Telegraph Days: A Novel Page 10

  “Where do you think you’re going, anyway?” Wyatt asked me. “There’s nothing much but prairie in the direction you’re pointed.”

  “That’s incorrect, Marshal,” I said. “There’s the town of Rita Blanca, and we’ll be slow in getting back to it if we stand here exchanging pleasantries with you and your brothers half the day.”

  At that all three of the horseshoeing brothers snickered. It was clear that they were prepared to enjoy seeing their ill-tempered brother taken down a peg. That’s usually the way it is with family groups.

  Marshal Earp wasn’t liking the drift of the conversation, but he didn’t seem to know how to regain his advantage—or the advantage he first seemed to assume.

  “Who’s that boy?” he asked, pointing at Jackson.

  Jackson hated to be called a boy. He turned red in the face himself, but I gave him a stern look and he managed to hold his tongue.

  “That’s my brother,” I said. “If you’re through jabbering we’d like to be on our way.”

  “Rita Blanca’s a far piece,” Wyatt said. “You’ll be having to camp.”

  “If we do, it’s our lookout,” I replied—this struck the brothers as hilarious, though I had not meant to be funny when I said it. The brothers temporarily left off horseshoeing in order to watch me take their brother Wyatt down a peg.

  This was too much for Wyatt, who whirled on his brothers in a fury.

  “For two cents I’d cut you all down!” he yelled.

  The brother called Virg at once put down his farrier’s hammer, dug in his pockets, and came out with two pennies—these he casually pitched in the direction of his brother Wyatt.

  “I doubt that comment,” he said. “If you shoot us you’ll have no one to do the work when your horse comes lame due to having shoes that don’t fit.”

  “And we know you’re too tight to hire a professional blacksmith,” another brother observed. “Without us you’d soon be stranded,” he added.

  “I can hammer a shoe on a goddamn horse if I must!” the marshal informed them loudly. “All three of you can go to hell, as far as I’m concerned.

  “I’m the marshal of Dodge City,” he said, with emphasis, “and you all are just my deputies.”

  “I’m a deputy,” Jackson suddenly piped up.

  I could have kicked him—but the kick would have come too late.

  Wyatt looked at him in puzzlement, probably thinking that he had misheard.

  “I’m a deputy in Rita Blanca—Sheriff Bunsen will vouch for me,” Jackson declared.

  All four Earps seemed momentarily stunned by Jackson’s claim, which they probably considered improbable.

  Brother Virg was the first to recover.

  “We heard some tale about the Yazee boys being wiped out—it came over the telegraph, I understand,” he said. “The rumor is that a young deputy shot all six of them dead.

  “So many lies come over the telegraph that we didn’t pay much attention to the report,” he admitted.

  “Excuse me, but I happen to be the telegraph operator in Rita Blanca,” I told them. “For your future information, no lies come over my telegraph if I can help it. And the Yazee brothers are entirely dead.”

  Before the Earps could respond I ripped open one of the packages of my booklet and handed a copy to Marshal Earp. Of course at the time I had no idea it would become so valuable or I wouldn’t have wasted one on a yokel such as Marshal Earp.

  But I had been warned about the Earps, and I wanted to go. The booklet would explain matters to the Earps, if they were really interested.

  Wyatt stared at the booklet a moment, and then walked over and handed it to Virgil.

  “You’re our best reader, Virg,” he said. “See what you think.”

  We trotted off to the southwest, and no one tried to stop us. Jackson and I were probably a bigger surprise to the Earps than they were to us.

  I didn’t suppose for a moment, though, that we’d seen the last of the famous marshal of Dodge.

  11

  I SUPPOSE THERE’S nothing like a little female impertinence to attract a certain kind of man. I knew I had made a strong impression on Marshal Wyatt Earp and I fully expected him to show up in my life again someday, looking moony.

  What I didn’t realize is that I’d made an even stronger impression on his brother Virgil—the Earp who had been assigned to read my little Banditti book.

