Chapter 12

Beall stopped for a meal on his way out of Georgetown and still got home before dark. In bed that night, he told his wife of his visit to Gil, the miser in his dark cave, and of his talk with the constable afterwards. "He promised to leave Gil alone unless there was a trial."

"Will he keep his word?" Beall's wife asked, inching down to get nearer the warmed, wool covered bricks at the foot of their big bed.

"I think so. Hope so. Remind me to get down to M'Gregor's tomorrow. That's where I should have gone today. Have you seen that big nigra woman around that's a midwife, belongs up near Seneca Creek somewheres. You know the one?"

"Oh yes, they call her Big Mama. One of the Kraus girls, married that Johnson boy, she's about due, and I've heard that slave woman was tending her."

"I might want to talk to her, thanks." Beall turned over, surprised his wife had not asked why he wanted to see a midwife. A picture of the drowned man's belly and groin swam before his eyes until he chased it away with the memory of orange flames flickering behind the doors of a small, iron stove.

By Wednesday with most of his local road supervision caught up, Alexander Beall felt the need to visit Annie and headed for the courthouse. He rode around to the shed in back, tied his horse and then walked behind the woman's shack and examined the metal chimney with its conical top. Stud had wound a wire around it that he had nailed to the lean-to's roof, but Beall wondered if it would survive a winter storm. He tapped on Annie's door, and she opened it, smiled and said, "Stud's got something for you."

"Don't you have something for me, too?" Beall asked.

"Better see him first." She closed the door to the cold wind. Behind her Beall had briefly glimpsed the new stove's glow.

In the tavern he found Stud Farrell stacking up dirty dishes for the slave woman in the kitchen. "Got another one, sheriff. Stage driver brung it in yesterday on his way north." From under a bottle Stud produced a folded piece of brown paper with "C. Bell" scribbled on the outside.

The message inside was just two crudely printed words: GIL DED.

"Damn," said Alexander Beall loudly, crumpling the paper. He stalked out of tavern, pushed open Annie's door and said, "See you soon," untied his horse and galloped off toward home with the taste of bile in his mouth.

An hour and a half later he was in Georgetown and saddle sore. He looked for Nolan at the Anchor and the Sailors' Tavern and found him at his small home.

"What happened?" Beall asked.

"Somebody kilt ole Gil." said Nolan, looking sad.

"When?"

"Night after we saw him I guess. I didn't run into him the next day, and the day after I went up there and he was kilt. That constable come and looked and poked around, but he didn't say nothing to me."

"I'm sorry Jamey, right sorry."

"Took his bag of money too. Chopped him with his own old sword, broke it over his head and left the hilt sticking in him. Damn."

"I guess one too many saw Gil out spending that money."

"You're right. I tole him to be careful. Damn, damn."

"I'll go see Wainright and come back here 'fore I head home."

"Thanks. I jes' thought you'd want to hear about it. Don't know why. Long shitty trip ain't it?"

Beall found Wainright in his High Street office and sat at his desk. The constable finished whatever he was writing and then leaned back. "Good afternoon," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"The man who found Sparks' body, Gil. I just heard about him."

"Yes, well that proves one should not put things off, doesn't it. I was planning to visit him the day his friend found his body. Poor man, beaten and stabbed, robbed of course. This town has more than its share of, ah, let's say thugs that would kill for a lot less than he had found. He should have brought it to me in the first place, but..."