The Bad Bet
by Robert Lubrican
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Robert Lubrican
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Foreword
This story is set in the old west of the United States, in the late 1800s, a time when a young man or woman, sixteen years of age, was considered adult enough to marry and start a family. The west was, in large part, populated by such. It’s simply a fact.
Since then, however, American culture has decided sixteen is no longer old enough to start a family, or get married, or even have sex. That can be debated, but I personally think very few sixteen-year-olds today are anywhere near ready for marriage. But the problem is that as a result of culture’s decision about that, books that portray the kind of life that sixteen and seventeen-year-olds actually had in the old days won’t get published. That’s because publishers require that any character that engages in sexual behavior be eighteen or older. You can say “A woman could get married at fourteen and have children,” but you can’t describe the process in erotic terms.
I already said I don’t believe most middle teens are ready for marriage. I also don’t believe they have the capacity to have a really meaningful sexual relationship. But that doesn’t mean they don’t try. They do try, and everybody knows it. But you still can’t write (publish) about it, even if you’re describing past times.
So, to be a good boy and obey American society’s rules, all the young people in this book are eighteen or older. It would make a heck of a lot more sense (not to mention be more historically accurate) if AJ, the main male protagonist was seventeen, and the twins were fourteen or fifteen, but alas, this cannot be.
Except in your imagination, where the morals police cannot yet throw their weight around.
Bob
******
Chapter One
July first, 1868, Abilene, Kansas
Arabella Mortenson was thankful for the full bonnet that hid most of her blushing face. She was standing just outside the batwing doors of a saloon, closer than she'd ever been to such a den of iniquity in her entire thirty-four year life.
That she was driven to come that close to such a place was proof that her need was dire. She needed to get her husband out of that saloon. He had professed to be going in to the establishment to get a drink, but had stayed much too long for that simple pursuit. She knew that meant he was gambling again. He'd been losing their money in games of chance for years. Before leaving for Kansas, they had lived in the house she'd inherited after her mother's death. She'd had a garden and had been able to barter laundry services for some beef each week, so they'd had food and a roof over their heads. She had to provide the food for the table, because Frank gambled away all his wages unless, after being paid, he came home first. She had sunk so low as to procure a bottle of whisky, in hopes that it would be enough to lure him home on payday, giving her the opportunity to lift a few dollars from his pockets, before he'd be off to the saloon to gamble away the rest.
Her first signal that something was terribly wrong had been when he started talking about going to the Kansas territory, where he said a man could carve out a farm in the lush, fertile soil that lay under the prairie grass. Arabella was well aware that Frank Mortenson was a lazy man. She'd married him at the tender age of fifteen, had twins a year later and, in the eighteen years since, had done all the work that got done around their house...unless she was abed because of one of her "accidents." Frank had a mean streak in him too, particularly when he had been drinking and most certainly when he'd lost at cards or some other foolish game of chance. She often had to stay indoors until the bruises went away, so the neighbors wouldn't see them. Once she'd been laid up for weeks while a bone knit enough that it could bear weight. The thought that Frank would be willing to work hard enough even to hook a team up to a plow was laughable to Arabella. She came from a farm family and she knew how hard it would be to start from scratch in soil that had never felt the bite of the plow. She assumed the homesteading idea must be the result of some alcohol-fogged conversation he'd had with some worthless gambler.
Then one day he came home with a covered wagon. Almost frantically he'd told her to pack what would fit in the wagon, leaving room only for the twins, Becky and Frank Jr.
What Arabella was unaware of was that her husband had borrowed money...a lot of money. When he'd lost it all and been unable to pay it back, he hatched a plan to sell the house quick, getting the two horses and wagon as part of the deal. Then he'd run from his debts.
They'd picked up supplies along the way, including two oxen when he'd ruined the horses trying to put too much distance between them and the men he was sure were looking for him. And by the time they got to Abilene, Kansas two thirds of the pockets on his money belt were empty. Still, it might be enough for them to get a new start, if they were able to homestead any land.
Then, upon pulling into the bustling town of Abilene, Frank had stopped the wagon in front of the saloon.
"I'm going to go get news," he'd said. "You stay here."
"We don't have money to spend on whiskey, Frank Mortenson!" Arabella had protested. He'd answered her with a backhand to her right cheek.
"Don't sass me, woman," he'd snarled. "I've been putting up with your whining for weeks and a drink will clear my ears of it. You wait here, and don't let your brats stray neither."
When he'd been gone for more than fifteen minutes, she'd known he was gambling with all they had left. She had to do something or they'd be penniless.
Thus she'd been driven to stand perilously close to the entrance of a place she would normally have crossed the street to avoid. And not only was she standing there...she was actually thinking about going inside.
******
Aloysius Julian Hobbs was footloose, fancy-free, twenty-one years old, and had money in his pocket. There were probably a couple hundred cowboys within a few days travel who were just like him...except most of them didn't have money in their pockets. Aloysius, who began calling himself "AJ" after the second time his name got him laughed at by a grizzled cowpoke, and he got into a fight as a result, had just finished helping drive three thousand head of cattle up the Chisholm trail. Once he and twelve other cowboys had herded the longhorns into the stock pens at the railhead of the Kansas Pacific Railway in Abilene, he'd been paid off by the trail boss and cut loose.
He ambled down the dusty street, looking for a saloon where he might find a bath, a woman, and a meal consisting of something other than beef and beans, in that order. Not being the most patient of young men, he headed for the first one he saw. A wooden sign adorned with a picture of bull's head hung over the doors.
