Chapter Three

The Pogue Mahone

Jordan straightened her shoulders and buried her rough hands in her skirt pockets as the ever elegant Mrs. Simmons walked past her. Blonde and petite, Mrs. Simmons was always dressed like she was ready for one of those teas her grandmother use to drag her to. She reminded Jordan of one of those china dolls you could order from Rene's Montgomery Ward & Company catalog. Still...

'Missus Tallulah Simmons,' Jordan grunted. Jordan wasn't fooled by that wedding ring Tallulah wore. If there ever was a real 'Mister Simmons' Jordan would eat her hat. Mrs. Simmons, along with two other women, ran the boarding house at the edge of town. Gossip said she sold more than a bed and a home cooked meal...and Jordan believed most of the town gossip. Still the elegant Tallulah Simmons walked around town with her head held high. It didn't help that she was a damned likable woman. After trading pleasantries, Jordan looked up at the shingle hanging over Garret's office door.

Dr. G. Macy Physician & Undertaker

and Associate

Jordan smiled every time she saw it. She had it made special and brought in on the stage last Christmas. With its gold lettering it was easily the fanciest in town. Garret's first comment when he saw it was to say it made him sound like a piss poor doctor that would charge you whether he fixed you or not. Jordan reminded him he had an "associate" to keep his customers alive enough for return business. He then hung it proudly.

It wasn't surprising to see the office empty at this hour of the day. One quick look around proved the only beings in residence was the six men the sheriff found in the desert. Garret had them laid out in the parlor. They may have been strangers to these parts, but they were someone's sons or brothers. Death and unfamiliaritywasn't an excuse to treat these men like anything other then human.

Jordan wasn't afraid of death. Working in the battlefields she saw more then any other human being should. But there was something about the dead that fascinated her. She didn't need experience to see how these men died. Each one had an identical bullet hole right between the eyes. They were lucky the sheriff just happen to stumble on them or the desert would have left nothing but a pile of bones by morning. Sheriff Malden seemed to have a second sense when it came to finding unnatural deaths. If Jordan weren't such a trusting soul she'd question how. She leaned closer to get a better look at one of the bullet holes.

"Good afternoon, love."

Jordan jumped as if one of the newly departed had suddenly sat up and murmured the endearment in her ear. It took her a split second to place the foreign accent.

"Nigel!"

"That's Lord Nigel to you," Nigel sniffed.

Jordan rolled her eyes. "I still don't see how you can call yourself a "lord" when you were born on the wrong side of the sheets."

"I can't be blamed for my father's philandering ways. He pays me enough to forget the fact that I'm his ill-begotten heir. It just amuses me to use his title to stick it to him half a world way. Now, if I could only convince you to marry me the old bugger would keel over and leave me the title out right."

"And live in a castle with nothing to do but eat bonbons and put up with your OWN philandering ways...I don't think so."

"Point taken."

Jordan gave him a warm smile. "Outside of scaring the bejesus out of me...what are you doing here?"

"I should think that would be obivious," Nigel said pointing to the corpses.

"Of course, you're here to make their daguerreotypes."

Jordan was always fascinated to watch Nigel work his magical wooden boxes. It amazed her that something that looked so simple could capture a person's likeness in a matter of minutes where an artist took days...maybe weeks. Still it made Jordan uncomfortable when Nigel would try to point his cameras in her direction.

"No. I brought my new wet slide camera," Nigel said studying the face of one of the deceased as if he were looking for the man's best side. "The daguerreotype is such old, delicate technology."

Jordan knew Garret liked to have a detailed description of all the unclaimed bodies that required his service. Should someone come along looking for them they could honestly tell them were to look. Nigel's pictures made that process easier.

A few mumbled words of direction heralded Garret before he backed into the room carrying one end of a crude pine casket. Sydney, a freeman who picked up odd jobs around town, hoisted in the other. Sydney was an intelligent young man that happened to be born during a dark time in eastern Texas. Handy with a hammer and a shovel he made he best of a bad situation making himself a very successful member of a town that once treated him as nothing more than a possession to be used and bartered. When it came to helping Dr. Macy, it didn't hurt that he wasn't afraid of a little blood.

