Deputy at Large: Legends of the Landrun, #2

By Judge Rodriguez and Alanna Rodriguez

The Marshal of Denver, Indian Territory, John Cardwell is burdened by the ghosts of his past and mistakes of his present as he is confronted by surprise, sorrow, anger, and evil on a scale he has rarely seen before. Can he put it all aside to defeat the forces of evil that are threatening to destroy the peace that has been hard-won in the Unassigned Lands thus far?

 

Deputy US Marshal Jake Isaacson can't believe the amount of trouble that is coming his way.  And he never expected to see his old friend, John, again. Is his faith strong enough to see him through the unknown?

 

Can John and Jake work through everything and come out of this adventure as a team? Or will past secrets and new resentments keep them from saving their friendship? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Landrun Publishing
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393535966

Judge Rodriguez

Judge Rodriguez was born and raised in Little Axe, Oklahoma. The son of U.S. Air Force Veterans, he followed the military legacy of his family and served his own tenure in the U.S.A.F.  Alanna Radle Rodriguez was born and raised in Edmond, Oklahoma. The great-great granddaughter of one of the first pioneers to settle in Indian Territory/Oklahoma, her roots run deep. Judge and Alanna met in a reenactment group and have a combined forty-nine years of reenactment and living history experience. They both love the history of their home state, thoroughly enjoy doing research and relish working at the 1889 Territorial Schoolhouse in Edmond. They currently live near Edmond. The Marshal of Denver is the first installment of a long line of co-authored books written together in the Legends of the Landrun Series.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It is raining. Not the toad-strangling, drenching rain of the spring storms common enough to this region. No, this is just enough water to make the air hotter and more muggy. A lone rider, astride a dun colored roan, slowly rides down the Shawnee Road towards the quiet town. Several horses are tied to hitching posts, so it isn’t a complete ghost town. The rider shields his eyes against the rising sun and looks on in irritation. From what the rider is told, that is something that is almost unique to the Oklahoma Territory, it can be raining, but the sun still shines through.

According to the map, this town was supposed to be five more miles to the west, only a mile from the trickle that is supposedly called a creek. Being on the edge of the Shawnee lands, one would think that a town would take every precaution to be as accurately placed on the map as possible to be separated from the tribe. This town, Denver, was only fifteen miles away from the Shawnee lands.

The rider mutters to himself, I know that the landrun was a year ago, but this inaccuracy is ridiculous. It’s not like there weren’t surveyors available or anything.

At the edge of town, a sign reads, Welcome to Denver. A crude, hand-painted sign tacked on the post below it reads, Drunks, rustlers, carpet-baggers, and sheepherders will be shot.

The horse and rider go through town, and stop in front of a building with a sign out front. Town Marshal. Slowly, as if injured, he dismounts. He opens the saddle bag and pulls out an oil pouch filled with a sheave of papers. He pats the horse’s shoulders companionably. Stay here. It won’t be but a few minutes, Ranger. Then he moves toward the door of the marshal’s office. The horse turns his head and snorts in acknowledgment. The man walks up to the door, knocks twice and enters.

The town marshal, a large man of middle years, is seated at the desk, writing what initially appears to be some type of report. I’ll be with you in a minute, he says still writing furiously on the page.

The man stands in the door way, stunned that he recognizes the marshal. I can’t believe it. How is this possible? From the doorway, he says in Cherokee, I can’t believe it’s you, John. It’s been nigh on twenty years since I’ve seen that ugly face of yours.

The marshal’s head snaps up, his face as white as a sheet. He jumps to his feet quick enough that he knocks the chair over and grips the handle of his Colt tightly. In Cherokee he says, I see the face of a dead man in front of me. Tell me you aren’t Josh, tell me you didn’t come back from the grave to haunt me with the mistakes of my past.

Josh. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a dog’s age or three. The rider slowly limps over to the desk, opening the packet and places the papers from it on top of a short stack of papers already there.

John, still standing, never moves either his eyes from the newcomer, or his hand from the grip of his revolver.

Now, I go by the name of Jacob Judah Isaacson. Most people call me Jake. Here’s your latest round of the Post.

Tell me what happened that day down in Crecilla. Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you for being a deserter.

