continued her tale. “Anyway, I bought Charles a gun. In the long run, it’s cheaper and the more I think of it, there hasn’t been any crime on that road since the Wells Fargo was robbed three years ago.”
Wilma left the bar, satisfied that her cousin would never connect her talking to Percy Pierpoint with the murder that would happen eighteen months hence.
The day had finally arrived. Wilma knew exactly when Pierpoint would perform the deed and how long it would take. The road was not well traveled, but Charles’ corpse would be found by a rancher or farmer who was headed into town. Since the town was closer to the scene of the crime than the house, the excited rancher would go get the sheriff.
Wilma looked up at the clock. 12:07. Seven minutes after noon. The tea in her cup was cold. Her hands still shook. She wasn’t nervous about the murder. Her confidence in Percy was solid. It was the waiting. She hated the waiting. She couldn’t wait much longer without screaming. Then she heard it.
The clip-clop of hooves was steady, sure. Sheriff Hawkins was approaching the house. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Of course not. Who was in a hurry to deliver bad news?
She dared not look out the window. Instead, she picked up some sewing and pulled the needle through the cloth. Look busy. Be calm, then surprised. Should she cry at the news of her husband’s demise? Or should she faint—fall deadweight into the sheriff’s arms?
Heavy boots clomped on the wooden porch planks. They stopped. A shadow appeared in the glass. The sharp rap on the door made her jump.
“Yes?” she called out in a strained voice.
“Sheriff Hawkins, Wilma.”
She put the sewing down and tried not to hurry to the door. Smile, she thought. Take a breath, she thought. And she did. Greet him with a pleasant, untroubled smile.
Wilma opened the door. Sheriff Hawkins stood there with his hat in his hands. He looked like he’d lost his best coon dog.
“Wilma,” he said softly.
“Sheriff? What is it?”
She was proud of the alarm she was able to put into her voice. Perhaps she had a flare for the dramatic. She made a mental note to check out some of the fine theatre companies in Denver. They would be looking for a leading lady of beauty and quality.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Wilma.”
“What? Tell me quickly Sheriff.”
“I’ve come to arrest you, Wilma.”
He held up a pair of handcuffs. The shock and disbelief on her face would make any of the finer theatres in Denver proud…if she’d been acting. The sheriff stepped into the parlor.
“You are charged with the attempted murder of your husband, Charles.”
Without thinking, Wilma dashed to the kitchen to escape through the back door. As she shot out of the house, she was greeted by Percy Pierpoint, who blocked her way.
“Afternoon Mrs. Ducette.”
He held up a gold badge. “I’m Randall Foster of The Service, a branch of the U.S. Marshals.”
Wilma felt red hot irons puncturing her chest. She put her hand to her throat.
“Wha…? You aren’t Percy Pierpoint?”
“No ma’am. Mr. Pierpoint has been rotting in jail for two years. I’ve been taking his contracts and saving lives…such as your husband’s.”
The sheriff had followed her outside. He caught Wilma in his arms as she fell back in a real faint.
Chapter One
I fell in love with Wilma Ducette the moment I saw her. She was a real firecracker with a wicked glint in her eye to boot. Of course she was now in jail, but my fantasies had been fueled just the same.
My name is Randall “Rattler” Foster. “Randy” to my friends, “Mr. Foster” to anyone under twelve and “Rattler”…well, no one knows that name. It’s an exclusive code name known to very few people in The Service, which is an offshoot of the U.S. Marshal’s Service. My job entails duties such as bringing in escaped prisoners, investigating rustlers and something my boss calls “undercover.” I get involved with outlaw gangs as an inside man and send information to my boss.
Harlon Shanks runs the regional office of The Service. It’s located in Dodge City, Kansas and our territory goes as far east as St. Louis, as far west as Denver. Wyoming forms the north boundary and New Mexico Territory forms the south.
For a man of fifty-eight years old, Harlon looks a lot younger. His brown hair is grey at the sideburns, and his craggy face could be a lot craggier. At six feet four inches and a lean, muscular, two hundred pounds, Harlon could still hold his own out in the field. The problem is, while he was on a job in the Dakotas, he got shot. In fact, it was the fifteenth time he’d been shot in the line of duty. But the Dakota bullet lodged near his heart. Even though it was small caliber, it couldn’t be cut out of him without causing major damage or death.
So Harlon handed in his gun for a desk. To tell you the truth, I think the inactivity and paperwork will do him in sooner.
I came to the attention of The Service when I was just past the age of twenty-one. I lived in Pleasant Valley, Colorado. Both my parents were teachers and like a dutiful son, I trekked to the nearest town that had a school without a teacher and took up the title.
One day in late spring, one of my students, Treva Spurlock, approached me after school.
“Mr. Foster?” she said in a timid voice.
Treva was fifteen, but looked younger. She was a small girl with a big brain. At times, I let her take the younger children out back and teach them their basic ABCs.
“What is it Treva?” She walked toward me slowly.
“Mr. Foster, I have a question.” For a terrifying moment, I thought she was about to ask me about the birds and the bees.
“Yes, Treva?”
“Well sir, you’re really smart. Probably the smartest person in eastern Colorado.”
I doubted this, but accepted the compliment with a smile.
“What can I do for you, Treva?”
“My family.”
On those two words, I totally understood. The Spurlocks had been in a famous feud with the McMahons for years. No one knew who started the animosity, but these folks just plain didn’t like each other.
Bruce McMahon, the grandfather, was said to have stolen a Spurlock pig. David Spurlock, Treva’s grandfather, was accused of burning the McMahon’s crops in retaliation. Their sons continued the rivalry with petty squabbles to bloody bar fights.
One of the classic bar fights ever, occurred in a skirmish between Spurlocks and McMahons. The Blue Hog was the only bar in Pleasant Valley. Since there were no other watering holes, it was inevitable that a Spurlock and McMahon would meet up and lock horns.
After seeing his place torn up numerous times, the owner of The Blue Hog painted a line right down the middle of his bar. One side was for the McMahons and the other side was for the Spurlocks. For a while, both families respected the boundary.
The trouble started on a lazy Saturday morning in May. Buck Spurlock walked wearily through the swinging doors. He’d been up all night setting fence posts for the northern boundary of the Spurlock property. He sat heavily at the bar and tapped the counter with his dirty fingernails.
“Let’s have a whiskey, Sam.”
The bartender eyed him in judgment. “A little early, isn’t it Buck?”
With bleary eyes, Spurlock slowly held up a silver dollar. “Whiskey,” he repeated.
Sam shrugged and