V.
You won't know, Crown. Not until I tell you. Just before I rip out an eye, lay your ribs bare – open your brain. You'll beg – I'll make you. You'll pay for what you did…
"Crown!" came the holler again. "Crown, you listen to me! I'm innocent. I never shot that boy – he's lying. Wasn't me, Crown. It wasn't me! Crown, you hear me?"
Hastings watched as Crown stepped up to the cell and the man pacing within. "I hear you," the Marshal growled to the prisoner. "The whole damned street hears you. Tell it to the jury in the morning."
Sid Conroy glowered from around the lawman, his dark eyes snapping in his round, bearded face. Hastings met the hard glare. Conroy pointed through the cell bars to him. "You rattle that witness and see what shakes out of his pockets."
"You robbed that safe," stated Crown. "There were witnesses."
"I didn't, I tell you! It wasn't me! He's lying!"
Crown made a sound of frustration and turned away, much to Conroy's distress. The howls of protest echoed across the empty dining room. Crown approached Hastings. "You'd be better off not hearing this – he's trying nothing more than to intimidate you."
"Sounds like a man afraid for his life," Matthew commented.
"He should've thought of that before he robbed that safe." Crown's glittering eyes bored into him. "You all set for tomorrow? We can go over things once again if you want."
Hastings waved a hand in polite dismissal. "Thanks, Marshal, but I'm all ready. I'll probably just turn in."
"Suit yourself." Crown nodded and made his way to his office. Hastings turned toward the stairs and the rented rooms above, but waited to let the boy reporter hurry down, camera in tow. The Scotsman had already sidled out the door, likely looking for a drink or two elsewhere. And the girl Dulcey hadn't reappeared from the kitchen.
Miss Dulcey Coopersmith. She certainly was pretty. He'd tried talking to her earlier, but she'd seemed upset. And the Marshal had been giving him a hard eye all the while, so he'd made his way to a chair outside and let the time pass until the evening meal was served. Even then, the Marshal stood at the bar and surveyed the whole room from around a cigar he smoked. Now the place had quieted and the bar was closed in anticipation of tomorrow's court. The girl had hustled back and forth, clearing tables, stacking dirty dishes onto trays, taking loads into the kitchen and returning for more. But she hadn't come back.
Might be a good chance to speak to her. Crown had kept an eye on her throughout the evening, but was now buried in papers at his desk. Crown and the girl – Hastings wondered about that again. Maybe the big lawman had some designs on her. Though they'd had a plenty heated enough argument earlier. She'd ignored him a lot after that and he'd kept his distance, watching like a worried father over a wayward daughter. Well, she was pretty, the prettiest he'd seen in these parts. Pretty enough to try and catch some time alone with her. Decision made, Hastings picked up the last tray of dirty dishes left on a nearby table and carefully made his way to the kitchen.
She was there, up to her elbows in sudsy water, her pretty figure bent just slightly, her silky blonde hair falling over her shoulders. "Didn't want you to forget these," Matthew smiled in greeting.
She whirled, but already a smile was in place for him. "Mr. Hastings, why thank you! Just set them there. Please sit down, your leg…"
"It doesn't pain much," he shrugged. Actually, he rather liked the pain because it made him remember the excitement of that day. And he liked watching Dulcey, too, all slender arms and hands, all soft and pretty. And young… "You sure got busy earlier," he began. "This place is popular."
She nodded, then turned back to her dish washing. "I'm sorry about this afternoon," she said in a sorrowful voice. "The Marshal has some rather strict ideas…"
"Guess he wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't," he allowed.
"Yes, I do suppose."
He settled back, watched her for a few moments more. "Where you from originally, Miss? If I might ask…?"
Her smile came back. "New England – Providence," she told him.
"Now, that's no New England accent," he declared. "Doctor Kihlgren, the one who came and treated me, he's got the right accent, but you…"
"I was born in England," she said in a shy way.
"Ah, so that's it. That's a long ways away."
She nodded, let out a breath, her features struggling a little. "What about you?" she prompted, dipping a plate into the rinse bucket.
"Texas, originally."
"Have you family there still?"
"Only had a brother," he offered. "He died…"
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, turning around to face him. "Accident?"
"I guess you could say that." Bitterness slipped into his voice before he could pull it back. "Got shot."
