Chapter Thirty-Seven
It took close to twenty minutes for Jim Crown to make the trip to the Inn--unnoticed. And he arrived so wet with sweat that he looked, and felt, more like he'd swam the whole way! He rapped rather loudly on the building's back door...and then nearly collapsed in relief when he heard a familiar voice inquire as to who it was that was there. "Open up, Dulcey..." Crown called out quietly, "...it's Ji-im!"
"JI-IM!" came back a muffled shout. Then the door to the kitchen flew open and Dulcey went sailing--full force--into his soggy, sore self.
The Marshal somehow maintained his composure enough not to groan--least ways, not aloud--still, he couldn't help but 'gasp'! His cracked ribs were reminding him that they were in no condition for such close encounters. However, the lawman was so happy and relieved to find the girl alive, that he ignored his ribs and returned her bear hug. "Did Mareck hurt you?!" he anxiously inquired and pulled back a bit to examine the girl for any visible signs of damage.
Dulcey saw the deeply concerned look on her adopted father's face and couldn't help but smile as she slowly shook her head.
"You alone here?" he wondered, dragging Dulcey into her kitchen and kicking the back door shut.
"Jarrod just left for the Settlement," the bewildered--but happy--girl informed him. "Rebecca Shroader is having her baby. Ned wanted a doctor to be there. It's their first child." Dulcey had been appraising the pale, profusely sweating person swaying before her as she spoke. "You look positively dreadful!" she concluded aloud. Then, seeing as how Jim Crown seemed in no condition to be standing, she began pulling out a chair, "Here, sit down. I'll get you some wa--"
"What about Francis?!" Crown inquired as he caught--and then held on to--the girl's wrist, "Is he all right?!"
The pretty girl's face filled with a foreboding frown, and she drew in a breath before attempting to answer, "As...'all right' as someone with a...fractured skull, severe concussion and eighteen stitches in the back of their head can be...I guess. He's still...unconscious."
The already 'shook' Marshal looked completely taken aback, again...a-and a whole lot paler. "Did the Doc' say anything about his chances?" Crown asked in a voice that sounded as drained as his face looked.
Once again the girl slowly shook her head, "It's really too soon to tell..."
And speaking of telling...
Dulcey took the opportunity to give the still stunned-into-silence Marshal a blow-by-blow account of the events which had transpired in his Office earlier that day.
"Where is he no-ow?" the Marshal inquired when the girl finally finished her gruesome report.
"We put him upstairs...in your room. I came down to pack Jarrod some sandwiches, and was just on my way back up to sit with him when you kno--"
"I-I'll sit with him. You go get some sleep. Now see here, young lady," Crown sternly continued, seeing the girl's mouth opening in protest, "you may not look 'positively dreadful', but you do look 'dead on yore feet'. So you are goin' ta bed, an' you are goin' ta stay ther-"
"But, Jim I--"
"Until you feel more like yore perky old self again. Mac's room is right next door," the lawman tacked on as the girl's jaw once again dropped open to protest. "You kin use the bed in there. That way, IF I need you for anything...well, I'll jes' 'bang' on the wall.." he finished and flashed her his most persuasive smile.
"You'll need some water," Dulcey resignedly remarked, "It's even 'hotter' upstairs than it is down here." And, with that, she picked several pitchers up from the counter behind them and started heading for her kitchen sink.
The lawman beat her to it and left-handedly operated the pump while she carefully filled all three containers with fresh, cold, inviting water.
The last thing she filled was a very tall glass--the tallest glass in her kitchen. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you finish this," she stubbornly stated.
The Marshal managed a resigned sigh. The hot and thirsty man also managed to down the glass' cool contents in one incredibly lo-o-ong swallow.
"Have you eaten?" Jim Crown's adopted mommy suddenly queried of him.
The man nodded and then asked right back, "Have you?"
The girl nodded.
"Goo-ood! Then let's get you to bed!" Crown repeated, wishing to remain in charge. He set the empty glass down, picked two of the full pitchers up and started heading for the door.
Dulcey grabbed the remaining pitcher with one hand and the lawman's elbow with her other.
