Part Two
Shots fired

For the next two days Dee Bandy rode the Double B like a hired hand, looking for strays, keeping his eye open for rustlers and mulling over the problems Ben's return was sure to cause. As much as he tried to keep his mind on the matter, he found his thoughts straying to Feather. He'd had no specific thought of her when he decided to return but after seeing her, the lovely half-Arapaho girl had slipped into his head like a cat burglar and taken control of his emotions. There was no doubt in his mind he was smitten. And he had no idea what to do about it.

On both days he covered large sections of the Double B on both sides of the Fox River. On two occasions he saw riders in the distance but when he spurred the big bay toward them they ran. On the morning of the second day he came across a flame-blackened fire pit that could have been used to heat a running iron. The ashes were cold and there was no one in sight.

It was late afternoon of the second day as he was returning home that he heard pistol shots. Thinking one of his father's punchers had stumbled across some of Lindsley's men, Dee urged the bay into a dead run, drawing his Colt and pulling back the hammer as he rode.

There was a small meandering brook just ahead, shielded by a stand of cottonwoods. Whatever was happening was on the other side. Dee charged around the trees and pulled up short. About thirty yards away, Feather stood holding an old Cooper double-action revolver. In front of her on the ground before an old fallen log she had set a line of bottles and cans and broken glass and punctured metal littered the ground. A picketed gray gelding grazed peacefully near the brook.

Startled by Dee's mad approach, Feather was desperately trying to re-load. When she saw who it was, she stopped and glared at him.

"What do you mean rushing up on me like that?" she yelled. "I might have shot you."

There was no green dress today. Feather wore fitted deerskin pants, fringed at the sides that covered short riding boots, a blue flannel shirt and a white Stetson pushed back on her head.

"Probably not," Dee said, swinging down from his horse and walking toward her. "That Cooper's a fine gun but it don't work real good when it's empty. All that shootin', I thought I had me a rustler."

Feather grinned at him. "No, just a lot of dead bottles."

Dee walked over to the fallen log and sat. "Looks like you pretty well killed the log too. You do this a lot?"

Feather holstered the Cooper and sat beside him. "More now than before. Joseph taught me how to shoot long ago. He said it wasn't only men who have to learn to defend themselves in this land."

"I reckon he was right but I hope you never have to shoot someone." He looked out over the rolling pasture land before them and thought of the old Indian. "You probably miss him."

"More than you know. If it hadn't been for Joseph, I'd probably have died in that Pawnee raid. He hid me and he brought me here. I do miss him but sometimes he still comes to me in dreams."

"Dreams?" The vision of the old Indian sitting by his fire was strong in his mind.

"At times they seem more than dreams," Feather said. "He always said you'd come back, you know. The night before you showed up, I dreamed he was sitting by my bed. It was nearly morning and still dark but I could see him just like day. He didn't say anything, just sat there grinning like something good had just happened."

Be damned! Dee thought, a brief chill raising the hair on the back of his neck. Maybe I should believe in ghosts.

"How much of this war is dad's fault?" he asked.

"None of it really," Feather said. "He's defended himself and the Double B and he shot the man who killed Ed Spiller but all the push is on Lindsley's side. I know you think he's a hard-hearted man but he grieved when you ran off. And under that crust he covers himself with, he's got a heart as big as the Rockies. Look at how he took me and Joseph in. He treated Joseph like an honored warrior and raised me like his own daughter."

The sun had dipped down toward the western hills and cast a golden glow over the meadow and cottonwoods. Soft rays of light kissed Feather's face and Dee was struck again by how beautiful she was. Embarrassed, he stood.

"It's late," he said. "We should be heading back."

He offered Feather his hand and as she rose and stood close to him he felt his heart start to beat so loudly she must surely hear it.

Feather still held his hand. "Unless you want to stay and help me shoot a few cans to death," she joked.

"No," he said. "Guess I've killed enough logs in my time."

Scrambled eggs

The next morning Dee Bandy strolled into the ranch kitchen and found Danny Spiller seated at the cook's table wolfing down a mountain of scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes. The boy looked up with his mouth full, blinked and swallowed.

