The young deputy pulled his coat tighter around his cold body, desperately trying to keep out the biting cold wind.  After dropping off his prisoner, he bid good night to Captain Turner and headed back to the boarding house he was staying in to get a full night sleep, before heading back home in the morning.  Deputy Marshal Barnett Hamilton had been pulling double duty as the only law for Sweetwater since Teaspoon had left.

Barnett heard a muffled scream emanating from a nearby alleyway.  When he went to investigate, he saw a group of people scuffling in the haze.  Through the flurries he could see that two ruffians were manhandling a woman.

“Hey,” he called, running towards them and tackling the nearest.

They both struggled to their feet, trading blows.  The other assailant hit Barnett over the head before grabbing his partner and taking off into the night.  Climbing back to his feet, Barnett rubbed the back of his throbbing head.  He contemplated going after them, but realized that he’d never be able to catch them.  Instead he turned his attention to the young woman.

“Ma’am, are you o-” he got a clear look at her face.  “Molly!”

“Barnett!”

“What are you-”

“Shh,” Molly shushed.  “Not here.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the nearest building, which just happened to be the stables.  The smell of horses and hay permeated the air as lanterns illuminated the wooden structure.

“Is it safe to talk now?”  Barnett whispered.  When she nodded, he spoke in his normal tone.  “So what’s up?  Pink’s got you on another assignment?”

Molly nodded and explained.  “Myself and another agent were sent to investigate the activities of one, Addison Blair, one of the Union’s informants.  But Washington got suspicious after one of its operations went bad due to information supplied to us by him.”

“You think Blair’s playing both sides of the fence?”

“I know he is,” she said firmly, holding up a weathered satchel.  “We gathered enough information to make Blair a marked man for both sides.”

Barnett whistled.  “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.  So who’re you supposed ta get that too?”

Molly looked at the floor sheepishly and mumbled, “I don’t know,” she looked up at Barnett’s confused, questioning face.  “Only my partner knew.  For security reasons.  Blair has a lot of influence in Kansas, in particular with Senator Lane and Quantrill.  He was able to have him killed last week.  I’ve been dodging Blair’s men ever since.”

“From what I’ve seen,” Barnett grumbled.  “It’s pretty easy ta get yerself killed in Kansas lately.  What with the Jayhawkers and Bushwhackers killin’ anything that moves left, right and center.”

Before Molly could reply, a stable door opened behind them and someone cried, “Hey, you're not sup - ”

Acting purely on instinct, Barnett spun around and delivered a flawless roundhouse punch.  Only to find out the person he’d flattened was a young private.  “Sorry,” Barnett apologized pitifully.

“What did you do that for,” Molly demanded.

Barnett grimaced and said defensively, “I thought it might’ve been one of those jaspers that attacked you.”

“Barnett Hamilton,” Molly sighed, rubbing her temples.  “What am I going to do with you?”

Barnett simply shrugged.

“Private,” a gruff voice called.  “Where are you?  What’s taking so long?”

Corporal Watkins and another private entered the stables.  Seeing the sight before them, they raised their weapons, aiming them at Molly and Barnett.

“Whoa, whoa take it easy,” Barnett cried raising his hands in a peaceful gesture.  “It was just a little misunderstanding.  He’ll be fine.”

“Quiet,” the corporal snapped.  “Man from Senator Lane’s is lookin’ fer her.  She’s a spy for the rebs.”

Molly’s jaw dropped to her ankles.  Blair, she thought.  Blair was here.  (Unbeknownst to the intrepid detective and dedicated deputy, the double-dealing Blair had ingratiated himself on the fort commandant just a few minutes ago.  He had convinced him that Molly Huddleston was the traitor.)

“Now look,” Barnett began. 

Suddenly the deputy knocked Watkins’ gun arm sideways.  The gun went off, shooting the private in the foot.  Barnett then drove his knee into the corporal’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of him.  Then brought both fists down hard on his back.  Watkins slumped to the floor with a groan.

At the same time, while the unfortunate private hopped around with his wounded foot, Molly balled up her hand making a fist.  She struck his jaw with all the force she could muster.  The private spun around from the blow, hitting his head on a nearby support beam.  He slumped to the ground unconscious.  What Molly hadn’t been expecting was the pain that shot through her hand when it hit its mark.  She waved her hand, desperately trying to shake out the pain.  “Ow, ow,” she whimpered, and then began sucking her knuckles to alleviate the pain.

Hearing shouts from outside, Barnett grabbed Molly’s good hand and dragged here outside.  He knew from the sound of those voices, they’d likely shoot first and ask questions when they were finished.  He told Molly as much when they found his horse.  They had no choice but to ride double in their escape.  The guards were expecting him so it wasn’t hard to slip past them, disappearing into the frosty night.

