“Poor bastard.”
Jake Ellis looked up from the blanket he planned to buy. Brett Hartford, the shopkeeper, stood so stiff he could have been held up by a post like a scarecrow. Brett polished his spectacles with a handkerchief as his gray eyes peered through the front window.
When Jake didn’t reply, Brett turned to look at him. “Felton Reeves. Poor bastard’s got a new bride on the way.”
The blanket fell from Jake’s hands, forgotten. “How many does that make? Five?”
Brett shook his head and returned his attention to the window. “This one makes his seventh.”
Jake joined the shopkeeper in his vigil. “Hell, that can’t be. You think he killed the others?”
Brett recoiled. “Jesus, Jake! That’s a hell of a thing to say.”
“I don’t know. Seems unnatural.”
Both men stared through the sun-waved glass for a while in silence. Brett cleared his throat and speared his spectacles back onto his face. “Anyone else, you’d probably be right, but not that fella. He couldn’t even kill the proverbial fly.”
They watched Felton’s stationary form dawdle outside the stage office. He was a short, skinny rail of a man, and he wore a bowler hat too small for his head. A nest of hair stuck out at all angles from beneath the brim. His child-like blue eyes twinkled in the morning sun, but anyone looking casually would have missed them. His large, goofy button of a nose distracted from them too much, to say nothing of his .45-sized Adam’s apple. A slow, nervous smile twitched between these attention-grabbers, just as the rest of his body ticked and shuddered. It wouldn’t have been so noticeable if his Sunday’s best weren’t so starched and tight.
No, Jake thought Felton couldn’t have killed them. The simp didn’t even carry a gun. How in hell did he live out in the middle of nowhere without a gun?
-
Joe Ridgway couldn’t believe his eyes. At first he thought he’d made a mistake—that maybe he’d had a few too many after-hours shots with the customers—but Felton Reeves still stood there after Joe rubbed his eyes. Felton rested as tall as his five-seven frame allowed, and his smile twitched like a gut-shot man trying to stay conscious. A dozen flowers sprouted from his clenched fist, and Joe knew what the man had in mind.
He played it dumb, anyway. “Mornin, Fell. What’s got ye into town on a weekday? Who’s workin’ yer fields for ye?”
“Oh, hey Joe.” Felton’s voice was almost high enough to be a woman’s. “No, I took the day off. I’m here to pick up Tessa.”
“Tessa?”
Felton’s baby-face lit up like a lamp. “Yeah, Tessa! She’s my new wife.”
Joe nodded. “Well, damn. Glad to hear it, Fell. ‘Bout time ye moved on. It gets lonely out there.”
Felton pursed his lips. “Yeah, it does.”
“Tell ye what. The Lucky Lou’s gonna open up again in a hour. Ye want, bring the new Mrs. Reeves along, and I’ll give ye a few drinks. Onna house.”
“Thank you, Joe. I appreciate it, but I don’t drink. Neither does Tessa.”
“Aw hell. That’s right. Forgot. Well, stop by anyway. Ah’d like to meet her.”
“Sure.”
Right, Joe thought. Tessa would be another mail order deal, but knowing Fell, he wouldn’t bring her by. He’d think her too much of a lady.
He tipped his hat and went on his way. When he got a block from Felton, he looked back to see the poor bastard still standing at the stage office, waiting. Joe thought about Fell’s backyard with six gravestones poking out of the ground and hoped this one didn’t die on him.
-
The scarf across his mouth didn’t keep much of the dust out, but it did a decent job as a safeguard. Matt coughed the grit out of his throat, and he could feel it caking the inside of the rag.
There was only one passenger in the stagecoach. Normally Matt would gripe and moan. He didn’t even have any deliveries to make. But at least Tessa Reeves had great beauty, and he liked looking at her. She had a back-east figure, nothing like these western gals who tended to be built like bricks. No, you could tell this one was a lady, and a proper one at that.
Too bad she had to be wasted on Fell Reeves.
There he stood, straight as a streetlight in front of the stage office. If Matt knew him at all, the poor bastard had been standing there for at least an hour. The dust already settled on Fell’s suit and bowler hat.
“Whoa!” Matt pulled at the reins, and the horses reared back to a jittering halt. A murky cloud kicked up from under the coach, and Fell coughed. He waved his free hand in front of his face.
Matt tied the straps to the brake and reached for Mrs. Reeves’ luggage. He handed it down to Hank, the sweaty bald clerk. Subconsciously he kept up some small talk patter with Hank, but he only found interest in Fell. The skinny bastard cautiously approached the stagecoach as if he expected some kind of trap. Then it was like he was a match, and God had struck him aflame. Fell’s face exploded into a smile, and he opened the door for his new bride.
Matt wanted to wish him luck with this one. He didn’t have high hopes, though. Mrs. Reeves didn’t look like she had the fortitude to survive in this forsaken land.
__________________________________________________________
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