The show wasn't quite legal in status in some areas, but they certainly had never done anything to invite prosecution. From town to town, and sheriff to sheriff, the terms of the ordinances varied, but even in the few places where the show was judged to be unacceptable, the law had always been polite about their dismissal, if not downright friendly. Exactly what had they done to anger this man so?
As Zack and Oda began to collect their props, Mariah approached the marshal, hands on hips.
"There's no call for you to talk to any of us that way, Marshal Slater. We're just good honest folks doing our best to make a living."
"Honest, you say?" Taking her by surprise, Morgan caught her chin in the web between his thumb and forefinger, and then turned her head from side to side, examining her. "What kind of honest Indian do we really have here beneath all the phony ceremonial baubles? Surely not a Kickapoo. How about a Comanche? Or should I have said... Apache?"
Her reaction was delayed by sheer astonishment, and the fact that the marshal seemed to know that something wasn't quite right about her. When Mariah finally took a swing at him, the lawman easily ducked the blow and stepped aside.
He laughed, and then issued an ultimatum. "You have exactly one second to get your crooked fanny aboard that wagon, princess, or I'll confiscate this entire operation just as it sits and drive it off a cliff." His gaze shot over to Zack and Oda. "And I'll give you folks five seconds more than that to pack up, or that's precisely what I'll do." Then he turned on his heel and whistled for Amigo.
Stunned by the anger she'd seen in the marshal's green eyes, the sheer force of his malevolence, Mariah brought her hand to her chin. Worried the lawman may have left finger marks in the cinnamon-colored greasepaint she used to make her fair skin darker and redder, she smoothed the makeup and then walked backwards toward the wagon, muttering to herself under her breath. When she reached her parents, she turned to them wide-eyed, and whispered, "What a rotten... bastard. What a dirty, rotten bastard."
Within the allotted time, Doc Zachariah's Kickapoo Medicine Show was packed and rolling down Main Street, dragging the supply wagon behind it. The pair of sturdy mules, used to the double load, moved along at a steady, if unspectacular clip, leaving Marshal Slater and his best friend to bring up the rear in uncharacteristically poky fashion.
They traveled for nearly three hours under increasingly overcast skies, and although it was early afternoon, the temperature began to drop to almost winter-like conditions. The folks riding on the front seat of the wagon didn't seem to notice the sudden chill, but Morgan tugged his hat lower on his forehead and buttoned the collar of his dark blue shirt. Cold and weary of the snail's pace set by the wagon, he decided that since he'd put some ten miles between Bucksnort and the medicine show and guided the troublemakers into an unpopulated area, it was time for a parting of the ways.
Morgan galloped up alongside the lead wagon and glanced over at the occupants. The man was driving the mules, with his wife silently puffing away on her stogie beside him, but there was no sign of the "Indian princess." In fact, now that he thought of it, he realized he had seen neither hide nor hair of her since she'd stormed into the wagon back in Bucksnort and slammed the door in his face. Nor did he care. All he really cared about was putting this particular medicine show and its quacks out of business. That and wiping the Doolittle Gang off the face of the earth.
He instructed the man to pull up the mules and then prepared to take his leave. That would have been the end of it, but as the medicine wagon skidded to a halt, the supply cart slid down off the edge of the muddy embankment, burying the wheels up to the axles.
Morgan sighed heavily, knowing his progress would be delayed even further. No matter how little he thought of the troupe, or how much further ahead of him the Doolittle Gang might get, he just couldn't ride off leaving a crippled old man and two women stuck in the mud.
"You've buried your supply wagon, old man," he said, his anger over the delay reflected in his tone. "Set your brake and get back there. We'll be shoveling mud at least until nightfall working it free." He pointed up at the sky, where thunderheads were quickly collecting. "And if I don't miss my guess, we'll be digging under a lot nastier conditions than these before the hour is out."
