Eerie Saloon: Seasons Of Change -- Spring, Part 10 Of 13 free porn video

Eerie Salon: Seasons of Change - Spring, part 10 of 13 By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2013 Sunday, June 02, 1872 Reverend Yingling leaned forward, both his hands braced on the altar, and began speaking. "You all know, I'm sure, of the fire last Thursday night. Many of you, no doubt, were among those who fought it. I was there myself, a part of the bucket brigade." "I do not know how the fire started. It may have been some careless mistake on the part of the rather foolish man, the printer, whose building it was in." He paused a moment for effect, and, when he spoke again, it was in his most dramatic tones. "Or it may have been a _punishment_ from our Lord for that man's sins." His voice went back to a conversational tone. "I do not know." "But I do know that we were victorious over a blaze that could well have consumed our town. We were victorious because of our righteous act of joining together - as a community - to fight it. We were victorious because of the quick thinking of Tor Johansson in alerting the town to the danger we faced. And, finally, we were victorious because the town council, in its wisdom, required the installation of a fire alarm on every block and purchased and maintained the pumper wagon, which gave us the means to fight the conflagration so efficiently." "Yes, we must thank the town council for its wisdom in this matter." He paused again and frowned. "It is a shame that they are not always so wise." "This town, Eerie, Arizona, now faces another menace, one as potentially damaging as any flame. I speak, of course, of the potion produced by Shamus O'Toole." "And what has the town council done in the face of this danger? They have muffled the fire alarm by appointing the _wrong_ people - including O'Toole himself - to the committee they created. And they have plugged the hoses and lines of the pumper wagon by making that committee no more than an _advisory_ body to Judge Parnassus Humphreys." Yingling took a moment to turn and glance over at the Judge. Humphreys scowled back at him. The Reverend smiled back, confident in the rightness of his opinion, and began again. "This cannot, it must not, it _will_ not be allowed to continue. When the town council next meets, we must be prepared. We shall demand that the current committee be abolished, and that a new committee be created." "This new committee must be designed to perform the task that we have always intended to be done. It must take _control_ ... _proper_ control of O'Toole's potion. To do this, it must be composed of men - good, _Christian_ men - with the will and the wisdom to carry out such a task." He raised his arms, as if trying to encompass the whole congregation. "Let us pray." He bowed his head, waiting a moment for the people to do the same. "Oh, Lord, give us the strength to carry out this holy work that Thou has laid before us, and soften the hearts of the town council that they may see the right of what You, in your wisdom, would have them do. This do we ask in Jesus' name. Amen." There was an answering shout of "Amen", but, somehow, it wasn't as loud as he had expected. * * * * * "Interesting sermon,"Jubal Cates said, shaking Reverend Yingling's hand. They stood on the small porch, the entry to the church. The Reverend positioned himself there to greet his congregants after the service. Yingling gave Jubal a broad smile. "I'm pleased that you liked it. I trust that I can count on your support at the town council meeting." "Do you really think that the fire was divine punishment aimed at Roscoe Unger?" "Who can say what will occur to bring our Lord's will about?" "Who indeed? A pleasant day to you, Reverend." Jubal took his wife's hand. "Come, Naomi, let's not hold up the line." They stepped down to the ground and started across the schoolyard. "What was all that about?" Naomi asked. "I'm not sure," he admitted, stopping. Jubal wasn't completely convinced that the fire was the coincidence that Horace Styron claimed it was. Styron and Ritter still were possible culprits for starting the fire, and now, considering what the Reverend had said in his sermon, he wondered if he should have doubts about the minister himself. He'd never thought of Thaddeus Yingling as a man of action. Still, a man so danged sure that he knew the will of the Lord, as the Reverend seemed to be, such a man _might_ be willing to act as the agent of what he thought was right. Jubal saw the Judge come out of the church and walk past the Reverend with neither man saying a word or making a friendly gesture towards the other. Jubal still thought of himself as a "Styron man", but maybe it was time _somebody_ talked to the other side. "Excuse me, Naomi," he said, letting go of her hand. "I'll be back in a minute." He turned and headed towards the spot where Judge Humphreys was standing. * * * * * ` WANTED ` For Resisting Arrest ` For Flight to Avoid Prosecution ` A Possible Murder Suspect (Hanks) ` JESSIE HANKS and PAUL GRANT ` Hanks is female, about 20 year old; five foot tall; slender; blonde ` hair, blue eyes. She is riding a swayback brown gelding. ` Grant is male, in late 20s; just under six foot tall; slender; dark ` brown hair, brown eyes. He is riding a light gray cow pony. ` Both are armed and dangerous. ` If seen, contact Sheriff Elijah Whyte, Dawstown, Arizona. Sheriff Dan Talbot shook his head. "Oh, Jessie, what did you get yourself - and Paul - into now?" He folded the telegram and set it in the top drawer of his office desk. "I'll just have to trust him to get them both out of it. And the _last_ thing I need to do is to let Molly O'Toole find out. There's nothing she can do about it except fret - and, probably, make my life - and Shamus' absolute misery." * * * * * Judge Humphreys was leaning against a tree, waiting, when Liam O'Hanlan came out of the schoolhouse with Kaitlin and Emma. "Liam," he called and motioned for the man to come over. "I'll be right back," Liam said, letting go of Kaitlin's hand and hurrying over to the Judge. "What did you think of today's sermon?" Humphreys asked. Liam frowned. "I think he's asking for trouble. I'm not absolutely sure of Shamus and his potion, but it seems to me that we should give that new committee some time to work before we talk about changing it." "I agree," the Judge said, "I think that Shamus has done damn well with that potion of his. Thad Yingling sounded like he was obsessed about it." He shook his head. "That really isn't like him." "What are we going to do about it? He'll want the church - and the board - to back him up against the town council, and I'm not sure that we should." "Neither am I, and I think he'll be asking for that support at Wednesday's board meeting. We need to talk about it first. Are you up to a getting together to talk about it on say... Tuesday night?" "I'd better be." He waited a beat. "Do you want Trisha in on this?" "I think that we'd do better to keep it to _active_ board members for now." The Judge glanced over to where Kaitlin and Emma were standing. "Where is she, by the way?" "She's over at what's left of Roscoe Unger's print shop - her and Kirby Pinter. They're trying to see what can be salvaged." Humphreys raised a curious eyebrow. "Are she and Kirby...?" He let his voice trail off. "I don't think so. They're both just good friends of Roscoe's. He'll be stuck in bed at Doc Upshaw's place for a while, and - to hear Trisha tell it - he was getting pretty antsy about putting his paper out." "That's understandable." If the Judge thought anything more about the pair, he didn't speak of it. Liam pushed the conversation back to the original topic. "It'll just be the four of us, then: Rupe Warrick, Dwight Albertson, you, and me, right?" "I'm afraid