Jesse hopped up, throwing a leg over the saddle. The weight of his foot pulled down hard on the stirrup, and all at once his saddle dropped off the mare’s back. He hit the ground, and dirt puffed up around him. Sheriff Crosson laughed. Jesse’s face had to be beet red because his cheeks were burning up.
What happened?
His saddle had been cinched tight when he’d tied the horse and gone inside the jail. From where he sat in the dirt, it was plain that the girth strap hadn’t broken. It hung loose. Someone had purposefully untied his saddle. Who would pull such a dumb, boyish stunt?
“Damn that brat,” he cursed under his breath. A simple squabbling match had set off the kid. Jesse had forgotten about it until now.
He stood while brushing the dirt off his pants. If Nathanial wasn’t the sheriff’s son, Jesse would give that boy’s backside a good tanning. He picked up the saddle, threw it on the mare’s back, and yanked the cinch strap good and tight. The sheriff was still chuckling.
The ride from Gray Rock to the Short ranch was better than five miles. Plenty of time for him to cool off after being made to look like a fool.
“See those clusters of rocks on the hillside and over there beyond that patch of trees?” Sheriff Crosson pointed. “Them are good places for a man to lie with a rifle and ambush anyone riding along this coach road.”
Jesse thought the comment was just casual talk until he took note of how the lawman rode while taking in all that surrounded them. The sheriff wasn’t twisting around in the saddle. A man in wait wouldn’t suspect that he was even considering the possibility of an ambush. Rather, his gaze was steadily searching the cliffs under the cover of his hat brim. Anyone not close enough to see would think the sheriff was just looking straight, his mind on his own business. Jesse found himself doing the same, then caught the eye of the sheriff watching him.
Nolan, Jesse was learning, was a cautious man. He hadn’t realized at first that Sheriff Crosson had been teaching him to be the same since riding out of town.
“Men who kill or rob always seem to take the path of least resistance when fleeing. Any outlaw knows that a posse might soon be on his tail. It makes sense then that he would choose to put some distance, and fast, between himself and the crime. When I track down a wanted man, I always start at the straightest trail that looks away.”
Why was the sheriff explaining being a lawman? Jesse was an Adams. Though he did like learning all that stuff. It sparked an interest in him, a curiosity, and he wanted to know more. He’d never thought about some of those things. It was exciting to picture and kind of made him forget his cold hands and nose. He’d listen all day if the sheriff had a mind to teach him.
Maybe he’d learn how to read sign, because tracking wasn’t something Jesse was too good at. When hunting, he could trail a bleeding deer, but one horseshoe mark in the dirt looked like all the rest. Criminal or lawman, who could tell but Sheriff Crosson, dubbed “the Hound Dog” by the Chicago Tribune for his tracking skills? The Seven-C outfit, including Jesse, had been pushing a large herd of cattle along the Western Trail. They’d gone around Julesburg and were headed into Kansas to Abilene when he had come across the newspaper picture of the hanging.
Front-page headline, the caption read that Sheriff Crosson had been recruited to lead the posse and track a bloody slaughter-hungry hombre. The renegade had slipped by the lawmen in El Paso and then was tracked to San Antonio. He’d fled again, only that time across the Rio Grande into Mexico, where the sheriff had followed his sign to a little village near the coast. The article ended with the unforgettable words: The nearest tree had been used to hang the killer.
Jesse and Sheriff Crosson rode the rest of the way to Shorty’s ranch in silence. Jesse chewed over why the sheriff had chosen to share what he did. His life wasn’t in danger of being sought out as a freed cattle thief. The sheriff had backed down Big John, a close friend. Nor did anyone but the sheriff and Shorty know of the money that was about to change hands for the purchase of Jesse’s ranch. Besides, the legal documents would have to be drawn up proper and signed before he got a bank draft in his name.
Until that bill of sale was signed, Jesse had exactly sixty cents in his pocket. Twenty-five cents of that would buy him a hot supper at Pete’s. Maybe one of the Seven-C boys would be around and could spot him the price of a beer to wash down his grub. Old Man Pike at the livery charged a nickel for a spot in the loft. It wasn’t ideal sleeping quarters, but the four barn walls would keep the wind off Jesse’s back. That would leave him with a few bits so he could buy breakfast. After that, he wasn’t so sure.
They reined in and stepped down in front of the house. Shorty opened the door as Jesse and the sheriff tied their horses. The cattleman was wearing a chipper smile and greeted them both with a firm handshake.
Inside, they were led into an office and shown chairs before Shorty poured them all a drink. Jesse swallowed his right down, and Shorty poured him another. It seemed to be forgotten that just yesterday he’d been no more than a cowhand and nearly hanged for thieving this very man’s cattle. The burn mark around Jesse’s neck hadn’t faded overnight nor had any detail dissolved from his memory. It was unnerving how today Shorty was so friendly.
