A Town Between Two Guns (Preview)

Chapter One

New Mexico Territory, 1880

A cool wind howled through the river valley, among the creosote bushes, stirring ravens from their midday slumbers. The dirt crunched under Harry’s boots, and though it was a cool wind, he thought it was a nice wind on a nice day. He puffed his chest out as he walked, which was not all that impressive since he was only twelve years old, but it was hard not to feel happy. His best friend in the whole world, Opie, was by his side. Both of them were covered in dirt from the abandoned copper mines southwest of Harry’s house. It was Christmas Eve.

“Harry,” Opie said as he tried and failed to kick a small stone. “Bat Materson or Doc Holliday?”

“Easy,” Harry said with a wry grin. “Doc Holliday.”

“Okay.” Opie nodded his head. “Doc Holliday or Desmond Ouray?”

“Oh.” Harry stroked his invisible beard. “Got to be Ouray!”

“I was gonna say the same thing,” Opie said.

“I read that Holliday is on the run after he killed that army scout in Las Vegas.”

“Oh yeah,” Opie said like it was old news. “He ain’t on the run, though. He went to Tombstone with the Earp Brothers from Dodge City. There’s a big silver strike over there.”

“Ah,” Harry said, a little disappointed that his friend was more informed than he. “Well, Desmond Ouray is in Mexico.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.” Harry wasn’t actually sure if this was true, but he thought it sounded believable. “I mean, I think that’s where he goes in the winter.”

“I bet you’re right.” Opie smiled at Harry.

Opie was a good friend.

“Did you hear how Ouray killed four bounty hunters that came to get him?”

“Oh yeah,” Opie agreed. “There was Three-Finger Sam. He shot him in the eye from forty yards on a pitch black night with no moon! Then he killed all the Thomas Brothers… one. After. Another…”

The boys then pretended to shoot down an army of imaginary bounty hunters circling them with finger pistols and accompanying gun sounds. The bounty hunters didn’t stand a chance. After hopping around with exaggerated movements, they slid their weapons into imaginary holsters.

“I’d love to run with Ouray,” Harry said. He lifted his head, letting the low sun shine under the brim of his hat. “We’d adventure, fight our way outta tough spots, robbing stagecoaches.”

“I don’t know,” Opie admitted. “Ouray is great and all, but I’d hate to leave my family and Copperhead. Plus, your dad would kill you if you were an outlaw.”

“Well, sure,” Harry agreed. “He is the sheriff, after all.”

They continued their leisurely walk back into town. They used an old path that miners used to use when the old mines were still active. More mines to the north were still active, so Copperhead could still be true to its name.

The approach to their hometown was always a welcome sight. Harry was trying to hide it, but the cold wind was starting to make him shiver, and the vision of smoke trickling out of chimneys reminded him of the potbelly stove in his own home. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon as they walked between two houses onto the main and only street in town. The street had no name.

The town itself was a bustle of people, some carrying crates and some with bundles under their arms. Horse and wagons rattled past, haphazardly with little regard for pedestrians. Families, wearing their Sunday best, crossed the street, trying not to get too dusty. Mothers herded their children, talking to each other as they passed. Then there were the drunks, spilling out of the saloons with voices that were a bit too loud and faces a bit too red. For Harry, they were the sour note in an otherwise beautiful sound. These were men, mostly, who had little to do in the winter months, so they spent their days in the saloons, drinking away their boredom.

“That whiskey makes good men bad and bad men worse,” his father had once explained.

A bearded man bumped into Harry, smelling of stale sweat, vomit, and alcohol.

“Look out, Fern. That’s the sheriff’s boy!” another man said.

“I don’t give a shit about a sheriff’s boy,” the bearded man slurred.

Harry and Opie skirted around them. Darted past the families, men holding parcels, and then past the choir singing about “figgy pudding.” After they passed the drunkards, there was a wonderful smell of woodsmoke, coffee, and baking bread that swirled around them.

“Hello, Mr. Brown!” Opie called out to the town’s baker, a man revered for his bread, cakes, and candies.

“Okay, Clay Allison against Desmond Ouray?” Opie asked.

“Allison is a wild man,” Harry admitted. “But I’d still pick Ouray.”

“That’s what I was going to say,” Opie added.

“Pa said it’s a good thing we’re not near Colfax County,” Harry added, wanting to reaffirm his role as the more informed of the two of them. “The Santa Fe Ring has turned the whole area into a shooting gallery.”

Harry was repeating word-for-word something he had heard his dad say, but it seemed to impress Opie all the same.

“Copperhead is a peaceful town,” Harry added.

“Only cuz we got your pa as sheriff,” Opie offered. “My pa says Sheriff Swann is a good lawman because he ain’t quick to his gun. He tries to… You know… calm folks down and not get ‘em stirred up like some.”

“That’s true,” Harry said.

In truth, he looked up to his father. He saw the way he handled people and showed people respect. He was not an angry man. He never drank, never said a mean word to his mother. He was honorable, honest, everything a man should be. Harry only wished his father were a little more adventurous and not so careful. They had reached the point where their paths diverged. Opie was heading to his house, and Harry was heading to the Sheriff’s Office.

