Chapter 3 Willow Springs

Sometime that afternoon, a man rode onto the slight ridge overlooking the Keene farm and waved. Bret saw him first and called to Mike. Keene turned at Bret's call, then after scrutinizing the rider, waved back. After seeing and recognizing the rider on the ridge, Mike said he had to suddenly be someplace else.

"Bret, I'm going to go into Willow Springs for some … ah, tar paper and shingles."

"It's too early to put the roof on, Mike," said Bret. "The barn's not up yet."

Mike was not to be dissuaded. He had recognized his own man on the ridge. "Take a breather, Bret. Go inside and sample some of Livy's butter."

Bret coldly pondered the situation as Mike Keene saddled his horse, a light bay, and rode out. Keene didn't return that night, with or without the tar paper and shingles he had said he was going into town for. About nine or ten, Bret knocked off work, slipping in for some coffee and warm bread with some of Livy's newly-made butter.

Livy talked low, as Davy, who had been outside helping Bret for a good portion of the day, was again asleep on the couch. She sat in the rocker by the fire, and Bret occupied the table. He didn't want to be far from the bread and butter, they were so good.

"I saw Mike ride off," Livy said, "but I said nothin'. I never do."

Bret turned to look at her. "Don't you ever wonder where he goes?"

"Mike goes where and how he wants. I do wish he'd have told me he was goin' into town. I'd like some thread to mend my dress, maybe even some cloth to sew up another."

Bret gazed at her torn and fire-blackened dress. Though washed thoroughly, it still smelled of smoke. "I'll get those things for you, Livy, as soon as I get back to town myself," he said.

"You're goin' tomorrow?" In her voice there was a certain distress for the thread and cloth.

"I'll sure try," Bret said. He sipped his second cup of cream-laden coffee and added, "Mike gave me twenty-five dollars today for the boards. But I don't need it. You can have it, Livy."

"But, Bret," she said, raising her eyes from her mending, probably with her last spool of thread, "you do need to get a new horse. You keep it."

He smiled. "I've got enough. Before I came here, I won about three hundred playin' poker in Coleysville, so I'm doin' alright. You need it, what with buyin' a new cow and all."

"That's Mike's responsibility." Though she was not angry with Bret, her tone was testy. Then she softened and reached out to take the money. "Thanks, Bret, I do need a new milk cow for Davy."

Downing his coffee, Bret got up. "I'm goin' outside to sleep, in case Mike returns. It's okay, I'm used to it."

"But do you prefer it?" Livy asked.

"No," he said, laughing. "If I had my druthers, I'd be in a posh hotel, like the St. Louis in New Orleans."

She sighed. "New Orleans. Someday, I'd like to go there. But I'll never get off this dirt patch." She knotted the thread and snapped it off, then put her sewing things away in a small basket by the rocker. Suddenly warm under Bret's continued gaze, she said, with a shy smile, "I'm sure you've seen better dresses in the city."

"I have, Livy," he admitted, "but they weren't worn to such perfection."

Her eyes filling up, she shook her head. Words wouldn't come.

He mercifully turned to leave her with her tiny sewing basket and torn, singed clothes, but as he grabbed his coat and hat from the hooks by the door, she jumped up and ran over with the rocker throw in her hand. "I'll bring you a pillow, too," she said, slipping between the curtains of the alcove where she slept.

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Mike Keene didn't return the following day, either. Bret, laboring with hammer and nails on the frame of the new barn, could only guess where he was. He wasn't at home, that was for sure. And there was a barn to raise!

He looked up when Ezra Tucker, the farmer, came by in his wagon, bringing a bit more milk. Bret nodded his howdy-do and Ezra took it in to pay his respects to Livy.

Ezra and Bret had a few words to say over the barn, but Ezra didn't stay long. As he clucked to the horse pulling the wagon, another man rode up. Bret, looking up again, banged his thumb so hard he had to bite it. His tanned face clouded at the appearance of the other man. He was, by his badge and burly demeanor, a lawman. Stout, elderly, but not so old as to show any signs of feebleness. A good man with a gun, no doubt.

As Bret sucked on the end of his thumb to calm the pain, the lawman pulled a gun. "Don't make a move, Keene," he said, pointing it at Bret.

Bret twisted to take a look behind himself, expecting to see Mike Keene standing there. But, no, it was just the two of them, gambler and lawman. Taken aback, he took his thumb out of his mouth. It would just have to hurt.

"This can't be happenin'," he said. "You think I'm Mike Keene?" he asked, addressing the lawman.

"You are, ain't you?"

"No, he's out." Bret turned and saw Livy exiting the house. "Here's Livy Keene, ask her."

Towel drying her hands, she asked with practiced ease, "You're lookin' for Mike?"

