The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

This new story of Eerie, Arizona concerns one of its untold tales. It carries us back to December, 1871, to a month that has been already visited in the second novel, “Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Autumn” and in the short story “Eerie Saloon -- Toy Soldier.” Let's assume that, behind the scenes, something else was happening that we did not at that time choose to reveal, something that will now be the subject of this novella.

Here begins our adventure, featuring some old characters, some new characters, and some bits of rip-roaring action. It's about outlaws, and robbery, and lost treasure. It's about anew pretty girl, and...oh, that would be telling. Read on and see!
*****

Prologue

Wednesday, December 13, 1871

A bullet ricocheted off the canyon wall as the stage slowly climbed the upgrade. The company guard grabbed for his rifle, but fumbled the weapon and it fell down across his feet. The driver beside him cringed, glancing about for robbers.

Someone's shout echoed between the canyon walls: “Throw down that smoke pole, codger, or you won't like what happens next.”

The flustered guard took the rifle by the barrel, but then looked hesitant about what to do next. “Throw it down,” the highwayman repeated. “I won't be asking three times.” The rifleman resignedly took the barrel of the Henry rifle between two fingers and tossed it away. He had deliberately aimed for a roadside bush, to keep it from breaking on the rocky grade.

“That's better,” the bandit said, stepping into the open. Three others emerged from different hiding places. They were masked with colored bandanas, but had the build of young men. “Driver, toss away your hog leg, too," the first robber told the guard, "and if any of you passengers are toting, dump what y'got out the windows.”

“Don't try anything fancy, folks,” another of the desperadoes grumbled. His bandanna was read and his voice came across as even younger than the other outlaw's. “Hand over the strongbox and the key.”

“The key!” scoffed the guard. “Sonny, that key'll be waiting fer this shipment at the bank in Phoenix. Company policy.”

The red-masked holdup man pointed a Remington at him. “Don't call me Sonny!” he warned. Just then, the wind swept his hat back, so that it hung over his back by its stampede strap. His hair was fair and looked like it needed a good washing.

“All right, old man,” the guard answered back. “Don't get yourself in a lather. We've been authorized to hand over any payload, if a highwayman asks fer it politely. The box is in the boot. Don't shoot me if I go back and get it out fer ye.”

“You do that,” the grumbling bandit responded.

“Wait a minute,” said a woman through the coach window. “You sound just like Thorn Caldwell. You even got his hair. That's your farm a couple miles down the hill, boy. What would your aunt think?”

The stickup man glared at her old face, his pistol raised, but not aimed. “Damn you!”

“Settle down, gentlemen," the guard interjected. "No reason to get your lather up. Ye'r about to get rich, so yah got to be mad about? He climbed down to the natural pavement and went to the rear-end boot. It looked to be strongly reinforced for carrying the weight of gold shipments. The company man inserted the key and turned it, unlatching the boot's protective plates. Once they were pushed aside, the robbers could see the coveted strongbox.

"Now step away," the lead badman ordered. When the guard gave back, two of the holdup men, the pair who had not said a word so far, went to take the loot. The bigger one tried to lift the chest and exclaimed, “Shoot! The damned thing must weigh a lot more than a hundred pounds!”

There was silence for a moment, then the lead badman yelled, “Anybody bring a crowbar?”

The canyon fell silent, and then the smaller of the two quiet bandit said, “Hell, no.” The remaining outlaws just stood where they were, looking out of sorts.

“We can't carry anything so heavy on a horse's back,” said the apparent leader.

“Let me have a crack at it,” said Myron Thornton Caldwell -- “Thorn” Caldwell. The other highwaymen backed aside, allowing Thorn to square off with the box. He cocked his shooting iron.

“Easy there, lads,” the guard said. “It ain't a cinch to blow off a strongbox lock. That case is solid iron. Bullets bounce.”

“Don't call us lads, either!” snarled the gang leader.

Caldwell aimed his barrel about a foot from the padlock. Before anyone could yell, “No!” he pulled the trigger. The blast rocked the canyon and made pebbles fall.

“Hey!” yelled the biggest bandit as the shell whistled past his ear.

“You're an idiot!” growled the leader, pacing forward. “Stand back and let me try.”

The young shooter bridled, but grudgingly gave back a step.

The bandit chief took a careful bead and pulled his trigger. The cliffs, for a third, time echoed.

“Yahhh!” Thorn Caldwell howled.

For a few seconds, everyone stared at the boy curled up on the ground, groaning.

“Keeee-rist!” an outlaw exclaimed.

Blood was flowing between Caldwell's fingers where he clutched the wound. Everyone -- outlaws, company men, and passengers -- continued to look on mutely. Most knew that belly wounds soon turn poisonous. During the war, gut-shot soldiers had commonly been left to die behind the surgeons' tent while the doctors worked to save men with less fatal wounds.

“Ike!” one of the gang shouted. “We have to...”

“Shad-up!” Ike snapped. He pointed at the ground with his gunbarrel. “Pick up those pistols.” Turning, he bared his teeth at the people inside the coach. “You men, get out and clear away the barricade. When the road is open, you can all get on your way. Move it! We don't have all day.”

Everyone, except the lady, exited the stage. Watched by three outlaws, the company men and passengers took apart the obstruction of wood and stone. The work took only about fifteen minutes to complete. Then one bandit held a gun on the onlookers while the other quiet bandits dragged the box out of the boot and set it down on the stony grade.

“Now jump back into your seats and get the hell out of here!” Ike ordered.

“Maybe we should send Thorn with them,” put in the scrawniest of the outlaws. “They can take him to a doc.”

“Just let me do the thinking!” Ike told him bluntly.

Five minutes later, the stagecoach was bouncing down on the roadbed, in a hurry to be away.

The bandit Ike stood in place, pondering what to do. He looked over his shoulder, at a small canyon that branched off the defile. Holstering his revolver, he told the unwounded men, “Carry the box up into that gorge. We'll hide it and come back later, when the excitement's died down. Next time, we'll bring proper tools.”

“What about Thorn?” the scrawny bandit asked.

Ike scowled. “Leave him to me.”

The big robber and the skinny one took up the load together, one at each handle, and carried it into the offshoot canyon. Ike brought the gang's four horses out of hiding and tied them to a sickly mesquite tree that was growing out of a crack in the rock wall. Then he regarded the wounded boy, still thinking hard.

“Damn you, Thorn, you've made yourself into a problem that we didn't need. We can't take you with us and move out with the kind of speed we need. If a posse takes you, you'll get talkative. You owe it to your friends to die quick-like and be done with it.”

“Go to blazes,” the wounded robber moaned.

Ike rested his hand on his gun-grip, frowning. “That's a selfish attitude. If you're still alive by the time we've gotten the gold hidden, you'll be a problem that'll need fixing.”

That said, he followed after the other two.

Thorn cringed, toughing out what were the tortures of Hell. By the time the scuffling of the robber's boots died away, he had grasped the situation. As soon as Ike came back, he was going to put him down, like a nag with a broken leg. Seething mad, the young outlaw struggled, despite his searing pain, to get up.

Somewhat to his own surprise, Thorn found he could walk some. He shuffled toward his tethered horse and managed to clamber up into its saddle. The youth was under no illusion that his new “friends” didn't give a hot damn whether he lived or died, and they'd be money ahead if it were the latter. Thorn couldn't let his plans and dreams end like this, all because of some stupid mistake that wasn't even his own. If this were any place else other than the familiar canyon that lay only a couple miles from his own home, he wouldn't have stood a chance. As it was, if he could reach the farm, he could get some help. Luckily, the youth didn't feel half so close to dying as Ike seemed to be hoping.

Riding down out of the hills, each bump inflicting shots of pain, he felt like he was living some awful dream. If he hadn't been only half-unconscious, the agony would have been unbearable.

The first darkness was closing in on Riley Canyon Road by the time he reached the plain below. He kept on following the trace toward Eerie, Arizona, barely lucid. Somehow, his bay was staying with the road, carrying him in the direction that he wanted to go. He didn't try urging it to speed, afraid that he couldn't hold on if the ride got any rougher.

At last, he spied the uneven shingles of his family's farmhouse. Thorn suddenly felt younger than his years. He didn't want to face his aunt in so sorry a condition, and he wanted even less to have a one-on-one with the town sheriff. Dan Talbot would remember the horse that he'd stolen from his neighbor, Tally Singer. That was a hanging offense under the law, even if stage robbery was not.

By this point, though, the young bandit would have gladly accepted a jail-house bunk if it meant getting off his horse's back. The mid-December wind was chilling him to the bone. His teeth chattered; his breathing came in shivery snatches. By the time the rider heard a shout from the farmhouse, he didn't have breath enough for an answering hail. Pain was draining away his strength like water from a leaky canteen. Was someone running his way? He couldn't focus.

The hard ground slammed into his shoulder. The wounded youth never felt it.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 1

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

Chapter 1

Wednesday, December 13, 1871 continued

Irene Fanning made the whip snap over the horse's back, wincing at what the bounce of the vehicle must have been doing to Myron's injuries. She was hurrying the buggy down Riley Canyon Road with as much hast as she dared. Though only twenty-four, it had taken all of her strength to hoist him into the carriage behind the driver's seat. Since then, covered by a woolen blanket, he had been alarmingly quiet. If she couldn't reach Hiram Upshaw's office in time, her nephew didn't have a hope. The doctor had been an army surgeon; if anyone in Eerie could save a badly wounded boy, Upshaw could.

At that moment, the buckboard was rattling past the familiar wooden sign painted with the words “Eerie Arizona – Welcome, Friend.” The first of the town's lamp-lit houses were now to be seen. She dreaded to think what might happen over the next few hours. Myron was a horse thief whom the law would be ready to arrest the moment that they learned he was back.

The widow Fanning slowed her buckboard when it entered the town proper. Eerie wasn't large, and in just a minute they were halfway through it. She pulled up behind the doctor's office, where she hoped there would be fewer prying eyes. It was after regular hours, but Doc Upshaw lived in the rear section. She was whispering prayers that she'd find him at home.

Irene drew up and braked. She wrenched her ankle springing to earth, but didn't stop before she was pounding on the back door. Though she was striking the panels as hard as she could, she didn't shout. She didn't dare attract attention.

“Hold on, hold on, I'm coming,” sounded a resonant but muffled voice.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. The man looked questioningly into the face of the young woman. “Mrs. Fanning? You look a sight,” Doctor Upshaw remarked. “What's the trouble?”

“M-My nephew. He's been shot!” Breathless, the farm woman had to rest her shoulder against the door post for support. Hiram helped her inside, to a chair beside the door.

“Thorn?” he muttered. “Shot? Where is he?”

“In – in the buckboard.”

The doctor spied the one-horse vehicle through the window. In the back of it was what looked like a body covered by a blanket.

“Don't tell anyone he's here!” Irene said. “He broke the law.”

The words were hardly spoken before the Hiram Upshaw was outside, closing in on the buckboard. Almost covered by a quilt was a boy's face. He'd seen that sort of face many times before near many a battlefield. Drawing the blanket lower, he saw the blood, looking like a spill of warm tar in the fading twilight. It looked like he had a gut-shot wound in the abdomen, which was always bad. Upshaw called for the widow's assistance and together they moved the boy inside. The doctor had lost hundreds of patients in the Civil War, but had fought for the life of every last one of them. He didn't know any other way to do his job.

Moving a belly-wounded man, the surgeon knew, could kill him right quickly, but every second counted. He was already guessing that the case was hopeless, but with a horrified family member looking on, he couldn't let himself think like that.

The doctor and the widow took Thorn Caldwell down a central hall that connected his living and his work areas, and then into a room furnished with three infirmary beds. As they eased him down on the sheets of one cot, the sufferer cried out, which at least informed Upshaw that the boy was not so far gone that he couldn't feel pain. Fortunately, his blood loss observed inside the buckboard hadn't given evidence of a full-blown hemorrhage. But if his bowels were leaking into his bloodstream it would poison him in a day or less. Maybe much less.

Hiram banished the boy's aunt to the waiting room and then lighted a whale oil lamp, which he placed on the night stand by Thorn's bed. A brief examination told him that the bullet would be still lodged inside the youth's body, making a bad situation worse. He wiped his hands on a towel and rejoined Mrs. Fanning. “Whether I take out the shell or not, I don't think the poor boy will make it... ” he trailed off.

The surgeon felt rather than saw the widow blanching in the gloom. “He's too young,” she said.

Upshaw shook his head. “In a better world than this one, he would be too young to die. But during the war I saw hundreds of boys like him pass on from even less serious wounds.”

“Lordy, lordy,” the woman moaned.

“We'll have to keep him warm and reduce the pain with laudanum, until...

Irene groaned and covered her face.

The doctor surprised himself when he blurted, “There may be one way to save his life... ”

The widow looked up hopefully. “If you can save him, do it!”

He was immediately sorry that he had spoken. Death was an everyday thing. But was the cure that he was about to suggest… ethical? He’d lately felt like reading through the few articles he had on medical ethics. He still wasn’t completely sure what was right in a case like this. “I'm not sure you would like saving your boy’s life in the way that we'd have to do it.”

"Do you mean he's be...paralyzed?"

"No, I don't mean that."

Mrs. Fanning looked urgently into his face. “Then I don't care about the cost! You can have the cattle. Even the whole farm.”

Upshaw shook his head. “It's not the cost. The medicine...is a strange one...does things that might horrify you. I'm not sure that Thorn himself wouldn't prefer to die instead.”

“What kind of medicine is it?”

“Indian medicine man medicine. Magic. Maybe magic. Probably.”

Irene drew back. “Magic?” Then her eyes opened wide. “You're thinking of doing what Shamus O'Toole did to save that O'Hanlan boy when his body was broken?”

Upshaw turned away. “Yes. I guess you know, then, what we'd have to do.”

Irene wheeled away, her mind reeling. “I don't know what I should do,” Irene answered back.

“You might talk to Sheriff Talbot. He handled that whole strange business with the Hanks gang. Otherwise, I suggest you pray.”

Hiram Upshaw returned to his patient. From a shelf, he took a brown-glass bottle of laudanum, unstopped it, and put the open neck to the stricken boy's lips. The cinnamon, added to subdue the drug's bitterness, wafted pungently. After setting the vial aside, the physician used his scissors to cut away the dirty and bloody shirt that was pasted to his patient. That done, he cleaned the wound with alcohol and stuffed the bullet hole with gauze.

'Inoperable,' he was thinking. Whatever Mrs. Fanning decided, under no circumstances would it be his hand that administered the bewitching draft. That potion had always filled him with many ethical questions. But what was the right thing to do? Did he have the right to say no if -- when -- she asked for it? The War had driven God out of the hearts of many of his fellow doctors, but that hadn't happened to Hiram Upshaw. He had seen miracles – many of them -- during those four awful years, and even later. Maybe Shamus’ potion was just the latest miracle to come along.

The office had grown as silent as the tomb. He looked into the drawing room and realized that he was alone.

#

The coal-oil lamp he was reading hung by a black chain from the beam above. Sheriff Dan Talbot was deep into Castle Dangerous by Sir Walter Scott. There wasn't much else for a man to do at so quiet an hour. His deputy, Paul Grant, was due in at ten. Dan smiled. Right now Paul would be over at the Eerie Saloon, where his lady love worked.

Talbot glanced up when pounding hooves stopped in front of the jail-house. A moment later, the door flew open. Dan swung his heels off the desk and turned in his swivel chair. The lawman knew his excited visitor on sight. It was Harv Durst, a cowpuncher from Abner Slocum's ranch.

“Sheriff!” he exclaimed.

Talbot set aside the book and stood up. “A problem, Harv?”

The cowboy's head bobbed up and down. “Big problem. Stage robbery!”

The sheriff gritted his teeth. The transport company often took on nuggets and dust from the assay office. But it had been a long while since a stage robbery had occurred near Eerie.

“Where?”

“Riley Canyon Road, up in the gap,” replied the young man.

“Anyone hurt?” Dan asked.

“One bandit got shot. Old lady Deeters thought it was Thorn Caldwell.”

Talbot scowled. “Who shot him?”

“A ricochet off the strongbox, the guard said. “The bandits let the stage go free, leaving Thorn just lying there on the road. They kept the chest. The stage men flagged me down when I rode abreast of them. They was going on to Phoenix to alert the authorities.”

The sheriff scowled. He knew Thorn Caldwell – a quick-tempered kid with a chip on his shoulder, some seventeen or eighteen years of age by now. He was a suspect in some thieving, too. Once Dan had had to go out to the farm to reprimand the lad for reckless gun-play. Not too long after that, Caldwell had disappeared, run away. A neighbor had accused him of stealing one of his horses. That had been back in January, and the boy hadn't shown his face in Eerie since.

“What are you going to do, Sheriff?” Durst asked. “I'll join the posse if you're starting one.”

Dan took a deep breath. “First, I'm going to send out alerts. All the towns along the telegraph line have to be put on the lookout. Tell, me, Harv, how many long riders were there?”

“The stage people saw four, including Thorn. They thought they were all young pups.”

“If they took Caldwell with them, that might slow them down,” Talbot mused out loud. Dan decided to leave organizing the posse to Paul. He'd have all night to do it. Then Dan would lead it out himself, after a night's sleep.

“Lad, hang around town until the emergency bell rings in the morning, if you want to hunt bandits. We'll set out at first light. Get yourself a little rest before then, if you can.”

“Sure enough, Sheriff,” Durst said. The young man swung away and hurried out into the street.

Dan Talbot had just started putting on his guns when there was a tapping at the door. He yelled over his shoulder, “It's not locked.”

A woman stepped in and he recognized the widow Irene Fanning, Thorn Caldwell's aunt. This couldn't be a coincidence.

“Mrs. Fanning. Did you hear about your nephew?”

She blinked, amazed at how swiftly terrible news could travel. “That he's hurt?”

“That he's robbed a stage!”

“He robbed...?”

Talbot frowned. “You didn't know?”

“I know he's been shot!”

The peace officer nodded. “A rider came in. He said the stage was relieved of a strongbox up in Stagecoach Gap.”

She looked pained. “He came to the farm badly wounded, about an hour ago.”

“How is he?”

“He's with the doctor. Doc Upshaw says that he's... he's probably... lost.”

Talbot sighed. “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“He says that the... the potion might save him, like it did the O'Hanlan boy.”

Dan sent her a hard look. “I see.”

“Dr. Upshaw told me to ask you what we should do?”

“Ma'am,” he said, “do you know what that potion does to a person? A lot of men would rather die than take it.”

Irene's anguish was writ large. “Maybe it isn't as bad as him dying.”

The tall man shrugged. “Are you sure? Is he able to speak for himself?”

“He's lying like dead. He can't talk,” Irene explained.

Dan nodded. “I can't make that decision for another person. I think you should talk to Judge Humphreys. He's the one who orders up the potion for outlaws if they get convicted.”

She looked despairing. “Will he let Myron have it?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I can't say.”

“I just --” Mrs. Fanning began, but couldn't find the words she needed.

“We've got get a move on, ma'am. While you and the Judge talk, I need to get to the telegraph, so the robbers won't get away.” As courteously as he could, he led the farm woman outside.

#

Judge Humphrey's lamps were lit. Sheriff Talbot banged on the door and, when it opened, the portly jurist stood regarding him, looking like he was already braced to hear news concerning some new trouble.

“Dan?” Parnassus C. Humphreys asked. “What's the emergency?” He stepped aside to let his visitors enter.

Talbot let Mrs. Fanning hurry inside while he stood where he was, facing the Judge. “The Prescott to Phoenix Stage has been robbed,” he said.

Humphreys frowned. “My word!” he said. “Do we know who did it?”

Dan nodded. “It was Thorn Caldwell, along with three other kids. Caldwell is with the doctor now. Wounded.”

“Thornton Caldwell?” the Judge muttered. Only now did it dawn on him why Dan had brought along the woman, one whom he knew from church. “Your nephew?” he asked, looking back at her.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “He's dying.”

Humphreys rubbed his thin hair. “I regret to hear that.”

“Your Honor,” said the lawman, “she's got something to consult with you about. I'll abide with your decision, whatever it is. But, right now, I have to send out the warning that there are thieves on the road. If you're going over to the saloon, let Paul know that he has to form up a posse.”

“The saloon?” the Judge echoed.

“Mrs. Fanning will explain.” Talbot tipped his hat and withdrew.

“How can I be of assistance, my dear?” Parnassus C. Humphreys asked Irene Fanning.

She hurriedly explained.

The Judge pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If that's what you want, it might be fate's judgment on how to handle this affair. If a boy with Thorn's record for trouble-making was ever found guilty of stage robbery in my court, I'd be sorely tempted to give him the potion, even if it were only a first offense. It may be that justice is about to be served, with no trial required.”

“Thank you, Your Honor, I think,” Thorn's aunt replied bemusedly. “But one thing... ” She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I'm not sure that giving him the potion is the Christian thing to do.”

Humphreys' brow wrinkled. “I'm not sure either. Mostly, I've been letting it happen because I don't like hanging outlaws.”

Irene shook her head. “Myron always tried to grow up too quickly and he grew up angry. But if he takes the potion and and lives changed, it's important that no one knows about it. It would drive him out of his mind if everyone were laughing at him.”

The Judge nodded. “I dare say you could be right about that. I assure you, Madame, no one will find out such a thing from me. But if you really want to carry this idea out, we have to hurry over and see Shamus. He's the only one who can prepare the potion.”

#

There were few lights along the benighted street. Many shops were full dark, though the several drinking establishments along the way remained lit. Reaching the Eerie Saloon, they stepped through the batwing doors.

At once, Humphreys scanned the crowd. “I don't see Shamus. We'll ask the bartender where he's at.”

A dark-haired man in a deep-blue silk vest and a white shirt stood behind the counter serving customers from brown bottles. He glanced up as the pair neared. “What's your flavor tonight, Judge?”

“No time for that, R. J. This lady and I have urgent business with Shamus.”

R.J. Rossi looked across to the stairs. “He's in his rooms; go on up.”

Humphreys led Mrs. Fanning to the upper floor. The Judge rapped urgently on the O'Toole's apartment door and it very quickly opened.

“Land sake! Judge!” said Molly O'Toole. “What a surprise!”

“Parnassus,” muttered Shamus, her husband, stepping out of the bedroom. He was a tall, sturdy red-haired man in his early forties, sporting a trimmed mustache. “Ye’re always welcome, yuir Honor, but m'Irish instincts tell me that this must be a wee bit more than a social call.”

“Indeed it is, and we must settle the issue swiftly. A life is at stake. This lady and I should speak to you in confidence, Shamus. Perhaps, if Molly doesn't mind...”

Shamus grinned. “We can be starting out with a secret, but I can't promise that such a stubborn woman as me Molly won't wheedle it out of me before ye can find yuir way back to the street.”

“Oh!” said Molly in exasperation, “How you go on, Shamus! Find out what the Judge wants. Didn't ye hear someone is dying? Let me tend to the crowd below while ye're busy.”

Shamus nodded. With a few quick steps, Mrs. O'Toole was out the door.

“Who's life is at stake, if ye don't mind me asking?” the Irishman inquired.

“Have you heard the name Thorn Caldwell?”

Shamus grimaced. “The young hellion who was always in trouble -- the horse thief? Is he back?”

“He robbed a stage along the canyon road.”

