Tell Ma to Keep Supper Hot
Sequel to the season two episode, Killer Without Cause
"You fight one Vale, you have to lick 'em all." –Laramie Citizen in Killer Without Cause
Part One
Pulling the black shawl closer to her neck, Edith Vale shuddered. She had been keeping supper hot for over a week now. Of course it was ruined, but she couldn't find the courage to throw it out. Oddly enough she stirred it now and then, as if someone were still coming to sit at the table, unfold the napkin and tuck it into the front of his shirt and then smile as she spooned a generous serving onto the plate. But that wasn't going to happen. Not yesterday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Her husband and two sons were dead.
They wouldn't be long. That's what Kenny had said after telling her to keep the fire burning on the kitchen stove. That first night Edith had paced the front hall, then resorted to standing at the window with the curtain pulled back. When she finally heard the hoof beats come pounding onto the property her lashes lowered. It was only one horse.
"Where's your pa?" she asked at the sound of the side door banging nearly off its hinges.
"In jail."
She turned sharply at the harsh sound of her son's voice. "What?"
"He's in jail. That loco Sherman went and signed the complaint. Pa's being held for murder, Ma. Murder!"
Her trembling fingers reached out for the swollen mark on her son's face. "Someone hit you?"
"Yeah." He spit with contempt. "Sherman did. Not only did he get Pa jailed, he came at me with his fists."
"Was there reason?"
"The way Sherman's sitting high and mighty, he don't need a reason."
"Sit down and have your dinner, Son," Edith said, quickly filling the coffee cup to the rim. "I've kept it hot just as I said I would."
"I can't, Ma. I'm too worked up."
Edith's mouth went into a hard line. "Not so worked up that you're going to ride over to the Sherman ranch, are you?"
Light suddenly hit Kenny's eyes, it went even brighter when he caressed the handle of his gun. "No, Ma. I'll leave that to Luke. He's coming. I sent him a wire straight away. He'll be here tomorrow, the next maybe."
"Luke."
"He'll take care of Sherman, Ma," Kenny promised, pulling his mother close to his side, the side that held his gun, as if that in itself was its own promise. "Then pa'll come home and everything will be fine again."
"Fine again," Edith huffed, once again taking the wooden spoon in hand. The lumps on the pot's bottom were getting harder to stir, yet with her agitation rising, she was able to whip enough to get the stew moving again. "Nothing is fine. Nothing is fine at all."
The spoon falling to its rest with a hard clunk, a few splatters leapt from the countertop onto her shawl. It was hard to see the dots among the black, yet she picked at each mark with her fingernail until there was nothing else but the solemn color to see. Her hand switching positions to smooth out the wrinkles, Edith followed the lacy hemline of her shawl all the way down to her toes that peeped out of a different hemline. They really weren't all that different. Black. Her entire being was cloaked in black and had been since the rooster had wakened her that early morning of the first funeral the Laramie cemetery would see for the Vale family. There would be three.
When Kenny died—Oh, how it hurt her heart! Her youngest, her baby!—there were a handful of Laramie citizens standing around the lowering casket, watching with bowed heads when the first shovelful of dirt was thrown onto the wooden lid. Of course Luke was there in place of his father beside her, holding her hand, telling her to not fret, to not cry, to only trust him that the man responsible for Kenny's death was going to die.
Only the man responsible didn't die. Luke did. And less than twelve hours later, another rider came to tell her that Carl was gone. There was no one at Luke's funeral but her. At Carl's service, Edith felt even lonelier among the hallowed ground. Not even the preacher attended that one.
As she walked away from the carved stones on that last, chilly afternoon, Edith stood at Laramie's outskirts and watched the town's bustle, searching for a sympathetic or friendly face. For awhile there was a group that supported her family. Not the women, of course, but some of the men had stood strong, ready to battle for her husband's freedom. But even they had forgotten.
Edith hadn't. And never would.
The hooves outside made her finally step away from the cold stove. At least she knew that it wasn't another messenger of death coming, although if it was who Edith was hoping for, maybe that would be an appropriate title for them to wear. The curtain given a slight part, she watched as the pair of horses pulled up to the hitching post. It was them, all right, and she reveled in a moment of near ecstasy as she walked out the door.
