She stared ahead and thought about how the two Mexican boys came to be at the store, long before she had arrived. Their folks had been killed by Comanches, and Ben had brought them from Texas to Arizona when he first settled there. Ben had a blunt way of explaining facts. He never doctored up his words, just stated the bare truth. But he was an easy man to please and seldom raised his voice in anger. He was good with Josh, and that counted for a lot in Dolly’s book, even if she had never learned to love the Texan. Ben’s first wife was buried at a site two days’ ride east of El Paso. She had been a victim of bad water. Dolly surmised that was probably the reason why Ben treasured the ranch’s big eternal spring. Why, in fact, he had built his store next to it.
Dolly shook her head to clear away the memories. She hung up the last article of clothing, then wiped her hands on her apron. It was near lunchtime and she hadn’t started cooking yet.
Dust swirled around her ankles as she walked toward the back door of the store. At the top of the third step, she paused and pushed back a stubborn light brown curl. Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered in the distance at a trace of dust. Two riders were coming down the road. They were too far away for her to identify. She looked to the east toward the corrals and weather-beaten gray sheds that comprised Arnolds’ store-ranch. Beyond them rose a green mound called Turtle Mountain. Ben rode there often to shoot a fat mule deer. He would always smile when he returned with the soft gray furred carcass draped over a packhorse.
“Hunting’s still good in these parts,” he would brag.
She squinted her hazel eyes again as she studied the approaching riders. They still didn’t look familiar. She sighed and went inside the house. There was a cookstove to stoke and beans to warm. Along with her fresh bread with butter from the brindle cow’s milk, that would suffice for her bunch, and she’d have enough to feed two more. Ben would expect her to serve lunch to the two newcomers. The big Texan obviously felt a kinship toward passing cowboys. Perhaps the empathy came from the time when he had punched cows in his youth.
A few minutes later, she set out plates, then began slicing her golden-crusted bread with her sharpest knife. Some intuition or maternal instinct caused her to suddenly put down the knife. She listened intently. The silence in the hot dry air was oppressive.
The Kid was the first to spot the two Mexican boys. They were lounging on the porch, dressed like cowboys. His jaw grew rigid with indignation. They had a hell of a nerve wearing clothes like that. Their manner of dress damn sure didn’t disguise the fact that they were some of those ones that beat him up that night. He nodded decisively. They were some of those beaters.
“There they are!” He pointed and reined Buster in.
“Kid, wait!” Leo protested, blinking his eyes rapidly. “They’re just Arnold’s boys. Kid! Don’t shoot! They ain’t the ones!”
He ignored Leo’s warning. He drew his deadly .38 and pointed it at the first Mexican, who stood wide-eyed on the store’s porch. The other stood beside him, frozen in fear.
The gun barked and a puff of smoke surrounded the barrel. The heavy bullet slammed into the Mexican’s chest and he collapsed on the ground. Buster reared on his hind feet at the explosion, nearly unseating the Kid. The horse’s abrupt action caused his second shot to go wild.
No one noticed the soft cry of the child who had been playing near the porch. The second Mexican fled around the building. He’s getting away! the Kid thought. He emptied his pistol after him, sending dust racing behind him like a brushfire.
There was a brief second of taut silence, broken suddenly by Leo’s loud groan. “My God, Kid! You’ve shot that little kid over there.”
Bobby twisted his mouth in disgust and tried to shove bullets into the pistol chambers while holding the upset Buster still at the same time. “Hell, Leo, you’re drunk. I’m the Kid!”
“Damnit, let’s ride, Bobby. You’ve killed him. He’s right over there.” Leo gestured wildly with his arm.
A big man working the lever action of a rifle rushed out onto the porch. Leo’s wild shot shattered the window beside him.
The splintering glass jerked the Kid out of his drunken stupor. He quickly finished reloading his gun and shot wildly at the retreating man on the porch. For a split second, in his whiskey haze, he spotted the woman rushing from around the back of the store. He looked around frantically for the Mexican who had gotten away.
