Redemption, Kansas

by James Reasoner

  “Well, it sounds like an interestin’ idea . . . but why wait for you to heal up? Why not go ahead and raid the town now?”

  “Because you and I are friends, Dock, and because you wouldn’t even know what happened there if it wasn’t for me. You owe me that much.”

  Rakestraw didn’t like owing anybody anything, and he liked it even less when they pointed that out. But Norris was right. Friendship didn’t amount to much in the lawless world in which they lived, but it wasn’t completely without meaning, either.

  Besides, it was getting later in the season and there would be fewer herds coming up the trail from Texas, and by now word would be getting around about the rustling going on in these parts. The drovers would be more cautious. After what had happened last time, it might be wise not to raid any more of the herds, mused Rakestraw. Maybe it would be smarter and more profitable to drift over into Colorado and hold up a few mine payrolls or ore shipments. It would be a good idea to have a nice stake before they started in on that, though.

  Looting Redemption could give them that stake, and more besides.

  “All right, you got a deal,” said Rakestraw as he reached his decision. “On one condition.”

  “Name it,” said Norris, wincing as Ozark Joe used some of the whiskey to clean out the buckshot holes in his side.

  “I’m takin’ the Monroe girl with us when we leave.”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t care. Take her with my blessin’, Dock. I just want to teach those bastards a lesson, and I want to kill Bill Harvey.”

  “Well, then,” said Rakestraw as a cruel smile curved his mouth, “it looks like we both stand a good chance of gettin’ what we want.”

  Chapter 22

  After everything that had happened the night before, it struck Bill as odd that the next morning could dawn as normally as any other morning. When he limped out of the Monroe house after breakfast, over Eden’s strenuous objections, Redemption looked just the same as it always had, at least since Bill had been there.

  There was one fundamental difference, though, even though it wasn’t apparent right away.

  Frank Porter and Zach Norris were gone, and so was the air of fear that had hung over the town for so long.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” said Eden as she followed Bill onto the porch, where he stood next to the railing leaning on his cane. “You need to be resting.”

  “I know that. But you said yourself my leg didn’t look too bad this morning.”

  Eden snorted. “Not as bad as I expected it to. That’s not saying much, though.”

  “Your pa’s in worse shape than I am,” Bill pointed out. “He’s older, and he’s gotten walloped with a gun too many times lately.”

  Eden wore a worried expression as she nodded and said, “I know. It’s going to take him a while to get back to normal.”

  “And he can’t run the store while that’s going on. So I’ll do it.”

  She stared at him for a moment before saying, “You can’t run the store. You don’t know how.”

  “I’ve been helping out there for a while. I know how your father does some things, anyway, and what I don’t know, I reckon I can figure out, especially with your help. You handle the books, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, that’s true.”

  “So you see,” he said, “all you need is somebody to keep the place open and wait on customers, and I can do that.”

  Eden frowned as she considered the idea. After a few seconds, she sighed and nodded.

  “I suppose you can,” she admitted. “It’s not easy work, but it’s not all that strenuous, either. I’ll help you all I can, but I’ll have to be here a lot, too, looking after Dad.”

  Bill nodded. “I realize that. It’ll work out, Eden, you’ll see.”

  She moved closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. Quietly, she said, “I can’t even bring myself to think about where we’d all be if it wasn’t for you, Bill.”

  “Then don’t think about it,” he told her. “I’m here, and I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “Not back to Texas with Mr. Sanders?”

  Bill slid his free arm around her shoulders. “Nope. I reckon not.” After a moment, he went on, “But speaking of Hob, I’d better go find him—”

  “It’s too late for that,” said Eden. “He and the other two men came by here early this morning, before you were awake, to check on you. Mr. Sanders asked me to tell you that he and the others were starting on Norris’s trail at first light.”

  Bill stiffened. He couldn’t help it. He wanted Zach Norris brought to justice, and Hob would see to that if anybody could. But Bill wished he had been able to go along on the manhunt, too. The score he had to settle with Norris was a personal one, several times over.

