Revised May 28, 2022

Chapter 1

THE BELLE OF EERIE, ARIZONA

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 1
.

Tuesday, December 19, 1871

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

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

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

Those words made Myra grit her teeth.

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

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

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

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

Myra scowled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

Myra frowned, not knowing what demure meant.

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

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

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

“Hello,” the girl complied tonelessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if it doesn't look good on me?”

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.

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

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

“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well,” consented Irene.

"The price is two nickles," Kirby volunteered.

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

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

“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you come from Pennsylvania, also?”

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

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

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

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

“Is it a large city?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Myra!” admonished Irene.

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

“A lot of people would,” observed Myra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!” declared Myra.

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

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

“Who?” asked Irene.

“Are ye acquainted with Teresa Diaz?”

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

“The ladies I know swear by her.”

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

“We can only know by asking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Myra shrugged.

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

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

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

“Oh, you're leaving us so soon?”

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

“I understand,” Irene said.

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Olcott,” the maiden responded glumly.

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

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

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

“I'm fine,” Myra said.

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

What an annoying man! Myra was thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED, Chapter 2.

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

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 2

December 19, 1871, Continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain't like most girls!”

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

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

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

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

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

“You ask too many questions.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Every other girl I know loves gossip.”

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

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

“A woman got killed?”

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

“So how did she get the drop on him?”

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

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

“I see myself more as a wolf.”

“A coyote, you should say!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What's it like there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why's that?” asked Kayley.

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

“How come? Don't you like dances?”

“They don’t impress me much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just then, Myra saw her aunt returning with packages.

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

The young ladies turned toward Mrs. Fanning and waved.

“How do you do?” Dale shouted.

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you Ben Meldrem?” George asked.

“I am. What of it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean that she got off somewhere else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

“Nothing much.”

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

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

“Such as what?”

“The dance, mostly.”

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

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

“Maybe they'll like you now.”

She frowned. “Why should they?”

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

“I'm not a girl!”

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

Myra's only reply was the face she made.

“What else did you talk about?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Myra scowled.

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

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

The farmer's grin stiffened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe he's not dead,” spoke up Myra.

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

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

Irene gave her niece a sharp look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3

Posted 10-6-2019
Revised 06-24-2022

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 3

Wednesday, December 20, 1871

At sunup, Aunt Irene rechecked Myra's measurements. Following that, she folded up both party dresses, bagged them, and stowed them on the buckboard for her visit to Teresa Diaz. Myra stated her preference to stay home, and she allowed it.

Looking forward to having several hours alone, the farm girl was hoping that George Severin would not be coming over, that he would instead go with his father into the desert. Why shouldn’t he leap at the chance to ride around the foothills jawing with his fellow hunters, she thought, instead of pitching hog manure at a homestead where he wasn't wanted?

Of all the things she disliked about George, she especially disliked the way he kept talking to her like a girl. Myra could see through his wheedling ways. Boys like George didn’t care about a girl as a person; all that mattered to them was the way she looked. A boy wanted to socialize with a girl only to show her off to his friends, like a fisherman showed off the big trout he’d hooked. Any fetching girl would have served for that purpose. Myron had himself gone after Gilana for no better reason than that she had the prettiest face in Yuma. What she did and what she said didn’t matter a whole lot. What mattered was that he could make the other fellows jealous. It was only later on that he'd found out that she was actually the kind who was fun to be with.

Again Myra found herself glancing up the road, hoping not to see George riding in. To her satisfaction, the approach remained empty.

After feeding the animals, the girl went to milk the cows. Moore than any other farm chore, Myra disliked doing the milking. It just seemed so much like girl’s work. The books always talked about milkmaids, but never milk-lads. On the other hand, Myra fancied horses well enough, though caring for them was both messy and tedious.

It was so frustrating! Myron had become an outlaw to get away from the hard drudgery of farm life. A farmer had to keep scrabbling for pennies until he grew old, sick, and ready to go. Usually, though, he lost his farm to the bank and he’d have to die knowing that his life had been a total waste. If that was how the world rewarded hard work, it surely seemed better to be an outlaw. Wasn't it the outlaw who took his ease and did what he wanted until he needed money, and then he got it with the six-gun without breaking a sweat?

But it hurt to think back on the outlaw life. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to go back to it made Myra’s mood even worse that it already was.

Well, sure, Gilana Hulbard was a girl who seemed to enjoy everything that went with it. Kicking things up in a saloon at least kept away from homemaking.

While doing her chores, Myra found that there was a loose fence rail, its spike having worked its way out of it. But her difficulty in finding a hammer reminded her of her resentment that George had reorganized the farm tools and equipment to his liking. Fine for him, but now she had to waste a lot of time looking for things. After a quarter she found the hammer and secured the fence rail, but it fired her up to go through the sheds and rearrange things according to her own preferences. Myra already knew where to start – at the old feed box. Irene had stopped using it when it had started to leak grain. Since then it had been used for junk storage. Miss Olcott fancied that it should be turned into a hiding place for her own valuables. Maybe down the road she’d find something she wanted to steal and would be in need of a place to hide it.

Inside the large, lidded box, was a mass of mouse nests and scrap wood. Upon digging a little deeper, she hit upon pieces of dry and cracking harness, worn out horseshoes, rusty iron, and broken things in need of repair. She started to wonder how much of it all could be sold to a junk dealer to get it out of the way.

Myra started sorting the refuse into piles upon the hay-littered floor. Near the bottom of the box she touched upon a dusty old wooden case, one bigger and deeper than a cigar box. She remembered it from years before when it was sitting upon a standing shelf beside her parents’ bed. Her mother had saved keepsakes in it – mostly personal letters. She now found that it was still locked and there was no key attached.

The redhead took the case into the light and checked the mechanism. She didn’t think it would be any problem getting it open. Myron had learned how to pick locks from Lydon Kelsey, the local youth who had himself learned breaking and entry from his uncle, a man now away doing time for burglary.

In need of a lock-picking tool, the girl checked the tin can of old nails that she had already found and selected a strong, slender one. As Myra was turning about, she noticed a moving shadow inside the rectangle of sunlight made by the open door.

“George!” she exclaimed.

“Howdy day,” young Severin said. “I was going to start the pen-cleaning again.”

“I thought you’d be going out with your pa looking for Thorn's body.”

“Oh, he asked me if I’d like to trail along. In fact, I wouldn't have minded that one bit, but I'd already told Mrs. Fanning that I'd be back at work today. Also, I just don't think that Pa and the others are going to find what they're looking for.”

“Why's that?”

“Just a hunch.”

“A convenient hunch.”

“Why convenient?” asked George.

“You never liked Thorn. Maybe you'd actually prefer to leave him to the vultures.”

“Did your aunt say I didn't like Thorn?”

“No.”

“Then why do you suppose I didn't? You don’t know anything about what went on. You said you’d never met Myron and that you'd never even gotten a letter from him.”

“Just a hunch,” she said in mimicry.

“As a matter of fact, the two of us weren’t friends,” the boy said. “But I do want him to be found, so this awful thing can be put behind you and Mrs. Fanning.”

“That’ld be nice, but what I want put behind me is all these chores. We've both got things to keep busy at.”

“Before you disappear, Miss Myra, there was something I wanted to ask.”

“What now?”

“Pa said you told him and Mr. Grimsley that you weren't so sure that Myron was dead.”

She shrugged. “I was just thinking out loud. It's not important.”

“How can your cousin being alive not be important?”

“I guess I was saying only what I hoped could be true. But, honestly, how could a person last this long out in the open -- hungry, no water, cold. And people say he’d been gut-shot. He’s got to be dead.”

“Well, I look at it the same way. But what if the outlaws actually did take him away alive?

“They wouldn't have done that.”

“How do you know?”

“Common sense. A wounded man would have slowed up their getaway. Those snakes would rather have finished him themselves than to doddle along with an injured man and get caught. Or so I think.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “By the way, are you still going to the party?”

Myra was glad to change of subject. “Nothing’s changed. Irene is dragging me to it. I just hope that you’re not going to make a pest of yourself while I'm there.”

He smiled. “Sorry, but if you don’t like company, you'll have to put up with more of it today. Dale and Kayley are planning to come over. They’ve gotten it into their heads that you want to get some dancing lessons.”

“Those silly females! I didn't ask for dancing lessons. It was all their own idea.”

“Yep, that’s sounds like the sort of kind of thing that those two would cook up.”

Myra sniffed. “For a lonely old farmstead, this place is getting more than its share of visitors.”

“Doesn’t a little company now and then serve to break up the routine?”

“To each his own,” said the girl, stepping widely around George on her way to the exit.

Young Severin called after her. “If you mind your manners, you’ll end up with a couple friends you can count on.”

Pausing, she looked back. “I’ll say one thing, Mr. Severin. It’ld be better to have a couple of girls chattering at me than have to stand around listening to you.”

“Oh, I'll be nearby, too. I'll be stopping in at the house for a bite to eat. I got accustomed to Mrs. Fanning feeding me up right well.”

“My aunt told me about your bottomless appetite. I hope you don't have anything against cold grub. Just don’t take too much time jawing instead of eating. You got chores to do!”

Myra picked up the locked box as she passed by it.

“What’s in that there little box?” George inquired.

“That’s for me to know, and you to...not find out.”

She left the barn then with the case tucked it under her right arm.

#

Once indoors, Myra checked the clock on the high shelf. It was more than an hour to noon, time enough to throw together a hot meal if she felt like it, but she had another pastime on her mind.

The girl reached into her coat pocket and took out the salvaged nail. Then, drawing up a chair at the table, she rechecked the case’s lock. It wasn't cleverly made and so, using the nail, she got it popped open in just a minute’s time. As expected, the thing was stuffed full of letters.

Myra she took the top letter and saw that it was from Aunt Claudelle. Inside was a card with a brief note wishing her mom well for the Christmas season. Myra couldn't remember ever meeting Claudelle. She had barely known even Uncle Amos.

But as uninformative as the missive was, it felt strange to be reading something written to her mother as if she were still alive. The words on paper seemed like a voice speaking though the long, empty years.

Myra went on to skim a few more of the letters. Addie Caldwell's most frequent correspondent had been Aunt Irene. Irene's letters tended to be long ones, mostly talking about what was going on back East. A lot of what Myra saw had been written during the short period that Irene had been married. One of them, with its ink tear-streaked, told how her husband had died in Tennessee.

Myra looked up at the clock again. The time was passing quickly. Though she wanted to keep on reading, she had to put together some kind of lunch for George. If she didn’t, Aunt Irene was going to make it a binding order next time and she didn’t want that. Also, if he showed up at the door and the food wasn't ready, the lazy cuss would stand around jabbering at her while he waited. The less talking they did, the better. Myra therefore opened a can of beans and spooned some of them into a pair of sauce dishes – one for George and one for herself. Hopefully, she could get hers eaten and be away from the table before he came in. In her opinion, a decent meal had to have meat, so she went to explore the pantry.

Her aunt kept the pantry door shut most of the time during the winter, with the little window to the outside half-open. That turned the small room into a cool space for food. There were some chubs of bologna wrapped in rags and sealed with paraffin. Though Myra didn’t like the task, the fragrant meat brought back positive recollections of Christmas time, when everyone was allowed to eat their fill.

Myra found a chub that Irene had already been cutting from. The farm girl chose to use that one, since sausage left open to the air wouldn't stay fresh for long. She cut a portion for herself and a larger one for George. She might as well fill him up right off, so he wouldn’t hang around waiting for her to serve seconds. Next, she sliced the end off a loaf of bread, put some churned butter into a small dish, and ladled some cooked apples into a fruit bowl from an already-opened jar.

Back in the kitchen Myra took stock and decided she hadn’t assembled much of a meal, not one that she’d enjoy eating herself. One things she had to fix was the lack of a beverage. Therefore, she went into the root cellar to pour a pitcher full of the fresh milk from the can she had started filling that morning. Once back in the house, she filled a pair of tin cups, for herself and George.

Then, deeming the preparations sufficient, the girl gave a sigh of relief.

Myra didn’t think there was time enough to read any more of the letters before George showed up, so she put them into two bundles tied with bits of string – one bundle for those already read, and one for the other ones. Then the girl concealed the box under her aunt's bed, just before a tapping sounded on the door. Expecting it to be George, she called over her shoulder, “Yeah!”

But the voices answering her came from Kayley and Rosedale. They stepped right in, toting along their carry-alls. Myra managed a welcoming smile, though she was scarcely in the mood for company.

“I guess it is lunch time,” said Kayley.

