Posted 01-06-20
Revised 07-25-22

By Christopher Leeson

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Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued

Keeping her voice low, Myra said to her aunt: “Everybody's gawking at me. I look stupid!”

“No you don't. People are just curious who you are. And, by the way, I’m sure they’re noticing how well you're dressed.”

“Stop saying that!”

Irene sighed. “Isn't it better to be admired than to be someone who's distrusted or feared?”

“You can keep your admiration. If I were homely I'd have fewer problems.”

“I doubt that. Don't make light of God's gifts, Myra. Whatever problems you're having, there's always someone, somewhere, who's having an even worse time of it.”

“Well, I'm more concerned more about the people who're better off than I am.”

“Envy is a deadly sin, my dear. At least you're not starving in China.” Irene motioned toward the treat-laden tables. “Think about it. When do all those hungry people over across the sea get to eat their fill like we can?”

“I don't see how my eating like a hog on a holiday is going to help anyone in China,” Myra replied.

“Maybe it can’t, but you didn't come here to overeat. This is your chance to introduce yourself into the community. As long as you're here, you should be mingling and letting people know who you are. Act friendly and they'll be friendly to you.”

“What's the point?” the girl asked. “I never made a friend who was worth anything.” She was especially remembering Ike Bertram -- the leader of the gang who'd accidentally shot her at Stagecoach Gap. Only a half-hour later, the same "friend" had threatened to finish her off so she couldn’t talk to the law. And Myra knew damn well that the skunk would have pulled the trigger if Myron hadn’t slipped away while his back was turned.

“Maybe you could make a better type friend if you’d try not to be so quarrelsome,” stated Irene. “I'm trying hard to understand your terrible attitude toward life.”

“You're just not listening carefully enough.”

Irene shook her head. “Here's some advice. Be kind and respectful even when you don't have to be and good things will come back to you.”

“Is that how you’ve managed to be so happy and successful?”

Mrs. Fanning sighed. “I'm still learning the lessons of life, just as you are. But it's very clear that one shouldn’t ever invite trouble, because plenty of it is going to be be coming his way all on its own. Just be pleasant and avoid arguments and if you're still feeling miserable after about two hours, we can go home.”

“What am I going to do inside this chicken coop for two hours?”

“Eat, make conversation, and enjoy the music. Also, do a little dancing, like Kayley and Rosedale taught you to do. And I’m sure those two will be showing up before too long. Talk to them. No doubt they'll have plenty of cheerful topics to discuss.”

Girl talk! That was the absolutely last thing that the redhead needed. In frustration, Myra stopped answering questions until Irene drifted away, having noticed a group that she knew from church.

Two hours in this place! the farm girl was thinking. It sounded like a life sentence. The only people worth talking to was the sheriff and Roscoe Unger, the newspaperman. Hopefully, she’d find them wandering around, guzzling whiskey and filling their faces with free food. But if they hadn't shown up, she was putting herself through one hell of a mortifying experience for no reason at all.

Myra looked right and left, trying to spot them. So far, she didn't like anything she was seeing. People – the men especially -- were eyeing her, like hunters with a hanker to bring down a duck. Even worse than them were the nobodies -- the bums, the old men, and the pups still wet behind the ears. To warn people off, she started to frown. But it was then that she saw Sheriff Dan Talbot looking her way!

#

The girl’s resolution wavered. She absolutely didn’t want to be here but, if she left without finding out a few things she'd have to keep on fretting about the mystery surrounding her parents.

Myra wondered if the sheriff knew who she was. If not, under better circumstances, she might have liked to lead him along until he made a fool of himself in front of everybody. But that would be a bad mood. She needed his advice, not his anger.

The redhead steeled herself and stepped uneasily toward the peace-keeper. When within speaking range, she at last said, “S-Sheriff.”

The tall man regarded her. “Miss Olcott, I presume,” he said.

She frowned again, realizing that he did know her. As bad as it was being around people she could fool, it was even worse being with those she couldn’t.

“Sheriff Talbot,” Myra pronounced carefully, “I came to this party mostly to speak to you. Any objection?”

“Speak about what?”

“Important stuff. But it's too private discuss inside this turkey pen.”

