HOUSE OF RESOLUTION
"Everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else." (Will Rogers)
Nonie's introduction… Howdy there, friends an' readers! Reckon it's about time I got around to recountin' the rest of this tale what took place in 'House of Misery'. But for you folks what ain't read it yet, here's a recap a what's what an' who's who. By the way, from here on out I'm mostly gonna be commentin' in proper English an' whatnot as my alter ego—Gracie Sherman. So don't get confused... it's still the same ole me.
PROLOGUE
October 1870'd brought calamity upon the Sherman ranch and stagecoach relay station: Matthew 'Slim' Sherman came down with acute bronchitis. Younger brother Andrew 'Andy' Sherman contracted measles in the epidemic that swept the township of Laramie. General factotum and self-proclaimed Dutch uncle Jebediah 'Jonesy' Jones suffered a particularly severe bout of rheumatism and sciatica. Hired hand and best friend/adopted brother Jess Harper sustained a broken leg in a stagecoach accident. An added casualty was a gravely injured traveler from a foreign land—Kimball 'Kim' Kahále. With the entire working crew of the ranch rendered hors d'combat, friends and neighbors pitched in to take charge of the dire situation and render whatever assistance was needed.
Six weeks on, around-the-clock oversight was no longer necessary though routine operations were far from restored. Andy'd completely recovered. Aside from a lingering cough and minor residual congestion, Slim was mostly over his affliction but hadn't yet been cleared by the family doctor to resume any heavy outdoor work. Jonesy was mobile but restricted to light duty cooking only. Jess and the luckless houseguest still faced weeks of recuperation—only time could heal broken bones.
The constant stream of volunteers and temporary live-in nurses had dwindled to periodic visits by a core group of caregivers including Freddy 'Young Doc' Whatleigh (general practitioner), who checked in whenever he was in the vicinity to ensure his patients were progressing satisfactorily; and Salviah 'Sally' Lowenstein (Young Doc's sister, farrier and artisan metalworker by trade) who came in from town once a week to attend the sixteen or so Overland-owned coach horses. As much traveling as they did every day, constant hoof and shoe maintenance was a necessity which Slim and Jess were unable to tackle at present. That was her public reason. The private reason was her clandestine long-term personal relationship with Slim, which was about to enter a new phase.
Other key players included: Lindsay 'Lychee' McNutt (attorney at law and adopted cousin to Sally and Young Doc), a frequent caller in connection with ranch finances and a private commission for his newest client. Lychee's employer Wing Chen Li (aka Lee Wing, a wealthy, influential semi-reclusive businessman and Young Doc's father-in-law), whose palatial enclave at a slight remove from the white residential part of town featured in much plotting and planning, secret activities and intelligence-gathering. Long-suffering Sheriff Mortimer 'Mort' Corey found himself embroiled in the affairs of the Sherman ranch a lot more often than he would've liked.
Though touched by the epidemic, the compass-point neighbors'd fared better than the Shermans. Slim and his parents'd never failed to lend support when needed, so the neighbors didn't hesitate to return the many favors done them over the years. By consolidating their efforts until the men of the Sherman ranch were back on their feet, they helped out with preparations for the coming winter. Their wives took it in turn to keep the covered dishes coming.
Dependable formal education was still a hit-or-miss proposition in the Laramie community. From time to time families had to resort to homeschooling just as the earliest settlers'd done—as best they could depending on the literacy level of the parents. Slim'd long had his heart and mind set on sending his kid brother to college. In the years before a real school had been established, Slim'd overseen Andy's studies. Intelligent and well-read himself, educating Andy in the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic hadn't been particularly arduous.
But what Andy now needed to learn was far more complex and extensive—requiring knowledge and guidance Slim felt inadequate to provide if the boy were to pass preparatory school exams and gain acceptance to the prestigious Smith Academy in St. Louis. And then fortune and chance had provided an inspired solution in the person of their temporary boarder.
Kim Kahále—university-trained civil engineer—couldn't travel anywhere until his body mended, which meant like it or not he was stuck at the ranch for an as-yet undetermined number of weeks. According to Young Doc, it was imperative that in the meantime he do nothing strenuous that might cause his fractured ribs to shift and puncture an internal organ. What could be less physically taxing than sitting at the parlor table tutoring a fourteen-year-old kid? Slim'd proposed bartering bed and board for tutorial services and Kim'd agreed.
