Leaving Epitaph: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

39

They stopped in Blackwell, just before the Kansas border. Prior to that they had a small run-in with a Cherokee hunting party. There were six braves, and they were looking for food. Shaye calmed his sons, who had only seen Indians before one at a time, and the tame variety at that. Shaye satisfied the braves with some beef jerky, and they all went their separate ways. Thomas, Matthew, and James talked about that encounter for hours afterward.

They stopped in Wellington next, soon after they crossed into Kansas, but there was no sign that the Langer gang had ever stopped there. The next day they headed toward Wichita.

“They’re haulin’ ass,” Shaye said the morning they broke camp to head toward Wichita. “Means they’re likely to be late meeting up with Aaron. They’re trying to make up for lost time.”

“Because of the stop they made in Oklahoma City?” Thomas asked.

“Most likely,” Shaye said.

“What about Wichita?” James asked. “Could they be meeting up there?”

“My guess is Wichita’s too big,” Shaye said. “They’d want something not as busy. My best guess is Salina.”

It wasn’t that much smaller than Wichita—eleven or twelve hundred people, probably—but it certainly wasn’t a place that brought in outsiders. Largely a farming community, it catered mostly to locals, even though the Union Pacific had a stop there. Its claim to fame was the steam-powered wheat mill that was built when wheat began to come into the town in large quantities in the 1870s.

“So should we stop in Wichita?” Thomas asked.

The last good rest they’d had was in Oklahoma City. If the Langers were hauling ass, then Shaye figured they should too, but they might as well ride through Wichita since it would cost them some time to deliberately go around it.

“We could use some coffee,” James said after he’d listened to his father’s explanation.

“You can hit the general store while I talk to the local law,” Shaye said.

“Do you know who the sheriff is there?” Thomas asked.

“Haven’t a clue.”

“What if it’s someone who…you know…remembers you?” James asked, worried.

“Statute of limitations ran out on my crimes a long time ago,” Shaye said. “Don’t worry about it.”

All his crimes except one, but he didn’t mention that.

Wichita was queen of the cow towns until Dodge City inherited the title in the late 1870s. The cattle drives were now almost over, and even Dodge City’s halcyon days were gone.

But Wichita was still a large, bustling place, and impressed Thomas, Matthew, and James, although not as much as Oklahoma City had.

“I only want to be here an hour at the most,” Shaye said. “Thomas, you and James go to the general store. Matthew, you come with me.”

They all said, “Yes, sir.”

Shaye and Matthew rode to the sheriff’s office and dismounted in front.

“I’ll do all the talking,” Shaye said.

“Sure, Pa.”

They entered the office and found a tall, slender man with a broom sweeping the floor. Dust was floating in the air, and the sun streaming in the window was reflecting off it. It looked like a man-made dust storm, and Shaye doubted the man was having much effect on the overall cleanliness of the place.

“Excuse me!” he called out.

The man turned abruptly and stopped sweeping. He was possibly the saddest-looking man Shaye had ever seen, and this just from the expression on his face. His mouth curved downward naturally, and the rest of his face seemed to follow. He had no hat on, and had only some wisps of hair left on his head. He appeared to be in his early sixties. Shaye was about to ask for the sheriff when he noticed the badge on the man’s chest.

“Are you the sheriff?” he asked.

“Usually,” the man said. Gesturing with the broom he added, “Today I’m the janitor too. Just a minute.”

The man walked to the corner and set the broom against the wall, then returned to where Shaye and Matthew were standing and extended his hand.

“I’ll bet you’ve swept up a time or two yourself, Sheriff.”

“Once or twice.”

“Epitaph,” the lawman said. “Where is that?”

“South Texas,” Shaye said. “Name’s Daniel Shaye. This is my son, Matthew.”

The sheriff of Wichita reached past Shaye to shake hands with Matthew and said, “Pleased to meet you both. My name’s Carmondy, Sheriff Ed Carmondy. What brings you to my neck of the woods, Sheriff? You’re a long ways from home.”

“Well, I tell you—”

“Have a seat,” Carmondy said, cutting him off. “Excuse my bad manners. Get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Shaye said.

The sheriff walked around to sit behind his desk. Shaye and Matthew took chairs across from him.

“We’re just passing through, trailing a gang that hit the bank in my town and…and killed a woman.”

“Terrible thing,” Carmondy said. “Must have been real bad to bring you all this way on their trail.”

“When is killing a woman not terrible?” Shaye asked.

“Too true,” Carmondy said. “What can I do to help you?”

“Tell me if there’s been any sign of the Langer gang hereabouts in the last day or two.”

“Langer gang?”

“Do you know of them?”

“Of course,” Carmondy said. “Any lawman worth his salt has heard of the Langers, Ethan and Aaron. Which one you after?”

“Ethan. Aaron and his men robbed a bank in South Dakota about the same time.”

“They make that a state yet?” Carmondy asked.

“Think I read something about that in the newspaper some time ago,” Shaye said. “Afraid I don’t keep up on the new states, though.”

“Think we got maybe forty of ’em now,” Carmondy said.

“That could be,” Shaye said.

“That’s a lot of states.”

“Sure is.”

“You know what town Aaron hit?”

“Heard somewhere near the Bad River—Pierre, maybe.”

“Probably a good time to hit that area, what with the statehood stuff goin’ on,” Carmondy said.

“You could be right,” Shaye said. “Sheriff? Any sign of Ethan and his men here?”

“Not that I know of,” Carmondy said, “and I’d know.”

“You would?”

“Durn right. I keep my eye out for strangers.”

“You do?” Shaye couldn’t help himself and looked toward the broom in the corner.

Carmondy smiled, and suddenly his face wasn’t so sad anymore. It was an amazing transformation. It seemed whatever his mouth did, the rest of his face followed right along.

“I don’t look like much, Sheriff Shaye,” he said, “but I know that you rode into town with three deputies, not one.”

“Sons,” Shaye said. “Three sons, who also happen to be my deputies.”

“You must be real proud.”

“I am.”

Obviously, Sheriff Carmondy was not as dumb as he liked people to think he was.

“So you see, if Ethan Langer rode in with his men—three, four, more—I’d know it.”

“I guess you would.” Shaye stood up, followed by Matthew. “We won’t take up any more of your time, then.”

Carmondy stood up and extended his hand. Shaye shook it while Matthew remained behind his father.

“Stayin’ in town?” the local lawman asked. “I know where you and your boys can get a fine meal.”

“Thanks, but no,” Shaye said. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” Carmondy said. “If you track Ethan until he meets up with his brother, you’re gonna have a lot to handle, just the four of you.”

“We’ll make do,” Shaye said.

Carmondy looked past Shaye at Matthew and said, “Good luck to you.”

Matthew didn’t reply, but he touched his hand to the brim of his hat and nodded.

“Matthew,” Shaye said outside, “you could have said thank you to the man when he wished you luck.”

“But Pa,” Matthew said, “you tol’ me to let you do all the talkin’, didn’t you?”

“That I did, son,” Shaye said. “That I did.”