by Lyle Brandt
“Can’t rightly say we’ve seen a neighborhood,” Dixon replied. “Nor any living soul the past day and a half. Nary a sign or fence, in fact.”
“Don’t need to fence or post what everybody knows is mine,” Stark said.
“When you say ‘everybody,’ that would be the neighbors you referred to?”
“And the local law. Also the mayor.”
“Anywhere I’ve ever been, a mayor requires a town,” said Dixon.
“Same here,” Stark agreed. “Five miles due west.”
“What town would that be, then?”
“Cold Comfort.”
“Not the most inviting name,” said Dixon, “Meaning no offense.”
“Well, that’s Missouri for you. We keep to ourselves.”
“No problem, then. We’re only passing through.”
“Across my land,” Stark said again. “Without permission.”
“How would we obtain permission, without knowing you exist?”
“You see me now,” Stark said.
“And, so . . . ?”
“There are two ways you can proceed, Mr. Dixon. Turn back and find another way around or pay a toll.”
“As far as turning back, how would we know the limits of your property?”
“Ride into town, maybe, and ask the mayor. He’s got the paperwork.”
“Which would mean camping here, I guess?”
“For a small fee.”
“How small?” Dixon inquired.
“Two bits a head per day, cattle and horses both. On top of that, four bits a man.”
“And if I was to choose the toll?”
“Same rate. A day or so of steady travel ought to see you clear.”
“Round numbers, then, we’re about five hundred per day?”
“I’d call that close enough.”
“You’ll understand if I prefer to verify your claim before I part with any cash,” said Dixon, making it a statement rather than a question.
“Only sensible.”
“Which means a trip to town and back.”
“Take all the time you need,” Stark said. “When you come back with it confirmed, rate stays the same. Starting from here and now.”
“We’d best get started, then.”
“Suits me,” Stark said. “I’ll leave a couple of my boys to keep you company. Head off a problem if your herd keeps moving by mistake.”
* * *
* * *
BISHOP LISTENED, TOGETHER with the trail drive’s other hands, as Mr. Dixon summarized his conversation with the man who claimed to own the bulk of Christian County, closing with “So, men, that’s where we stand right now.”
“What are you gonna do, sir?” Isaac Thorne inquired.
“First thing, what he suggested,” Mr. D replied. “Ride into this Cold Comfort place and find out if he’s speaking truth or just spinning a yarn to pick our pockets.”
Bishop didn’t think an outright lie was likely, though he couldn’t absolutely rule it out. More likely, he surmised, this Hebron Stark had cash and guns behind him, operating in cahoots with those he’d placed in charge to run the nearby settlement.
Cold Comfort, he supposed, would prove to be a fitting name.
“And if it’s true, sir? Then what?” asked Deke Sullivan.
“Let’s take it one step at a time,” Dixon advised. “As you can see, he left his men to cover us while we’re deciding.”
Bishop knew that Mr. D was using “we” in the broad sense. Whatever choice was made, it had to come from him alone.
“Three men ain’t much,” said Leland Gorch. “We could just pick ’em off from here.”
“And start a war,” Dixon reminded him, “without knowing how many other guns we’re up against. On top of that, we’ve got Missouri law to think about.”
“Likely some paid-off fraud,” Gorch said.
“You could be right,” Dixon agreed. “But I’m not going up against the law until I know what’s what.”
“And if this mayor or marshal, whoever it is, stands up for Stark?”
“Same thing I said before. We take it one step at a time. First check on what he said and find out if he told it straight. If that’s true, then we’ll have to bite the bullet. Either pay to cross his land or turn around and find another way to go.”
“And we’ll be losing money either way,” Curly Odom observed.
“Money or time. It all comes out the same,” Dixon agreed.
“Who’s going into town, sir?” the foreman asked.
“You are,” said Dixon. “Pick one of the other hands to ride along and watch your back.”
“Bishop,” said Pickering. “You game?”
“Ready when you are, sir,” Toby replied.
“That’s settled, then,” said Dixon. “Five miles due west should put you into town a hair before sundown.”
“Yes, sir,” said Pickering. And then, “Bishop, let’s ride.”
* * *
* * *
YOU LIKELY WONDERED why I wanted you along,” said Pickering when they had gone a hundred yards or so from camp.
There seemed to be no point in feigning ignorance. “Figure you’d want a shooter handy if you run into a problem,” Bishop said.
“I’ve done my share of shooting,” said Pickering. “You’ve seen some of it.”
“The Comanches. Not casting aspersions.”
“But you’ve been around more, as I understand it. Mason County, Willow Grove, and all.”
“It’s not just knowing guns and when to use ’em,” Bishop said. “When you get down to it, some people just aren’t willing.”
“To be killers.”
“Say it that way, it’s like speaking of a breed apart,” Bishop replied. “I don’t mean someone like Wesley Hardin or the James boys. People kill for money or the sport of it are different. Kill in your own defense or someone else’s, that’s another thing.”
“Won’t anyone do that?” asked Pickering.
“You’d be surprised.”
