by A. W. Hart
They put Lincoln in the cell George was not living in. The twins rode back to the hotel and put their horses back into the stable.
“You keep calling me a lady in public like you did, and I might change my mind and dance for you after all,” Sara told Reno.
“Who said I wanted you to?”
“Reno Bass, I know you, and how you liked those hootchie-coochie dancers.”
“You are never going to let me live the strip show down, are you?” he asked.
“Well, maybe when you are so old you can’t remember what you had for breakfast. Then, I might.”
“Seriously,” she began, “I was watching you dealing with the wounded naked girl tonight. You were gentle and caring with her. You carried her up the stairs like you carried Miss Bernard’s body to the grave you dug for her. You didn’t think of her as a soiled dove, just a person who needed you. It made me real proud of you, Brother. But the fact her name is Augusta is pretty damn funny, isn’t it?”
“Maybe she is somebody’s sister, Sara. I might have changed a little today. I always thought of women like her as being evil, hell-bound people. Now I believe they didn’t pick such a life, they were forced into it by circumstances. I feel that as a Christian, I should help and forgive people who need it, not look down on them. As I carried her, I thought of you. I would want someone to give you such gentleness if you needed it.”
Sara did something she never did. She came over to her brother, buried her face in his chest, and cried for a long time as he held her.
The next day, the stage that came in had Reno’s and Sara’s reward for Adams. They added it to the hundred for Shook and started counting down the days until the marshal got back.
George Ringo, with the Bass’s influence and the courage the shotgun gave him, evolved into an effective deputy.
Spring was coming, but not as fast as everyone wanted. A cold front hit Kansas, and there was bad weather every day. The Indian threat grew daily as well.
At the hotel, midway in the following week, Reno and Sara were having a rambling conversation covering the spectrum of subjects near and dear to them.
“Don’t you think we need to continue our route back to home? To Kiowa Springs to put markers on our families’ graves?” Reno asked.
“I do, but we are in the middle of a cold snap with high winds and rain and sleet. Looks like to me spring is going to be a long time coming this year,” Sara noted, having always hated the Kansas winds.
“I agree about the weather, but we need to outrun Indian troubles. And we are not making a living or accomplishing anything in Hays City once the deputy contract runs out Friday,” he said.
“How is Augusta?” Sara asked.
“Better, I think. She will testify against Lincoln. Em told me Augusta has refused to ply the trade anymore. She’s cooking and cleaning and all and not entertaining gentlemen callers. I told Em it was a good move. I also added she needed to hire some tough but trustworthy man to be a bouncer there.”
“Ha. As if any man we ever saw at Em’s could even pretend to be a gentleman.” Sara scoffed, adding, “I wish there was some way of her getting away from Em’s. Maybe away from Hays City. There’s no future here for an unmarried girl, and she’ll always have a ‘bad woman’ reputation. Far enough away, she could start anew.”
Reno nodded. He thought the same thing but was not sure how they could make it happen.
Going back to the original subject, Sara said, “Barring a spring blizzard, let’s go ahead and head back toward home on Saturday, Reno. We both know we have to do it, and neither wants to. Let’s bite the bullet and get it over with.”
“You’re right. I’ll turn in the badge, and we’ll say our goodbyes. George is a good friend,” Reno noted.
“I think Augusta will remember you forever. I would if I was her,” Sara said.
On Friday night, they met the marshal. He was a stocky man, balding, with small spectacles perched on the end of his nose. If he’d had longer hair, he could have been Benjamin Franklin’s twin. They had dinner with George and took biscuits from the café and jerky from the mercantile for the trip.
It was a two-, maybe two-and-a-half-day ride to Fort Dodge, their first planned destination on the way home to Kiowa Springs.
3
The storm was blowing sleet and cold rain in their eyes, and they could barely see. Even Apache was even ready to stop for the day. They were already four days into their two-day ride due to the weather.
“Sara, this ain’t gonna get better. Let’s call it a day and try to put together a storm camp, okay?” Reno asked.
“I’m not going to argue ‘bout stopping,” she said, sliding off her black mare, Grace.
She untied her roll, saddlebags, and the scabbard for the 1866 Winchester lever-action rifle and piled them together. Reno was doing the same.
The new Winchesters were updates for their Henrys. They were shorter and lighter, and they loaded through the side of the receiver, which was handier to do in the middle of a fight. They had a wooden front stock, more comfortable to grip than the Henry’s tubular metal magazine.
“These stormy nights make man and beast alike a little crazy, so leave Grace’s bridle on after you take her saddle off. I’ll lead her off a bit and hobble her and Jack together. If somehow ones slips the hobble, we’ll at least have the reins to lead them back by,” he said.
She looked around the ground where they had stopped while he was moving the horses to their night location nearby.
Sara picked a patch of ground with a bare spot for a fire. She hoped they could get one going. And there was some prairie grass, which would provide a little insulation from the cold, hard ground.
