Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  A frail old lady, wearing a shawl, answered the door and spoke to him sharply in Spanish.

  “Está Maria aquí?” he asked the woman.

  She shook her head. “Maria esta in Sante Fe. Espera, gringo.”

  He knew she meant for him to stay put while she went inside the house. In a moment she shuffled back carrying a letter.

  “Maria,” she said as she handed him the letter. Her frail hands waved him back, then she closed the door with a thud.

  He opened the letter with shaking fingers.

  Dear Bobby,

  I know I can never have you. You have much work to do for the law. There are many bad men all over. So, because I cannot have my mucho hombre, I want no man. I am going to a convent so I will always be faithful to you and my God. I will pray for you every day. Do not try to stop me.

  Love,

  Maria

  Devastated by the news, he went to the hotel, checked into a room, fell across the bed and cried. All night long he cried. Sober as a judge and without restraint, he soaked a pillow with his tears.

  At dawn, he went to find Gunther. After all those weeks in jail, he wasn’t sure that Pernell still wanted Gunther dead, but it didn’t matter. He had been paid to do a job and he had never reneged on a deal yet.

  The morning sun shone on his back as he rode down the canyon. He dismounted and crept silently down the bushy slope. He paused when he heard a grating sound. After a moment he recognized it as a knife being sharpened on a whetstone. He parted the cedar bushes, and spied a half-skinned yearling hung on a single tree from a rope over a cottonwood branch. A man stood with a knife poised beside the carcass. In an instant, Bobby knew from Pernell’s description that this butcher was his man.

  He shot Gunther twice in the back, then propped his still body against the tree. To make a good scene, for whoever discovered the body, he placed the man’s bloodstained hands in his lap, along with the knife and whetstone. The yearling carcass hung beside the dead man. The fresh hide on the ground spread like a blanket beside the corpse bore Pernell’s SS brand.

  Finished at last, he climbed in the saddle and rode off. “Pray for me, Maria. There are a lot more Gunthers out there,” he said aloud.

  Back to grim reality, he sat atop Buster and rode in total blindness. With Leo leading his horse, he repeated the same words, “Pray for me, Maria.”

  “What’s that?” Leo asked.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled, not wishing to explain. “Nothing at all.”

  8

  A long-tailed rooster perched on the top corral rail crowed while John Wesley Michaels saddled the sorrel that he had dubbed Jacob. He found it difficult to concentrate on his preparations since he couldn’t get over the shock of seeing Mrs. Arnold dressed like a man. She wore new jeans and a man’s cotton shirt, and she was saddling her own horse like a man. Nothing he had said had dissuaded the strong-minded woman from accompanying him on this trip.

  “You want me to put the pack saddle on?” she asked matter-of-factly. She had discovered that the only way to get a response from the silent man was to speak in a straightforward manner.

  “Thanks, but I’ll do it,” he mumbled. The whole situation was getting out of hand, but he was at a loss as to how to deal with Dolly Arnold. He must look out for her, too. He would even have to go off the road to relieve himself. The fact embarrassed and irritated him. He was not accustomed to being around a woman all the time. The fact was, he did not frequent houses of ill repute, and loose women offended him. Not that he considered her wanton, but Mrs. Arnold was too outspoken for him to be comfortable with. He closed his eyelids for the solace of a moment of silent meditation.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Ben amble out of the house toward her. In the pale sunrise, he looked tired. There were times when he did not look his sixty years. Today, she noticed as he drew nearer, he looked that and more. Perhaps he had absorbed some of her youth in the past, but now that she was leaving, he had nothing to feel youthful about.

  “You forgot your hat,” he said guardedly. He evidently did not want her going back in the house. She understood. In any case, she had no excuse to go back inside. Everything that belonged to her, a few dresses, a hairbrush, some soap, a few changes of underthings, and a tintype of her and Josh that she had had made in Holbrook, were in the saddlebags. She sighed with guilt. Obviously, she was leaving with a lot more material things than she had brought with her years ago. But she was leaving behind a part of herself. Her son.