Jake shakes his head in wonder. Crecilla Monastery. I haven’t spoken of that God-forsaken place for many years. I’ve thought about the mistakes made there everyday since that fateful night in ‘74. He points to his hip. I haven’t been able to walk straight, since. He holds his hand out to the marshal, still standing with a strangle hold on his gun. You know, I’m not gonna draw on you. You can sit back down, take a load off. I have quite a lot to tell you, but you really DO need to relax.

This had better be good. You know, we had quite the moving funeral for you when we got back to Camp Wichita. He releases his grip on his gun, picks up his chair without taking his eyes off his old friend, and eases back into it, back straight. Pull up a chair, you look like you could use it, and neither one of us is going to go anywhere until we have this out.

Jake sits rather heavily in the chair, grunting as he does so. He gathers his thoughts briefly before saying, You may recall, we followed the Chiricahua to that abandoned monastery. After chasing them for about a week, we were all saddle-sore. It was a miserable ride for me, particularly since my gout was acting up most of that hundred plus mile ride...

The two cavalry troops follow the band of Apache into the crumbling buildings of the monastery. Josh looks over at his blood-brother and sees the same worried look. Captain Lonargan wouldn’t forgive either one of them for disobeying his orders once more. Both of them knew it, neither of them had a choice. They both ride at the head of the troop assigned to them as sergeant majors, with weapons drawn and at the ready.

As the shots from the ambush ring out, Josh’s troop ends up on the north end of the abandoned monastery, while John’s troop winds up being on the south. Shots ring out from the outer edges of the ruined abandoned buildings and cause the horses of the troop to throw their riders.

Josh is able to keep his mount under control well enough, that is, until, the canteen draped over his saddle horn bursts from a bullet and spills out the precious water. Must have been from one of the stolen repeaters. His horse, Davis, rears, unseating him. When he makes contact with the ground, there is a loud crack as his arm brakes and shoulder dislocates.

He barely hears John yell, No!

Anger colors his vision. Not necessarily at the redskins they were fighting, but more at himself for taking the tumble.

Josh knows he needs to get back to his horse, get back to the group, back to John. He is getting more separated from safety, in a bad situation that just keeps getting worse. With pain shooting everywhere and making his vision darken around the edges, he picks himself up. Davis stands there, obediently waiting for his rider. What a good horse, but then he watches in horror as Davis start to fall and he’s barely able to get out of the way before the massive body falls on him.

Foot killing him, right shoulder completely useless, and pain making coherent thought difficult, he wants to just lay down. But he can’t give up, so he refuses to. By some miracle, he is able to draw his revolver left handed, but he hurts so bad, his aim is worthless. He empties his gun and begins to try to reload. There is so much commotion, so much panic, the troop is getting closer and closer to being over run. He realizes he’s too open. He limps as quickly as he can manage to get over to a partial wall. He’s halfway there when a new searing pain shoots through the top of his thigh and he barely makes it to the wall. Leaning up against it, he finishes reloading. In a moment of lucidity, he takes off his belt and cinches it as tight as he can to staunch the flow of blood. And his world goes dark.

When Josh comes to, the sun is much lower in the sky than he remembers it. He’s not sure how long he’s been laying there. He distinctly remembers there being gunfire before he blacked out. But now, it’s quiet. Deathly quiet. No sounds of gunfire, no screams or moans of pain. Has he been left for dead? He struggles to look around. Dead bodies, both Indian, soldier and horse, lay strewn about haphazardly, including his beloved Lee. He is going to miss that mount. How long has he been there? Has no one stayed behind? None of the troop that he considers brother? Where is John? Has he come this far only to lose his blood-brother this way? Is he injured or did he get away unscathed? Why didn’t they come back?

He thought he felt abandoned at the orphanage and when he found out his clan had been murdered. But now, as he leans back and stares up in the sky, he knows utter despair.

Jake grunts as he tries to re-settle his body in the solid wood chair. He desperately wishes for the open trail. Sitting too long in one place is utter agony. I was scared, in pain, and still losing blood. He looks at John, and waves off an offered cup of coffee. "I try to stay away from the stuff. If the cup doesn’t have a drab of whiskey, or is pure water, it don’t hold any interest for me.

I don’t know how long I was propped up against that wall, conscious, but it wasn’t long before one of those Apache came up to me, most likely to scavenge from me. I was sure I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to. Once he got close enough to grab my gun from my limp fingers, I used my knife in my left hand and stabbed him in the throat.

