“Mr. Brackenridge, I’d heard rumors that charges had been set against me, but until I came to town I could not believe they were anything more than stories. Do you mean to say that I am truly called to account for”-here I paused, for I did not believe I could speak Andrew’s name and refrain from weeping-“for what has happened?”
Something in my tone must have soothed him. He removed himself from the window and took his seat. From under his writing desk, he brought forth an old wine bottle filled with whiskey and poured himself a drink into a pewter cup. Then he poured me one, as well, and slid it across the desk. “The sheriff has issued warrants for your arrest, along with Dalton and Skye.” He looked at his shoes.
I drew in my breath. I must say what needed saying and do what needed doing. The weakness must end or there was no reason in living. “They dare to accuse us of Andrew’s death.” It was somehow easier to speak in the collective, but still I clutched my cup of whiskey and drank deep. I knew it from its darkness and rich flavor to be one of Andrew’s batches, and its warmth gave me strength. Speaking without weeping gave me strength. Holding Brackenridge’s gaze-yes, that too gave me strength. There was so much out there, all for me to take, if only I would grasp it. Weakness was easy and comforting, and action tore out my very heart, but I would do it. Why else live if not to do it?
Brackenridge studied me, as though he could see something changing inside. “Yes, they accuse you of that, and of killing Hendry. Colonel Tindall claims to have witnessed it himself.”
“You must know I would never have harmed my husband, and neither would his friends.”
“It has been cast about that there was an argument, fueled by whiskey. There was some talk-well, I am loath to say it, Mrs. Maycott, but as your lawyer I must. There was talk of a matter of impropriety between you and Mr. Dalton.”
I believe I shocked Mr. Brackenridge by laughing. “That accusation could only be made by someone wholly unfamiliar with the man in question. Sir, I know we have not been long acquainted, but do you believe that I was a party to these things as Colonel Tindall has alleged?”
He dared to gaze at me. “No, I do not. I have seen many horrible things in the West, but I have never once seen any person, man or woman, so coldly dissimulate about murder. There is little wealth here, and most crimes are those of passion, and those passions are ever on display afterward. So I do not believe things transpired as we have been led to believe. I don’t know how much time we have before the sheriff arrives, so I suggest you tell me what really happened as quickly as you can.”
“And then I will need you to do something for me, sir. It will require me to place a great deal of trust in you, but you will see I have no choice.”
W e had more time than either of us imagined, the better part of an hour, before the knock came. The time proved sufficient for me to tell a much abbreviated version of what had happened at our cabin. I could not have told him a more detailed one, for to do so would be to reduce me to the weeping woman I’d been in the hunting cabin, and I would not permit that. Mr. Brackenridge suggested that the boy Phineas might yet be found to serve as witness. I did not think it likely. Even if he saw everything, I did not know I could depend on him to speak truthfully, so great was his irrational hatred of me.
We had no time for anything but my original plan. Thus, I told him as much as he needed to know and convinced him to transact my business. A hasty contract was drawn up and signed, with Mrs. Brackenridge and a literate serving girl as witnesses.
We were not done five minutes before they arrived. When Mr. Brackenridge opened the door, the stout and hateful Colonel Tindall stood there, clutching his beloved fowling piece, the very one he had fired at me minutes before killing my husband. Next to him stood a man I had seen but never met, who I knew to be the sheriff. He was nearing sixty, I supposed, but looked as fit and rugged as any frontiersman. Tall of form, wide of shoulder, he wore a plain hunting shirt, from which rose a thick and corded neck. His face sported a short and reasonably well trimmed beard, its orderliness perhaps a nod to his office. His dark and hooded eyes rested on me from under a tattered beaver cap.
There were now a hundred or more townspeople crowding the street in an effort to witness the apprehension of the horrid criminal Maycott. They blocked the muddy roadway, pressing in close for a glimpse of the evil woman.
The sheriff stepped forward, though he did not cross the threshold. He looked past Mr. Brackenridge and addressed me directly. “’Tis Mrs. Maycott I presume I’m talking to.”
“I am she.” I met his gaze, but I would not look at Tindall. I did not trust myself to do so, for I feared I must spring upon him and prove myself the creature they believed me to be.
“That’s the shameless whore who killed my man!” Tindall cried.
A gasp arose from the crowd, and I first believed it was owing to the cruelty of his words, but I soon realized it was in response to the fierceness of my expression. Perhaps they believed I might strike again, and any of them could prove victim.
“I’m afraid you’ll needs come with me, madam,” said the sheriff, attempting a civil tone.
“I don’t believe that either necessary or advisable,” said Brackenridge. He stepped forward, and now he was in his most lawyerly mode. He still appeared birdlike to me, and his eyes flitted here and there, but he had a kind of regal quality to him that I had not previously witnessed, and I imagined he must be a formidable presence in the courtroom.
“Advisable be damned!” Tindall shouted. “And you be damned too, Brackenridge! Are you so desperate for money that you will take to your bosom a woman who would slaughter her own husband? Murderous Indians are no longer enough for you?”
“It is not advisable,” repeated Mr. Brackenridge in a stately tone, “and I say that for your sake. I can conduct our business in the full light of day, before all these witnesses, if that is what you wish, sir. I think if we do so, it will be much harder for you to choose a favorable outcome. Now, I beg you both come into my office, where all may be set out in private.”
Tindall must have understood the note of triumph in Brackenridge’s voice, for he assented. In a few minutes, the two of them sat in Mr. Brackenridge’s office across from the desk. The lawyer sat facing them, and I stood behind him, too agitated to do otherwise.
“I don’t much see the meaning of this,” said the sheriff. His cap was off and resting in his lap. Mrs. Brackenridge had offered to take it, but he assured her it was too crawling with lice to be welcome upon her hat rack. “There’s a warrant sworn, witnessed by the colonel himself.”
“I have a great deal to say,” answered Mr. Brackenridge. “To begin with, there are witnesses who will contradict the details that Colonel Tindall has provided.”
“Witnesses,” barked Tindall. “No doubt the woman’s co-conspirators. No one will credit anything such men say.”
Mr. Brackenridge smiled. “They are among the witnesses, but not the only ones. We spoke with a group of Indians who say that you hired them to harass this lady and her husband.” Brackenridge, I must point out, did not lie, but repeated a lie I had told him.
Tindall snorted. “That’s nonsense, sure enough. Those Indians are dead.”
The sheriff now turned to observe Tindall. “I am sorry, Colonel, but precisely which Indians do you believe to be dead? You do not deny hiring the dead ones?”
Tindall now blanched and cast me a gaze of unrestrained hostility. Perhaps it was meant to frighten me, but with what could I be threatened?
“I know nothing about them. This woman’s lies will come out in court. I shall see her and her fellows prosecuted, and when they are convicted I will confiscate their property.”