Jordan stood back as they finished carrying in the remaining boxes. She helped loading the dead men inside and propping the caskets upright against the wall the posed the men for probably their first and last photograph.

While Nigel set up his equipment, Sydney rubbed his chin. "This has got to be the solid end of a full mob of dead from out in the bush in the last six months. It's getting more and more dangerous to be a newcomer to town. Make's a man right happy he can be called a local..."

Jordan heaved a sigh and nodded. "This is an even dozen by my count. They have to be all connected. Something's going on..."

Satisfied with his subject, Nigel opened the lens cap and tapped his foot to count the seconds. It didn't stop him from adding his own comments into the conversation. "You have to admit there have been more than a few new faces around the last few months and the ones that do make it to town all look like they could be responsible. Sheriff Malden doesn't seem to be too concerned."

"Malden's an unmitigated ass," Garret mumbled. "Maybe this marshal the feds are sending can do more than drop these poor souls off on my doorstep then wait in his office for the men responsible to turn themselves in."

"I heard Missus Walcott chewin' him out the other day for not followin' up about whoever is leaving them field flowers in empty hooch-bottles on her back porch. She's sure it one of these strangers..." Sydney reported.

Jordan bit her lip and Garret cleared his throat. The silence dragged until Nigel capped the lens and pulled the slide. "I'm sure whoever has been loitering on Mrs. Walcott's back porch doesn't mean the woman any harm, my good man."

"You're probably right," Garret concurred with a grim smile. "Why don't you go grab some lunch, Sydney? We'll hitch upon the team and take these gentlemen up the hill this afternoon. I grabbed Peter to dig the holes already. "

Nigel moved his tripod over to set up his camera for the second shot. He took a moment to fixed one of the corpse's arms that had slipped from his chest. "He has a point, Dr. Macy. Malden doesn't seem too worried that he has had a dozen unexplained deaths on his watch..."

"He'll be someone else's worry at the end of the month," Garret said studying the corpse. He didn't like the marks around their wrists. He'd seen rope burns before. He had treated POW's that showed similar marks from being tied together in chain gangs while being transported from one place to another. "If only the dead could talk..." he murmured more to himself then any one. He slid the casket lid over the face Nigel had already captured. "I guess we should be lucky that they're sending a marshal is here for the interim after Malden leaves..."

"Why?" Jordan asked out of the blue. "I mean why are they sending this man all the way from Washington? This is Texas. Even the railroads have decided to bypass this town. I'm sure that Grant has better things to do with his men then send them out here in the middle of nowhere..."

"You'll have to ask Madam Walcott and her hypochondriac lawyer, Brandau," Nigel snorted as he started his timing tap. "Rumor has it that Renee used her pull with the governor to send for him."

"I told you, those bottles are really spookin' her," Sydney added.

"You can't be serious! A few flowers in some old bottles..." Jordan stormed.

"No, my dear, Dr Macy's odd little romantic gestures are not what have them concerned...It's these strangers...dead and alive" Nigel grimly responded.

Marshal Woodrow Hoyt's first impression of the bustling little town of Tyler, Texas was almost underwhelming.

A quick detour to the army fort a few miles outside of town confirmed his worst fears. The commanding officer, a man named Lt. Winslow, seemed able bodied enough but totally overwhelmed in his own duties. Understaffed and ill-supplied, his main concern was breaking and transporting the supply of Army mounts and cattle the locals sold to the government to make a living in the flat unforgiving terrain. He assured the young lawman that he'd give him as much support as he could. It didn't take much for Woody to read between the lines and realize he'd be on his own.

Marshal Hoyt prided himself in being a cautious man. He liked to see what he was riding into. He spent the better part of his first day by skirting the town, familiarizing himself with the topography, looking for any thing that would lead him to believe the dire reports that claimed the area was a hub for gun smuggling. After his first loop all he found was a few homesteaders and man digging graves in what was apparently the town cemetery.

As the sun began to arc its way westward, Woody couldn't help but think...so much for an assignment to make his career.

Before he checked in with the local sheriff Woody needed a place to rinse the trail off his body, a good meal, a better drink, and a place to rest his head for the night. Like every other town he'd hung his hat in the last few years, he knew the answer to all his needs could found in the local saloon. If they couldn't, they'd know where he could...

