Prizes

by kayak Lady's Spouse

A longish tale whereby Jess makes an unexpected acquisition due to a poker tournament...and the fallout that results, a romance for Slim and a Mayoral election.

1. Chapter 1

Prizes

By Kayak Lady's Spouse

'Prizes' is a three part story, of which only part 1 stands alone. For ease of reading I have uploaded the parts separately

Part 1- Winner Takes All- Where an unplanned acquisition, by Jess, leads to civil disorder during the Laramie Mayoral election campaign and an excursion to Cheyenne turns violent.

Part 2 – Diddling around- A romance for Slim, and the continued Mayoral election, are impacted by an odd, but curvy, local artist and a traveling encyclopedia salesman.

Part 3 – See How they Run – Slim's innocuous trip to Cheyenne takes an unexpected turn when, unbeknownst to him, news of the railroad coming to town reaches Laramie and he is run for mayor against his girlfriend's brother.

Part 1 – Winner Takes All

Chapter 1

The air was gray with cigar smoke while the hushed voices of many men, plus a few tired working girls, were accompanied by the tinny tones of an exhausted piano. Mathias Hicks checked his watch, "Two minutes to 6:00 a.m. This will be the last hand of the tournament." The authoritarian announcement was greeted by a new wave of murmurs, the nodding of many drunken heads, and a quiet "Hallelujah," from the piano player who was utterly dead on his seat.

Normally Laramie's "Arcade Saloon" closed around midnight, but once a year they hosted the "Laramie Seven Card Stud Fest." This was a 24 hour table stakes poker tournament running from six to six. This year's game started with twenty two players. At midnight the eight biggest winners were consolidated to one table while the other survivors cashed out. Only three players remained. Most of the eliminated players joined the audience who had steadfastly watched, smoked, drank, and held commerce with the working girls.

As he had all night, Mathias shuffled and dealt theatrically, intoning each pull with a practiced poker patter in his rich baritone voice. He liked to think of himself as a "Poker Poet" although the bar owner was equally adept at hog calling.

"Two in the pocket for all," six cards were sent out face down. He continued, "Now one up each. First up, Ed, gets the bedpost Queen (Queen of Spades)." Ed Bradford, Laramie's easy going, near sighted, and middle aged telegraph operator, had surprised everybody by entering this year's tournament. He then proceeded to shock everybody, by not only surviving the midnight cut but lasting all the way into the final hand. He even had a little more money than when he started. Ed squinted at his hole cards, a seven of diamonds, and a three of clubs. Not good.

"Harper gets himself the Deuce (two) of Diamonds. Mighty impressive there, Jess," Mathias good naturedly mocked.

"Better than no card at all Matt, I think." The handsome cowboy replied dubiously as he blankly checked his hole cards. Jess had rampaged through the tournament. He was by far and away the leader and, unless something wildly unexpected happened, would win handily.

"Ruthless Redding gets the Sex (Six) of Hearts." Rufus 'Ruthless' Redding was a freighter, merchant, and a professional card sharp who always timed a Laramie visit for the tournament. This year he had barely made it, arriving in the dark just before dawn and only by double timing it in straight from the livery stable to the card table. Rufus lived up to his moniker; a façade of geniality hid the fact that he was cold blooded, calculating and sadistic. This night his luck had been fair, but not a match for Harper's. With a face as blank as the moon he checked his hole cards, finding the seven and king of hearts.

"Queen is high. Your bet Ed," intoned Mathias in his role of High Priest of the Deal.

"$2.00, I'm not proud," Ed stated tossing in the bare minimum opening bet for the final rounds.

A snicker rippled through the peanut gallery as the others called.

Two more rounds of face up cards were dealt, interspersed with conservative bets. Mathias then dealt each the fourth up card. "Ed gets the Curse of Scotland (nine of hearts) to go with his queen, jack, five and four. Hey Ed, you finally have two cards of the same suit," he quipped.

"Shoot Matt, as all over the map as my cards have been this hand, I'm surprised it isn't purple with a donkey on it," the telegrapher joked as he looked over his cards. Quiet laughter erupted from the audience. "I fold. My hand is on a fast road to nowhere. I am done for the evening, and I want a beer," Ed cheerfully announced dumping his water glass into a handy spittoon. He had drunk nothing else during the tournament.

"Bye Ed, and well played. Join us again next year," Hicks genially bid his departing player goodbye. They shook hands to the sound of scattered applause, and then he continued with his two survivors, "Harper acquires the Trey (three) of diamonds to go with his two, and six of diamonds and two of clubs. A weak pair of twos but a possible baby straight flush in the making," Mathias intoned then he turned to Redding.

"Oh, bad news for Harper as the diamond Pedro (five of diamonds) visits Ruthless giving him a pair of snakes (pair of fives) and killing Harper's baby straight flush hopes. Redding still has a possible heart flush as he's still showing the ace, five and six of hearts. Ruthless, it's is your bet."

Ruthless Redding smiled blankly and genially announced, "I'm right proud of those fives, but I seem to be down to my last hundred and fifty dollars, which I wager, but I'd like to buy some more chips."

Jess sourly looked at his opponent, but kept his peace.

"Redding," Mathias raised a finger and replied firmly, "This is a table stakes tournament. I cannot allow your purchase." Tournament rules disallowed bringing in additional chips to the table, after the start, just as they disallowed 'buying hands' by betting too high for other players to call with the chips on hand.

"How about I buy'em from Harper or Bradford? Those chips are already on the table," the man suggested with a blank smile.

A murmur rose from the crowd and Mathias sucked in a startled breath. Then he drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table for a moment. This question had never come up before. He looked over at Jess questioningly. "Jess, it's up to you," then turning back to Redding, "If Jess is willing you can buy from him but you can't buy from Bradford. He has left the tournament and so have his chips."

"I wouldn't sell Redding horse apples, much less poker chips," Ed chimed in after coming up for air from his beer. That comment earned snickers from the room and an unfriendly look from Redding.

Redding then turned to Jess and genially challenged, "Harper, you got enough gumption to sell me some chips?"

Jess looked thoughtful, "Sure, I'll sell you up to $300." This drew a gasp from the audience. It was obvious that Jess either had another deuce or diamonds in his hole. However, unless he was bluffing, Redding had a flush with Ace high. This not only made three of a kind a dead hand, but it was also a very hard hand to beat with another flush.

"That's right kind of you Harper," Redding smiled pulling out a pen and a piece of paper. With a flourish he quickly scribbled upon it and handed it towards Jess, "There's my IOU."

Jess shook his head in disdain, firmly saying, "Your IOU is no good with me, Redding."

Anger briefly showed in Redding's face. He turned to the tensely expectant audience, "Who will be a gentleman and cover me? My word is good."

The gambler was met with a wall of silence. As the silence lengthened, Redding flushed and muttered something that, if heard, would have reduced his life expectancy. With a snort of contempt for the audience, he turned back to Jess and grated out, "Alright, curse you Harper, I'll put my wagon and cargo up for chips. But that is $4000 worth of stuff."

Jess smiled coldly, "Ruthless, first I'm not overly inclined to help you. Second, I neither need nor want $800 worth of trade junk."

"What do you mean $800?" the trader asked with an offended scowl.

"I figure dividing whatever value you claim by five is about right, considering what an underhanded scoundrel you are," Jess snorted with scorn.

Redding's jaw clenched at the insult, but he kept his peace as Jess continued, "But I'll go as high as $600, for Charlie Doornan's sake."

A murmur of curiosity stirred about the room and a look of incomprehension showed around Redding's eyes. "Who the devil is that?" he asked without thinking.

"You took his farm, near Abilene, about six years back. Then you showed what a rotten winner you are. Now I want to show that you're just as rotten a loser, "Jess explained hard eyed.

"I want a thousand," Redding growled.

"Yeah, and I want Jeff Davis to be president. It's not happening," Jess quipped then said with finality, "$600, take it or leave it."

Ruthless Redding cursed, "I'll take it but when I win the hand I can give you the $600 back for my stuff."

"Of course, but when I win it's all mine." Jess laughed, but the laughter had a very hard tone. He added, "Though heaven only knows what I'll do with $800 worth of snake oil, bloomers, and axe heads." None present had previously suspected how much the generally gregarious cowhand despised the itinerant merchant. Jess counted out $600 worth of his previous winnings. Then he pushed them towards his opponent, giving the impression of not wanting to touch Redding for fear of infection.

Ruthless hesitated for the barest of moments. "Why would Harper be willing to sell chips only showing a pair of twos? He undoubtedly has the flush with an ace. Hah! I have the heart ace and king!" Redding growled, "All in," and he knocked the newly purchased chip pile into the center of the table. Jess silently matched the bet.

With one of the last two players calling, "all in," Mathias did his duty. "All right then, the last card is down," called the dealer," and with all in called the betting is complete." Virtually the entire audience sat forward upon their chairs; high expectation charging the room. The two poker players looked at the new additions to their hands and, by their indifference, it was obvious that neither addition mattered.

"You're a fool Harper! Read'em and weep. Ace high flush. All of those lovely, lovely, hearts," Redding gloated while reaching for the pot.

Jess simply flipped his three hole cards: two of spades, two of hearts, and king of Spades. "Four ducks in a row (four twos) and the pot and tournament is Harper's. Congratulations Jess," called the dealer in a closing baritone benediction. Jess simply smiled while announcing "Drinks for the house." It was a tournament tradition that the winner always stood the house a round of drinks at the end.

Ruthless Redding went pale and started to reach for a concealed gun. He then thought the better of it, because that was Jess Harper across the table. Instead he swore loudly while stomping out of the saloon to the accompaniment of jeering. The poor loser had few admirers present.

The irate gambler continued stomping across Laramie and over to the livery stable where formerly his, now Jess', wagon was. Like a middle aged cougar on the stalk, Laramie's sheriff moved quietly along in his wake. Mort Corey figured he'd collect his drink later as it was even odds Redding was up to something.

Like many, Mort had a low opinion of Redding. Unlike most, he also knew the story of Charlie Doornan. Doornan was a not-overly-bright sod buster who got into a poker game with Redding. The dimwitted farmer lost steadily and then tried to recoup in one hand; wagering his farm. Redding won. If that had been the end of the tale nobody, but Doornan, would have cared. In poker, the adage went; "Never bet what you can't afford to lose." Unfortunately, when Doornan tried to get his farm back, Redding humiliated him over and over again. Eventually, unable to face his family, the half-witted man hung himself. News of the hanging caused Redding to rock with laughter as he pointed out that he had sold the farmer the rope the previous day.

Mort paused outside of the livery stable to allow Redding time to get into the middle of whatever mischief he was planning. While the sheriff waited, he considered his town and enjoyed the clean pre-dawn air. In the near darkness Mort saw the silhouettes of banners festooning the street. He didn't need light to know what they read; it was mayoral election time in Laramie and each one either touted Mayor Diddler (the fat, greasy, glad handing, incumbent) or his opponent Arena Linkous (a religious prig, who was also the minister's wife). Against any reasonable sort, Mrs. Linkous wouldn't stand a chance but Diddler was special. Sadly, it looked to be a choice between corrupt foolishness and narrow religious fanaticism. Mort was heartily tired of the whole noisy event.

"Well, Ruthless should be well into whatever he is doing. Whatever it is, he'll have a hard time denying it before the judge," Mort thought as he entered the livery. He found Redding hitching horses to Jess' new wagon. Ten minutes later, Redding was in the town jail. After locking the gambler up, Mort went back outside chuckling to himself, "Boy howdy, is Jess in for a shock when he finds out just what kind of wagon he won. "

Jess savored his victory, while accepting congratulations, counting his winnings, drinking a beer, and turning down a couple of suggestions from two bouncy working girls that they go upstairs and celebrate. When his tally ended, Jess came out $3424 ahead, plus whatever Redding's wagon and cargo were worth. "It's been a long time since I've had this much money," he thought happily. Then mentally corrected, "Come to think of it, I've never had this much cash money at once." As an added bonus, the tournament prize was a free beer, each day, for a year. The last was not to be sneered at as he was right fond of beer.

Beer in hand, the owner of the general store was amongst Jess' well wishers. "Lady Luck was your friend last night. Congratulations," Jock Benson said, saluting him with his beer and only avoided slopping foam on himself by taking a quick slurp.

Jess grinned and laughed, "Thanks, Jock. She surely was. I was surprised Redding agreed to buy those last chips from me. He should have known I was laying for him when I agreed to sell them." Jess replied, and then added, "Finishing up by skinning Ruthless only makes everything sweeter."

"I can't say as I feel any different. Speaking of your polecat skinning, what are you going to do with his goods? I might be interested in some, at a good price." Jock obviously had his horse trading hat on and was trying to catch Jess while he was feeling good, high from winning and drinking.

What Jock didn't realize was that this was only Jess' second beer of the night. The cowhand had limited himself due to the strength of the competition. The men who hadn't, including Judge Klink, had been out at midnight. "Let me finish up here, then let's go take a look. We can probably use some of the stuff at the ranch," the Texan answered with a nod.

