by Nik Morton
"No, just chilled by memories."
Sure that his long johns no longer presented an embarrassment, he stood and snagged a blanket off the back of a chair. He moved over to her. "Here," he said and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"Thank you for tonight." Her eyes were dark, like the Arapaho women's. Her hair was raven black, with streaks of gray. A musky scent rose from her as she adjusted the blanket.
"Glad I got here in time, Mrs. Traynor." He turned to move back to his bearskin bed.
She reached out and grasped his hand. "Esther. Call me Esther."
He nodded. "Sure, Esther."
She smiled and let out a small sigh. "Since my husband passed, no man has called me that."
"It's a fine name, Esther. Comes from the Bible, doesn't it?"
Esther chuckled. "You're full of surprises, young man. Yes, it does."
He moved a foot and glanced down. Something was amiss all right. "I'd better get back to ..." He half-turned to the bearskin on the floor.
"Don't go," she whispered, her breath fanning his cut cheek. He could still feel her fingers, gently bathing the small cut, and smell her nearness, a mixture of lavender and bakery—flour and cinnamon. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food.
"Seems to me you're hungry for something," she observed.
He nodded, his mouth dry. As dry as when he'd fired at Hugo and Felix. But this was different. His stomach somersaulted and his flesh tingled in anticipation. "When you said to the judge about wives withholding tenderness, I knew what you meant," he said, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. "I've seen that kind of tenderness in Arapaho tipis ... But I've never been ..."
Tenderly, she placed a warm finger over his lips. "I know, I know." With the same hand, she brushed a tendril of hair from his brow. "The first time can be precious," she said, "so it has to be your decision." She cupped his face in her hands. "You must say. Do you want this?"
"Yes," he said, though he reckoned it came out as a croak. "I want ..."
"Then, even though I shouldn't be doing this, I reckon I must abide by my young savior's wishes." Gently, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom.
* * *
Afterwards, he lay on his side as dawn light streamed through the glass window. At least this one hadn't been shot out. He didn't seem able to explain how he felt. It was wonderful, as if his heart and mind soared, an experience unlike anything he'd ever known. His warm skin tingled as he recalled how Esther kissed his young body's scars and let her tears fall on them.
She had pointed to the unusual scars on his back, on both sides.
"I got these when I did the sun dance," he told her proudly.
"When you were with the Arapaho?"
"Yes. I had to dance while dragging a buffalo skull that's hitched to my flesh."
She shuddered. "That's awful."
"No, it's quite normal. We learned early to shut out pain."
She hugged him then.
Esther was warm, considerate and loving. Very loving. He learned so much from her under the moonlight and wondered when he'd finally fallen asleep.
Now he watched her as she sat naked at an ornate mahogany dressing table. Her raven hair hung down her strong muscular back and she idly brushed it. He caught her reflection in the flyblown mirror. "You look serious," he said.
"I was just thinking that you'll make some woman a good husband. You're a fast learner and an attentive lover."
He grinned, his chest swelling. "Really?"
She laughed. "Really—and don't get too cocky about it!"
Then they both laughed as they realized what she'd said.
He swung his legs out of bed. "Can we do it again, Esther?"
She pivoted on her stool and eyed him. "You mean four times in one night isn't enough?"
"It isn't night any more."
"So it isn't." She stood and drifted toward him.
* * *
Afterwards, he puffed on one of her cheroots and said, "You know, I could get to like this."
"What, the cigar?"
He grinned and blew out blue smoke. "Yes, that too."
She chuckled. "You scamp, you!"
He leveled his eyes on hers and his tone turned serious. "I wan t to marry you, Esther. I love you."
"Wouldn't you like to think so?"
"I do."
She shook her head. "No you don't. You love the feeling I give you."
He moved his head to and fro in protest. "No, that's not it."
"Sure, you like me."
"But ... you need a man in your life. Someone to love you and care for you."
Moisture brimmed her eyes. "I honestly don't think you're the marrying kind, young man. I suspect you've got the wanderlust in you." She sighed. "I've seen it in men before."
Cash nodded. "Judge Hickey says I got that from my parents."
