Cougar’s Prey

By Ida Smith

Sold into marriage to pay her dad’s gambling debt, Sylvia’s husbands changed behavior signals big changes for her.

Sylvia strapped the makeshift harness to the mule and attached a wooden crate to each side of the animal. She filled one box with produce from her garden and three aprons she’d sewn in the evenings to trade for supplies. She packed straw in the bottom of the other box and covered it with a small light-weight quilt, then placed her young daughter in the box and wound a small rope around Abigail and through two holes she’d drilled into the box to keep Abigail from climbing out. Her mind replayed the horror she felt on her last trip to town when the mule stopped and a sudden squeal from Abigail revealed her daughter standing in the box, slapping her delicate hands on the animal’s back.

She glared back at her house with Stewart still sleeping off a drunken stupor. She had hoped he’d come with her, provide some protection from the band of robbers haunting the area in the past month or so. But no, he’d stayed out late last night with several buddies from the logging camp rather than come home as he used to do on Friday nights. The fried chicken she’d fixed now wrapped up for her and Abigail to eat. “Let him fix his own meal,” she mumbled to herself.

But the thought of the chicken conjured images of the cougar Stewart said was stealing people’s chickens, sheep, goats, and even a few dogs. A shiver ran over her skin in spite of the warm, early summer morning.

“Abigail, you stay there.” She hurried into the house and banged the door shut on her way out, the old shotgun in hand. Sylvia wanted to take Stewart’s rifle but knew he’d never consent. She needed to get to town and back before dusk. People claimed the robbers attacked travelers more in the evening and night. One neighbor said it didn’t matter if you were on horseback or in an automobile; the latter were likely to be stopped with a shot to a tire or the radiator.

Sylvia swung up onto her horse and, taking the mule’s lead, headed the five miles to town. The only good thing about Stewart staying behind was the protection he could provide for the farm if the robbers showed up there. If he was awake.

When he came in last night, Sylvia feigned sleep, afraid to confront him. She then lay awake and stewed about his drinking well after he’d fallen asleep. What had gotten into him? He’d rarely allowed her money for fabric or sugar, and now he drank away the money they desperately needed for supplies. Where had she gone wrong?

Now on the road, Sylvia tried to suppress her thoughts and stay alert, looking and listening as she traveled the lonely road. A pair of two-seater Speedsters passed her with picnic baskets strapped on back. Their occupants laughed as they headed to the mountains for an afternoon in the sun. She wondered if she and Stewart would ever be able to afford an automobile, let alone a trip away from the farm.

Midway through the thick woods, she heard men’s voices and soon the soft thud of horses’ hooves on the hard ground and her heart seized. Until recently, all the accounts of robberies said the bandits rode horses.

She looked about. The trees were dense, with no place to hide. “Oh, Lord, what do I do?” Behind her, Abigail made gurgling noises, drool glistened on her chin and soaked her gown. Should she grab the baby and slip into the woods as best as she could? Let them have the mule and horse? Her hands shook. She pulled the shotgun from the leather scabbard. The gun was barely in her hand when several riders appeared over a knoll only a short distance away.

Sylvia tightened her grip on the gun, hoping it was loaded. She raised the side-by-side and cocked the hammer. “You. Stop right there,” she yelled as four men approached. She was a good shot. She’d taken to practicing when Stewart left her alone to work in the logging camp. Good or not, she wondered what damage buckshot could do versus a bullet at this distance. Besides, she’d only get one, maybe two shots off before she had to reload and then they’d return fire and she’d be dead.

The men, now only thirty feet from her, slowed.

“Now I don’t want no trouble,” she said. Abigail cooed behind her. “Raise your hands. All of you.”

The men glanced at the lead rider, who raised his hands. The others, following his lead, raised their hands.

“Mrs. Weatherly?” said the leader, a young, blond man. “You’re not planning on robbing us, are you?” A playful grin tugged at his cheeks.

Sylvia leaned forward. “Jess Hawkins. Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am, and with me are Smitty Blaine, Raymond Frances, and Elmer Cleveland.”

“Howdy Ma’am,” they said, each lifting their hats with their raised hands and giving her a nod.

She kept her gun trained on Jess Hawkins. “What are you four doing out here?”

“Sheriff Olin has deputized us and asked that we patrol the roads.”

“On horseback?”

“If they take out across a field or up a mountain, we can chase them better on horseback,” Hawkins said.

“I heard they’d stolen themselves an automobile.”

“They did,” Smitty Blaine said.

“But they also wrecked it,” Hawkins said.

Sylvia suppressed a smile and studied the group; her gun followed her gaze. “You’re not just saying that to get my guard down and rob me, are you?”

The blond Hawkins placed his hand over his heart. “You’ve got my word, Mrs. Weatherly.”

