“He should have. His office is down the hall to the left.” Shaking his head, he swung an arm toward the door. “Go ask him.”
Except she knew he wasn’t there. She had to seize this unique opportunity before it disappeared. “Sir, is anything else written in that book that could help me, um, improve my future writing?”
He snapped shut the cover and tossed the journal on top of the spread papers. “Nope. So, you want your stories bumped to prime real estate in my publication? Probably the same could be said about every author appearing in the back half. Those British authors have years of experience and know how to raise the stakes of what their characters face so the stories are page-turners. Based on Gordon’s comment, your writing is not at that level.” He reached for a square packet and pulled out a slim cigar then struck a match to light it.
“Well, I think, um…” She had to think fast. Father always boasted about negotiations that made customers believe they’d received the better deal. What issue would the publisher consider most important? “With American authors toward the front, the table of contents would be headed with different names.” A sideways glance informed her she’d caught Mister Bogdan’s attention. “Maybe if the stories by British authors were at the back, the copyright problem wouldn’t be as pressing.”
“Mister Warren, she might be on to something.” The lawyer stood and approached the desk. “We know not every reader finishes each issue.” He glanced at her and shrugged.
A fist tightened around her heart. Was he saying her stories weren’t being read? All the more reason she had to be bold and unladylike and press forward her favorite subject. “Sir, I came today prepared to pitch a story series to Mister Gordon.”
“Let’s hear this idea you have, young lady.” He tilted back his head and puffed bluish-white smoke toward the ceiling.
Thora clasped the manuscript against her side. “I want to create a series based on a famous United States marshal who has captured some of the most famous and dangerous bank robbers in the West. He’d be harder-nosed than Diamond Dick in the cowboy detective series, and he’d possess frontier know-how instead of the big-city stories running in the Frank Starr line.”
“Wait a second. Is this marshal a real person?” His chair squeaked as he bolted forward. “Did he fight at Wood Lake or Bird Creek?”
Those battles occurred in the Civil War era. “A real person, Harte Renwyck, has accomplished these feats, and he’s not so old to have fought in those wars.” Thora studied the publisher’s face but couldn’t tell if he wanted the stories to be biographic or not. “But I would keep his deeds accurate and fictionalize the man. The focus could go either way…at your discretion, of course.” Maybe she was more ready for this spontaneous presentation than she thought. She squared her shoulders.
“Bank robberies, huh?” His forehead wrinkled, and he leaned back in the chair. “I like the idea of setting the action in the Wild West. Eastern readers eat up that stuff, especially now that Buffalo Bill is only found on the entertainment stage instead of in print.”
Thora’s heart beat faster. Was Mister Warren supportive of her idea? “Perhaps, I could travel west and interview this marshal. By getting firsthand accounts from his own lips about the work, I’d bolster the characterization of the protagonist. I’d also learn about his sleuthing methods for tracking down hardened criminals.” She stepped forward and leaned her trembling legs against the desk. “I have a scrapbook of newspaper articles of Marshal Renwyck’s accomplishments and could write the opening to the first story as I’m traveling.”
Flashing a wide grin, the publisher slammed a hand on the desk then rummaged in a drawer. “You’ve sold me on the idea. Go to the accounting department and submit this voucher for your travel fare.” He scribbled on a slip of paper and extended it. “Your first story is due in six weeks.”
With a shaky hand, Thora accepted the voucher and stumbled from the office, her thoughts whirling. Six weeks? Has my daydreaming led me into real trouble this time? Could she even find Marshal Renwyck, let alone convince him to be her subject? Her knees trembled. How could she convince her parents to let her travel alone to Montana Territory? Thora lifted her chin. My writing is my passion, and I will find a way.
Chapter Two
Navigating between ponderosa pines and juniper trees, former United States Marshal Harte Renwyck guided his stallion, Blaze, down the rocky trail of the foothills. Of what mountain range, he had no clue. Only that he’d been in Montana Territory for the past week or so with Helena as his destination for a new line of work.