Dan replied, “All right. Let's go out under the stars.”

Myra nodded and followed the lawman out into the winter darkness. But it was a mild night, even for Arizona. Because the band hadn’t started playing yet, no one was dancing. People were mostly clustered in groups near the torches.

“This good enough?” the lawman asked.

“A little farther out,” she urged. “I don't want any eavesdropping.”

Dan obliged and led the young lady to a hedge of bushes at the edge of the schoolyard. “What can I help you with, Miss Myra?”

“Don't make fun of me. You had a big part in making a train-wreck out of my life.”

He smiled guardedly. “Did I wreck your life or save it?”

“I was almost dead already. Taking the last step would have ended my troubles. Because people had to meddle, I’d be justified in shooting a few people -- except I can’t because of that damned magic.”

“I didn't have any part in what happened,” Dan told her, “except that I took your aunt over to see to Judge Humphrey. And it isn't Mrs. Fanning's fault, either; she only wanted to save your life. And you shouldn't suppose that death is any easy exit. You couldn't possibly think that way if you were a better church-goer.”

Myra bridled. “Let’s be honest. You never liked me and I never liked you. But, for now, we've got business to discuss.”

“And what business would that be?”

“I need to ask you something.”

“Is that so? If you talk civilly, I'll be glad to help out. What's the problem?”

Myra took a hard swallow before saying, “I want to know if there was any serious crime committed a few years ago, one where you never identified the outlaws.”

Sheriff Talbot blinked. “Are you talking about a crime you committed yourself?”

“No, not me. But before I say anything more, I want you to promise that you won't repeat what I tell you to anyone.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “If you're holding back information about a crime, and if the criminal can still be dealt with, I’m not agreeing to let him off scot free.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. The...the people who may have done..the thing... are dead. But I’m concerned that innocent folks are going to be treated badly if the news gets out.”

“Who'll look bad?”

“The...the family of the outlaws. There's no one to arrest, and that's the honest truth. But folks might decide they have the right to give the family a hard time.”

“All right. Unless I have to arrest some guilty person, I'll keep things confidential.”

Myra felt like she had to settle for that. It was always a bitch dealing with the law. “And don't you say anything to Aunt Irene either, you hear?” she added. “I think she’d be hurt most of all.”

“I won't, not unless I absolutely have to.”

“Shake on it?” The ginger extended her hand and Dan took it.

Myra, standing back, squared her shoulders. “I-I found a letter that was sent to my mother years back. It sounded like Ma had told somebody that she'd done something bad and the person had written back to ask what it was.”

“Who did your ma write to?”

“I don't want to get into that.”

“That's not reasonable. If you went to a doctor you wouldn’t make a fuss about telling him what was hurting.”

Myra clenched her fists. If she said much more, Talbot could probably guess all the rest.

Without answering his question, she said, “I’ve been working at finding things out. That letter was written a year after the war, about the time that my folks suddenly started acting sad-like.”

Dan's eyes narrowed. “What made them sad?”

“I-I don't know, exactly. But I'm thinking that they might have been sorry for doing something wrong.”

“Why do you think they did anything?”

“Because, before that, they’d always talked a lot about owing money, but then they seemed to be able to buy anything they needed."

“Well, then, what did they steal?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure that they stole anything. But it seems to me that if they'd gotten out of debt honestly, they should have been happy, not sad.”

“What else do you remember about those days?”

“Well, the letter is dated 1866 near the end of May. But the way it reads sounds like the thing happened a couple years earlier. That would put it before the war was over. I – I’m thinking it must have happened in the late spring of 1864.”

“You would about ten back then. What else do you remember?”

“Not much. They didn't talk business with me. But we starting eating good. They also started fixing up the place. They put in that windmill, dug a new well, bought more cattle. They even had enough left over to buy me a few toys.”

Dan felt awkward. He'd sized up Myron Caldwell as a shallow brat, a bad kid. Maybe, though, beneath his armadillo shell, there had been a whole lot of hurting going on.

“Let me get just one thing clear...Thorn. Do you want me to prove that your folks did something illegal?”

“No!” she said sharply. “I want you to prove that they didn't do anything at all! If you can’t find any serious crime happening back then, I'd be able to sleep a lot easier. I don’t like wondering whether my folks were a couple of outlaws.”

