Prairie Fire, Kansas

by John Shirley

  “Going to be around for supper?” she asked.

  “I’ll be doing a couple hours of target shooting and such with Slim when we get back. If we’re late, why, if you can ask Daisy to put something aside for me . . .”

  She sighed. “Seth—all this shooting! Is that so you can protect me?”

  “Partly,” he admitted.

  “Mère de dieu! Do you expect a fight on the way to Freeman?”

  “No. Not to say expecting. But it’s a long ride. And it’s not just your father and Kelmer to think of. It’s . . . just in case.”

  “Let’s not go to Freeman, then! Let’s try to get married in Prairie Fire!”

  “We talked about this. Your pa would try to stop us. He’d tell the judge lies to do it! At least he’d delay us for a good while. He’s not so like to try his guff on the justice at the county seat.”

  She grimaced. “Yes. I suppose he could stop the marriage in Prairie Fire. How long to get to Freeman?”

  “Riding cross country, most of a day. There’s a stage, but it’s not for three days. We could hire a buggy, but it’d take twice as long to get there. And if there was trouble . . . I wouldn’t want to be in a buggy.”

  “I have no horse, Seth.”

  “I’ll hire one for you.”

  “I have ridden—but never so far. . . .”

  “Best get used to it. It’s a long ride to Texas.” He gave her a close look. “Is Texas too far for you to ride? There’s no stagecoach all the way there.”

  She tugged him to a stop, and he turned to look at her. “Kiss me, Mr. Coe.”

  “Happy to oblige, Miss Dubois.” He kissed her.

  Then she stepped back and said, “I just wanted to be sure.”

  “Of what?”

  “If Texas is too far to ride with you, will you give me more of those on the trip?”

  “As many as you’ll allow,” Seth assured her.

  “Then it’s not too far to ride.”

  Josette smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with merriment, and he kissed her again.

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t far off midnight when Franklin rode into Sublette Station. He was just thirty miles from Prairie Fire, but he was worn out and decided to stop over at the old Sublette relay station. Ned Sublette had built the station in 1861 when there was an east–west stagecoach route that went through here, but the route had been closed down. Only Ned’s widow, “Ma” Sublette, remained, along with two of her sons. They kept something like an inn and stable and a three-sided open-air shed that passed as a saloon. Behind the old relay station was a small cabin. There was a small, overgrown orchard of apples and pears and a long water trough fed by a pump. All water at the relay station, for horse or man, cost a nickel a pint.

  Franklin watered his horse at the trough, and Ma Sublette promptly waddled out of the relay station, listing a little to one side, the sawed-off double-barrel twelve gauge she nearly always had with her in both her hands, aslant her heavy bosom. Franklin had been here a time or two before, and he knew she stayed till midnight, watching for travelers. A squat woman in an ankle-length red dress, she had gray-streaked blond hair tied back in a ponytail, only a few teeth, and beady blue eyes now fixed on Franklin’s horse.

  “How much that horse drunk so fer?” she asked in a voice like a squeaky hinge.

  “Oh, let’s say a quart,” he said.

  “That’ll be twenty cent. And how much you drunk?”

  “Only from my own canteen. But I’ll be buying some of that hard cider of yours, and tomorrow morning I’ll have some bacon and slumgullion, if you have any.” He knew from experience those were the only palatable foodstuffs on offer at Sublette Station.

  “Be closing the saloon at midnight. You’d better get over there. I do have a pot of slumgullion, and we got fresh ham. Slaughtered an old pig two days ago. Had to chase her across the farm. Like to’ve fallen on my own ax. You sleeping here?”

  “If there’s a clean bunk.”

  “Always clean.”

  That was not Franklin’s experience, but he didn’t argue. “Still two bits to stable my horse?”

  “It is. And two dollars for the bunk.”

  “Two!”

  “It’s gone up.” She chortled at that. “Be glad it ain’t three.”

  Franklin growled to himself, paid over the money, shaking his head the while. She kept chortling as he paid her.

