Grange Tales: The god / Beginnings - I

         1868: The Blacksmith
         Saturday: The Stranger

         The hanging was over, the condemned dead: the motionless corpse hung from the simple gallows, sweat darkening the coarse shirt, urine and excrement fouling the denim trousers, the wry neck stretched to an impossible length.
         Blacksmith Milton Write didn’t spur his horse but approached in respectful silence along the lonely stage trail’s curve.  Twice before he had seen such as he approached prairie towns just as he did this Kansas town; twice he’d seen a condemned moved only by prairie breezes, seen only by hungry buzzards and coyotes, left stark against the sky for hours, sometimes days, serving as a silent threat to the violent, to the criminal, fulfilling the last service of a murderer to the community where he had murdered.
         Near a rock twenty feet away someone had vomited.
         The saddle-striding man was familiar enough with death.  However he realized that something here was different.  Something was wrong.  What?
         He dismounted, dropped one of Dixie’s reins to the ground, sure the well trained gelding wouldn’t move, and untied his shovel from behind the saddle.  It was still mid-morning and not so meltingly hot as to prevent him from digging a shallow grave.  He began to dig twenty feet from the gallows, a hundred from the lonely trail.
         After the hole was three feet deep and long enough, Milton put the shovel away, uncoiled a rope and threw one end over the cross bar.  He tied the other to the saddle horn, tossed the loose rein over the horse’s neck and shinnied up the right post.  He looped the rope around the corpse’s chest, then called, “bayak” in his Tennessee Mountain dialect and his mount backed up.  “Hawd,” he ordered and the horse held still.  Milton removed the noose and climbed down.  He led the horse closer to the gallows until the body gently settled on the ground with a rag doll’s limpness.
         Milton analyzed.  The gallows had no platform so they’d dropped the condemned from the bed of a wagon.  Two lines of wheel marks ended at the gallows, one curved, one straight.  Milton knew that as a horse moves in one direction it kicks gravel in the opposite, doing so for a greater distance when the animal moves rapidly then when movement is slow.  The gravel on the curved line of hoof marks went away from the gallows for a short distance so the wagon horses were going toward it and doing so slowly.  Too, the curves of the horseshoe prints pointed away from the frame so the animals were going backward.  The straight track had gravel thrown toward the gallows for a much longer distance and the shoe curves still faced away from it so the horses were going from it, probably at a trot or gallop.  The corpse’s boots were nearly six feet off the ground and the noose another five feet above that so the condemned fell from atop a large box on that wagon.  He couldn’t have fallen far so the neck was probably unbroken.
         Milton removed the hanging hood and examined the body.  He could see that the face and hair were unquestionably Indian.  He knew the corpse wasn’t Cherokee, the staring face bore no resemblance to Salali, Squirrel, nor to Awinita, Fawn, the gray haired medicine man’s son.  For a moment Adlila, Blossom, his wife, flitted through Milton’s mind.  This face wasn’t from any of the eastern tribes and, try as he might, he couldn’t figure which other would be the dead man’s people.
         Milton’s mind returned to the foot of the gallows and to the examination.
         The thick neck was unbroken.  The body was dressed in white-man’s clothing yet wore the boots of a seaman.  Something about the boot leather seemed strange.  He couldn’t figure what.
         Something had torn the shirt twice over the dead man’s heart.  He wondered how.  There were no marks on the chest behind the rips so they weren’t from bullets.
         He went through the pockets, not expecting anything to be there, yet he found three extremely shiny Spanish Reales, silver ‘pieces of eight,’ and five playing cards in the pants pockets, all face cards, all stiff and crisp with a newness that seemed almost impossible.  He realized the five, held together, face to back, were a quarter the thickness of an entire, regular deck.  No one could shuffle a deck like that.  How could such a deck exist?
         There was nothing else on the body.
         As Milton started to return the items, he noticed something odd about the coins:  They were absolutely identical, their discolorations, scratches and worn spots were in exactly the same places, someone had rasped them around the edges to remove silver to sell, all in the same places, all three had identical stamp marks punched in them bearing Chinese characters.  They’d gone to China.  Sailors in New Orleans once told him that Chinese officials stamp coins to authenticate them so foreigners could use them as money.  What were they doing back in the west?  He could see where the hammered stamp bounced between the two impressions yet they were identically placed, they were identically deep and they were identically worn.  The coins were exactly identical.  How, he wondered?
         The cards.  Milton examined them more closely.  He examined the Kings of diamonds and hearts, the Queen of diamonds and the Jacks of diamonds and clubs.  They looked right, they felt wrong, too thick, too stiff.  A gambler?  Cheating?  Caught in the act?  He wondered.
         He wrapped the cards and coins in his bandanna and put them in his saddlebag.
         He carried the heavily muscled, heavy boned corpse easily in his blacksmith’s arms with his left arm under the legs at the knees and his right arm below the shoulder blades, the corpse’s arms still tied behind it, his right arm pressed upon by two dead arms, the head ironically dangling like a silent bell.  He lowered the corpse into the grave and found the body strangely tense but not with rigor mortis; he was familiar enough with that thanks to the war.  No, it was a stiffness of straining muscles, yet the condemned was unquestionably dead.  Why, he wondered?  How?
         He buried the corpse, mounted his bay and looked again at the gallows.  That was when he read the notice nailed to the post:

