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Stage to Abilene
by Darrel SparkmanThe stage was a dusty whirlwind as it careened along the road, two days from Abilene. Grizzled and wrinkled from age and years of throwing his tough old face into the wind, Frank Drummond shifted his cud of chewing tobacco--stretching his left cheek to impossible proportions as he eyed the figure standing in the road ahead. He started to spit an amber stream over his left shoulder, then abruptly changed his mind and aimed it into the soiled can at his feet. If he spit over the side it would blow back into the passengers, and that'd about got him shot once.
Drummond turned to yell a warning at his shotgun guard, but Miguel was already alert to the figure waiting for them. The guard held his rifle casually, but the business end accurately tracked the stranger in the road as the stage ground to a stop.
There was silence for a moment as the dust chasing the stage caught up with them. Both men riding on top of the stage watched warily as the man lowered his head to let the dust go on by. Slim hipped and wide of shoulder, the stranger held his forty-pound Texas saddle on one shoulder while his right hand held a new Henry repeating rifle. Drummond noticed the man's typical cowhand dress was a little better in quality than most, the boots hand-tooled and solid black. A black gunbelt held a Navy Colt in a tied-down holster whose walnut grips were worn smooth with use.
The old stage driver knew the signs and knew the look. The Kansas plains of 1870 were awash with castoff and battle scarred veterans of war; cattle wars and arguments over water and land rights had been just as deadly. Ranchers were buildingbarbed wire kingdoms, jealously trying to hold huge amounts of range land, and men were dying. Hired warriors were common occurrences along the Chisolm Trail and the word 'Gunman', a term being idolized by the newspapers and dime novels produced back East, was on everyone's lips.
The dust swirled on past and the man's grey eyes came up from under the brim of his hat. Drummond saw his face at the same time his eyes caught the glint of the star pinned on his shirt. He had to adjust his first impression--but not by much, but enough to bring a smile to his face.
"Jesus, Gawd. Matthew Bodine! Thought you was over in the Nation."
"Been awhile, Frank." Matt dumped his saddle on the ground and grinned at the two men on the box. "I could use a ride."
"What happened to your horse? Injuns?" Drummond was turkey-necking all around, trying to see if any hostiles were about.
"Gopher hole. Half a day south of here."
"Nice day for a walk." The accented voice of Miguel Franco was soft and musical.
Matt glanced at the Mexican, noting the familiar way the man handled his weapon. "Not really." He tossed his saddle into the boot at the back of the stage and walked around to one of the side doors. Stopping on the shady side, where he could see into the stage, he paused to look at the passengers. One by one he met their eyes, and they could see in their reflections--assessments made--opinions cataloged.
Drummond came up from behind. "We'll squeeze you in somewhere, Marshal."
"I can ride on top if there's no room. Wouldn't want to crowd anyone."
"Nonsense," one of the women inside replied, "we'll make room."
Matt glanced back into the stage and his eyes lingered on the woman. He'd thought he knew the voice, and her face confirmed it.
Drummond's gruff voice interrupted his thoughts.
"We better get goin', folks." The matter settled, the old stage driver was already climbing back onto the coach. "There's a rest stop about an hour ahead. Be some shade and water. Then we'll push on to Baxter's Crossing."
As Matt leaned back in the seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes, he heard the old bull-whacker pop his twelve-foot blacksnake whip over the eight horses pulling the coach. Frank Drummond was a tough old man, and had been a lot of things, at least to hear him tell it, but so far Matt hadn't seen any indication that he was a stage driver. Not unless bouncing his passengers to death was a prerequisite. The careening coach made sleep impossible and everyone was covered in a fine white dust.
Still, Matt surmised, it was better than walking. He just hoped his back would last until the night stop at Baxter Crossing.
"Mister Bodine?"
Matt focused his attention on the woman across from him. "Ma'am."
"You're a peace officer?"
Matthew Bodine III took his left hand and lifted the lapel of his vest. The silver star pinned to his shirt was engraved U. S. Marshal. It also revealed the butt of a second pistol, set for a cross-draw and never far from his hand.