“Where’d that other damn one go?” he shouted at Leo, who was reloading at the same time.
“It don’t matter a damn where he went. Kid, just ride the hell out of here!” Leo emptied his pistol at the store then he spurred his horse away. Buster almost jerked the Kid out of his seat when he galloped after Leo.
“Gawddammit,” the Kid slurred, forced to hang on to the saddle horn since he was unable to hold his pistol and pull up the gelding at the same time.
“You stupid ass, Leo!” He waved his gun at Leo. “I never shot no damn kid. Whoa! Dammit, whoa! I’m Bobby Budd, the Coyote Kid! Leo, wait!” He scowled at his friend’s back on the racing horse and muttered savagely. Damn, he needed a drink. He needed to stop the crazy damn horse under him; he needed to holster his gun; and he needed to convince Leo that he was the Kid, and he hadn’t shot one.
Dolly stood frozen on the back steps. Her cheeks felt drained. At the sound of the first gunshot, her heart had come to a thudding stop, and her legs refused to move beneath her. Then it seemed that all hell had erupted in the front yard. The shooting went on for hours to her, but she knew it had only been a matter of seconds. In her mind a vision flashed, one of Josh playing in the dirt beside the store. Trembling, she breathed in painful gasps as she searched wildly for her son. She swallowed hard at the sight of Manuel lying facedown on the ground, the dirt stained a rust-red around him. Then she saw Ben. He was bending over something beside the step on the far side of the porch.
“Oh God,” she cried as she ran, tripping over her own feet. The distance seemed endless. She was choked for breath, her hair crawling over her scalp. Even the wispy dirt beneath her shoes impeded her progress. Finally she reached Ben. He was squatting, his broad back blocking her view. Biting her lip, she peered over his shoulder.
A moan erupted from her dry throat. “Oh God, my baby, my baby,” she cried as she fell to the ground on her knees. Ben gently laid the child in her lap. Josh’s head rolled back over her arm. A growing red stain darkened his white shirt. His straight brown hair was coated with a dusting of light dirt, and already his face held the blue pallor of death. Dolly cradled his still body and rocked him gently as she promised him vengeance.
Territorial Marshal John Wesley Michaels stared out of his boardinghouse window, waiting for a summons to Major Bowen’s headquarters.
Uncertain of what assignment the major had in mind for him—since communication between the two had been so brief—John Wesley had packed an extra shirt in his saddlebag, along with his mother’s worn, leather-bound Bible. Alongside the Bible, he had placed an extra short-barreled 44-caliber sheriff’s model Colt, and with it, wrapped in sheepskin, he had put a spare box of ammunition. Earlier he had cleaned and oiled the weapon meticulously. The smell of the lubricant still reeked from the handgun.
Beneath the rooming-house window, the streets of Prescott, Arizona, bustled with the traffic of freight wagons and rigs. Beyond the booming village, John Wesley could see the surrounding hills clad with ponderosa pines. His gaze swept over the town, noting the Capitol building. A little farther down the street was Territorial Governor George Sterling’s house. He knew that former army Major Gerald Bowen was a frequent visitor to the mansion.
Running his fingers absently through his coal-black hair, John Wesley smiled as he recalled his first meeting with the major, three days earlier. It had been a long while since the war days when he served under him, and at that reunion they discussed many things. On that first visit to Bowen’s home, which also served as his headquarters, John Wesley had been informed about the organization he w
ould be a part of. He recalled the major’s conversation.
“John Wesley, we try to keep our position confidential,” the major explained. “Republicans and Northern folks have a stigma in this territory with all these Texans and ex-Rebs. Governor Sterling does not want to upset the population with an unauthorized statewide law-enforcement office. You see, under the territory’s constitution, the individual sheriffs handle criminals on a countywide basis. That system seems to work well for the most part, but it doesn’t have the facilities or officers needed to handle the criminals that cross county lines. There have been border gangs, whiskey peddlers, and fugitives who have continually avoided the law.” At that point the major offered him a cigar, which John declined.