A man with his skills should secure a job in the capitol with ease. Eight years as a United State Marshal developed useful abilities. Businesses or maybe an elected politician or even one of the capitol’s many millionaires probably needed security. The disastrous bank robbery from a month earlier marked the last instance he would chase after a money-grubbing criminal. The time had come to secure another occupation.
The sun hung above the crest of a jagged mountain peak, meaning about an hour of daylight remained. A hotel with a café with a bathhouse nearby would be his ideal. But he’d probably have to settle for a level spot under a tree by an icy creek. The nip in the late afternoon air told him he needed a job soon to put sturdy walls around himself before winter.
Ahead, the space between the trees widened, and the terrain flattened into a wide expanse. Brown prairie grasses about three feet high swayed like an ocean wave. Here and there flashed dots of color from various wildflowers still in bloom. Across the valley, he spotted a dark smudge in the air, suggesting smoke from multiple fireplaces. A town. A smile burst forth. Maybe he’d enjoy the luxury of sleeping indoors tonight.
“Hup, Blaze.” Harte nudged his boot heels against the dappled gray’s sides and leaned into the canter. Fifteen minutes later, he eased back on the reins and slowed the horse to a trot. As he approached, he studied the town of mostly one-story whitewashed buildings. He guided Blaze over the ties of a railroad track and between tall poles holding a line of telegraph wire—an aid to obtaining both reliable supplies and the latest news. How much time would pass before he stopped viewing every new situation through the eyes of a law enforcement officer?
Maybe never.
Conducting his usual surveillance of a new location, he rode past the train depot and noted a big, barn-like building that must be the livery stable off to his right. Smoke filtered from the chimney of a nearby blacksmith’s shop. A glance in the other direction revealed a brick mercantile. Peering to the far end of the street he saw a few buildings containing business and a false-fronted saloon. A tall steeple with a cross over the roof of the whitewashed church drew his eye. The presence of a church usually provided a restraint to wild behavior.
Everything looked peaceful enough. Should he search for the sheriff’s office first or stable Blaze? The height advantage of being on horseback would aid in finding the sheriff’s office quicker. He gave the animal a pat on the neck and then steered him straight down the hard-packed dirt street.
Common in the towns he visited, the brick jailhouse sat across the street from the saloon. Tinny piano music and laughter erupted from bat-wing gated doorways. A sign reading Sheriff hung from a cross-beam of the slanted overhang in front of a squat building. Five-foot-wide alleys ran on both sides.
Harte dismounted and tossed the supple reins over the hitching rail, tying a loose knot. After removing his worn leather gloves and tucking them into a saddlebag, he scratched under the horse’s bristly jaw. “Just another fifteen minutes or so and I’ll get you some feed.” Walking forward, he grabbed the lapels of his cotton duster and gave a jerk to shake loose some of the trail dust.
With a few more steps, he covered the distance to the door and took a steadying breath before entering. A prior bad experience taught him to be ready for anything when entering a sheriff’s office or police department.
Behind a battered wooden desk sat a well-built man with graying, shoulder-length hair, a droopy mo
ustache, and a gold star pinned to his homespun shirt. An opened newspaper laid spread on the desk.
After bringing two fingers to the brim of his hat, Harte nodded. “Evening, sheriff.” The heat from the pot-bellied stove behind the door surrounded him, and he soaked in the welcomed warmth.
“Evening, stranger. What can I do for you?” The sheriff leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the desk.
Seeing the older man’s gaze drop to the twin Colts holstered to his hips, Harte held his hands loose at his sides. He looked at the iron cross-hatched holding cells and noticed both were empty. The night was still young. No other noises indicated anyone else’s presence. His tension released a notch or two. “Well, sir, name’s Harte Renwyck, recently serving as a United States Marshal.”
“Renwyck?” The man stood and extended a big hand. “I read about the recent bank robbery in South Pass. Tough luck, son. I’m Rand Mather, sheriff of Sweetwater Springs.”
