Wild Card. Susan Amarillas

of a greeting as he stepped inside. As he shook his hat and himself like a hound, water sprayed against the wood walls and dripped on the pine flooring, making tiny circles in the dirt.

      “Thanks a lot, Jake,” Woodrow Murphy said, looking up from his place behind the desk. “And here I just cleaned.”

      “Oh, yeah, I can see you’ve been hard at work.” Amusement danced in Jake’s jet black eyes as he scanned the ten-by-twelve unpainted room, glancing at a pair of barrel-backed chairs and an oak desk that looked scarred enough to have been through a couple of wars. Every flat surface was stacked with papers, and Jake figured Woodrow hadn’t filed a thing since he’d taken this job three years ago.

      “Why, I have been cleaning,” Woodrow retorted, his expression remorseful enough to make a parson smile. “You shoulda been here last month.”

      Jake chuckled. “Woodrow, it’s good to see you again, old timer. It’s been too long.”

      Woodrow grinned like a kid on the last day of school and came around the desk, his hand extended as he walked. “You, too, Jake. What’s it been—six months now? Seven?”

      “I couldn’t say.” Jake shrugged out of his slicker and the black wool jacket he wore underneath and hooked both on the pegs by the doorway.

      The men shook hands.

      Jake dragged one of the two chairs toward the stove. “You look good, Woodrow.”

      “You look like something the dogs chewed up and spit out.”

      “Thanks,” Jake replied, warming to the teasing. “I didn’t need to come up here to be insulted. There’s folks a lot closer to Rawlins that would be more than happy to do the job.”

      “Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Woodrow confirmed with a chuckle.

      Jake settled his weary body into the chair, while Woodrow perched on the edge of the desk. Jake could see him out of the corner of his eye. He held his hands up to the stove, letting the heat warm his fingers and inch its way up his arms.

      “I’ve got Ben Allshards outside.”

      “Yeah?” The marshal’s pale blue eyes widened in his round face and he looked toward the window and the horses standing head down in the storm. When he looked back, his mouth was drawn in a thin white line, and his brow was slightly knit. “What happened?” As he spoke, he opened a desk drawer.

      Jake saw Woodrow produce a bottle of whiskey and two metal cups from the drawer. “Drink?”

      “Yeah.” Jake joined him at the desk.

      Woodrow splashed whiskey in both cups and handed one to Jake.

      “So what’d he do?” Woodrow raked one hand through his thinning, graying hair.

      “Him and a partner held up the bank at Broomfield.” Jake took a long drink, nearly emptying the cup. The whiskey burned his tongue and the back of his throat. He needed a drink, something to ease away the cold and the regret. Killing a man wasn’t easy. He helped himself to another splash of whiskey. “Partner got away...so far.”

      Woodrow dropped into his chair, the metal swivel squeaking. “You going after him?” He tipped back, making his plaid shirt pull tight over his rounded stomach.

      “Naw.” Jake wandered over to the window to look out at the body draped over the packhorse. Water streaked down the canvas and the soles of the man’s boots. “The man’s in the next county by now and out of my jurisdiction. I’m gonna send Bill Hurley-”

      “Sheriff in Laramie County.” Woodrow filled in the information by way of understanding who Jake was talking about “Good man.”

      Jake sipped his whiskey. “I’ll send Hurley a wire. It’s his job now.” He returned to the stove and sank into the chair, his feet stretched out in front of him, the half-full cup resting on his chest, his faded blue shirt stained dark down the front from the rain. Muscles in his back and neck slowly relaxed.

      Woodrow leaned forward, elbows propped on the edge. of the paper-strewn desk. “You get the money?”

      “I got lucky.” It was a hell of a thing to call killing a man lucky. But he knew that Allshards had had a choice. He made the wrong one—he’d gone against Jake McConnell.

      The two men sat in silence, the kind that comes from being longtime friends and from being lawmen. Feeling safe and relaxed for the first time in a while, Jake let his eyes drift closed. Lord, he was tired. He hadn’t realized how tired until just that second.

      Outside, lightning sizzled overhead like fireworks on the Fourth. Thunder rattled so close, he could feel it in his teeth. And that rain, hell, the rain pounded on the metal roof.

      “Sounds like a stampede going on up there.”

      “Yeah.”

      Woodrow motioned - with the whiskey bottle. “More?”

      “A little.”

      Woodrow asked, “You know who Allshards’s partner was?”

      “I’m guessing it was Ingles. Those two usually ride together.”

      “You know—” Woodrow shuffled the mound of assorted paper on his desk “—I think I’ve got a poster around here on them two....”

      “Woodrow—” Jake straightened “—you couldn’t find your hat in a room full of elbows. One of these months I’m going to come in here and you’ll be gone, buried in the paper.”

      Woodrow gave up on the looking. “Fast as I put this stuff away, some government weasel down in Cheyenne, with nothing better to do, sends me more. Why, in the old days when me and your pa was riding together—”

      “I know. In the old days when the world was flat—”

      “Never mind, you young pup!” Woodrow broke in, laughing.

      And Jake laughed, too. It felt good to laugh again, better to be with a friend. “Before we get down to some serious name-calling, I think I’ll call it a night,” Jake let his feet slam to. the floor and stood all in one motion. “I’m headed over to the telegraph office to let the Broomfield bank know I got their money.” He hefted the saddlebags. “I’ll stop by the local bank and get them to lock it up until we can send it out on the next stage.” Jake shrugged on his slicker, still wet from the storm. “Will you rouse the undertaker out and get him to take care of the body?” He settled his hat comfortably on his head, then gathered the rest of his gear and his guns.

      “Sure.” Woodrow came around to Jake, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Son, you look tired.”

      “I feel like I could sleep for a week.” Too long on the trail mixed with whiskey on an empty stomach--he thought if he didn’t get to bed soon, he’d go to sleep standing right here.

      They started for the door. Woodrow grabbed his tan hat and navy blue coat, the one with the torn left pocket. He pulled them on as he spoke. “You remember about the trouble, don’t you?”

      “Trouble?” Jake halted, hand curled around the smooth brass of the knob, the door barely open. “What trouble?”

      “You mean you didn’t get my wire?” Woodrow was doing up the last of his jacket buttons.

      Jake forced himself to focus. “What wire?”

      “Hell, I sent it a week ago.”

      “You’re the marshal here.” Jake leaned down on the knob. “What kind of trouble needs the county sheriff?”

      “It’s Earl Hansen out to the Bar W and Amos Carter over to the—”

      “MJ. Yeah, I know,” Jake interjected. It was his business to know the ranchers in the county, and the MJ and Bar W were two of the biggest. “What about ’em?” He was feeling annoyed.

      “They’ve