The Taylor County War Page 2

  Sighing, he looked at the small skull in his hand. Someday he hoped to discover a new species all his own, one he alone would be entitled to name, thereby assuring his perch upon a limb of the young tree called paleontology.

  A small rustling at the back of the classroom pulled him from his reverie. In the last row, Obie was leaning toward Frank, and Ethan was craning his neck in an obvious attempt to catch a glimpse of something. Marcus felt his brow furrow. He cleared his throat and stood from his desk.

  The boys went ramrod straight in their chairs.

  “You three have solved the ciphers already?” He pointed at the mathematical equations on the blackboard, then strode to the last row. “It appears you three have discovered something more interesting than arithmetic. I shall like to hear of it.”

  No one spoke. Marcus glimpsed Frank sliding something into his pocket. He extended his hand to the boy.

  Frank grimaced and placed a shiny little pistol upon his palm. “I was just showin’ them it.”

  “A Remington Model 95. It’s a very handsome pocket pistol, Mr. Miller. I can see why you were distracted.”

  Frank gave a lopsided smile. “My grandpa gave it to me. Says since I’m the man of the house now, I gotta keep Ma safe. He’s gonna give me Pa’s army revolver when I get a little bigger.”

  Marcus’s ire faded at the gleam in the boy’s eyes. If only he could find some way to stir up Frank’s interest in his school work like that. Obie and Ethan, too, for that matter. All three boys lived for the day when they would walk out the schoolhouse door for the last time and really become the man of the house. Marcus understood the urgency, recalling his own youth.

  “It’s an important responsibility your grandfather has put upon your shoulders, Mr. Miller. An honorable one to be sure, but school hours are for studying and learning, not whispering amongst your chums.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, back to your tasks. I’ll just hold onto this for a while. You may retrieve it after class.”

  ***

  Miss Cora Sloane returned from her meeting at 9:45, entering the schoolhouse through the back door so as not to disturb class. Marcus heard the door close softly, and then the tap of her shoes crossing the floor. A moment later Miss Sloane entered the classroom and removed her hat, placing it carefully upon a peg. She went to her desk, her handbag making a resounding thump on its top.

  She smiled at him and formed silent words. “Thank you.” And then her eyes fell upon the little pistol on his desk, and crinkled at the corners. “Surely they were not that naughty,” she whispered.

  “Angels, every one,” he replied quietly.

  She inclined her head at Frank Miller in the corner and lifted a questioning eyebrow.

  “Well,” he smiled, “almost every one.”

  Later, when he and Miss Sloane were at their desks eating lunch, Marcus told her about the incident. Most of the children were outside playing. Wilma Kitteridge and Martha Seward remained at their desks, chatting and giggling as they unhurriedly picked food out of their pails.

  “…the next thing I knew, he’d pulled the gun out to show off to the other boys. I’m just holding on to it until school lets out.”

  Cora Sloane shook her head, taking a bite out of the crusty edge her sandwich. “It seems he’s got an inordinate interest in weaponry…and little else. It’s a shame, isn’t it? Frank’s a very bright boy.”

  “Yes. I’m at a loss to find a way to encourage those three boys in their studies.” Marcus bit off a piece of crunchy dill pickle.

  Cora thought a moment, her forehead forming small washboard furrows. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Sublette?”

  “Certainly.” After so many weeks, he was surprised she felt the need to ask his permission. But then, Miss Sloane was a proper woman in every respect. She’d conducted herself with perfect decorum since coming to Wolf Creek to fill the position opened by the tragic murder of Miss Haselton.

  “What motivated you when you were their age? Something must have. You did go on to university for a degree in science.”

  That made him think a moment. “I was very much like these boys, I suppose, although more curious than most, and always getting into some mischief.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true. I nearly drove my parents to apoplexy!”

  “Yet something impelled you to pursue a diploma in paleontology.”

  “If anything, it was the War.”

  Her eyes widened a little. “You fought?”

