Chapter 17

            It hurt him to smile.  Of course, it hurt to do nearly everything: talking, eating, even breathing made the bruises and lumps on his face ache.  Dove Ed had gotten used to that over the past few days.  Smiling, though, pulled his cheeks and jaw into new shapes and sent lances of pain around his head to the base of his neck, and he realized that it was unfamiliar because he hadn’t smiled in so long.  Then Alice Morgan, concern etched across her features, asked him what had happened and was he all right.  For that, he was prepared to endure this new pain.

            Sitting alone at the bar in the Owens and Price Saloon, sipping at a glass of beer from time to time, Dove Ed watched Alice go about her work toting food and drink to the men at the tables and whisking empty plates back to the kitchen.  She was good to look at, gliding among the men with her sleeves pushed up and a loose lock of hair, escaped from the ribbon at the back of her head, trailing down the side of her face.  She had a flush to her cheeks and a gloss to her skin from the heat of the room or the steam of the kitchen that made her face shine in the lantern light.  Best of all, Dove Ed liked her smile, which she never lost.  At every table she passed a friendly word, sometimes laughing at a joke or sally, and when she did Dove Ed would smile involuntarily, then wince.

            At his poker table near the door, Tom Mulvehill did mortal battle with Jonas the stablehand and ignored everything else around him.  Cash Joyner had not returned, presumably because he had found a dancehall and company he enjoyed.  Since his departure two hours before, Dove Ed had been sitting at the bar, drinking a little beer, watching Alice, and screwing up his courage to speak to her.  As she went by on her many trips to and from the kitchen, she would catch his eye and smile or wink or wave if her hands were not too full.  Whenever she did, it robbed him of the power of speech, and he would smile, then wince, then look away. 

            Behind the bar, John Price smirked at him from time to time, and Dove Ed knew he was being laughed at.  He did his best to avoid the barman’s gaze, turning to face the room, but that was no better.  Whenever someone looked his way, Dove Ed got the feeling they were laughing at him behind their hands as well.  At the far side of the room, Alice chatted with a trio of men, travelers off the stagecoach, whiskey or dry goods drummers to judge by their fine clothes.  One of them took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, and Alice touched her other hand to her heart.  What she said, he did not hear, but it caused the three men at the table to laugh out loud.  A ball of ice formed in Dove Ed’s belly.  He turned back to the bar and drained the last of his beer, spilling some on his shirt in his haste to finish.

            The laughter grew louder, joined now by a shriek from Alice.  Dove Ed looked over to see that the traveling man had pulled Alice down onto his lap and wrapped both arms around her.  His companions laughed and hooted while he struggled to kiss her through her protests.  No one else paid any heed.  The coldness in the pit of Dove Ed’s stomach vanished in the flare of anger that overtook him now, and without thinking he slammed down his glass and crossed the floor to stand behind the traveling man.  John Price hissed something at him, but all of Dove Ed’s attention focused on the man and his two friends, who nudged each other and sat up, amusement gone from their faces.

            “Mister,” Dove Ed said, and the word was like a pebble dropped into a still pond as men nearby fell silent and turned to watch, and the men near them followed suit.  The ripple spread until the room held its breath.

            “Mister,” he said again, louder.  Alice and the traveling man craned their heads around to face him, she with a frightened expression, he with an insolent one.

            “What do you want?” the man said.

            Alice shook her head at Dove Ed.  “Don’t,” she said, “It’s all right.”

            Dove Ed recalled the moment when he took aim at Jacob Putney and pulled the trigger, knowing that he had to do it or die himself, knowing that it was one or the other of them.  This moment was different.  He would draw his revolver and shoot the man, not because he had to, but because he hated the sneer on the man’s face and he knew how good it would feel to see it change to fear and then fade into nothing. 

            “What do you want, boy?” the man said again.

            “He wants you to let go of that young lady, please,” said a voice.  Dove Ed glanced over to see Morgan Morgan standing in the doorway of the saloon.  Morgan had no gun out and had not even raised his voice, but he had the attention of everyone in the room.  “Then he wants you to go to your hotel and stay there until the stagecoach leaves tomorrow.  And he wants your two friends to go with you.”

            The traveling man looked as though he wanted to argue, but his companions got to their feet at once and plucked at his sleeves.  He let Alice up and she fled the table for the kitchen, straightening her disarrayed clothing.  Each of the three men laid money on the table, then filed out of Owens and Price past the sheriff.  “Good night, gentlemen,” he said as they went by.  Conversations resumed as the spectators lost interest, and by the time Morgan reached Dove Ed’s side, the noise level had returned to normal. 

            Dove Ed remained standing next to the now-empty table until Morgan took his elbow and steered him back to the bar, nodding to John Price.  “Give the boy a beer,” he said.

            “I don’t want a beer.”

