The Marshal of Whitburg

by E. R. Slade

  “I went to see whether Ames and his pards were all done making trouble and to warn them that since I’m not allowed to jail them I might be forced to do something else if they act up again.” Somehow he was not in a mood to tiptoe around Everson this morning.

  “Else? What else?” Everson demanded. “It’s not your job to go around threatening people, you know.”

  “A man—even a deputy marshal—has a right to self-defense. Turned out Ames thought I was the one killed his brother. Said Vern told him I did. Said they were planning to teach me a lesson.”

  Everson, who had been standing behind his desk, now leaned over it toward Lon, his face reddening with barely suppressed fury.

  “You make Ames and his friends mad, they’ll shoot up the whole town.”

  “Last night was pretty quiet, far as I could see.”

  Everson turned away, his eyes darting this way and that as his mind apparently raced.

  “Pike,” he said, turning on him once again. “I’m warning you. Don’t go around asking questions and threatening people. It’ll make you a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Why are you so scared of Ames?”

  Everson’s eyes widened momentarily, then the look was gone.

  “Pike,” he said, “it’s our job to keep the peace in this town, not go around stirring up trouble. You patrol, you keep your mouth shut. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  As he set off on his rounds, Lon found it difficult to excuse Everson’s attitude. It was getting hard to avoid wondering what was really going on.

  But if he tried to find out it was likely to get him into trouble, one way or another. More and more he was thinking he should have put his pride aside and told Tuft he’d made a mistake and then ridden out of town.

  But there had been Zinnia. Amazing what a woman could do to you. And she was almost certainly a lost cause and he was left trying to find a reasonable way to escape the mess he’d gotten himself into.

  Lon was aroused from lugubrious thoughts by a woman’s voice calling his name, softly. A young woman, in the deep shadows of the entryway of a ramshackle boardinghouse he was just passing, was motioning to him to come to her.

  Had he not been wearing a badge he might have ignored the beckoning woman, since the boardinghouse had a somewhat unsavory reputation. But as it was he felt obliged to see what the thing was about. He stepped into the entryway and sized up the woman.

  She appeared young, quite pretty, but not dressed as he’d thought she might be. In fact, she was dressed conservatively, as though she were a middle-aged matron. She was not painted up with exaggerated color and drawn-on eyebrows. She wore no jewelry and had a drab scarf over her hair. The most noticeable thing about her was that she was plainly frightened.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Could I talk to you privately for a few minutes?”

  “Right here isn’t private enough?”

  “I’d rather not be seen talking to you,” she said. “There’s a woodshed around back. Could you meet me there in five minutes?”

  Her eyes were wide and darting rapidly in all directions, her hands knotting together as though her fingers had been a ball of snakes.

  “All right,” he said, and she hurried inside and closed the door. He walked on a few buildings, musing on what this might be about, then stepped into an alley and slipped unobtrusively back along the rears of the buildings to the woodshed she’d mentioned, a rough, three-sided structure, the open face aimed at the rear of the boardinghouse. She was already there, in the darkest shadows of a rear corner.

  “So what’s this about?” he asked.

  “I’ve been trying and trying to decide whether to trust you ever since you became deputy. If I’m wrong about you, it could cost me my life.”

  “You’ve got my attention,” he said. “It’s part of my job to protect your life, if I can.”

  She hesitated, her eyes going back and forth from one of his to the other. The whitest thing about her in the dimness was her knuckles. The weight of whatever her troubles were got heavier on his shoulders by the moment.

  “Tell me,” she said, “what do you think of Marshal Everson? I know you haven’t been here long. But what do you think of him so far?”

  Of all the things he might have guessed she would say, this was about the last. He paused before he answered.

  “I think I’d like to know why you’re asking me that question,” he said.

  “Maybe I was wrong about you,” she said, her voice going cold with disappointment, but also lowering and breaking a little as though she might be on the verge of tears.

  “Something’s really bothering you,” he said, lowering his own voice. “If there’s a chance I can help, you can count on me to try. Are you willing to tell me your name?”

  She was silent, and he could see what light there was glimmer in her eyes as she searched his face.

  “Are you afraid of Everson?” he asked.

  After a pause, she said, in almost a whisper, “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Again she was silent, though twice it looked like she was about to speak.

  “Do you think he might hurt you?”

  “He might kill me,” she said. And she started to quiver. She reached back for the wall of rough boards and leaned against it.

  “Why?” he asked, coming closer to her. Her fear was so strong that it seemed to radiate like heat from a hot stove in a small room.

  “Mr. Pike,” she said, her voice wavering, “I’m going to trust you because of Billy.”

  “Billy?”

  “Billy Thompson.”

  “You mean the deputy who was killed?”

  “He was my fiancé.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he’d been so involved in his own problems he’d never given the dead deputy another thought. He’d originally had it in mind to try to find out if Billy had any family and do what he could for them. “When is the funeral? I’d like to come if I can.”

  “It was yesterday.”

