Prairie Fire, Kansas

by John Shirley

  “I know you better, Franklin. You’ll be repairing your mama’s fences and milking her cows for her within a week of your return. But by God, I wish I was going to Texas with you. Only—I just can’t.” He clapped Franklin on the shoulder. “And I’m sorry for it.”

  Franklin nodded his head just once. “I’m going to get my rig,” he said resignedly. “I’ll look for you in August. It’s going to be a lonely ride.”

  “Oh, you’ll probably meet some other no-account cowpokes along the way and fit right in. Just don’t get drunk and get yourself stabbed again.”

  “Hell, Seth, that was two years ago. I’ve grown up some. He hardly stabbed me at all. . . .” He managed a grin, winked at Seth, and then went back into the hotel to get his change of clothes.

  Seth figured Franklin would go from there to the store for a few things, then to the livery and lickety-split for the road to Texas.

  Seth let out a long breath, then turned away and strolled down the sidewalk. He had not much sense of where he was going. Mostly he wanted to walk and think. Was he being foolish, waiting around for Josette to suddenly fall in love with him and elope?

  But when he tried to imagine riding off without her, the picture just would not form in his mind.

  He came to the Town Marshal’s office in a small building—smaller than the livery—between a two-story building containing Delbert’s Leather Goods, Hardware, and Tackle Store and a structure almost as big with the sign City Hall. The marshal’s office seemed dwarfed between the two.

  A lean fellow, not much taller than Seth, was using a tack hammer to nail up a wanted poster outside the office. He had a lined, florid face and an ash blond mustache; a shield-shaped badge was pinned to his white cotton shirt. The silver ribbon of his badge was etched L. Coggins, TM.

  Just as well, Seth figured, if he was going to be here a while to meet the Town Marshal. “You’d be Marshal Coggins, I calculate,” said Seth.

  Hammer in hand, Coggins turned and looked Seth up and down. “And you’d be who?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Seth Coe, Marshal.”

  “Got something you want to confess to?”

  Seth smiled. “No, sir. Looking for work hereabouts and visiting an old friend.”

  “Is that so! Who’s your friend?”

  “Miss Josette Dubois. We kind of grew up together down in Texas.”

  “Oh, Miss Dubois! Why, I was tempted to ask her for a dance last year. Afraid I’d bust her toes, though. Pretty girl. Smart, too. You a drover, Mr. Coe?”

  “You can call me Seth if you’re a mind to, Marshal. Yes, sir, that’s what I’ve mostly done. But this year I hope to own my own spread.”

  “You sound like you’re from, where, the Panhandle?”

  Seth had noticed a Texas drawl in the marshal’s voice, too. “Little south of there but not so much. Chaseman.”

  “Oh, why, that’s nothing when it comes to south—I hail from Laredo!”

  “You don’t say! Any farther south and you run out of Texas.”

  “Every blame winter I tell myself it’s too cold here, and I’m moving back to Laredo. But never quite get there. On account of my wife, Lou Ellen, is from right here, and she doesn’t cotton to Texas.” Coggins transferred the hammer to his left hand and stuck the right out to shake. “Seth Coe, welcome to Prairie Fire. My name’s Luther, but you can call me Slim—most everyone does.”

  They shook hands, the marshal’s fingers feeling softer than most handshakes Seth experienced, except for one—the man’s trigger finger. There was some callusing there.

  Coggins let go of Seth’s hand and gave the tack another tap with the hammer, and Seth looked over his shoulder at the poster. What he saw sent a coldness through his belly. He instantly recognized the halftone photo of the wanted man.

  ~WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE~

  $1500. REWARD

  Hannibal Fisher

  For Murder of a Jail Employee

  in Newton, Kansas

  Also Wanted for Jailbreak and

  Suspected Murder in Kansas City

  Last Seen in Southern Kansas

  May Be in the Company of Escaped Murderer Curt Diamond

  Contact Sheriff’s Office, Newton, Kansas

  Last seen in Southern Kansas? Prairie Fire was in Southern Kansas.

