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Authors: Loren D. Estleman

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I attended two funerals the next day, one out of respect and the other as part of my duties. I was on my way to the latter when a small man in a shabby overcoat and bucket hat approached me on the boardwalk carrying a bound stack under one arm. It was the newspaperman.
“You didn't pick these up yesterday. I don't usually deliver.” He showed me a sample handbill. The legend $100 REWARD covered a third of the leaf. I gave it back.
“The situation's changed. Wait a minute.” I took back the sample, got out my pencil stub, changed the hundred to a thousand and the phrase “illegal harassment of employees at the Terwilliger ranch” to “the willful murder of Dale Pardee,” and returned the handbill. “Think that'll make the front page?”
He read swiftly and tucked it back under his arm. “How many columns you want?”
At the double ceremony for the Pardees the Presbyterian minister, a gaunt man with gray whiskers and salt-and-pepper hair, fixed an eagle eye on me as he said something about the wicked being given to the sword. I responded to his good wishes with a smile and a nod.
The first two pews were occupied by Circle T men in hastily brushed suits, their unruly hair slicked down with pomade and the backs of their necks pink from fresh barbering. They had filed in behind a fierce-looking old stump whose sandy hair going gray swept down past his temples from a natural break in the center when he removed his widebrimmed hat. The pattern was repeated in a magnificent handlebar that covered all but the tip of his chin before swooping back up to underscore his jowls.
I nudged Yardlinger, who was standing beside me at the back of the room. “Terwilliger?” He nodded.
One of the hands I had seen with Pardee the night we'd met had spotted me as they'd come in and said something to the cattleman, whose faded blue eyes swung my way, nailing me to the wall before he'd continued down the aisle and taken a seat in front.
The brothers in the closed caskets before the pulpit were the only Circle T casualties. The Terwilliger men who had taken part in the raid on the Six Bar Six had lain in wait along the road and opened fire on Turk and his followers as they approached on horseback. A horse had fallen and one of Mather's men had taken a bullet in the upper arm, but they had withdrawn without additional mishap. At least that was the story told by the Mather party
when they came to town to have the wound patched up.
According to Yardlinger, who had seen Pardee's companions of the previous night at the Glory, none of them were in attendance at the funeral. Mather's men were absent as well. Just in case, though, I had Major Brody stationed with a shotgun under a shaft of colored light streaming through one of the stained-glass windows. Randy Cross was at home on my orders. He was still broken up over Earl and I was afraid of what he might do in Terwilliger's presence.
The old woman who pumped the organ during the service stayed behind to prepare for Earl Trotter's send-off while we accompanied the procession to the cemetery north of town. We watched the surrounding hills for riders or the glint of sunlight on a rifle sight, and as the minister walked away from the grave dusting his palms I stepped forward to speak to Terwilliger.
I was still coming when he turned and strode toward his buggy, putting on his hat. Two Circle T men moved in to block my path. They were both armed, the horn handles of their revolvers curving over their holster tops. I backed off.
“You don't need to talk to him anyway,” advised Yardlinger. “The circuit judge is due tomorrow. You can get a warrant and arrest the raiders.”
“For what? Nobody saw any of their faces at the Six Bar Six. We'd just have to let them go. I was hoping to get the old man to call it square until the night riders are in custody.”
An hour later we were back at the cemetery, watching Earl's remains being lowered by ropes into an open grave several yards from the fresh black soil that marked the Pardees' twin resting places. While the minister was saying his final prayers, Yardlinger pointed out a man standing where the headstone would go. Heavy-shouldered in new overalls under a shabby suit coat, he had light hair and deep lines from his reddish nose to the corners of his mouth from years of scowling. His eyes were small and shifty and he looked familiar.
“Earl's father?” I ventured.
The deputy nodded. “I'm surprised he came. With Earl's mother gone two years there was no one to drag him along.”
“Probably wants to make sure he won't climb out of the box at the last minute.”
Randy Cross stood at the other end of the grave with his back to us, hat in hand and head lowered. For the most part he remained still, moving only to stifle something that shuddered across his shoulders from time to time. “Are we going to be able to count on him?” I asked Yardlinger.
“Like a royal flush.”
The minister tossed a handful of earth into the hole and got out of the way of the gravediggers, who picked up their spades and went to work. The bereaved father jammed a dilapidated felt hat onto his head and clumped off toward an equally hopeless wagon and team without a backward glance.
“They're burying the three dead Mather men tomorrow.” The former marshal tapped a cheroot against the back of his hand, stuck it in a corner of
his mouth and set fire to it. “We'll be watching that, I imagine.”
