So he turned and walked into the office, expecting one hell of a mess that’d need cleaning up. But to his surprise, Ward had spent a busy night with the push broom and the cleaning cloths.
“Wash and dry in one move,” Jason said with a chuckle. “That’s Ward.”
Southeast of town, Wash Keogh was looking like mad for his gold vein, the one he was certain was going to make him rich, and the one from which he carried a turkey egg–sized chunk in his pants pocket.
He’d been searching all morning, but nothing, absolutely nothing had shown up. It wasn’t raining now, but it had drizzled long enough after sunrise that the desert was still wet, washed free of its usual cover of dust. He had expected to find himself confronted with a shimmering wall of gold, the kind they wrote about in those strike-it-rich dime novels.
But no. Nothing.
Had somebody been in here before him and cleaned it all out? It sure looked that way. Maybe the chunk he’d found had simply been tossed away like so much trash. He growled under his breath. Life just wasn’t fair!
“What did those other boys do right that I done wrong?” he asked the skies. “I lived me a good life, moved settlers back and forth, protected ’em from the heathen Indians! I worked with or for the best—Jedediah Fury, Whiskey Hank Ruskin, and Herbert Bower, to name just three. All good, godly men! I brung nuns to Santa Fe and a rabbi to San Diego, for criminy’s sake, and I guarded that preacher an’ his family to Fury. All right, I do my share of cussin’, some say more. And I like my who-hit-John, but so do them priests a’yours. What more do you want from me?”
There was no answer, only the endless, clear blue sky.
Another hour, he thought. Another hour, and then he’d have himself some lunch.
He set off again, his eyes to the ground, keenly watching for any little hint of glittering gold.
It was Sunday, and Jason had let his sister, Jenny, sleep in. She was probably tuckered out from the storm. He knew he was.
The girls—Megan MacDonald was with her—woke at nine, yawning and stretching, and both ran to the window at the sound of softly pattering rain.
“Thank God!” Jenny said, loudly enough that Megan jumped. Jenny didn’t notice. “Rain!” she said in wonder, and rested her hand, palm out, on the windowpane. “And it’s cool,” she added in a whisper. “Megan, feel!”
She took Megan’s hand and pressed its palm again the pane, and Megan’s reaction was to hiss at the chill. “My gosh!” she said, and put her other hand up next to it. “It’s cold!”
Ever down to earth, Jenny said, “Oh, it’s not cold, Meg, just cool. I wonder if Jason’s up?”
She set off down the hall to wake him, but found his room empty except for an absolutely filthy pile of clothes heaped on the floor, dead center!
“He’s gone,” she said to nobody. Meg hadn’t followed her. Turning, she grumbled, “Well, I hope he had the good sense to take a bath,” and walked up the hall toward the kitchen, where she heard Megan already rooting through the cupboards.
A little while later, after both girls had washed last night’s grime out of their hair and off their bodies, and had themselves a good breakfast, they walked uptown toward Solomon and Rachael’s store.
The storm—long gone by now—hadn’t shaken Jenny’s hens, who had taken shelter in the low hay mow of Jason’s little barn, and subsequently laid a record number of eggs. The girls’ aim was to sell the excess eggs and find a new broom and dustpan, which Jenny had needed for a coon’s age, but hadn’t got round to buying yet. This seemed like the time, what with the floors of the house nearly ankle-deep in detritus.
They had barely reached the mercantile and were standing, staring in the window, when the skies suddenly opened again! Rain began to pelt them in huge, hard drops, and Megan grabbed Jenny’s hand and yanked her. “C’mon!” she hollered.
But Jenny had put the brakes on, and just skidded along the walk behind Megan, the egg basket swinging from her other hand. “Wait! The door’s back the other way, Meg!”
“Come on!” Megan insisted, and tugged Jenny for all she was worth. “The mercantile’s closed, Jenny!”
“It is?” Jenny began to run alongside Megan then, and what Megan was headed for wasn’t a very nice place—it was Abigail Krimp’s. But any port in a storm, she told herself. It surely beat standing out here. Her skirt was already almost soaked!
Abigail was holding the door for them, and they ran directly inside, laughing and giggling from the race, not to mention where it had ended. It was the first time either one of them had so much as peeked inside a place like Abigail’s—just the location made them giddy!
But Abigail was just as nice as Jenny remembered from the trip coming out. Why, she didn’t look “sullied” at all! That’s what Mrs. Milcher always called her. And then it occurred to her that she didn’t even know what “sullied” meant. And Jenny had the nerve to call herself Miss Morton’s assistant schoolmarm!
Abigail put a hand on each girl’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you young ladies have a seat while you wait it out? I declare, this weather of late is conspirin’ to put me outta business!” She led them to the first of three tables and sat them down. “You gals like sarsaparilla?”
Jenny’s mouth began to water. It had been ages! She piped up, “Yes, ma’am!” and Megan nodded eagerly.
But Jenny’s money sense moved in. “We don’t have any money, Miss Abigail. But thank you anyway.”
Megan looked at her as if she’d like to toss her over the stockade, and Jenny stared down at her hands.
“Not everything in here’s for sale, you sillies!” Abigail laughed. “I thought we’d just have us a nice, friendly sody pop. Been forever since I just got to sit and socialize.” And she was off, behind the bar.
Megan and Jenny exchanged glances, but Abigail was back by then, with three bottles of sarsaparilla, three glasses, a bottle opener, and a small bowl of real ice! The ice itself opened up the first topic of conversation, and Abigail told them that she had a little cellar dug far underground, under the back of the bar, where she kept a barrel full of ice when she could get it. This was the last of her current stash, which had come down from the northern mountains with the last wagon train to stop in Fury.
Jenny was transfixed, but Megan was halfway through her first glass. If you put enough ice in the glass, your bottle was enough to pour out twice. Jenny looked away from Abigail long enough to ice her glass, then fill it with
