by Rusty Davis
“Those boys? They won’t give you or anyone else any more trouble. Nope.” The assurance in his voice made Conroy look a question in his direction. Kane didn’t answer it. Conroy let it go.
“Let me talk to the others. We’d like to talk to you . . . um . . . together.”
“Horse is at the stable. I stay with him. Come find me. Place to eat here?”
“Last Chance. It was one of the original saloons. Tom Pierce and Mary Ellen run it now. It might not look like much but wait until you eat.”
“Obliged.”
“Tell them to charge your meal to us.”
“Once I take the job.” Kane turned to go. Stopped. “If I take the job.”
Kane walked down the duckboards. Sheriff. When he was the face of the law, the world was turning itself inside out.
“What did you do?” Janie asked as he reached the stable. She was grinning and almost hopping from foot to foot in her happiness.
“Nothin’.”
“Hogwash. They all groveled and crawled as they passed me. Not a peep.”
“Good to know.” Anything else was choked off when she grabbed him hard and loudly kissed his right cheek.
“Thank you!” she said as she bounced away with a sunrise-wide grin. “Thank you!”
He was in shock, both from the force of the hug from a strong girl about as tall as he was and the smack on the cheek. Tecumseh was staring.
“What are you looking at?” he asked. The horse tossed his head. The horse liked being talked to. Kane always wondered how much of human behavior made sense to a horse. Probably not much. Not much men do makes sense to a horse. Or even to men when they were sane and sober and not off chasin’ something that made them miserable so they could be happy.
Stable was a smithy, too. Good thing. Tecumseh had a shoe that was worn. Maybe Janie’s pa would show up soon so’s he could fix it.
He plunked down at the edge of the stall. Rachel Wilkins. A puzzle. Something off, but she didn’t look like a killer. Ferguson? Didn’t seem the type. Deeper than he looked, maybe interested in the widow, but not the kind to sneak-shoot a man. That boy, Chad? Hard to imagine him getting the drop on anyone and being sober enough to hit anything. Other ranches? He’d find out. Every town was the same—a solid core of men and women who would whup the wind, the Indians, and one another if they needed to and people who collected around the edges who drifted from place to place looking for whatever was easy to get.
It would sort. In time. Truth was like a bullet in the leg—enough time, enough blood, enough pain, it came out.
The Last Chance still had its bar, and a collection of small tables. Kane sat at the bar on a stool.
“New in town?” sang out a woman’s voice. He admitted the fact. “No beer; we only serve food.”
“Good.”
Whatever she said next had the word steak in it. That was the only word that mattered. And coffee.
An hour later, he was patting a very full stomach as he prepared to walk back to the stable. He thought he’d take a tour of Rakeheart. There were, as Conroy said, four corners that each once held saloons. The original town name, Rakehell, had been fitting for a crossroads that gave cowboys cheap liquor by the barrel. It had been fancified by the territory back before Wyoming became a territory in ’68, Conroy said.
Two stores. Conroy’s was big and slightly set apart; the other was tiny and looked like it was dresses and ribbons and such things that scared men silly. A place for saddles. One for boots. A few others. Barber shop. Eight saloons. Railroad yard and office. Bank. A small two-story hotel and rooming house. A land office. The church, set apart with graves beyond it. Corrals by the railroad tracks. A printer that claimed he published a newspaper, even though the office looked deserted. Not big, but nothing looked old. Houses up off the main street. Tidy little place. Seemed peaceful enough; the girl Janie said she’d never seen a shoot-out before, so it couldn’t be too wild a town—either that or her pa kept a tight rein on her.
As he neared the stable, he saw the banker—Brewer, that’s right—with a cigar outside the stable door. He gave Kane the kind of smile Kane figured everybody got when they walked into the bank as long as they weren’t asking for a loan.
“We’d like to talk to you now if you have the time,” Brewer said.
“Nothin’ but time,” countered Kane.
