by Lyle Brandt
Frowning, Slade asked, “He look all right to you?”
Now that he focused on it, the telegrapher was standing with one arm around the pillar, and his free hand raised to cup his chin. No, he was clutching at his throat, with crimson spilling through his fingers now.
“Jesus!”
Slade ran the final thirty yards or so but missed his chance at catching Fawcett when the man pitched forward, landing facedown in the street. They turned him over, saw the gaping slash across his throat, and knew that he was gone when one last bubble burst there, with a liquid wheezing sound.
“I’ll go and fetch the undertaker,” Naylor said. “He’ll likely want to set us up a running tab.”
14
Stiff from sleeping on the ground and bleary-eyed from rising with the sun, Captain Brody Gallagher reflected that his youth had passed him by and he was not the soldier that he used to be. No great surprise on either count, of course, but facing up to one’s mortality was never pleasant, and the bitter aftertaste of breakfast—fatty bacon and some beans, washed down with lousy campfire coffee—only made it worse.
He was relieved, therefore, to see the smudge of Stateline when it finally showed up on the horizon, Sunday morning, gradually taking shape into the town that Gallagher remembered from his prior excursions there. Most of his business with the man in charge could not be safely carried out by telegraph, their thoughts and schemes reduced to writing anyone might see, and so he’d come to know the strange divided settlement quite well over the past twelve months or so.
Not like it, necessarily. Just know it.
Only one of his companions on this journey had been with him previously. Sergeant Bonner knew enough about Gallagher’s business to be helpful—or, if viewed another way, to make him dangerous. The rest were just along to do some dirty work for money, having proved that they could keep their mouths shut about violations of the law. Later, when he’d retired, Gallagher thought they might continue in his service, do for him what Grady Sullivan and others did for Rafferty. Or, if their presence in his life proved troublesome, well, they could simply disappear.
That was the wonder of America. A vast land filled with promise and with scavengers.
Three hours after spotting Stateline, they were riding into town on Border Boulevard, dusty and weary from the trail but still in some kind of formation. Men and women on the sidewalks stopped to eye the bluecoats passing by, some of them doubtless recognizing Gallagher, although he’d never cared enough to memorize their names or faces. In his way of thinking, they were little more than peasants. Serfs to Rafferty in fact, whether they recognized that fact or not.
It would be bad form, making straight for Rafferty’s saloon. Instead, Gallagher nosed his palomino stallion toward the marshal’s office, followed by his troops. Before he could dismount, a lawman that he’d never seen before emerged onto the sidewalk, thumbs hooked underneath his gunbelt, studying the soldiers with a curious expression on his youthful face.
“I need to see the marshal,” Gallagher informed him.
“He’s to home, sir. Got hisself beat up last night,” the young man said. Up close, his badge read DEPUTY. “I’m Jared Wilkes. Just fillin’ in for him, till he’s back on his feet an’ all.”
“I see. Was his assailant captured?”
“How’s that?”
“Did you catch the man who did it?” Gallagher translated.
“Oh. No, sir. Arlo—that’s Marshal Hickey—says he didn’t get a look at ’em. Reckon they wanted him outta the way before they burnt the moonshine.”
“So, you had a fire as well?” asked Gallagher. It was a labor not to glance at Stateline Storage, down the street.
“Well, just a wagon out in back.” Wilkes cocked a thumb in that direction. “Nothin’ the bucket brigade couldn’t handle.”
“Thank the Lord for that.”
“Amen, sir.”
“Now, if you could tell me where to find the mayor…”
Wilkes peered along the street, eastward, and cracked a smile, pointing. “Right there he goes, into the Sunflower. Can’t miss that bowler hat.”
The Sunflower. Two birds, one stone, thought Rafferty, and he turned his stallion off toward the saloon.
Arlo Hickey’s house was small and pink. Slade guessed it had been red at one time, but the elements had faded it and no one was concerned enough to freshen up its paint. A woman answered Naylor’s knock and peered at them suspiciously through her screen door. Slade placed her age somewhere in the mid-forties, guessing from the furrows bracketing her mouth that she was used to frowning at the world.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “We’re here to see the marshal.”
