II.
"The blackguard!" MacGregor hissed from around the wagon wheel. "Damn near took me out on that second shot, and me doing your business for you!"
"You'll have to thank Lincoln for protecting you," Crown wryly replied, noting a fresh chip in the President's frame. He scrabbled and turned, kept himself behind the cover of the trough he'd dived behind. A shot plocked! into the water as he moved. That's three, he noted. Winchester…
"Crown!" roared the voice again. "Crown, you hear me?"
"You got any firepower over there?" Crown asked MacGregor, pulling his own weapon. Just who the hell-?
"Why would I need a gun to move some furniture?" Mac fumed. "I'm not stealing it!"
"Where's the gun rack?"
"Aye, still inside!" the Scot exclaimed brightly.
Another shot skimmed over the top of the trough. Crown pressed a cheek into the dirt as splinters sprayed, barely avoided ruining his cigar. From the right, he gauged. Not elevated. He's found himself a nice little hidey-hole…
"Crroowwwwnn!"
"I'll give you some cover," Crown told Mac.
The street had gone quiet – hopefully, everyone had sense enough to stay out of the way. Crown lifted his head, fired off three quick shots, and saw MacGregor's boots scramble away. Francis had a rifle, he remembered. The shots should be enough to rouse his attention. The bullet-happy rat out there didn't seem too averse to wasting bullets.
"State your business!" he demanded to the shooter, digging furiously through his brain to match a name to that voice. He knew it from somewhere…
A shot, then another, but short of the mark this time, hitting only the dirt in front of the trough. "You killed her!" came the cry. "You – killed –her!"
He heard a scuff; found Mac crouched in the shadows of the doorway, a rifle glinting dully in either hand. Crown put out a quick hand to keep him back.
"I see him," MacGregor called softly. "In the hotel alley."
"You killed her, Crown!" came the angry shout. "You killed my Betsy! And now I'm gonna kill you!"
Betsy…oh, hell…
"Why did you have to go and kill his woman?" Mac demanded from behind him. "The poor man is beside himself with grief."
"Woman, hell!" Crown spat back, fitting it all together now. "I shot his mule!" He peered out. "Woodrow Carter!" he called. "You put down that Winchester and come to your senses."
"She was all I had, Crown. All I had! And now she's gone."
"She had a broken leg, Woodrow. She was suffering."
An unfortunate – and unnecessary – accident just three days ago. Carter had tried crossing the river into the Outlet, steering his mule-driven wagon right into a bottom hole. One animal had gone down with a break to its foreleg; the wagon had toppled with the other still harnessed. Crown had arrived too late to do more than help the man unbuckle the harnesses and free the unharmed jenny, then shot the thrashing, drowning mate out of its misery. It took an hour in the water to right the wagon and retrieve the contents, after which Crown figured the man had already paid for his crime and so hadn't brought him up on charges.
"Must've been an off day," he chided himself now, since he was generally a better judge of character. Then again, a man in his grief… "I'll tell you about it as soon as we get him jailed," he muttered to Mac. His new chief deputy hadn't heard about the incident as he'd been in Hardesty settling in the new sheriff until yesterday, and Crown figured it was long over. "Right now, you draw his attention. I'm going to circle around and come up behind him. Leave one of those Winchesters for me."
Under Mac's barrage, Crown leapt for the boardwalk and dove into the damaged office. He took the rifle with a nod of thanks, broke it open and checked – all loaded.
"Keep him busy," he ordered.
"Aye."
He raced out the back and made a right, heading to the corner of Lauck's building up the street, peeped out. Francis stood just outside the Inn's batwing doors, rifle at the ready. As Mac began firing again Crown sped across the street, ran past some frightened but curious townspeople, and reminded them to stay back. He hurried forward, keeping himself close to the storefronts, making himself as small a target as possible. At the edge of the Inn he called over to his deputy, but Francis had already seen him and was awaiting orders.
