Lying on his back, Scott stared up at the undercarriage of the wagon old man McCutcheon was...
How did Jelly put it?
Any trace of Scott’s Boston accent vanished with his rendition of Lancer’s nasally know-it-all.
“Prac-tik-lee givin’ it away, boss.”
Practically meant Murdoch was twenty dollars poorer, which allowed Nigel McCutcheon the popular luxury of buying rounds for his cronies at Henry’s saloon. Scott yanked on the buckboard’s jammed adjustable reach that insisted on not living up to its name. He had to admit he’d seen a wagon or two in worse condition.
Of course, these wagons had taken direct hits from Confederate artillery...
Minor detail.
Gravel dug into Scott’s shoulder blades as he shifted for a better view of the front wheels and axles where dirt and sand had accumulated. “Looks like Nigel’s grease bucket floated down river during the Great Flood of ‘62.” A biting sweat bee endorsed Scott’s muttering assessment.
Announcing well-timed assistance, jangling spurs ushered in a pair of black boots. “Johnny. Good!” With an open palm, Scott extended his arm out toward his brother’s feet. “Pass down the hammer. I need to knock loose a pound of muck from these wheels.”
“You remember a few weeks ago when Half-pint talked about those romance advice columns bein’ so popular in newspapers?” Johnny’s faceless inflection filtering down suggested that of a storyteller about to spin a tale.
“No. I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. We were headin’ out to Sister Rosa’s.”
Evidently, the story’s continuation hinged on having a listener with an excellent memory. “All right. Yes. I remember.” Scrutinizing other areas of the undercarriage, Scott snapped his fingers once to corral his little brother’s attention. “The hammer’s in the tool bag. Pass it down.”
Johnny’s conte continued. “You remember a few days ago when we were in town and Half-pint disappeared for quite a spell?”
Distracted agreeing beat out focused debating. “Yes, I remember.” Scott rolled his eyes at a cracked hound brace. Damn. When was Murdoch going to realize Jelly’s definition of a good deal was not a good deal? “The hammer, Johnny. I need the hammer.”
“We thought she’d gone to the dress shop. You remember that?” The plot thickened while black boots remained stationary.
Scott’s cheeks puffed and then gradually deflated with a slow exhale. “Yes. I also remember a time when I spoke a language my brother understood.”
Johnny hunkered down low enough to provide an unobstructed view of an open Green River Gazette held in his hands. “Well, it wasn’t the dress shop she visited.”
Remaining on his back, Scott turned his head and squinted at the paper. Familiar eyes in a photograph returned his gaze. “No.” Denial continued as he rolled out from under the wagon. “No. No. No.”
Rising, Scott snatched up the paper and read aloud the bold-lettered, eye-catching, hard-to-ignore words below the photograph of a masquerade-masked young lady. “A gazette exclusive. Advice for the lonely heart. Romance problems? Ask Miss Providence. Her vast knowledge will guide any man or woman through the Labyrinth of Love.”
While a necessary pause aided his brain in digesting the information offered by Will Jenkins’ publication, Scott’s eyes returned to the photograph. Kinsey. To a well-seasoned, practiced man with plenty of experience, the mask failed in disguising her mischievous eyes. His cousin’s smile resembled Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa as she held a large heart-shaped candy box. No doubt a box borrowed from Will’s inventory of impromptu gifts for lovely ladies.
It was a toss-up on who Scott should strangle first - his crafty cousin or Green River’s egotistical editor. A decision was made. “Where is she?”
Still resting on his haunches, Johnny peered up at the inquiry. “Well…” A moment of silence hinted the saga’s conclusion drew near. “She’s guidin’ Murdoch and Teresa down the road to Stockton. They won’t be back until tomorrow and judgin’ by the look on your face, brother, I believe Miss Providence would call her absence a Labyrinth of Luck.” The storyteller’s tilted grin signaled -
The End.