One hat lifted, the other left alone, the man that balanced his Stetson on a pair of fingers flashed his teeth at her. "Are you Mrs. Vale?"
Her shawl-covered head was given a nod as her almost as dark eyes flitted between the one that remained on horseback and the other, slightly older, slightly more handsome man that stood in front of her.
"I understand you have some business for us."
Edith finally discovered that her mouth could change from its grieving position and smile. "I do."
"We're not cheap."
"Neither am I," answered Edith, her wrinkled hand going inside her pocket to feel the fold of bills that had been sitting there since she visited Laramie's bank and promptly emptied the Vale's entire account. "I'll let you look at it, but it won't go into your hands until the job is done."
The dark hat was given a slight twirl with the tip of his finger. "Show it, and I'll let you know if it's worth putting in our hands when the job is done."
The lump exposed, she fanned the stack of bills with her fingers. "Does this satisfy you?"
He let out a low whistle. "It sure does, Ma'am. What do we have to do to get it?"
"Kill a man."
"One man?" He raised a quizzical eyebrow before chucking a thumb at his partner, unmoving, unspeaking atop his mount. "But there are two of us. Certainly with the reputations we have under our belts, two to kill one man isn't necessary."
"I never said there was only one man. What I meant was that you each will have your own man."
Intrigued, he leaned closer to her. "Who are they?"
"Slim Sherman and Jess Harper," Edith answered, the bitterness evident. Of course it would be. She wanted them dead. "They run a ranch and relay outside of Laramie. They shouldn't be hard to find, but make sure they aren't hard to kill."
"We'll get the job done, Mrs. Vale."
"How do I know you will?"
"You have our word, Ma'am," he said, pausing before he returned his hat to his head so she could clearly see the precise bead of his eyes was on the high number that Edith held. "And you have our money."
She nodded and then slowly returned the wad into her pocket. "The sooner you get it, the better."
"We get your meaning, Mrs. Vale. It'll be done soon. That's a guaranteed promise."
Edith waited until the men turned to dots against the hillside and then went back into the house. Sitting down to the rocker, a sudden chill made Edith tug on the edge of the afghan and tuck it over her lap. The colors somehow seemed brighter against the black background of her dress and she fingered the floral pattern. The smile came easy as she remembered the first time she had caressed this very edge. It was her wedding night. The gift from her mother, made by hours upon hours of crocheting had seen the newlyweds through many years. Both good and bad. And now, it was seeing the very worst.
A tear slipping down, Edith tried to catch it before it landed, but the droplet hit the center flower instead of her palm. Knowing there would be more sliding down each cheek, she folded her hands together. She should have kept them flat. The next tear pulling away from her chin, it touched her fourth knuckle and then wrapped around the golden band. It had been a symbol of their love. Now it stood as a symbol of her pain.
"Oh, Carl! Why?"
She bit off the sob and held it tight. While she loved him, Edith knew her husband wasn't a perfect man. He talked crudely, taught their two sons how to live just as rough and probably what made Carl stand out the most was that he didn't value the life of his fellow man. He hated Indians. There was no kinder way to say it. It was a plain, well-acknowledged fact. Carl hated Indians. But that feeling didn't stop at people born with red skin. It didn't matter what color of skin that fellow man wore. Carl hated certain white men just the same.
Now Edith had a specific hatred for Indians. She had always remained tightlipped during one of her husband's rants about the local tribes. She could keep them sealed no longer. They killed Carl. It didn't matter if it was justified in their eyes for what he had done to one of their own. They killed Carl!
But no matter how hot her veins felt, no matter how repulsed her stomach became at the thought of their murderous intent, Edith couldn't repay the Sioux responsible. She wouldn't have been able to name one of them, wouldn't have recognized the group if they were standing outside her door. But she could recite a pair of other names and point out their faces in a crowd. Slim Sherman and Jess Harper.
They were going to die. And because Edith Vale had hired the best in their business, they truly would die.
