Love on the Line (8 page)

The aroma of coffee soothed Georgie’s nerves. She’d expected a good turnout for her Plumage League, but not this good. She should have, though. If there was one thing she’d learned about Germans since moving here, it was they loved an excuse to gather—and they never did anything on a small scale.

Her tiny cottage could barely contain the standing-room-only crowd. She knew her walls and tabletops were bare and lacking the typical parlor accessories, but she spent every extra penny she earned on her garden and birds.

Women’s voices, some speaking English, some German, filled the room like heat in a teakettle. And no one had come empty-handed. There was coconut pie,
Streusselkuchen,
coffee cakes, potato cakes,
Zwieback,
cabbage loaves, and
Kochkäse.
If more guests arrived, she’d have to move everyone to her backyard.

She’d been very deliberate with the planning of the meeting, right down to what she wore. A sprig of hawthorn nestled in her hair, complementing her pearl-colored percale shirtwaist. Since Easter was in a few more weeks, she had no qualms about wearing her blue-and-white polka dot skirt. It reminded her of bluebirds and spring and never failed to draw admiration.

Checking her watch pin, she picked up her earpiece, plugged in all cables, and gave six long rings. When those still home picked up, she had to shout into the mouthpiece as she reminded them the switchboard would be unavailable for the next two hours.

Those nearest to her quieted, always curious to watch her at work. Taking advantage of their attention, she clapped her hands and called the meeting to order. “If those of you in the kitchen would tell the ladies on the back porch to come in, Miss Gladstone is going to start us off with a song.”

Jana Gladstone, a vision of loveliness in a ruffled peach lawn dress, stepped in front of the unlit fireplace. Georgie had chosen her for the recital not only because her voice was clear and true, but because she’d caught the eye of the preacher’s son and much speculation had been generated because of it.

The ladies shushed each other, anxious for the opportunity to scrutinize Miss Gladstone without being rude. Georgie wished she had a piano. Music was second only to beer in this town, but as soon as Jana began to sing, her concerns lifted. The girl really did have an extraordinary warm alto voice.

Softly on a summer’s eve the cuckoo calls its mate,

I linger list’ning to the sound until the hour grows late.

The women began to sway to the one-two-three beat, some tapping gloved hands to the rhythm, others keeping it with nods of their heads.

It has for me a magic charm, I love it best of all,

When weary at the close of day to hear the cuckoo’s call.

“The Cuckoo’s Call” was not a familiar tune, and Georgie had looked forward to her guests’ reactions when they heard the chorus.

Cuckoooooo, cuckooooo, I know you are calling,

Yoo-hoo-lee-i-hoo-lee, Yoo-hoo-lee-i,

You always sing when dew drops are falling,

Yoo-hoo-lee-i-hoo-lee-i.

As Georgie suspected, the yodel captivated every woman present. Their excitement as Jana sang the second verse was palpable. The moment she finished, the entire company joined her for the chorus. Their ear for music was as much a part of them as their hearty laughs. By the third chorus, they were singing in harmony.

Georgie tried not to gloat, but she knew the catchy waltz would be yodeled in their homes for several weeks to come, reminding them what a treasure the cuckoo bird was. Cuckoos which filled Brenham’s trees and yards.

Jana flushed with pleasure in response to the robust round of applause.

Thanking her, Georgie stepped to the front. “Bird life is disappearing from the United States.”

A hush fell over the room.

“Our songbirds, plumage birds, tropical birds, and waterfowl are shot in cold blood for no other reason than the barbaric purpose of decorating women’s hats.”

She looked around, glad to see the women had heeded the instructions in her invitation: No clothing or hats with bird parts were to be worn to the meeting, though many of the women owned such garments.

“I have stood in our own churchyard and heard many bemoan the mistreatment of a horse or dog. Yet the deliverer or sympathetic listener of this woe stood wearing the wings, plumes, heads—if not the entire carcass—of innocent birds. Our birds. The birds of popular song.”

Some lowered their eyes. Others wielded their fans, partially shielding their faces.

She continued giving examples, statistics, then anecdotes about her backyard birds. Finally, she called for action.

