falcon and wolf 13

 

 

Chapter 13

 

Mortensen rode back into the town of High Fork before the mail reached it; he had a companion with him, an Indian, presumably a scout.

So thought Whitey Jacobs, who was a peripheral member of the Magree gang, with no price on his head at the moment.

He jeered.

“You found enough trouble to get wounded, bounty-killer, do you need the Injun to find where you can have the other arm shot?”

Mortensen regarded him.

“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t,” he said. “I ain’t about to bandy words with you; you ain’t worth my time,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Whitey.

Mortensen regarded the pale-haired man.

“It means, you ain’t got a price on your head worth collecting,” said Mortensen. “Richardson might have given up carin’ but jus’ let any others come to town, and my friend here will be gunnin’ for every last one.”

“You’ll both get it, more like,” said Jacobs.

“In your dreams,” scoffed Mortensen. With this exchange, he turned and called for a drink for himself and Wolf.

 

There was a stir when the mail coach drew in. Mortensen and Wolf, as they might be expected to do, loafed out to see who, if anyone, dismounted.

Wolf let out a long, subdued whistle at the beautiful woman who alighted, in a high-necked gown to hide Luke’s Adam’s apple. A hot poker had turned his side hair into ringlets, and his chip bonnet was more of a flirtation than any practical headgear.  Luke had enlisted the aid of the proprietor’s wife in the saloon in Lee’s Drift, who had more idea of getting him up as a woman than had Tommy. She had used a women’s way of removing the last stubble, with a cream made of sugar, lemons, and water, which was spread liberally, and then a cloth pressed down pulled out more of the follicles than the razor could reach. It had smarted, but Luke was pleased with the results. He also carried a cream normally used by the undertaker, since the dead appear to grow hair, when their skin shrinks, but shaving a dead person is harder than using what he called a depilatory.  He was more darkly tanned than was considered suitable for beauty, but with his lashes thickened, and his lips rouged, he was attractive enough to turn heads, and already knew how to sway his hips to take full advantage of his bustle.

A woman travelling alone might be frowned at by some, but most people accepted that practicalities meant that this was sometimes unavoidable – a young woman answering an advertisement as a mail-order bride, say, or one travelling to take up the post of schoolmarm, and many other reasons. Manners in the west differed from those in the east.

“Oh!” exclaimed Luke, clasping his gloved hands together girlishly. “What a dear little town! I am sure you do need aid to set up a lovely Sunday School!”

Richardson stepped forward.

“Why, ma’am, what do you mean?”

“Well, Sheriff, my name is Connie Bessen, and I’m a member of the Greater American  Maidens and Mothers Of Necessity, and we set up Sunday schools to see that every child in our great nation has appropriate schooling in the scriptures and in basic literacy, to make sure our next generation grows up with a good solid grounding in what is right and beautiful!”  Luke gushed.

“And what do you do?” asked Richardson.

“Well, I talk to the prominent women of the community, and we start taking subscriptions from everyone – whatever they can afford – to pay for the raising of a little school-room for the church, and to pay for teachers and Bibles,” said Luke. “Why, the last town I was in about this size raised almost two thousand dollars! I’m sure you can imagine a sweet little board house, painted white, with two rooms, one for the upper class and one for the lower, and pretty paintings hung about, done by the children themselves, to celebrate God!”

“It sounds almost too good to be true,” said Richardson.

“Why, Sheriff, all we can do is to pray,” said Luke, opening his eyes wide.

Richardson had trouble recognising the hard man of the night before in this dainty female, but the dainty female was a touch too tall to be truly dainty, and had also dropped him half a wink.

Luke tripped into the hotel and asked for a room, away from the evil smell of liquor.

Richardson went back into his house, next to the office and jailhouse, where his wife was sitting up on her sofa, listlessly eating a soft-boiled egg and fingers of toast.

“Betty,” said Richardson, “I need your aid.”

“Oh, Tom, what am I any good for?” asked Elizabeth Richardson.