            Price drew one anyway and put it in front of Dove Ed, who only looked at it.

            “There’s no reward on that drummer,” Morgan said, “So it’s a good thing you didn’t shoot him.”

            Dove Ed still wished he had.  He said, “He was hurting Alice.”

            John Price said, “He was roughhousing a little, is all.”

            “A lot of fellows do,” Morgan said.  “Alice can take care of herself.”

            “And if she can’t…” Price said, and raised his right hand from below the bar.  In it was a stubby shotgun, the twin barrels cut short.

            Dove Ed left the glass of beer untouched and walked away, toward the front door.  Morgan called after him, “Steer clear of the hotel tonight, all right?”  He avoided Tom Mulvehill’s table as he went out, staring straight ahead with his jaw set.  His pulse throbbed in his temples and made his bruises ache again.

           

            Morgan, his back to the bar, watched Dove Ed stalk from the saloon.  Behind him, John Price said, “Well done.  That could have turned ugly if the damn fool had reached for his gun.”

            Morgan nodded.

            Price continued, “He’s a different sort of damn fool than his father, I grant, but he’s making up for it by starting early.”

            Morgan swiveled his head to stare at the saloonkeeper.  He said, “Hugh Williams was never a damn fool, John.”

            Price returned his gaze evenly.  “I stand corrected,” he said.  “Hugh was a lazy, good-for-nothing drunk, but he was far from a fool.”

            “He wasn’t born a drunk, either.”  Morgan turned to face John Price straight on. The saloonkeeper folded his arms over his chest and thrust out his lower jaw as though bracing for an attack.  “When I met him in Iowa City, Hugh Williams was as devout and sober a Saint as you could hope to find.  He and I pushed one of those miserable handcarts hundreds of miles, and when my wife died he pulled my weight as well.  He saved my life, John, so I’d take it as a kindness if you would stop calling him names.”

            He did not raise his voice or even scowl, but John Price flushed a dark red before he ground out, “I’ll see what’s keeping Alice.”  Then he hurried away, through the kitchen door.

            The speed with which he had vanished bemused Morgan, who wondered what Price saw in his face or heard in his voice to cause such emotion.  To be sure, Morgan recognized that he had been easily angered the last couple of weeks since Dove Ed and his friends arrived in town; he glanced over at the poker table where Tom Mulvehill seemed to be suffering quite a drubbing at the hands of Jonas Stokes and his cronies.  Cash Joyner, the third member of the bunch, had found his way to Nell’s whorehouse the way most Gentile travelers seemed to do.  Morgan had tailed the tall southerner from Owens and Price to Nell’s, then left him to his vices and returned to take up his vigil outside the saloon.

            He couldn’t have said why he was watching Dove Ed and his companions so closely, since they had so far done nothing illegal.  Maybe it was due to the encounter with Jacob Putney, and Tom’s glib explanations of that episode.  Maybe it was to see how Dove Ed spent his reward, or out of some sense of obligation to Hugh.  Whatever the reason, he settled himself in a chair outside the saloon, turned so he could peer through the front window, and kept a dull vigil while Dove Ed and Tom indulged themselves inside.  Only the boy’s confrontation with the out-of-town drummers brought Morgan inside at last.

            Alice came through the kitchen door, bonnet in hand and her apron missing.  John Price followed not far behind and took his place at the bar.  Morgan said, “Where you off to, Miss Alice?”

            She stopped beside him.  “Home,” she said.  “Mr. Price gave me leave to go.”

            From her impatient manner, the way she fidgeted with her bonnet, Morgan gathered she was eager to be away, and he had a good idea why.  Through the window all evening long he had seen the smiles, the glances and banter that passed between her and Dove Ed.  He had witnessed for himself the lengths to which the boy would go for Alice.   The thought rankled and put a bite in his words when he said, “If you’re going after the Williams boy, remember what I told you.  I’d think twice about throwing myself at a lad with friends like his.”

            Alice glared at him and whisked by.  Morgan went after her, searching for the right words, but he knew that he sounded like a scold as he said, “Alice, he was ready to shoot that man, and all because of one little kiss!”

            Alice marched straight on toward the door, determination written across her features.  “Yes,” she said.  “He was.”  She stepped out the door and was gone.  Morgan let her go.  At the tables around him, men looked away and pretended not to have overheard the exchange, except for one.  Over his hand of cards, Tom Mulvehill met Morgan’s gaze and held it for an instant, a knowing smile creasing his broad weathered face until a coin clinked into the kitty on the poker table and drew his attention back to his game.

            “Don’t worry about her,” said John Price at Morgan’s elbow, making him start a little; in his distraction he had not heard the saloonkeeper approach.  “Alice is a sensible girl.  She knows you’ve only her best interests at heart.”  Price’s tone was soothing.  Morgan suspected he was trying to make amends for his earlier gaffe.

