by Alison Bruce
If Matt Egan was the richest man in Fortuna, Gabe Baker came in a close second. He took Egan's side in the political battle against the marshal. He also had reason to dislike Strothers personally. The younger and more dashing ex-Ranger was of far greater interest to his beloved Amabelle.
"And who can blame the poor child?" Jezebel said, exaggerating her deep-south accent and gesturing broadly. "No offence to Gabe, but he's got as much shape as a plank and he's as sweet-faced as a lemon."
"Strothers has looks, if nothin' else," Jase said.
"They'd have made a pretty couple. Miz Amabelle is 'The Beauty' here 'bouts. 'Course it ain't likely Matt would let his only sister marry a mere marshal. Especially when the Baker ranch runs 'long side theirs."
Marly leaned forward. "How old is Miss Amabelle?"
"I know their folks had plans," Jezebel said, ignoring her, "for Gabe to marry Amabelle. The old men are gone now. Mrs. Egan died long ago. Baker's mother went back East but I'd bet Matt still would like to see the wedding go off."
Jase asked, "How old's the girl?"
Marly scowled at him.
"Seventeen," Jezebel said.
"And Baker?"
"Thirty, I suppose. Word is, having given Old Man Baker a son right off, Mrs. Baker didn't see any reason to give any more." Jezebel shook her head. "Now Mrs. Egan, bless her foolish soul, kept trying to have more kids. I hear that's what killed her in the end."
Breakfast was served, halting the conversation temporarily.
When the better part of the steak, eggs and potatoes had been consumed, Jase said, "Where were Egan and Baker the night of the murder?"
"Matt was entertaining the Minister and his wife."
Marly filed that bit of information away.
Just because Egan had an alibi, it didn't mean he wasn't responsible. He could have told one of his men to kill the marshal. Or, since Egan's men were fiercely loyal to him, they might have done the job voluntarily.
Jase pushed his empty plate aside. "How about Baker?"
"Home alone. Only ones who can vouch for him are on his payroll."
"That doesn't mean anything, one way or the other."
"Personally, I prefer the theory that he was bushwhacked by drifters. I just can't get myself to believe it."
Again, Marly interjected a question. "How was he killed?'
Jezebel shuddered with distaste.
"He was stabbed," Jase replied. "I met with the doctor this mornin'. He kindly made his report while gettin' ready for church. I must say, he's a very organized and thorough professional."
"What did the report say?" Marly asked, glancing at Jezebel.
With an impatient wave, the woman indicated that Jase was welcome to continue with his story.
"Strothers was riding back to town and was knocked off his horse. The doctor found bruises on him from the fall. Then his attacker stabbed him under the ribs, just missing the heart. Given the nature of the wound and the amount of blood soaking the clothes, the doctor figures Strothers bled to death slowly."
Marly pushed down the wave of nausea that threatened to engulf her. She had seen the results of accidents and bar fights, and though she wasn't usually squeamish, the thought of someone being left to die slowly was horrifying.
"How was he found?" she asked Jase.
"One of Egan's men found his horse grazing up the road. Leading the horse back to town, the man found the body. It was partly eaten by coyotes, but there was enough left for the doctor to confirm identity and cause of death."
"There was no love lost between me and Strothers," Jezebel said quietly. "But that ain't no way for any man to die."
Marly nodded, able to sympathize with her in this, at least.
The next day, Jase opened Strothers' office and assumed the role of interim marshal of Fortuna. He set Marly to work cleaning the office and the adjoining quarters, while he ran a few errands.
Just before he left, Fred and Henry arrived with their saddlebags, some clean linen, a cot and bedding. After waking up a second time with Marly cradled in his arms, Jase decided she should have her own bed or else he'd give himself away. In any case, the bed in Strothers' quarters was only big enough for one.
To avoid arguments later, he did some further shopping on Marly's behalf. Her wardrobe needed expanding. He bought her a brown shield-front shirt, not dressy, but suitable for church. He also picked up a fresh set of combinations, a couple of new bandanas and two pairs of jeans in different sizes for her to try on. After two weeks of solid wear on the trail, not to mention hours of stable work, her jeans were looking pretty worn. To preserve the new jeans, he bought a pair of plain leather chaps.
Then he returned to the office.
"Basic, sturdy and cheap," he assured Marly, handing over the brown paper-wrapped bundle. "Nothing you don't desperately need."
She opened her mouth to object.
"It's your own fault," he cut in. "You should've packed better when you left home."
She blushed and he had to suppress a grin. He had no idea where she got her boys' clothes. He doubted it was from her wardrobe. Her aunt probably sent her off with a couple of calico dresses―one for Sunday best and one for working in. She would have been wearing something between best and worn, maybe with a cloak and sturdy shoes. After leaving her aunt, Marly would have had to make the transformation, leaving behind her dresses and petticoats―everything but the daguerreotype in its leather frame.
Marly fingered the cotton shirt like it was the finest silk, a worried crease furrowing her brow.
"I don't want you arguin' either," he added. "Besides, I bought myself a couple of necessities too."
His one extravagant purchase was a saddle holster and a new Winchester .77 carbine.
