The Marshal Meets His Match. Clari Dees

Wyatt snatched the rifle out of the air and sprinted out of the barn, hearing Franks pound the ground behind him.

      As they turned the corner onto the main street, Wyatt dodged the running figure of Miss McIsaac. Where did she think she was going?

      “Stay back!” He barked as he passed her. He spared a split-second glance over his shoulder, pleased to see her slow down. Good. He didn’t know what was going on, but the fewer spectators he had to deal with the better.

      A man jumped astride a horse to ride away from the bank, throwing hot lead around and forcing curious onlookers to scurry for cover. Wyatt threw up his rifle, slamming the butt of the gun into his shoulder. As he laid his finger against the trigger, someone ran between him and the mounted gunman. He jerked the barrel of the rifle up and held his fire. He had no clear shot, but the shooting horseman needed to be stopped before someone was killed.

      Wyatt pulled his pistol and fired twice in the air, aiming far above innocent heads. The bullets came nowhere near the gunman, but he sank his spurs into the horse’s sides as he yanked violently on the reins and plunged down an alleyway.

      The shooting stopped, and heads poked out of doorways like so many prairie dogs. “Anyone hurt?” Wyatt shouted as he ran toward the bank.

      “No. But I think the bank’s been robbed.” An unidentified voice yelled back.

      Wyatt slammed the bank doors open, Franks and several other men hot on his heels. No one was in the front room, but the door to the office stood open, and the banker was slumped on the floor just inside it. He moaned and tried to sit up as Wyatt entered. He gave the banker a quick glance then looked around the office.

      “Franks, help him.” He pointed to the banker and moved to a second man lying motionless and bleeding on the floor beside the massive desk.

      There was blood on the floor around the white-haired man’s head and more blood staining his side, but he was breathing. The wound on his side was bleeding freely, and Wyatt pulled off the red neckerchief he wore, wadding it up and pressing it against the wound to staunch the blood. “Somebody fetch the doctor!”

      A commotion sounded at the office door. “Faither! No!”

      The piercing cry pulled Wyatt’s eyes up. Miss McIsaac sank to her knees on the other side of the bleeding man, her face a mask of disbelieving horror.

      “Is this your father?”

      A silent nod was his only answer as her eyes frantically ran over her father’s form. Her hand gripped a tiny hideout pistol. Where had that come from? More important, what had she planned to do with it? Take on the bank robber herself? Probably. “If you’ll put that gun away, I need you to hold this while I check on the banker.”

      Miss McIsaac looked at the pistol as if seeing it for the first time, blinked, then tucked it away in a pocket. She looked back at him, shock darkening her eyes.

      Wyatt grabbed her unresisting hand and placed it over the bloody neckerchief. “Hold this down as tight as you can. It’ll slow the bleeding. The wound doesn’t look too bad, but he’s got a gash on the back of his head, as well. Looks like he hit it on the desk when he fell.”

      Her face drained of color, and he heard her breath hitch in her throat. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?” He deliberately forced a hint of scorn into the question.

      It worked. The muscles along her jaw clenched as she took a deep breath, and when she spared a glance at him, some of the spark was back in her eyes if not in her voice. “I don’t faint.”

      She might be foolhardy, but she was tough, too. He disliked leaving her with her wounded father, but he had a gunman to follow before he got any farther away. He pushed to his feet and took a last look at her lowered face as she focused determinedly on her hands. Her lips were moving soundlessly, but she was keeping steady pressure on the makeshift bandage.

      “Doc’s comin’,” someone cried from the back of the crowd.

      Relieved, Wyatt went to try to glean information from the banker.

      * * *

      Wyatt wondered if he smelled as rank as the men wearily riding alongside him. Then again maybe the odor came from himself alone and not his companions. Three days chasing an elusive quarry wasn’t conducive to rest, much less keeping clean, and he would dearly love a bath, food and sleep; not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately it might be a while before he was able to acquire any of them. The townsfolk were going to want to know the results of the three-day chase. Returning to town with nothing to show for the posse’s efforts but weary horses, weary bodies covered in trail dust and a glaring lack of a culprit and loot was not an auspicious beginning to his career as Little Creek’s marshal.

      In the minutes following Mr. McIsaac’s removal to the doctor’s office while men had scrambled for horses, Wyatt had fired questions at the assembled crowd. The banker had been too shaken up to give any helpful information, and none of the onlookers could add anything to what Wyatt had seen himself as he was running toward the bank. Armed with this pitiful lack of information, but a veritable arsenal of assorted firearms, Wyatt and the hastily assembled posse rode out of town, hot on the trail of the bank bandit.

      Following the tracks of the fleeing horse and rider until night had forced a halt, they’d made a cold, dark camp lest the bandit had circled around to take a few shots at them in the glow of a campfire. Canteens of water and strips of jerky had provided their meal before they’d taken turns standing guard or grabbing a few hours of sleep. As soon as the sky had begun to lighten, they’d continued their pursuit, but had lost the trail when it had merged with a sea of tracks left by a passing cattle herd being pushed toward the Denver stockyards.

      Splitting up the posse, they’d spent the rest of the day cutting for sign on both sides of the cattle trail. They’d even caught up with the herd, but the drovers had denied seeing either hide or hair of anyone but themselves and the posse.

      Another day of tedious searching for sign had ended in failure when a heavy rainstorm had rolled through leaving them wet, cold, tired and discouraged. Wyatt had hated to head back empty-handed and without any idea of the whereabouts of the bandit, but washed-out sign, dwindling supplies and a dispirited posse had left no other option.

      Twilight descended as they rode into town, and Wyatt thanked the men for their participation before the posse broke apart, each man heading for his own home while Wyatt continued toward the livery. His horse deserved a good feed and some rest. It had been a hard ride for them both.

      Franks met him at the front doors of the livery. “From de looks ob things, I specs you dun lost dat fella.”

      “That about sums it up.” Wyatt wearily scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rasp of three days’ growth of beard. “How’s everything here in town?”

      Franks unsaddled, rubbed down and fed the weary horse as he talked. “Well, Mr. McIsaac’s still out cold, and Doc is shore ’nuff worried. Miss Meri ain’t left his side de whole time. De banker is okay, but he’s sayin’ he cain’t do nuttin’ ’bout the loss ob de money, and we’d better hope you foun’ it. Everythin’ else has been quiet like.”

      Wyatt gave Franks a quick rundown of the fruitless search before adding, “I think I’ll check in at Doc’s office then try to find a meal and my bed, if no one needs me. Thanks for the use of that horse. He was a good fella. I appreciate you keepin’ one handy for me until Charger recovers from our trip up here.” Wyatt shook Franks’s hand, bid the man good-night and made his way to the doctor’s house.

      A light was burning in the front window, and he tapped softly on the door. Dr. Kilburn opened it and, upon seeing who it was, quietly invited him in. “Did you catch him?”

      “No. We lost his tracks,” Wyatt ruefully admitted. He had a feeling he was just beginning to hear this question. He changed the subject. “How’s McIsaac?”

      Doc shook his head. “I wish I knew. I removed the bullet from his side, and it isn’t such a bad