Part 18 —Full Moon Over Silver Springs
Monday, 02 November 2009 23:16
Pandemonium erupted. Victoria sprang to her feet in time to see two men disappear out the front doors, sprinting as fast as their legs could carry them. Then everyone else scrambled up as well, screaming and shouting in alarm, pushing every which way, some trying to go to the aid of the prostrate mayor, some merely to get away, but all of them effectively blocking her path to the entrance.Monroe too was shouting, desperately trying to make himself heard over the din, but the panic was too widespread already, and no one paid him any heed. The new Marshal had never made a name by imposing himself on others, but simply by doggedly pursuing his duty and earning their respect, which talents were singularly unhelpful in the midst of a panicky mob. Knowing full well she’d never be able to make her voice carry over the screaming, Victoria opted instead to shove her way bodily through the crowd, elbowing people out of her way, trying to get to the front doors before the shooters had time to make a clean getaway.
Before she was halfway there there was a deafening roar, the sound of gunfire ringing out for the second time in almost as many minutes. With a few final shrieks of alarm the crowd lapsed into a frightened silence, milling about and looking around for the source of this latest disturbance. Once things were relatively still, it wasn’t difficult to pinpoint the cause of the noise: Liza Jane Mortimer was standing on the stage, shotgun in hand, having just let loose with both barrels into the air, and the ceiling of the Springwater was now riddled with buckshot.
“Hellfire and damnation!” the diminutive singer yelled, her voice dominating the entire saloon. “Look at y’all! Y’all think squallin’ and carryin’ on like a pack o’ scalded cats is goin’ to help any?” there was a general shuffling of feet, and a murmur of denial ran through the crowd. “That’s right,” Liza Jane said approvingly, “Y’all just git ahold of yourselves and ket the Marshal and his folks do their jobs now, y’hear? Go on, git!” she shouted this last at a group of gawkers assembled in a confused knot at the foot of the stage, waving her shotgun for emphasis, and, embarrassed, they scuttled aside, forming a clear path for Doc Mallard, the town’s only physician and surgeon, to get up onto the stage clutching his black bag and begin treating his patient.
Taking advantage of the sudden stillness, Vicky shoved her way past a few more onlookers and pushed open the front doors, staring out into the inky-black night, waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She was surprised to see that it had snowed over the course of the evening without her noticing, and now a thick white shroud lay over the town’s roofs and usually muddy streets. It probably wouldn’t last more than a few days before it was turned into sludge, but right now it was beautiful, sparkling in the light of the waxing white moon, and tranquil. Idly Vicky wondered what it was called a few days before the moon turned full, then dismissed the notion as idle and turned her thoughts back to the more pressing matter at hand.
“Dammit. Them sons of bitches got clean away!”
Victoria started as Liza Jane’s oddly low-pitched voice reached her ears. Turning, she found the young woman standing by her elbow. Vicky hadn’t expected her to come running up behind her, but in retrospect it wasn’t all that surprising: Liza Jane looked to be a real trouble magnet. Something they had in common, she supposed. Vicky sighed.
“I oughta lock you away for discharging your weapon indoors, and in a public gathering place no less,” she commented drily. “But for what it’s worth, thank you.”
Liza Jane turned a disarming grin on her. “Aww, c’mon deputy. I was only tryin’ to help, and everyone was carryin’ on something fierce, anyhow. I figure I did you a favour.”
Vicky shrugged. “Whatever. We got bigger fish to fry right about now, in any case. Just keep in mind the Marshal’s planning on enforcing a firearms ordinance soon. You’d do well to keep that shotgun of yours somewhere where it won’t get anyone killed.”
“Hell, deputy, I know what I’m doing!” Liza Jane’s temper flared, “I ain’t gettin’ rid of Harold, and that’s that! Gun ordinance be damned!”
“On your head be it.”
Victoria was saved from further comment by the arrival of Marshal Monroe, who was looking distinctly unhappy at having the tenuous peace of his small town thus shattered with impunity. He’d only recently begun to make the inhabitants of Coldwater Creek begin to feel safe again, and this latest assault on one of the symbols that held the townfolk together had shaken and angered him.
“Doc Mallard’s had the Mayor brought up to a room so he can operate. He says there’s a chance he might live, and from what I hear, if anyone can pull off a miracle like that, it’s Doc Mallard.” He didn’t sound convinced, Victoria noted.
