by Ford Fargo
He flicked his wrist back and then tossed the scalpel at the other side of the wagon, where it embedded itself in the very top of the wood and quivered. He looked at each of the riders in turn, nodding at each one to emphasize that he had committed their faces to his memory.
“And that goes for anyone who backs up a man who threatens one of my patients.”
The sound of horses coming from the southeast drew everyone’s attention. There were four riders advancing quickly.
“Its Frank, with John Hartman and his two eldest boys, Chris and Tim,” said Marcus.
“That evens things up, some,” Jimmy Spotted Owl said with a nod.
They rode up to the shack. “What’s going on here,” John Hartman demanded. “Where is Ethan?”
“Ethan is going to be just fine, John,” Logan said reassuringly.
“Your boy is one of the gang of rustlers who shot up six of my men, Hartman!” Rogers cried out. “We’re going to deliver him to the law in Wolf Creek.”
“The hell you are!” snapped Chris Hartman, a red-haired young man with a firm jaw, in his early twenties. His hand settled on the handle of his gun.
“Don’t do anything rash, Chris,” John Hartman said firmly. “And the same goes for you Tim. Leave this to me.”
Then to Rogers: “No-one is going to deliver my son anywhere, Rogers. I don’t care how many bullyboys and gunhands you hire. Just let me tell you this, if I find that you were in any way responsible for what happened to my son, I will personally come calling on you.”
Rogers tossed his head back and laughed. “You! I look forward to the day that happens. It would save me a whole lot of trouble. You and your kind belong to the past, and have no place here in Taylor County. I give you fair warning to take your family and clear out of here.”
A couple of distant gunshots rang out from the west.
“Well, look who’s coming!” Jimmy Spotted Owl exclaimed, screwing his eyes to make out the group of riders. “Its old man Breedlove hisself, and it looks like he’s got Billy Below and a whole bunch of men with him.”
“I see Abner Wilkins with him, too,” added Marcus.
Another shot rang out, its intention clearly being to draw attention to the fact that they were all armed and ready.
Andrew Rogers cursed under his breath, seeing that his men were getting spooked. The odds were suddenly very much against them, and they knew it.
“You all have not heard the last of this,” Rogers said. “Those changes I mentioned are coming whether you like it or not. Anyone who isn’t with me will regret it.”
He spurred his horse, and he and his men charged away.
Marcus let out a sigh. “Doc, why don’t you take John and his sons in to see Ethan? I’ll greet Abner Wilkins and try to explain how his son, who was under my care, is now dead.”
Chapter Four
Sam Gardner tried to suppress a yawn –not quite successfully. One escaped him anyhow, and came out sounding like a sharp bark. Judge Leonard McDonnell shot an annoyed glance at the marshal, who shrugged and smiled apologetically. The judge was still peeved about the incident the previous month, when Gardner had fallen asleep in his chair and dropped his wolf-headed walking stick, letting it clatter loudly on the floor and startling everyone. Gardner could not help it that he worked late hours, and was not accustomed to stirring at this time of the day.
Appearing in court was Gardner’s least favorite part of the job. It was even worse than the seemingly endless paperwork. He supposed he should count his blessings that it only happened for two or three days on the second week of each month.
Wolf Creek had neither a court house nor a city hall. Mayor Dab Henry’s office at the saloon he owned, The Lucky Break, served as the latter, while the saloon itself became an impromptu courtroom. The judge stood behind the bar where Rob Parker normally poured drinks –the barstools were cleared away, and a witness chair was procured from one of the card tables.
That chair was currently occupied by a scrawny man named Dace Fennels, who was accused of aggravated assault and attempted murder. Gardner’s deputy Seamus O’Connor, who served as bailiff since the unfortunate demise of his predecessor Fred Garvey during a bank raid, stood near the prisoner with his beefy arms crossed. Judge McDonnell insisted that all men sit hatless in his courtroom, but made an exception for O’Connor’s battered stovepipe hat, perhaps because he was on duty. Gardner considered McDonnell very pleasant and easy to get along with, for a judge and a redheaded man.
