The Law of Moses

The Law of Moses

A Novel By

Kwen D. Griffeth

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.  Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Kwen D. Griffeth

For my father,

An original horseman

A special tip of the hat to Miss Jane Austen (1775-1817) from whom I have borrowed the opening and the closing of her novel “Pride and Prejudice” in the telling of this story.  Thank you, Miss Austen.

And

A thank you to Mr. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) for allowing me to use a couple of lines from Hamlet.  All hail the Bard!

Chapter One

The saloon was only about half full; still, thirty drinkers on a Thursday night had to be considered better than average.  Almost everyone there was a local as it was still a few weeks away from the first of the cattle drives arriving.  The piano player had the night off, but the laughter and squeals of the saloon girls made up for the lack of music.  The patrons were telling stories, playing cards and smiles were on most of their faces.  The smoke of pipes, cigars and roll-your-own cigarettes competed with the odors of working men, perfumed ladies and warm beer. Only Ed West, owner and bartender of the West House Saloon, noticed when the man stepped into the room.  Ed had been waiting for him.  He started in the man’s direction until he saw the man nod an acknowledgement and silently raise his hand to instruct Ed to stay out of the way.  The man was a little taller than average and well proportioned, except for his hands.  His hands seemed to be at least one size too large for his frame.  His face was not handsome, but striking.  The three days’ growth of whiskers was not a fashion statement, but simply proof he hadn’t gotten to a barber.  His white shirt was covered by a grey pinstriped vest; over the vest was an unbuttoned black coat.  Grey pinstriped trousers were tucked into his black stove pipe boots.  A grey felt hat obviously old, but also clean and well cared for sat square on his head.  The hat covered brown hair that now showed some grey, and it shadowed his deep set green eyes that busily scanned and searched the room.  Around his waist he wore a black leather gun belt and in the holster was a four- and-a-half inch Colt Peacemaker revolver chambered to feed .45 caliber cartridges.  The cartridges packed a 250 grain soft lead round nose bullet in front of 40 grains of black powder.  When fired, the black powder sent the bullet toward a target at 970 feet per second.  The gun was designed for one purpose.  It was a man stopper. The man stood in the corner of the room, watching the patrons and getting his bearings, as he tried to locate three particular men.  He had never been inside this saloon before, but he was comfortable here.  Like most, it was rectangular with a bar running the length of the longer wall and tables scattered throughout.  A mirror hung on the wall behind and ran the length of the bar.  At one end was a staircase leading to the second floor and under the staircase was the neglected piano.  At the other end of the room was a double door that he had been told led into a dining room.  He had never been in there before either.  His eyes had adjusted to the light and he moved slowly through the crowd.  He didn’t acknowledge or speak to anyone.  Other than a few glances in his direction, the patrons ignored him.  A few steps into the room, he focused on three men standing about halfway down the bar, in their own private party.  They quietly laughed, drinking and enjoying themselves; they didn’t appear to be causing or wanting to cause any trouble.  Two of the men leaned on the bar with an elbow, and each had a foot resting on the bar floor railing.  The third was twisted so he could face a young lady next to him.  She was working and either her costume was a couple of sizes too small, or she was overly endowed.  She was laughing at the young man’s jokes and focused on his eyes.  His eyes were focused on her, but a little lower.  The three were relaxed.  The man centered himself about 10 feet behind the three, hooked his thumbs in his belt and waited.  His face appeared calm, almost bored as he watched the three men; his expression masked the torment inside him.

“Please God, give me my release tonight.   Let one of these be good enough or lucky enough.  Let my gun hang in the holster or a round misfire.  Please let tonight be the night I die.”

The oldest of the three, on the left end of the trio, looked into the mirror and saw the man standing there.  His expression flashed recognition, and he offered a hesitant smile as he spoke into the mirror.

“Hello Sam.”

“Hello, Bushy.  It’s been awhile.” 

Bushy’s grey hair hung past his collar, and his grey beard was full.  His trousers were held in place by wide leather suspenders.  His trade was a freight hauler, a teamster.  Sam wondered what he was doing with the other two men, but he didn’t ask.

The old man’s face brightened at Sam’s remembrance of him and his smile grew.

“That’s right!  I haven’t seen you since we hauled freight into the mines above Denver.”

The man in the middle, the tallest of the three, watched the conversation through the mirror with some interest; the third man stayed focused on the saloon girl.

Sam’s eyes continued to watch the three, even as he spoke with Bushy.  He noticed when the tall man slowly lowered his right hand and removed the safety cord from around the hammer of the pistol he carried on his right hip.  Sam also noticed when he gently poked his companion on his right with his elbow.  At the poke, the younger man noticed Sam in the mirror for the first time.  His smile faded and he told the girl to leave.  When she hesitated, he pushed her away and his hand then lowered and removed the cord from his gun as well.  The girl resisted at first, but she soon realized her company was no longer wanted.  She backed away from the men, looking from one to the others.   When she recognized what was setting up, her eyes grew wide.  She backed away a few more steps. The three still faced the bar, but all watched Sam through the mirror.  Sam still stood with his thumbs hitched in his gun belt.  He had removed the safety cord on his holster before he entered the saloon.  His expression made Bushy uncomfortable.

“Sam, you look like you’re on the hunt.”

Sam nodded, but only slightly, and said “I was, but I found what I was looking for.”

“You huntin’ us?  Why?”  The old man’s voice crept up an octave.

Sam’s voice was unchanged. “Heard you been spending money that don’t belong to you.”

The tall man in the middle challenged, “So what?  Don’t belong to you neither.”

Sam moved his left hand slowly; making sure the men could see it was empty.  He pinched the lapel of his coat between his thumb and pointer finger and pulled the coat away from his shirt.  On his vest was pinned the star of a town marshal. “Been hired to get the money back to those that do own it.” Bushy looked at the star’s reflection in the mirror. “Sam, if we’d known this was your town, we’d have passed it by,” he said. The tall man interrupted, “Shut up!  You don’t need to apologize to him.  We go where we damn well please.” Sam could not suppress a small smile, “I’ve learned it’s not so much where you go in life, but whether or not you’re allowed to leave,” he said slowly. The man in the middle straightened and rested his palms on the bar. “Are you saying you’re not going to let me leave?  Do you think you, one man, can stop us?” “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m saying, and don’t worry, it’s just me.  I don’t need help to take you boys.” The saloon quieted as laughing, talking and card-playing stopped.  Anyone who thought they might be in the line of fire quietly got up and moved to another vantage point.  The four men in the middle of the room held everyone’s attention.  The prospect of death had entered. Bushy raised his hand, as if to stop the other men from turning around; the pleading nature of his voice told Sam he was trying to stop what he knew was coming. “Sam, this man is Axe Stillwell and the man on the end is called Parrot.  Guys, this man behind us is Sam Moses.” Stillwell recognized the name; he took a moment to reconsider his options. “I’ve heard of you; they say you used to be a tough man,” he said.  “I’ve also heard you’re getting long in the tooth.” “Maybe so, but I can still bite.” “Please, dear God, let him be the one to end this hell.  Please grant me peace.  Don’t let him back out.  Please don’t let him back out.” Stillwell continued, “Let’s say we know where this money that went missing is and we give it to you to give back to the people who lost it.  What happens to us?  Do we get a reward?” “I doubt it.  I’d think a stay at the prison in Yuma would be the only reward you’d get.” Sam saw Stillwell raise his eyebrows in the mirror, then shrugged and replied, “I’ve already been there.  Didn’t like it much; don’t think I’ll go back.  What if we just leave?” “You don’t have that choice.  It’s not on the table.” “You really think you can take the three of us?” “That’s what I’m paid to do.” “They ain’t paying you enough.” Moses shrugged, “Ain’t that always the way?”

Stilwell smiled, “Marshal, whatever happens, I like your moxie.  We’re going to turn around now.  Don’t shoot us in the back.” Sam watched as the three men turned around to face him.  

As in all competitions, the equipment a man brings to the game tells a lot about how he plays.  Stilwell and Parrot had guns and holsters similar to Sam’s.  They both wore their guns, on their right sides, in holsters that had been cut back so most of the gun was visible and easily grabbed and handled.  The leather was finished to be stiff and smooth so the gun wouldn’t hang when the shooter needed it most.  These men, like Sam, were gunfighters and, good at it, since both were still alive.

Bushy’s holster held the gun grip forward and almost horizontal to the ground next to his left front pants pocket.  The holster was made of soft rough out leather that hugged the gun and protected it from the elements and nature.  Most of the gun was covered for protection.  It was the rig of a working man.  The old freighter had started carrying his gun that way when he and Sam worked together.  The gun’s handle didn’t rub and bounce against the wooden back rest of the wagon seat.   Sam had told him it was a mistake; the gun would be pointing toward himself during the drawing motion.

The four men faced each other, and Sam again felt the adrenaline rush of looking at death.  It was as if his eyes dilated and made the room brighter.  It seemed the smoke had been blown out of the space, and his sense of smell became more acute.  His hearing seemed to catch the sound of Ed West crushing a bar towel across the room.  His heartbeat was slow and steady. He felt no fear, only a slight anticipation of what was to come.   A small smile crept onto the corners of his mouth.  He glanced from one man to another.  Bushy was nervous; the old man was a freight driver, not a gunman.  How he got hooked up with the other two, Sam didn’t know.  Stilwell returned his glance with a level gaze.  Stilwell was confident; he had been here before and had lived to tell about it.  Parrot looked confident also, but the bead of sweat on his upper lip and his unconsciously licking his lips gave him away.  He was frightened, but he was dangerous and a fighter.

“Let it be tonight.  Let it end tonight.  Stilwell can do the job.  Maybe one of the others will get lucky, but it has to be Stilwell.  Don’t let me down.  When it starts, I shoot Stilwell first.  He will take more than one to bring down.  Then I move to Parrot, who should have put a bullet in me by then.  I shoot Parrot and then back to Stilwell.  If Stilwell is as good as he seems he will have put one or two in me by then.  I have to kill him.  Stilwell has to die so Durango gets their money back.  The folks can take care of Parrot and Bushy. ”

The four men still faced each other; it seemed all other action and movement in the room stopped.  Each focused on that move, that one move that would ignite this contest of death.  

“Bushy,” Sam’s voice was clear and calm, “for old times’ sake, if you want to step aside, it’s ok by me.”

Bushy started to respond, but Stilwell answered for him, “He stays were he’s at.  He stands with us!”

Sam continued to wait for the old man to decide and in time, he did.  The freighter’s tense face creased into a smile and his fear hung on very word, 

“You know how it is Sam, ya gotta dance with who brung ya.”

“He thinks Stilwell will kill me!  He doesn’t want to face him after I’m dead.”

Watching the three men in front of him, Moses allowed his smile to grow and he quoted, 

”To die, to sleep – To sleep – perchance to dream.  Ay, there’s the rub.  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.”

Bushy, who knew he was the slowest, reached for his gun first.

What is it that decides who lives and who dies when men face each other and start shooting?  Its fractions, fractions of seconds and fractions of inches. 

Where he stood gave Sam the advantage.  He saw Bushy’s movement a fraction of a second before Stilwell or Parrot.  His hand responded a fraction of a second sooner; in the manner it had been trained.  Sam couldn’t have stopped it if he had tried.  His hand palmed the gun, raised it, leveled it, and his oversized thumb strummed the hammer as if it was a stringed instrument.  The gun barked a fraction of a second before Stilwell had his gun lined up.  His gun was still a fraction of an inch off target.  The bullet, roughly the diameter of a grown man’s little finger, smashed through a button made of elk bone on Stilwell’s shirt.  The button exploded, and its fragments followed the bullet into the gunman’s chest and peppered his lungs.  The bullet deformed when it hit the button and mushroomed to the diameter of a quarter.  Its path ripped the bottom of Stilwell’s’ heart out, and then it crashed into his spine just below the shoulder blades. 

The impact caused Stilwell to grunt as if he had the wind knocked out of him.  He slammed back into the bar and the nerves in his spine stopped sending information to his legs.  He tried, oh how he tried to get his gun lined up on Sam.  He could see the lawman, but his body refused to balance, refused to turn and line up so he could shoot. 

Stilwell fell forward, stiff legged, as if he was a tree.  His face crashed into the edge of a table to the right of Sam.  It would have hurt, had the man not already been dead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Parrot saw Stilwell move and followed his boss’ lead.  He was only a fraction of a second behind the taller man in getting his gun out and ready for action.  He heard the boom of Sam’s Colt, but he had heard guns before; the sound didn’t bother him.  Then he heard the grunt of the air being pushed out of Stilwell and his concentration broke.  His gun was lined up, but he glanced at his partner and lost the chance to pull the trigger.  A fraction of a second later, the next round from Sam’s Colt fired at the same level and angle, ripped into Parrot’s chest disintegrating as it shattered the young mans’ sternum.  Since he was a little shorter than Stilwell, pieces of bullet and bone passed higher through his body and simply exploded his heart.  Parrot was pushed back into the bar, and he reached for it in an effort to stay standing.  He failed.  He slid down the facing of the bar and stopped in a sitting position with his head resting forward on his chest as if he was looking at his wound.  

The two dead men hit the floor within a fraction of a second of each other.

Sam was confused; was it over?  He swung his gun toward Bushy and the old freighter was tugging at his pistol trying to free it from the holster.  Not seeing him as a threat, Sam looked back at the two men on the floor.

“What the hell?  You weren’t fast; you weren’t tough.  One bullet each?  I’ve known men to take two or three before they fall.  What am I supposed to do now?”  

The crack of Bushy’s .36 caliber startled Sam, and interrupted his thoughts.  He was surprised that he felt no pain.  Bushy had shot him.  Bushy came through for him!  He looked at the old man and swung his gun toward him.  But, Bushy hadn’t shot him; Bushy had shot himself!

In his rush to get the gun out of his cross draw holster, Bushy fired a round while the gun was still pointed in his direction.  The bullet entered the groin area of his left leg.  It travelled downward and out about a foot above the knee and buried itself in the floor.  The bullet cut the leg as cleanly as if it had been a knife.   The old man dropped his gun, grabbed his leg and slid to the floor with the wounded leg in front of him.  He held the cut together to try to stop the bleeding.  It wasn’t working.

Sam sighed and started to breathe again as he ejected and pocketed the spent cartridges.  He fed fresh rounds into the gun.  He stepped over to the freighter and squatted beside him.  Bushy’s two hands gripped his leg and tried to stem the spread of blood across the floor. 

“I told you that cross-draw rig was a bad deal.”

“I’m making a mess here.  Can you help me?”

Sam ripped open the bullet hole had made in the pants to see the wound.  He shook his head. 

“It looks like you hit the big artery or vein that runs down the leg; maybe both.  There’s nothing I can do.  You’ll be bled out before I get to the door.”

Bushy nodded and smiled, “Well, hell, that puts things in a new light, don’t it?  I meant what I said about if we’d know’d this was your town.”

“I know, Bushy.  You couldn’t have known.  I’ve only been here a few days.”

The old man looked around the room as if he was seeing it for the first time.  Several of the patrons looked back at him; there was nothing to be done but watch a man bleed to death.  He smiled when he noticed the girl Parrot had been talking to.  She was young and pretty.  Her red hair set off blue eyes that were easy to see even from across the room.  

She looked at Bushy and her expression was a mixture of curiosity and horror.  She may have never watched a man die before.

  “What’s her name, Sam?”

Sam looked at the girl and had no idea.  He had never seen her before, so he lied, “I think they call her Candy, but I’m not sure.”

Bushy laughed a weak but honest laugh. “Candy sure should be her name.  She sure looks sweet.  Wish I had time to get to know her.”

“She’d hurt you, old man.”

Bushy laughed again and the laugh turned into a weak cough. “You’re probably right but I think she would be worth the risk,” he said.  “Aw, hell!  We had us some good times and if I gotta die today, I would rather die here with my belly full of beer, looking at a pretty girl and talking to a friend than falling out of some damned freight wagon in the middle of nowhere with nothing but dirt down my throat and trail dust up my nose.”

Bushy’s face grew pasty and white, as Sam watched.  He was bleeding to death and there was nothing to be done about it. 

The old man struggled to get air into his lungs.

“You won’t tell Rachael about this, will you?” his voice a harsh whisper.

Sam shook his head.

Bushy smiled his thank you.  

He continued a whisper, “I’ve got a beer up there on the bar.  Still has a swallow or two in it.  Shame to waste good beer; get it for me?”

Sam nodded, stood and retrieved the mug.   When he squatted again, Bushy was dead.

It was over and he was still alive.  Tiredness swept over him and for a moment he thought he might fall.  He didn’t. He reached and held onto the shoulder of the dead teamster.  Those in the bar thought he was saying good bye to an old friend.  He wasn’t he was holding himself steady until the weakness passed.  His hand holding the beer shook slightly and he wanted to scream.  He wanted to curse the men who were dead at his feet.

“Couldn’t a one of you get the job done?  I’m tired!  Don’t you understand?  I want peace!”

His face remained as still as a pool of water.  He stood, looked at the old teamster and raised the mug.  “Here’s to you” he said, then finished the beer and set the mug on the bar.

The bartender crossed the floor and stood next to the marshal, “My name is Ed West,” he said.  “We met when you first got here a couple of days ago, but I’m thinking you might not remember.  I own this place.”  

West was a big man.  He was half a head taller than the marshal and a foot wider through the shoulders.  He had a shock of red hair with a moustache and beard to match.  He wore white shirts with garters above the elbows and a white apron that was almost to the floor.  From the front, he looked like a walking talking sack of flour, a big sack of flour.

“I remember you Mr. West.  Can you point out two honest men for me?”

West thought the request was strange, but everything about this new marshal seemed strange.  He scanned the patrons who were milling around and working their way toward the dead men.  He motioned at two.

“Casey, Bob come over here for a minute.  The marshal wants to talk to you.”  Two men approached and as they did, West introduced them, 

“Marshal, these two men are the Plummer brothers and they run a small mine above town.  They make just enough to pay their bar bill.”  He smiled at his own joke but the marshal ignored it.

“You men honest?”

“Yes sir.  We were raised right.”

“There are some chores I need done.  These men had bounties on them.  $50.00 on the old man there and $50.00 on the other one, there,” he said as he pointed to Bushy and Parrot.

“Stilwell had $250.00 on him.  I need you two to get sheets or a door and carry these men from the room.  Then you have to go through their things.  Look for money belts, pockets in their boots and hidden pockets on the inside of their gun belts.  You’re looking for anyplace they can squirrel money away.  I don’t care if you find American money, Mexican money, coin or paper. I don’t care if you find gold nuggets.  It’s got to be accounted for and returned to the people in Durango.  Mr. West, I want you to oversee the task and handle the count and tally.  When you’re done, get these bodies to whoever buries people in this town.”

“That will be Doc Waters; he’ll want $10.00 each to bury them.”

“Tell him I’ll pay him $20.00 for the three of them and he can use one hole to put them in.”

One of the brothers asked, “You’re going to bury them together?”

Sam’s expression was as dead as the men on the floor. 

“There were boys who died in the war who deserved a bunch more and got less.  They rode together, robbed together and killed together.  They can rot together.”

“Yes, sir.”  The brother was more intimidated than satisfied.  “One other thing, well, two really;  when you boys are done with the bodies, take their horses over to the livery.  Unsaddle them, rub them down and get them some feed.  Careful with the water.  They have been standing and thirsty all afternoon and evening.”

“We’ll do the job right, Marshal.”

“The second thing is, for helping me out, the two of you gets the bounty on Bushy.  Mr. West will get the bounty from Parrot.”

Casey was confused, “Marshal, just so I know and understand, you mean we get $50.00 dollars for an hour worth of work?”

The miner continued, “You realize you are promising us more money than we make in a month?”

“The pay is commensurate with the importance of the job, not the duration of the work.”

Casey looked at the marshal as if he had just heard him speak French, “I don’t know what you just said.”

“I said the job is important and I need the right men for it.”

Casey’s expression brightened, “Oh!  We’re the right men!  Just so you know, if you shoot anymore people, let Bob and I know and we’ll come running!  We’ll be your clean up guys!”

The marshal scowled at Casey’s enthusiasm and moved away, 

“We’ll see.  Do a good job.”  

He started to walk to the exit as Ed West motioned him to stop by the end of the bar.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but why do I get part of the bounty?”

“You have a mess to clean up.  I don’t know where all the bullets stopped, you might have some damage to repair and I need you to be invested in counting for all the money that is left.”

“Mind if I ask why you don’t count it?”

“I’ve been here less than a week.  I’m not known.  No matter the count I arrived at, people would say I siphoned some away.  You’re an established business man; people know you.  They’ll trust your count.  Also, when you bring me the tally, bring any personal items the men might have.”  

He started again for the door.

“Marshal, is there anything I can have brought to you?  Coffee?  Beer?  Something to eat?”

“No.  I’m fine.  Give the girl who spotted them a dollar or two and you keep the money secured until I make arrangements to get it to its home”  

“You don’t want me putting it in the bank?”

“No.  Where was it robbed from?”

“A bank.”

“Ever hear of a saloon being robbed?”

The marshal turned to leave the room while the big man smiled, “Perish the thought.  I get your point.”

West called for one of the girls to get him three old sheets.  The two brothers started to lay the dead men out in a manner so they could be rolled onto the sheets when they arrived.  

West was watching and thinking about what he had just witnessed, when one of the few strangers in the room walked up and looked at Bushy.

“Ain’t right.  Bushy was a good man.  Ain’t right burying him with this trash.”

West looked at the man who had all the characteristics of a teamster.

“Did you know this man?” West motioned to Bushy.

“Course I know’d him.  He hailed from St. Louis.  Still has a daughter back there, I think.  He was a good man.  Most of the mines in these parts wouldn’t have gear and food if it weren’t for Bushy and men like him.  It ain’t right the marshal sticking him in the ground with those two thieves and killers.”

“I didn’t see you voice your concern when the marshal was here.”

“No! And you won’t see me step on rattlesnakes either.”

“What does that mean?”

The teamster looked at West as if wondering if West was simple, “You don’t know what I mean?  You don’t know Sam Moses?”

West shrugged, “Can’t say that I do.  He’s only been marshal a couple of days.  Our old marshal died in his sleep.  Marshal Tom had been the law here as long as I have been here and that’s a spell.  We put out the word, and Moses was the first to respond.  We got trail herds coming through in a bit so we hired him.”

The teamster struggled to hold back his chuckling, “You hired Sam Moses to be your marshal as a pig in a poke?”

“I don’t see what is so funny.”

“Do you have laws on the book here, or a list of dos and don’ts the people are supposed to live by?”

“Sure, we have laws, voted on by the town council and signed into law by the mayor.”

“Well, you can throw that book away.  This town is under the Law of Moses now.”

“Are you telling me the man is crooked?”

“Crooked?  Sam Moses?  Hell no, he’s not crooked!  If anything he’s too straight, too rigid.  The man has no forgiveness in him.  Just like what he’s doing with Bushy.  Sam has known Bushy for 10 years and worked with him on and off for almost as many, Bushy makes one mistake and Sam buries him with men not fit to sweep out his wagon.”

The girl returned, and the brothers were busy rolling Bushy into the sheet.  The old teamster stayed until Bushy was no more than a long lumpy sheet that had once been white but was quickly turning red.  He turned back to West, “Ain’t right,” he repeated, “I might not have the guts to say it to the marshal, but it still ain’t right.” 

Marshal Sam Moses crossed the street to his new office.  The convenient locations of the two buildings he had been in tonight were not lost on him.  Both were located at the center of town with the West House Saloon on the northeast corner and the marshal’s office on the southwest.  The saloon took up the entire corner and was a frame built, two-story clapboard building.  The marshal’s office was one story made of three-foot thick adobe walls and flat roof.  The saloon had the bar, of course, as well as a parlor for sitting, a dining room and rooms to rent upstairs.  Rooms could be rented by the day, the week or the hour, and they could come with a companion or not.  His office had a desk and two chairs, a stove, a water basin on a table and a cell in one corner.  The cell had a bed.  The bed was for Sam when he didn’t have a prisoner.

Sam entered the office and closed and locked the door behind him.  The office was a small fortress where he felt protected.  There were two doors, one front and one back, both made out of thick oak wood that would withstand gun fire.  Sam took off his gun belt, hung it on the back of his chair and walked into the cell.  The room was only lit by the moonlight coming through the slits in the shutters over the windows.  Sam fell to his knees and prayed.

“God, I have begged you, pleaded with you to take this curse of life from me and allow me to have peace.  Why do you refuse?  What have I done to deserve such penance from me?  Tonight would have been a good night to die.  Yet, you force me to live.  You enjoy watching me suffer?  I curse you!  You hear me?  I curse you.  Please, kill me.”

He thought about getting his gun and doing the job himself, but even as the thought formed a voice with an Irish brogue rattled though his brain:

“There ain’t no killin yourself boy-o.  That’s the sin above of all sins.  You can never be forgiven for that one.  You got to find someone to take your life.  Can’t go giving it to them, they got to take it.  You can kill as many as you want, but you can’t go killin yourself.  You can’t destroy what God gave you.  God will never forgive you, boy-o.” 

The voice stuck in his brain, was that of a long dead Sergeant Major of the Union Army.  It had haunted him for almost twenty years.  The loneliness, the frustration and the tiredness overwhelmed him.   Sam curled up on the cool adobe floor and cried.

Chapter Two

It wasn’t much of a train, not as far as trains go.  In addition to the locomotive, it had two passenger cars, a freight car and a caboose, but it was the perfect train for the ride from Albany to Buffalo in the summer of 1861.  It was the only train that stopped in Elmira and would get a young man home.  

No, it wasn’t much of a train; a good horse could outrun it on level ground.  The passenger on his way to Elmira would have cheerfully gotten out and pushed if he thought it would help get him home faster.

The young man had just turned twenty.  He had brown hair and green eyes.  He stood a little taller than the average man but his hands were at least a size too big. He stood in the walk way through the car and braced himself against the motion by hanging on to the overhead baggage racks.  He swayed from one side of the aisle to the other and from time to time, his constant smile would get bigger or even break into a laugh.  

“That is old Baldy,” he’d say to himself.  “That’s the canyon that leads to Willow Flats.”   It was as if he was testing his memory of the places where he grew up, and he was passing with high marks.

A woman sat in a reversed bench was two seats in front of him and she watched him as he swayed and bounced with the motion of the train.  She had been trying to knit, but found herself watching this oversized young man instead.  He wasn’t handsome, but there was something striking about his face that arrested her attention.  Maybe it was the crispness of his green eyes or his ever-present smile; maybe it was just his apparent love of life, but once he was noticed, he was hard to ignore.  She took in the way he stood with his hands raised over his head.  His stance exaggerated the oversized hands and the fact that he had grown some since his suit had been purchased. 

Finally, she admitted to herself that she could no longer concentrate on her project.  She stopped, placed her knitting in her bag and looked at the young man.  She watched him bounce from one foot to the other and she smiled thinking of her four-year-old grandson who acted like that when he had to go to the bathroom.  Hopefully the young man before her did not suffer from that need. 

“You know,” she said, “we will not get there any faster with you standing up like that.  You should sit down and enjoy the view.  This is beautiful country.”

He turned his smile to her and answered, “Yes, ma’am, it is.  I grew up not far from here and I know most of the trails and back ways through these hills.  If I didn’t hike those trails, I rode them.  I’m sorry; I have been sitting for most of the past two and a half years.  I can’t sit anymore.”

“Oh, and what required you to sit for that length of time?”

“I attended the Teachers College at Albany.  I just graduated two days ago, and I am on my way home.”

“Well, good for you.  Your family will be waiting for you?”

“Yes ma’am!  My Pa will be there; he’s the minister in town as well as the school master.  My mother will be there and my brother and baby sister.”  

He added, “I guess Johanna is not a baby any more, she’ll be seventeen, I believe.”  The woman nodded.

“I’m sorry, I have forgotten my manners!  My name is Samuel Moses Cardiff and my family has been in these parts since before the Revolution. Where are you headed to, ma’am?”

“I’m on my way to Buffalo.  I have a daughter who lives there.  I’m going to spend some time with her.  Was this your first time away from home?”

“Yes, ma’am, does it show?”

It was her turn to smile and her eyes twinkled as she shrugged, “Just a little.  But that is fine, and it is easy to see how proud you are of your home.”

“That’s right; I enjoyed the city and all the things there were to do, but I was and am from the country.  I always hope to live in this area.  I want to find a teaching position and then get married.”

“Oh, my goodness!  You do have a plan.  Do you have a young lady picked out?”

Sam blushed, “I haven’t talked to her about it.  I know who I’ll pick, if she’ll have me, but I have to get a position first, so I can support her.”

“Aren’t you worried about the coming war?”

“No, ma’am, I have no intention of getting involved with that.  I heard President Lincoln has called on the states to form up militias, but I’ll not be a part of it.  I do not want to be a part of the bloodletting that will be the result.”

“I hope you are so lucky, young man.”

They talked for some time before they were interrupted by the conductor, walking through the car and singing out the next stop, “Elmira, Elmira, next stop Elmira.  We’ll be here for thirty minutes.”

The excitement building in his chest was hard to contain, and he reached and brought down his bag long before the train pulled into the station and stopped.  He headed for the exit, stopped, and turned back.  

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said.    

He was gone, and he didn’t hear her reply. 

“And you, young man.  Nice to meet you.”

The scene on the platform was confusing and loud.  His mother was there, his brother Luke and his sister Johanna, all hugging him, and his mother crying.  All of them talked; all of them asked questions.

“What was Albany like?  I hope to go there someday.”

“Did you hear about Fort Sumter?  What do you think the President will do?”  

“You have grown so tall.  We will have to get you a new suit.”

Samuel was overwhelmed, and finally, in an act of self-defense, he held up his hands.  

“Stop!  Wait a minute.  I can only answer one question at a time.”  

The three stopped talking, and Samuel looked around and asked, 

“Where’s Pa?”

His family seemed to freeze in place.  Their faces became ashen as they looked from one to the other.  None of them looked at Samuel.  Quietly, his mother asked, “You didn’t get the letter?  Pa died two months ago.”

Samuel felt his knees go weak and he sat down on the steps of the platform.  He was afraid he might fall down and had to purposely think about breathing.  He repeated what his mother had said.  

“Pa died two months ago?  No, I never got a letter.”  

Samuel looked away and blinked back the tears that were forming.  All he could think to say was, “I really wanted him to see my diploma.”

Luke rescued him.  “Wait right here, big brother, let me go get the buggy.  We’ll get you home.”

The ride was silent.  Samuel was numb from the shock of the news and the others gave him time.  At some point, he would want to know what happened, and they would tell him Pa was found dead in the chapel where he had been preparing the sermon for the next week.  He hadn’t been sick; he had just been called home. He had just gone.  But that was for later.  For now they rode in silence.

When they got home, Luke gave Samuel a pair of pants and a shirt to wear that fit him.  

“You see, big brother, you’re not the only one who has grown.” 

They stood back to back and compared their sizes.  They had been doing this since boyhood.  They now stood within an inch of each other and their weight was just as close.  The only place Luke could not match Samuel was the size of his hands.  Luke’s hands were normal sized, but they looked small and almost feminine when compared to Samuel’s.  

  Samuel examined the room the two brothers had shared since boyhood and while it was now a little cramped, he wouldn’t know where in the house to sleep if not in the bed next to Luke.  The room embodied the brothers.  The furniture was a simple design but sturdy and strong.  The brotherly relationship was unspoken but understood; while they fought each other from time to time, no one other than a Cardiff could punch a Cardiff.  The beds were made most mornings but the posts usually had shirts or trousers hanging from them.  The boys were respected young men in the community but they were not above sneaking a drink of whiskey or smoking a stolen cigar with their friends.   

Luke had always been more than a brother to Samuel; he was also a friend, maybe his best friend.  Samuel was quiet and studious while Luke was carefree and easy going.  Samuel was thoughtful and sober minded; Luke always had a joke or a story to tell and as they had gotten older, some of the stories had become a little racy.  He was the guy all the other guys wanted as a friend and all the girls wanted sitting next to them on their front porch.  Samuel was the boy the girls fathers wanted sitting on the front porch.  It was Luke who told Samuel what little they knew about how their Pa had died.

After he changed into the clothes borrowed from Luke, Samuel went to sit in the swinging chair on the front porch. He hoped to find some solitude and think about and remember his father.  It didn’t seem real.  His father had always been full of boundless energy, and Samuel knew that sooner or later he would burst through a door asking to see his older son.  The thought of him lying still in a cold and dark grave was too much for Samuel to imagine.  

  He found his sister already on the porch.  Johanna had changed the most during Samuel’s absence.  Mother had not changed much, only grown a little grayer.  Luke had grown and developed more muscle, but Samuel saw himself in Luke and he no more recognized the change in his brother than he did the change in himself.  Johanna had changed into a woman.  When he left, she was but fourteen, almost fifteen, and she had been a pest.  When he came back, she was seventeen and gorgeous.  She had the same dark brown hair as Samuel and it was full bodied and curly.  She liked to wear ribbons in it to focus the attention of others.  She had always been a tall girl for her age but over the past two years she had filled out in all the right places.  Samuel could only imagine the boys lining up to ask her to dance at the church socials.  He sat down beside her.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.  Her smile was infectious, even with his pain over the loss of his father.  “I figured this would be the place you would come to first.  It always was your favorite place in the house.”

“I used to sit out here and talk to Pa.  This is where he would tell me to become the man I was supposed to be, and not just the man I turned out to be.  He must have told me that a hundred times.  We’d sit out here and we’d talk, sometimes he’d read books to me when I was younger and we’d read together the last few years I was home.  He’d drink his coffee that he stirred with a cinnamon stick.  When I was away, I could never smell cinnamon without thinking of Pa.  I still don’t know why he liked his coffee like that.  It was on this swing that Pa taught me to read Shakespeare and we’d discuss the Bard’s plays and sonnets.  I can’t believe he is gone. ”

Johanna slid over and put her arm around her big brother’s shoulder.  “This has got to be really hard on you.  While all of us miss him, we no longer feel the shock of his passing as you feel now.  I’m really sorry you didn’t get the letter.”

“I am too.  I miss him badly.  I expect to see him come around the corner or come out of the door right now.  I miss his laugh; I miss his love.  I miss his enjoyment of life and his love of God.  I can’t believe that I will never see him or hug him again.”

Johanna dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, “I know exactly what you mean.  For the first week after he was gone, I’d lie awake at night after going to bed waiting for him to come in and kiss me goodnight.  I’d forget he was dead.”

“I’m going to walk up to his grave and pay my respects.  Maybe if I see his tombstone, it will sink in.  Right now it doesn’t feel like he’s gone.”

“Before you go, you might want to stop in and see Ma.  She asked me to tell you she wanted to talk to you.  She’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, any idea what she wants?”

“No, she just said it was important she talk to you.”

Samuel walked into the kitchen and found his mother cutting up a chicken.  She looked at her oldest son over her shoulder, “Chicken stew for dinner tonight.  I know that is one of your favorites.”

“It is my favorite!  I have missed your cooking every day since I was gone.  If you ever want to move to Albany, open an eatery across the street from the Teachers College and you will be rich inside a week!”

The old woman smiled distractedly, stopped what she was doing and wiped her hands on a towel.  She asked her oldest son to sit down.  He sat down at the table, and she brought them both cups of coffee.

He sipped his, waiting for her to tell him what it was she wanted.

“I want you to know I feel really bad about your homecoming.  With Pa dying the way he did and you not knowing about it until you got here, this has got to be one of your worst days.”

Samuel forced a closed smile.  “It sure hasn’t turned out the way I thought it would.”  

He watched as she continued to dry her hands, hands that were no longer wet, but she continued to dry them anyway.  He recognized nervous energy and he began to worry what she might say.

“I’m afraid I’m about to make it worse, and I want to ask for your forgiveness before we start.”

“Ma, you would never do anything to me you need ask forgiveness for.”  Even as he said the words, he wondered what was she alluding too.

“I imagine you heard about the Confederates firing on Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor?”

Samuel nodded, “Of course.”

“Well, President Lincoln has ordered a muster of 75,000 men.  One of the regiments is going to be from right here in Elmira.”

Samuel felt relief; his smiled released some of the building tension, and he said, “You don’t have to worry.  If you’re going to ask me not to join, don’t.  I already made up my mind not to join up.  I think this war is a mistake and I think a lot of men are going to die for nothing.  I believe all Lincoln needs to do is blockade the southern states so they can’t get any supplies or help from England or France and in a few years, they will be begging to be allowed back in the Union.  The southern states are strictly an agricultural society.  They don’t have the natural resources or the manufacturing capabilities the north has.  They are more dependent on us than they know.”

Samuel felt good for the first time since arriving home.  He stood and kissed his mother on her forehead.  

“You see no reason to worry, you were going to asked me not to join and I had already made that decision.” 

He started toward the door, but her voice stopped him.

“That is not what I was going to ask you.  I’m asking you to join the regiment.”

For the second time that day, Samuel felt his knees go weak.  Anger quickly replaced his shock.  He slowly turned around to face his mother, his expression growing hard.  

“What?  You want me to join up?  Knowing how I feel about this, you want me to join up?  Why?”

“Please sit down.”

He saw the image of the woman on the train telling him to sit down and his anger grew.  “I don’t want to sit down.  I’ve been sitting for two years!  Answer my question!  Why on earth do you want me to join up and go kill some other woman’s son, or worse, get killed?”

She would not allow herself to sob, but tears ran down her face.  She sat with her back straight, looking at her coffee cup and kneading her apron in her hands.  Samuel saw the tears, but his anger allowed him to ignore the hurt he was causing. 

“Why do you want me to join?  Answer my question!”

“Because Luke did.”

“What?  Luke joined up?  He told you?”

“Yes, he joined up, and no he didn’t tell me.  Not yet anyway.  You men are always talking about how we women gossip over the backyard fences.  Well, we do, but that doesn’t mean all we talk about is recipes!”

Samuel sat down.  He had to regain his emotional balance.  Would the craziness of this day never stop?  

“I’ll have a talk with him.  I’ll tell him how foolish it is.  I’ll tell him how dangerous it is and I don’t believe Pa would have wanted us to go.”

“You have your talk with him, but when he tells you no and tells you he is going, will you go with him?”  Her expression told him she had talked to Luke several times and she knew her younger son would not be dissuaded. 

“That’s why you want me to go?  To babysit my younger brother?”

“Samuel, this is going to sound like an old woman talking but I tell you this with the same certainty I feel about the resurrection of our Lord and Savior.  If Luke goes off to fight in this war, he will die there.  His only chance is for you to go with him and bring him home to me.”

Samuel’s anger allowed him to be rude to his mother for one of the few times in his life.  “And what about me?  You don’t worry if I, your other son, gets killed?”

Her response stunned him.  

“I have prayed and asked about this and I have been assured that you will not be harmed.  You will not so much as get nicked from a bullet or a knife.  You will go through this war as if you are shielded by a cloak of armor.  Nothing will hurt you.  That’s why I have to ask you to do this horrible thing.  If you go and you keep Luke close to you, you may be able to save his life.  Samuel, there is a force protecting you.  Am I wrong to ask you to use that force to also protect your younger brother?”

Samuel was in shock.  He didn’t know what to say.  His mind had slipped into a neutral gear and would no longer process information.  The emotional ride he had been on since arriving home was too much.  He had to get away; he had to get some distance between him and his family.  His family that had always been his rock of support and in one afternoon, it had become a force of disruption, uncertainty and emotional upheaval.  He had to have some distance from them all.

“Ma, I’m going to go visit Pa.  I need to see his tombstone; I need to be by myself.”

“Will you do what I ask?  Will you go with Luke and protect your brother?”  The fear in her voice caused her to sound as if she was pleading.  The look of fear on her face made her appear to be begging.

“I don’t know,” he answered.  “I need some time to think.”

Chapter Three

It was early morning during the summer of 1875 in the New Mexico Territory and the town of Puebla Fresa was not yet awake.  The sun was still hid behind the mountains to the east, but even so, the locals promised each other today was going to be a hot one.  Two dust devils chased each other up and down the main street, and the only audience was a black and white stray dog lying on the boardwalk in front of the livery office and the man a few yards away.  He sat on a chair tilted on its back legs, with a grey hat was pulled low over his face as if he was asleep; he was not. 

The dog had been in town about two weeks.  No one knew where he came from, and for that matter, no one cared.  He was mostly black with white spots, and he was unlucky enough to have one white ear while the other was black.  His white ear was formed correctly and stood upright.  His black ear had weak cartilage and was always in the shape of a question mark.  Between his misshaped ear and his odd markings, the dog looked unsteady and ungainly.

Hungry and lonely, but also a survivor, the dog was learning where to find food, water and how to stay out of kicking distance.  Two days ago, the dog had been cornered in an alley by a couple of boys who amused themselves by throwing rocks at him.  He had been hit a few times when the man in a grey hat happened by.  Without speaking, the man threw rocks at the boys, and chased them from the alley.  

The dog had followed him ever since.  Other than the rescue, the man ignored him.

The man had been in town a little over four days.  He was the new marshal and last night he had killed three men.  This morning, he sat on a wooden chair with his sock-covered feet resting on a pole fixed to be a hitching rail in front of the Marshal’s Office.  He wore the same shirt and pants from last night.  His boots sat beside him.  He had watched the dust devils, watched the dog and now noticed the wagon being pulled toward his location by a red sorrel horse.  In the wagon sat a man and a woman.

The sorrel was a mare, and the man could tell she had some years and miles on her.  She pulled the wagon in a manner that showed she knew the route as well as the driver.  The blinders on her headgear wouldn’t let her see the man, but she would have paid him no mind if she had.  The wagon was also old and worn.  It was small, with a bed that was only about four feet by four feet in size.  The bed held milk cans and jugs of various sizes – obviously this was a milk man making his rounds.  

The man was slight and frail looking.  He had round, uneven shoulders.  He leaned to the left and looked uncomfortable on the wagon, as if he was in pain.  The hunched-over posture made him appear weak and smaller than he had at one time been.  His cheekbones were high and prominent and he needed a shave, probably had needed it for about a week.  His gray hair made him look older than the marshal assumed he was.  His clothes were worn but clean.

  The woman, mostly likely his wife, created a strange pair with the driver. She appeared to be a dozen years his junior, and while he appeared almost sickly, she was an example of vibrant health.  She sat straight and confidently on the seat.  Her posture left no doubt as to her gender, as the way she sat displayed her contours.  She wore a bonnet, but as the wagon closed the distance between her and the marshal, her brown hair, pulled back and lying on her right shoulder came into view.  The man on the chair had two nearly simultaneous thoughts: “What an odd looking couple,” and “She is an attractive woman.”

William Stoddard drove the wagon and beside him sat his wife, Laura.  Rosie was the red sorrel, and she was intent on getting to their destination, which was the back door of the West House saloon.  Next to the back door of the West House was a watering trough that held some of the coolest water in the area, and the mare had been thirsty since leaving the farm just outside of town.  Rosie shook her head in disagreement, and Stoddard had to rein her twice to get her to deviate from her course and head toward the man in the chair.

He nodded toward the man, “Look Laura, it’s the new Marshal.  What was his name again?”

“Sam Moses.  Do we really need to stop by and see him?”  Her distaste of the idea was clear.

“I think we ought too.  It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

“I’ve heard there is nothing neighborly about that man.”

“I’ve heard the rumors as well, but he’s only been here a few days.  Hell, Marshal Tom had been here for almost twenty years!  Most people in this town, us included, have never known another marshal.  I think we ought to give him a chance.”

“Don’t curse, William.  You know I don’t like that.  I still have trouble thinking of Marshal Tom being dead, just dying in his sleep like that.”

“I’m sorry.”  He nudged his wife with his shoulder as a show of repentance.  “I know what you mean about Tom, but he was getting up there in age.”  

The horse and wagon crossed to the marshal’s side of the street, and once abreast of him, Stoddard pulled back on the reins, “Whoa, old girl.”  The mare stopped, but bounced her head and shook the reins in a show of displeasure and impatience.

“Good morning.  My name is William Stoddard and this is my wife, Laura.”

Without moving his feet from the handrail, the marshal raised his head enough so his eyes were visible under the hat.  His expression was bored.  He nodded his head toward the woman.  

“Mornin’.”

“We have a small dairy farm outside of town, and we bring milk and some cheese to the folks here every couple of days.  Thought we’d stop by to introduce ourselves, get acquainted and welcome you to Puebla Fresa.”  Stoddard gestured to the town in a manner a tour guide would.  Laura sat still, looking forward.

“My name is Marshal Moses.  Now, we’re acquainted.”  He examined the horse.  Stoddard wondered if he was that interested in the horse or if the marshal just didn’t want to look at him.  

“That old mare is about ready to be retired, ain’t she?”  The marshal’s expression didn’t change.

“Old Rosie?”  

Stoddard looked at his mare with obvious affection.  “Yeah, I guess so.  She’s going on eighteen or so, but the truth of it is, I can’t afford a horse to replace her right now.  She’s just got to hang in there with me for a bit longer.  I let her pick the pace and we take our time, but we still get the job done.”

The marshal didn’t reply.  

Stoddard, trying to make conversation, continued, “If you don’t mind me askin’, the last marshal was named Tom and that’s what most of us called him.  We’re a small town and most of us know pretty much all there is to know about each other; what do you want us to call you?”

The man’s eyes moved from examining Rosie and leveled themselves at Stoddard.  

“My name is Moses.  That’s what you call me, Marshal Moses.”  

There was no friendship offered in the voice.  Laura gave William the look that silently said it was time to leave; William ignored it.

“You like milk, Marshal?  Tom liked milk and I used to stop by on my route and leave him a small jug of milk.  Put it right here on the boardwalk, if’n he wasn’t here.  There’s a watering trough behind the Marshal’s Office that is just deep enough to keep the milk cool.  I’d be happy to continue to leave some milk for you.”

Moses looked at the farmer without changing expression.  When he spoke, his voice was cold.  “You want to leave me milk and not charge me anything?  Doing business like that, no wonder you can’t afford to buy a new horse.  What do you want from me?”

His offer of friendship rebuffed, Stoddard felt a quick series of emotions: shock, insult and then anger.  When he replied, his voice matched the marshal’s.  

“I don’t want a damn thing from you.  Sorry, Laura.  I left the milk because I know this town don’t pay the marshal much and it’s my way of helping out.  I left the milk because Tom liked it and I had it to give.  I’m going to continue to leave the milk and you can do whatever you want with it!  Drink it, pour it out, I don’t care and I will thank you to keep your comments about how I run my business to yourself.”

Stoddard started the process to get out of the wagon to deliver the jug of milk.  He swung one of his legs out of the wagon, but had to use his arms to help lift and move the second leg into position.  As he slid close to the end of the seat and lowered himself to the ground, the marshal recognized the man was crippled.  Out of the wagon, Stoddard stood crooked and bent.  His legs resisted his efforts to walk, so his gait was kind of sideways.  Stoddard called it his “crab walk.”  One of his arms was also bent.  Moses had not moved from his chair, nor did he offer any assistance.

“Hell, man!  You’re a gimp!  What crippled you up like that?”

Laura had been sitting on the seat, looking forward, trying to ignore the Marshal and let him know he was being ignored.  But at the direct insult to her husband, she spun in the seat and turned to face him.  He was not looking at her, but her husband.  She struggled to remain quiet.  She knew if she interfered, it would make her husband appear weak, and William was not a weak man.

