Two for Home

by Tinnean

  “I’m Horace Weatherford.”

  “Yeah? Can’t say that means anything to me either.” Sharps rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.

  Steve’s jaw dropped. When had his young friend become so…so grown up?

  “This is my town—” Abruptly Weatherford changed the subject. “Where did you get those horses?”

  “It’s interesting you should ask that. I reckon you could say I found ‘em wandering on the prairie. Right careless of the men who owned them.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Suppose I said we drew straws for ‘em, and they lost?”

  When had the boy developed such a wry sense of humor? Steve bit back his laugh. This really wasn’t a laughing matter.

  “That’s insane!” For a moment Weatherford’s eyes appeared to bug out.

  “That I found ‘em or that they lost ‘em?” Sharps, on the other hand, seemed completely unconcerned.

  “Either…both…” It must have been a very long time since someone challenged Weatherford, because he actually couldn’t seem to find the words to express himself, unlike when he’d confronted Steve.

  “I reckon it’s a matter of perspective.” Sharps blew out a plume of smoke from his cigarette.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t strike me as a man who rides much—seeing the way you’re dressed and all—so you just might consider the condition I found these horses in as acceptable. Now me? I think it’s a pure disgrace.”

  Steve wondered about that. They did look a little rough.

  “I wasn’t…I didn’t…” Weatherford clenched his hands in frustration. “What I meant was I don’t believe you found these horses simply wandering around loose.”

  Sharps gave Weatherford a hard grin. “You calling me a liar?” He was getting down to brass tacks. It wasn’t safe to ask a man his name—many coming out of the war wanted nothing more than to forget the past—but it was even more dangerous to accuse him of not telling the truth.

  Weatherford must have realized he’d gone too far when a glance at his own men saw them stiffen before taking a step back to distance themselves from him. Cal, who’d wound up in the pile of manure, just looked angry and swore under his breath.

  Steve kept an eye on those three; he wouldn’t put it past them to try a dirty trick.

  Weatherford drew himself up to his full height, which actually wasn’t much more than average. “You don’t scare me, boy.”

  “Then you’re a fool, Weatherford,” Steve had been waiting to see where this was likely to go, but he couldn’t help interjecting his opinion at this point.

  Sharps took his attention from the town boss and smiled at Steve, and it reminded Steve of the boy from years ago—it was warm and fond and best of all made it obvious Sharps remembered him. “It’s good to see you again, Captain.”

  “Same here, Sharps. I—”

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Have you? I looked for you after the war.”

  “Pa told me.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” Things could get dangerous if they let themselves become distracted. He stooped down to retrieve his hat, which had gone flying off at the first blow.

  “Sorry to spoil your fun, Cap. I wouldn’t have interfered, even with the odds three against one, but three plus a knife…Now that just isn’t fair.”

  “I have to admit it was much appreciated.” More than that, he was happy to see his young friend again after all these years, and to see him all grown, even though he still had that young-looking face.

  “Why do you call him captain?” Weatherford demanded irritably.

  “You set your dogs on the wrong man, Weatherford. This is Captain Steve Marriott, one of the most highly respected men of the late war. As a matter of fact, General Grant personally gave him a commendation after the Third Battle of Petersburg.”

  “How did you know that?” Steve knew Sharps had been out of the war at the time, and it wasn’t likely a civilian would learn of his commendation.

  “You could say a little bird told me.” Sharps’s gaze was warm with approval.

  Steve felt himself blush. “There’s no need to make a big deal of it, Corporal.” He’d simply been doing his duty.

  “No, sir. Sorry.” He took another drag on his cigarette.

  “You didn’t used to smoke.”

  The young man looked up at that, his expression distant. “I didn’t used to do a lot of things.”

  Abruptly Steve recalled the woman from the whore house. This was hardly the place to ask if Sharps had had any romantic liaisons, but…had there been other women in the intervening years? Sharps had been a young soldier, but young soldiers quickly became men, or they became dead soldiers.

