Night Hawk (3 page)

Something else that caught her attention was the tone of voice he'd used during the confrontation with Langley and his men. He hadn't yelled or shouted. In fact, he had a way of speaking that might be considered soft-spoken until you heard the deadly power behind the words. Watching him scare the bejesus out of them, he'd reminded her of a coiled snake. You knew it would strike, just not when.

She hazarded a glance his way and found him reading a
Harper's Weekly
. That surprised her as well. Not many people in the West were literate enough to read just for the sake of reading, so she assumed him to be an educated man. She added that kernel of information to the pot and wondered what else she might learn about Deputy Marshal Vance Bigelow before he handed her over to the authorities in Kansas City.

“What's your name?”

“Maggie Freeman.”

“Bigelow,” he said by way of introduction, and returned to his
Harper's
. She gave him another discreet glance and wondered how he'd gotten the scar. Not that it mattered. She was facing larger issues, and musing over the sheriff's past would not save her from what lay ahead. People like her had been hanged for much less than what happened to Hugh Langley, and that scared her. No, her life wasn't the best; she'd been living hand to mouth since the death of her parents, but it was her life, and she didn't want it to end swinging from a scaffold.

Chapter 3

A
s the train rolled into Kansas City, Maggie stared out the window at the largest depot she'd ever seen. There appeared to be more people milling around it than there were living in Dowd and Madison combined. She saw women wearing fancy traveling ensembles and carrying parasols. The gentlemen were decked out in cutaway suits of all colors and patterns and wore smart-looking derby hats. In her present filthy condition she knew she'd draw the eye of everyone within ten miles. She wanted to ask the marshal if she could get a bath before he turned her in but doubted he'd afford her such a luxury.

As it stood, all she could do to try and make herself presentable was attempt to tame her hair with her hands, but that was difficult because of the cuff on her right wrist attached to his left. Raising her arm garnered a stare from him, so she explained, “I just want to try and plait my hair before we go out into the streets.”

“I don't think it'll much matter.”

Her lips thinned. Ignoring him, she raised her hands to her hair again. She expected him to protest but he didn't, so she did what she could while his arm moved in tandem like a puppet. When she was finished, she watched him slowly survey the results. Before he turned away, she thought she caught a ghost of a smile cross his unshaven face. That didn't help her mood, but there was nothing to be done about it.

The train slowed to a stop. The other passengers grabbed the handles on their valises and carpetbags and prepared to depart.

“We'll wait until everybody else gets off,” he told her, and placed his magazine into his saddlebag.

Maggie tersely nodded a reply while doing her best to ignore the disgusted looks the other passengers threw her way as they passed by. She knew what she looked like. She didn't need reminding.

“Okay. Our turn.”

Maggie scooted across the seat. He led her off the train and out into the busy depot.

As she and the marshal made their way, some of the travelers stopped and stared slack jawed. A buzz went through the place. Mothers grabbed their children as if the handcuffed Maggie or the tall man in black might do them harm. One woman, wearing an expensive, bustled traveling costume, looked so terrified, Maggie snarled at her like an angry puma. The woman screamed and swooned.

As people rushed to her side, the marshal didn't break stride, but he glanced back at her satisfied face. “Stop that.”

“I couldn't resist.”

“Try harder.”

“Yes, Marshal.”

That earned her another look, which she met unflinchingly.

While people continued to give them a wide berth, he headed to the end of the train to retrieve his horse.

“I'm going to undo the cuffs. If you run, I will find you.”

She believed him.

It was a magnificent smoke gray animal, even larger and more powerful-looking than the one she'd ridden on her futile escape attempt from the sheriff. Bigelow led it down the plank and she watched as he greeted the animal with an affectionate voice. “We'll be home soon, old boy. Promise.”

He handed her her old saddlebag that had been left behind in the straw when she and Sheriff Wells were ordered off the train at gunpoint by Langley's vigilantes. She opened it and checked the contents. Her precious red dress and shoes were inside but not her weapon. “Wells still has my Colt.”

“You're under arrest, you aren't allowed firearms.”

“But it belonged to my father,” she protested. “That and this coat are all I have left of him.”

“Take it up with Wells next time you see him.”

“Please don't patronize me.”

He viewed her silently for a moment.

She asked coolly, “Am I not supposed to know the meaning of the word
patronize
, Marshal?”

