Make Me No Grave

by Hayley Stone

  “I surely do,” I answered, being friendly, certainly not anticipating what the boy would do next.

  “Watch this,” he said, smiling.

  The boy took the arm of the outlaw who’d been shot in the neck and began to work it up and down like he was priming a pump—only instead of water, blood came pouring out of the wound, gushing down the dead man’s sternum. The boy did it a couple of times, glancing up at me with excited blue eyes, wanting to make sure I saw and approved of his discovery.

  “My god,” one of my companions, Dempsey Du Pont, murmured. “Is this what passes for fun out here?”

  The Du Pont boy came from good stock, which was a fancy way of saying he had a lot of important relatives. Yankee entrepreneurs and the like—the kind of men other men called richer than god with a dirty look, thumbing out their own empty pockets. Of course, all of the Du Ponts were back in Delaware, prospering off the thousands they’d made during the war selling death in the form of reasonably priced American gunpowder.

  For reasons he didn’t like to talk about involving a falling-out with his family over his close friendship with an old schoolmate, Dempsey had exchanged cushioned seats for leather saddles, going west without more than a penny to his name. I’d met him a short while ago in Independence. He was working for the local sheriff as a part-time lawman, part-time grocer. Asked him if he was interested in retiring from grocery service to pursue more dangerous work, and he said, “Yes, sir.” Asked him if knew how to shoot, and he’d answered, “With a gun, sir.” I did the only reasonable thing I could do at that point: I deputized him on the spot.

  My other deputy, Wade Prough, just smiled at the boy’s trick. Where Dempsey’s looks were fair but frequently brooding, Wade showed just the opposite. He had an old, weathered look despite being only a few years older than me, his skin ripened from long hours in the sun. Short, wrinkled hair curled around the tips of his ears, and his dark moustache grew into a pair of the most impressive burnsides I’d ever seen on a man. But he was always quick to smile—and quick on the draw, too. I’d known Prough for years; he’d been the one to accidentally shoot me back in Kentucky, but as he liked to say, what was a little buckshot between friends?

  Wade normally prowled near the railroad, imposing order on the dozens of cow towns along its tracks, keeping men honest with his presence, and throwing down with the ones who decided to try their luck on the owlhoot trail. After my bad run with Guillory, I’d telegraphed him, asking for his help with this new gang, and was lucky enough to get it. We met up near Kinsley, and I made no comment about how gray he’d gone.

  “What are you smiling about?” Dempsey asked Wade peevishly. “You’re just going to encourage him.”

  Wade tilted his head, inspecting the boy and the dead outlaw. “I don’t know. Seems like an improvement to me, career-wise. Rather ingenious little trick, too. What do you think, Richardson?”

  “Grat!” snapped one of the photographers, an older fellow with greying black hair who shared the boy’s blue eyes and large ears. I expected he’d admonish the youngster for playing with the dead, but he just said, “Now you leave the good marshal and his friends alone.”

  “Come over here and help me get this one up,” the other photographer said, only one side of his mouth moving with his words..

  “Excuse me,” I said to Grat’s relation, ignoring Wade as he leaned down to try his hand at working the corpse pump. “You know where we might find the local sheriff?”

  He frowned, exchanging a look with the men on the wooden porch. “Should be down at the parlor, with the rest of them.”

  “Saloon parlor?”

  “Undertaker’s parlor,” the man with the cigar corrected, letting out a small smoke ring. “Sheriff’s dead.”

  “You said with the rest of them.” Wade stood back up. His face was dark and serious.

  “Yep. Killed some of us.” The man’s eyes were moist, and I didn’t think it came from the smoke. I realized my mistake in thinking him casual about what had happened here. The cigar was a disguise, the same way a lady hid her grief behind a veil. Once I figured that out, the rest of the signs were obvious: the men all stood too straight, too still, and they kept drawing their mouths into their cheeks, fighting back hard emotion. No wonder they still have their guns with them. They’re angling for blood.

  There was a bright flash as the photographers took the first of their shots. Dempsey startled, automatically reaching for his sidearm, but Wade placed a hand on the younger man’s arm, steadying him. Dempsey let his hand fall, cheeks warming.