They stopped, looked at each other, then spat in their hands and shook them.

“Don’t tell your ma where we was,” Harry said with a stern expression.

“I ain’t gonna,” Opie replied quickly. “You don’t tell yers neither.”

“You know I never would.” Harry shook his head.

“Well,” Opie said. “Merry Christmas Eve. I suppose I’ll see you at church tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry replied. “I’ll probably have to take a bath and everything. See you, partner.”

Opie waved as he ran toward his house, hoping to get home before his parents might contend that it was dark. Harry continued on his way. The Sheriff’s Office was also his parents’ house and, therefore, his home, and though he had the same curfew as Opie, he knew his mother would be lenient because it was Christmas Eve. So, he sauntered down the darkening street.

He thought about the gunfighters he loved to read about. He knew they were not honorable men, for the most part. Many of them claimed to be gentlemen, but Harry had to admit that he wasn’t really sure what that meant. They were certainly not gentle, but hard as stone and tough as nails. They’d shoot a man at the drop of a hat, and that sure didn’t seem gentle. A man, holding the neck of a bottle, bobbed into Harry’s view.

“You’s the shuriff’s son?”

The man wasn’t so much speaking as letting words fall out of his mouth. Harry recognized him as the bearded man who had run into him, Fern. He did not respond but kept walking.

“Word is,” Fern stammered. “Word is… you’s papa is working for them English bankers.”

It was such a ridiculous statement that Harry had to stop walking and almost laughed.

“What?” he asked.

“Them bankers what want to take everyone’s land,” Fern continued.

“You’re thinking of land grants.” Harry tried to reason with him. “There’s no land grants in Copperhead. This ain’t Colfax County.”

New Mexico Territory had an issue with old land grants from the days when the area was part of Mexico. Certain pieces of land were supposed to belong to the community, or ranchers had been allowed to use them, but now, under American law, companies were coming in and claiming ownership of the land grants. An English outfit had claimed ownership in Colfax County and was kicking people off their homesteads and ranches. This led to violence in those areas, but Copperhead had no such land grants, and no one was taking anyone’s land. Apparently, someone was spreading ignorant rumors about his father. It wounded Harry’s pride in his father’s integrity.

“I heard diff’r’nt,” Fern hiccuped.

“You heard wrong, Fern,” Harry said.

“What’s that?” Fern looked dismayed. “How’s you know my name? Your daddy comin’ after me? I got an iron here that’ll say different.”

Fern patted the side of his overcoat. An icy feeling slid down Harry’s spine that had nothing to do with the cool wind.

“It ain’t true!” Harry said and then ran as fast as he could.

Fern’s laughter hounded him as he came to his house. He stopped himself and caught his breath. It would do no good to come inside out of breath and worry his mother for no good reason. Fern was a fool, and he was too drunk to do much of anything. He probably didn’t even have a gun but was just trying to scare Harry. It was all nonsense, and Harry didn’t want to be some scared little kid crying to his mother. He’d be a grown man before too long, and though his parents told him to enjoy being a child, he was ready to be rid of childish things.

Maybe, he thought as he bent over, gulping in lungs full of air, maybe he’d grow up to be a lawman like his pa. He’d protect the town and keep things in order. He’d be honorable, honest, and brave. He thought he might tell his father this, the first chance he got, and he hoped his daddy would be proud. There was nothing so wonderful as the approving smile of Sheriff Isaac Swann. After catching his breath, Harry walked up the rough-hewn steps and opened the door to a somewhat surprising sight.

Chapter Two

His father’s office was at the front of the building. There was a desk, a chair, and a small wood stove to one side, then on the other side was an eight-by-eight cell with wrought iron bars. There was a little hallway that led back to their living quarters. When Harry walked in, he saw that his father was not there, which was surprising since he usually did his best to be home on Christmas Eve for presents and cake. Harry’s mother was standing at the stove, just taking a coffee pot off the top using a corner of her apron. The most surprising thing was that there was a man slumped on the bed in the cell.

Most of the man’s face was obscured by a white beard, yellowed with dirt. His eyes were black dots, his mouth nonexistent. However, his nose was a big, bulbous red ball, stratified with purple veins and as rough as any desert stone. He was grumbling angrily, though Harry could not at first understand his words. It was rare that anyone would be in that cell, especially on Christmas Eve. Copperhead was a peaceful place. Not only that, but Harry did not even recognize the man, which was also rare in his small town.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked.

At the same time, his mother turned and asked, “Where have you been?”

He stood dumb for a moment, but the look on his mother’s face told him that her question took precedence.

“We were in the grove,” Harry lied with a smile. A piece of dirt fell off his boot and hit the floor.

“I see.” his mother raised an eyebrow and looked down her long nose at him. “Well, you’re here and safe. Happy Christmas, Harry.”

Harry’s mother, Molly, was a stern woman, but she had a warmth that was not seen by people outside the family. She smiled, an act that completely changed her face. She no longer looked cold, but instead like a mother bird wrapping her wings around her chick.