“Not sure.” There was muted humor in his eyes.

“Something amusing?”

“Where'd you learn to speak so properly?”

“My father was an Oberlin graduate, and a schoolteacher before and after the war.”

“That explains it.” He mounted his horse and offered her a hand up. She accepted the help, and although the palm that closed over hers was rough and calloused, the grip was gentler than she'd assumed it would be.

“Hold on.”

She wrapped her arms around the leather duster, and he reined the horse out into the streets of Kansas City.

Maggie had never been to Kansas City before, so she was impressed by the modern brick buildings and all the people. She had no idea if Bigelow knew where he was going, but she stared longingly at the public bathhouse they rode past.

After another few minutes of picking their way through the thick traffic of wagons, carriages, buckboards, and riders, he stopped. “We're here.”

Maggie read “Sheriff's Office” on the hand-painted sign above the building's door, and sighed resignedly. She dismounted and waited while he tied the horse's reins to the post.

Inside, a young man wearing a star on his red plaid flannel shirt was seated behind a desk. He eyed them curiously for a moment. “How can I help you folks?”

“Got a prisoner for the sheriff. You him?”

“No, sir. I'm Deputy Peterson. Sheriff Nash is out with a posse. Bank was robbed this morning.” The kid's eyes slowly widened. “Why you're the Preacher! I've seen your picture in the newspapers!”

Maggie glanced up at the marshal. Was he a famous lawman then? And why was he called Preacher? She remembered him quoting Scripture before opening fire on Langley but she didn't know any men of God who could wield a firearm the way he had.

He didn't speak to any of that, however. “Dowd's Sheriff Wells wants her kept here until the circuit judge comes around. Vigilantes are giving him problems.”

“Sheriff's going to be real upset that he didn't get to meet you.”

From the marshal's stony set features, the deputy seemed to understand that Bigelow was there on business and nothing more. “Um, what's she charged with?”

“Accidental death.”

“Can't take her.”

“Why not?”

“Under instructions not to put anybody in the jail. Sheriff wants the cell empty so he can throw the bank robbers in when he gets back.”

“And that'll be?”

The deputy shrugged. “The men he's after are supposed to be heading to Indian Territory, so maybe be a week, two, maybe three.” His eyes brushed Maggie. “Besides, we don't have any place to put a woman. Try the sheriff in Abilene. Maybe he can take her.”

The deputy paused and grinned. “I can't believe I'm talking to one of the most famous bounty hunters in the West. Heard Hanging Judge Parker down at Fort Smith made you a marshal, too.”

He didn't speak to that, either. “Wells wanted me to leave her here.”

“I understand that, sir, but you can't.”

“Is there a marshal in town?”

“Yep. He's with the posse.”

Maggie wanted to cheer, but kept her face impassive as stone.

“Try Abilene,” the deputy repeated. “Sorry.”

Bigelow turned to go. “Thanks.”

Maggie followed him back out to the street. She waited to see what he might propose next, but before he could, they heard a woman shout accusingly, “You!”

Maggie's eyes widened at the sight of Minerva Quigley barreling down the walk towards them.

“I want that heathen arrested!” Minerva demanded angrily.

Ian sighed.
Now what?
“Afternoon, ma'am. Is there a problem?” She was glaring at his prisoner with such vehemence he was surprised there wasn't steam pouring out from beneath her ugly straw bonnet. His prisoner appeared calm, but there was a hint of icy humor in her gaze.

“Somebody get the sheriff! I want her arrested!”

“She's in custody, ma'am.”

“You're a lawman?”

“United States deputy marshal,” he said hoping that would deflate whatever this might be about.

The doubt on her face was plain. In many areas of the country, men of color were not allowed to wear a star, and those that did were sometimes forbidden to arrest Whites. Judge Isaac Parker didn't follow the practice.

By then a number of people on the walks had stopped to see what was occurring, including the young deputy who'd stepped outside to investigate the commotion.

“Why's she in custody?” Minerva demanded to know.

“None of your damn business!” the Freeman woman responded.

