South of Rising Sun

South of Rising Sun J.D. McCall *~*~*~* South of Rising Sun Presented by Western Trail Blazer Copyright © 2014 J.D. McCall Cover Art Copyright © 2014 Laura Shinn Design Consultation by Laura Shinn Licensing Notes All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This ebook is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. South of Rising Sun is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven. *~*~*~* Acknowledgements This book is dedicated to the memory of Albert Edmond Stewart, December 20, 1927 to November 1, 2013. Teacher, mentor, friend. Keep the door open for me, pardner. I'll be seein' you one of these days. Editing by Chase Nottingham, http://chaseediting.com. Thanks for the polish, man. It really shines! Many thanks to the following members of the Lecompton Historical Society for their help with researching the setting for this novel: Paul Bahnmaier, Beverly Bahnmaier, Vicki Leochner, Elsie Middleton and Iona Spencer. And thanks once again to my family for allowing me to devote time to this western obsession of mine. *~*~*~*

Chapter 1 An ungreased hinge warned of the visitor moments before he stepped from behind the open door. Two collies sprawled on the floor jerked their heads up, ears pricked. "Mind your boots. I just got done sweeping up after the last mush-head who stepped in horse dung," a voice said. "I lost twenty more over the past three days. That makes forty-nine in the last month. I want to know what you plan to do about it." A less than sympathetic face glared at the new arrival from its official position behind a flattop desk. "Mr. Harper," the seated figure said. "I spent eight nights last month freezing my hindquarters off while sitting on your ranch. All I got from it was a cold and a lack of sleep." Harper nodded in the direction of the coffee cup the man put down on his desk. "Well, maybe if you would do some looking instead of sitting, you might find the devils who are stealing my cattle!" "A man's entitled to a cup of coffee in the morning. And you know dern good and well I looked all over your blasted spread and never found anything. You've got five-thousand acres. How do you know your cattle didn't just wander off?" "Dammit, Denton! You know they did no such thing. You saw the horse tracks same as I did." "And they were impossible to follow. I did my best, but I cannot spend every day on your ranch just because you're unable to keep track of your livestock." Harper's face dimpled as anger and frustration tightened the muscles around his mouth and forced his lips to almost disappear. "I'm truly sorry you are having this trouble, Mr. Harper, but I have only myself to patrol the entire township and the surrounding area. I'm spread thin as it is, and despite what the newspapers would have people believe, things haven't settled down between Kansas and our neighbors to the east. That fool Jennison has got everyone on both sides stirred up since he hung those two pro-slavers last year. In the past month, I've looked after two house burnings, an attempted shooting and two instances where men were nearly beaten to death because they were on the wrong side of the slavery issue. And I consider us to be lucky. I'm certain things are much worse in the counties closer to the border now that hostilities have commenced for real." Denton gave a cursory nod to Harper and took another swallow of his coffee. "Yours isn't the only ranch to have lost cattle this year. My investigations turned no profit in those instances either. Most likely, folks are being raided by the hooligans Jennison has angered. They probably move the cattle over to Leavenworth or Johnson Counties where more of their bunch drives the herd on to Missouri. That would give them leave to come back for more." An awkward silence settled between the two as Harper stared and said nothing. Denton finally broke. "I know it does you no good at the moment, but now that we're officially a state, perhaps we may see the hiring of a few more deputies to help out with this problem." Harper damned his conciliatory remark with more silence before responding. "You're right about one thing; you're doing me no good at present." The lower half of his face relaxed, but his eyes narrowed and drew a harsh bead on the sheriff. "You might stop to consider how lucky you are not to have had your place set afire. With the war breaking out, a few missing cattle may turn out to be the least of your concerns." "So I'm on my own, then?"

"For now, there isn't much more I can do. I can offer you this, though. The federal marshal is in town. Why not find him before he leaves and see if he might be of some help to you? His name is Taggart. He should be easy to find." The hinge burst out with another woeful squawk, this time signaling the visitor's departure. Harper yanked the door shut behind him, the building façade shuddering against the force of his efforts. Morning chill caught each breath and thickened it to purling mist as he grabbed the saddle horn and heaved his considerable frame back onto his horse. For a moment, he hesitated. He was lost. Anger, disgust with Denton, or some persuasive combination of the two had blinded him to the obvious; he had left before Denton had given him a description of the man he was now seeking. It mattered little. There would be no more reliance on the sheriff. Not today. Laying the reins against its neck, he turned his mount into the street and toward several blocks of businesses to set upon his search for the answer to his troubles. Determined that it could not be too difficult to spot someone whose authority rose to the height of a federal marshal, Harper pushed onward through town, scouring the sidewalks for anyone who might show promise at fulfilling the role. The choices were few, limited by such an early hour to the morning and, to a lesser degree, by the unusual coolness hanging in the April dawn. Two passes up and down the street failed to procure sight of anyone who gave evidence of being a lawman. A third unrewarded pass was needed before a sense of urgency at last pushed aside his independence. He would have to ask for help. The rancher paused his horse in the street near a palomino hitched to the rail. Beside the mount, a gray-haired gentleman made notes on a writing pad as he sorted out the contents of the saddlebags it was wearing. The man seemed not to have noticed his arrival but continued the inventory of his possessions. Without glancing sideways to acknowledge Harper's presence, he said, "Mister, you've been up and down the street three times. I would guess you must be searching for something or someone." "I was told by the sheriff there was a federal marshal in town. Would you have any notion of where I might locate him?" "And if you did find him, what business would you have with him, if you don't mind my asking?" The man did not stop his work to look up. "That business is mine and mine alone, but I can see no harm in sharing the information with you. I need his help. Cattle rustlers have been stealing me blind for the last three months." "Federal marshals don't usually get involved in local matters. Have you visited with Sheriff Denton about your problem?" Harper tossed his head and huffed a disdainful breath. "I've talked with him, but he's been as helpful as a brick is to a drowning man. That's why I need to find the federal marshal." "Well, consider him found." Taggart turned and grinned, flipping the lapel of his canvas coat open to briefly expose his badge. Harper made no further move but sat atop his horse and stared. "Something wrong?" Taggart asked, still grinning slightly. "Oh . . . no! I had it in mind I would be looking for someone . . . well, a bit . . . younger is all." "And a little taller, perhaps?" Taggart waved his hand flat above his hat as he grinned wider at the man's discomfort. "I . . . of course not . . . honestly, I . . ." "No offense taken. I've had plenty of time to get used to being shorter than I was a few years ago. Falling through a hayloft will shave the inches from a fellow as swift as a careless barber can slit a throat."