After lighting the cigar to his own satisfaction, the major continued. “That’s also why our force is so small. There are four marshals, counting yourself, who will report to me. The eldest is Sam T. Mayes, who you may recall was with us in Missouri and Arkansas during the war. He is off in the south after a border gang. He was formerly with a detective agency in Denver. Sam T.’s a resourceful, thorough man. Right now he has his hands full, but two of my former army scouts are assisting him.”
John recalled Mayes from the war and tried to remember how he looked. Lots of water had gone under the bridge since those days. Mayes and his men had patrolled south of Cassville, Missouri, into Arkansas, while John and his outfit had tried to contain the bushwhackers in the Missouri hills.
Bowen continued. “Luther Haskell is another of my men. He’s a former deputy U.S. Marshal from Fort Smith. Haskell’s a Texas cowboy who can handle himself well. He’s over in the eastern part of the territory investigating a brewing range war. And finally there’s Shawn Kelly.” The major rose and began to pace the room, and an amused smile lifted his carefully groomed mustache. “Shawn’s a former railroad detective.” He paused abruptly as a woman entered the room. “Oh, this is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is John Wesley Michaels. He’s the town marshal from Walsenburg, Colorado, whom I told you about, and like Mayes, he served in the army with me.”
Mary Bowen was a well-dressed lady of obvious breeding. She inclined her head in greeting and held out her smooth white hand to John Wesley. John took it gently in his own rough one and smiled at her. He surmised that behind the well-preserved oval face lay a shrewd mind. She had probably been a beautiful woman in her youth; the delicate bone structure of her face gave her a classic look of elegance.
“How do you do, Mr. Michaels?”
“Just fine. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“I understand that you’re a bachelor, Mr. Michaels.” Her tone was gently probing.
“Yes, ma’am,” John answered noncommittally.
She smiled warmly. “Well, you certainly have better manners than some of the other marshals.” She glanced at her husband meaningfully.
The major laughed aloud. “We’ll take some of your coffee, Mary. In the meantime, I think we’ll leave Mr. Michaels to form his own opinion of the other marshals, including Shawn Kelly.”
When Mary had moved out of earshot, the major shook his head and spoke wryly. “You’ll get to meet Shawn later. Right now he’s over at Crown King. There are lots of problems with claim jumpers and murders in the gold camps.”
The major straightened abruptly and became brisk and businesslike. “Now, the pay as I told you is one fifty a month, a lot more than most make. Of course, if you were a politician and held a sheriff’s office, I think you could earn five times that amount. Surprised? Well, with fines, salary, expenses, and ten percent of the taxes they collect, I expect that the worst-paid sheriff in this territory earns around ten thousand a year.”
John thought the amount exaggerated, but then he had no reason to doubt the major’s word.
Bowen obviously sensed that he was surprised by the figure. “I can see that you are skeptical. That’s why we are more or less a secret organization. The sheriffs are politicians, and any threat to weaken their authority will upset their old buddy legislators in the territorial government. So, I’d rather we call ourselves officers of the territorial court. And for that reason, I do ask that you not wave that marshal badge around unless absolutely necessary.”
“I understand, sir,” John agreed somberly. He didn’t anticipate any difficulty ahead because of the need to keep a low profile, since he was a reserved man by nature.
“Good. You have a fine reputation as a soldier and equally good as a lawman, John Wesley. It’s a sad fact, but the West seems beset with men who kill for hire or just plain orneriness. It’s a disease, or at least a symptom of a system where a meager law enforcement agency is incapable of being everywhere to bring these men in.”
Those words lingered in John’s mind as he sat in his boardinghouse room, awaiting a summons to Bowen’s headquarters. He had come to the conclusion that the major had studied the territorial criminal problem in depth. Bowen was a shrewd man, and he was looking forward to working for him again, but the current inactivity was becoming a strain. He sighed and looked around the room, realizing that it would probably be morning before he heard anything. John decided to fill in his time constructively.
