Part 2 (1/2)

”Sproull? Is he any relation to that female who practically attacked us?”

”Her cousin.”

Now Madison understood why she was so angry. She probably thought he had come to cheat the gallows. He had, but he intended to prove the gallows had no claim to Hen. ”What kind of evidence do they have?”

”A man named Dave Bunch says he saw Hen riding toward the deserted Connor place. He says he recognized Hen's horse. When he heard a shot a few minutes later, he turned back to see if Hen needed any help. Troy was dead when he got there, and Hen was nowhere in sight.”

Madison felt a twinge of uneasiness. Thousands of men had been hanged on less solid evidence. He had to a.s.sume Dave Bunch was lying or mistaken.

”Anything else?”

”Hen and Troy got into a fight the night before over something Troy said. Hen threatened to kill him if he said it again. It was about Pa.”

Of all the memories Madison wanted to put behind him, those of his father came first.

”What has the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d done now? I was half hoping some Yankee would shoot him.”

”One did. He was killed in Georgia.”

Oh h.e.l.l, he hadn't meant it. He hated the old man, but he didn't really want him dead. Not that way.

Madison had stayed away all those years, refusing to make any contact with George, for fear the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d would come after him. He was no longer a helpless youngster, but some parts of his life were just too painful to be opened up again.

”If Pa's dead, what could Troy Sproull have said to get Hen so riled?”

”There's some story going around that Pa stole a Union payroll in Virginia. I don't know how Troy got hold of it, but he started taunting Hen about Pa being a thief.”

”Did Pa steal it?”

”I don't know. I never saw him after I left to sign up.”

Madison would never forget that day. No sooner had William Henry Randolph's two oldest boys disappeared than he had announced that he was going to volunteer, too. He didn't seem to care that he was abandoning his family, that his wife was devastated, or that his five youngest sons were paralyzed with shock. He just left.

Their mother never recovered.

”Hen beat up Troy,” George said. ”Hen told him Pa was a liar, a cheat, and probably a thief as well, but n.o.body had the right to call him that but his own sons.”

”That was all? Even in Kansas, you need more reason than that to kill a man.”

”Everybody thought it was enough when Troy turned up dead with Dave saying he all but saw Hen pull the trigger. We've got to stop in here.”

George turned into the Alamo Saloon.

”What for?” Madison asked.

”You seldom find the marshal anywhere else.”

Marshal Wild Bill Hickok, dressed in fringed buckskins, his shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle and a pair of pearl-handled guns at his waist, sat at one of the tables engrossed in a card game. He looked none too pleased at being interrupted. ”Haven't you talked to that boy enough?” Hickok asked when George told him he wanted to see his brother. ”Can't have much more to say.”

”This is my brother Madison,” George told the marshal. ”He's come to handle Hen's defense.”

”Don't look like it'll do much good as long as Dave Bunch sticks to his story.”

Madison could feel his irritation growing at this c.o.c.ky man who seemed to have such contempt for him and his family. He had seen many men of small character corrupted by power. He imagined Abilene's marshal was just another one.

”We'd like to see him anyway,” George said.

”Suit yourself,” Hickok said, reaching for the keys. Much to Madison's surprise, he handed them to George. ”But he ain't said boo to n.o.body for more than a week.”

Once they were outside, Madison asked, ”Does he give everybody the keys?”

”It saves him breaking up the game,” George said.

Either Hickok respected George too much to think he'd help Hen escape, despised him too much to think he would succeed, or didn't care. Madison decided to take a little time to get to know Marshal Hickok.

The jail was a small frame building. Abilene had appointed its first marshal the previous year, and so far they hadn't needed anything else.

Hen's cell was really a room with bars on the door. A bed, table, chairs, and even a lamp for reading made it more comfortable than a conventional jail cell. Hen was lying on the bed when George opened the door. He didn't move except to turn his head so he could focus his gaze on the man standing behind George.

His fixed look intensified as recognition set in, and Madison could see the muscles in Hen's body draw into tight knots. Hen sat up.

”What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?” he demanded. His voice, barely above a whisper, was tight with rage.

Several rejoinders hovered on Madison's tongue. Having been a Virginian at Harvard during the war, he had survived too many confrontations not to be able to turn them off with a light remark, a biting retort, or a question of his own. That would have told both Hen and George they couldn't reach him, couldn't hurt him.

But he hadn't traveled all the way from Boston to hide behind subterfuges. In the last several hours, many things he thought dead or buried had reared their ugly heads, their vigor undiminished by the pa.s.sing of so many years. He had thought himself hardened against emotion, s.h.i.+elded against accusation and innuendo. But he was discovering that where his family was concerned he was as vulnerable as he had been ten years ago.

”I came to help.”

”How long do you plan to stay this time?” Hen demanded, his bitterness undiminished. ”Long enough for the hanging, or will you leave in the middle of the trial?”

”There won't be any hanging.”

”And how do you plan to arrange that? George won't let me break out. He'd bring me back if I did.”

”I'm a lawyer,” Madison explained. ”I intend to prove you didn't kill Troy Sproull.”

”So the runaway comes back all dressed up as a fancy lawyer to help his poor, ignorant brothers,” Hen sneered.

It took all of Madison's grit not to waver. Neither George nor Hen had forgiven him. Could he expect any better from his other brothers? If not, what was he doing here?

''What makes you so sure I didn't kill Troy?” Hen demanded, obviously trying to goad Madison into losing his temper.

”I don't believe the boy I knew could turn into a killer.”

Their father may have lacerated their souls, turning them into savage, angry men, but Madison wouldn't believe that any of his brothers could commit murder. He had to keep that foremost in his mind. What his brothers felt about him, what he felt about himself, wasn't important now.