Jake grins at John’s look of incredulity. I’d figured he was most likely a straggler. Lo and behold, he wasn’t with them at all. I leveraged myself up to a position where I could see the rest of the monastery, and it really was deserted. That’s when I guessed he was just a random vulture scavenging the battlefield. I did notice however, he wasn’t in paint, so I guessed at that point he wasn’t with the group we were chasing. My wound was still oozing blood. I knew I was going to pass out again if I didn’t do something about it soon. I crawled back over to my horse and grabbed my flint and tinderbox. I was able to use my knife to get the bullet out of several rounds, and pour the gunpowder into the wound. Then, using my knife and flint, I lit the powder in the wound.

With a look of disbelief, John nods, indicating for him to continue.

After the flash, Josh doesn’t remember if he screamed or just passed back out. When he wakes again, his throat is raw like he has been screaming but that can also have been due to not having any water for five or six hours at that point, as well. Night is well underway as the moon has fully risen. When he hears coyotes in the distance, probably being drawn in by the blood shed at the site earlier in the day, he knows he’s in as much danger if not more than earlier. He drags himself over to the dead Indian and scavenges what he can.

He’s not sure how, but he manages to get to his feet. Is he hurting so bad that he can’t feel anything anymore? Is he in shock? Is he getting better somehow? He wanders around a little and finds the Indian’s mule not far away. The animal was obviously not happy to see him. The mule brayed and bawled at him, and proved to be a fouled tempered beast. After some more searching, Josh sees that the cantankerous mule has a saddle, crude, but effective. He tries to mount the mule, but finds he’s barely able to. Somehow, he manages to drag his sorry bulk to the beast’s back, reins in hand. While not being happy, the mule is well trained enough to take orders.

You are one stubborn animal, you know that? he asks the obstinate mule. A bray is his answer and he can almost imagine Stubborn cursing at him. Stubborn. That’s what I’m going to call ya. Stubborn.

Josh gives him free rein, figuring the animal will go back to where he is used to being fed. By the time dawn comes, Josh finds himself in the middle of the wilderness, at the base of the Wichita mountains. He is desperate for water. How long has it been since he had a drink?

Hearing a gunshot and seeing the canteen hanging on the saddle horn burst and spill the precious liquid has him searching for the gunner and trying to save the water from leaving the canteen, only to realize there isn’t a shooter, there isn’t a canteen, and it is only a memory.

He allows Stubborn to guide him to the camp that the Apache had built in the woodlands, hoping it will get him close to water. Thankfully, he is right on both counts. Apparently, the Indian had been raiding not only the stores of whites, but his own people, since the camp is quite well stocked with foodstuffs.

Josh finds his benefactor’s source of water and drinks until he thinks he’ll drink up the entire creek. Next, he fashions a sling for his arm and allows Stubborn to graze. Finding blankets, he rolls himself into one and sleeps until around noon the next day. He wakes to the call of nature and his stomach. Stubborn has come back to the camp, and is munching greedily on the grass surrounding it. He spends several days there, trying to recover his strength and debates if he wants to continue to live. In truth, these few days feel like purgatory.

After the fight at Crecilla, he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. All his instincts tell him he’s either dead, or about to die. After a few days in that camp, he finally decides he needs to try and get back to Camp Wichita. So he sets out with Stubborn with a few supplies he is able to carry away from the camp. With him being injured, and Stubborn living up to his name, he can’t manage very many provisions.

Chapter 2

The next couple of weeks are anything but comfortable. Josh’s shoulder made his right arm useless, and Stubborn proves to have quite the mind of his own. The animal knows his rider is dependent on him, so he does everything he can to take advantage of the situation. The cantankerous mule will only travel for so many hours a day and then stops. Josh decides to travel along the salt fork of the Red River, so they don’t run out of water, but having limited food leaves Josh hungry for several days at a time. He uses his few remaining rounds on jack rabbits, bobcats, and coyotes. Thankfully, Stubborn is smart enough to avoid the mountain lions’ territory. After all is said and done, it takes them two weeks to get back to some semblance of civilization, where they arrive at Camp Wichita.

Where’s Captain Richardson? Josh asks a random trooper.

The soldier points toward the commander’s quarters.

