This story was inspired by a song: MAMA SAID.  It was written by James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich (1996) and can be found in the album, Load, recorded by Metallica.  It is a beautiful Western song…  

LET THIS HEART BE STILL

by Cat Hicks 

1: The Reunion

March 26^th, 1874; 10:58 AM; Laramie, Wyoming  

Laramie seemed a bit brighter and more cheerful this morning and Jess’ long, quick strides thudding down the boardwalk reflected his pleasure at not having anything more pressing on his mind than getting his friend, Mort Cory, to take him for an early lunch.  After that he could think about getting back to the ranch…  And take care of that bothersome job of repairing the chicken coop Daisy had “asked” him to do.  The chicken wire and the nails were already loaded in the wagon along with the salt and the other food staples on Slim’s short list.  He’d even refilled the medicine for Mike, laid up at home with his left arm in a sling after taking a tumble from the fence, of all things.  Right now, though, it was just too pretty a day to waste it all on mending the chickens’ pen.

Besides, he had to ask Mort about that possible “assignment” the Sheriff had mentioned, needed to know if Mort and his Deputy, Larry Milford, were still required for that trial in Cheyenne next week.  And he must make darn sure the Sheriff wanted Jess Harper to take over as a special Deputy, to “keep the town safe while the regular law was away…”

That brought a reflective smile to his face as he hurried along.  Given his reputation when he first came to Laramie, everyone had walked wide and soft and he never would have considered pinning on a badge or becoming friends with a lawman.  Now people accepted and trusted him to watch over their town.  He supposed the day he’d stumbled onto the Sherman Ranch – and Slim had poked a rifle in his face and told him to scoot before he unintentionally got mixed up in their lives – had worked out to be about the best day of his life…

A lady wearing a jaunty little hat with a long, white feather exited the dress shop with a rustling-swirl of navy and white-striped skirts.  Jess slowed and stepped closer to the street side of the walk, dipped the brim of his hat as she flashed a brief smile at him and swept past pursued by the fragrance of lilacs.  Of course he turned his head to follow her departure with an appreciative backward glance.

Yet the near black material reminded him of something he should think about.  If things went as he hoped, he should take a detour by the widow Ferguson’s place and ask if he could “borrow” one of her three sons to stay at the ranch to help Slim out while he was in town . . . because, as Mort’s “Special Deputy,” Jess had every intention of “workin’ ‘til he dropped” with his feet up on the Sheriff’s desk.

He grinned at that, too…

…and took no notice of the cowboy trotting, spurs a-jingle, across the street kitty-cornered from the bank, dusty brown, wide-brimmed Stetson pulled low over his face and his mind obviously on other things besides what was in front of him.  When the stranger jumped to the sidewalk, he and Jess tried to occupy the same spot at the same time . . . and collided with a solid “thunk!”

The sudden pain in the left side of the jaw nearly knocked Jess unconscious.  He staggered sideways and his right shoulder slammed into the dry goods storefront, just missing Mr. Fisher’s new display window.  He turned his back to the wall to keep his feet under him, worked his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken, blinked tears – and dark spots – from his vision and satisfied himself that the rusty-iron taste of blood in his mouth was from a cut on the inside of his jaw, not the loss of any teeth.  He shook his head, began to hear something besides the ringing that filled his ears.  “Whoa,” he muttered, not quite sure what had happened.

Someone voiced a low moan and Jess finally noticed a man in Texas-style drover’s outfit sitting in the street with his crumpled Stetson jammed over his ears and his head in his hands.  Then he knew what had hit him . . . and his temper flared.  He pushed away from the wall with every intention of giving his “attacker” a piece of his mind – or a piece of his fist…

…until the man moved his head from side to side and Jess clearly heard his neck-bones crackle like dried, dead twigs.

“Oh, damn…” Jess lurched off the walk and onto the dirt.  “Hey, mister; you all right?”

“Was doin’ jest fine ‘til you knocked me down,” the man growled and pried his hat from his ears (but was real careful not to show much of his face while doing so).

“Look, mister,” Jess’ said, a bit less than cordial again, “I’m real sorry I didn’t see you coming, but least you could’a done was watch where you were goin’,” and thrust out his right hand.  “Here; I’ll help...”   

The stranger’s right hand moved toward his pistol!

Jess’ automatic response was to step back, drop his hand to the butt of his gun and slip the hammer thong.  “Mister, you just hold it right there…”

“Jess, are you all right?” someone behind him asked . . . and startled him so he almost pulled in reflex.

Jess sidestepped to his left and farther out into the street where he could watch both speaker and stranger – who’d wisely decided to move his hand away from his revolver.

“Mister Fisher… Yeah, fine.  Just checkin’ on m’friend, here,” he answered and approached the man on the ground once more.

The man had tipped his hat up a little more, revealing an unshaven jaw and a well-formed, if frown-drooped mouth.  He kept his eyes in shadow though.  When Jess again offered his hand – his left hand – the cowboy took the help and, grunting with the effort, hauled his carcass from the ground and began slapping the dust from his chaps and the seat of his britches.

The store owner stood on the edge of the walk, wringing his hands as if he was concerned there might be a lawsuit in the making. “Are you both sure you’re all right? Think I should I go fetch the doctor maybe?  I’d pay for it…”

“I’m fine, Mister Fisher,” Jess answered again, eyes only for this cowboy . . . who kind of reminded him of someone…

The man stopped beating his clothes. “Weren’t no harm done I s’pose,” he said in a thick Texas drawl, “I’ll just be on m’way.”  He then deliberately raised his right hand and touched the lowered brim of his hat with two gloved fingers – which could mean “thanks” or “good day” or “kiss my backside” – stepped around Jess and onto the walk, his jingle-bobs’ ching-chinging against the Texas-star rowels as he strode away.

Jess rubbed his jaw again and moved back onto the planks to watch the man’s retreating back.  There was something a little bit too familiar about this man, the shape of his nose and jaw, or what Jess could see beneath the hat and the weeks’ worth of reddish-brown facial hair.  The man just rang a bell in his mind, someone he’d known a long time ago.  Of course the years would change a boy a lot, but the man’s longer than average brown hair that curled out from beneath his hat and over his ears certainly recalled a memory…

A blue-eyed kid with slightly crooked nose, curly light-brown hair and the shapely lips of a girl…

On a spur of the moment, Jess yelled, “Hey! Darrell McDouglas!”

The man lurched to a stop, his back gone straight and stiff, and made a slow, cautious turn to face Jess with his hands held away from his body – like someone who’d been called out before.  But instead of reaching for his pistol, he pushed his hat all the way up on his forehead to show a surprised expression that quickly turned into a crooked smile.

“Be damned…  When I heard the name…  But…  Jess Harper, is that honest-t-god you?” he yelled and came striding “musically” back down the sidewalk. “Boy, I just thought that knock you give me might ‘a just rattled m’ brains, but…  Gawddam!”

Jess advanced with equal vigor, smiling fit to split his face.  They stopped two feet apart, grinned at each other for a second before they grabbed each other in a hug and pummeled the other’s back.

“Jess Harper!  I figured I’d never see you again!” Darrell said, pushing away and holding his friend at arm’s length before letting his hands drop.

“Wasn’t sure myself, Darrell,” Jess finally managed to say, his “Texas-drawl” suddenly more pronounced.  “I come back to Saunders’ Crossing after the war to find you, but you and your Ma’d lit out years before.  Heck, most of what passed for a town ain’t there any more either!  Where’d you go?”

Darrell shrugged.  “Moved around some I reckon.”

“Well, it’s good to see you now, even with all that ‘fuzz’ on your face,” Jess teased and reached out a gloved finger to touch the beginnings of a real beard on his chin.

Darrell jerked his head back and playfully slapped the hand away.  “Hey, now, we ain’t that familiar.  I just ain’t had no time to scrape it off yet.”

“Well, what’er you doin’ here in Laramie?”

Darrell gave him a sideways look.  “What’m I doin’ here?” He punched Jess lightly on the arm.  “What the hell you doin’ here?”

“I live around here,” Jess half-laughed and tossed out a gesture.  “I work at the Sherman Ranch and Overland Relay Station ‘bout twelve miles north of town.”

Darrell’s smile faltered a second before it bloomed afresh.  “You don’t say…  Well, how ‘bout that…  Me, I’m just passing through, but…  Damn, Jess, it’s good to see you again!  What’s it been?  Ten years at least?”

Jess laughed, “More or less.”

All at once Jess became aware that their little “homecoming” was turning in to a public spectacle.  Mr. Fisher stood in his doorway with a couple of his customers and several other shopkeepers and folks had come out to watch what was going on.  Some odd passersby had even paused, eager to discover who this stranger was their own Jess Harper seemed so happy to see.

Jess’ face got hot and he lowered his voice as he leaned in close. “Let’s you and me take this reunion some’er’s else.  The Palace Saloon’s right down the street,” and lifted his chin to indicate somewhere over his friend’s shoulder.  “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Darrell yanked his hat brim down again, nodded and whispered, “If yur buyin’ – and even if you ain’t – even a beer sounds mighty good.  Let’s duck out’a this sideshow.”

They beat a hasty retreat down the walk, crossed the street in front of a wood-hauler, jumped up to the boardwalk and pushed through the batwings.  It was cool, dark and mostly empty.  Jess nodded to the two older men at the front table as he and Darrell passed, stepped to the bar to order and pay Sam for two beers while his friend kept jingle-jangling to a table in the farthest, darkest corner at the back.

Darrell sat down with his back to the side wall, giving him a clear view of both the stairway and the front of the saloon while no one would be able slip up from behind.

This “insurance position” was not lost on Jess as he brought their glasses to the table.  At one time he’d have never sat down unless he could put his back to the wall and see the whole room.  But that was some time ago and he eyed Darrell now as he set the full mugs down, then took his hat off and tossed it on the table, too.  A second later, his black gloves followed the hat before he pulled out the chair and sat down to Darrell’s right, his back exposed to the room.

Darrell’s brows went up in surprise.  “Right comfy with this place, are yah?”

Jess nodded, took a sip of his beer.  “Been here awhile.”

“Thought I heard your name mentioned once or twice some years back, somethin’ about a range war and a hired gun?” Darrell said and cocked his head at him before he took a sip from his glass.

Jess shrugged, flashed a smile.  “That was a long time ago, m’friend,” and hoped that subject was dropped.

Darrell shrugged as if to say, “Your funeral,” set his beer down, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  “So, now you just chase cows and hitch horses for a livin’, huh?  Be a peaceful man now,” he said and purposefully eyed Jess’ low-slung rig.

Jess quirked a smile.  “Try to be.  Most times…”

Darrell chuckled, shook his head and then got real sober-faced.  “Say, I was real sorry to hear about your folks, Jess.  Remember seein’ ‘em all a few times at the Crossin’.  Always on Sundays as I recall.”

Jess nodded. “Yeah, well… Ma always tried to bring us all in for Easter if the weather held.”

“So, what happened . . . after?”

