Sundown, p.2
Sundown, page 2
As the steam dissipated, the glow of the early morning sun cast a silhouette of a man facing him from twenty paces away.
Wyatt could make out the familiar face of Jeb Colfield, his sun-damaged face as weathered as tombstone. He and his younger brothers were the orneriest fellas in Sundown, but not nearly as tough as Jeb thought they were.
The three brothers earned a reputation for drunken brawls and petty crimes. Now, facing the oldest Colfield brother, Wyatt got the distinct impression their meanness might have grown over the years.
Jeb swayed as he drew a colt pistol from his holster with a calloused hand and aimed the gun at Wyatt. “Get back on the train, tinhorn. A lawbook ain’t no good in Sundown.”
The other departing passengers gave the two men a wide berth. Wyatt’s return to Sundown was off to a dreadful start.
“I’m not leaving, Jeb. Go home and sleep it off. You’re drunk, and it’s barely morning.”
“Morning?” Jeb glanced up at the orange glow of dawn but held his pistol on Wyatt. “I got loaded last night.”
He gestured with his pistol. “No one wants your sorry ass in this town, and that includes your murdering brother. Now turn the hell around and crawl back on the train like the snake you are, or I’ll whup you like I whupped you in school.”
“Why do you need a gun if you think you can whup me?” Wyatt set his bags down and stepped toward the man. He didn't like to fight, but he never shied away from one.
A metallic twang, sharp as a blade, kicked up dirt three feet in front of Wyatt. He refused to flinch.
Jeb twisted the end of his black handlebar mustache. “Your brother’s gonna hang. I can't wait to see him swingin' from the end of a rope.”
“I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen.”
“Oh, it's happenin' whether you stay or whether you go. Never liked the McCrea brothers. Y’all always thought you was better than anyone else.”
That wasn't true, and nothing Jeb could say or do would get him back on the train. Wyatt opened his denim jacket to show he was unarmed.
Jeb’s pistol thundered again. This time, the bullet landed a foot in front of Wyatt, spitting dirt onto his polished boots.
Heat rose on the back of Wyatt’s neck. “Holster your pistol, you coward, and fight like a man.” He spat on the dusty ground and held up his fists.
Jeb stuffed the pistol in his holster. “Ain’t gonna shoot no unarmed man, even if you are a McCrea.”
The drunk Colfield brother unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it on the ground. He raised his fists, and the two men began to circle each other.
A buckboard with two mules raced toward them and skidded to a stop beside the depot, kicking up a cloud of dust. The driver grabbed a shotgun, pointed it in the air and fired. The driver cocked the rifle again and, this time, aimed the weapon at Jeb. “Jeb, you crazy, no-account, lily-livered varmint!”
The two men stopped circling and dropped their fists.
Jeb sent a sneer that turned into a yellow-toothed grin. “Emma, you keep talkin' like that darlin'; I won't take you to the dance Saturday.”
Wyatt couldn’t believe it. The tough-acting driver in men’s duds was a woman!
She stood and gestured with the gun. “I'm guessing the gunfire woke up Sheriff Black. If you don’t want to spend the day in jail, you’ll get. Get, I said!”
Jeb glared at the driver, then sent a wad of spit that landed on the side of the backboard. “You gonna shoot me, Emma?”
“This town would be better off if somebody does.” A handful of townspeople emptied into the streets to find out what the commotion was about.
For a moment, no one spoke; then Jeb snatched his gun belt and buckled it around his hip. He stumbled toward a brown chestnut tied to a hitching post in front of the depot.
Jeb climbed onto the horse and shot Wyatt a smoldering look. “We ain’t finished with this.” He jerked on the reins, nearly fell off the horse, then galloped off in a haze of dust.
The crowd dispersed with more than a few grumbles of disappointment; they hadn’t seen an honest-to-goodness shootout.
With more than a little curiosity, Wyatt carried his bags to the buckboard. “Jeb and I go way back. I could have whipped him.”
The young woman laughed until she snorted. “Sure, you could.”