Dace’s lawyer had just coaxed his client, without much need for encouragement, into a melodramatic recounting of the mistreatment he suffered during childhood and the moment he was saved by the light of Jesus. This was a frequent tactic in the defense attorney’s arsenal. Jules Traynor could probably have served as a revival preacher himself –he had the loquacious oratory and rich voice for it. Perhaps he realized early on that folks were more forgiving of drunk lawyers than drunk preachers.
“Is the defense quite finished?” Judge McDonnell said in his customary even tone.
Traynor took out a white handkerchief- matching his suit and his thin hair –and dramatically wiped his forehead with it, even though the October air had caused no perspiration. Then he replied, his eastern Arkansas accent drawing out each syllable.
“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, “I suppose we must conclude the defendant’s testimony at this point –to continue establishing my client’s sterling character and the unhappy circumstances he has surmounted might lead to an accusation that we are playing on the Christian kindness and grace of our fine jurors. Mister Jackal may object, not being a Christian and therefore not understanding we who are.”
William Jaeckal, the prosecutor, rose angrily to his feet. Jaeckel, a blond Texan whose parents had come from Germany, was three decades his opponent’s junior, and half his weight.
“I object, Your Honor!” he said. “My name is pronounced ‘Yockle,’ not ‘Jackal,’ as Mister Traynor is well aware. He pulls this contemptible trick every single time, in an attempt to prejudice the jury!”
“Objection sustained,” McDonnell said, “as it is every time. The jury will disregard the comment.”
“And Lutherans are Christians!” Jaeckel added.
“Of course they are, sir,” Traynor said, then gave a broad wink to the jury.
“Very well, then,” McDonnell said. “The bailiff may escort the defendant to his seat, and prosecution may call their first witness.”
Jaeckel, who had just sat down, stood again. “The prosecution calls city marshal Samuel Horace Gardner.”
Seamus swore him in, and the marshal took the “stand.”
“Marshal Gardner, were you called to the Wolf’s Den Saloon on the night of September twenty-ninth?”
“I was, yes.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, it was just after midnight, as I recall.”
“And what did you find there?”
Gardner stroked his goatee. “I found the accused standing over the prostrate figure of Layton Skinner, whose ear he had bitten off. The poor devil had a hunting knife stuck in his side.”
Jaeckel held up a knife, its blade crusted with dried blood.
“Is this the weapon, marshal?”
“It is, indeed.”
“And is Mister Skinner in this courtroom?”
“He is.”
“Can you point him out for us?”
Gardner leveled a forefinger at a surly man in the audience. “That’s him yonder, with the one ear,” he said.
“What did you do?”
“I said, ‘here now, you’ll be coming with me.’ Then the accused reached down for his knife, so I dented his skull with my walking stick.”
“Then what?”
“Then he fell unconscious, like any halfway sensible person.”
“Very well. No further questions, your honor.”
“Your witness,” McDonnell said, and Traynor approached the marshal.
“
Marshal Gardner,” the defense lawyer said.
The marshal nodded in greeting. “Hello, Jules.”
“Marshal Gardner, am I to understand that you assaulted this citizen, for no other crime than standing nearby an injured man?”
“As I said, he reached for his knife.”
“Did he retrieve it?”
“No, inasmuch as he was out cold.”
“So you are only assuming he was reaching for a knife. He could have been reaching to scratch his ankle. You would strike a man for that?”
“I’ve been known to shoot men for looking funny. When they stood behind guns that were shooting at me.”
“Very witty, sir, but not an answer to my question. The fact is, you did not actually see my client do anything at all, nor did you investigate before attacking him.”
“Well, there was also the matter of the stabbing, not to mention the biting.”
