“Yarra?” Staring down at the hungover poker player, Scott’s clenched fisthold on the jail cell bar chalked his knuckles. “Are you certain that’s what the man called himself?”
“Yeah.” Billy slumped to his previous status of repose, forcing a few blades of hay into a floating exit from the cot’s ripped-seam mattress. “Yarra.”
“Sweet Jesus, he’s not dead?” Val’s matchstick wobbled from his lips at the unlikely possibility.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” Panicked concern replaced Gus’ customary flippant swagger. “I may have thrown a sucker punch or two but it wasn’t no murder, Dammit, that sonofabitch stumbled outta Henry’s alive.”
“Shut up, Chenoweth.” The sheriff reclaimed his signature splinter from the floor. “You're my guest for being one annoyin’ jackass -” The matchstick settled back into its lip-cornered residence. “- sufferin’ from a nasty case of stupidity. No one here’s measurin’ rope for your scrawny turkey neck.” Crawford’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Scott turning to leave. “And where d’ya think you’re goin’?”
“Sam’s office.” His inflection carried more hate than Scott intended to reveal.
“Not on your own, you’re not.”
“Val, I simply want to talk to the man.”
“Uh-huh. As do I. Talk. But that’s not what your face is sayin’ so until your ears decide to listen your feet ain’t movin’. Understood?”
With his hands on hips, Scott slowly exhaled and studied the ceiling. Arguing with Val never provided positive results.
“Fine. I’ll take that as a yes. Now, first things first, whatta ‘bout him?” Crawford’s thumb jabbed toward Lancer’s hired hand. “Truth be told, his whinin’s makin’ me disagreeable.”
Scott nodded approval and moved aside for the sheriff to unlock the cell door. As Gus stepped out, his boss’ oldest son blocked the path to freedom. “When you get back to the ranch, steer clear of Murdoch and Johnny… Cipriano… Jelly too. Make yourself scarce. If memory serves me, you’re good at that.” A more challenging directive followed. “And Chenoweth, keep your mouth shut.”
“Sure, Scott. Sure.” Gus grinned like they were old friends. “Whatever you say. Happy to help.” Before anyone could change their minds on releasing him back into society, the man quickly left.
Val’s clanking and locking of the jail cell door did little to interrupt Billy’s resumed snoring. “This sack of coyote dung can stay put.” Evaluation of ear listenin’ took place. “All right, let’s you and me pay Doc Jenkins a visit for two reasons and two reasons only. I am the sheriff checkin’ on a patient from a bar fight and you are the employer of the man who made the fella a patient. We are not bustin’ in there demandin’ answers.” The matchstick returned to Crawford’s vest pocket. “Think you’d recognize this Yarra?”
“Maybe.” Scott rubbed the back of his neck as the Government Luncheon came to mind. “I have a grainy photograph of him from a Melbourne newspaper. Of course, knowing Sam and his generous use of bandages…”
“Hell, Yarra probably looks like one of those E-gypt-shun mummies.”
Scott raised an eyebrow at Val’s comment.
“What? I read.” Crawford’s mumbling added a personal perspective. “Don’t need to go to some fancy school to know what a goddamn mummy looks like.”
“Sir…” A slight smile briefly tamped down Scott’s returning frustration. “I stand corrected.”
*******
Samuel Jenkins hung his shingle outside the living quarters above Henry’s saloon. Scott couldn’t decide if it was dumb luck or a savvy business decision when choosing the practice’s location as it had proven on numerous occasions to be extremely convenient for misguided bar customers and quite profitable for the good doctor, especially on a Saturday night.
Upon entering Sam’s outer office the acidic smells of medicinal ointments were counterbalanced by the comforting aroma of -
“Is that an apple pie sittin’ there?”
Scott rolled his eyes at Crawford’s abrupt query. So much for not demanding answers.
“Why yes it is, sheriff.” Jenkins sat at his desk. In front of him, a wedge of the fruity baked good rested on a delicate china plate with a polished silver fork completing the serving. “It’s Bedelia Patterson’s delicious way of saying thank you. Her nephew’s visiting and the lad promptly stumbled into a brier patch. The flustered woman was out of salve so I gladly offered my services.”
The vision of a small mummy haunting the streets of Green River popped into Scott’s head. Watching Val swipe a hand across the mouth indicated his brain had also conjured up the image.
“Care for a taste, sheriff?”
“No. We’re not here to socialize.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Val.” Scott’s desire to seek modest revenge for Crawford’s dressing down back at the jail took hold. “I believe it’s a good rule of thumb to have yourself a little relaxing pleasure before taking on serious business.” Minimal effort was poured on the repeated statement to dilute the intended sarcasm.