Dan was tempted to remind the kid how he had hurt his own aunt by his bad conduct, but he let that thought go.

“This is a funny business. Most of the time I’ll get a complaint about someone doing a crime and then I have to go on a manhunt. But you seem to want me to check around trying to prove that no crime was committed. Well, that’s not what I’m used to, but I think I know where you’re coming from. I’d do my best to set your mind at ease, so you can start thinking about your future instead of your past.”

“Thank you Sheriff.”

“But if I find out something about your folks that smells fishy, how are you going to feel about it?”

“About as bad as I'm feeling now, I reckon. I really want to go back to thinking about them the way I used to.”

“Fine. But if we’re going to get anywhere, you have to tell me who sent that letter accusing your mother?”

“I don't see why you need to know that.”

“If I can’t find out anything by asking questions around town, I may have to speak to the person who knows the most. It was your aunt, wasn’t it?”

Myra looked away.

“You have to help me out, Thorn. I didn't know a lot about Eerie before I became the town marshal after the war. Were your folks carrying debts with the bank, or with the merchants in town? I mean, how desperate were they for money? If they weren’t too desperate, they probably wouldn’t have wanted to do anything very bad.”

The girl winced. “They had a peck of debt. The crops kept failing and the cattle weren’t doing well. But I was still pretty young and probably didn’t know half of what their problems were.”

Talbot looked back at the school thoughtfully. “Banks keep good records, and most merchants do, too. I can ask Dwight Albertson about the Caldwells' bank business, and also have a chat with the local store owners who were here that far back. Most farmers tend to be in and out of debt over the whole course of their lives. But a person looks suspicious if he pays off his debts sudden-like and then stays solvent afterwards.”

Myra shrugged. “I suppose.”

It was hard to see Myron Caldwell in the girl's face. She seemed younger than the young hellion, more of a child. “Ordinary folks might not notice if a neighbor comes into money,” the sheriff said, “not if the person keeps to himself and doesn’t spend too much, too quickly. For now, for your own good, you ought to leave the investigating to me.”

“Why for my own good?”

“Because if you ask the wrong questions to the wrong people, it could stir up some old scandal and turn them against you. That would make your life in Eerie harder. With me it’s different. People expect a sheriff to go around asking strange questions and they know better than to demand a lot of explanations. If I need to mention the Caldwells by name, I'll say as little as possible.”

Myra raised her chin. “Tell them damned little, Sheriff! I don't care for having dirty information about my folks passed around.”

“Don’t worry. I'm used to handling delicate matters.”

“Should I keep clear of Roscoe Unger, too?”

“Yes. Him in particular. He wasn’t running the print shop back then. That was Ozzie Pratt. Even so, Roscoe’ll have access to Pratt’s archives. But I'd be careful about any newspaper man. He’s always liable to spill the beans so he can sell more papers. Let me handle Mr. Unger in my own way.”

Myra nodded slowly. “So, where does all this talk leave us?”

“My advice is to relax, settle back, and enjoy the party.”

When Myra offered no reply, Dan, “I'll do what I'm able to and let you know right quick whatever I find out.”

“Thanks,” the girl replied faintly. Then, feeling all talked out, she turned and walked back toward the schoolhouse.

Dan watched her go, trying to remember that with ordinary luck, Thorn had had a good chance of turning out much better. Becoming an orphan overnight had broken him on the inside and taking a bad hit before he was old enough to handle it was probably responsible for the way he'd grown up, mean and sour.

The lawman shook his head. Jailed or dead of gunshot was how most young men like Thorn ended up. But now, as Myra, she had drawn a whole new hand. He had watched the Hanks gang go through what she was going through now and, somehow, its members had turned out a whole lot better than anyone expected. Dan was hoping that Myra was just letting her imagination run away with her. Should something bad come out about Myra's parents, it might hit her hard and make her even angrier and meaner. It might slam the door on any chance he had left to become a better person.

But whatever Dan chanced to discover, he’d have to let her have the whole truth of it. Lies never fixed anything for very long.

#

Although her talk with the sheriff hadn't gone badly, it didn’t sit easy with Myra to leave important things to the doing of other people, especially a lawman. the men with badges were always looking for someone to blame for something, guilty or not.

