The Night of the Woman Scorned

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

Zara in The Mourning Bride (Act III, Scene VIII), William Congreve (1670-1729), English playwright and poet

Chapter 1

In life there are meetings which seem

Like a fate.

—Lucile (pt. II, canto III, st. 8), Lord Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (1831-1891), English statesman and poet

"I didn't know it could be so cold in September," Artie complained as they drew their horses to a slower pace along the darkened street.

Jim glanced at his partner. "I thought you grew up in Michigan."

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago. I've spent too much time in California and Arizona and the like!"

"Well, I guess it can get pretty cold in Idaho too," Jim smiled. He cast his glance on either side of the street. "I don't see a hotel."

"Great. That saloon looks nice and cozy. A shot of whiskey might warm my bones." The sign above the porch read "Silver Dollar Saloon, Whiskey, Beer, and Games."

"True."

Dismounting, they tied their horses off at the rack along with a number of other ponies. Looks like a popular place, Jim mused as they stepped up onto the porch. The laughter and talk from inside seemed to confirm his thoughts, which were further validated as they stepped inside. Men were lining the bar, and most of the tables were occupied. Best of all, a potbelly stove in one corner was putting out comforting heat. Despite the warmth, he experienced a frisson of a chill as they stepped inside.

"Now this is nice!" Artie pulled off his gloves and began to unbutton his fleece-lined jacket as they made their way to the bar. A couple of men nodded and moved aside for them, while casting gazes full of curiosity their way. A lanky bartender approached and took their order for bourbon. He produced a bottle and two shot glasses to place in front of them.

Artie poured and both took hefty swallows, feeling the warmth of the alcohol trickling down their throats and into their stomachs. Jim turned to gaze over the assemblage, holding his glass. He saw a mixture of ranchers, farmers, miners, and lumberjacks who had sought warmth and companionship, along with some gambling games while others were gathered around a piano at the far end, tunelessly singing along with an equally out of tune piano played by a woman who was barely visible behind the several burly men.

A number of women were mixed in with the men, more women than he would have expected in a small town like this. Most of the women were older, he decided, so perhaps this was a last refuge when they could not get work elsewhere. One of them noticed his scrutiny, smiled, and headed their direction.

"Gentlemen," she greeted. "Welcome to Blue Falls. Passing through?" She looked to be well into her thirties, with thick dark hair wrapped into a loose chignon and decorated with a white ribbon. Her gown was rather plain and had seen washings and mending aplenty. Nonetheless, it was attractive on her.

"For the most part," Jim replied. "Buy you a drink?"

"Sure. Thanks. The usual, Hank!" she called. Jim knew that that probably xmeant a watered down version of what he and Artie were drinking. "I'm Hattie."

"Jim. This is my pal, Artie."

"Ma'am." Artie touched his hat. "Say, is there a hotel in this town?"

"I'm afraid not. There is a boarding house but I can tell you it's full up. If you're not too particular, Fanny has rooms upstairs. Gets a little noisy until closing time."

"When's that?" Jim asked.

She laughed. "Oh, as soon as all the boys either head for home or are dead drunk in their chairs."

"Who's Fanny?" Artie wanted to know.

"The owner," Hattie responded. Jim did not miss the way her face tightened for an instant. "She's over there at the table in the corner, the blonde with the sheriff and the judge if you want to go talk to her."

"Go ahead," Jim said when Artie glanced his way with an unspoken question. "Any bed inside is better than making camp out there in the cold."

"I'll say," Artie nodded. He downed the rest of his whiskey and started across the room, making his way through the tables and chairs and the men moving among them.

"Something about Fanny you don't like?" Jim asked, refilling his own glass from the bottle.

Hattie looked at him in some surprise. "Why would you ask that?"

He smiled. "I saw your face."

She sighed. "Well… I feel like talking and you look like a good listener. Let's go sit down." Without waiting for his assent, she headed for a nearby empty table.

Jim followed, carrying his glass as well as Artie's and the bottle. He could not comprehend why, but something about this place, about Hattie's reaction to her boss, put his nerves on edge, commencing almost the moment that they pushed through the door. He had no idea why he would feel uneasy. He saw nothing and no one threatening. They had come upon this town by pure happenstance, making their way across Idaho to meet the Wanderer in eastern Montana, after delivering a wanted man to authorities in Spokane.

