A Congregation of Jackals (14 page)

“You worn this since the war?”

“Just because we’re off duty, doesn’t mean you can belittle me.”

“That’d be the case if we were both off duty.” He pointed to the deputy star pinned to his own kerchief. “I’m on duty and can talk to civilians like you with the impunity of the law.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“I do.”

“And you certainly can’t pin a deputy star on a yellow kerchief.”

“Well, I done it.”

“Why’d you put it there?”

“I didn’t want to put a hole in this pretty jacket. It might upset some folks.”

“If you’re on duty, you can’t drink,” the sheriff reminded him.

“I’ll take it off when I get thirsty. I prefer bagatelles to drinking anyhow.”

They reached the steps, ascended and before they
reached the doors were struck by a forceful gale of laughter.

“That’s people happy. Don’t let it scare you.” The Texan pushed open the right swinging door for the sheriff (despite his blank-faced sarcasm, he was always polite) and motioned for the older man to enter.

The minute T.W. set his boots upon the carpet of the saloon, his ears rang the way they only did when he walked into a trap. Goodstead strode beside him and pointed to a table set apart from the gamblers and bagatelles at which sat a lone woman.

The Texan announced, “The Widow Evertson is waiting.”

“You walked me into an ambush. I thought I could trust you.”

“Never discount what a man will do for two-color eggs. And she’s pretty besides.”

“That’s not the point,” T.W. grumbled.

“We all know how and where her husband died. Seems like the best possible way to end it.”

“I’m not ready to go under.”

The Widow Evertson raised her right hand and waved at T.W.; he waved back amicably and nodded his head. A firm Texas hand pressed upon his spine and urged him forward.

T.W. muttered, “The next time Mr. and Mrs. Scalanacci are having an argument, I’m sending you to break it up.” Goodstead did not reply, but just strode inexorably, pressing the sheriff before him like a shield.

The Widow Evertson watched the sheriff’s coerced approach. The ash-blonde widow’s raised cheekbones, strong jaw, upturned nose and high forehead were all telltales of her blue-blood origins back East, and her immaculate, iridescent silver dress woven with bright
white lace made T.W. feel like he wore pauper’s rags by comparison. He presumed that she was about eight or nine years his junior—not quite fifty. Even though his deceased wife had English heritage and relations, she had been born and raised in Colorado and was relatable . . . but the Widow Evertson was a lady in the West, not a lady of the West, and he had no idea what to say to her.

“Pretty dress,” was the first thing that came to him as he sat in the chair opposite her, removing his beige derby, setting it upon his lap, placing it upon the table and then resting it upon a vacant chair to his right.

Goodstead said, “That’s a good place for your hat. If he’s havin’ trouble with his victuals, you can burp him.” The comment elicited a blush of embarrassment on T.W.’s face; the deputy strode off toward the bagatelles.

The widow had a smirk on her face.

T.W. said to her, “So you like expensive things?”

She examined him for a moment; he had no idea what she was thinking.

She said, “I want to offer my congratulations to you. I have seen your daughter and Mr. Lingham around town and they appear to be a very fine couple. You must be extraordinarily happy for her.”

“I was worried that she was too choosy, but James is a fine fellow and a good Christian.”

“I see him in church whenever I choose to go.”

T.W. found the remark a bit haughty and said, “I don’t see you there often.”

“Is that a criticism?”

T.W. looked at his derby in the chair beside him—he knew this was going poorly. He shook his head and then looked back at the widow.

“It’s an observation. Usually people go to church
more often after they’ve lost someone close like you did. I certainly went more when my wife died. I felt it was the best way I could talk to her.”

“I was and am of a different thinking. The Lord took a part of me I miss daily. That piece should suffice until I ascend myself.”

“The sermons can be inspiring.”

“Your derby espouses more profundities than Minister Caulding.” That particular holy man had not spoken in the town church in two years—she really had been remiss in attending services, T.W. thought.

“Caulding wasn’t so inspirational, but we’ve got a new one now. A very smart fellow, Minister Reginald Bachs. When he speaks of the Passion, it’s like you are right there watching it, it’s so vivid. My scalp tingles every time the thorns come down.”

