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  Tilghman hadn't had any coffee since breakfast, so that sounded good to him. He swung down from the saddle.

  As he did so, another man came bustling along the boardwalk. He wore a brown suit and hat, was clean-shaven, and had a beefy, well-fed face. Tilghman glanced back and forth between the marshal and the newcomer and saw the resemblance between them. He knew he was looking at the other Rainey brother, Martin, the mayor of Burnt Creek.

  "What's going on here?" Martin Rainey demanded in an officious tone. "Are those men dead?"

  "Never was able to put anything past you, Mart," Dave replied.

  Martin's already florid face flushed a little darker.

  "You shouldn't be talking to me like that," he said. "I'm your boss, you know, as well as your older brother."

  "Yeah, sorry," Dave muttered, although he sounded to Tilghman like he didn't mean it. He nodded toward the federal lawman and went on, "This is Deputy U.S. Marshal Tilghman, who rode over here from Guthrie, I reckon."

  "That's right," Tilghman said.

  Martin Rainey's demeanor instantly became more deferential. He extended a hand and said, "Marshal Tilghman, it's an honor to meet you. I've heard a great deal about you. I'm Martin Rainey. Mayor Rainey, I should say." He shook hands, then hooked his thumbs in his vest in a preening manner. "Burnt Creek is my town, I suppose you could say."

  Dave looked like he wanted to argue that, but instead he said, "The marshal and I were about to have some coffee. You want to join us, Mart?"

  "Actually, I do. I want to hear about what brings such a distinguished law enforcement officer to our town."

  The three men went into the office, which was sparsely furnished with a scarred old desk, a few ladderback chairs, a couple of cabinets, and a pot-bellied stove. Dave Rainey got tin cups from a drawer in the desk and poured coffee for them.

  As he handed one of the cups to Tilghman, he asked, "Are you here on business, Marshal, or did you come to Burnt Creek because it was the closest place you could bring those bodies?"

  Tilghman took a sip of the strong, black brew, then said, "Some of both. Marshal Nix in Guthrie sent me out here because of reports he's gotten about a bunch of rustlers and road agents causing trouble in these parts."

  He didn't say anything about how the farmer had identified Cal Rainey as the leader of that gang. He would keep that card close to his vest for now.

  Martin Rainey frowned and said, "I don't recall hearing anything about that, do you, Dave?"

  With a shrug, Dave said, "The drovers who bring their herds through here on the way to Colorado are always complaining about something. They claim they get cheated here in town, and they say they lose some stock when they come through here. I never figured it amounted to much. Some of the farmers might pick off a stray cow or two for beef for their families. It's hard making a go of it on these little homesteads."

  "I was under the impression the losses were on a larger scale than that, and several men have been killed in the raids."

  "I wouldn't know anything about that," Dave said blandly.

  "What about the problems they've had here in town?"

  "There haven't been any problems," Martin said. "You know how those cowboys are, Marshal. Most of them are from Texas, and they're a proddy bunch. They're never happy unless they're raising hell. Other than the sort of minor disturbances you find in all trail towns, things have been pretty peaceful here in Burnt Creek."

  "I see," Tilghman said as he nodded slowly. "From the sound of it, Marshal Nix was misinformed, and so was I."

  "That's the way it seems to me, too," Dave said.

  But despite Tilghman's comment, he didn't believe for a second that the complaints Marshal Nix had received weren't legitimate. He had been a lawman long enough to recognize it when somebody tried to pull the wool over his eyes.

  Every instinct in his body told him that the Rainey brothers were both as crooked as a dog's hind leg.

  Chapter 5

  After talking apparently idly with the marshal and the mayor for a few more minutes, Tilghman said, "I guess I'll start back to Guthrie tomorrow. I need to hunt up a livery stable for my horse and a hotel room for me."

  "The Gonzalez Livery is less than a block off the square," Martin said, "and I can help you with the hotel room. I operate the Drovers Hotel. You must have seen it when you rode into town."

  Tilghman put a smile on his face.

  "I did," he agreed. "You've got a mighty fine-looking establishment, Mayor."