“Yeah. Do you need a bite?” Myra asked, hoping that they weren’t hungry.

“An apple, maybe,” said Dale. “Kayley and I lunched just before we started over.”

“How long can you stay,” Myra asked, meaning in actuality, “How long will I have to put up with you?”

“We don’t need to be home until supper time!” Dale replied.

That's going to be a long time, Myra thought. She sure hoped that they wouldn’t start talking about girls’ bodies. A girl’s body belonged in a fellow’s bed, not in decent conversation.

“Hey now!” exclaimed George, stepping in from outside. “Isn't it nice to be having dinner with three fetching ladies – even if one of them is only my homely little sister?”

“Homely! You mangy coyote!” Dale answered him back.

“It's still five minutes to noon,” Myra reminded the youth.

“I didn't think you'd mind,” the Severin said. “I’m figuring that it'll be best to get the chowing done so you three can get on with those dancing lessons. I know how powerfully excited you’ve been about digging into that.”

Dale shook her head. “Men always make fun of people who are trying to learn something new.”

“Always,” agreed Kayley. “Like, I want to learn to drive the buggy, but my dad talks as if I was asking him to let me break a bronco.”

“I think you could give a bronc a good fight of it,” teased George.

“You talk like a brother,” the Grimsley girl responded, “and that's not a good thing.”

“How come? Haven’t you’ve got Jeremy for a brother? What have you got against him?”

“Nothing. And we weren't talking about Jeremy, not until you brought him up.”

“Don’t worry about what your pa says. I can drive a buggy and I can teach you, Kayley,” broke in Rosedale.

“You would?” the neighbor girl asked.

“I've said it, haven't I?”

“That would be jim-dandy!” said Kayley. Looking back at the boy, she asked, “Why didn't you offer to do the same for me first, George?”

“’Cause I respect your pa. If he wanted you driving, he'd be teaching you himself. A neighbor should mind his own business when it comes to dealing with another person’s family.”

“Myra doesn't seem to care for fussy rules like that.”

“Well, it’s not my business what Myra should or shouldn't be doing. But your folks already think that our Dale is a wild girl for being allowed to drive a carriage horse at such a young age”

“Never mind,” said Dale. “Eat up your meal before your victuals get cold.”

“No rush,” her brother said. “If Myra is a truthful person, they’re already cold.”

“I'm not much of a cook,” the ginger-maned girl explained.

“You can't cook?” said Kayley. “Oh, you have to learn, or else you're not going to find the best kind of husband. Dale and I can teach you cooking.”

“We’ll, see,” Myra hedged. “My aunt’s is already teaching me that. You know what they say about too many cooks.”

“Come on, you gals, don't try to change Myra into a mirror-image of yourselves,” advised George. “I think she's mighty nice the way she is.”

“Listen to you flatter!” teased his sister. “You want to sweeten her up so that she’ll want to dance with you!”

The boy shrugged. “We’ll both be at the dance. Maybe I'll be able to persuade her to dance with me once or twice,” he said.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Kayley. “They always do square dancing. She'll need to get ready for that. Myra, square dancing is the hardest thing to learn. It takes at least four people to teach it right. George, can you stay and help us show Myra some dance steps?”

“I'm not sure I should. I won't get a whole lot done if I don’t get at it quick. Today and tomorrow are the shortest days of the year, you know.”

“If you want to make Myra like you, this is the way to start,” suggested Rosedale, trying to keep from giggling.

“Maybe George is right,” replied Myra.

“Oh, pshaw! You’re just afraid that you won’t be any good at square dancing!” exclaimed Dale. “But a person can do almost anything if he’s willing to learn.”

“Eat up quick, you two. We want to get started right away,” urged Kayley.

George was shaking his head.“This sounds like it's going to take a lot of time, and I don't have much time on my hands.”

“Would you do it if we let Myra be your partner?” Dale asked.

The youth put a sausage into his mouth without answering.

#

When George pushed his chair back from the table, Kayley started wheedling him. “If you just help us with the square dance, Dale and I will be able to teach Myra the simpler dances.”

“I guess I can lend a helping hand,” George conceded. “But if this foolery runs on for too long, I'll be needing to come back to finish up on another day.”

“Aunt Irene isn’t going to pay you for square dancing,” Miss Olcott reminded him.

“Well,” he smiled, “it sounds like Miss Myra is so determined to get my help that I don’t feel like I have much choice.”

“That's perfect!” beamed Dale. “George, let me wear your hat.”

“What for?” he asked.

“So Myra can tell who the men dancers are, or else she'll get confused.”

“I can be one of the men,” offered Myra.

“Don't be silly,” Dale replied. “You’ll need all the time you have just to find out how a girl dances.”

“Let's get on with this, so George can head back to his chores,” the ginger recommended.

“Well, Myra,” Dale said, “if you know any square dancing at all, you'll know that two people start out side by side and end back up together after some other dance movements. Before the dance is over, one person will have danced with everybody else.”

“I wish we had a caller,” remarked Kayley.

“I know a couple of dancing songs!” said Dale. “The hard thing is dancing and singing at the same time! Come on, choose your partners.”

Miss Severin stepped up and took Myra's hand, leaving George and Kayley as the second pair. The two couples took positions facing one another.

“All right then,” Dale continued. “Kayley and George, you start things out with the Salute.”

Kayley obligingly put her right foot forward and turned to face George. After giving him a curtsy, she turned toward Dale and curtsied once more.

“Nice,” said Dale. “Let Myra see it again, but don't move so quickly this time.”

Step by step, Dale led the others through the five stages of the dance, the end of which left even the lively Kayley panting.

“Can I be going back to the pen now so I can do something that’s easier?” asked George of his sister.

“Oh, no,” Dale said. “The lesson won't stick with Myra unless we do the whole thing over again at least a couple more times.”

“Ay yi yi! Where do you girls get so much energy from?” the youth asked.

“Lazy bones!” the younger Severin accused. “How are you going to build up a farm of your own if you don’t have enough energy to dance at a Christmas party?”

“I haven't decided that I’m going to be a farmer yet,” he said. “I've been thinking about going to sea. At least it'ld take me out to where those pretty island girls are.”

“Go to sea?” Dale exclaimed. “You've never set eyes on an ocean in all your born days!”

“That’s right,” added Kayley, “and I bet those island gals aren't half as pretty as they’re made to look in those drawings. There’s probably even prettier young ladies right here in Eerie!”

“You may have a point,” agreed George. “Some of the girls around town are real doozies.”

“Are you talking about those potion girls?” asked Kayley. “They make me nervous. Don't they seem spooky to you?”

George shrugged. “I can’t say. Myra, do you think potion girls are spooky?”

“'Potion girls' again! What in tarnation are you talking about?”

“I'd be glad to fill you in, once we get this foolery done with,” offered George.

The practice went on for a couple hours more and left four of them every bit as tired as bull-riders. Dale, especially, had gone hoarse from having sung “Oh, Those Golden Slippers” so many times.

#

The young people afterwards refreshed themselves with some milk and canned apples. George was finally able to go out to work, but Kayley and Dale remained excited about teaching Myra some other dances. The latter wasn't eager, but tried not to show it.

“Myra,” said Dale, “we're still hoping to see that party dress of yours. It must really be something. George couldn't stop complimenting it. Normally, he’ll laugh at the best dresses that Kayley or I show him.”

“Did you have lots of good dresses before they got lost in the stream?” asked Kayley.

“Oh, I had some,” Myra said dismissively. “But I don't know why people always go on so about clothing. The way I see it, if you’re not naked, you’re pretty much all right.”

“You surprise us, Myra,” said Kayley. “To hear folks tell it, you Eastern women and girls are supposed to talk about clothing all the time.”

“All the silly women and girls, do,” replied Myra. “But good clothes are deucedly expensive. I think there're better things to be talking about, or to spending money on.”

“Like what?” asked Dale.

“Like good meals, maybe.”

“Restaurants? But would you want to go into a restaurant if you weren't dressed your best?”

Myra shook her head. “I don’t usually worry my head about what other people are thinking.”

“I'd still like to see your party dress?” importuned Kayley.

“I can't show you now,” Myra said. “Aunt Irene took it over to that Mexican woman in town to get it fitted.”

“That's too bad,” said Dale. “We came on the wrong day.”

“Isn’t that how it always happens?” added Kayley.

“Myra?” said Dale.

“What?”

“A little while ago, you talked like you didn't know what a potion girl is.”

“No, I don't. Why should I?”

“Everybody around here knows about potion girls.”

“Dale,” broke in Kayley. “I think we should leave it to Mrs. Fanning to explain anything as important as that to Myra.”

“Sure, that's fine with me,” agreed Miss Olcott.

“But it sounds like Irene hasn't told her anything yet,” pressed the Severin girl. “And if Myra finds it out all by herself, she might be afraid, or even have nightmares.”

Myra threw up her hands. “Whatever it is, it sounds unpleasant. If the subject is so all-fired important, I'll make Aunt Irene tell me all about it tonight.”

“That may be the best way to go,” affirmed Kayley. “Just remember, Myra, even though it might sound awful, we don’t have a bad town here. That there has to be potion girls is mostly just sad.”

“Wouldn't a hanging be even sadder?” asked Dale.

“Yes, I suppose it would,” affirmed Kayley. “But it wouldn't be any stranger.”

After that, Miss Severin urged them back into the lessons. Fortunately, none of these other dances were as difficult as square dancing. There was the polka, the waltz, the Virginia reel, something that Dale pronounced as the “quadrilly,” and a dance that was like a slow polka. Even though that one came from Germany, it was called a “Scottish dance.” Myra could only suppose that the Germans misnamed it deliberately because they didn't want to get the blame.

Before too long, Irene's buckboard was heard rattling along the carriage road. Dale and Kayley started gathering up their things. Irene, upon entering, greeted her young neighbors, but because they were running late, they couldn't stay and chat for very long.

“Those are nice girls,” she told Myra after Dale and Kayley had gone outside, “but they always seem to be in a hurry. What did the three of you talk about?”

“I’d rather not repeat that silly stuff.”

Irene regarded her niece with interest. “What is it that you'd rather not talk about?”

Myra knew that she couldn't hold back anything if her aunt really wanted to know it. “They wanted to show me how to dance, in case I went to the Christmas shindig.”

“That's very nice of them. How it it go?”

“Dancing is simple. But it's a big waste of time, if you ask me.”

Without replying, Irene turned her attention to opening the bundle that she had brought back from town. While her back was turned, Myra shoved the box of letters farther under Irene's bed, using her heel.

“Teresa will need more time to finish my dress,” Irene reported, not looking Myra's way. “She said I should come back in the afternoon. Tomorrow morning, in better light, we’ll look at your dress again. If there is anything still wrong, Teresa said she’d be able to adjustment it in time. By the way, did you get much work done before the girls came by?”

“The morning work, sure. But they came in at noon and killed the whole rest of the day.”

“That's fine,” her elder replied. “It's good to be introducing yourself to people. Just don't use visitors as an excuse to neglect necessary work.”

“They wore me out with all that prancing around. I’m thinking that chores would’ave been a lot easier on my feet.”

“That's a good attitude. But now it's milking time again. If you don’t move quickly, the light will be lost.”

Myra drew on her chore coat and went outdoors, happy enough to stop talking about the visit.

George was still out by the pen, packing up for the day. Miss Olcott observed that he hadn't finished the entire job. “You ain't done yet?” she asked.

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “Don't worry, I'll get it finished before Christmas. By the way, did the girls show you the waltz and reel?”

“What's it to you?”

He ignored her tone. “You've got a knack for dancing. Maybe you want to show off some of what you learned today. Oh, dem golden slippers...” he began to sing.

“If I had any wants, they wouldn't concern you, Mr. Severin. Now stand aside; I've got a mess of work to get done before dark.”

“Okay, then. I'll be back tomorrow morning, unless something gets in the way. Like if pa and the others found something in the desert.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Myra confided.

#

Thursday, December 21, 1871

Right after breakfast, Irene had Myra model the party dress. Clearly, Senora Diaz had done a good job and the garment didn’t need any more adjusting.

After morning chores, the twenty-first of December became a busy day with Irene making pies, cakes, and biscuits, with Myra helping at every stage. Following lunch, Mrs. Fanning made another trip into town to visit the Diaz house. Myra was left keeping a close watch on the baking so that nothing got burned.

Alone again, Myra sat down. She had had her fill of kitchen work. It wasn't that she disliked good food, but cooking was another of those things that only women should be doing. She was thinking that this situation wouldn't have happened if she had joined up at one of the forts that Myron had passed by on his travels. He’d decided not to do so because federal soldiers only cleared about $15 per month, that being even worse than a cowpoke's wages -- which stood at around $25.

