After Sundown

by Shelly Thacker

  “I’ll give you half an hour, ma’am.” Lucas stepped out of the way to allow her into Antoinette’s cell. “And I’ll be right outside. And I’ve got the hearing of a”—he searched for an appropriate comparison—“a big, mean sort of critter,” he said dryly. “You might want to keep all that in mind.”

  Mrs. Greer squinted at him as she entered the cell—the squint of extreme dislike. “Hmph.”

  Lucas decided to grant the two women some privacy since there might be some changing of bandages or clothes or whatnot taking place. He pulled on his boots and followed Travis, who had retreated into the hotel’s main room.

  The kid was at the front window, watching the other womenfolk depart, his nose practically pressed up against the glass. “You think Val—Miss Lazarillo will be comin’ back? I don’t never get to see her. Her pa don’t like me much.”

  “Apparently they’ll all be coming back.” Lucas sank onto a stool behind the hotel’s front desk. “Daily.” He rested his head in his hands for a moment, his fingers plowed through his hair.

  Two weeks, he told himself. Antoinette would be ready to move in two weeks. He could endure this for two weeks.

  Travis came over to the desk. “Marshal, sir... did you mean what you said to Mrs. Greer? ’Bout me working for you?”

  Lucas shrugged, looking up. “You said it yourself last night, kid. You’re a little young to be a deputy.”

  “But we don’t have to call it that, sir. I could be, say, a... an apprentice. You’ll be needin’ somebody to fetch firewood and get provisions and keep the place swept up an’ all, won’t you?”

  Lucas considered the idea. It would be good to have some help with the chores. He sure as hell wasn’t much of a housekeeper.

  And if he had to put up with that trio of females fluttering in and out, it might be good to have a little male company around, too. Especially company that didn’t glare or squint at him. “Can your pa spare you?”

  “Hell, sir, we don’t get but one stage through here a week. And not many riders come to town anymore.” Travis flicked a hand in the general direction of the stables. “Livery ain’t real lively these days.”

  “Can’t promise things’ll be much more lively around here,” Lucas warned him. “Being a lawman can be near as boring as mucking out stalls sometimes. And I couldn’t pay you much. Maybe... two bits a day.”

  “That’s plenty, Marshal McKenna, sir! Tarnation, for a chance to work with you, I’d...” The kid looked as happy as a bear cub up a honey tree. “Why, I’d pay you, sir!”

  Lucas felt a rare grin tug at one corner of his mouth. “Consider yourself hired, kid, at the rate of two bits a day. Your first job is to go rustle up some breakfast and coffee.” He fished a silver dollar out of his pocket and tossed it in the air.

  “Yes, sir!” Travis caught it with one hand, his smile rivaling the coin for brightness as he headed out.

  While the door closed, Lucas remained sitting where he was, stomach growling. He glanced back toward the suite where his prisoner was no doubt enjoying a breakfast feast served up with tender loving care. God Almighty, he thought tiredly, if his deputies could see him now...

  They’d be laughing until they couldn’t stand up, enjoying every minute of this—the fearsome L. T. McKenna of Indian Territory being cussed out and chased away by a gray-haired little lady in a ridiculous blue hat.

  He frowned ruefully, scratching his jaw, wondering how his men were doing. Where they were, how close they had gotten to hunting down the Risco brothers—a ruthless pair whose gang counted train robbery, kidnapping, and murder among their life’s accomplishments.

  Lucas had arrested one of the gang in a whorehouse in Red River back in July. With a little pressure applied to his gunshot leg, Hughes had sung like the proverbial canary and named several hideouts in New Mexico Territory and Texas favored by Jasper and Willie Risco. After two years of work, Lucas and his deputies were so damned close...

  And as soon as he was done cooling his heels here, and Antoinette was permanently behind bars in Missouri, he could finish the job.

  The hotel’s front door opened and Lucas glanced up, surprised that his new apprentice was so quick and efficient.

  But it wasn’t Travis who entered. “Marshal McKenna, good day to you, sir!”

  The cheerful voice belonged to the banker, Cyrus Hazelgreen, who wore a wide grin, a bowler hat, and a three-piece suit with an expensive gold watch dangling from the vest. He was accompanied by two men: a red-haired, slim fellow whom Lucas recognized as one of the saloonkeepers he’d tried to question yesterday, and a barrel-chested man he didn’t know, dressed all in black.

