Most everyday Kate wore britches. Made sense. Don’t need billowy skirts catching fire in the forge or piles of fabric to fool with as she’s trying to file a horse’s hoof. But for today’s work, she thought, she should look her best. Or at least as best as she could. Looking presentable would help to gain her an audience with Dr. Magnus.

He is no doctor, she corrected herself. 

Hopefully, he would listen to her account, how Mr. Doolin made a terrible mistake. “He was drunk and desperate,” she practiced. Maybe then, Mr. Magnus would pity her and give her the money back. Her massive nose wrinkled exactly like it did whenever she had to walk by the outhouse on a hot day. Being pitied had the same stink. 

At first light, she brushed her hair and redid the braid. The red along her low forehead blazed like the dawn, but the gray plait wrapped into a bun on the back of her head looked more like a roll of moldy pretzel bread. Her dress was the color of a ripe mulberry. High collar. Tight, long sleeves. The skirt was hemmed so it floated three inches above the ground, but it angled upward in the front, which was caused by Kate’s desire to stand tall in the fine dress. It was that curve in her spine, stiff as an iron rod, and for her to “correct” said infirmity, she had to push her hips forward so that they were positioned ahead of her shoulders, which allowed her to lean back as if she was in a chair, and thanks to the skirt hiding her bent legs, gave the illusion that she was standing straight up and down. Of course, though, in order for her to retain this posture, her knees bore most of the strain. However, she grit her teeth, tied on her brown bonnet, and walked out of the room. 

There wasn’t a need for sneaking. Mr. Doolin’s snores reverberated through the humble abode, emanating from his room. The door was open. He laid on his back, drool dripping from his gaping mouth, hugging a whiskey bottle like it were a teddy bear. 

“And where did you get the money for that?” She huffed, daring the man to wake up. 

---

The blacksmith and the livery stable bordered the desert flats, but Esau itself was built along the winding banks of the river, Twist of Fate. Legend has it, Phantly Leonard, a down-on-his-luck squatter was about to have his land taken by the Federal Government, when one day he found a 42 pound gold nugget just sitting there in the lazy rapids, plain as day. Here, one might begin to reckon that Lucky Leonard (the folks of Esau came up with that little handle) used that gold boulder to buy his land out right, but, in fact, he went off to California and bought himself a mansion on San Francisco Bay whereupon he married the beautiful daughter of a Chinese gang lord.

Convenient that he vanished in California, Kate always thought. Quite spurious. Nothing more than the work of imaginations overfed on story papers and dime pulp novels. ‘Hogwash’ being her favorite word to employ. No gold was ever found in the Twist of Fate (no documented discoveries, leastways according to the local assay office), nor in any of the now defunct mines that peppered the nearby bluffs. Mines dug because of Lucky Leonard. Mines that Mr. Doolin spent three or four days at a time spelunking. 

Kate crossed a bridge and, in the shade of cottonwoods, continued along the dusty street as it followed the curve of the river. It was their drinking water. Where they washed their clothes. The water they used for baths. Water she used to quench her metalwork. Crisp, sparkling water that flowed through the valley of the bluffs, from the far off mountains, purple and ice capped. But today, she loathed that river. Its on-the-nose and deceptive name. Its polluted waters, tainted by the fairy tale of Lucky Leonard, an unburnable wick for the flame of Mr. Doolin’s foolhardy desperation for spontaneous wealth. Even the river’s sounds she abhorred. The rippling over the rocks, the lapping against the steep banks, the lazy roar of the water slipping on beside her, all of it, created a mythic melody, mesmerizing Mr. Doolin with sweet, empty notes, luring him from the sun of sanity down into the dark shafts of lunacy.

Lunacy, she thought, that I intend to undo. 

And that was when she noticed that things were awfully quiet. Only the river coupled with the sparrows chirping in the hackberry bushes. There was the Sheriff’s Office, opposite the river side, and there, on the river side, right where it was supposed to be, up on the building, was the all familiar sign, letters painted in green, reading Brocius’ General Merchandise. Five horses were tied off to the hitching posts, swishing their tails and chewing on their bits, but there wasn’t a human soul around. The door was open. 