Scott, with a reluctant smile and a cocked eyebrow, nodded. “Labyrinth of Luck, indeed.” Plans changed as hands rolled the Gazette and pointed west to the road. “Let’s say we pay Will Jenkins a visit. A discussion regarding the future of his paper’s new romance advisor is in order. And then we find Nigel McCutcheon and blow the foam off a free beer or two.” Scott glanced at the wagon and recalculated. “Make those several free beers.”
*********
Over the years, The Green River Gazette had provided its readers relevant local stories, political news, amusing anecdotes and stock prices with admirable accuracy. However, it became obvious its aging editor, Mr. Adams, could no longer clearly distinguish the letters in his typeset when unique wording crept into the paper’s articles such as:
Manure woman seeks work as horsekeeper.
Anus beef prices rose as poultry dripped.
And one of Scott’s favorites:
Doctors suggest you crap yourself in a blanket, stroke a fire and swat out the fever.
While the townspeople were throwing their geriatric journalist one hell of a retirement celebration, William Jenkins stepped off the Green River stagecoach to join his father, Dr. Samuel Jenkins.
The good doctor decided his son needed a change of scenery when Will’s job as a reporter for the St. Louis Daily Call became less than optimal. Breaking the heart of the publisher’s daughter can do that to a man’s career.
It didn’t take long for the young Jenkins to step into the role as new editor for the Gazette. Correctly spelled words coupled with Will’s charismatic personality fueled the newspaper’s popularity which, in turn, led to the man’s fruitful bid as mayor of Green River.
The Lancer boys never saw eye to eye with the young editor and recently elected town official. However, Sam Jenkins was a respected friend, so Murdoch’s sons got along with Will by simply not crossing his path. The Fine Art of Avoidance worked well until the fired reporter from St. Louis set his unsuccessful sights on Kinsey. The Divine Talent of Tolerance had now become the new strategy when dealing with William Jenkins.
********
Scott set foot on the first step leading to the Green River Gazette as its office door swung open to reveal Val Crawford. Running head-on with the newspaper’s latest visitors painted a sheepish expression on the sheriff’s face.
“Why Vaaaal.” Johnny’s drawl drew out the man’s name longer than necessary. “You look like you just got your hand caught in the penny candy jar.”
Crawford’s embarrassment dissolved into a frown. “That remark has a distinct smell of disrespect, John. You best get downwind before I sniff the air again.”
“Your nose detects Johnny’s cologne, sheriff.” Scott enjoyed Val Crawford. His sense of humor had derailed harsh words between the brothers more than once in the past. “Although I do support your downwind suggestion.”
“Uh-huh.” Val fished the customary matchstick from his shirt pocket and balanced it in the corner of his mouth - defying the law of gravity. “What brings you boys to the steps of the newspaper office?”
“Thinkin’ about placing an ad in the Gazette.” Johnny crossed his arms and shifted his stance. “Tell him, brother.”
“Right.” A clearing throat provided time for an unprepared response. “Well… Murdoch has a wagon he’d like to sell. Thought we’d set the price at… twenty dollars.”
“Uh-huh.” The matchstick wobbled across the sheriff’s lips. “Sounds like a good deal.”
Scott adjusted his hat with a grin. “So we’ve been told.”
“Uh-huh.” Val’s eyes narrowed to detect any misleading comments before directing attention across the street. “Come on over to Henry’s when you’ve finished up with Jenkins. I hear Nigel McCutcheon’s buyin’ beers.”
A printing press that needed to retire with the last editor dominated the newspaper office. Scott raised an eyebrow at the conglomeration of ink rollers, trays of metal type and bundled newsprint that surrounded an unkept wooden desk - a desk currently scattered with flyers, town council documents and Will Jenkins’ propped up boots.
“Well, now, if it isn’t the Lancer brothers.” Jenkins’ casual seating posture remained unmoved as he greeted his guests. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but I’d be reporting inaccurate information.”
“Don’t change your business practice on account of us, Will.” Embracing the established informal protocol, Scott swept papers off the seat of a nearby chair positioned between the desk and printing press. Sitting down, his ankle crossed a knee to settle in for a conversation. “We were hoping you could spare us a few minutes of your time.”