  The three walked over to the desk, Hazelgreen holding up a sheaf of documents. “I’ve had the papers drawn up, sir, the ones we discussed last night, granting you the deed on this place. Thought I’d bring them over first thing and introduce you to our town council.” He gestured to the two men. “Mr. Camden Fairfax, I believe you’ve met.”

  The saloonkeeper extended his hand, his quiet voice marked by a refined English accent. “I trust you will accept my apologies, Marshal, for my being rather less than hospitable yesterday. Had you identified yourself as a peace officer—”

  “Forget it, Fairfax.” Lucas shook his hand.

  “And this,” Hazelgreen said, gesturing to the man in black, “is Reverend Gottfried.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Marshal.” The preacher grasped Lucas’s hand in both of his. For a man of the cloth, he had the crushing grip of a wrestler. “A true pleasure. I understand you are quite a lawman.” His wide grin revealed dimples in his apple-red cheeks.

  Lucas shrugged. “Sounds like Travis has been passing around his penny dreadfuls.”

  Hazelgreen laughed as he set the documents on the desk. “No need to be modest, sir. Your reputation is well known throughout the West. As soon as I spoke with my fellow councilmen here this morning, we unanimously decided we would like to make you an offer.”

  “An offer?” Lucas asked warily.

  “Yes, indeed.” Hazelgreen doffed his hat, clearly enjoying the opportunity to make a speech. “You see, some view this town as nothing more than a motley assortment of misfits, ne’er-do-wells, and dreamers. But I—that is, we—believe in Eminence. We want to save this place, make it what it once was. And we think we can do it in two words.”

  Lucas managed to stifle a yawn, and wished more than ever for coffee. It didn’t even have to be good coffee. Lousy coffee would do. Just one measly cup.

  “Narrow gauge,” Hazelgreen announced grandly, spreading his arms like a magician who had just pulled off an impressive trick.

  “Mr. Hazelgreen,” Lucas said slowly, wondering if the banker might be a few dimes short of a dollar, “I’m familiar with ten-gauge, twelve-gauge—”

  “It’s not a firearm, sir, it’s a railroad.”

  “Railroad?”

  “Narrow-gauge railroad. It’s been quite a success down in Pueblo, Florence, other parts of these mountains—”

  “It is a new type of railroad,” Fairfax explained, “that allows trains to get through the high mountain passes.”

  Gottfried nodded enthusiastically. “If we could persuade the Denver & Rio Grande to invest in a narrow-gauge line to Eminence—”

  “It would bring in new settlers and help restore this town to its former glory,” Hazelgreen said confidently.

  “Sir,” Lucas said, trying to remain polite, “I’m not sure I see what all this has to do with me.”

  He also didn’t see how anything could restore Eminence to its former glory. He’d seen towns like this all over the West—and most boomed one year and went bust the next. Smart folks cut their losses and got out while they could.

  “Marshal, if we only had a few hundred more residents,” Gottfried explained, “this area could be declared a county. And if we were declared a county, Eminence could be voted the county seat. Which would bring in new businesses and even more people—”

  “And
that is where you come in, my good man,” Fairfax said.

  “Huh?” Lucas still couldn’t see what any of this had to do with him, though maybe his confusion came from lack of sleep, lack of food. Lack of coffee.

  “If we’re going to attract more settlers, decent folks,” Hazelgreen told him, “we need law and order in this town. And... well, we’ve had something of a struggle in that area.”

  Lucas frowned. “And why would that be, exactly?”

  “A few rowdy fellows come through now and then,” Fairfax said, “especially around this time of year. Drifters. They come in for the winter, and sometimes they cause a bit of trouble—”

  “You’ve already got yourself a fine place to stay, free of charge.” Hazelgreen tapped a finger against the documents on the hotel desk. “And we’ll pay you a salary of seventy-five dollars a week.”

  The amount of money they were dangling almost made Lucas’s jaw drop. “To do what?”

  “To become the town marshal, of course.”

