The Knack

By Will Astrike

Synopsis

Frank Bass is a U.S. Deputy Marshal on leave from his district in El Paso, Texas, when he's asked by an old friend in Cheyenne to investigate a brutal rape and beating of a young girl in Torrington, Wyoming. Bass agrees to travel from Cheyenne to Torrington with the girl's beautiful Aunt Sally Bloom, and during that trip, their friendship becomes romantic, and eventually, a loving relationship develops. During the story, Bass explains the origin of the Buffalo Robe he carries with him and how it has become a symbol of his notoriety. Colorful characters come and go adding humor and insights into prairie life in the 1880s. Crooked lawmen and a particularly villainous rancher round out the cast of The Knack. The conclusion is unexpected, satisfying, and a lead-in to the next story in the Buffalo Robe Bass series.

 

Reviews

 

Meet Buffalo Robe Bass, the Crocodile Dundee of Wyoming Territory.  But wait…his lady friend,  Sally Bloom, is every bit his match.  This sleuthing pair make The Knack an entertaining debut mystery that brings the Old West back to life, keeps you guessing until the last page, and leaves you hoping that Bass and Bloom and company will soon ride again. –Margaret Coel, New York Times bestselling author of Winter's Child.

 

 The Knack. Just when we need a new hero, up rides Deputy Marshall Frank Bass—a.k.a., Buffalo Robe Bass, "probably the most famous lawmen there is." Turns out author Will Astrike's Bass has "the knack," not only for gently wooing a formidable woman—his companion, Sally Bloom—while carefully guarding her reputation; but Bass can and will perform righteous deeds like dispatching three outlaws in one fiery encounter. And how does he distract the bandits? By telling them a joke.

The reader has to admire Astrike's courage as a writer for tackling the Western genre in his debut novel. It requires a keen eye for period detail ranging from saloons to saddles, as well as a landscape artist's sense of place.

Astrike's The Knack is set in Eastern Wyoming in the late nineteenth century, and as a writer who lives in Wyoming and writes about the West, I can honestly say he nails it: lock, stock, and barrel. Speaking of new heroes, when you think Will Astrike, think early Elmore Leonard. - Gregory Zeigler - Author of The Jake Goddard and Susan Brand Thrillers

 

I enjoy mystery novels and love stories. Having not read much in the Western genre, I was pleasantly surprised how The Knack gripped me from the first page. I felt like I was there in the 1880s with Bass and the other vivid characters. As the mystery kept me in suspense and the love story developed, I found that I also learned a little on each page about life on the Wyoming frontier. The Knack is a thoroughly enjoyable read. - Peter F.

 

Fabulous! I've always enjoyed cinematic Westerns. But, I'm a newcomer to Historical Western novels, and the Knack was an outstanding introduction to the genre for me. Astrike has a knack for bringing characters to life and providing them colorful personalities, enthralling interactions, and realistic and well-developed motives. The main character, Bass, is a bad-a**, with a fun whit to boot. Astrike's attention to historical accuracy and detail drew me right into another time. I was experiencing the streets, towns, and establishments of the 1800's right along with the characters. The plots are surprising, thick with intrigue, and thrilling. Humor, drama, mystery, romance, and historical detail. The Knack has so much to offer and was a lot of fun to read. I am highly anticipating the next installment of the Buffalo Robe Bass series. - Glade W.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Astrike
• Release date: Dec 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393479185

Will Astrike

Will Astrike is a retired western historian. He lives with his wife, Sheryl, in Oregon He can be reached through his website at  www.westernauthor.net

Book preview

Prologue

Wyoming Territory, April 12, 1887, dawn

Elsie Anderson started the day just as she had every other one for the last eight months. She combed her hair and cleaned her teeth, then dressed in her usual jeans, boots, and cotton shirt, tucked in tightly at her waist. A heavy vest and broad-brimmed hat. It was spring, and the weather was perfect, cool and clear. She looked forward to seeing her friends at school, and maybe to playing some games or pranks after class. This day, however, would change her life forever.

