Chapter Thirteen
Chicago, early spring, 1886
Dale Hunter sat in the office of US Marshal William J. Arnold and met the older man’s scrutiny without a flinch.
“Sure I can’t change your mind, Hunter?”
“No.”
“I could transfer you back to the Eastern Louisiana District.”
Dale shook his head. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Not in the South of his mother’s birth. Not in the North of his father’s. The only place he belonged was some remote piece of land where he could live alone, bothered by no one.
“I’m sorry, sir.” His tone was calm but implacable. “I’m tired of chasing moonshiners for the whiskey tax they haven’t paid, and I’m tired of arguing with local officials who resent federal intervention. In my three years as a deputy US Marshal I’ve saved most of the fees I’ve been paid. By now, I have enough for a down payment on a ranch where I can retire and live out my days in peace.”
Marshal Arnold’s broad face clouded. “Don’t give me that garbage. It sticks in my craw to hear a rich man talk about scraping together a few dollars.”
Dale spoke sharply. “My mother’s money is not mine.” He gritted his teeth, controlling the flare of guilt. He knew his mother had suffered more than any woman should. The War Between the States had destroyed her family—husband dead, daughter murdered, son’s quest for vengeance turning him into an outlaw at eighteen.
After eleven years outside the law, Dale had gained a pardon. His mother had expected him to take over the family business and find a suitable young woman to marry. Only he couldn’t do it. The nightmares stamped on his scarred face, the horrors that kept him awake at night made it impossible for him to fit into such a genteel lifestyle, and his refusal to follow his mother’s wishes had come between them.
“My mother’s money is not mine,” Dale said again, quietly this time.
Marshal Arnold cleared his throat. “Perhaps so. And I am grateful for the contribution you have made to the Marshals Service. Before I accept your resignation, I have one more assignment for you.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m done.” Dale got to his feet, unpinned the tin star within a circle from the lapel of his suit coat and placed it on the desk between them.
Marshal Arnold gestured for him to sit down again. “Hold on a mite, Hunter. Where is this ranch you plan to buy?”
Dale shuffled on his feet. “California.”
At his reply, Marshal Arnold gave a satisfied smirk. “California? That is very convenient. The assignment is in the Arizona Territory, only a stone’s throw away. You could travel at the government’s expense and continue to your ranch after you have finished the job.”
Dale considered the suggestion. Train fares were expensive, and his savings were barely enough to cover the down payment on the property he wished to buy.
“What is the assignment?” he asked.
“It’s about a woman called Rowena McKenzie.” Marshal Arnold leaned forward in his seat. “A lady, I’m told. She’s been indicted for murder and refuses to speak up in her own defense. The local sheriff is reluctant to hang a woman, and the federal marshal for the territory is newly appointed, not yet confirmed by the senate. He is wary of stringing up a lady and making a mistake. I’d like you to go over and figure it out.”
“That’s it?” Dale frowned. “I’ll review the evidence, make sure they haven’t overlooked anything, and if the judge decides she’s guilty, the local law will take care of the hanging?”
Marshal Arnold nodded.
Dale reached down, picked up the badge from the desk and pinned it on again. “I’ll wire my report to you.”
When he was halfway toward the door, Marshal Arnold called out after him. “The appointment of the United States Marshal for the Arizona Territory is pending confirmation and it wouldn’t be the first time the senate has rejected a candidate. If a promotion would persuade you to remain with the Marshals Service, the position could be yours.”
Dale pretended not to hear. In the three years since his pardon, he had avoided going back to the western territories. He’d lived in the steamy South, in the cold and damp North, but he had never had the courage to face the dusty desert landscape where coyotes barked at night and buzzards feasted on carcasses. And he doubted the wisdom of doing so now.
* * *
There was no mistaking the look of relief on the face of Sheriff Macklin in Pinares when Dale walked into the ramshackle office and introduced himself. A big, burly man in his fifties, with graying hair in a military cut, the sheriff barely glanced at the official papers Dale held out to him.
“You’ve come to take the prisoner away?”
“No,” Dale replied. “I’m here to help you decide if she should hang or not.”
He took off his long canvas duster and shook away the droplets from the drizzle outside. To his relief, Pinares was on high ground, surrounded by pine-covered hills instead of the red, dusty desert of his nightmares.
He’d taken the train as far as Holbrook, a lawless Arizona ranching town, where he’d bought a horse from the livery stable and ridden the remaining thirty miles south. Preferring to arrive in the morning, he’d camped overnight outside town.
Like always, his legs ached after a day on horseback. He didn’t walk with a limp, for after he’d been injured in the gunfight to break away from the outlaw gang, the best surgeons in the country had pieced together the broken bones. Even more important, his arms had healed well enough for him to draw a gun or throw a punch with the same skill and accuracy as before. When fully clothed, the only visible legacy of his lawless past was the crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek and the slightly uneven sound of his footsteps.
Sheriff Macklin scrambled to his feet behind his battered desk. “No time like the present.”
Dale hesitated. Although he no longer wore his jet-black hair down to his shoulders, it could do with a cut. He ran the palm of one hand along his jaw and felt the roughness of stubble. A lady, Marshal Arnold had told him. He brushed aside his scruples. A disreputable look might be helpful in persuading a gently bred female to provide answers.
“Is there a medical report on the victim?” Dale asked.
The sheriff extracted a bunch of iron keys from his desk, shut the drawer with a bang and halted, eyebrows raised, keys dangling in his hand. “You don’t know the details?”
“Only that you have a female prisoner who goes by the name Rowena McKenzie indicted for murder.”
The burly sheriff nodded. “That’s the gist of it. There is no medical report on the victim, for the body can’t be retrieved. Miss Rowena shot a conman who was trying to flee