“You reckon he’s after the men who killed Cole?”
George had been so surprised to see the famous marshal that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “You know, he might be.”
“Should we say something to him?”
George made a face. “What would you say?”
“I don’t know. We could tell him who we were.”
“You just want to talk to him.”
“Yeah, but it makes sense.”
George shook his head. “No, we won’t bother him. We don’t know anything that could help him.”
“All right,” James said, and they whispered, sharing stories they’d heard about the marshal. They both knew all the stories by heart. That didn’t matter. They were celebrating being in the great man’s presence.
It added a lot to the trip and the excitement never wore out, even after they stopped in Buena Vista, where the car filled up, and a pair of women sat behind them talking non-stop about an upcoming wedding.
Then, at the next stop, a red-faced man in a tweed coat and bowler cap struggled onto the train with a big drummer’s case and went back and sat close to the marshal and recognized him and got so excited that George and James could hear him talking at the marshal all the way up where they were seated.
“You’re him!” the man exclaimed. “You’re the famous Marshal Mayfield!”
They couldn’t hear the marshal’s response, but they, like everyone else, took the opportunity to turn in their seats and stare back toward the exchange.
George felt a little surge of pride then, understanding that he and James had been the only other passengers to recognize Mayfield until the drummer had started blatting.
Then George felt prouder still when the drummer embarrassed himself, going on and on, trying to start a conversation, but the stone-faced marshal barely replied.
“See,” George told his brother. “We did the right thing not bothering the marshal. We handled that like men.”
James nodded. “You were right, George. I sure would hate for the marshal to think us fools.”
The rest of the trip was uneventful. They pulled into Fairplay and got off the train and sort of lingered there as others exited the car.
Would the marshal get off here, too?
The flibbertigibbet women, whose non-stop chattering probably could have powered the train, emerged and waited, too.
A short time later, when the great man did indeed come off the train, the women stepped right up and asked if he really was Marshal Mayfield.
The man swept his black hat from his head and smiled and said yes, he was, and immediately apologized, explaining that he had an appointment in town. He wished them a good day and excused himself, and just like that, he was on his way down the street, leaving George and James amazed and the women chattering like a couple of excited squirrels.
“Well, that was something,” James said. “I can’t believe we actually met Marshal Mayfield.”
George gave his brother a light shove. “Don’t exaggerate, James. We didn’t meet him. But we got close enough to read his badge. That’s something. Now, come on, let’s find Mary.”
“Maybe she’s here,” the younger brother said. “Maybe she was waiting on the train.”
It was possible, and George felt a surge of hope, but one quick glance put an end to that. There was no sight of Mary anywhere.
Which came as no surprise. After all, they hadn’t bothered to tell her they were coming. They’d just come.
“She’s probably at the hotel,” he said soberly, and the pair started in that direction.
Mary wasn’t at the hotel, but the clerk was expecting them and shared the message Mary had left in case they showed up on the train.
“Mrs. Sullivan would have met you at the train had she known you were coming today,” the clerk told them. “She said that. But she didn’t want to waste time if, indeed, you were not coming today, so she went shopping.”
