XI.

"Well, they're healing," announced Kihlgren, entering Crown's office from the cell area. "Got a good taste of your anger, I must say. You've a mighty hard fist, Marshal."

Crown grunted with little self-reproach and stood up to stretch. There was a flower in a crystal vase on his desk – again. He was the Marshal of the whole Cimarron Strip and he had a flower on his desk. He gave it a withering stare but the bloom did not wilt. Dulcey – had she heard when he told her not to intrude on his workspace? But he only set it on the far corner, because the memory of the other night episode still pushed high feeling through him, even after two full days. Every time Dulcey passed by he was reminded of his gut-wrenching fear and accompanying rage. And of the way his heart had twisted at the sound of her tears coming from her room. So he would not call her out on the flower vase. Besides, he sensed it was a symbol of her gratitude, and how could he deride her for that? And living like they were all together under the Inn's roof, there was only so much privacy they could attain.

As for those two attackers, well, he held little pity for either of them. Tom Wallace was headed for the penitentiary with a broken nose, two resulting black eyes, and a damaged right hand. His friend was going to enjoy four-by-four living for a while with a very sore jaw. Fort Smith had already been contacted for a hearing and Judge Parker was not one to pity assailants who harmed women. They deserved whatever Crown had already given them, and what the judge would further hand them.

His back door rattled open and MacGregor loped through carrying a long, paper-wrapped item. "It's here, Jim Crown. Shall I unwrap it, or you do want the honors?" But he tore the paper away before Crown could issue a reply. A new flag rolled into his hands.

"Just right," Crown nodded with a smile. Judge Quayle could find no fault with his court now. He pointed. "Stand it up over there."

"Marshal…" His back door re-opened to admit Francis Wilde. "Got a couple more places with stuff missing – the thief is awfully sneaky…"

"Marshal?" Dulcey rapped lightly on the sill of his connecting door.

"This place is a regular depot," Kihlgren grunted to Crown, watching MacGregor fit the flag into the stand.

"Tell the merchants to watch their customers," Crown told Francis. "And give me a full list of what's missing. Miss Dulcey," he smiled and approached, glad to see her.

Though she'd kept to herself these past two days she hadn't been hidden. Just the opposite – she'd flung herself into working the Wayfarer's with a new zeal, scrubbing and cleaning what wasn't dirty, calling on MacGregor and Francis to help her re-arrange the dining room, poring over items that had been piled into storage, cooking and baking until Crown thought he'd bust from sampling the culinary results. Working off some of her fear, he guessed. Maybe even reconsidering her stay here.

She stood at his doorway now, pretty as ever in a pink and white dress he hadn't seen before, her hair loose and shining. The scrape on her cheek was still red but healing. Yet there was a shadow still lurking in her eyes, and a new wariness had come over her. His deputies had also noticed and were now more vigilant of her whereabouts, reporting to him without his asking. The town was already talking about the Marshal's results, creating a new wind of regard for him. It would settle down in time, Crown knew. But a little show of power would never hurt. As for Dulcey…

"I'm going to bring Seth his lunch," she now told him and glanced behind her. "Matthew said he'd accompany me." Her chin rose a little at that, as if expecting him to object.

He wanted to, but did not. He knew he'd completely interrupted them in the kitchen the other night, wasn't so stupid to realize that he'd poked his nose into something that was none of his business. And he'd further risked their relationship by talking to Hastings, though he didn't think the younger man had revealed that to her – at least not yet. The boy, though troubling to Crown's own thoughts, was still being ever-polite. And if the young man was going to stay in Cimarron and challenge old man Gibson with carpentry work, then he'd likely vie for more of Dulcey's attention, as well. Crown supposed that's what he really wanted for the girl – someone to take care of her. Though he wasn't convinced Matthew Hastings was the man for the job. Even when he took off his badge, he could not find himself truly liking the boy. There was just something about him, like he was trying too hard to be nice. It bothered Crown, no matter from which side he examined it. I sound like a fired-up old pappy, he chided himself, glancing at the rack where his shotgun reposed, ready to put a load of double-aught to his backside.

