“Don’t be silly,” he said.
But he began to feel that she was always one step ahead of him. She seemed to know the hotel better than he would have expected, and enjoyed an easy overfamiliarity with the men behind the desk and the waiters in the dining room. Some even seemed to recognize her. And when he and Emily strolled the streets and window-shopped, she recognized Eastern fashions readily.
“I think this one’s very pretty.”
“It seems out of place here, not that I am the expert.”
“Well, a Western girl likes to know what’s fashionable.”
He would have reason to ponder this statement later.
A few steps along the wooden walkway, she said, “What sort of person is your mother?”
Johnson had not thought of his mother for a long time. The very thought was jolting in some way. “Why did you ask that?”
“I was just wondering about meeting her.”
“How do you mean?”
“Whether she will like me.”
“Ah, of course.”
“Do you think she’ll like me, Bill?”
“Oh, she’ll like you fine,” Johnson said.
“You don’t sound convinced.” She pouted prettily.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, and squeezed her arm.
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” she said. And quickly, she licked his ear.
“Stop it, Emily.”
“What’s the matter? I thought you liked that.”
“I do, but not here. Not in public.”
“Why? Nobody’s looking at us.”
“I know, but it’s not proper.”
“What difference does it make?” She was frowning. “If nobody is looking at us, what possible difference could it make?”
“I don’t know, it just does.”
“You’re back in Philadelphia already,” she said, stepping away and staring at him.
“Now, Emily . . .”
“You are.”
But all he said was, “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly,” she said. “And I’m not going to Philadelphia.”
He did not know what to say.
“I just wouldn’t fit in,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“Emily . . .”
She cried openly. “I know what you are thinking, Bill. I’ve known for days now.”
“Emily, please . . .” He had no idea what she meant, for the last three days had been the most deliriously pleasurable of his life.
“It’s no good—don’t touch me, please—it’s no good, that’s all.”
They walked back to the hotel, side by side, not speaking. She held her head high and sniffled occasionally. He was uncomfortable, clumsy, not knowing what to do.
After a time, he glanced at her and saw that she was no longer crying. She was furious. “After all I did for you,” she said. “Why, you’d be long dead from Dick if I hadn’t helped you, and you’d never have gotten out of Deadwood if I hadn’t talked Wyatt into helping you, and you’d have lost your bones in Laramie if I hadn’t helped you see a plan . . .”
“That’s true, Emily.”
“And this is the thanks I get! You cast me aside like an old rag.”
She was really angry. Yet somehow he realized it was he who was being cast aside. “Emily . . .”
“I said don’t touch me!”
It was a relief when the sheriff came up to them, tipped his hat politely to Emily, and said, “You William Johnson of Philadelphia?”
“I am.”
“You the one staying at the Inter-Ocean?”
“I am.”
“You have some identification of who you are?”
“Of course.”
“That’s fine,” the sheriff said, taking out his gun. “You’re under arrest. For the murder of William Johnson.”
“But I am William Johnson.”
“I can’t see how. William Johnson is dead. So whoever you are, you’re surely not him, are you?”
Handcuffs were snapped on his wrists. He looked at her. “Emily, tell him.”
Emily turned on her heel and walked away without a word.
“Emily!”
“Let’s go, mister,” the sheriff said, and pushed Johnson toward the jail.
It took a while for the details to come out. His first day in Cheyenne, Johnson had cabled his father in Philadelphia, asking him to send $500. His father had immediately cabled the sheriff’s office to report that someone in Cheyenne was impersonating his dead son.
Everything Johnson produced—his Yale class ring, some crumpled correspondence, a newspaper clipping from the Deadwood Black Hills Weekly Pioneer—was taken as proof that he had robbed a dead man and probably killed him as well.
“This fellow Johnson’s a college man from back East,” the sheriff said, squinting judiciously at Johnson. “Now that couldn’t be you, could it.”
“But it is,” Johnson insisted.
“He’s rich, too.”
“I am.”
The sheriff laughed. “That’s a good one,” he said. “You’re a rich college man from back East, and I’m Santa Claus.”
“Ask the girl. Ask Emily.”
“Oh, I did,” the sheriff said. “She said she’s real disappointed in you, you gave her a big story about yourself and now she sees you for what you are. She’s living it up in your hotel room and selling off those crates of whatever it is you brought with you to town.”
“What?”
“She’s no friend of yours, mister,” the sheriff said.
“She can’t sell those crates!”
“I don’t see why not. She says they’re hers.”
“They’re mine!”
“It’s no good getting all hot like this,” the sheriff said. “I checked with some folks come down from Deadwood. Seems you showed up there with a dead Indian and a dead white man. I’ll lay you a hundred to one that white man was William Johnson.”
Johnson started to explain, but the sheriff held up his hand. “I’m sure you got a story to explain it,” he said. “Your type always does.”
The sheriff went out of the jail. Johnson heard the deputy say, “Who is that fella?”
“Some desperado, putting on airs,” the sheriff said, and he went out for a drink.
The deputy was a boy of sixteen. Johnson traded him his boots to send a second telegram to Philadelphia.
“Sheriff’ll be mighty angry if he finds out,” the deputy said. “He wants you to go to Yankton to be tried for murder.”
“Just send it,” Johnson said, writing quickly.
Dear Father: Sorry I wrecked yacht. Remember pet squirrel summer 71. Mother’s fever after Edward born. Headmaster Ellis warning at Exeter. I am truly alive and you are causing great trouble. Send money and inform sheriff.
Your loving son Pinky.
The deputy read the telegram slowly, mouthing the words. He looked up. “Pinky?”
“Just send it,” Johnson said.
“Pinky?”
“That was my name as a baby.”
The deputy shook his head. But he sent the telegram.
“Now look here, Mr. Johnson,” the sheriff said, unlocking the cell a few hours later. “It was an honest mistake. I was only doing my duty.”
“You got the telegram?” Johnson said.
“I got three telegrams,” the sheriff said. “One from your father, one from Senator Cameron of Pennsylvania, and one from Mr. Hayden at the Geological Survey in Washington. For all I know there are more coming. I’m telling you it was an honest mistake.”
“That’s fine,” Johnson said.
“No hard feelings?”
But Johnson had other things on his mind. “Where’s my gun?”