Posted 08-07-19
Revised 06-21-22

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 2

December 19, 1871, Continued

While the Mexican helper at the Feed and Grain store loaded Irene's purchases onto the buckboard, the woman herself stood by the front door talking to Patricia O'Hanlan. Myra, watching from the vehicle, already knew that the latter represented the new face and form of Patrick O'Hanlan, the store owner. In a way, Myra was glad that there were a few people in town as miserable as she was. Myra remembered Pat O'Hanlan as a plain, fortyish man, one hard to pick out from the crowd. But this girl “Trisha,” even wearing pants and a shirt, was something to look at. She should have been engraved on a theater poster. Myra wondered how “Trisha” was dealing with her new life.

“Well, hello, Myra,” a male voice addressed her. Looking over her shoulder at her accoster.

“George!” she exclaimed. “Have you trailing my aunt and me like some Injun going after a scalp?”

“Not a bit!” the farm boy responded, grinning. “I came in to pick up a few hardware items for Ma and Pa.”

“Well, if you're heading for the hardware shop, this isn't it.”

“No, but I thought I'd look over the O’Hanlon’s new merchandise. It appears to be of high quality.”

She tossed her head. “If that's a sneaky way of saying that you like the way I look, I've got a good mind to knock you into the street!”

“Temper, temper. Haven’t grownups told you that women shouldn't be hitting men?”

“And why not?”

“Because if a man decided to hit back, he could really hurt a light-bodied gal like you.”

“So, now you're threatening me?” the maiden challenged.

“No, I'm just letting you know why girls shouldn’t go around punching men.”

“Well, you shouldn't go popping off about a girl’s looks, not if you don't want to get hit.”

The youth's smile held firm. “I don’t I follow. Most girls like to be told they're pretty.”

“I ain't like most girls!”

George nodded. “I'd say that's true enough. Maybe living in the East has gotten you spoiled. Folks say that Eastern girls are always funny and fussy. Just be sure to behave so that folks will like you. I’m just wondering how long it’ll take for a certain Miss Olcott to turn into a rip-roaring Western sort of gal.”

“Humpt!” Myra said. “Push me too far and you'll find out how rip-roaring I already am.”

“That-a-girl!” the youth said cheerily. “Men like plucky women. Eastern ladies show up out here as spoiled as springtime apples. Luckily, this a hard country that breaks them to the saddle real quick. One day they're going to tea parties, and the next they're cutting sod, fishing, driving mules, shooting crows, and even standing up to outlaws and Indians. But I admire the way you had a run-in with outlaws and handled yourself. That makes you the pick of the litter. I'm not for wasting my time to waste on the soft and fancy sort of gal.”

Myra gave a small snort. “I'm not the least bit interested in how you use your time, Mr. Severin. You have the bad habit of getting in the way, like a dead branch underfoot. Are all Western men as snoopy as you?”

“Why'dya keep saying I'm snoopy, Miss Myra?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“What of it? Have you got secrets to hide? If you make me too powerfully curious, I may just have to find out what those secrets are."

Myra shifted toward the storefront, hoping to see her aunt coming back. No such luck. Neither her nor the “potion gal” was in sight.

“Oh, buffalo chips!” the girl said. “Where did my aunt run off to now?”

“Maybe she went back into the Feed and Grain.”

“What for? I saw her pay the bill already.”

“Or maybe the ladies went out for a bite to eat. By the way, what do you think of Trisha O'Hanlan?”

“I don't think nothing! We haven't spoken yet.”

“Has your aunt told you anything...interesting... about Miss O'Hanlan?”

Myra eyed him warily. She definitely didn't want to talk about potion girls.

“She didn't say a word about Miss O’Hanlan. Even if she had, I wouldn't be spreading gossip about it.”

“That's commendable,” said George with a nod. “But if she’s neglecting your education, you'll be surprised at all the goings-on inside this town one day.”

“There you go again, wanting to talk about other people's business. Is your life so dull that you have to spice it up with gossip?”

