by Bill Sheehy
Marshal Adkins had his own reasons for making the information easily available to the widow. He didn’t say anything but felt it couldn’t hurt anyone but that damn Runkle.
It was while studying the gang leader that Elizabeth learned that another man was interested in him. Jack Drazen was his name. A lawyer, it appeared that Drazen had represented Runkle a number of times, always getting him off. She wondered if this man could lead her to the outlaw. It seemed easy to get the marshal to talk about the two men.
‘Yep, that slimy lawyer came asking questions once we had Little Carly in a cell. He wanted to talk to the little fella. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I got my ideas. The way I see it,’ explained the lawman, ‘Drazen always gets his man off. More’n once it’s been Runkle who’s walked free. I can’t prove it, but I somehow think Drazen and Runkle are in cahoots. Partners you might say. So he was in here talking to Carly, I think he was trying to find out where his partner is. None of that money taken off the train has turned up yet. Yup, I think Drazen had something to do with it and now he wants his share. Understand, Miz Havilah, I can’t prove any of this, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go talking it about.’
Elizabeth promised she wouldn’t. She had other things to think about.
Chapter 6
Elizabeth paid close attention to the men in town, but after that night spent in the dark outside the saloon she’d seen no sign of Morgan Runkle. Elizabeth was left with nothing. Until one afternoon, while trying to relax over a cup of tea at the little shop near the train station she happened to hear that Drazen had bought a train ticket to Dodge City. Thinking about it, she brazenly asked the station master if it were true.
‘Now, little lady, why’d ya want to know that?’
‘Because, sir,’ she responded, trying to look and sound stern, ‘he is my lawyer and is suppose to be writing up my divorce papers. Now I hear he’s taking a train trip. What kind of lawyer do I have? Should I be looking for someone else? How long will Mr Drazen be gone? Can you tell me that, sir?’
The station master was whipped. ‘Sorry, ma’am. Yes, Mr Drazen bought a round trip ticket to Dodge City and he asked about a stage hookup to the next town. Baynes Springs. Lot of big ranches in that part of the territory. I reckon he’s doing some work for one of them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Elizabeth curtly, and turned quickly away.
Maybe, she thought, walking slowly back to the dress shop, maybe he knew something about where Morgan Runkle had gone. If so and if she followed the lawyer she might possibly find a way to shoot that man.
She took the next train to Dodge City, not even taking time to tell Miss Bumgarten goodbye. She was afraid the older woman wouldn’t understand. When she learned the next stage to Baynes Springs wouldn’t leave until later in the week, and then discovered she’d be sharing the coach with Drazen, she almost backed down. Later, sitting in the cheapest restaurant she could find, she sat not eating but thinking. The truth was she didn’t see she had a choice. She’d burned her bridges with Miss Bumgarten. She didn’t feel she was in any danger. Drazen wouldn’t know her or her plans for revenge. There was no reason not to continue on and do what she knew was the right thing. Finally making the decision to go on, she starting to eat the now-cold meat and mashed potatoes.
Only after she shot Morgan Runkle, she felt, could she really relax and start to get over the death of her husband.
Chapter 7
All talk among the old men sitting in the morning sun on Baynes Springs’ hotel porch died with the rumble of the twice-weekly stage crossing the bridge just outside of town. Most every morning the three men could be found sitting in the early sunshine, warming themselves and commenting on the way of the world. They were sitting in spindly-looking cane-bottomed chairs that looked to be as old as the men were. All three were well past the age of holding down a job but weren’t yet dead enough to bury.
Clyde Collins was the first to comment, saying the same thing he said every morning when the stage arrived. ‘Wal, for certain there’ll be new life in the old town today.’
As usual Amos, sitting next to him, responded, hoping to start an argument. ‘What the hell makes ya say that?’