He ignored her skepticism. “I’m Wyatt, Wyatt McCrea.”
“I know who you are.” She took off a wide-brimmed dusty old hat, uncovering a long red ponytail. “I’m Emma. Emma Sullivan.”
Wyatt squinted as the morning sun emerged from behind a cloud. The young woman wore a faded blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing strong tanned forearms, and a pair of worn trousers tucked into scuffed boots that had seen their share of miles. Her auburn hair shimmered under the sun's warm glaze and her ocean-blue eyes twinkled with the mischief of countless tales waiting to be told.
Wyatt shook away his impression. He could have taken Jeb Colfield in a fight, but he was grateful she stopped Jeb from causing a bigger disturbance.
“Obliged you came along when you did. Jeb gets real nasty when he drinks.”
“He’s nasty when he’s sober.” The young woman thumbed to the back of the buckboard. “Toss your duds in the wagon and climb up beside me. I’ll take you to your brother. By the way, I like your denim jacket. I have one just like it.”
“How's Travis doing?”
She furrowed her brow. “What do you think? He might be hanged in a few days.”
Wyatt carefully placed the bags into the wagon and climbed beside her. He was desperate to see his brother, but he couldn’t help wondering: Who was this curious woman who dressed like a cowboy, and why had she come to his aid?
“Much obliged, Miss Sullivan.”
The young woman shook his hand with a grip as strong as any man’s. She turned the team of horses around, snapped the reins, and they took off down the street as the onlookers stepped aside and stared.
Wyatt held onto his Stetson as the buckboard rattled over the sunbaked dusty main street of Sundown, kicking up a plume of dust that hung heavy in the air like a gunsmoke shroud.
The rhythmic clop of the mules’ hooves was the only sound until they passed the Purple Sage Saloon, the town’s gathering place Travis introduced Wyatt to when he turned seventeen. Its swinging doors momentarily offered a glimpse of cool darkness and the promise of liquid relief that would have tempted Wyatt if not for the early hours.
He couldn’t believe the changes in town as they made their way down Main Street. People like Emma weren’t in Sundown when he lived there. New buildings and businesses had sprouted up: a barbershop with a fancy striped pole, a photographer's shop and a mortician.
“I suspect you’ll notice plenty of changes. Last year, we erected a town hall.” Her words carried more than a hint of civic pride. “The town clears it out every other Saturday night for a dance. I suspect you might be too busy for such things.”
Such things. “I didn’t come to Sundown to dance.” Emma handled the mules with an experienced hand. As a lawyer, he’d learned to read people. She was close to his age. He felt guilty noticing the curves beneath her damp shirt. Her fiery red hair hung from the back of her old hat, the strands glistening in the morning sun. A smudge of what appeared to be ink clung to the side of her chin, but her most memorable features were her deep blue eyes that sparkled with mischief.
“You’re staring at me.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
A smile curled from the corner of her lip. “Pretty sure you meant to.”
Wyatt needed to change the subject away from her looks. He glanced at the shotgun at her feet. Why had she met him at the train station, and why had she stood up to Jeb? “What do you do when you’re not picking up passengers from the station?”
Emma laughed. “I own the Sundown Gazette. I write it. I print it. I sell it.”
“The town has a newspaper? When did that happen?"
“From what people say, about a year after you left. My father and I moved from Denver and opened the paper. He worked hard getting the Gazette off the ground, but his heart gave out…”
The last few words came out heavy, as if she had pulled them from somewhere deep inside.
“I’m sorry.” Wyatt knew the pain of losing a father and a mother. Now, he faced the prospect of losing his only brother.
The sparkle vanished from her eyes, replaced by dull sadness. “Maybe if I…”
“Maybe if you worked harder, he’d still be around?”
Her brow furrowed with grief. “Something like that.”
It was clear to Wyatt the woman enjoyed wearing her rough and gruff exterior, but inside, deep inside perhaps, were secrets the newslady thought best to keep buried.
Emma snapped the reins and urged the team onward. They rode the rest of the way in silence. She stopped beside the sheriff’s office. “Here we are.”