  He put up his horse, fed with grain he’d brought from Seaver, and trudged through the thin moonlight to the open-air bar. A single lantern spread a pool of bluish light over the interior of the shed. There were barrels to sit on, and a couple of planks over two more barrels stood in for a bar. There were a couple of dusty men standing together at the other end of the bar, drinking something that brought grimaces with every swallow. He didn’t know them—but then again, he thought he knew their like. One of them, a shifty-looking fellow in a black frock coat, vest, and striped trousers, said, “We ought to go back to Feathers’s place. Fisher’ll be back.”

  “We don’t have to do what he says, Diamond,” the other man said. He was shorter, a tubby man with a mane of red hair. He looked drunk enough, he seemed at risk of falling off his barrel. He scratched in the mass of red chest hair showing from his open shirt and snappishly declared, “We don’t have to follow him like a pack of trained dogs!”

  “Briggs, don’t use my—”

  The man called Diamond glanced around, and Franklin was careful to occupy himself with waving at “Possum” Sublette, the elder of the two boys. “Hard cider!” Franklin told him.

  Mouth agape as always and one eye crossed, Possum brought over a pitcher and a wooden cup. He poured the cider, then stuck out a dirty hand and said, “Two bits.”

  Franklin paid it over, but his mind was on what he’d just heard from the other two at the bar. The man called Diamond had mentioned a Fisher. And he didn’t seem to want his companion to call him Diamond in public. Now where had Franklin heard those two names together? That wanted poster . . .

  Hannibal Fisher . . . For Murder of a Jail Employee . . . May Be in the Company of Escaped Murderer Curt Diamond.

  And he’d heard of “Feathers,” too. Buffalo Junction. Story that went around the campfires was that Buffalo Junction was a hideout for outlaws.

  This man Diamond, who seemed like he was going to meet Hannibal Fisher, was here in Southern Kansas, where Seth was. Could be Fisher was indeed going after Seth up here.

  “We need to go back, Smiley,” Diamond was saying. “We did the scouting. No law dogs on this trail. And he’ll be looking for us. There’s money waiting, and soon.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it counted on a table! Anyhow, I ain’t riding that far east tonight.”

  “Well, let’s get us a bunk. I can’t stomach any more of this belly wash. I’m hitting the hay.”

  “Yeah, the hell with this here swill.”

  Briggs got off the barrel, teetering, catching the bar to keep from falling, and then staggered off toward the old station building, Diamond close behind.

  Franklin waited a minute, then slipped away from the drink shed and made his way to the old relay station. Diamond and Briggs were just now going into the low adobe building. He’d seen no other horses but theirs and those belonging to the Sublettes, and Franklin figured no one else was staying here tonight.

  A lantern flickered alight, visible through the open shutters of a window. Moving in deep shadow, Franklin went as quietly as he could up to the window and stood just to one side. The window had no glass; there were shutters in case of storms, but they were wide open, and he could hear the two men talking.

  “I still think this chasing after some cowboy is foolishness.” The drink-slurred voice sounded like Briggs. “Buster and me both think so.”

  “It will pay of
f,” Diamond said. There was the sound of a boot hitting the floor, then another. “You wait and see, Smiley. We’ll track down this Coe, likely tomorrow, or the next day. Maybe use him to lure that marshal off where we can dry-gulch him. Take care of them both at once.”

  Holy hell, Franklin thought. Got to leave here tonight and warn Seth.

  He heard boot steps behind him and turned to see the other Sublette boy, Sam, coming at him. The tall, gangly, bearded young man had a dragoon pistol in one hand and a lantern in the other. “Sneak thief! Ma, get out here! I caught the thief!”

  “What have you been drinking, you damn fool?” Franklin said. Angry at being snuck up on and braced, Franklin slapped the gun muzzle aside; closing his hand over the gun barrel, he snatched it loose and used the butt to crack Sam a good one on the jaw so that he fell over backward with a hoarse yell.

  “What do you mean by coming on a man like that?” Franklin demanded, taking the gun into his right hand and pointing it at Sam.

