West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels

by James Reasoner

  "Nothin' to sweat about?" Fowler could feel his agitation mounting by the second. "Did you hear me tell you he's a U.S. marshal?"

  "So?" Beardsley was unimpressed.

  "He's Porter Rockwell. Jesus, Paul, he's killed more men than strychnine."

  "That's a lotta talk the church puts out," Jacobs opined. "He's just a man, like anybody else."

  "You think so?" Fowler's tone was dubious.

  "Rance, you're the law in Tartarus," Walton reminded him. "What you say goes."

  "I don't outrank no U.S. marshal. He's got jurisdiction over all the territory. Hell, the country."

  "Doesn't matter," Beardsley said. "He's askin' questions, Chief. That's all. If nobody splits fair with him, there's nothin' he can do. It's your job to make sure the lid stays on."

  "You wanna tell me how? I can't go up and down the street, here, tellin' people not to talk to him."

  "No need for that," said Jacobs. "Ever'body in the know is smart enough to keep their mouth shut, anyhow."

  "You hope so," Fowler said.

  "Well, if they ain't, then find a way to shut 'em up."

  "Hold on, now." Fowler didn't care for the direction this was heading.

  "Hold on, nothin'." Jacobs said. "You're in this thing as deep and dirty as the rest of us. It's too damn late to start pretendin' that your hands are clean."

  "Now, Emil—"

  "What he's sayin'," Beardsley interrupted, "is that we're all partners here. We saw an opportunity and took it. Some of us may feel we only did a little, but the law don't see it that way. If this goes before a court outside of Tartarus, we swing together. Ever'body's clear on that, I hope."

  "Judge in Salt Lake can only hang us once," said Jacobs. "An' I do mean all of us."

  "Listen, now," Fowler replied. "It ain't just those who lent a hand we have to think about. Nine people don't just up and disappear without somebody noticin'. You think nobody's let a word slip since? When they was drunk, up in the cribs, wherever?"

  "Doesn't matter," Beardsley said again. "This was a matter planned and carried out in common, for the benefit of Tartarus."

  Your benefit, more like it, Fowler thought, but kept it to himself as Paul went on.

  "Now, on reflecting, some might say we made the wrong decision, but it's done. Can't be undone. And those who share the benefits of what was done—the sacrifice we made for Tartarus—have got no call to judge whoever took the lead."

  "It ain't their judgment that concerns me," Fowler said. "Rockwell—"

  "There you go again," Jacobs cut in. "He's just a man."

  "A man who's got the law behind him, and the church," Fowler replied.

  "You got religion now?" asked Jacobs.

  "It ain't about religion."

  "Well, what is it, then?"

  "I'm tellin' you, it's Porter Rockwell."

  Beardsley frowned, shaking his head. "You're lettin' gossip build him up into a bogeyman. He gets too close, I guarantee he bleeds like anybody else."

  "Oh, wonderful. You think the government won't send more marshals? Or that Brigham Young won't send his Danites?"

  "I heard Rockwell was a Danite," Walton said.

  "Worse yet," said Fowler.

  "What'n hell are Danites?" Jacobs queried no one in particular.

  Fowler gaped at him. "You never heard of—"

  "Skip that," Beardsley interjected. "If we have to bed him down, there's ways to do it so it don't come back on us."

  "Like what?" asked Fowler.

  "Do you want a list?" Beardsley replied.

  Fowler considered it, then shook his head.

  "Maybe it's better if you don't know, Chief," the mayor said. "Since you'd be the one called to investigate, and all."

  Fowler drained off his whiskey glass, the liquor burning from his gullet down to his uneasy gut. "Guess I'll go on about my rounds, then, if we're done here."

  "Good idea," said Beardsley. "On your way out, see if Seamus Hannigan's still playin' faro, will you?"

  "Sure." Another twinge of dark misgiving. "Do you wanna see him?"

  "If he feels like he can tear himself away."

  "Okay, then."

