Crockett approached the barber shop, a reflection flashed in the window of a man with dark sleeve protectors scurrying down the street. Crockett sighed. Maybe he better make his bath a quick one.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in his spare trousers and a clean blue chambray shirt, Crockett tucked his soiled suit under his arm and opened the small bathing chamber’s door. A man with a tin star on the lapel of his dark gray coat stood waiting on the other side.
“Evening, stranger.”
“Evening.” Crockett adjusted his grip on his satchel and summoned a smile for the lawman as he stepped past him.
“Thought you might like to share a cup of coffee with me over at the office, so’s we can get better acquainted.” The man didn’t lay a hand on him, but the authority in his voice gave his suggestion the weight of a command.
Crockett slowed his step. “That’s mighty neighborly of you,Marshal, but I’ve had a rather trying day. Perhaps we can visit tomorrow?”
“Won’t take long, son.” The barrel-chested lawman strode forward, firmly took charge of Crockett’s bag, and extricated his clothes from beneath his arm. “Harold will secure a room for you at Bessie’s place and see that your belongings are delivered.” He handed the bag and clothes to the barber, a thin man with heavily pomaded hair. Then he dug out a coin from his vest pocket and pressed it into the barber’s hand.
“Harold, have Miss Bessie clean and press our guest’s suit. On me.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal Coleson. I’ll see to it.” Harold spun around and headed to the front of his shop while the marshal gestured toward a side door.
“After you, mister.”
Out of options, Crockett nodded and moved toward the exit. “Of course.”
Once outside, the lawman steered him back in the direction of the livery, to a stone building boasting an uninviting small barred window high up the south wall. The glass-paned window at the front promised a warmer reception, but Crockett’s chest only tightened as his promise to Joanna ran circles in his mind.
The inside of the marshal’s office was dim but tidy, the man’s desk empty except for an inkstand and a half-finished plate of food. Crockett frowned. The man had left his supper to chase him down. Such a man wouldn’t be easily put off.
“What’s your name, son?” the marshal asked as he dragged a chair from against the wall to a spot nearer his desk.
“Crockett Archer, sir.”
“Brett Coleson.” He offered his hand and shook Crockett’s with an iron grip. “Have a seat, Archer.”
The man’s age and manner reminded Crockett of Silas Robbins, and an odd sort of recognition filled him as he took hisseat. Marshal Coleson moved past him to the stove behind his desk, where a coffeepot sat waiting.
“Thanks for taking care of my laundry,” Crockett interjected into the growing silence. “You didn’t have to do that.”
The lawman filled a chipped crockery mug, set it on the desk in front of Crockett, and then grabbed his own half-full one and splashed in a couple inches of fresh brew to reheat the dregs. “Glad to do it, son. You’ve had a trying day, after all.” The marshal peered meaningfully at him over the top of the pot as he echoed Crockett’s earlier words. “One I’d like to hear more about.”
Crockett grasped the mug’s handle and held it between the desk and his lips. “What would you like to know?”
“Is it true that you’re the man those bandits took from the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe this morning?”
“Yes.”
Coleson lowered himself into his chair and took a swig from his mug as if he had all night to get the answers he sought. “What’d they want with you?”
A rueful grin slid into place on Crockett’s face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Crockett shook his head, then met the lawman’s eye without flinching. “I was supposed to be a birthday present.”
Coleson held his gaze, assessing. Silence stretched,
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in his spare trousers and a clean blue chambray shirt, Crockett tucked his soiled suit under his arm and opened the small bathing chamber’s door. A man with a tin star on the lapel of his dark gray coat stood waiting on the other side.
“Evening, stranger.”
“Evening.” Crockett adjusted his grip on his satchel and summoned a smile for the lawman as he stepped past him.
“Thought you might like to share a cup of coffee with me over at the office, so’s we can get better acquainted.” The man didn’t lay a hand on him, but the authority in his voice gave his suggestion the weight of a command.
Crockett slowed his step. “That’s mighty neighborly of you,Marshal, but I’ve had a rather trying day. Perhaps we can visit tomorrow?”
“Won’t take long, son.” The barrel-chested lawman strode forward, firmly took charge of Crockett’s bag, and extricated his clothes from beneath his arm. “Harold will secure a room for you at Bessie’s place and see that your belongings are delivered.” He handed the bag and clothes to the barber, a thin man with heavily pomaded hair. Then he dug out a coin from his vest pocket and pressed it into the barber’s hand.
“Harold, have Miss Bessie clean and press our guest’s suit. On me.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal Coleson. I’ll see to it.” Harold spun around and headed to the front of his shop while the marshal gestured toward a side door.
“After you, mister.”
Out of options, Crockett nodded and moved toward the exit. “Of course.”
Once outside, the lawman steered him back in the direction of the livery, to a stone building boasting an uninviting small barred window high up the south wall. The glass-paned window at the front promised a warmer reception, but Crockett’s chest only tightened as his promise to Joanna ran circles in his mind.
The inside of the marshal’s office was dim but tidy, the man’s desk empty except for an inkstand and a half-finished plate of food. Crockett frowned. The man had left his supper to chase him down. Such a man wouldn’t be easily put off.
“What’s your name, son?” the marshal asked as he dragged a chair from against the wall to a spot nearer his desk.
“Crockett Archer, sir.”
“Brett Coleson.” He offered his hand and shook Crockett’s with an iron grip. “Have a seat, Archer.”
The man’s age and manner reminded Crockett of Silas Robbins, and an odd sort of recognition filled him as he took hisseat. Marshal Coleson moved past him to the stove behind his desk, where a coffeepot sat waiting.
“Thanks for taking care of my laundry,” Crockett interjected into the growing silence. “You didn’t have to do that.”
The lawman filled a chipped crockery mug, set it on the desk in front of Crockett, and then grabbed his own half-full one and splashed in a couple inches of fresh brew to reheat the dregs. “Glad to do it, son. You’ve had a trying day, after all.” The marshal peered meaningfully at him over the top of the pot as he echoed Crockett’s earlier words. “One I’d like to hear more about.”
Crockett grasped the mug’s handle and held it between the desk and his lips. “What would you like to know?”
“Is it true that you’re the man those bandits took from the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe this morning?”
“Yes.”
Coleson lowered himself into his chair and took a swig from his mug as if he had all night to get the answers he sought. “What’d they want with you?”
A rueful grin slid into place on Crockett’s face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Crockett shook his head, then met the lawman’s eye without flinching. “I was supposed to be a birthday present.”
Coleson held his gaze, assessing. Silence stretched,
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