He wanted her to sign it? Easy enough.
She dug briefly through her oversized reticule and came up with a short pencil. Taking the paper, she filled in her name and rapidly affixed her signature in what looked to be the correct spot.
“Read—to me.” He gagged and gripped his belly, his face snowy white.
Sneaking her wire-framed spectacles out of her bag, she slid them quickly up her nose and began to read softly to the suffering man.
“I, Delia Perkins, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute all lawful precepts, directed to the Marshal of the United States for the territory of Wyoming, under the authority of the United States—”
Her voice trailed off, alarm keeping her from closing her mouth. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. Jessup ignored her question. Between pains, he groaned out, “Finish it.”
Adventure, obedience, pride. She didn’t know which of these drove her at that moment. Delia opened her mouth and wholeheartedly affirmed, “And in all things well and truly, and without malice or partiality, perform the duties of Deputy Marshal of the Wyoming Territory during my continuance in said office, and take only my lawful fees, so help me God.”
The raspy voice begged, “The pencil. Paper.”
She handed both to him. Jessup scrawled his name. “Date.”
Retrieving the pencil and paper, she filled in September 21, 1871, showing it to him. He nodded and opened his right fist. A silver star landed in her lap, gleaming against the dark brown skirt of her traveling suit. A large envelope landed on top of it.
He gasped, bringing her gaze up to his pinched face. “Other marshal, already—Belle.”
At her nod, he struggled to continue. “Suspect man. Rol Anders. Tell him.”
“Mr. Jessup, I don’t understand. Is Mr. Anders the suspect?”
Opening his mouth to gasp air, fish-like Delia thought, Jessup pitched forward, landing on top of the envelope.
“Help!” Heads turned and a blue-hatted conductor ran toward them. “I think he’s ill.”
“That, Miss, I think is an understatement.”
A doctor who happened to be traveling in the same car volunteered his services. After proclaiming that Mr. Jessup was undoubtedly suffering with appendix trouble, he left the train at the next stop with his newly acquired patient—coincidentally, where the man’s home and practice was located.
During the time he remained on the train, the man woke only once. He thrashed from side to side before muttering two words, “Rol Anders.” The anguish in his voice convinced Delia Perkins that Rol Anders was someone to be on guard against.
So, like such men as Bat Masterson, Bass Reeves, and Wyatt Earp who would become famous, Delia Perkins became a United States Marshal.
Quite a feat for the daughter of a former slave!
Delia didn’t expect to be met at the station. She had sent Mr. Stewart, who she knew owned the mercantile, a telegram about her expected arrival. Still, what man could afford to close his store in the middle of a busy day to welcome a stranger?
Even so, Delia searched the platform after the conductor helped her down the few steps as she left the passenger car. Her eyes lit on a tall man whose wavy dark hair peeked from underneath his hat. During her trip to Belle, she’d seen hats like his with a deep crown and wide brim. The further west she traveled the more hats like his appeared rather than the bowlers she commonly saw in Springfield.
The man stood in the shadow of the depot building. Perhaps he felt her gaze since he looked up, meeting her eyes. She saw his eyebrows raise at her and blushed. Then a slow smile creased his face. The expression caused a funny curl inside her middle. A very unfamiliar feeling. The man wasn’t unusually handsome. Why, then, did he draw this response from her? It was as if he’d reached across the distance and stroked her arm. Had he felt the same reaction? Is that why he’d smiled in her direction?
She willed herself to look away. Wanting to distract her mind, she searched the rest of the platform, glancing also through the large window of the depot itself. A throat clearing nearby caused her to jump and whirl.
“Excuse me, miss. Was there an older man traveling on the same train as you?”
Delia stared for a moment at the stranger who’d been brazen enough to approach her. He was sparely built, rawboned and red faced. Something about his smile reminded her of a vicious dog. Any moment she expected to see foam drip from his teeth or to hear a growl echo from his throat. Nothing about him hinted that he could be the marshal Jessup expected to meet in Belle.
Deciding quickly, Delia tightly gripped the reticule that hid the envelope and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
When she would have turned to leave, the man extended his hand to halt her. His oily tone, when he spoke again, caused her to shy away from his extended hand. “Name’s Jubal Yarbourough. Maybe you just don’t remember. If something does come to you later, head on over to my cobbler’s wagon. I…”
Yarborough’s voice trailed off to a soft whistle. He leered at her, his eyes traveling over her body. What had he seen that caused this sudden change she wondered, even as she shuddered in response to his almost tactile gaze.
Stepping closer, his voice took on an edge of unwelcome warmth. The tone cause her to back up as she tried to get away from the man.
“You, my dear, can visit my wagon even if you don’t have anything to tell me. I’d love to be your very good friend.”
Even as his arm stretched out toward her an umbrella fell hard onto it. A woman hissed, “Get away from her,” as she brought the weapon up for