As he started to dismount, a small dog popped through the privacy beads at the mouth of the medicine wagon and joined the doctor and his wife on the bench seat. When the dog began barking, Morgan's horse widened his eyes and then shied away from the rig, nearly unseating his rider before Morgan had a chance to get his foot out of the stirrup. Remembering that he'd been unable to persuade Amigo to get over his fear of dogs, even pint-sized little mutts like this one, Morgan reined the gelding up sharply.
"Lock that damn dog up," he snapped at the old man. "We've got work to do."
Then he climbed down off Amigo, grabbed the shovel that was lashed to the side of the wagon, and headed toward the cart. Zachariah joined him moments later, and set to work on the other side of the rig with his bare hands and a sugar scoop he'd removed from the back of the cart. A light mist had begun to fall by the time Morgan felt they'd dug enough to try using the medicine wagon to pull the cart out. Determined to get the task accomplished before a full-blown storm hit, he ordered the old man to the front of the rig to take control of the mules, and then he braced himself against the back of the medicine wagon. He would have to give the wagon a shove, and then move quickly to get out of the way so he wouldn't be hit by the cart. Coiling himself into a push-and-run position, he shouted, "Now, old man. Go."
The rig groaned for a moment as its big wooden wheels clung to the bank, and then it popped free, lurching up the incline with a surprising burst of acceleration. As Morgan was about to leap to the side, his boot slipped on the recently dampened mud and he went down on his knees. Before he could regain his footing, the rig slammed against the back of his head. In the next second, he felt as if a great wall of ice was surrounding his skull. And then he felt nothing.
* * *
When the marshal's big white hat came blowing down the road, tumbling end over end until it was out of sight, and he wasn't running along behind it, Zack figured something had gone awry. As he started for the back of the wagon, he spotted the lawman lying near the side of the road. He was sprawled out on his belly, arms spread, one leg bent at the knee and tucked beneath the other, looking like he'd been flung out with the bathwater. His head was turned to the side, his mouth was open, and his tongue listed at the edge of his bottom lip, ready to fall out at any moment.
Getting down to ground level with his thigh-high wooden leg was always a difficult task for Zack, and he knew that he was the least medically inclined of the three Pennys. So Zack turned to the back of the medicine wagon and knocked on the door. "Mariah. Come on out here. The marshal's had an accident."
Inside the wagon, Mariah was brushing the plaits from her jet-black hair until it hung like a curtain of the finest crushed velvet. She'd changed into a shrimp-pink cotton blouse and a dark brown jacket with matching skirt. The reason she'd stayed inside the wagon and out of sight during their forced departure from Bucksnort was the other change she'd made in her appearance. She'd taken a wad of cotton soaked in mineral oil and smoothed it over the exposed parts of her skin, removing all traces of the greasepaint which made her look more like a Kickapoo Indian. Now that her true, peachy complexion had been exposed, there was no telling what the arrogant marshal would do to her, no matter how effective or authentic her medicines might be. He might even jail her.
"Mariah, baby," Zack called again. "This poor fool is out for the count, and looks to be hurt pretty bad. Get on out here."
She opened the door a crack. "I'm out of costume. What if he sees me like this?"
"I wouldn't worry too much about that, girl. This fellah looks like he's close to dead. Get on out here and see if you can't do something for him."
Her nursing instincts overriding her fear of being found out, Mariah climbed out of the back of the wag
on and knelt down beside the lawman. After flipping him onto his back, she checked his pulse, noting that it was erratic, but strong, and then forced his auburn lashes apart. The whites of his eyes were jittery, and the deep green irises rolled up out of sight. In an effort to bring him around, Mariah slapped the lawman's cheek and said, "Marshal? Are you still in there?"
More than happy to repeat the procedure, she slapped him again, harder yet, but still he didn't respond. Morgan Slater was out about as cold as a man could get, and completely helpless. For one fleeting moment, Mariah wondered why they couldn't just leave him there in the mud. It would serve him right.
Instead, she leaned over the unconscious man and said, "You're not only a bastard, but a lucky one at that." Then she glanced up at her father. "Would you ask Oda to get me the smelling salts and our medical pouch?"
