Prairie Fire, Kansas

by John Shirley

  “Can’t tell, Josette. Not sure how late the courthouse stays open in Freeman . . .”

  It was almost dusk by the time they got into Freeman, Josette saddle weary, the horses tired, and Seth worried. The town was surprisingly noisy, with a great many wagons bustling in the amalgam-paved street and small crowds talking on the walkways. Some sort of celebration banner was being put up across the main street by several men in fancy firemen’s uniforms.

  The courthouse was a two-story structure of brick and neatly ornamental wood, right in the center of town. A little man with a gray goatish beard and a blue constable’s uniform was just locking the front doors when they rode up.

  “Now, hold on, mister, if you please!” Seth called, handing Josette his reins and climbing down. “Wait!” He rushed up the steps to the constable.

  The wizened constable turned to him, frowning, and asked in a high-pitched voice, “What’s all this commotion now?”

  “We need to get married—right away!”

  The constable squinted at Josette, who was now tying their horses to a fireplug. “I don’t see any urgency there. If she’s with child, no one will know if you wait a day—”

  “Mister,” Seth snapped, “careful what you say!”

  The constable gave him an amused smile. “Maybe I spoke too quick. But, son, the justice has gone home for the day. We open tomorrow at eight thirty. He’ll be in at nine. And there’s paperwork to be done, too!”

  Seth growled to himself, and, remembering that he’d need to get past this constable on the morrow, said, “Much obliged. We’ll be here tomorrow at eight thirty. Where might be a decent place we can get a couple rooms for the night?”

  The old man gave his head a firm shake. “All full up! Every last room in town is rented! People are even renting out their sitting rooms! Folks is coming in from all over the county for the big hoot’n’holler!”

  “How’d they know we were coming?” Seth asked dryly as Josette joined them.

  “As I reckon you know, young smart aleck,” said the constable, “it ain’t your marryin’ they’re excited about. It’s Mayor Huffings’s wedding to the governor’s niece! Huffings owns half the property hereabouts, he’s a man whose pockets are fair stuffed with cash, and he’s throwing a big to-do! The wedding will be in the Baptist church on Elderberry Street. Afterward there’s a band playing in Freeman Square, with dancing, free beer—everyone’s invited!”

  “Where will we stay tonight?” Josette asked, looking down the busy street. “It does look quite crowded.”

  “We’ll see what we can find. . . .”

  They asked up and down the street and nearly everywhere else, but could find not even a single bed for rent. At last, Josette gave a Gallic shrug and said, “I camped rough as a little girl, and I can do it again. We have two blankets we can lie on. I am sure I can trust you to be a gentleman.”

  “Why, of course you can!”

  He thought she seemed a little disappointed at his certainty, but she spread her hands, gave another shrug, and said, “Let us find a quiet place near town with some water. The night will be warm. We have some food left. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  That them?” Gaines asked.

  “It is,” said Heywood grimly.

  The six men—Briggs, Gaines, Dubois, Bettiger, Sweeney, and Heywood Kelmer—were gathered on the balcony of Dolly’s Dance Hall and Saloon. The enormous wedding banner was tied, at an upper corner, to the railing of the balcony whence it stretched across the street. Fisher and Diamond were camped out in the countryside, not wanting to come in because there were wanted posters on both of them and far too many lawmen in this fairly large town. Heywood had been dismayed, hearing of the wanted posters, but he wasn’t sure if it was safe to back out now. And after all, there was Josette riding past right below him alongside Seth Coe.

  “Looks like it’s how you thought, Buster,” said Bettiger. “They’re going south. Couldn’t find a place in town, so they’re heading home.”

  “Or they plan to camp,” said Sweeney. “They got here after courthouse hours, seems to me.”

  The noise from the street covered their talk: the chatter of the crowd, the clatter of buggies, the calls of bullwhackers shouting at the oxen towing wagons loaded with beer barrels.