A heavy Conestoga wagon that was loaded down with household goods and two kids, not that much younger than himself, was blocking his path. A girl, wearing a bonnet, with a load of fluffy brown curls hanging below the cloth was sitting on the wagon seat. Idly, he estimated her age at about seventeen or eighteen. A boy, about the same age, was leaning out of the back, peering around.
AJ detoured around the wagon, wondering why anyone would want to haul all that stuff west and go through the pain and toil of trying to wrestle a living from the earth. He didn't understand sodbusters.
As he mounted the boardwalk in front of the saloon, he saw a woman standing hesitantly at the batwing doors, peeking inside. Something about her drab gray dress and bonnet marked her in his mind as the mother of the kids in the wagon. He thought it was odd that a decent woman would be about to enter a saloon.
He forgot about the family as he stepped past the sodbuster woman and pushed through the swinging doors of the drinking establishment. Had someone asked him where he was, he wouldn't have been able to name the place.
This is not to say he wasn't aware of what was going on around him. But AJ automatically prioritized the information fed to his brain through his five senses. The name of the place just wasn't important. What was important was that the noise level inside was all wrong for a place like this.
There wasn't enough of it.
And tension filled the place. That caught his attention instantly. He stopped in the darkened interior, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He also dropped his left hand to the pistol that was canted forward, butt first, set up for a cross draw, and took the leather loop off the hammer. He had no idea what was causing the tension he sensed, but it was his nature to be ready when he smelled trouble.
It didn't take him long to find that trouble.
There was a card game going on at a table to his right, situated near the grimy windows through which the only light in the place was coming. It was still early enough that the bartender wouldn't light any lamps and waste precious oil.
There were four men seated at that table. Three were nondescript men wearing hats. Two wore vests on top of the store-bought shirts they favored. Another wore a leather shirt that was fringed and dirty. The last wore homespun, and AJ knew instantly that he was the sodbuster who the family outside belonged to. What he was doing in a saloon playing cards while his family waited outside was a puzzle. The tension he had felt was coming from the table, and was being transmitted by the small crowd of maybe a dozen men who were standing around watching the game.
Leather shirt was dealing and AJ saw immediately that he was dealing off the bottom of the deck. The cards he dealt from there went to the sodbuster. At first AJ thought he and the sodbuster were in cahoots, but as he watched it became clear that wasn't the case. AJ saw the things he'd been taught to look for in the three men who were playing the sodbuster - cheating the sodbuster, actually. Just about all the money on the table was evenly spread in front of the three men. The sodbuster had two dull yellow coins left in front of him and he was sweating. AJ could see it running down the back of his neck, below the badly chopped hair above his collar.
He was also sipping heavily at the whisky in the dirty glass to his right. While AJ watched, a saloon girl appeared at his shoulder, refilled the glass and faded back into the crowd. AJ knew she'd been told to do that by someone other than the sodbuster. Every saloon he'd ever been in was a pay as you drink kind of place. Since the sodbuster wasn't paying, that meant somebody else was. When the farmer picked up his cards, AJ saw two queens and two threes. Leather shirt had dealt him two pair on purpose.
AJ shook his head and turned for the bar. If the sodbuster was stupid enough to get into a rigged game, then he would learn a hard lesson. AJ ordered whisky and savored the first few sips before knocking back the rest of the shot. He ordered another and was about to drink it too when the voices rose from behind him.
"You know that's all I got. You done took the rest of my money from me. I need that money to make a go of things when I claim a homestead. You got to let me bet!" It was the sodbuster, who had been raised to the point that everything he had was in the pot.
One of the vested men replied. "I raised you, and if you cain't see me then you got to fold. Them's the rules of the game, mister."
"I got things in the wagon worth money. Let me put that up!" cried the sodbuster. He was frantic. AJ got up and moved toward the table. He could see, over the sodbuster's shoulder, that he had drawn another three. Holding a full house he was frantic to stay in the game.
Leather shirt looked out of the window, toward the wagon. "Don't need no pots and pans." He spat tobacco juice on the floor. "That's a right purty girl up there on the seat, though. You could bet her if you want ter." He spat again and cackled. The other two men laughed.
One of them leaned over and looked through the window, too. "She's a right tasty looking thing, she is." he said. "How's about you add her to the pot, farmer man."
The sodbuster was at once angry...and greedy. AJ could see it in his posture. And he could almost hear the gears turning in the man's head. He had a full house...sure to win...what could be the harm? He still didn't know he'd been dealt that hand on purpose. If he he'd known that, he would also have known that somebody else had a better hand, and that the whole purpose of the game had been to take his money. All of his money. And now it looked like they wanted the girl, too.
"Don't take that bet, mister," AJ heard himself saying.
He hated that about himself. He had a tendency to talk first and think later. It got him into trouble pretty regularly.
Leather shirt looked up. "You shut yor trap, cowpoke. This ain't none of yore affair."
The sodbuster had turned around and looked to see who had warned him. AJ saw in his eyes what he saw in a lot of farmer's eyes when they looked at a cowboy - derision. The man turned around. "You're on," he said. "My Becky and my last ten dollars say I've got the winnin' hand."
Leather shirt grinned. "Lay em down." One of the vests had folded earlier. The other one was still in and laid down a pair of jacks. The sodbuster threw down his full house with a yell and reached for the pile of money in the center of the table.
"Not so fast there, farmer man," said leather shirt, with a mean grin. He flipped over his cards. There were four tens and an ace.
