Jesse stepped down out of the saddle and tied the mare. Town seemed quieter than usual. A few people walked here and there along the boardwalk. Several horses stood at the hitch rail in front of the saloon. Orris must have been sleeping because none of that god-awful key banging befouled the street. The bell above the door at the general store rang. A man with red hair, carrying a barrel of nails, staggered under the load toward a buckboard.
Jesse walked into the jailhouse. Sheriff Crosson talked with the bigger-than-big man that he had seen yesterday. The two of them briefly glanced up, then finished their talk.
“Jesse, this is John Filson, or Big John.” The sheriff gave the man a friendly slap on the back. “John, Jesse Adams.”
The huge, rosy-cheeked man studied Jesse’s face. Good things didn’t usually follow a deep-wrinkled brow. John turned his back and faced Sheriff Crosson.
“I was at Pete’s last night. Heard some cowhands talking. Is this one any kin to them cattle thieves that were hanged? When you told me who was with ya last evening, I was tired, and it didn’t fully sink in. I heard one of the boys got away.”
Was Big John pointing a finger, calling Jesse a cattle thief? Seemed Jesse wouldn’t be able to relinquish the awful inheritance left to him. A bad name stuck to a man like honey on the fingers. Only, the taste wasn’t so sweet. If it came to defending his name with his fists, well, he’d done that plenty of times. Being an Adams, he’d been born swinging.
He was tall, his hands large and callused. No one ever dared to call him a weakling. He wasn’t big like John, but that didn’t worry him. His thick knuckles could ugly up a man’s face real damn quick. Six months back, he’d been in Cheyenne on cow business with a few of the Seven-C boys. They’d goaded him into taking on a prizefighter. Jesse won a hundred dollars that night.
The sheriff came swiftly to his feet. Maybe he saw the recklessness in Jesse’s young eyes. No doubt he would defend his chum. Jesse would probably be told to get out. Sheriff Crosson reached across the desk and yanked Big John in close, nose to nose.
What the hell was he doing? This was Jesse’s fight. The beastly fella didn’t look too confident and stopped snorting complaints, but Jesse was still pissed. He didn’t need help taking care of this trouble.
“He didn’t escape. I set him free because he’s innocent. Do you have a problem with that?” There was nothing friendly in Sheriff Crosson’s tone.
“No, sir, Sheriff.” The big man plopped into a chair.
Jesse backed off, though he was not satisfied. Sheriff Crosson had been out of line to step in on his account.
Big John stood and offered a hand. “No hard feelings?”
Jesse looked over at Sheriff Crosson. What he saw made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Those cold blue eyes were giving him a stern warning. He had a chance standing right in front of him to build on who he was. To push aside the peace offering would only prove that Jesse was his father’s son. The guidance he was looking for from Sheriff Crosson hadn’t come the way he wanted, but he was smart enough to take it.
Jesse nodded, no hard feelings, and shook Big John’s hand.
“Excuse me. I have work to get to.” Big John left them.
“Git yourself some coffee. I ain’t ready to ride to Shorty’s just yet.” Sheriff Crosson sifted through some wanted posters on his desk.
Jesse didn’t want coffee. He wanted to settle his thoughts with the sheriff. “I don’t need you to stand up for me. I can fight for myself. I’ve done it more times than I can count.”
Sheriff Crosson looked hard at Jesse. “I won’t have to once you learn which battles are worth fighting. The cattle thief I hanged ain’t worth getting busted up over. John is a well-liked and respected member of this community. Punch him in the face, and it’ll stir up more talk that we ought to hang you in the square.”
Jesse knew the sheriff was right. His temper had gotten the best of him. Sheriff Crosson had shoved a good dose of humility down his throat, and he was willing to take his medicine.
Nate turned in his seat toward the window. Through the schoolyard and across the street sat the jailhouse. Had any new wanted posters been delivered on the stagecoach? He could be tacking the pictures on the wall right this minute. Instead, he was listening to the six times tables voiced by Mrs. McKay, then repeated by the class as a whole.
