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Chapter Fifteen

Michael sat on a fallen cottonwood trunk, open book across his lap. He’d finished his perusal, for now, and watched the shadows growing longer as the sun headed toward the western horizon. He liked sitting next to the river, reading, and smelling the rich stew of the water. But after his studying, he found himself in a baffling state: exhausted, interested, incredulous, and excited, all at the same time. He’d spent the hour reading about the minute mechanics of astrology, and he was looking forward to moving his body again, and resting his mind a little.

First, dinner with Davison Rock, then they’d have to rendezvous with Diana and Adelaide Tunstall. Michael liked the way the uranium man thought and talked, he liked his slightly funny accent, and he liked the idea of a person of science with secret reserves of money. He looked forward to dinner.

Michael had to wonder what Guy Tunstall might be like after getting kicked in the head by a horse. Severe brain injury might do all sorts of terrible things to a person. The brain was the seat of consciousness, after all, though Grandma Hettie used to claim that the ancient Hebrews and Egyptians believed a person thought in his heart. And the soul? Where might that lie?

Pap returned, as silent as ever, and they drove into town. Moab seemed its usual quiet, tiny red self. That boded well for Diana and Adelaide. If there had been trouble, such a small burg would’ve been in an uproar, especially after the murder the day before.

Michael parked outside the Maxwell House Hotel. He and his pap went through the doors into a room full of smoke, chatter, and the fog of liquor. The place was full of men. The dance halls and saloons in town must be going begging for business; all the town’s men seemed to be at the Maxwell House Hotel.

“A toast!” a man Michael didn’t recognize shouted, raising a shot glass. “To Lloyd Preece and his never-ending river of twenty-dollar bills!”

“To Lloyd Preece!” the crowd shouted.

Hiram murmured along with them, nodding agreement. “To Lloyd Preece.”

“This is a wake,” Michael said to his father in low tones. “We don’t do wakes, do we?”

“We Mormons? It’s not a particular part of our culture, but we don’t especially object, either.”

“Oh, good.”

Gudmund Gudmundson stood beside Clem, both in neat, dark suits. On Clem in particular, this clothing looked shockingly wrong; on Gudmundson, the suit just suggested to Michael how, in the right circumstances, people might call the man “Bishop.” Gudmundson looked respectable, like someone whose word you would accept. Both Gudmundson and Clem were next to the sheriff at the bar with other men from town, some dusty cowboys off the range, and still further men in shoestring ties, bow ties, or the thick-bottomed ties, like Oliver Hardy wore. Michael had seen Sons of the Desert a couple of years earlier.

Gudmundson, Jack Del Rose, and Clem stood with a few other men Michael didn’t recognize, and all were drinking soda pop from bottles: grape and orange Nehi, Hires Root Beer, and Coca-Cola. So that was the Mormon crowd. They seemed to be having as much fun as the others, at least.

Near the back, in the far corner, Erasmus Green sat at a table with his pals, Banjo Johansson and Howard Balsley. The hotelier, Leon Björnsson, sat with them, petting his stuffed double-dog Petey.

Green and his friends sat in the same place Michael had seen them the day before. Davison Rock was at the same table with Green, and he had a cup of coffee in front of him. Michael was glad. He never wanted to see the geologist drunk again.

Michael and his pap headed over to the seated crowd.

The men rose. They wore the best suits in the room, by far, and Erasmus Green even had a top hat on, though the shoulders of his coat were spotted with dandruff. “Hiram! Michael! Sit with us! We were just talking about Lloyd. Heck, everyone in here is talking about Lloyd.” The banker’s cheeks were flushed and the whiskey bottle in front of him was nearly empty. So this was the non-Mormon crowd. Half the men had smoldering cigars clutched between their fingers.

Michael shook hands with Davison Rock. No one else offered. That was fine. Let Pap deal with the rest of them. Michael really only wanted to talk with Davison, anyway.

Lloyd Preece’s knife was heavy in his pocket. Michael didn’t like the idea of going to jail for obstruction of justice, but when Preacher Bill had dropped the knife, he’d grabbed it. He had to—he wanted to see what was on it and how it differed from the bishop’s knife and how both compared to what he was reading in the widow’s book. He didn’t really have a plan for what to do with it; vaguely, he thought he might put it back in the Reverend Majestic’s dugout, and then maybe leave the sheriff an anonymous tip. In the meantime, he’d confirmed that this knife—Lloyd’s Preece’s knife, supposedly, and the weapon that had killed him—had the Seal of Jupiter on one side and the symbol of the constellation Taurus on the other.

