The Marshall of Santa Fe

Chapter 1

Tim Dukes

I put on the short deerskin coat that was made for me by an Apache woman who keeps an eye on my Apache clothes and me. She was one of the few left who made the deer skins the same as in the old days. Waterproof, warm clothes were hard to find. I turned out the kerosene lamp in the foyer of the hotel before stepping out onto the front porch. The hotel had the slight odor of kerosene and old age—it was a friendly smell. It was a good smell to me. It was said that the wood in the front part of our hotel came from an early pony-express building that had never been finished since the coming of the railroad and the telegraph had put the pony express out of business. 

I slid away from the door even though the door was painted black. I learned a long time ago from the Apache that it was never wise to stand in any place that you could be targeted. In this case, the door itself would bracket me. I started to step out on the wooden sidewalk. 

I had that feeling on the back of my neck again. I unbuttoned the short deerskin coat I had just finished buttoning. I pushed it back from my pistol and slid the gun up and down in its holster so it wouldn’t stick. My sixth sense told me someone who wanted to kill me was standing across the street, waiting for me. The Apache called the sixth sense “a gift from Ussen,” which was their name for God. I’d discovered I had it while living with Victorio and his Apaches after being captured by them. The shaman (Apache medicine man), Loren, Victorio’s warrior sister, and Geronimo all had it. Mine was the strongest. I stood perfectly still, knowing my eyes would detect motion, even as dark as it was. 

It was only a few minutes before the sun would begin its relentless march across the sky. It was uncomfortably cold but not as cold as it was going to be.

Sure enough, the man standing on the wooden sidewalk across the street shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I knew for sure where he was now. I could kill him real easy from here, but my honor wouldn’t let me.

I still had that feeling. This man was dangerous. The sheriff of Durango, Colorado, had wired me that Tim Dukes was the fastest gunman he had ever seen. All my senses went on full alert. It looked like I was going to find out how fast Tim was. I did not worry about it.

The first rays of the sun struck the top of our two-story building behind me. The building was a hotel, restaurant, and boarding house. It was still too dark to recognize him, but my senses told me he was the one named Tim Dukes who was planning to kill me. I knew it was already settled in his mind since he had been standing out here in the cold weather, waiting for me to come out.

This was the time the Apaches called “the killing time.” It was their favorite time to attack their enemies. They also called it “the dying time” since the mortally wounded, the elderly, and the terminally sick chose this time to die. This came from an old Apache story passed down for hundreds of years. It was the story of how the Apache began. It had been told word for word from father to son for many centuries.

Victorio had told it to me, and one day, I would tell it to my sons. The wind came from the great mountains north of Santa Fe, bringing its fingers of the ice-cold air with it.

I already knew a lot about the silhouette across the street. He was an honorable man. He had not tried to ambush me. He was a confident man. He knew I could see him, and it didn’t bother him.

I checked my jacket again. I didn’t want it to catch and slow down my draw. These were the things gunfighters did automatically if they wanted to live. I had already made sure my gun was even with my fingertips.

I wouldn’t have to reach down very far to get to it. All I’d have to do was shoot as I brought it up. It would save only a split second, but that was the difference between life and death in my business. A lot of dead cowboys didn’t check their guns regularly or learn that you point your pistol just like you point your finger. You had to make the first shot count. You might not get another one. 

I walked toward the jail. It was on the side of the street where the man was standing. The sun would be in my eyes soon. It was a smart move. 

It was light enough now to tell that he was the man who had come into town yesterday. 

I walked toward him. We were now twenty feet apart. 

My Apache name was the Lone Eagle, the White Apache. It was a name given to me by Ussen. The settlers called him “God.” There didn’t seem to be any difference in Ussen and God. The difference was only in the people who believed in them. Both of them were the same one who made the world and gave us the mountains, the prairies, the deserts, and the lifesaving waters. He was the God of nature. 

I was given my name on one of the peaks in the Sandia Mountains in a driving rainstorm with lightning striking all around me. Ussen had sent a golden eagle to perch beside me on the ledge I was sitting on. A voice either in my head or out loud had said, “You are now the Lone Eagle, the White Apache. You are equal parts settler and Apache. You will have to walk a path between the two people, making decisions only you can make. You will live in honor and truth the rest of your life. You have earned the name the Lone Eagle. You will earn your name every day. It is the way of the warrior.” 

The chill on the back of my neck continued. I pushed my coat away from my gun again. I always kept my gun fully loaded. Even the chamber under the firing pin was loaded. Some people left it empty because they believed it kept the gun from going off accidentally. Gunfighters had more to worry them than an accidental shot. They needed the small difference in time. Some even filed the firing pin down to make it faster at striking the bullet. Now that was dangerous. Any kind of jolt might make the gun go off. 

The rays of the sun now touched half of our building. A little more, and the sun would be in my eyes. It was brighter on the side of the street where I was standing. The sun’s rays were now light enough for us to recognize each other. 

Tim was smooth faced and neat and impressed everyone with his quiet, Southern manners while eating at the hotel. Susan had made a comment about him. 

Some might think good manners are a sign of weakness, like Cherokee Bob of Durango had. I don't! Cherokee Bob had discovered it the hard way.

I knew Tim was really fast with a gun. I was going to find out just how fast he was. It was good to fight the best. He had not sold his soul to the Devil. If I stayed a marshal, sooner or later, someone would beat me. I did not worry about it. Ussen would decide whether I lived or died. I didn’t plan to be a marshal forever. One day, I would quit and become a rancher. I knew you couldn’t beat all of them all the time. Sometimes you had to be just plain lucky.