“You have testified that the knife was in Mister Skinner when you entered the room. You had no evidence, nor to my knowledge have you gathered any, that my client put it there. Then you ascribed evil intent to a simple gesture on his part –there are any number of reasons why my client could have bent down at that moment that do not involve an intent to harm an officer of the law.”
“I suppose he could’ve suddenly remembered where he left his knife.”
“Did you actually see Dace Fennels stab the victim?”
“Well, no, Jules, when you put it like that. I didn’t actually see it happen.”
“Is it possible, Marshal Gardner, that you simply assumed my client’s guilt because you are prejudiced against him?”
“In the sense I am prejudiced against ear-biters and stabbers, yes, I suppose that’s possible.”
“I will let that aspersion pass, marshal, in order to get at a broader point. I have witnesses who are willing to testify that you have been heard to say, in public –in this very saloon, in fact –that buffalo skinners are more worthless than tits on a boar hog. Is that true, marshal?”
“Yes, Jules, they are.”
“Do you know my client’s profession, marshal?”
Gardner nodded. “He’s a buffalo skinner, Jules. And Layton over there works at Casto’s tannery –witnesses at the Wolf’s Den say the argument started over Dace claiming Layton cheated him on the price of his hides.” He chuckled. “Skinner was trying to skin the skinner.”
“Since you did not witness that exchange personally, marshal, it is hearsay. And so is your entire testimony. You did not actually see anything. You did not see my client stab the victim; you did not see my client bite the victim’s ear off. Is that true, or not?”
“It’s true.”
“Then why would you simply assume my client was guilty, unless it was because of your expressed dislike for men of his profession?”
The marshal shrugged again. “Well, Jules, I assumed he stabbed Layton because the knife sticking out of the victim has the word ‘Dace’ carved into the handle. I assumed he bit Layton’s ear off, because when I whacked him on the head I saw him spit it out.”
The audience erupted into laughter.
Dace Fennels lost faith in his defense attorney with that slip, and expressed his dismay by leaping out of his chair and running for the door. Seamus O’Connor’s long arm snaked out and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. Dace’s manacled hands wrapped around the chair he has just vacated, lifting it high above his head and smashing it into splinters over the deputy. Seamus blinked, then lifted the man until his feet dangled above the floorboards. The Irishman’s fist crashed into Dace like an express train, and then he dropped the prisoner, senseless, to the floor.
There was a moment of silence.
“Defense would like to request a recess,” Traynor said. “Until such time as I can confer with my client.”
McDonnell looked at his pocket watch. “I don’t expect your client will be awake and sensate before supper,” he said. “This court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”
A large number of those assembled gathered at once around the bar once the judge stepped away, waiting for Rob the bartender to assume his post. The marshal was tempted to join them, but decided that his best course would be to return to his office and its constabulary duties, which might well include an afternoon siesta to better prepare for his late-night rounds.
Sam stood, a little stiffly, and made his way to the door. His leg, wounded in the Danby raid in July, rarely bothered him now, but he continued using the walking stick he’d had custom made after the injury. He considered it a dapper accessory, and it had proven handy for dispatching troublemakers like Dace.
When he stepped out onto the boardwalk, he found his path blocked. A tall, hatchet faced man in his late thirties, in a black broadcloth suit and a gray, flat-crowned Stetson, stood before him. Sam recognized the man after a moment –the marshal had not met him before, but had seen him around town recently.
“Good afternoon, Marshal. My name is Andrew Rogers –I bought the old Peterman spread northeast of town.” Sam shook Rogers’ proffered hand.
“Mister Rogers,” Sam said. “Welcome to Taylor County.”
“Thank you, marshal.” Rogers grinned. “You handled that shylock like a charm in there, it was a pleasure to watch.”
“Oh, Jules and I like to trip one another up, but it’s all in fun. Unless you’re the defendant, trying not to get your neck stretched, I suppose.”