“You can’t keep me in this damn hole!” the man in the cell suddenly yelled.

“That’s enough outta you!” Harry’s mother shouted back.

She poured some coffee into a tin mug and put the coffee pot back on the stove.

“Here,” she walked over and put the mug through the bars. “Drink this.”

“I ain’t drinking none of your damn… stuff,” the man said. “You’re with them lawyers that’re goin’ to take all our land away.”

“Where is your land, mister?” Harry’s mom asked as she pulled the mug away.

“Well… I had land, I did. Up north, that is…” the man’s voice sort of trailed off.

Harry’s mother returned to her chair by the stove and began sewing a button onto one of his father’s shirts. Harry walked over and sat down in his father’s chair behind the desk. There was a newspaper on the desk. He looked down to see a headline saying that the notorious outlaw William Bonney, who’d killed at least nine people in the Lincoln County War, had been captured while one of his partners, Charlie Bowdre, had been killed by Sheriff Pat Garret. It was the first time Harry had heard any details about Bonney, whom the papers called Billy the Kid. Still, he’d have to read about it later.

“So,” he said. “Where’s Pa?”

His mother looked up from her sewing.

“He had to go down to the Falling Star Saloon to keep an eye on things. There’s been a lot of trouble this evening from out-of-towners.”

His mother shot an unapproving glance at the man in the cell.

“I think they’re telling lies about Pa,” Harry said, then told his mother about the drunk Fern.

She shook her head.

“I don’t like it,” she said, then winced and stuck her finger in her mouth. “I’ve gone and pricked myself.”

“What did he do?” Harry asked and pointed at the man in the cell.

“Hm?” his mother looked over then at the man. “Oh, Mr. Tanner was three sheets to the wind by two o’clock this afternoon. He was shouting and hollerin’ at folks as they went about their business in town. He was waving a pistol around, weren’t you, Mr. Tanner?”

The man in the cell shifted in his slouched position.

“Damn, evil woman,” he grumbled. “Back in my day…”

His voice trailed off once again.

“I tell you what, Harry.” His mother put down her sewing and smiled at him. “How about you go to the Falling Star and tell your father that he’s wanted back here. We’ll eat dinner, then exchange gifts.”

“Will we have cake?” Harry asked.

“Oh, there might be time for cake,” his mother said, then waved her hand at him. “Off with you, boy. I’ll get dinner started.”

Harry was back outside, running down the street and avoiding the shadowy alleys between the buildings. The choir was still singing in the square, but a few drunks had decided to join them and were drowning out everyone else with their tone deaf efforts. Several dogs were howling along as well. Harry passed the tailor’s and the general store, both of them alive with commerce.

The Falling Star Saloon was alive. Harry could hear a group of people singing a raunchy song at the top of their lungs while someone abused the upright piano inside. However, Harry didn’t need to go inside; his father was leading a disheveled man out of the saloon in shackles, passing out of the warm golden light into the blue light of the rising moon. The man in shackles was spitting with venom.

“Damn you, Sheriff!” he screamed. “I tell ya, if you don’t unhand me, I’ll kill you right here!”

This shocked Harry. He’d never heard someone threaten his father in such a way, but Isaac Swann took it in stride.

“Let’s just get you back to my office, and we can have a little chat,” Harry’s father said with authority. “I’m not sure what has gotten into you all this evening, but no one is killing anyone in my town.”

“You don’t know me!” the man continued. “But I know you, Sheriff, I do… you’re in league with them Santa Fe lawyers.”

Isaac stopped and turned to the man.

“The only lawyer I know is Mr. Veers, who does the wills and deeds for folks around here. Now, you’re from out of town. I don’t expect you to know these things, but there’s no big city lawyers taking anything away from anybody here in Copperhead. Everyone just needs to calm down.”

The man stopped, staring up at Harry’s father, who towered over him. Harry couldn’t see his father’s face, but he was sure he knew the expression the man wore. It was a look of firmness, but kindness that said, “Come now, let’s be reasonable.” Harry’s father deployed that look on him whenever Harry would get upset over small things. The shackled man looked up at the Sheriff with wide eyes as if he finally saw the light of truth and the foolishness of his ways.

“Yessir,” the shackled man said and dropped his gaze.

Harry’s father turned around and saw Harry for the first time.

“What’re you doin’ out here, boy?” his father asked him.

Harry could see a small crowd gathering behind his father, people swaying in drunkenness, not feeling the cold.

“Mama sent me out,” Harry said, proud of the errand with which he had been entrusted. “Says you gotta come home for Christmas presents and cake.”

Harry’s father smiled out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes softened.

“I’m headed back there right now,” he said. “But go on ahead and tell her we might have to postpone the cake. We’ve got to take care of our prisoners first.”

“She won’t like that,” Harry said quickly.

His father laughed.

“I reckon she won’t,” Isaac said. “But I’ve faced her wrath before and I ain’t ‘fraid.”