Bishop saw nothing to be gained by saying that he’d hunted men for pay during the Hoodoo War, when able guns were running short. It didn’t shame him, but he didn’t talk it up either.
Changing the subject, he asked Pickering, “So what are we expecting once we get to town?”
“My guess would be that Stark told Mr. D the truth. He has that feel about him, Stark does. He’s a man who loves his money and is always out for more. If he can get it making other folks feel small, that’s icing on the cake.”
“You reckon that these folks we’re meant to see are in his pocket, then?”
“Most likely, but we have to run it past them anyway.”
“Suppose they try to squeeze the money out of us?”
“Wouldn’t make sense. Show up without the boss, they ought to know we’re not worth much.”
Speak for yourself, thought Bishop. But he said, “And if they’re after hostages?”
“I guess we’ll have to talk ’em out of it.”
“Us two against the town?”
“Won’t come to that,” said Pickering. “Mainly, we’ll have to watch the lawman—marshal, constable, whatever tag Stark hung on him.”
“And what about his men watching the herd?”
“Just watching till they see which way it goes. I hope so, anyway.”
The three men left on watch had been outnumbered three to one, not counting Rudy Knapp, when he and Pickering rode out of camp, but Bishop figured Stark could send out reinforcements if he felt the need. At times like this, it would be nice if he could read another fellow’s mind, assuming any of that folderol was true.
“Reckon we’re just wasting our time?” Toby asked.
“Going through the motions,�
� Pickering replied. “Besides, long as he pays the tab, it’s Mr. Dixon’s time.”
“Okay,” Bishop agreed. “But I’m just wondering what happens if they try to slam the door behind us.”
“Then we knock it down,” said Pickering, “along with anybody Stark has guarding it.”
“Does that include civilians?” Bishop asked.
“It covers anyone who tries to interfere with us, Toby.”
“All right. Just so we’re clear.”
“That bother you?” asked Pickering.
“Not so you’d notice,” Bishop answered him.
And worried that it might be true.
The afternoon was well advanced before they saw Cold Comfort up ahead. From a mile out they knew it was a small town, only three buildings above one story tall, and one of those a church, judging from its spire. Bishop supposed the other two would be a lodging house and a saloon, likely with cribs upstairs. The rest, even before he had a chance to read their signs, he reckoned would be shops and offices, with homes set back on dusty side streets.
Cold Comfort, indeed.
He reached down casually and released his holster’s hammer thong. With any luck at all, he wouldn’t need the Peacemaker in town. But if he did, an extra second could make all the difference between survival and a cold hole in the ground.
* * *
* * *
COLD COMFORT LIVED up to its name. Most of the buildings could have used fresh paint, and some of them were missing shingles, so their roofs resembled mangy skin. Signs on display had all been painted in block letters, fading like the buildings they identified, with a severe economy of verbiage. Hotel stood beside saloon; dry goods across the street from butcher and next door to doctor; lawyer next door to marshal.
By comparison, the church came off as nearly eloquent. Its sign read SWEET HOME BAPTIST.
“Sweet home?” Pickering asked, in a musing tone.
“‘Cold Comfort Baptist’ might not pack ’em in,” Bishop replied.
“A town that speaks its mind,” said Pickering, “what there is of it.”
“No mayor’s office, though,” Bishop observed.
“Marshal’s the next best thing. If he can’t help us, or he won’t, I guess we start going door to door.”
“Making no end of friends,” Bishop replied.
“This ain’t a social call.”
They reined in and dismounted at the marshal’s office, tying their horses loosely to a hitching rail out front, where they had access to a water trough. Bishop eyed it for floating dust and algae, but it looked all right.
He let Bill Pickering precede him entering the office. A stout man, red of hair and face, was seated at a desk, boots propped up on one corner, star pinned to his vest. As Pickering and Bishop crossed the threshold, he was talking to a pair of men seated on straight-backed wooden chairs before the desk.
The younger of them also wore a badge, his labeled DEPUTY, the older, fatter man’s proclaiming him as MARSHAL.
That left one fellow—forty-odd years old with hair graying around his temples, thinning out on top—still unidentified.
Nobody stood as they walked in, but conversation died and three sharp pairs of eyes—one blue, two brown—assessed the new arrivals. Lowering his feet and leaning forward, elbows on his desk, the marshal greeted them.
“You must be from the cattle drive,” he said.
“New travels fast,” Bill Pickering replied.
“You know small towns,” the marshal said.
“Been through a few.”
“We ain’t like most of ’em,” the lawman said.
“That so?”
“We run a tight ship here, although we ain’t at sea.”
The deputy coughed up a laugh at that. Bishop supposed one of his duties was to make the marshal feel amusing.
Pickering smiled a bit and introduced himself, remembering to tack on Toby’s name without an explanation of his duties with the Circle K.
“I’m Marshal Tilton. Harley to my friends, but you won’t be around that long.” A statement, not a question.
“And these other gentlemen?” asked Pickering.
