“I like them,” Wilma calmly declared.
“So do I,” he confided. “But, as a lawman, I have no option but to tread wary with them.”
From the kitchen, the Jeffords retired to the parlor. Wilma relaxed on the sofa, sewing, while her husband sat by the window, catching up on some of his official correspondence. The evening drew on in tranquil fashion, until their peace was shattered by another assault on the front door. Somebody was pounding out there.
Scowling impatiently, Jefford rose from his chair. His wife lifted her eyes from her sewing, smiled roguishly and asked,
“Could they have encountered another cardsharp?”
“Twice in one night?” fretted Jefford. “I surely hope not!”
He hurried from the room and along the hallway to the front door, opened it to find, for the second time that night, the local law on the mat. Tom Gillespie wasn’t as excited as on that first occasion, but his face was grim.
“Sorry, Lane,” he frowned. “Official business.”
“All right,” sighed Jefford. “Let’s hear it.”
“You acquainted with a deputy U.S. marshal name of Wallace?” asked Gillespie. “Corey Wallace?”
“Not personally,” said Jefford, “but I’ve heard of him.”
“He just hit town,” reported Gillespie, “just managed to make it to my office—with a prisoner.”
“What do you mean by ‘just managed’,” demanded Jefford.
“Wallace has a forty-five slug in his shoulder,” said Gillespie. “Doc Banks is digging it now. That prisoner was plenty proddy, but Wallace had him in irons, so he didn’t give us any trouble. Henry stashed him in a cell.”
“And Deputy Wallace,” guessed Jefford, “is asking for me.”
“Urgent, he says,” nodded Gillespie. “You’d better come talk to him, Lane.”
“Be right with you,” said Jefford.
He took his hat from the rack, hurried to the parlor to offer his wife a brief explanation. Within minutes, he was striding along Main Street with Gillespie. The law office and city jail, located in the heart of town, was a scene of some activity. Henry Logan was on the porch, impatiently dispersing a group of inquisitive locals. The towners retreated when Jefford and Gillespie arrived—all save one.
Tobias Fox, the scrawny, sharp-featured editor of the Omaha ‘Gazette,’ insisted on following the lawmen into the office.
“Freedom of the press, marshal,” he smugly reminded Gillespie.
Gillespie glowered at him and muttered a warning.
“If you think I’d let you shoot questions at a wounded lawman, you got another think coming.”
Deputy U.S. Marshal Wallace lay on the office couch. Ed Banks, the eldest of Omaha’s resident physicians, had extracted the bullet and had cleansed the wound. Now, he was applying a dressing and bandages. The patient showed Jefford a rueful smile. He was a muscular thirty-year-old with a shock of fire-red hair.
“Howdy, marshal,” he grunted. “Well—I made it this far.”
“How far were you going?” asked Jefford, as he seated himself beside the couch.
“That heller I nailed,” said Wallace, “is wanted in Laramie.”
“You’re a long way from Wyoming,” Jefford pointed out. “How about extradition?”
“Here’s the warrant, and my identification.” Left-handed, and ignoring the doctor’s muttered reproach, Wallace dug a bulging envelope from his hip pocket and dropped it into Jefford’s lap. “Everything you’re apt to need, marshal. I guess you know what has to be done. I’ll be laid up here in Omaha till this wound heals. You’re the only government lawman within a hundred miles of here, so McKeller is your responsibility now.”
Jefford checked his colleague’s credentials and the warrants.
“An impressive collection,” was his sober comment.
“Sure,” sighed Wallace. “Warrants for every member of the Preston gang. My luck went sour, marshal. I ran into only one of ’em—Whitey McKeller.”
“Maybe it’s just as well,” frowned Jefford. “I’ve heard of the Preston outfit.”
“So have I,” offered Gillespie.
“If you’d run into the whole outfit,” Jefford told Wallace, “you mightn’t be alive to tell of it.”
“Well,” said Wallace, “I ran McKeller down, kept trading shots with him till his iron was empty. Didn’t manage to wing him. He was running. Don’t ask me how I could keep after him—with a bullet in me.”
“Just how did you manage to nail him?” asked Jefford.