The grin returned, the eyes seemed to sparkle. Harry didn’t understand what was so charming about his mother’s anger. When she was angry with Harry, he found it best to hide under the stairs. It was then that Harry noticed a strangely familiar face behind his father. It wasn’t someone from town… No, it was the drunken man who had been harassing him earlier, Fern. He looked even drunker, his face purple in the pale light of the evening. His expression was twisted in rage. He almost didn’t look human, and Harry suddenly felt his stomach drop to the ground. He wanted to say something, but the words would not come out.

In the end, remembering how Fern had patted his overcoat, he only managed to yell, “Gun!”

Fern pulled his revolver out and emptied the cylinder. Two of the bullets hit the ground or went wide, one hit the man just in front of Fern, and one hit Harry in the shoulder, a white hot pain that sent him spinning as he fell to the ground. The last two found their mark and buried themselves in Harry’s father’s back. One sliced through his backbone, the other hit his heart, killing him instantly.

The blood coming from his shoulder felt hot, a searing pain like being stabbed with a hot iron. Harry forced his eyes open, but he still couldn’t see because of the tears. He didn’t even remember crying. He heard screams, yelling, and boots running in what seemed like a million directions at once. The singing in the saloon had stopped, and then a silence fell on everything like a blanket of snow in the desert.

Harry got up and looked over at the massive form before him. He saw his father’s face and the open, sightless eyes, and he had a momentary thought that this was a life-like statue of his father, bigger than life, that had fallen over. He didn’t seem real; it couldn’t be real. He crawled to the object and put a small hand on the wide of his father’s face, and he felt the heat leave his body. It was his father. His father was dead.

“No,” he whispered softly. “No, no, no…”

His voice rose, he cried uncontrollably, and the onlookers took as few steps away, embarrassed to be present for such an intimate moment. He screamed then, to Heaven, to anything that could hear him.

“No!”

One week later, every business in town closed its doors for the day. Black curtains, blankets, and ribbon hung from every window. Harry’s mother cried behind her black veil. She looked like she had been meant to wear black; she would never wear another color for the rest of her life. Some of the folks gathered thought it was strange that the twelve-year-old son of the sheriff did not cry at his father’s grave, but those who knew replied the same:

“He’s already cried every tear he had,” they would explain.

In fact, it was well known that Harry cried for four days straight. By the time they put Sheriff Isaac Swann in the ground and the villain Fern had been hunted down and hanged, Harry felt all hollowed out. He had only one wish: to be a lawman just like his father, the greatest man he ever knew.

Chapter Three

It was eight years later that Nel Cassidy found herself running across what appeared to be a barren desert, practically dragging her six-year-old son, Adam, behind her. Her boots were not exactly meant for running in deserts. Her pale yellow dress, which had been so nice at one point, was now in tatters and thoroughly covered in dirt, dust, and blood. She was, in fact, bleeding from her arm profusely, which kept her from carrying Adam and also caused her to feel quite lightheaded.

Nel wasn’t particularly fond of blood as a rule. She especially didn’t like to see her own blood. The birth of Adam had been traumatic. The pain she could handle, but the blood was something else entirely. She felt weak, and Adam was crying. She would’ve tried to soothe him with reassuring words, but she had none to give, and her throat was so parched, she wasn’t sure she could speak.

“Mama,” Adam cried out.

The poor child was also covered in dust, but he was not bleeding. The only thing worse for Nel than seeing her own blood was seeing the blood of her child. He was a strong, smart boy. He was also a good boy, a kind of mix of innocence and wisdom that seemed almost supernatural. Or perhaps she was just biased. However, her sole occupation in this madhouse of a world was to keep him safe until he could take care of himself.

“Just a little bit farther.” Her rasping voice surprised her with its harshness.

Adam started to recoil, but she placed her other hand over his.

“It’s okay,” she said and smiled.

They ran on. They were coming up a ridge when Nel fell and landed on an exposed rock awkwardly, chipping one of her front teeth. She tongued the broken tooth, then felt it with a finger, no blood, thank God. She crested the ridge. Nel stole a look back, expecting to see riders, but was relieved to see an empty stretch of land. She turned back to see that they were approaching what appeared to be a small cemetery.

Crumbling stone walls surrounded a collection of graves, mostly noted with wooden crosses. An ancient mesquite tree curled up from a tiny patch of yellowed grass and reached twisted, leafless limbs over the graves, protecting them from nothing. She saw what she thought was a man, sitting cross-legged by one of the graves. His posture made her think he might be an Indian or Mexican, but his clothes marked him as an Anglo.

She tried to call out to him but only croaked on her dry throat. They continued to run, faster now, up the ridge and across, finally reaching the stone walls of the cemetery. The man had still not noticed them, so they climbed over the wall. Nel helped Adam over, then she tried to climb over. She had gotten to the top of the wall, which was no more than four feet high, when her boot slipped, and she fell on the other side with a solid thump. Adam let out a cry.

Nel had only a moment to look at the man, who, hearing Adam’s cry, jumped up and ran over to her, before she completely passed out.

