Make Me No Grave

by Hayley Stone

  Almena stared at me, mouth half-open. “Why’d you do that?”

  I knelt down and checked for breath or a pulse, just in case. There was neither. “She was gonna shoot you.”

  “I could have—”

  “I know you could’ve.” I cut her off and helped her readjust her mask, which had slipped down onto her neck. My fingers felt cold and fumbling, but her eyes sank closed when I brushed them against her cheek. “I didn’t want you to have to make that choice again.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I nodded, and we boarded the train.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Before the train set off again, I had the engineer send a few of his operators to fetch Ruth’s corpse. I only had a minute to rest my eyes in a private room in the compartment car before the conductor banged on the door, asking for me.

  “We’ve got her, Marshal. We argued over where to put her. Some suggested the luggage car, but I thought that seemed disrespectful for a lady. Even a dead criminal, so I said…”

  I rubbed my eyes. “You have her?”

  The conductor’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. That’s all I need to know. We’ll sort out the rest when we hit the next stop.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave, stopped, and turned back. “Sir?”

  I hung onto the doorframe, afraid I’d topple over otherwise. Wasn’t just the beating had me wiped, though it certainly didn’t help. “Yeah?”

  “Is it true what they’re saying?”

  “What who are saying?”

  “The passengers.”

  He paused, forcing me to ask, “What are they saying?” Felt like the damn near slowest conversation I’d ever had.

  “That the woman you shot was Almena Guillory. The Grizzly Queen of the West.”

  Took only a moment’s consideration to come up with the lie. “That’s right. She was going under a false name, Ruth Kingery. Lived in Baxter Springs for a time. Wouldn’t be surprised if her partners in there try and convince the law otherwise. Men’ll say anything to keep in the good graces of a lady, especially one they’re afraid’ll shoot ’em otherwise.”

  The conductor issued a low, appreciative whistle. “Well, I’ll be. Isn’t that something?”

  I made a noise of agreement. The conductor continued to stand there thoughtfully.

  “Anything else?”

  He snapped back into himself. “No, sir.”

  I went back inside and closed the door.

  Almena moved to sit beside me. She hooked a slender finger into her mask, sliding it off her face. I thought she might say something wicked or clever about what I’d just done. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to my cheek. I inhaled shakily and allowed her to turn my head toward her. Her mouth found mine, and the world retreated into the floor, a soft rumble beneath our feet. Almena’s fingers dug into my arm, pulling me closer, and I finally let myself fall completely into her. For a time.

  “When we get to the station,” I said, “you have to go. You can’t let them see you.”

  “Come with me, Nathan.” Her fingertips trickled down my neck.

  I removed her hands but continued to hold them. “You know I can’t. Someone’s got to answer to the law for what’s happened today, and better me than you. Just promise me I haven’t made a mistake here. Promise me you won’t go back to your old ways.”

  Almena only smiled cryptically and rested her cheek against my shoulder. Close enough, I thought. I shut my eyes, relishing these last few moments with her, and fighting the knowledge that when we reached our next stop, she’d be getting off while I stayed on without her.

  Nearly a month after the Grizzly Queen was declared dead and the remainder of her phony gang was either arrested or disappeared, Kansas finally released its collective breath. By then, the knuckles of my hands had also recovered from the thorough rapping I got for my part in all of it.

  Turns out, Judge Foster, who I’d supposed a man of few words from our single previous interaction after Asher, had quite a lot to say on the subject of Coffeyville and Topeka. Say, and spray. He pounded his hand as well as any gavel on the desk, rattling his law books, and lectured me about responsibility. Namely, my lack of it. I stood there and took it, not even flinching when a little spittle caught me in the cheek. That conversation went only half as poorly as the one I had with Dempsey, who accepted my apology for Coffeyville but didn’t seem to want to sit too close while I gave it.

  In the end, the judge didn’t take my badge. Killing the Grizzly Queen and capturing the surviving members of her gang was apparently enough to warrant another chance. Feeling I didn’t deserve to wear the star, however, I asked that I be relieved of its duties and privileges. I needed to take some time to sort myself out. Judge Foster agreed that was a good idea.

  Before I left town, I swung by Song’s shop to pick up the mirror I’d bought. I knew by now the mirrors weren’t magic none, but part of me still hoped I might find Almena’s reflection trapped in the polished surface. No such luck, however, and to complicate the matter, Song had sold my mirror to another paying customer, though they wouldn’t say to who. Part of me wanted to believe it had been Almena, though I had no reason to think so. In the end, Song tried to upsell me on buying two more mirrors, but I managed to hold my ground and leave with only one.

