saddlebag dispatches 127 Clearing her voice, she spoke again. “I’ve seen you before, you know. It’s been three, four years, but I remember.” I gave her a glance but didn’t stop with my mission of cleaning that plate. She kept at it. “I always wondered why they called you the Deacon. I been to church in my younger days. We had preachers and elders. Never heard of a deacon.” “Preachers preach. Elders look after the flock. Deacons are teachers.” I glanced at her. “I claim none of that.” “Then, why?” “Some say I catch evil men and read to them from the Book.” She smiled and it washed away years from her face. “Well they got that wrong. From what I hear, you mostly read over them at the burying.” Her gaze held me a moment. “You don’t look like the killer you’re supposed to be.” I shrugged. “It’s not a mantle I took on purpose. Sometimes a road doesn’t end where you want or the finish of it where you expect.” “I’d say you’re not finished yet. So, did they deserve it— those you’ve read to from the Book?” I shook my head and met her level gaze. “A much wiser man than me said we all deserve it—one time or another. I expect he’s right.” The twinkle in her eyes told me she was about to lay some more country wisdom on me when the sound of three muffled shots interrupted our conversation. They were so evenly spaced I thought someone might be target shooting. My handful of spoon and taters paused on its journey as I listened. “Maybe it’s just a cow pusher drunk on skullbuster.” Her voice was skeptical. A woman screamed from down the street, followed by the sound of hoofbeats fading away. I gave a sad look at my half-finished meal. Sticking a last spoonful of taters in my mouth, I tossed a dollar on the table. When she went digging for change I waved her away. Grabbing my hat, I stepped outside. A man rushing by with a pistol drawn about run me over. Seeing a star on his shirt I figured he was the town marshal. Why he was in such a hurry was a mystery. I figured the shooter was long gone. I paused before I went out the door and looked back. She was younger than I thought and seemed wise beyond her years. Maybe she was like me, putting up a front to guard the one within. The stage office was a few doors away, with the coach and six-horse team tethered in front. I had a stray thought that if they didn’t water those horses soon they’d drop in their traces. By the time I got there, the marshal was coming out the door with a grey-haired woman in tow. She stood on the porch while the marshal gazed down the street. A faint dust cloud still hung in the air.
When he turned and saw me, I watched his gaze settle on my vest. His shoulders slumped when he saw it was a US Marshal’s badge. I could read the relief on his face. “I’m Ed Stone, the town marshal.” I shook his weathered hand with some curiosity. This was his town, his shooting—there were things to do. “Coble Bray. Pleased to meet you.” The man stepped back. “You’re the Deacon.” I nodded, waiting him out. You could read the thoughts bouncing around his brain by his facial expressions as his gaze wavered between the older woman and me. What I didn’t expect was the level of honesty. He shook his head. “That man’s going toward the Nation.” His glance at me wasn’t weak… exactly. “I should go after him. He killed three good men. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid. I know I can’t match that man with my gun and he won’t come if I ask polite.” The marshal dropped his gaze and then met mine with a pleading expression. “I got a wife and kids.” I wondered if this was the worst thing that had ever happened in this tired-looking town as I put my hand on his shoulder and nodded. Nobody much cared if I didn’t show up for supper. He gestured toward the woman. “Missus Peabody saw the whole thing.” He couldn’t get shut of us quick enough. Mumbling something about an undertaker, his run-down boots stomped back the way he’d come. Dressed in blue calico with a bonnet to match, Mrs. Peabody gazed at me with a stern look through little round spectacles. She reminded me of every schoolteacher I’d ever seen. I was surprised when a slow smile graced her face. I knew what she saw—a tall young man in faded clothes with two pistols strapped to his waist, and a bone-handled skinning knife on my left side. I needed a new hat a year ago. “You going to fetch that boy?” I looked at her a moment and then inclined my head. “I reckon.” Then I grinned at her. “You the one that screamed?” She gave a very unladylike snort. “That was the gal inside behind the counter. It was worse than the gunshots— like to busted my eardrums. Then she fainted. I wish she’d fainted first.” “Do you know who did this? A name, maybe?” “Seen him around. I never heard a name, so I just called him Baby Face. Looked harmless.” I thought of that a moment while looking at someone’s leg sticking out the door. It twitched once and then was still. The window was open and powder smoke still drifted out of the room. She picked up on her story. “Craziest thing I ever saw. Crazy as in strange. That boy walked in the door… nobody paid him no mind—and he didn’t say boo to anyone. He just pulled his shooter and killed the agent, stage driver, and guard.