not. Dwight won't be there. This whole thing's got him nervous, and he didn't want to seem to be taking sides." "Three then; where do we meet?" "At Rupe's lumberyard, in the office. And there _will_ be four of us. Yingling's rant today got Jubal Cates spooked. He asked me about getting together to talk, just as the service ended." Liam chuckled. "I guess some of my niece's good sense rubbed off on him." When he saw the Judge's confusion, he explained. "Jubal hired Emma as his assistant. She says he's going to train her to be a surveyor." "Good for him - and her." Humphreys took a breath. "We'll all meet at Rupe's place about 7 o'clock on Tuesday, okay?" "I'll be there." Liam turned to look over at Kaitlin. She held up her pocket watch and pointed to it. "Right now," Liam said to the Judge, "I'd better get going. Kaitlin's fixing a fancy Sunday meal for the three of us, and I think she wants to get home before it overcooks." He patted his stomach. "So do I, come to think of it." "I won't keep you then." The Judge raised a finger and tapped the front of his hat. "See you Tuesday." * * * * * Sheriff Dan Talbot knocked on the doorframe of the infirmary entrance. "Roscoe," he asked, "you up to talking to me about what happened at your shop?" "I suppose," Roscoe answered. He was lying belly-down in bed. Edith Lonnegan was just covering him with a crisp, white cotton sheet. "To tell the truth, I was wondering why you hadn't come around earlier." The Sheriff smiled. "I was here Friday, but you were so doped up on laudanum that you probably don't remember. Mrs. Lonnegan chased me away on Saturday, her and Miz O'Hanlan. They said you needed your sleep." "He most certainly did," Edith said. She picked up a small tray that had a cloth draped over it. "I'll just leave you now to talk, but don't take too long. He still needs his rest." She smiled at her patient and walked briskly out the door. Talbot looked around. "Where is Miz O'Hanlan, anyway?" "She's over at my shop with Kirby Pinter. She told me they were going to do some cleaning up, see if I could still get this week's paper out. I don't know how, if I'm going to be stuck in here for the next few days." Dan nodded. "I'll head over there, once I'm done here. There may be some clues about whoever set that fire." He sat down next to Roscoe. "Now can you tell me what happened... best as you remember it?" "It was about 10 o'clock, and I was getting ready for bed - I have some rooms up above the shop. I heard a noise - voices -- from downstairs. I put on my bathrobe and headed for the steps." "Were you armed?" "Yes, I keep a pistol in a drawer in my sitting room. I took it down with me, that and a candlestick." He gave the sheriff a weak smile. "It's hard to see down those steps." "What did you see when you came down?" "A man was standing by my work table. Just as I came down, he pushed over the racks I keep my type in... scattered the pieces all over the table and onto the floor." "Can you describe him?" "A short man, muscles, in work clothes. He had a round face... short brown hair... hadn't shaved in a while, but not long enough to call it a beard." Roscoe thought for a moment. "I didn't know who he was... I-I never saw him before." "What did you do?" "I had to get him to quit what he was doing. He was making a royal mess of the place. I was afraid he was going to go for the press next, so I told him to stop. He... He turned around slowly and - can you believe it? - he _smiled_ at me." "Smiled?" "Yeah. 'How do, Mr. Unger,' he says - or something like that. And he raised his hands, raised them _really_ slow, like he was surrendering." "Did he?" "No, he moved, shifted a bit at a time to the left." Dan frowned. "And you moved, so you could keep your pistol on him, didn't you?" "Yes, how did you know?" "There was second man, one you didn't see. The fellah you had your pistol on was lining you up for him." Roscoe sighed. "That must have been it. I... something hit me in the head, and everything went black. The next thing I know, I'm here in bed, and the Doc is doing something to my back." "Do you remember anything else?" "Not really. I-I'm sorry I can't be more help." "You've helped a lot. I'll ask around; see if anybody's seen a man like you described." "You find him, Sheriff, and I'll be more than glad to help put him a... away." He yawned. "'Scuse me." The Sheriff shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Sleep's the best doctor, so they say. I'll check back with you later, if I have any more questions." "O... Okay." Roscoe yawned again, but he waited until Talbot had left before he closed his eyes and let himself doze off. * * * * * Arsenio opened his front door and walked backwards into the house, pulling Laura's wheelchair in behind him. "What'd you think of Reverend Yingling's sermon?" he asked, as he pushed her over next to the table. Laura stood for a moment before she shifted her body and settled down into a chair. "I think he's going to make a lot of trouble for you, Whit, and Aaron." "I hate to say it, but you're probably right." He sighed and sat down beside her. "I think I'd better go to the board meeting Wednesday night." He frowned. "I wish I knew what was pushing the man." "What do you mean?" "He always struck me as a reasonable sort - well, _fairly_ reasonable. Now... he's got some crazy notion in his head, and he's pushing himself - and trying to push the town to someplace I don't think we should go." "It's like he's trying to start a new version of the old witch-hunting excitement, like they had in Salem a couple of hundred years ago." She shook her head. "They killed a lot of innocent people back then." "Maybe. Preachers don't often run into magic these days, so he's using a strategy that seemed to work once, long ago." "Are you going to stop him?" "I don't know," he shook his head and sighed again, "but I may have to try." * * * * * Trisha peeked into the infirmary. "Roscoe," she whispered, "are you awake?" "Trisha?" Roscoe said, turning his head to face her and grinning broadly. "Come on in. I was just wondering where you were." She stepped into the room. Kirby Pinter was right behind her. "Hello, Roscoe," he said cheerily. "How are you doing?" "Doc Upshaw says I'm getting better," the printer replied. "My back still hurts like the blazes." Trisha smiled. "Kirby and I have something that should make you feel better." "It's gonna take a lot to do that," Roscoe said wryly. Trisha took her hand from behind her back. "I think this may just do it." She unfolded a sheet on newsprint and held it where he could see. "It... It's the paper with - how did you get a paper with Tuesday's date on it?" Roscoe could hardly keep the surprise out of his voice. Kirby smiled and walked over next to Trisha. "We - Trisha and I - printed it; printed what we could, anyway. We couldn't find that - what do you call it? - that thing they send up from Tucson every week with the outside pages of the paper?" "It's called a boilerplate," Roscoe answered. "I get the new one by Wells Fargo on Monday, and I send it back the same way on Thursday." He shook his head. "I still can't believe that you two were able to do this." Kirby chuckled. "How many Monday evenings have I come over to split a bottle of wine with you while you put out your paper? I've watched you work." He chuckled again. "You've even let me try my hand at setting type or working your press just to see how you did it." "I found that block you had set the ads in," he continued, "so some of the work was already done. Incidentally, a few pieces of type got melted by the fire, and some more must've gotten softened by the heat. The letters on them are distorted." Roscoe frowned. "A _lot_ of pieces?" he asked nervously. It was expensive to replace pieces of type, and it would be hard to run a