Chapter 2

Back in town, Sheriff Dan Cross stood, looking at the four bodies laid out in the dusty street. There were three bodies grouped together, with the farmer's body a couple of feet away. Their glassy-eyed stares were typical of the dead, looking foreign, somehow ... not quite human. The farmer's face bulged where facial bones had given way to pressure inside the skull. It looked grotesquely flat, somehow, despite the bulge.

"Anybody know who they are?" he asked. There was still a crowd of ten or fifteen men milling around.

Jasper Wiggins spoke. "Them three rode in this morning," he said, pointing at the group of bodies. Sydney seemed to know them." Sydney was the bartender and Sheriff Cross had no real use for him.

Tim Humphreys stepped forward. "The farmer came in around noon. He asked for whisky. Them three were playing amongst themselves and he sat down at the table." He stopped there, not wanting to admit that he, too, had seen the men cheating the farmer, and had done nothing.

"And this Cowboy... ?" Cross knew he was gone, but looked around anyway. He'd already heard of the amazing feat the boy - and all described him as a boy - had accomplished. He'd already examined the shooting irons of the dead men, and all were well worn, indicating frequent use, and suggesting some skill with them. For the boy to have taken them all suggested he might be a gunslinger, but that didn't fit with the story being told.

"He lit out," said another man. "Might still be in town. I'd know him if I saw him."

Cross snorted. The town was full of cowboys, in from various cattle drives, and more were arriving every day. Now that the railroad had arrived to take cattle back east Abilene was growing by leaps and bounds. Cross wasn't happy about that, but there was no stopping progress.

"Anybody else hurt?" he asked.

There were murmurs, but no information surfaced as to other victims.

"And they were definitely cheating?"

Dub Whittaker, a bent old man with a long dirty white beard stepped forward and pointed to leather shirt. "That one was double dealing. The farmer got the cards off the bottom, and that one," he pointed to the man who had claimed the win, "got the better hand off the top. I knowed somethin' was up earlier, but couldn't see what they wuz doin' until that last hand. I think they got careless when the sodbuster was all in. He was so excited at his hand that he threw the girl into the pot."

"And that girl?" asked Cross. "Where is she?"

"Wagon went south out of town," said a man. "Damndest thing I ever saw. It wuz like they didn't even care he was dead."

Another man yelled. "I saw the woman grab some money after the shooting!"

"Did she get it all?" asked Cross, who knew there was no money lying around anywhere, and knew it was in the pockets of these men, or others who had decided not to stick around.

"Probly," said the man, whose hand went to touch the front pocket of his pants, unconsciously.

Cross didn't care about the money. If the farmer had been cheated, then as far as he was concerned the money belonged to his family. There was the little problem of who'd pay for the burials, though. As if that thought had produced him, a man hurried up. He was tall and lanky, with pale skin and was wearing a stovepipe hat that was easily a foot tall.

"Four!?" gasped the undertaker.

"It's a red letter day for you, Mister Remmington," said Sheriff Cross.

"Who are they?"

"That remains unclear."

"Who's going to pay?" asked the sallow man.

"We'll sell their gear," said Cross. "That should more than compensate you."

Cross stepped up onto the boardwalk and went inside to talk to Sydney. The man's attitude was surly as he polished glasses with a dirty rag.

"Who were they, Sidney?" asked the lawman.

"How should I know?" The man didn't meet the lawman's eyes.

"They knew you, according to them out there," said Cross, shoving his thumb over his shoulder at the street. "This is the fourth time in as many weeks I've had problems with your ... establishment ... Sydney. Seems to be a threat to public safety around here. I might have to have a word with the town fathers about closing down any unsafe businesses, if you get my drift."

"You can't do that!" growled the barkeep. "I been here since this shit-hole got named!"

"Progress moves apace, Sydney," said Cross. "I've even heard tell that some folks want to issue licenses to operate a business, like they do back east. Pretty fancy notion if you ask me, but progress brings such things."

"I'm just trying to make a dollar!" complained the man.

"Who were they, Sidney?" Cross was tired of negotiating.

The bartender's eyes darted left and right as he scowled. "I tell you and you leave me be ... right?"