Late in the afternoon, they had been making for the settlement at Lake Coeur d'Alene, expecting to spend the night there, when a sudden and fierce storm that put down rain, hail, and some snow caused them to veer off course to seek shelter. They found refuge in a partially collapsed old barn. By the time the tempest passed over, darkness had fallen, with the clouds hiding the moon and stars, without which, they had little sense of direction. Spotting the lights of this town seemed like a godsend.

He sat down on a chair that gave him a view of the room as well as the front door, feeling almost foolish in what seemed a convivial atmosphere. Even the stares received when they entered had not held any threat, just interest. They were strangers, after all, and it was unlikely that this small out of the way burg received many unknown visitors.

"Mind if I have some of that?" Hattie asked, motioning to the bottle Jim placed on the table.

He cocked an eyebrow. "It's the real stuff."

"Just what I need." She took the bottle and filled her glass, taking a hefty swallow but not emptying it. "You want to hear about Fanny Burgess?"

"If you want to tell me."

Hattie sighed noisily. "I need to tell someone. Might as well be a stranger who will be gone tomorrow. All the others around here know the story but they don't want to hear it. It helps to talk about it once in a while."

"Go ahead." Off in the far corner Jim could see Artie standing by the table where "Fanny" was located with two older men.

"See, I came here about four years ago, down on my luck. You know what happens when a gal starts to show her age. Anyway, the owner of this place hired me. He said I was still good looking and he liked my looks. Liked the way I can sing. His name was Bill Foreman. Great guy. Not always in the best of health, but everyone liked him. I did. A lot. He was maybe twenty years older than me, but I really did like him. We spent a lot of time together.

"Then he started talking about getting married. He said he was going to leave this place to me whether that happened or not. I didn't want the Silver Dollar, I wanted Bill, so I tried to get him to take care of himself. Still, the idea of having a place of my own into my old age was a nice one. Then a little more than a year ago, she showed up."

"Fanny."

"Yep. Maybe you haven't had a good look at her but she's older than me, probably around fifty, or more. But good-looking. Looks younger. Acts younger. She's got a way about her and Bill fell for it. Fast and hard. All of a sudden, she was the one spending time with him. She didn't care about taking care of him either. They were drinking a lot. That wasn't good for him. Then one day, six months ago, he was dead. I don't think I was surprised when I learned that he had changed his will leaving everything to Fanny Burgess." Now Hattie finished her drink.

"That wasn't fair."

"Yeah, but what is it they say about all being fair in love and war? Nothing I could do about it. I have to admit I'm grateful that Fanny let me stay. I'm not even sure she knew about Bill and me. Maybe someone else told her. I didn't. I have nowhere else to go. So here I am."

"We're set," Artie announced as he approached the table. "Five bucks for the night."

"Five dollars for two rooms?" Jim asked, astonished. That was the fare for a decent hotel in Denver or San Francisco.

"One room," Artie amended, sitting down. "One bed. That's all there is, pal. Better than nothing."

"The overflow from the boarding house," Hattie said. "The fellows don't want to ride back to the mine or the lumber camps on a night like this, especially half sloshed."

"Well, it'll be good to have a bed for the night. As long as my friend here doesn't hog the blankets!"

"Hey!" Artie protested as he picked up the bottle. "That wasn't me last time we had to share a bed. It was you! Besides, Miss Fanny told me where some extra blankets were stored. No heat in the room and we might need a couple more. So we can each have our own."

"Very thoughtful of her," Jim murmured.

"Yeah. Seems like a nice lady." Artie did not frown but he felt like it when he saw the expression on Hattie's face. I have a sense I missed something.

"H-h-howdy, M-m-miss H-h-attie."

The words were mumbled by a bent over old man with long and straggly black and gray streaked hair that poked out from under a floppy-brimmed hat shadowing his face, and an even more unkempt beard, wearing an oversize greatcoat that hung to his ankles. He touched the brim of his hat with a finger as he shuffled by the table.

Hattie smiled. "Hello, Nestor." When the old man had moved on, apparently heading for a door behind the bar, Hattie spoke again. "Harmless old man. Fanny hired him a couple of weeks ago, lets him sleep in the storeroom and gives him a couple of bucks a week for keeping the place half clean. One good deed she did."

