Lost Mountain Pass, page 18
The echoes of shots volleying back and forth continued between Michael and the roof sniper. A crack in the air like weak, man-made thunder echoed down the empty street. So far, the noise hadn’t attracted any kind of notice; if there was some Indian law around, they had chosen to ignore the shoot-out, or were deciding whether or not to join in themselves. Michael’s reminder of the price on Trusty’s head was an easy explanation for the sudden attack, but it wasn’t proven yet. Being hunted was going to take some getting used to.
Trusty made his way along three more buildings, stumbling over a sleeping cat as he went. He hoped he was far enough along to cross the street unseen.
The existence of a conflict, of gunshots ringing out into the night, had left the main street of Wapanucka void of any traffic. It was like a storm had arrived and sent everyone scurrying inside to weather whatever was to come.
Trusty stood in between two buildings and was about to crouch down and tear out across the street in a fast run, when he heard someone say, “Stop right there, Dawson, and drop your gun,” from behind him.
There was no way he was going to die by getting shot in the back. Trusty knew he had no choice but to move one way or the other. In a split-second, he dove to the right, onto the boardwalk fronting the local bank. A bullet thudded into the ground inches from his boot heel.
Trusty had no time to consider the pain in his shoulder as he rolled to a stop and jumped to his feet. He plastered himself against the bank, knowing full well that he had exposed himself to the shooter on the roof. He hoped Michael wasn’t running low on ammunition.
“That was a big mistake, Dawson,” the unknown man said, unseen from inside the alley.
“So I was just supposed to stand there and let you shoot me in the back?”
“You might as well get it over quick.”
“Today is not the day I die,” Trusty said as he made his way to the side of the building. An overhang kept him in the shadows. “How do you know who I am?”
“You’re not one of the Three Guardsmen, are you? I know those faces. Then you must be Trusty Dawson.”
The exchange of shooting from the café and the rooftop had stopped. Trusty spoke only loud enough for the man to hear him. From the way he could figure it, the man was at the back end of the bank. He needed to draw him out into the open, so he had a clear shot.
“So that makes me a Deputy U.S. Marshal with a price on his head?” Trusty said.
“You got a reputation for bein’ untouchable, but that seems to have changed.”
A rifle shot cracked in the air, and it didn’t take much to know that the rooftop shooter had seen Trusty. The bullet pinged off the hitching post in front of the bank. Returning fire wouldn’t do him any good; it’d just waste more of the cartridges that remained in his belt. He needed to keep the man talking all the while staying alive.
“What am I worth alive?” Trusty said.
“Nothin’.”
“Dead?”
“A thousand silvers.”
“I must have really gone and done it this time.”
“Seems like,” the man said.
Another rifle shot rang out. This time the bullet hit the boardwalk. The darkness was making it difficult for the rooftop shooter to sight him in. That and Michael returned fire, only this time the shots sounded different. The blasts from the café were from a scattergun. Vengeance boomed from down the street, matching another boom from overhead. The fury in the clouds had held back long enough and let loose with a drop of hard rain as the approaching storm arrived over Wapanucka.
Trusty was protected from the downpour, but he didn’t know if the man in the alley was getting soaked or if the coming storm would run him off. He hoped not.
“Who gets the honor of paying for my empty boots?” Trusty said, only louder this time to compensate for the rain. The rooftop shooter hadn’t responded to the scattergun blast, so Trusty figured the man was on the move or had been stopped one way or the other. Stopped would be good. One less shooter to worry about. He hoped Michael had finished the man off.
“You don’t know, do you?” the man said.
Trusty didn’t wait. He reached around the side of the building and fired a shot, hoping the man was looking to do the same thing, hoping to wing him at least.
The man laughed after the reverberation of the shot drifted away. Rain continued to fall steadily, making the dirt street a long ribbon of mud. Water splashed off the street in big, brown drops. The sound of the wind, rain, and rumbling thunder made it hard to hear as the man’s laughter joined the chorus. It made Trusty feel like the entire world was laughing at him, condemning him for his failures—but even worse, for something he didn’t know he had done, or who to. He’d had enough of trying to figure out who had put a bounty on him. Losing the judge and nursing a bullet wound was one thing, but carrying around a target on his back without knowing who put it there was another. Trusty had been off balance ever since he figured out the bulldog and the boxer had come to kill him, not Judge Hadesworth.
“Show yourself,” Trusty said. “Step out on the count of ten, and I’ll do the same. I’ll give you your shot at me, and I’ll take mine at you. But only if you tell me who put the price on my head. Your partner’s gone silent. You hear that? Nothing. I’m not riding alone either. But I suppose you know that if I’m guessin’ right and you’re one of the men who walked out of the café once you recognized who I was.”
“You got that right,” the man said. “We knew who you was straightaway. Trusty Dawson, the marshal who went and got a judge kilt by a woman.”
“So that’s the story,” Trusty said.
“It is.”