Elsie—Elsinore was her given name, and she hated it—had turned thirteen on her last birthday. Her blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin were just like her mom’s. She was at the stage where she was still cute, but not quite pretty, though most of her girlfriends were jealous of her anyway. Tall and slender, she was athletic too, and could best all the boys at her school, even some of the older ones. She excelled at almost everything, from running to swimming to horse racing, as well as some of the daredevil antics kids tested themselves with when their parents aren’t looking.

She lived with her mother, Margaret (Maggie), and her stepfather, Conrad Pliny, at his ranch, the Cannon’s Mouth near old Fort Laramie, in Wyoming. Elsie’s real father, Gus Anderson, had been killed in a wagon accident eight months ago. Her mom had tried to make a go of running their homestead, but banks were not making loans to widows that autumn and Margaret had to take the best offer she could get.

Conrad bought her out of her ranch and set her up as a cook/housekeeper in the big house at Cannon’s Mouth. A few months later, Margaret, who had never been very strong-willed, was sharing Pliny’s bed.

Elsie had misgivings about Con, as Conrad was known. Generally, he was a pleasant fellow who, at times, treated Elsie very much like his own daughter. He always provided the best, whether it was clothes, schooling, or even supplies for picnics alongside the river with all her friends. He also handpicked a pony for her and taught her the fine art of dressage. Still, something was unsettling about the man.

He could be crude and loud and would treat her mother rough whenever he was angry or at the bottle. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Elsie would hide and cover her ears. She also didn’t like what happened when they were alone, or when he just thought no one else was looking. The way he hugged her for too long and pressed against her. And touched her in places she knew was wrong.

Her father had been most things that Conrad Pliny was not, and Elsie sorely missed him. He’d been kind and thoughtful—had dearly loved her mother and rarely had a cross word to say to either of them. About the only thing he hadn’t been that Conrad Pliny was, was rich.

On most days, Elsie rose just before first light, around five thirty or so at that time of year. She knew she was late if their rooster, Fiddler, woke her up. Always anxious to get up and out early, it saved her from making small talk with Conrad over breakfast when, as was the case frequently of late, her mother slept in. She also liked the peace of the new day, and the solitude too. Most everyone else was still bunked in at that time or just about to roll out.

It was in her nature to want to pull her weight, something her father had instilled, and one of the chores she set to herself each day was the chicken coop.

The chickens were shut in to protect them from area predators—foxes and the like. Even the ranch dogs had been known to take a hen now and then if they got bored. The coop was a sizeable enclosure fit for fifteen to twenty hens and, of course, Fiddler. She’d start by gathering eggs. There were almost always a dozen or so. After that, she’d rake up droppings as best she could, fill the small water trough and scatter seed and mullet about. Then she’d check on the ducks and geese, which were allowed to roam the grounds and fend for themselves. They were pretty much able to ward off or escape any predation that might occur during the night.

She also took on mucking out the stalls of the five riding horses kept in the hay barn for herself, her mother, and Mr. Pliny. It was a pretty big job, so she usually got help from Ortiz, an older Vaquero who’d worked at Cannon’s Mouth almost forever, as he always said. He had a short, round body, bowed legs, a black mustache that nearly obscured his mouth, and a patient, kindly disposition. Ortiz also looked after the pigs and milk cows.

Elsie would turn out the horses into the corral, see to their feed and water, and then rake out the stalls. She was a bit too small to swing hay bales about, so that part of the process was left to Ortiz. By the time all that was finished, it was time to get cleaned up for school. The headmistress was always prompt at eight a.m.

Elsie started this day as usual with the chickens. It was colder than she expected but clear enough to see the steam rising from the Platte River in the distance. The Laramie Mountains were still in shadow, but their peaks were starting to catch the first rays of a sunny morning.

Patches of snow dotted the ground fighting off the spring thaw, but the aspens and birch trees were showing buds, and the air smelled of new growth and woodsmoke. Animals stirred, and in the distance, one of the dogs barked.

After delivering a sizeable clutch of eggs to the kitchen, she headed back out to the hay barn. It was usually still dark, so she had made a habit of entering through the tack-room door and picking up a lantern.

Just as she opened the door to the tack room, she was grabbed by her arm and pulled violently inside, her mouth covered by a gloved hand. She could tell by the grip and body size that it was a man. His clothing reeked of his foul odor, and her stomach turned involuntarily.

