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Don't Fall in Love in Abilene
"There she is, boys. Straight ahead. Abilene."
Jordan Farley spoke with a voice as dry and dusty as the twelve
miles of Kansas topsoil he and his Texas trail crew had eaten
since five o'clock that August morning. He dragged off his broad-brimmed
hat and wiped at the sweaty mud encrusted on his brow. The heavy
dust coated every inch of him and his horse, from his faded blue
bibfront shirt to his brows and trimmed mustache. It filled his
ears, his nostrils, slid past his parched lips to form a permanent
grit between his teeth. He felt sorry for his drag riders; he
recalled those days at the rear of the herd all too well.
Jordan Farley's forty-fourth year had crept up on him on the
trail surreptitously as a rattler on a kangaroo rat. None of
his trail crew would have known it at all, except the cook, an
old friend, had seen fit to make him a birthday cake their third
week out of Fort Worth. The cook kept a shard of broken mirror
in the chuck wagon, and Farley stole a glance in it before retiring
to his bedroll the night of his birthday. The years had not been
his friend. Wrinkles creased his face, cracked the sun-blackened
skin alongside his sky blue eyes, dug washes alongside his mouth.
And the dancing cook fire accentuated these signs of age. But
he didn't care anymore. His beautiful Hannah and their two small
children lay in the ground ten miles outside Fort Worth, victims
of a range fire two years ago. His dreams and hopes had died
with them, along with his will to participate in society.
"Think we'll git t' see the town t'night?" queried
"Jingle" Braden, the tow-headed seventeen-year-old
mounted beside him.
The skin around Farley's eyes creased as he glanced at the youth,
who had never been up the trail. "I promised you you would,
boy. But it'll wait till we've bedded down the cows." There
weren't really any cows in the herd of two thousand steers, but
in cowboy lingo "cows" covered all creatures bovine.
Fernando Guittierez, the swarthy, mustached rider on Farley's
left, had rolled himself a quirley and touched a match to its
twisted end. Smoke curled out between his lips, and he squinted
past Farley and the acrid smoke at Jingle, a broad smile breaking
through his thatch of black-whiskers. "You jus' might not
like what you fin' there, amigo. The señoritas in this
town, they are very wicked." He laughed and winked at Farley,
who cast him a preoccupied glance.
Yet Jordan Farley only feigned this preoccupation. Fact was,
those señoritas Fernando mocked filled his mind to overflowing.
They had since . . . heck, he couldn't remember when. Days, anyway.
But not for the same reasons his crew dreamed of them. No, to
Jordan Farley those ladies of "questionable virtue"
presented only a threat. A threat to the memory of his lovely
Hannah. And a threat, also, to the boys who had come up the trail
with him, loyal hands he had come to feel about almost like his
own sons. He felt that way at the end of every drive. But of
course they weren't his sons, and he couldn't hold them back.
Three dusty months they had waited for their night on the town,
and they had earned it. Earned what? The chance to throw away
their money and their innocence.
A hundred yards back the way they had come rose a hideous moaning
of sore, tired bovine voices accentuated by a rumble like distant,
constant thunder. Farley turned and squinted over his shoulder.
Through the pall of dust he could only clearly see the first
forty or so Rocking Arrow steers, coming on in pairs, and his
two point riders beside the lead steers. The two cowboys came
on doggedly, their horses plodding, but the slump-shouldered,
weary posture of the last several days had changed. Now they
sat taller in the saddle, their shoulders squared, their necks
craned to help them see the country ahead. He had told them they
were close to the railhead. Tonight the whisky would flow, and
so would the love-or some base semblance of it.
At Jordan Farley's orders, his punchers, except for the two
unlucky souls who had drawn nightguard, gathered around the chuck
wagon an hour before sundown. They shifted their attention back
and forth anxiously between their trail boss and the not-so-distant
ramble of buildings and stockyards called Abilene.
Farley didn't smile as he gave his last bit of advice and guidance
to his boys. Anxiety drew his heart up too tightly in his chest
for him to smile. In a few minutes, these trail-weary riders
would descend on Abilene and be on their own. He wished he could
somehow protect them.
"This town's full of wolves, boys, and don't you laugh at
me. Ask Cholla, there, and Boots." He nodded toward two
riders who had made this trip before. "Ask Fernando. Let
your guard down and some ace will slip inside and take you for
all you have. It ain't just the men, either. In fact, I'm more
worried about the women. And I didn't say 'ladies.' There ain't
any ladies in the side of town where you'll do your whoopin'.
