Emmett & Gentry (an Emmett Love Western) Read online

  “Where did Gentry put the Christmas tree?” I ask.

  Jim points to the open area left of the bar.

  “The quiet corner,” I say.

  There used to be a table and chairs there, where I’d conduct my sheriffin’ business.

  “Tell me what you know about the cattleman from England who told Gentry about Christmas trees.”

  Jim scrunches up his face and squints, tryin’ to conjure up a memory.

  “There’s not much to tell,” he says. “Man’s name is David Wilkins, and he’s got a ranch somewhere southwest of here.”

  “He’s rich?”

  “Claims to be.”

  “Did he ever come back that you know of?”

  “Once or twice, on his way to or from St. Joe.”

  “Do you—”

  I pause.

  “What?” Jim asks.

  I’m thinkin’ back on the conversation. Somethin’ ain’t right.

  “You’re lost in thought, Emmett,” Jim says.

  I bite the bottom of my lip. Then say, “Wilson.”

  “Huh?”

  “The cattleman’s name. It’s Wilson, not Wilkins.”

  He thinks a minute. “No, it’s Wilkins.”

  “You sure?”

  “Ought to be. I’ve sat and drunk with him twice.”

  “Maybe you misunderstood his name. After drinkin’, it’s easy to mistake a man’s last name.”

  “That’s true, but I wouldn’t forget Wilkins. It’s my mother’s maiden name.”

  I think about that as I bid Jim goodbye and tell Margaret I’m headin’ to Lilly’s to fetch her back.

  She pulls the skillet off the fire.

  “I’ll come with you,” she says.

  “No, go ahead and finish your cookin’. We’ll be back by the time you’re finished.”

  I grab the rifle from the scabbard that was attached to Scarlett that first day, and check to see how many bullets it has, hopin’ whoever owns the horse and all these corn dodgers and pork skins will allow me to pay him back some day for usin’ ’em.

  I notice Margaret seems uneasy.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re leaving me here alone? Cooking food? With a bear in the house?”

  “Good point. I’ll give him a corn dodger, and leave some for you to give him, case he starts annoyin’ you. You’ll be safe.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. Rudy would never hurt you. Even if he were starvin’.”

  Margaret’s comforted, but not comfortable. She warily puts the skillet back on the fire and pushes the pork around to coat the bottom. Then she puts the beans in the pan and starts movin’ ’em around. Adds a little water to it, I assume, since I hear a loud sizzle as I head out the front door.

  These August nights in Kansas don’t get dark till nearly nine, so there’s plenty of light as I head toward Lilly’s. I could try to ride one of the horses, but don’t trust ’em not to throw me if I want to make a turn they don’t approve of. It’s all right. I’m so pleased to have full use of my legs, I’m happy to enjoy the act of walkin’ without pain for the first time in twenty-eight months.

  Though Lilly’s house is only a half-mile from town, it’s secluded, and there are grassy knolls on two sides high enough to block the view of every part of the structure ’cept the roof. The first knoll comes into view a quarter mile from her place. What I’m thinkin’ is Lilly was frightened about bein’ kidnapped by David Wilson, or Wilkins, or whatever his name is. I’m also thinkin’ she’s almost two hours late. I’m also thinkin’ she told me when the man came callin’ in the past he had two men standin’ guard who might be gunmen. If they are, and if they’re here, I could get shot long before reachin’ her front door.

  Because I’m thinkin’ all these thoughts, I stop and look carefully at the knoll.

  And see no one.

  That’s a good sign, but Lilly’s still almost two hours late.

  I get off the trail and duck into the tall grass and slowly make my way to the back of the first knoll.

  And still see no one.

  On my belly now, on top of the knoll, I part the grass enough to where I can see the front of Lilly’s house. Right away I can tell somethin’s not right. If you were afraid three men were after you, would you leave your front door slightly open?

  Of course not.

  And neither would Lilly.