Jock snickered, "I doubt your partner will fit into any of Ruthless' bloomers."

Jess burst into laughter, narrowly avoiding sending a jet of beer through his nose, at the vision of his pard riding the range in pink bloomers. He barely chortled out, "Probably not, though Miss Daisy might." Turning a little more serious, "It's hard to guess what is in that wagon. Redding would haul anything for profit. Shoot, for all I know it could be full of Chinese prostitutes."

"Ahh soo, Mr. Harper. You finish here and we checkee your wagon. Chop chop," Jock joked, while squinting his eyes, clapping his hands together, and then bowing quickly three times.

Jess laughed again, and then stopped with a horrified expression. "You don't really think he might BE carrying Chinese prostitutes do you?" Such unfortunate girls were hauled in cages and were generally dead by age 25.

Jock stifled a snicker and said with mock gravity, "Well Jess, he isn't now, although you might be. Course you could take'em all, move to Salt Lake, and make honest women of 'em. I hear Mort has a friend there who could perform the multiple nuptials for ya."

"That's not funny, Jock," Jess growled, then he hurriedly finished his beer. The Texan knew that the odds of Redding carrying cribs of Chinese prostitutes were low, but he was so horrified at the possibility, that he hustled the laughing Jock over to the livery stable to reassure himself.

Jock got to the side door first and opened it, bowing low while saying, "Honorable Mr. Harper, come in, come in."

Jess rushed in wordlessly. It was dark in the livery as the sun was just peeping over the horizon. There was only one wagon, and no Celestial ladies, present. Jess let out a relieved sigh and then laughed at his own foolishness. Jock just laughed.

"No caged women thank goodness, but that wagon looks odd," Jess remarked with a relieved smile.

"It surely does. I'll open the front door so we'll have some light," Jock's tone turned curious, "Is that a bell on the front?" Jock asked moving towards the liverys' front doors.

"Yeah, it is. Why on earth would Ruthless have a bell mounted on the front of his …..holy cats!" Jess exclaimed letting out a whoop of excitement. As Jock swung open the doors, the increasing light slowly revealed a Model 1874 Silsby fire engine, gleaming black, red, and golden in all of its glorious beauty. Jock and Jess swarmed the gleaming wagon chattering like excited 10 year olds. Three hours later, they were still at it, having strewn hoses all over the livery. That was when Jock's sister Marcy stormed in, grabbed him by the ear, and drug him off to work in their store.

Chapter 2

It was noon when Jess got back to the Sherman ranch, grinning from ear to ear and still too pumped up to be tired. Slim was busy cutting firewood and grinned at him as he rode into the corral. By Jess' expression he could tell it had been a good tournament.

"Hey Pard," the big rancher called while resting the axe upon his shoulder, "You must have done well. I see you made it past the midnight cut this year." The pair had agreed ahead of time that Jess would take today off.

"Yup," Jess answered as he dismounted. "I won," he said with a grin. "Redding was so mad that he almost pulled on me after the last hand." Jess laughed, although the last really wasn't a laughing matter.

Slim shook his head, "That's not funny Jess. Though if he only 'almost pulled' I guess it's ok."

Jess shook his head and answered with a smile, "It isn't a problem Slim. It was just a poker mad. It's not like he's going to come after me. Redding is just a bad loser, and he really lost his rear end in that last hand. Ed came in second."

"Ed? As in Ed Bradford? I didn't know Ed even played poker, Slim exclaimed. "I guess Mattie restrains him. Was he good or lucky?" Slim asked curiously.

"Some of both." Jess changed the subject asking, "Is lunch ready?" He started towards the house adding, "The food at the Arcade stinks and my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Miss Daisy, the ranch house keeper, chose that moment to stick her head out the door and called both men in to eat. The table talk was all about the tournament. After lunch, Jess happily pulled out his winnings and announced that they were to be used around the ranch. He was a partner now, and by gum, he wanted to pay some of his share. The friendly argument that followed lasted all afternoon, as the pair re-shingled the barn. In their excitement both men forgot that Jess was supposed to take the day off. At no point did Jess mention the fire engine. That was a surprise he was saving for tomorrow.

While Jess was having a grand time reporting his triumph, Redding was having a lot less fun being arraigned before a judge. The right honorable judge Klink was annoyed, hung over, and none too pleased to see Redding in front of him. If it hadn't been for Redding he could have slept off his hangover. Klink had been sure to finish all of his other Laramie legal business the day before the tournament.

Only Sheriff Corey, Redding, the judge, and the court reporter were present. Mort had just finished reading the charges. Klink now spoke gravely and grumpily, "Mr. Redding, understand that unless you have some pretty persuasive evidence, you will be found guilty of theft. The trial will occur in two months when I come back through here. Alternatively, you can plead guilty now and save everybody, including you, some trouble. What have you to say?"

Rufus Redding thought fast. A jury trial here, where the town already despised him, would find him guilty of anything the sheriff accused him of; up to and including the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the secret theft of the British Crown Jewels. A judge trial, since Klink was well known for making up his mind quickly and not changing it, would end the same way. His best bet for leniency was to plead guilty. Looking at the surly judge, that option was about as happy a prospect as going all in on a pair of sevens. Still, there were worse hands than a pair of sevens.

"Your honor, I'll plead guilty, if you let me speak my piece," the gambler said, making his move.

"Speak away then, sir," the judge said sourly.

Rufus Redding spoke his best, claiming that the sheriff had it in for him. While he admitted to taking the wagon, he was drunk at the time (not true), angry (very true), not thinking well (absolutely true), and that he had been provoked by Harper's insults. He kept his speech to a short five minutes, crossed his fingers, and hoped for the best. At worst, he'd be spending the next five years in prison.

Judge Klink wasn't greatly moved but saw that no real harm had been done. Redding was trying to welch on a bet rather than robbing or threatening anybody. Of course Klink thought that welchers were just pestiferous vermin. It struck him that just getting rid of the pest would be for the best.

The judge gravely responded, "Very well Mr. Redding. Given your reasonableness and public apology, I sentence you to five years in the Wyoming territorial prison. The sentence will be suspended after you serve seven days, in the Laramie town jail, and pending your agreement to never again gamble within the borders of either Wyoming or Colorado. Violation of this agreement will result in your commencing your full five year term at the point of time you violate the agreement. You sir, are a welcher, and welchers have no place at the gaming tables of civilized men. Are you in agreement, sir?"

Redding nodded, ruminating that he could still haul freight, if he got a stake. Then a thought occurred to him, so he asked, "Colorado, your honor? I've done nothing there, and begging your pardon, you don't have jurisdiction there."

The judge surprised him with a half smile as he grimly answered, "No you haven't and I don't. But I do have a brother who's a judge there and I see no need to pester him with the verminous likes of you. Go gamble in the Nations! There you won't bother civilized men, for such will never game with savages. Case closed. Mort he's all yours." The judge gently tapped his gavel down, though the sound still hurt his throbbing head. Then he made his way back to the hotel where he slept off the worst of his hangover.

Lunch time at the Laramie jail brought Mort Corey's smiling, and very pregnant, wife in with a large basket. Mort bounced up, acting more like a twenty year old than a man nearer to 50, and bussed his happily blushing lady. Iwona always blushed quite easily.

Iwona Vasa Corey was a strapping 30 year old woman just over 6' tall. She was cheerful, dark eyed, lightly complected, raven haired, long of leg, pleasantly muscular, and very buxom even before the addition brought on by the baby. She'd have been a great beauty if she also hadn't sported a nose to make an eagle envious.

"Hello my dear, thanks for my lunch. I hadn't gotten around to making one," Mort smiled as he took the basket. Plates, cutlery, and cups he already had at the jail.

"Ist nothing dearest," she happily answered. "Martin bring milk and tell me you catch wagon thief so I know you not home for lunch." She smiled happily, "Made enough for two. Ist not kind make prisoner eat what you cook," she said then added, " Ist last of pronghorn though."

Mort knew what that meant. Raised by her gamekeeper grandfather, Iwona was a crack rifle shot and loved hunting. She would probably be skinning a fresh kill when he got home. "Have fun and good luck," he replied. Iwona nodded, smiling happily as she waddled out of the jail. Mort sighed; soon he would have to argue with her again about slowing down while pregnant. While generally a dutiful wife, Iwona could cheerfully turn a deaf ear to him when it suited her. That tactic made ensuing arguments both very one sided and ineffective.

"Redding, you're in luck. These are pronghorn perogies," he said serving them up. The prisoner also got some water. Both men ate them avidly and then Mort informed his prisoner, "Ok Ruthless, you now know what my wife's perogies taste like. You have a choice. I'll fix your meals: which will be water, beans, and a boiled potato or she will fix them. As you can see," Mort said patting his expanding midriff, "her cooking is good. Which do you want?"

"No contest Corey, hers." Redding said grumpily, knowing there would be more to this as it was a stupid question and Corey was far from stupid. "What's the catch?" he added.

"Well, my cooking is free, and you get what you pay for. Hers comes at a price," the sheriff replied with a friendly smile.

Redding sighed, he didn't have a lot of money left. His possessions amounted to two horses, his clothes and about $40. "How much?" he grumped while thinking to himself, "Being shook down stinks."

"Labor. You put in a good days work and not only will you be fed by Iwona, but I'll get you beer for both lunch and dinner."

"What sort of labor?" the prisoner asked cautiously.

"This jail needs paint. I think we can keep you busy all week," Mort smiled. He loved putting prisoners to useful work and painting was a pain. He had enough of it to do himself as Iwona was making him repaint the house.

"I want some old clothes so I don't ruin my own," Redding happily countered.

"Agreed."

"Done." Rufus Redding figured that it wasn't a bad deal. He had expected a shake down for a dollar or more a meal, like the stage lines did. Besides, those perogie things were quite good. "Sheriff, if you don't mind my saying, between those perogie things and her figure, I think you've married well."

Mort laughed good naturedly, "So do I."

Jock Benson was short on sleep, strung out on coffee, and happily gossiping to any and all who would listen about the new fire truck. What he wasn't doing was getting any work done. Marcy was so vexed that she took refuge in the backroom doing inventory, just to keep from throttling him.

By early afternoon, word had spread through most of Laramie about the engine and it's location. How and why it was there varied over the telling, and all reference to Jess was lost. By early evening, Mayor Diddler was capitalizing upon its' arrival by taking credit for it and announcing the formation of a Laramie fire department. He had the engine rolled out into the street and was signing up volunteers using the vehicle as a desk. The acquisition of the engine, and the fire department formation with himself as chief, was immediately heralded as his greatest achievement. His popularity soared. Overall, the event caused much excitement and celebration. The celebration included much beer drinking, the volunteers being rewarded by the local saloons, as the tavern owners were scared to death of the notion of the rabidly dry lady candidate becoming mayor.

Rufus Redding had been painting all afternoon, dutifully watched over by a bored deputy named Tyrus Cobb. Cobb had the duty as Mort Corey had fretted himself into a near conniption over his pregnant wife going out hunting alone. In the end he had decided to go as well. The pair were now camping above Falls Lake. Redding had heard Corey tell Cobb that they would be back in two days and to make sure that, if Redding worked, he got fed well. Someone named Lilly would be doing the cooking and Mort had already paid her for it. Well, dinner hadn't been pronghorn perogies, but Rufus figured he couldn't complain about steak and ale.

Painting the outside of the jail, which would continue for a while as the building really needed it, had allowed Redding to watch the revelry and election antics surrounding the fire engine. He had been mentally congratulating Harper on selling the engine until he heard Diddler talking to his drunken admirers. The mayor had bragged about how he had negotiated for, beat down the price of, and had the engine delivered all the way from Chicago 'for a song.' He would be donating it to the town after his re-election in two weeks, "When he was sure everything was as it should be with it."

Redding snorted in amusement. The fool hadn't noticed the boiler placard depicting firemen and reading "Silsby Manufacturing Co, Seneca, N.Y." A light dawned and the gambler considered how he might turn this to his advantage while keeping up a cheerful conversation with Cobb. Redding could be a merry companion, when it suited him, and the two were soon acting like old friends.

Diddler's supporters were not alone on the street. There were a few anti-Diddlers watching the election posturing with disgusted disdain. One was an exceptionally prim woman that Cobb happily identified as the mayoral opponent, Arena Linkous. "I need to talk to her away from Cobb," the gambler decided.

Cobb unwittingly gave him his chance. "Rufus, behave yourself and paint. I'm gonna join the fire department and get some beer," the deputy announced, then went on jokingly, "Don't you run off now."

The genial convict answered with a smile and a nod as he applied more paint to the window sill, "Not to worry Tyrus. I have a one week sentence and have no need to run off only to get stuck with five years. Got no place I need to be in that much of a hurry. Go get your beer."

"I'll bring one back for you," the deputy promised as he lumbered off.

Ten heart beats later, Rufus Redding was heading towards Arena Linkous. "Good afternoon ma'am," the man said feigning innocence and tentative shyness.