Jess set his beer down and brushed two fingers over his lips.  “My older sister, Francie, me and John was all that was left, so we got passed around some kin for awhile, mostly no-account Harper’s that lived in north-east Texas.  Wanted to come back to the Crossing to tell you, but…” he lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “just never got the chance ‘til I got back to Texas after the war.”

Darrell nudged his hat up a little higher on his forehead before he raised his beer like a salute.  “I can not believe you got into that fight.  You weren’t much older than me . . . ‘less you learnt to play the drum after you left,” he flashed a smile and took a hefty swallow.

“I lied,” Jess grinned and winked at him.  “Had to get away form m’kin, so told this officer that came through I was seventeen and wanted to join up.  He sure eyed me up an’ down, but he let me tag along just the same.  Course I was a bit shy of that age at the time.”

Darrell laughed, “A bit shy?  I’d guess!  Suspect all that shootin’ and killin’ had you growin’ up mighty quick, though.”

“I reckon so,” Jess answered in a neutral-voice and tried not to think of what happened when the war ended for him a bit sooner than it had for the rest of the Confederacy.

Darrell traced a gloved finger over the moisture collecting on his glass, drew in some air and let it out in a breathy, “Well… I didn’t hear about that fire for a long, long time; not much news come through Saunders’ Crossing from out where you lived.  First thought maybe you didn’t want to come visit me no more, that you jest got tired of helpin’ me with m’chores and listin’ to my Ma’s preachy old sayin’s,” and he flashed a grin – or a grimace.

Jess leaned his elbows on the table and answered, “Not hardly.  I might never have told her, but I kind ‘a liked hearin’ some of those sayin’s your Ma had handy.

“How is your mother, Darrell?”

Darrell’s face went neutral.  He shook his head.  “Don’t know.  Finally got shut of her maybe . . . eight . . . nine years ago.”

Jess’ brows came down.  “Lord, Darrell, you ain’t seen her for that long?  I recall she always looked kind of poorly.  Never thought you’d just up an’ leave the only part of your family you had left without at least checkin’ up on her now and again.”

Darrell chuffed a, “Like hell…  Why should I?  All she ever done was sermonize at me and cling on t’ me like a leach.”

That stopped Jess cold with his glass halfway to his lips.  He set it down and just looked at the man, so thunderstruck he couldn’t think of a response.

Darrell saw the look on Jess’ face and leaned over his beer.  “Look, Jess, Ma ‘needed’ me only to help hang up other people’s washin’ and hear all her . . . lectures,” he growled.  “You might a’ liked her preachin’, but you didn’t have to live with it day and night.”

“Darrell… She’s your mother.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t there all the time, Jess,” he insisted.  “You didn’t know how she was stranglin’ me to death with what she thought was ‘love.’  She’d hardly let me out of her sight for more ‘n a few minutes, so I had to sneak off and steal whatever time I could…”  He sent Jess a crooked smile. “Except when you come in with y’er Pa and brother once a month er’ so for supplies.  She’d let me go with you.”

Jess raised his glass and took a swallow, but when he set it down, he was frowning again.  “I liked your Ma.  Maybe she even liked me, too, but she is your mother and you should have a little more respect...”

Darrell snorted.  “Oh, I know she liked you, Jess.  You was the son she wished she’d had…”

Jess leaned over the table.  “That ain’t true, and you know it ain’t.”

Darrell just stared back at him, picked up his glass and downed most of the contents before he came up for air and asked, “I ever tell you my full name?”

Such drastic change of subject took Jess by surprise.  He gave him a thoughtful frown.  “Seems you told me once, but what’s that got to do…”

“Let me put some explanin’ on you, then,” Darrell interrupted and leaned over the table to make it even more private.  “Honest-t-god, Ma saddled me with Darrell Clayton Ryder McDouglas.”

Jess cocked his head.  “So?  Lot of folks…”

Darrell raised his hand and forged ahead, “I didn’t know what this god-awful long moniker meant to her ‘til I found this book she had hid.  But now I know why she put that handle on me.  Y’see, Jess, Ma was real keen on useless things, things like those sayin’s she memorized for every damn occasion.  You say you liked ‘em, so you remember this’n?  ‘Life’s an open book; don’t close it ‘for it’s done’?”

Jess nodded.

“I only remember that ‘cause I heard it so often, but none of them sayin’s made sense to me, no matter how many times I heard ‘em.

“But she was just as keen on the meanin’ of names, too.  That book I found?  Why, it must a’ had ever’ name ever writ in it that ever was . . . and what ever’ one meant.

“Do you know what ‘Darrell’ means?” he sneered.

Jess shook his head.

“It means my Ma thought I was her ‘dearly loved’,” and he snorted.  “Always hated my name after I found out what she was really callin’ me; made me feel . . . kind’a dirty or somethin’.”

“Hey, now; that was her way of sayin’ she loved you,” Jess said, wondering where all this ranting was going – the boy he’d once known in the Texas panhandle had certainly changed.

Darrell held up his hand again. “Just hold them horses an’ let me get to the rest…

“Yah’see, ‘Clayton,’ now, ain’t so bad ‘cause I can shorten that all right.  It means ‘mortal’.”   Then he smiled. “But ‘Ryder’…  Now that’s just about the best handle she could a’ marked me with.  That means ‘knight,’ like them King Arthur Knights of the Round Table you told me about?”

“Dad used to tell us kids stories…” Jess started, trying to change the subject that, to his thinking, wasn’t headed anywhere but wrong.  But his friend waved him down again.

“You told me some a’ those stories, too, kind a’ brightened some times considerable and sure made me wish I could a’ come home with you,” Darrell said wistfully.

“Well, then,” Jess jumped in bright and quick, “remember when we whittled us some wooden swords and…”

“Yeah, I remember,” Darrell wedged in, solemn and moody. “But them boys is dead, Jess, and so are them days.  Just let me finish what I was tellin’, all right?”

Jess leaned back with his glass in hand, “All right,” and took a swallow, not liking this one bit.

Darrell’s smile turned cruel all at once as he gazed into memory.  “But here’s the kicker, m’friend: my good last name ain’t real, or mine.  Know what ‘McDouglas’ means, Jess?”

Jess just shrugged.

“It means I’m the ‘son of the dark stranger’,” he leaned back and chuffed a sarcastic laugh.

Jess just sat there with no particular expression until Darrell fixed him with a wicked grin and shook his head like he thought Jess just didn’t get whatever “joke” he must have thought he’d made.  So, Jess asked, “What’er you tryin’ t’say, Darrell?”

Darrell shook his head again, answered, “You remember them Mathews brothers, Todd and Chris?  I know you do ‘cause together we ‘shor’ beat the hell out of ‘em a couple a’ times.  But you know why me and the Mathews’ was always at odds?”

“They were bullies…”

“Yeah, but they also said they know’d what my Ma really was.  ‘Course I didn’t believe ‘em then ‘til I heard it from someone else who’d been with her.”

This time Darrell’s gruesome sneer made more sense to Jess as he put together what he’d just been told.  “It don’t matter…”

“Oh, yes it does matter,” Darrell leaned across the table. “What’d you do if you found out your Ma had worked in a saloon and taken cowboys like us up to her room fer money, Jess?”

Jess’ eyes narrowed.

Darrell went on, oblivious to that dangerous look. “I tell yah, there ain’t nothin’ worse than a reformed whore who cain’t let off preachin’ righteousness to her bastard son.  She even dragged me to Church, for god’s sake, Jess.  My ma never recollected just who my real pa was, only that he was some ‘dark stranger.’

“Ma ain’t ‘the wider McDouglas’, ‘cause she ain’t never been married.  Her real name is ‘Debbie Sedgeway’ and right after I learned the truth of what she’d done, I lit a shuck out a’ her sight,” Darrell said, his contempt plain as day. “But, you still think I should a’ stayed with her after all that?  Stuck around to listen to more of her self-righteous lies?”

Jess didn’t know what to say, how to answer because he was still bristling at that remark made about his own mother and the attempt to tear down the “good memories” he’d held sacred in his all too short “happy childhood.”  He just sat back, breathed and watched Darrell down the dregs of his beer.

Darrell got Sam’s attention by rapping his knuckles on the table and raising his empty glass.  As soon as the bartender had brought his second beer – Jess shook his head over another for himself – and left with Darrell’s nickel, Jess’ temper had cooled enough so he could reason some of it out.

“Maybe your mother made a mistake, Darrell – everyone does now and again.  Hell, I’ve made a few m’self.  But just maybe she didn’t have much of a choice in the way things were.  And it don’t really matter, she is still your family and that’s all you need to know.  Don’t make much difference what she was before, she loved you and was tryin’ her best to do right by you.  Even I could see that.  And she’s all you got…”

Darrell snorted and drank half of his new glass before he put it down and swiped the back of his gloved hand across his mouth.  “Somehow I figured you’d say that.” 

Jess leaned back again, disgusted as well as thinking he should just end this little reunion now and move on…  And let Darrell move on and out of his life again, this time for good.  He wasn’t sure he liked this man his boyhood friend had become.

In a way, Darrell reminded Jess of who he used to be: a hot-headed gunman with a chip on his shoulder looking for trouble and ready to start it himself.

He was just about ready to get up and make his parting excuses when Darrell put on a more charitable expression, reached over and squeezed Jess’ left arm resting on the table.

“Hey, sorry, partner,” he apologized.  “Just had to get that off m’chest I reckon.  Ain’t never had no one else I trusted enough to tell all that to, so it all just kind a’ . . . soured on me through all them years.  Know what I’m sayin’?”

“I reckon,” Jess muttered.

He patted Jess’ arm and sat back, then suddenly asked, “Jess, ol’ friend, you recall how we met?” and flashed a wide smile.

That memory lifted the depressing mood somewhat and Jess snorted an, “Oh, yeah,” grinned and nodded.  “I reckon I wouldn’t forget that anytime soon.  There I was, but a kid m’self, strugglin’ with this big ol’ sack o’ wheat or some such grain we were plantin’, when this even smaller kid…”

“Hey, now!” Darrell tossed in.

“This little kid,” Jess continued with a cocked brow and a bigger grin, “come barrellin’ around the corner of that tradin’ post and knocks me right off m’feet!”

Darrell joined his laughter.  “Yeah, and there I was runnin’ from the Mathews’ brothers only to slam smack-dab into someone just as mean and ornery as them!”

“Now, you just hold up right there,” Jess interrupted, feigning anger.  “I wasn’t half as ornery as those boys…”

“No?  When you come up all sputterin’ and cussin’ to raise hell, those big fists o’ yours all cocked and ready,” Darrell chuckled, “I thought f’shor I was headed for Boot Hill right then and there.”

Jess shook his head.  “Now my Ma never allowed no cussin’, so I know that never happened…”

“Well, you could a’ fooled me, then,” Darrell said around a chuckle, “cause there sure weren’t poetry comin’ out a’ your mouth!”

