Prairie Fire, Kansas

by John Shirley

  “Jake,” Franklin interrupted coldly, “shut up.”

  Seth nodded to himself. In a country where the outlaws far, far outnumbered the lawmen, loose talk about a man’s cash wasn’t thought suitable.

  “I raise you eighty,” said the gambler, tossing four twenties into the pot.

  “Whee-ew,” said the farmhand, folding his cards. “Too rich for m’blood.”

  Jake sighed and folded as well. “I’m gonna get me a drink. Maybe folks are friendlier at the bar. Last time I play cards with you, Seth Coe. You’re too damn lucky.” He got up, put what remained of his money back in his pocket, and went to the bar.

  “That girl at the bar will be as friendly as you can afford ’er to be, Jake,” said Franklin as Seth counted out the money and tossed it on the pot—and then added a hundred more.

  The gambler smirked and smacked the side of his right hand, the one holding his cards, on the table hard enough to make it jump a little.

  But Seth had kept one eye on the deadwood cards and saw it when the gambler—having drawn their attention to his right hand—flicked a card from the discards with the tip of a finger so it shot under his left hand.

  “Mister, it’s against the rules in any house to monkey with the deadwood,” Seth said coldly.

  The gambler went stiff in his chair, and he fixed Seth’s eyes with his own. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

  “I’m saying you set up those three cards you discarded in case one was good for you later, and now you’ve got one palmed under your left hand.”

  “If you are accusing me of cheating, I’ll see you in the street!”

  The room got very quiet. Everyone stared.

  “I’m not a gunhand,” Seth said, shaking his head. He simply wasn’t going to get in a gunfight. He was no great hand with a pistol, and he did not believe in gunning anyone except in the direst circumstances of self-defense. “I’m not going to meet you anywhere, mister. But I’m not going to let you use that card in your left hand either.”

  “You accuse me of cheating—then you forfeit all!” the gambler said.

  “I missed that one in the poker rule book,” Franklin said dryly. “You were caught, mister.”

  The gambler put the cards in his right hand carefully on the table, facedown, and then stood up, reaching under his coat for his hideaway gun—and froze when he saw Franklin’s Colt whip up to point at his liver. Seth heard three distinctive clicking sounds and looked over to see Rudy Rodriguez, Gus Rossner, and ’Baccy Smith at another table with their guns pointed at the gambler, cocked. Their faces were grim. All three men had ridden the range with Seth many a time.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Seth glimpsed Caroline hurrying out the door of the bar.

  “I don’t believe,” said Franklin softly, his gaze hard and steady on the gambler, “that you’re reckless enough to pull that pistol, mister. Not with four of us ready to cut you to pieces. Now, you open your cards faceup on the table. The cards in your right hand. And you let go of that card under your left.”

  Trembling with frustrated fury, jaws working, the gambler did as he was bade. His poker hand showed ace high—a busted flush with four hearts. The losing hand.

  The farmhand stretched out a hand and turned over the card the gambler had extracted from the deadwood. A ten of hearts. “Why, that would have given him a flush! And he knowed it! He’s crooked as a Virginia fence!”

  Seth turned up his own hand, showing the ace-high straight.

  “Tinhorn,” said Franklin, “you lost the hand.”

  “I was just fixing to boot that son of a sick dog out of town,” said someone at the door.

  Seth turned to see Marshal Hickok, leaning casually on the frame of the open door, looking amused. He had one hand on the butt of his Colt Navy. “What’s the cowboy’s hand?”

  “He’s got an ace-high straight, Marshal,” said Franklin.

  Hickok nodded. “I should run you into the pokey, Fisher,” he said, glaring at the gambler, “but it’s full to bust right now. Get your carpetbag, get on your horse, and get your rump out of Abilene.”

  “Marshal, they were all in it together—they set me up to be robbed!” Fisher said, the pitch of his voice rising close to a whine.

  “A lady I trust says different. You were monkeying with the deadwood, and you’ve got a losing hand. And you tried to force a gunfight. Leave all that money on the table. And your gun, too. Put it down there, real careful.”