  Fowler left them to it, closed the door behind him, and proceeded to the main barroom. Piano music welcomed him, off-key as usual, and loud enough to challenge normal conversation. Beardsley had a gold mine in the Lucky Strike, and didn't mind competing with himself for business with the Nugget and the Mother Lode. With half of the saloons in Tartarus under his thumb, you'd think he would be satisfied, but some men couldn't get enough.

  Which brought them to their present pass.

  Fowler found Seamus Hannigan, in fact, still playing faro. Losing, by the look of it, growing agitated as his money gravitated from his side of the table to the banker's. Fowler waited while the pimp lost yet another bet, then tapped him on the shoulder.

  "What'n hell—?" Hannigan backed off from his snarl at sight of Fowler's badge. "Hey, Chief. You buyin' in?"

  "You're cashin' out," Fowler replied.

  The snarl came back. "That so?"

  "Or, I can go tell Mr. Beardsley you don't wanna talk to him."

  Hannigan blinked his one good eye, the other hooded by a scar across its lid. "He wants to see me?"

  "If you got the time."

  "Well, sure."

  "Then go on back."

  His duty done, Fowler proceeded through the drunken crowd and out into the dusky street.

  * * *

  Rockwell moved along the raucous central street of Tartarus, part of his mind amused at how well he seemed to fit in. He wasn't drunk, of course, and didn't reek of some harlot's cheap scent, but he could have been a prospector or trapper from the mountains, by the look of him. He was taller by four or five inches than most of the men who passed by him, broader of shoulder and chest, but his face had the same weathered quality found in the others.

  Except for the gamblers, of course. By and large, they were soft men, and paler than most, since they commonly slept through the day and spent nights huddled over card tables. Gambling was banned by law in Utah Territory, but the news had clearly never made its way to Tartarus. The marshal, Fowler, obviously turned a blind eye to it—maybe even liked a game of chance himself, or took a portion of the proceeds to ensure that things ran smoothly.

  None of that was Rockwell's problem, though he speculated that he could have shut down the casinos in one night, if tasked to do so. All it took was the determination, possibly a show of force to start with. The elimination of resistance.

  Not his job.

  He drew curious glances from the patrons as he prowled through one saloon after another, only natural. As far as questions were concerned, he didn't talk to any of the bartenders. They might be fonts of information generally, but he calculated that they wouldn't talk unless he bought a drink, which wasn't happening. Another problem: none of them would know the missing Saints first-hand, since Mormons wouldn't rank among their customers.

  What Rockwell needed was a miner—more than one, if possible—who knew the area and what went on outside of Tartarus. Someone to tell him who had come and gone, the past few months, and what had driven them to leave. If there'd been murder here, amongst the mines, the prospectors were bound to know.

  But would they talk?

  Perhaps, in certain circumstances. Liquor helped to loosen tongues and make a drinker careless, maybe sharing information he'd received in confidence or learned by chance. The other motive for unburdening a soul came down to personal emotions—guilt, fear, anger, jealousy, whatever. Even working with a drunkard, prying secrets loose took time and effort.

  Getting started was the hard part. Prying into secrets called for a degree of privacy, so Rockwell couldn't join a poker game and casually ask the other players if they'd heard of any Mormons disappearing from the neighborhood. He needed to approach and cultivate informants individually, but again, there was a barroom protocol to be observed. A man you spotted drinking by himself w
as likely alone for a reason. Approaching his table without an invite—much less sitting down—could be awkward, and then some. Rockwell didn't look like a Mary, but mountain men were known for strange proclivities, and the last thing he needed was a brawl with some drunken miner who took his approach the wrong way.

  His badge should cover that, but it could also silence people who possessed the information he required. Chief Fowler, he assumed, had spread the word of his arrival to the folks in Tartarus who mattered: his employers, any bigwigs with a major share of action in the town. Whether the news had filtered down to people on the street, or out among the mining claims, remained to be discovered. Rockwell thought of taking off his star, holding it back to show if someone took offense to nosy questions, then decided he was better off without concealing it and left it on his shirt, under the coat he wore against the March night's chill.