  But her front door is slightly open. I think about calling out her name, but that could backfire on me, since I don’t know who might be in there. I turn my body a few feet to the right and part a little of that grass, hopin’ to see if any horses are tied to the railin’ in front of the barn.

  But there ain’t no horses.

  I crawl on my belly all the way down the knoll and work my way very slowly and quietly up the second knoll, and see someone twenty yards in front of me on the ground, aimin’ a rifle at the front door.

  It’s Lilly.

  I stand up slowly and clear my throat. She gasps and spins around and I fire a bullet right between her beautiful, persimmon-colored eyes.

  27.

  I’M NOT SURE why Lilly wanted to ambush me, but after shootin’ her I crouch down in case anyone’s inside the house. I give ample time for someone to come out with guns blazin’, but remember I didn’t see or hear any horses just now when I shot, and usually you’d expect to hear somethin’ from a horse when a gun’s fired nearby. I wait a few minutes, then walk down the hill to the house. When I get there, I push the front door hard. It squeaks on its hinges somethin’ fierce, hits the wall behind it with force. When I hear the sound of wood on wood I know there’s no one hidin’ behind it.

  I enter the room, and glance around at her furnishin’s. Lilly’s house only has the one big room and two small bedrooms. Both bedroom doors are open, and the rooms are small enough that I could see if someone was hidin’ in ’em, ‘less they’re hidin’ under the bed. I peek under both beds and see nothin’.

  In the bedroom Lilly uses, there’s a closet.

  The door is closed.

  I knock on it, then say, “I’m fixin’ to shoot through the door, so if someone’s in there, you better call out now or suffer the consequences.”

  Then I listen. If someone’s in there I expect they’ll cry out or scamper away from the door. Either way I’ll hear ’em. But there’s no sound, so I push that door open and brace myself against the unknown, same way I did thirty years ago, when I opened the bedroom door and found my ma and pa killed by Indians.

  But there are no Indians in the closet, and no dead people, neither.

  I turn to leave, but somethin’ on Lilly’s nightstand catches my eye.

  Her Bible.

  A woman’s bible is the best source of information there is. Inside are all the names, dates, and special occasions of her life. People will lie to their friends and family members about everythin’, but they never lie to their Bible. It’s their heritage, and lineage, and as I open it and scan the family tree I quickly find the reason Lilly set me up to shoot me tonight.

  Her maiden name.

  Hartman.

  I knew Sam Hartman had kinfolk all through Kansas, but had no reason to suspect he was related to Lilly Gee. With all the gossip that goes on in small towns, there are few secrets, to be sure. But somehow, Lilly managed to keep this one. Far as any of us knew, her maiden name was Parker.

  I’ve said it a thousand times. The biggest reason I hate killin’ people is their relatives. It just don’t sit well with a father when I kill his son, or a boy when I kill his pa, or a girl like Lilly, when I killed her brother, Sam, twenty-eight months ago.

  What don’t sit well with me is I now realize all bets are off as far as what might’ve happened to Gentry. Since Wilkins has not been botherin’ Lilly, it’s likely he either kidnapped Gentry, or talked her into runnin’ off with him. It’s just as likely his ranch ain’t in Texas, since I’ve only got Lilly’s word on that.

  Li
lly obviously heard the story about Gentry and Wilkins. She got the last name wrong, but was smart enough to use the same story to lure me out to her house tonight. She rightly assumed I’d come to fetch her if she didn’t show up at the Spur on time. I’d come here, call out her name, get no answer. I’d walk a little closer, see the door slightly open, walk up to it slowly, and she’d put a bullet in my head.

  That’s why Lilly didn’t approach me when she was in line with the other women yesterday. She hated me for killin’ her brother, and came up with a plan to tell me Wilkins threatened to kidnap her.

  Which means Lilly spoke to someone about Wilkins and Gentry, someone she knew would tell me about him last night.

  May Gray.

  28.

  IT’S DUSKY WHEN I knock on May’s door. Instead of bein’ angry with me, she seems happily surprised.

  “Howdy, Emmett,” she says.

  “Hi.”