“I propose we wage a war against the businesses who profit from wholesale bird slaughter, starting with Mr. Ottfried’s millinery.” She picked up a piece of paper. “This is a pledge to cease wearing bird-bedecked hats. If everyone signs this vow, it will cripple, if not completely end, our milliner’s need for the carnage of birds.”

Mrs. Oodson, a frail-looking woman with the busiest tongue in town, pinched her lips together. “But Norma Ottfried is a member of
Kaffeklatsch.
To wage war against Ottfried Millinery is to wage war against Norma.”

A murmur rippled through the room.
Kaffeklatsch
had started out as time to share coffee and gossip. And though it had developed into an official ladies’ society where fashion, literature, and recipes were discussed, its primary function was to gossip. Mrs. Oodson had been reigning chairwoman for an unprecedented three years.

“I’m not trying to put Mr. Ottfried out of business,” Georgie assured. “I’m simply trying to eradicate bird parts from his inventory.”

“Nevertheless, if we must choose between losing a few birds or offending one of our own, I’m afraid we’ve no choice but to sacrifice the birds.”

Georgie forced herself to use a gentle tone. “We aren’t sacrificing the birds, Mrs. Oodson, we’re slaughtering them, murdering them, blotting them completely out of existence.”

Mrs. Whitchurst, a full-bodied woman in her fifties,
tsked.
“Now, Georgie. There’s no such thing as murdering a bird. God gave us dominion over all the animals to do with as we see fit. And that includes putting an animal down when the situation calls for it.”

“Our songbirds are not in need of being
put down.
”

Mrs. Dimple raised her hand. Her husband ran the local poultry farm. And though Georgie had heard pet owners often resembled their animals, she hadn’t seen it firsthand until meeting Mrs. Dimple. Her eyes bugged out, her nose hooked, and loose folds hung from her chin. “Tell me, dear. Do you ever eat chicken? Or eggs? Or use eggs in your recipes?”

Georgie released a huff of breath. “Chickens are not birds.”

A murmur of laughter scattered throughout the room.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I mean, of course they’re birds, but they aren’t being massacred so fashion-conscious women can parade them about on their heads.”

“No, that’s true. But they are being slaughtered every day in order to supply sustenance for our bodies, and eggs are whisked from mothers’ nests morning after morning. As I consider this pledge, I’m wondering if you might someday ask the ladies of Brenham to sign a similar vow about chickens. And if they did, what would happen to me, Myron, and our passel of little ones?”

“And what about our menfolk?” All attention turned to Mrs. Blesinger, whose husband owned the gun shop and sponsored several hunting expeditions throughout the year. “Are you planning to invite the Gun Club to your home and lecture them? Ask them to give up their trapshooting and their annual quail hunts, dove hunts, and duck hunts? To quit buying guns from Ludwig’s shop?”

“I think the entire thing is a waste of time.” The sheriff’s wife, Corda Nussbaum, had a weak spot for hats. The more outrageous the better. Georgie had been concerned she might not even have one without bird parts, but today’s toque sported a profusion of silk poppies in vivid cerise, trimmed with black velvet ribbon. No bird parts. “Even if we were to sign your pledge and the men quit hunting, the birds we saved would simply fly north during winter migration and be killed by Yankees.”

“Yankees?” Mrs. von Goethe was nearing her ninetieth birthday and had lost a husband and a son during the Civil War. “Are the Yankees coming?
Schnell!
Hide
die
Kinder.
”

Corda patted her grandmother’s hand. “The Yankees aren’t coming, Oma. The children are safe.”

Georgie felt as if she stood in front of a firing squad, a volley of bullets jerking her body with each subsequent hit. But if they thought she’d fall down and die, they were mistaken.

Still, she’d only been here a year, and if the community had thoroughly embraced her, it wasn’t on her own merits but because of her position as switchboard operator. She’d been foolish to think the ladies would support her. Unprepared for the fierceness of their opposition, she swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “What you say is true, Corda, but all of us have to do our part. What if our Plumage League collected the most pledges in the entire country? Why, a member of Mr. Audubon’s family might come to personally thank us.”