Right after he had left Eerie, Myron had lived as a simple drifter, spending most of his nights out in the open, even in the rain. It was a lucky day when he could run down a stray chicken to eat. But doing that had taught him something: Ever every irate farmer seemed ready and willing to shoot a hen-stealer, no matter what the Good Book said.

He was glad enough to have taken up with Ike and the Freely boys. The selling of an occasional stolen beef or two had been enough to keep them in beans and, occasionally, let them buy a beer and a town meal. That was little enough, but it was something.

If she had a choice, Myra realized, she'd happily go back to the outlaw trail, as hard as it could get. On the contary, what could a woman do that was interesting or exciting? She knew that Irene had worked as a cleaning lady out East, living practically destitute. Cooks earned better wages, but those jobs were scarce. Anyway, Myra was a bad cook and working at getting better didn’t appeal to her.

The only women earning decent money seemed to be the cat house girls. But folks said whores got old old faster than anyone else. In Myra's opinion, it was better to be any kind of male bum rather than an old whore. Even the young ones seemed to have a hard time of it, most of them being pushed around by boy friends who acted like everything they earned belonged to them. Myra just couldn’t imaging any appealing life as a female.

Trying not to thing about the subject, Myra finished her chores and about the same time Irene came back from Eerie with her fitted dress. Then, following a hurried supper, the two of them went back to baking. By eight o'clock they had no choice but to light most of the lanterns and candles in the house to be able to see their hands in front of their faces.

In the midst of all that kitchen work, her aunt suddenly said, “I'll need some rhubarb from the root cellar.”

“Do I have to go out and get it for you?” asked Myra.

“No, I've been on standing in one place for hours; I need to stretch my legs. The floor is a mess of flour, sugar, and dough. Start sweeping it up and I'll be right back.”

Mrs. Fanning bustled outside, leaving Myra with a moment to rest. She looked up at the loft, where she had hidden the letter box that afternoon. She hankered to get back to reading more of those letters, but there just wasn’t time. So she started sweeping, so Irene wouldn’t have anything to complain about when she came back.

TO BE CONTINUED in CHAPTER 4.

Posted 12-06-19
Revised 07-10-22

.
Friday, December 22, 1871

After breakfast, Irene was ready to set out for town. She’d be taking most of the holiday baking over to the home of one of the church ladies, the one was collecting the parishioners' food contributions. She and her helpers, which included Irene, would be responsible for setting up the Christmas feast. Myra, meanwhile, was staying home to take care of the chores.

Myra didn’t like anything about chores, but she preferred doing them to being under the eyes of the old ladies of the town – and especially Aunt Irene's watchful eyes.

By hurrying through the tasks that needed doing, the girl was trying to give herself more time to read the remaining letters. Because Irene wouldn't like her doing it, it only made her want to do it more. Getting away with something always gave her a good feeling. A little misbehavior now and then was all the more important because there wasn’t much that she could get away on account of that damned magic.

She went in for lunch and at the end of it, there still had been no sign of George. Now that it was afternoon, it seemed unlikely that the farm boy would be showing up, the December days being so short. Fine. That improved her mood. The more privacy she had, the better.

After reading several trivial letters, Myra opened one sent by Aunt Irene, dated from late April of 1866.

“Dear Addie,

“Your last letter has alarmed me. What can possibly put you into such a sad and nervous state? What are the past misdeeds that you are alluding to? And why are you saying that God cannot forgive you and Edgar because of them? Was it not my older sister who taught me about the saving grace of faith? It was from you that I learned that He can, and will, forgive any evil deed, just so long as it is earnestly repented. I know you are a good and tender person, Addie, and your husband is an honest man. Neither of you could ever stray far enough to be beyond the reach of God's forgiveness. What causes you such anguish? If I understand you, it happened years ago, so why has your sorrow not faded away after years of prayer? Dear one, why did you not alert me sooner to your distress, so that I could have offered you comfort and consolation?

“Whatever has brought you to this state, it cannot be as terrible as you suppose. Your are sorrowful and it is only the good person who beats his breast and pours ashes on his head, not the careless and consistent sinner. The Good Book names very few sins beyond the pale of forgiveness. Surely you have committed none of the abominable acts that St. Paul decries in Romans. Whatever errors you have made, or believe that you have made, the scope of your grief is what tells me that your moral sense is strong and unbroken. The Scriptures constantly affirm with certainty that repentance brings forgiveness. And surely the path of grace is open to Edgar, also.

“You are saying that if the truth were known, you and Edgar would come to scorn and would have to leave the Arizona territory in disgrace. Do I understand correctly that you and Edgar even stand in fear of jail? Search your heart, dear sister. Tell me truthfully, is it is God's scorn that you fear, or is it only the unkind sentiments of your neighbors? If the latter, think not on the opinion of flawed mankind. Think instead on God, who already knows your every misdeed and will judge them fairly against the atonement that you have already done.

“What seems a crime in the eyes of one is not always held to be so in the eyes of another. Wasn't the blameless Stephen stoned to death in Jerusalem merely for celebrating the glory of Christ Eternal? But though Stephen endured a wicked judgment, we can hardly suppose that the Lord denied that sainted man a heavenly home. Remember what is written: 'Fear not them which may kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.'

“You say that you dare not tell me more of this affair because it would make me ashamed of you. Dear Addie, do you regard me as so faithless? Whatever your shortcomings, I will not give you less love than the good father gave to his Prodigal Son. Whatever you choose to confide in me, I will listen to in the spirit of compassion, not in harsh judgment. I vow to not abandon you, no matter what sin you declare. Until I hear from my sister again, I will be praying for you and Edgar constantly.”

Myra blinked in amazement and looked again at the letter's date. It had been written not long before her mother and father had died!

Hastily, the girl began searching the box for a later letter sent by Irene. When unable to find such a postmark, the girl skimmed all the letters, regardless of dates, but found nothing in them that threw any light upon the mystery.

Myra wanted to know more. What could her parents have possibly done to plunge themselves into such a nervous state? Her aunt had no right to conceal matters that were of utmost importance to other members of the family. She was impatient for Irene to return home, being determined to confront her.

But a moment’s reflection sank Myra into discouragement. If challenged too boldly, her aunt would simply give her the order not to bring the subject up again – not with her, and not with anyone else.

Having no other recourse, Myra went back to the perplexing letter and studied it word for word.

The postmark read April 29, 1866. It would have taken a couple of weeks for a letter to reach Arizona from Pennsylvania. No, it would have taken longer. In 1866, the Union Pacific was still in Nebraska and all mail West was being carried by horse and wagon. Her mother would have received the letter toward the end of May. If her mother had written back swiftly, Irene would have heard from her in the last part of June. If Irene then hurried back a response, her mother couldn't have read it before the last half of July. But by middle July, Myron’s mother and father had already died. That last letter from Irene wasn't here.

Why not? What would the post office have done with it?

Myra knew that the incoming mail to Eerie would go to the postal shelf in Silverman’s store, where the farmers picked up their mail there as soon as they could. But what about mail never picked up? What then? If Silverman knew that the recipient was deceased, the letter would be marked to that effect and returned to Pennsylvania? Was that when Irene had decided to give up on her home town and come to Arizona?She had arrived in early October.

But in August Myron had gotten his aunt's letter, when he was living with the Severins. Probably Silverman knew where Myron was, a would deliver it to the place he knew the boy was staying. Or had the Severins written before that, to tell her the tragic news?

But what would have happened to the earlier letter from her aunt, the one written before she knew that her sister had died?

At that moment, Myra heard the clop of shod hooves on the carriage road. From the window she espied the neighbors -- Singer, Severin, and Grimsley -- dismounting. A growl sounded low in her throat. This was absolutely not a time when she wanted to bother with visitors.

Meeting them outside, she controlled her feelings and called out in even tones: “What news, neighbors?!”

“Bad news,” I would say,” said Tully Singer, a fortyish man with a wide brown mustache and chin beard. “We searched high and low. There's been no sign of your cousin's body.”

Myra didn’t reply. Unable to forget her dislike for Singer, she didn’t want him to do her any favors.

Walt Severin next spoke up. “Is you aunt at home, Miss Myra?”

“No, sir. She's in town. She'll probably be home before dark.”

“Well then, we’ll leave it to you to fill her in. We had no luck. At first we were following the hunch that Thorn was probably killed at the holdup site and the outlaws hid the body nearby. We searched that little canyon first, but nothing turned up.”

“Where else did you look?” Myra asked.

“The way we figured it,” said Grimsley, “the outlaws could have hidden it farther out. They were most likely going west, toward Yuma. They wouldn't have cared to head east, 'cuz that would take them through Eerie. If they went north, they couldn’t make good headway, given all those canyons and mountains. The way south isn’t much better, unless they had a hanker to get over the Mexican border. But if the fellows wanted to have water and food along the way, they’d go west, keeping close to the Gila River.”

“When riding west didn’t lead us to anything, we circled back the Mexico way,” put in Tully Singer. “Same story. No trace.”

“Who knows?” said Walt Severin, “Thorn might have been alive when they left here. If he died on the way to Yuma, they'd have hidden him quite a ways from here. Or maybe he's still alive. Who can say?”

Myra shook her head. “Dead or alive, you can be sure that he'll never show up in these parts again. What outlaw would ride into a town where he'd be arrested in two shakes?”

“We're inclined to agree,” said Singer. “We're durn sorry that we weren't able to bring you ladies better news for a Christmas present.”

“You've done all anyone could expect from good neighbors,” said the girl. “I thank you, and my aunt thanks you, too. Get on home now and rest up. It's the time of year that you should be with your families.”

“Right you are there,” agreed Grimsley. “Take care, Miss Myra.”

“Just a moment,” said the girl. “Would any of you gents know about what happened to the mail that must have come in for the Caldwells during the weeks before Aunt Irene arrived in '66?”

Walt Severin took the question. “That's a long time ago. Why do you need to know that, missy?”

“I'm interested in family history,” she replied.

“Well,” said Severin, “my wife and me were standing in as Myron's temporary guardians. Silverman held out the mail that your legal guardian would rightly have to deal with later – like bills coming due. I put those into your farm house. All the rest, the personal letters, would have been sent back by Aaron, I suppose.”

"What about letters written by Irene?"

"I don't recall that there were any. We did get one sent to our house, It was for Myron.

“How did Irene find out Myron was with you?” Myra asked.

“Well, right after the bad thing happened, my wife sent Mrs. Fanning a letter explaining it all. She knew what town Irene was at because she was friends with your aunt Addie. All she had to do was to address it in care of the town’s post office.”

Myra nodded, looking thoughtful.

Without much more ado, the neighbors wished the girl well and then moved off toward their own homes.

With her privacy restored, Myra went indoors and put away the box of correspondences, while holding out the important letter. She felt low, mulling over the idea that her parents could have been cheats or thieves. All her memories of them were good ones and it riled her that the letter had left muddy footprints all over her recollections. She knew she would never be able to rest easy until she found out what had happened.

The girl sat down and tried hard to remember everything she could about those long-ago days. She recalled that her parents were having trouble about money and often talked about it. Though poor, they they hadn't been gloomy people. Then, suddenly, they had stopped smiling and joking. Myron realized something was bothering them, but they wouldn't tell him what it was. Myra remembered that she had had that on her mind while reading in the newspaper how General Lee had whipped the hell out of Grant at Cold Harbor. That battle had happened in early June in the spring 1864, so Myra had a date for when her parents had started to act differently.

With house getting colder, Myra threw a couple sticks of mesquite into the stove's fire box and then returned to her chair to continue stirring up more recollections. It was about the same time, she recalled, that her folks stopped talkng about debts and bankers. Instead, her folks started talking about bills being paid off and about what improvements they wanted to make -- like putting in the windmill.

And other things had changed, too. The food had gotten better. Ma started buying more canned goods and fresh produce from Ortega's grocery. They got in more hogs and a few turkeys.The rusty and beat-up tools in the shed were soon replaced with newer ones. At the same time, his mothers blackened pots and rusty pans went out to the hen house to serve for grain pans. The kitchen shelves came to be filled with shiny new kettles and utensils. Most memorable of all, they started giving Myron store-bought toys.

Pa had started going into Phoenix more often than he had before, even though it was about sixty miles away. In fact, most of the new things were bought there. Whenever he returned from the big town, he had something flashy to show to his son.

