It was at about the time that he handed out the last flier that he noticed the sky. It was darker than it should have been, filled with black and dark grey clouds where before there had been only white wisps. A storm was coming, and coming soon.
The wind was already whipping papers and bits of detritus along the street. Several of his own fliers passed him by. He put a hand atop his head to hold down his hat, then strode back up the street on his long, thin, black- panted legs, to the church.
“Lavinia?” he called as he climbed the stairs. “Storm’s coming in again!”
Before the weather turned bad, Deputy U.S. Marshall Abraham Todd had set out to the north, to visit the Mortons and make his plea. He was as slicked up as it was possible to get in Fury, and he had even taken the time to groom his blue roan to a spit shine. He imagined, as he followed the path that his Electa had made going to and from the school five days a week, that he fairly glittered in the sun. At least he hoped he did. He wanted all the help he could get with Electa’s folks.
He reached the ranch in under an hour. It lay spread out before him, cupped in a wide valley, with two big houses and one slightly smaller, three barns, plenty of corrals, and the sounds and smells of cattle and hogs and horses and freshly mown hay.
He instantly felt right at home.
He dismounted in front of the house Electa had told him belonged to her folks, tied his horse to the rail, and climbed up the steps. He stood there a moment, shifting from boot to boot, tugging at his vest, and nervously clearing his throat before he raised his knuckles to rap at the door.
It was immediately answered by a small, attractive, grey-haired woman, who smiled at him and said, “Yes?”
“Would you be the Mrs. Morton who’s Electa Morton’s mother?” he asked. He could barely get the words out, and for a second, he thought he was going to choke on his own tongue.
But she seemed not to notice his discomfort, and replied, “I am, indeed. And you must be Marshal Abraham Todd, from Prescott.”
He felt his head nod. “Yes’m, that’s me. I wonder, could I speak to you and Mr. Morton? About Electa?”
She opened the door wider and stepped back. “Do come inside, son.”
Nobody had called him “son” since Hector was a pup, and he sort of liked it. He went inside and followed her down a wide hallway, then turned to the right, into a large parlor. There sat (he supposed, at any rate) Mr. Morton, reading a newspaper.
Mrs. Morton said, “He’s here, dear.”
The paper lowered, and he got his first glimpse of Electa’s father: a rugged man, serious in spirit and probably honest as the day was long, with greywhite hair and a long beard to match. He was dressed in a farmer’s togs, overalls and a plaid shirt, and wore the farmer’s badge—a tan line straight across his forehead, where his hatband stopped.
The hat itself hung neatly on a peg beside the doorway he’d just come through. Which served to remind Abe that he was still wearing his. Belatedly, he swept it off his head, then ran his fingers through his hair to put it back into order.
Mr. Morton had apparently been sizing him up, too, because in lieu of “hello,” he said, “Well, you look the part anyway, young man.”
Young man? Nobody had called him that, either, not in a
Morton swept his hand toward a side chair. “Rest your bones, boy. I understand that you want to talk to me about Electa.”
Abe collapsed into the chair more than he sat in it, and said, “Yessir. First off, I want you to know that I’m a deputy U.S. marshal, and I make good money, enough to support us both and then some. Got some money saved, too, up in the Prescott Bank. Got near about four thousand dollars, by my reckoning. My folks came from Massachusetts and their folks came from England, and they moved to California when it was still under Spanish control. That’s when they had me. I grew up on stories about Zorro and Joaquin Murrieta and the like, cause my pa worked as a manager on a big hacienda for several years.”
He stopped to catch his breath, and when he did, Morton asked the big question: “And how do you feel about Electa? Do you love her? Promise to take care of her come drought or famine, hell or high water?”
Abe swallowed hard. He said, “Mr. Morton, I love your daughter with all my heart, and the rest of me, too. I’d die for her, but I’d rather live with her as man and wife. With your permission, of course, sir.”
There. He’d said it. Filled with relief as well as a sickening sense of dread, he leaned back in the chair, and let out a light-headed sigh.
For the first time, Morton smiled. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “You’ll do fine, son.”
Abe passed out.
When he came to, it was to Mrs. Morton pressing a damp cloth to his head and soothing him with her voice. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, yet, but it sounded nice. And then, remembering why he’d ridden out here in the first place, he sat bolt upright, startling Mrs. Morton as well as himself.
“Did he say yes?” he said, not sure what was dream and what was reality.
Mrs. Morton smiled softly. “Yes, Abraham, he said yes. Would you like a glass of water?”
Abe nodded. “Yes ma’am, please.”
She disappeared in the direction of what he assumed was the kitchen, and returned with a tall glass of water, complete with—ice?
He stared at it. The glass was cold.
“We bring it down from the high mountains,” she explained, as if anyone could do it. “And we store it in a cellar under the house. I understand that Miss Krimp, in town, has much the same arrangement.”