Despite him being six or seven inches taller and easily a hundred pounds heavier, she twisted and turned as much as she could, but couldn’t break free. She could not scream, she could hardly breathe from the sickening stench of the man, and she was nearly hysterical in fright.

Elsie knew she had to collect her wits, and she finally decided to stomp on the man’s foot just as hard as she could. She came down on his instep; the man howled and swore, hopping on his other foot as he tried to maintain his hold of her. She was just able to turn to see his face, but in the shadows of the dark room, all she could make out was a mask pulled over his head.

Wicked little bitch! Time for you to get a taste of what’s in store. At that, he balled his fist and smashed it across Elsie’s right jaw. She saw bright lights before she felt the pain. She knew her jaw was broken, but she wouldn’t go down. The man hit her again in the jaw and then delivered a heavy blow to her abdomen. She fell, gasping for breath, but was still conscious enough to feel the gag in her mouth and the canvass sack pulled over her head. She flailed her arms wildly at the unseen attacker, but the pain and exhaustion had taken its toll. Her arms went limp, falling back to the ground, and that’s when the man began ripping at her jeans and underwear.

She was vaguely aware of the tearing pain between her legs and the man’s terrible weight on top of her. Tears slipped down her cheek and into the dirt before she blacked out.

Diego Ortiz closed the outhouse door and headed directly for the kitchen and his first coffee of the day. He had dressed warmly in jeans, a flannel shirt, a vest for his tobacco and watch, and a waist-length denim jacket lined with sheepskin. He left his serape on a hook in the bunkhouse but took his traditional, round Mexican sombrero, fastening it tightly under his chin. On a regular workday, he would wrap his bandana around his head, but today he was going into town and wanted to make a good impression on Consuelo, the cook at the café in the Silver River Hotel.

It was seven o’clock, and he had to allow forty-four minutes to get to town. Consuelo started at nine, so he still had plenty of time to have coffee and clean himself up. He would treat himself to breakfast at the café and make sure to compliment the cook on her efforts, even though her huevos were rubbery and her ranchero sauce thin. Cooking was not all there was to recommend Consuelo.

Ortiz crossed the distance from the latrine past the corral and hay barn, and finally up the back steps to the porch and the kitchen door. He removed his hat reverently and asked permission from the new cook, an older man named Whiteside, if he could enter. La Senora Anderson was no longer required to cook.

Whiteside waved him in, and Ortiz sat at the big round table and poured himself a mug of coffee from the metal pot, which sat on a piece of tile. This was the same routine that Ortiz and Whiteside played out each day, just as though it might happen that Whiteside could someday refuse entry.

Ortiz noticed the basket of eggs on the table and said, "The senorita has already left for la escuela?"

‘Don’t know . . . haven’t seen her, said Whiteside.

"El caballo, uh, the senorita’s horse, is it still here?"

Don’t know, Ortiz; didn’t look in the barn on my way over.

Ortiz did not consider it much and assumed she had gone in early. Before he left for town, he would check the stables to see how much work would be left to him when he returned. Ortiz liked the senorita very much and was teaching her some of his language. She did not complain about the animal filth or the heavy buckets of water she had to carry. She did not complain about Senor Pliny, although he knew she did not like him much. He did not like him either. Pliny had what Ortiz’s sister would call ojos de lobo—wolf eyes.

Ortiz also did not like the ranch foremen, Senor Watt, either. He made jokes about Mexicans and told bad stories about their women. Ortiz did not have to deal often with either man. The pay was good, and the work was easy.

Ortiz finished his coffee and a hardboiled egg, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and headed for the door.

Adios Senor Whiteside, gracias por el café.

You’re welcome, Ortiz, the cook said, and then under his breath, Speak English for chrissakes.

Ortiz continued to the front of the hay barn as planned, but noticed on the way that the door to the tack room was open and creaking in the light breeze.

He changed directions, and as he went to close the door, he saw the motionless body of Elsie Anderson lying on the dirt floor. She still had the canvas bag over her head, and as he bent to remove it, he noticed the pool of blood that had caked around her face.

Madre de Dios! Madre De Dios! Senor Whiteside, por favor! Venga aqui! Venga aqui!

