TG Lambert, Bounty Hunter: Oklahoma Reckoning

[DRayVan]

PROLOGUE

Friday, August 5, 1892
St. Louis, Missouri

It was an hour before sunset when the locomotive came to a stop, belching smoke and hissing steam. Before the woman stepped on the platform, several passengers got off ahead of her. She hurt from head to toe. The twelve-hour train ride from Vinita, Oklahoma Territory, had been torture: regardless of how she shifted positions, her tall, thin frame would not conform to the contour of her passenger seat. Now, the satchels in each hand seemed heavier and tugged on her aching shoulders and lower back. So she dropped them on the platform and glanced around.

She had left Vinita in a hurry and was confident no one had followed, but she was wary of everyone. The hustle and bustle of passengers, depot workers, and railroad workmen unnerved her. This was the largest city she had been to since her youth, and she felt apprehensive and alone.

The woman picked up her bags and scurried to the depot, avoiding the activity around her. She plopped her bags and leaned against the building, weary, hungry, and thirsty. She adjusted the bun that kept her long black hair tightly curled under her upturned-brim straw hat. She patted smooth as many wrinkles as she could off her bead-trimmed skirt, but her white-cotton blouse had not traveled well, and all her efforts could not smooth its frumpled fabric. The toes of her high-heeled laced shoes pinched her feet, and a cramp gripped her right calf. Beads of perspiration trickled down her temples, and she dabbed them with a lace hanky. She sighed deeply and tried to lick her chapped lips, but her tongue was as rough as sandstone, and her mouth was dry as cotton.

A porter walked nearby.

"Sir...,” she called out. “Please, sir."

The porter, a large man with broad shoulders and a broader smile, stopped and approached her. He tipped his hat.

“Ya all right, ma’am?” he asked, extending his hand.

The woman nodded and waved him off.

“Where can I get information about steamboats to New Orleans?” she asked.

“Is ya sure, ya’s all right, ma’am?”

“Steamboats, please,” she said, declining his inquiry.

“They’s right over there, ma’am,” he said, pointing to fliers on a display board on the depot’s wall.

She nodded a polite thank you and hurried to inspect them.

The board was plastered with fliers for hotels, eateries, transportation, general notices, and steamboats. The one for the Mississippi Queen Steamboat caught her attention. It was scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow. The aches and pains of the trip melted away in the glow of relief that swept over her.

The woman gathered her bags, went inside, and found a drink of water. The liquid was as warm as the unseasonably warm temperatures, but she did not care. It was wet and refreshing nonetheless, and she savored every drop. Once invigorated, she headed to the telegraph station.

The clerk looked up when she stepped to the counter. “You wanna send a telegram, ma’am?”

“Yes... Yes, I do,” the woman said nervously and dictated a message to Reginal Prescott, care of Vinita, Oklahoma.

“Now, sir... Could you direct me to the train tickets?”

He pointed behind her. “It’s just across the depot, ma’am.”

#

“When’s the next train to San Francisco?” she asked the ticket clerk.

“Monday,” he said poker-faced, without emotion or expression.

A wave of disappointment and anxiety swept over her, and her misery returned with a vengeance. Her right ankle turned when she shifted her weight. She winced and clutched the counter for support. She breathed deeply as a wave of nausea seized her stomach.

The color drained from her face, yet the clerk paid her no mind.

“You want a ticket or not?” he asked sourly.

“Uh... Chicago, then?”

“One-thirty tomorrow,” the clerk said indifferently.

Color returned to the woman’s face as a glimmer of hope rebounded.

The clerk tilted his head back and looked at the woman along his narrow nose with an accusatory glance.

“One-way or... Ahem, roundtrip?”

“Oh... I haven’t decided yet. Meanwhile, could you recommend—”

“Planter House Hotel,” he said unsympathetically.

“Thank you, sir. Kindly direct me to transportation if you please.”

The clerk pointed to the depot’s front doors and turned away.

#

The woman stood on the boardwalk in front of the depot, her satchels lay at her feet, and her purse dangled from her wrist. A warm east breeze drifted from the direction of the waterfront, factories, and downtown. When the woman inhaled the hodgepodge of odors through her nostrils, her mouth curled to a smile: the pungent aroma of cows was gone at last.

Soon a horse-drawn buggy cab stopped. The driver, a lanky man with unkempt, loose-fitting clothes, tipped his hat. “Need a ride, ma’am?”

“Planter House Hotel.”

The driver hopped down and put the woman’s satchels behind the passenger’s seat. He helped her into the buggy and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Have ya there inna jiff, ma’am.”

The sun had set, and the city’s lamps added a warm glow to the busy streets where people hurried from shop to shop, a band performed in the square, and children played in the park. The sights and sounds rekindled memories from the woman’s childhood.

The woman felt restored. This was the first time she could sit in nearly an hour, but the nagging ache in her ankle would not go away. The packet of “herbal powder” she kept in her purse was for such an occasion. She quickly ingested it. The powder tingled her tongue and throat, and soon its alkaloids coursed through her bloodstream.

“First time to St. Louie, ma’am?” the driver said.

“Uh... Yes... ”

The buggy rumbled along the busy street, stopping at intersections for cross traffic. While she rode along, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the herbal potion had a soothing effect on her. Soon she drifted in and out of awareness.

“Visiting someone or traveling through?” the driver asked.

“Huh?”

“Visiting or just traveling through?”

“Always ‘ntergate... Interrogate passengers... Yer... Your passengers?” she said, her lips feeling the numbing effects of the powder.

“Sorry, ma’am. Just makin’ conversation.”

“Train... Tomorrow.”

“Didn’t mean ta pry, ma’am.”

The woman did not respond. The alkaloids had so numbed her senses she slipped into a stupor. She did not notice when the streets became shabbier and darker. She did not stir when the stench of the seedier side of St. Louis seized her throat. She did not respond when the buggy cab left the main street and rolled into a dark alley.

The driver yanked on the reins, and the horse stopped. He turned to the woman and yelled, “End of the line, lady. Gimme yer purse.”

“Where’s the Planter?” the woman asked, startled and unable to think clearly.

“And yer rings, necklace, any jewelry yer wearin’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ain’t got all night, lady,” the driver said, brandishing a knife. “Hand ‘em over.”

“Bastard!”

“Ah... Go back ta China; where’s ya belong!”

“I’m Japanese, not Chinese!”

“Ya all look alike ta me, lady,” the driver said as he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the buggy. “And my old lady needs a new hat,” he said with a chuckle.

When he yanked the hat off her head, the bun unfurled, and her long black hair fell to her back and shoulders.

“Stop,” she yelled as the driver climbed aboard the buggy and rode into the darkness.

The woman glanced around, still groggy from the potion. The alley was littered with debris and stinking garbage. She turned and ran to the street, looking for help. Cold fear swept over her as she stood on the street corner and took stock of her predicament: no luggage, no valuables, no money, just the clothes on her back.

A man approached her out of the shadows. “Lost, girly?” he said with a sinister grin. “I kin help.”

The woman turned to flee, but the man grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged. She fell backward.

“Let go,” the woman screamed, standing and kicking at the man and punching with both fists.

“Feisty... Just the way I like ‘em,” the man said, lunging at her and dragging her into the shadows.

End Prologue

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, August 22, 1892

TG Lambert and Sheriff William Duggan had become fast friends in the fall of ‘83 when a gang of four robbed the Silver Rock City Bank and Trust, and Lambert tracked them and brought them back, single-handled. After that, Duggan called upon Lambert from time to time to find fugitives and bring them to justice. Before long, he had found a full-time profession: bounty hunter. Anyone with a price on their head, dead or alive, did not matter one way or the other to Lambert as long as there was a bounty.

The telegram Lambert received from Duggan was “URGENT.” Sheriff Duggan rarely sent telegrams, and he could not remember any as ominous sounding as this one, so he dropped everything and caught the first northbound train out of Fort Worth, Texas, to Vinita, Oklahoma Territory.

The sun was low in the western sky when the steam locomotive slowed and abruptly stopped alongside Vinita’s depot. The cars jostled each other until they came to rest, jerking the occupants forward and backward a few times.

“Vinita, Oklahoma, folks,” the conductor said when he entered the passenger car. “Thirty-minute stop. Refreshments available in the depot and rest facilities on its north side.”

Several passengers stood and collected their belongings.

“Come back aboard when you hear two long blasts of the engine’s whistle,” the conductor said as he exited to enter the next passenger car.

Lambert preferred the feel of a leather saddle and a good horse under him, but he could not make the trip on horseback as quickly as by rail. When he first saw the size of the passenger seats, regret was his first reaction; nevertheless, he managed to wedge himself into the cramped accommodations. After ten hours on the train, though, every joint in his body begged for mercy. He had not slept in more than a day and had eaten the last bite of beef jerky hours ago. The salt-laden meat had his throat as dry as the desert, and with only warm water to quench his thirst, he needed a real drink—the sudsier, the better.

While the passengers made their way to the exits, Lambert unwound himself from his confined seat and stretched his six-foot frame. He grabbed his satchel. When he set foot on the platform, the aroma of cows hung so heavy in the calm air that the taste lingered on his tongue. To the west and north of the depot, stockyards were overflowing with cattle awaiting transportation northward to the packinghouses in Kansas City. Their grunts, snorts, and bellows added to the din of cowboys, the locomotive, depot workers, and passengers.

Nearby, eager young men waited with buggies, hawking rides into town. Lambert approached three, none out of their teens, and asked if anyone knew where he could get a horse for hire. Without hesitation, the lankiest one of the bunch spoke up.

“At the livery, mister. We’s got horses fer hire. Good stock and reasonable prices, too.”

“Then you can ride me to the hotel, boy.”

“Not fair,” a pudgy, pimple-faced kid said. He blocked Lambert’s way. “I was here first.”

“Me, too,” the other one said, joining the pimple-faced kid.

“Maybe, you were, but he’s got the goods; you ain’t,” Lambert said, staring the two square in their eyes. “So step aside, gents.”

The two young men glanced at each other and then at Lambert’s pearl-handled sidearms. Without hesitation, they turned away, and the lanky young man stepped between them.

“Are ya an Injun, mister? Ya kinda look like one, and then again, ya don’t dress like any I seen. Maybe, yer a half—”

“Full-blood Navajo,” Lambert said sternly, cutting him off before the boy could call him a half-breed.

Lambert had lived with a foot in both worlds: the Navajo and the white man. He was unaccepted by either because his features were more white man than Navajo. And the mention of half-breed was a guaranteed fistfight or gunfight.

“Uh... I’ll just take yer bag, mister, whiles ya hop aboard.”

Lambert handed him his satchel and followed him to the buggy.

“Which hotel, mister?” the young man asked, climbing to the buggy’s seat.

“Didn’t know there was more than one,” Lambert said as he took the passenger seat. “What’s the difference?”

The boy giggled.

“Well, ya see, mister. We’s got us a regular hotel with a dinin’ hall and bar, and we’s got us a special hotel where’s the painted ladies are. Mostly trailhands go there and spend an hour or so, but ya don’t strike me like the kind that’d—”

Lambert chuckled to himself as memories flooded his mind. For his twelfth birthday, the braves in his village thought it would be a rite of passage into manhood to visit a special hotel. While he relived that encounter, he smiled—it was not all that great, as he remembered. Then his thoughts turned to Dibe, a young woman from his tribe... For a few moments, his weariness faded as the fond memories of her gushed from his sub-conscience.

“The regular hotel, boy.”

“Yessiree, mister,” the young man said. He slapped the horse’s rump with the reins and yelled, “Giddy-up.”

The ride to the hotel did not take more than ten minutes, but Lambert’s driver gave him the lowdown on the town in that short time. Besides the hotels, Vinita had two saloons, a mercantile where townsfolks could buy just about anything they wanted, a newspaper office—The Vinita Leader—and a church. A feed and tack shop and a wheelwright were near the livery, as were few other storefronts that “didn’t amount ta much.” The lone barbershop was at the south end of Main Street, close to the largest stockyards, where trailhands could get a haircut, a shave, and a bath for half a dollar, which was “highway robbery fer the times.”

“Well...,” the young man said as he yanked on the reins, and the horse stopped at the steps to the hotel. “That’s ‘bout all thar is ta our town, mister.”

“Much obliged, boy.” Lambert tossed him a coin, got down, and grabbed his bag.

“Two bits! Jeez, mister. The ride ‘tweren’t more than a dime.”

“Entertainment.”

“I don’t get yer drift, mister. But thanks, anyhows.” He slapped his horse’s rump with the reins, and it trotted off. “If ya ever need another ride, just stop by the...” His voice faded away.

Lambert climbed the steps and hesitated. When asking for a room, the reaction could go well but often went the other way. After countless hotels, butterflies still stirred in the pit of his stomach, but there was no way he was sleeping in the livery barn tonight. He entered the Morganza Hotel, sauntered to the registration counter, and tapped the bell.

“I’m coming,” the hotel clerk said from the backroom. He closed the door and stopped dead in his tracks, sizing up Lambert from head to toe.

“Ahem... May I help you?” the clerk asked, glancing around the lobby.

“A room,” Lambert said.

The clerk’s brow furrowed, and his eyes squinted.

“Uh... Sorry, mister,” the clerk said with a nervous grin. “We’re all full up.”

The clerk’s short, bulbous frame quivered as he ran his fingers through the meager hair on his head. Beads of perspiration formed on his temples and upper lip.

Lambert sighed. He had hoped he would not have any trouble getting a room, but the clerk’s lie was typical; he had experienced it more often than not. He glanced over the clerk’s shoulder, where several keys hung on the wall-mounted key holder and locked eyes with the clerk.

“I’ll take one of those,” Lambert said, pointing at the keys.

The clerk teetered and grabbed the counter for support as the color drained from his cheeks. He wiped the sweat off his brow and licked his upper lip.

“They—They’re all spoken for, mister,” the clerk said with a nervous stutter. “So—So, as you can see, we’re all full up.”

Lambert’s anger flared. He grabbed the clerk’s lapels and yanked him against the counter.

“If you’re holding out on me, mister, it’d be your last,” Lambert said through a tight jaw.

“Help,” yelled the clerk. “Somebody fetch the sheriff.”

Lambert let loose of the clerk’s lapels, drew his weapon, and stuck the end of its barrel under the clerk’s nose.

“When the sheriff arrives, we’ll see if you have any vacancies or not. Until then, stand on your toes.”

“I can’t, mister. Got back pain... Hurts me somethin’ fierce.”

Lambert applied pressure to the clerk’s nose with the gun’s barrel. The clerk’s face winced as he raised himself on his toes.

“Drop it, mister,” the sheriff said. “I got ya covered.”

Lambert holstered his gun and slowly turned to face the sheriff. The clerk’s heels landed on solid ground, and he turned and scurried into the backroom.

“Who are ya, mister?”

“I go by Lambert. TG Lambert.”

“Funny name fer an Injun.”

“Ezra ain’t the manliness name I’ve ever heard of either.”

“How’d ya know my name?”

“Maybe this’ll clear things up, sheriff.” Lambert handed the telegram to the sheriff. He took it and read it.

URGENT STOP REGINALD PRESCOTT NEEDS YOUR HELP IN VINITA STOP
MY REGARDS TO SHERIFF EZRA CLARK STOP DUGGAN STOP

“I’ll be damned... How is ole Bill Duggan?”

“Still kicking.”

“Married yet?”

“No... Still holding his own.”

“What’s this Prescott problem all about?”

“This is all I know,” Lambert said, taking the telegram and putting it in his coat pocket.”

“Lambert... Not yer typical Injun name; how’d ya pick that one?”

Lambert’s thoughts drifted back to when he was beaten and left for dead, but Brother Lambert from the Sacred Heart Abby found him all bloodied and nursed him back to health. The braves of the village found out about him and Dibe. They did not want a half-breed violating their maidens, but that horse was already out of the corral. No matter what he or his parents said, the villagers were never convinced that he was a full-blood Navajo.

“A monk who befriended me when no one else did.”

“And what’s the TG stand fer?”

“It’s my Navajo name. Most can’t pronounce it right, so let’s say it stands for ‘two guns’ and leave it at that.”

“Oh...” Sheriff Clark said, glancing at Lambert’s sidearms. “So’s long as ya control ‘em, ya won’t push my beholdin’ to Bill too far.”

“Agreed,” Lambert said, nodding.

Sheriff Clark glanced around the hotel lobby. “What was all this ruckus about?”

“Seems they don’t have any rooms for the likes of me, sheriff,” Lambert said with a grin and cocking his head toward the keys hanging on the hooks.

Sheriff Clark glanced at them.

“Clifford,” Sheriff Clark yelled.

When he didn’t get an answer, he pounded the counter bell and bellowed.

“Get yer sorry backside out here, Clifford, befer I come a-lookin’ fer ya.”

Clifford, the clerk, peeked through the partly opened backroom door.

“You want me, sheriff?” Clifford asked sheepishly.

“Get yer... Clifford, ya try my patience sometimes.”

Clifford hurriedly stood behind the registration counter, glancing at Lambert and then at the sheriff.

“Ya tell this fella ya ain’t got no rooms?” Sheriff Clark asked.

“I sure did, sheriff, and we don’t have any for him.”

“What ya mean... For him?”

“It’s as plain as the nose on your face, sheriff,” Clifford said, pointing at Lambert. “Him bein’ a half-breed and all.”

At the sound of half-breed, Lambert’s anger flared again. He put his hand on his sidearm and stepped toward Clifford, but Sheriff Clark blocked his way.

“Ya blind or plain stupid, Clifford? Some have gotten killed fer less, especially if the man yer insultin’ is packing.”

“Only following house rules, sheriff.” Clifford leaned close to the sheriff. “And—And I need this work, Ezra.”

“Prescott’ll make an exception this time.”

“I don’t know, Ezra...” Clifford said, shaking his head.

“Prescott’ll be more put out if ya don’t give him a room.”

“All right, sheriff, but this is on you.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Clifford, have a backbone.”

“Ain’t got one, sheriff... Prescott took it when I mortgaged my farm to him.”

End Chapter One

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday, August 23

Two Prescott Cattleman Banks prominently occupied Vinita’s heart at Main and First’s cross streets. One was a typical bank where one could deposit or withdraw funds. The other was a complex, where Mr. Prescott had his office and loans and mortgages were processed.

It was gaudy by any standard—a huge glass storefront with gilded scrollwork above and flanking the pillared sides. The hunter-green trim and sage-green building didn’t have a mark or chip; it looked freshly painted. The calligraphy lettering on the windows was 24-caret gold, and Prescott's larger-than-life bronze relief sculpture was affixed above the doors. Shiny brass lanterns hung from matching holders, and centrally placed double doors with brass trim and kick plates opened into the main office. Workmen were busily polishing the metal surfaces to mirror perfection.

Lambert went inside.

The huge room was deeper than it was wide, and off to the left, a herd of clerks at tall desks and stools pondered over ledgers. On the right side of the room, several half-wall stalls topped with wood-framed window glass had senior clerks meeting with customers. Farther back, a large reception area had a few chairs, a desk, and a secretary.

A nervous, lanky, wrinkled-faced clerk met Lambert at the door. His pin-striped gray coat and overly-starched shirt hung loosely on his frame while his baggy pants floated freely on his waist, supported by suspenders. His shoes, nearly hidden by the scrunched end of his pantlegs, were dust-covered and scuffed.

“Ahem,” the clerk said, retracting the corner of his mouth and sucking air through his teeth. “Welcome to the Prescott Cattleman Bank. May I help... Uh... You, sir?”

“Mr. Prescott,” Lambert said, looking around and spying the reception area in the back of the room.

“Have an appointment?” the clerk asked, giving Lambert a quick glance from toe to head.

“I’ll work that out with his secretary,” Lambert said and started for the back.

The clerk blocked his way. “But sir, I can’t let you—”

Lambert pulled his coat aside enough to reveal his sidearm. He was in no mood for anyone standing in his way.

“I guess you didn’t hear me, pardner. Mr. Prescott’s office—direct me there, or I find it myself.”

The man’s eyes flitted between the weapon and Lambert’s unflinching gaze. He gulped and stepped backward.

“No—No, sir. I—I mean, yes, sir. No need to... Uh... Just—Just follow me this way.”

The clerk turned toward the back area at a brisk shuffle, glancing over his shoulder to see that Lambert was still behind him.

Lambert trailed while the nervous clerk made a beeline for the reception area. A thigh-high railing corralled it off from the main room. He held the railing gate for Lambert, nodded when Lambert stepped through, and then hot-footed it to a nearby stall where he watched through its glass partition. His eyes widened cow-like, and his upper lip curled into a sneering grin as Lambert approached the desk and the woman sitting there.

The woman’s eyes fluttered as she slowly looked Lambert over. His seven-inch crown and flat-brimmed hat made his six-foot, muscular frame stand taller than he was. His shoulder-length hair was coal black, and his eyes were dark brown. His complexion was a lighter olive than most Navajo. He wore a thigh-length, black town coat, matching trousers, a white shirt, and a black string tie. Two pearl-handled Colt Peacemakers cradled in tooled holsters rested on his hips.

She sighed.

Her pursed lips, crinkled nose, and squinted hazel-colored eyes contrasted her otherwise schoolmarm appearance. She was a tall, shapely woman in her late thirties, with dark-brown curly hair rolled high on her head. Her long-sleeved, high-necked blue dress was modest yet elegant. She wore a touch of rouge on her high cheeks. Her eyelids had a hint of coloring, and her lips had a wisp of carmine. According to her shiny brass nameplate, she was Miss Elizabeth Whitaker.

Lambert removed his hat and put his plain card, the one without the crossed six-shooters in the center, on her desk and asked to see Mr. Prescott. Miss Whitaker picked up his card, glanced at it, and then let it casually slip through her fingers and tumble to her desk.

“Mr. O’Bryan handles all our Indian affairs. Perhaps, you’d care to see him.”

Lambert glanced around the room. Dark-stained oak wainscoting on the north and west walls matched the oak flooring. Above the oak, the ivory-white plastered wall extended upward to the pitched ceiling. Two large windows on the west wall bathed the room in natural lighting. Double-hung, raised-panel doors in the middle of the north wall led to Mr. Prescott’s office. To the right of the door was a large brass plaque engraved with Mr. Reginald Prescott, President, in fancy lettering.

His gaze settled on her.

“No, ma’am. I’m here to see Mr. Reginald Prescott... Personally.”

“Mr. Prescott doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” she said with a furrowed brow. “Do you have one?”

“You should know,” Lambert said with a steely glare. “You’re his secretary, aren’t you?”

Miss Whitaker’s eyebrows raised but let that question pass.

“Mr. Prescott is a very busy man, and it is impossible to see him without an appointment.”

Lambert looked away, glanced at the big clock on the wall, and returned his gaze to Miss Whitaker.

“What do you want to see Mr. Prescott about, Mr...” Miss Whitaker picked up his card. “Uh... Mr. Lambert?”

“It’s a personal matter.” Lambert slid his hat around his hand a couple of turns.

“That so? Well... Uh... Does Mr. Prescott know you, Mr. Lambert?”

“Possibly.” Lambert laid his hat on her desk. “My name may have come up in discussions with a mutual friend, Sheriff William Duggan.”

Miss Whitaker glanced at his hat and frowned. She briskly tapped the edge of Lambert’s card on her desktop, stopped, and leaned back in her chair.

“And does Mr. Prescott know him?”

Lambert grinned at her.

“If he doesn’t, I’ve wasted a trip. So how ‘bout you waltz your pretty little... Little... Face right in there and ask him?”

Miss Whitaker sat straight in her chair and crossed her arms. “Well... I never,” she said. Blood rushed to her face, turning her cheeks and forehead a rosy red.

“Never been told you’re pretty or been told to waltz?” Lambert said, smiling.

“Mr. Lambert, you are by far the most impertinent person I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet.”

“Just give Mr. Prescott my card, would you please, Miss Whitaker? I wouldn’t wanna be the one who interfered with his personal business, would you?”

Lambert picked up his hat, chose a hard-backed chair near a window, and lit a cigarillo. He took a long drag and blew a cloud of gray-white smoke toward the ceiling while glancing at the portraits of Mr. Prescott that flanked the door to his office.

Halfway through his cigarillo, Miss Whitaker’s face regained its natural color. She stood, smoothed the wrinkles of her dress, went to Mr. Prescott’s door, and knocked.

Prescott’s muffled voice asked, “Yes?”

Miss Whitaker stepped inside and closed the door behind her. After a couple of minutes, she emerged, went straight to her desk, and sat.

Lambert pitched his cigarillo in the spittoon and started toward Miss Whitaker’s desk.

“Don’t bother, Mr. Lambert,” she said with a sneer. “Mr. Prescott says he never heard of you or your sheriff, so it’ll be impossible for you to see him today or any other day.”

Lambert slid his hat around his hand a couple of turns. He nodded, went back to the chair, and lit another cigarillo.

“Didn’t you hear me, Mr. Lambert?”

Lambert blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, waited a few moments, and said, “I heard you all right, miss, but I’ll wait all the same.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Lambert.” Miss Whitaker smiled, turned to the Caligraph on a nearby stand, and started typing a letter. The click-clack sound of the keys hitting the paper filled in the area.

Lambert took another drag and tapped the ash in a nearby spittoon.

An hour and three cigarillos later, the double doors of Mr. Prescott’s office opened, and his six-foot-two-inch, paunchy body, stood between the doorframes, looking at Lambert. His steel-gray eyes were as sharp as his gray, pin-striped suit was tailored. An empty room would’ve felt his presence. He stepped into the area, hands on his hips, glaring at Lambert.

“Miss Whitaker says you want to see me on a personal matter. That so?”

Lambert chucked his cigarillo and stood. “If you’re Prescott, Mr. Reginald Prescott, I do.”

“My name’s on the door; who the hell else would I be?” Prescott said in a voice that boomed from one end of the office complex to the other.

Ledger clerks stopped working and looked toward Prescott’s voice. Senior clerks’ heads popped above their partitions at the commotion. Customers turned and stared. And Miss Whitaker snickered.

Lambert picked up his hat from an adjacent chair and spun it once around his hand. “Have to be sure, mister. Caretakers do well for themselves these days.”

Prescott curled his hands up into tight fists. “Well... Never have I—”

“Now you have, Mr. Prescott.”

Prescott noticed that everyone was looking his way. “Nothing to see here,” he said in a calmer voice, waving his hand and smiling. “Back to work, back to work, everyone.” He forced a smile and continued. “Sorry for the interruption.”

After the clerks returned to their tasks and the customers settled down, Prescott faced Lambert again. His steely scowl—effective on most—made no impression on Lambert; he simply smiled in return. That sent Prescott’s fury through the roof: his face was flushed, and the veins in his neck throbbed.

“Who’s this Sheriff Duncan anyway? Never heard of him,” he said through a clenched jaw.

“A mutual friend, and it’s not Duncan. It’s Duggan, William Duggan.”

“Oh... William Dugg—”

Prescott swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Bill Duggan, is it?”

He glanced at Miss Whitaker as the corner of his mouth curled into a sheepish grin. Then he fixed his gaze on Lambert as his steely scowl returned.

“All right, Mr. Lambert, I’ll give you ten minutes.” He looked at the wall clock. “Make that five, and make it quick.”

Lambert followed Prescott into his private office and closed the doors.

End Chapter Two

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER THREE

Prescott’s private office personified the man. It was as wide as lengthy and could corral a sizeable herd of cows. The walls were paneled in stained oak to match the flooring. His massive desk was solid oak with hand-carved scrollwork. On the wall behind his plush leather chair, a larger-than-life portrait of himself hung, dressed in a military—neither Union nor Confederate—uniform, decked out with ribbons and metals, and atop a great white horse. The portrait had an Italian sterling silver repoussé frame, Rococo style, with swirling swags and leaves.

Lambert stopped for a moment when he saw the unmistakable Navajo-designed rugs that covered much of the dark-stained flooring. He smiled and continued into the room.

Prescott plopped in his high-back chair, tented his fingers, and looked at Lambert with a penetrating stare in his unyielding eyes.

“Well,” he said with a tone that dripped with impatience. “I haven’t got all day, Mr. Lambert, and the clock’s ticking.”

Lambert took a seat facing the desk and sat. But, unlike Prescott’s comfy chair, the ones facing the desk were hard and uncomfortable. When Lambert flipped his Stetson on the desk, Prescott’s eyebrows raised two inches.

“So Duggan sent you. Got any proof?”

Lambert took Sheriff Duggan’s telegram from his coat pocket and tossed it across the desk. While Prescott unfolded and read it, Lambert lit a cigarillo and leaned back.