Arena Redding looked disdainfully at the shabbily dressed and paint splattered stranger. "Good afternoon to you, sir," she managed almost politely. "Shouldn't you be back painting your cell?"

"Well pleasantries just went out the door," the gambler thought but said instead, "Yes ma'am but I am moved to speak with you. I, ma'am, am Rufus Redding, a poor sinner from nowhere. Doubtless I shall return to the same. However, I was moved by the Lord to come here and I need to tell you why," he spoke softly, desperately, and with eyes downcast.

The supremely self righteous pastor's wife looked at him curiously. He had her full attention.

All innocence, the man raised his face and looked her straight in the eye as he continued, "Last week, I was delivering that fire truck to an ore processing mill near Durango, Colorado. Sadly, the mines had busted and the Lord's own lightning had destroyed the mill so there was nobody there to take possession of it. That night I dreamed that a voice, the voice of the Lord Jesus himself, told me to go north to Laramie and to make my delivery there. For in Laramie there were good and needful folk who would come to harm without it. So here I came."

Arena eyed him suspiciously; he sounded an awful lot like a traveling snake oil salesman, but she let him continue, merely saying, "And?"

"So here I came, but to my shame I then fell prey to the evil of drink and now find myself in jail," he said in faux humiliation. Then pointing to Diddler he venomously added, "while that heathen steals God's gift to the town!" Rufus cast his eyes down and continued, "I am the Lord's poor servant! Without my weakness that beautiful fire engine would be here as a tribute to God's goodness and bounty. Instead, it will put that varmint back into office. I am so ashamed, but felt moved to confess my weakness to you," he finished, blubbering, and then lumbered back to his painting.

Arena Linkous had listened intently and was greatly surprised at his abrupt departure. She had expected a sales pitch of some sort, not a grieving confession unaccompanied by appeals for aid. That he asked for nothing lent strength to what he said. She saw that he had nothing to gain by lying and heaven knew the Lord worked in mysterious ways.

Rufus returned to his painting with a smile and with his crocodile tears abated. "Now I need to make contact with Diddler. If I work one side against the other, maybe I can salvage something from this. I might even be able to steal the engine back. At the least it will be entertaining," he thought with conniving optimism. It wasn't long before Cobb rejoined him, promised beer in hand, and the two toasted each other.

By 8 pm, after all of the painting gear had been cleaned and stowed, Rufus had convinced the soused deputy/firefighter to take him over to meet Mayor Diddler.

Rufus' luck held, as Diddler was alone when he and Cobb approached. "Good evening Mr. Mayor, I am Rufus Redding and I just wanted to congratulate you upon the acquisition of the fire engine," he cordially said upon his approach.

Richard Diddler smiled his politician's smile and thrust out a chubby hand to Redding, "Why thank you Mr. Redding. She is a beauty isn't she? You must be new in town."

He shook the politician's hand, "Why yes sir, she is mighty pretty, and I should know since I just brought her in from New York. I thought we might talk about that," he replied with a hard eyed smile.

Big Dick Diddler, his son was nicknamed Little Dick but both men were only called that behind their backs, froze in mid handshake. He finally stammered out, "Ssso you say."

"Why, yes I do." Thinking very quickly, Rufus discarded the notion of selling the wagon to the mayor; the men present when he had lost it had included Sheriff Corey and Judge Klink. Both knew that the fire truck now belonged to that cursed Harper. Redding was stuck in jail and when Corey returned the jig would be up. "I was just wondering if you know how to operate it. Mighty touchy things, steam powered fire engines. Ruining them is pretty easy and exploding them isn't much harder. Now, I was trained in how they work so that I could teach her ultimate owners."

"Owners who are expecting your imminent arrival," Mayor Diddler added downcast, unhappily envisioning a hundred grumpy outsiders absconding with his best campaign asset.

Ruthless shrugged, "Yes, but if I don't arrive they won't be overly put out. It was cash on delivery. Salt Lake City will simply send a few telegrams and get another fire engine sent out." He didn't mention that he had already bought the engine for $2200 so Silsby wouldn't be looking for it either.

The mayor smiled, "I sense a parley beginning," Diddler pompously announced.

"Most astute sir, that is why Laramie is fortunate in having you as mayor," Rufus answered nodding. The pair dickered with the deputy looking on. In the end, Redding was to be paid $500 to teach the Mayor, and a few of his flunkies, how to operate the engine. Then he would disappear, never returning to Laramie nor tell anyone what became of the fire engine. Rufus would get half the money now and half upon leaving town. Secretly, both men cheerfully started considering ways to double cross the other should the opportunity arise. As Cobb locked him up for the night, Rufus' thoughts next turned to Jess Harper. He needed a few words with that loathsome cowpoke.

Chapter 3

"Wake up, Jess," the distant voice of Slim Sherman cheerfully called. Well, distant to Jess Harper's mind for it was wherever minds go when a man is sleeping face down in his half empty supper plate. A short night after a full day of wrangling, followed by a 24 hour poker tournament, and then shingling the barn all afternoon had taken a toll upon the weary man. Young Mike, Slim and Jess' fosterling, laughed heartily as Jess blearily looked up with mashed potatoes in his eyebrows.

Slim smiled as Miss Daisy handed Jess a napkin. "Land sakes, "she said as he ruefully wiped his face, "if you're that tired go to bed."

"Sounds like a good idea Miss Daisy. Night all." Jess mumbled as he pushed back his chair and staggered off to his bedroom.

"Take off your spurs this time!" Daisy admonished the retreating figure. Jess nodded to himself, and upon his arrival, kicked off his boots and flopped into the bed fully clothed; snoring immediately filled the room.

Hours later Jess awoke in the quiet darkness of the ranch house. He blearily sat up, stretched, and quietly snuck outside. Surprise was the key to his plans and waking Slim would have ruined them.

Jess saddled up Traveler, put leads on two of their draft horses, and was off to Laramie. It felt to be around midnight, and the full moon lit the landscape. The night air was pleasantly cool and full of the scent of pines. It was a wonderful night ride, leading the frisking ponies. Jess soon found himself at the back of the livery stable.

He opened the rear door, and led his animals into the building. Striking a light, he exclaimed "Dad gum it! Where's my wagon?" as the light showed that the fire engine was missing. He stomped around the stable until he walked out of the front doors, and spotted his missing property sitting out on the street. The mayor and his drunken volunteers had neglected to put it away. Relieved, he thought, "What the devil is it doing out here?" He shrugged, brought his three horses around and commenced hitching the draft animals up.

Tying Traveler to the back, he discovered that his fire engine reeked of beer and vomit. Annoyed and thoroughly disgusted, Jess re-entered the livery retrieving rags, a lantern, a bucket of water, and a mop. He then commenced cleaning his defiled beauty while cussing whatever drunk had moved his fire engine, and then puked on her.

An hour and a half later Jess was rolling down Main Street. As he rolled out of town, he noticed a light on at the general store. Curious, he stopped, dismounted, and looked through the glass in the door. Jock was at the counter doing something. He tapped on the glass so Jock looked up. His friend then waved him in.

"Hi Jess, whatya want?" Jock greeted him motioning towards the coffee pot. "Have some mud." Then he asked curiously, "What's that on your forehead?"

Jess ran his hand over his forehead and rubbed off the last mashed potato remnants. "I bumped my face," he said by way of explanation and moved towards the proffered coffee. It smelled good and Jess helped himself. "Ah, Marcy's coffee. She always puts cinnamon in it," he thought, then he answered Jock's question, "I was just picking up the fire engine. I figured that I'd drive it to the ranch and surprise Slim," Jess grinned. "What are you doing up so late?"

"Inventory. " Jock replied making a face. "I fell asleep this afternoon, and Marcy is mad at me. She stuck me doing the last half of the inventorying. Once I woke up from my nap I couldn't get back to sleep so I started in on it." Jess nodded in reply. Marcy was one of Laramie's prettiest ladies but she ran a strict business. It was an attitude that made Jock's life a bit harder for him than he would have liked. There was no doubt at all who ran this store, and it wasn't Jock.

Jess had a sudden idea, "Jock, would you mind telling old Jonas that I picked up my wagon? I forgot to tell him earlier today. Oh, and here is 75 cents for his housing it."

"Sure Jess, it's not a problem." Jock said nodding and pocketing the money.

"Do you have any brass polish in stock?"

"Three jars. I just counted them," Jock answered absent mindedly jerking a thumb towards the jars which sat to his left.

"I'll buy one if you throw in two rags. I want to polish up the brass on the engine," Jess offered as he reached out and picked up a jar.

Transaction completed, Jock pitched in with the polishing and soon the engine positively glowed. "Jess, mind if I come too?" Jock asked as they finished.

Jess looked at him in surprise, "No. You're welcome to come. Why?"

Jock laughed as he brushed an errant strand of hair away from his eyes, "I want to see Slim's face. I think it will be fun. Let me get my horse."

A few minutes later, leading two horses and with the two men chattering like magpies, the fire engine headed out of Laramie. Later that morning, Marcy arrived at the store to find the doors unlocked, a lantern burning, the inventory incomplete, and no sign of Jock. While finishing the inventory she considered how best to greet her brother whenever he deigned to reappear. She was favoring dipping him in kerosene and setting him on fire over her second choice of putting him on a spit and slow roasting him. "Brothers!" she repeatedly grumbled.

The moon had set so the return to the Sherman ranch was a bit slower than the ride out. That bothered neither Jess nor Jock. They chattered in high expectation of the reactions they would get from Slim and company. Dawn was breaking when they pulled up in front of the ranch house.

"Whoa!" Jess called out and then, "Wake'em up Jock!"

Jock wildly rang the bell, making a rumpus fit to raise the dead. Mike came pelting out of the hen house. More sedately, Miss Daisy came around from the kitchen and called, "Land sakes Jess Harper! What is all this commotion for on a Sunday morning? What is that THING?" Slim was the last to appear, as he had been taking care of private business in the necessary.

"Partner, what the devil have you got there? Is that a fire engine?" Slim called, grinning in excitement. In a flash, he was on the wagon and looking it over in nearly as much excitement as Jess had the morning before. "Oh, hi Jock," he eventually added.

Jess grinned ear to ear, "Yup, it's OUR fire engine! Courtesy of Rufus Redding, and 'four ducks in a row' at the poker tournament!"

"Neat!" Mike exclaimed clambering aboard and replacing Jock at the bell.

"Stop that Mike! A body can't hear themselves think!" Miss Daisy commanded, raising her hands to her ears. Then turning to her dark haired employer, "Jess Harper, what in the name of common sense are you going to do with a fire engine?"

Mike dutifully quit ringing the bell and climbed onto the back of the rig. "I don't rightly know, Miss Daisy," Jess admitted with a grin and a shrug. The admission didn't seem to bother him much.

"We'll figure out something," Slim called out in his partner's defense, and with an idiot grin, rang the bell. "You won this in the tournament? That was supposed to be table stakes. How did you manage to win this?" He shouted over his own rumpus. Miss Daisy shook her head, re-covered her ears and retreated indoors to fix breakfast.

"Redding used the fire engine as collateral to buy more chips from Jess," Jock answered. The rancher gave Jock an odd look, and then Jess explained how the poker tournament had ended. Slim let out a whistle and grinned. "No wonder he was mad. These things are right expensive."

The four boys, for in the presence of the gleaming fire truck the three men had more or less reverted to adolescents, clambered all over the fire engine opening and closing everything that would open and close, turned valves, unrolled hose lines, and generally had a grand old time. It was Slim who found the bill of sale from Silsby Manufacturing of Seneca, NY to one Rufus Redding for $2200. He let out another whistle when he saw the figure, and showed the receipt to Jess. "That's one expensive toy you have there."

"Yeah, I guess she is," he grinned again, "So what? She's ours, all bought and paid for."

A still smiling Slim turned a thoughtful look upon their four wheeled idol, "Jess, do you have any idea how to operate her?"

"Nope, I've never worked with steam boilers," the Texan happily admitted.

"I haven't either," added Jock who hadn't been asked.

"Nor I," agreed Slim with a thoughtful expression. Then he continued, "I do know that they can explode and kill everyone around them. We need some help. It's no use having a fire engine you can't use."

"Speak for yourself. Even if I never figured her out, I would love to keep her," Jess spouted in opposition. Then he paused before adding, "Course, actually being able to use her would be even better. Any thoughts?"

"Cheyenne?" Jock opined.

"My thought too, "Slim said nodding. "They've got a railroad depot with a maintenance yard. We can find somebody there who can teach us about boilers. We'll probably have to teach ourselves about pumps, but I don't think they explode," he added with a wry smile.

"Then I'm off to Cheyenne!" Jess announced, immediately bouncing onto the wagon bench and eager to get the rig on the road.

"Jess Harper! Get off that fire engine this instant, and come eat your breakfast," Miss Daisy re-appeared just as Jess had made his announcement. "Your contraption will still be there after you finish eating," she chided him just as she would have Mike.