Hastings, for his part, was standing easily behind Dulcey. Too easy. Now he smiled, a slippery lift of his lips that added some mirth to his gaze. Like he's laughing at me…

"Thanks for letting me know," he said to Dulcey in a tone he managed to keep neutral.

She gave him a grateful smile. "Oh…" she said then reached into her dress pocket and withdrew two folded sheets. After a moment to bite her lip she handed them to him. "My deposition," she said, swallowing hard.

He took the papers from her freshly trembling grasp and nodded, knowing that it had been difficult for her to write. He wondered again what exactly had happened to her back in Providence, and whether whoever had done it had been caught. And wondered if that incident had helped to push her westward – and whether this new one would make her return.

She quickly withdrew, picked up a covered basket on a nearby table, linked arms with Hastings and left. Crown didn't realize he was frowning after them until Mac's voice came into his ear. "Would you like me to keep an eye on them for you, Marshal?"

He wanted to say yes but he didn't – she could've asked any of them to take her but had chosen Hastings. Crown sensed that she'd renewed her determination to fight for her place out here. He couldn't help but respect her for it.

He released his brow with a sigh. "Give those two boys their feed," he directed, jerking a thumb toward the cells. "Francis…? Now just what are you doing?" he asked, seeing Wilde seated in a corner, a pencil poised over small pad balanced on his lap

"Writing, o'course," Mac snorted. "You gave him something right smart to work with – 'Marshal Crown, deadly fisted law of the Cimarron,' or some such rot."

"That shows what you don't know," Francis retorted, rising. He ripped the paper from his pad and gave it to Crown. "Here – it's a list of everything that's been stolen from the merchants." He shrugged. "The other – stuff – I'll do later…when I'm off duty."

"Well, since you're still on duty, you can help me feed the prisoners," Mac told him, slinging a long arm around his shoulders and escorting him out to the dining room.

Crown sighed – he was going to have to talk to young Wilde about this "Legend of Cimarron" notion of his. "How about you, Doc?" he asked the physician who'd joined him at the door. "Want something to eat before you go?"

"Thank you, no." Kihlgren shook his head, but kept staring out into the dining room. "I've got a wife waiting for me, though God knows I've eaten enough dried out meals to make her give up on me ever being on time."

Crown peered out again, saw nothing amiss. Mac and Francis were disappearing into the kitchen, Dulcey and Hastings were gone. The bar was quiet. A few lunch patrons were working into seats…his mind backed up-

Hastings…

"Something about that boy," Kihlgren mused softly.

Crown nodded, frustration tightening the back of his neck. He reached up to scratch at it, but that only made it worse.

The trip to Hardesty last week had turned up nothing new. Few had noticed the young stranger arrive in town. He'd ridden in on a horse with no brand but of good stock. Had stopped at the livery and found a room, eaten a meal. By the next morning the bank had been blown open and he'd been shot, presumably by the robber Conroy. Was taken to the boarding house, and hadn't uttered any more than his name and the description of the robber he saw. That was it until Kihlgren had arrived to treat him. The sheriff there had kept a deputy on protective watch but the boy had remained bleeding in bed all the while. Crown had even wired the other towns in his district with Hastings' description but all the replies were negative. No one had seen the kid before this. He'd told the sheriff he'd come in from Texas looking for work, had a hammer and a few minor belongings in his saddle bags. Nothing else – nothing…

Then why did all this nothing seems like a big something?

Crown'd already checked every wanted poster he had looking for a match to the boy, but there was nothing. Nothing in any of the area papers, either; he'd sent Francis to comb through them. And Hastings didn't look like he could raise much of a hand against anything. He hadn't smoked, hadn't taken up any liquor at any saloon. Hadn't even strayed to Pony Jane's looking for a girl – well, Crown knew the reason for that. He wore no gun, at least that was visible. Hadn't bought anything at any store, hadn't rented a rig or a horse, though he had inquired over a buggy. Had asked over that stoved-in building MacGregor had blown apart, and Jack Kilgallen had hired him to fix it up. Spent most days working over there – or at least there'd been hammering coming from the place. As for the buggy, he probably wanted to take Dulcey for a ride – that would be the next step in his courtship of her…

The most he could be accused of was being too polite. And that was no crime, though in some ways, Crown wished it was.

