, into the lamplight, set his drink on the table, and opened his hand, wherein lay the coins in question.
At first, he could see nothing unusual about them. Two ordinary twenty-dollar gold pieces. But they didn’t really look like they’d been out in the weather too long. In fact, they looked like they were fresh from the mint, although the mint mark said “Denver, 1873.” The Denver part didn’t arouse any suspicions, but the date did.
How did a coin—especially one minted of gold, which wasn’t exactly the most durable metal in the world—survive without a scratch for twelve years?
It didn’t.
That was all, it just didn’t.
Especially after it had lain out, exposed to the Arizona weather—sandstorms and floods, being stomped on by lizards and horses and antelope and who knows what else—for who knows how long.
He stared at the coins a bit longer, then stuffed them back inside his pocket, finished his drink, and headed downstairs again.
This new revelation called for a steak and a beer. Maybe some fried onions, too.
Miranda had recovered—somewhat—from the discovery of the money her father had left behind. Twenty thousand dollars, exactly.
Her skin still buzzing with the thrill of it—and the realization that she could go anywhere, do anything, be anything now—she once again turned toward her father’s papers.
Carefully moving the last will and testament, which had received most of the blood spatter, she slid more papers out from underneath the stack and carried them to the bed.
There weren’t many, and most of them had to do with the ranch. The deed was there, and the land survey report. Her parents’ marriage licence, too, and the certificate of Miranda’s own birth.
There was a large envelope that contained a pair of pearl earrings and a multi-strand pearl necklace—the ones her mother had worn in the painting in her father’s room—and Miranda held them for a long time, tears running down her cheeks, before she put them back and slid the envelope under her pillow.
And then she found something entirely unexpected. It was a letter, addressed to her, from her father.
“My Darling Baby Girl,” it began, in his familiar sturdy handwriting.
I guess you aren’t such a baby anymore, are you? You’ll forgive me for thinking of you that way, I know. If you’re reading this, I’m likely dead. And if I died in any sort of mysterious circumstances, as difficult as it may be for you, I think you should look to your uncle Abel as the mischief-maker.
I know how much you love him, honey. But there are things your uncle Abel has done that we kept from you. Bad things. In ’73, he disappeared for a time, and we later heard rumors that he’d been involved in a stage robbery up north. They made away with a $50,000 payroll and killed the passengers and driver. It was a nasty business.
When your uncle came back, I confronted him about it. He admitted, finally, that he’d been involved, but said he didn’t have the money. Another fellow, a man named Buckley, had the strongest horse and took off with the gold while the others stayed behind to have their “fun.” And Abel said that Buckley had hidden the money somewhere on this ranch, to be split up later. Abel swore he didn’t know where, and I came to believe him. At least, he spent enough time looking for it.
Always remember that I love you, Baby, and that you were your mama’s world. If you haven’t found them yet, there should be an envelope in here containing her pearls. They were her mother’s, and her mother’s before her. Now they’re yours. I’m sorry I didn’t give them to you earlier, but you were so young when she passed.
All my love, Papa.
Miranda reread the letter three times, then sat there, just holding it. The mere sight of her father’s clean handwriting brought fresh tears to her eyes, and the message made it worse.
Granted, it did make her feel better about shooting Abel, but it made her angry, too.
Angry that her father had to cover up for Abel’s misdeeds, angry that he’d had to lie to her—and very probably lie to her mama, too.
She wished that he had told her the names of the other men involved, but then, maybe Abel hadn’t said who they were. It seemed that Abel hadn’t been the most talkative fellow, even back then.
Papa had probably had to beat out of him what information Abel gave.
That made her grin. Her papa could have done it, too.
Probably even Mama. Uncle Abel was a wiry little shrimp, for a man, and she’d always had the feeling that he was a physical coward.
She folded the letter and stuck it under her pillow, right next to the envelope containing her mother’s pearls.
A glance at the clock told her that it was nearly eleven. Slocum wasn’t coming back tonight, although she wished it more than anything. She had so much to tell him, and she wanted so much to be held in his strong, strong, arms . . .
She put the rest of the papers back on the little table, blew out her lamp, and snuggled down into her covers, her hand on the pearls’ envelope.
She dropped off to sleep.
Slocum pulled back his fist and hit the short man right in the nose. The cowboy yelped and blood spurted, and Slocum allowed himself a little grin—until somebody broke a chair across his back!
He whirled and slugged the perpetrator in the stomach, then ducked quickly to avoid another cowhand, brandishing a bottle.
At least it hadn’t come to gunplay. Yet. Slocum would surely hate to shoot somebody over an order of fried onions.
But then somebody fired a shot, and the brawling crowd quieted, Slocum included. He looked toward the door to spy the sheriff—or, at least, somebody wearing a sheriff’s badge—standing there with a distinctly unamused expression on his face, his arms crossed and his toe tapping.
“All right, goddamn it,” the sheriff said. “What was it this time?”
The man whose nose Slocum had broken pointed at him and said, “He done got my fried onions!”
The sheriff turned to Slocum. “Well? Did you take his onions?”
The situation was beginning to tickle Slocum, but he managed to keep a straight face. “No, sir,” he said. “I only took what was served to me. If this gent was so set on fried onions, I woulda been glad to share. A little.”
“Harley!” the sheriff shouted.
A balding head poked out, from the kitchen. “Sir?”
“Harley, you’re gettin’ the orders mixed up again. Like you do every damned night! Pay attention to what you’re doin’, man. I’m gettin’ sick of cleanin’ up your pecker-wood messes!”
“That’s right, Harley!” added the man with the broken nose. “I was supposed to get fried onions with my steak, too!”
Harley had the good sense to look embarrassed, and said, “Sorry, Calvin. Sorry, Sheriff. Sorry, everybody, I reckon. Come back here and I’ll take care of that nose for you, Calvin, don’t you worry none.”
“Take care’a me, too, while you’re at it,” Slocum said. “My dinner got dumped on the floor and trampled during the fracas.”
Calvin, holding a napkin to his nose, said, “Sorry, mister.”
“No problem. Hope your nose don’t hurt too much.”
“Been busted before. It’ll get busted again, I reckon,” Calvin said as he turned away and headed toward the kitchen.
Slocum righted his chair. People sure were touchy in this town.
The sheriff was just leaving as Slocum took his seat, and he called, “Sheriff! Like to have a word with you!”
The sheriff, a tall, thin, middle-aged man with blond hair gone early to gray, and who looked to be all bone and no muscle, sauntered over and stood at the table.
“What is it?” he asked.
Slocum guessed he’d been sound asleep in his chair when somebody reported the brawl at the café. At least, there was crusted sleep at the corner of one eye.
“Care to have a chair?” Slocum asked, and pulled out the one to his right. “I’m a friend of Miranda Cassidy, and I believe they’ve got some trouble out there that you might want to hear about.”
The sheriff’s brow furrowed, and he replied, “Yeah, I would.”
Before he sat down, though, he yelled, “Harley!” toward the kitchen, and when Harley stuck his head out, he added, “Bring me a piece of that dried apple pie Bertha made this mornin’. With cheese. And a cup of coffee.”
Harley nodded, and the sheriff sat down.
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a ready-made and a lucifer, and asked, “What’s that old bastard Abel up to this time?”