  “Yes,” said Dubois. “They come so far—they will not go back. We must stop them before they marry.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Bettiger asked nervously. “I mean—how you going to stop them?”

  “We take them prisoner,” said Gaines. “Fisher wants to ask Coe where his money might be. He sees us planning to skin that girl, he’ll talk.”

  Dubois gave him a sharp look. “What is this?”

  “Just a little playacting is all it’ll be,” suggested Sweeney.

  “Then, once we’re satisfied he’s told us true,” said Gaines, “we finish Coe and stick him in a shallow grave. The girl—well, we’ll finish our arrangements with Dubois here.”

  Bettiger stared at Gaines as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t think that’s . . . I thought we were just going to give her back to her father and have done with it!”

  “Did you? You seem to be a weak reed, boy,” Gaines said, looking at him thoughtfully. “You want to stay aboveground, you’d better play along.” He cast a dark look at Heywood and Dubois. “That goes for all of you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Franklin had worked the ropes off his wrists with the help of a nail sticking out of the wall, but getting out of the smoke shed was another challenge entirely. The floor was of stone; the walls—smelling heavily of smoked pig—were logs cut roughly into squared-off timbers. The door was of heavy wood and was padlocked on the outside. He’d tried throwing his weight on the door to break the lock, but it was too firmly secured.

  The only light came through cracks, a thin reddish sundown glow angling bladelike down, illuminating dust. He’d been given no food, not even water, and his throat was starting to close from dehydration. It was stuffy in here, stifling hot. But for hour after hour, Franklin dug away at a lower back corner of the shack, using the dull meat hook the Sublettes had left hanging from the ceiling. He’d found a weak spot in the shed’s back corner where one of the logs along the floor hadn’t reached far enough. The empty space had been filled with a shorter cut. The space it had filled might be big enough for him to wriggle through if he could remove the shorter log they’d used as a plug. But the chinks were plastered, and the wood was firmly stuck in place.

  Hands aching, wrists burning, Franklin felt like he was nevertheless making progress. He’d gotten most of the plaster out and weakened the pressure on the lumber by scraping away a layer of wood.

  Suppose they did get a lawman in here? Who would the lawman believe? Probably the man would trust Ma Sublette, she being a local.

  Grimacing at the thought of getting taken out of here and moved to yet another kind of cell, he bent more eagerly to his work.

  But a minute later, Franklin heard muffled footsteps. He set the meat hook aside and leaned up against the wall to cover up his efforts in case they should look in on him.

  “You ain’t stinking up my shed in there, are you?” came Ma Sublette’s voice at the door.

  “Ma’am, I’ve neither ate nor drank!” Franklin called, his voice a croak. “I’ve got nothing to eliminate! Now, if you want to keep me alive, you’ll give me some water!”

  “I’ll think on it!” she said. He heard her shuffling away.

  He went back to work and, in another minute, felt a breath of cool air come through the chinks. Encouraged, he labored feverishly—and in a few minutes more the lumber was almost loose. He set to tugging at it, to using the hook as a pry bar with one hand, his other gripping the wood at the end. It came free—and he pulled it into the shed.

 
; “Thank the good Lord,” Franklin muttered. He picked up the meat hook, took one long breath, then lay down flat, thrust his arms through the gap, and wriggled forward. He was not a small man, and he reflected that it would be mighty humiliating and downright maddening were he to get stuck partway through. The back of the smoker was up against the log cabin, and his escape route was out the shed’s exposed side, around the corner from the door. If he didn’t get out quick and find some cover, they’d see him.

  Feeling like a caterpillar, Franklin inched forward, using his elbows and the meat hook in his left hand, which he dug into the hard ground. A couple of inches, a couple more—then his shoulders caught partway through the gap, compressed by the wood to either side.

  He groaned, then cursed under his breath. Then he blew all the air from his chest and tried to relax his muscles to make a little room. There—it felt less constrictive. Feeling about with the fingers of his right hand, he encountered the base of a branch that had been roughly sawn off on a log on the cabin. He gripped it and pulled, at the same time levering with his left elbow where it dug into the dirt. He began moving again. Inch by inch.

