by John Shirley
She gave that peculiar shrug of hers that he loved so much. “I had a gun with me! I wanted to help you!”
He squeezed her hand. “Well, you did. You hadn’t’ve fired that gun, kept him busy, he might’ve got me!”
She gave him a wan smile. “Seth—I’m hoping for some peace after this. I hear so many stories about Texas now. That after the war it changed and turned all wild and woolly.”
“Texas?” Seth looked at Franklin, pretending bafflement. “Wild and woolly? What’s she mean?”
Franklin shook his head. “Can’t imagine. Why, you lived in Chaseman, girl! It’s peaceful as a Sunday school picnic!”
Josette laughed. “I don’t care what it’s like. I want to be wherever Seth is.”
* * *
* * *
Five days passed. Cool weather for the time of year, even a little rain—a relief to Prairie Fire, Kansas.
The day before the wedding, Seth and Josette came into the marshal’s office. The window was boarded over, so there was a lantern lit over his desk. The marshal looked up, smiling as they walked in. “Morning, folks!”
He came around the desk and shook Seth’s hand. “I’m looking forward to that wedding! My wife is making me wear my Sunday suit. Kinda tight around the neck.”
“I think you will survive the ordeal, Slim Coggins,” Josette said.
He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned and took a slip of paper from the desk and handed it to Seth. “That’s for you.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a bank draft! From the city of Newton!”
“It’s . . . Josette! This is fifteen hundred dollars!”
“Wanted dead or alive means just what it says,” Slim said. “You killed him, you get the reward.”
Seth hesitated. Money for killing . . .
“Oh, Seth!” Josette exclaimed. She took the bank draft from him, folded it, and put it in her purse. “This will make building the house so much easier!”
Seth had to laugh. “All right, then. Thanks, Slim.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Dawson. He requested it for you.”
“How’s he doing?”
Slim shrugged. “Maybe Dawson shouldn’t have come hobbling down the street with that big dragoon in his hand. But he was the last nail in the coffin for that gang. Fisher and those others, they weren’t counting on that!”
“Or on Franklin either!” Seth said.
“Nope. There’s one thing I’m puzzled about.” Slim frowned thoughtfully at the lantern. “That girl. Cindy. She was with them—she sent me on that wild-goose chase. Wonder who she was to them. Fisher’s girl?” He shrugged. “Never could find her again. I wonder where she is now. . . .”
* * *
* * *
It was a breezy noon at Buffalo Junction.
Cindy and Rosie were sitting on the settee in the makeshift saloon, both of them quite sober. Cindy was wearing the riding habit; Rosie was in a nightgown. They were drinking tea from two cracked teacups Cindy had found on a shelf in the pantry.
They were alone in the house but for Attic Bird Henderson, who was, as usual, in the attic. Cindy had just ridden in. She’d been hiding at Sublette Station, afraid to come back and be here with Whistler running the place. But she finally decided to go back to Buffalo Junction.
“You sure they’re all dead? Even Feathers?” Rosie asked.
“I saw it clear. I was no more’n five rods away, watching from behind a hay wagon. They’re dead as doornails. Robbed the bank, had them a passel of money, couldn’t get their butts on their saddles quick enough. Had to get in a fight.”
“Muttonheads!”
Cindy nodded. “Idiots! I’d have gotten out of there with that money.”
“Me, too.” Rosie sipped a little tea. “Whistler thinks they’re still alive. I’ve been having to be quick and careful to keep out of his way.”
“By now he’s figured out they ain’t coming back.”
“You really going to split Feathers’s money with me?”
“I am.”
“And you know where it is?”
“It’s buried in that hole back of the bar, right under the beer. I’ve known it was there for a long while now. I dug it up one time and counted it. There is upward of five thousand in gold. I put it back, and Feathers never guessed. But I kept it in my mind. Now, you can take yours and just go or—”
She broke off as they heard the front door open. There came those distinctive heavy footsteps, creaking in the front hall of the old farmhouse at Buffalo Junction. She knew just who it was. Whistler. And they could hear him whistling “Tom Dooley.” She’d noticed him watching her when she’d ridden back to the house alone an hour ago. She’d been expecting him. Whistler had taken her more than once without paying and without her permission. He thought he was going to do it again.
“Are you ready?” Cindy asked.
“I am.”
Both women took their pistols from their purses. Cindy went to stand behind the bar and hid the gun behind her back. Rosie put hers under her rump in easy reach. She leaned back on the settee and sipped her tea.
Whistler clomped into the saloon and paused just inside the door, looking at Cindy. He was bare chested, and he stank as richly as always so that both women could smell him from across the room.
In his right hand was an ax handle.
“Where’s the boss?” he asked, crossing to the bar.
“He’s dead. So are the others. I hid out for a while. Didn’t want the sheriff to track me.”
“Well, now, seems like this here is my place now. You come out from behind there.”
“No,” she said calmly, “I don’t think I will.”
He swung the ax handle hard, smashing it down on the timbers so that they cracked. Cindy took a step back. “I said, come out from behind there.”
“Whistler,” said Rosie, “leave her alone.”
He turned to see her standing now, the pistol in her hand.
“You going to shoot me with that little thing?”
She smiled. “For starters.” She pointed the gun at his breastbone and fired. He stumbled back against the bar, then snarled, raised the ax handle, and started forward.
Cindy shot him in the back of the head. He froze, wavering in place. Then, as she cocked the gun again, he turned toward her.
She shot him in the forehead.
This time he fell. A big man, she noted, makes a big sound when he hits the floor.
