Posted 4-06-20
Revised 8-24-22

THE BELLE OF EERIE, ARIZONA

By Christopher Leeson

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CHAPTER 7

Tuesday, December 26, 1871 Continued

At that moment, Nancy Osbourne stood and advanced to the podium. Reverend Yingling stepped back and Miss Osbourne stood facing the crowd.

Drawing a deep breath, she said: “I remember Myron Caldwell very well. “When I first came to Eerie, I saw in Myron a boy who was often sad and angry. I wanted to help, but I scarcely knew what to do. I was only seventeen years old when I arrived, new to my job and still trying to settle into a new home entirely unlike my old one.

“I thought I understood his situation. My brother and I had also lost our parents at an early age. I knew how hard a child tries to appear strong even when he is not strong at all. I also knew about the questions that a child puts to God when something tragic happens to his family. And in time I learned that even terrible wounds are eventually closed by natural healing. That is the blessed healing that comes from the mercy of the Lord. But it takes time.

“Alas, our young neighbor was to have a very short life. When we remember Myron, what is most important it that we recall not be his violent last day, but instead cherish the good student that he had been during his happier days, and the good friend that people remember him to have been then. Unfortunately, fate dealt the boy severe blows. Each of us who has been gifted with a better life ought to give thanks to our Creator that we have so far been permitted to walk an easier path than the one that Myron Caldwell was compelled to tread.

“I stand here to join my prayers to the reverend’s, asking mercy for our departed neighbor. Hopefully, Myron had time enough during his final mishap to repent at the knees of Christ. If such a blessed thing occurred, he is with his maker now. All his sorrows have been recompensed in Paradise and his former sorrows are very far away. And that is only as it should be.”

Miss Osbourne concluded with a nod to the people.

After Nancy returned to her bench, the minister reoccupied the podium. Looking straight at Irene, he said, “Dear Mrs. Fanning, as your nephew’s nearest and dearest kin, have you any words to offer on behalf of the boy whose spirit has departed with such suddenness from our mortal veil?”

Myra glanced at her aunt, who hadn't said anything about preparing a speech. What could she possibly say, the girl wondered, that wouldn’t be a damnable lie?

Irene Fanning seemed to be taken by surprise but, with an expression of both sorrow and resolution, she stood up and stepped forward.

From the podium, the widow said: “Dear friends and neighbors. I can hardly express my family’s appreciation for the sympathy you have expressed through your attendance at this service. Your support should remind everyone who is in grief that we are never alone as long as we are a part of a greater whole.

“Myron left us a year ago, determined to plot his own course. I worried every day while he was away, beseeching God that he should be shown the way to a better place. A sad event has happened, but who can say that, beyond our power to know, my wish has not been granted?”

Myra scowled. Better place? As far as she was concerned, her present amounted to nothing better than a bag of rags and wreckage. She was still unsure whether Hell and Heaven were more than a bunk tale made up by parsons but, if they were not real, she would have been glad to be dead just then.

“Many people believe that death ends all hope for the unsaved,” Irene continued, “but God is a god of life and nothing happens against His will. And is it not His will to do His utmost to deliver every soul from perdition? If that is true, Myron must have become a member of his flock. Our Methodist faith holds that unrepentant sin leads inevitably into an unhappy eternity. But isn’t it possible that none of us know all we should know about that eternity? Who of us here can doubt that whatever God wishes to achieve, He can achieve?”

Myra saw Yingling’s face abruptly tighten, as did the expressions of some of the other parishioners. But Myra wasn’t taking her aunt's words as any challenge to the Methodist faith, but that – trying to avoid falsehood -- she was speaking truthfully, but in a way that none of her listeners would be likely to understand.

“I believe at the very core of my being,” Mrs. Fanning said, “that the spirit of Myron still lingers very near. I feel his presence every day and I believe that, by God’s Mercy, his ultimate fate is not yet set in stone. I believe that the hand of grace is still open, still extended to him, and I know that if he can but extend his own hand to take it, his repentance shall open a door for him, a door to a new and better world.”

Myra cringed. However she cut it, there was no way that being female was ever going to lead her into any kind of better world.

Irene glanced down with sorrow. “I had no children of my own, had acquired no parenting skills, but I nonetheless came to Eerie with one overriding purpose in mind – to give aid and support to a child who had been left abandoned by cruel chance. It was a terrible vow that I was making and I felt unready to fulfill my responsibilities. My life until then had not prepared me for great challenges. I had been living in a daze ever since I had received a letter telling me that I was a widow. A widow at nineteen. That rush of sorrow had entirely redefined my existence even before I could stop thinking of myself as a new bride.