Ortiz gently slipped the bag off of the girl’s head and gasped at what he saw. Her face was misshapen and discolored; blood had soaked through the canvas bag. She was naked from the waist down, and her legs were bruised and bloody.

Tears streamed down Ortiz’s cheeks as he wrapped the limp form in a blanket. Pobrecita...Que Dios. And he gently lifted her in his arms. As he did, the girl stirred a bit, and Ortiz silently thanked God that the girl still lived.

Whiteside appeared at the kitchen door and unconsciously recoiled at the child’s appearance.

My God, Ortiz . . . What happened to her? Take her into the settee by the fire. I’ll get her mother and Pliny.

Margaret came rushing down the stairs, wearing her nightclothes and a robe. When she saw her daughter, she screamed and kneeled by her side, begging her to open her eyes, to show some sign of life. Her pain at seeing her daughter like this was palpable.

Whiteside had already brought hot water and clean towels and was trying with as little pressure as possible to clean up Elsie’s wounds. She had finally opened her eyes, but only stared blankly at the ceiling. Her breathing was shallow and ragged.

Conrad Pliny was next to arrive, fully dressed; he had been working in his office on the second floor and had heard the commotion.

Jesus Christ, what happened? Pliny’s face contorted in anguish, seeing the little girl before him. Who did this? Pliny, like many wealthy men, was given to ill temperament. When there was no answer, he instructed Ortiz to ride into Torrington and fetch Doc Beardswell. He also told Ortiz to bring the Reverend Halloway and Sheriff McCaugh.

Ortiz was saddling his dun-colored mare when he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He could see a shadow of some kind behind the hay barn through the slats of the siding. It was between the barn and the large pond behind.

Cautiously Ortiz crept along the side of the barn, his pistol cocked and ready. Ortiz would have no trouble killing the man who had done such evil to the senorita.

As he turned the corner, ready to shoot, he stopped cold. The culprit was nothing more than a mule grazing on the reeds along the edge of the pond. The animal’s reins had been wrapped around a rock to keep him from moving off. Ortiz examined the mule carefully, taking off his hat to scratch his head. There were several mules at Cannon’s Mouth, but this was not one of them.

One

Denver Wagon Road,

flatlands south of Cheyenne,

April 22, 1887

Runty Black and Tilden Star had been partners for twelve or fifteen years; neither could remember exactly. They’d been involved together in one form of employment or another since the day they’d met, trailing cattle from Texas to Kansas for Crazy Jim Bundt at the Circle B in Lubbock.

Runty, as his name implied, was a small man, spare, and with dark hair and features. His eyes were set close, and at certain angles, they appeared to be slightly crossed, a condition that Tildy would use on him when it suited his purpose.

As small as Runty was, Tildy was big—six foot two and 220 pounds. Though Runty did most of the thinking and talking for the pair, Tildy was wise enough to Runty’s ways to keep him in check and on a more or less righteous path. Tildy was a bit slow-witted; he had a lazy way about him and a peculiar sideways amble to his walk. And though he was not quite as bright as the next fellow, he had a particularly strong grip on common sense.

Most recently, the two men had started a freighting company based in Cheyenne, two six-mule rigs hauling primarily dry goods, lumber, tools, and whiskey, of course, to Denver and back. This had so far proved a lucrative venture for Black Star Hauling, except for winter months when the passes became snowbound. During those times, the men plied the eastern routes into Nebraska, to Bayard and down to Sidney.

At present they were about four miles outside Cheyenne, making pretty good time. This was their first spring run through the mountains, and they’d had a fairly easy time of it. They were both dressed warmly in sheepskin and canvas dusters, beaver hats pulled down over their ears, and woolen scarves wrapped high around their necks. The weather had been variable, as was normal for spring. Sleet had turned to rain at the lower elevations and made the roads muddy and slow.

Now in the late morning, the sun was warm, the air smelled of sweet grass, and the mules were pulling smoothly. Hot food and a bottle were only a few miles off.

Just as they passed by the Oliver Road junction, they were overtaken by a man on horseback at a slow canter, leading a well-laden mule toward town.

Runty pulled his team up and climbed down, waiting for Tildy, behind, to do the same.

You see that feller that just passed us?

Only his backside . . . Handsome, sturdy-lookin’ mule, though.