It was only a matter of time.
.:.
The skirt was a full one, filling in the entire seat of the buggy that she rode into town. She had worn the black dress before, for mourning, just like now, when her papa passed in fifty-nine. It was more suitable for going to Laramie than the everyday cotton she had been wearing and when she pulled it out of her closet, knew there would need to be some alterations.
Edith had plumped up in the last ten or so years. That tended to happen to women of her age. For awhile it might have made her frown when she looked into the mirror, but it didn't bother her that she didn't cut a perfect figure anymore. She was obviously attractive enough that Carl still snuggled up to her at night. Or at least he did.
Edith's mouth quivered and her hand reached down to move a portion of the ruffled tier aside. The rifle was where she had put it, hidden at her feet. While more than the waist needed expanding, the real reason Edith's fingers had moved with swift in and out motions with needle and thread well into the dark hours was to ensure there was enough fabric down low to conceal her weapons. Yes, there were two. The pocket she had specifically sewn into the gown was holding her derringer.
Clicking her tongue, Edith encouraged the single horse to increase the churn of its hooves. With each new mile she hit the reins a little harder, until the final stretch to Laramie had the buggy completely shroud in dust. Her eyes, already reddened from desire, grief, anxiety, popped wider as she gave the horse's back one more slap. Sweat in various rivulets down her body, her hair so frazzled that the wayward strands made her hat jump into her lap, the moment Edith saw the outer edge of the buildings rise up, she suddenly pulled hard on the reins.
The wheels skidding to a stop, Edith pressed her shaking hands over her face. She had to regain control of herself. If she allowed her emotions to tear into Laramie like this, everyone would see her as a woman gone mad, a literal lunatic, maybe even an accessory to murder. What was worse—yes, there was something worse than going to jail—her frenzy might not get her the news she was driving in to receive.
"You hear what happened out at the Sherman ranch?"
She had practiced in front of a mirror for several minutes, perfecting her response when the wagging tongues drew near. "Mercy, no. What's wrong?"
"Slim Sherman and Jess Harper are dead!"
Edith grinned. She had heard that imaginary exchange so many times in her head that it had turned into real voices. The faces of the bearer of bad news had changed from one gossip to another, but the sound was rather clear.
"Slim Sherman and Jess Harper are dead!" This time, it came directly from Edith's mouth, soft, though, unlike her inward cry. "Dead."
Her breaths not as heated, but not cool enough to let the wheels roll her into Laramie yet, Edith pulled the pins from her hair and with a steady raking of each strand, she then swept it back in place. Patting to make sure there weren't any haphazard gray lines, Edith returned her black bonnet on top.
She was ready. Well, not quite. Her hand back at the bottom of her dress, she gave a rapid flounce to let some of the dust settle back down to the road and then lifted the edge long enough to gaze at the rifle's handle. The sigh was a satisfied one and she found herself humming as she took the reins back in hand.
Her horse pulling to a stop at the mercantile, Edith's eyes started from the livery and went down the row of buildings. One after the other she eyed the town that had been her home for twenty years. How different it had looked then, so small and even crude to her Eastern upbringing. They had come by wagon train. Such a young family they were. Luke, nearing ten, had bounced up and down in excitement that they had at long last found their home. And Kenny, he wasn't even a year old yet.
Oh, Kenny! How could that baby she had held so tightly that first ride into this town be gone? He had been her light, her love and her miracle. After eight years of trying and failing before finally being able to tell Carl she was expecting, what else could she call it? And now he was gone. Her entire family was gone, all because of—No! Slim Sherman! Hearing his voice first, Edith then saw him and his partner step through the saloon's double doors.
Anger seared through her veins. "They're still alive?"
"You coming with me to the mayor's office, Jess?"
"Who, me? I don't look well beside a suit and tie, Slim."
"All right. Where will you be?"
"I think I'll go head over to the blacksmith's. See if anybody's got the kinda talk I'm interested in."
"Girls?"
"No. Horses."
"Fillies, then."
"Dadgum. Just go to your meeting. Maybe you'll get nominated to be Laramie's next bigwig."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. That just means you'll be in town more and I'll be left at the ranch."
