by Tinnean
“You shut up. You smell like horseshit. And he can’t shoot us. The boss won’t let him.”
Sharps turned his head and grinned at Weatherford. “That so? You won’t let me shoot these men?”
“I’ll have you arrested if you don’t stop threatening them.”
“The same way you had the captain arrested?” Sharps flicked the stub of his cigarette toward Weatherford, who cried out and shied back. Sharps took out his Remington, opened the cylinder, and studied it thoughtfully. He reached behind him for a bullet in his holster belt, replaced the one he’d fired, shut and spun the cylinder, and thumbed back the hammer. “Then I reckon I’ll shoot you first. It won’t matter a hill of beans to you who I shoot after that, because you’ll be dead.”
“You’ll hang!”
Sharps shrugged. “Maybe, but like I said, you’ll be dead, so whether I swing or not won’t be very important to you.”
“How dare you?”
“I dare because I think you’re a scoundrel and a scalawag. How long have you been out here?”
“What difference does that make?”
“You may have some savvy suckering these yokels into thinking they need you to run their town, but you depend on these bullyboys to do your dirty work. You ought to go back East. You’re nothing but a tin-pot tyrant.”
“You…you…” Weatherford blustered.
“Y’know, you make me tired. Go away.”
Captain Marriott turned and strode into the stable.
“I didn’t mean you, Cap,” he said softly. Had he shocked the captain? It had been more than five years since they’d last seen each other, and Sharps had changed a lot since then. Oh, maybe not on the outside, but inside…
Weatherford tried to stare him down, but Sharps met his gaze. He’d been taught by the best.
“Come on, Boss.” The one who’d been sitting in horseshit gripped Weatherford’s arm and started to hustle him away.
Weatherford yanked his arm free. “Asa is right. You smell of hor-manure.” He glared a final time at Sharps and stalked off.
“Well now, Twilight, I reckon we’d—”
The captain rode a palomino mare out of the stable and led three other horses. “We’ve got to get to the jail.”
“Sure thing.” Sharps settled himself back in the saddle. “You mind telling me how you wound up in this fix?”
“I’m leading a couple of wagons up to the Dakota Territory.”
“I heard. I’d been hoping to catch up with you.”
“You have, and I’m grateful.” He sent a warm look Sharps’s way, and Sharps wanted to climb onto his lap and curl into him. “We camped a few miles outside of Willow Crick to rest the mules, and some of the travelers decided to ride into town. The mules needed to be looked over, and I reckoned it was safe enough for them to go without me. I was positive…” His shoulders sagged.
“You couldn’t know.”
“No, I reckon not. I don’t usually travel this trail, and the last town we passed through didn’t warn us. But still, these people are my responsibility. They hadn’t been gone more than an hour or so when Charlie came tearing in. S-he’s one of the kids, and he was almost hysterical. Told me one of the men had been shot and his brother and sister had been kidnapped.” His mouth became a grim line. “As soon as we get Bart and Frank free, we have to go after Georgie and Chris. God knows what those bastards may have done to them by this time—”
“Pretty woman, black hair, blue eyes, and a blond kid with even bluer eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“I came across them.”
“How badly were they injured?”
“They were a bit battered—I got the impression they fought the brothers—”
“Brothers?”
“The Wilsons, Cap. Remember them from Bull Run?”
“The ones who intended to go after you? Oh Jesus.”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure the lady and her brother were all right. They took off on Salida.”
“You have her? I was wondering if you ever got home.” He nodded toward the stallion Sharps rode.
“I came after her—”
“She is pretty, but there’s something you should know about her. She’s…uh…married.”
Sharps burst into laughter. “I was talking about Salida, Cap. I’m not likely to go after a woman.”
“Shy?”
“I reckon you could say that.” Sharps looked down at his hands and smiled.
“Sorry. But you’ll find the right woman one day.”
“A woman isn’t likely to want me.”