“After I became Myron's guardian, I depended very heavily on the strength I gained from prayer. Oftentimes, I confessed to our Creator, ‘I cannot do this by myself, Lord; I need your guidance.’ I was asking for a miracle because my task seemed so overwhelming. I didn't see how I could carry it out unless I received the mercy of a miracle.

“Somehow, with God's help, I provided for Myron and sought to teach him what I knew about living and enduring. What I have most recently learned is that we must never lose hope, not even at our darkest moments. When difficulty besets us, we need to be all the more determined to send our prayers to Heaven. A lamb may be lost, but a lamb may also be found. It is the very essence of a good shepherd to leave a hundred sheep safe in their pen and go out into the storm for the finding of a single lamb which has strayed. I know that prayer is the means by which every lost lamb calls out to its shepherd that he should come and reclaim it. Prayer is very powerful shield against the injustices of the world and prayers are often answered.”

After a brief pause, Irene stepped back from the podium, saying, “Thank you.”

Myra sat tensely, hoping that no one had been able to make sense of the jumble of worlds that her aunt had let fly. Her glance back at those in attendance fell inadvertently on George, who was likewise gazing at her. Myra quickly faced forward, but could still feel his eyes on the back of her head.

December Wednesday 27, 1871

“It's time that I took some milk and eggs to our customers in town," Mrs. Fanning told her niece," especially to the saloon. After so much holiday cooking, every family will need to stock up again, most especially because New Years is almost here. Would you come along and do some shopping?”

“No thanks,” the girl replied. “I've been in town on Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday already.”

“But we weren’t able to shop then.”

“I can’t think of anything that I need. Anyhow, I still don't have any money. And it’ld be nice to get back to reading Mark Twain.”

“If you say so, but I can think of a few things that I should be picking up. Come, help me load the milk.”

The milk cans were kept in the cold-cellar, which was accessible through a pair of sloping storm doors. The dugout that Myra’s father had built under the house kept perishables cool during warm weather and reduced the chance of freezing during winter frosts. As a team, she and Irene carried each heavy can to the buckboard. When everything was loaded, Aunt Irene changed clothes for her town trip and then set out down Riley Canyon Road.

Myra watched the buckboard diminish in the distant before setting to work searching the house. There had to be more letters to find. While occupied in the hunt, she took care not to make it look like thieves had rummaged the place. She first searched in the most accessible locations. When these didn't yield anything, the girl climbed into the loft and went through the tangled piles of storage. While at work, Myra couldn't help but think about what she should do in the event of not finding anything. Her best bet, it seemed, would be to confront her aunt directly about her parent’s possible misdeeds. Obviously, though, such a course might end badly for her.

Every trunk, box, and bag that could possibly hide a bundle of letters was poured through. The light was dim and so she needed to keep moving the hand lantern from one spot to another. The first correspondences discovered were old, unimportant ones. The letters that Irene had been saving since her arrival were almost entirely about business. Aunt Irene seemed not to have accumulated scarcely any personal mail at all, except for a few brief holiday cards sent by Uncle Amos’ wife Claudella and her daughter Abigail.

When her search turned up a letter pack whose top postmark showed the year 1866, Myra reacted as if finding treasure. She took the pack downstairs and stood in the light of the window, reading each return address. The only ones she cared about were ones sent to her mother by Irene and dated in July. It would have had to come soon after her folks were dead. Hopefully it wouldn’t have been returned to the East, but was placed in the house by Walter Severin just before Irene had come West. Myra eagerly took the pack to the table, unfolded the single page of her aunt's letter, and read through it carefully.

“Dearest Sister,

“This is the worst possible news I could ever have imagined. I can’t stop thinking about that poor man who died so terribly! How could Christian people like yourself and Edgar have become involved in a robbery? And how could you have endangered the soul of a friend by asking him to help you do wrong? I can almost hear an angel saying, 'For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'

“My only comfort is that your moral senses still seem to be intact and you fully realize that what you have done is wrong. Here I sit, at a loss to know what advice to give. I want to help you and your family set all these things right. I think I should come to Arizona as soon as possible, if only you will permit it. Our whole family must take council together and decide what is best to do. Whatever course we agree to follow, it must be directed toward doing the most good while causing no further harm.