  He got his shoulders and chest through and wriggled faster. After that, it was fairly easy.

  Before long, Franklin was getting to his feet in the darkness outside, panting, feeling dizzy but elated.

  He heard footsteps and pressed back into the shadows, holding his breath.

  “All righty, Mr. Sneak Thief” came Possum’s voice. “Ma’s a Christian woman, so’s you get this here canteen. I ain’t sayin’ if it’s been spat in.”

  Franklin knelt by the hole in the shed, put his head partway through, and shouted, “I’m dying of thirst, Possum! I can’t even sit up!”

  “Hold on, hold on. . . . I’ll toss it in!”

  Franklin crept to the corner of the shed and heard the big key turn on the heart-shell lock. The door creaked open.

  “Where are you? Step into the damn light!” Possum said. Franklin eased from cover, circled behind Possum, reached out—and snatched the dragoon from Possum’s gun belt.

  “What the holy—” Possum turned around and met the gun muzzle shoved up under his chin.

  “Be quiet, or I’ll see if this ol’ pistol still fires,” Franklin growled. “If it don’t, I’ll use the barrel to crack that pea brain of yours right in!”

  Possum froze, gaping at him.

  “Now,” Franklin said in a hoarse whisper, “you took fourteen dollars off me. Where is it?”

  Hand trembling, Possum dug in a pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

  Franklin took it. “Turn around!”

  “What you gonna do?”

  “Depends on what you do! Turn around!”

  Franklin stepped back, looked at the money, squinting in the dim light. He picked out fourteen dollars, pocketed it, then pressed his boot against Possum’s back and shoved.

  Possum staggered through the open door and turned to face the doorway, hands raised. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Franklin hissed. “And take this money!” He threw the remainder of the bills into the shed. “I took fourteen dollars and no more,” he went on, whispering. “Because I am no thief! If I ever see you and your brother again, I’m going to call you out, and I’ll shoot you one at a time! Now, shut up in there—if I hear any noise, I’m going to shoot through that door!”

  Franklin shut the door and locked it, then hurried off to the horse sheds. There he found his horse, saddle, canteen, and saddlebags. He took up the canteen and drank deeply.

  Then he saddled the horse, slung his saddlebags, mounted, and rode off at a gallop toward Prairie Fire, hoping he was in time to warn Seth. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  The nearest place that seemed suitable to Seth, where they could be screened from road agents and the like, turned out to be on a flat, grassy spot under a willow tree drooping over a thin stream. He and Josette were screened from the road by a stand of cottonwoods, and there was no one else in sight. Their horses were close by, contentedly cropping grass. Seth wore his gun belt and had the Winchester at hand.

  They sat on a blanket, between two tree roots, eating corn cakes and salted venison and watching the shadows from the setting sun stretch over the stream. Dragonflies skittered through the rushes, and frogs plopped into the eddies. There was a smell of some blossom in the air, a flower that Seth couldn’t identify.

  “I think I might prefer this to a lonely hotel room,” he said. “But I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a bed, Josette.”

  “I am perfectly content,” she said, picking up her canteen. “But tomorrow, how shall I prepare myself? I have to bathe and brush my hair at least! Here? I don’t know. I need a mirror! And some privacy!”

  “We passed a farm coming out here. It had a civilized look. Maybe I can ask them if they’ll let us use their pump, borrow their barn for a few minutes to get ready. If we tell them we’re—”

  He broke off, listening. Was that the sound of horses coming through the trees?

  “Yes, if we tell them we’re getting married, they will help us. I’m sure of it!” Josette said. She frowned, hearing the hooves now herself.

  Suddenly her father was there, trotting a hired horse through the willow trees, about twenty yards down the stream bank, followed by four other riders draped in the thickening shadows of evening: Heywood Kelmer, Peanut Sweeney, and two men Seth did not recognize. Dubois was riding in front, and the others were lining up behind him, in the narrow opening between the trees and the stream.