Again, this matched with what the bishop had said. Apparently, that meant that Lloyd Preece had discovered the knife in a curio shop, realized it was for Tauruses and that he was a Taurus, and had bought it.

No, that wasn’t quite right. The knife was made to channel the power of Jupiter for a wielder who was born in a year when Jupiter was passing through Taurus. Which, apparently, Lloyd Preece had been. That was not the same thing has having Taurus as your birth-sign.

Michael wondered what Davison would make of the dagger, the signs on it, and the supposed power it drew from Jupiter. Davison might accept that the forces of the stellar bodies at work could indeed affect humans in some yet unknown way. Heck, gravity was a mysterious force that stars exerted on each other from a distance, even though no one quite knew how. He was far more open-minded than some of the books Michael had read. Maybe Davison Rock could thread his way through the maze of science and religion so as to be able to have them both.

Could science and religion mix peaceably? Michael had read about the Scopes Monkey Trial in 1925, and what he knew of the proceedings made such a proposition seem unlikely. The minute you gave creation over to evolution, God seemed like a kid without a penny in his pocket, whistling his way home. If men evolved out of monkeys, without a guiding hand, just because of how they reproduced, what was left for God to do?

Give power to charms, Pap might say. Answer prayers. Help the poor.

But clearly not all the poor, or there wouldn’t be poor people anymore.

Michael sat next to Davison. Pap sat in the middle of the group.

Green said in a loud voice, “Let me go on record as saying that Davison Rock is a fine man, a committed entrepreneur, who just might transform Moab from a hot, dry cow town to an internationally famous mining destination, the uranium capital of the world!”

“Hear, hear!” Howard Balsley lifted his frothy mug of beer. “Davison Rock, it’s a pleasure to know you.”

Davison lifted his cup of coffee. “Thank you, my friends.” By contrast with the other men of Moab, Rock’s accent made him sound like a duke.

They nodded agreeably to him, maybe to acknowledge his thanks, maybe to affirm that it was a good thing Davison Rock wasn’t drinking with them. His coffee didn’t seem to bother them.

Pap said something to Leon, and the giant thundered, “You’ll want the fried chicken tonight, Mr. Woolley. And it’s on us. Let me go get Arnie on it.” He rose, shoved the Peteys into Pap’s face, and did his barking routine.

The men laughed, and the giant pushed his way through the throng.

“We need it, now that Lloyd and his robbery silver are gone!” someone barked. Michael couldn’t tell who.

Erasmus Green touched his top hat. “No, no, no. I was there on the day of the robbery. Do you want to hear the story?”

“Tell us again,” Banjo said, his face bright red. “You love to tell the story.”

Davison smiled at Michael. “This is what you call local color. And you’ll like the fried chicken. I had it myself right before you got here. My apologies, but I was too hungry to wait.”

Green stood. “April 27, 1923, I’ll never forget. I saw the door to the bank open. I go inside, and then?” He struck his head. “Out I went. I was bound, gagged, and I had to watch as three men wearing bandanas blew open my vault with dynamite. And then the safe inside. And the idiots with their explosives, they destroyed all the paper money, and it went sprinkling down like so much confetti!”

“That would’ve killed me dead!” Banjo guffawed.

“The three men left with how many bags of silver?” Green asked. “How many have you heard, Mr. Woolley?”

Pap blushed as all the attention fell on him. “I heard four bags.”

“No!” the men around them roared.

“There were two bags of silver!” Green held up two fingers. “Just two. Not four. And our esteemed sheriff, Mr. Jack Del Rose, slept through the whole thing!”

“Not this damn story again!” That was from the sheriff, at the bar, where Gudmund and Clem patted him on the back.

Davison raised his eyebrows at Michael. “See? Good thing Sheriff Del Rose is popular, because he’s not exactly a crackerjack lawman.”

Michael didn’t respond. He wanted to hear the rest of the story.