Her footfalls sounded so hollow on the plank floor, echoing through the store. Parcels wrapped in brown paper and a burlap sack sat on the counter. Left there. Right in the middle of a transaction. She called out for the proprietor, Mr. Ike Brocius (pronounced Bro-shus). 

Odd. 

She went back outside. The red sun was just now rising above the Hotel, the only two story structure in town. “It is not that early,” Kate said. “Where is everyone?” 

Her big eyes settled on the rectangle silhouette of the hotel. With each step closer, she heard a voice. A strong voice. A voice familiar with public speaking. One that rang with a cadence, one that almost sang, just like a preacher. 

The dusty street twisted through the buildings, and when she turned the final bend, she stopped dead in her tracks. A crowd filled Esau’s main intersection, cramming around the porch of the Hotel.

Now, Cornelius Magnus paced along that porch of the Hotel, between two displays, which were opened traveling trunks with tiers of stepped shelves inside them. And, they sat on stands, see, waist height, and the stands were covered by voluminous black linen embroidered in gold thread with all kinds of pentangles and astronomical symbols and trails of dotted lines that curled and hid in the linen folds heaped on the porch. The trunks themselves were glossy leather, shining though they were shaded by the awning, and the innards of the trunks, behind the shelves, were lined with a thin, black fabric, a plain backdrop to his merchandise: brown glass bottles full of a sparkling liquid, each with a gold label and black writing, arranged neatly on the tiered shelves. The bottles clinked with each stalking step Cornelius Magnus took. He was a tall man (his white top hat nearly scraped the porch ceiling) with long legs. Thin legs (in a pair of tight-fitting white pants) that moved slow and stepped high, like a sandhill crane prowling the water’s edge. He held a bottle of his Thaumaturgical Tincture in one hand, while the other twirled a waxed curly cue of his dark mustache.

“Cholera, neuralgia, diphtheria, scarlet fever, typhoid fever, Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Good God, Ladies and Gentlemen, name your ailment, my infusion is the solution. My blend can mend. My poultice ain’t hocus pocus, it’s the real deal, folks. The genuine article.” He smiled, displaying those pearly whites under that dark mustache.   

“Your drink is a hoodwink!” Mrs. Jane Pearl shouted from the back of the crowd, sitting atop her palomino. She wore britches under a skirt. Her hat was cocked to the side, the brim folded up in the front, and her light brown hair draped loosely over her shoulder. Kate smiled big. 

“Miss Pearl, is it?” Cornelius Magnus hollered from the porch. 

“Missus.” 

“Wishful thinking, ma’am. Of course, a flower like yourself is married.” 

“That swill of yours is poison.”

From the crowd came a muttering of approval, peppered with sympathetic shouts. Vile contaminate! Soured Slop! Ain’t fit for swine! It’s an adulteration of medicine! 

Dr. Magnus raised his hand, quieting the crowd. “A harsh criticism, especially, since I sold six bottles of my Thaumaturgical Tincture just yesterday to, I have no doubt, six satisfied customers.” 

Mrs. Pearl leaned forward, her elbow on the horn of the saddle. “Those satisfied customers are laid up in their bunks. My ranch hands, Dr. Magnus.” 

He pulled a purple handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit jacket. “Now, of course, as with all fine remedies, there is…” Removing his top hat, he dabbed the sweat beading on his forehead. “An incubation period.” 

“Incubation period?” She sat up straight in the saddle, holding the reins firmly. The crowd murmured. A few of the rougher citizens of Esau spat on the ground. 

“You heard correctly!” Cornelius Magnus tucked his handkerchief back in its pocket. “An incubation period!” 

Everyone stared. Silent. 

He spun around to the open doors of the hotel, the tails of his white coat waving like flags of surrender. Elmore. He whispered. Elmore! 

Facing the crowd again, he clapped his hands. “Yes, folks. An incubation period. See, the drug is a slow mover. It needs time. Lots of time. That is what makes it so potent. Much like the acorn needs time to grow into the mighty…” 

Elmore, a big eyed youth, peeked around the jamb of the Hotel’s double doors. 