“All right, Mr. Lambert. If Bill sent you, I’d trust he knows his man.” Prescott leaned forward, pointing his finger at Lambert. “But let’s get one thing straight from the beginning: I don’t fool around and don’t have time for it.”

“That’s two things, Mr. Prescott,” Lambert said, yawning.

“What you say?”

“You wanted me to get one thing straight, but you said two.”

“Don’t get flippant with me, young man,” Prescott said, glaring at Lambert. “When I hire a man, he is my man. He does exactly what I tell him and keeps it under his hat. Do we understand each other?”

“Just so you understand me, Mr. Prescott, my birth name is Tyee Gaagii. I’m a full-blood Navajo, but my features are more Bilagáana—white man to you—than Navajo, so I took the name TG Lambert as a young man. Growing up, I was shunned by both my people and yours. Everyone called me a half-breed.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

“I learned to fight, handle a gun, and use my native abilities to track people. And when I find them, I bring them back, riding or otherwise—it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

“Now wait one goldarn minute, Lambert,” Prescott said, sitting upright in his chair. “There’ll be no killing, no siree. I just want to—”

“And one last thing, I’m no man’s man. So tell me who you want me to find and what the bounty is, and if I decide to look for him, I’ll find him. Elsewise, the next train to Fort Worth leaves at noon.”

Lambert blew a cloud of gray smoke above the desk and waited. Prescott watched the last fingers of smoke waft into nothingness, and then he clasped his hands on the desk, staring at Lambert with a soulful and teary-eyed look.

“I—I—” Prescott coughed and swallowed. “I want you to find my wife.”

Lambert sat straight in his chair and reached for his hat.

“Sorry, Mr. Prescott. I’m a bounty hunter by trade, and finding wayward wives is out of my line—too messy.”

“Please, Mr. Lambert. Hear me out.”

Lambert rested against his chair, took a shallow drag on his cigarillo, and let the smoke trickle from his nose.

“All right, Mr. Prescott,” Lambert said reluctantly. “The train doesn’t leave for a couple of hours.”

Prescott opened his desk drawer and took out a wrinkled, folded paper. He spread it on the desk and smoothed it the best he could.

“Two weeks ago, I received this telegram,” he said, handing it to Lambert.

Lambert opened and read:

NEED FRESH AIR STOP BOARDING THE MISSISSIPPI QUEEN TO NEW ORLEANS WITH DAVID STOP
SAYONARA MIKA STOP

“Sayonara, Mika?”

“Yes. Mika, my wife, is Japanese.”

“Reads like she ran off with someone named David. Like I said, Mr. Prescott—” Lambert said, getting to his feet.

“Wait,” Prescott said, extending his hand. “Please sit, Mr. Lambert.”

Lambert thought for a moment and then returned to his chair.

“Uh... David Thompson’s a gambler,” Prescott said, “and lady’s man from over Claremore way.”

“This just isn’t my line of work, Mr. Prescott.”

“What if I put a bounty of five thousand on her? Would you be interested then, Mr. Lambert?”

Lambert’s eyebrows raised, and he looked at Prescott. “What’s your story?” he said, grinning and leaning back in his chair.

“Mika is twenty years younger than I am, and she has insatiable appetites: clothes, jewelry, and... Well... Men. With my position in the bank, I kept her escapades as quiet as I could, but it all came to a head two months ago, and I put my foot down. A week later, she up and left. Said she was going to our place over by Wyandotte to think things through. That was the last I heard from her until the telegram.”

“So what you want done, Mr. Prescott?”

“Find her, of course. What else would I want?”

“I’ve seen all kinds, mister. Some wish them found and brought back—kicking and screaming if necessary; others just need to know they’re safe but never see them again; a few would rather see them dead for running off. So I’ll ask you again. What you want done once I find her?”

“I haven’t hired you yet, Mr. Lambert,” Prescott said, leaning back into the folds of his chair.

“I’ve got time for a drink before the train leaves,” Lambert said, grabbing his hat and standing. “Good day, Mr. Prescott.”

Before Lambert could turn to leave, Prescott sprang to his feet, extended his hand, and pleaded.

“You go me all wrong, Mr. Lambert. Please. Sit. I need your help.” Prescott plopped in his chair and cradled his head in his hands. “I must find her. She can go if she wants to leave me, but I must know she’s all right. Safe. That’s all.”

Lambert sat and put his hat on the desk. “Tracking a woman is difficult, nearly impossible. Nobody wants to help find her; they feel obliged to protect her, shield her, or even hide her. So it’ll take time and money.”

“What we talking?”

“Maybe a month or two and a thousand dollars on account.”

“On account?”

“On account of we don’t like each other—too much alike, I reckon. And the rest when I find her.”

“I like a man who lays his cards on the table. Given time, a wart grows on you and don’t bother you unless you rub it the wrong way.”

Lambert chuckled.

“Here’s the twist. I occasioned the saloon a week ago, and there sat Thompson, pretty as you please, dealing cards. I confronted him, and he denied running off with Mika. Instead, he claimed he hadn’t seen her in three months or more. A cold chill came over me, and I thought the worst: either he did her in, or she lied and was in trouble of some kind. Either way, I gotta know.”

“Don’t drive your herd into a box canyon just yet. Too many possibilities would explain this. For one, Thompson’s lying, and they split up after a while; that’s my bet. In that case, she’s all right and enjoying herself in New Orleans.”

“You do give a man a spark of hope, Mr. Lambert. Will you find her for me?”

“How far you want me to go? New Orleans or short of that?”

“If she safely boarded the Mississippi Queen like she said, I’d be satisfied with that.”

“Did she have much money with her?” Lambert asked.

“A few hundred,” Prescott said.

“Is Thompson still in town, or has he drifted on?”

“Rooms at the Morganza and deals cards most nights in the saloon.”

Lambert settled back in his chair and lit a cigarillo. After a few puffs, he asked, “You must stash some good whiskey away to seal a deal, I would imagine.”

“You get right to the heart of the matter, don’t you, Mr. Lambert?”

“Saves time... About that whiskey.”

Prescott went to his liquor cabinet.

“You puzzle me, Mr. Lambert.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ve come across many Indians in my time, and not one of them could speak our language as well as you can.”

“Sacred Heart Abby, Pottawatomie reserve.”

“I’ve heard of it. Taught by monks, then? But, you a Navajo? How?”

Lambert ignored his questions.

“And a bottle for the road if you have extra.”

Prescott hesitated but got an unopened bottle and held it for Lambert to see.

Lambert nodded. “Well, Mr. Prescott. Looks like we got us a deal.”

End of Chapter Three

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday, August 24

When the train stopped at Wyandotte, Lambert was the only passenger to get off, and none got on. The sun was high in the cloudless sky while he walked the short distance into town. The street was deserted, except for a lone horse hitched in front of the Wyandotte House, a combination trading post, saloon, hotel, and eatery. He stepped inside and slowly scanned from left to right.

The bar was at the back wall, with two round tables in the middle of the room. Above a counter on the right, a menu showed a short list of meal choices, and two men sat at a long table and chairs, eating. The trading post’s goods took up more than half of the building on the left, where just about one of everything you would ever need was either hung on racks, folded on tables, or stacked on shelves.

The barkeep, a lanky, older, balding man with an oversized mustache, looked up when the door opened. His long-sleeve, collarless, striped shirt—pulled tight at his wrists and buttoned to his chin—was a size too big for him. He was wiping the bar clean of spilled beer.

“What’ll ya have, stranger?”

“A cool beer and some information,” Lambert said, approaching the bar.

“Beer’s warm but good tastin’. It’ll wash the dust off yer tongue, all the same.”

“And information?” Lambert asked, leaning on the bar.

“Depends, mister.”

“On what?”

“Folks ‘round here don’t cotton ta strangers askin’ about their business,” the barkeep said, drawing a tall—mostly head—warm beer and setting it on the bar.

“This town got a sheriff?” Lambert said, watching the foam dissipate into liquid.

“Yer lookin’ at ‘im.”

“Not what I expected,” Lambert said, sizing the barkeep up and smiling.

“Looky here, son. We got a quiet town. Not much call for the law ‘round these parts and can’t afford much of one, neither, so I’m the sheriff, the mayor, and part owner of this here establishment. And befer ya look down on us ‘cross that half-breed nose of yers, drink up, and catch the two o’clock southbound.”

Lambert stiffened when he heard “half-breed” but managed to suppress his anger after a few moments. He took a sip of the beer and wiped the foam off his upper lip.

“Warm but mighty good, like you said.”

The sheriff cocked his head, squinted, and eyed Ramsay. “Ya didn’t come ta our fine community ta sample our beer, son, so spill it befer I get riled.”

“Don’t get a bee in your bonnet, sheriff. I just want to know the whereabouts of the Prescott ranch.”

The sheriff picked up a glass and wiped it clean with a towel. Then he gave Lambert a slow glance over again. He leaned on the bar and asked, “Who ya be, anyhows?”

“An agent for Mr. Reginald Prescott.”

“So ya seys,” the sheriff said, stepping back from the bar. “Got any proof?”

Lambert handed Prescott’s letter of introduction to the sheriff. He took it, read it word for word, and handed it back.

“Seys yer TG Lambert. Funny name fer a half—”

Once was forgivable, but twice was too much for him. At lightning speed, Lambert pulled his Colt .45, poked the sheriff’s upper lip with the barrel, and cocked the hammer back.

“I’m full-blood Navajo, and don’t you forget it,” Lambert said through clenched teeth.

The sheriff didn’t flinch. Instead, he slowly pushed the barrel of Lambert’s gun aside with his index finger and looked Lambert eye to eye.

“I won’t ferget, son,” the sheriff said, lifting a sawed-off shotgun off its under-the-bar cradle with his other hand and laying it on the bar. It pointed squarely at Lambert’s belly with his finger wrapped around its trigger.

Lambert eased off the hammer and holstered his Colt. Then he stepped back and said, “I like a man who doesn’t fold in death’s face. So what do you hail by, sheriff?”

“Amos Anderson,” the sheriff said, edging his finger off the trigger. “My friends call me Andy—never cared much fer Amos—but call me Sheriff Anderson or just plain sheriff if ya please.” He put the shotgun back in its cradle under the bar.

Lambert extended his hand. “Hope to earn the right to call you Andy someday, sheriff.”

They shook hands.

“So what’s that there letter ‘bout? I ain’t seen Mr. Prescott ‘round the parts near on—” the sheriff closed one eye and scratched his head. “Near as I can recollect, it’d hav’ta be three years or more. But Mrs. Prescott stops by quite often, though.”

“When was the last time?”

“Oh,” the sheriff said, rubbing his chin.

A customer stepped to the bar. “How’s ‘bout another beer, Andy.”

Sheriff Anderson nodded and drew a mug full of mostly suds.

“Much obliged,” the customer said, returning to his table.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Mrs. Prescott. Well... Must’ve been ‘bout six weeks ago when she got off the train. Jeb give her a ride to the farm.”

“Jeb?”

“Jeb White, he’s my livery handyman.”

Lambert took a gulp of the warm beer. “Jeb stay with her?” He wiped his upper lip.

“Hell no, mister,” the sheriff said, wagging his head. “He took him a horse to ride home by.”

“She stayed alone, then?”

“Mrs. Prescott? Not likely. That there China woman—”

“Japanese,” Lambert said.

“Say, what?”

“Mrs. Prescott is Japanese. She’s from Japan.”

“Japanese, huh? They all look the same to me... Anyhows... Where was I?”

“Her staying alone,” Lambert said.

“Right... She couldn’t no more last the night without help than a newborn—can’t do nuthin’ by herself.”

“Who helped her, then?”

“Henry Bronston and his wife, Mary, live on the farm and keep it up. They take on extra hands at planting and harvest time; otherwise, it’s just them two.”

“Where can I find the Prescott farm?”

“Ole Jeb’d be glad ta take ya out there fer two bits,” the sheriff said, gesturing toward the door. “My livery’s just across the street. Ya’ll find him there—most likely sleepin’.”

“Much obliged, sheriff... Can I get a mount there?”

“Dollar a day, five-day minimum... In advance.”

“If you throw in a saddle...”

The sheriff laughed and extended his hand. They shook, and Lambert paid the sheriff five dollars, finished his beer, and left.

End Chapter Four

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER FIVE

The livery was quiet, with not a person in sight. The blacksmith’s forge was cold, the stalls were empty, and a lone cat met Lambert when he entered its wide-open doors. He walked to the back of the barn and found a bushy-haired young man, barely old enough to shave, sleeping in a stall on the hay.

Lambert cleared his throat, but the young man snorted and rolled over. He grabbed a nearby muck rake and tapped the young man on his shoe. He stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Uh... What ya want, mister?” he said, yawning.

“You Jeb?”

“That’d be me, mister. In the flesh.”

“Sheriff Andy rented me a horse, but it doesn’t look like you got any.”

“Sure do, mister,” Jeb said, staggering to his feet. “They’s out back, exercisin’.”

“And a saddle?”

“In the tack room,” Jeb said, pointing to a side room. “Got a couple ta choose from.”

“And he said you were for hire...”

“What fer?”

“To guide me to the Prescott farm.”

“Sure, mister,” Jeb said, rubbing his hands together. “Be glad to... Uh... How’s two-bits sound?”

“About right. Deal?”

“Yessiree, mister,” Jeb said, smiling. “Deal.”

“What you got for saddles?”

Jeb and Lambert stepped into the tack room, and Jeb started to point out the pros and cons of each of the three saddles.

“We got us here a short-necked, large-horned stock saddle with wide, double—”

“Show me the best one, Jeb.”

“I reckon this here one is yer best bet. It be a slick-forked, high-beveled-cantle—”

“I’ll take it; now, the riding stock.”

Jeb led Lambert to the corral behind the barn, where four horses stood in the shade of a tree. They leaned on the railing, and the horses walked toward them. Jeb took carrot stubs from his pocket and offered them on his palm. Each horse—in turn by age, oldest to the youngest—took a stub and walked away.

“They always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Line up by pecking order?”

“Yeah. That old gray first, then all the ways to the youngest. Elsewise, the old gray bites their ears ta show ‘em who’s boss. What kinda ridin’ ya fixin’ ta do, mister?”

“Long and hard.”

Jeb pointed to each horse, one by one.

“That there gray swayback wouldn’t last a day—ready for the Big Corral in the sky. That stallion’s too ornery; he’d fight ya all the livelong day. That mustang is a gelding, strong, even-tempered but a little long in the tooth—might not hold up. Yer best bet is that there quarter horse. She’s only three and smart, too. She’ll carry ya anywheres ya wanna go, mister. I’d pick her.”

“Know your horses, Jeb... When can you take me to the Prescott farm?”

“Now?”

“Saddle her up.”


#

Lambert and Jeb strolled out of the barn, leading their horses, and met two cowpokes, one standing alongside his mount, the other atop his.

“Shod my horse, will ya?” the standing cowpoke said.

“Gotta take this here, fella outta town,” Jeb said.

“Ain’t no half-breed more important than my horse.”

In one swift action, Lambert drew his gun and whacked the cowpoke broadside his head, knocking him to the ground. Then Lambert aimed at the mounted cowpoke when he reached for his weapon.

“Don’t do it, mister,” Lambert said through a clenched jaw.

“Easy with that hog pistol, mister. Jamie didn’t mean no disrespect.”

“That’s not how I heard it,” Lambert said.

The downed cowpoke, Jamie, raised up on his hands and knees. “Ya dirty, thievin’ red-skin. Why don’t ya go back ta the reservation where’s ya belong?”

“Shut up, ya fool,” the mounted cowpoke said. “Don’t ya know one foot’s in the grave and how close yer other foot is too. Mount up, so we’s can get outta here.”

Jamie put his hat on and stood. He felt the sticky blood on his left temple and cheek. “Ya’ll pay fer this, mister.”

“Drop it, Jamie,” the mounted cowpoke said. “Let’s ride.”

Jamie mounted, and the two cowpokes rode out of town.


#

Lambert and Jeb were about a mile from the Prescott farm when the wind shifted, and the odor of decaying flesh wafted in the air.

“What the hell...” Jeb said, holding his nose.

“Probably a kill of some kind left to the weather.”

“Stinks terrible.”

“Usually does.”

“Should we?” Jeb asked, turning his mount into the wind.

“No time,” Lambert said. “Mrs. Prescott’s missing. That’s our focus, Jeb.”

“Ain’t ya curious?”

“I’ve seen enough of death to last a lifetime...”

Jeb frowned. He turned his mount toward the farm again, and Lambert followed.


#

When Lambert and Jeb rounded the bend in the road, and the farm was no more than a hundred yards ahead, Henry Bronston stepped from behind a massive oak and pointed his rifle at Lambert.

“Hold it right there, stranger.”

The two horsemen pulled up the reins, and their horses stopped dead.

Henry had a harsh face, deep-tanned, unshaven, and leathery. He was stalky, short, and walked with a slight limp. His beard was white, and his tattered hat sat atop a tangled mess of graying hair. He wore faded blue-denim-trouser overalls and a plaid shirt opened at the neck.

He spat a wad of tobacco-tinged saliva on the ground. His deep voice was slow but deliberate.

“Jeb, I know. But you, I don’t, mister.”

Jeb leaned forward in his saddle. “He’s Mr. Pres—”

“No offense, Jeb, but let him tell it,” Henry said.

Lambert reached for the letter in his breast pocket.

“Easy there, stranger. This here rifle’s got a hair trigger.”

“Point that rifle somewhere else, Mr. Bronston, or you’ll not see the setting sun tonight.”

“Tall talk for someone staring down a loaded barrel.”

“Please, Henry,” Jeb said, fidgeting in his saddle. “He don’t want no trouble.”

Henry glanced at Jeb, which was the edge Lambert was looking for. Then, in one swift action, he dove off his saddle, rolled on the ground, and crouched, aiming his Colt square at Henry.

“Drop it, or I’ll drop you, Mr. Bronston.”

Henry spun around toward Lambert.

“Don’t do it, Henry,” Jeb said.

“Jeb’s talking sense, Mr. Bronston. Lower your rifle, and we’ll talk this through.”

Henry lowered his gun and let it hang over his arm, pointing at the ground.

“What you want here, mister?”

Lambert holstered his gun and handed Prescott’s letter to Henry. Henry put on his glasses and read it.

“So you’re TG Lambert. Funny name for a—”

“Don’t say it, Henry,” Jeb said.

Henry spat on the ground. “Prescott says we’re to extend all courtesies and answer all questions pertaining to Mrs. Prescott,” Henry said, handing the letter back. “That don’t include a welcome wagon to anyone sneakin’ up on us.”

“We wasn’t sneakin’, Henry,” Jeb said. “We was ridin’ down the middle—”

“And you’ll honor Prescott’s requests, I expect,” Lambert said.

“Well, it seems we started off on the wrong footin’, Mr. Lambert. But so ya know wheres we stand, Mary and me have private lives, and we aims ta keep it thatta way. So ask yer questions ‘bout Mrs. Prescott, and leave us out.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Bronston.”

“Henry... Can’t we get out of this heat? I’m near butt-glued ta my saddle and could use a drink.”

Henry stood firm for a few moments, spat an over-chewed plug of tobacco on the ground, and turned toward the farm.

“I can find my way from here, Jeb.”

“But Mr. Lambert, I should—”

“Here’s a dollar for your trouble,” Lambert said, flipping a coin toward Jeb.

“Thank ya, kindly, Mr. Lambert,” Jeb said, catching the shiny coin mid-air and turning his horse toward town.

“Thought ya was thirsty, Jeb,” Henry said.

“Not no more,” Jeb said, digging his heels in his horse’s flanks. It took off in a gallop.

“Youngins,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Come this way, Mr. Lambert.”

End Chapter Five

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER SIX

Henry moseyed down the road toward the barn, and Lambert followed close behind. When they reached the barn, Lambert dismounted and led his horse to a nearby water trough. He hitched the reins to a post and took the bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag. Lambert held it up so Henry could see the amber liquid glisten in the sun. Henry’s eyes opened wide when he saw the sparkling fluid.

“You a drinking man, Mr. Bronston?” Lambert asked with a sly grin.

Henry licked his lips and looked toward the farmhouse and back at the bottle. He leaned his rifle against the barn and wiped his hands on his overalls. He ran his tongue across his lips again and smiled from ear to ear.

“Do a bear do his business in the woods?” he said with a cackling chuckle.

“I reckon so, Mr. Bronston,” Lambert said, handing the bottle to him. “I reckon so.”

“Then we best get in the barn, if you know what I mean, and call me Henry, Mr. Lambert.” He looked at the label and popped the cork. “Never heard of this kind.”

“From Prescott’s private stock.”

Henry took a long swig and sputtered. His face scrunched up, and his eyes teared.

“Went-went down the wrong way...”

He wiped his mouth and grinned.

“But man... Oh, man, was that smooth or what?”

He took another gulp.

“Smooth as a baby’s hiney. I ain’t never tasted nuthin’ like— Ya want one?” Henry said, offering the bottle to Lambert.

Lambert took a small sip and handed the bottle back.

“Go ahead. Have another.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Henry said. “Mary don’t like me to take a whiskey, even now and then. She says it’s the devil’s drink. Well... The devil be damned is what I always say. She might even change her mind if she took a taste of this.”

“Drink up while you can, Henry.”

Henry brought the bottle to his lips and hesitated. He glanced at a bale of hay next to a stall and shuffled toward it. He spun around and plopped down.

“Reckon, I’d better sit before I fall down,” Henry said with a chuckle.

Lambert sat on a bale nearby.

“About Mrs. Prescott.”

“Figured you’d be getting around to that once you got me primed with liquor. Don’t matter. I’d told you everything without the whiskey. Didn’t like her”. Henry swayed his head from side to side. “No siree, Bob. Not one bit. She treated us like servants—especially Mary like dirt—and it was all I could do to restrain myself at times.”

“Maybe this time, she went too far, and you—”

“Stop right there, mister,” Henry said, putting out his hand in protest. “I felt the urge to pick up a club and defend Mary when she mistreated her, but life’s precious to the Almighty, so I didn’t touch so much a hair on her head. Lord knows I wanted to often enough.”

Henry took another swig.

“Every man’s got his breaking point, Henry.”

“Not me,” Henry said, trying to stand but giving up. “Not like that, I don’t. Anyhows, ya got no call ta accusin’ me of sumthin’ I didn’t do.”

“Don’t get so riled up, Henry. I’m not laying any blame on you or on Mary; I’m just tryin’ to find out what happened, that’s all.”

Henry cocked his head, scrunched his nose, and squinted his right eye. “God’s honest truth?”

“Yep. She was seen in town, so the two of you were never under suspicion in my book.”

“Thank ya, mister. Wanna slug?” Henry asked, holding the bottle toward Lambert.

Lambert shook his head.

“What about visitors?”

Henry leaned back and looked upward. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Visitors, you say?”

“Yes, Henry. Did Mrs. Prescott receive any visitors while she was here? Gentlemen visitors, especially.”

“Yeah.” Henry nodded. “A few, only men, though.” He shook his head. “But it’d be a stretch to call any of them gentlemen.”

“What you mean?”

“Most were younger, strapping, and... Well, the qualities you look for in a stud horse. And the whole bunch together couldn’t outsmart a rooster—the stupidest herd I’ve ever laid eyes on. Couldn’t find water if they was standing in it, and no manners whatsoever. Never did thank me or Mary for what we had ta put up with, clean up after.”

Henry took another sip. “And she thought too highly of herself.”

“What you mean?” Lambert said.

“Help me up,” Henry said, holding a hand to Lambert.

Lambert pulled Henry to his feet and steadied him as they walked to the back of the barn.

“See that pond over there?”

Lambert nodded.

“Well, she’d wash herself in it... In her altogether, no less, and... And she didn’t have much,” Henry said, cupping his hands in front of himself. “If yer a-knowin’ what I mean. No shape to her at all, ‘tweren’t nuthin’ but skin and bones. I like ‘em with some meat and a womanly figure; sumthin’ ya can cozy up ta on cold nights. She couldn’t keep a bed warm in summer, but she was proud of what she had and didn’t seem ta care who seen her or who were watchin’ her.” Henry shook his head. “I do declare she could pass fer a young man with the right clothes and shorter hair.”

“Who was her last visitor?”

“Don’t know his full name. Heard her call him darlin’ Dan... Or sumthin’ like that... Maybe it was Dave... Yes, darlin’ Dave or David.”

“When did he leave?”

“Lemme think,” Henry said, rubbing his chin. “Musta been near onto a month ago... Could be longer.”

“Maybe your wife could remember more.”

Henry clutched the whiskey bottle to his chest and put his index finger to his lips.

“Shhh... We don’t wanna do that. She’s... Uh... She’s a-sleepin’. That’s it; she’d be asleep fer sure.”

“All right, Henry. I may be back, so save anything you remember till then.”

“And the bottle, Mr. Lambert?”

“Keep it, Henry. You earned it.”

“You’re a mighty fine gentleman. Yessiree. Mighty fine.”

Lambert mounted his horse.

“Oh, one last thing, Henry. When did Mrs. Prescott leave?”

“The day after, darling Dave.”

Henry waddled to the side of the barn and pointed toward the master house.

“She had me load all her belongings on the buggy—nearly bowed the axle ta the ground; ‘Twas like she ‘tweren’t never comin’ back.”

Henry staggered in a circle, nearly losing his balance, but managed to wave his hand toward the road.

“Then she rid off toward town without so much as a thankya or a goodbye.”

“You’ve been a great help, Henry. Enjoy the Whiskey.” Lambert tipped his hat, yanked on the reins, and rode toward town.

End Chapter Six

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER SEVEN of 20 or so

The sun was setting when Lambert rode into Wyandotte. He went straight to the livery. Jeb saw him coming and met him in front of the barn.

“See ya found yer way back with no help,” Jeb said with a chuckle.

“Could’ve followed your trail, blindfolded, Jeb. It was as wide and straight as the railroad.”

The blood rushed to Jeb’s cheeks. “Uh... My horse was thirsty, and he always—”

“Not criticizing, just stating facts,” Lambert said while dismounting.

“I—I—”

“See that she gets plenty of feed and water, would you, Jeb?” Lambert said, handing the reins to Jeb. “I may need her tomorrow.”

Jeb took the reins. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lambert.”

Lambert turned toward the Wyandotte House as Jeb led the horse into the livery barn. The sounds of laughter and piano music coming from the saloon were louder and more boisterous the closer he got to its open door. He climbed the steps to the boardwalk and looked in. The usual assortment of characters—cowpokes, drifters, husbands, bachelors, businessmen, and a single saloon girl—milled around. Some stood at the bar; others sat at tables.

He hesitated before entering. Lambert had experienced all kinds of reactions—some bad, most worse—so he never knew exactly what to expect, especially from a wild crowd. He took a deep breath and walked through the opening.

The music stopped, and a hush came over the room when he strode to the bar. Before Lambert could get the barkeep’s attention, a trail bum yelled, “I don’t much take ta drinkin’ with yer kind.”

“And what kind would that be?” Lambert asked, turning and facing the blurry-eyed, unshaven, stringy-haired cowpoke who could barely stand without support.

“Ha—Half-bree... Breeds,” the cowpoke said, barely getting the words past his whiskey-numbed tongue and lips. “Th—That’s what’s kind.” His eyes fluttered, and his knees buckled a bit, but he braced himself against the bar.

“I’m full-blood Navajo if it’s any business of yours.” Lambert felt for the cold bone-carved grip of the Colt under his right hand. If the trail bum pushed the issue, he was ready. “You got any objections to that, mister?”

The cowpoke’s eyes fluttered again as if he was about to pass out. Then, at the last moment, he revived and struggled to keep his balance but stood erect. His hand moved toward his gun.

The muscles in Lambert’s forearm tensed as he gripped and loosened his gun in its cradle.

The cowpoke’s two sidekicks came forward. Lambert stepped back and prepared for the worst. But they each extended an arm, catching the cowpoke before he crumpled to the floor. His body went limp, and he passed out cold.

“He don’t mean nuthin’,” the first friend said.

“‘Tis just the whiskey talkin’, mister. He’s a gentle soul when he ain’t all liquored up,” the other friend said. “We’ll take him and be on our way, if’n ya’d be so kind ta rest yer hand easy on that there shooter of yers.”

“Don’t be causin’ no trouble, mister,” a man at the bar said. “Sheriff Anderson will lock ya up fer sure, ya bein’ an Injun and all... Won’t matter none, who started it.”