  At Eden’s urging, Bill went back inside and rested for a while. He sat in the parlor while Eden helped her father into the room, saw that he got settled comfortably in an armchair, and covered his legs with a blanket. Perry Monroe had regained consciousness the night before, but he spent a lot of time just staring straight ahead, not saying anything. Bill hoped those blows to the head hadn’t damaged Monroe’s brain, but when a man had been pistol-whipped, that possibility couldn’t be ruled out.

  “Bill’s going to go down to the store in a little while and open it for us today,” Eden told Monroe. “Isn’t that nice of him?”

  The old man grunted to show he’d heard what Eden said, but that was his only response. He didn’t even glance at Bill.

  As he looked at Monroe, Bill hoped even more fervently that Hob, Dorsey, and Santo caught up with Norris. The deputy deserved to pay for the evil he had done.

  When Bill felt a little stronger, he walked to the mercantile, unlocked the doors, and went inside. Again he was struck by how familiar everything looked, despite the fundamental changes that had occurred the night before. Main Street still looked like Main Street. The only business that appeared to be closed was Smoot’s saloon. Bill didn’t know how the wounded Fred Smoot was doing today, but it would take some time and effort to repair the fire damage inside the saloon.

  Bill had seen people watching him from the boardwalks as he limped along to the mercantile, so he knew it wouldn’t take long for word to get around town about him opening the store. Sure enough, the first few customers arrived a short time later. The women all smiled shyly at him, while the men wanted to shake his hand and slap him on the back. They offered their congratulations on ridding Redemption of a menace.

  Bill was uncomfortable with the praise for a couple of reasons. The first was that by nature, he wasn’t a prideful sort.

  The second, and more troubling, was that he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking these folks why they hadn’t done something about Porter and Norris when they found what sort of crooks those two so-called lawmen really were. It wasn’t his job to pass judgment on anybody, he told himself. He had done what he felt he had to do, and he supposed the citizens of Redemption had, too.

  The store was busy enough to make the day pass quickly. Eden came in several times to check on him and to bring him lunch. When he asked her how her father was doing, she just smiled sadly, shook her head, and said, “About the same.”

  Late that afternoon, Bill heard the familiar jingle of spurs and looked up to see Hob Sanders coming into the store. The leathery trail boss looked tired and worn down, and judging by the solemn expression on his craggy face, he wasn’t bringing Bill good news.

  “Sorry, son,” Hob began without preamble. “We lost that varmint’s trail in the sand hills. Wind was blowin’ too much to leave any tracks for more’n a little while. We spent hours castin’ back and forth in those badlands on the other side of the hills, but we never could pick up the trail.”

  Bill felt disappointment go through him, but he said, “I know you did your best, Hob, and I appreciate it.”

  “We saw quite a few drops of blood on the ground before we lost him. You winged the son of a buck prett
y good, looked like. I reckon there’s a better than even chance he’s layin’ out there somewhere in the badlands as buzzard bait.”

  “I’d like to think so,” said Bill with a nod.

  “We can ride on over toward the border again tomorrow,” Hob offered. “Might take a few days, but we’ll find him.”

  Bill shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You ain’t askin’. I’m offerin’. We got no reason to hurry back to Texas.”

  “Except for the fact you’ve got the money for that herd, and some of it goes to the other ranchers who threw their stock in with yours. Your wife’s waiting for you, too, and I’ll bet Dorsey’s wife and kids are missing him pretty bad by now.”

  Hob rasped his fingers along his silvery-stubbled jaw. “Well, you got a point there,” he admitted. “And that cantina Santo favors there in Victoria might go broke without him around to soak up his share o’ tequila.”

  Bill leaned his hands on the counter and said solemnly, “Go home, Hob. You’ve done all you can for me. Shoot, if you hadn’t brought me to Redemption in the first place, I reckon I’d be in a shallow grave somewhere out there on the prairie by now.”