Jess lowered his head and said through his quiet laughter, “I was mighty glad Dad didn’t come out just then, that’s for sure.”  He shook his head and swiped a sleeve over his tearing eyes.

“I think you were real proud that sack of grain didn’t bust,” Darrell added.

“Oh-yeah,” Jess agreed.  “I’d ‘a gotten’ a hidin’ for that if it’d broken open.”

Darrell gave him a thoughtful frown.  “Now, I never taken your Pa for someone who’d whup-up on anyone, let alone you.”

The laughter petered out and Jess sighed.  “Well, maybe he wouldn’t ‘a taken off his belt, but I’d sure gotten a lecture all the way home.  And probab’ly a whole passel of new chores for a month to boot.  But, you are right,” he added and nudged his hat sitting on the table with a finger, levity gone. “Dad never whipped me.  After…  After I got sent off, though…”  He shook his head.  “Uncle Nathan couldn’t get in enough whippin’ on me seems like.  No matter what I did, I never could please him.  He was a mean one, drunk or sober.  Hell, he treated his mules better…  And, if it weren’t him doin’ the beatin’, it was one or both of his sons, and them years older’en me, tryin’ their best to break me into little pieces,” he shook his head again, lapsed into silence to nurse along the dregs of his first beer.

Darrell got quiet as well and when Jess finally looked up, his friend was scowling into the saloon’s ceiling beams.

“What happened to you after I left?” Jess asked, though Darrell had already told him some.

The question seemed to startle Darrell and he glanced down at his gloved hands lying on the table.  He shrugged.  “Nothin’ much.  Ma decided she’d got enough money saved so we moved on…  She had that big dream of goin’ t’ California,” he said wistfully.  “But we didn’t get very far on what she’d saved washin’ and mendin’ other folks clothes.  Last I saw of her, she was livin’ in another run-down shack in some broke-down mining town near the Colorado border.  Can’t even recall the name now,” he answered, eyes shifting to the wall on his left.

“Well, what’d you do after you left her?”

Darrell’s eyes settled on him but for a second before moving down and to that wall again.  He shrugged.  “Lot of things...  Had my share of cattle drives, breakin’ horses, makin’ like a ranch hand an’ such like.  You know,” he shrugged again.

“And you’re just passin’ though Laramie?  Which way you headed?”

Darrell frowned a suspicious look, did that little down and to the left shift before he said, “Got a small herd of mustangs I fig’ered t’sell at that Fort somewhere about.”

“Fort Laramie?” Jess asked.

Darrell shrugged.  “Yeah, I reckon.  Or anywhere I can get rid of a string’a green-broke jug-heads,” he flashed a crooked smile.

“How green-broke?” Jess asked.  “Any you think fit to wear harness and pull a stage?  The Overland office might be interested,” he offered.

Darrell’s eyes moved away and he lifted a shoulder again . . . like a nervous tic.  “Might be I got a couple.  But I want to get shut of ‘em all at once if I can.  Fig’ered the Fort might be m’best chance.”

“Where you keepin’ these horses, Darrell?”  And his friend gave him such a hard and apprehensive scowl, Jess added in self defense, “Thought maybe I could look at ‘em, maybe take the whole bunch off your hands m’self…  If you don’t want too much for ‘em, that is.”

Darrell’s brows lifted.  “You make that much workin’ for a ranch and relay station, Jess?”

Jess’ shrug meant “maybe.”  “Been here near four years now, guess I got a fair grub-stake set aside.  Why?  Them spavined old ponies been shod with gold or somethin’?” he grinned.

Darrell flashed smile, shook his head.  “Nah; just started to wonder if there was a badge in y’er pocket you ain’t showed me yet.  You beginn’ t’sound like the law.”

“Been known to wear a badge now and again,” Jess confessed and added, “Fact is, I might be wearin’ one next week when the Sheriff goes out’a town,” and just caught a glimpse of his friend’s startled expression before Darrell laughed and smacked his leg.

“Be, damned!  Never taken you fer a lawman, either, let alone a ‘rancher,’ ‘specially after all them rumors I heard.  Whew, boy, there anything you ain’t done . . . besides robbin’ them stages you’re working for now, or takin’ money from banks, that is?  Or did you try your hand at that too?” and added a sidelong smile and a wink.

A group of men came into the saloon, their voices raised in laughter as they arranged themselves along the bar.

Darrell suddenly yanked his hat back down, placed his palms on the table and rose.  “Well, partner, it’s been real good recallin’ our young days together, but I got me some horseflesh to attend to.”  He raised a finger and shook it at Jess, “And I ain’t sellin’ them sway-backed nags to you, friend; you deserve better than them anyway.  Just tryin’ t’get a bit of silver in m’pocket, but not by bilkin’ a compadre, so don’t you come lookin’ fer’em, yah-hear?”  Then he yanked off his glove and stuck out his hand.

Jess rose and returned the hearty grip.  “You take care, Darrell.  And remember, family is everything that’s important, and your Ma, whether you like it or not, is your family.  And…” he added with a closed-lipped smile, “so am I.”

The frown that had started to form on Darrell’s face with Jess’ scolding turned into a grin.  “You take care, yourself, Jess Harper.”  He released his grip and, making sure his hat was pulled low again, snugged on his glove as he marched (jingle-jangle) around the men at the bar and exited the saloon.

Jess thought, “I’ll never see him again,” before sweet nostalgia was replaced by more bitter reasoning.  “And maybe that’s good,” he muttered, swept his hat and gloves from the table and lifted a parting hand to Sam as he walked out.

He’d missed that “early lunch” with Mort, but he still had to find out whether he’d have his feet up on the Sheriff’s desk next week…

2: The Truth

April 3; 4:23 PM; Laramie  

Jess lounged at Mort’s desk, the swivel chair tilted back and his boot heels planted on the blotter, ankles crossed.  He had his hands behind his head and a serene, contented look was on his face: this was just how he’d dreamed it.  He sighed into the silent office and said to the empty cells, “This lawman work sure tires a man out,” then smiled because Mort and his regular Deputy, Larry Milford, had caught the afternoon/evening Buford-Cheyenne run not fifteen minutes before and Jess hadn’t been “on the job” that much longer.

Footsteps on the walk outside warned him in time to bring his feet from the desk and him upright in the chair before the door opened.  He made sure his badge was straight and, trying not to look too guilty, stood up when Mr. Eggers, the postman, strode in with a brown-paper-wrapped and string-tied bundle under his arm.

“Howdy, Jess.  Oh, pardon me, I mean Deputy Harper!” he said brightly as he noted the shiny badge.  He closed the door, walked to desk and held out the package.

“Afternoon’, Mister Eggers,” Jess answered. “What’s this?” he asked, accepting it.

Mr. Eggers straightened his cap and pushed his spectacles up his nose as they tended to slip a bit.  “Well,” he said, placing his hands on his hips, “every time I have brought such a parcel to Sheriff Cory, seems t’me it always contained a bunch of brand new circulars inside, Deputy Harper, so I would surmise that what I have brought you is probably a package of circulars as well.”

But of course Jess had known what it was when he took it in hand.

Jess set the package on the desk, said, “Thank you, Mister Eggers.”

However, the postman just stood there, hands on hips – until his glasses started slipping down his nose again.  That arranged, he cocked his head to the side, began to tap his foot, then cleared his throat and thrust out a hand indicating the parcel he’d delivered.  “You waitin’ for me to open that for you, Deputy?”

Jess smiled, shook his head.  “No; I think I might be able to manage that all by myself.  But I could get you a cup of coffee if you’re a mind for one.  Made it just before you come in.”

Mr. Eggers glanced over at the potbelly stove that radiated heat into the room, pondered a moment then shook his head (making him have to push his glasses up again).  “Naw; Sheriff Cory makes the best coffee, but thanks anyway, Deputy.  Got other mail to deliver you know.  A Postman’s job is never done.”

Jess turned his head away to hide his grin because this “busy man” didn’t seem inclined to hurry out the door, despite his announcement.  So, Jess opened the desk drawer and grabbed the knife inside, proceeded to cut the string and remove the brown paper packaging.

Mr. Eggers leaned over to see what Jess had uncovered, nodded to himself (and pushed up his glasses).  “Yep; figured as much.  Got any new outlaws in there, you suppose?”

Jess put the knife back, removed the circulars – about twenty he suspected – and placed them on the blotter, then bundled the paper and string together and tossed that in the trash can beside the desk.  He sat down and shrugged.  “Well…  I don’t know, Mister Eggers,” he said, rolled the chair beneath the desk and adjusted his seat before he bent over the pristine heavy paper the wanted posters were printed on.  “Let’s just take a look.”

Mr. Eggers sidled around so he could observe over Jess’ shoulder as the Deputy started looking through the batch.  “Got a whole passel of ‘em this time,” the postman remarked nonchalantly, “bound to be some new faces and names in this one.”

“You’d expect,” Jess said around his grin.  “So far, though, I don’t see anyone that hasn’t been up on the board for quite a spell already,” he remarked as he removed the sixth poster from the stack and laid it aside.

All at once Mr. Eggers’ arm snaked over Jess’ shoulder and the postman pointed to the next in line.  “Now there’s a new face.”

Jess blinked at the artist’s drawing of the young man, recognized it even before he read the description and felt his chest grow cold from the inside out.  His, “Yeah…” sounded choked and weak.

“’Clay Ryder’, leader of the Ryder Gang’,” Mr. Eggers mumbled, reading.  “‘Five-thousand dollar reward!’ Whew!  Now that’s a pretty hefty sum, wouldn’t you say, Deputy?”  When Jess didn’t respond, Mr. Eggers shrugged and continued.  “‘Wanted dead or alive’…  Well that isn’t anything new, most of them say that. ‘Bank robbery, stage holdups, shooting up towns, cattle theft and horse theft’ – now there’s a hanging offence – ‘the murder of a Texas Ranger as well as…’”

Jess’ hand slammed down on the poster, making the old postman gasp and jerk back.

“Thank you, Mister Eggers,” Jess said, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears as he tried to hold onto the conflicting emotions that raced through him . . . as well as the sudden desire to hit something or someone.  “I think . . . maybe . . . I can handle it from here on.  You can get on back to your own business . . . and let me take care of mine.”

Mr. Eggers blinked at Jess, read the look on his face and swallowed.  He didn’t even bother to set his glasses straight as he nodded and backed his way toward the door.  “Sure thing, Jess…  I mean, Deputy Harper.  And…  You’re welcome,” he gasped and let himself out.

The door banged shut, but Jess didn’t even notice as he slammed the side of his fist onto the poster in front of him.

“Damn you, Darrell,” he hissed and closed his eyes.

April 3; 6:21 PM

Outlaw’s camp somewhere NW of Laramie  

“Well, now, where you been, Clay?  And just when the hell ’r we hittin’ that bank?” Todd Matthews asked impatiently, raising his bulk from a rock as Darrell McDouglas, a.k.a., Clay Ryder, walked thought the fortress of boulders and up to his gang’s center campfire.