She gestured out into the darkness, her breath frosting in the cold night air. “It isn’t real likely we’ll catch up with them tonight, but at least we’ll know which way they went.” She pointed to the fresh tracks that had broken through the new crust of snow on the ground, as visible in the pale moonlight as though it had been broad daylight. They’d left a churned-up trail of mud and slush leading out of town heading almost directly West which would be dead easy to follow.
Monroe looked pleased for the first time since the commotion had started. “It doesn’t look like there’ll be a thaw tonight, either. We have time to form a proper posse and go after them at first light. We’re too likely to miss them in the dark. But a greenhorn could follow these tracks without any trouble at all. Get your gear ready, and try to get some sleep: we’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“I’m coming with you.”
If Slowpoke felt any surprise at having a saloon singer who barely reached up to his breastbone volunteer to be part of his posse, he had the grace and good sense not to show it.
“Well, Miss, that’s might kind of you and all. But, see, the thing is, we’ll be riding hard and fast, come dawn. We won’t be able to stop for long at any time until we catch up with those sons of bitches, if you’ll pardon the expression, and we’re like to be gone for a few days at least. It ain’t really the sort of thing that’s suited for a lady such as yourself.”
Victoria suppressed a snort of mirth, and Liza Jane’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Seems to me that you’re going to need every good hand with a gun you can lay your hands on, Marshal. I’m a crack shot with Harold here, and I ain’t too mean with my pistols, neither. And I don’t exackly see folks linin’ up to be part of your posse, or maybe my eyesight is finally startin’ to go with age.”
To her surprise, Vicky found herself chiming in. “She’s got a point, Marshal. Let her come. From what I hear tell, she’s a better shot with that shotgun than a lot of the men you could recruit around here. It ain’t like you’d be asking her to do anything different than you’re asking me, and if she falls behind, well, then we can send her on back to town.”
“Sounds agreeable to me, Marshal. What do you say?” Liza Jane gave Slowpoke her most endearing grin.
“All right, well, let’s sleep on it, anyhow, and see how it looks in the morning.”
That was as much of a guarantee as Liza Jane was ever going to get, at least at that hour, and although she was visibly dissatisfied with the answer she’d received, she managed to hold her tongue. In an obvious effort at conciliation, Monroe enlisted her aid in shepherding the remaining saloon-goers home. There were still any number of frightened and disoriented folk milling about who needed reassurance and hand-holding, a job to which Liza Jane turned out to be a lot better suited than either Victoria or Slowpoke. Alternately wheedling and threatening, cajoling and coercing, Liza Jane handled the crowd like an old sheepdog with a herd of recalcitrant sheep. She yipped and nipped at their heels, brought the stragglers back from the outskirts, and within an hour had dispatched everyone to the warmth and comparative safety of their own homes.
Only Old Eli was left by the time they were done, along with Trevor Davis Fletchley. Fletchley was scribbling furiously in his notebook, pausing every now and then to argue fiercely with Otto, the owner of the Springwater, who was refusing him access to the mayor’s room for an interview. Eli was simply too drunk to move.
“But you don’t understand! This is the interview of a lifetime! I should at least get a statement from the doctor, Otto. Please please please, you have to let me up there. I promise I won’t make a disturbance, but the public needs to know this!”
“Nein,” Otto’s deep voice boomed in the now-empty saloon. “You vill not be disturbing ze gut doctor vhen he is vorking. You vill leave now, or I will be forced to throw you out.”
“Well, can I come back tomorrow, then? I have a friend just arrived in town, he’s a photographer, and this would make great material for a picture. How about tomorrow, Otto?”
Otto made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and the clearing of his throat. “I vill ask ze gut doctor tomorrow if you may haff permission to fisit. I make no promises.”
Monroe clapped a callused hand on Fletchley’s shoulder. “Go on back to your room, Fletchley. The Mayor isn’t going anywhere, and I won’t have you fussing anyone until he’s better.”
Fletchley sagged, disappointment written all over his face. “Fine. But I need to cover this story. Think it’d be all right if my partner and I accompanied you tomorrow?” His face lit up as new headlines began to form in his mind. “Think of it. The grim posse chasing down evildoers: a perspective from the scene itself!” Monroe shoved him toward the door before he could warm too much to his subject.
“We’ll see about that tomorrow, Fletchley. I don’t want you getting in the way.”
When the young reporter was gone, Monroe turned back to Vicky with a resigned expression. “Why is it I get the feeling that instead of professional lawmen, we’re going to be haring off after those shooters with a pair of tinhorns and a loose cannon? A female loose cannon, at that.”
Vicky grinned. “Don’t you worry, Marshal. I’m sure someone of use’ll turn up. You take your own advice and head on to bed now.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”