Zack limped off without another word, and as she awaited her father's return, Mariah slipped her hand beneath Slater's head. Feeling an irregular ridge as his scalp met her fingertips, she gently pushed against it. The spot felt a little softer than she thought it should. Concerned, Mariah eased his head back down to the ground, and her fingers came away bloody. She was staring at that hand when her father came hobbling back with her dog, Daisy, bounding along beside him.
Zack dropped the bag on the ground. "How bad is he?"
"I don't know for sure." Mariah reached inside the pouch for a strip of clean white cotton to bind the marshal's wound. "But whatever hit him split his scalp open."
Oda lumbered up beside her husband then, and peered down at the fallen man. "Something split that thick-skulled head? Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellah."
Chuckling to herself, Mariah snapped a small glass vial apart, cradled the marshal's head in the crook of her arm, and waved the salts beneath his nose. He stirred slightly, and she did it again.
The first sensation to reach him was an intense chill. He was colder than he'd ever been in his entire life and could feel the few sparks of heat still left in his body flickering, and then slowly dying, one by one. For some reason, he didn't really care. He was content to drift away on that frigid cloud. But then a new sensation swept over him, something bitter, a bright, hot odor that filled the inside of his head with tacks, and nails, and shards of glass. He shuddered violently, and then slipped back down into the sleepy comfort of his icy cave.
Mariah watched the marshal's eyelids flutter and then grow still. Glancing up at her father, she said, "He's worse than I thought. He's going to need a lot more care than I can give him out here."
Speaking in her usual drowsy manner, Oda made her own observation. "You know how serious a bump on the head can look at first. I bet he'll be up in no time."
Again Mariah parted the marshal's auburn lashes. "I don't think so. Take a look at those eyes."
Both Oda and her husband peered down at the injured man. Zack chuckled at the sight. "He looks just like that big yellow dog of yours did the day he tangled with our mule a few years back. Remember him?"
"You mean Cain?" Mariah thought back to her childhood and her very first pet. She'd been sure that the mule had killed her precious dog, what with his brown eyes rolled back into his head and his tongue hanging out, but Cain had surprised her by leaping to his feet a few minutes after the incident, and running off as if nothing had ever happened. She laughed at the memory. "I guess the marshal does look a little like Cain now that you mention it. Even his tongue's hanging out."
"Not only looks like him," Oda said. "The way this fellah struts around flapping that ornery tongue of his, he and that dog could be twins when it comes to just plain raising Cain."
Chuckling to herself over the recollections of why they'd chosen such a name for the dog, Mariah continued to sweep the salts across the marshal's upper lip as she playfully said, "Come on, Cain the Second. Wake up."
He stirred again, tasting something vile. The horrid, bitter odor had returned. Through the pain inside his head he heard voices, words too vague and fuzzy to understand except for the one: Cain. Cain this and Cain that, he thought he heard them say. That loathsome smell reached his nostrils again, this time permeating his brain and burning the backs of his eyeballs, jolting him to wide-eyed consciousness.
"Take it easy," Mariah said, pinning the marshal's shoulders to the ground. "You've had a little accident."
His blurred gaze darted to the woman, and then beyond her to a pair of vague figures who stood staring down at him. The trio might have been wooden statues for all they meant to him. "What—what happened? Who are you?"
Mariah shot a curious gaze to her father as she spoke to the lawman. "We're the Penny family. Who are you?"
He opened his mouth to speak before he realized he didn't know what to say. It was a ridiculous state to be in—confused, here in body, but not in mind. He knew his name. Of course he knew his name. It was... hell, he didn't know. He sighed, straining to remember, knowing the answers were lying there in the folds of his injured brain, not knowing how to reach them.
He made another effort, and became enraged at his lack of instant success. Any damn fool knew his own name, any damn idiot at all. He tried harder. Everyone knew their name. Everyone. And his was...
Chapter 2
"...Cain?"
Yes, he thought. That had to be it. That was the word he kept hearing over and over as he clawed his way back to consciousness. These folks, whoever they were, had been calling him by name, trying to get him to wake up. Yes, of course, that was it-something that finally made sense. He said the name again, testing it, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. "My name is Cain."
