Petra

by Arch Gallen

  Chapter 4

  Reaching the edge of Morale, Pike swept his gaze over the main road starting nearest to him at German’s General Store, twice expanded since Adam first arrived, past Kate’s Hotel that was only a tiny, twelve seat café the first time Pike saw it next to Mandano’s Saloon. Along with the dingy Sheriff’s office that faced Kate’s place and Big Injun’s livery far down on the right, nothing more existed then but seven empty storefronts left by settlers driven out by Roy Hawkin’s outlaws. Now, nearly thirty occupied shops with two lanes running south off the road led past substantial homes in the town and another road went north to the US and County Courthouses and new school just built.

  Despite his foul mood, Adam noted twinges of pride and pleasure in him, Morale having a stage station and railroad depot, a telegraph office and Post Office sandwiched between the territory’s largest jail and Big Injun’s livery when most towns had nothing of the kind. None had come easy, he knew, recalling in detail every nail and board that went into fixing up their first Sheriff’s office then erecting next to it a US Marshal headquarters for his own men, connecting the two with a sturdy rock wall jail with entrances usable by both groups of lawmen. After Washington moved the Marshals to Cheyenne, Step natural took both halves of the building presenting a single, impressive monument to peace.

  A smirk briefly crossed Pike’s face, the deal he made with the Governor to pay for that building as a loan to the government having won four-fold dividends. Working a deal to earn cash hauling slag rock away from Hutchinson’s mine then earning again selling it in Denver for homes and in Morale for government funded building of the Marshal office and District Courthouse was, he knew, an example of grace aided by alert thinking no one else ever heard about and a private victory still held secret.

  What was no secret, in fact led to much of his reputation among town folks was all the rest he secured for them by accepting appointment as Marshal, the Governor being desperate and favored both by the President and expansion minded business friends alike. Having energetic support in Denver and Washington simply made Morale better while Pike’s high profile assault on outlaw gangs, claim jumpers and thieves of all sorts made a grateful Governor’s reelections much easier.

  Dismounting in front of the Hotel, Adam hopped up the two steps with less than his customary energy, pausing in front of the door to eye gold painted lettering announcing ‘Kate’s Morale Hotel’ with ‘Kate’ and ‘Hotel’ in a half circle over and under the banner proudly naming their town. A smile twitched the corner of his lip recalling the plain plank and sod café she had on this spot when Pike first arrived in town and how all thought him loco for proposing they build a hotel on the day the outlaw wars ended.

  Like most Adam’s early notions, the hotel paid off beyond any imagining, their little community half-way between Denver and Cheyenne becoming a convenient stopover for stage then rail travelers. Pike believed, despite folks saying to the contrary, that all success was Kate’s to claim not his. Her constant attention to guests whether serving food or providing accommodations with an effervescent approach proving contagious to all coming through, she won admiration and business for being an original settler in the tempestuous region. His connections and persuasions brought buildings but, to Adam’s thinking, without her none would have meant much. Towns exist because of people, merchants and ranchers selling or buying, folks borning children then schooling them which happens only where they’re wishful of living. Kate had a way of making it easy to like living in Morale.

  Striding purposefully through the door, he painted a casual look over his face, a wide grin given the clerk Jensen with a wave as the man nodded. Found by Adam dying of thirst and injuries from falls taken while chased by a band of mean spirited ranch hands, he was hired by Kate on Pike’s suggestion, the young Marshal seeing something in him not clear to anyone other. First as a handyman before his knack for running things became apparent, he worked into an indispensable role as night manager then became through Adam’s encouragement part-owner with Kate and Trish.

  Turning the corner from the lobby past plush cowhide covered easy chairs empty in mid-day, Pike entered the restaurant with a sweeping glance over tables still being cleaned from a busy lunch. At a corner table, he spied the looming, hunched form of Anton Petra clutching a beer bottle, hesitating for a half step curious how one seeming so ordinary won a reputation so completely not. Approaching as if carefree, Pike stopped behind a wooden chair, fingers resting on the carved back waiting until deciding Petra would choose not to speak first.

  “Heard you wanted talk.” Adam offered finally, “Mind if I sit?”

  Head slowly swiveling, dark eyes meeting Pike’s gaze from under thin lids, Petra nodded, his wide forehead sloping evenly over gaunt cheeks to a slightly protruding chin bringing Adam undeniable feelings of being studied by an unusually large rattler. Edging the seat back, he slipped to sitting with an easy manner.

  Both men sat silent as the waitress Mary, one of Pike’s favorites for a quick wit and bright smile, set coffee down before withdrawing quickly while casting a concerned look at him. Drinking from the mug, Adam focused on towering clouds outside seeking shapes interesting in a favorite pastime but found none, his usual fertile imagination throttled by the season.

  Drawing circles on the table with the bottle, Petra said nothing for a full minute then raised his chin an inch, peering at Pike.

  “Petra is retiring.” he said simply, his attention slithering back to the beer.

  Considering, Adam watched the man from the corner of his eye seemingly uninterested. Letting the declaration pass, he withdrew a long, slender cigar from a vest pocket, snipped the end and lit it, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke over the table.