  Groaning, Sam sat up and howled, “Ma! Possum!”

  There was a shuffling sound behind him, and Franklin turned around in time to see Ma Sublette jab her sawed-off shotgun at him. She was only three paces distant.

  “Drop the gun and throw up your hands, or I’ll cut you in half!” she hissed.

  Franklin dropped the pistol. “He came at me with that old dragoon, and I got no idea why!”

  “You surely know why—he caught you! We were wondering which one of you cowboys was sneaking around, stealin’ folks’ goods out of here! People been missing things! And my boy there caught you fixing to steal!”

  “Now, how would anyone steal anything from outside the building here?”

  “He was looking in the winder, Ma!” Sam called.

  “I was just gettin’ a breath of air!” Franklin insisted. “I am no thief!”

  “Liar!” said Sam, getting up.

  “Sam, get that gun!” she yelled, her shotgun’s muzzle not wavering.

  Sam picked up the gun and jabbed the muzzle in Franklin’s back. “He hit me, Ma! I’m hankering to kill him!”

  “We will keep him for the sheriff over in Short Tracks! I’ll send Possum to get him!”

  “That’ll take a couple days, Ma. We ought to—”

  “Shut your stinky mouth, boy! Take him to the smokehouse! We’ll tie him up there! I’ll get the padlock!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Monday morning, Seth woke at dawn, hearing the rooster crow. He’d always liked the sound of a rooster in the morning. He stretched out in the hay, yawning, then sat up, thinking that his new home with Josette would include some chickens and a rooster to call him to work.

  Right now he had to spruce up for his wedding day. Daisy had washed his clothes for him the night before, and she’d left them to dry on a line in the barn.

  Wearing only an old pair of Sol’s overalls, he went to the pump outside the barn and washed in the faint gray of earliest morning, using the cake of soap left there for the purpose, and rinsed off. He dried himself on a linen cloth and went to the clothesline, bringing along a bucket of water for shaving. His clothes were still a touch damp, but he didn’t mind. They’d dry enough later. It would be hot today.

  He returned to the barn, put on a clean shirt and the only pants he had without holes. Then he dug his straight razor from his saddlebags, lit the lantern, and set to shaving, using an old piece of mirror glass Sol had given him. And all the time he was wondering if he had figured things right, if they were right to take this trip to Freeman today. Josette had as much as told her pa their plans. That worried him some.

  There were lights in the house now. Daisy was up making coffee, and like as not, Josette was at the kitchen pump, washing her hair and getting ready herself. Soon they’d live in the same house, and he’d see her washing her hair, getting dressed in the morning. It would be another kind of life.

  Seth mounted the gelding, rode into town, and woke the grumpy stableman to hire out a horse for Josette: a roan riding pony. He had to pay an extra dollar for the interruption in the stableman’s sleep.

  He returned to the farm, leading the pony, and had a quick cup of coffee, eggs, biscuits, and bacon with the Hamers and Josette—who ate very little. She seemed excited, worried, and a little stunned.

  “Well, Josette, shall we go?” he asked when breakfast was cleared away.

  Daisy and Josette shared a glance of amazement.

  “Seth Coe,” Daisy protested, “the girl’s got one frock and the dress I loaned her, which don’t fit, anyhow. She’s got to have something suitable to get married in!”

  “Ha!” Sol said, grinning. “Now you’re gettin’ a foretaste of marriage, Seth!”

  “A wedding dress?” Seth scratched his head. “Why, that requires sending away for, don’t it?” he asked.

  “It need not to be out of a catalogue,” Josette said hurriedly. “Just something that doesn’t make me look like a scarecrow! Mary’s shop has a pretty dress, yellow with pink trimming, that I think would fit me. Oh, I know I should have gotten one before, but I was afraid to run into Papa. He drinks a good deal on Sunday night, and his practice is to open late on Monday. I will need two other dresses, too. I can get it all done before he gets to town! I do have to stop in at the apothecary and . . .”