Jesse hadn’t expected that churning in his gut. He shifted in his seat. A firm hand squeezed his shoulder, and he looked over. Sheriff Crosson must have noticed his jitters. The sheriff’s eyes shifted toward Shorty as if to say Focus there. Twice in situations where he might have gotten himself too worked up and done something stupid, the sheriff had taught him better and kept Jesse thinking straight. He likely would have signed his name to any agreement if the sheriff hadn’t just redirected him to the business that brought them there. Jesse eased back in his chair with confidence and met Shorty’s gaze.
Shorty didn’t once talk down to him. The poor reputation of the Adams name was not sitting in that room as he spelled out a fair offer. What a sense of freedom that gave Jesse. If he were to hop up and do a giddy little dance, Sheriff Crosson might mistake him for a complete loon. It had been a really silly thought, but Jesse was so damn happy.
How did that old saying go? Like father, like son. Not anymore. He had been linked with Pa’s dishonest dealings too long, but while he sat there and Shorty scratched out the details on a piece of paper, Pa’s name didn’t amount to anything. For once, that bad reputation wasn’t standing in Jesse’s way. He smiled from ear to ear.
He shook Shorty’s hand and was well pleased with the agreement. The price per acre was top market value. The tally had come to four hundred and eight-five head of cattle. Shorty was willing to pay twenty-two dollars a steer. The cattleman had shown Jesse a signed contract from the army, who was willing to pay Shorty twenty-five dollars a head for beef. They were both oh so happy.
Sheriff Crosson patted Jesse’s shoulder. For whatever reason, he had stood by listening to every word exchanged but said nothing. Jesse had caught sight of an occasional nod of approval while he and Shorty talked back and forth to find an agreement to settle on. He’d gotten the sense that the sheriff wasn’t there to oversee the deal concerning the stock. Whatever his interest, Jesse didn’t feel cornered or belittled in any way, but he was for sure feeling like he was being studied.
He stepped out onto the stretching porch and took in a deep breath of crisp, fresh air. Relief washed over him, and his smile widened. The mare swished her tail as if to say she’d stood at the hitch rail long enough and was ready to go. Jesse, too, was anxious to ride toward his new future.
His only trouble was that the cattleman wanted to use the cabin as a line shack this winter, so Jesse wouldn’t be able to hole up there throughout the cold months. But Shorty would give him some time to move out what things he wanted. Jesse was fine with that. He’d find some place or maybe ask Mr. Wallace if he could stay on as a ranch hand for the winter. He hadn’t shown up though, and that was a definite reason for an employer to be done with him. Plus there wasn’t all that much work when the snow got deep.
Sheriff Crosson nudged him, then grinned. “Let’s go have a drink.” Guess he was happy for Jesse, which seemed a little odd considering they met only a few days ago. It wasn’t like they were good buddies. But he had been willing to come there, and he stood vigilantly at Jesse’s side during the negotiating.
Jesse’s mouth was dry for a celebratory taste of a cold, frothy mug of beer. “Sounds good to me.”
As they rode back into town, the air was somehow fresher and Jesse couldn’t stop smiling. Gray Rock seemed brighter and livelier than ever. For the first time, the dark, suffocating haze of Pa’s stigma wasn’t dampening Jesse’s spirits. He reined in next to the sheriff’s bay outside Pete’s place and, by chance, glanced across the street.
A lean man covered in cow dust sat on the bench outside the jailhouse. That was none other than his boss man, Charlie Wallace. Uh-oh, it looked like Jesse had some explaining to do. He tied his horse, then hurried over. His foreman greeted him with a handshake and a friendly grin. Jesse must not be in too much trouble for not showing up to work. He recalled what John said earlier about everyone in town knowing what took place with Jesse’s family. Mr. Wallace probably already knew of the trouble, but all the same, Jesse wanted to tell his side of it.
He quickly went through the story of the hanging, the sheriff’s help in not killing him, and that he was real sorry he’d just disappeared.
“That’s all right, son. Word travels fast in these parts, an’ I heard Nolan had ya taken care of.” Mr. Wallace shook hands with Sheriff Crosson. “Nolan.” Mr. Wallace nodded.
“Charlie.” The sheriff responded likewise.
Sheriff Crosson’s manners were casual, although he deliberately stood next to Jesse, same as he had at Shorty’s. Was the sheriff trying to keep him from trouble? Seemed like he was looking out for Jesse. He thought the sheriff would have gone inside and waited for him there. After all, Mr. Wallace wasn’t angry, and the friendly exchange between his former boss and Sheriff Crosson was more like a reunion. Jesse eyed the two as they talked easily between themselves for a minute. It seemed normal that the sheriff would know who lived nearby, but Jesse was surprised they seemed like good friends.