            “I hope you’re right.”

            “Besides, what have you to fear from a shaver like that?”

            “What do you mean?”

            His hands busy with the table he was clearing, Price shrugged with his expression, oblivious to the frown that crossed Morgan’s face.

            “With Bill gone, the lass needs a husband.”

            “Now, here,” Morgan said.  “Bill was my cousin.  It’s only right I should look out for his widow!”

            Price toted the armload of mugs and glasses to the bar.  He set them down and wiped his hands on his apron.  “By God, you’re touchy as a bishop today!  Anyone can see you’ve got eyes for Alice, and everyone says you’d make her a good match.  What the hell’s the matter with that?”

            “I’m twice her age, is what!”  This drew a scoff from Price; they both knew at least a dozen men in Malad City with young wives, and some with more than one.  “Besides, who says I’ve got eyes for Alice?”

            “Nobody,” Price smirked.  His earlier unease had disappeared and he seemed delighted to have put Morgan off-balance.  “But if you don’t then you ought to get a pair of spectacles before you lose your sight altogether.”  Hearing this, the men at the nearest table burst into laughter, which Price joined.

            “Oh, go to the devil,” Morgan said.  He left the saloon with their mirth ringing in his ears.

The cool night air outside the saloon soothed Dove Ed’s hurts and his temper both.  He hadn’t really considered going to the hotel after the travelers, and it seemed foolish to think of it now.  The way back to the cave was a long one, easy to miss in the darkness, but he had no desire to search through the saloons and dance halls and bawdy houses for Cash, then try to convince him to leave. 

            The idea of the bawdy houses gave him pause.  Even with the money he had given Cash and Tom, and even with what they had spent on supplies and meals, Dove Ed still had more than twenty dollars of Sheriff Morgan’s money left to him.  Surely that was enough to…pay for a round?  He wasn’t certain, but he thought he remembered hearing men speak scornfully of “two-dollar whores”.  Were five-dollar whores all right, or was it better to get a ten-dollar one?  He knew where to find a house; even a Mormon town like Malad City had a cathouse or two. Nell’s stood off the main street a few houses beyond the jail.  But what did you do once you were inside?  The possibilities excited and shamed him, and he started walking in the general direction of Nell’s, not knowing what he would do when he got there.  Wrapped in such delicious, sinful thoughts, Dove Ed did not notice the sound of running feet until they were almost upon him.  He wheeled, scrabbling at his holster in alarm.

            A slim form hurried toward him along the darkened street, calling, “Dove Ed, wait!” and the clear voice helped him recognize the face and figure of Alice Morgan.  She stopped beside him and steadied herself with a hand on his arm as she caught her breath.

            “What’s wrong?” he said.  “Did that fellow come back?”

            She shook her head, still winded.  “I wanted to talk to you.”

            “Ain’t you working?”

            “I told John Price I was too upset.  He let me leave early.  Where are you walking?”

            Dove Ed hoped the gloom of the street hid the blush he felt rising on his face.  He said, “Nowhere.  Just walking.”

            Alice said, “Will you walk with me?”

            He nodded and she slipped her arm through his.  When she started to walk, Dove Ed kept pace without a thought—in fact, all thoughts had fled from his mind.  He could think of nothing to say, and his senses constricted to focus on two things: the burning of his face and the pressure of Alice’s arm on his.

            She said, “That man in the saloon.  Thank you for helping me.”

            Dove Ed remained mute, letting her guide their steps and their talk.

            “A lot of men grab me or pinch me.  They don’t mean anything.”

            Dove Ed said, “I worked in a saloon once.  Nobody ever grabbed me like that.”  Alice laughed, and Dove Ed felt the unfamiliar pain in his jaw that meant he was smiling again.

            “John Price puts a stop to it if they get too rough,” Alice said.  “What would you have done if that man didn’t let me go?”

            “I don’t know.”

            They walked a while before Alice said, “The sheriff told me about…what happened at your father’s farm.”

            “He did?”

            “He was cousin to my husband.  Since Bill died, Morgan looks out for me.  He said you…shot the man who gave you those.”  Alice gestured at the marks on Dove Ed’s face.  “He came in the saloon once, you know.  Jacob Putney?”

            Dove Ed averted his eyes.  They were walking up a sloping street, away from the center of town, and the houses were sparser, smaller here.  With fewer lights around, they slowed their pace.  Alice spoke again, her voice soft. 

            “When you came over to help me, I was afraid you…I didn’t want you to…”

            “I didn’t.”  Even his own voice did not seem to be under his control.  The words grated on his ears; he hadn’t meant to speak so harshly.  Nothing about this night was turning out the way he had hoped. 

            “I know.  But I saw your face, and you were staring at that drummer the same way Jacob Putney looked at me that time.  It frightened me.”

            “He ought not to have grabbed you.”

