Prairie Fire, Kansas

by John Shirley

Seth glanced around and saw no one else close by.

  The man in the lavender bowler came closer, reined in about thirty feet away—and Seth saw him draw a six-shooter.

  Seth jumped up, half rolled into the back, and grabbed the ax.

  “Seth Coe!” the man called out hoarsely. “What you got there, an ax? How’s that going to help you? I’ll tell you what you do. You throw your money belt down over here, and I’ll let you go without a scratch!”

  The chances of Hannibal Fisher letting him go seemed slim to none. Fisher wasn’t going to let Seth go to raise an alarm.

  “I don’t use a money belt!” Seth called. That was the truth. “What money I have is put away somewhere!”

  “Then take me to it!”

  “And then you’ll shoot me dead, Fisher! I’ve seen the posters—you’ve got nothing to lose! You can come over here and take your chances with my ax!”

  Fisher raised the gun, took aim—

  “Hannibal Fisher!” the other horseman called, riding out of the smoke. “Drop your weapon!”

  Seth did not recognize the man, but he felt his heart leap when he saw the badge on the rider’s vest.

  This is what Franklin would call a lucky draw, Seth thought.

  Fisher lowered the gun to his right side, turned his horse about to his left, shouting, “I’m dropping the gun, Sheriff!”

  “He’s still got the gun!” Seth shouted, but as he was saying it, Fisher was firing.

  The gambler fired twice, and the lawman jerked back with the impact of a round, his horse shying as the other bullet struck the saddle’s cantle. Gray gun smoke added itself to the black smoke of the prairie fire.

  Seth stood and threw the ax; it spun through the air past Fisher, missing—but distracting him so he turned to level his weapon at Seth.

  Fisher’s bullet cracked over Seth’s head as he threw himself flat in the back of the wagon. Another shot boomed then, sounding like a heavier pistol. Must have been the lawman firing at Fisher. Seth lifted up enough to see Fisher spur his horse hard, galloping away into the smoke.

  The lawman’s horse trotted nervously nearer, tossing its head, and Seth jumped down, taking it by the bridle.

  “You’re hit!” Seth said, seeing the lawman half slumped in the saddle, clutching his middle. “Let me help you onto the wagon. I’ll take you in to a doc!”

  The lawman, early middle age, lean, and grim faced, winced with pain as he swung from the saddle. His knees buckled when he planted his boots, and Seth caught him around the waist, then helped him to the wagon. Groaning, the lawman climbed in and lay down among the shattered barrels.

  Seth tied the lawman’s horse to the wagon, jumped up to the seat, and quirted Goliath, starting off as quick as the big horse would go.

  Heading into Prairie Fire.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Only now, with the wounded lawman lying on the padded table, did Seth ponder the peculiar coincidence of the doctor’s name he’d noticed on the signboard outside the little house. The surname was Twilley, same as the judge’s. Looking at the young physician, he decided the two must be closely related. The face was almost the same, except young Doctor Twilley was clean-shaven, and they seemed much the same age.

  The doc had administered laudanum, and now as he cut away the lawman’s shirt so he could get at the bullet, he asked, “Sheriff from Newton, I take it, sir.”

  Eyes closed, the lawman spoke for the first time. “Dawson. Name’s Dawson . . . Had a good shot at the son of a—” Here he stopped and emitted a groan of pain as the doctor poured spirits on the wound. “But the other fella was right there past him. . . . Coulda killed that man and . . . I took too long to try to . . .”

  “Sorry you got hit, looking out for me, Sheriff,” said Seth.

  “Did I . . . did I get him?”

  “Maybe you grazed him. He rode off east. Probably headed for the state line.”

  “Him and Diamond, they . . .”

  “Sheriff,” the doctor interrupted sternly, “you take this leather bit in your mouth here and bite down. This is going to hurt past what laudanum can help.”

  He placed the leather strap between Dawson’s teeth, and the lawman bit down. Dawson cursed unintelligibly as the doctor cut into him, opening the wound just a little to make room for the forceps.

  “Hold him down there, cowboy,” the doctor said. “He’s bleeding badly, and I need to get this damn thing out and close the wound quick as ever I can.”

