by A. T. Butler
“All right. I’m there. What do I need to know?”
“Bring gear for a few days and meet me in front of my office at dawn. I’ll take care of everything.”
Chapter Three
The following morning, Jacob was up well before dawn. The marshal had apologized for asking him to leave home and travel on a Sunday, but the bounty hunter knew that justice never slept. It was far more important that they avert the disaster waiting the First Bank of Olmos than they observe the Sabbath. God would understand.
So, early Sunday morning, Jacob had all his supplies packed. He knew his horse could be made ready quickly, but he wasn’t quite prepared to leave town just yet. He needed to say a better good-bye to Bonnie. True, she was understanding and accommodating—more so than he could have even hoped for. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be left behind without a word.
Using his shaving kit as a makeshift desk on his knee, Jacob scrawled out a note to her. After the first couple sentences, apologizing for having to leave and wishing her a pleasant few days, Jacob was at a loss for how to proceed. How much should he say to her? How committed was he to their future together? How much did he want to promise?
After sitting for several minutes without coming up with anything brilliant, Jacob decided that would have to be enough. He had never been good in writing anyway. He had always said the words that he had in the moment. Whatever he had in his heart to say could wait until he came back safely to her and he could tell her in person.
He folded up the note and realized he didn’t have an envelope. Instead he simply wrote her name on the outside of the folded paper and was thankful he hadn’t written anything more personal in the note. There was no possible way that her landlady Mrs. Withers would find the note on the front porch unsealed and not read it for herself. Given that Mrs. Withers didn’t like him much, Jacob would just count it fortunate if she even deigned to give the note to Bonnie at all.
He had just enough time to stop by her boarding house and tuck the note between the door and the doorframe before meeting the marshal. That would have to be good enough. She would understand. She always understood. And he could say more about how he felt when he came home to her.
That set of a train of thought as Jacob made his way to the center of town to meet with Santos and the deputies. He had a few minutes before dawn and in those short moments the idea of having a home to come to, a place where Bonnie was waiting for him. A place that had warmth, love and maybe a dog, so very different from the boarding house in which he was now living.
He would have to give this idea more thought. His wife had only died less than a year previously, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to think about anyone taking her place.
But if anyone could fill the place of Louisa, it was Bonnie Loft.
This thought put a relaxed smile on his face as he made his way to the marshal.
“Morning, Payne,” Santos called across the empty street where he and Deputy Lowry stood jawing by their horses. “We get going now, we’ll be in Olmos by supper.”
Deputy Little arrived a moment later and soon all four of the men were on the trail north to Olmos. Over the several hours they spent riding together, breaking for a midday meal and to water the horses, Jacob kept his mouth shut. He was plenty happy to listen to the other men plan and plot and stay out of it himself. The bounty hunter had agreed to come along with Santos with the understanding that he’d just be an extra gun. When the deputies and the marshal got to talking about how they would handle the outlaws and what kind of trap they would be setting, Jacob just stayed out of it. He could take direction just fine.
Even though he had plenty of ideas and questioned the timeline of Deputy Little’s plan, that wasn’t Jacob’s job. That was not what he was here for. He resolved to do what was asked of him, and let his wound heal so he could be of more use in the future.
True to Santos’s prediction, the four men rode into the town of Olmos about supper time. This late in the year it was after dark and they had only the illumination coming through the saloon, hotel and jail windows to light their way. Every other business was closed for the day or off the main street.
The dark, imposing structure of the First Bank of Olmos stood just across the street from the Ferguson Hotel, where Santos was leading them.
“This is perfect,” Santos said standing in the street and looking up at the hotel. “I’ll make sure we get those rooms facing the front, and we can post lookouts right there.”
Jacob glanced up at the front of the building. Those rooms would have the perfect view of the bank, but also potentially be right in the line of sight for anyone in the street who thought to look. But, he reminded himself, it was not for him to judge or decide. Jacob was merely there to follow orders.
Santos led the way into the hotel. The counter was deserted, but as he cleared his throat and stepped heavily on the wooden floor, the round, mustached face of a young man trying to make himself look older appeared in the doorway to the back of the room.
“Evening,” he said pompously. “Can I help you gentlemen? Looking for a room?”
Santos flashed his badge. “You certainly can. U.S. Marshal. We’re going to need two rooms at least. Four beds. Front of the house so we can overlook the street.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
“I don’t care what you have to tell the people already in those rooms. Your sheriff will back me up.”
“I… But—” The young man stammered helplessly for another moment, looking from one man to another as though one of Santos’s companions would help him.
“What’s your name, son?” Santos asked, more gently this time.
“W. Henry Ferguson,” the young man said, standing to his full height and thrusting out his chest like a barnyard cock. “This is my hotel and I can’t be turning out my patrons at this time of night. I’m sure you understand.”
“And I’m sure you understand that interfering with the doling out of justice is enough cause for me to arrest you as well,” Santos replied serenely. “Or maybe you’re in league with the perpetrators. If you’re not going to aid a U.S. Marshal in the simple task of hospitality, maybe instead you can direct me to the Olmos jail?”
