Marshal and the Moonshiner

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Of course you didn’t.” I waved it off. “I went off the deep end after she died. Drank even worse than I did before. Lost forty pounds that first month.” I wiped coffee off my cheek with a napkin. “Worst of it was, I got so wrapped up in myself, I forgot I had a beautiful five-year-old daughter. Sissy—that’s Helen sister—took care of Polly. And her husband, Homer, shut me up in his meat locker one night. Kept me there until I sobered up.”

  “Cold turkey, huh?”

  “Purge and puke.” I nearly retched as I recalled those two weeks when I got the booze out of my system. “Barbiturates and belladonna forced on me by that sadistic SOB, Homer Tchetter.”

  “Ouch. That is the hardest way to quit. Where is your daughter now?”

  “She stays with Sissy and Homer since I’m on the road so much. I dropped a card in the mail this morning, showing all the nice green lawns here in El Reno.”

  “Not that silly touristy card the Kerfoot gives out?”

  I was about to say something pithy when the bells above the door tinkled, and Maris pushed through the sheets. She walked to the counter and reached over for the coffee pot. “Before you chew me out, I got to tell you I was in Stauffer’s office this morning. Arguing. He says we’re shorthanded and won’t let me go with you to Oklahoma City today. But that’s bullshit.” She shook out a cigarette and lit it with a kitchen match. “Stauffer sent Jimmy Wells north of Concho on some horse-shit cattle rustling report. He was supposed to be court security for a burglary trial.” She beat her chest. “But you’re looking at court security for today.”

  “I can go to the city alone.”

  Maris choked on coffee, and she snatched a napkin to wipe her chin. “What the hell’s wrong with you people up north anyway? You got melons for heads? Can’t think straight? Look how far going it alone got you last night.”

  “I’ll talk with Stauffer. Charm him.”

  Maris chuckled. “When that doesn’t work, let me know, and we’ll initiate plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “Yeah.” Byron came out of the kitchen with a plate of flapjacks and set it in front of Maris. He leaned close as if someone in the empty diner would hear us. “What is plan B?”

  “We’ll sneak over to the city tonight after I get released from court duty.”

  “Your boss will not like that,” Byron said.

  Maris tossed the rest of her coffee back and grabbed for the syrup. “What that Kraut don’t know won’t hurt him.”

  It took me an unusually long time to climb out of her truck. My ribs ached—either from the beating last night or the ride in Maris’s death trap. My head pounded to remind me I had stitches topside I’d better not break open. Maris put her hand on my arm before I got out. “Thanks for not telling Stauffer I didn’t pick you up the other night.” She looked away. “I just wanted you to know I appreciate that. He’s been looking for a reason to can me, and that would have been all it took.”

  “Stauffer’s the high sheriff. He doesn’t need a reason.”

  “Well, as much power as he’s got, there’d be hell to pay if he fired me without good cause. There’s enough Cheyenne and Arapaho living here that they’d raise hell if he did.” She leaned over the seat and whispered, “See you tonight after court’s finished.”

  “You don’t have much faith in my persuasive abilities.”

  “It’s not that,” Maris said. “I just have more faith in Stauffer being an asshole and telling you to pack sand.”

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  The same gruff secretary with the same friendly sounding name of Melody guarded the hallway leading to Stauffer’s office. She briefly glanced up from her book when I came in, and then her head snapped up again. She looked to my head, and to my eye that had started to blacken.

  “I slipped in the bathtub,” I volunteered. “Is Sheriff Stauffer in?”

  She rose without a word and disappeared into Stauffer’s office. “You can go in,” she said when she reappeared. “But he’s only got a minute for you.”

  “That’s all I need.”

  I walked past the thick mahogany door into the sheriff’s office. Johnny, the big goon I’d seen a couple of days ago, sat in front of Stauffer’s desk, his long legs kicked out in front of him. He wore a black Homburg tilted to the starboard on his big, gomby head, and his double-breasted suit was tight enough that his gun in a shoulder holster bulged. He didn’t stand when I entered, and neither did Stauffer. “I really need Deputy Red Hat today,” I said. “I got a line on Amos, and the sooner I move on it—”

  “What did Red Hat tell you?”