Jess flushed, and climbed down. "Yeah, I guess it can wait until after breakfast. It would probably be a good idea to change out the horses too. This pair has been up half of the night," Jess answered with a hint of returning good sense.

Slim smiled, then added with a wry expression, "I can't come along. As much as I would love to go, one of us has to stay here at the ranch. It's your baby, you go have fun." The blonde rancher cheerfully added, "When you get back, you can teach me how to run her, too."

Jock smacked Jess on the shoulder with enthusiasm, "I'll go with you Jess! Two are better than one on the road. We shouldn't be gone more than two or three days." Jock Benson previously had a few crushes on various Laramie girls, but he had never fallen as hard for any of them as hard as he had for Jess' fire engine.

Jess smiled, "Sure Jock, let's eat, then off we go to Cheyenne."

Jock turned to Slim and asked, "Slim, can if I borrow a blanket and a few odds and ends for the trip? I'd rather not have to delay Jess by heading back to town for my stuff."

Slim threw his head back and roared with laughter, "You mean you'd rather not head back into town where Marcy can wring your neck. Sure. Since I have to head into town anyway, I'll tell her where you're off to so she won't worry. That way she'll only kill you once, when you get back, rather than three or four times."

Jock flushed, ducked his head to avoid eye contact, and laughed, "That'll be great. Thanks." Suddenly Jock cocked an eye at the rancher and asked, "Hey, is it true that Lilly Spencer dumped you?"

Slim was startled and slightly embarrassed by the unexpected question, "Yes, at Mort and Iwona's wedding reception. I was 'getting too serious' and she wanted to 'just be friends'. Why?" he asked with a sour, wrinkle nosed expression.

Jock gave Slim an overly innocent look and answered, "That's what I heard. So has Marcy," then he added "I hear that another town dance is set for next Saturday, and I know that Marcy would like to go."

Slim smiled and nodded. He had always had a sweet spot for Marcy Benson. Maybe now would be a good time to test the waters, "You aren't suggesting this to distract Marcy from your truancy, are you?"

"Of course I am," Jock said hopefully. "If you distract her enough maybe she'll forget I'm gone." Slim just shook his head.

Chapter 4

Sunday mornings in Laramie are usually quiet, and this one was no exception. Ed Bradford was dressed in his best, and awaited his wife Mattie, in the front room of their home. It was a brief wait. Hand in hand, the long married middle aged couple walked to church. At a glance they were an unassuming pair. He was the quiet, middle aged, slightly built, bespectacled, and graying telegraph operator. She was his shorter, heavy, and greatly bosomy wife of equal years. In fact, she was a benevolent and major player in Laramie's female social order.

Ed always had to suppress a snicker when he walked past the church sign, which read 'First Raptured Baptist Church of Laramie- The reverend Lawrence Linkous, pastor.' Some enterprising soul, generally assumed to be a local youth, was forever altering the sign in the middle of the night. Reverend Larry always took it in good humor, but the morning following such an alteration always featured the pastor's wife having a fit in the middle of the street. Arena Linkous would then rampage around trying to identify the culprit. Ed knew who the perpetrator was and had silently vowed to take the secret to his grave.

"Well hon, I see we are still members of the First Raptured Baptist Church this morning. Not the First Ruptured, Last Captured, First Raptured Dentist, or First Raptored Baptist Churches. I really liked that last because it let me imagine Arena being carried off by an enormous hawk," Ed whispered into Mattie's ear before giving it a quick nibble.

"Ed Bradford, behave yourself!" She chided while repressing her own giggle and ducking her head away (but not releasing his hand; God alone knew where that might get to if she turned it loose when Ed was in this sort of mood). Mattie, though publically disdaining the sign prankster, nevertheless secretly hoped to find an altered sign there every Sunday. Unlike Arena, Mattie's deity had a lively sense of humor. She figured he had to since he was willing to accept the likes of herself into his good graces.

The reverend and his wife greeted them at the door of the church; Arena Linkous giving Ed a disapproving look for such licentious behavior. Pastor Larry was equally disapproving, until his wife was distracted by other approaching sinners, whereupon he gave Ed a quick wink. Ed and Mattie both felt sorry for the reverend. He was far too kind to deserve Arena for a spouse. Then again, they would have felt the same if she had been married to Bloody Bill Anderson.

The service was packed (they badly needed a larger building), energetic, and loud with the congregation absorbed in the sermon. It was titled "God's bounty for the faithful" and was a political speech aimed at bolstering Arena's campaign for Mayor. Ed despised the church's political involvement and the current political diatribe left him seething. He silently summed up the sermon, "According to Holy Writ, the local manifestation of a fire engine is a safe guarding gift from God to the faithful of Laramie and it has nothing to do with Mayor Diddler. Being from God, it is now belongs to the faithful. Finally, the sermon thundered out a call for the faithful to form their own Godly Inspired Volunteer Fire Department so that God's gift could be properly used, appreciated, and left unsullied by the devices of the drunken pagan followers of Richard Diddler. Hallelujah."

Mattie felt Ed losing patience, and ushered him out of the church as quickly as the close of services allowed. Assuming an alien look of vapid stupidity, he quietly protested saying, "But honey, I want to join the saintly new fire department."

His wife peered at him intently, "That's what I'm afraid of. Why?" she asked. Mattie knew Ed was rarely a joiner and never without reason.

Ed's vapid and beatific posture was belied by the anger of his locked jaw. "Why to further God's will of course. I think we should be named 'The First Holy Hoser Company," he responded with faux brainlessness.

Mattie reinforced her grip upon her husband's arm, "Home Ed Bradford, now! You need to simmer down." Ed allowed her to walk him home. He loved her terribly, only attended to make her happy, and that love was all that had kept him from raising an unholy furor for several years. Mattie loved God and knew the Lord Jesus as her personal savior. So did Ed for that matter. They differed in that Ed felt that sitting under a lonely pine tree, while contemplating the Lord's will, was the moral equivalent of attending any church. Mattie was more conventional in outlook.

"Mayor Diddler! Mayor Diddler! Wake up!" a high pitched male voice excitedly demanded.

Like an enormous caterpillar trying to metamorphose into a grey whale, Richard Diddler bestirred himself in a hammock behind his house. He devoutly believed that warm Sunday afternoons were best slept through. With a vast effort he opened an eye, "What's wrong Jude?" he asked in a sleep gravelly voice. Jude Stevens was the mayor's chief flunky and all purpose gopher.

"It's gone, Mr. Mayor! Somebody as done made off with it," the hyper aide blurted out while wringing his hands.

The sleepy mayor inhaled deeply then sighed, "Made off with what Jude? When and why?"

"I dunno, this morning I guess," the gopher answered excitedly.

"And it is, what?" the Mayor inquired with anger rising in direct proportion to his sleepiness abating.

"Your fire engine, sir! Somebody done stole your fire engine!" the man finally blurted.

"Jehosephat!" The startled mayor sat up abruptly, which is not a good idea in a narrow hammock. It promptly spun and unceremoniously dumped him on the ground. The man ponderously got up, "Are you sure it's gone?"

"Sure as taxes, your honor," which is an expression no campaigning incumbent likes. "I think Miss Linkous' people took it. They're forming their own fire department and claiming rights to the fire engine as 'a gift from God.' The reverend said so on his pulpit today," Stevens proclaimed agitatedly.

As he lumbered towards the house, to dress in attire less befitting a man sleeping in a hammock and more befitting an honorable mayor, the mayor grumbled, "Get the boys out looking for it. Quietly, in case those Baptists don't have it. If it is around town it should be easy to find. I'll decide what to do once we find it."

"Ok, boss," the gopher agreed before racing off.

It wasn't an hour before his honor the mayor received a delegation from the Baptist Church claiming jurisdiction over the fire engine and demanding that he turn it over to them. He sent them packing quickly. A half hour later found the mayor over at the Baptist Church, escorted by members of his volunteer fire company, demanding they return the fire engine to 'the town,' meaning him. Voices were raised, and accusations of theft were made by both sides. Soon, members of the opposed fire companies were fighting over an engine that, unbeknownst to any of them, was merrily rolling to Cheyenne.

Jock, Jess, and the fire engine had pulled out of the Sherman ranch shortly after breakfast with Jock happily ringing the bell and Jess driving. After about 15 minutes of bell ringing, Jock stopped and they settled down to the 50 mile trip.

"Jess," Jock asked with concern as he leaned against the back rest of the riding bench, "what are you going to do with this fire engine?" Miss Daisy's inquiry had disconcerted the shop keeper.

Jess scratched his neck, made a wry face, and shrugged, "I don't really know. No matter how much fun she is, and it will be even more fun when we figure out how to work her, I can't see keeping her permanently."

Jock grimaced, "You mean you'd sell her?"

Jess nodded and batted a horse fly away as he answered, "Well, yes. You heard how much she cost. Besides, just how much fire fighting will she do out on our spread? If Laramie had a fire, and we somehow knew about it, the whole place would burn down before we got there," Jess glumly admitted, coming to terms with the reality that the ranch was just too far away for major fire fighting heroics.

Jock quieted down thinking, "I have to save her, but how?"

Riding into town to visit Marcy, Slim was looking good. The rancher hadn't completely duded himself up but he was close to it. He rode in smiling, cheerfully ignorant of the cross town brawl at the Baptist church. The happy rancher soon reached his destination, tied up Alamo, and stepped into the store. "Marcy?" he called looking about hopefully."

Marcy Benson came in from the store room. She was a small, elfin slim, woman possessing short dark curly hair, and a pretty face with huge brown eyes. Currently the eyes were worry filled. "Hi Slim, what can I do for you?" she asked with more than professional warmth.

The big rancher smiled and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "I'm just in to get a few supplies for the ranch, and to deliver a message," he replied.

Marcy looked up with an expectant expression that was relieved, hopeful, and annoyed. "Jock? What is that knucklehead brother of mine doing now? I'm worried sick about him. He just up and disappeared last night," she sighed, "Tell me he's alright so that I can kill him."

Slim gave her a reassuring smile, along with a nod, "Jock is fine. He's with Jess and they're heading to Cheyenne. They'll be back in a few days."

"Cheyenne! What has your partner gotten my retarded brother into now?" She demanded with wide snapping eyes and arms open and outspread.

Slim repressed a quick smile as he answered, "Now Marcy, Jock isn't retarded he's just, uh, distractible. He and Jess are taking the fire engine up to Cheyenne to learn how to use it safely," he added quickly, "I think that's smart; many steam boilers explode if they're not treated right."

Marcy was not to be placated. Scowling, she plaintively answered, "So do sisters. Heavens to Betsy, Slim. I've been worried sick about him all day, and we have a business to run!" The affronted woman complained, "Why did he have to run off to Cheyenne? It's Jess' engine!"

Slim shrugged and joked, "I think mostly because he wanted to. I suspect that he's going to marry that fire engine when they get back."

She looked at Slim sourly then forced a little laugh while shaking her head, "Alright, thanks for telling me. It is better to know. Now I won't worry that he's off injured somewhere." Changing the subject, she then asked, "So what do you need?"

Slim handed her his list. Marcy looked it over nodding as she read it, "Ok, we have everything except maybe that, "she said pointing out one item, "I can't read it."

Slim squinted at his writing for a moment, then pronounced, "Baking powder."

Marcy nodded, "Oh. No problem. I could see that it was a powder but I thought it was blasting powder; not that such wouldn't get a rise out of a cake. It would just include the rest of the kitchen. Your writing is as bad as the doctor's," she chided.

The pair chatted amicably as Marcy rounded up Slim's order, her normally sunny nature re-manifesting as Slim jollied her back into a good humor. By the time his order was ready, Slim was ready to make the invitational leap. "Marcy, how about going to the dance with me next Saturday night? I think we would have fun," he said as the conversation turned to local activities.

Marcy's eyes widened in surprise and she leaped at the chance. "I'd love to Slim. With the store and all I don't get out much. Since Jock will be back by then, I'll get off a little early Saturday, and be ready," she replied, heart a twitter.

"Great!" The handsome rancher beamed. Then, as a seeming afterthought, carefully preplanned before hand, he nonchalantly added, "How about I take you to dinner before? Heck, how about I take you to dinner now? You've had a rough day."

Eyes dancing, Marcy tilted her head to the side and smiled broadly, "That would be wonderful. I'll finish closing up later," she said taking his proffered arm and they trooped out of the door. Ten feet into the street she stopped abruptly. "Just a moment," she said as she scampered back to the door, locked it, and returned to her sudden, though much anticipated, date. Slim had no idea that the woman had been waiting for him to ask her out ever since her felonious natural father came back to town and tried to reclaim her, two years prior.

The jail was full to bursting. Redding now shared his cell with righteously wrathful Baptists. The center cell housed the Right Holy Mayoral Candidate Linkous, and the far cell was jammed with shouting Diddlers. The gambler happily watched the commotion, while trying not to laugh at the factions arrested for brawling over an engine that was neither present nor theirs. Each faction was convinced the other had absconded with 'their' fire engine. Cobb had stopped the riot at the church by recruiting help from saner parts of the community, and arresting chunks of the rioters. Still, the acting deputy was sporting a puffy lip, bloody knuckles, a limp, and a much shortened temper.

