Death in the Desert (3 page)

Before looking for supplies, Clint decided to go to city hall and see if he could find any notes that might indicate where the people had gone. Also the telegraph office.

City hall was first. Thankfully, they did not come across any more dead bodies.

“I ain't never been in city hall before,” Emily said, her eyes wide.

“Why not?” Clint asked.

“Well . . . that's where the mayor works.” She said it in hushed tones.

“Emily, can you tell me if the mayor got sick?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Okay. We're going to go to his office.”

Her eyes widened even more. “The mayor's office?”

“That's right.”

He took her hand and they entered the building. The mayor's office was on the second floor, in the back, rather than in the front, where he'd have a window overlooking the street.

When they got inside, Clint saw that it was a very large office. It had to be, to fit the large teakwood desk.

“Oh my,” Emily said, looking around.

“Emily, you have a seat while I look around.”

“All right.”

She got up into one of the wooden chairs that faced the mayor's desk. Clint got behind the desk and sat down. There were some papers strewn across the top of it. He went through them, but there was nothing to tell him where the townspeople had gone. He started going through the drawers and Emily covered her mouth with her hands.

“What?” he asked.

“You're going through the mayor's drawers,” she whispered.

“Well,” he said, “the mayor's not here, so I think we're all right.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He continued to go through the drawers, scanning papers, but there was nothing helpful.

“Okay,” he said, sitting back. “I think we're finished here.”

“What do we do now?”

“We're going to the telegraph office.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “I like that place.” She got down from the chair. “I like the clackety-clack that the key makes.”

“The key?”

“The telegraph key,” she told him. “Didn't you know it was called that?”

“Well, yes, I did know that,” he said. “Come on. Let's go.”

He took her hand and they left the office, and the building.

“Which way is the telegraph office, Emily?” he asked.

“That way,” she said, pointing. “A few blocks. Can I ride Eclipse?”

“Of course.”

He lifted her up into the saddle and then they walked to the telegraph office.

“Do you want to come inside?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Clackety-clack.”

“Clackety-clack,” he repeated, and lifted her down.

They walked inside the office, which looked as if it had been ransacked. There were yellow pieces of paper all over the floor, and desk.

“I don't hear the key,” she complained.

“No, neither do I.”

He walked around behind the desk to examine the key. It was quiet, but that didn't mean it wasn't working. He didn't know how to use to, though. He touched it, depressed it a few times, just eliciting a short clackety-clack for Emily, but he didn't know if anyone at the other end had heard it.

“Can you make it work?”

“No,” he said. “I don't know how.”

“Oh.” She was obviously disappointed. Then she brightened. “Can I do it?”

She climbed on a chair and began to play with the key, making it go clackety-clackety-clackety. Clint wondered if anyone out there would hear it and send someone to investigate. Or if the key operator had sent any messages concerning the disease. Or had he died before he could?

He looked around at the yellow slips, but there were no telegrams that would help him.

He watched as Emily happily played with the key. He took a seat, decided to let her play with it to her heart's content, until she grew tired, while he tried to figure out their next move.

She spent a good half hour playing with the key. He sat in the chair with his chin in his hand, drifting off, until suddenly the chatter of the key stopped. When he opened his eyes, he saw her sitting there, staring at him, looking terrified.

“Hey, honey, what is it? What's wrong?”

“I—I thought you was dead, Clint.”

“No, sweetie, no,” he said, “I was just resting. Come here.”

She came to him and he hugged her tightly, her little arms wrapped around his neck.

As they left the telegraph office, Clint asked, “Emily, have you been sleeping in your own bed?”

“No,” she said, “it's too sad and scary. The house is so empty.”

“Then where have you been sleeping?”

She shrugged. “A different place every night—but not where there's any dead people.”

“Well,” he said, “I can't blame you for that. I wouldn't want to sleep where there's dead people. So where do you think we should sleep tonight?”

“There's lots of bed I ain't slept in yet,” she said. “Let's go and look!”

