The Lawman

by G. Michael Hopf

  “Arrest him now or I’ll get someone who will,” Mortimer shouted, his nostrils flared in anger.

  Seeing Mortimer display this hate and vitriol was counter to the calm man he’d known the past few days.

  After waiting for Isaac to respond, Mortimer snapped, “Well, Sheriff, are you going to do as I demand, or do I need to get Deputy Wallace to do it?”

  Isaac thought about it and couldn’t get himself to go against his gut instinct that the two men were working together; that didn’t mean Wilkes was an innocent man, just that the altercation between Edwin and Marcus was separate from him.

  “Sheriff, you’re fired,” Mortimer said, holding his hand out.

  “You’re letting me go? I just found your silver.”

  “Hand it over,” Mortimer said, his hand still extended, palm up.

  “What?”

  “Your badge, I’m going to pin it on a man who I can trust to handle this situation accordingly,” Mortimer said.

  Defiant, Isaac said, “If you feel this strongly and wish to arrest a man without hard evidence, I can’t be a part of that.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve been needing something, something that I could link to Wilkes to finally take him down, and this is it,” Mortimer said.

  Isaac opened his overcoat, pulled the badge off, and placed it in Mortimer’s hand. He looked at the glimmering badge and instantly missed having it grace his chest. He’d been sheriff for only a matter of days, yet he longed for the title. It was a strange feeling, one he couldn’t place his finger on.

  “I’ll have Phyllis gather your belongings and have them at the doorstep for you to recover. Come by later and get your compensation, including the bonus I promised for finding my silver. I at least owe you that,” Mortimer said.

  Isaac stood speechless.

  “Goodbye, Sheriff Travis,” Mortimer said, turning around and strutting back inside his office.

  Standing alone in the street, Isaac felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience. He could imagine himself floating above and glancing down at himself.

  Seconds later a young man burst from Mortimer’s office and sprinted down the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office.

  A feeling of defeat suddenly overwhelmed Isaac. He was closer than he had been to possibly winning over Lucy, only to surrender it because his integrity demanded it. Where was this integrity when he assumed Travis’ identity? Where was it when he continuously lied to everyone he met in town? Now angry with himself for tossing aside a chance to win Lucy over, he headed back to the one place he could clear his thoughts, the Rusty Nail Saloon.

  WILKES’ OFFICE, BANE, NEVADA

  Staring out across the long oak table at the four businessmen assembled, Quincy felt a surge of energy. He was as close as he’d ever been to being truly wealthy. It had taken him a lifetime to get here, and soon, he’d be like his nemesis Mortimer and those other rich barons back east.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for coming all the way from San Francisco and beyond. As I’ve explained in numerous letters, we have a real opportunity to own and operate a silver mine that could produce for us millions of dollars in ore.”

  Commotion sounded in the front outside the boardroom.

  All eyes turned to the door, waiting for it to explode open, by the sounds coming from the other side.

  “Is a shoot-out about to commence in the other room?” one of the men joked.

  Laughter broke out around the table, except from Quincy, who was growing more concerned the louder it became.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see what’s going on,” Quincy said and headed for the door.

  Before he could reach it, the door burst open, and in came Wallace sporting the sheriff’s badge, followed by several deputies.

  “What’s this?” Quincy asked angrily.

  “Quincy Wilkes, you’re under arrest,” Wallace announced.

  Gasps came from the businessmen followed by whispers and crosstalk.

  “This is absurd! For what?” Quincy howled in protest.

  “For stealing the silver shipment and the murder of half a dozen deputies,” Wallace answered.

  Behind Wallace, the deputies who came with him had their pistols drawn.

  “This is outrageous. I’m having a meeting with some very important people, and these ridiculous charges, no doubt brought by Mortimer Corrigan, will be challenged,” Quincy cried out.

  “Come with me,” Wallace said, stepping towards Quincy.

  Quincy stepped back and put his hands out in front of him. “Marcus, get in here. Help me.”

