“Grab that end, will you?” Kyle ordered, standing at one end of the coffin.
Because there were only two of them, it was a heavy lift to put the box containing Hayes’s body on the back of the wagon, but they were able to do so. Then Kyle climbed up onto the seat.
“Where to, Senor?” Bustamante asked.
“The city marshal’s office,” Kyle answered.
They were the only traffic on the street as they drove from the railroad depot to the city marshal’s office. Behind them the train, after a few blasts on the whistle, got under way with the puffing of steam and the sound of the coupling slack being taken up as, one by one, the cars were jerked into motion. There were a few moments of train noise. Then, as the train noise faded, the only sounds remaining were that of the wagon, the hollow sound of the horse’s hoofbeats, and the incessant squeaking of the wheel that Kyle had determined was the left front one.
“You need to do something about that wheel,” Kyle said.
The wagon pulled up to the front of the city marshal’s office, then stopped.
“Wait here,” Kyle told Busatamante.
“For how long, Senor?”
“For as long as it takes,” Kyle said resolutely.
Going inside, he saw someone sitting in a chair behind a desk. The chair was tilted back, so that the man’s head was resting against the wall. His eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and Kyle could hear the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep.
“Excuse me,” Kyle said.
The response was a quiet snore.
“Excuse me,” Kyle said, louder this time.
The man’s eyes popped open.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Are you Marshal Cummins?”
“No, I’m his deputy.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yeah, I have a name,” the deputy answered with a snarl. “Do you have a name?”
“I’m United States Marshal Ben Kyle,” Kyle said pointedly. “What is your name, Deputy?”
The deputy tipped his chair forward, then stood up. “The name is Warren. Deputy Ted Warren, Marshal. What can I do for you?”
“I have Deputy Hayes’ body on a wagon out front,” Kyle said. “I want you to take care of it.”
“What? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t care what you do with it,” Kyle said. “I brought the body back, now it’s your problem. Get it off the wagon.”
“How’m I goin’ to do that? I’m all by myself here.”
“Like I said, that’s your problem,” Kyle repeated.
“I’ve got some men in jail, I’ll have them help me,” Warren said.
“Fine, you do that. Where can I find the marshal?”
“More’n likely he’s down at the Pair O Dice.”
“The what?”
“The Pair O Dice. It’s the saloon, just down the street. He ’n’ all the other deputies hang out down there.”
“All the other deputies? How many deputies are there?”
“Eight—well, no, only six now, seein’ as both Gillis and Hayes has been kilt.”
“Six deputies in a town of less than three hundred?” Kyle said, surprised at the number. “My God, man, that’s one deputy for every fifty people.”
“Yes, sir, well, Marshal Cummins, he likes to keep order,” Warren said.
“You get Hayes’ body taken care of,” Kyle ordered. “I’m going to find the marshal.”
“Yes, sir,” Warren said. He took a large key ring off a hook on the wall behind the desk. Walking over to the cell, he opened the door and called out to the two prisoners who were inside.