“Wise words, young man.” Sam moved to offer his guests a sampling of pie.
“However, I’ll have to agree with the sheriff and decline.” Attention traveled to a closed door separating them from T.H. Yarra, a gent already dead but didn’t know it. Scott looked forward to educating the bastard. “I understand you treated a man who one of our hires beat up rather badly. I’d like to see him and offer my condolences.”
“My intentions don’t lean as considerate as Scott’s.” Val’s side glance indicated the definition of condolences was being questioned. “Considerin’ the circumstances that brought him here I’d also like to speak with the fella.”
“Well, that makes three of us.” Sam held out his hands as if presenting an apology. “He’s gone. Left in the middle of the night is my best guess. Once I’d finished with the gentleman, I administered a generous dose of laudanum, not only for the pain but what should have induced the inability to wander off until morning.” Jenkins’ brow arched. “I’d say the man’s resistance to my prescription might be a result of his frequent use of the substance.”
Sam’s suggestion of his patient being a patron of opium dens added yet another consideration to Thomas Yarra, a consideration that furrowed Scott’s forehead with deeper creases. Rationality, although not a priority, might be a struggle when dealing with the man. “Did he mention his name?”
“Son, with a split lip, broken nose and bruised jaw, the fella wasn’t talking.” Sam picked up his fork. “I’d planned to get more information from him when he woke up this morning.”
“Doc!” The abrupt interruption came from a silhouette framed in the office doorway. “Peggy said the baby’s coming!” The disheveled young man ran fingers through his hair. “Lord, Almighty!”
“Calm down, Hank.” Sam Jenkins slowly stood. “Get on back to Peg. I’ll be along shortly.” Watching the man leave, the doctor smiled, selected a small bottle from his medicine cabinet and placed it in his black leather bag with a wink. “I always pack extra smelling salts for the first-time fathers. And, according to my calculation based upon years of experience with bringing new lives into this world…” A pocket watch appeared. “I’d say Hank should be downstairs buying everyone celebratory beers around 4 this afternoon. See you gentlemen then.”
While Sam’s footsteps faded down the outside wooden steps leading to the street below, Scott's fleeting patience stated the obvious. “No more second-guessing, Val. I want solid answers to our questions.”
“Agreed.” Crawford plucked an apple slice from Jenkins’ plate and popped it in his mouth. A satisfied smile spread across the sheriff’s lips. “Heh. Just as I thought. Needs more cinnamon.”
Crossing his arms, Scott dipped his chin, closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“All right.” Val licked his lips. “Let's say you get Chenoweth to eyeball that picture from the Melbourne paper. Meanwhile, I’ll pay our friend Godfrey a visit. See how his telegram writin’ is comin’ along.” Another apple slice made its way to the sheriff’s taste buds. “Think in a couple of days you can get back to town without causing too much wonderin’ from your pappy or brother? I want those solid answers to our own questions before their curiosity asks us more.” Crawford wiped the sticky evidence of pilfering down the front of his vest.
“I agree. There’s already enough fingers in this pie… figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Uh-huh. Sounds like your mouth is headin’ down that bumpy path again. Instead, why doesn’t it tell me who the hell is Manny the Mark while we head back to my humble abode.”
********
Scott undid the clasp of the leather case and haphazardly dumped its contents on his bed. Splayed fingers sifted through clippings and cards from his earlier travels on The Enchantress. The search for the paper likeness of Yarra quickly ended due to the condition Scott had left it in: a scrunched up ball of anger. Smoothing out the photograph showed Kinsey’s rapist still stood sneering down at the two cousins.
“I thought I heard you ride in.”
A brief glimpse over his shoulder confirmed it was Teresa standing in the doorway. “Just a few minutes ago.” Scott slipped the newspaper clipping in his shirt pocket and casually scooped up the scattered mementos, returning them to the leather case. “Rather quiet around here. Where is everyone?”
“Murdoch, Cipriano and a few of the men are inspecting where to move the herd from the north pasture.”
Clicking the bag’s clasp shut, Scott nodded. Good. A lucky break for Chenoweth to lie low. “Johnny with them?”
“Not exactly.”
Teresa’s delivery of the wavering statement pulled Scott around to face her. “Where exactly would Johnny be?”
“I’d think they’d be in Stockton by now.”
“They?” In his pocket, the paper photograph of Thomas Herbert Yarra demanded Scott to ask a question he already knew the answer to. “Where’s Kinsey?”