Hall County, Wyoming, was a rugged place. He’d ridden the Panhandle a few times. This felt tougher—plateaus that ran for miles; giant tables of rock. Far away there were mountains that poked up purple against the horizon; once he was sure they were white-topped. Panhandle wind was always ready to blow you to kingdom come. Days of nothing to make you forget the days when you could not walk upright against it. Out here, it was a solid, eternal presence. Wind never stopped, but the world wasn’t ever giving ground. It was the place you figured would last forever if everything else crumbled. Massive pines in some places where the creeks rushed with water; dry flatland with knee-high bleached grass in others. Cattle country. Horse country. Not much farmland he’d seen so far.
The land had grown rockier as he had gone farther west, and the people harder to match. The train had stopped where it was scheduled, if not when, and a few dozen other places as well. If Kane never took one again, it would be all the same. Noisy. Dirty. Crowded. Drunks. He hated drunks. The friendly ones were the worst. Let a man be.
The West grew rawer as he traveled. Farmers found it hard to pass Kansas by. Men running from something found it easy to drift. Dreamers and skulkers; prophets and thieves. Obsessed with land. With Indians. With losing out on whatever it was everybody was going West to find. Denver tried to be New York when it wasn’t a frontier town. All he wanted to do was leave it behind.
He had taken his time after Denver. It had been years since there was time to meander along a trail without wondering who might be on it. This land was bold; sunsets that flamed for hours and a night sky under a dome even bigger than the sky felt in Texas. If you could not talk to God under a sky this big, you never could. Maybe Sherman was right. Maybe this place was big enough for people like him.
He’d ridden six days; met someone only on one of them. At times he knew there were watchers, probably some were red and others were white, but they all kept their distance.
Rakeheart was below him now, along some creek; he’d forgotten the name. They all seemed to have buffalo in them or deer or some such.
He stopped near the edge of a plateau that overlooked the not-too-distant town. He’d stopped at a couple of others. Frost Springs. Gray Flats. Towns seemed insubstantial. They were small, and their rickety buildings that usually lacked much paint, if they had any at all, seemed fragile amid rocks that spoke of looming mountains and rugged hills that must have been carved by the wind.
Windy. It was always windy here. Grit, dust, and cold now and then, even in the middle of summer. It felt every bit as far from civilization as it was. Some days farther.
He ran his fingers through the mane of the horse he’d bought in Denver. They’d had a few days to get to know each other. Horse could run; didn’t mind when Kane shot a rifle off of him. Understood what Kane said. Seemed to.
He sat on the horse’s back and looked. Town had a main street; ten or twelve blocks of buildings. Street dog-legged a bit. A few small houses to the west. White building set apart. Just about the only thing painted other than a few signs. Had to be a church. Small church. No school. People moving. Seemed like a lot of people for a place that size. He untied the rawhide that tied down his gun in the holster. Lifted it out and set it back. Where there were people, there was trouble. Always.
Railroad moved from the southeast to the northwest along the edge of the town. Pens for stock by the tracks. Trails coming and going. Not roads. Nothing but hard-packed dirt where the repeated travel of horses, wagons, and men had made a mark on the earth.
He approached his task without enthusiasm. He wasn’t a detective; Cump Sherman could have called in the Pinkertons, but some reason Sherman did not share made him keep this private. This was beyond his abilities. Usually, the gangs and thieves showed their colors after a while. Other than men who killed because they liked killing, murderers didn’t always cooperate. He wondered idly if he simply rode on, let this one go, if ol’ Sherman would find him. He knew the answer. Sherman probably had crows reporting back every day.
The horse snorted at something it smelled on the wind that Kane did not. “C’mon, Tecumseh,” he called the horse, smiling every time he heard the name. “Guess it’s time for us to earn our pay.”
The trail from the hill country wound down to the flatland that now seemed to stretch forever to the north. He took it slow. No comings or goings. The flatland was empty. Man trying to not be noticed can’t help but be seen unless he keeps to the hills and the patches of trees that popped up for no good reason. He felt uneasy. Exposed. A shiver. Silly notion. It was only another place. Sherman’s demand for justice was only another mission. He hadn’t shaved on the way, so that anyone looking for a clean-shaven man they knew in Texas would not find him out here in Wyoming.
No one seemed to care that he arrived. No one seemed to be in town at all, now that he was here. Odd. It had looked bustling from the hilltop.
