The two riders steered their horses to the hitching rail in front of the jail. Splashing down into the muddy street, they secured the reins and plodded up the steps to the office. Horace Tweedle looked up from his penny novel, startled by the dark silhouettes in the doorway, and jumped to his feet, fingers nervously seeking his holstered gun.

"You plannin' on drawin' down on a couple of marshals, son?"

"Huh?"

Henry Gower stepped inside, followed by his companion, who shut the door with exaggerated care. "Mite nervous for a lawman wouldn't you say Tyrone?" The younger marshal smiled pleasantly, removing his hat and gazing about the office.

"You- you're marshals?"

"Yep, we are son, from Danby. You the sheriff?" Gower asked, with mock sincerity.

"No- ah, deputy. Deputy Horace Tweedle. Sheriff's Ethan Bragg."

The two men exchanged an amused glance. "Well Deputy Horace Tweedle, where might Sheriff Bragg be?"

"Oh, well, he's about the town somewhere— doin' business." Horace relaxed slightly; feeling his official position afforded him a kind of insider's bond, with the two marshals.

"Well maybe you could get him here, we have business to discuss." The voice lost a tad of patience in spite of the friendly smile.

"Ah, right, sure. I'll get Daniel to fetch him." Horace strode to the door, pulling at his hat brim with authority. He hollered the lad's name several times without result and stood annoyed, his hands hooked on the butts of his revolvers. "Where the devil is that danged kid."

"I think you should go fetch the sheriff, Deputy Tweedle . . . now?" The words seem to slither down Horace's spine, tweaking the nerves as they went.

"I r-reckon I should g-go find him m'self. Be b-back shortly." He sped out the door without a backward glance.

Gower sighed mightily.

When Bragg entered the office, he was impressed to notice that neither of the visitors had presumed on their rank and commandeered his desk. He tossed his hat on a peg by the door and strode around behind it, sitting with exaggerated comfort. "Horace tells me you boys are the marshals from Danby. Governor wired me you was comin'."

"Henry Gower, my partner here's Tyrone Hartman. You stoked some interest with your question in that wire to the governor."

Bragg nodded absently, looking at the younger marshal. "Hartman. Your pa by any chance Joe Hartman?"

The young man looked surprised. "You knew him?"

"If he's the Joe Hartman that fought in the southern range wars I do."

"That was my pa alright." Tyrone settled on the corner of an old roll-top desk and twirled his hat between his fingers. "Died a few years back. Old gut wound finally took 'im down."

Bragg leaned forward on the desk and examined his hands. "Yeah, heard about that. We split up just before it happened. Wasn't a better man with a lariat I tell ya. Too bad, I'm sorry son. You might want to look at that article over on the wall there."

Gower waited a beat, letting the reminiscence run its course. "You want to show me them shell casings you wrote about."

Bragg yanked open his sticky drawer and plopped the shells on the desktop. "The trapper that found these is still in town. He's waitin' for a coffin for his pal that took these."

Gower held the shells up, turning them around and reading the initials. "These are from Bentonville Prison stores. PBP, property of Bentonville Prison. They was special issued for budget purposes." Bragg's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, I know, government findin' ways to keep track of expenses. We're thankful we supply our own ordnance." Gower tilted his head to his partner. "Want to tell us what you know about these, and then we'll have a talk with that trapper . . ."

"Tucker. Arley Tucker. Probably find him at the saloon. Don't get too close, he's bin up in the mountains for some time." The three men shared a knowing grin while Horace stood apart, scratching his head.

*****

The woman hung the wet clothes over the rope line strung from the corner of the cabin to the corral gate. She moved with a rhythmic discipline, down to the basket, back up to the line, a few short steps then back down to the basket, and so on. The early morning sun floodlit the packed earth around the cabin; the log wall of the structure seemed to shine, and when she bent down, it gleamed off her golden hair making the top of her head look bald. A young man came out of the barn leading a frisky colt, murmuring unintelligible words as he tugged on the rope bit. The woman paused, wiping her hands on a bright yellow apron, and called something to the man. His head bobbed as he answered and pointed back toward the barn.

Cable watched the domestic scene unfold from the shadows in a stand of trees, about sixty yards from the cabin, bordering the edge of a neatly organized cornfield. Small green stalks marching in dead straight rows with their new leaves bent toward one another, as though holding hands. So far, he had only seen the two people in front of him, but he reckoned that a property this size would need more than that to run properly. Paralleling the tree line, he walked his new Appaloosa horse, the one Gershwin Tate had so generously bequeathed him, until he was opposite the rear of the barn. Here he stopped, searching the structure for some sign of additional occupants. Long black shadows stretched away from the building, blanketing the small pen containing a bored looking sow. Listening intently, he smiled as the murmur of voices seeped through the wooden walls, confirming his suspicion. At least four, he thought, slipping the silver stocked rifle from the saddle mounted scabbard. Cable tied his horse to a nearby tree and stole quietly across the back of the corn patch into the deep shadow behind the barn.

*****

"Gentlemen, gentlemen— we've been here for nearly an hour now, can we please get this settled?" Austin Greeves stood behind his desk imploring the six other members of the town council. He glanced at his gold pocket watch with a pained expression, snapped it shut and slipped it back into his vest pocket. "The motion is to hire new deputies for—"

"How many?"

"I don't know Arthur . . . three! Three new deputies for Sheriff Bragg. Now, all in favour?" He stuck his hand quickly into the air.

"What's this gonna cost us, and why do we need three?" A swell of grumbles began to rise again and Austin sank disconsolately into his chair; the eager thoughts of romancing Miss June, which he'd embraced earlier, gradually fading.

"Arthur, the men would be on call. Not even permanent and we'd only pay them if Bragg needed them. As far as how much . . . the same as we pay Tweedle."

"There's a waste of good money if there ever was one." Charles Winsiker, owner of the town's feed store, snickered loudly.

"You're just angry 'cause Horace quit your store to help the sheriff, Wind-sucker."

"Watch how you pronounce my name Dobbs." A flush of red crept up through the fringe of hair about the feed-store owner's, round head. "It was you probably talked him into it in the first place."

"Don't go blame—"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen. GENTLEMEN!" Austin screeched, pounding his fist on the desk top, sending pens and papers flying. "We're not discussing Horace, we're trying to reach a consensus on hiriNG NEW DEPUTIES!"

"What about them two marshals that's in town? Why can't they help the sheriff?" Arthur Mayweather was the town barber, or Tonsorial Specialist, as he billed himself on the gaudy sign that stuck out beside the Hang 'Em High Saloon.

The mayor studied Arthur for a moment, considering a logical and reasonable explanation, then sat back sighing, Miss June's voluptuous breasts bobbing through his mind. "You know what? Forget it. I'll take care of this myself . . . at no cost to the town. Mister Pinter," he sat forward, directing his comments to the tiny man with the green eyeshade, "please print me up a bunch of help wanted notices and distribute them about town. I'll pay for them myself. Now gentlemen," he stood, straightening the mess he'd made of his desk, "this meeting is adjourned. Thank you so much for your incisive assistance." He scribbled something on a piece of paper and followed them to the door, urging them along with a firm hand. When the last man left the hotel, he called down the stairs to Orin, giving him the folded scrap of paper with instructions to deliver it to Miss June.