A Knife in the Heart. William W. Johnstone
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“It’s just a scratch. Like I cut myself shaving.”
“Uh-huh.”
Helen had ears like an owl. She said with a smile, “It’s not even worth a bandage, Christina.”
Fallon said, “Did you hear that?”
“Barely,” Christina answered, “but I trust Helen.”
“I asked McGruder to send a policeman over to tell you that I was all right,” Fallon said.
“You could have done that yourself.”
He nodded, realized she couldn’t see, and said, “I know. I just didn’t want to make a big fuss over this.”
“Honey, the Widow Walkup said fifteen men are dead in the streets.”
“I’m not that good,” he said and pictured her smiling.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Remember, I’ve seen you at work.”
“Yeah. There were six. Ma Recknor dispatched one. A frightened horse took care of another. One got in the way of his pard’s gun. Which leaves three, if my math is correct.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. You didn’t mention any plans to ambush a gang of bank robbers when you set off to work this morning.”
“I just happened to be heading into the Stockgrowers’ at the time. Pure luck.”
“Luck.”
“Yeah. Luck.”
“Harry Fallon, I think you’re the luckiest man I’ve ever known.”
“Because I’m married to you.”
Her laugh sounded musical. “Flattery will get you forgiveness. And I’ll tend the cheek wound free of charge. The hat and coat, those will cost you. And remember, if I were at the bank, and not you, I wouldn’t have needed a horse or a bank robber to assist me. But everyone can use Ma Recknor.”
More static, then Christina said, “Well, I think McGruder’s policeman finally found where we live. Someone’s banging on the door anyway. I have to go.” She yelled to the front door, but Fallon couldn’t make out the words.
“I’ll see you tonight. What do you want for supper?”
“Bourbon,” he said.
She laughed. “You don’t drink.”
“I’ve half a mind to start.”
“How about mutton and potatoes?”
“That would be fine.”
“Harry?”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
His smile widened, and he felt warm. Helen shook her head and whispered, “Tell her the same. It won’t make you less of a man.”
“I love you, too,” he said, glared at Helen, and hung the speaking piece into the cradle.
“That didn’t hurt at all, did it, Marshal?” Helen said.
Fallon shook his head. “What’s the rest of my day like?”
“There are warrants to look over. Piled high on your desk.”
He turned to the office, but Helen called him back.
“Did you happen to deposit my check for me?”
“Oh.” Fallon swore, apologized, and reached inside his coat pocket. “I’m sorry, Helen. But what with the—”
“Hey, darling, I’m glad you didn’t. Had those boys made off with my check, my landlord would be screaming for his rent money again.” Fallon was fishing out the envelope, which he laid on her stack between newspapers and her own coffee cup. “Bank’s probably closed the rest of the day anyway,” she said. “I’ll try to drop it off on my way to work tomorrow morning.”
“It might still be closed,” Fallon said.
“Yeah, but I’ll get to count the bullet holes with the boys skipping school.”
She poured Fallon a cup of coffee, and said, “You might want to scrub the blood off your cheek before you go home, by the way.”
When Fallon reached the door to his office, he turned around and called out Helen’s name. When she looked up at him, he said, “If any newspaper reporter stops by . . .”
“You’re not in the office, not at home, and no one knows how to reach you.” She winked.
With a smile, Fallon stepped inside his ornate office, closing the door behind him.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Helen tapped on the window, and then gently opened the door. “Hank?” she called out.
Setting the pen he had been using in the holder, he waved her in, and pretended to be massaging his right wrist. “I could use a break,” he said.
She grinned briefly, but then slid an envelope onto his desk. “Hank,” she said, “this is the envelope that had my check in it, but I noticed your scribbling on the back.”
Fallon snapped his fingers even before he glanced down. There was his unruly scrawl.
Carlos Pablo Diego IV . . . horse thief . . . Laramie
prison
“Right,” he said. “I almost forgot a promise.”
“Well,” she said, “you have had an unusual day.”
Yeah, he thought, but had you known me back when I was riding for Judge Parker, you wouldn’t know just how regular a day like today would have been—except for talking to schoolboys about law and order on the frontier of the United States of America.
He grabbed the pencil and wrote the name down on a pad next to the warrants and other correspondence he had been signing for what felt like all day.
His eyes went up again. “What’s the name again of the new warden at the state prison in Laramie?”
“State prison.” Helen shook her head. “I’ll always think of it as the territorial pen.”
“Wyoming has been a state since 1890,” Fallon reminded her.
“I know. Jackson is the warden’s name. M. C. Jackson.”
Fallon thanked her and scribbled the name down underneath the name of the father of the Mexican kid from the Abraham Lincoln Academy. He looked up again and said, “I don’t suppose our telephone wires stretch all the way to Laramie, eh?”
“We haven’t reached the twentieth century yet, darling.”
“Good.” Fallon exhaled. “I know how to send a telegraph.”
“But”—Helen pointed her chin at the copy of the newspaper Fallon had tossed, unread, into the wastebasket—“if you would ever take time to read the paper, all the paper, you might have noticed that Warden Jackson happens to be in the capital talking to our governor about the need for a new prison, perhaps in Rawlings.”
“He’s still in Cheyenne?” Fallon asked.
“There are meetings with legislators tomorrow, and a speech to the women’s auxiliary Wednesday. I guess being a warden is a lot like being a United States marshal. Except for gunfights in front of banks.”
“Do you know where Jackson is staying?” Fallon inquired.
She shrugged but said, “If I wanted to guess, I’d say the Inter-Ocean Hotel.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know what the phone number there is?”
“I can look it up. And,