Harper climbed off his horse and led it to the rail where the marshal's was tied. Taggart craned his head upward and looked at the man. A chasm no less than a foot separated him from Harper's spectacular six-foot-five height. "Tell me, Mr. . . . ?" "Harper. James Harper." "Well, tell me, Mr. Harper. Have you had your breakfast yet?" "I seldom eat breakfast. Lunchtime usually comes before I get hungry." "My mother used to tell me you had to eat breakfast to grow up big and strong. Looking at you, I suppose now I will have to rid myself of that notion. It goes to show you, most of the fool ideas a man clings to get skinned alive at some point, if he lives long enough. Come sit with me here in the Rowena, anyhow. That way you can tell me about your troubles without me getting a crick in my neck. By the bye, my name is Alistair B. Taggart." For the first time since waking, Harper's face expressed something other than a glower, though it challenged anyone to label it an actual smile. He extended his hand in greeting. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Taggart." "No need to be so formal; I'll answer to Al just as easily. Let me finish packing my things back up, then we can go inside." Taggart stowed his possessions and led their way into the Rowena Hotel Restaurant. "Take a seat over there," he said, pointing to a table close by. "I'll be with you in a moment." He left and went to talk to the manager of the establishment. After a brief conversation, he joined Harper at the table where he had settled himself. He took off his coat and sat across from his company. "You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Harper, for not making myself known to you as the first order of things earlier. A few years ago, a man came to me just as you did, asking where he could find the federal marshal. When I identified myself to him, he commenced to pull out a pistol and tried his best to shoot me. He mostly missed, allowing me the good fortune to pull my gun, whereas I was happy to send him off to meet his maker. To this day, though, I have no account of why he was so desperate to deliver me to the undertaker. I never did find out his name or anything else about him." "I can understand how that sort of thing could make a man cautious," Harper said. "You were lucky not to have been hurt." "I did say, ‘mostly missed.'" Taggart lifted his hat from his brow far enough to expose a thin track of skin which streaked from above his eyebrow almost to his hairline. The translucent pale scar looked ghostly in comparison to the deep tan surrounding it. "So tell me about your problems with the rustlers, Mr. Harper." "Not unless you address me as James. You will have me feeling too important for my station in life if you keep calling me Mr. Harper. And especially if I were to call you ‘Al.'" "Respect has been a scarce commodity in these parts for several years now. I like to do my best to keep the custom from dying out completely, as it is bound to become rarer in the months ahead. I suspect, though, a man of your considerable height gets his fair share most days. So tell me about your troubles, James." Harper managed a distressed smile. "Respect is not something I'm getting much of from these scoundrels who keep stealing my cattle. Since February, I've lost over a hundred and thirty. Many more months of this, and I'll end up losing my ranch." "You must have quite a herd. How many cattle do you boast?" "I normally keep between six and seven hundred head, grazed out over five-thousand acres. I'm now down to less than five hundred and fifty."

"Are you, then, the owner of the J and H Double Bar Ranch?" "Yes, I am." "I know exactly where your place is!" Taggart said. "I've made more than a few trips past it over the last couple of years. You have a mighty big spread there. Do you have anyone to help you with it?" "When I first started out, Al, I had more than thirteen hundred head and two hired men. In the last two years, the drought has cut the number in half, and I have had to let my ranch hands go. I manage the place all by myself nowadays." "Your circumstances have conspired to leave you even more vulnerable to such hijinks. There's little chance you could keep an eye on your cattle twenty-four hours a day." "There are many nights when sleep is hard to come by. My boy, Ben, was just recently starting to be of some help to me, but with the rustlers about, I'm fearsome of sending him out alone very often. He's only ten, and now with the war starting up, I have more reason than ever to hold him close to my vest." Taggart's reply stalled with the arrival of his breakfast. "Here you are, Marshal. Hope you enjoy it." The waitress served him a hamsteak which covered the entirety of the plate. Taggart thanked her and turned his attentions back to Harper. "I think you are wise to keep a close watch on your boy. The official conflict may never make it this far west. The unofficial hostilities are far more worrisome. So how long have you lived on your ranch?" "Six years. How much longer is anyone's guess." "I'm sure there will be a resolution to your problems before much time passes. Tell me, what help has Denton given you with your situation?" "Buckshot? He spent eight nights last month on my land looking over things. These varmints always seem to strike under the cover of darkness. Nothing happened, though, during his watch, so he gave up. Now, he seems to have no interest in finishing the job." "Denton is still smarting over not getting appointed sheriff when they moved the county seat. He figured since he was already deputy sheriff before the move, he would get the position when Jones resigned, only he didn't have the support among the Lawrence bigwigs. If not for Sutter and Wilkes, he wouldn't have been kept on as a deputy." "It must have really rankled him then, to miss getting appointed a second time when Sherrard was killed," Harper said. "I certainly won't claim it helped his disposition any. Being stationed this far away from Sheriff Walker's oversight, I am not surprised his incentive is lacking. Have you given thought to seeking Walker's help?" "I'm afraid we don't get much consideration out here from anyone in Lawrence, due to our unfortunate reputation as a pro-slavery town. I think sometimes that's why Buckshot was placed out here—as a punishment for us." "I can see why you might think such." Taggart finished carving several bites from his ham. "Are you sure I cannot offer to buy you some breakfast?" "That's very kind of you but no. Even if it were lunchtime, I would still be too perturbed to eat." "Has Denton offered you any speculations as to who may be behind your predicament?" "He thinks they could be coming from across the border to stir up trouble. I'm not sure I put much stock in his opinion. There's very little evidence to draw such a conclusion from."

