by Hayley Stone
“I’m curious to hear what you think is going to happen now, Marshal.”
She sauntered past a cutting board that still had half a loaf of brown bread on it. She picked up the abandoned knife, glancing at me while she did so, and proceeded to hack into the loaf, cutting off a thick slice. I let my hand fall from the grip of my empty revolver and moved my finger off the trigger out of habit.
“I’m going to take you somewhere Jed’s got no jurisdiction and won’t be tempted to try something like this again. I’m going to rent a courtroom and some jail space, hire a bailiff, find a judge willing to preside—which I don’t think will be too hard, given your reputation—and call in the jurors and witnesses.”
Almena chewed with her mouth open. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Why they call it a job.”
She smiled, still holding the knife, bare wrist resting against the side of the cutting board. “You know what I think is going to happen?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to get away.”
“You sound sure of yourself,” I said. “Just like you were sure your man would come.”
Her shoulders stiffened. I’d struck a nerve.
I stood and walked toward her, feeling brave, or maybe stupid from the blood loss. “Let’s say you did manage to get loose again—what would you do? Go after him?”
She faced me. Shadows settled in the exhausted lines of her face, but her eyes were bright and wild like the lights over a swamp. Couldn’t help thinking how easily those eyes might lead a man astray. “What’s it to you?”
“There’s a reason he didn’t come, Almena.”
“You’re right. Something must’ve stopped him. It’s likely he’s found trouble himself.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “Or could be he chose himself over you.”
The flesh of her knuckles tightened, showing an outline of bone as she squeezed the handle of the knife. “Are you looking to get stabbed?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then stop talking.”
If I was quick, I could maybe disarm her, but I needed her more distracted. “Before, you said you weren’t trying to kill me. I’ve been wondering about that. I know you’ve killed men, so it can’t be the killing you’ve an aversion to.” I scratched the back of my neck. “So what was it stopping you?”
“Maybe you just caught me in a good mood.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“What then? You think I fancy you?” She laughed, but to my ears, it sounded forced. “Think I’ve gone all soft for your yes ma’am, no ma’am gentleman marshal bullshit?”
“No, ma’am.”
The suspicious way she looked at me—like she couldn’t tell whether the joke was at her expense or not—killed my pleasure. Poor woman didn’t seem accustomed to humor.
Dorothy returned, and Almena set the knife down. I couldn’t say what inspired me to be so reckless with her. I’d thrust my hand into the burning bush, and had come away miraculously unhurt. Probably best I not try for seconds, though.
“I couldn’t save your shirt,” Dorothy said, already chatting away as she entered. “Too much blood. But you’re welcome to keep Jasper’s.” Jasper Hansel, Dorothy’s late husband, had died in a bad accident some years back. Only thing I knew about him was that he’d been a fairly large man in life. His shirt made me look small, like a boy who’d gotten into his father’s wardrobe.
Dorothy had more luck with my coat. It looked cleaner than it’d been when I first arrived, with my five-pointed marshal star pinned to the front. A tremendous amount of relief rushed into me at my badge’s return, like I’d been missing a part of myself without it. I thanked her kindly.
“You want some butter with that?” Dorothy asked Almena who’d abandoned all pretense of table manners and was devouring the rest of the loaf, tearing it apart with hands and teeth.
She paused just long enough to answer, “If you have it.”
Dorothy was obviously being facetious, but now that Almena had asked, she behaved as though honor-bound, obligated to see that her guest was properly cared for under her roof. Even if she was a criminal.
“I offered you something to eat earlier,” I said. “As I recall, you declined.”
Almena wiped some crumbs from her mouth. “That was before you got me shot.”
“Technically, I got myself shot.”
“Keep talking, Marshal. See where it gets you.”
Instead of hogtying her like I knew I ought to, I went back to my stool, feeling tired and achy, wanting a hot meal and a warm bed and to sleep for days. I knew I’d have to secure her again, but in my condition, and her with her flesh magic, I didn’t see how that was going to be possible. I wanted to put off tangling for as long as possible, least until I recovered some of my strength.
But then the new missus—one I’d seen earlier walking alongside her beau, same one Dorothy had complained about being… vocal—appeared in the doorway, initially beheaded by the shadow of the doorframe, so I didn’t recognize her until she stepped forward into the light.
I did, however, recognize the gun that pushed out from the dark ahead of her.
It was my missing piece—a Colt .45. The Peacemaker, it was sometimes called, though it wasn’t making me feel peaceful none to see it in the hands of a stranger.
The woman kept me on the business end and moved into the kitchen.
“Marshal,” she said, making tremendous effort not to get too close or make eye contact with me. Her lip quivered, but she kept the gun steady. “I’m very sorry about this.”
I said nothing, mostly seeing as I had nothing nice to say.
Missus kept on until she stood in front of Guillory, and hesitated when the outlaw opened her hand to receive the weapon. “You won’t shoot him, will you?” Missus asked, holding the gun against her chest, away from Almena.
“That’ll be up to him.” Almena wriggled her fingers in an impatient gesture before going ahead and snatching it from the other woman’s loose grip. Seeing her holding it made me a little sick, my brain conjuring thoughts of bread, butter, and blood as Almena wiped her fingers off on her skirt and dragged her mouth across her shoulder.