She made a sound. "That does happen so much…"
He settled his tone, concentrated on her pretty face. "Yes, Miss, you are surely right about that. That's why outlaws like that Conroy fellow need to be stopped."
She put another dish up to dry and turned to face him. "You are so very brave, Mr. Hastings. To stand up to a man like that. What will you do when the trial is over?"
He shrugged, let his gaze travel lightly over her, but did not let it linger too long. He couldn't move too fast with her, didn't want to scare her off. "Not exactly sure. Once my leg heals I'll need to find work."
"What is it you do?" she asked politely.
"Oh, carpentry mostly. I'm a fair hand with nails and a hammer." Among other things. "You think Cimarron can use another carpenter?"
"Well," she began, pursing her lips in a pretty way, "Mr. Gibson is very busy, and new buildings are going up all the time. There's the old sheriff's office, for instance – it needs fixing up."
Old sheriff's office – he'd seen it on his way in, all fallen brick, splintered wood and boarded windows. "What happened to it?" he asked.
Dulcey laughed a little. "An accident rendered it unusable."
"Who owns it?"
"I'm not sure. The Marshal got someone to board it up, and there it sits."
Empty and unused, but if it's stable…and right in the middle of Crown's town…
"Think the Marshal would mind if I talked to him about it?"
"It's his business," Dulcey replied coolly. "Though I'm sure whoever owns it would be happy to have it fixed up. The location is a good one – it'd be good for new business."
Or old, unfinished business…
"You been out here long?" Matthew asked her, switching subjects. "Cimarron, I mean?"
"No," she quietly replied. "Not long."
"Your partner Mr. MacGregor seems like a nice man." And ineffective – Crown certainly didn't know how to pick his deputies.
She nodded. "He means well."
"And Francis – Mister Wilde…" No doubt better with a pencil than a gun.
"He has a good heart."
"It's good of them to take care – watch out for you."
"They don't-"
"I heard the Marshal tell them-"
She drew herself up. "If you please," she said in a tone edged with sharpness. "The Marshal does not speak on my behalf."
He nodded quickly, kept his smile inside. "Sorry. I didn't mean any offense."
"It's all right," Dulcey returned with apology. "Just a – common misunderstanding." She dried her hands. "Excuse me…" she murmured and headed back out to the dining room.
"He's a hard man, the Marshal," he began, limping behind her.
"Yes, well," She glanced over to Crown's office – the lawman was now standing by his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, reading the top one. "He is very committed."
Better leave enough alone with that. For now… "Will you be at the trial tomorrow?" he asked her, watching as she began shaking out tablecloths and folding them up.
"I don't think so," Dulcey answered slowly.
Crown stepped out into the room. "All set in here for me to set up for the court?" he asked her.
Her features stiffened, as if he'd said a bad thing to her. "Yes, fine. I'm all through."
He nodded. "Thank you then, Miss Dulcey."
"You're welcome, Marshal Crown," she answered frostily.
That brought him up a little. He settled a look onto her, opened his mouth as if to say something, but turned away and reached for a chair. "Mac!" he called. "A little help with this."
"Oh, I saw him go out, sir," Hastings told him. He limped forward. "I can…"
"No, thank you, I couldn't ask it. Francis!" he called to the reporter fussing with a camera he'd set up on the other side of the room.
"Must you always shout?" Dulcey asked him in a cold tone.
He ignored her. "Get a broom," he told Francis. "And start sweeping."
Hastings heard her mutter something sarcastic about him liking dirt, but she continued her folding. Crown began to move chairs about, while young Wilde began to sweep hard and fast. Dulcey's gaze kept going to the Marshal, as if she wanted to come out and say something to him, but she didn't. Finally she thumped the last tablecloth onto the top of the pile she had made. "I'm tired – I think I'll turn in," she announced.
"I can walk you up," Matthew offered and slid a covert glance over to Crown. Sure enough, the lawman had stiffened and half-turned back. Might indeed be something there, he cautioned himself, but then that thought gave him a little pleasure. Crown was jealous, yet wasn't showing any obvious claim on the girl. Fair play, then.
Dulcey had seen it, too, and her demeanor suddenly changed. "Why thank you, Mr. Hastings," she answered with a clear smile. "I would appreciate that."