  When supper time came Jackson and I were forced to rely once more on the ubiquitous prairie chicken. Maudie Tesselinck had offered us goose eggs, but I found goose eggs too rich to digest. I asked Jackson to get us a couple of prairie chickens, which rather put him on the spot. I knew after the embarrassment of the crippled steer he was not really in the mood to be shooting at birds with a gun, but he had put on his fancy gun belt and his expensive knife and was about to go harass the prairie chickens when he spotted a rider coming our way.

  “I guess it’s that darn marshal,” he said. “I suppose he means to arrest us.”

  “I doubt it,” I told him. “He’s probably just got courting on his mind, which is my problem and not yours.”

  “You think every man you know is out to court you,” Jackson grumbled.

  It was a fair criticism. I had always been the prettiest Courtright, not to mention the smartest, and I do expect my share of masculine attention.

  When I turned to inspect the oncoming rider I soon realized it wasn’t Wyatt Earp.

  “It’s not Wyatt,” I said. “It’s Virgil, their best reader.”

  “Hello folks—got any vittles?” Virgil asked when he had loped up.

  “We’re hoping for hens—prairie hens,” I said. “My brother’s just about to go gather in a couple.

  “Please feel free to dismount,” I added, since Virgil Earp was still planted in the saddle.

  He did dismount, but slowly, as if he might be stepping into quicksand. By good luck Jackson soon had us three plump hens—he chunked them, which was the surest way.

  “It wouldn’t be economical to waste shells on a prairie chicken,” he said.

  Virgil Earp had worked up such an appetite that he consumed his hen while it was only half cooked. He contributed nothing to the conversation but his bird was soon reduced to bones. Virgil had clear blue eyes and a nice mouth.

  Even without conversation, I was beginning to suspect that Virgil Earp was sweet.

  “Why’d you follow us?” I asked him boldly.

  Virgil seemed embarrassed by the question—he shrugged, as if to indicate his confusion, but he could not really rise to the question.

  I thought I’d try to help him.

  “I bet you liked my book so much you couldn’t wait to talk to me about it,” I said.

  Virgil looked even more embarrassed—in fact he blushed.

  “Wyatt, he always makes it out that I’m a fine reader, but it ain’t true,” Virgil confessed. “I can puzzle out some words but that book of your was such a thicket of print that just looking at it made my head swim.”

  “That dern book was probably all lies anyway,” Jackson said—an unwelcome opinion and one that startled me. I suppose there’s no overestimating the venom little brothers store up in regard to their big sisters.

  “Jackson, you’re the hero of that book,” I pointed out. “It’s about you saving the town from the Yazee gang. Why would you be telling our guest that it was mostly lies?”

  “You have got me into trouble many times by lying,” Jackson said, after which he shut up and sulked.

  Virgil Earp seemed to take little interest in this family dispute. He had not cared to tell me why he followed us, but the way he kept sneaking looks at us gave me a pretty clear idea of what was on his mind. He seemed to have no interest at all in my book, or Jackson, or the Yazee gang.

  “I’m the deputy that killed the whole Yazee gang,” Jackson informed him.

  All of a sudden my little brother began to want attention—he was eager to make an impression on one of the famous Earp brot
hers.

  “Probably just beginner’s luck,” Virgil said, referring to Jackson’s famous feat.

  Jackson looked crushed. Probably Virgil Earp had just casually stated what Jackson had been feeling ever since the shoot-out: that his slaughter of the Yazees was just beginner’s luck.

  He didn’t say another word, but he took his bedding and walked off into the dusk, meaning to make his own camp.

  “Your little brother’s touchy,” Virgil said mildly. “If he really killed all them Yazees, then why wouldn’t it be beginner’s luck?”

  “Let’s stick to the point, Mr. Earp,” I insisted. “I asked you why you followed us way out here, and so far I’ve had no answer.”

  “Why, I want to marry you, why else would I come?” Virgil said. “I’m tired of living with Wyatt and Morgan and Jim. Wyatt’s mean and Morgan and Jim are lazy—I do most of the work but I get few compliments.”

  It was a proposal, if not a very elegant one. Personally I have rarely been put off by proposals, however awkwardly phrased. After all, a proposal is a compliment. Back in Virginia, as a lively young belle, I received at least fifty proposals, many of them as awkward as Virgil Earp’s.