"Move down," Crown told him. "Stay close to the buildings and draw his attention while I get behind him, then follow me."
"What if I hit him?" Francis asked anxiously, worry shadowing his blue eyes and creasing his otherwise smooth features.
Crown smiled around his cigar and clapped him on the back – the boy would make a good deputy yet. "I expect he'll bleed a little if you do. Now, get shooting."
They parted. Crown ran into the Inn, swung through the dining room and into the kitchen, nearly collided with Dulcey just turning from the stove. "Marshal!" she exclaimed as he thrust her aside and grabbed for the back door. "Whatever is-?"
"Stay away from the windows," he only ordered as he heard the first of Francis' shots. Then, seeing her fearful face, he tacked on a gentler, "Please, Miss Dulcey. You'll be back to serving lunch in just a bit. All right?"
"Be careful," he heard her warn even as he was out the back door and racing to parallel Francis' movements at the front. She said it every time she saw him leave, every time she handed over the saddlebags she'd taken to packing for him. Why didn't she listen when he told her the same thing?
He heard two more shots from Francis' direction, then a yelp, then a swear, and eased into the hotel alley. Woodrow Carter's skinny frame hunkered ahead, straw colored hair sticking straight up from his bare head. He was a tall man, a good six inches bigger than Crown, and tough from field work. And now mad and upset and maybe even a little desperate. And drunk, judging from the smell coming off him. Time to finish this…
Crown moved in on a noiseless step learned long ago from the Comanches and raised his .44. "That's enough, Woodrow," he announced quietly, pushing the gun barrel hard into the other man's long neck. "You drop that Winchester now, you hear me?" The other man stiffened but did as he was told, spreading his arms and letting the rifle slip slowly to the ground. Crown grabbed the back of his frayed collar and thrust him forward. "Let's go."
"Crown," Carter began darkly, moving slowly. He straightened, weaved. There was a bloody rip across one bony, stubbled cheek. "I'm gonna…"
"I'll tell you what you're gonna do, Woodrow," Crown said, cutting him off. "You're gonna sleep it off and then you're gonna sit in my jail until the circuit judge comes by next week. If you're lucky you won't lose the mule you have left. If you do, then it might be time to move on elsewhere."
"My wife –my family…"
"I'm sorry, Woodrow. We'll let them know. Good job," Crown said to Francis as his deputy pulled up.
"And what about me?" MacGregor demanded with a pant, approaching.
"You've got a job to finish," Crown reminded him. "And there's a crate at the depot, too."
The Scotsman drew himself up with disdain, as if the moving job had sudden distaste. "Fine, but if you don't mind I'll just hang onto this gun. That way I'll be at the ready in case trouble starts following you again, Jim Crown."
The cells were going to be nearly full. He already had some petty thieving outlaw named Bowden locked up, that bigger rat Conroy that was surely on his way to the Territorial Prison directly after his trial, the two Davis boys, and now Carter. But it was far better than that barbed wire round pen he'd had to temporarily erect for the purpose. No one had appreciated that, lawbreaker or lawman. The nights had been too cold and the days too warm, and they'd had to guard round the clock and eat dust all the while.
They took the prisoner in through his bare but clean office and locked him up with the others. Crown grabbed some papers off the leather chair that was temporarily serving as his desk and stepped up to his connecting door. If he took a table near the stairs he might be able to complete some paperwork until Mac arrived with the furniture...
Dulcey swept by with a coffeepot in her hand, the aroma tantalizing; she made one helluva good cup. "If you could bring me some?" he asked her, unlatching the lower half of his door to step out.
"Are you all right?" she asked in a rush, turning and coming back up to him, concern pursing her lips and creasing her forehead under the wispy blonde bangs grazing her slim brows.
He nodded, shrugged. "Just some flying lead," he reported with lazy amusement, trying to divert her freshened attention onto him.
"I was so worried-" She broke off and pinked up nicely.