  Rudy stood on the porch, a picture of dejection. “Rudy, you cook for Ben, and take good care of him. You hear me?” she said sharply.

  “You will come back?” the boy asked pleadingly.

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t, not ever. Ben knows why. He’ll tell you. It would be too hard on all of us.” Only her steely determination forced her to hold her chin up. There was no going back. The things that were changed had to be left as they were.

  His brown eyes filled with sadness, Rudy shook his head. “We will miss you.”

  “Me, too. Now go on inside, Rudy. It’s hard enough without saying goodbye. And Ben.” She turned to him, squinting her eyes to hold back the tears. “Thanks for everything, the pistol, too.”

  He nodded. “Be sure not to shoot yourself or that poor man over there,” he said gruffly.

  She laughed with a brittleness to her voice. “He ain’t poor. A little stiff-necked maybe, but I figure he’s tough enough or that Yankee governor would never have hired him.”

  Ben agreed with a grim smile. “And he’s probably a Republican, too.”

  “I don’t care as long as he knows his job.” She plunked the hat on her head and turned toward her horse. It was imperative that she get away before she broke down completely. If she looked back, she knew she might never leave the two of them.

  Once mounted, she set the gray mare in a short lope past Ben, past her home and the store, and out to the two fresh graves. She paused by the smooth mounds and spoke aloud. “Josh, I’ll find them. I’ll find them or join you trying, son.”

  She looked at Manuel’s grave and said a silent goodbye to the boy, then she reined the gray around and rode south. Sooner or later that tight-lipped marshal would ride her way when he was ready to leave, but by then maybe her eyes would be dry.

  John Wesley had loaded the packhorse that he called Thomas. Doubting Thomas was the big buckskin’s full name. He’d earned his title in Holbrook when he refused to cross the Atchison, Topeka rails and ties. On several occasions he had shied at various other items, including a booming blue grouse, a scrap of paper on the wind, and a cottontail. John also suspected that both of his horses were gun-shy.

  The dealer in Holbrook had appeared honest, but John had had little time to haggle over prices. He needed two horses that were sound and ready to go. He had grown fonder of the sorrel Jacob, and he even decided that Thomas was not completely incorrigible. With time, the buckskin would settle down, and then he would eventually get the horses accustomed to gunshots. Until then he would secure them with stout ropes or hobbles when he had to shoot.

  Glancing around, he could not see Mrs. Arnold. Where was she? Oh well, perhaps she had changed her mind and decided not to go with him, he hoped. She had loped off on the dish-faced gray mare and had, no doubt, reconsidered the error of her ways. Maybe she was going to remain with Ben and that young Mexican who seemed to adore her.

  But a little later, he was not really surprised when he caught up with her. Nor was he surprised that she sat astride the mare as she rode in the worn tracks that half resembled a road.

  “How far will we go today?” she asked quietly without looking at him.

  “Until the horses get tired or we find someone who has seen the two men.”

  “Good. I won’t ask you a bunch of questions. I know most men need quiet to think.”

  “A very nice concession,” he said stiffly. “I appreciate that.”

  They rode a while, then she spoke again. “I
do know most of the ranchers on this road. So, if you want to ask them something, I’ll be glad to introduce you to them, Marshal.”

  “Please don’t call me that. Major Bowen, my employer, says that ‘officer of the court’ is a better title. As you may know, Governor Sterling wants to keep in everyone’s good graces.”

  She shrugged. “Seems kind of stupid to me. First there ain’t no law, and then when it does come, you can’t call it the law.”

  “That’s not quite correct, Mrs. Arnold,” he reproved her quietly. “I’m an officer of the court: Please remember that.”

  Beneath her wide-brimmed felt hat, she wrinkled her nose at his stilted manner, but she answered meekly, “Yes, sir.” Privately, she thought it was still silly. But that was a typical man’s way of thinking, she supposed. She had known a lot of men in her time, but she found it difficult to understand the way some of their minds worked. They definitely did not think like a woman, and the one riding beside her was a closed book. Resigned to that fact, she shrugged, recalling her earlier thought that she didn’t care if he said two words, as long as he got the job done.