"So this is where you run away to," he said.

Dee pulled up a chair and looked at him. "You figure I turned tail and ran?"

Danny considered. "No. I guess you didn't. You busted up them two Lindsley hands pretty good. They wasn't in no kinda shape to go chasin' after you. 'Sides, no one knew where you went."

"So they were Lindsley hands."

"Yessir. Though they's not likely to be of much use the way you left 'em." He dug into his breakfast again.

Behind him Dee heard someone enter the kitchen and turned to find Caitlyn holding a cup of coffee. "I see you've met our spy," she said.

"Spy? This homeless kid gobbling eggs faster than hens can lay 'em?"

Caitlyn laughed. "Homeless? You think dad would turn him out after what happened to Big Ed?"

"I guess not. But spy?"

"It was Danny's own idea." She tousled the boy's unruly hair and smiled at him affectionately. "He wanted to get back at Lindsley so he moved to town, pretended to be abandoned and used his ears. It's due to Danny that we know so much about what Lindsley's up to."

Dee regarded the ragged boy with new respect. It took courage to do what he'd done. He held out his hand. "Dee Bandy, Mr. Spiller. I'm proud to know you."

The boy shook the offered hand gravely. "Likewise, Mr. Bandy."

"What else happened after I left?"

Danny wiped up the last of his breakfast with a piece of toast. "Well, Charlie showed up . . ."

"The Sheriff," Caitlyn said. "Charlie Morgan."

"Yessum. Him and Perez, his deputy. They checked the hotel and the stable barn but you was long gone. Later in the day Lindsley and his no-good son rode into town with three hands and they ran up and down Clinton yellin' and carryin' on. When that didn't do no good, they went over to the Three Kings, got drunk and bragged about what they'd do when they caught you."

"What kind of man is this Morgan?" Dee asked Caitlyn.

"Charlie's not a bad man, but no hand with a gun. He's straddling the fence over this mess, trying to keep the peace but he's in over his head."

No help then, Dee thought. It's all going to come down to them against us and God help the losers.

"You able to hear any of the braggin' they were doing?" he asked Danny.

"This and that," the boy said. "I lay down near the Kings' door and listened to all of 'em blow hot air. Only thing important was, they know Ben's comin' home and they're plannin' to lay for him. Oh, and they had that pistolero, Riendeau with 'em."

"Riendeau?" Dee said. "I've heard that name somewhere. Maybe down near Laredo. Dark fella with a big mustache?"

Caitlyn nodded. "That's him. They say he's half Cree and half French. I've seen him in Clinton. He always tips his hat and acts polite but I think he'd kill you in a Chicago minute."

Dee shook his head. If it was the same Riendeau, Lindsley had sure stacked the deck in his favor.

Reconnaissance

Dee had cleaned and oiled the two pistols he'd taken from Lindsley's rowdies in the Three Kings. He loaded the H&A .44 and gave it to Danny.

"They tell me Hopkins & Allen is one of the guns favored by that outlaw, Jesse James," he said. "I don't want you robbin' no banks though. Just keep it under your shirt or someplace you can get your hands on it quick. If we get into a jam when Ben comes back, hand it to me or whoever needs it."

He was tightening the cinch on the bay with the other gun, the unloaded Schofield, tucked in his gun belt when Feather stepped out onto the ranch porch and stood watching him. Her dress today certainly fit her name, he thought. It was a delicate white with soft fringe on the sleeves and Dee imagined she could just spread her arms, rise up and fly away in it.

"You off for another seven years, Dee Bandy?" she called.

Dee grinned and walked over to the porch. What he wanted to say, but didn't have the courage for was, now that I've seen how you grew to be so blamed pretty, I'd be a darn fool to leave. What he settled for was, "No. I need to take Danny back to Clinton and talk to Charlie Morgan."

He plucked the Schofield from his belt and handed it to her. "Next time you get an urge to kill that log again, try this."

"I've got to admit it's prettier," Feather said.