         Notice of Public Execution
         Performed this 14th day of August, 1868
                   upon one ____________ convicted of murder in the first degree, in lawful trial in the court of His Honor, Judge Lester T. Thigman, in and for the Municipality of Grange, Kansas.

It bore the Judge’s and the Sheriff’s signatures, followed by an illegible signature which ended in the letters “M.D.”  Why was the condemned’s name not on the death warrant?  Milton Wright figured he’d find the answers in the Municipality of Grange, Kansas.          Most of Kansas is as flat as pond water.  Grange was the nonconformist.  Rolling, green, forested hills surrounded the town.  The road wound around them gracefully and hid the grim oak gallows from the townsmen’s eyes.

         The roadside sign read:

         You are now entering the Community of Grange, Kansas
         Founded June 8, 1847
         Population 732
                                               Mayor:  Quenton Peabody
                                               Sheriff:  Jacques LeGrande
                                               Clerk:    Ivan Knopik

         Milton studied the sign.  A Englishman, a Frenchman and a Russian runnin’ the place.  What was them words?  He recalled:

                                       This is America! 
                   This is the New World!
                   Not the present European
                   Wasted and withering sphere.

         “This is America.”

         He approached from the east.
         He rode down the main and only street, glancing at the tidy shops on both sides.  For a town with a population of 732, they did a prosperous amount of trade.
         The first building, on Milton’s right, the street’s north side, was the three story, red brick house of the itinerant doctor, doubling as his office, clearly marked by a fine painted wood sign.  The enterprise included an apothecary and also advertised piano lessons.  The uppermost floor appeared to be a convalescent center since there was a large, airy porch with a fine southern view where a pajama clad old man sat, seemingly unaware of anything around him.  Milton wondered if the motionless figure really was so unaware.
         Beside the Doctor’s was the livery stable, built of frame and clapboard as were most of the structures in this, and many other prairie towns.  The shop’s proprietor offered blacksmith and farrier services as well as stabling, gunsmithing, the services of a print shop cum newspaper, portrait photography, as well as weekly social gatherings since the place was also a dance hall.
         Across the street, on his left, the south side, was the general store, centered between the Doctor’s house and the livery, where, another advertisement declared, haircuts were done, the proprietor sold seed and grain and where someone operated the telegraph office, the bank and the U.S. Post Office.

         As Milton passed the livery stable, a tan garbed figure’s head turned to watch him from an obscure spot between the two buildings.  The lean, duster clad man tossed a nearly finished  cigarette to the street and began walking silently along the board walk in the same direction as Milton, stepping on some of the planks, carefully stepping over others, his gate smooth and gliding.  The brim of his white Stetson hid his face from the sun.  He moved unnoticed.

