Don’t Judge a Kiss Before It’s Given.

Colt Bradford wasn’t much on rumors. Rumors were wildfire to prairie grass and if a tiny prick went too far they would engulf the whole prairie. But this rumor he had heard at the Denver saloon when he was picking up supplies with his brother, Bennett Bradford, could not be ignored.

The other thing Colt wasn’t much on was his father-in-law, Sheriff Monroe. He sat atop his chestnut horse in front of the general store contemplating spreading the rumor further until it simply reached Sheriff Monroe without them speaking. Daisy Redford, the town gossip and owner of the general store, could do just that.

Bennett wanted nothing to do with Daisy Redford and so he was two hundred yards away just waiting patiently steps from the jailhouse. The spring breeze licked his face which had been slick with sweat from the ride. Finally, when Bennett’s patience had worn thin and he contemplated dragging Colt to talk to Sheriff Monroe, Colt appeared beside him. He came down from his horse and with apprehension, his boots clacked up the front steps to the jailhouse door.

“Go on,” Bennett encouraged, pushing Colt forward with his hand on his shoulder. The jailhouse opened and both Sheriff Monroe and Flint Dogwood, the Marshall, sat at the two desks. Sheriff Monroe forced a smile as Marshall Dogwood simply glanced up from his paper. Noticing it was Colt, he returned to reading the news from Colorado Springs.

“You have a minute, Sheriff?” Colt offered politely. Bennett leaned against Sheriff Monroe’s desk but Colt stood a few feet back, as close to the door as possible in case he was urged to exit.

“O’ course,” Sheriff Monroe nodded and set his paper fully down. Colt glanced around the room, his tawny eyes knowing though Marshall Dogwood pretended to be reading intently, he was listening more intently.

“There have been some rumors… from Denver.”

“Denver?”

“And… Grand Junction,” Colt said in a low voice.

“Grand Junction?” Sheriff Monroe was only placating his son-in-law for the sake of his daughter, Lark. Lark had married Colt after his name cleared last year and was about to have a baby any day now. So though Colt was one of his least favorite men in the world, he appeased him nonetheless.

“And Leadville,” Bennett said from against the desk as he then glanced down at the paper with the Bradford’s mines headlining the front page. Sheriff watched him closely as Marshall Dogwood ignored them with his paper in his hand.

“What rumor?” Again Sheriff Monroe appeased their news. Colt spoke barely above a whisper.

“Men have been found dead in the saloons.”

“That’s,” Sheriff Monroe suppressed a small smirk, “Not news Colt. That’s pretty… on the money.”

“It’s the way they’ve been found,” Bennett said again tearing his eyes away from the paper and giving Monroe a shrewd look. Colt glanced at his oldest brother who he knew was worn of the conversation and wanted to go home to see his wife, Mary.

“Go on,” Sheriff Monroe said despite thinking it meant nothing.

“They’ve been found… with red lipstick, a whiskey in their hand, and a bullet next to them for their gun,” Colt’s eyes suddenly met Marshall Dogwood’s, who finally slapped his paper onto the desk. He stood and nodded at both Colt and Bennett.

“Dogwood?” Sheriff Monroe called as Marshall stepped onto the threshold of the jailhouse door.

“Buchanan,” Dogwood barked at Sam Buchanan, the newest and youngest deputy in town. Sam roused from napping in the corner chair, completely oblivious to all the news.

“Mmm… yeah?” Sam said groggily, standing up and rubbing his eyes. Then he noticed Bennett and Colt standing there, “How’s it goin’?”

“Good,” Bennett nodded and Colt mirrored him.

“C’mon boy,” Dogwood barked at Sam who hurried towards him, “Denver.”

Dogwood stepped over the threshold of the door to leave Colt, Bennett, and Sheriff Monroe inside. But Sheriff Monroe followed him out of the jailhouse with the Bradford’s in his wake. Monroe stopped Dogwood before he saddled on to his horse. Sam was already atop his and waiting for him.

“This could be nothin’,” Sheriff Monroe urged, glancing back at the Bradford’s and then back to Dogwood. Dogwood snagged a paper from the ground quickly and shoved the front page into Monroe’s hand. Monroe’s blue eyes skirted the front and saw nothing but the Bradford’s newfound mine money in his face.