  “Marcus can’t help you. He’s dead,” Wallace said.

  “What? That’s impossible,” Quincy said, his anger turning to fear as he began to sense he’d been either double-crossed or they’d found something linking him to it all.

  “Don’t make this difficult, Mr. Wilkes,” Wallace said, following Quincy as he kept backpedaling around the long table.

  “I won’t go. No, this was supposed to be my big day, no,” Quincy whined as the fear now turned to anguish.

  “Please, Mr. Wilkes, don’t make this hard. I just want to take you in,” Wallace said. He pointed to one of the deputies to go the other way so they could corner Quincy.

  “Where’s the sheriff? Why are you here and not him?” Quincy asked, noticing Wallace was wearing the badge.

  “I’m the sheriff now,” Wallace said.

  “What’s going on here? I’ve been set up. I’ve done nothing wrong. Gentlemen, please don’t leave. I’ll straighten this out in a short while, and we can continue afterwards,” Quincy begged the men before him.

  One of the businessmen, a man named Hannibal Guster, asked, “Where can we find this Mr. Corrigan?”

  Pausing his advance, Wallace answered, “In his office in town.”

  “What office?”

  “The Corrigan Mining Company office. He’s the man who owns this town,” Wallace said.

  “Wait, no, don’t go see him, no!” Quincy yelled, his back now up against the corner of the room.

  Hannibal looked at the other men and said, “Let’s not waste the trip here. Shall we go visit Mr. Corrigan?”

  The other men nodded in agreement.

  “No!” Quincy screamed, his veins popping in his neck and forehead.

  Wallace and his deputy Ned grabbed Quincy, each taking an arm. They forcibly turned him around, shackled his wrists, and dragged him from the boardroom.

  As he was being hauled away, Quincy howled, “This won’t stand! This won’t stand!”

  RUSTY NAIL SALOON, BANE, NEVADA

  Looking down the bar in either direction, Isaac found himself surrounded by men in his similar state of mind: distraught, tired and defeated. It made sense; who else would drink this early in the morning?

  “One more,” Isaac said, waving to the bartender.

  The bartender placed a full bottle in front of him and said, “I think you need the entire bottle.”

  Isaac nodded, pulled the cork, and filled his glass. Staring at the silky brown liquor, he began to doubt his decision. Not the one to arrest Wilkes but giving up the silver.

  “This is what riches to rags looks like,” Connor said, walking up next to Isaac.

  Surprised to see him, Isaac said, “I think I made a mistake.”

  “I tried to tell ya, but you’re so damn righteous. Hell, you still haven’t admitted you’ve been in prison though I know you have. You let your pride dictate this decision, and look at where we are now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you doing in here anyhow? Shouldn’t you be arresting people?” Connor said, pouring himself a glass from Isaac’s bottle.

  “I was fired. I’m no longer sheriff,” Isaac replied then tossed the shot glass back, drinking the whiskey in one gulp. Wiping his mouth, he continued, “I miscalculated.”

  “You call it that; I call it leading with your emotions. You’re too driven by those damn feelings, and now you have noth
ing. No girl, no silver, no badge, nothing except your damn emotions.”

  “I have a conscience. Should I just toss it aside?”

  “Yes, you should. Do you honestly think Mr. Rich Man who lives in that big house on the hill will go bankrupt without his silver? Hell no. To him that was mere pennies. You forget, he owns this entire town. He could afford to lose that silver, it doesn’t truly affect his life, while that silver would have set us up for our lives.”

  “I never told you what happened to me,” Isaac said.

  “I’m all ears,” Connor said, drawing close to him.

  “I don’t know how you have this insight, but you do, you somehow knew I was locked up for something I didn’t do.”

  Connor tapped his temple with his index finger and said, “I may not look smart, but I am.”