Josh nods his thanks, and half limps half drags himself to the building where the soldier indicates. He ties Stubborn to the post, painfully climbs the steps and raps on the door.

Enter!

Taking a deep breath for strength, he opens the door and feels so much relief seeing a friendly face, he fights tears. Richardson is concentrating on what he’s writing and doesn’t look up immediately. Josh throws his hand up in salute. Sargent Josh Jacobs, reporting as ordered, sir. He waits for the captain to return the salute.

Richardson, upon hearing the name, looks up and his face drains of blood. Jacobs?

Yes, sir.

You’re alive?

Is he alive? Was he really left behind, considered dead? Did John even try to find out if he was still alive? Barely, sir.

You well?

No, sir, I’m hurting pretty bad. And he is. His hand and arm are starting to shake badly.

Richardson rushes around his desk and shoves a chair toward Josh as he goes by. Sit.

Josh was never so thankful to obey a command as he dropped his salute and gingerly sank into the chair.

The captain yanks the door open. Private! Get the surgeon, NOW!

Josh barely hears the man say, Yes, sir.

By the time Josh finally finds a somewhat reasonably comfortable position, Richardson is kneeling beside the chair.

What happened, Jacobs? At Crecilla? What HAPPENED?

His strength beginning to fade, Josh begins his tale. He leaves nothing out.

At some point, the surgeon has joined them. He did a fairly good job, considering what he had to work with, the camp physician explains, but I’m gonna have to re-locate his shoulder, re-break his arm and set them into a splint correctly.

Josh groans. That is definitely not what he is wanting to hear. Through gritted teeth, he says, Do what you need to, doc.

Without looking at the captain, the surgeon nods.

Captain, Josh says. What about John? Is he alright?

A look of compassion fills the captain’s face. It killed him having to leave you behind. But by doing so, he saved the rest of the troop. I nearly had to jail him to keep from going back for you too early, before it was safe. Richardson shifts his weight from one foot to the other. When we were finally able to get back, he couldn’t find you. The closest thing he found was so disfigured from scavengers, he assumed it was you. He’s grievin’ something fierce. You’d be proud of the funeral service.

Josh can’t hardly process the information. He was left behind and given up for dead. He had to talk to his blood-brother, had to see him. Cap’n, where’s John? I need to see him.

The compassionate look deepened. I’m sorry, Josh. He and the troop have already left, on the trail of the Apache.

But I need to tell him. He has to know... It is really getting hard to expend any kind of energy.

Captain, I need to get him to my office and get started immediately, the surgeon interjects. The longer we wait, the longer his recovery is going to be.

Richardson nods in understanding. We’ll figure it out afterwards, alright? The captain puts his hand on Josh’s shoulder. I promise.

Josh isn’t sure how he feels. Abandonment still rages but this time so does hope. One thing he does know, he’s out of oomf. He has nothing left and barely nods as he hangs his head in exhaustion.

There’s shuffling and the door opens. You two, there, the surgeon says. Come in here and help me move this man.

Just rest, now, Jacobs, Richardson assures.

Thanks, Cap’n.

Boots clomping up the steps and into the office remind Josh of Stubborn.

Stubborn! Cap’n! The mule I rode in on...I owe him my life. May I keep him?

Sure, Sarge, sure.

His name is Stubborn. Make sure he gets some warm oats?

Richardson smiles. You got it.

Once he is in the surgeon’s office, they proceed to get Josh rip-roaring drunk. All the better. He doesn’t remember much of the re-breaking and re-locating and setting anything. He spends the next three months in camp, recuperating under the surgeon’s watchful eye. By the time his arm heals, Josh is able to return back to duty as something other than just a barracks rat. He spends most of that time working in the stables, one armed. He gets to know most of the mounts rather well at Camp Wichita, and gets to be known for being able to help out with whatever issues the horses have.

Hey, Jacobs!

Josh looks up from sweeping a stall and sees Richardson coming toward him. Yes, sir?

Follow me. I have something for you. The captain turns on his heels and leaves the stables, leaving Josh to follow.

It’s almost as if the horses look at him like they are trying to figure out what the captain wants their stable master for. Eh, don’t worry, guys, Josh says to the horses as he leans the broom against the wall. I’ll be back soon.

Stubborn lets out a mournful bray.

Oh, shut up, and stop being melodramatic. He pats Stubborn’s rump as he walks by.

