by Rusty Davis
The girl from the stable ran over to him.
“That was Bud Franklin. He was a Company Rider. He killed six men!”
“He won’t kill no more,” said Kane.
He walked the rest of the way alone as the crowd no longer could remain silent. The noise of excitement over someone else’s death erupted, fading only as he walked away to the quiet haven of the stable.
He had almost completed brushing Tecumseh when the expected delegation of solid citizens arrived. A couple were young, most old. Most round. All hesitant. Kane hoped if he pretended they were not there, they might go away.
Nope.
A full-bearded older man moved forward, hat off, running it around in his hands. The man had gray hair heading to white, a neat beard, and stood taller than the rest—a big, full man. He wore some kind of black jacket and pants, but both were stained with flour. His white shirt was wrinkled and dirty, but he was eager to make his friendly intentions obvious with a smile that seemed to come naturally in a face that had wide, blue eyes looking at Kane with what was clearly a practiced assessment of the stranger he was meeting.
“Howdy.” The man’s voice was deep and pleasant; it sounded practiced in the art of being friendly.
“Not plannin’ to kill nobody else today, if that’s your worry. One’s entertainment. Two’s bad for business.”
“Well, that’s fine news,” said the man, his cheerfulness seemingly undented. “Jack Conroy. I own the general store.”
Store men liked to talk.
“Kane. Wilkins family; you know ’em?”
The smile dimmed a second before words tumbled out. “Fine folks. Terrible, whatever it was out there. Terrible. They owed me money, of course, but I canceled it when I heard. It was the very least that a Christian man could do for the widow, even though . . . I mean, terrible thing.”
“They live far?”
“No, no, not at all. About ten miles that way.” He pointed north. “Almost due north two miles, then towards Red Butte.”
As directions went, it wasn’t much help, but Kane figured another question might send the man past his limit.
“ ’Bliged.” He went back to his work.
“Mr. Kane? There was one thing that we wanted to say, being the town council here of Rakeheart, such as we are.”
Kane’s thoughts flitted to that Panhandle town where the townsfolk got so sick of gunfights they ordered anyone who shot a man dead on the street to bury him or pay a fine. Grinned. They always got their money, too.
The group seemed to recoil from a man who killed one minute and flashed a carefree grin the next.
“Are you . . . um . . . staying here in Rakeheart?” Conroy got out after no one else in his group spoke up. “Not that you are not free to leave . . . I mean free to stay . . . or you can go, um, of course, we would not detain you because we know that . . . well . . .”
“No idea. Problem?” This was taking time he did not want to spend talking. Sherman was probably already berating his clerk over the lack of progress reports.
“Problem? No, of course not. Not at all,” Conroy stammered. “There is no sheriff here, if that’s what you were asking about. That is the predicament we face here as we try to make this a God-fearing town.”
A younger man with a wide part down the top of his skull and slicked-down black hair took over, flashing a look of contempt at the stammering older man.
This man had a brown, checked suit with a black vest, a perfect white shirt with one of those ugly little black ties men were wearing these days that looked like a ribbon tied around a man’s neck and always made Kane think of hangings.
“Frank Brewer. I own the bank. We wanted to talk to you about that.”
Kane was lost. He said so.
“We need a sheriff,” Conroy said at last. “You’re new here. We all saw you try to stop those fools. Franklin was a . . .” A throat cleared in the bunch. Conroy started over.
“We can’t pay much, but there would be a place to sleep and meals. We’d like to talk to you about becoming the sheriff.”
The face looked relieved. He had said it.
Kane pursed his lips. As ideas went, he had heard worse. Not many, though. Him, a sheriff?
“Got to see the Wilkins family,” he said, not wanting to make too many enemies in case he had to stay around a while. “Them first. Talk to you when I come back.”
They agreed that would be fine. Brewer was bursting with something to say.
“Have you been in Wyoming long, Mr. Kane, and, um, did you know Bud from any former acquaintance?”
“The man you shot,” Conroy prompted after seeing Kane’s baffled look.
He never was good at names. Faces lingered. Names scattered in the wind and were gone. Even those he killed. Especially those.
“Never met him. Been in the territory a few days, if it’s your business.”
Brewer hastily admitted it was not, and, amid general expressions of shaky goodwill, the delegation left him alone.
“Well, Cump,” he said to the horse. “Don’t that beat all?”
“You know the Wilkinses?” he asked the girl, who had told him her name was Janie. She had observed the delegation with something that was not quite disgust, but there was not much respect shown, either.
She shook her head.
“Only came to look in on ’em. You don’t know ’em at all, small place like this?”
“Not very well. Their kids are little,” she said scornfully. “The boy is cute, but his father spoiled him and lets him run wild. The girl is quiet and moody. She is, you know, different, like her mother. Mr. Wilkins came to town a lot—maybe not every week but something like that. Mrs. Wilkins and the girl don’t come very often, which is fine, the way things are. He gave me a dollar once for watching his horse extra. I think he was nice, but I didn’t really know him.”
“Guess you can keep the one I gave you even though I don’t think we quite ate a dollar of oats,” he said as he saddled Tecumseh.
“I can?”