         At the center of the town were two churches, Catholic on the north side and Baptist on the south, both wood frame with clapboard sides, their doors aligned with each other, convenient for holding a shared Bar-B-Que.
         Beside the Catholic church was the library and school house, which served as a library at the moment.
         Across from the library, beside the Baptist Church on the south side of town, was the tiny, brick and granite combination courthouse, city hall and Jail, presently closed since Grange currently needed no such functions.
         By the City hall was the Mayor’s house as announced on a grand brass plaque, a square granite building, two stories in height, the widest and deepest residence in the town, although not the tallest.  A more modest wooden declaration advertised that someone there sewed and gave voice lessons.  A third sign offered the services of Quenton Peabody as the town undertaker and proprietor of the ambulance service.
         The westmost building in the town, on the north side, opposite the Mayor’s home, was the combination hotel, salon and restaurant, extending up to three stories with an attic, probably the most massive structure in the community.  There Milton stopped and dismounted.  He tied Dixie at the hitching rail, pumped water to almost fill the trough and approached the hotel.
         The rooftop sign read, “Grange Hotel, Restaurant and Salon.”  Milton wryly contemplated the sign.  Well at least some’un could spell right.  That’s French fer ballroom.  Good fer him.  He looked at the menu which bore the word bouillabaisse.  Another item mentioned imported Truffles.  Milton went in for breakfast.
         The street door opened into a lobby.  Directly to his right was the hotel clerk’s desk with its row of mail slots and keys on hooks.  To the left was a swinging door to the salon’s bar.  Ahead was another swinging door through which wonderful smells emitted.  That had to be the dining room.  Milton entered.
         Two seconds behind him, the black trousered figure opened the glass paneled street door of the hotel and raised his Wellingtoned feet over the door sill.  He was silent.
         Milton settled in the second table to the left of the serving area, as one observes the arrangement from the dining room’s swinging door.  A woman noticed him.
         “Good mornin strantzer,” the chunky proprietress greeted in a strong Greek accent.  “Vhat I can get you for breakfast?”
         “Been sniffing your cookin’ all the way from Memphis and I jest couldn’t slow down much fer nothin’.”  Milton counted his cash.  “I’d take kindly ta, say, three o’ them there eggs, fried right gentle n’ kind an’ a slice er three o’ fatback an’ maybe three, four griddle cakes.”  He handed her the payment with an extra gratuity, ‘To Insure Promptness.’  A T.I.P.
         “Anybody talk zo nice about my cooking, I give big mug coffee in zhust one minute.”  She was plump, squirrel frisky, black haired, in her mid-forties with a touch of gray over her temples and a bun at the back of her head.  Calico covered most of her and a grin covered the rest.  She filled a double fist sized coffee mug with fresh coffee that was actually worth drinking, not trail stuff.
         Milton had less time to puzzle out the morning sights than he’d hoped.  A huge man entered the restaurant through the back entrance, a freshly chopped forest presumably intended for the kitchen woodrick held over each arm.  Handyman probably.  The figure ducked under the door and turned sideways to avoid muscling one or the other wall aside.  There wasn’t a bit of fat on him, he had the build of a stevedore or a prize fighter.  His face was solemn.  There must have been a magic beanstalk somewhere and the wrong one climbed down first.  A brace of six shot field cannons swayed on his hips and a tin badge decorated his chest.  This was Sheriff LeGrande at work.  The memory of the execution earlier would explain the grim face.  Having to earn a living would explain the firewood.  Sheriff LeGrande glanced at him, took note and vanished into the kitchen.  He came out with his arms free and headed toward Milton, brushing his sleeves and rolling them up, revealing brawny arms with several small burn marks on his left hand and wrist.
         The Sheriff sized up the thick-armed newcomer, the tan-faced stranger with a dock hand’s burly physique, gray eyes, massive black hair to his shoulders.  The newcomer wore the remains of a Confederate Cavalry shirt, civilian breeches and a single U.S. Army issue Colt percussion revolver holstered on his right hip.  The unfamiliar tracker’s hat on the peg above the table must be his.
         Milton presumed, Aims ta confidence me eh?  I ‘spec I’m the fur-nur here.  He sipped his coffee.
         The sheriff settled on a chair at the next table with another cup, grunted and said, “Allo, good morning stranger.”
         It took Milton less than a half second to peg the accent as true French, not Cajun, or any sort of a creole.  “Mornin’ sheriff, make yaself pleasant.”  Ironic, thought Milton, inviting the sheriff to make himself feel at home in his own place.  There’s nothing like friendliness to make a lawman suspicious, Milton figured.  He suppressed a grin.  “A’m Milton Wright.”
         Sheriff LeGrande looked him over, then said, “You’re from east Tennessee, mountain country, been traveling since the war.  You’re ...late 20’s.  26? 28?”
         “28.  What part of France is you from Sheriff?”  If the sheriff could show off, Milton figured he could too.
         “South.”
         “Marseille?”  Now the sheriff looked startled.  “That’s whar you learned to cook?”  Now Sheriff LeGrande was suspicious.
         “All right, how did you figure that out?”