  “Marshal, it’s dangerous out on the prairie without a firearm!”

  “You there, the big man with the gun—holster it, take his gun, and bring it here.”

  Franklin did as he was told. Marshal Hickok looked at the pocket gun. “Thirty-eight-caliber Hulbert and Merwin pocket revolver. Not a bad little weapon. I carried one myself in the war when I was scoutin’.” With a few practiced movements of his long, thin fingers, Wild Bill emptied the little gun of its bullets and put them in his pocket. “You three men, put away your guns, too. By God I’ve gotten slipshod. I should’ve collected your irons when you came to town, the whole shootin’ match.”

  They holstered their guns, and Hickok crooked a finger at the gambler. “Come here, Fisher.”

  Fisher, cowed by the famous gunfighter, took a deep breath and gave Seth a chilling look. “You have not seen the last of me,” he said in a low voice. But he walked over to the door meekly enough. “Yes, Marshal?”

  “Any other weapons? You lie to me, I’ll break your hands so you can’t hold a card anymore.”

  “No, sir. Well, there’s a knife in my boot.”

  “You just keep it in your boot.” Marshal Hickok tucked the .38 under Fisher’s coat, then took him by the ear and dragged him out the door.

  The Prancing Lady Saloon erupted in laughter.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hannibal Fisher felt a profound bitterness. The humiliation of having been caught cheating, of having had four guns drawn on him, of having been dragged from the saloon and driven summarily from town in a gale of laughter, stung him deeply. He was already raw inside from having lost his last dollar.

  Now, as he rode his swaybacked horse south to a shady spot with a spring he knew of, he knew he could not rest till he had made the brown-eyed cowboy pay for every inch and every speck of that humiliation. . . .

  He had heard one of the cowboys call the man Seth Coe. And when they’d first joined the table, he heard Coe and Franklin agree to head south on the morrow, directly after they had breakfast.

  Fisher had a Henry rifle on his horse, and he would wait at the spring south of town, within sight of the road. He reckoned on shooting both cowboys off their horses. Firing from the cover of the trees, he’d stand a good chance to come out unscathed. Then he’d rob their bodies, get his money back and a good deal more. Maybe take one of their horses as his own, sell the other, and . . .

  Fisher’s thoughts were derailed by the sound of pounding hooves behind him. He turned to see a stranger ride up on a roan: a black-bearded, shaggy-haired man with a floppy, sweat-stained hat—and a pistol in his hand.

  “Hannibal Fisher!” the man called. He grinned at Fisher as he reined in about fifteen feet away. “I’m taking you into custody. I’ve a warrant for your arrest to answer charges of murder in Kansas City!”

  Fisher cursed himself for not reloading the hideaway gun. But this man had the drop on him, anyhow, and he had the look—including the long buckskin coat—that spoke of an experienced bounty hunter.

  “Now, who’d you be?” Fisher demanded.

  “My name’s Ruskett. I’ve got the warrant and poster on you right here in my coat pocket.”

  “Who’s that you called me? Fisher, you said?”

  The bounty hunter laughed, showing crooked yellow teeth. “Marshal Hickok confirmed every last thing about you! Most assuredly I ha
ve my man. Hickock thinks I’m going to bring you back to Abilene, but I don’t know as he’d give me the bounty—he don’t care much for bounty hunters. But I do a power of business up in Newton, and that’s where we’re going. Now, you take out that hideout gun and toss it down.”

  His head spinning with the endless dark flow of his rotten luck, Fisher tossed the gun on the ground. “What bounty have they attached to this false charge?”

  “Four hundred dollars.”

  “Why, I can get you more than that!”

  “You couldn’t raise that much money if you sold every gold tooth in your head and that sickly nag, too. Now, shut up and take up that rifle by the barrel and toss it over to me.”

  Fisher was looking down the muzzle of Ruskett’s gun. He didn’t see much choice. Very well. This was another man he’d have to have his revenge on. He tossed over the rifle, reflecting that it was a long way south to Newton from here. He would kill this man Ruskett, soon or late.