“To be fair,” Green said, “Jack was only a deputy back then. Joseph Tyler wore the big badge, God rest his soul.”

Leon Björnsson returned and sat in his chair, petting his stuffed dogs bald. He flicked loose hairs onto the floor. “What did I miss?”

“Bound and gagged,” Banjo said.

“Two bags of silver.” Leon knew the story.

Green continued, holding the attention of the men. He could have been on a stage. “Sheriff Tyler, with young Jack spitting fire at his side, found the robbers, all three of them, out in the desert, and yes, on Lloyd Preece’s land, and yes, on what is now a monument of nature consecrated to the commonweal of these forty-eight United States of America. The robbers weren’t exactly geniuses. They didn’t have many supplies, and I think they were rather surprised that they’d gotten as far as they did.”

“They never made it to the Robber’s Roost,” Del Rose shouted. “We got ’em.”

“I know what you are thinking, and yes, it’s sad,” Green said. “A lot of my money was lost in the explosion. But there are two happy endings to this story.” Again, Green emphasized his point by waving two fingers around.

“The first? I had insurance on the deposits,” Green said. “So in any case, the good depositors of Moab were always going to be covered.”

“Tell ’em about the second,” Gudmund hollered.

Green grinned. “So Sheriff Tyler and the trustworthy Jack Del Rose retrieved the two bags of silver, but they might have gotten a bit overzealous in their dealings with the robbers. Because when I counted out the silver that the lawmen returned to me, I’d made a thirty-dollar profit. Along with the money from the insurance, and a certain tithe, I was actually paid for the little bump I received on the head.”

Michael had to laugh. It was a funny story, almost a bit hard to believe, and then the men rumbled into another yarn about outlaws.

What did a certain tithe mean? Wasn’t tithe money you paid your church?

Davison knocked Michael on his arm. “Here’s your dinner.”

Another giant, this one only a little older than Michael, brought over plates of fried chicken, fried greens, and big slabs of corn on the cob, slathered in butter. Michael’s hunger hit him, and he dove in. Arnie Björnsson slid a Hires Root Beer bottle in front of Michael, and then wove his way back to the kitchen.

“You know,” Green said as the second outlaw tale ended in the bandits running away from an abandoned house, convinced that the migrant child living inside was a ghost, “all signs point to that hobo preacher, Earl Bill Clay. As Lloyd’s killer, I mean.”

The men muttered.

Banjo frowned. “We have other strangers in town. Take Diana Artemis, for instance.”

Leon lifted the Peteys. “Bark, bark, bark, Banjo. Petey loves the widow Artemis. Both the Peteys do. She’s a woman down on her luck. I, for one, like that she found a home here.”

“Since we’re telling stories,” Banjo said, “you’ve heard about Louisa Parker, have you?”

Leon waved a hand. Green frowned. “Louisa Parker likes to drink.” He shot a look at Davison. “She’s not the best witness.”

Banjo shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s a bit strange. She goes to the widow Artemis to get her stars done, and when she leaves, she’s missing her mother’s emerald ring.”

“Or Louisa pawned it for more money to buy booze.” Leon gripped his dead dog tight. “She wouldn’t be the first. She’s Catholic, and Catholics drink.”

“As do uranium prospectors,” Davison threw in.

That brought out a fresh round of laughter.

Howard Balsley leaned in to speak in a low voice to Hiram; Michael was close enough to hear. “Other folks say that the widow Artemis gets by selling more than fortunes or reading tea leaves. If you know what I mean.”

Michael was surprised at how angry he felt at Balsley’s words. The fun had turned into gossip, and not very nice gossip at that.

Pap didn’t respond, but he clenched one fist until his knuckles were white.

Green scowled at Balsley. “Come on, Howard, let’s not get mean. Those are just rumors.”

“They most certainly are,” Leon agreed. “Don’t piss off the Peteys. They’ll both bite your damn face off!” More barks from the dead dogs.

Balsley colored. “I’m sorry, fellas. I’ve had a bit much. Actually, I had my stars done by the widow, and she said I should lay off the sauce. Too bad the water wagon left town today.”

That brought new chuckles.

Michael chewed on a chicken leg, the grease heavy on his tongue, the skin flavored and delicious. He set the bone down on his plate. He was glad the other men had put Balsley in his place about Diana. This talk about getting one’s stars done did open the way for his question for Davison. “What do you think of astrology, Mr. Rock?”