Hearing that, Minerva puffed up like an outraged hen. “Don't you dare talk to your betters that way.” She raised her parasol as if to strike her for her insolence, only to have the parasol snatched from her hands and thrown forcefully out into the street, where it promptly struck the head of a teamster innocently driving by. The unexpected blow caught him so by surprise he lost control of his four-horse team. They reared and spooked another team pulling a load of wagon wheels, which ran into a team of bays hooked to a fancy coach that careened directly into the path of an ice wagon, which lost its load and sent a buckboard skittering up onto the crowded walk, where people scrambled to get out the way. Arguments broke out as drivers confronted one another over their wrecked vehicles, spilled cargos, and runaway horses, and then fisticuffs commenced. The young deputy tried to instill order by firing his gun in the air, which of course only caused more horses to rear in fear and more collisions to ensue.

A speechless Ian stared down at the woman who'd caused it all. She met his gaze with a raised eyebrow.

A short while later when things began to settle down, Minerva Quigley turned to accuse Maggie Freeman of starting the disaster, but she and the marshal were no longer there.

A
s Ian and Maggie rode slowly across the open countryside outside the city limits she was glad to be rid of Minerva Quigley. At the height of the disturbance the marshal had taken Maggie's hand, and under the cover of the chaos, they'd mounted up and ridden away.

Now with his horse reined to a walk, he asked, “So who was that woman?”

“Minerva Quigley. Owner of Miss Minerva's School for Quality Girls. It's a boarding school for incorrigible young females. I worked there for a while.”

“Until what happened?”

“Until I woke up one morning and found my plait had been snipped off while I was asleep and tossed into my chamber pot.” And she had never known such fury.

“Who did it?”

“Belinda Carrington, a fifteen-year-old, spoiled little hussy who'd been sent to the school by her parents in Boston.”

“Did you talk to Quigley about it?”

“Of course, but I was told to get back to work. Same story when I complained about their slurs, their tripping me when I carried in dinner, and the day they smeared mud all over the floors I'd spent hours mopping and waxing.”

“Sounds like a nice bunch. When was this?”

“A few months back.”

“So after your talk with her, you returned to your duties?”

“I did, but I knew Belinda was the ringleader so I confronted her and told her plainly how I felt about having my hair cut. She laughed, called me a squaw, and walked away.” And what happened next was something she'd never forget. “Later that morning, I was called down to Miss Quigley's office and told that Belinda had accused me of slapping her. Quigley didn't believe my denials, so to punish me for assaulting my betters, as she put it, all the girls were lined up and allowed to slap me in the face as hard as they could.”

She felt his back stiffen in reaction.

“How many were there?”

“Eight.” Maggie's rage rose all over again. Quigley's charges took great pleasure in striking her, especially the hateful Belinda, but Maggie refused to react to the blows, even though by the time they were done, her face was swollen, black and blue.

“Was that the end of it?”

“No. I was then informed I'd been let go, and that I wouldn't be receiving the month's wages I was owed due to my inappropriate actions, so I gathered my personal belongings and left.” Being denied the wages she'd worked so hard for only added more salt to an already blood-raw wound.

“If she let you go, why's she still mad?”

“Because when I left the house I hid in the woods nearby. I knew it was the day they went into town to visit the lending library, so when they all piled into the wagon and drove away I went back into the house.” She didn't tell him about the furious tears she'd shed while waiting for them to leave. “Since Quigley had fired me before I could empty the chamber pots, they were still in the upstairs hallway. I took them back into the rooms and poured the contents onto the beds. When I was done, I went out to the barn, saddled up the old mare they'd left behind, and rode away.”

“Adding horse theft to her list of your sins.”

“I didn't care. She should be glad I didn't burn the house to the ground, that was how enraged I was. My jaw was so swollen I couldn't eat for over a week.” There were no words for how she felt having to stand there and be slapped like an uppity slave, but as she calmly moved from room to room exacting her revenge it gave her some measure of satisfaction imagining the looks on the faces of Miss Quigley and her charges when they returned. “I suppose you think I should have just licked my wounds and turned tail.”

“Didn't say that.” What she didn't know was that he'd had similar experiences at some of the schools he'd attended during his youth, and like her he'd had to mete out some hard lessons to make the daily torture and harassment cease. “You said your pa was dead. Is your mother living?”

“No, they were both killed in a fire.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve. Been on my own since. What about your parents?”

“Mother died last year. Never knew my father.”

Maggie had adored her father and wondered how it had been for the marshal growing up without one, but she thought that too personal a question to ask. “The deputy in town made a real fuss over you. Are you famous?”