  And Seth remembered the last thing Fisher said to him before Wild Bill took him away. You have not seen the last of me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seth found Sol Hamer in the barn, trying and failing to saddle a draft horse. The stocky, broad-shouldered farmer had the saddle crookedly on the big Clydesdale’s back as he struggled to tighten its belly strap. The horse, used to plows and wagons but not saddles, was shifting restlessly and snorting.

  “Mr. Hamer?” Seth said, coming in.

  Startled, the farmer straightened up and scowled at him—a very big scowl from a very wide mouth. He had a shovel-blade face encircled by a brown beard sprinkled with gray. “What do you suppose you’re about, trespassing in a man’s barn?” he demanded.

  Seth took off his hat. “I’m sorry, sir. I asked your wife, and she said—”

  “Well, whatever it is, we don’t want it! I’ve got three lost cows and”—he shook his head and turned in exasperation to the saddle—“and this durned saddle . . . !”

  “Mr. Hamer, Josette Dubois said you might need some help round here. Just generally, like.”

  “Well, I don’t! Can’t afford it!”

  “Be pleased to put that saddle on for you, sir. No charge! Being a cowboy mostly, that’s a job I know as well as any.”

  The scowl became a squiggle of uncertainty. “Hmm—very well, since you’re here.”

  Sol stepped out of the way, and Seth put on his hat and went to introduce himself to the horse. After a few moments of patting the horse and murmuring to it, he straightened the saddle, adjusted it a little farther back, hitched up the belt, and stepped clear. Pondering his handiwork, he shook his head doubtfully. “Well, Mr. Hamer, that will serve for a short ride. Best that can be done. You see, that saddle is not meant for a horse this size. A mite too small.”

  Sol took hold of the straps of his overalls and looked skeptically at the saddle. “Don’t have another saddle, and don’t have another horse. Got a mule, but it’ll buck any rider except my missus. The blamed thing loves my Daisy.” Sol Hamer had a big belly, but he seemed a strong man, the red shirt under the overalls barely constraining his muscular arms. “Had that saddle for twelve years. Haven’t used it. Need to get after those cows. The bull knocked down a fence, and the cows are all to heck and gone. Miles off!”

  “Now, if you’re saddling it so you can bring in some cattle, why, there’s no need for that if you’ll trust me some. I’ll do ’er for you. My mare’s right outside, ready to go, and we’ve got nothin’ to do for most of the day. It’ll do me and my pony good to get out there and chase some stock down. I’m right natural with a lasso, and that horse is trained for the job—we’ll get ’em for you.”

  Sol stuck out his lower lip and knit his thick brows. “Told you—can’t afford it. Haven’t got the money from the first harvest yet. Ten days at least.”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Hamer—trade me supper, and a place to sleep tonight and that’ll pay me for today, anyhow. If you like my work and keep me on for a time—and I can do farmwork as easily as ranching—why, you can pay me when you’ve sold your goods.”

  Sol looked at him dubiously. “I don’t even know your name!”

  “Seth Coe, sir.” Seth stuck out his hand, and after a second’s hesitation, Sol shook it, his own large, callused hand fairly swallowing Seth’s.

  “Feels like you’ve done some work.”

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  “You fix a fence?”

  “Easier’n combin’ my hair!”


  This struck Sol as funny, and he chuckled, showing a mouthful of big yellow teeth. “Well, now . . . we’ve known Miss Dubois since she was a little girl. . . .”

  “So have I, Mr. Hamer.”

  “Have you, now? If she says you’re all right, I suppose you are. And she sent you here, so”—he gave a brisk nod—“you can take that saddle off Goliath here for me and get yourself after that stock. There’s five of ’em, counting the bull. I’ll point you the way. If you can get it done before supper, we’ll feed you, and I’ll ponder on your doing some more work round here. But see here—I’ve got no cabin to put you in and no spare room in the house!”

  “This time of year, a barn’s more comfortable of an evening than a hotel room. Leastwise for me it is. Now, suppose I was to sleep up in that hayloft?”

  “That’d do you?”