"To train all those fillies, right?"
"Something like that."
"All right, Jess. I'll see you in a half hour or so."
Lifting his hand for a slight wave, Edith started to follow Sherman with her eyes, but as the shorter, darker-haired man was making his way toward her, her gaze naturally fell onto him. She didn't know Jess Harper well, but it had been said during the ladies sewing circle that he had the most incredible blue eyes, literally snapping with his internal fire. While Edith could understand the twenty-five and younger women making these gushing statements, she had yet to discover if Jess Harper's glow was real. As he walked toward her, Edith searched for that blue shade now.
Someone must have been exaggerating his appearance. What Edith saw wasn't fire, but ice. The scoundrel. It must have been his smile that made the little girls squeal. And then as if he could hear her thoughts, he flashed a grin as he tipped his hat in her direction. No, Edith didn't swoon, but she could finally nod along when Jess Harper's irresistible flair was mentioned. Although, why would anyone ever mention his name with a giggle attached again? He was going to die. He should have been dead already.
Disgusted at the men she hired, Edith's hand slapped against her leg and she felt the derringer hidden there. Why not? This is what she had prepared the dress for, wasn't it? She could keep her money, forget those high-named, high-paid men.
"I could do it," Edith said, the wonderment in her tone making her own eyes snap with fire as Jess Harper walked on by.
If she did pull the trigger on this half of her hatred, she shouldn't have to worry about repercussions. After all, there was no law in town. The sheriff that General Roberts had forced to resign hadn't been replaced. The Town Council had several meetings since and the word around town was that they were looking for someone experienced, not a local hero, which in their own words, would take time.
Again she whispered. "I could do it."
But Edith couldn't do it with the derringer anymore. Those black boots might not have been moving in graceful style, they were still in a steady rhythm, taking him too far for the pearl handle to do the deed. Reaching down, the rifle started to come away from her feet, but then she saw a black hat poking out of the livery's hayloft. Her eyes quick to dart toward movement, she saw the other man, in a sudden departure from his usual stiffness, walking swiftly down the boardwalk. It was obvious by their positions that they were about to earn their pay. She left the rifle in its hiding place. Let them. This is what she wanted, what she needed.
And she couldn't have asked for a better view.
Edith followed the direction of the hayloft. That man was zeroing in on Slim Sherman who had stopped before reaching the mayor's office to talk with the doctor. The other would take Jess Harper's life. By the flash of her teeth, the movement of her eyes toward the taller man in the direct line of fire, it was obvious which of the two partners she hated the most. Sherman was the one that started all of this. It was his testimony that put Carl in jail in the first place. It was his bullet that killed Kenny. And if the woman's intuition that was flickering inside of her was right, it would be Sherman that would die first. She didn't want to miss his reaction when the bullet tore through his flesh, eating away his heart like the grief would forever gnaw on hers.
Holding her breath, she heard the rifle's blast. The bullet making contact, Sherman's body bucked up into the air, landing with hard finality on the dirt. Harper, gun drawn, ran toward his partner, firing up at the loft. How could Harper's first bullet fly with that kind of accuracy? Edith watched in horror as the gunman's body flung through the open door of the hayloft, the pooling of blood over his chest its own evidence that her hired gun would never rise again. And then the tears began their rapid stream. It was as if she was witnessing Kenny's death. This was exactly how Luke had described it to her.
"Kenny!"
Her scream was cut in two by the next bullet. Even though it came right at him, Jess Harper remained wide open. The bullet only played with the dirt between his feet and Edith thrust her fist into her teeth. The next one couldn't miss. It couldn't miss!
The moment before it flew, he crouched slightly, and then with the force of fire, Harper sprung back when the lead struck his leg. Still on his feet, he returned fire, not as accurately as his original shot, for she heard the thud as the bullet rammed into the crate the second professional gunman hid behind. Harper pressing the trigger again, Edith watched as this next bullet took a piece out of her employee's gun arm.
The gasp suppressed, Edith searched for blood. It must have only been a tear through the shirt. He could still use his arm. He could still kill Jess Harper!
