Mayor Burnell Shipley had doffed his usual wool suit and derby and donned his blue Federal uniform and wide-brimmed military hat. He was a portly man, of less-than-medium-height, in his mid-forties. He sported a florid complexion, a bald head with a comb-over, and elaborately groomed facial hair, of which he was known to be uncommonly proud. He stood on the steps of his hotel, the Atherton Arms, before a growing flock of armed men and townsfolk.

It was clear he was about to speak not as mayor, but as Federal district provost marshal. Shipley was flanked by the Jackson County sheriff, dour-faced Horace Foster, and Atherton’s skittish town marshal, Elton Stacy. Several sheriff’s deputies and marshals were posted around the hotel’s entrance.

“I’m worried about Thomas and Samuel,” Dovie insisted. Her daughter, Idelle, held her mother’s hand. Concern framed both their faces. “Others are worried about their kin, as well. We must be allowed to leave.”

“We’re all worried,” Shipley said, patting her arm. She instinctively pulled away. “And I promise, tomorrow morning, I’ll have some men escort you out to your place. But right now, it’s just too dangerous. You and your daughter are welcome to stay the night at the hotel, as my guests, free of charge.”

“I thank you kindly,” Dovie said, “but your hotel is not the sort of place a married woman or a decent young girl would patronize. If you will not allow us to leave Atherton, I will seek lodging elsewhere.”

Shipley raised his eyebrows at Dovie and her daughter. “Too good for the Atherton Arms, are you?”

“Most women are,” Dovie said.

“You’ll excuse me,” Shipley said. “I have important duties to attend to.”

“Of course.”

Shipley turned away from the Pritchard women to face the crowd. He cleared his throat and raised his hands. The crowd quieted.

“As you’ve probably all heard,” he began in his booming voice, “rebel raiders are on the march in Jackson County. We’ve received word that several farms and ranches have been attacked.”

“What ’n hell do you intend to do about it?” a voice called out from the crowd.

“The telegraph lines are down,” Shipley went on, “but I’ve sent riders to Kansas City to summon Federal troops.”

“Kansas City’s bettern’n twenty miles away,” another man shouted. “It could be a day or more before help arrives.”

“That’s why,” Shipley continued, “as of this moment, I’m declaring martial law. As Federal district provost marshal, I’m taking command of all of Jackson County. I’m going to assign men to protect Atherton’s critical resources, to keep them from falling into Confederate hands. I will need volunteers to guard the train depot, the loading docks, the stockyards, the sawmill, and to assist the town marshal in patrolling the streets. My number one job is to keep the town of Atherton safe.”