  “Going to settle in San Francisco.” Petra added quietly. “Already got land there. Gonna build a house, live quiet.”

  Pike nodded slightly. “Times have changed.” he responded.

  Throwing a quick glance, Petra sizzled, “Have. No work worth taking been offered for most of a year. Used to have line of work waiting.”

  “Country’s settling. Nothing is like it was.”

  Petra grimaced a bit. “Got one piece of business to finish before going.” he volunteered, sitting straight, eyes tight on Adam.

  Raising a brow, Pike met his look direct. “Me?” he asked, a cold band tightening over his chest when Petra nodded.

  “Gonna have in Petra’s house a little trophy case, ‘bout so big.” he replied, holding a hand three feet from the ground then stretching them apart as far as he could reach. “Gonna have in it what Pike is known most for, a rifle, shotgun and pair of pistols in that twin holster always was wearing.”

  A malicious grin covered his face. Hissing, Petra added, “Might add a hank of long hair Marshal so regular described by. Already got words for small brass plate gonna have engraved. ‘Here is all left of Marshal Adam Pike’ it’ll read.”

  Abruptly, Adam laughed out loud, startling both men. “Anton, you have to know, these guns or even my hair won’t be all that’s left of me.” he sputtered, amused despite himself. “Look around, Petra, at all in sight.”

  Pausing for a swallow of coffee, Pike gestured toward the window. “When I arrived here the town was most of nothing. Since, the place has become home to over eight hundred people. Around Colorado Territory, there’s six stores grown from the first and a freight outfit with three dozen teams moving goods in and out of every town you can name.”

  Leaning forward on thickly muscled arms, Adam cocked a brow over his cup. “We have a hole in the ground above town makes most miners jealous and run a few thousand head on land any rancher would trade a wife to have. East of town there’s a school, most every nail in it I hammered in place and a second new one north of town, both built from planks cut in a mill I helped start and every stone used in the homes of my kin touched my hands.”

  Resuming a relaxed pose, idly trying to recall the last time he’d taken up a hammer or put a nail in a board, Pi
ke stretched his legs beneath the table, crossing them at the ankle as he took on a serious look. “If my guns and hair get put in your trophy case, Petra, it only means I’m dead, partial as I am to keeping such to myself. But dead won’t be all that’s left of me, it’ll only be giving back a body loaned by grace for use while on this earth. What I am will remain in this town and on a long list of doings.”

  Tipping his head back, reptilian features transforming Pike to no more than a tasty morsel, his thin lips smiled. “Will do for Petra.” he replied calmly, keeping a lifetime of hatred from showing.

  Pike stared without expression. “You wanting to step outside and finish now?” he asked softly. “Or you wishful of ambush shooting as you’re known to do?”

  Slowly shaking his head, wispy sandy hair tossing over his mostly bald head, Petra replied, “Will pick time proper Marshal. Won’t be long.”

  Standing, fingers touching the table lightly inches from his guns, Adam studied him, saying after a moment, “Sensible man would head to San Francisco, live to enjoy riches earned by killing while able.”

  Petra frowned, nostrils flaring and eyes black. “Sensible man never leaves business unfinished.”

  Pike bobbed his head. “And have much to attend myself.” he answered, eyes flashing fiery blue ice as he turned, walking toward the lobby.

  Stopping briefly to chat with Jensen, doing otherwise not being his normal way, Adam saw the display of worry no amount of effort could conceal. Eyes flicking toward the dining room, the hotel manager strove to hide his thoughts but the usual bright manner presented fooled neither man as they talked briefly, Pike giving a wink and smile to his friend before departing.

  Watching Adam’s broad back pass through the door, Frank Jensen felt twisted deep within. That Pike had saved his life was enough cause for gratitude but he remembered well all the more Adam had done than was required by any badge. Bringing Jensen here, putting him up in Pike’s own home for weeks while he regained health then recommending him to Kate had restored a faith in people lost by a decade of misery and betrayal. Every good facet of his life, including meeting the woman who became his wife and mother of their three children, had been made possible by young Pike believing in him when he himself did not.

  Glancing at the dining room, Jensen was startled to see the other man was gone. Few moving in their restaurant or lobby escaped his notice adding to anxiety already present from stories surrounding this newcomer. Inhaling deeply, he focused on the room reservations laying in front of him, mouthing a silent prayer for his friend.

  Walking smartly from the hotel toward the Sheriff’s office, Adam waved at several merchants busy sweeping porches or arranging goods displayed outside their stores and at a pair of horsemen trotting in opposite directions on business of the day. Pausing, he touched his hat in recognition of one driving a wagon away from German’s general store headed to Hutchinson’s mine outside town in part of a routine familiar to all in Morale. The same driver ran three times a week to meet supply needs there while going two days to Mitchell’s, all part of the pulsing activity so familiar, so comfortable to him.

