Revised May 28, 2022

Chapter 1

THE BELLE OF EERIE, ARIZONA

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 1
.

Tuesday, December 19, 1871

A prairie chicken burst from the roadside weeds and startled the carriage horse. “Easy now, Hazel,” Mrs. Fanning shouted to the beast, tugging at the reins.

Myra Olcott, next to her aunt, bounced once on the hard seat, but was too angry to care. All she could think about was how her life had crashed like a burning building.

Abigail Myra Olcott hadn't wanted to make this trip but Aunt Irene had been insistent: “Everyone knows that a young lady has arrived from 'the East.' Everyone will want to meet you and if we don’t they might start wondering whether you have a contagious disease or something.”

Those words made Myra grit her teeth.

Irene Fanning realized her mistake. The girl's parents had died of cholera when she was twelve and it had made her angry with the whole world.

“What I'm saying,” Mrs. Fanning explained, “is that you have to be careful because you have secrets to keep. Or have you stopped caring?”

“I never liked anybody in town before and I still don’t,” the girl said.

“But they've only met you as Myron Caldwell. You have to introduce yourself as a totally new person.”

Myra scowled.

“I asked Molly O'Toole to join us today,” continued Irene. “The storekeepers all know Mrs. O'Toole. If she introduces you, it should carry weight with them. Make a good impression from the start and they'll spread the word that you're a fine young lady.”

With clenched fists, Myra declared, “I wish I’d died up there in the Gap.”

Irene shook her head. “You've said that before. But tell me,my girl, would you truly rather be dead and buried, with your soul very possibly in Hell, or would you prefer to go on living the way you are?

The maid gritted her teeth. The term “my girl” was a magical code-word compelling her to follow her aunt's orders. She hadn't been brought up to believe in magic, but magic had come to Eerie and it had sneaked out of the brush to stung her. The words “my girl” compelled her to tell the truth, a circumstance that she didn’t much care for.

“I don't believe in Hell,” the maiden replied grudgingly, “but I sure wouldn't want to go there if it's real.”

Irene shook her head. “Most people who don’t believe in Hell don’t believe in God either.”

“Hell’s demons must believe in God,” Myra retorted, “but it doesn’t seem to do them much good.”

“Yes, but they hate God and so he’s not going to be giving them any favors.”

“I hope people become ghosts when they die. Then I could live by myself without anyone telling me what I have to do.”

“Whatever you hope, it isn’t going to change the way the world is ordered.”

“What do you know? You'd fall for anything that some parson says told you,” the ginger-haired maid returned.

The farm woman sighed. The two of them had argued these ideas before. This time, she stopped talking and kept her attention on the dusty road ahead.

Once past the town welcome sign, Riley Canyon Road widened into the main street of the town. Though Eerie, Arizona was small compared to many Eastern towns, here, south of the Superstition Mountains, it was the largest settlement to be found this close to Phoenix, sixty miles to the west. The townspeople they passed turned to look. Few of them could have missed the very attractive young lady seated next to the Widow Fanning.

Irene waved to those who’d waved at her, but her forced smile masked profound tension. How would Myra behave in public? she wondered. Very few people knew the girl's real identity. Not even George Severin, the neighbor boy who helped them on the farm, had been told the truth. If they found out, Myra would be absolutely mortified.

The woman slowed the vehicle as she neared the O'Hanlon Feed and Grain Store. She stopped the horse, Hazel, with a “Whoa!” and climbed down to the unpaved street. While tying the beast’s tether to a post ring, Irene told Myra, “Come down, please. We'll visit the Eerie Saloon first and get together with Molly.”

Molly! Of all the people in Eerie, Molly was the one who Myra liked least. Irene didn't like ordering her around by magic, but Molly O'Toole was bossy by nature. In fact, she was the local prison matron and directed several “potion girls” at their duties around the Eerie Saloon. The idea of walking into a disguised jail tied her stomach into knots. The saloon owner, Shamus O'Toole, the son of a witch, had concocted a magic potion that transformed any man who drank it into a woman, a so-called “potion girl.” Myra could only wonder why some holier-than-thou Christian hadn't shot the sucker in the back of the head long before this.

