The Long Trail Home (26 page)

“No one but intellectually deficit outlaws would have believed your performance,” Louise said.

“Now, now, dear sister,” Thelma soothed, “you and the professor did quite well. Remember, there are no small parts in a successful drama. I thought Abigail's script was very good, very good indeed.”

“And I think your costume was a little much,” Sam complained as he walked over to Abby. “You were so convincing, I was ready to shoot myself for bein' such a villain.”

Abby looked down at her ripped dress. “This was a little overboard, wasn't it,” Abby admitted. “I suppose I've done too many melodramas.”

“I think the whole thing was dangerous,” Sheriff Bullock surmised. “I don't intend to let you do something this foolhardy again! What if they had checked those guns and put in real bullets instead of blanks?”

“Then plaster would have splattered from the ceiling on the first shot,” Brazos reported. “Those two were too dumb to even look up.”

“Well, Daddy Brazos's Sharps kicks a wallop, even with a blank,” Abby complained, rubbing her shoulder. “I'll have a bruise for a week.”

“Did I do all right, Mama?” Amber scooted over to her mother.

“You were wonderful, dear—but no, I'm not going to let you be an actress when you grow up.”

“Not even in Dacee June's Christmas plays?”

“You can act in Dacee June's plays again, but that's all.”

“You really think this will work?” Sheriff Bullock challenged.

“Within two weeks ever'one in the Indian Territory will know that Sam Fortune was killed by a wronged woman in Deadwood,” Sam reported, then looked at the others in the room. “And I am ashamed to admit it; most folks down there will have a very easy time believing it.”

Louise Edwards emerged from the back room and handed Sam a wet towel. “I don't know about the rest of you,” she announced, “but I've had quite a morning. I think I'll adjourn to write in my journal.”

“I'll be along shortly,” Grass informed her.

“Professor Edwards, I expect you to walk me home—now!” she insisted.

“Eh . . . yes ma'am.” Edwards adjusted his round hat and offered his arm.

“Listen, before ever'one leaves, I want to thank all of you. You put your safety in jeopardy for me, and I'm obliged to you,” Sam announced.

“Yes, you are!” Rebekah concurred.

“Remember, as a way of sayin' thanks, I'm having a fancy dinner at 1:30 in the ballroom of the Merchant's Hotel. It's my treat . . . and I really would appreciate all of you bein' there.”

“Oh, good,” Dacee June giggled, “a cast party!”

The single table in the middle of the large ballroom of the Merchant's Hotel was prepared for a private dinner of fourteen. Linens. Silver. Crystal. Fresh flowers in the center of the table. The place settings were La Reine in a colored spray pattern on a semiporcelain body, festoon plates, gold edges, knobs and handles.

Goldplated candelabras graced both ends of the table. The flicker of seven white candles in each provided the only light besides that which filtered through the lace-curtained window that peeked out on the expansive porch.

Samuel Houston Fortune paced the floor, stopping occasionally to peek out at the hotel veranda and the street. He pulled his gold watch from his vest and noticed that it was exactly sixty seconds later than the last time he looked at it.

What is this? It's almost 1:30 P.M. No one is here? No one is coming? This is strange—they all showed up to put their lives on the line for me, but they can't be here on time for dinner?

“Mr. Fortune?”

He spun around to see a thin waiter with starched white jacket, black bow tie, and receding hairline, standing at the open, ten-foot tall, carved oak door. “Mr. Fortune, Quiet Jim sends down his regrets. He said their housekeeper took sick, and Columbia doesn't want to leave the children alone, so they will not be able to make the banquet.”

“Yes . . . well . . . Mr. Hobson, perhaps you'd rearrange the table setting.”

“Twelve will give everyone a little more room, sir.”

“I suppose so. At the moment there's plenty of room.” Sam straightened his suit coat and tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt.

“Shall I bring in the chilled lemonade?” the waiter asked.

“Let's wait for the guests . . .” Sam circled the table. “They'll be along shortly.”

“Certainly, sir.” Hobson ambled back toward the hotel's main dining room. “Would you like this door left open?”

