“She left a few minutes ago,” Jan said, impishly.
“I was wondering who she was and what she was doing here.”
“No doubt. She’s very attractive, don’t you agree?”
“I wasn’t thinking of that. But she certainly was…is.”
“If you are wondering who she is, you could check the register at the hotel,” Pendleton suggested.
“She’s not registered.”
“Not here? But then where…?”
“Exactly. Where else? She’s not camping on the plains, and nobody sees her coming and going, although Carpenter did see her riding into town one day.”
“You’re very interested, aren’t you?” Jan suggested.
“Yes, ma’am. When there’s trouble expected, it is my business to know as much as I can. I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”
Shanaghy pushed back his chair. “Have you any message for Vince Patterson? I’m riding to meet him.”
Pendleton shook his head. “If you’re expecting to talk him out of it, forget it. We’ve tried. He’s a stubborn, hardheaded man. But a good man for all of that, and no fool.”
“I’ve got to try.”
“You can tell him hello for me,” Jan said, “and give him my love.”
Well, that word did something to him. Shanaghy wished of a sudden that he was a better man, and he said, “Miss, if that doesn’t do it, nothing will.”
Then he turned sharply and left, wondering why he was suddenly feeling all hot and embarrassed.
Tomorrow morning he would be riding out, and suddenly he did not want to go anywhere. He just wanted to stay right here.
When the door closed behind him, Pendleton glanced at his daughter. “An interesting young man,” he commented.
“He’s nice,” she said, “and he’s strong…very strong.”
“Naturally. He’s a blacksmith.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” she replied. “Perhaps resolute is the word. I don’t think he knows what he wants yet, but when he makes up his mind…he will get it.”
Chapter 9
*
THE HORSE SHANAGHY rode was a roan, a mustang with a Morgan cross, and the moment he hit the saddle he knew he had a horse. The roan trotted into the street, and the moment he had the room he went to bucking.
Shanaghy, who had ridden all his life, had never tackled anything like this. How he stayed with the horse he never knew, but stay he did. And when finally they loped away he heard a cheer from the few scattered people who had watched.
There had been last-minute advice from Carpenter. The herd would move about twelve miles per day, perhaps less now, as the grass was good and Patterson would want to bring them in fat for the market.
The country, which had appeared flat, proved less so than Shanaghy expected, for there were rolling hills and some deeper ravines. When he was well away from town, he drew up to look around.
As far as the eye could reach there was only grass moving in the wind. These were the fabled buffalo plains, but there were no buffalo now. Far off, he glimpsed a herd of antelope. There was no sound but the wind…
For several minutes he sat very still, feeling the wind on his face. The air was fresh, the sky was clear, and somehow the soft wind and the coolness smoothed the troubles from his mind.
Yet…the thought came again…what of that young woman? Who was she? What was she?
That she was not staying anywhere in town was obvious, and he doubted if she could be living with Hank Drako…She simply wasn’t the Drakos’ type.
That she might live in the town to the west was possible but doubtful, as she seemed too fresh when she rode into town in the morning. True, she had come but twice, but nonetheless she must have somewhere to live that was close by, providing her with a means to keep her clothes pressed and clean.
Where, then?
Puzzling over the question, he rode steadily south, a vast sky above him, a vast sea of grass all about. As he rode, some of the accumulated tension began to dissipate. For the first time in days he began to feel relaxed and rested. He talked to the roan, and the horse twitched his ears, apparently liking the sound of Shanaghy’s voice. Shanaghy had always liked horses and he liked this one. Once, sighting a small seep, he turned aside for it and allowed the horse a slow drink while he sat the saddle, studying the country.
He was riding away when he saw the tracks. He knew nothing of tracking, but he could see that at least three horses had passed that way heading for the seep. Turning, he followed the tracks back and found where the riders had dismounted and waited for some time. There were the tracks of the horses and a number of cigarette butts. Then he found the tracks of a fourth rider who had come in from the northeast. Thoughtfully, Shanaghy studied the tracks. Although he knew little or nothing about “reading sign,” as the westerners called it, he did know a good deal about horseshoes and the shoeing of horses, and this looked like work Carpenter might have done.
This rider had not dismounted but had remained in the saddle while talking to the others, then had turned around and ridden back along the original trail.
Chances were, it was a casual meeting between some range riders who had stopped for a smoke.
By nightfall, Shanaghy had traveled a distance equal to three days for the herd, and he made camp under some cottonwoods in a little draw where he found the remains of a campfire. He was learning that most places suitable for camps had been used by others before him, but there was water here, some shade, fuel and grass, whatever any traveler might need.
At daybreak he was again on the trail. From what Carpenter and Pendleton had said, he surmised that Patterson would be no more than five or six days’ drive from town, and so he rode with his eyes on the horizon to the south, looking for dust or any sign of moving cattle.
It was almost sundown on the second day when he topped out on a small rise and saw them.
They were still miles away to the south, but he could see the long dark line of the moving herd and a few smaller dots that would be outriders. He was still several miles from them when he rode down into a long, shallow valley and saw their chuckwagon, and the thin trail of smoke rising from the campfire. This, then, was where the herd would bed down.
