The Bad Bet

by Lubrican

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Chapter Two

Back in town, Sheriff Dan Cross stood, looking at the four bodies laid out in the dusty street. There were three bodies grouped together, with the farmer's body a couple of feet away. Their glassy-eyed stares were typical of the dead, looking foreign, somehow ... not quite human. The farmer's face bulged where facial bones had given way to pressure inside the skull. It looked grotesquely flat, somehow, despite the bulge.

"Anybody know who they are?" he asked. There was still a crowd of ten or fifteen men milling around.

Jasper Wiggins spoke. "Them three rode in this morning," he said, pointing at the group of bodies. Sydney seemed to know them." Sydney was the bartender and Sheriff Cross had no real use for him.

Tim Humphreys stepped forward. "The farmer came in around noon. He asked for whisky. Them three were playing amongst themselves and he sat down at the table." He stopped there, not wanting to admit that he, too, had seen the men cheating the farmer, and had done nothing.

"And this Cowboy ...” Cross knew he was gone, but looked around anyway. He'd already heard of the amazing feat the boy - and all described him as a boy - had accomplished. He'd already examined the shooting irons of the dead men, and all were well worn, indicating frequent use, and suggesting some skill with them. For the boy to have taken them all suggested he might be a gun slinger, but that didn't fit with the story being told.

"He lit out," said another man. "Might still be in town. I'd know him if I saw him."

Cross snorted. The town was full of cowboys, in from various cattle drives, and more were arriving every day. Now that the railroad had arrived to take cattle back east Abilene was growing by leaps and bounds. Cross wasn't happy about that, but there was no stopping progress.

"Anybody else hurt?" he asked.

There were murmurs, but no information surfaced as to other victims.

"And they were definitely cheating?"

Dub Whittaker, a bent old man with a long dirty white beard stepped forward and pointed to leather shirt. "That one was double dealing. The farmer got the cards off the bottom, and that one," he pointed to the man who had claimed the win,” got the better hand off the top. I knowed somethin' was up earlier, but couldn't see what they wuz doin' until that last hand. I think they got careless when the sodbuster was all in. He was so excited at his hand that he threw the girl into the pot."

"And that girl?" asked Cross. "Where is she?"

"Wagon went south out of town," said a man. "Damndest thing I ever saw. It wuz like they didn't even care he was dead."

Another man yelled. "I saw the woman grab some money after the shooting!"

"Did she get it all?" asked Cross, who knew there was no money lying around anywhere, and knew it was in the pockets of these men, or others who had decided not to stick around.

"Probly," said the man, whose hand went to touch the front pocket of his pants.

Cross didn't care about the money. If the farmer had been cheated, then as far as he was concerned the money belonged to his family. There was the little problem of who'd pay for the burials, though. As if that thought had produced him, a man hurried up. He was tall and lanky, with pale skin and was wearing a stovepipe hat that was easily a foot tall.

"Four!?" gasped the undertaker.

"It's a red letter day for you, Mister Remmington," said Sheriff Cross.

"Who are they?"

"That remains unclear."

"Who's going to pay?" asked the sallow man.

"We'll sell their gear," said Cross. "That should more than compensate you."

Cross stepped up onto the boardwalk and went inside to talk to Sydney. The man's attitude was surly as he polished glasses with a dirty rag.

"Who were they, Sidney?" asked the lawman.

"How should I know?" The man didn't meet the lawman's eyes.

"They knew you, according to them out there," said Cross, shoving his thumb over his shoulder at the street. "This is the fourth time in as many weeks I've had problems with your ... establishment ... Sydney. Seems to be a threat to public safety around here. I might have to have a word with the town fathers about closing down any unsafe businesses, if you get my drift."

"You can't do that!" growled the barkeep. "I been here since this shit hole got named!"

"Progress moves apace, Sydney," said Cross. "I've even heard tell that some folks want to issue licenses to operate a business, like they do back east. Pretty fancy notion if you ask me, but progress brings such things."

"I'm just trying to make a dollar!" complained the man.

"Who were they, Sidney?" Cross was tired of negotiating.

The bartender's eyes darted left and right as he scowled. "I tell you and you leave me be ... right?"

