The Listening Sky (39 page)

Standing alone in the street, Sunday played as if she were lost in the music. After the first tune she went into another,
“Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair.” Her mop of blond curls shone in the lamplight. She swayed as she stroked the strings
with the long bow. There was a moment of utter stillness when the music came to an end. Then, sensing the crowd needed something
livelier, she began to play “Camptown Races.”

Murphy stepped out and began to sing in a surprisingly good voice. At one point he stopped singing and began to jig, much
to the enjoyment of the audience, who clapped and yelled, spurring him on.

Sunday played another song, then stopped and looked around for the owner of the fiddle. Theda Cruise came forward.

“You play a heck of a lot better than I do.”

“It’s a grand fiddle.”

Theda laughed. “My father would turn over in his grave if he heard his treasure called a fiddle.”

“I meant no…”

“I know. Papa was a concert violinist. He insisted that I learn to play. Much to his dismay, I found that I’d rather play
hoedown than classical. He died before I became a saloon keeper. Dear Papa didn’t understand me at all.”

“Thank you for lettin’ me have a go at it. Guess I’d a been scared to touch it if I’d a known it was so fine.”

“You’ve got a natural touch if I ever saw one, and I’ve seen plenty.” Theda turned to survey the crowd. “Ready to dance?”
she called to the couples waiting.

“Yeah, Theda. Let ‘er go.”

Theda played a slow tune and one brave couple started it off. Soon others joined them. A young man smelling as if he had just
come from the barber shop asked Sunday to dance. She started to shake her head.

“Go ahead, Sunday,” T.C. said. “I’ll be here with Jane.”

Standing close beside her husband, Jane watched her friend and wished with all her heart that she could be as free and uninhibited
as Sunday. T.C.’s hand covered Jane’s and she looked up.

“Someday we’ll get Sunday to play the fiddle, and I’ll teach you to dance.”

Her eyes shone. “I never, ever dreamed I’d learn to dance.”

He bent down again to whisper. “If that fellow comes up against the pistol in Sunday’s dress pocket, it might go off and shoot
him in the foot.”

“I forgot about that.”

As T.C. watched Jane’s face in the flickering light, a smile softened the line of his mouth. Behind the smile he gave her,
his mind raced. Fragile though she might appear, she had deep inner resources and strength, which constant use had intensified
of late, allowing her to face the future as his wife without fear.

Jane. Little Jane, there’s so much of the world I’d like to show you.

Sunday came back.

“He was a nice boy but still wet behind the ears.”

“Have you seen Maude and Stella?”

“When I first started dancin’, I saw them headin’ back to the house. They was almost runnin’. Stella might a had to go to
the privy.”

“We’ll watch for them to come back.”

“I’m going to make the rounds and see how things are going. There are some rowdies in town. Will you two be all right?”

“Go on with ya,” Sunday said. “I won’t let ‘er outta my sight.” She patted her pocket.

Sunday and Jane stood together on the porch of the hotel and commented to each other on the dancers. Paralee danced with a
logger who had a black beard and slickeddown-hair. He wore an obviously new checked shirt. He towered over her, handling her
as if he expected her to break apart. She was bored. Her eyes searched the crowd for someone either more prosperous or more
handsome.

In a dress much too tight for her, Bessie danced with Milo Callahan. He was holding her tightly so that her breasts rubbed
against him. As they whirled around, Bessie saw Sunday and Jane watching her. She moved her hand up Milo’s arm to his shoulder.
Her fingers stroked his neck and she snuggled closer to him.

“She’s goin’ to get what she’s askin’ for if she ain’t careful,” Sunday remarked. “Let’s walk a bit. It’s cold just standin’.”

They walked into the hotel lobby and looked around. So much had been accomplished in such a short time. They lingered a while,
then strolled down the walk to the stage station. The stage driver was tacking a schedule to the wall. They stopped to read
it.

“Day after tomorrow stage will come back through going south. I can remember when that would have been welcome news. But not
anymore,” Jane murmured.

“Yo’re really happy, ain’t ya?”

“Oh, yes. I hope things work out for you and—”

“Don’t say it!”

“I won’t! Let’s walk down and look into Mrs. Winters’ bake shop. I’ve not seen it.”

They were strolling arm in arm along the walk in front of the buildings when they heard a woman’s scream.