Irene led Myra to the saloon's bat-wing doors and paused. The young farm woman had been brought up thinking of a saloon as an antechamber to Hell. The only other time she had gone into a saloon she had been under escort by Eerie's Judge Humphreys. She had almost been surprised when nothing bad happened inside. And, surprisingly, the first saloon person she met, the young man at the bar, had actually been courteous. Similarly, the O'Tooles, the owners, had received her -- a near stranger -- with warmth and sympathy. They had saved Myron's life that night by sorcery. Though Irene would have paid almost anything for his help, Mr. O'Toole had not asked so much as a penny for his assistance.

Before entering the establishment, Irene peered through the nearest window. She saw just two people inside, one of them sweeping the floor.

Resolved, Irene guided her niece through the swinging doors. An attractive red-haired woman was seated at a small, round table and playing solitaire. The sweeper was a teenage boy, one whom she recognized as the son of a local Mexican laundress.

Irene wasn’t sure that that the saloon girl might not be harlot, so she addressed the youth. “Young sir,” Irene said. “I think Mrs. O'Toole may be expecting me. Would you be so kind as to let her know that my niece and I have arrived? I'm Mrs. Fanning.”

The boy, Arnie Diaz, raised his glance and looked right past her. The lady's younger kinswoman had the kind of face he liked and she was looking smart in a flowery “town dress.” Myra, espying the smile at the corners of Arnie's mouth, felt miffed. She remembered the Mex kid as a friendless layabout who was easy to bully. The girl's frown warned Arnie off and he shifted his attention to her aunt.

“Si, Señora,” he said. “I will let Señora O'Toole know you are waiting.” He climbed the nearby stairs. Up above, Irene knew, the O'Tooles had their living quarters.

A few minutes later, a cheery Molly descended the stairway, already dressed for the outdoors. Her hat was rabbit fur and she was wrapped in a sleeveless cloak of evergreen hue.

“Top of the morning to ye, Irene,” she said. “And to ye, too, Myra, me girl.” The maiden showed Molly her teeth, but she wasn't smiling.

“I have the shopping list,” volunteered Mrs. Fanning. “Anytime you're ready.”

“I'm ready when ye are,” Molly replied. “It’s too bad there be so few people around just now to introduce ye to. Maggie’s back in the kitchen, but ye've already met her.”

“Yes,” nodded Irene. “She brought a very fine breakfast to us at the doctor's office.” The farm woman commenced searching her reticule until she found an envelop. This she handed to her hostess. “Here is the payment for that meal, along with a gratuity for the help you gave us that day. I should have remembered to settle up when I paid you for the purchases you made for us in Phoenix a couple days ago.”

The proprietress accepted the envelope. “I'll run it right back to the kitchen, but first...” She indicated the redhead at the table. “I'd like to introduce ye to Miss Bridget Kelly. She’s just as likely t'be found up front when the saloon opens up as are I and Shamus.”

Miss Kelly looked up at Irene. The farmer had known from town gossip that one of the “potion girls” at the saloon was a gambler. Besides Maggie Sanchez, Mrs. Fanning had only met two of the potion girls about town -- Trisha O'Hanlan and Laura Caulder. Speaking to them had always made her uneasy; it was hard to know how to behave politely around such unusual people. Did the potion girls dislike being looked at, especially by those who knew what they were?

Gathering her courage, she said to Molly, “I hope any friend of yours can be a friend of mine.”

Molly led her visitor in to Miss Kelly's table. Up close, the young lady was even more attractive than from a distance. She looked rather Irish, as Irish as the taverner herself. As it was with potion girls, Mrs. Fanning could discern no trace of masculinity in Bridget. But yet, wasn’t it a mannish trait to be a gambler?