Shamus made a hmmm sound. “‘Tis sorry I am to hear that. But ain’t that a job for the Sheriff?”

Humphrey sighed. “It's damnably complex. From what Dan and this lady have told me, her nephew, Caldwell, is with Doc Upshaw. He's been shot and isn't expected to make it.”

Shamus regarded Mrs. Fanning with a nod of sympathy. “I'm grieved to be hearing that, Ma'am.” Then he regarded the jurist. “Are ye hoping I can save the pup?” he asked with a suspicious lilt.

“It seems that it's the boy's only chance. Do you have any of the... medicine prepared?”

Shamus pursed his lips. “I've been keeping a small supply on hand, ready to go, ever since Elmer O'Hanlan had his accident.”

Humphreys cocked his head. “What do you think about doing that? Was it something you regret?”

The barkeeper shrugged. “I don't regret saving a kid's life. But I ain’t happy ‘bout his father swallowing the stuff by accident.”

“Thorn is with the doc. There may not be much time.”

“Is the boy worth saving?” O'Toole stopped abruptly when he saw the reaction on Mrs. Fannings' face.

The jurist sighed. “Do you regret how the Hanks gang turned out? It seems to me that you treat them as if they were your own daughters. Tell me if you think that there's any one of God's creatures who is absolutely not worth saving?”

Their host looked away thoughtfully. “I figure I've met a few of that kind, mostly in San Francisco.” He then shifted toward Mrs. Fanning. “Are ye sure about this?”

“I don't know. Are the... potion girls miserable?” she asked.

The Irishman shrugged. “They have thuir good days and thuir bad, like everyone else.”

“Then you say the potion doesn't make all that much difference?” Irene asked hopefully.

Shamus became grave. “It makes a wee bit of difference in the sort of life they're living now. Do ye realize how hard this is going to be for Thorn, even if he heals up as fit as a fiddle?”

“I don't think there are any good choices left for him. Horse thieves hang, stage robbers go to prison. I owe it to my sister -- his mother -- to save him if I can.”

“What you do tonight is going to be changing the lives of the both of you. Just don't be blaming me if you give yourself a hard row to hoe for years to come.”

“I won't, I promise.”

The taverner crossed to the wall rack and drew down a woolen coat of red and black plaid.

“Another thing, Shamus, my friend,” added the Judge. “I'd like you to get Molly or R.J. to spread the word that Dan needs to have a posse put together. The sheriff wants to take it out at dawn. Is Paul Grant here?”

O'Toole squinted thoughtfully. “He'll probably be down on the floor, talking to Jessie whenever she has a minute to spare for him.”

“Good. Pass on Dan's instructions to go ring the fire bell and form up the volunteers..”

“What's the posse for?”

“Caldwell wasn't alone. There are still three desperadoes on the dodge,” Humphreys replied.

“I hear what ye’re saying,” Shamus said.

#

“Doctor, how is he?!” Irene Fanning asked urgently from the waiting room.

Upshaw looked up. “He spoke a few words, but he's senseless again. I doubt he knows where he is.” To the men with Irene, he asked, “What all have you decided?” Shamus and the Judge looked at one another, but let the lady give the answer.

“Can you wake him?” Irene asked. “Then I can ask him what he wants.”

The physician exhaled with a whistling sound. “I'm afraid that no talking is going to be possible. What do you want to do, Mrs. Fanning?”

Now that Irene actually had the means to save her nephew, the faithful words seemed to catch in her throat.

“Under the law,” began Judge Humphreys, “Thorn is a minor, and you are his legal guardian, Madam. The course of his care in a life and death emergency is legally yours to decide. Our Dr. Upshaw will be able to use his own discretion about what happens in his office, if you happen to ask Shamus to use... a controversial treatment.”

The widow stared at the ashen-faced boy. “He'll hate me. But if an outlaw dies unrepentant, he'll goes to Hell, doesn't he?”

“Here's what I know,” suggested the physician. “Potion or no potion, he won't last more than a few hours if I don't take out that bullet. But abdominal surgery may actually shorten his time. If he doesn't live through the extraction that I have to do immediately, you won't have any decision to make.”

Irene nodded. “While you take out the bullet, I...I have to pray.” She hurried away to the doctor's waiting room, where she sank to her knees and cupped her hands.

Upshaw now faced the two men, both of whom he knew well. “I need to do this in my operating room. Help me carry the lad there.”

#

Under the lamps of his surgery room, Upshaw operated on Myron Thornton Caldwell for about a half hour. While the others continued to wait, he stitched the incision. When the physician called Shamus and Humphreys to come in, his expression told them just how bad the situation was.

“Well?” the latter finally asked.

“I have to have the lady's final consent, or else there is nothing more anyone can do. Anyone except the Lord, that is.”

“I'll go get her,” volunteered the jurist. He hurried from the surgery. When the barkeeper turned to follow him, the doctor whispered, "I need to talk to you."

Shamus stepped closer. “What is it?” he inquired in a low tone.

“If the lad wasn't a minor, I'd prefer to let the Lord's will be done. I vowed not to do any patient harm, but is saving a life by changing a patient's sex doing harm? My medical ethics books have no answer for that one. My best course is to respect what the boy's next of kin decides.”

“It's all ye can do,” nodded Shamus.

“How many souls have received the potion so far?” Upshaw suddenly asked.

The barkeeper's expression pinched. “Eight. Here in Eerie, I mean.”

Doc frowned. “Yes, I recall that there was also a Cheyenne warrior.”

Shamus squirmed slightly. “Ay, I told ye about him… her... last summer.”

“How did that one turn out, in the long run, I mean?”

The Irishman shuffled uneasily. “About as good as a person who drank two doses could have turned out. She made a life for herself working in a cat house. Then, the last I heard, she married one o’her customers and made a better kind o'life with him.”

The surgeon sighed. “As a man of medicine, I've learned to accept death as part of the natural order. Sometimes I still wonder whether we have any right to preserve a life without a patient's 'by your leave'. I've gone along with saving soldiers whom I knew would be legless, blind, disfigured, paralyzed...”

Shamus smiled wanly. “When I have me doubts, I always think about Laura with Arsenio, and Paul with Jessie. Without me potion, thuir lives’d be a whole lot different from what they are today. I think taking a drink o’me potion’s like having surgery. It hurts like hell for a while, but healing makes things better, and a person can take things in stride after that.”

Upshaw glanced away, his expression uncertain. Just then, there came footfalls from without. Shamus peered toward the adjacent room and saw the Judge and the farm widow at the door.

The surgeon came to meet them. “What will it be, Mrs. Fanning?” he asked. “I don't think we have a second to waste.”

“Doctor,” she began, “I think He has heard my prayers. It was like I was hearing His voice.” The surgeon searched her face; it looked somehow inspired. “I wept and I prayed; then suddenly His purpose came to me.”

“What purpose?” the doctor asked.

“'He wants to save Myron. He said, ''male and female he created them,'” she quoted.

“And so you believe that we should use the potion to save his life?” Upshaw inquired carefully.

“Yes. Words can mislead, but what He has put into my heart tells me that there is no doubt about His intentions.”

“Are you sure?” the physician pressed.

“Lord help me, Doctor. Whatever happens tonight shall be God's will. Please save my nephew's life. He will watch out for Myron in his time of trial; that He has promised.”

The surgeon resignedly nodded and shifted toward the Irishman. “If this is God's will, let Him bring the boy around long enough to be able to swallow the draft. I'd appreciate it if someone other than myself holds the glass.”

Shamus muttered an agreement and reached into his coat pocket, to draw out a vial containing a couple ounces of greenish-colored liquid. “I have it, Doc. I'll need a cup or glass with a little water in it.”

Upshaw glanced toward the others. “Judge, would you take Mrs. Fanning to the other room? What happens next might be too upsetting for her.”

Without a word, Humphrey escorted the young woman away.

#

“I'm first going to try to bring him around with smelling salts,” explained Hiram Upshaw. He uncorked a small brown bottle. Shamus took a place next to him, holding a tin cup of water liberally laced with potion. He had deliberately made the dosage strong, on the chance that the lad was too weak to take in very much of it.

Upshaw was passing the ammonia fumes of the salts under Thorn Caldwell's nose. Nothing. It began to seem that he would never again awaken in this lifetime, when, of a sudden, the lad's shoulders lurched and his eyes popped open.

“Boy,” said the doctor, “do you know where you are?”

Thorn just stared at the physician for a moment, before going into a fit of coughing. Upshaw, believing that the outlaw didn't have much time left, stepped aside for Shamus. Shamus drew in a deep breath and eased the cup toward Thorn's lips. “This here is medicine, me bucko,” he said. “Drink what you can; it will make you feel a lot better.”

Thorn still didn't seem to understand, but closed his lips around the rim of the cup when he felt it. Shamus now tried to push the mug between the boy's teeth, but Thorn turned his face away.

"Maybe I should try," said Irene Fanning. "He knows my voice."

Shamus glanced up. The widow had returned and was standing at the threshold. "I thought I should be here for him."

"Aye," replied the Irishman. He passed the glass to Irene when she approached within reach.

"Myron? Do you understand me? I'm your Aunt Irene."

The boy gave no reaction. When she repeated her words, his head slightly stirred.

“Myron. Those outlaws shot you. But you'll be all right if you take this medicine.”

Her nephew blinked; his glance glassy and unfocused. Irene kept coaxing. “I'll hold the cup up to your mouth, darling, and I want you to sip as much of the medicine as you possibly can. It'll be good for you.”

The men watched intently. Doc still wished that he was certain about the ethics of what they were doing. But he had seen too much death from sickness and war. He had played host to Mr. Death many times, but never learned to like his company. If this happened, though, would he ever see the same sort of smiles on Myron's face that he had already seen on the lips of Laura, Jessie, Bridget, and Maggie? At the moment, he was only an observer, and that was all he cared to be.

Shamus, beside him, gave a relieved sigh to see that Thorn was able to drink. In fact, the boy seemed extremely thirsty. Just then, the Judge touched Shamus' arm. “If it works, who’s going to be giving her… orders?”

“I don't know,” the barkeeper admitted. “But I don’t think it should be meself.”

Humphreys frowned thoughtfully. “He's gotten into a hell of a pickle not listening to his aunt. You can fix that.”

“Aye. But shouldn’t there be somebody else besides the lady?”

The jurist shrugged.

“I suggest ye, Judge. Ye’re used to deciding important things for people. It might be that the widow can't always be available.”

Humphreys sighed. “Very well.”

The Irishman looked like he had another idea. “I'd also suggest that me Molly be party to it, too.”

“Molly, but not yourself?”

Shamus shook his head. “The Mrs. Fanning will be needing advice... on some very ‘girlie’ matters. Molly knows better than I do what t’be expecting from a potion gal.”

“You make sense. Would Molly want to get involved?”

“She's a hard one t’be guessing about.”

“Then I'll tell Molly that it was my idea,” Humphreys offered.

The taverner seemed satisfied.

The doctor called, “Shamus!”

The two men saw Caldwell's body shuddering. The Irishman came up quickly. Thorn's sandy brown hair was growing out at a miraculous rate and getting a little darker. His strong arms were looking willowy. In moments, the figure on the operating table had become lightly-built and lithe. The bandages over his wound loosened and shifted as he transformed. The alarming convulsions lasted only seconds longer. When they passed, the patient was left flat on his – on her – back, gasping for breath.

Doc reached over and removed the loosened bandaging from what was now blood-smeared white skin. “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered. “There’s no sign of the wounds. I'll take those stitches out after she's rested a bit.” In the interest of modesty, he threw a sheet over Myron’s chest. Just then, her gasping stopped and she settled into a trance-like slumber.

Shamus realized, somberly, that this was the moment to act. He leaned in and shook the girl's shoulder with two fingers. She responded with a bleary stare.

“’Tis another part of the magic,” he said to Irene. “Ye need t’be telling him – her – who she’ll obey from now on.”

“Obey? I-I don’t understand.”

“The potion’ll make her obey whoever ye tell her to obey. Doing what she's told’ll help her t’adjust to being a gal. Just say yuir name and the Judge’s, oh, and me wife's, too. Molly O’Toole. Just tell her, and it’ll stick.”

The young widow blinked. “Amazing.”

“Doc, give him – her -- another whiff of those smelling salts.”

The physician complied. The girl reacted with a cry; her eyes widely opened in alarm.

“Myron, listen to me,” the woman said. “From now on, you will obey any order I give you. And you’ll obey any order from a Mrs. Molly O’Toole or from Judge Humphreys. Tell me if you understand what I've just told you.”

“I-I understand,” the new girl muttered, her voice a tight whisper.

Shamus came to stand beside the woman. “Yuir new niece is going t’be needing a name, too. Do ye have one, Mrs. Fanning?”

The woman seemed overwhelmed. “I-I…” A thought came to her, like a whisper from an angel. “My sister dreamed she was going to have a little girl when she was carrying Myron. She'd picked out a name, Myra, after our mother. But when she got a boy instead, she baptized him Myron.”

“A workable plan,” adjudged Humphreys. “She'll be Miss Myra Caldwell.”

Mrs. Fanning's pondered that. “No, she can't be a Caldwell. But... but wait a minute; maybe I can say that she's the daughter of my late brother, Amos. The real girl is living back East with her mother and grandparents. But we can give out that she's alone in the world, and that I'm her only living relative. That would make her Myra Olcott. Better still, Abigail Myra Olcott. Amos' girl is named Abigail.”

Shamus nodded in approval. “Ye’d best be telling her then, and be quick about it. The magic won’t be lasting much longer.”

“Very well,’ Irene replied. “Myron – or Thornton – is not your name any more. From now on, your name is Abigail Myra Olcott, but you’ll answer mostly to Myra. Do you understand me?”

There was a look of bemusement on Myra’s face as she whispered, “Y-Yes, Aunt Irene.” She seemed to relax after that and snuggled down on the operating table, closing her eyes. In moments, the girl was asleep, exhausted from all that she had gone through.

Shamus nodded. “All right, Myra it is. But whatever name, yuir... niece... uses, she's going to need some rest.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Doc, shouldn't ye make ready your infirmary?”

Upshaw answered with a throaty “Yes.”

“Mrs. Fanning,” he continued, “do you still want the girl's identity to be kept secret for now?”

Irene nodded. “I do. Myron can't stand to be laughed at. When angry, he does things that he shouldn't.”

“Well,” replied the doctor, “we'll all do the best we can. She... Myra... can rest in one of my infirmary beds until she's fit to go home. She'll need girl's clothes, so no one sees her dressed like a boy. A little thing like that in a town like Eerie can let the cat out of the bag.”

“What will we say about Thorn disappearing?” asked the doctor.

“It's for the best that no one be told that Thorn ever came back after the robbery at all,” said Humphreys. He glanced to Irene. “A boy who's unaccounted for and a new girl showing up in his home at the same time could make people wonder. Let's hope that the story about her being your niece keeps people who are too smart for their own good from making any easy guesses.”

Humphreys rubbed his chin. “And, Shamus, if Molly has any ideas how to help Mrs. Fanning, it would be a good thing for them to chat.”

The barkeeper scratched his head. “I'm thinking that Molly should be getting Myra some clothes over at the Silverman’s right promptly in the morning.”

“Fine,” replied the Judge. “Fortunately, the girl is too old for school, so she won't need to be enrolled. It's for the best that she gets settled down away from view before having much to do with people.”

Shamus stepped closer to Irene. “I think the best thing’d be for ye to go easy on her at first. Let the filly have her head out at the farm as long as she don't behave badly. It is hard to be telling ye more. For a while, we won't really know what to expect.”

“How do you mean?"

The Irishman was remembering the amount of strongly-mixed potion that the boy had gulped down. “I've seen a few potion girls in me time. As the weeks pass, she'll start t’be acting differently, more like a girl. Me wife can explain it a whole lot better than I could.”

Irene shook her head. “The Lord has given me a bewildering task. But He answered my prayers, so I will not let myself fail.”

“It won't be easy for you or for... Myra,” said the Judge. “But, don't coddle her. She brought these troubles down on her own head, and we're only trying to do right by her.”

Then he added, “I'll be sending Deputy Grant out to your place. He'll have some serious questions for Myra, such as who exactly helped her with the robbery, and where they've hidden the gold.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

Chapter 2

December 13, 1871

Irene Fanning slept fitfully on her cot. When slumber fled and left her lying awake for a long while, she sat up. It was still dark inside the infirmary. She walked on tiptoes to Myra's bed and gazed down at the patient, seeing her face only faintly in the dim lamplight.

“Oh, Myra,” she whispered. “Did I do the right thing?” Boys are so proud of being boys, she knew. Myron – Myra – was going to be devastated at what had happened. She cupped her hands and whispered a prayer for her nephew… her new niece.

The sleeper didn't awaken. The first trace of a gray dawning drew Irene to the window, and she lifted its shade. The dawn was about to arrive on a day that would be like no other. She went into the deserted waiting room, hoping that some solitude would help her think.

Doctor Upshaw had already removed Myra's stitches, satisfied that the patient's sleep was more or less a natural one. Later, Irene had heard him rise and go out. The woman sighed. So much of what had happened the night before seemed like a dream. Myron a robber? Myron near to death? Myron a… girl?

Dream? It was a nightmare.

Irene began to feel hunger, having missed supper the night before. A brief inspection of the doctor's outer office discovered no food, but in a corner of the infirmary stood a stoneware water cooler. She filled the tin cup next to it and drank.

Minimally refreshed, the farm woman thought about checking in on Myra again. 'Oh, My Lord,' she instantly realized, ‘I’m thinking of Myron as Myra.' She shook her head. How could she change such a set pattern of thinking so swiftly? It reminded her of how people reacted to the first heavy fall of snow on autumn ground. One day, the green grass could look entirely natural; the next day all was blanketed in white. The mind accepted the radical change as normal. She sighed. 'I only hope that… Myra can get used to her own changes just as quickly.’

Like Alice through the looking glass, she felt like she had been suddenly forced into a world where the impossible was an everyday occurrence. But, really, didn't everyday life amount to one forced change after another? Irene remembered that terrible letter from the War Department. As a young wife, she had shared so little time with her husband before he had been called away, only to die of camp fever in Tennessee. Left an impoverished widow, without any nearby family to assist her, she had had to sell the heavily mortgaged little house that they had purchased together. For months afterwards, she had lived in a rooming house, barely scraping by doing work as a cleaning lady. How lonely, how empty were those days. Her brother, Amos, had died in his prime; deceased, too, were her parents and grandparents. She was closest to her sister Addie and her husband, Edgar, far away in Arizona. Amos' wife and daughter lived in New Jersey, but she and her sister in law had failed to become close, and Irene had hardly gotten to know her young niece.

Nights in her little rented room were the saddest and she had sought solace in prayer. Usually, she asked God to make her life less lonely. But if one could say that her prayers were answered, that answer had come in a terrible way. Both her sister and brother-in-law had suddenly taken sick and died, leaving behind a small farm and a twelve year old son, Myron Thornton Caldwell. Providing that boy with someone to depend on suddenly became the central focus of her life. As soon as she could raise train and stage fare, mostly through the generosity of people at the local church, she set out for the frontier.

At first, Myron had been a moody boy, still shocked by his family tragedy. He seldom smiled and rarely spoke more than a couple words at a time. But soon his manner started to change – and for the worse. He seemed perpetually angry, disdainful of everything and everyone around him.

Myron had become increasing truant from school. There had been fights with other boys – a great many fights – and then came the petty crime and Irene's repeated embarrassments at apologizing to the sheriff. The boy oftentimes went off by himself, roaming the hills all the way up to Stagecoach Gap. He tended to disappear whenever there were major chores to be done and Irene found that the work of the farm was just too much for one woman alone.

Talking, and even scolding, did no good, so she had started to hire local boys as day laborers. Myron, instead of standing aside, had picked fights with these youngsters and few stayed for long. George Severin had been the only youth who refused to back down.

One day, when he was sixteen, her nephew crossed over to the pasture of Tally Singer, the neighbor whom he liked least, and rode off on one of the man's horses. His action had disgraced both their names. People had started acting standoffish around her. Following long months of awkwardness, things settled down somewhat, but Irene's renewed friendships no longer felt as easy and spontaneous as they had once been.

For the past year, the widow had wondered where her sister's son had run off to, and what he was doing. It worried her that the boy who had such a knack for finding trouble might be getting into more serious trouble than he could handle on his own. Now, as abruptly as a thunderclap, the world had changed again.

Myron a girl? ‘What does that mean?’ she wondered. ‘What sort of lives are the two of us going to be living from this moment on?’

She went back into the infirmary and stared down at the pretty, even features of the sleeping maiden. “Myra” looked about Myron's age, but there was nothing else familiar about her. She bore no resemblance to any member of the Olcott or Caldwell families. Myron, very clearly, had changed amazingly on the outside. Would there be any changes on the inside? ‘Will she still act like Myron, still want to spend so much time alone, and yet be so aggressive and abrasive?’

Another thought. ‘Did this happen by chance, or does the Lord have a plan?' It was said He knew everything about every person's life, past, present, and future, not only from the moment of their births, but even from the day of Creation. Did all these sorrows mean that He was guiding her family's fate? To what end was He guiding it?

Irene glanced back at the window. It was now bright enough outside to let her see the nearest line of foothills. 'Why hasn’t the doctor come back to check on Myra?' she wondered. She remembered, too, that her horse had stood hitched behind the office all night, untended. That was no way to treat a valuable animal. 'If Myra and I have to stay in town much longer,' she thought, 'I’ll have to take the carriage over to the Ritter Livery Stable.'

Mrs. Fanning heard a door slamming and voices issuing from the waiting room. “Hello,” she said to the unseen visitors, stepping out into the short hall.

“In here,” Upshaw called.

Irene passed through the curtained arch and into the waiting room. The physician was standing near the door and with him was a young Mexican woman in a long green dress. She was carrying a tray with several covered dishes and a steaming coffee pot. “Good morning,” the farm woman addressed them with a wan smile.

“Irene,” Doc said, “this is Maggie Sanchez. She runs the restaurant here in town. I thought you and your… niece could use something to eat. How is she this morning?”

Mrs. Fanning recognized the name. Maggie Sanchez’s restaurant was in Shamus O’Toole’s saloon and Maggie was one of the potion-girl outlaws. Irene searched her features for any trace of maleness, but found none. “How do you do, Miss Sanchez? Myro… Myra’s still sleeping.” She glanced back at the doctor. “Is that normal?”

“I hope so,” he said, again turning his attention to Miss Sanchez. “Please put the food down on the table, Maggie. I'll go check on my patient.” He exited through the curtain.

The Mexican gave Irene a friendly nod and commenced setting up a breakfast for two. “Is your niece – Myra is it -- very ill?” she inquired, her English not heavily accented.

Mrs. Fanning answered uneasily. She had never made an effort to speak to any of the potion girls, except for a brief pleasantry to Trisha O'Hanlan now and then. “Yes, Myra; she fell quite ill last night. But the doctor says that she's out of danger.”

“That is good. You have a farm outside of town, is that right?”

“Yes.” Irene didn't know what more to add.

Maggie didn't press the conversation and soon finished her task. Just then, the doctor returned. “If there is nothing else, Señor,” she said, “I will be returning to my kitchen.”

“Thank you. I'll see that your dishes are returned.”

Maggie nodded and excused herself.

When she was gone, Upshaw said, “The... young lady... is still asleep. We'll let her rest until Mrs. O'Toole arrives.”

