Outlaw's Bride (9 page)

A
few days later, the hot summer morning was charged with excitement as townsfolk milled around the stage station, ears tuned to the north. Children balanced on the boardwalk railing and scampered back and forth across the road under the watchful eyes of their parents.

Voices hummed as the clock hands inched past two o’clock. Of all days, the stage was late.

The town band warmed up on a carefully erected platform covered in blue-and-white bunting. Their instruments clogged the air with disjoined harmony. Decked out in his Sunday best, Mayor Rayles paced in front of the dais, lips silently moving as he rehearsed his speech. In his left front pocket a town proclamation awaited the notorious gunslinger, Lars Mercer.

Lowell Homer stepped out of the mercantile, patting his ample stomach. “Fine day, Mayor.”

“Couldn’t be better!” Carl Rayles indicated the elderly man by his side. “Sheriff Lutz is looking forward to this more than anybody. Right, Alvin?”

The sheriff looked blank. “Eh?”

“You’re looking forward to gettin’ rid of the gangs!”

Alvin nodded. “Yep. If Mercer cleans up the town, maybe I can get some rest.” He tapped the badge on his shirt.

“Maybe,” Lowell agreed. “Nervous?” he asked the mayor.

“Me?” Mayor Rayles laughed. “Looking forward to the excitement. How about you, Shorty?”

“Can’t wait.” Shorty Lynch stepped out of the store with Mazilea and locked up. “Coming to the picnic afterward, Carl?”

“Wouldn’t miss it! I imagine our guest of honor has many a fascinatin’ story to tell.”

“Stage is comin’!”

A shout went up, and the band struck up a spirited rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Folks craned their necks to see Mercer roll into town. Long minutes passed before they realized the speck of dust they thought was the stage was actually Austin and Raylene Plummer, with their sons, coming to greet the stage. The music died away, and the townsfolk resumed chatting.

“How we gonna know it’s him?” Florence Banks asked. “Nobody’s ever actually seen this Mercer.”

“No one has to see him. We’ll know,” Hubie assured his wife. “Can’t miss a legend like Mercer.”

“Anyone know what he looks like?” someone else called out.

No one did.

“He’s mean.”

“Mean, and so fast on the draw not a single man’s ever lived to tell about meeting him.”

“That’s why no one knows what he looks like,” a voice declared.

The hum rose and fell as anticipation mounted. The suspense was murder, but it wouldn’t be long now.

Austin Plummer walked up to join the conversation. “Has to be a big guy. Swede, I’ll bet.”

“No doubt. Big man for a big job.”

“Wonder if Mercer wears an eye patch? Seems I read somewhere he does.”

“Probably. He’s in a risky business. Could lose an eye real easy.”

It was generally agreed the shootist was big, mean, fast, of Swedish descent, and probably missing an eye.

The town had put their money to good use.

“I see the stage!”

The band started up, and heads turned. Tubas and horns filled the air with patriotic tunes. Dogs barked, and babies, startled by all the noise, squalled at their mothers’ bosoms. It was minutes before someone realized this was another false alarm. This time, a hay-laden wagon driven by a citizen of nearby Brown Branch was passing through.

The tubas died off, followed by the trombones and cymbals. Eyes returned to the north end of town.

“I’m nervous,” Lillian Hubbard said as she tightened little Trish’s hair ribbon.

Haleen Lutz fanned herself with a hanky, her matronly features flushed from the heat. Tiny beads of perspiration lay on her forehead. “Well, I’d like to have Mr. Mercer to supper, but I surely do hope he doesn’t plan to stay long. We don’t need his likes on a regular basis. Got enough riffraff the way it is. Don’t you agree, Alvin?” She tugged her husband’s sleeve, raised her voice, and spoke directly into his ear. “I said Mercer needs to move on when he’s through here. Don’t you agree?”