“Come out on the count of ten.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Oh, yes, it is.” It was Michael’s voice. “It’s your turn not to move. Drop your gun. Then face the man and answer his question. Simple as that. Do as I say, then you live. Be stupid and you die.”
Trusty stood with his back against the wall, staring out into the street through a sheet of rain. It was dark, wet, and cold. He had never felt so alone in his life. Everybody in the Territory knew what had happened at Lost Mountain Pass. He was a laughingstock. For a brief second he considered putting himself in the line of fire, telling Michael to stand out of the way and let things happen as they may, but that wasn’t his way. That would be the easy way out. His reputation would be forever ruined, but he knew that. Bringing in Amelia was the only way to stitch that wound, but even capturing her wouldn’t get rid of the scar.
“You’re clear to come out, Trusty,” Michael called out.
Trusty took a deep breath and peered around the corner of the bank. He saw Michael standing behind the man, one arm wrapped around his throat, the other with his six-shooter pointed at his head. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the man from the restaurant.
With his Colt leveled at the man’s head, too, Trusty made his way down the alley. “Where’s his partner?”
“Pleading for his soul at the Pearly Gates,” Michael said. “Mae kept him busy while I made my way up behind him.”
“You’re a dead man too,” the man said through gritted teeth to Michael.
Michael pressed the barrel of his gun harder to the man’s head than it already was. “One more word from you and it’ll be your last.”
Trusty stopped before the man. “The way I see it, the only thing you’ve done wrong is shoot at a U.S. Marshal unprovoked. Now I can be a generous man, or I can take offense to your indictment of my character and see you locked up.” Rain splattered off his blue Cavalry Stetson as the water from the sky continued to fall in buckets. Thunder rumbled overhead and the wind continued to push up the street and through the alley, making all three men uncomfortable—but Trusty wasn’t going anywhere. “You in a deal-makin’ mood, mister, or are you gonna play tough on me, spit nails, spread lies, and entertain your chances in a jail cell for the next year or two? All you got to do is tell me who put the price on my head, and you’re free to go.”
“Why should I believe you?” the man said.
“I give you my word. It’s all I have left to offer you.”
The man was soaked to the bone. His face was dark and his eyes hard to read. A short stubbly beard looked like a waterfall. “The order comes out of Saint Louis. A big man there. Markerry or something of the like. He don’t want you alive. Dead with proof is the only way he’ll pay. No sweat off my back to tell you that one more man in the world hates you enough to put a price on your head.”
“Marberry?” Trusty said as everything inside of him went dry. His throat crackled and his heart slowed a beat.
“Yeah, that’s the name. Never met the man myself. Picked up the bounty in a Texas saloon. Word on you is far and wide, Dawson. It ain’t like I’m the only one on your tail.”
“You’re sure it’s Marberry? Theodore Marberry?”
“I done told you that’s the man. Now, let me go.”
Michael pressed into the man and ground the barrel of his gun even harder into the man’s temple. “Not until you give the marshal your word that you’ll be on your way.”
The man squinted his eyes as a flash of lightning streaked across the black sky. “I’ve had about enough of you, mister.” With that, he jammed his elbow into Michael’s stomach as hard as he could. Michael hadn’t been expecting the blow and stumbled backward, loosening his grasp enough for the man to break free. In a matter of seconds, he produced a knife and was about to throw it toward Michael, but Trusty stopped the action mid-throw. He pulled the trigger of his Colt, adding an explosion of gunpowder and the sound of a shattering skull to the stormy weather. The bullet caught the man square in the forehead, sending him sprawling backward into the mud. He was dead before he hit the ground.
All Trusty could do was stand there in disbelief as he played the conversation over and over again in his head. Marberry? That is the last name I had expected to hear. Why in the hell would Theodore Marberry put a bounty out on me?
St. Louis, Missouri, spring 1875
Jessica Marberry stood in the doorway of a monolithic four-story limestone church, the dim light from inside glowing behind her like the sun showing itself for the first time among a gathering of gray, smoky clouds. There was no announcement or need of service for the Marberrys that Sam knew of. She stood framed in the door like a statue made to praise a goddess in Rome, Greece, or some other faraway place that Trusty had only heard of in books. She was a myth, maybe a fragment of his imagination; he couldn’t believe she was standing there waiting for him. His heart beat fast not only from the sight of her, but at the prospect of getting caught.
Jessica was dressed in a loose-fitting blue aesthetic dress and wore a smile that Trusty had come to know and dream about when she wasn’t nearby. But the smile was sadder than normal. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said.
“I’m not supposed to be anywhere near you.” Sam looked up and down the empty street. He didn’t like the light emitting from the church, and did his best to find a shadow to stand in. Two towering oak trees hovered over the entrance of the church, creating an arch of thick leaves that filtered the grayness of the night.
“I know,” Jessica said. “That’s my fault.”
Sam wanted to be closer to her, breathe her toilet water, but he held back, stayed three feet from her. “How can that be? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Jessica smirked. “You don’t know my father.”
“I’m starting to.”
“I’d rather you not.”
“Me too.”