  “It was Lucy’s father who did it. He objected to our engagement, and after an argument one evening, I went home. Along the way I witnessed a store being robbed. These poor people were merely trying to get coal so they could keep their families warm during the bitter cold. I saw a child in need, went to help, and somehow this was misinterpreted. I was knocked out in an altercation shortly after. I awoke in jail. From there I was rushed through what could only be described as a kangaroo court, then taken to prison. My sentence was twenty years. Can you believe that? Twenty years for something I hadn’t done.” Isaac groaned.

  “My friend, you did do something, you stood up against the power brokers, the men like Mortimer Corrigan who think they own everything. The men who use us to get richer. Mortimer is no different than Lucy’s father. You meant nothing to him; you were merely a pawn. Look at ya, you bring him his silver and how does he thank you? He tosses you aside like garbage,” Connor said, taking the bottle and pouring them both drinks. “We’re nothing to these people. We’re just instruments to be used to enrich themselves.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Isaac said.

  “That’s because you were one of them at one time,” Connor said.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Isaac countered, not wanting to be included in that group.

  “You went to college. You were no doubt raised in a nice house. I’m sure you didn’t want for nothing. Am I right?” Connor asked.

  “We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor,” Isaac said.

  “Only rich folks go to college. Education is a luxury for those with means,” Connor declared before drinking his shot.

  “I’m not one of them,” Isaac said.

  “If you’re not, then who are you?” Connor asked.

  “I’m my own man. I have followed the law my entire life. I have fought for my country when she needed me, ready to sacrifice myself if need be,” Isaac replied.

  “And how many Mortimers went to fight? Huh? I say few. They remained behind and became richer; they exploited the war for their own greed,” Connor preached.

  Isaac let that sink in. There was truth to what Connor was saying, though he did know some sons of the wealthy went to fight and some died, so Connor’s statement wasn’t one hundred percent accurate.

  “You’re your own man, that is true, but a poor one with no future,” Connor said. “Have you ever heard of Robin Hood and his Merry Men?”

  “I have. It’s an old English folktale, isn’t it?” Isaac asked.

  “It’s about a man, a warrior, who loves his king, but a cowardly man, the sheriff who kneels to an evil prince, steals all that is his. Robin Hood fights to get what is his returned. His resistance inspires others to stand up for themselves, and quickly they form a merry band of outlaws who steal from the rich and give to the poor,” Connor said, his mind drifting back to the days he was told the story as a young child.

  “Are you saying I should be Robin Hood?” Isaac asked.

  “Friend, you could never be as illustrious as Robin Hood. No, what I’m telling you is to stand up for yourself; take back what has been stolen from you. I can tell you’re a good man. That silver, you would have used it for good. You would have taken it and enriched others’ lives, the opposite of what Corrigan will do with it,” Connor said.

  Putting his drink to his lips, Isaac thought about everything Connor was conveying to him. It all made sense. He had played the game of life according to the rules he was told to play by, while he looked around and saw those who had status and success play by a different set. What did that get him? Yes, he could proclaim he was righteous, but on whose ears would that fall with a welcoming tone? He had fought in a war to maintain the republic and union. What he got in return was scars. He had worked hard to find solid employment as a lawyer in New York but kept bumping up against the nepotism of the elites. He had tried to marry the woman he loved, but his pedigree wasn’t sufficient, so he was cast aside and jailed. He had fulfilled what was promised to Mortimer, and for that he was discharged from service. Connor was right, he had been nothing but a pawn his entire life, subject to those in power who played by their own set of rules and who would never allow him or others like him to advance unless they gave him permission. Now clear about his purpose, he turned to Connor and said, “You’re the wisest man I’ve ever encountered in my life.”

  “You’re making me blush.” Connor smiled.

  “Do you want to make some money?” Isaac asked.

  “Not this again,” Connor mused.

  Taking Connor by the arm, Isaac squeezed gently and said, “We’re going to take that silver back.”

