Ropin' the Moon

by Deborah Camp

  Gentry pointed to Dalton’s gun. “All dressed up in your fancy riggin’ and full of confidence. But you don’t know what you’re up against.”

  “I’ll rely on you to fill me in on what I need to know.”

  “Things aren’t so bad here that we need to have a hired gun as our marshal.” He pulled his suspenders up onto his shoulders.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  He squinted at him. “All my life.”

  “That so? You were born here?”

  “Yep. Something wrong with that?”

  “No, not at all. You fought in the war?”

  “I did. In 1863, but I was wounded and discharged.” He rubbed his right side. “Fell off my horse and busted my hip bone at Chancellorville.”

  “That was a bad one.”

  “It was,” he agreed. “Whereabouts are you from? You talk kinda funny.”

  “Do I?” Dalton smiled, having heard that comment about his Eastern accent before. “I hail from New York.”

  “New York? Why’d you come west?”

  “My uncle has a ranch in Atchison County. My folks sent me there to work most every summer.”

  “What did you do in the war?”

  “I was in the 59th Regiment.” He saw the surprise and respect glimmer in the older man’s eyes.

  “That so? You fought at Gettysburg, did you?”

  He nodded. “And Antietam.”

  Gentry shuffled his boots and stared down at them for a few moments of silence. “Glad that’s all over and done with.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “You learn all that fast-drawing in the war?”

  “No. I started practicing that at my uncle’s ranch. The cowhands had contests to prove who could draw faster and shoot straighter.” He shrugged. “After a few years, I started winning.”

  Gentry stared at the gun strapped to Dalton’s hip. “Strutting around with that reputation of yours will only bring more trouble to this town. Mark my words.”

  “So, if you’ve lived here all your life, you must know the Pullmans fairly well.”

  “Everybody around here knows them. They’re the biggest land owners in these parts.”

  “Did he buy land after the war?”

  “He had a lot already. His pappy was a rancher. Then Junior bought more when the war ended.” Gentry squinted at him again as if the question irritated him. “That’s not peculiar.”

  “You’re right. Land was a lot cheaper after the war.”

  “I’d just as soon the Pullmans bought it up than some Eastern Yankee come down here and buy it. Junior Pullman was born on that land. His pappy, Nick Senior, settled here first.”

  Removing his hat, Dalton ran a hand through his hair. Gentry’s “Eastern Yankee” comment hadn’t gone unnoticed, but he let it slide. They had fought on the same side, but Otis Gentry evidently didn’t put much stock into anyone who was reared on the Eastern seaboard. “Where could a fella get a good bath in this town?”

  Gentry blinked a couple of times as if the turn in conversation rattled him. “Uh. The hotel, I suppose. They got bath rooms there.”

  Dalton rocked the hat back on his head and rolled his shoulders where the muscles were taut and achy. “I’m going to need some time in a nice, warm tub. I probably smell like a mangy coyote.”

  The front door opened and a man called out, “Otis?”

  “That’s Clive Stover, our know-it-all mayor,” Gentry drawled with undisguised rancor.

  Dalton chuckled under his breath as he strode back into the front office area. “Mayor Stover? I’m Dalton Moon.” He extended his hand to the short, stocky man in a three-piece, brown striped suit and red bow tie. “Pleased to meet you in person.”

  Clive Stover surveyed Dalton from the crown of his hat down to the toes of his boots and a big smile split his round face. “Mr. Moon! I was hoping that was your horse out there.” He pumped his hand. “Welcome to Far Creek.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve just met Deputy Gentry.”

  “Ah, yes.” Stover looked past him to give Gentry a nod. “Otis is an important person in our fair town.”

  Gentry coughed as if he’d choked on something. Dalton turned sideways to look at him and smiled at the man’s mutinous expression. He laid a hand on Gentry’s shoulder and felt him go stiff as a board.

  “I’m looking forward to working with him,” Dalton said, hoping to chip away at the older man’s stony disposition. Otis Gentry had been breaking up fights, pacifying hotheads, and arresting drunks for years in this town. Dalton hoped he’d get over his stinging feelings and be an asset instead of a pain in the ass. If not, he wouldn’t be a deputy for long. Dalton had a job to do and he didn’t have time to coddle a grown man who was nursing a silly grudge.

