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Clay pulled off his black Stetson and sat down on the rickety chair across the desk from Deputy Billy Elder.
“So them two ambushed you, huh?” The deputy’s amusement was thinly veiled, in the guise of taking down Clay’s report. “They got the drop on you. Bushwhacked you. Then tried to string you up. Is that about it?”
The chair creaked under Clay. “Yeah, that’s about it.”
Seated under the gun rack across the room, Sheriff Roy Bottom rubbed a cleaning rag over the barrel of a Winchester. Gray hair bristling from beneath his hat, he appeared content to let. his young deputy handle the paperwork.
Billy looked up from the report on his desk. “And it was only them two. Just Deuce and Luther. They were the ones who bested you.”
Around twenty, Clay guessed his age to be, with the look of an arrogant kid who ought to be taken down a notch or two. Clay had disliked him on sight. “Yeah, just the two of them.”
Billy consulted his report again. “And you’re a United States marshal, sent here on special assignment to clean up the gangs. Have I got that right?”
“You got it right.” Clay lunged to his feet and threaded his fingers through the dark hair at his temple. He’d had enough of Deputy Elder. He headed for the door.
“Chandler… Clay Chandler.” Sheriff Bottom stroked his chin and propped the rifle against the wall. “I heard about you. Brought in Cecil and Cyrus Reynolds, and the Fields gang, as I understand it, all on your own. You’ve got quite a reputation for yourself, marshal. Who are you trailing now?”
“Scully Dade.”
Billy snorted. “Shoot, the Dade gang makes the Reynolds boys look like ladies at a quilting bee.”
Cold determination hardened in Clay’s belly. “I’ll bring him in.”
Sheriff Bottom nodded slowly. “If what I hear about you is right, I believe you’ll do just that.”
Billy mumbled his disbelief and shuffled his reports into the desk drawer.
“Appreciate your help on this one.” Sheriff Bottom nodded toward the cells down the hallway. “At least that’s two less to worry about. Doc says Luther’s shoulder will mend in a few weeks. I’ll hold him here till the circuitjudge gets around again. Deuce’s pa will be by soon. He’ll probably beat the tar out of the boy. You can be sure he’ll stay in town till the judge gets here.”
“Who’s riding the circuit around here?”
The sheriff shifted. “We lost Kingsley.”
Clay had crossed paths with Judge Kingsley a time or two in the past “No loss. Most judges practice law from the bench. Kings ley did it from somebody’s back pocket.”
Sheriff Bottom shrugged indifferently. “We got a new judge now. Some fella name of Winthrope.”
The name coiled a tight knot in Clay’s belly. “Harlan Winthrope?”
He nodded. “Could be. I never met the man. He ain’t been out this way yet. You know him?”
Clay’s stomach churned. “I know him.”
“You’ll be gone before he gets here, huh?” Billy asked.
Clay nodded. He definitely intended to be gone from this town before Harlan Winthrope arrived. “I’ll be here a few more days, that’s all.”
He opened the door, then turned back. “Do you know about a gang called the Schoolyard Boys?”
“I sure as hell do.” Billy rose and swiped his blond hair back with his palm. “Them boys are making a name for themselves around here.”
The sheriff nodded wisely. “They hit the stage at Flat Ridge just this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? You sure it was today?”
“’Course I’m sure. Why?”
Clay nodded toward the cells. “Luther claimed it was the Schoolyard Boys that shot him.”
Billy’s brows drew together and he sucked his teeth. “Now let me besure I got this straight, Marshal Chandler. You were tracking Scully Dade, but lost him and got ambushed by Deuce and Luther and nearly hung. Then you came across the Schoolyard Boys, but they slipped through your fingers and robbed the stage coach not an hour later. Is that about the size of it?”
Clay pulled his hat low on his forehead and gritted his teeth. “That about sums it up.”
Billy nodded slowly. “Much obliged, Chandler. Good having you federal boys on the job.”
Clay turned and left the office. He strode down the boardwalk of Eldon’s Main Street, his gut churning.
He didn’t like being made a fool of. It was one thing that Scully Dade—a hardened lifelong outlaw—had eluded him. And even the likes of Deuce and Luther getting the drop on him could be palated. But he couldn’t abide being made a laughingstock by a bunch of kids—school-age kids, with a woman among them, at that.
