Although it was early, smoke was already drifting upwards from the chimney and amongst the chatter of birds Hart could hear two voices, male and female. The smell of bacon being fried drifted up towards him. At the side of the corral closest to the house, the horses bent their heads over a trough of mash.
The pines seemed closer to the place than before; too close. He wondered at the wisdom of the man who had chosen that exact location. Shelter, yes, but...
The door to the cabin swung open and she came out, holding her apron at an angle in front of her. Three steps and then she shook the contents, crumbs and pieces of bacon rind, down on to the ground. As she stepped back towards the doorway, a dozen or so small birds launched themselves at the food; swooping, snatching, bickering.
Hart sat astride his horse, wanting her to look up, see him, maybe invite him down to share their breakfast.
No: if that was all why didn’t he ride on down?
Carol’s husband came out and stood next to her, one arm folding round her waist. He was a couple of inches taller than Carol; flat, sandy hair, clean-shaven. His work shirt was rolled high at the sleeves. He said something to her that Hart couldn’t grasp and then she leaned her face towards his and kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled and stepped away, patting her backside as he. went past her in the direction of the corral.
She watched him lift the top pole and climb underneath before she turned to face the house. For a moment she seemed to be looking above and beyond it, into the pines. Then she disappeared from sight.
Hart clicked his tongue softly and moved the mare away at a slow walk. Only when he was well out of sight did he spur her on, driving her fast, faster than necessary, not fully realizing why.
Stillwater hadn’t changed one bit. The barn Hart left his horse in was as tumbledown and empty as before; the sign over the saddler’s still hung on by the same single nail. Amos Grant was sitting outside the former stage depot, having dragged his armchair out and set it there so as to enjoy the sun a while.
As Hart walked towards him, he raised a hand in greeting and eased himself up, pleased to have someone to talk to.
‘Got that grey mare of yorn back then?’
‘Uh-huh. Lost the other, though.’
Grant shook his head. ‘Pity. That was Palmer’s best horse.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
Grant pushed open the door. ‘Come in and have a drink.’
‘I’ll settle for some coffee if there’s any brewin’.’
‘Sure is.’
The pot was resting on the stove, bubbling gently. Apart from the two of them the place was empty. Hart sat down between stove and counter and set his feet on to one of the tables.
‘You caught up with him, then?’ Amos asked, holding the handle of the pot in a cloth.
‘Could say he caught up with me.’
‘Tried to lay out for you, did he?’
‘Somethin’ like that.’
‘Damn fool! Stupid enough to reckon he could steal a mount from a man like you an’ get away with it. Even worse waitin’ around so’s you could get a shot at him.’
Hart chuckled and tried the coffee; it was too hot and bitter as gulch water in winter.
Grant saw him wince and came round the counter with a bottle of whisky. ‘Freshen it up with this.’ Hart held up the cup and the owner topped it up to the brim.
They talked little while Hart was finishing his coffee. When there were only the black, burnt grounds left at the bottom, he stood up and pushed his hand down into one of his saddlebags.
‘What d’you reckon for Palmer’s horse?’
Grant scratched his cheek. ‘Let’s see now. More’n fifteen, no, twenty dollars, I’d reckon.’
Hart tossed a coin on to the counter, then another. ‘That settle it?’
‘Sure,’ said Grant, scooping them up. ‘Sure will.’
Hart looked at him. ‘You know anything ‘bout a couple live south of here. Near half a day’s ride. Built themselves a small place an’...’
‘You mean the Petersons?’
‘I don’t know. The woman’s name, that was Carol.’
Amos Grant leaned forward on to the counter. ‘That’s them. Frank an’ Carol Peterson. Nice couple. They come in for supplies every once in a while.’ His eyes flickered over Hart’s face. ‘Fine lookin’ woman. Don’t you think?’
‘She’s okay.’
Grant was about to say something else when the sound of horses outside cut him short. Hart went to the door fast, pushing it open and looking out. Three men were approaching from the north, passing the sod huts and heading for the depot. He didn’t recognize any of them as men he’d met before. But there was no mistaking the way the sunlight caught the polished tin of their badges and flicked it from side to side.
