California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1) (45 page)

There would be throngs in the open air in
front of number 41 Sacramento Street. The vigilantes would be there, out in
force to control the crowds. She hoped only a handful of men would be inside
the headquarters building. Perhaps only one or two, armed and watching the
prisoners. However many guards there were, if she got through, one would be
enough to provide witness to her act
. The consequences be damned
, she
thought.
I will do it this time. Let them do with me what they will after I
have told them the whole story. Perhaps they will leave me alone with him for a
moment, and there will be no witness.
She doubted that. She wondered, as
the carriage skirted the more crowded downtown streets and pulled to a halt in
front of the undertaker's establishment, whether, ironically, the vigilantes'
sentiments would support her after it was done… Whether Alex would come to her
aid if she sent word to him… What he would think of her…

Once the undertaker had helped her out of
the carriage, all such thoughts gave way to total preoccupation with the plan
she had developed in the last forty-eight hours. The crowds forced her to move
off the sidewalk as she walked eastward. A block from vigilante headquarters
she turned right on Davis and found the thriving restaurant she had
reconnoitered the previous afternoon. It was nearly deserted. She ordered the
Sunday roast-beef special, extra thick cut, with all the trimmings, and a
thermos of coffee; paid extra for a tray and clean dish towel the grateful proprietor
used to cover it. She pulled out of her purse a Bible she had bought and tucked
it under her arm before picking up the tray and going back out onto Davis
Street.

As she turned left into California
Street, which ran parallel to and south of Sacramento, she glanced back toward
the Unitarian Church. In front of it, James King's funeral cortege waited for
the memorial service inside to end. A clock in a store window read 1:20. Esther
could have been no less aware of the time or the brilliantly sunny skies if she
were in the bowels of a mine. There were fewer vigilantes posted along the way
than there had been on Saturday. She was grateful for that.

She passed a shop window: "G. R.
Fardon. Daguerreotypist."
I must have a picture taken of me—one day…
She crossed Front Street and approached the alleyway between two buildings that
led into the enormous backyard area behind number 41 Sacramento. Yesterday
afternoon a squad of men had covered its entrance. Now a single county sheriff
stood watch.

"I'm glad you chose the right side
to be on, sheriff," she said, not stopping.

The peace officer eyed the woman in black
Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, the Bible, and the covered tray. He couldn't see
through her heavy veil, but she was moving so resolutely, so authoritatively,
for a moment he almost let her pass unquestioned. "Hold on a second,
ma'am," he finally called out. "Uh, could you please tell me your
business here?"

"The Lord's work," Esther
answered, still walking. The sheriff trailed her. "The ladies of the First
Baptist Church have delegated me to take a decent Sunday meal to Judge Mosby.
We must not be sparing in our charity—even unto a man who has had a hand in
another's death."

They were halfway through the alley.
Esthers heart was beginning to pound.

"Ma'am? You say the First
Baptist—?"

"With Mr. Coleman's approval, of
course." Esther stopped. "There is a signed authorization from him in
my purse. My hands are full and the poor man's meal is cooling. I will show it
to the officer in charge at the rear of the building. Will that be all
right?"

The sheriff shrugged.
Damn women.
"I reckon so, ma'am. You go on in."

There was a man posted at the end of the
alley, but he had seen the sheriff let her through. Esther nodded courteously
at him and went on without missing a step. In the rear yard, a makeshift corral
held a half-dozen horses. There was room enough for dozens more. Out on
Sacramento Street, she thought, controlling the crowds watching the carnival.
Artillery pieces and gun carriages sat at odd angles in the enclosure. She
walked on. At the rear of number 41, another peace officer, a marshal wearing a
new tin star, stood in the doorway looking at his watch. Behind him, on a wall,
there was a clock: 1:25.

"Ma'am?"

"Sunday dinner for Judge Mosby. As a
gesture of mercy from the First Baptist Church. I gave the letter of
authorization signed by Mr. Coleman to the sheriff at the entrance to the alley
back there." She cocked her head over her right shoulder and held her
breath.

"Yes, ma'am," the marshal said,
ushering her inside. "Will you please set that tray down on the table
there? I'll have to look it over. Procedure, you understand. Judge Mosby may be
charged with murder. Of Jack Marin, that is. Ah… I'm afraid I'll have to see
the contents of your purse, too, ma'am. Orders."

"Perfectly understandable," she
said. "I don't think you can be careful enough." She sighed audibly.
"Dear, dear. I must be more forgiving. But there are so many questionable
characters lurking about."

"Right, ma'am," the marshal
said, placing the dish towel back over the tray. He peered into Esther's purse
as she pulled the contents out one by one and dropped them back inside. She
wondered if he could see how her hands were trembling. She could feel the cold
metal of the gun where it lay snugged against her skin, under the bustle,
beneath the corset. He turned and knocked on a door leading inside. A young man
opened it partway.

"Corbett, escort this lady to
Mosby's cell."

"I have been asked to read a psalm
while I am in his company," Esther said. "That, you see, is why I
have the Bible under my arm."

"Perfectly all right, ma'am,"
the marshal said. He nodded to the younger man, who quickly opened the door and
gestured for Esther to follow.

They went through another small room, a
hallway, and then into a large warehousing and stable area. Along two sides,
the stalls had been turned into makeshift cells. The bars were flagpole-thick
wooden rods that ran up into overhead beams in the ceiling. A number of cells
on the far end contained men, but several between the first group and the
corner cell where Mosby stood watching them approach were empty. She glanced to
her right at a second, perpendicular row of cells and took note of another exit
directly onto the rear yard. She did not see the man lying on the cot in the
cell directly next to Mosby's. It was the first one on the rear wall, Mosby's
the last in the other line. As they stopped, the young deputy blocked most of
the adjacent cell from view.