It was deathly quiet for three split seconds and then there was a wail of anguish, followed closely by three men laughing.
"Haul her in here, farmer man," said one of the vests. "We got us some lovin' to do!" He yelled over his shoulder. "Sydney? You still got a room free? Looks like we'll be needing it for three or four hours." His grin, when he turned back to the sodbuster, was malicious.
AJ glanced at the bartender, to see what he'd do. Without even looking up from the glass he was polishing with a dirty rag, the man called out, "Cost you three times as much, if you're all gonna use her."
The sodbuster was still staring at the cards. "No!" he shouted.
"A bet's a bet, farmer man," said the other vest. "Now git her in here. I've got an itch in my pants that needs scratchin'."
"You were cheated, sodbuster."
Again, AJ couldn't believe the words came out of his mouth. He had no call to get involved in this mess. But he'd seen the girl out on the wagon, and she'd reminded him of his sister. He hadn't seen his sister in four years, but he remembered her saucy disposition. If that girl out there had a saucy disposition, it would be gone in a very short time, most likely never to return, if these hard cases had their way with her.
It got really quiet then, as three faces turned toward him and the crowd around the table split apart like they had practiced doing it a hundred times.
Leather shirt stood up and looked at AJ. "I thought I told you to butt out." His hand drifted toward the holstered Army revolver on his hip.
AJ sighed. One of these days he'd learn to mind his own business. But one thing he never did was back down once he'd made his stand. "You dealt him that hand off the bottom of the deck. I'm bettin' I'm not the only one who saw you do it either. You cheated him, plain and simple."
There was no posturing. There were no verbal threats or warnings. There was only sudden movement, and there was a lot of it.
People in the crowd made a mad dash to get away from the table, some of them leaping headlong, to land on the sawdust-strewn floor. The two vests stood up as one, their chairs falling backwards as all three reached for the revolvers in their holsters. The farmer pushed his chair back and prepared to stand up. Apparently unaware of the gunplay that was about to erupt, he was thinking about how to demand his money back.
The only part of AJ that moved, initially, was his right arm.
The extremely short and extremely violent gunfight would be described later by at least a half dozen patrons of the saloon who actually observed it. It was surprising, all in all, that their descriptions were actually quite similar in most of the important points.
All agreed that the three card sharks drew first. All agreed that if the farmer hadn't stood up, he wouldn't have been shot. And all agreed that the kid who had caused all the trouble was the fastest man with a gun any of them had ever seen.
In fact, AJ's eyes sorted out all kinds of information in the split second it took him to reach across his body for his gun. Leather shirt's movements were the most practiced, so AJ shot him first, in the middle of the chest. His left hand came up and he fanned the hammer three times, once for the man in the middle, who took the bullet high, just below his Adams apple, and twice for the third man as he pulled the barrel back down. Both shots ended up within one inch of a button in the middle of the man's vest.
Only the two men wearing vests had managed to get a shot off. One hit the farmer in the face; the other winged AJ's left arm.
As the men went down, the sodbuster sat back down heavily and his head tilted back, his ruined and lifeless face staring up at the ceiling.
The whole fight had lasted no more than three and a half seconds.
AJ knew he was in trouble. He also knew it was highly unlikely that any of the other three men was still alive. His instinct had been to go for the heart. He'd seen the dusty impact of at least two of his slugs and, in any case, he knew he rarely missed. He'd practiced for hours until his muscle memory did it all for him...even if he didn't think he'd actually ever shoot anybody. Like most young men, AJ performed his routine tasks surrounded by an invisible haze of fantasy, like smoke from a campfire.
It wasn't wood smoke stinging his eyes now, though.
A boy, who had been peeking through the doors of the saloon, began shrieking the news outside. AJ's instinct was to flee, and he gave in to that instinct as terror over what he'd just done sent fire to his muscles.
The way out was clear, because the small crowd of watchers had exploded away from the danger. He ran past the woman who had been standing outside. She was now just inside the doors, her mouth open in a silent scream. AJ's boots thudded on the raised sidewalk outside the saloon and he leapt for the dusty street. Like any cowboy, he hated to walk anywhere, much less run, but he'd left his horse in the livery stable where it could get a pan of oats. That was clear down the street, and his shoulder blades pulled toward each other as he anticipated bullets flying toward his back.
He couldn't stand the idea of going down shot in the back and, as he came level with the sodbuster's wagon, he whirled, realizing he only had two shots left and there would be no time to reload.
But no one was boiling out of the saloon, eager to shoot down the murderer. There were a couple of faces there, peering out into the brightness of the sunlit street...but no pursuit.
Once again he turned and ran. He ran as hard as he'd ever run in his life.
******
Arabella had heard everything from her vantage point just inside the saloon doors. No one had noticed her slip in, because all attention was on the men at the table. She hadn't been able to see much, initially, but she'd heard everything. Her horror at hearing Frank bet her daughter's virginity had left her in a curious state of being frozen stiff and weak-kneed at the same time. At the last moment when the crowd around the table had evaporated like mist in the sun, she had watched in horror as the gunfight erupted. In the few seconds that followed she saw Frank's face bulge and change shape as the bullet struck it.
It was most likely her next actions were caused by the combination of what she'd been trying to get the courage to do originally, mixed with the shock and panic that zinged through her when she saw events play out.