  “Get on your horse quick as you can, Josette!” Seth said, grabbing up the Winchester. He stood up, tucking the butt of the rifle into his shoulder, aiming square at Dubois. “Hold right there, you men!”

  “Seth—” Josette said.

  “Unless you want to go with them, Josette,” he grated, “get on the horse!” He heard her running to her horse.

  Staring at Seth’s rifle, Dubois reined in, and the others were forced to stop behind him.

  “Get out of the damn way!” yelled the big bearish man blocked behind Dubois.

  “Don’t you try it, Dubois!” Seth shouted. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I’ll do it!” Seth began to back up toward his horse.

  “Surrender!” Dubois shouted. “I want my daughter!”

  “She’s with me of her own free will!” Seth replied.

  Cursing in French, Dubois started his mount forward. Seth fired at the ground in front of Dubois’s horse, making it balk. It twisted, backing up.

  “Seth!” Josette called, her voice breaking. “Don’t kill him!”

  The big bearish man started his horse into the stream, going around Dubois. He had a pistol in hand and fired, the shot cracking past Seth’s right ear. Seth fired back, and his target jerked in his saddle, his face contorting, his horse rearing.

  “Go, Josette!” Seth shouted. “I’m right behind you!” He bolted the five paces to his mount, stepped into the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn with his free hand, and then he was in the saddle riding after Josette. She was heading upslope, following the thin trail they’d used to come down to the stream. As he stuck his Winchester in its saddle holster, Josette looked back at him, and he waved a hand toward the south. “Go! Quick! I’ll be right with you!”

  Horses whinnied behind them, a bullet cracked, and Seth felt a vicious dig at his left arm, a searing pain above the elbow.

  Then they’d reached the road, and Josette was galloping to the south, with Seth close behind her. They quickly came to a sharp switchback, and Seth spurred the gelding up close to Josette as they rode hard around the sharp bend. He recalled that the road straightened out after this—a stretch where their pursuers would have a clear shot at them. He had to get Josette off the main road.

  “Josette,” he called, passing her, “follow me!”
>
  Off to the left, a ravine opened up, leading down to a marsh. He rode into the ravine, and she swung to follow him. They had to force their horses through the brush choking the ravine. In a few moments, they were down in the cut and screened by underbrush.

  Seth grabbed the reins of Josette’s roan, and they halted on a stretch of clay ground just short of the marsh. He put a finger over his lips, and they listened. A few seconds passed, and then they heard the riders drumming by on the road overhead.

  “Seth, what’ll we do? They’ll come back here looking for us!”

  “It’ll take ’em some time to work out where we are,” he said. His heart was pounding, his breath coming fast.

  “Your arm—you’ve been shot!”

  He looked at his throbbing left arm. A bullet had grooved through the left side of it, cutting in a quarter inch deep. Didn’t seem like a bad wound, but it was bleeding freely.

  “Get down off that horse instantly!” she commanded.

  Surprised at this sudden outburst of authority from Josette, he climbed down, wincing at the pain in his arm. She was quickly beside him, unbuttoning his sleeve and rolling it up. She tied a handkerchief over the wound and then used another from her saddlebag to make a simple tourniquet above it. “You’ll have to loosen that in a while. . . .”

  She broke off, startled by her own bloodied hands, and went quickly to the marsh water. She crouched, laving the blood off, and, voice trembling, said, “We can’t stay here long, Seth, can we?”

  “No. Maybe we can ride across country, then circle back to Freeman. Look for the marshal there.”

  She stood up and looked at him, her face pale. “You shot one of those men!”

  “Only when he almost shot my head off!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut at that. “Oh, God. They’ll testify that you murdered that man.”

  He went to her, took her in his arms. “I think I hit him in the shoulder. He’ll live, most like. And—the truth’ll come out, honey. No one will jail me for it, I promise.”