  Hob regarded him intently. “Are you comin’ back with us? If it’s too far for you to ride horseback, we can get a wagon for you.”

  Bill didn’t have to think about it. He had reached a decision without a lot of brooding about it. He shook his head and said, “I’m staying here.”

  A grin tugged at Hob’s mouth under the drooping mustache. “That yeller-haired gal, eh?”

  “I can’t just leave her to take care of everything by herself. Her pa’s not doing very well, and she’ll need help with him and the store.”

  “So you’re tradin’ a brushpopper’s chaps for a storekeeper’s apron, eh?” Hob couldn’t keep a hint of disapproval out of his voice. Bill didn’t take offense at it, though. Some things were just out of the comprehension of a man like Hob who had spent his entire life riding the range.

  “For a while, I reckon.”

  Hob nodded slowly. “Well, it’s a good man who knows what he wants and goes after it.” He stuck a hand across the counter. “I wish you the best of luck, son.” As they shook, he added, “Write us a letter ever’ now and then and let us know how you’re doin’. I’ll read it to the boys who can’t read. And we’ll stop by when we bring the herd up next year.” Hob chuckled. “Reckon there’s a good chance you’ll have a young’un on the way by then . . . if it ain’t here already.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Bill, feeling his face grow warm.

  Hob clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I do. Good luck to you, Bill. We’ll stop by here in the mornin’ and pick up some supplies ’fore we ride out.”

  When Bill got back to the house that evening after locking up, Perry Monroe was still sitting in the parlor. Bill tried to tell him how business had gone that day, but Monroe didn’t seem to pay much attention. The only time any life came into his eyes was when Bill explained how Hob, Dorsey, and Santo hadn’t been able to find Zach Norris. Anger glittered in Monroe’s gaze at the mention of the crooked deputy’s name.

  Bill thought that was a good sign.

  The three Texans rode out in the morning after stopping at the store to pick up those supplies Hob had mentioned and say their farewells to Bill. Eden was there and solemnly shook hands with the trail boss.

  “Thank you for bringing Bill to Redemption, Mr. Sanders,” she told him. “If he hadn’t been here . . .”

  “You’re the one who nursed him back to health so he was able to tangle with those two hombres,” Hob pointed out. “So you deserve a lot of the credit, too, ma’am.” He grinned at Bill and added, “So long, kid. See you next year. And don’t forget what I told you.”

  “I won’t,” said Bill.

  “What did he mean by that?” asked Eden once the three men were gone.

  Bill shook his head. “Nothing. Hob just thinks he’s a fortune-teller, that’s all.”

  Eden frowned at him in puzzlement, but Bill didn’t offer any further explanation.

  As after any disaster—and the rampage Porter and Norris had gone on came pretty close to fitting that description—normalcy slowly reasserted itself. For Bill, that meant walking back and forth to the store every day, keeping the business going, sharing his meals with Eden, and gradually recovering from the ordeal and getting his strength back. By the time a couple of weeks had passed, his bruises had all healed, and his leg didn’t hurt except for when he was on his feet for too long at a stretch. He had a slight limp and figured he always would, but it didn’t slow him down and wasn’t very noticeable.

  The saloon reopened. Fred Smoot had survived the shooting, but he’d lost the use of his legs. Josiah Hartnett, who had experience building wagons, built Smoot a wheelchair, so he was able to get around a little.

  Bill got to know the citizens of Redemption and could call just about all the customers by name when they came into the store. Best of all, Perry Monroe began to perk up a mite when Bill talked to him in the evenings about what had happened at the mercantile that day. He talked more, showed more of an interest in what was going on, and Bill wasn’t surprised when Monroe announced one morning that he was going to the store, too.

  “Are you sure you’re strong enough, Dad?” Eden asked him.

  “It’s my store, isn’t it?” replied Monroe with a touch of his old fiery nature. “Lord knows what sort of shape this Texan has let it get into while I was gone.”