“Mrs. O'Toole?”

“Yes. As Shamus explained last night, she's getting some clothes for Myra. And I think that she'll have some useful advice for you, too; about what you can expect from the girl once you get her home, for instance.”

Irene nodded, not sure what to say. Her life had once been so simple – sad, but simple. Now, suddenly, she was living a life like a character out of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

“Try not to worry,” the physician urged. “We don't know a great deal about the potion. Not many people have taken it. They -- the subjects -- generally get their strength back almost at once, but in this case, Myron was badly injured. It might take more time with him.”

Irene could only return a nonplussed look.

“I think you need a good breakfast,” Upshaw recommended.

She crossed listlessly to the table. Maggie had provided plentiful hotcakes and bacon, along with sliced apples. It was intended for both her and Myra, so she took only her fair share. Dr. Upshaw used the time while she was occupied to make some notes pertaining to Myra in his medical records. “Do you think...” the woman finally asked from behind him, “that we've done the right thing?”

Upshaw looked up, his brows knitted. “That's a question I've often had to ask myself, even before I became a doctor. Is it ever wrong to save a life, even if it means a life of pain and helplessness? I don't know. With Myra, it will all depend on what she does with her new life, after she's had time to think things through.”

“She's going to be terribly shocked.”

“We should both pray for her. The other potion girls have done well for themselves. It’s hard to remember that they were once desperadoes. Maggie, the young lady who cooked your breakfast, has two children and a beau.”

“Children?”

“She's technically their father. Her boy and girl were brought up from Mexico by the gentleman that she's seeing.”

“She likes... men?”

He nodded uncomfortably. “I think that Molly O'Toole is the one to ask about that. She's been very close to most of the potion girls.”

“Is she close to Pat... to Trisha O'Hanlan, too?”

“No, not her; Molly is the matron for the prisoners. Miss O'Hanlan broke no law and never had to stay at the saloon. Do you know...did you know Mr. O'Hanlan?”

“I knew Mr. O’Hanlan, but only slightly. I bought supplies from his store, and spoke to him once or twice in church. I've seen Trisha since then, at the store and at services, and I still can't put my mind around it. Tell me, do any… of the ladies... leave town after their sentences are served – so that they can live a...more normal life?”

“They could,” he replied, “but none have, so far. I guess they feel that they have no lives left out there. They're making new lives here. I think they actually prefer to live in a place where they don't have to keep any secrets.”

“Is there any way to change them back?”

“No. The magic seems to be about as final as a hanging.”

“How do they feel about being changed?”

“It's not clear. I've mostly talked to them about their health. Jessie and Wilma Hanks had a couple of the worst outlaw reputations in this territory, but as they are now, I don't think they're bad people.”

“I've heard that Jessie killed a man and ran away."

"Yes, the deputy had to go out and bring her back," affirmed the doctor. "She was found innocent of murder."

"That's good. The only other one I've heard much about is Wilma,” Irene said.

“Just about everyone has heard of Wilma,” Dr. Upshaw observed wryly, but that was a topic that he wanted to leave right where it was.

#

A girl shrieked in the infirmary. Both man and woman hurried toward the sound.

Myra was sitting up, wild-eyed. The covers were on the floor, but she was wearing one of the doctor's shapeless gray gowns.

“What the hell! What the hell?” she was shouting.

“Easy, Myron,” Mrs. Fanning coaxed. “You'll be all right.”

“You're dreaming, young man,” Upshaw suggested. “Settle down, and you'll soon wake up.”

This advice surprised Irene, but it appeared to have a calming effect on the girl. Suddenly she looked more uncertain than horrified.

Myra settled down on the cot. She looked down at herself, touched herself, wondering how a dream could seem so real.

“Tarnation!” said a woman from behind them. “Such shouting! Thuir must be a new potion girl somewhere around the house.” Upshaw looked back and saw Molly O'Toole coming through the door. Her expression was both knowing and grave.

The taverner's wife was holding a wicker carryall by its handles. Mrs. Fanning had seen Molly before, from a distance. Friends had mostly advised her that all the saloon people were sorts someone should keep clear of. The Irishwoman was red-haired, handsome, and looked about the age that her older sister Addie would have been, had she had survived cholera.

“Molly,” the doctor said, indicating the young lady in bed, “this – this is Myra. Myra, this is Molly O’Toole, Shamus O’Toole’s wife.”

“Don't call me Myra!” the girl snarled.

Molly put her basket down on the floor and came closer. “Did ye just wake up, colleen?”

Myra reacted to the term “colleen” with a furious glare.

“Listen, Missy,” Molly continued. “We'll be getting right t’work. We're going t'talk, and ye’re not going t'be flying off the handle while we're doing it. Ye'll keep calm, and we'll be having ourselves a nice conversation.”

Myra blinked in surprise. The authoritative statement had fallen upon the girl with the feel of a skeleton's claw. The doctor had seen that sort of look before; Molly was one of the three that the girl was magically required to obey.

“For one thing, I think it's best to shoot straight w'potion girls. Ye’re not dreaming, honey pie. Ye’re wide awake. And ye’re a girl; ‘tis also me understanding that it's yuir own fault. After yuir tomfoolery of a robbery, ye’re durn lucky t'be so much as alive. Me husband, Shamus, saved yuir life with some special medicine that he's got. Some medicine is pretty rough on the person who takes it. The trouble with this medicine is that any boy who gets the cure turns into a girl.” She studied Myra for a moment. “And I'd say it's done a right fine job on ye.”

“I'd rather be dead than be like this!” Myra exclaimed, but it was not quite a shout. Something had kept her from shouting.

“I'm right sorry ye feel that way," Molly replied. "There's nothing to be done for the fact that ye'll be a lassie from now on. But the good part is that once ye’re all gussied up, ye'll be an eye-catcher, for sure.”

Myra leaped to her feet and grabbed at an empty pitcher. “Like Hell!”

“Stop!” declared Molly. The shout hit the girl like a January blast. She stood frozen in place.

“How did you do that?” Irene gasped.

Molly looked back. “It's part of the magic. Me Shamus had ye tell yuir niece to do whatever ye, me, and Judge Humphreys tells her to. And I'm not about to be letting a headstrong gal start throwing pitchers and hurting people.”

She folded her arms and took another hard look at the seventeen-year-old. “Ye really seem t'be a sour one, Missy, but so was the whole Hanks gang before ye. It was tough for them, and it'll be tough for ye, too. Just consider yuirself lucky that ye won't have to go to prison. Behave like a decent girl and ye won't get bossed around so much. And one other thing; don't try to hurt yuirself in any way. I'm telling ye now that ye just can't do it. We're all going to take good care o' ye and do the best we can to see that ye live a goody long time.”

Mrs. Fanning made a small sound of protest. “Aren't you being rather harsh?”

“Please trust me, ma’am,” the Irishwoman told her. “Taking precautions is better’n holding funerals. If we want this filly to be pulling the surrey without a lot of nonsense, ye'll have to keep her in tight traces, right up to the point when she stops fussing about the bit. Let her play on yuir sympathy, and she'll be moaning, complaining, and feeling sorry for herself till the cows come home.”

Irene's expression remained grievous, but she stood silent.

Molly once more addressed the maid, who was still clutching the pitcher. “Put that vessel down gently, gal. It ain’t nice t’be breaking things.” Myra obeyed with a dazed look on her face. “Now, in case ye didn't understand what ye was told before, yuir name is Myra. So, no more snapping at people who call ye that. Agreed, Myra?”

She said "Yes" through gritted teeth.

"Fine. Come sit back down on the cot, easy like. Ye'll only have t'listen; we won't be needing any of yuir sass-talk for a while. If I need ye t'say something, I'll let ye know. Understand?” Myra scowled, but there were voices in her head that, somehow, wouldn't let her speak.

Molly continued. “If ye understand, say that ye understand.”

Myra wanted to spew a tirade of obscenity, but only heard herself uttering, “I understand.”

“Good. Remember, politeness gets paid back with smiles.” The Irishwoman glanced at Mrs. Fanning and the doctor in turn, just in case either had anything to contribute. It didn't look like they did, so she continued her talk with Myra. “I'm going to sit down next to ye. Ye won't mind, will ye?”

“Yes, I will!” Myra growled.

“Yuir feelings are yer own, but I'll be doing pretty much what I please, thank ye very much. And don't ye try laying a hand on me, either.”

Molly took a seat. “Let me tell a little story, so ye understand just how things work. Me man, Shamus, and his family come over t’America back in the 1830s. They was crossing the plains when his da got sick. His ma was what they called a hedge witch back in the auld county, but she couldn’t do nothing t’save him. They was lost ‘n’ a spring snow storm up by the Platte. It was bad. They woulda died ‘cept they got rescued by a Cheyenne hunting party that took Shamus ‘n’ his ma back t’thuir camp. Living the tribal life seemed to be in her blood, and by winter, she was married t’their medicine man. He took a shine to Shamus, too, and adopted him.”

“When Shamus was still a lad, he got to working at putting them Injun and Irish magics together. His idea was to make up new spells of his own, but most of them turned out to be about as useful as a leaky bucket. When they did work, they mostly stirred up more harm than good. But he found one spell that neither his mother nor the red men ever heard of before, a potion that made the man who drank it turn into the fetchingest woman that'd ever crossed his path. He tried it out first on camp animals, and it always worked right well, but try as he might, he never could find any way t'be changing a female into a male. The Cheyenne didn't much care for that sort of magic, and the elders told the boy to leave well enough alone.

“A few years afterwards, Shamus decided that he wasn’t cut out t’be no Injun. He said goodbye to his ma and his Cheyenne family and headed off to a fort a few days away. He took a job in a saloon, and it turned out that he had a knack for tending bar. Later on, he wandered as far as San Francisco. Me and him met where he was tending bar, and where I was dancing on stage. We got married, but, in a year or so, we decided t'be leaving Frisco. After a wee bit of roving, we took a liking to Eerie and settled in. The town's been good to us ever since.”

“Then, last July, a band of outlaws came along, wanting some revenge on Sheriff Talbot. They wasn't gunned down, like we told to the papers. Instead them outlaws was given beers loaded with the same potion you just got. Things worked out fine, and since then the Judge has been giving lawbreakers the choice to either take a draft of the same stuff or go to territorial prison, if their crimes were really bad, like attempted murder or horse thieving.” She watched Myra for a reaction to that last mentioned crime. “Those that pick the potion spend two months as waitresses in our saloon, learning proper manners and honest work. Then they get let go.”

“Last month, we found out that the potion could also cure bad wounds. A little boy named Elmer was in an accident. He was dying. Shamus’s potion saved him, but he's called Emma now.”

“That brings us to yuir situation, Missy. Ye’d have died if the potion hadn't dragged ye back from the devil's gate. I imagine it will be taking a little while before ye start appreciating how lucky ye've been, but we're patient folk. My advice is t’buck up and be grateful just for being alive. Ye’re going on one hell of an adventure. Keep yuir head and take one step at a time and pretty soon ye'll learn to run.”

Myra's eyes flashed. She tried to say something, but wasn't able to.

“I reckon ye want to know what's going to t’be happening next. Ye're going home soon, and ye’re going to be yuir aunt’s responsibility. Ye just listen to her just like ye were still a wee tyke. If ye get too frisky and hard to handle, well, she's welcome to bring ye over to me Saloon. Thuir’ll be plenty of cooking and cleaning t'be keeping a lass yer age busy from sunup to sundown. For now, though, I want ye t’be taking the advice I'm giving ye.” Molly glanced up at Irene. “And, by the way, if yuir aunt don't care for anything that I'm saying, she can just tell ye to do something different. Do ye understand, Mrs. Fanning?”

“I… I suppose so.”

Molly looked back at the girl. “Before I say more, lassie, I want to ask if ye've stood toe to toe with a looking glass, since ye woke up so fetching pretty, I mean?” She pointed to an ornately framed mirror hanging on a nearby wall.

Myra felt compelled to answer. “No.”

“Ye might as well get that over with. Scoot yuirself over to that mirror and take a gander. Ye don't have to be shy about touching yuir new parts, neither, if ye have a hanker to. Thuir's only us ladies and the doctor who'll be watching.”

Myra couldn't resist. She walked over and confronted a reflected face that was framed with long auburn hair. It had blue eyes like reflections from a stormy sky. The lips were full and pouty. The reflection had teeth as white as pearls on a fancy necklace, with a very healthy and veryfemale frame. But what bothered her was the fact that this face looked familiar. Her gut told her that she wasn't imagining the resemblance.

“Ye’re as charming as a little red wagon,” Molly adjudged. “Do ye agree, sweetheart?”

“That's not me!” Myra declared.

Molly sighed. “It is now. How do ye feel about being that pretty little girl ye see in front of ye?”

Myra turned, glaring. “Like I want to kill somebody – maybe myself!”

“I was afraid ye'd feel that way. Come back and sit down.”

When Myra was again seated, Molly instructed her firmly, “Ye won't try t'kill yuirself or anybody else. Ye won't even try t’hurt them, except t'protect yuirself, or to protect someone who's with ye.

“Me Shamus tells me that ye don't want everyone knowing that ye used to be a boy. Was he wrong?”

Myra thought about that idea for the first time and then answered emphatically, “He's right!”

Molly nodded. “That makes things a little more complicated. It won't be such an easy secret for the keeping. If a new girl shows up out of nowhere talking like a boy, dressing like a boy, acting like a boy, people are going to be noticing. Just how long do ye think it'll be before someone guesses that ye're Myron Caldwell living at his old home place?

“Not long,” Myra reluctantly conceded.

“So what are ye going to do about it?”

The girl turned her face away. “I don't know.”

"Then put this in yuir pipe and smoke it, lassie. Ye say ye want people t'think yuir a regular sort of girl. If that's what ye want, ye'll have t'learn how a girl dresses, talks, and behaves. I reckon ye're unschooled in doing any of that, but yuir aunt can give ye a lot of good advice, advice ye should take.”

Then the red-headed woman glanced toward Irene. “Mrs. Fanning, what's Myra's full name?”

“It's... Abigail Myra Olcott.” She paused, and then added, “I'm going to tell people that she's my orphaned niece from back East.”

“Don't call me that name!” the girl exclaimed.

Molly again faced off with Myra. “Maybe I wasn't clear enough before. Ye'll answer to Abigail, or Myra, or anything else yuir aunt says you should, and ye won't get snippish about it. Now, tell me what you name is.”

The name fought its way through jaws that the girl tried to keep locked. “A-Abigail… Myra… O-Olcott.”

Molly nodded. “Miss Myra, there's a lot that ye'll have t’be getting used to, and lots of unfamiliar things ye'll have t’be doing from now on. A girl don’t get into fistfights, for one thing. Don't be hitting anybody or insulting anybody just for treating ye like a lassie. If ye don't like that barrel of pickles, maybe ye'd prefer that everybody finds out that ye used to be Thorn Caldwell? Ye might give some folks a good laugh, but, if ye ask me, it'd be an easier row to hoe in the long haul. Don't ye wish deep down that ye could just fess up about how things are, take the embarrassment, and then put the whole business behind ye?”

Myra's stare could have killed a flock of prairie chickens. “No!” she said emphatically.

Molly shook her head. “Then ye'd better work hard at figuring out how a decent young lady handles herself.”

At that point, the matron paused. “That's enough for now.” She looked toward Mrs. Fanning. “I think it's time t’be having a powwow about... certain subjects that, perhaps, yuir niece ain't quite ready to start fretting about.”

Irene nodded disconcertedly and then picked up the green robe that the doctor had provided. She held it out to Myra. “Myra, please put this on, and then go out into the other room and eat your breakfast. I'll join you after I've spoken to Mrs. O'Toole.”

The girl's teeth gritted at being called Myra by her aunt, but – still furious – she donned the robe and crossed into the next room on bare feet.

“She'll need a bath,” Molly said after the patient had gone, “but we shouldn't be raising a lot of questions over at the bath house. For now, the doc has a tub. And after ye get her home, see that she cleans up every day or two. It’ll help her get used t’her new body”

“How can I make her behave when you're not around?” Irene asked.

Molly looked doubtful. “Didn't Shamus explain it? Ye have just as much control over her as I do. Just tell the lassie what ye want her t’do. She'll feel obliged to do it, as long as ye make it clear that it's really an order. Don't be worrying too much. The gal'll be shaping up on her own soon enough, if she's like the girls over at the Saloon. When that happens, ye'll be dealing with a whole new set of issues, but everything happens in its own time. Meanwhile, ye’ll have t’be schooling her about a lot of girly things, like wearing dresses… and having monthlies. Just teach her what yuir ma taught ye.”

“What do you mean about there being other 'issues'?”

Molly sighed. “Don't be surprised when she starts acting all flustered-like – around boys, I mean. That sort of thing seems t'come natural with the potion.”

Astonishment transformed Irene's face. “Boys? She'll like boys, like the saloon outlaws do?”

“Don't fret about it,” advised the older woman. “’Tis for the best. Loving and being loved ain’t a bad thing. But there's many a slip between the cup and the lip. Myra is just at the age when a girl can go wrong.”

The widow's eyebrows went up. “Do you mean she might become a... a hussy?”

Molly met her glance intensely. “An ordinary girl is brought up t’be right sensible about the lads. Thorn never got that sort of teaching. What he got was an education from watching cows and bulls mate. If that niece of yuirs starts thinking about boys the way too many girls his – her – age do, she might run square into... consequences... ”

Irene felt a strong need to sit down.

#

Molly led Irene into the back rooms of Dr. Upshaw’s office, the part that served for his living quarters. There, in a cubical, was the physician's personal bathtub, a good one from back East, also used by his patients when they needed it. “I got clothes for the gal,” she told Irene, extracting a bag from her big carryall. “They ain’t much, just some old things from when Jessie Hanks started, umm… working for me and Shamus.”

“Won’t Miss Hanks mind?” Irene asked.

“Not likely. She's developed a liking for better stuff than this. And then thuir’s them frilly unmentionables for when… well, let’s just say when Paul Grant is talking to her in private.”

Mrs. Fanning returned a doubtful glance. “I think I understand.” Trying to conceal her discomfort, Irene went to check on the heating bathwater. An extra-large kettle sat on the stove, a thin trail of steam wafting from it. When she dipped the tip of her finger, it hurt but didn't scald. “Mrs. O'Toole, could you help me carry this hot water?!”

The saloon proprietress, using potholders, assisted her in carefully and slowly carrying the heated vessel to the bathtub. Bracing the pot on the edge of the fixture, they poured in its contents. Then ladies put more water on the heat and continued the process until the tub was half-filled.

At that point, Irene tested the bathwater to see if the tub had cooled it enough for comfortable bathing. It still felt too hot, so she added a kettle of cold water. That made it perfect. “Come back here, Myra!” she called.

The girl, who had long since finished breakfast, emerged from the reception area. Looking at the tub, she grimaced distastefully. Thorn had gotten over his bashfulness about being undressed in front of a woman, but this was so very different.

“Time to shuck off those clothes and lose that trail-dust,” said the Irishwoman.

Myra frowns to each of her tormentors.

“Why so shy?” Molly asked. “Ye ain’t got nothing that yuir aunt and me ain't seen ten thousand times. But since ye’re not used to having what ye have, Mrs. Fanning and me’ll be strolling outside to continue our chat while you wash yuirself down”

Irene stepped up to her niece with a fluffy white terrycloth towel and a small washcloth. The latter was wrapped around an oval bar of soap. “Ye be sure t’be washing yuirself all over,” Molly instructed the girl. “Every inch o’ye, and when ye’re done, dry yuirself well.” With that, the two ladies went out the back door to the porch behind the building and took their ease upon a white-painted bench suspended from chains.

After the women departed, Myra worked quickly, wanting to be done and covered up before they barged back in. She slipped out of her robe and peeled off her cotton gown, draping them both over a nearby chair. Then, using the same chair to support herself, she stepped into the tub and sank down to her knees. The water felt hot against her newly-sensitized skin.

Hurriedly, Myra used the slippery bar of soap to work up a lather on the washcloth. This she rubbed over her arms and torso. Upon touching her breasts, she gasped in surprise. Curiosity aroused, the girl persisted in stroking them, the sensation growing more intense. The feeling was not a bad one. Now she could imagine why Gilana moaned so much when Myron had…

“Oh, my Lord… Gilana!" she exclaimed, her eyes open wide. Molly O'Toole had said that any man who drank that damned potion would become the double of the “fetchingest” gal he'd ever known. The prettiest girl in Myron's acquaintance had been Gilana Hulbard, a young cancan dance in Yuma. Myra thought back to her reflected image in the mirror. “Shit, I look just like her!”

The bemused maiden leaned back against the end of the tub, remembering her last visit with Gilana. As the shock wore off, Myra grew curious about her present body, just because it looked so much like Gilana's. She remembered how beautiful the dancer had been, especially in bed. That thought inspired Myra to touch her breasts again, which contact caused her to shiver.

She continued caressing her fullness, but now more gently. In her mind’s eye, she became Myron again, and it was the cancan girl's breasts she – he -- was petting. 'Ooh… ooh, God!' The pleasure of it! How could it feel so good when it also felt so wrong to have breasts -- especially breasts so large that they would make men sit up and stare. But here they were, attached to her. It felt like she had, in a sense, stolen them, and the thought of ill-gotten gain always tickled a bandit's nature. This was appealing loot. She felt like a robber counting her ample lucre with no one watching.

A moment later, a curious hand -- as if it had a mind of its own -- slid down to that… place between her legs. With no intention to do so, she began stroking what Gilana had so many times encouraged Myron to stroke. Before, he had wondered why the girl had liked being touched there so much. Now Myra was finding out. Rubbing herself with the sudsy cloth brought forth sighs that she couldn't hold in. Myra, squirmed, wondering, 'Do all women’s bodies have feelings like these? Maybe that's why gals take so many baths.'

She kept the enjoyable stimulation going, luxuriating in the little jolts triggered by the friction. 'Oh, Lord, I could do this forever,' she thought.

No, she couldn't. Another voice in her mind was scolding her. Molly had said that she had to wash every inch of her body, and Myra couldn’t do that if she did noting but play with her new body parts. She shook her head, not wanting to heed what she was being told. But that voice was insistent, powerful. Slowly, reluctantly, she sat up and started to scrub her neck and behind her ears.

Following that, she lifted her left leg so that her ankle rested on the side of the tub. Her legs; that was something else Myron had admired about Gilana. When she danced, he couldn't take his eyes off them. She found that she liked running the soapy cloth over her thigh and calf. She was imagining that she was stroking the cancan girl's long, smooth left leg. And then the potion girl, shifting, took the adoration to her right leg. If she had had a mirror, she would have seen herself grin.

But, just then, the O'Toole woman and Aunt Irene came back into the room. “Ain’t ye done, yet?” Molly asked, a sly smile curling her lips.

“J-Just finishing,” Myra answered, her cheeks warming with embarrassment.

Irene picked up the towel she’d draped over a chair and handed it to the girl. “Stand up and dry yourself,” she said.

“Aye, but be careful,” Molly added. “Ye’d best t’be patting yuirself dry. Yuir skin’s a lot more tender than it used t’be.”

Myra rose and stepped out of the tub. Not liking being nude in plain sight, but trying not to show it, she swiftly carried out Molly's instructions.