From the back of the wagon, where he dipped milk from a large can into a smaller jug, Stoddard stopped and turned to face the Marshal.  He had to catch his breath before answering.  “I was a soldier in the Civil War and I was lucky enough to catch a cannon ball just as it exploded.  It happened on the first day of the Battle of Fredericksburg.  I was left for dead, but the cold weather stopped the bleeding and I survived.  Were you in the war, Marshal?”

Moses’s face looked like he might have had a stomach ache.  “The nice part about personal history is that it is personal,” he said as he stood up, he picked up his boots and his cloth, turned and walked into the Marshal’s Office.  He closed the door behind him.

Laura, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, now turned in her seat and faced her husband; her nostrils flared as she inhaled air through her nose.  Her blue eyes, normally soft, loving and happy, were now hard and cold.  Her jaw was clenched, which forced the smile from her mouth and left her lips tight, thin and small.  She was angry and it showed. 

  “Don’t you dare leave him any milk!  That is the most ungrateful, unfriendly, horrible man I have ever seen!  I mean it, William, don’t leave him any milk!”

Stoddard remained at the back of the wagon looking at the closed door.   He continued to fill the jar and when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice, but there was some sadness.  In a tired voice, he said, “I’m leaving him some milk, Laura.”

“After how he treated you?  Why would you do that?”

“I already said why.  I do it because I can and because I am not unfriendly or ungrateful.”

It took effort, as always, but Stoddard climbed back into the seat and took the reins.  He clucked once to Rosie, who was more than ready to finish the route, with only one more stop before the water.  The three of them crossed back to the other side of the street where William stopped the wagon in front of Wilkinson’s Dry Goods.

Trying to change the topic and Laura’s attention, Stoddard asked his wife, “Do you have your list?”

“Yes, I do; thanks to you.”  Laura leaned over and gave William a quick kiss on the cheek.  He smiled, “For that, my dear, I will help you with your list every day.”  

Laura climbed down from the wagon and walked around the front of the horse.  She patted Rosie as she passed.  After climbing the two steps onto the boardwalk, she stopped and looked back at her husband.  

“William, that man called you a cripple.  He’s wrong.  You are the most complete and total man I have ever known.”  She blew him a kiss and entered the store, smiling at William as she closed the door behind her.

Stoddard watched her disappear into the store than he spoke to Rosie.  “Old girl, for treatment like that, I’d let the cranky old marshal take a bath in milk.  Come on, girl!  Let’s go get your drink.”

Usually, Ed West was waiting for them, but not today.  As the mare drank her fill of the water and rested before the pull home, Stoddard unloaded the milk and half carried, half dragged it into the stone house, where he placed it in the water cooler.  Then he went in search for Ed.

“Ed, Ed, you in here?”  Stoddard called through the kitchen area in search for the big man and didn’t find him.  He hobbled into the saloon area through a door from behind the bar.  At first glance, Ed was not here either.

“Ed, you in here?”

“Ya!  Bill, that you?”

The big man stood up from where he had been crouched down in front of the bar.

“Bill!  I forgot what today is!  I’m sorry!”

“It’s o.k.  Got it unloaded just fine.  What ya doing over there?”

“I’m cleaning up after our new marshal.”  West pointed to a pitcher of beer on the end of the bar.  “Grab yourself a mug there and pour you one.  Bring the pitcher down here so I can refill my own.”

Stoddard did as he was told, and when he was able to see the front of the bar he was amazed at the sight before him.  On the floor was a stain easy to recognize as dried blood.  It was a big stain.

“What the hell?”  He looked skyward, “Sorry, Laura.  What happened here?”

West was on his knees scrubbing the floor with a stiff bristled brush, trying to remove, or at least lighten, the mark of the marshal’s handiwork.  He was sweating, and Stoddard could see how wet the big man’s shirt was.  Drops of perspiration fell to the floor from time to time.  He stopped, sat on the floor with his back to the bar and reached for the mug Stoddard held out for him.  He drank half the mug and took a deep breath.  “Bill, when a man does what I do for a living, he sees his share of gunfights.  But I have never seen anything like what I watched last night.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“Do you remember about four weeks ago, when Marshall Tom showed the wanted posters about the three men who robbed a bank up Durango way?”

Stoddard nodded.  “Yeah, the leader was a guy named Stilwell and one of the guys was named Bushing or Bushy, something like that.”

“Well, last night they showed up and met our new marshal.  One of the girls recognized these three guys who had come in and remembered the posters.  They just looked like down-on-their-luck cowboys, but they were throwing money around like they didn’t have to work too hard to get it.  Anyway, the girl tells me who she thinks they are, and I tell her to go fetch the marshal.  About twenty minutes later, he walks in.”

West stopped and emptied the rest of his mug.  He stood up and refilled it; he enjoyed telling a good story and knew he had Stoddard’s full attention.

“Come on, man! Then what happened?”

“What do you mean?”  West spread his arm out over the stain.  “He killed the three of them.”

Sarcasm and a touch of anger was in the farmer’s voice as he replied, “I gathered that!  I just talked to our marshal!  Details, man, details!”

West studied the farmer for a moment before he continued.  He was trying to put what he wanted to say in a way Stoddard would understand.  He didn’t know how many gun fights Stoddard had witnessed.

“Bill, I’ve worked in saloons more than half my life and I have seen all types of gun fights.  Most of them erupt because men get drunk and get into an argument.  Most of the time, the shooters are not gunmen, and even if they’re shooting across a card table at each other, there’s as much of a chance for an onlooker to get hit as either of them hitting the other.”

“But, it’s not that way with gunmen.  Men who make their living using a gun have to use every advantage they can, or else they normally have a very short career.  If a gunman is a good shot, he wants more distance between him and his opponent.  The reasoning is the other guy is not as good a shot and that lowers the chance of the better shot getting hit.  In most gun fights, both sides get shots off.”

  “If, on the other hand, you are very fast at drawing the gun, but not so accurate, you stand closer to your opponent, hoping the shorter distance will increase his fear and betting on you being able to get your gun into action faster than the other guy.  You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, but I don’t get where you’re going with this.”

“Last night, Moses walked in here by himself to face three men, two who were, at least by reputation, gunmen and who were all armed.  He walked up and stood about twelve feet from them.  He had his Colt still in its holster; he walks up to them empty handed.  Bill, even mediocre gunmen can hit things at twelve feet!  He faced three men by himself!”

Stoddard hesitated before responding.  “He walked up to them with just himself?  Tom would have had at least four of us backing him up with shotguns.”

“Yeah, I have been one of the shotgun holders many times.  Not last night.  Moses walks up to them and gets close, like I said, about twelve, maybe fourteen, feet.  He has a few words with two of the men and then they go to shooting.  William, I’ve never seen anything like this man.  I have never seen a man get a gun into action the way he did!  It was… it was like the gun jumped out of the holster and into his hand.   Did you notice how big his hands are?”

Stoddard shook his head.

West emptied his mug and refilled it.  He took another long drink, wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand and then continued.

“Next time you see him, look at his hands.  They’re huge.  He holds a gun and his hand wraps around it so far that he can pull the hammer back without having to readjust his grip!  He keeps his gun on target while he’s cocking the gun to fire the next round.  Last night he stroked that hammer like a guitar player strokes a string.  I think he held the trigger back the whole time.  He just pulls the hammer back and lets it go.  I’ve never seen a man get rounds off so fast.  In the time it would take you to say, “Beer, please,” two men were dead on my floor leaning against the bar and the one called Bushy was trying to keep from bleeding to death.  It didn’t work out too well for him.”

Stoddard faced the blood stain and asked, “So the marshal stood, where?  Here?”

West nodded, “Yeah, right there in fact.”

“And the three, well, we know where they were.”  Stoddard made a sweeping gesture at the blood stain.  “Not one of them got a shot off?”

West shook his head.  “Well, the guy named Bushy was in such a hurry that he shot himself in the leg.  Ripped his leg open from crotch to knee; it’s him I’m wiping up.”

“But if they had, they almost couldn’t have missed the marshal.”

“That’s my point.”

“The marshal walks in with his gun still holstered and just walks up to them?”

“I saw it myself.”

“Why would he do that?  There are a dozen men here who would help him.  Maybe he didn’t know?”

“Nope, day before yesterday, I stopped and talked to him.  I told him about how some of us pitch in to make his pay a little better and how if he needs us, there are several who would stand with him.  I told him how you would be bringing him some milk from time to time and I invited him to eat at my place.  I offered him a place to sleep free at the hotel when he had a prisoner.  Told him he would be able to board his horse without charge at the livery.  No, he knew we would stand with him.  He just never asked.”

Stoddard walked to the window and looked across the street toward the Marshal’s Office. The boardwalk was empty except for the dog.  Stoddard watched as the stray stood, stretched and then created a small dust cloud as he shook himself awake.  Then he moved down the walk to the jug of milk and started licking around the stopper.  Watching the dog, the farmer thought, “At least someone over there likes my milk.”  

He turned back to West.  “Have you ever heard the term ‘crazy brave’ or ‘fools brave?’”

West shook his head.

“When I was in the army, we used to call it “crazy brave” or “fools brave.”  A soldier would get all messed up inside his head and want to die.  For some reason, they couldn’t just kill themselves, so they would start doing crazy brave things.  They’d attack a group of five enemy soldiers and if that didn’t kill them, they’d attack ten.”

“You think our new marshal is trying to get himself killed?”

Stoddard shrugged.  “I’m not saying that; I’m saying I’ve seen men act like that and fight like that.  They give their enemy every opportunity to kill them.  For whatever reason, they won’t just give their lives away; the enemy has got to take it from them.  They usually don’t stop.  They hate who they are so much they want to die, so they search until they find someone who kills them and puts them out of their misery.”

“I don’t know about all that, Bill.  I just know, by all rights, the man should be dead this morning.”  

“Ed, you said you told him about me, that I stop by and bring some milk?”

West nodded.

“Well, I stopped by this morning, to introduce myself and offer him some milk; he acted like he had never heard of me.  The harder I tried to become a friend, the harder he resisted and the nastier he became.  I almost had to pour the milk on him in order to get him to keep it.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, a man who is trying to get someone to kill him doesn’t need nor want friends.  That’s the other part of being crazy brave.  Those men were the rudest, most hateful people you’d ever want to meet.  They’d refuse to let other people befriend them.”   

“Bill, you’re talking about how men act in war, in combat.  The war was over a long time ago.”

“Not for all of us, Ed.  The war is with me every day.”

“No offense Bill, but you’re scarred up and crippled; of course the war is with you all the time.”

“What’s the matter, Ed?  Don’t you think a man can be scarred up and crippled on the inside?”

The big man threw back his head and laughed, “Hell, yes!  I count on it!  That’s what keeps me in business!”  Stoddard joined in with a chuckle of his own.

Suddenly, West stopped and his mirth died.  “Are you telling me this man, this marshal we hired, has been trying to get himself killed since the war?”

“I’m saying some men get so crossways in their heads, in their souls, that they try to find a way to get themselves killed.  They take dangerous jobs like riding shotgun on stages or payroll guards.  They become gunfighters or town marshals, and they won’t let people help them.  They try to put themselves in a situation so they can get killed.”

“Sooner or later, they always wind up dead?”

“Usually, yes, but sometimes they get wounded or crippled so bad they can no longer fight.”

“What happens to them then?”

Stoddard turned to look out the window again, “Usually, they drink themselves to death.”  Then in a much lower voice, he finished, “Sometimes though, they marry a woman who saves them and they become dairy farmers.”

He watched Moses come out of his office with a blue enameled metal camp mug and a bowl.  He sat down in the chair, removed the lid from the jug and poured a cup full of milk.  He drank it.  The stray dog had backed away about ten feet, gently wagging his tail.  Moses placed the bowl on the boardwalk and poured milk into it.  Carefully he pushed the bowl away from him so the skittish dog would come to it and drink. 

Stoddard smiled, “You old bastard – sorry, Laura – you do have a heart, don’t you?”  He turned away from the window again and faced West, “I brought Laura in with me this morning and she is picking up some supplies at Wilkinson’s.  Could I get a partial settlement for the milk?  I don’t want our tab at the store to get out of hand.”

“Sure!  I’m sorry you had to ask.”  The big man got to his feet and opened the register.  He counted out what he owed Stoddard, and then held up a silver dollar.  “This came from the Durango bank.”

Stoddard took the dollar, looked at it and then put it into a small leather pouch.  He pulled the cord closed and stuck the pouch back in its place, along his beltline.  

He thanked Ed for the payment and the beer and made his way back to Rosie.  He climbed aboard and went to get Laura.  Laura was waiting for him on the walk outside the Wilkinson’s Store, where she stood with her arms crossed, glaring across the street at the marshal, who sat in his chair, sharing milk with a stray dog.  

Stoddard stopped the wagon and smiled at his wife, “How much is the damages?”

“I just got what was on the list and it came to $3.80.”

Stoddard pulled the pouch from his belt line and motioned as if he was going to toss it to Laura.  She raised her hand to stop him.  “Don’t do that!  Just count out the money we owe and give it to me.”

Stoddard counted out four dollars’ worth of coins.  “The kids have been good lately; ask Mrs. Wilkinson to give you the change in candy.  We’ll have some on the way home and give the rest to the kids when we get there.”

“That would be very nice,” Laura smiled, “and it will get the sour taste out of my mouth from meeting that man!”  She motioned across the street, where Moses still sat.  She took the money and returned moments later with their purchases.  As they drove out of town, Stoddard looked over at the marshal and waved.  His wave was ignored.

Chapter Four

The Elmira Cemetery sat on a small hill overlooking the town below.  As he stood at the foot of his father’s grave, he read and reread the inscription.  The tears ran freely down his face, but Samuel also realized that from this location his father would be able to watch over the people of his little town forever.  It was a small but comforting thought, and today any comforting thought, no matter how small, was welcome.

He pulled a few weeds from the grave and sat down beside it with his back to a small tree.  He tried talking to the grave as if he was talking to his father.  After about five minutes, he thought the practice was stupid and felt more distant from his father than before.  He stopped talking, but his mind continued to race. 

“Why were things happening this way?  Was there a reason?  What happened to the letter?  I wanted to show my father my graduation certificate.”  

Now, none of it mattered.  He wished he had stayed at home where he would have had the past two years with his father.  He looked toward the town, and saw a young lady walking toward him.  

“Why is Johanna coming for me?  Now what?  That isn’t Johanna; that’s Patsy Brown.”  

He looked again, and could not stop himself from speaking aloud, “That’s Patsy Brown?”  

The young lady stopped at the small fence dividing the Cardiff family plot from the rest of the cemetery.  “Mind if I come in?” she asked.

“Sure, sure, please come in.”  Samuel jumped to his feet and wiped the tears from his face.  “You’re Patsy Brown.”

The young blonde with the deep blue eyes laughed a little, blushed a little and answered, “Why, yes, yes I am.  Who did you think I was?”

“No, it’s not that.  When I left, you were cute and a tomboy.  When I get back, you’re not cute and you’re not a tomboy anymore.”

“You don’t think I’m cute?  Every boy in this town thinks I’m cute.”  Her pout was an exaggerated tease, but it didn’t register with Samuel.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that.  Of course you’re cute, but you’re not cute like a little girl tomboy.  You’re… you’re… you’re aw, hell!  You’re all grown-up!”

She laughed.  Her laugh, as natural as nature, was easy to listen to, a laugh that belonged out of doors.  Samuel decided he wanted to listen to that laugh the rest of his life.

“Samuel, of course I’ve grown up.  What did you think?  I would be a little girl forever?”

“No, of course not, but, it’s just been a really hard day.  I get here to find out my Pa has died…”

“You didn’t know?”

“No, the letter got lost, so I’m thinking all the way here how I’m going to show him my certificate only to find out he’s gone.  Now my Ma has a crazy notion and she wants me to do something I really don’t want to do.  I’m sitting here, wishing I could talk to my Pa for just five minutes.”

“And then I show up to tease you.  I am really sorry about your father and I’m sorry I disturbed you.  When you want to, I’d like to see you, if you want.”  She turned to leave but Samuel didn’t want her to.

“No, don’t leave,” he said quickly. “Please.  We have been friends all our lives and I could really use the company of a friend right now.  Please, I don’t have a blanket, but I’ve got my jacket, please sit here with me for a while.”  

Samuel removed his jacket and spread it on the ground next to him.  The young lady beamed as she crossed the area to sit beside him.

For several minutes, they sat in comfortable silence, but in time Patsy turned to Samuel, “I’m not pretending to be as wise or as smart as your father, and I would never give you advice. But I can be a really good listener if you want to talk to me, and I will never tell another soul what you share with me.  Not ever.”

Her words were the key that unlocked the dam holding back the flood.  All of the feelings of frustration, of being cheated out of his father, of fear for his brother, of anger toward his mother, came rushing out of him.  Part of the time he cried; part of the time he raged in anger.  Through it all, Patsy sat beside him and at times she held his hand.

When he had finished, they again sat in silence for several minutes.  Again, Patsy broke the silence. 

“Samuel, I had heard that Luke had joined.  Two of the Eldridge boys who are distant cousins of mine and who live over on Straw Creek have joined.  They came around last Sunday to share the news with all of us.  They told me Luke signed up the same time they did.  I’m going to ask you what you are going to tell your mother in a few minutes, but I want to show you something and tell you something before I do.  OK?”

Drained, Samuel welcomed the time to relax and let her carry the conversation for a few minutes.  “Sure,” he nodded.

From the pocket of her dress, Patsy produced a small book.  It was a journal that she had kept when she was a little girl.  She opened the book and flipped through the pages until she found the one she wanted.  She covered the bottom of the page with her hand and then turned the book so Samuel could see.  It was a picture of stick figures of a boy and a cat in a tree. 

“Do you remember that day?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember that,” he said, shaking his head.  “What is it?”

“That’s the day you rescued my cat from the tree in front of Mrs. Redmond’s house.  My silly cat had climbed up so high and no one would go up to get it.  Everyone who came by told me to stop crying and not worry, that my cat would come down when it was ready.  Then you came by and you told me not to worry.  You said you’d go up and get my cat for me, and you did.”

Samuel smiled as she told the story.  He remembered the incident and told her so, but he was confused as to why she would remember that now.

“Because,” she smiled, “that was the day I decided I was going to marry you.”

“What?”

She removed her hand, and on the lower part of the page, written in little girl script were the charcoal markings, “I will marry Samuel Cardiff.”

Samuel blushed.  “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know you think it was little girl silliness, and maybe it was, but it’s not any longer.  That day and every day since you have shown me how much you care about other people and their feelings.  You care about animals and you’re always willing to help out.”

“Patsy…”

“Please, Samuel, let me finish.  When you went away to school, I worried every day.  I just about drove poor Johanna crazy, asking her every couple of days if you had written and if you had said you had a girlfriend.  I was so worried you would come back married or engaged or some such thing.”

“Johanna never said a word to me about this.”

“I made her promise not to.  I knew how young I was and I knew you had to go to that school.  But I am not a little girl anymore and you don’t have to join the regiment if you don’t want to.  We can run away together and get married.  You can go anywhere you want, and I will happily go with you.”

“Patsy!  I won’t marry you like that!  I don’t have any money.  I don’t have a job.  The first day of our lives together I would have to become either a beggar or a thief in order to take care of you.  We would embarrass our families.  I won’t do that.”

Tears started to brim her eyes. “You don’t want me.  I understand.”

“No, you don’t!  Don’t you see?  Why did I rescue your cat?  Because, it was your cat.  Do you think I would have climbed that tree for anyone else’s cat?  You are the only girl I have ever been able to see.  Every day, for the two years I was gone, I thought of you.  I wrote you hundreds of letters but I didn’t mail any.  I was afraid that you had found someone here.”

“Then, you want me?”

“Only since I was ten!” 

Her squeal of joy startled him and her hug pushed him onto his back on the grass.  She kissed his cheeks several times.  Pushing her away was one of the hardest things he had ever done. 

“Patsy, I won’t run off with you,” he said.  “You deserve the best wedding this town has ever seen!  I won’t cheat you out of that and besides I still have to figure out what to do about Luke and my mother.”

“I understand,” she said solemnly, “I will stand by whatever you say and decide, but I believe I will start sharpening my writing tools tonight.”

Samuel reached for her and slid her across the few feet of grass that separated them.  She came willingly and once she was close, he took her in his arms.  He kissed her.  Her mouth was warm and inviting.  Her lips were soft and welcomed his own. She kissed him back and knowing that she enjoyed him made him enjoy her all the more.   He mentally added kissing her to his list of things he wanted to do every day for the rest of his life.  They stopped and looked at each other.  He rested his back against the tree; she rested her back against his raised legs.  They looked at each other and played with each other’s fingers.  They laughed.  They were grown-up children.  They were Adam and Eve in their own Garden of Eden.  He hugged her and she responded; they kissed again, several times.

He didn’t want to let her go.  He wanted to hold her forever.  This was the woman God had made for him.  Next to his father’s final resting place that thought, that knowledge, became crystal clear in his mind.  She was to be his wife.  She was to be the mother of his children.

She released him and fell back against his thighs.  He sat in front of her and was still amazed at her beauty and growth over the past two years.  Her face was flushed and her breathing was heavy.  Her breathing caused her blouse to rise and fall and he could not help but wonder of her beauty undressed.  

His voice crackled just a little as he asked, “How did you know I would decide to go?”

She smiled.  “If you can’t say no to a little girl crying about her cat, how would you ever be able to say no to a mother worried about her son?”

They sat for some time longer, but too soon it seemed they had to return.  He stood up, helped Patsy to her feet, picked up his jacket, shook it and put it on.  He offered her his arm and she took it.  He walked her home, mostly in silence, but so many things can be said in silence.

Later that afternoon, he told his mother he would do as she wished and enlist.  Her relief was overshadowed by her gratitude.  She came to him to hug him and he held her at arm’s length.  

“I will do what you ask, because if I didn’t and Luke is killed you will hold me accountable for his death,” he said.  “I don’t believe I am protected by some special power and I believe I run the same risk as any other solider that will be in the field.  I hope you are ready to live with the consequences if it is me who is killed, and God help you if both of us die.”

His mother broke into tears as he turned away from her.

After their dinner, which was not the joyful reunion they all had hoped for, Samuel once again headed to the front porch swing.  Once again, Johanna had beaten him to it.

“A young lady stopped by to see you while you were out this afternoon.”

  “Don’t be so coy. I know it was you who told her where to find me.”

“She pestered me almost every day while you were gone, asking about you.  Am I going to have to put up with that again the whole time you’re marching around down south?”

“Johanna, I need your help.  Patsy and I have decided to marry when I get back.  I can’t go to her father hat in hand and not have a future for her.”

Johanna smiled in the dusk. 

“Oh, like that’s a surprise.  Yes, big brother, I will see that she gets your letters and yes, big brother, I will hide her letters to you in with Mother’s and mine.”

“I don’t know what to say, except thank you and ask you to keep it mum.”

“You know I will and I think it’s great, you marrying her.  She was always my little sister; now she will be my sister for real.  You just make sure you get home.”

“According to Mother, I have nothing to worry about.”

“Don’t be so hard on Mother.  I know what she has asked of you.  Since Pa died, I have become her closest confidant.  She has not taken Pa’s passing well.  She has put on a good show for us and the town, but she is a wreck.  You and I both know Pa and her always held great store for you.  I know both she and Pa felt you will accomplish great things.  She feels you will be protected.  She feels you have a destiny that has been prepared for you.  Whether you agree with her or not, she honestly feels you will not be hurt in the coming destruction.  Since she can’t go herself, and she would if she could, she has asked you to protect her other son.”

While she spoke, Samuel rose and stood on the front of the porch looking out into the darkness.  Johanna stood and walked behind her brother.  Standing behind him, she hugged him, and asked, “Is her trusting you to do what she can’t do herself such a horrible thing?  It would seem to be the greatest compliment.”

Samuel gently broke out of the hug, turned and faced his little sister. 

“And what if I fail?”  

Chapter Five

The following morning, accompanied by Patsy, Luke and Johanna, Samuel enlisted. He also met Regimental Sergeant Major Sheffield McBryce.

Sheffield McBryce had been born in Belfast, Ireland, the grandson of a tavern keeper who was also a commander in the Irish Rebellion of 1798.  The uprising was short-lived and his grandfather was executed, but not before he passed on his hatred for the British to his son, who in turn shared it with Sheffield.  The boy was schooled in the art of guerilla warfare at an age when other boys were schooled in manners.  Not yet tall enough to handle a full-sized musket, Sheffield’s father cut down the stock of an old field gun and taught the boy to shoot.  By the time he was ten, if he had the help of a brace on which to rest the gun, Sheffield was an expert shot.  He ambushed and killed his first British officer before his eleventh birthday.  He didn’t stop killing them for the next decade.  By the time he was twenty-five, all that he was familiar with was gone.  His father had been killed, as well as his three brothers and a sister.  Mother had died.  

Sheffield caught a boat to America, where, he was offered a chance to get his citizenship quicker if he enlisted in the Army.  He continued in the only profession he knew. Now the Army had him training farmers, shop keepers, jewelers and cabinet makers to be soldiers.  He didn’t like the situation at all. 

McBryce was standing next to the field table when Samuel filled in the blanks and signed his name.  The Sergeant Major leaned forward and read the name. 

“Cardiff?  Your name is Cardiff?”

Samuel and the two girls stopped as he turned to address the man. “Yes sir, my name is Cardiff.”

“There’s a town in Wales named Cardiff; familiar with it, boy-o?”  

McBryce had a thick Irish brogue, and he had learned to speak slowly so the American ear could follow what he was saying.  He also liked knowing that speaking slowly made him sound more menacing. 

“Yes, I know of it.  My great-grandfather came from there.”

“So you’re Welsh then?”

“I have Welsh in my blood.”

“You know what the Welsh are known for, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard they have many talents.  Which one are you referring to?”

McBryce smiled, “The Welsh really have only one talent, and that is the talent to make love to sheep.”

Samuel felt anger jump inside him.  Normally he was not quick to respond to insults or put-downs, but the confusion and stress since returning home was wearing him raw.  

The threat in his voice was cold and audible. “I don’t know who you are, so I will let your insult pass, but I must ask you to refrain from talking like that in front of these young ladies.”

McBryce leered at the girls and both blushed at the aggressiveness of his appraisal. 

“Why don’t you girls come back by here this afternoon when I get off duty?  Let me show you what a real man is capable of,” he offered.

Samuel’s right fist hit the man so fast and hard that if Samuel hadn’t grabbed his jacket with his left hand, the man would have gone to the ground.  Holding him up, Samuel hit him twice more before the soldier’s legs gave out and both of them fell, with Samuel was on top.  Immediately, hands grabbed him and pulled him off the semi-conscious soldier.  All of the hands belonged to other men wearing the uniform, and Samuel was sure he was about to get a beating.  He vowed to give back all that he could.

“What in blue blazes is going on here?”

At the sound of the commanding voice, everyone stopped grabbing, pushing and pulling and stood motionless with their arms to their sides.  The man Samuel had knocked down got to his feet and stood motionless as well, though he swayed slightly as if drunk.  He also had blood trickling from his left nostril and from his mouth.  

Samuel looked at the man who had spoken and saw a gray-haired man wearing an air of authority and a blue uniform with several medals on the left breast of his jacket.  The man looked from soldier to soldier.  

Samuel’s attention was drawn to the man’s black, full brimmed hat.  The right side of the brim folded up along the body of the hat and was held in place by a gold colored pin.  Around the base of the body was a gold cord with tassels.  A gold badge with a hunter’s horn was centered in the front.  Along the left side brim, a black boa feather was attached.  

It was the most impressive and gaudiest hat Samuel had ever seen a man wear.  

Samuel assumed he was the man in charge.

“I asked a question and somebody better answer me right quick.  What in the devil is going on?”

“Sir,” McBryce spoke, “I was getting acquainted with this new recruit and I slipped on the grass.  When I fell, he reached out and tried to stop me, but fell on top of me.  There is nothing of any concern here, Captain.” 

The officer addressed Samuel, “Is that right, son?”

Samuel looked at McBryce, who stood at attention, face and eyes front; his face expressionless.  He was pleased with the swelling and coloring of the left eye and the trickle of blood running from the man’s nose.  

“Yes, sir that is what happened.  I got clumsy and fell on top of this man.”

Captain Sewell had been in the Army a long time and he knew two undeniable facts about the service: enlisted soldiers fought each other and enlisted soldiers lied to officers about the fights.  He also knew that as long as they didn’t kill each other, it was best to just let the enlisted men sort through their difficulties.  As long as the men didn’t embarrass the unit or the Army, he was satisfied with the flimsy story.  

Sewell looked sternly at McBryce, “Keep matters in good order, Sergeant Major.  We are guests in this town.”

“Yes sir!”

The Captain walked away, and Samuel and McBryce faced each other with uncertainty.  Samuel balled a fist and prepared to fight.  McBryce watched and smiled, “No need for that, boy-o.  You gave me what I had coming.  Seems you Welsh grew hair since coming to America.  You got a good punch there.”  The soldier rubbed his cheek and couldn’t help but wince.  He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped at the blood on his face. 

The Sergeant Major extended his hand.  Samuel hesitated, and then took it.  

“Let me say to the young ladies how sorry I am for speaking to them that way.  I know better and my mother would wash me mouth out with soap if she would have heard me, God rest her soul.”

The regiment was not yet at full muster strength, but those who had signed up and taken the oath of enlistment were expected to show up every morning at the town square for drill practice.  They were issued long wooden poles that were meant to suggest rifles.  

In time, the men would be issued the Springfield model 1862 rifled musket.  The rifle was loaded from the muzzle and shot a .58 caliber minie ball projectile.  The minie ball was about the size of a small chocolate egg cut in half.  The projectile was designed by a French Army officer named Minié but by the time it got to the states, it was simply called the minie ball.  The design of the bullet caused it to rotate in flight the same way a well-thrown football does.   Accuracy as well as range was greatly improved.  Smooth bore muskets had an effective range of possibly a hundred yards.  The Springfield rifle was accurate to a range of three hundred yards.  Skilled and trained marksmen could be lethal even farther.

Every day the men would muster and form into companies.  The training cadre would then teach them the commands and the expected actions in response to the commands.  The practice was to start the training as soon as possible, but it was also a recruiting ploy, so undecided men might see the units drilling and marching and become convinced to join.  For many it was like a parade.

Every morning the men arrived, and every morning the women in their lives came with them.  The men were called into formations and hours would be spent marching.  Children, mimicking their fathers and older brothers, marched beside the men.  When rest breaks were called, the men would join their families and drink water or tea.   At lunch there was fried chicken, rolls, pies and other goodies, and many days a good old-fashioned potluck picnic happened; of course, Captain Sewell and the cadre were invited.  By most accounts it was great fun.  In the afternoons, the town band would play patriotic songs to show its support for the marching men.

The Cardiff brothers were no different, and each morning they were joined by their mother, and sister, and most days, Patsy.  In the afternoons, after practice, Samuel would walk Patsy home. This was the best part of his day.  As they walked, he told her about Albany.  He talked about the museums, the zoo and the fashions.   He described the carriages, the buildings and the people.  He told her what he liked about it and what he didn’t.  He told her how he wanted to live in a small town just like Elmira, but when Patsy shared with him her dream of seeing Paris, he promised to take her.

Some days they walked without speaking; other days they couldn’t stop talking.  Each trip to her house, they tried to find a different route.  They were not hiding from anyone, but as they walked the different routes, they found spaces they could sneak into for a few minutes out of sight and steal kisses.  More than once they emerged from a secret spot only to run into a passer-by who looked strangely at the laughing couple.  

Within a few weeks, the muster was filled, and the men were told they would be leaving the following morning.  During their last afternoon together, Samuel asked Patsy if she would like to walk with him to see his father one last time.

Once again, they walked the distance in silence and when they arrived, Samuel spread a blanket he had brought on the ground next to his father’s grave.  He pulled the weeds as he always did and Patsy, suspecting he was delaying something, smiled at him.  When at last he sat down beside her, she continued to wait until finally, he spoke.

“Patsy, I would give almost anything to not be in this situation.  I am so afraid that I will let people down.  What if something happens to Luke?  My Mother is counting on me bringing him home.  What if I can’t?  I wish I could talk to my Father just for a few minutes.  I really want to know what he thinks about this.  He always told me to whom much is given, much is expected, but I don’t think he meant this.  I am so afraid I am going to fail.”

The young lady took his hand.  She held it to her chest and caressed it as she spoke. 

“Samuel, I have no way of knowing what is ahead of you, but I know you will do the best you can and because of that, you will not fail.  I am proud of you for taking on this challenge, and I will be here waiting for you to come home.  My father thinks I am too young to be courting, so I won’t be able to receive letters from you.  Please put notes for me in with your letters to your mother and sister.  I will do the same.”

“I guess I should have asked your father for permission to see you, but I was only going to be here a couple of weeks.”

“He’d have said no anyway.  Just write to me with your letters to Johanna.”

Samuel nodded and told her he had already talked to Johanna about that.

Patsy asked, “Do you mind if I talk to your Father for a minute?”

The request caught him off-guard, but he answered, “No, of course not.”

She turned and looked at the headstone of the man who had blessed her as a baby, baptized her when she was a little girl and taught her about God’s plan most Sundays all of her life.  She got up and walked to the foot of his grave.

“Mister Cardiff, it’s me, Patsy Brown.  You remember me; I was the other girl running through your house with Johanna all those years.  I’m here with Samuel and you know he is going off to fight for the Union and to protect and watch over Luke.  He doesn’t want to go but he is going because Mother Cardiff asked him too.”  

“I want you to know I have grown up, or at least mostly grown up, and I love your son very much.  I plan to marry him when he gets back, and I hope that is alright with you.  I grew up in your home, and I would like to grow old in a Cardiff home living with Samuel.  Please watch over him and protect him while he watches over Luke.”

The girl’s head bowed, and sitting behind her, Samuel could see her shoulders start to shake.  He rose, stepped forward and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, 

“Pa, it’s me, Samuel.  Patsy is the finest person I have ever known and I love her with all my heart.  I hope it pleases you that we plan to be married after I get back from this mess.  It sounds strange saying that since I haven’t asked her to marry me, but I guess both of us know anyway.  You told me you and Ma knew within five minutes of meeting each other.  It took a little longer for us.  Please watch over her while I’m gone and welcome her up here to see you as often as she might like to come.  I’ll see you when I get back, Pa.”

Samuel and Patsy stood with their arms around each other for several minutes.  She rested her head on his chest and he laid the side of his face along the crown of her head.  They fit together. “I can feel your heart beating,” she said.  

After several minutes, as the afternoon turned into dusk, they folded the blanket and returned to town.  As he walked her home, there was no hiding or laughter on this walk, just two lovers knowing they would be separated for many days to come.  

Once at the Brown house, Samuel took Patsy into his arms and hugged her.  He held her for as long as he dared.  As she moved away from him, she broke into tears.  She whispered, “I love you,” and losing the battle to her tears, ran into the house.  Samuel looked at the closed door for several moments, fighting to constrain tears of his own.  

As he turned to leave, a gentle baritone voice reached from the shadows of the porch and stopped him.

“Have you a moment, son?”  

In the darkest of the shadows, unseen by either him or Patsy, sat her father, Mr. Brown.  Samuel strained to see into the darkness, but could make out only the silhouette of the man.  Mr. Brown was a big man, and he needed to be.  He was a blacksmith.  Patsy was, by far, the youngest of his children and many women smiled and called her a “surprise baby” when she was first born.  At the birth, Mrs. Brown had been older than the accepted age for having children.  The older three children had been boys.  Two of the boys had died in their teens from a measles outbreak and the other, grown now, lived in Buffalo.  Patsy and her mother were exceptionally close, almost more as friends than mother and daughter.  

  Samuel had two overriding impressions about Mr. Brown.  He had the hairiest forearms Samuel had ever seen on a man, and he had a big red, pock-marked nose.  The size of his nose was just his bad luck; the pock scars were a result of a pox outbreak when he was a boy.  

Samuel stepped toward the voice, “Yes, sir.  I have a moment.”

“You’re the preacher’s son, aren’t you?”

Now, closer to the man, Samuel could see him sitting in an Adirondack chair.  He had shoulder length hair and a full beard.  Both the hair and the beard were gray and while Samuel couldn’t see them in the dark, he knew there were small burn marks, burnt whiskers, in the beard.  When Samuel had been younger, the hair and the beard had been coppery red.  As a boy, Samuel always thought of Mr. Brown as a big friendly cinnamon colored bear.  It was not uncommon for the blacksmith to join in their childhood games and soon be rolling and wrestling with the children on the front lawn.

“Yes, sir.  My father preached in this town most of his adult life.”

“Never had much use for church myself, but I never knew a preacher who needed new shoes put on his horse so often.  He was always stopping by to have me check the mounting of the shoes, always interrupting my day and getting me talking about my family and how I was doing.”

“My father cared about everybody in this town.”

“Maybe so, but I used to get angry at him for interrupting my days.  Funny thing though, now that he’s gone, I miss him stopping by.”

“I miss him too.”

“Are you the young man Mrs. Brown and Patsy are always whispering and giggling about?”

Samuel felt his face redden.  He was suddenly very glad it was dark. 

“If they are whispering and giggling about a man, I hope it’s me.”

“Are you going to be a preacher?”

“No, sir, I’m going to be a teacher.  I just graduated from the Teachers College in Albany a few weeks ago.”

“Gonna stay around these parts?”

“I hope so.  I like this town.  I missed it while I was gone.”

There was silence between the men.  Samuel did not know if he had been dismissed or not, so he stood in the darkness.  A wooden match flared as Mr. Brown went about the business of lighting his pipe.  Each draw he made caused the match to flare again, and with each burst of light Samuel could see the man’s nose.  It really was a big nose.  Samuel couldn’t help it; in the darkness, he smiled.

“It seems to me that my daughter is quite taken by you.”

The smile disappeared, and he could smell the odor of the tobacco. 

“She is a wonderful young lady and I think highly of her, sir.”

“Um, ah huh.”

As Mr. Brown stood, his efforts made the chair and the porch creak and strain under his size.  He crossed the distance and approached Samuel.  He extended his hand.  Samuel took it, and the shake was firm and honest.

“You come back, son.  I don’t like seeing my daughter upset.”

Mr. Brown released Samuel’s hand, knocked tobacco out of the pipe onto the ground, turned and walked into the house.  Samuel made his way home.

As he walked home, Samuel wondered how long the man had waited for him.  He thought about Mr. Brown and how a man so big could be so gentle and yet bend, shape and mold the hardest of materials.  Samuel thought back to the time he and his father stopped by the shop and watched Mr. Brown apply his craft.  Mr. Brown’s hair and beard had been a bright golden red then and the heat in the shop caused him to sweat so that his exposed arms glistered with the perspiration.  Mr. Brown picked up a bar of metal with his tongs and carried it to the forge.  Samuel stood some six feet away, but he could still feel the heat from the coals in the bowl of the forge.  Then Mr. Brown started to work the bellows.  The sound of the air being gathered and forced onto the coals in the bowl of the forge sounded as if a freight train was making, churning and releasing steam.  

Samuel watched, fascinated as the coals changed colors from black to red, from red to orange, from orange to yellow and from yellow to white.  The heat from the white hot forge seemed to burn the skin on his face, and the boy took a step back.  Sparks flew when Mr. Brown shoved the bar into the coals, and they caused the boy to jump and squeal with surprise.  The heat reflected off Mr. Brown’s face and chest, giving him an unearthly tone and the preacher’s son imagined what a soul in hell must look like.

Maybe the man sensed how uncomfortable Samuel was, but at that moment, he looked over the forge into the boy’s eyes, smiled and winked.  

“Watch this,” he said.  

His arms flexed, and the bar was brought out of the bed of heat.  It radiated glowing red hot as it was carried to the anvil.  

Mr. Brown picked up his hammer and once the bar was in place, the shaping began.

Bang! Bang-bang.

Bang! Bang-bang.

The big man brought the hammer down onto the still red hot metal and then let it bounce twice before raising it again to rain his force and his will into the metal.  When he had the metal how he wanted it, he turned and dunked it into a barrel of water.  An angry hiss of steam jumped off the water as the heat was forced out of the metal.  It became much harder than it had been before the process.  

His father explained the water dropped the heat so quickly, the metal became tempered and was then strong enough to be used.  If the process was not done correctly, the metal became brittle, easy to break and useless.  

He told young Samuel he hoped he would become a tempered man of strength and willing to be used in the ways God planned for him.  Again, he reminded the boy to become the man he was meant to be, not just the man he grew into.  From that day forward, the boy had new respect for Mr. Brown.

Chapter Six

By mid-morning, the day was turning out to be as hot as it promised for the folks of Puebla Fresa, which is Spanish for the town of strawberries.  The town was built in the southern shadow of Mesa Rota or Broken Table.  The mesa was broken by three small canyons formed by the splintered rock.  The dry west canyon was unnamed.  The middle canyon was named Cañon Fresa for the wild strawberries that grew along La Ría de Fresa, the river that flowed out of the canyon.  The eastern canyon also had a small creek which had been dammed and used as a watering hole for the cattle drives that came north each year on their way to Cheyenne and market.  The eastern canyon was shaped like a big bowl, which made it easy to keep a herd of cattle inside it.  The job required fewer riders, which meant more could go to town.  A stop at Puebla Fresa was high on the list of most cowboys.   

The marshal was in his office, which, being made of adobe was cool even against the assault of the New Mexico sun.  Pete, the newly named, brushed, and bathed Border collie laid on the straw mattress in the cell.  Moses sat in his chair with his feet on the desk and read a book he had found in Albuquerque while travelling to Puebla Fresa.  Reading was a pleasure he had known since childhood.  This book had been written by an English woman and while Moses had never heard of her, he hoped she wrote a good story.  He heard the boardwalk moan just before the door opened, and looked up from his book to see Mayor Jonathan Twilliger in the doorway.

Twilliger was a middle-aged man with white hair that he was losing at an alarming rate, at least to him.  He was round, a little over-weight and had a pale complexion.   Twilliger was a widower and also the only banker in the little town.  He was quite possibly the richest man in town and he held mortgages on several local properties.  He was proud and vocal of the big plans he had for Puebla Fresa, the first being a railroad spur.  Twilliger had spent a considerable amount of time and his own money trying to convince the owners of the Santa Fe Railroad to add the little town on their list of stops.

Moses had met the mayor once and found him to be pompous and overbearing. He acknowledged the man’s entry by looking at him, but said nothing.

“It’s almost noon, man.  When were you planning to report to me about last night?”

“Who are you again and why should I report to you?”  Moses knew exactly who he was.

“I’m Mayor Twilliger, and you report to me because I’m your boss!”

Moses thought the mayor resembled an angry snowman.

“Alright.  The three men, who robbed the bank in Durango, came to town.  I killed them, recovered what money was left and I’m holding it for a representative from the bank to come and get it.”

“You killed all three of them?”

“Actually, I only killed two.  The third one killed himself.”

“Where’s the money?”

“I already told you.  I’m holding it awaiting the arrival of a man from the bank”.

“Don’t you think it should be in our bank?”

“If I thought that, it would be.”

The men glared at each other for a silent moment, then the mayor said, “I don’t know how you worked in other towns, but here I expect…”

“You are right, you don’t know how I work, so I will let your insolence pass; this time.”  

The little round mouth dropped open on the mayor’s little round face.

The marshal wasn’t finished.

“You are a banker and I will never tell you how to run your bank.  You are a mayor by accident or maybe by a miscount, it doesn’t matter to me.  I am a marshal and I will marshal this town the way I think is best.  I will never report to you, I will never seek your counsel, and I will never accept your advice.”

Twilliger puffed up, “The only reason we hired you is because the cattle drives are just a few days away, and you were the first to answer our advertisement.  I just might get the town council together and fire you!”  

Moses was tired of this meeting and tired of his reading time being interrupted.  As he returned the mayor’s glare, his eyes grew cold and menacing. 

“What if I don’t leave?”

The mayor flushed, swallowed a couple of times, shook his finger at the marshal and left.  Moses looked over at Pete, shook his finger at the dog and asked, “What do you suppose that means?”  

Pete cocked his head to one side as if to say, “Beats me.”     

The following morning, with Pete beside him, Sam visited the blacksmith.  The livery stable and blacksmith shop were in the same building on the southwest corner of the intersection.  The livery faced north, and the blacksmith shop was at a right angle facing east.  Sam wanted to examine the three horses he had inherited due to the deaths of their previous owners. 

As was his practice, the marshal stopped and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the livery stable and from the corner he could hear the smith at work.  

Bang! Bang-Bang!  

Bang! Bang-Bang!  

The rhythm of the smith’s hammer forcing metal to bend and mold always made him think of other times; times long gone and better forgotten.

As he approached, Moses saw that the smith was a short, thick black man who like most men in that trade, had over-developed forearms.  He wore a bandana over his shaved head.  As the distance between them narrowed, the smith stopped his work.  He turned to face the marshal.

“Marshal Moses, good morning to you, sir.”  The smile was as genuine as the sweat on his face and upper body.  Lincoln wiped his hand and then offered it; Moses accepted.  “My name is Lincoln Lincoln.”

“Lincoln Lincoln?  That’s quite a name.  Mind if I ask why?”

The smile got a little bigger; and clearly the blacksmith enjoyed telling his story.  

“After President Lincoln ordered all the slaves freed and after he was killed, I wanted to honor him by taking his name.  I knew no white man would call me Mr. Lincoln, so I took my Christian name as Lincoln also.  That way you all have to call me by the name of that great man.”

Moses attempted to size him up. “Well, Mr. Lincoln, you and I have some business to talk over.”

Once he was sure the marshal was not making fun of him, Lincoln smiled again. “Alright sir, I see you have been bringing me horses.   Let’s talk business.”

Over the next hour, the two men talked in the livery’s shade which was heavy with the odor of hay, oats and the warmth of the horses.  Mrs. Lincoln brought them some sweet tea as the two men got to know each other.  

Most people don’t stop to talk to a blacksmith, so Lincoln enjoyed the company and for the first time since he had been in town, Moses felt like he could relax a little.  Lincoln told him about his family and six children.  His oldest was sixteen and he was worried there was not going to be any work for him; he asked the marshal to keep the boy in mind if he heard of any work that needed to be done.  Sam promised that he would.

The two men sat in silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other’s company.  Moses absently scratched Pete’s question mark ear, and the dog responded by thumping his hind leg on the ground.  

Lincoln broke the silence by asking, “You ever worked a cow town before, marshal?”

Moses believed the question was legitimate concern. 

“Yes, I’ve worked cow towns before.  I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, I heard about the other night.  You sure knew what you were doing then.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.  It seems I have become owner of three horses and the riding gear, at least until I can find next of kin and I’m not hopeful I can do that.  I can’t afford to feed the horses, but I will not have them killed.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” the smith smiled.  “Tell you what.  You look the horses over and if you want to keep any that will be yours and the others I will rent out and or sell as I can.”

“Only to good owners.”

Lincoln laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. “Here, I heard you were some hard case that cared nothing for nobody but you have the softest heart I’ve ever seen when it comes to horses and dogs.  Don’t shoot me for saying this, but that is one ugly dog.”

The two men watched Pete, who had moved away from the marshal and now stretched out on the ground, chewing on a trimmed and discarded piece of horse hoof.  

After a minute, Moses turned to Lincoln and said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t repeat what you just said about me.  Truth of it is, Mr. Lincoln, I don’t have much use for most people.  People do little more than let each other down and far too many of them are cruel, cruel to each other and cruel to animals.  A horse or a dog, they are just what God intended them to be.  Some of them are better than others, but that is usually the fault of the owner.  People cheat, they lie, they disappoint, and they take advantage of each other.  The world would be a better place with fewer people, me included.”