“Don’t figure you’d give it back easy.” He smiled.
She grinned back and looked like a different person.
“Guess your pa knows you have a head for business.”
“Guess so!” she exclaimed proudly. She stood outside the stable and waved as he rode, after giving him a few landmarks to look for on the way north.
CHAPTER THREE
Such a trail as there was petered out less than a mile from Rakeheart. If anyone ever moved across the rough, rocky ground, it was not evident. Janie’s landmarks were a good map, though. He took his time. Working for Sherman, he infiltrated gangs, rode down outlaw groups, and became whoever he needed to be so often he sometimes forgot who he was. He knew there was work to do, but it still felt like a vacation. No one hunting him.
Yet.
He thought about the stack of clippings Sherman’s clerk had thoughtfully prepared about how detectives in London worked. Some of it had been amusing to read on the train. Mostly it helped stoke the stove that cold day in Nebraska. He had no idea how to do what he was supposed to do.
It had been about a month. Sherman wanted him to try. He’d try.
Sheriff. He laughed out loud. It intrigued him. He’d already become too noticed to be unseen. Might be the way to stay on. Couldn’t be much need for one, if one gunfight drew a crowd like that. Down Texas way, folks would hardly leave the street when two fools wanted to shoot each other.
The tree that looked like proof lightning struck the same place pretty often was now in front of him. Good directions, girl. A mile to go. He hated meeting people. A widow no less.
“Give me a gunfight any day,” he said to the horse as the late-afternoon sun began to stream in his eyes while it hovered over a series of stubby, rock-topped hills where the sky-lined trees were the exception. Hard land. Uncompromising.
People the same? He’d find out.
The Wilkins place was small. Long and low. Surer hands built the whit
e-painted center section than the unpainted wings. A knee-high rock fence framed a gateway.
Shadows from the nearest butte covered the place. He didn’t like coming in with the sun in his eyes, and now that he was in the shade with the sky above the butte still bright, he could barely see at all. Man could be an easy target this time of day.
Shutters were open. He could see that. He’d smelled smoke for a while, so they had to be home. Too dark to know if anyone was looking back.
“Hello the Wilkins house,” he called. “Like to come in.”
No answer. Feet moved. They stopped.
“I know you don’t know me, but I got sent here by Cump Sherman, General Sherman that is. Here to help.”
Silence. The door opened. A short, thin woman came out. Two long, black braids framed her dark-complexioned face. She held a shotgun across her chest. She wore a dark dress and was coatless in the early evening dimness of the shadow that now covered her house. She still did not speak.
“Name’s Kane. General Sherman sent me.”
“You said that. Any proof?” Her challenging voice was low. The threat was padded, but it was still there.
“None I can show you from the back of a horse.” This did not seem the moment to mention the money he carried. He was trying to get a good look. She walked a few steps closer. Gave her a better angle; him a worse one from the dimness where she had the advantage. He could not make out her features, see what was in her eyes.
“I know your name’s Rachel,” he said as he turned in the saddle to follow her as she inspected him from the side. “Got kids. A boy and girl. Husband served with Sherman on the March to the Sea, stayed in the army a while after the war. Minnesota if I recollect right. Sherman heard about your husband, ma’am, with what happened and all, ma’am, and wanted me to stop by on my way special to see if I could help you, ma’am.”
With soldiers, if you said “sir,” enough they came ’round. Not sure substituting “ma’am” worked with women. If anything did. He could feel a wall of skepticism. He could feel more than see watchers from the windows.
On impulse, he grinned and waved toward the house. He was rewarded with a noise.
“Enough,” she said sharply to the unseen figures. Feet thudded as children ran to prove they had never looked out the window.
“Get down slow. I’ll shoot if you touch that gun.” She moved to a better spot to watch him, stepping carefully, precisely. Something . . . something familiar in the way she moved . . . toes almost dancing the way they pointed down as she stepped . . . some memory with a pile of Texas dust strewn across it. She was walking barefoot.
He did as he was told. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness as he walked slowly towards her, hands out from his sides.
“You’re a long way from Texas.” Another challenge. A deliberate warning. She wasn’t stupid and wanted him to know it.
“Fact.”
He could see her inspection take in everything, from the worn boots to the new everything else. He could see the fireplace behind her. He was sure a small head darted back to the window. Small voices whispered as loudly as only small voices can. He took a step.
“I said slow.”
He put his hands wide out as he moved closer but could not hide the grin as he looked for his unseen inspectors. Rachel took a slow, methodical, detailed look. The gun motioned him inside. He passed. For now.
“Can’t be too careful. Come in.” Then, “Nothing sudden.”
There was still a little fire burning, and a candle lit. He tried not to stare as he struggled to sort this out. His eyes were adjusting from riding into the sunset to the shadows outside to the darker shadows inside.
“Sit,” she said and moved to the table.
They were good. Kids who could spy and get away with it were better than he ever was.
She set some bread on the table. He took the end of one bench; she sat across. He broke off a piece, offered it to her. She shook her head. He saw some kind of white circle on the end of her braids. It had a decoration on it. Very familiar.
“What does General Sherman want that he sends someone from his very special army all the way out here to Wyoming?” Sarcasm and wariness blended in her tone.