She appraised the group, who all nodded. She lowered the shotgun. “You put quite a fright in me when you all came a galloping up.”

“I reckon so,” said Elmer, his fleshy cheeks spread as he grinned.

His look made Sylvia uncomfortable, and she kept a tight grip on her gun.

Hawkins now glanced about, and Sylvia became nervous. Her finger caressed the hunting scene etched into the shotgun’s receiver.

“Where’s your husband? Surely, you’re not traveling alone,” Smitty Blaine asked.

“He wasn’t able to join me.”

“I reckon not,” Elmer added, “after all the drinkin’ he did last night.”

Hawkins stared at Elmer for a long moment. “You boys carry on,” Hawkins said. “I’ll see Mrs. Weatherly as far as the Donner ranch, then meet up with you shortly.”

Sylvia protested, but in the end the others rode off and Jess Hawkins fell in alongside her.

She glanced sideways at the handsome man, who showed more concern for her safety than her own husband.

They rode in an awkward silence, the clinking of their mounts’ bridles taking the place of words.

“How’s the homesteading?” Hawkins asked after several minutes.

“A lot harder than I expected.”

“You’re awful young to be doing all that work alone.”

Sylvia straightened her five-foot-eight-inch frame in the saddle. “I’m strong.”

“That you are.”

She suppressed a smile.

“I’ve heard Stewart say he won you in a poker game. That’s not true, is it?” He gazed at her, his straight white teeth showing in his smile.

A wisp of Sylvia’s brown hair fell forward as she bent her head. “My ma died,” she said. “My father had hoped to win some money to help care for us,” she paused. The horses’ hooves kept time on the road. “Instead, he lost. He…he made a deal with Stewart. He said instead of giving him the money, he’d give him a wife. Convinced Stewart my cooking and…” her voice dropped, “and wifely duties were worth more than what my father owed him.”

Hawkins slowed his horse. “I’m sorry. I thought it was just a bad joke your husband told.”

“I wish it was.” They rode in silence for a while. Finally, Sylvia got up the nerve to speak. “What is it you do, Mr. Hawkins?”

“Fix things mostly. My father used to fix wagons and carriages; he still does some. But we mostly work on automobiles. You ever ride in an automobile?”

“No.”

“Someday you will.”

“How can you be so sure?” her voice incredulous.

“Automobiles are the future.”

Sylvia considered his words. “You might be right. I recall there were quite a lot of them rattling, beeping, and breaking down in Chicago.”

“Soon, everyone will have one.”

Sylvia wondered how she could possibly be included in everyone.

At the wood’s edge, Hawkins pulled up and Sylvia stopped as well. “You should be safe from here on.”

“Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t stay in town long. The sooner you get home, the better. We’ll be coming back on this road in a few hours. I’ll keep my eyes open for you.”

A shy smile spread across Sylvia’s lips and she looked to the ground as her cheeks warmed.

“You better get yourself to town.” He tipped his hat, turned, and headed back the way they’d come.

“Giddy up, Clyde,” she ordered. The horse stepped forward, and she pulled on the rope. “Come on, Brutus.” Sylvia smiled at the sun on her face, but little Abigail fussed as she squinted into it. The expansive Donner ranch stood on their left. Sylvia liked the Donner ranch, its large barns, grazing cattle behind sturdy fences, a neatly rowed garden, and the sturdy two-story white-washed house with brightly colored flowers in beds by the porch.

As a child, this is what she’d thought of when dreaming of homesteading while living in her crowded, rat infested neighborhood of Chicago. She’d once seen a newspaper story of a successful homesteader, the description so romantic, she’d dreamed of it often as a young girl. How surprised she’d been at the age of sixteen when she and Stewart arrived in Washington state at their homestead to find it with no house and the majority of the one hundred and sixty acres covered in pine trees, and not the deciduous trees so numerous back home.

They worked hard to clear much of the land and build a one-room log cabin and a similar structure for the animals. Though many of their neighbors had electricity, they didn’t. At first, Sylvia burned many a meal learning to cook on a wood stove. In spite of hard work, she enjoyed the expanse of space, the quiet, and clean air. So different from Chicago.

Sylvia passed the entrance to the Donner ranch—two tall logs stood vertically in the ground, with another anchored over them like a lintel—welcoming visitors. A large wood-burned sign hung below announcing the Diamond Donner ranch, complete with a diamond inside a capital D, the sign of their brand. She wondered how Mrs. Donner did it. The woman must be in her fifties, widowed for more than a decade, folks said. Somehow, she raised seven children, the last three all by herself, and kept the ranch not just beautiful, but prosperous.

Though she’d never spoken to Cathryn Donner, Sylvia admired the hard working, no-nonsense, tough-as-nails woman. Everyone in town spoke well of her; though either because of her personality or intimidation, she didn’t seem to have many women friends. Yes, Sylvia admired Mrs. Donner, though she was a bit afraid of her. Sylvia wondered what Mrs. Donner thought of her and her poor excuse of a farm—if she even thought of Sylvia at all.