  “I’m here to welcome you and see what I can do to help you settle in,” the mayor said, drawing Dalton’s attention back to him.

  “I appreciate that. It’s been a long day for me already. How about if we have a sit-down talk tomorrow?”

  “Why, sure.” Stover shook Dalton’s hand again and his gaze drifted to the leather holster bedecked with silver conchos. Excitement glinted in his eyes. “So, you’re fast as lightning with that firearm, I’m told.”

  Dalton rested his palm on the gun’s grip. He didn’t need to brag. Folks did that for him.

  “Tempers are flaring and it’s gotten dangerous to walk these streets on the nights when Pullman’s cowhands show up. They drink too much and they’re wild and ornery. The business owners and others have had enough of them. Somebody’s going to get killed if those ruffians aren’t corralled.” Stover jerked at the lapels of his garish suit jacket. As he’d talked, red color had climbed from his bow tie to his cheeks and his voice rose with agitation. He drew in a calming breath and attempted a smile. “As mayor, I can swear you in now as our marshal.”

  “Oh. Right.” Dalton glanced around and spied a Bible propped on the windowsill. He reached for it and gave it to the mayor, then he laid his left hand on it and lifted his right one.

  “Do you, Dalton Moon, swear to protect and serve the citizens of Far Creek as marshal to the best of your ability, so help you God?” the mayor intoned.

  “I do,” Dalton responded, having made this pledge at least a dozen times before.

  “Then I bestow upon you the mantel of Far Creek’s marshal.” Mayor Stover shook Dalton’s hand to seal the pact. “We’re relying on you, Marshal Moon, to bring peace to our town.”

  Dalton nodded, but didn’t add anything else. He’d taken the pledge and he meant to make good on it. Mayor Stover placed the Bible on the window sill again and strode to the door.

  Stover ran a hand over his balding pate. “Come by the Holland Hotel tomorrow at eight and I’ll buy you breakfast, Marshal. We’ll have our talk then.”

  “I’ll be there,” Dalton said to the mayor’s back as the man left the jailhouse. The Holland Hotel. That’s where that pretty girl had stared at him as if he were wearing a suit of armor and her eyes were magnets.

  He turned back to the deputy. “I’m going to see to my horse and settle in.”

  Gentry motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “Out back. My old swayback Moses is in one stall, but there’s another that’s empty.”

  “Soldier will like having company.”

  The dog stood near the door and whacked his tail against the wall. Dalton stroked the cur’s head and his tail made more racket.

  “Thump, thump,” Dalton said, grinning. “Hey, that’s a good name. Thumper.” He looked at the deputy. “How’s that work for you, Otis?”

  The man quirked one bushy brow at the familiarity, but finally shrugged. “S’okay, I reckon.”

  “Good. Come on, Thumper. You can help me make myself at home.” The dog trotted beside him as he led Soldier to the stables. Moses, a chestnut sorrel gelding with a blazed face, was in the first stall, so Dalton walked Soldier into the other one next to it. “Okay, son. Let’s get this rigging off you.”
>
  He took his time unsaddling the gelding and removing the bit and halter. He rested the saddle and blanket on a bench and then pitched some fresh hay into the feeder bin for Soldier to munch. Rummaging through his saddle bag, he located the curry comb and brush and went to work on Soldier’s damp coat. With gentle strokes, he combed the horse’s long, black mane, smiling when the animal nickered occasionally and when his hide rippled under Dalton’s sure but gentle touch. He loved this horse. He’d bought the flashy buckskin as a two-year old at an army livestock auction in Virginia three years ago. Soldier had proven to be courageous and the smartest steed Dalton had ever come across. Sometimes he swore that the horse could understand his every word and even read his mind! Mostly, he appreciated the solid trust he and Soldier had forged. They’d been through all kinds of weather and terrain, dodged bullets and arrows, and had known thirst and hunger. Soldier had seen him through triumph and terror. Most of the time, the horse was the only soul Dalton could completely trust.