"Depends," said Cross. "They caused a heap of trouble."

"They just showed up," complained Sidney. "I can't help it if somebody just walks in my doors."

Cross started to turn. "Good luck with your business, Sydney," he said. He made it to the batwing doors before the man called "Wait!" Cross turned, but he didn't plan on waiting long. That must have been obvious.

"Fisby," said the bartender. "They claimed to be brothers. They always had cash. I didn't ask no questions."

Cross's eyes widened. He'd heard that name. Most lawmen west of the Mississippi had heard that name. The Fisby brothers were reputed to have robbed three trains, and killed more than ten men between them. Nobody knew what they looked like ... until now ... if that was who they were.

"They spent some time in town some years back, and hung around here. I couldn't turn them away," whined Sidney. "They'd have made trouble."

"I'll mention that to the city fathers," said Cross. "I'll remind them you went to pains to make sure there was no trouble."

Cross pushed through the doors. The undertaker's two sons were there now, lifting bodies onto a wagon. Cross went to the three horses that were already tied to the rear wheel of the wagon. His examination revealed a very nice Sharps buffalo rifle and he removed it from the scabbard.

"Here now!" called Remmington. "That's my fee!"

"This is my fee," said Cross, shouldering the rifle. "You're getting three horses and saddles for your work, plus their pistols, which I might add are possibly famous. That's worth three times what you have coming."

"Who's going to pay for the farmer?" complained the man. "His clothes ain't even worth keeping and one of his boots has a hole in the bottom!"

"Those fellers are," said Cross, looking at the bodies of the three outlaws. He paused to say one last thing to the undertaker. "And talk to Homer. Make sure he gets a good photograph of their faces before you plant them. His fee can come out of their belongings too."

He left the fuming man behind and turned toward the train station. There was one bit of progress he was happy about, and he headed for the depot to send a telegraph. Barely a year past, the Turner gang had terrorized Coffeyville, and the resulting gun battle, which had killed eight men, outlaws included, was still talked of. The territorial authorities were trying to bring civilization to Kansas, and they'd put out wanted notices on a number of troublemakers. That included the Fisby Brothers. Cross had a copy of that wanted notice in his office, but no images of the brothers had been supplied. He knew there was a reward for them, but couldn't remember the figure, or whether it a "dead or alive" notice. In any event, Cross knew he couldn't claim it, but getting some attention for his blooming town couldn't be bad, especially if it helped establish the town's reputation as a place outlaws should stay shut of.

Arabella Mortenson sat on the wagon seat, staring at the dust being kicked up by the now walking team of oxen in front of her. Most of an hour had passed. Her son had returned to the front of the wagon, saying he saw no riders, and no dust behind them.

She was slowly coming to grips with the idea that her life might not be over. But that brought with it other concerns. If she stayed alive and out of prison, she would have to figure out how to provide for her family.

She seemed to go through cycles of thought. First she reminded herself that they had, in the wagon, the tools and supplies necessary to establish a new home. She didn't know how to use some of them, but she could learn. She thought of what needed doing next, in pursuit of that. Then, as she contemplated what would be required of them, she lost hope and slid back into the abyss of self pity.

Becky was still handling the team, going south toward the Oklahoma territory. They had been headed there anyway, and she had no better plan. Frank had never let her make a single decision after she was told to walk up the aisle to meet him on her wedding day. She'd never laid eyes on him before that day.

Now, as she realized she'd never lay eyes on him again, she felt peculiar. That was because she felt guilty. And that was because, now that she'd had time to think about it, the idea of never seeing Frank Mortenson again did not, in any way, make her unhappy. Her daughter was right about that. He was a beast ... had been a beast. How could she be so relieved that her husband was dead? Did that make her a monster?

No. He had been the beast. Now there would be no more bruises ... no more loose teeth from his fist hitting her mouth. There would be no more drunken rages where she was dragged to the bedroom, stripped bare and then taken like a common whore. She shuddered, as she had for years, at the thought of his slapping hands and squeezing fingers, that left bruises on her after sex that was always painful. No longer would she know that just outside the bedroom, her children could hear her screams as their father made her wish he'd just kill her and get it over with.

