Badge of Honor

by Susan K. Marlow

  Jem laughed. “All right, Nugget,” he said, walking around to the back of the wagon, “you’re welcome to come with me to meet the new kinfolk.” He worked the brackets loose and lowered the tailgate. Nugget took a flying leap into the wagon bed. He made his way to the high seat, where he took up his post and waited.

  Jem closed the tailgate and climbed up on the seat. With a jerk, he released the brake and chirruped to the horses. Nugget barked his eagerness.

  The trip back took half the time. The hilly, tree-lined ranch road was not nearly as muddy as the town’s streets, and the two horses trotted along tirelessly. Jem slowed the team only when they came to the outskirts of town where the mud got thicker. He didn’t want to slow down. Jem wanted to urge the horses into a gallop, much like Walt had done bringing in the stagecoach. He liked to see the mud fly from the horses’ hooves and hear the harness jingle.

  But Jem could not afford more trouble today. If one drop of mud splattered a passerby because of his tomfoolery, Pa would have a conniption fit. He kept the horses to a walk and rounded the corner to the Wells Fargo office.

  The stagecoach was gone, no doubt getting cleaned up and readied for the trip out of town in the morning. Jem pulled the wagon into place alongside the boardwalk and looked around. A pile of baggage lay in a jumbled heap, waiting for pickup.

  His aunt, cousin, and sister were nowhere in sight.

  CHAPTER 6

  Miners’ Court

  Jem let out a long, slow breath. “Hang it all, Nugget. I ran all the way out to the ranch, hitched up the wagon, and raced back to town without resting. I wasn’t gone that long. Where’d they go?”

  Nugget thumped his tail and swiped his panting tongue across Jem’s chin. Jem brushed his dog’s sloppy kiss away. Then he jammed the heavy wagon’s brake into place and jumped down. Mud squished around his ankles. “Stay in the wagon, boy.”

  Sometimes Nugget obeyed Jem; sometimes he didn’t. Today the dog cocked his head, as if trying to decide if Jem really meant what he said. He whined and gave his tail a sharp slap against the wagon seat.

  “Uh-uh.” Jem wagged a finger at his friend. “I mean it. You stay here until I get back, or next time I won’t bring you along. Ya hear?” He tried to sound like Pa, full of authority. Nugget always obeyed Pa.

  Nugget yawned, then jumped down from the seat and into the wagon bed. He turned around once, twice, three times, and collapsed in a heap of golden fur. He laid his head on his paws and gave Jem a mournful look.

  “Good dog,” Jem praised him. “I’ll be right back, soon as I find everybody.”

  Nugget’s tail thumped.

  Happy that his dog had obeyed him for once, Jem crossed the boardwalk and poked his head into the Express office. “What happened to the two stage passengers who were standing out front with Ellie?” he asked Josh Franklin, the desk clerk.

  “Those your kinfolk from back East?” the young man asked. When Jem nodded, he said, “I heard the lady ask your sister if there was any place in this mud hole”—he frowned—“where a body could get a bite to eat and wait for the wagon.”

  Jem winced at Aunt Rose’s description of Goldtown—mostly because it was true. Winter and spring were not kind to the town.

  “I think they headed down to the Skillet,” Josh finished. “It wasn’t but a few minutes ago.”

  With a wave of thanks, Jem turned and hurried down the boardwalk toward the café. If Aunt Rose was buying a late lunch for Nathan and herself, then maybe—just maybe—she’d offer to buy Jem a piece of cornbread, with a bit of molasses dripping over the sides. His mouth watered just thinking about it.

  Jem quickened his step. Deep in thought, wondering if Aunt Rose might also buy him a sarsaparilla to wash down the cornbread, he smacked head-on into Will Sterling.

  Ooof! Jem stumbled backward.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Will hollered, brushing off his shirt and trousers. He gave Jem a fierce look. “Can’t a fella walk down the street without getting bowled over?”

  Jem clamped his jaw shut and resisted the urge to shove weasel-faced Will off the walk and into the mud. He had to clench his fists to do it. That was the only way his hands stayed at his sides. He’d learned the hard way that a fight with Will Sterling never turned out well.