"The possibility has to be given consideration, for now. It might also provide justification for me getting involved. What about the men you had to let go when business went bad? Would either of them be out to make things even?" "I have no cause to believe they would be behind this. Both are honest men. One is a deacon in the First Methodist Church. The other," he said, letting slip a chuckle, "is scarcely let out of his wife's sight long enough to find himself caught up in any mischief." "Wrongdoing will often hide where it thinks others will least likely see it. In the case of a watchful woman, though, few places lie out of her sight." Taggart took a bite of his meal, then inquired further. "What thoughts have you on the matter, James?" "I don't know what to think. Some I've talked with believe they must be coming be from Rising Sun, but I cannot put a whole lot of stock in what they say." "Rising Sun is full of horse thieves and perhaps a cattle thief or two, but they would have to ford the river in both directions. The way back would be a treacherous one herding stolen cattle, even with the Kansas so low from the drought. No, they aren't from Rising Sun, I would wager. Have you found sign of any account?" "There have been few clues left by whoever is robbing me; the weather has been uncooperative in that matter. We've only found horse tracks once since this started, and they faded out after a short distance. I've been unable to make sense of any tracks left by my herd." "I would like to see what I can make of them, but I need not keep you here any longer. I'll ride out to your place this afternoon, and we can talk more while we look over your property." "So you'll help?" "As I mentioned, this is not the sort of thing I'm usually a party to, but I cannot let a man lose his property and home simply because he's unable to find someone who gives a damn, if you'll pardon my language." Harper rose to his full height. "I'll be expecting you this afternoon, then. I appreciate you investigating the matter for me, Marshal . . . Al. A few more weeks of their deviltry will surely put my ranch under. I'm sorry, though, to have cast all my problems onto you before your breakfast. I'll let you get to it." He smiled, but it only became tangled up with the furrows in his brow to give the pitiable look of someone still hoping against long odds. "Try to keep your spirits about you. We'll get to the bottom of things before long," Taggart said. "I'll see you this afternoon." From his formidable vantage point, he shook Taggart's hand and left the marshal to finish his breakfast. Taggart took a few more bites of his food and threw his napkin on the table, leaving much of the plate covered with ham. He slipped on his coat and dug ten cents from a pocket to leave for the woman who served him. At the counter, he paid for his meal and then left. *~*~*~* Chapter 2 Wilfred Murrow threw two silver dollars into his register, fished some change from the drawer and handed the coins and a receipt to Taggart. "Are you certain, Marshal, I cannot interest you in a bottle of this Turlington's Balsam of Life? Guaranteed to make you feel like a . . . a spring chicken, as the young folks say these days!"

"I think it much safer to stay an old rooster. They seldom end up in a stewpot. Besides, I have as much now as my saddlebags will carry today. Thanks just the same." Taggart cradled his sack of supplies in one arm and walked out of Leamer's General Store. He could not blame the merchant for trying to peddle his patent medicine or any of the other things Murrow had tried to talk him into purchasing before he could leave. Murrow had probably not made the best of decisions in buying Leamer out a couple of years earlier. Taggart remembered back to a few years ago when so much money changed hands on Elmore Street, it was known as "the Wall Street of the West." But Lecompton had been slowly fading away in the four years since they had taken the shine off of her rising star by making it clear the town's status as territorial capital would not translate into state capital-hood when Kansas finally entered the Union. Some looked at the slight as punishment for the underhanded way the territorial legislature in Lecompton had drafted and passed the state's pro-slavery constitution. Debate over the Lecompton-wrought document had ignited a fifty-man brawl on the floor of the U. S. House of Representatives which only ended when two Republican congressmen pulled the wig off a Mississippi Democrat and declared he had been "scalped," causing the melee to break up in laughter. With the eventual rejection of the Lecompton constitution, no more money was forthcoming to finish construction on the state capitol building. Coupled with the moving of the county seat to Lawrence, it was little wonder, then, folks in the town felt like they were being treated a bit unfairly. Taggart was not so sure Lecompton's misfortune was borne of retribution, though. He thought it more a simple case where things were just not meant to be. Taggart had liked the place since he had first been stationed there, but to him it never had the feel of a city destined to become a state capital. Something about the cluster of quick hills it sat upon seemed to overpower the town, cutting it up into sections and isolating them away from one another. No matter which direction you chose to cast your gaze in, the terrain tightly corralled the view and made the place seem smaller and less significant than any city of five thousand inhabitants should have been made to feel. Since they moved him to Topeka in the two years preceding, Taggart had been watching the crown jewel of Kansas dwindle from afar. More than half of her fickle inhabitants had now abandoned her beauty for the siren calls of Lawrence and Topeka on either side. Dozens of houses now stood silent and empty across the town. In some cases the abandonment was crueler yet, with houses being dismantled and spirited away to her rivals, leaving only barren tracts of land to give testimony of her having once been adored. And the weekly desertions continued unabated. Most of the Lecompton merchants along Elmore Street's sloping thoroughfare had hung on in the years since her dreams of capital-hood had been trampled on, but their livelihoods were being stealthily drained away, a customer at a time. On the sidewalk to Taggart's left, a man approached from some distance. His gait bore the unmistakable sign of determination, and he wore an expression which left the marshal with only one expectation: the morning was about to get more complicated. Taggart saw no gain in waiting for the man to approach; the events of the morning would play out regardless of his own preferences. He lifted the flap on Jinx's saddlebag and began placing his purchases inside. Before he could finish, the course of his morning had presented itself. "You there!" The man did not wait for a reply. "From the description of your mount given to me by Sheriff Denton, I have to assume, then, I am addressing Marshal Taggart. I shall require your assistance. Someone has relieved me of property which is rightfully mine."

