by Mike Resnick
They all began to object. Andrew held up his hand again.
“I will take chance if all of you help me. Wichita and ranch must always been protected. I am Apache learning ways of the white race. I will need lots of help from you so that I do not make fool of self.”
Discussion continued, but finally consensus was reached. They decided they would support Andrew and each other.
“Good,” Andrew said. “We now tribe. Can I be war chief?”
Chita punched him on the shoulder with a smile. “I was hoping for Chung but you’ll do.”
Chung grinned. “Is okay. Tonight we celebrate with Chinese food.”
Luis groaned. “Sí. Chinese beans. Bet they taste just like Hungarian goulash.”
“No, have little more pepper,” Chung said.
Deputy Marshal, Arizona Territory
The next day, Marshal Fast Sam Dawson returned, riding into the ranch yard whistling. After he dismounted, Luis led his horse away and Wichita invited the marshal into the parlor. Andrew, Luke, and Chung also came in, finding themselves seats as Wichita fussed around making the marshal comfortable in the place of honor, her father’s old chair.
“I suppose we can talk about the weather or something until Luis gets here,” she said, sitting.
The marshal nodded. “Fine by me. Don’t reckon it’s rained in the last three months. Don’t reckon it’ll rain for the next three.”
“We live in the desert,” Luke said in agreement.
“Stay for lunch, Marshal,” Chung said. “We having recipe from Alaska. Roasted whale blubber. It will cool you off.”
The marshal looked at Luke. “Beans again, huh?”
Luke grinned. “For the next three months.”
At that moment, Luis came in from having taken care of the marshal’s horse.
“Marshal, your horse is watered and fed,” he said.
“Thank you, Luis. I appreciate it,” replied the marshal, who then turned slightly to look at Andrew.
“Andrew say yes,” Andrew said.
Marshal Dawson reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved a paper, unfolded it, and handed the paper to Andrew.
“This here, Andrew, is a contract that guarantees your terms of service. Look it over and, when you’re happy with it, sign, and we’ll swear you in.”
He looked at the contract and passed it to Chita. “Learning to read but not up to this yet,” Andrew said. “Besides, my word better than any paper.”
Chita returned the contract to Andrew, “Looks okay. Pretty simple. I will explain it to you later. You can sign it after that.”
“No, I will sign it now if marshal explain,” Andrew said.
“Simple, I reckon,” Dawson said. “You get hundred a month and expenses. For that, you get to enforce the law of the United States on people who mostly are shooting at you at the time. I get paid a bit more, but then I’m a bigger target.” He patted his stomach.
Andrew grinned. “Sounds good. Better to hide behind. I sign now.”
Wichita got up and opened a table drawer, taking out a pen and bottle of ink. Andrew took the pen, dipped it in the ink, and casually signed “Andrew MacDuff.”
“He’s been practicing that all morning,” Wichita said proudly.
The marshal smiled and stood up, motioning for Andrew to stand in front of him. He then pinned a badge on Andrew’s shirt.
“Ma’am, would you have a Bible here?”
Wichita handed him Andrew’s family Bible. Andrew said, “My real mother and father’s Bible. Oath sworn on that stick tighter than any paper. Big magic.”
Dawson looked him in the eye. “Reckon it would, Son. Reckon it would.” He then swore in Deputy U.S. Marshal Andrew Seamus MacDuff, former Apache Devil and war chief of the Billings ranch.
“Now,” the marshal said, having waited for everyone to congratulate the new deputy marshal and shake his hand, “let’s talk about a little training. I want to take a few days and make sure Andrew can handle a gun. Give him some general tips. Smooth out some of the roughness so that he can pass okay among other white folk.” The old marshal smiled at Wichita. “I think you might have gotten a bit of a start on that part, ma’am.”
“I’ve heard,” Andrew said, “that the marshal is well-known as a gunfighter. It would be good if all tribe could take the training so that they would be safe when deputy marshal away.”
The marshal looked around. “This the whole tribe?”
Andrew nodded. “Cows and horses do not count. They lousy with guns.”
