The Peacemaker’s Vengeance

by Gary D. Svee

  “Thanks, Ma. That was good.”

  His mother smiled at him. “You could have more.”

  “Let’s save it for tomorrow night. I’ll have something to look forward to.”

  Mary McPherson smiled again. “I’ll do the dishes. You finish your homework. You can’t let your grades slip.”

  Mac scraped his chair around the table, so the light from the cabin’s only lantern shone directly on his books. He would do math first and then science and geography. He would save English for last. His English class was reading a book by Herman Melville, a book of the sea, which had not, in Miss Pinkham’s opinion, been given the attention it deserved.

  Books gave Mac wings to fly away from Eagles Nest. He was enthralled with Melville’s description of life on the sea, imagined standing on a rolling deck, a salty wind long spent of dust blowing his face, his eyes seeking the edge of the earth and the white whale. For a moment the dishes his mother was rattling in the basin on the stove became the rattle and groan of a ship en route to destiny. A rapping at the door broke through Mac’s reverie. The sound persisted, and Mary, brow knotted into a question mark, stepped to the door. Mrs. Thompson couldn’t expect her washing so soon. Mary had just picked up the clothing that morning.

  She opened the door just a crack—Sheriff Drinkwalter. What could the sheriff want at this time of night? Her eyes darted back to Mac. Surely Mac had done nothing wrong. Not Mac.

  2

  Mac sat frozen in his chair. The sheriff must know about the five-dollar gold piece. Frank Drinkwalter had come to tell Mac’s mother that her son was a thief, and Mac knew he would die of shame.

  The day of his dishonor had come earlier that spring in the time when it snows one day and melts the next, leaving everything muddy and dirty. He was walking the alley behind the Absaloka Saloon when the half eagle winked at him. He picked it up, rubbing the mud from it until it shone like sin.

  Never before had Mac held a gold coin. It shined so he could see a new dress for his mother reflected there. He couldn’t remember her ever having a new dress. Perhaps there was enough in that coin for a coat for himself. Maybe if he had a new coat, the children at school would stop laughing at him. Maybe God had put the coin there.

  Mac had shaken his head at his blasphemy. God wouldn’t tempt him so.

  Temptation won. The thought of having five dollars was stronger than his conscience. Mac had sneaked down the alley, expecting with each step to be impaled with a shouted accusation. “Thief!” Guilt grew until he staggered under its weight.

  The devil had rushed to his side. He couldn’t return the coin. The first person he saw would claim it for his own and retire to the saloon to celebrate Mac’s gullibility and his own good fortune. Mac’s conscience countered that claim: Not knowing to whom it belonged didn’t make it his own.

  The farther Mac had walked, the heavier the gold piece became. He couldn’t spend it. Storekeepers would read larceny on the boy’s face if he appeared with a five-dollar gold piece. He couldn’t tell his mother about it. She would make him return it; turn it in to Pete Pfeister at the Absaloka.

  But then the dragon in his belly rumbled into the argument, shoving his conscience and the devil aside. The pain wasn’t much, just a twitch, a reminder of harder times. Mac had grown up believing if he didn’t feed the dragon, the creature would gnaw on his gut, spasms of pain marking each bite. Mac could debate with the devil and his conscience, but he couldn’t fight the dragon in his belly. He hid the coin in a hole he dug behind the cabin. If the dragon came again and the pain was beyond his ability to bear it, he would “find” the gold piece and share it with his mother.

  But now the sheriff was standing in the doorway. Now his mother would learn of her son’s thievery. Guilt washed over Mac. Someone must have seen him pick up that coin. They would brand him thief and he would carry that mark for the rest of his life.

  Mac’s eyes squinted shut. His mother had told him once that nobody could take their honesty from them. Now the sheriff had come to take that, too.

  Mary stood guard at the door, barring entrance to the cold and the dust from the clothing she had washed that day. The sheriff’s face was buffed red, the spring wind carving it as craggy as the sandstone cliffs overlooking Eagles Nest. The sheriff was handsome. That thought rattled Mary. She hadn’t thought of men as handsome or plain since her husband left that day so many years ago. Her hands fluttered to her hair, and she jerked them away in embarrassment, clasping them together in front of her, red and rough still from the wash.