"Done,” the girl said a few moments later. She tossed the towel to the floor and looked around. Spotting the robe, Myra picked it up and wrapped herself in it.

“Let's go back to the infirmary,” Molly suggested. When the three reached that destination, the Irishwoman held up a pair of light gray drawers with white lace trimming on the legs.

Myra scowled. “These’re girl’s drawers.”

Molly nodded. “Aye, and ye’re a girl. There's no changing that fact, so ye'll just have t'get used to the idea. Now…” her voice grew stern. “Put ‘em on and no guff about not wanting to.”

Myra tried to protest, but no words came out. She was glaring at Molly, even as she grudgingly stepped into the garment. With her hands trembling, she pulled them up and snugged them around her waist. She did notice that the material felt softer against her skin than Myron’s old cotton drawers had.

“Now tie ‘em so they won't slip down,” Molly said, “and then ye’ll be standing there – not talking – while I measure ye.”

Myra did as told. Molly took a rolled-up cloth tape measure, a pad, and pencil from her reticule. “Take notes o’what I’ll be telling ye,” she told Irene, handing her the pad.

“Very well,” the other woman responded bemusedly.

Molly walked over to the potion girl and began measuring. Myra was five-foot two, a full eight inches less than Myron’s five-ten. Her neck was a slender ten inches around. Shoulder width and arm length were all quickly taken.

“Just above the breasts, it reads… 32 inches,” Molly called out. Then she shifted the tape down, so that it circled bare breasts. The girl squirmed as her nipples were touched. “Hold still,” Molly scolded. A few seconds later she announced, “Tape across her bust… 35.”

The inseam length was measured, as were the girl's waist and hips, 30, 22, and 35, respectively. Finally, Molly had her sit down while she checked the length and width of one foot. “For shoes,” she explained.

“All right, Myra,” Irene said, “Mrs. O’Toole has finished with her measuring, so you can get dressed. As she spoke, she handed her niece a gray chemise that matched her drawers. Bands of lace trim ran down its front, and there was a small lace rose at the edge of the U-shaped collar.

The girl scowled as she inspected the garment. ‘Too damned girly,’ she was thinking as she tried hard to resist putting it on. But she found herself slipping her arms through the narrow straps and letting it slide down her body. The fabric felt cool and the weave tickled her… tits.

“Ye can be sitting down now,” Molly said, “and putting on yuir stockings.” She gave Myra a pair of yellow and green striped stockings. “Ye tie ‘em up above yuir knees, and then ye bring yuir drawers down over ‘em and tie those off there.”

The girl had to obey. She could guess how feminine she must look, and it bothered her, but the damned magic had her in its grip. When Myra was done, she stood up and saw Molly holding…

“A corset?” she groaned. Out of all the outlandish, girlish things being forced upon her, this was absolutely the worst. “Do – Do I gotta?”

“I'm afraid so,” Molly replied. “With yuir... figure, ye need the support.” The woman chuckled. “Or ye'll be jiggling for all t'see.”

In contrast, Irene's expression was sober. “She's right. Put it on, Myra.”

The girl took the garment and wrapped it around herself, as she'd seen Gilana do. Only now did she realize that the task was not a simple one. The corset had hooks in back, but because she needed her left hand to hold the thing up in front of herself, the other hand, working alone, couldn't get the hooks into the eyes. “How is this done?” she asked, her voice strained.

Irene stepped up and began closing the hooks. The resulting snug fit didn't take her breath away, as Myra had expected it to. As Myron she had heard men joking about silly women who tortured themselves with tight corsets just to keep from looking fat. The garment, now fastened, felt like it was hugging her, but not uncomfortably.

“This is the most important piece.” Irene held up a dark brown...

“A dress!” Myra sneered. “Ain't all this other stuff bad enough?” she asked, gesturing at her body. “I gotta wear a dress, too?

“What do ye expect, t’be going about in your unmentionables, like a lady of ill-repute?” asked Molly. “And don't think ye can dress like a boy anymore, neither. Ye, more than most girls, have t’be wearing dresses instead of britches, so people won't get the idea that there's something...different...about ye. Just put it on without ripping it.”

Myra sighed and slowly, carefully, stepped into the garment. Having pulled it up waist-high, she inserted her arms into the sleeves. Then, gathering the fabric to her shoulders, she worked herself inside it. “These buttons are on backwards,” she complained.

“Them buttons are on the other side from what you're used to,” Molly explained. “Just go slow; ye’ll be getting used to ‘em quick enough.” She set a pair of used shoes down at Myra's feet.

With the frock closed, the seventeen-year-old could look down and see how her corset made her breasts jut against the material of her dress. Her "figure" would probably be the first thing that anyone would notice when she stepped into a room, and she didn't care for that idea at all.

To put on the wooden-soled clogs that Molly had provided, she needed to sit down. 'At least these ain’t too girly,' Myra decided. They allowed her feet to slip right in; a strap closed with a buckle went back around each heel, holding them securely. “There,” she said, rising, “That's over with.”

“Sit back down,” Irene admonished. “You’re not done. Your hair…”

“Your hair is full o’knots,” interjected Molly. “Boys ignore their hair something fierce, and when it grows long it just gets worse.” She took a wire hairbrush from her apron pocket. Each bristle ended in a tiny bead. “Now try not t’be squirming. It’ll only be making the job more painful.”

The comb hit a snag immediately. “Ouch!”

The Irishwoman spent a full hour – or so it seemed to Myra – working through the morass of tangles. The process made her yelp more than once. When there was no other choice, a mat of hair had to be snipped off with scissors. But, finally, the torturer had finished the repugnant session and Myra’s lustrous red-brown tresses flowed unimpeded down past her shoulders.

“Now, Missy,” Molly said, “let's take a look at ye.”

Myra stood up, her fists clenched, her brows knitted, her lips pursed.

Mrs. Fanning and Molly appraised the result of their efforts. Myra looked so absolutely different from Myron that it was hard for Irene to believe that the two had ever been the same person. Local folks passing by the girl in the street would surely not see anything out of order. In fact, though plainly dressed, her new niece's prettiness would no doubt attract considerable attention. “What should we do next?” Irene asked Molly.

The Irishwoman motioned the widow to step into the next room with her. When they were alone, she advised, “I’d say ye should be getting her home, away from prying eyes. She looks like a fetching little lassie, but she ain't one yet. She'll be needing some private time t'get used to...to everything that's new. It’d be good t’be keeping her busy with chores, so she won't have idle time to be moping around so much.” The matron then added, “I shouldn't be wasting any time before taking the stage t’Phoenix. Somebody needs to be shopping for that young lady, away from local people who might start asking questions.”

“You're very kind, Mrs. O'Toole, but I don't know you. I would hardly expect so much charity even from my closest friends,” replied Irene.

Molly shook her head. “Call me Molly. And I’m glad to have -- and t’be -- a new friend. Ye got into this trouble without asking for it; the climb out of it will be steep for a while, for both ye and Myra. I'm willing t’be helping ye carry a bit o’the load. Anyway, I’ll be enjoying an excuse t’be going into the big town. Christmas is getting close and there're things a body just can't buy in Eerie. And if ye find yuirself needing more help later on, ye can just let me know.”

“I could use a… another friend,” the widow admitted.

“A person never has too many friends,” Molly agreed. The saloon woman then led the way back into the infirmary, where she started to gather in her belongings. Irene stepped up closer to ask an urgent question. “Molly?”

“Aye?”

“What should I tell people when they wonder where Myron is?”

The older woman frowned. “I don’t think ye should be saying a word. Most folks’ll figure that Myron died from that ricochet, and them outlaws hid the body. And even if a few believe he didn't die, they wouldn't be expecting him t’be paying a visit back home, not with the sheriff out t’arrest him.”

Irene, surprisingly, felt better. “I guess I should be grateful that none of that is true.”

“That's the spirit. There was times when I was absolutely at my wits' end about how t’be getting them potion girls to shape up, but the good Lord somehow led them and me through it. By the way, I've heard that the Paul Grant, the deputy, is coming out to yuir place in a day or two. Tell... yuir niece... to be upfront when she's talking t’him.”

“What is he going to ask?”

Molly smiled wanly. “The main things he’ll be after are getting the gold back and catching them other outlaws. He won't be interested in making things harder for Myra. She already got hit with the worst punishment Judge Humphreys was ever likely t'be handing out to someone her age.”

“She looks so angry,” Irene observed. “Could we tell her to feel happy?”

Molly shook her head. “The magic won't make a soul feel things that it don't really feel. Happiness can't be put into a person's head through the ears.”

She finished filling her carryall. “I'll come out to the farm right after me Phoenix visit. By then, ye'll probably have a laundry list o’ new questions. Until then, Mrs. Fanning....”

“You can call me Irene,” the farm widow said. “Can I pay you then for… whatever I owe you?”

Molly shrugged. “Ye can pay for the clothes, pay Doc for breakfast, too, I suppose. Thuir's no charge for any Christian help. We'll come up with a tally after I get back from Phoenix.”

“We will. Thank you so very much.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

Chapter 3

Myra rides out to the scene of the robbery and encounters two problems: a strongbox too heavy for her to lift and a neighbor boy too friendly for her to handle.

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

Chapter 3

December 14, 1871

Mrs. Fanning brought the buckboard around, and Myra climbed aboard. Molly waved, calling out, “Lassie, let yuir aunt be taking ye home and don't make any fuss while she does it.” The girl frowned peevishly back at her. Irene waved, too, and then, facing forward, shook the reins to start the horse walking.

All during the ride back, Myra sat sullenly, not saying a word. The tension they both felt, Irene guessed, would quickly ignite an argument if she tried to force things. The widow, emotionally drained, didn't want to deal with that.

Before too long, there came into view the landmark hill that overlooked their stead. A quarter mile farther along, Irene drew the carriage up before the farmhouse and dismounted.

“Unhitch the horse and get it ready for night,” the aunt told her niece, wondering how well she would obey, now that Mrs. O'Toole wasn't with them.

Myra looked as though she was bracing for resistance, but that effort lasted only a moment. With a sour face, she climbed down in a careless, unladylike fashion and, grudgingly, started undoing the harness.

“What's the matter? Did Molly tell you not to speak?” Irene asked.

“Go to hell, bitch!”

The rebuke stung. Irene made reply, trying not to sound angry. “Maybe Mrs. O'Toole didn't tell you to be quiet, but I know she told you to be polite. People shouldn't be calling family members by wicked names. Remember that when you're speaking to me.”

It looked like Myra was going to shout something vile, but – as before – she seemed unable to complete the effort.

Irene gave a sigh. “This day must have been a nightmare for you, Myron. I didn't want this. I wouldn't have allowed it to happen, except to save your life. What's happened has happened; we're just going to have to deal with a bad harvest. When you finish your chores, you can rest. Come in for supper at the usual time.”

Then Mrs. Fanning went indoors. Irene could hardly put her mind around the idea of how much things had changed for the little farm. She, as much as Myra, needed time to overcome the shock. Only then would it be possible to sort things out. Despite all the emotion involved, there had to be some way for the two of them to live together and cooperate.

#

Once she had finished unhitching the horse and leading it into the coral, Abigail Myra Olcott needed to visit the outhouse. That lent additional insight into how much her life had altered. She emerged shaking her head. It was like she had died and was now living in somebody else's body. She felt too numb to fully connect with her the rage inside. At a loss to comprehend it all, Myra didn't have a clue as to what to do with the rest of her life.

She had tried so hard to get away from this homestead, a place of boredom, hard work, and woe. “But here I am again,” she muttered in disgust, “doing farm chores; living at the edge of nowhere, with nothing worthwhile to fill my time." Things had actually gotten worse from the days when she was a schoolboy.

The boy had never liked formal schooling, but some of the assignments in his McGuffey's Readers had excited his imagination. Those books had taught him about faraway places, told stories that made his family’s farm seem cramped and small. He had wanted to travel, visiting places like the ones he had read about. Now it seemed that, as Myra, she would never see any of those distant lands.

“Aunt Irene was afraid that I was going to go to hell. But what could be worse than being ordered to wear a dress? Or, worse, a corset! People would laugh if they ever knew the truth. And I wouldn't be able to beat someone up for doing it.”

Myra started to wonder, ‘Is staying alive a good thing? Is being alive all it’s cracked up to be? Animals live, ate, and died. Are people any better off? What was life all about anyway?" After what happened to Ma and Pa, she couldn't believe in either heaven or hell. If living had no purpose, then wasn't having fun the best way to spend one's time on earth? After all, sooner or later, everyone's light would go out like a spent candle. When a life lost any possibility for enjoyment, why prolong it?’

‘Out on the owlhoot trail,' she thought, 'There was always the risk of getting shot, or getting caught and going to prison.' But what had actually happened now seemed so much worse. ‘A dead outlaw might leave a rep for gunfighting behind. What would a farm girl leave behind?’

While wrestling with woe, Myra had been carrying out her chores. The horse's manger was filled with hay. The level in the animal trough seemed low, so the girl released the brake on the windmill and adjusted the blades to catch the wind. The fresh breeze started them spinning, and she soon heard water flowing. But it immediately became apparent that no water was coming into the trough. Myra quickly realized that the valve had been set for filling the cistern. She cranked the valve to divert the flow into the pipe that fed the trough. She had done these tasks many times before as a farm boy, too many times in fact.

While he was away, Myron had sometimes wondered how his aunt was faring. From the look of the farm, Irene had been keeping up with the work well enough. Plenty of hay had been put away for winter, and haying was a daunting job for one or two people to tackle. Irene couldn't have done so much by herself, so she must have kept on using hired men. The last of those that Myra knew about had been George Severin. She hoped that her aunt had switched from him to taking on different helpers over the last eleven months.

The potion girl clenched her fists as wrathful memories buoyed up. 'I was able to whip any buck my own age, all except Severin. I hate being ‘round kids I can’t bully." George had come every day did whatever Myron wouldn't. It was embarrassing to be made to look bad. She snorted. It hadn't been so bad that she wanted to take on doing all that extra work again. She paused a moment, remembering. Back then it was like someone else was the man of the house. George had made her feel like a lazy good-for-nothing and she couldn't stand remembering it.

'If I couldn't beat Severin to a pulp before, how well can I fight now?' she asked herself, drawing up her left sleeve. The willowy bicep that emerged from the gingham looked like it a stranger's. No wonder everything felt about twice as heavy as before. From now on, she realized, she probably wouldn't be a match for any male older than twelve.

Just then, Myra noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. She wheeled. It was her horse – her own horse -- the one that she had ridden from the robbery. The beast was pressed against the rails, looking at the water flowing inside the coral. That gave her an idea.

She opened the gate and approached the animal slowly, not wanting it to spook and run off. When she got close enough, she took the bridle and stroked its mane. It didn't mind being touched and allowed itself to be led into the corral. There was plenty of hay and water waiting there, and the equine seemed to accept its circumstances contentedly. The bay had seen plenty of livery stables and had often been tended by unfamiliar people, so there was nothing to alarm him.

While the horse drank and fed, the girl went back to finish her chores. When they were finished, Myra was freed from the compulsion to do keep working. She had been told to rest once she'd gotten her tasks done, but the girl had her own ideas about how to relax. Recapturing the freedom of the road was the thing that would make her feel good. She thought about going into the house to put on some of her old male clothes before riding off. But that would be risky. Irene wouldn't tolerate her skedaddling and any command to stay put would have to be obeyed.

But the auburn-haired maid was thinking about the loot -- what she hoped were thousands of dollars in gold ingots. Were they still hidden up in the gap? She had to act before her aunt caught on to her plan and spoiled things.

'There’s no telling how soon them bastards’ll come back,' she thought. 'If I was in their shoes, I’d get me some tools, and then laid low until the town posse got tired of looking for me.' But how many days would they stay away? The smart thing’d be for her to go after the gold as soon she could.

And there was another reason for speed. 'If any of them three polecats got caught, they'd spill their guts about where the treasure was. Then the Law’d dig it up and leave me poor as a church mouse, with no hope of bettering m’self.'

Gold was the last chance she had for a good life. Being a rich girl couldn't be as bad as being a poor one. When she was rich, she could dress like a male again in a big house of her own. She could go where she wanted, and shoot any bastard who told her that she couldn't.

Myra looked down at her dress. She definitely wanted to get out of female attire. She went to the buckboard and tore apart the bundle containing Myron's soiled garments. Yuck! The jeans stank, and not just from blood. Myron hadn't been able to control his bladder or his bowels after getting wounded. There was no way she would draw them on. The shirt, too, was a red-encrusted mess that Myra wouldn't have worn on a bet. The underclothes were even worse. The coat wasn't too bad, fortunately, and she slipped it on over her dress. Then she went into the barn and brought back a ragged, dusty old horse-blanket that looked like it had been hanging from a peg for years.

The sun still hung reasonably high. 'I can do my treasure hunting before dark,” she mused, 'and then head out across the prairie with a load of gold. It’ll be cold, ‘specially as it gets dark, but I already spent a peck of chilly nights out in the open. That old blanket’ll come in handy then. I’m gonna need food, though, and I don't want to run into Aunt Irene while I’m looking for food in the house.' She hurriedly searched the farm sheds, but it soon became obvious that there was nothing in them that a human could eat. Still, she did find some useful tools – - a hammer, a chisel, and a crowbar that could be toted by a horseman. Nothing else seemed either convenient or useful. She dumped what she had found in a saddlebag that was sitting on a shelf.

By now, the bay was done feeding. Myra led it out of the corral and tied on the saddlebag, When she climbed up into its saddle, she discovered her garments were too tight for sitting astride a horse. The girl hiked up her skirts to give her legs room enough, while still leaving them protected -- hopefully -- from the chill by her calf-length drawers and high stockings. She jabbed the beast's sides with her heels, and the beast moved off obligingly.

#

The trail to Stagecoach Gap climbed slightly along the way, but it didn't take Myra long to reach the robbery site. She gazed back at the farmhouse. Most of her memories of that place were bad ones. The stead had ceased to be a real home when her mother and father had died only a day apart. Aunt Irene had come to Eerie as soon as she could, but the loss of his parents had left a hole inside young Myron that Irene's companionship couldn't fill. It took more than someone mending his clothes and fixing his supper to put heat back into the cold ashes of a life that had gone out like a campfire.

During his year away from home, Myron had felt no guilt. His aunt had seemed to like the farm better than he did, so he had abandoned it to her. He had even left the farm’s horse behind, to make it easier for her to carry on. But doing that he had made himself a horse thief. The consequences of that mistake had taught him a lesson. A grown man should never let himself care about other people. Let others solve their own problems; a man always had enough problems of his own.

Myra tried very hard not to ask herself questions about living female. She couldn't imagine anything good ever coming her way again after the disaster of the potion – except for one thing.

The gold.

Myra came to the mouth the little side canyon and drew up. She'd been visiting Stagecoach Gap since the Caldwell family had come to the region, when Myron was about ten. The side canyon had no proper name, but the boy had called it Secret Canyon. The youngster had always looked at its narrow confines with eyes full of imagination, pretending to be one of those English lords who explored Africa's darkest corners. It was a place to fight wild tribes, tigers, and elephants.

Myra slid down from the saddle and removed the tools from the saddlebags. She tied the reins around the slim trunk of the nearest desert willow, so that the horse wouldn't wander off at the worst possible moment. Then she started up into the defile.

Climbing over the rocks was tricky while wearing slippery wooden-soled shoes. She paused to try to guess where Ike and the Freely brothers might have hidden a chest.

Ike, along with those damned fools, Jeb and Horace Freely, couldn't have done much to conceal the strongbox without picks and shovels. The canyon was only some three hundred feet long, with had no second exit. It was not easy to climb up to the rims on either side. The slopes of fallen rock ended well before they could reach the rim of the walls. Taking a heavy box out of Secret Canyon that way would have been impossible. It was hidden somewhere very near.

Since the three were all lazy sidewinders, they wouldn’t have taken time to do anything fancy or smart. The chest would be on or close to the floor of the canyon, hidden with nothing better than some rocks piled on top of it. Most probably, Ike would have looked for a natural dip or cavity to place it in, and then thrown in stones to conceal it. It had been years since Myron had last explored Secret Canyon, but Myra still knew the general layout. Really, there wasn't much to know.

The girl knew that at about a hundred feet in the flatness of the canyon bed gave. Ike and the Freely brothers would have had a hard time with the big rocks of the talus slopes, so they probably wouldn't have used them as a hiding place. She looked left and right, up and down, trying to remember a hidey-hole that the gang might have noticed during their quick survey. Now that spot would probably look like a low mound of loose stones. That would be the best sort of place to hide a strongbox.

She made a lot of educated guesses, checking possible hiding places by trial and error. As she moved rocks in her search, she was again reminded how much weaker her new body was. After about forty minutes of searching, her heart leaped. She had found what she was looking for! The stones at one location had looked different from the surrounding ones, as if they hadn't come together naturally. Moving the chunks of rock aside, she soon found the metal-reinforced edges of the missing strongbox. When it was mostly uncovered, she stood back, contemplating the box whose contents would make her ruined life worth something.

But this box also brought back evil memories. Ike's brainless shooting was responsible for the fix that she'd found herself in. That ricochet had turned her whole existence upside down. It was all Ike’s fault, but could the chest, even by half, hold enough to make up for the damage his reckless shooting had caused?

Myra took the tools that she'd brought with her. She worked hard at breaking the lock, and for a person who didn't care for hard physical labor, she applied herself furiously, with only short rest periods. She skinned her knuckles several times with the tools, but still kept at it, until both her hands were aching with bruises and burning with scrapes. The crowbar was a clumsy implement that kept slipping, while the hammer and chisel could make no certain progress, despite the din that they raised.

Her arms ached, and all that kneeling on rock had started her knees hurting. Myra began to doubt her ability to conquer the chest by herself. She sat back on a stone, searching her imagination for another plan. She was pressed for time. If the strongbox were left in place, the returning outlaws might take it away before she could come back. To prevent such a thing, it should be moved and hidden elsewhere, so the gang couldn’t find it; but easier said than done. It had taken two strong young men to lug the locked chest to its present hiding place. She was all alone and a lot less strong than any of the others. Frustration began to grip at her.

Her tools now seemed pathetic. It might take a sledgehammer and a mining bar to overcome those locks and reinforced hinges. She'd need a helper of considerable strength. A still better approach would be to use explosives. She knew that a lot of miners around Eerie handled blasting powder and dynamite. But how was she to get some? She could hardly walk into Styron’s hardware and buy a keg. Any way that she looked at it, she was stumped.

Myra went back to the idea of getting a sledgehammer. “Who do I know with muscles enough to help me? This is bandit loot, and most people wouldn’t want nothing to do with it.” Who did she know that wouldn't go running to the law, hoping for a reward? She regretted that she couldn't claim the reward for herself; the sheriff knew that she was one of the thieves. The stage company wouldn't look too keenly on that idea, neither.

'Who do I know? Myron didn't have many friends around Eerie.' She shrugged. “Or anywhere else, she guessed. Of the locals, her best choice was Lydon Kelsey. He'd talked a lot about finding gold in the mountains, but he was always been too work-shy to actually go looking for it.
But he was strong… and dishonest. The two of them had done some petty thieving together, too, before she'd ridden off. To a layabout like Kelsey, this could be the score of a lifetime.

