by Chuck Tyrell
Those known as cowboys have long been considered a frivolous element in Ponderosa and of late they kept their rambunctiousness to the other side of the creek. Recently, a new marshal presented himself to our town, taking the badge of authority he said by virtue of a calling by the town council, though no such calling can be determined by scrutinizing the minutes of town council meetings. This seemingly self-appointed law, in the form of Matthew Stryker and his so-called deputy Thomas B. Hall, yesterday shot down one Arthur McGurty who died on the spot of the gunshot wound he received.
When the new marshal took his office, in the strictest sense of the word, he published a set of rules to which all men except the lawmen themselves were expected to adhere. Where others in Ponderosa are expected to go unarmed, the so-called law walk about with abbreviated cannons on their hips and double-barreled engines of destruction in their hands.
Early yesterday Deputy Daniel Brady, the only one of the lawmen to have come by his badge in the recognized fashion, stood by the holding corrals by the side of Corduroy Road collecting the sidearms of men who were coming into Ponderosa. His presence caused some disaffection among the cowboys but they all left their weapons with Deputy Brady and the morning proceeded peacefully.
Soon thereafter calamity struck, which is best told in the words of W.R. Duncan who was an eyewitness from beginning to end. Mr. Duncan says: I was near the holding pens just south of the GW&SF tracks just after noon when I saw a group of men on horses crossing Bog Creek and riding up Corduroy Road. I recognized the man leading the procession as A.J. McGurty who rides for the Cooley Ranch during roundup season. Four men followed McGurty and I was able to make them out. They were Kid Carl, Old Man Jenkins, Whistling Willy, and a fellow they call Quaid. The men on horseback rode up to Deputy Dan Brady and formed a semi-circle around him so his back was to the corral. I could not hear what they were saying but the deputy looked concerned. McGurty put his hand on the butt of his six-shooter in a threatening manner and I saw Marshal Matthew Stryker step out from behind a building on Oak Street with a Winchester in his hands. When McGurty started to pull his six-shooter from its holster, the Marshal shouted at him and when McGurty did not desist from pulling out his weapon, the Marshal shot him through the chest. Then Tom Hall fired his shotgun and the deputy jumped behind a water barrel. A few shots were fired but no one else was killed; just McGurty.
As the thunder of gunfire ripped through our peaceful community, concerned citizens dashed from their houses and places of work. They gathered at the spot of the shooting and observed Marshal Stryker standing over the dead body of Arthur McGurty. The marshal claimed the dead man would have killed Deputy Brady if he had not been shot, but on one knows the reality of the situation. In fact, it may be that the rules posted by Marshal Stryker are the true culprit in this murderous shooting. How long must our peaceful town kneel to a rule by force of arms?
Dan didn’t read fast, but he read anything he could get his hands on. He liked the Examiner because he just about got everything in the paper read by the time a new edition came out. He’d finished the breakfast Jimmie Clark made for him and sipped at a third cup of coffee as he finished the Examiner’s front page article. It told what happened, but somehow Matt Stryker looked in the wrong. Dan wondered if Prudence Comstock or whoever wrote the article had ever faced a drawn gun or been shot at, for that matter. The tone of the article didn’t sit well with Dan.
“More coffee, Dan,?” Becky Clark held a big coffee pot in her capable right hand.
“Nah. Thanks anyway, Beck. I’d better mosey on back to the office.” Dan pushed his chair back and rescued his battered hat from the rack in the corner. “You tell Jimmie the grub was first rate,” Dan said.
Becky smiled and waved a hand. “See ya tomorrow,” she said.
