Dead Reckoning (5 page)

There were others who tried—men and boys—and she let the more persistent ones succeed. May came to believe that this was a terror all girls just suffered because men were bigger and stronger, and because they harbored that monster in their hearts. When she told her best friend about it, her friend never spoke to her again. Then she knew her life was different. It wasn't all girls; it was just she. She honestly did not know why. She never purposefully sent signals to any men, but they swooped down on her like birds of prey when she was in any way alone or vulnerable.

When she met Charlie Holt, he seemed different. He was from Kansas and had come back to Iowa to visit family. He was far from refined, but impressed her with his honest talk. Built solid from toil, he nevertheless seemed gentle. He courted her like no man had ever done, taking her to church services, sitting with her on the porch. At twenty-three, he was four years older than May. He had been farming for five years in Kansas and had a sod house built there. He described the country in simple words that made her want to see it. Two weeks after she met him, they were married.

Kansas wasn't as beautiful as May had hoped, but she made a home there. About the time she started to like it, her husband went to town one night and got drunk. Over the next few months he started drinking more frequently, turning ugly when he came home.

“I don't know why I married you,” he said one night. “God, if I'd known you was barren, I never would have.”

May didn't understand these things, but she didn't see how she could be barren when she had been pregnant before. When she was eighteen she had suffered six weeks of sheer mortification when she became pregnant by a friend of her older brother. She never told anyone about the pregnancy or the miscarriage, adding the memories to the other ghosts that trailed her.

“Another thing,” Charlie Holt added. “You tried to make me think you was a virgin, didn't you? I knowed the first night we was married you was a far sight from a virgin.”

The next time Charlie came home drunk, he hit her in the face with his fist for no reason, then passed out on the bed. May had been pinned down and shoved around a couple of times, but she had never been hit. It hurt bad when Charlie hit her and made her feel like some kind of scared varmint animal in a trap.

Weeds grew up in the cornfield, and Charlie lost his draft horse in a card game. May kept a fine garden that helped to feed them, but one night Charlie poured kerosene down each row and burned it. “Teach you to mock me, goddammit, woman!” he cried, a whiskey slur stringing his words together.

May tried to stop him, but he grabbed a barrel stave and hit her with it until she was curled up on the ground whimpering.

That was all May Tremaine intended to endure. After Charlie finished his bottle and passed out, she made sure he wouldn't wake up by ringing a frying pan on the top of his head. She then packed everything she could carry and left in the middle of the night for Denver. She took her maiden name back and tried to forget she had ever been married to Charlie Holt.

She had heard that men out beyond the frontier held a higher view of the fairer sex, as women were scarce out there. Well, maybe it was true for other women, but not May. The cobbler and that man at the wagon yard had convinced her. She was doing something to provoke them. She would stop it if she knew what it was, but she didn't know. Now she was hungry and starting to think that she should use it to her advantage—whatever it was. They were going to keep coming after her, anyway. She might as well get paid for it.

Limping, she came to the house of red curtains she had seen earlier in the day. How did one apply for a job as a whore? Walk in? Maybe she should use the back door. She sat down on the front steps of the place and squinted back the tears. Maybe this was all she was good for. She had heard stories of whores marrying wealthy men out west. Maybe this was where her fortunes would change. Things couldn't get worse.

As she took off her shoes to soothe her feet, the door flew open and a cowboy staggered out, yelling as if he had a herd before him. A trail boss followed the cowboy and pushed him so hard that the cowboy tripped down the steps past May. He rolled when he hit the street and came up with his fists in front of him. Then he saw May, opened his hands, and adjusted his hat.

“Well, howdy,” he said as the trail boss stepped off the stairs to the street.

May just looked away from the cowboy as she rubbed her feet gingerly.

“Where was you thirty minutes ago?” the cowboy said.

The trail boss laughed. “You mean thirty seconds.”

“Hey,” the young drover said, squatting in front of May, “you comin' off work or goin' on?” He grinned and put his hand on her knee.