  “That she’s needed for court security.”

  “Then that’s why I can’t spare her. I got some moonshiners we intend taking down today.”

  I pointed to Johnny. “He looks more like security material than Red Hat. If he’s not busy, maybe you should assign him to the court today.”

  Johnny’s eyes locked on mine. It was obvious to me he wasn’t used to the prospect of work.

  “Johnny here is busy,” Stauffer said.

  “With?”

  Stauffer and Johnny remained quiet.

  “If it isn’t important, maybe he can go with me to Oklahoma City to find Amos.”

  Stauffer stood slowly, his huge hands white-knuckling the edge of the desk. He walked around his desk and sat on the edge. “You’re a pushy bastard. Like all federal lawmen.” He reached up quicker than I could avoid him and tapped my head. “And it looks like you got a little too pushy with a couple goons last night.”

  I stepped out of touching range. “Just some thugs who looked to roll me. Red Hat reported it to the city police.”

  Stauffer chuckled. “Good luck with that. They couldn’t find elephant tracks in the snow.” He laughed again. “Maybe Red Hat will be available tomorrow. If I feel benevolent.”

  I stepped toward Stauffer, and Johnny must have read bad intentions in my face. He rose quickly and stepped between me and Stauffer. Johnny’s badge on his chest was about even with my chin, but I would have foolishly taken him on right then. “Sheriff Stauffer is real busy,” Johnny said in a thick accent that sounded oddly foreign. But not German, like Stauffer. “Run along now, Marshal Lane. Like Sheriff Stauffer said, Red Hat might be available tomorrow. If we feel benevolent.”

  I looked from Johnny to Stauffer. He grinned as he clipped the end from a Cuban and lit it. Johnny was there to protect his boss. From what, I could only imagine, and I doubted Johnny had ever actually made an arrest. But by Stauffer’s misshapen nose and bulging, scarred knuckles, I didn’t think he needed protection. “Sure,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  I started out the door when I stopped and turned to Stauffer. “You said a couple goons jumped me.”

  “What’s your point, Marshal?”

  “I never said how many men attacked me. You know something about it?”

  “Good day, Marshal.”

  By the time I’d walked the block to the Kerfoot, my sweat soaked my shirt like I’d been out in a rainstorm. A thin coat of dust had settled on my clothes, giving them a shabby, hobo look. Like most other folks I’d met since I’d landed in El Reno. “Ragwood working?” I asked the emaciated old man behind the desk. Knitting needles clicked together as he worked on his project, a sweater with only one arm, by the looks of it. He caught my stare and held the sweater up. “This is for a friend of mine. Preg tester.”

  “Ah.” It hit me. Pregnancy testers always had a favorite arm they used to check if cows were pregnant. The sweater would leave the man’s friend only one arm to be messed up by the critter’s bodily fluids. “Ragwood?” I repeated.

  “He’ll be in tonight.”

  I could wait. “Any messages?”

  The clerk used the chair to push himself erect and raised on his tiptoes to reach into my room box. He handed me two notes and sat back down to his knitting.

  I plopped down on a bench beside the hotel desk and put my reading glasses on while I read the
message:

  GO HOME OR YOU’LL FIND MORE OF THE SAME MISERY THAT FOUND YOU LAST NIGHT.

  The writing was crude, sloppy, obviously concealing the identity of the author, with nothing on the outside of the envelope. “Who gave you this?”

  “Don’t know.” Click-click-click. “It was in your room slot when I got here this morning.”

  I opened the other one, a Western Union telegram from Yancy. He had interviewed several people on the Wind River Reservation who were willing to testify—if needed—that Amos possessed a wild temper. Another—Selly Antelope’s brother, Billy—told Yancy that Amos caught Cat and Selly dancing at a hoedown last summer, and Amos beat Selly badly. Billy said if Whiskers hadn’t pulled Amos off, he might have killed Selly right then. But nothing on Whiskers yet.