“He tripped,” grinned Wallace, “hit his no-good head on a rock. When he woke up, I had him manacled and hog-tied to his horse, and we were on our way.” He stopped grinning abruptly as a spasm of pain bedeviled him. “They want him in Laramie—in the worst way ...”
“That’s enough talk,” growled the doctor. “I’ll have you carried to my place. Got a spare bedroom you can use.”
“Just a couple more words ...” begged Wallace.
“Make it short,” advised Banks.
Wallace squinted up at Jefford.
“Listen, marshal. You’re some older than me, so maybe you won’t appreciate me handing you advice ...”
“Feel free,” shrugged Jefford.
“Make it easy on yourself,” urged Wallace. “Don’t try to take this polecat clear across Nebraska by horseback. He’s mean as a wolf and tricky as a coyote. Why do it the hard way? If there’s a stage service between here and the Wyoming line ...”
“Don’t worry.” Jefford patted his good shoulder. “I’ll think of something.”
Wallace sighed heavily and closed his eyes. The doctor hurried out to the porch and began bawling orders. Within a few minutes, four towners were hefting a stretcher into the office and, under Banks’ supervision, loading the patient onto it. Wallace was carried away.
Grim-faced, Jefford pocketed the warrants and nodded to Gillespie.
“All right, Tom, I’ll take a look at my prisoner now.”
The cell-block entrance was unlocked. With Gillespie tagging him, Jefford strode along the dank-smelling passage to the cell occupied by the desperado. McKeller, a tall, shaggy-haired felon of powerful build and unprepossessing visage, was pacing like a caged animal. His range clothes were shabby and he wore a three-day stubble—blond, matching his shaggy hair. His eyes were cloudy blue, red-rimmed, baleful. For a long moment, he matched stares with Jefford.
“Another one,” he sneered. “Another Federal badge.”
“The name is Jefford,” drawled Jefford.
“And I know what’s in your mind, Jefford,” breathed McKeller. “You figure to ship me to Laramie, huh? Well lemme tell you somethin’! That’s one journey you ain’t gonna enjoy. No siree. Not one little bit.”
“The company won’t be congenial,” Jefford dryly acknowledged, “but I’ll make the most of it.”
“You’re plain loco,” asserted McKeller, “if you think you’re gonna deliver me to the Laramie law.”
“Call me loco then,” said Jefford, curtly, “because I know I’ll deliver you in Laramie.”
“Like hell you will,” scowled McKeller.
“So this,” mused Gillespie, “is one of Erie Preston’s hotshot sidekicks? He doesn’t look so salty right now.”
“When you feed this bird,” muttered Jefford, “take extra precautions. Plant Henry out here with a shotgun and don’t open this door. Shove the food through the bars.”
“Whatever you say, Lane,” frowned Gillespie.
They returned to the office. The Gazette editor was nowhere to be seen, but still within earshot. He was on the porch listening.
“Wallace is dead right,” opined Jefford. “The fastest way will be the easiest way—of taking McKeller to Laramie.”
“Well,” said Gillespie, “if we can help in any way ...”
“I’d be obliged,” said Jefford, “if you’d send Henry down to the railroad depot. The Ohio and Western Special is the fastest service in operation betwe
en here and Laramie, and it hits Omaha in the morning.”
“You think McKeller deserves to travel in style?” grinned Gillespie.
“The hell with what McKeller deserves,” growled Jefford. “My only concern is to get to Laramie as quickly as possible, and the Special could be the answer, provided there’s seating available.” He nodded to the deputy. “Go ahead, Henry. Tell the clerk I’d settle for space in the baggage car.”
He remained in the law office with Gillespie, while Logan hustled downtown to the railroad depot. When quitting the office, Logan didn’t notice the figure retreating into the shadows of the porch. Editor Fox was still on hand, still using his ears. News was news, and all was grist that came to the mill of Tobias Fox.
Logan returned within the quarter-hour, to report,
“It’s all set up. Marshal Jefford and his prisoner’ll be travelin’ in the rear car.”
Chapter Four: The Fury of Wilma Jefford
Larry and Stretch, having purchased tickets for the Special’s western run from Omaha, had retired to their hotel to pack a couple of carpetbags. As was their habit, they would travel light. They had no intention of remaining in Oregon. On Larry’s suggestion, they had booked their return passage. An Omaha veterinarian had agreed to accommodate Larry’s sorrel and Stretch’s pinto.