  Lucas shook his head, practically shuddering at the idea. The last thing he wanted was to stay here permanently. He couldn’t get out of Eminence fast enough. “I’m not planning to be here for long.”

  “I understood from Travis that you would be with us several weeks,” Hazelgreen said. “Why not make something of your time while you’re here?”

  “It would be quite a feather in our cap,” Fairfax said, “to have the renowned L. T. McKenna as our town marshal, even for a short while.”

  Gottfried nodded enthusiastically. “Put this town back on the map. Probably get us mentioned in all the papers—”

  “No thanks,” Lucas said flatly. He didn’t need a job. His money could hold out for two weeks, or even three or four, if it came to that. And he wasn’t going to be used as some kind of publicity stunt, in a misguided effort to lure settlers to a town that had seen its better days. “I’m not your man. I’m only interested in one prisoner—the one I’ve already got.”

  “But Marshal—”

  “Sorry.” Lucas shook his head adamantly. “Thanks, but the answer is no.”

  The three men exchanged crestfallen glances. Hazelgreen sighed and pushed the documents toward Lucas, producing a fancy pen and small jar of ink from inside his suit coat. “Very well, sir. But if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.” Lucas signed the papers and handed them back.

  After Eminence’s town council left him in peace, Lucas didn’t have much to do but sit and wait for his breakfast. As he stared at the door, the next two weeks seemed to stretch out before him like an endless desert. He wasn’t used to long periods of inactivity. Hell, he wasn’t used to staying in one place more than a few days.

  Two weeks, he told himself.

  Much longer than that, he’d be lucky to leave Eminence with his sanity intact.

  ~ ~ ~

  The prospector waited until after dark before he risked walking into town from his cabin on the outskirts. He kept his shoulders hunched and his head low, hoping he looked unworthy of notice with his scruffy beard and patched clothes. He ambled along at a slow, casual mosey—except when he passed old man Dunlap’s hotel, to which he gave a wide berth.

  He was nervous, and being nervous, he was careful.

  Music reached his ears before he pushed open the swinging doors of Fairfax’s Saloon and Gambling Emporium, blinking in the bright light. Some fool was doing his drunken best to pound “My Darling Clementine” out of the piano in the corner, though half the keys didn’t work. The saloon was crowded—if a dozen people could be accounted a crowd. Which it could these days, in Eminence.

  The prospector spotted his friend in his usual place at the bar, making short work of tall glasses of beer, like this was any other night.

  He walked over and took the next stool, slouching forward casually, keeping his voice low. “Looks like we got us a lawman in town.”

  His friend studied the foamy rim of his glass, running a dirty finger along it. “Hyup,” he replied softly, licking his finger.

  The drunken piano player began caterwauling a solo. “In a ca-vern, in a can-yon, ex-ca-vaaaa-ting for a mine...”

  “A federal marshal.” The prospector’s mouth went dry just saying the words. “Some famous, federal goddamned marshal. Looks to be stayin’ a spell.”

  “Dwelt a min-er for-ty nin-er and his dauuugh-ter Clem-en-tine...”

  His friend took another long swallow of beer, looking as unconcerned and contented as a fly in a currant pie. “Hyup.”

  “Oh my dar-lin, oh my dar-lin, oh my daaar-lin, Clem-en-tine...”

  “Could be trouble,” the prospector whispered, annoyed that he had to point out the obvious, “if he chances to take a good long look at us. Unless you fancy movin’ on?”

  “Nope.”

  “... You are lost and gone for-e-ver...”

  Slowly, the prospector began to smile. “You already got it planned, don’t you—to do somethin’, mebbe make it look like an accident?”

  His friend finally looked up from his drink, with a familiar, dangerous glint in his eyes. “Hyup.”

  “... Dread-ful sor-ry, Clem-en-tine.”

  Chapter 6

  TRIO OF DESPERADOES GUNNED DOWN ON THE NORTH PLATTE

  MARSHAL L. T. McKENNA HONORED BY MAYOR OF GUTHRIE

  HERO OF THE RED RIVER STRIKES AGAIN

  Annie barely tasted the last few bites of the waffle she was nibbling. She could hardly draw a breath—never mind eat her breakfast—and not just because of the pain throbbing across her ribs. As she skimmed one story after another, a queasy feeling began in the pit of her stomach, yet she couldn’t stop leafing through the newspaper clippings and penny dreadfuls strewn across her bed.