  SHERIFF’S OFFICE, BANE, NEVADA

  The second Mortimer set his eyes upon the somber-looking Quincy sitting behind bars, he felt more upbeat than having the silver found. Finally he had the man he hated right where he wanted, and it would be accepted in town that it was a just arrest.

  “You won’t win,” Quincy spat.

  “I got you red-handed. You were working with my aide to steal my silver so that you could open your own mining operation on that land to the south,” Mortimer said, pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Lies, all lies,” Quincy shouted.

  “You shut your mouth,” Wallace barked from his desk.

  “I won’t shut my mouth, I won’t. This is all a sham and I’ll prove it in court,” Quincy declared.

  “I’m afraid it won’t go so well for you. The thing is I run this town, I make its laws, and the court system in Bane isn’t like other towns,” Mortimer said.

  “You still have to abide by the laws of Nevada, the United States; I’m afforded my due process,” Quincy snapped as he got to his feet and made for the bars. He thrust his arm through and attempted to grab Mortimer.

  Laughing, Mortimer said, “You’re not going to win this time. Your days are numbered, and a lowlife like you will pay for what he’s done.”

  “This won’t stand. You have no evidence,” Quincy said, hedging that there was nothing on him, as he was a very careful person in his dealings.

  Mortimer stood just outside Quincy’s arm length and said, “You thought you could outfox me, that you were smarter than me. I went to Harvard; I studied economics and business. I’ve prepared my entire life to run companies, and you somehow thought that you, an uneducated wretch, would do me in. I’ll have to admit that I was concerned for a period of time, but what I have that you don’t is humility—”

  Quincy laughed.

  “It’s true. Where I don’t excel, I hire to fill that void. You see, Mr. Wilkes, I’m not like you, thinking you know it all; that hubris is your undoing. I surround myself with capable people, I don’t keep them by threats or intimidation like yourself. I know your ways and they’ve met their match.”

  “So where is this sheriff you hired? How come he didn’t arrest me?” Quincy mocked.

  “Sheriff Travis served his part. He found the silver you stole and killed your man Marcus, but not before he told us your role in all of this…”

  “Lies, all lies, I don’t have the silver,” Quincy fired back.

  “Sheriff Travis found your man Marcus with it at th
e livery. That’s where your man died, protecting the silver you stole from me,” Mortimer said.

  “That can’t be true, it can’t be,” Quincy blared.

  “Oh, it is, and we have witnesses to the fact. More than Sheriff Travis, we have the McCarthy brothers; they both witnessed the events,” Mortimer said.

  As Mortimer’s words sank deeper, Quincy realized that the one truth to all of this was that Marcus must have lied. If the silver had been recovered, it meant he’d been betrayed and his dream was unraveling.

  “When I get out of here, I’ll…” Quincy threatened.

  “You’ll do nothing,” Mortimer said then turned to Wallace. “Take him to see the magistrate.”

  “Yes, Mr. Corrigan,” Wallace said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NOVEMBER 2, 1869

  CORRIGAN RESIDENCE, BANE, NEVADA

  Lucy didn’t know how to ask Mortimer about what had happened to Isaac without fear of her concern drawing unwanted attention. All night she had lain awake, running through the different ways to address it. Upon his return the night before, he had simply mentioned that he wasn’t coming back and that he’d been let go. Nothing more. She’d asked why, and he gave his typical Mortimer answer, which was simply, He did his part.

  When Mortimer rose for the day, she got up with him.

  As he got dressed, she found herself in front of the vanity, brushing her long brown hair. “Mortimer, I thought you liked the sheriff.”

  Lifting his suspenders, Mortimer replied, “He seems like a decent man.”

  “But I thought you liked him,” she again said.

  “I do.”

  “Then why let him go?” she asked.

  “I told you, he did his part; time for him to move on,” Mortimer answered, looking at his reflection in the long mirror, which hung on the wall.

  She turned and asked, “All you could do was count the days until his arrival. You had him stay in our house, doted on him, made him feel at home, then let him go. Don’t you think he could have continued to do good work for us?”