by John Shirley
“Papa! What would Mama think if she could hear you say such a thing!”
His eyes narrowed, and swearing in French, he slapped her so that she staggered back against the wall, her ears ringing, her face feeling as if it had been rubbed in nettles.
“You are not going to cost me that land!” he roared. “I need it! And he is a rich man—you should be happy!”
Josette felt like she could not breathe. Gasping, she rushed to the door, burst through, and ran out to the barn. She didn’t bother to saddle the mule—she dragged him from his stall by the bridle and out to the barnyard.
Her father was silhouetted in the doorway, shouting, “You come here! Now! Vite!”
But Josette climbed astraddle the mule and kicked it with her heels. It clumped off, and she rode into the twilight toward Sol Hamer’s farm.
* * *
* * *
Seth sat on a stool by Dawson’s bed, hat in his lap, listening to the sheriff’s harsh breathing. The marshal was bare chested but for the bandages, covered only by a sheet. The window was open, and a waft of cool air visited the room, smelling of rain. Dawson seemed asleep, but Seth wasn’t quite sure, and he didn’t want to wake him.
There were voices in the outer room, and then Slim Coggins came in, opening the door carefully so as not to make much noise, followed by the doctor.
Doc Twilley came around to the other side of the small bed, turned the lamp up brighter, and took Dawson’s wrist between his fingers.
Dawson opened his eyes and looked blearily around. “Seems I’ve got a power of visitors, but they’re all the wrong sort,” he said in a low, rasping voice. “Why is it you don’t have a pretty nurse, Twilley?”
“My fiancée will not stand for it.” He laid a hand over Dawson’s forehead. “Your pulse is strong. Maybe a low fever. Been the same since yesterday night. Natural enough but not intensifying. Good signs.” He bent over and pressed an ear to Dawson’s chest, listening. “Take a deep breath there, Sheriff.”
Dawson breathed deep and coughed a little.
Doc Twilley straightened up and nodded. “You’ll do if you’ll stick with the bed rest.”
“If you write up a letter on the costs and send it to the clerk at Newton city hall, we’ll get you paid, Doc. They’ll cover my vittles, too.”
“All in good time.”
“Marshal,” said Dawson, “any sign of Fisher?”
“I struck what I think were his tracks this afternoon, heading south. Right over the Oklahoma border and then lost them in the hills. Stony ground there. I’ve sent letters to law to the south to watch for him. All I can do.”
“I figured he’d leave the state,” Dawson said. “I’d sure like to track him down. He killed an old friend of mine, and he kicked me to the dirt.”
“Slim,” Seth put in, “if there’s any kind of posse looking for him, I’ll sign on for it. I don’t like him running around free, holding a grudge and a gun.”
“I’m a Town Marshal. I’ve got to stay round here,” Coggins replied. “But if he comes back anywhere close to Prairie Fire, you’ll be the first man I’ll call on.” He turned to Dawson. “Sheriff, I just wanted you to know I did what I could. If I see a chance to take him, I’ll do it.”
“I’m obliged, Slim.”
The marshal came over to the bed; taking a silver flask from his back pocket, he placed it beside the lamp. “That’s the best apple brandy in the county, and there’s more where that comes from—if the doc don’t object.”
“You bring some for me, too,” said Twilley, “then I will allow it.”
“I thank you kindly, Slim,” Dawson said with a weak grin.
“Now, gentlemen, you’re taking up all the good air in the room,” Twilley said with a doctor’s authority in his tone. “Out you go. Let the man breathe and rest. Don’t overdo the brandy, Dawson.”
“Rest easy, Sheriff,” Seth said, standing. “Let us worry about Hannibal Fisher. If he comes around—we’ll get him.”
“I hope to be there when you do,” Dawson muttered, reaching for the flask. “Why—this flask has my name on it! It’s engraved real pretty!”
“A small gift from the town council,” said Coggins.
“You extend my thanks to them, will you?”
“I will. I’ll let you know if there’s news.”