She did not spread out the bedrolls yet for fear the high wind would blow them away. Taking a tin coffee cup, she scooped out a fire pit as well as she could. They only had one small tarpaulin. There was no way they could use it to erect a shelter in this kind of wind. Sara remembered the wind as something she had not liked growing up on the prairie. She tapped the dirt left in the cup out against her boot, which was black like her pants and new, finally-replaced shirt. A black duster covered the buckskin jacket she also wore.
Sara had mixed emotions about her notoriety as the Beautiful-Angel-of-Death half of the Avenging Angels. The newspapers had first given her the silly moniker, and the gossip around the campfires started from there and grew.
Their father’s righteous mission spurred her brother on every day. Sara, not so much. The vengeance and the money motivated her. Although she was the daughter of a Lutheran lay preacher, she did not have the religious zeal her brother did. She was colder. More driven by logic than beliefs.
“You want me to try to get a fire going, Sara?” Reno asked.
“Naw. Not any dry wood I can see. Even if there was, lighting it in this wind would be tough. I think we can forget a shelter, too. I think we put the bedrolls close and pull the tarp over the two of us. It’ll be too dark for you to read, so just recite the 23rd Psalm or something,” she said, teeth chattering.
They lined up the two saddles and bedrolls. Sara got in first, then Apache. Reno pulled a biscuit for each from his saddlebags, then covered the bags with his slicker.
He crawled in and handed his sister and their dog the biscuits for their dinners. Such was the life of bounty hunters. Bounty killers in their case, since the scourges of humanity usually came back over the saddle instead of on it.
“Come on over, sister. I’ll keep whatever half of you faces me warm, and Apache will take care of your other side. I will recite a bit, then we will break bread. Or biscuits, as it is.”
She snuggled up like when they were small kids, and the dog contributed his wet warmth. It was probably the only way to stay alive.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,” Reno began. It gave him comfort. Sara was thinking about the biscuit, but she loved to hear his resonant voice as he recited.
When he got to the part about “Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and my staff, they comfort me,” Sara patted the pair of Remington New Police .36s propped against the saddle by her head with the Winchester carbine. Yes, my staffs comfort me, she thought.
She and Apache munched, then the dog circled three times and pushed up against her back, signaling he was going to sleep. She rested her head on the shoulder of the one bit of comfort and safety in her life and went to sleep.
Reno’s mind was running like a scared coyote. Being back in Kansas brought back memories he had tried for almost two years to forget. His father carrying their dead mother out of the burning house. His two brothers lying dead in the yard. His older sister raped by who knows how many and then shot to death. Sara doing the thing their father had begged for and Reno was too weak to do—putting him out of his misery. Burying them. Obeying their father and going to his old Mexican War friend Ty Mando in Colorado.
Accepting the training, guns, and grubstake from the man whose life his father had saved years ago.
His stomach churned around the biscuit. Then the good memory took over. Isabelle Mando, Ty’s half-Lakota daughter. The love who had promised to wait for him until his quest was done. So beautiful with the raven hair and hazel eyes. One day, she could come live with him and Sara and Apache. One day when the vengeance trail was done. One day. He felt Sara shiver and hugged her. The movement interrupted Apache’s snores, and he moved closer to his mistress. Sara stopped shivering, but the wind picked up and sang across the Kansas prairie. In the distance, Reno heard the plaintive call of a lonely coyote. He was probably cold too, Reno thought. The wind and the coyote were just God’s music is what their father would have said. The sounds of nature gave Reno comfort. He recited the Lord’s Prayer to himself and dozed off.
If the night was windy, cold, and bleak, the day that followed was worse. The bluestem grass or tall grass was bent almost to the ground by the wind.
Reno peeked out from under the tarp at it and the day. It was raining and sleeting harder than yesterday.
Reno quietly crawled out of the warm space under the tarp. Apache gave a discordant groan but stayed where he was. Smart dog, Reno thought.
He put on his slicker and flipped the hood over his tan Stetson. He had to pull the drawstrings tight to keep the wind from blowing it off.
Coffee would be good. Coffee took a fire. He saw Sara had scraped out a firepit last night. His sister was special. Always a surprise. His pa had not said it, but Reno knew his primary mission in life was to look after her. She was all he had left of a wonderful, loving family. A family taken away by outlaws who were now feeding worms where they fell one, two or more at a time. They had paid as much as he could make them—he and Sara, their guns blazing and Bowie knives slashing. All were dead. The wrath of God and His two angels, Reno thought.
There was no campfire wood in sight. But hunters had not killed off the mass herds of bison yet. He walked around and picked up enough dried bison dung to put in the pit.
Kindling after the rain and sleet would be a tougher proposition. He found some sticks under where the dung had been. They were relatively dry.
Reno added the sticks to the campfire makings and sparked them with his steel. Nothing. He poured a tiny bit of loose black powder from the charger for his .44 cap ‘n ball Remingtons on the campfire and sparked the twigs again.
With a whoosh, they caught hold. Reno added the rest of the twigs, and the bison manure caught. Water from his canteen and coffee from a burlap sack, and he had a belly-warming drink going. He knew he did not have to call his saucy-mouthed sister. The smell of brewing coffee was better than a rooster crowing for her.