“Marshal isn’t well,” she answered.
“No, ma’am. We’re aware of that. There’s just a couple questions that we need to ask, about last night.”
“He isn’t well,” she said again, louder, as if suspecting Slade were deaf.
“I understand that, ma’am. But—”
“Missus,” she corrected him. “It’s Missus Hickey.”
“Missus Hickey, we’re investigating the attack against your husband. Now that he’s had some time to rest—”
“He. Isn’t. Well,” she interrupted Slade.
“And every minute wasted now helps those responsible for hurting him escape their rightful punishment.”
She spent another of those minutes glaring at the two of them, then grudgingly unlatched the screen door, giving it a shove in Slade’s direction. “All right, then,” she said. “If you can’t leave an ailing man in peace, come in and ask your questions.”
Arlo Hickey was reclining on a chintzy sofa in the small home’s parlor, by a window with the curtains drawn against daylight. His face was swollen and discolored, with a line of sutures holding his left cheek together.
“Whadda you two want?” he asked, lips barely moving as he spoke.
“We didn’t have a chance to talk last night,” Slade said.
“Nothin’ to say,” Hickey replied.
“We’re looking for the man or men who did this to you and destroyed our evidence,” Slade said.
“Worried about your ’shine? I hear it’s gone.”
“The whiskey and a criminal attack against the law,” Slade said.
“Doc says I’ll be awright, given some time.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But the folks responsible—”
“Already got away with it,” said Hickey.
“And you’re satisfied with that?” asked Naylor.
“Satisfied? Do I look satisfied to you, sonny? What’s done is done, that’s all.”
“And if they’d gone a little further? Made your wife a widow?” Slade asked.
“Well, they didn’t. This time, anyway.”
“But you’re afraid they might, is that it? If you talk?”
“Listen, I didn’t see who done it. Took the first hit from behind, then all the rest of it’s just blurry. I can’t help you none.”
“You sure that’s how you want to play it?” Naylor asked.
“You may’ve missed it, boy,” Hickey replied, “but this ain’t playin’. This shit’s life and death.”
Naylor seemed on the verge of making some reply when Slade cut in, saying, “We’ll let you rest, then. If you change your mind and want to talk…”
“Can’t change what happened,” Hickey said. “Ain’t gonna say I seen things that I didn’t.”
Hickey’s wife said nothing as she showed them out, just latched the screen behind them, using extra force to shut the inner door. Slade scanned the part of Border Boulevard that he could see from where they stood and wondered whether anyone was watching them.
“He knows whoever worked him over,” Naylor said.
“Bet on it,” Slade replied. “They’ve got him scared.”
“And got us stymied, eh? We’re right back where we started.”
“If we let it go at that.”
“And what’s t
he other choice?” Naylor inquired.
“I’m giving that some thought,” Slade said.
Captain Gallagher entered the Sunflower Saloon with his soldiers trailing behind him. Sergeant Bonner led the others toward the bar while Gallagher proceeded toward the office where he knew he’d find Flynn Rafferty with Stateline’s mayor. Arriving at the door marked PRIVATE, he knocked sharply, waited for the summons, then went in.
“Ah, Captain!” Rafferty was on his feet and circling around the desk to greet him, while the mayor—what was his name, again?—stayed seated, derby planted on his lap, and peered at Gallagher with anxious eyes.
Gallagher shook Rafferty’s hand and nodded to the mayor, whose name came back to him just in the nick of time. “Mayor Jain,” he said. “A fellow at the marshal’s office told me that I’d find you here.”
“Well…”
“As I understand it, you’ve endured some difficulty.”
“You could say that,” Jain replied.
“He’s still a little shaken by it all,” said Rafferty. “Captain, please have a seat—and can I tempt you with a whiskey?”
“I could use one,” Gallagher agreed.