  “War is glamorous to a young man, Miss Sloane.” He grimaced. “And it gives him direction — at least for a season.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Father insisted I further my education. The last thing I wanted was to be an accountant in a shipping firm as he was, but to please him, I agreed to a college near our home in Virginia. The war was my opportunity to flee the drudgery of books and essays, and a vacuous fraternity.”

  “Most enlightening.” She nibbled at her sandwich beginning on the edge and working round and round until all that was left was a small circle of bread. “What happened?”

  “I made a discovery — while sitting in a tree.”

  “A tree? That’s an odd place to be, isn’t it?”

  “I was working.”

  “Working?”

  He smiled at the skepticism in her voice. “I’d been upon the branch of an immense sycamore tree for four, five hours. Time loses meaning after a while. I’d been peering through my telescope watching for movement when something on a hillside nearby caught my eye. Since I’d not spotted a single living soul all morning, I climbed down out of the tree to investigate.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Bones, Miss Sloane, protruding from a bank of red Georgia clay. They were unlike any I’d ever seen, so I dug one out and took it back to camp. No one there had ever seen anything like it, either.”

  “Was it one of your dinosaur creatures?”

  He shrugged. “I’m certain it was, but I’ll never know, for the next morning we struck our tents.” He looked at her. “Those old bones sparked something inside me; an interest I didn’t even know I had. After the war I moved north to Pennsylvania to finish my education under the tutelage of Professor Edward Cope.”

  A knock brought his head around. Two men stood outside, peering in through the open door. The taller one spoke first. “Howdy. I’m Matt Henderson. I take it you’re the headmaster, Mr. Sublette?”

  “I am. How might I help you, Mr. Henderson?”

  “We got us a puzzle, sir,” the shorter one piped up. “One that might interest you.”

  He glanced at Miss Sloane, her brown eyes wide with curiosity, and then back. “You’re being cryptic.”

  Henderson smiled. “Bones. Out in the wagon. Heard you might be in the market.”

  “Ah.” Marcus instantly abandoned his half-eaten lunch and stood. “I might be — for the right sort of bones.”

  They went out to the wagon parked along Lincoln Street. The shorter fellow hopped up on the tailgate and hauled a dirty tarpaulin to one side.

  Marcus picked through the collection, examining the more interesting ones, casting the less important bones aside. “These are from several animals. They’re often found that way, as if jumbled together and deposited by running water. Most of these are common and recent.”

  He found the skull. “This is unusual.” His heart quickened. “Most unusual.” Calling up a mental catalogue, he couldn’t place it.

  “Worth anything to you?” Henderson asked.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “North of here.”

  “Breedlove’s place?”

  “We’re surveying a spur line for the railroad.”

  Marcus set the skull down trying not to show his excitement. “Could you show me?”

  Henderson slid his partner a glance and then looked back at him, grinning. “You buy them and I’ll draw you a map.”

&nbs
p; Marcus licked his lower lip. “Can I pick and choose?”

  The shorter fellow said, “Tell you what. We’ll dump ’em over there by the side yard and you can pick and choose all you want. We’re selling the whole load, not just the cream.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars,” Henderson said right off as if he’d already given the matter considerable thought.

  “Twenty dollars!” Marcus’s heart thumped hard his chest. That skull was unlike any he’d seen, he was sure of it. But twenty dollars was nearly a month’s salary! He steeled himself and pulled the cover back over the bones. He had to play this close to the vest. “I’m afraid I’m not that interested.” Would they call his bluff?

  He stepped away from. “Thank you for the opportunity to see them.” He turned back on the wagon with its thrilling collection of bones and started back to the schoolhouse, his head beading with sweat, his breath practically frozen in his chest.

  “Fifteen,” Henderson said.

  Marcus stopped. He started breathing again. He had to keep a cool head. The bones were of no use to these two, and they knew it. He turned back and spent a long time pondering . . . for their benefit. “You have a couple of interesting specimens, but the rest are quite common. Bison, most likely.