And so they escorted each other from the room...up the stairs...and down the long hallway to the left, to Mac and the Marshal's rooms.
"Jim, are you sur--?"
"Yes, Dulcey..."
"You won't forget to bang on the--?"
"No, Dulcey...Sweet drea-eams, Dulcey!" the Marshal suddenly wished, seeing the young lady's lips begining to part yet again! And then he planted a kiss on the pretty young miss' perspiring--and still a bit furrowed--forehead.
Dulcey succumbed--at long last--to his wishes.
And he disappeared himself, into his room.
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After opening all the windows in MacGregor's hot and stuffy room, the girl collapsed--in complete physical and emotional exhaustion--onto Mac's bed. Perhaps she would sleep...now that Jim was there. Jim's presence always made her feel so safe and secure.
And so, it seemed, did Jarrod's. Had she really lost her heart to the handsome young doctor? She figured she must have, for he'd barely been gone fifteen minutes and already she was sorely missing him.
The two of them had spent the entire morning together, sitting silently at Francis' bedside. Jarrod had passed most of the time asleep--bolt upright in a chair--the poor dear! She'd spent the time applying cold compresses to the unbandaged portions of Francis' head...and dreaming up the next verse to...their song.
'So she gave him that chance,' she 'silently' sang, 'and, in time, they were wed. He is no more a 'Stranger'. And they've never forgotten the things they both said...The Stranger and the Lady...The Lady and the Stranger...Don't put your hea-eart in da-an-ger...' she finished with a slight smile...and was instantly asleep.
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'Why-y?!' was the question Jim Crown kept angrily asking himself as he stood there beside his bed, staring sadly down at his dead-looking deputy's heavily bandaged head. (The reporter would have appeared right at home in India, seeing as how the cloth wrappings looked more like a huge turban than a bandage.) 'WHY-Y?!' Why had he let Francis talk him into letting him stay in Cimarron?! Because he didn't 'feel up' to arguing?! He 'gasped'--in anger and frustration--and glanced around the room. He felt like kicking something, but then thought better of it. The resulting 'ba-ang' would probably just bring Dulcey running. 'WHY-Y?! WHY-Y?! WHY-Y?!' Because he was so positive his plan to get Mareck and his henchmen out of town would work?! That was it! That had to be it! His young friend was lying there unconscious--and quite possibly dying--because he had placed too much confidence in his precious PLA-AN! Crown now felt like kicking himself!
Come to think of it, he and Charley had recently stood on a riverbank discussing--in great length--various ways in which such a handy contraption might possibly be constructed. They'd reckoned once they got the dang thing put together, that people would be linin' up to use it! Charley'd suggested chargin' two bits a head--er, tail...and had talked about haulin' it off to someplace like Washington D.C.. After one week in Washington, Charley'd figured they'd a' made enough ta retire...
The lawman managed another exasperated 'gasp' and then rammed his right fist--very forceably--into his open left palm. And, while he didn't accomplish anything by this action, the resulting pai-ain did manage to take his mind off of Francis for a few moments.
And it was while the Marshal was thus distracted that it finally dawned on him that his plan's failure was not entirely his fault. After all, he hadn't taken bein' drugged and kidnapped, by his friends, into consideration when he was formulatin' it!
Crown did not have a real clear recollection of his 'run-in' with either Rutger's o-or Mareck. But there were enough 'bits an' pieces' for him to conclude that he'd stirred those two hornets' nests up rea-eal good, this time! 'An how many more innocent folks,' he wondered wearily, 'are gonna get 'stung' because of it?'
The lawman realized he couldn't really fault his friends, either, for--while their plan may indeed have back-fired--BIG TIME--their intentions had been goo-ood...honorable even! After all, the whole disasterous thing had been schemed up in an apparent attempt to save his life. 'What a bitter irony it would be if it were ta now end up costin' Francis hi-is...'
The Marshal shoved that morbid thought out of his mind and then quickly took a seat. Another thing had suddenly become quite clear to him--he shouldn't a' been pacin' in such heat! He didn't even realize he had been pacing, until he'd become too dizzy to stand. 'Too dizzy ta even sit,' the whoozy lawman realized--on his way to the floor. Fortunately for his head, Crown reached out as he slumped forwards and caught himself on the edge of his bed. Then he folded his arms and used them as both a pillow and a stabilizer for his still wildly whirling brain.