She'd been planning on going in there and taking the money in front of her husband off the table ... and damned with convention. What he had left was all they had, and she couldn't bear to see it all lost. That had given her the strength to start through the doors. Then she had heard her husband bet their daughter, and cold panic had left her unable to move. Her mind was, as yet, unable to deal with the processing of the immediate facts, so it settled on what she'd come in this place to do.
The cowboy who had shot the three cheaters ran past her. Noise exploded in the room, and it freed Arabella's muscles. It was dark and, still in a panic, she ran to the table, scooped up bills and what coins she could. Part of her was shocked that she wasn't the only one grabbing for money. Horrified she ran back outside. The wagon was only yards away. She literally threw the money in the back of the wagon, where Frank Junior's wide eyed face was staring at her, and then continued to the front of the wagon where she fairly leapt to the top of the smaller front wheel and onto the seat. The brake wasn't set, and she picked up the reins and snapped them expertly, screaming "HEYAH!" at the top of her lungs. The startled oxen lunged in the traces, their hooves churning the dust, until the wagon creaked forward, and then gathered speed slowly. By the time they got to the edge of town, headed south, the wagon was lurching alarmingly and Arabella loosened the reins.
She was crying now, babbling without thinking about what she'd seen and heard. Some part of her brain realized she was going to kill the team if she didn't slow them down. Becky was screaming "Mamma!" over and over again. She didn't know what to do, and the reins dropped from lifeless fingers as she swooned.
******
Becky knew something bad had happened. When she'd seen her mother go to the saloon doors, it seemed as if she was suddenly dreaming. She couldn't believe it when Arabella had actually gone inside, and then shots had rung out. The handsome young cowboy Becky had seen looking at her only a few short moments ago came tearing out, followed soon after by her mother, who was also running, holding something to her chest.
Then there had been the wild ride, with mamma screaming only half understood things and leaving her father behind. She was terrified of the wild lurching of the wagon as it went much too fast. When she saw her mother sway backwards and drop the reins, Becky dove for them herself, grasping the leather strips and tugging on them instinctively, to slow the team.
The oxen bawled, tossing their heads. One looked sideways and Becky could see its eye rolling in excitement.
"Whoa!" she called out.
The team slowed a bit, and her mother came alive. "No!" she shouted. "Keep going!" Arabella had visions of a posse coming after them, saying she stole cash money, and putting her in jail.
A horse thundered past them, the rider leaning forward and so low that it looked like he was lying down on the neck of the horse. Becky recognized the cowboy who had fled the saloon after the gunfire. He and his horse grew smaller, leaving a trail of dust that hung in the still air.
Becky had seen their team of horses killed by running them like this, and she ignored her mother's scream, slowing the team more, yelling "Whoa!" in softer tones as the team fell to a trot and then a fast walk. They were breathing hard already and foam flecked their mouths. Almost suddenly they adopted their usual routine, plodding gait, as they finally calmed.
Arabella's control broke and she began sobbing as the impact of events reduced her to helplessness again.
Over the next ten minutes Becky got bits and pieces of information from her mother. Frank Junior crawled over the load in the wagon, his face appearing above her, and he told her what he'd seen and heard. He had money gripped in his fist and waved it at his sister, telling him where he'd gotten it. She found out her father was dead, shot during a card game, but not by the cowboy who had fled past them.
It came out in a disjointed and unbelievable fashion, at first, and her own adrenaline caused her to flick the reins and set the team at a trot again when she realized her mother had taken money from the table in the saloon, and expected pursuit.
Ten more minutes refined the information into a narrative of sorts, in Becky's mind, that explained what had happened, and why they were fleeing without seeing to her father's body.
Most young women might have collapsed into the same uselessness that her mother was displaying, under the circumstances. But Becky had had to grow up much faster, in many ways, than other girls her age. She and Frank Jr. had been on the receiving end of her father's rages too ... many times. She had had to work hard in the garden and helping her mother collect, wash and return clothing to customers. Her hands were tough and red, like those of a much older woman. In truth of fact, she felt no remorse that her father was dead.
There was, in fact, one bit of information that Becky did not pursue. One of the things her mother had screamed, initially, was "He bet Becky!" The girl, knowing it was a poker game, unconsciously inserted a comma into the sentence, making it into "He bet, Becky!" She would not realize the import of those few words, or the way she had interpreted them, until much later. But the pure fact is that it wouldn't really have made any difference.
"It was our money, Mamma," she said, at length. "You said he was cheated, right?"
"It was said," moaned Arabella. "I don't know. I just grabbed it! What was I thinking?!"
"You were thinking that it was our money!" said Becky firmly. She slowed the team a bit. Her practiced eye determined they were going to have to stop and let them rest soon. They'd need water too, pursuit or no pursuit. She turned and looked up at Frank Jr. "Go back and see if we are being followed," she ordered. His wide eyes were complimented by his Adams apple bobbing and he nodded. He turned and disappeared.
"It was our money, Mamma," she said again. Her mother's hands were twitching in her lap.
"But he's dead!" wailed Arabella.
"And we're safe at last," said Becky.
Her mother was shocked into silence as her jaw dropped and she stared at her daughter.
"Well we are!" insisted Becky. "He put his hands on me two nights ago, Mamma."
Arabella's mouth closed and she sat up suddenly. "Oh no!"
"When you went to sleep he put his hands on me. I had a bottle hidden, just in case. I gave it to him and he left me alone. I told him he could get more in Abilene. It's my fault he went in there, Mamma, but I'm not sorry!"
"It's not your fault," moaned Arabella. "He'd have done it anyway."