'But Lydon wouldn't recognize me in the shape I got now,' she told herself. 'And I surely don't want to tell that loudmouth who I really was.' He'd spread word all over town, saying that Thorn Caldwell was the newest – what had that old woman called them? Oh, yeah – a potion gal. Everyone would come to give her the horse laugh.

But what if she pretended to be just an ordinary girl, new to the town? She could act like she wanted to cozy up to Kelsey, then give him some made-up story explaining how she knew about the strongbox. He'd go for it quick enough if there was a chance for gold. But there was a hatful of “catches.” What would she have to do ‘to cozy up’ to him, and could she do such things? Would he be honest enough to share the swag, or would he just shove her aside and take it all for himself?

'Would I have to be ready to shoot him as soon as the box was opened?' Myra wondered. And what about that order Old Lady O'Toole had given her about not hurting anyone? What would he do if she stood in front of him pointing a gun, unable to fire?

Myra just didn't know what that accursed magic left her capable of doing.

For now, she had no choice but to conceal the chest again, right where it was. Her hands, already sore, were even sorer by the time she'd gotten the box covered with rocks. She was bone tired, too.

Myra glanced at the sky. The sun could no longer be seen over the canyon rim. She knew that supper-time was not far off. The very idea of not getting home for the meal unsettled her more than it reasonably should have. Irene had wanted her back by supper. It was a command. To make the deadline, she needed to hurry.

Myra re-secured the tools in saddlebags, and swung herself up over the bay's back. Then she hastily started down Riley Canyon Road.

The girl kept the gelding moving at a canter. The anxiety about being tardy loomed larger and larger within her. She hated acting like a slave doing a master's bidding, but couldn't help herself.

Myra was about halfway home when she saw someone trotting up the dusky road on a mule. Myra preferred to avoid him, whoever he was, but her compulsion to beat the clock didn't give her any option other than to continue along by the shortest route.

“Whoa!” the rider said as she cantered close. “You have to be Myra, Miss Irene's niece!”

The girl reined in. The youth on the mule was no stranger. It was George Severin.

“Severin! I – I've got to go! Aunt Irene wants me back by supper!”

The youth frowned bemusedly, pleased that this pretty girl knew his name. “I know,” he said slowly. “She asked me to go looking for you. Whose horse is that, anyway? Your aunt said you came in by stage.”

Myra shrugged. “I don't know where it came from. It was grazing nearby, and we took it into the coral. I just felt like taking a ride.”

He continued to regard her curiously. “Be that as it may, you gotta get on home and protect you.”

"From what?" she asked scornfully.

He just shrugged.

“I was trying to get home when you started jawing at me.” She tapped her heels to get the horse moving again. But George didn't consider their conversation finished and quickly caught up with her.

“You don't need to come,” she said in annoyance.

“I don't mind. Say… Myra is a nice name. Your aunt should have told me that I was looking for the prettiest gal in the county. And that's saying something since we're in a mighty big county.”

Myra rode on, determined to say nothing.

“Where are you from?” he shouted from behind her.

“You ask too many questions, for a stranger,” she replied at last. The more she urged her horse to speed, the more determinedly George spurred his mule to keep up.

“We won't be strangers for long,” he said. “We're neighbors. I work for your aunt. That is, unless you're going to be taking on taking on all the chores that she can't handle.”

“I don't know anything about that,” Myra replied, refusing to look at him.

“Are you from the East?”

“Yes!”

“How do you like things -- this far West, I mean?”

Myra scowled. “So far, I haven't liked anything about it. And did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“Now and then,” George responded with a tolerant grin. “Say, did you hurt yourself? That blood on that coat of yours looks like it's not too old. It's a man’s coat, isn't it? Your uncle's?”

It took the girl a couple seconds to concoct an answer. “Yeah, my uncle's. Irene said she got a spot on it when she butchered a chicken.” Thankfully, the bruises on her hand were mostly hidden by the dim light and the coat’s overly long sleeves.

To her relief, George stopped trying to force a conversation, even while persistently keeping pace with her. When reached the corral, Myra told him, “If you still work here, you can get the horses ready for the night!”

She swung out of the saddle and dropped to earth, like one accustomed to riding. As she bustled toward the door, George called from after her: “I'll take your advice, since that's what I think Mrs. Fanning would want.”

#

Before Myra reached the door, Aunt Irene stepped outside, her arms crossed. “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded.

Her niece stopped abruptly. “I found my horse. My chores were done, and I felt like taking a ride.”

Irene glanced over Myra's shoulder and saw George. “We'll talk about this later, young lady.”

“Don't call...” Myra began, but Severin's voice interrupted her.

“Excuse me. I was wondering if you'd like me to unsaddle the new horse, ma'am.”

Mrs. Fanning had seen Myra ride in on the outlaw horse. Until now, she hadn't known what had happened to it. She also didn't know what her niece might have told George about the beast, so she just nodded. “Yes, please. Get it settled in for the night. And when you're done, come take supper with us.”

“Much obliged,” he remarked.

Irene watched the youth draw off and then said to Myra, “Come inside.”

The girl followed her aunt through the door and glanced around at the interior. It hadn't changed much. And it was still the last house on earth that she wanted to live in.

“Where did you go?” Irene asked, as Myra hung her coat on a hook near the door. The dress underneath was wrinkled some, but still holding up fairly well.

“Nowhere important. I came back on time, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did,” Irene began slowly. “So I’ll ask you again, where did you go? And this time you will answer me honestly.”

“Yes,” Myra responded, wincing as the compulsion toward obedience kicked in.

“I-I rode u-up to the stage… to Stagecoach G-Gap. I-I w-wanted to… to l-look… around.”

Her aunt nodded. “The crook returning to the scene of the crime, as they say?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am. I wa… wanted to just… to ride off and n-not come back.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth. And she hoped it would be enough.

Irene suddenly grabbed Myra’s left hand and examined it closely. “Judging from this hand, you did more than just ‘look around. Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?”

“No… No, I-I didn’t.” She was looking for – trying to get -- the loot, not the strongbox.

“So why did you come back?”

“You told me that I couldn't miss supper.” Told… ordered… it was all the same to Myra, thanks to that damned potion.

Aunt Irene regarded her sadly. “Why...? Why do you want to leave again so soon?”

The girl threw up her arms. “This isn't any kind of life that I want.”

“You went off and became an outlaw before. Was that better than the peace and safety you can enjoy in your own home?”

“The trail is better than anything that happens in this home!”

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “I – I don't know what to say. I just don't understand you.”

“Well, who says you have to understand?”

“Do you want me to put anything on your hands?”

“They’re fine.” She rubbed them together. Most of the pain was gone. “Leave them along.”

The aunt sighed. “Sit down and eat your supper, then. But before you do, set a place for George.”

With a huff, Myra did as her aunt had told her. The only food on the table was some slices of canned oranges on a plate, a loaf of fresh bread, and a dish of churned butter. There was coffee in an enameled pot and a small pitcher of milk.

“There's hot food on the stove,” said her aunt. “Load up with whatever you like.”

Myra went to the steaming kettles filled with boiled beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Hungry, she shoveled large portions onto her plate.

“Mrs. Fanning!” called George from outside. “I'm finished with the horse.”

“Come in, boy,” Irene shouted back. “Have something to eat.”

“Don't mind if I do,” George replied upon entering. His eyes darted around the room and came to rest on Myra, who had gone back to her chair.

The boy paused to hang his broad-brimmed hat on a nail driven into the wall boards. “There's food on the stove,” said his hostess. “Help yourself and then draw up one of the chairs.” Following her advice, he filled a plate of his own and, a moment later, was seated opposite Myra.

The girl stubbornly concentrated on her supper, already impatient to leave the table.

“George,” said Irene, “I suppose that you young people have already introduced yourselves.”

“We have. I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Myra,” he said.

Irene spoke as though Myra were new to the area. “George's family lives about a mile from here on the other side of the ridge,” she explained. “He helps out as much as his folks can spare him.” When Myra said nothing, Mrs. Fanning added, “Be polite and say hello.”

“Hello,” said the girl in a flat tone.

Irene smiled tightly toward her hired help and asked, “Have you heard anything about the posse, George?”

The youth responded with a nod. “Mr. Singer dropped by with some news just before I left to come over here.”

The farm woman sighed. “He must have told you that my nephew, Thorn, was one of the robbers. That really upsets me.”

“They say that he was... shot,” the youth offered delicately.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Fanning. “At least that's what the rider told the sheriff.”

“Did the posse find… anything… up at the Gap?”

Irene winched. Of course, someone would have searched the Gap if there had been any chance that a wounded outlaw might be up there. “The men haven't returned yet,” she said. “But a rider was sent to look things over just as soon as the news came in. The talk is that there was... no trace. I'm terribly afraid for Myron.”

“You're a very brave woman,” George remarked. “I'm surprised that you're holding up so well, having gotten such terrible news.”

Irene glanced down. “I – I think I'm still quite stunned,” she stammered. “Deep down, I haven't really come to grips with the enormity of the tragedy.” Silently, she added, ‘or what I had to do to save Myron’s life.’

“It is very terrible.” The boy then glanced with interest toward Myra. “You were coming down from Stage Coach Gap,” he remarked. “What did you see up there?”

“Nothing but rock and mesquite,” the girl answered stiffly. “I actually didn't go too far. I... I don't even know where this gap of yours is.”

George smiled politely at her. “If a person follows the road to where it becomes rocky, he's in the Gap.”

Myra shifted uncomfortably. The nosy neighbor seemed to be watching her face rather closely.

“Mrs. Fanning,” George suddenly asked, “is Myra going to be staying here on the farm for a while?”

“I expect so,” affirmed Irene. “Her mother passed away a couple of months ago. She has no other close family.”

“That's good.” Then George caught himself. “I mean, I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune, Miss Myra. I only meant that it's always better to stay with kinfolk than with strangers.” Myra's expression remained cold, so the youth addressed her aunt. “Will you still need me for chores, ma'am, now that you have a healthy young lady to take up the slack?”

Irene considered that question thoughtfully. Finally, she said, “Myra has a few things to learn about homesteading, so, for the time being, you can keep on coming. Even if she takes to farming, well, there will aways be occasions when we'll be needing extra help. Bringing in next year's hay, for one thing.”

“I'll be glad to keep coming over,” George said as he reached for another piece of fruit. “I love these oranges, ma'am. Dad planted a few trees last spring.”

“We get our fruit, except for apples and plums, from Ortega's grocery in town. I tried planting some orange trees of our own a couple years back, but they all died.”

“I hope ours do better. But about work tomorrow...” began the boy.

“I think we'll hold off a couple days. Myra is going to need a little while to settle in.”

“She'll also be needing a warm coat. I noticed her wearing her uncle's jacket, instead of one of her own. Isn't it ever cold out East?”

Irene thought quickly. “She... lost her trunk when the stage went over a bump while crossing a fast stream. She'll need to replace a lot of things. A friend is going help her out by shopping for her in Phoenix.”

“Why go all the way to Phoenix?” George asked.

Irene paused. She wasn't used to lying, and she found it not an easy thing to do well. “The lady was going there anyway. It's almost Christmas. She says that prices and selections are much better in the bigger town.”

George smiled, “A lady from church?”

“No. Mrs. O'Toole.”

George blinked. “Molly O'Toole? How did you two happen to meet? She doesn't go to our church.”

“We both happened to be shopping in Ortega’s a couple weeks ago. She's very nice.”

“She seems to be,” he conceded with a nod.

Irene wanted to change the subject. “So you're visiting the saloons now, George?” She teased. “It seems only yesterday that you were just a little scamp.”

He grinned. “Ma says I still am, but Pa took me to get my first beer last month when I turned eighteen.”

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “Men and their beer. It would take the fiery angel of Eden to keep them apart, I'm afraid.”

“Well, men and women have their different ways. Wouldn't you agree, Myra?”

The girl, frowning, replied, “I reckon they do.”

#

Myra felt relieved when Severin finally rode off.

“Myra, I've been thinking...” Irene began.

The girl spun. She couldn't tell her aunt not to call her that name, but it showed in her face.

Her aunt drew a deep breath, bracing for a quarrel. “How long would it take for someone like George, or maybe neighbor Singer, to guess who you really are if they overheard me calling you Myron or Thornton?”

“Humphh!” was the only response Myra gave. She had found that if Irene didn't frame a question like a command, she didn't have to answer it.

“If you aren't worried about people finding out, I'll be glad to call you Myron. Otherwise, it has to be Myra -- unless you prefer Abigail.”

“That's even worse than Myra. It sounds like some old granny's name.”

Irene smiled faintly. “Perhaps your cousin Abigail thinks so, too. She signs her cards 'Gail.' I suppose she thinks that it sounds more modern. Anyway, I'm glad you didn't say anything to offend George. You're almost the same age. You can be friends.”

“Humphh!” she repeated.

“If he likes you, I bet he can be persuaded to help with some of your harder chores.”

“I don't need any help from the likes of him!”

“I see. Well, it's about time we talk about more serious things. We can't have you riding off and never coming back. The bad things that befall a boy out in the world can be so much worse for a girl.” Myra looked indignant at hearing the word “girl,” but held her peace.

“I should have told you this before, but I'm telling you now. I want you to be home – and I mean here at the farm – by sundown every day, unless you've asked for and have received permission to stay out later. And don't try to sneak away at night, either. If you go outside after sunset, don't go any farther than you could stroll in five minutes, unless, like I've said, you've gotten permission.”

Myra's face hardened. “So I'm just a prisoner.”

“I'm sorry that you think so. You're walking a strange path, but you're better off than you would be in a real prison. If you had been caught by an Eerie posse, you might have received that same potion from the Judge as punishment. If that had happened, everyone would know that it was Myron Caldwell who was cooking, cleaning, and serving drinks as the newest potion girl at the saloon. But instead you were blessed. That concoction not only saved your life, it also disguised you. No one has to know what really happened to Myron.”

“Too many people already know!”

“Some people had to be told. I needed advice when the doctor found out he couldn't help you. They're good people, and I think they will be able to help you settle in without causing any suspicion. I won't tell anyone else, and I certainly hope that you don't accidentally let anyone know.”

Myra let out a frustrated sound.

“You're alive, and you're home,” Irene reminded her. “You now have a future. This property will be yours when you turn twenty-one. If you just help me manage it until you're an adult, you'll have a good nest egg by the time you take over.”

Myra shook her head. “Living like a peon isn't managing. I'd be better off inheriting a prize race horse instead of some dusty old homestead out here in the desert. Farmers work all their lives, and they still end up with nothing. Anyway, why should I believe that you'll turn over the land when I'm twenty-one?”

“Why shouldn't you believe me?”

“Because if people think Myron's dead, there's no one to inherit anything. And even if you hand back what should be mine already, you'll probably keep ordering me around like you're doing now.”

Irene sighed. “You can tell anyone you want that you're Myron. It's all up to you. But you have my word that the farm is yours when you come of age. When that happens, I'll respect your decision… whatever it is.”

The girl looked at her suspiciously. “Once I'm running the farm, where will you be?”

“If you don't want me to stay and help out, I'll get along somehow. The Lord provides.”

“I hope the Lord provides me with a buyer. I'll be ready to sell this place on my twenty-first birthday.”

Irene grew somber. “If you don't change your mind by then, I only hope that you will use the selling price wisely. Your attitude worries me. How are you going to support yourself once the money is all spent? You can't be an outlaw anymore. So how do you expect to be making a living? A person who owns land always amounts to something. You're so lucky that your father left the farm without any debt.”

Myra couldn't think of a good reply, even though she wasn't ready to accept her aunt's view of the world. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for another reminder of her parents’ sudden death.

#

December 16, 1871

A couple days later, just after the midday meal, Irene heard a coach coming up the road past the farm. When she went to the door, she saw a small one-horse, canopied buggy kicking up dust. Judge Humphreys was driving and, behind him, a horseman followed. It was Paul Grant, the sheriff's deputy. The Judge had already turned off the road and passed through the open gate, the lawman following close behind.

Mrs. Fanning waited on the rock-slab step.

“Howdy, ma'am,” Paul called, dismounting.

“Has the sheriff caught the outlaws yet, Deputy?” she asked.

“Not that we know of,” her rangy visitor replied, stepping around his companion's vehicle. “Some of the posse's straggled back, but Sheriff Talbot is still out with most of the men.”

“How is... the young lady?” Judge Humphreys asked, carefully climbing down from his rig.

Irene grimaced. “She's doing about as well as one can expect.”

The jurist joined the other two. “No problems?”

“She's sour and sulky. I suppose I can't really blame her.”

Humphreys nodded. “We need to know more about the robbery. Paul here will ask the questions, and I'll make sure that your niece tells the truth.”

The woman shook her head. “I'm so sorry that a member of my family has to be involved in something as awful as this.”

“Boys will be...” began the judge, but then thought better of it.

“Come in. I'll find Myra.”

The two men followed the young woman into the house and made themselves at home in two of the four available chairs. Then their hostess went back outside, calling her niece's name.

A couple minutes later, the bright rectangle of the doorway was broken by Myra's silhouette, giving Paul got his first look at Eerie's newest potion girl. When she came closer, a suspicious set to her lips, “pretty” was the word that sprang into his mind. Every time Paul saw the effects of Shamus' concoction, it amazed him all the more. She looked Thorn's age, but that was where the resemblance ended. The gal's auburn hair gave off red sparkles where sunlight touched it; her form was lithe but ripe and blooming. Paul reckoned that Myra Olcott would soon be catching the notice of every young stallion with an eye for feminine beauty.

‘Dang,’ he thought, ‘she’s almost as pretty as my Jessie.’

Just then, Irene came back in from the yard and took one of the empty seats.

“Good day, Miss Olcott.” The judge stood up and pointed to the remaining chair. “We have a few questions for you. Please rake a seat.”

Myra remained standing, her face like stone. Irene had told her that the older man was one of the rattlesnakes who had played a part in in her transformation. She thought she recognized the bravo with him as a local cowboy, but now he was wearing a deputy badge. “How much does he know?” Myra asked the justice, making a gesture toward Paul.

Humphreys shrugged. “With the sheriff away, it was necessary to tell him the whole story.”

“Oh, fine! Why don't you just tell the whole damned town while you're at it?”

“I'd like you to sit down,” the old man informed her firmly.

Myra sat quickly. ‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘I gotta obey this galoot, too.”

Humphreys turned toward Paul. “Deputy Grant, the floor is yours.”

“Miss Olcott,” Paul began.

Myra refused to acknowledge the man.

“Miss Olcott,” the lawman repeated, “tell us about how the robbery came off.”

“Why, do you need some pointers from a professional?” mocked the auburn lass.

“Young lady,” interjected the judge, “answer Deputy Grant's question. Tell us about how the robbery occurred, and tell the truth.”

Again, those voices were forcing her to do as told. “We w-waited for…for the stage up in th-the Gap. We'd barri…c-caded the road. When... When they st-stopped, we made – uh! -- made them thr-throw down their g-g-guns and the guard… umm, he gave us the st-strong… b-box. We hadn't br-brought any t-tools, so Ike…Ike tried to shoot the…l-lock off. The bounce hit…hit me in the g-gut.”

She had paused. “And then?” coaxed Paul.

Myra felt like a damned fool, the way she was stuttering and stammering. 'Maybe,' she thought, 'I shouldn't fight against answering. I'm only protecting those bastards that shot me and would’ve left me for dead.' She decided to answer in a way that would nail the gang down good, but wouldn’t hurt her so much.

“Reply to the question, Miss,” Humphreys interjected sternly.

Myra sucked in a breath. “It hurt like h-hell. Ike just… just left me in the dirt. He told everyone to get out of the coach and c-clear away the barricade. When they did, he ordered them to head on out, a-away from Eerie.”

“Who is this Ike?” Paul inquired.

“Ike Bartram! He said he and his folks came to Arizona Territory just before the w-war ended. His pa had to hightail it from Missouri, 'cause he'd been working with guerrillas and the army was looking for people like him.”

“The other robbers?”

“Jeb and Horace Freely; they're from California, where they'd ended up w-wanted for rustling.”

“Where did you meet them?”

“Antelope Spring – at Whipple's Saloon.”

“Antelope Spring?”

“A new town – up near that Grand Canyon.”

“When was that?”

“Late October. From there we went toward Yuma. All that the three of them could ever talk about was getting an easy take. I-I told them about the Pr-Prescott-Tucson Stage here at Eerie.” She started to stammer again, unable to hide her role in planning the robbery.

“All right,” the deputy said. “You were hurt and on the ground. Then what happened?”

“Jeb and Horace lugged the chest back into that arroyo up there. Ike came my way and said that if I wasn't fit to ride, they couldn't afford to leave me for the law. He was afraid I'd… spill my guts.”

Paul chuckled. “It looks like he was right about that.”

Myra glared. “If I wasn't full of that potion crap, you'd see how much I'd be telling you!”

“Yeah, sure, I bet you're just as brave as Bill Hickok in the dime novels. What did Ike do then?”

“Like I said, he told me that if I was still alive after they finished with the gold, they'd have to do something about it.”

In the background, Irene gasped.

“Where did they hide it?” asked the lawman.

Myra snatched a sly thought out of thin air. ‘I can’t tell him that I know exactly where the gold was buried.’ She said, “I couldn't see where they went once they got inside the canyon. All I was thinking about was dodging away. I guess I wasn't as far gone as Ike supposed. I was hurting bad, but I was able to reach my horse and make it as far as the farm. Once I got to the yard, well, I don't remember anything, not until I woke up like... this.”

Paul frowned. “So, as far as you know, the gold might still be in the arroyo?”

‘Don’t answer!’ she warned herself. ‘But what can I tell him to put them off the track? If the Judge orders me to tell the whole truth, any hope of getting that box for myself would be done for.’ Aloud she replied, “Yeah, sure. Is there a reward for finding it?”

The deputy grinned with incredulity. “Not for you. How well do you know that little canyon?”

“I must’ve gone into it hundreds of times, back when I was a kid.”

Paul regarded the judge. “Why don't I go up there with Miss Olcott and see what we can find?”

Humphreys nodded. “That makes sense. I'll head back to town. If you find the strongbox, you'll be needing a wagon and a couple men to help bring it back. I'll get things ready.”

Grant nodded. “Right, Your Honor.” Then, rising, he extended a hand to helpt Myra to her feet. She sneered and got up under her own power.

“Young lady,” said Humphreys, “when you're out with Mr. Grant, you'll do what he tells you to, just like I was speaking to you myself.” He paused, trying to keep himself from being too easy on her, like he would have been if she had been an ordinary girl. “It looks like everything you went through to get your hands on that gold was for nothing,” he continued. “Some people can only learn the hard way that crime doesn't pay. I hope you're capable of learning at least that much.”

“Go to hell!” the farm girl snarled.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4

Myra returns to the scene of the crime: once with Paul and once with the members of her old gang,

Revised 011223

The Treasure of Eerie -- Chapter 4
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

December 16, 1871, Continued

Myra was riding beside Paul on what he understood to be Thorn's outlaw bay. He still wasn't sure what to make of the new serum girl. Bandits couldn't be trusted, he knew, but the Judge had put her under orders and that should mean that she couldn't cause him much trouble while they were out together.

Myra rode silently beside the lawman, giving only short answers to whatever question he put to her. He knew enough about potion girls to feel some sympathy. There would be anger, mortification, and resentment inside her. That had been true about the Hanks gang, too, but they eventually got passed it. He was supposing that within a few weeks her disposition should be taking a turn for the better.

