by Stephen Paul
Wendell pulled his hat down low over his forehead, trying to shadow his frown. “Let’s go, we’re burning daylight.”
His voice rose in a high, thin, young tone. “Answer me, Uncle John. Are you going to kill them?” Sweat from his face reflected the moonlight.
Bronson let his breath out slowly. “No, I’m going to go to the sheriff. This needs to be taken care of the legal way, not by killing.” He stared at his sister’s boy, so young, yet having to have grown up so quick. No family left but the two of them. “That okay with you?”
“It is. We have to have law, isn’t that what you told me?” He sat stiff in the saddle.
“That we do son that we do.”
Bronson watched Wendell and Tommy head north, their horses at a walk. The boy turned and rode back. “You’ll come for me, won’t you? You won’t get killed?”
Bronson put his arms around the boy and pulled him close. “I’ll come for you. I promise.”
He watched them ride away until they faded into the early dawn and only the sound of the horses could be heard.
Three dead men lay on the ground among the smoldering ruins of the cabin and one at the old abandoned homestead, all, in a roundabout way, because of the hanging of Ellen and Sam. It seemed now that someone was going to a lot of trouble in trying to kill him. He decided he’d tell the sheriff what happened and hope he wasn’t making a mistake, but he gave his word to Tommy. If the law investigated and arrested the murderers of his sister and her husband — and they were tried and convicted — he’d hang his gun back up and talk to Jessica and Hanna about a future with Tommy and him.
The palomino carried him away from the dead, through the lingering smoke and toward Rawlins. He never looked back.
* * * *
The sun had been up for better than an hour when he came into town from the west side. With no idea who might be waiting, he thought circling the town first and going to Jessica’s would give him an advantage. Hopefully she’d have some information or gossip if the word was out about the killings. If someone knew about it, then they would have had to have been there, or been told by someone who was there.
The barn’s deep shadows welcomed him and he put the horse in a stall. While he loosened the cinch he heard small, light footsteps.
“Want to grain him for me, Hanna?” He didn’t look for her.
“How’d you know it was me?” She moved out from behind a small stack of hay bales. “I thought I snuck up on you.”
“You almost did; pick your foot up higher and feel the ground before you set it all the way down. Bet you do it next time.”
She filled a feed sack with oats and carried it over. Bronson reached for the bag. “I can do it.” Pulling a box close, she stepped up on it and put the feedbag over Shoshone’s head.
He took the saddle off, set it on the stall wall and laid the blanket on top of it to dry. “Think you can give him a grooming?”
“Sure, I do it all the time.” She stepped down off the box and picked up a curry brush and drew it down the horse’s flank. “See, I can do it.” She glanced at him with a sly look. “Mama’s in the kitchen drinking coffee.”
“Maybe I’ll go have a cup.” Bronson left the barn and went to the kitchen door and knocked.
Jessica opened the door, with a concerned look on her face. “John, where have you been? I heard there were men killed last night.” She held the door and motioned for him to come in. She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him.
“Who told you about a killing?”
“Mrs. Sheehan. She came in late last night and woke me up. She asked if you were here. When I said no, she acted quite distraught and said there had been a shoot-out at Dick Matson’s place and several men were killed.”
“Did she say who told her?” He felt a cold shroud wrap itself around him.
“No, and I didn’t ask her. She left and hasn’t come back. I don’t know where she is.” Jessica looked into Bronson’s face.
“What happened, John?”
He poured himself more coffee and sat down at the table. Bronson told her the events from the attempted bushwhack at the old homestead to the fire and Wendell probably saving their lives.
“Thank God you and Tommy are safe,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go to the sheriff and tell him what happened. Let the law take over.” He spoke in a voice lacking conviction.
“Why now? The sheriff isn’t to be trusted, I told you that.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t go to the sheriff, wire the U.S. Marshal.”
“I promised I’d try the right way, but that might be a good idea. I know an old deputy marshal who quit and settled down in Carbon. If I don’t get any satisfaction from the sheriff, I’ll go to him.”
“I don’t understand, if he’s quit, then why go to him? Why not the marshal? He could arrest the killers.” Jessica turned from him and smoothed her dress down. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
He got up and put his arms around her. “I hope this will end it. But, if something happens to me, the man’s name is Chester Sloan. We rode together for a bit. Try and get him, he’ll finish the job for me if I can’t.”
She turned and faced him, still in his arms. “I’m frightened, John. I don’t know what to think.”
He pulled her close to his chest. “I know I want a future with you. You, Hanna and Tommy. Am I wanting too much? Tell me, even though I’ve already made a fool of myself.”
I’ve only know you a few days, but it seems like years.” She wiped some tears from her face. “You haven’t made a fool of yourself. I want the same thing you do.”
“Then I better get to the sheriff’s office and tell him what happened.”
“John, you never told me, why get ahold of this Sloan man instead of the marshal?”
“Because it means the law here is rotten and besides me, Sloan is the last gunfighter I know. Just do as I ask.” His face had turned dark and his eyes seemed to burn into her. “Promise me.”
"I will, I promise." She seemed uncertain and sat down.