Clay pushed his way through the swinging doors of the Watering Hole Saloon. He caught a few curious stares from the sparse afternoon clientele as he made his way to the bar. The badge on his chest always attracted attention.
“Beer.” He tossed a coin on the bar and took the mug the bartender slid his way. Clay settled in at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. He took a long drink and ran his fingers across the rope burn on his neck.
Clay pushed his hat back and rested his boots on the rung of the chair beside him. Here under special appointment from the governor, he and dozens of other marshals spread out across the country had been directed to get rid of the outlaws terrorizing honest, law-abiding folks, and make it safe for families and businesses alike. He’d been on the trail for months.
Clay took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d asked specifically for this assignment. He’d bring in the Dade gang himself, and not just because it was his job.
Kelsey hurried down the boardwalk, doing her best to conceal the carpet bag in the folds of her pale blue dress, and slipped into the kitchen of the Eldon Hotel.
“Well, I wondered if I was going to have to cook this whole meal myself.”
Etta Mae Brown’s disapproving gaze met her when she stepped through the door. Kelsey untied her bonnet and hung it on the peg. “Like you’d let me help cook even if I were here all day long?”
Etta Mae giggled and stirred the boiling pots on the cookstove. “Oh, Kelsey honey, you know me too well.”
She smiled and darted into the small bedroom just off the kitchen. Quickly Kelsey dumped the contents of the carpetbag into the bottom drawer of her bureau and shoved it shut.
Kelsey hurried into the kitchen again. The large room held a massive cookstove, a pie safe, a sink, a sideboard and cupboards, with a worktable in the center. A pantry stood at one end, and a narrow service staircase to the second floor next to it. A small round table sat near the doorway to the bedroom Kelsey used when she stayed overnight at the hotel, which lately had been more than in her own bedroom at home.
“Smells delicious.” Kelsey made her way to the sideboard, careful to avoid the bits of dough, squashed peas and flattened potatoes that littered the floor. Etta Mae was a wonderful cook, but as messy as the day was long. She was short and stout from years of tasting her own creations, and her gray hair was streaked with white and arranged neatly on top of her head. Etta Mae had worked at the hotel since her husband passed away, over a year ago.
“Anybody new check in today?” Kelsey took a fresh apron from the drawer and tied it around her waist.
“Hmm?” Etta Mae looked up from the pots she tended. “Oh, no. No new guests.”
Kelsey sighed and mentally calculated the number of guests already in the hotel and the amount of income they generated. She hoped the supper crowd would be good.
“How’s things at the house today?” Etta Mae turned to Kelsey, water and greens dripping from her spoon.
“Everything’s fine.” Kelsey washed her hands at the kitchen pump, then took out a knife and sliced the apple pie cooling on the sideboard. She kept her head turned, avoiding Etta Mae’s probing gaze.
“And your pa?” She leaned closer, her brows bobbing.
“Pa’s fine, too.”
It could be true, Kelsey told herself. In fact, it probably was true. She just hadn’t actually been home today to know for sure. So it wasn’t really like lying. Was it? After all this time covering up her whereabouts, Kelsey still wasn’t used to it.
Etta Mae stirred the boiling potatoes, splashing water onto the cookstove. “Do you think your pa will be coming into town anytime soon?”
“No, Etta Mae, I don’t expect so.”
“He trusts you to run this place without him, hmm?”
She couldn’t remember the last time her pa had come to town to check on his hotel or any of his other holdings. He didn’t want to come, and Kelsey didn’t encourage him. It served no purpose for the town to see what Emmet Rodgers had become; it would only anger Kelsey further.
“You poor dear.” Etta Mae sighed wistfully. “I don’t know how you keep up with it all. If only your brother—”
“Seth will be home soon enough.” Kelsey pulled off her apron. “I’m going to check the dining room.”
They took turns preparing the tables. Etta Mae had done it today, in her typical fashion. Kelsey hurried about the room, turning the white cloths so that the stains and mends weren’t so readily apparent, straightening the silverware and refolding the napkins. The dining room faced the street, so Kelsey kept one eye on the boardwalk and one on the lobby, waiting and hoping for diners to appear. She desperately needed a large turnout tonight Tonight and every night
The supper crowd proved disappointing. The hotel guests were there, all four of them, and Bill and Virginia Braden, who owned the dry goods store down the street
Kelsey stood by the door, fretting over the number of diners, mentally calculating the price of their meals and what it had cost her to prepare them.
