“Your good fortune, my lousy luck,” Libby muttered.
Brock’s face went tight. “If you gave it half a chance and quit trying so hard to annoy me, it might be good fortune for both of us.”
Before Libby could reply, there was another knock on the door. An elderly gent bore a tray containing a bottle of tequila and a cup of sliced limes. Libby took the tray and set it on a small stand beside the bed. Brock dug a coin out of his pocket, flipped it to the old man for a tip, and the man returned downstairs.
After the door had closed, Libby promptly began working the cap off the bottle and said to Brock, “There are clean glasses over by the washbasin. Grab one for each of us.”
A minute later, Libby was thirstily tipping up her glass while Brock was taking a more modest sip from his. “I can tolerate this stuff,” he proclaimed as he lowered his arm, “but I’m damned if I can see how anybody makes it their drink of choice.”
Immediately pouring some more for herself, Libby said, “We each find our own poisons . . . and, boy, don’t I know about that.”
“Hey, take it easy,” Brock advised as she took another thirsty pull.
She lowered her glass and stared down in it for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper. “Have you seen him?”
Brock nodded. “Yeah. Briefly. Needless to say, he wasn’t very glad to see me.”
“What are their plans for him? Hanging?”
“Oh, yeah. There are all kinds of righteous, God-fearing folks who want to see him swing real bad. But not here. That is to say, the hanging won’t be taking place here.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because the town marshal of this burg has contacted a number of different jurisdictions and is bent on farming Arlo’s hanging out to whoever can make the most convincing claim.”
“That’s a list that could stretch from here to God knows where.”
“Tell me about it. I made my pitch for taking Arlo into my custody, but the good marshal wasn’t having any of that. Me and him sort of ended up at odds with one another.”
Libby tipped her head. “I see you’re still wearing that U.S. marshal’s badge. You couldn’t sell that dodge to this hick marshal, eh? You must be losing your touch.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see how good a touch you still got when you take a turn . . . By the way, Mrs. Sanders, exactly what is your dodge when it comes to that lowdown cur you call a husband?”
Chapter 27
“Doggone it, Con, didn’t I ask you not to come around here for the next few days? I explained how—”
“I know what you asked,” Consuela cut Bob off in mid-sentence, “and I know what you explained.” She marched defiantly into the marshal’s office with a bulky item in her arms, moved to the front of Bob’s desk, and held the item out to him. “Here is part of my reason for not paying attention—it’s your good rain slicker. There’s a bad storm moving in, and I figured you would want this for when you go out on your rounds.”
Bob took the slicker. “I’m grateful for you thinking of this, although there are a couple of old slickers in the back I could have made do with.”
“I’ve seen those the times I came here to do some cleaning,” Consuela replied. “I was tempted to throw them away each time I came across them. They’re so old and tattered they surely would leak almost as bad as not having them on at all.”
“I reckon you’re right. But still . . . Never mind. It’s done. And no doubt I’ll be glad to have this if the weather turns as bad as it looks like it’s gonna.” Bob shook out the slicker, carried it over, and hung it on a peg next to the cell block door. Turning back, he said, “You mentioned bringing this was part of the reason you came. What’s the rest?”
Consuela arched a brow. “The rest is that the agreement I made not to come here was with a mature, responsible officer of the law. From what I’ve been hearing all over town as I went about some afternoon shopping, that man has apparently been replaced by a reckless, saloon-brawling, furniture-smashing individual who I’m not sure I ever met. Therefore, I came to see for myself.”
Bob grinned sheepishly. “Oh, that. You know how things can get exaggerated all out of shape.”
Consuela swept her gaze from Bob to Fred, who was sitting quietly in a chair off to one side, and back to Bob again. “From the looks of you two, it doesn’t appear that much exaggeration was necessary.”
Now that he’d been dragged into it, Fred got up out of his chair and went to stand at the end of Bob’s desk. “Aw, Miss Consuela, none of it is really as bad as it looks or probably sounds. Some rowdies in Bullock’s were looking for trouble so we had to tame them down, that’s all.”
