Chapter 4
Delaney walked into the wrecked excuse for a cabin, took a hard look around, hands on her hips, and said, “Let’s get this place cleaned up enough it’s safe for a wounded man to lie on the floor.”
Owen studied the remarkably pretty woman. It had been proper for her to come along on a ride with seven men since one of them was her brother. But an unconscious brother didn’t count. Nothing much to be done about it, but it wasn’t right.
He rose from where he’d checked Boone’s head wound and nodded. “Your brother just needs time to wake up.”
“It’s been over a day. He shouldn’t still be unconscious.”
Owen understood worry. He didn’t engage in the activity much but usually had better things to do.
Still, he understood it. “No, he shouldn’t, but he is and there isn’t much we can do about it.
Cleaning is probably a waste of time in this place, but I reckon it’s better than idleness. Morg will bring water in.”
“Right now he’s tending the horses, then digging a grave.” She paused to glare at Clive Duncan, as if she’d like to make it two graves. But Clive was doing better than Owen had hoped. Well enough that they were keeping him bound, hand and foot.
Her eyes flashed, and he saw her thoughts. Her brother was unconscious still, while this murderer was awake and surviving a gut wound. She didn’t like the injustice of that.
Owen didn’t either. But hadn’t he just seen that a hundred times over, good men wounded or dead while evil men rode free. Then he reminded himself he’d seen justice too, even helped it along during his years working as a U.S. Marshal, and he’d decided the rugged life he led was worthy.
Most days.
Delaney was back to looking around the room again.
Not a stick of furniture. Gaping holes where there should have been doors and windows.
She strode through the small front room to a doorless second room in the back.
Morgan had told him while they rode that there was only the one bedroom.
He’d lived in this main room with his older brother, while his pa had the bedroom.
His ma had died before they’d moved to this remote, desolate area.
They lived on what they could hunt or grow and traded furs for cash money.
Delaney came back out empty-handed. There was nothing in the cabin a pack rat hadn’t dragged in. Shaking her head, she said, “Guess I’m going to need to build a broom.” With that, she walked back outside.
He almost smiled. He’d wondered where she’d start fashioning something like that. But he figured the woman was as savvy as she seemed determined.
At least it was midsummer. Not much call for a fire unless someone brought down a deer. But they’d be wise to be quiet and to save their bullets.
Marley shifted up onto an elbow where he lay on a blanket on the dirt floor. How had Morgan stood living here?
“Got enough water to share, boss?”
Owen smiled at Marley and unscrewed the lid on his canteen.
They’d worked together a few times. The crew was stationed out of Colorado.
A lot of Marshals worked in federal courthouses, keeping order, providing protection.
And a big part of their job was delivering warrants and a summons to appear in court.
They also delivered reward money, which mostly came on the train these days.
So a Marshal would ride along to guard cash being delivered to a judge to hand out to someone who’d brought in a wanted outlaw.
Marley had been well settled in Denver for a few years.
He had a favorite judge, and the man reappointed him at the end of every four-year term.
Owen was different. He’d gained a reputation, along with Morgan and Tex, of being a good man to send out on the trail.
They got sent after outlaws who’d committed federal crimes, and stealing the mail was one of the most common ones.
They’d chased down a lot of train and stagecoach robbers.
None of them had a regular judge they were assigned to guard. None of them had a home. They were wandering men, which suited all of them. Owen had just finished rounding up a band of vicious stagecoach robbers in Wyoming.
Marley took a slow sip, then another longer one.
He looked around the derelict cabin and chuckled, then winced as if the laughter had bothered his wounded leg. “I’ve stayed in worse places than this.”
“Sleeping under the stars doesn’t count.” Owen managed a smile, but it didn’t go very deep.
Then Marley gave him a smile so sly it sent a chill up Owen’s spine. “That’s a mighty pretty young lady there.” He said it like he was, what, matchmaking? Marley?
Owen didn’t respond. It was a comment that didn’t merit one.
The smile faded. “Ain’t nuthin’ proper about a young lady out here with us galoots,” Marley added.
“You’re right. With her brother laid up, he ain’t much of a chaperone. Not much can be done about it at this point.”
“Except hope her pa, Colonel Bridger, don’t object when he learns about it. By all accounts he’s a terror and a tyrant, as tough as old Jim Bridger himself.”