“I hope you don’t count me in that bunch.”

“I don’t, sir.”

The marshal stood and readied to leave.  He looked around the livery one more time, noticing the many holding pens Lincoln had built, and he was impressed that each pen had its own water trough.  The man, indeed, cared for his animals.  

It was at that moment that he saw her.  He was stunned.  His breath got stuck and his heart thumped a little harder.  His stomach pumped juices of anticipation, and his throat tightened.

   She was beautiful.  She was proud, holding her head high; she didn’t walk, she pranced.  Instinct told her men watched when she passed and she enjoyed the attention.  Her eyes were clear, and her ears constantly moved forward and back, trying to be aware of her surroundings.  She had a blaze face and three white stocking legs; the rest of her was colored dark buckskin, almost brown.  Sam was drawn to her pen as if mesmerized and Lincoln, with a broad smile, followed him.

Sam could think of nothing to say except, “Wow.”

“Isn’t she something,” the smith asked reverently.

“Where did you get her?”  His voice was almost a whisper.

“Well, she was an accident.  Two years ago, a herd came through and one of the cowboys, the boss, I think, was riding one of the best looking studs I’ve ever seen. Marshall, I was a slave in Kentucky; I’ve seen good horseflesh.  Anyway, the stud throws a shoe and tears up his left front foot, can’t finish the trip.  I kept the horse here until the cowboys came back through after delivering the cattle.  Well, the stud got in with a mare I had and you’re looking at the result.  The owner of the stud didn’t come through last year or I would have told him about her when she was just a baby.  Now, she’s a year old.”    

“That’s the best looking colt I’ve seen in a long time.  What are you going to do with her?”

Well, I’m not doing anything.  I want to sell her.  She’s more horse than I have need for, but I feel like I should talk to the owner of the stud before I just up and let her go.”

“What is the cowboy’s name?”

“That’s just it, I can’t remember.  It was a strange name, Bridle Jones or Saddle Smith, a name like that.”

“I’ll tell you what.  I will trade you two of the horses from the other night for her.  I will try to find the owner of the stud this year when the herds come through.  If he wants her, she goes to him, and I’m out two horses, but if he does not, she’s mine.  Deal?”

“And if you find the next of kin from one of those guys?”

“I’ll settle things with the next of kin with money.  I’ve never known any long lost family member to want a horse shipped back to them anyway.”

“On the agreement that you try to find this cowboy, deal.”

The two men shook hands.

“What are you going to do with the third horse?”

“I’ve got a plan for it.  You’ll know when you need to.  Just one thing, when the time comes, pick the best horse for the job.”

“I don’t rightly know what you are talking about, marshal, but I’ll do the best I can.”

“Then it will be good enough.”

His boots off, Moses was sitting in his chair, on the boardwalk when Stoddard and Rosie came into town.  Pete lay on the wooden sidewalk beside the Marshal.  The two men had not talked since their first meeting, almost a week earlier.  Stoddard had continued to deliver the milk just he had promised, but the marshal had been absent until this morning.  Seeing the marshal sitting there, Stoddard was glad Laura had not come with him this morning.  She considered him a killer and would not listen to any defense offered by her husband.  When he got within ear shot, Stoddard offered, “Good morning, Marshal.”

“Morning.”

“See you have found a friend.”  The farmer motioned to the dog that was no longer a stray.  “He likes what you’re doing with him.  His ribs don’t hardly show through any more.”

“That is more than what can be said about that horse.”

Stoddard was in the middle of climbing out of the wagon to fill the jug.  The verbal jab about his ability to take care of his horse just about forced him to change his mind and stop delivering milk.  Maybe Laura was right all along; she usually was.  He wasn’t able to just stop and hang off the wagon as a regular man might, so he stepped to the ground and then stopped long enough to gather his emotions.

“For some reason, you feel the need to insult me.  You insult the way I take care of my horse, you insult my business sense, and you belittle my injuries.  I have offered you a drink of milk and friendship.  Would you tell me what is so wrong with that?  You must feel like a big man making fun of a cripple.”

Moses watched the man fill the clay jar.  He looked at Pete wagging his tail, knowing that soon good things would be coming his way.

He looked back at the farmer, who placed the jug on the boardwalk.

“What makes you think I want your friendship?  I only take the milk ‘cause Pete likes it.”

“You may not want my friendship, but you need it.  I might be the only man in town who knows what you are going through.  The only difference between you and me is that my scars are on the outside and yours are inside.”

The marshal bolted upright.  The clap of the chair’s front legs hitting the boardwalk startled Pete, who jumped sideways.

“You think you know me?  You pious, crippled raisin of a man, you think you know me?”  The marshal’s voice was hard, and ugly.

Stoddard stood his ground.  

“I do know you!  What are you going to do, shoot me?  I don’t have a gun on.  Do I need to go get one?  I’m not a very good shot, so get close like you did the other night.  Give me half the chance you gave those other men, and I will put you out of your misery.  You think you are the only one who feels guilty?  You think you are the only who feels cheated?  Your country called and you responded.  You walked through hell, as you were ordered, and all you’re left with is nightmares, guilt and blood on your hands!”

Stoddard showed his palms, as if to show his own.  

“You feel someone owes you, but you don’t know who to see to collect the bill. I know how you feel; you want to die!  You want peace.  Do you think you are the only one who wanted to die?”

Stoddard was shouting.  Pete hid under the bench, and Rosie was nodding her head, trying to tell him it was time to move on.  Moses looked at the twisted figure of the man before him.  The farmer shook from anger and he hung onto the wagon to keep from falling.  

Under the anger he felt, the marshal felt fear for the first time in almost twenty years.  This man did know him.  This man could see his soul.  He didn’t like it and resented the farmer for it.

The marshal’s voice was low, and spiteful.

“Get on your wagon and get on your way.  That horse of yours needs to retire and enjoy the few years she has left.  Before you leave town today, stop by and see Lincoln.  He has a horse for you.  You tell him I sent you and he will tell you which one.  If he lets you choose, I suggest the brown.”

“I already told you I can’t afford a horse right now.  I don’t take charity! I wouldn’t take horse dung from you, let alone a horse!”

“You take the horse with you today, or don’t deliver milk here anymore.” 

  The anger was gone from his voice.  Now, it only reflected a cold ultimation.  The anger he felt, moments before, had been pulled back deep inside him.  He refused to let the farmer see it, or his fear. 

Stoddard hobbled around the wagon and climbed aboard.  Rosie was anxious to move on and continued to bob her head.  Before he clucked her to signal her forward, Stoddard turned back to the marshal sitting and glaring at him.

“What the hell, sorry Laura, what kind of name is Pete for a dog?  That’s a stupid name.”

The question caught the Marshal off guard, and for a quick moment, a smile, — a small smile, but nonetheless a smile — showed at the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe he’s a stupid dog.  You know, being a gimp has turned you into an old woman who always has to have the last word.  Take the brown.”

Stoddard fought the urge to reply, and instead turned and continued his deliveries.  When he left town that day, he took the brown.

Chapter Seven

Much of the time, life is simply putting one foot in front of the other and repeating.  Such was life in Puebla Fresa.  A marshal’s life also has a rhythm.  Every few days, he stayed up late walking the streets, stopping arguments, watching for fires and once in a while having a “drunk” sleep it off in his cell.  On those nights, the marshal slept in the chair and Pete, who complained about it, slept on the floor.  Empty pride kept Moses from taking the offer of the room and bed at the West House.  Staying up late also meant getting up late and or taking a nap during the day.  Moses did not want to present a pattern of behavior to the people of the town.  He knew men had been ambushed because they became predicable.  While he didn’t fear that possibility, he nonetheless wanted his movements kept to himself.  There was only one activity he habitually performed, no matter what kind of schedule he was on. 

Moses always met the stage.  

Meeting the stage was not done as a sign of welcome.  Meeting the stage was a good way to head off trouble before it became trouble and send it down the line to another town.  A little over a week following the shooting, Moses met the stage, and he saw trouble as it got off.  

The stage had come to a stop in front of the West House and two other passengers got off before Moses saw him.  Roberts was his name, and he was a professional card player, which meant he was a professional card cheat.  He undoubtedly was looking for a place to meet the cattle drives as they came north and stopped for a few days to rest the herd and the cowboys.  A little town like this would not have as many rules or laws, so Roberts thought, and might even have a marshal who would let him ply his trade for a percentage of his winnings.  Moses thought working men who played cards with professionals were foolish.  Poker is a game of percentages and while such figuring was second nature to the professional card player, it was like asking the everyday miner or cowboy to speak Greek.  Very few of them could get it done.  Since the odds of winning were all in the column of the professional, the Marshal could not stand a cheat.  He would not tolerate them and he would not allow them in his town.

Ed West and several other locals had stopped their activities for a few minutes to watch the arrival.  The stage coming to town was one of the bigger events of the week, and a small crowd was on hand watching Roberts with his hands raised, waiting for the stage driver to hand down his valise.  They also saw the marshal walk up behind him and punch the gambler as hard as he could in his kidney.  Roberts went to his knees with a groan and a grunt.  Moses hit him in the back of his head while he was on the ground, driving the gambler’s face into the dirt of the street.  Then he jerked the man to his feet and spun him around.  Moses had to hold the man erect and lean him against the body of the coach.  Robert’s face was covered with dirt and a little horse manure.  He was having trouble breathing.  His eyes were glazed and he was unaware of what had hit him.  Slowly, his pain subsided and this allowed his muddled brain to start to function.  As he came to his senses, he realized he was standing in front of Marshal Moses.  As the clouds of confusion left his eyes, fear filled them.

“Do you remember me, Roberts?  I remember you.”  The marshal’s voice was low so only the gambler could hear what was said.

“I didn’t know this was your town, Moses.  I swear I didn’t know.”  The gambler’s speech was broken by his inability to take a full breath of air.

“You should have checked before getting off the stage.  You know how I feel about card cheats.”

“Marshal, I don’t cheat.  That only happened one time.  I swear I don’t cheat anymore.”

“Roberts, I hate a liar more than a cheat.  Hold out your hand.”

“Marshal, please, just let me get back on the stage.  I’ll get out of town.  I won’t be back.  Please, just let me go.”  The man was almost in tears.

“Hold out your hand.  Put it on the stage wheel.  If you make me hold it out, I will break them both.”

Roberts was crying now and his tears were there for the small crowd of onlookers to see.  Tears ran down his face and nasal discharge covered his lips.

He slowly reached out with his left hand and put it on the wheel.  “Please, Marshal, please.”

“Not that one, the right hand.”

Whimpering, the gambler closed his eyes and put his other hand on the steel rimmed wheel of the stage coach.  Moses drew his Colt and smashed the hand with the barrel of the heavy gun.  He smashed it hard.  Some in the crowd heard the bones break.  Roberts screamed, and then dropped to his knees.  At least three bones were broken and the gambler cradled the broken hand close to his body.

“You won’t be dealing off the bottom for a while,” Moses surmised, “get back on the stage and get gone in whichever direction its going.  Don’t come back here.”

The driver helped the injured man back aboard the stage and returned the valise to its place. Ed West was stunned.  He felt he should do something but had no idea what it would be.  As he stood there, the teamster who had spoken up for Bushy a week earlier stepped next to him and in a voice dripping with I-told-you-so whispered, “You just witnessed the Law of Moses.” 

Moses watched the gambler climb aboard the stage, and then he turned away from the crowd and walked to his office.  Twilliger, who had seen the beating from his office window in the bank, followed him.  The mayor entered the office just a few minutes after Moses.

“What do you think you are doing?  You just assaulted a man for getting off the stage.  What, you didn’t like the color of his shoes?  Who do you think you are to administer beatings in the middle of the street in broad day light like that?  Do you do that so the townspeople will fear you?  Well, it won’t work.  We are not afraid of you!”

Moses, who had been sitting in his chair, jumped to his feet and the sudden movement caused to mayor to step back and trip over the chair facing the desk.  He struggled to remain upright, but after a couple of steps, he managed not to fall.  As the mayor regained his balance, he glared at the marshal who smiled. 

“It’s good to know you’re not afraid of me.”

The mayor was livid, but the color left his face when Moses walked around the desk and told him to sit down.  He had to tell the mayor twice, but the man did sit.  Moses leaned over the chair with his face close to the mayor’s.

“I don’t like you.  I think you are a pompous ass, but you are the mayor, so I will tell you that the man I ran out of town is a professional card cheat.  He has – no, make that he had – one of the best off-the-bottom deals you have ever seen and he makes – no he made – his living cheating cowboys and miners out of their money.  He was moving in here to set up camp and wait for the trail herds headed this way.  Do you want a couple hundred cowboys telling everyone they run into from here to Wyoming that Puebla Fresa allowed a card shark to cheat them?”

The mayor meekly shook his head no; Moses straightened up and moved back to lean against the desk.  Twilliger took this time to use his folded, scented handkerchief to wipe his brow and upper lip.

“I didn’t think so.  I know you don’t like me, and frankly, I don’t care.  My methods are for a reason.  Trust me when I tell you they will be talking about the beating I gave Roberts up and down the trails.  The honest workers who want to play cards will be more likely to show up and the ones that cheat will go somewhere else.  Card sharks depend on the dexterity of their hands, and there’s not a one out there that wants to be the next Roberts.  Now, you go back to your bank and do your work, and let me alone to mine.”

The mayor did as he was told.  No matter what he said, Twilliger was scared to death of the marshal, and he hated him for it.  

The following morning, Moses was surprised when Ed West showed up at his door bringing two servings of breakfast and an extra plate of biscuits covered with gravy for Pete.  As West set the plates and mugs down, Moses could not help but comment, “We’re in trouble now, Pete.  What did you do?”  

Ed West looked at the marshal and his only reply was a small smile.  They ate in silence.

As they finished, Moses broke the ice.  “Ok, the mayor was here yesterday telling me how to do my job.  You brought breakfast, take your turn.”

“I’m not here to tell you how to do your job.  I think you do it very well.  I’m here to tell you that I know you are a fraud.”

Moses’s expression darkened and his gaze hardened at the saloon man.  He didn’t like being called names, not names that implied cheating, lying and taking advantage of others.  In his mind a countdown had started; Ed West was about to feel the full force of the Law of Moses.

West could sense the impending storm and quickly added, “Hold on a minute.  Let me show you what I mean.  I have proof.”

Slowly, West reached under his apron and into his shirt pocket.  He retrieved a yellow sheet of paper, a telegram.  He unfolded it, looked at the marshal and cleared his throat.

“Mr. West, stop.”

“Thank you for your condolences on my father’s passing, stop.”

“Am in receipt of letter from Marshal Moses, stop.”

“Sent father’s watch and fifty dollars in lieu of father’s horse, stop.”

“Please tell Marshal thank you, stop.”

“Rachael Waters nee Bushman, stop.”

West looked at the marshal as he folded the paper and returned it to his pocket.  Moses continued to glare and said nothing.

“You are a fraud, my friend.  Bushman didn’t have a watch.  Stilwell had a watch and you said he most likely stole it.  I half expected to see you wearing it.  I never thought you would send it to a daughter as a keepsake from her father.”

Moses shrugged. 

“What difference does it make?  Bushy never had the proverbial pot in all the years I knew him.  The watch needed a home, and a young lady now has something to remember her father by.”

“I’m not saying I disagree with you.  I just wanted to let you know that I know your secret.  I also came over here to warn you.  The mayor is trying to build support to demand you resign.”

Moses shrugged again. 

“You want me to resign; I’m gone.  I have no reason for staying here.  Trust me; this will not be the first town that has fired me.  But, you all should know, I don’t leave a job half done.  You’ll play hell getting me to leave if I have unfinished work.  So if you’re going to fire me, tell the mayor to make it quick.”

“I, for one, don’t want you to leave.  The more I learn of you, the better I like you.  I can’t say that for everyone.” 

West stood, gathered the dishes and turned to leave the office.  He was stopped by the marshal’s voice as he reached for the door. 

“Ed, twice this morning you called me a fraud.  You might think that of me and you may even be right.  Remember this: I don’t take well to being called names.  Think what you want, but stick with Marshal or Moses when you talk to me.”

The voice was cold and if West didn’t think he was being foolish, he would swear he felt the air temperature drop about a dozen degrees.  He thought about turning around to explain he meant the name calling in good fun.  He decided against it and just left.

   Much of life is simply putting one foot in front of the other and Moses went about his life as the marshal.  He remained distant from most of the townspeople, but he was becoming accepted by them. 

They nodded and spoke when he passed and seemed to be satisfied with his simple nod in return.  He did his work, ate, slept, played with Pete when no one was watching, and of course, he spent every moment he could with a certain little blazed face filly he had named “Nutmeg.”  Working with her was the only time he felt truly at peace. 

Chapter Eight

The last night at home before mustering and marching south was difficult.  Mother had to leave the room several times and when she would return, the signs of her crying were obvious.  Johanna was almost as bad.  They tried to talk of other things, anything except what waited for them tomorrow.  Luke was excited but kept his feelings in check, not wanting to upset his mother more than she was.  Samuel was silent, stoic and almost prayerful as he sat by himself and read.  Before going to bed, Mother gave each of the boys a package.

“I saw what some of the boys had been given to eat on, and I was not impressed.  You would think Mr. Lincoln could afford better dishes than what he is handing out.  I bought these for you boys.  It’s important to eat well to keep your strength up and keep you from getting sick.  There’s a set for each of you and a coffee pot to share.  Samuel, may I talk with you in private for a moment?”

The boys opened their packages and found each had been given a set of camp dishes.  The plates, bowls and cups were made of metal with baked on blue speckled enamel.  Each also had a set of utensils.  Luke was like a small boy on Christmas morning as he said, “Ma, we will be the envy of the regiment.”

Her last words were a struggle.  She was fighting back yet another wave of tears.  Both boys rose, hugged her, thanked her for their gifts and told her they loved her.  Samuel then followed her from the room and into the kitchen.

Once the two of them were alone, his mother could no longer hold back the tears she had struggled with the entire evening.  Samuel sat across from her and watched.  He made no effort to comfort her or to ease her pain.  In time she was able to speak.

“Samuel, please don’t hate me.  Please don’t leave this house full of anger and spite for me.”

His face was placid as he watched her, and he didn’t understand why he felt a small sense of satisfaction that she hurt so much.  

“Mother, I will not deny that I am angry.  I’m angry at the people in the south,  I’m angry at Lincoln, and yes, Mother, I’m angry at you and Luke.  You are forcing me to do something I want no part of.  I have no doubt that in order for me to do what you have asked; I will have to kill other men.  I detest even the thought of that, yet I will do that because you have asked me to.  My entire life, my father taught me to love and respect others.  Now that he is gone, the first thing you ask of me is to ignore his teachings and kill men simply because I am told to.  You have put me in a box that has no way out.  At best, Luke and I return home both having blood on our hands, but have you considered what happens if I fail?”

Mother sobbed uncontrollably and still Samuel felt no remorse.  He had never known anger like this.  He was afraid of it, and yet it made him feel strong.  

“Mother, I am doing what you asked of me.  May God grant us all life so we can get through this.  Good night.”  

He left the room, leaving her sobbing into a dish towel.  Johanna saw him come out. She went into the kitchen and helped her mother to bed. 

After the ladies had left, and it was just the two brothers, Luke turned to Samuel and said, “I don’t know what Ma said to you, but I’m glad you are coming.  I know you don’t want to come, so what I’m about to say will sound just as selfish as it is, but you and me have been together through every event of my life.  This is the biggest thing I will ever do and for you not to be there just wouldn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Luke, I wish neither one of us was going.”

“I know, but don’t you see?  This war will be over in a few months and when we get back, I will become a minister or maybe something else and live here the rest of my life.  You will not.  You will go on to do great things.  You might become a senator or the governor, who knows, but you are destined to be bigger than Elmira.”

Samuel slowly shook his head, “Why do you believe this will be over in just a few weeks or a couple of months?”

“That’s what everybody says, big brother,” Luke was slightly credulous, “don’t you listen to the talk?  What makes you think otherwise?”

“Luke, if an army of southerners marched to Elmira and told us we had to change the way we lived, would you fight them?”

“Of course I would!  What kind of question is that?  I fight them till I ran out of bullets and then I’d throw rocks.  No southerner is going to tell me how to live.”

“Little brother, what makes you think they are different from you?”

Luke looked at his older sibling for several seconds, “Well, however long it lasts, I’m glad you are coming with me.  When it’s over, I will return here and you will go on to accomplish great things.  But, we will always have this for us.”

“Great things?  Why do you all think that?  Elmira is just fine for me.  I was offered jobs in Albany, but I wanted to come home.  I want to find a position, find a wife and settle down.  I want nothing more than to teach and raise my own children.”

“It may be what you want or what you think you want, but fate has other plans for you big brother.   Pa knew it, Ma knows it, and so do I.  By the way, what did Ma say to you to get you to change your mind and come with me?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?  I’m going, right?”

A big smile broke onto Luke’s face, “Yes you are, brother, yes you are!  It’ll be great, just you wait and see.”

When the men arrived at the town square the following morning, they found the Army had brought in supply wagons full of uniforms and equipment.  As the men reported, they were hurried into lines to be issued boots, trousers, belts and braces, two pairs of socks, a shirt, jacket, great coat and cap.  Then, the men  were  pushed into another line where they were issued a rifle, cartridge box, carrying belt, bayonet, ground cover, blanket, haversack, canteen and rations enough for one day wrapped in waxed paper.

They waited until there was room for them in the tent where they changed from their civilian clothes into their uniforms.  Family members were on hand to take the civilian clothes home.   Time after time, when a man walked out of the changing tent, newly dressed in his blue uniform, it became clear what was about to happen, and his family broke into tears.  In a few minutes he would march down a road, out of town, and go to war.  

After they were in uniform, they were herded to an area on the square and shown how to pack, roll and carry all the equipment they had been issued.  By eleven o’clock the men were changed, packed and ready.  They were given a final thirty minutes for farewells and at 11:30 they were called to formation.  The men who had been practicing were comfortable with the commands and while the Springfield rifle was certainly heavier than the wooden ones they practiced with, the commands were executed in unison and in time.  

At noon, the regimental colors were unsheathed for the first time and the 42nd New York State Militia Infantry Regiment was born.

There’s something about a man in uniform.  He stands a little taller and a little straighter.  He walks less and strides more.  Everything he does has more purpose.  His shoulders are back, his head is erect; he exudes more confidence.  

Maybe it’s because he is part of a group that is bigger than him alone.  Maybe it’s because he knows his actions, right or wrong, reflect on more than just him.  Maybe it’s because the uniform he wears reflects a singleness of purpose, a serious matter that must be resolved.  Maybe it’s because he knows others are counting on him.  Whatever it is, there is something about a man in uniform, and as the men marched out of Elmira that day, their families, their friends and their neighbors could see it.  They didn’t know what it was and they wouldn’t have been able to describe it if they had been asked, but there was a strong feeling of pride in the men they were sending into battle.  That pride was mixed with the feelings of missing those same men and the fear of knowing that some would not be back.  

    Dear Mother and Sister,

I know we have been gone for several days now and I am sorry I have been so delinquent in writing.  We are kept very busy.  We are either training or we are marching and if we are marching it is generally in a southerly direction.  I don’t believe that piece of information is a secret.  I miss you both terribly as I am sure Luke does as well.   You can be proud of Luke; he is a natural soldier.  Most of us here have lost weight; we are tired and somewhat grumpy.  Luke has grown stronger and is always in the best of spirits.  He is always ready to lend a hand and help others and he always does more than his share of the work.  I am proud to let people know he is my brother and you can be proud to let people know he is a son and a brother.  Johanna, please see that Patsy gets the note I have included for her.  Mother, I have had time to think and to cool off, please forgive me for the awful things I said to you the last night I was home.  I love you and I will do your bidding as best I can.  

Your loving sons and brothers,

Samuel & Luke  

Folded with the letter was a separate page that Johanna delivered to Patsy as Samuel asked.  The girls read it together.

Dearest Patsy

This evening I took a walk to the edge of a meadow near where we are camped.  I watched the wild grasses dance in the wind and I was reminded of the swish of your dress as you walk toward me.  That same wind teased the branches of the trees and the shaking of the leaves brought the bounce of your hair to mind.  The breeze was warm, much like your breath on my cheek when I hold you.  I am so far away from you and yet you are here with me.  I do not know how long I will be gone but I promise to get home to you as soon as I am allowed.  

My love, 

Samuel 

A few weeks later, the mail call sergeant delivered a letter to Samuel from Johanna.  Samuel was able to open the letter and palm the note from Patsy before Luke pestered him into surrendering the letter from Johanna.  Luke had not written to the family, though Samuel had reminded him to several times.  Because of that, when Samuel wrote, he wrote for the two of them.  

“You know, if you wrote them, they would write you!”  Samuel called after Luke. His younger brother found a spot at the base of a tree to savor the letter.  Without looking in Samuels’ direction, Luke simply waved his reply.  Samuel found his own tree and sat down.   He had a place where he too could enjoy his taste of home.

Dearest Samuel,

I have read your letter so many times I feel as if I too have seen the meadow you speak of.  In my mind I see myself walking toward you and you are waiting just out of earshot.  We wave to each other and you come toward me with that determined gait you have.  I have seen that level of determination in you so often as we grew up and you have faced various challenges.  I know you are determined to return to me.   Whenever the loneliness reaches the unbearable level I will return to our meadow, the one you saw and I imagine.  I will think of us walking there, hand in hand.  All my love, 

Patsy

Samuel read the note several more times before carefully folding it and placing it in his shirt pocket.  Reading her expressions of love caused his heart to swell until it almost leapt from his chest, and he also realized he had no idea when he would see her again.  The ambivalence of the situation overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes to dam the tears that were forming.  He allowed his head to fall back against the trunk and with his eyes closed; he mentally wandered back to the meadow and thought of her there.

“Brother, I’d like you to tell me just what you are writing to our sister that is causing her, and I quote, to almost get the vapors?”

Luke’s voice shattered the image of the meadow.  Samuel opened his eyes, wiped them and scowled at his younger brother.  Luke missed it all. 

“I don’t understand,” his brother continued.  “She says the note you wrote Patsy, Oh, I get it!  You’re sweet on Patsy Brown!”

Luke smiled as if he had found a fortune. “And all this time I thought you were walking her home just to be the gentleman!”

“Leave it alone, Luke.  I’m not in the mood for your teasing and silliness right now.”

“What are you going to do, big brother, knock me down?”

Samuel got up and did just that.  As Samuel walked away, Luke, still lying on the ground and holding his jaw muttered, “I think he really likes her.”

Dearest Mother and Sister,

I know it has been some time since I put pencil to paper but we have been busy.  We continue to train at every opportunity, though Sergeant Major McBryce tells us we are as good as we will ever be and we are good enough to do the job.  The unit has continued to move south during the summer and we are now in Maryland.  Most of the people greet us with cheers and waves as we march through their towns.  We hear rumors that General Lee and his army are somewhere about, so we stay on the move most of the time trying to outfox him.  We have been in a few skirmishes but I have not yet fired my rifle at another man.  I hope to be able to say that when I get home.  I fear I will not.

Luke has become the unit’s boxing champion.  McBryce boxed with him the other day and Luke knocked him out.  Later McBryce told me Luke hits as hard as I do and he is prettier doing it by far.  He meant the comment as a compliment meaning Luke is balanced and graceful.  I couldn’t let it go so I asked him how he would know lying on his back the way he was. I hope all is well with you and please relay this enclosed note to Patsy.

Your loving sons and brothers,  

Samuel & Luke

Dearest Patsy,

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you.  Some days you are on my mind to the point that I forget what I am supposed to be doing.  As we marched into Maryland, I saw a small farm beside the road and standing at the gate with her two small children was a young mother who could have been your sister.  When I first noticed her, I thought it was you, and I almost broke out of the formation to run to her.  But, alas, it was not you and I was left missing you all the more as the evening passed.  We hear no news, only rumors.  I have learned to place no stock in anything I am told.  I march when I am told to march.  I stop when I am told to stop.  I feel as if I might be a draft horse with blinders on.  I only look forward and think always of you waiting for me.  Oh how I wish to be home.  

Forever yours, 

Samuel  

Chapter Nine

It was the middle of September and the “Forty-Deuce New York,” as they now called themselves, was attached to the Army of the Potomac.  The Army under the command of General George McClellan had been marching and leap-frogging with the Army of Northern Virginia for almost a month.  McClellan had been ordered to and was determined to force General Robert E. Lee, the commander of the Confederate Army into a major confrontation.  Throughout the first two weeks of September, McClellan had not been able to force the hand of Lee.  Lee’s Army of 40,000 men was quicker and faster than the almost 80,000 men commanded by McClellan.  Now, Lee found the terrain to his liking and he ordered defensive positions established and reinforced along the west side of the Antietam Creek.  The area Lee selected was a little more than a mile east of the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland.  

Antietam Creek is about belt-line deep in most places and meanders generally north to south through the Maryland country side and farm land.  It eventually feeds into the Potomac River next to the town of Harpers Ferry.  

The armies moved into positions over the 15th and 16th of September and Lee ordered his forces arranged along a low ridge line that was the only elevated terrain in the area. The defensive line created looked like a backwards letter “C”.  The union forces were poised along the Confederate front on the east side of the creek.  

The 17th dawned a calm morning with high cloud cover and moderate temperatures.  Throughout the day the highs would be in the 60’s and 70’s and in the afternoon the humidity would climb as rain was expected.  It would be a beautiful day for battle.  

McClellan planned and ordered three separate lines of attack.  The first was ordered for and started at 5:30 a.m.  At that time, several units in Federal blue crossed the creek and formed on line.  They were ordered to attack along the Hagerstown Turnpike which followed some standing pines and headed for the Dunker’s Church.  The Dunkers were a sect of German Baptists.  The line of attack also crossed a thirty acre field of corn owned by a Mr. David Miller.  The corn in the field was head-high to most of the men and ready to be picked.  The soldiers advanced, shoulder to shoulder, through the rows of corn.  

As the Union forces moved forward, Confederate artillery gunners opened fire.  The artillery batteries used a projectile that exploded while still in flight.  The rounds could be heard being lobbed over the heads of the soldiers only to explode, causing an angry brown-black cloud of burnt gunpowder and creating a hail storm of broken jagged pieces of metal that peppered the men below.  The metal tore through the bodies of the advancing men ripping holes in their chests, breaking their bones, smashing skulls, and tearing apart tendons.  Rows of men and corn fell.  The men in blue could do nothing for protection.  They simply reformed their lines, filled the holes left by the fallen, and advanced.

Soon, observers for the Union Army saw Confederate soldiers hiding in the far end of the corn field.  These men in gray became the targets of the Union artillery.  The federal cannonade started, and the results were the same.  The Confederates, fewer in number, stood their ground and then attacked in turn.

As the two lines of men approached each other, the artillery fire quickened and the bursting of the shells increased.  Gunners from each side fired their cannons as fast as they could reload them.    

Above the heads of the men, the exploding shells created a smoke colored canopy.  The sunlight that penetrated was a distorted brown haze causing the battlefield to appear unearthly.  Under this storm cloud of deadly metal rain, the two armies met.  The two battle lines crashed together and soon a scrum formed.  Men fought with their rifles and bayonets until the rifles broke.  They used the broken pieces as clubs.  When they lost their rifles, they used their canteens to smash the enemies’ faces.  If they didn’t have a canteen, they used rocks.  Some men pulled up corn stocks and used the root balls.  

When all else failed or was gone, they used the weapons they had been born with.  Men beat on each other with their fists; they bit each other and they clawed each other.  

Men cursed.  Men prayed.  The Lord’s name was shouted profanely and whispered prayerfully thousands of times that morning as the scrum line would ebb and flow the length of the corn field.  One side would push forward, only to be repelled and pushed back by the other.  As soon as one side would appear to have the advantage, the other would send more men to reinforce their side.  By some estimates, the control of the corn field changed hands fifteen times that morning.  Again and again, men of the replacement units, seeing what was before them, didn’t hesitate when ordered onto the field of carnage.  

The Forty Deuce was one of those units and soon enough, their turn arrived.  They were ordered forward.

“Fix, bayonets!  At the quickstep, March!”

Captain Sewell, with his splendid hat and his saber raised over his head, ordered the advance, and continued to urge the men. 

“Forward, men!  Onward!  Forward, men!” 

On line and as one man, the unit stepped off.  As they reached the corn field, their progress was slowed as they tried not to step on the blue and grey carpet of dead and dying soldiers.  

A whistle was heard overhead and the crack of exploding gunpowder. An angry black cloud of smoke appeared, and as if by magic, Captain Sewell was gone.  Several men were on the ground; some still, others joining the chorus of the wounded.  The splendid hat was a shred of cloth.  The men continued forward; they did what they were ordered to do.  They did what they had been trained to do.  The captain would have been proud of them.  

The men closed with the enemy, under the cloud of death, and a shell burst. The blast threw Samuel to the ground.  He landed on and broke his rifle and he saw Luke fall as well.

Anger overwhelmed his fear and as he fought to regain his footing, he saw a Confederate soldier standing before him.  He grabbed the broken rifle at the muzzle end and rushed forward.  His bayonet was fixed to the muzzle, and he charged the Confederate.  Seeing the Spector before him, the Confederate soldier froze and Samuel ran him through.  The bayonet rammed through the soldier’s chest until it was stopped by the muzzle of the rifle.  Samuel was within inches of the Rebel and he cursed the southern soldiers.  The Confederate was gasping for breath, and tears filled his eyes.  Samuel looked at the tears and the face.  The soldier was a boy of no more than fourteen. 

Horrified and disgusted, Samuel pushed the boy away from him.  The boy fell and squirmed on the ground, trying to dislodge the piece of metal puncturing his chest.  He died. 

“What have I done?  What in God’s name have I done?”

He looked at the blood on his hands and tried to wipe it off.  Another soldier came at him with a rifle, and Samuel evaded the thrust of the bayonet.  He grabbed the rifle, tearing it from its owner’s hands, and used the rifle butt as a club to cave in the soldier’s head.   Soldiers continued coming at him and he fought back.  He screamed at them.  He cursed them.  He clubbed them.  He stabbed them.  

He wanted them to stop and he killed them when they didn’t.   

The fighting continued until 10:30 and then, after the five hours of carnage, a sounding of recall was heard.  

Both sides had run out of men in this area.  The cannons were ordered stopped; they were too hot and too dangerous to load.  Silence rolled over the field as an invisible fog.  For five hours men had fought and died in an area slightly larger than thirty acres.   Now as men fell back, they could hear the sounds of the wounded left on the field.  Men with both northern and southern dialects called for their mothers. 

The field of corn that had been ready to harvest was now a field of broken bodies and ruined stubble.  It was said a man could traverse the length and the width of the field and never touch ground.  He simply need step from body to body.  

The 12th Massachusetts lost 65 percent of its men during the battle for the corn field.  The Louisiana “Tiger” Brigade left 323 of its 500 men on the field.  A dispatch rider for General Lee found General Hood sitting on a stump at the edge of the corn field.  Seeking information, he asked Hood where his command was.  The general looked at the mounted soldier and then motioned toward the destroyed crop, “Dead on the field,” he reported.  

Samuel found Luke.  His brother had been knocked unconscious by the blast but was otherwise unharmed.  The two stumbled and tripped their way across the field.  Try as they might, they could not help but step on the bodies of men scattered through the corn.  

“Excuse me.  I’m sorry,” they repeated over and over again as they made their way back to the unit’s starting line.  Most of the men didn’t respond when stumbled over.  The ones who did, Samuel tried to ignore.  He had no help for them.  

Focused on the creek, he kept moving.  His eyes burned from the smoke. His face was streaked with blood, dirt, powder and sweat.  His back and shoulders were tired and sore from fighting and killing other men.  He hurt where men had struck him as they tried to kill him.  The brothers finally made it to the creek and Samuel stumbled and fell into the cool cleansing water. He immersed himself in its flow.  The water soothed body and soul as it closed over his head and for a few moments, hid him from the world.  He imagined he possessed gills and was able to swim away from this place of death, but to soon his lungs began to complain for lack of air and he had to return to his own environment, as un-natural as it was at the time.  As he stood, he noticed the dirty water swirling around him was now stained with red.  He sank into it one more time before he continued across the creek.

Once across, the brothers started to account for and search for who was left.  They took the time to hug and be grateful that both had been spared when so many had not.  Several men in the “Forty Deuce” were related, either by blood or by marriage and many families would be grieving when the news of this day’s work reached home.  The regiment had lost 25 percent of its original members in the two hours it had been on the field of battle.  Samuel knelt to give thanks, but was interrupted by the commands to attack from his left.  He stopped, stood and watched as units in the middle were being ordered forward along the second and center axis of attack.  

The battle wasn’t over. 

  A cheer rose from the men of the corn field and they waved their arms and their caps in support.  Samuel couldn’t help himself, and he joined in the chorus.

In the center, there were no woods and no fields of corn, just gentle sloping pasture land with grass little more than ankle high.  Onto this field of death, the Irish Brigade was ordered into its attacking formation and a second roar of “Hurrah!” was heard all along the Union battle front when the regimental colors were unsheathed.  

The square emerald green battle flags were some of the largest used by any unit north or south and as they caught the mid-morning breeze and extended themselves, every man in blue raised his arm and cheered for the green.

“Give them hell, Irish!”

The command of attack was given, and the men started forward.  There was no artillery fire now, just the sound of the men moving forward.  They knew where the Confederates waited, but could not see them.  The Confederates lay along an old supply road that had deep ruts.  The Sunken Road it was called, and it not only hid the soldiers, it offered them a place to brace and steady their rifles.  When the Irish came into range, the Confederates raked their lines with deadly accurate rifle fire.  The Irish fell by the dozens.  The brigade would leave 540 men on the field that day.

As they marched forward into the deadly rifle fire, the brigade chaplain, Father William Corby, rode a horse and crossed the front of the formation.  As he crossed in front of the men, he shouted the words of the Catholic prayer of Conditional Absolution for those about to die.  Several times he crossed the front repeating the prayer.  Not once was he nor his horse struck by a bullet.  Several years after the war, Father Corby would become the President of Norte Dame University.

The Irish were not able to breech the Confederate line, and soon they faltered and then fell back.  However, their sacrifices made it possible for another unit to flank the Confederates.  Union soldiers punched a hole into the Confederate line and were then able to bring the same type of deadly rifle fire onto those soldiers in gray lying in the sunken road.  The men in gray were lined up as if they were targets in a carnival midway shooting gallery.  Men died where moments before they were doing the killing.  The sunken road was renamed The Bloody Lane.  The bodies of dead Confederates lined the roadbed as if placed there like the orderly poles of a corduroy road.

The Confederate line weakened.  The accurate and deadly shooting from the Union line was taking its toll.  Soldiers started to abandon their positions.  

The request was sent to McClellan asking for reinforcements to take advantage of the breech.  It looked like the day would belong to the Federals!

McClellan never ordered the reinforcements to advance and the breech was filled – by Confederates.  The Confederate line held.

Instead, McClellan ordered General Burnside to attack the last third of the battle line.  This line of attack crossed the creek in the vicinity of a stone bridge. The creek was still easily forded.  

Burnside decided to force the attack crossing the bridge and the resulting bottleneck of soldiers turned the bridge into a shooting gallery.  Soldiers could only advance across the bridge in a six-man front and the Rebels mowed them down.  

Late in the day, the Confederate line started to crumble.  Soldiers were leaving their positions and running to the rear.  They weren’t being pressured by the Union forces; they were running out of ammunition.  General Burnside begged McClellan to release the reserve units into the attack.  “Little Mac” refused.  The reserves were never ordered forward.  

The day could have been a Union victory.  Instead, Confederate General A. P. Hill arrived with his infantry brigade after marching them seventeen miles.  

Hill, who always wore a bright red shirt into battle, was at Harper’s Ferry, when he heard of the battle to his north.  He force-marched his 600 men without feeding them the distance in seven hours, and arrived in time to stop the Federal assault.  

Robert E.  Lee credited General A P Hill the honor of saving the Confederacy.  Legend says Lee called for Hill while on his death bed saying, “Send up A P Hill!”

It was 5:30 in the evening and the battle had raged for twelve hours.  The fighting had been determined, courageous and in some areas pre-historic, brutal and barbaric.  Soldiers on both sides had served their generals and their cause bravely and with honor.  Northern and southern leaders realized this national argument would not be resolved quickly or easily.  Both sides realized it would be a war of attrition and blood-letting.  

The Battle of Antietam is still the bloodiest one-day battle in American history.  Total casualties are estimated at 22,700 men; on average, one man fell every five seconds.

Chapter Ten

Dearest Mother and Sister,

I don’t know what news may have arrived about the battle a few days ago.  I would have liked to have written sooner but try as I might, I could not make my writing legible.  I fear it is hard enough to read my scribble on my best days and these past few have been far from my best.

Luke and I are fine and we gave and continue to give thanks to the Lord for protecting us and keeping us safe.  As horrific as the battle was, neither Luke nor I was as much as scratched.  The same cannot be said about most of the regiment.  I will not recite our casualties as the official list may not arrive until after this letter and I would hate to put you in the situation of knowing a woman is a widow before she does.  I will only say we lost Captain Sewell.  He was one of the first to fall and I saw him go down.  How I wish this was over but I fear it will continue much longer. I understand Lincoln has issued an order freeing the slaves in the south.  Does the freedom for some justify the death and maiming of so many others?   How many more of us must rot on a field somewhere before the leaders of this nation see there is a better way to resolve this?  Luke sends his love and regards.  He is much the better soldier of the Cardiff brothers.  I am very proud of him.

Your loving sons and brothers, 

Samuel and Luke

Also in the envelope was his note to Patsy:

Dearest,

I do not have the words to describe the pain I am in.  I wanted no part of this conflict and now I must live with the knowledge that I have done things that I do not believe I can be forgiven for.  Try as I might, I am not able to wash the blood that stains not only my hands but also my soul.  I fear that if this continues I will no longer be worthy of you and yet I know your love is my only salvation.  Please pray for me and allow the breezes to carry some of your strength to me.  I need it so.

All my love, 

Samuel

Throughout the rest of September and into October, the Forty Deuce was held in reserve.  They continued to be moved as pieces on a chess board at the whim and wishes of unseen generals.  They didn’t know why they were being marched from this place to that, and they never knew how long they would stay.  Captain Sewell was not the only officer to fall at Antietam, so the unit was held in the rear while waiting for replacement officers.  This pause also gave the men with minor wounds time to heal.  

Only one member of the Forty Deuce was unhappy with their current assignment.

“I didn’t join up to just march around and view the Virginia countryside.”  Luke had been irritable since Antietam, “I came here to do my part!”

“Luke, you did, and continue to do your part!  I wish they would just send us all home.  Let Lincoln and Davis fight it out!  I want to go home, and live my life!”

The regiment was bivouacked in a small valley about 40 miles north of Fredericksburg, Virginia.  It was late autumn and the weather was turning cold.  The regiment was designated in reserve, and the men had been allowed to pitch their tents.  Along the length of the valley, in a meadow between an orchard and a small creek where a row of thick brush and small trees grew, the camp had taken shape.  The set-up was simple and dictated by Army regulations.  Four tents would be set up, two facing up the company street and the other two facing down the company street.  The rear of the second set of tents would serve as the guide for the placement of the next two tents.  In this manner a tent city was formed and every four tents were allowed one centered campfire.  Each tent held two men so in the evenings eight men would sit around the fires.  Around these fires, the men spent their evenings, cooking, singing, telling stories.  Some of the men played cards.  

Next to the fires the men would stack arms, a process for storing the rifles.  The rifles leaned one against another and by the time the process was done, they looked like a tiny teepee. It was a good way to store the rifles as long as it didn’t rain or snow.  

Some of the men scavenged wooden boxes from the supply wagons or cut logs to ring the fires and sit on.  After a few days, even though the officers tried to keep uniformity, each fire reflected the imagination and work ethic of the men around it.  Each fire also had a coffee pot, as well as a cooking pot hanging from a metal frame.

“I don’t know about weather this far south, but if we were home, I’d say we’re going to get snow tonight,” Samuel looked at the darkening sky which was heavy with clouds.

Luke looked at him and shook his head, “Samuel, don’t be daft!  It doesn’t snow in Virginia!”

“Are you telling me you don’t feel the chill that’s in the air?”

“I feel the chill, but I don’t think it’s going to snow.”

“Just the same, I’m glad we put our bunks up in the tents.  We won’t be sleeping on the cold ground tonight.  I think we’re going to be here for a while.”

A sergeant walked up to the fire and warmed his hands.  The pouch over his shoulder let every man know he was the mail sergeant.  He called a couple of names, including one who had been killed at Antietam, but he delivered the ones he could.

“Cardiff.”  He held up an envelope.

“Which one?”  

The brothers asked the question in unison.

The sergeant looked again at the envelope, “Samuel.”  

Samuel jumped to his feet, smiling at his brother as he reached for the letter, “I’m telling you, you gotta write them to get them.”

“Let me read it after you’re done.”

Samuel gently held the letter in his lips while he wiped the dirt and grime off his hands.  When they were as clean as he could get them, he sat down on the wooden box and gently opened the letter.  Luke watched with anticipation, sitting on a box next to him.  Both were looking forward to the letter from home.

“It’s from Johanna,” Samuel said as he felt through the folded single sheet and could not find a letter from Patsy.  

“Just hurry and read it so I can!”

Samuel unfolded the sheet:

Dear Samuel,

I don’t know how to say this, Patsy is dead.

The air rushed from Samuel’s lungs and he heard the gasp.  His stomach cramped into a knot and he crushed the letter in his hands.  He told himself he didn’t read what he thought he had.  It was a mistake caused by the poor lighting.

His throat tightened with fear, as he turned his back to Luke.  He told himself it was to get better lighting from the fire.  His hands were shaking as he slowly un-crumpled the letter:

Dear Samuel,

I don’t know how to say this, Patsy is dead.

His eyes burned and tears started to fill them.  Those same tears tipped out of his eyes and started down his face.  He had stopped breathing and his resuming intake of air sounded like a gasp to those around him.  He forced himself to again, look at the letter.

She was crossing the street and a team of horses spooked and ran her over with a supply wagon.  Doc Tuttle said she did not suf…

Samuel could read no more.  He crumpled the letter and threw it in the fire.  He raised his hands to his face and pulled taut the skin around his eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears.  He viciously rubbed his scalp.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

Luke couldn’t believe he watched his brother destroy the letter.  He tried to save it, but Samuel grabbed his arm and pulled him away.  Luke shoved Samuel and knocked him from the wooden box onto the ground.  

“I asked you, what are you doing?  You know I wanted to read that!  What is wrong?”  

The flickering mix of bright light and dark shadows caused by the camp fire made it impossible for Luke to see the pain on his brothers’ face.

Samuel got up from the ground and not trusting himself to speak, turned and started to walk away.  

He kept repeating to himself, “Don’t scream!  Don’t scream!”  

Luke grabbed his arm, “I’m not done with you!  I want an answer!”  

Samuel swung his right fist as he allowed Luke to turn him around.  The fist sent Luke backwards where he tripped and landed in the fire.  Sparks and soldiers went in all directions.  Coffee spilled.  Beans spilled.  

Samuel looked at his brother and then turned into the safety of the darkness.  He walked into the orchard.  The shaking of his hands spread to his legs.  Tears ran freely and his breathing was in sobs.