“What in the world? Somebody needs help!” Jane said.

Another shrill scream, then another and another, reached them, closely followed by several masculine shouts.

Jane and Sunday hurried down the walk to the space between the two buildings. They paused to peer down the narrow passage.

“Jane? What’er you doin’ here?” The hoarse masculine whisper came from the tall shadowy figure hurrying along the side of
the building.

“What happened?”

The man reached them, and no sooner had both Sunday and Jane realized it wasn’t T.C., than a fist landed on the side of Sunday’s
head and she dropped like a stone. Jane, shocked into immobility, had no time to open her mouth to yell when her head exploded,
and she fell into a black pit.

Tennihill squatted on his heels, his back to the bonfire. The little twit dancing with Callahan was playing with fire. He
had stood in the shadows and watched them on the porch of the rooming house a few nights earlier as he waited to see in which
direction Milo headed out. She had let him feel under her skirt but that was all. It wasn’t something a man like Callahan
would be satisfied with for very long.

The lanky Tennesseean had been a little uneasy about his decision
not
to find Milo Callahan. He justified it by telling himself that he was not
positive
it was the same man he had been sent to hunt down and return to Coeur d’Alene. The bastard had hired camp scum to kill a young
deaf girl to get back at her pa for giving him a beating after he’d beaten his own stepsister, Dory Callahan.

It seemed a damn shame, Tennihill thought, to take Milo back so he could collect a small inheritance that would be split between
a stepbrother and sister, who were fine folk, if he wasn’t found. Yet, he understood that the man who had hired him had been
honor-bound to make an effort to find the other heir.

He stood, folded his pocketknife and put it in his pocket. Callahan and the girl were walking toward the area between the
hotel and the new bather shop. Tennihill ambled along behind, watching them as they disappeared between the buildings.

The stupid little twit!

By the time Tennihill reached the back of the hotel, Callahan and the girl were not in sight. He stayed close to the building,
all his senses alert for sound. Several minutes passed before he heard what he thought was a whimper, then loud hurried whispers.

“I ain’t goin’ to let ya. Stop that!”

“Ya said ya would. Now be quiet. Ya want the whole town back here?” Callahan was impatient and angry. “I got a thin’ to do
in a little bit. Let me do it, and I’ll let ya help me.”

“What’er ya goin’ to do?”

“I’m goin’ back to the dance and raise a ruckus. I’m goin’ to shoot out a couple of them lanterns and throw a couple shells
in the bonfire. That’ll stir ‘em up.”

“What’er ya doin’ it for?”

“I ain’t tellin’ ya that and I ain’t waitin’. Here, feel it!”

“Let go my hand! I ain’t touchin’ it. Get yore hands off—”

“Damn ya for a teasing bitch! Ya said we’d do it all, and we’re goin’ to.”

“Stop! I don’t want ya to do that!”

“I ain’t givin’ a shit if ya want it or not, yo’re gettin’ it.”

“Stop! Stop! Oh… ” A minute later she screamed.

Tennihill launched himself away from the wall. Bessie screamed again. He saw the sheen on her white dress, and long, quick
strides took him to where Callahan had her pinned to the ground. Her dress was up about her waist and he was rippin’ off her
drawers.

“Gawdamn ya. Ya’ve been rubbin’ up against me, teasin’ me with them tits—”

“Get off her, ya ruttin’ hog.”

Tennihill grabbed a handful of Milo’s hair and jerked him off the sobbing girl and to his feet. Still holding him by the hair,
he placed the tip of his knife beneath Milo’s jaw.

“What… er… she was wantin’ it.”

“Not right now she warn’t.”

Several men, responding to the screams, had come into the area.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothin’… yet. He was goin’ to rape her”

“Rape her? Christamighty!”

“It ain’t all his fault. She’s been switchin’ her tail at him for a while.” The man who spoke was clearly disgusted with Bessie.
“She’s been actin’ like a bitch in heat since she got here.”

“Maybe,” Tennihill said. “But she ain’t much more’n a kid, and rape’s a hard lesson.”

“Tennihill?” T.C. was helping Bessie get to her feet. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yeah. Better get ‘er outta here.”

“Callahan’s yours then. You want to hang him?”

“Hang? Oh… my Gawd—”

“I’m studyin’ on it.” Tennihill turned Milo around so the men could get a good look at him. “Take a look, fellers. We can
hang him, or run him outta the country.”