But though the times seemed good, his folks kept talking about hard times whenever visitors dropped in. And they rarely showed off any of their nice things. In fact, his mother and father had asked him to keep his toys out of sight in their box whenever guests were coming. “Visitors'll think we're spoiling you,” was the only reason they ever gave. At the same time, ma would serve the guests using the coffee pot that had so much of its enamel broken off and did the cooking in a black and crusty old skillet instead of a new one from the pantry.

Why such odd behavior? Was it possible that her elders had gotten money from doing something dishonest and didn’t want people asking about how they could be spending so much?

But if her parents were cheating or stealing, where were they doing it? In a poor town like Eerie? Well, sure, there was gold in the mountains and Myra had heard about prospectors being robbed, with some of them being killed. But she couldn’t conceive of her folks doing anything like that. If they had, it would make them no better than outlaws!

At that point, the seventeen-year-old wanted to stop thinking about the old days.

But she couldn’t.

#

Myra gave the cows their second milking a little before the regular time, hoping that busy work would help her stop thinking about things. Afterward, she ate a little, but spent the twilight time mostly staring into the flames she saw in the stove's firebox slits. Before it became really dark, Aunt Irene through the door.

“Haven't you started anything heating for supper yet?” her aunt asked after a quick look-around.

Myra shook her head to clear it. “I – I was sitting by the fire and dozed off.”

The woman shook her head. “Well, we'll have to make up for lost time. Have you milked the cows yet?”

“Yes. But I have to tell you something.”

“What's that?”

“The neighbors came by. They've given up hunting for my body.”

“What exactly did they say?”

“What do you think? They said they couldn't find anything.”

The farm woman sighed. “It's too bad we had to let them waste their time. But I couldn't think of anything that would stop them without making them ask questions."

“Oh, by the way,” Myra said, “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of George all day. I always figured that for all his showing off, he was actually allergic to hard work.”

“Well, maybe he'll come by tomorrow. Everyone gets extra-busy near the holidays. But I have something to tell you, too.”

“Will it make this day even worse?”

“It depends. I was approached by a member of the Ladies' Society at church. They've already talked to to Reverend Yingling about having a memorial service done for you after Christmas.”

“More tomfoolery!”

“I didn’t care for the idea myself, but I couldn’t says no. Instead I told them that our neighbors were searching for the body and suggested that any memorial should wait for that. But now, with the search over, I’m thinking that it will be for the best if we let our friends hold the service. That way the town can get closure about Myron and set their minds on other things.”

“Why can't people just forget about a person they didn't even like and mind their own business?”

“Their hearts are in the right place, Myra. It’s their way of honoring us, just as they would honor any other decent family in Eerie.”

“We're not such a decent family.”

“Are you talking about yourself, or me?”

“They can't possibly care about me being dead. I suppose we’re going to have to pay for the lunch they'll be gobbling down at the service.”

“No, there’ll be a potluck lunch. One good thing in this is that it will be a good chance to introduce you to the community. The sooner we do that, the less curiosity will be direct your way. Just talk polite to people and try to show a decent amount of grief for Myron.”

“How much grief are you feeling?” the redhead asked.

Irene gave her a quizzical look. “I don't know what you mean. You're not dead.”

Myra turned away. “I'm not as sure about that as you are,” she stated.

#

Saturday, December 23, 1871

That night, Myra lay restless on her sleeping mat, thinking – or trying not to think -- about Irene's letter. Though tired, sleep refused to come and time itself seemed to hang around the loft like the dangling cobwebs. The only night sound to be heard was the rattle of the tree behind the house, being shaken by the December wind.

She kept wondering how much Irene knew about the mystery of 1866. She had a hunch that her aunt must have learned more information after her mother's last letter.

Of course, the girl couldn’t be sure that there had been a last letter. Maybe her ma was too broken to write more about what was bothering her. But the odds were that there had been one last letter.

Damn it! thought Myra. If it wasn't for that stupid Indian potion, she could have gone to her aunt and demand answers. But, as things stood, she didn't dare do that.

She kept trying to think of any honest way that her folks could have come into money. Nobody had a lot in Eerie, except the merchants who sold prospectors supplies at high prices. It had seemed that the only ways to get ahead was to find gold or pull a robbery or swindle. But if they had gotten away with a crime, why had she never heard people talking about it?

What a minute! If something big had happened, somebody had to remember! And lot of the locals would be turning up at the Christmas party! If she attended it, she’d be able to speak to almost anyone she wanted to, and do it in a completely innocent setting.

The town function that she had disliked so much up to now had just become an affair that she absolutely had to attend!

Shortly after breakfast, George Severin rode in. From the window, Myra stood watching the youth set up. It dawned on her that the snoopy hired man might know something about the dirty business that went on around Eerie.

Putting on a coat and stocking cap, she went outside and made for the hog yard. “Finally showed up, huh?” the ginger said in way of starting a conversation.

The farm boy stabbed his manure fork into the ground and touched the brim of his straw hat in greeting. “Howdy, Miss Myra. I know I said I’d come by yesterday, but my pa wanted me to fix up one of our old sheds for winter, since he was committed to going out again to look for your unfortunate cousin. By the way, I'm plum sorry that Pa and the neighbors didn’t find anything. Hopefully you and Mrs. Fanning aren't feeling too down about that.”

Myra shrugged. “It hit us pretty hard yesterday, but we've had time to sleep on it.”

“Losing kin is hard,” George commiserated. “Anyway, I wanted to get an early this morning since I’m fixing to go into town and take one of those fancy baths. I’ve even got my party duds packed in my saddle bags so I won’t have to come all the way back home to get them. By the way, are you going to ride your own horse to the party?”

“No, Irene and me will come in on the buckboard.” Now Myra decided to bring up the subject that she really wanted to know about. “George, I've been wondering, was that stagecoach robbery last week the biggest crime that’s ever come off around Eerie?”

The unexpected question made the youth’s eyebrows rise. “Well, now,” he said, “I reckon that it has to be one of the biggest. But Eerie can be a rip-roaring place every now and then. Like, last summer, the Hanks gang rode into town. It seems like they were dead-set on gunning down Sheriff Talbot.”

Myra frowned; the boy might have been angling to bring up the subject of potion girls again! Out on the trail she’d read the story in the papers. But from Molly she’d learned that the outlaws were all still alive and working as saloon women. In fact, she had even met one of them, the so called Bridget Kelly. Damn! If Myron had known that the town had gone crazy, he’d never have come within fifty miles of the place.

“Why that strange expression, Miss Myra?” George asked.

“Nothing. But I’m curious to know why you think Eerie is so rip-roaring. Have there been a lot of robberies? How were things back during the war years?”

“The war years? That's an awfully long time ago, missy. I was only about ten. The big excitement back then was that some folks hereabouts saw some real live Confederates passing buy. A troop of them rode into Phoenix in ‘62, and then skedaddled once the federals started to get close. What makes you so interested? Is it because you’ve been reading too many of those dime novels?”

She gave a toss with her right hand. “I read them sometimes. They make me hope that a person's life doesn't always have to be dull and ordinary.”

“After being kidnapped by the Bertram gang, I’d have thought you’d enjoy having things calm down.”

Her blue eyes challenged his hazel ones. “If you think I'm yellow, I'm not.”

George grinned. “No offense; I keep forgetting how spirited you are. If you like blood and thunder, I've got some magazines at home you could borrow.”

“Sure. Bring them over. Do the things that happen in those books ever happen in real life?”

George shrugged. “Once in a while, I suppose. It just so happens that I know of a few good stories.”

Myra tried to smile, knowing that a girl's smile could make a man warm up quicker than a shot of whiskey. “I really would like to hear about exciting things. I want to hear them all.”

#

George, leaning back against the fence rails, told his employer's niece all he knew about claim-jumping, gun-play, and robberies -- of prospectors, stagecoaches, banks, and assay offices. As it happened, most of what he recounted had occurred at nearby towns, not in Eerie.

Finally, he said, “But the biggest robbery that I ever heard of at Eerie proper was of a mining company.”

“Bigger than the stage hold-up?”

“I'm not sure. But the thief got away with the loot.”

“Who was involved?” Myra asked carefully.

“Just one man. I forget his name.”

“How did he do it?”

“He didn't use a gun. He was more of an embezzler. The company'd taken him on as a clerk and he’d sometimes find excuses to work alone after hours. One night, he opened the safe and cleaned it out completely. As far as anyone knows, the law hasn't lassoed him yet.”

“When did it happen?”

“Several years ago. I don't recall exactly when.”

These vague stories were causing Myra was to lose interest.

The youth, sensing this, said, “I’ve really got to start this job. I'd be fine with chatting with you again at the party tonight.”

“Maybe,” she said without much conviction.

"If you want to know more about the old times in Eerie, they'll be a peck of talkative characters coming to the bash. And I bet the old timers will be able to tell you even better robbery stories than I can.”

“I’ll be sure to ask them what they remember,” she agreed.

#

When George had flung the last forkful of dung into the manure cart, he he hitched up Hazel and led her out into the field. There he forked the mud and hog droppings across the stubbles, where they would serve as spring fertilizer. With the arduous task finished, he put things back in their places and took off for town. He was sorry to miss Mrs. Fanning's dinner table, but he had to get to town before the stagecoach came in.

Outside the depot in Eerie, he tied his mule and sat waiting on the passenger bench. Only a short while later, the Prescott stage could be seen kicking up dust east of town. The kids playing nearby, and even some of the adults, stopped what they were doing and watched it arrive, just as people elsewhere liked to do when a train pulled in.

When the coach had drawn up and braked, George approached it. He’d been informed by the station manager, Matt Royce, of the names of the guard and driver who had been robbed. “Hullo!” he yelled. “Are either of you gents Harry Cole or Robert Moorman?”

A dusty coachmen glanced his way. “I'm Rob Moorman, kid. What of it?”

“Hello, Mr. Moorman. I take it that your driver isn't Mr. Cole.”

“Not today. What's your business, youngster?”

“If you've got a minute...” George began.

The company man scowled. “I ain’t got time for jawing. We have a schedule to keep. One thing I need right now is a real meal, instead of just road dust.” He hopped down and headed for the depot.

George followed the man to the door. “You were the guard on the stage that was held up?” the youth asked.

“I was, lad. Is that important? You don't look like a reporter.”

George already knew what he he needed to say. “My family lives on the edge of town. We were expecting a young lady to come in on last Wednesday’s stage. When our wagon got to town to fetch her, she wasn't at the depot. Stranger still, Mr. Royce told us that he hadn’t seen any such girl get off. The problem is, she’d sent us a telegram from Ogden to let us know she’d be there, and we didn’t get any telegram to let us know that her plans had changed. Was there a girl on your Wednesday run, Mr. Moorman? She's pretty, has ginger hair, and is about my age.”

“A relative, or a lady friend?” the man asked wryly.

George grinned. “She’s my cousin. Ma's beside herself, thinking the gal might be lost somewhere between northern Utah and Eerie.”

The shotgun guard frowned thoughtfully. “No girl was on that stage, not during any part of the run. The only passenger who got off in Eerie was a rough-looking man in his forties. One old lady boarded here, but that’s all there is to say.”

“This is worrisome, mister,” George said.

“Well, I hope the lass is all right. Maybe you'll be getting word from her soon.”

“I sure hope so. My folks aren't going to rest easy until we know she's safe.”

Moorman shook his head. “This is a big country; too big. There's more than enough space for a greenhorn to get lost in. Excuse me now, boy.” He nodded goodbye and went into the station office.

George meandered away, not surprised by what he had been told. It only confirmed his opinion that Myra Olcott had not come in on the stage the week before. But she did in fact show up Eerie about that time, so how in blazes had she arrived, and when?

There was one thing he knew for sure: Miss Myra wasn't a ghost and she wasn't a fairy. She was flesh and blood and had come from some real place. But where was that place, and why were both she and her aunt trying to throw dust into everyone’s eyes?

He shook his head. Mrs. Fanning had always seemed honest and upright, so if she was covering for Myra there had to be a good reason. He wasn’t sure why the puzzle seemed so all fired important, except that mysteries always had an appeal for him. Also, this mystery was especially engaging because a pretty girl was involved, just like they often were in the penny dreadfuls. A touch of mystery somehow made Myra even more interesting than she was otherwise. He smiled, thinking of what she would look like at the party, combed, prettied up, and wearing that yellow dress. It was a nice one, tight in the right places.

But time was wasting and he had to get on with his business. He first had to get a bite to eat and then head over to the bathhouse, otherwise no gal at the party, especially Myra, would tolerate standing next to him for as much as two minutes!

#

Carrying a crate of prepared food, Sheriff Dan Talbot entered the schoolhouse just ahead of his wife, Amy. Behind the two of them their young son Jimmy was stepping through the door.