“Please do not argue against my coming. My place is with those whom I most love, not in this lonely rented room. Write back immediately, my dearest, and afford me the hope, if possible, that you have spoken in exaggeration. I will be praying that things are not so black as you have made them sound. And keep this candle of light next to your heart: There is no sin so black that it cannot be made as white as snow through repentance and the receiving of grace."

With all my love,
Your sister Irene.

Myra sat back in her chair. "They were thieves," the girl whispered to herself. In fact, Irene’s letter had made it sound as though they had killed a man and robbed him. And they'd even brought in one of their friends to help them carry out the crime!

Thoughts buzzed around her mind like bottle flies. Had they murdered someone who had money or gold? Was there a forgotten and unmarked grave somewhere on the family property? And what had become of whatever was stolen? Had it all been spent or was some of it still hidden close by?

She wondered about the friend who'd become in involved with them. Was he still alive? A new thought leaped to mind. She remembered that Matt Grimsley had been nagging Irene about selling him the farm almost from the day she arrived. “You'll sink your every penny into this place and not be able to make a go of things,” he’d said. “From what you say, you don't know beans about operating a farm, Missy, and you’ll be needing more help in farming this land than just a boy of twelve.”

Irene, Myra remembered, had told the neighbor more than once that it wasn't up to her to sell out, that the farm belonged to Myron. She wanted to keep the land for his support him until he was of an age to take responsibility. She advised Grimsley to talk seriously to Myron at that time, but not to be importuning him on the subject before then. He was still too young to be making such a faithful decision.

It now became clear as to why Grimsley had been poking around the edges of the property. He probably had clues about where the money -- or gold, probably -- might be buried.

Myra's anger flared. She felt like going out and shooting the schemer dead. But that impulse quickly died away. It had been cholera that had killed her folks, not Grimsley. He was selfish and greedy, but so was everybody else that she'd ever met -- except, maybe, Irene. Worse, this particular person, as bad as he was, was Kayley's father. And he had other kids, too. It was even possible that his own wife hadn’t taken any hand in his dirty business.

Besides, even if Myra had a gun pointed at the man’s very heart she wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger. That damned magic spell wouldn’t have let her.

The girl sat where she was as if in a fog -- unsettled, confused. Myron himself had tried to live by the grab. He hadn’t seen that stealing was so bad. But never in Myra's wildest imaginings had she ever supposed that her own parents were the type who could have sunk so low, so low as...Myron had. Damn it! It hadn't been because of their example that he’d gone out and become a high rider. The lessons they'd tried to teach him had all been pointed in the opposite direction. But she couldn’t understand why they would have wanted him to grow up honest if they were themselves robbers.

What Myra couldn't put her mind around was the sudden discovery that her parents might not have been -- probably weren't -- good people. They had, in fact, been just... just like her. Putting that kind of thinking into her head was like being stabbed with a Bowie knife.

Dazed, weak, and sick inside, Myra rested her head upon her arms and sobbed.

#

Eventually, Aunt Irene came in through the door. Her tired expression changed abruptly when she saw the accusation on Myra’s face.

“What's that funny look you have?” Mrs. Fanning asked.

“I know about it,” Myra said, her voice no more than a small rasp.

Irene blinked. “About what?”

“Tell me, and don’t lie. Did my folks kill a man and take his gold?”

That question stunned the farm woman momentarily. “Who told you such a thing?!” she finally exclaimed.

“You did. I read your last letter to my mother.”

Irene swayed like a sawed tree ready to fall. “Myra! You shouldn't have! Why on earth were you digging through those old letters?”

The girl turned away and stared at the fire behind the stove grate. “I was hoping to find out that things weren’t as bad as I thought they were.”

For a frozen moment, neither of the kinswomen spoke. Myra broke the silence. “You should have told me about everything they did, the bad along with the good!”

Irene shook her head. “How could that have benefited anyone? It couldn't have changed the past. And remembering your parents with love and respect did so much to help you be a better person. I didn’t want you to lose that.”

“I did love them!” the girl shouted. "But maybe I shouldn't have."

“That love was good and right. In time, it will be what helps you to forgive them. I've been trying to do the same thing for the last five years.”

Myra swung about. “Did they really commit murder?”

Her aunt grimaced. “The question isn't so simple. I read your mother’s letter only once. I never wanted to read it again. I don't remember all the details, but I know that she and your father felt very guilty about his death.”