"And another thing. Wild Bill Hickock's runnin' this town,
and he's trigger-happy. He's quick to shoot, and I hope you'll
all stay clear of him. There's plenty more like him, too. Gamblers,
toughs, killers. I know you boys are proud of them shootin' irons,
but here's my advice to you. If you ain't got it on, you can't
pull it, and most men won't call you out unless you're heeled.
I'd suggest you leave the guns here in the chuck wagon. Let's
keep Wild Bill as calm as we can so one of you don't get shot."
The glances of the punchers flickered around at each other, each
wondering if his partners would heed the advice. Finally, Cholla,
Boots, and Fernando began to peel off their gun belts, and Farley
cast them a grateful glance. When the younger crowd saw the seasoned
hands shedding their weapons, most of them did, too. Only three
kept them on, and these made a point of not meeting Farley's
gaze.
"I think you're makin' a wise move, boys," nodded Farley
at the others as he wiped his mustache with the web of his hand.
"Now back to the women of Abilene. You'll be in the red
light district, and ladies don't go there. I wish you boys could
just suddenly know about women. If you did, you probably wouldn't
even go on into this town. But I remember bein' wild and wooly
like you, and times ain't changed much. You've got your wild
oats to sow. But just promise me this: you won't let the wool
get pulled over your eyes. The women you'll meet are a hardened
bunch. Some'll show it right out, so even you slick-ears'll have
no doubt. But there's them that know better how to play the game,
and they'll croon and make eyes and say pretty things. They'll
do anything to make you think they want your heart, but it's
only your wallet they want. Just don't be fooled. You'll end
up with a broken heart, and I ain't playin' mama to you all the
way back to Fort Worth, listenin' to you cry about love gone
bad. You go have your drinks and enjoy your women, and waste
all your hard-earned cash on gamblin'. You'll hate yourself later,
but kids always gotta learn the hard way. Just remember two things:
don't get yourself in any scrapes you can't get out of with talk.
And don't fall in love in Abilene."
A general rush for the horses ensued when Farley gave the nod,
and even though Jingle Braden reached his mount among the first,
he only took the reins and didn't instantly fling himself into
the saddle. Fernando Guittierez reined his buckskin around in
a circle, smiling broadly at Jingle and waving his hat about
in the air. "Come on, Jingle, let's hit the bathhouse. Amigo,
you stink!"
Jingle gave a laugh and waved Fernando on, and the Mexican winked
and let out a whoop, clamping his hat back on and charging after
the departing riders. Farley glanced at Jingle as he walked over
leading his horse.
"Would it be all right if I just hang around with you for
a while, Mr. Farley? You know yer way around better'n the rest
of 'em." Even though Jingle had known Jordan Farley for
three years, he still called him mister. It was the rare man
Farley allowed to call him by his first name, and since Hannah
there hadn't been one woman he had allowed that familiarity.
Farley nodded. "Sure, boy. I'd be happy to have you."
Jingle smiled broadly and swung into his saddle, waiting for
Farley, who had to crawl into his. He wasn't a kid anymore. Then
Farley turned and waved to the cook, and he and Jingle cantered
off toward town.
By the time they left the bathhouse, the other hands had long
since disappeared into the crowded streets of Abilene. Farley
and Jingle both wore new duds, procured at one of the general
stores that remained open until later in the evening when trail
drive season rolled around. Of the ragged outfits they had worn
into town, only their boots, hats, and vests remained, as a man
didn't easily give those up. Especially the boots. No drover
with any pride would buy a pair of boots not made special for
his feet. That was below their standards. And all trail hands,
unless some drastic accident had done their boots in on the trail,
wore Texas boots.
As they walked down the street, Farley gazed toward the orderly
side of town Abilene's citizens had put off limits to cowboys.
Children played there, he guessed, and ladies in pretty dresses
strolled the quiet streets beside their men. Farley knew he should
be there, too, not over here where the wild ones caroused. He
didn't like the style over here. Never had. Quality of life and
life itself meant very little in the red light district, at least
to a truly Christian man. And Farley didn't think this side of
town even knew what the word "love" implied. But because
of his occupation, the town's "decent" citizens had
banished him to roam the bawdy streets and frequent the brothels,
saloons, and gambling houses of the wild side of town. Truth
be known, he'd have been over here on the wild side anyway, because
he had to keep his boys in check and out of trouble. Even at
trail's end, he couldn't relinquish the notion these boys were
his own. But he still longed to be on the "proper"
side of town, where the people were honorable, good, and clean,
and where he could get a glimpse now and then of a child.