  They rode in silence. It wasn’t exactly a companionable silence, but that did not seem to matter.

  In the distance, a fork in the road drew her attention. She pointed to it as she spoke. “That way there leads to Milton Devers’s place.”

  “What’s he like?” he asked, following the direction of her finger.

  “Just a small rancher. He’s a bachelor like you. You two, would probably have lots to talk about.” She looked away and scowled. “What do old bachelors talk about?”

  He chuckled at the reference to his age. “Mrs. Arnold, I really don’t have any idea what they talk about. But let’s ride up there and see Milton Devers. Anyone can be a lead. I … er, we can’t leave any stone unturned.”

  “Yes, Mr. Michaels,” she said, beginning to feel a measure of respect for his logical thinking. Perhaps if she kept quiet, she might even learn something from him. There was always a possibility that she had underestimated him because of his stiff-necked manner. “You know I want to find those two killers.”

  “So do I. So do the major and the governor. We all want to see the Coyote Kid and his partner in jail and tried for their crimes.”

  “Yeah, me too.” She bit her lip, wondering why that had come out so flippantly. I do want the killer of my child, she vowed. silently. I want him looking down the barrel of the .32 double-action Colt that Ben gave me. It was a small gun by most standards but accurate enough for her needs. She wanted to be close enough to see the killer’s eyes when she shot him.

  “Is that Devers’s place down by the sycamore?” John Wesley asked, breaking into her vengeful thoughts.

  She nodded. Milt Devers would be shocked when he saw her with this man. Oh well, she wasn’t riding with John Wesley to improve her social image.

  He spotted a beanpole of a man laboring at setting a corner fence post. As they drew nearer, he watched Devers remove his sweat-stained gray hat and wipe his leathery face on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Morning, Mr. Devers,” John said politely.

  “Oh, howdy. Guess Mrs. Arnold there told you my name? You all right, ma’am?” the older man asked with genuine concern.

  “Fine, Milton. This is Mr. Michaels. He is an officer of the court and is asking about Josh’s killers,” she explained.

  “Oh.” Milton nodded, his expression reserved. “Well, get down. I’ve got plenty of cold spring water. Help yourself to it.”

  “Thanks,” John Wesley responded absently. He frowned as Mrs. Arnold reached for the reins of his horse and the lead of the packhorse. He handed them over with a little shrug, feeling a bit uncomfortable as he did so.

  “You go ahead, Mr. Michaels.” She motioned him toward the spring. “I’ll water the horses in the creek and wait for you. Milt won’t talk much with me around.”

  “Yes. And thanks,” John agreed. She was probably right. If Devers knew anything, he would probably talk more freely out of her presence. John watched her ride off leading both of his horses.

  The rancher spoke behind him. “Shame about her losing the boy. Plain mean men done that.” John Wesley turned and kept silent, although he watched the man’s expression carefully. “Yes, sir,” Devers continued, “I rode with Ben to look for them. Guess he told you that we lost them down in the Mustang Range. We seen three tough-looking whiskey peddlers, but they weren’t talking. Ben even offered them money for the information, but they refused and acted pretty mean. Did he tell you about them?”

  Although Ben Arnold had said nothing to him about the peddlers, John Wesley nodded and remained silent, waiting for Devers to continue.

  “Well, I guess the two killers just kept riding. Them kind don’t have no roots, Mr. Michaels. I seen a grizzly like that once. Even the Apaches were afraid of him. He’d kill a cow but wouldn’t bother to eat her. Then he’d go on, and a quarter of a mile or so farther along, he’d kill another one. No sense to it. You savvy? Well, if you’ve never seen one that bloodthirsty, you wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “Mr. Devers, I’ve seen such things. Could I ask for your help?”

  “Sure. Anything I could do to help you.”

  “About these whiskey peddlers,” John Wesley asked thoughtfully, “who are they?”

  Milt scratched at his red neck. “Well, all I know is one is named Gar, and it appears he’s the boss.”

  “Gar what?”