"I'm not sorry," said Becky in a dignified voice. "He treated us all like animals and slaves, Mamma. And lately it's been harder and harder to stop him from doing things to me. Your face is bruised right this minute and Frank Jr. is still limping from the last time he was kicked. We're better off without him, Mamma, and you know it."
"Don't speak ill of the dead, Becky!" blurted Arabella.
"All right," said the girl. "May he rest in peace."
She let that lie for a few seconds, and then added: "If there's peace to be had in the fires of hell."
Chapter Two
Back in town, Sheriff Dan Cross stood, looking at the four bodies laid out in the dusty street. There were three bodies grouped together, with the farmer's body a couple of feet away. Their glassy-eyed stares were typical of the dead, looking foreign, somehow ... not quite human. The farmer's face bulged where facial bones had given way to pressure inside the skull. It looked grotesquely flat, somehow, despite the bulge.
"Anybody know who they are?" he asked. There was still a crowd of ten or fifteen men milling around.
Jasper Wiggins spoke. "Them three rode in this morning," he said, pointing at the group of bodies. Sydney seemed to know them." Sydney was the bartender and Sheriff Cross had no real use for him.
Tim Humphreys stepped forward. "The farmer came in around noon. He asked for whisky. Them three were playing amongst themselves and he sat down at the table." He stopped there, not wanting to admit that he, too, had seen the men cheating the farmer, and had done nothing.
"And this Cowboy ... "Cross knew he was gone, but looked around anyway. He'd already heard of the amazing feat the boy - and all described him as a boy - had accomplished. He'd already examined the shooting irons of the dead men, and all were well worn, indicating frequent use, and suggesting some skill with them. For the boy to have taken them all suggested he might be a gun slinger, but that didn't fit with the story being told.
"He lit out," said another man. "Might still be in town. I'd know him if I saw him."
Cross snorted. The town was full of cowboys, in from various cattle drives, and more were arriving every day. Now that the railroad had arrived to take cattle back east Abilene was growing by leaps and bounds. Cross wasn't happy about that, but there was no stopping progress.
"Anybody else hurt?" he asked.
There were murmurs, but no information surfaced as to other victims.
"And they were definitely cheating?"
Dub Whittaker, a bent old man with a long dirty white beard stepped forward and pointed to leather shirt. "That one was double dealing. The farmer got the cards off the bottom, and that one," he pointed to the man who had claimed the win, "got the better hand off the top. I knowed somethin' was up earlier, but couldn't see what they wuz doin' until that last hand. I think they got careless when the sodbuster was all in. He was so excited at his hand that he threw the girl into the pot."
"And that girl?" asked Cross. "Where is she?"
"Wagon went south out of town," said a man. "Damndest thing I ever saw. It wuz like they didn't even care he was dead."
Another man yelled. "I saw the woman grab some money after the shooting!"
"Did she get it all?" asked Cross, who knew there was no money lying around anywhere, and knew it was in the pockets of these men, or others who had decided not to stick around.
"Probly," said the man, whose hand went to touch the front pocket of his pants.
Cross didn't care about the money. If the farmer had been cheated, then as far as he was concerned the money belonged to his family. There was the little problem of who'd pay for the burials, though. As if that thought had produced him, a man hurried up. He was tall and lanky, with pale skin and was wearing a stovepipe hat that was easily a foot tall.
"Four!" gasped the undertaker.
"It's a red letter day for you, Mister Remmington," said Sheriff Cross.
"Who are they?"
"That remains unclear."
"Who's going to pay?" asked the sallow man.
"We'll sell their gear," said Cross. "That should more than compensate you."
Cross stepped up onto the boardwalk and went inside to talk to Sydney. The man's attitude was surly as he polished glasses with a dirty rag.
"Who were they, Sidney?" asked the lawman.
"How should I know?" The man didn't meet the lawman's eyes.
"They knew you, according to them out there," said Cross, shoving his thumb over his shoulder at the street. "This is the fourth time in as many weeks I've had problems with your ... establishment ... Sydney. Seems to be a threat to public safety around here. I might have to have a word with the town fathers about closing down any unsafe businesses, if you get my drift."
"You can't do that!" growled the barkeep. "I been here since this shit hole got named!"
"Progress moves apace, Sydney," said Cross. "I've even heard tell that some folks want to issue licenses to operate a business, like they do back east. Pretty fancy notion if you ask me, but progress brings such things."
"I'm just trying to make a dollar!" complained the man.
"Who were they, Sidney?" Cross was tired of negotiating.
The bartender's eyes darted left and right as he scowled. "I tell you and you leave me be ... right?"
"Depends," said Cross. "They caused a heap of trouble."
"They just showed up," complained Sidney. "I can't help it if somebody just walks in my doors."
Cross started to turn. "Good luck with your business, Sydney," he said. He made it to the batwing doors before the man called "Wait!" He turned, but he didn't plan on waiting long. That must have been obvious.
"Fisby," said the bartender. "They claimed to be brothers. They always had cash. I didn't ask no questions."
Cross's eyes widened. He'd heard that name. Most lawmen west of the Mississippi had heard that name. The Fisby brothers were reputed to have robbed three trains, and killed more than ten men between them. Nobody knew what they looked like ... until now ... if that was who they were.
"They spent some time in town some years back, and hung around here. I couldn't turn them away," whined Sidney. "They'd have made trouble."
"I'll mention that to the city fathers," said Cross. "I'll remind them you went to pains to make sure there was no trouble."