Farley and Jingle stopped at a gambling house to waste a few
dollars "bucking the tiger" at the faro table. Then
they lost a few hands of poker, spent a dollar on drinks, and
moved on. Darkness had fallen across the town, and merriment
rattled the windows of every saloon and gambling hall, but the
Red Dog hummed more quietly than the rest. Farley and Jingle
stopped in front of it and looked up and down the lamp-lit street
at the carousers. With a shake of his head, Farley led the way
inside the saloon, and they weaved their way to the bar.
A bartender in a greasy apron finished setting a jar of pickles
on top of the bar and wiped his hands, then his huge handle-bar
mustache with one of those big hands. He looked at Jingle, then
Farley, and his eyes settled on the latter. "Howdy, stranger.
What'll it be?"
"A root beer," said Farley. He figured to let Jingle
make his own choices, but the new hand seemed more than happy
to follow his lead, and he asked for the same. Mildly amused
by the requests, the bartender plunked chunks of ice into two
huge mugs and filled them to the brim with root beer. Farley
threw two bits on the counter to pay for both. To Farley's surprise,
they found an empty table at the back of the room and sat down
to observe the crowd. Wide-eyed, Jingle watched and listened
to the sounds of celebrating and said very little. By now, he
realized Farley didn't really want to talk, anyway.
Jordan Farley raised his eyes just as she walked into the room.
Rouge didn't mar her cheeks, nor eye shadow darken her eyelids
the way it did most of the women on this side of town. The hem
of her light green calico gown hung lower than most-past her
calves-and the bodice rode higher, revealing no cleavage line.
She wore a simple locket at her throat-a gold heart.
Farley didn't mean to stare, but for some reason he did, and
Jingle noticed it and glanced over at the woman, too. Farley
gripped his drink in his hand and wondered what it was about
this woman. What set her apart from the rest? She had to be a
hard one, or she wouldn't work here, but something about her
was different.
Strain had played a big part in her life; Farley had a habit
of reading people, and this stood out like the smoking brass
lamp hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Something
about her mouth and eyes revealed this strain-a hardness yet
a sadness, a weary, bedraggled stare.
As for physical appearance, the woman didn't shine in the crowd,
but he wouldn't have called her homely. Out of the braids piled
on top of her head, drab brown wisps curled down to hang limp
against a neck lined with two even creases deepened by the yellow
smear of the lamps. Her unpainted lips turned down slightly at
the edges, but sometime in the past they had seen laughter, judging
by the wrinkles outside them, and the lamplight belied a certain
softness there. Though given to stockiness, little fat marred
the woman's frame, and her hands, while not big, were not dainty,
either. They had seen their share of work, and not much of it
pouring drinks, Farley guessed. She was a quietly attractive
woman, he admitted grudgingly. But he could never say more for
her. In his estimation, she had condemned herself when she set
foot inside the saloon.
When their eyes chanced to meet across the crowded room, Farley's
involuntarily held. He didn't want her to see him looking, but
something about her wouldn't let him look away. Her frank gaze
appraised him, then rested on his eyes, and he caught a faint
flicker of recognition. The look vanished, but she seemed to
have made a decision about him. She stepped away from the back
doorway and moved toward his table.
Farley watched her for a moment longer before his better senses
took over, and then he looked away, squinting across the room
through the tobacco smoke and taking a long sip of his root beer.
Even the inexperienced Jingle Braden had caught something in
Farley's glance, and he looked from the woman to his boss as
she tentatively approached the table, jostled and pawed at now
and then by the punchers she passed and deftly sidestepped.
She stopped before them, and her fingertips rested on the smooth
pine slat tabletop. Though Farley had initiated her decision
to approach the table, she looked at Jingle as she spoke. "Mind
if I sit down? It looks like the only peaceful place in here."
Jingle glanced over at Farley, his face reddening, and shrugged
nervously. "Why, uh. . . Sure, ma'am." He waved toward
a chair. The woman looked over at Farley and stood watching him
expectantly, making no move to take hold of the chair. Jingle
glanced again at Farley, then cleared his throat. "Oh, sorry,
ma'am." Jumping up, he grabbed the back of the chair and
pulled it out for her.