“We fought together in the war.” Mr. Wallace offered the explanation for the obvious chumminess.
“This man…” The sheriff playfully patted Mr. Wallace’s shoulder. “He saved my life from a Johnny Reb bullet.” Both men chuckled.
“What Nolan ain’t telling you, son, is that he’s a highly decorated soldier for his bravery. He saved my hide three or four times while we were deep in the South, behind enemy lines. He’d been commander of a small scouting patrol, and I was one of his soldiers. Nolan’s a good man to have at your side in a fight and as a friend.”
Jesse wasn’t a boy who believed in heroes, but he wanted to hear more. The sheriff didn’t have any medals displayed in his office at home. Maybe he would let Jesse see them sometime and tell how he’d gotten them. Jesse absolutely felt lacking in the company in which he stood. The self-inflicted intimidation kept his lips shut. He didn’t want to open his mouth and maybe sound like a fool in front of either of these men.
“Come have a drink with us.” Sheriff Crosson turned toward the saloon. A cowboy stumbled out and then crawled onto his horse.
“Maybe another time. I have to git back to the ranch. The missus will have my hide if I’m late for supper.” The cattleman swung a leg over his saddle.
He had given Jesse a chance long ago to prove himself to be hardworking and honest and showed Jesse how to be a man, laboring right alongside his ranch hands. Jesse admired that. He’d been too much of a boy then to see just what the cattleman had done for him. It had been a big step away from Pa’s reputation and toward owning his own name.
“Here.” Mr. Wallace leaned down, handing him fifteen dollars. “For the days you worked this month.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jesse nodded and put the money in his coat pocket.
Mr. Wallace turned his horse and trotted off.
Jesse followed the sheriff across the street, and a strange empty feeling came over him. He glanced back. A part of his life was over and so quickly. Though he wouldn’t miss those cows.
Jesse walked through the swinging doors a step behind the sheriff. Orris was tinkering away at the piano keys. Jesse had never given Pete credit for being such a sly salesman. Keeping Orris on the ivories was a sure way of getting any sober man to pay top dollar for watered-down whiskey so, with every drink, the so-called music would begin to sound better.
Maddie, one of the saloon girls, wore a tight-fitting red silk dress with stacks of ruffles around the bottom. Her lips were painted to match. She was draped over a sweaty cowpoke covered in filth from a hard day’s work. She stopped whispering in his ear and gave Jesse a funny sideways glance, which he ignored as he walked past.
Josey, the other whore, carried a platter of four tall mugs of beer with thick foaming heads to a table of men who were all staring at the cards in their hands. When she brushed by, her eyes did a quick double take between him and the sheriff.
Pete was behind the bar with his hand on a tap, filling a mug of beer, and didn’t look up until the sheriff knocked on the bar top.
“Two whiskeys,” he ordered for the both of them.
Pete’s squinty eyes widened, his gaze shifting back and forth. Laughter burst out of him while he disbelievingly shook his head. Jesse turned and faced the room, trying his best to forget Pete.
A lone man sat at a nearby table and was eating whatever slop Pete had served. Maybe Jesse would save his twenty-five cents. That hodgepodge of who knows what didn’t look fit for pigs. Granted, most of Pete’s customers, including Jesse, were a bit rough around the edges, but that didn’t mean he was without standards. Going without a meal had never killed him. Maybe he’d gotten spoiled after eating Mrs. Crosson’s quality cooking for one night. He might not ever be able to settle for less. Too bad he wouldn’t be sitting at the Crosson table again tonight. His stomach rumbled. He needed to quit thinking about it.
Others who came in noticed and suspiciously eyed the pair. Jesse had a pretty good idea of what everyone there was thinking. An Adams and a lawman standing together. Had hell just frozen over?
Jesse swallowed down the shot. “Pete, give me a beer.”
A few seconds later, Pete slid him one. Jesse lifted the foamy mug and took a long drink. The place filled with noise. Conversations picked up where they’d left off, bets were made, and someone even sang to what only Orris called music. Everyone was engaged in their previous doings. It looked like everything had smoothed out.
Two men, one of them Big John Filson, pushed through the swinging doors. The other was wiry-looking. Jesse had seen him before but didn’t know him personally. More dusty cowpokes crowded in. The place was filling up. Cigar smoke clouded the air.
John and his companion bellied up on the other side of the sheriff. “Give me a bottle and two glasses.” Big John slapped a coin down on the bar. Pete turned toward a shelf lined with bottles, and John drummed his fingers eagerly.
