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D E A N N E S M I T H
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Early May 1891 Wyoming "What did you see, sir?" "Nothing, really, just Frank headin' upstairs with Cat. That's her over there. Then, she comes down looking all pale. That's all I seen. Didn't hear a thing, neither." The policeman nods and pushes through the crowd to Cat who is being consoled by two of the brightly clothed ladies. "So, what happened, Cat?" I turn my head to hear better but only catch a few of the girl's words. "Just a boy...window...gun...big knife." "What'd the boy look like? Was he in the saloon tonight?" The policeman asks. Cat nods. "Earlier...he left...slim...brownish red hair...round hat...." "Did you see his face?" Cat shakes her head and puts a hand over her nose and mouth. "Bandana," she says. "What about earlier, did you get a look at him in the saloon?" Cat shakes her head again. I doubt anyone would remember much about the slight boy sitting in the dim light near the door, his hat brim pulled low as he watched Frank Alexander until he staggered upstairs with the girl. They would not have thought anything of the boy leaving through the swinging doors shortly after that. "What'd the boy say to you up there?" I do not need to hear the rest, as it is imprinted on my mind. I swiftly and soundlessly slide in through the open window. Cat stands rolling her stocking down, one foot resting on the bed next to Frank, who lays with only his union suit on. Cat looks stunned, frightened, and very young in the candlelight. In his drunkenness, Frank scrambles for his gun belt on the floor, but I am quicker and kick it out of his reach, my pistol trained on his chest. Keeping my eyes and gun on Frank and using the low voice I have practiced, I tell the girl to get out. "Cat--" Frank pleads. I pull the hammer back with a click. "Shut up, Frank," I say as I slide the knife from my waistband. "This is between you and me. Get out, Cat, and don't tell anyone about this." I wave the knife at the girl but watch Frank. His bleary eyes are wide. "Cat, never forget that I just might have saved your life tonight. This man is a monster." The girl grabs her shoes and rushes out. I know she will only stay quiet a few minutes, so I act quickly, pulling the bandana from my face, taking off the derby hat, and shaking out my hair. "Remember me, Frank?" Delight swells in me at the shock on his face when I say my name. At once, he shrinks into a mewling kitten that dares not raise a hand to me. Not with my gun to his head. He bawls and begs for his life as I use the knife to exact some revenge for my mother and to learn the whereabouts of his two brothers and George Calvert. What a disloyal coward to give them up so easily. I would love to drag out his torture, as he did my family's three and a half years ago - October 14, 1887 to be exact - but I know Cat will be yapping about this soon. Once I have the information I need and the satisfaction of Frank Alexander knowing he is about to die and why, I slit his throat from ear to ear, relishing in the way his eyes bug and his mouth slacks open. His life pulses out in gushes, blanketing me from head to boots in its warmth. I make one last slash across his face, hoping to remove his evil smile from my mind. "You'll never solve this one," I whisper to the policemen below. I am about to turn from the window and climb into bed when the crowd parts for two men carrying Frank's body. I want to see his carcass one last time, so I remain. The crowd reacts. Some turn away, some cannot help but stare with hands over their mouths, and a few move down the street. I can see him just fine and my stomach flutters. "That one's for you, Mother," I say softly and close the window. A hot lone tear trails down my cheek. Suddenly, I feel as though Frank's blood covers me, despite the scrubbing of myself I did as soon as I returned to this hotel room. I rush to the small mirror above the washbasin. My face is clean. Panic rises. Yanking the mirror from the wall, I use it to examine myself. Clean, yet my skin prickles with invisible filth. In my head, a voice shouts, "Out, damned spot! Out, I say." I grab the damp cloth and scrub my skin red. When finished, I stand panting and looking at my crazed reflection. Was that Lady Macbeth's voice I heard? Why, she was insane! Crazy girl. I shake my head, take deep breaths until I feel more grounded, and settle myself under the quilt on the bed. Chill seeps into my bones, and frost blankets my soul. The bed creaks each time I try to get comfortable. Sleep does not come, and neither does the satisfaction I have anticipated for so long. Instead the same discomforts - restlessness, irritability, anxiety - remain and are joined by some new feeling that I cannot put a name to. My mind races. The plan I worked on for more than three years back in Missouri has been killed just as dead as Frank Alexander. It took less than an hour. Stupid, impatient girl. I figured I would come out here to Cheyenne, where I know George Calvert, the longtime mayor of Saint