  The poverty of her home crowded into Mary’s consciousness. Two mismatched ladder-back chairs graced either side of a tiny table. A curtain separated the two single beds on the far wall, but there were in full view of the visitor. A man shouldn’t be looking at a woman’s bed. The sheriff shouldn’t be in a married woman’s bedroom.

  Resentment swept over her. She resented the sheriff for shaking her composure. She was angry with herself for thinking that the humbleness of her home made her somehow less than her visitor. Her chin went up then, and she looked the sheriff full in the eye.

  “Please come in, Sheriff.”

  “Thank you. I won’t keep you long, I just wanted to ask you a question.”

  Mary nodded.

  The sheriff fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearing his throat before he spoke. “Milo Phillips came to see me the other day. Seems that a herd of antelope has pretty well taken over his hayfields. He was wondering if I’d like to take some.”

  The sheriff scratched his forehead, willing the words to come. “Now, some say that antelope aren’t much to eat, but taken unsuspecting from a hayfield, before they have a chance to run and work up a sweat … Well, I consider antelope taken like that to be fine eating. I was wondering if you—”

  Mac’s fear roared into anger. “No!” The boy stood so fast his chair tipped and fell Crack! to the floor. “No! We don’t need any help. Not from you or anybody else. Ma and me do just fine by ourselves.”

  Mac stomped across the room to stand chin to chest with the sheriff. The force of the boy’s approach so surprised Drinkwalter that he stepped back. Mac followed him.

  “We don’t need charity.”

  “Mac, I didn’t mean—”

  “No!”

  Mary McPherson stepped forward and grasped Mac’s shoulder. “Mac, that’s no way to talk to the sheriff. There’s no need to—”

  “No!”

  “Mac, will you hear me out before you make up—”

  “No!”

  “Mac, that’s enough!” Mary shook the boy’s shoulder.

  Mac shrugged his mother’s hands off his shoulders. He stared at the sheriff, his face white with the heat of his anger, muscles knotted along his chin as he ground his teeth together.

  Frank Drinkwalter shook his head, gathering his senses. “I didn’t mean charity. It’s just that it’s too warm to keep the meat. I was just wondering if maybe you could can it, and we’d split it.”

  He turned toward Mary. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Old Deak had a bunch of canning jars, and I just thought…”

  Mary’s voice followed a long sigh. “We’re not insulted, Sheriff. It would be wonderful to have some canned antelope later this summer. Mac?”

  Mac’s anger crumbled, his face breaking down in bits and pieces. For a moment the sheriff thought the boy might cry.

  “Mac, I’m here to ask for help, not the other way around. I was hoping you might come along with me. Thought you might give me a hand with the hunting and cutting up the meat.”

  The boy’s face stiffened, leaving it as cold as the wind outside. “What’s that worth?”

  “Mac! Stop that! I will not have you insult a kindness. Do you understand me?”

  Mac glared at his mother.

  The sheriff’s voice was soft, speculative. “Let’s put it this way. Two of you and one of me, so you get two-thirds of the meat. But I’m pitching in the jars, the horses, the rifles
, and the ammunition. So you help me butcher the animals.”

  Horses and rifles and hunting? Mac’s face softened and then hardened again.

  “Don’t know how.”

  “Not much to it. If I can do it, anyone can.”

  “We’ll do it together?”

  Drinkwalter nodded. “Fair?”

  “Fair,” Mac said.

  “Saturday?”

  “Can’t go Saturday. I’m going to spade Mrs. Thompson’s garden.”

  “Sunday?”

  “Got church in the morning—but maybe just this once?” Mac turned to his mother.

  “Sunday would be fine,” Mrs. McPherson said. “Just this once.”

  “Good,” the sheriff said. “If we get a decent day this week, maybe we could go out after school so you could fire a few rounds, get accustomed to the rifle.”

  A smile teased the corners of Mac’s mouth. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

  “Tomorrow it is. As long at this infernal wind has eased up. Wind like this would blow a bullet right back at you.”

  Mary winced.

