RATON WAS A BUSY PLACE. Curious traffic followed them into the town. Teamsters with their wagons and burro train traffic had to be avoided. A crowd was following them from the boardwalk.
A bareheaded boy with a pencil and paper was half-running beside Sam’s stirrup. “Is that the Mulvain gang?”
Sam nodded. “Same one. The whole gang.”
“Wow! Say, could I ask you a few questions? See, I’m Mark Cowan, with the daily paper, and if I can sell this story, it would really help.”
“Fire away, Mister Newspaperman,” Sam said, reining in the gray behind the buckboard.
“Your name is?”
“Sam Brennen, and the lady back there is Doe Mockingbird.” He indicated over his shoulder.
The youth peered back at her as she pulled through the traffic, a confused pack horse string behind her. Still half-running backwards, the reporter caught his balance on the buckboard tailgate.
“Can you spell all that?” Sam teased him.
“Yes, sir, but….”
“Come around after I check these outlaws in. Who’s the Marshal here?”
“That would be Marshal Kline. He’s right up the street.”
“That’s where we’re headed.”
“How many shots were fired?” the determined newspaper man asked, unwilling to give up.
“One, near as I can recollect.”
“One shot. Wow, and you captured the whole gang?”
“Saving ammunition. Now excuse me.” Sam dismounted, visibly impatient with the questions.
“Yes, sir.”
Tying the gray up, he walked around the hitch rail and shook hands with the Marshal. “Sam Brennen. Got a few boarders for your hotel.”
Marshal Kline was a portly man with a smile under a fat mustache. He studied the Indian woman a moment and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Strange bounty hunter, Sam Brennen.”
“How’s that?”
“Ain’t many bring them in alive. Most save the territory the cost of all but the funeral.”
“You got any coffee?” Sam asked, ignoring the reference.
“Sure have. Come on in and rest your legs. We need to fill out some paperwork.”
Pop! A blinding flash, and Sam ducked, jerking his Colt free in one cat-like move.
“Easy,” the lawman cautioned. “That’s just the photographer taking a tintype for the papers back East.”
“Yeah.” Sam holstering the gun. “I’ve been living by my wits too long.”
Finishing with the business, Sam came out of the office and spoke to the youth standing by the buckboard. “Here’s twenty dollars. Rest that team. Then get back home. You tell your dad you’re a man. Tell him Sam Brennen said, a good one.”
“Can’t say I wasn’t scared, but I appreciate it and getting to know you and her,” he said proudly.
“Men say only fools ain’t scared. Now, get that good team rested up and get home. They’ll be expecting you.” Untying the gray, he hailed Doe with a swing of his head as he pushed through the curious onlookers. Searching, he found the telegraph office. Inside, he wrote a telegram to his friend the judge and the Denver police.
“What will I do with the reply?” the telegrapher asked.
“I’ll be back and check, just hold on to it,” Sam assured him.
“Yes, sir, Mister Brennen, we’re doing lots of business since you brought in the Mulvain gang. I’m holding to send one out to New York City for Mr. Clayton Whills.”
“Good,” Sam said, turning on his heels and almost bumping into a bespectacled man with a ruffled shirt and a pompous air.
“Clayton Whills with the New York….”
“Sorry, but I promised a young man this story first,” Sam said, touching his hat to excuse himself.
“How about a drink, old chap?”
“I’m not an old chap, and I’m not drinking. If you’ll excuse me?” Sam was fast growing impatient.
“What is this local lad paying you?” the red-faced reporter demanded.
“I don’t recall he said anything,” Sam said, the irritation rising in his voice. “Well, that’s settled.”
“I’ll double it, Mister—ah, Brennen.”
“Get out of my damn way. You ain’t getting no damn story from me.” Sam frowned and pushed past him impatiently. Entirely upset, the puffed pigeon dude under the bowler stepped aside holding his paper and pencil back as Sam stomped outside. On the boardwalk, he searched about the wide-eyed crowd and shook his head slowly. “Where’s the boy reporter?”
Then he saw him waving and coming through the crowd. He mounted the gray and booted the gelding to get them moving.
“Get up here behind me. I’m getting sick of all this crowd. Come on, Doe! We’re going to find a camp somewhere.”
Pushing the gray through the slowly parting crowd, he pulled the youth along behind. With a wave of his hand to her, they rode up the street. “Reckon they never saw a real Indian bounty hunter before?”
Under the brim of her hat, she barely grinned, more in the corners of her round eyes. “No.”
They found a place at the foot of the mountain along a gurgling stream. Sam helped her unpack and tried to answer most of the youth’s questions.
“Were you ever a lawman?”
“Worked with Wyatt Earp up in Wichita, then I worked around Fort Collins for a spell.”
“This is going to make some kind of a legend of the two of you,” Mark said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Golly, this may just be my big break.”
“What outlaw are you going after next?”
“Ah, I can’t say who that is, that would let them get ready for our arrival.” Besides which, he had no idea himself.
“Oh, I never thought about warning them. Golly, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t endanger you or Miss Mockingbird.”
The newsman left them with his scribbled notes and refused the offer of a horse to return to town. Sam scratched his head holding the trail stained hat by his leg and beating it thoughtfully against it, he sighed.
“Who is Mockingbird?” she asked with a frown.
“Oh, I just thought that fit you. The white man expects everyone to have two names.” Sam laughed. “Are you afraid of towns?”