The barkeep moseyed over to Lambert. “No gun-fightin’ tolerated in here, mister. Take it outside, or I’ll take ya in.”

“If I’m left alone, there’ll be no trouble.” Lambert glanced around the room. “Gimme a whiskey and a beer.”

“That’s what I like ta hear, mister: no harm, no foul... Whiskey and beer comin’ right up.”

Lambert leaned against the bar and downed the whiskey in one gulp. While he sipped the warm beer chaser, he signaled for another shot.

Meanwhile, people started talking and laughing again, and an older man hammered out familiar tunes on an upright piano.

The barkeep nodded and refilled his glass.

Lambert downed the whiskey and signaled the barkeep again.

“Another, mister?”

“Not this time. I’m looking for Sheriff Anderson?”

“What ya want Andy fer?”

“None of your goldarned business,” Lambert said through clenched teeth. “Best you be telling me where to find him.”

The barkeep reached under the bar, uncradled the sawed-off, and laid it on top, pointing at Lambert.

“In case ya ain’t heard, I’m Deputy Sheriff Reuben Anderson, so I’m makin’ it my business.”

“Whoa there, deputy,” Lambert said, backing away from the bar and extending his hands in plain sight. “Andy and I are old friends.”

“Not likely, mister,” the deputy said, pointing the scattergun at Lambert. “Who are ya, and what ya want with Andy?”

“Could you ease your finger off the trigger—nice and easy like—and I’ll show you a letter of introduction from Mr. Prescott?”

“Would that be Reginald Prescott?”

“One in the same.”

“Should’ve pulled the trigger straight up.”

Lambert stared at him, puzzled.

“Ain’t got no love fer Mr. Prescott or anythin’ Prescott... Including you, mister,” the deputy said, putting the shotgun back in its cradle. “He killed this town with his high and mighty ideas.”

The deputy picked up a glass and wiped it brutally with a towel—any more brutal, it would’ve broken in his hand.

“Bought up everythin’ he could, turned his back, and left it ta go ta hell inna handbasket three years ago.” He waved his arm from one side of the saloon to the other.

“Everyone. Yeah, everyone but me and Amos sold out until this here Wyandotte House, and the livery was the only thing Prescott don’t own.”

“Interesting history lesson, deputy, but I still need to see Sheriff Anderson, Andy. Where is he?”

“Yer a Prescott man, all right. Should’ve pulled that trigger.”

“You got me all wrong, deputy,” Lambert said, returning to the bar. “I ain’t got no dog in this fight, so it doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other, who wins.”

The deputy frowned, and his steely eyes fixed on Lambert. “Mayor’s office. Over the livery. Will be there later this evening.”

“Meanwhile... Where can I get a juicy steak?”

“How thick?” the deputy asked.

“An inch or so,” Lambert said, holding up his thumb and forefinger in a C, tips about two inches apart.

“Baked beans and biscuits, too.?”

“Beggars can’t be—”

“Don’t say it, mister. If I got a penny every time... Oh, never ya mind. Go, find yerself a seat. Want another beer?”

Lambert nodded, and the deputy drew him a beer. He grabbed it and made a beeline for the last empty chair at the table.

End of Chapter Seven

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER EIGHT of 20 or so

The sun had set, and the moon was high in the sky when Lambert stepped out of the saloon and headed across the street toward the livery. A light in a second-story window on the right side of the barn shone brightly in the otherwise darkened street.

Lambert tried the barn doors, but they were closed tight. He went to the alley and found stairs leading to a landing on the top floor. Each step creaked and moaned as he climbed. He reached the landing and was about to knock, but a voice stopped him.

“Might as well come on in, mister,” Sheriff Anderson said. “I heard ya a-comin’ a mile off.”

Lambert opened the door and stepped inside a room not much bigger than two horse stalls. Sheriff Anderson sat at a small desk covered with papers and a ledger. When he saw Lambert, he put the pen in the ink bottle and pushed it aside. He blotted the last entries and closed the log.

“Jeb said ya might find yer way back on yer own,” Sheriff Anderson said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “Had my doubts, though, but then again, that horse knows the way by herself—ya did choose the smart one. That, ya did.”

Lambert took off his hat and wiped the sweatband while moving closer to the desk.

“You didn’t tell me that Mrs. Prescott came to town a month ago, loaded down with all her belongings.”

“No, I didn’t, but like I said, son. We don’t cotton to strangers askin’—”

“Don’t bother saying it, sheriff. Heard that one already, and it doesn’t help me one bit.”

“Looky here, son. I’m the law in what’s left of this town, and knowin’ Reuben, he filled ya in on the doins ‘round here. So if I decide ta tell ya sumthin’ or not ta tell ya sumthin’, well, that’s the way it is.”

“Listen, sheriff. Mrs. Prescott is missing, and I’m trying to follow her last trail. I’m gonna do that with or without your help.”

“Missing, ya say?” Sheriff Anderson said, eyebrows raised.

“About a month.”

“Jeez, Lambert,” Sheriff Anderson said, sitting upright in his chair. “Why didn’t ya say so?”

Lambert looked at the sheriff in disbelief.

“For one thing, it hasn’t been a month, more like two weeks or so.”

“How’s that?”

“Have a seat, son.”

Lambert put his hat on the desk, dragged a nearby chair closer, and sat.

“Want a drink?” Sheriff Anderson asked.

Lambert nodded.

Anderson took a bottle from the bottom desk drawer, poured two glasses worth, handed one to Lambert, and kept the other for himself. They toasted and sipped their whiskeys.

Anderson leaned back in his chair.

“Well... About a month ago, Mrs. Prescott came in ta town, her buggy loaded ta overflowin’, and rode straight over ta Miss Lilly’s Boardin’ House—like she always did when waitin’ fer the next southbound train.”

The sheriff took another sip and continued.

“The train came and went, but she never got on it, stayed in town. I thought that bein’ a bit unusual fer her, seein’ she didn’t cotton much for the townsfolks, and they didn’t much cotton ta her, neither.”

“Any idea why?”

“Why she stayed, or why the town and her never hit it off?”

“Why she stayed this time?”

Sheriff Anderson took another sip of whiskey.

“A traveling medicine show had come and pitched their tent on a vacant lot southwest of town. A man, Dr. Suza, callin’ hisself a doctor of far east herbal medicines—more likely, a horse doctor—was sellin’ elixirs to cure just ‘bout everythin’ from toenail fungus to baldness. ‘Twas ‘bout ta run the bunch out of town, but Mrs. Prescott latched onta one of them show women—a China woman like herself.”

“Japanese.”

“Huh?”

“Mrs. Prescott is Japanese, not Chinese. She is from Japan, not China.”

“Can’t go by me,” Sheriff Anderson said. “They all look ‘bout the same.”

“Was the show woman Japanese, too?”

“Like I said, son. I can’t tell one from the other, but when them two got tagether, they’d gibber-jabber in that there foreign tongue of theirs. No one but them know’d what they was talkin’ about.”

“Then she was Japanese.”

“If ya say so, son. Anyhow... A week later... First week of August, as near as I can remember, Mrs. Prescott caught the first northbound train there was—‘bout sunrise it was—she never done that before, take a northbound train, that is. And that same day, the China woman from the medicine show turned up missing, and we searched fer her fer two whole days. But by then, everyone stupid enough to believe the malarky that so-called doctor was a-peddlin’ had bought two or more bottles of elixir, so they packed up and moved on when nobody was buyin’ no more.”

“Where were they heading?”

“Don’t know,” Sheriff Anderson said, shaking his head. “Southwest, I reckon. Leastways, that’s the road they took.”

“Much obliged, sheriff. You’ve been a great help.”

“Don’t see how, but yer welcome just the same.”

Lambert downed his whiskey, stood, shook hands with Sheriff Anderson, and returned to the saloon. Nobody paid any attention when he walked in and headed for the bar.

“Find Andy, all right, mister?” the deputy asked.

“Yep.”

“Uh... What’ll it be, mister? Beer and whiskey like last time?”

“Nope. Some information.”

“Information don’t pay the bills, mister.”

“A beer, then.”

The deputy drew a tall one—mostly head—and set it in front of Lambert. He paid and leaned on the bar.

“About that information.”

“Sure, mister. Ask away. Won’t guarantee ya’ll get an answer, though. People ‘round these parts don’t—”

“I’ve heard about enough cotton to weave a dozen shirts, deputy. What I’d like is a straight answer to a straight question and save the dancin’ for Saturday night.”

“Don’t get on yer high horse, mister. Just keepin’ in mind the privacy of our good townsfolk. That’s all.”

Lambert took a sip of the warm beer and wiped the foam off his upper lip.

“Sheriff Andy said a woman from the medicine show turned up missing.”

“Yep. That’d be the truth.”

“What particulars can you tell me about her disappearance?”

The deputy thought for a moment and scratched his head.

“Well... Mrs. Prescott and that there medicine show a woman like herself struck up an acquaintance right off—two peas in a pod, they was. Sipped tea right over there on occasion,” the deputy said, pointing to the table by the eatery.

“Another beer, Reuben,” a man said, leaning on the bar.

The deputy drew a tall one and slid it to him. He grabbed it and walked away.

“Where was I?”

“Drinking tea over there, Lambert said, nodding toward the tables.

“Right... And I seen ‘em walkin’ the town, snoopin’ the store windows. We only got two stores besides this here place, so ‘ tweren’t much ta see, but they didn’t seem ta mind, talkin’ mostly.”

“What about her disappearance?”

“I’m a-gettin’ ta that part, mister, so hold yer horses. Anyhows... Where was I? Oh, yeah... ‘Twas the day before... And Jeb got the buggy fer them ta go picknickin’. Next mornin’, Mrs. Prescott loaded up a bag or two and took the early northbound. ‘Twas ‘bout noontime, the medicine-show doctor said the China woman were missing.”

“Anyone chase after Mrs. Prescott?”

“Why’d we do that?”

“Maybe she could shed some light on the missing woman’s whereabouts.”

“She’s a Prescott, mister,” the deputy said, pointing his finger in Lambert’s face.

“And besides,” he said, waging his head, “‘round these parts, no one with any common sense would go chasin’ after a China woman. It’d make no difference if’n she left on her own accord or otherwise.”

Lambert shook his head in disbelief, finished his beer, and went to his room for the night.

End Chapter Eight

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER NINE of 20 or so

Thursday, August 25

Lambert got up early and went to the livery. He found Jeb mucking out the stalls.

“Howdy, Jeb. Got time for a few questions?”

“Sure, Mr. Lambert,” Jeb said, leaning against the muck rake. “Ask away.”

“The day before Mrs. Prescott left town, did she have you fetch her buggy?”

“Darn tootin’ she did.” Jeb waved his hand toward the barn door. “She sent Sammy with word that I’d better be damn quick ‘bout it, too—she ‘twas always demandin’ like that.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh... Musta been ‘bout one or two,” Jeb said, scrunching the left side of his face and squinting while he thought. He looked straight at Lambert. “Nope... ‘Twas just after one, ‘cause Mr. Jenkins stopped by fer a one o’clock meetin’ with Sheriff Andy, uh... Mayor Andy, and he was runnin’ late. So, it ‘twere nearer ta one than two.”

“Where was she going?”

“Sammy said I was ta hitch up the quarter horse,” Jeb said, pointing to the mare. “‘Cause she was takin’ a friend ta see her farm. So, I did what I were told and dropped the buggy by the boardin’ house at two or there ‘bouts.”

Lambert thought for a few moments. “When she return?”

“Can’t rightly say fer sure,” Jeb said, shaking his head. He cocked his thumb over his shoulder. “‘Twas workin’ on the corral’s fence till sundown. When I come out ta close up the livery, the mare stood frothin’ at the mouth fer a drink of water, and the buggy still hitched up. She never done that befer.”

“Mistreat her horse?”

“Naw,” Jeb said, shaking his head vigorously. “She done that all the time, but no matter what I was doin’, I had ta drop it and give her a ride ta the boardin’ house. I doubt she’d walk there unless someone put a gun ta her head.”

“What was her temperament when you dropped off the buggy for the trip to the farm?”

Jeb’s face was blank, then he frowned and leaned the muck rake against the stall.

“Gee, Mr. Lambert.” Jeb rubbed his chin. “I don’t rightly know what ya mean by that. I’m a-learnin’ ‘bout a horse’s temperament but didn’t know a woman had one, too.”

Lambert bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

“Her mood then,” he said with a smile.

Jeb turned red when blood rushed up his neck and filled his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

“Uh... Well... I don’t rightly know nuthin’ ‘bout a woman’s moods, Mr. Lambert. Can’t say I even know much ‘bout my own.”

“All right, Jeb. Let’s try this: did she act out of the ordinary?”

“Nope.” Jeb shook his head again. “Can’t say she did. Always looked down on me, and ‘twas no different that time.”

Lambert thanked Jeb for the information and strolled by the corral to digest what he had heard. He lit a cigarillo and leaned on the fence while he smoked. A few things didn’t add up.

A complicated portrait of Mrs. Prescott was painted by the people Lambert had met so far. Mr. Prescott’s brush strokes showed an attractive, wanton, young wife with insatiable appetites. Jeb, Henry, and Sheriff Anderson’s brush strokes showed a demanding, demeaning, and sometimes vile person. She chose to be helpless and wanted people to wait on her and jump at her beck and call. Lambert could not fathom whether it was cultural upbringing or that she was plainly despicable.

He took a long drag on the cigarillo while the gray wandered over to him.

“Hey, big fella. Maybe, you have some answers to questions bothering me.”

The gray tossed its head up and down as if it understood. Lambert smiled and took another drag on the cigarillo.

The gray whinnied and tossed its head again.

“Ya do?”

The gray shook its mane.

“All right then... Why did Mrs. Prescott walk to the boarding house this time? What ya think, big fella?” Lambert asked the animal.

The gray looked at him with its large brown eyes.

“No idea, eh? Answer this: if she loaded up all her belongings at the farm, why did she board the train with only two bags?”

The animal nudged Lambert’s hand, wanting a carrot.

“Sorry, fella. Plumb out of carrots today.”

The gray shook its mane and walked away.

But Lambert leaned on the fence and kept talking to it. “Why did the woman from the medicine show go missing at the same time? She was Japanese, too. Coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Lambert tossed the cigarillo butt on the ground and returned to the barn. Jeb was still mucking the stalls.

“Could you saddle up the saddle the quarter horse?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Lambert. Goin’ anywheres special?”

“Fairland.”

“Fairland? Ain’t nuthin’ worth seein’ there, Mr. Lambert. Now, if ya’d ask me, I’d recommend—”

“While the sun’s still up, Jeb.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Lambert.” Jeb dropped the muck rake and hot-footed it to the corral.

#

It was still early when Lambert rode into Fairland, a small town with a saloon, mercantile, livery, and sundry stores and buildings lining its main street.

Lambert stopped at the livery, and a boy ran out to meet him.

“Howdy, mister,” he said. “What can I do ya fer?”

Lambert leaned on the saddle’s horn and slid his hat back.

“Did a medicine show swing by in the last two or three weeks?”

“Sure did, mister. Left town a week ago,” the boy said, nodding. Then he laughed. “More like they was run out of town.”

“Did a Japanese woman travel with them?”

“Japanese?” the boy said, shrugging. “Don’t reckon I’d know what one’d look like, mister.”

“Chinese, then?”

“Oh... Yessiree... I seen two of them.”

“Any others with the show?”

“No, sir. Just them two and that doctor fella. That’d be all there was, and I slipped over and seen the show every night.”

“What direction they go?”

“Probably ta Afton,” the boy said, pointing southwest. “Hour’s ride. Maybe, less. Just folla the rail tracks.”

“Obliged,” Lambert said, sitting straight in the saddle and adjusting his hat.

He dug his heels in his mount’s flanks, and the horse took off in a gallop. And true to the boy’s description, the trail followed alongside the railroad. The ride was easygoing over mostly flat terrain, and trees lined much of the way nearby a meandering stream. He stopped, dismounted, and let his horse drink.

Lambert spun around toward the sound of a rifle being cocked. He faced two cowpokes, one holding the gun, the other holding a bottle of whiskey. They both were weather-beaten, unshaven, and dirty. Neither was steady on his feet.

“Looky here, Earle. We’s got us a thieving redskin.”

“Ain’t he the same one at that there livery?”

“Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout? What livery?”

“He done pistol-whipped ya there, Jamie. Don’t ya remember?”

“Yeah... I remember, “Jamie said, rubbing the side of his head. “Reckon he’s the one, all right. Ain’t too many uppity Injuns ‘round these parts, so it’s gotta be him.”

“Where ya figger he stole that there horse from, Jamie?”

“Don’t matter none. It’ll be ours soon’s I kill ‘im.”

“Aim high, Jamie,” Earle said with a laugh. “I want’s that there coat he’s a-wearin’.”

Lambert remembered them from the livery in Wyandotte. He had gotten the best of them there, but now, they held an ace-high flush to his measly pair. So he eased his right hand close to his sidearm while distracting them.

“Take the horse if you want it,” Lambert said, waving his hand toward the animal. “I’ll steal another one.”

The men burst out laughing.

“See, I’s told ya, Earle. He’s a thievin’ redskin,” Jamie said, looking at Earle and lowering his rifle.

That was the edge Lambert needed. He drew, crouched, and fired two rounds before the men knew what was happening. The first bullet hit Jamie’s hand, sending his rifle to the ground, while the second hit Earle’s hand. The half-empty bottle shattered. Both men grabbed their injured hands.

“Ya had no call ta do that, mister,” Earle said, looking at the broken pieces of the whiskey bottle. “No call at all... And... And ya done gone and broke our last bottle ta boot.”

“Looky what ya done ta my rifle, mister,” Jamie said. “‘Twon’t be good fer nuthin’.”

Lambert mounted and glanced at the hapless pair sitting on the ground. “Take my advice, gentlemen: choose another line of work. You aren’t any good at trailway robbery.”

“But, mister, this be all we’s knows,” Jamie said.

Lambert rode off, shaking his head.

End Chapter Nine

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TEN of 20 or so

It was late afternoon when Lambert rode into Afton and stopped at the livery. His horse reared its head and snorted from the clamor of the blacksmith’s hammer, striking the hot metal and anvil.

“Easy, gal. Easy,” Lambert said, patting the horse’s neck.

The blacksmith, a sweaty and soiled, muscular, graying man in his early fifties, looked up. He eyed Lambert over a couple of times and then spat on the forge. A hiss of steam rose when the spittle landed on the hot coals.

“How do, mister,” the blacksmith said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Uh... Can I help ya?”

“Feed and water for my horse,” Lambert said while he dismounted.

The blacksmith sized up Lambert’s horse. “Don’t look so she’d eat much. Want her brushed?”

“No. Just feed and water.”

The blacksmith reinserted the horseshoe deep inside the forge. It sent sparks and flames whirling above the hot coals.

“Fer how long?” he asked, cocking his head toward Lambert.

Lambert loosened the cinch and slid the saddle off.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Six-bit minimum fer the whole day and night.” The blacksmith puckered and spat on the hotbed of coals again, raising a burst of steam. “Pay when ya ride out.”

Lambert nodded.

“Town got a sheriff?”

“Not anymore,” the blacksmith said, wagging his muscular head. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a filthy rag and stretched his back and shoulders.

“What you mean?”

Lambert slung the saddle over the side of a stall and faced him. The blacksmith repositioned the horseshoe in the hot coals, releasing more flames.

“Retired last year. Ain’t found a new one yet...” The blacksmith gave Lamber the once-over again. “Ya wouldn’t be interested, would ya, mister?”

“No, not my favorite pastime,” Lambert said with a chuckle. “Just passing through looking for a traveling medicine show... Seen one of late?”

The blacksmith pulled the white-hot horseshoe out of the forge, positioned it on the anvil, and whacked it with the hammer. Lambert flinched.

“Yep, and they’s still here.”

“Where?”

“Southwest edge of town,” The blacksmith said, pointing the hammer toward the southward road. “Can almost see their tent from here.”

“Obliged.”

“Sure ya won’t reconsider that sheriff openin’? Most townsfolks won’t care much that yer a—”

“Let that thought perish before it tumbles off your lips.”

Lambert’s anger had flared again. His fingers wrapped around the grip of his weapon, ready to draw.

“Sorry, mister. I was just gonna say ‘gunslinger,’ that’s all,” the blacksmith said, stepping backward. “Hell... Our last sheriff was an Apache, so ya bein’ an Injun ‘twouldn’t make no difference ta us.”

Lambert relaxed and smiled.

“Where can a man get a good meal in your town?”

The blacksmith chuckled nervously.

“Wouldn’t call anything they offer good, but it’ll fill ya up,” he said, cocking his head toward the saloon across the street. “But don’t order the beef; it’s been hangin’ too long in this heat. It’s buzzard bait by now.”

Lambert nodded and turned toward the saloon but stopped. He turned to face the blacksmith.

“One more thing,” Lambert said. “Any of that medicine-show bunch frequent the saloon?”

“Seen that there doctor fella go in not more than an hour ago. Ain’t come out that I seen.”

Lambert tipped his hat and crossed the street to the saloon.

#

Lambert entered the Wilted Rose Saloon, and his eyes swept the room. For a lazy afternoon, the saloon was nearly empty. Besides the barkeep, two men stood at the bar drinking, four more played cards at a table, and a fancy-dressed man sat alone at a corner table, playing solitaire and sipping whiskey.

“What’s your pleasure, mister?” the barkeep asked.

“Beer.” Lambert strolled to the bar.

“Ain’t the best, but it tastes better than the water ‘round these parts.”

Lambert paid, took a swig, and winced.

“How bad’s the water?”

The barkeep laughed. “Can’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Lambert leaned on the bar and nodded toward the fancy-dressed man.

“That the medicine-show doctor?”

“Yep. Comes in nearly every day at this time. He orders a bottle and sits alone for a couple hours, playing cards and sipping. Been doing that ever since they come inta town.”

Lambert picked up his beer and strolled over to the man’s table. The man had a deck of cards in his left hand. With his right, one by one, he turned over a card from the Stock and played it on a Tableau or a Foundation or discarded it in the Talon.

“Care for some company, Dr. Suza?”

Suza looked up and sized Lambert from head to toe.

“Show starts at six, mister. Until then, I value my solitude.”

Lambert pushed his hat high on his head. “Didn’t trail you all the way from Wyandotte for a show.”

“Wyandotte?” Suza said, cocking his head. “Who are you, mister?”

“Name’s TG Lambert.”

“Odd name for an Apache.”

“Navajo.”

“What you want with me?”

“Understand a member of your troupe is missing.”

“What’s your game, Mr. Lambert?”

“No games, Dr. Suza. Your woman’s disappearance may have something to do with the disappearance of a woman I’m trying to find.”

“Whoa, there, Mr. Lambert. You left me standing in your dust.”

“I’m trying to determine the whereabouts of Mrs. Prescott. She turned up missing the same day your woman when missing.”

“I don’t see a connection.”

“Both women are Japanese. Aren’t that many of them around these parts, so doesn’t it strike you odd that they’d both disappear on the same day?”

“Another Japanese? Well, I’ll be...” Suza sat upright in his chair and laid the cards on the table. “Take a load off your feet, Mr. Lambert.”

“Don’t mind if I do, doctor.” Lambert laid his hat and beer mug on the table, pulled up a chair, and sat.

“Heard Sakura had befriended some local woman—”

“Sakura?”

“Sakura Nakamori’s her name... I didn’t take notice or care about her friend, though. ‘Twas too busy making snake oil and selling it.”

“Snake oil? Didn’t expect that...”

Suza reached for the bottle and poured a shot of whiskey. He tipped the bottle toward Lambert.

“Care for a nip?”

“Got a beer, but thanks.”

Suza downed the whiskey in one gulp.

“You don’t strike me as a man to trifle with, so I reckoned I’d lay my cards on the table—metaphorically speaking.”

“Let’s have the whole story, then, Dr. Suza.”

Lambert took a cigarillo from his coat pocket and lit it. Suza poured another shot of whiskey and sipped it.

“For one thing, Suza is my stage name, not my God-given name. That would be Ernest von Stubenbaum. Yep. You heard me right... von Stubenbaum. A real tongue twister, so I changed it to sell my elixir.”

“Why’d you call it snake oil?”

Lambert took a draft on the cigarillo and blew the smoke above the table. Suza leaned forward on his elbow so only Lambert could hear him.

“Because it doesn’t cure anything,” Suza said softly. “The alcohol makes you feel warm, but that’s about it.”

“Then why do you—”

“There’s precious little hope to be found in these dark and dangerous days,” Suza said, leaning back in his chair. “From our birth, we’re plagued with incurable diseases and infections. I’m fifty-two years old, mister, and gave up doctoring ten years ago when I realized the medical profession offered little beyond what the good Lord willed and what the sick or injured mustered from within. Despite all the doctoring, those with hope often survived, and those without usually didn’t. It was then I decided to offer a bottle of hope wherever I could.”

“But—”

“But, what, Mr. Lambert?” Suza said, leaning forward and sweeping his right hand toward the four men playing cards. “Most folks aren’t sick; they just think they are.”

“And for those who are, their local doctor can’t help but a few,” Susa continued, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. “But with an ounce of hope, maybe... Just maybe, some will pull through, or at least go to their grave peaceably.”

“Too blinded to see what you’re doing is wrong, are you?” Lambert said, pointing the cigarillo toward Suza. He felt his anger rising as he debated with Suza.

“Not a topic I’m willing to debate, but that’s not why you sought me out, is it, Mr. Lambert?”

“You are right, sir,” Lambert said, deciding it would only sideline the hunt for Mrs. Prescott if he pressed the debate further, so he asked, “What happened the day Sakura went missing?”

“Sakura said she was going on a buggy ride—I assumed it was with her townsfolk friend—and she promised to return in time for the show, but she didn’t. So after the show, I went to find the sheriff, but his deputy said to come back in the morning. I did, and the sheriff organized search parties, but they found nothing and gave up after two days. We packed up and left town.”

“We?”

“Chyou and Daiyu. The Chinese twins.”

“Weren’t you curious about Sakura’s friend and her connection with Sakura’s last buggy ride?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t raise any concern with the sheriff or his deputy. They knew something but weren’t about to tell me what it was. We’d reached the saturation point for the town, and that’s when we reckoned it was best to leave.”

“Saturation? More likely, your customers discovered the elixir was nothing more than herb-infused liquor.” Lambert stood and grabbed his hat.

“Whatever... Staying for the show?”

Lambert shook his head. “If I hustle, I can make Wyandotte by sundown.”

End Chapter Ten

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER ELEVEN of 20 or so

The sun’s last rays painted the horizon with hues of red and purple when Lambert rode into Wyandotte. He went directly to the livery, dismounted, and led his horse to a nearby watering trough. The day’s ride had him in the saddle for too many hours, and his backside sorely needed a rest, but his legs felt good to stretch and stand on solid ground.

Lambert stepped through the wide-open doors of the livery and into the barn. The last of the day’s light blended the outlines of stalls, beams, and hay. He found a lantern hanging on a post and lit it.

The barn cat approached Lambert and circled his feet, meowing. The gray swayback snorted and reared its head when he came close to its stall. He patted the animal’s head.

“Where’s Jeb, old fella? Sleeping, I reckon, but where?”

A cough and gurgle gave away Jeb’s location. Lambert found him curled on a bed of hay in the stall between the gray and mustang. He tapped Jeb’s shoe with the toe of his boot. Jeb retracted his leg and curled into a tighter ball.

“Jeb,” Lambert yelled.

“Go away, mister,” Jeb said, rolling over. “Can ya see I’s busy?”

“Busy sawing logs,” Lambert said with a chuckle.

Jeb opened an eye. “Who are ya, mister? I can’t see nuthin’ but that there lantern and shadows.”

“Lambert.”

“Jeez, Mr. Lambert, why didn’t ya say so?” Jeb said, jumping to his feet. “What can I do ya fer?”

“The mare needs fed, watered, and a rubdown.”

“Likety-split,” Jeb said, rushing past Lambert.

“What?”

Jeb stopped and spun toward Lambert. “Likety-split. Ya know, quick as I can... Get with the times, Mr. Lambert.”

“Where’d you hear—”

“Well, ya see. There were this here girl at the train depot, and she—”

“Never mind, Jeb,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “A beer is what I need right now.”

“I suppose ya can get one, likety-split at the saloon,” Jab said with a chuckle.

“The mare, Jeb,” Lambert said, shaking his head.

“Uh... Yessiree, Mr. Lambert.”

Jeb hustled to get the mare while Lambert hung the lantern on a hook and headed for the saloon.