“My life is lively enough, I'd say. The only thing I'm lacking one thing -- and that's the right type of young lady to take to the Christmas party.”

“With your bad manners, I’m not surprised.”

“My manners are just fine. It's not ill-mannered to just warn you that there’s more to Eerie than meets the eye. If Mrs. Fanning isn't filling you in properly, maybe I should.”

“Don’t bother. I don't spread hearsay, and I also don't listen to it.”

“Every other girl I know loves gossip.”

“I don’t think you know many girls. From all I know of you, any sensible gal would cross the street if she saw you coming.”

“Well, if you ever want to know about something you can’t figure out, I'll be glad to set you straight. There’s always something happening in Eerie. A few weeks ago, two prospectors kidnapped a couple of pretty women from the Eerie Saloon and took them up into the hills. One of them got killed.”

“A woman got killed?”

“No, a prospector! “He was playing fast and loose with the wrong filly."

“So how did she get the drop on him?”

George flashed another grin. “If I told you, that would be gossiping. But just watch out. A lot of men coming West are no-accounts on the dodge. You'll be meeting a fair parcel of scalawags. Some of them will even be showing up at the Christmas hoedown. If you ask me nicely, I can escort you there and home again so as to keep you safe.”

“That sounds a little like the chicken being protected by the fox.”

“I see myself more as a wolf.”

“A coyote, you should say!”

George Severin guffawed. “Do you work hard at making a fella laugh, or does it just come natural? The more I get to know Miss Myra Olcott, the better I like her.”

The auburn beauty raised her chin. “That's a shame, since I couldn't like you even if I were paid to do it!”

“Be careful about saying things about being paid. Sure as shooting, a rascal is going to make a rude joke out of it. Not every manjack comes off as mannerly as us Severin males. But I reckon I've taken enough of your time, Miss Myra. I'll have to be on about my own business. Oh, and by the by, your aunt wants me to finish cleaning the pig pen tomorrow. I'll be seeing you then.”

“You do that. Until the job's done, I'll be thinking about you every time I smell the mess.”

George started to leave but at the last moment he turned to say, “I'm thinking that you're going to hear people talking about 'potion girls' now and then. Ask your aunt what that means. You might find the subject interesting.”

Myra scowled; she already knew all she wanted to about potion girls.

The young farmer was glad to get rid of George. She wanted to be out of town before he sauntered back but, unfortunately, Irene still hadn't reappeared. The thought of crisscrossing the streets trying to catch sight of her was unappealing. Men were likely to approach a girl they found seated or strolling alone, like George had already done.

She got down from the buckboard and went into the store. Trisha was behind the counter, but Irene wasn't to be seen. “Miss O'Hanlan,” Myra addressed her, “I thought my aunt would be back by now. Do you know where she went?”

The storekeeper's picture-pretty face glanced up from the open ledger. “Oh, she said she was going to buy someone a Christmas present. She should be be back soon.”

“Thank you,” the younger girl said. Myra returned to the buckboard, having gotten fed up with this town visit. It was a strain having to pretend to be something she wasn't. Was this how it was going to be for the rest of her days? How much more could she take before she felt like jumping off Chiricahua Ridge?

As the redhead sat waiting on the buggy seat, she grew impatient. Who was Irene buying a Christmas present for? Myra hoped it would be for herself, as long as it wasn’t more girl's clothing. But she also might be looking for a gift for George Severin. Her aunt usually gave her hired men small Christmas gift.

Myra lapsed into a daydream, one about Eerie getting what it deserved. A lot of towns burned to the ground because of arson and now she knew why. A person being pick on could only stand so much.

#

While Myra waited, two farm girls showed up on the boardwalk. The one with the butterscotch mane was Rosedale Severin, George's younger sister; the golden-blonde was Kayley Grimsley. The Grimsley girl hadn't liked him, but at first that hadn’t mattered. She'd been too skinny to look at as a kid. But all that changed once she'd started filling out. Then he'd tried to get her attention with good-natured insults. But, like most contrary women, Kayley took offense over at every little joke he tried out on her.