"You say Denton has referred you to me? Well, now, you've left me with a difficult choice this morning. I'm unsure as to whether I should give part of my wages to Mr. Denton for finding work to keep me occupied or whether he should donate part of his salary to me for doing his job for him." Taggart finished stowing his merchandise. "So what property are you missing, and who do you suspect has deprived you of it?" "The person who stole my property is the very property which was taken from me." From the outset of his solicitation, Taggart had bristled with an intuitive dislike for the gentleman. These last words to spew from the man's lips provided ample justification for the feeling. "And who did you say you were, again, and what is your business here?" "I did not say, but I will do so now. I am Harrison J. Symington. I reside in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, and I have business to conduct in this community, the nature of which is of no concern to anyone but myself. Last evening I made arrangements for my slave to bed down in the livery stable at the Capital Hotel where I am staying, and this morning he had disappeared without a trace. Without his services, I am want to ferry my goods back to my home and shall be stuck here until I either find him or can make arrangements for one of my other servants to travel here to help. Needless to say, I am furious over the situation. And after I paid good money for the ungrateful wretch to have a nice straw bed for the night!" "Mr. Symington, at the risk of sounding rude, I feel compelled to inform you I have little sympathy for your problem. The very notion there exists an institution which allows one man to own another for the purposes of treating him as a beast of burden is an offense to humanity." Symington's back arched. "Your opinions are of no concern to me. I require only your assistance, not your personal beliefs. I have been deprived of my rightful property, and it is your duty as an officer of the law to secure its return." Taggart took a step toward the man. Symington's posture retreated at the advance even as he remained rooted to the spot. "I do not need you, sir, nor any other man to tell me what my duty is. The property you refer to is a human being, and I cannot fault him for believing he had good cause to leave you. In case you are behind the times, Kansas outlawed slavery and has entered the Union as a free state." Symington stiffened himself once more. "And may I remind you, sir, Missouri is still a part of that Union, making the Fugitive Slave Act still enforceable between our two states, regardless of Kansas's personal liberty laws. President Lincoln has stated his intention that all existing federal laws will continue to be upheld. By his declaration, you, sir, as a federal marshal, are legally bound to uphold that law or else face punishment under its provisions. Now perform your duties, or I will invoke the law to compel you to." "What I feel most compelled to do right now is to plant the heel of my boot firmly against your backside, but unfortunately I cannot do so. Your help has probably long since fled the city, and I have official business I need to attend to this afternoon. I don't have time to go on a goose hunt for your man." "I have good reason to believe he is still within the town. He was seen leaving the livery early this morning by someone. That still leaves most of the morning for you to pursue him. Now, are you going to assist me, or do I need to take this to a higher authority and see that you are fined under the law?" A few moments of silence accompanied Taggart's glare. "I'll help you," he said, still fighting a sincere urge to make use of his boot. "Not because of any threats you've made; a thousand dollar fine would be worth the cost to avoid aiding and abetting this miserable institution of

yours. No, I will do it because as a law officer, I cannot pick and choose which laws I enforce. Don't fool yourself into believing I am in any way bending to your will." "As long as my property is returned to me, I do not care what your reasons are. How do you plan to proceed?" "Since your man departed from the livery stable, I will begin there. I do not hold out high hopes for being able to track him. A man afoot leaves a much harder trail to follow than a horse. And in a town full of other people, it will be harder yet." "I would not be surprised to find that someone in this community is harboring him. If we cannot find him, I shall be delayed for days," Symington said. "And if we do find him, he is going to wish with all his might that we hadn't." Taggart's brows slammed downward and his eyes narrowed as if to crush the man caught in their gaze. He immediately filled the space between himself and Symington, backing him against the hitching rail. "If you believe I'm going to help you find your slave, only to stand by and watch you beat him, then God never put anyone more foolish on this earth. Your slave's desire to be rid of you strikes me as having the ring of common sense to it." "You . . . you have no right to interfere in my affairs! You, sir, are nothing more than a public servant and a not too helpful one in my estimation. From the very moment I enlisted your help, you have insulted me and failed to give me the proper respect I believe I deserve." "Well, now. Seems the Almighty has blessed you to have given mankind such a long lifespan. You should still have plenty of time to rethink your opinion of yourself." Taggart turned away and gave back the man's space. "We are wasting time, though, standing here discussing the merits of your position. If I'm to look for your slave, I need to get started. Meet me at the livery stable." He paid Symington no more mind. He mounted up and pushed on to his new destination. ***** "You say the far stall is the one you bedded down this man's slave in, Mr. Cooper?" Taggart nodded at Symington on his left as he asked his question. "Yes. I had him clean the area out and put down fresh straw for himself and gave him several horse blankets to stay warm with," Cooper said. "He wasn't chained?" "I have taken many trips with a slave in tow," Symington said. "Not once have I chained any of them, and not once did I have one run off until now. They all knew better." "Perhaps, Mr. Symington, you should have taken advantage of all this soft straw and bedded down here also to have better kept an eye on him." "Well, Marshal, I would have found him room in the hotel, but as you well know, they won't have a Negro in their fine establishment. Seems they are good enough to be free in your state, but otherwise, they fare no better than anywhere else." "Your point is well taken but not taken well by me. Perhaps they're not especially welcomed, but at least here they don't feel the sting of the whip. Mr. Cooper, may I see the bottom of your shoe, please?" Cooper lifted his leg and tried to lay his boot across his other thigh, taking three stabs at it before steadying enough for Taggart to get a look. "Mr. Symington, I assume your slave was wearing some sort of footwear? Incidentally, what is the name of your man?" "His name is Jerome, if that matters to you. And of course he was wearing shoes. I do not make my slaves go barefoot." "I will ask you gentlemen to remain here so as to not obscure the footprints near the stall, if they haven't already been so."