  “I surely spent many a night sleeping in barns, Mr. Hamer. Comfortable as my mama’s arms.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Seth Coe, you have straw in your hair!” Josette declared as he approached the store’s counter, hat in hand. “I am scandalized! Surely that means you’ve sweet-talked one of the local girls!”

  She looked at him with raised eyebrows and her head cocked to one side—but then she grinned, and he grinned back in relief.

  “Slept in Sol Hamer’s barn last night, Josette.”

  “So you did get some work with him! That’s dandy. But this . . .” She reached out and plucked a piece of straw from his hair. “You look like a hayseed.”

  “Brought in some lost cattle for him yesterday and fixed the fence they busted out of. Got supper for it, and he’s hired me as a hand for a while.”

  “You are an enterprising one. Come in to buy something?”

  “Need some more nails to fix a cow stall.”

  “We only have household nails, two and three inches. You probably need Elmer’s down the street. They have all that.”

  Seth lowered his voice and said, “I must confess I’m not really here for nails. . . .” He’d only mentioned nails in case Dubois was listening, but Seth couldn’t see him around. “I was wondering if this evening you could—”

  The door jangled as someone came in, and Seth turned to see, to his dismay, Heywood Kelmer. Heywood was wearing a string tie, a brand-new gray Stetson, and a denim jacket with leather panels in the shoulders. He had something between a smile and a leer on his face as he strode in his gray soft leather boots to the counter, put his hands on it, and leaned close to Josette, just as if Seth wasn’t there.

  She took a step back. “How can I assist you, Heywood?”

  “Why, you can sell me a jar of that Gimble’s Hair Cream, and you can tell me if you’ve made up your mind about a certain something. . . .”

  Crowded by Heywood, Seth stepped to the left, and from there, he could see into the back room, where Dubois was taking a long pull on a pint bottle of spirits. Josette’s father was standing by a table, looking blearily down at an account book. He corked the bottle and thrust it to the back of a cabinet.

  Josette was wrapping the hair cream. “And what was the other matter?” she asked, acting as if she’d forgotten.

  “Why, you know perfectly well, Josette!” Heywood declared, grinning. “What a teasin’ coquette you are!”

  She frowned. “A coquette!”

  “Yup! Josette the coquette! Makes a charming rhyme! Well, have you made up your mind about the summer dance or not?”

  “But should you be seen there with a flirtatious ‘coquette’?” she asked innocently. “It’ll ruin your reputation!”

  Heywood scowled. “Now, look here. There’s good reasons you should be treating me better than this!”

  “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Kelmer, I was just talking to this gentleman about certain other matters. . . .”

  She turned to Seth—making his heart leap—but Heywood pointed at her and said, “I insist on an answer, Josette!”

  Seething inwardly, Seth was about to warn Heywood to back off when Dubois came in, walking almost steadily. “What is this? She is refusing to speak to you? She is rude?” He shoved Josette toward Heywood so she had to grab the counter to keep from falling. “You will serve the gentleman!”

  Seth’s hands tightened into fists at that.

  “I will not be pushed about in this way!” Josette said, her voice cold and sharp. “I shall not serve Mr. Kelmer!”

  “Mr. Dubois,” said Seth, “the man was talking to her like she was a bar girl!”

  “You!” Dubois snorted. “Go away!”

  Eyes tearing up, Josette turned toward the back room—but her father grabbed her by a wrist and flung her against the counter beside Heywood. He kept hold of her, squeezing, so that her eyes shut with the pain. “You will serve that man and be glad of it!”

  Seth saw red, and—scarcely aware he was doing it—he vaulted over the counter. Roaring, “Get your hands off her, you drunken old fool!” he straight-armed Dubois, knocking him back away from Josette so that he fell on his rump.

  “What the devil, Coe!” Heywood snapped, agog. “You’ll see the marshal now!”

  “Yes, yes, call the marshal! Vite!” Dubois said, struggling to stand.

  A little stunned at his own actions, Seth turned to Josette, who was just standing there, shaking her head, as Heywood, backing toward the door, shouted, “Who’re you to step in, saddle tramp!”