  Pike strolled casually, not wishful of any thinking Petra’s arrival caused concern but knew some would. No small town keeps secrets well, Adam already seeing Petra’s first stop at Mandano’s saloon and talking with the day barman Scully a calculated means to spread word of difficulty coming. Lacking sense native to a cactus, Scully was reliable in service to his employer despite a mouth repeating every yarn, story or rumor entering his ears with only modest embellishment as seemed helpful to increase his own importance. That Petra knew Scully’s ways was, Pike noted curiously, for later consideration.

  Given the hours since Petra’s arrival, any willing to listen would have heard his purpose was to settle up with Pike with absence of detail deliberate, suitably completed by imaginations occupied by little else. Without any thought, Adam sensed his standing in Morale precisely, everyone having heard all manner of tall tales about the long battle Pike conducted to make it safe, respecting him for that and, consequently, willing believers of near any story told. For all he’d done, none spoke poorly of him but a large portion were critical of his caustic manner, sharp tongue and cutting wit.

  About Mitchell, few had an opinion except to appreciate hard work producing riches digging ore from the ground while liking the ease with which men were given work when needing it no matter any real requirement by him for their help. Among Morale’s more proper folks, Mitchell was held distant, his occasional binges and willingness to stand for whiskey and beer having earned disrepute forgiven mostly when paychecks were spent in stores and shops around town. That he was a decorated hero of the Union Army suffering dark spells rooted there also brought clucking sympathy from many.

  Other brother Step, completely to the opposite, was Morale’s most popular citizen with words always well chosen and thoughtful, an easy-going way that belied his constant concern over matters big and small. As a rancher, he earned loyalty from 5PL hands by working hard alongside them in the worst of weather and doing all duties demanded as Adam did but with a dignified treatment regardless of skill or smarts shown and, more importantly, employing a good humor the youngest Pike often lacked. No ill suffered need be carried alone with Step available nor was any difficulty so great that solutions wouldn’t be found.

  Around town, Step’s years as Sheriff were thought by all central to their prosperity, the calm allowing travelers and merchants alike to conduct business without fear common to frontier towns. Few in Morale understood what Step knew was true, their town’s reputation as inhospitable for thieves or robbers was due most to widespread tales of Adam’s penchant for instant, often vicious responses to law-breakers of all kinds. Only the early residents of Morale, Step’s wife Kate and Adam’s wife included, had seen what had been demanded of the youngest Pike to make their town secure or the high price he paid to achieve it while late comers mostly heard stories they did not comprehend.

  Nearing the walk laid carefully before the Sheriff’s office, Adam smiled at the town Post mistress Emma as she slipped through her office door. A newcomer of only a few years at age sixty two, widowed when an avalanche killed her miner husband, she assumed duties of mail receipt by virtue of being the one person willing. Before her, mail coming by stage was dropped at the hotel with Kate, Trish or Frank insuring all was routed proper without pay because it was needful doing but with no fondness for the task. Once Washington awarded their town an office, Emma raised a hand to take the work and none since have regretted her desire nor begrudged her modest salary.

  “Marshal Pike!” she barked, the only tone any ever heard from her in public, “Remind Katherine she’s needing to fetch up mail ‘fore noon tomorra if wanting it sent out.”

  Like nearly everyone in town, Emma adopted the custom of referring to him as Marshal despite his retirement from the job a decade earlier, believing correctly an appointment by the President of the United States deserved lifelong recognition. She likely was unaware that he remained a sworn officer of the country, sharing an unknowing widely held outside Pike’s closest friends.

  Adam grinned briefly through dreary feelings, well aware of both stage timing and the woman’s earnest reminders to any listening, Emma covering lonely evenings through chatter with every passerby, familiar or strange.

  “Will do, Emma.” he responded, halting as she continued toward him, departing her store front in an unusual gesture. Watching, Pike saw concern etched across wrinkles deeply imbedded beneath her tightly pulled bun of grey hair. Leaning in as she reached him, her height under five foot and thin visage was dwarfed next to Adam’s thickly built five ten stance.

  “Barman came looking for mail” she whispered anxiously, “said that fella’ jest arrived is here to settle with you. Says you kilt his pa years back an’ is time to clean the slate.”

  Pike wrapped a muscular arm over her frail shoulders. “Emma, men been looking to settle with me since I was fifteen or so.”
he replied, letting warmth reaching his eyes radiate over her. “Didn’t work so well for the first hundred that tried and I reckon won’t this time, neither.”

  Tears welled up in Emma’s eyes. “Adam” she whispered, gripping his arm tightly as could, “they saying this ‘uns different. Say he’s a killer for hire.” Pausing for breath, she edged a mite closer. “You really kill his pa?”

  Sighing, Pike glanced off at gloomy skies then faced her closely. “His pa was a murderer, Emma. Killed a bank teller while robbing the place, left two young boys without a father and a young wife with no husband. When I went to arrest him, he drew and meant to kill me, too.”

  Emma laid her shoulder against Adam’s chest, glancing fearfully toward the hotel window. Only she and Pike knew her husband had been targeted for killing by a big mine outfit moving into the canyon he’d panned successfully for years or how Adam was credited for bringing down a wide ranging empire of violence against small miners using information he provided. In saving him, Pike earned from Emma undying, unshakable gratitude rewarded regular with timely news heard over the Post counter shared no where else.

