He dipped into the stew. "Anyway, it seems a waste of lead. I didn't buy my gun for shooting hats."
He ate in silence for a moment and then said, "The way I figure it, the marshal of a town should be measured by the trouble he keeps clear of town rather than the gunfights he wins. The first thing I did when I took over," he spoke in a low, conversational tone, "was to study the arms situation and the shooters. "First off I found the town has thirty-seven shotguns, and folks who can use them. We have nine Big Fifty Buffalo guns, two Berdan sharpshooting rifles, five Winchesters, and seven Spencer fifty-six-calibers. We have fourteen assorted rifles from the Hawken to the Ballard, and every man in town and most of the women have pistols. "Next thing, I looked over what kind of people we had to do the shooting. Five of the men in town were sharpshooters during the Civil War, one side or the other. Nine others fought in the war. We've got one old mountain man, and six veterans of Indian battles. There's only two men in town who haven't been in battle, but they're just a frettin' and a fumin' to prove themselves as good as the others.
"Long before I ever saw the place, they figured sometime there might be an Indian raid, so they built the town without any blind spots, front or back. The rifles and shotguns are kept loaded lest there be unexpected trouble, and they are stashed around town easy to hand.
"Most of the folks there want no trouble. They figure outfits like yours will have money to spend, and they're anxious to help. They want to do business with you, the cattle bosses and whoever comes up the trail. They are right friendly folks, but they love their town.
"Me, I'm just a driftin' stranger, and I don't quite see what they like about it but they know. When you boys ride into town I want every one of you to hang up his gun in Greenwood's place."
The redhead laughed, somewhat grimly. "Mister, you've got to be jokin'. I hang up my gun for no man."
"All right," Shanaghy replied cheerfully. "I was just telling you so's you'd know. You see, what worries me isn't you boys at all. It's two or three of the townspeople who are trigger-happy. A couple of those sharpshooters, for example, I've been having trouble convincing them this isn't an all-out war. "They've agreed to hold their fire and sit tight, but if somebody should in the fullness of his spirits suddenly decide to discharge his piece into the air, that street would turn into a bloodbath.
"All those boys and girls with guns are going to be hunkered down behind log walls or brick walls, and they are going to be shooting into an open street without cover."
Tom Shanaghy shook his head woefully. "Of course, the street's dusty this time of year, and it soaks up blood real fast."
Nobody had anything more to say, and Shanaghy simply finished his meal. After throwing the grounds from his cup, he walked to where his bedroll lay. Vince Patterson had sat over at one side and heard it all. He struck a match on the side of his pants, lit a cigar, and approached Shanaghy. "Was that Rig's idea?" he asked mildly.
"Can't blame it on him. Folks there needed a little organization, but they'll go about their business like always unless trouble starts." "You could be running a bluff."
"Yes, sir. That I could. Be mighty expensive, though, if it was called and I proved to be holdin' the pat hand I've told 'em about. "Also," Shanaghy added, "I had to have a diversion."
"A diversion?"
"Something to trim the odds, sort of. You've got some loyal hands there. If trouble started in town and then something happened to your herd, I figure about half your men would cut and run to protect the cows." "What could go wrong with my herd?"
Shanaghy shrugged. "Well, a few days ago some Kiowas showed up. Least that's what the old-timers said they were. I don't know one Indian from another. "Well, these Kiowas had been raiding Pawnees up the country a bit, they caught the short end of the stick, and they were sore. "We fed 'em, and I sort of suggested they stay around and keep out of sight. I also suggested that it might be worth a bunch of presents if they sort of listened for gunfire."
Patterson was looking at him. "Gunfire?"
"Uh-huh. If they heard gunfire from town, they were to stampede your herd."
Patterson swore.
"Stampede 'em, and scatter them all over the prairie." Patterson swore again, and then he said, "But we have you, Marshal. What about that?"
