by John Shirley
“She’s back!” Fisher shouted. “Everybody up!”
Grumbling, the men got up and gathered around to hear what Cindy had to say.
She climbed off the little horse and said, “That Seth Coe’s signed some papers with the marshal, telling what happened up north. I stood outside the marshal’s office and heard some of their talk. Coe’s planning to get married in a few days. Then he went to dickering with the fellow in the stables. Seems like he’s going to be right on the main street there for a while.”
Fisher grunted and looked off toward Prairie Fire. “Sounds like Heywood failed to hang on to his little Josette.” The way things were shaping up, it seemed he wouldn’t have time to capture Coe and grill him about the whereabouts of his money. He’d just have to kill him and hope it was on his body. “The marshal was around when you left town, Cindy?”
“He is. Seen him through the window, sittin’ in his office.”
“You can make another hundred dollars if you do exactly what I say. . . .”
* * *
* * *
Seth came out of the city hall, smiling. He was feeling good, despite the ache in his bandaged left arm. It was a hot late afternoon, but not terrible hot, and he was going to get married once he set a date with Josette.
He came upon Franklin sitting on a bench in front of the marshal’s office, fussing with a knot in an old lasso. Franklin’s horse was tied up at the hitching post, scuffing its hooves as if eager to be off.
“You haven’t got your buckaroo knot figured, Franklin?” Seth said, ambling up.
“I’m learning a new one Cullin showed me. Anyway, he give me this, and I can’t get it untied. I’m about to figure it out using my pocketknife. Like that feller they told us about in school. Alexander the somebody.”
“Alexander the Great. Gordian knot, that was. He cut right through it. I’ve just about sawn through my own: Judge Twilley says I’m in the clear. My statement and Josette’s and yours are good enough for him. Soon’s I get married, and after me and Josette have a night at the inn, we can all three head south to Chaseman.”
“That’s fine! I’m more than ready to get out of Kansas. Seems like it should be quiet farming country, yet it’s always got some trouble going. Texas is peaceful compared to this.” He sat back and put a serious look on his face. “I just have one question—supposing Judge Twilley and Doc Twilley were to change clothes, maybe both shave the same. Could Doc Twilley play the judge and the judge the doctor with no one the wiser?”
Seth laughed. “Another puzzle!”
“What say we figure it out over a glass of beer?”
“You go on. I’ll join you right quick. I just want to look in on Sheriff Dawson.”
“Good enough.” Franklin threw the knotted lasso down in disgust. “I want no more to do with that durn thing.” He got up, stretched, and climbed on his horse. The saloon was just far enough away to ride to. “Don’t make it too long, or I’ll start in on the whiskey.”
Seth watched him go, thinking he was always going to be in Franklin’s debt. Without him, he’d be vulture meat on a lonely little island in the marshes.
Whistling “Camptown Races” to himself, Seth strolled to Doc Twilley’s place. He knocked and the doc called out, “Come in. Everybody else has!”
Seth came in just as two ladies in bonnets were departing, both carrying baskets. He took off his hat and said, “Ladies . . .” and stepped out of their way.
He went into the back room to see Dawson sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, right down to the boots. Doc Twilley was taking the sheriff’s pulse. The sheriff still looked a little pale, and there was a cane leaning on the bed next to him.
“Steady as can be,” the doc said.
“Why, he looks like he’s rarin’ to go!” Seth exclaimed.
Dawson grinned. “Been up and walking. Some.”
“Still hurts when he breathes deep,” said the doc, “and will for a while. He has to stay right close to bed and use the cane when he moves around till he’s got his strength back. Be a while before he can ride. Even in a stagecoach. But he’s on the mend.”
“Took one in the chest and near ready to ride a bronc!” Seth said. “Sheriff, you’re one tough bird.”
“I could ride if he’d let me!” Dawson said. “The man’s a terrible tyrant.”
“You’d start bleeding and choking on blood if you try to ride,” declared Doc Twilley. “But you can go out on the porch, sit in the chair, smirk at the ladies.”