“Yes . . . eh, no . . . no, go ahead and close it,” Sam instructed.

If I'm going to look nervous, I might as well be nervous by myself. Not that I have anything to be nervous about.

The heels of his polished black boots banged a repetitive signal as he continued to pace. Stooping low to peek out the window, he saw Sheriff Seth Bullock stroll up the boardwalk and disappear into the hotel entrance.

Sam met him at the ballroom door and motioned toward the table in the middle of the ballroom. “Glad you made it, Sheriff—”

“Sorry, Sam. I just stopped by to tell you I can't stay for dinner. I've got to scoot over to Cheyenne Crossing this afternoon. A dead body was found in Spearfish Creek, and they are mighty anxious for me to do something about it.”

Mr. Hobson strolled back into the room just as the sheriff reached the exit. “Shall I remove another plate?” he queried.

“Better make that two,” the sheriff reported. “Daddy Brazos is coming with me.”

“Daddy? He knows this is an important dinner!” Sam chafed.

“I believe Mrs. Speaker is trailing after him again, and he prefers a little ride out of town. You know Brazos—he'd rather eat around a campfire than off a china plate.”

“Two more removed?” Hobson questioned.

“Yes, I guess so,” Sam mumbled. “That does narrow things.”

The waiter paused at the door as he exited.

“Sorry I'm late,” Abigail called as she entered the room. She wore an open front, reefer jacket made of fine, tan broadcloth, embroidered with tan and gold cording. “It took me a while to get all that dirt and stage blood washed out. Please forgive my damp hair.” She stopped halfway across the room. “Where's the rest of the cast?”

“Some are late. Some made other plans.”

“Oh dear. It would have been so fun for everyone to make it. You should hear the rumors around town about the gunshots at the telephone exchange.”

“What are they saying?” Sam asked.

She slipped her arm in his, and they made their way to the table in the middle of the room. “Some say that Daddy Brazos declared the telephone receiver the work of the devil and blasted it with his .50-caliber Sharps.”

Sam laughed. “If folks stay home to visit on the telephone instead of meetin' at the woodstove ever' mornin', he just might do it.”

When they reached the table, Abby circled it, still attached to Sam's arm. “Some say that a jealous husband came lookin' for S. Houston Fortune, the man who stole his wife.”

“But I've only been in town for a few weeks.”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“I know I deserve comments like that. But it must pain the rest of the family. A black sheep is difficult for a good family to explain.”

“A former black sheep.”

“What else have you heard?” he asked.

“The one I like best is the rumor that Abby O'Neill is going to make a comeback in the theater and was secretly rehearsing a new play.”

“Is that true?” Sam stopped walking, and Abby dropped his arm. “Is Miss O'Neill making a comeback?”

“Oh, I'm making a comeback all right. But it has absolutely nothing to do with the theater. It started about five years ago when I hiked up seventy-two steps to Forest Hill and first met Rebekah. My life has been one success after another ever since.”

“You're not the only one that feels renewed in Deadwood.” He walked with her to the front window and glanced out at Main Street. “Look at this town, Abby. A dirty, little, two-street village crammed in a gulch. It has seven times as many saloons as churches. There's not a night when gunshots aren't heard. Those stamp mills would drive other folks plumb distracted. And what kind of name is
Deadwood
anyways? Why wasn't it called Ponderosa City or somethin' else? The name itself is gloomy. And what's the most famous song about this area? ‘The Dreary Black Hills.'”

She folded her arms across her chest. “And your point is? . . .”

“You found a fresh, new start here.”

“Thanks to Rebekah.”

“And I found a brand new direction here. What I'm sayin' is, Deadwood is a special place, not because of the gold . . . but because of what the Lord is doing here.”

“You plan on staying?” she pressed.

“I have a goal that I haven't told anyone about,” Sam announced. “I'd like to see at least two Christmases here.”

“That's all?”

“That's as far as I can imagine. I haven't spent two months in the same location for over ten years, let alone two Christmases. How about you, Mrs. Abigail O'Neill Gordon? How long will you be in Deadwood?”