Coggins turned to go, and Seth followed him to the little house’s small front porch. There he paused, put on his hat, and sniffed the air. It was just past sunset, and thick clouds were draping the sky. Rain, for sure. But it wasn’t yet falling. Lights twinkled from the town, a short distance to the west.
“Be a blessing if it rains,” said Coggins, peering up at the sky. “Five years ago, we had two wildfires in one season! I would not care for another fire this year.”
Rain began to patter down then. Seth put on his hat and said, “Seems like you’ve got the good Lord’s ear.”
“You still out there with the Hamers?”
“I am. Going back there now. Just about time for supper.”
“Red Milligan said he saw some men camped up north a piece on Black Creek. Told me just a quarter hour ago. Might be anyone up there. We get cowboys camping on their way home often enough. But I thought maybe I’d ride out and have a look tomorrow. The law is looking for Curt Diamond, too, and there’s others.”
“I expect Sol won’t mind if I come with you.”
“I’ll call for you in the morning, if”—he looked up at the sky, which was now pouring rain, and put his own hat on—“if we’re not washed away in a flood!”
Seth waved, put up his shirt collar, and hurried to the other side of town to pick up the gelding, Mazie not being healed up enough to ride as yet. The rain clattered on tin roofs and rattled shingles and drumrolled on Seth’s hat. Townsfolk had come out on their porches, the men lighting up pipes, to look at the downpour.
Seth’s mind was on Josette. By now she’d be home. But like as not, so would Dubois. How was he to see her?
Wishing he’d worn a coat, he fetched the gelding from the livery and rode out to Sol’s—and was startled to find Josette in the barn.
She was graining her mule and Mazie, and looked up with a smile that shared the glow of the lantern as he led his horse to a stall.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said as if talking to his horse, speaking lightly to cover his surprise. “The prettiest hostler in Kansas.”
“Only Kansas?” she asked, bending to look at Mazie’s belly. “She’s healing up some.”
He shook rainwater off his hat and came to stand beside her. He wanted to ask why she was here, but he decided she’d tell him in her own good time. “I just saw Sheriff Dawson. He’s on the mend, too. You hear about that?”
“Slim Coggins told us in the store. This man Fisher was shooting at you and hit the sheriff?”
Seth winced. “Not quite the way it was.” He told her the story, downplaying his own danger.
“So he knows you, this wanted man?”
“I took some money off him in a poker game, and that led to Hickok posting him out of town. Does not seem to have forgiven me for it. He murdered a man and escaped from jail.”
She shivered. “There are some evil men afoot in this state.”
He wanted to take her in his arms—but he was soaked, and anyhow, he was not within his rights to act so boldly.
“You are one wet cowboy,” she remarked, making a show of looking him over with disapproval. “You should go put on a dry shirt. It is foolish to ride about in the rain without a slicker.”
“It’s not cold. Maybe it’ll finally get all the ashes washed off me.” She was standing so near him—was that the warmth of her body he felt or just the way she made him feel?
They were silent for a long moment as the rain drummed on the roof.
A thought occur
red to him. “Are you here at the Hamers’ because— Well, was it your father?”
Her lips buckled, and she closed her eyes. “Yes. Heywood came and . . .” She gave that curiously evocative shrug of hers.
Anger rose up in Seth, hot and pervasive. “Did Dubois hit you?” he demanded.
Josette opened her eyes—and instead of answering his question, she said, “You asked me for a kiss in the Hawkings’ kitchen. If you are still desirous of it, you may have it now.”
The anger was swept away by another feeling—just as she’d intended, he guessed—as his arms went around her, and his lips found hers. It was a short kiss, just a handful of seconds, but he felt it all through him. Then she pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder, and he held her close.
“Seth . . .”