Taggart walked to the enclosure and knelt in front of it. Before him, two sets of prints mingled carelessly in the dirt, amassing a confused account of earlier events. No matter. Many times he had made sense of tracks more cluttered than these. This time would be no different. Crushed atop Cooper's boot print, Taggart soon picked out the indentation he would rely on. It was of a partial heel, distinguished by a protruding nail that tore a ragged hole in the soil each time it was lifted. Examination of other footprints confirmed it was no random mark. He rose and walked the trail out of the stable and into Third Street with Symington tailing behind. Taggart followed the faint tracks until he reached the hard-packed main street of Elmore once again, where the prints soon lost any conviction and faded from view. "I was afraid of such luck. Our trail has deserted and left us to wander one of our own choosing. The wisest course, then, for us to take now would be separate paths. Let's assume for the moment your man did not double back and head in the opposite direction. Mr. Symington, I suggest you take the other side of the street and mouse about behind the businesses and alleys for places he may have concealed himself. I will do the same on this side." Symington protested. "I am no tracker. How do you expect me to do your job?" "Mr. Symington, if you are unwilling to lend a hand to your own cause, then perhaps your property is not as dear to you as you led me to believe. Were all your protestations for real, or were they just the whining of a man who is unaccustomed to not having his own way?" Symington huffed, his indignation covered over with a pasting of embarrassment. "Of course I want my property back! Why would I not?" "Then do as I say; my time is a wasting. I informed you earlier I had already promised it to others this afternoon. If you help, we can cover twice the ground than if I were to search alone. By delaying, you're only giving your man more time to evade capture." Symington opened his mouth to object but clamped it shut again. Taggart had lain the trap, and now he had no choice but to let himself be snared. Any argument at this point would make him appear foolish. Still, acquiescence came hard to Symington, and he did not conceal his pique at being outmaneuvered. Every aspect of his manner suggested unhappiness and frustration as he stalked off across the street to begin his part of the search. With Symington distracted, Taggart resumed his tracking. While true enough the outline of fleeing shoes had been cast off by the hard clay street, the soil possessed no such defense against the small feature the marshal had earlier noted. A single stride beyond where the last print had failed to take, a small but jagged hole lay gouged into the dirt and repeated down the street. As long as its maker stuck to the road, and the rest of the "chatter" left in the street's surface did not grow too heavy, Taggart rated his chances fair to good. Early on, his quarry's haste had become evident as the marks grew wider in stride. Following on the heels of this particular man's desperation, vague unease descended upon Taggart's sense of purpose. He was heading into territory which he had never before explored, and no longer was the path clear to him. A decision loomed, and none of the choices available seemed to have much in the way of comfort to offer him. Taggart fixed his eyes on the ground and let the trail coax him across the intersection into the next block, where it seemed to stall at the edge of the sidewalk. The marks were plentiful and random over a small area, so he allowed something or someone had delayed their owner at least a few moments. Taggart swept the street a while before he caught them again breaking east on Woodson Street and then down the alley behind the block of businesses. Grass and weeds in the unkempt passageway at once swallowed up the marks, but Taggart found that to be of little hindrance. Few men had ever been lucky enough to invite him to a prairie dance without soon

learning they had picked the wrong partner. A change in sign would not stop him. Stop him from what, though, he was unsure. Focusing on nothing in particular, Taggart held his gaze steady down the weedy lane, letting go of any expectations of what to look for. To an ordinary eye, the alley vegetation offered no knowledge of past interlopers, but Taggart's tracking skills had never been ordinary, even as a youngster. He had his own way of teasing secrets from a trail, more an innate ability than a method suited to teaching others. Scant seconds passed before subtle differences in the flora began to materialize in front of him: the almost imperceptible shading of re-oriented grass stalks, the ever so slightly skewed angle to the taller plant stems. It leapt out at him now, indelible and leading to a set of doors covering the entrance of what he judged to be the cellar of Leamer's General Store. Taggart walked to mid-block and stopped in front of the barricaded entryway. He reached down and tugged on the right door handle. The covering swung up, and he laid it all the way over, examining it around the interior handles. A groove worn into the wood confirmed what he expected; these doors were normally barred through the handle from the inside. A business on either side of Leamer's boasted a cellar entrance similar in nature, but the trail avoided them in favor of this one. This meant the odds were high his quarry knew where he was going, and someone had unbarred the door for him from the within. A faint light illuminating the bottom few stairs made it even more likely someone was still inside. Taggart swung the left side open and stepped onto the top of the stairwell. Regardless of whether he was a slave running from a master or an outlaw trying to escape a hangman's noose, a man on the dodge could inflict considerable damage. Taggart already had a fair notion of his tolerance for physical pain and fancied no useful knowledge to be gained by testing its limits. He reached for his holster and drew a pearl-handled Army model Colt. The marshal hugged the wall and eased himself down the steps until he entered the cellar proper. Inside lay a graveyard of castoff goods, seemingly exiled there to die by an owner whose unfathomable attachment for them would not allow for a proper burial in the town dump. Stowed in rows of disorder, they afforded anyone with reason to hide welcome opportunities to conceal himself among their remains. Not one to hand advantage to an adversary, Taggart waited at the foot of the stairs for his eyes to reconcile with the shadowy interior. Ready, he edged deeper into the space, quietly along the first row of junk until the first blind corner confronted him. He threw only his leg out past the edge and braced for a response. There was nothing. No sound. No movement. He stepped from his cover. Peripheral vision assured him there was no danger. He turned to the right and crept through another corridor of discarded goods. Still no sign of anyone. Moving into the intersection, he spied a canvas walling off a small area to his left. Taggart approached and reached for the curtain. He yanked the material back. The tension siphoned away as his breath let out. It was empty space. Taggart prowled through another aisle of rubbish. It was a dead end, one that he might have ignored save for the fixture terminating its run. Oriented just so, lamplight fell directly upon the tall cabinet. Among a channel of rummage draped with shadow, it was the only object in brave defiance of the darkness. He approached the wardrobe. One door stood slightly ajar, unable to close because of a wood split along its hinge side. Taggart picked up what must have once been an axe handle from the pile of discards and readied himself. Using it to keep his distance, he stood to the side and flipped the door open. Again, nothing. He poked the stick inside the edge of the other door and