Davison sipped his coffee, grimacing at the bite. “It’s ancient, and antiquity tends to throw white robes and an aura of respect around any institution. But honestly? Anything that tells me what my destiny is surely must be suspect.”

“So you’re skeptical.” Michael wasn’t about to admit that he was…not quite convinced.

“I try to be skeptical about everything,” Davison said. “That includes religions and anything resembling religions, such as spiritualism or tarot cards or this new interest in the occult. I have to admire the widow Artemis making her living talking to ghosts and telling people that July is going to be lucky for them. Do you know where the term con artist comes from?”

“A confidence artist,” Michael said. He lifted corn to his lips, greasy from the chicken.

From Davison, “Exactly. A con artist gets you to have confidence in him, and then he can say whatever he wants as long as you pay him. Or her.”

“I’ve seen some strange things,” Michael said. “I can’t explain them.”

“You’re young yet. Wait, and you may find explanations.” Davison made a face. “Sight is only one of our senses, and not a very reliable one. If you see a stick in the water, you might think it’s bent, but pull it out, and you see it’s straight. The light hits the water in such a way to trick the eyes. I’ll need proof of anything, confirmed proof.”

“The scientific method.” Michael chewed down corn.

“Precisely.” Davison paused. “Belief is a powerful thing, a very powerful thing, and you can’t quantify it, and it can do some good. I believe in the future of uranium in Moab, for example. However, I’m not looking for investors for my operation, not yet, anyway, because the minute I try to inflict my beliefs on another person, I’ve crossed a line.”

That was the thing. Michael had proof. Rain fell on the Woolley farm when other homesteads went dry. His pap had found the well using a dowsing rod, and Michael had felt the hazel wood jump in his own hand. Did it work every time? No. And yet, maybe his pap was right. Humans were iffy instruments, even at the best of times.

“Always keep an open mind,” Davison said. “But the minute the evidence contradicts your findings, adjust your hypothesis, and keep experimenting.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Michael set the denuded cob on his plate.

More stories were told, more whiskey drunk, and Michael downed three bottles of root beer, a fine lingering dessert for a large meal. The hours peeled away in all the talk.

As eleven o’clock approached, Banjo stood. “Well, my friends, I have a wife who likes me home when she goes to sleep. I must be off.”

“No!” came the raucous reply.

Both Michael and his pap had finished their dinner. They had an appointment to keep. Michael bid good night to Davison, his pap shook more hands, and they left the smoke for the clear air of the Utah sky, cool with the night. Few lights twinkled in the buildings of downtown Moab.

His pap was scowling.

“You okay?” Michael asked.

Pap shrugged. “I will be, once Adelaide and her family are safe.”

Michael still felt the sting of Balsley’s low-voiced accusation against Diana. “What did you think of what they said about the widow Artemis?”

Pap sighed long and hard. “She’s pretty. She’s single. Men will talk. It’s none of our business, but it’s a damn shame.”

For his father to curse like that meant he had strong emotions on the subject.

Michael was taken aback.

Pap continued. “Many women have been brought low by idle talk. Women have been accused of witchcraft simply because they didn’t fit in, whether they had any craft or not. And you can bet those people in Salem didn’t hang any witches or cunning women who were friends of theirs.”

Michael had never thought about that possibility, but he’d met one witch before, Gus Dollar, and the shopkeeper had used every trick in the book on them.

“Evidence,” Michael said. “Look for evidence to prove any theories. Pap, she did have the names and addresses of men in her notebook. Remember when I had to draw the symbols I saw on Bishop Gudmundson’s knife? I saw them when I was paging through. Some were starred.”

“Did you see birthdays?” Pap asked.

“I saw dates, at least.” Michael put the pieces together. “So she was collecting information for their star-charts. I guess that’s right. I hate that I have these doubts about her now. Satan doesn’t need to do much. People are trouble enough in the end.”

“They are,” Pap replied. “Let’s hurry. We’ll pray for Diana. In the meantime, you remember how this gossip made you feel…and don’t you ever pass on similar talk about anyone.”

Michael nodded. For the first time in a long time, he felt he could get on board with prayer.


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