Almost before the deputy realized it, he and Myra had reached the steepening grade that led up into Stagecoach Gap. In a few minutes, they were riding between low cliffs. “Where's this Secret Canyon?” Grant asked his glum companion.

Unsmiling, Myra pointed. “In there.”

She was indicating a rock-wall cleft about ten feet wide. Paul had ridden though the Gap often enough, but without paying much attention to its unimportant details.

“We'll leave the horses here,” the deputy said. He and the girl both dismounted, though the latter did so without much enthusiasm. After their mounts had been tied to a couple of scrawny mesquites, Paul made for the arroyo, saying, “We'd better start searching. Daylight won't last much longer.”

Myra followed him the deep ravine that she knew so well. “You know this place,” Grant remarked over his shoulder. “Where's the best place to hide a strongbox?”

The girl thought it best to tell the lawman only those things that he could already see for himself or that he directly commanded her to tell. She decided to tell him the truth, even if it really hadn't been possible to actually do it.

“The box might not even be in the canyon.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the skyline of the cliffs. “If I were them, I'd have taken it up over the rim and hide it where no one goes.”

Paul shook his head. “I doubt it they'd go up there. They'd have a hard enough time climbing those sheer rocks, even without a heavy chest.” He spent a quiet moment surveying the canyon floor. “And they'd have know that they didn’t have much time to work before the stage would be sending back word about the robbery. No, the gang would have buried the loot quick-like and gotten the hell away just as soon as they could.”

Myra shook her head. “Look at the ground. It's rock and rubble. And they didn't even have a shovel.”

The man scratched his chin. “I'd guess that in a place like this, they'd have found a low spot and then piled rocks on top of it.”

“If you say so,” the auburn lass replied. She sure as hell wasn't going to tell him that his opinion was right no the mark.

Grant stepped ahead, checking around for any suspicious-looking rock mounds. Myra sat down on a flat-topped boulder, trying not to glance toward the spot where she had actually hidden the chest. She tried to think of some ruse that would allow her to keep the loot, but her mind was a blank. If he failed to find it now, he'd only go back and bring in more men to aid in the search. Without that gold, what did she have to look forward to? Chores and boredom?

“I think I've got it!” Grant yelled.

Myra felt a jolt as she looked and saw Paul moving rocks at exactly the right spot. It had happened! He was going to take away the wherewithal she depended on for a good life. What had all the discomfort and danger of the last several months been for? ‘Compared to her prospects now, she would have been better off punching cows as Myron for a miserable twenty-five dollars a month. Hell, she'd even prefer to be a farm boy instead of a farm girl!’

Myra got up, drifting toward Grant until she stood behind him, trying to look surprised and curious. On impulse, she used both her hands to pick up a stone to bust the deputy's skull. But though she lifted it as high as her head, Myra found herself unable to strike. The voices inside her head were yelling "No!" and they had her paralyzed. The stone fell out of her trembling grasp and the sound of it made Paul look over his shoulder and send her a quizzical expression. The girl looked away. It was sinking into her mind that she wasn't able to hurt anyone, not even to grab that huge haul of gold for herself.

“Well, this has turned out easier than I expected,” Paul Grant was saying. “We'll head back. I'll leave you off at the farm and I'll go get some help and a wagon. I'm going to need help transporting this thing.”

“Wait a minute,” Myra blurted. “You'd just leave it out in the open? Somebody might come along and poke his head into this canyon after we're gone.”

“It'll be dark soon,” said Paul.

“Darkness won't stop the bandits.” And she was telling the truth. If she couldn't have the loot, the stage company might as well get their shipment back. She didn't want Ike and the Freelys to start living high on the hog after cutting her out of her share. The very idea of her having to wear gingham, milk cows, and cut hay under the hot sun, while those three spent themselves silly in fancy hotels, saloons, and cat houses was too much to bear.

“Why do you care so much about saving the gold if you can't have it, Missy?” asked Paul.

She ignored the demeaning term “Missy;” it wasn't like she could beat him down and make him apologize. “I don't care who gets the gold if it isn't going to be me. But I'll get better treatment if I help out, won't I?”

“Who's treating you badly? You aren't a prisoner.”

“I mean I want my aunt to think better of me,” she lied. “I'm of a mind that you do something wrong, you ought to try and fix it. It's in the Good Book.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“That we hide the chest somewhere else. That'll flummox the outlaws.”

Paul thought that that made sense, but the two of them couldn't haul the box far. Even if they actually got it out of the canyon, they didn't have tools for burying it. Frowning, he removed more rocks to ascertain how the chest was made. It was well-made and reinforced with iron bands. The heavyweight handle on either end was wide enough for a man to grip with two hands; it would take hours to carry it to someplace outside the canyon. Then he got an idea.

“Help me get this chest unburied,” he said.

They set to work scattering the pile of rock fragments until the box was laid bare. The lawman tested its heft. Damn! It must have weighed more than a hundred pounds. He paused to think.

Finally, Paul brought up his horse, Ash, and tied the lasso around the two handles, and also around the body of the box. That way, all the stress wouldn't break the hand grips when the box was dragged. He quickly fixed the rope about the beast's chest, forming a breast collar.

“I'm going to put my back to it,” the deputy told the girl, “While you lead Ash along. If he balks, smack him with your hand.”

When Ash began drawing, every rock along the way snagged the chest by a corner or an edge, but with some muscle work every now and then they kept going. Dragging the chest, instead of carrying it, made it a bad idea to take it out of the canyon, Paul could tell. The sand and soil outside the canyon would show telltale skid marks. Hell, even some rocks could by scratched by the iron fixings. Instead, he chose a new hiding place within a few yards of the ravine's mouth -- a long depression, probably produced by centuries of rain flow. The two of them pushed their burden into it, and then covered it over with rocks, in a way similar to what the gang had originally done.

Because the light would be failing soon, Paul intended to be back with some helpers at dawn. In the meantime, to mark the spot, he placed two white quartz rocks to serve as a sighting line aimed at the point of concealment.

By that juncture, both were panting. “Whew,” the lawman sighed. “That turned into a chore. I hope it was worth doing.”

“Y-Yeah... ” replied his breathless companion.

As he got his wind back, Grant again sized up his unwilling companion. He knew it must be sticking in her craw to be saying goodbye to so much gold.

“You had a close shave, from what I hear, gal,” he remarked. “Most high-line riders don't last long, and you almost got cut short three days ago. If an outlaw's own gang don't back-shoot a feller, the court might string him up. The lucky ones can't hope for much better than a decade or so of cracking rocks inside some hog sty of a prison. The way things turned out, you'll have the chance to live free until you're about ninety.”

“I'd rather swing tomorrow than be an old woman!” she declared.

Paul sighed. This was a sour young lady, for sure. He decided to go mum. There was no sense provoking a yelling match with some hot-headed kid feeling sorry for herself.

After a little rest, the pair hid their traces of having been there as best they could. After they went by the farm, where Deputy Grant left Myra before pressing on toward town. The frustrated and dejected girl was left behind staring in the direction of the Gap and spitting mad that the gold that she had depended on to give herself a decent life was slipping away.

#

Supper consisted of cornmeal pudding, hoe cake, cooked cabbage, and chicken, which Myra ate in silence. In better spirits, she might have appreciated such a meal.

So far, the girl had been ignoring most of Mrs. Fanning's questions. Irene made one more attempt to have a conversation. “You haven't said what you and the deputy did with the treasure you found.”

“It's still up there.” Her tone was testy, sneering.

“Well, that's for the best, Myra. Stolen gold is dead man's gold. No good ever comes out of thievery. If you pray and repent, you can put this whole terrible year of being an outlaw behind you.”

“I prayed plenty for Ma and Pa when they got sick. Prayer doesn't do them any good.”

“Don't be so sure. Maybe the Lord let us save your life so He can put you on a whole new track to something better.”

She sniffed. “I never thought my life could get worse, but I was wrong. The miserable life I'm left with is a hundred times worse.”

“At least you're not alone anymore. I can look out for you.”

“I have to look out for myself because no one else will.”

Irene was incredulous. “That's not how things are.”

“Who says?”

“The Good Book.”

“Humphh!”

Mrs. Fanning sighed. “I do care about you, Myra. That's what family is all about. Maybe, deep inside, you care about me, too.”

The girl's expression remained bitter. “Did you do what you did to me because you cared so much?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, that's exactly right. Did you want me to let you die instead?”

“It seems to me that I did die.”

Irene shook her head. “The only real treasure on Earth is a healthy life. If you have that, everything else is still possible. Maybe you only have to watch and listen to figure out what the Almighty's plan for you really is. It chills my blood how close you came to going to the Final Judgment without the chance to repent.”

“Nothing good has ever come my way. There's no reason to think anything ever will.”

Irene regarded her niece patiently. “Sometimes new opportunities come along. We just have to keep alert and grab at them before they pass us by.”

A knock sounded on the door. Myra, on guard, looked up. Irene lurched in startlement.

“Who can that be?” the latter said. “Mr. Grant shouldn't be back until morning.”

The farm woman went to the door and drew it open. A strong hand came out of the darkness and shoved her away. She staggered bck against a chair but managed not to fall.

Myra stared, as if the Devil himself had barged into the room. There, in the flicker of a draft-swept lantern, stood Ike Bartram.

#

The girl looked around for a weapon; there was nothing within arm's reach.

“Both of you sit down, and you won't get hurt,” the young outlaw said. Ike stood six-one, and was about twenty. His face could coax smiles from saloon women, but Myra remembered times when that same face had turned so cougar-mean that it could set even formidable men back on their heels.

And he wasn't alone. Two saddle tramps had pushed in behind him. The Freely brothers. Jeb, the younger, had a look that gave him a fighting chance to be elected village idiot, but Myra knew that he was actually a little smarter than his larger brother, Horace -- and not quite so nasty. Most people called the latter Freely “Horse.”

“What are..?” Myra began. But she clammed up fast. She couldn't let these good-for-nothings realize that she knew them.

“Are you here to rob us?” Irene asked.

Ike shrugged. “We can use those horses you got.”

“Well... that's all we have,” the farm woman protested. “There's hardly any money.”

The Freelys decided to move in closer, now that money had been mentioned.

“Where’s Thorn Cadwell?” the gang leader asked, not loudly, but his voice was rough and intimidating.

Irene blinked. “He's... He's not here. He... He hasn't been here since last winter.”

“Why do I think otherwise?” asked the badman. “Maybe it's because we recognize that horse and saddle of his in your corral.”

Myra spoke up; she knew how to lie better than her aunt did. “We never saw Thorn. Somebody came into town and told the sheriff about the robbery. They said that he was shot. Nobody's seen him since the robbery. The horse just wandered in.”

Ike snorted. “That polecat was fit enough to give us the slip. It seems to me that he'd go down to see his auntie, with that piece of lead in him, I mean.”

“What do you want with Thorn?” Irene blurted.

“We just need to ask him a few questions. Like, what did he tell the Law?” The desperado looked hard into Myra's eyes. “I don't buy it that he didn't come home. You gonna tell us the truth, Sweet Face?”

Myra hardly dared to offer any more clumsy lies to such a man. She decided that it would be safer to deal out half-truths. “Okay, you got it right. Thorn rode in three days ago, hurt bad... ”

The outlaw cut her off. “Hey! I know you! You're that Yuma saloon gal. Gilana. Thorn was sweet on you. I get it! You came out here to meet him and divvy up the gold.”

Myra's mind raced. This sudden twist wasn't necessarily a bad one. If Ike thought that she was Gilana, let him.

“You're... you're right again,” she responded haltingly. “Thorn said he was going to split off from your gang once he got his share. He asked me to meet him at his aunt's farm, and then we'd head out East. Did you really think that he'd rather hang with you sidewinders instead of me?”

The girl's admission seemed to make Ike think. “That god-damned fool! He was actually dumb enough to tell a woman about our plans.”

“I'd never betray him,” Myra said. “He showed up Wednesday afternoon, a bullet in his gut. He didn't have any gold with him.”

“I know he didn't leave with the gold! But he must have told somebody in town, and they went after it!” the outlaw shouted. “I'd also like to know how much he told the wrong people about his friends. Is that bastard still alive?”

Myra's mouth tensed grimly. “No. Irene and me put him into the buckboard and went into town for the doc to work on. He died on the operating table.” She tried to look sad.

“So who’d he tell about the gold? It was you, wasn't it?”

Irene raised her chin. “He talked to the sheriff, not with us.”

Ike drew his Colt up level with Myra's breast. “Is that right, Gila Monster?”

The maiden frowned. That was the disrespectful name which Ike had starting calling Gilana, once he'd figured out it was Thorn that she liked, not him. “All right,” the potion girl said, “I'll tell you what really happened.”

“About time,” rumbled Ike.

With a deep breath, Myra began weaving a story on the fly: “The sheriff came to the doc's place. He was a mean cuss and made Thorn tell where the strongbox was. The sheriff organized a posse to chase you varmints down, but he left the recovery of the chest to his deputy. It was the deputy who went up to get the gold. He had somebody along to help him. They found the strongbox real quick, because it was hardly hidden at all, they said. They took it back to town.”

“Oh, no they didn't,” Ike challenged. “We was watching with field glasses. We saw a girl and some cowpoke come out of the Gap empty-handed. Why’d they be there if the gold was already gone? That girl, by the way, was you.”

Hell! Who would ever have suspected that the gang would have been up there spying on them? “Well, you're too late!” she exclaimed. “The deputy should be back out this way any minute with a wagon and a bunch of men.”

“Not likely,” sneered Ike. “If he's a lawman, he' aint paid half enough to make him want to work on a cold night. He'll probably wait for morning. We've got time enough to take the gold out and get on the trail before then. Where’d you two stash that strongbox? I say it's still in the canyon.”

Ike was damned clever; he always had been. Myra chose her next words carefully. “It was too heavy for us to take far. We moved it just a little closer to the canyon mouth, and hid it under some rocks.”

“So you say. Maybe you're sending us on a wild goose chase to give the Law time enough to sweep back this way. You'll have to come along with us, Gila Monster. If you're not shooting square, you won't like your comeuppance!”

“Don't take her!” Irene exclaimed. “Take me!”

Ike scowled. “Did you see the gold hidden?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Don't listen to her!” Myra yelled, surprising herself. “She never left the farm. I'll go.”

Ike took Myra by the arm and yanked her to her feet. She tried to shake off his grip, but it was like iron.

The outlaw looked back over his shoulder. “We got no time to waste. Jeb, Horse, tie auntie here up. She'll keep until the law comes to let her loose.”

“Come on,” Ike told the potion girl, dragging her after him. But when Myra neared the open door, she started fighting back. Those damned voices in her head were telling her – yelling at her – that she couldn’t leave.

“What's the matter with you?” demanded the outlaw.

“I can't go very far from the house after dark. It's a rule.”

Ike laughed incredulously. “How did that potato-digging woman get you so buffaloed? Listen, Pretty Face, you'll go or... ” He glanced toward Irene. “I'll cut off the tip of your auntie's nose. It would be a shame.”

“A-au... Ma'am?” gasped Myra. “W-Would it be all right if I went out to the Gap with these... gentlemen?”

Irene looked perplexed, but then she realized what the problem was. “Yes, you can go. But come home as soon as you can do so safely.”

Myra nodded. These words of permission sounded like a gate opening in front of her.

Ten minutes later, the party of four was riding through the late-season darkness of Riley Canyon Road. The gang had stolen both of the farm's horses, and they also had a third animal in tow, a sorry looking critter. Myra guessed that it must have been bought on the cheap; no self-respecting horse thief would have bothered with such a specimen.

Instead of letting her ride any of the designated pack horses, Ike had jerked Myra up into the saddle in front of him. His arms controlled her but were still able to grasp the reins. Occasionally, he would drop his left hand to grope her belly, her breasts, and her thighs. It infuriated the girl, but the outlaws were pressed too hard to allow Ike time enough to do anything worse.

“Horse thieving is a hanging offense,” Myra reminded the man behind her.

“Some things are worth the risk,” he said. “Gold is one of those, for sure. But there are a few other prizes worth the chance of the draw, too.” Ike pinched her breast again; this time she poked him with her elbow.

He laughed. “You're a feisty little heifer, now ain't you?”

#

The four riders rode up to the mouth of Secret Canyon, where they swung down from their saddles. Ike lifted Myra by the waist and set her to the ground. “Keep your hands off me!” she yelled, pulling away from him.

The bandit gave a scornful laugh. “We don't have time to waste, Gila Monster. Show us the gold.”

“Go to hell!”

Quick as a rattler, Ike backhanded her cheek, hard enough to send her staggering.

Myra glared, her eyes wet with anger. Her fists balled, ready to sock him back, but she stopped herself. That wasn't a move that could end well -- even if Old Lady O'Toole magic would let her hit him. Ike's weakness, she knew, wasn't in his biceps, but in his ego. It was smarter to come across like a coward, to make him think that things were going his way. If that happened, maybe she could take him by surprise later on, with something more than a little punch.

“S-Sorry,” the potion girl stammered, rubbing her cheek.

“Not half so sorry as you'll be if you've been lying... .” the outlaw threatened, his fist raised.

“Yeah, I get the idea.” She grimly started into the canyon. “This way.”

The outlaws tied their horses and followed. By now, the twilight's fade was almost complete. They caught up to the girl, who was just standing there, looking around. “I – I can't see any landmarks,” she said. “We need some light.”

“Damn you,” Ike growled. He took Myra's shoulders and spun her to face him, but he didn't slap her again. “Get some wood,” he told the Freelys. “We'll build us a fire.”

Getting that done took her about fifteen minutes.

The smoky blaze they'd managed to kindle didn't amount too much, but it was better than nothing. Myra pointed an outstretched arm, saying, “It's somewhere around there. The lawman set out a couple of white rocks to point to it, but I still can't make them out in this light.”

Ike grunted and picked up a firebrand. With this crude torch in his left hand, he gripped Myra's wrist with his right and jerked her after him. He let the flames illuminate the ground as they walked it; Myra glimpsed the quartz stones, but pretended not to notice them and continued on. Ike grew impatient.

“You're stalling!”

“I'm not... but I think we've gone too far,” the potion girl protested.

He dragged her back toward the exit. “There's one of them!” Myra said reluctantly, expecting trouble if she created any more delay.

A couple minutes later, she “discovered” the other white stone.

“You know,” the bandit leader said, “if you're a smart gal, maybe you can get a cut of the gold for yourself.”

Myra reacted with a scowl. It wasn't that gold didn't arouse her enthusiasm, but that the potion girl didn’t like the tone that Ike had used. “What do you mean?”

“I've had my eye on you. Some dancing gals have cute faces, and some have amazing legs. You got both. You were way too much woman for Thorn! I don't think you even miss him. It's gold that brought you this far out, ain't it? Fine, I understand that. You should care about gold; you really could go places if you had enough of it. You ever seen San Francisco? Big town. Pretty things in those ladies' shops.”

Myra didn't give a damn about ladies' shops, but she got the idea of what she'd have to do to earn a share. “No thanks,” she said. “I'm not that kind of girl.”

Ike looked askance. “Since when? You're dressed up like a nice little milk maid, right now, but you sure ain't one.” Then the Missourian's tone turned serious. "Be poor if you want to. There's plenty more where you came from.” He glared at her, his teeth showing like some wild dog. “Now where's the gold?”

With a sigh, Myra sighted an imaginary line through the two white rocks and pointed. “That there's the place.”

The three young men went to the spot and started pitching stones left and right. Myra stood back, hoping for some chance to dodge away when they weren't looking. The important thing was not to get herself shot by lighting out too soon.

About five minutes passed. “Hot damn!” shouted Jeb. “I think I touched it!”

They started clearing away the rocks at an even faster rate. Pretty soon, they had the strongbox laid bare.

“Bring the tools,” Ike barked. Horace and his brother took torches, and then hurried away to get the implements.

They came back minutes later with a long pry bar, a couple chisels, a mallet, and a railroad spike hammer. Myra supposed that these tools must have been stashed behind the rocks of the Gap before the gang had descended upon the farm.

The brothers dropped the hardware on the ground and then, without much in the way of a plan, sorted the pieces out and started prying at the box.

The transport chest was sturdily made, with a latch consisting of a heavy hinge secured by a thick padlock. The three tried different ways to overpower the mechanism, but hammering at the lock only made a lot of noise. They fared no better with the box's back hinges, which were mostly concealed by the mode of construction. As for the prying bar, they couldn't find any purchase for it.

Finally, Ike ordered the brothers to settle down while he rethought things. He soon came up with new plan of attack, and they commenced a determined assault on the hinge of the latch with a cold chisel driven home with the railroad hammer. After twenty minutes of listening to the gang's grunting and cursing, Myra heard something break.

“Have we got it?” asked Ike.

“W-We sure do!” wheezed a tuckered-out Freely brother.

The metal lid of the box was thrown back, but they could see almost nothing of what lay within. Ike stirred up the fire with a chisel to brighten it and added more wood. Then he selected the largest brand as a torch and held this over the chest. Myra had already moved up close. The shipment was fully packed. Memories of her childhood came back. She had often fantasized about finding conquistador loot or pirate treasure. The sight of ingots and pouches made her crazy. She was standing next to a dream come true. Or as it a nightmare? She knew that she didn't have a chance in hell of benefiting from it.

The men, on the other hand, looked jubilant. “Yay, doggie!” exclaimed Horace, holding a bag of loot against his thick chest, as if it were a precious pet.

“Cut out that noise-making!” snarled Ike, holding a fistful of bills. “We've got to move fast. Fill the saddlebags. We'll keep out the paper and coins for ready cash. The final count can wait till we're west of here; when we find a place to hide the main haul. Once there's no more posses to worry about, we can come back there and gather it all in.”

Ike turned Myra's way. “As for you, missy, we'll tie you up like we did your aunt. If the coyotes don't make a meal of you, you'll keep for the deputy in the morning."

#

While the desperadoes packed the horses, Myra was left sitting on a flat stone on the opposite side of the canyon mouth, bound and foot, feeling sorry for herself. The way she saw things, it would have been better to never have gone for the gold at all, rather than come so close only to lose it. Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of furtive motion behind her. She gasped.

“Shhhh! Someone hissed. The girl glanced over her shoulder; it was too dark to see, but somebody was crouching there. She almost shouted to the bandits for help.

“Easy, it's me, Deputy Grant,” the voice said.

“They got the gold,” she whispered.

“I'm going to cut you loose, and then you need to head out that way,” Paul said, pointing down the road towards the farm. “Try to move quietly.”

“All right,” Myra replied breathily. Paul grasped her hands to steady them and then applied his knife to her rawhide bonds.

In a moment, her wrists were loose. “Move it,” said Paul. He led the girl away, into knee-deep sagebrush. “Myra, get behind these rocks and keep low,” he whispered. “I've got to stop these varmints from getting away.”

“Alone?”

“I'm not alone.”

Not alone?

She looked around. Under the feeble first-quarter moon, it was hard to make out much.

All at once, Grant let out an Apache war-whoop and started shooting into the air. Supporting fire came from somewhere nearby. Whoever was backing up the deputy was also bawling his own version of an Indian whoop.

“Injuns!” one of the unseen robbers yelled and the gang started firing wild shots. Myra realized that if the young owlhoots could be tricked into believing that an Indian war party was trying to corner them, they could be spooked into doing something stupid.