While the Texans were packing, Marshal Jefford was in conversation with his wife in the bedroom of their Havelock Avenue home.
“A routine chore,” he assured her, “but I’m sorry it had to happen at this time. We’ve had several weeks of just …” he shrugged, as he began unfastening his shirt, “… just being together. And it’s been mighty pleasant, Wilma.”
“Like a second honeymoon,” she reflected.
“We’ve been married less than a year,” he frowned, “but I’d call you a typical lawman’s wife. There have been other separations. You have to expect it. You haven’t complained before ...”
“And I won’t start protesting now,” she declared. “You’ll have enough on your mind—without fretting about me.
“Don’t worry.” He flashed her a reassuring grin. “I’ll be concentrating on my chores. I don’t mind having to leave you behind, in a town as civilized as Omaha.”
“Answer me one question,” she begged, “and honestly.”
“Ask away,” he offered.
“Will it be dangerous for you?” she demanded.
“Not especially,” said Jefford. “McKeller is headed for the gallows. Oh, he’ll stand trial in Laramie, and that trial will be fair enough, but there can be no doubt as to the outcome So …”
“So,” she frowned, “he has nothing to lose by giving you a difficult time of it.”
“Every transient prisoner,” declared Jefford, “gives his escort a difficult time. We expect it—and we take all the necessary precautions.”
“Could this lawman’s wife ask what precautions are being taken, in this particular case?” Wilma smiled wistfully. “You must pardon my curiosity. I happen to have a deep personal interest in the lawman concerned.”
“Gillespie’s deputy,” said Jefford, “is telegraphing the law authorities of every overnight stop along the route. At every depot, the local law will be waiting. The prisoner will be accommodated in a regular jail cell during those overnight stops. When I collect him each morning, there’ll be at least two guards to help me escort him back to the train.”
“And while you’re traveling?” she demanded.
“I’ll keep him in irons,” Jefford promised.
She nodded pensively.
“You’ll need an early breakfast,” she murmured.
“Yes,” said Jefford, “I want to be at Tom’s office before nine.”
At 8.45 of the following morning, after a substantial breakfast, Marshal Jefford hugged and kissed his spouse, buckled his Colt about his loins and left his home on Havelock Avenue to walk briskly to the town jail. Exactly ten minutes before train time, he escorted his prisoner out of the jailhouse and into an open wagon. McKeller’s right wrist was secured to Jefford’s left with handcuffs. Deputy Logan drove the wagon. Tom Gillespie squatted in back with the Federal lawman, and kept a sawn-off shotgun pointed at the prisoner for every yard of the journey.
Reaching the railroad depot, they marched McKeller out to the platform and along to its rear end. The two tall Texans, perched on a stack of freight and puffing at cigarettes, watched the lawmen with casual interest. Quietly, Larry commented,
“It looks like the marshal is comin’ along. Him and a prisoner.”
“It looks like,” agreed Stretch. “And I ask you—did you ever see a hombre so ornery? Ain’t he a mean one?”
“Bad medicine,” opined Larry.
On schedule, the Special steamed into the Omaha depot. The gleaming locomotive huffed and puffed past the waiting lawman. There was a screeching of brakes and, when the train halted, they found the rear observation platform directly in front of them. Logan rammed the muzzle of his Colt into McKeller’s back. Gillespie nudged Jefford, and said,
“Don’t forget. Your first overnight stop is Cargell City. Sheriff Crehan and his deputy’ll be waiting at the depot. There’s a mid-afternoon stop at Gimbie Peak, but that’s just for fuel and water. Nobody leaves the train.”
Wilbur Aldworth had descended from the club car and was bustling along the platform to greet them. Introductions were exchanged. The conductor checked the tickets, and suggested,
“I’d best get you and your prisoner aboard first, marshal. Don’t reckon those other two passengers’ll mind waitin’ a couple minutes.”