“Bridget, this is Irene Fanning,” said Mrs. O'Toole. “She owns one of the farms to the west, along Reilly Canyon Road. Ye've probably ridden past it a few times by now. She and I will be going shopping. Please be making her feel at home whenever she drops by for business or a visit.”

“Of course, Molly,” Bridget said. She met Irene's glance and extended her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Fanning?”

Irene took the hand. “Very well, thank you. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Kelly.”

Bridget glanced past her to Myra. “Is this young person a member of your family?”

“Yes. That's my n—niece, Myra. Myra Olcott. She's—she's staying with me. I'm hoping that she'll decide to make a permanent home here in Eerie.”

The gambler nodded. “Let's hope so. The town needs young people. By the way, I recognize your name. You have my sincere condolences for your nephew's unfortunate accident. The loss must be very hard for you.”

“It is, thank you. If my dear Myra were not with me, I don't know how I could have held myself together.”

The distaff gambler nodded sympathetically. “A death in the family is always hard to bear. But, for now, I hope that the two of you shall have a fruitful day shopping.”

“I'm certain that we will. Thank you very much, Miss Kelly.”

As Molly and her companions reached the boardwalk, Molly made a suggestion. "I'm thinking that the quickest way t'be spreading the word about Myra is for us t'go over to the newspaper office. I'm betting that Roscoe Unger will be right eager to be served up that wild story about the robbers coming back and kidnapping Myra Saturday night."

Irene nodded. “Yes, it seems that people very much like to read about unpleasant matters.”

#

Silverman's dry goods store, like everything else in Eerie, was not far from the Saloon. “Maybe we'll be finding a thing or two that Myra can use,” the older woman speculated.

Ramon de Aguilar was tending to business alone. “What can I do for you ladies?” the clerk asked, his English only slightly accented. Most of the town ladies had a good opinion of Ramon. Oddly enough, it was common knowledge that the well-spoken Mexican was courting Maggie Sanchez, the restaurant owner. She wondered how he could overlook the fact that the cook had been a man who had also been an outlaw.

“Do ye see anything that ye might like t'be taking home with ye?” Molly asked Myra.

“Not if my life depended on it!” declared the maid.

Irene winced. “Listen, my girl, be courteous. If you don't have anything pleasant to say, just...just stand there and be demure.”

Myra frowned, not knowing what demure meant.

The widow at once offered an apology. “Please excuse her outspokenness, Señor. Myra simply hasn't been herself since her mother died.”

“Of course, Señora Fanning,” replied the clerk. “Feel free to look around; I will be here to assistant you.”

“You are so kind, Señor de Aguilar. Let me introduce my niece formally. Her name is Abigail Myra Olcott from New Jersey, and she's the only child of my late brother, Amos. Say hello to the gentleman, Myra.”

“Hello,” the girl complied tonelessly.

“Very happy to meet you,” the young man replied.

Myra returned the best smile she could could manage. While not having any use for Mexicans, she didn't have anything personal against this particular one.

Irene and Molly now saw to their shopping needs, though shopping was, of course, only incidental to this excursion. Irene needed to know how far she could trust her niece to behave in public. So far, her doubts had not been allayed.

Something caught Mrs. Fanning's. Dresses. None of her old clothes, even the best, would do for the Christmas dance. Except for church wear, the widow hadn't stood in need of quality clothing. But, as it had happened, an attractive man had offered her an invitation to the holiday party. The idea not only appealed to her, it also served up another good way of introducing Myra to the community.

But which dress before her was the most suitable? She knew almost nothing about current fashion trends.

“Molly,” Irene found herself asking, “what do you think would be right for the Christmas dance? I know you have good tastes, considering the nice party dress you picked up for Myra in Phoenix.”