"You would lose a man or two taking me, Mr. Patterson, but it would change nothing. You see, the way that plan of mine is set up, it works without anybody saying anything. They don't need me at all now. "Things been pretty dull around town lately. No fights to speak of, and the boys are kind of restless, kind of keyed up, if you know what I mean." "You seem to have thought of everything."
"I've tried. You see, I've heard your boys ride for the brand. Well, that town is my brand. They hired me to do a job, and I'm doing it the best way I know how."
Later, Shanaghy lay in his blankets staring up at the stars. He had lied, of course. His plans were not nearly so thorough as he had implied. Nonetheless, they were good plans and he planned to put them into execution as soon as he got back ... if he got back.
If he avoided trouble and saved some lives with his stories, all would be well. At least he had offered a little doubt, and nobody wanted to get shot down in the street. If what he had said was not true, it was all possible, and they could not know whether he was telling the truth or not. When he heard stirring around the camp he got up. It was not yet four o'clock in the morning, he noticed by his big silver watch, but the camp was coming alive. He crawled out of bed, put on his derby and then got into his pants and boots. Nobody was paying any attention to him, and he went to the fire for his grub along with the others.
Patterson was there. He glanced at Shanaghy, gave a short nod and went on eating.
The air was clear and cool. There was a smell of dust and cattle on the air, and off to one side a cowpuncher was letting his bronc buck the kinks out of his system. Nobody was talking until he went to get coffee and Red picked up the pot and filled his cup for him.
Red grinned at him. "You spin a good yarn, Marshal, but, you know, we didn't figure any of it was worth throwin' a loop over." "I can carve it on your headstone," Shanaghy said.
"What?"
" 'He asked to be showed; we showed him.' "
"Hey," Red said, "that ain't bad! I've seen men buried with less." "To tell you the truth, Red," Shanaghy said, "I'd rather buy you a drink than shoot you."
"Well, now," Red said cheerfully, "I'll remember that, Marshal. How many do you figure to set up for?"
"Hell," Shanaghy said, "I'll buy a drink for the whole crew. You're a good bunch of lads."
He finished his coffee. "Besides, you've got a good cook."
He saddled up. As he was tightening his cinch, Vince Patterson walked over. "Don't expect us for about four or five days, Marshal. And if you need any help with those hold-up people, you let us know. We'll ride with you." Shanaghy held out his hand. "Rig sure had you figured. He said you were a decent and a reasonable man."
They shook hands. "Shanaghy," Patterson said, "I think Jan Pendleton is the finest girl I know, but she could do a whole lot worse than you." Tom Shanaghy flushed. "Mr. Patterson," he said, "don't you even think that. I'm not the man for her, and I know she's given no thought to me. Why, she's only seen me once."
"I married my wife the second time I saw her," Patterson said, "and we've got twenty years of happiness behind us."
Tom Shanaghy turned his horse and rode away.
He had gone only two horse-lengths when Patterson called after him. "What about Hank Drako?"
"Hank's going to be hunting me, he and his boys. If they find me, you've got no problem. If you boys find them you can have them, just so it's out of town." He rode hard. There were things he had to do, and time was short, and he did not think of Jan Pendleton. At least, he tried not to. The town lay quiet in the late afternoon sun when Shanaghy rode into the street. He took his horse to Carpenter's stable and stripped off the gear. He gave the roan a good rubdown, thinking all the while, t
hen took his saddlebags and walked over to the blacksmith shop.
Carpenter looked up. "Holstrum was by. Wanted to know where you were."
"Drako been around?"
"Not hide nor hair." Carpenter put down his hammer. "Had it for today." He took off his leather apron. "Oh, by the way! That young woman you're interested in. She came by. Wanted a horse shod ... today."
"You do it?"
"Uh-huh. A different horse, too. Sometimes I wonder about eastern folks. Seem to think horses all look alike."
"Pendleton been around?"
"No, but his son was in. He was asking for you." Shanaghy was not concerned about young Pendleton. His thoughts were on the robbery ... Or was he simply seeing ghosts? What did he have, after all, but a lot of suspicions?