Nice-sounding name for a prairie town. Returning the strong handshake, he cleared his throat. The robbery with its career-changing consequence was the exact topic he’d hoped to avoid. No one liked discussing their failures. To stall from answering, he glanced around. A half-open door revealed a room to the side with a narrow bed, a smaller potbellied stove, and a round table with two chairs. Shelves and several hooks for clothing hung on the walls. The sheriff’s cozy arrangement looked nicer than any rooming house Harte ever stayed in.
Behind the desk wanted posters with curling edges hung from nails in the wall. He fought the urge to study them and see if he could update the sheriff on the current status of the criminals. No longer my job. “I’ve been checking in with the local law enforcement for so long that’s what I normally do first. Although now, the courtesy isn’t required.”
“Nothing wrong with keeping up that practice. Saves me from making inquiries if I’d encountered you on the street.” He waved a hand toward a nearby chair. “Take a load off. Want a cup of coffee?” The man’s droopy moustache wiggled as he spoke.
“Sounds great.” Harte pulled off his beaver-skin hat and shook out the hair brushing his collar—longer than he preferred. After sitting, he draped the hat over the end of the chair arm. A town this size must have a barber. He’d see about getting a trim.
The number of sheriff offices he’d been inside during the past eight years had to total in the hundreds. He felt comfortable in most where like-minded men went about the business of keeping the peace. In others, he’d been happy to pick up or deliver a prisoner and then get out. In those cases, he’d suspected the law enforcer worked a private agenda that didn’t put serving the public as his number one priority.
“Where are you headed?” The sheriff set a ceramic mug on the edge of the desk.
“Obliged.” Harte lifted the mug and inhaled the rich scent before he sipped the hot brew. Bracing and bitter, just how he liked it. “Making my way toward Helena. But I’m looking forward to sleeping indoors tonight. Nights are getting a bit cold.”
The man’s gaze narrowed. “Is a big trial coming up nearby?”
“Not that I’ve heard. I’m actually hunting for a new line of work.”
“Getting out before you’re carried out, huh?” Giving a nod, Mather rested a boot on the corner of his desk.
Feet first is not a way I want to go. He’d had some close calls himself, but he’d chosen that life. What he couldn’t stomach was when bystanders were involved. “Something like that.” At least Mather understood, which was more than Harte’s boss had done when he received the resignation. He took another sip and grimaced as the hot liquid hit an empty stomach. The hardtack and jerky from midday were long gone. “Can you direct me to a café?” He slid the mug onto the desk.
“Sorry. Town has no restaurants, and the mercantile’s closed.”
Running steps pounded along the street, drawing close. The door thrust open, banging against the wall.
Both men jumped to their feet, hands moving to their pistol handles.
“Sheriff, come quick. Fight at Hardy’s.” A thick man with bushy reddish hair jerked a thumb over his shoulder then pulled in a deep breath.
“On my way, O’Reilly.” The sheriff stretched and grabbed his hat from a wall hook. “Care to come along? For old time’s sake?”
Harte relaxed and blew out a breath. A barroom fight sounded easy enough to handle. There goes my relaxing evening. “Well…”
The sheriff settled his hat on his head. “Back me up, and I’ll share my supper when it’s delivered. Might even let you use a bunk if a cell remains empty.”
“Stooping to bribery?” Harte grinned but couldn’t deny the inducement sounded great. After settling his hat on his head, he followed the man who moved faster than his age would have indicated. Wouldn’t be the first jail cell he’d ever slept in—every time with the door wide open.
Their combined boots beat a steady rhythm on the hard-packed street. Over the last few years of his career, Harte worked alone. Playing sidekick to this experienced sheriff seemed like a good role somehow.
“At least I’ll have pleasant company for an evening.” The sheriff paused and took a deep breath before slapping aside the swinging half-doors. “Hey now, what’s all the ruckus?” Sheriff Mather strode toward the circle of men.
The lawman’s authoritative voice echoed from the rafters. Harte moved inside then sidestepped to the left of the doorway, leaning his shoulders against the wall and scanning the room to take in the situation. From what he could see, the two men had been fighting long enough they both staggered and swayed to get their balance. A few more hits and one, if not both, would be out cold. The worst of the danger was past.