  Freed from my official duties as a marshal, I went south, venturing as close to Indian Territory as I could get without being shot up by jumpy border folk. I was hoping to find the Osage tribe whom Almena had helped. The sense of injustice I felt regarding the Indians’ unfair treatment under the law provoked a response in me I hadn’t anticipated. I couldn’t shake the desire to act, and I thought the presence of a marshal—even one who’d temporarily shelved his star—might alleviate some of the tension on the frayed edge of civilization and improve trade, or at the very least prevent more bloodshed.

  Throughout all this, I told myself I wouldn’t go searching for Almena, yet I found myself watching for her, expecting to see her smile on the lips of every passing lady. Disappointment needled me every time a woman turned around wasn’t her. I hadn’t known how I’d feel about her absence, but it surely wasn’t this.

  I never ended up finding them Indians neither. Much like Almena did after Topeka, the Osage vanished, loosened into smoke. The message attached to their absence was clear: We don’t want your help. We don’t need it. Maybe that was true, too, if the local grocer’s conveniently low stock of John Barleycorn and fresh cornmeal was anything to go by. Man said he’d no clue what happened to it but refused to involve the law whenever anyone suggested it.

  Good for them, I thought.

  If my time with Almena had taught me anything, it was that a gulf often existed between the law and the people the law was intended to protect. Good could be done for bad reasons, same as the reverse. Once, such ambiguity would have left me drowning in unease, but now?

  I could live with it.

  EPILOGUE

  Three Months Later…

  Epilogue

  Winter was coming—faster than usual, it seemed—and that meant plenty of job opportunities for those willing. I’d found profitable work helping a local sheriff in Montgomery County with some repairs to his jail, and was just bending down to pluck up another board when a shadow fell over my work.

  I turned, expecting the sheriff or his deputy, and instead found myself eye-level with the chest of a tall Osage man. He wore a two-piece suit, though the trousers hugged his ankles, straining to contain his powerful calf muscles. Suppose he was trying to blend in with such fancy attire, but it had the opposite effect. People stopped and stared at us, especially seeing as it was late November and he wasn’t wearing gloves.

  I lifted the back of my arm to my head, wicking off sweat, while also shading my eyes against the cold winter sun so I could make out his face better.

  “I know you, don’t I?” I said, only half in question. “You’re Footprints-in-the-wood
s’ brother, ain’t you? The-traveling-star.” Always wondered how that business turned out. When I mentioned his sister, the skin tightened across his face, and his eyes showed a terrible sadness. Guess I had my answer.

  The-traveling-star nodded and extended his hand. “Telegram.”

  “Yeah?” I accepted it. “Who from?”

  “The Western Union Telegraph Company thanks you for your business.” With that, he turned on his heels and went.

  All right then.

  I relaxed the board against the side of the jail and dropped my eyes to the small card. At the top, the return address located the sender in Fort Worth, Texas. The telegram itself read:

  Could use the help of a friend. Come and find me, Marshal. I’ll be wearing blue this time. Deuteronomy 32:35.

  It was signed, simply, Mary.

  My lips felt the soft curve of a smile for the first time in a long while.

  Only one “Mary” I could think of.

  Deuteronomy 32:35, I thought, but blanked on the exact verse. Always was more of a New Testament man, never caring much for the begets of the Old Testament. I popped my head into the jail, asking after a Bible, but the sheriff just shrugged, forcing me to cross the street and fetch one from the local church. Sitting in the frosty shadow of the steeple, I rapidly flipped to chapter thirty-two.

  To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.

  I didn’t wonder long who she was referring to. John Wilkes Booth. The woman who couldn’t be killed still hunting a man who should be dead. It was almost poetic.

  I glanced down at the telegram, rubbing my thumb over the black type.

  Come and find me, Marshal.

  Maybe I would.

  About the author

  HAYLEY STONE is a writer, editor, and poet from California. She is best known for her adult sci-fi novel, Machinations, which was chosen as one of Amazon’s Best Sci-fi & Fantasy Books for 2016. Her short fiction has appeared in Fireside Fiction, Apex Magazine, Flash Fiction Online, and various anthologies, while her speculative poetry is widely available online.

  Hayley loves to hear from readers and writers. Find her at www.hnstoneauthor.com and on Twitter @hayley_stone.

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