“Myra!” someone shouted.

She saw Kayley and Rosedale running out of the crowd. Miss Grimsley, in a burgundy dress, was bright-eyed and excited. Rosedale was dressed up, too. Myra tried not to frown, though she didn't feel like talking to anyone.

“Oh, Myra!” exclaimed Dale. “That dress of yours is almost perfect! You make me embarrassed coming to a party in this faded old thing!” The girl's frock was light blue and patterned with small red blossoms. Myra didn’t think it looked so bad, though it had surely gone through a good many washings.

“I didn't pick it out myself. A friend of Irene's did,” said Miss Olcott.

“Do you mean Molly O'Toole?” asked Kayley.

Myra scowled. “George doesn't seem to leave out very much when it comes to gossiping.”

Dale was gazing back at the school. “Pretty soon the band’ll come out and the boys will be asking the girls to partner up.”

“Maybe they'll ask you two,” Myra replied, wanting to change the subject.

“And you, too!” chirped Kayley.

The ginger shook her head. “Who'd ever want to dance with me?”

“Don't be so modest!” said Dale. “You're as cute as a chickadee, and that dress makes you look even better. Lots of boys’ll be asking you, mark my words.”

“But don’t ever get discouraged,” advised Kayley. “You'll be surprised how shy most of them are. The best way to get a shy boy to dance is to start talking to him – about almost anything all all, except dancing. If you know a little about horses, that’s always a good subject. If a fellow already likes you, being friendly will get him to ask you to the floor.”

“Why doesn’t the braver person do the asking?” inquired Myra. “Who set the rule that girl's shouldn't do what they need to do?”

“Mama says that only hussies ask boys to dance straight out,” explained Miss Grimsley.

“I suppose that’s true, but what's wrong with hussies?”

“I'm not sure,” replied Kayley, “but no one wants to be called one.”

“Too many people are making up the rules for everybody else to follow,” said Myra.

“Maybe so,” agreed Rosedale. “But when we're their age, we'll be the elders making up the rules for the younger people. We'll just have to be careful to make up better ones.”

“By the way, it’s so awful that pa and the others couldn't find Thorn,” put in Kayley.

Myra shook her head. “No, it’s better this way.

“Why do you think that?” asked Kayley.

“Because if he hasn’t been found dead, it may mean that he fooled everybody and got away.”

“Pa said you thought he might be alive,” spoke up Dale. “Thorn wasn't very nice, the Lord knows, but I’m sure his aunt is hoping that he isn’t dead.”

“I don’t think there was anything bad about Thorn,” said Myra, “except that he wanted to live in his own way, without everybody telling him what to do.”

“But he wanted to be an outlaw,” said Dale.

“So did Robin Hood,” Miss Myra replied.

“Maybe there’re some good outlaws, but I think most of them are bad,” Dale conjectured. “I could have liked Thorn if only he was nicer.” Suddenly she blinked. “Oh, say, I almost forgot to mention that I'll be at the church service for your cousin. I like Mrs. Fanning a lot, and I like you, too, Myra. I hope everyone will be coming out to support the two of you.”

“Look!” exclaimed Miss Grimsley. “Some boys are looking at us!”

“I hope they ask us to dance,” said Dale.

“If no boy asks you first, I'll dance with you,” Kyley promised.

Myra thought it was time for her to head out of sight. “I think I'll go inside and get something to eat,” she told her companions.

“You'll miss the first dance!” Kayley warned.

“I'm not much of a dancer. It's no big deal to me.”

“You’re just being shy,” Dale stated. “I got over my own shyness the first time a boy called me pretty. Oh, look! Here comes the band! They’ll be playing soon.”

“I'm really hungry,” Myra said.

“We'll see you later,” chirped Dale. “We want to watch the band set up.”

#

Different friends had been asking Irene Fanning about the carefree style of her dress. She had had to explain to one person after another how she needed to take something from the limited stock available at the Silverman's store. She didn’t want to admit how much she liked the youthful way it looked, even its bare shoulders and low neck had embarrassed her at first.

“They didn't have anything I wanted this year, either,” said Zenobia Carson. “Their rack was extremely picked over.”