Luke rolled out of the fire, stood up and with the help of a couple of other soldiers brushed the embers from his clothes.  Everyone wanted to know what was going on with Samuel.  “I don’t know”, he said and then added the promise, “but I aim to find out,” 

Luke followed his brother into the darkness and into the orchard.  He found Samuel with his arms extended, holding onto a low branch of a fruit tree.  His head was down and his shoulders shook.  Luke approached him.

“What the devil is going on, Samuel?”  In the darkness, Luke did not recognize the level of his brother’s pain.

Samuel ignored him.

“Samuel!  Talk to me!  What the devil is going on?”  Luke reached out and took a hold of Samuel’s arm.  Samuel pulled away. 

“Leave me alone.  Get away from me and leave me alone!”

“I will not leave you alone until you tell me what was in that letter.”

“She’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Patsy is dead.”  He managed to get the words out before the tears and the sobs overwhelmed him.  He sank to the ground.

“I should never have come here.  I knew it.  I belonged there.  I should have told Mother no.  I should have told her no.”

Luke squatted next to his brother. 

“I’m sorry, Samuel, I know you liked her a lot.  We all did.”

Samuel raised his eyes to Luke, “We were going to get married as soon as I got back.  I had to come with you and keep you safe.”  The last words dripped with bitterness.

“What do you mean, keep me safe?”

“Our mother talked me into coming and watching out for you.  She is convinced you will be killed without me here.  I left Patsy to be here with you and she’s the one who dies.”

Luke was taken back and insulted. 

“I don’t need you here.  I’m a better soldier than you are and I certainly don’t need you here!”

“Not according to our mother.  She’s convinced you as good as dead without me here.”

“Is that what you think?  Do you think I need you here?”

“Luke, I don’t care.  I should have been with Patsy.  If I had been there, she would still be alive.”

“How can you say that?”

“If I had been there, she might not have been on that street.  We may have been somewhere else.  If we were there, I could have pushed her or pulled her out of the way.  Instead, I’m here, babysitting you on this fool’s errand.”  

“You think I’m a fool?”

“Yes, I do.  But don’t worry little brother.  I’m the bigger fool.”  

“I’ll request a transfer to another company and we can forget we’re brothers!”  Luke spun and tramped back toward the fires.  

Samuel watched him go.  Anger was easier to feel than the sorrow so he stoked the anger a little more, “Damn you, Luke.   Damn you to Hell.”

For several hours, Samuel sat in the dark, under the fruit tree and cried.  Eventually he fell asleep.  When he woke, he was covered with a light dusting of snow and he was cold.  His first thought was to include this news in his next letter to Patsy, and then he remembered.  He cried again.

“What am I going to do without you?”

He got up, stiff from sitting on the ground, and made his way back to the camp.  It appeared everyone was in bed, as the fire was deserted and only the glow of coals remained.  He shared a tent with Luke; he didn’t want to face him right now, so he stoked the fire with a couple of logs, brushed off his box and sat down.  He picked up a bayonet that was being used to prod and poke the fire and he stirred the coals; soon a blaze was alight to keep him company.  The warmth and light from the fire seemed to make his pain more tolerable, even the falling snow helped lessen his pain.  He sat in the dark, getting covered with snow and watching the fire.  He thought of Patsy.  He remembered her laugh; he remembered her kisses.  He cried again.

Chapter Eleven

Snow fell most of the night.  By the time it stopped, there was a good four inches on the ground.  The temperature dropped and as morning threatened a bank of fog rolled over the valley.  By the time the men were starting to get up, the dawn was gray, cold and just plain ugly, a perfect day for how Samuel felt.  He had spent the rest of the night at the fire, so at dawn, the men in the tents surrounding his fire were the only ones with heat.  The other fires, unattended, had gone out and some were covered with snow.  Samuel had also started coffee and had peeled some potatoes and hung them in the pot to start for a stew.  It was the least he could do after spilling the men’s coffee and beans the night before.

Their fire was the only one burning, and about a dozen soldiers from other tents had crowded around the circle by the time Luke got up.  Samuel was sitting with his back to their shared tent but he saw Luke approach the fire to find there was no room.

“Here, Luke, take this box,” he offered, “I’ve been sitting here all night and I’d like to stretch my legs.”

Luke hesitated, “You sure?”

Samuel nodded and got up, pushing aside one of the extra soldiers to make room for his brother.  As Luke sat down, he looked up at Samuel, “I’m sorry about…”

“I know Luke, I know.”

As Samuel turned away from Luke, he felt a tug at his elbow.  Thinking Luke wanted to stop him; he looked at his arm and saw a ragged hole that had not been there. He heard the sound of the rifle.  Bullet hole!

Samuel looked in the direction of the shot and through the fog saw Confederate cavalry on line, at the trot.  As he watched, the officers drew swords and the horses broke into a gallop.  They were charging the camp.  

`Ghostly in their grey uniforms, they came through the fog.  Their horses looked like steeds from hell blowing mist from their nostrils and throwing snow and mud in the air with their hooves.  The grunts of the horses and the creak of the leather added to the image of unearthly beings.  The riders were yelling and shooting.  Bullets kicked up the snow around him and the other men.  Samuel heard the balls in flight whistle as they passed him and he heard them sing when they hit rocks or metal and ricocheted when they missed their mark.  He heard the grunts of men when the balls hit.

“To arms!  To arms! Form a picket line here!” 

The sergeants and a few officers shouted and the men had a tug of war over the rifles that had been stacked the previous day.  Samuel finally got a rifle free and when he started to load it, he realized the bore was wet and most likely would not fire.

“Fix bayonets!”  He yelled, “Fix bayonets!  The bores are wet!  They won’t fire!”  

A couple of men had fallen and the charging horses were 100 yards away when Samuel rammed a bayonet onto the rifle and charged to meet the horses.  Once clear of the tangle of Union soldiers, he focused on a horse with a rider headed in his direction.  The rider wore a gray full brimmed hat and an open gray waist jacket.  Wrapped around his middle was a red scarf.  His trousers were tucked into black boots.  He waved a saber over his head and he was yelling, urging the other men forward.  

Samuel roared back at him and ran toward the rider and horse.  Samuel realized the angle of attack would force the horse to pass on his right side.  The rider would be able to chop down on him with the saber.  Samuel posed with the rifle and bayonet ready to be used as a pike.  He waited until the horse was within 5 yards of him before he took two quick steps sideways to his right.  Those steps forced the horse to pass him on his left side and the rider no longer had a clean angle with his saber.  The rider had to be careful not to cut himself or his horse.

As the horse rushed past him, Samuel lunged forward and upward, thrusting the bayonet with all his strength.  The rider tried to shift in his saddle so he could bring the saber down onto Samuel but he was too late.  His arm was raised above his head, and he could not block Samuel’s attack.  The bayonet stabbed the rider just above his navel and slid through him and out his back, just below his shoulder blades.  

The muzzle of the rifle jammed into the wound, the rider was lifted up and out of the saddle, pulling the reins of the horse to the left as he and his horse parted.  Samuel held the man in air for only a moment before the hind quarters of the horse knocked him down.  Both men crashed to the ground as the horse ran past.  Samuel rolled over and ended up on his knees, facing the downed rider who was lying on his left side with the bayonet still through him.

Samuel crawled forward until he was at the feet of the downed Confederate.  Samuel studied him and recognized the trappings of a lieutenant.  The soldier groaned and tried to roll onto his back.  The weight of the rifle held him in place as securely as a beetle pinned to a display sheet.  Samuel noticed the attack had passed through the camp and the cavalry were now disappearing into the bushes and fog.  A few shots still sounded, but the attack was over.  It had been just a harassment attack designed to do little more than make the Union soldiers spill their morning coffee.  

He returned his attention to the soldier before him and slowly pulled the bayonet from his stomach. 

The dying soldier rolled onto his back and covered his stomach with his gloved hands.  Samuel slid along the side of the downed rider and brushed mud and snow from his face.  The man looked at him and tears ran down his cheeks and into his ears.  Samuel thought that would tickle; the Confederate didn’t seem to notice.

“You killed me good, Billy Yank.  Yes sir, you killed me good.”  

The voice was soft and gentle.  Samuel didn’t know why, but he had an image of this young man at college.  In another life they could have been friends.

Samuel didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.  The soldier removed his right hand from his stomach and offered it to Samuel.  Samuel saw the palm covered with blood, but he took it and held it.   The man groaned and whimpered but regained his composure.

“I am Henri Fulford from Waycross, Georgia and I have papers,” he whispered, “papers, letters, and journal in my bags.  Get them to Stella.”

Samuel looked at the man and answered, “I will.”  He didn’t know who Stella was, a girlfriend, sister or wife, but he would send the correspondence to her.

“Your word, Billy Yank?”

“On my word.”

The man looked away and groaned.  In an attempt to ease his pain, he moved his legs and it reminded Samuel of a baby with a stomach ache.  Then, he stopped.  The moving, the moaning, the breathing, it all stopped. He was dead.  

Samuel placed the man’s hand on his stomach.  He tried to wipe the blood from his palm. Much of it came off, but the stain remained.  He straightened the man and crossed his arms.  Samuel noticed the pistol and pistol belt the man wore.

Samuel had never wanted souvenirs of the war, but this pistol and belt arrested him.  He removed the belt and wrapped it around his waist.  It fit, and he buckled it into place.  He pulled the pistol from the holster and looked at it.  He felt the weight of it in his hand.  

The pistol was a Navy Colt revolver, the most favored side arm for the Confederate cavalry.  The gun was chambered for .36 caliber and was a black powder. Since it was time consuming to reload, many men carried extra cylinders in pouches on their belts.  This man had two extra cylinders.  He pulled the hammer back to half-cock and rotated the cylinder.  Five of the six chambers were loaded.  Samuel remembered that many cavalry riders only loaded five chambers and carried the hammer on the empty.  It was the safe way to ensure the gun would not fire by accident and shoot the rider or his horse.  He lined up the empty chamber with the hammer and lowered the hammer then he slid the gun back into its holster.  He bent over the soldier and started to rifle his pockets, looking for identification.

A shout from the area of his tent interrupted him.

“Samuel!  Come here!  Come here now!”

“Just a minute.”

“No!  Now! It’s Luke!”

Samuel scrambled away from the fallen Confederate, and fear swallowed him as he ran back to the fire.  Soldiers were surrounding his brother, and he pushed them aside until he got to Luke.  

Luke was lying on his back next to the fire and his throat had been torn away by a rifle ball.  In an instant, Samuel knew it was the same rifle ball that had ripped his coat at the elbow.  He dropped to his knees beside his stricken brother.

“Don’t worry little brother.  The surgeon can fix this.  It’s nothing.  You hurt yourself worse when you tried to shave with Pa’s razor.  Remember?”

Luke looked at him and tried to smile.  His face was covered with a fine coat of blood.  The bullet had ripped through Luke’s throat at the voice box and torn open his windpipe.  Every time he exhaled a breath, a mist of blood escaped the wound and then rained down onto his face and upper torso.  Along with the blood mist, warm breath, and steam from the body escaped through the wound and into the colder air.  It appeared as if Luke’s spirit was leaving his body though the very wound that was killing him.

Luke groped until he found his brother’s hand.  He held it tight, mixing his blood with the blood of the Confederate rider.

Only a rush of air was heard, as he looked at Samuel and mouthed the words,

“It’s ok.  It’s ok.”  

Another rush of air followed the effort to speak.

Samuel understood. 

“No, it’s not.  You will not die here.  I promised Ma I would bring you home.  You will not die here.  You hear me?”  

Tears fell from his face and dropped onto his brother.  They mixed with Luke’s tears and ran down his face together.

“It’s ok” and then “I’m sorry.”  

No words, just the mouth working to convey a message.  

Luke smiled and his eyes lost focus.  His gasping for breath stopped, the blood mist stopped the breath vapor stopped and in just moments, the steam from the wound stopped. His grip on Samuel’s hand loosened.  His spirit was gone.

Samuel stared at his brother, and then started to shake.

“Luke!  Don’t you do this!  You have been a pest all my life.  Don’t you leave me!”  

Samuel’s voice was tight and sounded strange, even to his own ears.  It squeaked.

Samuel begged for Luke to get up.  He cried uncontrollably.   Tears covered his face and when he wiped them away he left behind smears and stains of blood.

He shook Luke and the head flopped, spilling blood from the wound onto the snow.  The stain of red grew larger.

“Luke, I mean it,” Samuel desperately ordered, “get your lazy butt up and stop this!  You’re playing the same game as when we were kids.  Always pretending to be hurt to get out of work.  Always pretending to be sick to get out of school!  Alright, you’re a better soldier than me.  I said it.  Is that what you want to hear?  Now, get up!”

Luke didn’t move and Samuel shook him again.  The blood was starting to gel so it didn’t spill.  Samuel looked at the cloud covered sky, “What am I going to tell Ma?  She expects you home.”

Friends pulled Samuel until he stood up and started to turn away, but he was overcome with anger and he turned back.  He shouted, “Luke, damn, you get up!”  

He kicked the body in the legs, as if trying to wake his brother.  Nothing happened.  He kicked it again and some of the men standing next to him grabbed him and pulled him away.  He pushed them aside, shouting, “No!  I will not let this happen!  I promised our mother!”  

He shouted at the soldiers around him, trying to make them understand.  Luke had to get up!  Many of these men had known the brothers since they were boys, and tears stained their faces as they barred Samuel from getting close to his brother’s body.

Samuel was lost.  Confused, he started to walk but had no direction.  He cursed Luke. He cursed himself.  He cursed his mother.  He cursed God.   He walked faster, almost in circles, talking faster and louder as he walked.  He stumbled away from the group of men, who if they hadn’t known better, would have thought he was drunk.

His breathing sounded like the bellows on a forge.  As he sucked in air he seemed to suck in anger.  As he shouted and cursed he forced out the sorrow.  His words became bitter, angry and filled with hate.  Again, he cursed his brother, his mother, his father and even Patsy.  The cursing fed the anger and soon it even felt good.  He urged it to grow as if it was the coals in a forge – red to orange, orange to yellow, yellow to white.  The anger pushed away the sorrow.  He felt no pain, no sorrow.  He only felt anger, rich, soul-searing anger.   Anger would be his companion; anger would protect him.  He saw the Confederate lying on the ground, and walked toward him, upholstering the pistol as he covered the distance.     

“You stupid, stupid man.” 

He shouted at and then spoke as if he was the Confederate, 

“I know what let’s do this morning.  Let’s roust the blue bellies and make them spill their coffee.”

His anger grew.

“That’s all you accomplished!  You’re dead; my brother is dead, so you can say you made us spill our coffee!  You like being dead?  Here, let me kill you again!”

He aimed the revolver, cocked and released the hammer.

Crack!  

The body did nothing but Samuel felt better.

“How about number two,” Samuel shouted.

Crack!  

Again the body absorbed the bullet with no response, but a smile was growing on Samuel’s face.

“How about three?  You like being killed?”

Crack!

“Here’s four!”

Crack!

He stopped and looked at the body of the dead soldier.  It had absorbed the damage without grimace, complaint or even acknowledgement.  Samuel’s smile turned into a sneer.  

“Where do I put number five?” Samuel asked himself and he knew the answer.  He pulled the hammer back to full cock and pointed the muzzle at his own temple.  Tears lined his face and he closed his eyes.

“Luke…”

He was tackled and knocked to the snow-covered ground.

“We’ll have none of that silliness, boy-o!”  

Lying on top of him with a hand covering his own was Sergeant Major McBryce.  

“You can kill anyone else as much as you like, laddie, but you can’t go killin yourself.  That’s a sin for which there is no forgiven.  No killin’ yourself, boy-o.”

The sergeant major’s tackle forced snow down Samuel’s shirt, onto his face and up his nostrils.  It froze his rage.  It tempered his anger into a solid shield of hate.   Within seconds, the rage became a solid black coating over his soul and like a breastplate of armor; it held the rest of the world at bay.  It felt good.  A sudden knowledge brought a sense of peace and cooled his anger; if they don’t get close, they can’t hurt me.  On his stomach, in the snow, with another man holding him down, Samuel Cardiff vowed that never again would he allow another person to get close to him and never again would he care for anyone.

“Get off of me.”

“Are you alright, laddie?”

“I said, get off.”  The voice was cold, and devoid of emotion.  To the Sergeant Major, it didn’t sound like the Cardiff boy, but he got off.

Samuel got up, shook the snow off of him and held out his hand for his gun.  The Sergeant Major fired the last round into the ground and then gave it to him.  Samuel took it without comment and walked toward his tent.  He passed Luke without looking at the body.

As he passed some of the soldiers, he saw two of them holding the horse ridden by the Confederate soldier he had killed.  He heard one say to the other, “We should butcher this horse and have some fresh meat.  We ain’t had fresh meat in months.”

Samuel took the reins. 

“This horse is mine.  I killed its owner; it now belongs to me.  Either of you harm this animal, I’ll kill you both.”  

He led the horse to the tent he had shared with his brother, where he tied it outside, unsaddled it and took the saddle inside.

Over the next couple of hours, the men busied themselves preparing Luke and two other men who had been killed for burial.  In addition to the one killed by Samuel, three other Confederates had fallen.  

Sergeant Major McBryce entered the tent and found Samuel dressed in a mixture of federal and confederate clothing.  Most of what he wore was federal but the boots were the riding boots worn by the confederate he had killed.  Samuel’s only comment was, “An extra pair of socks and they fit just fine.”  He also wore the cavalryman’s hat.  He had stripped the silver braiding from around the crown and removed the unit patch; McBryce looked at the hat, but said nothing.  

On one of the bunks was a pile of letters and papers, along with the journal.  The Sergeant Major pointed to the papers, “You going to send them home for the man?”

“I’m going to burn them.”

The Sergeant Major said nothing, only raised his eyebrows for a moment.

“We’re ready to bury the dead.  Are you going to come say goodbye to your brother and the others?”

“If I don’t,” Samuel challenged, “will he miss me?  He’s dead.”

Again, the Sergeant Major just raised his eyebrows.

“I can’t let you do this.  If you desert, they will hang you.”

“I’d welcome the rope.  Want me to get one?”

“Samuel…”

“No!  I will not stay.  I didn’t want to be here and the only reason I was here is dead.  I will not stay!  I will no longer have you or anyone else order me to kill this man or that man at your whim.  You said I cannot kill myself, fine.  I will find someone who will do it for me.  If it is you, do it already, and if it’s not, I will be gone inside an hour.”

“Have you written your mother?  She needs to hear about this from you.”

Samuel motioned to a letter on the bunk that belonged to Luke, “Mail it, please.”

The Sergeant Major opened the folded paper and inside it was a lock of Luke’s hair.  On the paper Samuel had written:

Mother

I failed you and I failed Luke.  He lies buried somewhere in Virginia with two of his friends and three of his enemies.  All of them were good men.  He’s in good company.

Samuel

Samuel stepped out of the tent carrying the papers from the confederate soldier and tossed them into the fire.  He stood for a minute and watched them burn, then he returned to the tent.  He noticed the Sergeant Major had drawn the pistol from the holster where it had been on Samuel’s bunk.  He pointed it in the direction of Samuel.  “I see you learned how to reload it.”

“Put it back.”

The Sergeant Major did.  He picked up another pistol that was on the bunk.  It was an odd looking sidearm, also a .36 caliber, and the cylinder was made for nine shots instead of the usual six.  The cylinder rotated around a hollow tube instead of the usual solid frame.  The hollow tube was a barrel that fired a 16 gauge shotgun shell.  The shooter could decide to fire the shotgun or the pistol by adjusting the positioning of the firing pin.  The sidearm was indeed odd looking, but very deadly.

McBryce asked, “You know this gun?”

Samuel shook his head, “No, it was in the saddle bags.  A strange looking gun, but I’m going to keep it.”

“It’s called a LeMatt Pistol.  The guy who invented it lived in New Orleans, his name was LeMatt.  Not too many of them made, but the confederate cavalry like them.  The only place I’ve seen them is on Rebel cavalry soldiers.”

“How come you know so much about confederate guns?”

McBryce smiled, “I’m a professional soldier, boy-o.  It’s my job.”

Samuel picked up the belt and holster with the Navy Colt and wrapped it around his waist.  He buckled it and put a great coat on over the gun.  He left the saber on the bunk, but he motioned to it, “If that confederate rider had used his pistol instead of that saber, I would be the one getting buried now.”

He gathered his gear and returned the LeMatt to the saddlebag.  He strapped and tied the bags and a bed roll onto the saddle that he had put back on the horse.  Without a word or hesitation, he stepped into the saddle and rode away from the camp.  He headed in a generally western direction.

Chapter Twelve

The Stoddard home was a low-walled square structure made from adobe.  The roof was flat and also made of adobe bricks.  The windows had no glass and the wooden shutters were open most of the time to allow any breeze available to circulate through the house.  It was plain, simple and solid.  The front of the house faced town and on a Saturday night, if the breeze was right, they could hear music from the West House and the Spanish cantina in town.  On those nights, it was not uncommon for William and Laura to sit on the front porch, which was a rectangle of rough cut boards that lay on the ground next to the front door.  Each of them had a chair on the porch and the desert evening could be beautiful.

There was also a side door that led to the wood pile, clothesline and barn. Stoddard sat next to the side door and braided a new lead for the brown horse he had been given.  As he worked the strips of leather into the design, he pulled and tugged to ensure each braid was equal to the ones next to it, and he watched Laura hang laundry.

The day was hot, but there was a slight breeze coming out of the dry canyon, which was just north of the Stoddard farm.  It wasn’t strong enough to lower the temperature, but it was cool and fresh without kicking up dust.  The heat caused a film of perspiration to cover the body and the breeze teased enough to raise goose bumps.

Laura was wearing her skirt without petticoats and when the wind brushed by it forced her skirt to her legs.  It had the same effect with her shirt and when she stood with her arms raised over her head, pinning the clothes to the line, the contours of her body was easily seen.  William admired the length and form of her legs and how the flow of her hips narrowed through her waist and then expanded again at her breasts.  The wind teased him by forcing one side of her clothes tight against her, while it billowed the other. When she turned the wind would tantalize her other side.  Her brown hair was pulled back into a bun but about a dozen renegade strands had escaped and danced next to her eyes and along her cheeks.  She turned, cocked, and twisted her head trying to keep the rebellious strands out of her eyes.  

She noticed she was being watched and she glanced at her husband, “Bill, what you are doing?  That lead is not going to braid itself.”

“You know, Laura, when I was a young man and somewhat wild, I saw one of those girlie shows down in Little Rock.  Come to think of it, I saw one of those girlie shows in Memphis and another one in Nashville.  I even saw one in St. Louis.”

As he spoke, Laura brought the empty clothes basket back to the house and dropped it beside him.  She stood before him with her knuckles resting on her hips, the goose bumps on her arms clearly visible.  She was not amused by his reminiscing.

“I’m sure there is a point to what you are saying, but your wife is not impressed by how many shows of nearly naked women you have seen.”

He took her hand to keep her from entering the house.

“That’s my point.  I bet I have seen close to one hundred women in their short ruffled underwear with their low cut tops, all of them singing or dancing, kicking their legs up in the air, and I tell you, either by themselves or all hundred together, dressed in all their skimpy clothes, they are not as pretty as you are.”

Laura took the unfinished lead from William, hung it on a close by peg, and after making sure his legs were squared under him, sat in his lap. 

“You take your time getting there, but when you do, you sure know how to compliment a girl.”

She folded her arms across his shoulders and around his neck.  She rested her head on her left arm next to his ear.  He could smell the scent of lavender from the store-bought soap she got at discount. It was the one splurge she allowed herself, lavender soap, which had broken in shipment, so Mrs. Wilkinson sold it to Laura for pennies on the dollar.  He patted her hip, “If I had two good legs, I’d chase you down to the river and we’d go skinny dipping.”

She smiled next to his ear and whispered, “What makes you think you would have to chase me?  How about I send the kids down to the river to pick wild strawberries?  That will keep them busy for at least an hour.  When they get back, we can have dessert.” 

William patted her hip again, “You know it was you, who saved me, don’t you?  You saved me from myself.”

Laura raised her head and looked at her husband, “Where’d that come from?  I’m talking about having the house to ourselves and later having strawberries for dessert, and you want to talk about what happened years ago?  Those times are past.  Let’s talk about today.”

“I’m sorry, I was thinking about Marshal Moses.”

Her anger was instant, visible and complete, “What?  I’m sitting on your lap, you’re talking about skinny dipping, and the next thing you tell me is that you’re thinking about that,… that,… that man!”

She stood up, picked up her basket and stomped into the house.

Stoddard watched her leave and wondered why she was so angry.  What he said was right, she had saved him.  After he returned home, he was a drunk, fully intent on drinking himself to death.  It wasn’t his injuries that haunted him; it was the injuries he had caused others.  The way Stoddard saw it; he deserved what he had got.  If it hadn’t been for Laura, he would have been dead long ago.  That’s what the Marshal needed, he decided.  He needed a Laura.  He pulled himself out of his chair, and using the wall and doorframe for support, he followed his wife into the house. 

“Laura, I’m sorry.”

Two days later, Stoddard stormed, as much as a man who mostly walked sideways can storm, into the Marshal’s Office.  Moses was reading at his desk, and he was not surprised.  He had heard the steps on the boardwalk and even Pete woke from his nap to look at the door.  Moses watched as Stoddard hobbled to the desk, bent forward and extended his hand,

  “Good morning.  My name is William Stoddard.   I served with Arkansas 3rd Infantry, and we followed Bobby Lee into every hell hole battle throughout the eastern part of the Civil War.  Do you know we were the only unit from Arkansas to sign up for the duration of the war?  Bet you didn’t know that.  All the other units only signed up for a year at a time.”

“On the first day of the Battle of Fredericksburg, a Union artillery shell bounced over to my position.  It was just about out of steam.  It rolled to a stop about twenty feet away from where six of us stood; the other five ran for cover, but I just stood there.  I knew this was an answer to a prayer.  I had been hoping and praying to die for some time and I knew this was it.”  

“I took a couple of steps toward it and closed my eyes.  I was afraid the flash of it going off might hurt my sight. Ain’t that something?  Here I am walking toward a bomb, hoping it will kill me, but I don’t want the flash to hurt my eyes.”

“Then it exploded.”  

“When I woke up, they told me it killed all my friends who were there with me.  They thought it had killed me too.  It almost did.  The blast broke both my legs, my left in two places.  It broke my left arm, which didn’t heal right, as you can see.  Shrapnel clipped some nerves in my back as well as got stuck in my spine so I can’t stand up the way a man should.  I can’t hear out of my left ear.  I have headaches most days and I’m here to tell you I’m one of the luckiest guys in the world.”

The Marshal didn’t move.  He did not take Stoddard’s hand and he did not change his expression.  Slowly, he placed a small twig between the pages of his book, as a bookmark.  After making sure the twig was in place, he closed the book and almost reverently placed it on the corner of the desk.  

Only then, he allowed himself to respond to the farmer. 

“I get it.  You were a mess when you got home to, where was it, Arkansas?  You were going to become a drunk; you were a drunk.  You wanted to die, and then you met Laura and her love saved you.  Now you are happily married living on a desert farm in the middle of the New Mexico Territory and you want to share your happiness with me.”  

His voice started to get louder, “Don’t you understand?  Did that artillery shell knock every brain you have out of your head?  Your life is not my life!  There is no Laura for me!  Mine died years ago!”

Pain stabbed Sam’s heart when he thought of Patsy and it took his breath away.  He gasped.  It stopped him from speaking, the black shield that had protected him all these years cracked, and he could feel the heat of sorrow that had been held at bay.  His throat tightened and he clinched his teeth.  He forced himself to breathe.  He focused on repairing the shield.  He held up his hand, forbidding Stoddard to speak.  He had to take a moment to repair the damage.

At length, he was able to speak. 

“William Stoddard, my name is Marshal Moses.  I am the marshal of this wide spot in the road called Puebla Fresa.  I will be the marshal for a time longer and then I will move on.  I don’t envy you.  I don’t want your life.  I live the way I live, and you accept me that way, or stay away from me.”

“How much longer are you going be Marshal?”

“I don’t know, a while.”

“Until you move on?”

“Yeah, until I move on.”

“Or until someone kills you?”

Moses’ gaze was level and honest. 

“Yeah, or until someone kills me.”

“Marshal,” the farmer almost pleaded, “I do know you.  I was you.  I know you were in the military, probably Union.  You wear an old Confederate Cavalry hat that you take very good care of, but you sound like you came from the north.  That means the hat is most likely a trophy.  You took it from a soldier you killed.  You think you owe penance because of what you did and that you survived.  You don’t.  We did what we were ordered to do, nothing more.  All of us who survived should live what life we have left full of love and beauty.  We should surround ourselves with those who care for us.  We earned it!”

Moses rose from his desk, and walked to his hat.  He picked it up and brushed a fleck or two of dust from it.  He placed the hat on his head and walked to the rear door of the office.  

Once there, he turned back and faced the farmer. 

“This hat is not a trophy.  This hat is a reminder of a promise I failed to keep.  This hat reminds me every day of a time when I gave my word and did not keep it.  Stoddard, I’m telling you this one last time.  You accept me as I am, or you stay away from me.  I am not you.  What little you know of me or think you know of me is worth nothing.  Your last warning.”

Moses turned and left through the door, calling Pete to go with him.  Alone in the office, Stoddard was at a loss.  He had no more words.  He had hoped going through the motion of a new introduction as one soldier to another would chip away at the wall surrounding the man.  It had failed.  The marshal still had not acknowledged being in the war, but Stoddard was sure that he had.  He did learn one thing.  The marshal had lost someone very dear to him.  Stoddard turned and walked from the room.

Chapter Thirteen

“Marshal!”

Someone was pounding on the office door.

“Marshal!”

Moses woke with a start.  After Stoddard left, he returned to the office.  He really had not gone anywhere; in fact he had nowhere to go at that time.  He simply needed to escape the determined farmer.  From the livery, he watched Stoddard on his wagon and he returned to the office where he locked the doors, closed the wooden shutters and took a nap.  

Law men had been killed by a “stray” bullet through the window or the door while they slept.  Dying was one thing, but he wanted to see it coming.

“Just a minute!”

He got up, rubbed his eyes, picked up his Colt and opened the door.  It was evening, almost dark and one of Ed Wests’ girls was standing there.

“What is it?”

“Ed sent me.  There’s a cowboy getting drunk and he is starting to cause trouble.  Ed said to ask you to come quick.”

“Tell Ed I’ll be right there.”  He sent the girl on her way and closed the door.  He stripped off his shirt, and washed his face, and chest.  He rinsed his hair, and used the worn shirt to dry himself.  He shook out his other shirt from its folds and put it on.  He tucked in the shirt, pulled the braces up over his shoulders, and pinned the star onto his chest.  He strapped the gun belt around his waist, and checked it to make sure all six cylinders were loaded.  As he exited the door, he pulled his hat into place, and flipped his coat up and over his shoulders as he crossed the street.

Ed West was waiting for him outside the saloon, “Evening marshal, thanks for coming.”

“What ya got?”

“A cowboy, riding with one of the herds a few days out.  He says his boss sent him ahead to make sure we have whiskey, food and women enough for them.  He’s drunk and he’s waiving his gun around like it was a toy, claiming he can shoot better than anyone in town.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Twenties, wearing a red shirt.”

Moses turned and started into the saloon, but West called him back, “Marshal, just say the word and I can have four or five guys here to help you in a minute or two.”

“Mr. West,” Moses scowled, “when you have busy nights do I come over here and pour beer for you?”

“No, and that’s not what I meant.”

“You are on the town council who hired me.  Do I look like I am unfit to do my job?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then stay out of my way and let me do it.”

Moses turned and walked into the saloon, drawing his pistol as he did.  He held the gun low and behind his leg as he entered the saloon room.

The first impression Moses had when he entered the room was how the patrons had backed away and many were against the walls.  A young man stood in the middle of the room.  He was wearing the reported red shirt and a Mexican style sombrero that hung by its cords on his back.  His trousers were tucked into his boots and chaps covered them.  Large roweled spurs scraped the floor when he stepped.   In one hand he carried a beer mug and in the other he held an old Army Colt revolver.

The cowboy was unsteady on his feet and stepped several times to maintain his balance.  He was looking at a girl he had ordered to stand in front of the bar.  He was standing sideways to Moses and did not see him enter the room.  He was telling the young lad lady to place a full beer mug on her head.

“I read a story about some guy in England who shot an apple off the head of another guy and didn’t so much as scratch the other guy’s head.  I can do anything some guy in England can do and I’m going to shoot that mug off the head of that pretty girl and not even hurt her.  Who thinks I can’t do it?”

He looked around the room to see if anyone wanted to wager but found no takers.  “That’s right smart of you all.  Ya all ready to see me do this?”  

His voice got louder, “Come on, sweetheart”, he motioned with his revolver, “Put the mug on your head.  I won’t hurt you.”

The girl was crying and her tears spread her makeup down her face. 

“Please mister, I didn’t do nothing to you.  Don’t make me do this.  What if you miss?  I don’t want to die.”

The cowboy started to explain how she had nothing to fear and the marshal walked in between the girl and the cowboy.  The girl was now safe and Moses walked toward the drunken young man.

“The man’s name was William Tell,” Moses instructed as he walked, “and he shot the apple off the head of his son.”

The cowboy focused blurry drunken eyes toward the marshal, “What, who was he?”  

The marshal hit him with the heavy Colt Peacemaker just above the left ear.  The cowboy fell in a heap onto the floor, at the marshal’s feet.

The marshal looked around the room and spotted a young black man standing along the wall, “You Lincolns’ son?”

“Yes, sir, his oldest.  I’m called G W.”

“Well, G W, want to earn a dollar?”

“Yes sir!”

“Pick up this trash and carry him to the jail.”

Moses picked up the cowboys’ revolver and the blacksmith’s son picked up the cowboy.  As they left the room, a round of applause broke out.  G W raised a fist in triumph and shouted “Yeah!” in response to the applause, Moses was embarrassed but he tipped his hat to the room as he followed GW out the door.

The young man unceremoniously dumped the cowboy onto the bunk in the cell, and Pete looked on, not understanding why he had lost his bed.

“What’s the G W for?”

The young man looked at the floor and it was easy to see he was embarrassed about his name.

“My pa named me George Washington Lincoln; first son, first president.”

The Moses shook his head and a small smile appeared, “I like your pa, but he has a strange sense when it comes to names.  You just go by G W and make your own reputation.  You’ll do fine.  Let me ask you to do one more chore.  Go back to the saloon and make sure this man’s horse is not tied at the hitching rail.  If it is, take it to the livery and get it some water and feed.  Charge him for it in the morning.”

G W nodded, “Will do.  Thanks for asking me to help out.”

The marshal tossed his helper a dollar and locked the cell door.

Moses knew he could sleep in a room provided by Ed West since his normal bed was occupied, but he chose to stay in the jail with his prisoner.  He pushed his chair back and rested his feet on the desk.  He settled down into the chair low enough he could rest his head on the back.  Pete looked at him, looked at the cowboy sleeping in his bed and back at Moses.  The marshal smiled, “I know, don’t seem fair does it?  We enforce the law and keep people safe and what thanks do we get?  We get kicked out of our beds.  Come here, old boy.”

The dog responded and Moses scratched his companion’s head for a few minutes; in time, he crossed his arms over his chest and was able to doze off.  He woke up once and saw Pete laying on the floor looking at him.

“It’s gonna be awhile before you forgive me for this, ain’t it?”  He smiled at the dog, but the dog didn’t move, just continued to rest his chin on his front paws and look at the man.  Moses dozed off again. 

Chapter Fourteen

The slivers of sun lancing through the cutouts in the closed shutters indicated it was morning.  The marshal was not happy.  His neck was stiff, his shoulders didn’t want to move and his back hurt.  Worst of all, his head felt as if a herd of horses had stampeded over it and each one had stepped on it twice.  Sleeping in the chair had been dumb.  He looked at Pete and was sure the dog’s expression said, “I told you so.”  He merely grunted at his companion.

The marshal stood, stretched and washed his face.  None of this helped his mood.  The cowboy was still sleeping and Moses left him that way while he and Pete crossed the street to have breakfast at the West House.  Maybe one of Ed West’s meals would brighten his mood.  Ed was known to be a great cook.  

The meal was good but it didn’t help his mood.  The egg he snuck under the table to Pete seemed to make his day, if the wagging of a dog’s tail is a barometer.

The two crossed back to the jail, where the cowboy had not stirred.  Moses opened the cell door and unceremoniously kicked the bed on which the young man slept.  He woke with a start and then slowly tried to gather his senses.  He sat up and allowed his feet to fall off the bed and onto the floor.  He gingerly touched the side of his head where a large bump was bruised and had dried blood on it.  He had yet to open his eyes, but he rubbed them gently and muttered, “What in the world did I run into?”

“My Colt,” the marshal answered.

The cowboy opened his eyes, squinted, and looked at the man standing over him.  It took him a couple of minutes before he recognized who he was talking to, “You ambushed me.  You hit me when I wasn’t looking.”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re not dead.  The way you were waiving that gun around, I could have just as easily shot you.” 

“First you’d had to hit me, which you might not be able to do and second I might have shot you, unless you were going to shoot me in the back, which is what you would probably do, since you snuck up on me anyway.”

The cowboy was fully awake and becoming nasty and insulting.  No doubt his head was hurting from the beer as well as the Colt.  None of this mattered to Moses, who was quickly running out of patience with him.  His first intention last night had been to shoot the cowboy when he raised his gun to shoot at the mug on the girl’s head.  He talked himself out of it as he scanned the crowd.  He was beginning to regret his second guessing.  

“What’s your name cowboy?”

“What if I don’t want to tell you?”

His arrogance, hangover induced or not, was too much.  The marshal slapped him across the face.  The cowboy recoiled back and his head bounced once off the adobe wall.  The groan he uttered indicated the effectiveness of the assault.  The young man tried to protect himself by covering his head with his arms and curling his legs.  

Moses pulled his prisoner upright, “I’ll ask you again, what’s your name?”

The cowboy scowled, gritted his teeth, and fought against the tears that were in his eyes.  A small trickle of blood showed at the corner of his mouth, “My name is Thomas Colton, they call me Tops.”

Moses chuckled, “Tops, what the hell are you tops at?”

“I don’t have to put up with this!”  Colton started to rise from the bed.  The look on the Marshal’s face stopped him before he got upright.

“You are in my jail.  You will put up with whatever I decide.  Sit down.”

He did.

Moses raised a leg and rested his foot on the bed.  He leaned close to the cowboy and the proximity made the young man cower and prepare to defend himself.  Moses did nothing to relieve Colton’s anxiety level. 

“I’m guessing you are scouting us out for your trail boss and herd who are a few days behind you.  You’re supposed to report back to them if this is a good place to stop.  Am I right?”

The cowboy nodded.

“Well, I’m going to let you out of jail and you are going to ride back to your boss and tell him that the town of Puebla Fresa welcomes the entire crew, all except you.”

The look of disappointment on the young mans’ face could only be compared to a child who had just lost his most desired Christmas present.  He started to speak; he wanted to plead his case.  The marshal waved a hand to silence him, “No!  You have had your fun.  You are welcome back on your return from Cheyenne, after you have delivered the cattle, not until.  Now, go get your horse, saddle him up and get back to your boss.  Tell him the town is waiting for the entire crew, except you.” 

Tops stood up and carefully placed his hat on his head, “You’re a hard man marshal.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I don’t suppose you would let me get some coffee and a bite of breakfast before I head back?  I won’t get back to the herd before noon.”

The marshal studied the young man, “Breakfast and then you’re gone.”

“Damn, I’m getting soft in my old age!”

Colton nodded his agreement, “Thanks”.  He gathered his gun from the Marshal, who had unloaded it, and left through the front door.  The marshal waited for a few minutes and then left the office through the door in the back.  Moses liked having the back door.  Very few marshals’ offices had them.  He liked it because he could leave his office unobserved by most of the town.  This door led to a small alley that ran from his office to the livery stable.  It was this route he took most times when he went to work with his Nutmeg. 

Chapter Fifteen

Stoddard and Laura rode into town and the farmer dropped his wife at the dry goods store.  It was their normal routine. Today, like most days she wouldn’t buy anything.  The two ladies sat and drank tea and the matron of the store got a chance to share with Laura all the town gossip since her last visit.   Laura got the chance to be in the company of another woman for a while.  

Stoddard would make his rounds and deliveries then pick his wife up in a little over an hour, and they would head back to the farm.  While driving in, Stoddard had noticed Rosie slightly limping on her right front foot, so he saved the livery stop for the last.  Lincoln could take a look at it.  It was most likely just a shoe coming loose, but he was unable to lift the foot and check it himself.  He stopped Rosie and the wagon just inside the blacksmith shop which was connected to the livery.  

He waved to Lincoln who was working at the forge, “Good morning, got time to look at Rosie’s’ foot?”

“I do, if you’ll give me a minute.”

“Take your time.”

Stoddard hobbled through the livery.  He looked at the various horses stabled there as well as the saddles and other gear.  A small smile creased his face as he rubbed his hand over a saddle that was astride a saddle tree.  He thought back to the days he rode and wished he could ride again.  Sadly, he knew those days were past.  Even if he could muster the strength to climb on a horse, the misalignment of his back and hips would make it too painful for him to stay in the saddle.  No, he realized his riding days were over, but he still enjoyed the smell of the saddle, the smoothness of the leather and the sight of a good horse.

“Come on, if you want it, you gotta come get it.  Oh, aren’t you the pretty one?”

Stoddard stopped, froze in place and listened.  Did he just hear what he thought he did?  He tried to focus his hearing.

“No, I’m not coming over there.  If you want it, you have to come to me; come on now, come give me a kiss.”

Stoddard looked from side to side, “Someone has a girlfriend in the stable!”

“You little flirt.  I know you want it and you got to come to me to get it.”

Images of a young couple teasing each other in the hay flooded Stoddard’s’ mind.  

“It has to be one of Lincoln’s kids?  Maybe G W found him a girlfriend.”  

He knew he shouldn’t but his curiosity overpowered his discretion.  He had to try to sneak a peek at who was there.  He carefully, slowly, circled the pile of hay and a half wall.

“Come on, baby.  Daddy has something for you.  Give daddy a kiss and it’s yours.  You gotta come get it.”

“I know that voice!  That’s the marshal’s voice!  Who’s he got out here in the hay this time of morning?  It’s got to be one of West’s girls!”  

Stoddard stopped but curiosity forced him forward.  He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn’t stop.  The anticipation in his stomach started to churn and his heartbeat increased; he rounded the pile of hay and saw them.

Moses was standing in the middle of a small circular training pen, his arms folded behind his back.  His gun belt hung on a post.  A dark buckskin filly with three white feet trotted around him and nervously approached him from time to time.  The marshal was talking to her and forming his words around the carrot he held in his teeth, “Come and get it.  You know you want it.  Come and give me a kiss and it’s yours.”

Reality clashed with his imagination so hard, Stoddard was stunned.  The little horse was standing in front of the marshal; her front feet wide; her neck outstretched reaching for the carrot.  She wanted the carrot and was risking coming within arm’s reach to get it.  Moses stood motionless and in a quiet and calm voice urged her forward.

“Come on.  You can do this.  You’re a good girl.  Give me a kiss.”

“I’ll be damned!  I thought you had a girl back here.”

At the sound of the strange voice, the little filly spun away from Moses.  She attempted to run and put distance between the two of them and only succeeded in circling the pen.  She kicked a hind leg at him as a display of her independence.

Moses spun to face the intruder!  He ripped the carrot from his mouth and threw it on the ground!  

He was livid, “What the hell are you doing here?  Is there no place I can go without you sneaking up behind me?  I’ve worked for a week to get her to trust me enough to come close and you tear down all that work in a second!  Can’t you leave me alone just once?”

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Stoddard felt terrible, “I stopped in to see Lincoln and heard someone back here.  I didn’t know it was you.”    

“You heard someone back here, so you had to spy on them?  Are you a peeping tom as well as a busybody who can’t leave people alone?”

“I said I was sorry,” a hint of anger crept into Stoddard’s voice, “I spooked your horse, I didn’t kill her.”

“Leave me alone.  You stay away from me.”  Moses turned away from the farmer and waved a hand at him as if he was throwing away trash.

Stoddard searched the marshal for any sign of friendship or forgiveness.  He found none.  His embarrassment was evolving and the anger he felt was causing his hands to shake.  Once again, Laura had been right.  This man was not worth the pain of the investment to try to become friends.  He glared at Moses and then he turned to hobble back to his wagon.  He waited there while Lincoln pulled the loose shoe, then he and the blacksmith agreed to a later time to remount it.  Lincoln didn’t have time this morning and Stoddard was not in the mood to wait.  When Lincoln was finished, Stoddard thanked him, climbed aboard the wagon and clucked Rosie out of the shop.

Moses stood outside the training pen, resting his arms on the poles.  He watched the filly as she continued to lap the enclosure.  Watching her helped his anger subside.  She continued to circle the pen more out of nervous energy than any fear she might have felt.  Trying to work with her now would accomplish nothing, so the Marshal stood on the outside and watched her.

Lincoln walked over to him, wiping the sweat from his arms and shoulders.  He wiped his face and then stood beside the marshal watching the little horse.

“Marshal, you were out of place.  Stoddard didn’t mean anything.  Any man worth his salt would have snuck back there at the sound of the love talk you were making.  I almost snuck back there myself and I knew it was you and that little horse.  Ain’t nobody in this town been through rougher times than me and I tell you I wouldn’t have survived without friends and other people who cared for me.  That’s all Stoddard is trying to do, be a friend and let you know he cares for you.”

Moses ignored the man, watched the filly, and said nothing.  

“You know, you and that filly have a lot in common.  She has a world of promise in her, but until she learns to trust someone, she ain’t gonna do nothing but run around in circles.  That’s all you’re doing, marshal, running around in circles.  You can get mad at me if you want, but I think you know I’m telling you the truth.”

They heard the gunshot.

Moses grabbed his gun belt from the post and buckled it into place as he ran down the alley, through the office and out the front door into the street.  This was a quicker route than running out and around the blacksmith shop and livery.  He knew gunshots first thing in the morning rarely indicate anything good.  

He crossed the street and headed for the West House.  He saw Stoddard’s wagon in front of the dry goods store.  A man lay on the ground at the rear of the wagon.  The man was Stoddard.  About a half a dozen people were standing and kneeling around the wagon and the man, one of them stood up and shouted, “Hurry Marshal, he’s calling for you!”

Moses knelt beside the stricken farmer and noticed Laura sitting on the other side.  She rested her husband’s head in her lap and stroked his hair.  The farmers’ face was ashen and blood was on his shirt where the pocket should be.  The blood spot was getting bigger.

He was on his back and his eyes were closed.  “Is Moses here?” he asked.

“I’m here.”

Stoddard opened his eyes, looked at Moses and offered him a blood stained hand.  The marshal looked at the hand, hesitated and then took it.

“I’m sorry about spooking the filly.  She’s gonna be a good horse.  You take your time with her.”  Stoddard’s voice was raspy and weak.

The marshal said nothing, only nodded.  A conflict was raging inside him.  He had to focus on his shield.  

“I don’t care about this man.  He is nothing to me.”  

He didn’t trust himself to speak.  

“He is just a crippled farmer.”  

His heart was pounding and each beat hammered against his internal shield.  The shield was cracking and he could feel the pain of loss swelling and stirring in his soul.  His eyesight started to blur.  He blinked and swallowed several times.  He forced himself to take long slow deep breaths.