No, no, no. By God, you’re a disobservin’ giant. Didn’t you notice what he was wearin’?

Well no, Runts, I didn’t notice; I’m just not as fashionable as you are, I guess . . . That why you made me pull up on a muddy road? Talk about that fella’s clothes?

Actually, my large friend, I believe that fella may have been our ticket to a bottle of the good stuff at Angie’s from that reporter guy, Aimsworth. You bring any newsworthy stories back from Denver with you? He pays in liquor, you know.

Tildy pulled off his hat and scratched his mass of sweat-sodden hair. Well, we can tell him about the weather, I guess, or the new hardware store opened next to the telegraph?

Runty just stared blankly up at his friend, his mouth slightly opened. Tildy, I don’t think the Cheyenne newspapers’d be interested in that kinda horse pucky, nor with the going price of hatbands, ner liniment neither. What they might be interested in is the fact that Frank Bass, Buffalo Robe Bass, just rode into town. Passin’ by, on his way, two teamsters—one handsome and one ugly.

Oh . . . Who’s this Buffalo fella, anyway, makes his presence so valuable?

"Frank Bass is one of the most notoriable lawmen in the country . . . Always wears that black buffalo robe. People say it’s magic or witched or somethin’ ’cause Bass ain’t ever been hurt while he’s got it on. He’s brought in desperados from Fort Smith to Yuma and from Ciudad Juárez to Dodge City. He’s the lawman that tracked Kiowa Bob Shill through the White Sands Desert and shot off his right hand in a bar in Las Cruces. Killed four renegade Comanche down by Marfa that was scalpin farmers and stealin’ white women and children, sellin’ ’em for slaves in old Mexico.

He usually works down in Texas, El Paso mostly. Probably up here on a manhunt. You’d know all this if’n you ever read a book or a periodicam. He’s probably the most famous lawman there is!

Hell, Runts, you know I don’t like readin’ . . . All them words and letters and such just confuse me. ’At’s why I leave that part up to you. Take your word that he’s famous, but that ain’t gonna do us no good out here. So . . . let’s see if we can’t get these mules unsucked outta the mud an’ back on the move.

They got to their southside warehouse on Kenickie Street about two in the afternoon and paid five local boys a quarter each to unload and stack their cargo. It would be called for by merchants in the next couple of days. While the boys were working, Runty and Tildy walked their teams down to Percy’s Ferrier and Corral, stored the harness that needed repair, and turned the mules out into the corral. They paid in advance for feed and a quick check by the vet. Wagons and tack stayed at the loading docks.

Now it was time to seek out Roger Aimsworth at the Cheyenne Leader office down at the corner of Platte and Winter.

Two

Frank Bass arrived late morning in Cheyenne on April 22 and headed for the Mountain View Hotel on Placer Street. He’d left Denver the previous morning, made dry camp outside Fort Collins, and rode the fifty or so miles to Cheyenne that morning.

Bass was a tall man, over six feet, though a bit on the lanky side. He wore a gray, military-style slouch hat with a flat top that had seen better days. His eyes were clear and violet blue, his collar-length hair brown and shaggy. His face, brown and a little windburned, was creased with small lines that betrayed the amount of time he spent outside in the weather.

He was an appealing man to look at, some even said handsome. Most men who knew him sought his approval; most women sought his attention. Though at times he could be shy, he was certainly not introverted, and he enjoyed the company of good-humored people. He had little patience for buffoons and dullards.

At thirty-four, he had seen a good deal of life on the plains and had worked at most jobs that the times and locales provided. He had a strict sense of right and wrong, which probably served to keep him out of most kinds of trouble, something the unsettled Great Plains provided in abundance.

He’d been a buffalo hunter at sixteen, a ranch hand and bronc breaker at nineteen. By his twenty-second birthday, he’d become a Texas Ranger in Austin, then a cavalry scout for General Crook in Arizona at twenty-eight. He left the army at twenty-nine as a captain of Crook’s Indian Scouts and was hired by Marshal John Fagan in Fort Smith Arkansas, for a position as deputy US marshal, assigned to the city of El Paso and the El Paso District of Texas.

