For the first time since the nightmarish events began, Jennings smiled and again shook his head at the strange relationships he’d recently formed. “Your business is down south,” he said. “Go see to your boy.”

  Weatherby leaned down to grip the dead man’s shoulders. “Help me carry him up to the livery,” he said, “Ain’t right to leave him out here in the cold.”

  • • •

  The following day, they prepared to leave for the ride north to the Red River. Weatherby and Trapper had wrapped Bagbee in coal and salt, then tied a tarp tightly around him. Ira insisted that his mule be used to carry the body.

  April restored things to order at the kitchen and prepared food for their trip.

  As the three men slowly rode from town, they saw that several hands from the Bend were already busy cleaning away the debris of the burned-out building. Others were replacing the scorched logs on the jail. Dallas had already arrived with a wagon and taken Pete’s body away. Aside from the sounds of the men working, Phantom Hill was quiet.

  “You do know that the saloon will need replacin’,” Weatherby said as they rode past the piles of ashes. “No town can be seen as respectable unless it’s got a place a man can purchase himself a drink.”

  Jennings grinned. “I think we can worry about that sometime in the future.”

  Weatherby was in a talkative mood. He complained of the winter weather, voiced concern that Dalton would properly care for the livery in his absence, and wondered how Peter Sinclair would do now that he was finally free of Lester and Pete. “Speakin’ of times ahead,” he said, “was Bagbee able to tell you his purpose for comin’ back this way?”

  “We briefly spoke about it.”

  “And?”

  Coy said, “We’ll need to make a stop in Fort Worth and alert Marshal Singletary’s people to what happened to him. Since Isaac Hatchett told you about it, I think it best you do the talkin’.”

  For the first time since their ride began, Weatherby was silent.

  After a night of sleeping beneath a stand of live oaks, Jennings peeked from his bedroll to see that Giles and the Indian had already stoked the fire and were making coffee. “Even with the slowness of Ira’s mule,” Tracker said, “we should arrive at Fort Worth before noon.”

  “I’m sorely dreadin’ what we gotta do,” Weatherby said, “ but at the same time I’m looking forward to seein’ what a real town looks like. It’s been a while.”

  Despite the sharp wind and constant howling of nearby coyotes, Jennings had slept soundly. He hadn’t realized how tired he’d become in recent days. He promised to buy his traveling companions a drink once they found the marshal’s office and delivered their message. “That’s if they have a saloon that’s not been burned down,” he said, “and will allow us to hitch a dead man and a mule outside.”

  Weatherby laughed. “I’m proud to see your sense of humor’s returnin’,” he said. “You bein’ a sheriff and me a fully sworn deputy, I expect they’ll allow us to do as we please.”

  The first signs they were approaching their destination were the endless stretches of fences—something Lester Sinclair had never felt need of—that marked the boundaries of the farms and ranches they passed. Then, on the flatland horizon, they saw rows of buildings. “Lord help me,” Weatherby said. “How big you figure this place to be?”

  “It could probably fit Phantom Hill in its hind pocket,” Coy said.

  They were welcomed to Fort Worth by a bustle of activity. Wagons and buggies made their way along the main street, and owners of shops visited with people on the board sidewalks. There was a fine-looking hotel, several eateries, a grocery, and plenty of saloons that didn’t appear to have been visited by fire. The livery they rode past was far more impressive than Weatherby’s. A blacksmith waved as they went by. There was a sign on one building announcing that its proprietor purchased all manner of animal hides.

  They passed a telegraph office, a post office, a church, and what appeared to be a schoolhouse. When a breeze rose, they could smell the stockyards on the far end of town.

  “I think I’d appreciate livin’ here,” Weatherby said. “If it wasn’t for there bein’ so many people.”

  “Yonder it is,” Coy said as he nodded toward a small frame building ahead. Above the doorway was a wooden sign: MARSHAL’S OFFICE.

  Inside, a portly man wearing a hat that seemed too big for him greeted them. His boots, polished to a high sheen, were propped on the edge of his desk. “You boys got business here?” he said.