  “You watch this one.” she cautioned, tightening her hold on his bicep, “We all knowing that Pike operations keep this town going and for what work the others do, you’re the brains running it all.” then adding, her eyes snapping as she separated from him, “Ain’t good for none of us iffen he guns you down with so much growing of our town yet to do.”

  Adam bent, planting a light kiss on her forehead. “Only brains anywhere in this town, Emma, is needful of sorting mail and worry less over men thinking themselves trouble.” he suggested, guiding her to the door of the Post with a kindly hold around her back.

  Emma safely deposited in her shop, Pike strode to the Sheriff’s office, reflecting on opinion he long rejected as the sharpest mind within the Pike clan until forced by proof of accomplishments to accept and at insistence of his own family among others. Despite that, he saw fully ways each of his kin filled key roles in their common success, Katherine perhaps most of all. Having long managed Pa’s daily ledgers back home, she natural took to those duties from first arrival with customary enthusiasm, precisely recording every purchase and sale for all their operations.

  Beyond simply keeping records, she’d taken on the task of tracking of supplies, ordering more while insuring all accounts were kept current and debts paid no matter how difficult some years were. Gaining extra benefit by talking with every merchant and seller in town at least once a month and ones in Denver almost as often, her entry to any store was well received as it meant a new sale or bringing of cash to cover those made prior, leading Katherine to become the most liked of theirs while her friendly ways encouraged folks to talk so a careful ear often picked up tidbits useful to their efforts.

  With her husband Jeremy, a quiet, contemplative sort whose superior craftsmanship had earned a reputation all the way to the East Coast, Katherine constituted the phantom backbone of Pike doings in Morale and northern Colorado. Keen in understanding people, she was the central nerve center of all they touched, her pipelines into businesses across the region yielded steady information which stitched together that heard by Step and Adam’s wives from travelers or cowhands of outlying ranches staying at Kate’s Hotel. Between the three women and their husbands, aided by each couple having children in the schools and all being active in community affairs generally, nothing happening in Colorado or the West escaped notice.

  It had been his idea, Adam admitted, to have Katherine personally deliver supply orders and payments, intending from the first for her to build a network able to keep them apprised of events or opportunities before others were knowing. Her exceptional ability to discern real meaning from hot air or boastful talk, however, proved the difference repeatedly in unearthing ways to profit from what was said. Lacking Katherine’s insight, much of what Adam, Step and Mitchell were credited with doing could never have been possible.

  The trait that separated all three brothers from townsfolk and sister Katherine in particular, of course, was the guns they wore and their complete willingness to use them. When the Pike’s first settled Checkmark Mountains and Morale, violence was normal, a daily fact of living. Outlaws, rustlers, Indians and troublemakers of every sort running roughshod over northern Colorado and Wyoming Territory for a decade were slow to cede dominance, demanding even peace-loving people to have and use weapons routinely. The least prone to violence of all, Katherine’s husband Jeremy carried a rifle but never wore a belt gun and still had planted three men in Morale’s boot hill defending his home.

  Even Petra had seen times were changing, Adam mused. Most townsmen now rarely belted on a holster unless going into the country, doing so then more in case of rattlesnakes or a bolting horse than from fear of outlaws. Stages were still held up but less often and banks rarely suffered robberies as had once been common. Gunslingers, romantic heroes of eastern papers for a number of years, had mostly been killed off, grown to become decent citizens or simply got old while bands of rampaging thieves had been stamped out, many by Adam himself or those working for him.

  He’d been aware for some time that many in Morale felt his wearing twin, tied-down guns was a boastful reminder of his past. Ranchers, of course, still wore pistols as part of their work but he wasn’t commonly seen as one like Step or others. His doings involved stores, freighting, mining and politics, or so folks believed, with days spent in offices or meetings between customers or buyers where gunplay was unthinkable. That he was hated by hundreds sent to prison or, like Petra, were related to men killed before and during years as Marshal didn’t register anymore nor did the truth of some within that group liking nothing so much as to make him a target.

  At least, it hadn’t registered until now. Pushing his way through the door into Step’s office, Pike could almost hear folks chattering in shops or over supper, that a known killer had arrived hunting Adam and wondering how he’d handle the matter. Most, he was certain, would wager on him if only from his history. A few, he guessed, would wager against him either figuring everyone’s time came eventually or, in some cases, out of malicious envy of his success or recalling some past disagreement. He shrugged as only two opinions mattered at all, his own and Petra’s.

  Closing the door behind him, Adam exhaled, grateful to be in his sanctuary, the one place every Marshal or Sheriff knew they could say or do anything, show any emotion without concern it might be observed or cause comment. Sweeping off his hat, he tossed it over a peg on the wall with perfect aim, eyes meeting other brother Step standing at the massive oak door leading to the cells behind, one hand preparing to release the latch holding it closed.

  A raised brow from his brother was all the question Pike required, exploding in torrid flurries of energy needful of releasing. “He’s planning to fill a trophy case with my guns and a hunk of hair to put in a home he’s building for retiring in California.”

