True to the Law (22 page)

“He gets that from his grandmother.”

Cobb pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Why don’t you sit down? I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

Collins sat and struck at the heart of the matter. “Did you alter the address at all?”

“No. I didn’t want that to be a question at the other end.” He didn’t say that he could explain away his handwriting, but that pretending he forgot the address, or even that he transposed the numbers was not something he was willing to do. It was too careless a mistake, the kind he didn’t make. It was his reputation that brought him to Andrew Mackey’s attention, and his reputation that Mackey was paying for. In Cobb’s experience, people rarely hired the man; they hired what they
thought
of the man.

“How long before the letter reaches its destination?” Cobb asked.

The station agent counted backward, ticking off the days with his fingertips. When he stopped, he shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Cobb. I reckon it could be there now. Maybe arrived yesterday. Maybe today. It’s almost certain to be there by Saturday.”

“I see.”

“Is that going to be a big problem for you?”

“I don’t know.”

Jefferson Collins glanced around the office. Except for adding a couple of posters and a new coffeepot, nothing much had changed since Deputy Sugar sat behind the same desk. “Doesn’t alter what you’re doing here, does it? Can’t say that you’re exactly settled in.”

Cobb pointed to the dime novel. “I don’t require much to settle. A cup of coffee. A book. Something to look at on the wall. That does me fine.”

“Then you’re not runnin’ off.”

“No. I’m not running off.” He observed that his answer seemed to satisfy the older man. “It’s not your fault about what happened to the letter.”

“Did I give you the impression that I thought it was?”

“As a matter of fact, you did.”

Collins shrugged. “Well, maybe I do feel I wronged you. Never thought I wouldn’t be there when you came by with it. Never thought . . .” He fell silent, shook his head.

“Never thought I’d trust the letter to anyone but you,” Cobb finished for him. “That’s my fault. I was so sure . . . Well, it’s done.

“If there’s a reply, I’d like to know as soon as it arrives.”

“I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Thank you.”

Collins stood. “Let’s go, boys. Hop to. Your granny’s waiting, and you have school tomorrow. Don’t tell Miss Morrow what you’ve been reading tonight. She’s not likely to think much of you cuttin’ your teeth on reward notices.”

“You might be surprised,” Cobb said softly. “You might just be surprised.”

* * *

Andrew Mackey tapped the point of his letter opener against his chin. The tip unerringly found the cleft and rested there momentarily, hidden in the nest of his neatly cropped beard. He glanced at the envelope he had pushed to the side and wondered again what he was supposed to make of it. The scrawl was Cobb Bridger’s, he was sure of that. The script matched the handwriting on the note inside. Fortunately, Bridger wrote in the same manner he spoke: short and to the point. The man did not use two words when one would do. That made the contents of the letter less laborious to decipher.

The other writing on the envelope puzzled him. It was the cursive style of a careful hand. A child’s, he thought. Or childlike. However it had come about, he was glad of it. Cobb’s letter might have been a long time coming left to the poor eyesight and hapless sorting of the postal clerks.

“What are you thinking?”

It was his cousin Amelia who spoke. Andrew set the letter opener on top of Cobb’s note and regarded her first, then the rest of the family gathered in his study. “I’m thinking that in all of the Wyoming Territory there is probably not a more desolate place than this one. Have any of you ever heard of Bitter Springs?”

To a person, and there were seven of them, they answered in the negative.

“That’s what I thought. Frank, will you bring the atlas? It’s in the map drawer.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the first column of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “We should probably all have a look.”

“You’ve decided then?” asked his uncle Paul. “You’re going?”

“There’s the labor dispute to deal with first. Not that the Pinkertons can’t enforce company policy, but it’s my obligation to see it through to the end. Is someone else volunteering to go in my place?” This time he only regarded the men. They numbered four. No one responded, and he did not expect that anyone would. “I’ve reviewed the case law, read every decision that I thought might turn things our way. You know what I know. Are any of you doubting that Gertrude Morrow is a thief?”

“And a witch,” Frank said, dropping the atlas on his cousin’s desk. Only Andrew didn’t laugh. “How else do you explain that Aunt Charlotte couldn’t see that woman’s true nature for looking at her? I’m telling you, Charlotte Mackey wasn’t bed bound. She was spellbound.”