She had stayed alive for the children though. She had been able to protect them thus far. The price had been steep but providence had finally taken a hand.

Her demon of a husband was no longer a threat, to her or her children.

Her shoulders sagged as their situation sank in. They were hundreds of miles from their former home, which was now owned and being lived in by another family. The man of her own family was dead. She'd stolen money and left his body for whatever courtesy the town of Abilene might accord it. She'd never even know where he was buried.

Even so, other matters clamored for her attention.

Frank's plan had been to arrive Kansas, or perhaps the Oklahoma Territory, where he intended to homestead a hundred and sixty acres. There was land to be had there, he said, free for the taking. He'd been vague on the details, but just last night he'd told them they'd be "there" in a week or two. He'd gone in the saloon, he said, to get news. She knew he'd gone in to get whiskey, because all but one of the bottles he'd brought were empty. Becky had now confirmed that suspicion.

Well. There'd be no more whiskey, evidently. She couldn't be unhappy about that either.

"Mamma!" Becky interrupted her healing process. "Look there ... up ahead!"

Arabella lifted her eyes. A horse was standing, head down and one rear leg lifted, off the ground. A man was sitting, his head in his hands, beside the horse.

It was the cowboy who had shot the men who had killed her husband.

U.S. Marshal Jeremiah Stone looked at the dispatch his boss, Jeffrey Tomlinson had just handed him. It was spare in the details, but the meaning was clear:

"presumed fisby brothers shot dead in abilene stop killed during card game stop burial proceeding stop photographs available stop please advise details of reward stop" The signature was just one word: "cross"

Tomlinson waited until Stone was finished reading. "Get on over there and see if there's any way you can show it was them," he said. "That would be a nice thing to be able to tell Judge Baker. Maybe we can stop looking for them."

"How in tarnation am I supposed to prove it was the Fisbys?" asked Stone.

"Marcus Fisby is said to have had his great left toe shot off by one of his brothers," said Tomlinson. "That and the photographs should be enough to convince the judge if we can get their mother to say it's them."

"It says they're being buried," commented Jeremiah.

"Then dig 'em up when you get there," said Tomlinson casually. "Our resources are stretched thin. We don't need to be chasing ghosts if we can help it. And try not to say anything about that reward when you get there. I don't want to authorize that kind of payment unless it's absolutely necessary."

Stone left the office, still frowning. Ever since the Supreme Court had upheld the right for Marshals to use deadly force in the commission of their duties, some three years past, the Marshal Service had been invaded by dandies and politicians who knew nothing about law enforcement, but wanted the glory of "catching" felons. Most of them never left their comfortable offices, sending men like him out instead to do the dirty work.

Well, examining rotting bodies dug from the ground was one bit of dirty work he planned to avoid. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram back to Abilene: "marshal on way about fisbys stop have photographs taken of faces and bare feet of all dead before burial stop" He added the name "Stone" at the end and handed it to the clerk. Then he went to get his gear ready for the long ride from Topeka to Abilene. It would be good to get out of the stink of the city and out under the open skies again.

The wagon rolled to a creaking stop. The team stamped and blew, finally able to rest. The cowboy's horse looked around at them and whickered. Its ears flicked forward in interest.

"What happened?" asked Arabella. She still didn't know why she'd told Becky to stop the wagon. The young man looked up at them.

"Threw a shoe. He went lame before I figured it out." He looked hopeless.

Nobody said anything for so long that only the sound of the oxen's labored breathing convinced Becky that she hadn't gone deaf.

"I'm sorry," said the cowboy. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen. I should have just kept my mouth shut."

"And let us be robbed," said Arabella, whose mix of disturbing emotions had her reeling. At once she felt relief that Frank would never break another of her bones, and the shame of having taken their money back in a way that seemed a lot like stealing, to her. On top of that there was pity for this young man, who had done something that should have righted a wrong, but which turned both his and their worlds upside down. She felt both pity for this young man and herself. But it was the knowledge that he had saved her daughter from a fate worse than death that was probably responsible for the snap decision she made at that moment.

"Why don't you come with us?"

He goggled at her. "I just got your husband killed!" he gasped.

She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling some strength flow into her body. "Some things are not as they first appear," she said.

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