Dan put the box on the seat of an empty chair next to a table with some room to spare. While Amy unpacked it, Dan stood next to her, thoughtfully looking at their son. Things changed so quickly in everyday life. Jimmy was growing fast, but he and his wife were only getting older. People didn’t consider them a youngish couple anymore; they were middle aged, or soon would be. The day was coming when Jim would be the man who mattered, while Dan would be numbered with those old fellows shuffling along the boardwalk without a whole lot to do. The thought of that coming day was a tough cut of skunk pig to choke down.

Jimmy was moving off, going down the line of tables picking out treats for himself. Then Dan noticed Otto Euler, the brewer, standing with friends on the far side of the room. He decided to say hello to the fellow.

The lawman picked his way through jostling party goers until Euler spotted him coming. “Hallo, Dan,” the German said.

“Howdy,” Dan called up. “Are we going to be sampling any of your fine wares tonight?”

“You vill get all da beer you can svollow, I dink!”

“Say, now, just tonight the missus was wondering about your wife's health. How is she?”

Euler's good-natured grin sobered slightly. “Her cough ist much better, but she vonted to stay home tonight. She didn’t care to risk da season's drafts. But da veather ist much better dis year dan last year. People den vere coming in to get varm at the stove betveen every dance, I recall.”

“Pretty near,” agreed the lawman.

“Oh, and by da vay, Dan, how did da hunt for da outlaws go? I hear dey slipped da noose.”

“They did. Those varmints are young but foxy. They let us ride out after them, then doubled back and made another try at the buried strongbox. I feel damned bad about getting hoodwinked that way.”

“But dat deputy of yours, he got back most of da gold, ja? He ist a good one! Hast Paul come home yet? Last I hear, he vas still oot with anutter posse.”

“That's so. They found the outlaws’ pack horse wandering loose on the way to the Gila River. It's looking like the rascals have hightailed it toward Yuma. They can't have gotten away with much of the loot, though. Paul's posse will soon be heading back. We've already telegraphed Yuma to be on the lookout.”

“The bandits vill get a breather if dey get all da vay to California,” Euler said with a scowl.

“That's the truth. It's touchy business to go chasing outlaws over a state border.”

The brewer glanced toward the door. “Who are doz loverly ladies? From out of town, maybe?”

Dan also looked. “Well, well. That's the widow Fanning and she's dressed up mighty fine tonight. And the young lady with her must be...” Dan tried to remember the name that Shamus had told him. “...Myra. Myra is her niece from back East.”

This was the first time that Dan had ever set eyes on Eerie’s newest potion gal. He remembered what Thorn Caldwell had looked like and the present difference was startling.

“Doz two vill get in a lot of dancing ift dey're villing,” said Otto. “It ist at times like dees that I vish I vasn't a married man. Almost vish, I mean.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5.

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

By Christopher Leeson

Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued

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

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

“Stop saying that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're just not listening carefully enough.”

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

“Is that how you’ve been so happy and successful?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Speak about what?”

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

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

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

“This good enough?” the lawman asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what business would that be?”

“I need to ask you something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who'll look bad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who did your ma write to?”

“I don't want to get into that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you think they did anything?”

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

“Well, then, what did they steal?”

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

“What else do you remember about those days?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Sheriff.”

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

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

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

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

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

Myra looked away.

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

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

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

Myra shrugged. “I suppose.”

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

“Why for my own good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

“Myra!” someone shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you, too!” chirped Kayley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you think that?” asked Kayley.

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

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

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

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

“So did Robin Hood,” Miss Myra replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm really hungry,” Myra said.

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The prospector gave back a broad grin.

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From outdoors, Myra heard a lively tune.

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

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

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

“I hope you find somebody like that.”

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

“I'd rather be hung,” said Myra.

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

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

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

“I could use a little privacy.”

Winthrop, looking sour, departed with a perfunctory nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Myra,” Miss Olcott answered.

“How did you know my name?”

“Ah, someone pointed you out.”

“Someone I know?”

“Maybe. Winthrop Ritter.”

“Oh,” said the dark-eyed girl.

“Don't you like him?”

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

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

“Were you sorry?”

Myra nodded. “A little.”

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

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

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

Oh, Lord.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Myra scowled. “Go jump off a cliff.”

The youth sighed and withdrew.

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

“A sugar cube?” he guessed.

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

“I promised I’d come, didn't I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6

Posted 4-06-20
Revised 8-12-22

THE BELLE OF EERIE, ARIZONA

By Christopher Leeson

.

CHAPTER 6

.
Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued

“I watched the first dance,” George remarked casually, as if overlooking her stumble. “I didn't see you in it.”

Myra tossed her head. “That's because I wasn't there.”

“You really dislike dancing, don’t you? If that's it, you’re different from almost any other girl I know.”

“I’m sure I am. Like, how many girls do you know that like to read?”

“A lot of girls tell me they read.”

Myra gave a snort. “I’m not talking about Friskie the Pony or Little Prudy. I want to learn things. The world's a big place and I want to know all about it.”

“What do like to read?” asked young Severin.

“James Fenimore Cooper was interesting. He tells about how the country started. But he’s not the best writer I've read. His character Natty Bumpo talks too much. How can a man stalk a deer if he can’t keep his mouth shut for two minutes?”

“What else?”

“I finished First footsteps in East Africa not too long ago. Sir Richard Burton didn’t just sit around dreaming up wild adventures; he actually lived them.”

“Well, you’re a different different type, all right. Were your girl friends just like you?”

“Living way out in the country, I didn’t...” She paused. When lying, a person had to be careful.

“The only girls I knew were at school. The older they got, the more they wanted to talk about clothes and boys. Those subjects drove me up the wall and I let them know it. That's when they started keeping me at arm’s length. That was all right. My brain kept me better company than they ever could.”

“And what did you and your brain talk about?”

“Sailing off to strange lands, for one thing.” She paused, frowning. “By the way, Aunt Irene told me that I didn't have to talk to you unless I wanted to.”

“Do you always do what your aunt tells you?”

“Not when I can avoid it.” She looked back at the exit. “Excuse me, I'm too busy to be standing around yakking.”

“Busy doing what? Eating? If you don’t slow down, you’re going to fatten up like a spring calf.”

Myra scowled. "Anyone who doesn't like the way I look can leave me alone.”

“Right now you look real fine. I’d even put my name on your dance card, if you’d let me.”

“What dance card? No body gave me a dance card.”

“That was a figure of speech."

“Well, then, you ought use better figures of speech so you won't sound so silly,” observed Myra.

“I’d rather improve my dancing. From what I saw over at your house, you could use a little more practice yourself.”

“Why don’t you ask someone who actually wants to dance, if you’re so fired up about it?"

He glanced around the room. “As far as I can see, every other girl I'm acquainted with is already paired up with some fella or other. That makes things hard for a man.”

“Why ask me to dance? There has to be someone you like better than me.”

“Why do you think I don't like you?”

“If you liked me, you wouldn’t say so many things that make me want to slug you.”

“If you could get over being so snappish, I think I could like you a whole lot.”

Myra turned to leave, but paused a few steps away. In truth, she had no place to go and nothing to do. If she acted too standoffish, it would look bad and people might talk about her “odd behavior.” Instead, she wanted to leave the impression of being commonplace, so that people would stop paying attention to her.

“If you want to dance,” she said, “fine. I've got nothing going on until about eight -- when Aunt Irene wants to leave. But I’m telling you, I won’t be enjoying it and dancing is something I'm willing to do only to kill time. It won't mean that I like you and if you start jabbering too much, I’ll leave you cold. Agreed?”

He grinned. “Who do you think I am? Natty Bumpo? Sure. What a lady wants, a lady gets. But I have a condition, too.”

“What?”

Let’s not square dance. I’ve had all the square dancing I can choke down for one week.”

“At least we agree on one thing,” said Myra.

A little while later, outside, when the caller told the people to get into line for a square dance, George drew Myra away from the crowd. The youth took her to where Dale and Kayley were sitting together. The girls were in good spirits, both having found boys to dance with.

The four of them talked until the objectionable square dance was over. Then George and Myra tried out a mazurka.

After about twenty minutes, they felt in need of rest again. This time, Rosedale’s and Kayley’s partners were with them and all six made conversation. With a group so large, there was a lot of chatter, some of it annoying. Whenever a person expressed an opinion that Myra disagreed with, she'd answer back. In the course of things, Miss Olcott noticed that the boys didn't try too hard to win at arguing. It reminded Myra that Myron had had the same sensible attitude. Because boys didn’t like quarreling with girls, they would generally give them the last word. Anyway, the ridiculous stuff that usually got a girl's dander up was usually not worth bickering about.

When Myra next checked the time, it was a little after eight. Excusing herself, she sought out Irene to ask about going home. Unfortunately, that Swedish galoot was close by, hanging on her aunt's every word and smiling like a prospector clutching a handful of nuggets. Instead of going home, Irene made a plea for patience. She was having a pleasant time talking to Tor, she said, and didn’t wish to leave just yet. Rather than haggle with a damned fool woman, Myra trudged back to rejoin her young neighbors. Soon, she and George were back dancing again. Some of the party-goers started to leave. It was about nine that Irene Fanning finally showed up, also feeling ready to get back to the farm.

#

Sunday, December 24, 1871

On the morning of Christmas Eve, the two of them wasted no time having breakfast and getting the chores done. Irene was bound and determined not be be tardy for the Christmas service, where she would introduce Myra to the parishioners.

As it turned out, a good many of the congregation marched right up to greet her. When some of them lingered too long jabbering about unimportant things, the girl was more sorry than ever that she’d come. It was almost a relief when Reverend Yingling showed himself, causing everyone to sit down and be quiet. The introductions, good wishes, and empty complements resumed after the close of prayer, with everyone standing in the lunch line. The food, at least, was good, the church ladies having donated a good many treats, while some of it was leftovers from the party.

Mrs. Netia Severin, a handsome woman in her Sunday best, approached them, expressing regret that Thorn's body couldn't be found. The lady assured Aunt Irene that her husband and the other men had done everything possible to locate him. Irene thanked her profusely for her family’s unselfish efforts. At that point, Mrs. Severin extended a holiday invitation. “The two of you shouldn't be alone with your grief on Christmas day, of all times. And we don't want Myra to start thinking that Eerie is an unfriendly town. The whole family would be very pleased to have you both over for Christmas dinner.”

“I think that would be wonderful, Netia,” replied Irene. “Myra, what do you say?”

The girl gave a neutral shrug and a forced smile. She could hardly be enthusiastic about spending an entire afternoon in the same house as George.

It was then that the dancing Swede, Tor, showed up and engaged the whole of Mrs. Fanning’s attention. When the pair drifted away to one side, Myra sought out a quiet corner to chow down undisturbed.

Later, back home, they changed into their work clothes and got busy again. At day's end, Irene fixed a light supper and in the midst of their dining, Myra heard footsteps on the grit outside, followed by a knock. Her aunt checked and found Dan Talbot standing on the step. “Sheriff,” said Irene, “whatever brings you out at such an hour? Everyone else in town must be settling down to their meals.”

“I’ve had a busy day of it, Ma’am, but since I was passing by anyway, it seemed like a good opportunity to stop by and speak with the young lady,” replied the lawman.

Mrs. Fanning glanced curiously to her niece, and then back at Dan. “What is it, Sheriff?”

“Don’t fret. We’re having a deuce of a time catching those outlaws. I’m hoping that Miss Myra might have an opinion or two about where the three of them may like to hole up. I'd like to speak to her privately, if you don't mind.”

“Is the matter serious?”

“It’s routine. But I wouldn’t want to stir up any bad memories you may have regarding those skunks, ma’am.”

The hostess regarded him soberly. “Very well. When you two are finished, please come back in.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fanning,” the tall man replied. “I’ll gladly take a bite when the business is done, but I won’t be able to stay long. On Christmas Eve, my Amy always works up a fancy supper.” He smiled. “She wants to make every minute of the holiday be as special as possible.”

“Your home life must be very pleasant,” Irene said.

“It satisfies me,” Dan replied. Then he looked to Myra. “Miss Olcott,” he addressed the potion girl and gestured toward the door.

Myra followed him outside into the dark. The air felt colder than before; there was a north wind blowing.

Talbot paused by the corral fence.

“Did you have time to check out what we were talking about?” the maid asked.