Andrew opened the atlas and leaned forward to address the family. He had a tight-lipped, narrow smile, and deep parenthetical lines on either side of his mouth. His neatly clipped mustache and beard were the ginger color his hair had been in his youth. At thirty, there was no longer any hint of red in his thick thatch of hair. It was as brown as his eyes, an exact match until his eyes darkened with the strength of his conviction. They were very nearly black when he said, “A witch? Frank might be wrong, but I’d be a fool to rule it out. I am not a fool.”

Chapter Eight

Cobb was six weeks into his new position as marshal when he decided he needed to make another attempt to close the distance that separated him from Tru. The problem was, all indications thus far pointed to her being satisfied with their current arrangement. No matter how often he thought back to the night she told him to get out, he was no closer to understanding what he had done to make it all go sideways.

There had been opportunities to speak to her, but they occurred in public and conversation was limited to the weather, health, and whatever topic the third or fourth party present introduced. He joined her for dinner on several occasions but never once when she was sitting alone. If Howard and Jack were with her, he invited himself to the table. The same with Ted Rush and Mrs. Garvin. In all that time, she had only asked him to sit with her once, and he remembered thinking the words must have tasted like ground glass. He did not fool himself that he was welcome; rather he sat down with the knowledge that Tru did not want to be John Westerman’s sole dinner companion. Mr. Westerman had been out of jail four full days at that point, and cut a somewhat pathetic figure with his black eyes and bandaged nose, but whatever sympathy he mustered for his bruised countenance, he lost when his attempts at exacting speech made it clear that he had no intention of going through life sober.

Cobb put Mr. Westerman on the noon train heading to Salt Lake City the next day. Mrs. Sterling rewarded him with an extra large slice of currant pie that night. The mayor clapped him on the back as he passed the table, and Ted Rush told a story about how he had almost escorted a scoundrel out of town once. Tru did not have a word for him.

Cobb kept an eye on her, not through any sense of civic duty, but because it was harder to ignore her. The truth was, he liked watching her, and admitting it didn’t come at any cost. She had a particular way of walking that made him think she must have practiced deportment with a book balanced on her head. Even on a windy day, she seemed to be able to keep her hat in place when every woman around her was tugging on her bonnet ribbons or clamping a hand to the crown of her hat.

Tru’s carriage was correct, not stiff, but invariably contained. She was not given to open-armed gestures or covering the ground in long strides. She was free with her smile, though Cobb rarely saw it cast in his direction. Humor made her green eyes brighter, and the appearance of her single dimple meant that she was at least thinking about mischief.

He never observed a sign that she was thinking about him.

Her students adored her. He had seen her in places outside of the schoolroom where children too young to be in her class trailed after their older brothers and sisters just to say hello to her. The littlest ones were often tongue-tied, but he had never known Tru not to be able to coax a string of gibberish from them. She spoke their language fluently, while he generally required a translator.

Children came up to him, too. Boys asked him how many men he had killed. The girls wanted to know why he wasn’t married. He had no idea what the youngest among them said if Finn wasn’t around to tell him.

As of this afternoon, there still had been no reply from Chicago. Rabbit and Finn came by his office to let him know nothing was waiting for him and stayed to practice their whittling. Wood shavings littered the floor on either side of his desk. They sat more or less as he did, leaning back in the chair with their heels propped on the desk. Neither of them had mastered finding the proper tilt and balance for keeping the chair on its rear legs. They tried at least once during every visit, usually with one or both of them landing flat on his back. Cobb thought it was a wonder that they hadn’t knocked themselves out.

Cobb dropped his chair back on all fours and stood. “I’m getting coffee,” he said. “You boys want a ginger beer?”

“Sure,” said Rabbit. “But maybe we should split it. Granny says it gives Finn gas.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Gives Granny gas. I’m just a scrapegoat.”

“Scapegoat,” Cobb said.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Scapegoat.” Finn tested the word several times under his breath before he returned to whittling.

Cobb carried a bottle of ginger beer and two glasses back to the desk. “One pours, the other chooses.” He left them to sort it out while he got his coffee.