“Reckon that might be a good idea,” the marshal said in agreement. “In the case of Death Bringer, I reckon he might take Andrew’s killing of his father a mite personal.”
“All of the Chi-e-a-hen take it personally,” Andrew said. “But was not me. It Shoz-Dijiji who killed him.” He grinned. “I think that not big difference to them.”
“To kill Shoz-Dijiji and a white man with one bullet, that would appeal to them,” the marshal said. “That’s why you need a little training. We want to keep both of you alive.”
A Little Training
The marshal, having allowed as how he had a few days to spare, had a bunk fixed for him and ate supper at the table with the others. Tonight Chung—in honor of the guest—prepared Delmonico steaks, baked potatoes, and a Greek salad, all served with a fine red wine from Spain at the suggestion of Luis. The steaks were as tender as twice-baked beans, but the wine had a strong aftertaste of weak coffee.
The marshal eyed the sacks of beans leaning against the wall. “You folks eat this good all of the time, do you?”
Luke looked up from his plate of beans. “Not all the time. We got company. More beans than usual.”
The marshal sighed and waved away Chung’s offer of seconds.
“Andrew’s and our training takes priority,” Wichita said. “Marshal, we’ll work our chores around your training schedule.”
“I can help with them chores some. Done more than a little ranching in my time. After what chores need doing in the morning, we’ll get started,” he answered.
The next morning, in the bright sunlight but before it got really hot, they gathered out at the fence line. No cows were in sight. The marshal had borrowed a few old empty glass bottles from Chung—who saved such for no good reason—and placed a couple bottles on the top of fence posts.
They backed off about twenty feet. “Okay, son, let me see your wheelgun, there.”
Andrew pulled his six-shooter from its holster and handed it over.
The marshal examined it, then emptied the cartridges from it, handing them to Andrew, who put them in his pocket.
“Mighty nice revolver. Colt 1878 Frontier in .45 caliber, double-action. Factory engraving but custom-carved walnut grips. Looks almost new. Not cheap. How’d an Indian get hold of something this modern?”
“Store,” Andrew said.
“Which store?” Luke asked, perplexed that a savage could walk in and buy weapons.
“Big store. All over place. Apache shop there plenty.”
Luke started to ask another question, but the marshal held up his hand. “Best we not go there, Luke. I’m familiar with that kind of shopping. Did a mite bit of it myself back in the war.”
He handed the empty gun back to Andrew. “Put it in your holster there.” And then the marshal took out his right-side Colt, emptied it, and holstered it again. “I prefer the older single-action, but it’s just because I’ve used that for decades and it fits me like an old glove. The rest of you, empty your guns also.”
The marshal backed up about ten feet. “Now, here’s a little close for gunfighting, but let’s see how fast you are. Luke, you give the word now.”
Andrew readied himself, hand hovering over the grip of his gun.
Luke yelled, “Draw!”
In a blur, Andrew’s revolver came up and clicked twice before the marshal’s clicked once. Fast Sam dropped his hand to his side, looking a little astonished.
“Reckon that’s a good
lesson for the both of us,” he said. “There’s always the chance of someone out there faster than you are. Gunfighting should be the last resort of a lawman. Outsmart the bastards is your best course.”
He then tried the others in turn. The old Chinese cook, Chung, was surprisingly fast, showed he had gotten some experience somewhere, but nothing compared to Fast Sam. Luke, Luis, and Wichita were nowhere close, either, but had serviceable draws.
“Can’t teach nothing to Andrew about drawing. He’s a natural. But I’ll work some with the rest of you. Show you a few tricks that will speed up getting your gun into play.” The marshal smiled. “Now, Andrew, load up your gun, and we gonna draw on them two hombres up there on the fence posts. Speed’s nice, but accuracy saves yore life.”
The marshal and Andrew stood side by side. “Luis,” the marshal said.
Luis waited a moment, then, “Draw!”
Two shots rang out, Andrew’s a split second before Fast Sam’s. Both bottles flew from the posts, both shattered.