Mrs. O'Toole took a look at the rack, regarding one garment after another. She knew that well-dressed women liked smart bodice-dresses these days, trim in the waist and riding low on the shoulders. Worn with a good corset, such a gown flattered very well a youthful woman. Molly recalled a line from a rollicking song that went something like,

The girls have no tops to their dresses at all,
As if they were bound for a bath, not a ball.

The Irish matron tried to imagine the painfully modest Irene with her hair worn differently and all gussied up. Suddenly the widow pointed at a dress.

“This one is rather nice.” Irene drew out her selection, but it seemed too sedate for Molly's tastes.

“If I were yuir age, I wouldn’t be going out socially in that Plain Jane,” the older woman said. She instead picked from the rack a low-cut dress that she very much admired.

Irene drew her lips into a profound O. “Molly,” she said, “I know you'd be the belle of Eerie, Arizona in such a dress, but people aren't used to seeing me appareled...in such a carefree way.”

“That's what I was thinking. Isn't it time ye was sloughing off a whole boxcar of cares?” the tavern-keeper asked. “Christmas is the time for new hope, for bright colors, and smiling faces. New beginnings, really. Have ye never been wanting to let people know how...well, how alive and lovely ye really are?”

Irene grimaced. “I did wear something like that at my wedding party,” she admitted. “It was a day that I still can’t forget. But everything went wrong after that. I became a widow before I learned how to be a proper bride.”

“Optimism, lassie, optimism. A seed in the spring may not look like much, but plant it and water it, and a wonderful flower will soon be blooming.”

Irene shook her head. “Spring is still a long way off.”

Molly smiled. “No, it's not. Ye're living yuir spring season right now. Enjoy it, because springtime is short.” She lowered her voice. “We both know that Myra is making a new start. But ye could use change of the same sort yuirself.”

“The neckline is frightfully low,” the farm woman observed.

“Ye've got what it takes to hold it up. And I know a lady or two that're mightily skillful with the needle, if a little alteration is needed. But whatever ye buy, ye'll have to decide today. There's not much time left for a fitting.”

“It's probably too expensive,” Irene protested weakly.

“It's tag says it's only $9.00. Any good dress is going to cost at least that much.”

“What if it doesn't look good on me?”

“Ye won't know until ye see yuirself wearing it in the mirror. Why the long face?”

“You know Tor better than I do,” the widow whispered. “Would he like a woman dressing so...frivolously?”

Molly smiled. “That's the best part of it. Tor is a prospector, not a parson.”

#

Upon leaving the shop, Molly excused herself briefly to make a deposit at the bank. Irene and Myra, the former carrying a large box, walked to the Ritter livery stable. Just at the point where the pair began to smell the odor from the stalls, Myra caught sight of a youth emerging from a hay shed and knew him to be Winthrop Ritter. When the boss's son smiled at her, the girl resentfully looked away.

“Hello, Mrs. Fanning!” said someone in baritone. Aunt and niece turned to face Clyde Ritter, a man in his 40's wearing a waxed mustache and a leather apron. Myra grimaced; she didn’t like the father any better than she liked the son.

“Mr. Ritter,” the Irene said, “my niece Myra is new in town. She so much likes horses that I thought she might enjoy visiting your very fine stables.”

The proprietor nodded. “The younger women surely do seem to like the large, powerful beasts.” He then looked squarely at the maiden. “Maybe you'd like some candy, Miss Myra?”

“Ma always told me not to take candy from strangers,” she replied.

Ritter chuckled. “That's good advice. Anyway, you'd be quite welcome to visit the horses whenever you feel like it. I'll be right glad to find you one who most likes being petting.”

“May we stroll about the stalls?” Irene inquired. Ritter nodded amiably and then escorted the pair on a brief tour. He kept up a stream of banter until a man in a dapper suit walked into his office. At that, he excused himself and went in to see to the fellow.