  Yancy had also compared .45-90 slugs from the cow Selly killed to the one recovered from Selly at autopsy. They matched, and Yancy decided they were from the same rifle. “Selly must have been one tough SOB.”

  “What’s that, Marshal?” Thin Man asked.

  “Selly Antelope,” I said. “Must have been one tough bastard to shoot an ass-kicking gun like that.”

  The clerk gave me a puzzled look, and I thought he was only slightly smaller than Selly had been. “Just talking to myself.”

  The clerk resumed his knitting, and I walked the three flights to my room for a nap. With Maris driving her beater truck to Oklahoma City tonight, I’d need all the alertness I could muster.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  A soft rap on my door woke me. I rolled over and grabbed my automatic from the table beside the bed when someone knocked again. I stood and positioned myself to one side of the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Ragwood, Marshal. Deputy Red Hat sent me up to fetch you.”

  I opened the door and held my gun alongside my leg. Ragwood’s eyes widened when he spotted it. His frazzled bow tie matched his once-pressed white shirt, and he nervously shifted his weight between his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and large sweat stains had engulfed his armpits. Welcome to Oklahoma in the summertime. “Deputy Red Hat wanted me to get you,” he stammered. “She’s waiting downstairs.”

  He stood at the door as if I intended to make another run for the city alone. After I holstered my gun and grabbed an extra magazine, I shut the door behind me. “See that?”

  “What?”

  “The closed door,” I answered. “I got the only key that’ll work in it. Right?”

  His face lost his color, and he kicked an imaginary pebble with the toe of his dusty wing tips. “No. No, sir. There’s another key at the hotel desk.”

  “That’s my point.” I stepped as close to him as I could without knocking him to the floor. “Can you anticipate any emergency while I’m gone that would cause anyone to use that key?”

  Ragwood shook his head.

  “Me neither, Ragwood. Now, I don’t want to come back here tonight and find someone borrowed the key and went into my room. We clear on this?”

  “Certainly, Marshal,” he stuttered, and his eyes darted away from mine as if he’d been caught. He stepped back, but a wall prevented him from retreating farther. He looked like he was about to slide down the wall, and I stepped back. The last thing I wanted was for Maris to see me holding another man. Even if it was to prevent him from hitting the floor.

  “Good, then we’ll leave it at that. Let’s say last night was . . . an oversight.”

  I let him off the hook and took the stairs down to the front door. Maris sat at the curb in her decrepit Chevy pickup, fiddling with the spark advance. I paused, my eyes straining to see in the darkness. Since the moment I’d stepped off the train and through the depot, I’d felt I was being watched. But I could be wrong. I’d been wrong more times than I’d admit even to myself.

  I grabbed the door and jerked my hand back. Even at night, the heat was oppressive, the metal of the door skin feeling as if it would melt.

  Maris reached over and opened the door. “Forgot to warn you the handle would be hot even at night.”

  I climbed in, using my bandana as a makeshift glove. “Just drive so we can get a little air moving.”

  Maris started away from the curb while I stuck my head out the window. Even hot air felt better than my sweat dripping over the fresh stitches on my head.

  We hit Route 66 at the edge of El Reno headed toward Oklahoma City. Maris drove without saying a word, and I could tell she was angry. “If you don’t want to take me to Vincent’s, I can make it there on my own.”

  She scowled and stared straight through the cracked windshield. “Not you I’m pissed at this time.”

  “Stauffer?”

  “Bingo.” She jerked the wheel to avoid hitting a jackrabbit the size of a small dog. “That bastard made me sit in court all day when I should have been with you. And I should have been the one going to Concho on that cattle rustling report. That’s Indian country up there, and I’d be more successful talking to the Cheyenne than Jimmy was.”

  I winked at her. “Guess Stauffer screwed you after all.”

  “And that’s the only way he’ll screw me.”

  A Lincoln—identical to Stauffer’s sheriff’s car but sporting blue fenders—passed us like we were pedaling a bike. The driver laid on the horn, and his middle finger jabbed the air. Some things were universal throughout the country—the finger looked like some that had been thrown my way when I drove the Agony Wagon back home. “If you don’t like to work for Stauffer, why not find some other job?”