Meanwhile, Captain Turner was receiving a report as to how three of his soldiers were bested by a woman and a glorified jailer.  It was even more embarrassing with, whom he believed, a high-ranking government official listening in.  He kept thinking what Senator Lane would do when he found out 
that he had let a rebel spy slip from his fingers, and how he could salvage the situation.

“Do you plan on sending any troops after them,” Mr. Blair spoke up suddenly.

Turner let out a long breath.  “Unfortunately, most of my troops were called back east once the fighting started,” he grumbled.  “I’m grossly understaffed.  Besides its too dark to do anything now anyways.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blair said airily, secretly relieved.  If Turner or any of his men (provided they could read) saw what was in that satchel, he’d be spending the night in the stockade and the morning on the gallows.  “I brought some of my own men with me.  We’ll set out as soon as its light.  They can’t get far.  Good night captain,” he said brusquely before exiting the room.

Turner glared at Blair’s retreating form.  All of a sudden, the seed of an idea began to sprout in the career military man’s brain.  He turned to his subordinate.  “Corporal Watkins.”  The young man snapped to attention when his superior addressed him.  “I’m giving you one last chance to redeem yourself and save yourself from a court martial.  Do you understand?”

When the corporal answered with an eager, “yessir,” Turner began to relate his plan.

The wind was whipping the snow all around, making it harder to see.  Barnett knew they couldn’t keep up this pace all night, not in this weather.  They desperately needed shelter.  Then, all of a sudden, in the distance the deputy saw a structure reflected in the dull moonlight.  Upon a closer inspection, he saw it was a house.  The windows were blackened, but that didn’t mean no one was home.  After pounding on the door for what seemed like hours, he tried the door.  It opened with little resistance.

Barnett entered cautiously, lighting a match.  Squinting through the gloom, he saw two bunks, a table with a dusty, half empty oil lamp and a fireplace.  Lighting the lamp, he beckoned Molly in, letting her know it was safe.

Molly entered warily, glancing around in disgust at her filthy surroundings.

“We’re in luck,” Barnett announced.  “There’s some left over fire wood.  And it’s even dry.  I might be able to get a fire started.”

Molly shivered, suddenly realizing how cold she was.  “What is this place,” she asked.

“I think it’s an old pony express way station,” Barnett offered.  “The areas littered with ‘em.  I saw a barn outside.  As soon as I get this fire started, I’ll go put Samson inside.”

When the fire was lit and Samson was comfortable, Barnett began to undress.

“What are you doing,” Molly said in shock.

“In case ya hadn’t noticed, I’m soaked to the skin,” he said sarcastically.  “An’ if yer smart you’ll do the same.”  Molly gave him a horrified, stubborn look.  “Fine, get pneumonia, see if I care.”

At Molly’s anguished look, Barnett immediately softened.  After a quick look around, the town deputy found a trunk at the foot of the bottom bunk.  Inside he found some dusty candles, and a pile of rags that resembled a pair of pants and a shirt.

“Here,” he said gently.  “It’s not much, but it’s dry.”

Molly took the shirt reluctantly, yet gratefully.  “Would you turn around, please,” she said huskily.  Barnett complied and finished undressing before slipping into the well-worn pants.

Barnett listened to the rustling of clothes, trying to keep his imagination under control.  He noticed a grimy mirror in front of him and could vaguely make out Molly’s reflection in the flickering candlelight.  The soft, pale white skin of her back seemed to glow in the dark room and Barnett could feel a familiar twitch grow inside him.

“Okay.  You may turn around now,” Molly said.

The deputy slowly turned around to face her, hoping she didn’t notice his “enthusiasm”.  The shirt came down to her knees, but she kept reflexively tugging it down.  After placing their clothes in front of the fire, they turned to the bunks.  Barnett said awkwardly, “So uh, top or bottom?”

“I beg your pardon!”

That didn’t come out right.  “Uh, I mean the bunks,” he stammered.  “Top or bottom bunk.”

“Oh,” she said.  “Um, the top.”

Barnett nodded and crawled into the bottom bunk and turned over to give Molly a little more privacy.  Molly bit her lip as she climbed into the top bunk.  Then she threw herself onto the lumpy cot – and fell through.  The female detective let loose a surprised scream as she landed on Barnett, who answered her with an loud “oomph.”  Molly quickly rolled off Barnett and tried to regain some measure of dignity.  Both were breathing heavily.  When they regained their breath Barnett suggested they share the bunk.

Just when he thought her face couldn’t get any redder, it deepened about four more shades.

“That’s indecent,” Molly cried indignantly.

