Chapter 5 - Orson Bellweather Stops Laughing
The sheriff came at sunset.
Walter Ames was a narrow man with tired eyes and a mustache that looked older than he was.
He crouched beside the broken crocks.
“Anything stolen?”
“No.”
“Animals disturbed?”
“My mare was in the field.”
“Tracks?”
Thomas pointed toward the road.
“Wagon marks.”
Sheriff Ames sighed.
“There are wagon marks everywhere.”
Harriet stood with folded arms.
“What about kerosene?”
“Sold by three businesses in town.”
“One is Orson’s.”
“One is also the livery. Another is Pratt’s creamery.”
Harriet understood the answer.
No witness.
No proof.
No crime he could easily assign.
The sheriff straightened.
“Who knew you were filling an order?”
Harriet thought.
Mabel.
Thomas.
Edwin.
The farmers supplying milk.
Half of Alderton, probably.
“Too many people.”
Ames nodded.
“Lock your doors.”
“That’s all?”
“That is what I can tell you without evidence.”
Thomas stepped forward.
“Somebody threatened her.”
“I know.”
“Then investigate.”
The sheriff’s expression hardened.
“I am investigating.”
Thomas went quiet.
After Ames left, Harriet stared at the mess.
Four days.
She needed enough product for fourteen dollars’ worth of orders.
Thomas rolled up his sleeves.
“We start again.”
Harriet looked at him.
“You worked all day.”
“So did you.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
Neither moved.
Eventually Harriet said, “Get the sacks from the wagon.”
They worked through the night.
Mabel arrived before dawn carrying coffee.
She saw the broken crocks.
Her face changed.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
Mabel placed the coffee down carefully.
“Orson.”
Harriet looked at her.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I did.”
“We have no proof.”
“Proof is what courts need. I am not a court.”
“Mabel.”
“I have known Orson Bellweather thirty years. He does not smash jars himself. He prefers clean cuffs. But somebody wanted you frightened.”
Harriet continued stirring.
Mabel stepped closer.
“You are frightened.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Harriet looked up sharply.
Mabel continued.
“Only fools aren’t frightened when someone gives them reason. Courage is deciding fear doesn’t get to choose the next move.”
Harriet stared at her.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Running a boarding house.”
“That seems excessive.”
“You have never managed twelve hungry railroad workers and one washroom.”
Harriet laughed.
It helped.
By afternoon, Reverend Price arrived with three older students.
Then two farmers came.
Then the blacksmith’s wife.
Nobody said they were there because of the vandalism.
They simply asked what needed doing.
Word had traveled.
Alderton was changing in small ways Harriet did not yet understand.
People who had laughed at her milk now carried buckets.
Women washed curds.
Men repaired shelves.
Children tied labels to jars.
Thomas constructed drying racks.
Mabel organized everyone as if she had been elected commander.
By the third day, Harriet had replaced nearly everything lost.
Edwin arrived himself.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t an insult.”
“It lacked the shape of a compliment.”
He inspected the packed jars.
“You filled it.”
“Most.”
“I can wait one day for the rest.”
“You said ten.”
“I changed my mind.”
Harriet studied him.
“Why?”
Edwin looked around at the people working.
“Because half this town seems determined to make sure you succeed, and I have enough experience in sales to know when a story is bigger than a product.”
Harriet frowned.
“I’m not selling a story.”
“You are whether you know it or not.”
“What story?”
He smiled.
“Woman gets humiliated with waste. Woman turns waste into something valuable. Rich merchant tries to corner the supply. Woman pays merchant anyway.”
Harriet stared.
“That sounds ridiculous when you say it.”
“It sounds profitable.”
“I care less about the story than the fourteen dollars.”
“You won’t forever.”
Edwin loaded the wagon.
Before leaving, he handed Harriet a second letter.
She opened it.
A hardware shop in Cheyenne wanted twenty-four jars.
A cabinetmaker wanted twelve.
A ranch school wanted enough coating for two rooms.
Harriet swallowed.
“This is too much.”
Edwin tilted his hat.
“Good problems are still problems.”
“I can’t make this volume.”
“Then grow.”
“With what money?”
He nodded toward town.
“Maybe the question is who wants you to grow.”
Harriet watched him leave.
That evening, Thomas sat beside her on the porch.
The mountains turned purple as the sun went down.
“I heard Orson had a visitor,” he said.
“Who?”
“Man from Cheyenne. Name’s Pierce.”
Harriet frowned.
“Do I know him?”
“No. Owns a building-supply company.”
That sounded wrong in a way Harriet could not yet name.
Thomas continued.
“Orson showed him the milk in his shed.”
Harriet looked at him.
“Did Pierce buy it?”
“Maybe more than that.”
The next morning, Bellweather General Store displayed a new sign.
BELLWEATHER FARM BINDER
A MODERN ADHESIVE FOR HOME AND WORKSHOP
Harriet stood on the boardwalk staring through the window.
Glass jars sat in a neat row.
White paste.
Caleb emerged from the store.
He looked uncomfortable.
“Morning.”
Harriet pointed.
“What is that?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Father’s new product.”
“Who made it?”
“A man from Cheyenne helped.”
“How?”
Caleb shoved his hands into his pockets.
“I don’t know.”
Harriet stepped closer.
“Your father bought spoiled milk the week after he saw my repairs.”
“That doesn’t mean you own sour milk.”
“I don’t.”
“He can sell glue.”
“Yes.”
Caleb relaxed slightly.
Harriet continued.
“But if he’s telling people it works the same as mine, he’d better know whether it does.”
Caleb’s expression changed.
“What do you mean?”
Harriet looked through the window.
One jar had already separated.
Liquid collected near the lid.
“He rushed it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your father wants results before he understands the process.”
Caleb stared at the jar.
Harriet turned away.
Behind her, Orson’s voice came from the doorway.
“You afraid of competition?”
Harriet faced him.
“No.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“I have capital. A store. Distribution. Suppliers.”
Harriet smiled faintly.
“And I have the ledger.”
For the first time, Orson Bellweather stopped smiling.
It lasted less than a second.
But Harriet saw it.
He recovered.
“What ledger?”
She wished immediately she had said nothing.
“Nothing.”
Orson stepped down from the porch.
“That old book you carried from Tennessee?”
Harriet’s pulse quickened.
“How do you know about that?”
He shrugged.
“Small town.”
Nobody had seen the ledger except Harriet.
Not Thomas.
Not Mabel.
Nobody.
Or so she had believed.
Harriet walked home with a new lock in her pocket.
She installed it before dark.
Then she removed the ledger from the cedar trunk.
She wrapped it in cloth.
For several minutes, she stood in the middle of the cabin trying to decide where to hide it.
Finally, she lifted a loose floorboard beneath the bed.
The ledger fit.
She replaced the board.
That night, Harriet woke to a sound.
Wood scraping.
She sat upright.
Moonlight crossed the room.
Another scrape came from outside.
Harriet reached for the iron fireplace poker.
A shadow moved past the window.
Then another.
Someone whispered.
Harriet rose silently.
The doorknob turned.
The new lock held.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Footsteps moved toward the rear of the cabin.
Harriet stood barefoot in darkness, both hands wrapped around the poker.
A minute passed.
Two.
Then she heard a horse.
By the time she opened the door, the road was empty.
But nailed to the porch post was a scrap of paper.
Three words.
SELL THE LEDGER.
Harriet pulled it down.
Her fear became something colder.
Someone knew exactly what she had.
May you like
And whatever game had begun with three barrels of spoiled milk was no longer about fourteen dollars.
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