  "I'm proud of it. Why don't you come along with me, and I'll see to it that you're fixed up properly? Dave, find Coley and have him take the marshal's horse down to the Mexican's barn."

  "Sure," Dave said. "If there's anything else you need, Marshal, you just let one of us know and we'll see to it."

  Still smiling, Tilghman said, "You boys sure know how to make a fella feel welcome."

  "Least we can do for a fellow officer of the law."

  Tilghman felt anger boil up inside him, but he kept it tamped down and concealed. If he was right about the Rainey brothers, he didn't have anything in common with either of them, and he didn't like Dave making it sound like he did.

  But for the time being he would play along with them and see what else he could find out.

  Tilghman and Martin Rainey crossed the street to the Drovers Saloon and Hotel. The building had an actual lawn around it, although the grass was short and starting to turn brown from the summer heat. There was also a wrap-around verandah, the roof of which formed a second-floor balcony. It must have cost quite a bit to have enough lumber freighted out here to build the three-story structure, thought Tilghman.

  As they went inside, Martin explained that the dining room and saloon were on the first floor, flanking the lobby, guest rooms were on the second floor, and his private quarters took up the third floor.

  In the lobby, Martin told the clerk on duty at the desk to give Tilghman the best room in the house, no charge.

  "I appreciate it, but I can't do that, Mayor," Tilghman said as he shook his head. "Marshal Nix would frown on it. As long as I get a receipt for my expense account, that'll be fine."

  "All right, if that's the way you want it," Martin said. "I know you federal marshals don't make much money."

  "Six cents a mile while on official business," Tilghman said. "If a fella stays busy, he can make enough to keep himself together. Nobody's going to get rich packing a badge for Uncle Sam, though."

  Martin pointed through an arched entrance to the left of the lobby and said, "The saloon is through there, if you want a drink. You'll let me buy the first round, won't you?"

  "I would if I drank, which I don't."

  "How about some supper, then?" Martin indicated another arched door on the other side of the lobby. "The hotel dining room is over there."

  "I reckon that would be all right," Tilghman said. "I'm obliged to you."

  He didn't want to be in Martin Rainey's debt at all, but it wouldn't pay for him to be too stiff-necked. He wanted folks to relax around him. That way they were more likely to let something slip that they weren't supposed to.

  Tilghman signed the registration book, took a key from the clerk, and went upstairs carrying the saddlebags and Winchester he had picked up from his horse when he and Martin Rainey left the marshal's office. The Drovers Hotel wasn't exactly fancy, but it was fixed up pretty nice. Tilghman's room had a rug on the floor, and the bed looked comfortable.

  He left his gear there and went back down to the dining room. He hadn't been seated at one of the tables for more than a minute when a nice-looking young blond woman in a print dress and a starched apron came up to the table and asked, "What can I get for you, Marshal Tilghman?"

  He wasn't surprised that word of who he was had gotten around town. He placed his hat carefully on the table and asked, "What's good from the kitchen?"

  The blonde didn't hesitate in answering, "I'd order the pot roast. It's cooked with potatoes, carrots, and onions. Mrs. Harrigan adds a
secret ingredient to it, too." She leaned closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I guess it would be all right to tell you, though. It's a dash of sherry."

  Even though Tilghman didn't drink, he didn't object to a little wine used in cooking. He smiled and nodded to the waitress.

  "That sounds mighty good, all right. I'll have that and a pot of coffee. And maybe a slice of apple pie, if you've got it."

  "We do. I'll be right back with the coffee."

  While he was sitting there alone at the table, Tilghman looked around the dining room. It wasn't very busy, with only half a dozen customers besides him. He had seen from glancing at the registration book as he signed it and the key rack behind the desk that the hotel didn't have a lot of guests at the moment. If business was like this all the time, then Martin Rainey couldn't be making much money. Not enough to justify building such a big place.

  The blond waitress came back with the coffee. As she poured it, Tilghman said, "Do you mind if I ask your name, miss?"

  "Not at all, Marshal. It's Casey."