“Mrs. Fanning,” Livinia Mackechnie put in, “doesn't that dress leave you feeling chilly?”

Irene, smiling patiently. “I have a warm shawl on the buckboard. I'll be fetching it if the night grows unpleasantly cool.

“How are your spirits holding up?” asked Grace McLeod.

“I'm sad for Myron,” she explained, “but I'm grateful that Myra chose to come to town just when I was feeling my lowest.”

“I haven't met your niece yet,” remarked Hilda Scudder. “If I don’t meet her tonight, maybe we can exchange introductions at the memorial Tuesday.”

Irene nodded. “Yes, she'd appreciate that. She’s desperate to make new friends and fit in. For one so young, she's had more than her share of sorrow.”

“Isn't that always so?” said Hilda. “But Christmastide is the time of year that makes people want to open their hearts to strangers.”

During the conversation, Irene had been stealing glances over her companions' heads, hoping to see Tor Johansson. But deep down she felt guilty for feeling so eager. How would Darby in Heaven feel about her wish to socialize with another man?

Then she saw someone -- a tall, broad-shouldered male. When his fair eyes fixed on her, her nerves almost failed. Irene, clenching her fists behind her back, tried hard to project a pleasant face his way. Tor flashed a smile and began his approach.

When the Swede came within arm’s reach, he remarked, “Mrs. Fanning, how pleasing it is to see you again. Have you had a nice veek?”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Irene said, stepping out from the group.

“The last few days have been busy,” she confided to the big Swede, “but I have been looking forward to the celebration.”

“I like your hair style. You look like a lady of high society.”

Irene's cheeks warmed slightly. “I'm hardly that. But wearing a bun would scarcely have been in the spirit of the season.”

“I vould agree. And your dress is a very handsome one.”

“I'm happy you think so. Some of the ladies seemed to be hinting that it's too bold.”

The prospector gave back a broad grin.

That made Irene feel awkward, but she still smiled, though nervously.

Tor remarked: “Vhen I came in, da band outside vas getting ready to start da music. You have a dance already reserved, maybe?”

“Not at all. And it would be sad to miss the opening dance.”

“Yes, dat vould be yoost terrible,” he said, offering his strong-looking arm.

A good number of ladies she’d left behind were taking note of the pair of them and the majority appeared to be more skeptical than approving.

#

Myra passed her aunt and Tor in the doorway, exchanging glances, but words. Tor Johansson looked so huge that it occurred to the redhead that Irene would be lucky if that big ox’s feet didn't leave her toes black and blue.

She winced upon reading the clock behind the teacher's desk. So little time had passed since her last look. At a loss for anything else to do, she paused to sample some choice delicacies: bread pudding, a jelly omelet, mince pie, cheese, and stewed prunes. She downed them with glasses of punch – bland-tasting punch, seeing as how it hadn’t been spiked.

“Hello, you must be new in these parts,” someone remarked. Myra found herself looking at Winthrop Ritter.

“I'm new in every part,” Myra answered back flatly. “Aren't you the Mex I saw cleaning pens over at Ritter's stable?”

The young man tried hard to hold onto his smile. “I don't clean pens. And I'm surely not any Mexican. My pa owns the stable, like he owns a whole lot else in this town. I'm Winthrop Ritter.”

Myra pretended to sniff. “Did you come straight over from work? Sometimes things get stuck to a person's shoes.”

Winthrop’s expression went sober. “There's a lot of poor folk hereabouts. One never knows what they drag in.”

“If you say so.”

The youth was unimpressed with the girl's charm, but he liked her looks and so maintained an amiable front. “I saw you coming in with some sort of fancy gal,” he said.

Myra shrugged. “That was my aunt, Mrs. Fanning.”

“Irene Fanning? I didn't recognize her. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you'd said you'd come with one of Lady Cerise's gals.” Then he caught himself. “Maybe I shouldn't talk that way in front of a nice girl.”

“Which nice girl are you talking about?” she asked.

“The one that’s standing in front of me,” Winthrop answered, his grin broadening. “What's your name?”

“I'm traveling under the name of Abigail Myra Olcott.”