#

“Why’ll ya have, mister?” the barkeep asked.

“A tall one,” Lambert said. “The tallest you got.”

Deputy Anderson looked up at the sound of Lambert’s voice.

“I got this,” the deputy said and started drawing a mug of beer. “Andy’s been lookin’ fer ya.”

“What about?” Lambert pushed his hat back on his head.

“Probably ‘bout that there woman’s body ‘twas found in the woods near the Prescott farm,” the deputy said, setting the mug on the bar.

“What woman?”

Lambert had few basic emotions left. Since his youth, he had learned to suppress fear and had found little in life to enjoy. Sadness toward any situation had been beaten out of him by twelve, and he had become indifferent; thus, little disgusted him anymore. The one emotion he had plenty of was anger. He was angry at everyone and everything, and he struggled to keep his anger under control. But when he heard the news of the woman’s body in the woods, he knew the odor that he and Jeb had gotten a whiff of yesterday must have been that woman’s decomposing body, and he was disgusted with himself, which fueled his pent-up anger even more.

“Don’t know who or much else, but this mornin’ Andy, Doc, and Zeb went out ta the Prescott Farm... A dead body were found in the woods near the trail. And from what I heared, it were in mighty bad shape, too.”

“What you mean?” Lambert asked sharply.

“Doc says it’d been there a long while. A week or two, maybe. So ya can guess what it—”

“Where’s the sheriff now?” Lambert asked, cutting the deputy off.

“Most likely the mayor’s office,” the deputy said. “Ya knows where that is, do ya?”

“Been there, once.”

“He’ll wanna see ya right away, I reckon.”

Lambert gulped the beer as quickly as he could and fished for a coin to pay.

“On the house.”

“Obliged,” Lambert said with a nod. His anger was waning as he wiped his upper lip and left.

#

Lambert hurried up the stairs to the mayor’s office.

“Come on in,” Sheriff Anderson said before Lambert knocked.

He opened the door. The sheriff sat at the desk, holding an ink pen in one hand and papers in the other.

“Sit a spell while’s I put these away. Got sumthin’ that might just pique yer curiosity.”

Lambert pulled up a chair. Sheriff Anderson put the pen down and closed the papers in the ledger.

“Drink?”

“Just had a beer but thank you all the same.”

“Yer gonna need one after I tell ya what was found taday.”

“I heard about the woman.”

“Reuben?”

“Yep.”

“He don’t know the half of it, so ya’ll need that drink, son when ya hear the whole tale.”

Lambert nodded.

Sheriff Anderson got two glasses and poured three fingers’ worth into each. He handed one to Lambert, took the other for himself, and knocked back a slug.

“Moe Fletcher, a neighbor of the Prescott’s, were squirrel huntin’ this mornin’... And his dog started a-barkin’ sumthin’ fierce. So when Moe went ta see what his dog were so fired up about, he found a woman's body on the ridge overlookin’ the river ‘bout where their properties adjoin... A mile from the farm. The sight and smell were so terrible Moe said he nearly fainted dead away. After he regained his senses, he hightailed it to town, found me, and I got Doc Winston and Zeb to follow him to the body.”

The sheriff gulped another whiskey.

“Ya could smell the stench of rotting flesh long befer ya were close enough ta see it. And it were the worst sight I ever did see. A putrid mass of maggots, it were. And add insult ta injury, wild animals had found and torn some of it apart. Bones, gnawed and stripped bare, was scattered about.”

Lambert took a gulp as well.

“That’s what Jeb and I got a whiff of on our way to the farm.”

“Didn’t ya stop ta see what were the cause?”

“Nope,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “Reckoned it was a kill some animal left for later. Besides, I was single-focused on finding Mrs. Prescott and didn’t want anything to sidetrack me.”

He took a swig.

“And uh...” Lambert cleared his throat. “Clothes. What was she wearing?”

“Thought it mighty odd, but she weren’t wearing nuthin’. Must’ve been as naked as a Jaybird when she died, or her killer took her clothes afterward. We searched yet didn’t find a stitch anywheres.”

“How you know it was a woman's body, let alone the missing Japanese woman?”

“Doc said her pelvic bones were broad as a woman’s, and she had long black hair in a single braid like them China women wore theirs.”

“And Japanese?”

“We found three chopstick things like those China women wore still stuck in her hair.

“How’d she die?”

“Back of her skull, all caved in. Doc said that’s what killed her. Probably struck from behind with a rock or the like. She went quick—dead before her knees hit the ground.”

“So the body is a woman, likely Japanese, but whose body is still the question. And why was she naked?”

“She’s that missing woman from that medicine show, plain and simple. Clothes is an easy one: delaying us identifying her.”

“Got your herd all corralled, do you, sheriff?”

“When the facts smack ya in the face, son... Ya find that show on yer travels?”

“Yep. Afton.”

“I’ll telegraph ‘em in the mornin’. Meanwhile, I’ll try ta ferget what I seen taday.” Sheriff Anderson finished off his glass and refilled it to the brim. “Care ta join me?”

“Thank you but no. I’ve got some serious thinking ahead of me and need a clear head.”

“Not me. Don’t want my head clear fer nuthin’. Maybe tamarra but not tanight.”

Lambert left the sheriff, guzzling his whiskey.

End Chapter Eleven

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWELVE of 20 or so

Friday, August 26

Lambert arose early and, after breakfast, headed to see Doctor Winston, the town physician. Winston's combination office and residence was a two-story structure on the corner of Main and Second. It was a gray clapboard building with white-trimmed windows and doors, long overdue for painting. A porch with weathered white balusters and chipped gray railings wrapped around the structure facing Main and partway around facing Second on the right. A white picket fence separated the small, neglected lawn from both streets.

When he knocked, Doctor Winston opened the door. The doctor was a white-haired, older man pushing seventy, paunch and shorter than average. The collar and sleeves of his white shirt were frayed, his dark coat and trousers were wrinkled, and his tie was poorly tied and crooked.

“Mr. Lambert, I presume.”

Lambert removed his hat and nodded.

“Come in, my boy. Sheriff Andy said to be expecting you.”

Lambert entered, and Winston led him to the parlor.

“Have a seat, son. Care for a coffee? It’s freshly brewed.”

The aroma of coffee filled the air, and Lambert could not help but lick his lips. He nodded and smiled.

“If it’d be no trouble.”

“Not at all,” Winston said, shaking his head. “It’ll take just a minute.”

Lambert sat on the couch and put his hat beside him. Winston shuffled out of the room.

“I don’t get too many visitors to enjoy coffee with,” he said from the kitchen. “They’re usually injured or sick, and coffee’s the furthest thing from their minds.”

Lambert glanced around the room. Its furnishings and decorations showed a woman’s touch: an ornate, floral-patterned, gold-gilded couch and two matching chairs, papered walls, and delicate curtains, all having a feminine flair. Yet, the signs of neglect were everywhere: dust on surfaces, occasional debris on the floor, and curtains askew.

Daguerreotypes of a young man and woman on their wedding day, the same couple standing in front of this house, and individual portraits at various stages of growing older sat on a table, collecting dust.

Winston returned, carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee, a creamer, and sugar. He handed a mug to Lambert and took the other for himself.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Black,” Lambert said, sipping the coffee.

“Have the beans shipped in from New Orleans—special blend. But you didn’t stop by to discuss my coffee, did you, Mr. Lambert?”

“No, but still, this is mighty good coffee.”

“You can come to the point anytime you’re ready, Mr. Lambert.”

Winston added half a teaspoon of sugar and a dribble of milk to his coffee. He stirred while he listened to Lambert.

“Sheriff Anderson told me about the body of a woman you found near the Prescott Farm.”

“Yes... Well...” Winston took a sip of coffee. “Truth be told, it was Moe Fletcher who found her, and then Andy, Zeeb, and I followed him to the corpse.”

Lambert took a gulp of coffee and set his mug on the table.

“Did you bring any of the remains back here for closer examination?”

“Some of it.”

“Some?” Lambert asked, brow raised.

“Yes... The long bones were flesh-bare, detached, and gnawed—an animal got after her arms and legs. Her head was hanging by a thread, so I also brought that. However, the torso and pelvic cavities were so maggot-infested I doused the body with lime. I’ll check back in a day or two.”

“Find anything that’d help identify her?” Lambert asked.

“Nothing except the left radius and ulna showed callus formations...”

Lambert’s face was blank.

“Uh... You might say it’s a healing suture.”

“Then she broke her arm?

“Years ago, as a youngin,” Winston said, nodding. “And whoever set the bones misaligned them. So she had a mild deformity, not too noticeable unless you looked closely.”

“So what killed her?”

“A fracture of her skull.”

“Skull fracture? She was murdered.”

“Yep... Someone walloped her good from behind,” Winston said, patting the back of his head, “most likely with a large pointed stone. Hit her right at the suture of the right and left parietals and the occipital bones. She was knocked out cold and was dead before her knees hit the ground.”

“Find the weapon?”

“Too many stones lying around to be sure, but I gathered up a few candidates. But none exactly fit the fracture and had no blood on them.”

“Any sign of defensive wounds?”

“What you mean, son?”

“If you saw an attacker coming, wouldn’t you try to escape? Or, at least, defend yourself? And in the process, what are the chances other injuries might occur?”

“Superficial wounds wouldn’t show, considering the body's condition.”

“All right... I can buy that, but what’s your best judgment: was she surprised by the attack, or was she executed?”

“I don’t see a difference, Lambert. Dead’s dead.”

“Here’s my problem. This whole mystery—the disappearance of two Japanese women on the same day from the same town—doesn’t fit together like a puzzle should. One piece that doesn’t work is why was she naked?”

“Who told you that?”

“Sheriff Anderson.”

“He wasn’t to tell anyone.”

“Why, Doctor? Seems to me it’s a valuable piece of information.”

“You know how people talk... And if the woman turns out to be Mrs. Prescott, well...”

“It’ll be safe with me, Doctor. Now, back to my original question. Surprised or executed?”

“I still don’t—”

“I’ll draw you a picture, Doctor. As I see it, the clothes tell a tale. If the woman was surprised, most likely, her attacker approached from behind, struck her with a rock, and disrobed her after she died—only heaven knows why. On the other hand, if she was executed, the attacker had her remove her clothing first, did whatever he did to her, and killed her to cover up his deed. I’ve seen it too often to mention.”

“To say one way or the other would be speculation on my part, son.”

“Of course, there’s the question of where she was killed.”

“In Prescott Woods.”

“That’s where the body was found. But how and when did the woman get to Prescott Woods if she was alive and killed there. How and when was her body transported there if she was killed elsewhere? Did she know her attacker? Where are her clothes?”

“You have a lot of questions, son. Any answers yet?”

“Not enough, but I’m a trash-heap bulldog that don’t give up bones easily.”

“Sorry I couldn’t tell you more.”

“Well... You’ve been a great help anyway, Doctor Winston,” Lambert said, getting to his feet.

“Stay and finish your coffee. Please.”

“Refill?”

“Comin’ right up.”

“Married, Doc?”

“Was. Widower these past five years.”

“Sorry for your loss, Doc.”

“Emily was a fine woman, and I miss her dearly.”

“Children?”

“Lord knows we tried, yet we were never blessed that way; many other ways, though, but not with children. Yet, when I stop and think about my years here... Most of the people around these parts thirty or younger were delivered by me, so you might say the whole town were our children.”

“Most people are never that fortunate or blessed, Doctor.”

#

After coffee with Doctor Winston, Lambert stopped by the telegraph office and sent a message to Mr. Prescott asking for information about Mika’s broken arm. Then he went to the saloon, looking for the sheriff. He found him sitting alone, head in his hands, elbows on the table. His face drooped, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

“Howdy, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Anderson winced. “Don’t shout, son. Can’t ya see I’m a-hurtin’?”

“Sorry. Just came from Doc Winston’s.”

Sheriff Anderson groaned.

“There might be a break in the—”

Sheriff Anderson waved Lambert off.

“Give me a break, son, till I—”

“Here’s yer medicine, Andy,” the barkeep said, handing him a concoction. “This should ease your hangover.”

The sheriff grabbed it and guzzled every drop. He scrunched his face, and a shudder went from his head to his toes.

“Aargh! The cure’s worse than the ailment,” the sheriff said, slamming the mug on the table. He cocked his head toward Lambert. “What light’s Doc Winston throwing on our mystery woman?”

“Doc Winston showed me where the woman had a fractured arm years ago. If either Prescott or Suza knows anything about that, we’ll know who the woman is.”

“If’n ya say so, son,” the sheriff said, rocking his head from side to side. “Miss Lilly knew Mrs. Prescott better than anyone. More likely, better than her husband.”

“Where would I find her, Sheriff?”

“Go down Main till ya see a big yella house. That’d be Miss Lilly’s... Now, will ya just let me die in peace, son? And when ya leave, walk away quietly... Please.”

Lambert tipped his hat and stifled a chuckle.


End Chapter Twelve

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN of 20 or so

Miss Lilly’s boardinghouse was on the corner of Main and Creek at the eastern edge of town. It was a spacious, two-story building with bright-yellow clapboard siding, a black roof, white-trimmed windows, and white gingerbread-trimmed roofs. Its porch wrapped around its front and extended halfway along its right and left sides. A freshly-painted, white picket fence enclosed the front lawn.

Lambert strolled up to the gate, but Miss Lilly flung open the screen door before he could step foot in her yard.

“Hold it right there, mister. I got no rooms for trail bums, cattle thieves, or half—”

“Don’t finish that thought, ma’am, ‘cause I’m none of them. But if you give me a minute of your time...”

“I don’t have time for riff-raff the likes of you. And I’ll put Sheriff Andy on you if you don’t skedaddle this very minute.”

“But Sheriff Anderson sent me.”

“Likely story, mister,” she said, backing into the house and closing the screen door.

“This will explain everything.” Lambert unfolded and waved Prescott’s letter at arm’s length so Miss Lilly could see. “It’s from Mr. Prescott.”

“You work for Reginald Prescott?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Another reason to keep you off my property.”

“How’s that?” Lambert asked, folding the letter and putting it back in his pocket.

“Got no love for him or anyone who works for him.”

Lambert took off his hat and held it loosely. “Could I at least come closer?” he asked, slightly cocking his head and rotating his hat on his left fingers with his right hand. “I can explain what I’m looking for.”

“Right there is close enough, mister. Just state your business and leave.”

“Mrs. Prescott... Mika has turned up missing, and I’m trying to find her. Now, are you willing to help me locate her or not?”

“Mika’s missing?” The screen door flew open, and Miss Lilly hurried to the edge of the porch. “How? She was just here a couple weeks ago.”

“She never returned home. A telegram said she was going to New Orleans. Know anything about that?”

“Why would she be going there?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Miss Lilly, so if you don’t mind—”

“Well, don’t stand there in front of God and everyone, mister... Uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“TG Lambert, but just plain Lambert will do.”

“Come on in and sit a spell, Mr. Lambert,” Miss Lilly said, holding the screen door open.

Lambert stepped inside.

The first floor of Miss Lilly’s boardinghouse had a large dining room to the left with a rectangle-shaped oak table and eight chairs. Straight ahead, stairs rose to the second floor while the hallway led to the kitchen and back rooms. Stirring, banging, clanking, and the help’s muffled voices came from the kitchen direction. And the aroma of baking bread and muffins filled the air.

A parlor to the right had two green-on-green striped couches with gilded edges, four matching chairs—two side chairs and two armchairs—tables, bookcases, lamps, and freshly-painted beige-colored walls. The floors were hardwood stained dark but showed the wear of countless boarders, as did the furniture.

Lambert waited for Miss Lilly, and when she sat on one couch, he sat on the other, facing her. He put his hat alongside him.

“Something to drink, Mr. Lambert?”

“No, but thank you kindly... Now, about Mika... Uh, Mrs. Prescott. Why did she stay so long this time? I’ve been told that was unusual.”

“Yes, sir, it was,” she said, nodding. “Mika ordinarily stayed overnight to catch the southbound train to Vinita, but not this time. You see... A medicine show was in town, and one of the showwomen was from her homeland. So they hit it right off and became fast friends; inseparable they were. And from a distance, you’d be hard-fixed to tell them apart, two peas in a pod for sure. But one morning, she got up and took the early train without notice, without so much as a goodbye. Only one that early was the northbound to St. Louis, which struck me odd.”

“Why?”

“Reginald is twenty years older than Mika and is more of a father than a husband to her, except... Well... I don’t have to spell it out. She felt penned in, corralled, smothered by him. And truth be told, he loved his cattleman’s bank more than anything, including Mika.”

Miss Lilly poked her finger directly in Lambert’s face. “Lord knows I’d never put up with that from no man, but God bless her; Mika endured him, even loved him, and after some time away from home and the occasional diversion, she couldn’t wait to get back to him.”

“Hear tell, she stayed a week with you.”

“Like I said... She usually stayed overnight—arriving or leaving—but she settled in for eight days as I remember, maybe it was nine, all told.”

“How close were Mika and the showwoman?”

“Best way to describe them: thick as thieves. Mika spied her the first night she was in town; after that, they took to one another, and you couldn’t separate them with a whip if you tried.”

“Understand she packed up and brought all her belongings from the farm.”

“That she did, and I asked her about it. Suppose you know about her gentlemen visitors at the farm.”

“Henry was quite open about his disdain for them.”

“And for her, knowing Henry and Mary... Anyway, if you wanna call him her friend, David Thompson stopped by for a visit.”

“The gambler.”

“And a no-gooder to boot... Anyhow, they had words that ended in a full-blown argument. Mika sent him packing. She told him not to see her anymore; they were through. She finally realized what a fool she’d been all these years and decided to return to Reginald and never leave again.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Don’t know. Mika never said, but I sensed something wasn’t the same. She seemed different in a way, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She often told me her most private thoughts, so I thought she'd tell me, but she held back this time.”

“Then why’d she go north?”

“Got me, Mr. Lambert. But if you knew Mika as long as I have, you’d expect her to do the unexpected.”

“Tell me about the last time you saw or spoke to her.”

“You know about the buggy ride...”

“When Mika took Sakura to see the Prescott farm?”

“That’s right... Mika left in the afternoon and returned before sundown. She went straight to her room without so much as a word; never did that before. Mika was a chatterbox; we could talk for hours, but not that evening. The next morning, she got up and left for the depot without breakfast or saying goodbye. That was not like her at all. And she left most of her belongings behind; only took one bag, maybe two, near as I can figure.”

Lambert read Mika’s telegram to her.

“What’s your opinion that Mika and David were going to New Orleans together?”

“It has to be a fake, Mr. Lambert. Mika planned to go home, not run off with that David character of all people. He’d be the last person she’d hightail it with, not after the row they had.”

Lambert reached for his hat. “I thank you kindly. Oh, another question, if you please.”

Miss Lilly nodded. “Why, sure, Mr. Lambert. If I can help...”

“Did you notice if Mrs. Prescott had a broken arm?”

“Did he—”

“No, Miss Lilly, nothing like that. She broke it as a child, and her arm would have been slightly malformed. Did you notice?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’ve been a great help, Miss Lilly.” Lambert started to stand.

“Sure, you wouldn’t care for some refreshment, Mr. Lambert?”

“Since you twisted my arm...” Lambert relaxed on the couch.

Miss Lilly got up and returned with a whiskey bottle and two glasses on a tray.

“Why, Miss Lilly, I’d never figure you for a whiskey drinker.”

Miss Lilly smiled, poured, and handed Lambert a glass. She took the other and returned to the couch.

“Would you answer one more question?”

“Depends, Mr. Lambert,” Miss Lilly said and sipped her whiskey.

“Why do you dislike Reginal Prescott the way you do? I sense a motherly love for Mika and understand your contempt for him for the way he treats her, but it goes beyond that, doesn’t it?”

Miss Lilly took another sip of her whiskey and looked at the ceiling. Then she held the glass in her lap with both hands and looked at Lambert.

“Before Reginald made his banking fortune, he’d room here while the land was cleared for a house, barn, and corral at his new farm. He invited me to take a buggy ride to see them when they were finished.”

She took another sip and continued.

“He showed me the barn, corral, and then the house. He was proud as punch of the farmhouse with the latest T Goshen stove and new table and chairs. And... And the bedroom. Then when he—”

“Didn’t you tell the sheriff?”

“Tell him what? Who’d believe me?”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t feel sorry for me. Direct your regrets to Mika.”

“What you mean?”

“Mika wanted children but couldn’t conceive. She always thought Reginald was why she couldn’t, but he wasn’t the reason.”

“How do you know?”

“Just never you mind, Mr. Lambert.”

Lambert glanced at the framed Daguerreotypes of a young woman on the table behind Miss Lilly. He smiled.

“That’s a mighty fine-looking young woman,” he said.

Miss Lilly jerked her head around at the images. She looked at Lambert and nodded, her lips pursed. “My niece,” she said guardedly.

“She has her father’s chin and nose...”

Miss Lilly’s eyes widened.

“And her mother’s beautiful eyes and smile...”

Miss Lilly’s jaw dropped.

“Steel-gray eye color, maybe?”

End Chapter Thirteen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN of 20 or so

Mid-afternoon, Dr. Suza’s medicine-show bow-top wagon rolled into town and stopped by the livery. Lambert and Jeb heard the team of horses and came out of the barn to investigate.

“Lambert,” Suza said, tipping his hat back on his head. “Expected you’d still be out looking for your lost woman.”

“What brings you here?” Lambert asked.

“Got the sheriff’s telegram and had to come and see for myself.”

Lambert glanced at Jeb and back at Suza, shaking his head. “Not a pretty sight.”

“I could tell you about ugly, Mr. Lambert. I’ve seen it all.”

“This you haven’t. I’d bet on that.” Lambert turned and said to Jeb, “Better get Sheriff Anderson and meet us at Doc Winston’s.”

“And, sonny,” Suza said to Jeb, “would you care for my team? Feed and water and a little shade will do.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Suza,” Jeb said, leaving to get the sheriff. “Soon as I get back.”

Suza got down from the wagon and went to its rear. He knocked on the door. Two young Chinese women stepped down when it opened, wearing plain-brown traditional clothing and sandals. Their hair was long, black, and braided. When they saw Lambert, they bowed.

“Howdy, miss,” he said, greeting each woman with a smile and a tip of his hat.

“Lead the way, Lambert,” Suza said.

“Not with them. It’ll take a strong man to see what we’re about to see—not fit for a woman’s delicate nature.”

“They can wait outside in case we have any questions.”

“All right... Have it your way.”

While they walked to Doctor Winston’s home, Lambert didn't say much, and Suza walked alongside quietly. The woman trailed several steps behind the men chattering between themselves in Chinese.

Before they’d reached Winston’s, Sheriff Anderson yelled, “Wait up.”

They turned to see the sheriff scurrying behind them.

“Wait fer me. I might wanna ask ya’ll a couple of questions.”

They walked together after the sheriff caught up. As they approached the doctor’s home, a team pulling an open flatbed wagon stopped behind the house next to the barn. Winston and a helper were on the seat, and a canvas tarp-covered object lay in the back.

Winston saw them and, after giving his helper instructions, climbed down and met them.

“Come in,” Winston said, opening the front door. “Come in and have a seat.”

Winston ushered them into the sitting room. The women sat together on a floral-print sofa, Suza sat in the matching chair, and the sheriff and Lambert stood.

“Coffee? Tea, anyone?” Winston asked with a nervous smile.

The men shook their heads, and the women sat stone-faced.

“Doc,” the sheriff said, “this here’s Suza, the medicine-show doctor, who reported his China woman had turned up missing.”

Lambert refrained from correcting the sheriff about the woman’s nationality; he’d done it several times already, but it didn’t seem to register, so he let it slide on by.

“Doctor Suza,” Winston said. “Pleasure making your acquaintance. Sorry, it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

Suza stood and nodded.

“I take no pleasure being here, but thank you just the same, Doctor.”

“Well, then... I suppose you want to see the remains of your missing woman,” Winston said.

“That’s why I came,” Suza said.

“Uh... Come this way, gentlemen,” Winston said, bowing slightly and extending his hand toward the back room. “Zeeb and I brought the rest of her remains just now, so you won’t be able to see them yet.”

“Why not?” Suza asked.

“Well, sir... Uh... The state of decomposition is quite extensive, and the organs, what’s left of them, are putrefied beyond belief.”

“I am a physician, sir, and have experienced the horrors of the war. There’s little I haven’t seen.”

“As you wish, Doctor.”

Winston led them to the back room and then to the prep area, where Zeeb was scrubbing the skeletal bones of the torso and pelvis. Sheriff Anderson gagged, went outside, and vomited alongside a tree. Lambert and Suza stood stoically, watching Zeeb work.

“How much longer, Zeeb,” Winston asked.

“Twenty or thirty minutes should do it.”

“Meanwhile, gentlemen, we could examine the long bones and skull.”

Winston led them to the examining room. While Suza and Lambert watched, he displayed the arm and leg bones in their natural alignment on the table and put the skull at the far end, lying on its left side. Some of the finger and toe bones were missing.

“What we have are the skeletal remains of a woman. I reckon some animal chewed a few fingers and toes and carried them off somewhere; otherwise, it’s complete. You’ll notice, Doctor Suza, that there are callus formations of the left ulna and radius, indicating a fracture several years ago. The bones weren’t aligned perfectly, so this woman would have had a mild deformity of her left arm just above her wrist. The long bones’ gnaw marks indicate wild animals feasting on the corpse; however, I assume the creatures were a smaller variety since none were cracked open.”

“How did she die?” Suza asked.

“I’m coming to that, Doctor...” Winston picked up the skull.

Sheriff Anderson entered the room, shaking his head. “Sorry, but I don’t know what came over me back there.”

“As I was saying... The cause of her death was a sharp blow to the back of her head, fracturing the suture of the right and left parietals and the occipital bones. Most likely from a pointy rock since the fracture is relatively small and localized. Her death occurred quickly, probably knocked cold with the blow, and she died before falling to the ground.”

“How do you know these bones are of a woman?” Suza asked.

“When we examine the pelvis, you’ll see its overall structure is thin, broad, and shallow, and the superior pelvic aperture is wide, oval, and rounded; clearly, a female’s skeleton.”

“And Japanese?”

Winston opened a drawer and laid the hair across the leg bones.

“You tell me, Doctor,” Winston said.

Suza picked up the hair and examined it closely.

“And we found these chopsticks nearby.”

Winston laid three two-pronged brass hairpins about eight inches long on the table. Each had a one-inch round filigree-style carved design at one end.

“They’re kanzashi sticks,” Suza said. “They keep Japanese women’s hair in place.”

“Then ya recognize them,” the sheriff said.

“No... Not exactly.”

“What’s that mean? Either ya do, or ya don’t.”

“Chyou, Daiyu, and Sakura had so many different ones, and they shared them. I never paid much attention... That’s what I’m saying. You should ask the twins; they should know.”

“I will, but fer now...” The sheriff hesitated, glancing at Lambert. “What ya know ‘bout this here broken left arm, Doctor Suza?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t aware if Sakura ever broke her arm or not.”

“Didn’t you notice any deformity?” Lambert asked.

“Can’t say that I did. She usually wore long-sleeved garments, even on the hottest days. Rarely saw her arm uncovered and didn’t pay much attention—”

“Ya don’t seem ta pay much attention ta anythin’, Doctor. Why’s that?” the sheriff asked.

“Don’t read more into what I’ve said than face value: these women help me sell my elixir, nothing more. I give them no more thought than a rancher gives his hired hands. I’ve never had any personal designs on any of them beyond our business arrangement. You are correct, sir if you call that not paying much attention.”

“Why don’t we ask the women?” Lambert said, picking up the hair sticks.

Winston led the way to the parlor. The twins smiled and nodded when the men entered.

“These men have some questions of you,” Suza said.

They looked at each other and shook their heads. Suza knelt and took their hands in his.

“You must answer them,” he said. “You’ll be all right. Understand?”

They nodded. Suza stood.

“You may ask now.”

“Have you seen these before?” Lambert asked, handing the hair sticks to them.

They looked at the sticks but didn’t touch them. They turned to each other and said something in Chinese.

“In English,” Suza said.

“Sakura had some like these,” Chyou said.

“Yes. I saw them,” Daiyu said.

“Did she ever break her arm?” the sheriff asked.

They spoke to each other in Chinese, and then Chyou said, “Sakura never said, but she fell from a tree while in the orphanage with us.”

“But she no break her arm,” Daiyu said.

“Did she have all her teeth?” Winston asked. “Cavities? Gold fillings?”

“No... Same as she was born with,” Susa said.

“Not likely.”

“You know what I mean, Doctor. She had excellent teeth.”