Dale – as Rosedale liked to be called – noticed Myra and smiled. The latter glanced away from the pair, her lips pursed. Being disdainful of George, she was determined not to have anything to do with his sister, either.

To Miss Olcott's annoyance, the girls made a beeline her way.

“You have to be Myra Olcott,” declared Dale. She introduced herself and also Kayley. “We just met George yonder and he mentioned that you and your aunt were in town.”

“Hi!” Kayley chimed in with a beaming smile.

“Hello yourself,” Myra answered back, not really wanting a conversation. “I guess you recognized the buckboard, huh?”

“Sure,” the Severin girl replied, “I've seen it lots of times. Where's your aunt at?”

“She's shopping for Christmas presents. If you check out a few of those other shops, I think you'll run into her.”

“That's all right. We really wanted to meet you. George has been talking Myra this and Myra that ever since you showed up. He says you’re as pretty as a peach.”

“Well, isn't that nice of him?” grumbled the redhead. “What else did he say?”

Kayley laughed. “He said that you don't seem to like him. Why should that be?”

Myra shrugged. “He talks too much. Is there anyone around who does like him, except maybe his kin?”

“I like him,” the blonde girl responded. “But he's more like a brother to me than a regular feller. Some of my earliest memories are about playing with George and Dale.”

“Well,” Myra said with a wry face, “he acting like he's a’wanting to play with me now.”

“Oh, Myra,” said Dale, “That means that George has taken a shine to you! He's always talking about how you look, what you wear, and what you do.”

Myra Olcott shook her head. “He’s always coming by and yammering about things I'm not interested in.”

Dale laughed. “That sounds like George. Are you from Pennsylvania like your aunt?”

Myra answered carefully. “No, I'm from New Jersey.”

“What's it like there?”

“It's greener than Arizona, I reckon. But at this time of year, there's usually snow on the ground.” Myra was assuming that New Jersey had to be a lot like Pennsylvania.

“We never get more than a few flakes, and that's too bad,” Kayley said. “I like pictures showing lots of snow, especially on housetops. Say, Myra, is it hard to leave home? We were both pretty young when we came West, so it wasn’t so bad for us. But if you feel like dropping in to visit, we'll make you feel welcome! Dale and I live close by. I can show you the lambs I'm raising. And Mother always has something tasty to give to visitors.”

“That sounds like fun,” the Olcott girl responded, feeling even less enthusiasm than her face betrayed.

“Sure. I hope you ride over soon. George says you have a saddle horse all your own. Did you bring it with you from New Jersey?”

“No, a stray wandered in with a saddle on its back. It's a nice horse.”

“George thinks it's an outlaw cayuse, from that outlaw gang...” Rosedale suddenly broke off and glanced down, chagrined. “Sorry. I shouldn't have brought up the outlaws. People say they kidnapped you.”

Myra winced. “Yeah, they did. They didn't hurt me none, though. Those ornery sidewinders wouldn't have had the nerve.”

Kayley gave a nod. “George was saying you have all kinds of pluck. I'd still be a jumble of nerves if I took a fright like yours.”

“It wasn't that frightening,” Myra protested.

“I didn't mean that you were frightened,” Kayley replied. “I was just saying it might have been frightening for a lot of girls.”

Myra gazed off in the direction of Stagecoach Gap, where the outlaws had taken her. She knew it could have turned ugly, except that the gang had been so eager to find the hidden loot they hadn't paid much attention to her.

“Oh, say,” Dale said excitedly, “George tells us that you and your aunt are coming to the dance this Saturday. If you do, we'll see you there. George says your fancy dancing dress is really something. He says it's better than anything that Kayley or I have. I can't want to see it for myself.”

“Maybe you’ll see it, maybe you won't.”

“Why's that?” asked Kayley.

“I think dances are silly. If Aunt Irene wasn't dragging me to this one, I wouldn't bother with it at all.”

“How come? Don't you like dances?”