Once he’s inside and gets a salute in return, Josh waits patiently.

I’ve got something special for ya, Jacobs, Richardson says. Special dispatches down to Fort Wichita Falls . They must be hand delivered to the fort commander down there. They’re time sensitive, and are to be destroyed rather than be viewed by anyone else.

What are they?

Better if you didn’t know the contents of that packet, so don’t to get nosy. He offers the package to Josh.

Josh gets the feeling that something else is going on, but can’t tell what. Well, I guess that’s it then. He takes the package and holds it under his arm. I’ll get packed and head right out. Stubborn’ll enjoy the trip.

Richardson smirks and shakes his head. Take care.

Same to ya, cap’n.

Back at the stables, he says bye to each horse and makes sure each one gets a sweetmeat before he leaves. He looks around, already missing the place. This is where he’s found his peace.

Josh is about twenty miles outside of Fort Wichita Falls , when Stubborn refuses to move forward. In fact, he starts leading Josh down a different path entirely. Over the weeks they were traveling together before they got back to Camp Wichita, he had learned to trust Stubborn’s instincts, learned to listen to him, as he is generally a lot smarter about stuff like that than him. No point in changing his opinion now.

Josh continues to let the mule have the lead, down in to a series of gullies, and when Stubborn decides to stop, he ties the mule to some scrub brush. He’s been smelling smoke for the last few minutes. Someone has a camp close-by, and is doing a fair job of burning some bacon. It is just a few gullies over, that Josh finds their camp.

Since no one with any good intention hides their camp that well, Josh creeps up to it. He gets close enough to see the uniforms and hear some of the men talking. They are rushing to finish setting up an ambush for someone, expecting the victim to come by shortly, so they have to hurry. One of the corporals mentions that they haven’t heard anything from the lookout, by the gullies. With a feeling of dread, Josh creeps back to where he left Stubborn. The dispatches were supposed to be for the commander’s eyes only, but if he was going to risk his life delivering them, it would be a good idea to know what they said. So he opens the package, and reads them.

O f course, Capt. Richardson had left me in the dark, with the excuse that it would only endanger me knowing what they contained, but he also told me I was the only one he could trust to do this mission. He shakes his head. When I read the dispatches, I was stunned, and I knew why. They outlined how the Quaker agency, in conjunction with several officers in the cavalry, were not only authorizing the raids into Texas, but were helping to provide the Apache and Comanche with weapons, wagon locations, and some provisions like food. It named places, dates, and provisions that had been stolen, only to be sold back to white settlers out of Fort Cobb.

John nods in understanding. I knew someone had turned in a report telling General Sheridan about what was going on out there. Guess it was you, then.

Jake nods. That was a little later but, yeah. I knew I was in over my head. I knew that I needed faster horses, and a different route to Fort Wichita Falls .

Josh is sure he’s the intended victim they are waiting for. He leaves Stubborn enough food and water for several days, waits until after dark, then heads back to the camp. When he arrives, things there are tense. They were expecting him to be through the area by now, and they know something has gone wrong, but not what. At this point, the camp is considerably smaller than it once was.

He is able to sneak over to the horse lines, and with the horses being familiar with him, the animals stay quiet. He grabs three horses and enough tack for each one, so he can change mounts frequently. Once he gets out of sight, he rides out of there like he had all the devil’s legions on his tail. It still takes him all night and most of the morning to make it to the fort at Wichita Falls.

As he rides in, he notices all the additional guards, who seem to be paying rather close attention to all the incoming riders. He rides directly to the commander’s building, and after he hitches the horses to the post, he’s flagged down by Lieutenant Davis.

The lieutenant pulls Josh to one of the alleys between the buildings. Just what in the name of all that is holy are you doing here? An entire troop rode in yesterday saying you killed Captain Richardson, robbed the payroll, and are headed down towards Mexico. We are in the process of sending troops south to go after you. You need to get out of here, and not come back! He started to push him back toward to the horses.

Josh tries to say something to him, to defend himself, but is waved off.

I’m not kidding, leave and don’t come back!

