Town Tamers (13 page)

N
oona was near breathless with excitement. She’d never been anywhere like Ordville. Most towns they went to were small. Cattle towns, with a main street and two or three saloons and drab frame houses.

She’d been to St. Louis, a growing city on the edge of the frontier. But few of the buildings there were anywhere near as grand, and the people were downright sleepy compared to the thriving swarm of humanity that buzzed about here.

Ordville was . . . intoxicating.

She stood on a street corner, deeply breathed in the cool mountain air, and swore she could feel a pulse of vitality, as if the town had a giant heart that beat to the rhythm of its riches.

And rich it was. From the ornate buildings to the costly clothes people wore to the flamboyant trappings of the carriages and wagons, the signs of money were everywhere.

Noona loved it. When she was growing up, their family never had a lot. Back then her pa was a deputy marshal, and lawmen didn’t make much. They got by well enough, thanks mainly to her mother doing seamstress work to help out.

But this?

“Oh my,” Noona said in amazement.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice behind her.

Noona turned and was near breathless.

He was young and exceedingly handsome with hair as black as hers and eyes as blue as the sky. His suit was impeccable, his hat tilted at a rakish angle. He had a square jaw and the nicest teeth this side of anywhere, which he displayed in a dazzling smile. “Forgive me for being so forward, but I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “You’re something, too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I saw you get off the train. I’ve been following you.”

Noona’s instincts kicked in. “You have, have you?” she said suspiciously. That she hadn’t noticed him disturbed her. She’d been so drunk on the town’s opulence, she’d let down her guard.

“Before you take a swing at me,” he said with another dazzling smile, “it’s my job.”

“To follow women?”

“To find beautiful ones like yourself.”

Noona was flustered but hid it. He seemed sincere, but she well knew how men were. “I’m not interested.”

“You haven’t heard my proposition yet.”

Noona laughed. “Trust me. I have. At least you’re keeping your hands to yourself.”

“Oh, no.” He laughed and shook his head. “As much as it would flatter me to have you want to, I’m afraid this is strictly a business proposition.”

“What is?”

He glanced at the stream of pedestrians. “This is hardly the proper place. How about if you let me treat you to a bite to eat or something to drink and I explain?”

“I don’t know,” Noona hesitated. She was supposed to find the nearest saloon, apply for work, and then meet up with her father and brother.

“What can half an hour hurt? I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

“Did your folks give you a name, or do I just say, ‘Hey, handsome’?”

“Listen to you,” he said, and grinned. “James Tharber, at your service.” He held out his hand.

Noona had to lean her rifle against her leg. It was in a long case that didn’t look anything like a typical rifle case. His hand was warm, and he didn’t try to crush hers. “Noona.” She didn’t give a last name.

“Very pleased to meet you.”

Before Noona could stop him, he scooped up the case and blinked in surprise.

“Say, this thing is heavy. What do you have in here, anyway? I took it for a musical instrument.”

“It is,” Noona said, snatching it back. “It’s a trumpet.”

“A woman who plays the trumpet? Now I’ve heard everything.”

His laugh was infectious. Noona let him carry her bag but she held on to her rifle as they walked a block or so to a restaurant called the Blue Spruce. He held the door for her. Inside was positively elegant, with booths and globe lamps and the waitresses in uniforms.

“Looks pricey,” Noona said.

“What in Ordville isn’t?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Noona said. “This is my first visit.”

A waitress led them to a booth, set down menus, and left.

“So what is this about?” Noona got right to the point.

James Tharber slid his hand across and touched hers. “How would you like to make a very lot of money?”

B
yron thought he had died and gone to heaven, a heaven of pure culture.

He’d never been anywhere like Ordville. The way the people dressed, their hustle and bustle and sense of purpose, the elegance of the buildings—it was like stepping into a whole new world.

Byron passed two theaters within ten blocks of the train station. Then he came to the downtown district, and he was like a child in a candy store.

There were four more theaters. Four! And an opera house so elegant on the outside, it made him eager to view the no doubt lavish interior. There were dance halls and a concert hall. Saloons, of course, and a tavern or three, but even they were far and away superior to the shabby variety of Ludlow and other cattle towns.

He went into one. It was called Pike’s Peak or Bust. A crescent mahogany bar gleamed in the light of a chandelier.

The floor was polished, the tables covered with felt, the spittoons and rails gleamed, and the dealers were impeccable in their uniforms.

Byron set down his bag and the long case with his rifle, and one of the three bartenders came over and politely asked what he wanted. “Scotch, if you have it.”

“We have everything,” the man said. He had seen Byron set down the bag and as he poured he said, “Just in to town, I take it?”

Byron nodded.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to be in a daze.”