“We ain’t had no necktie party for a while.” The man who spoke was the big logger who had danced with Paralee. “Might be kinds
fun. Put some icin’ on the celebration.”

“Fun?” Milo choked.

“I ain’t got no rope handy,” Tennihill said. “Side a that, we’d have to bury ‘im. Couldn’t have ‘im stinkin’ up the town.
Let’s run ‘im off like a mangy dog. Spread the word in towns, cuttin’ camps, mills, and stations that Milo Callahan rapes
women. And that he’s a liar, a cheat and ain’t fit fer dog meat.”

“She… she… ” When Milo tried to talk, the tip of the knife pierced the skin beneath his jaw.

“I’ll fork him on his horse, T.C. I’m thinkin’ Alaska would be a good place fer him… or Mexico.”

“How about hell, Tennihill?” an angry man shouted.

“I thought of it. But I’m thinkin’ not even the devil wants a peckerwood like him.”

“Come on, Bessie. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.” T.C. gripped her upper arm tightly and propelled her toward
the street.

“I can’t go with my dress tore,” Bessie wailed and tried to dig in her heels.

“You can ask your friend Patrice Guzman Cabeza to give you another one.”

Pushing the crying, disheveled girl ahead of him, T.C. marched her out onto the walk and down the street. People stopped to
stare. He held onto her until he got her into the lobby of the hotel.

“I hate ya! Ya wanted ever’body to see me.”

“You’re damn lucky you’re alive

“I didn’t do nothin’. It was
his
fault!”

“When the stage leaves day after tomorrow, be ready. You’re to be on it.”

Out on the porch T.C. paused to let his temper cool. The fool girl didn’t have the brains of a flea. He looked up and down
the street for Jane and Sunday, but they were nowhere in sight. He began to feel uneasy. She had said that she would stay
by the hotel.

He saw Herb and Polly and had just started toward them when he heard the sound of gunfire. Two shots had been fired from a
small-caliber pistol.

He froze in his tracks.
Sunday carried a small-caliber pistol in her pocket.

He began to run toward the sound, dread making his feet feel like lead.

S
UNDAY
saw the blow coming an instant before it landed and rolled her head to the side. Years of scuffling with siblings and cousins
had honed her instincts for fighting or she would have been knocked out cold. Still, her eyes crossed and she saw a shower
of stars as she hit the ground, but she did not completely lose consciousness.

Shaking her head to clear it, she sat up. Her hand went to the side of her head. Then memory came rushing back. Bob Fresno
had hit her.

Jane!
Where was Jane?

She scrambled to her feet too fast and fell back down on her knees. On her feet again, she staggered along the side of the
building until she reached the back of the cookshack. She saw the shadowy form of a man with something slung over his shoulder
moving along the cow fence attached to the barn.

The buzzard had taken Jane.

Keeping her eyes on him, she reached into the pocket of her skirt for the pistol, brought it out, cocked it and hurried after
him. Silently she called him every derogatory thing she could think of, knowing that if she called out he would turn and shoot
her. She couldn’t use the gun with Jane slung over his shoulder, so she ignored her pounding head, gritted her teeth and followed
him toward the line of trees behind what used to be called the henhouse.

Bob Fresno congratulated himself. It had been easier than he had imagined it would be. He had been watching Jane since she
walked uptown with Kilkenny. He had watched her standing close to the son of a bitch while the blond played the fiddle. His
fingers had itched to put a bullet right between Kilkenny’s eyes.

Fresno had followed as Jane and the other woman strolled down the boardwalk. They had stopped at the new stage office and
then had stood for a while watching the crowd. Finally they had continued down the walk past the tonsorial parlor toward the
bake shop. He had hurried to get ahead of them and, with his hat pulled low, had crossed the street and concealed himself
in the dark area between the two buildings they would pass.

The screaming woman, whoever she was, had served to draw Jane to the dark passageway between the buildings, and he had seen
his chance to get her. This way was even better than waiting for Callahan to cause a ruckus.

His hand caressed Jane’s rounded bottom as he hurried along the pole fence attached to the barn. She was his now. He was confident
in his ability to woo her. He would teach her the delights of the flesh, and in a week or two she would not give Kilkenny
another thought.