Barnett sighed.  “I’m talkin’ about stayin’ warm, not,” he chose his next words carefully, “doin’ the deed.  If it makes you feel better, we’ll sleep back to back.  I promise I won’t try nuthin’ funny.”

Molly bit her lip, still unsure.  Scrutinizing the look in Barnett’s eyes, she surmised that he was telling the truth.  So she conceded, “Alright.  But no funny stuff or-”

“I promise.”

They both crawled back into the bunk and positioned themselves so they were back to back.  I’m glad my mother won’t hear about this, she whimpered in her head. 

At some point in the night, Barnett rolled over and draped his arm over her middle.  Molly awoke with a start and stiffened, thinking that Barnett was trying something.  When she hears his soft snoring, she realized he was still asleep.  She also realized that she kind of liked Barnett holding her and slowly drifted into a peaceful sleep.

They were awakened the next morning by the sounds of gunfire and shattering glass.  Blair and his men had managed to track them down with the sole intention of killing Miss Huddleston and the deputy, and destroying the evidence against him.  What they hadn’t counted on was Captain Turner coming along with them with one of his men.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Turner shouted angrily, as he rode up next to Blair.  “There’s a woman in there!”

“She’s a spy and a traitor, captain,” Blair said coldly.

Drawing his service revolver he demanded, “Call them off, dammit.”

Blair just looked at him coolly.

Turner swore and swung his gun towards the cabin, and shot one of Blair’s colleagues out of his saddle.  The captain turned back to Blair only to be shot in the chest.  He never saw him draw his gun.  The captain teetered for a moment then slipped to the ground.  Cpl. Watkins went for his pistol only to be shot in the back by another one of Blair’s cohorts.

“Thank you Mr. Martin,” he said politely.  “Now could you please see to Mr. Marsh,” he said indicating the fallen gunman.  Then he ordered his two remaining associates, Mr. Moore and Mr. Morgan, to enter the cabin.

Barnett scrambled out of the bed, disentangling himself from Molly.  He grabbed his guns and shot the first man to burst through the door.  Moore dropped to the floor as Barnett and Morgan fired simultaneously.  Barnett was hit in the shoulder while Morgan’s head was turned into a canoe.  Barnett fell backwards from the force of the hit, striking his head on the edge of the table, knocking himself cold.

Addison Blair entered, and seeing Barnett’s motionless body, advanced on Molly.  Molly lunged for Barnett’s gun, only to have Blair grab her by her hair and throw her against the wall.  Before she could catch her breath, Blair viciously slapped her across the face.  Grabbing her shoulders and shaking her violently, he growled threateningly,  “Where’s it?  Where’s the bag!?!”

Before Molly could answer, there was a loud bang.  Blair stiffened and slid to the floor, a look of complete and total surprise frozen on his face.  Looking up from Addison’s body, Molly saw Captain Turner leaning weakly against the doorframe, clutching a bloody wound on the right side of his chest.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Turner answered with a grimace.

Just as Molly was beginning to relax there was another shot.  Martin collapsed with a thud behind Captain Turner.  Looking over his shoulder he saw Corporal Watkins struggling to sit up, his pistol still smoking.

“Got ’im sir,” he said weakly, before dying.

“Well done soldier,” the captain murmured.

Barnett groaned as he sat up, rubbing his head.  Molly was instantly at his side.

“So,” he said nonchalantly.  “D’ we get ’em all?”

Molly threw her arms around his neck crying happy tears.  “Oh, Barnett.  What am I to do with you?”

Barnett simply shrugged.

Historical Note: 
William Clarke Quatrill was the leader of the most vicious guerilla leader in the Civil War.  Leading 
a force of no more than a dozen men, he harassed Union soldiers and sympathizers along the Kansas-Missouri border.  To Missourians, he was a dashing, free-spirited hero.  To the Union, he was an outlaw.  On August 21, 1863, Quantrill led a force of 450 raiders into Lawrence, Kansas and killed 183 civilian men and boys in front of their families, then set fire to the city.  The details around Quantrill's death vary: he was either killed on a raid into Kentucky or wounded and died from infection in prison.

James H. Lane was leader of the anti-slavery forces in Kansas.  He was elected a U.S. senator in 1861 after Kansas entered the Union as a free territory.  Lane not only opposed slavery, but also supported civil rights and political equality for blacks.  He formed two volunteer regiments that 
fought against Confederate forces.  After the war and Lincoln’s assassination, Lane’s fragile mental health collapsed.  James Lane committed suicide in July 1866.

Jayhawkers were pro-Union guerillas.  James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok was among their members.
Bushwhackers were pro-Confederate guerillas.  Among their members were Jesse James and the core members of the James Gang.