  Over the course of three long hours, Rockwell spoke to half a dozen men in four saloons. He chatted with a couple of the painted ladies, too, then disappointed them when he declined a trip upstairs to see their cribs. At one place, called The Water Hole, a bouncer came around to ask his business and find out why Rockwell hadn't bought a drink. The badge persuaded him to move along, and also spoiled the mood he had been working on, his target vanishing into the night on thin, unsteady legs.

  Long story short, the answers he received were variations on a theme of total ignorance. Trying to read expressions while the several men and women told him they knew nothing was a challenge, in itself. Some drinkers were the animated type, given to mugging and expansive gestures; others turned stone-faced when they were in their cups, and wouldn't flinch if they were set afire. Rockwell suspected that a couple of the men he'd spoken to were hiding something, but he couldn't pin it down.

  Some folks looked guilty by default, when talking to the law.

  A long, frustrating evening, but Rockwell didn't count it as a total waste. His face was known in town, now. He could be located and approached, if anyone was so inclined. Meanwhile, he'd get some sleep and, in the morning, pay a visit to the mining claim his fellow Saints had left to others when they disappeared into thin air.

  * * *

  Rockwell almost made it back to his hotel. He had less than a block to go, was looking forward to a bed instead of sleeping on the cold ground, when a woman stepped out of a recessed doorway just in front of him.

  "Hey, there," she hailed him.

  "Help you, ma'am?"

  "It's possible." She looked him over in the dim light from the street. "You're new in town," she said, not asking.

  "Does it show?"

  "I would have noticed you before."

  A stab at flattery. She could have said the same about a hunchback.

  "As it happens, you're correct," he said.

  "Out for some fun tonight?"

  "Sorry. Fun's over. I'm just heading back to the hotel."

  "You've got a room. That's better, yet."

  "Ma'am—"

  "Now, tell me somethin'. Do I look like ma'am to you?"

  "I reckon not."

  "You reckon right, Mister ...?"

  "Rockwell."

  "I'll bet you do."

  That flustered him a little, not enough to matter. She was pretty, in a well-used kind of way, and he was only human, after all. And he was working, focused on his task to the exclusion of all else.

  "I'll just be going now," he said.

  "I don't think so." A male voice, coming from the alleyway behind him, to his left.

  Rockwell half-turned in that direction, as a man six inches shorter than he emerged. The new arrival's face was shadowed, but it seemed to Rockwell that his left eye had been permanently closed somehow.

  "Talking to me, friend?" he inquired.

  "I is," the stranger answered. "And I ain't you's friend."

  "Too bad. I could've introduced you to the lady."

  "That's no lady," One-eye sneered at Rockwell. "That's my woman you been messin' with."

  So that was it. Rockwell had heard about this dodge, of course, but never seen it acted out. A pimp set out one of his girls, then barged in to intimidate and rob a would-be customer. Which saved the girl from taking down her bloomers, anyway, but it was tougher on the mark and sometimes led to killing.

  "There's been no messing, and you're welcome to her," Rockwell answered.

  "Well, I never!" said the woman.

  "Hard to swallow," Rockwell told her, paying more attention to the pimp.

  "I ain't here for apologies," said One-eye.

  "And I don't recall giving you one," Rockwell replied.

  "Smart fella, eh?"

  "Smarter than some I've met."

  "Come into town and grab whatever takes your fancy, is it?"

  "Haven't seen a thing that's caught it yet," said Rockwell. "If I do, I'll let you know."

  The woman made a clucking sound of irritation, but remained well out of reach. No danger there, unless she had a pocket pistol hidden somewhere on her person. One-eye was the threat, no gun in sight, but he wore an Arkansas toothpick sheathed on his belt, right hand resting on its pommel.

  "Now you's been disparagin'," the pimp replied, surprising Rockwell with his erudition. "You needs a lesson in deportment."

  "Who's the teacher?" Rockwell asked.

  "You're lookin' at him." As he spoke, the pimp flourished his blade, no less than fourteen inches long. Weighted for throwing, if the look of it was anything to go by.