He climbed down from the wagon, grabbed his bags and set them next to the front door to the sheriff's office. “Thanks for the ride.”
The heavy oak door swung open with a groan, revealing the familiar face of Sheriff Sawyer Black. Carrying a pair of worn leather boots, he stepped onto the boardwalk, where a glint of morning sun shimmered on his white hair. The sheriff hurriedly buckled his holster with two Colt 45s on each side.
He set his gray Stetson on his head and stood tall and broad, a tin star pinned to his plaid shirt. He frowned at the wood shavings below the bench, then sat and jammed his left foot into his boot. “Don’t reckon you’ve seen my deputy.”
“You have a deputy?” Wyatt asked.
The sheriff squinted until a smile grew from behind his thick white mustache. His face had more than a few wrinkles that Wyatt knew had been carved from countless sunbaked days and hard choices. Amusement danced in his brown eyes. “Well, I’ll be a three-legged Coyote, Wyatt McCrea. You’ve grown some since you got on the stagecoach to California. Was it four years ago?”
“Five.” Wyatt shook the man’s strong, calloused hand. “I’m here to see my brother.”
The sheriff struggled to fit his right foot into the other boot. “Figured as much.”
The sheriff appeared to notice Emma for the first time. He tipped the front of his hat. “Emma.”
She managed a smile. “You’re up early, Sheriff.”
“You responsible for the gunshots that woke me from a peaceful sleep?”
Emma nodded. “Guess you could say that.”
The sheriff grabbed the door handle and held the door open for Wyatt. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”
“Much obliged.” Wyatt turned to Emma and tipped the front of his Stetson. “Thanks for saving my skin earlier, and for the ride. I reckon I’ll see you around.”
The twinkle returned to the newslady's blue eyes. “You can count on that, Wyatt McCrea.”
CHAPTER 3
Inside the sheriff’s office, Wyatt hung his hat on the coat rack beside the door. The sheriff took the key off a peg behind his sturdy oak desk. He opened the door and led Wyatt to the last of the four cells and unlocked Travis’s cell door. “I’ll be out searchin' for my deputy. Enjoy your visit.”
Wyatt stepped inside. The iron door clanged shut with a heavy finality, and Sheriff Black's footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
The cell smelled like a wash tub full of old wet socks. Eyes closed, his brother lay curled on a wooden cot in a cold, narrow room, snoring softly. Beside the cot was a humble box with a half-eaten cake inside, sweet evidence that at least someone was looking out for him.
Travis hadn’t shaved in days, and from the condition of his trousers, shirt and dirty socks, he hadn’t changed his clothes since his arrest. Flecks of gray that hadn’t been there when Wyatt left for college peppered his hair.
For a moment, he pictured Travis walking up the dusty path of their Illinois farm in rags and shoes with holes in them. He blinked the image away and swallowed a lump in his throat.
Wyatt cleared his throat. “Travis.”
His brother’s eyes fluttered open and focused on Wyatt. “Little Brother,” he rasped, pushing himself upright with a groan. “What the hell are you doing here? You decide I needed help on the ranch?”
“I’m here to do what it takes to get you out of jail.”
Travis wiped a hand across his face. “I don’t need your help. The whole thing is just a simple misunderstanding.”
Wyatt gazed around the stark cell. “Your present circumstances would suggest otherwise.”
“You even talk like a college boy.” His brother waved a dismissive hand.
Wyatt leaned his back against the cell bars. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. You stopped writing.”
Travis shrugged. “I didn’t have anything to say, still don’t. You made up your mind without me offering my opinion.”
“I’m not your kid brother anymore, Travis. I’m an attorney. You need my help.”
Travis rose. “Like hell I do.”
“I’m going to stay a night at the hotel. If you change your mind in the morning, I’ll stay.”
“A hotel? You got to get to the ranch and see if I have any stock left alive.”
Wyatt rubbed his chin. “Tell you what, if you come to your senses and accept my help, I’ll stay at the ranch and look after things.”