  Not that he couldn’t lick Will! He could … and he had. More than once. But it wasn’t worth it. Will was either too dumb or too cocky to remember the lesson. Besides, Jem delivered firewood to the Sterlings. He couldn’t afford to lose their business on account of not getting along with Will.

  “Where were you all afternoon?” Will asked. He straightened his cap over his unruly black curls and folded his arms across his chest. “Miss Cheney went on a rant for a good long time.”

  “I don’t see what business it is of yours where I’ve been,” Jem said, bristling.

  “I s’pose not,” Will agreed. He looked smugly satisfied. “I had to fetch your pa for Miss Cheney. He was up to his elbows in dirt and mud, trying to talk ol’ Nine Toes out of his newest claim.”

  Jem shrugged. “So what?”

  “I didn’t know your pa’s the new sheriff.” He gave Jem a look of sympathy. “I reckon it’s tough luck for you.”

  “How’s that?” Jem challenged. He knew Will’s sympathy was as phony as fool’s gold.

  “Well, you gotta live up to being a sheriff’s kid now. You know, set a good, law-abiding example for the rest of us sinners. Reckon that means no more playing hooky from school.” He shook his head. “I feel kinda sorry for you, Jem. It’s about as bad off as being the preacher’s kid, if you ask me.”

  “I’m not asking you,” Jem snapped. Will’s words hit him hard, mostly because he’d been thinking the very same thing. He didn’t like how it sounded coming from Will. He took a step forward. “Get out of my way, Will. I’m in a hurry.”

  “So am I,” Will said. “There’s big doin’s down at the saloon. Frenchy sliced up Dako—”

  “I know,” Jem cut him off with a wave and kept walking.

  “It’s not over,” Will went on. “I heard two others got into it and it’s a mess. They’re holding court right now.”

  Jem paused. “What about my pa? Is he all right?”

  “How do I know?” Will said, coming up beside him. “I’m on my way to see—”

  Jem took off down the sidewalk, dodging passersby and dogs and peddlers’ carts with the ease of much practice. He heard the slapping of boot soles behind him and knew Will was hot on his heels.

  Just outside the entrance to the Big Strike, the boys came to a stop. A large crowd overflowed the building, spilling onto the wooden sidewalk. It looked like everybody in town wanted to catch a glimpse of the excitement inside the noisy, ramshackle saloon.

  “What do you suppose is happening in there?” Jem asked.

  “I dunno,” Will replied. “But it’s sure drawn a crowd.”

  Jem jumped up a few times, trying to peek over the men’s shoulders, but he couldn’t see a thing. Next to him, his friend Cole had found a perch on top of the hitching rail. He stood on tiptoe, gripping a post and peering into the darkened saloon.

  “What’s going on in there, Cole?” Jem called up to him. I have to find out if Pa’s all right! His father had broken up the fight, but tempers must have heated up again since then. The new sheriff might still be in the middle of it.

  Cole looked down. “I’m not sure. I was walkin’ home from school and heard about a fight, and knives, and blood an’ all, and how there’s gonna be a miners’ court. It was already crowded when I got here, so I hiked myself up on the rail.” He grinned. “I’ll sell you my spot for a nickel. I’ve seen enough.”

  “Haven’t got a nickel,” Jem said. “Leastways, not on me.” He did have his precious gold nugget, but he wasn’t about to give that up.

  “Your pa’s in there, Jem,” Cole went on. “He was in the thick of things for a while. Now he’s doing a lot of talking.”

  “Is he all right?” Jem
held his breath for the answer.

  “I think so, but”—Cole frowned—“he’s got a lot of blood smeared on him.”

  Right then, Jem forgot about his errand, the wagon, his kinfolk, and even the possibility of cornbread and molasses. He tried to squeeze through the crowd of burly men choking the doorway. It was like trying to shove his way through a brick wall.

  A huge, hairy arm ended Jem’s effort to wiggle his way into the saloon. “Get back, boy,” a deep voice growled. “Ain’t no room in there. You’ll get trampled.”

  Jem backed away. “I gotta see what’s going on!”

  “I’ll give you a nickel, Cole,” Will said. “The miners’ court is always interesting to watch, and—”

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” Jem broke in. He looked up at his friend. “How would you like to add the Big Strike to your sawdust customers? It’s worth a heap more’n Will’s measly nickel.”

