Ghost Eyed Gift

by Marilee Dahlman

About the Author: Marilee grew up in the Midwest and currently lives in Washington, DC. Her other stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bitter Oleander, Cleaver, The Saturday Evening Post, Timeworn Literary Journal and elsewhere.

Excerpt

The Pinks edged closer. Both men wore muddy boots and nicked-up Colts. The barbershop was quiet save their questions and the quick scrape of blades. Even my canary in his cage closed his beak and didn’t twitch his head. I took a shallow breath. Told myself I’d done nothing wrong. I wouldn’t lie.

Wouldn’t tell the truth, either.

I knew that the outlaw those Pinkerton detectives were hunting, Tommy Halvers, had strange eyes but was otherwise forgettable. Small nose and lips, unlined skin. I’d touched his smooth cheek and thought a warm newspaper has got more life to it. A runt, though a woman might call him delicate. He was already losing his wispy brown hair. In short, a man nobody looks at.

Pretty clothes to make up for the plain face. He’d strolled into the barbershop exactly a week ago, wearing a tailored broadcloth suit, silk vest patterned with pale blue swirls, and patent leather shoes with extra heel to them. An ivory-handled pistol at his left hip. When his coat shifted, I could see the gun had an eagle etched into the grip.

Not unusual to see a gentleman with style saunter in, as my shop sits in a grand hotel, the Royal Chicago, finished two years ago in fall of 1885. Four barbers, four bright red chairs, lined up under a painting of a locomotive blasting through an empty prairie. On the other side, a long, gilt-edged mirror. A few shiny brass spittoons, plenty wide, that nobody hits.

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