lifted the precious disk into the palm of his hand and stared at it a


long minute before opening it. The compass was made of brass, not


gold, but it was still finely crafted. The face was white, the letters


red, the dial black. He removed it from its case, smiling as he


watched the dial wobble back and forth before pointing north.




His Mama Rose was going to be pleased to know that he had finally


gotten the gift she'd purchased for him over a year ago. It was a


handsome treasure. He couldn't find a nick or a scratch anywhere.




Ryan had obviously taken good care of it, he grudgingly admitted. He


still wanted to shoot the bastard for keeping it so long, but he knew


he couldn't if he wanted to stay alive a little longerţkilling marshals


was frowned on in the territory, no matter what the reasonţand so Cole


decided to settle on punching him in the nose instead.




Carefully tucking the compass into his vest pocket, he glanced over at


the pitcher and decided to splash some water on his face. His gaze


settled on the piece of cake, and he focused on it while he tried to


sort fact from dream Why were they eating cake in his cell? The


question seemed too complicated to think about now. He stood up so he


could stretch his knotted muscles and was about to take off his vest


when his sleeve caught on something sharp. Pulling his arm free, he


glanced down to see what was jabbing him.




His hands dropped to his knees as he fell back on the cot and stared


down at his left shoulder in disbelief. He was stupefied It had to be


a jokeţbut someone had a real warped sense of humor. Then Sheriff


Norton's words came back to him. The appointment had come through .




.




. Yeah, that's what he'd said . . . And they celebrated . . . Cole


remembered Norton had said that too.




And Cole was the honoree . . .




'{Son of a bitch! " He roared the blasphemy at the silver star pinned


to his vest.




He was a U. S. marshal.




gy the time Sheriff Norton returned to the jail, Cole was seething


with anger. Fortunately, Norton had gotten the keys from Ryan. His


wife, Josey, was with him, and for that reason Cole kept his temper


under control. She carried a tray covered with a


blue-and-white-striped napkin, and as soon as the sheriff swung the


door open, she brought the food inside the cell.




Norton made the introductions. "You two haven't officially met, since


you were burning up with fever every time my Josey got near you.




Josey, this here is Marshal Cole Clayborne. He doesn't know about it


yet, but he's gonna be helping Marshal Ryan chase down that slippery


Blackwater gang of murderers terrorizing the territory. Cole . . .




You don't mind if I get familiar and call you by your first name, do


you? " "No, sir, I don't mind." The sheriff beamed with pleasure.




"That's mighty nice of you, considering the inconvenience you must be


feeling over getting yourself thumped on the head. Anyway, as I was


saying, this pretty lady blushing next to me is my wife, Josey. She


fretted over you something fierce while you were ill. Do you


remember?




" Cole had stood up as soon as Josey entered the cell. He moved


forward, nodded to her in greeting, and said, "Of course I remember.




Ma'am, I appreciate you coming by the hotel and looking after me while


I was so sick. I hope I wasn't too much trouble." Josey was a rather


plain-looking woman, with round shoulders and crooked teeth, but when


she smiled, she lit up the room. Folks tended to want to smile back,


and Cole was no exception. His smile was genuine, as was his


appreciation.




"A lot of people wouldn't have taken the trouble to nurse a stranger, "


he added.




"You weren't any trouble at all, " she replied. "You lost a little


weight, but my chicken ought to put the fat back on you. I brought


some from home."




"My Josey makes mighty fine fried chicken, " Norton interjected with a


nod toward the basket his wife carried.




"I felt I ought to do something to make up for my husband's


orneriness.




Thomas shouldn't have knocked you out the way he did, especially since


you were feeling so puny and all. Does your head pain you? " "No,


ma'am, " he lied.




She turned to her husband. "Those two no-good gunslingers are still


hanging around. I spotted both of them on my way here. One's


squatting north of our avenue and the other's due south. Are you going


to do something about it before this boy gets himself killed? " Norton


rubbed his jaw. "I expect Marshal Ryan will have a talk with them. "


"He doesn't seem the talking type, " Josey replied.




"Ma'am, those gunslingers want me, " Cole said. "I'll talk to them. "


"Son, they don't want to talk. They're itching to build their


reputations, and the only way they can do that is if one of them shoots


you in a draw. Just don't let them aggravate you into doing anything


foolish, " Norton said.




Josey nodded her agreement, then turned to her husband again. "Where


do you want me to lay out the plates? " "It's too stuffy to eat in


here, " Norton said. "Why don't you put it all out on my desk? " Cole


waited until Josey had gone into the outer room before speaking to the


sheriff again. "Where's Ryan? " "He'll be along soon. He was headed


here, but then he got called over to the telegraph office to pick up a


wire. I expect you're anxious to have a word with him." Cole


nodded.




He kept his temper under control by reminding himself that the sheriff


had only done Ryan's bidding. It was the marshal who'd ordered Norton


to keep Cole in town, and it was also the marshal who'd pinned the star


on his vest. Cole had in mind another place for the badge. He thought


he might like to pin it to the center of Ryan's forehead. The thought


so amused him, he smiled.




Josey had removed the papers from the desk and covered it with a


red-and-white tablecloth. There were two chipped china dinner plates,


white with blue butterflies painted on the rims, and two matching


coffee cups. In the center of the desk was a platter of fried chicken


sitting in a thick puddle of grease, along with bowls of boiled turnips


with their hairy roots, like gauze, still wrapped around them,


congealed gravy that resembled day-old biscuit dough, pickled beets,


and black-bottomed rolls.




It was the most unappealing meal Cole had ever seen. His stomach,


still tender from the influenza, lurched in reaction to the smell.




Since Josey had already left, Cole didn't have to be concerned that his


lack of appetite would offend her.




The sheriff took his seat behind the desk and motioned for Cole to pull


up another chair. After pouring coffee for both of them, he leaned


back and pointed to the spread. "I might as well warn you before you


get started. My wife means well, but she never quite got the knack for


cooking. She seems to think she's got to fry everything up in a kettle


of lard. I wouldn't touch that gravy if I were you. It's a killer. "


"I'm really not hungry, " Cole said.




The sheriff laughed. "You're gonna be a mighty fine marshal'cause


you're so diplomatic." Patting his distended belly, he added, "I've


gotten used to my Josey's cooking, but it's taken me close to thirty