“You two know each other?” I finally asked.
“Apostle Richardson,” Almena said, with the relish of one who’s pulled off a very neat trick, “Meet my cousin, Nelle Guillory.”
“It’s Shaw now,” she corrected meekly.
Then I was made to go outside, my own six-shooter pressed firmly against my lower back.
People were always jawing about family resemblance, cooing over babies having his eyes or her smile, and talking like it was the most important thing in the world—looking like someone else. Most of the time I didn’t see it. Maybe it was owing to my lack of imagination, but in the case of Nelle Guillory (or Shaw, as it were), I especially wouldn’t have guessed any relation.
If you stripped away the cuts and bruises, maybe held her head underneath a faucet for a while, I suspected Almena would emerge looking aristocratic with her pointed nose and high jawline. Nelle, on the other hand, could only be described as soft—one might even have called her delicate-looking, though it had nothing to do with her size. It was the way she carried herself, keeping her hands close to her stomach like she would tuck into a ball and roll away at the first sign of danger, sort of like an armadillo. She had a round face and pillowy arms, pinched off by the lacy sleeves of her nightgown, and curves in place of Almena’s bony angles.
But the most striking difference between the two women was Nelle’s dark, sloe-eyed gaze, which together with her warmer color made me think she had a little Indian blood in her. Cherokee or Chickasaw, maybe. She and her cousin shared the same brown hair, but that was the only similarity, far as I could make out.
“You said this wouldn’t happen again.” Nelle spoke to her cousin in a harsh whisper. “You said…”
I watched them out of the corner of my eye while I saddl
ed a horse—Guillory’s ticket to freedom. It was possible she’d tied off some poor creature somewhere else along her route, that way she could change to a fresh mount and outride any would-be pursuers, but it’d been nearly two days since I’d caught her. That poor animal couldn’t be doing any sort of well.
“I know,” Almena replied in a voice I’d never heard her use before. Tender-like. “I’m sorry. But it wasn’t as if I’d planned on getting caught.”
She glanced my way, and I dropped my eyes to the iron stirrups, pretending I wasn’t hearing every word. I doubt she was fooled, but my eavesdropping didn’t seem to disturb her. Maybe she wasn’t worried because she didn’t plan on leaving me as a witness to her having a heart.
“You know, you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive of the US government,” I said without glancing up. “That’s a federal crime. Punishable by hanging.”
“He’s right,” Nelle said. “You shouldn’t have come. You should’ve left it well enough alone.”
“You knew when you wrote me what I’d do. Don’t pretend otherwise. And don’t worry about the marshal. I’ll take care of him.”
“Where’s Bratt? That’s his name, isn’t it? Your lover.”
Silence followed, the tense kind that filled a confessional when the sinner wasn’t ready to admit guilt.
“That’s his name,” Almena answered at last.
“Well, why wasn’t he here to take care of this?” Nelle demanded. “Why’s it been left up to me?”
“He got held up.”
“They were going to hang you, Almena! What could’ve possibly been more important than being here?” Even upset, Nelle’s voice never grew beyond a loud whisper. I glanced over, and she was slouching, chewing on her nails in the same way Almena had back in the hotel. She kept looking over at me with sad, worried eyes.
“I don’t know,” Almena admitted, “but you can trust I’m going to find out. Marshal, you about done with that horse?”
“Nearly,” I answered. My warm breath cooled in the night air.
“Well, hurry up.”
“He saved you,” I heard Nelle remind her cousin after another moment.
“Only after he arrested me in the first place.”
“Is it true then?” Nelle asked, and now there was something solid in her voice. I imagined her standing straighter, and glanced over to confirm it. She’d lifted her chin, just like I’d seen Almena do when she wanted to look tough. Her gaze was steady. “All the horrible things they say you’ve done. Tell me straight.”
I stopped fiddling with the saddle, wanting to hear Almena’s answer.
“Not everything,” she said.
“The robberies. The killings…”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Nelle asked quietly.
“Why doesn’t matter. I have my reasons, but they’re my reasons, Nelle. They’re none of your business. Go back inside. Climb back into bed. Enjoy your new husband. Tomorrow, this’ll be nothing but a little column in the paper. A few days after that, it’ll be feeding someone’s fire. That’s the way it goes. Good, bad… in time it’s all forgotten. I’m only the monster until someone else does something worse.”
Nelle’s footsteps crunched in the dirt as she walked away. I finished securing the saddle, double-checking the girthing, more out of habit than any real concern about Guillory sliding off.
As I turned, Nelle also turned back, saying, “The war did something to you, didn’t it.”
Wasn’t a question.
Almena said nothing. She readjusted her grip on my pistol.
Nelle finally met my gaze, the first time she’d made direct eye contact for longer than a few seconds. “She wasn’t always like this. She used to have a conscience. Used to care about things. People.”
“Nelle.” Almena made her cousin’s name into a warning.
“Best listen to your cousin, Mrs. Shaw,” I said, not wanting the woman to get caught in any crossfire that might take place.