  He patted the gelding’s rump and left him to his feed, locking the stall gate securely before ambling toward the narrow door that opened to the tack room that was barely long enough for the cot shoved up against the far wall. A small wood stove squatted near the door. Tack hung from nails along the wall nearest him. He noted the kerosene lantern sitting at the foot of the bed and the straw-strewn earthen floor.

  “Well, Otis didn’t sell this place short,” he muttered, kicking at the straw and setting some lazy flies into motion. He sniffed and coughed. The bed had no linens or pillow. Just a thin, stained mattress atop a rope bed that didn’t make him yearn for a lie-down on it.

  He’d been provided better accommodations in other towns. The last place he’d been, the town had turned over a small house to him while he’d marshaled there. This was about as poor an excuse for lodging as he’d experienced in his travels.

  With a sigh, he backed out of the cramped area and walked with purpose toward the dry goods store. He needed to buy a few items before it closed for the day. Then he’d spend the night in the hotel where he would take a bath and wash the road stink off him. He looked forward to a night on a decent mattress in a clean room before he would make the stable his home for the duration of his stay in Far Creek.

  Chapter 2

  Before checking into the Holland Hotel, Dalton had taken a stroll to acquaint himself with Far Creek’s main business district. The collection of businesses offered everything most folks needed from lumber to imported perfume. Several people noticed the badge pinned to his vest and had welcomed him and expressed their relief that he’d arrived. A few had tossed him baleful and even hateful glares and he figured they were either fearful of Pullman’s reaction to his hiring or they didn’t approve of Otis Gentry’s demotion to deputy.

  He had paid the unhappy ones no mind because he knew he’d make a lot more people unhappy before he was through here, and some of those who had welcomed him might soon be demanding that the town council send him packing. His job required stirring things up, stomping on feelings, and forcing snakes to slither out of their hiding places. By the time he was done, people mostly liked him but were glad to see the last of him. Getting to that point, though, would make him a contentious subject. Knowing this, he’d learned to enjoy and appreciate the kind and encouraging words while they flowed.

  The Holland Hotel was two-storied with a sizeable stable behind it. The saloon next door copied it with a balcony running around the top floor. He’d paid extra for a room with a bathtub in it and had relaxed in the copper vessel until his fingers and toes were pruney. The linens on the bed had been clean and scented with lilac. He’d fallen asleep within minutes of resting his head on the down-filled pillow. Awakening refreshed and feeling like a new man, he’d dressed and followed his nose down the stairs to the hotel lobby.

  The aroma of frying bacon, fresh bread, and coffee made his stomach growl. It had been nearly a week since he’d had a decent breakfast. He headed for the restaurant, but paused when the woman behind the registration desk motioned to him. A middle-aged woman with white streaked hair, she’d checked him in last night and her cool regard left no doubt that she wasn’t part of his welcoming committee.

  “Mayor Stover is already in there waiting for you.” She jerked her short chin toward the restaurant. “He’s sitting at one of the tables near the front windows.”

  “Thank you.” He stood by the desk and waited for her to meet his gaze. It took her a few seconds, but she finally did. “Do you own this hotel?”

  “No.” She glanced at him warily, but thawed a little under his friendly smile. “I just work here. Dutch Visser owns the place. I’m Mrs. Brand. Bobbie Sue Brand.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Brand. Are you the hotel manager?”

  “No, Miss Tyrell is. I’m the chambermaid. Did you sleep okay?”

  “I did. The room was clean and the bath water was warm. Couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He hung his hat on a rack near the restaurant door and set the small satchel that held a few amenities along with his gun and holster under it. “Can I leave my things here while I eat, ma’am?”

  She nodded. “Nobody will bother them.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stover was easy to spot, clad in a blue suit, purple vest, and silver and purple bow tie. Dalton nodded to him as soon as he entered the busy restaurant. Nearly every chair was filled. He shook hands with the mayor before taking his seat.

  “I had Agnes pour you a cup of coffee,” Stover noted. “I can vouch for the flapjacks. The cook knows how to make worthy biscuits, too.”