Clay ignored Todd and the other six “expectant” men around the big campsite.  He grabbed a cowhide wrapped tin cup from the side of the fire and the rag to keep from being burned as he picked up the pot, leisurely poured coffee for himself before he moved back and sat down on another convenient rock so he could see them all.  “Got a better plan,” he finally announced and blew into the steaming black brew before he took a hesitant sip.

The big, burly Todd swore under his breath – loud enough for the other men to hear – and stomped closer to set his massive fists on equally meaty hips.  “We was supposed to hit that bank last week, Clay, when you cased it.  Now you sayin’ we ain’t takin’ the bank a’tal?”

“Speakin’ of ‘Banks’,” Chris Matthews, Todd’s younger, taller and “skinny” brother piped up, “where the hell’s Sandy Banks, that kid you picked up last month?”

Darrell smiled.  “In Laramie.  He’s . . . doin’ another job for me.”

“What?” Todd mocked.  “Robbin’ the general store for supplies maybe?  We’re runnin’ low on ever’thing, seein’ we ain’t got . . . no . . . money!”

Darrell looked around at his men, saw Charley Dobson’s round face wrinkle in a frown and Bob Shaftner’s lopsided, buck-toothed sneer.  He already knew what Todd’s brother, Chris, would think, so he didn’t bother looking around at his thin face.  Shorty Mackelhern, the tallest man Clay had ever seen and the best sniper-marksman with that scoped .50-.140 Winchester of his, gave him a thoughtful look like he was going to say something, but shrugged instead and went back to using that knife he carried in his boot to carve up whatever it was they were having for supper.

Rash Appleton, semi-reclining on his bedroll, was, as usual, scratching himself, concentrating his attention on his left armpit.  But Rash quirked a brow and spoke up.  “Why don’t we let Clay say what he’s got in mind a’fore you go givin’ him lip, Todd.  Might be better’n we thought-up the first go-‘round.”

Darrell/Clay smiled, nodded.  “I think it is,” he said and took another gentle sip of his scalding, bitter coffee.

Todd put most of his considerable weight on one leg, his shoulders cocked. “Well, let’s have it, then.”

Clay glanced up and grinned.  “You remember me tellin’ you about meetin’ up with Jess Harper, don’t you, Todd?”

If it was possible, Todd’s frown deepened.  A second later, Chris’ “sleek” form sauntered over to join his brother in this “glowering match.”

“I remember that kid that helped you gang up on us back in Saunders’ Crossin’, yeah.  Remember you tellin’ us all about your ‘happy family re-union’ in town, too.  So what?  If Harper’s there when we hit that bank, that’s even better,” Todd smirked and added, “Means we don’t have’t just shoot the air…”

Clay flashed a smile.  “Well, he’ll be there all right, seein’ he’s playin’ ‘Deputy Sheriff’ right now.”

Chris’ gaunt face lost the scowl and half its color.  “What?  He’s a Deputy?”

“I said, ‘playin’’ Deputy, Chris,” Clay corrected.  “Didn’t say he was permanent.  He mentioned he might be takin’ over when the real Sheriff and his Deputy went out of town this week, that’s why I been watchin’ that ranch he’s workin’ on.  Jess left this mornin’, bright n’ early, headed for Laramie.”

Charley Dobson glanced at the declining sun and asked, “So what took you so long t’get back with us with this good news?”

“Oh…  I just went visitin’,” Clay answered as if it was obvious.

Todd eased his britches’ legs and hunkered down in front of Clay so he could look him the eye.  He snarled, “Sandy’s out doin’ a job and you’re out visitin’?  Visitin’ who?”

Clay’s eyebrows went up.  “Why, I went to Jess’ boss – and partner, as it turns out – one Mister Slim Sherman of the Sherman Ranch and Overland Stage Stop Relay Station, ‘bout twelve miles north of Laramie.”

Todd’s look turned puzzled.  “What fer?” he asked stupidly.

Obviously Todd Mathews didn’t remember that rumor Rash had told them about hearing in Ft. Collins, Colorado, but everyone else did.  Bob actually “whooped” into the sky.

Chris tapped his brother’s shoulder, leaned down and whispered into his ear.  Todd’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“We takin’ that special payroll supposed to be comin’ through tomorrow at that relay station instead of takin’ it out a’ the bank?” Todd asked before a rather large grin started to spread across is meaty face.  He stood, dipped his head. “All right, then, why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place, Clay?” and reached out to gently pat the ramrod’s shoulder.  “Payroll’s is always easier anyhow . . . less’n they got a whole bunch o’ guards.”

“Might have, but we can take care of them pretty easy,” Clay said and winked at Shorty.  “Matter of fact,” Clay said into the turned-jovial atmosphere, “we’re gonna take care of . . . both the payroll and bank.  Might even throw in all the money in the town to boot.”

The campsite got real quite real quick, every eye and ear turned in Clay’s direction, waiting to hear more of just how they’d be able to do that.

He set his cup aside, stood up and stretched his back, then began to meander around the campsite.  “I waited for Jess to leave, then waited around maybe another half an hour or so before I went down to the house.  I just knocked on the door and asked if Jess Harper worked there.  Said I’d seen Jess in town last week and heard my friend had a job thereabouts and was hopin’ that this was the place.  Well, Mister Slim Sherman invited me right in t’ sit a spell and have a cup of coffee and a piece of nice, warm apple pie Miss Daisy Cooper just made and trotted right out to me…”

Someone in the group made a “humming” sound, and it wasn’t the thought of “apple pie” that sparked it.  Clay put a stop to that nonsense right quick.

“Miss Daisy Cooper’s old enough to be Charley’s mama,” he answered.  Charley Dobson groaned, him being the oldest in the bunch.

“Like I was sayin’,” Clay went on, taking another turn around the campfire.  “I was made real comfy, bein’ m’ good friend Jess Harper had already told them somethin’ about our accidental meetin’ in town last week and all them good times we had as young’uns back in the panhandle.  I was even invited to come on back any time I was around.  Now ain’t that cozy?”

“So?” Todd asked.  “How’s that gonna help us get both payroll and hit the bank at the same time?”

“Oh…  Did I f’rget t’ mention there’s one more member of that little household?”

“Who?” Bob Shaftner asked.

“Mike Williams,” Clay smiled, all ready to explain further when Todd shorted like a horse and yanked his forty-five, half-cocked it, opened the loading gate and spun the cylinder like he was checking to see it he’d actually loaded the thing.

“Guess that ain’t no problem a’tal then,” Todd almost purred like a cat before he set his pistol to rights and thrust it back in his holster as punctuation.

Clay scowled and shook his head.  “No, it sure ain’t gonna be a problem ‘cause Mike Williams has a broke arm and he ain’t but nine . . . years . . . old, ya’ idjit.  That’s why he weren’t in school t’day and won’t be t’morrow neither.”

Todd’s eyes got big and his hand started creeping toward his holstered gun again when Shorty Mackelhern asked, “Then why’s he so darned important?” and broke the tension.

Clay put on a smile.  “’Cause, after we take that payroll shipment off the stage, we’re gonna use this kid – and maybe old Miss Daisy Cooper to take care of him – t’ get Jess to bring us every cent in Laramie.”

“And why would he do that?” Chris Mathews asked – sometimes he could be almost as dense as his older brother.

Clay heaved a heavy sigh and tossed a disgusted gesture into the air.  “Weren’t you listen’ when I told you the story how Jess’ people near all got burnt up in that fire?  They was his family, and you better believe Jess set right smart store by them.  Well, he got hisself another ‘family’ now and I tell you they sure set store by Jess.  I ain’t never heard the like of all the ‘good things’ about my old friend, Jess Harper, each and ever’ one had to tell me.  Especially Mike.  Why, Mike said Jess was his best friend and his big brother, all rolled up into one big package.  Only thing the kid didn’t put on it was a big blue ribbon,” he smirked.  “Seein’ how they think so highly about him, I know damn-well he feels the same about them.  And if we got little hurt Mike and old ‘Granny Daisy’ keepin’ us company after we take that stage shipment, why, ol’ Jess . . . and Mister Sherman . . . will be mighty eager to bring us anything we ask just to get them back all safe n’ sound and into lovin’ arms again.”

“And all you gotta do is knock on the door,” Bob laughed and slapped his knee as most of the rest began whooping and dancing around.

Except for Rash Appleton.  He lay propped up on his elbows, a frown occupying most of his mottled, ruddy face.  When Clay swung his eyes in his direction, Rash gave his head a slow, meaningful shake.

Before Darrell could walk over to ask what his problem was, Bob Shaftner ambled up and clapped him on the shoulder. “Clay,” he said, “you’re either the smartest man I know, or the meanest and lowest back-stabbing son-of-a-bitch who ever sold out a friend.”  He leaned closer, flashed those big teeth of his and added, “And likely t’ sell out the rest of us, too, if given half a chance…”

“Why, thanks, Bob,” Clay said with an equally large grin on his face – and dangerously narrowed eyes.  “Thanks a bunch,” he mumbled with more meaning when Bob turned his back and moved away to join the celebration.

April 3; 4:51 PM; Laramie

After reading Darrell’s “wanted notice,” Jess became rather agitated and anxious to get back to the ranch.  But he couldn’t, so he paced the confines of the office and chided himself for opening his big mouth about that meeting with Darrell McDouglas at all.

Sure, sooner or later Slim would have found out and then he’d pester the whole story from Jess, but that would have happened after Jess had seen that poster.  That discussion would have been much broader and more meaningful, topped off with a warning.  Instead, Jess had overwhelmed them with happy tales of fishing on the banks of Carson Creek and boyhood games of knights and cowboys chasing imaginary Indians through the oak groves of the breaks near Saunders’ Crossing in the panhandle of Texas.  He’d painted a real nice and rosy picture for all of them and now felt he’d betrayed them, fed them nothing but lies.  He should have told his adopted family what he “suspected” of Darrell, that he didn’t trust the man Darrell had become. 

Or maybe he never got the chance to know or understand the real Darrell . . . until now.

And, when he put that wanted poster on the notice board outside the Sheriff’s Office, everyone in town would know, too.  What would they think of him then, his being so “friendly” with a wanted outlaw?

He might never expect to see Darrell again, but there was always a chance he’d be wrong.  And should he ever come across him again…  Well, he’d try to bring him in because that’s what he should do, what any responsible citizen would do if given the chance, to hell with the reward.

When he discovered that all the “Ryder Gang,” save one “unidentified young blonde man,” had their own individual wanted poster and that the two older boys that Darrell and he had had run-ins with as kids were included, he got even more anxious to at least warn Slim.  But that was a big puzzle, too.  Why would the Mathews’ brothers, of all the men in the world, want to join Darrell?  More to the point, why would Darrell want anything to do with the likes of them, or want to include them in any “lawless” activities when they’d mistreated him so as kids?  Obviously things had really changed when Jess had been forced to leave the panhandle…

But he couldn’t leave Laramie unprotected, not after seeing those posters.  Sheriff Mort Cory had made him responsible for the town and he couldn’t just up and leave without a better reason than suspicion!  Not with the Ryder Gang in the area.

