by Paul Lederer
There was a place set for him at the kitchen table. It seemed he would be eating alone. The aunts, he knew, ate by themselves. Candida was nowhere to be seen. Her absence took some of the flavor out of the meal for him, but he enjoyed two chicken tamales, frijoles and Spanish rice. Finished, he thanked the aunts and walked into the main room, still hoping to come across Candida. At length he opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, hoping he was not offering some lurking sniper a silhouette to aim at. Staying alive in Los Palmas was becoming more chancy with each passing day.
What would tomorrow and the day after bring, once word got around what he was up to? He thought again of Candida’s advice to just ride away from the town. He thought again of Candida. The girl must have been closed away in her room. Chad decided that the best thing he could do was to turn in early, as he had the night before. Still he stood at the open window of his room, staring out at the purple dusk for a long while before, almost angrily, he shucked his boots and climbed into bed.
Morning found him awake in the gray of predawn once more. Well-fed, well-rested, there was nevertheless an uneasiness in him. He dressed, buckled on his Colt revolver and slipped out of the house again, starting for the canyon. The goat kept in the back yard did not feel as feisty this morning, it seemed, for it stayed well away from Chad, munching on tufts of brown grass.
The goat had nothing to concern him, though it should have. Chad knew that chivo – goat meat – was considered the tastiest for tacos, enchiladas, almost anything the aunts wished to use it for, after it had been roasted in a covered pit. The goat munched on, unaware of its future fate. Chad’s stride, on the other hand, was heavy. It almost felt as if he were climbing the steps to a scaffold he had constructed for himself.
Making his way down into the canyon he again went beneath the cottonwood trees, their tips now shining silver in the light of the rising new sun. After four practice draws, Chad focused his attention on the white rock on the bluff that he had been using as a target. His draw felt much smoother this morning, and as he emptied to pistol white dust sprayed into the air.
‘I think you got him twice,’ Candida said from behind him. She crept forward from the shade of the trees as Chad reloaded.
‘Who?’ Chad muttered. How did she manage to sneak up on him like that?
‘Glen Walker, of course,’ Candida said lightly, striking the same pose as she had a day earlier, one foot raised behind her, against the trunk of the tree.
‘I’m not doing this because I mean to kill Glen Walker,’ Chad said with annoyance.
‘I already told you, you will have to. But you still need more practice.’
Then she turned and walked away lightly, leaving Chad grinding his teeth as he watched her easy stride and sway.
It took a good half-minute of rapping on the door before Ben Cody swung it in. He wore a white apron again. There was the pleasant smell of cornbread baking inside the house. Cody admitted that was what it was.
‘I thought I’d give it a try. A man can only eat so many eggs before he tires of them. Follow me into the kitchen – coffee’s boiling.’
Seated at the kitchen table, Chad watched as Cody opened the oven door and used a pair of towels to remove the tin tray from it. The cornbread was steaming, and Chad couldn’t deny that it smelled appetizing. He told Cody as much.
‘Well, when my wife used to make it, it seemed to rise more. I’m still learning.’ As he was talking, he used a knife the size of a trowel to slather butter on the cornbread. ‘I’m going to have buttermilk with mine,’ Cody said. ‘Want some?’
‘No, thanks. Coffee is fine for me.’
Cut into generous squares the hot cornbread was placed on a platter and served. Chad let it cool for a minute and then dived in. It was good, very good and he took three squares, following it with Cody’s coffee. Cody himself didn’t look as if he were going to quit until the entire stack of cornbread was gone. Chad let the former marshal finish what he wanted before opening the conversation.
‘I’ve come over here because I need to know a few things, Cody. First off, are there any honest men on the town council?’
‘Reg Hicks is a good man. He didn’t go along with the vote on the new tax. He’s a lawyer, but still a decent enough sort.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Chad said. Cody’s eyes narrowed. He wiped at his mouth with a napkin.
‘You’re up to something,’ Cody said.
‘I think I will be, but I’ll need some help.’ Chad took another sip of his coffee. ‘Tell me, Cody, how did Glen Walker ever gain so much power in Las Palmas?’
