Dabbling
I actually wrote the beginning of this story a long time ago by hand. Then I lost it. The second part has been sitting in my files for a couple of years (at least) while the beginning bumped around in various forms inside my head. Tonight I took a stab at getting the beginning down, albeit in a different and still quite rough form. As usual, I have no idea where (if at all) this should go.
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Sheriff Clayton Withers didn’t normally like to take his son, Jack, out with him when he was working. But today Jack was out of school, and his Ma had another one of those headaches that had been troubling her since she’d been in the family way. It was her fourth pregnancy so far, with the last two ending poorly and the babies buried in graves under the tree out back, so Clay didn’t object to having Jack along this time. Besides, Jack kept quiet and watchful as they rode in the summer afternoon heat with their weathered gray hats pulled low over their foreheads and handkerchiefs over their mouth’s to keep out the dust from the horses hooves. That was one of the things Clay liked best about his boy, the watchful blue eyes that missed almost nothing. Sometimes he could see Jack think almost, at least when Jack’s brassy hair was out of his face. It always seemed to be falling into his eyes, even if it had just been cut. While the horses plodded on, Clay decided that next time he’d have to insist Louisa cut off more of those baby curls. At twelve and a half, it was time for Jack to start looking like a man.
He reached down to pat her then turned to look at Jack.
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Sheriff Clayton Withers didn’t normally like to take his son, Jack, out with him when he was working. But today Jack was out of school, and his Ma had another one of those headaches that had been troubling her since she’d been in the family way. It was her fourth pregnancy so far, with the last two ending poorly and the babies buried in graves under the tree out back, so Clay didn’t object to having Jack along this time. Besides, Jack kept quiet and watchful as they rode in the summer afternoon heat with their weathered gray hats pulled low over their foreheads and handkerchiefs over their mouth’s to keep out the dust from the horses hooves. That was one of the things Clay liked best about his boy, the watchful blue eyes that missed almost nothing. Sometimes he could see Jack think almost, at least when Jack’s brassy hair was out of his face. It always seemed to be falling into his eyes, even if it had just been cut. While the horses plodded on, Clay decided that next time he’d have to insist Louisa cut off more of those baby curls. At twelve and a half, it was time for Jack to start looking like a man.
They came up on the high ridge above Mary Daly’s house just
after noon. The sun sat square high
overhead and all laid still under its spell.
Clay rubbed the stiff papers from Judge Hanlan in his front shirt
pocket, thoughtful while he scanned the little homestead below. Mary always kept it neat and Clay could just
make out the little pile of wood stacked against the brown adobe wall near the
door. A thin plume of smoke issued from
the smoldering cooking fire inside. Mary
would probably be having lunch now, maybe even with that boy from the next town
over that had taken a shine to her recently.
It all seemed fine, but still –
The hair on the back of Clay’s neck stood straight up and he
shifted in the saddle, looking for some kind of sign to explain it. He’d always trusted his instincts and so far
in his short career as Sheriff, they’d always kept him to rights. Right now even Martha, his mare, seemed
nervous. She kept dancing on the tips of
her feet, skittering to the side and pulling at the bit.He reached down to pat her then turned to look at Jack.
Jack had his eyes fixed on Mary’s place, running absent
fingers through his mare’s black mane.
“You stay up here,” Clay said. “Keep an eye on things. I’m gonna go down, shouldn’t take long. Just gotta give her these papers from the judge
and then we’ll high-tale for town to get your ma that sugar she needed from the
store.”
“Can’t I go down with you?” Jack said, pushing his hat back
off his face to wipe the sweat under the brim.
“Naw, you stay here, just in case.”
“I got my gun though, Pa, I’d be alright and I can hold
Martha for you.”
“I know, son, but you ain’t going down.”
“Miss Daly’s nice –“
“She’s nice enough, Jack, your Ma likes her and all that,
but it feels like I got some kinda burr under my saddle and I’d rather keep you
up here. Your Ma wouldn’t be happy if I
took you down feeling like this.”
Jack nodded and said, “What’s in them papers anyhow? Must be important to come all the way out
here.”
Clay didn’t really mind the question. Still, “Never you mind, son. Just something Mary needs to take care of
with the judge,” he said and turned Martha toward the slim dirt path that led
down the ravine and up to Mary’s house.
“Alright, Pa. I’ll
wait here while you go, then,” Jack said to his father’s retreating back.
Clay picked his way down slow, threading through the brush
and trees that littered the sides of the path.
He paused about halfway down and looked back to his son’s small, peaked
face. Clay saw a flash of his son’s
broad smile deep in the shadow under his hat.
