by Eden Carson
Even after all these years, Catherine started to tear up at Ruth’s words. “Unfortunately for me, the circuit judge took a more old-fashioned view of things, and wanted to see me hanged for murder. Lucky girl that I was, the sheriff’s son had gone to school with poor Jacob, and knew how Carl really was. That sheriff turned a blind eye when his son and Jacob broke me out of the jailhouse. We left in the middle of the night, with nothing more than an old revolver Jacob had taken and the clothes on our backs.”
Ruth was amazed at this woman’s raw courage. “You took all four of his children with you?”
“Of course,” Catherine shrugged. “They were already mine. We lived in the woods for an entire spring and summer, putting as much distance as possible between the town and us before settling in a makeshift shelter. But as winter drew closer, we become desperate for food. We were from the city. Jacob was the only one who could hunt, but not well enough to feed five people. I had heard about Jackson’s ranch, and I marched right up to his front door and asked for a job. Demanded, was more like it. The whole while I was afraid he’d hang me directly from his own tree, since he was with the Marshal Service.”
“What happened?” Ruth wanted to know what Jackson had done when faced with a desperate but demanding woman with four hungry children in tow.
“He asked me what skills I had that might make it worth his while to support us all. He treated me like I was a man with those kids, instead of a woman. Anybody else would have demanded to know where my husband was, but not Jackson. I guess he was smart enough to know that the husband was dead and buried long before I showed up on a stranger’s doorstep. I told him I could read, write, and sum better than most men, and if a man could make a living with these skills, there was no real reason why I couldn’t.”
Catherine took a sip of her rapidly cooling coffee before finishing her tale. “Jackson thought it over for a few minutes. Took in my kids and said, just like that, “It looks to me like I’m in need of a school teacher to show all these young ones how to be as useful as their mother. I was too shocked and relieved to question anything. When he handed me over to Sue and moved into the barn so we could all stay in his house, why, I just kept moving along and never stopped to think I might be dreaming.”
“That was a good thing he did.” Ruth gave credit where it was due, knowing firsthand how badly Catherine’s story could have ended if not for Jackson.
“That was an amazing thing he did, and I give silent thanks every night that he came into our life. He even introduced me to my husband,” Catherine laughed. “I guess I have to give Jackson credit for fixing me up with my second man. He did a better job than my own family, thank the Lord. Any woman would be lucky to have him, you know. In case I was being too subtle, that was my point in telling you my life story.”
Ruth smiled, but avoided answering directly. “I suppose I’ll have to promise to do your laundry for a month of Sundays if things don’t work out.”
Catherine fanned herself in mild chagrin. “Don’t hold that against us, now. Sue and I both mean well. And with no more than one or two visitors all year, we’ve become the worst busy bodies imaginable.”
“Thank you for telling me this,” Ruth said. “Although I think I already knew Jackson’s character, since he came to my rescue on that train. Just don’t be too disappointed when you lose that bet. I’ve got an intended, and I think you must understand how many consequences there can be for breaking a promise like that.”
Catherine nodded as her own consequences started barreling in for supper.
Chapter 48
With his eyes closed, and the skin of his face placid and grey after long weeks of convalescence, Jasper Smith inspired a growing disgust in his long-time boss. Frank Masterson could not abide weakness of any sort. And without the usual meanness visible in his pale blue eyes, Smith was growing weaker and weaker in Masterson’s opinion. His old friend was taking too damned long to wake up from a single gunshot wound for Masterson to stomach the sight of him much longer.
“Woman, get in here.” Masterson bellowed at his newest housekeeper, impatient at being kept waiting. The tiny woman had been in his employ for more than three weeks, but he could not remember her name.
“Yes, sir,” the woman curtsied. “Does Mr. Smith need something, sir?”
“The lazy good-for-nothing needs to wake the hell up before I leave him out for the wolves. Bring some smelling salts and a bucket of ice water. It’s long past time for him to earn this warm bed.”
The housekeeper returned quickly with a bucket of water and a supply of smelling salts. She placed the bucket on the floor and waved the salts under the patient’s hooked, pock-marked nose.
He didn’t stir, so she used the vial again. When he only woke enough to turn to his side and burrow back into the warm blankets, she barely had enough time to duck before Masterson dumped the bucket of ice water on Smith’s head.
He sat up, cursing his mother and the son of a bitch who’d doused him, until his drugged eyes focused on Masterson. He immediately shut up and took stock of his surroundings, not clear on where he was or what had happened.
“It’s about time, Smith. You’ve been lazing around for near two weeks in my bed and on my payroll. Now wake the hell up and tell me where my wife is!”
Smith grabbed his throbbing head as everything came back to him – the train robbery, and that ungrateful bitch shooting him. He thought fast, knowing he had better come up with someone else to blame before Masterson started pounding on him.
“I figure she ran off, boss,” Smith said.