"Depends," said Cross. "They caused a heap of trouble."

"They just showed up," complained Sidney. "I can't help it if somebody just walks in my doors."

Cross started to turn. "Good luck with your business, Sydney," he said. He made it to the batwing doors before the man called "Wait!" He turned, but he didn't plan on waiting long. That must have been obvious.

"Fisby," said the bartender. "They claimed to be brothers. They always had cash. I didn't ask no questions."

Cross's eyes widened. He'd heard that name. Most lawmen west of the Mississippi had heard that name. The Fisby brothers were reputed to have robbed three trains, and killed more than ten men between them. Nobody knew what they looked like ... until now ... if that was who they were.

"They spent some time in town some years back, and hung around here. I couldn't turn them away," whined Sidney. "They'd have made trouble."

"I'll mention that to the city fathers," said Cross. "I'll remind them you went to pains to make sure there was no trouble."

Cross pushed through the doors. The undertaker's two sons were there now, lifting bodies onto a wagon. Cross went to the three horses that were already tied to the rear wheel of the wagon. His examination revealed a very nice Sharps buffalo rifle and he removed it from the scabbard.

"Here now!" called Remmington. "That's my fee!"

"This is MY fee," said Cross, shouldering the rifle. "You're getting three horses and saddles for your work, plus their pistols, which I might add are possibly famous. That's worth three times what you have coming."

"Who's going to pay for the farmer?" complained the man. "His clothes ain't even worth keeping and one of his boots has a hole in the bottom!"

"Those fellers are," said Cross, looking at the bodies of the three outlaws. He paused to say one last thing to the undertaker. "And talk to Homer. Make sure he gets a good photograph of their faces before you plant them. His fee can come out of their belongings too."

He left the fuming man behind and turned toward the train station. There was one bit of progress he was happy about, and he headed for the depot to send a telegraph. Barely a year past, the Dalton gang had terrorized Coffeyville, and the resulting gun battle, which had killed eight men, outlaws included, was still talked of. The territorial authorities were trying to bring civilization to Kansas, and they'd be interested in the Fisby brothers, if anybody was. There had been word of a reward too. Cross knew he couldn't claim it, but getting some attention for his blooming town couldn't be bad, especially if it helped establish the town's reputation as a place outlaws should stay shut of.

Arabella Mortenson sat on the wagon seat, staring at the dust being kicked up by the now walking team of oxen in front of her. Most of an hour had passed. Her son had returned to the front of the wagon, saying he saw no riders, and no dust behind them.

She was slowly coming to grips with the idea that her life might not be over. But that brought with it other concerns. If she stayed alive and out of prison, she would have to figure out how to provide for her family.

She seemed to go through cycles of thought. First she reminded herself that they had, in the wagon, the tools and supplies necessary to establish a new home. She didn't know how to use some of them, but she could learn. She thought of what needed doing next, in pursuit of that. Then, as she contemplated what would be required of them, she lost hope and slid back into the abyss of self pity.

Becky was still handling the team, going south toward the Oklahoma territory. They had been headed there anyway, and she had no better plan. Frank had never let her make a single decision after she was told to walk up the aisle to meet him on her wedding day. She'd never laid eyes on him before that day.

Now, as she realized she'd never lay eyes on him again, she felt peculiar. That was because she felt guilty. And THAT was because, now that she'd had time to think about it, the idea of never seeing Frank Mortenson again did not, in any way, make her unhappy. Her daughter was right about that. He was a beast ... had been a beast. How could she be so relieved that her husband was dead? Did that make her a monster?

No. HE had been the beast. Now there would be no more bruises ... no more loose teeth from his fist hitting her mouth. There would be no more drunken rages where she was dragged to the bedroom, stripped bare and then taken like a common whore. She shuddered, as she had for years, at the thought of his slapping hands and squeezing fingers, that left bruises on her after sex that was always painful. No longer would she know that just outside the bedroom, her children could hear her screams as their father made her wish he'd just kill her and get it over with.

She had stayed alive for the children though. She had been able to protect them thus far. The price had been steep but providence had finally taken a hand.