In town, horses, carriages, and wagons mingled with an ever-growing number of automobiles. On sidewalks, folks exchanged gossip in small groups about the bandits and animals the cougar ran off with. Men spoke of hunting expeditions and lying in wait for the nighttime robbers. Those, like her, with several miles to travel, hurried about, anxious to get home before dark.

Sylvia sold the aprons to Mrs. Burns, who owned the clothing and housewares store. Then she stopped by the home of the frail Mrs. Stockton who purchased her produce, but Sylvia declined the usual tea, scones and town gossip to return home early.

In Gordon’s Mercantile, she purchased her staples of flour, salt, pork, tea, and a small package of sugar. “If Stewart can have his drink, Abigail and I can have some sugar,” she muttered to herself, then purchased a yard of gingham.

“You have yourself a good day, Mrs. Weatherly,” said the storekeeper.

Sylvia thanked him and gathered her purchases.

“I’m surprised she has money to buy anything,” said a woman behind her as Sylvia headed for the door.

“Why so?” asked another.

“The way that husband of hers has been drinking. I’ve heard he’s been in here almost every night for the past month.”

Sylvia’s neck heated, and she hurried from the store with a snug grip on Abigail.

***

Sylvia fumed the whole ride home. “The boss couldn’t pay us again this week,” Sylvia said, repeating Stewart’s excuses for not having any money. No wonder he was so tired this morning. He wasn’t just sleeping off one night’s hangover, but probably a week’s worth of hangovers.

He complained with obscenities about any noise she made in the morning. How on earth did he handle the chop, chop of axes on wood? Did her father even care what kind of life she would have when he practically sold her to Stewart? Of course he didn’t. She knew that by the absence of letters over the past five years. She wondered about her younger sisters. Were they still together? Or had they been gambled away also? She hoped not.

In spite of her anger at Stewart, relief settled in as the farm came into view. She’d escaped the robbers and the cougar.

She lifted a sleeping Abigail from the crate. The child wiggled and made little grunts then settled down in her trundle bed. Sylvia unloaded the rest of the items, shoved aside Stewart’s dishes which littered the table, and gazed through the window for him. She led the animals to the barn, surprised to find Stewart in the tack room.

“Sylvia.” He turned around and backed up, one hand behind him. “You startled me.”

“I see.” She eyed him. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just…a…looking over the tools.”

She shook her head. As if he planned to help her with all the work. How could a man of thirty-five be so helpless? Didn’t he care about their homestead? About storing up goods for winter? Lately, it seemed if he couldn’t work with dynamite, he didn’t want to work at all.

“Can you help me curry the animals so I can get supper on?”

“Not now.” He started for the door, a shovel and gunnysack in his hand.

“Where are you going?”

“Uh, I caught a rat and need to bury it.”

Sylvia shook her head. “Since when does he bury rats?” she mumbled, brushing the horse down. “And waste a perfectly good burlap sack at that?”

Stewart exited the woods on the east end of their property as she finished currying and feeding the mule and horse. “How long does it take to bury a rat?” she wondered out loud.

After supper, Sylvia sat outside stitching a new dress for Abigail. Stewart too sat for a bit, whittling or picking at dirt under his nails with his knife. Then he’d go inside for a few minutes, rummage around, return, and sit again.

Sylvia watched him. She wanted to say something, but feared another outburst like she’d received a few weeks ago.

When the air cooled and the sun set, they moved inside, and Sylvia prepared for bed, but Stewart moved about the small cabin. He’d sit, picking at the soles of his boots, then stand and look out the window.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were coming to bed.”

“In a bit.”

She watced at him, eyebrows raised.

“I just can’t shake the feeling something bad is going to happen.”

“What kind of bad?”

“That cougar—”

“Cougar?” Sylvia stiffened and stared down at Abigail, asleep in her trundle bed. “Maybe we should close the windows.”

“I saw tracks in the woods today,” Stewart said, ignoring her comment. “Did the barn door get shut?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Sylvia climbed into bed. “I’m sure. No cougar can get in the barn.”

“You grew up in the city. You don’t know cougars like I do.”

She nodded, too tired after her long day and drifted off to sleep. A loud scream awoke Sylvia who shot up in bed. “Abigail.” She watched the child, who only wiggled a little. By the window, Stewart loaded his gun. “Stewart, who screamed?”

“A cougar.”

Another scream, this time closer.

Sylvia shook. “I’m closing the windows.”

“Quick, then get away. It could see you and jump through to attack you.”

Sylvia shuddered at the thought.

Stewart chambered a cartridge into his rifle, then patted his pistol, which hung in the holster around his waist.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m gonna kill it.”