Everything was going to be all right…
Chapter 1 — CABIN FEVER
"Cabin fever is an idiomatic term for a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group
is isolated and/or shut in a small space, with nothing to do for an extended period. Cabin fever
describes the extreme irritability and restlessness a person may feel in these situations." (Wikipedia)
Saturday, November 5th... Andy Sherman dawdled on the front porch in the twilight, studying the Finnell alcohol thermometer installed near the front door. The oak and brass device registered outdoor temperatures from forty below zero to a high of one-hundred-eighty degrees—overkill in the young scholar's estimation. When did it ever get that cold or that hot around Laramie, Wyoming? Still, it was a marvelous piece of instrumentation. The instructional notations printed at intervals alongside the glass tube were equally amusing: 'alcohol boils', 'wax melts', 'fever heat' and 'blood heat' down to 'butter melts', 'ice melts' and 'alcohol freezes'—aside from 'zero', useless information on a device intended for outdoor use. Now—at five o'clock in the afternoon, with the sun having just set—it stood at eighteen degrees… which was what was keeping six inches of compacted snow on the ground.
The thermometer was the latest in a series of deliveries all addressed to Master Andrew Sherman, Esquire from an anonymous benefactor. Before that it had been an up-to-date Andrews terrestrial globe with a cast metal cradle, a wood horizon ring and a brass full meridian. Other packages had contained such useful items for a future collegian as a set of Cross pens in a rosewood case, a generous supply of high-quality writing paper, and several boxes of first edition textbooks.
Slim'd hit the roof, demanding it all be sent right back. However, as Jonesy'd sagely observed, with no return address on any of the parcels there was no way of doing so. After a heated exchange of messages between Slim and the postmaster in town, the latter'd made it quite clear he wasn't authorized to have unclaimed Sherman mail and packages cluttering up his establishment. Onto the stagecoach with driver Mose Shell and out to the ranch it would go!
Luckily, several other recent inexplicable occurrences had served to turn Slim's attention elsewhere and were keeping him occupied.
Having come up the steps behind Andy, two elderly men were vigorously flailing their arms and stomping their boots to shake off accumulations of snow, mud and dung. Though neither retired cowboy would see seventy again, they enjoyed remarkably sound health and were possessed of keen minds that still relished the game of bunkhouse one-upmanship. For the past two hours, accompanying Andy on evening rounds, they'd been regaling him with cold weather metaphors, of which they apparently had a bottomless repertoire. No doubt they had an equal number applicable to hot weather.
"Colder'n penguin shit," William 'Mild Bill' Bailey announced from the depths of the voluminous muffler wound around his head, face and neck.
"So cold I'm fartin' snowflakes," claimed Albert 'Opie' Oppenheimer, shivering despite the multiple layers of woolens shielding his old bones.
Through the closed front door could be heard voices rising and falling in argument. Andy sighed, for once wishing there were even more chores to keep him out of the house—anything to put off having to wade back into that swamp of pent-up frustration. Granted, after five weeks of enforced togetherness, it was perfectly understandable why façades of civility were crumbling without female oversight enforcing good behavior.
Setting down the two lidded pails of milk he was carrying, Andy opened the door cautiously, allowing billows of warmth and savory smells to escape the threshold. Respectfully gesturing to the two elders to precede him into the parlor, he picked up the pails and entered, butting the door shut behind him. Jonesy must have seen them through the kitchen window, heading for the front entrance as the kitchen door was once again swelled shut. He hastened around the corner to intercept them before they could track mud indoors, barking orders.
"Don't you fellas even think about takin' another step 'til you pull off them boots! An' get warshed up. Supper'll be ready in ten minutes. Slim, Jess… move that mess off the table!"
The 'mess' to which Jonesy referred was the big green ranch ledger, assorted stacks of papers, a litter of crumpled balls where apparently someone had done battle with sums and lost, and a scattering of gnawed-on pencil stubs. Slim was cribbing away at a pencil and scowling. When agitated, he had a nervous habit of furrowing his hair, fingers transferring oil from his forehead and causing his hair to lay down in blonde windrows. He was beyond agitated this evening.
"Those two columns have to come out even. No way they could be that far off! You must've added receipts wrong somewhere... or lost a couple!"
"I done added 'em three times already an' it come out the same all three times. You musta not wrote down a deposit or somethin'." Jess glowered back in what Andy called his 'defense' mode... head and chin tucked down like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell.
