Beyond the Pale

Part 17 —Full Moon Over Silver Springs

Monday, 02 November 2009 23:14

Small towns, Victoria decided, were not all that bad when they weren’t riddled with corruption. Sure, boomtowns weren’t known for their church-going moral ways, but then, neither was she. Not anymore. Yes, this town suited her just fine, she thought, nodding politely to a man who doffed his hat in her direction and waving to the wife of the mercantile shop’s owner. With the demise of Heywood Landry and the rapid departure of Arizona Jake Tully and his gang, and the influx of Union Blue employees as a result, the town was beginning to take on an entirely new atmosphere.

She tugged on Lightning’s reins and spurred him forward lightly in the direction of the mining claims out by the river that had given the town its name. The wind picked up out here, forcing her to pull her collar tightly about her face and thank every god she could think of that she’d bought a thick woolen scarf. Lightning had proved surprisingly adept at negotiating snow drifts and icy paths, for a southern-bred horse. She’d had him for almost two years now, and he’d seen her through thick and thin. She patted his neck affectionately and decided to see if she could scrounge up an apple or some carrots for him later.

“Good morning, Miss James! Enjoying the weather?”

Wright and Grey, of course. She stifled a sigh of resignation and wheeled Lightning around to greet them. She’d long ago figured out that the two of them played a game of never revealing which one of them was which, and that the smaller one never spoke at all. It had always seemed to be too much trouble to do anything other than play along with their ghoulish little charade. Hell, if it kept them happy to be the masters of mystery in this little backwater, Vicky wasn’t about to shoot them down. Figuratively speaking, she hastened to amend in her mind.

“Good morning. I am in fact enjoying the weather. It isn’t as cold as I’d feared it would be. I was just telling the Marshal that it looks like it’ll snow.”

“You may well be right on the money,” the big man said, smiling genially. “Don’t you think, Lucius?” the smaller man nodded. “Those clouds look decidedly ominous. Well, we shouldn’t keep you, in that case. Shall you be at the Springwater tonight? I hear tell Mayor Quarrie has a major announcement to make concerning the future of the town.”

Vicky already had a fairly good idea what the announcement was going to be, but she merely nodded. Wright and Grey weren’t the only ones able to keep secrets in this town. “That’s right. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll be there, don’t you worry.”

“Splendid! We look forward to seeing you there, then.”

“See you around, Mr. Wright. Mr. Grey,” she nodded to them both, keeping the gesture vague enough that they likely wouldn’t be able to tell to whom she’d nodded first.

Making the rounds of the claims was a standard affair, although it took the better part of the morning for her to do so.  The claims were staked reasonably far apart, and with the recent snowfall and even more recent dip the thermostat had taken, the roads were more treacherous than usual. Then on each claim she had to determine whether or not the occupant was at home or prospecting or in town for the day. If the latter, then her job was easy: make sure the boundaries were still marked off properly, make sure no one had otherwise messed with the claim during the night, and then be on her way.

If the prospector was on-site, though, which was more often the case, then there were complaints to field, reports to take (some more intelligible than others), and disputes to settle. Usually the disagreements were minor and easily resolved, and she’d found that she was good at mediating disputes. Of course, mostly it involved threatening to lock both parties in the jail for a few days to cool off until they could come to some sort of agreement, but there was nothing like the threat of losing valuable daylight hours and working days to get a man to see reason, was the way she put it when Monroe had challenged her on her unorthodox methods.

Today was mercifully no different from any other day, and she was grateful to be able to stop in one or two of the homes for some freshly-brewed coffee. The river being partly frozen slowed down prospecting a great deal in winter, and thus people were more likely to be at home, making improvements on their small shacks. Being cooped up because of the snow also made people edgier and quicker to take offense, but a few broken heads and a few pieces of buckshot in the backside of the worst offenders had made the majority of men quiet down in short order. In short, things were quiet, and Vicky found herself in imminent danger of growing complacent.

The feeling persisted through the day as she returned to the Marshal’s office to fill out her paperwork. She even thought she might be getting used to the bitter cold out here, for that matter. Apart from the bad night she’d spent, she was feeling remarkably energetic and even a bit cheerful. She finished her work early, and returned to the Springwater Hotel in time to coax a hot bath out of the burly German owner, Helmut, who was acting as barman until he could find a replacement for Taft.