A couple of fancy ladies with rouged cheeks stood to the side, eyes wide.
Their dresses displayed lots of bare flesh, and one might have been the reason for the fight. From the corner of his eye, Harte spotted the flash of steel and the hunched posture of a man shadowing the sheriff’s path. Harte wove his way through abandoned tables until he positioned himself behind the man who stood three or four inches shorter than his height. Harte reached over the man’s shoulder, grasped his wrist, and pinched hard.
“Ow.” The assailant doubled over, and the knife clattered to the floor.
Harte kicked aside the blade, yanked up the man’s arm behind his back, turned him, and marched him through the swinging doors. “Don’t come back tonight.”
Shaking his arm, the dark-haired man frowned. “But my knife…”
“Collect it at the sheriff’s office tomorrow. ’Course, you might have to explain who you’d planned on attacking.”
The man’s eyes rounded then he slunk away.
After retrieving and pocketing the weapon, Harte returned to his guard spot.
Within minutes, the sheriff oversaw the opponents shaking hands and then settled the pair at a table with mugs of steaming coffee in front of them. Taking long strides, Mather headed toward the exit.
After a final look around the saloon, Harte fell in step as they moved along the boardwalk. “No arrests?”
“No need. Stoker and Clemmons get into a fight about once a month. They’re miners working adjacent claims several miles outside of town.” Mather chuckled. “The fight is usually preceded by one of them bragging about who’s pulling in more color or bigger nuggets.” He opened the office door and waved a hand forward. “I’m making my evening rounds. Won’t take long.”
Harte stepped inside.
“That you, sheriff?” A hatchet-faced woman with a ruddy complexion poked her head from the side room. “Just set your supper on the stove in here. Ham hocks, beans, and half a loaf bread with some oatmeal cookies.” Her scowling gaze flicked between the two men.
“Thank you, Missus Murphy.” Mather leaned his head into the doorway and smiled. “Smells delicious.”
“Don’t be wasting your compliments.” She scurried across the floor toward the opened door. “Food’s nothing fancy but it’s filling.”
“Good-night, ma’am.”
“’Night, sheriff. See you in the morning…if no one shoots you dead tonight.”
Harte jerked back his head at the woman’s ill-tempered statement. How often did a shooting happen in this peaceful-looking town? His nose twitched, and his stomach growled at the pleasant yeasty scent of warm bread.
Mather pointed toward the back of the building. “Go stable your horse behind the jail. The stable has an extra stall. We’ll meet back here in ten or so minutes.” The sheriff headed down the street, whistling, then looked over his shoulder. “Plates and flatware are on the shelves. Start eating without me.”
“Will do.” Harte closed the office door then moved to where Blaze waited at the hitching rail, wondering if he should reconsider his career decision. Being sheriff in a town like this one might not be too bad.
~**~
A week later, Harte stood at the window of the sheriff’s office, gazing out on the street as he sipped that morning’s third cup of coffee. Bitterness attacked his mouth from the boiled-too-long brew. When he rode the trail, he rarely had the time to indulge in more than a single cup before heading out. He wasn’t sure how Rand talked him into filling in for a few hours here and there. Or how a shiny deputy’s star now adorned his shirt pocket. Especially since all he got in return was room and board. Today, Harte was on duty by himself, because business called the sheriff to Crenshaw, a town two stops to the west on the railroad line.
He’d benefited from his stay in Sweetwater Springs. Both Blaze and Harte gained much-needed rest. The last chase after robbery suspects tested the posse’s limits, and he’d dropped weight. Regular servings of Missus Musphy’s cooking added needed pounds. Most nights, he bedded on a cot in a vacant cell. Only once had he slept on his bedroll behind the desk due to both cells being occupied—a typical Saturday night, according to the sheriff. All in all, he’d gained more than only the time to think about his job options.
Chasing Adventure Page 2