Jefford and McKeller followed him, climbing the steps to the observation platform, then moving in through the doorway to the rear passenger car. All eyes turned their way. Wilbur checked the available accommodation. Almost every seat was occupied now. There was a spare double facing the Coyote Gulch saloonkeeper and that purty Chapman lady. He ruled against seating the lawman and his prisoner there. Another space on the opposite side of the aisle. He nodded to it.
“That one, marshal.”
“Obliged,” said Jefford. “Let’s go, McKeller.”
He hustled his prisoner along the aisle and forced him into the window seat, then sank down beside him. Wilbur returned to the depot platform, greeted the Texans cordially and examined their tickets.
“Uh huh. You didn’t book a private compartment?”
“We’re the sociable kind,” explained Stretch. “Wouldn’t wanta be cooped up just by our lonesome. I’d get weary of lookin’ at my partner’s face.”
“And I’d get twice as weary,” countered Larry, “lookin’ at his. We’d as lief travel with your other passengers.”
“Sure,” grinned Wilbur. “You can sit opposite of Tim Blake and the lady—couple of real nice folks.”
Toting their carpetbags, they tagged Wilbur to the rear carriage. The West’s most fiddle-footed nomads were, for once in their lives, rigged to sartorial perfection. Drifting on horseback, they invariably wore the garb of the veteran range-rider, liberally coated with trail dust. But such clothing would never do for the pride of the Ohio & Western, as Larry had pointed out the night before.
They both sported brand new black Stetsons, white cotton shirts, string ties, fancy vests and highly-polished boots. Their suits were of gray broadcloth, the best quality. Of course, the hang of those well-tailored coats was broken by the bulge of their hardware, without which they wouldn’t have traveled from one side of Omaha’s main street to the other. Larry’s Colt was slung to his right hip from a well-stocked cartridge belt, and housed in a tied-down holster. Stretch, as usual, toted twice as much .45 as his partner, matched Colts in holsters at either hip.
Into the rear carriage they followed Wilbur, nodding affably to any passengers who chanced to glance their way. Wilbur led them to the seat opposite that occupied by Adelaide Chapman and Tim Blake, then went his way.
They seated themselves, doffed their Stetsons to Addy, caught Jefford’s eye and raised their
hands in casual salute. The little saloonkeeper’s eyes gleamed in sudden excitement.
“Hey! I’ve seen you boys before, and I never forget a face. Ain’t you Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson?”
“Your memory is sharper than mine, little feller,” frowned Larry. “Durned if I can recall where I last saw you.”
“You didn’t, Larry,” grinned Tim. “We was never introduced proper, but I sure as heck remember you. Coyote Gulch, Wyomin’ Territory. Two years back? You started a ruckus at the Austin Saloon, and ...”
“Friend ...” Stretch eyed him reproachfully, “we never start a ruckus. It’s always the other fellers.”
“All I know,” chuckled Tim, “is that ruckus near put Austin out of business, and he was competition for my place—the Prairie Queen—so I was sure obliged to you. Time you got through with Austin and his pards, that saloon of his was bust into little-bitty pieces.”
“Austin.” Larry searched his memory. “Oh, sure. I recall him now. His roulette wheel was rigged. His whisky was watered. All his dealers were sharpers, and his barkeep was a Texas-hater.”
“Blake’s my handle,” offered the little man. “I’m ‘Tim’ to my friends. Like to have you boys meet Miss Addy Chapman. Addy—say howdy to Larry and Stretch. You got any notion who they are?”
“I’m sorry, but no,” frowned Addy.
And, right away, she realized her mistake. She had given the wrong answer. Her new friend was blinking at her as though doubting the evidence of his ears.
“But, gosh, Addy, you must’ve heard of ’em! I bet every man or woman that ever worked in a saloon has heard of the Lone Star Hellions. Why—they’ve been in and outa jail, and raisin’ hell for nigh on ten-fifteen years!”
“I wish Tim’d quit flatterin’ us,” mumbled Stretch. “It embarrasses me—on accounta I’m plumb modest.” He grinned sheepishly at Addy. “No call for you to get nervous, Miss Addy. OF Larry and me, we’re harmless.”
She rallied quickly.
“Larry and Stretch? Well, of course I’ve heard of you. At first, I didn’t catch the names.” She hesitated a moment, then extended a hand and flashed them a smile. “Glad to meet you.”
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