“I’m willing to post bond immediately,” Dunleavy announced. He looked at Clay. “Is that satisfactory with you?”
“Only if the judge will set a trial date for your client.”
Saxon was exasperated. “There isn’t going to be a trial, don’t you understand that? You’ll never find anyone in this town to testify against Vance.”
“I’ll testify,” Clay said. “I was there.”
“I hadn’t realized you witnessed the crime,” Saxon said. The carefully tended forks of his beard seemed to droop. Then he perked up. “But there still won’t be a trial. Because there won’t be a judge. I’m tending my resignation.”
Clay said, “You spineless—” Then he stopped. It was no use. “Get this straight,” he told the councilmen. “I’m not letting Vance go. If the rest of you won’t help, I’ll find men who will. I’ll hire extra deputies.”
“You’ve no authority for that,” Price countered.
“Then I’ll get volunteers, like McCarty here. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll send to Tucson for help.”
“You’d never get the message out in time to save yourself,” Price told him. “There’s no telegraph, no railroad. Our only communication with the outside is the daily stage, and it’s two days’ ride to Tucson.” He calmed down, trying to make Clay see reason. “Face it, Chandler—no one is going to put his life on the line to help you. They wouldn’t do it for a live Negro, they certainly won’t do it for a dead one. I doubt many people in this town even care what Vance has done. And you—you’re a southerner. Why do you care?”
Clay said, “When I put on this badge, I swore to uphold the law, and that’s what I intend to do. My honor is all I have left in this world, and I won’t see it tarnished.”
Price was incredulous. “You’re asking us to risk our lives— our businesses—for your honor?”
“I’m asking you to see that justice is done,” Clay replied. No one at the table spoke. Clay stood. “Thanks for your time, gentlemen.” Motioning McCarty to join him, he left the saloon.
“Typical damned rebel,” Mayor Price swore when Clay was gone. “They never know when they’re beaten. I told you he would be more trouble than he was worth.”
Cruickshank the banker pulled at his long nose. “Wes isn’t going to like this. He isn’t going to like it at all.”
Dunleavy pulled out his wallet. He counted out fifty dollars and gave the money to Judge Saxon. “Here, Amos, the bet’s yours. This time tomorrow Chandler will be dead. How did I ever think an idiot like that could last three days? By the way, that was a smart move of yours—resigning.”
Saxon shrugged. “I’ve got more sense than to put one of the Hopkins boys on trial—much less pass sentence on him. I know what would happen to me. Anyway, I can always be reelected after Chandler’s dead and Vance is set free.”
Mayor Price stepped away from the others, staring out the saloon doors into the bright sunshine. “What’s the matter, Tom?” Cruickshank said, coming up behind him. “You all right?”
Price let out a long breath. “I guess I’m ashamed. What Chandler and McCarty said about us was true, you know. We should stand up to Wes and his brothers. We shouldn’t put business interests first. And yet. . . I’ve lost everything before; I can’t afford to go through that again. I’m too old to start over. I’ve got a wife and children. I’ve got responsibilities.”
Cruickshank tried to console him. “It’s not only our interests we’re putting first, Tom, it’s the town’s interest, as well. Look, I feel as badly about this as you do. I’ve struggled my whole life to get where I am. I’ve always been honest with my customers. As bankers go, I’m well-liked. But I’ve got debts now, complicated investments. A robbery by the Hopkins gang would ruin me. It would ruin everyone who has deposits with my bank. It would ruin everything I’ve worked for since I was an apprentice in Glasgow. It’s just not . . . it’s not worth taking the chance.”
“All the same, I wish I had Pete McCarty’s guts,” Price said wistfully. “We ask men like Chandler—men we don’t even know—to risk their lives for us, but when the chips are down, we don’t back them up.”
“Aye,” Cruickshank agreed, “but if we back him, the town could go under. Everything we've tried to build here could be lost. What else can we do?”
“I don’t know,” Price said, shaking his head. He looked toward the bar. “Fred, bring me another drink. Hell, bring us all one.”