“Ritter's a bad one,” Myra hushedly cautioned her aunt. “Don't let the likes him get you cornered when you're all alone.”

“Mr. Ritter?” she replied. “He's a married man and a town leader.”

“I know what he is. I just hope you never find out what else he is.”

Just then, Myra noted Winthrop lingering nearby, peering over the divided harness room door. “Let's get out of here,” she suggested to Irene. “Young Ritter’s watching us. He was the worst killcrow at school and all the kids hated him.”

Irene nodded coolly to the tall, sturdy boy. “All right, let's go find Molly. Then we'll visit the bookstore. I know how much you like to read.”

“Fine. Any place is better than here,” the girl agreed.

#

The aunt and niece found Molly waiting at the bench outside the Wells Fargo Bank. The reunited threesome walked to Kirby Pinter's book shop, whose owner was a young man in this thirties, his face round and his brown hair thinning. His mustache, however, was robust.

“Myra loves to read,” Irene told Mr. Pinter. “I think you'll be seeing her around the shop from time to time.”

Kirby smiled. “Let me guess,” he said to Myra, “you especially like romances and love stories.”

The auburn wrinkled her nose. “Maybe that’s the sort of stuff you like to read. Me, I like to find out about foreign places. Adventure stories are all right, too, if they have plenty of sword-fighting.”

The shopkeeper's smile grew even broader. “Such an adventurous and imaginative young lady! I know of a book that's full of brave deeds and feats of arms. Are you familiar with Le Mort d'Arthur?”

Myra's brows knitted. “Is that Dutch?”

“It's a French title, but the book is English.” Kirby bustled to his stepladder and from a high shelf drew down an embossed volume with gilded edges. This he handed to his young visitor.

“Nice pictures,” she said, flipping though its pages. “I read a few stories about knights at school.”

“Yes, these legends are very old and they have shaped the character of many a boy and girl for the better.”

Myra knitted her eyebrows. “What does it cost?”

“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.

“Well, I don't have so much as two nickles,” she replied.

“We'd better save the book for a special occasion,” suggested Mrs. Fanning. “Do you have any dime novels, Mr. Pinter?”

“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.

“Oh, my goodness, no! It's the young people who can't get enough of such things.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “They truly are popular, especially with school-age boys. But I scarcely would have guessed that blood and thunder would have any appeal for a young lady.”

“As you've found out,” Irene advised, “Myra has an adventurous imagination.”

“Do you have anything about Jesse James?” the girl interjected.

“About outlaws?” exclaimed Irene. “Not today. Mr. Pinter, do you have any magazines dealing with explorers or lawmen?”

“Oh, yes,” Kirby affirmed cheerfully. “Both topics are very popular.” He picked out a couple of magazines from his stock and offered them to Myra.

While Kirby attended to his customers, Molly had been exploring the store shelves. “Here's just what ye need t'turn a tomboy into a beacon of society,” she spoke up, holding out a book for Irene to see.

The latter took the volume from her and paged throough it, its title being The Laws of Health in Relation to the Human Form by D.G. Brinton, M.D. She saw that the first chapter discussed left-handedness. Further along, there were chapters dealing with bad habits, the care of the ears, the nose and, in fact, almost every part of the body.

“It does look interesting, Molly, but it contains so much personal detail!”

“Suit yerself,” the Irish woman said, shrugging. “But I'd say that today's young ladies are a wee bit different from what they used t'be. And tomorrow, I'm thinking, they're going to be more different still.”

“I think this one would make a good read,” Myra broken in, displaying one of the dime novels to her guardian.

“Very well,” consented Irene.

"The price is two nickles," Kirby volunteered.

Kirby Pinter wrapped the magazine and bound it with a length of string. Once they were outside again, Molly ushered the younger ladies to the news office. The saloonkeeper paused to look in through the window and noted that the printer, Roscoe Unger, seemed to be very busy at his press. Not wanting to bother the man in the midst of carrying out important work, Molly stated her misgivings to Irene, who agreed.