  “A minute of your time,” Jennings said. “We’ve come to speak with you about Marshal Singletary.”

  The man got to his feet. “Name’s Bootsy Lansdale . . . Marshal Bootsy Lansdale. What is it?”

  “He’d dead.”

  Lansdale eyed the sheriff’s badge on Jennings’s coat. “Where is it you’re from and how is it you know Singletary’s dead?”

  “He came to Phantom Hill to escort a prisoner back this way.”

  “And I’ve been awaiting his return.”

  Jennings turned to Weatherby, who began retelling the story he’d been told by Isaac Hatchett. When he finished, he said, “He didn’t say where the killin’ took place, only that it was in a farmer’s barn somewhere between Phantom Hill and here. As I understood him sayin’ ’fore I shot him, the marshal and a cattle thief named Lester Sinclair was stayin’ the night there.”

  “And what’s become of the prisoner?” the marshal said.

  “He’s been shot dead too.”

  “That him strapped to the mule outside?”

  “Nope,” Jennings said. “That’s the man who alerted Singletary that we was holdin’ Sinclair in our jail.”

  Lansdale pushed his hat back. “Sounds like you fellas have had yourselves a busy time.” He pulled a kerchief and wiped his brow. “I’ll send some men out to look for the marshal directly, though I got to admit I’m neither surprised nor all that saddened that he got himself killed. The man could talk the bark plumb off a tree. And most of what he had to say was untruthful boastin’.”

  “Just felt you should be informed,” Jennings said. “We’ll be takin’ our leave now.”

  As they turned for the door, Weatherby stopped. “Is there a place in town a fella can get himself a drink without bein’ robbed or shot?”

  “I suggest you go down the street to the Lucky Dollar,” Lansdale said. “And be sure you show your badge. Lawmen ain’t required to pay for whiskey in Fort Worth.”

  Tracker had waited outside, keeping watch over Bagbee’s body.

  As he climbed into the saddle, Weatherby said, “The man inside didn’t seem all that broke up by our news. I’m guessin’ that once Singletary’s found, it ain’t likely there’ll be too big a crowd at his buryin’.”

  “We done what was needed,” Jennings said. “Let’s have ourselves that whiskey and be on our way . . . but let’s make it quick.”

  They were leaning against the bar when two men appeared in the doorway, slapping dust from their hats. “We’ve just delivered a herd of cattle,” one said, “and our throats are mighty parched.” Though he announced his arrival loudly, neither Jennings nor Weatherby looked up. It was obvious that the Lucky Dollar wasn’t the first saloon the cowhands had visited.

  “There’s a swaybacked mule tied outside that appears to be carryin’ a man who’s dead. What kind of crazy place might this be?”

  Weatherby turned to face the men, his jaw set. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” he said. “If it’s whiskey you’re wanting, order it quietly and keep to yourselves.”

  The cowboy, a smallish man with a waxed mustache that curled at its ends, smiled at his partner before replying. He moved his hand toward the holster that hung low on his hip. “I take it you must be the one that sorry excuse for a mule belongs to.”

  Jennings moved a hand toward Weatherby’s arm. “Let’s just finish our whiskey and move along,” he said. “This little man’s just lookin’ for a fight we have no time for.”

  “Little man? You calling me a ‘little man’?” He drew his pistol—and immediately felt something cold against his throat.

  Tracker stood behind him, his knife pressed against the man’s Adam’s apple. “Drop your pistol and have your friend do the same.”

  The man’s cockiness vanished. “We wasn’t meanin’ nothing . . . just jokin’ . . .” His gun made a clunking sound as it hit the floor. His partner unbuckled his gun belt and let it slide away.

  Tracker signaled for Weatherby to pick up the pistols. “We will carry them to the edge of town,” the Indian said, “and leave them in plain sight. Your horses will be there as well. If you’re not too drunk, you should be able to soon find your belongings.”

  The two men nodded.

