by A. W. Hart
Tasker looked up and squinted at him.
“Ebenezer Tasker, I have a murder warrant for your arrest for the man I saw you kill in the street in front of this premises earlier today. Deputy Ringo and I are going to put handcuffs on you and take you to the cell in the marshal’s office.”
“Wal, I don’t think so. I ain’t finished drinking for the day. You try putting ‘em on me, and I will gut you. You seen what I did with the fool this morning.”
“Take the knife out and drop it on the floor. Do it now,” Reno ordered.
Tasker removed the big knife from his belt and hefted it in his hand. Reno knew he had gotten too close to Tasker. It was hard to guarantee he’d drop a man with a knife from such a short distance. He could rush you, got shot by a revolver, and cut you to pieces before dying. A shotgun or a Sharps Big 50 might work, but not necessarily a revolver.
Tasker must have known it too because he charged like a buffalo.
Reno pulled both Remington .44s and fired. The left ball hit the man in the knee, and as his leg was folding up, the right hit him between the eyes. He fell at Reno’s feet. He was not going to cut anybody ever again unless Bowie knives were allowed in hell.
Reno scanned the barroom, the muzzles moving with his eyes. Ringo, beside him, had a revolver in hand. Reno was not sure from where it had materialized.
Suddenly, there was a heavy pop of a gun from behind them. Reno instinctively scrunched his shoulders at the sound and moved left as he swung around to meet the new threat. He saw a man with a gun in his hand and a funny look on his face. He was standing there as if he was confused and did not know what to do. There was another shot from the door, and he crumpled to the sawdust-and-peanut-shell-strewn floor.
Sara stood behind him, both Remingtons smoking. She was scanning like her brother had, then their eyes locked. The siblings each gave a faint nod, and Sara winked at him.
He walked toward the door, Sara watching the crowd and George backing out behind him, his revolver still moving from side to side.
The judge had been a witness to the event, as had Henry Eaves.
“Looks like we hired one and got one for free,” the judge said to Eaves in a low voice. Eaves nodded. He’d figured so before approving the brother.
They went straight to the undertaker’s office and advised them about two more customers. At the marshal’s office, Reno and Sara reloaded.
“The one I shot was relieving himself at the side of the building. He went rushing in and said, ‘Eb!’ I figured it would go downhill fast and saw him starting to draw. He was not very quick,” Sara added.
“I saw your brother pull from behind and you from beside,” the judge noted. “He might have been a tad faster, but you cleared leather and fired those guns real fast, young lady. I’m taking it this is not the first such shootin’ party you’ve been to?”
“We have been bounty hunters since ex-Confederate raiders killed our family and burned our home down a few years ago. Our pa told us to go after God’s scourges with his last breath. We took him serious,” Reno answered. “So far, I have not seen one man who can beat my sister. She’s not only among the best, she does not hesitate. We back each other up every second of every day. I have the best pard in the world, Judge,” Reno answered.
“No legal problem, Judge, with me having to shoot him in the back?” Sara asked.
“The law says deadly force is justified to prevent death or serious injury to yourself or somebody else,” the judge said. “You prevented it for the deputy marshals. I don’t remember anywhere it says where you had to exert deadly force,” the judge replied.
Reno turned to George.
“How do we work this time-wise?” he asked.
“Since we seem to be on at all hours, I sleep in one of the cells most nights. This is central enough for both of us to hear shots and a lot of yelling, particularly as it gets warmer and we open windows.” George replied.
“What year will warm weather occur?” Sara asked rhetorically.
George ignored and went on, “Reno, you just stay sleeping at the hotel. Then we’ll have us some coverage on the far end of the street. The problem we have is communicating for backup, and there’s no ready answer for that.”
“Should we try to patrol together, or will we cover more territory separately?”
“Reno, it’s bad enough here for two-man patrols. Most of the trouble occurs in a three-block range on this street. This is where the bars, stores, brothels, and hotels are. Most of the problems are at the bars and brothels—too much likker, and arguments over cards and women. Those are our problems,” George said.
“Since we don’t know what the night will bring, I think I will work my way toward the hotel and sleep while I can. I might get up late and hit the bars and show the badge,” Reno said. George nodded his agreement. They said good night to the judge and town manager and left.
They walked out into the dark, coats open for revolver access despite the cold wind blowing.
Sara reached over and took her brother’s left hand and held it as they walked.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly
“I’m happy,” she replied.
“Why, Sara?” he asked.
“Because you said you had the best pard in the world.”
“Well, I do. It’s a fact.”
She squeezed his hand, and they walked on.
They ducked into the café and got sandwiches for them and Apache, who they knew was getting tired of guard duty, him being an action dog and all.
The action dog was happy to see them and happier for the bologna sandwiches. Since they had their coffee cups for the trail in their saddlebags, one of the new ones was delegated to Apache. Sara filled it with cold water from the pitcher and bowl. She wondered if the hotel could provide hot water for bathing, then dismissed the idea.
