"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, shielded 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.

"How would you know? You weren't around to see me grow up, to see what I became."

Madison wondered how a voice speaking barely above a whisper could thunder in his ears with the force of a cannon.

"Ask anybody who knows me, even George. I'm a killer. I would have killed Troy if he'd said another word about Pa."

"Don't be pigheaded, Hen," George said.

"Why did you bring him here?" Hen demanded of George. "I'd rather you'd shot him before he reached the edge of town."

"He means to help"

"I don't want his help," Hen said, his eyes shining like cold, blue diamonds. "Get him out of here, or I may murder him."

Madison turned on his heel, a red haze of anger clouding his brain, a sick feeling in his gut causing his stomach to tie up in painful knots. He had expected Hen to be angry, but he hadn't been prepared for such fury.

No, hate. Hen hated him with the same intensity Madison had hated his father. He knew what that felt like, the depth and the intensity. Nothing would change that, not even proving Hen's innocence.

Madison paused outside the doorway of the jail. He looked about him at the rough, raw town. Streets ankle deep in dust, which would turn to mud at the first rain; the stench and noise of the stockyards, which had nearly overpowered him when he stepped off the train; false-fronted stores hiding mean, low buildings full of coa.r.s.e, common goods; soft light spilling into the streets from a dozen saloons; the shrill cacophony of a piano combined with voices singing off key; the bark of drunken laughter; men living each day on the brink of eternity. He didn't begrudge them their moments of pleasure, but he couldn't understand them.

His brothers had become men like that. He couldn't understand them either.

Yet he had to try, or he might as well go back to Boston and forget he had a family.

He noticed a young man swaggering toward him, and his anger and frustration were diverted by the unknown cowboy. With an unpleasant shock, he realized the "young man" was the young woman who had accosted him on the steps of the Drovers Cottage.

He felt his interest quicken, his attention narrow. He watched her approach, bemused by his response to a female who should have set his teeth on edge instead of arousing wry amus.e.m.e.nt and great curiosity.

She certainly was an unusual-looking female. She wore her hair pinned up under a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. Her flannel shirt, b.u.t.ternut pants, and high-heeled boots were indistinguishable from those worn by the dozens of cowhands who must be holding cattle on the countryside.

She was a tall girl, bigger-boned than most, but she had covered the telltale aspects of her figure with a loose sheepskin vest. It must have taken years outdoors on horseback to give her that tanned complexion and swaggering walk. Only the most discerning eye would have guessed she had entered the world as Fern rather than Ferdinand.

She wasn't at all the kind of female he was used to, yet he found himself wondering what could have turned her into such a rebel. It couldn't have been anything insignificant. If anybody knew that, he did.

But even as he wondered what chain of events could have produced such remarkable results, he remembered that Fern Sproull wanted Hen dead.

Her walk seemed to slow. She had recognized him. Now it quickened, and she exaggerated the swagger ever so slightly.

He stepped forward into her path. It would be fun to watch her try to decide whether to walk past as if she'd never seen him or to acknowledge his presence. He liked to make his opponents uncomfortable. It threw them off their game, made them make mistakes.

It gave him the advantage.

Chapter Three.

"The men of this town are braver than I thought," Madison said when she drew near.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded. She had started to walk past him, but now she stopped and turned toward him.

Madison a.s.sumed a languid pose. "Most people don't feel comfortable when other people go around pretending to be something they aren't. It's the old wolf-in-sheep's-clothing dilemma. If I remember correctly, it bothered King David when he was still a shepherd boy."

His attack was clearly unexpected, but it didn't faze her.

"I'm surprised you've read the Bible," she shot back. "I didn't think your type espoused any credo beyond getting what you wanted."

Nice snappy recovery. Her understanding of what was expected of a woman might be all backwards, but her head wasn't filled with straw.

He took a minute to straighten his coat. He wanted to draw attention to the difference between his clothes and the local haberdashery.

"We evil types have to read all the good books so we'll know what you good types are up to."

"Well, you can read the Good Book all you want, but it's not going to save your brother."

Clearly Miss Sproull wasn't intimidated by his dress. He'd have to employ another tactic.

"Why doesn't your father buy you a dress? A nice calico can't cost half as much as those boots you're wearing. As for that gun, that ought to buy you a whole wardrobe full of frilly dresses."

"I wear exactly what I want," she snapped, obviously caught between a desire to leave him standing and an equally strong desire to give him a tongue-lashing he'd long remember.

So this wasn't a case of a daughter being forced by circ.u.mstances to dress like a son, Madison thought to himself. She had chosen her wardrobe. Now why would a girl do that? In spite of himself, she intrigued him.

He looked at her more closely. He didn't think she was unattractive, but it was difficult to evaluate her appearance under the handicap of her clothing, worn and ill-fitting clothing at that. Still, it was clear she had a splendid figure. She might cover the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with a loose vest, but from the waist down her body was as clearly outlined as a mountaintop at sunrise.

No woman he knew would parade around like that. His mother would have fainted.

But Madison didn't feel faint. In fact, he found his pulse quickening. He was accustomed to a coquettish smile or a fluttering eyelash, but he found the allure of trim hips and long, slim legs even more captivating. It must be pure animal l.u.s.t. Nothing else could cause such a reaction. He certainly couldn't appreciate such a female with his mind.

Madison smiled. "It ought to pose something of a problem for you, being one thing but wanting to be taken for another."

"Not at all," Fern replied, her chin tilted at him in defiance. "It's been so long since I proved I can do anything a man can, n.o.body thinks about it anymore."

Madison decided there was a little too much challenge in her voice and stance. She was clearly proud of herself, but he had a vague suspicion she wasn't entirely pleased that no one thought of her as a girl. Correction. Woman. He didn't know much about her yet, but one thing he did know. Fern Sproull had ceased to be a girl some time ago.

His smile broadened.

"Then along comes some dude, a city slicker, a tenderfoot, and you have to prove it all over again."

The tilt of her chin increased.

"What you think is of absolutely no consequence."

Madison chuckled inwardly. She didn't like him, not one single bit. But he liked needling her. He especially liked the way her eyes flashed.

Madison resumed his languid air. "I seem to remember you had a lot to say about my brother's innocence."

"He's not innocent," Fern said, hopping on the word as if she meant to exterminate it. "Dave Bunch saw him"