Jordan stuck around while Garret and Sydney buried the strangers in unmarked graves. Senseless death bothered Garret more than he'd ever admit. The years on the battlefield left more scars than the physical ones. She worried about him.

When they first came to town, he spent time with the "widowed" proprietress of the mercantile. It was an odd relationship but it seemed to make him happy. But when Renee's "dead" husband rode into town Garret began to hit the bottle. No sooner did Mr. Walcott ride in that he rode out again...leaving Renee alone and with child. Even though Garret himself had left a family, he never quite recovered from it.

Now with these murders and the uncertainty of the town's safety, Jordan could see the strain in his eyes. Jordan decided to forgo her own desire to go out to the claim and indulge in some well deserved but utterly selfish alone time, and stayed around to make sure Garret had some dinner. She offered to buy him dinner at Lois Carver's place. She cajoled and teased saying that the curly-haired Irish woman's stew was always thick enough to stick to your ribs for four days. Garret just asked to be left alone with his journals. Six men's death would take awhile to document.

That didn't stop Jordan. She picked up a basket from Lois's she dropped half of it off to the office and took the rest back to the saloon. With her spending more and more time working for Garret she hadn't been able to take care of Max as well as she should. While the influx of strangers in and out of town was great for the business, Max wasn't happy about Jordan standing at the bar in the evenings. If she couldn't find an excuse, Jordan usually found herself securely locked in her father's upstairs office. More often then not Jordan found someplace else to be.

Jordan walked though the swinging doors and saw it was slow. Ominously slow. Word must have gotten around town about the six bodies found on the bluff. Men were staying close to home. Jordan gave Nigel a little wave when she saw him playing cards with a trio. He nodded back idly studying the cards in his hand. Sitting across from him was the owner of the local laundry and bathhouse. Vijay's name was far to long and to hard to pronounce. Most people called him Bug, because of his total distain for the little six legged creatures that infested every community. By the sour look on his face Jordan could tell he wasn't too thrilled with sitting next to Peter, who, after digging six graves in the sun all day, was in desperate need of his services. Rounding out the four was Tyler's telegraph operator, the arrogant Matt Seeley. At least Jordan thought he was a jackass. Begrudgingly she had to be congenial around him. He was one of the many men that courted Lily. The prospects of him marrying her best friend brought a shiver of disgust up Jordan's back...but she had to admit he seemed to treat Lily decently...for a pig.

"Jahdan...I thought you were going home."

Max's Irish brogue came out when he was tired or preoccupied. One look in his clear eyes proved that in this case it was the later.

"Something came up. I brought you dinner," she grinned holding out the basket.

Max arched his eyebrow as if to tell her to make her way up the stairs.

"Dad, its slower then Pastor Stiles' Sunday lecture on the dangers of fallen angels."

"But he still makes his point...eventually." Max chuckled.

Jordan handed him the basket and pushed him toward the stairs. "Why didn't you go upstairs? Put your feet up for a few minutes and eat while it's still warm. If anybody needs anything...I can get it."

"Jahdan..."

"Oh don't 'Jahdan' me. If anyone comes in I'll yell...go."

Max looked around the room and saw everyone was quiet and happy. "All right. Ten minutes...then you high-tail it upstairs."

Jordan didn't answer. She just waited until he was halfway up the stairs before she rolled her eyes. With him gone she took the chance to steal a drink of her own. Jordan didn't make it a habit to drink alcohol, but she wasn't opposed to a sip of her father's home brew every once in a while. Today the Grime Reaper took six and the Good Lord gave back only one in the form of a ten pound baby boy. Making sure her father wasn't sneaking back down stairs Jordan poured herself a half a mug and tucked herself at the end of the bar where she could keep an eye on both the stairs and the door.

No sooner did you she lift the mug to her lips did the doors swing open.

The stranger was tall -- almost as tall as her father. His dusty, dung colored duster matched the dark, dirty Stetson on his head along with the hair underneath it. His scruffy beard made him look disturbing. Outside of the shocking pair of sky blue eyes, dark was the best way to describe him. Jordan augmented dark with dangerous as he swaggered up to the bar brushing his coat back for anybody interested to notice the repeating rifle hanging from a strap on his side. Jordan doubted that the Henry was the only thing the stranger was packing. Jordan looked up the stairs half willing her father to come down as the stranger reached the bar.