print shop if many pieces were gone. "No more than a handful," Trisha told him. "Most of them were still on the table, and a lot of the ones on the floor were too far from where the fire was." Kirby smiled, adding, "We had more than enough to put the paper out." "I guess I taught you more than I realized," Roscoe said, with a laugh. His eyes scanned down the page. "But there's more to printing a paper than setting type. Who wrote these articles about the fire?" "That was my doing," Trisha admitted shyly. "Kirby told me about how he rescued you, and I talked to Liam and a couple of other people about how the town fought the fire. You don't mind, do you?" The printer shook his head. "No, no; they're fine." He reached out and patted her hand. "You're a good writer, Trisha; better than me, I think." "Th-Thanks, Roscoe." She beamed at the compliment, even as she felt a tingling in the hand he was patting. "Can we go ahead, then?" Roscoe shrugged. "Holed up in here - like this - I don't see how I could stop you - either of you." He paused a moment for effect, and then added, "If I _wanted_ to stop you, which I don't. This crazy... wonderful idea of yours could just save my... ah... - my business." "Glad to do it," Trisha replied. Without thinking, she glanced quickly over at his body, loosely outlined under the cotton sheet draped over it. "Glad to do it." * * * * * Dolores and Arnie walked briskly down the street towards the Saloon. "I saw you and Molly talking last night," the older female said. "What were you talking about?" "I-I was dancing... a little to the music," Arnie replied cautiously. "She watched me, and she came over to ask if I wanted to be one of the ladies who take tickets and dance." "And do you? You told me that you had thought about it." "I_I still have not decided. I can do our zapateado dance steps well enough, but the dances they do on Saturday...." She shook her head. "I know them. I can teach you -- _if_ you want." "I..." Arnie sighed. She kept thinking of Hedley and how it felt to dance with him, to be in his arms. Did she want to feel that way again? Did she? "I do not know _what_ I want." Dolores looked at her cousin's face. "Think about it some more, then, and, when you do know, come and tell me what you decide." She had another thought. "And if you want to talk to me _before_ you know, I will be there for that, as well." She gave Arnie a friendly smile. "Thank you, Dolores," Arnie replied, smiling back. "Thank you for _both_ offers." * * * * * "How's Roscoe doing?" Kaitlin asked, as she set the serving plate down on the table, leftovers from the midday Sunday dinner. Trisha speared a slice of ham with a fork. "Uhh... Pretty good; the Doc says that his burns are healing very nicely." "Will you be going to the store tomorrow, then?" Trisha looked down at her plate. "Actually... no. Kirby... that's Kirby Pinter, the bookseller, we'll be working in Roscoe's print shop. Roscoe has to get the paper out, or he'll lose a _lot_ of money. Kirby and I'll be doing it for him." She looked up at Kaitlin. "You think Liam'll mind?" "No; and I won't mind, either." Kaitlin smiled. "I'm starting to enjoy working with Liam... at the store." Trisha made a face like she'd been sucking lemons. "I'm sure you are." She looked around. It was late. She had just come home and was eating alone. And Emma was upstairs. "If you don't like it, all you have to do is to come to work at the Feed and Grain yourself. There'd be no reason for me to go in then." "I-I can't. Roscoe... he's depending on me, on Kirby and me to get out the paper." "And you wouldn't want to disappoint Roscoe, now, would you?" "No. He's a good ally against the craziness of the Reverend and all those old biddies. They'd like nothing better than to have him put out of business." Then she added, "Besides, he's a friend and he needs my help." Kaitlin gave her former husband a wry smile. "I'm sure he does, only we won't go into _how_ you think he needs you, not now, anyway." She studied the uncertain look on Trisha's face for a moment before continuing. "You have two choices. You can go work with Roscoe or Kirby or whomever, knowing that I'll go work with Liam. Or _you_ can go work with Liam, and I'll stay home." "Which is it going to be?" Kaitlin asked after a moment's delay. Trisha bowed her head, her eyes half-closed. When she finally spoke, it was in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "Roscoe." * * * * * Kirby and Trisha stepped into the Wells Fargo depot office. Matt Royce heard their footsteps and, without glancing their way, said, "Morning, folks, what can I do for you?" The pair walked over to the counter where he was sitting. "It's me, Kirby Pinter, Mr. Royce." he replied. "I'm here with Trisha O'Hanlan, who you also may know." The manager finally looked up from the dime novel he was reading. "I... ah... I know Miz O'Hanlan, all right, "Matt said. "You might say I was there when she was born." Patrick O'Hanlan had accidentally swallowed a dose of potion and become Trisha, when his son, Elmer, -- now Emma -- had been fatally injured at the Wells Fargo loading dock. Trisha frowned at the memory. "Yes, we do know each other, but this isn't a time for reminiscing. Mr. Pinter and I have come for the package that _The_ _Tucson_ _Citizen_ sent to Roscoe Unger." "Roscoe gave us this to show you." He took a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket and handed it to the station manager. Matt unfolded the paper and read it aloud. "Mr. Royce, it's okay to give the boilerplate that _The_ _Citizen_ sent me to Trisha O'Hanlan and/or Kirby Pinter." He studied the paper for a moment. "And it's signed 'Roscoe Unger.' -- I recognize his handwriting - with yesterday's date." He initialed the paper and set it into a folder on his desk. "Seems to be okay," he told them. He knelt down and carefully brought up a large, obviously heavy package wrapped in brown paper. "Here it is." Kirby and Trisha could see Roscoe's name printed on the top. "It's so big," Trisha said in surprise. Royce nodded. "Lot of that's padding to protect the important stuff inside. Can you manage it?" "I think so." Kirby lifted the package and, with a grunt, hoisted it up onto his shoulder. "No worse than a box of books." He braced the package with his other hand. "You'll have to sign for it, though, Trisha." She shrugged and picked up a pen. "I guess." She signed her name - and Roscoe's - in a ledger set on the desk. That done, the two of them headed for the door. * * * * * Phillipia Stone watched her pupils file into the classroom and take their seats. "Good morning, children," she greeted them cheerily. "Good morning, Mrs. Stone," they answered in unison. Phillipia looked down the roll sheet on the desk in front of her. "Raul Yba?ez, it's your turn this morning." "Yes, Mrs. Stone." The boy walked over to the small U.S. flag that was set in a metal sheath near the blackboard. He picked it up and held it in front of him in his left hand. His right hand was over his heart. The rest of the class stood, as did Phillipia. Hands over their hearts, they began singing. ` "O Columbia, the gem of the ocean, ` The home of the brave and the free, ` The shrine of each patriot's devotion, ` A world offers homage to thee..." Once they had finished the anthem, they remained standing, heads bowed, while their teacher recited "The Lord's Prayer." After a hearty "Amen", the children quickly took their seats. Raul returned the flag to its place and sat down with the other fourth graders. "Before we begin today's lessons," Phillipia told them, "I have an announcement. I'm sure that some of you have already started counting the days until the end of the school year on Friday, June 14th." She waited a moment, suppressing her own smile, while the class cheered. "I am