At long last, his light-headedness passed. The first thing that his mind made note of--when it finally finished reeling--was that he had apparently set his left hand down on top of his young friend's. He picked the reporter's limp appendage up and then gave it a very hard, very reassuring squeeze. "You're not gonna die on us, Francis!" Crown firmly informed him, "An' you kin consider that an ORDER!" he tacked on--even more sternly. An order he prayed the independent journalist would not choose to disobey.
'Independent journalist' is what Francis liked to call himself--and appropriately so! 'Cuz the young man surely did have a mind of his own! And Francis was a man now...and a courageous one, at that! Crown recalled the first time he'd held the young reporter's hand in his. That was way back when they'd first met. Jim was just another new face in town and Francis was this cocky, grinning, barefooted kid with a camera--who kept blinding him with his flash powder! Still, it was that barefooted boy--along with that crazy Scotsman--who had so courageously backed Crown at the river...and who had continued backing him all this ti--...Ga-awd! Had it really been FIVE YEARS since he and Francis had first shook hands?! Five years since he'd been 'called' ta Washington?! 'Ca-alled', Jim Crown discovered first-hand, was a term that high-ranking Government Officials used in place of kidnapped.
Crown's last day in Kansas had been a real scorcher, too. In fact, it had felt an awful lot like this one. He'd gone out to make his evenin' rounds--as usual. But--on account a' how it was unusually ho-ot--an' he was feelin' unusually ti-ired from breakin' up fights all day--(Folks' tempers were flarin' as hot as the air temperature!) he'd stopped by Evey's Diner for a badly needed break. He had jes' sat down an' Evelyn had jes' finished pourin' him his coffee. Out of habit, he had taken a seat where his back would be to the room's far wall an' he would thus be facin' the diner's front entrance. Said door had opened...an' so had this latest chapter in his life--as a 'legendary lawman'? U.S. Marshal James Crown cringed slightly and then allowed his mind to wander back to that hot, August evening in Abilene, Kansas...
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Two incredibly tall, impeccably groomed thugs--in three-piece suits--stepped off the boardwalk and into the diner.
The Marshal immediately recognized the well-groomed goons as being two of the four Secret Service men he'd encountered five years earlier--in a hotel room in El Paso. Maybe they'd jes' come in for some coffee...like hi-im.
Their darting eyes roved around the room and then stopped finally--as they riveted on hi-im.
Then again...maybe no-ot. "Don' tell me," he told the two men as they stepped wordlessly up to his table, "let me guess...Yore boss wants ta 'talk' ta me..."
"Special Agent Hanover..." the darker-haired of the two apparently humorless--an' profusely sweating--gentlemen stiffly stated, "Special Agent Braames..." he added and pointed to his companion.
"See, Vic'," Special Agent Braames said, nudging his fellow agent with his elbow, "I told you that he'd remember us."
"I never forget the faces a' folks who try ta rearrange my face for me..." the Marshal icily informed them. 'Speakin' a' whi-ich...' "Where are Special Agents Foster an' Kingsley?" He inquired, somewhat cautiously. The miserable heat had everybody, including him, feelin' extra irritable and actin' awful edgy. Still, Crown reckoned he had every right ta feel 'on edge' about these two. They weren't exactly actin' friendly an' neither of them had--as yet--proferred a hand for him ta shake.
"It seems that they still harbor some...lingering animosity towards you, Mr. Crown," Special Agent Braames answered with an amused gleam in his eyes.
"And, since the President wants to see you in one piece," Agent Hanover continued, "we decided it would be best if they were to remain behind...in Washington."
The sweating, somewhat bedraggled-looking lawman breathed a silent sigh of relief, and then settled back a bit in his chair.
The two Special Agents suddenly stiffened and were about to take a step or two back when they realized that both of the Marshal's elbows remained resting on the table and he was still cradling his coffee in both of his hands. Agents Braames and Hanover heaved some silent sighs of relief themselves, and then gradually untensed.