“I have to know what they did. I’ll lose my wits if I have to keep thinking about them back-shooting somebody like a pair of polecats!”

Irene took a deep breath. “I understand.” She thought for a moment before saying, “I still have your mother’s last letter. I brought it from Pennsylvania. I hated what it had to say, but I couldn't bring myself to destroy anything that your mother shared with me. Are you sure you're strong enough to read such a thing without having your heart broken?”

“I can’t feel worse than I do. I have to make sense of this.”

Irene stood silent for a moment and then, without words, she took the lantern from the table and ascended the ladder. Myra stayed by the kitchen table watching the moving lamplight up in the loft. She heard rummaging sounds.

Only a few minutes later, Irene came back down. She had left the kerosene lantern hanging above the ladder by a small iron hook, freeing one of her hands to carry a wooden box. She placed this receptacle on the floor and then went back up to retrieve the lamp. Myra, still in her chair, sat staring at the box as she would have stared at a cage holding a deadly viper. When Irene returned, she placed both the lantern and the small box on the kitchen table, side by side.

Mrs. Fanning took one letter from the box and handed it to her niece. Myra looked at it. Somehow, even after her thorough search, she had overlooked the most important box of all.

The letter began,

“Dearest Sister,”

“I am at my wit's end. I cannot move one way or the other. It’s like my feet are frozen in an icy pond. When we came to Arizona, Edgar and I thought we were going to build a better life, but the hardships of the land confounded us. No matter how hard we worked, every new year brought new difficulties and we also made many mistakes. But only one of those mistakes was so bad that it utterly destroyed our honor and our chance for happiness. We have been trying very hard to keep the truth from Myron, lest it ruin his life, too.

“Irene, I'm glad to finally be telling someone like you the whole story. Keeping it a secret has been like hiding a hot coal where my heart should be. I am wretched. I can say the same as what King Claudius said in Hamlet when he tried to pray: ‘My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.’”

When Myra turned to the next page, she saw spots of blurred ink. The woman writing these words had been weeping.

Myra learned that Edgar and Addie had done the best they knew, but they were used to cultivating the well-watered and fertile fields of Pennsylvania. They started out wrongly in Arizona, planting unsuitable crops in the wrong locations. Some locals offered good advice, but advice often came too late to save their plantings and there were so many other problems that came up to spoil things. After two barren harvests, they had run through their savings, all that had been left over from the sale of their old farm. They found no alternative but to borrow against their land value just to make it through winter and be able to buy what they needed for the spring. The dry fields needed irrigation, which hardly anyone knew about back home. Fortunately, there were old ditches left behind by the Indians who had been tilling the prairie even before the Mexicans had arrived. The struggling couple, taking guidance from friends like the Severins, set to work clearing out those old traces so that they could bring in water in from the local stream.

“The neighbors helped us as much as they could,” Addie Caldwell wrote, “but their own farms took up almost all of their time. The lion’s share of the ditch work had to be carried out by hired labor, mostly by local Mexicans. We could only offer wages so low that we felt ashamed of ourselves. Nonetheless, even paying that forced us into more borrowing and sank us deeper into debt.

“By the summer of 1863, the weather worsened and we learned what a real Arizona drought could be. We couldn’t have imagined such dry spells happening back East. The stream sank so low that our new ditches were left high above the water level. The next winter left us so badly off that we had to eat our pride and accept charity offered by friends at church. We ate more wild game than we did potatoes. We were grateful even when we could get no more than prairie dog meat. By the spring of 1864, were we desperate, about to lose the farm and all that was on it. We prayed many times, but no rain came out of the great empty sky.

“Then, in middle May, something happened, a thing so terrible that I dread to recall it. It was as if God’s adversary had intercepted the prayers we’d been sending to the Lord of Mercy. One night, Edgar came hurrying into the house, more excited than I had ever seen him.”

“The two of us hurried outside to check the other saddlebags,” Mrs. Caldwell wrote.“Not only did they contain ingots, but also bundles of currency. This was wealth enough to incite an outlaw to commit murder. We hid all the packs in the straw pile and then drove the buckboard out to help the injured rider. We were already thinking that the stranger must either be a businessman from the mining company or else a robber."

The couple jointly bore the accident victim to the carriage. Once back at the farm, Edgar suggested: “Let's put him in the barn.”

“Why?” Addie asked.

“So Myron won't see him.”