Brewer chattered about the town and the men he would meet. Names and descriptions that didn’t mean much. Never been introduced to folks who said they were bad people, even when they were. Brewer had probably named everyone worth knowing, but all Kane wanted was a nap after eating too much.
They walked out from the cluster of town buildings to a house. White house. White fence. Neat enough to make Kane straighten his clothes.
There was a Mrs. Brewer who was pretty enough in an Eastern sort of way and who was overly polite but was very nervous and wore too much powder and paint on her face. She worked very hard to make sure Kane knew he was welcome before she vanished to wherever women had to go when men talked business. Silly system. He wondered if all the wives of all the men would compare notes later to see what stupid things their menfolk were doing so they could set them straight. Did Rachel Wilkins disappear meekly to another room? And why was a thought like that interfering?
It was hot inside with a fire and oil lamps. Blue haze from strong cigars. From knowing Sherman, he’d almost forgotten what real ones smelled like. He declined their wine. Watery beer was the price of obtaining information while not making saloon folks suspicious. The rest of it clouded a man’s mind.
He missed most of the names. Brewer and Conroy were the leaders. Brewer was talking about the town and how it was growing and would grow more. Sounded like they were trying to persuade themselves as much as him.
“Tell him,” softly spoke a youngish man with a fine, blond mustache. “He ought to know about those Riders.”
“In time, Gallagher, in time,” whispered Conroy.
“Tell me what?” asked Kane. If they didn’t want him to know it, he needed to know it. “What riders?”
Uncomfortable glances eventually united on Brewer. Kane had a sudden feeling he could not place that was a warning, but it passed before he could figure out what or who it was warning him about.
“You can’t tell a soul,” said Brewer.
“Not ten people in Wyoming I know,” replied Kane evenly. “Not workin’ for men who keep secrets.”
He hoped they had no qualms about hiring one who had plenty and would lie.
“Very well, then. The railroad is going to expand, and we want to be part of its expansion.”
Railroads did that. Tendrils of iron creeping across the West. Tecumseh didn’t like them. Cump Sherman used them to win the war. Kane had ridden them enough to know that once the railroad conquered the West, nothing would ever be the same again.
He waited.
“The railroad barely touches Wyoming,” said Brewer. “The line runs through southern Wyoming. Now that the Indians are all but dealt with . . .”
“Whoever thinks that is a fool,” said the balding older man at the head of the table with large side whiskers. Buford something or something Buford. He worked at the train depot; Kane remembered that. He almost seemed to have had too much to drink already. He was universally ignored by the younger men.
Brewer continued as though the man had not spoken.
“The railroad will go north in time. Rakeheart is one of the communities that railroad engineers have been looking at as the junction for the line that will head all the way to the border with Canada.”
The flourish at the end was supposed to impress Kane. It didn’t.
Kane could see why the town leaders were excited. Towns grew where things met. Rail junction would be a big thing. He wondered idly if they had decided where they would put statues of themselves in some town square. He nodded to show he understood even as his mind started chasing down the trail ahead of them.
“The railr
oad would buy land from the ranchers. Some ranchers see that losing land now will mean big money later. Others do not want to sell. We’re working to convince them that we all have a better future if the railroad builds its new northern line out of Rakeheart.”
Kane began to wonder if that could have been what happened to Wilkins. Conroy, whom he could see was watching him closely, broke in.
“In the meantime, we have to keep a lid on the wild cowboys,” he said. “The railroad can have its junction anywhere. If we cannot show them we are a town where you can walk down the street at any hour without some fools getting in a fight or firing guns off half-drunk, they will not give us another look. What happened the other day has been happening too often, although most of their gunfights are when they are drunk late at night, and only rarely does anyone get hurt. That’s why we are talking to you. Rakeheart needs to be a law-abiding town.”
Made sense. So did what came next, after there were a lot of shared glances around the table. There was still something unsaid.
“You know about us,” said Brewer. “What about you?”