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “I’d rather you come out on the porch and close the door so the girls won’t hear.”

  She’s wearin’ an amused expression on her face, but says, “Very well, then.”

  She comes outside. Says, “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Do you know why I was angry?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Do you want me to try to explain?”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  She nods, then says, “I heard you proposed to Margaret.”

  “That ain’t true.”

  She laughs. “I never believed it. You’re Gentry’s man, through and through. And you’ll be Gentry’s man long after she’s moved on.”

  She gives me a moment to agree or deny. When I don’t, she says, “What did you want to discuss?”

  I study May’s face while sayin’, “Lilly knew about Gentry and the cattleman.”

  Several strange looks come over her face. Like she’s worried, then curious, then puzzled. Finally, she speaks. “I might’ve mentioned something to Lilly as a precautionary tale.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Lilly’s young and beautiful, like Gentry. I was concerned the cattleman might come after her, too.”

  “But you don’t remember his name?”

  “No. As I said last night, Gentry never disclosed it.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “How so?”

  “Lilly knew his name.”

  “The cattleman?”

  I nod. “Know what I think?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I think Gentry ran into Lilly that night she was upset, not you. And told Lilly about this cattleman. And since this town thrives on gossip and rumor, somewhere along the line, probably yesterday mornin’, Lilly told you about the cattleman and Gentry. She said you could make it seem like it happened to you, since she wasn’t interested in me.”

  There’s a long silence between us while May’s face grows beet red. “You’re calling me a liar?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She slaps me again, full force. Then says, “Do you have anything else to say to me?”

  “I do. Lilly’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “I killed her, not thirty minutes ago. At her place.”

  29.

  “I’M SORRY I’VE got no chairs and tables,” I say, sippin’ a cup of birch bark tea, “but I’ll be brief. The reason I called this emergency meetin’ is to inform you I’m still sheriff of Dodge City. And in that…”

  I look over at Margaret, who says, “Capacity.”

  “Capacity?”

  She nods.

  “In that capacity, of bein’ town sheriff and all, I shot and killed someone tonight.”

  Everyone starts murmerin’ till Tom Collins asks, “Is it someone we know?”

  It’s hard to decide who’s in worse shape: George Reed, who’s dyin’ of lead poisonin’, or Tom Collins, our one-armed, one-legged former blacksmith. George’s body is completely gray, while Tom’s is yellow with black spots. It’s also hard to tell who stinks the most. Yesterday George would a’ won hands down. But Tom took a turn for the worse and smells like fresh entrails. I think about it a minute and decide it’s close, but George wins the stink contest by a nose.

  By tomorrow it’ll change. Though neither man looks likely to survive the night, I give ’em credit for their public display of civic pride.

  “Who’d you kill, sheriff?” Alice Crapper calls out.

  “Lilly Gee.”

  Gasps of shock and horror fly from every saloon guest, which includes virtually every adult in Dodge City.

  I usually wait for murmurs to die down in these sorts of town meetin’s, but this time the murmurin’ don’t die. Finally Laurie Potts yells, “Why’d you kill her?”

  While the folks enjoy their murmurin’, they’d rather hear the answer to Laurie’s question, so they’re forced to quiet down.

  “She tried to shoot me, and I killed her in self-defense.”

  The women start yellin’ words of outrage to the point if they were armed, I’d be concerned. I wave my hands in the air to try to restore order, while continuin’ to speak.

  “You knew Lilly Gee as the former Lilly Parker,” I shout.

  They look around at each other and nod their heads. Yeah, they all knew she was a Parker, from east Texas.

  I hold her Bible above my head and say, “This is Lilly’s Bible, writ in her own hand, where she admits her actual maiden name was Hartman.”

  Clair Murphy hollers out, “If her maiden name got her killed, Alice Crapper better head for the hills!”

  Everyone laughs or chuckles, ’cept for Alice, and I feel we’ve passed the worst part.