His reputation as an honest lawman was second to none. He took great pride in that. But as a result, he had become something of a newspaper and dime-novel sensation, thanks to a writer named Judson.

At first, he’d enjoyed the recognition and played on it when asked to make appearances and sign autographs. Lately, though, it had become cumbersome and tiring; he often tried to explain that the stories were usually exaggerated and salacious, but his notoriety continued just the same. Still, he rarely had to buy his own whiskey.

Right now, he was dirty, hungry, and thirsty, and the Mountain View Hotel was just the spot to settle all three conditions. He tied off his buckskin mare and the mule at a trough outside and strolled up to the front desk.

Be needin’ a room for tonight, maybe longer, second floor in back if you got it.

As Bass removed his gloves, the clerk eyed him quickly and summed up that the man was a transient. Two dollars a day, in advance, and best I can give you is top of the stairs in the corner. The clerk was a small man and known as an eager gossip. He swiveled the register and offered Bass an ink nib. Haven’t seen you before, mister . . . You’re not a drummer, and you don’t smell quite bad enough for a cowboy. You a bounty hunter, I expect? Trackin’ someone in town, maybe?

Bass finished signing in and leveled his gaze on the man. Like I said, might be needing the room for a few days. He laid several coins on the counter. That’s for two nights . . . Leave the room available for the third. Now, tell me where the sheriff is located, then where I can get a shave, a hot bath, and a bottle.

We have a police department now in Cheyenne, mister. Outgrew the sheriff’s office some years ago. It’s up two blocks and over one, on Sycamore. Two-story brick building. As t’other, Simm’s Barber Shop’s just as good as any, next block down from here . . . Attendant there’ll fetch you a bottle for six bits.

Bass took the key and went back out to the street to retrieve his saddlebags, weapons, and the black buffalo robe that served as his public identity. It wasn’t really a robe at all, but rather the complete hide of the grandest bull buffalo that had ever roamed the Llano. It was large enough to cover Bass’s shoulders while he rode with extra to drape and cover his mare’s rump. The fur was thick and black, but in a certain light, there were hints of red and brown hues woven through. The inner skin was smooth and soft, but also strong to withstand the rough use of prairie life. The hide was supple and lightweight enough to roll and carry easily, and it reminded Bass of some desperate and heart-wrenching times he never wanted to relive, but never wanted to forget.

He slid a .32-caliber Remington Rider magazine pistol into his pocket, choosing not to burden himself with a sidearm for the day. He removed his spurs, and after double-checking his hotel room, which proved to be common in every way, he stored his gear in the tall chifforobe and locked the door behind him.

He went outside and walked his horse and pack mule down to the corner buggy rent and livery, paying the owner for stall space and feed for both animals and dry storage of his mule pack since there was nothing in it he’d need while in town. Then he headed up to Sycamore Street to see the main reason why he’d left Denver.

The Cheyenne Police Department’s building had an impressive brick-and-mortar, two-story edifice and was situated with empty lots on either side. There were four windows along the front of the second story, all with vertical bars, top to bottom. There were no windows on the building’s sides, and Bass assumed the rear of the building matched the front. Evidently the jail facility was upstairs.

The first floor had a double-door entry that displayed Cheyenne Police in gold letters arched over the top. There were three smaller windows on each side of the door, indicating perhaps office space. On one, small gold letters announced Harold W. Gall, Chief of Police, and below them, in smaller type, To Protect and to Serve.

Bass opened the front door and entered a small anteroom with benches on each side and pictures of Cheyenne police officers in pith helmets and long dark coats hung along each wall. At the opposite end of the anteroom from the door was a large wooden desk, elevated on a twelve-inch pedestal. A uniformed officer, a sergeant, Bass surmised, sat at the desk, his head bowed, busily completing paperwork of some nature. Behind the sergeant, Bass could see that the whole lower floor with the exception of the police chief’s office was open to general use. There were six tables butted up against one another down the center of the room with officers working at each one by lamplight. To Bass’s right was what he assumed to be a large, empty holding cell, and next to that was a stairway to the second floor.