Consuela continued to look skeptical. “And how did you tame them—by repeatedly striking their fists with your faces?”
Fred gave a little laugh. “Hitting their fists with our faces. That’s a good one.”
“No, it is not good,” Consuela insisted. “Look at the two of you. How can that be good?”
“The other fellas look worse. That’s how,” Bob told her.
“I’d have to see it to believe it,” Consuela huffed. “You, with your split lip and bruised cheek and the Lord knows what else. And you, Fred. Are you trying to set some kind of record for how many times you can get your nose broken in the fewest number of days?”
Fred was still smiling. “Actually, you should have seen us, Miss Consuela. The marshal and me stood back-to-back, just like they write about in the dime novels, and fought all three of those troublemakers to a standstill. They weren’t exactly three puny hombres, either.”
“Except puny in their brains maybe. Saloon brawlers! And you two allowing yourselves to be drawn into it.” Consuela focused on Bob. “What would you say if Bucky came home with a tale like that?”
“For starters, I’d chew him out for being in a saloon.”
“I’m serious.”
Bob spread his hands. “Okay. It would depend on the circumstances. If Bucky got in a fight standing up for himself or a friend, I expect I’d be proud of him and hope that he’d won the fight. I don’t see another way to look at it.”
Consuela shook her head. “You’re hopeless.” She paused, looking around the office as if she’d lost something. “Where are your new deputies? Did you send them out to find a brawl they could get into so you can be proud of them too?”
“Okay. That’s enough, Con,” Bob said. “As for the two deputies, they’re out grabbing a late lunch and are due back shortly. As for the brawl, the whole thing was set up by that jackass of a newspaper reporter who I never wanted to meet with in the first place. Now he’s out of my hair and, far as I’m concerned, the few scrapes and bruises I got to help make that happen were well worth it.”
“I second that,” said Fred. “Although I wouldn’t have minded the newspaper story.”
Grudgingly, Consuela managed to find a smile of her own. “Like I said, you’re both hopeless. I guess that’s all there is to it.”
“Does that mean you’re done scolding us?” Bob wanted to know.
Consuela’s smile grew uncertain and then twin spots of color appeared on her smooth olive cheeks. “I—I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. I have no right to scold either of you, of course. I only wanted to bring the slicker and . . . well, to make sure you were okay.”
“We’re fine, Con. Really we are,” said Bob. “The saloon scuffle wasn’t nearly as brutal or bloody as I expect it was painted to be by the time you heard about it. It was still nice of you to care, though.”
“Yes, it was,” seconded Fred, gazing at Consuela with eyes that said he would welcome all the caring and even scolding she cared to send his way. Although it was plain to most everyone, including Fred, that Consuela’s heart belonged to Bob—one of the few who appeared maddeningly unaware of it . . . or at least unwilling to act on it—Fred nevertheless maintained a huge crush on the Mexican beauty, his feelings as ill-concealed as hers for the marshal.
<
br /> “I’d still rather you didn’t come around here—not until this business with Arlo Sanders is wrapped up,” Bob said to Consuela. “And, since Bucky is bound to be hearing exaggerated accounts of the saloon fight as soon as he gets out of school, I’d appreciate it if you’d intercept him again and steer him clear of coming here as well.”
Consuela nodded. “I will. But it won’t be easy. He misses you badly.”
“I know. I feel the same way. This is the best and the safest . . . Now you’d better get along before you end up getting caught in that storm when it hits.”
* * *
Bob was so relieved at how his concerns over the newspaper article had gotten resolved that, even with the looming potential of the Sanders gang striking again, he was experiencing the best mood he’d been in since before the initial raid. He naturally didn’t like being isolated from his son and Consuela, as her brief visit had served to remind him, but he held fast to his belief it was for the best. He also remained convinced the whole thing would end soon—anything more the Sanders gang decided to try would come quick.