Marly's eyes widened as she looked from Jase to the Winchester and back again. He couldn't have impressed her more if he had given her a bag of gold or a diamond ring. That made it money well spent.
"Go change, brat," he said gruffly, waving her in the direction of their quarters.
Excitement overcoming her usual reticence, she rushed off to change into her new clothes.
As he waited for the results, he put away the more mundane purchases of coffee, flour, sugar, bacon, beans and ammunition. The money he'd spent put a large hole in his back pay. Fortunately, he expected to recoup his expenses via marshal's pay from the town council.
More to the point, Marly's pride of possession was payment enough for what he spent on her behalf.
Marly took time to wash up before putting on her new duds.
She'd never owned anything brand new before meeting Jase, not in her memory at least. Aunt Adele had remodeled her old gowns into dresses for Marly, turning the cloth inside out so it wouldn't seem so faded.
In a moment of maternal affection, the doctor's wife had passed on a couple of nearly new dresses and undergarments that had been part of her wedding trousseau. Though Marly had accepted them gratefully, she would rather have had buckskins, fringed jackets and the freedom to wear them―like the cowboys on the covers of the penny dreadful.
I look like a model for a recruitment poster for the Pony Express, she thought.
Sitting behind the marshal's desk, Jase gave a nod of approval.
Feeling self-conscious in her new duds, she strode over to the Winchester to check it out.
"My gawd," said Jezebel, leaning against the door frame. "Will the streets be safe?"
Marly glanced up from the rifle. With one long look, she appraised the woman, weighed what she saw and dismissed her. Then she snapped the breach of the rifle back into place.
"If you don't have anything for me to do, sir. I'm going to take Trouble for a ride."
Jase threw her a box of ammunition. She caught it deftly and shoved it into the pocket of her jeans.
"If you're willing to wait, you can come out with me," Jase said. "We'll check out the scene of the crime."
"I'll go tack up. I can also return the other pair of jeans, if you like
." She mimicked his earlier remark about her choice in shirts. "They're kind of big."
Jase smiled at the shared joke.
Jezebel's mouth pursed.
Giving the lady a frosty bow, Marly left through the back door. She would have kept going, but curiosity got the better of her. She circled around to the open front door.
"That boy's got a lot of sass," Jezebel told Jase.
"You shouldn't tease him."
The lady shrugged and sashayed into the office, out of sight, but not out of earshot.
"You don't have to move here, Jase. You and the boy are welcome to stay at the hotel, even if you never take me up on my invitations. You got to be more comfortable there than here."
"Probably."
Marly heard the creak of the chair.
"But I've got a job to do, Jez, and it's best done out of this office. Speaking of which, I'd better get to work."
"I guess I shouldn't complain. If you make yourself at home here, maybe you'll stay, hmm? Settle down?"
"Like you?"
"I have been a victim of circumstance. I'm now mistress of my own fate. They couldn't beg me to return to Austin and it'd be too tragic to go back to Richmond. Fortuna suits me jest fine. Not too nice, not too rowdy. Speaking of which, the town needs a marshal. A certain amount of law and order is good for business. You could still take me up on that offer―amongst others."
Footsteps approached the door.
Startled, Marly decided it was best to move on. She wasn't ashamed of eavesdropping. Still, she didn't want to get caught either.
It was time to put her talent for listening to use elsewhere.
News traveled fast in the small town. In the general store, opinions about Jase and the murder buzzed like bees.
Marly could hardly be accused of lurking when she had a legitimate reason to be there. Leaning her rifle against the counter, she managed to blend into the background so no one noticed the stranger in their midst.
The murder had stirred up feelings. Most folks liked Matt Egan. Some thought he was a little high handed. All of them knew he had killed before, but those times were clearly cases of self defense.
She listened to the gossip and speculation while browsing through the racks and surreptitiously noting the different ways the men wore their guns.
The shopkeeper, a talkative matron at the hub of the gossip, frowned. "What can I do for you, young man?"
"I'm returning these jeans. They're the wrong size."
The woman's frown was replaced with a broad, insincere smile. "Why, you must the new marshal's assistant."
Her voice carried and the buzz of conversation ceased.
"Marly Landers." She gave the woman a small bow.
"Well, Master Landers, I'm Mrs. Temple-Quinton, proprietress of this establishment. The marshal has an account here. So if there is anything you need..."
"No, thank you, ma'am."
Mrs. Temple-Quinton took the jeans and indicated with a tip of her head where the door was.
"Any progress on the investigation?" asked a younger matron with one child on her hip and another grasping her skirt.
Marly shrugged. "I'm sure the Ranger will have things sorted out soon."
A man shot a great gob of spit into the spittoon by her feet.
Startled, she jumped back a step.
"Good shot," someone murmured.
Marly picked up her rifle. With a tight smile, she said, "Good day."
Outside, she paused to load the carbine's magazine. The task gave her time to regain her composure and demonstrate to anyone watching that she wasn't intimidated.
Not much anyway.
She strolled down Main Street, mapping out the town's core. Adjoining the general store was the barbershop. According to the graphics painted in its window, it was also the home of the dentist and undertaker. No doubt, this was all one person.