The cap gave him an incredulous look, and he shrugged. It was more he wouldn’t want a woman, but he remembered Pa’s words and kept his mouth shut about that.
“I’ve done some things…”
“I reckon we all have.”
Not like Sharps had, but he had no intention of telling the captain. He wanted the man to think well of him.
They came out from between the newspaper office and the Chinese laundry to the sound of gunshots, the first of a barrage.
“Damn, that’s coming from the direction of the jail.” The captain clapped his heels against the palomino’s sides and took off, the other horses trailing along after him.
Sharps shook his head. The cap always had been one to ride hell for leather into battle. Sharps dropped the pinto’s reins and reached for his rifle, to realize it was still on Salida’s saddle. He swore, freed the banjo from its case, and kicked the stallion into a gallop.
The cap was already in front of the jail when Sharps pulled up beside him. A woman stood there, flanked by two men who Sharps assumed were the travelers Weatherford planned to throw a necktie party for.
The woman looked up, and Sharps felt his jaw drop. Dressed like this, she was more than pretty. Her hair was piled on her head while a few ringlets caressed her cheeks. She wore a dress that was more suited to eastern cities. The bodice molded to her torso, emphasizing the modest curves of her bosoms, while the skirts draped over a bustle.
She cradled a rifle—Sharps’s rifle—in her arms. The three men who’d tried to beat up the captain were lying in the street, blood pooling under their bodies, staining the dirt a bright red.
One of the men with her cocked his head when he saw the banjo. “You planning on a hoedown?”
“I don’t play.” Sharps returned the banjo to its case and looked around. The shots hadn’t drawn the usual onlookers. Most of the townsfolk were probably hiding behind closed doors.
“You all right, Steve?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, Georgie.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“Chris?”
“Back at camp.” She turned her gaze back to Weatherford, whose face was so white Sharps wondered if he’d pass out. “I understand you’ve been a busy boy.”
Sharps listened to her in fascination.
Gone was the woman who had cowered from him, and it occurred to him it had been a ruse. It should have dawned on him from her actions, elbowing Eli and jamming the heel of her hand up against his chin.
“Where’s…where’s the sheriff?” Weatherford demanded. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll see you hang, even if you are a woman.”
“He’s fine. You can go check for yourself.” She jerked the barrel of the rifle toward the jail, indicating she wanted him in there.
“You’ll pay for this!” he blustered.
She cocked the rifle and pointed it directly at the notch of Weatherford’s thighs. He swallowed and turned paler if that was possible, but climbed up onto the wooden walk and strode stiffly into the building.
Sharps swallowed a grin. She was a pleasure to watch.
“You’ll take care of him, Frank?”
“You bet, Georgie.” The man she called Frank held up a key ring and shook it, setting the keys to jingling. He sauntered casually into the jail.
“Where’s Fox?”
“From what they said, he’s in the ice house until they can fi
gure what to do with his body,” the other man said. “I’ll go get him.” He went to the captain and took the reins of a brown horse. “Then I’ll fetch Salida.”
“Thanks, Bart.” She watched as he went around the side of the jail, and there was a look in her eyes…Sharps found he couldn’t look away, and he flushed when she caught him staring, but she just smiled at him. “Bart and I have only been married a short time.”
Sharps nodded.
“I’m sorry I had to take your horse.”
“I would have given you the gray or Sorrowful.”
“I had to get back faster than they could have gone. Ezra and Eli pushed them hard.”
“I could see that from the marks they left on their horses’ hides.”
“I was so scared they’d killed Bart. I’m glad you shot them.” She crossed the wooden walk to where he sat Twilight and held out her hand. “Thank you.” She had a firm handshake.
“It was my pleasure, ma’am. I’ve run into the brothers before.”
She looked curious, but Sharps appreciated that she didn’t ask probing questions.
“Georgie, this is Sharps Browne,” the captain said. “You’ve heard me mention him.”
He’d told other people about him? Sharps felt his cheeks heat up.