Still, he didn’t want to leave the ranch “unprotected” either, so, after some major thinking and heavy pacing, Jess sat down at Mort’s desk, drew out some paper and the pen and ink.

“Slim,” he wrote, then paused to ponder just what the heck he should say that wouldn’t scare Miss Daisy or Mike half to death, have his Pard standing at the door with a shotgun . . . or have them all thinking Jess had lost his mind.

“Just tell them the truth,” he said and bent over the paper.

“’Slim, jest got word that Darrell McDouglas is not the man I thaut he was.  There is a wanted poster out on him and the other six, possibly seven members of his gang.  He is going by the name of CLAY RYDER and you can not trust him.  Be careful.  Jess.’”

He read it over a couple of times – frowned at words he might have misspelled, but weren’t important – then folded it and slipped it in an envelope.  He wrote, “For Slim Sherman” on the front, put the pen, ink and paper back where he’d found them, stood up and grabbed his hat to take the short letter to Jimmy, the part-time hostler at the stables.

Jimmy was happy to take time off – and earn a dollar – to deliver the message to Slim, but, just as the young man brought out a horse to saddle, there was a terrible racket outside the barn, people running up the north end of the street yelling, “Fire!  Fire!” two seconds before the bell began to clang!

Jess forgot all about the message as he ran out to see what was wrong, Jimmy right behind him.

The envelope, so carefully placed on the top rail of a stall, was raked off and trampled into the hay and manure by a horse turned anxious by the smell of smoke…    

3: The Holdup

April 4; 6:20 AM; Sherman Ranch and Relay Station

“This looks mighty fine, Misses Cooper,” Gabe Ferguson grinned as she set the plate with four pieces of crisp bacon and three sunny-side-up eggs in front of him.

“No need to wait on us, Gabe,” Slim said as Daisy went back to the kitchen to bring Mike’s and Slim’s plates, then her breakfast.  “Grab a biscuit and some gravy and dig right in; we’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

Gabriel – or Gabe – the youngest son of the widow Ferguson, nodded his blonde head, but kept his hands in his lap.  “All the same to you, Mister Sherman, I’ll wait for everyone.  Ma always says Grace before we eat,” he answered as Daisy set Mike’s plate, the eggs already cut-up for him, in front of the boy.

Daisy gave Slim a “meaningful look” as she set his plate before him.

Mike grabbed his fork and wrestled a piece of egg onto it as he said, “We hardly ever say Grace around here,” before he started to lift the fork to his mouth.

Slim reached out and tapped the table next to Mike’s plate, shook his head.  “Well, today we’re going to say Grace.  All right, Mike?”

Mike sighed, “Yes, sir,” and set his laden fork on his plate again to look longingly at his quickly cooling breakfast.

“Well, I think it’s a wonderful way to begin the day,” Daisy said as she came back with her plate, sat down and laid the napkin in her lap.  “Slim, would you please?”

Slim’s brows rose, then came down again as he clasped his hands over his plate and lowered his head.  “Dear Lord, we thank you…”

Someone knocked on the door.

Startled, Slim looked up to see all the other “startled” expressions around the table – no one had heard a horse come up into the yard or anyone step onto the porch either.

“I’ll get it!” Mike announced and started to scoot out of his chair.

“You will not!” Daisy answered and took a gentle hold on the boy’s “good arm.”

Slim pushed back his chair and grabbed his napkin from his lap before it slid to the floor.  “I’ll see who it is,” and, napkin still in hand, walked to the door and opened it.

Darrell McDouglas stood on the stoop with his hat in his hand and a “Texas-sized” grin on his clean-shaven face.  “Mornin’,” he said jovially, then caught sight of the linen in Slim’s hand and got sober-faced.  “Oh…  Sorry.  Didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast, Mister Sherman,” he said and started to back away.

Slim opened the door wider just as the newly risen sun sent a shaft of light over the rise behind the house and lit the hills in front as well as brightened the yard to reveal the horse tied up by the corral.

“Come on in, Darrell,” Slim answered, smiling.  “I think we have room for one more,” he said and glanced over his shoulder as he heard a chair scrape the floor.

“We certainly have,” was Daisy Cooper’s bright reply and, as she hurried back to the kitchen, she asked, “How do you like your eggs and how many?”

“Well…” Darrell said, still standing on the porch and peering in even as Slim swept his hand out to indicate he should come inside.  “I didn’t know you already had company.”

“Come on in, Darrell,” Slim insisted.  “You’re letting all the heat out,” and smiled as he fluttered his napkin at the room again.

Darrell kept his humble pose and stepped over the threshold, his grin crooked.  “Thank you, but I don’t mean to impose m’self any.”

But Slim had already closed the door and was hurrying to grab the extra chair where it sat by the wall.  And “their guest” had already moved himself and his breakfast closer to Daisy’s side of the table to give him room.

Darrell set his hat on the end of the worn leather couch before he shrugged off his heavy coat and started unbuckling his gun belt. “I sure thank you,” he said, then added as Daisy stepped into the room and held up an egg in each hand, “but coffee’ll be just fine, Miss Daisy.  I finished off that rabbit I killed last night.”

“Are you sure?” Daisy asked, waving the eggs.

“Well…” Darrell grinned and ducked his head shyly.  “Maybe one ‘r . . . two, then; thanks.

“But I never meant to interrupt breakfast you already started.  Why don’t you-all get to it first,” he said as he hung his gun belt on the rack by the door, put his coat over that, then retrieved his hat and set that on top of his coat.  “I mean, you got comp’ny ‘n all,” and nodded to the blonde young man as he stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in his back pocket.

Slim was already about to sit down again, but took a step away and said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  This is Gabe Ferguson and he isn’t exactly a guest.”

Gabe stood as Darrell walked closer, held out his hand.  “I was asked to come, to help at the ranch while Mister Harper is in town as acting Deputy Sheriff,” he said.  “I only got here after supper last evening because I’d been helping my brothers with some planting.”

Darrell looked rather surprised, but smiled as he took the boy’s hand.  “Darrell McDouglas, glad to meet’cha, Gabe. Well now, I should ‘a figured.”

“Figured what?” Mike asked, not looking very happy at the moment as he pushed his breakfast around his plate.

“Mornin’, Mike,” Darrell smiled and nodded to the boy.  “How’s your arm today?”

Mike shrugged his right shoulder.  “Okay, I guess.”

“Well, sit down,” Slim said, pointing to both Darrell and Gabe.  “What brought you out here this morning, Darrell?”

Darrell slid into the chair and nodded thanks to Daisy as she set a fresh cup of coffee – in a china cup with saucer – in front of him.  “Well, sir…”

“Call me Slim.”

Darrell cocked a lopsided grin, dipped his head.  “Well . . . ‘Slim,’ when I come by yesterday and you told me Jess was in town already, I thought maybe I could come out t’day and help you out some, seein’ I got them horses all sold and all.  You know, help do things that Jess would ‘a done.  Don’t expect no pay, y’understand.  Only, I didn’t reckon on you already havin’ yourse’f a right able-bodied young man,” he dipped his head to indicate Gabe.

“Well…” Slim hummed, thought it over a second.  “Today’s likely to be rather busy, so an ‘extra’ hand would certainly make everything go a lot smoother and quicker.  That is, if you want to stay?”

Darrell’s grin was large and happy.  “That sounds mighty good to me,” then added as Daisy set a plate with two eggs sunny-side-up and four strips of bacon in front of him, “ ‘specially seein’ you got the best cook in all the territory sittin’ right here!”

Daisy flushed, fluttered her hand and made denial noises as she sat down again.

“Can we eat . . . now?” Mike piped up.

Darrell leaned over his plate and said just as serious as could be, “Seein’ ain’t nobody got started eatin’ yet, I figure we gotta thank the Lord first, Mike.  That’s what my Ma always done…”

April 3, evening – April 4, 4:06 AM, Laramie

Jess and most of the towns’ people didn’t have much on their minds other than trying to contain the fire that had spread from an abandoned shack to the lumberyard and threatened several prominent houses nearby.  It took the rest of that day and well into the evening to make sure it was completely out and the rest of the town was safe.  And Jess knew his work wouldn’t be over the next day either: there’d be a clean-up and an investigation as to the cause to take care of.

So much for “boots propped on the desk” he mused…

But, even as he helped battle that blaze, there was something nagging at the back of his mind, something very important he felt he’d left undone.  It didn’t come to him until night was just about on them and he saw soot-blackened Jimmy staggering away within a group of other “volunteers.”

But there wasn’t much he could do about having that message delivered until the morning.  Besides, he doubted there’d be a man capable of riding right then, everyone was just worn out.

And so were the ladies for that matter.  The women of Laramie, regardless of station, had “worked” together just as hard as any of the men, not trying to quench the fire, but helping to keep those men going who did, handing out water, coffee, sandwiches and encouragement – God bless ‘em.

Jess, himself, couldn’t do anything but stagger back to the jail and fall onto the first cell’s cot he came to, soot-blacked face, hands, clothes, boots and all.  He didn’t even take off his gun…

Yet, as exhausted as he was, he was haunted by fretful dreams of fire and blood and people crying for help he couldn’t give.  He tossed and turned most of the night and awoke way before sunrise feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

He made some bitterly strong coffee, then stripped down and bathed in the chill water he’d hauled in to the big tub the prisoners used when they stayed more than a week and Sheriff Cory “insisted” they bathe.  He was just glad he remembered to pack his “Sunday Best,” including longjohns, though he’d feel a bit out of place making his rounds all “duded up.”  Still, his other clothes definitely required a good scrub and Mr. Quan’s Chinese Laundry was the only place to get that done . . . unless he was willing to clean them himself, and he had more important things to do than wash clothes.

After he shaved (in cold water), he spent the rest of the time before the sun peeked over the hills to clean his pistol and leather – boots and gun belt – so it was already daylight when he got around to writing another warning note for Slim.  That envelope he secured in the pocket of his coat and stepped out of the office into the sunshine with a newspaper wrapped bundle of smoky clothing under his arm.

Mr. Quan was late opening up, but so were most of the other establishments – almost everyone in Laramie had been helping put out that fire, if not at the start, as relief for the exhausted.  The vestiges of that burning lingered over and around the buildings like a fetid serpent, and a stark reminder until the morning breeze trundled most of it away.  Jess couldn’t even get breakfast until it was almost eight . . . and his stomach was grumbling like a bear with a sore paw – though, even then, he was so upset he couldn’t finish half what he’d ordered.  After that, he marched over to the stable to deliver the other note he’d written.

Only Jimmy didn’t come in to work, the hostler said he was sick and probably coughing up black smoke like half the town’s people.  Since the stage from Laramie had already gone through while Jess was busy elsewhere, and Jess couldn’t think of anyone else he could ask who didn’t have a business to take care of, he didn’t know what to do or how to get the message to Slim.  So, disconsolate, he walked though the town feeling a little out of place in his black coat with his Deputy’s star flashing on his lapel, his black pants, his starched white shirt and black string-tie, tipping his hat or nodding to the people he did see.