Addie then realized that she didn’t want the boy seeing him either, but her reasons were bad ones. She started to wonder whether her husband’s reasons were just like hers.

Myra glanced up from the page. It was very clear that the stranger had been the mining company robber, Thomas Mifflin. So, her folks had been involved in a crime, and it had been a major one.

“We should take him to the doctor in town, maybe?” Addie suggested.

“Old Scormann is no real doctor,” Edgar answered back. “He knows more about horses than men.”

“Maybe – maybe,” his wife volunteered, “we can take better care of...our visitor… ourselves."

“We might,” Edgar agreed. He glanced over his shoulder at the straw that was lightly covering the gold. “It's not safe leaving that stuff there, he said.

”Lets take him inside and put him on the hay mound,” Mrs. Caldwell said. They did, covering him with a horse blanket. Then Addie added, “I'll take the horse to the rear pen.” Her husband only nodded absently, his face a map of trouble.

For the rest of the night, one or the other of the couple watched over the stranger constantly. Addie, frequently regarding his condition by lantern light, thought that a man so injured must surely die. But was that thought simply her fear or was it her hope? She actually found herself wondering what should be done about the gold if the stranger happened to die of his head wound.

As morning brightened the dusty horizon, Mrs. Caldwell made Myron's breakfast and then hurried him out to the buckboard. She had told the boy that she needed to shop in town, and so this was one day when he wouldn't have to walk to school. But once Myron was dropped off, his mother circled about and returned home.

Myra, with a groan, rested back from the pages. She could actually remember riding to school with her ma at about the same time that there had been a sick man in the barn.

“Maybe you shouldn't read any farther,” Irene suggested.

“Leave me be,” the girl said. She had to know more. Even though she was worried about what she was going to learn, Myra was hoping against hope that the letter wasn't going to turn into a crime story.

Addie, back at the farm, found that Mifflin remained unconscious but was still breathing. She tried to do her regular chores, but frequently came back to check on him. The farmers both knew that he needed better help than they were able to provide, but yet neither of them felt like returning to the idea about taking him into town.

Riders came by the farm in early afternoon and identified themselves as workers from the Rexler and Colby mining company. One asked, “Did you see a small man in a good suit come riding out of the west along this road? That would have been a little after dark last night. He'd be astride a roan and was probably carrying full saddlebags.”

The farmers just stood there, unsure of themselves. Edgar was the first to speak. “You look like a posse. Why are you looking for such a man?”

One of the horsemen gave a gruff laugh. “He's a robber. His name is Thomas Mifflin. He vamoosed with a load of gold from the mining office.”

“Is there a reward?” Addie asked. That question earned her a surprised look from Edgar.

“We ain’t heard of any,” a derby-wearing horseman said. “If we don’t find him by dark, you can bet that there'll be some sort of a reward put up.” The speaker then looked back at his companions. “What do you think of that, boys?’”

“I think we shouldn’t be too quick about finding the fool before we know for sure that there's a reward!” suggested another man. The other riders laughed and their group, without any more talk, continued on toward town.

Myron came home at the usual hour and caught sight of the strange horse behind the barn. “Whose horse?” he’d asked. His folks made up a story that a sick man had ridden in and needed a place to rest. When the boy asked to get a look at the fellow, they wouldn’t let him. His ma said that they didn’t want him getting close to anyone who might have something catching.

The next day, Mrs. Caldwell gave Myron another ride to school. Edgar was still unable to induce the unconscious man to eat or drink. Only his faint wheezing gave testimony that he wasn’t already dead. When Addie got back, the two of them talked. They found themselves wondering about how long any person so injured could remain alive. If the injury didn't directly kill him, he'd still die a slow death from thirst, but they didn’t discuss that part of it. Come evening, the couple was in such a state of nerves that they were hardly able to exchange a word. The next morning, Edgar went out to the barn and then abruptly ambled off to the south with a shovel resting on his shoulder. Addie saw him trudging toward to a low, tree-lined ridge that marked the end of their property. While he was away, another posse, including the town deputy, stopped by and asked questions similar to the ones that the Caldwells had answered earlier.

Addie managed to tell the lawman that they hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual, but admitted that they’d talked to the company posse. As soon as the riders moved out, she started shaking like a leaf.

Later she felt able to take another look at the thief, lying there as still as a store manikin. When she leaned in closer, she wasn't able to hear his breathing. The farm wife touched his face and it felt cooler than before. She then tried to feel his pulse, but couldn't.

