VI.

Territorial Judge Lucius B. Quayle demanded as much order and detail as he could as a way to ease the travails of the court circuit, though he held most expectations in reserve. This was, after all, fairly raw territory in which to sit in judgment. But the Cimarron City courtroom came very close to meeting his satisfaction, despite the converted location. The restaurant and bar had been appropriately closed for business. The floor had been mopped clean. The area had been neatly arranged – prosecution and defense tables and chairs were in straight lines, jury seats made up two nice rows opposite. His polished tabletop held a pen and inkwell at the ready, while the complaints, orders and supporting documentation were stacked in crisp, neat piles. A pitcher of water and a sparkling clean glass sat at the ready should he need to partake. And his gavel sat perfectly center, awaiting his use. The area was secured with an armed deputy at the front door and another ready at the side, both men holding rifles, all washed and clean. He squinted through the lens of the spectacles perched on his nose; there was a camera set up in one corner - someone was going to photograph the event. Well, that was another positive change.

The Marshal was cleaner than most, too, Quayle observed. Washed and shaven, wearing a well tied tie and a buttoned up vest, with his badge pinned on straight and prominently displayed. A broad chested man but all lean, hard muscle. Confident, too, judging from the hardware buckled around him. Quayle had learned to judge the character of a man by the gun he wore, and found that the simpler – and cleaner – the rig the more honest the man. The lawman approaching him wore a smooth gunbelt that held a long barreled .44. The leather was devoid of any embellishment save for a small buckle on the holster and a row of replacement cartridges across the left front. Crown, he mused, from Abilene way. Hadn't yet met the man but had investigated enough to know that he demanded respect for the law – and didn't mind busting a few heads to get it.

He nodded to the Marshal by way of greeting, adjusted his glasses on his nose. "Unusual arrangement," he commented, pointing to the cell area off to his right.

The dark-haired Crown glanced back. "It suits my purpose, sir. Have you found everything in order?"

Quayle grunted and jerked a thumb behind him. "The flag, sir. It's missing." The only fault he could find. No American flag in an American courtroom. Perhaps overlooked…?

"On order from Kansas City," came the Marshal's prompt reply, which made Quayle wonder if it'd succumbed in the ruin that was the former sheriff's office across the street. "All ready to proceed, sir," Crown nodded as the last of the onlookers filled in the remaining available space in the room. "If you're ready?"

The docket did indeed proceed, from least offense to most serious. The lawbreakers were brought up one by one, sat when told, stood when directed, kept their hats off their heads. Victims and witnesses appeared, spoke their piece. The town lawyer argued, the jury paid attention, and decisions were rendered. Quayle set the fines and levied the sentences. All smooth and orderly. As for the farmer accused of trying to shoot the life out of the Marshal, Quayle had to admit he was moved by the presence of the man's family, a wife and son and daughter, who asked to speak on his behalf. Yet the charge was serious. The Territory needed more men the likes of Crown. Quayle shot a glance to the lawman, but Crown sat passively, waiting. Quayle ordered another ten days, to which his counterpart did not object. Carter's family was understandably upset, but the man was now plenty sober and sorrowful, and accepted his fate.

"I never saw this man in my life!" the last lawbreaker shouted as he was brought forward. Conroy, Quayle noted, scanning the charges written up against him in Crown's bold, clear strokes. Not enough for a hanging offense, but plenty for the Territorial Prison. Lucky for him the young witness hadn't died from the gunshot wound.

Conroy pointed with manacled hands at the slender young man now seated before the jury. "He's lying!" the robber yelled. "I don't know how he got shot but I didn't do it!"

"Be quiet!" threatened Crown, shoving him into a chair, "or I'll gag you." At a nod both deputies neared, rifles held ready. The jury murmured nervously. Quayle banged his gavel with quick authority, nodded for the young witness to begin.

It didn't take long. The witness told his story calmly, without embellishment or much emotion, only looked warily at the seething prisoner. The lawyer made a half-hearted defense. The jury huddled behind the bar for a bit then came forward with the verdict – guilty. Upon which the robber set up a verbal and physical dissent, and it took both deputies and two jurymen to get him back to his cell.

When Crown offered no other business for the docket, Quayle adjourned the court. The clock on the wall read eleven fifty-two a.m. Pleased, he stood and stretched. "Nicely done," he complimented the Marshal. Crown had been well trained along the way. He'd make a good lawyer – or a politician. Though he didn't seem too inclined to part with his .44 just yet. But perhaps in a few years – the man was still young, and seemed to have made it this far with no obvious scars or injuries to slow him down.