The woman's gaze held on Farley for a few moments, then fell
away to Jingle. "Thank you. You're a gentleman." Her
eyes flashed toward Farley as she said that, but she didn't look
directly at him.
Jingle pushed the chair back in once the woman sat down. Clearing
his throat again and glancing nervously at his root beer, he
eased back onto his own seat, scooting the chair around as if
he couldn't find the right position for it.
Farley's eyes crinkled as he watched the youth's discomfiture,
and in spite of himself he looked over at the woman to catch
her reaction. Her eyes stared between the two of them, though
she seemed aware of the boy's discomfort. Her lips had turned
up at the edges, like Farley's, and when her eyes swung into
the older man's, a glow lit them vaguely, like the sheen of newly
polished leather.
They were brown eyes. Not deep brown, but more golden brown,
the irises surrounded by darker rings and flecked here and there
with umber specks. They swam with curiosity, with friendliness.
. . with loneliness. But without loose invitation, Farley decided.
Just a warm welcome saying she would listen with rapt attention
to anything he said. He found the feeling disturbing.
"My name's Martina Singleton. You can call me Martie."
The soft words came flatly, as if answering a question, as Martie's
eyes glided from Farley to Jingle and back. She massaged the
jewel-lacking fingers of her left hand with her right ones, and
looked down at them for several seconds before bringing her eyes
back to meet Farley's. Farley didn't complete his part of the
name exchange, just nodded. Martie tried but failed to hide the
hurt in her eyes, and it shamed Farley inexplicably. But he didn't
plan to ever meet this woman again. What need did she have of
his name?
"I'm Jim Braden," Jingle broke the silence when Farley
didn't seem willing to respond. "They call me Jingle, on
account of my spurs. This is my trail boss, Mr. Jordan Farley.
We just brought a herd up from Fort Worth, Texas."
Red-faced, he shot a look at Farley, as if for his approval,
and Farley just nodded again, a mere dip of his chin. But secretly
he was glad Jingle had spoken for him. It gave him an unforeseen,
unexplained pleasure to have this woman hear his name spoken,
and he tried to shake the sentiment away and stared off again
at the bar crowd.
Although Jingle and the woman both had opened the way to be referred
to on a first name basis, Farley had no intention of it. She
knew his name. That was enough. If ever a woman called him by
his first name again, it certainly wouldn't be a woman like this.
People might hear and think him a man of loose morals, like she
was.
Martie just nodded, looking at Farley as if expecting him to
speak, then dropped her eyes again to her hands. Her lips parted
as if to say something, but she remained silent, glancing over
either shoulder as if seeking a way to excuse herself.
Farley avoided speaking to the saloon girl. Even though she seemed
different than most of them, she was still a loose woman, or
she wouldn't work here. As such he would rather not let himself
be drawn into conversation with her, and he refused to spend
any money on her. Let her go to another table to earn her keep.
Hannah's spirit could be very near him now, and he wouldn't disgrace
her memory by lowering himself to buy this woman a drink, although
she almost certainly expected it of him.
Even as he thought this, Farley found his eyes on her again,
wondering. She didn't fit in, not in this crowd. The lack of
makeup, the modest dress, the quiet eyes and voice. Was she new?
Untrained? Or just lazy? Was she just a low class hooker with
a crib out back, or did her entertainment stop at conversation
and a dance? He had met some of that brand, but they were few
and far between.
The uncomfortable silence dragged on between the three of them
until the strain wore on Jingle. He cleared his throat again
as he set his root beer down and glanced cautiously at the woman,
whose eyes at the moment studied Farley's face. "Been any
excitement in town?"
Startled by the voice, even though only a small sound in the
general din of the room, Martie pivoted her eyes to Jingle. She
made sort of a shrug with her hands and face and drew in a breath,
letting it out as a soft sigh. "Oh, just the normal. Wild
Bill came in three nights ago and found some fellow in here who'd
been talking bad about him, supposedly. He buffaloed him with
his pistol and dragged him off to jail on some charge or other."
Farley looked boredly about the room while Jingle and Martie
warmed up to each other and began to converse in earnest. But
somehow his gaze kept turning back to this woman at the table
before him. It wasn't her showiness that drew him, but her lack
of it. He had to keep forcing his eyes away, trying to think
of Hannah. But Hannah wanted to fade out of his memory like she
never had before, and he found himself having to make a conscious
effort to bring her back close to the surface.
