Jurisdiction

by Ralph Cotton

  “All it took was one,” said Asa Dahl. “You can ask Tucker, here. That Ranger hardly spoke a word to anybody. He rode right in and buffaloed the whole posse before he was in town five minutes.”

  “Oh my!” said Pierson in a sarcastic tone. “He must be really tough.” His right hand now rested on the tied-down pistol on his hip.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do?” Asa Dahl asked, his tone growing bolder. “Was I supposed to hurl myself between him and your brother here? Get myself shot up, too?” Asa Dahl pointed a finger. “Let me tell you one thing, Pierson—”

  “Easy, Asa,” said Tucker Miegs, cutting him off. “Let’s get things back like they ought to be here.” Sweat trickled down Tucker Miegs’s forehead from the pain in his leg. “Nothing’s going to ever be right unless we pull things back together.” He mopped a damp handkerchief across his brow, then turned his attention to his brother. “He’s telling you the truth, Pierson. He couldn’t do nothing to stop it. He wasn’t there, had no idea what was happening. But I saw it clear as day. That Ranger didn’t come there just to tell me to stop selling Hattie Odle dope. Nossiree. That sneaking devil wanted to shoot me!”

  “Then why didn’t you shoot him first?” Pierson asked in a haughty tone.

  Tucker’s shoulders slumped with a deep sigh. “Why didn’t I shoot him first . . .” His voice trailed as if he needed to think about it. “Because he was so fast, I never had a chance to get a shot at him. How’s that for a reason?”

  “There’s no kind of excuse for letting a man shame you down that way, shooting you in the leg. It’d looked better on you if he’d put a slug in your chest.”

  “Well, I’m greatly moved by your concern, brother,” Tucker Miegs fumed. “And I apologize if my being alive has brought you any embarrassment!”

  Pierson Miegs slurred something under his breath. Then he took his time filling his shotglass with rye. “He gets back here, maybe I better show you how it’s done.” He tossed back the shot of rye and let out a hiss. “Somebody’s going to have to put the iron to him . . . reckon it’s got to be me.”

  Chapter 9

  Evening had turned the sky a dull gray as Sam stepped down from his saddle and led the Appaloosa and the dun to the livery barn off the main street of Hubbler Wells. Both animals were wet from the snow, their tails and manes flecked with ice. Finding no attendant in the barn, Sam put the two into separate stalls. Then he dried them both, first with a handful of straw, then with a wad of clean burlap he found atop a feed bin. By the time he’d finished drying the Appaloosa stallion and began inspecting the injured foreleg, an old man stepped in behind him and rested his elbow on the stall rail. “Did he throw a shoe?” the old man asked.

  “No, he caught some sharp gravel kicked up from a bullet,” said Sam. “He’ll be all right. I just didn’t want to take any chances.” Sam stood up dusting his hands together and turned to face the old man.

  “Say! You’re that Ranger who kept the colonel from burning a whore, ain’t ya?” The old man looked excited. “You shot that dope peddler, too, didn’t you?”

  “How much for the two stalls and board?” Sam asked, as he pulled a coin from his vest pocket.

  “A dime apiece for any grain you might have fed them,” said the old man. “But I make it a practice to never charge for stalls when it’s a lawman doing his job.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Sam offered a thin smile. “I’m out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Not with me, you’re not.” The old man touched the drooping brim of his battered slouch hat. “I’m Marvin Giddle—call me Marvin. Long as you’re here, you pay for the grain only . . . the rest is on me. Call it my civic duty.”

  Sam tipped his hat in return. “Much obliged, Marvin. I’m Sam Burrack. I don’t suppose anything else has happened here since I left, has it?”

  “Nope, except that Tucker Miegs’s brother, Pierson, rode in. He’s the gunfighter of the family. You might want to keep a close eye on him. He’s already made a couple of threats aloud, saying what he’ll do to the man who shot his brother.”

  “Aloud, huh?” said Sam. “Where was this at, the saloon?”

  “Yep, where else does a braggart always sing his song?” Marvin Giddle grinned, running his rough fingers through his wiry white beard. “You don’t look real worried about it, Ranger.”

  “I’m too tired to be worried,” said Sam. “Is there a good restaurant open?”