“But…”

The cougar screamed again.

“You stay here. Lock the door after me and don’t open it.”

“But what if you’re hurt?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to hunt it down. Don’t open the door, there might be cubs.”

“Alright.”

“Remember, stay away from the windows.”

She nodded.

“I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.” He shut the door, leaving her alone.

She listened, her hands shaking, as she rubbed them over the goose bumps on her arms. Another terrifying scream, a shot, and a shout from Stewart, and Sylvia pressed her hand over her mouth and scurried to Abigail.

In her little bed, Abigail cried. Sylvia scooped her up, thankful for someone to hold. She rocked her daughter in silence, listening, listening, straining to hear something, anything. Had he shot the cougar? She wanted to at least look out the window. She stood to do so when there came another cry from the animal, this time farther away. She pulled Abigail closer and peeked into the night, but could see nothing.

***

Sylvia awoke with Abigail by her side and no sign of Stewart. She dressed and unsure of Abigail’s safety, she lifted the child to her hip and peeked out the door. Nothing appeared amiss. “Stewart. Stewart, where are you?” She listened. “Are you hurt?” she called.

Nothing.

Maybe he’d chased the cougar several miles away. “Let’s water the animals,” she said to Abigail, who replied with her own set of sounds. “He’ll be home for breakfast.”

In the barn, she found the horse gone. Of course he would take it. He couldn’t chase a cougar on foot. She put Brutus on his picket line, milked the goats and collected the eggs, then let the animals wander as they usually did, thankful they were all alive and well. If Stewart was out chasing the cougar, it wouldn’t be attacking her animals.

Sylvia and Abigail finished breakfast and the dishes, but still no Stewart. She set to thinning the carrots and then the onions. By mid-morning, he still hadn’t returned. Why hadn’t she tried to stop him? What kind of wife let her husband go out and fight a cougar in the dark, she chastised herself.

She found herself looking around more than working. What if he and the horse had both been killed by the cougar? What if he encountered the bandits? “That’s it.” She scooped up the basket of small vegetables in one hand and Abigail in the other and carried them to the house.

What if Stewart lay hurt somewhere? She needed help to find him. She saddled the mule and, with the cradle-board given her by a Native woman, and her shotgun in the scabbard, Sylvia started back to town. All her senses were alert. “Hurry along, Brutus. We need to get to town.” She hoped to see the sheriff’s posse, but didn’t.

***

It was Sunday, and the town was busier than usual, folks huddled in groups talking. Though church had already let out, no one seemed interested in returning home for Sunday dinner. As Sylvia and Abigail rode through town on her way to the sheriff to ask for help, people stopped their conversations and stared up at her.

She smiled at them but felt an uneasiness as though she were an oddity on display, like the two-headed lady she’d once seen at the circus.

Men milled about the sheriff’s office, and their discussions quieted as she tied the mule to the hitching post. They parted and made a way for her.

“Thank you,” she said, suspicious.

More men stood talking inside; she recognized Raymond Frances and Elmer Cleveland. They stopped as she entered and most tipped their hats to her, and several left.

“Mrs. Weatherly,” Sheriff Olin stood.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No, no. Trenton, get Mrs. Weatherly a chair, and then retrieve my wife. The rest of you can go.”

Sylvia took the cradle-board off and sat down, uncomfortable at the men’s attention, and watched them leave. The group outside moved further down the sidewalk. Outside, motor cars sputtered. “I hear they caught—” a horn blared.

A man yelled something from a cell at the back of the building, but Sheriff Olin ignored him. The sheriff appeared tired, his suit rumpled and tie askew as if he’d slept in it. He stared down at his hands and swallowed. “Mrs. Weatherly—”

“My husband’s missing,” she blurted, her voice shook, and words jammed together. “He left last night…to chase a cougar…and hasn’t returned. I fear he’s hurt or…” She sucked in some air and brushed away a tear. “I came to ask for your help in finding him.” Several more tears slipped down her suntanned cheeks. All the fear she’d kept locked in on the ride to town leaked out. “I don’t know what to do. I…I don’t even know how to begin looking for him. I can’t take care of our farm without him. What if the cougar killed him? Or those bandits? Or he’s hurt himself? I don’t—”

A plump woman with an apron tied over her faded dress and her hair pinned tightly to her head entered, wiping flour off her hands. “Peter,” she said to the sheriff. I’m in the middle of fixin’ dinner. What do you need?”

He nodded at Sylvia. “Martha, this is Mrs. Weatherly.”

Sylvia saw a look go between the sheriff and his wife, and then an expression of both sorrow and regret pass quickly over the woman’s face. Sylvia tensed.

Sheriff Olin shifted in his chair and fiddled with some keys on his desk. “I thought you could help us.”

She nodded, but didn’t move or speak.