Farley was watching Martie when Jingle made one of his quiet-humored
jokes. A spontaneous laugh tinkled in her throat like crystal,
and like a splash of mountain morning sunlight her face lit up,
driving from it any plainness Farley had seen. Her perfect teeth
sparkled dully in the lamplight, and her nose wrinkled up at
the bridge, but it was the warm brown of her eyes that tugged
Farley into her soul. They met his at precisely that moment,
and this time they held while her smile gradually-very gradually-faded
away, leaving her lips slightly parted. But the smile faded away
only from her lips. It remained in her eyes.
Farley, catching himself smiling at her, swung his eyes away
and wiped brusquely at his mustache, drawing the upward curve
of his lips back down. He looked up just in time to see a middle-aged,
dark-haired man in a gray suit stop beside the table, glancing
at them all, but last and longest at Martie.
"I see you're not drinking tonight, Martie. Maybe you need
to mingle with the crowd a little more." His eyes held a
subtle warning as they swung back to Farley, then once more rested
on Martie.
Martie forced a smile, her face flushing as she looked from Jingle
to Farley with faint supplication in her eyes. "Jim Braden,
Jordan Farley, this is Mr. Brood. He owns the Red Dog. Well .
. ." She looked again at Farley and Jingle as she placed
the palms of her hands on the table top in preparation to push
herself up but hoping someone would stop her. Farley swung his
eyes away to the crowd, and Martie's fell with an almost audible
crash.
"Wait."
Jingle's voice broke the tension as Martie rose halfway out of
her chair. He looked for Farley to back him up, but when Farley
just stared back the boy's face settled into new lines of resolve.
"What'll you have to drink, Martie?"
Martie smiled and relaxed again into her chair, flicking her
eyes up at Brood. They shone with moisture when Farley glanced
at her. Jingle had saved her from the saloon crowd. "I'll
have a sherry," she said. "With ice."
Brood looked grudgingly at Jingle, then at Farley. When Jingle
started to rise, Brood motioned him back down. "Sit tight,
son. I'll bring it out. It'll be thirty cents."
He held out his hand, in which Jingle deposited four bits. "The
change is for the lady," the boy said haltingly. The businessman
handed him an appraising glance and then waded off through the
crowd toward the back of the bar.
After Brood had departed, the silence rang at the table for a
full minute. Then Martie's sherry came back, and she held the
glass between both hands and stared into its depths. At last,
she raised her eyes, and Farley felt her stare and met it.
"You don't like me," Martie said. Her voice held no
emotion, but sadness filled her eyes. "You don't remember
me at all, do you?"
Farley stared at her, then shook his head. "Should I?"
"You helped me once, in San Antonio. I was in the train
depot with no money. Someone had stolen my purse. You bought
me train fare to Topeka. You had a woman with you then-your wife,
I think. A beautiful blond woman. Very, very beautiful. And a
little baby boy with the bluest eyes."
Farley felt like a fool, and he started to nod again. "Yes,
I do remember you now. Sorry. I see a lot of faces."
Martie pursed her lips and dropped her eyes, shrugging. "Oh,
don't fret about it. With a woman that pretty on your arm, I
wouldn't expect you to notice a face like mine."
A sudden, uncharacteristic urge welled up inside Farley to tell
her she was wrong. He was no mind reader, but she plainly needed
a compliment right then. You're a very pretty woman. You just
need to find yourself a new way of life. That was what he wanted
to tell her, but he didn't want her to get the wrong idea. Once
a saloon girl, always a saloon girl, and he had no interest in
her beyond a passingly pleasant glance now and then.
Brushing off her self-deprecatory comment, Farley asked, "So
what happened to Topeka? I thought your family was there?"
Martie sighed. "They're gone. The fever had taken them before
I got home. Only graves were left."
On a whim, she took the heart-shaped locket from around her neck
and clicked it open, revealing a photograph of a bearded man
and his wife with two girls. "That's my mother and father,"
she revealed. "And my sister Elaine. The other girl is me."
Guilt washed over Farley as he looked politely at the picture,
but he brushed it off. He wouldn't excuse his judgments of this
woman. Even though Martie had lost her family and had nothing,
there were other ways a woman could make a living. She could
have found something better for herself than saloon work. Even
as he thought this, he found himself staring at her picture.
What would his daughter have looked like at that age?
"What about your wife and son? Are there other children
now? Waiting for you in Fort Worth?" Martie asked.