Josh is stunned. He can’t believe that not only would the troop have left him for dead, but that he would be blamed for the death of his friend, Capt. Richardson. His mind racing, Josh turns and leaves, but this time at a much more sedate pace, trying to keep from drawing attention to himself. Once he gets out of visual range, he bolts again. About ten miles outside of the fort, he backtracks by almost a mile, and sets himself up on the back side of a hill from the road. He’s glad he did, since there are three troopers from Fort Wichita Falls that are doing a fair job of tracking him. Two of them are younger and thin, but the third and older, looks close enough to Josh, he thinks he can easily pass for the man. He gets an idea at that point. He recognizes all three, and knows them all to be implicated by the report he carries. He sets up an ambush, hiding by one of the boulders big enough to hide him and the horses. He knows they have to come this way to get back to Fort Wichita Falls . However, they prove to be more tenacious than he thought, and are gone until dark.

When they come into view, Josh’s repeater sings out several times. The first round embeds itself in Sargent Isaacson’s chest squarely, sending him tumbling from the saddle. The next two shots catch Private Jones in the head and chest. Private Johnson’s horse bolts, and Josh’s rounds nail him in the back about thirty yards down the trail. After rounding up their horses, he binds them to their saddles and rides back to where he has hidden Stubborn.

The next morning, he shaves his beard to chops, packs everyone up, and rides back to Fort Wichita Falls . It takes him two days to get there.

Halt! Identify yourself!

Sargent Issacson returning from the hunt! Josh announces.

The doors open. Didja get the murderer?

Josh throws his thumb over his shoulder at one of the dead bodies as he rides through the gates. Got him square in the chest and brought our boys home.

The gates close behind him. Good job, sarge.

I need to see the post commander, he tells one of the soldiers coming up to take on the extra horses.

Major Walters is in his office. Go on over.

Thanks. Dismounting is more of a challenge now since he’s been shot, broken, re-broken and healed. He groans as his feet hit the ground and has to carefully shake out his legs. When he is able to get in to see the post commander, Major Walters, he presents the major with the packet of reports, explains what he’d done, and why.

Major Walters, being good friends with Capt. Richardson, is stunned by the news and scope of the conspiracy. He immediately sends orders to the quartermaster to have a new uniform issued to Josh. The major points Josh to a chair, and says, Sit down a minute, Sargent. As Josh sits down, the major sits on the edge of his desk. You present me with a unique and difficult problem, with an equally difficult solution. You have just admitted to the killing of several cavalry troopers, as well as there are these accusations that you robbed the payroll. That news has already been forwarded on to General Sheridan. I think it best, if you are willing, that Sargent Jacobs stays dead, and Sargent Isaacson’s name is cleared of any wrongdoing.

N ow, having grown up with me, you know I don’t really feel tied to my name. Especially after we left Tahlequah. That was the name we’d agreed on, after we were banished. It took me a bit, but I went ahead and agreed, knowing that I was now officially dead. Major Walters breathed a sigh of relief and signed the transfer orders sending me to Fort Supply, as part of the Quartermasters. He allotted me a single mule, which of course, I chose Stubborn, who, come to find out was stolen from the Army to begin with. I got out to Fort Supply at the end of ‘75. I ended up spending a few years out there working with their mules and horses. After the Red River War, I transferred to Fort Reno, where I put Stubborn out to stud. Major Walters ended up going out there after the war, and was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. It was about six months before the landrun, I retired from there, with full a pension from the Army. Since then, I have been working with the US marshal’s service, out of the Guthrie Office. I am now a Deputy Marshal.

John sighs, hands folded on his chest. That is the most incredible story I have ever heard, just too unbelievable. I don’t think I CAN believe it. How do I know that you aren’t lying?

Jake shifts in his seat for the third time in as many minutes, his old injury making it impossible to get comfortable. As for working with the marshal’s service, here’s my badge. He opens his vest to show the badge pinned on the inside. Other than that, I don’t know what to tell you that will make you believe me. You will have to decide on your own, if our previous brotherhood means I am trustworthy enough to believe or not. Either way, I need to go check on a few things. He stands to go outside, and looks at the incredulous look his childhood friend was giving him. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going outside to tell Ranger, my horse, I am going to be in here awhile longer, and to pull off his bridle so he can have a drink. You can come out here with me if you want, after all. Jake walks out the door, and shakes his head at the hard look Ranger was giving him.