“Hellfire, son, you got both speed and accuracy,” the marshal said as they put away their Colts. “Nothing much I can learn you about that. But reckon I can teach you about when to not shoot and how our laws work.” He gave Andrew a quick pat on the back. “Now you go off and do a chore or two, and I’ll work for a while with the rest of yore tribe here.”
Andrew went over to the barn, grabbed a shovel, and started cleaning out the corral, pushing the horses aside as needed. This was sure one ranch job he’d not miss. Some of the rest, like riding the range checking the cattle, evenings sitting on the ranch-house porch talking with Chita, and interaction with his other friends here—yes, he would miss that. A lot.
Shots rang out from time to time, and he could occasionally hear the marshal’s voice rise in momentary frustration as one or the other of his friends made a boneheaded, or at least inexperienced, mistake interpreting the lawman’s instructions. He grinned and kept adding to the pile just over the corral’s back fence. Chung had told him he wanted some to fertilize a small garden if they ever got a little rain again.
They fell into a routine. Mornings were for the physical stuff. How to subdue a prisoner and tie his hands (the marshal showed Andrew how to carry short pieces of small diameter rope for that purpose). They practiced the best way to approach a cabin or other building when you were not sure who was there and when you were. What to look for when checking the brand on horses or cattle, and much more about a lawman’s routine duties.
Afternoons and evenings, they sat around the bunkhouse table or on the ranch-house porch and discussed laws and the other things Andrew needed to know. This latter included how to interact with people, table manners, and all sorts of, to Andrew, arcane knowledge, the lore of the white-eyes. He found it, to his surprise, fascinating. And having Chita telling and showing him a lot of it made the ordeal a good deal less onerous. Being schooled in how to read was fun also, and he promised himself he would keep practicing that.
By the third day of beans for breakfast, lunch, and supper, the marshal counted out some money from his “eating expenses.” He gave it to Luke along with a shopping list for the general store in Sunrise. Luke rode out in the wagon, and, after he returned, they ate well for the rest of the training period. Chung was in heaven—he really did know how to cook, and now he had rows of cans on the shelves, a selection of spices, and other good stuff, including some fresh beef, as the marshal had bought a cow from Wichita for that purpose. By general consensus, beans were not served as a side dish.
The training took ten days. Everyone worked hard. But at last the marshal expressed his satisfaction that Andrew was ready to go out with him, that the others could protect themselves and the ranch, and serve as backup to Andrew when he would be on his own.
“Right now,” the marshal said, “counting Andrew here, I have three deputy marshals to help me cover all of the Arizona Territory and the western part of New Mexico Territory. After we take care of the Death Bringer problem, Andrew, you will be policing most of southern Arizona. A place you know well. You can operate out of here.”
Andrew nodded. The others smiled at that news.
“Reckon it’s time we got to work, then. Andrew, we ride out at first light.” The marshal removed his wallet and counted out a hundred dollars. “Your first month’s pay. I’ll do the paperwork later.”
Andrew took the money, looked at it, and passed it all to Wichita.
The marshal shook his head, and Wichita was already handing half of it back to him. The marshal smiled. “That’s about right. You need to have some money on you, son, to buy food, lodging, and the like. I’ll show you how to do an expense account as we go along.”
The Marshal Business
The next morning, early, Marshal Dawson and Andrew rode away from the ranch, their bedrolls tied behind their saddles.
“Where we going, boss?” Andrew asked.
The Marshal grinned as their horses plodded along the dusty road. “Now you’re sounding more like a deputy marshal, but call me Sam or even Fast Sam. Does me good to foster that legend, gets the bad yeggs thinking of surrender instead of gunsmoke. May I call you Andy?”
Andrew looked at Sam. “No. Name is Andrew.” The marshal shrugged good-naturedly.
Andrew relented. “Yes, you can call me Andy. But only when we alone.”
They both laughed. “Now,” said Fast Sam Dawson, “I’ve got a few chores that will give you some practical law-enforcement experience. And, as we ride, I’m gonna talk some more to you about how to be a U.S. marshal and what it means.”