Travis crossed his arms. “Reckon I don’t have much choice.”
The two brothers locked eyes like a couple of hound dogs staring each other down. Travis gazed around the cell. “Every morning, I wake up and wonder why I’m here.” He let out a long breath. “Maybe you're right. Reckon I need someone to get me out. You really a lawyer now?”
“I really am.” Wyatt couldn’t keep a smile from breaking out.
The brothers shared a long overdue embrace, then stepped back and sized each other up.
Travis pointed to the box. “Would you like some cake?”
Wyatt shook his head. “I didn’t come to visit. Since I’m going to be your lawyer…”
“My lawyer?” Travis slumped down onto the cot and sputtered with laughter. “Seems like yesterday I was explaining to you what girls were for.”
The day before he left for the war. Wyatt remembered the frank and frightening conversation well. “You scared the crap out of me. I’m only now recovering.”
“I figured the time had come to explain how things work between men and women. You were twelve.”
“Eleven, and I grew up on a farm, so I knew the basics.”
‘Lovin’ a woman is more than the basics, Little Brother.” Travis cocked his head. “You got a gal?”
Wyatt hated when his brother called him “Little Brother,” and Travis knew it.
“I have a terrific girl. You’d like her, but I don’t have much time. I have to ask you questions you probably already answered more than once, but you need to be truthful. Now...”
“What’s her name?”
“Sadie. Sadie Hampton, my boss’s daughter.” Travis sat and leaned forward, clutching the edge of the cot. “Didn’t you ever hear ‘Don’t dip your pen in the company ink?”
“Reckon I skipped that part.”
Travis’s familiar smile returned. “She a looker?” Wyatt pulled her photo from his pocket and showed the picture to his brother.
Travis let out a low whistle. “You done good, Little Brother. You close the deal yet?”
“We’re engaged.” Although he still hadn’t asked her father.
“No, I meant…”
“I know what you meant.” Sadie had told Wyatt he’d been her first lover. She was a fast learner, but he and his brother shouldn’t be talking like they were sitting in a saloon. If there was any hope, he had to start finding answers to so many questions.
Wyatt stuffed the photograph back in his pocket. “Might as well start at the beginning.”
“Sombitch, Wyatt, we’re having a pleasant visit. We ain’t seen each other in five years.”
Wyatt groaned. “OK, just one question for now.”
“One.”
“Did you shoot the man you’re accused of shooting?”
“I ain’t never shot anyone since the war.”
Heavy footsteps sounded down the hallway. Sheriff Black opened the jail cell. “It's time.”
Travis clapped Wyatt on the back. “You need to get out to the ranch and make sure the animals are taken care of, including the chickens.”
“You have chickens?”
“They give me a couple of eggs a day. You should have a couple of dozen by the time you get out there. And ride Clementine and Ginger. They need the exercise.”
“Will do.” Wyatt shook Travis’s hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow for a long talk.”
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Travis gripped the bars in his cell. “Hey, lawman, could you cut back on bringing saloon girls into your office at night? It's cutting into my sleep.”
The sheriff laughed. “Your sleep? It’s cutting into mine something fierce.”
He led Wyatt into the office and dropped into the squeaky wooden chair behind his desk, where a plate with cake crumbs and a fork sat beside a stack of papers and a leather notebook.
Wyatt sat across from him. On the wall behind the desk was a red-framed “Wanted Dead or Alive poster for Tombstone Ted McCraw. The poster had been stamped Captured.
“You want to tell me why you arrested my brother for murder?”
The man let out a groan and set his boots on the frame of a pot-bellied stove next to the desk. He struggled to reveal the evidence against Travis. “Travis is my best friend. Before he reformed, we were best drinking buddies.”
“Reformed? Travis looks the same to me. What am I missing here?”
“You’re missing the years, Wyatt. The first few years after you left for California were rough ones for your brother. He spent more time at the saloon than he did at the ranch. About a year ago, I guess, he started to settle down, which is why I can't figure out how he got messed up with this business involving a bounty hunter named Silas Thornton.”