“As long as there's a Fortune in the Black Hills, Amber and I will be here.”

“Say, where is that girl?” he asked.

“She wanted to go over to ‘Grandma' Thelma's. The two of them are going to sing a duet in church, and they wanted to practice.”

“That's quite an age spread.”

“Yes, but don't tell them. They think they're the same age. Now, who does that leave for our little celebration?”

“Todd and Bekah, Dacee June and Carty . . .”

“How about Grass and Louise Edwards?”

Sam again peeked out the front window of the big ballroom. “Yep. That makes eight of us.”

“That will be nice. We can visit better with only eight.” Abby pointed out the street. “Look—here come the professor and Louise.”

“Yes, but she's not getting out of the rig.”

They arrived at the ballroom door just as Grass Edwards poked his head in. “Say, we're going to pass on dinner. I just got word from the commanding officer at Fort Meade. Said he discovered some noxious weeds making his horses sick. He wants me to identify which ones and give a little talk to his officers about what to watch out for. Besides, Louise wanted some fresh air. All that gunsmoke plugged up her head like a nest in a chimney. We'll catch you all next time around.”

“Have a nice ride,” Abby called out.

“We'll be home late. Sammy, I'll see you at the hardware in the mornin'. I assume you'll be there with all the rest.” Grass tipped his hat to both of them.

Mr. Hobson scooted in before the door closed. “Would you like me to begin serving yet?”

“Not yet . . . ,” Sam reported. “Set the table for six. Looks like we're having a more private dinner than we planned.”

“Dacee June and Carty, Rebekah and Todd . . . that will still be nice. I don't think we've all been together since the wedding,” Abby noted. “I've never known a family that cared so much about each other and enjoyed being around each other as much as your family, Sam. Todd was in paradise having you and Bobby around for a week or two. He is so serious and businesslike all the time. Rebekah says he's even that way at home. But when you two were with him, he relaxed and even got jovial.”

“I've missed Mama for years and will until my dyin' day. And Daddy? Well, hardly a day has passed when I didn't see somethin' that reminded me of him. But Todd, Bobby—and Dacee June—my, how I've missed them.”

Abby sauntered back to the table and plucked up an empty fruit plate. “Aren't these dishes beautiful?” She set it back down and once again clutched his arm. They promenaded around the big empty room as if a full orchestra were playing a slow waltz.

“My family is so small,” she said. “I'm an only child. Amber is an only child. Mama, me, and Amber . . . that's all there is.”

“You're an adopted member of the Fortune family.”

“And for that, I am grateful.”

Hobson waited by the table when they circled back in that direction. “Can I pour you two some lemonade?” he asked.

“That would be nice,” Abigail replied.

“I suppose we could sit down.” Sam motioned to the well-spread table. “Hobson, the others will be along any moment now. Why don't you go ahead and bring out the food.”

“Yes sir. I certainly will.”

With crystal goblets of pulp-strained lemonade and winter froze ice, Sam and Abigail lingered near the front window until the waiter had completely unloaded the service cart and disappeared back into the main dining hall.

“Shall we sit at the ends and let the other couples sit next to each other?” she asked.

“If you promise not to whisper anything that I can't hear.”

“Me?”

“You and Rebekah whisper and giggle more than any gals over twenty I've ever seen.” He stopped pacing and stared intently at the food spread on the table.

“Thank you, kind sir, for that compliment,” she curtsied.

He looped his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Compliment?”

“You could have said two gals over thirty.”

Sam pointed to green, spiny blossoms, as big as his fist. “What do you suppose that is?”

Abby leaned low and examined the plate. “I believe they are artichokes.”

“Are they edible or just for decoration?”

“They are quite edible, a very unusual vegetable.”

Sam waved his hand. “Look at this table: sweet potatoes, corn, beans, turnips, and artichokes. That's more vegetables than I've seen in twelve years.”

“Ham, venison, and pheasant . . . I believe we will have enough meat, too,” she added. “Let's have Rebekah take the surplus home to her children. And another basket to Mrs. Speaker and Amber.”