Chapter Twenty-One

To say he was uncomfortable would have been an understatement. Brantley had spent most of his childhood, and all of his adult life, avoiding members of law enforcement. Now, here he was standing on the boardwalk outside the US Marshall's office and preparing to knock on the door.

Raising his hand to rap his knuckle against the scarred wood, Brantley was stopped when a throat cleared behind him. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Brantley turned and took in the sight of the man standing on the dirt road behind him. The star on his vest told Brantley that it was the very man he'd been coming to see—the gun hanging low on the man's hip in a well worn holster, told Brantley this particular Marshall had earned his job and knew how to do it well.

"I was hoping to speak to you, Marshall."

Dark eyes, lined from years of riding sun-brightened ranges, narrowed as they studied Brantley, obviously taking in every detail just as Brantley had done to him. "Well let's head on in then and we can talk."

Brantley opened the door and allowed the Marshall to enter ahead of him before stepping in behind him. The office was small but tidy. There was a room off the back full of barred cells where an overweight deputy currently sat in an overloaded chair keeping an eye on a sleeping man on a cell cot.

The Marshall pulled off his hat and tossed it on a hook by the door before running his hand over his thick black mustache. "So, what is it that brings you in here?"

Apprehension swirled in Brantley's gut but he damn sure wasn't going to let it show. He had no choice but to do this. It was the only way to ensure Rebecca's safety, and possibly, have a future that included her.

Brantley walked to the desk and sat down causing the Marshall to follow suit. "I've come to make a deal, Marshall."

An eyebrow quirked up at the news. "A deal? What kind of deal would that be?"

Pulling his own hat off, Brantley ran his hand through his shaggy dark hair and sat his hat on his lap. "My name is Brantley Mitchell. You might have heard of me, I used to run with a man named Hoff and his gang."

"Yeah, I've heard of you. Got a poster with your name on it and a five thousand dollar reward." Brantley nearly scoffed. Five thousand? The Marshall leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "So why are you here, Brantley? Turning yourself in?"

"Not quite," Brantley assured the man, mirroring his posture. "I'm not running with those men anymore, Marshall. I've seen the error of my ways and I want to make things right."

The Marshall chuckled. "According to the U.S. Government, the way you can make it right would be to go swinging at the gallows, after a fair trial of course."

Brantley nodded, "Sure, you could do that. You could arrest me, lock me up and send me swinging. But wouldn't you rather have Hoff? Gilliam? Any of the twelve men in that gang? Hell, all of them?" Brantley knew that in order to ensure Rebecca's safety, he needed to do away with the entire gang, not just the six he'd been dealing with at the cabin.

For the first time, the Marshall seemed truly interested. He leaned forward and twisted the corner of his mustache. "You're offering to give up men you've rode with for years?"

"I am. Hell, I'm willing to do more than give them up. I'm willing to help you take them down."

The Marshall tapped his desk several times. "Hoff alone is worth ten-thousand dollars. The other gang members go anywhere from two-thousand to eight-thousand. Are you gonna be wanting that money?"

Brantley frowned. Money? What good would money do him if he hanged? "No, I don't want money."

"Really?" The Marshall frowned as he leaned back once again. "And what exactly will you be wanting?"

Brantley shrugged and plopped his hat back on his head. "A clean slate, sir. That's all I want."

"You're not a good man, Brantley Mitchell, but you also aren't as bad a man as some of those others. I'm sure you have your reasons, and I'm sure gonna want to hear them, but since I'm not able to make the kind of deal you're asking for, I can't see you wasting your breath just now." The Marshall stood up and motioned for the door. "Let's go uptown and have a talk with Judge Wilson. He's a federal judge and he'll be the one that can say yes or no to giving your slate a good washing."

Brantley nodded and followed the Marshall back into the sun and the bustle of the midday. Getting past the Marshall and having a chance to see the judge was a good thing, or at least he hoped it was.

Both men were silent as they walked. Brantley hadn't ever been to this particular city because it was a bit too crowded for his liking. Soon the wooden, ramshackle buildings gave way to well-built arcetectual storefronts and building made of brick and stones. Horse's hooves echoed off the buildings lining either side of the street as the dirt roads became cobblestones.

Stores of every kind and size, business offering services from tailoring, to hair cuts, to dentistry, lined the streets as they meandered their way through crowds of townsfolk all dressed in their Sunday best even though it was only Wednesday. Brantley felt like a fish out of water with his trail stained clothes and unshaven face.

Brantley followed the Marshal down a sidewalk through a wide courtyard full of green grass and led to a giant stone building with grand steps and pillars. The building was labeled 'Courthouse'.

Once inside the duo climbed two sets of stairs before stopping in front of polished mahogany double doors. The Marshall knocked twice and a booming authoritative voice ushered them in.

Brantley stepped inside the stately office and took in the sight of Judge Wilson. He appeared to be nearing sixty years old but it was clear the man had known hard work in his life and his body was still strong. Slate gray eyes matched the hair atop his head and the mustache on his face.

He stepped around his desk and held out a large hand. "Good afternoon, Marshall," he greeted, shaking the lawman's hand. "Who have you brought with you?"

