CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The next morning I woke at dawn and got dressed. I picked out
a shirt that Chester had given me the last time he’d gone shopping. He’d
ordered one of his fancy shirts, but when it’d come it’d been too big for him,
so he’d given it to me. It was brown, and had some fancy stitching over the
pockets. I felt a little silly, but Chester had given it to me, so I put it on
and skipped breakfast and went straight to the jail. Shiloh was there, waiting
for me.
“Mornin’, Marshal,” he said.
“Everything alright, Shiloh?”
Shiloh shrugged. “Doc looked over your prisoners. Trevitt’s
pretty sick, but Stobo’s alright. He’s got a few burns, is all. Nothin’ could
hurt that moose.”
“A hanging might,” I said.
“Sure,” said Shiloh. “But what if Chester pulls through?”
From the back room, on the cot in the cell, Trevitt had been
listening. He called out, “You can’t hold us then, Marshal. There’s no law that
says –”
I turned my head. “I don’t like the sound of your voice,
Trevitt.”
“But you can’t hold us –”
“Be quiet,” I told him. And he was.
But Stobo wasn’t. “Don’t worry, Trevitt. There’s nothin’ he
can –”
“You, too, Stobo!”
“Aw, now, Marshal,” laughed Stobo. “Don’ be that way!”
“Shut the door, Shiloh,” I said. “I don’t want to look at
‘em.”
Shiloh did, then looked at me. “That Stobo’s a mean one. But
I feel kinda sorry for Trevitt.”
I sat down behind my desk. “Then go cry about it someplace
else. I don’t feel sorry.”
Shiloh walked up to my desk and stood opposite me. “Don’t you
take it out on me, Marshal,” he said. “I didn’t send Chester off to do my job.”
I bit back my first answer. But he wasn’t out of line. I was
just feeling pretty raw. “I – Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry. You’ve been
a big help to me this week. Where’s the kid?”
“Sleepin’,” said Shiloh. “He likes to sleep late, now that he’s
got a bed to sleep in. I figured I’d roust ‘im about noon.”
“That sounds fine, Shiloh. Thanks. Go get some breakfast, eh?
I’ll, ah, I’ll wait here now.”
Shiloh nodded. “I’ll be back later.”
I watched him leave, then sat behind my desk feeling about as
low as I ever had. I sat there hating my badge, hating Dodge, hating Shiloh for
being right about what was eating me. And I guess I was hating myself most of
all. But there was nothing I could do about it until Chester either improved,
or… Well, there wasn’t anything else I could do about Chester. But I could
still follow up on Clay Richards.
I leaned out my office door and got a stablehand from Moss
Gremmick’s place to run over to Richard’s house and tell Francie I wanted to
see her. While I waited I spent the time trying to find some balance. I
couldn’t go around tearing the heads off everyone I saw. As much as I felt like
it.
Francie came in, and now, I saw, she was wearing black. She
was in mourning. But I was the only person in Dodge who knew what she was
really mourning. Or whom.
“Morning, Francie,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Have a
seat.”
“Morning, Marshal,” she said, very formal-like. I was glad. I
didn’t want her to call me Matt. Not today.
“How’s Chester?” she asked.
“Doc says he might know later today,” I told her.
“I hope he’s all right,” she said.
“Me too, Francie. Thanks.” There was no easy way to start, so
I just spurred ahead. “Francie, Ma Schnieder tells me that you’re pregnant.”
Francie went pale, and for a moment her white face was a perfect
contrast to the black dress. Then she flushed and looked at her hands. “I was,”
she said.
“And Clay knew. That’s what he was out celebrating, that
night.”
“Yes.”
“But then he kicked you, tried to make you lose the baby,” I
said. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, Marshal.” She was still looking at her hands.
There was no other way but to ask. “It’s because he found out
it wasn’t his. Isn’t it?”
Francie seemed to shrink in on herself.
“That’s it, isn’t it, Francie?”
From out of a huddled lady I heard the voice of a frightened
little girl. “Yes.”
She’d never sounded that way back when we used to go
together. She’d been bright and vibrant and full of confidence. It’s amazing
what just a few years with a man like Clay could do to a woman’s spirit.
“It was Fred Grinnell’s baby.”
That was when she looked up.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“How – how did you -? Matt, how did you know about Fred?”
“I guessed it. Clay didn’t go in there to rob the bank, did
he?”
Francie shook her head.
“My guess is that somehow after that night at the Texas Trail
he figured out that Fred Grinnell was the baby’s father, and he tried to get
Fred to draw. But Fred never wore a gun – except when he was working at the
bank. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Francie in a dull voice.
“So the only way for Clay to have a fair fight with Fred was
to draw on him in the bank. He went in there early, when no one else was
supposed to be there – ”
Francie went back to looking at her hands.
“And he challenged Fred to draw. But he couldn’t’ve known
that some poor Chinese cook would come walking in and think it was a robbery.
He probably tried to draw on Clay, and Clay had to kill him. Fred shot once,
hitting Clay in the arm, and Clay shot Fred dead.”
She was crying now, blubbering little hitch breaths.
“Clay knew that he might’ve had a case for self-defense
against Fred, but by killing the cook, he must’ve figured that no one would
believe he wasn’t trying to rob the bank. So he ran. And was killed that night
by the Dutchman’s knife.”
Francie wept outright into her hands.
“Three men dead,” I said. “All over you.”
She just sat there, weeping and shaking, her body wracked
with sobs. Slowly I reached out and lifted her up and held her, letting her cry
on me. We stood that way for a long time, her thinking about the men she’d
loved, me thinking about the last time I’d held her this way. Back then, I’d
thought the world could end, as long as she was in my arms. Now she was just
someone I used to know, who’d seen some trouble. No, I stood there, with her
clutching me, and there was only one woman I was thinking of. She had red hair
and a spirit that just wouldn’t quit. And the way I felt when she looked at me
could power a hundred steam engines. It was like the kick of a mule.
But I was the Marshal. There were things I couldn’t do.
Francie shifted against me and brought my thoughts back to
her. I sure didn’t blame her for seeing Fred Grinnell, who’d been a pretty good
man. I hoped he’d been the one to tell Clay whose baby Francie was carrying. I
hoped he’d at least tried to step up and take care of things. But I figured it
was probably Francie who told her husband. He’d been hurting her for so long,
and she finally had a way to hurt him back. She hadn’t broken any law – or at
least, none that I was going to enforce. She’d paid enough. Her husband, her
lover, and her baby, all gone in a week.
I wondered if I should have leaned on Clay a little more. No,
probably not. It would just have made him hit her more, which would have sent
her running to Grinnell. No, this was one of those times that the law was
pretty much a show-horse. All leg, no step.
After awhile Francie’s crying slowed, and she stepped back.
“You ain’t gonna tell anyone, are you, Matt?”
“No, Francie,” I said. “Don’t see much point. But maybe you
want to sell your house and leave Dodge. Start over somewhere else. There’s too
much history here.”
“What about you, Matt?” she asked. “What about your history?
Our history?”
This time I knew what she was asking. “I’m here to stay,
Francie,” I said. “I’ve got nowhere else to go. Besides,” I added, “it’s my
job.”