“Always been good at all them things,” said Dawson, leaning on the cane to get up. A wince showed some pain, but he seemed steady. “What I want to do is clean my gun. Didn’t clean it this whole time. Got dust and ashes in it. Where’re my saddlebags? I got some oil and a brush in there. . . .”
“You’ll do,” Seth said. “Sheriff—if you’re up to it, Josette and I are getting married. Not sure of the day yet. Be honored if you’d witness for us.”
“Be a pleasure.”
Seth stuck his hat on his head, grinned at them both, and whistling once more, went back to the street. He headed for the marshal’s office, having a message from the Hamers for Slim.
A strikingly skinny woman in a riding outfit was walking toward him. She had a lady’s riding hat with a yellow plume in it. She stared at him in a way that unsettled him as he lifted his hat to her. He walked past her and looked through the window of the marshal’s office. No one there. He decided he’d write the message out and leave it on his desk.
Inside the office, Seth felt someone watching him, and he looked up. There was the lady in the riding habit again, looking through the window at him. Then she hurried off.
Shrugging, Seth took up a pencil and paper, wondering where Slim Coggins had got to. . . .
* * *
* * *
Slim Coggins came banging through the door into the Gypsy Saloon, his gun drawn. He stopped, staring around in bafflement. “Where are they?”
Franklin looked up from the bar. “Where are who, Marshal?”
Slim looked around in confusion. “I was told someone was robbing the bar!”
Franklin and the bartender were alone in the saloon, Franklin nursing a beer and eating pork rinds. The bartender shook his head. “Nope. Who told you this?”
Slim holstered his gun. “A lady named Cindy McGill, or so she said. Never saw her around before. Said she saw two masked men running in here with their guns drawn!”
“Been peaceful as the grave in here,” said Franklin.
“Little too peaceful for business,” said the bartender. “Someone’s been pulling your leg, Slim.”
A sudden dread struck Franklin. He got off the barstool. “Marshal—seems like someone wanted you away from town!”
Slim’s eyes widened. “Holy cats!”
Franklin suddenly thought of Hannibal Fisher. And of Seth being back there alone.
He bolted past Slim and out the door, shouting, “Come on, Slim!”
They were astride their horses and riding toward town so fast, Franklin couldn’t remember mounting. It suddenly came to Franklin that the saloon wasn’t that far from town. That meant Fisher would have sent someone. . . .
“Look out, Slim!” he shouted, drawing his gun as the big man stepped into the road. He was standing by the wooden fence of the stock-buyer’s pen, a thick-bodied, round-faced man with a corona of bushy hair and beard round his head; he wore suspenders stretching over a red shirt. But what most caught Franklin’s notice was the shotgun in his hands—the shotgun that was tracking the marshal. Franklin realized this man had been waiting for the Town Marshal to come back from the saloon.
Slim didn’t see the outlaw, nor did he take heed of Franklin’s warning. He was riding intently toward town.
Franklin veered his mount straight for the outlaw, shouting, “Hi-yi-yi-
yawwww!” as loud as he could to get his attention. The big stranger reflexively jerked the shotgun toward Franklin.
But he hadn’t got it lined up before Franklin started firing. The shotgun boomed, but the blast roared out between the two horses and the top of the outlaw’s head vanished from the eyebrows up.
By heaven, Franklin thought, that was a lucky shot. . . .
He galloped on past the falling outlaw, not even seeing him hit the ground as he followed Slim into town.
* * *
* * *
Seth was seated at the Town Marshal’s desk, writing on a piece of paper, I’m going back to the farm, Slim—Sol’s inviting you and Mrs. Coggins to dinner tonight, when he heard a gunshot and shouts from the bank across the street.
Seth dropped the pencil and drew his gun, rushing to the open door. Just as he moved out from behind the office window, it shattered, a bullet screaming past him, shards of glass flying, glittering around him in the harsh sunlight.
Seth saw the gunman through the open door. There, in the narrow alley across the street, standing in the shadows, was Hannibal Fisher, coolly cocking and aiming his gun.