10
Clay and Pete McCarty stopped in the shade outside the Green Cloth. “I’ll get my pistol,” the brawny newspaperman said with relish. “I only wish I had my other arm so I could use a rifle. By Jesus, I’ll print up a fine notice, too, so I will, calling for volunteers. You’ll see, Marshal, we’ll find help. We’ll give the Hopkins boys a beating they won’t forget.”
“I hope so,” Clay said, feeling heartened. “Meet me at my office. I’ve got one more stop to make.”
The two men split up. Clay rented a horse at the City Stables and rode two miles downstream to the stamping mill, where silver ore from the mine was processed. The mill was built on five levels, each one stepped back from the level below it. The desert air was split by the rumble and clatter of the ore crushers, the vanners, the stampers, and conveyor belts. Smokestacks belched sulfuric clouds into the cobalt sky. Nearby, the San Marcos River had been turned foamy brown by the wastes poured into it. Its banks were lined with sludge. Mounds of slag dotted the landscape like giant anthills. Wagons bringing ore from the mine rumbled through the dust alongside others bringing lumber from the Chiracahua Mountains to be used as fuel for the steam boilers.
The mill office was located in a shack on the upstream side of the building. The office also served as administrative headquarters for the mine. In the outer room sat two clerks in gartered sleeves and green eyeshades. “Can I help you?” one of the clerks asked as Clay entered.
“I want to see the superintendent,” Clay said.
“He’s busy now. If you want to make an—”
“He’ll see me,” Clay said. Before the clerk could stop him, Clay opened the door to the superintendent’s office and walked in. The office was small, cramped, and lacking decoration. Behind the desk sat a compact, tough-looking fellow with short hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves that displayed his big forearms. The man was struggling over a sheaf of accounts. He looked up, and Clay said, “I’m Clay Chandler, marshal of Topaz.”
The man rose and extended a big hand. It was a prospector’s hand, gnarled and swollen from years of hard work in harsh weather. “Jason Wilcox, superintendent for the Topaz Mining Corporation.” They shook, and Wilcox said, “Have a seat.”
Clay obliged, and Wilcox looked him over. “So you’re the new marshal. You’ve created a big stir in a little time, you know that? What can I do for you?”
Clay got right to the point. “I arrested Vance Hopkins last night for killing a man. His brothers have given me till tomorrow to let him go, or they’re coming after him. I want you to lend me some of your men to fight Hopkins.”
“Figured that’s what it was,” said Wilcox. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Marshal.”
“Why not? You must have a couple hundred men on your payroll.”
“Close to three-fifty, actually, and I mean to keep every one of them on the job. I’m here to make a profit for the directors, not to right the ills of the world. This mill has a production schedule, and my job is to see that it’s kept.”
“No matter what happens in town?”
“What happens in town isn’t my responsibility, or even my interest anymore. I ran against Tom Price for mayor, you know, which means that I really ran against Wes Hopkins. You can guess how that came out. Since then, I’ve withdrawn from civic affairs. My only responsibility now is to the Topaz Mining Corporation. I’m in a vulnerable position here. After my ore’s been processed, it’s freighted across the desert to Tucson. Wes Hopkins and his gang can attack those shipments any time they choose.”
; “And you pay them to let you alone?” Clay guessed.
“Yes, and I’m happy with the arrangement. The directors still make their profit, and there’s no trouble. Not only that, but Hopkins protects me from anybody else around here that might have designs on the silver.”
“You could beat Hopkins, you and your men. Then you wouldn’t have to pay at all.”
Wilcox paused thoughtfully. “The man who held this job before me refused to pay them. He was gunned down in his yard, in front of his wife and children.”