“My husband’s missing,” Sylvia repeated. The odd interaction between the sheriff and his wife unnerved her. “Can you help me?”

“Mrs. Weatherly…” Sheriff Olin paused, looked at his wife, then cleared his throat. “About your husband.”

“Can you help me find him?” Sylvia’s voice raised an octave, and she could feel her grasp on her emotions slipping. “Please.”

Sheriff Olin wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Mrs. Weatherly…I…a…I have some bad news. Your husband—”

“What? Where is he?”

“Ma’am, your husband is dead.”

“Aah.” She covered her mouth. The tears now ran freely. “No.” She shook her head. “No. He can’t be. I should have never…” She turned to the man’s wife. “It’s not true. Tell me it’s not.” Sylvia’s head shook.

The woman clutched her apron and nodded.

“Did the cougar…Did he fall from the horse? Did the bandits…,” her voice rose. As it did, Abigail began to fuss. Sylvia struggled with the leatherthongson the cradle-board, trying to get Abigail out.

Mrs. Olin kneeled beside her and helped. “There, there,” cooed the woman.

Sylvia pressed her daughter close.

Olin took a deep breath. “Mrs. Weatherly, Stewart was killed late last night.”

She stared at him. “What?”.

Abigail wailed at her mother’s shriek.

“He and a gang of four other men were caught robbing the train.”

Sylvia grabbed hold of his desk with one hand and fell back into her chair. “No. No. He couldn’t.” Her body stiffened and felt cold in spite of the early summer heat.

“He went chasing a cougar. I heard it. A blood-curdling scream.” She shivered as the goosebumps from last night returned with the memory.

“He told me to lock the door and stay inside. No matter what. That a cougar had been seen in these parts, and he meant to kill it. He took his gun and left.” She rambled, unable to stop herself.

The sheriff and his wife exchanged glances.

“He, he couldn’t have been one of the robbers.” She looked down at her daughter, who grabbed at her neckline, wanting her breast. “That…that was the last time I saw him,” her words came slowly as the emotion deflated her. “The cougar—”

“No.” The sheriff shook his head. “The cougar was just a ploy they’d made up to communicate with each other and explain the animals they stole. Mrs. Shanks said her son, Matthew, who still lived with her, went searching after that same cougar last night. We caught him robbing the train.”

Sylvia ran her hand over the child’s head. “Shush, shush. It’s alright.” But the look Sylvia gave the sheriff screamed fear.

“I take it you didn’t know about this?”

Sylvia shook her head, and reflected on the past several weeks. “He’s been working at the lumber camp.” She paused. Thinking of the late nights and early mornings he’d come home. “He’d taken up drinking. It made him surly.” She pressed her lips together. Not liking the picture she saw.

“You didn’t notice he had more money or unexplained items?”

She fought back the tears which pressed against her lids. “No.”

“Between the five of them, they stole twenty-three chickens, four hogs, two horses, one automobile, over five hundred dollars, and miscellaneous items.”

“I…I never knew. How will I ever pay back all he’s stolen?” She looked at the sheriff and then his wife.

Outside, townsfolk walked slowly past, looking in the window.

“Everyone in town must think I’m a horrible person. I have no way…”

The sheriff nodded. “I’m sure most folks will understand, but not all. Some may want your farm.”

At his words, the tears flowed.

“I’ll try to stop that,” he said.

Sylvia struggled to gain control.

“But if you could look around your property,” Olin said. “He probably hid the money and other things somewhere. Maybe in the barn or in a hole or in a hollow tree.”

“I’ll look.”

“If you find those things and bring them to me, that will go a long way in showing folks you’re not involved and willing to help.”

She nodded.

“Though I’m not sure how much of the money you’ll find.”

“Why?”

“They were either here or over in Colville drinking most nights.”

“But—I don’t understand. He was always so tired from logging—and the logging camp is ten, fifteen miles away.”

The sheriff sighed. “You didn’t know he’d been fired? All five of them, in fact.”

Sylvia’s head hurt. She cradled Abigail close to her.

There were a few moments of silence when the sounds of the street drifted in.

“What…what did they do with my husband?”

“He’s lying on a table at Doc Allen’s.”

She took a deep breath and wiped one of her tears from Abigail’s forehead.

“If you’d like, I can take you over there.” Sheriff Olin stood and turned to his wife. “Martha, would you help her?”

They assisted her across the road. Their mere presence stopped horses, wagons, and cars. Sylvia felt everyone’s attention on her as she struggled to stay upright under the heaviness she felt.

***

Sylvia left town with Abigail on her back and Stewart six feet under in the town cemetery with only an old cloth for a casket.

She led Brutus out of town, away from the stares of those who probably thought her naïve and stupid to not see what was going on. Maybe they were right. Or maybe they thought her involved and hiding the loot on her homestead.