Esther smiled. "The judge and his wife are real fond of you, aren't they?"
"Yes, they've been good to me. They knew my parents ... before they came west." He smiled. "You've been good to me, too. That's why I want to marry you, Esther."
"You can't go falling in love with everybody who's good to you. No more than you can go killing those who're bad to you." She shook her head. "No, son, marriage isn't possible. Besides, there's quite an age difference—maybe six or seven years. If the judge knew what we've been up to, he'd likely sentence me to hard labor for corrupting a minor. And if the town ever found out about this, I'd probably be burned as a witch!"
"I did my Sun Dance just before I left the tribe and met the judge," he said earnestly. "I'm fully grown ..."
She glanced down. "You sure are, son." She flicked the sheet over him, forming a little tent. "But that's enough for now. Remember, you're supposed to be guarding my ranch and me. What if the sheriff or the judge rode out to see how we were set?"
He chuckled. "I reckon they'd be mighty jealous."
Laughing, she swatted him with a pillow.
* * *
The trial was held at the end of that week and the courthouse was packed. Cash sat on a bench beside Martha Hickey, a smart woman of about fifty who seemed several years younger when she gazed on her husband, the judge. In front of them sat the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Grist who had an annoying habit of using the phrase "It's all grist to the mill." He was certainly known to grind down the opposition with complex arguments and relentless persistence. Still, Cash thought his joke was wearing a bit thin.
The defense, Mr. Nash, sitting beside the three accused men, argued for leniency, considering the three men were drunk.
"I like a tipple the same as the next man," countered Mr. Grist, his sideburns bristling. "But threatening to burn a widow out of hearth and home is no drunken prank!"
Abruptly, Craig Bond stood up. "It was just a bit of fun!" he snapped. "It's getting that women don't know their place!"
A few men grumbled in agreement, while all the women—at least half those present—vociferously berated the men. Cash suspected that a few women might be withholding their tenderness tonight.
"Silence in my court!" barked the judge and slammed down his gavel.
As quiet descended, Judge Hickey said, "This is not a political meeting but a court of law. You three men blatantly breached the law. I don't need a jury to tell me different, but I suppose I'd better ask the jury foreman all the same." He leveled his stare at the hapless thin man at the end of the jury bench. "Well?"
"Y-your honor, we find Craig Bond and Felix Penny guilty as charged."
The judge pointed his gavel at the third man, Dan Fleming, who sat throughout the proceedings staring vacantly into space. "And what about this man?"
"We think he's probably guilty, judge, but considering the state of his mind, we ain't sure what to declare."
Judge Hickey let out an exasperated sound. "Very well. Guilty, he is!" He slammed down the gavel. Eyeing each accused man in turn, he said, "I don't hold with violence of any kind in or around Cheyenne. I stamp down on the perpetrat
ors hard. You men are no exception. You're all sentenced to twenty years imprisonment!"
His pronouncement was accompanied by a few gasps, doubtless from the relatives of the sentenced men.
A handful of women cheered.
"Silence in the court!" shouted the bailiff.
When silence was restored, the bailiff announced, "All rise for the judge!"
Judge Hickey stood and stormed out of the room.
* * *
Once the three men were taken away to serve their sentence, Cheyenne returned to normal. Cash felt a little guilty, staying with Esther when there was no longer any threat. But only a little guilty. In all other ways, he loved every moment.
He worked on her ranch, learning new skills. From time to time, he returned to Cheyenne and helped at the livery, but his heart was no longer in it and Bowler Gillicuddy sensed his change. "You've been a darned good worker and a big help to me, Cash," Bowler said. "But I reckon you need to spread your wings more. Go on, git—and don't worry none about me, I'll get somebody else to give me a hand—though I doubt if I'll be as lucky agin."
Cash rushed into Esther's ranch house, grinning. "Bowler's let me go!"
She stood at the table, her face patterned with white flour as she kneaded dough. "That means you'll be under my feet all day, I reckon."
"I was thinking of being under more than your feet, Esther."
She laughed. "You're incorrigible, Cash Laramie, you really are!" She sighed. "Well, if Bowler has an idea about us, I imagine a few other townspeople have guessed by now ..."
