Give-A-Damn Jones: A Novel of the West

by Bill Pronzini

  R. W. SATTERLEE

  I couldn’t seem to find Dad in the melee, but I did come upon Artemas Jones standing by himself on the southwest side of Central. Had he seen my father? I asked him.

  “A little while ago. On Territory Street talking to Rufus Cable.”

  “So Mr. Cable wasn’t in his shop when it caught fire. Whew! That’s a relief.”

  Artemas didn’t say anything. He was watching the volunteer firefighters trying to put out spots of fire along the far wall and on the roof of the hardware store. It looked to me that they would be able to save it. The saddle shop and Noonan’s carpentry shop were glowing shells now, the barbershop and milliner’s beyond saving, but if the volunteers saved the hardware store, the loss would be confined to just four buildings—something of a miracle with everything in Box Elder as summer-dry as it was.

  “Jones! Hey … hey, Jones!”

  We both turned to see Doc Christmas’s assistant, Homer, come pelting up with his arms waving. He was het up about something, his fat face pouring sweat, his breath sawing in and out of his huge chest. “Somebody’s in … inside the newspaper office. Doc and … Doc and me heard him busting things up in there. He sent me for help—”

  Artemas didn’t let him finish. He snapped to me, “R.W., go find the marshal,” and took off running.

  I probably should have done what he said, but what Homer had told us excited me more than the fire had, set my blood to bubbling hot. Without thinking I told Homer to fetch Marshal Jennison, and Dad if he could find him, and ran after Artemas.

  I don’t know whether he’d have yelled for me to go back if he’d seen or heard me, but he never once looked over his shoulder. He had a half-block lead and was fast on his feet, but I was younger and faster still. I was only about thirty yards behind him when he veered off onto Powder Street. I charged around the corner myself, just in time to see him disappearing into the alley that ran behind our shop. Whoever was doing the damage must have broken in through the rear door and that was where Artemas was bound, too.

  The door was partway open, lamplight laying a feeble shine on the darkness, and I could hear the crashing, banging noises inside. He flung it wide and plunged through. The noises stopped and there was a yell, a curse, just as I reached the doorway.

  I sucked in my breath when I looked inside, and not because I was winded from the run. The press room had been brutalized, all right, type trays and frames and forms and lamps smashed, furniture overturned or knocked askew, types and quadrats glinting all over the floor. And Artemas was grappling with the man who’d done it, their arms wrapped around each other like a couple of wrestlers, their bodies twisting this way and that among the wreckage. The feeble light came from the lamp in the wall bracket next to the press, about the only thing that hadn’t been damaged, and when Artemas spun the man around I saw without much surprise who he was. Colonel Greathouse’s foreman, Jada Kinch.

  As angry as I was, I couldn’t just stand by and watch; I ran in with the intention of making the struggle two against one. I took a fistful of Kinch’s shirt and tried to jerk him loose, but the way he and Artemas were twisting around, I lost my grip and then my balance when one of Kinch’s flailing arms struck me across the chest. I staggered backward, tripped over one of the broken trays, and fell sideways into the wall. My head hit hard enough to cockeye my vision for a few seconds. When I could see again, Artemas and Kinch had broken apart and Kinch was backing up and clutching at his holstered pistol.

  Artemas went after him, stumbling, shouting at me, “Stay down, R.W.!”

  I yelled something in return, I don’t know what or why, which made Kinch throw a glance in my direction just as he cleared leather. But before he could bring the gun up, one of his boot soles slid on the metal slugs and he lost his balance, same as I had. He pitched backward against the press, then down onto his knees.

  There’s no telling what might have happened if he hadn’t made the mistake of trying to lift himself upright by grabbing the edge of the form with his free hand. Artemas was there by then, and when he saw the form slide beneath the platen and Kinch still hanging on to it, he grabbed the chill arm and swung it hard and fast.

