CHAPTER 1
July 4, 1871
"These Republican sons-of-bitches know how to rub it in,I'll give 'em that." The scruffy Confederate bushwhacker turnedbuffalo hunter sluiced a stream of tobacco juice onto the boardwalkand stood admiring his work.
"Now, Horace, I could be wrong," replied his companion,"but you sound to me like a man that ain't been properlyreconstructed. Plus which, Falkner is right over there, and he willpistol whip your sorry rebel butt if he catches you spittin' on theboardwalk."
"I'll reconstruct you," the first man warned, "an' Falkner,too, an' ain't neither one of you gonna like the way I go about it. I'lltell ya this, though. If ol' Quantrill or ol' Bloody Bill Anderson washere, they'd show these Jayhawkers what they could do with allthem red, white and blue sheets they're hangin' up all over town."He looked on in disgust as two merchants on ladders secured thebunting that spanned the narrow space between their buildings."Bunch of goddamn abolitionists."
"Well," said the second man, "ol' Quantrill an' ol' BloodyBill are both entirely dead. You might just as well say if a man hadfour legs, he wouldn't need a horse." He added his own spit tothe slimy brown smear. "Independence Day ain't just for Yankees.They didn't kick King George's butt all by theirselves, plus which,the Stars and Bars was red, white and blue, as I recall."
The first man reflected momentarily, and then nodded."Yeah, OK, Walter, I'm gonna let ya be right about the Fourtho' July." He turned and watched as the town marshal strode theboardwalk on the other side of the street. The lawman jumpedoff the walkway and doffed his hat as a red-haired womanapproached from the other direction. She laughed and motionedas if to shoo him away. He laughed as well, then remounted theboardwalk and continued on his way, stopping to shake the handof a merchant who busied himself sweeping the walk in front of hisstore. "But that don't make Crill Falkner no less of a Republicanson-of-a-bitch."
The citizens of the west Kansas town of Marietta hadopted for a somewhat reserved celebration on that hot and humidFourth of July. It would be the first such event of any kind sincethe Confederate surrender. There would be no fireworks, as theyhad elected to invest their spendable cash in a schoolhouse. Thechildren were nomads, moving from the church to the town hall andback again, depending on scheduling conflicts, a situation deemeduntenable by pastor, chamber of commerce, and schoolmarm alike.But with skyrockets or without, those who were ready to move onwelcomed the display of national spirit, while others despised it.
The war was long over, but it had left in its wake scarsthat would never heal, and the kind of smoldering anger thatmen carry with them to their graves. One side had surrenderedand the other had prevailed, but cessation of hostilities hadn'tchanged the essential natures of those on either side of the fight.Those Southerners who had believed before the war that Negroslavery was part of the natural order of things still believed it, andNortherners who had seen secession as treachery and treason hadnot changed their minds, either. Like men and women all across theland, the residents of Marietta struggled to deal with the leavingsof the war every day of their lives.
The celebration got underway with a horserace at 8:00 inthe morning. A five-mile course had been laid out, designed to testendurance as well as speed. Crill Falkner offered some last-minutecounsel to his deputy, Tom Jensen. A strapping 20-year-old, Tomwas an expert rider and was accustomed to winning races on hisbig sorrel, Sonny Boy. "Pace him, Tom," Falkner said, strokingthe horse's muzzle. "He's plenty fast enough, but he'll need somewind for the home stretch."
Tom smiled, his white teeth flashing against the dark tan ofhis smooth face. "Maybe you ought to saddle up Big Bonnie andshow me how it's done, then."
Falkner feigned fear as he glanced quickly around. "Keepit down, will you? That other Bonnie might still be around heresomeplace."
Tom laughed out loud. "This is what I need, all right,horse racin' advice from a whipped old man that's afraid to tell hiswoman he named a horse after her."
Falkner didn't feel old at 35, but when he tried to rememberhimself at Tom's age, it felt like a memory of somebody else's youth.He found it impossible to put himself inside that young man's skin.That Crill Falkner had lived a separate life in a different world,and that world had ended six years before.
"This boy could do the whole five miles flat out if he hadto, which he don't. He'll be prickin' his ears when we hit the finishline." Tom roughly tousled the mane of the big gelding as the horsethrew his head and snorted in protest. "All I have to do is stay inthe saddle, and them forty dollars is mine."
"Well, he's only muscle and bone. You're the brains ofthe outfit. Think about what you're doing." Falkner crossed thestreet and climbed into the bed of an unhitched freight wagon asthe contestants approached the starting line. He looked over thehorses and riders, and knew Tom was right. On their worst dayTom and Sonny Boy could beat this field; it consisted of a bunchof farmers, shop clerks, and buffalo hunters mounted on whatwas mostly a head-down collection of workhorses and barn-soursaddle stock.