pleased to see how well you all are at containing your grief," she continued, cutting off the cheering. "This has certainly been an _interesting_ year, and I have enjoyed being your teacher." Eulalie Mckechnie raised her hand. "Mrs. Stone, will you be back next year?" "I honestly don't know, Lallie. The town council and I have been talking about that. In the meantime, we do know of five who will _not_ be returning in the fall: Ysabel Diaz, Emma O'Hanlon, Hermione Ritter, Ulysses Stone..." She stopped to smile at her son. "...and Stephan Yingling. We will be having a graduation party for them on Thursday, the 13th, at 6 PM, and you are _all_ invited." This time she let them cheer for a while. "There will be a speech or two, I'm afraid, but there will also cake and, perhaps, ice cream." And another, longer round of cheers followed. It took a minute or two before Phillipia could quiet her students and begin the morning's lessons. * * * * * "Trisha," Kirby called out, "could you come here for a moment?" "Read this." He gave her a handwritten sheet. "It's the editorial Roscoe wrote." She read it, and, as she did, a look of concern came over her face. "It's kind of rough, isn't it?" "Maybe we shouldn't have told him what the reverend said on Sunday." "Maybe... but we did. I'm no happier about that sermon than he is." "I agree with you, but I do have to wonder... should we print it? People will know that it was us that put out this week's paper." "Yes, but it's _Roscoe's_ paper. If that's what he wants..." Her voice trailed off. "All right," he said with a shrug of his shoulders, "but I'm going to put in a disclaimer, so people know that it's _his _ editorial. Perhaps that will take some of the heat off of us." She gave him a wry smile. "I kind of like it a little on the hot side. Besides, this is something that Yingling - that a _lot_ of people -- need to read." * * * * * R.J. was watching for Arsenio and Carl, when they walked into the Saloon. "Arnie," he said, "go upstairs and tell Molly that Arsenio's here." She nodded and hurried for the stairs. "Can I get you gents something to drink while you're waiting?" he asked the pair. "Sounds good," Arsenio answered. "Beer for me." Carl slapped a silver dollar down on the bar. "Same here; Mr. Lewis' paying." "That's real nice of him," R.J. said, drawing the beers and putting them in front of the two men. "How's Laura doing, Arsenio?" Arsenio took a long sip. "Pretty much the same as last week; she wants to get up and get back to work, but every time she tries, she feels weak and needs help getting back to our bed. Amy Talbot's with her now. Amy can go home once Molly shows up, and Molly'll stay there overnight, while I'm out at the Triple A." "Sounds like you've got everything worked out," the barman said. Arsenio sighed. "I hope so. I don't like leaving her alone. I have a contract with Abner Slocum, but I wanted to ask for a delay. _Laura_ insisted that I go." He chuckled and shook his head. "She's a great one for me keeping my word, Laura is." "Molly'll be right down," Arnie announced, descending the stairs. "She went to get her carpetbag." The young woman came over to the bar. "Would you get me another tray of glasses, Arnie?" R.J. asked. Arnie nodded and headed for the kitchen. Carl and Arsenio were watching the stairs as they finished their drinks. When Carl saw Nancy and Flora walking along the second floor hallways, he took one last, long sip and hurried over to the base of the stairway. "Carl," Nancy said, sounding surprised. "I thought that you were coming in for that talk tomorrow." "I am," he replied. "I'm in town today to take Arsenio Caulder out to the ranch. I don't have time to talk to you now because I'm supposed to be back with him by suppertime." He smiled and turned to Flora. "Besides, I wanna spend what time I do have talking to Flora - if you don't mind." Nancy glanced from her brother's face to Flora's and gave a slight chuckle. "As Pappa used to say, 'Hello, I must be going,' Very well, I'll see you tomorrow." She gave him a quick pat on the cheek and walked on. "What was that all about?" Flora asked him. "Just some family business I have to take care of." Flora smiled. 'Time for a little flirting practice,' she thought. "Well, business before _pleasure_." She had spoken the last word in a low seductive tone. "That's what _I_ always say." "I'll go along with that. And... speaking of pleasure, Flora, can I have the pleasure of taking you to dinner tomorrow night?" "Dinner?" She raised a bemused eyebrow. Then, remembering Rosalyn's lesson, she glanced away for a moment. When she turned back, she was looking down slightly, her eyes half-closed, as if she were suddenly shy. "Why, I would _love_ to... Carl." Again, her voice dipped down into the sultry. 'He doesn't have much money,' she told herself, 'and he wants to spend what he has on me. This is _so_ easy. Besides, he is kind of...' She stopped. She wasn't thinking about how handsome he was, with that sweet smile and those broad shoulders, was she? No, she couldn't have been thinking that. '..._dumb_,' she tried to pick up the train of thought again. 'I can take him for every penny he has just for the fun of it. He'll be good practice for Ritter --' and why did _that_ thought make her feel guilty? 'Oh, the hell with it.' She gave up and just smiled at the man. "Terrific, I'll see you tomorrow then." His smile broadened into a full grin. He was about to say more, when Molly came down the steps with Shamus. "Shall we be going?" she asked. "Right away," Arsenio replied. He took her bag from Shamus and started for the door. Molly kissed her husband on the cheek. "See ye tomorrow, Love." With a quick wink, she headed after Arsenio. "Bye, Flora," Carl said. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze - no time for a kiss now - and hurried after them. Just before he got to the Saloon's doors, he turned and added, "You, too, Nancy." * * * * * Jubal Cates looked up at the sound of the bell over his office door. He marked the spot in the manual he was reading and greeted the person who'd just entered. "Good afternoon, Emma. You're in particularly high spirits this afternoon." "Thank you, sir. I have the answer to the question you asked me the other day. The school term ends a week this Friday, June 14th." She took a breath. "And I'm graduating!" He smiled. "Yes, I know. I wanted a student who'd be graduating this year, remember?" "I-I guess I forgot. It... It's just _exciting_ to be finishing school. And... and there's gonna be a party, Thursday night before we graduate, with cake and ice cream and I-I don't know what else." "Well, I'm sure that you'll have a good time. Just don't eat so much that you get a tummy ache. I'll need you with me when we start the Sanborn map." "Oh, I-I won't, Mr. Cates. You'll see. I'll be a real hard worker." "I'm sure you will because we'll both be _very_ busy. In fact..." He picked up the manual. "...here's a copy of the Sanborn manual. You take it home - I've got a spare copy -- and study it." He thought for a moment. "Do you have any final examinations or anything like that?" "I-I don't know; maybe." "You find out, and, if you do, you study for them first. You're a smart girl, Emma, but you can only study one thing at a time, and those come first, understand." He thought she was smart! "Yes, sir; I understand." Emma took the book from him and quickly put it in her school bag. "Good; right now, I have an errand for you. Take this letter..." He handed her a sheet of paper. "...over to Unger's print shop and tell him to make me 75 copies. I know he's got to get his paper out, so let him know I'll pick the copies up on Wednesday, okay." "Yes, Mr. Cates." "Then get going. You can finish up your notes on that job we did last Saturday when you get back." Emma folded the paper twice and stashed it in a pocket of her skirt. A moment later, she was out the door and headed for the printer. * * * * * Flora glanced up at the clock on the wall. "My goodness, it's almost 7." She looked down at her plate for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Clyde, but I have to go get ready for the first show." She sighed. "And we were having such a good time, too." "Can't remember when I've had a better one," Clyde Ritter said, smiling broadly. "You be sure to come sit with me after your show." She pulled back her chair and stood up. "I shall, and thank you for the lovely meal. It was so generous of you." She smiled at him. "It was worth every penny, if it got that pretty smile out of you." Yes! She could hardly contain herself. "You spend enough pennies on me, _Clyde_," she told him, speaking his name in a sultry whisper, "and you might get a lot more than just a smile in return." He hurried around the table to where she was. "Oh, really?