  Seth stepped in close behind Dawson’s head and got a good grip on his shoulders. The sheriff’s back arched—though Seth sensed he was doing his best to keep still—as the doctor probed the wound, found the bullet, and worked it out, talking all the while.

  “Judging by the bubbles here, it’s nicked your left lung, Dawson, cut a pulmonary vein, and generally wreaked havoc. You’re going to have to take it easy. You move around too soon, you could collapse your lung, maybe get blood up your bronchial tubes. But if you don’t start chasing badmen right away, and if we can keep it from going septic, why, I believe you’ll do all right.”

  Doc Twilley worked swiftly, cleaning and closing the wound. When the worst of it was over, Dawson turned his head and spat out the leather strap. The sheriff was gasping, but he’d relaxed some, and Seth let him go.

  He put a hand on Dawson’s arm. “Sheriff, my name’s Seth Coe. I’m obliged to you. Way I see it, you took a bullet for me. If you hadn’t been there, he’d have killed me sure. I had nothing with me but an ax.”

  “You . . . just get the Town Marshal. Let him know what’s happened. Tell him Fisher’s close by.” Dawson looked at Doc Twilley, who was now cleaning his instruments. “Doc, how about some more of those hops?”

  “Being as you’ve got a hole in a lung, I daren’t give you another dose of laudanum so soon, Sheriff. Later on, maybe. But how’s about some whiskey? I’ve got some Overholt in the cabinet there. Coe, you can get it for us. Three glasses if you want some.”

  “Not much of a whiskey drinker,” Coe said, fetching the bottle and glasses. “But it’s been a hell of a day. I believe I’ll have me one. Say, Doc—you related to Judge Twilley?”

  “Yep! He told me all about your case! Fact is, he’s my twin brother. One to the law, one to medicine. That’s what my father asked for as he was dying, and we could not say no. Father was a judge himself, and his father a physician.”

  Seth lifted Dawson up enough so that he could take a double whiskey down.

  Dawson lay back with a sigh. “That’s a little better now.”

  Seth poured himself a drink, clinked his glass with Doc Twilley, and the two of them drank.

  “Say, I’ve got some burns, Doc,” Seth said. They were feeling raw.

  Twilley nodded. “Take off your shirt. I had two burn cases earlier, but neither too bad. We got lucky—well, that and some good men managed to turn the fire.”

  “One good woman, at least, was part of that,” Seth said, taking off his shirt. “Josette Dubois. She drove a water wagon right up to the fire.”

  “Did she? She’s a spunky one, always has been. Was I not engaged to be married, I would court her myself.” He cleaned Seth’s burns and bandaged them. “Not bad, not bad . . . Keep ’em clean is all . . .”

  Seth put his shirt back on, drank the last of his whiskey, and asked, “Will you keep the sheriff here a while?”

  “I’ve got straps on this examining table, and he’ll spend the night there. Tomorrow I’ll ease him onto the bed in my extra room. He can stay right here long as he needs it. Can’t have a valuable lawman dying from neglect.”

  “I’ve got to vamoose,” said Seth. “I’ll have a word with the marshal and see if I can find my horse. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  Marshal Coggins arranged a horse for Seth at the livery and gave him a shotgun.
<
br />   Seth climbed up on his tall sorrel gelding, the marshal was already aboard his paint stock horse, and the two of them went in search of both Fisher and Mazie. Seth had offered to help with the one in return for help finding the other.

  They stopped at the Hamer farm, partly so Seth could tell Sol that Goliath was safe and sound, resting at the livery. Seth was disappointed to find that his own horse wasn’t on the farm, but glad that Sol and Daisy were well and the farm untouched.

  Standing by their horses beside the farmhouse’s porch, Seth and Slim Coggins each drank a cup of coffee and ate a couple of molasses biscuits. Daisy offered them pie, but Coggins said, “Nothing I’d like better, but we’d better head out, ma’am.”

  “Seth,” said Sol, “I thank you for what you did today. You done more than your job.”

  “Proud to help,” said Seth, handing the coffee cup back to Daisy.