         “Them French items on the menu outside.  You’re French, I can tell by your accent.  Bouillabaisse is French fish soup.  You’d mos’ like learned how to make it in a seaport.  You’re from the south o’ France you said, ‘n I read once ‘bout Marseilles, a seaport that has some mighty fine cooks.  You’re a cook, witness the burn marks on your left hand from hot fat, so I reckon you owns this place.”  Sheriff LeGrande stared in silent amazement.  Milton decided to become curious.  “I seed that there gallows east o’ town.  Who was the Injin?  What he done?”
         “Murdered an entire white family, poisoned the lot of them.”  He was clearly and strictly concentrating on his newly acquired English.
         “Ah.”
         The waitress delivered the heaping plate.  “Thank for gethin’ me firewood, Jacques.”
         “Part of the service, Sophia.”
         She flirted with the sheriff and returned to the kitchen.
         “I read that execution order and it didn’ give the Injin’s name.  Why?”
         “We didn’t know it.  He only spoke Navajo and I only speak a few words.”
         Sheriff LeGrande approvingly noticed that Milton bowed his head and gave thanks for the meal.
         Milton ate in silence as the sheriff small-talked about a couple cases of rabies north east of town.  Finally Milton looked again at the lawman and asked, “Would anyone object if’n I asked a few questions ‘bout that there murder?”
         “No, ze,” followed by the sheriff’s inarticulate, irritated growl at himself, “the worst of the lynch mob sorts have quieted down.  That hanging was enough to quell even them.”
         “I seed where someone upchucked nigh the place.”
         “Four did.”
         “Right bad.”
         “I’d rather not talk about it while you’re eating.  It took almost an hour.”
         Right there Milton decided he didn’t want any hanging details.  “Thank’e right kindly Sheriff, I ain’t hankerin’ to hear.”
         He finished his breakfast.  He also kept it down.
         “What do you do, Milton?”
         “Blacksmith.  Right fair ‘un I’m told.”
         “Tennessee mountains as I said?”
         “Nigh the Georgia border.  Pa learned me smithin’ ‘n kicked me out.  Said the town wern’t big enough fer two smiths an’ run me off.  Been a-spuddin’ round since.  War kept me busy, most with hosses, did a little doctorin’, hoss ‘n man both.  After, went north ‘cause they warn’t no work down south.  Fixed loco-motives an’ the like as shore wanted fixin’.”
         “I imagine that Southern accent of yours did not help you much up north.”
         “To which Southern accent are you referring?” Milton replied in an elegant mix of a Bostonian and a British accent.
         For the first time the sheriff grinned.  “Very good.  Where did you learn that?”
         Back in his usual accent Milton explained, “Offn a Yankee Major, a doctor.  One o’ the most finest folks I ever met.  New Yawkers figgered I was from Boston, Boston folks figgered jes the opposite and I didn’t say nothin’.”
         “Yet you speak with your Southern accent now.”
         Milton paused, considered, then said, “When I was talkin’ like that in Boston ‘n New York I was lyin’.  I was pretendin’ to be something I ain’t.  I’s a Tennessee mountain man and I ain’t gonna lie about it, I’m gonna talk the way I learnt to talk.”
         The expression on the sheriff’s face showed admiration.  “Why did you leave?”
         “Winter.  P-nu-mony.  Came ‘at close to dyin’,” he gestured.  “Mennonite folks nursed me.  Salt o’ the Earth, them folks.”
         “You were with the Union Army then?”
         “Na.  Hated slavery, always did, yet I jes couldn’t git maself to kill none o’ my feller southerners so I didn’t join either, I doctored and smithed fer both.  I was at Corrick’s Ford at the start o’ the war back in ‘61.  I saw jes’ about all the battles.”
         “Being on a battle field in no one’s uniform could get you shot as a spy.”
         “Warn’t long ‘fore they all knowed me.”
         “Since zen you have drifted?”
         “A piece here, a piece there.  Start up a shop, git known a mite, ‘n someone comes long and hits me up wit a bad-sad story and I try to help.  I end up moving on with jes my smithin’ tools, ‘n Dixie, ‘n I goes somewheres else.”
         “You’re an exceptional man Milton.  Since you’re a blacksmith, I suggest you think about settling here in Grange.”
         “You all got a ‘smith.”
         “Oh?  Ever seen his work?”
         “No.”
         “Keep your eyes open son.”
         “Thanks right kindly Sheriff.  I’ll do jes that.”
         The waitress came back for the plate.  Milton looked at her and quipped, “An how’s ‘bout a purdy smile from the mos’ sweetest lass this side o’ the Atlantic?”
         “You so sweet strantzer.”  Her eyes impishly sparkled.
         “The touch o’ that there dainty hand o you’rn ‘d be the most purest o’ blessins straight from Heaven I’self.”
         “You are very friendly, but my husband,” she gestured toward the sheriff, “don’t like that, so is not so good idea.  Yes, Jacques?”
         Milton, his face colorless, looked at the enormous sheriff.
         “Yes Sophia, I agree,” the sheriff solemnly responded.
         The room was silent for the better part of a minute as Milton’s bloodless face studied the lawman’s unreadable face.  Unreadable, that is, until the man suddenly set his cup aside, laid both arms on the table and dropped forward in almost uncontrollable laughter, his head bouncing on his wrists.  In a moment his wife joined him.
         “Thanks Milton, I needed a good laugh after the last few days.”  There were tears in the sheriff’s eyes.
         It was Milton’s turn to laugh along with them.  Sheriff LeGrande stood and gave his wife a hug.  From the looks on both faces, Milton knew there was a bond between them only death could sever.  He didn’t wish to try.
         “Son you just made us both feel ten years younger,” Sheriff LeGrande said.  The two walked from the dining area to the kitchen, hand-in-hand, like two intimate buffalo.  Once they were out of the room there was a distinct, feminine giggle.
         Milton grinned as he left the dining area with the sherif.  Both headed to the lobby counter where Milton signed the register for room 3 and accepted a key.