Dan tucked the paper under his arm and by habit touched the butt of the old Dragoon Colt he always wore. The old six-gun weighed nearly five pounds but Dan had never used anything else, not that he’d been in any gunfights or such. He stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked up and down Main Street. Maybe Prudence Comstock would still be passing out papers. He couldn’t see her, so instead of walking directly back to the marshal’s office where Main turned into Oak Street and intersected with Corduroy Road, he turned toward Gardner’s general store and Doc Huntley’s place just beyond. To the east of Ponderosa rose the White Mountains and to the north the land gradually flattened out into the Great Colorado Plateau. The Ponderosa spur line connected with the main GW&SF tracks just east of Holbrook, crossing the Little Colorado on a recently built trestle bridge. Dan crossed Main at the intersection with Ash Street and turned west on the boardwalk that fronted Doc Huntley’s and the general store. The weather had become nippy and the leaves of the aspen turned bright yellow. Dan drew a deep breath. There was nothing like autumn in the high country. Soon people would start wearing mackinaws and sheepskin coats, and conversations on the boardwalk would be punctuated by puffs of white as breath froze in the clear crisp air. Dan smiled, the Examiner article forgotten for the moment.
Nate Cahill sat very still behind the big walnut desk in the office above Old Glory. “Say that again, Mr. Reeves,” he said.
“Like I told you, Mr. Cahill, Fletcher Comstock’s been collecting cash for about two years now. I know he’s ordered a new Canadian buzz saw and a planer mill and he’s sending twenty thousand dollars to Holbrook on the train to deposit at Wells Fargo so he can pay for the machinery.” The man Cahill knew as Reeves stroked his full moustache.
“And why are you telling me about this?”
“Comstock is sure to put Marshal Stryker and that shotgunner of his on the train. I figure if you all were to invest in that twenty grand, Matt Stryker might end up at the bottom end of a shallow grave. He probably doesn’t remember but a dozen years ago he tracked me down and turned me over to the sheriff. Funny. You can kill a man and no one hardly notices, but cut out a few dollars for yourself out of all those dollars some ranch owner like Willard Rogers over in Oklahoma and they’ll hire some gun-handy with a sharp eye to catch you and then they pen you up. Matt Stryker knew me by another name then, and I looked quite different, I’m told.”
Cahill’s face held no expression. “And how do you know of the shipment?”
“I’ve been the bookkeeper at Comstock Log and Lumber for nearly three years. Honest and trustworthy, I am. But I want Matt Stryker to get his, and I’d like to make a little travelling money.”
“How much?”
“Say . . . a thousand?”
“I’ll give you five hundred now and five hundred when we get the jackpot.”
Reeves chewed his lip. “All right.”
Cahill went to the Briggs safe in the corner of the office, dialed a combination, and opened the door. He pulled out a handful of double eagles and counted off twenty-five, stacking them on the desk. He put the remainder back in the safe. He closed the safe door and twirled the dial. “Five hundred, Reeves. If the twenty thousand is not on that train, I’ll send my brother Wynn after you and you’ll wish you’d stayed in Leavenworth or wherever they had you penned up.”
“It’ll be there. I’ll make sure you get word of when.” Reeves voice sounded confident, but his hand trembled as he accepted the down payment from Nate Cahill.
After Reeves left, Cahill called Wynn and Morales to the office. “Little bird told me Comstock will ship twenty thousand to Wells Fargo in Holbrook on the GW&SF before long. Wynn, you and Morales ride that train to Holbrook and see if you can figure out the best place to stop it and lighten its load by a sack-full of double eagles.”
“Costs a dollar to ride to Holbrook,” Wynn said. “An’ a dollar back.”
Cahill thumbed an eagle from his vest pocket and tossed it to Wynn. “Make sure you watch the lay of the land when you’re on that train. Don’t want you carrying whiskey bottles along. Take Breed with you. His Injun eyes might see something you all miss.”
“All right, big brother. Ride to Holbrook it
is. With Tom Stark marshalling and Commodore Perry wearing the county sheriff’s badge, don’t think we’ll want to be too close to Holbrook when we stop the train.”
“We’ll figure it out. Just you scout the land, and don’t you set Stryker see you get on the train.”
Matt Stryker sat with his feet up on a pulled-out lower desk drawer. “Been mighty quiet,” he said.
“Isn’t that how you like it?” said Tom Hall.
“Too quiet. I can feel the storm coming.”
“You look for storms, sooner or later one’s bound to come. Best be ready all the time, just in case.” Hall gave Stryker one of his slow smiles.
“I –“ Just as Stryker started so peak, a howl came from down Main Street.