As Bass approached the desk, he was impressed by the general quiet and orderliness of the room. People seemed to be speaking calmly with one another, no arguments or coarse conversations, no joking or good-natured banter back and forth. Bass was struck by the downright professionalism of the place. He also knew it was nowhere he’d ever want to work in law enforcement. This atmosphere was much too civilized, and his years as a peacekeeper had taught him that lawbreakers and outlaws don’t always demonstrate civilized behavior. Often as not, a lawman had to act like a scoundrel to catch one.

Bass stood patiently, hat in hand, waiting for the overweight and slightly balding sergeant to look up. When he didn’t, Bass not too subtly cleared his throat, expecting a polite greeting. Instead, the sergeant with his head still in his work said, I see you, I see you . . . Just a damn minute, huh? Finally, he glanced up and set his pencil aside. My . . . You’re a big one, aren’t you? You here to turn yourself in? The hell did you do?

Here to see Patrick Shahan; he’s a friend of mine. Sent me a wire that he’s a jailer here, and I rode up from Denver to see him.

That so? Shahan, huh? Yeah, he’s upstairs right now, be down after a bit; you can sit over there and wait if you want.

Bass was getting tired of the sergeant’s attitude.

No, you don’t understand. See, I just rode into town. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I just want to see my friend. Now be a sport, will you, and get your fat can off that stool and go find Pat Shahan for me.

At that, the sergeant called over his shoulder, Pete! Give me a hand with this one, will you? Pete, who’d been listening in, sidled up to the desk, slowly tapping a billy club into the palm of his hand. What do we have here, Roger? Another belligerent saddle bum, needs to be taught proper manners? Just who the hell do you think you are, buster?

A voice from the stairs behind them called out, Boys, that’s US Deputy Marshal Frank Bass, from El Paso and most recently, Denver. If I was you, I’d beg his pardon and walk away.

Pete cast Roger a withering look and murmured, Holy Shit, Roger. He made a weak apology as he stepped away. Roger had turned pale as soon as he heard the name and had difficulty making sentences. Marshal Bass, uh, shit. I’m, uh. If I’d known, uh, damn, you know? I read all your . . . uh, shit . . . uh. Damn, you know?

By that time, Shahan was down the stairs, shaking Bass’s hand, slapping him on the back. On their way out the door, Shahan called back, Taking lunch now, Roger. Back later on.

All Roger could say was, Sure. Good, uh, you do that, and, uh, welcome to Cheyenne . . . Have fun, I guess. Damn.

Bass and Shahan walked across the street to Angie’s Bar and Café and took a table by a corner window. The room was long and narrow with a spur-scarred plank floor and low plaster ceiling. The kitchen was in the back, and whatever they were fixing smelled good. It reminded Bass how hungry he was.

A wooden bar ran nearly the length of the room and had only two stools set at it, one at each end. Bass guessed that Angie wanted her guests to either drink standing up or take a seat at one of the tables scattered about the room. When the waitress came by, they each ordered double rye. It was a Ranger drink from days gone by.

Patrick Paps Shahan was one of Bass’s oldest and closest friends. Shahan had been his sergeant in the Rangers when Bass joined at twenty-one, and even though Leander McNelly had been his captain, Paps had been their top-kick sergeant. Like many other training sergeants, he’d become a kind of mentor and father figure to his troopers. Shahan was not a big man, but the force of his bulldog personality told dissenters that he was not to be denied.

He’d been a brutal taskmaster in the Ranger training program, and most of his men had despised him for it. Those who hadn’t, those who had stuck it out through the entire eight-week ordeal, had come to understand that there was a reason for everything Paps asked of them, and that each ache, pain, bruise, split lip, or hour of lost sleep might one day prove a lifesaver.

Paps had taught tracking, horsemanship, weaponry, hand-to-hand self-defense, wilderness survival, and, most importantly, the virtues of honesty and loyalty. There was no question that when one of Paps’s troopers earned his Ranger star, the whole company had been better by one more man.

He was older now, having put on a few more pounds, and had some gray hair and a noticeable limp when he walked. As a jailer, he didn’t have to ride horseback much anymore, a blessing given the arrow wounds he’d taken in years past. But he could still shoot, and he was still smart enough not to be caught off guard by any of the jail-hardened cases or young deputies. The old bulldog was still in there.

So it was no wonder, then, that Paps’s short telegram to Bass ten days ago was enough to spur the