As Shanaghy trotted his horse down the long slope toward the camp, he saw the cook, a man in a once-white apron and battered hat, draw a Winchester from the wagon and lay it across the corner of the tailgate.
He slowed down as he approached, and walked his horse up to the fire. “I’m looking for the Patterson herd.”
The cook, a sour-looking man with a handlebar mustache, noted the badge on Shanaghy’s shirt with no approval. “You found it.”
“Mind if I wait?”
“Light an’ set.” Then after a bit of kneading at the dough on the board before him, the cook said, “Where’s Rig Barrett?”
“I came in his place.”
The cook glanced at him with grim, unfriendly eyes. “They sendin’ a boy to do a man’s job?”
Tom Shanaghy shoved his derby back on his head. “I been doing man’s work since I was twelve,” he replied calmly. Then he said, “You must be about the best trail herd cook there is.”
The man straightened up. “I do my job.” Then he added, “Where’d you get that idea?”
“They tell me Vince Patterson never has anything less than the best.”
“Well,” the cook’s tone was now less surly, “I do what I can. Those are hungry boys, yonder.”
“Hope there’s enough left for a hungry marshal,” Shanaghy said.
He looked up to see two men riding into the hollow. One of them, he immediately guessed, was Vince Patterson. The other was probably his trail boss.
Shanaghy got to his feet. He had decided long ago that he could not fight Patterson and hope to win. One look at the man told him he had decided well. But it had been said that Patterson was a reasonable man, although hardheaded.
“Mr. Patterson?” he said. “I’m Tom Shanaghy, an
d I need your help.”
“Help?” Patterson was surprised. He had expected a warning or a challenge. “What do you mean, you want my help?”
He swung down from the saddle as did the other man. That second man was lean and hard, not a large man but wiry…and dangerous. Shanaghy sensed that at once. The man was a fighting man, probably hired for the job.
“When Rig couldn’t make it,” Shanaghy said, “I had to take over the job for him. But Rig was no damn fool, and he saw right away there was something else involved than a fight between a trail driver and a town.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Rig figured, and I think the same, that somebody decided to use you.”
Patterson stiffened. “Use me? I’ll be damned if anybody is using me or is going to use me. What kind of talk is that?”
“You’re mad at Hank Drako, and rightly so. They heard you were coming up the trail to burn the town where your brother was killed. Now I never put any stock in that, because you’re too bright a man to punish a lot of innocent people for what one damn fool did. But there are some others who figured you would do it and that the town would fight…which they would, of course.”
“So?”
“So these other folks, and I’m not sure who they all are yet, decided that while you and the town were fighting they would steal the money brought in to pay for your herd and to pay off your hands.”
Patterson stared at Shanaghy, then turned to the cook. “Fred, give us some coffee, will you?” Then he turned back to Shanaghy. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
When they were seated, Patterson looked him over cooly. “I don’t know you.”
“No way you could. Like everybody else out here, I’m a newcomer. The people there in town decided they wanted me to be marshal.”
“What happened to Hank Drako?”
“He’s around, he and those boys of his.” Then he added. “They told me to fire him, and I did.”
“You fired Hank Drako?”
“I did.”
“And he took it?”
“Well, I don’t think he liked it very much.”
The other man was watching Shanaghy, and Tom knew he was being sized up carefully by a fighting man who knew his business. That part was good. Such men were less apt to make mistakes than a cocky youngster or a would-be tough guy trying to show how bad he was.
“Rig knew something was crossways, Mr. Patterson. He went to Kansas City working on the case. Something happened to Rig there and I had to take over.”
Patterson looked at him. “Did Rig feel you were up to the job?”
Shanaghy shrugged. “Well, that’s Rig’s shotgun over there tied to my saddle.”
Somehow or other he had to win this man over to accepting him and his story. He had to get Vince Patterson to stop and think, to help if he would—at least to hold off on whatever he meant to do. And Tom Shanaghy meant to use every artifice he could.
“By the way, Mr. Patterson, I’m carrying a message for you.”
“A message? For me?”
“Yes, sir. A very lovely young lady said to say hello and give her love to her Uncle Vince.”
The rancher flushed. “That sounds like Jan,” his tone was gentler. “Do you know Jan?”
“I’ve talked to her,” Shanaghy said quietly, “I don’t know her as well as I’d like to, but I’m quite sure I never will.”
Patterson and his trail boss were both looking at Shanaghy and he flushed beet-red. “She’s a mighty fine young lady and I’m nothing but an Irish lad who’s been given a marshal’s job nobody else wanted.”
Nobody spoke for a few minutes. The slim man rolled a cigarette and Patterson finally said, “If nobody else wanted the job, why’d you take it?”
“First, because it had to be done. Second, because I thought I could do it. I knew damn well that while I might whip one of your men, or even two or three, I couldn’t whip all of you. I was also relying on something Rig said.”
“And what was that?”
