Bob smiled dubiously. It was a wonder Sanders was able to sleep at all, let alone snore peacefully, given Fred’s noisy rumbling in such close proximity. It might even be considered a form of prisoner torture. Bob was just glad he had the mostly closed door as a sound buffer for himself.
From an old canteen hanging on the storeroom wall he took a couple swallows of stale water. Hanging the canteen back up, he told himself he needed to remember to get the vessel refilled with some fresher contents if he was going to be spending very many nights in the storeroom. At home, Consuela saw to it there was a pitcher of fresh water by his bed each night before he turned in.
Lying back on the cot once more, Bob felt a sudden pang of loneliness for home—almost as sharp as some of the moments he’d experienced back in the Devil’s River wilderness when he was hiding out on the wrong side of the law. Somewhat to his surprise, and guilt, he realized the home he was longing for was strictly the one just across town with Bucky and Consuela. For a moment, Priscilla had been more distant in his thoughts than at any time since her passing.
That troubled Bob.
He didn’t know for sure what time it was but suddenly knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep no matter the hour. He got up, picked up his boots, and carried them quietly out through the cell block and into the office area, closing the heavy door behind him. On reflection, as he sat down in his chair and tugged on the boots, he didn’t know why he’d put so much effort into being stealthy. With all the racket Fred was making, Bob could have marched out of the storeroom banging a tin pan and probably never been noticed.
The clock on the office wall said four-thirty.
He poked a fire to life in the stove, fed in some fresh splits of wood, and set a pot of coffee to brewing. While he was waiting for it to get done, he unlooked the front door and stepped outside.
The predawn air had a bite to it. Brisk, damp.
Storm coming, Bob thought. It was that uncertain time of early spring when it could rain or have a chance for some snow. It all depended on how much the day would warm up. Bob was pulling for rain. He’d had his fill of winter for another year.
He looked down the length of Front Street. The blurred shapes of the buildings were all dark and silent. Nothing moved. He liked the sense of solitude it provided, even if only fleeting.
One of the few fond memories he had from his time as an outlaw was waking to similar mornings deep in the Devil’s River wilderness with that same sensation. Of course, that had all been fleeting, too. The moments of peaceful solitude had never lasted long enough, and the rest of it—the chases, the danger and the hiding out, the empty stretches apart from his family—had dragged on too long. He couldn’t seem to get thoughts of those days out of his mind.
They added to the current matters darkening his mood. The threat of Sanders’s gang, for one, likely poised to return and make a try to break their leader out of jail . . . if Bob had it figured right.
Not to mention the certainty of that damnable reporter from Cheyenne due in, thanks to the good intentions of Abe Starbuck.
It was plain to Bob the dreams and stray thoughts of the past that kept crowding in were being generated by the risk of upheaval the reporter’s story would cause in his life. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to put a stop to either one—not the reporter, not the freshly stirred thoughts of the past.
It didn’t help a damn bit that he’d chosen to largely isolate himself from Bucky and Consuela until the business with Sanders and his gang played out. He’d had supper with them and had used the opportunity to make them understand why he was calling for such measures, explaining how he had reason to believe the Sanders gang would strike again soon to free their leader. That was why Bob needed to stick close to the jail and why he didn’t want Bucky or Consuela anywhere near there or him until the threat was past. They said they understood, but he could tell by their sullen attitudes that they really didn’t and, even if they did, they didn’t like it very much. As if he felt otherwise.
Bob had also paid a call on Kim and Mee-Kee at Bullock’s. He was surprised and pleased to find how well the two of them were hitting it off. Through interpretation, Mee-Kee had even thanked him for rescuing her, both from where she’d been half-buried in the rubble and from Pepper and Iverson. Kim had taken the night off from any other duties and was keeping close to Mee-Kee in order to continue getting her acclimated to different surroundings and a different life.
Exactly what that different life would turn out to be remained undecided. Maudie Sartain, Mike Bullock’s right-hand gal when it came to running the saloon and who also served as a sort of house mother to the girls working there, had pulled Bob aside on his way out. She reminded him that Bullock’s was not a halfway house for troubled girls who did nothing to earn their keep. Furthermore, due to his savior role, he bore a certain responsibility for helping to determine Mee-Kee’s future.
Maudie—a voluptuous, dark-haired beauty in her own right, a rather curious yet nonetheless smoldering mix of Creole and Armenian blood—tried to be stern and demanding about it, but she and Bob went back too far and had toyed with romantic inclinations toward one another too long for her to be effectively intimidating. Nevertheless, he agreed he bore part of the responsibility for Mee-Kee and would shoulder his share.
Something more to weigh on his mind.
Chapter 23
The Macy brothers reported bright and early with their bedrolls and personal gear to assume their duties as New Town deputies. Bob had stopped by during his rounds the previous evening to inform them about his plan for sticking close to the jail.
Once their gear was unloaded onto the cots Fred had set up for them against the side wall of the office area, they were properly introduced to him, sworn in, and provided their badges. The genuine pride each young man beamed with as they pinned on their stars was heartening to see.