He reached across his body and drew the Colt's revolverhe'd carried in the war. He still wore it the same way out of habit, ina right-hand holster at an angle to the left of his belt buckle. It hadbeen necessary to wear it that way back then, because in those daysthere had been a pouch of cartridges for a Springfield rifle-musketon his right hip. He shouted above the din of the spectators."Gentlemen, I want a reasonably straight line underneath thisbanner." He indicated the bunting that spanned Main St. betweenthe roofs of the bank and the livery. "When it looks fair to me,I'll start you with a single shot. If I fire a second shot, it meanssomebody jumped the gun, and we'll start again. Understood?"Seeing a lot of nodding and hearing no questions, he raised therevolver and cocked the hammer. The riders nudged their animalsforward a step at a time until they were under the banner.
"Can a man still get in this race?"
Falkner lowered the hammer as he turned toward a horseand rider he had never seen before. He was by no means a horseexpert, but Falkner knew by the arched neck and small muzzlethat the sleek stallion was from Arabian stock. The prancing blackstud was full of vinegar and ready to run, but the man on his backheld him in check as he gazed calmly in Falkner's direction andwaited for his reply. If the rider was as excited by the prospect ofthe race as his horse was, he kept it well concealed behind a thickblack beard.
"It's five dollars, winner-take-all," Falkner replied. Thestranger was prepared. He held out his hand and with the flick ofa thumb sent a coin glinting its way in the morning sun. Falknersnatched it out of the air with his left hand, glanced at the halfeagle in his palm, and said, "The course is marked."
The stranger nodded. "Then I'll figure it out."
"Well, then, good luck."
The black horse took his place at the right hand end of theline of horses, next to Tom and Sonny Boy. The Arabian had beenraced before, knew what was coming, and was eager to get at it.Falkner raised the revolver again, and when the ragged line wasas straight as it would ever be, he pulled the trigger. Eight entriesleapt away from the starting line. The ninth, a big gray work plugthat was more used to pulling a buckboard than running races, wasridden by a farmer named Milt Stowe. Startled by the gunshot,the horse reared and dumped its inexpert rider in the dusty street,then took off after the others.
Falkner got down and helped him up. "You OK, Milt?"
"Yeah, sure." Milt had the wind knocked out of him, andstruggled to catch a breath while Falkner brushed dirt off his shirt.When he was able to talk, he asked, "Say, if that nag wins withoutme, I don't suppose it would count, would it?"
Falkner shook his head and laughed. "I wouldn't think so."
Horace Guthrie and Walter Miller walked over and joinedthe conversation. "That was some fancy horsemanship, Milt,"said Guthrie, clapping a cloud of dust off Milt's shoulder. Then heturned his head and loosed a stream of tobacco juice that narrowlymissed the toe of Falkner's left boot.
"You'll git pistol-whipped yet," Miller warned. "C'mon,let's go get Milt a drink."
Guthrie wiped at the corner of his mouth with the backof his hand as he stared at Falkner. "I do not believe I'll bepistol-whipped today. Do you, Mr. Falkner?"
Falkner pushed up the brim of his hat and stared back.Some in his line of work found it a useful expedient, but he hadnever pistol-whipped anybody. In this case, though, the idea heldsome appeal. "Hard to say, Guthrie. It's early."
Miller laughed. "He's right. You've got all day to git yerskull cracked. No need to rush into it." The three of them headedoff toward the Whistle Stop saloon, Milt all the while bombardedby a chorus of raucous laughter and catcalls from his friends andneighbors lining the street. Guthrie sent Falkner one last look overhis shoulder, and a final mouthful of spit before calling it off.
The racers galloped off down Main St. and out of townto the west. They kept to the main road for about a mile, thenveered off to the south toward Mercer Creek. They forded thecreek at a pre-selected spot, where it was wide, slow-moving, andsandy-bottomed. The stranger on the black horse bumped Tomhard on the far edge of the stream, causing Sonny Boy to stumbleand lose stride as he gained the muddy bank.
"What the hell?" Tom yelled. "I'll be waitin' for you in town!"
The stranger didn't look back, but lashed at the black'sflanks with a long pair of reins as the racecourse gave way to atortuous climb through low hills. The going was rocky, rough, andat times very steep. All of the horses, with the exception of theblack Arabian, had a good deal of trouble with their footing. Fourmen, having more use for a sound horse than for a blue ribbonand forty dollars, pulled up and turned around, dropping out ofthe race.
The downhill grade on the other side of the hills was equallytreacherous, but Sonny Boy picked and slid his way into secondplace, behind only the black horse. Once clear of the hills the fourremaining contestants turned back toward town, riding alongsidea wheat field. Tom made his move, kicking Sonny Boy into a fullrun. He caught the black when they were across the creek fromMarietta, and a group of boys cheered him on before running backinto town for the finish. He put some distance between himself andthe stranger as he passed the town bridge and headed for the nextone, a half-mile distant. Ten lengths separated Sonny Boy and theArabian as the leader clattered across the bridge and turned intothe final leg of the race.
Tom was halfway home when he heard hoof beats, andturned to see the Arabian running strong and steady, ears back,nostrils flaring, his powerful breast rippling with each stride ashe slowly gained ground on Sonny Boy. Tom asked his horse formore, but the winded sorrel had nothing left to give. The strangercaught him at the edge of town, and much to the dismay of thecrowd, passed underneath the banner a full length in front.