Marshal Hoyt almost smiled when he saw the sign over the saloon he pulled up to. His Irish was rusty but he knew the name, Pogue Mahone, wasn't exactly something you uttered in proper company. After a week of on the trail he was in the mood for something a little less polite. He kept his eyes open as he tied his gelding up in front. He patted the paint gently as he strapped his rifle to his side. Woody liked to make a lasting impression when he rode into a new town. Fate had cursed him with face of a choir boy. He found it hard for people to take him seriously unless he made himself look like he had fallen far from the altar.

The saloon was surprisingly pleasant. Numerous lanterns were suspended from the ceiling shining on the sparsely occupied room. The smell of fresh sawdust covered the underlying smells of tobacco, malt, and whiskey. The sweet smells of civilization.

For the first few moments he mentally assessed the occupants in the room. In that split second, he scanned the quartet playing cards and recognized the man he saw to digging graves. Two of the men were in shirt sleeves and obviously not packing, the fourth was dressed like a dandy. The long haired man's easy smile made him nervous but he made no move to his jacket. There were half-dozen others spotted around the room but they all seemed to be intent on minding their own business except for the one behind the bar. His eyes darted to the stairs, making Woody do the same. He flipped open his duster with a practiced action and kept walking. When nobody challenged him by the time he reached the bar, Woody let himself breathe. He looked again at the nervous one at the end of the bar and his breath was sucked right back out.

In his quick inspection it didn't register that the shifty-eyed bartender in an ill-fitting plaid shirt was in fact...female. Not only that...but choice female. Before the war Woody would never consider finding a woman in a bar attractive. Even this one. He was gentleman, engaged to be married only to come home and find out her father married her off to another man in his absence. War made sure he wasn't the same naive boy anymore. Now, he took pleasure where he could find it. Even in an occasional saloon. He didn't have the time or the heart for anything more.

She looked young...but deceivingly so. Her whiskey –colored eyes mirrored an old soul. This was a full grown woman. The chestnut hair that tumbled from a messy top knot was the same color as the mane of his horse...but a hundred times shinier. His fingers tingled thinking about wrapping one of those curls around his hand. The fine contours and soft skin of her face made him question how he could ever think she was a man...even for a second. He smiled to himself wondering if her skin looked just as soft all over.

Yes, he picked the right saloon. And if he played his cards right he would not only find a place rest his head tonight but a warm body to lay it on...

"That beer looks good," he smiled tipping his hat back. "You don't suppose I could get one."

Jordan was having trouble catching her own breath. She pushed her own beer mug away as Rev. Stiles' words about sins of alcoholism and fallen angels began to echo in her ears...because as sure as she was standing there with taste of brewed malt in her mouth she was looking on the face the Lucifer himself.

Misunderstanding her reaction Woody reached in shirt pocket and flipped a coin on the counter. "I think this should cover it..."

If possible Jordan's eye widened bigger as the twenty dollar gold piece circled to a stop in the polished oak. She tapped the beer, but left the coin.

"Nice place you have here," Woody commented once again scrutinizing room. With no movement upstairs, or from the occupants in the room, Woody turned his attention completely on the captivating woman in front of him.

"I just rode in. I'm looking for a bed for the night." Woody picked up the gold piece and stealthy slipped it in the open v of her shirt. Yes, he smiled, her skin was a soft as it looked. "Why don't we go upstairs and you can show me yours?"

Her arm swung out faster then he could react. Her soft fist hit his jaw with power that stunned him. Instinct kicked in and he was ready when she came at him with a cross. He grabbed her wrist and all but dragged her across the bar before she could connect again.

"I normally don't like to play rough, but..."

Before he could finish his response Woody felt the barrel of a small caliber pistol at the base of his skull and the click of the bullet fitting snuggly in the chamber. Damn.

Nigel's whisper was cold and crisp. "I suggest you unhand Miss Cavanaugh immediately. We buried six men here today. I'd love to make it seven..."

Woody's fingers danced over the Colt he had strapped to his thigh...

One...two...three...

Max's voice boomed from the top of the stairs. "WHAT THE SAM HELL IS GOING ON DOWN THERE!"