Byron laughed. “It’s that obvious?”

“A lot of small-town folks are dazzled by the glitter,” the barman observed.

“I’m from Austin,” Byron said.

“Down Texas way? That’s a fair-sized city, I seem to recall.”

“Nothing like here.”

“Nowhere is like here,” the bartender said matter-of-factly. “Unless maybe Leadville. But they attract a rowdier lot.”

“I’ve never seen so many theaters and the like,” Byron mentioned.

“That’s Mr. Studevant’s doing. I’ve never met him, but they say he’s a cultured fellow. He likes to attend plays and the opera and take in a concert. He’s also fond of poetry, if you can believe it.”

About to take a sip, Byron paused. “Poetry?”

The barman nodded. “Word is he put up some of the money to have the Poetry House built.”

“The what?”

“It’s around the corner and to the left. Poets come and read their works or sometimes the words of dead poets. I’ve never gone, but my sister has.”

Byron downed the Scotch in two swallows, paid, and scooped up the bag and his rifle.

“Why the rush?” the man asked.

How could Byron explain? He practically ran, he was so excited. And there it was, a three-story edifice with a large sign emblazoned with T
HE
P
OETRY
H
OUSE
in cursive letters. A marquee informed him that a local poetess was giving a reading that very night.

On an impulse, Byron tried one of the doors. It wasn’t locked. He entered and found himself in a cool foyer. A thin young man with curly blond hair was over behind a counter thumbing through a book. He looked up as Byron approached and offered a friendly smile.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed. We don’t open until six this evening for the readings, but there’s always the café.”

“The what?” Byron said.

The man pointed at a side door. “We serve European-style coffee and light fare. Our local poets like to come and mingle and share their poetry.”

“God,” Byron said.

The man’s eyes crinkled with amusement and he held out his hand. “I’m Myron Hobbs, by the way. I run this establishment.”

“Byron Carter.”

“Myron and Byron?” Myron said, and laughed. “We almost sound like brothers.”

Byron gazed beyond the foyer where rows of chairs were set up before a stage. “A place devoted to poetry!” he marveled. “I must be dreaming.”

“You enjoy poems, do you?”

“You have no idea.”

“Perhaps I do,” Myron said good-naturedly. “Shelley is my favorite.”

“Mine is my namesake,” Byron said.

“Lord Byron? Then you must be aware of their friendship and the time they spent together at Lake Geneva in Switzerland.”

“I’ve read everything on him I’ve ever come across,” Byron said.

Myron suddenly snapped his fingers and straightened. “Say, I know someone you should meet. And by luck, they’re here.” He came around the counter and beckoned for Byron to follow him to the side door.

The café had an inside and an outside area for tables, and at a table near the curb sat a young woman in a new dress intently reading a book. She was a brunette with a perfect oval face, full lips, and eyes that sparkled. “Myron!” she exclaimed. “Listen to this.”

Myron glanced at Byron and grinned and winked.

“‘When all around grew drear and dark, and reason half withheld her ray,’” the young woman read, “‘and hope but shed a dying spark which more misled my way. In that deep midnight of the mind, and that internal strife of heart, when, dreading to be deemed too kind, the weak despair, the cold depart. When fortune changed—and love fled far, and hatred’s shafts flew thick and fast, thou wert the solitary star which rose and set not to the last.’”

She looked up, her expression dreamy, and clasped her hands to her bosom. “Isn’t that glorious? Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it so very romantic?”

“He’s no Shelley,” Myron said, and laughed.

“That’s from his
Stanzas to Augusta
,” Byron said. “One of my favorites.”

The young woman seemed to notice him for the first time and blinked as if in surprise. “Oh. Who do we have here?”

With a flourish Myron made the introductions. “Miss Olivia Rabineau, I’d like you to meet Mr. Byron . . . Smith, wasn’t it? I brought him over because apparently he loves Lord Byron as much as you do.”

“You don’t say,” Olivia said.

“He’s new to town,” Myron mentioned. “Perhaps you’d be willing to answer any questions he might have?”

Olivia looked Byron up and down and said softly, “I would be delighted.” Catching herself, she coughed and motioned and brightly asked, “What do you think of it so far?”

Byron glanced at the Poetry House and at a theater down the street and the river of well-dressed people and finally at Olivia’s lovely face and sparkling eyes. “I think I’m falling in love,” he said.

F
or all of ten seconds Asa Delaware thought that Mayor Tom Oliver was joshing. Then he realized the man was in earnest. “You sent for me. Or, rather, your secretary must have.”

“I did what now?”

“Here.” Asa reached into his slicker and brought out the folded letter. He handed it across the desk, saying, “It caught up to me in Ludlow, Texas.”