pried it loose. A face leapt into view. Framed in a tangle of cobwebs, it had a look of raw fear frozen onto it. Defenseless against Taggart's pistol, it stayed there, as if wanting to fade into nothingness in the back corner. Taggart found little satisfaction to be had from his success. Admitting he had lost a fugitive would have caused him less discomfort than weighing the choices now battling it out for his favoritism. But he could not avoid it any longer. The dilemma was staring him in the face and there could be no compromise among the solutions. Sense of duty or sense of morality. Those were his only choices. As a man of the law, the two had always been fully wedded in his eyes, a single principle from which he never wavered. Now they were split in a bitter conflict which pitted brotherly ideals against one another. Whichever principle he chose, it would stand alone, without benefit of the other. It had to be the one he could live with. That Symington was a blustering, self-inflated windbag, Taggart had no doubts. Whether he was a vengeful bag of wind was anyone's guess. The marshal, though, could only protect the slave from his owner's wrath as long as he was present. The pitiable expression on the man's face drove home one inescapable fact to Taggart: once they were banished from his sight, he no longer had any say in the outcome. The deciding vote cast in this private controversy, though, had its roots in a personal experience not distant enough in memory for Taggart's liking. Some nine years ago, he had traveled to Kansas City without his family to visit his mother for the weekend. Back then, not a trace of gray was to be seen in Taggart's hair, his black locks having been passed on by the father who had died before he was born. His paternal part-Cherokee ancestry also bestowed upon him another trait, a propensity to tan nearly to the shade of saddle leather. The day of Sunday morning, he donned his usual white shirt and string tie and walked to church by himself, leaving his gun behind out of reverence for his chosen house of worship. Afterwards, he began the return journey to his mother's residence, making it halfway there when a voice called out. "Stop yourself there, nigger. What are you doing here on your own?" Taggart turned, wondering what commotion was behind him. He saw no Negro anywhere, but two men were staring at him. One pointed a gun in his direction. "If you gentlemen are referring to me, you best take a long, careful look before you address me again. I am no colored," Taggart said to them. "I am a white man, same as you." The man with the pistol waved his gun farther in Taggart's direction. "You may not be full nigger, but you are at least mulatto, making you just the same as a nigger and worth a pretty penny as a runaway." Anger flushed Taggart's face, but the hue could not escape from beneath his bronze skin. "You men seem to have no notion of how much misery you are about to bring down upon yourselves. Before you carry on with more of your foolishness, I suggest you let me show you who you are attempting to waylay." Taggart carefully reached into his shirt pocket and took out his badge. He pinned it to himself and glared at them. "Are you aware of the penalty for aiming a weapon at a federal marshal? Depending upon what I write in my report to the judge, you might find yourself with a year's worth of accommodation behind bars." Taggart's words and actions lost them their smug grins, but the man sporting the revolver persisted. "If you are a marshal, where is your gun?" "I am not in the habit of carrying a gun to church. I suspect God tends to frown on those who do. And even if I had no concern for God's opinion, they are much too cumbersome to wear

comfortably in a pew. Now, I'll not oblige you with any further warning save this one. Put away your weapon, or I will place you under arrest." A moment dragged by before a more circumspect look at Taggart's features, along with his producing the badge, convinced the pair things might be less in their favor than once thought. The man tucked his Colt Paterson back into his pants waist. Taggart walked to within mere inches of man who had held him at gunpoint. "So you are slave catchers, are you? No doubt your plan was to claim me a runaway and collect the reward before you eventually saw the error of your ways and thought better of it." Before the man could answer, Taggart's left hand was around the gun's grip, thumb cocking the hammer. The barrel still in the man's pants, Taggart angled it toward his crotch. "Let me give you a bit of advice. Find a rope and secure your gun elsewhere on your person, lest accidentally, you or someone with a fast hand takes it upon himself to relieve you of that part of the anatomy which we gentlemen all hold so near and dear to our sense of purpose as a man." Taggart yanked the pistol from the man's trousers as an angry fist slammed into his jaw. The man staggered and fell on his rump. The marshal turned to the other one and asked, "Where are you from?" "Carthage. We are from Carthage," he blurted, visibly rattled by the odd twist Taggart had placed on events. "Well, here is my next piece of advice to the two of you. Find your horses and get yourselves back there, for if I see you again today or any other, I will not think twice before I arrest you." The man on the ground held his jaw with one hand and protested. "Wha . . . What about my gun?" "What about it? Would you like me to arrest you with it here and now?" "No, sir. No, I would not." "Then pack yourselves down the street and out of town before I reconsider. I'll drop off your firearm with the city marshal as I pass through Carthage on my way home. You can inquire about it with him in two weeks. Now get along with you." The man got up and joined his friend. Together they hurried themselves out of the marshal's sight. Taggart's recollection of the event was over in a few seconds, but the memory of his outrage did not desert him so easily. If any doubt to his course of action had lingered in him, reliving the near loss of his own self-determination erased it. His path was chosen, and there would be no backing away. He smiled and lowered his weapon. "Come on out. I promise no harm will come to you. Jerome is your name, is it not?" The man clambered from inside the cramped bureau. "Yessir. Jerome Jenkins," he said softly. Seeing Taggart holster his gun, his expression shed some of its fright, but a healthy portion remained. That which was lost was replaced by shadings of despair. "Mr. Jenkins, I am Marshal Alistair B. Taggart. Your mas . . . Mr. Symington enlisted me to fetch you back to him. It was my intention to do so, but I have since discovered that my conscience will not allow me to re-inflict the misery of slavery upon another human being. I may get into serious trouble for doing so, but I am going to help you keep your freedom." The crush of relief which burst upon Jenkins's soul drove him to his knees as he grabbed Taggart's hand in both of his and pressed his forehead against the marshal's knuckles. "Oh, thank you! God bless you, sir! You is truly a saint to help a colored man! Praise the Lord! Thank you! Thank you so much!"