“Who is Audubon?” Mrs. von Goethe looked to her granddaughter. “Is he the Yankee the Cummings girl married? Imagine. Marrying a Yankee.
Skandalös!
”

Corda held a finger to her lips. “Hush, Oma.”

The doctor’s wife stood. Though her figure was a bit thick in the middle, her corset pushed plenty of excess to the top and the rest to the bottom, giving her an attractive hourglass figure.

As one of the wealthiest women in town, she set the standard for social behavior and fashion. The first time Georgie stepped into their home, she’d gawked at its lush furnishings. Mrs. von Hardenberg’s exquisite taste in clothing compelled her to turn to Chicago and New York for her apparel. If she spoke out against Georgie’s cause, it would be the final nail in the coffin.

Georgie held her breath.

“I had no idea our birds were in such danger.” From her Gainsborough hat to her champagne wool gown, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a
Harper’s Bazaar
fashion plate. “God has indeed given us dominion over the animals. And when much is given, much is expected. I vow not to wear any more hats with bird parts. Pass me the pledge, please.”

The room burst into chatter, and though Georgie never officially adjourned the meeting, the ladies rose. Some signed the pledge, some ate the food, and a great many left with polite but strained good-byes.

When Georgie closed the door behind her final guest, she had one dozen signatures. Among them the doctor’s wife, the banker’s wife, and the mayor’s wife.

She tried to convince herself their signatures should count double, even triple, but truth was, it would take more than a dozen pledges to put an end to Ottfried’s offer and the selling of bird parts. She needed a new battle plan. For her enemy was not only the milliner, but the women in town who had more to lose than a fancy hat.

The Gun Club met at the fairgrounds every Sunday afternoon. This one couldn’t have been a more perfect day for it. The balmy temperature, smattering of clouds, and absence of wind would eliminate the usual excuses for inaccurate shooting.

Luke tied Honey Dew to a hitching rail beside several other horses. A group of men milled about the edge of the racetrack, most with a beer in one hand, a rifle in the other. About two hundred yards out, a tin plate dangled from a hangman’s scaffold.

Removing his Winchester from its scabbard, Luke dropped several cartridges in his pocket and ambled toward the group, wondering if any of them were members of Comer’s gang. Of the two dozen gathered, he was the only one in overalls and the only one who did physical labor for a living. He hoped his presence would be accepted. Gun clubs were for the affluent. Typical farmers—and telephone repairmen—couldn’t afford the premium prices target rifles claimed, though his .30-40 Krag wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.

Doc von Hardenberg caught sight of him and headed his way. As was the fashion, he’d fastened the first button of his jacket, leaving the rest to gape open over a well-fed belly. His salt-and-pepper mustache was so full it encroached upon his lower lip, giving him a walrus-like appearance when he smiled. Luke rubbed his own upper lip, missing the mustache he’d worn for years. At least these last couple of weeks climbing poles had added color to the virgin skin.

He grasped the doc’s hand. They’d met earlier in the week while Luke had been stringing wire and the doc had been heading home after a call.

“Fancy seeing you, Palmer.” Doc eyed Luke’s rifle. “Didn’t know you shot.”

“Oh, I don’t have much time for targets, but I enjoy hunting when I can.”

“What do you hunt?”

“Coons and birds are my favorite, but not with my .30-40, of course.”

Doc raised his brows. “Does Georgie know you hunt birds?”

“No, sir. Don’t reckon it’s ever come up.”

“You’d be smart to keep it that way. She’s awful funny about birds.”

“So I’ve heard.” He hadn’t returned to Georgie’s place since she’d removed his splinters. Instead, he’d had Bettina return the tweezers, he’d worked six days a week stringing line, and he’d stayed away from Georgie at church. He wouldn’t be able to put off seeing her much longer, though. The new wire was close to being done and the ledgers needed attention.

Doc introduced him to several members whom he’d seen at church but had never actually met.

“And this here’s our sheriff,” Doc said. “Franz, have you met our new troubleman?”