"Thank you, sir." Crown nodded back, with obvious self-satisfaction.

"Judge!" the younger of the two deputies hailed, rushing over. "Please, sir, if I might take a picture or two?" He indicated the camera. "I'm a photographer," he quickly explained.

Quayle was happy to oblige the boy, stood straight and still while several photographs were taken, of he alone, then he and Crown, then the jury members, all for some annals of history.

"Do you think I could interview you, sir, about the trial?" the younger man asked next. "I'd like your viewpoint."

"The law is the law, young man," Quayle intoned. "That is the only viewpoint."

"That's what I keep telling him," Crown added dryly.

The young man pressed on. "I'd like your side of things – about being a judge, riding the circuit, dispensing the law, holding fate in your hands for both victims and criminals, that sort of thing..."

Quayle grunted. "Never had this sort of interest in my court before."

"Francis is also a reporter," Crown explained with a lazy smile. "He likes to show the folks back East what it's like out here."

"Our brand of justice is no different," Quayle told the boy, and then gave a glance about. "Despite our…alternative arrangements. But I suppose a word or two..."

"Happy to have you stay with us here at the Wayfarer's next trip out," Crown offered, taking the documents out of his hands for filing. "The menu here is turning out to be the best in town."

Quayle took up his hat, resettled his glasses on his nose. "I'd like that, Marshal. You run a firm operation, sir. I'm impressed. Though next time, be sure I have a flag, sir."

Crown closed the bottom half of his office door behind him and let off a relieved breath. Nothing like making a good impression on the circuit judge. Not that Quayle would be here every time, but the judges were a friendly sort with one another, got together on occasion to talk about law and other things, mostly about bad courtrooms and even worse food. This might give them something new to chew on.

He picked up the signed orders binding Conroy over to the Territorial Prison up in Kansas – he'd have to send a wire, make plans for delivery, secure the train. Beaver City had a prison wagon – he'd have to remember that. He'd have to use Fort Smith or Topeka if the judges weren't coming through; Judge Parker held regular court in Arkansas. Time, it was all going to take time.

He looked out to the dining room. Still no Dulcey. He thought she'd stay for the trial, and was rather disappointed not to find her seated in the gallery. He'd wanted her to see the importance of using her space for the court, see how justice was successful even way out here in this dusty, dirty part of this country. But she'd only slapped his breakfast in front of him early and stalked up the stairs. When he heard a door slam he figured she'd returned to her room. Surely she hadn't been there all the while. Maybe she'd slipped off shopping, though most of the stores were closed on account of the interest in the court. He didn't want their business arrangement to become an issue between them. It was she who had suggested turning the wine cellar into permanent jail cells. But if she couldn't agree to a once-a-month agreement, then perhaps this wasn't going to work out. Crown sighed, and supposed he could re-rent that broken down sheriff's office from Jack Kilgallen and set up another round pen jail while it got fixed up.

Or maybe he just needed to talk to Miss Dulcey – she seemed the sort of female that liked explanations. Maybe he could…

"Marshal…" Hastings was limping up to his door. "Did I do all right, sir?"

"Just fine," Crown approved. "You were very valuable to that jury."

"Why, thank you," he nodded back. "Sure is…" His smile slipped quickly off; he sagged under a pained look.

Crown reached over and caught him by the arm. "You all right?"

"My leg…" he gasped.

"Crown!" shouted Conroy from the cells. "Crown, I wanna talk to you!"

"Come on." Crown eased out his door and tugged Hastings forward, was surprised at the wiry strength in the muscle he held – he'd thought the boy mostly soft. "Let me get you to your room – I'll fetch the doc – Dulcey!" But she still wasn't about, so he fired an order off to Mac instead.

"Sorry, Marshal," the young man mumbled, leaning heavily on his arm as they negotiated the wide stairway.

"You stay as long as you need to, son," Crown told him. "You did us all a favor putting Conroy away."

"Appreciate that, truly, sir." The boy puffed a bit as they made the last stair and turned to address the next few steps to the balustraded hallway. "Miss Coopersmith," he abruptly began, "she sure is nice, isn't she?"

"Very," Crown agreed absently, rattling open the door and easing the boy onto the bed.

"Running this place all by herself…"

"She has help."

"Mr. MacGregor, I know." The boy allowed a grunt as Crown swung the injured leg up onto the mattress. "Still and all…"

"Mr. Hastings…" Crown felt the now familiar warning come to his lips. But guilt gave him a firm poke between the shoulder blades and made him hesitate over the rest.