  Seth sighed. He had planned an early-morning departure for Freeman, but it was not to be. He reached into his pocket. “How much do you need for that dress, darlin’?”

  It was two-and-a-half hours more before they were on their way to the county seat, Josette riding the hired roan pony, Seth the gelding. It was already hot as they cantered along the northwest road. The prairie still showed the signs of the wildfire, with great swatches of blackness. Occasionally they saw the remains of a ranch house or cabin, mostly just the blackened chimneys remaining, sticking up like tombstones. They passed the burned bones of several cattle and a charred antelope and many a leafless blackened tree. The slight breeze fluttered the cinders, sometimes sending black dust across the road so that at times they had to cover their mouths.

  “Such a melancholy sight,” Josette said, gazing sadly out over the blackened plains.

  “But look there!” Seth pointed out new plants already poking through the ash. “It’s known that after a fire, the grass, the flowers, the trees—they all come back greener and fuller than before!”

  Josette smiled, reached over, and squeezed his hand.

  Three hours more in the saddle and then they stopped for rest and water at a little stream wending crookedly across the plains. Josette was already saddle sore.

  The fire had jumped the narrow stream, but the green of the water plants was a refreshment to the eye. Walking his horse to the water, Seth discovered himself to be in rising spirits and absently sang a snatch of a song he’d offered up at many a cattle drive campfire:

  Well, I’m a fiddle-footed cowboy, and I always will be.

  I’m a fiddle-footed cowboy, that’s the life for me. . . .

  Josette chuckled. “What is that song! Sing some more!”

  “It’s not all of it quite fit for a lady.”

  “Well, sing the part that is!” she insisted, sitting cross-legged by the stream.

  Refilling his canteen, Seth sang,

  Well, I’m a fiddle-footed cowboy with raggedy drawers.

  Don’t make much money and I might die poor.

  Just a fiddle-footed cowboy with broken spurs

  Till a gal loves me’n makes me hers!

  Josette laughed with delight and said, “Raggedy drawers! We’ll soon fix that! And I shall make you mine this very day, you poor cowboy!”

  But Seth was starting to worry they wouldn’t get to Freeman on time to be wedded this day.

  Once more on their way, he gently asked, “That horse of yours—did you take it on any long rides?”
>
  “Oh, surely I did—sometimes an hour.”

  “An hour! You’re not much used to long rides, then. Feeling sore?”

  She shrugged. “But of course. My legs ache, my . . . my backside—is not happy. But the rest of me is happy, Seth.”

  “Riding all day is something that takes getting used to. And this here’s nothing compared to the ride to Chaseman. We can take our time heading there, but even so . . .” He shook his head.

  “You will see! I am tougher than I look.”

  He winked at her. “That I never doubted.”

  In early afternoon they had passed the burned region and were back among knee-high grass of yellow and green and prairie flowers of scarlet and blue. Reaching a small pond lined with rushes, they stopped for a bite of the food Daisy had packed for them. Seth reckoned they were not even halfway to Freeman. Had it been he and Franklin setting out early and riding at a good clip, they’d have been two-thirds of the way there. But then, he reflected, a man had to learn to accommodate himself to his bride, as she would accommodate herself to him.

  On they went, passing through a couple of small settlements with a good deal of cultivated land round about. Josette, doubtless thinking about the new home they planned in Texas, appraised the local farmhouses. “Now, that one there looks to have started small, Seth, and then they added onto it.”

  “That’s often the way of it, and if one builds sturdy, you can stack a second floor on or extend it out to the side.”

  She lapsed into a reverie, doubtless thinking of how she would like her house to be, and Seth looked at the cattle and sheep, the orchards and fields, imagining them on the ranch he and Josette would create together.

  There was yet a considerable stretch of wilderness to cross, and by the time they reached it—a marshy, shallow valley divided up by converging creeks—the sun was well past zenith. Their route took them up the middle of the long valley.

  “Do you think we’ll get there on time, Seth?” Josette asked, rubbing her backside with one hand as they stood by a creek, enjoying the shade of the willows.