The eight-man posse had to admit in court that Mr. Longstreet was more or less hiding in plain sight. They came across him herding cows toward a watering hole on the Welling homestead, and he didn’t raise an eyebrow as they approached. Benton Sterling would testify that Morgan Longstreet not only surrendered his rifle and his sidearm, he looked as if he were relieved to see them.
That wasn’t true of Gideon and Jackson Welling or the other three men they found working the ranch. Shots were fired before the Union Pacific’s investigator could state why they were there. It seemed the adage was true: a guilty conscience needed no accuser.
A man named Paul Viola was killed when the deputies returned fire. No one else was hurt. Zetta Lee Welling came out on the porch wearing an ice blue taffeta dress and three ropes of pearls around her neck. She had a shotgun in her hand and a feral look in her eye that stopped every man except Morgan Longstreet in his tracks. Morgan’s long stride carried him up to the porch while no one else was moving or even paying attention to him. He wrested the shotgun from Zetta Lee’s hands, emptied it, and tossed it into the yard at Benton Sterling’s feet.
Gideon and Jackson Welling gave up their guns. It was Zetta Lee who encouraged it. Morgan had gone crazy she told them. Her boys did not need to die because of it. Once their guns were on the ground, the other two men dropped their weapons as well.
They were taken into custody. The posse searched the house, but they never came across money that would point to the robberies. Zetta Lee told her sons to go with the law and she would arrange for lawyers and their defense. She knew they were innocent. Everyone else would know it, too.
Morgan straight-armed himself out of his chair and went over to the stove to take Cobb up on his offer of coffee. He held up the pot, but he had no takers. Jane’s lips were pressed together. It was how she had collected herself the first time he’d told her the story. He had not wanted her here, but she would have it no other way. It was important to her that Cobb Bridger heard the story in its entirety, not the broad strokes that Morgan had given him when he first came to Bitter Springs. She didn’t trust him to say it all, and Morgan knew she was right. The case she made was dead-on, but it did not follow that he was comfortable owning it.
She’d had her back up that night, pointing out all the ways in which circumstances mitigated his participation in the robberies. And then she’d set her hands on her hips and told him that he kept his secrets because he would rather have people think the worst of him, or think nothing at all. She even cursed some. She cried a little, too. It broke his heart to see that.
She never talked once about leaving him, though. She went after him like she was a hammer and he was a nail. It felt good that she cared so much, and when he told her that, she flew at him again, this time calling him a horse’s ass because of course she cared so much. She loved him. Horse’s ass and all.
Recalling that, Morgan had a faint smile on his face as he returned to his chair. “You pretty much know how it turned out from there, Bridger. Zetta Lee came forward but not in the defense of anyone but herself. She claimed we had stolen from her right after Ham died and that opening his safe was surely what put us on the road to ruin.” Morgan chuckled under his breath, although the sound had an edge to it. “Road to ruin. She really talked like that. Gideon and Jack pointed fingers back at her, but no one took them seriously, especially when I did not support them. I reckon that if they’re around, it’s because they want their pound of flesh.”
“I thought it might also be for the money,” said Cobb.
“From the robberies, you mean?”
Cobb nodded.
“There’s no money, but that doesn’t mean they won’t want me to get them some. They had the impression that Zetta Lee gave most of her share to me and that I had it squirreled away where none of them could touch it. I have to believe she put that in their heads because there was some advantage in it for her. That’s how she thought. I saw no point in trying to convince them differently.”
Jane said, “Morgan had neither conscientious nor competent representation at trial, Marshal Bridger, and my husband said nothing in his own defense. It is a character flaw of unimaginable proportions.”
“I’m getting that impression.” Cobb leaned back in his chair and said to Morgan, “This is how Benton Sterling figures into what happened. He spoke up for you.”
“Yes. He wasn’t alone, but he carried on the loudest. Seems like the jury heard him because I spent six years in the territory prison, and the rest of them went to Leavenworth. It was the express mail train robbery that got them the ten-year sentence in a federal prison. You know about their early release.”
“I do,” said Cobb. “But we’re only talking about your brothers. The other two that went in with them died there.”
“Bobber Metcalf and Wayne Corley.”
“Right. Metcalf and Corley.”
Jane reached over and laid her hand on Morgan’s forearm. “What can you do, Marshal, to protect my husband?”
Morgan looked down at Jane’s hand and then at Cobb Bridger. He smiled a trifle crookedly.
“Yeah,” said Cobb. “I know that feeling, too.” His blue eyes swiveled to Jane. “I think Morgan is more interested in what I am prepared to do to protect you, assuming, that is, that anyone is in need of protection. The first thing we have to do is establish the identity of the person you met. I’m fair with a sketch. I used to have to do it a lot in my previous work. Should we go over your description again?”
“Yes,” Jane said firmly. “We should.”
Morgan sat quietly, drinking his coffee and listening to Jane describe the man again. This time, though, she had Cobb Bridger to ask her questions, and Morgan had to admit that the marshal understood how to gently tug on her memory to get a more complete picture. Bridger also had the skill to literally draw on her memory. His pencil flew over the paper as he sketched and shaded and erased and sketched again. Jane went to stand at his side to watch the portrait take place, offering a suggestion that broadened the man’s nose and another that shortened the distance between his eyes.
Morgan did not look at the picture as it was being composed. He watched Cobb’s steady hand and the way Jane nibbled on her lower lip as she carefully considered her words. Sometimes she closed her eyes. He admired the effort she made to be precise. She spoke as if their lives depended on what she said.
It was very likely that they did.
Morgan finished his coffee at the same time Cobb set down his pencil. Jane had pronounced herself satisfied with an emphatic, “That’s him.” Cobb had then lifted the sketch and blown away shavings left by the gum eraser. The paper lay balanced in the palm of his hand until Morgan finally nodded.
Cobb pinched the sketch between his thumb and forefinger and held it up for Morgan to see. He said nothing, letting the work speak for itself, and waited.
Jane also waited. She held her breath, searching Morgan’s face for some indication of the outcome.
“I haven’t seen my brothers in almost ten years,” Morgan said. “They were shackled together and being escorted out of the courtroom the last time I saw them. I remember thinking Jackson would have killed me right there if he could have reached me. The look in his eyes when he turned back and saw me standing beside Benton Sterling…” Morgan’s voice trailed off. He shook his head. “I’m realizing that fifty years could go by without seeing him and I would still know him at a glance. That’s not Jackson Welling.”