‘Well,’ Cody leaned back in his chair, hands on his expansive belly, ‘most of the town council members have their own businesses, regular jobs to attend to. Someone – probably Glen Walker himself – proposed that they hire a town manager to handle the day-to-day affairs of the town, leaving them free to go about their own business. That’s where Glen Walker’s authority comes from. I guess over time theyjust sort of forgot about being councilmen altogether and let Walker pretty much manage the town’s affairs the way he wanted to.’
‘I see,’ Chad said, although he didn’t, really. Those men had been elected to do a job, but they seemed to just be a rubber stamp for the policies of the mayor and Glen Walker.
‘Sometimes people just want an elected position for the prestige they think it gives them; they don’t really care about the job itself,’ Cody said with the voice of experience.
‘What about Mayor Swanson? Certainly he was aware of Walker’s maneuvering?’
‘I’m sorry to say the man is greedy and lazy, but he gives good campaign speeches and has a nice smile.’
‘And Judge Lambert?’
‘Well, he was appointed by the county circuit court. He generally does what he thinks will appease everyone else. Also,’ Cody said with a wink, ‘he’s Swanson’s brother-in-law.’
Chad rose and walked to the kitchen window. The goat, untethered, still wandered the yard. ‘You said the outlying ranchers won’t stand for the new tax.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Cody said with a heavy shake of his head, ‘and the only way to collect from them would be to take a small army onto their ranges. Some of those ranchers have twenty, thirty hands working for them.’
‘What was Glen Walker planning to do about them?’ Chad asked, turning back toward Cody.
‘Probably nothing right away, although he does have his own band of paid men: Skinny Jim Foote, Lloyd Pearson, Randall Hart … a few others. As long as he could collect the taxes in Las Palmas he’d let the ranchers slide, for a year or so, maybe. But at some point Judge Lambert could probably find a way to throw a lien on the ranches and even seize them – if they could.’
‘That would be some commotion.’
‘That doesn’t even begin to cover it, Dempster. It would be an out and out bloody range war.’
‘Who’s the biggest rancher around?’
‘Art Spykes of Wagonwheel Ranch.’
‘Do you get along with him?’ Chad asked.
‘We’ve never had any problems between us, outside of a few times his men came into town intent on getting as drunk as possible and I had to lock some of them up. Why?’
‘I was hoping I could persuade you to talk to him and let him know what’s brewing, if he doesn’t already know.’
Cody stretched his arms over his head and answered, ‘I suppose it’s not a bad day for a buggy ride. I haven’t been moving around much these last few days. But tell me, Dempster, what good would it do to talk to Spykes?’
‘Maybe none. I just think the ranchers ought to know that they may have to fight for their land. I want them to know that the law is on their side.’
‘But the law isn’t, Dempster,’ Cody said with a frown. ‘You may be on their side, but that little piece of paper that’s been attached to the town ordinances carries a lot more weight than one man with a badge.’
‘I know that, that’s what makes this whole situation
so tricky. But I’ve made up my mind; I’m siding with the people and not the town hall. What can they do? Fire me?’
Cody was still frowning deeply. ‘Glen Walker wouldn’t be willing to let it go at that, Dempster. He is going to take it very personally if you even look like you’re standing in the way of his plans.’
‘I’ll keep practicing,’ Chad said. The comment made no sense to Cody, but the former marshal let it slide. He rose heavily to his feet.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better wash up and get my buggy ready. It’s going to be a hot day, and Wagonwheel is quite a way to drive in the sun. What are you planning to do, Dempster?’ he asked as he again walked Chad to the front door.
‘First of all, I mean to look up this Reg Hicks and ask just how many of the town council members actually approved the new tax law. You say he’s a lawyer: he might have some idea of how it can be legally stopped before Las Palmas is running with blood.’
‘You’re planning to start a war,’ Cody said once they reached the front porch.
‘No, sir, not at all. I’m just trying to figure out a way to survive one.’