With that taken care of, Bob announced he would take a turn around town with Peter and Vern, familiarize them with certain procedures, show them off a bit, and introduce them to some of the town council members who’d authorized their hire. Fred would stay behind and keep an eye on things at the jail.
The day had dawned overcast and cool, continuing to carry the feel of an imminent—though not immediate—storm. Activity up and down Front Street did not appear deterred by the turn in the weather. If anything, things may have been a bit heavier due to folks wanting to get their shopping or other business out of the way before a storm actually arrived.
At the Starbuck Territorial Bank, Bob and his new deputies were eagerly greeted by Abe Starbuck. Always dressed impeccably for business, Starbuck looked more starched and polished than usual. The reason, as he quickly made evident, was his anticipation of the Cheyenne newspaper reporter who was due in on the train.
“You lads are most fortunate to be joining such a fine law enforcement team,” he told Peter and Vern. “What’s more, the timing of you coming aboard coincides nicely with some scheduled publicity for Marshal Hatfield and Deputy Fred that will no doubt add to wider recognition and appreciation for the fine job they’ve been doing here in our fair city. Your addition to the team will doubtlessly be made note of, too.”
“That’s a generous thought, Mr. Starbuck,” said Peter, “but it ain’t hardly our way to crowd in on somebody else’s glory.”
“That’s right,” added Vern. “That newspaper fella is comin’ on account of what the marshal and Fred did, not us. After we’ve done something to earn our own recognition will be a different matter. For today, we’re just a couple more onlookers who consider ourselves, like you say, fortunate.”
Starbuck smiled tolerantly and said to Bob, “Refreshingly modest, aren’t they? They seem to be forgetting how—based on what you told me and other council members—they helped you up in New Town on the night of the raid, when they wore no badges and had no real obligation to get involved at all.”
“They were a big help to me, no denying that. It’s their right to ste
er clear of the newspaper fella when he shows up, if that’s the way they want it.” Bob fervently wished he could find a good excuse for steering clear.
“Very well. If that’s what everyone insists,” Starbuck said with a sigh. “After all, it’s not as if there isn’t still a whale of a story for that reporter to tell based strictly on the exploits of you and Deputy Fred.”
“Yeah. Exploits,” Bob muttered.
“On a less negotiable point,” Starbuck continued, “which of these stalwart lads will I be getting as the guard for my bank?”
“Probably both of them,” Bob answered, “which is to say, I see them as being interchangeable in that role.”
Starbuck nodded. “Excellent. I have no problem with that.”
“The thing is, though, there’ll be a slight delay before either one starts working into that routine,” Bob said.
Starbuck scowled. “How so? We had an agreement that—”
“I’m well aware of our agreement, Mr. Starbuck,” Bob cut him off. “And I fully intend to honor it. For right now, in these first few days, a number of other procedures are needed to get Peter and Vern thoroughly trained. And, for reasons I’d rather not go too deeply into nor do I want to have spread around, I’m concerned about what’s left of the Sanders gang returning to break Sanders out of our jail. I mean to concentrate all of our forces on preventing that.”
“Well, naturally I can understand that,” Starbuck harrumphed. “And you, of course, know best how to place your men. If you’re concerned about the gang hitting our town again, what about my bank? You don’t think there’s the chance they’d make another try on it, too?”
“There’s always the chance. But, like I said, I’m convinced coming after their leader is their first priority, and I’m further convinced that their forces have been cut down too low for them to try both.”
“In that case,” said Starbuck rather grudgingly, “I’ll bow to your judgment. Er, what about this U.S. marshal who’s arrived in town? Is he working in conjunction with you on this?”
“Let’s just say he agrees there’s the likely chance that Sanders’s men will be making a try at springing him,” Bob replied in a flat tone.
Starbuck frowned as if finding the answer rather curious. Apparently deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing, he cleared his throat and said, “I dare say we both have other matters to attend to before that reporter arrives, so I’ll leave you on your way. Nice to have met you, Peter and Vern. I’m looking forward to seeing you around on a regular basis. When the train comes in, I trust I will be seeing you at the depot, Marshal?”
“Unless a jailbreak or some other exploit is keeping me too busy,” Bob replied dryly.
Chapter 24
The train came puffing and hissing up the spur track at half past noon, right on schedule. It announced itself with several whistle toots and braked to a halt in front of the depot amid a good deal of metallic screeching and thumping of couplings as the individual cars shifted back and forth. Bob was there, watching and waiting alongside a smiling, eager-looking Abe Starbuck. Fred was present, also smiling. Only Bob, in his reluctance to be any part of it, was somber-faced.
Since the depot was at the south end of town, only a short distance from the jail, he had decided to change his plan for either Fred or himself to be there at all times. For one thing, he was fully confident of the Macy brothers’ competence in their absence. For another, no way he was going to deny Fred his chance for a well-earned share of the praise the reporter would allegedly be including in his coverage. Much as Bob didn’t want to be part of said coverage, Fred—who’d suffered much of his life because of his weight and the cruel remarks it sometimes drew—badly craved the positive attention.
