The lone rider stopped to read the sign by the narrow bridge that spanned a clear-running spring. Ignoring the bridge, he guided his horse down to the water to let it drink. When he thought the animal had had enough, he jerked the sorrel’s reins back, gave it his heels, and Jesse Tyler rode into the peaceful town of Neosho.
Riding down the dusty street at a slow walk, Tyler took notice of every building he passed: the church, the blacksmith’s forge, the post office, a carpenter’s shop. The place had a familiar feel about it, but he felt sure he had never been there before. He didn’t give it a great deal of thought. So many of these little towns looked alike, and Tyler had seen a lot of them when he and Wesley were raiding along the Missouri border with Brance Burkett’s gang during the war.
Like his late brother, Tyler worked both sides of the law, depending upon which promised the greatest reward at that particular time. He and Wesley had collected a fair amount of reward money over the past few years, but nothing close to the sum they had robbed from innocent citizens. This manhunt was different. There would be no bounty collected when he finally caught up with Shannon. But the satisfaction he anticipated upon killing the man would be reward enough. Jesse thought about him every day and night, especially when seated before his campfire, unable to sleep because of the bitter bile of hatred that seemed to have filled his veins. His life had evolved into one single quest, to kill the man that killed his brother. Nothing else mattered.
When he had left Brance and the others back in the Cherokee village, he had been confident that Shannon had ridden west toward the Flint Hills. He had felt so strongly about it that he continued on after finding no real trail to follow. Finally realizing that his hunch was in error, he had turned around and returned to Old Bear’s village. Deserted, the Cherokee camp had still possessed a sense of death. The funeral pyre was no longer there, the bodies long since recovered by their families—all save one. Tyler had snorted contemptuously when he gazed at the remains of Corbin, already bloated and rotting.
Brance and the gang had left an obvious trail when they departed the village. With nothing else to go on, Tyler had followed after them, hoping that Brance had found some sign of Shannon’s trail. Now as he walked his horse slowly through the sleepy settlement of Neosho, he could imagine that there was nothing here that would invite a lengthy visit. Bannerman’s store, near the end of the short street, looked to be the only place showing any signs of activity.
Myra Bannerman sat on a cane-bottom chair behind the counter, altering a pair of her late husband’s trousers. Her father, Barney, could wear Roy’s pants, but he needed the legs shortened a good inch or two. She looked up from her sewing when she heard the little bell on the front door jingle, announcing a customer. One glance at the dark frowning eyes, surveying the room from under the wide-brimmed hat, caused her to suddenly catch her breath. During the past few weeks, Neosho had attracted more than its share of strangers. Unfortunately, especially for her, they had brought nothing but sorrow to the peaceful little town. The sinister-looking stranger standing in her doorway now appeared to be more of the same grief.
“May I help you, sir?” Myra dutifully greeted Tyler, putting her sewing aside and getting to her feet.
Tyler didn’t answer right away as he glanced at each corner of the room before stepping inside. In his business, he had learned to always be sure there were no surprises, no matter how innocent the scene appeared. Satisfied, he shifted his gaze back to the woman standing at the counter. He took note of the fact that she was dressed in black—a sure sign that Brance and the gang had passed this way. The thought brought a grim smile to his face. “I’m lookin’ for somebody,” he finally announced. “Five men. They shoulda come through here three or four days ago, maybe more.”
So, she thought, this was one more in the dangerous string of strangers come to threaten honest people. She was about to reply when a voice came from the doorway behind the stranger. “Were they friends of yours?”
Tyler started, his hand dropping to the handle of his pistol, but recovering almost immediately, when he saw the badge on the man behind him. “I ain’t got no friends,” he answered, and stepped to one side, so he could face the lawman head-on.
Waymon Roberts was not cut out to be a lawman. He was a carpenter by trade, and accepted the position of sheriff temporarily after Bert Wheeler was gunned down. At this moment, locked onto the deadly gaze of a born assassin, he couldn’t help but wish he had not seen Tyler ride in. It was not unlike staring into the eyes of a rattlesnake. Tyler, long on experience facing dangerous men, read the fear and uncertainty in Waymon’s eyes, and relaxed the hand on his pistol. “Well,” he said, “have you seen five men passin’ this way, or not?”