  “Danged if I know, but he’s plenty mean. When I see them coming, I ride over the ridge. I ain’t afraid of much, but them three ain’t worth hog spit.”

  “Where are these men?” John asked as he walked with the man toward the rock tank.

  “Oh, up there in a place we call the Mustang Mountains.” Devers tossed his head in that direction. “You ride southwest, cross a big open place, then you’ll see an old deserted ranch house made out of logs. The folks who lived there have been gone for ten years or more.”

  “Do you reckon this Gar would hide the killers up there?”

  “Mister, they’d do just about anything for money, and that-includes killing, too.” Both men took turns dipping the gourd into the small spring box and drinking the cool water.

  The chilly water slid down John Wesley’s throat like liquid silk. “Could you take me close to their place, Mr. Devers?”

  Devers was intent on watching Dolly in the distance. “Can I ask you a damn personal question, Mr. Michaels?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Devers jerked a thumb in her direction. “It’s about her. How come Mrs. Arnold is all get up like a man and riding with you, instead of being at home at the store?”

  John took a deep breath. “She’s determined to ride with me. Nothing that I or Mr. Arnold said could dissuade her. He said that once she made up her mind, she stuck to it. I believe him.”

  “That’s too bad for Ben. Now, if she were leaving me, it would break my heart.” Devers’s eyes remained on Dolly who was still attending the horses. “In a way she is kind of leaving me, too.” He nodded as if considering the matter deeply, then swung his gaze back to John Wesley. “I’ll ride with you. It’ll take me a few minutes to get my bedroll and saddle my horse.”

  John gave the man a grateful look, then sipped slowly from the gourd.

  “Thanks for your help. This is good water, Mr. Devers.”

  “That’s why I stayed here. Always wanted a woman out here, but I got so busy fixing things around here that I never had time to go find me one.” Devers shook his head as if dismissing some memory. “Reckon she’ll go back to Ben when this is all over?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Well, I’ll get ready and meet you in a few minutes.”

  John nodded absently. He walked slowly toward the sycamores along the creek. Devers was almost as upset as the two back at the store. It seemed that Dolly Arnold had no shortage of admirers.

  Dolly leaned her back against rough cottonwood
bark. The horses stood hipshot, swishing their tails at pesky flies. They acted grateful for the short respite.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked when he drew nearer.

  “Yes. Did Ben mention seeing whiskey peddlers?” he asked.

  She shook her head, wondering what whiskey peddlers had to do with the killers.

  “Perhaps Ben thought them unimportant,” he mused aloud. “Mr. Devers is going to take me to the place in the Mustang Mountains where those peddlers are hiding out.”

  She stepped away from the tree and narrowed her eyes as she stared up at his face. “Don’t figure on going there without me.”

  “Mrs. Arnold, I think it might be best if you stay—”

  She cut him off sharply. “I told you, Mr. Michaels, either I ride with you or I follow behind.” When he said nothing—simply looked at her with a hard glint in his eyes—she folded her arms. “Now, why are we going after these peddlers?”

  “First of all, they may be hiding the killers, or maybe the killers may have been there. Secondly,” he added in a hard voice, “rounding up whiskey peddlers is part of my job. I can’t ignore the men who sell untaxed whiskey, Mrs. Arnold. I have my duty.”

  Glaring at him, she swore silently, then stalked off. Her soles slid on the gravel and she barely managed to recover her balance as she strode beside the trickle of a stream. At this rate, she thought, scowling, she would be ninety years old before they found the pair of killers. In disgust, she kicked at the gravel with the toe of her boot, venting her displeasure and impatience on the loose rocks.

  After some of her anger had evaporated, she walked back to where he was squatted on his boot heels. She refused to address him, and he merely nodded, acknowledging her presence.

  Devers rode from the house to join them. He smiled, unaware of the strained atmosphere. “Howdy, ma’am. Reckon I’m ready to go.” His smile became wider. She sighed inwardly. Milt looked plumb silly with that grin on his face, but she knew it was simply because he did not know quite how to behave around women. She gave him a polite smile, then moved to the horses.