“Well, then,” the widow considered, “we might as well get on with our other errands. I want to take a fresh can of milk to Carmen Whitney, and pick up her empty.”

“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.

“She's Ramon de Augilar’s sister,” Irene replied. She's married to Whit Whitney, the barber, and they bought the town bathhouse.”

Myra shrugged. She barely knew the barber and had never met his Mexican wife.

#

“Mil gracias,” Mrs. Whitney thanked them when she opened the bathhouse door. “The milk I still have left would not have lasted until morning. Que lastima, I have heard about what the outlaws did at your home. Lo siento.”

Carmen Whitney was a light-bodied woman in her thirties, her slenderness accentuated by the way she wore her dark locks tied back into a bun. “Farmers are always so busy. Have you gotten all your Christmas shopping done?” the proprietress asked.

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “I've fallen very far behind.”

Carmen sympathized with a sigh. Turning to Myra, she said, “So, you are Señora Fanning's niece.”

Myra tried not to frown. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Do you come from Pennsylvania, also?”

“No, I'm from New Jersey.” She pursed her lips, trying to remember the name of the dumpy hamlet where her aunt lived.

“Bound Brook, New Jersey,” Irene put in. “A lovely town.”

“Is it near the sea, Myra?” Carmen asked.

“Ah....no,” stammered the ginger-haired girl.

“Is it a large city?”

Unsure, Myra ventured, “It's larger than Eerie.”

Carmen laughed. “Very many places are. But Eerie today is much larger than it used to be. “Before the war, the pueblo was so small that my padres hardly bothered to visit it at all. Our tenants made almost everything we needed at the hacienda.”

“Eerie hasn’t gotten that much bigger since the war,” observed Myra.

“I do not speak of your Civil War, muchacha, but the war between Mexico and the United States. Eerie was called Cadena Roja back then. It means Red Ridge. There were no real stores for people to shop in. From time to time, a few useful things were brought in by traders, but mostly the folk made for themselves the simple things they needed. But, pretty soon, Yankee people were settling all around, even in Cadena Roja. Only the old families use that name any longer. When the American gold-seekers found the old Indian ruins among the rocks, they thought that they looked 'eerie' and so called the town after them.”

“It sounds like your family used to be rich,” stated Carmen's young visitor.

“Myra!” admonished Irene.

Carmen smiled. “Because I lived at a hacienda? Yes, my father had much land and many cattle. My brother Gregorio has been a good steward of what he has inherited and is still a wealthy man. But I am richer than he is, and in a better way. The wealth that brings joy to the soul is happiness. I have a family and I have friends. I have a new casa that my husband built. I also have a business of my own. I have the best kind of gold, though I think the prospectors in the hills would disagree.”

“A lot of people would,” observed Myra.

Irene appeared pained; Molly, just then gazing at the wall, was shaking her head slightly.

The small talk carried on for a short while longer before Carmen rose from the small table that served as her desk. “Dispenseme; it is time for me to open the bathhouse.”

“In that case, we won't keep ye any longer, Carmen dearie,” said Molly.

Their visit being concluded, the three excused themselves. Mrs. Fanning carried the returned milk can to the buckboard and, once there, gave vent to her irritation. “Myra, why must you always show such poor manners?”

“What's poor about them? You didn't hear me cuss the lady out for being a Mexican, did you?”

“Yes, we should be grateful for small favors, but a well-mannered person considers a person's feelings before bringing up any subject.”

“How am I supposed to know what somebody else is feeling?”

Irene looked frustrated, but Molly touched her hand. “Myra's not used t'being around people, especially as a lassie. Things will be getting better, mark me words. The saloon outlaws were all rough-talkers at first, too, but they soon figured out that being polite makes people like them.”