He went so far as to offer her his arm, which she gladly took. Her touch was secure, unafraid. They made their way up the stairs in companionable silence, the Marshal's eyes boring into their backs all the way. Hastings didn't dare even breathe until they had turned the corner into the upper hallway out of sight. Then Dulcey giggled, and he allowed a chuckle.
"He didn't like that much," Matthew commented as they worked their way down the empty corridor.
Dulcey's face was still pink with delight. "Serves him right," she replied.
She stopped about halfway down, turned to the door number six. His own was back out along the bannister side overlooking the dining room.
"Well, thank you," Dulcey was saying to him, quieting a little. "You are very kind…"
"My pleasure, Miss Coopersmith," he nodded.
"Dulcey, if you like," she offered.
"Dulcey, then," he agreed. "You sure you won't be at the trial tomorrow?" He leaned in, kept his smile. Her blue eyes were locked onto him and she was blushing a little more. "Be good to see a friendly face sitting in a chair."
"No, I'm sorry – well, I've things to do – and…" He got close, took her hand, felt her breath quickening...but then she ducked away, and withdrew her room key from her pocket. "Good night, Mr. Hastings."
He inclined his head, would not push. Pretty, though, so pretty… "Would you be busy tomorrow, after the trial?" he asked her.
"There'll be work to do…" She shook her head, and her shoulders seemed to slump a little.
"Maybe some time in the afternoon?" he suggested.
Her glance came back to him, lingered. "I suppose…"
"Can I take you for a walk – or a ride?"
"Oh, I – well…" She pinked up again.
"I can ask the Marshal, if that's more proper," Matthew prompted.
Dulcey's features quickly tightened, as he knew they would. "That's not necessary. I'd be happy
to see you later in the day, Mr. Hastings-"
"Matthew, please," he corrected.
"Matthew," she amended with a little smile. Her hand fumbled with the key; it took a moment for her to unlock the door. "Well," she said, pocketing the key again. "Good-night."
"Good-night, Dulcey. Sleep well."
"Thank you, Matthew."
He stepped back to allow her to step through the doorway and saw a little of her room, all flowery wallpaper and curly furniture. A waft of her fragrance reached him, sweet and pretty, before she shut the door. He paused a moment longer, then made his way back out to the front hall. He paused there to wave down at Marshal Crown still setting up chairs, then strode to his own room and entered.
You're going to give me such a pleasure, Crown. My brother, he didn't die easy. Your shot wasn't clean enough, made him suffer. Well, you'll suffer too. I've followed you, Crown, from Texas, to Kansas and now to here. I've watched and I've waited, just like Luke told me to.
It'd taken a long time but Crown was finally going to get his. He'd never suspect until it was too late, until he was kneeling before Luke Harper's vengeful little brother with a rope around his neck and his hands behind his back, begging for his life. And Crown would beg. Oh, he might not at first – Luke'd said he was one tough hombre, full of stiff guts. Told him to be always careful around the man, not to strike until he was ready.
Do it for me, Markie. Kill Crown…make it slow – make him suffer. Watch him die – send him to hell, begging and pleading…
It'd taken months for Luke to die from the wound that ate him from the inside out. He'd watched his brother endure increasing pain, and the shame as his body betrayed him. Got so angry that he went on his own rampage afterward, ended up jailed for it. A hot-headed kid, too naïve in too many ways. He'd grown smarter since then – prison had a way of tearing away what was soft and replacing it with pure toughness. And once that'd happened he found a way to think and plan, to hone a few skills that would serve him on the outside. And then he'd watched Crown, just like Luke had told him to, trying to find the best way to snare him. Was just outside Abilene when the lawman's orders came in for the Strip – and he'd followed carefully.
He caught a look at his image in the small mirror hanging over the washstand, all neat and tidy. Crown would never know him now, would never suspect who he might've been. And Conroy, that dumb oaf, he'd never guess, either. Slow-witted lout, running at the first sign of trouble. One stick of dynamite, one shout and he'd lit out under a shower of bullets, cursing that nag of his.
Conroy had only been a player in his plan to get close to Crown. Discovering Dulcey right beside the lawman was going to help –a lot.
And Crown – he'd soon be dead….
"I'm ready, Luke," he whispered. "I'm ready…"