Joseph, comes every April for the Wyoming Stock Growers Association meeting. He always brags about the fancy Cheyenne Club where he stays. My plan was to go to the club, force him to tell me exactly where the Alexander brothers are, and then kill him. Ever since the three Alexander brothers disappeared from Saint Joseph two days after The Day, I figured they were hiding out in Wyoming somewhere. Out here they could be near their money source, George Calvert's huge cattle ranch the C Bar. If any of them talked about what they did back in Missouri, people here would give their story no credence. I know what they did, though, and that is why I came, to quickly kill Calvert and the Alexanders and then return to Saint Joseph as though nothing at all had happened out here. A simple plan, really, but it went sideways the moment I spotted Frank Alexander stumbling into the saloon across the street. I was standing at the window anticipating entering the Cheyenne Club and getting Calvert alone when I saw Frank. The orange light that constantly glows in my gut burst into red hot flames that charred everything inside me, including my common sense. Now Frank is dead, George Calvert is not here in Cheyenne like I thought he would be, and Jonas and Henry Alexander - Frank's brothers - are not here, either. Confound it! My simple plan has gone completely haywire. My fingers twist the quilt as I ponder. I assume Jonas and Henry will be more loyal to Frank than he was to them and will come here as soon as they can to dole out their own justice to the killer of their little brother. According to Frank, Henry is in Plankton, Texas and, therefore, may not hear for months about the murder. I hope to be able to get to him before he hears of Frank's death. Jonas, however, is up north at the C Bar Ranch with George Calvert and will probably come here right away. This creates several problems for me. I can just wait here in Cheyenne for Jonas and kill him, too. That would be easy enough to do. However, my thought is that if a slight boy kills some drunkard in an upstairs room of a saloon, it could be for any number of reasons, but if that same slight boy murders two brothers, suspicions will be raised, and Calvert might figure out who the real killer is - me - and that he is next. If Calvert thinks he is in any danger, he will surround himself with more gunmen than usual, and I might not get the chance to kill him, which is simply not an option. Or I might be killed myself. Getting killed would not bother me at all if not for my little sister Grace clinging to my promise to return to her in Saint Joseph. Also, if Calvert suspects I am here doling out justice for what happened in Saint Joseph, he might run back there to his safe haven of power and influence where he is completely untouchable. That is unacceptable. I must catch Calvert unaware. Which brings me to the problem that Calvert is not here in Cheyenne. According to Frank, within the week he will be at the big cattle barons' roundup on the Powder River, so I have to go all the way up there in order to get to him. If I move quickly, Jonas might still be there. The trip, though, will probably take days. One for the train ride to Earnest, the little town at the end of the rail line, and then several days on horseback to the roundup. Hopefully, though, I will be back in Saint Joseph with Grace within a month. With an outline of a new plan in my mind and the horizon beginning to glow, I rise. After a half hour of pulling, tying, pinning, and padding, I finally am dressed in the lavender silk skirt, dark purple jacket, and large feathered hat I wore on the trip out here. Once again, I am a fashionable, innocent young lady. I stand again at the window and give a half-hearted thank you to the sturdy cottonwood tree that stands on the side of the saloon. It was perfect for me to scurry up and into that room last night. Now, I see a smear of dark red down its trunk. Probably Frank's blood. I feel dirty again, but with a shake of my head, the feeling flees. In an odd way, I am grateful to Frank for the information he provided. My original plan would not have worked anyway, since Calvert is not here. If I could have come here sooner, perhaps it would have worked, but I could not. Cursed birthday. I had to wait until I was an adult to execute the entire plan. I turned eighteen on April twenty-eighth, about two weeks ago, two weeks too late as far as I am concerned. It is what it is, though. Turning from the window, I scoop up the bloody clothes, wrap them in a towel, and shove them into my valise. I feel covered in blood again, but a quick check in the mirror shows no evidence of it, so I shake my head, straighten my hat, and leave the room. I get no more than halfway down the stairs when I recognize the voice of the policeman who questioned Cat last night. My stomach lurches and blood pounds in my ears, making it impossible to ascertain what he is saying. I assume he is questioning the hotel clerk about his guests, hoping to find the boy-murderer. My steps falter, and I swallow against the bile that burns my throat. |