The young man laughed. On the frontier, rascals oftentimes came from the East using false names. To be too forward about asking a person’s handle was to be considered impolite. Instead, folks would ask, “What name are you traveling under?” It tickled his funny bone to have this fetching girl respond to his question like a horse-thief on the dodge.

“That's a mighty fine name. When I hear the name Abigail, it always makes me imagine a lady of distinction.”

“And I always think of some old grandma with a cane. People call me Myra, but that’s not a moniker I care for much either.”

Winthrop nodded. “I hated my name, too. Back in school, there was a smart-mouthed kid who'd always try to make me sore by calling me 'Winnie.'”

Myra tried not to laugh, knowing that she had been that wise-apple kid. “Did you let him get way with it?” she asked, wondering what he'd say.

“Not a bit. I had to whoop him a few times to teach him manners. Before I graduated, though, he was bowing and scraping like he was some black slave.”

'You lying S.O.B.' thought Myra. The only time Ritter had ever hit Myron without getting hit back even harder was when two of his bully friends had been holding his arms. To get revenge, he'd slipped a caramel-covered onion into his enemy's lunch pail and laughed like hell to see Winnie's face change when he bit into it! On another occasion, Myron had put a “Bankrupt, Going Out of Business” sign on Clyde Ritter's main stable entrance. He'd done it on a Sunday morning when he knew that there’d only be an illiterate hired man on the job tending to the horses. He knew that the old fellow would leave the placard up all day, supposing that it was something that his boss wanted people to see.

From outdoors, Myra heard a lively tune.

“Say now,” Winthrop said, “it’s the opening dance.”

“Do you like to dance?” Myra asked. “You don't look like the type.”

He shrugged. “I don't care much for it, that's a fact. But I'm game for a little shuffle around the floor, so long as the girl I’m holding is pretty enough, and if she's wearing something I like.”

“I hope you find somebody like that.”

Winthrop smiled conceitedly. “Well, you’re pretty enough for me and you really fill out that dress nicely. Why don’t the two of us dance?”

“I'd rather be hung,” said Myra.

The youth looked surprised. “You know, you're damned easy on the eyes, but what comes out of your mouth isn’t so easy on the ears.”

“Why, Mr. Ritter! People usually tell me I'm sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“Well, I hope that turns out true. Can I get you anything?”

“I could use a little privacy.”

Winthrop, looking sour, departed with a perfunctory nod.

Myra consulted the clock again. The whole conversation had taken only five minutes. She moaned silently. What the heck could she do to fill so much time?

Myra drifted from table to table, munching. While so doing, she noticed a dark-haired girl busy in the same way. Wearing a Mexican skirt and blouse, she was showing off a nice pair of shoulders. She recognized Raquel Gomez from school. The señorita been looking plenty good just before he'd left town, but had gotten even better since then. Had Raquel come alone? Myra wondered. The Eerie Anglo and Mexican communities usually kept clear of one another in respect of each other's social occasions. But Raquel had always been the plucky type, as she needed to be to mingle so casually with people whom she scarcely knew.

“Hi, Raquel,” said the auburn. “Good eats, don’t you think?”

The Latina looked up and, failing to recognized the speaker, smiled bemusedly. “It is good food,” she agreed, her accent not being very pronounced. “Por favor, I do not think I know you.”

Myra gave the usual answer. “Irene Fanning is my aunt.”

“Oh, I work at the grocery and meet Señora Fanning there all the time. You must be the new girl that mis amigas saw shopping with the lady and Señora O'Toole earlier this week.”

While Myra didn't care for Mexicans in general, some of the pretty señoritas weren't so bad. “Have your own people held their own Christmas fiesta already?”

The Gomez girl shrugged. “Sí, last night. But a Yanqui asked me to come with him tonight. Why should I not? I like the Anglos. They have nice songs and music. Their food is very exotic! Also, I like to dance. Perdóname, what should I call you?” she asked.

“Myra,” Miss Olcott answered.

“How did you know my name?”

“Ah, someone pointed you out.”

“Someone I know?”

“Maybe. Winthrop Ritter.”

“Oh,” said the dark-eyed girl.

“Don't you like him?”

“He's not the best of the Anglos. Are you and he buenos amigos?”