"Please get up, Mr. Jenkins. I appreciate your gratitude, but you do not need to thank me. I am doing this to keep my conscience clean as much as I am doing so for your sake." Jenkins rose to his feet. "Mr. Taggart, you is a mighty blessed man for helping me, but no one ever called me "Mr." before, ‘specially no white man. I ain't too comfortable bein' called "Mr." Maybe you should jus' call me Jerome." "If you are going to be a free man, perhaps you should get used to the title. But if you prefer me to, I will address you as Jerome, on one condition: that you address me as Al." "Ohhh, no sir! It ain't right. Callin' a white man by his first name? No one ever ask me to do that before." "Well, then, how do you expect for us to be friends if I am to call you Jerome, and you keep referring to me as ‘Mister'? One of us is going to be at a disadvantage over such a disparity. I assure you, I would be quite comfortable if you were to call me Al." For the first time, Jenkins relaxed enough to slap some of the dust off himself and sweep his hair for cobwebs. "Meanin' no disrespect an' all, Mr. Al, but . . . you is mighty peculiar, even for a white man. Ain't no white man ever say he want to be friends with me till you come along." "Mr. Al!" Taggart laughed. "I can be satisfied with ‘Mr. Al,' if such a compromise feels better to you. Or you can call me, ‘Marshal.' And as for being peculiar, I suppose there are some who might consider me so, even for a white man. But not all white men are like your Mr. Symington. Mr. Murrow, for example. I suspect he's been sympathetic to your cause and given you shelter here. Am I correct?" "Yessir. He say he know someone from Lawrence who is gonna come take me there and sneak me out on the Railroad." "How many days before he arrives?" "Mr. Murrow, he think nine, maybe ten days before he can makes it here." "Ten days is a long wait, and this is hardly a suitable place in which to stay for such a period of time. And now that I've cajoled Mr. Symington into helping look for you himself, he may decide to keep nosing around after I abandon my part of the search. I believe it would be wise of me then, to see about finding you some other place to hide. I will talk with Mr. Murrow and see what can be arranged. In the meantime, Jerome, you should bar the doors from the inside and keep them that way." "Thank you, Mr. Al. You has a mighty good heart in you. I'll do what you say. God bless you, sir!" "We will both need God's blessing to see this through. You remain hidden here for the time being. I cannot say how quickly I can arrange for you to be lodged elsewhere, but expect in two days' time I'll do something to improve your situation. Until then, good luck." Taggart climbed the steps out of the cellar and lowered the doors back over the stairwell. Scraping noises from the other side satisfied him Jenkins had indeed barred the doors through the handles. His course now settled, he allowed himself a few moments of reflection. There was no regret running through his head; he had buried his earlier conflict. Not so deep as to keep it from thumping on the coffin lid now and then, for a little stir of conscience was good for a man when he had to weigh his choices. But once a decision was made, there was no point in letting selfdoubt dig its way out. That only led to hesitation, and more often than not, hesitation was likely to get a man killed in his profession. If you had a need to wallow in regret, best to do it looking down from heaven after you proved yourself wrong.