The captain rode closer and touched his arm. “Sharps, this is Georgie Hall. I bought Salida from h-her.”
“Salida was yours? Then that’s why she wouldn’t come back when I whistled for her.”
“Yes. You see, I’d raised her from a foal.”
Bart came around the side of the building leading the buckskin mare and the brown horse with a body draped over the saddle.
“We’ve got to get Al buried soon, Georgie,” he said.
She nodded. “In that case, we’d better get his body back to camp. I don’t think Mrs. Fox would want him buried in the Willow Crick cemetery.”
“No, I reckon not.”
She glanced at Sharps. “This is my husband, Bart Hall. Bart, this is Steve’s friend, Sharps Browne.”
Sharps touched the brim of his hat. “Hall.”
“Browne.”
Twilight tried to sidle closer to the mare, but Sharps tightened his grip on the reins and patted his neck, and the stallion settled down.
“I reckon you may as well keep the mare.”
“Thank you. I don’t have the money to pay you back for her—”
“Not necessary, ma’am. She was a gift. But you can talk to the captain about it.” He glanced at the captain, who smiled and gave a small nod, approving Sharps’s decision. “But I would like my saddlebags and my rifle?” He wouldn’t need the mare’s saddle. It had been obvious it was made especially for her, and it wouldn’t sit well on another horse.
Mrs. Hall met his gaze coolly, then handed him the rifle Pa had given him for Christmas and went to Salida to get the saddlebags. The mare turned her head and nibbled on Mrs. Hall’s shoulder. She smiled and rubbed Salida’s forehead, and Sharps felt better about giving the captain’s gift back to her original owner.
Mrs. Hall brought him his saddlebags, then returned to Salida, but before she could mount the mare, Hall caught his wife in a tight hug, brushed his lips over her cheek, and whispered something in her ear. She tightened her arms around him.
Finally, he released her and asked, “Are we ready to head out, hummingbird?”
“As soon as Frank’s done,” she murmured. Her husband helped her onto the mare and stood there while she adjusted her bustle and voluminous skirts and settled herself into the saddle.
Sharps watched with interest. How did women manage to ride in that getup?
Steve held out the reins of one of the spare horses, and Hall squeezed his wife’s knee before he walked over, took the reins, and mounted.
“Frank. Get a move on,” Hall called out.
“Frank” came out of the jail, holding three rifles and a holster that carried two revolvers. He pulled the door closed behind him and locked it, then crossed the wooden sidewalk to the captain and handed him a rifle, along with the holster.
“Thanks.” The cap slid his rifle into its scabbard with casual ease before he fastened the holster around his waist.
“Fox’s rifle,” Frank said, and he gave the second rifle to Hall. He paused to study Sharps. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, stranger. I’m Frank Thompson.”
“Sharps Browne.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Mutual.”
“Is Weatherford locked up tight?” Mrs. Hall asked Thompson.
“Yeah.” Thompson grinned and displayed the ring with the keys on it. “They won’t be going anywhere soon.” He dropped the keys into a rain barrel that stood at a corner of the building.
“All right, then,” Mrs. Hall said. “Let’s get going.”
It was easy to see how close these four people were, how friendly. And Sharps just wasn’t part of this band of friends.
Well, he reckoned that was all there was to it. He gazed at the captain, who’d waited until Thompson approached him before handing the younger man the reins of the second horse. They’d be riding out of town, and Sharps wouldn’t be going with him—them. He shook himself. No sense in becoming maudlin. He’d never thought the odds of the cap wanting him—wanting anything to do with him had been great. He’d pass on the gift his pa had made for the cap, and then head south. He’d heard things were interesting down Texas way, and maybe he’d look up some of his relatives.
“You’re coming, too,” the cap announced just as Sharps was reaching for the banjo.
“I am?”
“You bet your boots. It’s been too long, and I’m not losing track of you again.”
“All right, Captain.”
“You called me Steve once.”