  And he’d never even noticed. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said lamely. “When I found his body all I could think of was how he probably had a brother or a sister or a mother or somebody who would have to be told. But so much has happened since I got here ...”

  “I understand,” she said, as though she really did. “Thank you for thinking of his family and all. But he didn’t have any here. I have written to his mother who lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. You probably don’t even know where that is, but ...”

  “Cambridge?” he interrupted. “Really? That’s where I come from. I knew a George Thompson slightly in school.”

  “That was Billy’s brother,” she said. “But I was all Billy had here. We were going to be married next month.”

  By now her voice had firmed up and seemed strong and normal and matter-of-fact, which he wondered at a little. She spoke almost as though about people she knew rather than about herself.

  “So why did you say you were going to trust me with something for Billy’s sake?”

  Now she started to get shaky again. She cleared her throat twice, and then said, “Marshal Everson didn’t send Billy after the holdup men. He went after them on his own. Like they say you said you would. The marshal ordered him to go back to patrolling. I know because Billy came and told me so. He said he was going to go after them anyhow. He’d told Everson he was going to and they had an argument about it and Everson fired him and took his badge. I tried to make Billy promise not to go, but he said somebody had to stop this and off he went.”

  “There was no badge on Billy when I found him,” Lon said. “I’ve wondered now and then about why. Now I know.” He was thinking of how smoothly and convincingly Everson had told him he’d sent Billy after the road agents.

  “So now you’re worried that Everson will want to shut you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you really think he would kill you to keep you quiet
?”

  “I ... I don’t know. Do you think he might?”

  “I can see where it wouldn’t make him look good to have your story come out. But it seems hard to believe he’d kill you over it.”

  “Billy swore me to absolute secrecy. I haven’t told anyone but you that he even came to see me before he left. He said it would be very dangerous for anyone to ever know, while Everson was still marshal.”

  “This sounds to me like he knew more about Everson than you’ve told me so far. What else did he tell you about him?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “That’s all I know. Mr. Pike, please be careful. Don’t trust Marshal Everson.”

  “Are you telling me that Marshal Everson and these road agents have some sort of understanding?”

  “I know nothing about anything other than what I’ve told you,” she said emphatically. “And I beg you to keep it entirely to yourself. Now, I must get back to work.”

  “Work?”

  “I cook and clean the rooms here for Mrs. Judd. I really must go.” And she did. He stood in the shed and watched her ghost across the open space to the rear door of the boardinghouse, her dress billowing out behind. There was something about her that tugged at his emotions. Partly it was feeling sorry for her loss, of course, but there was something so vulnerable yet elusive about her. He had the dissatisfied feeling he had been told half a story, not the whole thing.

  So what would the whole story be? he wondered, as he went along behind buildings to the place he’d originally left the street.

  He continued with his patrolling, tempted now to start asking questions, find out who knew about Billy’s fiancée, what her name was for instance, and what they thought of her. But the fear in her eyes stayed with him and made him hesitate. Suppose Everson really would kill her for talking to him? He just had no way to know. The question came down to whether or not Everson was in with the stickup artists, or only incompetent. Billy appeared to have thought Everson was a crook—why else would he warn his girl to keep quiet? Or was Billy the crook?

  With his head full of all this, he for once was not quite aware of having come along to Tuft’s house again. Usually he tried to ignore it but found himself looking at the windows in the forlorn hope of catching a glimpse of Zinnia, resulting in glum thoughts for the next several minutes as he tried to banish all awareness of her for his own equilibrium.

  Now, here was a fine-looking carriage standing before the door with a pair of handsome blacks in front of it. A considerable display of expensive rig and horseflesh. Zinnia’s beau of the nasal voice was handing her up into it. An older man and woman were already in the rear seat. Everybody was dressed up.

  Sunday, Lon guessed. He had lost track of what day it was some time ago. But now he saw other people better dressed than you usually saw them getting into carriages, buggies, buckboards, or what have you and heading out to the west where a little church stood somewhat apart from the town on a rise.

  Unless she’s getting married, he thought with a sudden flush of feeling that left him hot, sweaty, and weak in the knees.

  No, couldn’t be that. They wouldn’t drive up there together in the same carriage.

  Would they? Besides she wasn’t dressed right and wore no veil. And her father was not there.

  Get your head on straight, Deputy Pike.

  He was almost even with the carriage by now and the supercilious beau was taking the reins, looking down his nose at Lon passing by.

  Zinnia saw him and leaned forward to look around her beau.

  “Good morning, Marshal Pike!” she exclaimed and waved at him cheerily.

  “Morning, Miss Tuft,” he returned stiffly.

  “Deputy,” said her companion. “Just a deputy, Zinny.”

  “Oh, Eggy,” she said. “Why must you always correct everything I say?”

  They drove off. Eggy? Lon allowed himself a faint smile. He wondered if “Eggy” bore any relation to the man’s actual name or was just a pet name invented by Zinnia. He turned for a moment to watch the carriage go on sedately down the street, remembering finally where he’d seen the older couple in the back before—they had been among those who had come in on the stage.