  “What can y’all tell me about the outlaws who came through here?” I asked.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How many of them there were, for starters.”

  No one could agree on a number. Some said six riders, others seven. One swore there was an eighth man—someone from the town who’d gone ahead to reconnoiter Baxter Springs. None of the others corroborated the story, and seeing as the man looked a bit wobbly, I couldn’t be sure the eighth man wasn’t just a figment he’d conjured from a bottle. They also argued about who shot who, not on account of the reward, but as a matter of honor. Seemed the only thing the Springs men could agree on was where the outlaws had hitched their horses—back behind the hotel, just down the street and across from the First National Bank they later robbed. Prime location to get in and out, slick and easy.

  I shared a look with Wade, who nodded at me and then looked at the ground, still nodding. I knew what he was thinking. There should’ve been no need for killing.

  I set my foot on top of the porch, leaning forward. “Take me through it,” I said. “What happened, exactly?”

  The man with the cigar, whose name I regretted not yet having learned, started to speak again, but choked up. One of his pals laid a hand on his shoulder, and commenced with his own version of events. “They arrived midday, about lunch time. Not all at once, though. Chuck Fletcher says he seen them trickling in, a couple at a time. Harmless-like…”

  Another man nodded enthusiastically. Chuck Fletcher, presumably.

  “One of them stopped to shoot the breeze with Miss Kingery. Made her laugh even.”

  “She a real friendly type?” Wade asked.

  “Hell, no! Not even on Sunday,” said a fourth man, and a small ripple of amusement passed through the men.

  “She’s pious as they come,” Chuck offered a tad more generously. “Very serious. A woman of God, you know.”

  “Besides making Miss Kingery’s acquaintance,” I said, “did any of the others do or say anything strange? Anything that might’ve given away what they meant to do?”

  “It’s like I keep telling Leonard here,” Chuck said, referring to the man who’d spoken on behalf of his friend who couldn’t, “them that got here early were real casual. Another one spent some time getting his shoes repaired over at the tailor’s. We just thought they were on their way to Newton or Wichita.”

  “Is that what they told you?” Dempsey asked. The kid was eager to feel like he was contributing in some meaningful way to the inquiry.

  “No, but we get a fair amount of folks from Arkansas and Missouri headed that way.”

  I nodded, and Leonard took the opportunity to bring the conversation back on track. “Anyway, Dick”—he flung his thumb out at the fourth man who raised his hand in wordless introduction—“and me was just finishing up with some customers over at the general supplies when we heard shots. Dick was sure it was Indians come up from the Territory, and he grabbed some rifles from the stock.”

  “So you weren’t there when the shooting started.” Dempsey looked down his nose at the man. “You didn’t see what started it.”

  “I was there,” said the cigar smoker. He dropped his smoke on the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot. He continued to grind it long after it was out. “In the bank. Me, my wife, and son. Three of them came in, packing pistols. One watched the door. The other two started throwing down with me and the othe
r customers. Wanting to make sure we knew our place, I guess.”

  “Bastards,” Dick said.

  “Agreed,” Wade said.

  “I ain’t normally a violent man, Marshal,” the man continued. “But they was scaring my family.”

  “Did you draw on them?” I asked gently.

  He nodded. “When their backs were turned. Thought I could put an end to it, nobody getting hurt.”

  “That’s noble.”

  “No, Marshal. It was stupid. It was so goddamn stupid.”

  I took a breath, feeling the weight of the other man’s guilt like a physical thing. “What happened, friend?”

  “They was hassling poor Jim Frame, our teller. Jim was dragging his feet, probably hoping someone would take notice of the situation. One of the outlaws threatened to break his hands if he didn’t hurry it up. I should’ve let it alone, but I stood up and pointed my pistol at them. I told them they best get on out of here now or I’d put some new holes in their head. I was just so angry… my wife, she was crying… what else could I have done?” His face was long and his expression, mired in deep regret, said, anything else, I could’ve done anything else.