A mournful looking barefoot girl in overalls was standing outside the stables. She tried to smile at Kane, but there was nothing in it. Young and pretty with long, brown hair falling down behind a face that bore a pert nose and impudent eyes, but miserable about something.
“Stayin’ long?” she said listlessly, staring down the street as though she was hoping to see something.
“Not sure.” Pause. “Somethin’ goin’ on down there?”
“Bud Franklin is going to shoot Kevin Morris,” she said as though it was the entertainment of a lifetime. “And I can’t go.”
He grunted in reply. Not his business. Not his form of amusement. He handed her a silver dollar and went to stable Tecumseh.
“Hey, mister, you see anyone out there?” She pointed at the vast expanse of High Plains.
“Nope.” He could hear the grumbling.
Kane took off the horse’s saddle and blanket. He started to brush Tecumseh, who seemed to like it from the few times Kane had groomed the horse on the ride from Denver. Meant somebody had cared for him.
“Mister, please, can you come with me down there?” she asked from the doorway. “Never seen a man gunned down, and I’m not missing it. Pa’s . . . Pa can’t be working today, and if I go and leave you here alone he’ll get awful mad when he finds out. He thinks everybody steals. He won’t ever close this fool place, but if there’s no one here and no one coming it won’t matter, will it? You’ll tell him you wanted to go if he asks? Please?”
A gunfight. He’d seen it. Done it. A girl like her, sixteen or seventeen, she’d never understand.
“Please, mister. Please!”
“ ’Spose I can finish later,” he said after a moment.
The gunfight must be a spectacle, he thought, as he walked down an empty street. The girl had run ahead as soon as they left the stable. General store had a “Closed” sign. Others were clearly shut tight.
He turned the dog-leg corner he’d seen from the hill. He’d seen gunfight crowds before. Bigger towns. No crowd bigger than this one.
Duckboards filled. Men, women. Lots of kids. Fools must have set a time. He’d have checked his watch if he had one. Townspeople carried watches.
“Hey!” a boy called to him. “They’re gonna come out! Better move, mister, or you’ll get your head blowed off by Kevin.”
“He can’t hit nothin!” the boy next to him called. The argument rose in volume.
Kane sauntered to the side. Boy was right. Saloon doors swung as a round young man came out, his smooth, oval face flushed. Big build but running to fat even at his age. The striped shirt bulged over his belt underneath the brown leather vest. Some curls of damp, blond hair from under his hat showed how much he was sweating. Death and liquor. Quite a pair. Men either got drunk and killed each other or got drunk to go kill each other.
A few people called to the young man as he waited by a hitching rail. Awkward. Fussing with his hat; his holster. He licked his lips a lot and looked around the street, as though someone might be coming to end all of this. He had come to a place where he did not want to be and had no idea how to get out of it except by going forward.
The crowd quieted as a sallow-faced man emerged. Dark vest and pants; white shirt. Hat low; gun low. Walking easy. Loose. Relaxed. A man who knew his business. No drink needed; just a man good at guns.
For a moment his eyes focused on Kane, the only other man in the street. Sizing up. As though he could smell on Kane that Kane also knew how a gun was used. But Kane was not in play. The glance ended. He moved into the street. Waiting. Snake-patient. A chore to be done and finished.
The younger man licked his lips one more time as he looked into the center of the street. Kane could see his face glisten with sweat.
This was not a fight. It was murder. San Antonio flashed before his eyes. He could have stopped it. Should have. Didn’t.
Drunks and fools. Auntie Amelia said God protected them. Sometimes.
Maybe he could fill in this one time. Penance for when he had not.
“Hello, Bud,” he called to the patient man as he walked out to where the man who clearly had to be Bud Franklin was waiting in the bright sunshine of a clear-sky day.
Franklin’s head snapped at hearing his name from a stranger. His eyes bored in on Kane, but he made no reply.
The younger man now quickly stepped forward. Pride mattered more than death. The rules. Live by ’em. Die by ’em. He walked up to Kane as though he wanted a round with Kane before taking on the man he had promised to meet. Kane turned to face him.
“Whyn’t you tell me what this is about, Kevin?”
The young man was clearly surprised Kane knew who he was. He shot a look at his waiting antagonist as though fearful the man would shoot him as he talked.
“Turning coward?” called Franklin.
“Get out of my way,” blustered Morris, shoving Kane.