  As he let the bounty hunter shackle him, Hannibal Fisher swore in his heart to kill anyone who would stand in the way of his getting revenge on the man who’d taken his last dollar at the poker table—the man who’d occasioned his humiliation as he was driven from town. . . .

  Seth Coe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  You and your damn sheep farm!” Franklin laughed as he and Seth rode south in the misty morning.

  “It’s not a sheep farm. It ain’t even a sheep ranch, Franklin,” Seth said patiently. He didn’t mind being teased by Franklin. Bantering with him made the time pass on a long ride. “I merely propose to get me a small herd of sheep, along with everything else, because it’s good land for it there. Don’t paint me as a sheepherder. You’ll get half the cowboys in Texas after me. I’ll have some cattle, but mostly I’m going to raise remuda horses.”

  “Hold on. You forgot the cotton fields!”

  “Good land for cotton, too. My pa raised cotton, and I know just how to do it.”

  “Why quit there? Why not build a railroad!”

  Seth grinned. “One thing at a time.” He patted his horse’s neck; she gave a soft whinny in return. Then he added, “What I want to do isn’t so much, Franklin. It’s just that I got to save money to make it happen. Once you know you want something, why, you got to set a goal, my pa said, and if you have to, work your way there an inch or a nickel at a time. I got money stashed in the bank at Chaseman—nearly two thousand dollars. My pa willed me and my sister and brother a thousand dollars each. I still got that, and I’ve saved a thousand more.”

  “You worked hard enough at it,” Franklin admitted. “Two and three jobs at a time back home. Wore me out just watching all that work.”

  “With that and what I won off that gambler, I might could buy the land and the start-up stock I need. Now, I figure I’ll need help running the place. Going to need two kinds of partner. The ugly kind and the pretty kind. The ugly kind—that’d be you. The pretty kind, that’d be my wife.”

  “You ain’t got a wife. You ain’t even got a sweetheart.”

  “Going to find one. She’s out there. I know she is. I’ll know her when I see her.”

  Franklin chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, it’s a long way to Chaseman, Texas, Seth. Maybe you’ll meet her on the way.”

  “Not likely.”

  “How’m I going to be your partner, anyhow? I’ve got a couple hundred dollars at home, but it’s not enough to buy in on anything.”

  “Why, you’ll be my foreman, and I’ll cut you in on the profits. You’ll earn your way into it!” It had never occurred to him that Franklin wouldn’t want to be his partner. He always had been, one way or another. “Thanks for backing my play with that tinhorn, Franklin.”

  “Don’t like his type—you, I got used to.” He shook his head. “But, Lord—you’re planning to turn me into a durn ‘alfalfa desperado.’”

  Seth gave him a narrow look. “There’s no shame in farming—and it ain’t just a farm. I guess you don’t much want to be a foreman. Too much work!”

  “There’s no working a ranch that’s just dreams, Seth.”

  “Supposing I get it out of my dreams and plant it into the dirt down there, south of Chaseman?”

  “Well, I expect I’d have to hang around and do my part, to keep you from embarrassing yourself.”

  Seth smiled. “I’ll hold you to that. You remember anyplace on this road we could camp, come sunset?”

  “We can’t stay in some town somewheres? Oh—I shoulda knowed it. Can’t do that because then you’d have to spend a dollar or two.” He sighed. “It’s going to be a long, long ride back.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The courthouse in Newton was a big two-story frame structure, with the courtroom at the front and jail cells at the back, offices up top. The jailer, name of Sam Mundy, a white-bearded old man in overalls, locked Hannibal Fisher into his cell as Sheriff Dawson and Rusk Ruskett looked on with approval.

  “Enjoy your gloating while you can,” said Fisher. He was doing some quiet gloating himself: the hideaway knife in his boot had gone undiscovered. It was small and slim and well disguised, for the boot was designed to conceal it.

  “Fisher,” said Dawson, “you’ll be here a week or more till I can get you escorted to Kansas City, so you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head if you want to be fed.”