"Easier to reload, too. Here let me show you. Step down and aim at the near corral post."

When she had her arm extended, Dee stepped behind her, put one arm around her waist to steady her and put his other hand on her gun hand. "See that switch on the left hand side by the hammer? Flip it like this."

The Schofield fell open exposing the cylinder.

Feather nestled back against Dee. He could smell the freshness of her clean hair, the faint scent of her perfume and feel the soft-hard suppleness of her lithe body. "Nice," she murmured. "You're a good teacher, Dee Bandy."

At that moment Danny Spiller popped out of the house, banging the screen door behind him. Dee jumped back as if he'd been caught sucking eggs.

Feather watched him, suppressing a laugh, as he stalked back to the bay, mounted and pulled Danny up behind him.

"I'll be back for supper," he said and spurred the big horse into a trot.

When they were almost at the outskirts of Clinton, Dee dropped Danny off, making sure no one was within eyesight to link the two of them. He watched the boy scamper off toward town then turned the bay so he'd approach Clinton and the Union Pacific station from a different direction.

The station at mid-morning was empty under a cloudless sky. The station master, Henry Thornton, sat alone, leaning back and half dozing on a luggage hand truck pushed up against a shady overhang of the station wall, his billed cap low over his closed eyes. At the sound of Dee's boots on the wood station platform he sat up and tried to look alert. Henry was a young man who took his duties seriously when he had them. Otherwise, he was content to find a shady spot and put his boots up. When Dee inquired about the arrival times of trains arriving from Laramie and points east of there, he sprang to action, producing a handful of printed schedules and answering Dee's questions eagerly until he had satisfactorily pinpointed the required information.

The Sheriff's office was set back from the caliche road by a short porch holding a bench and two chairs and sat snug-up against the east side of the red-brick Clinton & Western Bank. The office consisted of three rooms. The first was about fifteen feet deep by twenty, dominated by Charlie Morgan's square oak desk. A smaller table, pushed up against the right-hand wall beside a locked gun rack holding a 10-gauge shotgun and three rifles, served as a desk for Morgan's deputy, Andy Perez. Behind and left of Morgan's desk was a door leading to a storage room and three cells, all currently unoccupied.

The Sheriff, a dark-browed, silver-haired man with a thick brush mustache, looked up and regarded Dee without comment as he pushed open the door and entered. When Dee told him who he was and offered his hand, Morgan studied him for a long moment before taking it.

"I suppose I ought to lock you up for what you did to those two hands the other day," he said.

Dee held out his wrists close together. "I'm here," he said. "Slap 'em on."

Morgan waved him to a chair. "Guess not. Frog Addams and McKendry both said Fat John started it. You just ended it kind of extreme."

"Figured they'd back shoot me if I didn't."

Morgan nodded. "Likely."

"I need to know where you stand on this hostility between the Double B and Lindsley," Dee said.

"I don't stand anywhere, young man," Morgan scowled. "My job is keeping the peace. Standing between your father and Lindsley is like trying to balance on a greased teeter board. I've known your father for a good many years. He's a fair man. Lindsley's a problem but until I catch him or his hands breaking the law, there's nothing I can do."

"You're aware Lindsley's swearing to kill my brother if he comes back to Clinton?"

"I am. But sayin' isn't doin' and Ben isn't here."

"He will be," Dee said. "Day after tomorrow. He and Emma are comin' back on the 12:15 out of Laramie."

Charlie Morgan looked a long time at the gun rack, a sour expression on his face before shaking his head. "Didn't know that," he said. "It's just what I need."

"No, sir," Dee said. "I figure what Clinton needs is for you and Perez to meet that train and make sure Ben gets home safe."

Morgan's face flushed angry for a second then relaxed. "I don't need you to tell me my job, Mr. Bandy. You're right but hear this, if you or your father start something, I'll treat you just like I would any other lawbreaker."

Dee stood. "Knew I could count on you Sheriff," he said. He hoped he managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He'd found out what he wanted to know. Caitlyn was right, Charlie Morgan wasn't going to be much help.