Her demon of a husband was no longer a threat, to her OR her children.

Her shoulders sagged as their situation sank in. They were hundreds of miles from their former home, which was now owned and being lived in by another family. The man of her own family was dead. She'd stolen money and left his body for whatever courtesy the town of Abilene might accord it. She'd never even know where he was buried.

Other matters clamored for her attention.

Frank's plan had been to arrive Kansas, or perhaps the Oklahoma Territory, where he intended to homestead a hundred and sixty acres. There was land to be had there, he said, free for the taking. He'd been vague on the details, but just last night he'd told them they'd be "there" in a week or two. He'd gone in the saloon, he said, to get news. She knew he'd gone in to get whiskey, because all but one of the bottles he'd brought were empty. Becky had now confirmed that suspicion.

Well. There'd be no more whiskey, evidently. She couldn't be unhappy about that either.

"Mamma!" Becky interrupted her healing process. "Look there...up ahead!"

Arabella lifted her eyes. A horse was standing, head down and one rear leg lifted, off the ground. A man was sitting, his head in his hands, beside the horse.

It was the cowboy who had shot the men who had killed her husband.

U.S. Marshal Jeremiah Stone looked at the dispatch his boss, Jeffrey Tomlinson had just handed him. It was spare in the details, but the meaning was clear:

"presumed fisby brothers shot dead in abilene stop killed during card game stop burial proceeding stop photographs available stop please advise details of reward stop" The signature was just one word: "cross"

Tomlinson waited until Stone was finished reading. "Get on over there and see if there's any way you can show it was them," he said. "That would be a nice thing to be able to tell Judge Baker. Maybe we can stop looking for them."

"How in tarnation am I supposed to prove it was the Fisbys?" asked Stone.

"Marcus Fisby is said to have had his great left toe shot off by one of his brothers," said Tomlinson. "That and the photographs should be enough to convince the judge if we can get their mother to say it's them."

"It says they're being buried," commented Jeremiah.

"Then dig 'em up when you get there," said Tomlinson casually. "Our resources are stretched thin. We don't need to be chasing ghosts if we can help it. And try not to say anything about that reward when you get there. I don't want to authorize that kind of payment unless it's absolutely necessary."

Stone left the office, still frowning. Ever since the Supreme Court had upheld the right for Marshals to use deadly force in the commission of their duties, some three years past, the Marshal Service had been invaded by dandies and politicians who knew nothing about law enforcement, but wanted the glory of "catching" felons. Most of them never left their comfortable offices, sending men like him out instead to do the dirty work.

Well, examining rotting bodies dug from the ground was one bit of dirty work he planned to avoid. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram back to Abilene: "marshal on way about fisbys stop have photographs taken of faces and bare feet of all dead before burial stop" He added the name "Stone" at the end and handed it to the clerk. Then he went to get his gear ready for the long ride from Topeka to Abilene. It would be good to get out of the stink of the city and out under the open skies again.

The wagon rolled to a creaking stop. The team stamped and blew, finally able to rest. The cowboy's horse looked around at them and whickered. Its ears flicked forward in interest.

"What happened?" asked Arabella. She still didn't know why she'd told Becky to stop the wagon. The young man looked up at them.

"Threw a shoe. He went lame before I figured it out." He looked hopeless.

Nobody said anything for so long that only the sound of the oxen's labored breathing convinced Becky that she hadn't gone deaf.

"I'm sorry," said the cowboy. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen. I should have just kept my mouth shut."

"And let us be robbed," said Arabella, whose mix of disturbing emotions had her reeling. At once she felt relief that Frank would never break another of her bones, and the shame of having taken their money back in a way that seemed a lot like stealing, to her. On top of that there was pity for this young man, who had done something that should have righted a wrong, but which turned both his and their worlds upside down. She felt both pity for this young man and herself. But it was the knowledge that he had saved her daughter from a fate worse than death that was probably responsible for the snap decision she made at that moment.

"Why don't you come with us?"

He goggled at her. "I just got your husband killed!" he gasped.

She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling some strength flow into her body. "Some things are not as they first appear," she said.

AJ was confused. "He wasn't your husband?"