  Step cocked his head some, wordlessly releasing the door while showing a bemused smirk as a voice from the corner off Adam’s left rose from beneath a dusty, battered hat.

  “He offer any thinking on how he planned to accomplish that task?”

  Pike looked, his expression brightening greatly seeing Deputy Marshal Wells seated over a stack of wanted notices and other papers. Crossing to shut the hall door behind Step, he beamed at the man.

  “John! What’s bringing you by old haunts?” Adam boomed, striding and offering his hand to the second man Pike hired as Deputy years before.

  Shaking then sitting again, Wells grinned as Pike poured coffee then sat across from him. “Was escorting a man from near Sheridan to see a judge down in Denver and swung by while returning.” he answered, “Hate missing a chance to catch up with friends. Fact is,” he continued off-handedly, “was two of them in the killing but one fancied himself a quick-draw gunman with notions he somehow was faster than my Winchester already in hand cocked and aimed at him.”

  Wells laughed. “We plante
d him before coming back.”

  Adam waggled his head. Gifted with wit and free using it when not tracking outlaws or wanted men, John Wells was a favorite of his. Someone who’d shown Pike much of how men on the dodge lived and thought, having been one near half his life when they met, John’s insights had been indispensable to a young lawman and saved his bacon more than once.

  “Traipsing down from the Montana border seems less than sensible.” Adam responded. “You couldn’t find a judge in Casper or Cheyenne?”

  Well’s face fell. “It’s all changed up, Adam. Used to be we’d haul a man before the first judge we found, get a conviction and hanging and be back working the next day. Now all they care over is borders and jurisdiction, courts in both towns you name and another besides insisting the man be tried where he did his killing.”

  Pike took a long swallow of coffee, listening to John rant. “Six days riding down, three in Denver doing nothing until the case was heard and five more riding back being just time wasted.” the Deputy said, lightly slapping the broad table. Looking up, he smirked, “Man was still hung so no gain come of wandering around.”

  Pausing to raise his own cup, Wells set it back down abruptly. “Tell you, Adam, it’s all changed. You knowing they require now a man have four years of schooling just to apply as a Deputy?” he asked, his voice breaking, “And what they hire mostly don’t know which end of a rifle to load and couldn’t track a sidewinder through soft sand if their own life depended on it.”

  Actually taking a drink of coffee, John nearly spit it out, blurting, “And let me tell you, too, ‘bout this Marshal named when Emsley retired! Retired Army, comes from back east somewheres. Never set foot across the Mississippi until given the job because he knows a Senator or such back in Pennsylvania.”

  Grinning, Adam gave the man a raised brow followed by a sharp frown, recalling Emsley Eckert as another friend not seen in years. The first Deputy hired, he was also most responsible for displaying shortcomings in Pike’s own judgmental nature after their meeting on Bob Patterson’s trail drive. Seen by Adam from the first as a misfit with poor attitudes, Eckert demonstrated to Pike what it really meant to live humble and be god-fearing, teaching much to the youngster once Adam finally became willing and open minded to the cow hands way of thinking.

  Rising up in his seat, Wells stared at Pike, brows raised. “You’d never believe, Pike, he makes us write reports for every arrest. This one just done, I’ll waste another two days telling every detail of the chase, how we caught him and what we did after. I swear more time is spent writing than arresting and all taking time I should be out tracking outlaws.”

  Pike laughed out loud, the deputy’s histrionics touching him deeply recalling as it did very many nights spent sitting up writing reports to send back to Washington, never wishful of wasting Deputy time to compose them. Smirking, he swallowed then leaned close.

  “Tell you a way, John?” he asked, whispering conspiratorially when the man bobbed his head. “Was told me by Marshal Hanks early on to write what was needful and no more. All mine, when we were busy, said we tracked the wanted man across the prairie, arrested him and hauled him up for trial with few words describing. When times slowed, every hunt covered half of Idaho, our men shimmying up mountains and down canyons for days. Whole paragraphs described pitched battles needed to make arrests requiring us to travel back through snowstorms or rain, depending on season.”

  Wells tossed his head back and roared, Adam relating then, “And, you know, I twice got letters from our boss in Washington complimenting those reports. Once” Pike continued, “he even penned a note on the bottom saying he was wishful all Marshals gave such thorough details of events.”

  Hazel eyes glistening, the Deputy wiped a hand across his face. “Remember seeing you sitting over them reports, Pike. Never did know you made it all up while writing or it was a job for us to do.”

  “Mostly was.”

  Settling himself, seriousness coming back to him, Wells waggled his head. “Wouldn’t work now, Adam, at least not so well.” Straightening in his chair, he set his cup in his lap. “Speaking truth, it’s why I swung through town. Heard Step was hiring another deputy. Thought he might consider me despite our differences over the years.”

  “You want to leave being a Marshal?” Pike asked, brow furrowed thinking troubles between the two men having been long solved.

  “Believe so, Adam.” Wells replied, his entire manner solemn. “How we work just doesn’t satisfy much anymore. That Marshal took me to task some time back, me arriving in the office after two weeks on the trail, for clothes being dusty and boots not polished. Then, too, being home most nights would be pleasing to me, Shannon and the young’uns as well.”