Get out here, Dr. Magnus whispered, grabbing the teenage boy by the wrist and yanking him onto the porch. “Same as the acorn needs decades to reach its true potential, becoming the mighty oak.” The bottles rattled as he laid them down on the tiered shelves and closed the lid of the trunk. He motioned for Elmore to do the same for the other one. Magnus rolled up the cloth. “But once the drug has permeated the central nervous system…”

“Shut up about your dern Tincture,” Mrs. Jane Pearl snapped. She touched her heels to the palamino’s ribs and folks parted like a wave. Her spurs chinked with the slow clop of the horse’s hooves on the hard pack ground. She dismounted, tied her horse to the hitching post, and creaked up the porch steps, straight up to the huckster. Her hand rested on the grip of the revolver still snug in its holster.

“No need to be rash,” Dr. Magnus smiled. “I can offer recompense for your hired help.”

“You changed your tune pretty quick.” 

  The crowd laughed. 

Dr. Magnus cleared his throat then spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Customer satisfaction is of the utmost importance.”

“My boys are out of commission,” Mrs. Pearl said. “I pay them about a dollar a day, plus now I am paying a doctor to tend to them. A real doctor who also gets paid a dollar a day.”

“That adds up to seven dollars, ma’am.”

Someone yelled from the crowd, “Don’t let him off that easy, Jane!” 

She hollered over her shoulder, “I ain’t.” Which reaped more laughter. Facing Dr. Magnus again, she said, “I want a week’s worth of pay for my boys.” 

“$42! Ma’am, I assure you, that your men will only be bedridden for two days. Back in St. Louis…” He cleared his throat. “That’s $12. More than generous since the cost of six bottles is only thirty cents.”

“I want a week’s pay for every man.” She stepped closer, her boot clacking on the porch board. Everyone watched her pet the ivory handle of her revolver. 

 “$42?” 

“You forgot the doctor.” 

“Forty-nine dollars. Please, ma’am be reasonable.” 

The revolver slid up and out of the holster, iron slowly dragging against the leather. It dangled there among the folds of her skirt for a moment before she rolled the cylinder along her hip. Click. Click. Click. 

“Where’s the Sheriff?” He appealed to the crowd, but only hard, glassy stares were given.

Mrs. Jane Pearl smiled. “The Sheriff is my husband.”

“Of course he is.” Sweat shined on his forehead as he turned and pleaded silently with Elmore, but the youth looked like a dead fish, the way his big eyes didn’t blink and his mouth hung dumbly.

The palomino snorted. 

Jane rested her back against the post at the top of the porch stairs, just as casual as could be. She still held that gun, of course. “I am willing to barter.” 

“Barter?” 

The crowd leaned in, hushed.

“A séance, sir. I would like to see what it is all about.” 

“Well…”

She cocked her head to the side, smiled, and patted the revolver.  

“What time works best for you, Mrs. Pearl?”

She pointed to the double door with her chin. He shook his head. “I need time. There is a process. Arrangements. My Spirit Guide…” 

The palomino’s ears pricked up when it heard the hammer cocked. 

---

The crowd followed Mrs. Pearl and Dr. Magnus inside the Hotel, packing themselves into the lobby, shoulder to shoulder, all just to lose sight of them when the pair summited the stairs and turned a corner down the hall. A little funny that folks didn’t follow them up the stairs. They all looked at each other, wondering if someone would dare, but none did. Someone spotted Elmore trying to sneak out, but they corralled him and pestered the boy with questions that only befuddled him. He squirmed his way free, though, and ran off, leaving the townsfolk with their only option for answers being waiting. So, for an hour, they waited.

A train whistled outside. The Hotel Proprietor, Henry Cullen, shouted over the dozens and dozens of humming conversations, telling them that they needed to vacate if they weren’t getting a room. So, the crowd poured through the double doors, confusing the mess out of the out-of-towners. 

“What seems to be all the fuss?” A man wearing a bowler hat asked Henry Cullen. 

“Nothing to worry about, sir. Only some ‘in-house’ drama. All taken care of.” 

“Everybody is still hanging around. Right outside.” 

“How long will you be staying with us?” 

“I do not like being kept in the dark.” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Cullen.” It was a woman’s voice. Strong, confident. Probably pretty, but the bowler hat man’s inference was incorrect. The woman’s nose peeked beyond the edge of the Conestoga bonnet. 