"You'd better get used to the fuss," he advised in a tone he knew she didn't like. "This town is a long way from being settled." Being gruff was the only way he knew how to put her off – because he did care about her. Sure enough, she was starting to fluster. Well, she had to understand what it was like out here; flowers and tablecloths couldn't cover it up.
"Maybe it was me she was worried about," Francis teased but gave Crown a look saying he knew full well otherwise. Crown scowled back. If Francis had come up out of his camera long enough to notice Dulcey's infatuation, then surely others had, too. He'd have to do something about that.
But right now Dulcey's blue eyes were flashing with cold fire. "There are a good many people to worry over," she told them scathingly. "Don't single yourselves out. I'll bring you your coffee in a moment."
"Thank you, Miss Dulcey," Crown nodded. His gaze followed her as she went to serve a couple seated at a far table, then he let it drift across the room. She had a good crowd today. It would bolster her confidence into staying – he wasn't quite sure if that made him glad or not. "You get to the settlement and find Woodrow's family and tell them he's jailed," he directed Francis. "They can come see him if they want. But he stays put until Judge Quayle comes in next week."
He headed to a far table, dropped his hat on it, and made to sit down. Then he saw them – the two cowboys who'd followed Dulcey into the place, the ones he was intending to have a word with. They were at the bar but had turned enough to allow themselves plenty of looks at her. Crown gave a sigh of consternation and ambled that way.
Febrizio the bartender gave him a nod and a questioning look, but Crown only shook his head no. He didn't need any liquor, or the shotgun stashed under the bar top in case of trouble. At least not yet.
"Saw you two boys before the fracas started," he drawled to the twin backs facing him.
They turned. "Got a right to be in town," the older of the two said, and he was still a cub, younger than Francis even, with sandy hair and light eyes – and a hand that had already traveled south toward his Colt.
"Sure you do," Crown agreed with a nod, then eyed the other, dark-haired one. "Unless or until you break a law."
"Who says we're fixing to do that?" the second one asked. He straightened but had enough sense to keep his hands on his hips.
Crown followed their flicking gazes to where Dulcey was moving with her youthful grace among the tables, chatting and pouring coffee. "We're respectful here at the Wayfarer's," he told them. "We say 'please' and 'thank you.'" He stubbed out the last of his cigar. "And we don't stare impolitely."
"Just watching folks, is all," shrugged the first one.
"I suggest you do your watching someplace else then," he advised. Then he nodded in Dulcey's direction. "She's not interested."
"And how would you know?"
In a quick motion Crown stepped in and grabbed the kid's hovering right hand. "I may be older, but I guarantee I'm faster," he told him in a low voice.
The younger man resisted only lightly. "You got some kind of claim on her, mister?" At Crown's hard stare and even harder grip he dropped his gaze and eased his hand. "Marshal, sir," he amended.
"That's better." Crown let go and stepped back. "If you want to talk to Miss Coopersmith then why don't you sit down and order up some lunch? I'm sure she'd be glad for your paying business. If you're only going to buy beer then you'd better turn around and concentrate on the fine picture we've got hanging on the wall over here."
"Come on, Tom," the younger one piped up to his friend. "Let's go someplace else. Sorry, Marshal," he nodded. "We didn't mean to make no trouble."
The older one brought his gaze back up, faint challenge held in the green eyes. But it withered under Crown's unblinking stare. "Sorry," he muttered and turned to leave.
"And no hanging around the back door," Crown reminded them as they silently slunk away.
Dulcey was pretty, he told himself again as he made his way back to his table. And way too innocent for the likes of Cimarron. And no, he had no claim on her. But he paid her two kinds of rent, ate her food, and accepted her clothes washing and room cleaning services. That gave him more than just a passing interest in her well-being. They were friends…sort of. As much as he could be friends with anyone – the badge held off most folks. And it wasn't good to get too close to anyone – more often than not, it wound up hurting them.
And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Miss Dulcey.