"Enough!" the deputy shouted, an admonishment that was totally ignored by the yelling and gesticulating prisoners. As he returned to fuming, Redding waved him over. "What Rufus?" the man half shouted at the only person present he wasn't angry with.

"Tyrus, do I really have to stay in this bedlam? I don't deserve this," Ruthless Redding shouted with a martyred expression and hands placed over his ears.

Tyrus Cobb shook his head, scowling at Redding's fellow prisoners. Then he pulled out his cell key, "Join me out front for a while. Hopefully, they'll be calmer in a few hours."

"Thanks Ty," the gambler said, grimacing at his cell mates. The pair went into the front of the jail and shut the intervening door. The shouting prisoners were only partly muted, but that was better than nothing. "What in tarnation was that about? Are they fighting over my fire engine? I mean the mayor's fire engine?" Redding asked in feigned ignorance.

Deputy Cobb swore softly as he put a cold compress on his torn lip. "Dadgum, who'd have thought Deacon Jones could still hit that hard at 75?" he asked rhetorically. Then he answered Rufus' question, "Yeah, somehow Miss Arena decided that the engine was God's gift to the Baptists and convinced 'the faithful' that the ungodly had stolen it. So they stole it back. The mayor then took some of the boys over to the church to repossess it, and somebody started a rumpus."

"Coffee, Ty?" Rufus asked rising to get the coffee pot and carrying it over to the desk. The pot was a fancy one, complete with a locking lid to make pouring easy.

The deputy shook his head, "Not now. Help yourself."

"Thanks. Did you get the engine back from God's chosen?" Rufus asked as he poured himself a cup. Then he set the pot down on the desk while he sat down across the desk from Cobb.

The deputy shook his head, "No, they say they don't have it. Then, when the mayor accused them of lying, Miss Arena shouted that he was trying to pull a devil's trick. Anyway, the two squared off shouting at each other, and things got kinda unpleasant."

Redding stretched and asked curiously, "What finally set the Godly and Ungodly to blows?"

Cobb smiled wryly, then flinched when the action stung his lip. "I think being called 'Satan's minion' annoyed the mayor. Of course, Mrs. Linkous didn't like his calling her Laramie's 'Virgin Witch'. From what I'm told that's when she smacked him, which is why I locked her up for assault," he said with some satisfaction. Cobb was a confirmed supporter of the mayor.

"I love elections, don't you?" the gambler laughed. Deputy Cobb just grunted back at him.

"Jess Harper help you break up the fight? I know he sometimes helps out Sheriff Corey," the gambler asked with feigned indifference. He figured that Harper had acquired the fire engine during the night and had taken it home. Unfortunately, he didn't know where he lived.

Cobb shook his head, "Harper? Nah, would have been nice to have his help, but I don't think he's in town."

"I guess he's probably back at his spread," Rufus fished for information.

"Yeah, he's probably back at the relay station," Cobb agreed nodding. "He's no help to me when he's that far out."

"Relay station? I thought Harper was a cowhand," the gambler asked curiously, pleased to have narrowed his search so quickly. There weren't many stage relay stations nearby.

"He is. The Sherman place is a right nice ranch, and being a relay station brings them in cash money," Cobb answered leaning his chair back, and putting his feet up on Corey's desk.

"Bingo!" thought Rufus. He had watered his horses there in the past. Slim Sherman was generous with his water.

Rufus drained his coffee cup. He stood and picked up the coffee pot from the desk, "Sure you don't want some?" he inquired cheerfully.

Leaning back in the desk chair, hand to sore mouth, Cobb answered, "No thanks, having coffee now will just keep me up tonight."

"This coffee won't," Rufus said. Swinging the pot hard and fast, he stepped forward and slammed it into the slack attentioned deputy's forehead. Deputy and chair both toppled with the force of the blow. "Matter of fact, I think it'll help you sleep like a baby," he grinned at the unconscious man while replacing the coffee pot on the stove.

Quickly, Ruthless Redding reclaimed his own gear and money, "Thank you Mayor Diddler for the $250!" he thought, while helping himself to a shotgun and shells. By the time he was into his own clothes, the coffee was boiling. He took the pot and poured the contents over the palms and fingers of his unconscious victim. "That'll keep you from following me for a while. Killin' you would have been easier, but I kinda like you Tyrus," he said to the unconscious blister handed man while tossing him into the closet. He left the jail, locked the door behind him and pocketed the keys. In scant minutes, Redding was saddled and heading up the road to Cheyenne while leading his spare horse. He passed Slim Sherman, and a pixyish woman, as they entered a restaurant. Good, if Sherman wasn't home, that would be one less complication when dealing with Harper at the station.

An hour and a half later found Rufus Redding boldly riding into the Sherman ranch. His time was short as he wanted to put some distance between himself and a possible posse. The evening stage sat in the yard where the driver and a boy were changing its horses. He called to them from horseback, "Evenin.'"

The pair looked up, "Evenin' mister," greeted Mike Williams.

"Mind if I get some water for my horses?" Redding inquired politely.

"No mister, help yourself," Mike replied gesturing towards the horse trough.

"Thanks son. This is the Sherman spread isn't it? Is Jess Harper about?" Redding asked in his friendliest voice. No need scaring the boy.

"Yes sir, this is the Sherman ranch and…" the rest was drowned out.

"Ok everybody, we're ready to go. Pile back in for Laramie!"Calvin Hobbes, the leather lunged stage driver bellowed in the general direction of the ranch house. There was no response, "Con sarned deaf passengers!" he grumbled as he limped up to the house. Hobbes had limped since the Devil's Den at Gettysburg.

"Sorry son, you were drowned out," Redding replied.

"I said I'm afraid Jess isn't around," Mike answered, with a touch of suspicion in his voice. In the past many people had come through looking for Jess; most with poor intentions.

"That's too bad, I owe him and wanted to pay my debt." Redding said with a theatrical sigh of disappointment. "When will he be back?"

Young Mike bought the bluff, unsurprising as Rufus Redding was an even better salesman than he was a gambler, "Sorry, sir. We don't really know." Excitement crept into Mike's voice and his eyes brightened with sudden enthusiasm, "Jess got himself a fire engine! He's off to Cheyenne to find out how it works!"

Rufus exclaimed, "For real? How did that happen? Not like he needs to put out fires while chasin' doggies!" Any friend of Harper's would almost certainly react in such a manner. Harper's departure for Cheyenne, to figure out how to operate the engine was unexpected; Redding hadn't credited the man with that much good sense. It was probably Sherman's idea. Rufus had half expected to find a large crater, where Sherman's barn should have been standing, rather than the fire engine.

"He won it in a poker game," Mike explained with a nod.

"Well, you can win the darndest things in poker games, and the man is good with cards." He paused frowning, and then he shrugged. "Well, I've owed him for a while. I guess I can owe him a while longer. Thanks son. Have a nice evening."

"You too, sir. Mind if I ask your name? That way I can tell Jess you came by," Mike asked with a helpful and friendly smile.

They were interrupted by Hobbes, and his 16 passengers, noisily spilling out of the ranch house and boarding the stage. The mass of humanity swarmed in and on top of the coach. With a loud "Giddyup," they bounced on down the road. Redding cringed at the sight as it reminded him of just how much he hated stage travel; especially since Overland didn't consider 16 passengers a full stage.

When the noise had abated, the pair continued their conversation, "That's a good notion son. That way Jess won't think I've forgotten my gambling debt." Rufus answered and made up a name on the spot, "Tell him that Jedediah Curry was here." He tossed Mike a quarter, "Thanks for your trouble, and the water," he added with polite friendliness.

"Why thanks mister!" the gratified boy called, reaching up and catching the coin.

Then Rufus Redding was off to Cheyenne, planning to catch Harper in the town. He had a few friends there who might be helpful. With luck, he would reacquire the fire engine and be long gone before anyone from Laramie arrived.

Back in Laramie, Slim and Marcy's dinner was over and the pair were making an exceptionally long and circuitous walk back to the store. It would only be a matter of opinion over which was starrier; the clear night sky over Laramie or Marcy Benson's eyes. Slim had found the evening only marginally less intoxicating and was equally in no hurry to see it end. Eventually reaching the store, Marcy gave him a long and warm good night kiss, and then gave out a startled, "Oh heavens, I still have to close out." She hurriedly unlocked the door and darted into the store. Slim savored the kiss then mischievously followed her inside.

"I've kept you out awfully late, Marcy. Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked with tremendous innocence.

She looked at him doe eyed, and answered, "Why Slim, you needn't bother. I'll be fine."

He softly smiled at her, "What's left to do?"

She made a dismissive wave at the money box, "Oh, checking cash, straightening up, and double checking tomorrow's orders."

The rancher saluted her like he had his superior officers back in the war, "I'm on it general, store straightening commencing immediately."

She giggled, "Slim Sherman, you are a very silly man," and was warmly touched by his gesture.

The pair worked with a will, flirting a bit. Maybe more than a bit, as the efficiency of their work was impacted by the more than occasional kiss. With their diligent combined efforts, what would have taken Marcy nearly 45 minutes was completed in a mere two hours. In the end, an unbiased observer would be forced to admit that the store looked very nice, freshly mopped as a matter of fact, and that the day's books were thoroughly in order. Eventually, Marcy rallied her will power and gently ushered her beau out of the store.

She went to bed musing upon what a very fine man Slim was. "He is smart, handsome, strong, handsome, intelligent, moral, tall, handsome, and caring," she giggled to herself. Marcy was convinced that Slim knew darned well that, if he had pressed, she might have not slept alone this night. She was both mildly vexed, and warmly grateful, for his gallantry. Her subsequent rest was filled with soft warm dreams that would have utterly scandalized the female mayoral candidate. When she awoke from her short night, she bolted from her bed, fully energized and bent upon a project of the utmost priority. She desperately needed a new dress for the dance.

*_*.

"Wow, what an evening!" Slim said to the coolish night air of Laramie. While he had hoped to take Marcy to dinner tonight, he never thought that he would be staying so late. Nor did he guess how much fun it would be. Next Saturday was something he was already looking forward to. "Just remember, Marcy is a proper girl; do not rush her. You don't want to scare her off," he reminded himself for the six dozenth time. "She also won't take kindly to you trying to seduce her." It is to be noted that Slim Sherman, a man blessed well beyond the norm in most abilities, was somewhat less effective than Casanova at reading the ladies.

Whistling, the tall rancher collected his drowsing horse and started towards home. Glancing down Main Street, and seeing a light in the jail, he pulled Alamo up with a start. "Mort must have something going on to be up so late," he mused. Then he set out for home, singing quietly and day dreaming about Marcy. It was a good thing that Alamo knew the way.

*.*

It was a fine and glorious sun filled morning where a light breeze chased wispy clouds across the brilliant Wyoming sky. Mort Corey whistled as he walked from his home to the jail. He and Iwona had returned a day early because, at eight months pregnant, Iwona found sleeping on the ground to be less than comfortable. She hadn't complained but Mort read the signs and when he suggested they come back early she hadn't argued. Besides, they had already bagged an elk and four braces of ducks.

Mort had slept in, knowing that Cobb would be on duty, and was late arriving to the jail. He was startled to discover half a dozen grumpy townspeople waiting outside of his locked office.

"Mornin' folks. What's going on?" the sheriff called out, cheerfully giving all present a friendly smile.

"Morning sheriff," four of them chorused politely as they assumed non-lounging poses.

"Late start, Mort?" Grumped the weasel like mayoral gopher, Jude Stevens.

"When are you letting Arena out?" sulked the Reverend Linkous.

The last remark brought Mort up short, "Whoa. I've been off a few days. Matter of fact, I'm back a day early. Why is Arena in jail, Reverend?" He asked, eying the preacher curiously. Arena Linkous' perpetual crusade was generally annoying, but sometimes quite amusing in the messes she created for herself. Mort saw that Reverend Larry was embarrassed, which was normal when his wife went on a religious rampage of one sort or another. Arena Linkous was devout, uncompromising, self righteous and downright bad tempered. Mort figured that if the Baptists had an inquisition she would have led it.

Reverend Linkous looked down, cleared his throat, and then fumblingly explained, "Well Mort, she and the Mayor had a bit of a set to yesterday and Arena got a little excited."

"She punched the Mayor in church, so Ty arrested her," interjected Stevens with stiff lipped outrage.

"I'll have a word with Ty," Mort answered non-commitally. Then he couldn't resist adding, "Did Diddler live?" The question brought snickers from the audience and went unanswered. Mort tried the door. "Locked I see, well Tyrus should be back in a few minutes. He must be out patrolling."

"Mort, I've been here over an hour and a half. He hasn't been here," complained the Gopher.

The sheriff frowned and spoke, "Well, I'll go over to the bank and get the spare keys." They kept spare jail house keys in the bank's safe and Mort was back in a few minutes. The crowd trooped into the jail. There was no fire in the stove but the sound of talking came from the back room where the cells were.