A strange girl in town for no apparent reason, who kept to herself. In other words, she was simply minding her own business. Her odd association with a man who looked like a tinhorn gambler, and the puzzle about where she lived.
A man on a train who Shanaghy had believed to be a railroad detective and who apparently was not.
Rig Barrett's suspicions that something was in the wind, which Shanaghy was inclined to trust.
And the fact that somebody seemed to have taken pains to eliminate Rig before he could arrive in town.
And the knowledge that a lot of money, probably a quarter of a million in gold and bills, would be arriving on the train someday soon. Who knew of that? Almost everybody in town who did not actually know could surmise. So could a lot of others. After all, there had to be money on hand. Such a town would not ordinarily have so much, so it would have to be brought in.
That man on the train now ... Now that Shanaghy considered it, that man had not seemed western. Well, why should he? Neither was he, Tom Shanaghy. The trouble with Vince seemed to have been averted, but nobody knew that but him. He decided nobody must know, not if he could help it. He turned toward the hotel and halted suddenly. A man was riding toward him on a buckskin horse.
"Howdy!" It was Josh Lundy. "Remember me?"
"I do."
"Figured you might need some help. My boss give me a few days off and I thought I'd ride in to see if you needed a hand."
"You could get killed."
"You didn't seem to pay much mind down by the creek that day."
"I was saving my own hide."
"No matter."
Shanaghy liked the cowhand and remembered Rig's estimate of him. The man was seasoned, tough, and had local experience, knowing local people whom Shanaghy did not. "Let's get over to Greenwood's and I'll buy you a beer," he suggested. From where they sat, as Shanaghy had correctly remembered, they could look down the street. Besides, it was quiet here and they could talk. "Watch yourself." Greenwood walked over to give the warning. "There's talk that Drako and his boys are coming into town after you." He had started away when Shanaghy said, "Who told you that?"
"Holstrum ... I guess somebody said something about it over at the store." They sipped their beers and slowly, carefully, Shanaghy told Josh Lundy of the suspected plan to seize the money shipment.
His thoughts returned to the hoofprints by the seep. "Anybody running cattle in south of here?" He explained his interest.
"Drifters, more than likely. There's a lot of odd characters stop by Drake's place." Lundy paused. "Four of them, you say?"
"It looked to me like somebody brought them a message. He didn't get off his horse, just talked awhile and left."
"Mostly guesswork, Marshal."
Suddenly Lundy said, "Is that the girl you've been talking about, Marshal?"
It was ... She came riding up the street, then dismounted in front of the cafe.
Shanaghy got to his feet. "Josh, I'm going to have a talk with her. Right now."
Chapter Eleven.
It was cool and quiet in the restaurant and at this hour it was empty, something she had no doubt counted upon. When Shanaghy entered she looked up, a flash of annoyance crossing her face.
After crossing to her table, he said, "Mind if I sit down?" She looked up. Beautiful, she undoubtedly was, but her features might have been cut from marble. "I do, indeed. I wish to be alone." "I am sorry, ma'am, but I have some questions."
"And I have no answers. Must I call the manager?"
"If you like."
She looked at him with contempt. "If you wish to take advantage of your authority, ask what questions you will. I shall decide whether or not to reply." "Fair enough. Mind telling me how long you've been here?"
"In this town? Slightly over a week."
"What's your purpose here?"
Her expression was one of exasperated patience. "I am looking for ranch property. My father was unable to come, and we share our financial interests. We are looking for good grass and a source of permanent water." Shanaghy felt like a fool. Of course, what could be more likely? "Found anything that suits you?"
"No ... There are two possibilities, that is all. Now, is there anything more?"
"Do you expect to be here long?"
She put her cup down sharply. "Marshal, or whatever you are called, I have told you why I was here, and I am on legitimate business. I am not the sort of woman who expects to be badgered by every small-town officer with an exaggerated sense of his own importance. Unless you have some kind of a trumped-up charge, I would prefer you to leave ... now."