A pretty and approachable girl like Dulcey was a naturally friendly sort. Good-hearted, honest, trusting. And maybe he was just too jaded against folks. He'd long made it his business to look for trouble first and niceties after; the badge required it. Besides, he himself wasn't after any kind of friendships – oh, he appreciated them all right, but in his business his relationships were more often than not working sorts of ones. He rarely took time off, and didn't give much time over for personal gains, except maybe fishing. And most folks didn't see him as anything else but a lawman. Except Dulcey...

Maybe he had been using his badge to discourage others. What by what right did he have to treat her that way? He held no claim on her – she was of an age to make her own decisions. His only duty was to look after anyone within his jurisdiction, and she fell into that category. But…

But when he peeked underneath all that business, he had to admit something else. He liked Dulcey. Living and working under her roof had made her more than an acquaintance. There were years separating them, not to mention experiences, but she was the one he had the most daily contact with in Cimarron. You got to know a person by eating the meals they fixed for you and the clothes they washed for you, and the conversation they shared with you. Dulcey was more than a merchant he might wave to on the street. He saw her every day. Okay, sometimes more than once a day. She was a friend, sort of; that brought out his protective side.

But it shouldn't do any more, he silently reproved himself. And she had a right to relationships of her own choosing.

"Would it be all right if I might ask her for a walk later, sir?" Hastings now asked. "Just through the town – if the Doc says it's all right?"

His reluctant tone rolled out before he could stop it. "She gets mighty busy…"

"I guess you're right," Hastings sighed and let his eyes close for a moment. "Maybe you could let her know I asked after her, sir?"

Back off, he told himself, but had a hard time swallowing his own advice because the thought came to him again that he knew this boy from some place. Or he'd known men like him, those that found themselves shining under newfound attention that faded their own inadequacies. And turning bad when it didn't all work out for them. But this one – he just seemed too familiar…

"I'll let her know," he answered a little sharply, but the boy didn't seem to mind the tone.

"Thank you, Marshal. I truly appreciate it. It's nice to have a friendly face in town – makes a stranger feel welcome…"

Crown didn't respond, just left quietly before he started to argue the differences between friends and strangers, and of the notions separating young men from sweet girls…

Instead of heading back downstairs he crossed the hall and turned toward her room, but once there he paused, hand held up to rap on the panel. Maybe he'd caused enough trouble for one day. And keeping some distance between them might be for the best. But guilt was jabbing him again. "Miss Dulcey?" he called, tapping politely.

Nothing. He tried the door, called again – locked and quiet. Bothered, Crown walked away.

Doctor Kihlgren was just coming up the stairs, his tall hat rammed tight on his broad head. "Boy overdid it, did he?" growled the physician, fading red moustaches quivering over his lip. "Told him to be careful when I first treated him in Hardesty – the young ones never listen, do they?"

"I'm beginning to find that out," Crown declared. He made his way back to the dining room, yanking off his tie, unbuttoning his vest and rolling up his sleeves, easing into more comfort. His eye swept the area – she wasn't here. He angled sideways, headed for the kitchen, looked inside – empty. Not even any dishes stacked waiting for use, no bread waiting to be sliced, no vegetables on the sideboard. Frustrated, Crown headed back out into the big room.

MacGregor and Francis were still putting the chairs and tables back into place. Febrizio was tending the bar and turning away lunch customers with a shrug and shake of his head.

"Crown!" hollered Conroy. "Crown, you gotta talk to me!"

"Later!" Crown called back. "You settle down first." He strode over to his deputies. "Where's the girl?"

"Who, Dulcey?" MacGregor shrugged as he awkwardly spread a tablecloth. "I wouldn't know, man, though her assistance would be appreciated just now. All we have for hungry customers is a few hard boiled eggs! If she's not in the kitchen-"

"She is not."

"And not in her room?"

"I knocked on the door – no answer."

"She's probably headed to the graveyard," Francis contributed, pushing a chair into place. At the twin stares and rapid silence quickly turned onto him he continued in a stammer, "Well, her father's buried there – she mentioned…"

Crown jumped forward, instant worry pulsing through him. "And you let her go – alone?"

"It's her father," Francis protested under the deepening glare. "I didn't think…"

"No, you didn't think," Crown cut him off and whirled to point at MacGregor. "And you didn't either. It's not safe for her to go off by herself. She doesn't leave the town proper unescorted, you hear me?"

They both stared, open-mouthed for a moment. Then Francis straightened, shame-faced. "Yes, Marshal. I'll go."

"You mind the jail." Crown was already moving off. "I'll go."