  Knife fighting was a last resort for Rockwell, saved for when a quiet killing was essential or he had run out of ammunition. As it was, he didn't feel the need to risk a slicing when he still had work to do in Tartarus.

  "Guess there's no getting on your good side," he told One-eye, as he drew one of his Colts and cocked it.

  "Hey, now!" One-eye said, too late.

  The bullet drilled his right knee, cut the leg from under him, and dropped him to the wooden sidewalk. One-eye and the woman squealed in unison, one note nearly as high-pitched as the other. Rockwell kept his sobbing adversary covered as he stooped, retrieved the fallen dagger, then stepped back a pace.

  "You made two big mistakes tonight," he told the pair of them. "First one was running your game on a lawman. Second was coming short-handed." To the fallen pimp, he said, "You won't be walking for a while. I'll probably be gone before you're on your feet again, but if you want to try and find me, come to Salt Lake City. Ask around for Porter Rockwell, when you're up to it. We'll finish what we started."

  Turning toward the woman, Colt in one hand, toothpick in the other, Rockwell raised his pistol's muzzle to his hat brim. "Evening, ma'am," he said. "If there's a doctor in this burg, I'd recommend you run and fetch him for your friend. You want to talk to the police about this, chief knows where to find me."

  "Bastard!"

  "Just when I was thinking butter wouldn't melt," he said, and brushed on past her, leaving her to shift the crippled pimp if she was so inclined.

  Or leave him lying where he was, for all that Rockwell cared. He didn't think there'd be a problem with Rance Fowler. He had read the chief as one who went along to get along. Fowler carried the law but closed his eyes to criminal infractions, so he'd have a hard time bracing Rockwell for an act of self-defense. If anything came of it, he would give Fowler his adversary's knife and file a charge of armed assault, maybe attempted murder. Let them deal with that while he went on about his business.

  There was no clerk at the hotel's registration desk as Rockwell entered from the street, his Colt back underneath his belt, the confiscated dagger still in hand. He would have startled any guests, if they had met him in the lobby or ascending to the second floor, but Rockwell seemed to be the only creature stirring in the Grand Hotel.

  He hoped it stayed that way, while he reloaded his revolver, used the privy, and got into bed. A good night's sleep would see him on his way to nephew Lehi's former claim, northwest of town.

  And he would get some answers there, o
r know the reason why.

  Chapter 6

  Breakfast at Delmonico's was two fried eggs, a slab of ham, and biscuits drowned in gravy. Rockwell had a good start on it, chasing it with hot black coffee, when he saw Rance Fowler enter, peer around, then make his slow way back toward Rockwell's corner table. Rockwell concentrated on his food, but gave the chief a nod in the direction of his table's second chair.

  "I understand you had a spot of trouble overnight," said Fowler, as he settled in.

  "Trouble?"

  "Seamus Hannigan."

  "Don't know the man."

  "You shot him?" Making it a question, like he wasn't sure.

  "Oh, him. No trouble there."

  "You wanna let me hear your side of it?"

  Rockwell swallowed a slice of ham, then said, "Pimp and his nanny tried to pull a badger game on me. I didn't bite. He pulled a knife and ran against a pill. Simple."

  "A knife, you say?"

  Rockwell produced the toothpick from beneath his coat and dropped it on the table close to Fowler's folded hands. "Feel free to give it back, in case he wants to try his luck again."

  "I'd guess he has another one by now," the chief replied.

  "So, we're all done then." Working on the gravy biscuits.

  "There was talk of Seamus filing charges."

  "Should be interesting, once I've charged him with attempted murder of a U.S. marshal."

  "Ain't the way him and the lady tell it."

  "Lady." Rockwell tried to keep from smirking, but it wasn't easy.

  "Claim the two o'them were strolling—"

  "She was on the stroll, all right."

  "—when you come up and make a rude remark to Annie."

  "That her name?"

  "It's what she calls herself."

  "Which cathouse does she work in, Chief?"

  "Well, now ...."

  "You want to charge me with assaulting Seamus and his Annie, go ahead. And good luck making the arrest."