Cross pushed through the doors. The undertaker's two sons were there now, lifting bodies onto a wagon. Cross went to the three horses that were already tied to the rear wheel of the wagon. His examination revealed a very nice Sharps buffalo rifle and he removed it from the scabbard.
"Here now!" called Remmington. "That's my fee!"
"This is my fee," said Cross, shouldering the rifle. "You're getting three horses and saddles for your work, plus their pistols, which I might add are possibly famous. That's worth three times what you have coming."
"Who's going to pay for the farmer?" complained the man. "His clothes ain't even worth keeping and one of his boots has a hole in the bottom!"
"Those fellers are," said Cross, looking at the bodies of the three outlaws. He paused to say one last thing to the undertaker. "And talk to Homer. Make sure he gets a good photograph of their faces before you plant them. His fee can come out of their belongings too."
He left the fuming man behind and turned toward the train station. There was one bit of progress he was happy about, and he headed for the depot to send a telegraph. Barely a year past, the Dalton gang had terrorized Coffeyville, and the resulting gun battle, which had killed eight men, outlaws included, was still talked of. The territorial authorities were trying to bring civilization to Kansas, and they'd be interested in the Fisby brothers, if anybody was. There had been word of a reward too. Cross knew he couldn't claim it, but getting some attention for his blooming town couldn't be bad, especially if it helped establish the town's reputation as a place outlaws should stay shut of.
******
Arabella Mortenson sat on the wagon seat, staring at the dust being kicked up by the now walking team of oxen in front of her. Most of an hour had passed. Her son had returned to the front of the wagon, saying he saw no riders, and no dust behind them.
She was slowly coming to grips with the idea that her life might not be over. But that brought with it other concerns. If she stayed alive and out of prison, she would have to figure out how to provide for her family.
She seemed to go through cycles of thought. First she reminded herself that they had, in the wagon, the tools and supplies necessary to establish a new home. She didn't know how to use some of them, but she could learn. She thought of what needed doing next, in pursuit of that. Then, as she contemplated what would be required of them, she lost hope and slid back into the abyss of self pity.
Becky was still handling the team, going south toward the Oklahoma territory. They had been headed there anyway, and she had no better plan. Frank had never let her make a single decision after she was told to walk up the aisle to meet him on her wedding day. She'd never laid eyes on him before that day.
Now, as she realized she'd never lay eyes on him again, she felt peculiar. That was because she felt guilty. And that was because, now that she'd had time to think about it, the idea of never seeing Frank Mortenson again did not, in any way, make her unhappy. Her daughter was right about that. He was a beast ... had been a beast. How could she be so relieved that her husband was dead? Did that make her a monster?
No. He had been the beast. Now there would be no more bruises ... no more loose teeth from his fist hitting her mouth. There would be no more drunken rages where she was dragged to the bedroom, stripped bare and then taken like a common whore. She shuddered, as she had for years, at the thought of his slapping hands and squeezing fingers, that left bruises on her after sex that was always painful. No longer would she know that just outside the bedroom, her children could hear her screams as their father made her wish he'd just kill her and get it over with.
She had stayed alive for the children though. She had been able to protect them thus far. The price had been steep but providence had finally taken a hand.
Her demon of a husband was no longer a threat, to her or her children.
Her shoulders sagged as their situation sank in. They were hundreds of miles from their former home, which was now owned and being lived in by another family. The man of her own family was dead. She'd stolen money and left his body for whatever courtesy the town of Abilene might accord it. She'd never even know where he was buried.
Other matters clamored for her attention.
Frank's plan had been to arrive in Kansas, or perhaps the Oklahoma Territory, where he intended to homestead a hundred and sixty acres. There was land to be had there, he said, free for the taking. He'd been vague on the details, but just last night he'd told them they'd be "there" in a week or two. He'd gone in the saloon, he said, to get news. She knew he'd gone in to get whiskey, because all but one of the bottles he'd brought were empty. Becky had now confirmed that suspicion.
Well. There'd be no more whiskey, evidently. She couldn't be unhappy about that either.
"Mamma!" Becky interrupted her healing process. "Look there...up ahead!"
Arabella lifted her eyes. A horse was standing, head down and one rear leg lifted off the ground. A man was sitting, his head in his hands, beside the horse.
It was the cowboy who had shot the men who had killed her husband.
******
U.S. Marshal Jeremiah Stone looked at the dispatch his boss, Jeffrey Tomlinson had just handed him. It was spare in the details, but the meaning was clear:
"presumed fisby brothers shot dead in abilene stop killed during card game stop burial proceeding stop photographs available stop please advise details of reward stop" The signature was just one word: "cross"
Tomlinson waited until Stone was finished reading. "Get on over there and see if there's any way you can show it was them," he said. "That would be a nice thing to be able to tell Judge Baker. Maybe we can stop looking for them."
"How in tarnation am I supposed to prove it was the Fisbys?" asked Stone.
"Marcus Fisby is said to have had his great left toe shot off by one of his brothers," said Tomlinson. "That and the photographs should be enough to convince the judge if we can get their mother to say it's them."
"It says they're being buried," commented Jeremiah.
"Then dig 'em up when you get there," said Tomlinson casually. "Our resources are stretched thin. We don't need to be chasing ghosts if we can help it. And try not to say anything about that reward when you get there. I don't want to authorize that kind of payment unless it's absolutely necessary."
Stone left the office, still frowning. Ever since the Supreme Court had upheld the right for Marshals to use deadly force in the commission of their duties, some three years past, the Marshal Service had been invaded by dandies and politicians who knew nothing about law enforcement, but wanted the glory of "catching" felons. Most of them never left their comfortable offices, sending men like him out instead to do the dirty work.