Artie noticed that last comment but did not remark on it. As he had been spending ten minutes with Fanny, Jim sat with Hattie for those same ten minutes. What did they talk about? I have an idea it was something interesting…

They sat there with Hattie for another half hour then left her the remainder of the bottle as they went out to take care of their horses. Fanny had told Artemus they could use the stable behind the building. Feed was stored there suitable for the horses, but it was unattended with no hostler. While they were tending the steeds Jim quietly told Artie what Hattie had related.

"Hmm. Well, Fanny is an attractive woman for her age. Could be that this Bill liked the fact that she was closer to him in age as well. Sour grapes on Hattie's part?"

"Maybe. You liked this Fanny, huh?"

"Well, I didn't dislike her after ten minutes of conversation. The judge and sheriff seemed comfortable in her presence. You wouldn't think they would if they thought she was some nefarious character."

"I suppose."

Artie let it drop, recognizing that something was bothering his partner, probably something more than the saloon woman's sob story. He knew from experience that the best thing was to wait and allow Jim to bring it up in his own time. A crowbar would not pry it from him otherwise.

W*W*W*W*W

Qualis pater talis filius.

(Like father, like son.)
—Proverb (Latin, Portuguese)

Both men awakened immediately when the sharp tap sounded at the door. Jim sat up, looking over to his partner; the sky had cleared enough for moonlight to illuminate the room through the sole window. Artie shook his head on the pillow, as puzzled as Jim was. He did not know the time but it was late. Very late. The din from the bar downstairs had not ceased until well after three—he knew because he had checked his watch several times.

Jim threw his blankets off and grabbed his trousers to pull on over his long drawers before picking up his pistol and padding to the door in his stocking feet. Artemus was sitting up in the bed now, but had similarly secured his weapon from the holster he had left on the floor next to the bed.

Stepping slightly to one side, Jim unlatched the door and flipped it open. He stared at the dim figure lit only by the low lamp burning in the hallway. "Nestor?"

Without waiting for an invitation, the character in the greatcoat and floppy hat stepped inside, pushing the door shut. He then lifted the hat from his head. Jim's vision had adjusted to the moonlit darkness by now and he could not stop the word that jumped from his lips.

"Sam? I mean…" He just stared, unsure what to say or do. He had not seen the man he had previously known as Sam Neville in close to a year. The man he now knew was his own father. Not even the scraggly beard and long straggling hair could disguise that. Is this why I felt so oddly when I came into this establishment?

Artemus had slipped out of bed and emulated Jim in pulling on his trousers. "Mr. West! I certainly did not recognize you in that getup. What's going on? Why are you here?" He kept his voice barely above a whisper.

"I found Francine Woodrow."

"Where?" The information startled Jim into responding.

"Here. Fanny Burgess is Francine."

"Are you certain?" Artie asked.

"Positive. I have been here for two weeks. She apparently hasn't recognized me, but I know her."

"I take it she is unaware you have spotted her," Artie put in, noticing that his partner continued to be tongue-tied with shock.

"Right. I have been too hasty many times over the years, as well as careless. A few times, she saw me before I saw her. This time, however, I had information ahead of time. A man I met in Seattle talked freely about this saloon in Blue Falls and the handsome blonde woman who ran it, calling herself Fanny Burgess, which is a name Francine has used in the past. I approached Blue Falls with extreme caution, and as you can see, I used your tricks, Artemus, creating a disguise by allowing my hair and beard to grow longer and using bootblack to darken it somewhat. It has worked. It is Francine all right. Thirty years older, and as the man in Seattle said, still a striking woman."

Thirty-some years ago Nevin West had been a prosperous businessman in a moderate sized town in upstate New York, happily settled with his second wife, their toddler son, and his son by his previous marriage. Suddenly that life had been blown apart when he vanished from the town, along with the wife of his partner in the town bank, leaving that partner and a clerk dead in the bank, and all the bank's funds missing.

