“The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley”
~ Scottish poet Robert Burns, 1785
Knowing the two fugitives as well as he did, Scott’s confidence ran high with the estimated timing of their journeys. Kinsey’s unbridled enthusiasm with a fine helping of impatience would insist the travelers leave Stockton for the vineyards as the sun touched the sky a soft salmon. Upon arrival, Johnny’s hesitant socializing with a fine heaping of awkwardness would insist he leave Westcott’s for the ranch before the sun dazzled the sky a brilliant blue.
His younger brother’s return home driving a buckboard worked in Scott’s favor. Not having the advantage of riding Barranca across open land, the wagon would slow Johnny down and force him to stick to the main roads. So in no real hurry, Scott downed a second mug of early morning coffee and polished off a few chores before saddling up Boots, calculating the necessary brotherly discussion would commence somewhere between Green River and Stockton.
Another luxury offered to Scott by having Johnny’s backside planted on a wagon seat and not in a saddle: a few minutes to speak with Green River’s sheriff regarding the earlier Gus Chenoweth conversation in the Lancer bunkhouse.
*******
“The sheriff ain’t in, Mr. Lancer.”
Ben Hillard’s revelation from behind turned Scott’s head instead of the office doorknob his hand rested on. “Not in.” Arms crossed while he sought additional information from the young fountainhead of town knowledge. “Well, Benjamin, do you have a suggestion where I could find Sheriff Crawford?”
“Oh, gee.” The boy rubbed his chin in thought. “I’d have to say Widow Patterson’s would be a good place to start.”
An eyebrow raised. “A little early in the day for a gentleman to be calling on a lovely lady, don’t you think?”
A cocked brow countered. “Guess that depends on what time of what day the calling got started…if ya catch my drift.” A silly grin splashed on the lad’s face, indicating Ben had been included in his older brothers’ snickering scrutiny spotlighting Val’s romantic rendezvouses with Bedelia Patterson.
“Right.” Dodging the possibility of sporting his own goofy grin, Scott drifted to another subject matter. “Mr. Mannheim still hasn’t sent or received any telegrams?”
“No sir. None I’ve seen.”
“And his evening buggy rides have continued?”
“Yep. Although, it must have taken him longer to get back to town last night ‘cause I didn’t see him return. A Saturday night bath cut short my surveillancing opportunities.”
Surveillancing opportunities? Obviously here stood Val’s protégé. “It is a fact. Saturday night baths have a tendency to disrupt a man’s agenda.” Placing hands on hips, Scott squinted down the street that led north out of town.
“Trust your gut.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Lancer, you’re wearing what my ma calls the look of indecision. Ma says whenever I can’t decide on what to do and there ain’t an adult around to ask…I mean, not that you need to ask an adult, you being one and all.”
“Not always the case, Ben.”
“Then trust your gut. That’s what Ma says.”
A validating nod was given. “Your mother’s a smart lady.”
“Yeah, Ma does okay. She says living in a house full of men makes her wiser than King Solomon.”
Grinning, Scott reached into his pocket and fished out a few Liberty coppers. “Why don’t you treat this wise woman to a sarsaparilla at Henry’s. I believe sound advice deserves recognition.”
“There’s no denying, buying Ma a sarsaparilla would get me out of the doghouse for breaking one of her blue china plates. Thanks, Mr. Lancer!”
“Anything to help. I’ve had first-hand experience with being in the doghouse on many occasions. Not the most pleasant accommodations.” Scott freed Boot’s looping reins from the hitching rail. “If you see Sheriff Crawford, say I was asking for him.”
“Will do. Oh hey! Wait up!” Ben ran across the street to the telegraph office, returning shortly with an envelope. “This came for you. Postmarked O-ma-ha. Thought it might be important.”
A smile greeted the correspondence now in possession of its recipient. “Indeed it is.” As Ben wandered off in search of his mother and a cold sarsaparilla, Scott retied horse reins to the rail and sat down on a bench outside Val’s office. A pocketknife did the honor of opening the awaited response.
Omaha, Nebraska
Dear Mr. Lancer,
A truly pleasant surprise to receive your letter. Yes, I do remember playing my violin for a lovely couple, newlyweds, who were stranded in Omaha several months ago. Pachebel’s Canon in D never had a better audience than the young lady on your arm.
I must admit I’m still chuckling after reading the dilemma, the confusion and finally a confession of the ruse you and your cousin pulled off to secure the last room at the Grand Central. Bravo, sir!
To give you an answer to your query, it would be an honor to perform at Miss Furlong’s matrimonial ceremony. I do believe this is the first time I’ve filled the role as a surprise wedding gift. By far a compliment of the highest standard.
May I add your gracious insistence on covering the traveling expenses, although thoughtful, is not necessary. Booking passage on the Transcontinental can be done here in Omaha. I only ask for your guidance in acquiring the necessary boarding in Stockton.
Now, I too must offer my own confession. I mentioned your letter to a few of the gentlemen who also performed at the Firemen’s Ball which you and your cousin attended. They have fond memories of the little lady’s admiration of our “extraordinary talents” (her descriptive, not ours, I assure you). In a nutshell, a few of the boys have offered to accompany me and provide additional musical selections at Miss Furlong’s wedding. So, Mr. Lancer, if you wish to have a full ensemble for your guests to kick up their heels, the proposal stands with great pleasure.
I look forward to receiving your final decision.