  The sheriff grimaced. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. Don’t know why I said that. You don’t have to worry. I’ve been around firearms all of my life. They’re safe enough if you follow the rules.”

  Mary smiled, but the sheriff could see that the expression was forced.

  “I won’t let anything happen to him. Mac will be just fine.”

  Mary McPherson nodded, and Drinkwalter turned to Mac. “How about you meet me at the office right after school; Something comes up so I can’t be there, I’ll tell Bert. That suit you?”

  Mac nodded. That would suit him just fine.

  Sheriff Drinkwalter fidgeted. A second letter with the same ornate handwriting lay on his desk. Two pages, gauging from the weight and thickness, most likely written on both sides. Not long as letters go, but the sheriff’s life was squeezed on those pages.

  Drinkwalter stood, placing the envelope on the shelf with the other. He couldn’t sit alone with his thoughts any longer. He stepped through his office, catching Deputy Bert Edgar with his feet on his desk, reading a magazine.

  “Going out to make the rounds.”

  “Need any help?” Edgar asked, boots thumping to the floor.

  “You better stay here in case something happens.”

  Edgar nodded, his feet thumping back on the desk, his attention returning to the magazine in his lap.

  The wind had died down, leaving a chill in the air. The sheriff shivered and wondered whether he should go back for his jacket. No, most of the night he’d be in one of Eagles Nest three watering holes. He’d be warm enough.

  The sheriff’s stride lengthened as he walked toward the smithy and livery downtown. Seemed wasteful to pay Ben Stromnes twenty dollars a month to keep the horses. The county could pasture them down by the river for little or nothing. Of course, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Stromnes was one of the county commissioners’ brothers.

  The sheriff stepped through the unlocked side door of the blacksmith shop. Stromnes was too trusting. Some people would feel no compunction about helping themselves to the smithy’s tools and feed.

  Stromnes’s shop was less than snug, wind whistling through the building’s board siding, but the forge was still warm, and the sheriff stood in its heat for a moment to drive the chill from his bones.

  The livery proper was better built than the forge and heated with the warmth of the horses’ bodies. The sheriff took it as a measure of a man that he would be more concerned about those in his care than in himself.

  Drinkwalter reached up to turn up the light from the kerosene lantern hanging from a rafter above. The sheriff didn’t need the light to know where he was. Stromnes shoveled out the livery every evening and morning, but the scent of horses and their leavings permeated every splinter of the rough wood building.

  The bay nickered her welcome from the shadows of a stall. The sheriff ran his hands along the mare’s sleek neck. She nuzzled him, asking for the oats he usually brought her. The sheriff slipped a carrot from his pocket and gave it to the horse.

  He waited a moment before slipping the bit between the mare’s teeth and pulling the bridle over her head. He led the horse from her stall then, draping the harness over her back, telling her that all was well in the world.

  “Nothing special tonight, old girl. Railroad pension came in, so we’ll have to give Tippins a ride, but after the wind this afternoon, most folks will hold close to home. It’ll be a quiet night, and I think we can spare some oats later.”

  Electric lamps wore themselves out attempting to shed light on the Absaloka Saloon. The carved rosewood bar collected shadows as handily as it collected drunks. Overhead, trophy moose and deer and elk and bear and mountain lions stared glassy eyed at glassy-eyed men at the bar.

  The Absaloka was a dark church presided over by high priest Pete Pfeister. Pfeister glanced at the sheriff and grinned. He held up a shot glass he was polishing behind the bar. The sheriff smiled, but shook his head.

  “Not tonight, Pete. Thanks, anyway.”

  The sheriff’s eyes roved up the bar, taking roll. Same bunch. No real troublemakers.

  He turned to Pfeister.

  “Heard the railroad pensions came in.”

  Pfeister nodded. “Tippins’s in the back room watching the poker game. Drummer’s been taking on all comers. Slicked-down black hair, derby hat, and gray suit. He’s been winning a hell of a lot of money.”

  “Check him out?”

  “Didn’t see anything. Thought I caught him going for a card up his sleeve, but he just pulled out a handkerchief.”

  “Hell of a place for a handkerchief.”

  “Suppose he fancies himself a dandy.”

  “Who’s playing?”