         In a short while the sheriff entered the dining area from the kitchen with a mop and began swabbing the floor.  The door to the lobby was moving, swinging an inch or so as it dampened its movement to stillness yet there was no one in the room.  Had someone left?  Sheriff LeGrande darted through the door and looked in the lobby.  The street door was closing, covering half, then all of a tan, broad collared duster.  The sheriff hurried to the door, pulled it open and observed the coat moving away toward the livery.
         A calf length duster in this heat?
         “May I help you?” the sheriff called after the duster.
         The form turned, his hat-obscured face leaning downward which made his features difficult to see, and said, “No thankee Marshal, I’m jes fine as I am.”
         “Would you care for breakfast?”  Sheriff LeGrande was certain the man hadn’t eaten anything because Sophia hadn’t delivered anything.
         “No, that’s right kindly of you Marshall, but I’m fine.”  The voice paused, then added, “Good day so-a-la-ih ak’is.”  There was mockery in his tenor voice.  The figure turned again toward the east and continued walking.

         The sheriff stepped inside for a moment, then recalled, “Ak’is.  That’s Navajo for friend.  What does so-a-la-ih mean?”  Again he looked out.
         No duster garbed figure was there, not on the street, not between any of the buildings to the east as he hurried along the boardwalk for most of the length of the town.  Not anywhere.
         Returned, the first thing he did in the dining area was check the spoons, forks, knives.  They were untouched.
         He looked at the tables and noticed that the chair Milton occupied stood out from its place, which was normal, as did the one where he’d sat.  Only one of the others was out of place, the chair at the farthest table along the wall.  The next wall, at right angles to the first, had a window in it, creating a glare in line with that table and creating a shadow encompassing that corner, a combination which made difficult the task of seeing anyone at that table.
         Sheriff LeGrande touched the wooden seat and found it cold.  He saw traces of trail dust on the polished oak and a spot of horse dung such as would come from boots of a rider who was walking for the moment.  Something had scattered the material on the floor beside the chair, closer to the far wall then the chair, consistent with someone crouching in the shadow, below the table, head below the table surface, hiding, thus nearly invisible.  The sheriff sat where Milton sat and realized his own massive form would have been between the blacksmith and the stranger, blocking all view.  That vantage point perfectly positioned the tan garbed individual to make him invisible.
         Who was that visitor?  How had he walked past the town’s sheriff unnoticed?  When?  He was in hiding, clearly.  Why?  Why had his parting greeting been in Navajo if he was hiding?
         “Sophia, did you see anyone in here in the last half hour other than that blacksmith and I?”
         “No Jacques, I didn’t.”
         To get past a Sheriff was difficult.  To get past a waitress who made her pin-money on tips was as close to impossible as possible.  Who was that man?  The Sheriff saddled his horse in the hotel stable, mounted and cantered about the area.  The duster-garbed man was nowhere to be found.