  “There’s one more thing you’ll be needin’ to do before we take our leave,” Jennings said. “Remove your boots and throw them into the street. Then unbutton your britches and let them fall to your ankles.”

  Quickly they were standing on their sock feet, their long johns exposed. Both were red-faced.

  “Now I guess it’s time we get on our way,” Coy said. As he walked past the men, he said, “I wouldn’t think about rushin’ out in an attempt to follow us, exposed as you are. There’s ladies on the street.”

  As they rode from town, Weatherby looked at Tracker. “Would you really have cut that man’s throat?”

  Tracker didn’t reply.

  • • •

  It was near dusk the following day and a gentle snow had begun to fall as they arrived at the entrance to the Blue Norther Ranch. A large bull looked lazily in their direction, showing them no interest before sauntering away toward a small pond where a herd of cows were gathered. In the distance, there was activity in the barn as men were still loading hay onto a wagon. The ranch hands showed no more interest than the bull until they recognized Tracker.

  “These men are here to speak with the colonel,” the Indian said.

  One of the workers stabbed his pitchfork into the hay, gave a glance toward the mule, then motioned toward the nearby house. “’Bout now Colonel Swindle’s likely to be sittin’ down to his supper.”

  • • •

  A tall angular-faced man, white-haired and with a well-kept goatee, met them at the door. The starched shirt he wore matched the color of his hair. “Gentlemen,” he said, “may I ask the purpose of your visit?”

  Coy removed his hat. “Name’s Coy Jennings, sheriff of Phantom Hill. I’m afraid we’ve come with bad news.”

  “I’m not pleased to hear that, but perhaps you should come in from the cold.” He extended his hand. “Colonel Benjamin Randolph Swindle,” he said, then motioned them toward chairs near the fireplace. In one corner of the room was a Christmas tree, gaily decorated.

  “I’d plumb forgot it was near Christmas,” Weatherby said.

  “It’s late enough for a taste of whiskey if you gentlemen are so inclined,” the colonel said. “Perhaps it would be the proper thing to do before you share what you’ve come to tell me.” He looked at Jennings. “You’re the man Will spoke to me about.”

  “And one of the reasons he’s now dead,” Coy said.

  “Tracker’s taken his body into the barn,” Weatherby said.

  “As you can imagine,” Colonel Swindle said, “this news distresses me more than I can say. I admired Bagbee, both as a soldier when he served under me, and as my foreman. I’ve never had children, you understand, but I thought of him as a son.”

  He fell silent, as if lost in thought. “Once the sun goes down, the weather promises to get ugly, so I must insist that you spend the night as my guests. That will give you ample time to tell me how this unfortunate situation came about. What happened in the town you’ve come from must have gotten even worse than what Will described to me after returning with my cattle.”

  Jennings sipped at his whiskey as he explained the series of events that led to Bagbee’s death. He made sure that the colonel understood that he had died during an act of bravery. He also told him that his former cook, Jakie, had been seriously wounded.

  “Good men, both. It is no surprise to me that Will Bagbee met an honorable end,” Swindle said as he poured more whiskey into his visitors’ glasses. “I saw him act bravely on the battlefield many times before the war ended. He was a fine man, and it is kind of you to bring him home. I’ll see to it that he is given a proper burial.

  “Now, we should talk of another thing before you get your rest. Am I to assume Will was able to explain the purpose of his return visit before he died?”

  “We talked briefly about it,” Coy said.

  “He explained, I assume, that my feelings toward those who fought for the Confederacy have changed as I’ve grown older and a bit wiser.”

  Coy nodded. “I reckon my thinking about the bluecoats ain’t what it once was.”

  “All that’s now ancient history that needs to be put behind us. Time we all moved on.”

  “I agree,” Coy said.

  “So, based on Will’s recommendation, I had hoped to meet you—under better circumstances, of course—to judge your interest in coming to work here on the Blue Norther.”