  Cole gaped at Jem. “Are you funnin’ me? You’d trade the best sawdust customer in town for this spot?” He shook his head. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Cross my heart. It’s yours.” Since Pa won’t let me keep it anyway, he added silently.

  “It’s a trade.” Cole jumped down, and the boys shook hands. “The rail and post are all yours.”

  Before Will could beat him to it, Jem climbed up the hitching rail and steadied himself against the post. Then he leaned as far forward as he could to get a good look.

  There wasn’t much to see inside the darkened, smoky saloon. Jem was glad he hadn’t traded away anything of real value for this spot. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside, he could make out the long, rough-hewn boards that served as the bar. Behind the bar, Mr. Tobias, the saloon’s owner, stood with a grim look on his face and a shotgun cradled in his arms.

  Looks like he’s trying to keep his place from getting torn apart again, Jem thought. The Big Strike saw its share of fights and rowdy behavior, especially on Saturday nights, after the miners’ payday. Mr. Tobias was always making repairs to his tables, chairs, and shelves.

  An insistent tug on Jem’s trouser leg yanked him around.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Will asked.

  “I didn’t trade with Cole so I could be the town crier. Let me be.” Jem shook off Will’s grip and went back to watching.

  It looked like Cole and Will were right about holding a miners’ court. The mayor and the town council had set it up right then and there. No warning, no courthouse, no judge; and no jury today either, except for the crowd.

  Jem wondered how they would vote, and who would get whipped or run out of town this time. “Wish I could vote,” he muttered. “I’d vote to run ’em all out.” He was tired of Pa being yanked into the rowdy miners’ troubles, sheriff or not.

  “What did you say?” Will demanded in his usual whine. “C’mon, Jem. Tell me. I’ll … I’ll give you the nickel I offered Cole if you just tell me what’s going on.”

  A nickel is a nickel, Jem decided.

  He watched and listened for a few minutes, then said, “It looks like it’s about over, but there’s still a lot of hollering going on. They say Frenchy wrestled the knife from Dakota, with the help of a couple of new miners who’ve been hanging around lately.” He paused for breath. “Dakota’s arm is wrapped up, but it’s not doing much good. Lots of blood’s still seeping through. They say he’d be dead if the sheriff hadn’t stepped in. So it’s”—Jem strained to hear the rest—“attempted murder.” He shuddered. “Dakota’s not saying much. He looks kinda pale, like all the fight’s gone out of him.”

  Jem glanced around the darkened building, searching for his father. Pa stood against the bar, arms folded over his chest, watching the noisy proceedings. Jem sighed his relief. Pa didn’t look injured, or even worried. Sure, his shirt and vest were smeared dark with what must be blood, but it was probably Dakota’s blood. He’s all right!

  Across the room, three dirty, unshaven miners glowered at the new sheriff. Blood splattered their faces, and two of the men wore rough slings on their arms. Frenchy stood with them, breathing heavily, as if he were getting ready to challenge the court’s decision. He appeared uninjured, except for a bandaged hand.

  When the vote came, Pa lifted his hand and quickly returned it to his chest. Dozens of other hands went up, then down, and Mayor Gordon whacked his fist against the bar. A cheer rose.

  “The miners’ court just voted to throw Frenchy and those others out of town,” Jem reported to Will. “I guess he tried to jump Dakota’s claim once too often. The attempted murder charge didn’t help him much either. Frenchy looks madder than a peeled rattler.”

  “That’s it? It’s over?” Will pouted. “That ain’t worth a nickel.”

  Jem didn’t reply. Worth it or not, Will owed him a nickel, and he’d better pay.

  The crowd began to break up. Men from inside pushed their way through the crush of bodies and out into the late afternoon sun.

  Jem took one last look. “A bunch of men are guarding Frenchy and the others. Looks like they’re getting ready to show ’em the road out of town. The mayor and town council are standing around my pa, talking to him and Dakota. Your pa’s there too.”

  “My father’s in there?” Will asked. He looked worried. “I didn’t know he was back in town. What’s he saying?”

