hair, stiff gaits. What did you obser—”
The door swung open, cutting off Coleson’s question. “Howdy, Marshal.” The telegraph operator rushed through the opening, oblivious to the tension filling the room. Crockett felt like kissing the little weasel—or at least bear-hugging him.
“A reply came from Brenham for you, Mr. Archer. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”
8
C rockett reached for the slip of paper in the operator’s hand and managed to sidle around the fellow, putting the little man squarely between him and the marshal. “You’re a godsend, my friend.” He tossed the operator a coin for his most timely interruption and turned back to Coleson.
“I’m afraid this is rather urgent, Marshal. Would you excuse me?” He reached behind him for the door frame, eager to make his escape.
Coleson crossed his arms over his chest, his expression none too pleased. “You really ought to press charges, Parson. If not for yourself, then for the poor fella they choose to kidnap next time. Do you want his fate on your hands?”
Recalling the way Joanna had taken her father to task over the day’s shenanigans, Crockett felt certain Silas Robbins wouldn’t be attempting any future clerical abductions. The train-riding preachers of the area should be safe.
“Your concern is well-meaning, Marshal, but unnecessary.” Crockett backed fully into the doorway, pleased when the lawman made no move to stop him. “Today’s events were instigatedby a misunderstanding that has since been cleared up. These men pose no further threat. Therefore, I insist on extending forgiveness. I’ll not be filing charges. Good day.”
Crockett hesitated a moment longer, but the instant the marshal grunted and waved him off, he dashed through the door and made for the boardinghouse. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket as he went, afraid that if he paused to read it now, Coleson might corner him again. Better to save it for the privacy of his room.
Orange and red streaked the sky to the west, hailing evening’s rapid approach. Crockett lengthened his stride as he rounded the corner where the now-darkened barber shop stood and searched for some kind of a placard to identify the boardinghouse.
The side street only boasted three homes, none of them very large. But the second one on the left had a porch lantern lit. Like a ship seeking safe harbor, Crockett aimed for the welcoming light, hoping his knock wouldn’t disrupt a family’s meal.
A woman tall enough to look him in the eye answered the door. “Yes?”
He doffed his hat. “Evenin’, ma’am. I’m looking for Miss Bessie’s boardinghouse.”
“Ya found it.” She turned and started off down the hall, leaving the door gaping behind her. “Scrape your boots afore ya come in. I don’t abide no boarders trailing mud on my rugs.” Her voice filtered back to him and smacked him into action like a wooden spoon across the knuckles.
Crockett darted to the edge of the porch. He’d polished his boots yesterday before boarding the train, and except for some dust, they’d survived his adventures relatively unscathed. But he didn’t want to risk offending his hostess, so he gave them an obligatory scrape against the end of a floorboard and then hastened after Miss Bessie, taking care to close the door behind him.
“You’ll be in the west room. Here.” The woman pointed to adoorway on the left of the hall but moved past without stopping. “Harold put your belongings in the room. Parlor’s to the right.”
Crockett barely spared the rooms a glance in his effort to keep up.
“I’m dishin’ up supper now,” she said as they entered the kitchen. “Breakfast’s at six thirty. Food hits the slop bucket at seven, so don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman marched up to the stove and ladled some kind of soup from the bottom of a small pot. As she poured it into a bowl, he thought he smelled chicken. But when she slapped the bowl onto the roughhewn
The door swung open, cutting off Coleson’s question. “Howdy, Marshal.” The telegraph operator rushed through the opening, oblivious to the tension filling the room. Crockett felt like kissing the little weasel—or at least bear-hugging him.
“A reply came from Brenham for you, Mr. Archer. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”
8
C rockett reached for the slip of paper in the operator’s hand and managed to sidle around the fellow, putting the little man squarely between him and the marshal. “You’re a godsend, my friend.” He tossed the operator a coin for his most timely interruption and turned back to Coleson.
“I’m afraid this is rather urgent, Marshal. Would you excuse me?” He reached behind him for the door frame, eager to make his escape.
Coleson crossed his arms over his chest, his expression none too pleased. “You really ought to press charges, Parson. If not for yourself, then for the poor fella they choose to kidnap next time. Do you want his fate on your hands?”
Recalling the way Joanna had taken her father to task over the day’s shenanigans, Crockett felt certain Silas Robbins wouldn’t be attempting any future clerical abductions. The train-riding preachers of the area should be safe.
“Your concern is well-meaning, Marshal, but unnecessary.” Crockett backed fully into the doorway, pleased when the lawman made no move to stop him. “Today’s events were instigatedby a misunderstanding that has since been cleared up. These men pose no further threat. Therefore, I insist on extending forgiveness. I’ll not be filing charges. Good day.”
Crockett hesitated a moment longer, but the instant the marshal grunted and waved him off, he dashed through the door and made for the boardinghouse. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket as he went, afraid that if he paused to read it now, Coleson might corner him again. Better to save it for the privacy of his room.
Orange and red streaked the sky to the west, hailing evening’s rapid approach. Crockett lengthened his stride as he rounded the corner where the now-darkened barber shop stood and searched for some kind of a placard to identify the boardinghouse.
The side street only boasted three homes, none of them very large. But the second one on the left had a porch lantern lit. Like a ship seeking safe harbor, Crockett aimed for the welcoming light, hoping his knock wouldn’t disrupt a family’s meal.
A woman tall enough to look him in the eye answered the door. “Yes?”
He doffed his hat. “Evenin’, ma’am. I’m looking for Miss Bessie’s boardinghouse.”
“Ya found it.” She turned and started off down the hall, leaving the door gaping behind her. “Scrape your boots afore ya come in. I don’t abide no boarders trailing mud on my rugs.” Her voice filtered back to him and smacked him into action like a wooden spoon across the knuckles.
Crockett darted to the edge of the porch. He’d polished his boots yesterday before boarding the train, and except for some dust, they’d survived his adventures relatively unscathed. But he didn’t want to risk offending his hostess, so he gave them an obligatory scrape against the end of a floorboard and then hastened after Miss Bessie, taking care to close the door behind him.
“You’ll be in the west room. Here.” The woman pointed to adoorway on the left of the hall but moved past without stopping. “Harold put your belongings in the room. Parlor’s to the right.”
Crockett barely spared the rooms a glance in his effort to keep up.
“I’m dishin’ up supper now,” she said as they entered the kitchen. “Breakfast’s at six thirty. Food hits the slop bucket at seven, so don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman marched up to the stove and ladled some kind of soup from the bottom of a small pot. As she poured it into a bowl, he thought he smelled chicken. But when she slapped the bowl onto the roughhewn
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