Once you bathed, you’d have to get out in the cold air. Standing there wet would be worse than not bathing. Nonetheless, a hot bath was one of a pretty long list of things she would kill for.
Reno cracked the window open to hear better, given his new responsibilities. It almost seemed like the air coming in warmed the room a little. The calendar was marching toward spring, after all.
Sara had crawled into bed with her coat on.
Reno did not like the rickety chair, so he sat on the floor and leaned against the bed.
“You haven’t read much Scripture lately,” Sara said.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet. I’ll listen if you will read something.”
“Just because I said you were the world’s best pard?” he asked.
“Uh-huh, and because I like to hear your voice. It reminds me of happy times at home when we were all talking and laughing,” Sara said, a melancholy he seldom heard in her voice.
“I understand. Let me pick something. Try to stay awake.”
After a while, he spoke.
“Here’s one I’ve never read to you or me. I will have to think about the meaning because I don’t get it right off,” he said. She nodded, and he began to read Corinthians 5:8-10, which said:
“We are courageous, I say, and are willing rather to be absent from the body and to be at home with the Lord. Therefore also we make it our aim, whether at home or absent, to be well pleasing to Him. For we must all be revealed before the judgment seat of Christ that each one may receive the things in the body according to what he has done, whether good or bad.”
“Reno, that does not make any sense to me. It just seems like a bunch of words. You work on it and let me know what you come up with, okay?
“I promise, assuming I can figure it out. Sometimes the Scriptures are written in mysterious ways,” he said.
He got out the poetry book and thumbed through it. She was sleeping, so he would read it aloud for Apache and himself. He knew Apache like the rhythm of poetry. Miss Bernard had called it “pentameter.” He had always had fantasies about her. She had only been tw
o years older than he was, and she had given him his first book. It was Keats’ poetry, which had to mean she cared for him. He sure hadn’t wanted to see her dead with her dress ripped off, and to carry her to the grave he’d dug. It was a memory he relived in bad dreams.
He found Lord Byron’s first poem to Augusta Leigh and picked a few lines to read and think about.
“Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook
There’s more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world’s defied rebuke.
Thou stood’st, as stands a lovely tree.
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity.”
He stood, then leaned over and said softly in Sara’s ear, “I’m gonna patrol. Apache is with you, and a revolver is on the table. I’ll lock the door and tap four times before coming in, okay?”
Sara said nothing but smiled and nodded, eyes closed. He left and locked the door to the room.
The street had been colder every night they had been in Hays City. He could not button his coat, but he did turn the collar up and pull his hat down.
He saw a few men on the streets, walking with their heads down against the wind. Some touched their hats. Most just hurried on. He walked into the Number One and glanced around. Looked and smelled the same, but no fights or shooting, so he went on. Em’s Brothel came up next.
Reno Bass had never been into a brothel. He was pretty sure his older brothers had, though.
He walked in. An older woman with a lot of paint on her face and a pink wig smiled at him. She should have nodded because the broken brown teeth did not add to her dwindling appeal.
“Just checking, ma’am. Any trouble here tonight?”
“No, just the same clientele and a few travelers. Par for the course, Deputy. Want to stay long enough to have one on the house?”
A young girl walked in wearing the type chemise Sara wore as under clothes. One strap had slipped off her shoulder, and a lot of her was revealed.
Reno smiled at her and turned to the madam.
“No, ma’am. I got places to check on my patrol. You have a nice night, and stay warm, okay?” He got two smiles. Reno figured both were put-on smiles and walked out the door.
Paddy’s Bar was about the same as the Number One. He went on and checked several lesser quality bars and brothels. He made it to the marshal’s office and did not see George through the window. He was probably catching some sleep in the cell he’d reserved for himself.
Reno turned and walked down the other side of the wide street. That side had mostly stores, and the doctor’s office and undertaker. He checked doors to make sure they were locked and arrived back at his hotel.
The night clerk was not at the desk, but there was a bell in case he needed to be summoned.
Reno went up to the room, tapped four times, and unlocked the door. He heard Sara set the Remington back on the table in the dark. He stripped down to his long red union suit and socks and climbed into the bed. The tarp was pushed off on the floor tonight. Apache was snoring, but Sara was not.
“Everything good?” she asked sleepily.
“Yep. Doors were locked, no bar fights, and the houses of ill repute were quiet.”
“Did you go into them?” she asked.
“I walked into the parlors and asked the madams if all was quiet, and they said yes.”
“Did you see any girls?” she asked.
“I saw one. She was young,” he answered.
“Was she pretty?” Sara asked
“I guess, kinda,” he said.
“Prettier than me?” she asked.
“Of course not, silly.”
“Did you spend time with her?” Sara asked apprehensively.
“I spent about one second from across the room saying good night to her and the madam,” he answered.
“What was she wearing?” Sara kept on.
“One of those chemise things like you wear under your shirt and pants,” he said.
“You mean like this?” She pushed the covers down.
“Yes, kinda. But yours is prettier. Now, will you go back to sleep?” She nodded and closed her eyes, her curiosity apparently satisfied.