I said we would. Fitch, the undertaker, had tossed the extra trade toward his rival across the street, a former partner and a slow worker. “You'd think we were running for office,” I added.
“Just as well we're not. We wouldn't get many votes.”
“Speaking of politics, have you heard anything from the city council?”
“Only that we seem to be holding a lot of funerals since you showed up,” he said. “They don't think you're doing much for Breen's reputation.”
“A lot of people would think having a bunch of night riders going around lynching people isn't good for its reputation.”
“They hold you responsible for that too. If you handled things differently, maybe Fitch would be taking the day off.”
I looked at him. “You agree?”
He watched the diggers, but for whom Cross was alone at the grave. “Who I agree with has nothing to do with anything. I'm just one of the Indians.”
“I know you don't approve of me,” I said. “All I ask is that you stick around and see this through. Then you can do whatever you want.”
“Last night you told me to stay out of your way.”
“I was tired and not in a very good mood. I can use you. Cross too. Even the Major.”
As if he had heard his name, the old rebel approached us wobbling on his bowed legs. “This here was a good'un,” he announced. “Hell of a lot better'n that one they give the Pardees. I like that
part about dust and ashes. Bet I heard it a million times and I still can't get enough of it. Bet you're the same way.” He winked at me.
“The Major likes funerals,” Yardlinger explained.
“So I noticed. Find out yet where Shedwell's staying?”
“I asked,” nodded the chief deputy. “The Breen House, Room sixteen.”
I chewed my lip. “He must be in the gold.”
“Or expecting to be,” he finished.
“Get Cross.”
In the office twenty minutes later, I handed around the shotguns, keeping one of the 10-gauge Remingtons for myself. “Does the Breen House have a back door?”
Yardlinger laughed shortly.
“A hotel with a back door? They might as well give the rooms away free.”
“Good. You and Randy stay out front and keep an eye on the entrance. Major, I want you watching the windows behind the building. If Shedwell comes out, kill him.”
“Just like that?” bristled Yardlinger. “No provocation?”
I stared him down. “If he comes out alone, it means I'm dead. Is that provocation enough?”
“Hell, yes,” Brody croaked. “You ain't even in season.”
 
The prissy clerk backed away from the desk as I came through the door. “Afternoon,” I said, leaning my palms on top of the desk. “Is Chris Shedwell in?”
“There's no one registered by that name,” he replied stiffly.
“You get a lot of transients. How do you know that without looking at the book?” I leaned closer. “We could push this back and forth for an hour: You open the book to prove he isn't registered, I describe him, you say, ‘Oh, yes, that's Mr. Dollarsworth, the cattle buyer from Chicago,' I ask you again if he's in, you tell me you're not at liberty to say, I grab you by the hair and shove my gun barrel down your throat. But I don't have that much time and you don't have the teeth to spare. So why don't you save us both the trouble and tell me if he's in his room.”
His waxed moustache had lost its curl while I was talking. “Room sixteen, top floor.”
“I know that. Do you expect him down soon?”
“I couldn't say.” Hastily he added, “He hasn't been down for lunch.”
“Fine. I'll wait.”
I took a seat inside the curl of the staircase on a settee upholstered in green chintz that reminded me of the furniture at Martha's, the shotgun across my knees. Thoughts of Martha brought me around to Colleen, but I quickly put her out of my head. I'd once asked an old wolfer the secret behind his impressive kill record and he'd said, “I just think wolf.” I was thinking Shedwell.
I'd been sitting there ten minutes by the standing clock beside the front desk when the stairs above me started creaking. I got up quietly and shifted the shotgun to ready.
The noise grew louder, and then a pair of boots
came into view at about eye level on the carpeted steps. I forced my fingers to relax on the Remington's stock. I was on the blind side of anyone coming downstairs.
In another moment he had reached the floor and crossed to the desk, a pudgy drummer type in a knee-length overcoat and a derby cocked at a jaunty angle. He was carrying a carpetbag in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. I sank back against the wall.
He glanced around the lobby without seeing me, stopped at the desk, and showed the paper to the clerk, who studied it and pointed at me. The drummer turned and came toward me. He wore a thin moustache and an embarrassed smile. I leveled the shotgun at his belt buckle. He stopped ten feet away. He was no longer smiling.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
His mouth worked a little before he got it out. “Carpenter.”
“You don't look like one. What's in there, your tools?”
He glanced down at his bag, as if expecting to see saws and hammers poking out. “No, no,” he stammered. “Carpenter's my name. Felix Carpenter. I sell harnesses. The gentleman upstairs asked me to give this to the man in the lobby.” He held up the scrap of paper. It rattled in his hand.