  Old Sam chuckled. “That’s right. You talk smart to me, Fisher, I might forget to feed you—and forget to empty your thunder mug.” With that, swinging the key ring on one finger, he shuffled off to read the newspaper at the far end of the row of cells.

  There were three cells in a row, divided only by bars. The far one was empty, but the one abutting Fisher’s was occupied by a man he recognized: an outlaw getting close to middle-age, name of Curtis Diamond, now taking his ease on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head. He wore a long frock coat, even lying on his bunk, striped trousers, and down-at-heel black boots. Fisher recalled him wearing a diamond stickpin, to go with his name, and he noted now that the stickpin was there—but the diamond was gone from it. Had to sell it, most like. Or lost it gambling.

  “Take a couple of days to get your bounty, Ruskett,” said Dawson. He was a tall, clean-shaven man with a weather-lined face and cold blue eyes. He wore his Stetson tipped back. “Where will I find you?”

  “I’ll find me a room over to Hyde Park, Sheriff. Probably I’ll be round about the Red Front Saloon of an evening.”

  “To hell with that, Ruskett, I’m not going to look for you. You just come and check with me in two days. If I’m not in town, check with the court clerk.”

  The two men strolled down the passage to the door, Ruskett talking of nothing much, as Fisher sat on his bunk. “That you, Diamond?” he said none too loudly.

  Diamond opened his eyes and looked over. “Yep. I seen you come in, Hannibal. What they accusing you of? Card cheat?”

  Fisher scowled at that but said only, “Somebody got killed in Kansas City, and they didn’t have a suspect. So they picked me ’cause I knew the man.”

  Diamond sat up, stretching. “I’ve known that to happen. Now, me—they’re fixing to hang me, all thanks to a bunch of damn liars. Somebody got shot in a robbery, but I was . . . Well, I was somewheres else.”

  “When’s your send-off?” Fisher asked, noting that Dawson and Ruskett had left the jail area, and the old man was out of earshot.

  “Not quite a fortnight.”

  Fisher moved to the end of his bunk closest to Diamond and spoke in a low voice. “How good are you at keeping your mouth shut?”

  Diamond looked over at him with sudden interest. “I’m quiet as the grave, is how.”

  “I’ve got a knife in my boot. Comes the right time, if you can get your hand around that old man’s mouth, I can cut his throat. Then I’ll get us both out. I’m going after some money,
and I’m going to need some help to get it. You throw in with me, why, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  For Fisher had evolved a new plan on the way here. And it would take men like Curtis Diamond to help him pull it off. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  What the hell kind of a name is Prairie Fire for a town?” Franklin asked musingly as they rode past the town’s welcome sign.

  “Name based on its history, I’m guessing,” Seth replied. “Big ol’ fire sometime.”

  “A black-omened name seems to me. If I was contemplating settling in Kansas, I’d move on past any burg named after a prairie fire. ’Sakes, it must be prone to them! I’ve seen only one, and that’s one too many.”

  It was sundown as they rode in, and fittingly enough its red glow was setting the town of Prairie Fire ablaze as their horses clopped up to the barnlike building with the words FEED, GRAIN, and LIVERY painted above the big open doors.

  “We stopped in this town once, two years ago,” Seth reminded Franklin as they unsaddled their horses. “It was on the way up, when Cookie Nick sent us in for coffee and bacon. Nice enough place. But we weren’t here long. Don’t want to be here long this time either.”

  “Seth, I had above two months sleeping in my bedroll, coming to Abilene, and I am right sick of it,” said Franklin, pouring grain into the trough for his horse. “They got a hotel in this town, I expect.”

  “Don’t want to spend the money. You could do it and pick me up at the camp,” Seth said. “There’s a creek to the south, Black Creek, with some cottonwoods round about it. I can camp there, close enough to the road you can find me.” He patted Mazie. The muscular brown-and-black mare snorted and nuzzled at his hand. “Back pretty soon, girl.”

  “Seth,” said Franklin in a tone that wasn’t far from exasperation, “there’s every kind of road agent out there on the prairie. You haven’t got a big hire of cowboys to scare ’em off.”