Cain? Mariah thought incredulously. Was it possible the man didn't even know who he was? She bit back a smile. "That's your name all right, Cain. I guess you're not in as bad a shape as we first thought you were."
Zack and Oda exchanged puzzled glances, but kept their silence. As his daughter's amused gaze met his, Zack slowly nodded and gestured for her to continue talking with the marshal.
"What else do you remember?" she asked, expecting little as she saw the utter confusion in his eyes. "What about a last name? Do you know what that is?"
Of course he knew what a last name was, he thought. Did she think that he'd completely lost his mind? He knew a lot of things. For starters, he was lying alongside the road, one that looked familiar. He'd traveled this trail several times before, he was sure of it. Looking up at the sky to study the shapes and colors of the clouds, he could also claim knowledge of exactly when to expect the next downpour—soon.
What he didn't know was his own height, weight, or the color of his eyes. He saw that the woman peering down at him had violet eyes and black hair, and for all he knew, so did he. He glanced at his boots, knowing without question that his toes were pointing due south. Yes, he knew plenty. But he had no earthly idea what the full name of the man inside those damn boots could be.
"Cain," he said in a defeated whisper. "My name is Cain."
Mariah sat back on her heels, her expression now more than simply amused, and then looked at both her mother and father, giving them a quick wink. If a man ever deserved to be brought down a peg or two, it was this one. Besides that, he had cost them at least a hundred dollars by running the medicine show out of Bucksnort before it had even begun. He owed them that much in labor, if nothing else. And Zack could use some rest. As long as Slater's memory was faulty—and there was no way of telling how long that might be—he would be whoever they told him he was and do whatever they said... including, serving as a guinea pig for Mariah to test her new nostrums.
As she contemplated the perfect name for the lawman to go along with her perfect plans for him, a glint of gold at the edge of his vest caught Mariah's eye. When she recognized the object poking out from beneath the rawhide as his U.S. marshal's badge, her grin widened. Perfect. Not only had she found him a name, but another way to test his memory as well.
Biting her lip to keep from snickering, Mariah said, "Your name is... Law. Cain Law."
Law? He rolled the surname around in his mind, seeking a comfortable slot, a ring of truth. Law. It felt right and sounded right, too. It fit him as well as his broke-in boots.
Gripped with a kind of savage joy, sure that his complete memory would return now, Cain bolted upright, forgetting about the low, throbbing ache at the back of his head. Lightning flashes went off inside his skull, scalding his brain with their brilliant light. His body went rigid, and he collapsed against the rain-soaked roadway. And then, once again, nothing. Merciful, cold, nothing.
* * *
The rain started up again, this time in earnest. Oda and Zack fashioned a litter out of a canvas flap from the tent they lived in while on the road, and then Mariah helped them carry the marshal to the medicine wagon. Several aborted attempts and strained muscles later, they finally managed to heft the lawman's 200-odd pounds into the rig. Once inside, they unceremoniously dumped him on Mariah's bed. Then they went up the road a short distance, searching for a place to stay for the next day or two.
Before long, Oda spotted a wide flat spot not far off the trail, and they decided to set up camp there. As he did during inclement weather or whenever he feared the family's safety might be at risk, Zack butted the rear opening of the tent against the back of the wagon, creating a two-room home where privacy was maintained, but help was within shouting distance. Tonight Mariah would sleep in the tent with her father and mother instead of in her bed in the medicine wagon. If the lawman should awaken or need further assistance, at least one of the Pennys would hear him.
The A-shaped tent was large enough to contain at least a dozen adults comfortably, and in fact, had been used on occasion to house the medicine show during surprise snowstorms and downpours. A little sheepherder's stove, its cylindrical black chimney stack sprouting through an opening at the side of the tent, served as both fireplace and grill. Amid intermittent raindrops splattering against the cloth roof above her, Daisy trotted up beside the stove, plopped her muddy body down on the canvas floor, and then stretched out to warm herself.
Tin-Stars and Troublemakers Box Set (Four Complete Historical Western Romance Novels in One) Page 71