  “That’s something else we’ll talk about later.” It really wasn’t any of his business. He glanced at the men he’d fought. “I’d advise you three to hightail it out of here. And that includes all you good people as well.”

  The townsfolk eyed Sharps uncertainly—Steve would have thought they’d look to the town boss for their instructions, but instead they sent their questioning glances in Sharps’s direction. He returned their glances dismissively, and they all hurried to leave.

  On the other hand, Weatherford, as well as his three thugs, didn’t.

  “You’re still here?” Steve flexed his hands. He really wouldn’t have minded another go with them.

  “We don’t work for you,” Cal snarled, holding his hand to his face. Steve was pleased to see he’d gotten a bit of his own back—the last blow he’d landed had broken the bully’s nose; blood was seeping through his fingers.

  “You don’t, do you?” Sharps grinned lazily, but Steve was taken aback by how hard and cold his expression had become, how incongruous it was on his boyish face. “In that case, it won’t matter to the captain if I shoot you.”

  “You can’t shoot us! We’re—”

  “For God’s sake, Asa, shut your fucking mouth!” Cal snapped.

  Now that was interesting. What had Asa been about to reveal?

  “You shut up,” Asa snapped back at Cal. “You smell like horseshit. And he can’t shoot us. The boss won’t let him!”

  Sharps turned that grin on Weatherford, who actually grew pale. “That so? You won’t let me shoot these men?”

  “I’ll have you arrested if you don’t stop threatening them.”

  “The same way you had the captain arrested?”

  Steve stood there entranced as Sharps flicked his cigarette at Weatherford, then made a production of slipping another round into the chamber of his gun and thumbing back the hammer. “Then I reckon I’ll shoot you first. It won’t matter a hill of beans to you who I shoot after that, because you’ll be dead.”

  “You’ll hang!”

  Sharps’s grin became even harder. “Maybe, but like I said, you’ll be dead, so whether I swing or not won’t be very important to you.”

  “How dare you!”

  “I dare because I think you’re a scoundrel and a carpetbagger. How long have you been out here?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “You may have some savvy suckering these yokels into thinking they need you to run their town, but you depend on these bullyboys to do your dirty work. You ought to go back East. You’re nothing but a tin-pot tyrant.”

  “You…you…” Weatherford couldn’t seem to find a word nasty enough to describe what he thought of Sharps.

  “Y’know, you make me tired. Go away.”

  For the first time, Steve relaxed. His boy had this under control.

  Abruptly he realized he’d better get hopping, so while Sharps continued to bate Weatherford and let him know how little Sharps thought of him, Steve went into the stable. Even in the dim light, he could see the horses weren’t there. He rushed out the back and breathed a sigh of relief to find the four horses in the corral. Bella nickered when she saw him, and he hurried up to her and ran a palm over h
er shoulder.

  “Are you all right, girl? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” He’d lost sight of her when he’d been dragged off to jail, and he hadn’t been able to spare much worry for her. He ran quick hands over her barrel and legs, but she appeared sound, and he returned to her head. She rubbed her chin against his shoulder, seeming to forgive him. All four horses wore halters, and he’d need to find their saddles and bridles. He patted Bella’s neck. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. I’ll get you out of here.”

  He strode back into the stable. It didn’t take much looking to find the saddles and bridles jumbled in the tack room, and he frowned at the carelessness of their treatment. Not to speak ill of the dead, but except for Fox’s tack, everyone’s was in excellent condition.

  Steve hauled them out of the stable, and within minutes the animals were saddled and ready to leave. He swung up onto his mare, gathered up the reins of the other three horses, and rode out of the stable.

  Weatherford and his men were gone, but Sharps sat the stallion, waiting patiently for him to return.

  “We’ve got to get to the jail,” he told the young man.

  “Sure thing.” Sharps cocked his head and smiled again, and something about that smile…

  Steve couldn’t help returning it, and when Sharps blushed, Steve began to hope there could be something more than simple friendship between them.