Chapter Four

It seemed like it was only a moment, but it clearly had been much longer when Nel opened her eyes to find herself lying in a soft bed, her blanket tucked in around her. She felt dizzy, lightheaded. She looked over to see that her arm had been bandaged and the blood cleaned away. She was happy to see that she still wore her dress, though she felt bad that she was getting someone else’s bedclothes dirty. Someone else.

She looked around in a panic. There was no one in the room. Where was Adam? She jumped out of bed and almost immediately regretted it. Her head spun, and her knees almost buckled, but her maternal instincts overrode everything else. She inhaled sharply through her nose and took a few tentative steps forward, finally catching herself on the doorframe.

She was barefoot, and she couldn’t see her boots anywhere. That was problematic. She wasn’t sure how far she could run on bare feet. It still didn’t matter. She needed to get her son and get the hell out of this place. Desmond or his goons could be there at any moment. They could already be there. She heard voices downstairs.

Poor Adam had been there, seen everything. He must be so scared. She had to find him, had to keep moving. She took a few more steps forward and hung on the railing right by the stairs. She was on the second floor of a home. Old wallpaper, peeling at the corners, and other little touches showed that a woman lived here.

She smelled woodsmoke, and then she heard a woman speaking. The cadence of the woman’s voice denoted that she was speaking to a child, slow, deliberate, but soothing. Adam must be downstairs. Nel used the railing to edge to the stairs and then silently descended one step at a time. By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs, the woman was already there.

“Hello,” she said while she held a glass of water. “You’re Adam’s mother?”

It was a question, but it didn’t quite sound like one as it came out of the woman’s mouth. It was more like an accusation.

“Yes,” Nel croaked. She rubbed her throat. “Who the hell are you?”

“Calm yourself,” the woman said, giving her the water. “Drink, for your throat.”

The woman held out her hands, long fingers with callused palms.

“Adam!” Nel called over the woman’s shoulder.

She didn’t want to, but she drank the water. She felt the comfort of cool liquid on her mouth and throat. The woman was taller than Nel. Her features were angular and severe. Nel thought she looked like a judgmental vulture. At the sound of Nel’s voice, there was the sound of a chair scraping the floor, and Adam appeared around the woman’s cinched waist.

“Mama!” Adam said. “You’re okay!”

“Barely,” Nel said and wrapped her arms around her son.

“Are you okay?” she asked and began patting her boy on the shoulders, the head, the stomach. He laughed.

“I’m okay,” he continued to laugh. “I’m okay, Mama. Come over here. There’s fresh milk.”

Adam grabbed Nel’s hand and pulled her around the woman, who was smiling at Adam. He brought her to a small wooden table, handmade, where a glass half full of milk sat to one side. Adam sat back down at the table and picked up a small piece of caramel and began to chew vigorously.

“Mrs. Swann has candies too,” Adam more or less said, though Nel had to take a moment to translate from his caramel-infused words.

“Mrs. Swann?” Nel looked back at the woman.

“You can call me Molly,” Molly said, sticking out her hand.

Nel ignored the hand.

“My son is the sheriff here in Copperhead. He’s the one who found you in the cemetery,” Molly continued, moving her hands to her hips. “He said you must have been out in the desert with your little boy here.”

“Yes,” Nel says. “Adam, we need to go.”

“Now,” Molly said. “Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m not a fool,” Nel shot back.

“Good,” Molly continued. “You don’t need to go running off this minute. I mean, for Pete’s sake, you’ve got no shoes on.”

Nel looked down at her feet.

“Yes,” Nel scanned the floor. “Where are my boots?”

“They’re up front,” Molly said, indicating a door that Nel hadn’t previously noticed. “This is my son’s office as well.”

“Office?” Nel asked.

“Yes, girl,” Molly scolded. “I already told you, he’s the sheriff. He’ll be along shortly, I’m sure, but until then, maybe you’d like something to eat? Your boy had a good meal, first one in a while by the look of him.”

“I feed my son,” Nel replied.

“I’m sure you do,” Molly continued, unfazed by Nel’s attempt to express her dislike of the woman. “But there ain’t much to eat in the desert. Why were you all out there anyway?”

Nel was afraid this was coming.

“We got lost,” she said, reluctantly sitting down at the table.

“I suppose you must’ve been lost,” Molly said as she walked over to the stone and stirred a pot that sat on it. “That wound on your arm looked pretty bad. You need to keep it clean, keep changing the bandage, or it’ll get infected.”

Molly ladled something into a bowl that smelled fantastic. She handed it to Nel along with a golden biscuit. The woman could cook at least.

“Yeah,” Nel said, watching Adam drink his milk. “Thank you for cleaning it. You a nurse or something?”

“No.” Molly sat down opposite Nel. “I just have plenty of experience taking care of bullet wounds. That was from a bullet, wasn’t it?”

Nel froze. Molly’s eyes could have been chipped from ice. How much could she trust this woman? Her gut told her that she couldn’t trust anyone. It wasn’t that they might be working for Desmond, though he knew a lot of people; it was just that any information given could be turned around to be used against them. The wrong word could easily lead to her death, to Adam’s death… maybe, or at least, he’d be in the hands of that bastard.