“Our maid, Lilty Best, found my diary and read it. There seemed to be some things there that alarmed her. She gave it to my father.”
Sam looked at Jessica confused. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been writing how I feel about you.”
“Oh,” Sam said. He wanted to ask: “And how is that?” but he didn’t. He thought he might have an idea what she meant. His stomach flipped and his heart clapped with happiness.
“I knew better. I knew my father would never like any boy I liked unless he picked them for me. But . . .”
“But I’m a blacksmith’s son,” Sam said.
“I wish that didn’t have anything to do with it.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
She didn’t stop until her face was inches from Sam’s face. He was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t going anywhere.
“Do you want to kiss me?” she said.
Sam didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and kissed her like he had wanted to from the first time he had seen her—except he never thought it would ever happen. Jessica returned his kiss and the world around them both disappeared for a long moment. When they pulled apart, life as they had known it before had changed forever. Sam knew little of love, but he was certain that this was what it felt like.
Jessica looked sad instead of happy. “What’s the matter?” Sam said.
“Father is sending me away,” she said.
“Where to?”
“England.”
“Why aren’t you happy? You’ve always wanted to go to your mother’s home country.”
“Not to stay. Not to go to school. To visit. To see the castles and moors. I don’t want to live there.”
“Oh,” Sam said.
“He says it’s for my education, but I know it’s not about that. He wants me to be more refined so I can meet a better man. I am not interested in suitors of any sort, and he was already starting to suspect I’ve already given my heart to someone. The diary proved it. I’m such a fool.” Jessica stared at Sam, her eyes boring through his head like beams of the sun.
He didn’t understand what she was saying—or didn’t want to. All he could think about was that she was leaving. “Will I ever see you again?”
Jessica reached out and took Sam’s hand. “Let’s run away.”
“Together? Me and you?” Something triggered in Sam’s mind. His schoolteacher, Mrs. Abernathy, encouraging him to continue his education. That didn’t happen. His father wouldn’t allow it. Sam was stuck in the fiery hell of the blacksmith shop for the rest of his life. He envied Jessica and her opportunity. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t want it. He would have given anything to be in her shoes.
“Sometimes I think your brain is made of iron. Of course, me and you. We can go anywhere we want to.”
“With me? You want to run away with me?”
Sam stared at Jessica dumbfounded. “I can’t do that,” he said, looking over his shoulder to the big houses that lined the street opposite the church. “I can’t leave my pa, and you can’t leave yours. I can’t take care of you like you’re used to bein’ taken care of. I wouldn’t know where to start. I can’t, Jessica. Not now. Probably not ever. You deserve to have a better life than I can give you. You deserve to have a good education. I can’t take that away from you. No matter how much I want to run off with you, I just can’t.”
A tear streamed down Jessica’s cheek. She sighed, then walked right by Sam without saying another word to him. He watched her disappear down the street, into the darkness, all the while fighting off the urge to go after her. But he didn’t. Sam didn’t see Jessica again for another eight years, and that was only by chance—or fortune, depending on how you looked at it.
Chapter 18
Kosoma, Indian Territory, May 1888
“We’re losin’ daylight,” Vance Calhoun said to Gladdy O’Connor. Calhoun was standing in the shadows of the alley, next to the Western Union office, out of sight, as the sun started to dive toward the horizon. “What’d you find out?”
“The man at the mercantile was a little bit of help. Buffalo Soldiers rode through escortin’ the body of the judge that was kilt. Word is a woman shot the man. Her brothers was hanged a few days before. The order was given by the same judge, so everybody seems to think that it was nothin’ but a revenge killin’. The thing is, this woman, Amelia Darby, rode out with the marshal and the judge. No one trusted her, held a low opinion of her and her brothers, so they weren’t too surprised by what happened. Meaner than a skunk with a toothache is what the merchant said they was. All of them. The town was better off without them all.”
“What about Dawson, the marshal?” Calhoun looked past Gladdy, up and down the alley, keeping track of everybody that was coming and going. So far, he hadn’t drawn any attention to himself.
“Here’s the thing,” Gladdy said. “They suspect that this same woman is behind the killin’ of the clerk at the hotel.”
Calhoun hadn’t been expecting to hear that. “I still need to get out of this town as soon as possible without being seen, but that’s good news, Gladdy. You done good.”
“Thanks, boss.” Gladdy tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it.
“Now, what’s the word on Dawson?”
“Him and the Darby woman’s brother headed west after her. He’s shot up though. They won’t be gettin’ anywhere fast, but he’s not givin’ up goin’ after her.”
Calhoun nodded. “Good to know. How many of these Darbys are there? They sound like a bunch of rabbits.”
“Papists is what the man at the mercantile said. The one brother was a priest but walked away and went after his sister.”
“To save her?”
Gladdy shrugged. “Man didn’t know more than what he told me. He said no one ever trusted the sincerity of the brother’s callin’. He figures the priest is after the reward money on his sister. His words, not mine. I don’t even know what a callin’ is.”