The one in the middle wore a long buckskin coat, despite the heat. His pants were tucked tight into polished black boots and the battered Stetson on his head was angled over to one side against the sun. A long moustache ran down to touch his jaw line, dark brown and graying at the ends. His pistol was hidden by the flap of his coat, but the gun belt was clear, as was the rifle in the sheath by his saddle.
Hart put him at around forty.
The men with him were younger, in their early twenties. Tall and rangy, clean-shaven and bareheaded. The one with sandy-shaded hair, the other dark. As they watched Hart in the depot doorway, they made no secret of pulling their hands back down by their weapons.
Hart shrugged and went back inside.
‘Company comin’,’ he said. ‘The law.’
‘The law!’ echoed Grant in astonishment. ‘We ain’t seen no law round here for nigh on a twelve month. Didn’t rightly think there was no law in these parts. Not no more!’
He was shuffling towards the open doorway when the marshal came in, followed by one of his deputies.
‘Well, I’ll be...’
‘You ain’t by now, Amos, you never will.’
‘I declare, Marshal James F. Fagan in person. Marshal, I thought you’d given us up for lost. What you doin’ out here in this wilderness, anyhow?’
Fagan went over to the bar and reached himself a glass. ‘Give me a chance to lubricate this throat of mine, an’ maybe I’ll tell you.’
‘Sure, marshal, sure.’
Grant hurried round and poured a glass almost full to the brim of whisky. ‘You want one?’ he said, looking over at the sandy-haired deputy.
‘Sure.’
‘Amos,’ said Fagan. ‘This is Jed Kimball. Man outside’s Griff Howard. Took ‘em on a few weeks back. Judge’s instructions. Goin’ to set on a few more before the month is out. We just ain’t gettin’ ‘em into Fort Smith fast enough for him to keep the hangman busy.’
Grant chuckled. ‘Feller come through here a couple of months back, told me that hangman of the Judge’s...’
‘George Maledon.’
‘That’s the one. Told me he strung up six at the same time an’ let ‘em all drop together.’
‘I heard that, too.’
‘Didn’t see it, did you?’
Fagan shook his head. ‘Can’t say I did.’
‘Damnation! I’d dearly love to have heard about that. Give near anythin’ to have been there myself and seen it. Six at one time!’ He whistled. ‘Gives a man somethin’ to think about, don’t it?’
The marshal nodded shortly. ‘Guess it does.’
Instinctively, Hart touched his hand to his throat. No matter how many men he’d seen hanged, it was a way of dying he hated, unconsciously feared.
The second deputy came in and went over to Fagan, saying something low and quick so that Hart couldn’t hear. Fagan glanced over his shoulder at where Hart was sitting towards the rear of the room. Then he pointed to the bottle and the deputy poured himself a shot of whisky.
‘You goin’ to say what you’re doin’ this way?’ asked Grant, impatient for the news.
Fagan leaned his weight against the counter, turning his body so that Hart could see him clearly and be able to hear what he was saying.
‘Bank got robbed four days’ ride from here. Winfield. Two men bust in while a third held the horses. Feller who runs the bank took too long to open the safe. They shot him in the back and in the legs. He ain’t dead but he ain’t moved or said a word since. Somebody saw ‘em ride through town, though, gave us a pretty good description. One of ‘em has to be a mean bastard called Dury. Alexander Lovatt Dury.’ The marshal glanced round: ‘Jed, fetch them handbills in.’
Fagan had a swallow at his whisky and carried on. ‘What we could make out, they rode south. Might have passed through here.’
Grant twitched his head round towards Hart and the marshal followed the gesture, easing himself away from the bar.
‘Three of ‘em, you say?’ asked Grant, a trace of nervousness in his voice.
‘That’s right.’ Fagan pointed down the room to Hart. ‘You wouldn’t have ridden in from the north, would you, stranger?’