Mutterings. A restive crowd not getting their show. End it.
Kane drew his own gun and pointed at Franklin. “Lose the gun.”
“This is not your business,” Franklin said.
“Is now.”
“The world’s better off without him.”
“Might well be, but this is plain and simple murder, friend. The world will be without you if that gun don’t hit the ground soon.”
Franklin glared. Kane stared back. Kane could tell Franklin had calculated survival before by the way the man placidly reached down and pulled the gun from its holster, making sure Kane wouldn’t go off by mistake.
“Toss it here.”
Franklin did. It landed in a puff of dust.
“Kevin, the same.” The young man was puffing up to fight. Franklin was probably right, Kane thought. Too late now.
“Try not to shoot your foot off doin’ it,” Kane said as the young man seemed unable to respond. Somebody in the crowd snickered.
The younger man paused, then reached down and dropped the gun in the dirt. He kept eyeing Franklin, as though expecting some trick.
Kane gestured with his gun. Morris stepped toward Franklin, moving closer as the gun kept motioning him toward his antagonist.
“You boys got that bad a grievance, beat each other up if you want. Not the circus the good folks wanted, but it might entertain them a spell.” Both faces looked revolted at the idea.
Kane looked at Franklin. “Or keep travelin’ if that’s how you make your livin’.”
“You are making a mistake, mister,” Franklin said.
“Nothin’ new.”
“You don’t know what you are doing. This is not over, fella.”
Kane nodded. Sooner or later, Franklin would find a man to kill; Morris would bluster into a scrape too deep. By then, Kane hoped he would be long gone from Wyoming.
“Never is,” said Kane. “Not watchin’ a fool get killed for bein’ a fool. Not here. Not now. All there is, fella. Let it ride. Not personal. Just one of them things. Might change my mind when I get to know your friend.”
“I could call that bag of fat a lot of things, maybe liar, cheat, or spoiled brat, but friend ain’t one of them.” Franklin looked disdainfully at Morris. “Don’t ever count on being this lucky again.” He moved away from the younger man, who seemed to be uncertain whether he had won or lost.
Franklin was studying Kane.
“ ’Spose there’s a good reason.”
“Hope so,” said Kane. They were eye to eye, barely two feet apart.
“Do I get my gun?” asked Franklin.
“Not a collector,” replied Kane. “Keep it where it belongs, and let the fool boy go. Whatever he did, we both know he’s too stupid or too full of cheap liquor to matter. Me ’n you know it would have been nothing short of murder, fella.”
Franklin bent down to pick up the revolver. Wiped the dust from the barrel. Slid it back in the holster, watched Kane holster his. Wordlessly, he moved down the street.
Kane picked up the other gun and tossed it out of reach for Morris to fetch, counting as Franklin took the smallest and slowest steps a man could take. Nineteen steps to barely go twenty feet.
Franklin had the gun in his hand as he turned. Kane had silently pulled his as the other man walked. It was no contest. Guns barked. Franklin was good and fast, but it’s hard to beat a man who cheats for a living. Kane fired until Franklin was down.
He walked to the gunman, who was all but gone, lying in the halo of dark dirt around his chest.
Franklin wet his lips. Gasped.
“Why?”
Kane didn’t bother. Wouldn’t matter even if he had an answer. Man was mostly gone when he spoke and finished the journey before Kane could have replied.
The girl from the stable ran over to him.
“That was Bud Franklin. He was a Company Rider. He killed six men!”
“He won’t kill no more,” said Kane.
He walked the rest of the way alone as the crowd no longer could remain silent. The noise of excitement over someone else’s death erupted, fading only as he walked away to the quiet haven of the stable.
He had almost completed brushing Tecumseh when the expected delegation of solid citizens arrived. A couple were young, most old. Most round. All hesitant. Kane hoped if he pretended they were not there, they might go away.
Nope.
A full-bearded older man moved forward, hat off, running it around in his hands. The man had gray hair heading to white, a neat beard, and stood taller than the rest—a big, full man. He wore some kind of black jacket and pants, but both were stained with flour. His white shirt was wrinkled and dirty, but he was eager to make his friendly intentions obvious with a smile that seemed to come naturally in a face that had wide, blue eyes looking at Kane with what was clearly a practiced assessment of the stranger he was meeting.
“Howdy.” The man’s voice was deep and pleasant; it sounded practiced in the art of being friendly.