  “All three of them turned on me. I remember one had a nose that looked like it’d been broken a couple times. I thought he was going to challenge me, make me a man of my word. But he didn’t say nothing. He just raised his own gun and shot my Sally in the chest. Well, I shot back.” His lips twitched, considering a smile. “Fruits of my labor are laying outside there.”

  “Once they ran outside, Dick and I helped,” Leonard said. “Sheriff, too. ‘Till they gunned him down, poor bastard.”

  “Half the town turned out when we heard the shots,” Chuck added.

  “So the outlaws were defending themselves,” I said. “Is that how it went down?”

  The widowed man gave me a dirty look, like I was defending the outlaws. I wasn’t. Just trying to understand how a common bank robbery had left so many dead. “At first. But I think they always meant to kill some of us, Marshal. They took hostages as they left the bank—took Jim and a few other customers. Soon as they had their horses, they shot ’em in the back. Some survived, thank God.”

  “I remember,” added Chuck, “they rode through the town, shooting every which way. Killed Stanley’s son right there on the corner. Boy was only nine. And worse than that, they were laughing as they did it. Imagine it. Whooping and hollering like it was all a game.”

  I ran my hand over my face. The depravity in some men’s hearts never ceased to surprise me. “Did you recognize any of the men who did this?”

  “The men? No…” said Leonard, and he looked around at the others. They shook their heads. “We didn’t know a soul among them.”

  “That’s because they didn’t have souls,” the widowed man murmured, clenching the railing with pale knuckles, as if he’d break it in half, given the strength.

  “But there was a woman with them,” Leonard recalled.

  My chest tightened. “A woman? You sure about that?”

  Leonard nodded. “Yeah. I think she was the one in charge. They all looked to her, anyway. Followed her lead and such.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  He scratched the gray plucks of hair on his head. “Not well, no. Her hat covered up her hair, and a bandana hid most her face. With all the firing going on… can’t say I got a very good look at her.”

  “Did you happen to catch the name of this woman?”

  Leonard opened his mouth, then shut it, looking puzzled and helpless.

  Dick came to his friend’s rescue. “Now that you mention it, I think I remember them calling her something. Gulliver, maybe? Gregory?”

  “Guillory?” I offered.

  “That’s it.” The man snapped and pointed at me.

  Wade turned his back on the men, affording us small privacy. “You know this woman?” he asked me discreetly while Dempsey looked on with curiosity.

  I rubbed my jaw. Sighed. “Yeah, I know her.”

  “She’s the one who got away from you in Asher, ain’t she?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” Wade hooked his thumbs in his pockets, “that’s some shit luck.”

  “Might be I’m wrong, but this…” I looked down one end of the street, then down the other, making note of the many alleys, entrances and potential exits, how very easy it’d be to case the bank and rob it without anyone in town being the wiser. “I don’t know, Wade. This don’t seem like her work.”

  “The dead don’t lie,” he said.

  “No, but the living do.”

  Wade’s forehead pinched. “You think someone’s riding under her name?”

  “I know, sounds crazy…”

  “Excuse me,” Dempsey said, stepping in close to me. I’d noticed him giving Wade a wide berth, but didn’t think much of it. Wade hadn’t bathed in good-Lord-only-knows how long, and after our last ride, the man smelled like hot leather and pits. Dempsey, Yankee that he was, probably thought he was being polite by not commenting on it. Like Wade didn’t know. “I know I’m new to this whole hunting-violent-criminals business, but shouldn’t we be going after the outlaws instead of standing around talking about them?”

  “We’re not going anywhere on those horses,” Wade said, glancing back at the animals.

  “So we get fresh mounts.”

  Wade raised an eyebrow. “And how’re you planning on purchasing those? With your good looks?”

  Dempsey had a habit of pushing his bottom lip out with his tongue when he was annoyed, and did so now as he glared at Wade.

  “Wade’s got a point,” I said. “And besides, the outlaws would’ve had fresh mounts of their own stashed somewhere close by.” I shook my head, squinting at the sunset with its sweaty streaks of pink and yellow sky. “They’ll be hours ahead of us already.” Dempsey looked about to object, but I cut him off. “We need to rest up, or we’re like to get ourselves shot for our trouble.”