  Yesterday, Travis had struck up a conversation with her about his favorite subject—the marshal—but Annie hadn’t believed the boy’s wild tales. So he’d brought over a few items from his collection this morning to prove he wasn’t making it all up.

  Each one described Lucas McKenna’s daring, his resourcefulness, his bravery under fire. She wasn’t sure which she felt more: fascinated or frightened.

  “Annie, you have to eat more than that if you want to get well,” Mrs. Gottfried admonished gently.

  Annie glanced up at the preacher’s wife, who was setting out dishes of ham and sliced oranges and spoon bread with pumpkin butter on a marble-topped table beside the bed. Rebecca was indisposed today, and Mrs. Owens was busy helping Dr. Holt with a patient, so Mrs. Gottfried had been kind enough to bring Annie’s breakfast.

  “I’m ... not very hungry,” Annie replied.

  “Hungry or not, you need your strength.” Mrs. Gottfried handed her a plate of orange slices. The young woman’s blue eyes were gentle, her voice soothing. “You musn’t give up hope, you know, even though... well, even though things look discouraging right now.” She frowned at the handcuff around Annie’s right wrist, then at the entrance to Annie’s room.

  Or rather, her cell.

  As Annie set the plate aside, the chain that attached the handcuff to the bed rattled. Lucas had spent several hours yesterday installing two more security measures: The wide doorway between the bedroom and sitting room had been fitted with a jail-cell door, made of black vertical iron bars, with a shiny new brass lock.

  And as if that weren’t enough, he also took the extra precaution of handcuffing her to the bed whenever he left the hotel for a while—as he had this morning. He’d disappeared with no explanation, left Travis to keep an eye on things.

  The boy was currently out in the hotel’s main room, playing a harmonica.

  As Mrs. Gottfried poured tea from a chipped pot into a china cup, she glanced at the clippings strewn across the bed. “I don’t think those are going to help you get well,” she said with a rueful expression. “Are you feeling any better today?”

  “I’m all right.” Annie gratefully accepted the cup of tea and sank back against the pillows, wincing.

  Every small movement stil
l brought pain, but thanks to her friends’ gentle care and hearty meals, and Miss Lazarillo’s ointment for her injuries, she was feeling a little better.

  Or rather, she had been feeling a little better. Even as she sipped the tea, her eyes were drawn back to the Trio of Desperadoes Gunned Down story.

  “I can’t believe these are all true.” Mrs. Gottfried set the teapot down and sat on the edge of the bed, picking up one of the newspaper clippings. “ ‘... And then Marshal McKenna fired. One shot. From a distance of fifty yards...’ Fifty yards?” she asked dubiously, glancing at Annie. “I don’t think that’s even possible.”

  Annie shook her head, not certain what was possible where Lucas McKenna was concerned. She wrapped her hands around the cup of tea, trying to draw warmth from it.

  “ ‘... and his quarry perished forthwith, thus saving the good citizens of Guthrie the necessity of a trial...’ ” Mrs. Gottfried’s voice trailed off and she didn’t finish. She started scooping up the clippings from the bed, putting them back into the cigar box Travis had brought them in. “Hokum. Fiddle-faddle. These journalists make him sound more like a gunslinger than a peace officer. What lawman worthy of being named a hero would purposely shoot a suspect?”

  Annie gulped a mouthful of hot tea that burned her throat, remembering what had almost happened when Lucas found her. “I-I don’t know. But I think he’s... very...” She couldn’t come up with words to describe him.

  “Difficult,” Mrs. Gottfried suggested with a frustrated sigh as she rose and carried the box away, sliding it sideways through the barred door into the sitting room. “Obstinate.”

  “Determined.” Annie glanced at the floor beside her bed, where one stray clipping had fallen: the Hero of the Red River story. The accompanying illustration riveted her attention.

  It showed a solitary, dark-haired lawman looking cool and confident despite being surrounded by armed opponents in a rocky ravine. Annie had to admit it was a good likeness: The artist had perfectly captured the lean, strong lines of Lucas’s face, the frosty stare, the look of determination.