She came crawling out, followed by Apache. Her eyes were squinting, and her long strawberry-blonde hair was tangled. She had a smear of prairie dirt on her left cheek, probably from digging the firepit last night. Despite her disorder, she was the Beautiful Angel of Death. No one could dispute it.
“Daylight’s burning, sleepyhead,” Reno said.
“What daylight? It’s dark and miserable. Only good thing is the smell of coffee. What’s the other smell?”
He passed her a cup and she slurped loudly, then settled down into some serious sipping.
“It’s a little gift some passing buffaloes left us. Here’s our other biscuit. We need to shoot a rabbit or a prairie hen or something. Or find a town and get some supplies,” he said.
She nodded.
Looking into the cup, she noted, “Unlikely we’ll see anything stupid enough to be out on a day like this to shoot anyway,” and poured more coffee into the tin mug.
Sara was right. She broke camp while Reno got the horses’ hobbles off and led them back to the camp by their reins. He saddled them, and they tied their gear on and mounted.
Putting the markers on their family graves would be satisfying, but it would be an emotional thing neither wanted to face.
Once the burying was over and they were ready to ride to Colorado to see Ty Mando, they had stopped and told the Lutheran preacher, Reverend Salzman, what had happened. He’d promised to say words over the graves. They figured once they got the stones and put them in, words Reno spoke would suffice. Pa had always thought Reno would be like him, a rancher and a lay preacher. He seemed to have the calling for it. Sara, he just did not know.
Reno’s natural talent, though, was dispensing righteous death from the barrel of his .44.
He would have to figure out his true calling after their present work was done. He worried about the work-being-done part. So many sinners grievous in the eyes of the Lord, and only the two of them. Reno had not figured out how they were going to do it all, or when would be the time to stop. Of course, he realized, a bullet might answer his question. If so, it was okay for him. He was prepared to meet his Maker.
But Sara was not. He had to protect her from what had befallen the rest of the family. He was not sure she’d ever be of a mind to walk through the Pearly Gates. She was likely to smart off at St. Peter just like she did to her brother.
He could not bear the thought of spending eternity in heaven with her burning farther south. It was a conundrum he would continue to wrestle with, probably without much joy.
Jack the buckskin and Grace the black filly had been standing butts to the wind when Reno retrieved them. Now, they were loping into it and none too happy about it. Even the joyful Apache seemed to think it was a bad idea.
Reno could not see Sara’s face. She had her slicker hood pulled up tightly. He was pretty sure her expression was not a happy one. He thought about their beautiful teacher, who they had found naked and dead, raped and killed by the Devil’s Horde. Reno did not know much about such things, but he feared more than one had had his way with her before shooting her. He and Sara had killed every last one. He wished he knew which ones attacked their teacher. He would have shot them several times. Maybe below the belt and waited, then the gut and waited. Or maybe ridden off, letting them suffer. Reno did not figure such a thing was ungodly. After all, they were doing God’s Will, as ordained by their father. And he was a minister.
“Sara, it is miserable out here,” he said.
“Really, Reno? I hadn’t noticed. I am so lucky to have you to tell me the obvious.”
Sometimes she could be a heavier burden to bear than others, mainly because of her smart mouth.
Two hours into their journey, he started looking for a place to camp. It was just far too miserable to push on. They were getting to land with more hills and some scrubby trees.
Right off the trail, he spotted a hill. If they positioned just right, the hill and low cottonwoods might provide some protection from the wind, rain, and sleet.
“Sara, I vote we put up a camp here and try to warm up. I think the hill and trees up yonder might give relief from the weather and some fuel for a fire.”
“There may be hope for you yet.” She dismounted and began to strip Grace of her saddle and gear. Reno did the same
. They had picked a spot where the hill blocked some wind. Reno used his Bowie knife to hack a couple of supports and stakes and used them and rawhide to erect a low canopy with their sole tarp for shelter.
“We are out of food. We seem to have a few days’ water. Apache and I will walk out a bit and see if he can scare up a critter for me to shoot. Will you gather up the driest sticks you can find and dig another firepit near the front of the shelter?”
She nodded and began to collect downed wood of various sizes.
“Here, Apache. Jump up some food, boy.” The two walked off, Reno’s Winchester at the ready. Though the longer barrel gave sufficient velocity for most things he shot at, if you were to put the .44 rimfire in a handgun, it would be less powerful than the charge in his revolvers. He could use it on small game. A deer was a stretch.
Wind and icy rain in his face or not, Apache ran forward into a distant stand of cottonwoods. He started barking after a while, and a large, skinny jackrabbit jumped. Reno put a lead pill in his head at the top of a jump, and the dog leapt on the rabbit to make sure he was dead.
Sara had a fire going by the time, man, dog, and dinner got back. Reno skinned and cleaned the rabbit with his Barlow pocketknife and found a stick to skewer it over the fire. They had three small bags of cooking materials left. He got a couple of pinches of salt from one, enough coffee for a pot from another, and left the flour bag unopened.
An hour later, and they were full of real food, with the protein they needed for the trail. The rabbit had been big enough for Apache to eat his fill, too.
Reno glanced at his twin. She was sitting on her bedroll, her blanket and canvas duster around her shoulders, deep in thought.