At the look in Masterson’s eyes, Smith quickly changed the direction of his story. “Not with a man or nothing like that. She was just getting cold feet on the train, see. Kept talking about how remote it was, passing for miles and miles with no cities and no towns. I’ll bet the train robbers was just too much for her to take, especially seeing them shoot me right in front of her eyes. So she decided to turn around and head back home. I’ll find her, boss, don’t worry.” Smith tossed his wet blankets aside and made a show of swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
“You’d better,” Masterson agreed, recalling that the quiet maid was still skulking about the room. “I don’t want my new beloved in any danger,” he added for the woman’s benefit before ordering her to leave the room.
After he listened to the maid’s footsteps retreat down the stairs, Masterson continued with his interrogation. “And how the hell did you manage to get shot by our own men? And what were you doing on the wrong damn train to begin with? You should have come through the day before.”
Masterson fired off his questions, growing more and more agitated at the lack of answers.
“It wasn’t my fault, boss. Honest. The damn preacher was sick-drunk. We had to sober him up to say the words and watch us sign the proxy papers. We lost a day messing with the fool, but you told me to do everything extra-legal, like. So we waited. There weren’t no other preacher for a hundred miles that would rush a proxy marriage for us. So I took a chance we could just stay hidden during the robbery.”
Smith started warming to his lie. “Miss Ruth got panicked when all the shooting started, and ran out of her cabin instead of staying put like I told her. I had to go after her, boss. And in the chaos of passengers running and screaming, someone shot me. Could’ve been the Marshals, for all I know. I was chasing after your wife, you know, with no concern for my own safety.” Smith forced himself to stop short of babbling. It was Masterson himself who had taught him not to add unneeded details when concocting a lie. It was too easy to get caught.
Masterson narrowed his eyes at Smith, not believing but half of his tale. “It doesn’t concern me what happened, or how much of a fool you’ve been. As long as you find my wife, you’ll live. Don’t disappoint me this time. I need that woman.” Satisfied his threat was believed, Masterson left the room. When he got downstairs, he sent the skittish maid up to help get Smith’s lazy ass back on the road.
&nbs
p; As soon as she re-entered the room, Smith was barking orders at her.
“Get me some clothes, girl,” he demanded as he struggled to maintain his sitting position.
The housekeeper quickly left the room, giving him a wide berth as she did so.
Smith let his weary body sag back onto the bed now that the room was empty. His side ached like a son of bitch, and he didn’t know how he was going to stand, much less mount a horse at the edge of winter. But he knew Masterson. Any suggestion of waiting out the snow to start the search in spring would likely get him a second bullet. He’d have to get himself somewhere safer to lay low, at the very least. Maybe he could hire someone to do the looking for him, Smith thought.
The housekeeper came back into the room and handed Smith his cleaned riding clothes and a bottle of whiskey. “It’s to keep the wound clean,” she explained.
He grabbed the alcohol with a grunt and emptied half the bottle in three good swallows. “Get me another, and some food for the trail.”
The woman nodded and went in search of supplies.
Smith took one last swallow of courage, then put his pants and shirt on with no small amount of pain. He’d search for that bitch himself. If she weren’t dead yet, he needed to make sure they came to an understanding–and she kept her mouth shut. He couldn’t risk sending anyone else and having her start telling stories Masterson just might believe.
Chapter 49
Jasper Smith yanked impatiently on the reins of his rented nag as he caught sight of the train depot ahead. He tugged his nearly empty canteen from the saddle – also rented – and took a long swallow, grateful he’d soon be mounted on his own horse. This beast was already dragging, and they’d only been on the trail four days.
He’d like to see this nag haul himself around for one hundred miles with a half-healed bullet wound, and then talk to him about being tired, Smith thought, as he dug his spurs in to move the horse forward. He had been following the train tracks the entire way from Masterson’s place. He was so exhausted he’d nearly ridden past this sorry excuse for a train depot, asleep in the saddle.
Smith dumped the last bit of water in his canteen over his head, knowing he could get more up ahead. He checked the load on his revolver, and put spurs to his horse even harder than before. A careful man would have walked his weary mount the last fifty yards, but Smith figured he’d be leaving the animal behind once he had his own horse again.
He rode up slowly, approaching from the side of the building. There was only one excuse for a window in the place, and if there had ever been glass, it was shattered long ago and replaced with a burlap sack.
Smith could see two horses lazily swatting a swarm of energetic flies, but neither was his horse. There was a barn out back, so for the sake of his aching side, he hoped his mount was there. He lacked the energy to shoot anyone today.
There was no one occupying the half-dozen rockers on the front porch, so the train must not be due for some time, he thought. Although the place looked deserted now, he knew folks could come out from miles around just to watch the train arrive. He’d known men that would ride for two days, just to catch a glimpse of the faces coming and going. There would be Southerners heading west to get rich. And there’d always be one or two heading back in the other direction. More often than not, they were empty handed, longing for family, friends and the illusion of civilization that a proper city promised.
Smith didn’t hear a sound as he approached the front porch. He dismounted and carelessly looped the reins of his rented mount around one of the hitching posts. The parched horse immediately ducked his head in the nearby trough and drank his fill of the rank water. Smith didn’t bother to toss any grain to the animal. He figured the railroad owed him for his troubles, so they could pay to feed the nag.
Smith grabbed his rifle and headed through the front door, immediately taking in the nearly empty room. There were only two bodies in the whole place – a fiftyish, balding fellow manning the bar, and a young kid lazily sweeping the floor of the never-ending dust.