“No, not at all,” asserted Myra. “I just met him.”

“Were you sorry?”

Myra nodded. “A little.”

The chica lowered her voice. “Do not let yourself be alone with such an hombre. At last summer's fiesta, he pinched me!”

Myra tried to appear commiserative. In plain fact, Myron would have enjoyed pinching Raquel Gomez himself.

“Oh, mire!” said Raquel. “He comes, the joven who escorted me,” Myra looked to see whom she meant.

Oh, Lord.

It was Lydon Kelsey, the closest thing to a friend that Myron had ever had in Eerie. It didn't surprise Myra that Kelsey had ended up asking a Mexican to a party. Even so, if he had to keep company with some Mexican girl, he had made a good pick.

Her old friend hadn't changed much, except for having on a formal suit. The jacket was of yellow-brown corduroy worn over a white, ruffled shirt, the latter being set off by a black string tie. Meeting up with Kelsey so unexpectedly made Myra squeamish, even though there wasn't a chance that he would recognize her.

“Oh, Raquel,” the Anglo youth asked, “who's this pretty niña?”

“We just met,” the señorita replied. “She is Myra, the niece of Señora Fanning.”

Kelsey met Myra’s glance boldly. “Oh, hello, Myra. I heard something about Thorn Caldwell’s cousin coming to town.” He smiled. “You probably won't know it, but I was Thorn's best friend.”

“Is that so?” replied Myra. “Who was your best friend?”

Lydon, either missing the jib or ignoring it, said, “Sometime we ought to get together and exchange reminiscences about the dearly departed.”

Myra scowled. “I don't have any memories about Myron. The two of us never met.”

“Maybe you don’t know how much he hated being called Myron. He'd hammer-punch anyone who tried to hang that sissy name on him. From what part of the country do you hail from, gal?”

“New Jersey. Most of what I know about my cousin comes from hearsay.”

“Well, he and I had some good times. By the way, that's an eye-catching frock you've gotten yourself squeezed into. Is that how New Jersey girls dress?"

“Sometimes. I had to wear the first thing I could find around the house; I'm not much interested in partying.”

“You should be. You clean up real nice.” With Myra ignoring the compliment, he said, “If you're wondering what Thorn was like, I could tell you plenty. If I came out to the farm, we could take a walk around the place. I'd be able to fill you in about a lot of things you don't know.”

“Keep that in mind for next summer,” she said tersely.

“Yeah,” Lydon muttered disappointedly, “I'll check with you then.” He looked back toward Raquel, saying, “Come on, cucaracha, let's dance up a storm.”

“You big tonto!” she declared. “I hope you do not know what a cucaracha is! Otherwise it is an awful thing to call a muchacha, especialmente if you expect her to dance with you!”

The youth took her by the wrist. “Women! Always finding offense where none is intended,” he said as he led her away.

Myra, once more alone, dared to check the time once more. The clock hands had hardly moved. How in the living hell was she supposed to stand around doing nothing until eight-thirty? Of course, there were plenty of books in the schoolhouse. But would people leave her alone if she sat down to read?

Just then, a young man edged up, not any person whom she knew. “May I have the honor of the next dance?” he asked.

Myra scowled. “Go jump off a cliff.”

The youth sighed and withdrew.

“That wasn't very nice of you,” someone remarked from behind. She recognized the voice and turned with a glare. “George, you again, like a fly going back to a...” She stopped, not wanting to say something uncouth with others listening.

“A sugar cube?” he guessed.

“That isn't even close. As bad as your arrival is, I was expecting I'd have to run into you sooner or later.”

“I promised I’d come, didn't I?”

“I talked to Dale, but she didn't mention that you were already here.”

“I just rode in alone. Dang it! Seeing you all gussied up is more fun than eating filled chocolate. I especially like your hair bow.”

“Whatever you happen to like, Mr. Severin, it has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you. Why, I don’t think that little blue mountain off Indian Head is half so fetching.”

“If you hang around up there, I'll have to stay shy of the place.”

George's expression changed slightly and Myra cussed herself inwardly. A supposed newcomer like herself shouldn't be talking as if she knew the local sites.

Myra wondered how was she going to get rid of George quickly and keep him away from her for the rest of the evening.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6