He had never created a past where he obeyed the law instead of breaking it, but that’s what this called for. He was aware of the contrast between what he was saying and his real past, but he could see it made sense to them as he talked. He told them all about his old home ranch devastated by the war, the gangs, and the crime during Reconstruction and the last adventure at Red Rock suitably devoid of any mention of General Sherman or the army.
“Met Jared Wilkins in the war,” he lied. “Ran into a friend of ours from the war when that last scrape I told you about was windin’ down. Wilkins wrote this fella that Wyoming was the best place in the world to be. Got tired of Texas. Thought I would give it a try. Didn’t know until I got here what happened. Stopped to see the widow, poor woman. Not really sure how something like that happens out here.”
“I suppose that Indian wife of his knows how her man was killed,” said the man who said he ran the hotel. Name was Jones. Jacobs. Jeffries!
“Enoch,” interjected Brewer.
“After weeks of talking to that man, we had persuaded him to sell and that happens!” Jeffries declared. “Pretty suspicious, I’d say. I knew that she was never on our side in this.”
Brewer took over. “Jared was very attached to the land and was trying to bargain for the best he could get. It was business. He was stalling. Everyone wants the best price they can find; that’s business. We will see what the widow does. If she wants to sell, we will be ready. If not, we can approach Clem Ferguson, who has been a friend and who will be sure our interests are represented.”
Ferguson? Town people always worked on folks to get them to do what they wanted. Ferguson had struck him as honest. Maybe he left his judgment back in Texas.
Kane then wondered: would these men kill a man to get him out of the way of their dreams? The answer followed quickly. It only happened every day.
“I would like to look into what happened out there,” said Kane, making it appear like an unimportant matter. “I’m sure the railroad knows about it. Even if they only know it was a killing, I’m sure they want to know there aren’t night riders around here killing ranchers. Feel like I sort of owe it to him, too. Go through the war with someone, you owe them.”
He’d heard about such a thing in Kansas where there was some fight over range going on.
“Fine,” said Brewer as a circle of glances sent a message Kane did not understand. “But we want the town to be your top concern. That’s the most important thing. Can you do that?” For a second Kane thought he saw a smirk. “If you can, then finding out the truth of the Wilkins incident will be fine with us, won’t it, gentlemen?”
“Do my best,” Kane said to murmurs of assent from the group.
“We can give you thirty dollars a month. You can board at the Last Chance. We will pay for your meals there and stabling your horse.”
“You need something, come see me,” said Conroy. “I’ve got more guns than I’m ever gonna sell.”
Kane nodded. They were being cheap, but it would suit his purpose to have a reason to stay. “What about a room?”
“Got four. Got three guests,” said Jeffries. “Told you I will chip in for his pay, but nothing more.”
“Skinflint,” grumbled Conroy, almost under his breath.
“Slept at the stable last night. I’ll stay there a little longer. That’ll do for summer,” said Kane. He had one last thought.
“What about whoever owns the saloons. They here?”
“Silas Noonan, he owns the largest. The rest are so small they don’t count. He thinks if he has the law to deal with, it will be bad for his business,” Brewer said.
“He was also friends with Wilkins, so maybe you can get him to see things different, since you both knew the man,” he said after a moment.
Kane searched for some kind of challenge, wondering if Brewer had sensed the lie Kane had fed him about knowing Wilkins. Saw none.
“Friends!” snorted Jeffries. “Anything but!”
“I’ll give it a try,” said Kane, growing anxious to escape the room. They had avoided any information about these riders Gallagher wanted him to know about. Janie had mentioned something. Maybe she could tell him. For now, he wanted to get out of the stifling room so he could be alone to sift truth and lies.
“Are we all set, gentlemen? I got one more question. If somebody breaks a law, and you want him locked up, where’s that going to happen?” he said.
That launched a debate. Kane wanted to offer to go ahead and kill anyone breaking the law if it would get them to shut their mouths so he could get out of there. After the noise crescendoed into chaos, Conroy bellowed for quiet. He got it.
“We can use one of my storerooms, and we’ll see about having Pete Haliburton build a room we can use in his stable the next time the man is sober for more than a week. The stable is never full,” Conroy said. “Will that work, Sheriff?”