Tom leapt from the saddle and ran to confront the winner.He grabbed the stallion's bridle as he snarled at the stranger. "Idon't know who you are, or who you think you are, but you run adirty race, and I don't much like it."
The stranger remained passive, and eyed Tom coldly."Unhand my horse." When Tom didn't respond immediately herepeated his demand in an icier tone. "I said let him go."
Tom released the bridle and stepped back as the strangerdismounted. "If you're referring to that little bump at the ford,"he said, "it was an accident. The race was barely underway at thetime. That didn't cause you to lose."
"Your little accident did just what you wanted it to do. Ittook enough out of my horse that you were able to run me downon the last leg." Tom paused to catch his breath, then went on. "Bythe way, this was supposed to be a local race. I don't know whythe marshal let you in, anyway."
Falkner stepped between the two men and handed Toma red ribbon. "You got second, Tom," he said, gesturing up thedeserted road to the east. "That's not too bad, considering we can'teven see the third place finisher yet."
Tom snatched the ribbon out of Falkner's hand. "He's acheat. When a man's got a horse like that, you'd think he wouldn'tfeel like he had to cheat."
"You and your horse both need to cool down," Falknersaid. Sonny Boy stood at a nearby trough sucking water. "You'dbetter tend to him or he'll make himself sick."
Tom stomped off as Falkner tied the blue ribbon into theArabian's mane and patted his neck. He then turned to the rider,his right hand extended as he fished in his trouser pocket for theprize money. "Congratulations. I don't believe I ever got yourname. Mine's Falkner."
"Smith," said the stranger, taking first the money, then thehand. "Bernard Smith."
CHAPTER 2
Crill Falkner smiled up at Bonnie Little as she descendedthe stairs, her red hair falling in soft curls around her face andacross the bodice of her green dress. The fabric of the close-fittinggown set off her emerald green eyes, complimenting her fair skinand bright smile. He knew that within the last few minutes shehad put dinner on the table for her three elderly boarders, as wellas an extra plate for the victorious horseman, Mr. Smith. Althoughshe must have dressed in a little bit of a hurry, nobody would haveever guessed it.
"Evenin', Crill," she called, stepping into the parlor. "Youknow everyone, with the possible exception of Mr. Smith."
"I know Mr. Smith mainly by the horse he rides. But we'vemet."
Falkner took a better look at the stranger this time around.He looked to be about forty-five years old, of average height, andpowerfully built. His thinning black hair added a hard edge to astern, bearded face. Smith was smiling, but he didn't look friendly.A Remington percussion revolver was holstered at his right hipeven as he prepared to dine, and he had a Smith and Wessonpocket revolver tucked into his waistband.
Both men nodded civilly, and it was the marshal who spokefirst. "What brings you to Marietta, Mr. Smith? Planning to staylong?"
"Nothing special, just passing through. But if I was of amind to settle down, your town would be worthy of more than alittle consideration," he said, glancing toward Bonnie as his wordstrailed off.
Falkner ignored the obvious implication and smiled."Where are you from?"
"Oh, here and there," Smith said. "Texas originally. I'mthinking you don't sound much like a lawman from Kansas."
"That's because I'm a farmer from so far up in New York itmight as well be Quebec."
"Ah, yes," said Smith, "a transplanted abolitionist."
Smith's intended insult was a reference to the New EnglandImmigrant Society, an antebellum anti-slavery organization.Determined to see to it that no more slave states would everbe added to the Union, back in the 50's they had encouragedabolitionists to settle in Kansas Territory to influence the outcomeof the slavery debate there, even providing firearms to defend andreinforce the free-soil position as needed. Smith's guess, thoughlogical, was wrong.
"Nope," Falkner said, "I came out here after the war.111th New York, C Company. What was your outfit?" It was animpolite and provocative question, and Falkner knew it, but it wasa question that men who had fought on both sides would continueto ask as long as they lived. Did you try to kill me, and I you? Didyou kill my friend, my brother? They needed to know.
"Home guard," Smith replied. "We had plenty of indigenousaggravation down in Texas, what with the Comanches andMexicans making trouble, and deserters trying to sneak home andhide. And then the niggers got wind that their Father Abrahamhad set them free, and they started getting uppity."
Bonnie had heard enough. "Pardon me, Marshal Falkner,but if Mr. Smith isn't under arrest, perhaps you should concludeyour interrogation so we can be on our way."
Falkner managed a half-hearted laugh, and the dour Mr.Smith even offered a thin smile. "The last Texans I talked to aroundhere were lost," Falkner said. "Three of them pushed 60 head oflonghorns up here through Amarillo. They took a shortcut andmissed the railhead by a hundred miles."
"Well," Smith replied, "I have a pretty good idea where I am."
Indicating the plate of food on the table in front of Smith,Falkner said, "I take it you'll not be bidding on a box suppertonight."
(Continues...)