Owen nodded, recalling how he’d looked for too long at Delaney Bridger a time or two .
. . or three. He’d keep her pa in mind. “I’ve heard of him.
Never served with him, though. Folks say he’s a warrior to the bone who’d’ve single-handedly won the war for the Union if others hadn’t thrown in to help. ”
Marley sat up and leaned back against the wall near the full-height fireplace.
“Being proper is the least of our troubles. Her pa’s gonna tear a strip off of us for his son getting hurt, and I won’t blame him.
I had a son who died fighting for the North.
You never make peace with it; you only live with it because your heart keeps beating, and your breath keeps going in and out. ”
“I never knew you had a son, Marley.”
“A wife and a boy. Lost her when she tried to bring a second child into the world. I went off to fight and left my son with neighbors. Minute I was gone, he ran off when he was too young to have a lick of sense. Became a drummer.”
“I think Morg was a drummer, too. Another one who was just a youngster when he marched off to fight.” Owen walked back over to take a longer look at Boone, reassuring himself that he was still breathing.
Marley went on. “Losing him sent me to the Western Frontier and into the Marshals Service. I still think of ’em both almost every day, and my mind wrangles around thinking of what I should have done to save ’em.
And then the days I don’t think of ’em, I remember the next day and feel guilty for forgetting them. ”
Marley was quiet a minute, and Owen wished he knew what to say. He carried pain of his own, but it didn’t seem to make him any wiser when it came to moments like this.
After another sip of water, Marley added, “He’d’ve been a bit older than Stan if he’d lived. Reckon that’s why I was so fond of Stan.” Marley moved back to his blanket, then closed his eyes. “It’s been a long day. I’m gonna see if I can sleep awhile.”
Delaney came back in at that moment. She’d found a stick and a clutch of twigs and some vines. She lashed the twigs around the stick to make a likely looking broom. She sure was turning out to be a handy woman.
After a glance at Marley, Delaney went to the back room to work. Owen guessed from her closed-off expression that she’d waited outside to let Marley talk. She seemed to have a knack for knowing what people needed.
Owen wrenched his thoughts from the very pretty, very tough, very worried Delaney.
Morgan poked his head through the doorway. “Horses are taken care of. The corral didn’t need much. I repaired it and dug a grave.”
Owen saw Marley’s eyes flicker open. The man was a Marshal, so he slept light.
“If you’re ready, we can get Stan settled now.” Morgan stepped back outside and brought in a haunch of deer. “It’s safe to start a fire for cooking. I checked the chimney. Seems sturdy enough, and the flue’s clear of any debris.”
Just how long had Owen been in here tending Marley and Boone? But then Morgan got more done in an hour than any man alive.
“You got some game? I didn’t hear a rifle shot.”
“Didn’t think it was wise when we don’t know where those coyote Duncans are.
I got it with my knife. Wandered right up close.
I’ll cut some steaks, and we can build a spit in the fireplace and roast the meat that way.
I’ve got a big enough pan in my saddlebag to make up a stew for tomorrow.
There should be some Indian potatoes and wild onions around here to flavor it some. ”
Morgan said, “Miss Delaney?” She appeared in the doorway of the sole bedroom. “You want to attend the funeral, miss?”
For a rough man from the wild, high-up hills, Morgan held more kindness in his voice than Owen could believe.
Of course, even knowing each other for years and working together now and then, he and Morgan hadn’t done much getting to know each other.
They were too busy chasing outlaws and making their way in the wilderness of the West. Not a lot of long nights spinning yarns and sharing life stories by the fire.
Out of the corner of his eye, Owen saw their prisoner roll onto his side, then flop over to his back again. Maybe he forgot he’d been shot.
At the sight of Clive’s bloodshot eyes and pale face—so young—Owen felt a pang of regret for a life wasted from the very beginning.
“Your saddle partner won’t be the last to die in your posse. My pa won’t quit coming for me,” the young man warned them.
Marley, his voice menacing, said, “Then they won’t quit dying, will they, Clive?”
“Right now I’m going to bury a friend. Miss Delaney, you should come along. Tex is standing watch, Marley ain’t up to it, and Owen is guarding this polecat, who don’t have the sense to stop threatening the men who hold his life in their hands. I’d appreciate some company.”