"Well, dammit... add 'em again! We're gonna get these books balanced if it takes all night!" Slim bellowed, half-rising from his chair and slamming his fist on the table. The ink pot jumped, sputtering beads of ink. Most of the time he kept a tight lid on his temper and the only way to judge the depths of his anger was by the heightened color in his cheeks and veins popping up at his temples. Even then he usually managed to maintain an even tone of voice while addressing the object of his ire. Tonight wasn't one of those times.
Jess went dead still, staring downwards and not at Slim, jaw muscles twitching. Fingers that rarely ceased motion were splayed against the tabletop, pressing down with such force that they'd gone white.
Other than the crackle and pop of pine resin in the fireplace, a doom-invoking silence descended on the room. Halfway divested of their outerwear, Andy, Opie and Mild Bill froze in place. Jonesy retreated to the kitchen. Kim was nowhere in sight.
If ever there were a time when the human volcano that was Jess Harper was going to erupt, this would be it. Wouldn't be the first time Slim had pushed Jess beyond his ability to smother his emotions, triggering one of two results: Jess starting a fistfight... or... Jess packing up his gear and leaving. Except this time he couldn't do either one... not with his leg in a heavy plaster cast from ankle to above the knee.
Andy had to remind himself to breathe before he passed out. He worried that his red-faced brother might be about to bust a gusset. (Was it even possible for a man not yet thirty to have a heart attack or an apoplectic fit?) He worried that Jess might be about to do something awful... like shoot Slim. But no... his gunbelt was hanging on the rack right next to Slim's. (Was it possible to kill someone with a penknife? There was an open one right there on the table where they'd been using it to sharpen pencils...)
By the look on Slim's face as he pushed his chair back, he was already regretting his outburst. No doubt he'd apologize once he'd cooled down, but the damage was already done and he knew it. Striding past Andy and the two old men he jammed his feet into his gumboots and snatched his sheepskin coat off the rack.
"I'll be in the barn," he muttered. Yanking his hat down on his head, he clomped out the door and slammed it behind him.
Andy's eyes swiveled back to Jess, slowly and deliberately backing his wheelchair away from the table as Jonesy emerged from the kitchen.
"Don't pay 'im no mind, Jess," Jonesy consoled. "You know he don't mean to blame you. He just needs to blow off some steam an' you happened to be convenient..."
"Too damned convenient", Jess snarled, wheeling the chair around toward the bedroom door. "I've had it with him an' his fault-findin' ways."
"Where d'ya think you're goin'? We're fixin' to eat!"
"Ain't hungry," was the terse reply as the wheelchair disappeared into the depths of the back bedroom, slowing down just long enough for Jess to backhand the door shut.
Edging their way past Jonesy, Mild Bill and Opie bolted for the dogtrot passageway to the washroom addition at the back of the house. Kim cautiously poked his head out of the improvised bunkroom off the hall. "Is it safe?"
"I knew this was comin'," Jonesy grumbled. "The two of 'em's gonna be the death a me yet! Well, we ain't holdin' supper on their account. The rest of us'll go ahead an' eat an' I'll put some aside for 'em later. Go on an' get warshed up."
Andy felt a little guilty, tucking into the delicious chicken and dumplings, brought by earlier in the day by Missus Livingston. In the back of his mind, too, were the two apple pies delivered by Missus Bartlett yesterday. Chicken and dumplings and apple pie with a hunk of sharp wheel cheese was Jess' absolute most favorite food. For him to say he wasn't hungry when Andy knew darn good and well he had to be by now... well... that was a bad portent. Jess never passed up a meal if he could help it!
There were times, when Jess retreated into one of his black moods, when he truly wanted to be left alone. But there were other times when he needed not to be. The trick was in knowing the difference. What Andy really wanted to do was go in there, sit on the other bed and talk to Jess quiet-like, until he calmed down... but...
At the same time... Andy pondered whether he oughtn't go out to the barn and try to coax his brother into coming back into the house. It was dang cold out there and Slim was just getting over being sick. They didn't need for him to have a relapse right now. As usual, Jonesy was reading his mind and nodding his head.
"Can't be in both places at once, boy."
"I know that, Jonesy... but I feel like I gotta do something... say something..."
The old man sighed. "When it comes down to it, blood's thicker'n water. When we're done here, you go deal with your brother. I'll try to have a word with Jess..."
"If you think that's best..." Andy said. But Jess is my brother, too... and he needs me more than Slim does...