Jesse could feel the cold glare of that slant-eyed string bean. Sheriff Crosson must have felt it too, because he glanced between Jesse and the fella. Then, as if there were nothing to be uneasy about, the sheriff picked up his drink. Maybe that quick look was a warning not to start trouble.
It wouldn’t take much for Jesse’s big hands to snap that stick in two. He might not have a choice, as the sheriff seemed to think. Whoever that man was beside John, his stare appeared to be more like a finger pointed right at Jesse. That accusation, though silent, was horseshit. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he doubted it. This town was chock-full of judgmental arseholes who had at one time or another blamed him for Pa’s wrongs. Jesse was damn tired of it, but he didn’t want to disappoint the sheriff like he’d done when he almost hit Big John. He took another drink of his beer, trying to brush aside the fella’s hard stare.
“Jesse.” Big John reached around the sheriff and patted him on the shoulder. “Cooper here is the blacksmith.”
Cooper’s chuckle wasn’t friendly. In fact, it sobered Jesse right quick, especially since Cooper’s hand had eased down and rested on the butt of his pistol. “You’re one of them thievin’ Adams boys, ain’t ya?”
Like a fool, Jesse had left his rifle on his horse, and he wasn’t wearing a pistol. He set down his beer, slopping it all over the bar. He figured he’d best hit first because he’d have no chance if Cooper drew on him. Jesse’s fists clenched at his sides.
All the tension must have crowded between the two. Big John turned and squarely faced that loose-tongued friend of his. His bulk blocked Jesse’s path, cutting him off from throwing a punch. With shoulders spread, John looked like a brick wall. Sheriff Crosson leaned on an elbow and watched. He’d been hovering like a mother hen all day, but now that a fight was brewing, he backed off, giving Jesse space. Why?
Their eyes met. Jesse wasn’t looking for guidance. He was too familiar with handling Cooper’s type. Maybe the sheriff wanted to see how Jesse handled himself or maybe what he’d learned. That morning after he almost hit Big John, the sheriff had told Jesse to learn which battles were worth fighting. He didn’t explain how, though Jesse sensed he was to figure it out.
Big John gave Cooper a little shove. “Let it go, Coop. Jesse is all right or he wouldn’t be working for Sheriff Crosson, and you know it.”
Cooper grabbed his drink and stomped off.
Jesse didn’t believe he’d heard right. Working for the sheriff? Since when? All he could do was stare all dumb like at the sheriff, who tossed back another drink, then set his glass on the bar top. The man had a hell of a poker face. He didn’t say a word to confirm or deny the truth.
Something sprang to life inside him, even more so than a few hours ago when he’d agreed to the sale of the ranch. To pin on a deputy’s badge … He couldn’t think of a finer thing he’d rather have. A lawman. Jesse never had that dream because, well, he’d thought Pa’s name would hold him back from ever having anything that good.
Big John faced him. “Sorry about that. Coop can be a peckerhead sometimes. You’re better off to just forget it.” He waved for Pete to bring another glass, then poured Jesse a drink, which he accepted as the idea of being Sheriff Crosson’s deputy settled into his head.
He touched over his heart at the spot where the star would be pinned. Oh, he wanted it bad. What he could learn from the famed lawman. He’d learned a lot just today. He smiled and positively knew this was what he’d been made for.
“Let’s go.” Sheriff Crosson flicked Jesse’s hat down over his eyes, waking him from the best daydream ever.
Jesse followed the sheriff across the bustling room and past Cooper, who didn’t so much as sneak a peek their way, while others looked up and took notice. After what John had said, the stares bothered Jesse a whole lot less. He pushed confidently through the swinging doors.
“Where we headed?” The hour was getting on to evening. Perhaps the lawman had paperwork to shuffle at the jailhouse. Jesse was willing to learn that if the sheriff had it in mind to teach him.
Nolan grinned and shook his head. Maybe because Jesse was beaming like a kid in a candy store or he had expected him to know. “Well, son, I don’t know about you, but I’m mighty hungry and it’s close to suppertime. Kate won’t be happy if we’re late getting to the table.” Sheriff Crosson stepped off the boardwalk toward the bay.
For some reason Sheriff Crosson had taken a shine to Jesse. The Adams name wasn’t giving him pause. Taking Jesse under his wing might cause lots of grumbling around town and give Sheriff Crosson some headaches, but that didn’t seem to worry him. A new life was sprouting up for Jesse, thanks to the sheriff, though he hadn’t said anything about a badge yet.
Still rolling it all around in his head, Jesse swung a leg over the saddle and turned his horse.