“Repair the shield.  Repair the shield.  No one gets in.”

Stoddard shuttered and managed a small cough.

“I have to ask you a favor.   I want you to look after Laura and the kids.  My boy is growing up fast and he is going to need a strong and steady hand.  Give me your word that you will do that.”

“Stoddard, I’m not the man for that.  I can’t…”

Stoddard grabbed the marshal’s shirt with his other hand, his expression angry and his voice strong and desperate. 

“Damn you!  The only thing I have in this life that is really worth anything is my family.  I have squandered all my opportunities and wasted all my chances.  Laura and the children are the best things, the only things that matter to me and you will take care of them!”

The dying man pulled hard enough on the shirt that he raised himself off the ground, slightly, 

“Swear it to me!  Promise me you will take care of them!”

Moses’s vision was blurred and his eyes burned; his took several small panting breaths, 

“I swear to you; I swear I will care for your family.”  

His voice was scarcely a whisper.  The marshal squeezed his eyes shut and a tear fell onto the face of the dying man.  His breathing was now convulsions and he could not look at the farmer.

Stoddard said nothing, but he relaxed his grip and a slight nod of his head indicated he was satisfied.  

His gaze drifted to Laura, “Anything good in my life started with you.  You are the best part.  I am so sorry, please forgive me.”

“Hush now.  Don’t talk like that.  There’s nothing to forgive.  You rest now and don’t you worry about us.”  

The woman cradled William’s head in her arms and gently rocked his head as she might a sick child.  Softly, she sang a lullaby.   

Stoddard looked at his wife and raised his free hand to her face.  He traced the contour of her jaw and touched her lips.  He lowered his hand.  His eyes glazed and he was gone.  

The marshal fished his handkerchief from his pocket.  He wiped his face and eyes before he stood and looked through the crowd that had grown to about two dozen people. His voice was a whisper and husky as he asked what had happened.  Ed West stepped forward and pointed to a young cowboy sitting on the ground with his face in his hands.  The cowboy was Colton.

“This guy was in my place,” the big barman said and he related what happened, “He had breakfast and was leaving to get his horse.  He stepped out of the saloon just as Mrs. Stoddard came out of Wilkinson’s.  He made some remarks to her right when Stoddard showed up on the wagon.  Stoddard didn’t like what was said, and he got so angry he fell out of the wagon trying to get down.  He got up, hobbled around the wagon and grabbed the cowboy.  The kid shot him.” 

Moses recognized the cowboy and his breathing started the bellows.  As he listened to West, his pain stoked the coals.  His guilt for letting the kid stay in town stirred and poked the fire in his soul.  His anger turned his face into a mask.  He was no longer a marshal, he was death.  He was the avenger for William Stoddard.  He stepped toward the cowboy and lowered his hand to his holster. 

“Colton,” he whispered, now it was his anger that caused his voice to quiver, “you’re a dead man.”  He started toward the cowboy.

  He advanced only two steps when Ed West stepped in front of him.  The big bartender placed his hand on the marshal’s right wrist and stopped him from drawing his weapon.

“Not here marshal, and not now.  People are watching and you need to take William and Mrs. Stoddard home.”

Moses tried to move his hand.  He tried to free his gun.  West was standing close. Their chests were touching and a silent arm wrestling contest over the control of the Colt caused both men to grit their teeth.  Neither would yield.  West whispered in the marshal’s ear, “Not here, not now.”  The silent almost motionless struggle continued.

The larger man wasn’t sure the marshal heard him.  He squeezed the marshal’s wrist until he heard him wince.  The marshal looked up and into the eyes of West.  

“Not here,” the big man repeated, “people are watching you.  You have to take Mrs. Stoddard home.  You have to take William home.  I’ll take the cowboy to jail.  You escort Mrs. Stoddard home.  Take William home.”

West released his grip as soon as he felt the marshal step away from his chest and he saw understanding in his eyes.  He repeated that he would take the offender to jail and Moses nodded. 

Mrs. Wilkinson brought a blanket from the store and several men gently lifted Stoddard onto the wagon.  They placed him on and wrapped him in the blanket Mrs. Wilkinson had volunteered.  Stoddard was too tall to lay in the wagon and his legs dangled past the end of the bed.  

Laura, saw this and spoke up, “No, no, you can’t lay him like that.  He can’t have his legs dangling like that.  It hurts his back.  It hurts him in his lower back, a lot.  Please roll him onto his side so we can fold his legs into the wagon.”  

Without hesitation, the men did as they were asked and by the time they were finished, William looked as if he was curled up taking a nap in the back of the wagon.  The blanket was folded over him.

The marshal helped Laura into the wagon and walked around Rosie to get into the drivers’ seat.  Mrs. Wilkinson was telling Laura not to worry that everyone would be along in about an hour to pay their last respects and all the ladies would pitch in for food.  Laura gave her a small smile and nodded.  Lincoln told Moses he would bring out a horse for him to ride back to town.  The marshal only nodded; his voice still unreliable.  He clucked Rosie and gave her a gentle slap on the rump with the reins.  She took William home for the last time.

Chapter Sixteen

Neither spoke during the ride.  Moses struggled but kept his emotions in check and Laura sat motionless, except for the swaying caused by the wagon.  The marshal took one quick glance at her and saw her eyes were fixed on her house in the distance, but one tear ran down her cheek.  She ignored it; she may not have realized one had gotten loose. The children were in the barn and they ran toward the wagon as they pulled into the yard.  The question, “Why is a strange man driving our wagon?” written on their faces.

“Where’s Pa?” they asked, almost in unison.

“Stay back!  Stop!  Pa has been hurt.  The marshal and I have to take him in the house.  Stay back!” 

The children stopped and watched from about ten feet away.  Moses climbed down, helped Mrs. Stoddard down and went to the rear of the wagon.  He lowered the tailgate and gently worked his arms under Stoddard’s shoulders and knees.  He lifted him and was surprised how light the farmer was.  He carried him into the house and gently laid him on the table after Laura had cleared it.

“What do you want me to do,” he asked, “Do you need help undressing him?”

“No, I can take care of everything in here.  Please go out and keep an eye on the children.”

“What?  What do I tell them?”

“The truth, of course.”

Moses sat down on the chair normally used by Stoddard and looked at the children.  They looked back.  After a few minutes, the little girl came forward and asked, “What happened to my Pa?  Is he hurt bad?” “Yes, I’m afraid he is hurt really bad.  He is dead.”

She pondered his answer for a minute and then followed up, “Is my Pa in Heaven?”

Moses looked at her; how he wished he still had the faith of a child, “If anyone deserves to go to Heaven, it’s your Pa.  It’s not my decision, to decide who gets in, but if it was, your Pa would for sure.”

Again, there was a pause as she digested this new information.  When she spoke, tears filled her eyes and were running down her cheeks by the time she was finished, “I won’t get to talk to him anymore will I?  He won’t hug me anymore will he?”

Moses took a deep breath, he remembered Johanna telling him how she laid awake at night waiting for their father to kiss her goodnight, “I’m sorry, little one, but no, you will not be able to talk to him and he won’t be able to hug you anymore.”

The knowledge of her loss overwhelmed her and she turned and ran to the barn; her crying becoming more earnest as she ran.

The boy stepped forward.  His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet, but he was trying not to cry in front of a stranger.  He was trying to focus on his anger.  This was a tactic Moses knew well.  He looked hard at Moses, “How’d he die?”

“A man in town shot him.”

“You’re the marshal in town, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop it?  Why’d you let someone shoot my pa?”

“I didn’t let him shoot your Pa, I wasn’t there.”

“Isn’t it your job to protect people?”

“Yes …”

“Why didn’t you protect my Pa?  It’s your fault he’s dead!”

Moses looked at the boy and remembered the events of the morning.  He remembered allowing an angry cowboy with a hangover to stay, when he knew he should have run him out of town.  He thought about his decision to work with Nutmeg when he should have been paying more attention to what the cowboy was doing.  He thought about the argument he had with Stoddard over nothing and the crippled farmer storming out to his death.  If he had been less angry, friendlier and Stoddard had not left when he did, he would still be alive.  

He was not able to continue to look at the boy so he looked away. 

“You may be right.  If I had done things differently, if I had done things better, your Pa might still be alive.  You might be right boy.”

Laura’s voice barked from inside the house, “William!  It is not the marshal’s fault!”

She came out of the house and looked at her son, “How many people live in town?”

“I dunno, lots”

“That’s right, lots!  How many marshals are there?”

“Just one.”

“Then how can he be everywhere at the same time?”

“I dunno.”

“The marshal does the best that he can, but people have to be willing to defend themselves.  Your Pa was defending me.  A man said some things that weren’t nice and your Pa was defending me.  The man shot him.  It wasn’t the marshal’s fault.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  The boy’s voice sounded subdued but not convinced.

Laura turned her attention to Moses, “Marshal Sam Moses, would you come into the house with me, please?”  She turned and returned to the inside.

The boy, with wide eyes, looked at the marshal and whispered, “You’re gonna get a what-for.”  His whisper reflected the awe and admiration he held for his mother that she would address a marshal so.

“How do you know and what is a what-for?”  Sam was standing and looked at the boy.

“She called you by all your names; that means she’s mad and when she gets mad, she gives out the what-fors.”

“I see.”

The boy leaned closer to the marshal and offered advice, “Just say yes, ma’am a lot.”

Sam nodded his gratitude for the advice and entered the house.

Laura was standing next to the table facing the doorway with her hands on her hips.  Her face was flushed and her eyes were red from crying.  Her hair, which was normally pulled back and over her shoulder, had come loose and now many of them stuck to the sides of her face; held there by the glisten of sweat.  Her anger was easy to see.

“Marshal Moses, that boy out there just lost his father about four hours ago.  I heard you tell his father that you would pick up and take care of this family.  A big part of that will be demonstrating to that boy how to grow up and become a good man.  If he thinks you are the reason his father is dead, just how well do you think he will respect you?”  

Moses stood silent with his hat in his hands and his head bowed.  Laura wasn’t finished.

“I don’t know what guilt you carry about what happened to William, and I don’t care!  Don’t share it with my son!  That boy has got to look up to you.  William thought you were a good man.  I hope he was right.  This family is counting on you.  Now, would you please excuse me and send the children in to see their father one last time before everyone from town gets here?”

Remembering the advice given him by the boy, he simply said, “Yes, ma’am” and left the house.

  Before long a caravan of buggies, wagons and horses being ridden could be seen headed toward the little farm,  it appeared most of the people in town were coming out to pay their respects.  Moses felt out of place.  He felt more like a stranger then on his first day in town.  If he had a ride, he would have left but his horse had not arrived.  

He did the next best thing, he hid.  He hid in the barn for a while.  He hid on the far side of the house.  Wherever the people gathered to talk about and reminisce about William Stoddard, he went somewhere else.  Still, even as he tried to be invisible, he overheard snatches of conversations, all of them fondly remembering the farmer.

He was standing at the corral when the son found him, “I told you Mom was going to give you the what-for.”

He turned and looked at the boy, a boy who now was faced with being a man, “You overheard part of that?”

“I overheard it all,” the boy grinned.

“She let me have it pretty good,”

“Is it true what she said?  Are you going to help us?”

“I promised your Pa I’d help you all, yes.  But I’m going to need your help.  I’ve never been a farmer and I have my work in town.  Can I count on you to help me?”

“You want me to help you?  You betcha!  I’ll help ya!  Just tell me what to do!”

“I’m going to count on you then.”  The two shook hands with the boy standing a little taller.  They walked together to the grave that had been dug close to the side of the house.  The burial service was simple, straightforward and well done.  William would have approved.

  True to his word, Lincoln brought the marshal’s horse and as soon as he could, Moses left the gathering.  The ride back to town was not a long one, but it seemed long as it was dominated by him thinking of his promise to the dead farmer.

“What have you done?  I’m not a farmer.  I can’t do this.  Why did he force me to make such a stupid promise?  I won’t do this!  I can’t do this.”

Once he got to town, he extended the ride by rubbing down his horse, feeding it an extra ration of oats and changing the water in its pen.  He even cleaned the stall; he knew he was trying to put off the inevitable.  

Sam entered his office and found the cowboy right where Ed West said he would be, in the jail cell.  The cowboy was sitting on the bunk and he watched the marshal come in through the door.  On the street, sitting there with his face in his hands, he had appeared to be upset and maybe remorseful.  Any such feelings had dissipated with his hangover,

“He shouldn’t have touched me.  People have got to learn not to touch me and what was the deal with him being married to the woman?  I could see it if he was her father, but her husband?  That makes no sense.  She must be blind.”

He continued to ramble, talking nonsense to burn up the anxiety he felt, as if killing her father instead of her husband would make things somehow different.

The Marshal listened to Colton’s tirade and allowed it to focus his feelings of vague fear, animosity and overall uneasiness into a raging fire of anger and hate.  Without speaking, the marshal took off his gun belt, hung it up and opened the cell door.  

He spent the next ten minutes beating Colton.  When he was finished, the cowboy was bloodied and battered.  The skin around his eyes was starting to turn purple and he had a loose tooth.  The cowboy’s lips were ripped, torn and bleeding from the slapping Moses had given them.   His ribs were bruised and his stomach hurt.  Through it all, the marshal never said a word.  Once he was finished, he came out of the cell and locked the door behind him.  He turned back to the cowboy, who was on the floor curled up, much like the way Stoddard was carried home. 

“That felt so good, I might do it every day.”    

The marshal picked up and buckled on his gun belt.  He carefully placed his hat on his head and called Pete to join him.  The town was mostly deserted so he walked over to the livery to work with Nutmeg.

Once in the deserted livery he watched the filly circle the training pen.  He thought about what the blacksmith had said to him.  

“Am I no better than an unbroken colt?  Am I just running to run and not getting anywhere?  It doesn’t matter!  I am so tired of this life.  All I want; all I ask for is for it to end.  Is that really too much?”

Unable to focus on the filly, he walked the main street, with Pete at his side and returned to his chair in front of the office.  He was there when the town’s people started returning.  One after another they drove by him, only two waved, Ed West and the Lincoln clan.

Chapter Seventeen

The following morning, Laura stopped by, as she was delivering milk.  He was at his desk and would have ignored her delivery had she not come into the office.  She looked at the cowboy and from outside the cell examined his beaten and swollen face.  By the way he moved, she surmised his ribs and stomach probably looked much the same.  She gave no indication as to whether or not she approved.

“Marshal, do you have a few minutes?”

“Good morning, of course I do.  Would you like to sit down?”  He indicated a chair, which she only glanced at.

“No, thank you.  I’d rather stand.  I was up most of the night thinking about the promise William forced from you.  I’m here to release you from it and thank you for your kind offer.”

“I’m free!  I’m free of taking care of this.  I don’t have to deal with this.”

Moses rose from his chair and walked to the rear doorway.  By the time he got there, the initial feelings euphoria had passed.  Each step he took toward the door, as if he was walking out on her, tempered the feelings of elation.  By the time he reached the door, he could almost feel the intense glare of Stoddard on him, “You gave me your word!”

“Damn!”

He turned back to the woman, “I’m not sure you can release me from an oath I gave your husband.”

“Marshal, I’m not sure I want you around my children and I don’t think you know anything about dairy farming.  It’s going to be difficult enough to do all that needs to be done without having you there, only because you feel an obligation to my dead husband.  If you are going to be part of our lives, it has to be because you want to be a part of us.”

He closed the distance between them and the intensity of his gaze grew as the distance between them lessened,

“Mrs. Stoddard, I gave your husband my word.  I intend to keep it.  I do not deny that I am a sorry substitute for a William Stoddard.  I do not know farming and I do not know dairy cows.  I don’t know how to raise children.  I have none of my own and honestly, I have never wanted any.  None of that matters, I gave my word, and even if I wanted to be released from it, the only person who could do that is dead.”

He was within two feet of her, by the time he stopped speaking.  He had wanted to impress her with how earnest he was about the obligation, but as he got closer to her he found himself distracted by her beauty.  At the distance of two feet, she was intoxicating and the scent of her soap added to the distraction.

“Marshal, you don’t understand.  I thank you for your intentions, but intentions aren’t enough.  You are violent and some say mean.  I don’t want my children brought up with that influence.”

He looked at her and blinked in an effort to re-focus on the discussion.  She was right and both of them knew it.  He was violent and sometimes mean.  He started to speak but, through the window, noticed three men getting on horses in front of Ed West’s saloon and riding toward his office.  Only cowboys would climb aboard a horse to ride thirty feet.

“Mrs. Stoddard, I am afraid we will have to finish this conversation another time.  I have to direct my attention elsewhere for the moment.”

“Marshal, you don’t feel me and my children are even important enough to even talk about?”

Her anger colored her words, but he was not affected by them.

His thoughts were now on the three approaching riders, “It’s not that, those men outside are here for Colton.  There might be trouble.  You need to leave, now!”

His escort of the lady to the door was a controlled push, and she crossed paths with the three cowboys at the threshold.  The three stopped long enough to tip their hats and acknowledge her.  Moses took this brief amount of time to return to the interior of the office and take a position sitting in his chair behind the desk.  He was there when the three men entered.

While they were similar in their dress, there were considerable differences in the men.  The tallest of the men stood in the center of the row they formed in front of the desk.  His dirty blonde hair hung to his collar, and an oversized moustache drooped over his mouth.  Try as he might, Moses could not see the man’s lips.  His skin was tanned and the number of creases that ran over his cheeks and neck made him look older than he was.  He was a man more comfortable out of doors than in.  He was also a man used to giving orders.

To his right was a slightly shorter cowboy who had the look of a gunfighter.  He had a week’s worth of whisker growth and he too was tanned and brown.  His expression was calm and he appeared to be thinking of something else.  Appearing to be distracted made him look all the more dangerous.  Every part of him seemed to be covered in dust, except his holster.  His holster was well taken care of, oiled and rubbed regularly.  The gun he carried was a heavy Colt like Sam’s.  It was not a gun to shoot snakes.   

The marshal recognized one of his own and the two of them shared a slight nod of recognition.  

On the tall man’s left was an even shorter man who was Mexican.  Unlike the others he wore a sombrero and a vest.  His dark eyes hid any emotion he might have felt and he was a man who rode for the brand.  Moses could see he was all fight.  

The tall man spoke:

“My name is Baskin and I am part owner and the trail boss of a herd of cattle just outside of town.  The man here on my right is named Geeze, and the Mex on my left is Julio.  We sent a man to town a couple of days ago and he hasn’t returned.  We’re looking for him.”

The Mexican, Julio, saw Colton in the cell and spoke softly to his boss. 

“I think we have found him.”

The tall man looked at Colton and he took in the bruises and the swollen, blackened eyes. 

“Why is he there and who did that to him?”                                                        Baskin’s voice became hard.  Someone had beaten one of his men.

“He killed a man,” Moses stated.  “He killed a crippled unarmed man.  You met the widow as you came in here.”

“You mean the woman at the door?”

“That would be her.”  Moses nodded.

“Townspeople get to him before you did?”

“No, I gave him the beating.”  Moses’s voice remained calm.

“Why?”  Baskin was becoming angry.

“Because I wanted to shoot him, but the law won’t let me do that and frankly, I don’t like him.”

Baskin looked hard at the marshal, sitting in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach.

“What are you going to do with him?”  Baskin’s question was a challenge.

“Save him for the Circuit Judge.  He should be here in about five or six weeks.  Then we’ll try him and hang him.”

“Seems you already got him convicted.”

“Yeah, he was hung over, angry and he insulted the woman you saw.  When her husband overheard and called him on it, he shot him.  Shot him dead!  The husband was unarmed.  Yeah, I’d say I have him convicted.”

“I need you to let him out.”  It was a command.

The smile Moses felt flickered in his eyes for a moment, but never made onto his lips. 

  “Today might be the day.  Can the three of you get the job done?”

Moses looked at each of the three men; surely one of them was good enough.  Baskin was tough, no doubt, but he wasn’t a gunman.  Geeze was a gunman and the little Mexican was tough to the bone.  Fighting the Mexican would be like chewing on rawhide, an all-day affair. 

“My name is Sam Moses, I am the marshal of this little burg and I don’t take kindly to anyone telling me how to do my job.  You might be the boss of a bunch of cattle, but you don’t walk in here and tell me how to run my town.”

“Marshal,” the trail boss interjected, “I appreciate your zeal and your courage.  You can’t win here.  I’m no slouch with a gun, but I’ve brought two of the toughest men in Texas with me and Texas is a big state.  Let my man go, into my custody and I will bring him back for trial after we get the cattle to Wyoming.”

Moses allowed his eyes to examine the three again.  Geeze was a gunman, no doubt, and the Mexican would take a lot of killing.  Baskin would be tough as nails.  

He focused his gaze to the trail boss, “I know tough men when I see them.  I have a question for you, who’s gonna drive the herd once you’re dead?  You, Mr. Baskin, I will kill.”  

“You’d be willing to die to keep one no account cow puncher in jail?”

“That comes with the badge.  Are you willing to die to try to get him out?”

The two men had nothing more to say.  They had talked themselves into a corner and there was only two ways out.  One would have to back-peddle, not likely, or the shooting started.  

Moses was calm, serene, and relaxed.  Today would be the day and he was ready for peace.  

He looked at the trail boss and awaited his move.  He quoted Shakespeare.

“To die, to sleep – To sleep – perchance to dream.  Ay, there’s the rub.  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.”

Sam slowly rose to his feet.

“Señor Marshal, you ever work in Sugar Tree, Texas?”

Julio’s question was unexpected and Moses had to focus on the task at hand and not become distracted. 

“Yeah, several years ago, for a short time.  The folks there didn’t like me.”

“You were there about ten years ago?”

“Yeah, ten maybe twelve, something like that.”

Julio turned to his boss, “Señor Hack, you know me.  You tell me to ride, I ride.  You tell me to shoot, I shoot.  You tell me to fight, I fight.  But, not today, I no fight this man.  I step aside.”

The little man turned back to Moses, “Señor Marshal, via con Dios.” He tipped his hat, turned and walked out the door.

The departure of the pint-sized fighter surprised and unsettled Baskin, he had never known the man to back down.  In fact out of the two men with him, he’d rather have the Mexican than Geeze.  

What did he see in this lawman that caused him to back away from a fight?  What was it about the marshal that spooked him?

“Well, that changes things,” Baskin thought aloud, “but I’d say the odds are still in my favor.”

“Odds haven’t changed a bit, Mr. Baskin.  If we go to shootin, you’re going to die.  I don’t care how many men you have with you.” 

“What did you do to spook my Mexican?”

“I have no idea why he walked out, but I will tell you one thing, he wasn’t spooked.  I know tough men, Mr. Baskin and that man is leather through and through.” 

Suddenly, the name the Mexican called Baskin registered in his mind, “Did he call you Hack, like in hackamore, the headgear for a horse?”

“Yeah, that’s my name Hack Baskin.”

“You ride a tall buckskin stud with three white legs and a blaze face?”

“Yeah, but not this year, this year he’s home in Texas where I hope he’s making me lots of babies.”

Sam couldn’t hold back the smile that crept across his face.  He shook his head when he thought about the situation.  This was the man he’d been waiting for, and he’d almost killed him without knowing it.

“Mr. Baskin, you if want to get to shootin at each other, let’s get it over with.  If, on the other hand you don’t mind waiting, I’ve got something I’d like to show you.” Moses grinned at the lanky cowboy, “When you get down to it, does it matter if we kill each other now, or if we kill each other later?”

The trail boss smiled and was relieved.  Looking at Moses he knew he was looking at his death. 

“I can wait to die.  What about you Geeze, are you in a hurry to get to your maker?”

Geeze shrugged, “I’d just as soon wait.  I ain’t even had a beer yet and it’s been a long drive.”

It was settled.  There would be no shooting, at least not yet and Baskin smiled as the tension and fear left him, “Pull in your horns, Geeze.  Show me what you got marshal.”

Colton spoke up from the cell, he had been counting on getting out and seeing the man who beat him so viciously killed, “Hey, what about me?”

Baskin turned back, “You killed an unarmed man?  You can wait where you’re at.  You’ll be there when we get back.”  

The three men stepped through the doorway.  On the boardwalk they saw Julio standing by the horses, smoking a hand rolled cigarette.  Sitting on a bench, just down from the office door, was Laura.  Baskin stepped over to her and removed his hat.

“Ma’am, my name is Hack Baskin and I am part owner and the trail boss for the “Box 7”.  I’m the outfit, the cowboy that killed your man works for.  I’d like to take up a collection from the crew for you and your young’uns, but the truth of it is we have no coin money, to speak of.  I have enough to buy the boys a bath, a home cooked meal and a couple of drinks, but we won’t have any money, until we get the herd sold.” 

Laura was gracious, “It’s alright, Mr. Baskin, I understand.”

“No, ma’am you don’t,” the trail boss continued, “What I’m trying to say is we’d like to cut out a couple of beeves, a couple of steers, for you.  One will give you all the meat you and your family will need for the coming year and the other you can have cut up to sale or barter.”

“You are right, Mr. Baskin, I didn’t understand.  Your offer is very generous and welcome.  I accept with gratitude.  You are a kind man.”

The tall cowboy’s ruddy red face changed a shade, “Oh, don’t be telling that lie about me, but the “Box 7” tries to do what is right.  I’m sorry about the loss of your husband and the father of your young’uns.”

The trail boss turned to the two cowboys, “Guys, get on your horses and head back to camp.  Draw cards to see who comes to town first and who gets to ride night hawk.  Geeze, you got a good eye for quality beef.  I want whoever comes to town to bring two of our best with them.  Tell them to put them in the livery until this lady figures out what to do with them.  Have them check in with the marshal when they get here.”

He looked at Moses, “Do they need to check their guns while in town?”

“Not if they know how to keep them in their holsters.”

Baskin turned back to his riders, “Tell the boys to be on their best behavior.  I’m already down three riders.  I can’t afford to lose anymore.”

Geeze and Julio were untying their horses, when Geeze asked, “Boss, the Mex and I are already here.  You mind if we have just one beer before we head back.  It’s been a long drive.  We’ll just have one.”

Baskin looked at his men, they were two of his best, “Just one and then get back.  Let’s get done what we need to and each of us have a good time.  Tell the bartender to open a tab in my name.”

The marshal stepped over close to Laura and almost whispered to her, “I will be with Mr. Baskin for about another twenty to thirty minutes, I imagine.  If it won’t make you uncomfortable, wait for me at the eatery in the West House.  They have some of the best pies there.  You have some pie and I will join you as soon as I’m finished.  Tell whoever serves you it is on me.”  Silently, she nodded her head.

He motioned for the trail boss to follow him and the two men started down the street in the direction of the livery.  Geeze turned to Julio, “Ya know Mex, I’m glad we didn’t have to shoot with that man.  There go two tough old range bulls.  That marshal would have taken some killing.”

As the cowboys from the box 7 adjusted their saddles and prepared to mount their horses, Laura couldn’t help herself.  She approached them, “Excuse me.”  The two men stopped and removed their hats, “Yes, ma’am?”

She timidly smiled at them and then spoke to Julio, “I’m sorry, I overheard what you said in there.  What do you know about our marshal?  Please tell me.”

The cowboy stepped back onto the boardwalk but even on level footing, Laura was still taller.

“About ten years ago, I was just a boy who lived in Sugar Tree.  Sugar Tree is a town no bigger than this one and maybe smaller.  I worked in a cantina.  I swept and mopped the floors.  I wiped down the bar.  I did the work the bartender didn’t want to.  

There was a young girl there; a couple of years older than me.  She was so very pretty and she served the drinks and the meals and sometimes she would sing for the customers.”  His eyes took on a faraway gaze, “All the customers liked it when she would sing and dance.”

“One night, two gringo cowboys came in and they were drunk.  They started telling the girl to sing and dance for them.  She told them no.  They grabbed her and started pushing her back and forth between them and they started tearing at her clothes.  I tried to stop them but I was just a boy and they hit me and sent me flying across the room.”

The little man stopped and shook his head at the memory he was recounting, “I sat on the floor, crying like a child while they took their knives to her.  They told her if she would not sing for them they would scar her so no one would want her to sing.”

“They held her over a table.  They cut her across her face and forehead, they cut her neck.  They ripped open her shirt and cut her breasts.  She was crying and begging them not to hurt her.  They didn’t care; she was just a Mexican girl.”

“Then, this gringo deputy marshal walked in and he told them to let her go.  They told him to mind his own business and he was foolish to get killed over a Mexican whore.  He told them no matter what happened to him, he would kill both of them that night.   They threw her to the floor and turned around.  They exchanged some insults and threats and then the deputy said a verse.  The two cowboys went for their guns, and he shot both of them so fast it sounded like only one gun shot.  It was four.  He shot each of them twice.”

“I will never forget his words. 

“To die, to sleep – to sleep – perchance to dream.  Ay, there’s the rub.  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.” 

“When he told Señor Hack those same words I knew he was the same man.  He had to be the same man.  I will not fight that man.”  

Having done what was asked of him, Julio climbed onto his horse.

Geeze looked at his riding partner and scowled, “Oh come on, you ain’t afraid of that man are you?”

“Afraid, no, but the girl he helped that night was my sister.”

Laura asked, “Your sister?  Is she doing ok now?”

He looked back at Laura, “No ma’am she hanged herself a few days later.  Life for Mexican girls is tough, for a scarred one, it’s very bad.”

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” Laura’s words of comfort were not heard as the two cowboys spun their horses and headed for the West House.

Chapter Eighteen

“Mr. Lincoln Lincoln, well I’ll be!”  Baskin was genuinely happy to see the blacksmith and it sounded in his voice.

“Mr. Baskin!”  The blacksmith looked at the tall cowboy and then the marshal.  “I remember who owns that stud!”

Moses couldn’t help but smile, “Yeah, Lincoln, we figured it out.”

The cowboy laughed, “Almost had to kill each other to get it done, but get it done we did.”

“Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Lincoln.  We’re going to be here a couple of days; rest the herd and the men.  I’ve got about eight or ten horses that have feet that could use some looking after if you can work them in.”

“Of course I can work them in.  Folks here know the herds get first service when it comes to me.”

Moses was anxious to show his filly to Baskin and he ushered him to her pen.  The little horse’s head came up when she saw the men lean on the fence and she immediately went to trotting and galloping around the circular enclosure.  She knew she was being looked at and she couldn’t help but show off.  She ran and she kicked a rear leg; she even did a little crow hop buck.  Finally she stopped on the far side of the corral, faced the men and shook her head.  It was as if she said, “This is me!  What you got to top it?”

“Ain’t she something?”  The pride in Moses’s voice made the trail boss smile.

“She is indeed.”  He looked at the little horse and then he looked at the marshal.  His affection for her was clearly written on his face.  Baskin shook his head and had to smile thinking that only a few minutes before they were threatening to kill each other.

“What ya going to do with her?”

“Well, that’s what I need to talk to you about.  It seems, according to Lincoln, that your buckskin stud is her papa.  When you left him here a couple of years ago, he got in with a red sorrel mare and you’re looking at the result.  I traded two horses to Lincoln for his share of her, but by rights, you have first claim.”

The trail boss stroked his moustache for several moments before he spoke, “You ain’t gonna like what I say here, and truth be told, I don’t like saying it, but I think I’m gonna have the little horse put down.  I don’t see that I have a choice.”

Moses almost exploded, “Like hell you will!”

“She’s my horse, marshal.  I can do with her as I damn well please.”

“I own half of her and I won’t let you put her down.  Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Hold on, I never said I wanted too.  I’m in a bind here.”

“How so?”

“Me and some other fellows down Texas way got to thinking about the quality of our horse stock.  You know they are moving in a new type of beef cow, something from England that’s called a Herefordshire or something like that.  Well, I’ve seen a few of them and they make so much better eating than our long horns there’s just no comparison.  Between the expanding railroads and the relocating of the cattle ranches there won’t be any more cattle drives soon.  Won’t need them and without the drive, one of those English beeves just is better all the way around.  I have to tell you, I won’t miss the cattle drives, getting too old and too stiff to spend twenty hours a day in a saddle.”

“What, in the hell, does the story about some beef cow from England got to do with you wanting to kill that little horse?  Don’t play games with me!” 

The trail boss enjoyed the discomfort of the marshal.  Served him right for threatening to kill him, “Hold on, I never said I wanted to kill her, I said I might have too.”

“So explain to me why.”

“Well, like I said, me and some of the boys down Texas way got to thinking and talking that if selecting the breeding stock for cattle can produce and a better beef cow, why can’t the same be done with horses?  If you wanted all your horses to be, say, extra-long legged so you could race them, could you breed two long legged horses and get a long legged colt?  Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“I’m still not following you.”

“The job of the cowboy is changing, but he will always need a horse.  The cowboy and the horse are a team.  In a lot of ways, the horse is the more important member of the team.  Let’s say I take my best hand, let’s say, Julio, and put him on a know-nothing horse, I have a useless worker for the day.  Julio spends all day fighting with his horse and not looking after the cattle.  If I take my worst hand and put him on a hard working intelligent horse, I have a pretty fair hand for the day.  You follow?  The quality of the horse is usually more important than the quality of the cowboy.”

“You all are starting a breeding program to try to develop better horses?”

“That’s it exactly!  You remember I said my stud is in Texas and I said hopefully making me babies?”

“Yeah, and?”

“We selected, very carefully, the mares he’s being bred too.  We’re keeping track of all the horses born and how they turn out.  We’re trying to build a better horse than just what happens by accident on the range.”

He pointed to the little filly, “This beauty, and she is a beauty, is just an accident.  She could just as well of been ugly or just a knot-head.”

“But she’s not!  She’s…”

“I know, but she was uncontrolled.  Her mother could be half mule for all we know.”

“You can’t be serious!  You’re a horseman and you would willfully destroy her?”

“There’s really only one way I can see that I could let her live.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I’d sell her to you, for say, a hundred dollars.”

“Done!”

“Wait, I’m not finished.  The rest of it is she would have to become part of our program.  You’d have to find out all you could about Lincoln’s mare and the mare’s pedigree.  We have to track what caused this little horse to be like she is.”

“Ok.”

“Also, you have to keep notes about how she develops.  Is she easy to train, is she smart, and is she hard-headed; again, everything, good, bad, and in between.  You can’t just write what’s good about her just because you like her.”

“I see that.  I can do that.”  The marshal was nodding his head, the excitement shone in his eyes.

“Can you?  The last thing is you’re a marshal.  Marshals tend to get killed.  You have to list by name the person who will get the horse if you get yourself killed and someone has to take over for you.”

“You have done this?”

“I’ve told you about three or four times, me and some boys down Texas way, we’re doing something that will outlive us all.  We and you have to look at it as something for horsemen who come after us.”

Moses was silent.  How could he agree to follow this horse through her lifetime of say, twenty years, making notes and filing reports while at the same time wanting to die every day and on some days trying to get killed?  The trail boss noticed his silence and respected it, “It’s a big job you’re thinking about taking on and it’s not just this one horse.  If you breed her, you have to collect the information on the stud and you have to track her offspring.  If it’s too much for you, I understand.”

“I never said it was too much for me!”

“You never said anything.  I’m just trying to let you off the hook, if off you want.  Think about it, I’ll be in town for a couple of days.”  The trail boss turned and started out of the livery, when he spotted Lincoln across the way and called to him, “Lincoln, I’ll have those horses brought in first thing tomorrow if that works for you.  If you need them this evening, let me know now, so I can get them here.”

“Tomorrow will be just fine.”

“Good!  I’m going to go get a drink, a bath and dinner!”  The tall cowboy left the livery with a purpose.

Moses was left alone, leaning on the fence, watching the little filly.  She was facing him and she threw her head in the air and bounced it a few times.  She pawed at the dirt with her front hoof.  She seemed to be saying, “Well, what ya gonna do, big man, step up or just climb in here with me and run around in circles?”

Chapter Nineteen

Laura was finishing her pie when he and Pete entered the Eatery.  Moses waved off the waitress who headed his way with an offer of the menu, “Just coffee please.”  Pete went under the table in search of crumbs.

He sat down at the table, across from Laura, “Well, how was the pie?  Is it not what I said, some of the best?”

“Yes, it was very good.  Thank you.”

Moses was happy they were no longer in the Marshal’s Office.  When he was in there, he tended to think and act like a Marshal.  He wanted this meeting to be just Sam and Laura. 

“Mrs. Stoddard, first, let me say I am sorry we were interrupted.  Second, let me say I agree with you that taken as a whole, I do not have many talents that can be of use to you.  I will not and cannot be only a replacement William Stoddard to you and the children.  I do not know what it is, but I have to find my own worth that I bring into this situation.  Having said all that let me finish up with this.  I have only broken my word once in my life and it has bothered me for almost twenty years.  I gave your husband my word that I would look after you and the children.  I do not know why he wanted me, but he did and I told him I would.”

Laura studied him for several breaths, “So even if I don’t want you to involve yourself, you still will?  I have no say in this matter?”

He sipped his coffee, “Mrs. Stoddard, about thirty minutes ago, another man and I were at the point of pulling guns and killing each other.  We worked our way out of that situation because we both have an interest in a horse.”

She raised her eyebrows at the oddness of the situation and he continued, “I can’t help but think that you and I can work our way out of this impasse, as well.”

Laura fidgeted in her seat; the Marshal sipped his coffee and waited.  Regardless of what he had said, he knew that where they went from here was up to her.  If she rejected his help, there would little, if anything, he could do.

Her change in focus and topic surprised him.

“Why do you do the things that you do?  Why did you stand up to those two men to save a Mexican girl?  Why did you face three men to retrieve other people’s money?  Why did you face three men today over keeping this Colton in jail?”

He looked at her and wondered what to tell her.  Finally, he said, “I’m a lawman.  It’s my job.”  He added a shrug of his shoulders to the reply.

“No, no that is not your job.  The other night, over the money and again today you could have had a dozen armed men to help you, to back you up, with little more than a whistle.”

He was becoming uncomfortable with the conversation and he did not know how to change the direction other than to abruptly end it.  He didn’t want to do that.

“Maybe, the way I do things is a little different than what most people are used to.”  Again, he added a shoulder shrug.

Laura wouldn’t let go, “William said you are trying to die, that you are trying to get someone to kill you.  Is that true?”

There it was, out in the open.  Twice now in an hour, he had been challenged about his attitude on life.  He fought the urge to just get angry and intimidate her with his bluster.  He sat back in his chair and looked at her.  Did she deserve an answer?  He lowered his hands to his legs and slowly rubbed the length of his thighs as he tried to buy time.  Pete, who had been under the table to catch anything dropped, licked the back of his left hand as if to say, “Yeah, I’d like to know the answer to that one to.” 

Did she deserve an answer?  He focused his gaze on her, “For a long time, death is all I’ve had to look forward to.”

He expected to hear a lecture.  He expected to hear a sermon.  

“I see”, she said quietly and sipped her coffee.  

She lowered her cup and looked at the man in front of her.  She studied his face and mostly his eyes.  They are the gateway to the soul, are they not?  He felt her answer a few moments before she decided on it.

“I could use some help with the business side of things.”

Her voice was almost a whisper.

“How so,” he asked.

“I’m not very good with numbers.  I never went very far in school and William used to always keep the books.”

Moses was relieved, and he smiled, “That is something I can help you with.  How about we meet twice a month and go over the books?  Bring them in the next time you’re in town and let me have a chance to go over them and get familiar with them.”

“You won’t tell anyone about this will you?”

Her embarrassment was obvious and easy to see.

“Of course not!  And don’t feel bad about it.  There are lots of businesses that have people go over their books, they’re called accountants.”

   Her relief was evident in her smile and Moses was again, taken by how truly pretty the woman was.  

“No doubt about it, Stoddard had been a lucky man.”  

He returned her smile, “I’ll be your accountant and as your accountant, I have to promise not to tell anyone about the books.”

He walked Laura to her wagon and helped her aboard.  He noticed a small smile on her face.  He didn’t know it but Laura was thinking about how nice it was to be helped into the wagon.  It was one of those things beyond William’s physical capabilities and she had done without.  She realized how much she had missed such a small thing.  

As she gathered the reins, she turned and looked at him, “Julio told me what you did for his sister.  I think that was very brave.”

The compliment caught him off guard and color rose out from under his collar and climbed its way to his hat.  “Marshal, I’ve embarrassed you!”  She slapped the horse with the reins and started home.  He stood in the street until she was at the end of the street.

Chapter Twenty 

He was in the office, reading when Ed West walked in with the dinner for Colton.

“How’s it going, Marshal?”

“Fine.  How’s things at your place?  The Box 7 boys behaving?”

“Yeah, so far no trouble.  Seems to be a good crew.”

“What do you know about their trail boss?”

“Hack?  Ain’t that a name?  Hack, just between you and me, I heard his real name is Harold or something like that.”

“If I had been born a Harold I think I would have changed it.  Think of the fights he must have been in as a boy?”

The two men were enjoying the laugh when West offered, “You know, it’s funny you asking about him, he was just now asking me about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a couple of his boys were talking about how you and he almost got into it, so I told him I was glad the two of you didn’t.  I said I’d rather serve him beer and take his money than notify his next of kin.”

The marshal sobered, “I wish you hadn’t said that.  There was no need to tell him that.”

West sobered in return, “I’m sorry, I surely didn’t mean anything by it, but marshal, you’ve been here a few weeks now and the only thing I know about you is your one of the best men with a gun I’ve ever seen.  You never come to my place to visit.  You never speak to anyone unless you have to.  I understand you have your way of doing things and that’s fine, but I’ve never known a man who lives in a town and is more of a hermit than you.  If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry.”

“No offense taken.  I can’t fault a man for speaking his mind.”  

The image of the little filly bouncing her head at him skipped through his mind, “what’s it gonna be big boy?”

“Ed, I promised Stoddard I’d help his family.”

“I was there; I heard it.”

“Anyway, they need some manual labor done, hauling hay and fixing fence and even if I knew how, I can’t spend all day out on their farm.  Where am I gonna find someone to help out with those kind of chores that they can afford to pay?”

Colton was finishing his dinner and he spoke up, “Is this slop the best you got in this town?”  The tray his meal had been served on was sitting on a stool on the outside of the cell.  He was sitting on the side of his bed and he had to reach through the cell bars for each fork or spoon full of food.  The marshal could have opened the cell door and let him use his bed as a table, but he didn’t like the young man so he continued to choose the inconvenient way for him.

Colton had finished eating and very little was left on the plate or in the bowl.  Both men were looking at him and he enjoyed the attention, “Hey, I asked a question, is this slop the best you got in this town?”  He flipped the tray over, off the stool and on to the floor.  The three men watched the dishes and silverware rattle and bounce on the floor.

When the dishes stopped dancing, the marshal stood up and walked to the cell, Colton stood up and backed away and out of arms reach, “You come in here again and it won’t be like before.”

The marshal motioned for him to come forward, “Come here.  Come here, I’m not going to come in there, but you are coming over here.  Come up here, I want to tell you something just between you and me.”

The cowboy took a couple of steps closer.  Colton knew the marshal would thrash him again, if he came inside the cell.  The young man decided his only safety was to bluster and try not to look fearful.    The marshal crooked his fingers, motioning Colton forward.  Timidly, the cowboy took another few steps.  When he was within arm’s reach, Moses snaked his arm into the cell, between the bars, and jerked the young man to him.  

Holding Colton against the bars, Moses turned and pointed at West, “See that man there?”

The cowboy nodded.

“He made that meal for you and I hope you liked it.  As long as you are in this jail you will get nothing but bread and water from here on out.  You need to learn some manners?”

The marshal pushed the cowboy away from the bars but kept his hold of the shirt. Once at arm’s length, he jerked Colton forward into the cell bars thumping the cowboy’s head and face.  Moses let go of him and Colton swayed momentarily, and fell to a sitting position on the floor.  Colton’s face had hit the bars where a crossbar was located.  A red raised welt in the shape of an “H” would mark his face for a few days.

West chuckled at the cowboy sitting, dizzy on the floor and suggested, “You know marshal, he needs to get out and burn up some of his energy.  Then he would behave better.”

Sam smiled at the barkeep’s comment, but then the comment evolved into an idea and the idea grew into a plan.  As this process happened, Sam’s smiled faded and he lost focus on Ed.  His smile slowly changed into a scowl as he visualized the plan in action.

Ed looked at Sam and wondered what was he thinking about, “Sam?  What’s going on?  What are you cooking up?”

Sam refocused and his smile returned, “Ed, save me and Pete a back room for tonight and the next couple of nights.  I’m tired of sleeping in this chair.”

The bartender beamed.  It was the first time the marshal had ever asked him to lend him a room, “My pleasure!”

“I’ll be coming in the back door.  I don’t want any of his friends to know I’m not in the office.  Being drunk, they may get it in their heads to come rescue him.  Don’t know why, seems like they’d be lucky to be rid of him.”

“What about him?” West motioned to the dizzy cowboy sitting on the floor of his cell,   “Are you going to leave him by himself?”

“No, Lincoln has a grown boy who will do just fine watching him for the night.  I’ll talk to GW.”

Moses snuck in the back door and up the back steps to the room Ed had prepared.  Pete was excited and busy sniffing each part of the room.  The marshal agreed the room smelled different than the office, “Don’t you go marking anything here.” He said to the dog.  Pete looked at him and leaned his head to one side, as if he understood.

That night was the first night the marshal had gotten a full nights’ sleep since arriving in town.  He dreamt of a filly horse that was bouncing her head and teasing him, but it was Laura Stoddard’s voice who asked him, “What are you going to do big man, run in circles?”

Chapter Twenty One

The following morning, Sam awoke feeling a sense of purpose and having a list of tasks to complete.  No time for sitting and watching the day pass.  He stripped off his clothes and washed himself as best he could using the pitcher of water, bowl and towel provided.  It felt good to be clean.  He dressed and took a few minutes to brush and shine his boots; then he and Pete went downstairs to breakfast.

“Good morning, Marshal.  Good morning, Pete,” the morning waiter was also the evening piano player, was bent over and cleaning a table..  Sam couldn’t remember, but he thought his name was Stevens.

“Good morning, Stevens isn’t it?” he replied.  

The waiter stopped wiping a table and looked to see if he had been correct, the marshal had never spoken a morning greeting to him before.  Satisfied that the man was, indeed the marshal, the waiter, smiling all the way, came to take his order.

“Yes sir, Stevens it is.  What will it be this morning?”

  The musician liked the idea of the marshal wanting to know his name.

“Well Stevens, Pete and I just had a great night’s sleep and we both have pretty good appetites this morning.  I’d like coffee, a short stack with a slice of ham and two eggs, if you got them.  Pete will have two eggs; make his scrambled with diced ham and a bowl of milk.”

“How would you like your eggs?”

“Make mine, awww, just make mine scrambled too.”

“Coming right up.”

Stevens turned to move away, but the Moses called him back, “Is there a gunsmith in this town?”

“Yes sir, right down the street.  He’s a Swede I think, and his name is Johansen.”

Moses nodded, he sipped the hot beverage and scratched Pete’s ear until their breakfast arrived and then both dug in.

After the meal they walked to the gunsmith and had to knock on the door. The man was not open for business at this time of day.

“Johansen?”

“Yes?”

“I’m told you are a gunsmith?”

“I am.”

“Good, I need a side by side shotgun, 16 gauge and I need about one third of the stock sawed off and roughly six inches off the barrels.”

Johansen looked at the marshal and a slow smile grew on his face, “you going to go hunting only doves that fly close to the ground?”