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Such as?" "Well... _this_, for example." Moment of truth; how much did she want from this man, and what was she willing to do to get it? She put her hands on each side of his head and pulled him towards her and into a kiss. Her tongue darted out to run against his lip before retreating back into her mouth. Her own lips stayed parted, inviting his tongue to follow. It did, brushing against hers. At the same time, he stepped in close, so that their bodies touched. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. His arms slid around her, his hands moving down to caress her teardrop ass. In spite of herself, Flora felt her body warm to his touch. Her nipples grew tight against the fabric of her camisole. And delicious sensations flowed down from her breasts to that special place between her legs. 'Damn, that feels _good_,' she thought 'even if it's only Clyde doing it.' "Consider that a... sample," she said, a little breathlessly, as she ended the kiss. He reached for her, and she quickly put her hand up in front of his face. "But only a sample; I-I've got to go." She wriggled free of him and walked slowly to the stairs. She walked slowly because she was so surprised at what she had just done. And she walked slowly, too, because of a sudden weakness in her knees. * * * * * "Aayaah!" Trisha yawned, stretching her arms out. "How much longer are we going to work tonight?" Kirby took out his pocket watch and checked the time. "It's already after 1, and we're _both_ tired. Why don't we stop now and get an early start in the morning? I don't believe that people will fault us if we get the paper out a few hours later than usual." "That sounds good. I'm so tired now, I'm not sure that I can even find my way home." She yawned again and shook her head once, trying to shake herself awake. "You don't _have_ to go home, you know." "Kirby!" Her eyes were wide with surprise. "What are you suggesting?" He chuckled. "I'm suggesting that you stay here tonight. There are two bedrooms upstairs, the one Roscoe used when Ozzie was here, and Ozzie's bedroom, which Roscoe uses now. Since he's still over at Doc Upshaw's, they're both free. Pick one. I'll lock up and go to my own bed, above my store, two doors away." "You, know," she said, the fatigue creeping back into her voice, "that sounds like a good idea." * * * * * Trisha looked around the room. This was obviously the bedroom Roscoe had been using. His pants were draped over the top of a chair, his suspenders trailing down to the floor. A shirt, poorly folded, had been placed on top of the pants. The bed was large, the blanket and top sheet thrown back, and the pillows plumped up for reading. A dime novel, _Buffalo_ _Bill_, _the_ _King_ _of_ _the_ _Border_ _Men_, was set on the night table, with a scrap of paper serving as a bookmark. "Just the sort of thing Emma likes," she said, holding up the book for a moment. Then she yawned again. "The hell with this," she scolded herself, "get to bed, Trisha." She returned the book to the table and began unbuttoning her blouse. A clothes rack stood a few feet away, with a few empty hangers. Once she had finished with her blouse, she took it off and put it on one of the hangers. She yawned again as she unhooked her corset, but she managed to get it undone and draped it over the top of the rack. In a few minutes, her skirt and petticoat had joined her blouse on hangers. "I'll sleep in my camisole and drawers," she said aloud. Then she chuckled. "Kinda naughty, though, undressing like this in a _man's_ bedroom and sleeping in his bed." Somehow, she felt a thrill to be doing it. On an impulse, she changed her mind, undid her camisole and slipped it off, tossing it up on the rack next to her corset. "Now I need something for a nightgown." She picked up Roscoe's shirt. "This'll do." When she put her right arm into the sleeve, only the tips of her three middle fingers could be seen. She giggled. "Hmmm, Roscoe's a big man, isn't he?" She rolled up the sleeve until her entire hand was visible, and then she did the same to the other sleeve before she put her left arm into it. "Fits like a tent," she said, as she buttoned it. She'd had to button the top button just to keep it from sliding off her shoulders, and it hung down almost to her knees. "Still, it's better than nothing. " As she climbed into bed, she felt the rough cotton rub against her breasts, tickling her nipples - and why were they so extended? She turned the wick of the lantern she'd carried down to a dim flame and snuggled down under blankets. Her nose caught a whiff of something - bay rum, the aftershave that Roscoe used. She could smell it on his shirt. "It's almost like he's here in bed with me." Her body tingled at the thought, and she was smiling as she drifted off to sleep. * * * * * Tuesday, June 04, 1872 "Anybody here from the Triple A Ranch?" Tommy Carson's young voice rang clear in the Saloon. He stood just inside the batwing doors, scanning the room for any sign of his former teacher. There was none. She was in the kitchen washing the morning dishes. Cap raised a hand. "That'd be me, son. I'm Cap... Matt Lewis, one of the owners." "I got a telegram for you, Mr. Lewis," the boy said hurrying over. He gave Cap the envelope he was carrying and happily took a nickel tip. He did remember to say, "Thanks," before heading out the door. Molly came over, as Cap was tearing open the envelope. "Forgive me curiosity, Cap, but what's it say?" "It's from Red Tully," Cap replied in a voice that could be heard by most of the room. "He and Uncle Abner got to Philadelphia okay. That Dr. Vogel from the hospital met them at the train with an ambulance. Uncle Abner wants Red to hang around until Vogel's done some tests. Red's staying in a room on the hospital grounds, and he should start home in about a week." Bridget leaned over Cap's shoulder, trying to read the telegram. "Does it say anything about your uncle's condition?" "Red said, 'No problems on train.' That's about all," Cap told her, smiling at how close she was standing. "He says he'll bring back a letter from Vogel. He'll probably have one from Uncle Abner, too." Molly smiled. "Well, he's with folks that know how t'be dealing with his problem. That's a blessing, at least, and we'll all be praying for him, too." "Thanks, Molly. I'm sure that Uncle Abner would appreciate that. I know that I do." * * * * * Trisha and Kirby didn't get the paper out until well after lunch. The first article on page 2 was an explanation. ` Better Late Than Never ` Today's issue of _The_ Eerie_ _Citizen_ is late, and we're sorry. ` ` We had a break-in to our offices, and somehow a fire got started. ` Our editor, Roscoe Unger, was badly burned. He's recovering now ` in Dr. Upshaw's infirmary. ` ` It's