            Alice released his arm and Dove Ed stopped as though he could not move without her to propel him forward.  She turned to him.  “I remember when you were little,” she said.  “That’s how I knew you when you came back to town, because you looked so much the same.  But tonight you were different.  You’re not the little boy I knew, are you?”

Her face composed and serious she regarded him, head tilted slightly up, and he realized for the first time that he was taller than she.  His heart raced, but his mind remained blank.  When he tried to speak, no sound came to his lips; he cleared his throat, tried again, heard his own voice as though from the bottom of a well.  “We ought to get back,” he said.

            “Back where?”

            His head swam.  He couldn’t think.  “Home?” he said.  “Don’t you have to…?  I mean, I could walk you…”

            Alice smiled.  “All right,” she said.  She kept her hand clasped on his and turned off the street, pulling Dove Ed along a short path to a small house of rough-sawn, unpainted planks, a one-story affair hardly bigger than a homesteader’s shack.  At the door she stopped and said, “Thank you for seeing me home.  I don’t know how I would have found my way, I’m sure.”  She unlatched the door and stepped halfway through.  Dove Ed heard the strike of a match; saw the flicker of a flame as she lighted a candle on a shelf just inside.  When she turned back to him once more he stepped forward and kissed her.

            The kiss was brief.  Though Alice did not flinch away or make objection, neither did she return the kiss; her lips were warm and pliant under his and did not press back against him.  Her hands remained at her sides and Dove Ed had no idea what to do with his own.  He kept them half-raised, afraid to touch her, and when he drew back they would not fall but opened and closed as though in a fit.  Alice reached out and took his left hand in her right.  She wore a sad smile, a pitying smile he thought.

            “Oh, Dove Ed,” she said.

            He looked down at the tips of his boots, hoping the ground beneath would open up and swallow him.  When it did not, he said, “I thought…”

            “It’s all right.”

            “No it ain’t.”  He pulled his hand away.

            “Dove Ed, don’t…I’m just scared, is all.”

            “Scared?  Of me?”

            “Of what might happen to you.  Hanging around men like Mulvehill and Joyner.”

            “Nothing’s going to happen.”

            “Putney nearly killed you!  Morgan says it was all because of those men.  He says they’re trouble.”

            At the mention of the sheriff’s name, Dove Ed’s hackles rose and the edge crept back into his voice.  “Oh does he now?  What else does Morgan say?”  He loaded the name with scorn, turning it into an insult.

            Now Alice raised her voice in return.  “He says they’ve given no good account of themselves since they came to town.  He says they’ve brought with them an iron door they’ve no reason to need.  And he says if they’re prospectors, then he’s Joseph Smith!”

            “Well, he spews enough bullshit to be the prophet, that’s sure,” said Dove Ed.  “You forget that I came with them, giving no good account of myself either!”  Alice gaped at his sudden ferocity and Dove Ed plunged on.  “We brought that door to guard our claim, so when we strike it rich no one can steal it.  And we will strike it rich, and then Morgan Morgan can just go to hell!”

            Tears had begun to stream down Alice’s cheeks and she shrank back from his tirade.  When he ground to a halt, she said through her soft sobs, “He’s only looking after you.”

            “I don’t need looking after.  I ain’t a little boy any more, remember?”

            “You’re right.”  Alice stepped back inside her house, her hand on the edge of the door.  She said, “But you sure as hell ain’t a man yet, either, Dove Ed.”  And with all her might she slammed the door shut in his face.  Through the curtain over the small window he could hear her muffled weeping, but in his anger and confusion he could not bring himself to call to her or knock on the door.  When the candlelight inside suddenly snuffed out, he turned and strode blindly through the darkness back toward the main street.

            How he arrived at the front steps of Nell’s Dance Hall, he could not say; perhaps the music had drawn him like a moth to a lamp, unconsciously and instinctively.  Now he stood outside with the music and laughter spilling out through the front door, and he looked at the signs promising “Twenty-Five Cents a Dance” and “Private Lessons” and “Every Hostess a Well-Bred Lady”.  He felt in his pocket for his twenty dollars and he thought of Alice and the way her lips felt against his and he stayed where he stood.

            From out of the noise and light and haze of the dance hall stepped a woman.  With the glare in his eyes, Dove Ed could see only her silhouette, but from her place at the head of the stairs she towered over him, imperious.  She said, “Hello there.  Won’t you come inside and dance with me?”

            Dove Ed shook his head.  “I don’t know how to dance.”

            “Why then, you can have a private lesson.”

            “I don’t want to dance.”

            She descended the steps, and Dove Ed saw she was shorter than himself, dressed in blue dress trimmed with bits of lace.  She drew close to him, smelling faintly of sweat and flowers.  “Then we’ll find something else to teach you,” she said, and took his hand and led him up the stairs and inside.