The marshal didn’t return the smile and his gaze stayed serious, “The dove this gun is being built for is larger than your usual dove and he doesn’t fly at all.  I’ll be back in an hour to get the gun.  Ok?” 

“Yes, Ok.  It will be ready.”

From the gunsmith, the Moses walked to the livery and blacksmith shop.  He didn’t have to get Lincoln up; he was already sweating, and working on one of the horses Baskin had dropped off.  The horses would be leaving first thing tomorrow and he still had four more to do.  The rhythmic sounding of the smiths hammer greeted him as he approached.  

“Good morning Lincoln.”

The smith stopped, dropped the horse’s hoof he was working on, stood straight to stretch his back and returned the greeting, “Morning, Marshal.”

“Lincoln, I know you are busy, but I need to ask you to do a job for me that can’t wait.”

“How long will it take?”

“Less than an hour and it should be simple, I think.”

“Alright, what do you need?”

“I need you to attach a ten-pound weight of iron to about ten feet of chain and when I bring Colton over here, I need you to attach it to his leg with a cuff.”

The smith had worn chains when he was a young man in Kentucky.  He found the request repulsive, even if it was for a murderer.  Moses saw the hesitancy in Lincoln’s eyes.

“Lincoln, Laura Stoddard needs help fixing some fence and getting in the hay.  Colton is sitting in the jail doing nothing.  I can’t spend all day out on the Stoddard place watching him, so I need a way to slow him down, if he decides to run.”

“Marshal, I understand what you’re doing and I even agree with your plan, but you’re asking me to put chains on another man.  I don’t like that, no matter what he has done.”

“I understand.”

“You ever wear chains, Marshal?”

“No, Lincoln, I have not.”

“Then you don’t understand.”

“Will you do what I ask?”

Reluctantly, the smith nodded.

  “I’ll bring Colton over this morning when I see the Stoddard wagon come into town.  We’ll put the chains on him then and I will tell Laura or William, whoever delivers today, to meet me over here when their done.  Have G W saddle my horse for me.   I’ll tag along with the wagon out to the Stoddard place and put this plan into action.”

Moses retraced his steps back to the gunsmith, where he picked up the shotgun.  He examined the gun and was impressed with the work Johansen had done.  The gunsmith even covered the cut down stock with a leather sleeve what had wool on the inside.

“I don’t know who the gun is for; I figure either a woman or a young man, but whoever will thank me for the little bit of padding.”

“You did a good job.  What do I owe you?”

The marshal settled the bill, bought fifty shells and carried the gun to his office.

“Whoa! What ya got there?”  Colton was sitting on his bunk without his shirt or his boots on; he came to the cell bars to look at the shotgun.  “Present for me?”

Moses looked at the cowboy and a small smile crept onto his mouth but did not make it to his eyes, “In a way, it is.  I hope you enjoy it?  How was your breakfast?”

“My breakfast was crap and you know it!  You can’t do what you’re doing!    All they brought me was bread and water!  I think the bread was moldy.”

“Well, if it was, better giving it to you than a paying customer.  Get your shirt and boots on, we’re taking a walk.”

As the cowboy dressed, Moses stepped to the doorway and looked down the street.  He saw the Stoddard wagon slowly making its way to its appointments.  He stepped out onto the boardwalk and waved to young William who responded by heading the wagon to the marshal’s side of the street.  When the wagon got close, Moses instructed the boy to meet him at the blacksmith shop after he had completed his rounds.  William delivered the milk for the marshal, petted Pete and said he’d be there.

Colton complained!  Oh, did he complain!  He yelled and cursed, he begged and he threatened.  To a person passing by and only hearing the ruckus, they undoubtedly would have thought the marshal and the blacksmith were cutting off the cowboy’s leg, not attaching ten feet of chain to it.  Attaching ten feet of chain, and on the other end, Lincoln had cold-welded a three foot piece of railroad rail he had found somewhere in his odd collection of metal pieces.   By the time the process was over, Colton sat on the ground glaring at the marshal and absently trying to pull the metal cuff from his ankle.  The marshal watched the cowboy with disgust and Lincoln hid whatever emotion he was feeling.  He simply said, “Marshal, you got what you wanted.”  He walked away without asking for payment.

William arrived and he held on to the questions he had as the marshal ordered Colton into the back of the wagon.  He told William to drive the wagon past the river, but he wanted him to stop before he got to the farm.  Moses stepped onto his horse and followed the wagon.

Just about a quarter of a mile past the ford in the river, was the turn off to the small dry canyon that ran back into the mesa.  It was out of the way and for the most part, ignored.  The head of the canyon closed off into a blind ending.  Into that canyon was where the Marshal had William steer the wagon.  The trail was rough and the wagon rocked and jumped from one rock to the next.  Colton, riding in the back was bounced from one side of the bed to the other, but he managed to hang on and stay in the wagon.  

The marshal called out, “Good enough!” and William brought the wagon to a halt.  Moses swung down from his horse and ordered Colton out.  He directed the cowboy to stand about twenty feet from the wagon.

“William, come over here.”

The marshal moved away from the wagon bringing the new shotgun and a leather bag of shells.  He fished two out of the bag and dropped the bag onto the ground.  He fed the two shells into the gun.  William watched, standing about ten feet away. 

The marshal looked at Colton, “Hey!  You!  Move over to your right.  Stand about six or seven feet from that cedar tree.”

“What are you going to do?”  There was concern in his voice, but no fear, yet.

The marshal motioned to William, “Come over here, next to me, I want to show you something.”  Silently, William complied, his eyes were big and he wondered what was happening, just as Colton was.

Moses leveled the shotgun at the midsection of Colton, “William, this is the man who killed your father.  Out here, there’s no one around, we can take our revenge.  We can kill him or we can wound him and leave him for the coyotes and crows.  There’s no one around that will care or, I expect, miss him.”

William’s eyes grew larger but he remained silent.  He had imagined killing this man.  He had daydreamed about it.  He had prayed for this opportunity and now, the marshal was delivering his father’s killer into his hands.

The marshal motioned to Colton, “Move a little closer to that cedar.”  The cowboy slid his feet in the direction indicated, only pride kept his fear at bay as he desperately wanted to beg for his life.  The marshal looked at Colton with a level gaze moved the aim of the shotgun to the cedar tree and pulled the trigger.  The shot from the shell ripped into the tree sending bark and wood chips in all directions.  Some of them hit Colton and he screamed thinking he had been shot.  He fell to the ground and starting checking himself for wounds.  Finding he was not injured, his fear turned to anger and he started yelling at the marshal from his sitting position.

“Colton.  Colton! I have forty-nine more chances to kill you.  Shut up!”

Colton did.  He sat on the ground and glared at the marshal.  His hands shook, and he was so afraid he struggled to control his bladder.

Moses turned to the boy beside him, “Are you familiar with shotguns?”

The boy nodded, “Yes, a little, my Pa and I used to hunt birds with them.”

“Good, so you understand the shot pattern?”

“I know there’s a lot of BBs that fly out when you pull the trigger.”

The marshal couldn’t help but smile, “That’s good enough, except in this case, they’re not BBs, they’re small round lead balls.  Each ball is about the size of the end of your little finger.  Each shell has seven or eight of them in it.”

He handed William a shot shell to look at.  William took it and held it carefully.

“These shells are not for hunting birds, these are for hunting men, or in this case, one man.”  The marshal looked at Colton who was still on the ground.

“Stand up Colton!  I’m going to give the boy here a chance to shoot you.”

“What?  You can’t do that!”

“Get up!  If you stay there, I will shoot you myself.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Colton got to his feet, the fear on his face plain for all to see.  The marshal replaced the shell he had fired and he handed the gun to William,

“Boy, you asked me once who was responsible for the death of your father, here’s the man.  I have a plan that will help you and your Ma, but before we talk about it, I figure you should have a chance to settle the score.”

The boy looked at the shotgun in his hands and at the cowboy standing in front of him.  He was contemplating shooting the man.

“William, if you shoot him, I give you my word I will not tell a soul.  But, are you ready to live with it?  If you kill him here, like this, you will be as low as he is.  He shot your dad when your dad was unarmed.  He didn’t give him a chance to defend himself.  Are you ready to do the same to him?”

William didn’t speak; he looked from the shotgun to the killer of his father.  The cowboy started to beg him not to shoot, “Please, boy, it was an accident.  I didn’t mean to kill your Pa.  He come up behind me and grabbed me.  I was just having some fun with your Ma and I didn’t know she was your Ma!”

The cowboy dropped to his knees and begged the boy not to shoot him.  William was not impressed.  

He turned to the marshal and held out the shotgun, “As much as I would like to, I can’t shoot him like this.  I’m not like you and I’m not like him.  I can’t kill like that.”

The marshal took the shotgun, “William, you’re a good boy, your Pa would be proud of you.  For the record, I’ve never killed a man who didn’t have the means to protect himself.  I’ve never killed an unarmed man.  Let’s go on out to the farm.”

The marshal picked up the bag of shells and motioned William to get the wagon.  He looked at Colton on the ground and with disgust in his voice told the cowboy to get up and get in.  William was replaying in his head what the marshal had said and hesitated.  The marshal told him again, “Come on boy!  Get your wagon headed to the barn!”  

William jumped to comply.

Chapter Twenty Two

“I will not have this man on my farm!  Are you out of your mind?”

Laura was beside herself and could not believe the marshal had her son bring the killer of his father to their home.  Her fury forced her to pace back and forth along the length of the wagon as if she was trying to block it from entering the yard.  The marshal was off his horse, trying to keep in step with her and explain his plan at the same time.  William sat on the wagon seat, holding Rosie still and smiling.  He couldn’t help it; his mother had the better of the marshal, again.  She was almost giving him another what-for.

“Mrs. Stoddard, listen to me.  Stop pacing and listen to me.  I know this is not usual but it’s the best I could come up with.”  The woman didn’t break stride.

“Mrs. Stoddard, stop!”  The bark of his voice caused the woman to freeze.  William sat a little taller and Colton ducked lower in the wagon.  

“I’m trying to keep my word to your husband!  I told you I am not a farmer and even if I wanted to learn how to be a farmer, I have a town to look after!  You can’t afford a hired hand and this man is just sitting in the jail cell.”

The marshal walked to the wagon and grabbed hold of the chain around Colton’s’ leg.  He pulled the chain causing Colton to tumble out of the wagon and fall.  He sat in the dirt as if he was getting used to it.  

The marshal pointed at the cowboy, “You are coming out here to do the work you stopped Mr. Stoddard from doing!  I don’t care if you don’t know how to do the chore or not, you will learn!  William will see to it!  You will do top notch work that William and Mrs. Stoddard approves of.  Do you understand me?”

The cowboy vigorously nodded his head, but said nothing.

William was sitting tall and happy, the marshal had used his name several times while telling Colton how things were going to be, now, the lawman turned to him and spoke directly.

“William, I am leaving you this shotgun and the shells.  If Colton tries to run, or if he tries to harm any of you, shoot him down like a rabid dog.  Don’t shoot him if he refuses to work.  If he won’t work, don’t feed him and don’t let him have water.  His chain is ten feet long, keep that distance between you.  Show him what needs to be done and then have him do it.”

Moses walked to Laura, and spoke to her in a low voice, “I know this is awkward. If I knew of another way to do this, I would be about it.  I can’t think of anything else.  I need, and I’m asking for your help and support with this.  If you absolutely will not let him on your place, I will take him back to town.”

He stood and silently looked at the widow.

She returned his gaze, “You mean if I said no, you would take him away?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“I don’t remember a time when I had the final say.   I’ll give you a chance, he can stay.”

The marshal nodded his “thanks,” and moved to the back of the wagon to talk to Colton.  He motioned for the cowboy to stand up.

“You are going to be staying out here during the day.  You do not go into the house, for any reason.  If you stay overnight some time, you stay in the barn.  Understand?”

The cowboy nodded his head and the marshal stepped closer to him.  His parting words were just between the two of them, “If you run, I will hunt you down and kill you.  You have forty pounds of iron strapped to your leg, you can’t outrun me.  If you hurt any of these people, in even the slightest manner, I will skin you alive and leave you in that canyon we were at this morning.  You will die slowly and you will die in a great deal of pain.  Understand me?”   

The cowboy nodded.  The look in the marshal’s eyes, the threat in his voice and the promise in his words scared Colton to the point he gave up trying to control his bladder and a tiny wet spot appeared on his pants.  

Moses walked to his horse, gathered the reins and stepped into the saddle; he turned around to look at the family one more time before heading back to town. 

“Mrs. Stoddard, you might want to think about you delivering the milk for the next little bit.  I’d feel better knowing William is here with his shotgun all the time.”

Laura nodded, and she smiled her gratitude that the marshal made an effort to brag about William.  The boy was being tasked with a man sized job and he needed all the support and confidence he could muster.  The marshal nudged his horse to an easy trot and headed back to town.

Chapter Twenty Three

Cakes Morton was a cook.  More specifically, he was a camp cook.  If you needed to feed two dozen hungry hardworking men in a limited amount of time and all you had was a campfire, a couple of Dutch ovens and a pot, Cakes was your man.  Like many people who settled in the west, no one was sure where Cakes came from, but along the way, the man learned how to cook.  He was fiftyish with a bald head that he kept covered with a red bandana tied in a three corner style.  He had gray eyes that looked a little hazy and it was sometimes hard to tell what he was looking at.  Cakes knew almost every trail north from Texas to Wyoming or Kansas and he had memorized most of the watering holes.  He was a quick judge of distance and was as talented as any trail boss in determining how far a herd could travel in a day.  His coffee was always strong, hot and never burnt.  He could feed cowboys breakfast, break camp and move ahead far enough and fast enough to have lunch waiting for them at noon.  

He was a cook good enough that men were willing to take less pay knowing he was on the drive. 

When Hack Baskin stepped into the West House Saloon he saw Cakes leaning on the bar talking to Ed West.  Hack stepped over to join them.

“Drink Mr. Baskin?”

“Sure, Ed, beer and call me Hack.  I’ve spent too much money in here to be called Mister.”

“Hack, it is.”  Ed drew the beer and placed it before the trail boss.

“Last night?”

“Yeah, these beeves won’t drive themselves to Cheyenne.  Kind of wished they would.  Make sure I get an accurate tally of what the Box 7 owes you.”  

Ed nodded.

“Seen the marshal?”

“No, he doesn’t come in here much.  I’ve invited him, but he comes in just enough to keep an eye on things and never enough to socialize.  Cakes and I were just talking about him.”

The trail boss turned to the cook, “You know Moses?”

He cook was in mid-swallow, which he finished and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, “Know him, hell, I was around when he was growing up out here.  I knew him almost twenty years ago.  I thought he was crazy back then.”

“Crazy, how do you mean?”

“I was cooking for a mining outfit just outside of Winnemucca Nevada.  It was a pretty good strike and the ore was heavy with silver.  The miners would dig it out of the ground and load it onto wagons.  Then a driver and a guard would take the ore down the mountain into town where the silver would be extracted from the ore.”

“How does that relate to Moses?”

“I’m coming to that.  Hold your horses.  Moses was one of the guards and it was gun work.  Every two bit thief knew of the strike and all of them thought it would be easy picking to kill a driver and a guard, and then drive off with a wagon full of riches.  Once in a safe place, all they had to do, so they thought, was pick up the rocks and shake the silver out of them. 

The company had so many drivers and guards killed they almost had to shut down.  Then Moses shows up.  He becomes a guard but instead of riding the wagon, like the others, he rides his horse and he scouts the area ahead of the wagon.  He ambushes the ambushers.  He puts the word out that if anyone kills his driver, he will hunt them down and kill them slow.  He kills about half a dozen men in the rocks hiding, waiting for the wagon to show up and suddenly the holdups stop. 

I never saw it but I was told, by men who claim to have been there, that Moses would walk into a holdup crew like it was Sunday morning and he was out for a stroll.  He would give them a chance to leave and when they didn’t he would stand there and go to shooting with them.  Some said he’d quote poetry or scripture before he’d kill ‘em.  

People started calling him “Crazy Moses” or “Suicide Sam”.  Everyone thought he was trying to get himself killed.  He never got touched by a bullet, not so much as a hole in his hat.  Wore the same hat he wears now.”

Hack didn’t say anything, but he scowled as he drank his beer.  Ed shared the story of the Marshal and the shooting of the three men in his place the first couple of days Moses had been there.

“Hack, the men were talking about you facing Moses over letting Colton out of jail.  I know you are a tough man, but boss, you count yourself lucky.  There ain’t too many men who get that close to shooting with Moses and walk away.  He might carry a badge this week, but that man is a killer and he’s as dangerous as a wounded mountain lion.”

The trial boss drank his beer and thought for a moment then he turned to his cook, “You ever know him to ride the midnight trail?”

Cakes was surprised at the question, and it showed on his face, “With a name like Moses?  He’s no outlaw.  No, he’s fought in range wars so depending on which side you were on you could consider him an outlaw but he’s never stolen a dime that I’ve heard tell of.”  The cook grinned, “He’ll kill you and not think twice about it, but he won’t take your money.”

Hack looked up at West, “Have any idea where he might be?”

“I was told he took your man out to work on the Stoddard place, but I think he’s back.  He most likely will be in his office or in the livery playing with that little filly colt.”

“He took Colton out to the Stoddard place?”

“Yup, had Lincoln put a chain on his leg, and took him out there to do the work too heavy for Mrs. Stoddard or William the boy.”

Hack was confused, “What’s to keep Colton from running off?”

Cakes laughed just in the middle of a swallow of beer.  Some of the beer shot out of his nose.  As he wiped his face, he explained, “Boss, you really don’t know this man.  I would rather be trailed by an entire tribe of Apaches than Sam Moses.  If Colton hurts one of those folks or if he runs off, he’ll never be seen again.  Moses will hunt him down, cut him into little pieces and feed him to the crows.”

Baskin looked at his cook, “You don’t think much of the man?”

“I didn’t say that.  I said he is a killer, and he is.  I said I don’t want him on my back trail and I don’t.  It seems he has taken this widow and her family under his wing and I pity anyone who harmed to them now that the Law of Moses is protecting them.  Remember, he put out the word not to hurt his driver?  Remember the story Julio told about his sister?  Don’t mess with the people Sam Moses likes.”

“That being the case, I’m glad he likes me.  Here’s to Sam Moses.”  Ed West raised his mug and the two others joined him.

“I need to talk to him.”  Hack emptied his mug, placed it on the bar and turned to his cook, “Don’t drink all the beer in town.  The men will want breakfast tomorrow.”

“Have you ever known me not to have a good breakfast ready for the boys?”

“No, I have not.  See you later.  He waived to Ed and reminded him, “Have my bill ready.”

Chapter Twenty Four

Hack moved away from the bar and walked to the Marshal’s Office.  He was troubled.  He wanted to leave the little filly with the marshal.  He was sure he would take great care of her as long as he was alive.  That was the problem, how long can a man who makes his living with a gun, especially one as reckless as Moses, expect to live?  It seemed to Hack the marshal had used up all his luck years ago.  

He stepped up onto the boardwalk and called into the darkened office, “Marshal?  Marshal, are you in there?”

“Yeah, come on in and close the door.”  Hack did and as the door closed, the marshal lit a lantern.  Sam motioned Hack to a chair and the men sat across from each other.

“Want some coffee?”

Hack shook his head, “No, I need to talk to you about the filly.  We leave first thing in the morning.”

“Ok, what’s on your mind?”

“Well, and hear me out, I have been down to the livery a few times and watched her.  I talked to Lincoln and I can get the information I need about his mare, so I have both sides of her breeding.”

“You are planning on taking her back to Texas?”

Hack held up a hand, “Let me finish.  That is one choice, yes, but I like the idea of you keeping her.  I believe the more men we get involved with this project, the better.  The problem is I don’t know if you are the right man.”

The marshal’s eyes narrowed but he kept silent.

“I don’t mean you wouldn’t take good care of her, you’d take great care of her and I think you are a good hand with horses.  The problem is what happens when you’re killed?”

Both men were silent for a few minutes and the air in the room seemed to get heavy.  

Finally, Hack spoke in a low and almost soothing voice, “I don’t know you and I don’t know what makes you the way you are.  I hear stories about you and Julio’s sister and I think you are one hell of a man.  Then I hear you were once called “Crazy Moses” because you were so reckless when it came to shootings.  I’m told you are trying to kill yourself, if you can only find a man better with a gun than you.  I don’t know if that’s true but I’m not sure I want to trust you with one of our initial breeding stock if it is.  Tell me you’re not trying to get yourself killed and the filly is yours.”

Again, the two men sat in silence and looked at each other.  It was Sam who looked away first, “I can’t.  I can’t tell you that.”

Again, for the third time, silence, the cattleman got up and helped himself to a cup of coffee.  It was Hack who broke the silence, “I hear you took Colton out to the Stoddard place.”

“That’s true, he can earn his keep.”

“He’s not much of a hand, but I still wish you could see it to let him come north with me.  I’m short three hands now for one reason or another and it’s wearing my men pretty thin.”

“I can’t let him go.  Do you have anything against riding with a black man?”

“No, some of my best hands over the years have been black.  Why?”

“Lincoln’s got a boy, sixteen, I think, named G W.  He’s almost as big as most cowponies, and he’s green as can be, but he might be a man for you.”

A smile slowly crept over Hack’s face, “How much experience you gotta have to ride drag?”

Riding drag is the dirtiest, dustiest job on a trail drive.  It is the last position in the formation of cowboys that trail after the heard.  It is not only dirty, it stinks.  Unless the wind is blowing from a sideways direction, the smell of the heard and all their droppings follow the cattle.  That is where G W would be because that is where all new cowboys begin.

Hack’s smile was infectious and soon it was on Moses’s face as well.  Soon, both men were laughing.

When their mirth was over, Hack got up to leave.

“That’s your decision on the filly?” Sam asked.

“No, no it’s not.  I don’t know what is driving you, but I know this, for a man hell-bent on getting himself killed, you do some strange things.  Why would you take in a stray dog?  What do you think is going to happen to him if you get killed?  You think the town is going to take care of him in your memory?  Hardly, most people here don’t like you that much.  

“Second, since a dog is not a problem, now you want to take care of a horse and not just any horse, you want a horse that has been identified as a horse in a special breeding program.  A program that will outlast you and me and all of us involved by many life times, if we do it right.  Lastly, you give a dying man your word you will take care of his family.  You looked at the age of that little girl yet?  What is she five?  How many years is your word good for?  You gonna take care of her until next week, when another trail crew shows up and they gun you down?  You might think you want to die, but there seems to be a part of you that wants, very much, to live.  You need to sort it out.  Now, blow out the lamp, so I can open the door and you don’t have to worry about someone shooting you from the dark.”

Sam blew out the lamp and Hack opened the door, he was not foolish enough to step into the door frame, someone might think he was the Marshal.  He stood next to the door, in the dark and from the dark his soft southern voice decreed his decision, 

“I’m leaving the pony with you while I finish the drive to Wyoming.  I have to come back this way to deliver the gathering to Mrs. Stoddard.  You decide who you want to be while I’m gone.  If you want the pony, she’s yours, but you gotta earn her.”

“What do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, but you might want to think about another line of work so you can be around to see what that filly can become.”  

“Oh, one last thing, I know you call the girl Nutmeg, but the horses in this program have to be listed and recorded.  She needs to have a unique name.  Every third horse might be called Nutmeg.”

“Like what?  What is the name of your stud horse?”

“His listed name is Box 7’s Big Boy, but I just call him B.”

The marshal thought for a few moments and then nodded his head, “Ok.  I’ll list my pony as Big Boy’s Teeny Bee.  How’s that?”

In the dark, the trial boss smiled, “I like it.  I like it a lot.  See you in a few weeks.”

Sam heard the boots walk across the floor and the shadow of the man exit.  He was alone, except for Pete.  He sat in the dark for a long time, scratching the dog’s ears.

Chapter Twenty Five

The following morning, Sam was in with the filly trying to coax her into approaching him to get the carrot.  She was willing to come close enough that her out-stretched neck and nose was within inches of the reward.  She would come no closer.

It was the custom to throw a rope around a horse’s neck and tie them to a center post.  Then the trainer would walk down the rope and gently approach the animal.  It was a method that mixed overpowering with kindness.  It was effective and efficient.  If a trainer had several horses to train, he might have no other option.  Sam only had one and he had time.  He wanted to teach the little horse to want to be trained.  He wanted to try to develop a kernel of thought in her head that made her want to be part of a team with her rider.  He felt patience mixed with love and reward might be what it takes.  

Sam was so focused on the little horse that he did not hear Lincoln come up behind him and lean on the poles of the correl.  The little horse saw him and she flicked her ears in his direction, though she didn’t run away from Sam.  It was progress.  

Sam turned and saw the blacksmith.  He slowly backed away from the filly, telling her it was time to take a break.  She stood and watched him retreat.  Sam smiled when she didn’t circle the pen.

“Morning, Lincoln.”

“Morning, Marshal.  I believe you are making headway with her.  She sure is something, ain’t she?”

“That she is.  I hope I’m trainer enough to get all she has to give out of her.”

“I’m glad to see you and Hack was able to come to an agreement.”

“Let’s leave that be for the time being, I’m not sure it is settled yet, but I have her until he gets back from Cheyenne.”

“Speaking of which, I want to thank you for thinking of my boy going to work for him.”

“Did G W take the job?”

“He left this morning.”  The pride in the father’s voice was clear.  He chuckled, “I imagine about now, he’s as white as you are riding drag with all that dust covering him.”

“He’s a good boy, Lincoln, he’ll do you proud.”

“I know he will, now I just have to put up with the Missus missing him for the next four or five weeks.  I just wanted to stop by and tell you thank you for thinking of him.”

“You’re more than welcome,” as the marshal answered he noticed Laura and Ruby pulling their wagon to a stop in front of the blacksmith shop door.  They got out and walked over to where the two men stood.

“Good morning Mrs. Stoddard, good morning Ruby.”  Both men greeted the mother and daughter and they both responded.

“How’s Colton working out?  Is there any problems?”

Laura smiled before answering, “No, there are no problems and things are fine so far.  William has really been a help.  He took to heart what you said and he is really doing a good job.”

“He’s not too rough on Colton?”

“No, I don’t think so, but he has him working hard.  Today they are bringing in hay.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

The lady was uncomfortable and nervous, “Well, yes, if you have a minute.”

“Of course.”

Lincoln said his parting words and moved away so the two could talk.  Moses leaned over and climbed through the poles of the pen.  He was standing next to Laura.

“I sent a telegram telling William’s and my family what happened and when I delivered milk this morning, Mrs. Wilkinson gave me this.  It was mailed to me and was at her store for general delivery.”

The marshal was confused, “OK, what is it?”

Laura held a brown envelope in her hand.  It was thick and the writing on it was done by trained hand.  The package was unopened.  Laura held it as if it might break.  

“That’s just it, I don’t know.  I was hoping you would read it and tell me what it said.”

“Laura, it’s from your family, I don’t think I should be the first to read it.  I think you should read it and then if you want me to I will.”

“I might not understand what it means.  It’s a pretty thick envelope.  I’d like you to read it first.”

The marshal was patient but confused, “Of course if there is something you don’t understand I will help, but it’s more likely personal information about your families that you may not want an outsider to know.  I really think you should read it first.”

Laura turned away, “Sam, I need you to read it.  I can’t.”

Moses didn’t understand her, “Sure you can.  Don’t be timid.  If there are words you don’t understand, I’ll help.”

“No, I can’t read any of the words.”

“You can’t?  What do you mean you can’t?  Can’t what?”

“I can’t read.”

“What do you mean, you can’t read?  Of course you can, everyone can read.”

She turned back to face him.   He saw the tears welling in her eyes and she was shaking trying to maintain her composure, “Well, not everybody.  I can’t!  I never got the schooling.  I can’t read.”  

The shield cracked and he felt sorry for her.  The feeling was so unused, it was as if it was new and his voice was husky when he spoke, “I’m sorry.  I said that without thinking.   Come over here, where the light is a little better and let’s read it together.”

They moved away from the pen about six steps to where the morning sun was shining in through the open door.  Sam opened, unfolded the letter and read it to Laura.

The letter was from a lawyer in St. Joseph, Missouri.  It seemed that sometime after the war ended, Laura’s folks and family had moved north from the hills of Arkansas to the plains of Missouri.  Once there, Laura’s father had claimed almost one hundred and fifty acres of land and had built a homestead that consisted of a cabin, a barn and several corrals.  The lawyer described the area as rolling hills covered with green prairie grass and walnut trees.  The acreage had two streams that flowed through it and a larger river that bordered the property line.  The farm was just over a mile from the town of Hope, Missouri.

The lawyer was contacting Laura to advise her the family had been the victim of an outbreak of measles and all had died.  The farm was currently abandoned and would remain so for another six months while the lawyer was trying to notify any surviving family members.  If no one came forward to claim the land by the deadline, the land would be claimed by the county for auction and be disposed of.

Sam stopped reading and looked at Laura.  Her face was a mask as she looked at the ground in front of her.  She absently chewed on her lower lip as she stared, but wasn’t seeing.  Sam felt the urge to hold her, and he fought it by distracting himself by flipping through the other pages which contained a                                legal description of the land and told Laura how to contact the representative.

“I’m sorry Laura.  I don’t know what else to say.”

“Marshal, thank you, it is so strange, I don’t know who is alive in my family and who is not.”

Her voice was distant; her mind in Missouri trying to imagine her family, New Mexico was forgotten.

“Look Mommy!  See the pony eat the carrot.”

At the sound of Ruby’s voice, both turned and looked at the training pen.  Ruby stood in the center of the pen with the little filly eating a carrot.  The girl smiled and the little horse was bounced her head; both enjoyed the game.  Laura stifled a scream and started to run to her daughter.  

Sam grabbed her and held her back, “Don’t run!  You will scare the colt and she might trample Ruby by accident.  Slow, walk slow.”

Laura nodded her understanding, though every mother’s instinct urged to her to run to protect her daughter.

Sam slowly walked to the pen, and went through the poles.  He spoke in a low and soft voice to the little horse as he approached, “Well, look at you stealing my carrots from a little girl.  You’re a tricky one aren’t you?  Won’t take them from me, but you take them from a little girl.  What are we going to do about that?”

He reached the two, slowly wrapped an arm around Ruby, and picked up the little girl.  She still had two carrot sticks with her, so while being held adult high, Sam let her feed the colt the last two carrots, then he returned her to her mother.  Laura couldn’t help herself, she checked the little girl for injuries even as Ruby was telling her of her great adventure.

Laura thanked the Marshal for his help in reading the legal notice, and then she and Ruby hurried from the livery barn, climbed aboard the wagon, and left for their farm.  As they did, Sam told them he would be out later to check on them.  Laura replied, “Fine”, but her mind was elsewhere.  

As he stood and watched them leave, he felt a push in the center of his back.  The push was hard enough to force him to step forward.  He turned enough to look over his shoulder and there was Nutmeg, looking at him as if to say, “Where’s the rest of the carrots?  I get it now.”

Sam turned the rest of the way around and reached into his pocket.  He had the carrot he was holding when Laura arrived.  He brought it out and held it in his left hand.  The filly reached for it and started to chew for it.  While he held the carrot, being careful not to get bit, he reached with his right hand and scratched the little horse’s neck and ear.  At first, Nutmeg didn’t notice the scratching as she worked and pushed her nose into the man’s hand to get the last of the carrot.  Once the carrot was gone, she realized the scratching felt pretty good.  She decided she’d do the man a favor and stand still so he could continue.   

When Sam rode into the Stoddard yard, followed by Pete, he was amused to see Colton fighting with hay.  Sam was honest enough to know he did not know how to handle hay, but he had watched farmers use their forks and smoothly and neatly move hay into piles and from the piles into stacks.  What he had seen in the past was not how Colton did it.  The cowboy had hay going in all directions and while some got onto the stack more got away from him.  He would then re-gather the escaped grass and try again.  Twenty feet from the cowboy was William, the shotgun by his side, but a pitchfork in his hands as he moved the hay with practiced rhythm and efficacy.

Laura was standing on the front porch when he rode up and stepped off his horse.  Next to her, hiding behind her left leg was Ruby.

“That’s quite a boy you have there.”

“He’s making his Pa proud.”

“Have you got a few minutes?”  Sam tied his horse to the post holding up the front porch roof.

“Sure, would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Sweet tea would be good on a day like today.”

“Ruby, would you get the Marshal a glass of tea?”

The little girl ran into the house and returned in a few minutes with a glass of tea.  Moses set it aside and reached into his pocket to produce a small bag of gumdrops he picked up at the dry goods store as he headed out of town.  

“I owe you this.  Nutmeg, that’s the pony’s name, said I better pay you for helping me train her this morning.”  He held out the bag.  Ruby started to reach for it, then stopped and looked at her mother.  

“It’s alright, Ruby, you earned it.”  

The little girl beamed and took the bag.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you, Marshal.”

“Ruby, can you take some tea out to William and Mr. Colton?”

The little girl nodded and set about doing what her mother asked.

“Mrs. Stoddard, all the way out here, I rehearsed what I was going to say to you.  When you told me this morning, what you told me, I couldn’t believe it and I didn’t react very well.  I am sorry.”

“It’s ok and it’s not your fault.  I was raised in a family that was poor and we didn’t get much schooling.  The boys got a little, but the girls got none, really.  My Pa said we should grow up pretty and find us good husbands who knew how to read.  William helped me hide it from most people.”

“How’d he do that?”

“When I would go to town to shop, he would write a list of the things I needed to get.  On the way to town, he would help me memorize the list, so I could act like I was reading it while I was in the store.  After a while, it wasn’t so hard, we mostly got the same stuff every week.”

“You are some kind of woman, Laura Stoddard and William was a great husband.”

She blushed at the compliment, “It was all William’s idea.”

“Did you ever want to learn to read?”

“Of course!  I’d see those magazines and catalogues.  I’d look through them, see the pictures, and I’d almost cry.  Sometimes I would cry, but I’d wait till I got home and away from William.  He tried to teach me a couple of times, but either I wasn’t a very good student or he wasn’t a very good teacher cause it never worked out.”

“What about the kids?  Are they learning their school work?”

Now, she was embarrassed, “No, they never get into town and William tried, but he couldn’t teach them any better than me.”

He got up, walked to his horse, and opened the saddle bag, “Mrs. Stoddard, I’d like to give you a gift, if you would be kind enough to accept it.”

From his bag he took a book, brought it back to Laura, and gave it to her.

“I love to read.  I have enjoyed reading all my life.  I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t read.  There have been times in my life when reading was my only friend.  I have been able to travel to many places that I will never get to see, thanks to books.”

Laura looked at the book and turned it over in her hand, “I’m sorry Marshal, why would you give me a book?  I just told you I can’t read.”

“Oh, the book is not yours, that’s not the gift. This is a book written by an English woman named Jane Austen.  I just finished reading it and it’s a great story, I think you will really enjoy it.  It’s called “Pride and Prejudice”.   The book is the tool we are going to use.  The gift is I’m going to teach you to read.”

He wasn’t sure what she would do, but what she did he was not prepared for.  Her eyes filled with tears and she started to laugh and cry at the same time.  She tried to say several things together and all that came out was grunts and squeals.  She looked toward the barn at her children and then jumped to her feet and went into the house.  Once there, she motioned for Moses to follow her.  He did.

Inside, out of view of the children, she turned and hugged him.  She hugged him the full length of her body and his.  She was laughing, crying and hugging, and then she stopped.  The marshal was dumbfounded and he stood as if he might have been a post. His arms were at his sides, and he found he had to remember to breathe.

Then, she kissed him.  She stepped back, took his face in her hands and kissed him, square on the mouth.  She kissed him twice and then hugged him again. 

“The kids?  Will you also teach the kids?”

“A, yeah, sure, of course.”  At that particular moment, he would have agreed to teach the cattle to read.

Then, it was over.  It was if a shadow fell over Laura and she stepped back from him.  Her face colored and embarrassment covered her as if she had put on a cloak.

  “I’m, I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

“It’s alright,” he had to clear his throat. “No harm done.”

“The moment overcame me.  It’s been a long time since I felt that happy about anything.  I forgot I am a new widow.  I am sorry.”

“Laura, it’s alright.  I gave you a gift and you responded with honest emotion.  I enjoyed the kisses and I don’t think there is any reason for you to feel bad about them.  I hope you don’t.”

“Please don’t say anything to anyone about them.”

The shadow fell over Sam’s face.  It was a shadow of anger.  

“Don’t insult me.  Do I look like an adolescent boy to you?”  He turned and walked to his horse.  Laura stood in the semi-dark house.  She dropped and shook her head.  

Chapter Twenty Six

The anger passed quickly and he wished he had not responded so abruptly.  Of course she would be worried how her actions were perceived.  Of course she would be concerned he might talk to someone.

“Moses there are times you can really be a jack ass,” he spoke aloud.  He thought about turning back but was afraid he might make things worse, so he rode on.

The anger dissipated and he was left thinking about the kisses.  They had been honest kisses, kisses of happiness and gratitude.  He thought about the kisses the distance to town. It had been a long time since he had been kissed and he had forgotten how good it felt.  He thought about them as he put up his horse and as he ate his dinner at Ed’s.  The waitress had to ask him twice if he wanted pie, he was still on the Stoddard farm feeling Laura Stoddard’s kisses.  He declined the pie but asked for an extra helping of ham, one for Pete.

After dinner, he walked into the saloon.  As he entered, he could hear the noise level dropping.  Conversations were halted as people watched to see who he was after and wondered would there be a shooting.    He hated this, all eyes on him, waiting for the violence to erupt.  He wanted to yell at them to mind their own business; he wasn’t a show for their amusement!  He looked at Ed, who understood and motioned the piano man to get to work.  Once the music started, people returned to what they were doing. Strangely, several greeted him as he passed.

“Good evening, marshal.”

“Marshal.”

“Good to see you.”

He nodded and tried to reply to all who spoke to him.  It was uncomfortable but, it also felt good.  It was like Laura Stoddard’s kisses.

He navigated the room and reached the safety of Ed West who was at his usual spot leaning on the bar.

“Good evening, marshal, care for a beer or a coffee?”  Ed knew the marshal did not drink hard alcohol.

Sam thought for a minute and then replied, “I’ll have a beer, Ed, if you will have one with me.”

West stood up straight and rested his hands, not his elbows on the bar, “Did you just call me Ed?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Let me get this straight.  I offer you my friendship and you refuse me until you find this horse you like and now you want we should be friends?”

Sam touched his lips for what may have been the hundredth time since returning from the Stoddard place, “It’s a little more complicated than that.” 

Ed smiled, his big friendly infectious smile, “Who cares, you offered to buy, I’m drinking!”  He drew two beers, placed one in front of the marshal and drank half of his before putting it on the bar.

The marshal sipped his beer a few times and Ed finished his.  He drew himself another, “Still on you, Marshal?”

“Sure.”

“Good enough, I’ll run you a tab if you like.”

“No, I’ll pay before I leave.”

“Did you want to see me about something?”

“I thought I did, but I’m not sure.  I wanted to ask you something, but I don’t know how to ask it.  Just as well, it will sort itself out.”

“OK, but it was kind of you to think of me.  She’s kind of got your head spinning, doesn’t she?”

“Who, Laura,” Moses stuttered, “I mean Mrs. Stoddard?”

Ed was taken back and the surprise showed on his face, “Laura Stoddard?  No, I was meaning the filly.”

“Oh, well, she’s gonna be a great horse.”  

The marshal’s face reddened from his hairline down his cheeks, along his neck until the skin disappeared beneath his shirt.  Ed West didn’t know a man could blush that way.  He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t resist.

“Who, Laura Stoddard?”

“No, not Laura! The filly!  Laura is, Laura is, she is,” He realized the bartender was teasing him.  He didn’t like it.

As quickly as it came, it was gone.  His color returned to normal and his eyes returned to his guarded hunting gaze.  The smile dissolved from his face.  The shield was back in place.  His voice was icy as he spoke to the bartender, “Be careful, when you play with things that can hurt you Ed.”

The marshal took a couple of sips from his beer, dropped some coins on the bar and with no additional words, left the saloon.   Pete followed in his footsteps.

Chapter Twenty Seven

It was the third day Colton worked on the farm, and William followed his instructions to the letter.  He would show the cowboy how to do a task, then direct him go to work.  William never allowed the cowboy within ten feet of him and never had Colton been close to the shotgun.  They worked together, but they were not a team and certainly not friends.  

That morning they headed to the north end of the farm to fix some fence.  William had listed the items needed and Colton had put them in the wagon.  Rosie stood, as always bouncing her head, eager to go.  As they rode together in the wagon, they could not help but break the ten-foot rule.

Colton laughed, “Be careful, William, if the Marshal sees you, he’ll put you in irons, just like he did me.”

“Don’t laugh at me and don’t laugh at the Marshal.”

“I don’t mean to laugh at you; I’m just trying to have a little fun.  I know I’m going to hang for what I did and I deserve it, but for whatever it is worth, between you and me, it really was an accident.  I’ve never shot a man before and I hope to never shoot another.  I sat there on the ground watching him die and I felt horrible.  I’ve wished a thousand times I could put that bullet back in my gun.”

“You don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, do you?”

“No, of course not!  I guess I just want you to know I’m not a horrible guy.  I was hung over, I had a headache and I did something really stupid.”

“Colton, my life, my Ma’s life and my sister’s life will never be the same because of you.  I sometimes wish I could have just shot you that morning in the canyon.”

As they talked, William was busy scanning the horizon.  The Stoddard’s owned four cows and one of them was with calf and due to deliver any day.  William was looking for her now.  He couldn’t see her in the pasture.

Trying to change the subject, Colton asked, “What are you looking for?”

“We got a first calf heifer due to calve any day now and I’m trying to find her.” 

“Why?”

“Because I want to make sure she has the calf all right.  Colton, you’re a cowboy, you know this.”

“I don’t know anything about cows, except they’re dirty and they stink.”

William looked at the man sitting next to him, “What are you talking about?  You’re a cowboy.”

The young man laughed so hard, William grabbed his arm to keep him from falling from the wagon.

“I ain’t a cowboy!  My pa owns a dry goods store and I was his stock boy.  I ain’t never been on a horse before I got this job.  My pa said this would be good for me.  This is my first cattle drive and the only thing I know is that they make a lot of dust.  Hack took me on with the understanding I would be working what they call “drag” and that’s what I did.  I was the last rider and my job was to keep the slowpokes up with the herd.  At the end of the day, I’m covered with dust.  That’s why Hack let me come into town early, cause I had the dirtiest job and I had been doing a good job.  I don’t know anything about cows.”

“Well, we’ve got a cow about ready to have a calf and my pa told me the cows will try to find a place to hide to give birth.  It’s their nature to try to hide from wolves and coyotes.  Help me find her.”

They both scanned the area around them; Colton observed there just wasn’t much to hide behind other than a few sage brush and rocks.

“Yeah, you’re right, but she could always get low.  Pa said they like to get low.  Let’s ride over to the spring and see if she’s there.”

“You got a spring on this place?”

“We call it a spring but it’s more of a seep.  There’s water flowing, but it’s so little that mostly it’s a mud bog.  The cattle can go down there and get a drink, though I don’t think I would drink it.” 

William cued Rosie and they changed directions.  In about twenty minutes, they found the cow.  She was lying next to the bog, stretched out in labor.  Why she had gone down the slope, William didn’t know.  But if the calf was born the way she was laying, it would be delivered into the quagmire and would mostly drown in the little bit of water that covered the mud.  

The bog was about twenty feet in diameter.  A trickle kept the area covered with two, maybe three inches of water, but the mud was three to four feet deep.  If the calf was born into the bog, it would drown when it tried to stand and only succeeded in stabbing its feet into the unforgiving mud.  There would be nothing the poor mother could do, except call to it from the safety of the dry ground.

William jumped from the wagon and tied Rosie to a bush; he headed toward the stricken cow.  “Come on, Colton!  This cow needs help!”

Colton climbed down and gathered his chain, trying as best he could to keep up with the boy.  William had removed his boots and was already at the cow’s side, talking to her in a low, steady voice, telling her everything would be alright.

Whether cows understand human language is a matter for debate, but the young would-be mother seemed to calm at the boy’s presence.

William was in mud up to his knees when he finally worked his way around to the rear of the cow, “Oh, crap!”  The frustration and fear audible in his voice.

Colton was setting down his railroad iron and stretching his chain so he could get to where he could help. “Oh crap?  What’s oh crap, William?”

“Take your boots off, get around here and see for yourself.”

“Take my boots off?  Why should I take my boots off?”

“The mud will suck them off your feet and you’ll never find them.”

Colton removed his boots, and followed William into the mud.

He looked at the cow struggling to push the calf out of her, but he didn’t see anything wrong.  “I don’t see it, William.  What am I supposed to see?”

The boy turned back to his companion, “Do you know how to swim?  I mean really swim?”

Colton looked at the mud and wondered if this boy was going to ask him to swim in it, “Yeah, I know how to swim.”

William explained, “When a calf is born, they have their front legs and feet outstretched in front of them like a person diving into water.  Their heads and noses are stretched to lie along their legs.  Just like a person diving into water.”

“So?  I don’t get it.  Oh!  There’s only one leg showing.”

“Right, the other leg is bent back inside the mother.  We got to push this calf back inside the mother so we can get the leg free or else the calf and the mother will most likely die.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the calf won’t be able to get out, and it will die when it starts trying to breathe and not be able to.  The mother will push so hard trying to get her calf out; she’ll rip her insides to pieces and bleed to death.”

“What do we do?”

William hesitated, torn between two tasks.  One task told him to care for this cow and hopefully save the calf.  The other task told him to guard Colton.  He made his decision.

“Get the shotgun and see if you can break the chain with the shot.  Hold it close and hopefully you won’t get hit with a ricochet.  Then climb in here and help me.  Hurry!”

Colton climbed out of the bog, picked up his chain and hurried to the wagon.  After a minute he returned with only a small length of chain still attached to his leg.  William hadn’t heard a shot fire.

“How’d you do that?”

“Last night in the barn, I found a link that was not closed as good as it should have been.  I was able to get a crowbar into it and work it open.”

“Get in here and help me.”

Colton climbed down into the ooze of the bog, and the two of them were on their knees in the mud and water.

“Colton, you push the calf backwards as hard as you can but slow and steady.  No jerking!  The momma is going to fight you, she wants it out.  You have to push it back far enough so I can reach up inside her and free the other leg.  It’s most likely caught on her pelvic bone.”

Colton turned a light shade of green as he worked the calf and pushed against the strength of the mother.  He stayed right where William put him and timed his efforts to counter the efforts of the cow.  He hung in there, even when the mother swiped him in the face with a muddy, dirty tail.

William laughed at his newly painted face and Colton threw a mud ball at him, but the two of them stayed focused on the work.

For the next twenty minutes the two tried to save the life of a cow and a calf.  Colton would push the calf against the mother and William, whose arm was smaller, would reach inside the cow and try to fold the bent leg straight.  The harder they pushed the calf back, the more forceful the cow would push to free the calf.  William suggested turning the calf a little.  For another ten minutes, the two worked to try that idea.  After thirty minutes, it was clear the mother was tiring and the calf was now limp.  William was in tears trying to free the baby.  He had reached as far as he could and tried to straighten the leg.  He had blood the length of his arms and some on his face; both he and Colton were covered in mud and muck.  Colton had done everything William had asked of him and more.  Then, the young would-be mother rolled more onto her side.  This changed the position of her pelvic bones and the leg came free.  William unfolded the leg and lined it up with the other; the calf slid out just as nature intended.  The calf was born onto Colton’s lap.