NINE
The low sun had risen enough to glint brilliantly through the creekside trees. Chad Dempster had much on his mind as he started back toward Las Palmas. Had he suddenly gone mad? To even think of trying to stop Glen Walker seemed insane. Yet he felt an obligation to this town and its citizens, most of whom he had never even met. People had the right to feel that the law was working for them and not against them.
Right now he was still the law.
He dipped down into a sandy crossing that forded the narrow stream. The water flowed prettily in the morning light. Silver-bright and sparkling.
The gunman opened up on him as he reached midstream. The buckskin reared up, then settled again as a pair of bullets whistled past. Chad heeled the horse for the far bank, which was dotted with willows along the sandy beach. He swung down before the buckskin had quit running and, rifle in hand, dove for the ground beneath the willow brush as another bullet sheared twigs around him in its passing.
It was silent then. Chad lay still against the sand of the river beach. A few slender shadows from the sun behind the willows lightly stained the earth. He saw no one moving. He could hear only the buckskin horse, apparently calmed, munching on tender willow shoots.
He did not dare move. His attacker had apparently lost sight of him and he didn’t care to give the sniper a clue as to where he lay. His only movement had been to prop himself up on his elbows to give himself a prone firing position. But there was no target. The sun rose higher, a slight, warm breeze wove its way through the silver-green foliage of the willows. Still he waited. Sweat trickled into his eyes.
Whoever had shot at him had not risked this much to simply ride away now. He was waiting for Chad to move, to try to recover his horse. Another half an hour passed as the sun grew hotter. Chad began to believe that he was wrong, that the sniper had pulled out. But he had heard no horse moving away from the creek bottom, and horses are not very good at tiptoeing.
He saw a shadow moving beyond the screen of willows. Just for a second or two. It seemed to be creeping toward him. A man in a crouch, coming his way. Chad’s mouth was dry; his body was bathed in sweat. Minutes passed without anything happening. Had he been mistaken about the ghostly shadow? He blinked the perspiration from his eyes. The buckskin shuffled its feet and Chad glanced that way. His horse had its ears pricked; it was looking in the direction in which Chad had seen movement. He steadied himself behind the sights of his Winchester.
There was a sudden burst of fire from the willows. Sand kicked up around Chad as three shots were fired in his direction. Chad fired at the muzzle blast he had seen, levering four bullets from his own rifle through the barrel. He saw the mysterious shadow rear up, wave its arms and fall back, its rifle falling free. Chad waited long minutes, not wanting to rise if the man still lived.
He did not. After what seemed an hour but was probably only a few minutes, Chad rose slowly and made his way through the heavy brush to the spot where the sniper lay dead. He had never seen Lloyd Pearson before, so he could give no name to the dark-faced man who lay there, mouth gaping, eyes open to the sunlight that filtered through the surrounding trees. It made no difference. He knew where the sniper had gotten his orders, and Chad felt a cool shiver pass through his bones.
How many other men whom he had never even seen were out there, waiting to kill him?
Domino Jones smiled sourly as the tall man approached him at the bar in FitzRoy’s where he was just finishing his third whiskey. He watched Glen Walker in the mirror behind the distorting ranks of liquor bottles.
‘What the hell do you want?’ he growled at Walker.
‘Take it easy, Domino. I’ve never done anything to you, and I might be in a position to do you a large favor.’ Walker signaled to the bartender for a drink, and leaned up on the bar, his elbows planted on the scarred dark wood.
Domino Jones did not hate Glen Walker so much as darkly envy him. Walker had himself a classy little woman. He was always barbered, always wearing fine clothes like the ivory-colored suit he had on now. He had always had his way in Las Palmas. Domino Jones was just a street thug in a ratty red flannel shirt and greasy blue jeans. Right now he still wore his right arm in a sling. To top that there was still some talk of trying him for the attempted murder of Tanglefoot.
‘It’s time for us to clear up some matters,’ Glen Walker said, drinking his whiskey. He looked around to make sure there was no one in earshot. At this time of the morning they pretty much had the place to themselves.
