“Mr. Hargadon isn’t it,” Mr. Morse asked. With so few strangers in the area it was easy to assume a new face belonged to the newly arrived schoolteacher.
“Yes Sir,” Royce replied. He glanced out the store’s front window and decided he had time for a short visit before the sky opened up. Mr. Morse was not married therefore had no children in school. For a moment Royce was not sure what to discuss.
“There’s going to be a Fall Celebration in a couple of weeks,” Mr. Morse declared. “And a tent revival at the Baptist Church,” he added as if the church meeting was an after thought. “Ever do any shooting or riding,” the man asked coming back to the subject he found most important. “I’m taking entrees for the up coming events.” He moved tobacco around in his mouth before leaning over and spitting into a pail behind the counter.
“I’ve done some shooting,” Royce admitted in a friendly tone. “I am not sure I qualify to shoot against other contestants.”
Mr. Morse scratched his head wondering why a schoolteacher always used so many words when yes or no would have sufficed. “We do have some mighty good shots in the area. Milton Ferguson has won the Marksmanship Contest the last five years in a row. Last year he hit a bull’s eye every shot. This year Roger Cobb has agreed to put up a Springfield rifle as first prize hoping to stir up more competition,” Morse announced with pride. “Of course the rifle ain’t new. But you should see it,” the man pointed a long boney finger towards the front door. “He has it on display in his front window.”
“Front window,” Royce asked thoughtfully.
“Of course you don’t know Roger. He’s our gunsmith. Five doors down across from the Stage Station,” Morse exclaimed. “I wouldn’t mind owning the rifle but I’m no match for most of the men around town. Beings I work in a store I don’t need to know much about guns and shooting.” Royce wondered if Morse was emphasizing his inexperience on purpose. Deciding the man warranted closer scrutiny. “Can I sign you up,” Morse asked pleasure sounding in his voice. The man might not be handy with a gun but he was eloquent in his persuasiveness. “The entry fee is fifty cent,” he added as if the cost was of no consequence.
Royce paid his entry fee and received a number written on an orange piece of paper. Then he watched as Mr. Morse moved to the front store window. A Blackboard stood so passersby’s could read what was written on it. “Didn’t catch your name,” the storekeeper said.
“Royce Hargadon,” Royce spelled his name for Mr. Morse.
“Never heard the name before,” Mr. Morse explained.
“No reason you should,” Royce replied. “My Pa and I have a one horse ranch down by Clear Valley. I teach to help make ends meet.”
“Ranching is a hard life,” Mr. Morse agreed. “If draught don’t burn up the grass snow will freeze your cattle to the ground. Beings you are a rancher how about entering the calf roping contest. Or maybe bronc riding.”
“No thanks,” Royce replied. “I haven’t a horse with me and to rope a calf takes team work. I sit on the horse and he does all the work.” Mr. Morse laughed. He knew enough about rounding up cattle to know the importance of having a good horse. “As for bronc riding I leave that to younger men. My bones are getting too old.”
The first drops of rain were falling before Royce unlocked the school’s side door. Thunder rolled across the heavens followed by bright flashes of lightning. He climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to his living quarters. Someone had been inside while he was gone. There was no noticeable disturbance. Everything looked to be just as he had left it. Royce was a man of habits and those habits told a different story. He knew someone had searched through his belongings and found nothing. His Marshal’s badge was pinned inside his left boot. He carried no papers relating to his assignment. After today we would see that any communications from headquarters were burned.
In the kitchen Royce put away his supplies before starting a fire in the cook stove. He made coffee and fried bacon and eggs in a skillet. His meal eaten and kitchen cleaned he opened his text books. He had never been a good student. He knew the basics, reading, writing and mathematic. He knew the multiplication table but division was troublesome. Something he seldom used. How did you divide a cow in two or three parts unless you slaughtered it first. On the other hand if you sold ten cows at thirty dollars a head you needed to know how much the cattle buyer owed you.
By Friday Royce thought his brain was on fire. He would never make a good teacher. Getting through a lesson was about all that he accomplished. What his students were learning was anybodies’ guess. What he needed was help. But he was suspicious of Miss Ferguson after her comments about Lydia. It was too soon to take anyone else into his confidence.
A week had passed and Royce was no closer to discovering Barlow’s identity. Pulling a piece of paper out of his desk drawer he began making a list of the men in and around Junction City that he had met and fit Barlow’s description. Medium height, brown hair, blue eyes and was probably in his early thirties. After writing down the twentieth name Royce pushed back his chair and stood. His brain was hurting and he ran tapering fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp. This was an exercise in futility. He did not know enough about Barlow to accurately know what he was looking for. The past week had been a waste of time and effort.
With his hands rammed into the