An alley separated the barbershop from the Fortuna Hotel, an ordinary looking edifice like a dozen others she had seen and occasionally worked in. The hotel completed the block between Church Road and The Avenue.
Opposite the general store was the bank. Despite its imposing facade, it wasn't much of a building. Next door was the Post, Stage and Telegraph, an office much smaller than its name implied. Completing that side of the block was the Marshal's Office. Like The Oasis, it had a corner entrance and was built in a similar, albeit plainer, style.
The door to the Marshal's Office was open and people loitered around the entrance.
Jase was probably finding it hard to get away.
Across the road from the office, at the corner of Avenue and Main with a door opening onto each, stood The Haven.
A half-smile lifted Marly's mouth as she wandered by.
It didn't have The Oasis' style or the hotel's respectability, yet, rough as it was, The Haven was the kind of place she had learned to be comfortable in. There was always work to do and however rowdy the clientele might get, they rarely picked on a youngster. If someone did, someone else would step in. That kind of bully almost always backed down when challenged.
The livery and blacksmith backed onto The Haven. The yard was empty and the smithy door was closed.
Instead of getting the tack, she decided to treat Trouble and Grandee to some currying. She was brushing Grandee down when a man came by wanting his horse. With no one else in sight, he probably figured her for a stable boy. Always accommodating, especially if a tip might be had, she saddled his mount. She had just pocketed a couple of pennies when she noticed the young man whose job she had just usurped.
"Thanks," he said, stepping forward. "Seems like folks always come along when you got to step out. Name's Hank."
Towering above her, Hank held out his hand.
She took it and tried not to wince from his grip. "Marly."
"Coffee?"
"I wouldn't say no."
He led her through a door that opened onto the backyard of The Haven where chickens pecked in the dirt near a coop, guarded by a scruffy looking terrier napping under the porch. Three young men sat on the porch, drinking beer or coffee and sharing a large plate of sandwiches.
Marly estimated their ages to range between fifteen and twenty-one, the latter being her own age. Hank seemed to be the oldest. He made brief introductions and then stepped inside to fetch the coffee.
Like everyone else in town, the murder was foremost on their minds. All it took was a few well-placed, casual questions to start them talking. The random violence theory held no water with these boys. They were sure that this was murder with a motive.
"Egan's not a suspect because he'd kill a man face-to-face," Hank said, returning with two mugs of coffee.
"That don't mean it ain't one of his men," the youngest boy said. "Too many people hated Strothers, that's the problem."
Hank shrugged. "Duke sure did."
"With reason. That sonuvabitch had a grudge against Duke and The Haven. Step one toe outta line on this side of the road and you earned yourself a night in the cells. Bet no one at The Oasis ever saw a night behind bars."
"Quieter place."
"Just noise," said an attractive blond boy. "No one ever caused any trouble that Duke couldn't sort out."
"True enough," Hank said.
Most of the young men present had spent a night in jail just for showing what they described as 'a little high spirits.'
Was that enough to kill a man over?
"Some men don't need much excuse," Hank said.
But they couldn't imagine Duke being that kind of man.
"I bet Strothers was being paid to keep his nose out of The Oasis," the blond suggested.
"I don't know, Jed."
"Maybe he wanted more money," the younger boy said. "Maybe Jezebel had him killed because he was getting greedy."
"And maybe you better catch up with your uncle, Lloyd Penrod," Hank said. He handed the empty sandwich plate to Jed. "And you better see if Duke has any more work today."
This was Marly's c
ue to find Jase.
"Thanks for the coffee," she said with a nod to the boys.
"You know," Hank said as they headed back through the stable, "these boys ain't gonna be too pleased when they find out you're with the Ranger."
"I don't suppose so. Thanks for not saying anything."
Hank shrugged. "Your business, not mine. Just don't take their rambling too seriously."
Marly returned the shrug. "Ranger's business, not mine. I just like to hear people talk."
Jase pulled out his watch and checked the time. The latest of his many visitors were two men claiming to be Strothers' deputies―a middle-aged man and his nephew. Neither inspired him to revise his opinion of Strothers' intelligence. He suspected that Strothers had chosen them for their compliancy, not brains.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, cutting into the older man's diatribe against anyone who didn't welcome the law into Fortuna.
Since neither had taken the initiative to keep the office open, nor had they looked into the murder of their employer, it was hard to take either of them seriously.
"If I ever need your particular talents, I'll keep you in mind."
Reluctantly, the pair was ushered out the door.
Unfortunately, they weren't the last of Fortuna's citizens looking for an excuse to check out the interim marshal. Since no one wanted to commit to being friendly, his visitors had to find excuses to come to the office. Most were pretty flimsy. In an effort to maintain goodwill, he tried to deal with them all. After an hour of being interrogated―not too subtly most of the time―he was sick of it.
Out of this group, a well-dressed man stepped to the fore. He removed his shallow crowned hat with a sweeping gesture and offered an immaculately clean and manicured hand.
"Marshal Strachan, allow me to introduce myself. Chet Winters, banker. I have some urgent business to discuss, if you can spare the time."