“Whoooo-ee. Yippy Ki Yi Yay. Danny Brady’s got my guns, but I’m still king of the mountain. Come on, whomsoever is ready. Just see if you can knock me off.”
“Looks like the storm’s in a whiskey bottle,” Hall said.
Stryker dropped his feet to the floor, picked his rig from a peg on the wall, stood and walked out of the office, buckling the gun belt around his hips as he went.
Dandy Brewer stood spraddle-legged in the middle of Main Street. “Ho. Ho. Ho,” he crowed when Stryker emerged from the marshal’s office. “Ho. Ho. And what have we got here? The marshal arrives with – what did the newspaper say – an abbreviated cannon on his hip to arrest a poor unarmed cowpoke. Ho. Ho.”
Stryker strode down the boardwalk toward the drunken cowboy. “You should have stayed in Bogtown, boy,” he said.
“Ho. Ho. Catch me if you can, mister marshal. I’m King of the Mountain and not ready to go to your jail.”
“I’m warning you, boy. The rules must be obeyed.”
“All us common folks got to toe the line. All you lawmen get to do as you please, eh?”
Stryker stopped almost within arm’s reach of Dandy. “Come on with me, boy. You can sleep it off on one of our cots.”
Dandy turned his back on Stryker and shouted. “Hey everybody. The big gun-slinging marshal of this burg wants to slap me in jail. Me, I ain’t done nothing but yell a little.” Suddenly the cowboy didn’t seem drunk. His eyes were clear and his steps steady.
“Dandy. I’m warning you. Come along.”
“Or what? Resisting an officer?”
“That’s as good a charge as any.”
Dandy danced away. “Don’t think I’m as easy to catch as the ordinary drunk, mister marshal. Why don’t you try?”
Stryker took a long, quick stride toward Dandy Brewer, drawing his Colt as he moved. Before the cowboy could react, Stryker buffaloed him above the ear with the Peacemaker. Dandy dropped to his knees and buried his head in his arms. Stryker clipped a handcuff over one wrist. “Come along,” he said, heaving Dandy to his feet. Across the street, Tom Hall released the hammers of his shotgun.
“Marshal Stryker, was there any reason to strike that young man with the barrel of your pistol? He was just funning.” Prudence Comstock stood on the boardwalk in front of the Examiner office, her arms akimbo.
“Maybe he’ll learn not to fun with the law, Miss Comstock. His head’s hard. His feelings are hurt more than his head.” Stryker tugged on the handcuffs. “Come along,” he said. He led Dandy back up the street to the marshal’s office and locked him into one of the two cells in the back. “Let you out in the morning,” he said.
Dandy moaned. “You nearly broke my head.”
“I’ve buffaloed enough rannies to know how hard to swing,” Stryker said. “Now sleep it off. Whatever got your tail in a knot, it ain’t worth the trouble you’ll get.”
“He didn’t have to do that.” Prudence Comstock grumbled to herself as the crowd melted away once the marshal hauled his prey inside.
“Lawmen are likely to see things by their own lights,” said a firm baritone voice next to her.
Prudence turned to find Breed leaning against the wall of the Examiner office. “I believe people will abide by rules without force,” she said.
“Some will. Some won’t. I don’t like to see harm come to women or kids myself, but there’s more than a few white man’s rules that I could do just as well without.”
“Is that why you work for Nate Cahill?”
“Some, I guess. Met Nate in the Nations. I had to kill a man back there and Nate liked the way I did it. Said he’d heard of a nice town in the high country of Arizona, wanted to know if I’d ride with him. I had no other plans, so I rode along, did kinda what Nate told me to, but I take no guff from his brother Wynn. That man’s got a crazy streak in him about as wide as the Little Colorado.”
“My. I didn’t realize you were so articulate. I see Nate do things that are most likely against territorial law and maybe against federal. Do be careful, Mr. . . .”
“Folks call me Breed.”
“I’d rather know your name.”
“My mother’s people called me Stone. I left them before I could go on a spirit quest to earn my adult name. My father named me Seth, but that name don’t fit well with my face.”
“And your family name?”
“My you’re a curious one.”