"Do it," she whispered, her body wracking with chills. "Kill him. Now."
Jess Harper was on the ground, but since Edith missed the moment he dropped with the blinking of her eyes, she didn't know if he had taken another bullet, if his leg merely gave out, or if he chose to continue his fight from a lower level. The last part seemed the most likely, for he was fanning the hammer, sending a parade of bullets toward the man that was trying to kill him.
Edith heard the grunt and knew by the breath's sound that it wasn't Jess Harper that had died. It hurt her soul to look at the dead man, but still she had to lock her eyes on his chest and the rise and fall that no longer existed. There went her only chance at getting both of them. Both men that had called themselves the best weren't that at all. Jess Harper was better. The bitterness started to boil. Jess Harper was better!
He would limp, maybe forever, for the blood was pouring near his kneecap. But he wouldn't die, he wouldn't get what he deserved, what Edith had paid for, had begged for.
Or wouldn't he?
She had already made this decision, now it seemed inevitable that she would have to follow through. Edith closed her eyes and nodded. She could do it. He was only just now dragging his leg toward the man that he had shot, to make sure his bullet truly was the finishing touch. All she had to do was put the rifle in her hand, find a target and pull the trigger. No one was looking at her, no one would know that it wasn't the man on the ground doing his last deed, the proper one, right before he took his last breath.
She had already been through a fit of rage, so to call it that now was inappropriate. This was revenge. No, this was justice, Vale style, and in the name of Carl, Luke and Kenny Vale, Edith would make it stick.
The rifle in her hands, she found the center of the blue shirt and fired. It was the bullet that exploded, not the gun, but somehow the iron leapt out of Edith's hands and landed at her feet. Maybe it was because she needed her hands at that moment, for they came crashing against her cheeks in shock, in delight, in terror. Which was it?
She felt the coolness against her skin and decided her body was responding to shock. "What've I done?"
Edith was about to find out. The doctor had witnessed Slim Sherman's fall, had been hovering over him during the heated exchange between Harper and the unnamed attacker, but now he was slowly walking to where Harper lay. It was as if Laramie's physician already knew. One knee down, he put his palm against the chest and counted to ten, and then to twenty. At thirty, he shook his head.
"He's dead," declared the doctor to everyone that milled around. "They're both dead."
The newspaper man's hand froze amid its frantic script of what would become his next headline. "What'd you say?"
"Slim Sherman and Jess Harper are dead."
There was a hush around Laramie then, a silence that had never been known before. Heads bowed, hats rested over hearts, tears flowed, and in a break of that terrible stillness, a few mouths moved in recitation of Psalm twenty-three. There would be something else that Edith noticed as her bulging eyes moved around the street. Not a single person was looking at her. They didn't know it had been Edith Vale that had pulled the last trigger. They didn't know she was the reason why both men were dead. Slim Sherman and Jess Harper were dead!
Now, and only now, could Edith return home and finally take supper off the stove.
They were dead!
"Yes!"
The joyful tone exiting her lips inside and outside of the dark, Edith woke with such a start, she jumped from the rocker and the afghan that had been hugging her fell to the floor. Hand against her cheek, Edith felt the dampness that was no longer tears, but sweat.
Spinning, she looked around her. There was the fireplace, the cushioned settee, the matching lamps that needed lighting. And then she looked at her body. She wasn't wearing her nicest gown, reworked to fit her bulges and curves. There wasn't a rifle at her feet or a derringer in her pocket, only money. The same wad she had shown the two men only hours before.
"It wasn't real! Oh, no. No, no, no! It wasn't real!"
They weren't dead. Her hated enemies weren't dead at all. Likely Slim Sherman and Jess Harper were just now sitting down to the dinner table, with a good, hot meal set in front of them and she, what would Edith have to do? As it was only a stupid, worthless dream, Edith would have to return to her own stove to stir that pathetic pile of food again.
"No, no, no! It wasn't real!"
Putting her face into the afghan, Edith screamed until she had no voice left, until she crumpled to the floor and cried.
