and Aaron Holderman sent to prison. You find yourself pardoned. Free. And appointed marshal of Wyoming. And when you’re sitting at the train depot in Chicago, waiting to start a new life for yourself, lovely Christina Whitney sits down beside you. She has a ticket to Cheyenne, too.
But happily ever after?
Not with those nightmares. But, well, you do have a job. And that, son, is how at least one man becomes a United States marshal.
Hell of a way to get there, boy, don’t you think?
CHAPTER FIVE
“In my case,” Fallon answered with a smile, “I owe my appointment to Adlai Stevenson. I’ve never met the former vice president, but he, as a former representative from Illinois, where I spent some time . . .” Fallon grinned, wondering if the students might ask him how and where he might have spent time in the great state of Illinois. “. . . he had heard and read a lot about me. Thus, he made the recommendation to then-President Grover Cleveland, who appointed me to the position here, and the United States Senate unanimously confirmed my appointment.”
He paused, smiled his politician smile, and added, “I have, by the way, briefly met our current vice president, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, and although the appointment of a federal marshal is political, I would like to think that, as a Western man and a brave man—as seen from his actions on San Juan Hill with his Rough Riders—Mr. Roosevelt might have recommended me to President McKinley, even though they are Republicans and Mr. Stevenson and President Cleveland were and are Democrats. We are all Americans, and we all seek justice.”
Damn, Hank, he thought, these kids can’t even vote. Tone it down. This isn’t a campaign speech.
Another hand shot toward the ceiling.
“Yes?”
A pimply-faced redhead, shaped like an oversized string bean, stood as though at attention in front of his desk. “Sir, how dangerous is it being a United States marshal?”
And before Fallon could thank him for that question, the boy had moved back into his desk.
“Well, son . . .” Fallon shook his head. As a U.S. marshal, you might eat bad chicken, get sick from that, or have to pretend you like some representatives, even the governor. He got asked that question a lot. Maybe one day, he’d answer it honestly. But today: “I’m glad you asked that question, son, because it gives me the chance to sing out praises for the real lawmen in Wyoming, those who risk their lives to keep you children, as well as Headmaster Hendricks and your outstanding teachers, Mr. Williams and Mr. Dietrich, safe. As the U.S. marshal, I have to hire deputies, and these deputies are bringing peace across our state. From our national park in Yellowstone to Rock Springs. Laramie. Buffalo. Rawlings. Casper. You might not know how big Wyoming is …”
“Ninety-seven thousand square miles,” one boy shouted.
“More than ninety-seven thousand and eight hundred square miles,” said another.
The blond in the desk just in front of Fallon said, “Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred and eighteen.” Turned and stuck out his tongue at his classmates.
“Well.” Fallon looked at the headmaster. “You certainly have an erudite group of young men here.” Clearing his throat, he hoped he wouldn’t have many more questions. “That’s a lot of country. My deputies are patrolling it, but they are not alone. We are responsible for only federal crimes. For local crimes, there are brave lawmen working as town constables, town marshals, and deputies, keeping the peace in our towns and cities. As well as our county sheriffs and their deputies, who have jurisdiction outside of the town or city limits. As a United States marshal, or a deputy U.S. marshal, we pursue bank and train robbers, mail thieves, kidnappers, and counterfeiters. But you boys could do me a favor, and the next time you see anyone wearing a badge, thank them for what they are doing for you. You should also thank the men working out of our fire stations. Me? I’m usually just behind a desk or in a meeting or talking to fine young people like yourselves.”
Another hand, another nod, another question.
“How many men have you killed?”
“Silas,” Mr. Dietrich scolded, but Fallon shook his head and said, “That’s all right, sir. I get asked that question all the time.” Even at church socials and women’s auxiliary league meetings.
“As a U.S. marshal,” Fallon told the dark-haired kid in the middle of the room, “none. And most of my deputies have wounded or killed few felons. The West is changing. Lawlessness is on the decline. Maybe by the time you boys have been graduated from the Abraham Lincoln Academy, you won’t have need of as many marshals, sheriffs, and constables as we have today.”
“Or prisons,” a boy sang out without raising his hand.
Fallon straightened. “Or prisons,” he said. “Absolutely. Especially prisons.”
He waited. “Any more questions for Marshal Fallon?” the headmaster asked.
Fallon was about to thank the boys for their attention and praise their questions when a small, dark-skinned boy in the left rear corner raised a timid hand. The headmaster appeared not to notice, because he started to tell the class to thank the marshal and show their appreciation by . . .
Fallon cut him off, “Excuse me, sir, but I think we have one more inquiry.” He pointed at the small boy. “Go ahead, son.”
The boy lowered his hand, swallowed, slowly rose, but kept his head down. Fallon noticed Dietrich tensing. The boy’s suit didn’t fit as well as the others’, and his shoes weren’t shined to a shining buff. He looked to be part, maybe all, Mexican, maybe half-Indian or something like that.
“Yes?” Fallon prompted.
“Could you . . . help . . . my Papa?” Fallon barely heard the lad.
He did hear Dietrich. “Carlos!”
Fallon raised his hand. “It’s all right, Mr. Dietrich.” Some of the students began sniggering, but Fallon cleared his throat, and that silenced the entire room.
“He is in prison,” young Carlos said. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. The headmaster started for the boy, and so did the other teacher with a ruler that Fallon knew had smacked many a knuckle. But Fallon cut them off, and moved fast—spend enough time behind prison walls, and you knew how to beat a guard to a spot—and knelt on the floor. “Go on, son,” he said, and looked back to make sure the adults came no closer.
“Which prison?” Fallon asked. “Laramie?”
“Yes,” the boy whispered.
Fallon waited.
The boy wiped his nose and whispered. “His name is Carlos. Like me. Carlos Pablo Diego the Fourth. I am Carlos Pablo Diego the Fifth.”
“All right,” Fallon said. “Tell me about your papa.”
The boy sniffed again. “He has been in the prison for tres years. Three. They said he stole a horse, but, señor marshal, he did not steal a horse. He is a good man. Can you help him, por favor?”
Fallon put both hands on the kid’s shoulder, squeezed them, and said, “I’ll see what I can do,