“They don’t impress me much.”

“Is that because you don't know how to dance?” Dale inquired.

Myra frowned. “Okay, so I don't know how to dance. People aren't born knowing how to dance.” In fact, as Myron she actually hadn’t minded dancing. It had given him an excuse to touch pretty girls.

“But dancing is fun and you should want to learn.”

“A lot of people don't like to dance. I never saw Irene dancing.”

“Didn't you just meet Irene last week?” asked Kayley.

“Ah, yeah. I mean that she never wrote talking about dancing. But I know for sure that my own parents never danced.” That last part was also not true, but these girls couldn’t know that.

“Maybe we should get together before the hoedown and show you two or three kinds of dances.”

Myra considered that. Kayley Grimsley was mighty pretty and time spent with her seemed appealing. “Maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea,” she said. “But I don't know how much time we'll have before Saturday. There's a more that’s going on besides the usual chores. Irene will be needing help to cook for the party. Then, tomorrow, our clothes will have to taken in to be fitted. After that, who knows what more will be coming up?”

“Well, send us a message by George, if you have some spare time, and we'll come right over. Or, come visit our place. We'll have fun. Ma is a good cook, and Dale's ma is ever better!”

Just then, Myra saw her aunt returning with packages.

“Irene's back. I think she'll want to go home.”

The young ladies turned toward Mrs. Fanning and waved.

“How do you do?” Dale shouted.

“Very well, thank you, Rosedale,” Irene shouted back. “And good morning to you, too, Kayley!”

The three of them only spoke for about a minute before the young pair excused themselves and traipsed away to do more shopping.

#

Having taken leave of Myra, George Severin couldn't shake off the feeling that something about the pretty newcomer didn’t add up. The youth couldn't help wondering about that saddled horse at the Fanning corral. Was it possible that Thorn had ridden to the farm after the robbery, maybe wounded? Could Thorn still be alive and the women were hiding him?

As for Myra, she’d said she’d come in on the Wednesday stage. But he personally knew the stage station’s helper and the lad had told him that no girl had arrived on that run. That peculiarity made George want to check with someone else. Everyone knew that Mrs. Lurleen Deeters had witnessed the robbery and was robbed herself. After that scare, she had returned to Eerie as swiftly as possible.

George didn’t know the Deeters well enough to feel comfortable about knocking on their door to ask questions, so he sat outside under a leafless tree, keeping an eye on their porch, hoping that one of them would come outdoors, whereupon he could stroll up casually and hail them. After about a quarter hour, the youth saw Mr. Ezzard Deeters holding the porch door open for his wife.

The farm boy approached them as if he was coming directly from Main Street. He called out, “Hello, Mr. Deeters. Mrs. Deeters.”

“Oh, George,” the man called back. “What brings you to town?”

“I'm making produce deliveries for my folks,” the eighteen-year-old answered, showing them the big bag in his hand.

“Anything we can do for you, lad?” Ezzard asked.

“I don’t mean to be too forward, but I heard people saying that Mrs. Deeters was on the stage when it was robbed. I didn't expect to be running into you, but now that I have, I know my folks would want me to pass along our family's condolences.”

“Well,” nodded Mr. Deeters, “that's a fine sentiment. You Severins have always been neighborly people.”

George smiled. “You know, it just so happens that Mrs. Fanning's niece got off that very same stage just before it got robbed. She was lucky not to have to see all that gun-play.”

“I didn't know that Mrs. Fanning had a niece visiting,” remarked the old woman.

“Why, yes she has. Didn’t you notice her getting off the stage just before you got on? Red haired and awfully pretty. She's a little younger than me, I think.”

“I can't say that I noticed anyone like that,” Mrs. Deeters confessed. “But I don't know how I could have missed her, since I was sitting on the bench in front of the depot the whole time. Are you sure that the young miss came in on Wednesday?”

“Well, that's what I've understood. But maybe I'm mistaken about that. Who would know for sure? Did anyone else get off that stage while you were there, Ma'am?”