She luxuriated in the bath for as long as she could, until the water began to go cold, then reluctantly dried herself and dressed to go downstairs again. Mayor Quarrie wasn’t slated to give his speech until much later, but there was a young woman who’d come to town three weeks previously, driven before a blizzard, who had not only turned out to be a performer, but had agreed to stay on for a while and entertain the miners. It was partly thanks to Liza Jane Mortimer that there had been as little trouble as could be hoped for in the winter months. Vicky wasn’t sure what to make of the woman, mind. Liza Jane was five feet of temper, and had fiery red hair to match. She also had a sawed-off shotgun, which she’d named Harold, and that’s what worried Vicky the most. Vicky had no problems with women wielding guns, but a sawed-off shotgun was lethal at close range, and Liza Jane seemed to view Harold as her personal bodyguard against the unwanted attention of men. Monroe had persuaded the quick-tempered singer to at least use rock salt while she was in Coldwater Springs, but as far as Victoria was concerned, the girl was a menace; an accident waiting to happen.

Liza Jane had already begun the evening’s performance when Vicky made her way downstairs. There was no denying it: she had talent and charisma, at least on the stage, and she knew her audience. Vicky scanned the room and, not seeing Monroe, sat at a corner table with a bottle of whiskey and something that was supposed to be a pot pie. Fletchley was seated at his usual table with a perfect view of the stage (although he was careful not to sit too close) having grown rather infatuated with the singer, but his evening looked like it had already been ruined by the presence of Old Eli, who was expounding at length on the unlikely misadventures of his friend Buffalo Bob the time they had run into a herd of alpacas. Vicky didn’t even know what an alpaca was, but she was pretty sure they weren’t native to America. She rolled her eyes and thanked her lucky stars they hadn’t spotted her.

Monroe slipped in quietly about an hour later, just as Liza Jane’s act was finishing. Vicky nodded to him, and turned to look at the stage where Mayor Quarrie had climbed up to make his announcement. The Mayor was a portly man somewhere in his forties, easily disinguishable from his constituents by the fact that he preferred to wear white suits. His mustache and pointed beard were neatly trimmed into a goatee, and he wore small rounded spectacles most of the time, his eyesight having begun to fail a few years previously. He held up his hands for silence.

“That was a most enjoyable performance, was it not?” he asked, his southern drawl seemingly more pronounced than ever. The crowd hooted and clapped, and Liza Jane, seated at a table surrounded by admirers, blushed prettily. Quarrie continued.

“I have not come tonight to discuss art, however. I have, as I said before, a very important announcement to make, concerning the future of this very town that we all cherish so dearly. As you know, my predecessor,” there were boos and hisses from the audience which ceased only when he held his hands up again, “was opposed to any of the major railroad companies making inroads in the region. In fact, Mr. Landry, whatever else might be said about him, was an enemy of progress. Yes, progress, ladies and gentlemen. I, on the other hand, am a great believer in progress, in the ways of the future, and there is no doubt in my mind that progress lies in the railroads. Coldwater Springs is a small town, and we are prosperous enough for now, but we all know that mines don’t always last forever, and it is my dream that we should make our small community into a great town!” He waited for the applause to die down, then continued. “That is why, ladies and gentlemen, I asked you to be here tonight: to witness a great moment in the history of our fair town.

It is my great pleasure to announce that, beginning immediately after the spring thaw, our friends from the Union Blue Railroad will be laying tracks right by Coldwater Springs, and building a railroad station right here in town. No longer will we be a simple boomtown no one even bothers to draw on the map, but a waypoint for all travellers. Given a few years, and I am certain that much of the potential in this town will have been realized, and we will be a major crossroads of civilization in these parts!” he finished triumphantly.

The applause was loud and, it appeared, sincere. People stamped and hooted, and Quarrie stood on the stage, his forehead glistening with sweat, looking pleased. Pleased, that is, until the sharp report of a pistol split the air, and with a surprised look on his face, the Mayor pressed a hand to the growing red stain on the breast of his otherwise immaculate white suite and crumpled to the floor.

*****