Ferguson cleared his throat nervously and adjusted his tie. “No.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat again. “No, sir. That— That is I surely can direct you there, but there’s no need for any talk of arrest. I’ll … Give me just a few moments, Marshal, and I’ll see what I can do.”
When he left the four men alone, Santos beckoned them closer.
“We’ll finalize the plan tonight. Now that I see the layout of this street and the distances we are dealing with I’ve got some ideas.”
“Will we have time to make adjustments?” Jacob asked.
He peered out through the front window of the hotel into the street. The street seemed narrow enough that they should be able to control the flow and access to the building. That was just a guess, though. From this distance he could make out the shape of the bank building, but no details. It was far too dark.
“Stone’s girl said the plan was to attack on Tuesday. The stagecoach leaves early Wednesday morning to take the bags of cash back east to the shareholders offices, so we can expect Stone to attack by the end of the day Tuesday. He’ll surely want to wait as long as possible for as much dinero as he can get his hands on.”
The deputies nodded.
“So we got all day tomorrow to get our plan in place?” Lowry asked.
“That’s right. And we won’t want to waste a minute. Just in case he hits the bank early.”
Jacob hoped that the marshal’s information was correct. Elliott “Slippery” Stone was no greenhorn. If he even had a hint of their presence, he’d slip away without a sign. Arriving in town after dark should help their presence there stay quiet, though Jacob doubted the wisdom of throwing patrons out of their rooms. All that would do is draw more attention to them.
“We’ll have time,”
Santos continued. “It’s not like you boys are going to be up drinking on a Sunday night anyway, right? We’ll get some grub and head to bed. Tomorrow morning you all better be ready to hit the streets first thing.”
Ferguson returned to the hotel counter at that moment and cleared his throat again.
“Well?” Santos said without preamble.
“Yes, sir. I, uh… the rooms you requested are empty for you now. Number three and four upstairs. Can I show—”
“No,” Santos said, interrupting. “We’ll be fine.”
Jacob followed the marshal and the deputies up to their hotel rooms. If he were running the show, things would be handled differently. But, he reminded himself, he wasn’t. He was just another pair of hands. He kept his mouth shut and made his way to his room.
Chapter Four
Jacob blinked into the dark room. He felt like he had only just fallen asleep after the full day’s ride. As he slowly came to consciousness, the memory of the day before came back to him. The snores of Deputy Little nearby were not enough to wake him, and yet Jacob lay in his bed wide awake anyway. It was still predawn, early enough that there was no light to be had anywhere, no business with lit windows, no gleam of sunlight coming over the horizon.
Jacob sat up in bed, putting his stockinged feet on the wooden floor quietly so as not to disturb the deputy. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. As he began to wake, the bounty hunter became conscious of his heart pounding. He couldn’t go back to sleep now if he tried. If it weren’t for the fact that he knew it would be bad for his still-healing wound, he could chase down an outlaw this very moment.
And this was in spite of the fact that it seemed to be the middle of the night. His pocket watch sat on the bureau on the other side of the room, but it would be too dark to see the clock face anyway. Whatever time it was, Jacob knew he was up for the day. As the deputy continued to snore lightly, Jacob felt around the room blindly for his trousers, boots and other belongings. At one point he accidentally ran into the footboard of Little’s bed—the deputy jolted, turned over, and settled again into his steady sleep.
Jacob found the door to their room, crept out and down the stairs. A warm, dim light led the way. Someone had lit a lamp in the office.
When he crossed the threshold into that front room, Jacob noticed W. Henry Ferguson hunched over the counter. He sat on a tall stool with a ledger book open in front of him, with a pencil in hand and another two sitting next to him. Leaning on one elbow, Ferguson absentmindedly gnawed on his fingernails and pored over the contents of the book in front of him.
Jacob cleared his throat.
“Wha—” Ferguson said with a start. He stood up from his stool and looked around frantically, his eyes resting on Jacob’s tall frame in the doorway. Jacob could see the moment he recognized him—the young man stood up taller and puffed his chest out. “Mister … Deputy? What can I do for you, sir? I hope your room is to your liking.”
Jacob heard the sarcastic bite in his tone and elected to ignore it. Likely the boy didn’t intend rudeness, but had just been surprised.
“It is. Just couldn’t sleep.” Jacob pulled out his pocket watch now that he could see it. “Four o’clock, huh? Are you always up this early in the morning?”
Ferguson remained standing at attention, watching Jacob warily. “I am, sir. Is that a problem?”
Jacob shrugged. “No. Not a problem. Just glad to not be alone this early, I guess.”
Ferguson didn’t respond. The two men regarded each other for another quiet moment before Jacob tried again.
“I don’t suppose there’s anywhere around here I could get some coffee, is there? Or do I need to wait another hour or two for your cook? Or, if you’ve got an apron I suppose I could rustle something up myself.”
Ferguson chuckled. Jacob thought to himself that if the young man stopped taking himself so seriously he might leave a better impression on his guests.