Although he had his reasons for not wanting to be present, normally, Bob made a habit of being on hand for each train arriving in Rattlesnake Wells. He felt it was worthwhile to check out any newcomers getting off to stay. With the gold boom, newcomers were pouring in practically every day. More of them arrived on horseback or in wagons than by train, which meant the marshal had little chance to monitor all new arrivals, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep track of as many as possible.
As folks began stepping down out of the passenger car, it was easy to spot the newspapermen. The one Bob took for the reporter was a studious-looking gent of about thirty, curly brown sideburns bracketing a face full of average features. Clad in a powder blue suit, he wore a cream-colored, wide-brimmed plantation-style hat.
In recent years, newspapers had started publishing actual photographs rather than illustrations, so a photographer had been sent along with the reporter. He was clearly marked by the tripod and cumbersome camera case he was lugging. He was half a dozen years younger than the reporter, fresh-faced, wearing a brightly patterned sweater vest and a short-billed cap. Bob gave them a quick once-over but didn’t spend a lot of time studying them beyond that. He figured he’d have plenty of opportunity for a closer look during the scrutiny he’d soon be enduring.
The most noteworthy of the remaining passengers was a handsome, somewhat older woman who appeared to be traveling by herself. Under a minimal bonnet, blue in color, she had pale gold hair starting to come loose from the bun that had once contained it. Her dress was also blue, though not quite a matching shade, and she clutched a large, multipatterned carpetbag. She had alert brown eyes and a face that was still attractive yet showing traces of years that hadn’t always been easy.
As Bob watched, she spoke with the uniformed conductor. He pointed up Front Street as he jabbered an answer to whatever she’d asked of him. The woman gave a brief, grateful smile, seemingly satisfied with the response, and then started resolutely up the street. Evidently the carpetbag was the only thing she had in the way of luggage.
Bob found all of that a mite curious. He speculated she possibly was another working gal come to ply her wares—herself, in other words—amid the free-spending gold hunters. A freelance whore traveling by train, however, didn’t quite fit. On the other hand, a lone woman traveling by train with only a carpetbag didn’t quite fit anything else he could think of, either.
Only eight other passengers—including the newspapermen—had arrived on the train. Two of them were Rattlesnake Wells equipment dealers returning from a big trade show in Cheyenne.
A narrow-eyed, string-tie-wearing stranger who had the look of a cardsharp got off by himself. He wore a six-gun in a cross-draw rig under his coat—Bob could see the bulge and the butt of the gun when he moved a certain way—and carried only a small, flat, black leather case. He paused for a moment on the depot platform, taking a long look up Front Street and breathing in deeply, like a predatory animal trying to catch the scent of prey, then marched confidently toward the saloons and gambling dens that lay in that direction.
That left three burly, boisterous specimens dressed in the coarse, rugged clothes and heavy work boots of rail yard roughnecks. They clearly knew each other well and the way they threw elbows and shouldered one another aside as they clomped across the platform made it just as clear they were good pals. Despite the fact they carried no sign of baggage or personal belongings, Bob’s guess was that they were three adventurous souls who’d impulsively—aided by the consumption of a generous amount of alcohol, no doubt—decided to chuck their current lives and jobs and strike out to find their fortunes and their futures in the Prophecy Mountains, where everybody knew all you had to do was walk across the ground and you were bound to trip over clumps of gold bigger than Aunt Bessie’s mams. Bob had watched the arrival of their kind before . . . and, in most cases, he’d watched their departure only a short time later.
“Well, then. A gentleman of obvious prominence flanked by two stalwarts wearing badges can only mean one thing—I have arrived in the presence of Mr. Abraham Starbuck and the esteemed lawmen of this fair city.” With that pronouncement, the man in the powder blue suit planted himself in front of Bob, Fred, and Starbuck. His smile was earnest and ingratiating.
; Bob was too unfavorably inclined toward the whole exercise to find any likability in the hombre who’d be carrying it out.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Blue Suit continued. “I am Carson Bailey of the Cheyenne Sun. This young fellow is my photographer, Tom Stevens.”
Starbuck extended his hand. “And I, as you’ve already concluded, am Abraham Starbuck. To my right, Marshal Bob Hatfield. To my left, Chief Deputy Fred Ordway.”
Handshakes and pleased-to-meet-yous were exchanged all around.
“Very good,” said Bailey at the conclusion of the arm-pumping. “I must tell you that the very accommodating engineer and conductor of our train have agreed—at the cost of a small bribe ensuring them favorable coverage in our newspaper—to hold the train’s departure for an extra couple hours, if needed, to allow us ample time to conduct our business. However, so as not to take advantage of their generosity, I propose we repair posthaste to a place where we can proceed with the matter at hand. Is that agreeable?”
“Indeed it is,” said Starbuck.
“On the train, an establishment called Bullock’s was recommended to me as a place where we might enjoy some lunch and liquid refreshment while we talk. Is that also agreeable?”
Again, Starbuck gave assurance that it was, concluding, “It’s just across the street from my bank, where the robbery-minded villains had me under threat of death before our brave law enforcement team showed up to save the day . . . meaning they saved my life, as well as the money in the bank. It would be very convenient in case you want to take some photographs of the, er, scene of the crime, as it were.”
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 14