  “Yep, Mama Carver’s, right past the saloon on the other side of the street,” said Marvin, pointing. “Tell her I sent you. Her and I help one another out all we can.”

  “I’ll tell her,” said Sam. “What does this Pierson Miegs look like?”

  “Oh, you can’t miss him, Ranger. He’s wearing a long black frock, a black hat with a snakeskin band and a pair of big Remingtons pinned to his belly. Got himself a little slick mustache that he can’t keep his fingers off of.”

  “Thanks,” said Sam. “I’ll recognize him.”

  “Any chance you might kill him, Ranger?”

  “There’s always that possibility,” said Sam. “But I’d like to think maybe he won’t be there when I step through the door.”

  “Oh, I see . . .” Marvin Giddle seemed disappointed for just a second. Then he perked up, saying, “But if he is? And if he gives you no choice? You’ll shoot him, right?”

  Sam just stared at him. “You act like a man itching to see a fight.”

  “No, but I’d love to see somebody put a few holes in that bastard right where he buttons his shirt. I’ve seen what a rotten piece of work he is. He’s got it coming. I’d advise you to watch your back when you’re around him.”

  “Thanks, Marvin, I’ll be sure and do that,” said Sam. Raising his big Colt from his hip, the Ranger checked it and lowered it back into his holster. Then he turned his duster collar up and walked out into the blowing snow. He had one stop to make before going to Mama Carver’s restaurant. He turned into the alley that led to Hattie Odle’s shack behind the barbershop.

  At the sound of the door opening behind her, Tinnie stood up from checking the crackling fire in the small stove and turned toward Sam Burrack. Glancing around the tiny shack, Sam asked, “Where’s Hattie Odle? Is she all right?”

  Tinnie looked him up and down, putting a hand on her hip. “She’s all right now. I took her up to one of our rooms above the Paradise for a while, until I get a warm fire going. I found her back here about to freeze.”

  Sam looked around. “Why is she living back here? What’s wrong with that little hotel across the street?”

  “Nothing, except it’s a flea-trap,” said Tinnie. “The problem is Asa Dahl owns an interest in it. He’s making things hard on Hattie. Has been ever since she refused to work for him.”

  “I see.”

  “Did you find her boy?” Tinnie asked.

  “No,” said Sam, “I didn’t. I had some trouble with my mount. I’m headed back out in the morning if the weather will let me. I want to talk to Hattie before I leave, try to let her know I’m still looking.”

  “Ranger, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but Hattie Odle has been so knocked out on black tar lately, she’s lucky she knows her own name.”

  “I knew she’d been using it,” Sam replied, “but I didn’t know how bad.” He searched her eyes for an answer.

  Tinnie shook her head. “She’s as bad on it as anybody I’ve ever seen, the little fool. If I’d known before, I would have tried to stop her.”

  The Ranger sighed, taking off his sombrero and batting it against his leg to free it of melting snow. “How come you didn’t know about it before? Don’t you women look out for one another like they do most places?” As he asked, he nodded toward the crackling stove. “I see you’re doing it now.”

  “Yes, now,” said Tinnie, looking a little ashamed. “Now that it’s probably too late to help her or her boy either one.”

  “His name is Billy,” said Sam.

  “What?”

 
“Her boy,” said Sam. “His name is Billy.”

  “I know that,” Tinnie replied, giving him a curious glance.

  “And as far as it being too late . . . it’s never too late to do some good for somebody,” said Sam. “Most places that goes without saying.”

  “Ranger,” said Tinnie, “this town ain’t like most places. It hasn’t been for quite some time. Nobody looks out for one another here anymore—at least not for any of the right reasons. In this town everybody minds their own business if they know what’s good for them. The leaders of Hubbler Wells are all scared to death the railroad owners are going to look us over and not like what they see. Now that some of the copper and lead mines are closing down, if the railroad doesn’t put in a siding stop here, this town will be dead in another year.”

  “I see,” Sam responded. “So men like Selectman Collins and the others want to put on an image whether it’s real or not, just for the sake of survival.”

  “Yeah,” said Tinnie, “I suppose that’s as good a way to say it as any.” She grinned. “Of course I prefer saying they’re just a bunch of phony bastards. If anything kills this town, it will be them.”