Riendeau

Anticipating a hot thirsty ride back to the Double B, Dee reasoned that a little pre-trip drink might ease the passage. The Three Kings was considerably more active than it had been on his previous visit. Four citizens were bellied up to the bar where McKendry stood polishing a glass with a soiled dishrag. One of the men wore a gray suit with a tie and a black bowler hat, a lawyer Dee guessed. The other three were dressed less formally, two in black trousers with elastic bands on their shirts to keep them from sliding down their arms. Probably clerks or shop owners drinking their lunch. The fourth was a rough-looking man in dusty overalls over a worn green flannel shirt. Gray whiskers covered nearly all his face so completely it was hard to know where his mouth was until he lifted his glass of beer and poured some down his gullet. None of them appeared armed, although the lawyer could have been carrying a pistol under his coat.

Frog Addams was fiddling away at his piano, not really playing a tune but kind of chasing one back and forth as if he was trying to catch it but had no idea where it was hiding. Ivars Gudson was passed out at a table near the piano and two other tables were occupied by card players. Dee recognized the man Charlie Morgan called Fat John at one of the tables, his arm in a sling. He had a small pile of coins in front of him and looked disgusted. Behind the fat man, watching the card players, a slim, dark man with a drooping, black Mexican-style mustache sat leaning against the wall, his chair balanced on its back two legs.

No one looked up as Dee entered but as he walked to the bar, Fat John looked up then jerked up out of his seat as if he'd been clawed by a barn cat. He slapped the table with his good hand and turned to the slim, dark man. There was a whispered conversation and the man slowly tipped his chair forward and stood.

Dee turned his back to the bar and watched the dark man walk toward him, noting the graceful way he moved, the deadpan expression on his face and the fact that his right hand never moved far from the pearl handle of his Colt. When the man was just a step or two away he surprised Dee by holding out his hand.

"Riendeau," he said. He had a soft voice in which Dee imagined he heard the faint accents of Canadian French.

"Figured," Dee said and took the offered hand. "Dee Bandy."

Riendeau turned to the bartender. "Two glasses and a bottle." He indicated an empty table with his head. "Let's talk."

Riendeau sat sprawled in his chair, legs extended, holding his shot glass in his left hand. "There was a Dee Bandy shot a sheriff down in Kansas. Cobb, I think it was. Pretty good with a gun."

"Not much of a sheriff," Dee said. "More like a thievin' murderer hidin' behind a piece of tin."

Riendeau grinned. "Here's to dead, thievin' murderin' sheriffs." He tossed back his shot, watched Dee down his and poured them both another round.

"I want to make something plain to you," he said. "I got no beef with you personally and I'm not real fond of goin' up against men who are good with a gun. I heard you were fast."

"Middlin'," Dee said.

"Uh-huh." Riendeau sat up and looked down at his glass, fiddling with it for a moment before looking up. "Thing is, Lindsley hired me to watch his back. I get no joy from pickin' fights but if it comes down to a face-off between you and him, I'll have to kill you."

Dee raised his glass. "Here's to findin' out if you can." He tossed back the shot and stood.

Riendeau regarded him without changing expression. "I'll drink to that," he said.

Promise

There was little to do but wait.

Clive Bandy told his hands to carry on as usual but carry side arms and keep their eyes peeled for any trouble. The previous night after dinner the family held a war counsel and decided Clive and Dee would ride into Clinton early to be in place before the 12:15 from Laramie. Caitlyn and Feather would bring in the buckboard to carry any luggage Ben and Emma might have. They'd also trail in two saddle mounts for the couple and insist they return to the Double B. The Clinton Hotel was just too dangerous.

The day dragged on hot and endless. Dee curried the big bay, fixed a splintered plank in the corral one of the barely tamed ranch horses had kicked in and cleaned and oiled his Colt. Finally bored, he selected a dun mare from the Double B remuda, slipped a rope halter on the horse and rode bareback a half mile to a cool spot on the Fox River.

