Marshal of Hel Dorado (3 page)

 
    
All of it.

 
    
Sam gritted his teeth.

 
    
How the hell had the gang pulled this off?

 
    
S
carlett
Morning Star exhaled a long, slow breath as the Marshal abandoned her to the
cell. The man’s tough as boot leather exterior was softened only by the
kindness in his brown eyes. She’d resented watching the town all day long from
the hills to the north, allowed no more than a passing glimpse of the ladies in
their tailored dresses, the cowpokes kicking up the dust and even the
shopkeepers in their odd little vest and trouser outfits, far too soft for
working the ranges with ropes, rocks and rattlesnakes.

 
    
After two weeks of hard riding, skirting
towns and seeing no one other than her brothers, Scarlett wondered why she’d
bothered. The Marshal catching her was unfortunate, but also thrilling. His
voice was warm, the hot sun baking the rocks in Hawk’s Canyon. His skin was
warmer, kissed by the sun, but not baked to leather. He handled his colt with
comfort and his hand on her arm promised wild strength, but not once had his
fingers bitten into her flesh.

 
    
A curious twist had knotted up her insides.
Her brothers would be back to fetch her at any moment, but she wanted to stay.
She wanted to get to know the Marshal. To spend time with him, talk to him and
maybe, just maybe, earn a smile.

 
    
The door to the Marshal’s office opened,
admitting a dark-skinned man sporting the gray kiss of the elders at his
temples. Scarlett straightened her posture, dropping her hands down to rest on
her thighs. It was one thing to taunt the Marshal.

 
    
A frown rolled the wrinkles of the black
man’s forehead together. Like the Marshal, he was dressed in a button down
muslin shirt with the tails tucked into a pair of denim britches.

 
    
Instead of a leather vest though, he
sported a pair of dark suspenders and a scattergun rather than a gun belt and
pistol.

     
“Ma’am.”
The black man nodded. “Folks around these parts call me, Cob. The Marshal asked
me to look in on you.” He said the last with a half-grin that spoke of adult
humor where the youths were concerned. Quanto wore the same expression when the
boys started knocking each other around.

 
    
“Mr. Cob.” Scarlett sat forward, clasping
her hands together. The man’s accent was populated by long, Yankee vowels.
She’d heard them before from a Union Colonel visiting Quanto. He drew out ma’am
the same way, his speech slowing with just a hint of awkwardness.

 
    
“Just Cob. No mister about it.” The man
shuttered the office door and glanced out the smoky glass to the dark street
beyond.

 
    
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head. If the
elder wanted to be called Cob, she’d oblige.

 
    
“And what do folks call you, ma’am?” There
was ease to the question. He roamed the room, his knees turned out just
slightly, from too many years in a saddle. Despite the comfort of the rifle at
his shoulder, his fingers hooked faintly, the knuckles thickened and bulbous.

 
    
She opened her mouth to answer, but paused
to consider the implications. They could hardly track her by her given name,
but Cody and the boys were adamant that she not speak to strangers, much less
tell them anything about herself.

 
    
But Cody and the boys weren’t here and it
would be disrespectful to refuse the elder’s question.

 
    
“Scarlett, sir.”

 
    
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Scarlett.”
Wrinkles rippled across his face as he smiled. “And it’s just Cob, not sir, not
Mister.”

 
    
“Yes, si—” She paused at his admonishing
look. “Yes, Cob.” It seemed disrespectful to not put some salutation before his
name, but he was insisting.

 
    
“Good girl.” He dropped the brace across
the back door that Scarlett hadn’t noticed. He checked the latch for
sturdiness, then pulled the Marshal’s chair out from behind the desk and
dragged it over to the wall that tucked into a curve near her cell. He settled
himself in it, the scattergun pointed at the door over his lap.

 
    
It was an ideal position. He could see both
doors and her. At that range, the scattergun would make short work of anyone
bursting in. Fortunately, her brothers wouldn’t come through the front, but his
position gave him a good angle on the cell.

 
    
“Now, you want to tell ol’Cob what you were
doing in the bank tonight, Miss Scarlett?”

     
“If I
can’t call you sir, I think just Scarlett would be fine, s—Cob.”

 
    
His lined face wrinkled in good humor.
“Fair enough.” He drew a thin waxy piece of paper from his pocket and a
well-oiled tobacco pouch. Scarlett scooted back on the cot, not quite leaning
away while he rolled up the tobacco and used a wooden match to strike against
the bars.

 
    
The flame flickered, threatening to go out
in a breeze only it seemed to feel, but then flared as Scarlett watched it
carefully. Cob lit his cigarette and shook the match out, tossing the smoking
wood onto a metal plate on the desk’s edge.

 
    
Cob cocked an eyebrow in her direction, a
haze of blue smoke shimmering in the light of the kerosene lamps. The noise of
horses stamping and the angry voices of the townsfolk rose in volume outside.
Cob divided his attention, one eye firm on the door.

 
    
Her brothers would have a bit of a ride to
give slip to the posse after them and even if they managed to circle back
around, the commotion would have them hunkering down. She might have time to
chat with the Marshal after all. A curiously hopeful sensation bubbled up
inside of her.

 
    
Cob squinted his left eye closed as he
sucked in a lungful of smoke. “You looking mighty pleased for someone who could
be hanging at dawn.”