"Is it so wrong?"
"Right and wrong aren't always black and white, young man. I'd have thought you'd learned that by now."
"Well, yes, I suppose I have." He kissed her cheek. "And I know that this is right."
He still regularly visited the Hickeys and they kept him up with the politics and gossip of the region, though little mention was made of Mrs. Traynor. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hickey seemed pleased for him. Yet, whenever Mrs. Traynor was mentioned, the judge's face turned a light puce color.
Cash thrived on hard work and outdoor activities.
As the months passed by, his muscles developed due to the manual labor and good food. And plenty of loving.
Cash forgot all about Craig Bond, Felix Penny and Dan Fleming. He had fields to plow, fences to fix and meat to bring to the dinner table.
Although there was no campaign, public display or debate regarding the female suffrage, the twenty member Territorial Legislature approved the revolutionary measure. Perhaps the decision had something to do with the number of women who kept vigil outside Governor John A. Campbell's office. Whatever the impetus, he signed the bill into law on December 10, 1869.
"That's it, Cash," Esther said. "You can't stay here any more."
"Why?"
"You have no legitimate reason. No varmints can change the law by bothering me—or any other woman, come to that." She beamed at him. "We've won!"
He was overjoyed for her, but saddened too.
"Don't linger in Cheyenne," she advised. "Go out and live your life. Then return when you feel ready."
She winked and handed him her Yellow Boy rifle. "Take this, you might need it. And you know, I suspect the judge has plans for your future."
-ONE-
Desecration
Wyoming, July 1885.
"You wanted to see me?" Cash said as he entered Chief U.S. Marshal Devon Penn's office, an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth. Begrudgingly, he respected his boss's persistent emphasis on a smoke-free office. But he still liked the feel of a cheroot between his teeth.
"Yes, I've got an interesting little job for you." Penn raised his large bulk from the desk at his large wooden desk and walked round to sit in one of two Windsor armchairs; he gestured at the other.
Cash removed his hat and sank into the leather upholstery.
Penn said, "Heard of a town called Bear Pines? It's on Bear Creek."
"Can't say I have. I don't reckon I've been that way for a long while."
"Well, it makes no difference." He ran stubby fingers through his thinning mousy hair. "You're needed there."
"Needed? In what way, needed?"
"There's a battle brewing." Penn grinned, hazel eyes amused.
Cash shifted in his seat. "In that case, I don't think you need me, you need the army."
Penn chuckled, his double chin wobbling slightly. "Oh, this is quite different, it's a battle of the sexes."
Puzzled now, Cash leaned forward. "I can see you're enjoying this. So, go on, enlighten me."
"Very well. There's a woman—a Mrs. Tolliver—running for the job of mayor."
"A woman mayor, eh? I haven't heard of one—though I know of a couple of female justices of the peace."
"Well, the citizens of Bear Pines are split down the middle. The sitting mayor, a guy named Brett Nolan, has powerful allies, it seems."
"Don't tell me, a few old chauvinists are against her, making threats?"
Penn shook his head. "If that was all, I'm sure Mrs. Tolliver could handle it. She sounds like a formidable woman." He wafted a two-page letter. "No, the threats aren't idle—it's turning a mite ugly, and the threats are liable to get lethal."
"So you want me to read the riot act, is that it?"
Penn nodded. "Something like that. The town's lucky enough to have a judge. Virgil McPiece. I've met him a couple of times. He's a good man."
"Aren't all judges?"
"I'll ignore that. Anyway, the election's at the end of the month, so it'll probably all settle down afterward."
* * *
"Settle down a spell," the sheriff said, rising from a rocking chair to one side of his office door. "Not often I get to chinwag with a U.S. Marshal."
Dismounting, Cash grinned. "Is that java I can smell?"
"Sure is. Always got some on the go." He went inside. "You're welcome, come on in."
Cash tethered Paint to the hitching rail. "Won't be long, fella, then I'll see to your needs."
The office was dark in contrast to the brightness of the street. Cash pulled off his black Stetson, hung it on the back of a chair. The pot-bellied stove was at the far side of the office. The sheriff poured the dark liquid into a tin mug. "Sugar?"