“Okay,” he said, “let's go.”

They walked around town—with Clint actually walking and Emily astride Eclipse—stopping in a building whenever she pointed it out. He was happy to let her do the choosing, thus keeping her mind busy.

They stopped in front of a small building and she said, “This was Aunt Kathy's boardinghouse.”

“She was your aunt?” he asked.

“No, silly,” she said. “That was the name of her boardinghouse.”

“I see. Well, let's have a look.”

He lifted her down from the horse and they went up the front steps to the porch. He tried the door and found it locked. Many of the buildings they'd check had been unlocked. Apparently, “Aunt Kathy” had thought to lock her door behind her. Maybe she was planning on coming back.

“I guess I'll have to force the door,” he said. “Stand back.”

Emily moved away. As Clint prepared to put his shoulder to the door, there was a shot. A bullet shattered the glass of the door and just missed his head. He leaped to the side, his hand on his gun.

He looked at Emily and said, “I guess there's somebody else alive in town.”

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I'm fine. Let's see if we can find out who this is. You stay there—and crouch down low.”

“All right.”

Clint took his gun out, reached over, and tapped on the door with the barrel.

“Hello inside the house? We don't mean you any harm. I've got little Emily Patterson out here. Apparently she was immune to the disease that killed so many people.”

He listened, but there was no reply.

“My name is Clint Adams. I only rode into town yesterday. Are you all right?”

There was no answer, then a woman's voice said, “Go away! I have a rifle.”

“I know that,” he called back. “Your bullet just missed me. But why are you shooting?”

“You're not stealing anything from me,” she shouted back.

“What makes you think I want to steal?”

No answer.

“Look, are you . . . Aunt Kathy? I have a little girl out here with me.”

“Prove it!”

“Emily, call out to the lady.”

“What do I say?” she whispered.

“Just say hello, and tell her your name.”

“Hello,” the child called out. “This is Emily.”

There was a long moment of silence and then the woman said, “Emily? Is that you?”

“It's me,” Emily said.

There was the sound of a lock turning, and then the door opened slowly. A woman stuck her head out and her eyes went right to Emily.

“It is you.”

“Hello, Aunt Kathy.”

“Come here, child,” the woman said. She put her rifle down as Emily rushed into her arms. The woman hugged her tightly, crying. Emily turned her head and directed a puzzled look Clint's way. He holstered his gun.

“I'm so glad you're alive,” the woman said.

“I'm glad you're alive, too,” the child said.

The woman held her at arm's length and asked, “What happened to your parents?”

“They left me.”

“What? They left you behind?”

“I was sick,” Emily said. “I think they thought I was going to die.”

“But still,” the woman said, “how could they leave you?”

Finally, she looked over at Clint.

“Mr. Adams?”

“That's right.”

“Please,” she said, “come inside.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You're not going to shoot at me again, are you?”

“No,” she said, “I promise I won't.”

They went into the house, closing the door behind them. The woman set the rifle aside and turned to face Clint.

“I'm sorry about the rifle,” she said. “When people started dying, there were looters. I had to fight to keep them out of here.”

“Did you get sick at all?” he asked.

“I did,” she said. “I succumbed just before the mass exodus began. I was in bed when they all left.”

“So was Emily.”

The woman put her hand on the girl's head.

“Poor dear,” she said. “How could her parents leave without knowing for sure if she was alive or dead?”

“I suppose they panicked.”

“I guess you're right. Have the two of you eaten?”

“We have,” Clint said. “Emily cooked for me over at Flo's Café. We were actually looking for someplace to spend the night.”

“Well, stop looking,” she said. “I have plenty of empty beds here.”

“How does that sound, Emily?” Clint asked.

“It sounds good to me!”

Clint looked at the woman. She was in her thirties, very attractive despite looking somewhat bedraggled.

“Do I keep calling you Aunt Kathy?”

“My name is Kathleen Logan,” she said. “‘Aunt Kathy's' just the name of the boardinghouse, Mr. Adams.”