  Kinch screamed loud and shrill when the heavy platen slammed down on his splayed fingers. The crushing pain made him drop the gun. I was on my feet by then and I scrambled over and got hold of it just as Artemas released the lever to let the platen snap back up. Kinch toppled over on his belly, clutching his mangled hand and moaning. The pain must have been fierce, but I wasn’t in the least sorry for him after all he’d done and tried to do.

  Artemas took the pistol from me and set it on the press. He had a cut on one cheek that was dribbling blood, but otherwise he didn’t look to have been hurt in the fracas. He said, “Why didn’t you do as I told you and stay put, R.W.? You might have got yourself shot.”

  “So might you.”

  “Well, then, we’re both lucky.”

  The sound of running footfalls came from out in the alley, and Marshal Jennison burst through the door with his sidearm drawn. “Lord Almighty,” he said when he saw the carnage.

  Others had arrived, too. Homer, for one. And Dad, who pushed in past him and the marshal. He looked around, grimacing, and then picked his way over to me. “Are you all right, son?”

  “Not hurt a bit,” I said, though my head was throbbing some. “Thanks to Artemas.”

  “Thank God for that. But you shouldn’t have chased down here.”

  “I guess I just acted without thinking.”

  The marshal had holstered his weapon and was leaning down to peer at Kinch moaning among the wreckage. “What happened to him?”

  “He got his hand caught in the press,” Artemas said.

  “Dang bonehead. I clean forgot about him and his intention in all the excitement of the fire.”

  Dad said, “Intention? You knew this was going to happen, Seth?”

  “Mary Beth come and told me earlier, but it wasn’t supposed to happen until after midnight. I was fixing to set up a vigil and put a stop to it.”

  “How did Mary Beth know?”

  “Overheard her father giving Kinch his orders.”

  “Naturally the Colonel was behind this outrage,” Dad said furiously. “I want him arrested for malicious mischief, Seth—I want to see his miserable hide behind bars.”

  “He will be, don’t worry none about that. But right now I got me a bunch of other fish to fry. Take Kinch to the jailhouse and fetch Doc Phillips for him. Make sure the fire’s completely out. Arrest Jim Tarbeaux.”

  “Tarbeaux?” I said. “What for?”

  “Setting fire to the saddle shop.”

  “You’re wrong, Marshal,” Artemas said. “He didn’t set the fire.”

  “Sure he did. Rufus Cable seen him in the act and Bert Lawless seen him running away afterward.”

  “Lawless is mistaken. And Cable is lying.”

  “How the devil do you know that?”

  Artemas sighed. “Because I seem to have a cussed knack for being in the neighborhood when trouble comes.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I saw Cable light the fire and run away afterward.”

  JIM TARBEAUX

  I took Mary Beth to the Box Elder Hotel, to get her a room for the night, and then went looking for Marshal Jennison. I could have tried to speak to him at the fire, but he’d had his hands full and wouldn’t have been in any frame of mind to listen to what I had to say. I wasn’t eager to talk to him anyhow. What had happened tonight came down to my word against Cable’s, same as five years ago. Maybe it’d be different this time, my word believed instead of his, but I wouldn’t have wanted to bet on it.

  I didn’t have to go hunting the marshal; his deputy found me when I came out of the hotel. Dillard said little, just that I was to come along with him. Somewhat surprisingly, he led me upstreet to the Occidental House rather than to the jailhouse. Small groups of men who’d been watching the fire, and a couple of weary,
smoke-grimed volunteers, were trooping in for a drink or two before going home, but we didn’t follow them through the batwings into the saloon. Instead, we went around back through a door into Tate Reynolds’s private office.

  Several men were waiting there, all but one of them standing, all but one with grim, set expressions. Marshal Jennison, Will Satterlee, Reynolds, banker and current mayor Frank Blevins, Bert Lawless who owned the lumberyard, a wide-eyed youngster in his teens, a yellow-haired, vaguely familiar fellow with ink-stained hands who looked as if he’d been in a fight. And Rufus Cable, the only one sitting, his face pale except for red splotches, his breath ragged and interrupted by coughs. He jumped up when he saw me, smoke-reddened eyes dark with hate, and pointed a finger and cried, “You did it, Tarbeaux! You burned my shop!”