“You mustn’t frown so much, my dear. How will you ever catch a husband like that?”
A chill slid up Kelsey’s spine as she turned to find Jack Morgan standing beside her. Dressed in a white linen shirt with a brocade vest and dark jacket, he looked every bit the most prosperous man in Eldon. His eyes were warm, his expression was compassionate, but Kelsey saw past the benevolent facade he presented She knew the real Jack Morgan, and not just because he was her best friend’s father.
“Catching a husband is not high on my list of priorities, Mr. Morgan.” Kelsey struggled to sound pleasant
“Whatever you say, my dear.” He gave her a thin smile and slid his finger along the mustache above his lip. “What are we serving tonight?” ‘That he referred to the hotel as partly his rankled Kelsey no end. He didn’t own the place. Not yet. And she intended to see to it that Jack Morgan never took another thing from the Rodgers family again.
“Roast turkey. I’ll show you to a table.”
He smiled indulgently and gazed at the room. “No need. I believe I’ll have no difficulty in finding an empty seat.”
Stomach churning, Kelsey returned to the kitchen.
By dusk, business at the Watering Hole had picked up and Clay ordered his third beer. He made it a policy not to drink too much. A federal marshal was a temptation to a young gunslinger out to make a name for himself, or a local looking to liven up a Saturday night. Clay had to keep himself ready.
But today had been a hell of a day, so he indulged himself. He questioned that decision a few minutes later, when Deuce walked through the swinging doors. Clay dropped his hand to his side and rested it on his Colt.
Deuce spotted Clay and walked to his table. He stared at the floor for a minute, then took a deep breath. “I came to tell you that I’m sorry for what happened today.”
Clay rocked back in the chair. “Is that so?”
He nodded. “And I appreciate you telling Sheriff Bottom that it was mostly Luther that wanted to string you up.”
“He threatened to shoot you if you didn’t go through with it,” Clay pointed out. “I just told the sheriff the truth.”
Deuce’s cheeks grew red. “I appreciate you not mentioning to anybody that I threw up.”
Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the flash of memory from when he’d been sixteen himself, but Clay took pity on him. He pushed out the chair beside him. “Sit down.”
His gaze came up quickly. “No. No, I can’t.” Deuce glanced back over his shoulder, then looked at Clay again. “My pa was powerful mad at me when he got me out of jail. He whipped me good. I really can’t…sit down.”
Clay shook his head slowly. “I don’t think you’re cut out to be an outlaw, Deuce.”
He lifted his thin shoulders. “No, sir. Me either.”
“Did your folks give you that name, boy? Or was it just hung on you?” Clay took another sip of his beer.
“My name’s Dennis, but everybody calls me Deuce ‘cause I’m the second one. I got a twin brother.” He looked at the floor again. “We’re twins, but me and Jared don’t look much alike. He’s real big and strong, like my pa. That’s my pa over there.”
Clay peered around Deuce at the man standing by the swinging doors. Tall, with big, powerful arms and a full chest, a strong face set directly down on broad, muscular shoulders.
“He’s the blacksmith.”
“Holy Jesus…” Clay gulped down three swallows of his beer.
“Pa never let me work at the livery with him and Jared, ‘cause I’m so small. But he says now I have to work there everyday so he can see to it I don’t get into any trouble.”
Clay let out a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair. “If that were my pa, Deuce, I’d see to it I never got into a minute’s trouble again.”
Deuce’s father left his station by the door and crossed the saloon. He offered his hand to Clay. “I’m Ben Tucker.”
Clay got to his feet and accepted his iron handshake, the grasp of a man who worked hard for a living. “Clay Chandler. Glad to know you.”
“I wanted to tell you personal, Marshal, that I’m much obliged to you for putting in a good word for my boy with the sheriff.”
“I only told him what really happened.”
Ben nodded. “You can be sure Deuce here won’t be .hanging around with the likes of that Luther McGraw again. I put a stop to that today.”
Deuce grimaced and shifted uncomfortably.
Clay nodded. “I think he got in with the wrong bunch.”
“Well, it won’t happen again.” He gave Deuce a stem look. “That right, boy?”
He nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m beholding to you, Marshal. You need anything from my livery stable, you just say the word. Is that your bay stallion outside the sheriffs office?”
Clay nodded.
“I’ll bed him down at the livery. No charge. The boy here will take your gear over to the hotel.”