Respectfully yours,
Mr. Monroe Wilder
It took some time but, by God, he’d finally tracked down the gifted violinist who had enchanted Kinsey while they’d been stuck in Nebraska. With a satisfied smile, Scott folded the letter and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Now Omaha’s orchestraband would cause toes to tap at the Westcott wedding – worth every penny in travel expenses which, ignoring the gentleman’s opinion of unnecessary, Scott would gladly still provide. Finally, a solid answer to a question and more. A good omen, indeed.
As he mounted Boots to head north from Green River, Scott’s lightened mood allowed a reevaluation of his brother’s decision. Perhaps Johnny hadn’t been completely driven by his desired status of the knight in shining armor. However, Scott was quite certain it had tipped the scales on making the final call on this good idea. Truth be told to his credit, Johnny knew nothing regarding the possibility of Yarra rising from the dead, a factor that may have persuaded all to stay put.
Trotting past the Hillard homestead on the edge of town, Scott adjusted his hat low to shade the climbing sun and made his own decision. Their brotherly discussion’s opening line of Johnny, you stupid, self-centered, attention-seeking, audacious sonuvabitch had been tailored down to simply Dumbass.
For no particular reason, Scott slowed Boots to a halt, shifted in the saddle and squinted back at the Hillard home.
Mr. Mannheim still takin’ his evening buggy rides?
Yes sir, sheriff. Comes back to town in about an hour, sometimes two.
Scott’s focus returned to the road ahead of him. If Ben was correct, Mannheim would journey approximately 30 to 45 minutes only to turn around and backtrack. Why? Old Godfrey didn’t come across as a gent who made a point each day to relax and appreciate the beauty of his surroundings with a leisurely ride. Scott’s ever-present pocket watch appeared to note the time as he nudged Boots forward at a pace matching that of a buggy’s and started his travel countdown.
Nearing a half hour of riding, Scott slowed, occasionally pausing, to eyeball any signs of interest which would inspire Godfrey Mannheim to return each evening.
Nothing. Until…
A lane turned off the road and snaked through a wooded area, eventually disappearing in undergrowth and low-hanging branches. Scott had heard the tale of the old hermit who lived in a shack at the end of the trail from the lips of Ben Hillard. As with most ghost stories, this one possessed all the necessary elements to keep the teller’s audience in a state of nervous apprehension which included a crazed old man’s slashing machete seeking young children’s flesh to cook over a fire pit. In truth, the hermit Mr. Kapinski had never married, kept to himself and, being the last of the local Kapinski clan, had quietly passed away several years ago with little fanfare. His legacy: a deteriorating cabin fueling sleepless nights for lads and lasses.
Scott had passed the lane many times without giving it a second thought and would have done so today if it hadn’t been for a few small broken branches and trampled weeds: telltale signs the path was again being used. Curiosity ruled. With a tug on the reins, horse and rider entered the woods.
Further in, signs of others traveling on what
had once been a forgotten trail became more frequent with snapped twigs, flattened grasses and now visible wagon wheel tracks finding the deserted dirt path. Scott guided Boots as quietly as possible until the faint smell of wood smoke mingled with the scents of pine and cedar. Curiosity morphed into caution which demanded further exploration would continue on foot. Dismounting, Scott picked his way amongst the trees while keeping the path within view as a reference point in moving forward.
At the end of the lane, the deserted domicile of Mr. Kapinski sat showing neglect had taken its toll with a sagging display of window frames, broken glass and missing clapboard. The woods sought to claim the structure by snaking vines around porch posts as wisps of ghostlike chimney smoke hovered above fingers of moss and rotting leaves devouring roof shingles. No wonder it inspired nightmarish tales for the young residents of Green River.
However, it wasn’t the sight of the cabin that gave pause. Nor did spying Mannheim’s buggy bring about much surprise. What lassoed Scott’s attention and then tightened its rope around his chest was the presence of a buckboard and two familiar horses.
A tossed pebble tapped his shoulder, spurring Scott into a quick turn, gun drawn. A few trees away stood Val, playing his own version of hide ‘n’ seek in the woods. The sheriff’s signal of an index finger to lips slumped Scott against a tree trunk in an eye roll release of elevated tension. Holstering his gun, he took another quick glance at the cabin before joining Crawford.
“What are you doing here?” The simultaneously whispered question posed by the men gave the impression of two hunkered-down hissing alley cats.
Crawford tapped his six-star symbol of authority. “I believe I’m doin’ my job.” A hard poke was delivered to Scott’s vest where a badge would reside. “Can’t be sayin’ the same for you tho.”
“Val, Johnny and my cousin are in the cabin.”
“And how in the hell do you know?”
“He decided to take Kinsey to Westcott’s.” Scott’s thumb jabbed over his shoulder toward the shack. “They left yesterday driving that buckboard.”
“Awwwww, sweet Jesus.” Crawford swiped his hat off and ran fingers through his hair. “Why can’t young’uns just listen and do as they’re told?”
“Agreed.”
Val’s hat returned to its proper place. “Ever cross your mind I might be includin’ you in my frustration?”
“Well, if you’re not, you will be shortly.” Scott rose from a squat, unbuckling his gun belt.
“Hold up.” Val’s knees complained as he stood. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”
“I’m paying Yarra and Mannheim a courtesy call.”
“Courtesy call? Bringin’ them a cup of sugar, are ya? Maybe sittin’ down for a jolly good spot o’ tea? Bet they’d like to share their secret recipe for revenge. You won’t get a foot through the front door.”
Scott tapped Crawford’s badge. “And you won’t set a boot on the front step holding a crumpet. Besides” - A rolled up gun belt passed between the men - “I don’t think it’s revenge they’re after.”
“What makes you so goddamn sure?”
Scott’s grim smile accompanied wise advice. “I’m trusting my gut.”