  “Understand that.” Pike agreed, glancing at his own well-polished foot wear, remembering the pleasure felt shortly after retiring at being home with his family, wearing clean clothes and having time to keep boots looking good. “Shannon is wishful of leaving Cheyenne?”

  Wells snorted. “Nothing about that town she’s ever liked. Hates hearing shooting at all hours of the night, believes the one school should be burned down and can’t find any of the three churches with a parson tolerable to her.”

  Adam chuckled, knowing Morale had less than a quarter the people but two schoolhouses highly regarded, a half dozen churches and peaceful nights rarely broken by gun fire that were ordinary ruckus in most frontier towns. Interrupting Pike’s thoughts, Wells added anxiously, “Not sure he be willing to have a former outlaw wearing a badge for him, neither.”

  Astonished, Pike peered at his friend. “Was a long time ago, Johnny, and for that, is likely Step never did hear those stories. Am certain I said nothing of it to him and your doing for most of ten years since speaks for itself.”

  Scraping his chair back, Adam retrieved the coffee pot and refilled their cups, considering the man he first called Papago John Wells, a nickname given after standing off a dozen Indians of that tribe in southwestern Arizona. Traveling with a band of troublemakers led by Clete Conyers, Wells was barely nineteen when they were attacked north of the Aqua Dulce Mountains named for sweet water springs where the men holed up. Hunkered down and near starving after three days, Wells decided enough was too much and launched himself madly at their attackers, living through it somehow while the Indians mostly did not.

  Conyers, finding pickings slim in the desert, led his gang north over time, terrorizing settlers and travelers alike in northern Arizona and southern Utah as far north as Green River for several years then drifted to Colorado. The canyons and prospectors northwest of Denver suited the man’s liking of having gold dug from the ground by hard work of others so they settled in for a spell before making his worst, and last, mistake, developing a fondness for beef raised on the Oxbar Ranch recently started by Ollie Oxfarm just below the new town of Morale.

  Conyers began earning a name for rustling to his eternal misfortune as Ollie tolerated such not at all. With a dozen hands gathered to exact retribution, two of whom recruited Adam having recently completed an excursion alongside him to Denver, the rancher unleashed a week’s running battle that greatly enhanced Pike’s growing reputation for stealth and cunning. Tasked to remove Conyer's night guard as Ollie prepared a final assault into a box canyon where the gang had been driven, Adam simply hog-tied the guard instead of killing him as expected then, once all others were dead, toted him out planning to see him stand trial then hung.

  By their arrival back in Morale, Adam and the Oxbar hands took a liking to the wiry, sardonic man and convinced Ollie to put John on as a ranch hand. With Adam guaranteeing Wells good behavior with his own word of honor, his belief in redemption was rewarded well when John performed admirably after Pike tapped him nearly three years later to become a Deputy US Marshal.

  Considering, Pike believed no better man could be chosen to serve their town but understood Step had several concerns to satisfy in making a choice so offered no promise to intervene. Instead, he shifted, let
ting his eyes rest on a wall sized map of the West from Nebraska to Oregon with a moment’s thought what share of it he and his deputies touched in three years, his gaze drifting then to bookcases below it. Filled with volumes of notes detailing men wanted, arrested or killed being taken, they also described countryside throughout the District, telling of caves, springs and canyons where outlaws had hidden or tried to hide and others used by the lawmen themselves.

  Started by Eckert the first day after Pike’s hiring to help in learning the territory, every Marshal, Sheriff and Deputy after continued the effort until little existed that couldn’t be found in pages neatly organized. Adam’s gaze halted on five one-inch books at the end of the first shelf containing information special to the lawmen. Descriptions there were of men and a few women known for acting outside the law but leaving no proof of it, methods they favored, areas they worked and, most important, relations known to have. Mining companies, cattleman associations and other newly assembled outfits with poor reputations for abiding legalities interlaced dealings recorded in those slim books and guided more than a few successful investigations. Inside, Pike knew, were four full pages on Anton Petra, several written by him and every one committed to memory.

  An antsy squirm from Wells brought Adam’s focus back. “Why you looking for work at all, John? Can’t be you’re needful of the earnings.” Adam noted, eyeing his friend.

  “Not so much.” Wells admitted slowly, “What I brought in from bounties and reward money is mostly intact, aided by some land buying and selling we did. Shannon and her Pa are both canny about seeing where folks will be likely to move and he’s right good at promoting folks to buy, adding to what’s been saved.”

  Adam nodded, remembering Wells always being tight with money despite having more than most, a fact Pike knew from doling out what came into the Marshal’s office. While changed sometime ago, it was common in early days for banks, stages and, later, railroads to post handsome rewards for robbers, most particularly those that killed in the process, hoping to entice bounty hunters and earn a good name for being secure partners. While statute barred lawmen from receiving those rewards directly, it also encouraged Marshal offices to accept them to make funding easier for the Government.