‘No. Come up from New Mexico. Couple of days back.’
‘That a fact?’
‘Yeah. That’s a fact.’
Hart pushed his chair back, giving himself room to move; the fingers of his right hand rested on the edge of the table, tips touching the stained wood.
‘Here’s the bills,’ said the deputy, coming back to Fagan’s shoulder.
Without taking his eyes off Hart, Fagan took them and then dropped them on to the counter, leafing through them. After a few moments he lifted one out and held it up in front of Amos Grant’s face.
‘Recognize him?’
Grant took the small poster with its sketched face and peered at it; once again, he glanced down towards Hart and once again the marshal intercepted the look.
Fagan scowled: ‘Someone better tell me what’s goin’ on here, before I start puttin’ things together on my own account and maybe get it at half-cock.’
‘Maybe the feller down the bar wants to look at the poster?’ suggested the dark-haired deputy.
Hart pushed the table away and stood up slowly, making sure all three lawmen got a good look at the Colt .45 holstered low at his hip.
He started to walk forward and when he was midway the other deputy stepped wide and said: ‘That your grey mare in the barn?’
Hart stopped, fixed him with his stare. ‘She’s mine. What of it?’
The deputy marshal smiled wryly. ‘Looks like she’s been ridden pretty damned hard to me.’
‘Any law against that?’
‘Depends what you was runnin’ from, don’t it?’
‘Or after?’ added the second deputy.
‘Maybe.’ Hart carried on walking and reached out a hand for the poster. Fagan handed it to him and above the arm the eyes that looked keenly at Hart were unflinching, grey, lacking any sign of humor.
Hart took his time. He wasn’t sure which way to jump, what the reaction of the three lawmen would be. Whatever they thought it would change again when they found out he had the bank money snug in his saddlebag. If they found out.
He set the poster back on the bar.
‘Know him?’
‘Seen him.’
‘Where?’ Fagan rested his hand on the plain butt of the short-barreled Colt Peacemaker.
‘Here.’
The sandy-haired deputy slid his gun out of its holster.
‘When would that be?’
‘Day before yesterday.’
The deputy clicked back the hammer of his pistol, the triple click loud and very clear.
‘An’ you say you rode in from New Mexico?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not down from Winfield?’
Hart braced himself, spreading his legs slightly, right hand beginning to drift outwards. ‘You got where I come from right the first time. An’ if that man of yorn don’t ease that hammer back nice an’ easy, he’s goin’ to get a .45 smack between his eyes.’
Fagan pushed out his top lip, stared at Hart for a few seconds, then said softly: ‘Griff.’
The deputy released the hammer.
Hart stared at him, waiting.
The gun was dropped down into the holster.
Hart nodded. ‘There was three of ‘em like you said. Dury, a lanky Texan with a stooped back named Quint, an’ a youngster they called Drew. During the night this Quint lit out with that grey of mine and their money. I guess it was what they took from the bank. Soon as I found out, I went after him.’
‘You catch him?’
‘I caught him,’ said Hart grimly.
‘What you do?’
‘What d’you think I did? I killed him.’
Marshal Fagan blinked: just once. ‘And the gold?’ he asked.
Hart turned and walked to the table where his saddlebags lay. He knew there was more than the money belt stuffed inside. There were clothes, boxes of shells, some dried meat and a Starr double-action .44 that he’d kept ever since capturing it from a Union soldier during the war between the States. That gave him two guns against a possible three, not being sure which way Amos Grant would come down.
His fingers touched the butt of the pistol, tightened for a moment around it.
He spun round fast and lobbed the money belt through the air. Fagan reached up his hand and snatched it, letting it swing like a wide, brown snake.
Fagan held it up finally, felt the coins through the soft leather and tossed it over his shoulder for one of the deputies to catch.
‘It all there?’ he asked.
‘Most.’
‘How come?’
‘I had to pay for the horse I went after him on. He shot it from underneath me.’
‘That all?’
‘Ain’t there no reward comin’?’ Hart asked.
‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Fagan. ‘Not on Quint, if that’s what he’s called.’
‘How ’bout Dury?’
‘Yeah, but you didn’t catch him,’ sneered one of the deputies.
Fagan poured another two shots of whisky and stepped towards Hart. ‘You boys,’ he said, ‘take a wander round outside for a while.’
The marshal set the glasses down at a table and pushed a chair with his boot. ‘Take the weight off your legs.’
Hart sat down, suspicious.
‘You as good as you think you are?’
Hart thought for a moment. ‘I’ve been up against some fast men; never got taken yet.’
‘Uh-huh. You wanted for anything?’
Hart shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. You sure won’t find me on any of them bills of yorn.’
Fagan stared at him a while, then swallowed back the whisky. ‘You ever held a badge?’
‘Rode with Texas Rangers. Armstrong’s company. Best part of five years.’
In spite of himself, Fagan almost looked impressed. ‘You got anything to prove that?’
Hart reached down into one of his saddlebags and came up with a brown manila envelope. He dropped it down in front of the marshal. ‘Them’s the papers.’
Fagan read them quickly and nodded. ‘Guess you know something ‘bout Judge Parker. He was made Federal Judge in ‘seventy-five with jurisdiction over the whole of this area, right across the Outlet. He’s authorized me to deputize as many men as I can use, anything up to two hundred. Right now we could use a man between here and the Canadian River. That takes you as far across as Tulsa, east to Muskogee and west to Guthrie.’
‘That’s a lot of territory,’ Hart commented.
‘Sure is. And you’ll be ridin’ it on your own and fixin’ things your own way. You might see me from time to time and you might not.’ He leaned towards Hart and pointed a finger close to his face. The one time you’re sure to see me is the time you do some graftin’ and robbin’ on your own account. That’s when I’m likely to be steppin’ up close behind you.’
Fagan sat back and waited while Hart drank his whisky.
‘You want the job?’
‘What’s it pay?’
‘Seventy-five a month.’
Hart’s mind raced: there were all kinds of reasons for saying no, most important that he’d said to himself when he’d quit the Rangers that he would not take a similar job again. Not one where he was riding under orders. But right now there weren’t a lot of alternatives—and with the marshal and his men still not trusting him any too well it would be a way out of that problem.
‘Seventy-five a month and cartridges?’
Fagan shook his head: ‘Seventy-five and room to ride as your own man.’
Hart put out his hand. ‘I’ll take it.’
Fagan’s grip was firm and brisk; as soon as it was released he was hollering over his shoulder for a badge and a Bible.
The badge was a six-pointed star, each point capped with a small circle. The words Deputy U.S. Marshal were engraved into the tin and stood out black against the untarnished silver. Hart could feel the pin against the left side of his chest.
‘Like I said, you handle things your own way. Make a slow sweep through the territory and come into Fort Smith and report to me. That should be in around a month, maybe six weeks depending on what’s happenin’. You got your first month’s pay in your pocket. We’ll see if anythin’s comin’ to you when you get in.’
Fagan paused to wipe his buckskin sleeve across his mouth. ‘If you take a prisoner, something important, and there’s nowhere to stash him, you bring him in right away. You got that? Don’t go takin’ no unnecessary risks.’
Hart nodded. Fagan turned and hauled himself up into the saddle of his mount.
‘Good luck out there. God knows you’ll find trouble in plenty. Aside from the Cherokee this territory harbors all the cheap, murderin’ riff-raff of five states.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hart wryly.
Fagan nodded and pulled on his reins. A moment later he swung the horse back. ‘Down by the Canadian, Eufaula way, lot of cattle an’ horse stealin’ going on. Heard there’s a woman involved. Name of Belle Starr.’
The marshal jerked the reins again and dug in his heels, heading off through Stillwater, his deputies waiting for him at the beginning of the trail back to Fort Smith.
Wes Hart watched the three of them for a while, then walked over to the barn to fetch his own horse, eager to be on his way.