Clay said nothing, and Wilcox went on. “Right now, the Hopkins gang is the least of my worries. The silver vein is drying up. I don’t know how much longer the mine and mill will stay open. If they close, I’m out of a job. I busted my ass for too many years to get where I am now, and I have no intention of going back to work with a pick and shovel and wash pan. I'm going to meet my schedule as long as I can, so that the directors will consider me for another job when this one is over. I can’t afford any disruptions. My advice to you is, let young Hopkins go. It’s not worth the effort of keeping him. You’re tearing the town apart for nothing. Nobody’s going to war over a black man—one war was enough, I think we all agree. Say he was killed by accident, and let it go at that.”
“I can’t,” Clay said. “It wouldn’t be right.”
Wilcox spread his powerful arms. “Do as you see fit. But you’ll get no help from me.”
Clay stood. “Thanks,” he said. He turned and left. Outside, Clay mounted his horse and rode back to town. Behind him the mill’s noon whistle blew. The deep, mournful tones sent a shiver down Clay’s spine. He had a bit more than twenty-one hours remaining.
* * *
Pete McCarty hurried home. His neat frame house with its white picket fence stood on Topaz’s outskirts, near the river. Pete had been one of the first men to reach Topaz after news of the silver strike broke. He’d arrived with his family and his printing press, and for his home he’d picked a pleasant spot, shaded by a giant cottonwood, far enough away from the town that the gurgle of the river could be heard on still afternoons.
Pete’s wife Mary was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for the evening stew and trying to keep her four children from killing each other. “Get out of the kitchen,” she ordered the two oldest, a boy and a girl, as they came careening around the table.
“Mom, Terry’s trying to hit me,” squealed the girl, grabbing Mary’s apron strings and attempting to hide behind her mother.
“I don’t care,” Mary said, shaking her off. “I’m trying to get supper on the table, and I don’t need you two acting like wild Indians while I’m doing it.”
Terry, who was eleven, began clapping a hand rhythmically over his mouth and yelling “Whoo, whoo, whoo. Indians!”
“Do that again, and you’ll stand in a comer for the rest of the afternoon,” Mary warned him. “Now go play outside—both of you.”
At that moment, Pete came through the front door, stepping over the two youngest children, who were tussling on the floor, and heading for the bedroom.
“What are you doing home so early?” Mary asked him, surprised.
“Hm? Nothing,” Pete said, and he went into the room. From a battered trunk he pulled an old Army .44, wrapped in oilcloth. With his good arm he rummaged in the bottom of the trunk for cartridges.
“What are you doing with that gun?” Mary asked, coming in behind him. “You haven’t had that out since we moved here. What’s going on?”
Pete looked over her shoulder, motioning her to be quiet because of the children. “The new marshal’s in trouble with the Hopkins gang. I have to help him.”
There was a sudden change of expression on Mary’s face.
“You’re going to fight the Hopkins brothers? You and this marshal and who else?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You mean there’s no one else?”
Pete stood, the heavy pistol feeling unfamiliar in his hand. “We’ll get somebody. I’m going to print up a notice.”
Mary folded her arms. Her blue eyes had gone as cold and unforgiving as the Irish Sea. She nodded over her shoulder to where the children were playing in the front room. “And what about them? What are they going to do for a father when you’re dead? Who’s going to support them? Not this marshal friend of yours—he’ll be dead with you.”
“I won’t get killed,” Pete insisted.
“Two men—against Wes Hopkins and his brothers? Of course you’ll get killed.”
“But I have to help, Mary. I can’t let Marshal Chandler go against Wes himself.”
“Of course you can. That’s his job. It’s not yours.”
“Mary-”
“You have a family; this marshal doesn’t. He’s expendable.”
“If I don’t go, a good man could be killed.”
“Better one than two. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel. Your family is supposed to come first. I don’t know why this marshal wants to fight the Hopkins brothers over a dead colored man, anyway. Oh, I’ve heard all about it—Charity Price told me.”
Pete hated his wife when she got like this. “It’s not like I can’t take care of myself, you know. I fought in the war and all.”
“The war was different. You were younger then, you didn’t have a family. Not only that, the odds on you staying alive were better than they will be against the Hopkins gang. How do I explain to the children that you’re not coming back anymore because you decided to go out and act like a . . . like a . . .”