  “I can see why your troubles with your brothers would be irksome,” I told him. “But that’s one trouble, and marrying me is another. I’m the telegraph lady of Rita Blanca, which is a heavy responsibility. I fear it leaves me insufficient time for matrimony.”

  I don’t believe it had occurred to Virgil Earp that a woman might actually turn him down. After all, his family had long held a commanding position, if only in Dodge City. The Earps were in the habit of choosing, not of being chosen. The notion of rejection was a notion that seldom entered their heads.

  “You mean you won’t marry me, you fool?” Virgil said, a look of frank astonishment on his face.

  “No sir, I won’t,” I told him. “I have my job and I also have my fiancé, Sheriff Theodore Bunsen.”

  Ted Bunsen wasn’t exactly my fiancé, but I had no qualms about using him as an excuse.

  “Thanks anyway, Mr. Earp—I do appreciate your interest.”

  “What’s a dern sheriff got to do with anything?” Virgil asked. “We Earps don’t tolerate sheriffs. If this one won’t listen to reason, I’ll just kill him.”

  I saw that the young man was in earnest. To him it was that simple. Killing—plain, simple, immediate—was the frontier way of removing animate obstacles, whether beast or man.

  When Virgil Earp had shown up, with his sweet blue eyes and shy little smile, I had beguiled myself with the notion that he was the good Earp, a big cut above his brothers. His blunt and stubborn approach to matrimony caused me to rethink this conclusion.

  “You mean I’ve ridden all the way out here to court you and you won’t marry me?” Virgil said, looking agitated.

  “Mr. Earp, let me remind you that we’ve only met this morning,” I said.

  Virgil Earp just looked blank—in his mind the fact that we had only met that morning had no bearing on the question at hand.

  “I am hardly the sort of woman who plights her troth between dawn and sundown,” I told him firmly.

  Actually, I was exactly that kind of woman, but I was in no mood to admit it to Virgil Earp.

  Virgil squeezed his temples, as people do when they’re experiencing a headache.

  “Damn it, you’re just too yappy!” he concluded. “Morg said I should let you be, and Morg was right.”

  “At least you enjoyed a tasty partridge,” I pointed out.

  “My brothers will josh me good, when they hear about this!” Virgil said.

  Then he got on his horse and rode away.

  12

  “IT’S A PUZZLE to me why fellows keep proposing to you, Nellie,” Jackson remarked, as we kept plodding on toward Rita Blanca.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” I inquired.

  “Because you’re not very nice,” Jackson declared.

  “Well, I could be nice, if I was approached properly,” I told him. “The problem is that I can’t find a gentleman who’s polished enough to approach me properly.”

  “Being picky is a good way to end up an old maid,” Jackson pointed out—and then he saw something which made him forget whether I was nice or not.

  “Is that a white mule?” he asked, pointing to the south. “You rarely ever see a white mule.”

  Sure enough it was a white mule making its way across the prairie, with a stout lady on it. Two small brown men, each leading a pack animal, followed the white mule with the stout lady on it. Besides leading a pack mule, one of the small brown men carried a good-sized parasol, which he endeavored, more or less, to keep between the stout lady and the strong prairie sun. Fortunately for the two brown men the white mule was proceeding at a very slow pace.

  And if that wasn’t enough to think about, a giant gray dog the size of an antelope bounced up and began to bay at us.

  “Well, Jackson, it’s a small world,” I told him.

  “What’s small about it? This seems like a pretty big prairie to me,” Jackson insisted.

  “It is a big prairie but the heavy woman with the two sepoys and the white mule and the Irish wolfhound is Hroswitha Jubb—the author of Jubb’s Journey to here and there,” I pointed out.

  “Oh my Lord—you mean that bossy writer who married Uncle Teddy?” Jackson asked.

  “That’s right—we met her in Richmond,” I reminded him.

  The Irish wolfhound was still baying at us, and the hackles on the back of its neck were standing up.