“Now . . . now, you heed me good, Josette. I have twenty-six-hundred dollars saved, some of it at home in a bank, some hidden away right here in this barn. I believe I can make a deal for that land in Chaseman. It’ll be some considerable work, but me and Franklin, we’ll build the cabin and the outbuildings. There’ll be a lot of work for all of us. I’ll hire out to keep the cash coming in until—”
“Seth?” Josette leaned a little away from him but stayed within the circle of his arms. She looked up at him in wonder. “What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking you to be my wife, of course! You know I love you, and I always have, Josette. No man could ask for a better woman. It was a power of luck, running into you here—I couldn’t hardly believe it. We can’t let that go, Josette. It was meant to be.”
“Luck?” She raised her eyebrows. “Running into me got you tossed into the pokey, Seth Coe! I don’t call that luck!”
“Seeing you in that store—luckiest thing that ever happened to me, bar none.”
She smiled—at the same time looking as if she might cry. “I’m . . . I don’t know . . .”
“You don’t have to decide this minute! But, Josette, you said yourself you would not have Heywood Kelmer. Now, there are other good men, I know, but you and I, why . . .” He ran out of words, trying to figure out why he should ace all those other men out.
She cocked her head and lifted her chin. “And suppose I choose not to get married at all? I remember Amy Lou Smith—she was a spinster and seemed quite happy that way. I could get a job, perhaps in Kansas City. Or I could go to San Francisco or . . .”
He looked at her closely to see if she was in earnest. “Are you so soured on men now?”
Josette sighed and nestled against him once more. “My mama, she—” She broke off and shook her head. “I don’t want to speak of that just now.”
“I can take you far away from Dubois,” Seth said, “and Heywood Kelmer. You never need be troubled with the likes of them again!”
She gave a little laugh that seemed to melt seamlessly into a sob. “Oh, Seth—I don’t care to be rushed. But it feels so good when you hold me. It feels . . . like I can’t let go of you, Seth.” She leaned back and looked him in the eyes. “I will not ride with you to Texas unless we are married first. Here in town, it might not go well. Papa might interfere. We shall go to the county seat. And there we could . . .”
He grinned quite involuntarily. It was such a wide grin, he could feel it on his face. “Am I hearing right? You’ll marry me?”
“Haven’t I just said so? But you still need a dry shirt. You’re getting my blouse wet. Give me another kiss, and I’ll go tell Daisy we’re betrothed! She’ll be so pleased! Oh, and I’ve got to ask Sol if he’ll take that poor mule home to Papa. . . .”
He watched her go and then went to take the saddle off the gelding, thinking that sure, Daisy would be pleased they were to be married, and certainly Seth Coe was as pleased as punch.
But Francois Dubois and Heywood Kelmer . . .
Who knew what they would do when they heard?
CHAPTER TEN
It had been a long ride for Fisher and the others, first through the dusty evening and then through the rainy dark. Sometime past midnight, the rain finally eased into occasional drizzle, having finished its job—it had soaked them all to the bone, despite their slickers. The driving rain had left the roads muddy, so the five riders, with Gaines leading the way, trotted at the side of the road in the grass; no one wanted to risk a horse stumbling in the mud, maybe to break an ankle.
The five outlaws were almost as weary as their horses as they came in sight of Buffalo Junction. Fisher was glad to see it, but he was cautious, too. He’d been here only once, but he knew it could be a powder keg.
It was a dark night, but the lights made Buffalo Junction visible. Feathers Martin kept lanterns and lamps lit all round it, on posts around the house and along the road from the gate. There was a wooden fence, half fallen in places, around the fifty-acre property, and it was pretty well lit up so they could see anyone approaching—especially lawmen, for Buffalo Junction was a hideout for men on the run.
Sticking out like a sore thumb on the flat, mostly empty prairie, Feathers’s establishment consisted of two shabby buildings set on the diagonal from each other where two roads intersected. Across from Feathers’s so-called Traveler’s Inn, an ancient chestnut spread its foliage over a sprawling one-story structure where horses and mules and sometimes even oxen were put up in long, narrow sheds to either side of the blacksmith. The stable was dark but for a stall at its center glowing hellishly in the blackness, the red shine marking its farrier at work. As they rode up, they could hear his hammer clanging on an anvil beside the white-hot brick forge.