Lifting up the badge pinned to his vest, the lawman squinted at her. "I'm Horatio Darby, ma'am, deputy U.S. marshal. I've come to take him in."

"You're takin' me somewhere?" asked Bret, faintly amused.

"Yeah, Keene, the Willow Springs jail, for just as long as it takes me to get my grub together."

"Then where?"

"Cheyenne, Wyoming, that's where you're wanted."

"I read somethin' like this in a book," said the itinerant card player. "A double, guillotined to save another man. All for the love of a beautiful woman."

"Don't know nothin' about that," said the deputy, with a hoarse, guttural sound in his voice. "I'm takin' you in. This gun is my warrant."

Livy spoke up again. "Deputy, my husband's away. He sent me word only the other day he was in Tucson."

Bret looked over at her sharply for telling that lie about Tucson. Mike Keene wasn't that far away—at least not yet, he reckoned. But of course she'd try to protect the man she'd married. Davy suddenly ran up.

"When are we goin' to eat, Mr. Bret?"

"Be a little while, Davy. You go back to the pond, hear?"

"I'm hungry."

Livy answered this time. "I'll get some sandwiches made in just a little bit. Now, scoot!"

Davy went off, skipping back to join Sugar at the pond.

"Is that enough for you, deputy?" asked Bret. "The kid doesn't know why you're here."

"I'll say when enough's enough. You come along now. Peaceable."

"Deputy. There's a barn to raise. Twister came through here a few days ago and wrecked it. I had to burn what was left of it. Now, I'm trying to—"

"Come along!"

As Bret sighed, Livy rushed forward. "Deputy, what's Mike done?" She had almost added, "this time."

"Robbed a stage near Cheyenne. He's been up in Laramie, too. Stages, here and there. I trailed him all the way here to Kansas. I don't apt to let him get away now."

"But, deputy, I'm not the man you want," said Bret, a bit more earnestly now. "He looks somethin' like me, but I'm not him. Sincerely."

The deputy, looking around, spotted a shirt on a sawhorse. He took it off and rummaged through the pockets, finding not only the twenty-five dollars Keene had given Bret, but also the rest of Bret's poker winnings.

"Looks like hold-up money," he said. He raised his gun again, saying, "The town marshal in Willow Springs know you?"

"He'll know I'm not Mike Keene."

"We'll see. Move!"

Livy tried again. "He came just before the twister hit. He's been helpin' me ever since. Don't arrest him for that!"

"Ain't arrestin' him, ma'am, just takin' him in." He pushed the two wads of money into his pants pocket and thrust Bret's shirt at him as the gambler started to make his way over, intending to get his money back. Darby backed up, hefting the gun Bret's way. "Wouldn't try nothin' if I was you."

Bret smirked. Except for the gun in Darby's hand, he could have taken the old geezer. It did even the odds a bit.

Deviating from his course towards the deputy, he fetched his saddle from the tool shed and went to get Sugar from the pond. He'd be back soon he hoped, with all of this straightened out. Throwing the saddle on Sugar's back, cinching it, he felt much like a horse thief. But that didn't mean he was a hold-up man.

As he and the deputy rode off together at a canter, he turned to him and said, "I'm not who you say I am, deputy."

"You look like the man I've been after."

"Then you've never seen 'im?"

"Seen a poster. Got one here." Darby unbuckled the strap of his saddlebag, took out a wanted poster-sized piece of paper, and handed it over.

Bret looked at it, at the likeness, sketched not photographed, of Mike Keene. It looked more like himself than it did Mike Keene.

"I'll admit it looks like me. And I was there at the Keene place. But that's all there is to it, deputy. Just coincidence."

"That's for a jury in Cheyenne to decide. If they don' hang you, folks in Laramie will!"

"Well, when you see what a mistake you've made, you'll let me go. The real Mike Keene, by the way, isn't in Tucson. He's right around here."

"Why'd she lie then?"

"To protect him, what else? He came back yesterday and left last night. He never came home. Supposed to help me rebuild the barn."

"Which way did this Keene go, if you're not him?"

"Towards town, I think. A friend of his showed up on the ridge and he rode off with him. That's the last I saw of him."

"Do you know who the other rider was?"

"No, 'course not. But he must've told Keene you were askin' about him in town."

The deputy jerked a thumb back towards the farm. "Who's that other fella," he asked, "the clodhopper in the wagon?"

"A neighbor. He's helped Livy out a few times, but no one you need to know about."

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With Bret in the saddle beside him, deputy U.S. marshal Horatio Darby rode into Willow Springs, a town of washed-out grass, carved-up trees, torn awnings, and unpainted storefronts. A one-horse town, its single muddy street, full of muddy orphans and dogs, might make one turn tail and ride off again.