  Of course every US Marshal in the west did so passing along most to Deputies, a practice Pike followed as well so knew to a dime what each of his men earned beyond salary. He smirked slightly, recalling how his District, far larger than most and providing hide-outs for lawbreakers across years, had brought in sums impressive by any measure. Wells was the most aggressive at pursuing men with what he called ‘most cash in their hat’ while Santiago, the Boston born Spaniard hired last considered every reward as motivation in deciding which outlaws to pursue. Eckert, the strictest about all matters of law and justice among the four, oddly found such thinking unchristian and improper so never ordered his activity accordingly.

  Standing to stretch, the Deputy peered out at clouds looming with promise of additional rain on the prairie and snow in the mountains. “Man’s got to do something, Pike.” he muttered, gaze returning to Adam, “Can’t just sit on a porch like some, would get old mighty fast doing such. More there is, too, being I spent years causing trouble for folks, it seems I’m needing still to give back some. Watching these men we arrest and the harm done by them, I never feel quite like I can get even for my own.”

  Understanding Wells thinking, Pike bobbed his head, turning when hearing a series of raps on the cell hall door. Striding over, he ran a finger down a chart posted by Step, each day of the week given a different series of taps signaling those in the office the door was safe to open or, if not the proper sign, to be unlatched with pistols leveled and cocked. Finding all in order, he threw the latch then stepped off, fingers dancing on gun handles should they be required before relaxing as Step passed through, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Without a glance at either, the Sheriff walked to his desk, sitting heavily in the wide swivel chair, running a hand through thinning hair then kicking a drawer handle angrily.

  Finding his brother acting odd, Adam shot him a look unseen so took up the coffee pot, filling Step’s cup then Wells and his own. Returning it to the stove, he cocked his head, Step still avoiding eye contact with either companion.

  “Mind saying what’s in that cell so disturbing?” Pike asked quietly, resuming his seat.

  Step brought his face up, a bleak look coloring his tanned complexion. “Got Ted Russell locked up. Started another saloon brawl last night, claiming some man was cheating at cards.”

  “Nothing rare in that, Ted always finding someone at fault for his own ills.” Adam answered, waiting. Still a young man, Russell had been thought well of around Morale until his parents were killed by Indians, an event peculiar to their region if less so elsewhere, after which his drinking got heavier and attitude worse. Most in town, one time or another, tried hiring him on with poor results as Adam found after having brought him to ride for the 5PL over Step’s stern objections. Ted lasted most of a summer before returning to the bunkhouse late in a drunken snit and started a melee over some slight no one present, including Russell, ever could identify.

  “Nope.” his brother agreed, saying then, “What is more so” swallowing coffee while glaring through the window, “was Ted dumping a big old table on the man, crushing his skull before stomping him in the chest and belly a half dozen times. We got the fellow at Doc’s now, hoping to see him live.”

  “Drinking men never seem to get the worst of it.” Wells commented dryly before clamping his mouth shut, remembering his time arresting Mitchell Pike for a similar brawl some distance north of Morale, only one of the man’s stays in one jail or another. Although both younger brothers spoke well to John about the arrest, and Mitchell being released the next day as none were hurt much during the fight, it seemed a poor time to remind Step of it being the Sheriff’s goodwill was needed if he was to land the Deputy job.

  Ignoring Wells, Adam gave Step a puzzled look, cheats seldom getting sympathy from a judge or the law at any time, which his brother caught. “What does Ted say about it?” he inquired.

  “Remembers nothing of it.” Step sneered, “Even tried telling me at first he wasn’t in the saloon last night before I near slapped his ears off. Worst than said already, have a half dozen witnesses saying the card sharp snuck out a side door and the fellow Russell crushed was just a cowhand passing through looking for beer and some grub.”

  A cold hand clutched Adam’s gut. Senseless violence, men mauled for no reason and lives ruined were an old story he was most tired of hearing. Slumping some in his seat, he studied Step, feeling more was to be told to explain the dour manner being witnessed.

  Step sighed deeply while pulling out the makings of a smoke, rolled one and lit it, unusual for him to do inside the office, flinging the spent match toward the cuspidor and missing by feet. Sensing the others were waiting, he looked at them knowing only full truth would satisfy and feeling compelled to tell on himself. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the Sheriff stared at a point beyond the ceiling.

  “Had Ted in a cell for an earlier fight until last week, the judge giving him thirty days. After some talking, I got the notion he’d work at acting right so talked his sentence down to time served.” Sitting up in his chair, he faced the men direct. “If I’d minded my own business, kept shut my mouth, Ted would’ve been in jail last night, not at the saloon, and that hand wouldn’t be slipping toward dying young.”

  Clenching his eyes tightly, Adam felt the pain wracking his brother, no Pike able to handle well unneeded hurt caused however indirectly. More even than the other kin Step saw himself made to keep folks safe, managing poorly when unable to meet his own high standards in doing so. With a shake of his head, Adam peered silently out the window, having no words to say useful.

  Abruptly, he stood then spun toward the door. Outside, a buggy used by his twin daughters when riding to and from school had rolled into view but without his
son’s horse Brandy alongside. Alarmed, Petra’s presence close to mind, he strode sharply into the street, a hand up to halt the carriage.