“I can help you with that,” Ferguson said, closing the ledger book and tucking it under the counter. “Follow me.”
Jacob grinned and happily followed the man who would set him up with a cup of hot coffee.
“What’s your name again, deputy?” Ferguson asked over his shoulder. He led Jacob through one doorway, a tiny hallway, and then a second doorway until they had entered the dark dining room of the saloon.
“I’m not a deputy. Just a bounty hunter. Name’s Jacob Payne. I work with the marshal quite a bit, and he said he just needed another gun on this job.”
“A bounty hunter?” Ferguson stopped and turned to look Jacob up and down. “You kill a lot of men, then, Mr. Payne?”
Jacob flinched inwardly. It had been a point of pride that he had not once brought an outlaw in dead, but that streak had ended just a few days earlier.
“No. I don’t,” he replied coldly. “Just one in this line of work.”
“Only one?”
“Only one,” Jacob confirmed.
Ferguson nodded and continued their path through the dining room to the small kitchen behind the bar. At this time of morning the tabletops were mostly clear and waiting for their master to come settle in for the day.
“Seamus Maloney,” Jacob said. Now that the subject had been breached he couldn’t stop thinking about it. “He had robbed a stagecoach and murdered seven of the people on board.”
“Goodness,” Ferguson said. He set about to build the fire and heat up water while Jacob stood in the doorway and continued his reminiscence.
“I went after him. He had to meet his justice, you understand. When I found him, I gave him every chance,” he said sorrowfully. “But some men just can’t—or won’t—make the choice to preserve their own life. It was either kill him or be killed myself.”
“Is he the one that gave you that gut shot?” Ferguson asked.
Jacob sighed and nodded. “Seamus Maloney. I’ll never forget that name as long as I live.”
“I’m sure getting that man out of the public is the best thing to happen for all of us. He sounds like a real bad guy.”
“You’re right,” Jacob said. “It was for the best. I just sure wish it could have happened differently.”
After a short respectful moment of silence, Ferguson cleared his throat again. “Mr. Payne the coffee will be ready shortly. You wanna go find yourself a seat out there? You don’t have to wait in here.”
Jacob had only been seated for a moment when he heard footsteps coming toward the dining room through the hallway leading back to the hotel. Firm, heavy boots sounded on the wooden floor. Jacob looked up to see U.S. Marshal Owen Santos enter. With just the two of them in the otherwise empty room, the marshal made a beeline for the bounty hunter.
“I thought I heard voices,” he said. “Glad to see you’re already up, Payne.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Jacob said. “You too?”
Santos pulled out a chair opposite Jacob and sat. “We’ve got a lot to do and I don’t want to risk missing this chance to nab Stone.” He sounded more bitter than Jacob had ever heard him. “He’s slipped through my fingers more than any other.”
“We’ll get him, Marshal.”
“We’d better. He’s been evading me for more than a year already.”
“What’s his story?”
Santos shrugged. “Who knows. First I heard of him was in a telegram from the sheriff in St. Louis warning me that he was headed this way. I’ve picked up a few things here and there from when we’ve captured members of his gang, but I don’t know how much of it is true. Some even seems to contradict the others. But the best I can tell, he was on his way to Oregon but lost his family somehow around Missouri, before they got much farther.”
“And then he just … what? Started robbing banks and killing people?” Jacob glanced toward the kitchen. The sharp aroma of coffee was beginning to fill the air.
“Robbing banks, yes. I don’t know when the murders started, although, now that you mention it I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Stone himself k
illing someone. Everything that can be pinned on him specifically is the thieving.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not responsible.”
“You’ve got that right,” Santos agreed. “Which is why we gotta get him. This is our best chance, Payne.”
“We’ll get him, Marshal,” Jacob assured him.
Ferguson entered, carrying three mugs of steaming coffee. Jacob stood to help him, taking one of the drinks from him.
“Good morning, Marshal,” he said. “Sorry this is all I have for you. I’m afraid I’m a poor cook. But Fitz should be here soon, I imagine, and we can get you set up with breakfast. Gotta keep you fed if you’re gonna be protecting the town, I imagine.”
“Thank you,” Santos said gruffly.
“I hope I’m not being presumptuous,” Ferguson ventured, “but I overheard you talking about Elliott Stone. The Slippery Stone Gang? You expect them here?”
The young man seemed to be valiantly striving to hide the fear in his voice.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing,” Santos assured him. He blew on his coffee to cool it before continuing. “You just give me the access I need and we’ll have no problem.”
“Are the rooms satisfactory, then?”
“They are.”
“Well, Marshal, whatever you need, just let me know,” Ferguson said importantly. “In fact, if I may be so bold …”
Jacob and Santos exchanged an amused look. For someone who gave them such trouble the previous evening, the young man seemed mighty inclined to ingratiate himself to them now.
“What’s that, Mr. Ferguson?” Jacob said.
“You might try to talk to Fitz when he gets here. I don’t know his full story, only that he has had some experience with Stone’s gang. Any insight or understanding you can get here in town, he can at least point the way.”