The taverner, glancing toward the seventeen-year-old, added, “Maybe ye don't remember that ye used to be about as welcome as a chicken-stealing coyote hereabouts. Thank the Lord that you’ve been given a clean record. What are ye going to do with that chance?”

“From what I’ve seen so far, it’s better to be treated like a coyote than a girl.”

“Is that so?” asked Irene. “People give girls gumdrops, but they shoot coyotes. Haven't you had your fill of getting shot at?”

“Be patient,” said the Irish woman. “Every potion girl has a lot to be angry about. She’ll be learning that anger makes for a heavy load until ye can put it down. Like, Jessie Hanks is a completely different person than she used to be.”

“Do we dare take her to the Christmas dance while she's so unready?” asked the widow.

“Keep your dance!” Myra snapped. “I never wanted to go!”

Molly shook her head. “Myra, ye may be right. Maybe ye should instead spend some time in the Eerie Saloon jail. That's the sort of place where a stage robber belongs. Ye can always room with the other potion girls. Ye’ll be finding that scrubbing and cleaning is just what you need to occupy yuir mind.”

“No!” declared Myra.

The girl's aunt shook her head. “Before we do anything drastic, let's first find out if she can behave sensibly at the party.”

“It's up to ye,” said Molly. “But on that particular subject, I was wondering if ye needed a person to fit your and Myra's party dresses. If ye do, I have a suggestion.”

“Who?” asked Irene.

“Are ye acquainted with Teresa Diaz?”

“Not personally. I know that she's the most popular laundress in Eerie, but I've always washed my own clothes. Is she a good seamstress?”

“The ladies I know swear by her.”

“But do you think she'll have time to fit two dresses before Saturday evening?”

“We can only know by asking.”

Molly led her companions to a modest house behind the main street. There, the Irishwoman informed them, the widow Diaz lived with her four children. One of them happened to be Arnie, the boy who worked at the Eerie Saloon. Though they were making this visit impulsively, they were fortunate to find the laundress/seamstress at home.

Sullenly, Myra followed her elders indoors. She didn't like meeting new people. They were almost always trouble.

The shoppers were welcomed in and ushered into a little living room cluttered with baskets of laundry. The air was heavy with the smell of dirty clothes and wet wash. Teresa seemed about forty and looked like a person who had done more than her share of hard work. Por supuesto! Senora Diaz responded to her visitors after being appraised of their needs. “Of course I can fix the two dresses! Muchas gracias for thinking of me.”

“People say your work is excellent, but the time is so short. Will you be all right?” Irene asked.

Teresa became thoughtful. “It would be best if I began the task tomorrow. Can you bring the dresses in then, at about eight in the morning, Señora Fanning?”

“That should be fine,” replied the farm woman. “I sorry to create a rush, but I only bought my new dress this morning.”

Comprendo. I have already been doing much work for the fiesta de Navidad, but have been able to keep up. My hija, Contanza, helps me.” The laundress glanced toward Myra. “Señorita, were you in school with Constanza, or with my son Arnoldo?”

“Myra only came to Eerie last week,” Irene spoke up. “She was left orphaned by the death of her mother this summer.”

Que lastima! declared the señora. “So sorry!”

Myra shrugged.

Mindful of how busy Teresa was, Molly and Irene brought the visit to a swift conclusion. Once out in the street, the saloonkeeper asked her younger friend, “Where are we off to next?”

Mrs. Fanning knit her brows. “Before I start my serious shopping, I want to introduce Myra to Reverend Yingling. If she makes a good impression, he'll speak well of her to the whole congregation. After that, Myra and I will finish up by buying groceries for the holiday. And also dry mash for the horses and cattle.”

“If ye're still in town when the noon bell rings, swing over to the saloon for lunch,” suggested Molly.

“Oh, you're leaving us so soon?”

“I shouldn’t be going paying a call on the reverend. He has no liking for people who run gambling houses and sell whiskey.”

“I understand,” Irene said.