“How tall was she?” Winston asked.

The twins and Suza shrugged.

“About their height,” Suza said, referring to the twins.

“And they are...?” Winston asked.

“About five-two or three, I suppose.”

The twins glanced at each other, puzzled.

Please come with me, ladies, and I’ll measure you.”

The twins shook their heads.

“It’s all right,” Suza said. “The doctor needs to know.”

They nodded and stood. But before Winston could take them to the patient examination room, Zeeb burst in.

“Doc! Ya won’t believe what I just found!”

End Chapter Fourteen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER FIFTEEN of 20 or so

Sheriff Anderson jumped to his feet when Zeeb returned to the parlor. The corner of Zeeb’s mouth was turned up in a nervous grin, his brow was raised an inch or more, and his eyes were as wide as saucers. Lambert slowly stood.

“What’s the mystery, Zeeb?” the sheriff asked.

“Can’t say,” he said, relaxing his facial muscles and glancing at the floor. “But Doc wants ta see ya both.” Zeeb licked his dry lips and fixed his eyes on the sheriff. “He’ll tell ya hisself, I reckon.”

“Did he discover something significant?” Suza asked, sliding to the edge of his seat.

Zeeb was puzzled. “Don’t know’d ‘bout 'see niffy can’t,' but Doc’s got sumthin’ mighty important ta say just the same.” Then an impish grin formed on his lips. “So never ya mind, Doctor Suza. When the time’s right, ya’ll find out.”

On hearing that, Suza hopped to his feet.

“What the hell do you mean by that, sir?” Suza asked. He took a step toward Zeeb, but Sheriff Anderson blocked his way.

“Sit down!” the sheriff said. “Until Doc tells us what he’s found, remain calm... And don’t leave...” The sheriff waved his hand at all of them. “None of ya. Ya hear?”

Suza returned to his chair, and the twins nodded. Zeeb led the sheriff and Lambert to the examination room.

#

“Whatcha find, Doc?” the sheriff asked as soon as he stepped into the room.

“Actually, Zeeb found it... A fetus...”

“Fetus?” the sheriff asked. “What’s a—”

“An unborn baby,” Winston said.

“I’ll be...,” Lambert said. “She was pregnant.”

The wheels in Lambert’s mind were turning, and the puzzle pieces were falling into place. The deceased woman was young. Her long, midnight-black hair and kanzashi sticks suggested she was Japanese. Since the woman was pregnant, that ruled out Mika as the corpse's identity, at least according to Miss Lilly, so that pointed to Sakura, the only other Japanese woman in the picture. But as neatly as the puzzle was fitting together, Lambert had lingering doubts. Mika had the opportunity, but he could not fathom why she would murder Sakura.

Then the sound of Doctor Winston’s voice redirected Lambert’s attention.

“...And as near as I can determine—her being a China woman and all—she was about five to six months along.”

“That throws a new light on the situation,” the sheriff said.

“How’s that?” Lambert asked.

“Motive. Now we gotta motive fer her murder.”

“Don’t drive your herd up a box canyon, Sheriff,” Lambert said, shaking his head.

“What ya mean?”

“Opportunity: when he do it?” Lambert asked.

Winston and Zeeb swapped glances.

“Miss Lilly and Jeb said Mika and Sakura were together on a buggy ride until about seven-thirty,” he continued. “If the medicine show started at six, and Suza was on stage, hawking his elixir, he couldn’t have done it.”

“That’s not how I sees it,” the sheriff said, sweeping his hand toward the door. “The prime suspect’s sittin’ right out in that there parlor, Lambert, plain and simple. He got angry ‘cause she missed the show, they fought, and he killed her—on purpose or by accident; it don’t matter a hill of beans, one way or the other. He’s guilty just the same.” The sheriff turned to leave. “And I’ll get ta the truth, with or without yer help.”

“Sheriff... Wait. Wouldn’t the twins know what—”

But Lambert’s plea fell on deaf ears. Sheriff Anderson was already through the door.

#

“Will you tell us what’s going on?” Susa said, getting to his feet when Sheriff Anderson entered the room. Lambert, Winston, and Zeeb followed close behind him.

The sheriff leveled his gun on Suza.

“I’m arrestin’ ya fer the murder of yer China woman, so hand over yer gun.”

“What?” Suza said, waving his hands. “I—I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I said ta hand over yer gun.”

“I don’t have one, Sheriff.”

“You’re making a big mistake, Sheriff,” Lambert said, stepping toward Suza.

“Stand aside, Lambert. I’ll handle this.”

“Before you do something you’ll regret, may I question Doctor Suza?”

“Don’t sees how it’ll hurt none. He ain’t a-goin’ nowheres.”

“Why don’t you and Doctor Suza have a seat.”

“Lambert...” the sheriff said.

“Humor me, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Anderson waved his gun toward the sofa, and Suza sat next to Chyou and Daiyu. Anderson holstered his weapon, found a chair, and sat. Winston and Zeeb backed against the wall.

Lambert moved a chair to face Suza and the twins and sat. He wrung his hands and glanced at Winston.

“Doc Winston discovered that the woman murdered in Prescott Woods was pregnant—possibly five or six months along. That right, Doc?”

“That’s right, son,” Winston said, nodding. “As near as I can figure.”

“Pregnant!” Suza said, jumping to his feet. “Sakura was pregnant?”

“You’ve got your herd in a stampede, Doctor,” Lambert said. “We don’t know for sure the identity of the woman.”

When Sheriff Anderson heard that, he started to stand, but Lambert motioned for him to remain sitting with a wave of his hand.

Suza ignored Lambert and turned to the twins.

“Did either of you know Sakura was going to have a baby?”

Chyou and Daiyu chattered in Chinese to each other.

“Chyou... Did you know?”

Chyou looked at the floor.

“Daiyu?”

Daiyu looked at the floor as well.

“Why didn’t you—she tell me?”

Neither woman answered.

“All right. All right, Suza,” the sheriff said, getting to his feet. “This family intrigue don’t change nuthin’. Yer still my—"

“Unsaddle your horses, Sheriff,” Lambert interrupted. “I’m not done yet.”

Sheriff Anderson sat and shook his head.

“There’s more going on than a rancher and hired-hand relationship, more than a business arrangement to sell elixir. Am I right, Doctor?”

Suza shifted positions in his seat and looked at the twins. He adjusted his tie and licked his lips.

“Is Sakura your wife?” Lambert asked.

Suza sat stone-faced.

“This ain’t gettin’ us nowheres, Lambert,” the sheriff said, standing again. “I’m fer lockin’ him up till we’s can figger the truth of the matter.”

“Sit down, Sheriff,” Lambert said, “and let me finish.”

Sheriff Anderson plopped in his chair.

“Was Sakura Doctor Suza’s wife?” Lambert asked the twins.

They chattered in Chinese and then nodded.

“I can only think of one reason for your silence, Doctor Suza. Chyou and Daiyu are your wives as well, aren’t they?”

Suza looked at the floor.

“Might as lay your cards on the table, Doctor,” Lambert said. “The truth’s coming out with or without your help.”

Suza squirmed in his seat and wiped his brow.

“You won’t understand...”

“What’s ta understand?” the sheriff shouted, jumping to his feet and unholstering his gun. “Ya got three wives and killed one of them ‘cause she were carryin’ yer baby.”

“No... No... You got this all wrong, Sheriff. When I bought them from the orphanage, I had no matrimonial intentions, just their freedom, and a business arrangement. But after a year or so, I developed strong feelings for them. When they reached marrying age, I asked them if... Having three wives was legal at the time, and I couldn’t give any of them up when the law was passed.”

“But that don’t explain the baby,” the sheriff said.

“I tried... We all tried... But I’d given up hope on being able to father a child,” Suza said with a tear in his eye. “So you see, Sheriff, we wanted a child more than anything, and I couldn’t kill my wife because she was pregnant. On the contrary, I’d be the happiest man on Earth.”

“Then the twins done it out of jealousy,” the sheriff said, pointing his weapon at them.

“Sheriff...” Lambert said. “Your herd’s stampeding in circles.”

“Take no offense, Lambert, but ya Injuns talk in riddles,” the sheriff said. “Spit it out, plain and simple like.”

“For one thing, how’d they do it? When’d they do it? Sakura and Mrs. Prescott left on their buggy ride between two and three. Jeb said the buggy was returned at sundown or about seven-thirty. The medicine show started before then. So the twins couldn’t have killed Sakura. That leaves Mrs. Prescott...”

“Ole Reginald ain’ta gonna like yer insinuation, son,” the sheriff said, shaking his head.

“Would explain her sudden departure on the northbound train, which from all accounts, was unusual even for Mrs. Prescott’s sometimes unpredictable behavior.”

“Where ya get yer schoolin’, Lambert?” the sheriff asked. “Half the time, I don’t knows what yer sayin’.”

Lambert ignored him.

“What time does the train to St. Louis stop tomorrow?” Lambert asked.

“Don’t know fer sure... Just what ya up ta, Lambert?” the sheriff asked.

“Looking for answers. Meanwhile, I’d turn them loose but keep them in town until I return.”

End Chapter Fifteen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER SIXTEEN of 20 or so

Lambert left Doctor Winston’s house and headed to the depot to check the train schedule for St. Louis and buy a ticket. The depot was a one-story building with clapboard siding, cornice brackets painted yellowish-gold; window trim, door trim, fascia painted dark brown; and a roof covered with black shingles. The main double-wide doors opened from the loading platform into the middle of the building.

The interior was three times as long as its width, and its walls were dark-stained, with vertical tongue and groove planking above light-stained wainscotting. A potbelly stove divided the waiting room on the left, with church-pew-like seating from an open area and ticket sales right side of the building. A framed, walk-up height, arched opening with ornate metal bars in the wall served as the ticket window. To its right was a chalkboard with train schedules, but it had not been updated in several days. To the left was a door to the ticket office.

The ticket agent was a young man barely out of his teens with curly brown hair, a narrow face, and a pointed jaw, sitting on a stool with an elbow on the counter and his hand cradling his head. He wielded a fly swatter in his other hand, whacking any unfortunate insect landing within arm’s length.

“...Twelve,” the agent said, whacking another fly. Soon, another landed nearby. “Thirteen... That beats my record, Joey.”

“Yer plumb loco, Billy,” Joey answered from the office behind the ticket counter.

Lambert approached the window. Billy raised his lazy eyelids but managed to swat another fly without missing a beat.

“Fourteen, Joey... What ya want, mister?”

Lambert suppressed the urge to rip the bar off the ticket window, drag the insolent youngster through the opening, and teach him a few manners. Instead, he took a deep breath and slowly let it out while counting to ten to himself.

“Didn’t ya hear me, mister? I said—”

“I heard you the first time, sonny,” Lambert said, glaring at him. “When’s the next train to St. Louis?”

“Saturday,” Billy said while swatting at another fly and missing. He threw the swatter on the floor. “See what ya done, mister?”

Lambert did not respond; he just glared at him.

“Made me miss that there fly. Now, I’m gonna havta start countin’ all over again.”

“What time does it leave? Lambert said through his clenched jaw.

“Oh, yeah... The train to St. Louie... The Saturday Limited... I reckon it arrives somewheres ‘round six and leaves ‘bout six-twenty in the morning. Wanna ticket?”

“Yes. And some information.”

Billy sat straight on the stool, leaned forward, and took a slow gander at Lambert from toe to head.

“Uh...” Billy sucked air through the corner of his mouth. “What kinda information, mister?” he asked, cocking his head backward and looking down his long nose at Lambert.

“Did you sell a ticket to a China woman about two weeks ago? She would’ve been going to St. Louis.”

“Who wants to know? We don’t up and revel them kinda particulars to every trail bum, waltzin’ in here, thinkin’ he’s somebody. Especially, ta no Injun Chief.”

“Billy,” Joey yelled. “That mouth of yers is gonna get ya inta trouble sumday.”

“Seys, you,” Billy said, turning his head toward Joey.

Lambert’s anger flared. He stepped backward and pushed his coat aside, revealing his sidearms.

“These want to know, sonny.”

Billy whipped his head around. He took one look at the Pearl-handled guns strapped to Lambert’s hips and dove under the counter.

“He’s gotta gun, Joey! Hide!”

“Yer gonna get us kilt, fer sure, ya idiot.”

Lambert tried opening the door to the ticket office, but it was locked. Undeterred, he kicked it in and found Billy cowering under the counter. Joey was nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t shoot, mister,” Billy whimpered, hunched over against the wall and shielding his head with his hands.

Lambert approached Billy and stopped, hands on his guns. He loomed tall over the trembling young man. Tears trickled down Billy’s cheeks, and his jaw and lips quivered.

“Ple—Please, mister,” Billy pleaded. “I didn’t mean nothin’.” He shook his head. “Just don’t shoot me.”

“Lord knows I’d like to,” Lambert said, putting his hands on his hips, “but I’m not gonna waste good lead on the likes of you. Now stand up, you sorry dump of horse muck.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said, hopping to his feet. Whatcha wanna know, mister? Anything. Just ask.”

Billy stood ridged, hands at his side. His brow was raised an inch or more, his eyes were as wide as saucers—focused on Lambert’s guns—his mouth was agape.

“Did a China woman purchase a ticket to St. Louis about two weeks ago?”

“Not that I can remember. Honest, mister,” Billy said, shaking his head without moving his body. He cocked his head toward Joey. “You remember a China woman, Joey?”

“Yeah,” he answered from under his desk. “She bought a ticket and left on the northbound local at eight-thirty.”

“Is she the same China woman who always purchased a ticket to Vinita?”

“She got tickets from Billy,” Joey said, getting to his feet. “Sorry, we can’t help ya, mister.”

“Obliqued, anyway,” Lambert said. He turned to Billy. “Wasn’t that much easier?”

“Yea—Yeah, I guess so,” Billy stammered, and then he opened the counter’s drawer and offered Lambert a ticket. “Oneway or roundtrip, mister?”

#

After purchasing a roundtrip ticket, Lambert started for the saloon to get a bite and some suds to wet his whistle. Before he was halfway there, a horse-drawn coach rolled into town.

There was no mistaking who the coach belonged to. Only Reginald Prescott could be that audacious. It looked as outlandish as his bank, all painted sage green with hunter-green trim. Gilded scrollwork outlined the coach's top, bottom, and side edges. Its wheels matched the color scheme all the way to the ground. The calligraphy letter RP on the coach’s door was 24-caret gold, and shiny brass edge protectors were freshly polished to mirror-like perfection.

The horses were a matched team of four of the finest stock Lambert had ever laid eyes on. And they were hitched to the coach with harness leather that looked brand new, never been used before. A driver and “shotgun” wore matching uniforms akin to toy soldiers.

They stopped at the livery, and the “shotgun” hopped down to open the coach’s door for its passenger. Prescott put his hand on the window frame, leaned forward, and surveyed the town. A few townsfolk turned toward the livery to see what the commotion was all about.

Prescott climbed down and tipped his hat to the onlookers, but they turned and went about their business. When he saw Lambert, he waved his hat above his head to get Lambert’s attention.

Lambert was not at all pleased to see Prescott. The mystery of two missing Japanese women had too many open-ended questions for anyone to step in and muddy the waters, and having Prescott in town would do just that. But Lambert cordially acknowledged him and walked toward the livery.

When he was in earshot, Lambert asked, “What brings you to Wyandotte, Mr. Prescott?”

“Well... Your telegram, for one thing, and my curiosity, for another. It’s been years since my last visit to this fine metropolis, and I’d wanted to—”

“We both know bull when we see it, so let’s not waste each other’s time.”

“All right, Lambert... I’ve had my eye on a plot of land for quite a spell, and I got wind it might be for sale, so I—”

“Then, you’re not one bit concerned about the corpse Doc Winston has in his office and that it just might be your wife, Mika.”

“Hell, no, Lambert. You read her telegram; besides, Mika never had a broken bone in her body.”

“Perhaps after you met her, but what about before, in her youth?”

Prescott leaned against the coach, his face drooped.

“Was her left arm deformed in any way?” Lambert asked. Near her wrist, maybe?”

Prescott wagged his head without speaking.

“Now, hold on to your hat, Mr. Prescott. Are you confident Mika was not pregnant?”

Prescott stood upright, feet firmly planted on the ground, face fiery red, and jaw tightly clenched. “How dare you, Lambert. You’ve no right to suggest—”

“Come down off your high horse, Mr. Prescott. For one thing, I’m not suggesting anything we both don’t already know about your wife. For another, this isn’t the place to discuss anything about her. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Prescott nodded in agreement and turned to Samuel, the “shotgun.”

“See to the horses, Samuel, while Mr. Lambert and I stop by the saloon. Afterward, you and Hank can get something to eat and drink.”

“You stayin’ in town for the night, Mr. Prescott?” Samuel asked.

“We’ll be more welcomed on the farm.”

Lambert’s mouth curled up into a slight grin. He was not so sure Mary and Henry would be glad to see Prescott’s entourage come a-rollin’ down the road. He doubted Prescott would be as welcome as he thought he would be.

End Chapter Sixteen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN of 20 or so

The Wyandotte House saloon was busier than usual. Besides the townsfolk, who were regular fixtures, a half dozen or more cowpokes on their way to Texas had stopped for food and drink. Deputy Anderson and the other barkeep were behind the bar, setting up drinks, drawing mugs of beer, and taking food orders. Laughter, loud talking, and off-key piano playing filled the room. And the odors were a curious amalgam of beer, whiskey, spicy food, and cowboys who had not bathed in who knew when.

When Lambert and Prescott entered the saloon, Deputy Anderson immediately noticed them. He slammed the whiskey bottle he was holding on the bar, pitched his apron, and hurried to meet them.

“Well... As I live and breathe... Reginald ‘Horse’s Butt’ Prescott.”

“Good to see you, too, Reuben. How’s Andy?”

“Like ya give a tinker’s dam ‘bout anythin’ other than yerself.”

“You got me all wrong, Reuben. Always have.”

“Rattle or no rattle, I know’d a snake when I’s seen one.”

Lambert put his hands on the men’s shoulders and tried guiding them to an empty table.

“As much as I’d like to hear you two reminisce about old times, there’s a larger issue at stake: identifying the woman found in the woods.”

The men stopped bickering, but Reuben declined to join Lambert and Prescott at the table.

“Too busy ta stop and chew the fat,” he said. “I’ll send Bert over ta take yer orders fer food and drinks—on the house... Andy should be here soon.”

Lambert nodded, but Prescott was already looking around the room. Reuben walked away, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

“I’ve heard Deputy Anderson’s version of the story. We’ve got time; I’d like to hear your version.”

“What story?” Prescott asked, turning to face Lambert.

“Why try, Mr. Prescott? Your games don’t work on me.”

Prescott rocked back in his chair and put his hat on the table. He glanced right, left, and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“All right, Lambert,” he began. “Don’t know why I should, but I’ll lay my cards on the table.”

But before Prescott could start telling his story, Burt interrupted him.

“Reuben seys you gents are hungry and thirsty—ain’t we all tonight. What’ll ya have?”

“Beer, steak, beans, and biscuits,” Lambert said without hesitation. “Beer first, if you please.”

“Steak cooked as usual?”

“Just so long it’s not bleeding to death on my plate,” Lambert said, chuckling.

“And you, Mr. Prescott?”

“The same, but make sure it’s dead before bringing it out.”

“Beer?”

“What’s the beer like, Lambert?” Prescott asked.

“Wet, warm, and plenty of suds.”

“Hasn’t changed a bit. Bring me a mug of it.”

“Beer’s comin’ right up, but the meals will take a while—fresh biscuits are in the oven.”

“We’re in no hurry, are we, Mr. Prescott?” Lambert said.

Prescott did not react.

Burt nodded, left, and returned with two mugs of beer dripping with froth.

Lambert picked up a mug and took a gulp.

“At least it’s wet.”

Prescott sipped his.

“Your story,” Lambert said. “Anytime you’re ready...”

Prescott checked again for anyone within earshot and hunched over the table. He took a long drink of beer and set the mug within reach.

“About twenty years ago, maybe more, maybe less, I was just getting started in banking and building my fortune. The war was thirty years behind us, and the country was expanding. For anyone bold enough, opportunities were limitless.”

Prescott took a gulp of beer and wiped the suds off his mouth.

“The country was hungry—hungry for beef. Texas had beef, Kansas had railroads east, and Oklahoma was between them. Cattle need food and water—we had plenty in Vinita and Wyandotte, natural stopovers. And it was a matter of time before the railways extended south.”

“As much as I’m enlightened by your history lesson,” Lambert said, “it’s not getting us any closer to why the town hates you so much.”

“I’m coming to that... I started buying land along the main cattle drive stopping points: Vinita and here. I acquired enough land in Vinita to create one of the territory's largest holding pens for cattle. And when the railroads were finally built, I was sitting on a gold mine. But I couldn’t get the last tract of land I needed here—until now. The townsfolk think I’ve abandoned them, but they don’t know that the businesses I purchased were failing. I kept them afloat by writing off their losses until I could turn Wyandotte into the next Vinita.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“That’s another story I’d rather not tell, Lambert.”

“I saw a couple of Daguerreotypes of a young woman in her late teens while visiting Miss Lilly the other day.”

Prescott’s eyes widened.

“Miss Lilly said the woman was her niece, but she had a striking resemblance to both of you.”

Prescott slammed back in his chair.

“What you sayin’, Lambert?”

“Miss Lilly told me about the incident between you and her at your farm.”

Prescott leaned forward.

“Then, you think that might be... Why... Lilly never said anything, never told... Anyone.”

“I wondered how she could manage such a big house in such a small town. You own the boardinghouse, don’t you?”

Prescott grabbed the mug of beer and took a gulp.

“I bought the mortgage when she went back east to care for a sick relative. At least, that was the story she told. Anyway, when she returned, I had the mortgage refinanced so she could afford to live there.”

“Then, she doesn’t know...”

“No, and I want to keep it that way.”

Bert arrived carrying two plates of food.

“Who’s got the blood-rare steak?”

“That’d be me,” Lambert said.

Bert set the plates on the table and fished forks and knives out of his pocket.

“Refills on the beers, gents?”

Lambert handed his mug to Bert, but Prescott shook his head and picked up his knife and fork. He had barely cut off a piece of meat when Sheriff Anderson walked into the room.

The sheriff stopped behind Lambert and glared at Prescott.

“How long’s it been, Reg?”

“Good seeing you, too, Andy. How you been?”

“Twenty years? Well, it’s not long enough in my book.”

Lambert twisted in his chair.

“Have a seat, Sheriff, and take a load off your feet.”

Anderson hesitated, then slammed a chair back and plopped in it.

“What brings ya ta town, Reg? More land?” Sheriff Anderson asked with a snide smile.

“As a matter of fact...”

“Ain’t ya the least bit curious about the woman we found in the woods near yer farm?”

Prescott shook his head and sat straight in his chair.

“Should I be?”

Anderson cocked his thumb toward Lambert.

“He ain’t convinced, but I’s pretty sure it’s the China woman from the medicine show...Uh... Sakura was her name.”

“There you have it,” Prescott said. “Mika’s Japanese, not Chinese, so she can’t be that woman.”

“Chinese, Japanse. I can’t tell ‘em apart no how. All I know is two Asian women of the same age, build, and general description did go missing on the same day. And that there body Doc Winston has in his office may or not be yer wife, Reg—God forbid that it is—and we’s not rock-solid in agreement one way or the other who it is.”

The blood drained from Prescott’s face, and he turned white as a sheet.

“Finish yer meals, and we’ll all go over ta Doc’s. He’ll wanna ask ya some questions ‘bout Mrs. Prescott, and ya can see the remains if’n ya have a hankerin’ ta do so.”

Prescott put his knife and fork in his food and shoved the plate toward the middle of the table. He grabbed the beer mug and chugged the last of the suds. He signaled the barkeep.

Bert hurried over.

“Yes, sir.”

“Whiskey,” Prescott said.

“Comin’ right up,” Bert said and turned to leave.

“Bring a whole bottle,” Prescott called to him. “And a big glass.”

Bert nodded and hurried to the bar.

End Chapter Seventeen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN of 20+

Prescott was tipsy when Sheriff Anderson and Lambert took him to Doctor Winston’s house. Lambert steadied him against a porch post while the sheriff knocked.

When Winston opened the door, he looked surprised.

“Andy,” Winston said. “What can I—” He glanced over the sheriff’s shoulder. “Uh... Is your friend ailing, Mr. Lambert?”

Sheriff Anderson laughed, and Lambert shook his head.

“No, Doc,” Lambert said with a chuckle. “A cup of strong, hot coffee’s what he needs right now.”

“You’re fortunate. I just brewed a fresh pot.”

Winston held the door wide open and ushered the men into the parlor. Lambert guided Prescott to the couch and sat next to him. The sheriff chose the chair alongside the couch while Winston went to the kitchen for coffee.

“Anyone take milk and sugar?” he asked from the kitchen.

Lambert glanced at the sheriff, and he shook his head. Prescott did not react.

“Black for us, Doc,” Lambert said.

“Be ready in a minute.”

Moments later, Winston returned carrying a tray with four mugs of coffee. He put the one with milk and sugar by his chair and offered one to each man. He sat and sipped his coffee while each man tasted theirs.

“Good-tasting brew, Doc,” the sheriff said.

“This one’s different than before,” Lambert said.

“Yes. An evening blend I prefer after dinner. Like it?”

“Smooth as silk. Quite good.”

Prescott held his mug close to his lips and blew on the hot liquid. He slurped a taste and winced.

“Hot but good,” he said.

“I reckon you didn’t stop by for a kaffeeklatsch, Andy,” Winston said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You probably never met Mr. Reginal Prescott, or have you?” Sheriff Anderson asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Winston said, putting his mug down and standing. “But I’ve heard of him.”

Sheriff Anderson and Lambert stood, but Prescott could not get to his feet. Lambert grabbed his arm, but Winston said not to bother getting him up.

“Such as he is at the moment, this here is Prescott,” Sheriff Anderson said, extending his open hand. “And this here’s Doc Winston, Reg.”

Prescott nodded.

Winston smiled, retook his seat, and leaned toward Prescott.

“If you can, I’d like to ask a few questions about your wife, Mr. Prescott.”

Prescott nodded and gulped the black coffee. Lambert and the sheriff sat again and faced him.

“What can you tell me about the fracture of your wife's left arm near her wrist?”

“Never knew she broke her arm,” Prescott said, shaking his head. “Maybe before I met her, but she never mentioned it.”

“Did you ever notice a mild deformity of the distal end of her forearm?”

“Distal?” Prescott asked, glancing at Lambert.

“Near her wrist,” Lambert said.

Prescott shook his head again.

“Did she have any other fractures?” Winston asked.

“No... Not since I’ve known her.”

Prescott drank the rest of his coffee.

Lambert grew impatient. These bushes had been picked clean, and he felt the questioning needed to move to a new row of ripe fruit. He did not have to wait long.

“Anything special about her teeth?”

Prescott glanced at the sheriff and Lambert; they shrugged. Then he looked puzzled at the doctor.

“What you mean?”

“Missing teeth? Cavities? Gold? Things like that.”

“Oh... No,” he said with a smile. “I wish my teeth were as perfect as Mika’s.”

“How tall was she?”

“Don’t know... Never measured her, but she didn’t quite come to my chin, so that’d make her about five-two or five-three.”

“Anything else you can think of that would help identify her?”

“She had a small butterfly tattoo on the left side of her neck. Maybe a half-inch or so tall and wide. Just a black outline, no color.”

“Thank you, Mr. Prescott. You’ve been most helpful.”

Prescott slid to the edge of the couch.

“Wait a minute, Doctor. Don’t leave me hanging in mid-air. Tell me plainly: is the woman you found my Mika or the medicine show woman?”

“It’s too early to tell for sure, Mr. Prescott.”

“And the baby? What about the baby? I heard the woman was with child. Is that so?”

“Yes. About six months along.”

Prescott slid back on the couch. He gave the sheriff and Lambert a quick glance and smiled.

“Well, Doctor... That can’t be Mika, then. We’ve tried for years to conceive, but it never took, so it can’t be her. It just can’t be. Can it?”

Winston leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.

“I would’ve had to agree with you, Mr. Prescott, until I met you.”

“What you mean?” Prescott asked, lurching forward.

“A fetus will start growing hair by the fourth month and gets its color by the sixth.”

“So?” Prescott said.

“The fetus we found had reddish-colored hair,” Winston said, folding his hands. “Like yours, Mr. Prescott.”