Mort opened the cell room door and exclaimed, "Holy Cow!" upon seeing the reverend's wife in one cell and large crowds in the other two. "Ty has been busy." He looked at the prisoner sheet, "32 prisoners? Quite a party you had at the church, Reverend," a comment that only drew an indistinct mumble from the preacher.

Mort did a head count, the overcrowding in two of the cells made it slow and there turned out to be only 31 prisoners; all of whom were decidedly tired, hungry, thirsty, and wanting to go home. Mort quickly obliged them; since none of them were in the mood to cause any more trouble save for Arena. She was quite ready to continue the previous day's festivities if the Mayor had dared to make an appearance. As she, firmly escorted by her husband, disappeared out the door Mort turned to his last remaining prisoner for an explanation. "Deacon, how did this happen? I know that you have more sense than to brawl in church."

Deacon Jones smiled wryly and shook his curly white and black maned head. "Now Mort, you know I'm a peaceable sort. I always have been," he rumbled in his deep bass voice.

"Yeah, just like Lamar, Merlin, and Rosey. Long ago I lost track of how many assorted cowboys and raiders that you four tangled with," Mort smiled. This fearsome foursome, good shepherds all, were amongst the best men he had ever known.

The huge old herder shook his head, "Mort, that deputy of yours was man handling Miss Arena. I just couldn't stand for it."

"Did she provoke it?" asked Mort with a raised finger and a piercing eye.

The Deacon's head drooped when he answered, "Well yes, she punched the mayor for insulting her. Still, men need to keep their hands off of the ladies, even if they're provoked."

Mort sighed shaking his head. In general he agreed with the Deacon, but Arena Linkous frequently pushed a man until strangulation seemed a reasonable course of action. Instead he changed the subject asking, "Deacon, what was the brawl all about?"

The great old man took a deep breath and answered, "Well Mort, it was like this….." and he told the tale of conflict over the missing fire engine.

When Jones finished, Mort shook his head, "I see the one prisoner that is missing is the one that I left with Ty. Do you know Rufus Redding?"

The man shook his head, "I know of him, although I neither drink nor gamble. What I've heard isn't flattering. When we were locked up, Redding was in the jail. Later the deputy took him out and he never brought him back. The deputy never came back either." He paused, "You haven't seen Cobb this morning have you? I hope that boy isn't hurt or dead. Redding is said to be a mean one."

Mort scowled in worry, "Well, they don't call him 'Ruthless' for nothing." The sheriff had noticed that Redding was missing from the first. He'd thought that the man had more sense than to try to escape, given the consequences if he was caught. Mort had half a mind not to pursue him, given the piddling nature of the sentence, and the fact that he was most likely charging straight out of Wyoming. Good riddance.

The Deacon's face turned thoughtful and he absent mindedly picked the coffee pot up from the cold stove. He grunted disappointedly when he found it was both cold and empty. Moving to set it back down, he stopped abruptly and looked closely at it's bottom edge. "Mort, there's dried blood on your coffee pot," he said quietly.

"Uh oh," Mort said coming over and looking at the crusty patch. He then stepped back and looked around, eventually saying, "There's a big dried up coffee spill behind my desk and a shotgun is missing from the rack. I bet Tyrus isn't far away."

"I wouldn't drag a dead or unconscious man around Laramie, even at night, if I wanted to escape. Not if I didn't have to." Deacon Jones thought out loud while looking around the mostly bare room. "The closet?"

"The closet," Mort said nodding in agreement. He stepped across the room and opened the closet door. There lay his unconscious deputy. Mort quickly checked him over and exclaimed, "He knocked him out with the pot and then scalded the helpless man's hands! That's why the stain is a puddle and not a spray. That sadistic…"

The enormous old black man put a plate sized hand upon the furious sheriff's shoulder, "Go get the doctor Mort. I'll move him to a cell bunk and get some water," he said softly, paused, and then continued with a voice strong with authority, "Swear all you like, but do it on the way." Deacon Jones was a very well respected man and was used to leading. With a nod, the angry sheriff departed at the quick step.

Jones lifted Cobb, cradling the 200 pound deputy as easily and gently as he would have one of his newborn lambs, and moved him out of the closet. By the time Mort returned with the doctor, Cobb was lying on a cell bed with his head wound cleaned and his hands lightly rinsed.

"Thanks Deacon, please step aside. You're eclipsing the sun," the doctor politely ordered while he started to work upon the injured man. The Deacon stepped back for the doctor to work.

Mort nodded towards the cell door and the pair went back out front. "Looks like Redding stole the fire engine. That's the second time he's tried that. It's what landed him in here in the first place," Mort opined.

The Deacon looked at him while shaking his shaggy head, "How do you figure that Mort? He was in here, when our brawl started, and the engine was already gone. Think maybe he's gone after it?"

Mort pursed his lips, thinking. "Hmm. Ok, somebody else took it, most likely Jess," Mort paused then continued, "Redding probably wants it back to deliver it. He probably has an order for it C.O.D. and wants the money."

Jones nodded. Jess was a common enough name, but the main Jess associated with Mort was Harper the Texan. "Why would Harper steal it? He's always been honest enough," the shepherd queried.

Mort shook his head, "He didn't. The engine is his; he won it from Redding at the poker tournament last weekend. I'm betting that Redding went to the Sherman Ranch to steal it back."

Deacon Jones scowled nodding, "Mort, I begin to suspect that fire engine wasn't a gift from above."

"It surely wasn't Deacon. It surely wasn't."

Chapter 5

Mort led a spare horse and was riding hard for Cheyenne. He had set out from the Sherman ranch less than half an hour after he and the Deacon had pursued Redding there. Mike had told them of his encounter with a stranger looking for Jess. The sheriff nearly choked when Mike said that Rufus was using 'Jedediah Curry' as an alias. He'd just gotten a new poster on a bank robber by that name.

Mort then sent the elderly Deacon back to town to try to calm things down. He tasked the man with spreading the word on who actually owned the fire engine, how he acquired it, and where it was. He also asked the Deacon to telegraph a warning to Jess. That last would be easy enough as Jess intended to stay at the Railroad Hotel. They would happily hold the telegram for him. A second telegram was also sent to Marshal Owen, telling him of Redding's jailbreak. With luck, the Cheyenne Marshal would spot and jail the fugitive.

"I'll be there by dark at this rate," Mort thought angrily. "I surely hope Owen has Redding in jail when I get there. That would keep him out of trouble and, if Tyrus dies, make stretching his neck convenient." Mort was far angrier about the attack on his deputy than over the escape.

*.*

Jock rang the fire bell and waved happily at the good folk of Cheyenne. They cheerfully waved back at the pair of grinning idiots rolling through their town. Eventually the pair pulled up at the Railroad Hotel where they checked in.

"Mr. Harper," the front desk clerk said as they finished registering, "there is a telegram waiting for you."

Jock and Jess looked at each other surprised. "Alright," he finally said and was handed the missive. "Jock, we might be in for some trouble," the Texan said when he finished reading it.

"It isn't from Marcy is it?" Jock asked, face tight with trepidation. His sister was tight with their finances; if she was mad enough to spend money on a telegram then he might have to wait a year or two before going home.

"No, it's from Deacon Jones," Jess answered drily.

"Huh?" Jock answered with round eyes.

Jess nodded, equally surprised at the sender, "Yeah, it turns out that Mort is on his way here, chasing after an escaped Redding. He thinks Ruthless is coming here to steal the fire engine back."

"Over my dead body!" Jock said stoutly, while crossing his arms and scowling fiercely.

"Well, with Rufus, that could happen," Jess replied, abruptly causing Jock to pale. "It says that he laid out a deputy with Mort's coffee, and that they think he's high tailing it up here." Jess paused and then puzzled aloud, "How the devil do you lay out somebody with coffee? Mort's coffee is strong, not solid."

Jock shook his head, "I don't rightly know, Jess. Seems to me Mort's coffee is more fit to raise the dead then to concuss the living. Maybe he drugged it. We had better keep an eye on the fire engine and not drink any coffee."

"Engine yes. Coffee? Don't be ridiculous. I want my coffee. I bet there was an error by the telegraph operator. Redding laid out the deputy, sure enough, but not with coffee. Anyway, we need to be careful with the engine," Jess pronounced.

The two men hurriedly dropped off their gear in the hotel room, and got back on the fire engine. They figured as long as they were on it, nobody would be stealing it. Minutes later, Jess was inside the engine shop at the railroad station while a paranoid Jock sat watch upon the fire engine. He had a shotgun locked and loaded.

Some minutes later, Jess stepped out of the shop. "Bring her in Jock," he called.

Jock picked up the reins and clucked to the horses. In moments the fire engine stood between two massive locomotives undergoing maintenance.

A scrawny, grease spattered, middle aged man hopped down from the cab of an engine. "My that is a beauty. Let me give her a quick look," he said bounding over. He nodded and muttered to himself as he looked her over. Eventually turning back to Jess, "I can help you, sure enough. There's the water intake for the boiler," he said pointing to the intake "and there's the one for the pump. Go over to the station water tower and tell Bart that Woody said for him to fill'em. I see you have coal. Good. It burns cleaner than wood. Now, for dinner and a few beers, I'll be glad to show you how to work her this evening. Don't try it yourself," the man admonished with profound seriousness. "This type of boiler heats quickly, but is very touchy. She'll be safe enough once I teach you though."

"Not now?" Jock whined. With the fire engine, as he was with most novelties, Jock was a confirmed member of the 'Do It Now!' club.

Woody McGraw looked at him and the engine, then he sadly shook his head, "Much as I would love to, no. A man has to earn a living and I want to keep my job. But, this evening, it'll be my pleasure. Now go load her with water." Woody McGraw advised and then disappeared back onto a locomotive.

Rufus made excellent time traveling to Cheyenne. He didn't bother checking for Jess at any of the hotels. Instead he went straight to the railroad station where he was on good terms with both the maintenance and yard managers. After quick chats with both men, he took up a position to spy upon the maintenance yard. Rufus knew that Harper would have to come here eventually and he wasn't disappointed. Once both Jess and Jock were inside the maintenance shed, he moved forward and eaves dropped outside the shed door. Hearing the maintenance manager tell them to load the engine with water, Redding raced away to further his plan. "Nice work, Woody," he thought, "Hopefully Bart will tie them up for a while."

Bart Klein played his role to perfection, arguing with Jess, and refusing to believe that Woody had authorized such a waste of valuable railroad property. He kept it up for half an hour before deigning to get out of his chair and waddle across the yard to talk to Woody. Returning, he grumped, "Ok mister, you were right. Bring that thing over here and I'll lower the boom."

Jock clucked at the horses, to move the engine forward, and stopped in front of the water tower. Klein immediately lowered the water boom then opened, and quickly closed, the spout sending about twenty gallons of water cascading down upon Jock, "Whoops, sorry!" he said with a grin.

"How about in the engine, not on me?" grumped Jock tight lipped. He wanted to go punch the jerk, but then they would have to fill it by hand. The boiler, according to Woody, held about 600 gallons of water, the water tank another 200, and that was way too much work. Fifteen minutes later the fire engine was full of water when he and Jess heard a familiar voice.

"Howdy Harper, fancy running into you in Cheyenne," Rufus Redding, announced his presence.

Jess whirled, pulling his gun at the sound of Redding's voice, and found the miscreant leaning nonchalantly against the station building with his empty handed arms safely folded across his chest. "You made good time, Ruthless, since you were at the ranch last evening. We got a telegram warning that you were after us," Jess answered while lowering his still cocked gun.

Redding thought, Cripes, if Harper has already gotten a telegram then a posse can't be too far behind and local law must be on the lookout for me. Cobb must be tougher and smarter than I thought. What he said was, "After you? I don't like that sound of that. It sounds like you think I want trouble. I've already got plenty of that. I am only trying to catch up with you to talk."

Jess' eyes were narrow with suspicion. He knew Redding to be capable of violence but he also knew that he was more of a businessman than an assassin. He spoke slowly and strongly, "You and I aren't overly sociable, so I take it you want to talk business, and that business is my fire engine."

Redding nodded and replied with great reasonableness, "Yes, Jess. Your fire engine," with the emphasis on 'your.'

The simple response startled Jess. He had expected Redding to start arguing about how the fire engine wasn't his because it was worth far more than $600. A stupid argument, but that was what he expected. Now the cowpoke was curious.

Redding went on, "First, I am going to slowly take off my jacket. Then I'm turning around to show you that I'm not packing. A man thinking you are trying to get the drop on him has trouble concentrating on business." After doing so he asked, "So, can we talk?"

"What about your hold out gun?" Jock demanded, all but leveling his shotgun at him. The storekeeper had Deputy Cobb's mysterious coffee related fate clearly in mind.

Redding gave him a sour look, "In my saddle bags. I didn't come here to fight or threaten you. Besides, I know Harper to be a first rate gun hand, not a nut case." The escapee nodded down the street towards where his horses were tethered, "Go on down there and look if you like."