         Milton draped his saddlebags across a chair in Room 3 and returned to the lobby.  Sheriff LeGrande was getting a shovel from the closet, thoughtfully.
         “Sheriff, I done it this mornin’.”
         “Oh.  Thanks Milton.  You’re a good man.”
         Milton debated for a few seconds, then said, “You met Sophia in Marseilles, right?”
         “Probably.  I noticed her on the boat after we set sail.”
         Milton thought, there was moonlight, I reckon.  He said, “The captain married ya?”
         The expression on Sheriff LeGrande’s face became tender.  “Yes.  Can you imagine being seasick on your honeymoon?”
         “She was?”
         “I was.”
         Milton strolled onto Main Street, chuckling.

         He didn’t bother riding his horse.  He led the bay to:

         Tony’s Livery
         Boarding, Black smithing, Printing, Photography
         Guns for sale
         Dancing every Saturday evening
         Antonio Capatrucci, prop.

         There was a paper sign announcing that the dance that evening was cancelled as inappropriate so soon after an execution.
         The livery boasted six stalls, all empty except for a printing press in the farthest stall with three type cases.  A display offered copies of the Grange Gazeta at a penny apiece.  The stack reached half the way to the display’s top yet there was printer’s ink on entire display’s back so papers once completely filled it.  There were 20 copies left so the rack could hold about 40.  The blacksmith had about 20 cents in sales.
         Milton watched the wiry, axe-faced proprietor, Antonio Capatrucci, finish a set of shoes for a plow horse.  He thought, That’s a right smart way to fit a shoe, lookin’ at the shoe ‘n then at the hoss half way ‘cross the room.  Powerful accurate that way.
         You jes keep poundin’ on that there cold iron like that ‘stead uh gettin’ it hot in that forge and gettin’ some good out’n the coal you got burnin’ there.  That’ll put cracks in the iron to make the shoe warp er break, lamin’ the hoss.  Then you can charge a doctorin’ fee fer fixin’ a twisted hock, er you can sell the owner one uh them fancy new Colt guns so’s the owner can put the hoss outta his misery.  Jes be sure he don’t put you outta yourn.
         Now why would you wanna go git one o’ them bran’ new hammers you got hangin’ on the wall to pound with when you got that there warn out chunk o’ trash with that big chip ready to take your eye out.  Now that wouldn’ be purdy, now would it?
         And on and on.
         Sheriff now I unnerstan’ what you meant.  Where did he get his trainin’?
         The customer paid and led the Clydesdale toward the door.  The beast limped.
         The proprietor assured his customer, “Atsa normal, thisa finisha fast.  Justa come back if you need something else.  Right?”
         The owner grunted, glowered at the shoeing job, glowered at the farrier and mercifully led the animal away from the livery at the animal’s own pace.
         “An whata I do fo you amico? Maybe new shuza fo you horse fo you longa trip?  I can-”
         “Stablin’.  Only!” insisted Milton.
         “But a warn or-”
         ”I happens to be a smith and I shod Dixie m’self ‘ bout a month ago.  He don’ need no shoein’, specially from you.  You try takin’ a hammer to him, I’ll nail a shoe to that bald haid o’ your’n and make you hop on it so’s you’d know how it’s like fer that there pullin’ hoss.  Them your prices, there on the wall?”
         The livery proprietor was less than pleased.
         Milton tended personally to feeding, watering and grooming Dixie.

         The newcomer stood and looked contentedly up and down the short Main Street as people passed by.  Two individuals in particular caught his eye.
         The woman was red haired, gingham-plaid garbed with a pert hat that resembled those Milton once saw in New Orleans, and sturdy boots which looked factory made.  She was laughing, playfully coquetting, teasing and dodging the grabs of the man who’d put the shiny, new ring on her left hand.
         The man wore a farmer’s overalls, not a cowhand’s breeches.  A tattered old straw hat sat on his head which looked perfect for keeping the August heat away.  He was short and agile, graced with the powerful arms and back a plowman needs.  He also wore a shiny new ring and was laughing right along with her.
         They didn’t notice that anyone or anything else existed.
         Long after the couple vanished into the general store, Milton wordlessly stood on the raised plank walk and wistfully stared after them.
         Finally he went to the town library.

