Resigned to the fact that the gambler was not going to leave unless shooed away, Seamus reluctantly stopped reading about the buxom young woman and sat back. “All right. Since you persist in being a pest, I will listen to what you have to say. Then you will leave and never grace our doorstep again for as long as you live.”
“You are joshing me, right?”
“Of course,” Seamus said. “Now out with it. The Arabs have just got their hands on Pearl Trueblood and I am anxious to learn her fate.”
“Arabs?” Aces said. “Here in Dodge?”
Seamus tapped the
“Do you know Club Caine?”
“He owns a freight line.”
“And Paunch Stevens?”
“He owns half of Front Street. Two of our city’s more prominent citizens, I would say.”
“They won’t be prominent much longer. They left this morning for Coffin Varnish to kill each other.”
Seamus stiffened in alarm. This was serious business. Caine was a close personal friend of people high in state government, and Stevens had strong political ties to a senator. “Please tell me it is you who is joshing me?”
“I would like to but I can’t.”
“What put them at odds?”
“I believe her name is Harriet Fly. I have not met the lady myself, but I understand she boasts the biggest melons this side of the Mississippi.”
“Caine and Stevens left earlier, you say?” Seamus asked, rising.
“I don’t know exactly when. To be honest, I didn’t expect them to go through with it. But Joe Gentile told me he saw Caine ride out a couple of hours ago, heading north.”
“A couple of hours?” Seamus consulted the clock on the wall. “Damn. They are probably there by now.”
“Most likely,” Aces agreed. “About all you can do is pick up the pieces.”
Seamus gave the artistic rendering of Pearl Trueblood a last longing gaze, then made for the door. “At least I will have tried.”
Ernestine Prescott found it hard to concentrate on the American Revolution when all she could think of was Jeeter Frost. She could still feel his lips on hers even though he had slipped away from the schoolhouse well before dawn so as to avoid being spotted by early risers.
Ernestine nearly giggled. Her behavior had become downright wicked. If the parents of her charges learned what she was doing, they would dismiss her without hesitation. A schoolmarm was expected to be the living embodiment of moral and ethical virtue. Much to her surprise, and great delight, she had discovered she was, after all, as human as the next woman.
Ernestine had never met a man like Jeeter. He wasn’t cultured or educated. He wasn’t rich. But there was something about him, some quality she could not define, that made him irresistible. When she was around him, all she wanted to do was touch him. Her, of all people. She had never been with a man in her life, and only ever kissed one once, and here she was, behaving like a hussy and jeopardizing her teaching career.
Suddenly Ernestine became aware that her charges were staring at her. “Who can tell me why the minutemen were called that?” She scanned the rows and pointed at her brightest student. “How about you, Sarah?”
Instead of answering, Sarah raised her hand and pointed at the window. That was when it dawned on Ernestine that her class was not staring at her; they were staring at something behind her. She turned, half fearing Jeeter had broken his promise to stay away during school hours, and felt her stomach tighten at the sight of a middle-aged couple, the parents of Billy Doughty, the class troublemaker. She smiled at them but they did not return the smile. Puzzled, she motioned for them to come around to the front of the schoolhouse.
“Why are your parents here, Billy?” Ernestine asked as she went past his desk. She had talked to them a month ago when Billy saw fit to bring a garter snake into class to try and scare the girls.
“I don’t know, Miss Prescott,” the boy dutifully answered, but something in his eyes alerted her that he did in fact know but was not saying.
Her mouth went dry. “Continue reading your history book, everyone,” Ernestine directed as she opened the door and stepped out into the bright sunlight.
The Doughtys were coming around the corner. Mrs. Doughty, always a severe woman, looked more severe than usual. She had her thin hands clasped in front of her and wore a drab gray dress and gray bonnet. “Miss Prescott, we need to have a word with you.”
“Certainly,” Ernestine said. “But your boy has been behaving himself of late.”
“It is not William we are here to discuss,” Mrs. Doughty said. “It is you.”
Panic welled up in Ernestine, but she smiled and said calmly, “Me? In what regard, Mrs. Doughty?”
“You know very well.”
Mr. Doughty shot his wife a look of disapproval, but only Ernestine noticed. “I am sure I have no idea.”
“Very well. I will speak plainly.” Mrs. Doughty paused. “A man was seen leaving your schoolhouse at an hour most folks consider ungodly.”
Ernestine grew so light-headed she thought she would swoon, but she did not let on. “Who saw this man leave?”