“Nonetheless, I was pleased to see that you’re a man that’s quick on his feet, figuratively and literally. That’s a good quality for a lawman out on the frontier like we are.”
Sam touched the brim of his hat in salute. “Much obliged, Mister Rogers. Don’t let me keep you from the bar –Dab’s not likely to run out of hooch anytime soon, but there’s some fellas in there that are doing their level best to drain the well.”
“Actually, marshal, I was hoping to have a few words with you, in private.”
“I was just on my way back to the office. It’s not far, if you’d like to come along.”
They walked the two blocks to the marshal’s office. In an effort to make small talk along the way, Sam asked a couple of vague questions about Rogers’ ranch, the Rolling-R, then mostly ignored the answers. Cows bored him.
“Here we are, then,” Sam said as he settled in behind his desk, and gestured at an empty chair for his guest. “What’s on your mind, Mister Rogers?”
“My men caught several of Tobias Breedlove’s hands trying to rustle our cows –they had one of John Hartman’s kids with them.”
Sam nodded. “Oh, yes, I heard about that dust-up. Although I gather there are different ways of telling it.”
“I’m telling it like I see it.”
“I doubt many folks around here have your perspective,” Sam said. “We already had one bunch of jaspers shooting at our kids and their teachers, it’s a little soon to be abiding more of the same. And I know two of those so-called rustlers pretty well. Billy Below and Jimmy Spotted Owl are straight arrows. Billy’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but it’s a dull pain.”
Rogers’ eyes narrowed –the marshal’s statements clearly annoyed him. Sam didn’t give a damn.
“Besides,” Sam continued, “none of that happened in town. So it’s all out of my hands –Sheriff Satterlee is who you need to be talking to. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already been talking to you.”
“Oh, I’ve spoken to the sheriff, all right,” Rogers said. “But you misunderstand me. I’m not here to ask for your assistance on that matter –believe me, I have it well in hand. No, my interests where you’re concerned rest squarely on this town.”
Rogers stared at the marshal several seconds. Sam resented being forced to rise to the rancher’s bait –the man clearly wanted him to be suitably impressed with his dramatic oratory. Jules Traynor was much better at that sort of thing. Nonetheless, Sam broke the silence.
“Go on, Mister Rogers. I’m listening.”
Rogers smiled. �
��That’s what I meant earlier, marshal. I can see you’re a smart man. You can tell which way the wind is blowing.”
“Including when it’s blowing up my ass.”
“No doubt, marshal, no doubt. So it’s established, then, we can talk straight here.”
Sam waved his arm, a gesture to talk on. Rogers obliged.
“I like to think I can tell which way the wind is blowing, too,” he said. “You probably wouldn’t know it from looking at me, but I’m new to the cattle business.”
“Do tell.”
“Oh, yes. Most of my life I’ve been a gambler. Not one of those saps who could blow through a fortune quicker than he made it, with no self control –a professional. Sometimes I bet small, planning to lose, to get my opponents to lower their guard, but I go all in on a sure thing. Once I have them hooked, that is.”
Rogers leaned forward, conspiratorially. “This,” he said. “This is a sure thing. This town, this county, this state –and the cattle business. You know why? The railroad, that’s why.”
“You’re hardly the first person to realize that,” Sam said.
“Maybe,” Rogers agreed. “But I realize more than that. I realize my skills. Every small pot I win, I can use as a stake in a bigger game. That’s how I bought the Rolling-R, and everything that goes with it, with my winnings from the Memphis riverboats.”
“That’s all very inspirational, Mister Rogers, but I’m waiting on the part that involves me.”
Rogers grinned again. “I’m sure you are. The fact is, the Rolling-R is just the beginning. I’m going to become the biggest cattleman in this county, and then the biggest cattleman in the state. Because it’s cattlemen who are going to run Kansas from here on out, make no mistake. And it’s a short step from there to the legislature, or the governor’s house. And from there, who knows?”