"Something's on your mind, what is it?"
"When we talked about the sheriff last time, I didn't think you trusted him after I told you about my experience with him."
"I'm not saying that I do, but I don't want Tommy to think the only way to settle something is by a gun – or violence. If there's a chance the law will do something and not sweep it under the rug, I'm going to give it a try." The color of his face had returned to its normal color and his eyes didn't look as if they were trying to burn a hole in hers.
"I should be back in a couple of hours. Maybe we can talk then…about something else." Bronson's hand went to her back and stayed for a moment, and then he was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
The deputy’s feet were crossed and laid on top of the desk. His chair was back on two legs and his hat pulled low under his eyes. Bronson came into the office and closed the door behind him. The deputy nearly fell when the sound of the latch catching brought him back from a light doze.
“What can I do for you, partner?” he asked, standing up and hitching his gunbelt up around his hips.
“I need to talk to the sheriff.”
“I’m the deputy, tell me and I’ll decide if it needs the sheriff’s attention. He’s a busy man. Don’t always have time for drifters.”
He wondered if he should turn around and leave. If this was the type of man the sheriff used for a deputy, what’s the sheriff like? “I want to talk to him about three men dying last night. Think he might be interested?”
Color drained from the deputy’s face. “You wait here, I’ll go get him. What’s your name?”
“John Bronson.”
“Bronson? You’re supposed to...”
“Supposed to what?” The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Every nerve in his body told to get out while he could...the place stunk of corruption and incompetence.
He turned to le
ave when the door opened and a man with a soft gut and a star pinned on his vest walked in.
“What’s going on Simmons?” the sheriff asked, his eyes narrowing when he saw Bronson. He made a half turn and turned back with his pistol in his hand. “Don’t try it,” he said. “Lift the hands, easy like.”
“This is Bronson. He wanted to talk to you about the killings last night. I was just going to get you, Sheriff Hadleman.” Simmons backed away and pulled his pistol out.
“Take his gun, and be careful.”
Simmons holstered his pistol and moved in closer.
“Keep those hands up,” The sheriff said to Bronson. “We’ve been looking for you. You’re under arrest for murder.”
“Who?” Bronson felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. He didn’t think it would be like this. Someone pulled the sheriff’s strings in the last few hours.
“The Rimrock Kid. Out at the Hudson place last week - we’ve got a witness.” He took the jail cell keys from the top of the desk and threw them to Simmons. “Undo your gunbelt and make yourself at home in the far cell there.”
Bronson took his gunbelt off and dropped it on the desk. He walked into the dirty, dim, cell. The cot had a moth-eaten wool blanket draped over the end and a straw filled mattress. One small window with bars allowed a shaft of sunlight in that penetrated the gloom. “Where’s the warrant?”
The sheriff locked the cell door. “I’ll serve you with it this afternoon. Don’t you worry none. We take care of you murderers.”
“You mean like George Parrot? That’s comforting to know.”
Parrot had been accused of ambushing and killing some deputies several years before. He was dragged from his cell in Rawlins and lynched from a telegraph pole a short ways from the jail.
“That’s right, cowboy. Just like Parrot.” The sheriff took a bottle of whiskey out of the desk drawer and took a swallow.
“Don’t think I don’t know all about you. I did some checking. Supposed to be a hard case. Worked as a U.S. Deputy Marshal until you ran out of guts and quit. I think you’ve just been living off a reputation. I know a couple men like to take you on.”
“We could start with you, sheriff. Give me my gun and try me. Both of you. Then we’ll see how your friends do.” Bronson’s face went blank and his voice had taken on a deadly tone.
“Hey, don’t include me in this. I ain’t never said I was fast... or tough.” Simmons said.
“Shut up, Cal. I’d really like to, but I enforce the law, not break it. By the way, thanks for coming by.” His laugh didn’t have any humor in it. Just mean.
* * * *
Jessica looked at the clock and wiped the table down again for the fifth time. Where was he? It’s been almost three hours; he should be back by now.
The front door opened and she hurried to the front of the house. Mrs. Sheehan closed the door and turned to Jessica, her eyes bright and face flushed with excitement.
“They’ve charged him with murder. I always knew he was a killer.”
Icy tendrils gripped her chest and squeezed. She knew the answer even when she asked, “Charged who?”
“John Bronson. He killed that poor boy out at a ranch last week. They’re going to charge him with killing three men last night too. He’ll hang, I know it.”
“Who’s telling you all this?” Jessica had a hand to her breast. She felt her heart beating twice as fast as usual and wondered if the other woman could hear it.
“My man,” she said, straightening her back. “Royce Waldrip. He runs the Stockgrower’s Association.”
"I thought you didn’t hold any grudge against him. It sounds like you're happy."
"After Royce told me what he's done, I realized he probably murdered my husband. Like I said, he killed three men last night." She folded her arms and lifted her chin. "He won't be murdering anymore innocent men, I'll tell you that right now."
Jessica felt faint. She put a hand on the arm of a chair and sat down. "He's not a murderer. He has to be convicted by a jury…he hasn't been found guilty yet."
