Thorn the Bounty Hunter in The Amber Bones

by Brom Kearne

2

  Thorn shook the dust from his clothes as he mounted the three wooden steps to Marshal Wolcott’s office. He could hear raised voices from inside. No, check that, he thought to himself. It was one raised voice and he had no trouble recognizing it as belonging to Marshal James Wolcott himself. Most of the time Marshal Wolcott barely raised his voice above a gravelly growl, although lately Thorn had come upon him in his office during some awful tirades. Bradenfield had been making some clumsy attempts at exercising their authority over the Western Frontier and nothing got under Marshal Wolcott’s skin like lawyers from back east trying to tell him and his town how to live. Just this past year Marshal Wolcott had survived a contentious reelection and it seemed that Bradenfield was none too happy about it. They made their displeasure known by sending at least one envoy a week to make sure Marshal Wolcott was enforcing the many frivolous laws they kept passing. He usually responded by telling them exactly where to go.

  Thorn slipped inside and found Marshal Wolcott inches from the face of a man Thorn didn’t recognize. Judging from his expensive suit and pallid but polished demeanor, he was a lawyer, and the latest envoy from Bradenfield.

  “Out here everyone drives off-road because we don’t have roads,” Marshal Wolcott yelled in the man’s face.

  “I drove here on a road,” the lawyer answered in a smug but even tone.

  “If we want to get anywhere we have to deal with rocks and washouts and . . .”

  “If you require more funds for the upkeep of your roads then you can file a . . .”

  “The only roads around here are the ones the trade caravans use. What in the hell would we do with your funds?”

  “And under Article H of the Bradenfield charter we will allocate a work crew to clear any rocks or debris from the roads.”

  “Nothing but a bunch of dadgum busybodies!” Marshal Wolcott exploded.

  Thorn hung his wide-brimmed hat on the rack by the door and ran his fingers through his deep brown hair. He leaned against the door frame and took a red delicious out of his pocket. He snapped into it while he enjoyed the show. Marshal Wolcott’s face looked to be about as red as that apple behind his well-trimmed steel-grey whiskers. The lawyer was holding his hat in front of his chest like a shield. Thorn had to give him credit. He was holding his ground against a ferocious onslaught from the town marshal that would have withered most men.

  Marshal Wolcott was ranting, spittle flying from his lips and using some of the most colorful and obscene curse words that Thorn had ever heard. The lawyer closed his eyes and said, as he attempted to be heard over him, “Marshal. Marshal. Marshal.”

  “Marshal,” the lawyer continued in an even tone when Wolcott paused to take a breath, “you are an officer of the law. The Western Frontier is a part of the Bradenfield Province and you are required to enforce our laws.”

  “A law that restricts the size of our buggy tires? Absolutely ridiculous. I refuse.”

  The lawyer sputtered. “You . . . you can’t refuse!”

  “You jackanapes release a maniac like Arnold Keech and then come here to lecture me on tire size. You don’t live out here in the wilderness. If people obeyed that ridiculous law they’d get stuck any time they tried to drive somewhere.”

  “We have a new division of civil workers who would be happy to help them recover their vehicles in the event of . . .”

  “And just what in the hell are they supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Would you please stop shouting? It is impossible to have a rational discourse when you continue to act irrationally.”

  “I—act irrationally?” Marshal Wolcott looked like he was about to explode again. The lawyer raised his hat near to his neck level, as though he were going to cower behind it. Thorn even braced for what he expected was coming.

  Instead Marshal Wolcott threw his hands up and paced back and forth. He looked angry enough to hit someone.

  “Will you please calm down?” the lawyer asked. His face had gone a little paler as his resolve left him. “The laws that we pass are for the good of the citizenry. If we didn’t regulate tire size people could cause great harm to our roads, and it is for the benefit of everyone that those roads function properly.”

  “The good of the citizenry?” Marshal Wolcott growled. “It would be good for the citizenry if they didn’t have to live in fear of the repeat offenders you keep releasing like Arnold Keech. Now get out of my office.”

  “I’m afraid that I can’t do that until we discuss the matter of your fine for refusing to comply with your legal obligations.”

  Marshal Wolcott’s face turned even deeper red. “You want that fine? You tell your bosses to come and take it from me. And good luck to you. I’m only going to tell you one more time. Get out.”

  The lawyer shrunk from Marshal Wolcott’s angry stare. He glanced over his shoulder at Thorn, then looked back into the grey eyes that had successfully stared him down. “This is not the last you’ve heard of this, Marshal,” he said before placing his hat on his head and storming out of the building.

  Marshal Wolcott followed him to the door and slammed it shut after him.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Marshal Wolcott growled as he stormed back to his desk. “It’s past time that we petitioned to become our own province. Bounty notices by the door.”

  Thorn finished the apple and tossed the core in the wastebasket. Of course he knew where the bounty notices were; he’d been coming in here long enough. “How small are they trying to make the tires?”

  “No larger than twelve inches.”

  Thorn smiled. “You should have capitulated and offered to write him up as your first offender. Those tires he had were definitely bigger than twelve inches.”

  Marshal Wolcott let out a long sigh as the angry blood began slowly draining from his face and he returned to a more normal color. “Knowing them they probably gave themselves immunity.”