A man sitting across from him leaned over to shake his hand. "I'll introduce you around, Marshal. You've been talking to Mrs. Prescott." He pointed to a man next to him. "This is G. W. Rourke--going to Abilene to buy cattle. My name's Quinn. I sell dry-goods to mercantile stores."
Matt held Quinn's eyes for a moment, debating whether to challenge the obvious slur to the woman who hadn't been mentioned. She was sitting beside Matt and Quinn hadn't even looked at her. Probably couldn't see her around his long Puritan nose. Sighing, Matt decided not to push it.
He didn't need to be told about Annie Holt. When he'd recognized her, a flood of memories had come back to him. A small smile came to his lips as he glanced at her. A few more miles were showing since the last time he'd seen her, but she was still a beautiful woman. Somehow, she was the only one of them who looked unaffected by the blistering heat and dust. Turning slightly toward her, he said, "How are you, Annie?"
She looked at him, startled for a moment, gratefulness seeping into her soft brown eyes.
"Tolerable," she said dryly. "Just tolerable."
"Who's the Mex riding shotgun up top?" Matt asked.
"Couldn't be better," Quinn replied, not giving Annie a chance to answer. "It's Miguel Franco. No one will buy trouble with him riding guard."
Matt was still looking at Annie, ignoring for the moment the man's reply. She smiled softly and shrugged her shoulders, turning back to look out the other window.
Finally Matt said, "Heard of him."
"What brings you here, marshal? Are you going to Abilene?" Mrs. Prescott was at him again.
Matt glanced at her, then at the ring on her hand. Her white-blond hair was piled high in curls and ringlets, her dress buttoned tightly at the collar. Young and pretty, too young to be a widow and old enough to know better, she didn't hide the sudden interest she had in the marshal. A little close between the eyes, Matt thought. He'd had a horse like that once.
"Warrant," he replied. "Man I want to see is supposed to be in Abilene."
"You're from the Indian Territory, Marshal?" Mrs. Prescott asked. "It's not often one of the Judge's men get over this far into Kansas."
Matt's quick eyes pinned the woman to her seat. "You make a study of marshals, ma'am?"
Before Mrs. Prescott could reply, Annie interrupted.
"Who's your warrant for?"
"Texas Red Wyrick." Matt's voice was flat but his eyes were questioning.
"Jesus." Annie's voice was subdued. Her gaze lingered on his face momentarily. Her eyes went from speculation to curiosity, and finally settled on sadness. With a slight negative shake of her head she returned to looking at the scenery outside.
Complete silence permeated the coach. All had heard of Texas Red. Up with the trail herds from Texas, and all the bad ones always seemed to be 'up from Texas', he was known as one of the fastest gunfighters around. Some said he was even faster than Earp, or Hickok. In Annie's part of town, he was known as a pig. He was as unscrupulous and profane as he was dirty. He took whatever he wanted and challenged anyone to defy him.
Finally, Rourke cleared his throat. "He's been cuttin' quite a swath around Abilene. Heard he's killed four men in the last month. I even heard he faced down Wild Bill himself." Rourke was taking in the marshal with new and skeptical eyes. "You going to team up with the town sheriff to try and get him--maybe get together a posse?"
"Who is the sheriff?"
"It's Tom Smith, Matt." Annie didn't turn from looking out the window.
"Bear River Tom?"
"Sounds like you know him," Quinn interjected.
Matt wondered if Quinn would ever shut up as he answered tersely, "Nope. Just know of him. From what I've heard he won't last. I figure on talking to him but I won't be asking for volunteers." Matt pinned Rourke with a steady look. "Mister, I wouldn't be spreadin' around that story about Texas Red. James never backed up for anybody and isn't likely to."
"Who?" Quinn's voice was puzzled.
"James Butler Hickock. Wild Bill," said Matt. "From what I hear about Abilene, he may even be your next marshal. If he hears that story, he's sure going to be wondering where it came from."
"It's just talk. No harm to it." Rourke tried to shrug it off.
"Your funeral."
"Whoa up there!" The voice of the stage driver penetrated the conversation in the coach. Looking out, Matt could see a grove of trees ahead.
"We'll rest the horses for a half hour, folks," Drummond yelled at them from on top of the coach. "Better get out and stretch."
