The Misadventures of Maude March (12 page)

“Naw,” Marion said. “This is the
Cedar Rapids Times
. Even if the Philadelphia or New York papers get a copy of this, they ain't likely to run a picture of you. They don't care much what happens out here—unless four or five people got killed as you stole those horses. You'd probably need to steal more horses too.”

I could see Marion was trying hard to make her feel better.

“Are you sure?” Maude asked.

“I am,” he said. “Besides which, you don't hardly look like yourself anymore, Miss Maude. Your hair is short and your face is rough and—”

Maude all but hit him with the newspaper, she shoved it back at him so fast. She flopped down and flipped the blanket over her shoulder, leaving us to look at her back.

“Maude,” I said.

“Burn that paper,” she said. “I don't want to see it again.”

“Maude—” “Don't speak to me.”

Marion and I sat like we'd been turned to stone. For all her upset, Maude had no trouble falling asleep. Inside five minutes, Marion and I were able to whisper back and forth. He whispered, “I'm sorry,” and I whispered back, “She's just touchy lately.”

Maude's upset did change our mood somewhat. With as
little rustling of the paper as we could manage, Marion pointed out his own picture on the front page. Maude had missed that entirely, since her story was on page two.

“The light's too dim for my eyes. Could you read me that?” Marion asked.

The paper went on to give an account of the way the once much-admired Joe Harden went wild and shot up the town, killing one Miss Ruth Ann Waters, schoolteacher, who left no family.

“They make it sound like I was the only one did all that shooting,” Marion said.

“Maybe they figured it was the last shot that counted,” I said in cool tones.

“There was a whole bunch of fellows shot off their guns after I fell down,” Marion said. “They were pretty juiced up. They're the ones who shot up the town.”

That made sense. Aunt Ruthie dropped when the first shot was fired.

But something about the other story didn't hang right. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I turned the page and read all about Maude again. I asked Marion, “Don't you think it's funny they don't mention me?”

“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said.

“Aren't you worried about the fellow upstairs?” I asked Marion. “What if he'd seen this paper?”

“You're right,” Marion said. “But he knows me by this name. It was too late to change it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“We needed a place to stay the night,” Marion said. “Joe Harden's name was likelier to be known in the hotels by now, and not for being good for two bits. We ain't all that far from Cedar Rapids.”

“Should we take turns sitting up, to make sure he doesn't go for the sheriff?”

“Nah. People don't question killing so much as they question thieving, it seems to me. Most of them don't expect to get killed, but they do expect to get stole from. Some of them think if somebody got killed, he probably deserved it.”

He started, like he got the meaning of what he said at the same time I did. “I'm not saying a thing against your aunt Ruthie,” he said. “It's just that most killings aren't so accidental, like.”

I figured he was right. I suddenly felt tired. More tired than I thought I ever could be, which was saying something, considering the way things had been going. “I'm turning in,” I told him.

But once I was down, I got to thinking. I looked at Marion. “Are you a good shot? Could you hit all them bottles?”

“Yep.”

“Even if you were drinking?”

“I don't drink a drop,” Marion said. “Can't take the stuff too well. But in the end, it gives me some advantage.”

“Don't the others notice? The ones you play cards with?”

“Nah. I set my glass down near someone else's and take their glass when it's near empty. No one ever mentions it.”

Just before I fell asleep, I heard Marion chuckling. “What's funny?” I asked him.

“Joe Harden,” he answered, and laughed out loud. “He sure is a wild one.”

I
N THE CHILL DARKNESS OF EARLY MORNING, MAUDE
acted like she was mad at me and Marion, both. He did just as she told us and burned the paper, for what that was worth, to get the fire going fast. I figured it wasn't the only paper left in the territory, but I didn't say so.

Marion stoked the stove till it shed a welcome warmth on the room. Then he set to trimming his beard. I went about folding up blankets and all else we had spread out to dry.

Maude mixed up flapjacks with jerky movements that spilled flour and water on the floor. I cleaned the mess up. She did not say a thank-you or even smile. Maude was not made up of forgive-and-forget clay.

At first I thought Marion might not have noticed Maude's manner. But when we sat down to eat and talk about how to go on from there, I realized Marion had spruced himself up to some advantage. He did not look much like he slept on boot-shop floors.

I hadn't had a chance to talk to Maude in private, but even before getting to Des Moines, I figured we'd do well to
travel a few more days with Marion. The newspaper did change things some.

It seemed they weren't looking for two girls, but for one. No one on the lookout for Maude March, Horse Thief, would know to look for me at all. If we all traveled together, we were a man with two younger brothers in tow; no one would be on the lookout for us.

Needless to say, Marion was heavily in favor of this plan. He told me, “You can choose a name for me while we ride the trail.”

Maude made a rude snorting sound.

“If you don't mind me asking, Miss Maude, how old are you?”

“I'll be sixteen in another month or so,” Maude said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” Marion said.

“I thought you must be a lot older,” Maude said. It was not very flattering of her to say so, but Marion did not look embarrassed.

“It's that I'm going bald,” he said. “My daddy was bald to nothing but a fringe by the time he was my age. It's the way of it in my family.”

“Where is your family?” Maude asked rather pointedly. At that moment, we heard the bootmaker coming downstairs, and Maude ducked her head over her plate of flapjacks and bacon.

“I hope you can spare a platter for me,” he said.

“Help yourself,” Marion said, although it was Maude who'd done the cooking.

