Disclaimer: I do not own Gunsmoke but Julia is mine.
Note: In this chapter we learn of Mrs. Jones' darker problems.
. . .
Festus slapped the last brushful of paint onto the barn. He leaned back and surveyed his work. It was a week since Mrs. Jones had given him the job with nothing more than the promise of her forgiveness for a reward. He smiled at his work, pleased with the results. The barn was now a fresher shade of red and the trim fairly shone white.
Julia stood the porch, sipping a cup of coffee. The barn did look better. Mr. Haggen had exceeded her expectations. "There's a cup of coffee if you'd like one."
He turned and jingled over to the porch. "Much obliged, Mrs. Jones. What'd ya' think of the barn?"
She made a show of looking over the barn very closely. "You've done a good job, Mr. Haggen. So good, in fact, I've decided to give you more work—if you're willing, that is."
"What sort a' work?"
"Well," she surveyed her tidy little farmyard. "There are a plethora of things that need doing and trustworthy workers are hard to find."
He raised his eyebrows.
"By trustworthy I mean that you won't make off with my valuables if I have to take a trip into town. After a week, I think that you can be left alone. Now, are you willing? I'll pay you, of course."
"Just one more question," he drained the last of the coffee from his mug. "Why do you need this work done all of a sudden? Matthew said that you'd been out here for the last six months and you haven't done one thing to fix the place up since then exceptin' t' inside of the house. So why now?"
She placed her mug on the porch and folded her hands. "I have visitors coming. Important ones. I'd like to impress upon them that this is my home now and, well, it needs some improvement to help prove my point. Satisfied?"
"Yes'm. What'd y' need done first?"
. . .
Aches throbbed dully all over Festus' body, but he continued to hammer the nails into the cedar shingles of Mrs. Jones' roof. He wiped his forehead with the back of a sweaty hand, defeating the purpose completely. The last nail was being particularly stubborn and a flash of dull pain shot through his shoulder as he pounded it home. He let out a discontented sigh. All this work wasn't good for a Haggen.
Festus took a moment to admire the view from the roof. Kansas spread out below him, starting with the small grove of trees on the north side of the Jones' farm. It stretched as far as he could see and, he imagined, continued even beyond that. Without prior warning, a rider appeared from the grove of trees and continued riding north. Even from a good ways off, something about the rider bothered Festus. He shook himself and climbed down from the roof. It was probably just a drifter.
He found Julia hanging the day's washing. "Howdy, Mrs. Jones."
She returned his greeting without pausing in her work.
"I just come t' see y' on account of a have a question," he paused, waiting for a response.
Julia turned her eyes to him briefly. "Well?"
"D' you have any ranch hands out here?"
"Mr. Haggen," she firmly fixed a last clothespin on the line. "I have no cattle or other large livestock and therefore have no need of ranch hands. Does that answer your question," she shook her head in an exasperated fashion and began to hang the next piece of laundry.
"I only asked because I seen a man riding off out a' them woods up on the north corner."
One of Glenn's shirts slipped from her hand.
"I reckon you know him."
"No, but out here anyone can be dangerous."
"A' course. I done finished that roof a' yours, I'll be goin' home for the day," he crossed the yard and mounted Ruth. "Mrs. Jones," he tipped his hat and rode north toward the small wood. Once he reached it, he found a half-way comfortable spot and settled in for the night.
Somewhere around midnight, when the moon was full and round, certain noises reached his ears. The subtle clink of horses hooves against hidden rocks, cracking twigs, forceful breaths. The same rider from earlier in the day rode within six feet of Festus and Ruth without noticing them. When the man was well away, Festus shook his head.
. . .
Another afternoon of ruffled nerves saw Julia baking again. She distractedly picked at the bread. The rider was most likely just a drifter, nothing more. But it worried her. She didn't like strangers that close to her house. Just as before, a knock at the door stirred her from her thoughts. And just as before it was Festus at the door.
"What do you want now?"
"You was lyin' t' me about that feller yesterday. Who is he?"
She could feel the blood drain from her face. "I don't know," her breath came in rasps. She tried to slam the door but he wedged his foot in it and pushed his way in.