  “Like hell I did. You’re the one who set that fire.”

  The marshal said, “Settle down, both of you. That’s why we’re all here, to get to the bottom of who done what.” He added sardonically, “Not enough room at the jailhouse. Too many customers already.”

  “I keep telling you,” Cable said, “I saw him do it, I saw him!”

  “Let’s hear your version, Tarbeaux. Were you in the saddle shop tonight?”

  “I was. Cable came up to me in the street after I left your office earlier, asked me to meet him there in one hour.”

  “That’s a lie! He—”

  The marshal silenced him with a slicing gesture. “Why’d he want to wait an hour?”

  “Said he needed time to settle his thoughts.”

  “Uh-huh. What was his reason for wanting to meet with you?”

  “To talk, try to work things out between us.”

  “What things?”

  “You know the answer to that,” I said. “He stole the Kendalls’ money five years ago, framed me for it—”

  “Lies! Filthy lies!”

  “Shut up, Rufus,” Jennison said sharply. Then to me, “Go ahead.”

  “I didn’t trust his motives, but I killed an hour and went to the shop to find out what he was up to. Never occurred to me he was desperate enough to set fire to his own place of business.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “To frame me again. Have me sent back to prison so I wouldn’t be a threat to him any longer.”

  “Afraid you’d kill him, like you said you would in court?”

  “I never said that, not in so many words. That’s not why I came back. All I wanted then and now is to clear my name.”

  “You tell him that?”

  “Yes. Last week in his shop.”

  “Then why so afraid of you he’d frame you for arson?”

  I told him why. Everything that had happened in Cable’s shop that day last week, how he was dying from lung disease and had tried to force me to end his misery, that I’d made clear what my future intentions were. I finished up by saying, “I reckon he couldn’t stand the prospect of having me around for the rest of his days, hounding him for a confession, reminding him of his guilt.”

  Mayor Blevins said, “He could have made an attempt on your life.”

  “He could have, but he’s too much of a coward. The only way he could think to get rid of me was to burn his shop and blame me for it. But not before he saved some of his possessions.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The saddle shop was about half empty when I went in there tonight. I noticed that just before he started the fire. A saddle and harness he’d had on display, some tools—all missing. He must’ve had this planned for days. My guess is you’ll find the stuff stashed in his house.”

  “Maybe so,” Jennison said. Then, “You were in the front part of the saddle shop when the fire started?”

  I nodded. “I smelled kerosene just before. Cable must’ve spilled it all over the storeroom.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “Ran out, naturally. There was no way I could stop the fire from spreading.”

  The marshal turned to Bert Lawless. “You saw Tarbeaux come running out through the front door, that right, Bert?”

  “That’s right. I was on my way home from the lumberyard, like I told you before.”

  “And what part of the shop was ablaze? Front half?”

  “No. No, the back half.”

  “What’d Tarbeaux do after he come out?”

  “Ran down the alley toward the rear.”

  “To see if I could catch Cable,” I said. “But he was gone by the time I got back there.”

  “See anybody else?”

  “Yes, come to think of it. A man I didn’t know came running past me shouting ‘Fire!’” As soon as I said that, I realized who it had been. I pointed at the yellow-haired, ink-stained man. “Him.”

  “Jones,” Will Satterlee said, “my printer, Artemas Jones.”

  “I’d been to the livery to collect some money Sam Benson had for me,” Jones said, “and I was taking a shortcut through the alley when the back door of the saddle shop opened and this man here”—he nodded at Cable—“hurried out. He struck a match and pitched it back inside.”

  “You’re sure it was Cable?”

  “I’m sure. I had a good look at him in the firelight, and I’d seen him before when I tried to sell him a saddle. He ducked between two buildings when he saw me and I didn’t know the area well enough to give chase. So I kept on going and sounded the alarm.”

  Through all of this Cable had remained silent, shaking his head brokenly, coughing in spasms, the hate in his eyes swallowed by fear. His legs had jellied enough so that he had to sit down again.

