CHAPTER 16

Marshal Bess Sugarland hated him on sight.

It was just after three in the afternoon. The new Jackson peace officer was in the office cleaning her Winchester repeater, even though she had little need to as the rifle had been getting more use as a crutch than a firearm lately, and having a cup of coffee. Her leg was hurting more than usual today, as the bullet wound continued its slow healing process. Another trip to the doctor was in order so she could have the dressing changed and the wound treated with ointment. Marshal Bess had been offered a bottle of laudanum several times by the local physician but she had demurred, not wanting to be under the influence of narcotics while she held her U.S. Marshal’s office post and bore those duties. So she bit the bullet against the chronic pain literally and figuratively, a .45 round clenched in her back teeth this morning. Most of the time she kept it in her cheek but when the waves of pain came on she bit down on it. In that way, the U.S. Marshal’s daughter was like her father in her stubborn insistence on keeping a clear head and taking physical pain straight. The cartridge in Marshal Bess’s mouth looked to most folks like she had a wad of chewing tobacco in her cheek and nobody seemed to notice she never spit.

The female lawman was antsy and restless today, feeling on pins and needles, her mood edgy and preoccupied. She kept glancing out the window at the grand vista of the Teton Pass, imagining Joe Noose’s progress with Bonny Kate Valance and squinting at the barely visible mountain road amidst the distant pines, trying to pinpoint where they would likely be even though they were far beyond the scope of her vision. Bess couldn’t help herself; she would not be able to relax until noon tomorrow when Bonny Kate took the drop and she would know Noose had made it to Victor safe—she had twice telegraphed the local sheriff, Al Shurlock to send her a wire when her deputized friend arrived with his prisoner. Bess was also worried about that Arizona posse that had ridden through that morning even though they were long gone and she had not given them any information about Valance or Noose or where they were. In recent hours Marshal Bess fancied she heard the echo of gunshots coming from the direction of the pass a long way off, but they could have been anything. She had to stop her fretting.

But she couldn’t. Luckily it had been a slow day in Jackson save for that dodgy sheriff and his deputies that morning, and not one person had walked through the door of the U.S. Marshal’s office until he did.

Just ambled right in like he belonged here, even like he owned the place.

The cowboy was tall, rangy, clean-cut, square jawed, and arrogant as hell in his straight posture and upright bearing. His jeans were too tight. His Stetson and denim shirt and jacket were clean and pressed, boots spit and polished. Below close-cropped blond hair, his Johnny Appleseed scrubbed face was covered with red freckles behind a corn silk–colored, groomed beard.

The man looked about thirty and had confident eyes that let folks know he could handle himself as he swaggered inside. A sweep of his unblinking, indolent gaze took in the modest office. Everything about this kid rubbed Marshal Bess the wrong way; mostly, it was the flat expression of aloof disregard of her office that irritated her, like he was checking into a hotel and felt the room looked too cheap. Plus, he kept his hat on his head like it was cold, and didn’t remove it, displaying another lack of respect for her office. And, worst, the jerk looked right through her, like he was looking for somebody else. I’m the damn marshal, Bess thought to herself, so who the hell else would you be looking for?

Therefore Bess Sugarland gave the young, cocky interloper the stink eye while he stood there sucking her air—didn’t even bother to greet him like she normally would anybody else.

After a moment, the man strode right up to the desk, barely acknowledging her presence. “I’m looking for the marshal,” was all he said.

Biting down on the bullet in the side of her mouth hard enough that she felt molar enamel grind on polished brass, Marshal Bess simply locked eyes with him, leaned back in her chair, then lifted open the side of her coat, displaying the seven-star silver badge on her bosom.

The look of surprise and disadvantage on the man’s face almost made her feel better, even though he seemed to be staring equally at her badge and her breasts, so she closed her coat and leaned forward on her desk with her hands clasped together in half fists, staring straight up at him and raising an eyebrow, which told him to state his business.

“You’re the marshal?” the youngster said, cracking an annoying grin that broke into a guffaw as he let out a hee-haw laugh that reminded her of the jackass she completely took him to be.

Now Bess was angry. “Yes, and who the hell are you and what are you doing in my office? State your business.”

“Yes, sir, I mean, ma’am, I mean, Marshal. I am Nate Sweet, your new deputy.”

“What?” Her eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nate Sweet took a folded official paper out of his denim jacket and presented it to her with a flourish. Warily, she snatched it from his fingers and opened it and the first thing she saw was the U.S. Marshals Service stamp on the letterhead. “I was dispatched from headquarters in Cody last week and ordered to report to the new marshal in Jackson but they didn’t tell me the marshal was a she.”

“You got a problem with that?” Tired of sitting with this annoying new deputy looking down at her, Bess rose to her feet and felt a sudden stabbing pain in the bullet wound in her leg, wrapped in the wooden brace that caused her to flinch and buckle over slightly as she stood up behind her desk to be eye to eye with him. Immediately, Sweet saw her leg injury and was dumb enough to point at it.

“They didn’t tell me you was a cripple, neither. I can see why they sent a man to give you backup. Must be why they figured you needed some help, ma’am, I mean, Marshal.”

“That’s it, junior.” Marshal Bess’s face flushed with a high color and she glared at him..

“Didn’t they wire you that they were sending me—?”

“Shut up.”

He did. Now his eyes were wide.

“No,” she continued. “Cody did not wire me that they were sending a deputy. If they had, I’d’ve sent you across the pass with that damned lady outlaw instead of my friend, so thanks to you, and them, for nothing.”

“I-I’d just heard, I mean, they just told me, that the old marshal and his deputy had got themselves shot last month and that there—”

“Which part of shut up don’t you understand, junior?”

He closed his mouth and kept it closed. The first smart thing Bess Sugarland had seen Nate Sweet do since he walked in.

“You have any experience?”

Sweet nodded.

“How many years with the U.S. Marshals Service?”

He held up two hands and showed seven fingers.

“Can you shoot?”

Another nod.

“Can you ride?”

Nod.

“Ever shot a man?”“

Sweet shook his head.

“Ever been in a gunfight?”

Another head shake.

Walking around the side of her desk in a tight limp, Marshal Bess got nose to nose with Sweet and looked him straight in the eye. “My name is Bess Sugarland. My father was a U.S. Marshal for thirty years and I was his deputy for ten of those so that’s my experience. For your damn information I ain’t no cripple. I got shot in the leg in the line of duty during a gunfight and I have shot men dead. I have not shot a deputy yet but there’s a first time for everything, Deputy. Cody assigned you here, fine, but this is my jurisdiction and you will do what I say when I say it. If you perform those duties to my satisfaction then we will not have a problem. Understand me? You may speak now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nate Sweet answered respectfully.

“Marshal,” she corrected him.

“Marshal.”