Jingle dropped his eyes from Farley's face, looking down at his
root beer. Farley drew a deep breath and glanced around the room,
wiping at a crumb on the tabletop. He didn't meet Martie's eyes.
"I had a daughter since I met you in San Antone. They're
all dead now, too. Range fire."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Martie made a move with her hand
as if to place it over Farley's, then as quickly withdrew it.
She looked down and rolled her sherry glass between the palms
of her hands, watching the ice sparkle with lamplight as it danced
on tiny waves in her glass. Then she looked back up, meeting
Farley's dully gazing eyes. "I never meant to bring up that
kind of hurt. Please forgive me."
Farley shrugged. "I'm sorry, too. We both lost loved ones."
He looked away, clenching his jaw and swallowing a lump in his
throat. Moisture drained into his eyes, but he blinked it away,
aware of Martie's eyes on him. He saw her reach across the table
again, hesitantly, then felt her soft hand close over the top
of his with a gentle squeeze. It was warm. Incredibly warm. His
instant reaction was to jerk his away, but for some reason he
didn't. For some reason he left his hand in the center of the
table, feeling Martie's warmth course through his veins.
Then he looked over at her, and their eyes locked and held.
A string of shots suddenly crackled from somewhere down the street,
and Farley's heart jumped inside him as he retracted his hand.
It wasn't uncommon to hear shooting in the streets of Abilene,
but every time Farley heard it he wondered if it didn't involve
his boys. He still had a responsibility toward them, at least
till they left this town.
Most of the shooting in cattle towns was out of pure drunken
celebration, not violence. But this time a cry rose up in the
street and carried down past the Red Dog Saloon, and as word
flew Farley learned a Mexican drover had been gunned down. With
his heart in his throat, he excused himself and left the saloon,
headed toward the edge of the red light district, where the shooting
was supposed to have taken place. Jingle followed him, almost
running to keep up, and they left Martie standing on the porch,
watching anxiously after them. They hadn't gone more than a hundred
yards when she stepped away from the saloon doors, drawing a
light blue knit shawl about her shoulders, and hurried after
them.
When they reached the invisible dividing line between the "good"
side of town and the "bad," Farley had to fight his
way through a throng of drunk, yelling cowboys, saloon girls,
gamblers, and buffalo hunters. A man with long hair, an aquiline
nose, and two ivory handled Colt Navies thrust behind a flowing
red sash stood at the edge of the crowd, holding them at bay
with a sawed-off shotgun.
Farley had seen Wild Bill Hickock before, but he would have known
him from his description anyway. He glanced past him where several
people knelt beside a man prone on the ground.
"Marshal," Farley accosted Hickock, walking close in
spite of the shotgun's threat. "I'm Jordan Farley, trail
boss for the Rocking Arrow ranch, out of Fort Worth. They tell
me a Mexican drover was shot down. Can I see him and make sure
he's not one of mine?"
Hickock jerked his head toward the fallen man. "Go ahead.
Make it quick and then return to the other side of this line."
Farley nodded thanks, and then he and Jingle almost ran to those
who knelt beside the victim. Farley shouldered his way in just
as a man in a black three-piece suit stood up away from the body.
He heard someone say the word "dead" just as his eyes
fell upon the lifeless face of Fernando Guittierez.
As quickly as he recognized Guittierez, Farley turned away and
pushed Jingle back. "It's Fernando, kid. He's gone."
Farley walked back to Hickock, who had just been joined by a
group of deputy marshals, all armed with shotguns or rifles.
When Hickock looked at him questioningly, he said, "Marshal,
that's my man. What happened?"
"A mix-up between cowboys and some buffalo hunters. If those
are your boys, maybe you'd better come with me. They headed into
the wrong side of town to hunt down the man that did the shooting.
Maybe you'll have more luck talking them into putting down their
guns than I would."
Farley concurred then turned to Jingle. "You stay here,
Jingle. Just stay put. Damn, I told those boys to leave the guns!"
Even as he spoke, his eyes fell upon one of the hands who had
insisted on retaining his pistol. Now his holster was empty.
Another one of the holdouts stood beside him, and his holster
held no weapon, either. Confused, Farley looked from their holsters
to their faces.
"Who's over there? Where's your guns?"
"It's Boots and Cholla," said one of them. "They
made us give 'em our guns."
Farley swore. "All right," he yelled at them. "Get
any of the hands you c'n find an' get back to the herd. All of
you!"
"You coming, mister?" Farley heard Hickock's voice
above the din.