“Only Ben Meldrem got off,” Mrs. Deeters said, “and nobody could mistake him for a young lady.”

“I don’t think I know the fellow. Does he live here in town?” George asked.

“Why would you want to know?” inquired old Ezzard.

Young Severin thought quickly. “Well, Miss Myra, the niece, said that there was a man on the stage who was very kind and gracious during the ride. She says he got off at the same time she did. Mrs. Fanning mentioned that if she knew who that kindly man was she’d like to give him a big jar of fine plums.”

“Well, that's nice,” said Ezzard. “I wouldn't have supposed that Ben Meldrem was the friendly sort. But if Mrs. Fanning wants to know, he's holed up in one of those squatter shacks along the east edge of town. Just advise her not to be shocked if she finds him drunk and rude.”

“I’ll tell her,” George said. “Well, I’d better get my next errand done. There's lots of chores waiting for me back home.”

“Nice seeing you...young man,” Mrs. Deeters said, George's name having slipped her mind. “Merry Christmas to you and your folks!”

“And to the both of you, also,” the youth answered.

Severin walked briskly until he was out of sight of the Deeters. Then he went back to where his mule was tied.

Soon after, having ridden to the east edge of town, he saw that just one of the squatter shacks had a twist of smoke trailing from its chimney. It also appeared to be the most livable shanty along that sorry row, so he decided to inquire there first.

The youth’s tapping aroused a mutter of annoyance from indoors. A bewhiskered man of about fifty opened the door. His face was flushed – probably from drinking whiskey, which the youth could smell strongly about him.

“Can't a person get some sleep!” he declared. “What're bothering about, boy?”

“Are you Ben Meldrem?” George asked.

“I am. What of it?”

“Sorry, sir. People are saying that a gentleman of your name was on the Phoenix stage when it got robbed. I was intended to write my uncle about the stick-up, but not many know what exactly happened. I thought that you'd be the best man to talk to.”

“Go away, pup! I wasn't at the robbery. I got off before it happened, and I'm glad I did.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize that. But maybe you can answer another important question. Some folks think that the robbers had a confederate on the stage, someone who was able to tip them off that it was carrying a valuable shipment. He or she would have gotten off the stage the same time you did,and then rushed out to alert the gunmen in the Gap. Did anybody besides yourself get off the Wednesday stage?”

The unkempt man shook his head. “Nobody else got off! There was a couple of dudes riding with me, but they both stayed with the coach.”

“Just a couple fellows? Wasn't there a girl-passenger, too? Someone said that a gal of about my age got off the stage at the same time that you did.”

“Whoever told you that must have been drunk! No girl rode in with us!”

“You mean that she got off somewhere else?”

“No! There never was any girl. Now go away, boy. I got me some serious drinking to do.”

“Yes, sir,” George responded respectfully. “You've really set me straight about a lot of things. I appreciate it.”

“Fool kid,” the drunkard mumbled, shutting the door in his visitor's face.

The farm boy walked back to his mule, thinking hard. Everybody was agreeing that Myra had not come in on the stage she said she came in on. If she lied, why? And why was Mrs. Fanning backing her up? He could only suppose that something unusual had been going on with those two and they didn't want people to know about it. Could it have anything to do with the pair of them hiding the outlaw Thorn Caldwell?

George didn't want to jump to conclusions. Still, he liked solving puzzles when he ran into them. He sensed a mystery hanging around Myra Olcott and that possibility made her even more interesting than she already was.

The farm lad smiled, looking forward to running into the fetching redhead the next day.

#

With the sun high and the wind less chilling than before, the Fanning farmstead came into Irene’s and Myra’s view.

“What did you and the girls talk about?” the aunt asked.

“Nothing much.”

“You must have talked about something. Those two girls can talk a blue streak. Anyway, I'd like you make friends. Having neighbors for friends is a true blessing.”

“They just wanted to to talk about girl stuff.”

“Such as what?”

“The dance, mostly.”

“Maybe you'll see them there,” suggested her aunt.