On his second pass by the telegraph office, now open for business, it suddenly dawned on him what he should have done yesterday, right after he’d seen that wanted poster!

“Some ‘special deputy’ you are,” he chided his reflection in the door’s window glass, rubbed his red, smoke-stung and good-sleep deprived eyes before he opened the door.

The acrid smell of sulfuric acid and lead hit him, made his eyes sting even more.  He choked back a gag as Abner Reese, the tall, thin and balding telegrapher, walked out of the little room where he’d been “freshening” his batteries.

“Morin’ Jess,” Ab said cheerily and smiled as he gave his first customer of the day a quick once-over look before he closed the heavy door, shutting out all but the lingering taste of the stuff that made the electricity to power the telegraph.  “You goin’ to a weddin’ or a funeral?”

The humor was lost on Jess as he walked to the counter and leaned on it.  “Neither. I need to send a message up and down the line, Ab.”

“Personal or . . . business?” a more serious Ab asked, nodding at the badge.  He pushed the paper and pencil over.

“Business,” Jess answered and took up the pencil, then frowned over the lined, yellow paper with the Western Union logo at the top.

“Well, if it’s business, Sheriff Cory’ll take care of the bill when he comes back.  That’s usually how it works,” Ab said and cocked his head at Jess’ seeming uncertainty.  “Having trouble thinking what to say in as few words as possible?”

Jess sighed, nodded, “Yeah.  Don’t know how to say what I need to.”

Ab leaned down to look at Jess’ face half hidden by his hat.  “You look plumb tuckered out, Jess.  Guess that fire pretty near took over the town yesterday, ain’t seen but a handful of people when I came in this morning. So…” he reached across the counter and gently maneuvered the paper away, then took the pencil from Jess’ fingers.  “Why don’t you just dictate what you think you want to say and I’ll write down what you should say.”

Jess flashed a weary smile.  “Thanks, Ab.  I need to warn the Sheriff and Marshal’s offices all along the line about . . . someone I saw in town last week.”

“You mean that Texas cowboy you were talking with?” Ab asked innocently.

Jess felt his face flush, but all he could do was own up to it.  “He’s the one.  Hadn’t seen . . . Darrell McDouglas in over ten years, didn’t know he was wanted until yesterday just before that fire.”

Ab pursed his lips, nodded.  “I’m not accusing, Jess.  All I do is send and receive messages.”

Jess took a deep breath – unconsciously wrinkled his nose – let the air out in an explosive, “All right.  Say…  ‘Darrell McDouglas is Clay Ryder, wanted in Texas, Kansas and Colorado along with his gang of at least six, maybe seven.  Only one I saw was Darrell…’”

But Ab wasn’t writing anything and, after a moment of thoughtfulness, the telegrapher said, “Why don’t I say, ‘Clay Ryder, a.k.a. Darrell McDouglas, seen in Laramie last week.  Possible Ryder Gang members may also be present.’  How’s that sound?”

Jess scrubbed his face with a hand and nodded.  “That’ll do.  Thanks, Ab.”

“I’ll get right on it, Jess.  But looks like you should think about resting a bit.  Or maybe go see that new doctor?” Ab said and shook his head.  “Though I don’t know…”

Jess frowned.  “Don’t know what?”

“About that Doctor Friedman and his wife.  They’re kind’a strange people with strange ways.  And they sure talk funny.  You gotta wonder about folks who don’t go to Church on Sundays and wear black all the time.”

“He came from some school in Europe,” Jess answered in their defense.  “He set Mike’s broken arm just fine and didn’t make him cry much.  Slim said they’re . . . Jewish or some such.”

“Well…” Ab cocked his head.  “Maybe so, but I sure wouldn’t want to put my life in their hands.”

Jess was not in the mood to argue, so he just raised hand in farewell and walked to the door as Ab started scribbling.

Out on the walk he grabbed a great, wonderfully fresh lungful of sweet air that cleared his head as well as that “taste” in the back of his throat that he always got when he went in that place.  He wondered, not the first time, how Ab Reese could stand that rotten egg and hot-coppery-lead smell…

He grabbed another breath, looked both ways and walked across the street.  He’d just stepped up onto the opposite walk when he heard a door open and Abner Reese’s call: “Deputy Harper!  The telegraph lines are down!”

April 4^th, 7 AM to 9:20 AM

Sherman Ranch and Relay Station  

“Well, that went quick all right,” Darrell commented as he swiped a sleeve across his brow and set his hat on his head again to watch the morning Laramie stage go up the grade and swing around the curve behind the hill.  “’Course all we done is water the horses, but still…”

Slim walked over to help Gabe move the rest of the old, but still useful lumber Jess and he had found a couple of weeks ago and dumped out in the back of the yard.  “Afraid it won’t be that easy all the rest of the day, Darrell.  We might get a special coach coming through a little before noon and those horses will need to be changed and cared for to be ready for the regular stage later this afternoon.”

“Special stage?” Darrell asked nonchalantly as he came over to watch – nothing much he could do to help without someone on the other end of one of those long planks.  “You get many of them, Slim?”

“Now and again,” Slim answered with a shrug, then added hastily, “It’s usually some rich businessman who doesn’t like to use ‘public transportation’ or some eastern military officer making the rounds,” he augmented. “Hey, watch that splintered piece, Gabe,” he warned. “Jess caught one like a needle right through his work gloves when we loaded this.”

“Good pine and sawn lumber?” Gabe remarked.  “I wonder why someone would just abandon it like that.”

“There was also a broken wagon wheel nearby.  Whoever was moving this load probably had to toss it so they could put on another wheel, then decided it was more work to reload than just move on.”

“Well, it’s still a shame to have let this lumber rot in the weather,” Gabe shook his head.

“Sure is,” Darrell added, “’specially if all this pine was goin’ to the coffin maker.”

Gabe nearly lost his hold on one end of the plank he and Slim were carrying as he stopped.  “Coffin?  You think these were to make . . . coffins?”

Darrell cocked a brow and scratched his jaw to hide the smile.  “Well…  Could be, but more ‘n likely they was goin’ into a house.  A bit too long and thick for coffins,” he added and turned his head to cough and grin.

“Gabe,” Slim said, getting the boy’s attention again – the planks were heavy.

“Oh…  Sorry,” Gabe answered and started backing toward the pile they were building under the overhang beside the barn.

“Maybe you should consider sellin’ this load in town,” Darrell offered.  “I mean, after that fire and all the driver told us about.  Now that’s a shame.  Wonder if it was kids that done it.”

When Slim had laid his end down, he turned and swiped a sleeve over his face.  “I don’t know, but I’m sure Jess will search out the cause,” he answered, then changed the subject. “Darrell, would you mind checking the coach horses shoes, make sure they’re all tight?”

“Surely,” Darrell answered and walked into the barn to go through to the back door rather than climb the fence into the coral…

Slim frowned and picked up the end of another board, but when he heard the horses milling and the whistle of a swung lariat, he thought no more about it.

…

Darrell caught the first horse, led it over to the backside of the corral and tied him off close to the barn.  “Bob,” he whispered as he turned to face the rear of the horse, leaned over and lifted the right front hoof from the ground to secure it between his knees – just in case Sherman decided to stick his head over the fence or walk through the back door, he didn’t want to be caught not doing his “job.”

“Here,” Shaftner answered in like whisper from concealment.  “Everyone’s all set and ready.  When’s it supposed to be comin’ through?”

Darrell was taking great care to “check” the shoe and the hoof.  “Probably just shy of noon or a bit later,” he whispered.  “Sherman wasn’t all that sure, but he sure was tryin’ to play it down some.  I’d guess about another hour or so.  Where’s Shorty?”

“Top of that hill,” Bob answered.  “He’s got a real good sight down here with that scope of his.”

Darrell could hear the grin in Bob’s voice and smiled himself.  He set that hoof down, ran his gloved hand along the back of the horse as he slowly made his way to the animal’s hindquarters.  “I’ll take care of Mister Sherman, but Rash and you make sure you get into that house before the shootin’ starts.  We don’t want the woman or the boy hurt, just scared and quiet, all right?”  He picked up the hind foot.

“I know,” came the whisper.  “We’ll be real gentle with ‘em both.”

Darrell dipped his head, said, “Get on back to where you were, then,” and heard the weeds rustle as Bob Shaftner moved away.  He smiled and kept on smiling as he dropped the hind hoof and patted the horse’s rump.  “Won’t be long now, old fella.”

He went around the animal and “inspected” the left side, then let him loose to capture the rest of the relay team one by one to check their shoes and hooves as well.

The smile never left his face…

Laramie; 10:14 AM

A very worried Jess had little choice but to stay in town to protect it, what with the lines being “cut” in both directions.  It was a sure sign that “someone” – and he had an idea who that might be – was getting ready to hold up the bank.

And he wouldn’t bet against that fire being set on purpose as well, though that would seem to have been the perfect time to grab the loot out of the vault with just about everyone in town fighting that blaze.  So, why hadn’t “Clay” done that?  What was he up to?  More to his personal worry, just what the hell was he going to do to keep the “Ryder Gang” from running rough-shod over all of Laramie?  Sure, there were plenty of “rested” men in town now, but it still pestered his reasoning why Darrell/Clay hadn’t hit the bank when the perfect chance was offered.

It just didn’t add up…

And that bothered the hell out of him.

It was a very reluctant Deputy who grabbed the wanted posters and went from establishment to establishment explaining what he thought was about to happen, warning shopkeepers and townsmen, especially the Mayor, to watch for these wanted men – and many an eyebrow rose when “Clay Ryder’s” poster was shown.  But at least the town was warned and armed . . . if Jess, himself, received his share of “furtive, troubled glances.” 

Laramie’s streets became nearly deserted as the news spread!

But he’d gotten everyone so worked up and worried, when he thought to ask some men to ride out to the Sherman Ranch – or in any other direction for help – he either received a flat refusal or a whole lot of excuses.  No one wanted to test the roads to see if the Ryder Gang would be waiting for them.   He’d caused quite a stir, if not down-right panic and now Sheriff Cory would probably think twice, or never again, about putting Jess in charge of anything!  So be it!  He couldn’t take it back.

He walked the back alleys and poked into dark, supposedly deserted shacks, wearing himself out with worry.  He simply couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop that nagging feeling he’d missed something else important…

He was on his way to the Palace to talk to a friendly face – and grab a beer, or a shot of something stronger – when something Slim had mentioned almost in passing last week finally filtered through all his exasperation: the possibility of a “special stage” coming through.  Even Slim couldn’t be specific about it then because these “specials” were kept under cover almost until the last moment.  Still, no one could stop the “rumors.”

Jess went light-headed and as cold as death.