"I will," Jock said sharply, and then he trotted down the street.

"Ok Rufus, I'm listening. This is your play," Jess acknowledged while reholstering his gun. Suspicion was still writ large upon his handsome features.

"Thank you," the man replied; then he continued on,"Alright, the way I see this, you really don't have a lot of use for a fire engine. What are you going to use it for on a ranch? So selling it is a good idea, but to who? I already have a buyer. I'll give you $1000 when they pay me."

"And I am to hand you the engine and trust you until then?" Jess asked, smiling with mild derision.

"Well, that would be nice, but I figured you would come along," Redding answered drily.

Jess was surprised by the simple fact that Redding actually was here to dicker with him. They started to talk in earnest, being interrupted by a returning Jock who said, "There were a pair of derringers and a Colt in Redding's saddle bags, plus other weapons." The negotiations then recommenced with Jess informing the unhappy Redding that he knew he had paid $2200 for the engine so he knew it was worth considerably more than that.

The negotiations made Jock very unhappy, but the fire engine belonged to Jess. As the talk continued, he entertained himself by scuffing the ground with the toe of his boot. He noticed a commotion down the street and then smelled smoke. At that point an alarm bell started ringing. "Jehosephat, Jess there's a fire!" he cried.

The other two men started, looked at Jock, and then down the street. Jess just a little faster than Redding.

"And we've got a fire engine. C'mon Jess let's go!" Jock cried excitedly, jumping up onto the passenger side of the bench.

Jess nodded eagerly, then his expression dropped. "Jock, we can't. We don't know how to work her yet."

"Speak for yourself, cowboy. Silsby taught me so that I could teach my buyer. Lets go! Or do you really want to give her up without ever having used her?" Rufus challenged excitedly while gesturing towards the commotion.

Jess looked over and saw that Redding was as excited as he and Jock, "Shoot, yeah! " Jess shouted and he bounced onto the bench seat.

"Hold up Harper, I have to light the boiler. It's a fast starter but it still takes about ten minutes to bring her up to steam. We can light it here and she can warm up as we go," the fugitive shouted as he moved quickly towards the back of the fire engine.

"Then do it Redding! Get it going!" Jock cried, wild eyed and eager to be off.

Rufus took the requisite flammables, put them in the boiler and lit them off using coal oil. "Roll her, Harper!" he cried, stepping up on the back, and taking a firm grip for the bouncing ride he expected.

Roll her Jess did. Down the street at a flat out gallop, with Jock wildly clanging the bell, and startled people scattering like chickens with a fox in the barn yard. Finding the fire was not difficult; Jess simply followed the crowd. Townspeople scurried towards the blaze, buckets in hand, forming an impromptu bucket chain. The chain might as well have been an arrow for pointing out the fire, which was at a rundown livery stable.

As Jess moved towards the blaze, he saw men braving the flames in order to get horses and mules out of the building. The equine evacuation was not going well. Many of the animals were scared witless and resisted their rescuers. The air was saturated with smoke, and the noise of frightened equines competed with the racket of Jock's frantic bell ringing.

Unexpectedly, the fire engine let out a screech like a half sized locomotive. The noise startled the rig' horses, who surged forward. Fortunately, it also alerted the crowd in front of them to make way. In a moment, Jess regained control of the team and they pulled up in front of the building.

"Sorry I scared the horses. I was testing the steam pressure with the whistle," Redding shouted over the commotion of the fire and townspeople, many of whom now surrounded their technological marvel.

"Ok Rufus, now what?" Jess shouted, fierce eyed with excitement, as he threw the wagon's brake.

"We'll have enough steam in a minute. Let's get a hose attached," Redding called back moving to the side of the wagon where he grabbed a rolled up hose, threw it and threaded one end to a side mounted pipe. "Screw more hose on the end to get closer. Take this nozzle and put in on the end." Jess grabbed more hose, and the nozzle, and got to work. Leaping forward, he grabbed the end of the attached hose, then ran towards the fire. When he reached the end of the hose it went taut, stopping him abruptly and landing him on his butt. Jess leapt back up, attached another length of hose and then raced away again. A dozen townsmen followed him.

Rufus Redding excitedly returned to the hot boiler, and was surprised to find Jock there. He thought the man had been following Harper. "What now Redding?" Jock shouted, eager to be fully involved.

"Get the horses unhitched. We don't want them spooked and running off with the wagon. They're not trained for this yet." the card sharp answered, getting a nod from Jock.

Rufus checked some gauges, shoveled a bit of coal, tooted the whistle, and then returned to his gauges. Eventually he grabbed a wheel and then grunted when he couldn't turn it. "Confound it. Help me turn this, will ya?" Redding shouted at Jock who had just finished with the horses. "What's your name anyway?"

"Jock Benson," the store keeper yelled as he also grabbed the wheel. Grunting, both men exerted all of their force and the wheel spun. The hose inflated as gurgling water shot down it's length. The water got to Jess and nothing happened; the nozzle was closed. Jess flipped a valve on the nozzle, water gushed out, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Jess, Jock, and Rufus all laughed in excitement.

Redding, the acting engineer, turned to Jock, "Ok Jock, here is how it is. I've got to keep the boiler hot enough to keep the water pressure up, but the pressure in the boiler low enough so that it doesn't explode. So I'll be watching gauges and opening and closing valves. Can I get you to shovel some coal and…"

"Who are you boys?" An unfamiliar voice of authority inquired. It was Cheyenne's marshal.

Without missing a beat Rufus continued addressing Jock"…. and explain what we're doing here?" he had no desire to talk to authority figures, so he turned his face towards the gauges and away from the lawman.

Jock explained with infectious excitement. Marshal Owen exclaimed, "Good Lord! That engine is a wonder, look at her put out the water. It surely beats the bucket chain. We wouldn't have a prayer of saving that building without your help."

"We can use your help marshal," Rufus said, while studiously looking at his gauges and not at the lawman. "We're going through quite a bit of water, but if your bucket chain dumped into our reservoir we could run out another hose."

Marshall Owen grinned, "Well, tarnation! Water coming your way." Turning away to his bucket chain he called out, "Boys reform over to here. We're dumping into the fire engine. Come on come on!..." and he was gone.

"We can run two hoses?" Jock shouted excitedly, completely forgetting that Jess had told him to stay with the engine and to keep an eye on Redding.

Rufus Redding nodded happily, "Yes, and you can use the second hose to keep the guys on the first hose safe while they do the same for you. Run out the hose Jock! I'll send you the water when you get to the stable door!"

With a whoop, Jock grabbed a length of hose, attached another to the engine and was off, followed by a squadron of eager assistants.

"Alone at last," Rufus thought, smiling happily. "Just me and a couple of thousand residents. Well that complicated things, but was expected."

Jess and his helpers hosed the entrance down, and then they entered the building. It was an inferno of blazing hay, terrified horses, fire and smoke. He heard a scream to his left and spotted a man with his hair and shirt ablaze. Jess washed him down, and his helpers carried the injured man out. The Texan then called for most of his assistants to drop off the hose and help elsewhere, as they were getting in each other's way. Returning his attention to the fire, long forgotten words from his father came back to him. "Son, if you ever are fighting a fire, dump your bucket on the base of the fire. Don't get all excited and throw the water at the flames. That won't do nothin'. Wet the fuel. Cool it. Drown it. Fire doesn't like that a bit."

"Ok Pa!" Jess said without thinking and soon discovered how well that advice worked with a charged fire hose. The rush defeating an out of control fire is a primal experience that is difficult to describe. The thought came to Jess, "Dad Gum, this is some of the best fun I've ever had." Jess felt nine feet tall, four feet wide, and completely covered in hair.

They had been at it for some minutes, making good work, when Jess heard the man behind him excitedly demand, "Mister, give me a try with that."

Jess started to shout, "No, I have the nozzle." but felt embarrassed at his selfishness. Instead he handed the nozzle over shouting, "We'll take turns, friend."

The man nodded happily, grabbed the nozzle, and immediately slipped on the wet ground. The nozzle went flying out of his hands. Jess saw it whip around through the air, flying back under the pressure of the water stream, and then everything went black.

Chapter 6

"I really can't be certain until he wakes up, but I think he'll be alright," was the next thing that Jess heard. The stranger's voice continued, "I'll look after him until I'm sure."

"Thanks doc," Jock Benson sounded unhappy.

Another unfamiliar voice spoke next, "Doc, Johnny and I need to be going back. There's still some work left to do."

"Ok Roy, I have it from here. Tell everybody that Chet will be alright. Bald and with no eyebrows, for a while, but basically alright. The actual burn is only a little worse than a bad sunburn. However, if this gent hadn't soaked him down when he did, it could have been very bad," the first stranger replied.

Jess heard a door open and close. He managed to get his eyes open and peered through the murky haze of half consciousness. His awareness rapidly cleared as full consciousness returned along with a blazingly sore head. He reached up, felt a bandage wrapped around his temple, and thought randomly, "Another one. How many of these have I worn in the last five years?"

Jock's face came blurrily into view. "Jess, you're awake!" he smiled in relief.

"Yeah, hooray for me. What happened?" Jess grumblingly asked while squinting, blinking, and one handedly cradling his outraged head.

"Some guy dropped the fire hose and the nozzle brained you," Jock announced with a sympathetic grimace.

"I remember that now," Jess said, as he wobblingly stood up, "Jock the fire!" he shouted and stood up swaying. The shout sent pain shooting from one side of his skull to the other. Loud noises were not a happy thing.

"Easy Jess, the fire is out," Jock responded putting a steadying hand upon Jess' near shoulder.

The first voice that Jess had heard sternly announced, "Sit down, Mr. Harper. You're not going anywhere until I look you over and likely not then." Jess knew the sound of a doctor without even looking. Sitting down, he happily discovered, made the room spin more slowly.

The young doctor, a man who probably hadn't seen 30 yet, thoroughly examined the Texan's head. "Dented but not broken," he eventually pronounced, "You have a remarkably thick skull."

Jess was recovering quickly and by the end of the examination all of his wobbliness was gone and the room was immobile. Aside from the headache, he was fully fit again. "Doc, I don't know how many times I've been called hard headed. I guess they're right," he replied with a small cheerful smile.

"I guess they are," the dark haired doctor smiled reservedly in response, then he frowned. "You might have a mild concussion, so no alcohol tonight. You can drink tomorrow."

Jess made a face and nodded. To his surprise the nod hurt. "Ok Doc, but I hope you know how many free rounds Jock and I are missing out on."

"Not hardly," the doctor snorted.

"Uh Jess," Jock hesitantly spoke, "the fire wasn't accidental. A boy saw Rufus in there and they think he set it. Worse, some folks think that we are his partners."

"What?" Jess shouted as he bolted to his feet, wanting nothing more than to pound on the fugitive poker player. "That's not good. Let me guess," he said pausing, "the engine is gone too, along with Redding."

Jock looked down, shamefaced. "I kinda forgot to look after him and the engine. Once the fire was down to smoldering, Rufus shut down the engine and the locals drug us over to the saloon to celebrate. A really pretty gal took a liking to me and we went off to, uh, chat," Jock finished blushing while toeing the floor.

Jock wasn't too sharp with the ladies. Jess could just see Rufus siccing a soiled dove on him as a distraction, while he waltzed off with the fire engine. Jess sighed, sitting back down, "At least we're not in jail."

"And you're not going to be," announced Marshal Owen stepping out from around a corner. "I had a telegram from Mort about your situation. When he got here we talked things over. I figure our friend Redding needs a neck stretching." Arson was not looked upon kindly on the frontier. Neither was laying out and then maiming a helpless deputy.

"He's never been a friend of mine. Mort's here then?" Jess asked, turning to the lawman and extending a hand in greeting, "Howdy Mike. Why is it whenever I come across you I'm either bleeding or have a goose egg on my head?"

The marshal took the hand and smiled, " 'Cause you're born to find trouble and have the devil's own luck; both good and bad. You've missed Mort. He's already set off after your fire engine and Redding. So, like I said, you're not going to jail, but I want you out of the public eye tonight so I have a chance to get things explained around."

"I'm heading out to help Mort," Jess stated.

"Dr. Brackett?" the marshal asked, turning to the physician for his opinion.

The physician shrugged and answered, "Medically, there is no reason for him not to. However, I think he might want to get some rest and leave once the sun is up."

Jess paused looking at the doctor, "What time is it?"

"About midnight," dead panned the physician.

Jess sighed momentarily defeated. There really wasn't much point in heading out now without any light to track by.

"Mr. Harper, stay upstairs in my home tonight and head out in the morning," the doctor generously offered with a friendly smile.

"Thanks doctor, I will. You make a body feel welcome," Jess answered with a grateful nod that only ached dully, as opposed to before when it sent bolts of lightning shooting between his temples.

Marshal Owen informed Jess, "Ralph Rizzo is with Mort. He saw the wagon heading out the west road. They shouldn't have too much trouble running it down. That thing is neither speedy nor inconspicuous." He added, "Shoot Jess, like as not they've already gotten it back."