Franz Nussbaum looked more like a college professor than a sheriff. Pretty face. No sideburns. Pomaded hair. Oval glasses. And a trim brown mustache. According to Luke’s Ranger report, Comer had plenty of influentials in his back pocket. Luke wondered if Nussbaum was one of them. At least the sheriff had a decent weapon.

“You a shooter, Palmer?” the sheriff asked, offering a limp handshake.

Luke hated that. “I can bring down a bird or two.”

The sheriff smirked. “Well, we’ll see how you do with a target at two hundred.”

Luke smiled and looked at the silver plate on the other side of the racetrack. He could hit it square on, but he wouldn’t. He’d nick it a few times to gain the respect of the men. Then he’d miss it a few times to keep from being a threat.

Doc clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Go get you a beer, son. We’re about to start.”

The men lined up watching as the judge stretched prone on the ground and fired, hitting the target dead to rights with a loud
ping.
The steel disc swung back and forth.

A murmur of admiration rippled through the group. Those closest to the judge pulled him to his feet. The man grinned, his natty goatee reaching clear down to the vee in his waistcoat.

The milliner stepped up next, a hard, wiry man with a pitch-black mustache. He loaded his Krag with factory ammunition. The members exchanged knowing looks. Factory cartridges were usually four or five grains off. That might be fine for sporting, but not for precision shooting where every little variance made a difference.

Luke had carefully measured his powder and packed his cartridges before arriving. That way, the only variance he had was the wind, the outside temperature, and himself.

“You aimin’ for the plate there, Ottfried?” the banker asked.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Well, pull down on it just a little; it’s about two or three—”

Bang.
He completely overshot the target.

Cocking the action lever, Ottfried shot again and again, never allowing his muzzle to cool and only nicking the target once. Swearing, he pushed to his feet, grabbed a beer, and tilted it straight up toward the sky, downing half the bottle.

“Look who’s here, fellas,” Doc said.

The men turned. A tall man with a commanding physique swaggered toward them. His overalls were in worse shape than Luke’s, if that were possible, and his boots had seen some hard living. The 1895 Winchester .30-40 Krag he carried was the exact model Luke and the milliner used. In the hands of a competent shooter, it would stand up to any of the expensive, single-shot target rifles the other men carried.

“Arnold Necker, where you been?”

“Necker, you devil, you haven’t been to church in a month of Sundays.”

“Finally, I’m gonna get some competition.” This from the judge.

Necker smiled, giving a fancy bow. “Somebody’s gotta work around here. Cain’t be leaving the farm ever’ week just to hear the preacher tell me ’bout something I done already read three times over.”

The men laughed, put a beer in his hand, and walked him to the front of the line.

Stopping along the way, he looked at Luke. “Who’re you?”

“Luke Palmer, the new troubleman.”

Necker nodded, recognition touching his eyes. “I seen you stringing wire out near my place the other day. I nearly shot you fer a monkey.” He turned to the judge. “You oughta see this feller climb a pole. He’s up that thing quicker’n a flea hopping outta danger.”

In the two weeks Luke had been stringing line, his pole-climbing skills had improved a hundredfold. So if Necker had seen him at ease with the task, the man farmed north of town. It also meant he hadn’t shown himself when he’d observed Luke. A bit peculiar for such an amiable fellow.

“You know how to use that Krag?” Necker asked him.

Luke lifted his hat, then resettled it on his head. “I’m not the marksman some of these fellows are, but I get by.”

Necker handed him his beer. “Well, let me show you how it’s done, then.”

Luke held the bottle while Necker stepped to the front. Had Teddy Roosevelt joined the group, the men couldn’t have been more energized. Smiles were exchanged, elbows were nudged, and eyes were alight.

Necker didn’t lie down, nor even sit, but braced his legs like a sea captain and took the Winchester to his shoulder. He cocked the hammer, squeezed one eye shut, aligned the sights, and pulled the trigger.

Dinnnng. Click-click.

Dinnnng. Click-click.

Dinnnng. Click-click.

Dinnnng. Click-click.

Dinnnng.

The men roared, surrounding Necker, pounding his back, exclaiming over both the speed with which he shot, and the target still swinging like a pendulum gone berserk.