Mixed with her feelings of stupidity was anger—anger at Stewart for allowing himself to fall in with such bad company—though as she thought of it, hadn’t they left Chicago in a hurry after he “won big” at poker one night? Now she wondered. And there were a few other times on their way out west when he’d awakened her in the middle of the night to leave some town.

What else hadn’t he told her? She shook her head. Trusting, naïve, and oh so stupid Sylvia. Sure, she was naïve when she married Stewart at age sixteen, but now, five years later, she should be wiser. She thought back on the night her father came home from gambling and pulled her out of bed and gave her to Stewart. Surely, he knew what kind of man Stewart was. But he didn’t seem to care—he just wanted to be rid of her.

Sylvia pushed back tears. Not wanting to cry. Not now. She would wait until she was alone, at home. But where was her home? She couldn’t stay here and homestead alone and, truth be told, she had no idea where her father and sisters were. She breathed deeply, pushing harder at the flood of isolation mixed with hopelessness. What would become of her and Abigail?

Melancholy settled over her, mixed with guilt. If she’d only been a better wife, maybe Stewart wouldn’t have felt the need to roam around as he did. If only her garden did better to provide for them. Would things have been different if she’d grown wheat? She was such a failure!

She trod along, past some of Mrs. Donner’s cattle grazing in their field. As she neared the entrance to the Donner ranch, she saw Mrs. Donner stood there in the drive, under the log-pole sign, talking to a rider. As she approached, they both looked up, and Sylvia saw Jess Haskins on the horse. What must they think of her now? “Get along, Brutus.” She nudged the mule.

“Young lady,” Mrs. Donner called, waving Sylvia toward her.

“Come Brutus.” Sylvia tugged on the reins. And turned the animal off the road, against her will. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Sylvia, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr. Haskins here tells me you’ve suffered a great loss.”

Sylvia could only nod.

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” added Jess Haskins.

“Thank you,” Sylvia said, her voice almost a whisper.

“I’m sure you’ve had a very difficult morning. Please join Mr. Haskins and me for dinner.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose.”

“Nonsense, I insist. Tie your mule up by the barn, and Jess here will see they get some water and oats.”

The blond Jess Haskins smiled at her, and she followed them.

Inside Mrs. Donner’s spacious home, Sylvia momentarily forgot her situation as she soaked in the beauty. There was a large sitting room with a stone fireplace and a braided rug made of reds and blues. Several oil paintings hung on the wall.

Though not as grand as the homes her mother used to clean back in Chicago, Sylvia liked it better. There was a warmth here. Something which made her feel welcome.

Mrs. Donner spoke of her garden and asked Sylvia about hers as she retrieved biscuits, butter, preserves, ham, cheese, and cream. Jess Haskins entered with a bucket of water and set it near the sink. “What do you plan to do now?” Mrs. Donner asked Sylvia.

“I imagine I’ll go back to Chicago.”

“Fiddlesticks,” said the sun-browned woman. “You’ll do none of the such. There’s nothing for you there. How long have you been on your land?”

“Just over four years.”

“Just one more year and that land will be yours. What’s the chance of you owning your own land or house in Chicago?”

The question surprised her. “I…I don’t know.”

“That’s my point. This is where your land is, your home, your community. Here you have a future, the opportunity to be who you want. I guarantee you no one will give you land back east.”

“But I can’t farm?”

“You can’t? What have you been doing? Word has it you’ve been doing most of the work around your place for the past three years.”

Sylvia considered this. She’d often felt she like the mule, the plow, and the driver, while Stewart enjoyed the fruit of all her labor. She never suspected anyone else thought the same.

“Now that your good-for-nothing husband—bless his soul—is gone and no longer causing you problems, you can actually make something of that place and provide for you and your child.”

Sylvia startled at the woman’s assessment of Stewart while Abigail jabbered happy sounds. The child’s little legs bounced up and down on Sylvia’s lap, and her slender hands slapped the table, unaware of how her life had changed. Mrs. Donner’s cat darted past and Abigail squealed with delight.

Mrs. Donner set the food before them and prayed. “So how about it?”

Sylvia buttered a biscuit for Abigail. “Well, I don’t know.” Overwhelmed, she’d never considered farming on her own. Though, wasn’t she doing it already?

“There are lots of folks in these here parts willing to help you,” the woman said. “Aren’t there Jess?”

“Mrs. Donner’s right. Folks around here have a high regard for you and how hard you work, even though they’ve had their suspicions about your husband for quite some time.”

His words were both cool water on parched soil and a stab at her ignorance. Sylvia focused on the latter, and hung her head. “It’s plain to see I’m not as astute as everyone else,” she said. “I never considered Stewart could be involved in those robberies.”