Agent Braames stared down at Mr. Crown's steaming cup for a few more moments before turning his gaze back to its holder. "I trust you're not going to 'carry on' about your coffee the way you did about your bath water..." he reproachfully remarked.
"Depends on who's payin' for it," Crown quickly came back, catching the confrontational tone in the man's voice and rising--both figuratively and literally--to meet the challenge.
The two agents tensed--again, and prepared--again--to take evasive action.
But the now standing lawman just stood there.
"For pete's sake, Phillip! Quit taunting him!" Special Agent Hanover sternly ordered, giving his partner a rough prod with his elbow, "We're supposed to try to do this peacefully! Remember?!"
Agent Braames reluctantly removed a shiny new nickel from the front pocket of his vest and then--even more reluctantly--tossed the coin down onto the lawman's table.
"These two fellah's friends a' yores, Marshal?" somebody standing unbelievably close behind them suddenly inquired.
The two startled 'fellah's' started to reach for their hidden shoulder holsters--but then realized that they were surrounded--and begrudgingly surrendered to that tremendously embarassing fact.
Sensing that the two uninvited--and obviously unwelcome (since they hadn't been asked to have a seat)--visitors to the lone lawman's table might mean trouble for him, Evey had sent her kitchen boy off to fetch one--or more--of the Marshal's three deputies.
It was Crown's second-in-command that had slipped into the diner and--upon seeing one of the two supposed trouble-makers buying his boss' coffee for him--posed the completely perplexed sounding question.
"Jes' a couple a' old acquaintences, Arch'..." Crown cautiously replied, giving the diner's pretty proprietor a knowing wink and a grateful nod.
Miss Evelyn Hansen flashed him back a 'Yer welcome!' smile that could a' melted butter, and returned his wink as well...with interest.
"Gentlemen," he continued, reluctantly redirecting his attention, "I'd like you ta meet one a' my 'special deputies'. Archer Fenton. Victor Hanover...an' Phillip Braames," he finished introducing--for his 'special deputy's' sake.
Arch' retreated a step or two as the couple carefully made half-turns so's they could see one another's faces. The two monstrously hu-uge--unsmiling--goons didn' appear ta be anybody that Archie would ever wanna become 'acquainted' with...and he shot his boss a worried look which said as much.
"I'll explain it all later..." the Marshal promised, suppressing a slight smile, "Finish my rounds for me, will you, Arch'...an' I'll meet up with you back at the Office."
The dismissed deputy gave his boss another anxious glance, but then obediently departed.
"Lead the way..." the remaining lawman unenthusiastically invited of his visitors.
Agent Hanover eventually overcame his absolute amazement and immediately acted upon the unexpected invite by gleefully heading for the diner's exit.
"You mean to say," a disappointed-looking Phillip Braames stepped right up into the Marshal's face and then stood there, blocking the peace officer's path to the door, "that you're not going to give us any trouble this time?"
"I will accompany you, this time," Crown quickly clarified. "As ta whether I will give you any trouble or not...I ain't at liberty ta sa-ay..." he calmly said and then calmly side-stepped the enormous obstacle that was in his way. "Oh, an' Phillip," Crown called back over his shoulder, "thanks for the coffee..."
The irate agent clenched and unclenched his fists and jaw a few times before following the infuriating little fellow over to the diner's front door.
Agent Hanover opened the portal and the three men passed through it.
"I, uh, notice the two a' you have started usin' the little knobby thing..." Crown wryly remarked in reference to an unlocked door the 'special agents' had once demolished in El Paso. And then he 'winced' as Agent Braames 'banged' the diner's door shut with so much force that it nearly shook the panes of glass from its window's frame.
"Now," Special Agent Hanover snidely declared and held out his hand to his cranky companion, "about that little 'wager' we had..."
"Wha-at?!" Special Agent Braames bitterly snapped back, "Can't you at least wait 'til we're on boa-oard?!"
