from this insufferable man is like milking a farrow cow.
“I can’t know how long before the other offices report back,” said Sheriff Morris, becoming testy. “Depends on numbers.”
“Numbers, Sheriff Morris?”
“Most of the towns up North only have one man.” He slurped a mouthful of coffee. “This ain’t New York. We’re too far north and west for railroad. Fort McKinney's got telegraph, but every little wide spot in the trail anywhere near here depends on the stagecoach. That includes any settlement downstream from where your husband drowned."
Lenora stiffened. The lout, he obviously enjoyed provoking her, and she knew all these railroad-telegraph-stagecoach details already. Telegraph lines followed railway routes. Yet somehow, illogically, she had hoped this frustrating reality would not affect her situation.
“Sheriff Morris, is it not true that Clearmont is twenty-nine miles northeast from Buffalo?”
“That’s about right.”
“Sir, do you really believe it likely that my husband’s body floated unhindered all those miles and miles,” Lenora gave a little wave of her hand, “that it somehow bypassed every fallen tree, every overhanging bush, every protruding embankment?”
Sheriff Morris banged down his coffee cup. Coffee sloshed onto the desk and his shirt. He ignored it.
“Someone needs to educate you on who’s the sheriff in this town and who’s the widow of a missing rancher.” Sheriff Morris leaned over his desk, eyes flashing with anger at Lenora.
“Cyrus,” admonished Luke with hushed restraint. He didn’t say it as if he expected a response.
Sheriff Morris looked at Luke, back again at Lenora, and then screwed up his face in disgust. Then he leaned back in his chair while his angry words hung in the air, filling the cramped office with tension and ill will.
“I only meant,” said Lenora, choosing her words slowly and carefully, “that if your men, after a careful search, did not find James’ body between here and Clearmont, a distance of nearly thirty miles, then you would have me believe that you have concluded—in your professional opinion, of course—that his body floated beyond thirty miles in a matter of only days?”
Sheriff Morris jumped to a standing position. “Girlie, someone didn’t raise you right,” he said, banging on his desk again, this time with a fist.
“Cyrus!” Now Luke stood up, smacking the back of his chair against the wall in his haste, though he stayed respectfully behind his desk in deference to his boss.
Lenora glanced at Luke in surprise. She had not before seen this side of the man. Briefly their eyes met, and that connection, fleeting though it was, strengthened and calmed her. She turned back to the sheriff and more quietly said, “Sheriff Morris, my husband alive couldn’t have swum thirty miles in such a short time. The only way a cadaver could make the trip on your schedule is in a steamboat!”
Lenora stood up, locked angry eyes with Luke’s grave ones, then turned about and, without another word, walked out the door. Somehow she mustered sufficient grace not to slam it, though on the inside she slammed it quite violently indeed.
#
The door had hardly clicked shut before Luke left his desk and stepped angrily to the sheriff’s desk, his mouth set in grim determination.
“Why?” asked Luke rhetorically, both his hands on Cyrus’ desk, leaning in to put his face close to his boss. “The woman is mourning her husband!” He said this slowly and evenly, carefully enunciating each word as if the sheriff was too dense to comprehend the big picture and needed to have things S-P-E-L-L-E-D O-U-T.
“Uppity bluestocking is what she is,” snapped the sheriff, though he looked shocked at his deputy’s uncharacteristic outburst. Sheriff Morris reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch. “Wish James Rose would come back from the grave so she’d stay the hell out of my office,” he growled. He sat down and began
“I can’t know how long before the other offices report back,” said Sheriff Morris, becoming testy. “Depends on numbers.”
“Numbers, Sheriff Morris?”
“Most of the towns up North only have one man.” He slurped a mouthful of coffee. “This ain’t New York. We’re too far north and west for railroad. Fort McKinney's got telegraph, but every little wide spot in the trail anywhere near here depends on the stagecoach. That includes any settlement downstream from where your husband drowned."
Lenora stiffened. The lout, he obviously enjoyed provoking her, and she knew all these railroad-telegraph-stagecoach details already. Telegraph lines followed railway routes. Yet somehow, illogically, she had hoped this frustrating reality would not affect her situation.
“Sheriff Morris, is it not true that Clearmont is twenty-nine miles northeast from Buffalo?”
“That’s about right.”
“Sir, do you really believe it likely that my husband’s body floated unhindered all those miles and miles,” Lenora gave a little wave of her hand, “that it somehow bypassed every fallen tree, every overhanging bush, every protruding embankment?”
Sheriff Morris banged down his coffee cup. Coffee sloshed onto the desk and his shirt. He ignored it.
“Someone needs to educate you on who’s the sheriff in this town and who’s the widow of a missing rancher.” Sheriff Morris leaned over his desk, eyes flashing with anger at Lenora.
“Cyrus,” admonished Luke with hushed restraint. He didn’t say it as if he expected a response.
Sheriff Morris looked at Luke, back again at Lenora, and then screwed up his face in disgust. Then he leaned back in his chair while his angry words hung in the air, filling the cramped office with tension and ill will.
“I only meant,” said Lenora, choosing her words slowly and carefully, “that if your men, after a careful search, did not find James’ body between here and Clearmont, a distance of nearly thirty miles, then you would have me believe that you have concluded—in your professional opinion, of course—that his body floated beyond thirty miles in a matter of only days?”
Sheriff Morris jumped to a standing position. “Girlie, someone didn’t raise you right,” he said, banging on his desk again, this time with a fist.
“Cyrus!” Now Luke stood up, smacking the back of his chair against the wall in his haste, though he stayed respectfully behind his desk in deference to his boss.
Lenora glanced at Luke in surprise. She had not before seen this side of the man. Briefly their eyes met, and that connection, fleeting though it was, strengthened and calmed her. She turned back to the sheriff and more quietly said, “Sheriff Morris, my husband alive couldn’t have swum thirty miles in such a short time. The only way a cadaver could make the trip on your schedule is in a steamboat!”
Lenora stood up, locked angry eyes with Luke’s grave ones, then turned about and, without another word, walked out the door. Somehow she mustered sufficient grace not to slam it, though on the inside she slammed it quite violently indeed.
#
The door had hardly clicked shut before Luke left his desk and stepped angrily to the sheriff’s desk, his mouth set in grim determination.
“Why?” asked Luke rhetorically, both his hands on Cyrus’ desk, leaning in to put his face close to his boss. “The woman is mourning her husband!” He said this slowly and evenly, carefully enunciating each word as if the sheriff was too dense to comprehend the big picture and needed to have things S-P-E-L-L-E-D O-U-T.
“Uppity bluestocking is what she is,” snapped the sheriff, though he looked shocked at his deputy’s uncharacteristic outburst. Sheriff Morris reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch. “Wish James Rose would come back from the grave so she’d stay the hell out of my office,” he growled. He sat down and began
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