Mrs. Donner reached over and patted Sylvia’s long slender hand. “Now there, don’t be so hard on yourself. The bridge is often the last to notice the water running underneath it. Why, you’ve been so busy caring for that precious little girl of yours, and keeping up with your garden and chores around the farm, it’s a wonder you had time to notice anything.”

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this.”

“You’re not alone,” Mrs. Donner said. “If you humble yourself of your pride and independence, and ask the Good Lord, He will be with you and help you.”

There was a confidence and yet kindness Sylvia noticed as this woman with wisps of gray in her dark hair smiled at her.

“I’ve got three whole journals accounting all the times the Good Lord lifted me out of the depths of despair, provided food, money, and help from others when I needed it.”

Sylvia straightened, intrigued. “All this time I thought you’d done this by yourself.”

“Ha!” Mrs. Donner waved a hand as though swatting at a fly. “Far from it. He provided help for me, and he’ll provide help for you—through others and in ways you can’t explain.”

Sylvia felt the sense of despair fading. She glanced up and saw Jess Hawkins sitting across from her, silently watching her. His lips spread in an understanding smile. 

“You go home and pray. I’ll come by Tuesday morning, and if you want to stay, I’ll help you get things arranged so you and that sweet little daughter of yours can stay and make a living.”

Sylvia nodded.

“And I’m sure Mr. Hawkins here would be happy to get a group of men to come and help you with any heavy work which needs doing, wouldn’t you Jess?”

“I’d be glad to.” Jess Hawkins’ blue eyes twinkled as he smiled.

“Go on home now. Mr. Hawkins will go with you.”

“Oh, you needn’t do that,” Sylvia protested.

“I’d be honored,” said the young man. “In fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve had quite a shock today. Let me see you home, help care for your animals, and chop you some wood.”

“Oh, I can do all that.”

“I’m sure you can,” Mrs. Donner added. “But you’ve got to learn to accept a little help every now and then.”

Sylvia bowed her head, remembering Mrs. Donner’s words about pride and independence.

“Now you head on home,” said Mrs. Donner. “After dinner, when your little one’s in bed, you spend some time on your knees praying their young lady.”

Sylvia took a deep breath. For a moment this woman reminded her of her mother. It was clear Mrs. Donner cared about her. “Thank you. I will.”

***

At home, Sylvia cooked the small carrots and onions for supper. It would be just her and Abigail tonight. Tonight, and every night. How odd to think of Stewart not coming home—ever. As she reflected on the idea, a sense of peace washed over her. Any tears she’d suppressed while in town now refused to come. She knew the tears had never really been for Stewart. Did she ever love him? She’d tried. Now the resentment she’d felt for him turned to guilt.

Her daughter crawled over to her and pulled herself to a wobbly standing position, clinging to Sylvia’s skirt. Abigail would never know her father, what sort of man would she portray him as? Her mind drifted to her two youngest sisters back in Chicago. Did they have any memory of their mother? She wondered what her father told her siblings about their wonderful mother?

Abigail let out a squeal of delight. She wished she could tell Abigail good things about her father, though right now, she wanted to tell her how horrible he’d been. She reflected on various things Stewart had told her. A wall of fear arose in her. Suddenly she felt the ground beneath her shifting, crumbling away. Everything she’d built on was a lie!

She poured hot water into the dish pan as scenes and conversations from the past five years played through her mind. She dipped the cups into the soapy water and stared at the dish suds—shiny and bright one moment—gone the next. It would be a while before Sylvia needed to tell Abigail about her father. By then, she would hopefully see through the muddied waters Stewart had made of their lives to tell Abigail the truth.

Sylvia put Abigail to bed then sat by the door, taking in the homestead. There was so much work. How could she farm one-hundred and sixty acres all by herself? And with only a mule? When she’d asked Sheriff Olin about her horse, he said it had run off.

She got down on her knees and prayed. “Lord, it’s been a long time since I’ve prayed. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. If you don’t want to listen to me, I understand—though Mrs. Donner seems to think you will.” She paused and stared off, over her large garden and the grasses she would cut for Brutus to eat through the winter. She paused, here gaze following what appeared to be movement just inside the tree line. She strained to see, but saw nothing, so continued her prayer. After pouring her heart out, her fears, her guilt, her loneliness which she admitted had begun at the death of her mother. When all the tears she’d suppressed for the past five years finally stopped, she sat on the hard ground and just breathed.

The sun hung low in the sky and Brutus heehawed in the barn. If she stayed, she really needed Clyde. “Lord, I don’t know if I should stay or go. But I do know, it will be almost impossible to farm without Clyde. You know where he is. I don’t feel as though I deserve your help, but could you bring Clyde home? Please.”

Sylvia stood, thinking how silly her prayer. Why should God listen to her? Let alone answer her? She wandered to the barn, climbed into the stall with Brutus, brushed his black neck with her hand then leaned her forehead into him. He seemed to understand and nuzzled her.