'On boa-oard...?' the lawman mentally repeated, 'On board wha--?' Before he could even complete his question, Crown had his answer. After all, the list a' possibilities was not a long one. Since there were no steamboats in Kansas, that left only stages an'...the Marshal stiffened suddenly--and turned in the direction of the depot. He stared off down the darkened street and saw, through straining--and widened--eyes, the silhouette of a steam locomotive...which should not a' been there! No trains were due inta town at that time a' night. An' there had been no 'whistle' announcin' this one's arrival. He also saw that the unscheduled train--which had made an unscheduled stop--was now takin' on both wood an' water. But it was what the Marshal didn't see that determined what his next move would be. He turned back in time to see Phillip placing an undetermined (on account a' the dim lamp light) amount of cash into his pleased-as-punch looking partner's open palm. "Keep yore hands right there!" Crown advised as he withdrew his pistol and then aimed it--point blank--at the President's pair a' 'special agent's'. "Where I kin see 'em!" he finished.
The two already frozen with astonishment gentlemen remained frozen--with the exception of Agent Hanover's jaw, "You wouldn't--" 'Victor' smugly began.
"You kin bet yore lives I wou-ould!" the lawman quickly interjected, "Especially since I still harbor some lingerin' animosity towards you!" Then, using his free hand, Crown yanked the coats back from off of their shoulders and pulled them down around their arms.
"But," the already bothered--and now bewildered--Agent Braames began as the lawman relieved both of the thusly restrained gentlemen of their revolvers, "you said that you would accompany us, this time!"
"Across the street maybe," Jim Crown calmly conceded, "but not clear across the Country!"
"What makes you so sure," Agent Hanover wondered as the lawman tossed their weapons into the street and then began taking his leave of them, "that our boss isn't right here...in Abilene?"
"The President of the United States would never travel this far West without a 'military' escort," the Marshal obligingly replied and kept backing off down the boardwalk.
"And how could you possibly tell that he's not traveling with one, right now?" Agent Hanover asked in amazement.
"If yah look down there," the peace officer patiently explained, giving his head a slight twist in the direction of the depot, "you'll notice that there's no 'military' personnel on--or even anywhere's around--the boardin' platform."
"What if," Special Agent Braames stubbornly suggested, "their orders were to remain on board?"
"That train is takin' on wood a-an' water...which means it hasn' stopped in at least two days," the retreating lawman simply stated, as a matter of fact.
"So-o?" the 'special agents' simultaneously said.
"So-o, if you're tellin' me that you're gonna keep a bunch a' soldiers cooped up in a railroad car for over forty-eight hours--in this heat--an' then order them ta remain on board...then I'm tellin' you that morale on that train mus' be rea-eal lo-ow!" Crown logically concluded. (Soldiers in an escort detail might not be issued any three-day passes, but they would at least be allowed out--a few at a time--ta stretch their legs an' grab some air. Jim Crown had worked for the Army once, so he was up on all its policies an' procedures.)
"MISTER CRO-OWN," Special Agent Hanover shouted down the boardwalk so as to be heard, (Mister Cro-own had placed a considerable distance between himself and them.) "MISTER CLEVELAND HAS CALLED YOU TO WASHINGTON!"
"He kin 'ca-all' all he likes!" Mister Crown 'ca-alled' back and kept right on retreating. The peace officer's plan was to back down the boardwalk 'til he came to the alley. He then planned to disappear down said alley and make himself real scarce. The 'wanted' lawman intended to remain invisible until long after the phantom train made its unscheduled departure.
"BUT," Agent Braames blurted in utter disbelief, "NOBODY SAYS 'NO-O' TO THE PRESIDENT!"
"If your boss has somethin' ta say ta me," nobody blurted back, "he'll have ta say it in a letter! 'Cuz there's no way that I'm goin' all the way ta Washin'ton with the two a' you!" Crown hated the thought of spendin' any time in the East and he certainly did not care for their company! The Marshal had stepped down from the boardwalk, and was in the process of replacing his drawn weapon, when six humungous forms suddenly leapt out at him from the alley. 'Then again,' the hopelessly outnumbered, and instantly over-powered, lawman glumly pointed out to himself...as one of the faceless forms snatched the gun from his holster and two others slapped handcuffs on his restrained wrists, 'perhaps there is one way...'