“What gentleman?”
“Tall, thin fellow. Red hair.” The noise the paper was making almost drowned out his words.
“Put it on the floor and get out.”
He bent and placed it on the carpet, then backed away.
“Hey!” cried the clerk. “What about the bill?”
Felix Carpenter fingered a wallet out of his coat and flung a handful of bills onto the desk. The clerk was still counting them when the door closed on his late guest.
Crabwalking to keep an eye on the staircase, I went over and picked up the square of paper. It was hotel stationery. The message was printed unevenly in ink under the name of the establishment.
Dear Marshal,
Cold in the lobby aint it how about coming up for a drink your friends are welcome too.
Shedwell
The door to Room 16 was partially open when I reached the fourth floor, light spilling across the leaf-patterned hall runner. I stopped a few doors away, wondering if I should have taken Shedwell at his word and brought along the deputies. But I didn't want too many guns going off in cramped quarters if it came to that.
I considered the options, his as well as mine. In his place I might have left the door open as bait and crouched inside a vacant room nearby until someone like me walked past. Then I would have stepped out and emptied my cylinder at his back. Shotgun leveled, I rattled every doorknob between the staircase and 16, alternating between opposite sides of the hallway. All were locked.
There were three ways I could go from there. I could hit the floor as I entered, as I had done at the Freestone when the two ranchers were waiting for
me in my room, and hope that any lead that flew would be directed at a standing target, or I could wait for him to make the first move, as I had done a long time ago waiting for a killer at that cabin in Missoula. Or I could walk in bold as brass and give him a clear chance at me.
To hell with it. I'd been brained, drawn on, shot at, and ambushed and I was tired of being careful. I filled my lungs and stepped inside.
Right away I knew I'd made a mistake.
It was a room like Marshal Arno's, richly carpeted and furnished. A trail-battered valise with a rolled-leather handle worn fuzzy sat on the floor next to the too-high bed. A slouch hat I recognized occupied the mattress. No Shedwell.
A voice inside me shouted,
Get away from the door
. But before I could move there was a snick of metal across the hall, two quick footsteps on the runner, and death in a steel case punched my right kidney.
“Move and you're wainscoting.”
Then again, if I were in Shedwell's position, I might have figured that my stalker was smart enough to try all the doors and would have locked the one to my hiding place and risked the delay.
The voice at my ear was soft, barely more than a whisper, and carried a lilting accent I couldn't identify from those few words. A hand protruding from a blue-flannel sleeve curled around in front of me and relieved me of the shotgun. The hand was freckled, with fine red hairs curling on the back. I started to raise my hands but stopped when the gun prodded me again.
“Fold your arms across your chest. That's the boy.”
While my revolver was being taken from its holster I concentrated on the accent. Irish. The hand reappeared to pat my chest, slide under both arms, press the side pockets of my jacket, and feel my legs down to my boots. He took his time and made a thorough job of it. Clothing rustled as he straightened.
“Don't turn around yet. Go over to the bed and sit down.”
I did as directed, perching on the edge of the mattress. This put him within my field of vision. He closed the door without turning and stood to one side of it, a tall man as lean as Yardlinger but not as tense, with an open face dusted with freckles, blue eyes, and rust-colored hair beginning to recede at the temples. Sunburned skin formed scales on his nose and at the tops of his cheeks. He had shaved since last night and he was smiling broadly.
“You'd be Page Murdock. I can tell by the gun.” He had holstered his own revolver and was examining the Deane-Adams. The shotgun was leaning in the corner next to the door.
I didn't bother to acknowledge my identity. “You must have seen us coming through the window. I thought of that, but I couldn't see any way around it.”
He shrugged. He wore a sheepskin vest over his blue shirt, mottled jeans stuffed into the tops of dusty brown boots cracking at the arches. His gun belt was strapped high, the butts positioned for easy grasping as he brought his hands up from his thighs.
The revolver in his right holster was a Remington Frontier .44 with a smooth white grip. Its mate was lighter, constructed along the lines of the Deane-Adams, and its grip was hickory or walnut. I read an article once that said he carried twenty-three notches, but if he did, it wasn't evident during his stay in Breen. I broke the silence.
“Is that a Starr forty-four in your left holster?”
He nodded. “But I don't use it as a double-action. I cock it every time, else I might get confused betwixt it and the Remington.”
“The caps jam the action anyway when you don't cock it,” I added. “What about the Remington? I'm told it's barrel-heavy.”
“I like them that way. Keeps my hand steady.”
A china clock ticked away on the fireplace mantel. Two businessmen whiling away the afternoon talking shop. “Shoot with either hand?” I asked.