He turned to face the marshal. "I'm ready."
"Not quite," said Hickock, scanning him. He held the
sawed-off shotgun out to him. "You might need this."
Yeah, to protect myself against you, Farley thought wryly.
"What about you?" he queried. Hickock was now the only
one with no longarm.
The lawman just gave Farley a hard look, touching a finger to
the butt of his right pistol. "I think I can handle myself."
They started off down the dusty street, Farley cursing the water
wagon that had fallen down on the job. He'd had enough dust for
the last three months; he didn't need it in town, too.
"All right, boys!" Hickock's authoritative voice carried
down the street. "We're coming to take you in, so you'd
best throw down your guns and come scratching the sky."
No one answered, so the marshal split his men up, sending them
down sidestreets. Farley stayed by Hickock as he continued down
the main street, but now and then he drifted off to check other
areas. He kept watching Hickock. The man was tensed like spring
steel, his hands empty but poised very near his gun butts. He
was a showy one, all right. And he must be as fast as they said,
to have given up the assurance of the shotgun. Either that, or
he was just a fool.
When at last they heard shooting, it came from back toward the
red light district, and they turned and made their way toward
the sound at a fast walk.
A man appeared around the corner of a house, holding a pistol
down against the side of his leg. In the fleeting second it took
to recognize Cholla Varden, Farley saw the twin Colt .36's coming
free in Hickock's hands. He yelled out.
"No!"
Farley recognized his own voice as he tried to tell Hickock this
was one of his men. He didn't hear the shot from Hickock's gun,
but he felt an insistent pressure against his right side and
felt himself jerked sideways. He looked at Hickock, who by this
time had recognized him and stared, his lips clamped tight.
Numbly, Farley walked past Hickock toward Cholla Varden, still
holding the shotgun Wild Bill had pressed on him. Blood streamed
down the side of his vest, but he didn't even seem to notice
it as he saw Boots Henry round the corner, his hands held high
in the air.
Cholla dropped his pistol to the ground and raised his own hands,
staring from Farley's wound to Hickock. By the look on his and
Boots' faces, they knew the lawman held their lives in his hands.
The deputies rushed past Farley, taking Boots and Cholla ungently
in hand and leading them away. One of them brushed against Farley
as he passed, and Farley's knees folded, sending him to his side
at the corner of the house.
Hickock looked around him as the crowd gathered, Jingle at its
forefront. Three well-dressed women, presumably upstanding ladies
of Abilene, stood nearby, staring in horror at the bloody scene,
their hands to their mouths. Neither they nor their husbands,
nor any of the citizens of that side of town offered aid as Jingle
knelt helplessly beside his boss. A couple of cowboys who didn't
even ride for the Rocking Arrow stepped in to lend assistance,
but none of them knew what to do, and their hands were rough,
in spite of their good intentions.
Jingle, almost in tears, looked up pleadingly at Hickock. "Why'd
you shoot him, Marshal?"
"When I turned around he looked like he was trying to shoot
me. He shouldn't have yelled," Hickock said brusquely. "He
was carryin' a gun," he growled to excuse his actions.
The crowd had parted moments before, and Martina Singleton stood
staring at Wild Bill Hickock. "Yes, he was carrying a gun,"
she said. "Your gun."
She walked over and knelt down in the blood beside Jordan Farley,
prizing the shotgun from his grasp and throwing it in the dust
at Hickock's feet. Without a word, the marshal bent over and
picked up the shotgun, then stalked off after his deputies.
Martie turned and started to unbutton Farley's vest, then his
shirt. He looked up at her and smiled into her warm eyes, feeling
weak, partly from loss of blood, and partly from feeling those
hands undress him, then knead around his wound.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Martie put the backs of her
fingers to his lips to silence him. "You can talk later,
Mr. Farley."
He smiled weakly, watching her gentle face as she removed his
bandanna and pressed it against his wound, stanching the flow
of blood.
"You're going to be all right after some rest, Mr. Farley.
I'll have them carry you to my cottage. I'll sleep on the divan,"
she added, her face coloring.
Farley looked up at her, then smiled lopsidedly. She smiled back,
and it lit her face up like an angel's, which he guessed she
was. His guardian angel. He was suddenly glad to have to recuperate
here in Abilene. It would give him a chance to see more of this
girl. To figure her out. To thank her.
He raised his head weakly and looked into her eyes. "You
can call me Jordan," he whispered. |