"Oh he was that," said Bella. "I can't explain now. There may be people looking for us, and I do not wish to be found just now. May I say plainly that we are not as sad at Frank's loss as we should be ... but we're going to need help to survive. It looks like you could use some help as well." She let that lie there in the still air.

"This is crazy," he muttered, still unbelieving. "I killed those men. You should get as far from me as you can."

"Perhaps," said Bella. "They were bad men, though."

"Cheats!" gasped AJ. "But not to be gunned down like that!"

"What choice did you have? I heard more than your shots, and Frank was killed. They would have killed you too."

"The law will not see it that way," said AJ.

"Then I suggest you avoid the law," said Bella. "Come with us. Help us get to some place where we have a chance, slim though it may be, to regain our lives. After that you may go whither you wish."

It was the whicker of AJ's horse that made his decision for him. The gelding had been a damn good horse, but it was lame now, and might not be whole for weeks, even assuming he could find a farrier to reshoe the bare hoof. If he had to walk those weeks, pursuit would find him easily and he'd swing from the end of a rope for murder. He knew that one of them had drawn first, but they were from town, and he was a stranger. It was unlikely there would be testimony in his defense.

He stood and began taking his gear from the gelding. He went to the rear of the wagon and threw his saddle in the back. He added the blanket and his bedroll and then stroked the horse's cheek before removing the bridle. The horse tossed his head, as if to ask "What now?"

"Go on," he said, pushing the beast away from him. "Good luck to you. Better than my luck, I hope."

Then, uncomfortable at facing the woman whose husband he'd gotten killed, he climbed into the back of the wagon and told her to drive on.

Riding in the wagon was completely foreign to AJ. Even so, the creaking of wood and metal, the rocking motion and bumps that tossed him and everything else in the back around couldn't penetrate into the part of his mind that replayed, over and over, the scene that he couldn't get out of his head. Keeping his eyes closed or open didn't matter. He still saw the dust jump from the clothing of the men as his bullets struck them. He had killed a man. He had killed three of them, in fact.

It wasn't at all like he'd expected it would be, back when he practiced by firing countless bullets at bottles, or knots on trees. He'd killed his share of game as well.

But this was different.

His rational mind insisted that they would have gunned him down if he hadn't let instinct and his muscle memory loose in those few seconds. That was the other thing that kept his jaw slack. The scene played on in what would, years later, be given the name "slow motion." His memory supplied other things about the scene too ... the almost identical sneer on the men's faces ... their guns coming out of holsters ... the belch of smoke from the ends of the barrels. He understood now why they were called barrels. They had looked as big around as a pickle barrel. He saw the bodies slowly turning or moving away from him as his bullets struck their bodies. He remembered one pistol flying from a suddenly limp hand.

Another part of his mind centered on the fact that he had almost died. That was different than the past too. His life had been threatened by stampedes, and lightning, and rattlers, among other things. He'd almost died of thirst one time. But in all those cases he'd still felt like he had some control over his life. He'd been able to take action to lessen the danger, or at least try to live.

His thoughts flickered to his bullets striking the men again. That had been action that had saved his life. The sodbuster had taken one right in the face. AJ's mind produced a quick glimpse of a shattered face, suddenly shaped all wrong, a third dark eye where no eye should be.

It could have been him.

He shuddered suddenly and sobs wracked his young frame. He was instantly mortified, ashamed beyond anything he'd ever faced before, and grimy hands flashed to knuckle his eyes. His glance darted to the other passenger in the back ... the young boy. The boy's stare brought a surge of anger.

"Does it hurt that turrible?" asked the boy, looking at the blood-soaked sleeve below AJ's left shoulder.

"I don't know," growled AJ, feeling helpless. Pain registered in his brain, a pain he almost welcomed because he could think about that instead of the fact that killing men ... even men who deserved it ... just didn't make him proud of himself at all.

"You ought to clean that," said the boy sagely. "Mamma says you got to clean a wound so's it won't fester."

"I got other things on my mind," said AJ.

"We got some water," said the boy, jerking his thumb behind him. "But the barrel's on the side of the wagon. You want me to tell Mamma to stop?"