  “I can’t hear. It’s too noisy,” Jem replied. He jumped down from the hitching rail and held out his hand. “The crowd’s thinning out. Give me the nickel and you can go in and see for yourself.”

  Will dropped a nickel into Jem’s open palm. “Nah, I’ve heard enough. I think I’ll head home before—”

  “Before your pa catches you here, right?” Jem grinned, pocketing the money. “For once, Will, I agree with you. I better find Ellie and my new kinfolk. I’m supposed to take ’em back to the ranch and settle everybody in.”

  Will looked full of questions, but he didn’t ask any. Jem was glad. Goldtown would learn about Aunt Rose and Nathan soon enough. Without saying good-bye, the mine owner’s son scurried away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Jem turned to go and nearly smacked into a giant figure wearing a long, black overcoat. He stumbled back in surprise at the sight of Frenchy staring down at him from under dark, bushy eyebrows.

  “S-sorry, Mr. DuBois,” Jem stammered. Nobody called the miner “Frenchy” to his face.

  Frenchy grunted. Then slowly, he leaned toward Jem. “This was once a fine gold camp, boy. People minded their own business. But no longer. Not with the preachers going after the miners and trying to save their souls. And now”—his bushy brows came together—“we must put up with a sheriff besides.” He turned and spat. “Your père better be careful, or he will be the first and last sheriff of Goldtown.”

  “Shut up, DuBois,” a miner growled. “Keep moving.” He shoved Frenchy along the boardwalk, toward the outskirts of town. His comrades trailed behind, each accompanied by an armed man.

  Jem watched the guilty miners being escorted out of Goldtown. He couldn’t help trembling, and his stomach churned. He didn’t know if it was from Frenchy’s words or from hunger. Jem sighed. It was unlikely Aunt Rose and Ellie were still waiting for him at the café. Too bad. Cornbread would have tasted mighty good.

  “If I know Ellie,” he mused aloud, “she got tired of waiting and took Aunt Rose back to the Express office. She probably asked Mr. Franklin to load the baggage and then drove everybody out to the ranch herself.”

  “She better not have,” Pa said from the saloon’s doorway, “seeing as I asked you to do it.”

  Jem whirled. And groaned.

  CHAPTER 7

  Everything’s Upside Down

  Matt Coulter covered the distance between Jem and himself in two long strides. “Why aren’t you doing what I asked? By now you should be home, with your aunt and cousin resting on the porch. Instead, you’re hanging around the saloon.”

  “Aunt Rose wasn’t there when I … and I … I was worried about you, Pa,” Jem tried to ex
plain. “I heard there was a miners’ court, and …” He hung his head.

  “Never mind.” Pa grasped Jem’s arm and hurried him down the boardwalk at a dead run. He didn’t waste breath on an extended scolding. Jem didn’t need one. He knew he was in trouble. The wagon was heavy, and Ellie was too little to drive it.

  “I’m sure she didn’t really try to drive the wagon,” Jem panted, running to keep up with his father’s long strides. “Ellie knows better.” Please, God, he prayed, surely You gave her more sense than that!

  Pa didn’t answer.

  Jem’s heart sank to his boots when he and his father pounded to a stop in front of the Wells Fargo office. The baggage was gone, the wagon was gone, and the office clerk was standing out in front.

  “You just missed ’em,” Josh said. “I loaded up the baggage, but before I could turn around, that girl of yours slapped the reins and took off down the street. I hollered at her to stop, but she just kept going.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Matt. I thought for sure she’d wait for you or Jem.”

  “Not your fault,” Pa said. He released Jem’s arm and hastened for the hitching rail across the street. “You’re gonna walk home, boy,” he called over his shoulder to Jem. “Take your time. Think about all the poor choices you made today.” Then he untied the reins of his large black gelding, swung into the saddle, and galloped toward the ranch.

  Josh gave a low whistle. “Sounds like you’re in a heap of trouble, Jem.” He shook his head and ducked back into the office.

  Jem watched his father race his horse through town, mud splattering every which way. King could easily carry two riders, but today he was carrying only one. “I wish I hadn’t run into Will,” Jem mumbled. He wanted to kick himself. “I should’ve gone straight to the café.”