#

The Yinglings owned one of the better houses in Eerie, built in the octagonal style. Irene couldn’t help but admire the veranda that entirely surrounded the two-story home. Its design guaranteed that some portion of the porch would always be in shad during the course of every hot day. Irene hadn’t sent prior word of her visit, so she was unsure if the Methodist minister would be found at home.

The widow tapped on the clergyman's door and the mistress of the house opened it. Irene knew Mrs. Martha Yingling very well from church. She was short and plump with a pleasant face and alert eyes. Her house dress was well-laundered and of good quality.

“Mrs. Fanning!” the minister's spouse exclaimed. “What brings you this way on a weekday morning? Then her cheery tone faded. “I'm sorry. Everyone has heard about your nephew and about the robbers.”

Irene glanced down, preferring silence to actively lying to protect lies already told. “It was all so shocking,” the farm woman affirmed, “but I have a happier reason to come by. My niece Myra Olcott has only lately arrived from the East. I'd like to introduce her to the pastor.”

“Oh, of course!” Mrs. Yingling responded brightly. “The parson will be overjoyed to meet a new parishioner.” The lady of the house stood out of the way as a gesture of welcome.

She led them into the minister's office, where Thaddeus Yingling looked up from his chair and recognized Mrs. Fanning.

The reverend was a big man and he looked bigger still seated behind such a small desk. Though his curly hair had largely grayed, his arms were as thick as a working man's and his shoulders were broad, square, and solid. Beyond his stature, his intense glance sent out a notice that this man was no one to fight with, either verbally or physically.

“Sister Irene!” Yingling exclaimed, rising, his voice deep and resonate. “I was intending to make a call on you later today, in respect of your recent ill-fortune. We're delighted to find you up and about.”

“Thaddeus,” spoke up Martha, “there is good news, too. Irene has brought her niece from back East to meet her new pastor.”

Yingling stepped out from behind his desk. “That pleases me very much indeed,” he said, his intimidating gaze squarely on Myra. The girl was standing stiffly, always having had a special aversion for the opinionated and high-handed minister.

The tall man smiled. “On behalf of the citizens of Eerie, I would express the fond hope that you shall find peace and friendship here among our congregation. Are you a Fanning or a Caldwell?”

“Olcott,” the maiden responded glumly.

He narrowed his gaze. “I can sense your dejected mood. Well, that is to be expected, considering your recent misfortune. And, of course, I extend my special sympathy for what happened to your cousin Thorn.”

“Yes, Reverend,” broke in Irene, “but my niece has even more reason for woe than you know. She lost her father just a few years ago, and this summer her mother passed on, too. Not having any other close relatives, she has come from New Jersey to live with me on the farm.”

“A double bereavement! I am at a loss for words!”

“I'm fine,” Myra said.

He nodded. “Courage is a wonderful quality, but there is no shame if a tender young lady gives vent to tears.”

What an annoying man! Myra was thinking.

“Please, Mrs. Fanning, Miss Myra, take your ease upon my chesterfield. Martha will be bringing you both refreshments. But I think that what is most needed here is the cheering comfort of the Lord's words. There is a a story that is my particular favorite in such circumstances.”

“No, thank you, Reverend. We ought to be...” began the maiden.

The girl felt her aunt pressing her forearm. “We’re not in that much of a hurry, sweet one,” Irene said. “We should listen to the pastor. There are times when every person needs to draw the strength he needs from a source outside of himself.”

Frustrated, the girl shuffled to the couch and plopped onto it. Her aunt took a place beside her while the minister search his Bible pages for the passage he was looking for.

“Always remember that the Lord himself was not ashamed to show the world His sorrow,” the parson said. “He shed tears for the same reasons that we do. Weeping most often conveys compassion, not weakness."

At that point, the clergyman commenced to read aloud the story of Lazarus in his tomb and the grief that came to his sisters, from John, Chapter 11.

TO BE CONTINUED, Chapter 2.