The sheriff checked his watch fob. “Stop frettin’, Haleen. You don’t have to yell. It won’t take Mercer long to do his job. He’s got a reputation to uphold.”

Minnie Rayles frowned. “Carl’ll make sure he leaves the moment the job is done. I’ll have him for pot roast and maybe one of my lemon pies, but I agree with you, Haleen. He cannot be hanging around afterward.”

The mayor’s features tightened. “Don’t start naggin’, Minnie. A man don’t just clean up a town, eat post roast and lemon pie, and leave overnight. Ya gotta give Mercer enough time to do what he’s gotta do.”

“Thou shalt not kill—”

“An eye for an eye, Minnie. I read my Bible too.”

“Nonetheless, Carl. Mercer must not be allowed to remain in Barren Flats one moment longer than necessary.”

The mayor ground his teeth into his cigar. “Yes, Buttercup.”

The excitement was contagious. The town’s troubles were over, no doubt about that! Best money they had ever spent.

“He’s going to kill the gangs, kill the gangs, kill the gangs,” young Mary Hubbard sang, and her sister, Trish, immediately picked up the chant. The two girls held hands and hopped from one foot to the other. Pigtails flew as they twirled in a circle, forcing others to sidestep them. “Kill the gangs, kill the gangs!”

“Trish! Mary! Who’s been filling your minds with such thoughts?” Ragan asked. “We must stop the gangs from destroying property and possibly killing one of us.” She shaded her eyes, peering down the road.

Judge McMann, Johnny, and the Ramsey family were all gathered to welcome the shootist. Ragan dabbed at the trickle of perspiration on her forehead.

Mary paused, hands on slender hips, eyes narrowed with challenge. “If he’s not gonna kill anyone, how come he’s called a ‘shoots it’?”

Ragan bit back a smile. She glanced at Johnny and blushed when he grinned and murmured, “Why indeed?”

“Shootist, Mary, shootist,” Ragan said. “It doesn’t mean—oh, look! Is that the stage I see?” Eyes shifted northward again and focused on a coach dragging a cloud of dust as it approached.

A cheer went up as word spread that the legend was, for sure this time, about to arrive.

Ragan pulled Holly aside. “Watch Papa closely this afternoon. With all the excitement, he’s likely to wander off.”

“Ragan! Yoo-hoo!”

Ragan clamped her eyes shut, and then she reopened them to see Everett coming toward her. She spared him a brief glance before cupping her hand to her eyes and expectantly peering down the road.

Becca poked Johnny, giggling. “Everett loves Ragan.” “Rebecca!” Ragan shot her youngest sister a stern look.

“It’s true!”

Ragan glared, but Becca only reiterated, “Well, he does.”

“Everett.” Ragan smiled as the tall, painfully thin telegraph clerk approached. “You’ve met Mr. McAllister?”

Everett eyed Johnny, and then he looked back at Ragan. “I’ve seen him around.” He reached out and touched Fulton’s shoulder. “Afternoon, sir. It’s good to see you out and about.”

Reverend Ramsey seemed confused, as if he had just awakened and realized there were people around him. He focused on Johnny, a smile breaking across his features. “Why—who’s this fine young man?” He frowned. “Ahh, of course…the new schoolmaster. Looks as though we have a good one this time. I’ve brought the children to meet you. Say hello, children.”

Fulton Ramsey’s daughters exchanged embarrassed looks before murmuring obedient hellos.

Sliding her arm protectively around her father’s shoulders, Ragan said, “Papa, this isn’t the new schoolmaster. It’s Johnny McAllister. Remember? He’s staying with Procky.”

“Oh, yes.” Fulton smiled pleasantly, extending his hand. “You’ll be good for Paradise,” he told Johnny. “An education is extremely important for our young people. They can’t read the Good Book if they don’t have an education.”

Everett edged closer to the small circle. “Ragan, you look mighty fetching today.”

“Thank you, Everett.” Ragan quickly changed the subject. “We’ll be meeting Mercer any moment now. Isn’t it exciting?”