“It was an accident,” Nel explained.

She knew it wasn’t a convincing excuse, but her only hope was that the woman wouldn’t press her anymore. Molly raised her chin and shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter to her one way or another.

“So your son’s the sheriff?” Nel asked and took a bite of her thick soup.

The soup was warm, but it was spiced with some incredibly hot pepper.

“Whoa,” she said and looked in surprise at the bowl before her.

“Chili soup,” Molly said. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

“It’s okay,” Nel said. “It’s delicious, just a little spicy.”

She felt the perspiration building on her brow. She involuntarily fanned herself with her hand. Molly chuckled and got Nel a glass of milk.

“Thank you,” Nel said and took a gulp.

“I liked it,” Adam said and smiled, caramel stuck in his teeth.

“He had two bowls,” Molly explained, a small note of pride in her voice that Nel didn’t care for.

“Where’s your husband?” Nel asked, hoping to embarrass the woman.

“He’s dead,” Molly said matter-of-factly.

Nel felt regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” Molly replied. “It was eight years ago. He was the sheriff then, a great man. He was gunned down by some damned fool who ended up hanging for his crime. It turned my son into the man he is. It was the reason he became sheriff, just like his father. It all comes full circle, they say.”

“Yes,” Nel replied, uncertain what to say. “I’ve known some people that were killed.”

“Of course,” Molly said, looking out a window.

Nel followed her gaze. The window frame had white paint flaking in places, exposing the white pine underneath. The glass, improperly made, was wavy and contained tiny bubbles. Outside, the sky was a deep blue up high, fading to a white yellow at the horizon, which was barely visible. The white glare of the sun reflected off the pale sand and gravel of a ground that looked as bleached as the ancient bones that sometimes broke from its surface.

“You’re lucky Apache didn’t find you in the desert,” Molly said offhandedly.

“There’s worse than Apache,” Nel said without thinking.

Molly turned at her words. Nel knew she had said too much. She could see the gears turning in Molly’s mind, the questions she must be asking herself.

Chapter Five

Harry sat in his office behind his desk. He tried not to think about what was going on behind the thick door that separated his work life from his home. In his father’s day, the door had been thin and usually open, but Harry had seen how this affected his father’s life. He was always on duty. Harry wanted to be just like his father, but he hoped to have a better division between work and home. He had installed the thick door on his second day as sheriff.

He opened one of his drawers and pulled out a rolling paper and a pinch of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. He knew that the people in town questioned his ability. He was only twenty years old. They trusted him to a point, which was why they had voted for him. That and because the Swann named still carried a good amount of weight. So, he grew a scruffy goatee, smoked cigarettes, and usually kept his hat on to partially conceal his youthful face.

He picked up his chair and dragged it out onto the small porch at the front of his office. He sat down and sparked a match off the door frame behind him. He lit his cigarette and looked over the people who milled up and down the main street. The German brewer, Mr. Haas, drove by with a wagon of barrels. He waved a friendly greeting to Harry. Harry waved back.

A young boy, probably ten years old, ran up and stared at him quizzically. His mother came out of a store across the road and hastened over to him.

“You ever shot someone?” the boy asked.

“Only people that deserved it,” Harry replied.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” the young mother came up and guided the boy away.

“It’s alright, Eliza.” Harry nodded to the mother. “How’s James?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Eliza replied. “He’s got himself a job up on a ranch over near La Cruces, driving cattle for a man named Peters.”

“A cowboy then.” Harry smiled. “Good for him.”

James and Eliza had seen tough times. A job like that kept James from home, but once he got back, he’d have a nice wad of cash. James was a good man, hopefully he wouldn’t spend it on liquor and loose women.

“Good day, Eliza,” Harry said as he nodded and touched the brim of his hat.

Eliza waved and led her son away. Harry thought of the woman who had collapsed in the cemetery. She was dirty, bloody, but there was something about her. Some underlying quality that he couldn’t describe. It didn’t matter; it was foolish.

“And I don’t even know her name,” he said to himself.

Then he shook his head. He knew everybody in Copperhead, knew them by sight. That was why the stranger who was walking straight toward him stood out. That and the fact that the man was slightly hunched over and walked with the assistance of a large stick that must have been eight feet tall. Harry watched him come closer.

Behind his stringy, long hair, Harry saw that one of the man’s eyes was gone. All that remained was an ugly dry socket. The other eye was cloudy and white, clearly sightless. The man was blind. This fact astonished Harry and made him almost forget himself. A blind man walking unaided down a busy street.

“No,” Harry said quietly. “He can’t be blind, he’s coming straight toward me. Impossible.”

“Not quite impossible,” the stranger said as he drew closer. “There are other senses besides sight. My hearing is… quite good.”

“It astounds me,” Harry admitted. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Ah.” The man writhed in his dirty and ragged clothes. One hand lifted as if he were feeling the air, while the other hand gripped the worn stick that he used to help guide himself. “Am I by chance speaking with the sheriff of this lovely town?”