  He rushed through the door, its bell jangling like an alarm with his hurry, and shouted for Marshal Coggins.

  Josette had braced herself with a hand on a shelf and helped her father to stand. His face was red, and he shook with fury.

  “Papa, he didn’t mean it—”

  “You!” Dubois jabbed a finger at Seth. “I will find my shotgun for you!”

  “I’m sorry, Josette,” Seth said. “I expect I got too . . .” He didn’t know quite what to say. He turned away and walked around the end of the counter, thinking to head toward the door—but he stopped in the midst of the store, wondering if Josette was safe with Dubois. Had he made things worse for her?

  “Papa,” Josette was saying, “just calm down. You’ve bruised my arm! Seth saw that, and—”

  The door jangled again, and Coggins came in, looking grave. “What’s this I hear about an assault, Coe!”

  “I . . . I was afraid her father was like to break her bones, the way he was manhandling her, Marshal. . . .”

  “So you knocked one of our merchants on his backside?”

  “I didn’t hit him. I was just trying to push him away, but in the heat of—”

  “That’s not the way Kelmer tells it,” said Coggins as Heywood came in.

  “You want to keep your job, Marshal,” Heywood snarled, “you’ll arrest that man, lock him in a cell, and lose the key!” His face looked savage in that moment.

  “Yes!” Dubois called. “He has made assault on me! Arrest him!”

  Marshal Coggins shrugged. “Seth—you’d best come with me. You’re under arrest.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Right curious that this cowboy could have as much money as you claim, Hannibal,” said Sweeney as the six men rode across the prairie in the gathering dusk. “Seemed willing to work for a day or two just for spending money.”

  They were headed roughly east of the town, planning to camp somewhere along Black Creek if they could find a spot that provided enough cover. Six men could arouse some interest, and it was best they kept hidden, not so easy out on this flat prairie land.

  Their horses cantered through the knee-high yellow grass, past a copse of shrubs, moving steadily but not too quick, for there was some doubt about where they were to hole up. Jackrabbits scurried and prairie chickens flurried as the group of horses clopped by. Hoping for a handy supper, Gaines fired a couple of pistol shots at the gro
use—missing both times.

  “Sweeney,” said Fisher, “that cowboy took a pot off me bigger’n any you’ve ever seen! Cheated to do it, and his friends backed him up with their guns.”

  Fisher had indeed exaggerated how much money Seth carried on him. He needed to motivate this ragtag gang. Seth was staying over in Prairie Fire, and Diamond, who had passed through the place, knew it to have a capable marshal. The marshal had several men he deputized at need, too.

  “We can take him and that Prairie Fire bank, too, if we’re wise!” Fisher said.

  Several antelope, roused by the thud of the horses’ hooves, rose up from their resting place in the high grass and went bounding away. Gaines peeled off from the group of riders to pursue them, tugging his rifle free of its saddle holster. He galloped after the antelope, and the others reined in, waiting where Gaines could find them.

  “Damn, I’m tired of sitting on a horse,” said Diamond, arching his back and stretching in the saddle. “Give me a train anytime. Even a stagecoach is better.”

  “You complain too damn much,” said Fisher, wiping his forehead. Without the wind in his face of riding, he was feeling the heat.

  “He does, at that,” Briggs said, taking up his canteen. “Always did.”

  “This bank—anyone here look it over?” asked the young man. Luke Bettiger his name was. He’d worried Fisher once by mentioning that his father had been a Texas Ranger, but it seemed there was naught but bitterness betwixt them.

  “I gave it a look when I was through there,” said Diamond. “Small bank. Does not have its own guard at night, so far’s I saw. Does have a stout vault.”

  They heard several more gunshots from Gaines, and Fisher glanced around to see him, some ways off, afoot now.

  Fisher slowed his mount to a slow walk, and the other men slowed, too, so as not to get too far ahead of Gaines. “I never robbed a bank myself,” Fisher admitted, “though I saw it done once, fairly slick.” He looked at Bettiger. “You ever try it, Luke?”