  Thorn glanced over the bounty notices. His eyes were so dark brown they appeared nearly black under the shadow of his brow. They darted over the notices quickly because he knew he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for here.

  “Tires!” Marshal Wolcott exclaimed. “What in the name of everything wrong are they going to think of next?”

  He sat heavily behind his commanding desk of polished cherry wood. A closed door led to the holding cells behind him and a large portrait of his grandfather dominated the right wall. Marshal Wolcott’s grandfather looked just like him, from the steel-grey whiskers to the wise old steel-grey eyes. The only difference was age. The man in the portrait was older and had a haunted look in his eyes. Thorn had never asked about him, and Marshal Wolcott had never offered any information.

  “I see Mrs. Asher can’t find her husband again,” Thorn said as he hooked a chair with the instep of his boot to sit down in.

  Marshal Wolcott snorted. “It’d be an easy couple of dollars if you dragged his butt back from Nate’s. She comes in here every single day when he takes off to the pub, posting a bounty for his return.”

  “Hopefully I’m never that hard up,” Thorn said sardonically. “Did I hear you say that Arnold Keech was just released? I didn’t see him up there.”

  Marshal Wolcott leaned forward and planted his face in his palms. He didn’t say anything for a little while and Thorn thought he might not answer at all. Finally he leaned back and said, “That’s because I didn’t put him up there.” He stroked his whiskers as he did when he was agitated. “I don’t put up bounties for people like him because they’re special cases. I can’t have any old bounty hunter getting himself killed while trying to make a name for himself against someone like Arnold Keech. You know that, Thorn.”

  Thorn nodded. “That I do.”

  Marshal Wolcott flipped open a file on his desk. Thorn glanced over and saw that it was Arnold Keech’s. Thorn grinned because that meant that Marshal Wolcott had been ready and expecting his visit.

  “Arnold Keech was just released into th
e custody of a parole officer two days ago.”

  “That’s plenty of time for him to get up to his neck in trouble. What’s the bounty up to?”

  Marshal Wolcott chortled. His grey eyes lit up when he smiled, which wasn’t very often. “Two hundred dollars as of this morning. Just got it over the wire about fifteen minutes before . . . he . . . showed up.” A dark cloud passed over Marshal Wolcott’s face and his smile vanished. “First thing Keech did as a free man was rob a bank.”

  “He robbed a bank?” Thorn interrupted. “That doesn’t sound like him. Money doesn’t mean much to someone who feels he can take whatever he wants.”

  “Once they left Werton his parole officer took him to the bank in northern Bradenfield to get him some money for clothes so he could start his new job.” Marshal Wolcott snorted as he scanned the page. “They were going to put him on the team that recovers people’s broken-down buggies. Isn’t that a laugh? The bank owner reported his motorcycle missing. Seems he’s a collector and had this one chained to the side of the bank. Keech took all the money out of the safe, stuffed his parole officer into it, then ripped it out of the wall with the motorcycle. Took down the whole wall.”

  “That sounds like one hell of a motorcycle.”

  “They don’t list any specs for it, but I imagine it’s the kind that you’ll know it when you see it. People were reporting large quantities of cash between northern Bradenfield and Crooked Crag. Those that reported it, anyway. Looked like Keech just threw the money to the wind. They found the safe by the side of the road. That officer was shaken, but he’ll be ok. And of course that trail of money accompanies a trail of wanton destruction and vandalism.”

  “That does seem to follow him wherever he goes, doesn’t it?”

  “The report as of this morning has him holed up in the saloon there at Crooked Crag, drinking and fighting. The pale greens didn’t want to pursue him west of the Old Foss and Crooked Crag’s volunteer police were no match for him.”

  “Sounds like he’s just out for a good time,” Thorn said nonchalantly.

  All of the humor left Marshal Wolcott’s face in an instant. He leaned forward and pointed a finger squarely at Thorn. “That good time is at the expense of other people who just want to live their lives without being bothered. You think that banker is having a good time? Or any of those people who kept money at that bank? Crooked Crag is potato and hops country. I don’t need to tell you how important those crops are to our way of life out here in the Western Frontier. What do you think is going to happen to the price of potatoes and beer if he tore up their farmland? Everyone will be feeling the hurt, including you. Now I know you and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, what with my being a lawman and your being a bit of a rebel yourself, but one thing you must acknowledge is that order comes with a price. You cannot allow one person like Arnold Keech to go off at the expense of everyone else.”

  Thorn shrugged. “I collect people and you pay me for it. I think we see eye-to-eye just fine. But I will say that you’re more conscientious than most. You ever start acting like that lawyer that was in here earlier and we’re going to have some problems.”

  Marshal Wolcott nodded and rose with Thorn, extending his hand. “There’s a fine line between order and insanity. I ever start acting like that lawyer that was in here earlier and you have my permission to put me out to pasture. But you be careful out there, Thorn. Arnold Keech is one dangerous customer.”

  Thorn shook his hand. Both men had very firm grips.

  “You don’t have to remind me, lawman,” Thorn said as he planted his hat on his head. “It’s my jaw that’s going to get busted up. You just have that bounty ready for me when I get back. That and a nice comfy cell for your returning ward.”