It had been a long, stressful night, and Cody had still been on edge when he went to bed. He jerked awake, unsure what had prompted his reaction, but old survival instincts kicked in. He rolled from his bed, hit the floor, and rose quickly to his feet, as he pulled his pistol from its holster, which hung on the chair at his writing desk. He aimed the pistol at the silhouette in the entrance to the tent. A familiar voice said, “Please don’t shoot me, sir!”
Cody lowered the hammer on his Colt Navy. In a voice still phlegmy with sleep, he said, “Nick?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cody cleared his throat and slid the pistol back into its holster and mumbled, “What the hell do you want, son?” Cody, wearing only his union suit, realized his ass was chilly, and reached back to discover the right button on his drop seat had come undone. He scratched for a moment, closed the flap, and buttoned it.
“Sir, there’s a policeman here. Says he needs you to come quick. To identify a body.”
“Aw, damn. Give me a few minutes to dress.”
“Yes, sir.” Nick backed out of the tent.
Cody donned a shirt, buttoned the bottom few buttons, then pulled his pants on, cinched them, and lifted the suspenders over his shoulders. He sat on his bed and pulled on his boots. As he stood, he considered his Colt, still slung over the chair next to the bed.
Speaking to the pistol, he said, “Hell with it. I may still decide to shoot the whoreson if I get the chance.” He lifted the gun belt from the chair and strapped it around his waist in its customary, comfortable position. He tied the leg thong around his thigh, grabbed his Stetson from the coat rack, and finished buttoning his shirt as he exited the tent.
The half moon hung low in the western sky as Cody stepped from his tent into the warm night air. The illumination of electric lights at the nearby fairgrounds gave a faint glow to the humid night, which obscured all but the brightest stars overhead. A horse whinnied down by the stables. Folks in nearby tents talked with each other while others snored in their tents.
Nick stood with a policeman, a tall, rangy redhead, in the street outside Cody’s tent.
Cody stepped up and extended his hand. “I’m Cody.”
The officer shook the extended hand. “Officer O’Malley, sir.”
“The boy says you found a body?”
“Yes, sir. We believe it to be Miss Sophia Russler, but we need identification. Detective Porter asked me to retrieve you specifically. Said Miss Oakley shouldn’t have to identify her friend.”
“I strongly concur. I liked young Sophia, and I will be greatly upset if she’s dead, but I have seen plenty of dead folk over the years and, strong as Annie is, she shouldn’t have to deal with this when I can do it. Lead on, sir.”
O’Malley looked at the pistol on Cody’s hip. “Do you really think you need a gun, sir?”
Cody smiled. “Probably not, but I have recently learned there is at least one monster in Chicago. Where there is one, there are likely others, so I reckon I’ll wear my pistol.”
O’Malley nodded slowly to himself. “Seems reasonable.” He led Cody to a small carriage. Cody settled in the back seat, and O’Malley climbed with deft assurance into the driver’s seat. He gathered the reins and snapped them, clucking softly. One of the horses tossed its head, then both horses moved forward, pulling them west toward the pharmacy.