Sometime in the distant past, the river had flowed into a surface field of oxidized basalt and veered sharply south for a few hundred yards before encountering more forgiving soil and resuming its way east to join the Platte. The bend, and a shallow nearby pool fed by the deviation, were shaded by cottonwoods and alders and the area was covered with sufficient grass to graze the dun.

Dee hobbled the mare then sat at water's edge, playing over the possibilities the following day might present. Perhaps a half-hour later he heard a horse approaching as its hooves passed over a patch of rocky ground. He rose carefully, moved into the cottonwoods and cocked the hammer of his Colt. An instant later he recognized Feather's gray gelding. He holstered his gun and stepped out into the open.

"I thought you might be here," Feather said. She slipped from the saddle and led the gray toward him. "We all used to come here when we were kids, remember?" Today her hair was brushed up under her white Stetson. The collar of her blue shirt was open and Dee noticed she wore a simple beaded necklace.

"I remember catching you and Caitlyn skinny dipping here once," he said.

Feather blushed. "We couldn't have been more than six or seven so you didn't see much. Besides we were in the water up to our necks. What I remember is you yelling to get out and put our clothes on . . . which we couldn't do with you standing there."

"Yeah, you didn't obey real quick," Dee grinned.

They hobbled the gray and walked back to where Dee had been sitting. Feather looked out over the river to the vast land beyond.

"There's so much space here," she said. "I don't understand men like Lindsley. The plateau is big enough for him and your father. And there's plenty of good grazing land north and south. Fighting is just stupid."

"There are always some men who want more than their fair share," Dee said. "And some who see something someone else has and try to take it away from them."

Feather took her hat off, turned her head and looked at him. "And what do you want, Dee Bandy?"

He plucked a stem of long grass and chewed on it. "Something of my own, I guess."

"You know your father wanted you to have the Double B. That's why he worked you so hard. So you'd learn what you had to know to run the place."

"I reckon," he said. "At the time it didn't seem worth it."

"And now? After Ben and Emma get home safe, will you leave again?"

Dee looked at her a long time before answering, a jumble of thoughts bouncing around inside his head. Words like, I'll never leave as long as you're here. Words that wanted to break out but were tied up like the legs of a pigged calf.

"No," he finally said. "I won't leave."

"I'm glad," Feather said. She rested her head on Dee's shoulder. "I think if you did, it would break my heart."

Well, I'll be double-d-damned, he thought.

Far to the west the sky thickened and heat lightning danced over the hills. A breeze sprang up, riffling through the leaves of the cottonwoods and alders but neither of them moved for a very long time.

Meeting the 12:15

In the morning Feather was gone.

Dee and Caitlyn checked her room, the barn, stable and out buildings. There was no sign of her. Sometime before the others were up, she had saddled the gray gelding and ridden off.

As time grew increasingly short, Dee became more and more worried but there was no choice but to leave. Caitlyn continued to search as Dee and his father headed for Clinton.

The station was unoccupied except for the station master, Henry Thornton. There were no waiting passengers, no Lindsleys and no Charlie Morgan. They left their horses in back and Clive Bandy went into the office to ask if the sheriff had been there while Dee paced the platform scanning the adjacent streets for any threat.

A few moments later he spotted Danny Spiller running hell-bent toward him. As soon as the boy got close enough he yelled, "They kilt Morgan!"

"The Lindsleys?"

The boy leaned against the station platform, gasping for breath, his head bobbing up and down like an apple in a bucket of water. "Yessir. They come through Clinton and Charlie tried to stop 'em. They gunned him down like a dog. Perez is bad hurt too."

"Get behind the station with the horses, Danny," Dee said. "Caitlyn is comin' in with the buckboard. Give her the Hopkins and tell her to stay there. We may need to make a run for it."

The boy nodded and dashed off as Clive pushed open the station door and stepped out.

"What happened?"

"The Lindsleys have gone kill crazy," Dee told him. "They killed Morgan."

"Good God! They coming?"

"Bet your life on it." Not a good choice of words, Dee thought, but damned accurate.

"We're sitting ducks out here, dad. Best get inside 'til the train shows."