“It sounds very entertaining.”

T.W. suppressed the ire that her condescending remark elicited and said, “Would you like something to drink? Wine? The red kind?”

“That would be nice.” T.W. stretched his right hand out and garnered Rita’s attention. He placed an order for a glass of red wine and a frothy beer.

T.W. asked, “So what do you do with your days?”

“I write verse and paint, though since my husband’s passing, butterfly collecting has superseded all of my other interests.”

“How does that happen, exactly?”

“Are you asking how butterflies can be captured?”

“I am.”

“There are nets especially constructed to extract them from the air.”

“Where do you find butterflies?”

“I go wherever they feed.”

“Do they eat bugs? Little ones?”

The Widow Evertson laughed at T.W.’s remark and shook her head. There was nothing remotely pleasant about her cachinnation.

She replied, “They drink nectar with their proboscises. To locate them, one only has to locate the flowers they most prefer in the correct climes and shading. I have found several other enthusiasts in the Territory who know of such places.”

“You go there and swat at them with these nets?”

“You do not ‘swat at them’—procuring a butterfly is a delicate art. That is why the nets are of a very fine fabric that tapers to gradually envelop the creature. You do not want to damage the integrity of the specimen in any way before you put it in the killing jar.”

“That doesn’t sound like a fun place.”

“They must be killed before they can damage themselves.”

“Why do you collect them?”

“You have seen butterflies?”

“Certainly, though I’ve never studied them up close.”

“I find that they are beautiful beyond even the most gorgeous flowers and sunsets. I have made paintings of them, but none ever match their true splendor.” T.W. watched her eyes shine with admiration and envy. “I have a glass display in my home with five hundred specimens, in front of which I can sit for hours and wonder at the patterns and colors and how such beauty could ever come to exist in this world.”

The barmaid arrived, set a glass of red wine in front of the widow and placed a stein of warm beer before the widower.

T.W. reached into his jacket pocket and asked, “What do I owe you, Rita?”

“This is on me and Higgins for you coming in here the other day and clearing out that foreigner.”

T.W. nodded his head politely and said, “Thank you both.”

Rita squeezed his shoulder, glanced at the Widow Evertson (a look he found not entirely friendly) and returned to her station behind the bar, opposite the incessantly moving mouths of the Gavel’s most loquacious regulars.

The Widow Evertson raised her glass to T.W. and said, “May your daughter and Mr. Lingham find all that they need in each other.”

“Thank you.” He gently tapped his stein against her glass, fearful that he was going to shatter it; the vessels clinked.

T.W. drank a swallow of beer; the hops warmed his insides. The Widow Evertson sipped her wine; her face constricted into a sour pucker. She set the glass down and slid it to the corner of the table as if it were a disobedient child.

“When the waitress returns, I would like that replaced by something that does not induce nausea.”

T.W.’s ingrained courtesy almost fully suppressed his growing irritation when he replied, “These drinks were gifts. I don’t feel comfortable sending one back.”

“Then perhaps you might discreetly empty mine into the spittoon so that I might enjoy another beverage.”

“I’m not going to do that.” He looked down at the wine for a moment and then back at her. “It can’t be that bad.”

“I can taste the lees in it. Are you suggesting for me to drink something that I find repugnant?”

“I’m doing my very best not to make any suggestions to you at this present time.”

Miss Evertson blinked as if she had been struck. T.W. drank a full swallow of beer and looked away
from her, over at Goodstead, who was having far more fun at a bagatelle table than he was with this haughty widow. He watched the deputy get his seventh ball past the outer bumper and into the center hole. The Texan’s blank face did not register any excitement over achieving the difficult shot, but he ebulliently skipped around the table for his next turn.

“Sheriff Jeffries,” the widow said. He looked over at her.

“Miss Evertson.”

“Am I no longer holding your interest?”

“Let me ask you something—why did you agree to meet me here tonight?”

“I thought it might prove to be an entertaining diversion.”

“People go to the rodeo for a diversion. People sit and talk so they can learn about each other.”