The rescuers whooped for joy after they drug the limp calf from the bog. William, having learned from his pa, grabbed a couple of hands full of brush.  He used the brush as a comb to stimulate the system of the little calf.  He checked the throat to make sure nothing was blocking it from breathing.  The throat was clear, the stimulation worked, and after a few minutes, the little calf started to show signs of life.  A few minutes more and it let out a bellow for its mother.  The mother answered and weakly got to her feet.   She came to her calf and started to lick it clean.

William and Colton lay on the ground, covered in mud, blood and the mucus of birth and laughed.  They laughed over the joy of saving not one, but two lives.  They laughed because they were part of the miracle of birth.  Another twenty minutes passed and the little calf, after failing on the first three attempts, was able to stand.  It searched for its first meal.  It found it.

Colton was amazed, “Look at that!  He’s standing up!”

“Let’s go home and get cleaned off.  The fence can wait one more day.”

“Should I put the chain back on?”

William looked at the mud-covered young man who helped him save a life, “No, leave it off.  Why didn’t you run last night?  Scared of the marshal?”

“Maybe, a little.  I have no doubt he would have caught me and true to his word, he would kill me.  Maybe that’s what I deserve.  But, as strange as it sounds, that’s not why I didn’t run.  I took from you and your family more than I will ever be able to pay back, even if I worked here the rest of my life.  When I see your sister and she looks at me with those big eyes and she knows what I did, I want to crawl in a hole.  The reason I didn’t run is I owe you and hopefully I can pay back some of it before they hang me.”

“Well, you paid back some today.  Besides, I think you were scared of the marshal a lot.”

“You’re right, more than a little.”

The two shared another fit of laughter, and this time they threw mud balls at each other.  By the time they got to the house, there was hardly a spot on them not dirty.  They stopped long enough to tell Laura about the calf and what they had done, and then they went to the river where Colton demonstrated that he did, indeed, know how to swim.

When he got back, William explained in detail what had taken place with the cow.  He told his mother that he had given Colton the shotgun before he knew about the weak link.  It was his fault Colton was without a chain and he wanted to talk to the Marshal about it.  Laura asked her son if he thought they should put the chain back on Colton and the boy said no.  Colton had told him he would not run and he believed him.  Besides, the boy argued, they would be able to get more work done without the chain in the way.

“William, you know not all people keep their word.  Are you sure you want to trust Colton that far?”  Laura could not help but caution her son about his choice.

“I know, Ma, but I believe he will.  I want to give him a chance.  I think Pa would give him a chance.  I want to be like my pa.”

Laura looked at her son and saw a boy trying hard to be a man, trying hard to be a man worthy of his father.  She didn’t trust her voice to speak, so she simply shook her head and hugged her son.  Later that day, Twilliger, the banker, came calling.

Chapter Twenty Eight

A couple of days later the marshal saw the Stoddard wagon coming into town.  He was in his usual perch with Pete beside him.  Pete stood up, stretched and started wagging his tail at the sight of the wagon.  Pete had learned that wagon usually carried a little girl and that little girl usually had a treat for him.

When Sam saw the wagon, he was surprised how his heart started to beat a little faster and harder against the inside of his chest.  

He looked down at Pete, “Aren’t we a pair?  If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it with you.”

He could see Laura in the distance sitting tall and regal; the same way she was the first day he saw her.  The morning breeze had blown her bonnet off her head and it hung by its strings in the middle of her back.  As she sat on the seat, that same breeze caused some of her hair to dance, tease and tickle her ears, cheeks and the sides of her mouth.  Sam watched as twice she caught wayward hair with her fingers and moved them back from her mouth and hooked them around her ear.  He decided he liked watching her.  Her movements were like reading poetry.

“How long ago was it that I first saw you?  It seems like years that I’ve known you, but it has only been weeks.  So much has changed in that short period of time and things were still changing.  How much more will change?  Where is all this going to end?”

He didn’t know.  The thought of being around Laura excited him in a way he had not felt in such a long time, it was as if he had never felt that way before.  Guilt tempered the excitement because the truth of it was; Laura was free and able to be around him because he had failed to protect her husband. 

“Did I let Stoddard get killed?  Did somehow deep inside I hope he would die so I would have the chance to be with this beautiful woman?”

The question haunted him.

Laura pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the office and thankfully interrupted his thoughts.

“Marshal, I have to talk to you.  Can I come in for a few minutes?”  Her tone was controlled and focused, to the point.  There was no hint of what had happened between them.

Sam got up from his chair, “Of course, Mrs. Stoddard.”  He felt disappointed and he didn’t know why.  He had hoped she would have shared a smile that said, “We have a secret.”  He had hoped she would have given him a wink of slyness.  She gave him a quick nod and asked to see him.  He was disappointed.

He turned to Ruby, “Ruby, will you keep an eye on Pete for me please?”  The little girl nodded her head.  “Don’t let him play in the street and don’t feed him too many of those rolls you have in your pockets.”

Ruby giggled and smiled at the marshal, “I won’t.”

He escorted Laura into the office, where she stated her business without preamble.

“Sam, Twilliger came to see me the other day and he gave me this piece of paper.  Would you read it please?”

“Of course.”  He took the paper and read it through, twice.  Each time as he finished reading it, he frowned.

“I don’t understand this document.  It is a notice of foreclosure on the farm.  Are you behind on payments?  I looked over the books and I didn’t see any listing of being late with payments.  Did William have other books or did he make some kind of deal or agreement with Twilliger that you don’t know about?”

Laura adamantly shook her head.

“William would have never done that!  He was always worried about what would happen to us if something happened to him.  He knew how crippled he was and he always made sure I was aware of any money borrowing he did.  He knew I would have to pick up the pieces if anything happened to him.”

“Does Twilliger know you can’t read?”

“We never told him so, that I know of.  I don’t think William would have told him.”

“Still, he might have figured it out.”  Sam looked over the pages again, “Tell me what Twilliger said when he gave you these papers.  Remember as closely as you can.”

Laura walked to the chair and asked if she could sit down.  Sam nodded.  She sat down and bent forward, resting her elbows on her knees.  She focused her thoughts, trying to remember that afternoon just a couple of days ago.  She had become so upset at the time, and now it was harder to remember than she thought it would be.  She rested her chin in her hands, closed her eyes which furrowed her brows, and pursed her libs.

Sam watched and found himself distracted by her beauty.

“He said he was sorry that he had some unsettling news for me and then he handed me the papers.  He said I could read them at my leisure but basically what they said was now that William was passed on, the risk of the note not being paid back had increased.  He said, the note had been written based on the assumption of William being around to work the farm.  Without him, the risk of failure was much greater.”

She stopped and looked as if she was trying to gather her next statement.  Sam rested against his desk and watched as she focused and concentrated.  He didn’t speak.

“He also said he had a plan, an idea, he called it that would allow us to save the farm and make our lives much better in the process.  He talked about his plans to make this a bigger and better town.  He said a town that was growing as this one would be needed a pretty and attractive first lady.  He suggested that I marry him, after a proper grieving period, and he would forgive the note on the farm.  The kids and I would move into town, into his house, where the kids would get the schooling they need and be around others their own age.  We could rent the farm until William was old enough to decide if he wanted the farm or not.  If he wanted it, we would give it to him and if he did not, we could sell it at that time, or continue to rent it.”

Sam didn’t like Mayor Twilliger.  He felt he was overly self-important and conceited.  Now, after hearing Laura recount her conversation with the man, the dislike was becoming hatred.  He could not blame the man for being attracted to Laura, but to threaten her with the loss of her home unless she married him was beneath contempt.

“When I first read the papers, I thought he was making a play for the farm.  He’s not; he’s making a play for you.  The land is just window dressing.  He wants you to be Mrs. Mayor.”

Sam walked to the door and looked out into the street.  Ruby was sitting on the edge of the boardwalk teaching Pete to shake hands.  Each time the dog got it right, she would break him off a piece of a roll she had snuck into town for him.  Pete was sitting in front of the girl dusting the street with his tail and raising a paw before she could tell him to “shake.” The marshal smiled, Pete was a fast learner.

He turned back to Laura, she had turned in the chair to follow him with her eyes and the sun now rested on her, illuminating her beauty.

“My gosh, you are a beautiful woman!”

He hesitated, he had to focus.  “As much as I dislike our mayor, and trust me, I really have no use for the man; I have to tell you, as a friend, his plan does make a certain amount of sense.  You and the kids would live in one of the finest houses in town, you can all learn to read and the kids can go to school.  You will be able to have almost anything you want.”

Laura’s voice was chilled when she replied, “So you think I should do it then?”

“I didn’t say that.  I said it made sense.  What did you want me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe offer an alternative to his wonderful, sensible plan!”  She was getting angry.

“What you mean make a counteroffer?  What do I have to counter with?  I sleep in a jail cell, unless I have a prisoner, then I sleep in a borrowed bed.  I live in my office.  I don’t own a home, fine or otherwise!  I own a couple of horses, a couple of guns, one pair of boots, two shirts and one dog, who was a stray before I found him.  What in the hell am I supposed to counter with?”  Now, Sam was angry as well.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe your heart!”

Laura rose, crossed the room, and stood in front of him.  The top of her head came to his chin.  She looked him in his eyes.  

“All my life men have been telling me what I should do in order to have one of them take care of me.  First it was my pa, then it was William and now it’s the mayor and you!  Maybe I thought, maybe I hoped that you would say you cared for me and my children enough that you would want to be a part of our lives, richer or poorer.  I live in a house made of mud!  Do I look like I have dreamed all my life of the finest house in town?  The mayor doesn’t know it, but I have another choice; I have the land in Missouri and it is looking better all the time.  You forgot about that as well, didn’t you?”

Sam had forgotten about the land in Missouri.  If Laura moved to Missouri, she would no longer be here.  He suddenly realized he didn’t want her to move to Missouri.

“You may not have an offer for me, but I have one for you.  My children need a father and you could be a great father.  My family needs a head and you could be that head.  I need a man to take care of the things a man does; I want you to be that man.  I need a man to love me and I will try every day to be a woman worth loving.”

Moses felt himself slip into a mild state of shock.

She stepped back to where there were a couple of feet between them.  She looked at him and was angrily amused at the look on his face, “Why Marshal Moses, you just had a woman propose to you, not try to kill you.  I’m going to sell the farm here and move to Missouri.  I hope to be ready to go inside a month.  I hope you will come with us; I want you to come with us.”  The woman turned and walked out the door.  She called to her daughter as she climbed aboard the wagon.  The little girl jumped up and climbed into the wagon.  As she gathered the reins and Rosie woke up, she called to the marshal, “Marshal, Marshal Come out here a minute please.”

He felt punch drunk, but Sam stumbled forward and into the doorway.

“Marshal, I’d like you to come out to the place tomorrow if you can.  I need some help with the brown, teaching him to pull, and I’m excited about getting started with that book.  I’ll cook dinner.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, she slapped Rosie with the reins and the horse started forward.  Ruby gave a wave as she passed.  Sam gave a small weak wave back.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Sam and Pete walked through the saloon from the door leading from the eatery.  Another herd was in town and the cowboys in the saloon were having a good time, a hard earned good time.  The beer was flowing, the cards were being dealt and the girls were flirting.  If Sam recollected right, Ed West was having a banner night.  Sam walked to the far end of the bar, the one where Ed stood most nights and ordered a beer.  Ed brought it to him and stayed.

“You must be having woman trouble,” the big barman looked at him and grinned.  The comment startled Moses and he stared at the bartender, “Why, why would you say that?”

Ed laughed at the reaction, “No reason.  It’s just you rarely stop in here and other than the beers we had the other night, I can’t remember you ordering a drink before.  It’s been my experience that if anything will get a man to drink, a woman will.”  

The marshal continued to stare at him.  His expression didn’t change.

“Honestly, Marshal, I meant nothing by it.  It was just a joke.  It appears to be a bad joke.  I’m sorry.”

“No offense taken Ed, I’ve had a very strange day.”

“I’m told bartenders make good sounding boards.  I’ve got all night if you need someone to talk to.”

“No thanks, you need to save that service to your paying customers.  I’m not going to drink that much.”

“I guess not, you haven’t touched the one I poured you.”

The marshal took a dollar from his pocket and bounced it onto the bar, “On me Ed, help yourself.  You were right; you really are a good listener.”  

The marshal smiled and moved away from the bar.  He crossed through the room, speaking to a few of the regulars, and letting the strangers know he was around.  He walked back into the eatery and out the side door.  He hoped the men in the saloon would think he was having dinner next door.

Ed watched him walk through the room and for just a moment realized how lonely the marshal was.  The he picked up the untouched beer and downed it.  

“Thank you Sam,” he muttered to himself.

Chapter Thirty

“What do you mean you told him to take off the chain?”

The marshal glared at William and the boy stood his ground.  

Sam had ridden out to the farm to work with the brown, help with school work, and later have dinner.  He felt uncomfortable the entire trip thinking about what Laura had said but that was forgotten when he saw Colton sitting on the front porch without the chain and iron bar attached to his leg.  

As he rode into the yard, William stepped out of the house and came to meet him. The boy masked his fear and kept his voice from cracking, as he asked the marshal to talk to him away from the house.  The two now stood next to the barn.

William recounted the story of the cow and the birth of her calf.  He explained how the two of them had to crawl into the bog in order to save the calf and most likely the cow.  He told the marshal it had been his idea for Colton to remove the chain using the shotgun.  William left out the part of Colton working the link apart the night before. 

“Marshal, that cow and maybe the calf would have died without the help I got from Colton.”  

As the boy told the story, the marshal glared, and paced before him.  His fists were clenched and opened repeatedly.  Laura, who watched from the porch, saw the anger.  She was ready to defend her child, if needed.  Moses paced and with each step felt he was walking ever-deeper into a bog.

“What is wrong with you?  I gave you a gift!  I gave you the man who killed your father so you could use him how you saw fit.  I didn’t give you a new friend.  I don’t care if he saves a hundred calves, don’t you get it? He killed your father!  I should have just killed him the day he shot Stoddard.  What was I thinking?”

William finished his story and quietly stood waiting the reaction.  He was convinced he had done the right thing and he kept his head up, returning the glare of the marshal.  Moses stopped pacing.  He wished he could release the anger surging through him.  He knew he could not.  He forced a breath to release some of the tension he felt and spoke:

“All right, no harm done.  I will take Colton with me tonight and put him back in his cell.  He’ll wait there for the circuit judge to show up.”

“Marshal, please don’t do that.”

“What?  You want me to leave him out here, running around loose?  He’s a criminal!”

“I know that.  I know what he done.  I wish I could hate him!  I can’t.  I believe him when he says it was an accident.  I talked to Ma about it and she also thinks it was an accident.  I wish I could hate him!  I wish I could have killed him in that canyon that day, but if I do, that makes me worse than him.  He didn’t kill pa out of spite or hate.  He killed him being stupid.  He killed him because of an accident.  Marshal, I give you my word, he will be here for his trial.  He will not run off.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he gave me his word.”

Sam closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead and tried to will the tension in his neck away.  He chastised himself for the idea of bringing Colton to the farm.  Before him stood a boy trying hard to be a man, a boy modeling himself after the father he had lost.  A father who had told him when you give your word, keep it and when another man gives you his word, trust it.  Moses studied the boy’s face.

“What do I do with you?”  

Sam felt saved, at least temporarily by Laura calling them to the house. 

“Hey! You boys get up here.  I want to start reading my new book!”  

Her excitement broke the tension between the man and boy and the two of them couldn’t help but smile toward her direction.

“Come on William, but I haven’t decided to leave him here and remember, I am the marshal.”

“I understand sir.”

They walked to the house side by side and while seats and drinks were being arranged on and around the front porch, Sam took the time to loosen the saddle on his horse and make sure it had some feed and water.  When he finished he walked back to the front of the house to find his assigned seat was William’s old chair and it was next to Laura’s.  Ruby was sitting on his other side, and William and Colton was sitting on the porch at his feet.  Colton didn’t make eye contact with the marshal and would have become invisible if he could.

With excitement shining in her eyes, Laura sounded like a small girl when she said, “I want you to sit by me so I can see the words while you read them.”

“Don’t you think we ought to wait and work with the brown for an hour or so?”

“I’ve waited all my life to learn how to read.  That horse can wait another day or two to learn how to pull.”

Sam nodded, smiled and put horse training out of his mind for the day.

As he opened the book, Sam realized he was going to have to concentrate in order to stay focused on the printed words.  Laura sat beside him and was close enough to rest her head on his shoulder, if she chose.  Her lavender scent an ever-present distraction.  He held the book so she could see the pages and decided to use his finger as a pointer to help her follow the words.

“Pride and Prejudice; written by Jane Austen

“Chapter One: 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

Sam read to the family and Colton for over an hour and from time to time, as he read, he would glance at Laura sitting beside him.  He smiled when he saw her silently mouthing the words he read.  He read until it was dusk and all of them, maybe him the most, was disappointed when he stopped.  He explained he could no longer see the words.  

Laura asked William and Ruby to serve everyone pie and a glass of milk.  Colton offered to help and his offer was accepted.  Sam was uncomfortable with Colton going into the house, but how could he abject?  It wasn’t his house and he was sure the cowboy had been inside before.

A full moon was starting to ascend the night sky and the desert would soon be bathed in its’ light.  Laura, who was still sitting close to Sam, asked him if he would like to take a walk with her.  He accepted.  As they walked toward the river, William came out of the house with their pie.  He sat the pieces on the bench and covered them with a cloth.  He hoped to protect the pie from bugs and from Pete.  William and Colton ran to the barn to complete the evening chores that had been delayed for the reading.

The first fifty yards was walked in silence, but as the distance from the house and the ears of her children increased, Laura became a little braver.  

“I’m sorry about how I acted yesterday.  I live out here and even with two children, I live alone.  Most of my life, even with William, has been lived alone.  Don’t misunderstand me, there was not and I don’t think could there be a better husband and father than William Stoddard.”  

“He was the man chosen for me by my pa and while my pa made a good choice, it wasn’t my choice.”

“He was chosen by your father?  You didn’t choose to marry him?”

“It’s a story that doesn’t need to be told just now, but when the mayor made me his offer and the way you responded to it, well, they made me feel like I was being bartered again.  I got hurt and angry and I took it out on you.  It really wasn’t fair to come to you with the situation I presented.”

“Are you really planning to move to Missouri?”

“Yes, I’d like to stop by tomorrow and have you help me write a letter responding to the lawyer in St. Joseph.”

The marshal’s heart thumped inside his chest and his stomach did flip-flops, “What if I asked you not to go?”

“Are you asking me not to go?”

“No, but what if I did?”

“You told me yesterday, you had nothing for me here.  I have a farm, a real farm, waiting for me in Missouri.  Unlike you, I have already asked you to come with me; to come with us.”

“What would I do there?  I’m the marshal here.”

“You would be a father and a husband.  You would raise your horses and raise cattle.  You would have a home.”

“I don’t know how to be a farmer.”

“Are you telling me the only thing you know how to do is be a marshal?  All you know how to do is gun work?”

“That’s all I’ve done my adult life.”

“It’s time you did something new.  Me and my children are worth your efforts.”

“Be the man you were meant to be, not just the man you became.”  

His father’s words from years past suddenly were fresh in his ears.

  “Be the man you were meant to be, not just the man you became.”  

They walked in silence and Sam contemplated his father’s words.

By the time they reached the river, the moon had risen into the night sky.  It was a full moon; one of those big full moons that make a person wonder if it will be able to rise on its own.  This one might have had help from the stars.  

The moon does not create light, but the reflected light from this one bathed the desert floor and some of the taller bushes and rocks casted shadows.

Sam turned to look at Laura and in this light she appeared angelic.  Any flaws, which were few, were hidden and only her full beauty showed.  His heart was beating a little faster and his mouth was dry.  They walked in silence, each focused on their own trains of thought.  She took his hand.  He smiled and without comment let her keep it.

Meandering next to the river, they could hear the gurgle of the water tripping over the rocks.  It was nature’s music being played in the background.

Laura stopped suddenly and Sam took an additional step, bringing their bodies together.  Laura still held Sam’s hand and used it to wrap his arm around her waist.  They stood, Laura in front, Sam behind, body to body.

Not knowing what else to do, Sam wrapped his other arm around her and she snuggled back against him.  She rested her head on his chest.  He could smell the lavender in her hair from her store bought soap.  He liked it.  He liked it all.

“Mrs. Stoddard…”

“Sam, you have me wrapped in your arms and I can feel the length of your body behind me through my dress.  I have kissed you and asked you to marry me; maybe it’s time to call me Laura.”  

The tease in her voice caused him to smile; a smile she never saw.

“Laura that is such a pretty name.”  

She snuggled back against him and pulled his arms a little tighter.

Suddenly, she turned and placed her hand on his chest, “Sam, I am going to take my children and move to my family’s farm in Missouri.  I want you to come with us.  Ruby likes you and William needs you.  He needs a strong father.  I need you.  I think, I feel we are of more value than being a Marshal in a dusty spot in New Mexico.  The choice is yours.  I hope you come with us.  Please don’t come back to the house with me.  If you do, I might cry and I don’t want the children to see that.  Please, just get your horse, take your dog and leave for now.”

She turned and walked back to the house.  Sam watched her go; he felt as if a piece of him was leaving with her.  He didn’t like the feeling.  He didn’t want her to go.  After a few minutes he followed her to the house where he called Pete, tightened his saddle and rode back to town.  He decided to leave the Colton situation alone for the night.  If he talked to the cowboy in his confused and angry state of mind, he might take his frustrations out on him and that would do no one any good.

“Understanding that woman is like trying to figure which direction smoke from a campfire will rise.  No matter where a man sits, it gets in his eyes.”

After he had made his rounds and all appeared to be quiet, he turned in.  As he made his bed on the bunk in the cell, he talked to Pete, who as all good dogs do, pretended to understand every word the man was saying.     

They were by the river, and it continued to sing its song.  The moonlight was just bright enough that all that needs to be seen could be.  They found a patch of grass and Sam lay on his left side in the grass.  Laura lay with him, her head resting on his left forearm, her hair blanketing his arm and hand.  The fingers of his left hand played with and felt her hair.  The scent of her mixed with the smells of the grass, the river and the desert flowers caused his breathing to be shallow and accelerated. 

With his right hand and forefinger he traced her features.  He followed the curve of her ear and from its lobe he found her jaw.  He gently, lightly followed the jaw from her neck to her chin.  He heard her moan, ever so slightly, and he smiled.  From the point of her chin his finger travelled up to her lips.  They felt so soft and so inviting, he traced them twice.  She kissed his fingers.  Then over the point of her nose, along her bridge and to her eyes and eye brows, he traced.  Impatiently, she pushed his hand aside and pulled his face to hers.  They kissed.  They kissed again.  Sam fought the urge to wrap his arms around her and hug her with all his strength.  He wanted to be a part of her and have her be a part of him.  He wanted them to be one.  It required all his self-control, but he raised his face from hers.  Her eyes told him she was as hungry as he.  She would have to be patient.  He had waited all his life to take this journey of discovery and he refused to be denied.  

He placed his finger on her chin and slowly, softly, gently he trailed it south.  He followed her chin back to her neck and along her neck where he had to push some of her hair aside; he continued on his way.  He looked at her and she watched him, biting and chewing on her lower lip.

From her neck he travelled along her collarbone and there he ran into the first real resistance.  The smoothness of her skin was covered by the texture and roughness of her shirt.  His touch dropped from her collarbone and he allowed the neck opening of her garment to control the arc of his finger.  He reached the center of her chest; he was at the coupling of her shirt.  

He raised his fingers to the first button and with a pinch forced the button through the small opening; more of her flesh was exposed.  He heard her intake of breath and felt her chest rise as the button popped open.

He looked at her as he touched and explored this newly discovered and uncovered territory.  She watched him; her eyes reflected the moonlight and her expression was one of excitement and challenge.  She dared him to go farther.

He did.

He secured the second button and again, with a pinch freed it.  His fingers now spread and pushed the cloth aside.  The uppermost contours of her breasts became visible as did the valley between them.  The area rose and fell with her breathing which was becoming fast and shallow.  He placed his hand at the top of the swells, and he was surprised to find his hand shaking, partly from fear, mostly from excitement.

The feel was new.  This area was soft and warm; it gave beneath his touch.  She arched her back to prove she would not give in without response.

Somewhere, Pete barked.

He thought, but didn’t say, “Hush, Pete!”

Pete barked again.

He woke up.

He woke up coughing, confused and disoriented.  From the beauty of the dream to the reality of the jail cell and Pete barking to be let outside almost brought with it physical pain.  He swung his feet to the floor and sat with his face in his hands.  Pete came to him and licked his arms.  He looked at the dog and for a moment wished he’d never found him.

The moment passed and he grinned, “I owe you.  I’m going to watch you sleeping someday and right when you catch the rabbit, I’m going to wake you up.”  He scratched the dog’s ears as he talked to him, but his mind was on Laura Stoddard.

Chapter Thirty One

After he had washed his face and brushed his hair, Sam and Pete crossed over to the eatery for breakfast.  He came in often enough now that he had an unofficially reserved table.  It was located where he could watch the street as well as the entrances to the room.  He entered, looked around, nodded to the other patrons but every time he closed his eyes, Laura Stoddard was smiling at him.

He sat down and watched the street through window.  His actions appeared normal, but with every intake of breath he was teased with Laura’s scent.  He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face; when he opened them he was looking down the shirt of Candy who was standing in front of him, her hands resting on the table.

“Good morning, marshal.”  Her smile was honest and so complete, even the tone of her voice smiled.  “See anything you like?”

He raised his eyes to her face and tried to glare at her, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Her teasing continued, “Do you need to see a menu or have you made your choice?”

“No, I don’t need the menu.  I think…”

“Oooh!” she cooed, “I like a man who knows what he wants!”  She faked a shiver and winked at him.

“Please, Candy, let me order.  I really would like a cup of coffee and…”

“Why did you call me Candy?”  Her voice and her expression changed to a pout.

“My name is not Candy, its Dorothy.”

“I’m sorry.”

The marshal told her the story of Bushy and how he had called her Candy for the old man.

“You mean that old man died thinking of me and thinking my name was Candy?”

“Yeah, I guess he did and …..”

“He died thinking of me?  That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Tears started welling in her eyes and the more she tried to blink them back the quicker her eyes refilled.  In moments, her breathing turned to sobs and she raised her hand to her mouth.

“He died thinking I was sweet and my name was Candy…”

“Yes, but, I just made….”

She started to sob in earnest and with each convulsion he was afraid part of her would break free of her shirt.

The more she thought about the story, the more she cried.  Unable to wait on him, she turned and ran back to the kitchen.  The marshal called after her that she had forgotten to take his order and he still didn’t have any coffee.  The other patrons glared at him and wondered what he had done to upset the young lady.

Anger was always his first response and he could feel it starting to rise.

“No, not over something as silly as this!”

The door to the kitchen slammed open hard enough it crashed into the wall.  All the patrons, including Moses, jumped.  Through the door came Ed West and he was incensed.  

“Who out here is making my waitress cry?”

The marshal raised his hand, “That would be me.”  

“Oh, you.”

West came to the table and the marshal told him what had taken place.

Ed sat down and shook his head, “These girls, I love them, but they are going to be the death of me.  She’s back there telling everyone that her name is now Candy and she’s crying her eyes out over how sweet it was for the old man to die thinking of her.”

“I guess,” the marshal added, “You know, I sure could use some coffee and breakfast.”

If he heard him, Ed ignored the remark.  He got up and as he left the table said he’d have a waitress out to help him.

A few moments later, the newly re-christened Candy, returned.  She was still wiping her eyes and she needed to fix her make-up but she was back at her station.  She took Moses’s order and brought him some coffee.  The world appeared to be returning to normal.

Before she left, she leaned over and told the marshal not to be upset if Mr. West didn’t understand how beautiful the story was.  As she walked away, she called back over her shoulder, “He’s just not as romantic as you.”

Moses followed her retreat across the room until she passed in front of the stairs.  Candy was forgotten as the marshal fixed his eyes on the dapper gentleman slowly descending.

“Clifton Wiggins, what are you doing here?” 

Dapper, gentleman cultured and educated were all words that could be used to describe Clifton Wiggins; so could deadly, dangerous, cold and mercenary.  Moses had not seen Wiggins in over five years but prior to that time they had been friends, as much as men in their line of work had friends.  Wiggins was a top-notch card player, a much better than average gunman and a vegetarian.  Remembering that brought a smile to Sam’s face.  Wiggins was smart and he knew how to play the percentages in both lines of work.  Moses knew he was better than Wiggins with guns and he never played cards so the two of them had managed to survive without having to face each other.  Now, after half a decade, Wiggins was in his town, why?

Moses knew that Wiggins never went anywhere without a reason and this town was too small to attract the card player in him.

Wiggins crossed the floor and as the distance between them closed he slowly raised his hands to show they were empty.  Then he pulled open his coat to show he was not wearing a gun belt.  Moses reached down and removed the safety strap from his Colt.

Wiggins stopped at the table. 

“You know, old friend, I have heard you called a lot of names over the years, but romantic has never been one of them.  Are you still the same Sam Moses I know?”

“What are you doing here?”

Wiggins smiled.

“Yup, you’re the same.  Good morning, mind if I sit down.  I am unarmed, not even a knife.”

Sam motioned to the chair across the table.  Wiggins sat down.

“It’s been awhile, Sam.”

“It has.”

“Heard you killed Stilwell, hope you shot him once for me.  Never liked him.”

“I didn’t know him.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

They stopped talking when the marshal’s breakfast arrived and Wiggins ordered poached eggs with toast and jam with coffee.

“Still not eating meat?”

“I do not pollute my body by eating the bodies of other mammals.”  

Candy took the order and after she left the table, Sam repeated his question, “What are you doing here?”

“You are not liked here, my friend.”

“What does that mean? Speak clearly; it has not been a good morning.”

Wiggins offered a small smile and nodded, “Alright, I’ve been paid to kill you or run you out of town.  Clear enough for you Sam?”

“You took money to kill me?”

“I didn’t know it was you at the time.  I received a telegram that only said the marshal.”

“So now you know it’s me, tell them you changed your mind.”

“Can’t, I had them send a down payment, some of its spent.”

Pete rested his head on Sam’s leg, which was his way of asking if there was anything left on the humans’ plate.  Sam was not as hungry as he had been so he simply placed his plate on the floor.

“So how much am I worth?”

“Six thousand.”

“Good price and that is dead or is it the same if I just leave?”

“No, same as long as you’re gone.  I’m glad you asked that because I have a plan and I hope you like it.”

Sam sipped his coffee.  His face remained calm as he fought against the rising anger.

“Here’s my plan; you leave town and I get the rest of the money and we split it.  You get three thousand and I get the two thousand.  I’ve already got the first thousand.  That’s a good plan and how long will it take you to earn three thousand at whatever the wages are their paying you?”

“It would take a while.”

“You’ll do it?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good!  I’m going to talk to the owner of this establishment and see if he will let me rent a table for shares.  I’m going to play cards all night and sleep late tomorrow.  When I get up, sometime around noon, I’ll put my guns on.  I’ll consider the offer withdrawn at that time.”

“So you’ll come gunning me at noon tomorrow?”

“With a heavy heart, my friend, with a heavy heart.”

Candy came back to clear the table and Moses picked the plates up off the floor for her. 

“Thank you, marshal, “the girl said and then she smiled, “Anything else you might have a hankering for?”

“Candy, has anyone ever told you, you’re a flirt?”

The girl giggled, “I was always told to try to be the best at what I do.”

“Really?  I was told to be the man I was supposed to be and not just the man I turned out to be.”

The pretty girl frowned, “I don’t quite follow what you just said.”

“It’s just another way of saying the same advice you got.  Try to be your best.”

Her face brightened.  She had been given the same advice as the marshal.  She winked at him and left.

Wiggins stood, “Noon tomorrow Sam.  I really hope I don’t see you.”

Sam watched him walk away, cross the room and enter the saloon portion of the building.

Chapter Thirty Two

Sam left the eatery with Pete following and headed for the livery.  As he crossed the street, he saw a dust devil dancing on the outskirts of town.  He watched as the whirling wind tossed bushes and leaves, sticks and twigs carelessly into the sky only to let them fall back to earth in a disorderly and casual manner.  He stopped and watched the wind.

“Mother Nature’s ultimate tease; the desert’s court jester.”

That was his life.  Ever since he had arrived at Puebla Fresa his life had been in turmoil and swept out of control.  For almost twenty years his attitude on living had been simple and direct.  It may have been lonely but it buffered him from the guilt and anguish wrapped up inside him.  There was no reason to feel that pain because he always hoped the next fight; the next gunman would give him the peace he longed for.  For almost twenty years he knew who he was and he accepted what he was.

Now, within a few short weeks, it seemed the world had turned against him.  Everything in his life was like the debris caught up in the dust devil; it was within his reach but out of his control. 

Pete was his companion and becoming his friend.  It sounded silly but he felt obligated to the dog ever since he gave it the first bowl of milk and bath.  Pete counted on him and that meant a lot.

Nutmeg, such a beautiful horse with such promise and the joy of training her, of watching her fulfill her promise was just out of his grasp.  

Laura, every thought of her caused his breath to quicken and his heart to beat faster.  The touch of her, the scent of her, the sound of her voice, the tease of her laughter, and she wanted to be with him.  She wanted to share her life, her love with him.  All he had to do to win her was stop being what he was and become who he should have been.

“A farm, a ranch in Missouri, was that the answer?”  

“Wiggins, what should I do about Wiggins?”

He walked to the livery and was leaning on a pole watching Nutmeg.  He had hoped to work with her this morning but he was not able to focus on the little filly.  His mind revolved with images of kissing Laura and shooting Wiggins.

Sam was not worried about Wiggins.  He had seen the man do gun work many times and he knew the only way the gambler would take him was if he let him.  That was not going to happen.  The question was not would he win the fight, no, the question was did he want to kill his friend.  He didn’t.

The only way Wiggins could win would be if Sam let him.  Sam would not do that.  The words of the old Sergeant Major haunted him, 

“No killin’ yourself boy-o.  There’s no forgiving for that sin.”

Sam wanted peace; he wanted to rest.  He had seen Hell in the flames of Mr. Browns’ forge.  He wanted no part of that.  No, Sam would not let Wiggins kill him.

Suddenly, he realized there was another reason, he would not let Wiggins kill him; he didn’t want to die.  That realization came as a shock and a surprise to him, but he didn’t want to die.  The thought of lying in a dark dank grave while someone else held, kissed and caressed Laura was more than uncomfortable, it was wrong.  Laura had promised herself to him.

Well, she had offered herself, not promised.  

What was he going to do about Wiggins?

He startled when he felt the pole flex as the weight of Ed West leaned on it.  He had not heard the bigger man approach.  In his line of work such a lax of caution could be fatal.

“She sure is a pretty little filly.  You and Hack get things settled about her?”

“After a fashion.”

“Don’t share too many of the details.”

The sarcasm caught the marshal by surprise and it took him a minute to understand the verbal jab.

“I’m sorry, Ed.  I’ve got a ton of things on my mind.  This has not been a good morning.”

“Well, you have accomplished one thing this morning; you sure made my waitress happy.  I’m a better listener when I have a beer in my hand, but I’m pretty good without.”

The marshal looked at the barkeep for several seconds, how he wished his father was here.  How he wished he could talk to him about this, but all he had was a big, friendly barkeep with laughing eyes.  He’d have to do.

The story tumbled out of him much like a potato sack spilling.  He told him of the conflict within him.  He told him of his affection for Laura and his guilt that Stoddard was dead.  He confessed that he had faced Stilwell and his crew with the intent of one of them killing him.  He admitted he no longer wanted to die, he wanted to live and watch the filly become as good as he thought she would.  He wanted to watch the Stoddard children grow and fulfill their promise.  He wanted to be able to reach out and hug Laura every day and any day he wanted to.  He even mentioned the discussion of moving to Missouri but did not tell Ed about the Stoddard farm land.

He told him about the situation with Wiggins.

“He came here to kill you?”

“Or run me out of town.”

“Doesn’t seem much like a friend to me.”

“He’s the closest thing I’ve had for a friend for a long time.  I don’t want to kill him.”

“Then the other choice is to leave town.  I say that assuming you don’t want him to kill you.”

“There are times I don’t like you humor, but you are right, I don’t want him killing me.”

“You know, if you’re going to go to Missouri with Laura, the three thousand he promised you would sure come in useful starting a life out there.”

“One problem at a time.  I didn’t say I was going to Missouri.”

“But you just told me how much you cared for the woman!”

“That’s right and I do but I’ve got other responsibilities before I can even think about moving on.”

“Like what?”

“Like the trial and the hanging of Colton.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

“Don’t feel bad, a lot of people have.”

“I don’t mean to cast dispersions on Mrs. Stoddard, but it seems she doesn’t care if the boy is brought to trial or not.”

“Keep this to yourself.  She has inherited some farm land in Missouri.  She is making plans to move her and the children there.”

“I see.  So then you are going with her.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I heard the promise you made to William when he died; going to be tough to help out from here.”

The marshal didn’t reply.

The two men watched the filly as she played and teased them.  She sensed they were watching her and she enjoyed their attention.

“You know, marshal, you have a pet rattlesnake with this Wiggins fellow.  You don’t want to kill him but you can’t control him either.  I was always told to de-fang pet rattlesnakes.  It’s too bad you can’t just do that.”

“Yeah, that would be the simple way out of this.”

Suddenly, Moses turned at looked at West.  

“What if there was a way to de-fang him?  Where is Wiggins now?”

“In the saloon.  He rented a table and said he would be there all night.”

“If I asked you to help me do something ugly would you?”

Ed West looked at the marshal intently.  He was trying to find a hint of what the marshal meant.  He found nothing.

“I have offered my help to you in the past and you have refused.  I’m not sure if I can think of something uglier than shooting another man and I have offered to stand with you for that.  I’m in.”

“Good, I’ll meet you at the saloon this evening.”

“I’ll see you then.”  The saloon man walked away still wondering what the marshal had in mind.

The marshal made a round of the town and as he walked he felt the pieces of his life start to fall into place.  It was as if one by one the dust devil was letting them go, and they were falling back into his control.  He would go to Missouri with Laura, and even saying that to himself brought a smile.  He would settle things with Wiggins, have the trial and hanging for Colton, and then he would be able to leave.  He finished his rounds and was headed back to his office when Mrs. Wilkinson flagged him down.

In addition to running the dry goods store, Mrs. Wilkinson was also the mail office as well as the telegraph operator. She flagged him down as he passed and presented him with a telegram from the circuit judge.  It was not good news.  The judge had fallen and broken a leg.  He would not be able to make his rounds for at least another six weeks.  Odds were Colton would not stand trial for at least eight.  

Sam changed his direction, went to the livery, saddled his horse and rode out to the Stoddard farm to tell Laura about the change in the trial date.

Chapter Thirty Three

“Sam, you misunderstand.  I will not change my plans.  I don’t care when the judge gets here.  I am, we are, leaving for Missouri in about three or four weeks.”

“Laura, you can’t do that.  If you are not here to testify, there is no one to tell what happened that morning.  You were the only witness.”

She folded her arms and looked at him from her vantage point of standing on the front porch of her house.  He stood on the ground, beside his horse.  Their heads were almost equal.

“I don’t care, Sam.  Seeing that boy hang is not the most important thing in my life.  I have thought about it and tried to place the pieces of that morning together and I believe it was just a horrible accident.”

“Accident or not, a judge has to make that determination!”

“Not in my mind, he doesn’t.  I’m sorry.  No, I’m not sorry.  My plans stand and my invitation stands.  Come with us; come with me.”

“Laura, I don’t understand.  How can you be so uncaring about the man who murdered your husband?”

Laura lashed out, she stepped forward, and she pointed her finger at his chest. 

“Uncaring?  Who do you think you are to tell me how I feel or how I’m to act?  You have no idea the pain I feel or the pain my children feel.  You think because I’ve made myself available to you I don’t still have feelings for William?  You think I don’t miss his corny sense of humor and his silly jokes?  I even miss the rhythm of the sound of him walking his crab walk!”

She started to cry and he stepped forward to hold her.  She stopped him. 

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

She backed away by a step, “I admit I never loved William.  He knew that but he was a loving and caring husband and father.  I believe I was a good wife to him.  When William came back from the war, he was crippled in more ways than just physical.  He was miserable, hateful and angry; always angry.  He worked through it.  He always said it was me who saved him and I hope I was some help, but he saved himself.”  

“William carried the guilt of the men he killed to his grave.  That’s why he never wore a gun.  He swore he would rather die than kill again.  I will not allow you to use me and my words to help make the last act of William Stoddard result in another death.”

Sam stepped forward, “Laura, I want to go to Missouri with you.  I want the life you describe, but I have to see this through.  I can’t leave a job unfinished.  Colton killed an unarmed man and he deserves to hang.  It’s the law of the territory.”

She looked at him, “No Sam, it’s the law of Moses.  You have a chance to get out of this life you are in.  You have people who care for you.  You have me, if you want me, but you will never touch me if you have the blood of that boy on your hands.  I want to live.  I want you to live and I want us to live together. 

The time for killing is over.  Come with me Sam, come with us to Missouri.”

She turned and entered the adobe cabin.  He was alone and he felt abandoned.  He rode back to town and in the distance a dust devil teased and tormented him.   

Chapter Thirty Four

It was evening, just like he said when Sam walked into the West House via the back door.  He asked a girl to go and send Ed to him, which she did.  Ed had been expecting the marshal and was still wondering what he had volunteered for.

“Ed you’ve offered to help me in the past.  Is that offer still good tonight?”

“You know it is.  What do you need?”

“I need you to first do exactly what I ask and don’t ask questions until it’s all over.”

“Ok, now what?”

“Get a clean towel, your sharpest heavy bladed knife and send one of your girls for the doctor.  Tell her to have him to bring coagulant powder.”

Ed frowned, but did as he was asked.  He was back a few minutes later with his supplies and told Sam the girl was on her way.  Sam only nodded and led the way onto the saloon floor.  He walked to the table where Wiggins was sitting and the gambler watched him come.  As he got closer, Wigs slowly started to move his hand to the edge of the table.

“Don’t do that, Wigs.  Change your mind about carrying?”

Wiggins relaxed, but left his hand where it was, “A man can’t be too careful.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” the marshal agreed, “but there will be no shooting tonight.”

Once in front of the table, Moses told the rest of the players to pick up their money and leave.  They did. Wiggins watched them depart, but remained silent.

  He told Ed to unfold the towel and put it on the table in front of Wiggins.  Ed did and as he did, the marshal drew his Colt.

“I thought you said there would be no shooting?”  

The gamblers question was also an accusation.

“This is out only to insure that no shooting will take place.  Put your right hand on the towel.”

Wiggins didn’t like what was happening, but he really didn’t know what was happening.  Slowly, he complied.  The marshal moved to his friend’s side and removed his pistol from its holster.  

Sam remembered the force Ed West had when he stopped him from shooting Colton the morning Stoddard was killed and he told the big barkeep to hold Wiggins hand in place. Without hesitation, West moved over the table and clamped the hand where it was.  The marshal moved to the right so if he had to shoot Wiggins, he would miss the barkeep.

“Wiggins, what do you do if you want to keep a baby rattlesnake as a pet?”

“I dunno.”

“You de-fang it.  Ed, cut off his right pointer finger, at the third joint.”

“You son-of-a,” Wiggins tried to jerk free, but could not.  He screamed and called the marshal names.  He tried to get out of his chair and he tried to wrestle his hand free. Nothing changed the situation he was in.  

Ed looked at the marshal, as if to ask, “Are you sure?”  Seeing the resolve on the lawman’s face, he knew he was.  Ed used his sharpest knife to remove the gambler’s trigger finger at the third joint.  

During the cutting, Wiggins stopped screaming.  He gritted his teeth and glared at Sam.  His anger was seared through him and the hate he felt at that moment engulfed him.  If he could have gotten to Sam he would have bitten him to death.  He couldn’t get to him. 

The doctor showed up, with his bag and Sam called him to the table, “Over here doc, we’ve had an accident.”

The doctor looked at what was on the table and declared it was not an accident.  Sam glared at him, “I told you it was an accident. Now help this man and stop the bleeding.”

Sam picked up the finger and gave it to West, “Get rid of this, he doesn’t need it anymore.”

West rolled the finger up in the towel.

“Ed who is your best girl?”

“What do you mean best?”

“I mean who is the nicest and the most motherly?”

“That would be Kate.”

“Call her over here.”

When Kate arrived, she turned out to be a twenty something slim and pretty brunette with big brown eyes.  She looked like she should be working at a dry goods store, not on the second floor of a saloon.

“Kate,” Sam introduced himself, “Though he will deny it, this man here is my friend.  I had to injure him tonight so he will still be my friend tomorrow afternoon.”  Sam was looking at Wiggins more than he was looking at the girl.

“Here is twenty dollars,” the girls brown eyes got bigger; “you are to take this man upstairs and take good care of him.  You are not to leave his side.  You get his meals, get him clean water, shave him, and have his clothes cleaned and pressed if need be.  His hand is going to be very sore for the next several days.  You stay with him until the stage headed for Denver comes through next week; then you put him on the stage.  Understand?”  

The girl nodded, “I’ll take very good care of him.”  Her voice was nasally and high pitched.  Sam was glad he didn’t have to listen to her for the next several days.  The thought struck him that if cutting off his finger didn’t ruin his friendship with Wiggins, forcing him to listen to her might.  Nothing could be done about that now.

He looked at his friend, who was now losing color from his face and was going into shock.  He needed to lie down on a bed.  Sam took the time, before the doctor and Kate helped him upstairs to address his friend. 

“I am no good at running and I didn’t want to shoot you.  This is the only other plan I could come up with.  I’ll see you before you leave.”

Wiggins just looked at him.  The shock had tempered his anger, but the hate in his eyes was still visible.  Sam stood to the side and watched Kate and the doctor as they helped his injured friend upstairs.  Ed West stood beside him, “I have to tell you marshal; I don’t know which is worse.  You smash the hand of a man you don’t like and cut the finger off the hand of a man you do.”

The marshal was tired, “Go to hell, West.  I have known that man for over a dozen years. We fought range wars together and we guarded ore wagons together.   He has saved my life a time or two and I had to do that to him in order to save his life tonight.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.  I just make stupid jokes when I’m upset.”

“The man who brought him here is going to pay and pay dearly.”  The marshal’s voice turned cold and mean.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s none of your concern, Ed.”

Sam turned to leave the room and as he did, he asked Ed if he had a few scraps for Pete, who was sitting in the corner.

Ed was about to make a joke about giving the dog the finger, but a look at Sam changed his mind.  

“Let me see what I got in the back.”

He returned a few minutes later with a covered plate, “There’s a ham sandwich for you in here as well and a pint of beer.”

“Thanks, and thanks for your help tonight.”

“Marshal, you can always count on me, but no more finger cutting ok?”

“I don’t think it will ever come to that again.  Good night Ed.”

“Good night marshal.”

The following day, the town was abuzz with the new story about the cruelty of Marshal Moses.  Sam decided to spend most of the day in his office and let the people say what they wanted without being afraid he would overhear them.  He didn’t care what they thought or what they said.  He doubted they would understand his reasoning behind his actions and even if they did, he was not about to explain it or justify it to them.  Did he tell the laundry how to wash clothes?  No.  He owed none of them anything more than safe and orderly streets and that they had. 