         That evening Milton entered the general store.  Five people sat around a rectangular table watching.  Two were concentrating on the game they were playing.  Milton sat, paid his nickel to use the cracker barrel, leaned back in a cane bottomed chair and watched.
         “Look like you vin,” the elderly, wizened player said.
         “Good game Sven,” said Sheriff LeGrande.
         Those in the circle looked at the newcomer.  The white haired man said, “I am Sven Jurgensen.  Care for a shallenge?”
         “Sounds right entertainin’.  Fetch me in.”  He stood and approached the table thinking, A sheriff with a French accent, hitched to a wife who sounds Greek.  Thisn’s a Swede I reckon, ‘n they’s a I-talian.  Yup this’s America, land’a immigrants.
         He sat opposite the shock-haired old man.  The elder took two pieces from the board, rattled them like dice and held out both closed hands.  Milton chose the right.  Black.
         He reached into the box and started putting black pieces on the board, queen on her own color, bishops closer to the king than the knights.

         He strode to the bathhouse behind the hotel, a bristle brush in one hand, a cake of lye soap in the other, two towels over his arm.  It was, after all, Saturday night.  He was still grinning about his two-out-of-three evening, twice beating Sven.  Neither game was simple.  What really surprised him was how well the sheriff played.  Neither gave the other a square that they did not fight for and honestly take.  That man was good!
         On his way back to the hotel his freshly scrubbed body squeaked in his freshly scrubbed, slightly damp clothing.  Finally he could stand to be downwind of himself.  Dixie could no longer complain about him.
         When he entered the hotel he noticed the calendar, stopped and retraced his steps to look at it again.  Sheriff LeGrande was finishing in the kitchen and saw Milton’s surprise.
         “Problem Milton?”
         “Reckon I was plumb wrong.  Tomorrow’s the 16th.”
         “That usually happens after the 15th.”
         “I was one day off.  Night sheriff.”
         “Milton, my friends call me Jack.”
         Milton grinned at the lawman.  “Night Jack.”
         He went to his room, partially undressed, luxuriated in not having his own rancid carcass make him ill and settled on his knees next to his bed.
         “Lawd I’s plumb flummoxed.  They’s somethin’ I ain’t seein’.  I oughta but I ain’t.  You give seein’ eyes to blind folks.  I shore could use a couple.  What am I missin’?”
         He got up, slipped his legs under the covers, pulled his Bible out of the saddlebag and opened to where he left off the evening before, now reading by kerosene lamp rather than camp fire.  For some reason his eyes kept going, not to the text, but to the page top.  Ezekiel 15.  Over and over again that number kept attracting his attention.  15.  15.  15.  What was it that was so distracting about that number?
         Tomorrow would be the sixteenth.  All right.  Today was the fifteenth.  All right.  So?
         Yesterday was the fourteenth.  Friday.  All right.
         The fourteenth.
         That was the date of the execution.  All right.  Not all right.  That body hung for twenty four hours.  This was the middle of the Great Plains.  Buzzards.  Flies.  How could a body be in the open that long yet never attract buzzards or flies?  Twenty four hours?  Better yet, how could a body hang that long without going into rigor mortis?  That body was as limp as a rag doll when he took it down.  Bodies don’t do that.  In eight to sixteen hours they become stiff.  In two to four days they lose that stiffness, sometimes.
         This whole thing was impossible.
         “Lawd what was it ‘bout them boots I wasn’t seein’?”
         He pictured them again.  Carefully.  In detail.  That’s when he recalled the left boot’s intricate patterns of pore distribution and coloration.  Skins always have.  The right boot.  It showed identical patterns in exactly the opposite positions, a perfect mirror image.  Identical.  That’s impossible.
         Why would an Indian be wearing seaman’s boots and carrying Spanish coins once taken to China?  The three coins were identical.  That’s impossible.
         What came out at that trial?  He had to know.  Curiosity was his blood.
         He went to sleep.  His course of action was set.

         A tan garbed figure slipped from his listening post beneath the window of room 3 at the rear of the hotel.  He unhitched his pale horse from behind the hotel barn and left.  Unnoticed.

Help me find an agent for this piece and you'll get to read the rest.