During the Civil War, James West had been contacted by authorities in Chicago who informed him that the body of his parent had been found in Lake Michigan, identified by a pocket watch, which had been enclosed with the message for the younger son. Jim had been estranged from his half brother for almost twenty years at that time, and had no idea where Matthew was. A couple of years ago the two brothers had been reunited by the mad scheme of a nearly bankrupt former millionaire who wanted Jim's help in bilking some Indian tribes out of valuable land. At that juncture, Jim learned that their father was still alive, innocent of the robbery and murder charges. Nevin West was pursuing the woman who had actually committed the crimes.

Jim had grown into a man believing that his father was a fugitive. A murderer who had deserted his own family to run off with the wife of the man he was believed to have killed in cold blood, along with the clerk. Over fifty thousand dollars of bank money went with him. His brother had similarly vanished about ten years later, his excuse only a little less criminal in young James's mind: a tavern girl had convinced him to run away with her.

"What is your plan?" Artie inquired.

"Well, now that you're here, you can arrest her."

"No!" Jim abruptly spoke. He then appeared chagrinned with the outburst. "I mean, we can't just arrest her. We have no proof."

Nevin West seemed to be a little stunned. "I thought you…"

Artie interrupted. "What Jim means is that while we certainly believe in your innocence, the authorities may not. You have been a fugitive for all this time."

The elder West's expression changed. "So my word would not necessarily count for anything."

"You are the only witness—besides Francine Woodrow."

Nevin West sighed. "I've been so excited to find her I haven't really thought it through. I had plans to kidnap her and haul her to the police in another state. You might have noticed she's chummy with the sheriff and judge here. Chances are they'd believe her over me in Blue Falls."

"We need to make her confess," Jim said thoughtfully.

Although Nevin West's facial expression did not really alter, Artie saw the flash in his green eyes—the eyes so like his son's. West realized, as Artemus Gordon did, that Jim was agreeing to help his father. Nevin nodded. "That's a good idea. How?"

"Good question," Artie grimaced. "For one thing, I told Fanny—Francine—that we would be here for just one night. We'll need to think of an excuse to stay longer." He paused for a thoughtful moment. "Is there a telegraph office in town?"

"Yes. Next to the mercantile."

Jim was nodding. "If nothing else, we can come up with a story to remain here for some bogus reason. We'll work that out. For now, I suggest we all get a good night's sleep." If that's possible now! "We can make further plans later. As long as Francine is unaware of your presence, we should be able to take an extra few days."

The elder West seemed to be more accepting of this strategy than initially. "All right. I'd better get to my quarters before I'm spotted. I generally sleep in because I'm up late cleaning, so don't worry if you don't see me before noon!"

"Is the storeroom comfortable?" Jim asked, displaying a furrowed brow.

"Not bad, actually. I have a cot and plenty of blankets."

"Then good night, sir," Artie smiled. "Don't worry about anything. Jim and I have a reputation of solving problems like this."

"I know." Nevin West grinned behind his ratty beard. "Don't forget, I've experienced that a couple of times. Good night, Artemus. Jamie." He placed his hat back on his head, opened the door carefully to peek out, and with one backward glance, stepped out and closed the door behind him.

After a moment, Jim stepped to that door, opened it again to peer out before shutting it. "Looks like he made it to the stairs anyway."

Artie went back to the bed and began stripping off his trousers. "Now that was a surprise, eh?"

Jim made a noncommittal sound, returning to the bed himself. He holstered the pistol he had been holding all this time and sat down. "Artie… I didn't… I didn't know what to call him."

Artemus glanced back. Jim was staring at the dark wall in front of him. "I don't suppose it matters much. What does Matthew call him? Dad, isn't it? I always addressed my father as 'Father." I don't know why. It just happened that way."

"Yeah. I guess. What are we going to do?"

That very question was strong insight into James West's mind at this moment. He rarely became rattled over anything. Not facing down toughs with fists or guns, not dealing with possible poisonous gases; definitely not while dealing with someone like Dr. Miguelito Loveless. Nonetheless, the unexpected encounter with his long absent father was causing an unaccustomed anxiety; that was evident.

"Nothing right now," Artie replied quietly, laying back and wrapping his blankets around his body. "Tomorrow we'll send a telegram to get the right answer from Washington—just in case the telegrapher is prone to gossip. We will also figure out how to deal with Francine Woodrow alias Fanny Burgess. We can't let her get away this time, Jim."

"I know," Jim sighed. "I hope I sleep!"