  She smiled at him, bold as brass, and he couldn't help but notice the scattering of freckles across her nose and the dimple in her chin. He realized she was flirting with him despite the fact his saddle was probably as old as she was.

  Tilghman's wife Flora was back on the ranch he owned, and even if she hadn't been, he wasn't in the habit of messing around with young women. It went against his moral beliefs.

  But he wanted information from Casey, so he wasn't above returning her smile and making her think he enjoyed her company. In point of fact, he did enjoy it. Any man would. Casey was mighty pretty.

  "Business been sort of slack here lately, Casey?"

  Still holding the coffee pot, she frowned a little in thought as she propped her other hand on her hip.

  "No, not really," she said. "No more so than usual. This is about as busy as it ever gets."

  "What about when the herds come through?"

  "Oh, things get pretty hectic in the saloon then, I suppose, but I don't work over there on that side so I don't know for sure. I just know it's noisier during those times. But the cowboys all spend the night where they camp with the herd, they don't stay here."

  Tilghman nodded. That was pretty much what he'd figured. If a man moved into a new town, built a big hotel, and then saw it losing money, he might be more likely to turn to some other endeavor to make money.

  Like putting together a gang of rustlers with his brothers.

  That was sheer speculation at this point, however. Tilghman trusted his instincts, but he also warned himself about jumping to conclusions. He needed to dig around more and see where the trail took him.

  Casey was right about the pot roast being good. Tilghman was comfortably full when he left the hotel after the meal. He had asked Casey for directions to Gonzalez's Livery Stable. That was where he turned his footsteps.

  It was a nice evening. The warmth of the day had already begun to ease, leaving just a hint of coolness in the breeze stirred across the Oklahoma prairie. A hint of red from the departed sun lingered in the western sky. Tilghman breathed deeply of the air and felt that life was basically good, despite the fact he was here to deal with a gang of thieves and killers.

  He heard a man singing softly in Spanish as he walked into the barn, which was located at the end of the block away from the square. Tilghman followed the song to an empty stall, where a stocky, dark-haired man in overalls forked hay from a bin. He rested the pitchfork's handle on the hard-packed ground and asked, "What can I do for you, señor?"

  "You've already done it," Tilghman said. He pointed to the next stall and went on, "That's my horse, and from the looks of things, you're taking fine care of him."

  A smile stretched across the man's face.

  "Oh, you are the Marshal Tilghman," he said. "Coley Barnett said this horse, he belong to you."

  "You're Señor Gonzalez?"

  "Sí, Raoul Gonzalez." He wiped his hand on his overalls and extended it. "It is an honor, Marshal."

  Tilghman shook with him.

  "The whole town is talking about you and the dead men you brought in," Gonzalez continued. "Some say they were part of the gang that has moved in these past few months."

  "You know about that gang, do you?"

  "Sí, but of course. I am also the blacksmith, and when the herds come through, usually several of the vaqueros with them need me to tighten a horseshoe or replace one for them. I hear talk about how the rustlers have caused trouble for them."

  So the liveryman knew about the rustling, but the marshal and the mayor claimed they hadn't heard anything about it. That was one more bit of evidence to support Tilghman's hunch that Dave and Martin were in on the lawbreaking with their brother Cal.

  "You know a man named Cal Rainey?"

  A lantern hung on a nail next to the door of Gonzalez's office, just inside the open double doors of the barn. The yellow glow it cast wasn't very bright, but it was enough for Tilghman to see the worried look that suddenly passed over Gonzalez's face.

  "Sí, Señor Cal Rainey owns a ranch five miles north of here. He doesn't come to town very often."

  "Even though his brothers both live here?"

  Gonzalez jerked his shoulders in a shrug.

  "That is their business, not mine, señor marshal."

  "Sure," Tilghman said easily. "Didn't mean to gossip. Mostly I just wanted to check on my horse, and I can see he's just fine."

  "I will have him ready for you early in the morning, so you can start back to Guthrie."

  So word had gotten around he was leaving. Tilghman supposed Martin and Dave Rainey were responsible for that.

  He told Gonzalez buenos noches, then left to head back to the hotel. The last of the daylight had faded from the sky, leaving night to settle down over Burnt Creek.