If you didn't expect too much, Willow Springs had all of the services of bigger towns. Blacksmith, druggist, piano tuner (!), hotel, two general stores, livery. A feed and grain emporium. Four saloons and two restaurants, one Chinese and the other inside the hotel. A few odd sheds and shacks. Said orphans and dogs.

Bret took a good look around himself. Staring back, the townsfolk elbowed one another as he and Darby tied up their horses at the jail. Without preamble, Darby walked in and accosted the man behind the desk. Lem Axton, the town marshal, woke with a start, and, balancing on his chair, nearly fell. Before he tumbled all the way, the wall caught him.

"Marshal! Wake up!" cried Darby, slapping the desk. "I've got 'im."

Axton snorted and rubbed his eyes in an effort to see who was 'got.' Cockeyed, he looked Bret over, until Darby asked, "Is this Mike Keene, the stage robber?"

Bret had been in town that once to buy supplies, but he never did say who he was—or wasn't.

"Sure does look like 'im," said the upholder of law and order in Willow Springs, a savagely hairy man with small, beady eyes and a trembling nether lip.

Bret leaned forward, knuckles on the desk. His handsome, razor sharp face had pursed up into a frown. "That may be true, marshal. But you know I'm not him."

"Ain't sayin' you are."

"Then what are you sayin'?" asked the impatient Darby.

"I'm sayin' he looks like 'im, that's all."

"Do you know Mike Keene, or don't you?"

"I know 'im. Known 'im since he was little. I used to dunk his head in the trough when he gave me lip."

"Marshal, is this the man, or no?"

"I believe it is."

Bret straightened up. "Deputy, he's lyin'. I'm not Keene. Tell him I'm not, before he locks me up."

"I'm goin' to put him in your jail until I pack up some grub, marshal. Horses need rest, too. Maybe I'll get in a few hands." Of poker, Bret surmised. He could be in the lock-up all night, at this rate.

"Do whatever I can for you, deputy," Axton said, attempting to rock back in his chair again, and hitting the same wall. He gave it up when Bret came around the desk and grabbed up his shirt.

"Mike pays you, doesn't he?" he asked. Axton smirked and regarded Bret's hands in his shirt. "Answer me! He was here. Mike Keene."

"You're him and that's that," said Axton.

Deputy Darby put a restraining hand on Bret's arm and he let go, turning to Darby. "Deputy, don't listen to him," he pleaded. "He's not playing with a straight deck. I'm not Keene. Livy said so. The boy called me Bret. That's my name. Bret Maverick."

Axton laughed outright. "He uses her given name a lot, doesn't he, deputy? He's Keene, alright. Temper and all."

"You got the keys, marshal?" asked Darby. He firmed up his grip on Bret's arm. Bret acted hastily. He threw Darby against a low rail directly behind him and Darby flipped over it. Axton leaped out of his chair and gazed down at the sprawled deputy.

"Need any help there, deputy?" he asked, enjoying the spectacle as Darby came to his feet again, leapt the rail, and tackled Bret. Swinging intermittently at each other, sometimes connecting to a chin or jaw, sometimes not, the two men both tried to get the upper hand. Pictures fell off the wall and a definite smell of kerosene from a busted lamp filled the air.

"Yeah, open one of the cells for me." Darby nodded at the back room where the cells were, pushing Bret before him. He had one of the gambler's arms raised behind his back, twisting it.

"It's a mistake," Bret said, "all just a big mistake. I'm Bret Maverick. From, from—"

Just then, he couldn't think where he was from, since he had never settled down in any one place before. Gambling had its share of travels, far and near. In the two years since the War, he had been everywhere. Some places he liked. Some he wanted to forget. Charleston to Memphis, Denver to San Francisco, Natchez to New Orleans. Then he thought of it!

"Little Bend, Texas!" he exclaimed, naming his birthplace.

"Get in there!" yelled the deputy, his lip bleeding. "Don't give me any more trouble."

Darby, though shorter than Bret by a whole head, was a stocky man. He looked capable of dealing with 'trouble' as he thrust Bret into one of the two cells, then quickly slammed and locked the door on him. Bret sprang to the bars.

"What's in this for you, deputy. Maybe the reward?"

"Why not? I get $2.00 a day for arrestin' you and six cents a mile on the way out, ten cents on the way back. The express company is offering $500—you saw the poster."

"If you go through with this," Bret cautioned him, "it means hangin' an innocent man. That's what you'll be doin'."

"I aim to collect that reward, Keene." As he started to go out, Darby said, "Just puttin' you on notice."

"We'll see," said Bret, stepping back from the bars, cooperatively, but no less hot under the collar.