Her mind in a whirl, Addie Caldwell followed after the boot tracks that Edgar had made through the spring grass. Once inside the tree line under the ridge, she started to shout her husband's name, but not loudly. Only faint echoes came back.

She shouted more strongly but there were still only the echoes.

Her third yell broke in the middle as hysteria strangled her voice.

Edgar appeared momentarily and embraced his wife, albeit distractedly. The farmer told her that he already knew that Mifflin was dead. They exchanged a few anguished words and then walked back to the barn together. There they transferred the body to the manure cart, hitched up the horse, and then led the beast through the grass and in among the trees, to a point where Edgar could show Addie a partially-dug grave.

Addie had brought a shovel for herself and together they expanded and deepened the hole. It was a hard excavation, foiled by roots and stones. It was as if God was telling them that they should not do this thing, but they persisted stubbornly. Wanting to get back before Myron returned from school, they opted to finish the hard labor in the morning. The corpse had to be left on the ground, covered with a blanket weighted down by stones. On the way back to the farm, Edgar quick-stepped ahead of his wife, who was following with the cart. He reached the barnyard first and took the robber's horse out of its corral. When Addie reached the barn, he told her that he would lead the beast back to the trees where there was some grass and leave it overnight with a barrel of water.

When Myron came into the farmhouse after school, Addie let him know that it was all right to go into the barn again, seeing as how the man had gotten better and had ridden off.

According to the letter, the guilty pair completed the burial the next day. With that ghastly piece of work finished, Edgar went to the bin and transferred the gold into the cart. This he drove back to the ridge line.

He came back near sunset and the couple scarcely discussed what had happened that day. Out of the little talk they did, they agreed that they might go to prison if they admitted to what they had done. Having broken laws already, it made no sense to lose their nerve now. With Myron away again, they worked at hiding every trace of Mifflin’s brief presence, until only his horse was left behind as evidence.

In the near-dark, before the break of dawn, Edgar took off for Phoenix, riding the robber’s mount and leading the farm's horse wearing its own saddle. If anyone saw him traveling west in the gray morning light, nothing ever came of it. By dark he'd reached Phoenix and, continuing to avoid all human contact, Edgar tied the outlaw's horse to a tree at the town’s edge and then rode back east. Once in the open country, he spread out his bedroll behind a rock formation a little away from the road and slept. He slumbered for only a few hours, but then awoke and thereafter lay wide awake. Rather than waste time, he resumed his woeful journey in the dark before dawn. Once back at the farmstead, Addie let him know that no visitor or neighbor had come by since he’d left. Edgar, having little to say, fell into bed. Though he had never felt so tired, he managed only a restless sleep that night.

As the months passed, the Caldwells, little by little, paid off what they owed to creditors. At first they used the greenbacks that the thief had provided, being careful not to make the repayments too quickly. Their greatest concern was that someone might notice that they suddenly had more money than they ought to. Edgar soon began making trips into Phoenix, which he had seldom done before. A couple of days later, he’d arrive back at the farmyard – always after dark – with such store-bought things that they needed, including new tools, lumber, and preserved food. After each supply run, he and his wife would hide the purchases until needed.

When their cash ran out, the couple saw no recourse but find the means to exchange the gold for cash. That was dangerous, for the ingots were stamped with R&C, a dead giveaway as to their origin. But after giving the matter some thought, they realized that they knew one man, a neighbor, who might be able to help them with dishonest dealings. The man’s occasional signs of bad character had been keeping them aloof from him, but in this situation good character was not what they needed. Even more importantly, their neighbor was connected. He had been augmenting his meager income by means of a county job, one that he had often talked about.

The neighbor had sometimes told stories about the crooked people he'd met on the job. He had seen bureaucrats and officeholders dealing with rascals who ought to have been dangling at the end of a noose. “Hell,” he had said, “those elected skunks have the nerve to try almost anything and when they do, they usually get away with it.” He’d said that cheats and swindlers routinely bribed office holders to get protection from arrest. To be allowed to operate, scoundrels paid off lawmen and politicians and received tacit approval for peddling contraband, while others made their living fencing outlaw loot. Corrupt merchants sold guns and whiskey to the Indians, while rough young men traded in rustled cattle.

The neighbor had even boasted that he had made some little profit for himself by trucking with such people. In need of advice, the Caldwells now waited for the chance to talk to the man in private. When that chance came, they fed him sly, leading questions, most of which he answered with brazen frankness. His replies gave Edgar the courage he needed to bring up the idea that they needed help selling “a few” ingots so they could get regular money for them.