“Well, it’s like this,” said Richardson. “I received a telegraph about a crook, who poses as young men and even as women, and there’s this woman arrived in town, talking about getting up a subscription for a Sunday School.  Well, she’s ladylike, but rather tall, and I… well, a man can’t go about asking indelicate questions of a lady, can he? So, I wondered, if you could scratch an acquaintance, tell her how you taught Sunday School out east, and see if my suspicions are justified.”

Interest had dawned in the listless eyes.

“Do you think I can do it, Tom?” she asked.

“Lordy, yes; you’re as smart as a whip,” said Richardson. “I know you’re grievin’; we didn’t even have a chance to christen our baby, and I wish the reverend was less nice about that, for then we’d have a name to put on the grave.”

“I called her ‘Ada,’ after my mother,” said his wife.

“Ada! That’s lovely. I’ll find it easier to make peace with my grief for our daughter with a name,” said Richardson.

“Oh, Tom! I didn’t know you were grieving too! You didn’t show it!!

“Of course I didn’t, love, I wanted to be strong for you to lean on,” said Richardson.

“Oh, Tom, I have wronged you, I thought you were insensitive, and did not understand me,” said Elizabeth.

“Now, that’s not true, Betty. But a man has to be a prop and stay,” said Richardson. “And you know I’ve never said, as some fools have, ‘Well, you can have another baby,’ and I know it ain’t the same, and I know you’re afeared to go through it all again, in case we lose another. Fact is, I was wonderin’ about givin’ a home to some poor orphan, for you’d be a wonderful mother.”

“Tom, I need to think about it.  What do you want me to find out about this woman collecting subscriptions?”

“I don’t know – trip her up with something only women know, perhaps?” said Richardson. He was delighted that the bounty-hunter’s ideas had worked, and did not much care if he caught the Magree gang, as long as his wife regained the sparkle which had attracted him to her.

“I’ll do my best, Tom. Oh, Tom! Will you brush my hair, and help me dress properly? I can’t go out like this.”

“Willingly,” said Richardson. It was the first time she had shown an interest in her appearance for a long time.

 

Luke had engaged a private parlour to speak to those who wanted to make subscriptions. It was disturbing, actually, how many good citizens had already come forward.

And then a washed-out looking lady, meticulously coifed, walked in the door, and approached him.

“I’m Elizabeth Richardson; wife of the sheriff,” she said.

“Ah, one of the leading lights of the community, of course,” purred Luke.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Elizabeth demurred, feeling guilty that she had not been part of the community. “I used to teach Sunday School back east.”

“Why, then, you’ll truly appreciate this need,” said Luke.

“It’s very different, out here,” said Elizabeth.  “I take it that you use sugaring to help hygiene?”

“Yes, indeed; and the smell of lemons is wholesome,” said Luke, knowing that this referred to the use of lemon and sugar to remove hair. 

“I’ve encountered a little girl at Sunday School whose mother had not prepared her for the changes in life, and who was afraid God was punishing her for something,” said Elizabeth.

“It’s a mistake for mothers to falsely equate ignorance with innocence,” agreed Luke.

“You must have sisters,” said Elizabeth.

“And a brother,” said Luke.

“I must say, I am impressed by your corsetry; what company do you favour?” asked Elizabeth.

“Er… I just get what fits in a store,” said Luke.

“Really? I know mail order provides a huge range of sizes, but a properly fitting corset made to measure is far more comfortable, don’t you think?  And tailored to allow the expansion at the time of the month,” said Elizabeth. “Do you favour ladder lacing, or cross-lacing?”

“This is getting very personal, considering we have only just met,” said Luke.

“Nonsense, it’s rare enough having a lady to talk to, we need to stick together, and discussing corsetry is part of that,” said Elizabeth. “Well, perhaps another time; I haven’t been well, and I want to get back home. I will, of course, support your endeavours.”

She took her leave.

 

“Tom, I never yet met a woman who was not ready to discuss in detail the good and bad points of the corset company she uses – but never a woman who had pretence at a figure and looking stylish who claims to pick up what fits in a store,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, I’m damned!  I’d never consider discussing undergarments with another man,” said Richardson.