Sheriff Talbot nodded. “What kept me occupied was making holiday calls on Roscoe Unger, Dwight Albertson, and Judge Humphreys. Roscoe let me see some of Ozzie Pratt’s archive of old newspaper issues from the war years. As for the judge, he unfortunately only came to Arizona after the war, but has records that were passed on to him by the former justice of the peace. Dwight Albertson was actually quite helpful, too.”

“Yeah? How did it go?”

“The information I got from them is pretty sketchy.”

“Don’t rush things. I want to know the whole truth, no matter how long it takes,” replied Myra.

“I've got no reason to rush, but I thought you’d prefer me to keep you filled in.”

"I appreciate that, Sheriff.”

"The most important thing I wanted to know was whether folks had any motive to steal. Mr. Albertson wasn't so cagey as he usually is, since the people under investigation passed away a long time ago. He said that your folks had been late with several loan payments. He had also heard talk that the couple had exhausted their credit with most of the merchants around town -- up until things changed.”

“What changed?”

"In the early summer of 1864 they started making prompt bank repayments and they kept it up until the ledger was cleared. They stopped borrowing, too, even made decent deposits. Dwight had hearsay that they were paying off their store bills, too."

Myra looked away uneasily. "My aunt's said more than once that my parents left the farm debt-free."

"Do you have any idea if they could have improved their situation in any honest way?"

"No, I don't," Myra said solemnly. "They used to tell neighbors that they had gotten a bequest from a relative out East, but I don't remember they ever gave a name to whoever that was. What I remember better was that they were always worried about being late paying bills, until things got suddenly better."

“Hmmmm," Dan said noncommittally. "I was also asking folks about old robberies, especially those where the outlaws remained unknown. There was nothing I could bite on, not until Roscoe showed me a story from May of 1864. There'd been a robbery and it was an important one. Just don’t get too excited. It might not amount to anything. I wouldn’t want to start you worrying for no good reason.”

The girl stood quiet for a moment. “I can take a punch,” she finally said. “It’s worse to be standing around not knowing what to believe.”

“Are you sure? After you squeeze an orange, you can’t put the juice back.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“All right, if that's how you want it."

Myra Olcott waited expectantly.

“A couple of prospectors struck it rich back in 1862 and then sold out to a small company, the first professional mining outfit that ever set up next to Eerie. It was called Rexler and Colby.”

“I think I've heard the name.”

“You may have. They pulled out of Eerie a little after the war, relocating so they could profit from the new strike at Red Dog. But they were still here in 1864 when something bad happened that spring. A trusted clerk, Thomas Mifflin, emptied their on-site safe and got away with some cash and a good number of rough-cast ingots.”

Myra blinked. That sounded like the same robbery story that George had briefly mentioned.

"There was a determined manhunt, of course,” said Dan. “A soft-handed clerk shouldn't have been able to outsmart experienced trackers, but they never caught him. All they ever found was his horse at Phoenix. Someone had brought it to the marshal there, saying that it’d been tied up to a tree for a long time and he'd started feeling sorry for it. The marshal suspected it to be part of the robbery and it turned out he was right. But the beast was carrying no useful evidence and the general opinion held that Mifflin must have acquired another mount at Phoenix and abandoned his old one because it could be recognized.”

“Another horse? Are you sure? Don’t you think that he could have left Phoenix by stage?” asked Myra.

“That possibility was considered. The trouble is, no stage man remembered anyone matching Mifflin’s description, nor anyone at all who was carrying pieces of heavy luggage. No stable man or local would admit to selling a horse to Mifflin, either. Likewise, there were no reports of any stolen horse in the vicinity. Possibly, a helper had purchased a fresh horse for the robber and took it to him near in to Phoenix.”

“Where there any ideas about who this confederate could have been?”

“No, there wasn’t. There's no actual no proof that Mifflin ever had a helper. All that’s certain is that from the day of the robbery, no one ever reported seeing the man again. His friends and relatives, even those back East, were contacted and questioned, but none of them had heard from him in months, if not years. No evidence ever came up to gainsay their testimony.”

“So, what does any of this have to do with my folks?”

Dan grimaced. “I don't like to speculate.”

“Maybe you’re supposing that they could have been working with the thief.”

“Possibly so, but I hope that I’d be wrong.”

“What are the other possibilities?”

“They'd all be be guesswork. Hell, the whole picture we have is just guesswork.”

Myra shook her head. “From all you’ve said, there’s no good reason to think that Mifflin knew my parents at all.”

“That's the likely truth of it. Its hard to do much with a case that’s so old. I don’t know of anyone who can give us better information, unless it’s your aunt. You should be talking to her.”

“I don’t dare bring it up with Irene. She might use magic to make me shut up about the whole affair. But the fact is, I know that she knows something. I’ve been hoping to find another letter that would tell more. I asked the neighbors if any mail had come in for my folks after they’d died, but they'd left it all with the postmaster, except for things that they supposed Irene should deal with. They say those pieces were put into the house to wait for her arrival.”

The lawman frowned. “If your aunt had written an incriminating letter to your ma, she might have destroyed it once it got back into her hands.”

“Maybe so. Are you going to keep investigating?”

“I'll do what I can. People like to talk about outlaws, if you give them half a chance. Maybe I’ll find somebody who has new pieces to add to the puzzle. I can dig through more old records and news stories. They might have information that can send us down a different trail. Don't expect anything from me too quickly. Maybe there won't be anything to find.”

“Can't you be the one to question my aunt?” Myra asked suddenly. “Like I said, I don't dare do it myself.”

“It’s a sad business, lad. If she knows something, it’s probably been eating on her all these years, just like it’s eating on you now. There are times when we should let the past bury the dead. Whatever she may know, she’s probably not guilty of anything except protecting her family’s reputation. I’ve always thought of Mrs. Fanning as a good woman. Am I wrong about that?"

“She’s decent enough, but if my folks turn out to be completely different people from what I thought they were, maybe she’s fooled me, too.”

Dan regarded her studiously and then said, “If you’re hoping to find out that your parents were perfect people, you never will. Everybody’s got something to hide. Hell, there are plenty of lawmen around today that used to be wanted outlaws. If you keep turning over rocks trying to find something ugly, you may regret it. Digging up old secrets can hurt people, and -- as like as not -- it can hurt you, too. If you loved your ma and pa, the wisest thing would be to hold on to those feelings. Don’t muddy them up with unproven suspicions.”

Myra had no more talk left in her, and so the two of them went back indoors. Dan Talbot accepted a savory bowl chow and when Irene asked whether Myra had given him any good information, the lawman answered laconically. “She mentioned a deserted cabin near Yuma that the gang used once in a while. I’ll wire the local sheriff and tell him about it.” After that, he met every other question evasively.

Pretty quickly, Dan excused himself and rode off home. Myra continued to sit at the table, laden with dark and heavy thoughts. Later, in bed, she decided that she had no choice but to question her aunt, no matter what the consequences. But she wanted to hold off on that until after Christmas.

#

Monday, December 25, 1871

“Myra!” Aunt Irene called up from the kitchen. “It snowed last night!”

The girl perked up with interest; she had hardly ever seen snow in Arizona. The girl hurriedly threw on a robe and then clambered down the ladder to take a look outside.

Miss Olcott, standing at the threshold, a cold wind blowing in her face, saw what the farm looked like buried under a white blanket. There was no break in the cottony accumulation except where there were tallish stands of dry weeds. The farm girl bent down, poked an index finger into the snow, and estimated its depth at about four inches. She supposed that the next newspaper was going to sell a good many copies, with everyone wanted to read about the big snow.

Though it was Christmas Day, Myra felt moody and breakfast tasted bland. There was no more fancy party food. Some of it had been eaten at the Sunday service already. And it was usual to distribute what was left over to the poor of the town, including the men living in the squatter shacks.

Abruptly, Irene left the table and entered the walk-in pantry. She emerged carrying a wrapped parcel. The sight of what she guessed to be her Christmas gift made Myra wince. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think about getting you anything.”

“Sweetheart,” Irene responded, “that's all right. I know you don't have any money.”

That was bitterly true. “Is that my fault?” Myra asked.

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “Christmas is not the time for fault-finding. Don't worry about presents. This has been a season of miracles and I'd be ashamed to ask the Lord for more blessings than He's already seen fit to send us. Until last week, I thought I would have to pass another Christmas without you, but that didn’t happen.”

Myra pursed her lips. The “blessings" so far had seemed like raw deals.

Instead of venting her feelings, the girl opened the parcel and found a wrapped book within. She was guessing the tome to be Le Morte d’Arthur, but that wasn’t so. "Innocents Abroad? What's this about?” she asked.

Irene replied with a smile. “It's the story of Mark Twain's trip to Europe and the Holy Land a couple of years ago. I know how much you like to read about far away places. And Mr. Twain is a very good writer.”

“I've read his 'Celebrated Jumping Frog' story.” She hefted the volume. “This one is one big sucker of a book, anyway.”

“I hope it will give you some good reading. By the way, there'll be no unnecessary work to do today. Just help me keep the animals well tended, the eggs gathered, and the cows milked. Oh, and we're both going to have to take baths right away, since the Severins will be expecting us for dinner.”

Socializing wasn't something that the girl looked forward to, but she didn’t think she'd be able to weasel out of it.

Myra set her new book aside and dressed for outdoors. This would be a morning to remember, she thought, walking through ankle-deep snow, leaving a distinct track of footprints. Returning indoors after the chores were done, Myra found that her aunt had been heating water to fill the tub. As was the custom, the older person bathed first. It startled Myra to realize that Irene was no longer shy about undressing in front of her. That, more than anything else, informed the girl that her aunt was truly thinking of her as another female!

A while later, soaking in her own bath, Miss Myra couldn't help but wonder about the possibility of finding more letters hidden around the farmstead. But to make a new search she'd have to be alone, and that wasn’t going to happen until after Christmas.

After bathing and donning clothing suitable for socializing, the aunt and niece went out to hitch up the buckboard. Upon setting out, they could see that the snow wasn’t deep enough to impede their short trip.

The Severins met them by their front doorstep. Escorted indoors, they found the air fragrant with fresh baking. Myra knew from childhood that Mrs. Severin was a good cook. The pleasant ambiance was a strong reminder that this really was Christmas Day.

After the holiday meal was finished, Aunt Irene remained with Mr. and Mrs. Severin to chat in the kitchen, while Rosedale coaxed Myra into joining her brothers and sister in the “family room.” This was an add-on that had been attached to the house to make it more comfortable for a growing household. Besides George and Dale, the neighbors had two younger sons and another daughter. The smaller kids were as noisy as ferrets playing with their Christmas gifts. The new tin whistle that one of the boys kept blowing made Myra want to throw a piece of firewood in his direction.

Rosedale and George were full of questions, wanting to know about Myra’s impressions of Eerie so far. They also wished to learn about her New Jersey home. Spinning a yarn about an imaginary home taxed Myra's imagination, forcing her dig deep into usable memories that were years old, or to make up things based on her reading.

Rosedale, inspired by the local weather, wanted to know about the snowy winters back East. Myra didn't have many more memories of snow than the girl did, but claimed that she had liked them and then threw in a few made-up flourishes, such as playing fox-and-the-goose with friends and making snow angels. Pretty soon, Dale coaxed the young visitor away to the little room which Miss Severin shared with her smaller sister. She proceeded to show off her favorite girlish do-dads and Myra had a hard time pretending that she was even remotely interested. Nonetheless, she kept her demeanor friendly. The ginger took care not to ask too many questions of Dale, so as to not show off her ignorance about everyday girl things.

The visiting continued until mid-afternoon, when the elder Severins sent Dale and George outdoors to begin their late-day chores. Myra was left alone with the three younger children while the adults carried on with their conversation. After another hour, Nettie and Walter Severin had to get at their own accustomed chores, while the youngest brother was put to bed for a nap. At that point, Irene informed Myra that it was time for them to leave. Farm work was waiting for the pair of them, too. The light, after all, would not last much longer.

#

Away the way back, Myra could see how much the snow had already melted. Though snow wasn’t good for much of anything, it did give the drab landscape a fresh look. The early melt lowered Miss Olcott's mood. It came across like a metaphor that represented the shutting down of the holiday. Whatever good feeling the season had brought with it was going to be gone, too.

Once home, the women took off their good clothes and put on choring garments. The late-day drudgery was the final end of Christmas magic. With the sun down and the lanterns turned off for the night, Myra retired to her dark loft.

The mystery that hung about her family nagged at the girl, but she knew that she couldn't rush things. Sometime, soon, she would have the privacy needed to search the house thoroughly. In fact, during the upcoming week, Irene would again be away, taking their produce into town.