  “This is a bustling place. Is it always like this?”

  Mayor Stover tucked his thumbs in his vest pockets and glanced around. “All day, every day. We have two other eating places. Dorothy Shaw runs a little café called the Golden Spoon on North Street, but it closes at two every afternoon and she won’t open the doors at all on Saturday. Halbert Finch has a place at the east end of Main Street, but the biscuits they turn out are more like hardtack and they only prepare one or two items. You can get soup or stew and maybe a pork chop and beans, if you’re lucky.”

  “Good thing this place is open, then,” Dalton said.

  “Amen to that. But things will change when the railroad lays tracks around here. They’ve even asked if we’d build a depot, and of course we would. We’d be damned fools if we turned that down.”

  “Some changes are good and some are not so good. Like what’s happening here with Pullman fighting tooth and nail to keep the railroad away from his land and this town.” Dalton started to say more, but the words dried on his tongue as he watched a young woman enter the restaurant. She held a ledger and was focused on it, but paused when several men rose from their chairs to speak to her.

  Every sense Dalton possessed zeroed in on her. She stood in a shaft of sunlight that turned her blond hair to shimmering gold and her skin to the color of honey. He knew instantly that she was the young beauty he’d spied when he’d ridden into town yesterday. And she wasn’t a girl fresh out of pigtails as he’d first thought. Oh, no. She was a full grown woman with the curves to prove it.

  “Miss Tyrell, won’t you join us?” a freckle-faced blond man asked as he pulled out a chair for her. The other two fellows at the table grinned like possums.

  “Good morning, John Williams. Thank you, but I’m just passing through. I have work to do.” Her voice held a husky, smoky quality. She flashed the gawking group a fleeting smile as she continued on her way.

  “Miss Tyrell, you’re looking mighty pretty this morning,” a man with a black handlebar mustache said, rising halfway from his chair as she approached his table.

  “Very kind of you to say that, Mr. Berland.” She glanced up from the open ledger in her hands for quick scan of the dining room. Her gaze scampered past Dalton, froze, and swung back to him. She narrowed her eyes slightly and marched toward him.

  Dalton and Mayor Stov
er stood. Dalton admired her as she approached, noting the flags of color rising in her cheeks and the gentle sway of her hips. The skirt of her robin’s egg blue dress swirled around her legs, and the bodice, with its vertical rows of light blue lace, clung to her smallish, but totally adequate breasts. Although she was dressed like a town lady, there was something unbridled about her. He could easily picture her astride a galloping horse, with the wind kissing her face and her golden hair flowing behind her.

  “Good morning, Lacy,” Mayor Stover said. “Allow me to introduce—.”

  “I’m Lacy Tyrell and you’re the new marshal,” she interrupted, her lushly lashed, blue eyes frosting over. “I saw you ride into town yesterday. Otis Gentry is my uncle. I do hope you are half the man he is.”

  Her bluntness threw him for a second. She arched her honeyed brows, waiting for his response, and he had the insane desire to grab her around her waist and kiss her sassy mouth. Instead, he chuckled and shook his head at her audacious challenge to his manhood. “I assure you that I am, Miss Tyrell.” He stared into her summery blue eyes a moment more before taking in the saucy tilt of her chin, and the soft, fullness of her lips. Damn, if she wasn’t a natural beauty! No wonder the men in this room couldn’t take their eyes off her.

  She directed her attention away from him and to the mayor. “With the wages the council approved for Marshal Moon here, he should be able to rid our town of ruffians within a week or two if he earns his keep.”

  “Now, now, Lacy,” the mayor chided her with a smile. “Let’s give the man ample time to settle in and see what he’s up against before we hand him his hat, shall we?”

  She bobbed her shoulders in a gentle rebuke. “I’ll leave you gentleman to your breakfast.”

  They watched her walk to the back of the restaurant and push through a swinging door. Dalton took his seat again, laughing under his breath at the pertinent, young woman.

  “She’s something, that one,” Mayor Stover said with a light laugh as he settled into his chair. “It seems her folks never taught her to hold her tongue.”