“It’s not conclusive, but I got the impression this so-called lady was very uncomfortable,” said Elizabeth.

“Jewel amongst women,” said Tom, kissing her fondly.

He strode over to the hotel.

“Baby-Face Bellamy! I know it’s you  cavortin’ in women’s skirts, pretendin’ to collect funds for a Sunday School!  You jes’ come quietly!”

“You’ll never take me alive!” cried Luke, dramatically, his six-shooters in his hands before Richardson could blink. Richardson’s hat went flying, and the curtain in the door of the private room descended on Richardson’s head. Luke gathered his skirts and took a flying leap right over him, out of the hotel, and onto the back of Wolf’s horse. He aimed at the fire gong down the street, and shot in the rhythm of ‘shave and a haircut- two bits’ as a piece of bravado. This left him with three bullets in one gun and he used two on the hats of Wolf and Mortensen as he galloped out of town.

Or at least, as far as the livery stable at the far end, where he nipped round the back to reload, watching a posse go thundering by. Luke sniggered, and took the back street to the other end of the town.

Here, he came face to face with Whitey Jacobs, and drew a gun.

“I ain’t your enemy,” said Jacobs. “Fact is, I was about to go to Barney Magree to tell him you was leadin’ the sheriff a merry dance, and seein’ if he’d like to get you out o’ this spot of bother.”

“Now, why would he do that?” asked Luke.

“He just lost a man who can pose as harmless on the trains to see his way to holdin’ them up. It pays a mort o’ money more’n a two-bit swindle. You’re good with them guns, too.”

“I might think about the proposition; if I hear it from Barney Magree  himself.”

“Reckon he’ll leap at the chance,” said Jacobs.

“Show me where to go, then,” said Luke.

Jacobs, already saddled up, took Luke to the concealed valley, whistling the pass tune.

The bush was untied.

“Whitey! Why have you brought the dame?” demanded the man inside.

“Shucks, Carver, this is no dame, it’s Baby-Face Bellamy,” said Whitey.

Carver Wilson peered suspiciously at Luke.

“She’s putting you on, Whitey, that’s a dame all right.”

Luke got off his horse, smiled, floored Wilson, heaved up his skirts and peed on him.

He needed to relieve his bladder, anyway, and it made the other bandits roar with laughter.

Carver got up, drawing the knife that had earned him his name. Luke did not bother to draw his; but he took Carver’s, apparently effortlessly.

“You can handle the guards in the caboose, all right,” said Barney Magree. “Let it go, Carver; he’s one of us now. Give him back his knife, Bellamy.”

“As you wish,” said Luke, flipping the knife to quiver in the ground between Carver’s feet.

Carver Wilson gave Luke a fulminating look.

“A man can’t be expected to take that,” he grumbled.

“You like your share from our operations?” said Magree.

“Sure, I do,” said Wilson.

“If we ain’t got Angel, we gotta have someone to do his job. Muscle is a dime a dozen. Her – his, rather – looks and skills are our fortune. Suck it up and take it.”

Carver Wilson subsided. He managed to hiss to Luke, however, “If you fall out of favour, any time, for any reason, I’ll be waiting.”

“No skin off my nose to kill an amateur,” said Luke.

This may well have rankled as much as the crude commentary with regards to Luke’s identity as male.

Carver Wilson snarled.

“We’ll see who kills who,” he said.

“Whom,” said Luke.  “First is nominative, second is accusative. Who kills whom. I don’t care who you murder, but I’ll knock you down for murdering the language.”

“What kind of a ponce are you?”

“I’m an educated man. It doesn’t make me a ponce. It does make me able to play the part of a mild-mannered schoolmaster and fool a schoolboard. That’s worth real money just from the swindle. Imagine if I convinced the good folks of a big city to send money for a school in the boondocks, and sadly, it was stolen, and I was hurt and tied up whilst guarding it… and they compensated me and raised more.”

“Now that’s a twist we haven’t tried before,” said Magree, who was listening. “I don’t care who or whom you swindle, but it’s a damn good thought.”