  Zinnia wouldn’t clear out of his thoughts all morning and he found himself foolishly wanting to be somewhere near Tuft’s house when they returned from church. Instead there was a saloonkeeper who wanted to tell him all about his shrew of a wife, so Lon missed the chance to rub more salt in his wounds.

  This was another stage day, as it happened. It came and went without incident. The older couple who had gone to church with Zinnia and Eggy didn’t leave on it. Lon didn’t go inquire if the driver had had any trouble. It didn’t seem worth setting off Everson’s ire to do that since presumably if there had been any trouble the driver would have made a point of letting them know about it.

  By one in the afternoon, Lon had finally stopped thinking about Zinnia (mostly) and the day was starting to seem long. It was hot and sunny and windless with flies buzzing over horse manure in the street. He was using his bandanna to mop sweat when Bud Ames appeared from somewhere.

  “Pike?” he said. “Kin we talk?”

  “Sure.” The irony of people wanting to talk to him while he was constrained from going to find people to ask questions of put a mirthless half smile on his lips.

  “Not here.”

  “All right.”

  They went along to Ames’ lean-to. Lon wondered whether he’d meet several fists when he stepped into the darkness inside, but Ames lit a stump of candle and there were only the two of them in the place. Ames shut the door, which made the hovel even closer than it was already, redolent with the smell of stale sweat, and worse.

  “I been thinkin’,” Ames said as he sat on the edge of his rickety cot and Lon gingerly lowered himself into the one loose-jointed chair.

  “About what?”

  “We was lied to by that little skunk Vern.”

  “You mean about who killed your brother?”

  “Yeah. But I’ll bet it was Everson put him up to it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You figure it out.” By candlelight, Ames’ eyes looked black instead of gray. He was watching Lon with careful appraisal.

  “Doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” Lon told him. “Tuft was there, after all. Everson couldn’t expect him to keep quiet about it, and he didn’t. Talked about it at the council meeting.”

  “Don’t everybody go to council meetings,” Ames said dismissively. “Don’t everybody believe anything people as gets on the council say, anyhow.”

  “Then explain to me why Everson would have Vern tell you I did the killing.”

  Ames leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “Ain’t it plain as day? Everson knowed I’d take it personal whoever killed Jack. He didn’t want me to tackle him. Wanted me to tackle you instead.”

  “That’s an interesting theory. Are you telling me you plan to lay for Everson now?”

  “I guess we both know Everson’s a bad kind,” Ames said, now sitting back a bit and looking at Lon sideways.

  “We do? Tell me about it.”

  Now Ames leaned forward again and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “If you was to side me agin him it might be worth your while.”

  “Worth my while?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You mean if I side you against Everson you won’t attack me again?”

  Ames waved a hand as though he was tired of that subject. “I’m not talking about that,” he said.

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  Now Ames sat back, rough bits of flesh bulging under his eyes as he regarded Lon.

  “I been hearing,” he said, “how you got your suspicions of Everson.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Just around.”

  “I see. What kind of suspicions?”

  “How do I know?” Ames said, exasperated.

  “Listen, if there�
��s something you want to tell me about Everson, how about getting around to it? I’m supposed to be on patrol.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say about him,” Ames said.

  “What’d you mean it’d be worth my while to side you against him?”

  “I didn’t mean nothing, only I thought maybe you’d want to help.”

  “Help?”

  “Guess you don’t.”

  Though the conversation continued for several minutes more, Lon couldn’t get anything else out of Ames. He went on about his patrolling turning the conversation over and over in his mind, trying to decide what to make of it, how it might relate to Billy or his girl. He was unable to come to any conclusions by supper time, and by then things started to heat up. The previous day’s lull in fights and brawls seemed to be over. He broke up two disagreements about who had what card up which sleeve by nine o’clock and was in a pessimistic mood about the rest of the night when he passed Everson’s house—all dark—and heard a smashing sound from somewhere to the rear. He stopped to listen, wondering where Everson was and debating, not very enthusiastically, whether to take a look around back, when across the street he saw Everson coming down the sidewalk.

  Everson had seen him standing there by now and had paused to see what he was up to. Lon waved at him to come over. Everson came, giving him a squinty-eyed look.

  “I just heard a noise that sounded like breaking glass around back of your house.”

  Everson’s expression changed and he charged around the corner. Lon followed.

  There was Bud Ames cleaning shards of glass off a windowsill using a stick. There was only starlight to see by, but Lon knew it was Ames by the man’s height and how he stood.

  He saw them shortly after they saw him and made a run for it, but Everson turned out to be faster than he looked, and he quickly got Ames by the collar.

  Ames came around with a fist, but Everson stopped that with a forearm and next thing the business end of his pistol barrel was two inches from Ames’ nose and Ames threw up his hands.

  “Get his gun,” Everson told Lon, who stepped over and pulled the Colt out of its holster.

  “Now, march,” Everson said to Ames, and they went to the office. Ames was put in the hard, uncomfortable chair.