times like this when you find out who your friends are. We ` want to thank _everyone_ who worked so valiantly to put out the ` fire. Thank you and bless you all. We also want to thank Kirby ` Pinter, who risked his life to rescue Roscoe from the conflagration. ` ` Roscoe will be in the infirmary for a few more days. Friends of ` his are the ones publishing today's paper. We aren't nearly as good ` at it as he is. That's why it's late, and why there may be some ` mistakes in this issue. ` ` Don't blame Roscoe. With any luck, he'll be back in time for next ` week's issue, to show us all how it's _supposed_ to be done. * * * * * Molly was the first to see Carl coming around the corner into the long hallway where the Cactus Blossoms were practicing. She raised a finger to her lips, signaling him to wait quietly. He nodded and leaned against the wall, watching the women going through their routine. It ended when Nancy did a double cartwheel, going from there into a split. As she landed, she let out a loud, "Yee-hah!" and raised her hands up above her head. The other dancers also fell into a split where they stood, giving the same shout and raising their arms as she had. It was an unsettling thing to see her that way, but he forced a smile. "Way to go, Nanny Goat," Carl shouted, clapping his hands emphatically. "I forgot how good you was at cartwheels." Molly pressed the lever that turned off the kalliope. "I hope ye didn't come up here just t'be sneaking a peak at the Cactus Blossoms, Carl?" "No, Molly," he said with a chuckle, "but that _is_ a pretty good excuse. Actually, I came for two reasons. First off, I need t'borrow Nancy for a bit - if I can. _Then_ I wanted t'remind _that_ pretty lady over there..." He nodded his head towards Flora. "...that she promised to have supper with me tonight." Flora smiled, but then she quickly hid her face with her hand and turned away, as if embarrassed. Nancy glanced over at Molly. "Is it okay, Molly?" "Well, I suppose we can stand t'be taking a wee break." She checked the watch fastened by a ribbon to her apron. "Fifteen minutes, ladies." Nancy gave a nod of her head. "Thanks." She turned to face her brother. "Let's go into my room. It's more private there?" "Sounds good," Carl said. He followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him. A dress, petticoat, camisole, and a pair of drawers were tossed on the bed. Nancy quickly bundled them up and pushed them over to a corner. "You take the chair," she said, sitting down on the bed. "Okay." He sat, crossing his arms in front of him. Nancy had been quick to hide the undergarments in plain view, but she couldn't hide what she was wearing. Her dress stopped only an inch or two below the knee, showing a great deal of her shapely legs. At the same time, the deep sweetheart neckline and lack of sleeves clearly showed that she wore no camisole. He could see a lot of creamy skin, including the tops of her breasts and the cleavage between them. Carl didn't find the view arousing - hell, she was his sister, after all -- but he damn well knew what the effect would be for every other man in the house. "Now," he said, choosing his words with care, "suppose you tell me, real slow like, why you wanna flounce around in front of everybody in that scanty outfit?" She threw up her arms. "What _should_ I do, Carl? You saw that telegram. They... They took away my credentials." "You could ask for your old job back. The town council knows you're a good teacher, and they all believed your version of what happened with Dell Cooper. They'd probably be glad to get you back with or without credentials." "But I don't want to go back, and before you ask, yes, I _loved_ working with the children." She shook her head sadly, "but I-I _can't_ - I won't work with their parents." "Not all the parents are against you. Mrs. Stone --" "Cecelia Ritter is. So is Zenobia Carson. One - or both - of them sent that lie to Hartford. They want a prim little schoolteacher, one who's afraid of them. They want someone who can't think, except what _they_ tell her to think, and can't have any sort of a life beyond what _they_ allow her." She sighed. "I can't live like that anymore." Nancy paused suddenly. "It's strange, but if they had shown me just a little more sympathy, a little more kindness, I might never have realized what an impossible situation I was in. That would have been a shame, actually." "So instead, you work here and _prove_ that they were right about you." "I stay here and prove that my life is what _I_ want it to be, not what other people tell me it should be. I've never - never ever - had the chance to do that before." "Oh, Nancy, Nancy. Do you understand that you can still circle back to what was, but only if you don't go out on the stage this Friday, especially wearing that outfit? Maybe you wouldn't be able to teach again. Hell, maybe you don't even want to. But most people still think of you as a lady. You can go back to the kind of life that you've lived before." "But going out on that stage is going to change you. From then on, anyone who needs an excuse to despise you is going to call you a cancan girl -- and who knows what else?" She sighed. "Haven't you been listening, Carl? That old life is empty, and I don't want it anymore. It only allowed me to be part of the person I am. Only a small part, I think. There's much more to me than that, and I'm finally have a chance to out what I'm capable of." "Then you're saying that you actually _do_ want to do this! Why?" Carl demanded. Nancy threw up her bare arms. "I could have begged a job from my friend, Kirby, and kept my head down and my mouth shut, so no one would bother with me. But that wouldn't have served notice to anyone that I was going to be my own woman from now on, and not care what they think of me." She took a breath before she continued. "Aunt Clemmie and Uncle Nat spent years trying to knock the rough edges off the tomboy they got stuck with after mamma and papa died. 'A proper girl doesn't do this,' she'd say. 'A proper girl doesn't say that.' And Uncle Nat would pray over me like I was the source of all sin in Hartford, if not the whole state of Connecticut." "I know," he admitted. "I got some of the same. He had me all measured up to be a proper young gentleman. That's why I ran off as soon as I could and became a cowboy, the kind I'd been reading about. I bet that really stuck in Aunt Clemmie and Uncle Nat's craws." "If I'd been a boy, I'd have run right after you. But I wasn't. I was afraid to be so bold. I stayed, and I took it, and when I met... Bill, I, well, I decided that, maybe, being a proper lady wasn't such a bad thing, after all." Her expression changed, and she looked down at the floor. Carl nodded. "Bill Meisner was a good man, all right, and I know that he loved you." He reached over and gently touched her arm. "He was. And he knew what I was really like, that I was only a 'pretend' lady. We talked about a life together, a life of travel and adventure, going to live in London or Paris, not settling down so he could run his father's bank." She laughed. "We even imagined exploring Africa together. He... He loved the idea of great adventure; that was why he..." Her voice faded away. Her brother finished the sentence for her. "Why he joined the army and went off to that damned War just as soon as he was old enough." She shook her head once, in grief. "And...died, died in a _useless_ battle down in Georgia, a week _after_ Lee surrendered. We were going to be married as soon as he came home, you know. Now all I have of him are my memories and the present he gave me before he left." She reached over and lifted the lid of a small, pink music box sitting atop her bed table. It played a few notes of the Stephen Foster tune "Jenny's Own