  “They won’t kill this town.” Sam offered a slight smile in return. “It’s been my experience that nothing or nobody can kill a town . . . a town only dies of natural causes.”

  Tinnie cocked her head in surprise at Sam’s words. “Hey, I thought you were one of those silent types.”

  “Ordinarily I am,” Sam replied. “Maybe it’s because people hardly ever ask anything that I might have an opinion on.”

  “Oh?” Tinnie’s smile turned playful. “What makes you know so much about why something lives or dies?” No sooner than she’d said it, Tinnie realized the irony of what she’d just asked him.

  “See?” said Sam. “When I do have something to say, I don’t always know when to shut up.” He became aware of the weight of her eyes resting on the big Colt on his hip. His palm dropped to the pistol butt, and, looking into his eyes, Tinnie saw something inside him draw away from her.

  “Well . . . I best get going,” Sam said. “I still have things that need doing.” He put on his wet sombrero and leveled it across his forehead. “I’ll come back by and check on Hattie before I turn in. Do you mind packing the rest of her things? Get her ready to move out of here?”

  “Ready to move? Where? She’s got no place to go.” Tinnie gave him a questioning look.

  “I thought of a place,” said Sam.

  “Oh? Where?”

  “Dahl’s hotel,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I should have guessed,” Tinnie chuckled. She folded her arms across her bosom and looked down at the dirt floor, shaking her head. “Whores and lawmen, eh, Ranger?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Now it was Sam who gave her a curious look.

  “Whores and lawmen,” she repeated. “I always said the two have things in common that neither of us wants to admit.”

  Sam stared at her for a second. “None that I know of,” he said with finality.

  “Well, I know of lots,” said Tinnie. “For one thing, on the outside we allow the rest of the world to soil us dirty as pigs. But inside nothing’s ever supposed to touch us . . . we’re not supposed to let it, are we?” She leveled a knowing gaze on him.

  Sam touched his fingertips to the brim of his sombrero, backing to the door. “I don’t know, ma’am,” he said; he gave one last quick glance around the small shack with its battered bed and the belongings of two people—mother and son—packed into a travel trunk sitting on the cold dirt floor. “Are we?”

  At the bar, Selectman Collins and Asa Dahl stood huddled over their whiskey glasses in conversation. Tucker Miegs and his brother Pierson still sat at a table nearest to the big ornate potbellied stove. In a rear corner, Clare Annette plunked on a twangy piano for three grizzled old copper miners who stood with beer mugs in their grimy hands and hung on every note. Moments earlier, Daniel Fuller and his possemen had returned to town and taken over the far corner of the bar. They drank their whiskey and blew on their cold hands and batted snow and ice from their hats and shoulders.

  When Selectman Collins had asked how things had gone, Fuller only grunted in passing. Then Red Booker came back to them with a shotglass in his hand and told them the bad news. Two men had gone off in search of the body of one of the outlaws the Ranger had shot. But neither man had returned. As Red Booker told the story, both Collins and Asa Dahl had listened, nodding with interest. No sooner had Red Booker walked back down to stand beside Fuller at the end of the bar, than Selectman Collins let out a breath and spoke to Asa in a bitter, lowered tone.

  “As if either of us should give a damn,” Collins said. He threw back a shot of whiskey and blotted his mouth with a folded handkerchief. “All we need is for a railroad representative to show up while this town is in an uproar. It will be the last time we hear anything about a rail spur coming here, I can safely promise you that.”

  “Relax,” said Asa Dahl, “it’s only going to be for anther day or two. They’ll be off after the Ganstons, and we’ll never see them again.”

  “It’s easier for you to relax, Asa,” said Collins, nodding along the bar. “At least you’re making something from them being here.”

  “You’re damn right I am,” replied Asa Dahl, “and that’s going to be the case whether this town stands or folds. If all goes well with the railroad, I’ll make a fortune . . . if not, I’ll squeeze every dollar I can out of this town until the last horse heads over the hill. Can you blame me?”

  Collins rubbed his neck and poured himself another drink. “No, I suppose not. I just wish things would settle down . . . that stupid whore’s kid running loose with that Injun, the Ganstons hitting town, this posse and all. It’s too much trouble happening at once. It looks bad to outsiders.”