  Sharps cleared his throat. “You mind telling me how you wound up in this fix?”

  “I’m leading a couple of wagons up to the Dakota Territory.” And while their mounts walked down the alley to the main street, Steve told him about meeting up with the Foxes in Independence and his friends from New York in St. Joe and their journey to the Dakota Territory.

  And as it turned out, Sharps did have Salida.

  “Well, I had her,” he clarified.

  “Oh?”

  “That run-in I had with the Wilson brothers? They had a lady and a boy with them.”

  “That would be Georgie and her brother Chris.”

  Sharps nodded. “While I was…reading to Ezra and Eli from the book, you might say, the lady grabbed her brother, got them both on Salida, and took off. Darnedest thing, though. When I whistled for Salida to come back to me, she just kept running.”

  Steve was about to explain that Georgie had been the original owner of the buckskin mare when Sharps continued.

  “I came after her—”

  Steve tightened his grip on Bella’s reins, and the mare slowed and shook her head. He sighed and patted her neck. “Sorry, girl,” he whispered. He’d been so hopeful, but then to learn the young man had feelings for a woman…He cleared his throat. “She is pretty,” he told Sharps, “but there’s something you should know about her. She’s…uh…married.”

  He was surprised when Sharps burst into laughter. “I was talking about Salida, Cap. I’m not likely to go after a woman.”

  Steve gave an abashed chuckle. He found he was more relieved than he could answer for.

  They were just exiting the alley when shots rang out, coming from the direction of the jail.

  “Dammit.” He should have suspected that bastard Weatherford would take out his revenge on Bart and Frank since he no longer could on Steve. Steve didn’t wait. He drove his heels into Bella’s sides, and as the mare bounded forward into a run, he reached for his gun, only to discover it wasn’t there.

  Fat lot of good he was going to be. Even Sharps didn’t have a rifle in the saddle scabbard. Steve would just have to use Bella as a weapon. He leaned low over the mare’s neck and urged her to greater speed. He’d drive her into Weatherford and his men and either cause them to scatter or run them down like the miserable coyotes they were.

  Only as it turned out, he didn’t have to, and he slowed the mare to a trot and then a walk. There wasn’t much for him to do at all.

  Cal, Asa, and Luke were lying in the dust, already dead. Neat holes perforated their chests and puddles of blood pooled beneath them. As for George Pettigrew—Steve felt his jaw drop. Georgiana Hall, he reminded himself—he stood on the boardwalk, wearing a dress that would have been at home on the ladies of New York’s high society and looking even more beautiful, and he held a rifle that looked familiar.

  Georgie had always struck him as even-tempered and mild-mannered, and to see him standing above the men with the rifle cradled in his arms and gun smoke still curling from the barrel…well, thunderstruck wasn’t the word for it.

  Bart and Frank were on the boardwalk behind George.

  “You planning on a hoedown?” Frank asked, and Steve followed his gaze, startled to see Sharps holding the most beautiful banjo he’d ever seen as if it were a rifle.

  “I don’t play.” Sharps observed the situation, and his posture seemed to become more at ease—Steve almost expected him to curl his leg around the saddle horn and build a cigarette, as he’d done before. He put the banjo back in its canvas case.

  “Are you okay, Steve?” Georgie asked.

  “Yeah,” Steve assured him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” He could imagine what he looked like, his clothes dusty and a knot beginning to swell high on his cheekbone where Cal had managed to get in a couple of blows. “Chris?”

  “Back at camp.” Georgie turned his gaze back to Weatherford. “I understand you’ve been a busy boy.”

  Weatherford stared in wide-eyed horror at the bloodied bodies in the dust. Was he that much of a city slicker that he hadn’t seen death up close before?

  “Where’s…where’s the sheriff?” The man tore his gaze from the bodies. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll see you hang, even if you are a woman.”

  “He’s fine. You can go see for yourself.” Georgie jerked the barrel of the rifle toward the jail.

  “You’ll pay for this!”