"No," said AJ. "Leave me alone."

Maybe an hour later AJ wished they WOULD stop. The rocking of the wagon kept his arm moving, and he had to brace himself to keep from being thrown against furniture or provisions. His arm felt like it was on fire now. His shirt sleeve had turned almost black and was stiff. It kept sticking to the wound and then tearing loose as he moved. It was stifling in the wagon too. There was a fine coat of dust over everything and clouds of dust boiled into the opening of the back of the wagon occasionally.

Finally he took the shirt off, wincing at the pain of moving his arm. He examined the wound, which had torn a chunk of his skin out in a strip about two inches long. The wound itself was seeping bright red blood.

He muttered an oath. "Damn!"

"Better not let Mamma hear you cursing," warned the boy. "She's death on cursing."

AJ coughed as another cloud of dust wafted into the back of the wagon.

"How in tarnation can you live like this?" he asked the boy.

"Like what?" The boy looked confused.

"Never mind," said AJ. "Ain't you got any water in the back here?"

"No." The boy didn't even look around. "We'll stop soon, though."

"Why?" asked AJ. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and pursuit as possible. As slow as the wagon was going he was quite sure he'd hear the rattle of hooves behind the wagon at any minute.

"Team's got to rest," said the boy, as if anyone should know that. "Got to be watered too."

AJ felt uncommonly stupid as he realized he should have thought of that himself. He looked out the opening in the back of the wagon. His horse, now less it's saddle and bridle, limped along behind the wagon. He'd expected the beast to stay where it was, but it seemed to want company more than it wanted to favor a lame hoof. He sighed as he realized the horse was leaving tracks in the trail of the wagon ... tracks a blind man could follow.

AJ followed the boy out of the wagon, still shirtless. He didn't want to wear the shirt again until it had soaked in a stream for a while. It didn't occur to him to be embarrassed about appearing in front of womenfolk with a bare chest. He was more concerned with the pain in his arm that made something so simple as getting out of a wagon seem like a major event.

The boy had removed the wooden lid from a water cask and dipped water into a bowl. AJ watched him take the bowl to the standing oxen and then got a dipper of water out for himself. He drank from it first, and then poured the rest on the un-bloodied shirt sleeve of his shirt. Wincing he started swabbing his wound.

"Let me do that," said the woman. "I'm Arabella Mortenson, by the way. Frank Junior is watering the team. Becky's my daughter."

Her fingers plucked the shirt from his grasp. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the condition of the garment. Then she called to her daughter to find the last of the whiskey. Becky produced a bottle that, to AJ's practiced eye, had perhaps three shots left in it. She worried at the cork unsuccessfully until AJ took the bottle from her and pulled it with his teeth. He was sorely tempted to swig from it, but she took it back before he could get the cork out of his mouth.

He tensed at the incredible burning sting as she poured whiskey from the bottle into the open wound and then used the cleanest part of his shirt to wipe the caked blood away. When she poured the rest of the bottle on the wound his groan wasn't from pain, but from seeing what she had said was the last of the whiskey dribbling off his arm into the dust at his feet. When she was done she handed the shirt to her daughter and instructed the girl to get rid of it in a nearby copse of trees.

"Hey!" complained AJ. "I only got one other shirt."

"I'll give you one of my husband's," she said. "He was bigger than you, but it should fit all right." Her voice was peculiarly flat as she went on. "He has no more use of them."

She gave Becky more instructions and the girl appeared from the back of the wagon with two shirts. Arabella tore one into strips to make bandages while the girl stood, holding the other shirt and staring curiously at AJ.

"Don't stare, Becky," ordered her mother. "It's not polite."

AJ was doing some staring of his own. The woman's calm attitude didn't make sense, considering what had happened. Her touch was gentle, almost caring as she bound up the wound and then helped him slip on a nicer shirt than he'd ever owned in his life. His eyes took in the girl's form, which took his mind off the pain in his arm. Even the loose long dress she was wearing couldn't hide the fact that she was a girl. The bodice was tight across her breasts. Under the sun bonnet her brown hair hung in natural ringlets.