“Where did you two get gold ingots?” the neighbor had asked them straight out.

“Not in any way that we’d care to talk about.” Edgar answered stiffly. "If we thought we could take them to any old assay office, we wouldn’t be needing anyone's help, right?" He then put a small ingot into the neighbor’s hand. “If you can help us, you can sell that one for your trouble. If this goes well, maybe we can do some more business down the road.”

“This is Colby and Rexler gold?” the man replied. “I ask again, how did you come by it?”

“That will have to remain a secret for now,” Caldwell had answered back.

Whether the neighbor thought they were thieves or not, he was willing to do business. With their helper acting as a go-between, they started selling their gold for cash, though at a large discount and with a certain share going to their neighbor friend. Edgar and Addie managed to keep their cash box full and their farming business improved. When their confederate started pressing them to let him know where the main hoard was hidden, the couple stubbornly stood their ground. They weren't the kind of people who wanted to trust any man who trafficked so casually with criminals. They did, alas, nurse a gnawing fear that he might find a way to betray them for profit, but it never came to that. After all, the man’s illegal gold exchanges in their partnership had made him prosecutable also.

But Edgar and his wife had a myriad of additional concerns, such as keeping their many purchases secret. Their neighbor helped them in that regard, too. He put them into contact with shyster lawyers, men adept at forging paperwork. From the documents they bought, it appeared that the Caldwells had received a respectable legacy from a deceased relative 'back East.' That took some of the pressure off them, but not all of it.

Just a year after the robber had died, the Caldwells had managed to get their loans and the mortgages paid off without having attracted dangerous attention. Gradually feeling safer, their next move was to build up the farm.

“We erected the windmill, which Edgar had been wanting to do since the day we’d arrived at Eerie,” wrote Addie. But the Caldwells decided to fix the house as little as possible. They deemed it best if they kept on looking poor and living in a plain settlers’ house would help them do that. As much as they could, the Caldwells avoided making new friends who might begin asking them questions, and they drew back significantly from their socializing -- even with people whom they already knew.

Addie poured much of her pain into the last part of her letter, saying, “We told ourselves that we’d only do what was necessary and we were always mindful that no one would be harmed. But we both knew that we were only doing less evil than we might have. We continued to think of ourselves as Christians, but every time we stepped out under the blue sky it reminded us that every wicked thing a person does is always watched by God. The reverend always saying that worst of all sins is tempting a person to do more sinning that he would have done otherwise. We had done that, too. My heart aches to think how our neighbor’s good wife and children might grieve if they knew about his business with us.

“I am not binding you to secrecy, dear sister. I trust that you shall do whatever you deem wise and decent. Knowing what you know now, I leave it to you to do as you feel you must. You are a good person, Irene. I urge you to never put your feet upon the road that we have walked. Never forfeit your self-respect and your place in Heaven for the sake of simple material gain. Whenever we spend unearned money, we feel like it is accusing us. Remember what a jolly man Edgar used to be? It has been so very long since he has acted like that kind of man. Even during the worst days of our poverty, I remember that we could still find moments that made us smile. But there is nothing in our wickedly-acquired prosperity to give us even a moment of joy.

“I cannot understand how criminals can endure living such a life. One has to have no soul to be at ease under a burden of sin. I even have difficulty praying, which is a horrifying thing when it happens. I feel sickened when I have to ask God not to punish us for the sins we are still committing. We try to repent, but how can the Lord accept repentance from those who are forever feasting off the fruits of their wickedness? To make true restitution would cost us everything we have and such a thing could not be done secretly. We would have to admit publicly to our shame and take the full punishment. I do not know how it is possible to fear a mortal prison so much more than we fear Hell, but that is the wretched state that we live in.

“If I could restart my life at the point where Thomas Mifflin came into our lives, I know that both of us would have done otherwise. To be seduced into thievery is to give up the better treasure that awaits a righteous person in Heaven. Even if Edgar and I had lost our farm to our creditors and we had had to take to the road with neither home nor prospects, I think we would still be better off than we are today. There is no such thing as happiness without a clear conscience and a just claim to God’s love.

Never do wrong, Irene. No matter what temptation comes to your door, never do wrong.

“Your loving sister,

Addie”

TO BE CONTINUED IN Epilogue (Chapter 8)