Harry’s skin crawled at the way the man cocked his head to one side and started sniffing the air. There was something wholly unnatural about the man, something reptilian.

“I’m the sheriff,” Harry admitted.

“Excellent.” The man smiled, his teeth various shades of yellow, brown, and black. “I’m looking for someone…”

The man laughed, a chattering laugh that reminded Harry of a monkey he’d once seen in a traveling circus.

“Well.” He nodded, his one eye raising toward the sky. “I can’t exactly look for anything these days.”

He wiped away the spittle that had gathered at the corner of his mouth.

“That is to say,” the man continued. “I’m searching for a young, pretty woman with a young boy, about six years old. She might be injured. I’m wondering if someone like that has turned up in your town lately.”

Harry considered that this man might have good intentions, but Harry didn’t like the smell of it.

“Well, before we get into all that.” Harry leaned forward and blew out a cloud of smoke, which the wind carried across the man’s face. “We’ve not been formally introduced. My name is Sheriff Harry Swann. And you are?”

The man coughed a little.

“Eddie,” the man replied. “I go by Eddie.”

“You’ve a last name?”

“No,” Eddie replied. “Orphan, I tell ya.”

Eddie dropped his head and struck what he must have considered a pathetic posture. Harry found it revolting.

“I seemed to recall hearing of a Sheriff Swann around these parts,” Eddie continued. “But that was years ago. Couldn’t’ve been you. You sound like a young, strappin’ fella.”

“That would’ve been my pa,” Harry explained, not sure how Eddie knew he was young.

“Of course,” Eddie inflicted Harry with his smile once more. “Like father, like son. Makes me wonder what my father was, seeing as how I never knew him. Now here I am, a poor, blind beggar looking for his wayward kin. Have you heard tell of a girl as I described?”

Harry wasn’t sure of much, but he was certain that every word out of this man’s mouth was a lie. It wasn’t hard to tell that he was lying because he was unable to utter a single truth.

“Kin, you say?” Harry asked. “What’s your relation to this girl?”

“Well, you see.” Eddie began constructing his fiction. “There was what you might call a domestic dispute, as it were. I tell ya, the poor girl’s husband is a no-good drunkard, and he laid hands on her. She took her small child and ran herself off in a direction that would lead right here to your fine town. This has brought me to you, in the hopes of locating the poor girl and her child.”

Harry took a drag of his cigarette, then dropped it on the porch and snuffed it with his boot.

“So, that makes you, what?” Harry asked. “The husband?”

Eddie laughed, once more reminding Harry of the monkey. He waved a hand in front of him and rested his head against his stick as if he couldn’t believe the hilarity of what Harry had asked.

“No, no, no.” Eddie finally sighed. “I ain’t no good for a husband. A poor wretch like me? No, sir, I am just a concerned uncle, sent to bring her and her child back to the loving embrace of her family, who care so deeply for her, I tell ya.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry replied. “This caring family sent her blind uncle to go searching for her in the desert? When they go hunting, they use a hound dog that ain’t got no nose?”

Eddie did not laugh at this.

“As to that,” Eddie said, trying to draw himself up in an approximation of dignity. “I get by just fine, sir, I do.”

“I believe you do,” Harry said. “I watched you walk down that street, dodging riders and wagons alike, on your way straight to me.”

“I tell ya, the stick helps me,” Eddie said, dropping back into his poor orphan bearing.

“I imagine it does,” Harry concluded. “But there’s no point in all this talk. There’s been no unknown woman and child appear in these parts. This mysterious girl of yours probably doubled back, if she even exists. You might want to try heading east.”

“Of she exists, alright,” Eddie said. “And I mean to find her. Tell me, Sheriff, would you mind leading me to the nearest saloon? I feel a bit parched.”

Harry didn’t see a way out of it. He was sure Eddie could find his own way there without difficulty, but he didn’t want to be seen turning away a blind man in need. He had a public image that he was required to maintain.

“Very well,” Harry said, standing up.

After a few awkward moments where Harry offered his arm like he was escorting a lady to a dance, then realized Eddie couldn’t see his extended arm, Eddie took pity on him and told him to stand just in front of Eddie, faced away from him, then guided Eddie’s hand to his shoulder. That hand, as dry as tanned leather with yellowed fingernails like talons, hung limply over Harry’s shoulder, and though the sheriff knew it was there, the entire time they walked, it would come into his peripheral vision and cause him to pause in fright. Eddie didn’t seem to notice and continued talking during the entire journey.

“So your pappy was the sheriff here?” Eddie asked.

“He was,” Harry replied.

“I bet he’s proud of you, following in his footsteps.”

“I hope so.”

“He never said?”

“He died years before I became sheriff.”

“I am ever so sorry to hear that.”

“Hm,” Harry replied, knowing that this too was a lie.

“Did he die natural like?”

“As natural as a .45 bullet stopping his heart.”

“Oh, that is a shame. Some lowlife miscreant done it? One of these rowdy cowboys or outlaw types?”

“So to speak.”

“Oh dear, I tell ya.” Eddie clucked his tongue. “That must’ve been hard on you.”