  “Well, Rufus?” Jennison said to him. “You got anything to say for yourself?”

  He didn’t. He made a half-choking sound, his gaze roaming the faces of the others in the room. Grim, condemning faces like those of the jurymen at my trial. But this time, by God, the evidence was all against him and I was the one whose testimony was being believed, not his.

  Justice done after all. Five years too late, but justice just the same.

  SETH JENNISON

  I’d been wrong about trouble coming in bunches lately. It’d come in bushels, by grab—more disorder, destruction, and lawlessness in one week than we’d had in the past five years. The jail was already three-quarters full, what with Rufus Cable and Jada Kinch and Al Yandle each occupying a cell, and if I’d had my druthers, which is to say the authority and jurisdiction, Colonel Elijah Greathouse would be looking out through the bars of the fourth. As it was, I’d wire the county sheriff and ask him to make tracks for the Square G with an arrest warrant as soon as he was able. The bars the Colonel would be looking out through then would be a cell in the county jail.

  Fact was I’d about had my fill of devilment. If Box Elder didn’t settle back down to being the mostly peaceable town it’d been before, I wouldn’t stand for reelection come November. Let some other poor booger take over as marshal—and chairman of the annual Fourth of July celebration and head of the burial commission, the town council figuring it was better to pay one man a salary for wearing three different hats than three men salaries for wearing one apiece. Bert Lawless would take me on at the lumberyard, him and me being pretty close friends; and when it come time to retire, I could still spend my declining years guzzling beer and playing cribbage with the other codgers at the Odd Fellows Hall like I’d always planned on.

  It’d been late when I finally crawled into bed and at that I hadn’t slept well, so I was a mite late relieving Abner at the jailhouse and a mite grumpy when I did. It was another hot day, you could smell the smoke from last night’s near disaster, and there was more noise than usual on account of the cleanup had already started. One botheration on top of another.

  So happened I had a visitor waiting for me. Doc Christmas, all dressed up in his traveling duds. Well, I couldn’t be grumpy toward him on account of the good deed him and Homer done in saving the newspaper office from total destruction, not to mention his unintentional good deed in ventilating Elrod Patch.
I figured he’d come to say good-bye before they pulled out, which he had. But that wasn’t all that was on his mind.

  “It has been my experience,” he said, “that a small-town law officer often keeps petty cash on hand, small amounts of which he is empowered by the city fathers to use for payment of services to the community. Is that true in your case, Marshal?”

  “What if it is? What’re you getting at, Doc?”

  “The fact that Box Elder owes me three dollars.”

  “Three dollars? What in tarnation for?”

  “Services rendered.”

  “Come again?”

  “Services rendered,” he said again. “My profession, as you well know, is primarily that of painless dentist, and secondarily the manufacture of Doc Christmas’s Wonder Painkiller. I am particularly adept at ridding the mouths of my patients of badly decayed teeth. A town such as Box Elder, sir, is in many ways similar to the mouth of one of my suffering patients. It is healthy and harmonious only so long as its citizens … its individual teeth, if you will … are likewise healthy and harmonious. Several diseased teeth damage the entire mouth, as Box Elder has had the misfortune to be damaged recently. Elrod Patch was one of those diseased teeth, was he not?”

  “Put it like that,” I admitted, “I suppose he was.”

  “I did not extract him willingly from your midst, but the fact remains that I did extract him permanently, and with no harm whatsoever to the healthy teeth surrounding him. In effect, sir, painlessly. For a simple painless extraction I charge one dollar. You will agree, Marshal, that the extraction of Elrod Patch was not simple, but difficult. For difficult extractions I charge three dollars. Therefore, the town of Box Elder owes me three dollars for services rendered, payable on demand.”

  Well, if that didn’t beat all. The doc had more gall than a trainload of politicians. If I’d been a lawyer, I reckon I could’ve come up with a good argument against his claim. But I’m not a lawyer, I’m a public servant. Besides which, my motto is, when a man’s right he’s right and there ain’t no point in arguing with him.