Myra heard the wind outside moaning loudly. With so much on Myra’s mind, sleep didn't come swiftly. Old memories nagged at her. Like, why had her parents gotten more friendly with Matt Grimsley over the last couple years of their lives? And why did they always talk to him in such a sneaky way, with all three of them looking around and making sure that they couldn't be overheard? Before that, they had had no more than a nodding acquaintance with the Grimsley family, while maintaining stronger ties with the Severins.

Personally, Myron had not much liked Matt Grimsley. There was always something sneaky about the man. Like, Myron had caught him more than once trespassing, mostly prowling about the margins of the Caldwell property. Whenever Myron had called him out on it, the big man gave no straight answers but would only ask peevish questions in return, such as "What's the big fuss was all about?"

Her every attempt to remember a bygone incident was like stepping into a dark room and lighting a lantern. With effort, Myra managed to recall bits and pieces, though oftentimes these made no sense. Like, there was that spring day when Myron had walked home from school and discovered a strange horse feeding in the corral. When he asked his pa about it, he was told that it belonged to a traveler. Apparently, the man had fallen sick while riding by and became unable to continue. Ma had led him to a mound of hay in the barn where he could rest warmly, covered by a spare horse blanket. Then the girl remembered something else -- that her dad wouldn’t let her get close to the stranger or speak to him. Both his ma and pa explained that the fellow might have something catching. “We don't want to be taking any risks, not until we're sure we know what's ailing him.”

“Won't Ma catch what he’s got when she goes to check on him?” young Myron had asked.

“She knows how to be careful,” was his pa’s only answer.

What happened then? Myra tried hard to remember.

Remaining sleepless, Myra dredged up another kernel of memory. Three days after the stranger had shown up, Myron discovered that his horse was gone. The boy asked his ma about it and was told that the man had ridden it away.

“Is he all right now?” Myron had asked.

“He just had a flu. Don't worry about it anymore,” she told him.

Slowly, bit by bit, other memories floated to the surface like curds, but they all added up to very little. Even so, among all the ragged memories, one thing stood out. It was about the time that that the man had gone away that Ma and Pa had gotten sad and stayed sad all the time.

With a sigh, Myra snuggled into the straw-stuffed tick beneath her, the blankets covering one ear, while the other was pressed warmly into her goose-down pillow. The snow, obviously, had brought in colder weather and the darker the night got, the louder the wind howled. Now that winter was settling in, there were going to be a good many more frosty nights, she knew.

#

Tuesday, December 26, 1871

The next morning was a busy one. Myra and her aunt rose early and worked faster than usual, so as to not be late to the morning memorial for Thorn Caldwell. Irene wasn't insisting that the two of them take another bath, since they’d had done that the day before. By the time they'd dressed for church, it was time to leave.

Despite it being Tuesday, school was not going to be resuming until after New Year’s Day, so the premises remained available for the parish's use. Myra noticed that all the Caldwell neighbors were represented. The Grimsleys had brought their kids along, but Tully Singer and his wife were sitting alone. The whole Severin troop was there, even the youngest. When George tried to catch Myra’s eye, she glanced away.

Not far from the Severins, there sat a cowboy that Myra recognized as Carl Osbourne. Sitting beside him was his sister, the schoolteacher Nancy Osbourne. Myron had always thought that Nancy was pleasant, pretty, and he'd liked her. It dawned on her that the young schoolmistress hadn’t been at the Christmas dance. Mrs. Cullings, who had taught at the school before leaving town, had gone to all the festivals and parties.

But things were looked at differently when a teacher was unmarried. Folks said that single schoolmarms shouldn’t be socializing, lest they set a poor example for the children. Away from the schoolhouse, Miss Osbourne was hardly to be seen at all, except when attending church.

On impulse, Myra checked the room for Lydon Kelsey, but didn’t see him. She didn’t care one way or the other about that, except that it rankled her that he was going around telling people what good friends he and Thorn used to be. Some friend!

It also riled the farm girl that none of the other persons in the room had ever let on that they cared so much as a dog's hair for Thorn Caldwell. Almost everyone of them had treated him like a bad kid. So why should these same people pile into his memorial service now? There wasn't even any food being served. It frustrated Myra to think how few of the folk that Myron knew would ever miss him. Didn’t they care that the entire Caldwell family had been erased from the earth with the supposed death of Thorn? Of course they didn't care!

After that realization, she felt like a ghost haunting a church.

The situation made her wonder. Why was she still alive anyway? Was there anything left for her to live for? What part of her life, in fact, had ever been worth living? Aunt Irene, on the other hand, always kept saying that every life had some God-given purpose. Well, Myra wished that someone would spell out to her what had been the purpose of Myron Caldwell's life.

Or, for that matter, what was the worth of Myra Olcott's present life?

When the service got underway, Reverend Thaddeus Yingling spoke from the pulpit and offered up a prayer for the soul of the departed. As Thorn, Myra had kept as far away from the Eerie preacher as he possibly could. What Yingling was saying now about Thorn Caldwell’s life sounded so sketchy that a man who was just off the Prescott stage could have said all the same things regarding any saddle tramp found in the dirt, dead of snakebite.

The whole experience was coming across as something awful. Myra wished it could be done with, so that she could go home, sit in some solitary place, and feel bad all by herself.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7

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

THE BELLE OF EERIE, ARIZONA

By Christopher Leeson

.

CHAPTER 7

Tuesday, December 26, 1871 Continued

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Osbourne concluded with a nod to the people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December Wednesday 27, 1871

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

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

“But we weren’t able to shop then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dearest Sister,

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

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

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

With all my love,
Your sister Irene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

Irene blinked. “About what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The letter began,

“Dearest Sister,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Addie asked.

“So Myron won't see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your loving sister,

Addie”

TO BE CONTINUED IN Epilogue (Chapter 8)

Posted 07-07-20
Updated 09-12-22

By Christopher Leeson
.

Wednesday, December 27, 1871

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona: Epilogue; Chapter 8
Posted 07-07-20
Updated 09-12-22
By Christopher Leeson
.
Wednesday, December 27, 1871

That night, in a half-dreaming state, Myra slept only fitfully, still hearing her mother’s words speaking from those self-damning pages. At breakfast, the niece avoided the aunt's glances and neither made any effort at conversation. Afterwards, the girl sulked outside to perform her morning chores.

Later, with the work caught up, Myra lingered outside. Seated on an empty keg and swept by the north wind’s chilly breath, she stared blankly at the southern ridge’s treeline. The same questions kept running through her mind. How well had she known her parents? It was suddenly like they had suddenly become complete strangers. She held good memories, but these didn’t fit in with the reality of the old days. Worse of all, she wasn't sure of the answer to the all-important question: did she still loved them?

Myra tried hard to understand why she was so confused and feeling so raw. She wasn’t really condemning her parents for thieving. In fact, Myra wished that she could have been out robbing right then. Was it knowing that the corpse of Thomas Mifflin was buried on this property bothered her? She wasn’t sure about that either. Myron had himself come very close to killing now and then.

No, it wasn’t the thieving and it wasn’t the killing that bothered her. It was that she had grown up with a wall of secrets between herself and her parents. That whole part of her life had turned out to be nothing better than a fragile spider’s web of lies. Since the day before, every cherished memory she had clung to had become tainted, as if by walnut juice.

Her parents, she'd been forced to understand, hadn’t been special; they had been like everyone else. They'd had some good in them – she couldn’t deny that – but they had a bad side, a hidden side. What was left of that previous life now? Was it still a living thing, or had it become like a plant pulled out by its roots. She had been left standing on an illusion with nothing left to hold onto.

And what about Irene? Myra guessed that her aunt believed that her sister and brother-in-law must have gone to Hell. How else could see look at it, after reading the Good Book and listening to Reverend Yingling’s fiery sermons at church? He preached that if one died with an unforgiven sin on his shoulders he was going to be pitched into the flames. Myra was left wondering what to think. She kept hoping that God didn’t exist. He couldn’t judge anything, couldn’t punish anything, if he was nothing except a character made up for a story book.

If there was no God, there was no devil. If there was no devil, then her parents wouldn’t be suffering like prisoners inside a medieval torture chamber. They’d now be mere dust blowing mindlessly across the prairie. Myra wasn’t afraid of dying and turning into dust. That was how the Bible stories had it -- that everyone started out as dust. Would that be so terrible? It sounded a lot like going home.

But these streaks of thought were bringing her no peace. She strained hard to try to think about something else, and suddenly her mind entered a new groove. There was gold on this land, she knew.

Where had her pa hidden it? Had he placed it into Thomas Mifflin’s grave? Myra shook her head. Absolutely not! Her dad would never have wanted to open that grave again once it was closed.

So, logically, what else would he have done?

Myra reasoned that her father would probably had taken the body straight back to the wooded ridge behind the barn. He would have looked for a burial spot screened by brush and trees, so that no one could have seen him working.

Myra reasoned that the gold would have to be buried to the right or to the left of the grave. The ridge was steep and the wooded area under it was narrow before it opened into a field. Abruptly, she gasped with excitement. Her father would definitely buried it to the left of the grave. The side to the right of it would have put it close to Tully Singer’s property. In those days, the boundary line was in contention and a court action might have awarded Tully the strip of land with the gold on it. That was something that her dad would have recognized.

So, in all likelihood, the gold was somewhere to the left of the grave. Myra’s mother had written that she and her pa had gone back numerous times to retrieve ingots and that meant they couldn’t’ be buried deeply. That wood lot was tough digging, so her folks would have looked for a soft spot of ground, probably using a long, strong probing rod. She could search for such spots using a similar rod and a hammer. Of course, they might have instead put the gold into a natural rock hole or hidden it under a pile of stones.

Myra now realized one other thing. Most of Grimsley's trespassing had been done down by that ridgeline. Could the neighbor possibly learned some information that made him focus his search on that spot?

Myra wanted to go gold-hunting immediately, but reality grabbed her by the ankle. Her aunt would never let her keep stolen gold. If Irene figured out that Myra was looking for it, she would put a stop to it. The redhead couldn’t let her aunt frustrate her. She had to have that gold, otherwise the years ahead of her would be empty and pointless.

Abigail Myra Olcott considered her options. The best way to avoid Irene’s suspicions would be to win her trust. Myra had to make her less suspicious. That meant acting more friendly and cooperative. She’d have to talk like she liked the farm and wanted to keep it. The less watchful her aunt became, the more private time she would have for gold-seeking.

Then she remembered another obstacle. Under the restrictions of the magical spell, she couldn’t leave the farm without permission. Even if Myra found the gold, she couldn’t run with it. She’d be stuck until Irene took the spell off. That would probably be when she turned the farm over to her. But would she actually keep her word?

Probably. Irene was that kind of person.

This bad situation she was in might have to go on for three more years, until the age of twenty-one. That was a long time. But if the promise was kept, she'd get her aunt to move into Eerie, or some other town, so she could treasure-hunt to her heart's content.

Myra began feeling more optimistic. Wasn't this like making her parents' wish come true? They had wanted a prosperous life for their son. They had wanted Myron to be important and respected. Well, Myra thought, nothing made a person important and respected than flashing plenty of gold.

Myra, standing up, looked back at the farmhouse. This farmstead, with all its sad memories, would have to be home to her for the next three years. She'd be poor and working hard all that time. But the prize could be a very big one and she thought she could go the course.

It made her feel good thinking that she was going to be doing something that would gladden the heart of her folks.
.

Thursday, December 28, 1871

George Severin pitched just one more forkful of hay down the chute for good measure. All through this day's chores, his thoughts had been drifting back to a certain face -- the pretty-as-all-hell face of Abigail Myra Olcott.

But every time he let himself think about her, he had to ask himself who and what was she?

Just then, a sound on the other side of the loft door made the youth look over his shoulder. It was the cats – eager and hungry – meowing up a storm. Through the gaps between the barn boards, someone was out there feeding them table scraps. Then the loft door was opened by his sister Rosedale.

“Easy, kitties,” she was saying to the cats behind her, “you'll get all get fed!”

George chuckled, saying, “If those critters weren't so dumb and lazy, they'd be out catching mice and rats, not begging for milk and crusts.”

“That's cats for you,” was the only the defense that his sister felt like offering on behalf of the feline pack.

The youth jabbed his fork upright into the hay and slid down from the stack, landing boots first on the soft litter. Straightening up, he crossed over to the door.

“You’ve been awfully quit since the Christmas dance,” said his sister.

George grimaced. “I guess there hasn’t been much to talk about these days. New Years Day is coming up, but after that it’ll be the long haul of winter.”

“I thought that you liked winter better than you do the summer heat.”