All eyes turned. He didn’t recognize the title at first.
“Do just fine,” he said. “Gonna get me a good nap and start this sherriffin’ in the morning. Good night, gentlemen.”
There was general agreement as a bottle of amber liquid had made an appearance and was making the rounds. He guessed they would be a while.
A raucous piano was playing in Noonan’s saloon. The Silver Dollar had one, too. Maybe piano playing paid better than sheriffing. Too late now. He slowly walked the street. Felt funny. Like it was his to protect. He shook those thoughts away. He was playing a part so he could do his job and then leave the place behind. Folks who cared about some place sooner or later became part of its dirt forever. He was not making that mistake.
He’d need to ride to Fort Laramie, find out who came to see about Wilkins. Probably need a badge, too. Mostly, he needed quiet. Too much talk. Too much town.
The stable was a welcome refuge. The horse knew him. Might be the only friend he’d make in Wyoming. He spent some time explaining what all this human silliness was all about as he stroked Tecumseh’s muzzle. Horse didn’t seem to care. He wished for that moment he was a horse so he could not care, either. He gave it one last pat and lay down on a blanket. What had Cump Sherman gotten him into? Set it aside. Worry in the morning.
CHAPTER FIVE
The nightmare woke him. The woman had the revolver to his face, cocked and loaded. She said he knew he had to pay. As she pulled the trigger, the world became noise.
Heart-pounding sweat. The stable was suffocating. Sticky. He lurched to the cool air. Gulped it down. He ran his hands over his wet face and through his hair. He had not dreamt of Carolyn in weeks. Her father ran a Louisiana gang that would hire out men to kill farmers who were supporting Reconstruction. Had nothing to do with politics. It was all about buying land. That was in ’71. He went in, learned everything. Learned Morris Goodnight had a daughter who was very lonely. Learned she could not forgive a man for betraying her father. Learned that when a woman wen
t bad and started killing, stopping her meant facing someone even more ruthless than a man. Learned that he was a man who would do what had to be done, no matter what. But he hadn’t counted on the nightmares.
The doorway of the stable was as good a place as any to sit and watch the dawn come. A couple of the stable’s cats gave him a suspicious glance as he sat on the ground by the wall. The stars started to hide, the black turned to gray, and the world began to awake.
One man was up. He waved to Kane as he passed, heading toward the train depot and the stockyards with a cheery wave and an Irish-tinged greeting. Kane wondered what it took to have that simple a life.
There was coffee at the Last Chance and fresh bread. Then he stopped to see Conroy to get his business done.
Conroy agreed to his request to visit Fort Laramie first.
“Want the army to know we’re taking care of our own business now,” he said, “before the army gets notions of sticking its nose where it does not belong. Brewer will write the territory, too. We want everyone to know Rakeheart is a safe place. Somebody ought to have a badge around here somewhere. What am I saying? I probably do. I take things in trade I never should. If not, Pete can make one easy enough.”
As Kane rode east, he could see a well-defined trail turning southeast, roughly running parallel to the way he recalled the railroad. Lot of horses. Lot of riders. He thought about following where curiosity wanted him to go, but decided he already had enough mysteries in his life.
Not much further, about a mile east of town, he saw the shack. Abandoned. Some chinks in the wood, but it could be fixed. He’d see if whoever had built it was still alive. He would need a place to live where he could be alone. Stables and winter might not always be a good combination any more than working for Rakeheart and spending every minute of his time watching his mouth—and his back.
He rode into the morning sun towards Fort Laramie. Rocks and grasslands; then a few stands of evergreens. He knew the plains had other people on them, but he could feel the wind easing the knot inside of him as he rode; elk by the edge of one stand of trees here and antelope running there—hurrying from something. Wyoming. Maybe this was a place to stay. Seemed like enough space for everybody. Then his thoughts turned back to the grasping men of Rakeheart. For some men, everything was never enough.