The color drained from Prescott’s face, and his eyes and mouth slowly opened wide. He sank into the couch, and his coffee mug slipped from his hand, but Lambert grabbed it before it fell. He tried to speak but could not.

“No... No,” he uttered in a harsh whisper, wagging his head from side to side. When his voice returned, he said, “That woman can’t be Mika! I won’t accept your conclusions, Doctor.”

“But, Mr. Prescott...”

Prescott sprang to his feet and spun around to face Lambert.

“I’m paying you a sizable sum to find my wife, Mr. Lambert! I suggest you get on with it and earn your keep!”

The others followed suit and stood. Prescott put his hat on and adjusted his coat and trousers.

“Meanwhile, I’ll be at my farm,” he said, tipping his hat. “Good day, gentlemen. I can find my own way out, thank you.”

He walked briskly to the door and left.

Lambert had arrived at Doc Winter’s, figuring he knew how all the puzzle pieces fit together. Mrs. Prescott was his prime suspect for the murder of the medicine show woman. She had the opportunity and was at the location within the timeframe. A motive was the last missing piece to the puzzle, but he was confident he would soon find it. At least, that is what he thought until Doctor Winston scrambled all the puzzle pieces with the pronouncement of a redheaded baby. Now he would have to start again and rethink everything from the beginning.

Adding insult to injury, Prescott’s convicting words stung. Lambert did not like being dressed down, but this time he deserved it and took it. He had solved the mystery before all the evidence was in—a raw recruit’s error, and he knew better.

“Well, Doc,” Sheriff Anderson said. “Ya could’ve knocked me over with a feather when ya said the baby had red hair just like ole Reg. I couldn’t believe my ears. Why didn’t ya say sumthin’ sooner?”

“The color wasn’t clearly evident until we dried it a bit. It’s not conclusive, however.”

“What ya mean, Doc?”

“Don’t know if you noticed that Doctor Suza fellow has reddish overtones to his hair color, too, but Mr. Prescott... Take one look, and there’s no mistaking.”

“So yer sayin’ Mrs. Prescott were the one murdered?”

“The woman’s teeth are intact, with no cavities or gold fillings, and I estimated her height to be about five-three, maybe five-two. All these match the medicine show woman’s description and Mrs. Prescott's. Yes... It’s possible, but I’m not ready to bet the farm on it.”

“Whatzit gonna take, Doc?”

“If we knew which woman got on the train...”

“Ya been mighty quiet, standing over there, Lambert. What’s yer take on this?” the sheriff asked.

“Already got a ticket to St. Louis.”

End Chapter Eighteen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER NINETEEN of 22+

Saturday, August 27

Lambert arrived in St. Louis late afternoon and took a buggy cab to the waterfront. Paddle-wheel steamboats were slant-moored to the docks, bows pointing landward with sterns jutting into the river like piglets to a sow’s belly. Barrels, boxes, and bales lined the docks, and roustabouts scurried from dock to boat, carrying cargo onto and off vessels of all sizes. People of all descriptions and ages milled around, some embarking, some disembarking, and others just watching the activity.

Lambert’s buggy stopped at the Mississippi Queen ticket office. After he paid the driver, he entered the building and approached the ticket counter. No one was manning the counter, but a sign said to ring the bell for service.

After two taps on the bell, a clerk appeared at the window. His smile changed to a frown when he got a good look at Lambert.

“Ah... What can I do ya for, Chief?”

Lambert was not in the mood. If the ten-hour train ride in cramped seats was bad enough, his belly was growling, and his mouth was bone dry. He was on the edge, and pushing him over would not take much.

When he did not answer quickly enough, the clerk leaned forward and raised his voice.

“Hard of hearin’, are ya, Chief?”

That was all Lambert could stand. He drew his weapon and stuck it between the bars. The end of the barrel pressed against the clerk’s nose.

“My hearing is just fine, sonny, and I’m no chief.”

The clerk gulped and raised his hands above his head.

“I—I meant ya no disrespect, mister.”

“That’s not how I heard it.”

“Please, mister,” the clerk pleaded. “I got a wife, and we got a little one, barely a year old.”

“Information then...”

“Whatever ya want, mister. Just ask.”

“You keep records of ticket sales?” Lambert asked, holstering his gun.

“Every passenger is recorded...” the clerk said, pointing to the log. “Well... That ain’t quite the truth, mister. I only write down who buys the ticket and how many. I ask for the passengers’ names, but the buyer don’t always give ‘em. Even then, I can’t trust the names are real. I got more John Smiths than ya can shake a stick at, if’n ya understand what I’m a-sayin’.”

“Identification not required?”

“Hell, no, mister,” the clerk said, rapidly shaking his head. “We wouldn’t have any passengers if’n we asked fer positive identification.”

“Do you remember an Asian woman purchasing a ticket to New Orleans about two weeks ago?”

“Chinese travel a lot on our steamboats, mister.” The color drained from the clerk’s face. “I—I don’t knows if’n I’d remember—”

“She would’ve been traveling alone, well dressed, young, and pretty.”

“No one, mister,” the clerk said, perking up. “And I’d remember someone like that.”

“Obliged,” Lambert said, tipping his hat.

He turned to leave and was met by two deputies.

“That’s him alright,” the clerk yelled. “Ya can’t do that in this town, Geronimo, and get away, Scott free.”

“Come along peaceful, mister,” the first deputy said, grabbing one of Lambert’s guns.

Lambert raised his hands—chest-high—and smiled.

“I don’t want any trouble, deputies. I’m here on business, law business.”

“Seys, you,” the second deputy said, grabbing the other gun.

“What kinda law business?” the first deputy asked.

“Bounty hunter looking for a missing banker’s wife,” Lambert said, dropping his hands. “Maybe a murderess to boot.”

The deputies glanced at each other.

“Bounty hunter, huh?” the first deputy said. “Seen all kinds, mister, and I ain’t never seen a half-breed one befer.”

Lambert’s anger flared, but he suppressed the urge to plant a fistful of knuckles on the deputy’s jaw. Instead, he curled his hands into tight fists and counted to himself.

“Reckon Chief Hannigan’ll wanna know ‘bout you,” the second deputy said. “And you can tell your story to him.”

Lambert did not resist as he was ushered to the paddy wagon and locked inside.

#

Lambert stood in the reception area of the Chief’s office with a deputy on each side. The Chief’s secretary, Mrs. Mabel Thorpe, sat at a desk in the back of the room next to the door of Laurence Harrigan, Chief, Department of Police.

“What we got here, boys?” Mabel asked.

“Some kinda Injun gunfighter that tried ta hold up the Mississippi Queen’s ticket office,” the first deputy said. “Calls hisself a bounty hunter. Ain’t never seen one like ‘im, so we thought Chief Harrigan might wanna talk ta ‘im befer he goes in the hole.”

“I doubt it; he’s quite busy.”

The second deputy leaned close to the secretary.

“Pretty please, Mabel. Me and Coop need a break for Chief Harrigan’s good graces, and this here’s our ticket. So do this favor for me, and I’ll—”

“And you’ll take me to dinner?”

“Sure, Mabel. Sure.”

Mabel knocked and went in. Moments later, she held the door open.

“Bring him in, boys; Chief Harrigan will see you.”

One deputy entered with Lambert behind, followed by the other deputy. The deputies stood on either side of Lambert, facing Chief Harrigan’s desk.

“What we got here, Deputy Cooper?”

“We caught ‘im tryin’ ta rob the Queen’s ticket office, Chief.”

“Not many fancy-dressed Indians come our way,” Harrigan said. “Can’t remember that last one, to tell the truth. What’s your name, mister?”

Lambert glanced around the office.

“It’ll go a lot easier if you cooperate with us. You can start by telling me your name.”

“Lambert.”

“Just Lambert?”

“TG Lambert.”

“What does the TG stand for, Mr. Lambert?”

“It’s my Navajo name. You probably couldn’t pronounce the amalgam of my native vowels and constants correctly anyway, so I go by TG; it’s easier on my ears.”

“You talk mighty fancy for an Indian, for most men I’ve encountered, for that matter. Where’d you learn—”

“The Sacred Heart Abby School,” Lambert said, cutting Harrigan off. “Can we skip the routine questions and get to the part where you ask me why I’m in St. Louis? And what I was doing at the Mississippi Queen’s ticket office.”

“I wouldn’t wanna play cards with you, Mr. Lambert, and expect to leave the game with the shirt still on my back.” He motioned to Deputy Cooper. “Get him a chair. I reckon his story’s gonna take a while.”

Deputy Cooper frowned but pulled a chair in front of the chief’s desk for Lamber to sit in. Lambert sat and leaned back, relaxed. He reached into his coat and got a cigarillo.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Go right ahead, Mr. Lambert,” Harrigan said, nodding. “You can leave us, deputies.”

“But Chief...” Deputy Cooper said, stepping forward.

“I’ll be fine, deputy. Mr. Lambert’s not going to cause us any trouble...” He looked Lambert square in the eyes. “Are you?”

“No trouble... I’ll just enjoy my smoke and your hospitality, Chief Hannigan. I won’t be any trouble at all.”

Both deputies glanced at each other and shrugged as they left the office.

“All right, Mr. Lambert...”

Chief Hannigan leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.

“I’ve grown weary of the mundane, petty crimes that plague our fine city. It’s been some time since I’ve sunk my teeth into a juicy case, and I’ve got a feeling your story may be rather interesting, so don’t prove me wrong. Let’s start with the following: who are you? Not your name, but who you really are.”

Lambert glanced at the portrait of Harrigan in full military uniform hanging on the wall behind his desk with the crossed swords below it. He did not know what to think of this aging ex-military officer, who obviously craved the excitement of battle but was faced with the placidity of civilian life. He sighed and began his story.

“By trade, I’m a bounty hunter, but when I received a telegram from Sheriff William Duggan—”

“Bill Duggan of Silver Rock City?”

“Yep... He’s the one. I got his wire that a friend of his, Mr. Reginald Presscott of Vinita, Oklahoma—”

“Cattleman’s Bank Prescott?”

Lambert nodded and continued.

“Bill’s urgent message said Prescott needed my help. So I caught the first train out of Fortworth and arrived in Vitia on August 22. The following day I discovered Mika, Prescott’s wife, had traveled here on the fifth of the month and, since then, has been missing. As a rule, I don’t look for wayward wives, but Prescott put a bounty on her, so I took up the challenge.”

Lambert took a long drag on his cigarillo and let the smoke curl out his nostrils.

“Oddly, a woman from a traveling medicine show, Sakura, disappeared on the same day. They were both Japanese, about the same age and physique, and could have passed as sisters—twin sisters by some accounts. A couple days ago, a woman's decomposing body was found in a wooded area near the Prescott farm. Nothing much was left of the body except her bones and her pelvic tissues, but her fractured skull indicated she was murdered.”

“Murdered, you say?”

“Yes... Doc Winston is a hundred percent sure of that fact, but the facts are confusing from there.”

“How so?”

“The body was naked, and her clothes were nowhere to be found.”

“Don’t see that... Even in this city.”

“Then there’s the timing: Mika and Sakura went on an afternoon buggy ride, and someone returned the buggy by sundown and when to the boardinghouse where Mika stayed. The medicine show started at six without Sakura, and she’s been missing since then.”

“Seems simple enough to me, Lambert. Mika... Mrs. Prescott killed the medicine show woman and—”

“That exactly was my train of thought until Doc Winston discovered a six-month-old fetus in the woman’s remains.”

“I don’t follow...”

“The baby had red hair, just like Prescott.”

“So now your line of thinking has switched tracks,” Harrigan said, sitting upright in his chair, “and Sakura’s the possible murderess.”

“Not so fast, kemosabe... The other wives of Dr. Suza—”

“Other wives?”

Harrigan’s mouth was agape, and his eyes were as big as saucers.

“That’s a whole new story,” Lambert said, waving his hand. “His wives claimed Sakura was pregnant and hadn’t told Suza yet.”

“But the hair color?” Harrigan was on the edge of his chair.

“If it wasn’t complicated enough, Suza’s hair has reddish overtones, and a close friend of Mika’s claims she’s barren—she’d tried to conceive but couldn’t.”

Harrigan grabbed a pen and paper and hurridly scribbled a few notes. He looked up and asked, “Didn’t anyone see who returned the buggy?”

“No... And early the following morning, the woman purchased a ticket and caught the northbound train to St. Louis. I can only assume she stayed aboard until she arrived here because Prescott received a telegram from the woman, identifying herself as Mika and saying she was leaving for New Orleans on the Mississippi Queen.”

“So, that’s why you were at the ticket office... Discover anything?”

“No one fitting her description purchased a ticket for the Queen around that time.”

Harrigan rubbed his chin.

“Maybe I can help.”

He got up and went to the door.

“Mabel,” he said to his secretary. “Bring me the file on that assault case three weeks ago where the woman nearly killed her assailant with her feet.”

“Right away, Chief.”

After a few moments, Mabel found the file and handed it to Harrigan. He took the file, returned to his desk, and flipped through the pages.

“Here’s what you may be looking for, Mr. Lambert. A tallish, slim-build woman... Attractive, as I recall... Well dressed... Wouldn’t have expected her feet to be as lethal as they nearly were.”

“What you mean?”

“On the evening of Friday, August fifth, a woman arrived by train and was robbed by the cab driver; he took everything: money, jewelry, and even her hat. Then she was accosted by a man who tried to molest her. She managed to get free and broke his jaw with a kick to his face.”

“One kick?”

“Witnesses said she whirled around and caught him with the heel of her shoe while he was bent over protecting his privates. Apparently, she’d landed a solid blow to his crotch with the toe of her shoe and was in no shape to defend himself.”

“Ouch!” Lambert said, scrunching his face.

“And she wasn’t done with him yet. Before he hit the dirt, she’d twirled around and caught him square on his Adam’s apple, crushing his windpipe. He damn near suffocated. The deputies had to restrain her legs and hands to bring her in.”

“Then, you still have her?”

“No,” Harrigan said, shaking his head. “No reason to keep her. According to witnesses, the woman acted in self-defense, and the molester got what was comin’ to him. He’s still sipping his meals and singing soprano if he’s able to sing at all.”

“You find out her name?”

“Inari Kumamoto; it’s a fake—Inari is the Japanese rice god, and Kumamoto is a Japanese city. Her story matched the witnesses, so we set her free.”

“Any idea where she is now?”

“No. But without money, most young women end up on Olive Street, especially if they’re attractive or exotic. The City Council tried to regulate the brothels, but they gave up.”

“How many are there?”

“Nobody knows for sure.”

“She’s the key to solving my murder mystery.”

“I’d try Madam Lee’s House of Seven Pleasures. But don’t let the name fool you; she’s no more Chinese than we are. Her actual name’s Maribelle Lee, a freed Virginia slave who employs only Asian women to entertain her customers. And they are among the most powerful and influential.”

“Why would the woman go there?”

“Word travels around this town faster than the telegraph,” Chief Harrigan said with a chuckle. “If I know Maribelle, she had our mystery woman under her wing as soon as we released her.”

“Oh... One last question. Did she have a butterfly tattoo on her neck?”

“Sorry,” Harrigan said, shaking his head. “Her collar covered most of her neck, so I didn’t notice. But speaking of tattoos, Maribelle insists her girls all get tattooed. It’s a throwback to her slave days—she was tattoed like you’d brand cattle as proof of ownership.”

“One sick woman...”

“Regardless, she insists, and the women comply without question.”

“Where do I find the House of Seven Pleasures?”

End Chapter Nineteen

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY of 22+

Monday, August 29, 1892

A day and a half of thunderstorms and torrential downpours broke the back of the oppressive heat, and a northeasterly wind brought cooler temperatures and lower humidity. The rainfall transformed the city. It cleansed its streets, washing away the accumulated dust and grime. Once heavy and stifling, its air became crisp and clear, filled with the earthy scent of wet pavement. The downpour quenched the thirst of its trees, bushes, and lawns; revived drooping leaves and wilting flowers were already stiffer and greener.

The residents of the city, relieved from the stifling heat, emerged from their homes. People were eager to engage in outdoor activities. Sidewalks became lively with conversation and laughter as friends gathered to catch up and enjoy the pleasant weather. Cafés provided more outdoor seating as people relished the opportunity to savor their meals outside, taking advantage of the enjoyable temperatures.

As Lambert’s taxi buggy approached the bustling intersection of Sixth Street and Poplar Avenue, he was fascinated by the vibrant scene unfolding before him. The setting sun cast a stunning display of colors—splashes of yellow, orange, and red—painting the buildings with a delicate glow. His eyes darted from one sight to another, taking in his surroundings. The brightly lit buildings stood tall and proud, their facades embellished with colorful signs and decorations, adding to the festive mood. The streets were alive with activity, teeming with people.

The scene felt almost carnival-like to Lambert. Street vendors lined the sidewalks, their stalls brimming with mouthwatering delicacies, enticing passersby with the tantalizing aroma of freshly cooked food. The air was filled with the sizzling odors from grills, the tempting fragrance of spices, and the delightful chatter of customers.

Musicians stationed at strategic points along the street shared their musical talents with anyone who would stop and listen, hoping to attract the attention of onlookers and perhaps earn a few tips.

Amidst the vibrant tapestry of sights, sounds, and scents, people moved about, their faces illuminated with joy and excitement. Lambert marveled at the diversity of individuals: young to old, poor to rich, and ethnicities galore. Some strolled leisurely, taking in the atmosphere and reveling in the moment, while others urgently hurried to heaven knew where.

For Lambert, this vivid panorama was a stark contrast to a vivid memory, and he could not help but smile—the night of his twelfth birthday that now felt like a distant echo. That night, he had embarked on a rite-of-passage journey into manhood spurred on by the older braves of his village, visiting a house. But it was done in the shadows of the night, in the secret of darkness, a quiet and introspective experience that had left a profound mark on his young soul. Not like this, a carnival-like atmosphere of flamboyant energy and laughter.

When Lambert approached the House of Seven Pleasures, he was struck by the elegance and grandeur of the Second Empire-style building. Its pristine whitewashed brick exterior stood tall and imposing on the northwest corner, commanding attention from passersby. The architectural details, characteristic of the style, painted a picture of opulence and refinement.

The defining feature of the structure was its mansard roof, which showcased the dual-pitched design. The lower slope was steep, giving the building a sense of height and grandeur, while the upper slope had a nearly flat, low pitch. Dormer windows punctuated the roofline, facing south and allowing natural light to flood the full-height third floor.

Along the cornice, decorative brackets added an intricate touch, emphasizing the building's craftsmanship. Tall and narrow, the arching windows exuded elegance and sophistication. Towers rose from the structure, providing an additional touch of architectural splendor.

Lambert ascended the wide steps flanked by wrought iron railings, adding a touch of decorative flourish. He noticed the front yard was meticulously maintained, with carefully arranged flowerbeds, neatly manicured grass, and trimmed bushes enhancing the building’s overall appeal.

When Lambert reached the landing, a doorman opened the tall dark-stained, nine-panel oak door to the House. Stepping into the main greeting room, he was immediately enveloped in an atmosphere of opulence and extravagance. His eyes widened as he marveled at the luxurious decor that adorned the space.

The room was a testament to refined taste and wealth. The finest Persian rugs sprawled across the floor, their intricate patterns adding a touch of exoticism to the surroundings. Elaborate tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of myth and legend, their vibrant colors and detailed craftsmanship capturing the eye.

Multiple gas-lit crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a sparkling glow across the room. Their shimmering light danced upon European-style furniture, exquisitely crafted and upholstered with plush fabrics. The air was filled with the delicate tinkling of Italian-cut glassware, adding a touch of elegance to the ambiance.

In the far back of the room, an older woman sat at an upright piano, her fingers gliding effortlessly across the keys. She was of slave ancestry, evidence of the complicated history of the time. Her skillful playing filled the room with charming melodies, each note reverberating with emotion and depth. However, Lambert couldn’t help but notice that the lyrics she sang, although memorable, carried a vulgarity that seemed to amuse the patrons—both men and women—who gathered around.

Lambert’s attention was then drawn to the dual staircases flanking the sides of the room. On the right side, the stairs ascended, where patrons were led to the secrets and delights of the upper floors, and on the left side, the staircase descended, where satisfied patrons rejoined the first-floor entertainment.

As Lambert stood there, taking in the room’s grandeur, Madam Lee, the proprietor, approached him with a warm and welcoming smile. Maribelle Lee, a woman of mixed heritage and a freed slave, commanded attention with her presence.

Maribelle stood at a statuesque height of five-foot-seven, her bronzed skin accentuated by the soft glow of the gas-lit chandeliers. Her plump figure exuded confidence and a zest for life. Her mid-thirties had graced her with a maturity that only enhanced her charm.

Dressed in an elegant gown of brightly colored brocade, Maribelle embraced her figure with a low-cut neckline, proudly displaying her ample bosom. Feathers adorned her attire, adding an air of flamboyance to her ensemble. Her choice of jewelry was no less extravagant; diamond earrings, necklaces, and bracelets sparkled and shimmered with every movement.

Approaching Lambert with a graceful stride, Maribelle’s voice was thick with Southern charm as she greeted him. “Oooo... My, my, my... Where does y’all comes from, handsome?” Her words flowed with a musical quality.

Flustered yet captivated by Maribelle’s magnetic presence, Lambert struggled to find his voice. He tipped his hat respectfully, his mouth as dry as the desert sand.

“Uh... Okla... Oklahoma, ma’am,” he managed to stammer, his cheeks reddening.

Maribelle’s playful nature surfaced as she circled behind Lambert, lightly swatting his rump with her open hand. “Mmm... Mighty fine hams!” she remarked, her tone laced with flirtatiousness.

Lambert felt his face grow hotter with embarrassment as her words rang in his ears. The room seemed to spin, and he struggled to find his footing. He stood there, hat in hand, feeling both exhilarated and overwhelmed by Maribelle’s unabashed forwardness.

Sensing his discomfort, Maribelle circled back to face him, a mischievous grin spreading from ear to ear. She playfully squeezed his upper arm, her eyes roaming from his head to his crotch.

“Ooo... Strong like bull,” she remarked, her voice dripping with innuendo. “Y’all hung like one, too, I bet.”

Lambert’s face burned with embarrassment, realizing several patrons were now watching, and he had unwittingly become the center of their attention. Perspiration trickled down his forehead while his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He stood there, momentarily frozen, like a fresh-cut tree stump.

Maribelle, undeterred by his reaction, continued to exude confidence and boldness.

“How ‘bout the two of us—on the house, of course—take a tumble. I’ve never done a turn with a half-breed, especially with such a fine specimen of a man,” she suggested, playfully fanning herself with her open hand.

Lambert’s initial embarrassment turned to anger as her words struck a nerve. “I’m a full-blood Navajo, not a half-breed like you octoroons!” he snapped, his words laced with frustration and regret as they tumbled off his tongue. He heard several people gasp.

Maribelle, seemingly unfazed by his outburst, maintained her composure. She regarded him with a calm yet knowing gaze, her voice conveying understanding.

“Ooo... Touchy one, ain’t ya, honey child?” she remarked, her tone tinged with wisdom born of experience. “One look at ya would tell a stray hound was a-sniffin’ at yo family tree sometime in yo past... But it don’t make no difference to me, handsome. So, my offer still stands... What ya say, cowboy?”

By now, the gathered crowd had lost interest in Lambert and Maribelle and had moved on to other, more exciting entertainment.

But Lambert stood there, the weight of her words settling heavily upon him. He realized he had let his anger get the best of him and regretted his hasty response. At that moment, Lambert understood that Maribelle saw beyond appearances, uninterested in societal labels or prejudices, and she had unveiled a dark family secret that he had unknowingly pistol-whipped countless men and killed too many to keep hidden.

After taking a deep breath, Lambert gathered himself, his voice more composed this time. “I appreciate your offer, ma’am,” he began, his tone sincere. “But I’m looking for a woman—”

Maribelle laughed.

“Well, ya sure done comes to the right place, handsome. We got all kinds: white, black, brown, yellow, and all shades in between, but no reds. And if women ain’t yo fancy—”

“No. I’m searching for a particular woman... Japanese... Arrived in St. Louis on Friday, August fifth. Arrested for nearly killing her attacker with her feet but released. Goes by Inari, Sakura, or maybe Mika.”

Maribelle’s expression tempered, and she regarded Lambert with mixed curiosity and caution. “Well now, ain’t that somethin’?” she mused, her Southern drawl nearly gone but heavy with suspicion. “A man on a mission to find a special woman, and he comes here. I reckon we’re each on our own quest. Now, ya take care of yourself, handsome. And if ya ever find yourself needing a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on, ya know where to find me.”

She turned and walked away to greet other patrons.

Lambert knew she was withholding information about the Asian woman, but he could do little about it. He could not imagine drawing his Colt revolver would phase Maribelle one iota; besides, he would not survive ten seconds if he so much as put his hand on his gun. So he strolled to the door to leave.

He tried shaking his frustration and helplessness but could not. Lambert knew there was more to the story, more to the Asian woman that Maribelle was revealing. It gnawed at him, but he realized that confronting her with aggression or force would only escalate the situation and potentially danger his and others' lives. He took one last glance at Maribelle. She stood calmly, her eyes fixed on him, a faint smile playing on her lips. It was clear to Lambert that she was a woman of immense confidence and cunning. Whatever secrets she held, she was determined to keep them hidden.

Lambert had learned over the years that there were other ways to get information, sometimes through patience, persuasion, or even a slight bending of the law. When he reached for the doorknob, he paused, considering his options. He knew he couldn't force Maribelle to talk, but perhaps he could find another way to uncover the truth.

The butler, an older, white-haired man as black as coal, opened the door for Lambert, but in passing, he whispered, “Try’s da boardin’ house on Ninth and Chestnut. Ask’s fo Tamiko.”

Lambert's ears perked up when he caught the butler's whispered words. He turned toward the elderly man, surprise evident on his face. The mention of a boarding house and the name Tamiko intrigued him.

Lowering his voice to match the butler's tone, Lambert leaned closer and asked, "What's the connection? Why should I look for Tamiko?"

The butler glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot, before responding, "Tamiko... She know’d somethin' 'bout the Asian woman ya lookin' fo. She's been wit her if ya catch my drift."

Lambert nodded, appreciative of the information. He had an address and a potential link to the mysterious Asian woman. It was a promising lead, and he needed to act swiftly.

"Thank you," Lambert whispered gratefully. "I owe you one."

The butler gave a curt nod, acknowledging Lambert's gratitude, before stepping back inside and closing the door.

Lambert took a deep breath, feeling renewed urgency and purpose. Without wasting another moment, he descended the steps, hailed a passing buggy cab, and quickly relayed the address to the driver. As they sped toward Ninth and Chestnut, Lambert's mind raced with thoughts of Tamiko and what she might know about the Asian woman's whereabouts.

End Chapter Twenty

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE of 23+

The horse-drawn buggy cab rumbled along Sixth Street, “What a miserable place,” the driver muttered as he turned the cab onto Seventh Street and headed north toward the river, docks, and waterfront. “Mississippi dock’s up ahead,” he said, continuing the journey through the changing neighborhood.

“Look at this area,” the driver said, shaking his head in disbelief. “It used to be a great place to live. Now look at it.”

Peeling paint, broken windows, and crumbling facades hinted at better days long gone. Poor to no building maintenance was widespread, giving the area a forlorn appearance.

The cab turned and traveled along Poplar Avenue. The closely-built, multi-family structures seemed to huddle together, and the occasional gas-lit lamppost cast long shadows on the street, making the driver anxious. “Only the bravest walk these streets after sundown,” he said. “Or the foolish... Then only once.” He chuckled.

The rains had done little to wash away the signs of decay. The air was heavy with the pungent stench of rotting garbage and animal waste, lingering regardless of the wind’s direction or intensity. As the cab continued, the surroundings served as a reminder of the stark disparity within the city. The carnival-like atmosphere of Sixth and Chestnut versus the hopelessness-like cloud hanging over Ninth and Poplar.

“If this is big-city living,” Lambert muttered, shaking his head, “count me out.”

The three-story, brown-brick building on the corner of Ninth and Poplar had patches of crumbling mortar. Its small windows were weather-beaten and stripped of paint; many were broken or so grunge-covered that the view from the inside and out was obscured.

Above the entrance, a ramshackle sign read, “Lee’s Boarding House.”

The cab stopped; Lambert stepped down and told the driver to return in an hour. The driver balked.

“Not me, mister. An hour from now, it won’t be safe for man or beast on these streets!”

“For twenty dollars?”

“For twenty dollars, mister, I’d ride through the gates of Hell.” The driver rubbed his chin. “But how’d I know’d yer gonna pay up?”