Seth ducked back behind the wall between the door and the window as another bullet cracked past him. Heart thudding, he leaned back enough to glance out the window toward the bank. Three men with flour sacks on their heads, holes cut for their eyes, were coming out of the bank, canvas money bags in one hand and revolvers in the other. They turned toward their mounts to the side of the bank, the horses shying at the gunshots, tugging at the reins tied to the hitching post. The man in the black frock coat was there, trying to get up on his horse. Beside him was a bigger man with a full beard that stuck out under his mask; the beard was festooned with feathers. Likely that’d be Feathers Martin.
Feathers ran up to one of the horses, pulled it loose from the post. The other two outlaws were trying to climb up on their own spooked horses, but they were encumbered by the bags.
“Seth Coe!” called Fisher. “Come on out! Come out and give me my money back!”
“Fisher!” Seth called out. “You have lost your senses! The law is coming!” And indeed, Seth heard urgent hoofbeats coming from the street.
“Fisher, damn it, we’re going!” called one of the outlaws. The man in the black frock coat. “Leave it be!”
A gunshot rang out from down the street to Seth’s right. Seth figured the law had dismounted and gone for cover. He heard Slim’s voice. “Drop your weapons!”
Another gunshot kicked up dust by Feathers’s stock horse. The horse reared, jerking the reins from his hands, and galloped off. The two other robbers turned to fire toward Slim.
“Seth!” It was Franklin’s voice.
Seth risked a look out the door and saw Franklin afoot, ducking into the recessed door of the milliner’s shop.
“Fisher’s in the alley across from me, Franklin!” Seth shouted.
Seth still couldn’t see the marshal, but he heard him shout, “Drop them guns, or we’ll cut you down, boys!”
Seth risked a quick glance out the window and saw Feathers fire at the marshal. Then the outlaw turned to grab the smaller one climbing on his horse, pulling him down so he sprawled on the street. The smaller outlaw, cursing, got to his feet, scooping up his fallen gun. A bullet clanged off a metal fixture on a post near him.
Seth decided he had to get in the fight, and he would simply pick the best target. He fired out the window at Feathers, who was trying to get up in the saddle. The round struck low on the outlaw’s left side, and he stumbled, losing the stirrup and roaring in pain; then he swung his gun toward the marshal’s office and fired. Seth fired at the same moment, letting the schooling that Slim had given him guide his hand. Feathers’s bullet sang past Seth’s head, but his own went home in the bearded man’s big belly. Feathers staggered but kept to his feet, firing.
Seth fired once more, and the robber’s head jerked—he took two steps toward Seth . . . and fell on his face, twitching.
A bullet from Fisher slashed past Seth, and he ducked back under cover.
Gunfire cracked back and forth, two of the outlaws firing at Slim and Franklin. Seth leaned over, fired out the window, hitting the shorter outlaw in the leg, the shot knocking him off his feet.
The man in the black frock coat rushed to his horse, mounted, and fired toward the marshal, then galloped off down the street—but Franklin and Slim fired at the same time, two shots close together, and the man on the horse arched his back, wounded. He turned in the saddle and returned fire as his horse galloped off to Seth’s left as he struggled to control it.
The smaller one tried to hobble off, turning to fire as he went. Another gun cracked, with a heavier sound than the other two—the outlaw gave out a cry that mingled pain and despair as he toppled over backward. The sound of that gun—that was Dawson, Seth reckoned. He’d come down the street and joined in! The sheriff’s revolver roared again and struck the outlaw riding away. The man in the black frock coat pitched from the saddle.
“Seth Coe!” Fisher shouted, firing.
Seth ducked back from the window. Three more shots from the bigger gun. Seth leaned over and looked toward Fisher—and caught a glimpse of him turning, running down the alley. Dawson was getting too close and had driven Fisher off.
“Fisher!” Seth shouted. He fired after him, emptying his gun—and missing.
