Mayor Joanie Flinn pushed her way past the cowboys who were gathered in a circle and staring down at something or someone lying in their midst on the dirty plank floor of the Stumble In Saloon. The smell of stale beer, hard liquor, human sweat, and dried cow manure was palpable. There was another smell as well, less pronounced and sadder. It was the smell of blood. As soon as Joanie broke through the circle and gazed down at the crumpled body she became angry.
"Carl, what the hell? This guy is deader than last week's meatloaf. You shoulda' just called Peabody and left me out of it," complained Joanie, who was no doctor anyway. All she ever did was try to stop the bleeding and give a fella, if he deserved it, a sympathetic face to look at and a few kind words to listen to. But today she was busy and had better things to do than to waste time with a shot-to-pieces, bled-out cowpoke. "What's his name, anyway?" And one of the drunks said, "Gill."
Carl, the enormous saloon keeper, saw his error. "Yup, you right, ma'am. Sorry to bother," he said in a low rumble as he stood behind the bar twisting alternately one end and then the other of his waxed mustaches. He addressed the circle of cowboys. "Okay you bunch of drunks, grab a let or an arm or something and carry Gill here over to the undertaker's will ya? I'll get the mop and bucket."
"Nah," said Joanie, "you can get the body out of here, but leave the blood puddle where it is and just set a stool over it. The sheriff will have to write up a report."
"Alright," said Carl. "It's your place."
Joanie stood up, brushed her skirts with her hands and noticed a brown, flop-eared dog wandering in under the batwing doors and sniffing the air. Amid much grunting, the body was hoisted and its bearers lurched toward the exit. Mayor Joanie was already gone when Carl looked around for her again, expecting more instructions, but only finding the doors swinging back and forth in the wake of her departure. "She's in a mood today," he said, tossing a scrap of beef to the brown dog who snapped it out of the air and looked on with mournful eyes. Deputy Degs, who'd done the shooting, halted the progress of the body for a few moments while he removed the dead man's gun belt and untied the holster from around the man's thigh. "Ok, boys," he said as he ran his fingers over the tooled leather, thinking and brushing the cow dirt from the cartridges. "He should'a handed this here over while he was still breathin'. Young and dumb. Young and dumb." He shook his head.
Across the tracks, on the other side of the little burg, judge Mortimer S. Brooks raised one heavy black eyebrow and swung his gavel down, sending another man to the gallows. The condemned prisoner was taken back to his cell to wait, and the bailiff shooed everyone out of the courtroom, post haste. This was Saturday and, like Joanie, the judge was in a hurry, not wanting to be late for the fall dance recital. He went immediately to his chambers, where he grabbed two bright yellow tickets with the words "Swan Lake" emblazoned in black ink. His daughter, Clarabelle had just turned twelve, and this was her first public performance. He could already hear the intermezzo blaring from the gramophone outside the opera house across the wide, newly paved street to announce the approaching performance and give impetus to the people joining the line that straggled down the covered wooden sidewalk. The ornate Opera House was the finest building in the newly renamed town of Prospector's Cross.
Soon everyone was seated, including the Mayor and the Judge. Heavy black drapes were drawn across the windows and three lime lights illuminated the dancers on the raised stage. During the performance, which ran about an hour, there was some commotion in the audience when Mrs. Miller, wife of the town's largest stockholder in the nearby copper mine, refused to remove her huge bonnet. Mr. Miller finally convinced her to doff her headgear after the sheriff strode up to the front row where she was sitting, and stopped the performance in the middle of Clarabelle's pirouette, much to the dismay of Judge Brooks and his wife. The sheriff addressed Mr. Miller without even looking at the man's wife, saying, "You can get your rich ass out of here if you can't set a good example for all fine folks behind you. Or would you rather ruin this here performance even further and get your taxes raised to boot?"
At end of Swan Lake, after a full five minutes of enthusiastic stomping and clapping, all of the dancers went out and mingled with the audience in the lobby, their slender bodies and makeshift tutus interspersed among gentlemen in heavy black suits and women in gaily colored full length dresses and bustles. Myrtle, the town secretary, took the opportunity to approach Joanie, who was clicking her champagne glass against the judge's and congratulating his daughter's "tripudium mirificus." Joanie didn't mean to be pretentious with her use of Latin phrases, she was an educated woman and simply wasn't shy about using her gifts and enjoying erudition. Tilly, the town secretary, cleared her throat and motioned for Joanie to step outside for a moment.
Once on the sidewalk, Tilly spoke quietly. "Mayor, we've got a problem."
"Just one?," said Mayor Joanie, exhaling and smiling with a certain world weariness, along with genuine warmth. She adored and trusted her young, girlish secretary, who had grown into a valued assistant and advisor over the past two years.
"No, there's never just one. Obviously." Tilly roller her eyes, then became more serious. "I'll rephrase. There are a number of new problems and updates you need to know about right now." She glanced at her notes. "These are in approximate order of importance. First, we've got a rumor that the Smith boy, 14-year-old Tommy, is planning to put a bomb of some kind under that stage here at the Opera House."