He got up. "Sorry, ma'am."
She did not reply.
He started to leave, then turned and seated himself where he could watch the street outside. She had made him feel a fool, and it was not a feeling he liked. Her story was perfectly logical. Of course, every really smart crook he had ever known had a good cover story. He had heard them discussed on a number of occasions. They had considered him as one of them and talked freely. Yet he couldn't see anything he could get a handle on. One thing he had neglected to ask: where was she staying? No doubt she had a good answer for that, too.
The waiter brought his coffee and he stared out toward the street. Suppose he himself was planning such an operation, how would he bring it off? By involving as few people as possible, so there would be less chance of loose talk. And keeping those few out of sight until they made their move, or else by using people who had a reason for being around town. The plotters, if there were any, would want to make their move, as Barrett believed, just when Vince Patterson hit town.
Shanaghy swore softly and the girl glanced his way. It had suddenly occurred to him that they must know exactly when that cash shipment was to arrive, and that meant they had somebody on the inside at one end or the other. How would they do it? They might strike just as the stuff was brought from the train, move in quietly, knock out or strangle the guards, and reload the stuff on the train to be taken off at some point further along. That would be one way. Another would be to have a rig standing by, or a wagon, and load the money on and move out while the shooting was in progress. Undoubtedly those ranchers who were in town would try to get away, and they could simply go with them.
There was still another way. Arrange to hide it right in town until the shooting was over, and until people had stopped looking for it. If they should hide it in town ... where? And how could they get it away, or be sure of getting it away, during the fighting they would expect to take place? The way Shanaghy saw it was that the money must be taken right from the depot.
If not on the train, then by a rig ... but taken where? There would be immediate pursuit when the robbery was discovered ... or would there? Who would be apt to pursue? Who would first realize the gold was missing? Suppose ... just suppose there was no one who knew the gold was due to arrive? Carpenter, Holstrum and Greenwood all knew, but supposing that during the fight they were killed or otherwise put out of action? If that were to happen the thieves might have several days in which to disappear. If those men were marked for death, then he would also be on such a list. When would these killings be carried out? Either at the time or just before the robbery, and probably under cover of
the Vince Patterson raid on the town. Suppose somebody actually riding with Patterson was involved? The cowman had taken on some gun-hands for this trip north, and among them might be one or more men involved in the theft.
As Shanaghy considered all that might happen, a rider approached outside and dismounted across the street and one door further along. He dismounted stiffly as if he had been riding for some distance. He whipped the dust from his clothes with his hat and then turned to loosen his cinch. As he did so, another man crossed the street to the walk just beyond the rider and turned to walk past him. It was George.
When near the cowhand, George paused to light a cigar, and for a moment his hands were cupped around the match. Was he speaking? After a moment he shook out a match and dropped it, then walked on.
Off to his left where the young woman sat, Shanaghy heard a cup click hard against a saucer, as though it had been put down with some impatience or anger. Shanaghy turned and looked at her, smiling. Her lips tightened and she turned her eyes from his. She was angry, without a doubt. He glanced around again. The rider was walking toward Greenwood's. His horse wore a-p-connected brand ... one of those used by Vince Patterson. When Shanaghy looked back, the girl was gone. A moment later he heard the click of her heels on the boardwalk. He got up, leaving money on the table, and went outside.
Who was the rider? Had he actually spoken to George? Had the girl been angry because it all happened while he, Shanaghy, was watching? Was the rider a messenger? If so, from whom? Did Patterson know he had come? Shanaghy hesitated, then turned toward Greenwood's. No guns were to be worn in town, he had said. Well, that meant now.
Or was this man merely a bait for a trap? Perhaps today was the day they meant to eliminate him. Tom Shanaghy had served too long with Morrissey not to suspect such things.
If this man was bait, there would be others around. They would not be likely to trust such a job to one man alone, unless he was very, very good. Even then they would have someone else. They would want some insurance. Which meant another marksman.
the Iron Marshall (1979) Page 10