"Ea-easy, gentlemen!" one of yet two more faceless--but smaller--forms urged, seeing the rough way in which their colleagues were handling the prisoner, "The Marshal, here, is on our side, remember?"
Fortunately for Crown, they did. The lawman 'gasped' in relief as one of the two thugs standing immediately in back of him released the stranglehold he'd been keeping on his neck.
"Loosen these u-up," the other of the two new arrivals ordered upon checking the prisoner's restraints, "I've seen tourniquets that weren't that tight!"
And the two mountainous men to which Crown was handcuffed quickly produced some keys and complied.
Right about then, Agents Braames and Hanover arrived. "I told you NOBODY says 'NO-O' to the President!" the former reminded the little lawman.
"Mister Crown," the latter continued, "I'd like you to meet Special Agents West and Gordon...and Nichols and Fahrling...and Barnett and Rivord...and Croxley and Morrison."
Special Agent West had passed along the little reminder and Special Agent Gordon had ordered the restoration of his circulation. Agent Nichols had attached himself to the Marshal's left wrist and Agent Fahrling had cuffed himself to his right. Agents Barnet, Rivord and Morrison all had a piece of his personage. But it was Agent Croxley who'd been keeping the throat lock on him.
"I want my money back," Philip Braames suddenly said.
"No wa-ay!" Victor Hanover replied, "The bet was about if we could get him to accompany us this time! Not about how far he would accompan--"
"Adderly says the train's all set!" a breathless brakeman announced as he came jogging up, "As soon as the V.I.P. is on board, we can pull out!"
Agents West and Gordon--who were apparently the gargantuan group's leaders--acknowledged the man's message with nods.
"As soon as the what's on board?" the Marshal inquired of them, at long last breaking his silence.
"Actually," Agent Gordon amusedly answered, "it's not a 'what'--it's a 'who'. In this case--YOU!"
"V. I. P.," Agent West added, "stands for very important person...of which you must certainly be one!"
"He doesn't look so 'important' to me-e!" Agent Croxley decided, his voice filled with disdain at having been ordered to be there for the little lawman's collection.
"Yeah? Well, somebody back in Washington obviously thinks he is," Agent Gordon simply stated, "or, believe me, the ten of us wouldn't be here!"
"Arty's right," Agent West agreed. "Heck, the President doesn't even travel with this many bodyguards!"
"Let's get him on boa-oard," Agent Barnett all but pleaded, "where it's gotta be at least twenty degrees cooler!"
"Yeah," Agent Morrison readily agreed, "and we'll all be a lot more comfortable!"
"I cain't jes' lea-eave!" the lawman with a lot of loose ends that needed takin' care of told them, "Jes' like that!"
"We took the liberty of packing a few of your personal things for you," Arty announced. "You'll find them waiting for you in your quarters."
"At least let me talk ta my deputies..." the peace officer pleaded as he was pulled off in the direction of the depot.
Agent West raised a hand and the entire party--protesting prisoner included--halted. "If we let you talk to one of your people, will you promise to 'cooperate' with us?"
Crown took a quick look around him. The last time he'd seen that much muscle all in one place was back when he was herdin' cattle. "I didn't think I ha-ad a 'choi-oice'..." he sarcastically commented.
"Perhaps not as to whether you'll go to Washington," Arty admitted, "but certainly as to how you'll go. Right, James?"
"Right," Agent West again agreed. "Which means you can either spend the entire time locked--under heavy guard--in your quarters...or enjoy free run of the entire train. Which, by the way, features complete--and luxurious--hotel accommodations."
"We also have extremely well-rounded literary and music libraries on board," Arty proudly added.
"There's even a recreational car," James quickly interjected, "containing everything from billiards to poker chips. So-o...what do you say? Will you give us your complete cooperation?"
The Marshal considered all his 'options' over for a few moments--and concluded that he didn't care much for 'either' of them. "You have my complete cooperation," he begrudgingly announced, choosing the lesser of the two evils. "You also have my word on that..." he added rather annoyedly--in response to several of the surrounding goons' skeptical grunts.