‘What are you talking about?’ Domino asked, baffled.
‘I made a mistake,’ Walker said, turning to lean his back against the bar. He smiled that ingratiating smile of his. He lowered his voice, ‘The marshal has to go.’
‘Tanglefoot!’ Domino Jones said in disbelief. ‘You practically nursed and burped him.’
‘I told you – I made a mistake. Can you handle it?’
Domino’s eyes glittered with dark suspicion. ‘Why me?’
‘Because I’m asking you to. I can’t be involved. Besides, there may be something in it for you – a lot of something.’
‘Like what?’ Jones growled, finishing his own drink.
‘Like getting that attempted murder count against you dropped.’
‘By actually killing him?’
‘That’s right. Handle it with no witnesses around; get yourself an alibi set up. I’ll have the original charge taken care of.’
‘Judge Lambert don’t seem to want to let that go.’ Domino wagged his head.
‘Domino,’ Glen Walker said with a smile as he placed his hand on the big man’s shoulder, ‘don’t give it a thought. Whose pocket do you think the judge is in?’
Byron Starr didn’t stagger into the marshal’s office until 9.30 that morning. Chad supposed his deputy had been involved in a long conversation with Peggy Kimball. Starr didn’t look particularly unhappy, just weary.
‘Sorry, boss,’ Starr said, forcing a smile.
‘For what? I don’t care what time you get off so long as you’re here when you’re supposed to take over for me.’ Chad stood near his desk, trying to get some of the dust off his clothes with a whisk broom. Starr frowned.
‘Did you have a bad morning already?’
‘I’ve had better.’ Chad decided not to tell Starr about the sniper just then. That was over with, and Starr already knew they had enemies in town. Just not how many.
‘Did you see Jones or Deacon Forge around?’ Chad asked as Starr slipped out of his jacket with a yawn.
‘Not Forge, but Domino was in the FitzRoy when I left. We ignored each other.’
‘Let’s hope he continues to act that way,’ Chad said.
‘Why wouldn’t he? What’s he going to profit by continuing matters?’
Chad shrugged. He couldn’t think of a thing, but you never knew what was going on in a man’s mind. He
told Byron Starr: ‘Grab yourself some sleep. You might want to drop the bar across the door – I’m going to be going out for a while.’
‘Important business?’
‘I hope so,’ Chad answered.
It wasn’t hard to find Reg Hicks’s office. Half a block along the plankwalk beyond the courthouse stood a narrow yellow clapboard building with a sign hanging from the awning. ‘Reginald Hicks, Attorney at Law. Thomas Raymond, Notary Public’ Chad entered the small office and walked across the floor to one of the open doors within. A thin blond man with a pen in his hand glanced up, his blue eyes appearing large through the lenses of the round gold-rimmed spectacles he wore.
‘Mr Hicks?’ Chad asked. Hicks’s sharp eyes had already caught the gleam of the badge on Chad’s shirt front.
‘Yes. Come in, Marshal, and tell me what I can do for you.’
‘I’m not sure that I know what you can do for me,’ Chad said, seating himself at Hicks’s gesture. He leaned forward, holding his hat in his hands. ‘I was just hoping that there’s something.’ He was silent a second, taking a deep breath as he studied the pale-haired man. ‘Ben Cody says that you’re an honest man,’ he blurted out.
Hicks removed his spectacles, polished them on a soft square of rag he kept in his desk for that purpose, replaced them and asked in a low voice, ‘Is this about the new tax?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hicks drummed his fingertips on his desktop. ‘I was hoping you might come by about that. Rather, I was hoping you would. I have no knowledge of who you are, know nothing about you or your ambitions.’
‘Ambitions?’ Chad repeated slowly. ‘I don’t suppose I have any except to protect this town, which is what I was hired to do.’ Hicks studied Chad for a long minute while Chad was thinking about what he should say next.
‘All right, here it is,’ Chad said, leaning still further forward. ‘This new tax is going to make a lot of people in town mad. I need to know this: is it legal?’
‘Legal, yes. Moral, ethical, no.’