But that just didn’t make any sense.  Why would Mort get called away for a trial when such a shipment was due?  Someone either had their lines crossed or was deliberately sending out false information…

The Overland Office was closed, Mr. Eisley’s note pinned to the door indicating he was away on business.  Jess didn’t know whether to be glad or not, Eisley wasn’t the most pleasant or cooperative of bosses Slim had ever had, but it looked like a clear indication that he’d been wrong about that shipment. If not, why would Overland’s manager be so conveniently away now, too?

His heart rate settled down, but he had to make sure.

The Bank’s manager, Mr. Piper, was reluctant to give out such information, even to one wearing a badge, but he finally confirmed Jess suspicions: they were prepared to guard a substantial amount of cash, either this evening or tomorrow morning…

10:19 AM, Sherman Ranch

Mike had snuck out of the house while Aunt Daisy was busy cleaning bedrooms and making beds and he was wandering around the yard, trying to find something to do outside rather than go back to that pile of schoolwork his teacher had sent over.  He didn’t see Buttons anywhere, didn’t want to call out, either, so he strolled over to watch Gabe saddle-soap a piece of harness for a moment.  Then he made the mistake of asking the young man what he was doing and Gabe jumped right in to explain how important it was to keep every piece of leather supple and bright.  Since this had been Mike’s “most detestable chore” before he’d broken his arm, he wasn’t that interested in hearing Gabe lecture about what Slim and Jess told him all the time.  Mike managed to get away before the conscientious young Ferguson decided to let him help. 

Buttons still hadn’t shown up, but Slim and Darrell were resetting the paddock gate that had begun to sag, so he meandered in that direction to watch them.

“Hey-there, Mike,” Darrell said with a smile – there was a frown in Slim’s glance.  “What’re you doin’ out here?”

Mike shrugged his good shoulder.  “Oh, nothin’.  Got tired of sitting at the table,” he said and raised his well-used right hand as if to show the pencil-calluses he was getting.  “Anyway, Aunt Daisy’s about got lunch ready.”

“She bakin’ another one of them apple pies?” Darrell asked with great enthusiasm.  “I thought I smelt somethin’ good,” he augmented and smacked his lips.

Mike grinned.  “Sure is.  And she’s making chicken and dumplings, too.”

“Darrell, hand me that hammer, would you?” Slim asked.

Darrell had hold of the sagging end of the gate, but bent his knees to make a grab for the hammer…

Mike got there first and raised it, handle first, to Slim.  “Thanks, Mike,” he answered, then gave him a stern look, “but you really need to get back into the house.”

“Ah, Slim!  I’ve been in the house all day!” Mike answered and pouted.

“Now you know what the doctor said.  You’ve got to keep that arm still…”

“I am keeping it still,” Mike argued, and lifted his slung elbow.

Slim sent him a sterner look.  “Yeah, and if you keep doing that, it’ll take another two weeks to mend, too.”  He pointed the hammer at the house and said, “Go on back to the house and stop moving that splinted arm.”

Mike kicked at the ground, turned around . . . and found Buttons almost under his feet.  The mutt jumped back and started to bark and leap around playfully.

“Back to the house, Mike,” Slim said before Mike decided to toss that piece of branch he’d picked up from the ground for his dog to fetch.

Mike dropped the stick and, chin almost resting on his chest answered, “Yes, sir,” before he shuffled back toward the house, Buttons bounding around him, eager to play.  Mike finally patted his head as the dog jumped closer, said, “Sorry, Buttons, I can’t play today . . . either,” and went back inside like he was being punished.

Buttons sat down, his head cocked as if he sympathized with his friend, then he was up and running after another rabbit…

…

At least Darrell hoped it was a rabbit and not “something else” in the trees as he shook his head and said, “Poor kid.”

Slim employed the hammer and bent the piece of tin back into place with a few hardy swings.  “Yeah, but he can sure get into more mischief and trouble than he knows how to get out of.  That’s how he broke his arm in the first place, trying to walk across the corral’s top like a circus performer,” he answered, looking at his handiwork.  He nodded.  “Let ‘er go, Darrell, see if she swings right now.”

The gate squeaked a bit, but swung just fine.  “Looks good from here,” Darrell smiled.

Slim climbed off the fence and started picking up the rest of the tools while Darrell slipped the wire over the post to hold the gate shut.

“Hey!” Gabe called from the corral.  “Coach and outriders coming in!”

Slim was squatting, replacing his tools in their box, so he just turned his head to watch the escorted stage start to swing around the hill.  “Must be the special,” he said and picked up the heavy box with a grunt.

“Comin’ in a bit early, ain’t it?” Darrell remarked as he followed Slim back toward the barn.

“Like I said, they come when they want.”

Darrell further shaded his eyes with his hand beneath the hat’s brim, acting like he was watching the coach before it went out of sight . . . around the hill where Shorty was stationed.  Then he clicked his tongue and twitched his head.  “Quite an escort they got there, must be some really important gentleman to afford such as them,” he commented.

Slim didn’t answer that, said instead, “Help Gabe harness the team, would you, Darrell?”

“Sure…”

Darrell waited for Slim to walk through the barn’s open doorway, then quietly followed him inside without Gabe noticing…

…

The coach, with it’s ever-present cloud of dust, swung around that hill and slowed some as it came to the lesser grade, the outriders – four of them looking more like outlaws with bandanas over their faces, dusters over their clothes and holding Winchesters – keeping perfect space around the conveyance as the lathered four-up team trotted into the yard with a jangle of harness and was pulled up with the driver’s, “Whoa!”  The horses stood there blowing and snorting and shaking their heads as the muddy cloud swirled around them, all but obscuring everything within it before it started to settle.

(No one saw two men slip in through the backdoor of the house under the cover of that dirty cloud…)

Gabe already had one of the relief horses almost harnessed and was looking around for someone to help him with the rest.  But he seemed to be the only one in the yard…  He knew Mr. Sherman had gone into the barn to put up his tools, but Mr. McDouglas was supposed to be assisting him with the team change.  He frowned and ducked under the horse’s head, called, “Mister Sherman!  Darrell?”

Someone opened the coach door.  “Is there a problem, son?”

Gabe turned toward the coach and saw an older gentleman leaning out the door, his handlebar mustache as dirty brown as his face and his suit.  “Uh…  No, sir.  Mister Sherman’s in the barn,” he answered and tossed a thumb back toward the dark opening.  “I’ll just see what’s keeping him,” he said and started to turn away.

“Kid?” someone else called.

Gabe turned back around, noticed one of the outriders had pulled his “mask” off his face, leaving him clean below his nose and cheeks, a darker brown from his eyes up.  “Got any saddle horses?  Ours are about played out,” he said, then leaned over the saddle horn and sneezed explosively.

The mustached man had just stepped down to the ground when his escort sneezed and startled him – and upset his own sweat and dust-muddy horse he was sitting on as well.  The mustached man leaped sideways to get out of the way before the horse knocked him down and rider got his animal under control again.  The rider apologized, but the man walked farther into the yard and away from the coach before he started to shake his coat free of dirt.  “Is Misses Daisy Cooper in the house?” he asked.

Gabe gaped at the badge that flashed as the man opened his jacket to brush his vest, then got hold of his senses, nodded and smiled at the Marshal – and his Deputy, the second dusty “passenger” who was just stepping out of the door.  “Yes, sir, and I think she just finished baking.”

Both men grinned.

The driver had already dismounted from the box and had started to unharness his sweaty team, beginning with the right front horse.  The shotgun guard, however, remained where he was, still as alert as were the four outriders.

Without any warning whatsoever, the shotgun messenger was driven sideways and off his seat in a spray of blood, the “boom” of a fifty caliber reaching them all before the man hit the rump of the left wheeler, making the stage lurch as the startled team jumped forward.  But even before the body spilled onto the ground like a sack of wet dough, the air turned rife with lead and the thunder of gunfire!

Everyone in the yard was momentarily stunned when the guard was shot.  And, in just another moment, everyone else, save one, had been brought down!

…

Daisy had been setting her freshly baked apple pie on the end of the table – for the passengers of that stage that had just arrived – when the backdoor opened.  She didn’t have the chance to even turn to see who’d come in before a hand, gentle but firm, had grabbed her arm, a pistol was waved past her eyes and a voice said close to her ear, “Stay quiet and everything’ll be all right, Daisy.”  She was so startled, she dropped the potholder as the stranger – a stranger who knew her name! – gently maneuvered her into the front room.

Mike was sitting in Jess’ rocking chair in front of the cold hearth, obviously feeling sorry for himself since he didn’t seem at all interested in what had just come into the yard.  But when he looked up from his pout, his eyes went wide.  He started to rise and open his mouth to yell, but Daisy frowned and gave her head an emphatic shake, so Mike merely swallowed convulsively and settled down again, his eyes remaining enormous in his pale face.

“Good,” the voice said into her ear.  “Now, I want you both to stay just as still and quite as church mice ‘cause there’s gonna to be some shootin’…”

“Slim,” slipped out of Daisy’s mouth as a worried sigh.

“He won’t get hurt . . . if you keep your head, Daisy,” the man said before he pointed his gun toward the window.  “Bob, take a look outside, but don’t show yourself.”

Another man, black hair peeking from beneath his hat and wide shoulders above a long torso . . . and oddly short looking legs, marched around Daisy and went to the window over the couch.  He set his knee on it and peered through the curtains without moving them.  Since he wasn’t wearing a bandana of anything else to hide his face, especially his prominent bucked-teeth, it was obvious he didn’t care who saw him or might be able to identify him later…

Daisy’s fear for her family went up another notch.

She heard Gabe’s voice – oh, poor boy! – and tried to turn enough to tell the man holding her this young man wasn’t even armed.  But the man’s hand only gripped her arm a bit tighter – not hurtfully yet, but that could change – and she gave up the attempt.

She had Mike to consider and could only hope…

That “hope” flew right out of her head when she jumped with the first shot and then stiffened as it sounded like a war was taking place right in their front yard!

And then the man at the window shattered the glass and his pistol’s roar deafened everyone in the room!

The black-haired man turned a sneering, toothy smile and announced, “Got him.”

“Just keep a lookout,” Daisy’s captor hissed.

“Buck-teeth” pulled his knee from the couch, shrugged and waved his pistol at the yard.  “Why, Rash?  Ain’t nobody left alive out there but the driver now, and Charley’s got him covered.”

Despite her resolve and the hand still clamped on her arm, Daisy couldn’t hold back the sob or keep her knees from buckling any longer.  Yet the man holding her “helped” her to the floor instead of trying to jerk her upright or letting her drop altogether.  He then released her and stood up.

“You’re a real son-of-a . . .buck, ain’t ‘cha, Bob,” this Rash said, anger in his tone even as he was mindful of his language.

When she looked up from the floor, Mike was leaning over the arm of the rocker, a stricken look on his face.  Tears pooled in his eyes and his chin and bottom lip trembled.  She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it was so difficult, especially when Mike mouthed, “Slim?”