She was cute, but AJ could almost always find something cute about most women. He'd lived the life of a cowboy for over a year now, and that included patronizing saloons and the women who worked in them. He hadn't been around what his mother would have called a decent woman in a long time though, and he felt a little funny about wondering what this girls breasts might look like heaving as she lay under him. It was hard to envision, though, because thus far there had only been two women who found themselves in that situation. Both had been closer to Arabella's age than Becky's.

That brought his attention to the woman who was now standing and staring at him herself, despite her previous rebuke to her daughter. Her dusty dress didn't hide the fact that she was female either. Her bust was larger, and her face had lines of care in it, but she was easily as good looking as either of the painted women AJ had dallied with.

It occurred to him that his indecent thoughts might end him up walking and he tried to push them out of his head.

"Thank you," he said, moving his arm experimentally. It still hurt like the blazes, but the whiskey had knocked the sharp edge off the pain.

"You're welcome," said Arabella. "Now, as to avoiding pursuit. We should leave the trail ... don't you think so?"

AJ looked in the direction of their back trail. The road had deep ruts in it from countless wagons that had traveled this way in the past, heading down to join the Santa Fe Trail. All around them was prairie, dotted here and there with small groups of trees. His eyes drifted naturally to a line of trees that announced a stream in the distance, ahead. As Frank Junior made another trip to the water barrel and returned to the team AJ wondered why the woman hadn't driven the wagon on to the stream to let them drink, instead of using their stored water.

"If we leave the road here the wagon will still leave tracks in the grass," he pointed out. "We should go on to that stream up ahead and see if the wagon might be able to go up the stream bed, where the water will wash out the tracks."

"How do you know there's a stream there?" she asked curiously.

"That line of trees wouldn't be there unless there was a regular supply of water," he said.

"Oh," said Arabella, looking surprised. "All right." Her face took on a slightly strained look. "I don't believe you never mentioned your name." She looked almost embarrassed, as if she felt like she was prying.

"AJ," he said. "I'm just called AJ."

"I see. Well, shall we be off again?" It sounded like she was talking about going on a picnic or some such thing. Frank Junior approached with the bowl and announced he was finished watering the oxen.

AJ looked at their back trail again, trying to discern if there was any dust being raised in the distance. He didn't see any, but the wind was gusty. His horse was standing, cropping grass contentedly. He took the bowl from the boy and put some water in it. His horse drank greedily.

"Off again sounds good to me," he said, handing the bowl back to the boy.

In the fifteen minutes it took them to get to the stream, AJ's thoughts ranged free. His wound was now only throbbing, and his immediate shock and fear was giving way, allowing him to think more clearly.

He admitted to himself that he was scared, more so than he'd ever been before in his life. True, the men had been cheating, but he had no proof of that. And true, they had drawn first, or at least one of them had, but he was a stranger in town and who would back him up on that? These cow towns loved the money that the herds brought in, but they had little use for the cowpokes who got them there. And for all he knew, those men had been pillars of the community.

Then there was the woman. He was puzzled by her actions and attitude. She didn't act like a woman whose husband had just been killed. And she didn't act towards AJ like he was the man who had precipitated that killing. Then he remembered how the man had agreed to throw his daughter into the pot as a bet. Maybe the woman was as mercenary as her husband. Maybe she was trying to make him feel beholden to her. She had to know she had a tough row to hoe, now that her man was no longer there to do the heavy work. The wagon told the tale that they were setting out to start over again. It was likely that everything they owned was in this wagon.

If her intent was to ensnare him, it was working. He DID feel responsible for getting her husband killed. And she HAD helped him. His arm DID feel better, and sepsis was less likely after that whiskey bath on the wound. He remembered seeing an old one-armed coot in Texas who hung around the saloon and traded the story, for a drink, of how he lost his arm in the war. He'd lost his arm to gangrene after receiving a simple flesh wound, like AJ now had. AJ shuddered at the thought of becoming that old man.

He decided to take things slowly ... but he WAS beholden to the woman. If there was pursuit ... and he was sure there was ... he'd have been helpless on foot, and probably already tied to a horse, on his way back to Abilene ... and a gallows.

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