burst into chatter, and though Georgie never officially adjourned the meeting, the ladies rose. Some signed the pledge, some ate the food, and a great many left with polite but strained good-byes.
When Georgie closed the door behind her final guest, she had one dozen signatures. Among them the doctor’s wife, the banker’s wife, and the mayor’s wife.
She tried to convince herself their signatures should count double, even triple, but truth was, it would take more than a dozen pledges to put an end to Ottfried’s offer and the selling of bird parts. She needed a new battle plan. For her enemy was not only the milliner, but the women in town who had more to lose than a fancy hat.
Chapter Ten
The Gun Club met at the fairgrounds every Sunday afternoon. This one couldn’t have been a more perfect day for it. The balmy temperature, smattering of clouds, and absence of wind would eliminate the usual excuses for inaccurate shooting.
Luke tied Honey Dew to a hitching rail beside several other horses. A group of men milled about the edge of the racetrack, most with a beer in one hand, a rifle in the other. About two hundred yards out, a tin plate dangled from a hangman’s scaffold.
Removing his Winchester from its scabbard, Luke dropped several cartridges in his pocket and ambled toward the group, wondering if any of them were members of Comer’s gang. Of the two dozen gathered, he was the only one in overalls and the only one who did physical labor for a living. He hoped his presence would be accepted. Gun clubs were for the affluent. Typical farmers—and telephone repairmen—couldn’t afford the premium prices target rifles claimed, though his .30-40 Krag wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.
Doc von Hardenberg caught sight of him and headed his way. As was the fashion, he’d fastened the first button of his jacket, leaving the rest to gape open over a well-fed belly. His salt-and-pepper mustache was so full it encroached upon his lower lip, giving him a walrus-like appearance when he smiled. Luke rubbed his own upper lip, missing the mustache he’d worn for years. At least these last couple of weeks climbing poles had added color to the virgin skin.
He grasped the doc’s hand. They’d met earlier in the week while Luke had been stringing wire and the doc had been heading home after a call.
“Fancy seeing you, Palmer.” Doc eyed Luke’s rifle. “Didn’t know you shot.”
“Oh, I don’t have much time for targets, but I enjoy hunting when I can.”
“What do you hunt?”
“Coons and birds are my favorite, but not with my .30-40, of course.”
Doc raised his brows. “Does Georgie know you hunt birds?”
“No, sir. Don’t reckon it’s ever come up.”
“You’d be smart to keep it that way. She’s awful funny about birds.”
“So I’ve heard.” He hadn’t returned to Georgie’s place since she’d removed his splinters. Instead, he’d had Bettina return the tweezers, he’d worked six days a week stringing line, and he’d stayed away from Georgie at church. He wouldn’t be able to put off seeing her much longer, though. The new wire was close to being done and the ledgers needed attention.
Doc introduced him to several members whom he’d seen at church but had never actually met.
“And this here’s our sheriff,” Doc said. “Franz, have you met our new troubleman?”
Franz Nussbaum looked more like a college professor than a sheriff. Pretty face. No sideburns. Pomaded hair. Oval glasses. And a trim brown mustache. According to Luke’s Ranger report, Comer had plenty of influentials in his back pocket. Luke wondered if Nussbaum was one of them. At least the sheriff had a decent weapon.
“You a shooter, Palmer?” the sheriff asked, offering a limp handshake.
Luke hated that. “I can bring down a bird or two.”
The sheriff smirked. “Well, we’ll see how you do with a target at two hundred.”
Luke smiled and looked at the silver plate on the other side of the
When Georgie closed the door behind her final guest, she had one dozen signatures. Among them the doctor’s wife, the banker’s wife, and the mayor’s wife.
She tried to convince herself their signatures should count double, even triple, but truth was, it would take more than a dozen pledges to put an end to Ottfried’s offer and the selling of bird parts. She needed a new battle plan. For her enemy was not only the milliner, but the women in town who had more to lose than a fancy hat.
Chapter Ten
The Gun Club met at the fairgrounds every Sunday afternoon. This one couldn’t have been a more perfect day for it. The balmy temperature, smattering of clouds, and absence of wind would eliminate the usual excuses for inaccurate shooting.
Luke tied Honey Dew to a hitching rail beside several other horses. A group of men milled about the edge of the racetrack, most with a beer in one hand, a rifle in the other. About two hundred yards out, a tin plate dangled from a hangman’s scaffold.
Removing his Winchester from its scabbard, Luke dropped several cartridges in his pocket and ambled toward the group, wondering if any of them were members of Comer’s gang. Of the two dozen gathered, he was the only one in overalls and the only one who did physical labor for a living. He hoped his presence would be accepted. Gun clubs were for the affluent. Typical farmers—and telephone repairmen—couldn’t afford the premium prices target rifles claimed, though his .30-40 Krag wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.
Doc von Hardenberg caught sight of him and headed his way. As was the fashion, he’d fastened the first button of his jacket, leaving the rest to gape open over a well-fed belly. His salt-and-pepper mustache was so full it encroached upon his lower lip, giving him a walrus-like appearance when he smiled. Luke rubbed his own upper lip, missing the mustache he’d worn for years. At least these last couple of weeks climbing poles had added color to the virgin skin.
He grasped the doc’s hand. They’d met earlier in the week while Luke had been stringing wire and the doc had been heading home after a call.
“Fancy seeing you, Palmer.” Doc eyed Luke’s rifle. “Didn’t know you shot.”
“Oh, I don’t have much time for targets, but I enjoy hunting when I can.”
“What do you hunt?”
“Coons and birds are my favorite, but not with my .30-40, of course.”
Doc raised his brows. “Does Georgie know you hunt birds?”
“No, sir. Don’t reckon it’s ever come up.”
“You’d be smart to keep it that way. She’s awful funny about birds.”
“So I’ve heard.” He hadn’t returned to Georgie’s place since she’d removed his splinters. Instead, he’d had Bettina return the tweezers, he’d worked six days a week stringing line, and he’d stayed away from Georgie at church. He wouldn’t be able to put off seeing her much longer, though. The new wire was close to being done and the ledgers needed attention.
Doc introduced him to several members whom he’d seen at church but had never actually met.
“And this here’s our sheriff,” Doc said. “Franz, have you met our new troubleman?”
Franz Nussbaum looked more like a college professor than a sheriff. Pretty face. No sideburns. Pomaded hair. Oval glasses. And a trim brown mustache. According to Luke’s Ranger report, Comer had plenty of influentials in his back pocket. Luke wondered if Nussbaum was one of them. At least the sheriff had a decent weapon.
“You a shooter, Palmer?” the sheriff asked, offering a limp handshake.
Luke hated that. “I can bring down a bird or two.”
The sheriff smirked. “Well, we’ll see how you do with a target at two hundred.”
Luke smiled and looked at the silver plate on the other side of the
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