“You saw them today, all crowding around looking like they never saw an Indian before. Hell, there are Indians all over that town.”
“They do not wear nice clothes. They do not ride with a big man. They are not a woman, not a white man’s woman.”
“Who cares? What will we do? Did you not go to Denver because of me?” she asked softly.
“You’ve asked me questions I can’t answer. Why did I not hate that man in the hole, he killed my wife… those little girls?” Sam sipped the coffee she brought him.
“What will become of us?”
“I don’t want you to worry, we have money, we can go and ignore them.”
“Where will we go?”
“The telegram first. Then we will catch a stage and go find the Peralta brothers.”
“Oh,” she cried and hugged his neck, sprawling him out on the sandy ground. Nuzzling his face with her cheek, she began to cry. He held her tightly as her wet tears soaked his face. He prayed for the strength he would need as he rocked her.
——————————
SAM ROSE WITH THE DAWN and rode with the busy quail that whistled to one another as they sought food. The streets of Raton were practically deserted as he rode slowly to the telegraph depot.
Dismounting heavily, he stepped inside. An older man worked the key intently tapping out the reply.
“Can I help you?” The man looked up.
“Sam Brennen. Is there a message for me?”
Searching through the messages, he finally studied one. He handed it across the counter “Yes, sir. Judge Walter Miller, Fort Collins, Colorado.”.
Sam Brennen c/o Raton, New Mexico Territory. X Man Donnie was shot by a house detective for assaulting a girl. X No report of Calvin Denton. Stop. At your service. X Honorable Judge Walter Miller. Fort Collins, Colorado.
“Hey, wait, there’s one more,” the clerk waved.
Sam stopped and turned back, then he took the paper. It was from the Denver police.
Donnie Sorenson shot by hotel detective assaulting woman occupant. X. Whereabouts of Calvin Denton unknown in this city.
He gathered up the reins and swung into the saddle without effort. Straightening up, he rode back up the main street until he reached the hotel. Dismounting out in front, he climbed the steps and crossed the worn, carpeted floor. Sitting down at a table, he waited for the waitress to take his order.
“Uh, I hate to tell you, but we ain’t got a single egg in this house,” she said, waiting and looking bored.
“Ham, fried potatoes.” Sam took up the coffee she’d brought. With a swish, she left the table. He looked up as the Marshall strolled in, nodded, and came across to the table.
“Got room?”
“Plenty. Have a seat.”
“Brennen, you’re a strange bounty man.” Kline shook his head. “Most men like you I know dump a bloody head out of a greasy sack on my porch. You rented a rig and hauled that mess up here.”
Sam shrugged, considering this. He leaned back to survey the lawman. “That would have saved me some time doing that, and I’d have had to spend less time in the company of Mulvain and his likes. But I was law too long to pull something like that.”
“Where’s the Indian?”
“Out at our camp, she hates towns.”
“None of my business. Thanks for settling part of my curiosity.”
“How long before they send that reward?”
“It should be here in a day or two. If you’re strapped for money, I can arrange a loan at the bank.”
Sam shook his head. “No need, we’ll make it just fine. But I do aim to head out for Arizona.”
“Are you heading on down to Tombstone?”
Sam looked at him over the rim of his coffee mug, confused. “Why?”
“Old friend of yours is U.S. Deputy Marshal down there.” The lawman waved the waitress over. “Steak, if it ain’t tough, and plenty of beans.” He turned back to Sam. “Mark said you used to work for Wyatt Earp. He’s making plenty of headlines down there.”
“Wyatt’s a big boy. He don’t need Sam Brennen.”
“Why, all this publicity, you might get you a good job marshaling.”
“Yeah, shoot a few mad dogs and settle a couple of domestic fights. Knock some drunks in the head, and end up getting fat or shot by a wild drunk.”
“Well, it sure beats dying in some dry gulch with only some squaw to hold your hand.”
Sam got up. “’Preciate the advice.”
“Hey, how about the meal?”
“I’ll pay for it. I know where there’s lots better food than this.”
“You aren’t that young, Brennen. The bounty trail will get yah killed.”
“So will living.” Sam laughed and tossed the clerk enough to cover the meal.
He was nearly mounted when the man in the Prince Albert suit came puffing down the street, waving his arms. “Brennen, wait, wait I say—God, man, this sniveling boy files a story about the greatest vigilante in our times and the damn wire service buys it. Now, if you’ll trust me, I’ll write a dime novel about you that will make us both richer than Titus Morehead.”
“Who in the hell is Titus Morehead?”
“Why, the richest man I know… now listen—”
“No, you listen. I’m tired of talking. Go up to the jail and get your story from that riffraff. They can tell you plenty of lies about the wild west.”
“Yes, they could. Well, sorry I bothered you if you don’t want to be rich.”
“Good.” Sam reined the gray away.
He rode into their camp. Doe had pitched the tent, and he knew there was fresh bread. Pulling the bridle off the gray, he loosened him in an instant and let the saddle fall.
“Break out some peaches, I aim to get plumb drunk on that sweet juice.”
“Drunk?” She leaned over to study his face.
“No, heavens, the last time I did that I sent Joe Sunday packing to hell and got me the best cook this side of heaven.”
She shook her head and went searching through the panniers for the peaches. Finally, she raised a can high over her head with a whoop.
“Nothing like having an Apache on the warpath.” He laughed to himself and shook his head. “What next?”