Then the gunfire died down on both sides.

“What's going on?” she whispered.

“Can't tell! They must have run back into the ravine. Follow me; keep your head down.” He led her farther on through the cold-blighted brush, behind a row of standing rocks where someone else was hiding. She couldn't make out much beyond an outline, except that the man looked big.

“How many shooters do you have, Deputy?” Myra asked.

“Just Tor Johannson, here,” Paul answered. “We stopped at your place and found your aunt tied up, so I sent his brother Knute back to town for more help.”

“A gunfight with outlaws is more tan I bargained for,” broke in a Swedish-accented voice. “You Fru Fanning's niece?”

Myra didn't like the question and didn't respond. “Yes, she is,” Grant answered for her.

“Did tey hurt you?” Tor asked.

“Not much.”

“Did tey find the gold?”

“They got it,” Myra replied icily. “You came for the strongbox, not me, didn't you?”

“For both you and the loot,” replied the deputy. “Your aunt would be feeling right bad if we lost you.”

“Vhat do we do now, Paul?” asked Tor.

The deputy drew a deep breath. “Well, I figure them polecats'll fight like fiends, as long as they still think they can get away with the gold. When they figure out that we aren't really Apaches, and that we've only got a couple guns between us, they'll make a rush for the horses. It'll be hard to pick them off in this dark.”

“We can have three guns!” exclaimed Myra.

“What?” asked Grant.

“I can handle a rifle or a six-shooter.”

The lawman stood quiet for a couple seconds and then said, “And I'm supposed to trust you with a gun?”

“What's wrong, Paul?” Tor asked. “She is a bad one?”

“It's a long story.”

“Aunt Irene ordered me to go back to the farm as soon as I could,” the girl spoke up. “If I shot you, what would that get me?”

“Well...” Paul considered. He knew how well Jessie Hanks could handle firearms. This gal probably learned what she needed to know about guns as a farm boy. He also knew how effective those orders given to a potion girl could be.

“Do you have my Winchester, Tor?”

“Yah. It is here!”

The lawman took the weapon from his volunteer and handed it to Myra. “You can earn a lot of respect with the town, if you play this square.”

She shrugged indifferently. “One question. If we catch 'em, will those bastards get the potion?”

“I don't know,” answered Paul. “It's up to the Judge.”

“I hope he'll give them a bellyful of it!”

“That business can wait. We got to move fast, 'cause those coyotes will be turning jackrabbit any minute. I need to drive off their horses. Then we need to keep them pinned down till the town posse shows up.”

“Vhat is the plan?” asked the Swede.

“I'll circle over to where the horses are tied. I aim to drive off the pack horses first, since the gold is worth more than any outlaw's hide. The mounts I'll cut loose second.”

“Just so none of the gang goes back to the farm,” Myra said.

“They won't do that,” Paul guessed. “You don't have any horses left to steal. They'll probably run up into the rocks and we'll have to hunt them down like skunk pigs. So, let's move. When you two hear my Apache yell, start shooting. The echoes ought to cover any sounds I'm making.”

“All right,” agreed Tor.

“Wait a minute,” Myra said. “How much ammo do we have?”

“Not much,” said Paul. “Take measured shots; it's too dark to see a target anyway. When you're out of shells, vamoose and lie low. They'll be more interested in hightailing it than looking for you two in the dark.”

Paul took off, moving as quickly as he could over unsure ground. Tor leaned against a boulder and assumed a firing position. Myra, familiar with the '66 Winchester, found a protected spot and levered a .44 Henry rimfire cartridge into the firing chamber. She then waited. There was nothing to see, but the potion girl could hear the tethered mounts shuffling, made uneasy by the earlier gunfire.

A moment later, Grant's whoop came; Tor started shooting, and Myra did likewise. She saw muzzle flashes and tried to fire at them, but something stopped her. She cursed. It was that damn order of Molly's not to hurt people! She decided to aim to one side, away from the horses, and found herself able to pull the trigger.

#

Paul Grant had crept in close to the outlaws' mounts before letting out his Indian yowl. These owlhoots were practically kids, he knew, but that didn't make the situation any less dangerous. Hot-headed pups with guns could come on wild and reckless, because they didn't know what in hell they were doing. Then, too, he didn't want to kill men so young. If there was a chance to take them alive, he'd prefer it.

At the sound of firing, Paul dashed for the beasts. The first one he touched started to buck, alarmed by his smell, but he managed to grasp its reins. In a flash, he had sliced it free of its tether with his well-stropped Bowie knife. Then the deputy gave the critter a hard slap to start it running.

“The Injun's are after the horses!” an outlaw bellowed.

Paul groped for another saddleless horse and found one. The gang members were shooting again, but the bullets weren't coming anywhere close. They were trying to scare him off, but they didn't want to wound their own animals. He got the second pack horse loose. “Git!” He shouted, punching the animal. It whinnied and scurried away

Running boots. The outlaws were rushing in. The lawman ducked away, firing a couple of shots in the robbers' direction. The three braved the danger and got in among the animals. Paul sighted what looked like a bandit's outline and leaped for it. The fight was wild. Grant's boots kept slipping on loose gravel, but the outlaw seemed to have better footing. Each was swinging his pistol like a bludgeon. A hard shove made Paul slip. The tumble made him lose hold of his shooting iron.

The incoming fire from Myra and Tor had stopped, maybe from a lack of bullets. The deputy struggled to rise and managed to find his gun. He could hear the bandits tearing loose their mounts' reins from the mesquite branches. Paul lurched after the escaping men and blundered into someone. The outlaw skinned his scalp with what felt like a gun barrel. The lawman sprang away, but fell down again.

Someone on horseback yelled, “Gitty-yep!” In the bandits' haste to get away, their beasts almost trampled Paul, who was barely able to roll out of the way. He got to his feet once more, ready to shoot. But there was no target to see; the bandits were hard-riding away. His play hadn't paid off. Any additional firing would be bullets wasted. Frustrated, he shouted, “Tor! Myra!”

The Swede came up in the dark. “Is you hurt?” he asked urgently.

“Not badly, I think.”

Paul heard Myra's footsteps off to one side and remembered the Winchester in her hands. “Give me that rifle,” he told the girl.

“Still afraid I'll shoot you?” she replied with a sneer.

“Could you blame me?”

“It's out of bullets anyway,” the girl declared, shoving the weapon at Paul.

He took it and said, “No use chasing them before dawn. Let's see if their animals are still around. I drove off a couple of 'em,” he said.

But none of the horses could be found amidst the trees. “The gang’ll probably try to catch up with one of the pack horses,” the deputy conjectured. “The gold on any one of the animals would amount to a decent haul for those boys. If they give us the slip.”

“Ve need torches,” advised Tor.

They took sticks from the outlaws' fire and searched after the horses. It took a half hour, but the Swede and Grant were able to locate both laden beasts. They were the tame kind and hadn't run too far. “I think they're both mine,” she told her companions. “The gang got away with their own nag.” She also confirmed that the saddlebags were full of metal.

“We'll lead the animals back to town and unpack them there,” said Paul. “Myra, you'll be dropped off at the farm. Tor, let's bring up our own mounts and head out.” The pair vanished in the dark.

The girl grudgingly got up on her bay's back. The loot that it carried was all that she could think about. At that moment, Myra tried – and filed -- to flick the reins, to make a break for the desert, but the voices in her head screamed their disapproval. “All right, all right, she finally said in despair. “I’ll go back to the danged farm.” As her mount started back down the trail to the farm, she realized that this moment represented the closest that she'd ever come to a life of ease. And that it was over.

Just then, the men returned on horseback.

“Why don't we keep a little of this stuff for ourselves?” Myra asked out loud, one last attempt at the riches. “Don't we deserve it?”

“The world doesn't work that way,” Paul replied with a small laugh. “And just hope that you never get the full measure of what... a girl like you... really deserves.”

“You got a pretty woice, Flicka,” Tor addressed Myra. “You as pretty as you sound?”

“Stuff it!” she told him.

Tor smacked his lips. “Tat gal got spice!”

“That she does,” agreed the lawman. “One of these days, some rough, tough hombre's going to toss a lasso around that filly, and she'll be a real handful to tame.”

“Idiots!” the girl exclaimed as she started out for home, not waiting for her unwelcome escorts.

END OF CHAPTER 4, CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

The final chapter – for now. George does chores. Tor returns the stolen horses. Female take notice.

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

December 17, 1871

Myra was sitting listlessly at the table, eating breakfast when she heard the hoof beats of the new posse. She walked over to the window and saw Paul Grant coming down the carriage path, followed by a tall, husky man leading the farm's two horses. Not surprising, the outlaws' saddlebags were no longer to be seen. The rest of the posse – three mounted men – remained at the edge of Riley Canyon Road.

Irene went outside to meet the deputy. The big man -- Tor, Myra remembered -- took the horses over to the corral and tied them to the rails. After what was only a brief conversation with her aunt, Grant and Tor mounted up and the five took off briskly down the road toward Stagecoach Gap.

Mrs. Fanning came back inside. “They didn't have time for chatting. the good Lord bless them-.- I was afraid that we'd lose those horses forever. It was good of the deputy to send them back today, rather than wait.”

“Yeah,” the girl replied grumpily. “If we had to wait, you'd had me out pulling the plow myself next spring.”

Irene almost replied, but decided that it would be of no use.

Instead, the young widow sent Myra out to do her chores. It bothered Irene that the girl, left to her druthers, would do no work at all. In that, she was still very much like Myron. ‘Why can't Myra learn from her two narrow escapes?’ She thought. ‘Why can't she make the right decisions without needing to be commanded by magic?’ She shook her head. What lad had ever done himself any good through aimless and neglectful behavior?

Her sister Addie, in her letters, had sometimes lamented that Myron seemed ill-suited to farming. “He’s too imaginative,” Addie wrote. “Too full of wanderlust, to accept being tied down, to doing the same chores over and over.” To Irene, it seemed that he actuallypreferred banditry to an ordinary life. Fortunately, Myra, being a girl now, couldn't follow in his old footsteps. But she still had Myron's restlessness inside her. Irene paused to pray for the Lord's help in making it all turn out well.

#

After the midday meal, Myra was sent out again, this time to chop kindling for the cook stove. She didn't care for the task, but realized that no wood meant no hot supper.

While the potion girl busied herself, a small carriage drew up. She recognized the visitor and gritted her teeth. Molly O'Toole got down from her rig and opened the luggage boot at the rear of the vehicle. Aunt Irene emerged from the house just then and welcomed the saloon operator. Myra, expecting the worst, continued chopping while the others began to unload.

Irene went inside first, carrying an armful of packages. “Are all these boxes for Myra?” she asked Molly as she set down her burden.

The Irish woman put her own share of the bundles onto the bed. “Aye, they do make quite a pile, don't they? They should be enough t’be getting Myra started. Women's clothes are more complicated than men’re used to, though. We'll have t’be acquainting her with thuir wearing, piece by piece.”

“Men are lucky. Their clothes are so much simpler. And not nearly so expensive.”

“But the beauty of thuir stuff can't be comparing t’ours,” Molly said, as they began opening the packages.

The first box that Irene undid contained a corset. She regarded its plain design. It was the type that women customarily wore under their everyday clothes. ‘Myra won't like wearing this one bit,’ she thought. Out loud, she said, “Men always think that corsets are silly.”

Molly smiled. “Men like corsets well enough on a pretty girl. Especially when the girl ain’t wearing much else. Most cancan outfits don't amount t’much more than corsets dressed up with feathers and lace frillery.”

Irene's tried not to blush. “That's right, you mentioned...” She trailed off.

“That I was a saloon dancer?” Molly didn't look embarrassed. “It's all right t’be talking about it. I am what I am. I was what I was. The fact is, I've liked t’dance ever since I was a wee little girl. 'Tis the Irish in me. Stage dancing was me first serious job outside the home.”

“What kind of a life is that, especially for a naïve girl on her own?”

The older woman shrugged. "Well, 'naïve' didn't exactly fit me, not even back then. Me family left the Auld Country in '48. There was lots of fever on the boat, and some of us got sick with it. Me ma and me little brother, Dermot, died b’fore we could get to a hospital in New York. The gold rush was just getting started, and Papa got caught up in the excitement and took us West in 1849. He met Fiona Bourke on the trail, and she helped him with us kids. By the time we reached San Francisco, they was already married.”

"It didn't seem right; I thought he should mourn longer. I coulda kept the house and looked after the younger ones meself. After a year of me locking horns with me stepmother over this and that, Papa set me up to marry a fellow Irishman named Michael O’Casey. I didn't love him, but we got on well enough, so I went along. Mostly, I just wanted to get away from home. Michael went off to the gold fields to get us a nest egg,” she sighed, “and I never heard from him again.”

"I was just eighteen. I'd lost me chance to marry, but I didn't want t’be staying home. I went down to the busy part of town, down by the harbor, and looked for a job. I coulda earned pennies at pot scrubbing or doing maid’s work, but I found a sign that said a saloon was looking for dancing girls. I'd heard people say that dancers made a lot of money. I knew me Papa and step-ma wouldn't care for it, but I had me own ideas.”

“When I told ‘em what I'd be doing, they tried to get me to quit, but I wouldn't. I just couldn't stand all thuir bossing anymore. Soon as I got me first pay, I took a little room in the same house as me folks. I might as well've moved a hundred miles away. They wouldn’t talk to me for months after that.”

Irene frowned, but didn't say anything.

“Me first day on the job, I met Shamus, who was tending at the bar. He got a little fresh the first time we spoke, but I put my foot down then and there, and his manners improved.”

“A dancer's life is a mix. Being outside of the home gave me a different picture of how things work. A gal gets out of life what she puts into it. The way she earns her bread isn't all that important -– so long as it's honest.”

Irene was still at a loss to reply. Then Molly unwrapped another corset. “Ah, here it is! The one you found is for around the house. This is the kind girls like to wear beneath a dress when they're going to a shindig.”

“It's pretty,” Irene agreed. The item displayed a great deal of embroidery and lace.

“I picked up a going-out dress for the young lady, too,” Molly remarked. She unwrapped a yellow cotton frock and held it up for Mrs. Fanning's approval. It had short sleeves, a tight waist, and white trim.

Irene next examined a winter coat, something that Myra very much needed, with colder days ahead. “These are wonderful. Thank you, Molly. But before Myra tries anything on, though, she'll need another bath. We ought to give her one right away. I've got a trough full of water warming in the sun. It won't have gotten too warm at this time of year, but there's a kettle of water I'm heating for the laundry. We can add it to the tub instead.”

“Good. Another sponge bath’d be enough, though, and I'll fix her hair afterwards, if ye want.”

The pair fetched an oval tub from the shed and placed it close to the fireplace, whose low flames Irene fed with some dry sticks and a couple small blocks of wood. The blaze quickly grew larger and gave off a lively crackle. Then they carried in buckets of trough water to fill the container to a little more than ankle depth. Finally, Irene dropped into it a lump of store-bought bath soap and also a sea sponge. It was now time to call Myra in. When the girl appeared, sullen and wary about what was in store for her, Irene told her to undress for bathing. The girl, unprepared for this event, reflexively protested. “I had a bath three days ago!”

“Don't be silly,” her aunt said. “You've been working up a sweat doing chores. If you're clean, the clothes you try on will stay clean.” Irene went to the cast-iron cook stove, where she used a pair of kitchen mitts to take a blackened kettle off the burner. She poured its steaming contents into the cooler water of the tub. “Now, get in, use the soap, and scrub yourself quick, before it cools too much.”

Myra was standing close to the receptacle, reluctant to take off her clothes. As Thorn, she had gotten over her bashfulness at being nude in front of a woman. As long as the woman undressed first. But this wasn't like that.

“Why so shy?” Molly asked. “Ye ain’t got nothing that yuir aunt and I ain’t seen ten thousand times. But since ye’re not used t'having what ye have, Irene and me'll be strolling outside for our chat. Wash yuir hair first, and use a decent amount of shampoo t’do it.”

Irene handed her niece a terry towel and a bottle of shampoo. “When you're done, dry yourself completely.”

With the women gone, Myra worked fast, wanting to be done and covered up before the two harpies came back. She slipped out of her shoes and peeled off her woolen socks, and then shed the apron. Following that, she squirmed out of her flannel dress.

This brought her down to her chemise, a garment that afforded her needed warmth for the season. Its removal left Myra chilly, standing there in no more than her knee-length drawers. With a glance toward the door, the potion girl completed her disrobing. Tentatively stepping into the tub, she found it a little cool, but bearable. An oval of white soap was floating next to her ankle, but she had been ordered to wash her hair before doing anything else.

Though the bathtub was scarcely wide enough, she knelt down in it and was able to dip her tresses. With eyes closed to keep the water out, she groped until she found the bottle of shampoo.

Myra dribbled some into her right palm and, with long strokes, spread it over her wet locks. With her hair so long, she had to use a larger portion of the shampoo than she had ever needed as a male. She wondered about cutting her hair to boy-length before Aunt Irene ordered her to keep it long.

Still hurrying, the potion girl wet her mane again and worked the soap through it. When it was well lathered, she hurriedly dunked her scalp and rinsed.

Myra straightened up and pressed the excess water from her hair with her towel. It made no sense to dry it too much, since she still had a lot of washing to do. Rescuing the body soap from the bath, Myra rubbed the slippery bar over her arms and torso. Next, she took the sponge and used it to work up some suds. She found that touching her breasts felt as good as it had three days earlier. “Now I know why Gilana would moan so when I petted her pair,” she mused. “Male breasts ain't near as tender to the touch.”

But the maiden's strongest reaction came when she worked the soft, wet sponge over her pubic area. She gasped, just like Gilana had done when touched between the legs. “Whoa,” Myra wondered. “Are all women's bodies like this?” The girl frowned. “If they are, then why do even the sluttiest of gals always put a man off until he first gives her whatever she wanted?” So many damned things about women made no blamed sense, at all.

Yet there was a lot about the sex that aroused a male's interest. Thorn had seen some of those cigar cards that showed women in scanty attire. He didn't have to see many of them before he realized that he wanted a flashy, exciting sort of girl, like Gilana, not any of the drabs that most men ended up marrying. “Yes, sir, having a doll baby on his arm is one of the easiest ways for a man to get respect. Folks figure that it takes quite a man to lasso an exciting woman.”

Myra rinsed off the lather and then carefully patted herself with the towel. She was mostly dry when she heard voices from outside. She wrapped the towel around her hips, which left her maidenly breasts in plain view. But her ample display just didn’t seem right, and she quickly re-positioned the wrap to conceal them.

Molly entered first and pursed her lips approvingly at what she saw. “Come on outta that tub and finish drying yuirself. Do yuir feet first,” she said, and began to rummage through the rows of open boxes on the table.

The barkeeper's wife selected a couple items and brought them over. Myra, having stepped out of the tub and dried herself, was standing there with the dank towel held up in front of her body. “Here, lassie, put on yuir drawers first. Then slip into this chemise.”

Myra had to obey. The saloon woman's crisp orders always made her scramble. The cautious way that Irene usually spoke left the new girl unsure, at times, whether she was being ordered or not. Molly O'Toole regarded the girl's movements as she dressed. “Ye’re looking right pretty already,” the saloon woman judged. She went back to the boxes and returned with the stylish corset, light blue muslin trimmed with lace and pearls.

Myra gritted her teeth. It was a thing that would have looked mighty fetching worn by Gilana, but the thought of putting on such a rig herself was enough to make her want to kill the bugger who'd made such a contraption.

“Usually corsets ain't so comfortable t’be sleeping in, so ye don't have to,” continued Molly. “But when ye’re up and about during the daytime, ye should be wearing one. It keeps a body looking trim and full-bosomed, something the boys like to see. And a fancy corset'll make ye feel all gussied up, even if the dress ye have on ain't a special one. Be careful though; some girls fix them too awful tight, and that can be punishing.”

“This sort here is for dress-up occasions,” Molly explained. “I also bought ye a couple plain ones for around the farm. Ye'll find out that corsets are a smidgen constricting sometimes, like if ye’re bending or crawling. Ye can loosen ‘em or even take ‘em off if ye get too uncomfortable, but otherwise keep yuir corset on. Going around without one just ain’t respectable.”

“Says you!” Myra snarled.

“Aye, says me,” replied Molly. “Besides everything else, a corset supports yuir back and makes it easy for ye t’be standing up straight. Slouching ain’t never attractive.”

“Why would I ever want to be attractive?” the girl challenged.

“Ye'll be figuring that out for yuirself, once ye get used to being a lassie.”

The red-haired woman turned Myra around, and then enveloped the girl's slim torso in the frilly, steel-boned garment. Molly needed a few minutes to lace the draw-cords. When finished, she tugged the strings firmly, and Myra felt the infernal piece snug up around her.

“Ye feels nice, don't ye? Since y'er not used to corsets, ye'll have to go easy at first. Ye should be wearing one for about two hours a day, until it remembers yuir shape, and ye can wear the thing without hurting+,+ from sunrise t’sunset. Since ye've got three of ‘em t’be breaking in, it'll be weeks before they'll all be fit for day-long wear.”

Next came Myra's new petticoat, looking like a lacy, starched skirt. Myra didn't like the weight of all that material. “It feels bulky,’ she complained. “And it sticks out so much it’ll probably knock something over whenever I walk too close. Petticoats, corsets? Why do women wear such dumb clothes?”

“Ye’re lucky that hoops aren't the fashion nowadays,” said Molly. “And I hope they never come back. The bustle is what all the high-toned ladies back east like wearing these days, but I didn’t get ye one of those. There probably won't be much call for their like around Eerie.”

“Irene, would ye be handing me the yellow dress?” the Irish woman requested. Myra glanced toward her aunt to see what was coming next. The fancy outfit Molly selected was clearly the type that girls wore to catch the eye in public. She disliked it at once.

Molly helped the scowling maiden put the frock on, and then adjusted the way it hung. “I don't see it will take very much alteration,” she adjudged. “How are ye with the needle, Mrs. Fanning?”

“I believe I can do the piece justice.”

“Please sit down, Myra,” Molly directed. “You'll be needing t’keep your hair looking neat.” The girl did as told and the town woman began to comb out her locks with long strokes.

Just then, there came a knock on the door. Irene, when she opened it, found George Severin on the other side, his straw hat held in his hands.

“Mrs. Fanning,” he said. “I heard the news from town. Did Myra get hurt any up at the Gap?”

Irene stepped aside. “Come in, and see for yourself. She's a very brave girl.”

Myra rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Being seen dressed this way, by the likes of George Severin especially, was almost as bad as being caught naked.

“Wellll now,” George drawled appreciatively, “that's a right fine new outfit. You look ready to take off for a square dance.”

“Fat chance!” came Myra's gruff reply. “What're you doing out here? Hoping to find out I was kilt?”

“Hardly that, gal,” he said. He pivoted toward Irene. “I wanted to ask, ma'am, if you'll be wanting me around tomorrow.” Then he glanced back at Myra. “After such a scare, I thought your niece might be having a fit of the vapors, and she'd be taking it easy for a while. I reckoned her chores would still need doing.”

The girl stood up stiffly. “I've rested enough. I got more wood to cut before supper.”

George grinned. “In that fancy new dress? You might tear it. I got an hour to spare. What would you ladies say if I finished the chopping while Myra keeps busy just staying pretty? No charge for the work.”