“This is Ms. Kate,” Henry Cullen said. “Our town blacksmith.” 

She extended her hand, beaming with pride. 

“Sir?” Henry Cullen said. 

The bowler hat man took her hand in greeting, his eyes wide and glued to Kate’s face. The big nose. Her molten eyes. “Mr. Ridge,” he mumbled. 

“A pleasure,” Kate said. “Mr. Cullen. What room is Cornelius Magnus staying in?” 

“He does not want people to bother him. A specific request. Besides, Mrs. Pearl is up there and she is liable to fire on anybody that knocks on that door.” 

“I need to talk to him.” 

“Then you will have to wait till he comes out.” 

“But I must talk to him. He has…” Kate pressed her lips to her septum as she inhaled sharply. “There is a misunderstanding that must be rectified. As soon as possible.” 

“There is a couch over there. I suggest you sit and wait. Mr. Ridge, if you please.” 

Bells dinged and boys scrambled to haul suitcases. For a second hour, Big Nose Kate waited on the couch. Looking out the windows, she could see that most of the crowd had gone across the intersection to the saloon, gossiping and drinking. Looking toward the stairs, she watched out-of-towners descend and ascend, seeing a woman’s little red mouth part in surprise when their eyes met, frowning when another’s white gloved hand shot up to her bosom. Kate turned away. 

What is taking them so long, she thought. 

A woman screamed. 

Kate rolled her eyes. I ain’t that ugly. 

But the entire Hotel was quiet. Could’ve heard a cockroach trip on a feather. And then there came a burst of sobbing, like that of a mother holding her dead baby. It came from the second floor. Henry Cullen bolted from behind the front desk and up the stairs. Kate, forgetting her posture, letting her humped back take over, was right on the man’s heels. 

All along the hall, folks peeked out their room doors, hearing the muffled sobs coming from behind the closed door at the end. Mr. Ridge stood aside as Henry Cullen pressed his ear to the door. “Mrs. Pearl? Dr. Magnus?” 

The door opened. Cornelius Magnus wasn’t wearing his white suit jacket. His button up shirt was lavender. The sleeves rolled up. He didn’t have his white top hat on either. His dark hair gleamed with too much pomade. He looked down at the two gentlemen and Kate, who came walking up. Closing his eyes, he stepped aside. 

“Jane!” Henry said.  

The woman’s eyes were red. Tears still streamed down her sharp cheeks. Her lip trembled the same as a willow leaf clinging to a branch on a windy day. 

Mr. Ridge snatched Cornelius Magnus by the collar and yanked his head down to his own eye level. “What the Hell did you do to her?”

“What she wanted.” 

“Which was what?” Henry Cullen demanded. 

“To talk to her son.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I saw him. It was him,” Mrs. Pearl muttered. “I’m sorry, Momma. That is what he said.” 

“It cannot be.” 

Mrs. Pearl’s eyes were testimony enough for Mr. Cullen. 

“I do not like being kept in the dark.” Mr. Ridge said. 

Kate spoke up. “Mrs. Pearl’s son was gunned down when he tried to rob a stagecoach.” 

“That was over five years ago,” Henry said. 

Cornelius Magnus snatched himself free of Mr. Ridge’s grip and closed the door to his room. 

“I saw my boy. I talked to him. Billy,” Mrs. Pearl said. Her gaze was fixed far ahead, looking past everyone and through the walls. Tears continued to roll. 

Henry took her hand and escorted her down the hall.

“I’m going to the ticket office. I about had my fill of this town,” Mr. Ridge said. “Excuse me.” He stared into Kate’s eyes a second longer than was proper before he left.

The other hotel guests retreated back into their rooms. Kate stood alone in the hall, hearing a pair of voices coming from behind Cornelius Magnus’ door. 

“This town is no longer friendly.” That was the huckster. 

“But we have another séance this evening.” That was the other voice, sounding something like the back of a shovel slapping a loose mound of dirt. 

“And he does not meet your qualifications, since, well, he is a he.” 

“Something could be learned.” 

“I am packing and then we are leaving.” 

Kate flung open the door. “Not without returning my money.”  

---