  “Hers are the most popular travel books in the world,” I reminded him. “I read Jubb’s Journey to Tashkent while we were on the boat from St. Louis.”

  Jackson showed less interest in Ros Jubb or her books than he did in the wolfhound.

  “A dog that big could chew off your leg so fast you wouldn’t even miss it,” he observed.

  Ros Jubb turned around to shush the dog and immediately recognized two of her in-laws. She was wearing a pair of large green goggles but immediately took them off when she spotted us. As I expected, as soon as her dog settled down, she got right to the point.

  “Hello, Miss Courtright—I’m glad it’s you,” she said. “I’ll be wanting an exclusive interview with Jackson as soon as we make our camp.”

  No one had ever accused Hroswitha Jubb of being likable—our Uncle Teddy had nearly resorted to poisoning himself in order to escape her, but he finally chose the less painful option of moving to San Francisco.

  “As to that, Aunt Ros, you’ll have to speak to our representative, who resides in Rita Blanca,” I told her.

  “What do you mean, your representative, young lady?” Ros bellowed. If she had had a poison dart about her at that moment I suspect she might have thrown it at me.

  “His name is Beauregard Wheless—and you can locate him at the general store,” I said. “I’m sure he would be happy to arrange an interview, though several reporters are there ahead of you,” I told her. I didn’t actually know that any reporters were already in Rita Blanca, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Ros worry about the prospect a little.

  “Since when do young ladies of good families have ‘representatives’?” she asked, not at all happy with the information I was providing.

  To devil her even more—after all, she was my aunt—I reached in my saddlebags and extracted a copy of my Banditti booklet, which I handed to her. I was down to a mere forty-seven copies and we weren’t even back to Rita Blanca yet.

  “If you’re interested in the famous shoot-out, here’s my own account, Aunt Ros,” I told her. “It is strictly factual. I plan to sell it for twenty-five cents, but since you’re my auntie, your copy is free.”

  My aunt Ros took the booklet and looked at it skeptically—probably she was shocked that a member of her own family would be so bold as to get ahead of her on a writing project.

  “You’re a severe disappointment to me, Nellie Courtright!” she said in a viperish tone. “I shall have to spea
k to your parents about you, on my next opportunity.”

  “I fear you’ll have a long wait, Auntie,” I told her. “Mother and Father are both dead.”

  Then she turned her attention to Jackson.

  “Did you actually shoot six men, Jackson?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I didn’t miss a one,” Jackson told her.

  “And you didn’t think it proper to talk to your famous auntie about this shoot-out?” she asked him. “After all, I am a world-famous writer.”

  Jackson just shrugged. “I didn’t know you was anywhere around,” he said—truthfully, no doubt.

  Aunt Ros put her green goggles back on—they made her look like some species of giant fly. She didn’t favor either of us with another word—she just nodded to her sepoys, flicked her white mule with a small mule flicker, and plodded off, followed by her sepoys and her wolfhound.

  “I wouldn’t mind having a white mule myself,” Jackson observed. “When it’s a question of prairie traveling, I mostly prefer mules over horses.”

  “I have no preference,” I admitted, “but the nature of the mount is not my worry right now. As soon as it’s light tomorrow morning I want you to hurry on to Rita Blanca and see our representative, Beau Wheless, before you talk to a single reporter. You tell Beau to insist on ten dollars an interview—not a penny less, not even to Aunt Ros.”

  “Ten dollars?” he asked, looking puzzled. “Why would anyone pay ten dollars to talk to me?”

  “Because you shot six Yazees and you’re a hero,” I reminded him.

  “Oh,” my brother said.

  13

  BY THE TIME I had been back in Rita Blanca thirty minutes I’d sold every single copy of my Banditti booklet. Demand was so fierce that I didn’t even keep one for myself. Nearly fifty people were lined up at the telegraph office when I trotted up. The crowd practically tore off my saddlebags in their desperate hurry to get their copy of the book. Talk about selling like hotcakes! The forty-seven copies immediately changed hands—I had to get out a big tablet and take down the names of all the disappointed customers who wanted to secure a copy once the new batch arrived.