"Look here, woman, I know I ain't got no right but I'm mighty fond a' that boy a' yours and I'd like t' know if he's in any danger. Maybe I could help," he stood a little straighter. "Besides, if'n you can't trust your enemies, who can you trust?"
Julia smiled in spite of herself. "You're smarter than people give you credit for. Come in and sit down."
Once he was seated comfortably at her kitchen table, she turned back to the bread. She stared down at the dough, trying to find the right words. "I'm from Boston, originally. My family is one of the wealthiest in all of Massachusetts," she leaned into the dough. "Jonas Winters, my father, is what's called a steel baron. He wanted to cement a business partnership with Nathan Jones, the railroad owner. And what better way to cement business ties than to have your daughter marry your business partner's son. So my father sent me west like I was a shipment of rails," Julia punched the dough one last time and shoved it away in a puff of flour. She turned to face Festus. "I was married to Peter Jones for seven years when he died in a railroad accident. He was surveying a new tunneling operation when it collapsed, killing him and ten other men.
"Peter left me with over ten thousand in gambling debts and a mistress in a cheap apartment in downtown San Francisco. I spent most of the money from the sale of our house paying off his debts—and his mistress. Just as I thought everything was settling down, I started to get letters. Horrible, slanderous, anonymous letters. They claimed that," she paused, picking at her apron strings. "That Glenn wasn't Peter's son. It was a lie, of course, but the sender demanded that I pay him a ridiculous sum of money or he would send some supposed proof to my parents.
"I knew there was no proof. Glenn is Peter Jones' son. Armed with this knowledge, I penned an acidly toned letter and left if where I was supposed to leave the money. Two weeks later I received a telegram from my mother informing me that she would not have an 'adulterous tramp' in her family and that I was written out of the will. It gets worse, of course. The blackmailer also found some way to tell all of my supposed friends. I had no choice to take Glenn and leave California. Eventually we found our way here. You know the rest."
"What about that feller ridin' 'round your woods? What does he have t' do with any a' this?"
"Last week I started getting letters from the blackmailer again, suggesting the same terrible lies and," she colored slightly, "new ones. They wouldn't worry me under normal circumstances. The people of Dodge are smart enough to know outright lies when they hear them but… The important visitors that are coming to see my farm? They're my family and a few old friends who are willing to give me a second chance. That's why I want everything to go well, you see," she took a hesitant step forward, clutching and unclutching her hands. "I want Glenn to know his grandparents and his aunts. You of all people know how important family is, Mr. Haggen. I've... I've been paying him. The ten dollars I'm giving you for helping me fix this place up are my last ten dollars."
A deep silence fell over the kitchen. She paced over to the table and sank into a chair. There she sat; shoulders slumped forwards, trembling slightly. She remained still for a few moments, and then pulled herself upright. "I wouldn't normally tell all of this to someone I'd known less than a month, Mr. Haggen, but you have that sort of face."
He frowned.
"I meant a listening sort of face. Besides, as you said, if you can't trust your enemies, who can you trust?" the corners of her mouth tried to pull themselves into a smile. She looked straight into his eyes. "I've told you everything. What shall we do about it?"
"Well," he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I reckon the first thing t' do is make sure that this here blackmailin' feller doesn't spill the beans while your parents are here. When'll he want money next?"
"Not until after they leave, if past events are any prediction. But I'm afraid that he'll try to take advantage of their visit. That's why I'm not exactly advertising their visit. I can only hope that he'll hold off until they're gone."
"Now for step two… I reckon this'un'll stick in your craw just a little bit."
"Oh?"
Festus carefully laid the ten dollar coin on her scarred kitchen table. "Before you get t' tellin' me that I earned it fair and square, may I remind you that since I earned it I gets t' choose how I spend it."
She took the coin and tucked it into her apron pocket with a murmured word of thanks.
"That's more like it. Now, since I'm a' fixin' t' stay here 'til this feller, we's gunna have t' have a good story t' tell your boy because he ain't stupid."
"Easy, you're doing work for me and are exhausted and need a place to sleep. I'll let you have the hay loft. You can even stay for dinner."
He grinned. "I reckon I'd like that."