  “And actually work for a living? Get sweaty and callused hands and all that?” She laughed. “This job’s the only one where I can work all day and still have enough life left in me to go out at night and have some fun. Besides, I’m a pain in Stauffer’s keister, and I like to keep it that way.”

  “So your uncle Byron said.”

  “What else did he say about me?”

  “He said Stauffer tried . . . dating you, and you turned him down.”

  “Date, hell.” She veered to avoid a coyote that had run across the road. It zigged when it should have zagged, and a Diamond T hauling chickens waffled it going the other way. “Stauffer would have raped me if people weren’t around.” She chuckled.

  “That funny?”

  She drove with her elbows while she fished her pack of cigarettes from her pocket. I reached over to grab the wheel as the truck headed for the ditch. She grabbed hold of the wheel and jerked the truck back in our lane just before it dove for the ditch. “The last time Stauffer made a pass at me was at the courthouse. After hours. Called me into his office and shut the door. He was dressed to the nines like he always is when he’s on the prod, with those pressed corduroy pants and Lindbergh jacket. What little hair he has was pasted down with about a can of Brilliantine, and he’d dabbed vanilla extract behind his ears. He’d planned for us to be alone. But what he didn’t plan on—when he got a little too friendly—is me kicking him in the jewels.” She laughed again as she fumbled for a match.

  “And he didn’t fire you for that?”

  “He would have had an uprising on his hands if he did. If he gives me the boot now, every Arapaho and Cheyenne in Canadian County would vote him out of office the next election.” She managed to light a match long enough to start her cigarette and flung the dead Ohio Blue Tip out the window. “I didn’t get off scot free.” She rubbed her cheek as if she remembered something that happened yesterday rather than months ago. “He sent Johnny Notch around to . . . lecture me.”

  “Johnny beat you?” Anger rose up within me. Where I came from, one didn’t beat a woman. I’d helped local law investigate two homicides the last year in Wyoming where women had been beaten and their attacker later found dead. The local law didn’t seem too interested in solving the cases. And neither did I.

  “He gave me a couple . . . love taps. I survived,” she said as ashes fell down her shirtfront. She batted at them, and the truck veered onto the oncoming lane. A
family in a Model A Phaeton jerked their wheel just as I grabbed the truck’s and did the same. “Damned Sunday drivers,” she said looking at them going by, missing us by inches.

  “Why not run for sheriff the next election?”

  “Me? What chance would an Indian have? And a woman, to boot.”

  “With as many Indians as live in Canadian County, you’d have a puncher’s chance.”

  “If they all came out to vote.” A truck with chicken crates piled high passed us. Feathers kicked up by the wind caused a mini-blizzard. And in this heat, I almost welcomed the visual effect. “Indians hereabouts have been beaten down so long, they don’t figure their vote can make a difference. But if Stauffer thinks I can mobilize the Indian vote next election, I at least keep my job. Something about keeping your enemies close.”

  I sat back in the seat and breathed deeply as I readjusted my knees so they wouldn’t ride against the dash. “You started to tell me about Johnny Notch.”

  Maris blew smoke rings that were instantly sucked out her open window. “Johnny Notch. Johnny Notchetti. Moved here from Chicago. Stauffer claims Johnny worked gambling and prostitution at the police department there.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “I’m more inclined to believe Johnny participated in gambling and prostitution. He’s one bad customer.” She flipped her butt out the window. “You stay clear of him.”

  “So is he an investigator at the sheriff’s office?”

  Maris laughed. “Hardly. He’s in charge of the department on weekends, though he don’t do much. He’s mainly there in case someone gets in Stauffer’s way. Then Johnny will move them out of the way. Keep that in mind.”

  “I will.”

  She nodded and looked sideways at me. “I bet you will, too. You seem the type who sizes things up pretty quick.”

  “I listen a lot, is all.” The holster bit into my cramped side, and I moved it closer to the front of my trousers. “Like when Byron told me about Sheriff Stauffer, how he immigrated here from Germany right after the war. Made some shrewd investments in oil property hereabouts and hit it big when oil boomed.”