Returning to the house she thought of Mrs. Donner’s ranch and especially of the beautiful flowers. Suddenly, she wanted flowers. Shutting the door in case Abigail awoke, Sylvia retrieved a shovel and bucket from the barn and headed toward the woods to where she knew some black-eyed-Susans grew.

Entering the woods a shiver of fear brushed over her with a slight breeze. “Oh, stop it,” she told herself. “You’ve wandered these woods a lot in the past four years. Just because Stewart is dead doesn’t mean you need to start getting scared.”

A crow cawed, and she heard the rustle of branches from the flurry of its wings. A twig snapped somewhere, and she realized for the first time since settling here, she’d left her gun at the cabin. “Probably just a deer or skunk.” With vigor, she dug Indian paintbrushes, columbine, and fireweed along with several black-eyed-Susans.

With her bucket full of flowers, Sylvia hurried back to the house. But only fifteen feet from the clearing, she noticed a small pile of dead branches. Upon closer inspection she noticed the trampled grass around it. What was this? She pulled apart the pile of debris and then some old boards covering a hole. She stared. In the hole were Indian blankets, jugs of whiskey, a couple of pried open strong boxes, several sets of keys, tools, a few silver coins, and even the burlap sack Stewart used on Saturday for his supposed rat.

If she had any doubt about Stewart’s guilt, this stash stripped away his innocence. All she could do was stare. “How am I going to get this to the sheriff?”

“You’re not.”

Sylvia jumped and turned.

Elmer Cleveland whom she’d met on the road with Jess Hawkins wrapped his rough hands around her arms. “Thanks for helping me find it.”

Sylvia struggled, but Elmer threw her to the ground. Within seconds he had tied her wrists and ankles then tied her to a tree. She struggled against the ropes. “Please, don’t hurt me. I have a baby to care for.”

“Ain’t that too bad?”

“But I thought you were—”

“Deputized? Oh, I am.” The pudgy faced man jumped into the hole and rifled through items. “I’m a lot smarter than those other guys. I could see Sheriff Olin was closing in on us, so I decided to throw him off my tracks. I’m the one who suggested the sheriff keep a watch on the train last night.” He picked up the burlap sack and peered in. A sneer spread across his lips. He sorted through the booty and selected specific items, mostly money, silver and jewelry, which he tossed into the bag.

“What are you going to do with me?”

He leered at her.

She shuddered.

“As much as I’d like to take you with me, I don’t need some woman slowing me down. So, you’ll be staying here.”

“In my cabin?”

“No, no, no darling. Right where you’re at.”

Sylvia pulled at the rope which only loosened slightly. “But my baby!”

“You’d better hope someone finds her.”

Jess. He said he’d come by and check on her. But when? Then, another thought crossed her mind. “And the others?”

“What others?”

“The men patrolling the road with you. Were they robbers too?” She could almost get her right hand out.

Pine needles crunched behind Sylvia. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She watched as Elmer’sexpression changed from snide to scowl.

“No. He acted alone,” came a voice from behind her.

Sylvia flinched at the voice and strained to see behind her. There was Jess with a gun trained on Elmer. Smitty Blaine and Raymond Frances stood beside him.

“You were right there, Hawkins,” Raymond said.

Smitty moved toward Elmer.

“Now boys,” Elmer said. “It’s not what it appears.”

“Tell it to the sheriff,” Jess said.

“I suspected Stewart and his wife, so I followed her. She was about to take some of this stuff and flee.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” Jess said. He nodded at Raymond who with Smitty jumped in the hole, grabbed Elmer, and tied the man’s hands behind him.

Sylvia’s hand was now free and Jess helped her with the other. “My baby, I…I need my baby.”

“You go,” Jess said.

While Raymond and Smitty tied Elmer to a horse for the trip back to town, Jess dug a hole near Sylvia’s front door for the bucket of flowers he’d carried back. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Sylvia nodded; her eyes rimmed in red.

“We need to get Elmer to the jail. Stay close to the house. I’ll be by tomorrow. Don’t open the door for anyone but Mrs. Donner, the sheriff, or myself.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll be sure Sheriff Olin joins those retrieving the loot. I don’t want a bunch of people out here.”

Abigail thrashed about in Sylvia’s arms. “Thank you.”

“I’d water those flowers if I were you.”

“I will.”

Jess turned to go. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, a couple outside of town found your horse.”

Sylvia’s countenance brightened.

“I put him in the barn.”

Copyright © Ida Smith Books 2016

Do you enjoy reading short story collections? I’m considering publishing a collection of my short stories. Let me know if this would be something you would be interested in purchasing in the comments section below.

Cougar’s Prey first appeared in “Jagged Journeys’ e-zine, Issue Twenty-One.”