“All right, Steve.” And suddenly Sharps no longer felt left out. He glanced over his shoulder to conceal the grin he knew would reveal his feelings for the—for Steve. “I’ll just fetch Sorrowful.”
The pinto stood ground tied in the center of the street, looking…sorrowful, and Sharps went to him and caught up the reins.
“We just may be going home, boy.” He turned Twilight and urged him to follow the others. “I’ll take up the rear, Steve.” Just in case any troublemakers decided to follow them.
“Good idea, Corporal.” Steve smiled at him, and Sharps smiled back.
Steve was right. It had been too long, and now that the captain actually seemed to want Sharps with him, Sharps had no intention of letting him out of his life ever again.
* * * *
They made pretty good time covering the miles back to camp, and once they arrived, Sharps gazed around at the spot with appreciation. The man who’d chosen it had known what he was doing. Two large wagons were positioned for optimal protection, and the mule teams had been corralled on fresh grass. Sharps was certain Steve was the one who’d selected this, and he smiled at his captain, so proud of him, he could have burst his buttons, although Steve was too preoccupied just then to notice.
Steve had to select a burial spot, and then bring the dead man’s body to his loved ones.
A passel of kids descended on them, three of them crying as they ran past the cap to where Mrs. Hall sat the buckskin mare. “Georgie, Georgie!”
She slid from Salida’s back and knelt to embrace her brothers.
The other three kids, though, they stood there, watching in confusion and fear. Yeah, it was probably their father’s body draped over the back of the brown horse.
Those kids were going to need some comforting, and he wouldn’t mind being elected for the task. He’d always loved the little ones.
Before Sharps could do more than slide off Twilight’s back, the dead man’s widow came from around the back of a wagon to join them. “You’re back.” She didn’t notice immediately that her husband wasn’t riding his horse. She gazed at them in confusion. “Where’s Albert?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fox.” Steve dismounted and removed h
is hat.
Her confusion became greater. “What are you—Albert?” She had finally seen her husband’s body. “Albert!” She stroked his hair and shoulders. “Wake up! Wake up!” It was easy to see she was becoming distraught as she realized he’d never wake up.
Sharps had come across scenes similar to this during the war and afterward, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the poor woman became even more distraught. He left the stallion ground tied as he approached her.
“Ma’am?” He tried to draw her away so the cap could lead the horse that bore Fox’s body to the spot Steve had chosen for the man’s gravesite.
“No! No!” she shrieked.
Sharps caught her as she started to collapse to the ground. She flung her arms around Sharps’s neck and began weeping hysterically. He held on, stroking her back and murmuring in her ear.
The feeling of eyes on him had him looking up, to see Steve watching them. His expression was blank, but Sharps had learned to read faces—there had been times when his life depended on him getting it right. He didn’t know what he had done, but all he did know was Steve wasn’t happy.
From there, everything fell apart.
Chapter 10
Over the years, Steve Marriott had often thought of the boy who’d marched at his side, who’d beat the drum as the men charged into battle. He’d regarded Sharps with fondness and a great deal of pride, as well as gratitude for saving his life at Sharpsburg, where he’d given the boy the nickname that went through the rest of the war with him. However, Steve hadn’t been pleased when he’d learned some of his men had taken the boy to a whorehouse. Steve didn’t think of himself as a prude, but Sharps had only been fourteen at the time, and it made sense that Steve would dislike the idea. Although to be truthful, he himself had been a year older when his father had taken him to a brothel in Baltimore. He hadn’t enjoyed it as much as Sharps seemed to have.
After the 14th Brooklyn mustered out in May of ‘64, Steve had been transferred to the 5th New York Veteran Volunteer Infantry. When Sharps had announced he would continue to march beside him, Steve had had ambivalent feelings about that. His ambivalence had turned to relief however, when for some reason Sharps changed his mind and elected to return home—Steve had seen too many men die from wounds received on the battlefield or from illness not to be thankful the boy would no longer be in harm’s way. And at least Sharps had come to say goodbye to him.