In the meantime, it was heartening to see a fast camaraderie developing between Fred and the Macy brothers. Peter and Vern were hungry for details on the raid, the attempted bank robbery, the recent saloon brawl, and other events of the kind they might expect in their new roles as deputies. Fred, basking in a more positive light than he was used to, was happy to supply them. For their part, the Macys had some colorful tales of their own to tell about their previous life on the banks of the Mississippi River and their journey across Iowa and Nebraska to make it to Wyoming Territory.
At one point, encouraged by his brother, Peter took a harmonica out of his pocket and played some tunes on it. Fred, who had a fine singing voice and often soloed in the church choir, sang along with a couple that he knew, and Vern joined him in harmony on the refrains. It all made for an impromptu, unexpected few minutes that helped pass the time and deepened the sense of camaraderie.
Bob participated sparingly in the verbal exchanges, holding himself apart, not out of aloofness or due to his leadership position but mainly because he made a habit of keeping his past his own business. By nature, he wasn’t one to engage in embellishments even of more recent experiences.
When it came to the music, he enjoyed it and even found himself tapping his toe on some of the songs. As far as joining in, he opted out of that even more firmly than the talking for the simple reason he had a lousy singing voice and couldn’t carry a tune in a bushel basket. Still, he enjoyed listening to the others banter and tell their stories and perform musically. With the four of them facing stretches of close-quarters time together, it was touches like that would make the passage of time a lot more tolerable.
Later in the afternoon, with the wind kicking up wildly outside and the sky steadily transitioning into a roiling, thickening mass of sooty black clouds that turned the day into the dimness of evening, Bob sent Fred and Peter out to make a quick turn around the town. He also gave Fred instructions to stop by Krepdorf’s General Store and pick up some good-quality rain slickers for the Macys, billed to the town’s account.
Shortly after the pair took their leave, a knock sounded on the office’s outer door. Vern answered it.
The woman in the blue dress Bob had seen get off the train earlier entered. She looked decidedly windblown in spite of the scarf tied over her head and the heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but there was no mistaking her identity. She still clutched the multipatterned carpetbag she’d gotten off the train with.
Bob stood up behind his desk. “Can we help you with something, ma’am?”
The woman appeared tense, somewhat uncertain. “Yes. Yes, I believe you can . . . It’s a matter of whether or not you’re willing.”
Bob found that a curious remark. “We try to be accommodating to most folks, ma’am.” Then, with what he hoped was an ingratiating smile, he added, “Unless you’ve broken the law.”
The woman’s gaze went momentarily to the heavy door leading back to the cell block, then returned to the marshal. “No, I’m not a lawbreaker . . . I’m just married to someone who is.”
“Come again?” said Bob, caught off balance by her words.
The woman tipped her head toward the cell block door. “It’s my understanding that you have the notorious outlaw Arlo Sanders behind bars in there. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“My name is Libby Sanders. I’m Arlo’s wife.”
That put Bob even a bit more off balance, not to mention at a loss for what to say in response. Finally, he suggested, “Why don’t you take a seat, Mrs. Sanders?”
From where he stood off to one side, Vern said, “Can I get you a cup of coffee, ma’am? Or maybe a glass of water?”
Libby Sanders shook her head. “That’s all right. I’m fine, thank you. What I was hoping is that you would allow me to see Arlo for a few minutes. You see, I was in Cheyenne yesterday when word began buzzing around the hotel where I was staying that he had been captured up here in your town. I guess I should explain that we—Arlo and me, that is—have been separated for a number of years. Estranged, as they say. We both had a share in why it came to that, but it shouldn’t come as a surprise that his outlaw ways certainly played a part.”
“I reckon that’s pretty understandable,” Bob said.
Libby tugged her shawl suddenly tighter about her as if she’d felt a sudden chill. “Have you ever suffered a lost love, Marshal?”