The mayor went on smiling as he unfolded it. No sooner did he begin to read than his smile faded and he said, “You got this in Texas?”

“I can start right away,” Asa said. “I need to know who we are up against. How many guns they have. Who their leader is. Those sorts of things.”

“Guns? Leader?” Oliver’s brow furrowed. “What is it you do, exactly, Mr. Delaware?”

A feeling of unease came over Asa. “I tame towns, as you well know. It’s why you sent for me.”

“Tame?” Mayor Oliver said. He looked at the letter and at Asa and blurted, “My God. I think I’ve heard of you. Don’t you kill people for a living?”

“Only those who deserve it,” Asa said.

Oliver appeared shocked. He sat back and looked at the letter again and shook his head and muttered.

“I didn’t catch that,” Asa said.

“This is unbelievable.”

“What is?”

“First off,” Oliver said, wagging the letter, “I didn’t send this. My secretary’s name is Rachel, not Cecilia. But I do know Cecilia Preston, and I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of her diseased mind.”

“You say she’s ill?” Asa said in confusion.

“By diseased I mean demented. She hates our town. Hates what it has become, rather. I’m afraid her sending for you is merely the latest in her endless ploys to get revenge.”

“You didn’t send for me?”

“No.”

“The offer of five thousand dollars to tame your town isn’t genuine?”

“It is not.”

“This woman concocted the whole thing?”

“Evidently.” Oliver slid the letter across his desk. “I don’t blame you for looking so surprised. You’ve come all this way for nothing. Ordville doesn’t need taming, Mr. Delaware. Quite the contrary. We are as happy and prosperous a town as you’ll find anywhere. Our citizens are law-abiding. We have no bad men. No gunmen. No rowdy cowboys who ride in every Saturday with their six-shooters blasting, I believe is the custom.”

“All this way,” Asa said. The full import of it had sunk in and his disbelief was changing to anger.

“It’s incredible that she would do something like this,” Mayor Oliver said. “I mean, her letters to the
Ordville Gazette
are one thing. As are her rants at our council meetings. To say nothing of how she badgers our poor marshal.”

“You have law here?”

“Of course we do. Colorado isn’t Texas, after all. We’re much more civilized.”

“There’s that word again.”

“Pardon?”

Asa stared at the letter and crumpled it in his fist.

“The woman who sent this. Where do I find her?”

“To what end? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to slap her silly. But she can’t help herself. She honestly can’t.”

“I want to talk to her,” Asa said. “I want to find out why me.”

“Ah.” Mayor Oliver called out Rachel’s name and the secretary was in the office in a twinkling.

“Sir?”

“We have Cecilia Preston’s address, do we not?”

“It’s on the letters she’s sent you in her file,” Rachel said.

“Would you write it down for Mr. Delaware here, and give it to him when he leaves?”

“Sir.” Rachel bobbed her chin and left.

“Efficient as can be, that girl,” Mayor Oliver said. He made a teepee of his hands while giving Asa a close scruitny. “Is there anything else I can do for you? I trust you’ve heard of our Indian policy. Other towns are laughing at us behind our backs, but Mr. Studevant is quite set on it.”

“I’m not—” Asa said, and stopped. “What Indian policy?”

“Indians are welcome here.”

Asa waited, and when the mayor didn’t go on, he said, “That’s it?”

“Indians and blacks and Mexicans and Chinese and any others you can think of. The downtrodden. The neglected. The abused.”

Asa still didn’t understand. “Welcomed how?”

“To start a new life. You’re undoubtedly well aware of the rampant prejudice in this country. Whites hate the redman. Whites hate blacks. Whites hate anyone whose skin color is different.”

“There are blacks and redskins who hate whites for the same reason.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Studevant is having none of it. He desires to have Ordville be a shining beacon of tolerance to the entire world.”

This was a new one on Asa. He didn’t quite know what to say so he stood and announced, “I’ll be leaving. Sorry to have imposed on you.”

“That’s quite all right.” Oliver watched Asa pick up the carpetbag and shoulder the leather case. “One last thing, if I may.”

Asa waited.

“As I keep pointing out, this isn’t Texas. We don’t go in for gunplay. The wearing of firearms is strictly prohibited.”

Asa opened his slicker. “I don’t wear a pistol.”

“Good.” Oliver smiled broadly. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Asa strode out.

“Here you go, sir,” Rachel said, rising from her desk and handing him a slip of paper. “Cecilia Preston’s address.”

“I’m obliged.”

Asa crossed the waiting room. He looked back as he was about to step into the hall and saw the secretary in the office doorway, her back to him. He also clearly heard Mayor Tom Oliver give her an order.

“Send for the marshal.”