by Mark Henry
“Not this year, sir.” Doc Bruner herded his three patients out the door. “You’ll be fine. We just need to watch you a while.” He looked over his shoulder as they crowded out the narrow door. “We’ll take special care of the postmaster of Dillon, Montana.”
* * *
“So this is your son,” Hanna Cobb said when they were all seated in the dining car again and Blake had a hot coffee in front of him to warm his shivering bones. Trap hadn’t had time to notice it before, but the boy was drawn and trail-worn. His clothes were damp from a hard ride and he was soaked to the skin. Dark circles hung under weary eyes.
He downed his steaming coffee like it was water.
Hanna filled his cup again with a porcelain pitcher at the table. “Your father and mother have been telling me so much about their youth—the Scout Trackers and all.”
Blake’s eyes suddenly widened. He slapped the table. “I almost forgot, Pa. I have news.”
“I thought so,” Maggie said, giving Blake a sidelong look. “You seemed to be carrying a heavy burden.”
“It’s about Mr. Webber,” Blake went on. “He was recuperating in a hospital in Phoenix under the name of Johannes Fargo. He was in pretty bad shape and wasn’t expected to live. One of the local deputies recognized him from a poster I sent down and put a guard on him.” Blake took a sip of his coffee. He’d finally stopped shivering.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Trap sighed, knowing, sensing what his son was about to say next.
“There is. Webber killed the man guarding him and slipped away last night.”
“I knew it was too good to be true.” Clay pounded his fist on the table. He fiddled with the end of his mustache while he stared, blank-faced, out the window. The train was moving again. “Johannes is too wily to be cooped up in some hospital.”
“I can’t believe he murdered the captain.” Hanna stirred a spoonful of cream into her coffee. “From the sounds of things, Roman was the one who watched over him the most.”
“Some folks fight because they’re angry,” Maggie said. “Or because they hate Indians or some other such thing. Johannes Webber fights because his brain is on fire. He resents what he was, and he grew to despise Hezekiah for trying to help him.”
“I know I wasn’t as close to him as Trap or the captain,” Madsen said. “And it will likely fall on me to kill him someday. But, there’s one thing I know for sure. I would have died for him all those years ago.”
“Any one of us would have,” Trap said. “Without hesitation—and he would have done the same for me.”
Hanna Cobb took a drink of her coffee. “To go from a devoted comrade at arms to hateful killer—that’s quite a leap for anyone. There had to be something. Something had to happen to make him hate you all so much.”
The train picked up speed now, rocking the dining car gently. Snow-clad firs and spruces rolled by outside in the chilly blue shadows of evening. It was beginning to snow again.
“That, my dear Mrs. Cobb,” Clay said, “is a very long story.”
Hanna pushed her cup away. She put both hands flat on the table and leaned forward, spellbound with anticipation. “I’ll bet it’s interesting.” Her green eyes sparkled.
Madsen looked at Trap, then at Maggie. They both shrugged. The big Texan sighed. “Oh, darlin’, you have no idea.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On rare occasion, when enlisted men in the United States Cavalry desired to bestow the highest honor on a particular officer, they gave him the gift of a sword. By this token, these leaders were inducted into an exclusive order of fighting men, an order of absolute respect and devotion from their subordinates—the Order of the Saber.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The list of good people who helped me and buoyed me up during this adventure is almost without number. I should take the time to thank my fellow trackers and gun-toters for watching over me when my mind was somewhere else: Holland, Sonny, Kevin, John, and Wanda—and especially Ty Cunningham, a superb comrade at arms and a tracker who knows no equal.
Further, I ought to thank the librarians and teachers in my life: Lou, Al, Julie, Lola, Billie, and Irene—the only people who are sure to read this story and tell me they like it—no matter what they really think.