He’d been smiling since she reached across the table and set the bread down, recalling a little bit of a place a long time ago and now a long ways away. Sherman’s questions could wait a minute. He had his own investigation to do first.
“You’re Comanche.” He pointed at her left arm, where the frayed sleeve of her deep-green dress was rolled partway up her left forearm. A tiny bit of ink showed.
A wry smile and a deprecating alto laugh. Her eyes crinkled. The snapping black eyes that watched him turned warm, but no surprise showed.
“Sherman sent you to tell me that?”
“Don’t think he knows.”
Snort.
“No, I am certain Jared never shared that with him. Wisely. Your general has fixed views on the subject of Indians.”
“He does.”
“And Jared had very fixed views on telling his hero only what he wanted him to know.” The word hero had a bit of a sneer that made Kane wonder if Sherman knew more than he was letting on when he cautioned him about the widow.
“Only way to handle the man. Kinda like new powder ready to go off, and you never know in which direction to run.”
He waited.
“How did you know a Comanche tattoo? A man came here once who boasted he could smell an Indian at a hundred yards, and he never suspected I was Comanche.”
“Like you said. Texas. Ain’t seen a tattoo like that in a while since I rode up near to Indian territory. Spent some years as a kid on the Panhandle and all the places kids ain’t supposed to go. Some of the Indian kids curious about whites and the white kids curious about Indians had a place we’d all meet and do stuff that probably should have gotten the pack of us killed. Good thing no one told us we was s’posed to be killin’ each other, or those rock fights would have turned out a lot worse than I recall. Figgered it out when we got older, more or less. Drifted away and apart by then. Can I see the whole thing?”
She pushed her sleeve up past her elbow and showed him the design. It was a classic Comanche pattern. Wild and free. For a moment he could almost feel that Panhandle wind in his face when he looked at the swirls. He could feel himself relax as if he were there. Men far from home are twice the fools they usually are. And she was pretty. No. Striking. Dark eyes, high cheekbones in a thin face. She was also a member of the broken nose club. A ripped earlobe from earrings or something. No guess on age. Not a kid. Not old. He should not be staring. He had work. He should ask something like whatever a good detective-type fella would ask. Should not have burned those notes!
“How does a Comanche get to Wyoming?”
“Kiowa raid when I was ten or so. They sold me to the Arapaho. They sold me to the Cheyenne. I don’t think they thought I would be the calm and quiet slave they wanted.”
“Were they right?”
“They were. Kiowa could not get rid of me fast enough. Arapaho man learned Comanches don’t like being beaten and know how to get even. Cheyenne weren’t bad, but eventually the man who bought me sold me to the Sioux in a trade for horses. I was almost twelve. By then I stopped fighting.”
He doubted that.
“You live with Red Cloud or Sitting Bull?”
She shook her head.
“Neither. You hear about the fighting in Minnesota while your war was going on?” He nodded. “My band of Sioux lived there. It was ugly. My—They killed a lot of people. Afterward they sent soldiers to watch us when your war was over. Jared was there, guarding us. He was kind, which was very unusual for soldiers. He had decided to quit the army once all the excitement was over. He took uh . . . me. We moved. First Kansas. Nebraska. Then Dakota. Then here.”
“You think that’s why your husband was killed? Somebody not approve because you’re an Indian?”
She snorted agai
n.
“No one approved. You might ask if I care about that, Kane. Approved! You men say things in funny ways. You want to know if the nice white people got offended by having an Indian in their little town?”
Kane fidgeted and looked at the floor.
“Don’t know I ever got invited to make quilts or any of that, but I never really learned how to gossip white woman style, so I never objected. No, no one approved, but no one cared that much, either. Most of the time. Red Cloud spits or Crazy Horse shoots a bear, and they get all het up and Jared would worry, but we lived here six years without anyone getting scalped, so they pretty much forget I am who I am, or even that I am here. I’m that quiet lady who never speaks much. Uppity, someone will call me. I know life can be much worse, Kane, and I do not ask for more than what is due me.”
She paused a moment.
“The Black Hills are not all that far, but still it is far enough from the gold and the raids and the robberies and the fighting that it isn’t a big fuss. When it explodes, which I know it will from the way that Custer man said there was gold everywhere, and now there are men in the Paha Sapa, they will remember I am Indian, but mostly they forget. I make it easy for them to do so. I go into Rakeheart about twice a year. Nothing there I want. Jared can buy supplies. I mean he did. Jeremiah liked to go along. Libby would go, but she did not really enjoy the town. She thought they looked down on her, the other children. Some of the people in the town are nice to children, but she always felt she did not belong.”
“No threats?”
“I don’t know what anyone said to Jared, but he never shared anything with me. No one was ever mean to my face. I know that is not the way of white women. The Sioux were more direct.”
She paused, going somewhere in her mind.
“I heard what you said about how you felt when you were a boy, but that was a long time ago; I want to know something. Are you one of those men who thinks Indians are guilty of something merely by being Indians? Jared kept me pretty much a secret to protect me as well as curry favor with his hero. I want to know who is under this roof with my children.”