"Anybody see that robber shoot Hastings?" Kihlgren now asked him.

Crown shrugged. "Too much confusion. When the dust cleared the boy was lying in the street with a bullet in his leg and Conroy was blazing a trail for the Outlet. Conroy claims he never saw him."

"Must be it then," Kihlgren muttered, though not convincingly.

"Must be what?" Crown prompted. The feeling at his neck dropped lower, spread an ache between his shoulder blades.

"The confusion and all," said Kihlgren. "Conroy must not have seen Hastings…maybe he was too close."

"Doc…" Crown swung around to eye him. "What's eating at your mind?"

"The bullet wound," Kihlgren complained back. "Fired from a gun at close range. But the angle seems – off."

"Explain that," Crown directed, perching on the end of his desk. He rolled his shoulders, but that only drove the ache down along his spine.

"Here, do you mind?" Kihlgren reached over and deftly plucked the .44 from where it nestled in the holster on Crown's right hip.

"Be careful, Doc!" Crown warned, swiftly dancing sideways off the desk.

"Look…" Kihlgren held the gun pointed at Crown's left leg – with all fingers thankfully on the handle. "Whether you're running or riding, if you're shooting at a man's leg the angle is front to back – or across."

"Not if you catch him in stride." Cautiously Crown stepped forward – Kihlgren tracked his movement with the gun barrel.

"All right, I grant you that," Kihlgren nodded. "You could catch him back to front." He looked up, moustaches quivering. "But not down."

"Come again?"

"The angle of the bullet I pulled out of Hastings was down the calf. Here on the inside." The doctor took the .44 and began to draw a line with the long barrel down Crown's leg.

Crown jumped again, and this time pulled it away from him. "For my peace of mind," he explained, securely holstering it.

Unoffended, Kihlgren used his finger instead, traced it down Crown's leg. "Inside and down, don't you see? Conroy would've had to be nearly on top of him to manage a shot like that. Queer angle – that's what keeps bothering me. Really only one way to manage it…"

Crown saw it, too. With enough perturbation to dry up the spit in his mouth. "By his own hand," he uttered roughly.

Kihlgren's chin lifted; his eyes bored into Crown's. "I'd agree with that."

Crown flinched as the muscles in his lower back twisted. "Faked it – shot himself…" He whirled back to the doctor. "But why?"

"Glory?" Kihlgren guessed.

Crown drew himself up. "That's lying – perjury."

"Grudge against Conroy?" Kihlgren shrugged.

"Could be…"

Couldn't be, he knew it couldn't be. If Conroy said anything close to the truth, it had to be about not knowing Hastings. Crown's mind started to rifle through ideas and options, keeping fragments and discarding others.

"He's been a quiet fellow hasn't he – Hastings…?" Kihlgren asked him, though it was more of a statement than a question.

"Too quiet," Crown agreed.

Too neat, just too neat. Convenient witness and victim. Model figure of a man. Clean, polite, helpful, attentive. Crown did not know him, was sure he didn't know the name. But something about the man…His mind backed up – attentive. Yes, too attentive…to Dulcey, certainly. But trying too hard. Hastings – an alias…

Why use Conroy? Hastings had to know him, or know of him. Getting shot – or doing it to himself – would bring him right into Cimarron, right into Crown's midst, as if he wanted to be noticed. And yet, he was still hiding something. He was trying too hard to cover up something…

Me – he wants me…

It popped out and danced before him. He snatched it up and sucked it down – yes, that was it.

Not Dulcey – he was just using her to get close, keep himself out from under suspicion. He had a yen for a U.S. Marshal – specifically, Jim Crown.

He knows me – knows where I've been…

He mentally re-traced his route over the years – El Paso, Abilene, Washington, then here. His relocation…new town, strangers, warring farmers and cattlemen. A far flung Territory rife with lawlessness and lots of distraction that'd allow a vengeful man, if playing it carefully, to slip in all but unnoticed, get himself ready to kill…

He had a grudge of some kind, then. He could've sat in the rocks littering the Strip, picked off Crown anytime. Waited for a glimpse of sunlight on badge or hatband – Crown wasn't afraid to be seen. But he hadn't done it that way.