“Again, nothin’ to be—” Monroe was exasperated but Dogwood stopped him.

“It’ll be on the front page and I need to find more answers before it is.” Monroe exhaled and then put out his hand, shaking Dogwood’s own.

“Take care of yourself and of,” Monroe’s eyes scanned to Sam who was barely over twenty, “Bart’s boy.”

“He ain’t as green as he looks,” Dogwood grinned and patted Monroe’s shoulder to turn on his heel and saddle onto his horse. He left all three men standing there at the front of the jailhouse with Sam moving his horse quickly behind him to catch up.

By the time Sam and Dogwood made it to Denver the following day, the rumors were already on the trail. Ever since the Cripple Creek murders, Dogwood was now more famous than ever. His fame irritated him and at times ruined his searches for answers, making them longer and more arduous. So his intent was to take the news the Bradford’s brought and run until a hurdle stood before his horse. He slung his reins on the hitching post of the saloon which was eerily quiet for a Friday night. The bartender was wiping the counter with only a handful of patrons. The rooms upstairs had no noise either and as Sam entered behind Dogwood, goosebumps appeared against his arms.

“Whiskey, Marshall?” The bartender recognized his badge.

“I’m lookin’ for the painted ladies.”

“In the back,” The bartender nodded his head towards the back door where Dogwood’s boots made the wood creak underneath them. Usually the piano and the patrons would drown out the sound but there was neither. The saloon was completely dead.

The one painted lady in the back was leaning against a drunken man who chuckled at her lips against his ear. Dogwood didn’t need to clear his throat because the painted lady threw the man up onto his feet and shoved him out of the room.

“Marshall,” the painted lady smiled tightly and then stood nearby to the chair the man had just been sitting in.

“Lead me there,” Dogwood said directly and swallowing hard, the painted lady guided him to a back staircase. Her shoes rapped against the steps until finally there was room number six. She stopped abruptly and then turned back towards the Marshall.

“You know… it just happened last night. Even the Sheriff here hasn’t come yet…” then she dropped her voice where only she and Dogwood could hear, “are you the famous… Flint Dogwood?”

Dogwood didn’t speak, just smiled as tightly as she did when they first had met only moments before. His eyes skirted her lips and as they did so, she believed he was hitting on her. Before she could purr something seductive to him, he spoke.

“What color is your lipstick?”

“Red,” the painted lady was slightly annoyed he cut off her seduction. She wondered in all his fame if he was actually now stupid and that Colt Bradford really had killed the Wright’s. Dogwood raised his eyebrows at her thoughts which he was able to read perfectly. He brushed past her into the room quickly and stood in front a man who he found exactly as Colt had described only yesterday. The man had a kiss of lipstick on his cheek, a whiskey glass in his left hand, and a lone bullet in a casing beside him on the nightstand. He was perfectly still as though he was sleeping. Dogwood stepped back towards the painted lady and Sam, who waited for Dogwood to speak after a few minutes silently absorbing the scene.

“Tonight, bring in all the painted ladies. You’re all under warrant,” Dogwood said pointedly.

“Warrant?” Her eyes grew wide at his words.

“I need to find the shade of lipstick on this man’s face. Don’t move him.”

Just as quick as he had come into the room, Dogwood’s feet moved easily back down the stairs. Then at the bottom step as the painted lady stood aghast at his words, he turned towards her. Sam stepped beside him and waited patiently, knowing to keep his mouth shut.

“One hour.”

Then he stomped back off out of the door and past the bartender who called after him and into the streets of Denver. Sam stood across from him as he stepped towards his horse.

“Well?” Sam offered, his blue eyes meeting Dogwood’s green.

“The mouth of a painted lady is a loose pit. Only a man under the good Lord’s wrath is gonna fall into it.”

“It’s a painted lady?”

“I reckon,” Dogwood pulled the lipstick from his front pocket of his vest, “the woman who kissed that man’s cheek… wears some sort of shade of pink.”

“So it’s a painted lady?” Sam repeated, waiting for Dogwood. Dogwood stowed the lipstick again into his pocket.

“Don’t judge a kiss before it’s given.”