Collins was the oldest of these men. He liked to brag about having come into the territory with the first of the cattlemen. Amos, a mere year or so younger, rarely let anything Clyde said pass without arguing. ‘What kind of life are ya thinking about? A sudden rain storm to settle the dust? Gawd, this country could sure use a good downpour. It’s been, what, three months? Hell’s bells, there weren’t even much snow what fell last winter. Now is that the “life” you’re thinkin’ is comin’ to town? Naw, there ain’t been nothing new in this town since, wal, since they strung those wires for the telegraph. And that was a while back. What makes you think anythin’s different today?’
‘Just got a feeling. Somethin’ you ain’t likely to be so familiar with.’
The third man, Harry Brogan, was the youngest of the group. Unlike the other two, Harry had a more formal education. He’d been working in a men’s store in Kansas City when his boss, the floor manager, accused him of pocketing part of the money when making a sale. Harry had been innocent, but wasn’t able to out-talk the manager. After all, the manager was the son of the store owner. Harry decided it was time to retire. He was old enough and had a bit of money set aside for just that time. It was obvious he was being railroaded. The owner didn’t say a thing when Harry walked out. The manager smiled. Harry caught the next stage out and ended up in Baynes Springs.
‘Good thing you both have a comment to make,’ he said, his words coming slow and quiet. The other two, friends for more years than they could remember, liked to argue. Brogan just liked to stir the pot every chance he got. ‘If either of you are quiet too long people will get the idea you’re dead and would start planning on a coupla funerals. Of course, it’d help if either of you had something worthwhile to say.’
The stage, pulled by a six-horse hitch, came along the street, with the driver, Clarence Dollarhide, slapping the back pair of sweat-covered horses with the reins to spur them on, then quickly hauling back on the leathers, bringing the coach to a dust-bellowing halt right in front of the hotel next to the town’s barber shop.
‘Old Clarence does like to make an entrance, don’t he?’ Clyde said, shaking his head in disgust and making a big thing of fanning the air in front of his face.
With the dust settling around him, Dollarhide climbed stiffly down off his bench, then reached up to open the coach door. Up on the bench the other man put aside his double-barreled shotgun and climbed back to the suitcases strapped to the top of the coach. Not wanting to miss anything, the town barber, Avery Williams, came out and leaned against the door frame, standing close by the three old men.
Weekdays, except for the day the stage came in, nothing much happened in the way of entertainment on the main street of Baynes Springs. From the bridge over the creek at one end of the main street clear down to the big barn of the livery at the other, the arrival of the stage was the highlight of the week. As it turned out, this day would be a little more interesting than usual. Those sitting and watching were overjoyed when a tall well-dressed man stepped down, followed by a second man. Both newcomers wore suits, one stylish, with sharp creases in the pant legs, the other’s suit was more well-worn. It was that man who turned to give a young woman a hand out of the coach. The old men were almost beside themselves. Women were scarce in the territory and a young woman wearing a dove-gray silk taffeta dress, even when slightly dusty, was a sight to behold. Not wanting to blink and possibly miss something, the old men’s eyes, weak or not, quickly took in everything about the three newcomers.
‘Anyone going on to Tombstone,’ Clarence Dollarhide called out, ‘has got about ten minutes to take care of things. Once we get the new team hooked up, this stage starts rolling. Ya ain’t on board, welcome to Baynes Springs.’ Chuckling as if he’d told a joke, he started unhitching the team.
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br /> Chapter 8
Standing tall, the first man took his time, looking the town over. The big man, square shouldered, standing with almost military straightness, took his time studying everything. His gaze passed over the old men on the porch, seemingly without really seeing them. His expression didn’t change as he reached up to take the strap-bound suitcase and a slender leather briefcase from the man on the coach. Glancing down at the woman and touching the brim of his round-topped derby, he turned and without hesitating strode up the broad steps to the hotel. The woman stood looking around, seeming uncertain.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning to the old men who were watching every move, ‘is there a boarding house you can direct me too?’ Her voice, while soft was still firm.