“Not plannin’ to kill nobody else today, if that’s your worry. One’s entertainment. Two’s bad for business.”
“Well, that’s fine news,” said the man, his cheerfulness seemingly undented. “Jack Conroy. I own the general store.”
Store men liked to talk.
“Kane. Wilkins family; you know ’em?”
The smile dimmed a second before words tumbled out. “Fine folks. Terrible, whatever it was out there. Terrible. They owed me money, of course, but I canceled it when I heard. It was the very least that a Christian man could do for the widow, even though . . . I mean, terrible thing.”
“They live far?”
“No, no, not at all. About ten miles that way.” He pointed north. “Almost due north two miles, then towards Red Butte.”
As directions went, it wasn’t much help, but Kane figured another question might send the man past his limit.
“ ’Bliged.” He went back to his work.
“Mr. Kane? There was one thing that we wanted to say, being the town council here of Rakeheart, such as we are.”
Kane’s thoughts flitted to that Panhandle town where the townsfolk got so sick of gunfights they ordered anyone who shot a man dead on the street to bury him or pay a fine. Grinned. They always got their money, too.
The group seemed to recoil from a man who killed one minute and flashed a carefree grin the next.
“Are you . . . um . . . staying here in Rakeheart?” Conroy got out after no one else in his group spoke up. “Not that you are not free to leave . . . I mean free to stay . . . or you can go, um, of course, we would not detain you because we know that . . . well . . .”
“No idea. Problem?” This was taking time he did not want to spend talking. Sherman was probably already berating his clerk over the lack of progress reports.
“Problem? No, of course not. Not at all,” Conroy stammered. “There is no sheriff here, if that’s what you were asking about. That is the predicament we face here as we try to make this a God-fearing town.”
A younger man with a wide part down the top of his skull and slicked-down black hair took over, flashing a look of contempt at the stammering older man.
This man had a brown, checked suit with a black vest, a perfect white shirt with one of those ugly little black ties men were wearing these days that looked like a ribbon tied around a man’s neck and always made Kane think of hangings.
“Frank Brewer. I own the bank. We wanted to talk to you about that.”
Kane was lost. He said so.
“We need a sheriff,” Conroy said at last. “You’re new here. We all saw you try to stop those fools. Franklin was a . . .” A throat cleared in the bunch. Conroy started over.
“We can’t pay much, but there would be a place to sleep and meals. We’d like to talk to you about becoming the sheriff.”
The face looked relieved. He had said it.
Kane pursed his lips. As ideas went, he had heard worse. Not many, though. Him, a sheriff?
“Got to see the Wilkins family,” he said, not wanting to make too many enemies in case he had to stay around a while. “Them first. Talk to you when I come back.”
They agreed that would be fine. Brewer was bursting with something to say.
“Have you been in Wyoming long, Mr. Kane, and, um, did you know Bud from any former acquaintance?”
“The man you shot,” Conroy prompted after seeing Kane’s baffled look.
He never was good at names. Faces lingered. Names scattered in the wind and were gone. Even those he killed. Especially those.
“Never met him. Been in the territory a few days, if it’s your business.”
Brewer hastily admitted it was not, and, amid general expressions of shaky goodwill, the delegation left him alone.
“Well, Cump,” he said to the horse. “Don’t that beat all?”
“You know the Wilkinses?” he asked the girl, who had told him her name was Janie. She had observed the delegation with something that was not quite disgust, but there was not much respect shown, either.
She shook her head.
“Only came to look in on ’em. You don’t know ’em at all, small place like this?”
“Not very well. Their kids are little,” she said scornfully. “The boy is cute, but his father spoiled him and lets him run wild. The girl is quiet and moody. She is, you know, different, like her mother. Mr. Wilkins came to town a lot—maybe not every week but something like that. Mrs. Wilkins and the girl don’t come very often, which is fine, the way things are. He gave me a dollar once for watching his horse extra. I think he was nice, but I didn’t really know him.”
“Guess you can keep the one I gave you even though I don’t think we quite ate a dollar of oats,” he said as he saddled Tecumseh.
“I can?”
“Don’t figure you’d give it back easy.” He smiled.
She grinned back and looked like a different person.
“Guess your pa knows you have a head for business.”
“Guess so!” she exclaimed proudly. She stood outside the stable and waved as he rode, after giving him a few landmarks to look for on the way north.