“He said you were a stubborn, hardheaded man who was also a decent man, and that you were reasonable. He intended to do just what I’ve done, ride down the trail to talk to you.”
“And if I don’t listen?”
“I’ll protect my town with whatever means I have. If I win, you lose some good men. If you win, you destroy a fine town that’s just becoming something. And then you have to drive your herd a hundred and fifty miles across grazed-over ground to another market. And while you and the town are fighting, these other people will steal all that money and we will have aided and abetted them in their crime.
“I know you’re an honest man, Mr. Patterson, and no matter how much you hate our town, you don’t want to help a bunch of crooks steal the money that was to be paid to you and your men.”
The herd was streaming into the valley, and Patterson’s trail boss swung into the saddle to help turn them and round them up. Patterson drank his coffee, thinking, and Tom Shanaghy kept his mouth shut.
Finally, Patterson said, “These other people? Who are they?”
“Mr. Patterson,” he said slowly, “I’m working on that and right now I just don’t know. I think I have three of them spotted, but where they are holed up and just who or how many are involved, I don’t know.
“There’s a woman involved…I think.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, sir. And the one thing that may be in our favor is that she thinks we are all a pack of fools.”
“Maybe we are,” Patterson muttered. “Maybe we are.”
“Sir? I’m not going to let them get that money. Not one red cent of it.”
“You said you wanted my help…In what way?”
“This is good grass. The grass around town, and west or east of town, is no way as good as this. I want you to hold off…let your cattle fatten while I get this thing worked out. All I need is a couple of days.
“I think.” Shanaghy added, “they’ve got a schedule figured out. I think they know when you’re coming in, or about when. I think they have it all set to start, quickly, quietly, efficiently, as soon as you come busting into town to take it apart. While you and the town are busy, they’ll get the money and get out…Then they’ll be gone and we’ll be left holding the sack…
“If you hold back, three things happen. Your cattle get fatter, their timing is thrown off, and I get a chance to work on the situation before it develops. Personally, I think if their timing is thrown off, something is going to come unglued.”
Patterson refilled their cups. “How did you get involved in all this?”
“Well, Drako’s son and some others were fixing to hang Josh Lundy. They decided to include me. I persuaded them not to. And, of course, somebody had to take Rig’s place.”
“Where’s Hank Drako now?”
“On his ranch, I expect. Your business with Drako is none of mine. He strikes me as part coyote and part weasel. I think he will kill anything that’s helpless or seems so, but if you move against him, don’t do it in town.”
“You laying down the law?”
“Yes, sir. You lay down the law on your ranch. I do it in town. What you do outside of town is your business and not mine. I wasn’t hired to protect the whole state of Kansas, just this town.”
Vince Patterson finished his coffee and glanced at his cattle. Some were already lying down, most were still grazing. A few of his men were riding toward the fire. It would be sundown in a little while.
“You staying with us tonight?” Patterson asked.
“With your permission, sir.”
Patterson stared at him. “Are you always this respectful?”
Shanaghy grinned. “No, sir. But you’re a gentleman, sir, and this is one argument I can’t win with my fists or a gun.”
Patterson stared for a minute, then chuckled. “All right, damn you, stay the night. I’ll sleep on it.” He held out his hand. “No promises, mind you, but damn it, Shanaghy, I like you.”
Chapter 10
*
SLOWLY THE HANDS drifted up to the fire, some of them to bed down, some to catch a quick supper and return to riding herd on the cattle. As they came in they regarded Shanaghy thoughtfully, noticing the badge first, then the derby.
One redheaded cowpuncher looked across the fire at him and said, “That there hat’s a temptation. Anybody ever shoot it off you?”
Shanaghy pushed the derby back a little and grinned cheerfully. “Not yet. Maybe that’s because they figured I wouldn’t know if they were shooting at the derby or me.”
He dipped into the stew. “Anyway, it seems a waste of lead. I didn’t buy my gun for shooting hats.”
He ate in silence for a moment and then said, “The way I figure it, the marshal of a town should be measured by the trouble he keeps clear of town rather than the gunfights he wins. The first thing I did when I took over,” he spoke in a low, conversational tone, “was to study the arms situation and the shooters.
“First off I found the town has thirty-seven shotguns, and folks who can use them. We have nine Big Fifty Buffalo guns, two Berdan sharpshooting rifles, five Winchesters, and seven Spencer fifty-six-calibers. We have fourteen assorted rifles from the Hawken to the Ballard, and every man in town and most of the women have pistols.
“Next thing, I looked over what kind of people we had to do the shooting. Five of the men in town were sharpshooters during the Civil War, one side or the other. Nine others fought in the war. We’ve got one old mountain-man, and six veterans of Indian battles. There’s only two men in town who haven’t been in battle, but they’re just a frettin’ and a fumin’ to prove themselves as good as the others.
“Long before I ever saw the place, they figured sometime there might be an Indian raid, so they built the town without any blind spots, front or back. The rifles and shotguns are kept loaded lest there be unexpected trouble, and they are stashed around town easy to hand.
Novel 1979 - The Iron Marshall (v5.0) Page 10