Bob’s mouth tightened. “I’m a widower, Mrs. Sanders. Yes, I know about lost love.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. Then you understand . . . The thing is, for all that didn’t work out between us, I never really stopped loving Arlo. I don’t know how he feels about me. We haven’t been in touch since we split, not at all. But when I heard he’d been captured and I was right there in Cheyenne, so close and all, I . . . well, I felt like I had to see him again. Maybe one last time. I mean, I know after all the things he and his gang have done he’s bound for a hangman’s rope. Isn’t that right?”
“Not for me to say,” Bob told her. “But, all things considered, I reckon that’s a pretty strong likelihood.”
Libby took a corner of her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled at it. Then, with an imploring gaze, she said, “Well? Can it be arranged? Will you allow me to see him for a little while?”
Chapter 28
Every instinct inside Bob told him to say no, not to grant Sanders’s wife a visit. It wasn’t a good idea, and Sanders didn’t deserve any favors.
But the woman had softened him with her talk of lost love, making him think of Priscilla. And the imploring gaze from those brown eyes set wide on a still-pretty face nevertheless bore the wear of sadness and times that hadn’t always been easy . . .
“Excuse my bluntness,” said Bob. “but will he want to see you?”
Libby blinked as if such a possibility had never occurred to her. Then, mustering a firmness that didn’t quite fit her uncertain expression, she said, “I believe he will, yes. I won’t permit myself to think otherwise.”
Bob nodded. “Okay, I’ll allow it. Briefly.” He gestured to Vern. “Go back and let Sanders know he has a visitor.” Turning back to Libby, he said, “During your visit, I’ll need to remain there in the cell block with you.”
“I understand. I’m very grateful, Marshal,” said Libby.
Sanders’s response to Vern had been that he not only was willing to see his estranged wife, but plainly eager.
Before going in, Libby asked to borrow a mirror—which Vern fetched for her from the washstand in the cell block—to fix her appearance. “I must look a sight after being out in that dreadful wind,” she lamented. Once she had herself satisfactorily rearranged, she was ready.
At Bob’s request, she left her scarf, shawl, and carpetbag in the office. A visual scan of the tight bodice and sleeves of her dress revealed no indication of anything she might have tucked away to slip to Sanders—which was t
he best Bob could do since a more effective search of her person was hardly an option.
A handful of minutes later, he ushered her into the cell block.
Sanders was leaning against the bars at the front of his cell, fists tightly gripping a pair of them, face pressed into the space between two others. His eyes hungrily followed Libby’s approach. “Oh, God, Lib,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “I can’t believe this. You look fantastic. What a sight for sore eyes you are.”
“I was in Cheyenne when I heard the news,” Libby said softly. “I knew it would hurt to see you this way, but I had to come.”
“I’m sorry, for your sake, we had to meet again under these circumstances,” Sanders told her. “It’s been so long. Too long. But, damn, you don’t know how good it is to see you.”
Libby slipped her hands over his fists, where they still gripped the bars, and squeezed gently.
Bob remained standing a ways back, just inside the cell block door. He felt awkward hanging close by like that, like some creepy eavesdropper or Peeping Tom or something. But it was necessary. It was his duty.
“You don’t know how many cold, lonely nights I’ve thought about you touching me like that,” Sanders said. “The feel of you touching me, the feel of you under my touch . . . Sometimes it was the only thing that got me through. Other times it damn near drove me crazy, the thought of having let it all slip away.”
“Why did we, Arlo? Why?” Libby asked.
“Because we’re two headstrong people, Lib. Too much so for our own good sometimes. Hell, most of the time.” Sanders shook his head. “But let’s not go over that now. Not the bad moves, not the regrets. Let’s just savor this moment we got . . . God, I’m so glad you came to see me.”
“So am I.”
“You realize, of course, that I’m in a pretty sorry circumstance. Things don’t look good for me, not at all.”
“Let’s not talk about that, either. Not the bad moves or regrets, remember? Let’s just have this moment and block out everything else.”
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 16