Brantley stepped forward. "Brantley Mitchell, sir."

Judge Wilson frowned. "Do you know this man, Marshall?"

"No, sir, but I do know of him. He has a dead or alive bounty of five thousand dollars on his head and has a history of running with Hoff and his gang."

At the mention of Hoff, recognition dawned in Judge Wilson's eyes. "I've heard that name. And you say you ran with the man?"

Brantley nodded. "Yes, sir."

"So what brings you into my office today?" Judge Wilson asked. "Why aren't you currently locked up tight and secure at the Marshall's jail?"

"Brantley has a deal for us, Judge," the Marshall announced. "And it don't sound like too bad a deal."

"Really?" Judge Wilson turned his gaze to Brantley. "And what kind of deal is it?"

"I want a pardon and a cleared name and in order to earn that, I'll give you Hoff and the eleven men that still run with him. I'll help hunt them down and get rid of them until the job is done."

"Is that so?" A smile curved Judge Wilson's mustache. "But you yourself have a bounty of five-thousand dollars. What's to stop you from returning to a life of crime after I give you that?"

Brantley shrugged. "My word. I don't have anything more to offer you than that."

Judge Wilson rubbed at his chin. "The word of a wanted man? Why don't we have a seat and you can explain to me what led you to a life of crime and what has you wanting out now."

Brantley had no choice but to sit down beside the Marshall across the desk from Judge Wilson. "So tell me, Brantley. Tell me the story."

Brantley shifted in the chair and cleared his throat. Sharing was not a talent of his. But he loved Rebecca and he'd do whatever it took to ensure she'd have a safe life without the threat of Hoff and his men.

"I was a boy when I was orphaned. I was alone, lost, starving and would have died had Hoff not found me and took me under his wing. He saved my life and, to me as a child, I thought that meant he cared. He became the only family I had. Over the years I disagreed with a lot of what he did and chose not to take part in a good portion of it. But, like I said, he was the only family I had and I didn't think there was another way to live. Hell, after you get so deep in that life getting out isn't a choice. If you show weakness, you die, it's as simple as that.

"Over the last few years Hoff has grown more and more ruthless and we've butted heads more and more. But a recent job he took part in, involving a kidnapped woman, was the final straw between us. She made it back home alive but only because I made it clear I wasn't on Hoff's team anymore. After that, he had the gang beat me, then drag me along behind a horse and leave me for dead. I'm not dead, as you can see, and I want to help get rid of those men forever. I don't want to see Rebecca, or any other woman, go through what they did again."

Silence fell over the three men for a moment. Judge Wilson pulled a cigar from a drawer and struck a match to light it. After he'd taken several puffs, he smiled. "So love then? You fell in love and they hurt her and now you want revenge?"

Brantley couldn't see any point in lying. It was clear the Judge was an intelligent man. "Yes sir. And I want to make sure it doesn't happen again."

The judge looked at the Marshall. "What are the crimes he's wanted for? Murder?"

"No sir," the Marshall replied. "Robbery, theft, assualt, horse theft....."

Judge Wilson held up his hand to silence the Marshall. He rubbed at his chin and it was clear he was deep in thought. Brantley sat there feeling as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

After a long time of wondering whether he was gonna go hunting a gang, or swing from the gallows, Judge Wilson finally put down his cigar and folded his hands on the desk.

"I believe you have yourself a deal, Brantley Mitchell. Twelve horrible men no longer terrorizing innocent citizens in exchange for one reformed man getting a new start in life is a risk i'm willing to take. However, I will warn you that you will be under close observation by members of law enforcement and if you step across that line, even a little, even years from now, we'll take you down."

Brantley nodded. Hell, it had worked! He held out his hand. "I understand, Judge. You won't hear any bad of me, I can assure you of that."

Judge Wilson shook his hand firmly and then stood up. "Marshall, you can put a team together, deputize Brantley here so it's legal and you can go hunt down some wanted men."

"Judge?" Brantley paused as he followed the Marshall toward the door. "These men are all dead or alive bounties, right?"

It was clear that the Judge knew what Brantley was asking. He waved Brantley toward the window and Brantley looked outside to see the gallows upon a small hill with a wide green field and oak trees surrounding it. Brantley knew that on a hanging day that field would be full of families and onlookers picnicking and enjoying watching justice be served.

"Eleven of those men are yours to do with what you will," Judge Wilson assured him. "I just want the garbage cleaned from our country. However, there is one man I want to see hang here and that man is Hoff. You will take him alive, you will bring him here and I will send him to the hangman."

Brantley tensed. "I want him dead, Judge."

Judge Wilson nodded. "And he will be. But it will be because I've sent him to the hangman. If you don't follow the rules, that pardon won't be yours at the end of this. Understood?"

The two men stared each other down. Brantley wanted to kill Hoff himself after what the man had done.... But killing Hoff would mean he was erasing any hope he had of a future with Rebecca.

Taking a deep breath, Brantley relented and nodded in acceptance. "Sure. Either way he's dead."

Judge Wilson patted him on the back. "That's right, boy. Now go get your job done and that pardon paperwork will be here ready for you when you return."