Clive nodded and they took shelter in the station where Henry Thornton cowered behind his desk in the office. Every minute that passed seemed like twenty, an eternity measured by the click of the minute hand on the big Union Pacific clock on the far wall. They tried to stay away from the window overlooking the platform except to check constantly for any sign of the Lindsleys.

They saw nothing.

"What we've gotta do," Clive said, "soon as Ben and Emma step off the train is get 'em in here. The train might shelter 'em a little but we gotta move fast. Once we get 'em safe inside we can stand off the Lindsleys."

Dee said nothing, just checked his Colt and watched the clock.

It was 12:10 when they heard the far-off whistle of the Laramie train.

"You ready?" Clive asked.

"As I'll ever be."

They could feel the train now. The station windows shook as it pounded nearer. There was another piercing whistle and the iron monster arrived, braking to a grinding stop in a shower of sparks and a cloud of steam. A moment passed before the door to the second passenger car opened and a young, spectacled man wearing a brown suit stepped out. Ben Bandy strongly resembled his brother, but Ben was slimmer, less broad through the shoulders. His coloring resembled his father's, he had thick brown hair and cool gray eyes. He turned back toward the coach and held out his hand to a pretty somewhat plump, blonde girl.

Before their hands could touch, Ben crumpled to the platform and the retort of a rifle was heard over the hissing steam of the locomotive. Dee and his father darted from the station as a second round tore into the platform close to Ben's head. Working quickly, they grabbed Ben and a screaming Emma and dragged them into the station.

Dee bent over his brother, loosening clothing and checking for the wound.

"Is he . . . ?" Clive couldn't bring himself to say the word.

"No," Dee said. "It looks a lot worse than it is. He's hit high in the right shoulder."

Outside, the train hadn't moved, the engineer uncertain what to do. Dee opened the door a crack and yelled for him to move, clear the way. The man needed no more prompting. He released the brake and opened the throttle. The train slowly gathered steam and moved off. The sound of running boots pounded across the platform. Caitlyn burst through the door and ran to Ben.

"He'll live," Dee told her. "See if you can find something to stop the bleeding and help dad calm Emma down."

There was a shout from outside. "You can't hide in there forever, Bandy. Come out and we'll settle this once and for all."

Clive moved toward the door but Dee stopped him. "Wait. When I make my move, come out shooting."

He pushed open the door and stepped out. He was surprised to see Lindsley's pinch-faced, hard-jawed daughter next to her father and brother. All three were mounted and drawn up close to the station platform. Blond, squat and heavy-shouldered, Lindsley held a Spencer lever-action carbine across his lap.

"You're Ben's brother," Lindsley snarled. "Well, you can be just as dead as he is."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dee saw Riendeau step out onto the platform from behind the west end of the station.

"I told you if it came to a contest, I'd have to kill you," Riendeau said.

The Lindsleys didn't move. They sat their horses, anticipating what Riendeau would do and enjoying the show.

Dee drew faster than he'd ever done in his life and shot Lindsley in the head. As the man fell, Dee dove to his right and rolled. He felt a bullet tug at his left sleeve as he came up and fired at Riendeau. The first round caught the gunslinger in the stomach, the second hit him dead center in the chest. At the same instant Clive Bandy jumped through the open station door and shot Jacob Lindsley.

Stunned by the gunplay, Ella sat staring at her dead father and brother. But not for long. Screaming like a banshee, she drew her pistol and aimed at Dee. Before she could fire, two shots rang out. Ella turned toward her right in disbelief then slumped forward and tumbled to the ground. Feather stood at the east end of the station platform with the Schofield held in both hands. Slowly she walked toward Dee until she was close enough to touch his sleeve where Riendeau's bullet had grazed him.

"I had a dream you'd hesitate to shoot," she said. "It's over, isn't it?"

Dee wrapped his right arm around her and drew her close. Her body was trembling and when he looked into her eyes her face was streaked with tears.

"Yes," he said. "The worst is over. I figure the best is just beginning."

He wondered if Joseph Broken Arm, wherever he was, could hear him.