"Nope."
"Sheriff Clem Hain," he said, handing over the mug.
"Cash Laramie. Thanks." He sipped the hot liquid. "Yeah, I needed that."
"What're you doing here, Marshal? Far as I know, Bear Pines is peaceful and no owlhoots have ridden through for months."
"Your town's just on my route from here to there." He thumbed at the open doorway. "I see you've got an election for mayor."
"Yes, you can't miss the banners and posters, eh?"
"Who's the mayor?"
"Brett Nolan. He's done a lot for the town, so I'm sure he'll get re-elected."
Cash sipped his coffee. "Glad to hear it." He strode over to the window, gazed out. "Judging by the amount of bunting and advertisements, I'd reckon the mayor's taking no chances. Seems like he has someone to contest him, is that right?"
Sheriff Hain laughed. "Nobody of any account. It's a woman, in fact." He shook his head. "Would you believe it? A darned woman as mayor? No, it ain't ever going to happen."
Smiling, Cash lowered the mug. "Would that be a Mrs. Tolliver?"
The sheriff's face hardened instantly. "You've heard about her?" he said, his tone deeply questioning.
"Just rumor."
Hain shrugged. "Well, that's all she can manage in her sorry campaign. Silly rumors."
Snagging his hat, Cash said, "Thanks for the java, Sheriff.." They shook hands. "I need a bath, a shave, a good meal—but before that, I want to get my horse seen to."
Hain escorted him to the door and pointed to the right, down the street. "Old Frank at Ferguson's Livery will do your horse proud, Marshal. Can't miss it—two blocks past the Thorndike Hotel."
* * *
After he'd left his pinto in the care of Frank Fe
rguson, Cash made his way to the imposing two-story mansion at the far end of town. The shingle said, Judge Virgil McPiece. As he mounted the portico steps, he hoped his honor was as straight-forward and uncompromising as his sign.
Judge Virgil McPiece answered the door. His flowing white hair reached down to his shoulders, eyebrows thick and unruly. His gray eyes sparkled.
Cash introduced himself.
"Marshal Laramie, good to see you," the judge said, his tone subdued but sociable. He held out his hand. "Come in for a drink, won't you?" He ushered Cash into the hall.
"A quick one, Judge, if that's okay with you. I just wanted to let you know I'm in town. Right now all I want is a decent meal, a bath and some shuteye."
"Very well." He gestured at the staircase at the end of the hall. "My wife Lisa's an invalid upstairs—that's why my welcome mightn't seem too warm."
"Sorry to hear that, your honor. You sure I'm not disturbing you both?"
"No, no—let's retire to my study."
As they sat with their tumblers of whiskey, the judge outlined the opposition to Mrs. Tolliver. "Mayor Brett Nolan has spent some time buying up land and people. Nolan's staunchest follower is a rancher called Lance Jacobson. He's got two sons who do as he tells them."
Cash sipped the whiskey; it was quality stuff, like nectar to his dry throat. "Sheriff Hain seems against Mrs. Tolliver."
The judge nodded his white head. "Oh, he is. He does what the mayor says. Though from time to time I can persuade him to apply the law even-handed." He laughed, a barking sound of derision. "But only when it doesn't interfere with his patron's business, of course."
"A pity. Other than his intolerance of Mrs. Tolliver, he seemed okay."
"Most folk are—until Nolan gets his claws into them. Sucks the goodness out of them, I reckon!" He stroked his chin. "Our esteemed bank manager is currently sitting on the political fence. Nolan's been working on him for months, but still Martin Plampin hasn't committed to either Mayor Nolan or Mrs. Tolliver."
"But if Nolan sends plenty of business Plampin's way, he might fold?"
"Undoubtedly. Plampin exists to make money and more money."
"Anyone else of note?"
"No, not really. The men I've mentioned are influential. What they say and do affects others. I'd say almost all the men of the town are happy to stick with Nolan—the devil they know ... Even the shopkeepers who have reason to vote out the sheriff and Nolan don't want to openly antagonize the mayor—"