  “So, what would you pay for them?” the shorter man asked, and now his tone was not so certain.

  “I’ll give you three dollars for the whole lot.”

  Henderson looked at his friend. “I don’t want them, Harry.”

  “Buffalo bones?” Harry sighed and shook his head. “Five dollars and they’re yours.”

  Marcus stuck out a hand and shook on it before they could change their minds. When they had left, Miss Sloane looked at him.

  “What?” he asked when her stare stretched out uncomfortably long.

  “Bison bones?”

  “I didn’t say for sure that’s what they were.”

  “Remind me never to play poker with you, Mr. Sublette.”

  He laughed, and she did too.

  ***

  Marcus looked up from the thin sheaf of student work papers to find Frank Miller standing in front of his desk.

  “Yes?”

  “I come for my pistol, Mr. Sublette.”

  He’d forgotten about the earlier incident. “Of course.” He took the Derringer from a desk drawer. “I would prefer you leave this at home from now on.”

  “Yes sir.” Frank slipped it into a pocket and turned.

  “Mr. Miller.”

  “Sir?” Frank’s black eye had grown darker, and must have hurt badly, but he wasn’t going to let anyone know it. Marcus admired the boy’s grit. It reminded the teacher of himself at the same age.

  “You show little interest in your school work, Mr. Miller. I understand you think it’s time to step out in the world, and perhaps for you it is.” Marcus cringed at the words he heard himself saying, but sometimes the truth has to be faced head on. “Have you given any thought as to what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  Frank’s face brightened, threatening to wash away the ugly black and blue bruise about his eye. “I want to be a lawman –like Sheriff Satterlee, or Marshal Gardner.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed it. That’s an admirable goal.”

  Frank looked pleased to hear him say that.

  “Being a lawman isn’t only about finding criminals, you know. You’ll have to read and understand many legal documents. And like Sheriff Satterlee, you’ll have to manage the money the city council appropriates. That’s called budgeting, and requires a good knowledge of arithmetic and even mathematics . . . algebra, for instance.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, say someone robs the Wolf Creek Savings and Loan, and Mr. Lohorn offers a reward of twenty percent of whatever money is recovered. And let’s say further that Mr. Gravely captures the thief --”

  “Mr. Gravely?” Frank sounded incredulous.

  “Yes, Mr. Gravely captures the thief and Mr. Lohorn recovers $465.75. How much would you pay Mr. Gravely?

  “That’s easy.” He thought a moment. “I’d owe the undertaker something right around ninety dollars.”

  “You’re close.”

  “I’d gotten closer if I’d used my slate.”

  “I’m sure you would have.” Frank was a bright boy. He’d go far in the world if he’d only apply himself. Marcus glanced out the door where Obie and Ethan waited. “I won’t keep you from your friends any longer. Think over what I said, Mr. Miller.”

  “I will.” Frank slung his book strap over his shoulder and hurried out to his chums.

  Miss Sloane had been listening from her desk. “It’s all academic to them at this age.”

  He drew in a long breath and let it out. “Frank has so much potential.”

  She stood and looked at the map the surveyors had drawn before leaving. “What are you going to do about this?”

  He glanced at the map. “I’ll investigate the site of course, first chance I get.”

  She didn’t say anything at once, mulling something over in her mind. “The weather has been lovely.”

  “Yes, late summer, early autumn are my favorite seasons.”

  “Perfect weather for a paleontological expedition.”

  “I suppose.”

  She looked at him, waiting for him to make the connection.

  “The boys?”

  “Why not? A field trip might be just the thing to spark their interest.”

  It could possibly work. “But my responsibilities here?” he protested. “It’ll take hours to drive out to the site, a minimum three days hunting, and another day home.”

  “I can manage the class while you’re away. I think it would be good for the boys.”

  Miss Sloane was right. It was the sort of outing any boy would enjoy, and, just maybe, it would rekindle that fading spark of interest in things academic. “Thank you, Miss Sloane. It’s a brilliant idea! I’ll arrange it with the parents immediately.” He gave her a sudden, concerned look. “Are you up to the challenge of going it alone while I’m away?”