  The sparkle of humor in the old man’s eyes kept Bill from taking offense at the comment. He drawled, “Reckon it might be better than it was before,” which drew a snort of disbelief from Monroe.

  The town council had put a padlock on the door of the marshal’s office. Bill had noticed it several times and wondered what they were going to do for a lawman. Things had been mighty quiet and peaceful in Redemption since that night of violence, but he knew it couldn’t stay that way forever. Right now, folks were sort of holding their breath, as if they realized how lucky they were and how much worse it could have been, and they were afraid to do anything that might change the precarious balance.

  Then one afternoon, after Perry Monroe had already gone home for the day, the mayor, Roy Fleming, and the justice of the peace, Kermit Dunaway, came into the store and marched down the aisle to the counter like they were on a mission. Fleming owned the bank and looked like a politician, with a round, always-smiling face. Dunaway was stocky, too, with heavy jowls and graying red hair. He favored an old-fashioned beaver hat.

  Bill frowned as he watched them approaching the counter. Some instinct stirred inside him, warning him this might be trouble.

  “Howdy, gentlemen,” he said with a nod. “Something I can do for you?”

  “We’re here to offer you a job, Bill,” said Fleming.

  Bill shook his head and waved a hand to indicate their surroundings. “I sort of, uh, have a job already, Mayor,” he said. “I’ve been helping Mr. Monroe run the store.”

  “We know that, but Perry’s doing better now, thank the Lord, and we’ve got something more suited to you, I think.”

  “What would that be?” asked Bill, although he had a hunch he already knew the answer to that question.

  Judge Dunaway slapped a hand down on the counter in front of Bill, and when he took it away, a five-pointed tin star lay there.

  “We want you to be the marshal of Redemption,” said Mayor Fleming.

  Chapter 23

  For a moment, all Bill could do was stare at the badge. Even though he’d been halfway expecting it, to hear the idea put into words actually made it more difficult to grasp. He had never in his life thought of becoming a lawman. Not once.

  Back home in Texas, his only experiences with the law had been unpleasant ones. He had been hauled to jail a few times for brawling and drinking too much. Nothing serious, just the sort of wild-oat sowing most young fellas went through on their way to growing up.
/>   But that certainly hadn’t made him want to pin a tin star to his shirt.

  “Well? What do you say?” prodded Judge Dunaway.

  Bill nodded toward the star. “Is that Porter’s badge?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I can’t wear it.” Bill’s voice was flat and decisive.

  “Oh, come on, Bill,” said Fleming. “At least give the offer some thought.”

  “I’m thinking about it. But no matter what I decide, I won’t wear that badge. Not after Porter did.”

  The two older men looked at each other in understanding. The judge said, “Because you think he brought dishonor to it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, hell, Bill,” said Fleming with a note of impatience in his voice. “We’ll get you another badge. In fact, there’s probably a spare in the desk in the marshal’s office. If that’s the only problem—”

  “It’s not,” said Bill. “What in blazes makes you folks think I’m fit to be a marshal?”

  “You got rid of Porter and Norris, didn’t you?” asked Dunaway.

  “Norris killed Porter by accident.” Bill had told the truth about that from the start and never tried to claim credit for something he hadn’t done. “And we don’t really know what happened to Norris except he lit a shuck out of town.”

  “The wolves have scattered his bones by now,” said Dunaway. He took a cigar out of his vest pocket and clamped it between his teeth, leaving it there unlit as he went on around it, “The fact is, youngster, you’re the only one in this whole blasted town who had the guts to stand up to those two killers. It pains me to admit it, but it’s the truth.”

  Bill didn’t argue with that. Instead he said, “I don’t have any experience being a lawman.”

  “You protected the community,” said Fleming. “And after Norris escaped, when those friends of yours from Texas rode in, you went out into the street to meet them without knowing who they were. Half the town saw you, Bill. If they had been outlaws, you would have met them head-on.”

  Dunaway nodded. “Sounds like a lawman’s instincts to me.”