“My deputy, Luke Hazlet. And the handsome fellow there”—delivered with a pause for laughter from the man without a badge—“is Mayor Creed Rogers.”
“Missed your sign on the way in, Mayor,” said Pickering.
“It just says ‘Lawyer,’” Rogers said. “Saved paint and everyone in town knows who I am.”
“Makes sense.”
“You’ve talked to Mr. Stark, I take it,” Marshal Tilton said. “Come in to pay the toll?”
“Nobody mentioned paying it to you,” said Pickering. “He thought it best to verify the claim to certain land.”
“Who thought?”
“Your Mr. Stark. Said you or Mayor Rogers here could clear it up.”
“Whatever Mr. Stark says is the gospel truth,” said Tilton. Hazlet bobbed his head on cue. When Rogers didn’t join in quick enough, Tilton prodded him. “Right, Mayor?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes indeed. The gospel truth.”
“Right, then,” said Pickering. “We’ll just be on our way.”
“About that toll . . .”
“From what I understand, it goes direct to Stark,” Bill said. “If Mr. Dixon should decide to pay, that is.”
“If he decides? I hear you right?”
“Seems like your ears are working fine,” Pickering said. “No doubt he’ll let you know how that proceeds if he needs your advice.”
“The smart thing would be paying up,” said Tilton.
Pickering ignored that, one hand on the doorknob when he paused to ask, “You’re the town marshal, am I right?”
“I am.”
“With jurisdiction limited inside the town’s limits.”
The marshal and his deputy both frowned at that. Tilton replied, “Except in cases of emergency. You know, like scofflaws trying to escape. No call to bother Sheriff Anderson in Ozark when we’re short on time.”
“Scofflaws. I hear you.”
“What about your buddy, here?” asked Tilton. “He a mute, or what?”
“You’ll hear him when he wants you to,” said Pickering. “Good day, now, gentlemen. Or should I say, ‘Good evening’?”
“Mayhap we’ll meet again,” the marshal said.
About to close the office door behind them, Bishop smiled and told Tilton, “Be looking forward to it, sir.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BISHOP AND PICKERING returned to camp in decent time, distance considered. They found three of Stark’s men still watching the herd, one mounted and the other two hunched down around a fire they’d built, maybe for brewing coffee while the night dragged on.
“Same three, you think?” asked Pickering.
“Can’t say for sure,” Bishop replied. “I only saw them from a distance and it’s darker now. One of ’em had a red shirt on, if I remember right.”
“You do,” the foreman said. “I watched ’em for a minute through the scope, but they’d have coats on now, against the chill.”
“He could gave swapped them out, I guess, the length of time that we were gone.”
“I should have asked that so-called marshal more about his boss. Find out how many men he’s got on hand, for starters.”
“He’d have lied to you,” Bishop replied. “Stark tells him what to say. I wouldn’t trust a word out of his mouth.”
“Reckon you’re right. The boss ain’t gonna like hearing my news.”
“It’s not your fault, sir. Men with too much money on their hands run little towns like that all over, from the Mississippi to the coast. If decent lawmen aren’t around to rein them in, they start to think they’re little kings.”
“My worry is, he’s right,
” said Pickering, “at least as far as we’re concerned. We’re down to ten shooters, not counting Varney and the kid. They’d likely fight if pushed to it but wouldn’t do much good.”
“It might not come to that,” said Bishop.
“Fingers crossed,” said Pickering, eyeing the campfire and three men a hundred long yards north of them. “But if it doesn’t, we’re still screwed. Either turn back and waste who knows how many days riding around Stark’s land or pay five hundred bucks a day to cross it without knowing how much there is to it. Either way, the boss is losing money and that trickles down to all of us.”
“Can’t say I like the sound of that,” Bishop allowed.
Pickering glanced across at him. “There’s no worry on your end. A deal’s a deal with Mr. Dixon. He’ll pay off for days worked on the drive, even if that means he winds up in the hole.”
“Bad for the Circle K, no doubt.”
“‘Bad’ don’t begin to touch it,” Pickering advised. “We count on new stock for the next year’s herd, plus cash for getting through the winter. Lose that edge, it means we’re begging at the bank for help and wind up paying through the nose on interest.”
“Bankers,” Bishop replied, and let it go at that. He’d notice Pickering said “we” when speaking of the Circle K, as if he had a stake in it beyond his steady job.
“Don’t get me started,” said the foreman.
“Anyway, if Stark tries playing rough—”
“We fight. No question. Everybody has a right to self-defense, regardless if the law’s paid off by some slick operator rich as possum gravy.”
“Funny that you never ran into this Stark fellow before,” Bishop observed.
“Last three, four years we took the herd to Kansas City,” Pickering replied. “It’s closer to Atoka, but we kept on running into trouble.”
“Worse than this year?”
“Hard to credit, I suppose. Still, Mr. D thought it was worth a try.”
“Reckon he’ll switch back after this?”
Pickering shrugged. “I gave up reading minds,” he said. “No profit in it.”
“I heard that,” Bishop replied, and followed him into a camp bristling with guns.