Jack raised a hand to wave as Clay turned back to Mary’s house, pushing
a gentle spur into Martha’s nervous flank.
The thick mud walls of the adobe house kept it cool even as
the late-day sun beat down in relentless streaks of gold. The air in the house was stagnant, though,
and smelly on account of a deep amber stain on the dirt floor - Mary Daly’s
blood, and probably some of Pa’s, though Jack tried not to think about that too
much.
There were four men crowded into the small house, plus
Jack. And Old Cooney was the first to
state the obvious, shifting the thick tobacco in his cheeks as he spoke.
“Whelp, it wasn’t no robbery,” he said and spit a brown
stream onto the dirt floor.
“You shouldn’t be spittin’ on her floor, Coon, even if she
is dead,” said Murphy Tote, Pa’s deputy.
He was slapping his hat against his thigh and shifting nervously.
“Bah, what’ll she care now?”
Cooney laughed.
“It isn’t right,” Murphy repeated. “If it wasn’t a robbery, then what? Mary didn’t shoot Clayton, she was afraid of
guns. And she didn’t shoot herself
neither, not that way anyhow.”
Van Healey cringed at that beneath the brim of his cowboy
hat. “Naw, how could she,” he
nodded.
“How – how was she shot?” Jack stammered.
“Right in the back, found her face down on the floor with a
spine full of lead,” said Matt Payson.
He was skirting the room, his blue eyes darting about the shadows like
rabbits on the run.
“Who shoots a woman in the back?” said Jack, shocked.
“If we knew that, son, we wouldn’t be standing here,” said
Cooney before he spit again, but this time he spit into a tin cup he’d taken
from Mary Daly’s shelf. “Look through
the house again boys, holler if anything seems out of place.”
Jack watched as the four men shuffled through the small two
room house, opening drawers and doors, searching the blanket chest at the foot
of Mary’s bed, and generally satisfying their curiosity in the too-still
house. They’d already searched the house
once, pretty thoroughly, and found little more than some dust and dirty
dishes. Jack stood in the same place
while they searched, his toes just on the edges of the round stain that marked
where Mary’s body had bled out.
His Pa had probably been shot right here in this room, too,
but Jack shied away from the idea, focusing hard on a little pot of wilted
yellow flowers on the windowsill instead.
“Tell us again what happened, boy,” said Old Cooney, settling
into a small rocking chair under the north-facing window. His cheeks were empty of tobacco now, and he
shoved a stubby cigar into his mouth without lighting it.
“He’s told us three times already, Coon,” said Murphy,
exasperated.
“Mebbe he forgot somethin’,” said Cooney, his brown eyes
never leaving Jack’s face. “Tell us
again,” he chewed on the stub of his cigar while he waited.
“I was up on that ridge,” Jack said, pointing out the window
beside Cooney toward the red ridge just barely visible through the trees. “My Pa came down here alone to give Ms. Daly
the papers from Judge Harlan, he wanted me to stay up on the ridge, thought it
was dangerous.”
“I still think it’s funny that the Sheriff thought Mary Daly
was dangerous,” said Matt.
“We know you think that,” snapped Cooney, “let the boy
finish.”
“It took my Pa a while to come down here, picking his way
down through the trees. I could see him
sometimes, just Martha – his horse’s - spotted flanks most of the time. Things was pretty quiet , didn’t seem to be
anything goin’ on – then I heard a shot, then two more. 'For long my Pa came running up to the ridge
and said he was shot, so was Martha, both of ‘em bleeding. He told me to ride and not stop. I looked behind us as we were hoofin’ out,
but I didn’t see anything. That’s all.”
“Do you know what them papers said?” asked Murphy. He had his hand in a jar, feeling
around.
“He wouldn’t let me see ‘em.
Said they was private. I don’t
know what was in ‘em.”
“They ain’t in the house, that’s for sure,” said Matt. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
“Three shots,” said Cooney.
“Hmmm.”
“Mary coulda been shot later,” suggested Murphy. “The Sheriff had one round missing from his
gun, and then the other two shots must’ve been what hit him and the horse.”
“Or she could have been shot before,” said Van. “Maybe the Sheriff walked in while they was
still here and Mary bleeding on the floor.
Drew his gun and fired a shot so he could get away, but they caught him
in the shoulder. And o’ course the horse
as they ran.”
“His Pa said they was both bleeding, right boy?” said Cooney
and Jack nodded. “You boys done
searching?”
“I reckon,” answered Murphy.
“Third time it’s been searched anyhow, anything worthwhile is likely
trampled out. Only thing to do now if find out what was in them papers from
Judge Hanlen.”
“Good luck,” laughed Cooney, “The judge’s the only thing
sealed tighter than a bank.”
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