"A jury? I wouldn't be surprised if he's not lynched. Folks around here don't go for nobody killing four men."
"You pack your things and find another place to stay," Jessica said, standing up. "I want you out of here today."
"That's why I'm here. I'm moving out now; Royce has found me a nice place to stay."
"Good."
"You owe me, I paid for two weeks."
She went to a cabinet and opened a drawer. Inside was a small cash box Jessica opened and took some bills out. "Here, two dollars. Take it and leave."
“You shouldn’t get high flalutting with me, after Royce and I are married, I’ll be someone of means. Remember that, Jessica.”
“Don’t call me Jessica only my friends call me that. I’m Mrs. Hinkle to you.”
“Well, Mrs. Hinkle, no use pining over him, he isn’t going to be marrying you unless it’s before he’s hanged.” A quick look of sympathy crossed her eyes then turned defiant again. “You have treated me good, I’m sorry you’re mixed up with him.”
Jessica turned and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Tears ran down her face and she silently cried. This can’t be happening, not now. She sat down at the table and covered her face with her hands.
Myrtle came in from the upstairs, a feather duster in her hand. “My lands, what’s the matter, girl?”
Jessica stood and buried her face in the older woman’s chest. “John’s in jail, accused of murder.”
Myrtle put her arms around Jessica’s shaking shoulders and patted her back. “Where did you hear this?” She led the younger woman to the table and they both sat down.
Jessica recounted the story Trudi Sheehan had told her and ended by saying she had informed Mrs. Sheehan to leave.
“I have to see him, do something to help him.” She dabbed her streaked cheeks with a hankie. “Will you watch Hanna for me?”
“Of course, dear. Wash your face and go.” Myrtle patted one of Jessica’s hands. “I’ll take Hanna home with me and come over to clean and feed the guests if you have to go anywhere. You do what you have to...I can see he’s very important to you.”
“Thank you. He told me what to do if something happened to him. Get a hold of an old friend of his in Carbon. I have to talk to him before I try to find his friend. If I do go, I’ll have to take the train, so I could be gone for a day or so.”
“You just leave me a note on the table if I’m not here when you go,” Myrtle said.
Chapter Sixteen
The sheriff’s office was dim when she entered. The open door allowed a shaft of light in that showed the dust and dirt on the desk and floor. The cells were behind the desk, cloaked in shadows.
Simmon’s feet dropped off the desk and he took off his hat as he stood up. “Can I help you, Mrs. Hinkle?”
“I want to see Mr. Bronson.” She stepped forward and stared into the deputy’s face. “Now, please.”
“Sorry ma’am, the sheriff says nobody can talk to him until the trial.” He looked down at the floor. “It don’t sound right, but I got to do what he says.”
Without a word she turned and left the building. An alley was behind the jailhouse and there were only three windows with bars on them. She went to the east side and stood underneath the east window. “John,” she whispered. Nothing. “John,” she said louder.
“Jessica?”
“Yes. You’re in danger, John.” She held her emotions in check, she had to be strong and clear headed if she was going to help.
“Telegraph Sloan and tell him I need him to come to Rawlins. Tell them to deliver it to the Railroad Saloon. That’s where he usually hangs out.”
“I'll do it now. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I forgot to give Wendell the gold. It’s in my saddle bags. Put it someplace for me and use what you need. If I don’t get out of this, give half the gold to Wendell Strand at the Stone Ranch Stage Stop and you keep the rest.”
“I’m not even going to discuss anything happening to you. And don’t you talk that way to me, either.”
“You’re quite the woman. Do what you can, and be careful.”
“I will, I’ll try telegraphing Sloan now.”
“Jessica, how did you find out I was in jail?”
“Mrs. Sheehan told me, and happily, I’d say.” Jessica looked up and down the alley. “She is involved with Royce Waldrip.”
“Waldrip! He’s the man responsible for my sister’s death.”
“I better go before anyone sees me talking to you. I’ll contact Sloan.”
“Thank you, Jessica.”
“We’ll talk later.” She left the alley and walked the three blocks to the train depot and telegraph office.
Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor when she walked across the depot to the telegraph counter. “I need to send a telegraph, please.”
“Sorry ma’am. Lines are down, be a couple of days before we’re back up.”
“When’s the next train coming in that will get me to Carbon?” She opened her bag and pulled some bills out.
“About an hour,” the man said. “You wanna buy a ticket?”
“Yes I do.” Her face hardened wondering if Sloan would be in Carbon, let alone if she could find him.
“Train might be early or late, hard to tell,” he said.
“I’ll wait.”
Forty-five minutes later, Jessica boarded the locomotive that was headed east. The next stop...Carbon and Sloan.
* * * *
The cushion didn’t hide the hardness from the wooden seat that Jessica sat on as she rode the train east from Rawlins. The conductor came by and punched her train ticket.
“How soon will we get to Carbon,” she asked.
“About two hours. You’re not getting off there, are you?” The conductor asked, handing the ticket back.
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s a mighty tough town. You don’t look like the kind of woman who would be taking up residence there.” He bent down next to her ear. “The girls that get off in Carbon usually work in the saloons.”