“Well, I’ve like this winter so far. We had a little snow for a change. Pretty.”

His sister smiled. “I know what else you think is pretty. You were dancing up a storm with Myra. I’d have thought that you’d still be bragging about it.”

His shrugged. “Brag to you? What good would that do?”

“Are you saying that you’ve been talking to the boys about Miss Myra?”

He shrugged again.

“You know, Myra did okay dancing,” the girl continued. “She'll do even better next time. Have you asked her out to the New Years hoedown yet?”

“I'm not sure I should.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’ll only say no.”

“How come?”

“She’ll say no just because it’ld be me doing the asking.”

“Isn’t she starting to like you?”

“That little Eastern gal is a hard one to figure out.”

“Maybe she is,” Dale conceded.

“Say, Stockings, “does Myra ever strike you as being somehow – out of the ordinary?”

“In what way?”

“In any way.”

Dale showed a thoughtful face. “I guess so. She mostly likes to talk about what she’s reading, but she doesn’t read the stuff that most girls care for. And she’s not much interested in fashion, though I’d have thought that an Eastern girl would excited about clothing and fancy manners. Myra’s rough and tumble. I think she’d be a terrible tomboy if her aunt let her get away with it.”

“Yeah,” her brother agreed, “she’s something else, that’s for sure.”

“Do you suppose she got to be that way because she’s an only child?”

“Maybe.”

“You know,” continued Rosedale, “I don’t think she made many friends back home.”

“Why?"

"She acts kind of tense when she’s socializing.”

George met his sister’s glance straight-on. “What do you really think about Myra? Do you like her?”

“Wellll,” the farm girl began slowly, “I guess I do. She's not the warmest young lady I ever met, but there's something interesting about her.”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean, ‘interesting’?”

“There's something about her that draws a person to her. I don’t know what it is. She's a serious-minded type and maybe she could be a school teacher someday. How about you, Fish Hooks?” Dale asked suddenly. “Do you like her?”

Her brother rested his arm upon the middle cross board of the loft door. “I’m not sure what I feel. All I know is that Myra doesn’t like me and she hasn’t from the minute we met.”

Rosedale pursed her lips and nodded. “I noticed. But I don’t think she hates you, either. A lot of girls are shy with boys. Sometimes shy people cover up by acting mad. What makes me really mad, though, is not being able to ask a boy to go walking, or to take me to a picnic.”

George smiled. “Better not get too forward with the boys, gal, or else folks will start calling you a hussy. But if the shoe fits.…”

“Oh, you!” his sister exclaimed, scooping up a handful of hay to throw at him. It wasn’t easy to hit a target throwing loose hay and hardly any of it reached its target.

Still grinning, her brother asked, “Which boys do you like the most? Or are there so many that you can't remember them all?”

She scowled. “A girl can't talk about things like that, not even to a brother. But if you want some advice, you should treat girls differently. I could teach you how to make a girl like you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Chicken! I could so teach you.”

“Teach me what? Why most girls act like ninnies?”

She grinned. “Do you mean that about all girls? I bet you don’t think that Myra is a ninny.”

“I don’t know what she is. She makes everything topsy-turvy when she’s around.”

Dale nodded. “She does. Why do you suppose that’s so?”

“Umm. I've got my theories.”

“What sort of theories?”

“I’m not telling you anything. You’d just go running to Miss Olcott to spill the beans.”

The girl knitted her brows. “If I did, it would be to help you! A good way to get a girl to notice you is to say or do something that gets her mad.”

Young Severin shook his head. “So that’s what it means to treat girls better? Making them mad? I think I make her mad often enough. Whenever she spots me, she moves away.”

Dale came closer and pretended to sniff for bad odors. George pushed her away playfully.

“Well, if you don’t have the nerve to make her mad,” suggested Rosedale, “take a shot at being nice. Once she starts feeling easy with you around, she’s bound to be more friendly.”

George scowled. “I don’t want to be any girl’s friend. If a girl starts thinking of a boy as a friend, she’ll never let him be anything else.”

“You’re silly!”

“Oh, yeah, Little Sister, you’re a whole lot sillier than I am.”

She lifted her chin. “Hey, don’t call me that. You're only a year older than me.”

“But I'm a lot less silly.”

“Oh, pshaw! You're twice as silly as I ever was, even on my worst day!”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Whatever a silly person says, it doesn’t matter!” George answered back.

“Well, I just bet we’ll find out which one of us is most silly one of these days,” the girl declared, her hands on her hips.

“I guess we will,” George said, grinning with effort. With that, the youth went outside.

He descended from the loft balcony by way of a short ladder and entered the ground floor of the barn. The hay he had thrown down formed a pile of hay under the chute and this he spread around among the managers using a hay fork. That wrapped up his morning chores and he decided to settle his mind by taking a walk until the dinner bell rang.

While strolling across the adjacent pasture, Myra came to mind again. The girl had been around for only two weeks, but he felt as though he’d known her much longer. George had been thinking that there could be a good reason for that.

His theory would have aroused most folks to laughter. Or at least they would have laughed if they had been living in any other town except Eerie, Arizona.

The first time he’d laid eyes on the Myra Olcott, she’d spoken up and named him. How had she done that? And wasn’t it funny that Miss Olcott had shown up on the very day that Thorn Caldwell had gotten himself shot dead at the Gap?

And there were other details that didn't sit right. Not only Myra, but a horse had suddenly appeared at the Fanning place. Its saddle wasn’t the old one that was stored in the Fanning barn, so where had it come from? If a saddled horse had wandered in, it must have run away from somebody. So why hadn’t anyone reported a missing horse? He also thought it strange that Myra had ignored the idea that the bay could very well have belonged to her cousin. On top of that, Myra was able to ride danged well for a gal who’d supposedly just arrived from out East.

And why did Myra sometimes refer to Myron as Thorn? She had said that Thorn hadn’t written to her and George himself had never heard Mrs. Fanning use that nickname. So why did the girl use it? Moreover, the cousins had to be close to the same age and both had been named after the same maternal grandmother. A coincidence? And, to carry the coincidence farther, both apparently liked the same sort of reading material.

And why did Mrs. Fanning start behaving strangely from the very day that Myra showed up? Why would a proper church lady all at once become chummy with Molly O'Toole, the wife of a whiskey peddler? What had brought the farmer and the saloon-keeper together? Thorn’s death? Myra’s arrival? It didn’t follow.

And there were other odd details abut her arrival. Why had Myra come to town with only one dress to her name, without even a winter coat? Her aunt had claimed that she‘d lost her luggage in a stage accident. But if that had happened, why had every witness he talked to swear that no one of her description had ridden the stage that day? And if the girl hadn’t actually come in by coach, why were both she and Irene trying to make people think that she had? Mrs. Fanning seldom joked, and she never joked so pointlessly.

Even Deputy Grant had behaved strangely when he met Abigail Myra Olcott. Why had Grant allowed a grass-green gal from New Jersey to ride with him up into the Gap while he was out looking for outlaw loot? Of what earthly use could she have been to his job?

Then, too, why hadn’t Thorn Caldwell's body been located? The outlaws could have hidden it, sure, but why did they take the trouble to hide it so blamed well?

George had also been thinking about something else. What if there was a bigger secret at the Fanning farm? What if Thorn Caldwell was still alive and his kin were hiding him? Why, even Myra had let out a theory that he was alive.

Myra came across like a puzzle whose pieces didn’t fit together. For one, why had Mrs. Fanning, speaking at the memorial, supposed that an unrepentant sinner like Myron could be getting another chance at Heaven? Was she talking about Purgatory? He didn’t think so. Methodists didn’t believe in any such place. If Irene didn’t believe in Purgatory, where did she expect Myron’s second chance to come from?

And why had Myra been seen speaking to the sheriff, a man she could have only just met. Dan was an affable gent, but why would he have to lead her outside to talk at a private spot? What could Sheriff Talbot have wanted to say to a young newcomer? Or had it been Myra who'd needed to talk to the lawman? About what? And, a little later, George had seen the girl talking to Lydon Kelsey. George knew that Kelsey and Caldwell had been as thick as thieves, up until the latter left town. Why, he wondered, would a girl new to the community push away a neighbor while willingly speaking to a roughneck like Kelsey?

Every time George tried to talk himself out of his theory, he ended up right back at it. By the time of the party he had gotten so suspicious that Myra knew more about Eerie than she was letting on, he had tested her by mentioning Indian Head, a local landmark where a lot of young locals went to spoon. Myra had replied, “If you hang around up there, I'll have to keep shy of the place.”

It sure had sounded as if she already knew that there was a place called Indian Head. Neither she nor Mrs. Fanning had ever mentioned Myra taking any sight-seeing jaunts. And if she had learned of the local spot by conversation, when did she have a chance to do that? George had a good idea that Myra had stayed pretty close to the farm the whole week before.

And then there was the Christmas Day visit to his home. To George’s mind, Myra had looked bored when Dale was showing off the girlish things she was so proud of. Myra’s interests surely weren't typical of the everyday sort of girl.

But young Severin had a theory that seemed to string most of these oddities together. Unfortunately, it was a theory that he didn’t personally care for.

What if Myron Thornton Caldwell had robbed that stage and gotten shot, just like Mrs. Deeters had witnessed? Then, what if he’d stayed conscious while the outlaws were hiding the gold? Could Myron have still been left fit enough to ride his saddled horse down to his aunt’s nearby place?

If Thorn had arrived at the farm badly wounded, Mrs. Fanning would naturally have hurried him to Doc Upshaw. As a good friend of the O'Tooles, the doctor might have thought that the badly injured Thorn wasn’t going to make it, not unless he took the magic potion that only Shamus O’Toole could provide. It was, after all, the same potion that had saved the life of Elmer O’Hanlan. Would Mrs. Fanning have had any other choice but to go along with the idea, no matter how shocking the idea must have seemed to her?

If Myron had really become Myra, she probably wouldn’t have wanted the whole town to know about it. The aunt and her nephew – now a niece – would likely have concocted a story about Myra having just come to Eerie. But by then Shamus O’Toole was involved and Molly would probably have willingly pitched in to help Irene and Myra.

That would explain why Molly had gone to Phoenix to do shopping for Myra. In Phoenix she’d be less well known and fewer people would have wondered why a childless woman needed to buy clothes for a young person.

Pretty soon, Deputy Grant and Judge Humphreys – who would have known about the magical transformation – would have visited the farm to ask Myra about the robbery. As Myron, Miss Olcott would had been a witness with a lot of information about the gang. The deputy would surely have asked the girl to help him find the lost gold shipment, and Myra wouldn’t have had much choice but to agree.

The youth’s theory, if true, would also explain why Myra disliked him. Myron had hated all of his aunt’s hired men. The more he thought about it, the more sure George became that he was on to the truth. If Myra really was Thorn, she would be having a rough time of it learning how to live a very different sort of life. The thought of Thorn dealing with corsets and pantaloons for the rest of his life was an idea that should have been funny -- except that the whole idea was so powerfully strange.

The whole thing should have been amusing, but the youth didn’t want his idea to be true. Myra was attractive girl he wanted her to start reacting to him in the way that a regular girl would. Knowing what he thought he knew, he still wanted that. The fact that he wanted a relationship with her bothered him considerably.

As things stood, young Severin had inadvertently fallen into the role of co-conspirator with Mrs. Fanning in the keeping of Myra’s secret. If everyone found out about it, she’d be humiliated, a turn of events that George wouldn't want to be responsible for.

Young Severin, now at the end of the field, gazed away in the direction of the Fanning farm. He was thinking that every time he was going to be going over there from now on he would be part of Myra’s daft story. And it was one hell of a story!

Part of him didn't want to be involved in it. He had already considered ducking out and quitting his job. But that would make things harder for Mrs. Fanning. He liked the young widow and it made him feel good to be helping a person make a success of a hard job. And, somehow he felt sorry for Myra, even though everything that had happened had been Myron's own fault.

He grinned to himself. Being around Myra Olcott never seemed to be boring. But he’d knew he'd have to stay on guard against the nasty side of Myra’s character. On the other hand, he'd heard folks talking about how the Hanks Gang at the saloon had actually become likable young ladies. Maybe improvement in character was part of the magic. He wondered what Myra might be like if she sweetened up a little herself.

But George going back to the Fanning place with what he knew made him uneasy. How should he behave? He supposed that he should should step back a little from Myra, until she started to show signs of becoming more friendly.

He suddenly sighed. Was any of his thinking true? He actually hoped that none of it was true. Regardless, he pretty firmly believed that he'd have a lot to think about during the long winter nights ahead.

THE END