Jeeter scratched the stubble on his chin and pondered. One of the abandoned buildings was an old feed and grain. It was big and spacious and empty. He led the horses around to the back. As with many feed and grains, there was a wide door where farmers had loaded their wagons. The door was open a few inches. Rusty hinges creaked as he opened it all the way. The area where the wagons pulled in was solid earth, not a wood floor. He brought the gruella and the other two horses inside and tied them so they could not stray off. He did not strip the saddles or the packs. He might need to get away in a hurry.
Jeeter felt bad about that. The gruella was tired and needed rest, and he never mistreated the mouse dun if he could help it. Patting its neck, he said, “I will feed and water you as soon as I can. I promise.”
He went out, closed the door, and walked around to the street. He was congratulating himself on his cleverness when he glanced down. It was too dark to see hoofprints, but he knew they were there. A good tracker could tell they were recent and follow them straight to the feed and grain.
Jeeter did not know if the posse had a tracker with them, but he never took chances, yet another reason he had lasted as long as he had. He hastened to the general store, found a broom behind the counter, and came back out. He was brushing at the dust when a large pig came out of a vacant yard and squealed inquisitively at him.
Jeeter had a brainstorm. “Stay right where you are, pig,” he said, and ran back into the general store. Saratoga Chips were exactly what he needed. When he ran back out, the pig was rooting along a fence. He opened the chips and held one out. “Here, pig. Try one of these.”
Pigs would eat most anything, and were always hungry. It was why they were called pigs, Jeeter reflected, as he held the chip under the pig’s nose. It sniffed a few times, grunted a few, and chomped, nearly biting Jeeter’s fingers.
“Like that, do you?” Jeeter grinned and backed into the street while holding out another chip.
The pig took the bait.
After that the rest was easy. Jeeter had only to walk back and forth over the prints his horses had made, the pig following him like a little lamb, until a multitude of pig prints overlay the horse tracks.
It would have to do, Jeeter told himself. Pig prints were less obvious than the swipes of a broom. He gave the pig the last of the chips and hurried into the general store, being sure to bolt the front door after him.
The aroma of brewing coffee made Jeeter’s mouth water and reminded him of how hungry he was. He was delighted to find a plate of toast and jam waiting for him.
“I thought you might like something to eat,” Ernestine said.
“You are a fine wife,” Jeeter complimented. “When we get to California, I will do my best to do you proud.”
Ernestine sat at the other end of the table and buttered a slice of toast. “Do you trust the mayor to do as you want?”
“I reckon he had reason to oblige us,” Jeeter said, and patted his Colt.
“A word from him to the posse and you could face the gallows,” Ernestine mentioned. She had been thinking about it while she made the coffee and the toast. “I would rather not have any husband of mine hanged.”
“We will listen at the kitchen door,” Jeeter said. “We will hear if he says anything.”
“Not if he whispers.”
Once again Jeeter marveled at how she thought of everything. “What do you suggest?”
“One of us should hide in the store, close to the front door,” Ernestine proposed. “In the corner by the dry goods is a table with bolts of cloth on it.”
Jeeter had seen the table. He could unravel a few of the bolts, enough so the cloth hung over the edge and hid him. “I like it. I like it a lot.”
“You be careful,” Ernestine said. “If they see you, you will have to fight your way out.”
“Some wives wouldn’t care half as much.”
“I am not them. I took you for better or worse. At the moment it is more the latter than the former, but we will have plenty of the former if we can put the latter behind us. Just don’t shoot anyone if you can help it.”
“For you I will try real hard,” Jeeter said. Reaching across the table, he placed his hand on hers. “I am sorry. This is not much of a wedding night.”
“It is different, I will say that for it,” Ernestine said. “I will have something to tell our children and our grandchildren.”
The idea of kids jolted Jeeter. The life he had led did not lend itself to dreams of a family and a home. But now both were very real prospects. Him, a father! Bouncing a baby on his knee. Teaching his son to fish and hunt and use a gun. That last gave him mental pause. The way of the gun was hard and brutal. His son deserved better. His son should have a quiet, peaceful life. His son should be able to walk the streets without fear of being shot in the back.
“You have a strange look,” Ernestine said.
“What do you want our son to be when he grows up?”
“I haven’t given it any thought,” Ernestine admitted. “I suppose I would like for him to be well-to-do, and happy. Happy, most of all.”
“Happy is important,” Jeeter agreed. He had spent so much of his life alone and unhappy.
“I like how you think ahead,” Ernestine said. “We have not had a baby yet, yet you are looking out for its welfare.”
“I wish—” Jeeter began. But he did not get to say what he wished. For just then hooves thudded outside in the street. A voice was raised and the thudding came to a stop.
The posse had arrived.
Chapter 26
Seamus Glickman was not in a good mood. He thought it would be simple. Ride hard, overtake the shootist and the schoolmarm, and bring them back to Dodge City. That was how it should have gone. But his posse was not able to ride as hard as he wanted. Almost from the moment they left Dodge, he had to hold them back. All because of one man.
Jack Coombs was drunk. The old scout was fond of liquor, so much so that he practically walked around with a bottle glued to his mouth. Dodge residents were accustomed to seeing him stagger down streets, bouncing off hitch rails and walls. They thought it comical.
Not Seamus. Drunk and disorderly was a misdemeanor, but he took it as seriously as murder. It helped that he always received a share of the fine imposed. Arresting four or five drunks a night was always a profitable enterprise.
Had it been up to him, Seamus would not have invited Jack Coombs along. Granted, Coombs was once a top army scout, but that was years ago. Coombs had long since given it up. His age was a factor. Creaking joints and aching muscles took a toll on a man, especially when he spent most of every day in the saddle.
Another factor, a bigger factor as far as the army was concerned, was Coombs’s drinking. It got so he could barely sit the saddle when he rode out on patrol. So the army let him go and Jack Coombs drifted. From town to town and saloon to saloon he wound his inebriated way, until, somehow or other, he ended up in Dodge. And in Dodge he stayed. In Dodge there were often cowboys willing to buy an old scout a drink and listen to his tales of yesteryear. Coombs also earned drinking money by sweeping out stores and shoveling manure when he was sober enough to handle a shovel.
At the moment, Jack Coombs could barely handle a set of reins. Every now and then he swayed, and just when Seamus was certain the old fool would pitch from the saddle, Coombs righted himself and kept riding.
After the sixth or seventh time, Seamus lost his patience. Slowing to a walk, he snapped, “Why in hell did you come along, old man?”