“Newspaper people ask questions.”
Breed laughed. “The family name’s no better than the given one – Graffunder. Can you see me answering to that? What’s your name? Seth Graffunder.” Breed laughed again.
“I think Seth’s a fine name, and so is Graffunder. I’ll call you Seth, if you don’t mind.”
Breed shrugged. He had a train to catch.
Chapter Six
Jake Cahill faced his three men across the walnut desk in his office. “How was the holiday to Holbrook?” The corners of his mouth turned down as if he scorned his own men.
Wynn Cahill hitched his butt around in the chair like he was not keen on reporting to his brother. “Holiday? The only Holliday I know of is that crazy drunk gun-sharp gambler down to Tombstone. What do you mean, holiday?”
“Every day’s a holiday to you, Wynn. I wouldn’t expect you to know one if it bit your ass. Now tell me what you saw.”
Wynn’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward in his chair. “That spur line misses every town between here and Holbrook,” he said. “No stops going down the mountain, none at Pinetop or Lakeside, none at Show Low or Taylor, a siding and water tower out on the west side of Snowflake where the train hardly slowed down, then nothing for twenty miles into Holbrook. We hit that train, and no one will know until it’s past due in Holbrook, or, if you let it run on through, until it gets there.”
“But do we hit it in the mountains or on the flat?”
“Lots of cover between here and the cedar flats north of Show Low. Mostly open country from there on.”
“Wherebouts in the mountains, then?”
“There’s a cut through a cinder cone east of Porter Mountain. It’d be easy to build a blockade there. Take them a while to undo the blockade after we left, too.”
Cahill scratched at his chin. What Wynn suggested seemed logical, but it was also the first thing a man would think of when looking to rob the GW&SF. He looked at Morales, then the Breed. Morales was not the thinking type. Maybe Breed was. “Any ideas, Breed?”
“A couple.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s a deep arroyo about seven miles from that siding west of Snowflake. It could hide a whole herd of horses and men, and probably runs all the way to Silver Creek Canyon south of Woodruff.”
“You know a lot about the country for someone that just got here.”
“I listen. I ask. It’s good to know the lay of the land. A man of my color may have to take to the land without much warning.”
“How do we stop the train?”
“Pull a rail and leave it lying across the tracks just this side of the arroyo.”
“Hmmmmm. I’ll think about it. Go have yourselves a drink.”
“Boss?”
“Yeah?”
Breed wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand. “Ain�
��t none of my concern, boss, but wouldn’t it be better for you to let Comstock get his new machines for the sawmill?”
“Why?”
“Sawyers and loggers spend a bunch of money at Old Glory. If Comstock goes broke, lots of people will find they don’t have drinking money anymore.”
“Fletcher Comstock sicced Matt Stryker on me, Breed. I gave him a lesson and sent him away, but now Stryker’s back and it was Comstock who asked him to come and tame this town in the first place. For that, Comstock owes me, and he’ll pay big time with the cash money that’ll be on that train. Understand?”
“Like I said, boss, none of my business. Forget I asked.”
“Okay, okay. Get off downstairs and have a drink, on the house.”
Cahill watched the men leave. What the Breed said about breaking Comstock made sense, but Comstock had to pay for all the trouble Stryker caused and twenty grand would go a long way toward settling the debt. He smiled. Then there was Prudence Comstock. She could pay some of the debt, too. Cahill’s smile turned into a smirk.
Fletcher Comstock stuck his head into the marshal’s office. “Good morning, Marshal. Tom. Dan.”
“’Morning, Fletcher,” Stryker replied. The other two nodded their greetings. “What can we do for you?”
“Wonder if I could have a word with you, Matt?”
“Sure thing.” Stryker stood and reached for his gun belt. “Be right there.”
Comstock turned to walk down the boardwalk toward Clark’s Kitchen. Stryker emerged from the marshal’s office and lengthened his stride to catch up with Comstock. A moment later, Tom Hall came out into the sunshine and ambled across the street, his shotgun in the angle of his left arm. He followed Comstock and the marshal but on the opposite side of the street. His eyes flicked to every shadow and nook.