The barber was rotund, chubby looking, round without being fat. Now middle aged, he’d suffered his body shape since his earliest days. Not a handsome man, his mouse-brown hair was thinning on top, a patch already nearly bald. What Avery Williams had plenty of was self-confidence. He was a born optimist, and as a successful businessman he was sure he was the most eligible bachelor in the Territory. Quickly pushing away from the door frame, and holding himself as tall as he could, sucking in his stomach and grinning from ear to ear, he pointed up the street. ‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, his voice high pitched and somehow thin, ‘Miz Cornwall has rooms she rents out. Serves up pretty good food, too. I know cause I take my supper there quite often. Just go on up the street past the bank. Turn left and Mary Cornwall’s place is on the next corner. She’s got a sign out front so you can’t miss it.’ Wiping his hands on the dingy white apron covering his front he nodded toward the small suitcase at her feet. ‘May I help you with your luggage?’
Shaking her head and clutching her draw-string purse with one hand she reached down to pick up her suitcase. ‘No. Thank you. I can manage.’ Stepping out, she hesitated, ‘Thank you for your directions. I appreciate it.’ Quickly before the barber could respond, she walked down toward the bank.
‘Wooee, Avery,’ said Amos, his words full of laughter, ‘you surely made an impression on that young lady. Yessiree, Bob. Why I’d say she was right taken with your directions.’
‘Yup,’ Clyde cut in quickly before Williams could respond, ‘and yore braggin’ up ol’ Miz Cornwall’s cooking, that was good. How come ya didn’t mention that ya also spend a lot of evenin’s with the old lady? Evenin’s that usually run all the way into sun-up?’
The barber, blushing, spun back into his shop, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 9
The other stranger had stood by, silent and almost forgotten by the men on the porch. Smiling to himself, he picked up the worn leather saddlebags and, nodding to the men, followed the direction the woman had taken.
Watching, the men sat quietly for a bit before Brogan broke the silence chuckling. ‘You have to admit, Amos, that young lady is a good looker,’ he said. ‘And I’ll wager she’s single too. Traveling all alone as she was with nobody coming to meet her? Yep, single all right. Even with two likely men riding in her company, not one of them paying any attention to the other. It does make it interesting. However, I don’t see the woman as being the most interesting one. Not by a long shot. No. That fellow there,’ pointing his chin at the receding back of the man going down the street, ‘I wonder what he’s in town for? Do you think he’s maybe a government man? Come out here to do some surveying maybe?’ Slowly shaking his head and frowning as if in deep thought, he went on. ‘But I’d say it was the other one, the big man what got my attention.’
‘A big city dude, I reckon,’ said Clyde. ‘Wearing that suit, for certain he ain’t no cowboy. His shoes, did you see them? Too soft and shiny for doing any work outdoors. Nope. And his hat, wouldn’t keep no rain off his face. He’s from the city, for sure. Wonder what brung him to this little town.’
‘Uh huh’ Brogan said slowly, frowning as he thought about the man. ‘I’d say he was some kind of lawyer, or maybe a bookkeeper. Something like that. Here on some kind of business. A hard man, is my guess. Don’t suppose either of you noticed the cross-draw holstered Colt he wore on his belt under that wool suitcoat? Or the pistol he was wearing in one of them fancy shoulder holsters? No,’ he said slowly, thinking about it, ‘not likely a bookkeeper. Maybe, yes, maybe a lawman of some kind. Uh huh. And did you see his eyes? He looked around and I’ll bet he saw everything there was to see. But cold, real cold eyes. No humor and not much emotion there at all. It doesn’t look good for whatever he’s here for.’
Chapter 10
Over at the Baynes Springs Bank, Marcy Baynes looked up from the papers she’d been reading when a stranger came through the main door. A young woman in her mid-twenties, Marcy was proud of her long reddish-blonde hair. An attractive shapely woman, she thought her best feature was her hair. At home she wore it loose, letting it hang over both shoulders. While sitting at the bank manager’s desk though, she tied it up in a bun. Looked more professional, she thought. Being a young single woman in a land where there were few unmarried females, since reaching puberty she’d been the focus of many men. Her twin brother Martin, however, made it very clear she wasn’t to be messed with.
