Jared Hackett

BOOK 1

BUT GLORY ALL THE SAME

Chapter 1

It had sleeted for many miles of the journey. Now, as the train climbed onto the Plateau, the man could see, through the December murk, that the sleet had turned to snow. This was old terrain to him, and he was reminded of long-past winter rides. Of cold camps, pitched where fire smoke was ill-advised. Of sentinels, hunkered below snowy skylines. Of hobbled horses, saddled for quick flight, their breath emitting steam into frosty air. He huddled into his top-coat and pondered on his memories.

The train pulled into Allison. The man was the only passenger to leave it there. He was not surprised. It was a small town. He recalled passing through the place, at the end of ‘64, when the outfit was watching Price’s back, on that general’s last ride back south. It had been no more than a village then. Judged by what he could see, it had made not much progress since.

It was growing dark. The wind, blowing across the unshielded platform, cut through the traveler, causing him to shiver. Like many Missourians, he was a tall man. He had been lean, but now had slid below the point where leanness shrinks to skin and bone. The long topcoat, now too large for him, lacked the snug fit that would have kept out the cold. He drew the coat around him, as the near freezing evening air rasped against his throat, searing his lungs, bringing on a coughing bout. It was a fit that lasted several moments.

The man breathed raggedly and walked onto the street.

The Town Marshal’s office did not take much finding. A light showing from within it, told that it was occupied. The man pushed open the door, and walked inside.

The lawman seated behind the desk looked up, his hand by the six-shot that lay upon his desktop. What can I do for you, Mister?

The skinny man studied him. George Meeker had not changed much, he thought. He appeared to be no heavier. There was grey around his temples now, though no more than a sprinkling, and he still had all his hair. His face was the same, beaten by weather, blunt-jawed, big-nosed. The lines were deeper maybe, but seemed not to have increased by many in number, and the gray eyes retained the thoughtful watching quality they had always had.

Then George, like so many of his kind, had done his ageing young.

The badge he wore now was the biggest change in him.

I’d have recognized you anywhere, George, the skinny man said.

The lawman’s eyes narrowed. His head tilted slightly to one side, in the manner of a dog with a problem.

Ben? Ben Hackett? This was half statement, half question. It held unpleasured surprise.

It’s me, alright. The skinny man was unfazed by the lukewarmth of the welcome. He had not expected the fatted calf.

George rose, and the man called Ben Hackett could see the Remington—partner to the one on the desk—worn guerrilla-style, to favor a fast draw from horseback. It was on the left-side of the belt, butt facing.

That figured. George always had been mostly right-handed.

What brings you here? the marshal asked.

Ben gave what might have been a grin. You know us Missouri boys. We do get kinda homesick.

You took your good time getting homesick.

With the observation, George Meeker looked at his visitor critically. The years had not been kind. Ben had had the same hard-riding leanness of the rest of them, but now it was not just fat he lacked. His face was haggard, its cheeks hollowed. Despite the sun and wind of years, it looked pale and sickly in the light provided by the office oil-lamp—save, that was, for the spots of color showing up on the high cheekbones. Ben had always been vain of his looks, and had preferred a clean-shave, even in the old days when beards were common currency. But now, George reckoned, the stubble on Ben’s skin was three days old at least, and he looked down-at-heel. The blue eyes were the same, though. They had a battle-hard coldness that missed nothing.

You’d best sit by the stove, the marshal said. Get yourself thawed out.

Glad of the invitation, Ben sat, feeling the wood-stove’s warmth begin to take away the winter chill.

George reached into a cupboard that flanked the rifle-rack on the wall behind the desk. He brought out a stone-jar and two glasses. I guess you could use some heat down inside, too.

He sounded now more like the George whom Ben remembered, notwithstanding the badge.

Ben accepted the proffered tumbler with gratitude, and lifted it to his lips. Perdition to the Union, he toasted. The liquor was good. Fiery and raw, just as he recalled. Remember how we used to swig her straight from the jug?

George chuckled. Things are a little more civilized nowadays.

So I’d heard. Ben took another gulp. Tequila’s a passable brew, but you can’t beat good old Ozark moonshine.

I’d heard tell you were in Mexico.

And I’d heard tell you were totin’ a badge.

And now you’re not in Mexico.

But you’re totin’ the badge.

There was silence for some seconds, as the two men held eye-contact.

Then George said, What brings you back, Ben?

Like I said, I’m homesick.

You can’t stay. You know that.

Wasn’t planning to. Leastways, not for long.

Ben held his glass for an offered refill, gulped some more, and coughed. As at the station, the coughing lasted some moments.

George leaned forward. Something resembling alarm showed in the watchful eyes. Are you all right, Ben?

Ben got his breath back. I’m okay. Unused to decent liquor, of late, is all.

You don’t look so good.

Ben grunted. Been on short rations. You said yourself, things are a little more civilized nowadays.

When did you eat last?

Breakfast. Yesterday.

George recorked the jug. We’d best put that right. It’s time for supper, anyway.

He stood. Taking down his heavy slicker from its hook, he locked the desk-top Remington in a drawer, and moved to the door.

Chapter 2

There was an eating-house across the street from where the jail stood. The two men ate pork and greens there, washed down with corn-whisky.

God! This is good. Ben belched with satisfaction. You’d travel far to beat good old Missouri fat-back. It’s been a lot of years.

Eighteen, at least, since you rode out.

Eighteen, Ben agreed. And twenty since the War.

Why did you keep on, Ben?

Bad loser, I guess. That remnant of a grin returned. Why did you give up the game?