  Weatherby inched to the front of his chair. “Colonel Swindle,” he said, “I should admit to you that I invited myself along on this ride for a selfish reason that had little to do with Will Bagbee, may God rest his soul. My intention was to persuade my friend here not to accept your offer. While we were on the trail, I just never found the proper words to say.”

  “Why don’t you wish him to come here?”

  “Because he’s badly needed in Phantom Hill, which I doubt you’d ever heard of till Bagbee told you about it. It ain’t got much to offer but some good people.”

  “I assume you’re talking of those who haven’t yet been killed,” the colonel said.

  “It was all that commotion that has now given our town a chance to be something better’n it once was. Some of the things Coy’s done since his arrival have caused considerable improvement. And I’m not speaking just of him bein’ sheriff. Folks, myself included, looked up to him long before he was wearing the badge. What I’m sayin’ is that with folks like Coy, Phantom Hill can one day grow itself into a fine town.”

  The colonel raised his hand. “I think you’ve stated your case admirably. My thinking is that the decision is not up to you or me, but Mr. Jennings.” He raised his glass. “Perhaps he would like to sleep on it.”

  Swindle showed them the way to the bunkhouse. “I’d like to welcome Tracker back, then show my respects to Will before I retire for the evening,” he said. “I’ll expect you gentlemen to join me for breakfast.”

  Before daybreak the dining room table was filled with platters of eggs, grits, ham, and biscuits. A large pot of coffee awaited as Coy and Giles joined the colonel.

  They ate in silence before Weatherby spoke. “Appears you found yourself a fine cook to replace ol’ Jakie.”

  “Truth be known, ol’ Jakie was never much at cooking, though I’d rather you not tell him I said so,” the colonel said. “I do, however, ask that you wish him a speedy recovery when you next see him.” He poured milk into his coffee and looked across the table at Jennings. “Have you given thought to my offer?”

  Coy swallowed a last bite of biscuit. “I slept on it, like you asked, and I thank you kindly for your consideration,” he said, “but if you don’t mind, I’ll decline. I’ve got reasons for wanting to return to Phantom Hill.”

  “Understood. You now know the way should your mind ever change.”

  It took three days of hard riding to get home. There was no stop in Fort Worth, since the colonel had given them a bottle of whiskey as they prepared to leave. “Something to keep your innards warm,” he’d said. They had bade good-bye to Tracker and thanked him.

  Trail weary and subdued, they talked little until they neared Phantom Hill.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d make the decision you did,” Weatherby said as they stopped near a stream to allow their horses and Ira’s mule to drink. “I wish you to know I’m glad you’ll be stayin’ in Phantom Hill. Folks will be pleased to learn you’re planning to call it home.” He scratched the mule’s ears. “Ira will be but one of them.”

  Dalton was standing outside the livery as they entered town. Running toward them, he seemed momentarily confused, not knowing whether to greet his mule, Bell, or Coy Jennings first. He chose Coy.

  “Mr. Jennin’s . . . Mr. Jennin’s . . . happy to see you back.”

  “Good to see you as well,” Coy said. “Bell did us a fine job and will likely appreciate some oats and a considerable amount of rest.”

  As Ira led the mule toward the stable, Jennings and Weatherby continued toward Doc Matthews’s house. Miss Mindy was sitting on the porch, smoking a cigar. She seemed in good spirits.

  “Was wonderin’ if you boys would ever find your way home,” she said. Before they could ask, she told them that Jakie was awake and feeling much better. “Though he still seems a bit out of his head. Last evenin’, the fool proposed we get married, but said he’d only consider it if I promised to quit smokin’ cigars.”

  Weatherby laughed. “And what was your response?”

  “I told him I’d not marry him till he became a better cook. Which means it’s not likely we’ll ever get hitched.”

  April McLean appeared on the porch, Penelope at her side. Jennings tipped his hat.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Mr. Jennings,” Penelope said, hurrying down the steps toward him. “People will soon be coming to town to sing carols over by the tree.”

  Coy smiled at the little girl and lifted her into his arms. “If you’ll allow me to join you,” he said, “I just might try singin’ myself.”

 

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