Necker laughed and took his due, then returned to Luke for his beer.

“That’s some of the best shooting I’ve ever seen,” Luke said, handing him the bottle.

Necker took a swig. “There are plenty better than me.”

“Who?”

A slight smile tugged at the man’s mouth. “Well, them papers say Lucious Landrum is ranked as the best all-round rapid-fire marksman in the state.”

The men guffawed. Luke tensed. Did they know? Had he somehow slipped up? But the members were completely focused on Necker.

“Cain’t believe everything you read, now, boy.”

“Goes to show you how much them papers know.”

“That’s only ’cause they hadn’t seen you shoot.”

Necker chuckled. “You know who I’m talkin’ about?” he asked Luke.

“I’ve heard of him. He’s one of them Texas Rangers.”

“That’s right.”

The sheriff slung his arm across Necker’s shoulders. “If Landrum is so all-fired great, why is it Comer slips through his net every time?”

“Well, Sheriff, I cain’t rightly say.”

“I can.” Joe Lee, the local lawyer, rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. “Landrum may be a fast draw, but he couldn’t track an elephant in ten feet of snow.”

“Now, boys. You’re being awfully hard on poor old Landrum.” Doc shook his head. “Not a one of us has ever met him. Ever even seen him shoot. ’Sides, you’re forgetting Comer’s a man who’s all heart above the waist and all guts below. He’d rattle any lawman’s think box.”

Ottfried rolled his eyes. “Landrum has nothing but hair under his hat and I, for one, don’t fancy talking about him all day. Whose turn is it?”

Luke had made a career of keeping calm in the face of his enemy, but this was different. The men weren’t trying to get his goat. They honestly believed Landrum—
him
—to be a buffoon and Comer to be a saint. Even the doc.

He tried to convince himself it was nothing personal, but no matter which way he looked at it, it was personal. Very personal.

The men reordered themselves and continued shooting. The longer the beer flowed, the more vocal the gallery became. Necker offered pointers, encouragement, and ribald jokes. When it was Luke’s turn, the farmer smiled and indicated the ground in front of him with the sweep of his hand. “Let’s see what you got, Palmer.”

Never had Luke wanted so badly to shoot standing up. But if Necker wasn’t one of Comer’s gang, then he’d be mighty surprised. The opportunity to curry favor with the man was much more important than soothing his own pride.

He stretched out on the ground, braced himself and his gun, then aimed a bit right.

“A little to the left,” Necker offered.

Luke moved the rifle left.

“That’s it, give her a shot.”

He pulled the trigger, slightly lifting his muzzle at the last second. The cartridge whizzed above the target.

“Ooooh, almost.”

“Just missed her, Palmer.”

“A little too high.”

“Keep her steady to the end.”

Luke cocked his action lever, pulled the hammer back, looked down the sights again, shot, and winged the northeast corner of the target.

“That’s it.”

“Better, better.”

“You’re still up and to the right.”

On his final shot, he aimed high and right once more, then pulled to bull’s-eye at the last second, hammering the steel plate dead center.

The men hollered their approval, grabbing him by the back of his overalls and hoisting him to his feet with congratulatory words and rounds of pounding. Necker gave him a nod, but Luke knew the man thought it dumb luck.

Luke shook his head. “I’m a birdman myself and more comfortable with my shotgun.”

Necker rocked on his heels. “Well, Brenham is hosting the Texas State Tournament at the end of the month. A bunch of us’ll be practicing trap next week. Would ya like ta join us?”

“Oh, I’m not good enough to enter any tournament, but I’d still like to join you for practice.”

“Next week, then.”

Luke slid a hand into his pocket. “Would it be all right, in the meanwhile, if I did some target practice with you next time I’m out your way? Get a few pointers?”

“Anytime, Palmer. Come out anytime.”

An unusual answer for a farmer during springtime. Didn’t he have corn to plant?

Excitement zipped through Luke. He’d picked up his first scent. Smiling full out, he turned to the men and expressed his anticipation about the upcoming tournament, all the while formulating ways he could become better acquainted with Arnold Necker.