Crown heard paper crinkle, found Francis' list curling in his grasp, read it for the first time rope, kerosene, chain, matches, knife…

Supplies – no, weapons. He wanted to do it up close, to ensure blood would run and bones would break. Had spent days in town, waiting while Crown fussed over this and that, getting close – using Dulcey as the lure. Put himself right into the middle of this place, watched everything, knew exactly how impressionable Dulcey was, understood that she was watched over. And had gotten close – too close…

"El Paso or Abilene," he said softly to himself. Had to be. He hadn't given anyone a reason to go so hard against him before that. It was the badge, and what he had to do in the name of the law. Some took it personal – too personal.

Alarm began to clamor in him, the one he never ignored. He dropped the list onto his desk and took up his hat. "Think I'll have a talk with Hastings," he told Kihlgren. "Get a Winchester and come with me," he said to Francis, who was emerging from the kitchen with MacGregor. Questioning filled the younger man's eyes but he silently stacked the lunch tray he was carrying on top of the one in MacGregor's hands and sprinted to Crown's office.

"It might be better if I take on whatever you need," Mac warned. "He's no hand with a gun."

"He'll be fine, just what I need," Crown assured him. Francis would not appear as a threat to Hastings, but could shoot a Winchester well enough. That was the edge Crown needed at this point, especially if they had to split up to find the man. "I need you back here. If for some reason Francis returns with Matthew Hastings, then you lock him up."

"Hastings? What for?"

"Because I said so," Crown shot back. "I'll tell you more once he's behind bars," he amended with some unsaid apology, and was glad when his new chief deputy accepted the short explanation without complaint. "And Mac," he continued, as Francis quickly rejoined him. "You keep Miss Dulcey Coopersmith out of harm's way, all right? On my orders, she stays away from my office and the cells."

The older man's nod was firm. "Aye, Marshal, I understand."

"I don't understand," Francis said as they swung out into the street. "What's going on?"

Crown was walking fast, his back still thrumming with spasms. "Matthew Hastings – I need to talk to him. But first I have to find him."

"I saw him leave with Dulcey." Francis hopped a little to get his step in line with Crown's.

"If they're still together when we find them, then you escort her back to the Inn, you understand? I don't want them together." I don't want him to hurt her because of what he has against me. "I'll explain later," he added curtly, cutting off the words shooting past the other man's lips.

"Has he done something?" Francis managed to ask.

"That's what I plan to find out," Crown announced.

"Matthew? Is everything all right?"

He knows something. He suspects. He'll come. Yes, yes…I'm ready…

Dulcey slowed her step – he hadn't heard her. "Matthew?" she tried again, with a little trip of worry making her shiver. She glanced about but the area was quiet. Perhaps she should've asked MacGregor to accompany her to the livery instead. Matthew wasn't acting like himself. Or maybe it was her newfound awareness that had her imagining things? Because it felt – suspicious. There was also some new tension between him and the Marshal, though most of it came from Crown's side; the man seemed to find a criminal side to almost everyone. Matthew, however, appeared unconcerned – until now.

I'm ready, Luke – this is for you – finally, finally…

Dulcey touched his arm; he started, came to a stop. "I'm sorry, what?"

Stay calm, don't make any mistakes…

"Are you all right?" Dulcey asked again. "You had such a look on your face…"

He changed it to a smile, relieving her a little bit. "Miss Dulcey, I do apologize. Here you asked me to escort you and I'm doing nothing but daydreaming." He clasped her arm for a moment. "Forgive me? Please?"

He'll follow – he thinks I'm taking her…

"Of course," Dulcey nodded, her fear easing a little. It was all right – he'd been only thinking. Of what she could hardly guess. Perhaps his work at the demolished building. Or of his past. Or…

Or maybe of him and her, the two of them. She felt herself blush a little at that. He did like her; at least she thought he did. Perhaps, she thought…after all, she was a woman grown, heading for nineteen years old. She turned, the basket in her hands lightly bumping him. "You've become a good friend, Matthew."

Just you and me, Crown – the two of us…you'll come to me…

"Cimarron wouldn't have been such a pleasure if you hadn't been here," Matthew told her.

She leaned in, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, turned pink and stepped away, calling for Seth.

Now. Crown – are you ready to die?