  “Challenge?” She laughed. “The challenge will be you handling those three boys all by yourself for a week.”

  He grinned. “If I don’t come back, send out a search party.”

  ***

  Notes were written. Permission granted. Arrangements made. Mr. Breedlove was delighted to give permission to poke around on his land, and even invited the “scientific expedition” to dinner at the ranch headquarters Thursday night.

  On a bright, Monday morning a week and a half later, Marcus Sublette was at the livery, loading a rented mud wagon with tents and food, chairs, shovels, picks, portable camp kitchen, shifter, and a dozen different size brushes. He’d purchased forty pounds of plaster of Paris from Birdie’s General Store and had wheedled Ben Tolliver out of a pile of old burlap feed sacks that were just getting in the way. Ben lent a hand loading the supplies and then hitched the horses in their harnesses.

  Ethan was the first to arrive, at nine-thirty. His father and mother John and Virginia Hartman drove him into town in the family spring wagon. “You mind Mr. Sublette now, Ethan,” John Hartman advised sternly.

  “I will.” Ethan tossed his canvas sack into the wagon bed along with all the other supplies.

  “Ethan will be fine,” Marcus said.

  Obie Wilkins showed up next, his mother, Leta, with him. Between them they carried a bulging sea bag that had seen better days. Mr. Tolliver hurried over to relieve the pair of the burden. “Whatcha got in here? A peck of horse shoes?”

  Obie looked embarrassed. Leta, a thin woman with graying hair and a pocked complexion said, “Just some food. Extra blankets, his pillow, rubber boot in case it rains.” She would have continued except that Obie said, “Ma, I don’t need all that stuff.”

  “You do,” she said sternly, turning worried gray eyes on Marcus. “You will take good care of my son?”

  “Of course I will, Mrs. Wilkins.” Marcus s
uspected a week out from under Mrs. Wilkins’ watchful eyes might do Obie a lot of good.

  She looked uncertain, but gave him a brave smile just the same. “I hope he won’t be no bother.”

  “Ma.” Obie’s face reddened.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” David Appleford said, striding up to the wagon. The newspaper editor wore a gray suit, a gray bowler hat, and carried a pad of paper. “The Wolf Creek Paleontological expedition is about to get underway?” He grinned. “Mr. Sublette, will you give the readers of the Expositor a few words on what you hope to discover?”

  Marcus sighed to himself. A simple school field trip was hardly newsworthy, but then, Appleford was forever snooping around town trying to fill column inches of newsprint, and in Wolf Creek, sometimes that was a challenge. Marcus grimaced –sometimes it wasn’t. The Danby gang had shot up Wolf Creek a few months earlier. His co-worker Ann Haselton had perished in that raid, and so had the Li’s youngest son.

  “Of course, Mr. Appleford.” He tried to sound pleased to be asked. A teacher — a headmaster — had to show proper respect for the press if he didn’t want rumors to start. “Mr. Wilkins, Mr. Hartman—” he spied Frank and Josephine Miller coming around the corner of Washington Street and pointed, “— and Mr. Miller and I will be investigating a recent discovery of ancient bones on the T-Bar-B Ranch.”

  “Yes, I heard. The surveyors who were in town last week. Professor Marsh’s famous dinosaur bones that we’ve been reading about lately in the press.”

  Marcus tasted a bit of irritation at the back of his throat. “And don’t forget Professor Cope.”

  “Oh, yes, him too.”

  He let the slight to his mentor pass. “We hope to discover a new species. It will be a time of learning for the young gentlemen.”

  “And a little adventure, perhaps?” Appleford gave a wink.

  “Perhaps. One never can tell. But I intend this to be a working field trip.”

  “Marc,” Ben Tolliver called holding a long leather hard-sided case in the air. “Want this in back with the supplies or up front with you?”