Taggart's real need at the moment was to work out the details of how to follow through with his intent. He lacked all the answers yet, but for now, he could act on the parts already in place. To fully vest Symington in his ruse, he would have to meet up with him at the end of the next two blocks, lest the slave owner be underwhelmed by the thoroughness of his search. Taggart walked the distance and sat down on a tree stump jutting from the ground behind the Palace Barbershop. When he deemed enough time had passed for Symington to have made it as far, he withdrew from the alley and stepped onto Elmore to look for him. Taggart's preference would have been for Symington to somehow get lost so he would never again have to lay eyes upon him, but that pleasure was to elude him at least another day. In another few minutes, Symington completed his search and stepped into view on the other side of the street. "Well? Were you able to uncover anything?" Symington asked. "Nothing I would care to waste your valuable time with," Taggart said. "What of you? Did you discover any clue as to his whereabouts?" "I did not find so much as a shoeprint, regardless of how many feet may have trampled the area. Perhaps it would not hurt for me to take a second look on side of the street you covered." "And what would be the point of doing so?" "Well, according to you, Marshal, his trail did disappear on this side of the road. And you have not exactly shown inclination to pursue my missing property with any real, shall I say, ‘enthusiasm.'" "Mr. Symington, were you anyone else, you would face some serious consequences over your implications. However, my time is too valuable to spend on such an endeavor. I was going to suggest we retrieve our horses, if you have one, and scout the rest of the town for any sign of your man, but since you are intent on covering ground I have already searched, it's obvious that you are not going to take my advice nor do you feel I'm up to the task. I am therefore wasting my time and yours. I hereby consider my obligation to you fulfilled and leave you to conduct your own search. Good luck with it, sir." Taggart spun and walked off, leaving his unwanted company with his mouth hanging. He had shed himself of Symington's presence by only a few yards when the man found his composure. "No. Wait . . . I still need your help. I cannot search the entire town on my own. It is too much area for one person. Please . . . come back! I admit, my words were ill-chosen and spoken in frustration. . . . I apologize. Please, will you reconsider?" Such a perfect opportunity to forever part company with Symington pitted desire and need against one another, but Taggart understood the advantages to keeping one's enemies close. A change in tactics was warranted. He turned around and walked back to Symington. "I understand the frustration at losing your property, Mr. Symington, and yes, I see that it has greatly inconvenienced you. Let us make good use of the remaining time I have today to help you. If you will take the south side of town from Fourth Street, I will search the north. Perhaps we'll catch sight of your slave through our mutual effort. I need to visit Leamer's General Store before I start, though. This whole business has reminded me I left one item off my list of things to get earlier. We can meet back here at noon." "Very well, then. I will get started. I will see you at noon, Marshal." Symington did not look back. He hurried off to find his horse, as if afraid Taggart might renege on his offer given the chance. Taggart showed no haste in his own departure, standing on the sidewalk and casting a long eye at Symington as his silhouette shrank with distance. When enough space separated them, he set out for Leamer's a few blocks down, stopping outside the door when he arrived. He stood

only a short while waiting for Murrow's lone customer to finish browsing before the urge to get on with his business overcame him, and he entered before the woman left. Murrow was behind the counter, humming "Down in the Valley" to himself as he unpacked some trinkets from the excelsior cushioning them. "Good morning once again, Marshal. Did you change your mind about the Turlington's Balsam? Or was there something else I could help you with?" "No to both questions, but perhaps there is something I could help you with, Mr. Murrow. I understand you had a shipment arrive unexpectedly this morning and don't have a suitable place to store it. I might be able to arrange a more secure location for you to keep your package until you're able to send it on to its destination. I'm also aware there are unfavorable elements about who might seek to relieve you of your merchandise if the opportunity presented itself." Murrow's eyebrow arched. "That kind of an offer is unexpected coming from you, Marshal, but welcome nonetheless. Around here, I usually don't get much help with my merchandise." The bell above the front door jangled, and Murrow's customer departed. "No, I would not suppose you do, being this is Lecompton," Taggart said. "Despite our new state constitution, your viewpoint still has its detractors in this town." "How soon do you think you can arrange things?" Murrow asked. "I'm not certain. I hope in a day or so. In the meantime, I have advised your merchandise to keep the doors to your cellar barred from the inside. On a different note, do you keep a dictionary for sale in your establishment?" "I do, but the thing is a bit dog-eared from people thumbing through it to look." "No matter. I may come back and get it in a few days if you still have it. Expect to hear something from me shortly." "This will be a mighty big load off my mind, Marshal. I hadn't planned for any complications today, but this was something I found hard to turn my back on. I hope no trouble comes to you over this." "If it does, it will still be less a burden than a conscience which has been forced to serve the wrong master. I best be on my way. I'll be back with you as soon as I've worked out something." ***** If there were activities more irksome and wasteful than pretending to be doing something when doing nothing, Taggart had managed to avoid most of them during his lifetime. At least there was consolation to be had in knowing Symington was suitably occupied by his folly and out of his way for now. He yanked the chain attached to his belt loop, pulled the watch up from his pocket and flipped open the cover. Fifteen more minutes, and he would wash his hands of the charade, but for now he was obligated to wander the streets a bit longer atop a horse which seemed as bored with the situation as he was. Taggart swept North Halderman Street a third time before deciding lunch would constitute a better use of his time. The depth of Symington's tenacity was the only unknown between him, a hot meal and the chance to move on to real business, but the marshal had hopes a lack of success might dash the man's enthusiasm for pursuit. Indeed it had, for Symington was already waiting there for him at the agreed rendezvous point as he came into view of Elmore Street. A smile threatened to erupt on Taggart's face before he gave pause and buried it under a yawn. Symington ambled his horse out to meet him. "Well, Marshal, I see you fared no better than I in our search. Were there no clues to be had anywhere?" Symington's hangdog expression made it hard not to feel sorry for him, despite the nature of his loss.

"Such luck is not to be unexpected in the case of a fugitive traveling shank's pony. I would much rather track one man on horseback than a group of ten tied together and on foot." Taggart offered the comment as dry fact, not as comfort, and judging from the response, Symington drew none from it. His expression moved farther away from despair and closer to disgust. He scarcely looked over at Taggart. "I guess I shall have to remember that should I ever find myself on the lam from you. Abandon your horse, chain yourself to nine other men and travel by foot." "Let's hope you never find yourself in circumstances so dire. I would stay and help you continue your search, but as I mentioned, my time has already been spoken for by another. Perhaps this other matter will have a quick resolution, and I can assist you some more if you are still here in a few days. One other thing. You have been inconvenienced certainly, but should your man have a change of heart and decide to return to you, I hope you will take into consideration his willful return and not give him great cause to regret his decision." "I cannot promise what I would do, but returning on his own could not hurt his circumstances. I bid you good day, sir." Taggart made no effort to leave. Instead, he waited, gazing at Symington's face. Symington stared back, looking momentarily confused. More silence strangled the air between them before Symington added, "Oh . . . thank you for your help, Marshal." Taggart accepted the gratitude even though he knew it had been offered grudgingly. "You're welcome, Mr. Symington." He reined Jinx toward the west and rode on.