“I don't care if I do or don't. They never liked me...before.”

“Maybe they'll like you now.”

She frowned. “Why should they?”

“Because just as it's easier for boys to make friends with boys, it's easier for girls to make friends with girls.”

“I'm not a girl!”

Irene shrugged. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. Just be careful what you say about the subject when other people are listening.”

Myra's only reply was the face she made.

“What else did you talk about?”

“They asked me to go visit them, or to let them come over to our house.”

“That's a good idea. We both know how a farm can be a lonely place.”

“If you’re so lonely, you should make a few friends yourself,” Myra flung back.

Her young aunt drew a deep breath. “I do have some friends. And I've just made a couple of new ones.”

“Like Molly O'Toole and that lunk Tor Johannson?”

“Well, yes.”

“Molly O'Toole's half crazy, and Tor Johannson just wants to get you into bed.”

Irene flushed. “I know you've been running with outlaws, my girl, but I won’t stand listening to that kind of wicked talk. If you have any wrong ideas about Mr. Johannson, please keep them to yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Myra replied through gritted teeth. Thanks to that damned magic, she was being given an order that was going to stick.

“You shouldn't always be keeping me from saying what I need to say,” she told her aunt. “What if Johannson goes out of his head on rotgut whiskey and I find out he’s fixing to murder the both of us? Wouldn't we bad off if I couldn't warn you?”

Her aunt sighed. “I'd say that such a misfortune would be very unlikely. But I'll tell you this, my girl, if it happens that you need to inform someone about something wishing to do some good, you can say whatever you need to say.”

“Hmmm,” said Miss Olcott, not much satisfied.

“There's someone in the barnyard,” Irene said suddenly.

Myra looked up and saw three saddled horses standing tied to corral rails.

Mrs. Fanning continued on cautiously. At last, nearing the gate, the farm woman recognized Matt Grimsley's white-faced horse. The man himself stood nearby, alongside his eldest son and also Walter Severin, George's father. Irene relaxed.

When she came into the yard and reined in, the men and the boy walked up promptly.

Howdy, Miss Irene,” Grimsley said. Though not yet fifty, he was gray of hair with a face etched from years of wind and sun. The farmer was wearing a socializing jacket -- dark brown with a double row of buttons – along with a black derby and a blue silk tie.

“What can I do for you, Neighbor Grimsley?” the young widow asked.

“Well now, is this that young niece of yours that we've been hearing about?”

“It is,” Irene affirmed with a nod. “Her name is Myra.”

“Howdy, Miss Myra,” said Grimsley with a big smile. “My stars, but you are a pretty thing! It won’t be hard for your aunt to get you married off.”

Myra scowled.

The derbied farmer shook his head. “Don't be afraid of compliments, missy. They're a special privilege for young ladies only. Sooner than you think, the bloom goes off the rose.”

The girl tossed her head. “I heard that, too. So how is Mrs. Grimsley?”

The farmer's grin stiffened.

“Have you gentlemen come over to meet my niece?” asked Irene. “If you can stay for a while, I'll get the coffee heating.”

“That's not necessary, ma'am,” spoke up Walter Severin.

George's pa was younger than Grimsley and retained what were rugged good looks. His clothes were less formal than his neighbor's, though they were also newly washed. Close-shaven, he wore a pale violet bandanna and a wide-brimmed gray hat. “We've come by to offer you some help, if you'll let us, that is.”

“What sort of help, Mr. Severin?” the widow asked.

“I reckon the whole town knows that your boy – your nephew – was killed by the outlaws up in the Gap. People are saying that the body wasn't found.”

Irene shifted uncomfortably. “Ahhh, yes. We can only suppose that the bandits concealed it.”

“Well, the two of us and a couple more of your neighbors would like to help out. It must be hard for your family not being able to hold a proper funeral. Since the law is still riding after the desperadoes, it’s left to the people hereabouts to find the boy and bring him home for burial.”