Schottish" before she lowered the lid. That song had been the first one that she and Bill Meisner had ever danced to. "I... I just stopped fighting after that. What was the point? I went to the seminary, like Uncle Nat told me to do, and got my teaching certificate. If I wasn't going to have a life - a family and children of my own - he and Aunt Clemmie decided that I might as well teach other women's children. They thought that I'd lost any chance I might have had for something different, and I was so sick with grief that, deep down, I agreed with them. I found that I was good at teaching, and that I enjoyed doing it. It wasn't much of a life, but I didn't really _want_ a life. If I thought about truly living, it made me think about Bill and the life we would have had." "And now you want more of a life?" Despite himself, he felt the urge to smile and - imagine that! - he agreed with what she was saying. Nancy had moved beyond the sadness that that been so much a part of her for so long, and he could see again the courageous young woman she once had been. "Damned right I do!" She spoke the words firmly, almost angrily. "I have a life now, and Cecelia and Zenobia and all the rest of them can go to hell, for all I care. Maybe there's no great virtue in what I'm doing, but it's _my_ choice to do it. They thought that they were slapping me down when they got me suspended, but, instead, they slapped me awake -- awake from the dream everybody had forced me into for all those years." She glanced into the mirror, saw herself sporting clothes that no lady would wear, and chuckled. "In a way, I should almost thank them for that." "Oh, sure, you should." "And I would, if they'd done it for my good. But they didn't. They did it because the only way they can be comfortable in their own miserable, little lives is to make everybody else feel just as miserable and just as little. And I actually did feel like the person they thought I was, but I don't any longer. I feel good, good about myself, for the first time in years. I don't care what they think, anymore, and they know it, and it hurts them. Knowing that I'm still here in Eerie; that I'm doing what _I_ want to do and _enjoying_ it." She smiled grimly. "Knowing _that_ hurts them a lot worse than they _ever_ managed to hurt me." "And if it hurts me?" He stood up. "Some of the men I have to work with are laughing at me 'cause of what you're going about." "I know." Her smile faded. "And I'm sorry, but I-I don't know what else to do. Remember how you hurt people when you ran away?" He sighed, sorry that he had left her alone with their aunt and uncle. For the first time in a long time, she looked so full of hope. Could he take that away from her because of some remarks made by a few idiots? Nancy had been hurt so much by other people's advice, by people forcing _their_ expectations onto her, that she no longer trusted anyone else, maybe not even him. She was shaping her own life now, not knowing whether that would be for good or ill. Either way, what she found there would be there because of _her_ choices. "I guess you 'n' me'll do what we used to do back when we was living with our folks on that apple farm near Bigglersville." He took her hands in his own. "I'll watch your back, and you'll watch mine." She looked up at him. He met her gaze and smiled down at her. "Carl..." They fell into each other's arms, hugging as they had as children. She felt tears running down her cheeks. "I think that's enough," he said, finally breaking the hug. He pulled his kerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. "You dry your eyes now, Nanny Goat. You gotta get back out there and practice that fancy dance of yours. If you're so all-fired sure you want to be a cancan dancer, you just better make sure that you're a good one. I want you to make me proud on Friday, when you're doing it out in front of everybody." "You're going to be there to watch, then?" "I have to be, sos I can beat up on any varmint there that doesn't treat you like a lady!" Nancy sighed. "Okay, but just one time only. After that, I have to be on my own. Everyone has to see that I'm woman enough to stand on my own two feet." "You sure do make things hard for a fella." "So do you. I heard what you said to Molly, about having dinner with Flora. I'm not so sure...." She caught herself, shook her head, and started over. "I guess we don't have to be sure about everything. We just have to have faith in each other." "Amen," said Carl with a grin. * * * * * ` Hold Your Fire ` An Editorial by Roscoe Unger ` Last Thursday, a fire started in the offices of _The_ _Eerie_ ` _Citizen_. That there was little damage to our offices - or to any ` other buildings - was due to the town's pumper wagon and to ` the _many_ citizens of Eerie who worked the pump or manned ` the bucket brigade that kept it supplied with water. ` To all these people, _The_ _Eerie_ _Citizen_ offers a humble ` and_very_ heartfelt THANK YOU. ` The pumper wagon performed just the way the town council ` expected it to work. That's why they bought it. Many of you ` will remember when it arrived. The Happy Days Town Band ` played, Mr. Whitney, the chairman of the town council, made a ` speech. It was quite a party. ` But _before_ the party started, before Mr. Whitney took ` delivery and gave the men who brought it over from Yuma the ` check, we tested the pumper wagon. Sheriff Talbot hooked it ` up to a horse and drove it over to Mr. Whitney's barber shop. ` Those present formed a bucket brigade, and we doused the ` building. THEN we gave those men their check. ` If it hadn't worked, we'd have sent it back unpaid. The town ` took three months to decide to buy the wagon - it wasn't ` something we just jumped into. And we made certain that it ` worked the way it was intended to before we took delivery. ` That's how we do things in Eerie. ` And what's good enough for the pumper wagon is good enough ` for the committee that the town council created to deal with ` Shamus O'Toole's potion. Some people say that the potion is ` as big a threat to our town as a fire would be. ` So we dealt with it the same way. We took our time, talking ` about the problem for quite a while before we came up with a ` solution, the committee to advise Judge Humphreys on its use. ` We have the solution -- _A_ solution, anyway -- to the problem. ` Before we decide that it doesn't work and send it back, let's ` give it a try. ` This problem - if it _is_ a problem - is too important for us to ` act hasty. Isn't it? ` The plans of the diligent lead to profit, as surely as haste leads ` to poverty. (Proverbs 21:5) ` Do you see a man who speaks in haste? There is more hope for ` a fool than for him. (Proverbs 29:20) * * * * * Flora put down her dinner fork. "Why are you looking at me like that?" "Like what?" Carl asked, taking a bite of potato. "What do you mean?" "I don't know; you just had a funny look in your eyes. Like you were... thinking hard, surprised, maybe." "I guess I am. Surprised, I mean, very pleasantly surprised." He chuckled. "I didn't expect to like you after the way you acted when you was Forry." The notion bothered her. "You didn't? Why?" "For one thing, I was - I _am_ a friend of Bridget Kelly's. I sit in on her poker game sometimes, and, well, you know what you did to her." Flora looked down at the table, her voice soft and, maybe, a little ashamed, "I-I know." "And your man, Dell Cooper, tried to get me blamed for that robbery. I coulda gone to prison for that. You knew I didn't rob Mr. Slocum, and you didn't say nothing. And it was _you_ who tried to kill Abner Slocum. I liked him; he was as good a boss as I ever had." She sighed. "I-I admit I let things get out of hand. And look what they did to me for it." "I did look. I was there for your trial, remember? I saw you 'n' Lylah drink that brew of Shamus', and, later on, I heard Mr. Lewis tell all his men that he wouldn't mind one little bit if we gave you 'n' her a hard time." She nodded, remembering the trouble that Slocum's men had piled on her. "And they certainly listened to him on that score," she said grimly. "You gave me a hard time, too, as I recall." "Yes, but not for very long," he said unhappily. "My heart just wasn't in it." "May I ask why not?" "For one thing, I kept thinking how it coulda been me out there. If they'd found me guilty of taking that money, I might've had to take a swig of Shamus' potion myself. I don't think I coulda handled it as well as you seemed to, and, truth t'tell, I kinda admired the way you were able to take what they dealt out." He shrugged. "For another thing, well, you just was too pretty to stay mad at for very long." She blinked. "I-I was?" "Yep, and you still are." He shifted his chair in close to her. His hand snaked behind her head, pulling it even closer. Her neck stiffened and resisted his draw for only an instant. And their lips met. Flora closed her eyes, savoring the luxurious feelings his kiss aroused. 