He was at his desk when Laura burst through the doorway.  He got up and came around the desk to meet her.  It was obvious she had been crying and crying hard.  Her eyes were wet and red and her nose was red.  Her face was flushed and she was having trouble breathing.  She tried to talk but had to stop twice before she was able to together a sentence.

As he waited, concerned, Sam asked several times, “What’s wrong Laura?  Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “What’s wrong?  What’s wrong with me?  What’s wrong with you?  Are you some kind of barbarian?  I offer to share my life with you.  I offer to share my land with you.  I offer to share my children with you.  I offer to share my bed with you and how do you reply to these offers?  You cut a man’s finger off!”

“It’s not enough for you to smash a man’s’ hand into pieces a week ago, No!  You have to cut a finger off!  Where is it?  Did you keep it for a trophy?  How barbaric is that?  What kind of heathen are you?”

He said nothing.  He didn’t know what to say.  She stepped toward him.

“Answer me!  Answer me, damn you!  Why would you do that?  How do I explain this to my children?”

The frustration overwhelmed her and she slapped him.  Her slap was solid and it sounded loud in the small office.  

It hurt.  

She slapped him again.  

He closed his eyes and took the assault and this seemed to increase her anger.  

She stepped closer still and started beating him in the face and on the chest with his fists.  She was crying and cursing him in incoherent utterances.

He reached around her and pulled her close, locking her hands and arms between them.  He said nothing just held her.  

At first she resisted, but she knew she could not overpower him.  She leaned into him and cried.  He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing and just held her.

After several minutes, she raised her head to ask him again, “Why” but he stopped the question when he kissed her.  

He kissed her hard.  

Her lips were salty, wet and cold from the tears, but within moments they warmed and she returned the kiss.  

He held the kiss for a long time.  

He broke it and kissed her again.  

She squirmed her arms free and threw them around his neck forcing him lower and more to her level.  She kissed him as hard and as aggressive as he kissed her.  They held the kiss for some time and when they broke she buried her face into his chest and started crying again.

“How do I explain this to my children?  I want them to be proud of you and I want to be proud of you.  How do we do that?  Every person in town is talking about this, everyone.  William and Ruby will hear about this.  How do I explain it?”

“Please, don’t cry.  I don’t think I can ever make you understand, but I want to try.  The man is a friend of mine; his name is Wiggins.  We have been friends for over decade.  We rode together for many of those years.  We have fought together and he has saved my life a time or two.”

She stopped crying and was trying to clean her face.  Sam walked to his water bowl, wet a cloth and returned to her.  He started to wipe and dab her face.  Her face was red and blotchy from the tears; he thought she was beautiful.  He wanted to tell her so, but he was afraid she would start crying again.

She sat down in a chair and looked up at him, “I don’t understand?  Why would you do that to your friend?”

“So I wouldn’t have to kill him.”

She covered his hand with her own and stopped his wiping.

“I don’t understand.”

“Wiggins is a gambler and sometimes gunman and he’s good at both.  He was contacted to come here and chase the marshal out of town or kill him.  He was to be paid six thousand dollars to get rid of me.  He got here the afternoon I was out at your place.  We talked yesterday morning and he told me to leave town after dark and not come back.  He said he would claim the rest of the money and then split it with me later.  If I wasn’t gone by noon, he’d come hunting me.”

“But why didn’t you just leave.  You already have a home with us.  Who would have known?”

“I would have known, but sooner or later the story would get out.  The other day, I told you that this is all I have.”  He waved his arms around the room, 

“The only other things I’ve got are my reputation and my pride.  If I had run, in the middle of the night, I would have lost them and they are more important than my life.” 

“Are they more important than me and the children?”

“How can I be worthy of you if I am not worthy of myself?”

“So you want the reputation as a cruel barbarian?”

“No, but it’s better than a reputation as a coward.”

“What are you going to do about, what’s his name, Wiggins?”

“He’s in the hotel, under house arrest, so to speak, I want him to heal up for a few days and then I’m going to send him packing.”

“Do you think he will ever forgive you?”

“I don’t know.  If he’s smart he will.  Both of us are still alive today.  His way, one of us or maybe both of us would be dead now.”

At the thought of him being dead, Laura stood and came to him.  She put her arms around him; she talked to his chest.  

“Please don’t do that, please don’t get killed.”

“I’m not planning too.”  He was surprised that he meant it.  They stood for several minutes in the coolness of the adobe office holding each other, neither speaking, just enjoying the feel of each other.

In time, Laura said she had to leave and get back to the farm.  He nodded.  She asked him to come out and read some more from the book and again, he nodded.

Chapter Thirty Five

Twenty minutes after Laura left, Twilliger burst into the room, but his bursting was much more subdued than the last time.  He sat down in the chair across from the desk and took a deep breath.  He exhaled and then he started, “I don’t care what you say; I want you out of this town.  I don’t care what the town council says, you are leaving here and I want you leaving today.”

“You don’t want an explanation?”

“How can you explain cutting a man’s finger off?”

“He was sent here to kill me.  Someone in this town offered him six thousand dollars to come here and kill me.  Can you believe such a thing?”

The mayor’s complexion, which was light colored anyway, went grey.  He looked like he was going to be sick.  He took several small intakes of air, and Moses thought he resembled a guppy.

The marshal looked at him, “I know how you feel.  That’s how I felt when I first heard about it; someone in this town sending out for a paid killer.  Just when you think this is a simple and friendly little town, we find out it has this kind of corruption.”

The mayor developed the hiccups.

“Do you, hick, have any, hick, idea who, hick, did this?”

“Oh, I have my guesses.  There can’t be but a few people with that kind of money just lying around.  Money to hire a killer has to be cash and it has to be easy to get too.”

“But, hick, you don’t, hick, know, hick, for sure.”

“Mayor, I could have it figured out by this time tomorrow if I wanted too.  Right now, I don’t want too.  Depending on how things play out, I might never want too.  You’re going to help me decide if I want to or not.”

The mayor’s eyes widened at the thought of being in the service of the marshal, “How, hick, can I, hick, help?  What can I, hick, do?”

“Like I said, money like that has to be easy to get too.  You know who has money in this town, and you are going to talk to them today.  There can’t be more than five or six folks with that kind of money.  You are going to tell them what I said, and if I come hunting them or not depends on what they do.”

The hiccups were coming so fast and violent, the mayor couldn’t talk.  He sat and waited for Sam to continue.

The marshal rose from his chair, ambled to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup.  He was enjoying this.  He pointed an offer to get a cup for the mayor, who refused.  Moses sipped the hot liquid, prolonging the mayor’s discomfort.  Standing next to the stove and coffee pot, he proclaimed his judgment. 

“Wiggins, the gunman, who lost his finger is not out of work permanently.  His only other line of work is playing cards, and after his hand heals, he should be able to do just fine. However, he is going to need a stake to hold him over while he heals and then to set him up once he starts playing again.  The person who hired him is going to pay Wiggins the full six grand offered for the job and also pay him a bonus of one thousand dollars to cover the pain and suffering he is going through.”

  “The additional thousand is also punishment for hiring Wiggins in the first place.”

The mayor was still struggling trying to talk, but he raised his finger as if he was going to make a counterpoint. 

Sam brushed it aside, “This isn’t a negotiation, mayor, and I’m going to see Wiggins before he leaves in a couple of days.  If he hasn’t received the money by the time he leaves, I will take a great interest in whoever sent for him and when I find out who they are, I’m going to burn their house down.”

The marshal crossed the room, and stood square in front of Twilliger.  He bent over with his hands on his thighs, and was looking into the mayor’s watery eyes.  

He wanted the man to feel and not just hear the words he spoke, “They’re going to think an earthquake and a tornado hit them on the same day.  They will feel the bowels of hell open just for them.”

The mayor was beyond help; he needed to get outside before he threw up in the marshal’s office.  

“Here, let me get the door for you,” the marshal offered.

As the mayor passed, Moses closed their meeting, and in a low voice he reminded him, “You tell whoever is responsible they only have a couple of days.  And mayor, I’d really hate to be in that person’s shoes.  If any gun man rides into town, I’m going to think they sent for him and I’m going to come hunting them without waiting and without warning.”  

The mayor could feel the bile in the back of his throat starting to build; he hurried past the marshal and around the building into an alley.

The rest of the week, most of the townspeople ignored him when he passed them on the street.  Even those who had spoken to him in the past now seemed to want to be clear of him.  Sam was surprised that he felt ignored and shunned.  He hadn’t realized the greetings of some of those people made him feel good and now that they were withheld from him, he missed them.

Ed West still spoke to him and in fact defended him to those who might not approve of what the marshal did.  The cowboys, who came to town, as their herds rested, understood that the marshal had chased a couple of card sharks from town; to them he was a hero.  He protected their money; now they had it to spend on other things and spend it they did.

Word was being passed back along the trails that Puebla Fresa had a no nonsense marshal who allowed the cowboys to come to town, have a good time and as long as no one got hurt, leave when they were ready.  

The rumor was the beer was full bodied and flavorful and the girls were friendly and nice.  The businesses of the little town were having a banner year and several of them had to send for more supplies.  Still, the business owners didn’t credit Moses as the man that started the rush to their town.  He was shunned as any ruthless killer should be.

Chapter Thirty Six

The week passed and Sam did not visit Wiggins while they waited for the stage.  Wiggins had not visited Sam and he had not sent an invitation.  The stage to Denver was loading, and Sam stood by and waited for Wiggins to come out.  In his hand he had a small wooden box.  

Wiggins stepped out of the main door and onto the boardwalk.  His damaged hand was wrapped in clean bandages and he carried his valise in his left.  Moses crossed to him and offered the box.  As he held it to his friend, he opened it and inside was the LeMatt pistol. 

Sam had it converted to shoot rim fire .36 caliber rounds.  

He offered the gun to Wiggins. 

“You’re man hunting days are over, but you might have enemies that won’t take that lost finger into account.  If they come at you, this will be a good gun for you to have.  It gives you ten shots with one of them being a 16 gauge shotgun round.”

Wiggins took the box and looked at the gun.  He looked at Sam, “You think this makes us even?”

“I didn’t say that.  I didn’t want to kill you.  I still don’t.  You go back to Colorado. There are several towns that should keep you playing cards for many years to come.  You don’t need the grief of gun work no more.  You take Colorado and I will stay out of it.   That way, we can always be friends.”

Wiggins was touched by the gift of the gun, “You think this is going to keep me safe?  You’re right, I do have enemies.”

“I figure if one or two come at you, you’ve got a better than fighting chance with that gun and any back up you might carry.  If they come at you in a big number and I find out about it, I give you my word I will hunt down every last one of them and turn them cold.”

Wiggins looked at the man standing in front of him or several seconds.  The stage driver called, “All aboard!”

Wiggins smiled, a small, but meaningful smile, “You know, we’ll never find out who was better.”

Sam did not return the smile.

“We already know.  If you’d gone against me, I’d killed you before you got your gun out.  If you would have thought you could take me, you never would have offered me the chance to sneak out of town.”

Wiggins looked at Sam for several seconds, trying to decide how to take the comment.  A real smile turned up the corners of his mouth, “You may be right.  Come to Colorado some time and thanks for the extra thousand.”

Wiggins climbed aboard and Becky climbed in after him.  Seems she was taking her nursing and mothering duties very seriously.  Sam stepped aside and the coach rolled out of town.

Ed West walked over to Sam, “You know she was one of my best girls.”

“That’s what you said, Ed, that’s what you said.”  

Chapter Thirty Seven

With the Wiggin’s incident behind him, Sam returned to the rhythm of being a marshal.  He made his rounds and interjected himself where he was needed.  He also continued to work with Nutmeg, play with Pete and visit the Stoddard farm.  The reading had progressed, but Laura’s reception of him had cooled.  There were no walks in the moonlight, no offer to hold hands and no invitation to join her in Missouri. 

Laura made no comment about what he had done, and she refused to share her plans. 

Laura was not the only one to treat him different.  The majority of people treated him with miniemal toleration.  He thought it odd that no one in town seemed to notice that a prisoner was not in the jail.  Ed West knew where he was and did not deliver meals, but other than Lincoln, Sam had told no one of his plan.  Colton had been at the Stoddard’s farm for almost three weeks and not a person complained.  Sam was not foolish enough to think the lack of complaints was the same as approval; he was sure they did not approve.  No, he figured the lack of comments about Colton, or any other, aspect of his job was due to the general dislike and distrust of him.

The citizens continued to ignore him for the most part and some of them made no attempt to hide their dislike of him.  Sam had been a Marshal at several towns throughout the years.  Some like Sugar Tree, Texas didn’t turn out so well, but usually after a few weeks the relationship between him and the townspeople became a truce, not here.  This uneasy relationship would bother most men.  Sam Moses refused to be like most men.

Sam had watched the wagon coming up the street and he paid particular attention to the brown horse doing the pulling.  The horse seemed responsive to the driver’s cues and he seemed as if he was getting used to his new life.  The brown was not a draft horse, but the wagon was light and the work was not over taxing.  Sam and Laura exchanged greetings when the wagon arrived at the Marshal’s Office.

Sam was sitting in his usual spot, in his usual manner; his hat pulled down and his boots pulled off.  He squared his hat and stood up as Laura approached.

“Good morning, Laura.”

“Good morning, Sam.  How much more of the book have we got to go before the end?”

“I figure one more reading should do it.  Is there a time you would like to get together?”

“I was hoping you could come out this evening.  I need to talk to you about something and I really want to hear the end of the book.”

“I can make it.  Should I show up around supper time?”

“That would be great and I will set an extra plate.”

“See you tonight.”

Laura waved as the wagon moved forward and then turned in her seat, “Do you need any milk?”

Sam smiled to himself, “Thinking about the book, she had forgotten to make the delivery.  Poor old Pete is going to have to do without today.” 

“No, we’re ok for now.”  He waved a general sign of “Go on.”

Sam stood up, stretched and pulled on his boots, “Come on Pete, let’s go get some breakfast.”

The man and his dog crossed the street and entered the eatery.  Sam was a little surprised to see Ed working the morning shift and the dark circles around Ed’s eyes indicated he wasn’t happy about it.

Sam ordered his regular breakfast, and since Ed did not normally work this early, he reminded him to bring an extra plate.  Ed returned a few minutes later with the order, plus a mug of beer on the serving tray.

“Beer?  I didn’t order any beer, Ed.”

“I know this is for me.”  

Ed sat down and the chair groaned under his size.  He braced his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. After a few moments, he sat up and looked at the marshal, 

“You know, I either have to stop drinking so much, or start to drink more.”

“Sounds like an interesting choice.”

“What I mean is, I can either drink less, and there for have fewer or maybe no hangovers or I can drink more and then not sober up enough to have hangovers.”

The marshal thought about the comment while he cut a strip of ham from the third slice and gave it to Pete, who swallowed it without chewing.  The marshal scratched Pete’s head and then looked at the bartender. 

“You know Ed, that almost makes sense; almost.”

“I’ve told you all along,” the big man smiled, “I am a thinking man’s bartender.”  

To prove he had thought about his options, Ed picked up the mug and downed half of it before he placed it on the table.  

“I’m leaning toward option two.”

“I think it shows.”

Ed allowed the marshal to eat and feed Pete in silence for a few minutes and then he finished his beer and as he sat the mug down he said, “The mayor is trying to get a bunch of people together and force you to quit and leave town.”

The marshal stopped chewing for a second and then he continued.  He cut another slice for Pete, fed it to him and then asked the bartender, “Where do you side on this?  You know more about me than anyone in town.”

“I’ve told him I’m against it.  I want you to stay.  You have no idea how much beer I sell because of you.”  

Ed smiled to show his comment was a compliment and he continued, “I have cowboys from Gillette to Galveston coming into my place to see where you shot Stilwell and his buddies and to see the table where you took the finger off Wiggins.  Did you know Wiggins has quite a reputation down Texas way?”

“Yeah, I knew that, and he earned it the hard way.  Wigs was, is, a good man.  Now he can focus on his real talent which is cards; he can leave the shooting to those better, shall we say, suited for it.”

“I don’t think my say is going to carry much water though.  Mayor Twilliger is getting more than a few people riled up.”

Sam’s smile was sarcastic, “You might not believe this, but I have been fired before.”

Ed returned the smile, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The marshal returned to his breakfast and Ed waited before asking, “You’re not upset about this?”

“No, not in the least, and to be truthful I’ve been thinking about moving on anyway.”

“Really?  When were you planning on leaving, if you leave?”

“I won’t go until after Colton is tried and hung.  I owe that to Stoddard.”

“Speaking of that, do you really think it’s a good idea to have him out there?  That’s one of the complaints Twilliger is going on about, claims you’re forcing her to look at the man who killed her husband day in and day out.”

“That shows what Twilliger knows.  The bigger risk is that she might adopt Colton.  Between you and me, if I had it to do over, I wouldn’t but that would still leave me with the problem I started with, where do I find the Stoddard’s a hired hand that works for free?”

“Well, I thought you ought to know what is happening behind your back so you can plan according.”

“I appreciate your information.  What do I owe you?”

“On me.”

Ed moved away from the table as the marshal lowered his plate so Pete could lick off any left-over morsels.  

Ed couldn’t help but admire the marshal a little, most of the town wanted his hide nailed to the barn door and he sat at a table feeding a dog. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think he didn’t have a care in the world.”

Chapter Thirty Eight

The truth of the matter was, Moses didn’t care rather he stayed on at Puebla Fresa or not.  He was determined to see Colton hung, but beyond that, he didn’t care.  Ed West did know him better than most people in town but even he didn’t know him very well.  

The marshal didn’t care if he kept his job or not, but Sam Moses had no idea how to respond to Laura.

“She basically proposed to me.  No, I don’t like that word.  She offered a proposition; no that word is worse.  She, she, aw, hell!  I don’t know what she did!  She wants me to go to Missouri with her and the kids!”  

The man and his dog returned to his office; the dog jumped onto the bunk and lowered his head to his paws.  It was nap time.  The man started pacing the room.  Pete’s eyes followed the man as he traversed the room, to and fro, to and fro.  

As Sam paced, he thought and from time to time muttered to himself.

“All I wanted was a place to find a gunman good enough and fast enough to put me down.  I really want to be done with this life.  I want peace.  He raised his face heavenward and prayed for death.  Pa’s dead, Luke and Patsy are dead, even Stoddard is dead and I am left here alone.  Why am I left?  But I’m not alone; I can be with Laura.”

He balled a fist and hit himself in the forehead three and then four times.  The thumping was solid and he hit himself hard.  Pete opened one eye at the sound, looked at the man and then lost interest.  He went back to sleep.

“Stilwell should have killed me.  Hack Baskin and his men could have killed me.  I’d have let Wiggins kill me, if I thought he had a chance to get it done.  I want to die; not get chased out of town!”

He continued to pace.

“I come here looking for a place to die and what have I done?  I’ve adopted a mutt, who might live another ten years.  I’ve bought a horse that will live twenty and I have promised to follow and document her achievements and failures as well as those of her offspring.  And worst of all, I have given my word to a dying man that I would take care of his family.  A family with a five year old girl, a ten year old boy and a beautiful mother, who can’t read.”  

He found himself touching his lips, remembering her kisses; he angrily jerked his hand away.  

“What are you a love struck boy?”

No woman had been allowed to get close to him since Patsy.  He vowed he would never risk the pain and the hurting he felt that night he read that letter.  Now this woman, this woman who was strong and regal, who was confident and capable, this woman who was unable to read, write or figure sums was counting on him to help her and her family.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

He walked to the door and started to close it, as was his practice when getting ready to take a nap.  No use giving a trigger happy gunman an easy shot.

“What the hell!  Maybe that coward Twilliger will come down here and shoot me in my sleep and put me out of my misery!”

He laughed at the thought of Twilliger shooting him. He was sure when he got to Hell he would have to account to those he had sent there who punched his ticket.  The thought of telling Stilwell that it was the roly-poly mayor caused him to laugh as he walked back to his chair.  He sat down, kicked up his feet, lowered his hat and went to sleep.

Chapter Thirty Nine

“With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.  Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.”

Sam closed the book, and added, “The end.”

Laura snuck a handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed them, “What a wonderful story.  I almost wish there was more to read.”

“Sam stood and stretched, arching his back, “Laura, there are so many books you could never read them all in your life time.  Not even if you were a pee wee like this one.”

He reached down and tickled Ruby under her chin.  Ruby giggled and moved away.  Once clear of her tormentor, she turned to her mother and in the most serious voice the five year old could muster, informed her mother. 

“I will always miss my papa, but I think you should find a Mister Darby to marry.  We could live in a big house and Mr. Marshal could come over all the time to read to us.”

The silence was heavy in all the corners of the room and Laura asked William if he would pick up and do the dishes.  She directed Ruby to help.  Colton, who was sitting in the doorway, stood, excused himself and headed toward the barn. 

“Thank you marshal, I really enjoyed the story,” he called over his shoulder as he stepped down from the porch.  

Laura crossed the room to stand next to Moses.  She reached and touched his chest where his star usually hung, and softly asked him to follow her outside.  She asked if he would walk with her. 

Her simple touch caused him to shiver slightly, and he followed her outside.

Once they were away from the cabin, and the moonlit darkness hid them to some degree, Laura reached back and took Sam’s hand.  She pulled him to her, so they were walking side by side.

“I never imagined a book could be so beautiful.  What a wonderful story.  Do you think there are any Mr. Darcy’s left?  Do you think there might be one out there for me?”

Sam felt his face flush red and burn.  He was grateful for the darkness.  He stopped and forced Laura to stop and look at him by holding her hand,

“Laura, I am no good at this!  I don’t know what you are talking about!  You know I have strong feelings for you.  Are you asking if I can be a Mister Darcy?  No!  I have no money!  I have no mansion!  Some people say I’m not even housebroken!  If you are asking me if there is someone else for you, well, I’m sure you could have any number of suitors.  For whatever it is worth, I’m jealous of them all.”

Laura couldn’t help herself; she smiled at his pained expression. 

“Oh, poor Sam!”  She broke into laughter, “I’m so sorry!  Let’s blame it on the moon!  I got moon fever and it caused me to talk silly.  I’ll bet you were wishing you had your horse with you”.  She was still laughing when she leaned into him and hugged him.

After a moment, she stepped back and looked up into his face.  His expression was hidden under his hat, but in her mind she saw him staring intently at her.

“Sam, I have been taking care of someone since as long as I can remember.  I know that I will be taking care of someone for the next several years.  I have already offered you my best offer.  I don’t have anything to give you except what you see before you.  I know you didn’t come to Puebla Fresa looking for a family and I don’t know what ghosts you carry around inside you.  I believe you are a good man; underneath all your anger and bitterness, you are a good man.  William saw it and I see it.   Please come to Missouri with me, with us, me and the kids.”

“Laura, I as much as I might like too or want too, I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?  You have nothing here.  There is nobody in this town that will think twice about you leaving, except maybe Ed West.  You said it yourself; you have nothing.  I might not have a lot, but I am willing to share with you all I have.  Are you telling me that is not enough?”

Her voice started to break as she finished speaking and she turned away from him.  Even in the subdued light of the moon he could see her shoulders shaking.  He heard her sobs.  He reached for her; he placed his hands on her shoulders and she shook them off.

“No, don’t, don’t touch me.  Don’t hold me if you will not come with us.  Don’t only be with me when it suits you.  I, we, the kids and I are an all or nothing proposition.”

He dropped his hands to his side.

“How do I tell you that while I have nothing and maybe I am nothing, I’m proud of this nothing that I am?  This is who I am and it is not worthy of you.  Don’t be the man you become, become the man you were supposed to be.”

The thought, the memory of his father’s words was so strong; it was as if he heard them spoken again.  He looked around to see if his father was there; he wasn’t.

He looked at Laura in the moonlight.  He could smell her scent and remember her warmth.  The thought of her crying for him, over him, almost forced him to take her and hold her; to never give her up, almost.  He turned, walked to his horse and returned to town.

The following morning, Sam was in the training corral with Nutmeg.  The filly was really starting to catch onto the concept of training and working with a human.  He was standing beside the little horse and scratching under her chin when Ed West walked up and leaned on the top rail of the fence.  Pete moved over and Ed patted the dog before turning to Sam.

“Good morning.  It seems you and the pony is becoming fast friends.”

Sam was proud of the little horse and he took advantage of any chance to show off her skills. 

“Got a minute?  Want to see something special?”

Without waiting for the barman to answer, he moved away from the horse.  Once across the corral, he made a clucking noise to get her to look at him.  Once he had her attention, he raised his hands chest high and slowly motioned for the filly to come to him.  He did not speak, only used the motion of his hands.  The little horse looked at him, flicked her ears and then took three steps forward.  When she had closed some of the distance, he dropped his left hand to his side and raised his right arm at a right angle from his body.  The little horse stopped, looked at him and then turned and walked to her left.  The smile on Sam’s face was full grown as he brought both arms back to chest high and motioned for the little horse to close the distance; she did.  As she reached his location, he dropped his arms and she stopped.  He brought a carrot stick from his pocket and fed it to her as he reached for the base of her neck and scratched her shoulders.

“Isn’t she something?”  The pride he felt with the little horse had him beaming.

Ed scowled and furrowed his eyebrows, “Marshal, I am a bartender and I know how to brew beer.  I don’t claim to know about horse training, but it looks like, to me, that you have taken what is reported to be one of the finest horses in this territory and taught her how to be a dog.  Next, I expect, you’ll have her rolling over or shaking hands.”

The jibes from the bartender slapped Sam’s ego as hard as if the bigger man had used his hands.  Anger exploded through him, and he stomped toward the fence. 

“What are you doing here?  If you came down here just to make fun of me, get the hell away from me!  If there is a reason for you to be here, tell me what it is and then leave!”

West was not bothered by the Marshal’s blustering.  West never carried a gun and he knew he could beat the tar out of the marshal if he had to.  The way he felt this morning, he might, just on general principle.

“Oh, I’ve got a reason for being here.  I got a message for you.”

“What is it?”

“You are the biggest fool I have ever seen in my life.  I’ve seen jackrabbits with more brains than you.  Tumbleweeds have more common sense than you do.  Do you want me to continue?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”  The marshal almost shouted his question.

“I just met with Laura Stoddard and she told me she and the kids are moving back East.  She made her final milk delivery this morning and wanted a final settlement.  She wished me the best of luck.  I thought I overheard you tell her dying husband that you would take care of his family for him, so imagine my surprise when I asked if you were as excited about the move as she appeared to be, and she told me you weren’t coming.”

The marshal’s voice grew cold and menacing. 

“West, you are talking about stuff that does not concern you.  You best be getting back to your bar.”

West didn’t budge, even as the marshal climbed through the pole fence and closed the distance between them.  The barman waited until the marshal was within arm’s reach before he responded.

“You’re wrong.  It is my business.  Laura Stoddard is a friend of mine and her happiness is my business.  She heard you give your word, just as I did, but it’s more than that.  She, for whatever reason, thinks highly of you.  She wants you to go with them, not because you promised William, but because she likes you.  Your refusal has hurt her and her hurting angers me.  I came over here this morning, not to see your dog and pony show, but to beat some sense into your head.”

“Do you think you can do it?”  

The two men faced each other.  They had reached an intersection in their conversation, and the right or wrong turn would result in physical confrontation.  West chose his words carefully and spoke them slowly.  He wanted to make sure the marshal understood his contempt.

“Marshal, I have no illusions about my abilities or lack thereof with firearms.  As you know, I choose to never carry one and only use a long gun when called upon.  Hand to hand, me against you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.  If you and I got into it, by the time I was done with you, William Stoddard would be able to beat you in a footrace.”

West held up his hands for the marshal to see.

“Moses, these hands are as deadly as your gun.  They just take a little longer to get the job done.”

The marshal hesitated.  He considered his retort, but Ed West wasn’t finished.

“Like I said, I came over here to beat some sense into you.  Looking at you and seeing for the first time what a pitiful excuse of a man you are, I’ve changed my mind.  I don’t know what Laura Stoddard sees in you, but I hope and pray she gets over you soon.  She is one of the finest women I know and she deserves a man who wants to be with her and would fight to be with her and her children.  She doesn’t need a man who would only accompany her because of a promise made to a dying man, a man who is hiding out here in the horse manure.”

Sam was stunned.  No one talked to Marshal Moses like that.  He had not been talked to in such a manner since he was a boy.  He had no words with which to respond.

“Marshal, when I first met you, I agreed with Stoddard that you were reckless to the point of trying to get yourself killed.  That was what drove William to try to befriend you.  He had tried to kill himself on two separate occasions and wasn’t able to get the job done.  Now, I don’t know what you are other than stupid.  You need to know I’ll be siding with the mayor when we vote to terminate your services.”

West turned and walked through the barn and out into the sunlight. 

Sam watched West leave.  His words circled through his thoughts; he replayed the lecture until he got angry.

“Who did they think they were?  Did they not understand he was Sam Moses?  Who was a drunken bartender to tell him how he should live his life and who he should live his life with?  They might think they could fire him, but what if he decided not to leave?  What then?  There wasn’t a one of them who would stand up to him.  Why did Laura have to leave now?  Why all of a sudden?  Why couldn’t she just stay where she was?  The land in Missouri couldn’t be that much better than here.  This was where her husband was buried.  How could she leave that?  If she left now, who would testify against Colton?  Laura was the only witness.  If she left town, there could not be a trial.”

His anger turned to fear.  If Laura left, there would be no trial.  If there was not a trial, Colton would go free!  Stoddard would not be avenged!  There would be no hanging!  The marshal saddled his horse and rode to the Stoddard farm.  He caught up with Laura just past the river as she returned from making her last deliveries.  He stepped down from his saddle and took hold of the reins of the brown, bringing the wagon to a stop.

“Marshal, please let go of my horse’s headgear; let me pass.  I have things I have to do.”

“Laura, please, listen to me for just a minute.”

She bounced slightly in the seat and folded her arms across her chest.  The image of Johanna as a little girl pouting flickered through his mind.  He forced it away.

“Laura, you cannot leave until after the trial.  The circuit judge will be here in the next few weeks.  You have to be here to testify against Colton or there is no witness to what happened that morning.  Colton would go free.  You can’t want that to happen.”

For several moments, Laura would not look at him.  Instead she looked over the desert countryside.  Sam didn’t know what more to say, so he said nothing.  For some time the only sounds were made by the desert: the desert jay, the breeze and the sound of the river in the not too far distance.  When Laura looked at him, tears fell from her eyes; her voice however, was strong.

“I decided to move the morning I heard you had cut off that man’s finger.  I felt, I knew that morning that I had to get away from the savagery that you represent, the savage that you are.  I have to protect my children.”

“I asked you, I begged you to come with me.  I offered you all that I have, hoping it would be enough and you would be willing to give up the life you live and find a gentler, fuller life with me and the children.  You turned me down.  You think you are a mighty regulator of justice; you see yourself as a man who rights the world’s wrongs.  You are not.  You are a petty little man who lives for violence and death.  You are afraid of life, of love, and of being loved.  I don’t know why you choose to live this way.  William said it is because of the war, maybe.  I don’t know and frankly, Sam, I don’t care.  You do not deserve to know about the marriage William and I had, but I will tell you he was a great father and a very good husband, but William and I did not marry for love.”

“I didn’t think I would ever know what real love between a man and a woman feels like and then I met you.  That first morning I saw you rocked back on your chair with your hat pulled low and your socking feet, a shock went through me that I was afraid William would feel.  The sight of you took my breath away.  I knew if I allowed myself, I would soon grow to love you.  It has taken all my energy not to let that happen and still I feel like I am losing the struggle.”

“If I stay here, the love I feel for you will convince me to condone the violence that you do and sooner or later, that violence will corrupt or injure my children.”

Laura closed her eyes hard, as if trying to squeeze the tears out of them.  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and then raised her head to face Sam again. 

“You asked me to stay here long enough to testify against Colton.  You would not like what I would tell the court.   I would tell them it was an accident.”

“I would tell them a young man who had drunk too much the night before and who was not using sound judgment made an ill-timed compliment to me that my late husband mistook for an insult.  The two men started pushing each other and William was killed accidently.”

The marshal was dumbfounded. 

“How could you say that?  How could you be a part of letting the man who killed your husband go free?”

Laura reached a hand to him and he walked back to the wagon where he stood beside her.  She gently placed her hand on the side of his face.

“I pray the day will come that you will understand what I am about to tell you.”  

“When William came home, he was angry, bitter, and in so much physical pain.  He spent most of his days and it all of his nights drunk.  Some of it was to deaden the pain in his back and legs, but I think most of it was to deaden the pain in his soul.  I cannot count the nights I held him in my arms while he cried and begged forgiveness for the men he killed in that war.  He could see their faces before him and he begged them to forgive him.  He promised them, if they would forgive him, he would never kill again.  He didn’t.  Now, you want me to have a role in putting a man to death on William’s behalf.  I won’t do it.  I told you before, I will not let the last act of William Stoddard in this life be the cause of another man’s death.”

“But, Laura, he killed your husband.  The man deserves to die!”

“Maybe.  But I will not soil my husband’s name by being a part of it.  You were there as William died, did he ask for vengeance?  Did he demand retribution?  Did he cry out for justice?  No marshal, he spoke of love and taking care of each other.  That is what William Stoddard will be remembered for by his family.  You and the others in the town can do what you will.  If my wish has any influence, I ask you to let Tom Colton go and hope that he grows up to be the man he might be.”

“Now, please stand aside.  I have much to do in preparing for our move.  We are driving to Raton in two days to catch the train.  Mr. Twilliger is taking care of selling the farm and Mr. Lincoln is going to come out and gather up the stock for us.  He will sell them as he can and forward a share to us in Missouri.  Stand aside; I don’t want to run over your feet.”

The Marshal stepped back and she drove off; sitting as straight and as regal as the first day he saw her.  He felt as if an invisible rope tied to the wagon was ripping his heart out.

Chapter Forty 

Sam lived the next two days as if held behind a barrier.  He went about his work, and it seemed as if a giant mason jar had been placed over him.  Where the townspeople had been cool and distant previously, now they were cold and ignored him when possible.  

Ed West refused to speak to him and had one of his girls bring him his meals.  When Sam walked through the saloon while making his rounds, the big bartender would go into the back room.  

Lincoln Lincoln continued to speak to him, but even his friendship seemed to wane.  The herds had stopped coming and the driving season was over.  There were not even strangers for him to speak to.

To another man, or a lesser man, this treatment may have had a withering affect. To Sam Moses, it strengthened his resolve.  He spent his time with Nutmeg, who was always happy to see him, and he played with Pete.  The dog was a loyal friend even though Sam had caught him looking longingly down the street, as if he was hoping for a brown horse and wagon to show up.

On the morning of the second day, Sam woke early, saddled and rode to the Stoddard farm.  As he rode, he wished he could say the words to get Laura to change her mind.  Maybe she would stay long enough for him to finish his task with Colton and then they could all leave together.  He tried to form the words to get her to understand he had a responsibility that was bigger than just William Stoddard.  He had made an oath with William as he was dying, but he had also sworn an oath to defend the town and uphold its laws and the laws of the New Mexico Territory.  Was it so hard for her to understand that some oaths might be in conflict with each other and time and patience would be needed?

“She called me a savage.  She said she had to get away from me.  She said she cared for me.  She said I caused her to feel a shock.  She said I am only interested in revenge.  Is that true?”

When he arrived at the farm, most of the packing had already been done and there was little remaining other than helping Laura and Ruby into the wagon.  Laura did not ask him for any assistance; in fact, she did not speak to him or even look in his direction.  Sam felt like he was intruding.

William looked at the marshal as he stood as tall as he could.  He held his hand out and they shook hands as two men would who were parting for a long time.  William never said anything, but the Marshal could see he was blinking back tears.  

“Tears for me?”

“Take care of your mother.  Take care of Ruby.”

The boy only nodded, then turned and climbed aboard the back of the wagon.

Sam walked to the front and Ruby stood on the seat so she could hug his neck, “Please come with us,” she said.

“Ruby, stop that!”  Her mother’s voice was not harsh, but commanding.  “Sit down now, we have to get going.”

Sam walked in front of the brown, fearing that she may drive off without him having a chance to say goodbye.  She waited.  As he approached the woman, she took a deep breath and looked at him, 

“Marshal, please do not insult me by asking me to wait for just a little longer.  I will not stay here and soil William’s memory, and I will no longer allow my children to be even the smallest part of the savage life you live.”  

“I say this to you.  Look at the three of us in this wagon.  We offer you life, happiness and love.  We offer you joy and togetherness.  Now, look at Tom Colton standing there.  He offers you death, bitterness, and loneliness.  I believe in you and I believe in us.  I am going to Missouri to raise my children and build a farm.  I have no desire to do it alone and I desperately want a man to be part of my life.  I want that man to be you.  Can I be more plain that that? Settle this business with Colton and come to Missouri but do not kill him.  If you kill him, forget you know us; you will no longer be welcome.  Goodbye, Sam.”  

She started the brown and the two men watched the wagon roll down the dusty lane headed for Raton.  They watched for several minutes.  Colton was unsure what was going to happen next as the marshal waited for the wagon to get out of ear shot.  When the wagon was only a speck on the desert, the Marshal turned to Colton. 

“Go get a shovel from the barn and come back here.”

Colton did as he was instructed and presented the shovel to the Marshal.  Sam pointed to a place, not far from the Stoddard’s grave. 

“See right there?  Dig.”

Colton continued to follow the orders, but he asked, “What am I digging?”

“A hole.”

Sam sat down of a stump that Stoddard had used as a wood chopping block.  The stump was about fifteen feet away from where the hole was being dug.  Colton was not enthusiastic in his work.

“You got to put some back into it.  You dig slower than my grandmother.  We don’t have all day.”

Time passed, and when the hole was close to knee deep, Sam instructed the hole to be lengthened and widened slightly.

Colton became aware of the dimensions of the hole and the proximity to Stoddard’s grave.

He asked again, “What am I digging here?”

“I told you.  A hole.”

“What’s it going to be used for?”

The answer was the one Colton feared.

“It’s going to be a grave.”

Colton continued to dig because he was afraid if he stopped, the marshal would kill him.  In time the hole was waist deep, five feet long and three feet wide.  It looked like what it was – a shallow grave.  Sweat poured off of Colton and the dirt he shoveled up and out of the hole would at times fly back into his eyes and on his face.  He was filthy.  The Marshal had stayed up wind and was untouched by the dust generated by the cowboy’s digging.

“Stop!”

Colton stopped digging and rested on the handle of the shovel.  He watched as the marshal walked to his horse, opened the saddle bag and retrieved the gun belt and gun taken from Stilwell.  He returned with the gun to the grave.  Colton stood in the hole and the marshal motioned for him to climb out.  

He refused.

The marshal held out the gun and gun belt; Colton refused to take it.

“Here, put this on and check to make sure all the cylinders are loaded.”

Colton tried to back away and fell down into the hole. 

“Marshal, please!  I don’t want it.  I don’t want to shoot you.”

“I’m not sure you can, but you will get your chance.  Now here, put this on!”

Colton looked away, but his fear of the marshal forced him to reach up and take the gun and belt.  

He started to cry. 

The tears ran down his dusty face, causing the dirt to turn darker as it got wet.  He begged for his life, “Please, don’t shoot me.  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about Mr. Stoddard.  I apologized to Missus Stoddard and she forgave me.  Please, I don’t want to die.”

“Do you suppose William Stoddard wanted to die?  Since we can’t have a trial as we normally have in this country, we will have what they had in the Middle Ages.”

Colton did not understand the marshal’s reference.  He continued to cry and cringe, trying to hide in the grave he had dug.

“In the Middle Ages, they had trial by combat.  The concept is simple really.  We fight and whoever wins is right and the law is served.  Sound good, Colton?” 

Colton didn’t understand.  He didn’t answer, he just continued to cry.

Sam started to pace in front of the grave. 

“Get up coward!  Get up and face a whole man.  Can you only shoot crippled men?”  

As he chided and called to the crying Colton his voice grew louder and faster.

“Get up, damn you.  Stand up, you coward.  Get up; get the gun belt around your waist.  I will shoot you where you stand, you coward!”

Sam drew his gun and waved it in Colton’s direction.  Colton didn’t notice.  He was huddled in the grave with his arms over his head as if his forearms would stop the bullets he knew would soon be coming.  He cried and begging not to be shot.

As Sam paced the foot of the grave, he became aware of the forge inside him, the forge that had helped him cast a shield that had protected him all these years.  Now, as he paced, his breathing increased in tempo and volume.  The air forced the forge to heat the coals that had long been hidden behind the shield.  Coals were left from the death of his father, the death of Patsy and Luke and the deaths of those he had killed.  To grieve them had been too painful, so he had forged a shield and hidden the pain away.  It had been easy years ago to keep the world out.  He had no one and he neither needed nor wanted anyone.  The shield strengthened over the years and Sam and the Law of Moses became one.  He was vengeance.  He was retribution. 

“Laura, you’re wrong.  William didn’t speak of vengeance because he knew I would see to it.  He counted on me.  Oh, Laura, why did you leave?  Why did you leave me?  I am lost without you.”

“No,” he shouted!   He would not allow himself to think that.  He was not lost.  He was the Law of Moses!  

“Pick up that gun, you coward, or I will shoot you where you are!”

Colton remained in the hole, huddled, trying to dig deeper using only his hands.  He wailed his fright.

Sam saw the path open to him.  He would kill Colton and leave Puebla Fresa.  Laura was lost, but that was the price of being the Law of Moses.  It was a price he chose to pay.  It was the path he chose to take.   He knew he would think of her from time to time and he would long for her kisses, but he would rebuild the shield.  He would strengthen the shield.

“Be the man you are supposed to be, not just the man you have become.”

“What?” he whispered, startled by the words.  “Who said that?  Pa?”

He looked around and over his shoulders, but no one was there.  The words were too loud to be thoughts.  He shook his head to clear it and focus on the task at hand.

“Colton!  Your time has come!  Either get up and face me like a man or die like a rodent!”  

Sam gestured wildly with his arms, directing the cowboy to stand and fight.  He knocked his hat to the ground.  

He ignored it.

Sam walked toward the foot of the grave and raised the Colt, pointing it at the boy.  His father stood in the way.  He jerked the gun away and his father was gone.

“Be the man you were meant to be.” 

The voice caused him to look around again; he saw no one, so he turned and raised the gun at Colton. 

His father stood in the line of fire. 

Again, he swung the gun away.  His hands shook and he almost dropped the revolver.  He holstered it and walked to the stump.  He sat down and sank his face into his hands.  He viciously rubbed his face and scalp against the palms of his hands.  The burning friction was hot as he tried to burn clarity into his head.  He was fighting back sobs of his own.

“Pa, what are you doing?  What’s happening to me?”

“Don’t settle for the man you have become, be the man you’re supposed to be.”

He raised his head and through his blurred vision, he saw him.  

Before him stood his father.

“Pa?”

The figure extended his arms and walked to the marshal.  They hugged.

Years later, Tom Colton would tell the story to his grandchildren and to anyone who cared to listen of the day he was trapped in a half-dug grave by a deranged marshal bent on killing him.  He had dug the hole and was trying to hide in it as the marshal demanded he stand and fight.  He cowered in the hole until he heard a voice in his head tell him to get up, get out of the hole and leave.

The voice was calm, strong and peaceful.  He raised his head to see who was talking to him, but only he and the marshal were there.  The Marshal sat on a stump with his face in his hands.

The voice repeated, “Stand up, get out and leave.”

He did as he was told and as he got out of the grave, the voice instructed, 

“Leave, walk away, don’t look back.”

He started to walk, stumbling and lurching forward, fearing that every step would bring a bullet from the marshal’s gun.  The bullet never came.  

After walking about ten yards, even though he had heard the story of Lot’s wife, he looked back.  

Through the waves of heat that rose from the ground and caused the images to be blurred, he saw the marshal sitting on the stump, being hugged by his father.

“Don’t ask me how I knew it was his father,” he would say, “I just did.  Then I stumbled over a rock and fell into a patch of prickly pear cactus. I got up and I walked; I didn’t look back any more.”

Sam didn’t know how long he sat on the stump, but he was covered in the love of his father as if it were a blanket.  He felt safe, safe enough to mourn and cry for them all.  He cried for his Pa, he cried for Patsy and Luke; he cried for the cavalry soldier he killed and all the other young men in blue and grey.  He wept for his mother who lost not one but two sons.  He cried for Johanna who lost her brothers.  He cried for William Stoddard and he cried for himself, who lost them all.

As he mourned, his father was there, holding him, comforting him and keeping him safe.

“Don’t settle for the man you’ve become, become the man you’re supposed to be.”

In time, the crying stopped. His breathing returned to normal.  His chest and his soul felt light and for the first time, he realized how heavy his shield had been.  For the first time he realized the work it took to carry it.  The coals that heated the anger and hate in his soul were out.  No embers were left.  They had been extinguished by tears of sorrow and suffocated by a blanket of love.

He walked to the well and drew a bucket of water, in which he dunked his head.  The water was fresh and cold and he churned the water with his one breath.  His lungs empty, he withdrew his head and poured the water over himself, before casting the bucket aside.   He threw back his head and vigorously rubbed his face and his scalp, the action causing a spray of droplets.  The hot friction of earlier was replaced by a cool stimulation that invigorated and refreshed him. 

He opened his eyes and in the fast failing sunlight, standing next to the open grave, was his father.  He closed his eyes and opened them again.  The vision was still there.  In his mind, he heard his father’s advice.

“Don’t settle for the man you have become, become the man you were supposed to be.”

“It was you, all along.  It was you, wasn’t it?  Every time I thought of that statement and every time I shared it with another, it was you who put it in my mind.”

The vision smiled.

“You always were a hardheaded boy.”

The vision started to fade.

“Don’t go!  Stay with me!  I miss you!”

“Your place is with the living.  I’ll be waiting when your time is over.  I love you, son.”

The vision was gone and yet Sam could still feel the warm blanket of love the vision had brought with him.  He hoped to keep it a long time.

Sam brushed off his clothes.  He looked around for his hat, then dusted it off and squared it on his head.  He looked for Colton and was strangely pleased to find the boy gone.

“Good luck, son,” he said and was surprised to realize he meant it.

He checked and tightened his saddle and offered his horse some water before the trip back to town.

He called Pete and the dog came, tail wagging.  He knelt and scratched the ears of his four-legged friend.  Yes, he had a friend and he would find more.  He stood and took a last look around the deserted farm.  How empty it seemed without the giggles of a little girl, the laughter of a boy and the love-filled smile of a woman.

He thought of the things he needed to do when he got back to town.  He wondered if Missouri was as green as he had heard.  He stepped into the saddle and pointed his horse toward town.

Miss Stella Clark                                                                                                                 Waycross, Ga.

Dear Ma’am,

This letter is long overdue and not nearly sufficient to carry the regret I feel.  I owe you so much more.

My name is Samuel Cardiff and I was the last person to speak to Lt. Henri Fulford.  I was the Union soldier who killed him.  Some of his final thoughts were of you and I promised him I would send to you his papers, letters and journal.  I failed him and I failed you.

Minutes after the death of Lt. Fulford, my brother was mortally wounded and I was with him as he died as well.  I still cannot fully explain the sorrow and anger I felt as my brother died, but it is not an excuse for what I did.  I destroyed Fulford’s papers and cheated you of keepsakes.

I will not ask you to forgive me after all this time, but I ask you forgive a twenty year old boy from New York.  

I pray the Lord has kept you close these past years.

Samuel M. Cardiff