Joanie looked frightened for a second, then furious, and putting two slender fingers in her mouth, she took a breath to whistle for the sheriff. Before she could blow her earsplitting call to arms, Tilly put a hand over the mayor's mouth and loudly whispered "Wait!" The mayor looked exasperated, then forced herself to relax.
"Oh, I should have known, you've already got things under control, eh?" Some sarcasm crept into her tone.
"Well, let's just say Sheriff Bluehorse already knows. Let me get through the rest of the list before you talk to the sheriff." The mayor muttered "alright" and Tilly went on.
Tilly took a deep breath of her own. "Second. The Wekings are really, really angry about the town's new name. They say it was their ancestors that built the first houses here and Kingville is the only possible name for the town."
"Damned Wekings are a pain." Joanie held up a finger and thought for a moment. "So, tell me why a bomb under the Opera House is only slightly more important than the Wekings griping about a name change?"
"Well, they are planning to come armed to the town council and you know that a hundred Wekings with repeaters and six shooters are not going to back down when faced by our sheriff and his deputy."
"Yeah, we know they love their Winchesters and Colts. That shot-up fellow in the saloon, he's not a Wekings is he?"
"No, a Forgiven."
"A different kind of pain in the ass. Probably ordered a sarsaparilla for his health. What was his beef anyway?"
"Afraid of the Wekings, what else? Said he had a right to protect himself."
"Ye gods! What else you got?"
Tilly cleared her throat again. "There are three more items and I'll go through them quick so you can focus on saving the Opera House. A couple of strangers arrived in town a few days ago."
"So what? We get strangers in here every week now that we are a regular stop for the railroad. Which reminds me, we need to add some more rooms to the hotel."
"It's a Greenie and a Parpull," said Tilly by way of an answer. Like eveyone else in town except the mayor, she pronounced Purple as Parpull.
Joanie didn't like the way this discussion was going before, and now her hackles were raised again. "I will not allow prejudice any influence in my jurisdiction. Those men have every right to visit or even stay in this town as long as they aren't vagrants."
"The Greenie is selling moonshine to the lowlifes on the other side of the tracks. And the Parpull has been doing some roofing in trade for food and seems to have consumption. They are both bedding down behind the stables."
"Anybody gone blind from the Green's moonshine or been exposed to the Purple's cough?"
"No ma'am, not so far as I know. I was thinking about having Degs follow them around for a while."
"What about the other deputy? What's his name. Something weird like Bilks?"
"It's Blooks, and he is the final item on my list. He quit right after the saloon incident this morning." At this news from Tilly, the mayor brightened. She never like Blooks.
"Let's make the Green a deputy. How green is he, anyway?"
"I don't know," answered Tilly, perplexed.
"Do you have the names of these gentlemen?"
"John Harry for the green guy and Pancho something for the Parp."
"John Harry's a slave name. Him we can save. Pancho something will have to go, if he really is sick. Get Doc Richards to check him out. That it?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Well get going, then. I need to have a talk with the sheriff and the Wekings." Mayor Joanie eyed Tilly, put her fingers back into her mouth and blew. The Sheriff gulped his champagne and hurried over.
"Yes ma'am," he said, touching the brim of his hat.
"Wekings," she said.
"Yes ma'am," was his reply and the two of them headed down the street, striding quickly toward the newly painted white church with no cross. As the got closer a shot rang out an a puff of dirt near Joanie's right boot kicked up as a rifle bullet buried itself in the unpaved street. She never broke stride.
"Wait here," she grumbled and left the sheriff standing by himself as people everywhere else ran for cover.
"But ma'am..." the sheriff's strained voice trailed off.
"As long as the Lord wants me doing this job, he'll protect me," said Joanie, repeating an oft-used phrase. "And if he changes his mind, I'll be the first to know", she concluded under her breath. No rifle report followed the first one and she went up to the door of the church and pounded her fist. When no one answered, she listened and could hear hushed voices from the inside. She waited a full minute as the afternoon sun warmed her back and sent a bead of sweat trickling down her left temple. She heard the sound of someone on a rooftop pumping another cartridge into a Winchester. Finally the door opened and she went in. Someone else inside close the door.
Five minutes later
Albiny with pink eyes like a rabbit.
Purple kneeled and crossed himself. The mayor, taken aback, said, "You never said anything about this one being a Sinner!"
"Oh, yeah. I actually did know that and forgot to mention it. He wears a big silver cross with Jesus nailed to it around his neck."
"Good Lord. A Sinner. I never thought I'd see the day."
"I though you didn't approve of predjudice."
"There are limits to everyone's tolerance. Even mine. Do you know they pray to dead people?"
"Do you mean Jesus and Mary?"
"No, I mean ordinary people. They call 'em Saints and they elect more of them to the metaphysical office all the time, based on the miracles associated with these people."
Mary Joanie believes in empty jails and a busy undertaker. This is the what the Romans believed.