…

Slim marched into the dark of the barn and set his toolbox in its proper place, but before he could stand straight . . . he heard a pistol’s hammer cock and felt the cold muzzle of Darrell’s gun between his sweat-damp shoulder blades.  He stood up slowly, raising his arms as he did.

“What is this…”

“Hush,” Darrell said quietly.  “None of ya’ll get hurt…  If ya cooperate, Slim.  If ya don’t, just know there’s two men in that house with Miss Daisy and poor little Mike.”

Slim tried to turn around, but the barrel jabbed him in the kidneys and changed his mind.

“If ya try to warn anyone…” Darrell said quietly and just let the rest of it go.

The coach came into the yard with its own dirty whirlwind…  A moment later, Gabe called out, “Mister Sherman!  Darrell?”

Slim thought about twisting around and grabbing for the pistol in his back, but the second that thought came to mind, the barrel was moved away and he heard Darrell step back a pace.  So Slim just sighed, kept his hands up and his mouth closed.  He couldn’t help Daisy or Mike if he were dead . . . as he guessed those men out there would be any moment now.

He heard the driver get down, the jangle of harness as he started unhitching the snorting team, but all he could see from where he stood was part of the yard and corral where Gabe was.

Gabe said something about checking for Slim – some relief swept over him until someone from the coach started talking to the young man, effectively halting him only paces away from entering the barn . . . and possibly safety.

He heard the outriders shift uneasily, saddles creaking – someone asked if saddle horses were available.  Slim only hoped at least one of these men would notice something wasn’t quite right.

Slim noted the groaning of coach springs and what sounded like someone brushing at their clothes as whoever-it-was asked about Daisy…

Slim turned his head as far as he could, started to whisper, “I can get you that payroll without bloodshed…” when the “boom” that took the shotgun rider off the bench interrupted his offer . . . and barely a second later all the rest of that hell broke loose!

Slim, his hands still raised, squatted and made himself less of a target should any lead come through the barn’s walls.  But it sounded like all the shooting was altogether one-sided and not one of those in the yard was able to return fire.  Horses squealed, the coach rocked and hit men grunted as they fell . . . background noise between the rolling thunder.

He watched Gabe make a dive for the ground, then scramble up in a hunched-up dash for the barn’s open door.  Slim urged him on with an urgent, whispered prayer until...

There was a barely audible tinkling of glass and then one lone shot boomed from inside the house…

Young Gabe lurched up from his crouch, back arched, and threw up his arms before falling face-down in the dust!

Slim stood up and would have run out to the boy . . . if Darrell’s pistol hadn’t jammed him in the kidneys again.

“Stay down and give it a second, just t’ make sure they got ‘em all,” Darrell growled behind him. “Wouldn’t want no one t’ shoot you by mistake now, would we?”

“Just who are ‘they,’ and why should you need me alive?”

Darrell chuckled.  “’Cause, you’re his friend, his partner…  His new family.”

Slim rose up, regardless of the warning, and frowned over his shoulder.  “Who are you talking about?  Jess?”

“Yeah, Jess,” Darrell sneered.  “He’ll be real cooperative now,” and motioned with his pistol.  “My men are movin’ down now, so you can go ahead and get to the house,” Darrell all but snarled.

Arms still raised, Slim walked out into the day that smelled of dust and frightened horse, blood and gun-smoke . . . and death.  He glanced at Gabe Ferguson with the hole beneath is right shoulder blade and the blood that seeped out from beneath him.  “Whoever is in the house didn’t have to shoot Gabe, Darrell,” Slim said, pausing over the body.  “You knew he wasn’t armed.”

“Yeah, well…” Darrell snorted.  “Kind of sets the mood of this business, don’t it?  Everyone does what they’re told, or else.  Stop your gawkin’ an’ get in the house, Slim.”

“It’s ‘Mister Sherman’ to you,” Slim answered like he was spitting dirt.

Darrell chuckled and answered, “An’ you can call me ‘Clay Ryder’ . . . and ‘gang’,” he added as a large, thick-bodied man followed by a thin, almost emaciated man with a messy thatch of dirty-blonde hair sticking out from under his hat walked around the coach, waved their rifles and grinned so big, their teeth flashed in the sunlight.

“Move . . . Mister Sherman.”

Slim walked up on the porch, opened the door and saw . . . what he perceived as Daisy being shoved down on the floor by a ruddy-faced man in a faded blue shirt!  He immediately started for him, fists up and ready to fly when Darrell rapped the back of his head with the pistol barrel just hard enough to make him stagger.

“Slim!” Daisy cried and rushed to grab Slim’s left arm as Darrell grabbed the other to keep him upright.

Slim’s face contorted, but he shook his head and asked, “Are you all right, Daisy?  Did he hurt you?”

Her expression clouded a second, but she said, “Mike and I are fine, Slim.  I…  I had fallen to the floor and . . . this man was helping me up.  Are you all right?” she asked and gently felt the lump behind his right ear.

Slim winced and jerked away from her gentle probing, but answered, “Yeah, I think so.”

“He’s fine,” Darrell droned, let Slim go and walked around them both.  “I jest got his attention, that’s all, Daisy.  Didn’t want ol’ Bob there, or Rash neither, to take the notion to shoot him.  After all, he’s got to deliver a message.”

Daisy was still checking to see if Slim’s scalp had been lacerated – which hadn’t – and both she and Slim looked up and asked, “What message?” at the same time.

Mike was still sitting slantways in the rocker, his eyes wide and afraid as he watched what was going on behind.  He hugged the arm of the rocker with his good hand, strangling the wood.  But, when Darrell grinned and shook his head at the boy, like that little duet he’d heard was really funny, Mike’s expression turned hard and hateful.  He set his jaw and straightened in his chair, effectively turning his back on the man.

There was the sound of a running horse being pulled up into the yard, but no one gave that much notice…

Darrell cocked a brow at the kid, holstered his Colt, walked to the cold fireplace and turned to face the room.  He set his right boot heel on the lip of the hearth, settled his shoulders back against the cemented rocks and, looking pleased, asked in a mocking tone, “Well, now, what message you think I should send ol’ Jess, Mister Slim Sherman?”

“You’ve got whatever that special coach was carrying,” Slim answered, “so you tell me.”

Darrell raised a finger to his pursed lips, acted like he was pondering that a moment before he leveled that finger at them.  “Tell you what, I’ll jest write you a note.  That way you cain’t forget none of the real important things; that all right with you, Mister Sherman?”

Shorty Mackelhern ducked through the open front door and walked in like he owned the place, saluted the room with his scoped, long-barreled .50-.140 Winchester and made a bee line toward the table and the apple pie sitting on the checkered cloth.  Bob eyed the tall man and licked his lips as Shorty laid his precious rifle across the table before he scooped a hand-full of still hot pie out of the dish with his bare hand. 

“Todd, Charley and Chris got ever’thing in hand?” Darrell asked nonchalantly.

Shorty turned, transferring the hot pie from hand to hand and trying to keep it from falling to pieces on him while he devoured it.  He nodded, blew and sucked air to cool what he’d shoved in his mouth, then said around it, “Marshal had the key on him.  Todd and Chris ’er packin’ it on the horses now.  Charley’s got the driver helpin’ him saddle the other horses, should be ready t’ go perty quick.”   Then he raised what remained of his mangled piece of dessert and said, “That’s the best apple pie I ever et, ma’am.”

“I’m so pleased,” Daisy answered, her tone contrary to her words as she clutched Slim’s hand and glanced at Mike still sitting in the rocker, back stiff, but his head down.

“Why ‘nt you just take the whole thing, pan ‘n all, Shorty?” Darrell said.  “Take it out for the rest of the boys.”

Shorty grinned, retrieved the potholder from the floor and scooped up the pan.  Then he frowned at his sticky, pie-crusted fingers, licked them and swiped his hand on his pants before he grabbed his rifle and started for the door.

“Hey,” Bob said, hand out and all disappointed as he watched Shorty walk out with what he considered “his share.”

“Don’t worry,” Darrell grinned.  “We’ll take the fixin’s so Miss Daisy can make us another.”

Slim stiffened and even Mike jerked in the chair and looked up at Darrell before he swiveled around. “Aunt Daisy?” he said like he’d just been hit in the stomach.

“What do you mean?” Slim asked.

“It’s called . . . takin’ hostages, Mister Sherman. We’re gonna make sure my old friend, Deputy Jess Harper, gets ever’thing we ask for from that town, so Miss Daisy . . . and little broke-arm Mike here . . . is just gonna take a ride with us,” Darrell answered with a smirk.

Slim wrenched out of Daisy’s grasp and pushed her aside, her breathless, “No, Slim!” unheeded as, hands fisted and elbows cocked, he took two steps toward Darrell.

Bob’s pistol was in his hand in a flash.  But the report, though it stunned everyone in the enclosed space as an inordinate amount of gritty, eye-stinging gun-smoke “ringed” out into the room, sounded like the bang of a firecracker rather than a .45!

Yet Slim was staggered by the impact even as he continued his lunge . . . until his left leg just went out from under him.  He fell onto his left side, arm extended and almost touching the chair’s rocker.  He didn’t stir.

Darrell shoved away from the fireplace with a hateful glower at Bob, knelt beside Slim even before Daisy could grab a startled breath or Mike could leap out of the chair and put his back to the hearth – the boy’s eyes looked ready to jump out of his ashen face.

“Damn you, Bob, you trigger happy son of a…  Why ‘n hell?” Darrell yelled at the man with the smoking gun still in his hand.

“He was gonna jump yah,” Bob whined, frowning at his pistol, “but it didn’t go off right.”

“Sherman, unarmed, was gonna jump me with all three of us in the room and Mike in the way?  God, how stupid can you be?  Just put that gawddamed misfirin’ piece of garbage away before you shoot someone else or it blows up in your face, you stupid idjit!”

“Yeah,” Rash augmented angrily, wiping at the blood that spattered his face and shirt.  “Missfire or not, that slug came nigh on t’ drillin’ me, too, Bob!”

Darrell growled another oath as he slowly, carefully pushed Slim onto his back and saw the blood pooling beneath him and soaking his shirt and pants.  He shook his head…

Daisy was kneeling on the other side in a blink-of-an-eye, barking orders for towels and bedding and water and her “bag” from her room.

Darrell frowned at her.  “You a doctor, too?”

“I was a nurse,” she answered, unbuttoning Slim’s shirt and pulling the tail from his pants.

Todd and Charley burst in the house, guns drawn.  Chris was right behind, but stayed on the porch.  “What the hell was that?” Todd bellowed.

“Get back out there,” Darrell ordered.  “Just who the hell’s watchin’ that driver anyway?”

“Shorty’s still out there,” Charley whined, saw the look on his boss’ face, lowered his head and ducked back out the door.  Todd was a bit slower, like he was memorizing what he saw, but he finally turned and took his brother with him.  They left the door open.

“Bob,” Darrell said quietly, but with enough menace to make the buck-toothed man blanch, “get the hell out a’ my sight a’for I decide to cut you out of the gang . . . permanent.  And close that door!”  

To Chapter 4

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