  “The regulars, and Jimmy Tillot. That boy’s been spending a lot of time in here.”

  “And money?”

  “And money, too.”

  “Jimmy’s got a boy now, doesn’t he?”

  “And one on the way if I’m any judge.”

  “Think I’ll go back and check it out.”

  “Might as well.”

  Only a shoulder-high wall separated the back “room” of the Absaloka from the front. Drinkwalter stepped past the wing doors and into a pall of smoke. Some of the poker players looked up and nodded as the sheriff approached. Jimmy Tillot was too busy chewing his lip and sneaking peeks at his hole card to notice the sheriff.

  The drummer, his back to the sheriff, said, “Raised you a dollar. You in or out?”

  Jimmy had a pair of sixes showing, the drummer a pair of eights. He rubbed his hand over his forehead, and then across his neck.

  “It’s all I’ve got, the three dollars.…”

  “You need only the one dollar to see the next card.”

  Jimmy stared at the drummer’s hand. Nothing big showed. No possible straight or flush, just the pair of eights, and the drummer didn’t know about Jimmy’s ace in the hole.

  Jimmy picked up a silver dollar and held it clenched in his hand. He pitched the dollar into the pot and jerked back.

  “Pot’s right,” the drummer said. “I declare, I thought you Montana boys would take a little to the cold. I haven’t been in a room this hot since I was in that Grecian bath down in Denver. Pretty ladies, passing out towels to all the gentlemen. Whooee, now that was hot.”

  The drummer winked at Jimmy and reached up his sleeve for his handkerchief.

  Drinkwalter caught the drummer’s hand in a grip that made the drummer wince. “What the hell?”

  The sheriff reached over with his other hand and dealt the top card on the deck to Jimmy—an ace. Jimmy’s eyes widened, and he tried to hide his grin. Then the sheriff took the top card from the deck and added it to the drummer’s hand—a four.

  “Jimmy, this man is so certain he’s going to win that he’s willing to bet his entire holdings against yours.”

  “Now, you just wait one damn minute,” the drummer
growled, struggling to rise.

  The sheriff growled back. “That’s the bet, unless you want me to pull that handkerchief from your sleeve.”

  The drummer sagged in his chair.

  “Clyde, you turn over the drummer’s hand.”

  Clyde Thompson flipped over the cards. “Pair of eights.”

  “Jimmy, show us what you’ve got.”

  “Aces and sixes!” Jimmy whooped. “Boys, the drinks are on me.”

  “No, they aren’t, Jimmy. You go over to the bar and talk to Pete. Rest of you better break out a new deck. I suspect this one is short a card or two. Eight of diamonds and hearts would be my guess.”

  “And drummer, you’re going out on the westbound. Leaves in fifteen minutes. Don’t expect your travels will bring you back to Eagles Nest. Is that a safe bet, drummer?”

  The drummer, wincing from the pressure on his wrist, nodded. “I sure as hell don’t want to see this one-horse burg again. It’s a hell of a thing when an honest citizen is waylaid by a crooked …”

  The drummer winced with the increased pressure on his wrist.

  “Much as I’d like to talk to you,” Drinkwalter said, “you’d best be getting for the depot. Wouldn’t like you to miss the train. Wouldn’t like that at all.”

  Drinkwalter released the drummer’s hand. The card cheat straightened, attempting to regain his composure. “You will hear from my attorneys on this matter.”

  “Best be on your way, drummer. I can hear that train coming.”

  The drummer fled.

  Drinkwalter left the men at the card table and stepped up to the bar. Jimmy Tillot was in a deep conversation with Pete Pfeister. When the sheriff appeared, the young man looked up, his face red and splotchy.

  “I’d best be going home, Sheriff.”

  “Yup, you’d best be going home.”

  As Jimmy disappeared through the front door, Drinkwalter leaned over the bar toward Pfeister. “You sure as hell had his attention. What did you tell him?”

  “Told him there wasn’t anybody in this bar who wouldn’t rather be going home to that pretty wife and that little boy of his than sittin’ here. Told him he was a fool to leave his wife alone, like that. Said he’d go home one of these nights, and she’d be gone.”