Maybe Nate would recognize one of the faces on the posters. He and the mustang could ride off and protect the town of Gray Rock, and he would arrest the outlaw. No, better yet, he’d capture a gang of outlaws and bring them to justice. He looked down at the badge pinned on his shirt and smiled. He could do more than just hang up wanted posters, if only Ma and Pa would let him.
Nate did his best to stay focused on his teacher and all these numbers she wanted him to learn until, finally, it was lunchtime. He ran from the schoolhouse.
He threw open the jailhouse door, dropped his lunch pail on a chair, then hopped up and sat on the edge of Pa’s desk. Nate leaned in close to see what wanted poster he was reading.
“Nathanial, move your head.” Pa pushed him away.
“Are there any new wanted posters?” Nate snatched up a stack of papers and quickly began to thumb through the sketches.
Pa reached over. “Let me have those.”
Nate hadn’t even gotten to read the names before Pa had grabbed the sheets. His face wrinkled up in a scowl. One poster in particular seemed to trouble him. Nate scooted closer and tried to look.
Pa flipped the paper facedown on the desk. “You should be at school. Go eat your lunch.”
What had Pa so uptight? The bell hadn’t rung, so it wasn’t time to go back yet. Nate ate lunch at the jailhouse all the time, almost every day, and Pa never got grumpy. Something else had him ticked off.
Jesse sat on a bench and sipped coffee near the potbelly stove. Maybe that stray mutt wouldn’t take his leave. Ma and Pa had fed Jesse, and now he was going to hang around. Other than a few tight friends, Pa wasn’t the buddy-buddy type. That was probably what had him cursing under his breath. Strange that he didn’t just tell Jesse to get lost. Maybe Nate would show Pa firsthand that he could handle more responsibility than just hanging posters.
“What are you doin’ here?” Nate hoped Jesse was just saying goodbye before he went away. Wherever his home was, Nate didn’t care. He was counting on this to go easy and, all the better, in front of Pa.
“The sheriff’s ridin’ out to Shorty’s with me.” Jesse huffed as if Nate had no right to know.
“What fer?” Nate wrinkled up his nose, arms tightly crossed. So Jesse wasn’t just sitting there hanging out. Pa was meaning to spend the day with him. Why? When had Jesse become so important? It had only been one night.
“Ain’t none of your business.” Jesse’s matter-of-fact statement irked Nate all the more.
“You have to tell me. I’m a deputy, and me asking you is an official inquiry.” Nate was sure he had the upper hand and smirked. He was the one wearing the badge, and he puffed out his chest to make sure Jesse knew it.
Jesse burst out laughing. “Shut up, kid.”
“I will not, an’ you can’t make me.” A mean flush rushed to Nate’s face. He wanted to spit right between Jesse’s eyes. Nobody was going to come between him and Pa.
“Shut up, the both of ya!” Nolan couldn’t think for the bickering going back and forth. Big as Jesse was, it was easy to forget the boy was still just a kid. Kids do what they’re going to do and bring it out in each other, but these two would have to learn to get along. Especially now, with Nolan’s heart thumping in his throat at the news in front of him.
He’d gotten word that Tipsy had broken free from the jail in Buttonwood. After, the killer had slit a deputy’s throat with a knife hidden in his boot. Nolan recalled the last time he’d seen the greasy-haired mongrel. Tipsy was a thin-chested man, not too tall. Always wore an ivory-handled pistol strapped on each hip with holsters tied down and hidden beneath a long gray wool Confederate soldier’s coat. His beady eyes were as black as coal and full of hate. Tipsy was a grisly-looking man if ever Nolan saw one, and he was deadly as a rattler.
I will kill yer boy.
Nolan would never forget Tipsy’s threat. He watched his little boy picking harmlessly at Jesse. Spouting off, explaining in his best grown-up voice that he got to sometimes lock the cell door. His family, his son, was everything to him. Nothing was more important than his wife and kids. It had always been that way. Tipsy was saddle trash and a cutthroat, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a man of his word. He would come for Nathanial. That mean son of a bitch needed a bullet drilled through him, and that was exactly what he would get for even breathing in Nathanial’s direction. For as long as Nolan could spare his son, he wanted Nate to have as normal a childhood as he could. Which meant not staring at killers on wanted posters.
“Nathanial, git back to school.”