  I know these town folk ain’t really makin’ sport of one of their friends bein’ killed. It’s the kind of jokin’ you do when you’re nervous or in shock. There’s also the fact they know my reputation. They were happy when I was sheriff, and I s’pect they’re happy to hear I’m back on the job. Or will be, after I find Gentry and fetch her home.

  I continue my speech: “Lilly was Sam Hartman’s sister. Today she asked me to protect her. I told her she could stay here and I’d make sure she was safe. Margaret agreed to bunk with her to keep things proper. Lilly said she’d be here at six, but didn’t show, so I went to her place to check on her. When I got there, she tried to shoot me with her rifle, on account of me killin’ her brother. I know this is a shock to you, as it was to me, but them are the facts. If anyone wants to dispute my word, speak up now, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “I’d like to see the Bible for myself,” Jane Plenty says.

  I hand it to her, and Gerta and Louise crowd around her to get a peek. Then I say, “I’d like to conclude this issue, if everyone’s satisfied about the way the killin’ took place.”

  “Why are you in such a rush to conclude the issue?” Claire says.

  “I need help buryin’ her. After that, I aim to go find Gentry.”

  The people talk among themselves.

  Jim Bigsby speaks up. “Emmett…I mean, sheriff?”

  “Yes, Jim.”

  “We ain’t got a workin’ shovel between us.”

  “Then I’ll need help bringin’ her to town. Anyone got a wagon?”

  I look around.

  “Anyone?”

  No one claims ownership of a wagon.

  “Jim, with your help I can make a lean-to from the wood we stacked on the floor. We can attach it to one a’ these horses, put Lilly’s body on it, bring her home, and bury her locally.”

  “I’m glad to help you, sheriff,” Jim says, “but we still don’t have a proper shovel.”

  “We can bury her in my jail hole,” I say.

  “That’s disgusting!” May Gray says.

  “Well, we could plant her in your garden, if you prefer.”

  May spins on her heels and stomps out the door, leavin’ me to wonder if she ain’t as keen on me tonight as she was yesterday.

>   Everyone starts makin’ for the door.

  “I have one last piece of business,” I say.

  They all turn around to hear it. Even May gets word and comes back inside.

  “As your duly-sworn sheriff, I hereby appoint Margaret Stallings to be mayor of Dodge City.”

  The gaspin’ about Margaret is nearly as loud as it was for Lilly.

  “Why, she’s a dang woman!” Art Carbunkle shouts.

  “She’ll end whorin’!” George Reed yells.

  Everyone looks at George, but only Claire Murphy is rude enough to say, “George, what do you care? You ain’t got a poke left in you.”

  I hold up my hand for quiet, and say, “Margaret has agreed to allow whorin’, cussin’, gamblin’, fightin’ and drinkin’, ’cause otherwise, how would we build a decent town?”

  I see a look on Margaret’s face that tells me I worded somethin’ wrong, but since no one’s throwin’ a fit over it, I keep talkin’.

  “Margaret has some fine ideas for buildin’ a school, a park, a town hall, and other such things.”

  Except for Claire, the women like the sound of them things, and exchange nods of approval. To them, Margaret represents a step up from our last mayor and town council members, who turned out to be circus performers that snuck into town one night when a nearby circus went bust. But Claire has always been one to stir the pot, and tonight is no exception.

  She calls out, “Is this a real job, or is it what you offered Margaret after sharing her bed and jilting her?”

  All eyes in the room turn my way.

  I say, “Margaret never proposed to me, and I never shared her bed, nor jilted her in any way.”

  They look at Margaret, who says, “Of all the ridiculous rumors I’ve heard, this one takes the cake.”

  “You were seen on one knee in the street proposing to him,” Louise says. “Then you jumped up and kissed him flush on the mouth.”

  Margaret sighs. “I was on one knee to check the locks on Emmett’s leg irons. When I realized we had a key to fit the locks, I was so happy for him, yes, I kissed him. If that kiss of happiness for a friend has offended any of you, I humbly apologize.”

  “You kissed him flush on the mouth?” Claire Murphy says.