“Again, I’m very sorry about this, Marshal. I didn’t have a choice…”
“She’s blood,” I said, understanding.
Nelle looked over at Almena with a queer expression. I wondered what it was like to see two people standing in place of one.
“Yes. Blood’s all she is now.” Nelle headed back inside.
Even with the night black and cool, the heat of the day still radiated up from the ground, warming my feet through the soles of my boots. Out here, most men didn’t want to die with their boots on, but I couldn’t imagine going any other way. Seeing as I spent more time in my boots than out of them, just made sense to finish the same.
I stood facing Almena Guillory for what I felt was sure to be the last time. Calm. Ready to face my maker, if that’s what it came to.
She took the reins from my hands and ordered me to stand back. I half-expected her to shoot me outright, put one into the back of my head and leave me to bleed out beneath a messy canvas of stars. Just like Jed said she would.
Instead, she stood there a moment, holding back the horse who seemed eager to walk on. Each time the horse pulled, she winced, and I knew it had to be my wound acting up again. Though she hadn’t said so, I suspected severe injuries took longer to heal. And mine had damn near killed me. It also explained why she hadn’t blown out of town before I’d woken up. Riding at full gallop required skill enough without adding the pain of a gunshot wound.
“You ever tire of wearing the white hat,” Almena said, “you come find me, Marshal.”
Her words led me to believe I’d live to see another day, and I dared to hope, even as I replied, “Sorry, Miss Guillory. I’m flattered by the offer, but I’ve already got a job.”
She lifted the pistol’s sights from me, barrel pointed harmlessly at the sky. “I’m not offering you a job. I’m offering you a brand new life. A chance to reinvent yourself. An escape.”
“Escape from what?”
“Everyone’s got something they want to get away from.”
In my mind, I saw a man, a woman, and a train. I smelled warm, seedy smoke as it rolled out of the stack in coughing spells. That odor had lasted on my clothes for days, partially because I didn’t change them for days.
My face must have given away the memory.
Almena nodded. “Like I thought. This could be your one and only opportunity to break free. Leave it all behind. Become someone else entirely.”
As Almena went on, she drew teasingly close to me, like she had when I first caught her in the back of Asher’s saloon, when she’d leaned her hip against mine and with bright gray eyes said, I don’t suppose I could change your mind about arresting me? Of course, right after, before I’d even given her a reply, she tried shattering my kneecap with a bottle.
Almena caressed the side of my jaw with the front sight of my pistol, ever so lightly. The iron kiss sent an ugly shiver down my spine, and I leaned my head away.
Frowning, I asked her, “And who exactly would you have me become?”
“Up to you, of course. But if you need a starting idea, how about going by Devil Richardson? Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Her teeth showed white, even in the dark.
“I think changing your name don’t settle the past. You can’t run from the law forever.”
Almena pressed the end of the barrel into my chest, pushing me away from her. Clearly, she was disappointed with my answer.
“If that’s the way you feel, then I recommend you keep your distance. Don’t come looking for me again.”
Knowing the truth would likely earn me a bullet and a dusty grave, I kept silent, letting her believe what she would. The Grizzly Queen mounted the horse in a single motion, pulling herself up by the saddle horn and only grimacing once from the discomfort.
I stood back from her wheeling horse, knowing I was beat. “If you find Bratt, you be sure to let him know I think it mighty ungentlemanly of him to leave his lady in the lurch. Even if she is a cold-blooded outlaw.”
Almena lifte
d her chin, threatening another smile. “You’d do well to forget that name, Marshal. It’s not yours to know.”
She turned south, and as she rode off, she didn’t look back once. I couldn’t help thinking, There’s a woman who’s used to riding away from a trail of bodies.
And I hadn’t stopped her.
The Devil You Know
Chapter Six
Weeks after Guillory’s trail went cold inside Saline County, the new district judge gave me a fresh appointment: hunt down a ruthless gang of bank robbers along the state border, mighty close to Indian territory. I shipped as far south as I could on the train, and saddled the rest of the way. By the time me and my deputies rode into Baxter Springs late that evening, my poor horse was worked into a shiny lather along its tack, and the action was already over.
Some local photographers had their equipment all set up, ready to document the dead as proof positive for a reward, but the bodies of the outlaws were still too wet to stand. As I hitched my horse to the rack in front of Collier’s Hardware, I saw them struggling to operate the dead men whose heads kept slumping down into their chest and whose legs refused to hold them. One of the lawbreakers barely had any head left to speak of, having been on the receiving end of a Winchester carbine. Another had taken a bullet to the throat, and the flesh was still dribbling blood. The other’s injuries were discreet enough that I couldn’t tell by a cursory glance what’d done them in. It was only as I got closer that the blossoming spots of red on the fronts of their shirts came into view.
I showed my badge and introduced myself and my assistant deputies as we approached, noticing the anxious looks from some of the men nearby. There were four of them standing out in front of the Springs Hotel. One smoked a fat cigar. They all had their weapons sat against the wall or railing, well within reach. Still expecting trouble, I wagered.
“Hey, Marshal,” someone called to me. A kid, couldn’t have been more than twelve. Probably the son of one of the photographers. “Want to see something neat?”