Well, examining rotting bodies dug from the ground was one bit of dirty work he planned to avoid. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram back to Abilene: "marshal on way about fisbys stop have photographs taken of faces and bare feet of all dead before burial stop" He added the name "Stone" at the end and handed it to the clerk. Then he went to get his gear ready for the long ride from Topeka to Abilene. It would be good to get shut of the stink of the city and out under the open skies again.
******
The wagon rolled to a creaking stop. The team stamped and blew, finally able to rest. The cowboy's horse looked around at them and whickered. Its ears flicked forward in interest.
"What happened?" asked Arabella. She still didn't know why she'd told Becky to stop the wagon. The young man looked up at them.
"Threw a shoe. He went lame before I figured it out." He looked hopeless.
Nobody said anything for so long that only the sound of the oxen's labored breathing convinced Becky that she hadn't gone deaf.
"I'm sorry," said the cowboy. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen. I should have just kept my mouth shut."
"And let us be robbed," said Arabella, whose mix of disturbing emotions had her reeling. At once she felt relief that Frank would never break another of her bones, and the shame of having taken their money back in a way that seemed a lot like stealing ... at least to her. On top of that there was pity for this young man, who had done something that should have righted a wrong, but which turned both his and their worlds upside down. She felt both pity for this young man and herself. But it was the knowledge that he had saved her daughter from a fate worse than death that was probably responsible for the snap decision she made at that moment.
"Why don't you come with us?"
He goggled at her. "I just got your husband killed!" he gasped.
She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling some strength flow into her body. "Some things are not as they first appear," she said.
AJ was confused. "He wasn't your husband?"
"Oh he was that," said Bella. "I can't explain now. There may be people looking for us, and I do not wish to be found just now. May I say plainly that we are not as sad at Frank's loss as we should be ... but we're going to need help to survive. It looks like you could use some help as well."
She let that lie there in the still air.
"This is crazy," he muttered, still unbelieving. "I killed those men. You should get as far from me as you can."
"Perhaps," said Bella. "They were bad men, though."
"Cheats!" gasped AJ. "But not to be gunned down like that!"
"What choice did you have? I heard more than your shots, and Frank was killed. They would have killed you too."
"The law will not see it that way," said AJ.
"Then I suggest you avoid the law," said Bella. "Come with us. Help us get to some place where we have a chance, slim though it may be, to regain our lives. After that you may go whither you wish."
It was the whicker of AJ's horse that made his decision for him. The gelding had been a damn good horse, but it was lame now, and might not be whole for weeks, even assuming he could find a farrier to re-shoe the bare hoof. If he had to walk those weeks, pursuit would find him easily and he'd swing from the end of a rope for murder. He knew that one of them had drawn first, but they were from town, and he was a stranger. It was unlikely there would be testimony in his defense.
He stood and began taking his gear from the gelding. He went to the rear of the wagon and threw his saddle in the back. He added the blanket and his bedroll and then stroked the horse's cheek before removing the bridle. The horse tossed his head, as if to ask "What now?"
"Go on," he said, pushing the beast away from him. "Good luck to you. Better than my luck, I hope."
Then, uncomfortable at facing the woman whose husband he'd gotten killed, he climbed into the back of the wagon and told her to drive on.
******
Riding in the wagon was completely foreign to AJ. Even so, the creaking of wood and metal, the rocking motion and bumps that tossed him and everything else in the back around couldn't penetrate into the part of his mind that replayed, over and over, the scene that he couldn't get out of his head. Keeping his eyes closed or open didn't matter. He still saw the dust jump from the clothing of the men as his bullets struck them. He had killed a man. He had killed three of them, in fact.
It wasn't at all like he'd expected it would be, back when he practiced by firing countless bullets at bottles, or knots on trees. He'd killed his share of game as well.
But this was different.
His rational mind insisted that they would have gunned him down if he hadn't let instinct and his muscle memory loose in those few seconds. That was the other thing that kept his jaw slack. The scene played on in what would, years later, be given the name "slow motion." His memory supplied other things about the scene too ... the almost identical sneer on the men's faces ... their guns coming out of holsters ... the belch of smoke from the ends of the barrels. He understood now why they were called barrels. They had looked as big around as a pickle barrel. He saw the bodies slowly turning or moving away from him as his bullets struck them. He remembered one pistol flying from a suddenly limp hand.
Another part of his mind centered on the fact that he had almost died. That was different than the past too. His life had been threatened by stampedes, and lightning, and rattlers, among other things. He'd almost died of thirst one time. But in all those cases he'd still felt like he had some control over his life. He'd been able to take action to lessen the danger, or at least try to live.
His thoughts flickered to his bullets striking the men again. That had been action that had saved his life. The sodbuster had taken one right in the face. AJ's mind produced a quick glimpse of a shattered face, suddenly shaped all wrong, a third dark eye where no eye should be.
It could have been him.
He shuddered suddenly and sobs wracked his young frame. He was instantly mortified, ashamed beyond anything he'd ever faced before, and grimy hands flashed to knuckle his eyes. His glance darted to the other passenger in the back ... the young boy. The boy's stare brought a surge of anger.
"Does it hurt that turrible?" asked the boy, looking at the blood-soaked sleeve below AJ's left shoulder.