'This... This isn't happening to me,' she told herself. 'It c-can't be happening.' But her body insisted that it most certainly _was_ happening. 'The hell with it,' she thought, as her arms moved up to encircle him. * * * * * "I'm home," Clyde Ritter, Sr. bellowed, slamming the front door behind him. Cecelia Ritter came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're home early tonight, dear." She glanced around. "Is Winthrop with you?" "Things were quiet this afternoon, so I thought I'd let him close up - give him a chance to earn his keep for a change." He took off his coat and hung it on a wooden peg rack. "Is supper ready?" "I-I wasn't expecting you home this early. It'll be ready in... in fifteen minutes or so." "Fine; that will give me time to read the paper. They didn't get it out till mid-afternoon. I suppose Roscoe's being laid up slowed things down." "No doubt." She waited for him to say more on the subject. When he didn't, she added, "I'd best get back to the cooking." She gave his cheek a quick peck and hurried off. "Yes, I'm starved," Ritter said, before he settled down in an overstuffed, oversized Turkish-style Victorian chair and quickly skimmed over the first page. "National and international news... Grant signed the Amnesty Act, I see, gives full rights back to the South." He shrugged. "That's a lot better than that stupid Yellowstone Park. How can the West progress if they start closing off land that can't be developed?" There was little else on the page. "Bizet - what kind of a name is that -- opens a new opera in Paris, and more pictures of that Vesuvius eruption. Who gives a..." His voice trailed off as he opened the paper to read page two. Pages two and three were the local news and advertising. He checked for the small ad for his livery that he bought every week. It was nicely set along the right edge of page 3, 'Easy to notice,' he thought and smiled. The short piece explaining why the paper was late was in a box, top left, on page two. "So Unger got burned in the fire... serves him right for all the trouble he's caused." He gave a satisfied chuckle. "I wonder who he got to put out the paper?" "Let's see if they know who did it." He read the articles about the fire very carefully. "Praise for the deputy and the folks on the pump and the bucket brigade... okay." He'd been one of those, passing the buckets of water to fight the flames. He scowled at the article about how Kirby Pinter had rescued Roscoe. "I wonder if he's the one who printed the paper," Ritter thought. Then he saw something. ` "Mr. Unger describes the culprit he saw as a short, muscular man with ` a round face, short, brown hair, and several days growth of beard. ` Anyone who knows anything about this man should talk to Sheriff ` Talbot at once." "Damn!" he swore under his breath. "Good thing those two bastards are long gone. As long as nobody remembers them - and they weren't very memorable - or, worse, remembers where they were heading, I'm home free. That's almost worth the money they cost me." Then Clyde reflected, "I hope the Sioux scalp them up in the Black Hills." He leaned back and relaxed, reading the paper and enjoying the smells coming in from the kitchen. Then he saw the editorial. "What!" he howled. "Is that all that son of a bitch knows to say?" He crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it across the room. "Of all the G-d damned, misbegotten, bull. I'll... I'll..." He stood quickly, his hands in front of him, fingers apart, curved as if about Roscoe's neck, squeezing and shaking. Clyde's face was beet red, eyes popping, and lips pulled back to show his teeth. "I'll make Unger wish he'd _died_ in that fire." Cecelia hurried with the meal. She suddenly heard her husband's angry shouting. As she drained the fried chicken pieces on a towel, her eyes glanced upward. Her younger children were in their rooms on the second floor, doors shut. They knew their father, and they'd wait until their mother thought he was calmed down enough to call them to dinner. * * * * * Rupe Warrick leaned back in his office chair and looked at the three other men seated around his desk. "Okay, we're all here. Who wants to start?" "I will," Jubal Cates said. "What're we going to do about Reverend Yingling?" He shook his head. "That sermon of his..." His voice trailed off. "I never heard the man get so worked up over such a little thing as that committee of his." Judge Humphreys nodded in agreement. "Don't I know it? I thought we were over and done with the potion committee." "_You're_ not done with it," Liam answered. "You're the one they work for." The Judge shrugged. "Work _with_ would be a better idea of what I had in mind, but it surely doesn't seem to be what _he_ had in mind." "What _does_ he have in mind?" Rupe asked. "I can't figure that out." "Da --" Jubal didn't like to curse when he talked about church business. "_Danged_ if I know." Humphreys gave them all an odd look. "Maybe I should ask him." "What do you mean?" Rupe looked puzzled. They all did. The Judge smiled. "How does this sound." The Judge shifted his body and his voice into what he thought of his "formal" mode. "Since the good Reverend Yingling has some... some serious _concerns_ regarding the committee, and since _I'm_ the one that the committee is supposed to - no, is _charged_ to work for, I'd like a chance - an opportunity - to meet with him prior to his asking the church board to take any action." "The committee hasn't met yet, and it may be that we can find a way to meet - to _address_ those concerns of his under the present structure. This would avoid the Reverend having to go back to the Town Council and explain to them where he feels they erred in the creation of the committee. Instead, he could begin doing the work that he and I both agree is the potion committee's proper duty." He looked at the others. "Well?" "Sounded like a speech to me." Liam replied with a chuckle. Humphreys grinned. "It was, and one of my better impromptu ones, I think. After all, it won't improve things if he gets another chance to do some more public grandstanding. And if Thad Yingling doesn't take the hint, I'm going to move that the board table any further discussion of the potion committee until _after_ the two of us get together." "And I'll second it," Liam said quickly. He looked at Cates. "Can I count on you to go along, Jubal? You and I don't always agree on board issues, and we'll need four votes to slow down the Reverend."" The surveyor looked thoughtful. "It does seem fair to give the committee a chance, so, yes, Liam... You Honor, in this matter, you _can_ count on my vote." * * * *