  “Hey, Pa!” his son Lawson called from inside as daughter Adele gave a smiling, “Hello, Poppa.”

  Placing one foot on the buggy step, Adam leaned in, tousling Lawson’s curly brown hair while giving Adele a peck on the cheek. Dropping back, his face showing more worry than he was wishful of allowing, Adam looked between the two.

  “Where’s Angela?” he asked, aware the girls and Lawson customarily left school at one time.

  “She’s staying after.” Lawson replied, a tinge of disgust in his high-pitched, young boy voice. “Said she wants more work on her numbers.”

  Adele smiled shyly, advising, “Mr. Hassan was staying anyway for some cleaning and to grade papers so she’s not causing any extra for him.”

  Their teacher, a Persian by birth named Rajid al-Hassan but known locally as ‘Ray’ was a trusted, loyal man who came to Morale after Adam, leading a team of men guarding a Hutchinson gold shipment to San Francisco was forced to free a shanghaied member of his outfit, a deed impossible without the Persian’s aid. For a couple years now, Ray had taught older youngsters in town, his calm demeanor and broad knowledge eventually becoming valued among a community initially suspicious or outright hostile toward dark skinned foreigners while his friendship with all Pike parents and children grew deep.

  Adam smiled at the pair, both reflecting well lessons taught by their mother and him but knew pleasure at seeing them safe didn’t reach his eyes when Adele reached out and set her small hand atop his where he held the seat rail.

  “It’s alright, Poppa.” she said, her long ash blonde hair tied back by a maroon ribbon looking every inch as her Ma’s used to. “She’ll be along in an hour or so promised.”

  “It’s good she’s practicing numbers.” Adam responded, warmth rising toward the youngsters, “So you two ride on home and tell Ma I’ll be along when Angela comes by. ‘Til then, be sure your chores get done well and help Ma putting supper on.”

  “Chores?” Lawson whined, aggravating Pike modestly for acting eleven as he was and not like an adult he wasn’t. “Was wanting to go riding since I have to sit in this buggy going home instead.”

  “You know better, son.” Adam replied with a grin. “What we’re wanting matters none until all chores are complete.”

  “I know, Pa.” the boy answered, resignedly, his sister chiming in as they said in unison, “Chores done well then fun enjoyed most.” repeating a mantra Pike had recited since their earliest days.

  Adam laughed, bobbing his head while moving back from the carriage. “Is our way.” he agreed, instructing then, “Now you two scoot and we’ll be along prompt.”

  Adele snapped the reins expertly, her ability with horses at thirteen already a marvel among the ranch hands, guiding the team through town traffic confidently. Pike and his wife nearly argued over the girls driving the buggy to school, a chore always before this year performed by one or the other parent until, with help from the children, Adam prevailed. Growing people need to learn doing for themselves he offered persuasively against his wife’s natural desire to protect them while keeping them young as long as could be. In this moment, giving a glance through the hotel window where Petra had sat, Adam felt some wishing he’d listened.

  Returning to Step’s office, Pike reached to remove his hat, noticing then that he’d not bothered grabbing it while heading out to meet his children. That unusual act alone hit home how disturbed he was by Petra, the weather or, most likely, both giving rise to discomforting unease. Shutting the office door quietly, he perked up hearing Step chuckle then ask, “So what’s your thinking on it, other brother, having Wells keeping peace here in Morale? Figure the Marshal’s will survive without their best badge wearing deputy?”

  “Reckon they will, Step, being they’ve little to do anymore but send men across all of Wyoming to hold a trial anyway.” he answered, smirking while dumping cold coffee from his cup to a basin and refilling it with hot. “Of course, we’re needful of handling the move gentle, our wives and Sis likely to be irked some when another beautiful woman like Shannon arrives in town permanent.”

  Their mood lightened, the brothers shared with Wells stories of Morale, its residents, ranches and happenings in general while advising him of those likely to sell a home or property and at what price. Wells, in turn, listened carefully while interspersing jokes and yarns of his work since Adam retired as Marshal, each man feeling the day’s gloom abating for it until Pike eased from his seat, edginess setting in. Standing in front of the window, he scanned the street for Angela, her arrival due any time.

  “Sure that’s where you’re wanting to be, Pike?” Wells asked with concern.

  Adam shrugged. “He’s made a living shooting from ambush in ways none could pin on him. Not likely he’ll take a shot from a hotel window in a town where everyone’s heard why he’s here. He’d not get five steps toward his horse before a mob swarmed and hung him from German’s old cottonwood.”

  As the others nodded agreement, Adam took a swig of coffee, dropping the cup suddenly to the table spotting Ray Hassan heading their way at a full gallop. Dashing to the door while grabbing his hat in passing, Pike threw it open just as the teacher dropped off his horse.

  Grabbing him by the arms, Adam bent at the knees to look the shorter man in the eye. “Ray, what is it?” he demanded.

  Visibly shaken, his dark complexion paled, Hassan stared at Pike wide-eyed. “Angela, Mr. Adam! She’s been taken!”