“I suppose,” Harry said.

“But here you are, all grown up… a man… there a Mrs. Sheriff at home? Little baby sheriffs?”

Harry thought this question particularly impertinent.

“Not to say,” he replied.

“‘Not to say,’” Eddie echoed him. “So very brave he is. Tell me, Sheriff, you’ve got deputies, right? Men to help ease your burden.”

“I’ve got what I need,” Harry said curtly.

“Of course, of course,” Eddie continued, unfazed. “You get any Indian raids in these parts? Call on the military, do you? You get Mexicans crossing the border?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Do I?” Eddie cackled again. “You got me there, Sheriff. I tell ya, my mama always said I was more mouth than sense.”

“You said you were an orphan,” Harry replied.

“Oh, I was, I was,” Eddie responded quickly. “I was adopted into a caring family as a boy. Those were good times, I tell ya. But the whole family was killed by Comanche one day when I wasn’t home. Not something you want to come home to, I tell ya.”

“I suppose not,” Harry said. “This is the family where the young woman and her child are from?”

“No,” Eddie said. “I was done adopted by another family; very close-knit we are. I tell ya, sometimes it feels like we just can’t stand when one of us leaves or is in trouble. That’s why it’s so important that I find Nel and Adam, we’re just so worried about them, I tell ya.”

“Nel and Adam?”

“Ah,” Eddie said. “Yes. I tell ya, Nel is about twenty-two and her little Adam is just six years old. Don’t get me wrong, she’s tough and smart. I don’t put much stock in the idea of her dying out in the desert, lost. She’s about as tough as a rattler and fierce as a coyote. That’s why, I tell ya, she is sure to turn up here in Copperhead.”

“We’re at the saloon,” Harry announced.

He helped Eddie get on the boardwalk but stood next to him, holding the blind man’s arm.

“There is a carriage comes through twice a week,” Harry said in a low voice. “You get on that, and it’ll take you to White Oaks; from there you can catch a train or carriage to just about anywhere.”

“Are you telling me to leave town, Sheriff?” Eddie asked with a smile.

“I’m just informing you of your options,” Harry said. “I don’t think your girl and her child are in Copperhead. You wouldn’t want to waste precious time here when she’s somewhere else.”

“I thank you, Sheriff,” Eddie tapped his stick on the planks. “But I think I’m just going to stay here for a bit and see if maybe Nel turns up anyway. I’d hate to leave if she’s really been here all along.”

“Good day,” Harry said.

“Good day, Sheriff,” Eddie replied as he walked into the saloon.

Harry turned and walked back down the street. Eddie’s last comment made Harry think that the blind man somehow knew that the girl and her son were there.

“Nel,” he said, trying out the name.

Was it short for Nellie? Which could be short for Eleanor or Helen. However, Eddie had called her Nel. He knew he was being stupid. This Nel might be just as dangerous as Eddie or any other outlaw. Harry wasn’t sure how, but he was certain what side of the law Eddie was on. It wasn’t that he was blind, that could happen to anybody. No, Eddie was one of those men who had no moral compass. They simply did whatever they did to get what they wanted, regardless of the ramifications.

So, who was Nel if she was being followed by a man like Eddie?

“Sheriff!”

Harry saw Elisa crossing the street toward him.

“Elisa,” he said as she approached. “What can I do for you?”

“Listen,” she said. “The whole town knows you’ve got some woman and her child in your house.”

“Do they?”

“Yes, and while that is certainly your business and no one needs to stick their nose in it. I’ve heard that there’s some stranger going around town asking after her. You know as well as I do that sooner or later someone is going to slip up and tell him where to find her. I’m just warning you, Harry. Your father always looked out for us, and we want to do the same for you.”

Harry felt appreciative of the townsfolk but also embarrassed. He was supposed to be the one protecting them, not the other way around.

“Thank you, Elisa,” Harry said. “Now get home, sun’s fading.”

Elisa curtsied and walked off in the opposite direction. He recognized now how foolish it was to keep Nel and her son in his house. Of course, when he had found her in the cemetery, he had picked her up and carried her to his house, not really thinking of the implications. Her son had followed quietly.

The walk from the cemetery to his office/house was long and passed by the windows of several houses. Anybody could have seen him carrying an unconscious woman and a child trailing behind him. It wouldn’t have been hard for them to reason out the basics of the story. Then if Eddie asked any one of them about it, well, someone would tell him, not knowing that Eddie might have sinister motives. Especially if the person was drunk. For instance, if they were at the saloon and feeling chatty.

“Damn it.” Harry could have kicked himself.

He had plowed through the problem without thinking it all the way through. Still, in retrospect, he wasn’t sure how he could have handled it better. He had no way of knowing the woman would be wanted by… Eddie. It was then that Harry considered what Eddie had said about a close-knit family. Like so many lies, that one might have contained a kernel of truth. Were there others out looking for Nell?

He felt it now. He would protect Nel and Adam at all costs. He couldn’t explain how he knew this when he didn’t even know them. He hadn’t known their names until he’d heard Eddie say them. Yet, he knew.