"Lady here's brought you a fine
Sunday dinner, judge."

"That  so?" Mosby glanced
sharply at Esther, trying to make out her face under the veil.

"Gonna say a psalm over you, too,
judge. Ain't that nice?"

"Wonderful," Mosby said.
"Just what I need. To whom do I owe this act of Christian charity?"

"The ladies of the First Baptist
Church," Esther said.

"That's right nice," Mosby
purred, calculating. He looked at his watch. "Makes you feel the Good Lord
hasn't forsaken a body, after all."

The young deputy took the tray from
Esther and carefully set it on the base of a rectangular, slat-framed opening
built into the wooden bars. Mosby picked it up and put it on a table just as
the huge bell the vigilantes had borrowed from the California Engine Company
tolled on the roof above. In seconds they could hear church bells all over the
city echoing back the knell.

"They're hangin' Cora and
Casey!" The young deputy's eyes widened. "Ma'am. I don't want to miss
this. It'll be somethin' to tell my grandchildren. You say your psalm over the
judge and I'll be right back." He tipped his hat, turned, and ran toward
the front of the building. "I just want to take one fast look," he
called over his shoulder.

She could not have asked for more. She
took in a deep breath as Mosby turned to her.

"
Over
  the judge. Sounds like
I've already been laid to rest." He laughed. "Which psalm you going
to read?"

"Why, the twenty-third." Esther
stepped a bit closer, holding up the Bible.

"My land," Mosby said,
"looks like one my mother used to read to  me from. I mean, the brown
leather cover. But you said Baptist. That couldn't be a Methodist-Episcopal
Bible, now could it?"

"I suspect not," she said,
trying not to remember her father's sermons on violence.

"You mind if I just take a look at
it for a minute? Before you read? It'd satisfy my curiosity. Just want to look
through the first few pages to see who printed it up."

She could hear the bells tolling, the one
on the roof ringing loudest. Briefly, there was a sudden, muffled roar of
thousands of voices from out beyond the front walls of the building. She
thought quickly.
It will be easier if I have both hands free, if I give him
the Bible. One hand to hold and fire, one to steady my aim.
She moved up to
the wooden bars and held the Good Book out to him.

Mosby reached past the Bible, grabbed her
wrist, and spun her around. The Bible fell to the floor as he hissed, "Who
sent you, little angel? Who made the supper? I'll bet it's laced with arsenic.
Here!
You
eat some of it!"

He had surreptitiously palmed a piece of
the beef. Now he swung his left hand up, the arm moving a bit freely, until he
had the meat pressed against her lips.

She opened her mouth and took the beef on
her tongue.
If he sees me eat it, he will let go of me
, she thought. And
then I will remove the pistol and kill him. She chewed obediently as he slid
his hand down from her mouth and chin to her throat, let go of her wrist, and
quickly threw his other arm around her neck. He waited until he felt her
swallow the beef.
He will let me go now
, she thought.
He must.

Instead, he pulled her head and neck
against the bars until she began to feel faint. He raised his weak arm and
fumbled at her veil. "Let's just get a look at you, see who the hell you
are."

"Jesus Christ!" the young
deputy said as he came walking back through the door at the far end of the
room. He started running. "
Jesus… H… Christ!
Earl!
Mr. Coombs!
For God's sake, come in here and help me!
Marshal COOOMBS!
"

He was at the cell now, trying to pry
Mosby's arm loose from Esther's throat.

"I'll kill her 'less you hand me
your gun, you son of a bitch!" Mosby whispered hoarsely. "I'll choke
her to death. The gun and the keys!
Now!
"

The young deputy stopped for a moment,
moved to the right, thought about drawing, firing at him. There would be hell
to pay if he killed a Supreme Court judge, committee or no committee. He threw
himself at Mosby's arm again.

Esther started to black out. She could
hear the bells tolling. The man on the cot in the cell beside Mosby's got up
and quietly moved behind the young deputy. Reaching through the bars, he pulled
the deputy's pistol out of its holster, raised and fired it into the young
man's back just as Marshal Coombs came bursting through the rear door.

"Get the damn keys, judge.
The
keys!
Forget the woman. Get the keys!"

Esther
felt Mosby let go of her, and she fell. Opening her eyes, she saw Coombs drop
to one knee and flinch as the man in the cell next to Mosby's sent a shell
burrowing into the hard-packed earth floor beside him. Then she saw the sheriff
point and fire into the cell, heard the man she could not see scream and fall
just before she passed out.

When she came to on a cot in one of the
rooms along the side of the stable area, a short, fat man with weasel eyes was
hovering over her.

"I'm Dr. Leander Sims. How do you
feel? You've had one heck of an experience."

"Give me a minute," she said.
She waited, regaining her senses, taking hope as she felt the bulk of the
pistol beneath her, still snugged to her back by the lower portion of her
corset.

The doctor saw her glance down. There was
a towel covering her upper body. "I took the liberty of loosening—I didn't
remove anything, mind you—loosening some of your undergarments. It was
immediately apparent that you suffered no serious harm, but you had the wind
knocked out of you. The shock of it—you needed to breathe more freely than
those contraptions allow…"

"I understand," she said.

"Are you all right? Do you think you
can stand up?"

"Yes. Give me a moment." She
glanced at the door. "Would you—?"

"Of course, of course. You just take
your time."

When he was out of the room, she made
sure the pistol was secure, fastened the corset, and buttoned the top of her
dress. She reached for her heavily veiled hat and put it on, then stood up. For
a moment she swayed, but then her equilibrium returned. She wondered if anyone
had checked her story about the authorization from Coleman in the aftermath of
the shooting. She looked at her watch—half-past two—went to the door, and
opened it.

"How are you feeling?" the
doctor asked again.