Rafferty poured a double Scotch from one of several bottles standing on a sideboard, handed it to Gallagher, then went back to his place behind the spacious desk. Gallagher noted that Mayor Jain had not received a glass.
“I’m not sure what you’ve heard,” said Rafferty, “but we’re relieved to have you here. Lord knows we need the help, with this attack on Marshal Hickey and the fire last night. Add in the death of that poor deputy from Enid who was here last week, and we’ve been sorely tested. Would you say so, Warren?”
“Sorely,” Jain conceded. “Tested.”
Gallagher nodded, wearing an expression that he hoped was sympathetic. “I’m available to offer you whatever aid may be appropriate,” he said. “While recognizing the authority of your civilian government, of course.”
“I have some thoughts on that, myself,” said Rafferty. “Mayor Jain was just expressing his desire to check on Marshal Hickey, weren’t you, Warren?”
Jain blinked at the question, caught off guard, then nodded. “Right. Somebody ought to do that.”
“We won’t keep you, then,” said Rafferty.
The mayor put on his derby, rose and started for the door, then doubled back to pump Gallagher’s hand before departing. “Captain, thanks for everything,” he said, eyes dodging Gallagher’s, and took his leave.
“You’ve got a sharp one there,” said Gallagher, when they were finally alone.
“He has his uses,” Rafferty replied. “You obviously got my wire.”
Gallagher sipped his whiskey. Nodded. “Unexpected visitors, you said.”
“Two marshals, this time,” Rafferty explained.
“You had to know they’d be around, after the last one.”
“Truth be told,” said Rafferty, “I hoped they’d blame it on the redskins. Grady seemed to have it pretty well thought out.”
“It still might fly,” said Gallagher.
Rafferty shook his head, frowning. “Too late for that. They know about the whiskey.”
“Oh?”
“Sullivan saw them snooping at the warehouse, night before last. They’ve connected me to that and stopped one of my wagons headed south, just yesterday. I couldn’t wait for you to get here, or they would’ve had it halfway back to Enid now. That load’s gone up in smoke now, but they won’t quit trying.”
“I suppose they’ve tipped Judge Dennison,” said Gallagher.
“No, we had some luck there,” Rafferty replied, “but it was close. They spoke to our telegrapher first thing, about the last deputy’s wire. He put them off at first, then Grady tried to deal with him before he changed his mind. That went awry, it seems, and he came back to tip them off.”
“You call that luck?”
“The lucky part was that he only came around last night,” said Rafferty. “He met one of the marshals, but we had the fire and all. Grady was able to slip in and take him down in the confusion.”
“Jesus, Flynn! If he already spilled it—”
“It’s been handled,” Flynn assured him. “I need you to get these two out of my hair before they dig up something else to hang us with.”
Gallagher drained his whiskey glass. “I’ll see what I can do. What’s going on with Berringer?”
“No problem there,” said Rafferty. “Another incident or two and he’s convinced that he can get approval for a clearance of the reservation’s eastern half. We’ll have first bid, at bargain rates.”
“Well, then,” Gallagher said, “I guess there’s nothing left for me to do but make your marshals disappear.”
Grady Sullivan was waiting when the captain left Rafferty’s office. Sitting at a table by himself, he waited for the bluecoats to clear out before he rose and made his way back to the big man’s lair and knocked.
“Enter!”
Sullivan closed the door securely before speaking. “Did you get it sorted out?”
“Gallagher’s motivated,” Rafferty replied. “He has my every confidence.”
“Still say I coulda handled it myself.”
“No pouting, Grady. You’ve done everything I asked of you and cleaned up that mistake with Fawcett, too.”
“Not my mistake,” said Sullivan.
“Let’s not split hairs. You chose the men to deal with him. They failed. I’m not assigning blame for that. Who would’ve thought that milksop could’ve got the drop on Jeb and Dooley, anyhow?”
“Still haven’t found ’em,” Sullivan replied.