Waymon bolstered up his courage, and strived to inject a degree of authority in his response. “Oh, they passed through all right. They left two dead men behind them—one of ’em this lady’s husband.”
Tyler shot a quick glance at Myra Bannerman, unconcerned for her loss. Looking back at Waymon, he asked, “Which way’d they go when they left here?”
“Took the road to Springfield,” Waymon said. “At least that’s the direction they left in.” Tyler nodded thoughtfully. Waymon continued. “’Course I’ll tell you, same as I told them other fellers, they coulda turned off in any direction after they left town.” This caught Tyler’s attention in a hurry.
“What other fellers?” Tyler demanded, his eyes flashing with excitement.
“Two men and an Injun boy,” the sheriff replied. “They said they were trailin’ them five for shootin’ up their camp.”
Tyler tensed, certain he was on the right trail now. “Their names,” he demanded impatiently. “The two men, what were their names?”
Waymon’s freshly summoned bravado began to fade in the face of Tyler’s sudden mood swing. “I don’t remember,” he stumbled, turning to Myra for help. “Smith, I think the big one called himself. The other . . .”
“Shannon,” Myra said.
“Shannon,” Tyler repeated, allowing a smile to gain access to his sinister features. He was confident now. The last few days had been spent with concern that Shannon might be riding out across the prairie somewhere, getting farther and farther away. “So now the fox is chasin’ the hounds,” he said, amused by the thought. His sense of urgency was immediately intensified by the fear that someone else might kill Shannon before he could get to him. He turned away from the acting sheriff, and gave Myra some gruff orders. “Give me five pounds of salt pork and about a peck of oats for my horse, and some coffee—sugar if you got some. And make it snappy. I’m in a hurry.”
Feeling small after being so abruptly dismissed, Waymon felt compelled to assert his authority as sheriff, if only to save embarrassment before Myra and her son, Nathaniel. The boy had slipped quietly in from the saloon when he heard the conversation in the store. “I’m gonna have to ask you a few questions, friend. We’ve had more trouble in our town lately than the folks here wanna tolerate. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Tyler replied bluntly, his cold gaze locking on the sheriff’s.
The cruelty lying behind that gaze was enough to discourage Waymon’s feeble efforts toward assuming authority. He hesitated for a long moment, trying to find a way to retreat without losing face. “Well,” he stumbled, “I expect you’ve got the money to pay for them things.”
Amused by the lawman’s obvious lack of backbone, Tyler again allowed a wicked grin to spread across his dark features. “I expect that’s between me and the lady here, and no business of yours. Ain’t that right, lady?”
“Let it go, Waymon,” Myra said. “It ain’t worth causing a fuss over.” She could see that the situation might escalate into something ugly, maybe even deadly.
“Yeah, Waymon,” Tyler chided, exaggerating the pronunciation of the name. “Let it go.” He sneered contemptuously at the hapless lawman. “How many of your friends were killed? Two? Well, the count is gonna go up one more if you don’t get outta here right quick. I’m tired of lookin’ at you.”
Waymon flushed red, mortified by the blatant bully. Knowing that he could only save face by standing up to Tyler, he could not summon the courage to do so. He stood there helpless until Myra Bannerman told him to leave, that he was not needed. “Go on, Waymon. I’ll call you if I need you.”
With nothing left of his pride, Waymon muttered, “Well, I reckon there ain’t been no crime committed.” He turned abruptly, ignoring the wide grin on Tyler’s face. “Send Nathaniel for me if you need me,” he mumbled, and never looked back again.
When the sheriff had left, Tyler turned to Myra and asked, “How much do I owe you?”
Genuinely surprised that he offered payment, she quickly totaled his purchases and took the money, half expecting him to snatch it back and laugh at her. He waited patiently now while she wrapped his bacon in paper and tied it with string.