  He was almost back to the square when boot leather scraped on the ground behind him. The sound wasn't loud, but it was enough to warn him, especially since he had just passed the dark mouth of a narrow passage between buildings. Tilghman swung around.

  Twin gouts of flame exploded from the muzzles of a shotgun less than ten feet away.

  Chapter 6

  Tilghman was already moving, diving forward onto the ground. The shotgun's deafening blast slammed painfully against his ears, but that was the only thing to hit him. The double load of buckshot hadn't had time to spread out much. All the deadly pellets flew over him, spraying the boardwalk and the fronts of the buildings along the street.

  The bushwhacker had made a crucial mistake by firing both barrels at once. If he had fired – and missed – with only one, he could have tilted the weapon down and finished off Tilghman with the second barrel, then and there.

  As it was, the man didn't have time to reload and could only use the shotgun as a club as Tilghman pushed himself up and drove forward to tackle him around the knees. The shotgun barrels struck Tilghman a painful blow in the back, but he ignored it and heaved, upending his attacker. The man went over backward with a startled yell.

  Tilghman scrambled after him and hammered his clenched fist against the man's chest. The bushwhacker had managed to hang on to the shotgun. He struck desperately with it. The stock clipped Tilghman on the jaw and knocked him away. Tilghman rolled over and clawed the Colt from its holster.

  His attacker had made it to his feet. Tilghman didn't want to give the man time to reload, so he angled the .45's barrel up and fired. It was too dark for him to see if he had hit his target.

  Evidently not, because the next second he caught a glimpse of the bushwhacker running away, silhouetted momentarily against the glow coming through the still open doors of Raoul Gonzalez's livery barn. Lying on his belly, Tilghman gripped his right wrist with his left hand to steady it, drew a bead, and fired again.

  Even in that bad light, he might have hit the bushwhacker if the fleeing man hadn't chosen that exact instant to dart around a corner. If Tilghman had been the sort to indulge in profanity, he would h
ave cussed his bad luck. He could get up and give chase, but the hombre would have time now to pause and slip a couple of fresh shells into the shotgun. Charging after a loaded scattergun in the dark was a mighty efficient way for a man to get himself killed, thought Tilghman.

  Besides, somebody else was coming. He heard the rapid footsteps approaching behind him.

  Tilghman rolled to the side and sat up. The Colt was level in his hand as he called, "Hold it right there."

  The footsteps stopped. A familiar voice said, "Marshal Tilghman? Is that you?"

  There was a hitch rack close by Tilghman's left shoulder. He reached up, caught hold of it, and steadied himself as he climbed to his feet.

  "Yeah, it's me," he said.

  "I heard shots," Marshal Dave Rainey said. "Are you hit?"

  "No, I'm fine." He would have some bruises in the morning, but those didn't count.

  "What happened?"

  "Somebody cut down on me with a double-barrel. I threw a couple of bullets back at him, but he got away."

  "He shot at you with both barrels and you weren't hit? How in the world did you manage that?"

  "Just lucky, I guess," Tilghman said dryly. Working easily by feel, he ejected the two spent shells from his Colt and thumbed in fresh rounds to take their place.

  Rainey came close enough for Tilghman to see him better. The local lawman was carrying a shotgun, but Tilghman knew Dave wasn't the one who had ambushed him. Rainey hadn't had time to circle around and get behind him, and also even the brief glimpse Tilghman had gotten of his attacker was enough to tell him that the man had been taller and slimmer than Dave Rainey.

  Some of the citizens of Burnt Creek were coming along the street now, drawn by the sound of gunfire and wanting to know what had happened. Rainey turned and confronted them, telling them that there was nothing to see here and ordering them to go on about their business. As the crowd began to disperse before it ever really had a chance to form, Rainey swung back around to Tilghman and said, "Come on over to the office with me. I want to hear more about what happened."

  Tilghman pouched his iron. He had a hunch that even though the local marshal hadn't pulled the trigger, he knew something about the ambush attempt. Tilghman would play along for the moment, but he wouldn't let down his guard.