“Forget those idjits. If they aren’t dead, after letting Fawcett slip, they should be smart enough to keep on running. Focus on what matters now.”
“You think the army needs my help?”
“I think we need better security around the Rocking R,” said Rafferty. “It’s plain to me these marshals must’ve paid a visit to the spread with no one noticing. I can’t believe they happened on our shipment just by serendipity. Can you?”
The hell is serendipity? thought Sullivan. “I reckon not.”
“Well, then. Rather than pull up stakes and find a new home for the still, we need to make sure that our people keep their damned eyes open, eh? No more careless mistakes. I don’t intend to kick wind just because some lazy bastard’s sleeping on the job. Do you?”
“No, sir.” Sullivan didn’t fancy hanging, no matter whose fault it was.
“Then we’re agreed. We need guards posted day and night, watching the road and property. No more intruders slipping through.”
“I hear you, Boss.”
“Perfect. I’ll leave you to it, then, while Captain Gallagher deals with our other problem.”
“And what happens if he can’t?”
“Why, then, you’ll get your chance. And if it serves our purpose, you can deal with him, as well.”
Sullivan nearly smiled at that but didn’t want to press his luck. Instead, he left the big man’s office and the Sunflower Saloon, bound for the Rocking R. To kick some ass and make damn sure things didn’t fall apart.
Or if they did, make sure he’d have ample time to get the hell away.
The burned-out whiskey wagon was a mess, its form unrecognizable beyond the rims of its four wheels, their axles, and its metal tongue protruding from a heap of ashes. Mixed up in the ash, Slade spotted small nails from the former crates and shards of blackened glass from bottles that had burst with the ignition of their volatile contents. Whatever might have passed for evidence was well and truly gone.
Like Percy Fawcett, lying over at the undertaker’s parlor with his throat stitched back together for his funeral. Who would attend the send-off? Stopping by that morning, after breakfast at the Grub Stake, Slade was told that no one had come forward, yet, to claim the body or arrange for any kind of service. Fawcett’s religious leanings, if he’d had any, meant nothing with no minister or church in town, but one more
unclaimed body meant another grave in potter’s field.
And once again, no evidence for Slade to use against Flynn Rafferty.
So far, he had his word and Naylor’s that they’d seen the whiskey wagon leave the Rocking R—an observation rendered inadmissible since they’d been trespassing without a warrant. Same thing with the whiskey stashed at Stateline Storage. As for Fawcett’s claim that he had shown Bill Tanner’s telegram to Rafferty’s head shooter, only Slade’s word would support it now. The latest victim hadn’t lasted long enough to share the tale with Naylor.
Leaving them with nada. Nothing.
Slade was on his way to rendezvous with Naylor at the dry goods store and make their way around the local shops with questions about Rafferty, for what it might be worth, when someone called out “Marshal!” from behind him. He turned back to find a captain of the cavalry approaching, four more soldiers grouped a half-block farther east, just idling.
“So, the army’s in,” Slade said.
“A few of us. I’m Captain Gallagher.”
Slade shook the officer’s extended hand. “Jack Slade. What brings you up to Stateline?”
“We got word one of your colleagues may have run afoul of hostiles,” Gallagher replied.
“Who told you that?”
“It was reported back to Fort Supply. His injuries—”
“We now believe were meant to look like Indians had killed him,” Slade cut in. “And who’d you say reported it, again?”
The captain frowned. “I can’t be sure,” he said. “Maybe the reservation agent? I get orders and I go where I’ve been told to go. You say the injuries were faked?”
“Oh, they were real enough to kill him,” Slade confirmed. “We just don’t think that it was done by Indians.”
“I see.” The captain’s frown gave him an almost mournful look. “You won’t mind if I still pursue the other angle, just in case you’re wrong?”
“Feel free. You won’t be in our way.”
“You have another marshal with you, I believe.”
“Around here somewhere,” Slade agreed.
“Perhaps I’ll meet him later on?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“We’ll leave you to it, then.”