“Miss Morrow does that,” said Rabbit when Cobb was once again comfortably situated behind his desk. He held up his glass of ginger beer so Cobb would know what he was talking about.

“How about that,” Cobb said.

Finn held up his glass and examined the contents against the lamplight. He eyed Rabbit’s glass to confirm that they were indeed equally full. “Sure keeps kids from scrappin’.”

“It works for adults, too.”

“How about that,” Finn said.

Cobb not only heard his words coming back to him but the exact tone as well. Finn was truly frightening.

Rabbit watched Cobb as he sipped his drink. He swallowed, licked his lips, and asked, “When are you comin’ back to visit us?”

“I was at the station yesterday, remember?”

“I meant dropping by the schoolhouse.”

Finn nodded. “Yeah. There’s been talk.”

“Talk?”

“Sure,” said Rabbit. “Kids talk.”

“I’m aware,” Cobb said, sparing a pointed glance for each of them. He couldn’t decide if they were oblivious or only pretending to be. In any event, they were undeterred. Cobb found himself eyeing the broom standing in the corner.

Rabbit said, “Robby Fox thinks you haven’t dropped in because you’re marshal now and up to your neck in villains. I told him there hasn’t been a villain in town since Mr. Coltrane run out the Burdicks, but Robby’s got his own ideas about things like that.”

Finn nodded. “He thinks Mr. Westerman was a villain only we didn’t know it because he was a better drunk than an outlaw.”

“Robby might have a point,” said Cobb. “The work keeps me pretty busy, boys.”

Rabbit eyed the book lying on the desk. “Uh-huh.”

Finn followed his brother’s glance. The dime novel’s lurid cover got his full attention. “Hey! Ain’t that
Nat Church and the Frisco Fancy
?” He angled his head almost completely sideways. “Did you know if you look at it just right, you can see up that dancin’ girl’s petticoats all the way to France?”

Cobb tipped his chair forward, grabbed the book, and flipped it over on its cover. “Enough.”

Finn let out a long, disappointed sigh. His lower lip actually vibrated with the strength of it. He pressed his glass of ginger beer against it.

Rabbit simply shook his head. “Finn’s a trial, Marshal.”

Cobb recognized Heather Collins’s voice coming out of Rabbit’s mouth. She said the same thing about her older grandson, though not as often as she did about the younger one. She had a martyr’s affection for each of them.

To move the conversation away from the Frisco fancy, Cobb asked, “Is Robby Fox the only one with an opinion?”

“No,” said Rabbit. “Sam Burnside says that since you gave up gambling, you can’t properly afford sand tarts. It’s all right, Marshal. Everyone knows lawmen aren’t pocket rich the way gamblers are.”

“Everyone knows that, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Finn.

Rabbit nodded. “Priscilla thinks you’re too proud to drop by without a treat, but Charity Burnside says it’s on account of Miss Morrow that you ain’t been around.”

“Charity probably got that idea from me,” Finn said shamelessly. “I told her how Miss Morrow made you sweep the classroom and especially mind that you get the mud from under Sam’s desk. She cuffed Sam real good on the back of his head when she heard that. Charity’s kinda sweet on you, Marshal.”

Rabbit said, “All the girls are.”

Cobb shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s all right,” said Rabbit. “None of the boys mind ’cause the girls leave us alone.”

Finn nodded. “It’s a good thing. Girls are bannoying.”

“Annoying,” said Cobb automatically. “There’s no ‘b.’”

Finn thought about that. “Must have been that Granny had a cold when she said it. There’s probably no ‘b’ in ‘bapoplectic’ either.”

Cobb was fortunate not to spew coffee. “Finn, it sounds to me as if the only ‘b’ you’re hearing is the one in your Granny’s bonnet.”

Rabbit laughed, but Finn only frowned.

“Never mind,” said Cobb. “I’ll tell you what. Suppose you tell Miss Morrow that you invited me to come by, and then you let me know what she says.”

“Lie, you mean? And carry tales?”

Rabbit rolled his eyes. “It’s not a lie if we actually invite him. And it’s more like an assignment than carrying tales.”