Lambert took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, tore it in half, and gave one half to the driver. “You’ll get the other half when you come back for me.”

“All right, mister, but I’ll tell ya straight. If yo ain’t waitin’ on them there steps when I come gallopin’ by, I ain’t stoppin’. We clear on that point?”

“Clear.” Lambert pocketed the other half of the bill and checked his pocket watch. “Ten-fifteen sharp. I’ll be here. If you aren’t, I’ll come looking for you, and believe me, you don’t want that nightmare.”

The driver gulped, nodded nervously, and rode away.

After giving the building a once-over, top to bottom, Lambert glanced up and down the nearly deserted streets. Two drunks stumbled and laughed midway down Poplar, their raucous voices puncturing the night. Further down, an argument unfolded under the feeble glow of a lamppost. The woman’s voice rose above two other men, her gestures conveying frustration and anger. In the background, a baby’s crying, a woman’s screaming, a man’s angry shouting, and the continuous barking of nearby dogs added to the neighborhood din.

Lambert stepped into the boarding house. The diffuse light from the single oil lamp cast long shadows across a sitting room just beyond the foyer. Its furniture was worn and stained, and its carpet was threadbare and dirty. A strong, musty smell gripped Lambert’s throat.

Sections of faded wallpaper peeled away from the plastered walls. Dust floated in the air, catching the faint light and adding to the overall misery of the place.

To the side, a narrow hallway stretched towards the back of the boarding house, leading to more rooms. The flickering light from the oil lamp barely reached the hallway.

As Lambert’s gaze turned upward, he noticed the stairs ascending to the upper floors. The banister was dull and chipped, with years of grime collecting in its ornately carved newels and balusters.

The reception desk stood at the corner of the sitting room, covered in a thin layer of dust. It seemed abandoned, with no sign of anyone in attendance. A small, tarnished, barely recognizable bell sat beside a dog-eared ledger, suggesting a time when guests checked in and out regularly.

Lambert dinged the bell. When no one responded, he pounded it three more times. A grumpy, grizzly voice answered.

“Hit that bell again, and I’ll shove it where the sun don’t shine!”

The man bumped against the wall, the floor creaked, the doorknob squeaked, and the door flew open. A frumpled giant of a man in sullied clothes filled the doorframe.

“No vacancies! Go away!”

“Not looking for a room.”

“So whatcha ya want, mister?”

“A woman named Tamiko.”

“Never heard of her. Now go away,” the man giant said while starting to turn.

Lambert unholstered and cocked his weapon. The man stopped dead when he heard the click of the Colt’s hammer and slowly raised his hands.

“Don’t got no money, mister.”

“Tamiko... Room number?”

The man faced Lambert and asked, “Who ya be, anyhow?”

“Uh...” Lambert hesitated. “Marshal Bill Duggan.”

“Don’t see no badge, Marshal... Where’s yer warrant?”

Lambert leveled his weapon at the man and held his coat back, revealing his other one.

“Here’s my warrant. So what’s it going to be, partner?” Lambert said through a clenched jaw.

“Easy, Marshal, easy. Put that hog pistol away, gentle-like.”

Lambert holstered his gun, and the man sighed in relief.

“Room number...”

“Twenty-two... Second—”

“No need... I got it.”

“Whatever ya say, mister,” the man said, turning and disappearing into his back room.

Lambert nodded and made his way up the stairs to the second floor. The foot-worn wooden steps creaked beneath his weight as he ascended. The hallway was shadowy, with only reflected light from the first-floor oil lamp. The air was thick with the scent of human waste.

He felt his way along the corridor, passing several closed doors until he reached Room Twenty-Two. The door stood slightly ajar. Lambert gently pushed it open and stepped into a small room. An oil lamp’s wick burned brightly on a nearby table but was turned too high, sending a column of sooty smoke toward the ceiling.

Lambert recognized the ammonia-like odor of opium. The young woman slumped beside a sagging couch, her head hanging and her long, dark hair obscuring her face, confirming his initial suspicions.

The woman looked up when Lambert entered, her glazed-over eyes filled with fear.

“Tamiko?” Lambert asked softly, his tone attempting to convey reassurance.

The woman nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who are you?”

Lambert approached her slowly, making sure not to startle her further. “TG Lambert. I’m looking for the other woman.”

Tamiko’s eyes widened. “Other...? Woman...? Inari...?”

Lambert hesitated for a moment. “Yes, Inari. Where is she?”

“Who... Who are you?” Tamiko asked.

Before Lambert could answer, a woman coughed in the adjoining room. He left Tamiko and found Inari in a stupor, sprawled on a bed, wearing scruffy, soiled clothes and reeking of filthiness. He gathered her in his arms and retraced his steps, returning down the staircase and out of the building.

While Lambert waited outside with Inari in his arms, he quickly glanced up and down the street and noticed the approaching sound of horse hooves. He checked his pocket watch: five minutes past ten o'clock.

“The bastard’s early!” he whispered, grinning excitedly, satisfied with a good day’s work.

End Chapter 21

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO of ~25

“You’re early,” Lambert said, helping Inari into the horse-drawn buggy cab.

“Didn’t reckon ya’d be there at all, so what’d five or ten minutes make one way or the other?” the driver said.

“Need a place where she can get cleaned up.”

“No respectable hotel’d take her as bad as she looks and smells, but I know’d just da place... Quiet... Clean... Well, almost clean, anyhows... And no questions asked fer the right price.”

“Food, too?”

“Fillin’ and plenty of it.”

Lambert nodded appreciatively at the driver’s offer. “Lead the way.”

The driver flicked the reins, and the cab began its slow journey through the city streets. The rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed in the evening while Lambert and Inari settled into the backseat.

Inari’s face was expressionless and pale, eyes sunken and distant. She moaned when the cab hit a rut and bounced.

“Don’t ya worry, miss,” the driver said, glancing back at them. “We’ll have ya like a new person inna jiff.”

After a short ride, the cab pulled up in front of a small, unassuming building tucked away in a quiet alley. The sign above the door read, “Inn.” The driver led the way inside. The interior was modest but tidy. The driver walked up to the front desk, where a full-bodied, middle-aged woman sat, her tired eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“This here woman’s needin’ a room and a good scrubbin’, Sadie,” the driver said, thumbing over his shoulder.

Sadie’s gaze shifted to Inari’s disheveled appearance, and she nodded sympathetically.

“Don’t ya worry, miss. Gots plenty of hot water ready all the time.”

Inari’s face remained blank, eyes staring into emptiness. Lambert held her tightly around her waist.

“That be one room... Er... Two?”

“Two,” Lambert said without hesitation. “You have anyone that could help her?”

“Sure do, mister, but it’ll cost extra.”

Lambert nodded, and Sadie took Inari by the hand, but when Lambert loosened his grip on her, Inari’s knee’s buckled.

“I gots her,” Sadie said, taking hold of Inari. “Mary’ll help wash her and gets her somethin’ clean to wear. She’ll look all proper inna jiff and smell better, too.” She led her to the bath at the back of the inn.

Lambert pulled the other half of the twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to the driver. “As agreed.”

“Much obliged, mister,” the driver said, tipping his hat. “Hope yer lady friend feels better.”

Lambert nodded and watched the driver exit.

He got a chair from a nearby table, sat, and lit a cigarillo. He tried to fit all his puzzling pieces together, but at times they were as elusive as the smoke rings he blew toward the ceiling.

Lambert was sure of specific facts: A woman boarded the early-morning train at the Wyandotte, Oklahoma depot—in the same timeframe as the reported disappearances of Mika Prescott and Sakura Suza. The woman arrived in St. Louis on the evening of August fifth. Later, she was robbed, assaulted, and arrested for nearly killing her assailant. She identified herself to the police as Inari Kumamoto but was subsequently released when witnesses confirmed her claim of self-defense. The trail led to the House of Seven Pleasures, Lee’s Boarding House, and here.

He blew another smoke ring toward the ceiling.

Who was Inari Kumamoto? Mika Prescott, Sakura Suza, or someone else? Her facial features were Asian, probably Japanese, but like most, Lambert struggled to differentiate people from Far East Cultures. He discarded the idea of taking her to see Chief Harrigan since Harrigan had provided the woman’s name and pointed him on her trail.

But Lambert still had many unanswered questions gnawing at him. What was Inari doing in that rathole, drugged, malnourished, and living in squalor? And who was Tamiko? What connection did Madam Lee have to Lee's Boarding House? It was pretty evident Madam Lee knew Inari, but what was the link? Thoughts flitted through his mind, here for a fleeting moment, dissipating and gone like the smoke rings he blew.

Lambert was tired and hungry, but most of all, he needed a stiff drink.

Sadie returned, her face flustered and reddened.

“How could ya do that to a woman in her condition,” she snarled.

“I didn’t do... What condition you talking about?”

“A baby, mister. She hid it under that frumpled dress she were a-wearin’, but when naked, ‘twas no mistakin’. She’s six or more months along.”

“You certain?” he asked, his voice tinged with surprise and concern.

“I’ve seen enough pregnancies in my time, mister,” Sadie said, nodding firmly. “That woman’s definitely expecting.”

Lambert’s eyes widened as he processed the woman’s words. A baby? This revelation deepened the mystery surrounding Inari. He had been confident but wrong when mentally identifying the deceased woman in Prescott Woods as Mika Prescott and the woman on the run as Sakura from Dr. Suza’s traveling medicine show. Then he had been just as sure when Sakura, Dr. Suza’s missing wife, and the deceased woman were one and the same, pregnant and Japanese, and that Mika Prescott had fled to St. Louis after murdering Sakura. Now he was not certain of anything anymore. Could Mika and Sakura both have been about six months pregnant? If so, he was back to square one. Then who the heck was Inari?

“Do you have anything to drink?” Lambert asked. “Stronger, the better.”

“Don’t knows if I cater to the likes of you, mister.”

“Listen,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “You’ve got this all wrong, ma’am. I’ve been searching for the missing wife of a banker down Oklahoma way. I tracked her to a stinking, rundown boarding house, rescued her from the drugs and filth she lived in, and brought her here for a bath, food, and rest. My intentions are to return her to Oklahoma as soon as she can travel... Now, about that whiskey.”

Sadie eyed Lambert suspiciously, her arms crossed over her chest, considering his words. She seemed to be weighing the sincerity in his voice against her initial impression of him. After a moment, she sighed and reached under the counter.

“Suppose I can spare a drink for a man claimin’ good intentions,” she conceded, retrieving a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. She poured a generous amount of the amber liquid into each glass and slid one toward Lambert.

“But mark my words, mister,” Sadie warned, her tone firm. “If I thought fer one moment...” Her voice trailed off, and she took a swig of whiskey.

Lambert nodded appreciatively and took a sip of whiskey, relishing its warmth in his throat. He leaned back, collecting his thoughts before speaking again.

“I assure you, ma’am, my intentions are genuine. This woman identified herself to the police as Inari Kumamoto, but it’s a fake name. She’s either of two missing women: Mika Prescott or Sakura Suza. One’s dead, and the other’s a murderess. The only way to straighten this out is to escort her back to Oklahoma, where several witnesses are ready to determine her true identity,” he said earnestly.

Sadie regarded Lambert for a moment longer. Her searching eyes surveyed his face for any sign of deception. After a while, she seemed to moderate slightly. The tenseness in her face relaxed, the skepticism in her voice gave way to the softness of sympathy, and she smiled.

“Well, I reckon ya gots yer hands full without me jumpin’ on ya with both feet,” Sadie said, sighing. “But don’t ya start thinkin’ for a second that I won’t be keepin’ a close eye on things.”

She winked.

Lambert nodded gratefully and smiled.

Sadie nodded in response and took a sip of her own whiskey. Lambert felt a glimmer of relief, knowing that he had secured at least temporary assistance. However, the mystery surrounding Inari and her true identity still loomed large in his mind.

“Oh, by the way... Does Inari have any tattoos?” Lambert asked.

“Sure does. Charming little butterfly on her neck.”

End Chapter Twenty-Two

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Wednesday, August 31, 1892


Lambert was enjoying breakfast and coffee when Sadie arrived, beaming and grinning from ear to ear.

“Yer woman’s up and about this mornin’. It’s been two whole days since ya bringed her here, sleepin’ most of it.”

“I couldn’t hold my water for two days,” Lambert said, shaking his head.

“Ya don’t nuthin’ ‘bout nuthin’ when it comes to women,” Sadie snapped. “Mary helped her up when she needed relievin’, and Mary fed her and made sure she had plenty to drink, too. We look after our own, I’ll have ya know.”

“Unruffled your feathers, Sadie. Just making conversation.”

“Well... Anyhows thought ya’d like to knows, yer woman will be ready fer travelin’ today. Mary’s helpin’ her get a refreshin’ bath. Like I always seys, hot water and a good sudsin’ and scrubbin’ will wash yer troubles right down the drain.” Sadie said with a chuckle. “And believe you me, Mary’ll go over every inch of her, too, making sure she’s thoroughly cleaned.”

“Wonderful. Several in Wyandotte are anxious for our return.”

“Mary found clothes for her and helped her dress,” Sadie said. “And I ain’t never seen such beautiful, long, coal-black hair. Mary’s goin’ to help braid it once it’s dry.”

“Money is a small token of my appreciation for your help, Sadie.”

“Ah... Go on, now. Yer gonna make me blush,” Sadie said as blood rushed to her cheeks.

Lambert smiled warmly at Sadie’s response. “Well, you deserve every penny. Don’t know what I’d done without you and Mary.”

Sadie waved off Lambert’s gratitude.

“When can I see her?”

“Mary’ll bring her down for breakfast after she’s all gussied up,” Sadie said, turning to leave.

Lambert pondered what he would say when he saw Inari. What question he would ask. His mind ran through ideas faster than a stampeding herd but settled on nothing specific. He drank the rest of his coffee and lit a cigarillo. He took a deep drag, savoring its bitter taste and the brief distraction it offered from his scattered thoughts.

He leaned back in his chair, its timeworn frame creaking under his weight, and stared at the smoke rings dissipating in the air. Their gentle swirls seemed to mirror the jumble of his mind, and he realized he needed to regain his focus before seeing Inari. Soon, the air in the room was filled with layers of haze, like the layered fogginess of his mind.

Sighing, he stubbed out the cigarillo.

Lambert could not let his thoughts aimlessly wander. When he saw Inari again, he needed a clear head. He glanced around the room and noticed a portrait of a cowboy riding a horse in the desert. It had a familiarity that helped him focus. He stood and paced the room, thinking and occasionally glimpsing at the scene in the painting, wishing he were that cowboy, but he shook off that thought and refocused.

He was positive on four facts: firstly, two Japanese women of similar age and physical description disappeared within twenty-four hours of each other. Secondly, the day before their disappearance, they were seen together leaving town on a buggy ride for a picnic, but no one saw who returned the horse and buggy. Thirdly, one of the two women boarded a train to St. Louis the following morning, August fifth. Fourthly, three weeks later, a badly decomposed body of a Japanese woman was found in the woods near Prescott Farm.

Coincidentally, Inari was arrested for nearly killing the man who tried to assault her after she had been robbed and her belongings stolen. She claimed to arrive by train on the evening of August fifth. The only train arriving then was northbound from Vinita. Later, she was released when witnesses confirmed she acted in self-defense, and the police had no other reason to hold her.

Lambert never put much stock in coincidences. He reckoned Inari was either Mika Prescott or Sakura Suza and a murderess.

Finally, his thoughts congealed, and Lambert was ready to meet and question the woman who claimed to be Inari Kumamoto. He did not have to wait long. Mary entered, and Inari followed close behind.

He greeted them politely and gestured for them to take a seat.

“Thank ya, kindly, but I’ve work to do,” Mary said, helping Inari into a chair. “Tea and biscuit, missy?”

Inari nodded and looked around the room, avoiding Lambert’s direct gaze.

Lambert took a moment to study Inari's facial expression and body language. Her chin was jutted, her eyes were bright, sharp, yet defiant and observant as she assessed her surroundings, and a smile dangled from the corner of her lips. She tossed her head, the braid came undone, and her long, flowing hair cascaded across her shoulder and face. Unphased, Inari cradled a lock of hair with her thumb and pushed it behind her ear. She exuded confidence and caution.

Lambert was impressed by the calm demeanor of the woman sitting across from him. Few men had that resolve; he would not mistakenly underrate her.

"So you’re Inari Kumamoto?" he began, studying her reaction closely. "I understand you were the victim of a robbery on the evening of August fifth and an attempted assault. Tell me about that."

Inari looked at Lambert but did not answer.

“Chief Harrigan told me you arrived on the train from Vinita, Oklahoma, that evening. Is that true, ma’am?”

Still no response from Inari.

Before Lambert could question her further, Mary arrived, carrying a tray with a teapot, coffeepot, biscuits, cream, and sugar.

“Breakfast’s ready, missy,” Mary said, eying Lambert as she put the tray on the table. “Bung ya fresh coffee, Mr. Lambert, and another biscuit if yer still hungry.”

While Mary poured Inari’s tea, they exchanged smiles. Inari cocked her head, her face softened, and her eyelids slowly fluttered. Mary’s unspoken response was loud and clear but as unintelligible to Lambert as Navajo smoke signals were to the early pioneers.

“Just coffee,” Lambert said, breaking into their communication. “Much obliged, Mary.”

Mary shot him a quick look, forehead puckered, but she nodded a polite thank you and took his breakfast plates with her as she left.

Inari gripped her cup of tea while Lambert poured a mug of coffee. Both ignored the cream and sugar. While waiting for their beverages to cool, they stared at each, locked in a battle of wills.

Inari was the first to yield and taste her tea warm, but Lambert kept his steel-eyed gaze locked on her while his coffee cooled. When she had finished her tea and reached for a biscuit, the opening he had waited for to resume his questions presented itself.

Lambert began by addressing Inari directly. "Miss Kumamoto, I must admit, when Chief Harrigan told me about your fighting skills and fancy footwork, my ears perked up. In my youth, I was trained in ancient Navajo hand-to-hand fighting, but I was never taught to use my feet as a weapon as skillfully as you use them.”

He paused for a sip of coffee.

“But some details of the evening are concerning; they don’t add up." He paused again, sipping more coffee and letting his words sink in.

Inari did not seem phased. Her expression remained unchanged while she sipped her tea.

Lambert continued, his voice steady and authoritative, repeating the questions.

"You claim to have arrived on the northbound train from Vinita on August fifth, the evening you were robbed. Is that the truth, ma’am?”

Inari sipped more tea.

“The same one that carried a murderess from Vinita to St. Louis. A Japanese woman like yourself, ma’am. In my book, that makes you Mika Prescott or Sakura Suza. Both went missing on the fifth, and all the evidence points to one murdering the other and then fleeing to St. Louis by train.”

Lambert paused, allowing his words to find footing in Inari’s mind.

“The same train you arrived on,” he continued. “And later, that woman sent a telegram from the depot to Reginald Prescott, care of Vinita, Oklahoma, claiming to be his wife.”

He waited for any signs that Inari was reacting to his questioning.

“And then... You appeared... Arrived out of nowhere,” Lambert continued. “You were robbed... Assaulted... The same night... A coincidence?"

Lambert drank the last of his coffee. Inari remained calm, aloof, and reserved.

"I’ve trailed all kinds—men, women, and a couple of kids once—and there’s one thing I’ve learned: don’t trust coincidences. They’re so rare; most times, they can be discounted."

Inari casually set her teacup on the table and stared at Lambert, eye to eye.

“I would commend you on your logic, Mr. Lambert, if it weren’t so flawed. Did anyone confirm I was the only Japanese woman aboard that train? Has anyone searched for the woman who sent the telegram? I think not.”

Inari picked up the teapot and put it back on the table.

“Pity... It’s as empty as your reasoning, Mr. Lambert.”

He was stunned. Lambert had never met a woman as clever, educated, polished, confident, and, he had to admit, correct as she.

What a woman! If only...

Lambert's thoughts trailed off, captivated by Inari, but he soon regained his senses and focused on the task at hand.

“Uh,” he said, clearing his throat and his thoughts. “Let’s settle this, one way or the other. Accompany me to Vinita. No less than five witnesses can identify you as either Mika Prescott or Sakura Suza.”

“And...,” Inari said, cocking her head and smiling. “What do I receive for my efforts? “

Lambert leaned back in his chair and searched his coat packet for a cigarillo.

“Mind if I smoke, ma’am?”

“Suit yourself.”

He bit off its tip, lit the other, and took a deep drag. Lambert slowly let the smoke escape his nostrils while thoughts raced from one part of his mind to another. He leaned forward, the cigarillo hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“All right, ma’am. I’ll guarantee all expenses to and from Vinita, plus twenty dollars for your trouble.”

“Fifty, now, and another fifty when we arrive in Vinita.”

“Twenty and twenty,” Lambert countered.

“Twenty, fifty,” Inari said, arms across her chest.

“Deal,” Lambert said, sensing the bargaining was over.

“Deal,” Inari said, holding her hand for a shake.

They shook.

“Southbound leaves in the morning,” Lambert said.

“Yes,” Inari said. “Mary told me.”

He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. Inari took it, stood, and left.

Lambert poured another mug of coffee. It was cold, but he drank it anyway.


End Chapter Twenty-Three

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR of 25

Thursday, September 1, 1892


It was late afternoon when the train rumbled to a stop at the Wyandotte, Oklahoma depot. Sheriff Anderson and Jeb were there to greet Lambert and Inari when they stepped off the passenger car. As soon as Jeb saw her, he rushed to help Inari with her satchel.

“Welcome back,” the sheriff said, shaking Lambert’s hand. “Reckon this here’s yer lady friend.”

“Inari, meet Sheriff Anderson; Sheriff, this is Inari Kumamoto.”

Sheriff Anderson tipped his hat and smiled.

“Glad ta meet ya, ma’am.”

Lambert glanced around, puzzled.

“I expected to see Prescott with you and halfway expected Miss Lilly, too.”

Sheriff Anderson took off his hat and rubbed his forehead.

“When I got yer telly, I know’d ya’d be disappointed they ‘twasn’t here, but things done gone south since ya left. Prescott got to his farm, and ‘twasn’t two hours later when Henry comes rip-roarin’ inta town with ole Reggie sprawled in the back of his wagon. He took him right over ta Doc. Well... Doc said it was apoplexy and needed rest and some lookin’ after.”

Lambert's face furrowed with concern as he listened to Sheriff Anderson's story. He glanced over at Jeb and Inari, standing nearby, listening. Inari’s face showed no emotion or reaction to the sheriff’s tragic news.

“Miss Lilly put him up?”

“Nope. Miss Lilly’s was the best place fer him, but her eye infection got so bad Doc sent her to doctors he know’d in Chicago. She left the day after ya did.”

“Where is he?”

“I got him a-restin’ at the Wyandotte. Doc checks on him every day.”

Lambert put his hands on his hips.

“Don’t that beat all,” he said, shaking his head. “Miss Lilly’s gonna be all right, isn’t she?”

The sheriff put his hand on Lambert’s shoulder.

“Don’t ya worry none, my boy. Doc seys she’s in the best hands in the country,” the sheriff said, trying to convey confidence, but his voice was quivering on every word.

“And Suza? The twins?” Lambert asked, glancing at Inari again.

While she looked around, Inari’s face showed wonderment, as if the area was all new to her, like she had never seen it before.

“They’s camped outside of town,” the sheriff said.

Lambert puckered his brow and squinted his eyes. Irritation was etched on his face. "Why? Did you show them my telegram?"

“Soon as I showed him it, he packed up and made camp with his wives just northeast of town alongside Bull Creek.”

“What the...?” Lambert started to question Dr. Suza’s hasty departure but dropped that thought. “Got any room at the Wyandotte for two weary travelers?”

“Always find a room fer ya, but fer the lady there... Ya might hav’ta double up,” the sheriff said, followed by a belly laugh.

Inari’s head jerked around so fast toward the sheriff her hat nearly spun off. Her eyes were as big as saucers, and her jaw dropped a full inch or more, mouth wide open. Her shock at the sheriff's remark was evident for all to see, but she quickly regained her composure and shot Lambert a questioning look, unsure how to respond.

On the other hand, Lambert was delighted to see Inari’s mask finally come off, and a grin stretched across his face, ear to ear. He suspected Inari was hiding something beneath her composed demeanor, and now it seemed her true self had surfaced.

Lambert refocused and, turning to Sheriff Anderson, asked, "Sheriff, do you know why Suza left town?"

Sheriff Anderson's expression turned serious. "Don’t rightly know, but he seemed mighty riled up after readin' yer telly. He didn't say much, though."

With a nod, Lambert’s attention returned to Inari. But by now, she had put her deadpan face back on again.

Lambert’s frustration mounted: two primary witnesses who could have identified Mika were unavailable—Miss Lilly was in Chicago, and Prescott was laid up, recovering from apoplexy. Three witnesses who could have identified Sakura left but were still close by—Dr. Suza and his two wives were camped just northeast of town. Lambert did not trust Suza. The doctor's callous attitude toward the pain and suffering of others and his questionable philosophies on life had raised red flags in his mind. He had encountered others like Suza before, and experience had taught him to tread cautiously.

"We'll figure this out,” Lambert said, squinting at the sun. “Plenty of daylight left. After settling in at the Wyandotte House—two rooms, Sheriff, if you please—we can plan our next move."

The sheriff broke out in laughter again.

Jeb grabbed Lambert and Inari’s bags and gestured toward the buggy.

“Care ta ride, ma’am?” Jeb asked, tipping his hat.

Without a word or acknowledgment, Inari got into the buggy. Jeb climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Anybody ridin’ with us?” he asked.

Lambert and the sheriff waved him on, Jeb slapped the reins, and the horse took off, trotting down the road into town.

“So, you didn’t recognize her?” Lambert asked the sheriff. “Never saw her before?”

“A wee bit... Maybe... Trouble is, Lambert. They’s all look the same ta me. She could be the medicine-show woman or someone else altogether. I’s pretty sure she ain’t Mrs. Prescott, but ya couldn’t prove it by me, one way or another.”

“Is Prescott in any shape to—”

“Doc would know, Lambert,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “Only Doc would know.”

As Lambert and the sheriff approached the Wyandotte House, Lambert's mind was consumed with a sense of defeat and unease. Unlike other bounties, this one proved to be exceptionally draining. Usually, he would track down a known guilty individual with a bounty on their head, but this time was different. The person he was after had not yet been identified, and Lambert's confidence in his pursuit was starting to waver.

Lambert couldn't help but question himself. Had he been tracking the right person? Doubts began to creep in, but he forcefully pushed them aside. Doubt was not a luxury he could afford in his line of work. He knew he had to stay focused and determined. Unfortunately, the prime witnesses were ill, and the secondary witnesses were untrustworthy.

His shoulders slumped, head drooped, and forehead puckered. Lambert kicked a stone and sent it flying.

“What’s the matter, my friend?” Sheriff Anderson asked. “Not yer usual self. What’s eatin’ at ya?”

Lambert stopped. It was the first time the grizzly ole sheriff had called him a friend. For a fleeting moment, he felt good, and the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile, but it was short-lived.

“I’m getting too old for this, Sheriff,” Lambert said, stretching his arms and back.

The sheriff turned to Lambert, astonished, jaw-dropping.

“Ya can’t be serious, son,” the sheriff said, cocking his head and rubbing his stubbled chin. “Yer still a youngster from where’s I’s a-standin’.”

“Yep. I am,” Lambert said, nodding. “This’ll be my last bounty.”

“Why the change of heart, son?”

Lambert started walking again, and the sheriff followed.

“I never doubted myself before, but... But this time, I made several hasty and costly mistakes in judgment. I was certain Mika murdered Sakara, then I was just as certain Sakara murdered Mika and fled to St. Louis. And that led me to Inari, who I was sure was either Mika or Sakara, but now I’m doubting myself.”

“Ya make things so complicated, Lambert.”

“I’m forty-one, got few friends, no place to call my own, and... And when I die, no one to carry on my name. Precious little to show after four decades of walking this earth...,” Lambert said, head hanging low. “Precious little...”

“What ya need is a stiff drink,” the sheriff said, “and things will look better. Besides, Doc should be checking on Reggie ‘bout now, and ya can get an idea how he’s a-doin’.”

The men walked silently until they reached the steps to the Wyandotte House. Lambert stopped and looked at the sign above the entrance for a few moments.

“Dangit. We’re taking Inari straight to Susa right now,” Lambert said, turning toward the livery. “I have to know if she’s Sakara or not!”

Sheriff Anderson grabbed Lambert’s arm.