She drew away, glancing at the boss for help, but the older man just stood staring. “I don't work here,” she said. “I was just resting.”

“Come on with us,” the cowboy said, grabbing her wrist. “We'll go dancin' or somethin'.” He stood and pulled her toward the dirt street.

She tried to wrench free, but his grip twisted her skin. “My feet hurt,” she said. “I can't go.”

He jerked her toward him, clamping an arm around her waist, lifting her from the steps. “I'll carry you, then. You don't even have to step on them sore feet.”

The trail boss sighed. “Now, you better leave her be.”

“We're dancin',” the cowboy answered.

May tried to push herself away, but the cowboy squeezed her as if he would break her back. She twisted her face away from his whiskey breath, and as she writhed in his grasp, she caught sight of a man trotting toward her on the street. A good-looking young man, well built, wearing an oilskin hunting coat.

Six

“Put her down!” Clarence Philbrick said.

The cowboy looked at Clarence but kept his hold on May. “Mind your own business, son,” he said, though he was not even twenty.

“I'd hate to have to whip you right here in the street,” the Vermonter said, “but I will if you don't let her go.” He looked at the trail boss, and the older man simply backed away a couple steps and leaned on the rail of the whorehouse porch.

The cowboy let May slide out of his grasp, and she sprang to the steps. “Stranger,” the cowboy said, “if you was to try whippin' me, and I ever found out about it, I'd kick your ass all over the prairie.”

Clarence cocked his arms and showed his fists. “I'll risk you finding out.”

The cowboy put his hands on his hips and sized up his opponent. He looked at the trail boss.

“What are you waitin' on?” the older man said. “You been wantin' a fight all day.”

The young cowboy grinned and took his coat off, throwing it aside. “Ain't you gonna get ready?”

“I believe I am ready,” Clarence replied. The gold coins sewed into his sleeves were going to slow his punches somewhat, but he didn't dare take the coat off here.

“All right,” the cowboy said. He raked his boot in the dirt like a bull, got wild eyed, and rushed the Vermonter, growling to the tune of ringing spurs.

Clarence stepped gracefully to one side to avoid the rush and jabbed the cowboy in the side of the jaw as he tried to swerve. The cowboy stumbled to one side and plowed headlong into the dirt.

The trail boss laughed. “Lovin' or fightin', you don't last long, do you, boy?”

The cowboy scrambled to his feet. “Stand still this time!” he ordered. He set his smarting jaw and came at Clarence again, more carefully now. Just as he drew within striking distance, he took one big step and swung the pointed toe of a boot at the Vermonter's groin.

The kick was not well disguised, but it still took Clarence off guard, and he had to hump his spine and spring backward to evade the worst. The boot caught him in the stomach, and the cowboy's fist clobbered him over the back of the head, but Clarence latched onto the leg and yanked upward with everything he had, throwing the cowboy so hard that dust flew out from under him when he hit.

The trail boss whistled a laugh up his throat and slapped his thigh.

Clarence circled and went back to his kind of fight, his fists waiting. When the cowboy sprang, he ran hard at the Vermonter, the whites of eyes and teeth showing his anger. This time Clarence used the momentum. He stood his ground, leaned into the attack, and snapped a jab into the cowboy's nose. Blood spurted as the drover stood up, and Clarence followed with a hard right that made the cowboy's knees buckle.

“All right, stranger,” the trail boss said, stepping between the two. “That's enough.”

Clarence stepped away and let the older man help the cowboy to his feet.

“Somebody was gonna have to do that sooner or later today,” the boss said, looping the bloody cowboy's arm over his shoulder. “I'm just glad it wasn't me.” He winked at Clarence, ignored May, and took the young drover away.

May buckled her shoe and stood on the steps. “Thanks,” she said, looking at the ground, avoiding Clarence's eyes. She was grateful, but for all she knew, this man might treat her rougher than the cowboy.