  “The price won’t be as high as the one you’ll pay.” Georgie had the muzzle of his rifle aimed directly at Weatherford’s prick.

  Steve gave a silent whistle.

  “You’re a horrible excuse for a woman!” The man looked ill.

  “I am, aren’t I? Next time, don’t underestimate a woman.”

  Weatherford stepped onto the boardwalk, striving for dignity, but the sound of Georgie levering a round into the chamber of his rifle changed the man’s mind, and he dashed into the building, all trace of dignity vanished.

  “You’ll take care of him, Frank?”

  “You bet, Georgie.” Frank jogged into the jail, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Where’s Fox?” Georgie asked his husband.

  “From what they said, his body is in the ice house until they can figure what to do with it. I’ll go get him. Then I’ll fetch Salida.”

  That sounded like a smart idea. They had to get out of here. Weatherford might be all bluster just then, but he had the townsfolk under his thumb. Steve offered Bart the reins of Fox’s horse. They needed to have a plan of action, and he started putting one together. The first and most important thing was to shake the dust of this town from their heels. Once they got back to camp, they’d have to bury Fox. Then they’d get the mule teams harnessed and head on out. With any luck, it would take a while before Weatherford and the sheriff were freed from jail and rounded up a posse to come after them.

  Steve shook himself out of his musings and realized he’d missed a good portion of the conversation. Don’t sit here like a lump, he castigated himself. Make introductions.

  “Georgie, this is Sharps Browne. You’ve heard me mention him.”

  “The kid from Sharpsville? Well, it is a pleasure to meet a genuine hero.”

  Sharps turned scarlet. “Ah, Cap…”

  “He never saw himself as that.” Steve had to admit he was enchanted by his friend’s shy reserve. “Even though it earned him his promotion.”

  Sharps blushed even darker, and Steve couldn’t help grinning.

  “Sharps, this is Mrs. Georgiana Hall. I bought Salida from h-her.”

  “Salida was yours? T
hen that was why she wouldn’t come back when I whistled for her.”

  “Yes. You see, I raised her from a foal after my Papa gave her to me for Christmas.”

  Bart returned just then, riding the buckskin mare and with Fox’s body fastened to the saddle of the dead man’s horse. “We’ve got to get Al buried soon, Georgie.”

  “You’re right. Bart, this is Sharps Browne. Steve talked about him.” He turned to Sharps. “This is my husband, Bart Hall.”

  “Hall.”

  “Browne.” Bart handed the reins of Fox’s horse to Steve and dismounted, and brought Salida to Georgie.

  Sharps met Georgie’s gaze. “I reckon you should take back your mare.”

  “Thank you. I don’t have the money to pay you back for her—”

  “Not necessary, ma’am. She was a gift. But you can talk to the captain about it.” He glanced at Steve, who smiled and gave a small nod. “I would like my saddlebags and my rifle?”

  “Sure.” Georgie returned his rifle. “You’re a good man.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am?”

  “You had grain in your saddlebag, as well as equipment to care for your horse. I’d hate to think what Ezra and Eli had in their saddlebags.”

  “Just things for themselves, although I couldn’t figure why Eli was packing a red silk dress.”

  “Maybe it was his?” Bart suggested, and Steve had to bite his lip hard to keep from laughing. Bart raised his voice. “Frank. Get a move on.”

  Frank hurried out of the jail, carrying the keys and their rifles and Steve’s pistols. After locking the jail door, he tossed the ring of keys into a nearby rain barrel. Introductions were made again, and then Georgie said, “Mount up. We have to get out of here before someone does show up.”

  Steve noticed Sharps sitting the stallion quietly, not making a move. “You’re coming, too,” he told his young friend.

  “I am?” Sharps’s eyes widened, and Steve could see his uncertainty. Did he think Steve had planned to leave him behind once more?

  “You bet your boots. It’s been too long, and I’m not losing track of you again.”

  “All right, Captain.” The young man looked as if he’d been handed the moon, and that gave Steve hope for their future together.