He tried to sleep. It had been a violent day. It felt right wearing a badge. He’d wondered most of his life about being a lawman. Now he was, for a little while, at least. Reno knew there was not much money in it, but he and Sara had already amassed enough to make a start somewhere with a place to live. He worried about that every night. He told himself he needed to take it one day at a time. Finally, he went to sleep.
It ended up being a good night. He was not awakened by gunshots to which he had to respond. Previously, a good night had been defined by sleeping well, a full stomach, and being warm and dry. Now, not having to go somewhere defined it. That might be a downside to wearing a badge.
“I listened to the poem you were reading, but I’m not sure what it meant,” were Sara’s first words upon awakening.
“To me, Lord Byron used a lot of words to fill space. I think it just meant she was like a tree in his life and bent with the wind,” Reno told her.
“Was it a love poem?” she asked.
“It was supposed to be, but it didn’t sound very romantic to me.”
“Who was she?” Sara asked.
“Augusta Leigh.”
“No, who was she?” Sara persisted.
“According to the introduction, she was his half-sister,” Reno said.
“And he wrote her love poems?” Sara asked.
“Seems he did. It caused a great hurrah,” Reno said, not knowing how to describe the gossip about their almost life-long affair.
“Want breakfast? I think we should take Apache with us before he thinks outside disappeared,” Reno said, wanting to get onto safer ground.
“He knows it didn’t. He looks out the window almost all day,” she said.
“Well, we’ll take him and prove it for sure to him, okay?”
Sara nodded agreement.
Apache sat outside the café, knowing he would be rewarded. He was. He was given a whole fried ham steak cut up, several eggs, and a biscuit. If Apache had liked coffee, his meal would have exactly duplicated his master’s and mistress’s. Several people petted his head as they came in. One man scowled at him and earned a low growl and the view of some very sharp teeth. He hustled in, complaining about a dog until the lawman at a table stood up and looked like he was going to come over and kill him. Then, he shut up.
The three walked toward the marshal’s office near the far end of the street. Apache did seem to be happy to be outside. The town was quiet.
George was up and drinking coffee made on the big woodstove. One thing Reno noticed about the office and its jail was that it was a lot warmer than their hotel.
“George, I was wondering. In case things get real scary one day, how much armament do you have here?” Reno asked.
“We have several revolvers, this being one,” George said, pointing to his holstered Colt 1849 pocket model, “and a Spencer rifle from the war, and one ten-gauge double-barreled shotgun.”
“Are the guns all kept loaded?” Reno asked.
“Only the one I’m wearing,” George told him.
“Let’s change the policy and load them all for quick use,” Reno said. George thought for a minute and saw no logical reason to argue against the idea.
“You got buckshot for the scattergun?” Reno asked.
“No, we’ll have to get some.”
“Don’t worry about it. We have some left over from the short scatter gun Sara had,” Reno said.
“Whatever happened to it?” George asked.
“Tornado took it,” Sara said. “I really liked it, too.”
“It was sure effective for short-range destruction,” George noted.
They left and walked back to the hotel.
“I’m afraid you are going to get bored, Sara.
> “Not me. Maybe I’ll borrow your book and read more about Lord Byron and his sister, Augusta,” she said.
“Half-sister,” Reno corrected.
“Whatever. Was having a love affair with your sister unusual in those days? You know, whenever he lived?”
“The introduction to the poets was more readable than some of their poetry. I think he died young around thirty years ago. I don’t know the answer to your question. The writeup on him had more hints than facts. The hints kinda made me think he was not a very good person. He had a daughter with the sister,” Reno said.
“Just wondering,” Sara responded.
“Probably not worth wondering about. Why don’t you see if the shop has a better book for you to read?” he suggested. She just nodded absentmindedly.
“I’ll take a walk around town and check things,” Reno said, and he left.
Hays City was calm most mornings. This one was not an exception. The brothels usually didn’t get busy until night. The bars started roaring around lunchtime with regular alcoholics and after dinner with part-time ones. He stopped at the marshal’s office and delivered the bag of buckshot, some of which he loaded into the shotgun, with powder, a patch, and caps.
“You know, George, we could make this shotgun handier with a hacksaw,” Reno mentioned.
“It would be okay. I don’t think the marshal would care. It was already here when he came along, and I don’t think he has ever touched it. He likes to use a short club he calls a ‘truncheon’ to enforce the law,” George responded.
“I don’t know the man, but it seems to me a stick is a poor choice to take to a gunfight,” Reno said.
“Yeah, he has had to back down a lotta times. He keeps the .31 Colt like mine in his coat pocket and can’t get it in play very fast.”
“No offense to him, I’m sure he’s a fine fella, but it’s a wonder he’s not dead already,” Reno observed.
“He’s come close a couple of times. He was a shopkeep. His hardware store burned down, and the job was open. I had to show him how to load the .31,” George explained.
Reno did not comment. Like government, the people got what they chose. The marshal, after all, was government, though he did not run for election like a sheriff.