“Oh. All right. Like we’re deputies. Well then, Marshal, it’d be a real pleasure if you’d come to the school tomorrow, especially if you bring something from the bakery.” Finn looked at his brother. “How’s that?”

“Pretty good. Only it can’t be tomorrow. We’ve got to tell him what Miss Morrow says about it first.”

“Okay.” Finn lifted his chin in Cobb’s direction. “You’re invited to come by if Miss Morrow doesn’t make a face about it. That’s how we’ll know whether you’re welcome or not.” He pointed to his mouth as he pressed his lips together. “Have you noticed that sometimes it’s not what folks say that they mean? I’m partial to watchin’ how they look when they say it.”

Cobb could not decide if Finn was going to grow up to be a gambler, a lawyer, a criminal, or take the worst aspects of all three and become a politician. “Thank you, Finn. Rabbit. I’d be pleased myself.”

* * *

The following afternoon, Cobb’s earnest deputies delivered their report. Miss Morrow had said he was welcome any time. Finn aped the face she made when she’d said it, and there was nothing in it to indicate that she was speaking anything other than the truth. There was, however, the dimple that Finn pressed into his cheek with his index finger, and Cobb understood instantly that while he was welcome, she was up to no good.

The next day Cobb arrived at the schoolhouse an hour before dismissal. He thought she would appreciate his attempt to minimize the disruption to her lessons, but if she did, she didn’t tell him.

He came bearing gifts. Charity Burnside and Priscilla Taylor jumped up to take his hat, gloves, and coat. The boys eyed the bakery box he was shifting hand to hand as the girls relieved him of his outerwear. Tru did not interfere. She asked him to distribute Jenny’s frosted cupcakes to the class before inviting him to sit down in her chair.

“I thought it would be a treat for the children if you read to them. We’ve been reading and discussing Aesop’s Fables. You’re familiar?”

“I am.”

“Good.” She opened the book in her hand to a place that was marked by a ribbon and laid it in front of him. “This is a favorite.”

He glanced down at the title and was immediately wary. “Of whom?”

She ignored his question. Picking up her cupcake, she carried it to the rear of the classroom. Several children made room for her, and she thanked them for it, but explained that she preferred to stand. “Nice and loud, Marshal. So we all can hear.”

Cobb smiled weakly as he blew out a long breath and began reading. “A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.” He looked up. “Loud enough?”

Tru smiled sweetly and nodded along with the rest of her class.

“A Wolf found it a great hardship to get at the sheep owing to the watchfulness of the shepherd and his dogs. But one day the Wolf found the skin of a sheep that had been flayed and thrown aside.”

Cobb paused to rub the back of his neck and regarded Tru again. “This is a bloody work, don’t you think?”

“The children are familiar with flaying. Go on.”

He looked around. To a student, they were staring at him raptly. “Very well. The Wolf took the sheepskin and put it on to cover his own pelt. Disguised thusly, he strolled down the hillside and among the sheep. The Lamb that belonged to the sheep whose skin the Wolf was wearing began to follow the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing; so, leading the Lamb a little apart from the flock, he soon made a tasty meal of her.”

Cobb glanced up to see if any of the children were grimacing. They weren’t. Tru, in fact, was smiling smugly. Finn was right. Girls were bannoying.

He went back to the story. “For some time the Wolf succeeded in deceiving the sheep, and enjoying hearty meals.” He closed the book. “The end.”

The children applauded. In their excitement, some of them forgot to put down their cupcakes.

Cobb tried to avoid looking at the carnage.

Tru came forward, gave Sam Burnside her handkerchief, told Mary Ransom just to lick her fingers, and simply shook her head at Finn. He had frosting in his hair. When she reached the front of the classroom, she turned to face her students.

“Is it the end?” she asked them, waving Cobb back into her chair.

He sat down slowly, his torture not yet ended.

Aaron Sharp threw up his arm and wiggled his fingers. He hardly settled down when Tru called his name. “There’s still the moral. Marshal Bridger didn’t read the moral.”

“No, he didn’t, did he?” said Tru. “That’s because it’s not written down. Sometimes we have to work that out on our own. What is the moral lesson in this fable? Who thinks they know what Aesop was trying to tell us?”