"I don't know," growled AJ, feeling helpless. Pain registered in his brain, a pain he almost welcomed because he could think about that instead of the fact that killing men ... even men who deserved it ... just didn't make him proud of himself at all.
"You ought to clean that," said the boy sagely. "Mamma says you got to clean a wound so's it won't fester."
"I got other things on my mind," said AJ.
"We got some water," said the boy, jerking his thumb behind him. "But the barrel's on the side of the wagon. You want me to tell Mamma to stop?"
"No," said AJ. "Leave me alone."
Maybe an hour later AJ wished they would stop. The rocking of the wagon kept his arm moving, and he had to brace himself to keep from being thrown against furniture or provisions. His arm felt like it was on fire now. His shirt sleeve had turned almost black and was stiff. It kept sticking to the wound and then tearing loose as he moved. It was stifling in the wagon too. There was a fine coat of dust over everything and clouds of dust boiled into the opening of the back of the wagon occasionally.
Finally he took the shirt off, wincing at the pain of moving his arm. He examined the wound, which had torn a chunk of his skin out in a strip about two inches long. The wound itself was seeping bright red blood.
He muttered an oath. "Damn!"
"Better not let Mamma hear you cursing," warned the boy. "She's death on cursing."
AJ coughed as another cloud of dust wafted into the back of the wagon.
"How in tarnation can you live like this?" he asked the boy.
"Like what?" The boy looked confused.
"Never mind," said AJ. "Ain't you got any water in the back here?"
"No." The boy didn't even look around. "We'll stop soon, though."
"Why?" asked AJ. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and pursuit as possible. As slow as the wagon was going he was quite sure he'd hear the rattle of hooves behind the wagon at any minute.
"Team's got to rest," said the boy, as if anyone should know that. "Got to be watered too."
AJ felt uncommonly stupid as he realized he should have thought of that himself. He looked out the opening in the back of the wagon. His horse, now less it's saddle and bridle, limped along behind the wagon. He'd expected the beast to stay where it was, but it seemed to want company more than it wanted to favor a lame hoof. He sighed as he realized the horse was leaving tracks in the trail of the wagon ... tracks a blind man could follow.
******
AJ followed the boy out of the wagon, still shirtless. He didn't want to wear the shirt again until it had soaked in a stream for a while. It didn't occur to him to be embarrassed about appearing in front of womenfolk with a bare chest. He was more concerned with the pain in his arm that made something so simple as getting out of a wagon seem like a major event.
The boy had removed the wooden lid from a water cask and dipped water into a bowl. AJ watched him take the bowl to the standing oxen and then got a dipper of water out for himself. He drank from it first, and then poured the rest on the un-bloodied shirt sleeve of his shirt. Wincing he started swabbing his wound.
"Let me do that," said the woman. "I'm Arabella Mortenson, by the way. Frank Junior is watering the team. Becky's my daughter."
Her fingers plucked the shirt from his grasp. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the condition of the garment. Then she called to her daughter to find the last of the whiskey. Becky produced a bottle that, to AJ's practiced eye, had perhaps three shots left in it. She worried at the cork unsuccessfully until AJ took the bottle from her and pulled it with his teeth. He was sorely tempted to swig from it, but she took it back before he could get the cork out of his mouth.
He tensed at the incredible burning sting as she poured whiskey from the bottle into the open wound and then used the cleanest part of his shirt to wipe the caked blood away. When she poured the rest of the bottle on the wound his groan wasn't from pain, but from seeing what she had said was the last of the whiskey dribbling off his arm into the dust at his feet. When she was done she handed the shirt to her daughter and instructed the girl to get rid of it in a nearby copse of trees.
"Hey!" complained AJ. "I only got one other shirt."
"I'll give you one of my husband's," she said. "He was bigger than you, but it should fit all right." Her voice was peculiarly flat as she went on. "He has no more use of them."
She gave Becky more instructions and the girl appeared from the back of the wagon with two shirts. Arabella tore one into strips to make bandages while the girl stood, holding the other shirt and staring curiously at AJ.
"Don't stare, Becky," ordered her mother. "It's not polite."
AJ was doing some staring of his own. The woman's calm attitude didn't make sense, considering what had happened. Her touch was gentle, almost caring as she bound up the wound and then helped him slip on a nicer shirt than he'd ever owned in his life. His eyes took in the girl's form, which took his mind off the pain in his arm. Even the loose long dress she was wearing couldn't hide the fact that she was a well-formed girl. The bodice was tight across her breasts. Under the sun bonnet her brown hair hung in natural ringlets.
She was cute, but AJ could almost always find something cute about most women. He'd lived the life of a cowboy for going on three years now, and that included patronizing saloons and the women who worked in them. He hadn't been around what his mother would have called a decent woman in a long time though, and he felt a little funny about wondering what this girls breasts might look like, heaving as she lay under him. It was hard to envision, though, because thus far there had only been two women who found themselves in that situation. Both had been closer to Arabella's age than Becky's.
That brought his attention to the woman who was now standing and staring at him herself, despite her previous rebuke to her daughter. Her dusty dress didn't hide the fact that she was female either. Her bust was larger, and her face had lines of care in it, but she was easily as good looking as either of the painted women AJ had dallied with.
It occurred to him that his indecent thoughts might end him up walking and he tried to push them out of his head.
"Thank you," he said, moving his arm experimentally. It still hurt like the blazes, but the whiskey had knocked the sharp edge off the pain.
"You're welcome," said Arabella. "Now, as to avoiding pursuit. We should leave the trail ... don't you think so?"