Irene tried to hide her discomfort. She didn't want her neighbors spending their valuable time on a wild goose chase. It was impossible to find Thorn's body because Thorn's body was sitting right in front of them in the guise of a youthful miss. “This is hard,” Mrs. Fanning began. “I scarcely have any right to ask such a sad favor from friends, especially in what ought be the season of cheer.”

“Christmas is about helping others,” said Severin. “Nobody expects you or this tenderfoot gal to trounce off and search every hole and ravine for the boy's remains.”

“Maybe he's not dead,” spoke up Myra.

“What do you mean, missy?” asked Grimsley.

Myra had spoken up without thinking and now felt trapped into explaining herself. “I was taken up into the hills by the outlaws. Now as I think back, they never once said that Thorn was dead. In fact, one of them mentioned something about 'Thorn's share' of the gold. That got me to wondering. What if he was still alive and they intended to give him a cut of that loot?”

Irene gave her niece a sharp look.

“Well, we hope for his family's sake that he's still living,” said Severin. “But even so, it would be a good idea for us to make the search. If we can't find anything, it might give you ladies some real hope that he could actually be alive. On the other hand, if we bring him home in a less happy condition, the town can at least pay its decent respects.”

“Bless you gentlemen,” Irene said. “No matter what happens, my appreciation is more than I can express.”

“It's nothing ma'am. We'll be heading out to the Gap the first thing in the morning. After that, the plan is to fan out across the rough country, since that's where outlaws on the dodge would most likely hide a body.”

“Why would they need to hide it?” Myra suddenly asked.

“That question crossed my mind, too,” replied Grimsley. “But if Thorn was a friend of theirs, they might not have wanted to leave him lying on the ground like a dead badger. Or maybe they weren't sure if anyone on the coach knew who he was. In that case, they wouldn't want to have his identity found out. I mean, if the law started tracing Thorn's recent movements, they might get wind of who else was riding in his gang.”

“How long will you keep searching?” asked Irene.

“Hard to say,” answered Severin. “Probably for more than one day. We aren't sure yet.”

“Well, please don’t miss having Christmastide with your families; that would be sad. And the Christmas party is coming up on Saturday, too.”

“That's four days from now, ma'me,” said Grimsley. “If we haven't found Thorn by then, we're probably out of luck. Coyotes get hungry this time of year.”

“What a thing to say, Matt!” Severin put in. “I apologize, ma'ma.”

“There's nothing to apologize for,” said Mrs. Fanning. “You're doing the work of the Lord and I bless your kindheartedness.”

Severin nodded. “You're mighty welcome. By the way, that's a hefty load on your buckboard, Mrs. Fanning. We'd be glad to unload it for you.”

“Thank you,” Irene said. “You'll be in my prayers.”

When the job was done, the three neighbors rode off and Irene and Myra went indoors. The first thing the latter did was to open the stove and throw ample fresh firewood over its red, glowing embers.

“I hate having our friends waste their time,” said her aunt behind her.

“Nobody is asking them to,” the auburn answered back. “If they wear themselves out for no reason, it's all on them.”

“Myra! They're trying to do something decent.”

“It's always the decent things that get people into the worst kind of trouble.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” her aunt inquired.

“Sure. I've done a neighborly turn or two, and I've always come to regret it.”

“Never mind that. What I want to know is why you suggested that Myron might still be alive? Wouldn't it be better to have people thinking he's dead, so that they can put him out of their minds?”

“Maybe. It just slipped out when I wasn't thinking. Anyway, the more confused folks are, maybe it will be better for us.”

“I don’t know about that, but the harm is done, Irene replied. “Remember, the more lies a person tells, the more lies he'll be forced to tell later on. That’s how it usually works out.”

“What makes you into such an expert on lying, Aunt Irene?”

“Nothing. I don’t ever want to become an expert at lying.”

“Isn't it a little too late to be getting righteous about it?” her niece asked. “We've both been telling whoppers lately and every one of those whoppers have to be defended. I can hold up my end of the job, but I’m not so sure about you.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3