 
    
The thought was enough to evaporate her
good cheer. Oh, she wouldn’t hang. Her brothers wouldn’t allow it. Least of all
Wyatt. But Wyatt was a fair ride away and it would be days before he found out
she was here.

 
    
“I didn’t think people liked to hang
women.” She wasn’t sure where she’d heard that, but it seemed a reasonable
thought. Most of the hangings she’d ever heard of were men, some Anglo, some
Tejanos, and a Negro or two, more than a few Comanche and Apache and the
Spaniards. They definitely liked hanging them when their raiders came over the
borders.

 
    
“I can’t say that a few folks don’t enjoy
any kind of hanging, but stealing’s a hanging offense, little lady. The Marshal
pulled you out of the bank, so I reckon he might insist on waiting for the
territorial judge, but dead at the end of the noose at dawn or in a few weeks
is still dead.”

 
    
Her throat closed convulsively. She’d only
ever seen one hanging. A horse thief in Eucher Butte who’d killed a widow and
her three littles had been strung up on the spot. The man had kicked, screamed,
spit and yelled as they dragged him up on a horse, thrown a rope around his
neck and tossed the other end around a tree branch. Quanto told her to look
away, but she’d never forget the harsh snap of the man’s neck breaking.

 
    
A mercy, Quanto told her, but the sound
haunted her dreams for weeks.

 
    
The office door slammed open, bringing Cob
upright, the gun centering square on the torso of a spindly man dressed hastily
in loose britches pulled over long underwear. His too narrow face looked
pinched, sun burnt skin dragging over his cheekbones and sinking his eyes into
his skull.

 
    
“Where is my gold?” His voice was a
high-pitched nasal whine that shattered like glass on her eardrums.

 
    
Cob didn’t lower the rifle, standing,
talking around the smoke tucked between his lips.

 
    
“Ease up, Carlyle. The Marshal will be
handling the questioning here.”

 
    
“She stole my gold. My gold! I’m
responsible for that gold.” Spittle flew from Carlyle's lips, his arms wind
milling as he gesticulated wildly. Three additional men stomped in the office,
shrinking the six by ten room. Scarlett was grateful for the bars separating her
from the hate-filled eyes.

 
    
“Give us a few minutes with her Cob. We’ll
get her talking.” Something dark and cold slithered behind the new arrival's
eyes, even Carlyle the banker took a step back.

 
    
“You’ll take a step back, Ryker.” The
Marshal’s voice cut through the chaos. The banker jerked, a marionette whose
strings had been pulled. Ryker appeared unperturbed, a thin scar drawing the
corner of his mouth up into a permanent sneer.

 
    
Cob’s hand didn’t relax on the scattergun
even as the forgotten cigarette in his lips continued to burn. He shuffle
stepped to the side, putting himself between the mob of four and the bars of
Scarlett’s cell.

 
    
Heart throbbing in her chest, Scarlett rose
from the cot and back against the wall. Her hands clenched at her sides and she
watched. She didn’t have her knife, but she had other talents.

 
    
Talents dangerous to every man in the room,
so she trapped her fear, shoving it down deep before she did anything she could
regret. She had to trust the Marshal to keep her safe for now.

 
    
“You know the law, Marshal.” Ryker stepped
forward, challenge vibrating through his posture. Scarlett couldn’t see his
face, but she could hear the contempt in his words. “We hang thieves.”

     
“Oh, I
know the law.” Leaning on the door jam, his hand resting casually on his
sidearm, the Marshal met the man’s hostility with evenness. “I also know we
hand thieves over to territorial judges for trial.”

 
    
Obviously uncaring of his location, Ryker
spit. “Judges. They ride territories. It could be weeks before we get one. We
never needed them before.”

 
    
“We weren’t part of the Federal system
before.” Sam’s tone was mild, but it was his eyes that Scarlett watched. Wyatt
had the same look. Tempered patience sleeved boiled resolve.

 
    
Ryker may not see the mistake in pushing
the Marshal, but the hair on Scarlett’s arms began to stand on end, the room
warming uncomfortably. A trickle of sweat skated down her spine.

 
    
“Yeah well, you caught her red-handed and
the gold is gone. Just because the gang left their whore behind doesn’t mean
she should get special consideration.”

 
    
“Mind your mouth, Ryker.” Cob censured the
younger man.

 
    
“Or what?” Ryker whirled on the old man. A
mistake. Sam sprang from his position at the door, seizing the shopkeeper by
his collar and his britches and hauling him backwards, he all but threw the man
into the street.

 
    
The banker, Carlyle shrank back from the
violence, but Ryker’s lackeys started forward only to freeze when Cob cocked
the scattergun. “You boys mind your business and leave this to the Marshal.”

 
    
Scarlett lost sight of Sam as the Marshal
followed Ryker out into the dark street, but his words drifted back. “I expect
that tempers are running hot tonight, Ryker. Don’s opening the Saloon back up
for the searchers. You should head over and drown that fire in your belly.”

 
    
“Or what?”

 
    
Silence exploded on the end of the man’s
foolish challenge. Ryker’s friends kept their place under Cob’s watchful
squint. Scarlett clenched her fists, fear squeezing her heart. Would Ryker be
foolish enough to pull a gun on the Marshal? She’d only ever seen one man test
Wyatt’s temper when he looked at someone as Sam had Ryker.

 
    
Wyatt walked away.

 
    
The other man didn’t.