  Coggins nodded. “I seen him taking on that fire. He got burned some, too.”

  “Not much of a much,” said Seth.

  “And he and that Josette Dubois—I was arguing with folks about what to do about the fire breaking through, but Seth here and Josette, by God, they just did the job while we were braying like jackasses!”

  Sol and Daisy laughed at that. “Josette’s a brave girl!” Daisy said.

  “You were out there, too, Daisy,” Sol pointed out, “warning folks, bringing water. . . .”

  “You haven’t seen a man riding hereabouts?” Seth asked. “Fella wearing a kinda purple-like bowler hat? Face like an undertaker?”

  Sol shook his head. “No one like that. Lot of confusion out there today. Folks riding back and forth.”

  “I ran into him a little while ago—he’s wounded a lawman from Newton.”

  Daisy’s eyes widened. “He did this here?”

  “You see him, best to let someone know. He’s a wanted man.”

  “Let’s see if we can pick up his trail, Seth,” said Coggins, handing the cup to Sol. “I thank you, folks.”

  Seth and the marshal remounted. It took almost an hour, with the ground all blackened from falling ashes and marked by a good many horses, but they cut Fisher’s trail. It seemed to circle back, as if Fisher had returned to the scene of the confrontation and then headed east. They lost it at Black Creek just as the sun was setting.

  “I’ll try to pick him up tomorrow,” said Coggins. “Likely gone south for the state line, howsoever. Maybe he’ll take the long ride to Mexico. I’ll send a message to Newton, let them know we’ve had a run-in with Fisher.”

  Seth heard a whinny and looked across the creek to see Mazie, still dragging those ropes, trotting up to look at him. The mare shook her head and whinnied again.

  “She doesn’t look too much the worse for wear,” said Coggins.

  Seth waded the gelding across the creek and caught up Mazie’s reins. “You’re a durned good horse, Mazie girl. I knew you wouldn’t run far off. Let’s get you to the barn. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  Just four miles north of the place Seth had found Mazie, Fisher was standing by the creek, drinking corn liquor with Curt Diamond. “I believe I killed Dawson,” said Fisher, speaking to Diamond in a low voice. He took a sip from his tin cup and shuddered. The two men were standing alone, the others playing poker by campfire light. It was a dark night, still smelling of the wildfire smoke. “We might not want to mention that to the others. They might think it’s too hot around here. But I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Glad to see Dawson go down. You sure?”

  “Got him square in the chest. He grazed my hip with a shot, and my horse decided to take the better part of valor—but thinking about it, I decided he was killed. I went back to see if I could find his body—and Seth Coe. But they were gone. I expect Coe carried the body off.”

  “Coe saw the shooting. He knows who you are! Come to think of it, Hannibal, it seems to me it’s too hot around here. And I don’t mean that damn prairie fire!”

  “You and me, we’re already wanted men. Coe mentioned a wanted poster.”

  “Hell, I knew there’d be posters on us. I was thinking we should’ve knocked that old fool out instead of killing him.”

  “And risk him coming to and setting up a howl before we were clear of town? We had to do it dirty and fast. What use is looking back, anyhow? We got to look ahead! We need money to get us to Mexico—and to set us up there, Curt!”

  Diamond finished his drink and looked wistfully into the empty cup. “’Bout at the end of our whiskey.”

  “I’ll have Sweeney get us something to drink when he goes to town. No one’s looking for him. He’ll find out if there’s a posse forming in Prairie Fire.”

  “You’re shooting lawmen not but a few miles from where we stand—”

  “Damn it,” Fisher growled, not much above a whisper, “keep your voice down.”

  He glanced at the others and saw Bettiger toss down his cards in disgust. Briggs guffawed and scooped in a handful of silver. Seemed like they hadn’t heard what Diamond had said. Fisher didn’t want them to know what had happened.

  “Well, what we going to do?” Diamond whispered. “Coe is bound to raise the alarm. There’s a Town Marshal in Prairie Fire.”