There’s a time to hold ’em, a time to fold ’em, and a time to walk away. The note in George’s voice was matter-of-fact, held neither joy nor regret.

Guess there is, at that. Ben took a slug of his liquor. Some of us just didn’t see it. Figured, if we kicked hard enough, the table’d go over. He drew a ragged breath, a sigh almost. All of ’em gone now. Jesse dead. Frank God-knows-where. The Younger boys in the pen, up in Minnesota. Maddocks, the Millers...

He let the roll tail off.

You’re the last of them. George’s face was grim. He knew there was a question that had to come, a question that he did not welcome.

Among the last for sure, Ben said. And Laura? How is she?

The unwelcome question had come. It was a long second before the lawman answered it. She’s dead, Ben, he replied at last, a note of pain sounding in his voice. In the spring. Typhoid.

Dead? Ben’s sickly color had turned ashen. Typhoid, you said?

Yep. George nodded. There was an epidemic. I’m sorry, Ben.

Ben nodded his acknowledgement of this. An epidemic, you said? What about the boy?

He didn’t catch it, though he nursed Laura. And he’s not a boy, not anymore.

That made sense. Jared had been born at the end of the War. Around the time Bloody Bill’s old bunch—or what was left of it—was hiding out along the Little Blue, with Yankee patrols combing the back roads. That would make him nineteen now, going on twenty.

How has he grown? Ben asked.

He’s shaping up. George said this with a quiet pride, the kind an uncle might show, and Ben was reassured.

I’m glad. Ben was watching the marshal keenly. Does he know about me?

No. George shook his head. Laura wanted it that way. When she moved down here from Clay County, she claimed to be a war-widow. I was the only one here who knew the truth. I didn’t let on. Better for her and the boy that way.

Ben took a moment to digest this, then said, I guess you’re right.

George had a question of his own. Now he asked it. How did you come to find out? That Laura was here? That I was here?

Burt Clewlow passed through here. Saw you had the marshal’s job. Saw Laura on the street. Then he passed through Sonora.

The Marshal nodded, taking this in. He remembered Clewlow’s passing through. Burt had never amounted to much, and George had paid him no more mind—’til now.

And who’s the dead hero? Ben asked him. The one whose name the boy’s got?

Laura’s brother, Sam. You’ll recall, he got it up by Westport, with Jo Shelby’s Cavalry. Laura used her maiden name down here.

Sam Walker. A good man, Sam. Ben nodded an approval of a kind. I’m glad she didn’t raise the boy a Yankee. How’s he making out?

The Marshal shook his head. Truth to tell, not good. Laura opened a store here. It was always a struggle. When she died, the business was debt-strapped. Jared’s still trying to get things clear. He works hard, but his heart’s not in storekeeping.

Ben Hackett chuckled, despite all. A son of mine, it wouldn’t be. So, Laura never remarried?

How could she, not knowing for sure if you were alive or dead?

George said this in accusation, one that Ben let pass. Then, there was no defense he could have offered. He said nothing, as the marshal went on. It wasn’t for want of proposals.

There’d be no lack of those. Ben said this in a wistful, reminiscing way. Is she buried nearby?

In the cemetery. Just on the edge of town.

I’ll visit tomorrow. Then I’ll look up Jared.

You’re not gonna... the lawman began.

Introduce myself? No. I’ve done nothing for him, through the years. It’s kinda late to play the father now. I just want to see how he looks. Does he favor me, George?

The Marshal smiled. He does. I guess that made Laura pleased, deep down. Although there were times when it scared her. The smile became a chuckle. Like when I taught the boy to shoot. Laura was against it. But I talked her around. I figured that, even with things growing quieter, a man should have the basics.

Ben smiled in his turn. It was a real smile this time. Thanks for that, George. How does he frame?

Like a chip off the old block. Cool, good eye, and as fast as any I’ve come across. And feisty. Keeps a .44 to hand. God help the robber who tries his store for size, or anyone who fools with him. He’s a strange one, Jared, older than his years, somehow. He gets that from Laura, I guess. All in all, he’s got some good stuff in him.

The marshal paused. When you’ve seen Jared, what are your plans?

Ben shrugged. Don’t have any.

You can’t stay around here.

Why not?

You said it, yourself. I’m wearing a badge. And there’s still a price out on you. Two-thousand dollars.

After all this time? Ben showed surprise at the law’s long memory.

There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Ben.

Murder? Ben made a whistling sound between his teeth. I never shot a man who wasn’t armed and looking my way, George.

I know. But when the armed man looking your way’s a sheriff or a railroad guard, the law doesn’t take kindly.

This was fair, and Ben’s shrug signaled his acceptance. So how do things stand, George?

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You visit Laura’s grave. Then go and take a look at Jared. After Christmas, you be gone.

Ben considered this. Sounds reasonable. He pushed his plate away, and drained his whiskey-glass. They stood to leave.

Outside, George asked, You got anywhere to sleep?

Nope.

The jailhouse is warm enough. And the cells are empty right now. I’ll fix you some blankets.

Never thought I’d welcome that kind of hospitality. Ben’s laugh was one of genuine amusement.

Life’s full of surprises.

Ain’t it just. Ben shook his head at the irony of the thing.

Chapter 3

Ben Hackett spent some time in thought, that night. Then, despite the news about Laura and the memories it rekindled, slept sounder than a hickory log. Perhaps it was the Missouri hooch, or the stove-warmed jailhouse. Maybe it was the exhaustion of his drained out body, or the peace of mind that had come with the decision his thinking had led him to. Whatever the cause, he slept soundly, until George came to wake him.

Strange that. For more years than he could count, he had slumbered with one eye open.