Leaving Bannerman’s, Waymon marched straight to his shop, feeling the hot burn of humiliation between his shoulder blades. He hated his cowardice, hated it to the point where he felt nauseous. Upon reaching his door, he stalked inside, and ripping the badge from his shirt, flung it across the room. Hounded by a failure to act on that fatal day when Roy and Bert were murdered, his mind was now overburdened with guilt and disgust for his weakness. He had heard the shots fired inside the saloon, and rushed to his door in time to see Brance Burkett and his four companions as they emerged from the building and unhurriedly prepared to mount up. There was time for him to act, and he had tried to. He grabbed his shotgun, and returned to the door, but he hesitated when he saw the outlaws talking and laughing as they stepped up into their saddles. He closed his eyes and grimaced painfully as he remembered how he had slinked back inside and waited until the outlaws were riding out of town.
No one had blamed him for his lack of response, never questioning his explanation that he had been too late to take action. But it had been something that he had found difficult to expel from his memory. Feeling an obligation to the town, and especially to Myra Bannerman and Frances Wheeler, he had accepted the position of sheriff, even though he insisted it would be temporary. Now, the first time he had been called upon to confront a man who was obviously of the same ilk as the gang that murdered and robbed, he had backed down. The shame was eating away at his brain. He should have run Tyler out of town without explanation beyond the fact that vermin like him were not welcome in Neosho. His eyes came to rest upon the shotgun propped in the corner, and he knew what he must do.
* * *
Tyler took his change from Myra Bannerman, stoically watching as she counted it out. A jar containing peppermint sticks caught his eye, and he helped himself to one, and thrust it in his mouth. He glanced at Myra then to see if she was going to ask for payment. She did not, preferring to hurry him out of her store. He grunted his amusement, and gathering up his packages, left the store.
Looking over the rump of his horse, he was surprised to see the sheriff coming from his carpentry shop down the street. Curious, because the lawman was now carrying a double-barreled shotgun, Tyler watched him closely as he dropped his supplies into his saddle bags. Not sure what Waymon had in mind, Tyler reached down and slipped his pistol from the holster. “Hold still,” he warned softly when the sorrel stamped its hooves nervously. Tyler shifted the piece of peppermint candy from one side of his mouth to the other, his eyes never leaving the lawman now obviously heading straight for him, the shotgun clutched before his chest with both hands.
When he had approached within ten yards of Tyler, Waymon stopped and hesitated for a few seconds before speaking. Looking into the insolent gaze of the outlaw, his resolve, so recently summoned, began to evaporate, and he had to force his words to come. “I just wanted to make sure you were leavin’ town,” he managed without stumbling over the words.
Shifting the stick of candy over to the opposite side of his mouth once more, Tyler grinned. “What did you say?” He had clearly heard what Waymon had said. He just wanted to make him say it again.
“As sheriff,” Waymon stammered, “I’m tellin’ you to leave Neosho and don’t come back.”
“You’re runnin’ me outta town?” Tyler asked, as if clarifying the sheriff’s directive.
“That’s right,” Waymon replied, suddenly aware that his hands felt sweaty on the stock of the shotgun.
“What if I ain’t ready to leave?”
There it was, the response that Waymon had hoped and prayed he would not hear. He wished at that moment that he had remained hidden in his shop like the time before. Fighting the impulse to turn and run, he forced himself to say, “Then I reckon it’s my job to make you.” He moved the shotgun ever so slightly. It was enough to signal his fate.
Without hesitating, Tyler brought his pistol up from behind his horse’s rump, and fired three times in succession, all three bullets slamming into the stunned lawman’s chest. Waymon staggered backward several steps, his face a mask of utter astonishment. He stood there for a brief moment, staring into the leering face of his assailant. Then the shotgun dropped from his hands, and he crumpled slowly to the ground.
The shots brought Myra Bannerman and Nathaniel running to the door. Tyler looked at the frightened woman and her son. Seeing that they offered no threat, he holstered his pistol, and stepped up in the saddle. “You can see it was self-defense,” he commented smugly. “He was gonna use that shotgun on me.” Turning the sorrel away from the hitching rail, he touched a finger to the brim of his hat in a contemptuous salute to the lady. Then he looked back at the frightened boy, and it triggered an incident in his memory of another frightened boy—one who had the audacity to throw a hammer at him and then seek refuge in a church. He had been in Neosho before this. The memory of it caused him to laugh. He kicked the sorrel hard, and crunched the last of the peppermint stick between his teeth. “Hell, I’ve been to church in this town.”