  Fisher shrugged. “I’m going to ride out tonight. I’ve got a plan to make the law think I’ve ridden south—but I’ll double back up the creek here. Then we’ll move off to the east a piece. There’s always Buffalo Junction.”

  “Buffalo Junction?” Diamond mused. “I don’t think anyone there’s gunning for me. Not as I recollect. But won’t the Town Marshal look for us there? That’s a regular robbers’ roost.”

  “Won’t look for us there if they’re looking elsewhere. And no one goes there who doesn’t have to. We’ll wait till things cool some so they’re not looking for me. Then we’ll come back here and take that bank. Seth Coe has my money, and that bank has a lot more. You tell the men I’m just scouting the countryside for the best trail after the bank business. The time comes, we’ll send Sweeney in to see what he can find out.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Weary to the bone after plowing, fighting fires, and tracking outlaws, Seth was in the barn with Sol Hamer, the two of them working by lantern light, Sol holding Mazie still and petting her as Seth applied salve to her burns.

  “You boys come in and have some supper,” said Daisy, coming to the barn door, where the two men were working over Mazie.

  “We’ll be in quick as an owl diving for a mouse,” Seth said. “I’ve got a powerful hunger.”

  “You shall have the season’s first sweet corn, taters, pork chops, and cherry pie. Will that do you for a start?”

  Seth grinned. “It’ll do me fine, ma’am.”

  Daisy said, “Sol? You coming?”

  “We’re coming, Daisy.”

  “How’s the mare?”

  “I think she’ll do,” Seth muttered, looking Mazie over again.

  “She’s got some blisters,” Sol said, peering at Mazie’s belly and legs, “and some raw skin. You can’t ride her for maybe a week. But I calculate she’ll mend.”

  “She can use the rest. I’ll have to hire that gelding out.”

  Sol patted the horse. “Friend of mine, Bone Hawking, lost his barn to the fire, off northwest. I’m going tomorrow to help him start a new barn, maybe give a hand with his stock. Soon’s I get Goliath back.” He glanced at Seth, waiting expectantly.

  Seth didn’t disappoint him. “I’ll help with the barn raising gladly, Sol.”

  Maybe, he thought, Josette would be there.

  He wished he could talk things over with Franklin. Where was Franklin now?

  “Sol!”

  “Coming, Daisy!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Franklin was strid
ing through the busy little town of Seaver, Texas, just south of the Oklahoma border. It was jumping in Seaver that warm evening; a good many cowboys were in town looking for fun. The stores were open late, the three saloons were hopping, and a couple of girls waved silk kerchiefs out the upstairs windows of Loopy Lou’s Libations and Entertainments.

  But Franklin was thinking he’d stayed over in this town too long. He hadn’t planned to stay but a night, only he’d gotten sweet on a bar girl. Carla was her name.

  I’m worse than that durn fool Seth, mooning over girls, he thought. He decided he needed to get back on the trail to Chaseman.

  He was passing the sheriff’s office when under the oil lamp hanging over the announcement board, he saw something that startled him.

  ~WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE~

  $1500. REWARD

  Hannibal Fisher

  He read the remainder of the poster and whistled to himself. “Ain’t that the bunco steerer in Abilene? And Seth took the shirt right off that man’s back!”

  “Did I hear you say you’re taking off a shirt, Franklin?” said a familiar feminine voice behind him. “Bueno! It’s about time you put on some clean clothes!”

  Franklin turned to her, pretending annoyance. “No, that’s not what I said, Carla, and no, I don’t need clean clothes—these here are clean. More or less.”

  She laughed. Carla was a Mexican girl with long black hair. She was plump, voluptuous in a Mexican blouse loosely gathered at the top and a long floral skirt with a slit up one side to her hip. She was very short compared to Franklin, but she looked up at him bold as brass. “Well, are you going to buy me a drink, or ain’t you?”

  “I will at that.” He looked once more at the poster. “That killer there—you ever see him?”

  “No. Oh! He has such a cold, hard face!”

  “I saw it just that cold and hard when he told Seth he’d see him again. Didn’t like getting kicked out of Abilene when Seth showed him up to be a cheat!”

  “Seth—your pal you talk of so much?”