“I’m a busy man -“ Jenkins’ feet hit the floor as his eyes darted over Scott’s left shoulder. “Ah, Johnny, that printing press is a highly sophisticated piece of machinery. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t touch it.”
“Whatever you say, Will.”
It wasn’t necessary for Scott to turn around. He could easily picture his little brother holding up his hands in surrender while donning a sly grin. “The sooner we talk, the sooner we leave.”
“Yes. That sounds good.” The editor slouched slightly to the side for a better view of his press.
To stay in the line of sight, Scott mirrored the editor’s movement while retrieving the newspaper from his jacket’s inside pocket. “I’ve got a few questions regarding a new feature in the Gazette.” Unrolling the paper, the photograph of Miss Providence landed in the middle of the desk.
Righting himself, Jenkins picked up the Gazette. “Mighty fine picture of the young lady, if you ask me. Holdin’ the heart box was my idea.” A bundle of newsprint hitting the floor stifled a smirk about to surface. “Ah, John, you mind steppin’ away from the counter -“
“My apologies, Will.”
Scott leaned forward to establish eye contact with the editor. “So this advice column was your idea.”
“Hell, no.” Jenkins leaned back in his seat and laced his fingers across his mid-section. “Your little cousin came waltzing in here last week with that look she gets on her face when she’s about to pull out her soapbox. I thought I’d have to sit through one of her women’s rights rants but instead she pitched this idea of an advice column for lonely hearts. You can imagine my surprise on that one.”
Actually, Scott could imagine Will’s surprise considering Kinsey’s views on suffrage and her distaste for Jenkins.
“She said all the major newspapers were featuring advice columns. Of course, I already knew that since I have my finger on the pulse of the world. I wasn’t in agreement at first, but she - Dammit, Johnny.” Will’s eyes drilled past Scott's right shoulder. “That typeset’s ready for the press. Step away.”
“Sorry, Will. Curiosity gets the best of me at times.”
Scott removed his hat and fiddled with its crease. “But she - what?”
“Huh?” Jenkins’ eyes remained locked on his curious visitor.
Palming the crown of his hat, Scott waved it in front of the distracted editor. “But she what?”
“Right. Kinsey.” Will’s finger returned to the pulse of his story. “But she gave good reasoning on how this venture would be beneficial to the community. Besides, she seemed a bit skittish - kept glancing out the window. Acted like maybe Miss Providence didn’t have your blessing.” Jenkins spread his arms out in front him to highlight his slick, oily smile. “That was all the inspiration I needed to say yes.”
Scott slowly nodded while displaying his own satisfied grin. “I commend you, sir. You finally got a fact straight. Kinsey didn’t have my blessing.” The held hat served to point out the Gazette on Will’s desk. “Which is why you’ll be pulling Advice for the Lonely Heart.”
“And deny my readers sound guidance to maneuver through the Labyrinth of Love? Sorry, Lancer. Can’t do it.” Jenkins reached into a desk drawer and plopped a twine-tied stack of envelopes in front of Scott. “Words out and Miss Providence is already one popular lady. Being an honest gentleman, I trust you’ll safely deliver these to your cousin. Look, I’m a businessman and your cousin is going to double my newspaper circulation. So, no hard feelings. Why don’t I meet you over at Henry’s once I close up. I hear Nigel McCutcheon is buying.”
********
“These can’t all be for the kid.” Johnny examined the bundle of envelopes as they stood outside the newspaper office.
“They are.” Placing his hands on hips, Scott gazed across the street hoping Nigel had a few coins left of Murdoch’s twenty dollars. “Take a good look at the handwriting on the top envelope.”
Johnny scrutinized the chicken scratch spelling out Miss Providence. “Val?” A hoot echoed down the street. “Val’s askin’ for romance advice?” Another hoot followed the first.
“Explains why he paled a bit when he spotted us earlier.” Scott’s brow gathered at his brother’s ink-stained fingertips. “Want to tell me why your fingers are turning black?”
“Well, let’s just say…” Johnny glanced back at Will Jenkins’ place of business. “I was kinda missin’ how old man Adams used to report the news.”