“I think I have learned more than enough about you this evening.”

“Because I’m not allowing you to condescend as you’ve been doing since I sat down? Laughing at me? I may not know how to catch a butterfly or anything about wine, but strand me in the wilderness, and I can find my way back. Give me some tools, and I can build a house—I built the one I live in. Tell me to track somebody across any terrain, and I can do it. Give me a book, and I can read it the same as you. And there isn’t a finer lady in the whole world than the one I raised up myself—I know that for a fact.”

“What is your point?”

“There’s a very big difference between being intelligent and being smart.”

“Bravo.”

T.W. picked up his hat and said, “You’ve got a lot of fine qualities, but now I understand why people avoid
you. You should go to church and get rid of some of that anger you’ve got. Or at least make some friends with people you don’t look down on.”

“I am not angry.”

“Your dead butterflies might disagree. They might tell you that you kill them to take back little pieces of beauty from the Lord who robbed you. Little bits of revenge.”

The Widow Evertson did not respond. T.W. stood up, grimacing over the pain that lanced through his bad hip.

“I’m going to shoot some bagatelles. I’ll have my deputy walk you back so you can get home safe—we’ve spoken plenty.”

T.W. picked up his hat and placed it under his arm. To his surprise, the Widow Evertson’s hand sought and took his.

“It has been . . . very difficult for me,” she said, in a voice softer than any he could have imagined coming from her mouth. “Very difficult.”

T.W. knew what she meant. He felt her hand tremble.

“Please sit back down,” she asked.

With her free hand, she took his hat and placed it on the chair it had only moments ago vacated. T.W. sat back down. She drank from her glass of wine without complaint.

The two of them talked until the saloon closed.

Her name was Meredith.

“The town was built east to west. The first permanent building they put up was the church,” Lingham said as the four men on horseback traversed the Montana plain. Oswell had recommended that they circumnavigate the town for their night journey, and consequently they rode a half mile from its limits, parallel to its southern border, due east.

The horses carried them away from the lowering moon, the steeds laden with luggage and the ponderous trunk. A few coyotes howled into the chill night air; their cries and the distant white-capped mountains made the open expanse seem extraordinarily vast to Oswell.

“This is how I see it,” he said as his mare trod steadily beneath him, her corded muscles causing her dark coat to shine as if splashed with white oil. “The plan is to keep Quinlan and his crew from getting inside that church. I will be at the main entrance with a ledger that has the names of all the guests written down in it. When people arrive, I’ll ask their names and then check that they’re invited. If they are, I’ll have them sign in the ledger, saying it’s a keepsake Lingham asked for. The list in that ledger needs to be perfect.”

“I’ll ask Beatrice to make it—she don’t make mistakes with things like that.”

“Good. Anyone not in that book, I keep out. Anyone who seems like trouble, I turn over to Godfrey, who
will be at the door with me, but also patrolling around the building to check things out. Anybody who seems like trouble, he ties up or knocks out. Dicky will be farther off somewhere, hidden from view, depending on the setup, and with his special rifle. This sound like the correct way to approach it to you fellas?”

Godfrey said, “Yeah.”

Dicky said, “Yes.”

Lingham said, “I can’t think of anything better.”

“The important thing is to keep Quinlan and his out of that church no matter what,” Oswell said. He let his words settle for a moment. The horse hooves tamped down dewy grass; the beasts’ nostrils exhaled steam that the moonlight turned into silk ribbons.

He continued, “One thing I want to be clear about. If he gets in there, if it comes to a shootout in the church, with innocent people in the crossfire, I am not of a mind to do any shooting whatsoever. I’d rather be shot dead than be responsible for one more innocent person getting killed on account of my actions and misdeeds ever again.”

There was a momentary silence broken by Lingham, who said, “I feel the same way. I couldn’t live with myself if . . . if something happened in there.”

“I’m of the same mind,” Godfrey said, enervated.

Oswell turned to look at Dicky; the rancher saw only the man’s clean-shaven chin beneath the opaque shadow cast by the brim of his black hat.