Looking up from the stack of reports she’d been reading, she frowned, then silently chided herself. Any reason to stop trying to find solutions when there weren’t any had to be worthwhile. Hearing someone come through the bank’s door was reason enough.
The man carefully closed the door behind him, and removing his derby took a long moment to look around. For such a small, unimportant town, the bank was, he thought, pretty fancy. Two large windows, one on either side of the thick, heavy carved wood door were framed with floor-to-ceiling drapes. Hefty purple-colored drapes pulled back and held by wide bands of similar material. It was a long, narrow room, well lit by the morning sun. Along the ceiling a pair of wagon-wheel chandeliers supported coal oil lanterns. The walls of the bank were covered with flowered wall paper. On the left wall of the long room, the faint colorful floral pattern was broken with a handful of large oil paintings. Drazen almost smiled seeing the paintings were all of a maritime theme; ships riding the waves of a storm-tossed sea mostly. A strange collection, he thought, for such a dry plains location. A high wood counter lined up against the right-hand wall. The lawyer took in the single clerk sitting on a high-backed stool behind that counter. The clerk was watching, his face expressionless. The floorboards were smooth, wide planks running the entire length, meeting the far wall beyond the large desk which sat squarely between the walls facing the front. A woman sat behind the desk studiously looking him over.
The stranger, Marcy thought, was certainly worth looking at. The only clerk, Ivor Mueller, was watching, waiting to see what kind of banking service this stranger would want. Marcy knew that under the counter top Ivor had his hand on his old Colt Dragoon. Ivor had ridden into town just about the time her pa, old Frank Baynes, was killed. Coming into the bank, he assured Marcy he knew his numbers and could write a fair hand. She hired him on the spot as the clerk and moved her personal items to the big desk that had been her father’s.
The second thing Ivor told his boss was his proficiency with the Colt Dragoon he carried in a belted holster.
‘I am proud to say,’ explained the new clerk, ‘I was a member of the US Mounted Rifle Brigade. The Dragoon was the handgun the Mounted Brigade was issued. I kept mine after the war.’
That little speech was the most words anyone in town ever heard Ivor to say at any one time. In the coming months the clerk became known as being close-mouthed, conducting business with the fewest words possible. No one but Marcy ever heard his story and no other person in town ever heard his surname. Most weren’t sure he even had one.
With the protection of Ivor’s six-shot revolver, Marcy felt safe. Not that the bank had ever been robbed, but that was little guarantee that some day it wouldn’t be. Ivor felt his job was to make sure no robbery ever took place. Marcy didn’t let him know how little actual cash there was l
ocked up in the Heidleburg safe.
Keeping one hand on the Dragoon, Ivor waited and watched as the stranger finished his inspection. The tall man then nodded to Ivor and walked straight back past the counter toward Marcy’s desk.
‘I’m guessing you are Marcy Baynes, manager of this bank?’ he said, stopping and smiling down at the seated woman.
Automatically, Marcy nodded toward the single chair opposite her desk. Whoever he was, she thought, he was a handsome devil. Thick black hair was well-barbered and combed back behind his ears. She felt a thrill, looking into his eyes, blue almost black, staring intently at her.
‘Yes, you’d be right. How can the bank help you?’
His wool suit fit like it had been cut to fit his lanky frame. An expensive suit, she decided. Not like one worn by a drummer or even any local businessman. Even the hat he carefully placed top down on the floor next his chair was too fine for any rancher she’d ever met. Dressed as he was, and as confident as he looked, this man would be more typical of those seen in the big city. Here in Baynes Springs he was out of place.
‘My name is Jackson Drazen,’ he said, unbuttoning his suit coat and reaching in to pull out a business card. As quick and smooth as the movement was, Marcy caught sight of the small looking pistol hanging holstered under his left arm pit. ‘I represent the Kansas City Insurance Company. My visit to your fine community is to begin my investigation into the recent robbery of cash money requested by your bank from the US Federal Bank in that city.’