“That good . . . ah, I mean, that is good,” Andrew said. This way of talking took some extra effort. “Do you really know Great White Father?”
The marshal laughed again. “I’ve seen him only once. It was in Kansas City. He had come there on political business and called my boss and me in to a private meeting. Both of them made it clear I had been summoned because of the seriousness of Death Bringer’s threat and that it was up to me to find and stop him. The army did not have the first idea in this kinda situation. President seemed nice enough. Has a lot of problems in a lot of places, though.”
“And Great White Father suggested you find an Indian to help you?”
“No, Andy. I done thought of that myself out of pure desperation.”
“You’ll not be sorry,” Andrew said.
“I know, Andy. Marshals learn to see men as good or bad. You’re good.”
“Then I get raise?” Andrew asked, grinning.
“Don’t push it, son. I already blew a good part of my expense budget on buying food to replace them beans.”
“For which everyone at the Billings ranch is eternally grateful, Sam.”
The next day, they stopped at a town on the new railroad, where the marshal, with Andrew in tow, visited the telegraph operator’s small nook in the train station. “This here,” the marshal said, “is Willy Swartz. Willy, my new deputy, Andrew MacDuff.”
Willy shook hands with Andrew. “You the Apache lawman, huh? Sure don’t look like no Scot.” He grinned good-naturedly.
Andrew returned the grin. “Scotch-Irish actually, by way of the Be-don-ko-he.”
“Here’s one of my big secrets, Andrew,” the marshal said. “I’m the only U.S. Marshal right now in all of the Arizona Territory. I got just three deputies to cover this whole dang area, and one of them is plumb worthless so far.”
Andrew’s face went Apache-impassive. Sam patted him on the shoulder. “No, not you.”
“He’s talking about Billy Windom,” Willy said. “That boy couldn’t find his way outside if all the doors and windows were wide open. Dumber than a cow in the middle of the road.”
“So here’s the thing, Andrew,” the marshal continued. “I’ve made friends with all the telegraphers up and down the railroad. People ignore these men, but they see and hear everything, and they got the means of communicating all over the territory. Gotta adapt modern technology to get this here nigh-impossib
le job done.”
Willy tapped out something on the key, and the marble-based telegraph sounder quickly replied at length. Willy wrote down the message and handed it to the marshal.
Sam scanned it. “Hmmm. When’s the next northbound train, Willy?”
Willy cupped his ear and listened out the open window. They heard a not-so-distant steam train whistle. “I’d say ’bout a minute or so, Marshal.”
Sam passed a bit of money to Willy. “Thanks, Willy. C’mon, Andrew. Time for your first train ride. Go get the horses and we’ll get them loaded on the stock car.”
Andrew intently watched the scenery flash by. Sam, sitting next to him, was amused. “How you like your first train ride, Andy?”
Face blank, Andrew turned and looked at the marshal. “Him like iron horse. Run fast as wind.”
The marshal let out his breath. “Son, sometimes I’m just not sure how to take you.”
Andrew suddenly grinned. “Good trait for a lawman, huh?”
The marshal laughed. “Reckon so, Andy. You scare me how quick you’re learning stuff sometimes.”
“Like how to use the telegraph network for information and trains as fast transport to reach problems, thereby magnifying our efforts?”
The marshal grunted, pleased. “Yep. Now, here’s another valuable lesson.” He settled in the seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Sleep whenever you can. Be fresh and ready for emergencies.”
On his own, Andrew, his badge in his pocket, pushed aside the swinging doors of a saloon. It was mid-afternoon and the place was not very crowded. He walked across the sawdust floor and passed a couple of mean-looking cowpokes leaning on the bar and flipping a coin to see who would buy the next round. He bellied up to the bar beyond them.
The bartender, wiping his hands on a dirty towel, wandered over to see what he wanted. Andrew missed the barkeep’s arrival at first, staring open-mouthed at the painting of a mostly naked lady hung behind the bar.