“Border shift. I collected some lead in my left elbow down in Lincoln County. These days it's not much good above the waist.”
I grunted. “I'm supposed to believe that?”
He smiled again and said nothing. He looked more like an Irish rebel than a western gunman. The writers who were busy shaping his legend couldn't decide whether he was born in New York City or Boston, but his speech and appearance placed him closer to County Cork.
He played with the English revolver, turning the cylinder and taking it on and off cock. “We almost met when I was marshal in Wichita. Did you know that?”
“Enough to make sure we didn't,” I replied.
“They told me you was in town shipping cattle with the Harper outfit. You had kind of a reputation then. There was some wanted me to give you a try. I said I reckon not.”
“They were saying the same thing on my side. I keep reading about famous triggers shooting it out, but I've never heard of it really happening.”
“That's because you don't make a reputation dying young.”
He was having fun and we both knew it. Face to face with Chris Shedwell I didn't stand a chance. I said, “Well, that was a long time ago, and now the boot's in the other stirrup.”
“I heard you was looking for me. What you doing here anyway? Talk is you're wearing tin for R. B. Hayes.”
“I am. The job here is just a hobby to keep me busy during my vacation.”
His face looked grim for the first time since we'd been talking. “It's that mail train thing, ain't it?”
“They say you killed the clerk in the express car near Wichita just to get back at the city council for dismissing you as marshal,” I said.
“That's stupid. If I wanted to do something like that, it'd be one of the ones fired me I'd kill. Besides, I wasn't dismissed. I had a contract with the council and it run out. Am I the reason you're in town?”
“One of them.”
“The main one, I'll warrant. Well, I hope you didn't waste too much public money getting here. Was I a taxpayer I'd write my congressman and complain, if I had a congressman.” He set aside my
gun and dug a travel-worn fold of paper out of his breast pocket.
I got up carefully and reached to pluck the scrap from his outstretched hand. If civilization was measured by the amount of paper that changed possession in the space of a few days, civilization had come to Breen.
It was a document signed by the sheriff of Sedgwick County, Kansas, and bearing the seal of a notary public, to the effect that Christopher Sarsfield Shedwell had been cleared of all charges connected with the robbery of the mail car on the Union Pacific Railroad and the shooting death of postal clerk Aloysius Garvey on September 4, 1877. It was dated last May 22. I read it twice, refolded it, and put it in a pocket.
“I'll have to confirm it with the Sedgwick County sheriff.”
“Figured you would. I'd like that back after. I've had to show it to every lawman betwixt here and Fargo.”
“Why didn't you say something before?”
He studied me with eyes the color of lake water when you break through the ice on a clear winter morning.
“Couple of years back I killed a Pinkerton in a fair fight in a town I don't recollect the name of in Idaho and took to the mountains. That was dead December, and the wind was like razors. I lived in a shallow cave for eleven days, eating sardines cold with my fingers and potting at Pinkertons' heads whenever they showed themselves until they gave up and went
back to town. I was found innocent at the inquest, but I still have to cross the street every time I spot a Pinkerton or shoot it out.”
“Is there a point to that story?” I asked, when he didn't go on.
“Only that after a man's got through something like that, he don't place a lot of trust in a piece of paper to pry him out of a tight spot.”
“If this is confirmed, I'll wire Judge Blackthorne. In a month every jailhouse west of the Alleghenies will have a copy.”
“That's if I let you leave here,” he said.
I paused. “What's the percentage in killing me?”
“Them writers back East could do a lot with me outshooting Page Murdock.”
“Not much. I'm not well known, thank God. I've got better things to do with my time than spend half of it practicing my fast draw and the other half taking on all comers. And I try to avoid mountains in the wintertime.”
“I got all the reputation I need anyway.” He extended the Deane-Adams, butt first. I was reaching for it when he spun it and I found myself looking down the bore.
“Wes Hardin pulled that one on Hickok in Abilene a few years back,” I said. “You're stealing material.”
“Who do you think taught it to me?” He handed me the revolver and then the shotgun. “We'll meet again, most likely, but that time the rules will be different.”
I put the gun away. “Don't give me rules. You're
not talking to one of those eastern writers. Who paid your way to Breen?”
Creases in his face made him not much younger than I, but when he smiled they vanished, the years falling from him like dead bark from a log. “Sure, rules,” he said. “I'm supposed to keep why I'm here a secret and you're supposed to find out.” He opened the door and held it for me.
He followed me down to the second-floor landing, where he hung back. I felt his eyes on me all the way across the lobby and out the front door.

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