I know, I know. I said it would only be a few minutes, but he’s an old friend after all. Ranger looks away disdainfully. Look! I’m sorry, but he was as surprised as I was. Here, let me get that off you, so you can get a drink. He removes the bridle and leads the horse to the trough. Ranger drinks greedily. I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I promise it won’t happen again. The horse pointedly ignores his rider. I have to get back in. I will try to hurry. I promise, if we stay here overnight, you will get the best stable we can find. Jake walks back inside the marshal’s office to find the marshal standing and looking at the stack of wanted posters.

Looks like quite the crop of winners we have here. John looks at one in particular. Here’s a real good one. Looks like Bill Dalton is still on the lam. I hear he calls himself the current-day Jesse James. He sighs and sits heavily into his chair. We still need to figure out what we are going to do about you.

We don’t really need to do anything about me. I have been Jacob Isaacson for almost half my life now. Why does anything need to be done? I have done nothing dishonorable, nor have I done anything of merit that is illegal.

You have lied, living the life of another man for more than fifteen years. John lifts his hand to emphasize his point.

I have given his name honor. I have served and been pensioned. I still say I have done nothing wrong.

John shakes his head, incredulous. "You expect me to treat you as a stranger? As if we never served together? As if I never mourned your death at the hands of the very people we fought against for so long?"

I don’t expect to see you but once in a great while. I go from place to place and deliver dispatches, wanted posters, and the Post. Once the telegraph lines make it out here in the next few years, I expect you will never see me again.

Chapter 3

In a dispassionate tone, John asks, Where are you heading from here?

To the lands of the Shawnee. I have a letter to deliver to a marshal working on brokering a deal there.

Does the current head U.S. Marshal know who you are?

Are you funnin’ me? It’s good ole Colonel Walters hisself. After the war, he spent almost a full fifteen years out at Fort Reno, like I’d said. However, when they announced a position available for a US Marshal and deputy, he told me that he was going to join up. Well, I figured it was nigh on time for a change anyway, so why not, right?

John’s eyes go wide. Is that the same Roger Walters we served under after being banished?

Jake’s smile is wide. The very same.

Well, I’ll be! John looks out the window thoughtfully. How is that old codger doing? He’s got to be in his sixties now!

You might remember his father paid for his commission. He’s the same age we are. However, last I saw him, two months ago, he was feeling a bit of the ague, still surviving and making a go of things.

John turns from looking out the window, to address Jake. Next time you see him, tell him I would like to have a drink with him, if possible.

Incredulously, Jake asks, You mean you are just going to let me go?

Do I really have much of a choice? If I expose your lies, I will bring down more than just a couple of liars, destroy more than just a few lives. You have manipulated me into going along.

Jake sighs. I really wish you wouldn’t put it that way.

I see you didn’t disagree with me.

Jake shakes his head. I’m not trying to agree or disagree. I just want to be able to go my own way.

John’s look is one of almost disgust. Then be gone with you.

As his blood-brother leaves, John stares after him. The door closes quietly and John stands there a moment longer, before sitting back down in the chair.

He stares up in the air. God, I know that Your plan is greater than what I can see. I know You have plans that don’t match mine. Why him, God? Why ME? Why NOW? I just pray that Your will, Your mercy is served by this. I don’t understand. I pray You give me the understanding of Your will in this. Amen.

He reaches in the desk drawer and pulls out his Bible. He reads Proverbs 2:1-5. He stares into space for a moment before he goes back about his work.

He pulls out a wanted poster with the name of Richard Buchannan on it, hangs it on the board and spends a moment gazing at the picture. They have increased the reward from $1500 to $10,000. John isn’t sure he has heard what the man has done recently, but is glad the government is realizing how dangerous he really is.

Jake sits at the end of the bar, nursing his beer. First, the town wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Then there’s John being in town. Now an actual hotel and a saloon across the street. Today has been a day of surprises. The beer was a little cloudy, but it was really good. It had a slightly fruity flavor to it that made the taste of the alcohol almost completely disappear. While he has always been partial to whiskey, this beer made him reconsider his taste.

While the saloon is obviously made from whatever wood they could find, it is quite well built. Being this close to the cross-timbers, most likely the wood was milled locally. It looks to be mostly black-jack. The tables and chairs are sturdy, but simply made. The floor is immaculate. Jake doesn’t see a lot of people working the saloon, but the few that are appear to be too busy tending their customers to pay close attention to the cleanliness of the saloon.

The patrons in the saloon are, to a person, who would be expected out here