  “Speaking of too much trouble,” said Dahl, nudging Collins in the side, “look who’s coming here.”

  “Oh Jesus, no!” said Collins, turning enough to see Sam Burrack walk across the floor to the stove and rub his hands together in front of its open iron door. Collins’s eyes went to Tucker and Pierson Miegs sitting at the table, only six feet away from the Ranger. Both of the Miegs brothers’ eyes looked like hot glowing coals as they stared at Sam in silence. From her piano stool, Clare Annette took note of the brothers’ frame of mind and stopped playing the piano in hopes that it would bring Sam’s attention to them. But Sam didn’t seem interested in anything but warming his hands and rolling a toothpick back and forth across his lower lip.

  After a few leaden minutes of silence, Sam turned to the piano, then looked along the bar at the expectant faces all around, then back to the stove. “What are you doing in town?” Sam asked without looking at Tucker Miegs.

  Tucker Miegs boiled. “You never told me to get out of town, Ranger!”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you,” said Sam, warming his hands, talking as if to the stove. “A bullet in the leg and a cracked head oughta be enough.”

  “I’ve as much right here as anybody else,” said Tucker. “I quit doing what you accused me of doing—that should be enough.”

  “Hold it one damned minute, brother!” shouted Pierson Miegs, springing up from his chair and sending it sliding across the floor behind him. “You don’t have to answer to this two-bit desert rat! This ain’t Arizona Territory, and you’ve got no more power here than a one-horn goat, far as I’m concerned.”

  “You’ve got a point,” said Sam. “It’s something you can discuss a few miles down the road.” He still spoke without looking at Pierson Miegs.

  “Like hell! If you want me out of town, Ranger, you best be prepared to put me out!” Miegs stepped sideways away from the table and stopped, facing Sam Burrack with his hand poised near his pistol. “Hey, look at me when I talk to you,” he demanded. “You shamed my brother Tucker like he was a dog! Now it’s time to pay up. I’m here to collect.”

  As Pierson spoke, Sam reached down and lifted his pi
stol from his holster slowly, as if to check it. Pierson Miegs watched him, but for some reason didn’t make a move until the big Colt up and leveled and cocked toward his chest. “Wait a minute!” he said taking a step backward. “I didn’t know you were drawing!”

  “What did you think I was doing?” asked Sam. “Are you new to this part of the country?” The toothpick rolled across his lower lip and settled in the corner of the Ranger’s mouth.

  Pierson looked painfully embarrassed and rattled. “I mean—that is, I knew you were drawing that pistol . . . but I wasn’t ready yet. I thought—”

  “You weren’t ready yet?” Sam asked, cutting him off, taking a step closer, forcing Pierson to take another step back. “You mean you expect me to wait for you?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” Pierson Miegs stammered.

  At the table, Tucker Miegs sat helpless and shook his head in disgust. “He got you, brother.”

  “What exactly did you mean, then?” asked Sam, advancing another step, Pierson stepping back against his will beneath the cover of the big Colt.

  With much effort Pierson Miegs managed to stop his retreat and hold his ground. “Holster that Colt and I’ll show you what I mean,” he growled.

  “You don’t want me to holster it,” Sam warned.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Pierson Miegs hissed, feeling his courage coming back to him. He watched Sam slowly uncock the big Colt. Then Miegs began working his fingers open and closed as Sam slipped the Colt down in his holster. “Now, let’s see who gets run out of—”

  Pierson Miegs’s words cut short against the toe of Sam’s boot slamming upward into his crotch. Letting out a tortured grunt, Pierson rose onto his toes and bowed forward at the waist, his hands clasping tightly between his legs.

  “Dumb bastard,” Tucker Miegs murmured to himself.

  Sam took Pierson by his collar and the tail of his coat and guided him swiftly halfway across the saloon to where a thick supporting timber stood in the middle of the floor. Pitching him the rest of the way forward like a sack of grain, Sam stepped aside as Pierson slammed headlong into the wooden beam. The building trembled. Dust sprinkled down from the rafters. “Lord God!” said a voice from the bar. Sam walked over, stooped down, and lifted Pierson’s pistol from his holster. He stood up facing Tucker Miegs.