The barber seemed to know nothing of any consequence; quite unusual in a rather small town. Bart was still a bit early, so he stopped at the general store and bought two things – an apple and a bag of peppermint candies. The apple went in Noble's mouth and the candies in Bart's saddlebags. The ride to the little school was short, and he arrived as the last of the children were leaving for home.
He tied the gelding out front and went inside. The schoolhouse reminded him of the one he'd grown up attending and hadn't thought about in years – the one room school in Little Bend, Texas. It was still early in the year and the temperature hadn't turned hot yet; the inside of the building was cool and pleasant. He didn't make much noise for a man as big as he was, and he was almost at the teacher's desk before the girl looked up. Brown hair, blue eyes, delicate hands, and the same name – but not at all the Cherry Smith that Bart Maverick had known in El Paso, Texas. How could they be so much alike and yet be different people?
"Yes, sir, can I help you with something? Were you looking for one of the children? They've gone for the day."
"No, ma'am, not one of the children. Are you Cherry Smith?"
"Yes, I am. Were you . . . oh, you must be looking for the other Cherry Smith. A young lady from Texas, I believe. And from what I've been told, we look somewhat alike. I assure you, I am another person entirely, Mr. . . . "
"Maverick. Bart Maverick." There was no change in her eyes, her voice, her attitude. He might as well have said his name was Jones.
"Are you . . . of course you are. You must be. Bret Maverick's brother."
"I am, Miss Smith. But you are definitely not . . . not at all the lady from Texas."
"No, sir, as you can see. You're here . . . to try and prove your brother innocent, I assume."
"Yes, ma'am. He is innocent."
She shook her head emphatically. "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Maverick. My fiancé is, after all, dead. Shot in the back, with your brother's gun. After he was accused of cheating by that very same man."
"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Fletcher was cheating. A witness has come forward to support my brother's statement."
For the first time a note of hostility crept into her voice. "Oh? And how much did that cost you?"
There was no sense in prolonging the conversation – this was not the girl he'd believed her to be, and she had every right to be hostile. As far as she was concerned, his brother had killed the man she was going to marry. "I'm sorry for bothering you, Miss Smith." He turned around to leave and had taken a step before he heard her voice.
"Wait, please. I'm sorry, Mr. Maverick, you've done nothing wrong, and I was rude. You had a reason for coming here – what was it?"
"I was looking for the other Cherry Smith."
"And you thought . . . "
"Yes, ma'am. I did think that. But now that I've met you . . . this makes a whole lot more sense." And Joanie Maxwell made a whole lot more sense, too. Marry the schoolmarm, but keep the saloon girl on the side. Just in case.
"Why do you think he's innocent, Mr. Maverick?"
"Because I know my brother, ma'am. He'd never shoot someone in the back. No matter what they'd done to him. And certainly not over a poker game."
"He's a gambler, Mr. Maverick. Certainly he's been in gunfights before over a game of chance."
"Only in self-defense, Miss Smith."
"And yet Danny was shot in the back."
There didn't seem to be any point in trying to reason with the girl; she had her mind made up. Not that he could blame her – looking at just the known facts would convince anyone of his brother's guilt. Anyone that didn't know Bret Maverick. There was only one question left to ask. "Do you know Joanie Maxwell?"
Something changed, and it took a minute for Bart to realize just what it was. Whatever warmth and friendliness had existed in Cherry Smith's eyes vanished, and they became cold and hard. No matter her verbal answer, it was obvious she knew exactly who he meant.
"No, Mr. Maverick, I don't. Should I?"
XXXXXXXX
As he rode away from the schoolhouse it became clear that today wasn't going a whole lot better than yesterday. Dead-end after dead-end seemed to be the only road he was traveling down, and time was running short. In desperation he rode back to Miss Nellie's, hoping to discuss the day's events with Porter Freeman. The attorney wasn't at the boarding house, either in his room or office. Next he headed for the jail to fulfill his promise to Bret, which is where he found Freeman. 'Should have come here first,' he thought as he climbed down from the gelding.
Once he'd handed his Colt over to the sheriff, the cell was unlocked and he joined Bret and Porter inside. His brother's eyes lit up when Bart gave him the small package wrapped in brown paper. "You remembered!"
"Of course I did. Wish the rest of the day had gone as well as your peppermints."
"Wasn't Miss Smith at school today either?" Porter immediately asked.
"Yeah, she was there. But the she that was there wasn't the she I expected." The attorney looked confused; the older brother understood perfectly.
"Not the Cherry Smith he was expecting to find," Bret explained. "But she resembled the girl in El Paso?"
"Coulda been sisters. And from what she said, I wasn't the first one that pointed it out to her. Add her to the list of folks that think you're guilty." He paused for a minute when Bret offered a piece of the candy. "Interestin' reaction when I asked if she knew Joanie Maxwell, though. She said no, but her eyes told me somethin' else."
"So she probably knew about Danny's saloon girl?"
"Sure looked that way. Could explain why she wasn't so upset about losin' the man she was gonna marry. Porter, who plays in this poker game at the boardin' house?" It was a question that, until now, Bart hadn't thought to ask.
"Besides whichever Maverick shows up and Tommy Sampson? Hopper, if he can get away. Joe Matthews – he owns Lollie's. Cary Townsend, from the general store. Bob Garringer, owns the hotel. Me, if I've had a good week. And Andrew Story."
Bart was instantly alert. "Andrew Story? Any relation to Jackson Story?"
Freeman nodded. "His son. He runs the ranch, ever since Jackson . . . well, ever since Jackson can't, anymore."
"Can't run the ranch? Why not?"
"Don't you two have a poker game to go to?" Bret asked before Porter could give his brother an answer.
"Yes, we better leave," the attorney volunteered. "You don't want to miss supper at Miss Nellie's if you don't have to. Especially on poker night."
Bart sighed. Another mention of Jackson Story, another interrupted discussion. Was he ever going to get to the truth about the mysterious ranch owner? It had taken him almost two days to find out that Jackson Story was real, with a ranch he could no longer run and a son that played poker named Andrew. What else was there that needed discovery?
"I walked. I assume you rode?"
"I did, Porter. I'll take Noble down to the livery and be right along. This could be an interesting night."
"Watch your step, Bart. This is no group to be trifled with." Bret was dead serious.
"Anything in particular I should know?" Bart asked.
"Yeah. Don't trust any of 'em."
"Even Porter?" The attorney was already on his way to Miss Nellie's, having hurried out of the jail when Hopper unlocked the cell. Bart stood on the outside of the bars, watching his brother's eyes. Those black eyes were the key to whatever was going on in this town. Right now they were worried, but he wasn't sure who or what they were worried about.
"Just be careful with Porter. He means well, but . . . just be careful."
"I'll keep my eyes open. I'll see you in the mornin'."
"G'night, Brother Bart. Good poker."
"Stay safe, Brother Bret."
Bart turned to Frank Hopper. "You playin' poker tonight, sheriff?"
"Nope. Give 'em my regrets, would ya?"
The gambler nodded. "I will. I'll be here to see my brother in the mornin'."
"I figured. Night, Maverick."