Cindy came around and made sure he was dead. They stared at him for a minute. Then Cindy turned to Rosie. “Let me ask you this—supposing we turned this place into a more regular cathouse? Hired some girls, treated ’em decent. Just cowboys, no men on the dodge. Run it ourselves. What do you think? Would you stick and help me run it?”
“Would I have to . . . ?”
“Nope. Nor me.”
“Then I’m for it!”
There was a creaking coming from above them. “Attic Bird’s stirring,” Rosie said. “He’ll have heard the gunshots.”
“I know.” Cindy could hear him coming down already.
She went to stand in the space back of the first flight of stairs. Attic Bird came down, not seeing her. He was a bald man who shaved his head and his eyebrows and his beard every other day. He was some crazy but harmless to those in the house. He came down once a week to get clean overalls and to empty his thunder mug. He had never done the girls an injury.
Cindy stepped up behind him and pressed the pistol to the back of his head. “Mr. Henderson,” she said, “drop your gun, and we’ll have us a talk.”
Attic Bird stopped in his tracks and dropped his gun. “What’s all this?” he asked, in his creaky, rarely used voice.
“The gents are dead,” Cindy said. “Killed in town. The
boss and all them others. Whistler, too—I had to shoot him right there in the saloon because he was coming after me with an ax handle.”
“I see.”
“Now, me and Rosie are taking over, and we’re going to run this place more genteel-like. If you want to go in with us, you’d have to come down out of the attic more. You’ll get good pay. I’ll give you five hundred in gold right now in fact. If you say no, you can have the five hundred and ride out peaceful. If you stay, we’ll make you a partner.”
“This is my home,” Attic Bird said. “I have been thinking of coming down more, anyhow. Let’s do us the deal. . . .”
* * *
* * *
Seth was surprised by the number of people who came to their little wedding in the city hall. The courtroom was packed to the gills, everyone in their Sunday best. He’d bought a church coat, as he thought of it, just for the occasion, and Josette wore the pretty dress she’d bought to wear in Freeman.
Standing behind the bride and groom was Franklin, who was best man. Sol and Daisy, Slim Coggins and Sheriff Dawson sat in the front row. Dawson was getting his color back, and it was predicted he’d be ready for the saddle in a fortnight. Doc Twilley sat beside Dawson, smiling as he watched his brother officiate.
There was a general cheer when Seth kissed his bride and some hoorahing when they went out to the street. Seth looked around to see if Heywood Kelmer or Francois Dubois was about. But they were not to be seen. Josette had not invited her father to the wedding, and Seth had not seen Dubois but for the occasional glimpse of him riding his mule down to the saloon.
Seth had sent Heywood Kelmer a note, carried by Franklin.
Heywood Kelmer: I have been informed by Judge Twilley that I can testify regarding your association with Hannibal Fisher, but I am not required to do so. If you keep away from town so long as I’m here, I will not feel that I must take such steps against you. If you approach me with violence, I will respond with the same.
Standing on his porch, Heywood had read the note, simply nodded at Franklin, and gone into the house. No one had seen hide nor hair of him in Prairie Fire since.
Josette was expecting to ride in the buckboard back to the Hamer farm, where a general celebration and square dance was planned, but she stopped in her tracks at the sight of a white horse waiting for her at the hitching post in front of the city hall.
“There’s your mount for the ride, Josette,” said Seth, grinning.
“Marie!” she burst out. She ran to the horse her father had sold and hugged her; the horse nuzzled her back and whinnied softly.
“I bought her on the sly a couple days back,” said Seth, walking over to check that the saddle was properly cinched. He was deeply pleased to see how happy the horse made Josette. “Had to pay twice what your pa sold her for, but she’s worth it. Marie’s a fine strong horse. She’ll do for the ride to Chaseman. . . .”
Josette threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
The crowd coming out of the city hall let loose with another cheer.
Seth climbed onto the buckboard, a bit squeezed between Sol and Daisy, Josette mounted Marie, and they set off for the farm. Josette rode with Franklin riding beside her, telling stories of Seth all the while.
“Now, there was one time when he tried to rope the biggest wild bull you ever saw. That ol’ bull dragged him out of the saddle, and like the stubborn fool he is, he would not let go! It towed him right on through a patch of—”
“Franklin, you do not need to tell her that story!” Seth called.
Later that night, Seth and Josette slipped away from the somewhat inebriated guests. Seth borrowed the mule, Josette took Marie, and they rode to town for their wedding night at the inn.
They remained in Prairie Fire for another week, staying at the inn, making preparations, and seeing that Mazie was fully healed.
At last they set out for Texas. Franklin rode a little behind them. He camped just close enough to keep watch at night, and they stopped in towns when they could along the way. It was an arduous trip, and Josette was painfully saddle sore, but at last they arrived in Chaseman. Seth’s chosen bottomland was still there, and he bought it within an hour of their arrival.
They set up tents on the property, and Seth hired workmen to help as he and Franklin began building the farmhouse and the barn—with much oversight from Josette.
She brought them hot food, took care of the new stock, and was often at Seth’s side as he worked, handing him tools, carrying boards, and listening to him sing.
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!
About the Authors
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.
John Shirley was born in Houston and now lives in Vancouver, Washington. He is the author of numerous novels and books of short stories, and won the Bram Stoker Award for his collection Black Butterflies. His novels include the Specialist books (under the name John Cutter), The Brigade, Bleak History, the A Song Called Youth trilogy, and a novel of Wyatt Earp as a young lawman, Wyatt in Wichita. He has also written television, movies, and songs.
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