He holstered his revolver and turned to the rack just inside the door. Seth grabbed a shotgun, checked that it was loaded, and ran out the door through a cloud of gray-blue gun smoke, vowing that Fisher was not going to get away. The man had sold Josette to another man. The man had hunted him down and twice tried to kill him. It had to end. If Seth Coe had anything to say about it, he was not going to let Hannibal Fisher live.
Seth ran through the alley, emerged on the dirt road crossing behind it—in time to see Josette.
She was standing behind the buckboard, staring at Fisher, who was running right at her, gun in hand. Leaning against the buckboard beside her was Seth’s Winchester. Josette turned and grabbed up the rifle.
“Fisher!” Seth shouted. “I’m here! Turn around!”
“You’ll drop your gun, or I’ll kill her, Coe!” Fisher yelled. He was three strides from Josette.
Seth sprinted, shotgun in hand. He had to get to a good shooting angle—he couldn’t risk hitting Josette.
Josette turned, backing around the side of the buckboard, raising the gun as Fisher came almost in reach of her. She fired, but the bullet only clipped part of his left ear away. Fisher snatched at her, and she swung the gun barrel, knocking his hands aside—
Then Seth was there, skidding to a stop, yelling, “Josette, get down!”
She threw herself down as Fisher turned to him—and Seth pulled the trigger.
The blast hit Hannibal Fisher in the side, spinning him so that he was facing away from Seth. The wound in his side smoking, Fisher took an unsteady step—then whipped quickly around, snarling, raising his gun.
Seth gave him the other barrel almost point-blank dead center in his chest. Fisher was lifted off his feet and fell heavily on his back, splashing a puddle of his own blood.
Hands shaking, Seth tossed the shotgun aside and ran to Josette, who was getting up, her hands trembling over her eyes.
He put his arms around her, and she gasped and sobbed into his shoulder. “Are you all right, Josette? Did he hurt you?”
“No, no, he . . .” She took a deep breath and then straightened up, wiped tears from her eyes, and looked at him in a kind of defiance. “I’m all right now, Seth. We’ll be just fine. He can’t hurt us now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They were sitting at the table in the Hamers’ backyard—Seth, Josette, Sol, Daisy, and Franklin—finishing a light supper of cold meat and greens. It was still light out, but the sun was low enough to stretch shad
ows from the cottonwood. Franklin was on his second piece of apple pie; Seth was just poking at his with a fork. He had tried to eat out of politeness, but he kept seeing the same bloody images in his mind’s eye. Men shot full of holes. Fisher nearly blown in half.
He had killed two men this day and helped kill a third. That was going to take a lot of digesting before he could digest food, too.
Sol was packing his pipe, frowning. Shaking his head at his own thoughts. “It’s lucky no one died in the bank today,” he said. “One shot fired in the ceiling. That bank guard went to his knees and put his hands up without a sound! They were wise to give over the money. And it all came back, every dollar, within an hour!”
Josette had eaten little, and now she pushed her plate away. “Still got a butterfly or two fluttering in my middle,” she said.
Seth reached out and took her hand. “Me, too. Butterflies and maybe some bluebottles.”
“Who were all those fellows?” Daisy asked. “Franklin said there were five of them.”
“Slim got ’em identified,” Seth said. “Besides Fisher, there was Curt Diamond and Feathers Martin. That big owlhoot that Franklin shot was Cletus Spence. The short one was somebody named Briggs. All badmen known to the law.”
Franklin shook his head. “That bloodthirsty news writer fella kept on and on.”
“You sure had a lot to tell him,” Seth said.
“He kept askin’!” Franklin glanced quizzically at Josette. “Now, what were you doing in town, anyhow?”
She sighed. “I wanted to find Seth and go to the city hall and get the date set and all! I just . . . I don’t know. I needed to see him. And then, when I was getting close to town, I heard all the shooting. . . .”
“And that’s when you should have turned around and come back here!” Sol said, pointing his pipe stem at her.
Josette shook her head. “When I heard the shooting, I knew Seth was in it.”
“Which is why you should have done just what Sol said!” Seth said, snorting. “Good Lord, Josette!”