Irene blinked bemusedly. “Oh, we can't ask for favors, George, , especially not on a Sunday. We wouldn't want to take advantage of a boy who must have plenty of work to do at home.”

“Well, it seems to me that there's a kind of pay that I'd powerfully appreciate. I was wondering if Miss Myra might do me the kindness of keeping me company while I finish the chopping. That would be payment enough.”

“I don't think so,” the girl answered with a chilly tone.

The youth looked dejected. “To be honest, Miss Myra, I was mostly hoping to talk a little in private, so I could ask you about something.”

“The answer is no, whatever it is!”

“What did you wish to ask her?” inquired Irene.

George glanced down. “It's just that there's the Christmas dance coming up next Saturday, ma'am. The younger ladies hereabouts are all married, too young or too old for me, or they're being courted by someone. Your niece doesn't know many local people yet. I'd like very much to escort her to the festivities.”

“No! Absolutely not!” Myra declared.

Irene looked askance at Molly. She was thinking that it might be too early for Myra to be going to socials. The Irish woman, on the other hand, seemed to be considering it.

“Myra,” Mrs, Fanning said, “be polite. Go chat with George while he works. That isn't much to ask in exchange for all the help he's giving us.”

The girl's eyes flashed, but she had her orders. She started for the door in stockinged feet.

“Don't be so eager, Myra,” Molly cautioned. “Put on yuir new shoes first. And be careful ye don't get yuir fancy new dress dirty while ye’re outside,” she added.

The lass gave her a surely look while she donned her footwear. Molly stepped up behind her. “Let me tie your hair, so it doesn't get tangled in the breeze.” She used a red ribbon to create a bow that fixed Myra's lengthy tresses into a sleek ponytail. The girl hurried out, not wanting to see her reflection. With the sun shining in a clear sky, the day wasn't chilly, so she didn't bother putting on a coat.

Irene glanced at Molly. “Did you have some more advice for me?”

“Do ye mean about whether it’s too soon t’be sending Myra out among folks?”

“Yes. She's so embarrassed about people looking at her as a pretty girl.”

Molly rolled that question around in her mind. “When a young lass comes into town for the first time, most everyone’s going t’be interested in her. But if she stays a mystery for too long, people start t’be wondering who exactly she might be. If they guess right, Myra won't be happy. We need t’be hurrying her along a mite, to get her acting natural-like around people. Then folks won't have any call for becoming suspicious.”

“She might be so jumpy that she could make things worse,” cautioned Irene.

“She's tough-minded for her age. The dance ain’t for a week; so here's me advice: Take her into town for a wee bit of shopping tomorrow, or the day after. We'll both see how she handles herself out among folks. If she braves it out well enough, I think she might be doing right well at the party. Getting her off the farm as soon as possible might even be a good idea. We don't want t’be giving her time t’be settling into reclusive ways.”

“Are you sure?”

“To be telling the truth, I've never worked with a potion girl so young. There's Emma O'Hanlan that just changed last month, but upstanding folks like her parents keep their kids clear of us saloon people. I know how it was for the older potion girls, but it’s probably going t’be harder for Myra than it was for them. They didn't have to pretend to be normal among the hoity-toity kind. The saloon crowd gave ‘em allowance if they made a misstep now and then. Myra is bound and determined t'make people believe that she's a lassie like any other. It might be a harder trick for her to pull off than any of us know.”

#

Myra, seated uncomfortably on a crate, was staring down Riley Canyon Road. Behind her, George continued chopping wood, using rapid, powerful blows. Myra didn't want to be anywhere near the neighbor boy, but she had received her orders, and the spell held her fast.

The young workman finally paused to catch his breath. Though Myra faced away from him, he started talking. “The stage that brought you into town must have been the same one that got robbed right afterwards, when it moved up into the Gap. Ain't that right?” he asked.

Hearing yet another of George’s prying questions made the girl glower. She hadn't worked out every detail of her made-up story, and had to bluff through. She met him eye to eye, and said, “Yes.”

He shook his head. “It must have been awful, to hear about your cousin dying on the same day you came in.”

She shrugged. “Well, I've heard better news.”

“I've been wondering. Where did that new riding horse over yonder come from?”

Another hard question. “I don't know.”

“Didn't your aunt buy him?”

Myra pondered. She couldn't tell George the same story that she'd told the gang, about Thorn riding in on it. “It wandered in by itself, I guess. It was trying to get at the hay when Aunt Irene and me came in from town.”

“Did your aunt recognize the critter?”

“She told me never saw it before. The saddle neither.”

“If it was saddled, it must have strayed away from its rider. Do you think it could have been Myron's horse? It might easily have walked a couple miles from the Gap.”

“I haven't thought about that.” Myra realized that she had to be more careful with the lies she told.

George glanced at the corralled animal. “It's a fair-looking cayuse. It'd be nice if you and your aunt could hold on to it. I don't know about Mrs. Fanning, but you ride as smart as an Injun. How did you learn?”

Myra didn't like the way he'd asked that. He had the eye of a hunter tracking a coyote. “We kept horses back home,” she answered.

George suddenly changed the subject. “I've been wondering. If the stage men saw Myron shot, and if he was dead, what happened to him afterwards? Your aunt didn't mention that there'll be any funeral.”

She tossed a hand into the air. “Search me. The bandits must have hidden the body.”

“Could be. But you don't seem too broken up about your cousin not getting a proper burial.”

Myra changed her tone. “I – I feel sorry for Aunt Irene. But I never met Thorn. He never did so much as send us a card back East.”

“If you didn't really know Myron, when did you find out that he wanted people to call him Thorn? I've never heard your aunt speak that name in front of me.”

Damn him! “That – That's the name the judge and the deputy were using when they came to talk yesterday.”

“Judge Humphreys was out here? Why so?”

Blast it! Did he have to haggle over every word?

“The judge knows Aunt Irene. He wanted to let her know that Th – that Myron was suspected of robbery, and he also wanted to express his sympathies.”

“Was he already sure that Myron was dead, even with no body?”

“The stage people's message said that he was shot bad. The sheriff sent somebody up to look around, but there was no sign of anything. So everyone just assumes he’s dead. If he wasn't fit to ride off, he must have died, and his body was hidden.”

George's brows knitted. “It seems kind of odd that those outlaws rode out for three days, but then came back to Myron's house for no reason. Or was there a reason?”

Myra thought quickly. “They knew Myron lived close-in to the Gap, but that wasn't why they came. They said they needed some pack horses to carry off the gold that they'd hidden before.”

“So, if they only came for horses, why did they need to take you back up there with them?”

Myra was again tempted to tell George to go to hell, but held herself in check. “A couple hours before they showed up, I'd gone to the Gap with that Deputy Grant, to search around. We found the gold, and then Grant hid it in a different place, so the robbers wouldn't be able to find it if they happened to sneak back. But by the time we left the canyon, the gang was probably already hiding up there, watching us. They must have followed us, and they saw where I stopped. They barged in after dark to make me show them where the box was.”

“I thought you said they just came to steal a couple horses.”

“They did steal horses!” she replied sharply. “They would’ve come to get horses no matter what. After they saw Grant and me up at the Gap, they had two reasons to come here.”

George wasn't put off. “Another thing makes me wonder. Why on earth did you need to ride up to the Gap with the deputy? I figure he already knew where Stagecoach Gap was.”

Myra glanced away again, while she worked up an answer. “No reason. I just asked if I could go along, for the adventure. Buried treasure; that's exciting.”

Severin smiled. “You sound like an adventurous girl. I can't stand fraidy-cat females. I knew there was something about you that I liked.”

“Ehhh,” Myra said with a shrug. ‘He’s flirting with me,’ she told herself in disgust. ‘Just what I don’t need.’

“But here's what I don't get. How did anyone know there was buried gold?”

The girl's fists were clenched. This nosy neighbor was just begging for a slam to the jaw. Carefully, she said, “Nobody knew anything, but they suspected. Everybody knows how strong and heavy those stage company boxes are, and how the drivers don't carry the keys with them. The deputy and the judge were talking about how the outlaws might have needed to hide the gold close by, so they could come back later, with tools and pack horses.”

“I see. But how did the deputy find the chest so quickly? Wasn't it buried?”

Myra stood up to storm away, but, thanks to her aunt’s order, she couldn't move her feet. Sitting down again, she finally replied to his question. “Sure, it was buried under a pile of rocks. But the stupid outlaws left a corner of the box still showing.”

The youth again shook his head. “They surely do sound stupid.”

“I met them. Believe me; they're as dumb as they come. Why are you so interested?”

George shrugged. “There ain’t much excitement around Eerie. Anyhow, I figured a little conversation might help us get acquainted. I already know you've got spirit. My oldest sister, Rosedale, would still be shaking like a leaf if she'd gone through all that you did. If you think I’m asking too many questions, you can get even by asking me anything you want to ask.”

She sniffed. “Why should I be interested in anything that concerns you, Mr. Severin?”

“No reason; we're just passing time.”

“It seems like time isn't passing half as quickly as I'd like it to.”

“Whenever I'm busy, it just flies by. Did your aunt ever write and mention that she had someone helping her work the farm?”

“She never wrote.” Damn; that didn't sound likely. “Almost never; just a card now and then, like at Christmas. She never said much more than 'I hope you've been well' or 'Merry Christmas.'”

George nodded and resumed chopping for a few minutes. Then he took another break, drew a sip from his canteen, and said, “You mentioned you're from back East. Whereabouts?”

She raised her chin. “My aunt told me that I had to... that I should... chat with you, as annoying as you are. But she didn't say that I had to answer a thousand snoopy questions.”

The youth leaned the ax against the stack of cord wood. “Why won’t you let me know a little something about yourself? Are you some kind of outlaw on the dodge?” He smiled at the joke.

Myra felt a jolt, and quickly forced a laugh. “Do I look like an outlaw?”

“No, but... ” he paused. “No, you surely do not. By the way, why is it that you don't want to go with me to the Christmas dance next week? Do you have a fella already?”

“Stop the questions!”

“Okay, no more questions. What would you prefer to talk about?”

“I don't want to talk at all.”

George sat down on the woodpile. “So, you're a girl who doesn't like to talk too much? I didn't know that kind existed.” He grinned broadly. “Finding a sensible gal is like finding buried treasure. I definitely want to get to know you better, Miss Myra.”

“I've only known you for four days, and I already know everything I want to know about you. It's as plain as the sun in the sky that you can't stop jabbering like a parrot.”

“People say I grow on them.”

“Yeah, like a wart!”

He chuckled. “Yes, sirree, you're a girl full of ginger. The list of things I like about you is getting powerfully long.”

“Maybe so, but you bore me to tears!"

This reply only added to his mirth. “If you really don't like me being around, you can tell your aunt that you want to do all the chores by yourself. Is that what you're aiming for, Miss Back-East Girl?”

Myra frowned. “I can learn farming easily enough if I want to. For all I care, you can go off and annoy someone else.”

He gazed down at the cut wood he was sitting on. “The chopping you did earlier seems like decent work. You're already used to doing some of the chores, ain't you?”

She stood up again, rested her hands on her hips, and faced him boldly. “Some chores yes; some chores no. When are you going to stop jawing and start earning your pay?”

“I'm not getting paid in coin. Chatting with the pretty new girl in town is my pay; I said that straight-out to your aunt.”

“Hah! My aunt thinks I'm a kid. She's got no call to be deciding who my friends are going to be.”

“Don't you care for your aunt? I like her just fine.”

“You aren't the one she's always bossing around.”

“Of course I am. She pays me to do things for her.”

“If you think she's so nice, you should take her to the Christmas dance. Lord knows that no other man is going to bother with her.”

George made a click at the side of his mouth. “She's got a few years on me. I want to spend time with the sort of gal that I could get serious about.”

“That sure ain't my kind of... gal.”

“I hope that won't always be true. There's precious few young gals of the right sort out here. The two of us are about the same age, I reckon we go to the same church, and neither of us is seeing anybody. Maybe we're neighbors because Providence is working its magic.”

She suddenly looked mad as a volcano ready to blow.

He smiled again, to let her know that he'd only been funning.

Myra, still holding in her temper, said, “Providence is like a mule, if you ask me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because a mule is stupid and stubborn. All it's good for is kicking a man in the teeth when he least expects it!”

“You sound like you've been kicked lately. What happened?”

She gave that a few seconds’ thought, then answered carefully. “I lost both parents, or maybe you didn't get the word about that.”

The youth look abashed. “Pardon, Miss Myra. I plum forgot.”

“If that's the case, you should be working on your memory, and working on that wood pile. If you don't, there's no reason I should be out in the wind jawing with you.”

George seemed to accept that observation and set to work in earnest.

#

About an hour later, with light failing, the air was getting colder. Molly O'Toole climbed back into her carriage and set out for town, while Mrs. Fanning stood waving goodbye from the front door.

As the carriage turned onto the main road, Irene started toward the wood pile. George was putting the ax away for the night, and she called him over to speak to him about something. Myra didn't wait to listen. She no longer felt compelled to stay put, so she went back to the house. A minute or two later, she heard the farm boy riding off, and her aunt joined her indoors.

“Did you and George have a good talk?” Irene asked.

“No, we didn't. I don't care much for the fellow, but you told me I had to keep him company!”

“I suppose I did. Anyway, did you two discuss the Christmas party?”

“He talked about a lot of things. He almost talked my ears off.”

Irene nodded. “Young men often jabber when they happen to like a girl.”

“I know what boys do! And I especially know George Severin. If he hadn't been around so much when I was living here, I probably wouldn't have headed out as soon as I did.”

“You didn't like any of my helpers.”

“Good riddance to the lot of them!”

Irene changed the topic. “I asked George if he'd be willing to clean the hog pen as soon as he has time. If you don't care for having him hereabouts, would you be willing to take on that job yourself?”

The girl looked fit to be tied. “Hell, no! That work is too hard for...”

“For a girl?” Irene gave her niece a “Got you!” smile.

“I'm not a girl. The work is too hard, period. But what does it matter what I want? Go ahead and bust my back; cripple me.”

“You're so dramatic about everything!” Irene stated in exasperation. “Girls clean pig pens, and do even harder chores. I need help to work this piece of land. At least George is willing to pitch in while he earns a wage. We could save a parcel of money if you’d do more of the things that I've been paying him to do.”

Myra looked away, annoyed.

“By the way, Molly suggested that I should make it clearer when I'm... I'm telling you something that is really necessary.”

The girl turned. “When you're giving me an order, you mean.”

“That's not the way I'd like to put it. But this is my idea. For now, when I say something to you and call you 'my girl' when I say it, it means that I'm telling you something important, and that I want you to do what I say.”

“You're always bossing me around. You're not either one of my parents.”

Irene shook her head. “I loved your folks, too, Myra. Your mother was my sister, after all. What happened to them wasn't anyone's fault. Or are you only using them as an excuse to avoid necessary work?”

“I just want to have some time to do the things that I want to do."

“I don't like having to order you about like a servant, not at all. What do you want to do? To run off again and become a girl outlaw this time?”

“What's wrong with trying to better myself?”

“Better yourself with stolen money? Look what it's cost you already. Would you ever have considered robbing people if you knew that it might get you turned into a young lady?”

The girl threw up her hands. “My only mistake was coming home to the craziest town in the world. I don't see why a man should be criticized just for taking care of himself. As long as he doesn't get caught, anyway.”

“But you did get caught – caught by a strange fate that you truly did bring upon yourself. Every time you look into the mirror from now on, think about how different your life could have turned out if you'd only worked a little harder at being honest.”

Myra swung away again, her arms crossed.

Irene sighed. “You certainly don't seem in any mood to talk sense. Now, listen, my girl. Change out of your nice clothes, and take care that you don't dirty or tear them!”

The girl felt this new form of command taking a grip upon her. Teeth clenched in anger, Myra scooped up her pile of cast-off everyday clothing and stomped into the pantry, preferring to change out of sight.

Irene then went to finish supper. This new quarrel had gotten her thinking. Myra didn't like farm work, anymore than Myron had. Would she take to household tasks any better? Irene considered asking Myra for help with the evening’s meal. Then she shook her head. That would probably be pushing things too quickly. ‘Patience would be needed’ she told herself. ‘From what Molly says about these things -- from her own experience with those other potion girls, Myra will eventually start looking at life the way that most young ladies do.” It would be wisest to nudge her in the right direction bit by bit; not try to force things along too hard, especially when she was so likely to get her back up.

December 18, 1871

The next morning, George Severin returned for a full day's labor, game to take on the pig sty. It was a good thing he had had four younger brothers and sisters at home, all old enough to take over the chores while he was away. The youth set the manure cart in a convenient spot before he went into the pen, carrying the farm's four-tined manure fork. He wore his wet-weather boots. The mess at his feet was gummy, and the task called for a strong back like his.

Irene, at her front door, watched the hired man set up. Local folks generally liked George, she knew, and he wasn't known to misbehave – other than by pulling a few boyish pranks when younger. It was too bad that her niece couldn't put away her old grudges. Myron, she knew, hadn't found it easy to make friends – at least, not nearly as easily as he made enemies. He’d often complained that no one liked him, probably one reason why he had left home at just sixteen.

Irene was starting the noonday meal when someone rode in through the gate. Through the window, she saw it was the same big man who had been helping Paul Grant. The deputy and two others, including this man, had found her tied up in the kitchen and cut her loose. Grant’s companions had spoken with some sort of Scandinavian accent. Her present visitor was large, broad-shouldered, and looked very strong. She recalled that his eyes had been the color of shadowy blue ice.

The townsman was getting down from his horse when the farm woman stepped out to meet him. “Is there any news about the outlaws?” she asked.

“Some gude news,” he replied with a single, exaggerated nod. “That pack horse of deirs must have bolted loose when dey vere running and ve found it vit lots of gold in da saddle bags. Paul kept after da bandits vit two of da men, but he sent my bruder and me back to town vit the gold. They're slippery as seals, deese outlaws, and dey yoost may git avay.”

“If they do, I hope they never come back to Eerie!”

“How is Myra doing?”

“She's doing well. She's a brave girl.” Irene then frowned, embarrassed. “Excuse me, but I can't seem to recall your name.”

“Tor,” he said with a good-natured grin. “Tor Johannson.” He pronounced it “Yohannson.”

“You're from... Norway?”

“Sveden! I come over vit my bruders during da var and right off ve got drafted into da army. After a lot of bad stuff, it vas over, and ve vent gold-seeking. Ve came down to Eerie dis year. Ve've been finding gold enough to pay for our beer and beans, but not much more!”

“You speak very good English. Gracious! I don't think I could learn Swedish in a hundred years.”

“Tank you, Mrs. Fanning. You are very kind.”

“Did you come to tell us about the robbers?”

“Yes, and no. It's a funny ting. Out hunting outlaws, I kept tinking that it vas too bad dat you and me didn't get to speak a little more. I t’ought you vere... a handsome woman.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“I am very sad dat your nephew vas killed.”

Irene regarded Tor. Obviously, the deputy had not shared the whole story with him.

“Paul said dat the boy vas shot by da outlaws,” he continued. “He said dey must’ve hid his body somevhere.” Then the man winced, realizing what he was saying. “I am sorry. I shouldn't be talking about anyting so awful.”

“Yes, it's very hard.”
.

“Vhat I came for vas to ask if you vould let me take you to da Christmas dance next veek. Please forgive me if you are already planning to go vit somebody else.”

This surprised the widow. She had almost no social life in Eerie. Now she now realized that she had kept making excuses to avoid socializing until the local men had stopped asking her.

“No, I wasn’t planning on going to the Christmas party. I haven't been invited to such things in a long time.”

“Dat is a shame; a lady like you!”

“I don't wish to be rude, Mr. Johannson, but I’ve heard bad stories about gold miners. Do we have any mutual friends who... who could vouch for your good character? Other than Deputy Grant, I mean?”

“Vell, I go to Styron's hardware store. Dey know me at da Lone Star Saloon and at da Eerie Saloon.” He looked abashed. “I know dat deese do not sound like very gude places to a church lady like yourself. I yoost to go to church a lot in Sveden, but not so much in America. My bruders and me spend our Sundays up in da hills.”

“Myra has said that you fought bravely to rescue her. I'm very grateful.”

“I did vat I had to. I'm sorry you don't troost prospectors, but I von't be one for long, I tink. Paul says dat da sheriff is tinking about hiring a new deputy... Say, Paul said you know Molly O'Toole. I know Molly, too, and her husband, Shamus. I think they vill tell you dat I am a gude person.”

She smiled, liking the way that Tor Johannson pronounced his long 'O's', as when he said O'Toole. “I did think about taking my niece to the Christmas party,” she said, not entirely truthfully. “We might meet one another there… on the dance floor, perhaps.”

He returned the smile. “Yes, it is very possible that ve may. I von't be vit anyone else.”

“I'm quite sure that I won't be, either... except Myra.” She made a sudden, daring decision. “Mr. Johannson, I am forgetting my manners. Myra and I owe you so much. Won’t you stay and join us for dinner?”

He beamed. “I vould be very pleased.”

Irene led him inside and showed him to a chair. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she said.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Vell, dat is a good long bit to be yoost sitting around. Vould you mind if I helped out vit da farm chores till den?”

“Oh, Mr. Johannson. That's not at all necessary! You have done so much already. But -- if you really want to, maybe George, the boy outside, will have some suggestions.”

He excused himself and exited. Irene went outdoors herself, circling around to the west side of the house. The farm widow was testing Myra's willingness to do chores that didn't require hard muscles. The girl had been predictably resistant to the idea, but Irene had no choice but to be firm. She was hoping that such busy work would take the edge off her niece's brooding.

“Myra,” she said, “I've decided that it would be a good idea for us to attend the dance next week. I'll drive us there in our buggy. I expect George – and his family -- will also be coming. You won't have to speak to him if you don't wish to, though.”

The girl stopped scrubbing. “What do you want to go to that dance for?” she demanded. “You'll only be a wallflower, and I'll be miserable.”

“I'll fare well enough. This is a chance for both of us to make new friends. Anyway, I might even find someone willing to dance with me once or twice.” The thought, she considered, pleased her.

Myra frowned. “Who are you talking about?” Then she remembered the man who had ridden up to the house a few minutes before. “You're planning to see that… that foreigner, aren't you?” she accused.

“He's Swedish. Anyway, he helped you, didn't he? Wasn't he a good and brave man?”

The young lady looked peevish, but said nothing.

“Please answer, my girl. Wasn’t he?”

Myra felt obliged to reply. “I got no complaints, but it surely was irritating, listening to him mispronounce everything, all the time.”

Irene was not really listening. She was considering Myra's hair, liking the way that Molly had arranged it. ‘It had looked even nicer before Myra had slept on it.’ On impulse, she reached back and touched the tight bun that she had been wearing ever since she was widowed. That bun had grown to be so much a part of her that she hadn't even considered changing it. But now, for some reason, it no longer seemed that tomorrow always had to be exactly the same as the day before yesterday.

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she said absently. “Mr. Johannson will be joining us. I'll call when things are ready.”

Myra was left where she stood, feeling infuriated. ‘Aunt Irene’s acting like a gooney bird,’ the maiden thought. 'And she’s gonna make me go to that tomfool dance and be a public spectacle!’

It was at moments like this one that she almost wished that that dumb yak Ike Bartram had shot her dead.

Almost.

The End… For Now