“Train’s not due ‘til tomorrow and we don’t rent beds,” the balding man informed Smith, before pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. “I can sell you whiskey for two bits, though. And you can sleep in the barn.”
Smith held onto the shreds of his temper, mostly because the look in the big man’s eyes told the new arrival he would not be intimidated. Large and stocky, the man had the arms of a prize fighter, and only showed his age in the ragged crevices surrounding his weathered lips. Smith tried his best not to scowl. “I’m here for my horse – a paint gelding, about fifteen hands. I’ll take you up on the whiskey, too.” Smith fished around in his dusty pants pocket for the outrageous amount, as the surly fellow had a tight hold on the whiskey bottle and a pay-first look about the eyes.
Smith tossed the coins on the counter and raised his scraggly brows. “Where’s my horse?” He demanded, snatching the dirty whiskey glass and emptying it in one gulp.
The burly clerk poured Smith another drink, before answering. “We don’t rent horses, either.”
“I’m not looking to rent a horse. I’ve already got me one of them rentable horses out front. What I want is my own damn horse, last seen on your train car before we were robbed.”
“Ain’t got no horse, Paint or otherwise. And you owe me another two bits.”
“I’ll take the bottle,” Smith said, setting a silver dollar on the bar.
The bald man examined the coin carefully before releasing his hold on the half-empty whiskey bottle and turning his back on Smith, assuming their business was done.
“Mister, I left my horse with this railroad, and now you’re telling me you’ve lost it?” Smith raised his voice as his side started to throb along with his temper.
The bald man slowly turned around to face Smith, placing a lethal looking Billy Club on the bar in front of him, both hands lightly grasping the weapon.
“I’ve already told you, mister, I ain’t got your horse. If you were on the train that was robbed a few weeks past, then your horse must have been stolen by the same bastards that held up the train. Count yourself lucky they only got your horse and not your life. Six folks died, you know. Now drink your whiskey and be on your way.”
Smith was in no condition to challenge the man. He’d have his skull crushed against the stone floor long before he could pull his gun. Smith tossed back the cheap whiskey and tried again.
“Who was killed on the train?” he asked, hoping he might at least get some information that would lead to his horse or that damned girl.
“Don’t know their names. Don’t know their business.” The clerk replied curtly, not offering any more information than was required.
“I’m looking for a woman – my new bride. I got hit on the head and caught a bullet too during the robbery. I was out cold for near two weeks before I came to.”
“Your wife, you say?” The clerk’s brows rose slowly. “Weren’t no love match if a man asks about his horse before his new bride, that’s for sure.”
Smith gritted his teeth, cursing himself for not thinking straight. “You’ve caught me. It weren’t no wife, just a whore I was taking with me on a nice trip. But she was a good whore. Always gave me my money’s worth, and I don’t mean to see her harmed none. I’m just asking after her.”
The clerk raised his bushy eyebrows again. “Like I said, I don’t know their names or their business. If you got legitimate claims on the bodies, I suggest you take it up with the Marshals.”
The man left through the back door, Billy Club in hand.
“Hey, Mister,” a high-pitched voice chimed in. “I maybe got some information might be useful to you.”
Smith turned at the unexpected sound from the back corner of the dark and dusty room. The skinny kid with the broom was no threat. Smith had dismissed him when he’d first entered the depot and had forgotten about him since. The youngster was maybe fifteen, sixteen at most, and had a skittish way about him that told Smit
h he was wont to lurk in corners listening in on other folks’ business. Just the type he needed.
“Is that so? What information you got?” Smith headed straight for the kid, figuring a few good kicks would get any truth out of him.
The skinny boy was smarter than he expected, Smith thought, as the kid pulled out a pistol and carelessly aimed it in Smith’s direction.
“Hold on, there, Mister. You stay where I can see you. I’ll talk, don’t you worry, and I ain’t greedy like some. I’ll tell you what you want to know for a right fair price. Enough for a bottle of Bill’s whiskey ought to do it.”
The kid started sweating as Smith took his time answering.
Smith’s luck had been lousy since the day he picked up Ruth Jameson. And he didn’t figure anything had improved it since. Just his luck, the fool kid would shoot him by mistake and he’d rot from gangrene, seeing as the nearest doctor was days away.
Sitting down at the nearest table, Smith showed both hands to the nervous kid. “Tell me what information you got, and I’ll tell you if it’s worth a bottle.”
The kid scratched his lice-ridden head before replying, “You pour me one glass and I’ll tell you half. If you like it, I get the rest of the bottle and you get the rest of the information.”
Too tired to quibble with the child any longer, Smith fetched a glass himself, set it on the table, and invited the kid over. “You got yourself a deal. Now talk.”
The kid sat across from Smith, but kept his gun aimed directly at the man’s middle. He kept one hand on the trigger and tossed back his whiskey with the other. “First, I can tell you who’s got your horse. You said it was that Paint, and I was taking care of the horses on that very train. I fed and watered him every day, between here and Kansas City.”
Smith leaned forward, thinking his luck might be turning after all. “Well? What happened to it?”