“Don't mention it,” he replied.

They stood awkwardly in silence as a steam whistle wailed far away at the depot. “My name's Clarence Philbrick,” he said, thrusting his hand toward her.

“May Tremaine.” She briefly touched his hand.

He took a good look at her for the first time. Her face was doll-like, blushing about the cheeks, brown eyes matching swirls of hair. He had kept in his mind, since leaving Vermont, a vague notion of courting Western women, though he knew they were few. It just went to prove his instincts. Yes, things were going to pan out here.

“Well, you can go on in now,” May said, feeling uneasy under his stare.

Clarence looked at the whorehouse door and the red curtains in the window. “In there?” he said, trying to sound astounded. “You don't think … I was just walking back to town from camp. Just passing through this way.”

“Well, so was I,” she said. “My feet hurt, so I sat down here for a minute. I didn't know…” She made a remote gesture toward the door.

Clarence took his hat off and raked his hair back. “I was going to have some supper,” he said. “Would you think me too forward if I asked you to join me? My treat. I just got paid.” He cringed inwardly. Yes, of course she'll think you're too forward. You just met her, you idiot.

May started to decline, but a hunger pang stabbed her stomach, and she got practical. “I'd like that,” she said. “I don't know anybody here.” She stepped down from the stairs, smiling through the torture of each stride.

They walked to a seemlier quarter of town, May trying her best to hide the limp.

“Did you get hurt back there?” Clarence asked.

“I'm wearing new shoes,” she said.

In the café, they talked about where they were from, but neither cared to volunteer a reason for coming west.

May tried to remember her manners as she ate, though she was starving. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked, moving her plate to cover some gravy she had slung onto the checkered tablecloth.

“I was on the boxing team in college.” He chuckled. “Some of those tactics that cowboy used took me off guard. Those would have been considered poor form where I'm from.” He noticed calluses on May's hands as she held a fried chicken leg daintily in her fingers.

After Clarence paid, he stood with her on the boardwalk for an awkward moment. “Can I walk you home?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said. She had to wonder what he meant by that. He had been a perfect gentleman so far, but she had seen them blink and become predators. Still, she didn't want to part company just yet. If ever there was a time to harness that mystery that made men desire her, this seemed to be it. “Actually, I don't…”

Clarence waited. “Yes?” He saw that she felt uneasy and embarrassed, and the truth dawned on him. “You don't have a place to stay, do you?”

She shook her head. This was very risky. She was vulnerable now. “Don't you worry about me. I'll make out all right.” She felt ridiculous. What could a college boy from Vermont possibly see in her?

“Do you have any money?”

She shook her head again.

He reached into his pocket.

“No,” she said, surprising herself with the firm tone. “You've done enough for me. I won't take any more from you.” She would go back to that house of red curtains before she became a beggar.

Clarence let his money drop back into his pocket and put his hand on his chin. “I can't very well leave you out here on the street.”

“I'll take care of myself. You don't need to worry about me.”

“Wait a minute,” Clarence said. “I may have an idea. Are you determined to stay in Denver?”

She shrugged. “I don't have to stay anywhere.”

“Are you religious?”

May's eyebrows pushed together, her curiosity sharpening. “I used to like to go to church. Why?”

“I hear there's a group of pilgrims camped up on Clear Creek. They're going over the mountains to establish a new town. What if we go up there and see what they're about? Maybe they'll take you in.”

May tilted her head forward and looked at him. She felt the dry air parching her lips. “Pilgrims?” she said.

“It's a church. They're on a pilgrimage to find a new town site. That's all I know about them, but it wouldn't hurt to find out more, would it?”

“I guess not.” It was a hope worth considering, only she didn't feel much like walking all the way up Clear Creek with her feet smarting so.

He took her by the elbow and guided her to a bench on the boardwalk. “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?” she said. It felt good to get off her feet, so she sat down.

“I'll be right back.” He trotted away down the street and turned a corner.