Marshal Owen was wrong. Rizzo and Mort were bedded down for the evening and they had found nothing. Nobody on the road had seen the fire engine. No farm they stopped at was sheltering it. In the morning the pair intended to start checking side roads and to send out telegrams to neighboring towns to keep a look out. Mort was not happy.

Rizzo was quite cheerful about the whole thing. He explained that he was currently an out of work wrangler so being a paid posse member was quite welcome. What he wasn't saying was that Redding had paid him to sap Harper, and then to falsely report the engine heading out of town. For Ralph it had been a profitable day.

Jock left Dr. Brackett's house feeling like six kinds of a fool for letting Redding steal the fire engine. Grumbling, he walked the quiet street heading towards the hotel when he realized that he was not alone. A small silhouette was following him while trying not to be seen. Jock turned at the next street and then stood against the building. The steps behind him quickened and a moment later the little pursuer rounded the corner. Jock immediately grabbed the small figure, which let out a startled yell. "Lemme go! I aint doin' nothing," it said while ineffectively thrashing about.

Jock moved into the bright moonlight and discovered that he had hold of a tenish boy. "Calm down kid. I just wanted to know who was following me. I aint gonna hurt ya," he said putting the boy down while keeping a restraining hand on the child's shoulder. "What's your name, and why were you following me?" he asked.

"Walt," the boy sulkily responded, "I wanted to see what you were up to 'cause you're a shootist."

Jock laughed, releasing the boy, and ruffling his hair, "Son, I'm no shootist and I never have been. I own a store in Laramie. Who told you I was a gunman?"

The release startled the boy. The laugh and the hair tousling, were equally unexpected. This guy didn't seem very dangerous. "The guy who tried to burn down the livery said he felt bad about it. He paid me 50 cents to tell the marshal that he was afraid of you two gunmen, and that you were making him set the fire. I've been watching you and your friend ever since."

Jocks' laughter stopped immediately, "Walt, did you tell the marshal all of that?" he asked.

"No, the marshal don't like me none. He says I'm always causing trouble," the youngster replied sulkily.

Jock laughed again, "I bet you don't, but I do expect you are always in trouble. Our sheriff didn't cotton to me either, when I was growing up. I was always getting a hiding for one thing or another. You weren't causing trouble tonight were you? You were trying to see what trouble Jess and I were causing."

"No, I mean, yes I was," admitted, surprised that this adult understood. That never happened.

"That's fine son, but more than a mite dangerous if Jess and I really were up to no good. Best to leave such things up to us adults. Before I let you go though, can you tell me anything you saw Redding do after we shut the fire engine down?" Jock didn't expect to learn anything useful, but figured that it never hurt to ask.

"Redding?" the boy asked, confused.

"The guy that set the fire," Jock explained.

"Well, he went to the saloon with everybody. Then he came out and took the fire engine over to the railroad yard," the boy said, with a disinterested shrug.

"The railroad yard?" Jock squeeked, then excitedly asked, "How do you know he went there if you were watching me?"

"You can see the yard from the front of the saloon. You had gone off with Miss Connie and I really didn't want the hiding I would get if I got caught watching you with her." The worldly wise street urchin blandly reported this as somebody else might mention seeing a black cat.

Jock was instantly grateful for the darkness that hid how hard he was blushing, "So he took it there. What did he do next?"

"I dunno," the boy said shrugging, "After he took it into the maintenance shed I didn't see him no more. I think he's hiding from you and the other shootist."

"We're not shootists Walt. Er, well I'm not a shootist, and Jess only used to be," answered Jock fumbling for words. He changed the subject, "Anyway, thanks." Pulling a silver half dollar out of his pocket, he added, "Take this."

"Gee, thanks mister." The boy paused, looking down and toeing the ground, then admitted, "Ah, my name isn't Walt."

Jock smiled in the darkness, "I never thought it was. What is it son? In case I need your help later? I'm Jock Benson."

"I'm Sid Crandall," the boy answered.

"Thanks Sid. Now go home before your ma discovers you've slipped out again and whups you like you deserve," Jock advised while straightening up.

Sid started and eyed Jock with renewed suspicion, "How'd you know that?"

Jock smiled broadly, "Son, you have no idea how many times my ma switched me for doing the same thing. Now off with you," he said making a shooing gesture with his hand and arm.

The boy left and Jock turned back the way he came. His first inclination was to head straight down to the railroad yard. However sense, a commodity Marcy generally claimed he was devoid of, dictated that he collect Jess first. If he didn't, the Texan would be grouchy all the way back to Laramie. In a minute he was knocking at the doctor's door.

"Sorry to bother you doc, but I need Jess," he said, when it was answered.

Doctor Brackett looked at Jock sourly. "He needs his sleep, so make it quick. For that matter, I need my sleep too."

It only took a few minutes for Jock to roust and tell Jess what Sid had said. "Are you sure about this, Jock?" Jess asked while quickly redressing.

"It's what he said. The boy didn't think it was important but, well, it makes sense don't you think?" Jock explained.

"If Rufus meant to steal the engine, it surely does. She isn't going to outrun a posse without a whole lot of help, and she surely isn't inconspicuous. Sure as blazes, you put her under a tarp on a freight car and then you could take her anywhere," Jess answered as he put his other boot on.

Leaving Dr. Brackett's house, they saw him laying out his surgical kit while muttering about prepping for bullet extractions. As they passed him, the man looked up saying, "I sent my son down to the marshal's house to let him know what's up." The two nodded and left.

Jess and Jock walked purposefully down the street to the train station. Inquiring at the desk, they learned that no trains had departed since the fire engine went missing. They also discovered that the next train due out would be the 8:30 bound for Kansas City and then Saint Louis. Either destination would be a good place to sell a fire engine. To neither man's surprise, Rufus Redding was nowhere to be seen.

Departing the building, they found the night watchman and explained their mission. The bored old man readily agreed to help them make a search of the yard. They soon finished checking the railroad yard which only left searching the freight cars of the train, and the maintenance shed.

"Lets check the shed first, "Jess suggested, gesturing towards the building.

"Why?" asked Fritz the watchman, curiously. He wasn't overly concerned as he didn't expect to find anything in either spot. He was just glad to have some company and something to do.

"Cause a person can see us checking the train from the shed. Now, if we're in the shed, nobody from the train will see us checking inside. Same reason we started in the yard," Jess answered quietly.

"Makes sense to me," Marshal Owen answered out of the darkness. "Don't put much stock in what Sid Crandall told you, boys. No Crandall around here is worth much and that youngster was born to trouble," the lawman advised curtly.

Jock shook his head and came to the defense of his new young friend, "Marshall, he told me you'd feel that way but he had nothing to gain by lying to me."

"I 'spect he would do it just to entertain himself," replied the Marshal, "Find anything yet?"

"Nope," replied the watchman, "Don't expect to either."

"I bet we don't, but we'll look anyway," the marshal agreed shrugging. "Lightning has to strike somewhere, as the saying goes."

"Marshall, I have $5.00 says that we do," Jock challenged cordially.

"Sucker bet Mr. Benson, done. My wife has been eying a dress in the window of Mortenson's store for a month and our anniversary is next week. I'm sure she'll be grateful," the marshal said as he smilingly accepted the wager.

Jess laughed shaking his head, "Jock's always been lucky Mike. Your wife will probably be less happy than you think." Then he added, "He's the only man I know who has even odds of drawing to an inside straight."

The marshal snorted, then gestured towards the shed, "Let's just go see, shall we boys?"

So the quartet trooped over to the maintenance shed. As they approached they heard the sound of movement inside while light dimly spilled through filthy windows. "Looks like Woody is up late," the watchman observed. "Sometimes he stays up all night with them engines of his."

The watchman went over to the door, knocked, and stuck his head in. "Hi Woody, everything alright?"

"Dagnab it Fritz," the maintenance engineer called out, "go bother somebody else, I'm busy."

Fritz trooped in, waving the others in behind him. "Now Woody, we're just being sociable, aren't we Marshal?" Hearing 'marshal', Woody came scuttling forward and he was not alone. It turned out that Klein, the yard boss, was also coming to them as fast as his morbid obesity allowed.

"Evening Woody, Bart," Marshal Owen said cordially while making sure his pistol was loose in it's holster. He smelled trouble here as nasty as one of his wife's prune cobblers. Bart Klein rarely stirred his fat butt out of the station area and he always went home as early as he could manage. "What has you up so late?"

"Just Working on old 37. We need her on line tomorrow and she's been popping rivets," Woody said a little too quickly; like he had been practicing it all night.

"Bart came down to help you out?" the Marshall asked, smiling like a tiger.

"Criminy, no!" the engineer answered quickly while licking his lips. "A donkey would be more helpful than Bart. No, Millie kicked his fat butt out of the house and he's been crying on my shoulder while I've been trying to work."

"Uh, yeah," the yard master said looking very nervous. "What do you want Marshal?" he added.

"Why the fire engine you two clowns stole." Marshal Owen said equitably while taking a no nonsense stance. "Where is it?" Bart sagged and Woody sighed jerking his thumb towards the locomotive he was standing in front of, "Back there."

Jock grinned and Marshal Owen shrugged as if saying, "Oh well" then ordered, "You two take a seat right here as you are in some almighty hot water." The crestfallen pair sat, covered by Jock, and the other three moved forward.

Fritz and the marshal rounded the locomotive and were greeted by twin double barreled shot gun blasts. The elderly watchman dropped soundlessly, never to rise again. Conversely, Owen had plenty to say, shrieking in pain at the buckshot wounds in his leg.

"Sweet Jesus, no!" exclaimed a wide eyed Woody, leaping up as Klein curled up into a whimpering ball. Woody and Jess, pistol in hand, rounded the engine at about the same time with Woody making a bee line for the shrieking marshal. Jess engaged Redding, and a second shot gun armed man, as they furiously reloaded behind the cover of the fire engine.

On the run, Jess fired twice taking down the stranger, and then dove behind an oak and iron tool trunk that immediately stopped a spray of lead from Redding's shot gun. Woody grabbed and hauled the wounded Owen to safety behind the locomotive. Only then did Jock unfreeze, but he was torn between covering Woody and Bart, and helping out Jess.

"Tarnation Harper! Why couldn't you go off chasing wild geese like Corey?" the irate murderer shouted with his gun leveled at the iron bound trunk shielding the Texan.

Jess' showed his hat over the trunk and Redding blasted it, allowing the Texan to leap up and charge the fire engine, firing as he came. Redding dropped the shot gun and slapped leather. It was too little too late as Jess was too good a shot. The gambler went down clutching a shattered shoulder and dropping his pistol.

Jess kicked away Redding's gun; then double checked his other adversary. He rolled the man over with the toe his boot. "Shoot," he said to himself, "If it isn't my old chum who dropped the hose nozzle. Come to think of it, I saw the nozzle dance right in front of me and I got whacked on the back of my head. I bet this joker has a buddy." Then he yelled loudly, "Heads up Jock. There's still one of'em on the loose."

"Ok Jess, are you alright?" Jock called back, covering his prisoners while trying to look in all directions at the same time.

"Well, as good as I was coming in anyway. Dang my head hurts," he grumped. As it turned out, no other villain made an appearance. For now it was over.

Jock and Jess' late night continued. They were up for hours helping the doctor extract buckshot from Owen and Jess' slug from Redding. For Jess it was a novel experience as Brackett used a liquid called 'ether' to make his patients unconscious. "Doc, next time I get shot I want to come here to you," Jess announced when the wounded men slept through Brackett's cleaning their wounds with alcohol. Well did the Texan know the pain of that procedure.

"Well, just don't bleed to death on the way. New business is always welcome, but how about just avoiding getting shot?" the deep voiced Brackett had responded jokingly.

Jess had shrugged and answered, "I do my best, but somehow that's never been too good."

In the end, the physician announced that the marshal would hurt like the devil for a while but should heal up fine. Conversely, Redding's arm could not be expected to fully recover.

The next morning, the pair got up late and after breakfast they tried to find someone to train them on how to safely use the fire engine. In the end, they wound up driving the rig to the jail and talking taciturn deputy Mason into letting Woody out long enough for instruction. They went at it all afternoon and, at the suggestion of the deputy, washed down the outer walls of the jail for practice. Several townsfolk also joined in on the fun and wound up soaking wet.

"You know Jess, I really like Cheyenne. The folk here are right friendly," Jock announced as yet another of the local girls came by and caught his eye." He never had this much female attention in Laramie, unless you counted the extended and undivided attention of Marcy when she was on a rampage.

Jess laughed at the comment as he'd been eyed up by several gals himself. He also knew that word on how expensive the fire engine was, had gotten out. Those girls figured them for wealthy and unattached men. "Stay if you like Jock, but tomorrow I'm heading back to Laramie. I don't know about you, but I've got work to do there."

Jock blanched. He had work to do in Laramie too. He was all too certain Marcy was going to tell him all about it, in detail. Great, glorious, and excruciating detail. He grimly replied, "I hope Slim has been busy courting Marcy. Really really busy…"