He saddle-soaped and cleaned his handmade saddle, then disassembled and reassembled his short-barreled .38/.20 Winchester repeater. Lastly, as the day’s sunlight began to fade, he read from Psalms in his Bible. His one goal in life was to be well equipped and ready at the call to serve either the law or his Maker.
Early the following morning, a young boy delivered a written message from the major to John. The major requested his presence at the Bowen residence at his earliest convenience after breakfast. John was grateful for the summons. At last he would learn what his first assignment as a territorial marshal would be.
Over a hearty boardinghouse breakfast, he listened to the monologue of a man called Gyp seated beside him, who spoke about the weather, a gold strike, the Apaches, and a few other things that held no interest for John. He replied to him in brief monotones.
“You an ex-soldier for the major?” Gyp asked, his small eyes scrutinizing John’s face. John nodded and occupied himself with eating, hoping to discourage further comments. But the man of fifty years or so was not daunted. His voice held a whine that grated on John’s nerves.
“Yes, sir, that major was an Apache heart eater,” Gyp said with a chuckle. “You ever eat any?”
“No.” John shifted irritably on the chair. Gyp seemed to have a never-ending supply of rambling conversation.
“This a reunion? You and the major?” Gyp asked, then slurped his coffee from a saucer. When John did not answer, he shrugged his thin shoulders and leaned forward as if to concentrate on more coffee.
John was relieved at last to get out of the boardinghouse and away from the talkative man. He strode downhill toward the bridge over Walnut Creek and then past the end of the block that contained all of the saloons and houses of sin they called Whiskey Row. Grateful his days of arresting drunks was over and he was embarking on a new career, he drew in a deep breath of the strongly pine-scented air. A new stone courthouse had been constructed in the square. He climbed the hill through the thin pine trees, noticed the large, luxurious two-story house with the high fence and wondered about the owner. A block farther on he turned onto the dirt street that ran past the major’s bungalow.
As he approached the house, he noticed a long-legged chestnut gelding tied to the hitch rail in front of Bowen’s house. He was an impressive animal and he stopped for a moment to admire him. Judging by the length of the stirrups, a tall man rode the horse. The rifle in the scabbard was new. Alkali dust flecks caked the gelding’s lower legs above the red-brown dirt from the Prescott roads, which meant he recently had been in the desert.
John stepped lightly up the Bowens’ front steps, then lifted the heavy door knocker. He removed his hat and smoothed his black hair in place as he waited.
Mary Bowen opened the door. “Oh, good morning, John Wesley.” She smiled pleasantly. “Geral
d is upstairs in the den with Sam T. Mayes. They’re expecting you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Come on in,” she said, opening the door wider to allow him entrance. She led the way across the hallway, then started up the stairs. She half turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Perhaps you’ll be able to come to our social at the end of the month?”
“I’ll have to see what the major has in mind for me to do, but thank you, ma’am.” He carefully hid an amused smile at her attempt to get him in a position so that she could play matchmaker. He had an idea that Mary Bowen enjoyed the cupid role.
“You did say you were of the Methodist faith?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. We have a fine congregation here in Prescott, did you know?”
“Yes, ma’am, when I get time.”
She shook her head and sighed softly, “It’s just like the army. Always duty first. It’s not going to be any different in this business than it was in the military.”
She stopped outside an oak-paneled door, then pushed it open. “Here we are,” Mary announced. “Gentlemen, John Wesley Michaels is here. I’ll leave you to your business.” She turned to face John Wesley. “Remember the social.”
John nodded and stepped into the room. Major Bowen rose and stood in front of the yellowing map of Arizona that was tacked to the wall behind his desk.
A tall man wearing a brown suit rose from a chair in front of the desk. This was Sam T. Mayes, the marshal that the major had spoken of. “John Wesley Michaels, you know Sam T. Mayes,” the major said, making the introductions with a smile.
John crossed the polished floor and stood on the colorful Navajo rug. Mayes’s face looked more weathered and rugged then he recalled. Of course, everyone had aged since then. He held out a hand to the large man and met his direct, assessing gaze.
Servant of the Law Page 7