“Like a wild Indian?” he mimicked her.
“Yes. Do you think it’s going to change anything, you taking on the Hopkins brothers? When it’s all over, they’ll still run this town—or someone like them. The only difference will be that you’ll be dead.”
Pete looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Mary, but there comes a time when you have to make a stand.”
“Go ahead,” she told him. “Make your stand. But the children and I won’t be here when you come back—if you come back. I mean it. We’re leaving.”
She met his gaze unswervingly. Pete hesitated, then his shoulders slumped and he let out his breath, as if he had been deflated. He stared at the old pistol. Then, slowly, he rewrapped it in its oilcloth and returned it to the trunk.
11
Clay rode back to Topaz. The afternoon had grown sultry. The air was heavy and expectant, with thunderheads building to the southeast. The town’s usually crowded streets were deserted. The few people who were out looked die other way when they saw Clay coming.
Clay returned his horse to the City Stables, then he started down the streets of Topaz, trying to recruit help for his coming battle with the Hopkins gang. Everyone gave him the same answer—no. Yesterday these people had all wanted to buy him drinks. Today they acted like he carried a plague—and perhaps he did. Some of them slammed doors in his face; others flatly refused to talk with him; still others demanded that he keep moving, so that Wes Hopkins wouldn’t think they were on Clay’s side in this dispute.
Clay’s path took him past the Equity Saloon, where all this had begun. The elegant Wes Hopkins was leaning against the Equity’s adobe wall. “Afternoon, Marshal,” Wes said affably. “Having problems?”
Clay met Wes’s gaze but made no answer.
Wes hauled the big Waterbury watch from his vest pocket. “One-fifteen,” he said. “No, make that one-sixteen now. Tick, tick, tick. Time just flies along, doesn’t it?”
“Only when you’re having fun,” Clay replied.
“Well, I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your business. I believe you’ll be ready to accept my proposition before long.”
Clay smiled thinly. “Don’t bet on it.” He kept going.
At the end of Tucson Street, Clay turned back through the Triangle. As he walked down what passed for a plank sidewalk on Apache Street, he bumped into a woman coming out of a grocery.
“Sorry,” he said, tipping his hat. Then he saw that the woman was Julie Bennett.
“Oh, hello again.”
“Good afternoon, Marshal,” Julie replied. She was carrying two baskets made of Mexican hemp, with her groceries inside. She wore a dress of navy-blue cotton, shiny in places from use. Her pillbox hat sported a drooping peacock feather that was supposed to be jaunty, but merely seemed forlorn. In the daylight, the terrible scars down her cheeks looked worse than they had last night—deep and ragged. It was hard for Clay to imagine the kind of man who would do that to a woman.
Clay reached for the bags. “Here, let me take those.”
Julie seemed almost embarrassed by the request. “Please, you don’t have to act the gentleman with me. ”
“It’s no act,” he replied, taking the bags. “I’m happy to do it.” The bags weren’t heavy—she probably didn’t have much money to spend on food. “You going to your place? I’ll walk you back.”
They started down the street. “Thanks again for helping me out last night,” Clay told her.
“Stop making a big deal of it. I told you, I owed you— though I don’t know how much good I did you, considering the mess you got yourself into.”
The few people on the street were staring at them. “We seem to be attracting a lot of attention,” Clay observed.
The scar-faced prostitute blushed. “Yeah, well, I don’t come out much during the daytime. I guess you can figure out why.” Then she smiled faintly. “ ’Course I never been out walking with a dead man before, either. Maybe that’s got something to do with it.”
“I’m not dead yet,” Clay protested. “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“It better be one hell of a sleeve. Wes Hopkins has at least two dozen men in town, waiting to come after you tomorrow. Why don’t you get out while you can?”
“You mean run?” Clay asked.
“Yes. There’s no shame in it. At least you’d still be alive.”
“I ain’t much on running.”
“Maybe you should start.”
“I’ve got nowhere to run to. Even if I did, I’ve got no money to get there.”
The Lawmen Page 5