“My name is Clint,” he said, “Kathleen.”

“How about some pie?” she asked Emily.

“Apple?”

“Of course.”

“Yay!”

“And you, Clint?”

“With coffee?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Yay!” he said with a grin at Emily.

They went into the kitchen and Kathy served them their pie with coffee for Clint and hot tea for Emily.

“I'm sorry, but the milk went bad a long time ago,” she said.

“That's something Emily hasn't been able to tell me, Kathy,” he said. “When did all of this happen?”

“Oh, it started about six weeks ago. Within two weeks, many people were dead.”

“Were they burying any of the dead?”

“Yes,” she said, “there's a graveyard just outside of town. But soon the people decided to just pull out. They stopped burying people and started packing to leave about three weeks ago. I—I got sick and ended up in bed. I was unconscious when the last of them finally pulled out, probably about a week ago.”

“Everyone?”

“I don't know,” she said. “As I said, I was unconscious in bed.”

“But when you woke up, they were all gone?”

“Far as I can tell,” she said. “That was about a week ago.”

“And you have enough food to just hole up here?”

“Remember,” she said, “I was running a boardinghouse. I had enough food to feed my guests. Once it was just me, I had plenty.”

“Well, poor Emily has been scrounging all around town,” Clint said.

“I'm sorry she didn't come here sooner,” Kathy said. “I would have taken her in.”

Emily was eating her pie and not really listening to them.

“Did anyone die in this house?”

“One man early on. We were able to bury him. The rest of my boarders got scared and left. So there were no bodies in my house when I woke up—thank God.”

“Why didn't you leave when you were able to, Kathy?” he asked.

“I thought about it,” she said. “But this place is all I have. I—I couldn't just leave it. Besides, maybe the people will come back.”

“I doubt it,” Clint said. “In fact, I'm surprised the town isn't overrun with scavengers now, the smell of death is so pervasive with all the unburied bodies.”

“Scavengers?” she asked. “You mean . . . looters?”

“I'm talking about the four-legged kind,” he said, “not to mention buzzards. I assume it's because most of the bodies are inside.”

“But . . . what if they do come? Would they try to get inside?”

“Once they got hungry enough, and brave enough,” Clint said, “probably.”

“I have noticed the terrible smell,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Bodies lying around for weeks,” Clint said. “I'm surprised the scavengers haven't been here yet. Are there any other people left in town besides you and Emily?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “You think that Emily and I being here has kept the animals out? That they wouldn't come in while there was somebody in town still alive?”

“I don't think so,” Clint said. “Emily is a small child, and you've been inside most of the time, right? Haven't been around town much?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Then I don't think your presence alone would keep them away,” he said. “Maybe there are more people around. That would probably do it.” He looked across the table at Emily, who was licking her plate clean.

“Would you like another slice of pie, Emily?” Kathy asked her.

“Oh, yes, please.”

While she cut another slice, Clint said, “Emily, have you seen any other people in town the past few weeks?”

“Do you mean the men?”

“What men?” he asked.

Kathy placed the second slice of pie in front of her and looked at Clint. He shook his head, and she sat back down at the table.

“The men I hide from.”

“How many men, Emily?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Three or four. When I see them, I hide.”

Clint wondered what three or four men were still doing around town. It certainly wasn't burying bodies. Perhaps, as Kathy had said, they were looters.

“Maybe,” he said, “I should have another look around town.”

“You can leave Emily with me,” she said.

“That's good,” he said. “Is there a livery stable near here?”

“A couple of blocks.”

“That'll have to do,” he said. “I'll want to bed my horse down properly.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I'll enjoy Emily's company. And yours, when it comes to it.”

“I'll take care of my horse tonight,” Clint said, “and do another search around town tomorrow.”

“What makes you think you might see them tomorrow when you haven't seen them up to now?” she asked.

“Up to now,” he told her, “I haven't been looking for them.”