“Go inside and ‘round up the woman, and I’ll tell Jeb to get the buggy ready and saddle two horses.”

Lambert thought for a moment and went inside.

###

“Howdy, Lambert,” Deputy Anderson said, standing behind the bar, drawing a mug of beer for a customer. “What’s yer pleasure?”

What room is the woman in?”

“Woman? Which woman?”

“The one that just arrived by train.”

“Oh... She’s in room five... At the end of—”

Before the deputy finished, Lambert hustled to room five and knocked.

“Who is it?” Inari asked.

“Lambert... Get dressed. We’re going to Dr. Suza’s camp while there’s still light.”

“But—”

“Come peaceful, or I’ll come in and get—”

“No need. I’m coming. Just give me a minute.”

Five minutes later, the door opened, and Inari stepped into the hallway.

“Lead the way, Mr. Lambert,” she said, smirking.

At times, Lambert felt sorry for Inari; at other times, like this one, he felt anger and disdain. Something was wrong with this scene, but he could not put his finger on it. He shook his head and directed her down the hall to the main room. Once there, they met Sheriff Anderson.

“Jeb’ll have the buggy and horses ready soon. Anyone besides me want a beer?”

Lambert shook his head. Inari ignored the question and stared outside.

“Ya ain’t no fun, ya know’d that?” the sheriff said, licking his dry lips.

Jeb stepped inside. “Ready ta ride?”

###

The sun was two hands high on the horizon, brightly shining in a cloudless sky when Lambert, the sheriff, Inari, and Jeb rode into Dr. Suza’s camp. Suza and his two Chinese wives, Chyou and Daiyu, stood when they heard the horses approach.

Lambert dismounted and met Suza with a handshake near the campfire. Suza glanced at the sheriff, Jeb, and Inari. The twins were chattering back and forth in Chinese.

“What do we owe this pleasure, Mr. Lambert?” Suza asked.

“Thought it strange you didn’t want to meet the train arriving with the woman who murdered your wife.”

“The twins couldn’t... You know, face Sakara’s killer,” Suza said. “So we left town and camped here.”

Lambert motioned to Inari. Jeb helped her get down from the buggy, and she joined them.

“Do you recognize this woman?” Lambert asked.

“Never laid eyes on her before,” Suza said with hesitation.

“What about your wives?” Lambert asked, turning to Chyou and Daiyu.

“Have either of you ever seen this woman?” Suza asked them.

Chyou and Daiyu chattered Chinese between themselves and then shook their heads.

“They don’t recognize her either, Mr. Lambert.”

“Ya positive?” the sheriff asked, leaning forward in the saddle and pushing his hat back on his head. “We can put this off till morning when the light’s better.”

“Won’t make any difference, Sheriff,” Suza said, squinting at the sun still hand-high on the horizon. “She’s not Sakara, and the twins say she’s not Mika Prescott. All the light in the world isn’t changing the fact that we have no idea who this woman is. So if it’s all right with you, Sheriff, we’ll break camp, head northeast, stop at Racine, Missouri, and go west.”

“Kinda late in the day, ain’t it?”

“No, Sheriff... Wanna put some miles between us and the horrific memories around here.”

“Then, I’ve no reason ta keep ya,” the sheriff said.

Suza barked instructions in Chinese, and the twins began gathering the camping gear and putting it in the wagon. Inari’s facial expression had not changed during the entire conversation with Dr. Suza, but Lambert noticed the corner of her mouth turn up when the twins broke camp. Her face went deadpan again as Jeb helped her into the buggy.

“Hope you find Sakara’s murderer, Lambert,” Suza said, “but I’ve got these two to look after. Life moves on. You understand, don’t you?”

Suza turned to hitch the horses to the wagon.

Lambert walked back to his horse and mounted. He did not understand! The man’s wife was murdered, and he acted indifferent about it. What kind of man does that? His scorn for Suza grew by the minute.

He took one long, last look at Susa and the twins, turned his horse, and the group started for town as the sun slowly kissed the horizon. Lambert was spent. He was tired from a long train ride, hungry, thirsty, and... Frustrated.

He was no closer to knowing who Inari was, but it was becoming abundantly clear she was neither Mika nor Sakara. But who was she? And if she had nothing to do with the murder and disappearance of Mika and Sakara, why should he care? But Lambert’s gut kept gnawing at him—something was not right; he could sense it, yet it remained just out of his reach.

End of Chapter

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE of 26

Friday, September 2, 1892

Lambert sat slumped in his chair, an empty coffee mug cradled in his hands. He glanced up briefly when Sheriff Anderson pulled out a chair and sat across from him. He put his Stetson on the table next to Lambert’s.

The barkeep yelled from behind the bar, “Coffee, Sheriff?” The sheriff waved and nodded.

“Change yer mind, son?” he asked Lambert.

Lambert shook his drooped head and mumbled, “Nope. I’m done with bounty hunting. This one did me in, Sheriff.”

The barkeep brought over a pot of steaming hot coffee, poured a mug for the sheriff, and topped off Lambert’s. Lambert took a sip and then put it back on the table, a sour expression on his face.

“Breakfast, anyone?” the barkeep asked, but neither man responded.

In the distance, its whistle blowing, the northbound train to St. Louis chugged out of the station. Lambert slammed his fist on the table and swore under his breath.

The sheriff leaned forward in his chair, eyes filled with understanding; “Don’t take it so personal, son. Ya can’t win ‘em all.”

Lambert straightened himself in his seat and looked into the sheriff's eyes; “I’ve always known there’d come a day when I’d face someone faster on the draw than I am. When that comes, I’ll decide whether to hang up my guns or risk getting shot or possibly getting killed. But when your mind goes, when you’re outfoxed at every turn... It’s not the way I want it to end... Not for me, anyway. I’d rather you’d put one right between my eyes.”

“Listen, son. We’s all gotta face the passage of time, but it ain’t no reason ta crawl inna gopher hole, cover yerself over, and give up. Yer still a young man. And an upstandin’ one, at that.”

Frown lines etched deeper by the sheriff’s words of encouragement ran across Lambert’s long face like dry riverbeds through a desert plain. His dejected state of mind had already found a gopher hole, and he had mentally retreated from neck to waist deep into it.

“Ya gents want anything fer breakfast or not?” the barkeep asked again irritably. “Biscuits hot and fresh from the oven...”

Lambert shook his head without bothering to look up from the table, staring sullenly at nothing in particular.

“Mouth’s a-waterin’ already, Slim,” the sheriff said. “I’ll have three eggs, bacon, and, of course, hot biscuits.”

“How many?”

“Keep ‘em comin’ till I’s burst,” the sheriff said, laughing. “The same fer Lambert.”

“Not hungry,” Lambert mumbled.

“Is he eatin’ or ain’t he?” the barkeep asked grumpily.

The sheriff tried to think of another tactic as the barkeep looked on with growing impatience.

“Come on, son, ya gotta eat, else...,” the sheriff said.

Seeing Lambert was not listening, he knew it would take drastic action to get through to him. “Just bring him what I's havin'. He can't go around like this... Eatin' less 'n a jackrabbit... Can't even think straight without food."

The barkeep nodded and left.

Lambert leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarillo. A cloud of smoke drifted up, melding with the shadows created by the rising sun, and continued to dangle there like a dark halo above his head when he blew out a trail of bluish smoke rings toward the ceiling. The scent of tobacco and a rush of nicotine bit deeply into his brain, but instead of usually putting things into proper order—as he had hoped—the tobacco made Lambert feel worse than before.

Fifteen minutes later, the barkeep arrived with two plates, heaping with food.

“Nice and hot! Butter? Jam, anyone?” he asked, setting the plates on the table.

“Bring it on,” The sheriff said. “Gots any honey?”

“I’ll bring it, too, if’n we’s do.” The barkeep left toward the kitchen.

The sheriff took a bite of a hot biscuit.

“Man, these are good... Even plain,” the sheriff said, holding a half-eaten biscuit toward Lambert. “Ya otta try one while they’s hot, son.”

Lambert ignored him, still wallowing in self-pity.

“Suit yerself. I ain’t gonna let not good food go ta waste. No siree bob!”

Jeb walked in and joined the men at the table.

“Whatcha doin’?” Jeb asked, pushing his hat back on his head.

“What's it look like?” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “Eatin’ breakfast, that’s what! Sometimes, Jeb, I wonder how yer head’s put tagether.”

“Ain’t no call fer... Hey, ain’t Mr. Lambert eatin’ his?” Jeb asked. “It’ll get cold.”

“Help yourself, Jeb,” Lambert said without looking toward him.

“Where ya been, anyhows?” the sheriff asked. “Ya was ta muck out the stalls, and ya smell too good, so I reckon ya didn’t do it yet.”

The barkeep returned with a bowl of butter, a jar of jam, and a jar of honey.

“Much obliged,” the sheriff said, reaching for another biscuit and his knife.

“I was helpin’ that there China woman catch the St. Louis train. I gave her a buggy ride to the depot,” Jeb said, grabbing a biscuit.

He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Holy smokes, these are good.”

“And I carried her bag and waited while’s she bought a ticket to Racine... Pass the jam, Sheriff, if’n ya please.”

Sheriff Anderson handed the jam jar to Jeb. While Jeb scooped a glob of jam on his knife, he continued, “Then helped her get aboard the train, and... And I came here.”

“Ya’ve been a busy bee this morning,” the sheriff said, dunking a biscuit in an egg yolk.

A split second later, Lambert spun around in his chair.

“What did you say, Jeb?”

“Uh... The biscuits was—"

“To hell with the biscuits!” Lambert shouted, leaning toward Jeb. “What about the train ticket? Inari bought a train ticket... A ticket to where?”

“Don’t what all the fuss ‘tis ‘bout, Mr. Lambert. Racine’s just up the tracks a piece, second stop after Wyandotte.”

Lambert jumped up, bent over, and kissed Jeb’s head. Then he broke into a Navajo victory dance.

Jeb leaned back and rubbed his head. “Hope nobody seen ya do that, Mr. Lambert. We’s don’t cotton ta that ‘round these parts.”

“Hush up, Jeb!” the sheriff said, watching Lambert’s dancing. “I ain’t seen nobody this animated since Reuben squatted ta do his business onna hornets’ nest.”

“I’m not over the hill yet, Sheriff,” Lambert said. “All the puzzle pieces have fallen into place.”

“Don’t keep me in the dark, son.”

“No time. Mount up, and let’s ride like the wind if we’re going to arrest them,” Lambert said, grabbing his hat and spinning toward the door.

Sheriff Anderson grabbed a last bite of food and his hat, following Lambert outside.

###

Lambert's body tensed with anticipation as he and Sheriff Anderson, at full gallop, followed the tracks. When they pulled up to the Racine, Missouri, train depot, Lambert leaped off his horse and ran inside, his heart racing while the sheriff hurriedly tried to catch up.

“Hold on, son! Lemme handle this,” the sheriff said. “If’n ya get too rowed up, who know’d what’ll happen.”

Lambert gritted his teeth, slowed his pace, and let the sheriff take the lead.

The sheriff stepped up to the ticket window and banged his fist on the counter. A few seconds later, a greasy-haired young man stood at the opening, looking bored and indifferent.

“What ya’ll want?” he asked, barely lifting his head to look at them.

“Did the St. Louie bound train stop here this morning?” the sheriff demanded.

“Yeah... Always do, mister. Why?”

“Anyone, in particular, get off? Maybe an Asian woman?”

The young man hesitated briefly before responding dismissively. “Now, mister, ya can't expect me ta remember every passenger comin' and goin' on all the trains stoppin' here, do ya?"

Lambert was becoming increasingly agitated, pacing back and forth behind the sheriff aggressively as he tried to contain his impatience.

"Looky here, sonny," rumbled the sheriff. "This here's lawman's business, and I'm Sheriff Anderson—"

The young man cut him off sourly. "Ya don't look like no sheriff ta me, mister," sneering at Sheriff Anderson’s disheveled clothes with undisguised disdain. "Sheriff Tilman's our sheriff—a smart dresser he is too—so if'n ya wanna know'd sumthin 'bout private railroad business, you take it up with—"

But before he could finish his sentence, the sheriff produced his weathered star with a flourish of defiance. "Don't this badge mean nuthin' ta ya, sonny?" he growled menacingly.

Lambert's nostrils flared as he pushed the sheriff aside. His face contorted into a mask of rage, his eyes seething with anger, his jaw clenched so tight it could have been carved from stone. He aimed his gun directly at the young man's face, between his lips and nose, and snarled.

“If you want to see the sunset today, answer quickly and politely. Understood?”

The young man was visibly shaken, his eyes bulging in terror, eyebrows raised in fear, mouth agape, and jaw slack. The crotch of his trousers had become soaked with urine as he lost control of his bladder in fright.

Lambert maintained his icy stare, waiting for an answer until every breath seemed to echo in the air. Time seemed frozen in place as the seconds dragged on.

The young man blinked twice in quick succession.

“I'll take that as a yes," Lambert said before lowering his gun. “That’s better... Did a Chinese woman get off the St Louis-bound train?"

The young man blinked again.

"Did anyone meet her?" he asked.

"A—A man and two women in a wagon," the young man stammered. "About two hours ago... Near as I can recall."

Lambert kept the gun trained on him as he asked one last question. "Which way did they go?"

The young man pointed southwards and said there was only a trading post at Jacob Hart's crossroads leading north and south to Oklahoma. “Only a couple three hours by wagon from here… I reckon,” he added hastily.

“Now, wasn’t that easy?” Lambert said, holstering his gun.

The young man nodded feverously. When Lambert and the sheriff turned to leave, the young man dashed out the back door and ran toward town.

###

The men raced down the road toward Hart Trading Post, chasing after Suza’s wagon. Its wheels left clear impressions on the road and were easily followed. They stopped to give their horses a much-needed drink when they reached Lost Creek, south of Racine.

“All right, son,” Sheriff Anderson said, watching his horse siphon water. “What made ya so fired up this morning? ‘Twas it sumthin’ Jeb said?”

“He mentioned Inari bought a ticket to Racine... Not St. Louis.”

“I’s heard that, too, but not—"

“Don’t you see?” Lambert said, face all fired up. “Inari has to be Sakara!”

Lambert waved his arm excitedly.

“And Suza lied when he denied knowing her; his wives lied to back his play.” He shook his head. “I watched their faces closely for any flicker of recognition or surprise and saw none. I have to hand it to them; they are the best troupe of actors I’ve ever crossed paths with—had me fooled.”

“I'm with ya so far, Lambert," said the sheriff. "But how we’s gonna prove it in court?”

Lambert did not answer. He was uncertain of that yet, but first, he had to catch them before he worried about proof.

The men stood silently while their horses drank. They quickly mounted once the horses had drunk their fill. Lambert dug his heels into his horse's sides, urging it into a wild sprint away from Lost Creek. The sheriff followed close behind.

After another mile, a man riding in a horse-drawn wagon of fresh-hewn lumber was coming toward them. When they met, Lambert asked, “Did you pass a bow-top, medicine-show wagon heading south?”

“When?” the driver asked.

“Within the last hour or so,” the sheriff said.

The driver scratched his stubbled chin. “Naw... Ain’t seen nobody since leavin’ the mill.”

“Been on this here main road all the time, have ya?”

“Yep. Since Hart’s Tradin’ Post.”

“This road branch off anywhere?” Lambert asked.

“Nope. Straight inta Hart’s. Except for trails and roads inta farms and such.”

“That don’t make no sense, mister,” the sheriff said. “A wagon can’t ups and vanish like that!”

“Don’t hav’ta... Yer vanishin’ wagon most likey’s stopped at Hart Springs. Folks stop by there all the time. Freshwater spring, campground alongside Buffalo Creek, grass fer the horses, and some apple trees loaded down with ripe fruit. Yep... They’s most likely there.”

“Much obliged,” Lambert said.

“Follow the weathered sign... It ain’t but a hundred yards off this here road.”

The sheriff tipped his hat and took off after Lambert, who was already several links ahead. Before long and faithful to the driver’s word, the imprints of Suza’s wagon wheels turned off the road onto the trail to Hart’s Spring. The men dismounted and led their mounts to the campground.

###

True to the driver’s word, in about a mile, a weatherworn sign nailed to a gnarled oak pointed the way towards Hart Springs. Suza’s wagon-wheel tracks turned onto the trail leading to the spring. Lambert and the sheriff slowed and gingerly made their way to the campground. As they rounded the bend, the wagon came into view with its horses grazing on the banks of Buffalo Creek.

Suza and Inari sat close together on a log in front of a blazing fire. His arm was around her shoulders, his lips softly pressing against her forehead as she gently rested her head against his chest. She tilted her head back, and he captured her mouth, kissing her deeply while the twins busied themselves, making tea and picking apples from the nearby trees.

“Tea’s ready,” Chyou yelled to Daiyu.

Daiyu picked another apple and started for the campsite. Chyou had gotten four tea cups and a tray and was pouring hot tea when Lambert stepped into the clearing.

“Got enough for two more weary travelers?” Lambert said, standing tall, hands on his hips.

Sheriff Anderson stood beside him, face shadowed by a cowboy hat.

Chyou screamed and dropped the tea kettle, tipping over the tray and scattering teacups on the ground. Diayu dropped her apples as she ran to help Chyou gather the mess of teacups in the dirt.

“What the hell?” Suza yelled, jumping to his feet and sending Inari sprawling on the ground. His face turned pale at the sight of Lambert and the sheriff as they sauntered closer.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Lambert said.

Lambert removed his hat and bowed to the woman sprawled on the ground. “Mrs. Sakara Suza, I presume,” he said in a low voice. He turned to Suza. “Aren’t you going to help your wife off the ground like a good husband should, Dr. Suza?”

Suza advanced slowly and extended his hand to the woman. She took it reluctantly and got to her feet.

“She’s... She’s not Sakara!” Suza said defiantly.

The woman stood, shaking her head while clutching Suza’s arm.

Lambert regarded Suza skeptically. “You do know her, though… Don’t you, Dr. Suza?”

Lambert moved closer until he was standing almost in front of him.

Suza opened his mouth, then shut it again, stammering incoherently, “Uh... Uh...”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the threesome. He took a step toward Suza, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“From what’s I seen, ya was bein’ mighty cozy with a woman ya don’t know,” the sheriff said, squinting his eye and scratching his salt and pepper stubbled chin. “And in front of yer other wives, no less. Ya does take the cake, Dr. Suza... The whole cake at that.”

Lambert closed the gap between them, never taking his eyes off Suza or the woman.

“Claimed you never saw her before, but I’m having doubts regarding your veracity, sir.”

“What’s this here, ver rat city, ya talkin’ ‘bout, Lambert?”

“Later, Sheriff. Later.”

Susa pushed the woman aside and faced Lambert.

“You calling me a liar, mister?”

“He’s callin’ ya out, Lambert, and he ain’t even packin’,” the sheriff said with a chuckle. “Damnest thin’ I’s ever seen.”

Before anyone could react, the woman spun on her heel and lashed out with her foot, aimed at Lambert's head. But Lambert had anticipated her move; he ducked and drew his gun from its holster. He fired just as she lost her balance and swirled wildly—weeks of malnutrition and the growing fetus had taken their toll.

Suza tried to catch Sakara before she hit the ground. “Sakara! Our baby!” he yelled, cradling her in his arms. “Are you all right?”

“Yes... Shaken, but all right,” Sakara said, standing and dusting off her dress.

Suza turned to Lambert with rage in his eyes. “Bastard! Why’d you shoot at her?”

“I’m not wounded, dearest,” Sakara said, clutching Susa’s arm.

“Her feet are as deadly as any weapon,” Lambert said, standing. “I would’ve killed a man but chose mercy—she would’ve healed, so she can hang for the cold-blooded murder of Mika Prescott.”

“Ain’t sure they’s hangin’ women yet, Lambert,” the sheriff said, holding the twins at gunpoint. “But she should be the first.”

“Then, the whole bunch can enjoy the comforts of prison together.”

“Comforts? Ya ain’t never seen... Oh, I gets it, Lambert,” the sheriff said with a laugh. “That be a good one.”

“We’re in Missouri!” Suza said, straightening his shoulders in outrage. “You got no authority to arrest us here, Sheriff.”

“He’s right, Sheriff,” Lambert said, smiling. “But I’m a bounty hunter, and I’m taking you all back to Oklahoma so I can collect.”

“There’s no bounty on us!” Suza said.

Lambert's smile widened as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a crumpled paper. He unfolded it slowly and waved it in front of Suza.

"Prescott put a bounty on his wife's head. Since you deny knowing this woman, I'll assume she's Mika Prescott, and we'll all take a trip back to Wyandotte to unweave the true identity of this woman."

“She’s Sakara, my wife,” Suza protested, and the women nodded in agreement.

The sheriff sighed heavily. "Sorry, folks, but a court of law's gonna hav'ta figger this one out..." He waved his gun toward Suza and then pointed toward the wagon. "So pack up yer belongings and yer wives and get in the wagon—we can make Wyandotte while the sun's still shinnin'."

###

Lambert and the sheriff followed Suza’s wagon on the road to Wyandotte and back into Oklahoma Territory.

“Well, son. Ya back in the saddle again?” the sheriff asked, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Never thought ya’d hang up yer six guns over the likes of them.”

Lambert shook his head. “Who? Me? Retiring? Whatever gave you such a crazy idea?”

The sheriff blinked, opened his mouth to say something but didn’t, and shook his head. Then he yelled, “Pick up the pace, Dr. Suza. Wanna get ta town befer I’s die of old age!”

End Chapter Twenty-five

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX of 26
***** Last Chapter *****


On his way out of town, Lambert stopped by Miss Lilly’s Boarding House. Before he could dismount, a robust voice from the front porch yelled, “Lambert! Is that you!”

Lambert turned to see Prescott hobbling the front porch stairs and coming toward him. Prescott’s face was aglow, and he was grinning from ear to ear. He dragged his left foot slightly but, with the help of a cane, moved remarkedly well for a man recovering from a stroke.

Prescott stopped halfway to the gate and waited for Lambert. When the men met, they shook hands like long-lost friends meeting for the first time in years.

“Come, my boy, I’ve so much to tell you,” Prescott said, putting his hand on Lambert’s shoulder and guiding him to the porch.

“You and Miss Lilly? Never thought I’d ever see the day,” Lambert said, helping Prescott up the stairs.

“She told you the story, then?”

Lambert nodded and eased Prescott into a chair. He took one for himself.

“Saying I didn’t know about her... Our child would be a lie. I was a coward, plain and simple, and I wanted a financial empire more than anything. What a fool I was... I am. Mika’s death and my apoplexy have gotten my attention, Lambert. What’s this all been for? Soloman had it right: pure vanity and worthless in light of eternity.”

Lambert nodded.

“So...”

“So, the first thing I’m going to do is rebuild Wyandotte, give back what I’ve taken, ten times... No, twenty times over. When I’m through, it’ll be as prosperous as Vinita... No, more prosperous! Then, I’m going to publically admit that Isabelle is my... Our daughter, and after a respectable period of mourning, Lilly and I will wed.”

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Prescott.”

“And I owe it all to you. Not many would’ve pursued this mystery to its bitter end,” Prescott said, shaking his head.

“You give me too much credit, Mr.—”

“You’re selling yourself short, Mr. Lambert. And to show my appreciation, my bank in Vinita will have a sizable bonus waiting for you. I didn’t expect to see you here otherwise I—”

Lambert blushed, feeling surprise and gratitude. He had never expected such generosity from Mr. Prescott. Stammering slightly, he replied, "Mr. Prescott, I... I'm truly humbled..."

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Rebuilding Wyandotte and making amends is decent of you."

Lambert looked at Mr. Prescott earnestly.

"But as for myself... I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I didn't intend to profit beyond the bounty we agreed."

Mr. Prescott's eyes softened, and he reached out to shake Lambert's hand. "You're a good man, Lambert. But stop by the Vinita Bank as a last favor to me."

Lambert nodded.

“All right, Mr. Prescott. I’ll swing by on my way south next week. Got a bounty to—”

“You work too hard, Lambert.”

“It’s what I am; it’s what I do, Mr. Prescott.”

Prescott laughed.

“Sorry, you missed the womenfolk. They’re at the farm. I did want you to meet Isabelle—a fine young woman, she is. And Lilly will be sad she wasn’t here to say hi and express her thanks as well.”

Lambert stood, and Prescott started to rise.

“Stay put, Mr. Prescott. I’ll find my way out.”

Prescott relaxed in his chair.

“Take care, Mr. Lambert.”

“Plan to,” Lambert said, nodding. “Give my regards to Miss Lilly and Isabelle.”

Lambert strolled to this horse, mounted, and waved goodbye one last time. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and it responded, galloping out of town.



November 22, 1892, Vinita, Oklahoma

A Week Later.



Lambert rode into town and found the townsfolk in an uproar. A crowd of angry people numbering nearly a hundred gathered at the Prescott Cattleman Bank. They completely blocked the intersection of Main and First. Sheriff Ezra Clark and his deputies stood between the crowd and the bank but were being squeezed closer and closer to the building.

“We want our money!” the crowd chanted. “Give us our money!”

A bank official tried to calm the crowd.

“You’ll get your money. Every last penny.”

“When?” someone shouted.

“As soon as we complete—”

He was pelted with a rotted tomato, and he ducked inside.

Lambert stopped at the livery.

“Can I help ya, mister?” a young lad asked.

“Feed and water,” Lambert said, dismounting.

“Six bits.”

“She won’t be bedding overnight.”

“Still, six bits.”

Lambert handed the lad the reins.

“Cash.”

“You drive a hard bargain for such a youngster.”

“Haven’t ya heard, mister?”

“No. Just rode in. Got anything to do with that crowd at the bank?”

“And how! I heard the bank’s closin’, and all them people’s gonna lose every nickel they’s got.”

“Where’s you hear that?”

“Everybody’s sayin’ it, seein’ ole man Prescott’s dead.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Ole man Prescott up and died near on ta a week ago.”

“How?”

“Don’t know fer sure... Sumthin’ ‘bout his apples—”

“Apoplexy?”

“That’s it... He died of that. Didn’t think apples could kill a man—”

“When?”

“Like I said... A week ago. Story is, he were found in a chair on the porch of a boardinghouse... Deader than a doornail.”

Lambert paid the lad six bits and headed to the Morganza Hotel’s saloon. He could not accept what his ears had heard as truth: Prescott was dead.

I may have been the last one to see him alive.

He stumbled across the dusty street, shaking his head in disbelief and not looking where he was going. Before Lambert was aware, he had walked between two men crouched, ready to draw and settle the score. The men stood, cursed at Lambert for disrupting, and resumed when he had continued on. Lambert paid them no mind and climbed the steps to the hotel. He entered the saloon.

“What’ll ya have, mister?” the barkeep asked.

Lambert glanced around the nearly empty saloon. He slid his hat to the back of his head.

“Beer.”

“One tall beer comin’ right up,” the barkeep said, drawing mostly foam. He scooped the subs off and topped off the mug.

“Warm but tasty,” he said, sliding the mug to Lambert.

Lambert took a gulp.

“Yep. Tasty, all right.” He turned to look out the windows. “What’s the story at the bank?”

“Ain’t ya heard, mister? Mr. Prescott’s—”

“He’s dead. I know that, but that doesn’t explain the crowd at the bank.”

“Well... Soon as word got here about his demise, the bank officers closed its doors, pending an audit and settling his estate.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Smells ta high Heaven, if ya ask me, but a week ago, the bank closed, and nobody knows when it’ll open again.”

“What about Wyandotte?”

“What ya mean?”

“Prescott was rebuilding the town.”

“Reckon all work’s stopped since ain’t nobody’s gettin’ paid nuthin’ from the bunch over there.”

Lambert finished his beer and returned to the livery.

“She’s all fed and watered, mister. Just like ya wanted.”

“Obliged,” Lambert said, tipping his hat.

He mounted, and the horse slowly walked by the bank and the crowd to the edge of town, where the road forked north and south. Lambert took one last look a Vinita, the Prescott Cattleman Bank, and the angry townsfolk. He wondered what bonus was that Mr. Prescott left for him. It would be a month of Sundays before he would see what it was, if ever.

During a moment of indecision, he looked at the road north to Wyandotte and then at the road south to Texas. Friends and chaos awaited northbound, but a sense of normality awaited southbound.

Decision made, Lambert yanked left on the reins, and his horse responded, trotting southbound to Texas. Maybe he would get to Wyandotte again someday, but for now, he made a mental note to himself: in addition to divorce, never take a bounty on a wayward wife.

End Chapter 26