  “All part of being a good lawman, son,” Wade added with a smile. “You need to know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.”

  Dempsey didn’t look happy about the decision, but accepted it with a short nod.

  “I’m also thinking we might need more guns,” I said as we headed toward the George Brothers Undertaker’s Parlor. The boy they’d called Grat lifted one of the dead outlaw’s hands and waved it at us as we went. Wade smiled back at the gesture, tipping his hat.

  “You want to put together a posse?” Wade asked me.

  At this, Dempsey perked up.

  “They said seven rode in, maybe eight,” I explained. “Four are dead out there; that still leaves three. Including Guillory.”

  “Yeah, I did the math.”

  “But a few of the gang could have been hanging back. Or they might be hiring out from an outlaw town in the Indian territories. You add that to the reports we got from the other towns that were hit, and we don’t know how many men—and women—we’re dealing with. Might be a good idea to bring reinforcements.”

  Wade nodded, but said, “That could get pricey. Unless we had us some volunteers…”

  I thought about the men on the porch, their faces carved in grief, their fingers itching for a trigger, noses dying for a sniff of gunpowder. And their blood, icy cold with hate. They’d come if we asked. Wouldn’t need to pay them a penny; the reward was in the doing. But it felt wrong to take advantage of their pain, to manipulate their grief into more violence. It wouldn’t bring them the peace they were after.

  “I have some savings,” I said at last. “It’ll have to be enough.”

  Wade shook his head but didn’t bother arguing with me.

  “We’ll stay here for the night. Tomorrow we’ll swing up toward Columbus, see if anyone’s willing to help us there, and then double back toward Coffeyville. Town’s become an outlaw haunt as of late. Wouldn’t be surprised if Guillory’s gang has taken up residence there.”

  “Why not just have the men here join us?” D
empsey asked. “They have more reason than any to want the outlaws dead, and they’ve already proven good at killing them. It’d save us time and money.”

  “Because they’re angry,” I said.

  “So?”

  “So, an angry man’s not a man who’ll watch your back in a gunfight. He sees ahead of him, and nowhere else. I’m not arguing their ability, but there’s no knowing what they’ll do in the heat of the moment. Understand?”

  Dempsey frowned. I swear the boy was always frowning. “I’m sorry, but just to clarify, we do mean to kill the outlaws, don’t we? That’s the whole point of hunting them down, isn’t it? To put an end to their… activities.”

  Wade got to an answer quicker than me. “Oh, you and me, we want to plant them in the ground all right. Those men back there? They want them dead, too. But you’re traveling with the West’s own Gentleman Marshal, the great hu-man-i-tarian.” He spread the syllables so far apart you could’ve seen between them. “Apostle here likes to take criminals alive, you see. He’s funny like that.”

  “Don’t have to pay burial costs that way,” I pointed out, wanting to avoid any accusations of being soft after what had happened with Jed. Maybe the appearance of being hard would avoid open conflict again.

  “Right. That’s why you do it. Burial costs.”

  “Wait,” Dempsey interrupted. “You have to pay out of your own pocket to bury a criminal you’re forced to put down?”

  I nodded. “Unless the warrant says dead’s acceptable.”

  “My favorite,” Wade said with a sharp smile.

  “Unbelievable,” Dempsey said.

  Wade clapped him on the back, catching the younger man off guard. Dempsey pitched forward a little, but found his footing quickly enough. “Welcome to federal work, son.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sometime around midnight, unable to find a quiet space in my head long enough to rest my eyes, I journeyed down to the saloon.

  At this late hour, I expected it to be populated by the usual characters. Town drunks and the like. Men without good sense, gambling away their savings at the poker table, chewing and spitting and screaming, or red-faced and laughing, and behind them the ladies. Tired beauties in hard colors, red and blue and yellow, like raging sunlight, hovering just outside the dense circle of cigar smoke, waving their fans and smiling with only their mouths, eyes tearing up from the smoke.