The inn itself was a two-story building, once a handsome farmhouse, the upstairs divided into three rooms, two for the girls, one with bunks rented to men on the dodge. The downstairs sitting room had been converted to a saloon. The place leaned, just a little, and it’d been shored up with sunken timbers. There was a small barn out behind, where meat animals spent their short lives.
Both roads converging at Buffalo Junction were dirt, one of them little more than a trail heading south into low foothills and eventually to Oklahoma.
“I don’t like this place much,” Fisher said as they rode up to the farrier. “But on the other hand—it’s a godsend on a night like this. Feathers does make sure the roof’s kept sound.”
“Howdy there, Whistler,” Gaines called as they rode up.
Whistler broke off from a perfect-pitch rendition of “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” dropped a horseshoe into a tub of water where it sizzled, as a red-hot horseshoe ought to, and turned to gawk up at the rider. He tended to have his mouth open when he was getting a good look at something. “That you, Buster?”
“It is,” Gaines said. “Worn out, wet, but too warm and needing a drink—but it’s me. Here with Hannibal Fisher and Smiley Briggs and a couple fellers I don’t think you know.”
Whistler, so called because he whistled a good many quite distinctive tunes as he worked, was a brawny, shirtless man who’d kept his lantern jaw shaved since the one time his departed beard had caught fire over the forge. No one dared make jokes about that occasion, for he was six feet six, and Gaines reckoned him at about three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He was not only the blacksmith; he was an executioner on those occasions when the boss wanted a special example made. Because Whistler would get it done ugly.
Gaines climbed down and the others followed suit. “You got room to put up our horses?”
“Sure ’nuff. There’s only four fellas in the house besides Feathers. There’s alfalfa and water there, too.” He pointed his tongs toward the other riders and said, “That’s four bits a man for the nags, paid in advance however long you’re like to be here.”
The money was paid over—with some grumbling, since all but Fisher and Diamond were running short on cash—and they put the horses away. They removed the saddles, but only Bettiger remained to rub down his horse. The horses steamed, the night having cooled bu
t little in the summer rain.
“Who do you suppose are the four men holed up here?” Fisher asked as they walked up to the main house, their saddlebags and bedrolls over their shoulders. “Hell, I should’ve asked Whistler.”
“They ain’t the law, and that’s all you need to know,” said Briggs.
“Is it? I’ll make up my own mind about that.”
The door opened before they got to it, for they’d been seen a quarter mile off. There were two men, Fisher knew, who watched the roads from up in the attic windows. Cletus Spence and Attic Bird Henderson. They were equipped with spyglasses and long-range rifles. Henderson, who was at least half mad, didn’t like coming down from the attic unless the job required it.
Cletus Spence answered the door, shotgun in his hands—but it wasn’t pointed at them, for he knew Gaines, Briggs, and Fisher. Cletus’s round face was mostly hidden in beard; he had tiny piggish eyes and hands that looked like they hadn’t been washed since childhood. He wore a red undershirt and suspenders holding up grime-blackened trousers. Under pressure of Cletus’s swag belly, the suspenders struggled to keep hold of his pants; Fisher had won a bet with a fellow traveler, the last time he was here, suggesting one of the suspenders would lose its grip before midnight.
“Where’s Deef Harry?” Gaines asked as Cletus grunted at them something that might have been an invitation to enter. He recalled the old doorman as an unusually well-bathed man and mostly deaf but courtly in his manners, all things being relative.
“He’s daid.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Gaines as he came into the front hall, peeling off his rain slicker. “What happened?”
“Feathers kicked Boris Hepps out for beatin’ on Cindy. Boris, he come back angry, saying he’d left his poke hidden away, and when Harry opened the door to him, why, Boris shot the first man he seen.”
“That being Harry? I am grieved to hear it. I liked ol’ Harry. What become of Boris?”
“I knocked him down when he come a-runnin’ in past me, and Feathers, he gave him over to Whistler so’s to get it done ugly.”