I had a bite more myself. Although my belly was full at the moment, there had been talk the day before of popping a few prairie hens, and my mouth could still water at the thought.

I mentioned this, and Maude ignored me. Marion said, “They'll be all over the place, after a day of laying low and keeping their feathers dry.”

“I could eat three of them my own self,” I said.

“It's best to pop only as many as you really can eat,” Marion warned. “Don't ride with anything that smells too good. You're likely to attract bears.”

Maude and I glanced at each other, and even though I suspected she hadn't meant to step that far out of her sulk, our glances meant the same thing. Bears? We hadn't for a moment worried about bears.

But now that Marion had mentioned them, I could think of all kinds of animal dangers we might have run into. Wolves and cats and maybe even bears. We were lucky nothing worse than bugs was attracted by the smell of those chickens we had fried up.

“Best to remember to carry your gun with you everywhere. Every time you step away from your horse, you take your gun. You step behind a bush, you take your gun.”

“You never know where a nice plump meal will turn up,” I said, cheerfully pushing away thoughts of disaster.

“That, too,” Marion said.

“Tell me something else,” I said when it looked likely he was going to leave off talking. What he told us was useful, but I wanted to take up any spaces where Maude might get in a lick or two.

“Be sure to collect dry matter the night before to start the morning's fire,” he said. “Cover it up so it don't get wet with dew.”

When breakfast was over and done with, the boot-maker said, “You never mentioned you traveled with no brothers, Joe.”

“Now that's because people don't trust brothers,” Marion said. “Not since those James and Younger boys have made a name for themselves.”

“You're right about that,” the bootmaker said. “I only let you in with them since I knew you from before. But it did give me a turn to see you brought company.”

“That's quite a pair of boots you have there,” Marion said to the man. He got up, most likely in hopes of turning the conversation. “Don't know that I've even seen any quite like them.”

“Elephant skin,” the bootmaker told him. “Belongs to some English feller who owns a big stretch of land north of here. Seems his brother shot an elephant over there in Africa and sent him a piece of the skin.”

“You don't say,” Marion said. He made a show of wiping his hands on his hankie, but in the end he only touched the boots with the inside of his wrist. “Soft, ain't it?”

“Wrinkles something awful,” the bootmaker said. “They ain't the easiest pair of boots I ever made. I hope he ain't going to refuse to pay for them, ugly as they are.”

“Elephant skin, you say,” Marion said, ignoring the bootmaker's complaint. “Big animal. Got any scraps of the stuff left?”

“Not enough to make a wallet,” the bootmaker grumbled.

“Those English fellers got a reputation for being good hunters,” Marion said.

“Not this one. Money's his game, not elephants,” the bootmaker said. He picked up a boot and took up stitching where I guessed he'd left off the day before. “Owns the bank. He's got plenty more land than anyone else around here, and he's looking to buy more. Bought out the mill too. Likely he figures to buy out the town.”

“Never saw myself a rich man,” Marion said. “Not land and money rich, both. What's he like?”

“Like a little king, that's how he is.” There was more talk of the kingly banker and payrolls and land deals while Maude and I picked up after ourselves.

“Men's gossip,” I heard Maude mutter to herself. I poked her with an elbow. We were going to be men ourselves. That was my message. But by the time we had picked up all our clothing, Marion had bought a pair of resoled boots for Maude. They were a near match for mine.

The bootmaker said, “I believe these'll fit, 'specially if you double up on the socks.”

Maude ducked her head, as close as she was going to come to saying thank you. Which was maybe just as well if we were to convince the man we were all brothers. Men seemed to approve of a certain lack of good manners.

Marion came over and tried to tell her how to pack up so the makings for bread could be got to all at once, the way a chuck-wagon cook would do it. Maude just sulked all the while he showed her and then went ahead and did it her old way.

He saw this and went out to tend to the horses while we
finished packing up. That was no doubt the reason he told us, as soon as we were ready to go, “I've rethought it, and I think this is where we ought to part ways.”

We all stood in a little back room, near the door, and had reasonable privacy if we kept our voices down. “I thought you were headed our way,” I said. I had begun to like traveling with Marion, and I thought Maude liked him too, when she wasn't in a mood. I wasn't ready to leave Marion yet or for him to leave us.

“I may be,” he said, “or I may not. A man of my ilk is prone to sudden turns of mind.”

I didn't know what his ilk might be, and I wasn't sure it was proper to ask. I hoped Maude would say something to change his mind again, if it was all that easy to turn, but she stood by the back door, sullen and silent.

She had always been one for sulking, and she had clearly made up her mind to sulk over the ugly surprise of finding her likeness in the newspaper. Or maybe it wasn't the likeness so much as the accusation. But it wasn't likely I would know for sure what she was sulking about till she came out of it and talked to me.

“We could wait till you make up your mind one way or the other,” I said to him, feeling a little desperate. If Marion came along, at least I would have someone to talk to. Maude didn't look like she would be talking for a week at least. “It's not even half light yet.”

“It's been nice having you girls for company,” Marion said kindly, “but I think it's best if we all go our separate ways.”

Which I figured meant, no, I won't travel with you. But I needed to make sure. “You won't change your mind?”

“There's nothing to change,” Marion said, noticing the bootmaker had come to stand nearby. He'd been so quiet we more or less forgot about him. “What?” Marion wanted to know.

“Nuthin',” the bootmaker said, and went back to his stitching.