"Go find him a deputy," James West told the six unattached agents, "We'll wait for you down by the depot."
"Get those 'bracelets' off of him," Arty abruptly ordered and then gave the liberated lawman back his gun.
Grover Cleveland's gorillas shot their leaders several 'Have you two lost your minds?!' looks, but then obediently carried out their orders.
Crown watched in absolute amazement as the dispatched deputy hunters disappeared...along with the metal restraints on his wrists. His pistol reappeared--and was slipped back into its holster. "You people put an awful lot a' stock in the word of a complete stranger," the Marshal muttered, sounding almost as amazed as he looked. Then he did an about face and started heading back towards the entrance to the alley.
Agents Nichols and Fahrling took a step or two after him, but then halted as Agent West raised another hand.
"We heard you were a man of great resourcefulness," James West explained, "and even greater honor..." he added, his voice filled with genuine admiration.
The lawman reached the spot where he'd been ambushed and stooped stiffly down to retrieve his Stetson--which had been lost in the tussle. Crown wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and whacked some of the dust from his hat before placing it back on his head. "Yeah? Well...you can't believe everything that you hea-ear..." he wearily reminded the two very trusting agents as he came stepping calmly back up to them.
"We don't," Arty assured him, "And that is why there are no bullets in your gun..." he finished with a rather wry grin, and promptly proferred his hand.
The Marshal returned the two men's grins and readily took them up on their offers to shake his hand.
"You hungry?" Agent Gordon suddenly asked as they started off down the street in the direction of the depot, "We have this French chef on board. I tell you, Jean Louis makes the most incredible 'beuf Sainte de le Renevoire' you've ever tasted!"
"You'll have to excuse Arty," Agent West requested, "He's really gotten into gourmet dining. Personally, I'm more of a 'meat and potatoes' man."
"That is 'meat and potatoes'!" Arty pointed out, sounding a bit perturbed.
"Forget food...for now," James West suggested, "I'll bet the Marshal, here, is more thirsty than he is hungry, anyways. So-o, what can we offer you in the form of liquid refreshment?" the agent asked their V.I.P..
"What d'yah got?" the lawman casually inquired.
"Everything from vintage champagne to snake oil medicine!" Agent West answered.
"We carry a complete stock of the very best 'liqueurs'," Arty assured him.
"Morale on that train is not as lo-ow as you imagined, Marshal," James added with another wry grin.
Which Crown again caught himself returning.
They reached the depot at exactly the same time as the now breathless and 'hot and bothered', but successful, deputy hunters did.
"Sorry, Jim," their completely surrounded--not to mention overwhelmed--quarry apologized, "I was finishin' up yore rounds--jes' like you said--when they jumped me!"
"I know, Arch'," the Marshal consolingly said and flashed his dejected looking deputy a slight smile, "Believe me, I know...Looks like I'm gonna be leavin' for awhile..." he continued, giving the phantom train in front of him a glum glance, "I want you ta wire Marshal Hagan in Dodge an' tell him ta ride my circuit for me. Tell Luke an' Pete ta take over my rounds."
"What about me?" Arch' asked.
"I'm leavin' you in charge a' the Office."
"A-all ri-ight!"
"You kin let those cowboys go when they've sobered up. But I don' wan' 'em gettin their guns--or their money--back 'til this heat breaks."
"What about Ballinger?" Arch' inquired as the Marshal was ushered up the steps of the boardin' platform by eight big--apparently anxious to board--bruisers.
"He stays put 'til I get back! Finish collectin' those statements from those witnesses. Judge Slayter'll be comin' in tomorrow. Ask 'im for a two week delay in that Patterson boy's trial."
"What about the Chefert trial?! There's no case without yore testimony!"
"I signed my report. See if the Judge'll let it pass for my sworn deposition."
"Yah know, Jim," the deputy declared as his boss was pushed across the platform and up to the entrance to one of the cars, "if I didn' know better, I'd swea-ear you were bein' kidnapped!"
"I a-am!" Crown crankily commented as he was shoved aboard.
"But don't worry," he heard Special Agent Hanover tell his stunned looking 'special deputy', "it's all being done nice and legal-like!"