“I intend to learn to shoot a gun more accurately.” His eyes darted to Johnny and then to the stage finally pulling to a halt in front of the mercantile. “Very soon, actually. Just have to find the spare time.”

Judge McMann had to shout to be heard over the band. “Better leave the shooting to the experts, son.”

Everett ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar, damp from the building heat. “I can shoot, Judge! I just need more practice, that’s all.”

Four men piled from the top of the stage. A twitter went through the crowd, and all eyes were glued on the descending passengers. The young men turned out to be area boys, and excitement turned into a disappointed buzz. Not an eye patch in the bunch.

The Thompson sisters alighted from inside the coach, back from their aunt’s funeral in San Francisco. For a moment they looked startled at the gathering before they threaded their way through the crowd.

Eyes switched back to the open door. A small, innocuous-looking
man stepped off the coach. He couldn’t be more than five foot four and a hundred ten pounds, with thinning brown hair. The new arrival paused, squinting over the rims of thick spectacles.

Then a young boy carrying a portmanteau tied with string hopped down. He scanned the crowd, brightening when he spotted his grand parents.

“There’s your grandson, Cap,” someone called.

Racing toward the older couple, the child embraced Sylvia Kincaid. The three then set off for a nearby wagon, oblivious to the townsfolk waiting for Mercer. Cap’s red hat bobbed in the crowd as he lugged the boy’s bag.

Eyes shifted back to the front of the coach. Ragan stood on tiptoes, searching the crowd.

Becca pressed closer. “Do you see him?”

“No. I don’t think he came.” A sick numbness ran through her.

Disappointment spread through the onlookers. The music died away.

“Didn’t come? We wired a deposit—he’d better come!”

“Maybe he missed the stage. Maybe he’s on the next one.”

Tempers flared to match the temperature.

“Of all things! The whole town’s out to welcome him, and he doesn’t show up. What does that say for his credibility?” Minnie Rayles blustered. “Carl? What’s going on here?”

“Don’t go gettin’ yourself worked up, Minnie. Give the man time.”

Johnny focused on the small-statured, bespectacled figure threading his way toward Alvin Lutz and Carl Rayles. Mercer? He’d read stories about the gunslinger, but none ever gave a description that he could recall. He watched the man exchange a few words with the sheriff. Shock registered on Alvin’s face. He stepped back, cupping his hand to his ear.

A moment later, “
You’re
Mercer?”

Johnny winced at the sheriff’s incredulous tone. Because of his deafness he always spoke loudly, and his voice carried well through the crowd.

Heads swiveled. Jaws went slack.

“
That’s
Mercer!”

“That can’t be the shootist. That man couldn’t fight his way out of a wet periodical!”

“It’s him, all right. Look at Carl. He looks fit to be tied.”

Johnny saw the man’s steely stare. It was Mercer all right. The town just didn’t care to believe it.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Minnie turned away in disgust.

“Now, Minnie,” Muriel Davidson was overheard trying to pacify her. “Warren always says it’s not a person’s size—”

“I don’t care what Warren always says. Look at him. He can’t fight these gangs. He’s no bigger than a termite.”

“Send him back, Mayor,” Mazilea yelled. Mayor Rayles held up his hand and demanded silence. When the clamor died enough for people to hear, he lifted his voice above the confusion. “Folks, er…now, calm down. It seems there’s been a mistake—Warren! Stop playing that blessed tuba!”

Tuba strains died away.

“Is that Mercer?” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Er…yes. Now, let’s not jump to conclusions…”

The crowd pushed forward. Mayor Rayles and Sheriff Lutz were forced to step back or be trampled.

“We want our money back!”

“Oh, my.” Ragan pressed her hanky to her forehead. “This is just awful.”

Judge McMann stood and tried to peer over the frenzied gathering. “They should at least talk to the man. Why, this is a disgrace.”