Nemesis

by L. J. Martin

  *

  I rode out of town to the west, stopping at the Chinaman’s tent just long enough to pull my spare shirt and trousers from my saddlebags and arrange for them to be laundered and pressed, then crossed the tracks to the south near the water tower and a small wood yard and made my way into the hills. Mr. Wong Lee spoke passable English, and had three fine looking children, the oldest only waist high to him, with him only shoulder high to me, and a chubby little wife who never looked up from her steaming pot and washboard. He promised my shirt and spare trousers would look like new by tomorrow late, or I could pick them up with the sunrise on Sunday, and a tenth of a dollar would suit him fine.

  Most that afternoon and evening I spent leading the mule around the hills looking for a place to call my own for a short while, and finally, three miles or so from Nemesis and well off the beaten track, found a cave deep enough to hide my animals and myself, and a mite deeper which I had no desire to explore. One which featured a trickle of water that would serve the four footers and myself and keep us from the weather; rain, hail, or snow…which wasn’t likely.

  The cave was a little whiffy with bat guano when you wandered past the light flooding the opening from the sitting sun, but was flat enough on the bone and hair ball littered floor—I was most likely usurping the home of some grumpy old black bear or mountain lion—to make a fine bed on my bear skin coat.

  The mouth of the cave lay hidden by a thick hedge of tamarisk trees, which in turn was ringed by a hundred pace wide hedge of greasewood and sage; and should I want to stay hidden, which was likely, I’d be spending some time brushing away our tracks which led through the maze of chaparral to our lair. Had it not been for the foot wide wet stream bed, mostly rocks and sand and only occasionally wet and less occasionally a drinkable size pothole, and that for a mere hundred yards, I’d never have found it. And it took a bit of woodsmanship at that, having tracked and back-tacked some mourning dove and honey bees in their flights to and from the water, and some small game trails leading to and from same. Some deadfall in the tamarisk copse served to enclose the mouth of the cave and as a makeshift combination corral and home was ready for man and beast before darkness set in. Tamarisk is lousy firewood, but no oaks or pines were nearby, and I readily settled.

  I would have to harvest some meadow grass should I leave the mule corralled there, then would have to employ some effort to clean up the place of his leavings should I sleep inside. But the weather was so fair I decided to sleep alongside the trickle under the stars. I tossed and turned with my hand and knee paining me, but even hurting in places, I was content in heart, knowing I’d already found the head of the viper. Now to find the rest of the lowlifes.

  As I lay back to enjoy the stars beginning to peek from the darkening sky, bats poured from the mouth of my new home. No tellin’ how deep the cave went into the mountain, but it turned out to be home to many thousands of flying bug eaters.

  Up well before the sun, I took the lever action and climbed some higher onto the mountain, into the pinion pine, and was fortunate to jump a fat doe in short time, just below where some cedar breaks began.

  I had her skinned and hanging from a tamarisk near camp before the sun’s rays reached the bottom of the canyon where I’d taken up resi-dence. More than half her flesh was stripped, salted, and drying in front of a low fire, and the rest sliced and saved for fresh. I rolled the fresh meat and bones, thinking in advance of Ranger’s wants, and hung them up high out of critter reach.

  Fresh fried liver and bacon was a treat almost as good as the steak and eggs at Sally’s, and Ranger made a fine feast of the heart, which was a treat I couldn’t deny him, as he’d stuck by my side for four hundred miles of hard travel, feeding himself, and nary a complaint.

  My hand was badly swollen, but I didn’t think broken, and I took solace in the fact Mr. Shank what’s-his-face was hurting from a dozen spots, and I’m sure nursing broke ribs, which normally put one to moaning and praying for a pain free breath for at least a month.

  I’ve meet many of his craven kind, and although he comes across as hard as horseshoes, I’d guess him a back-shooting coward and would have to watch my rear. Like as not he wouldn’t soil his reputation by letting anyone see him do a cowardly act, but he’d fire on me in a heartbeat, front or back, should he have the advantage of darkness and not be seen…or was the only one to be able to relate the story of how I come to be shot.

  Deciding the animals and I could all use a day of quietude, I took advantage of the new abode. With the larder full and the horse and mule hobbled in the canyon bottom, happy as pigs in mud, hock deep in grass and blooming shooting star wildflowers, I settled back, head resting on my rolled up bearskin, in the shade of the tamarisk, to join Mr. Mark Twain on his travels.

  As I read, “One frequently only finds out how really beautiful a really beautiful woman is after considerable acquaintance…,” I couldn’t help but think of how impressed I was with the look of Miss. Maddy McGregor, and how I’d once heard that beauty was oft times only skin deep. Too bad I would have little chance to get to know her better, to either prove or disprove the supposition.

  One thing I discovered early on in reading the book was that I was sure I’d never enjoy a steamship, as not only the fare was expensive, but it was anticipated that one would spend as much as five dollars a day for off vessel travel and incidentals. Mr. Twain must have been a man of some means before he ventured forth to Egypt.

  Sunday dawned with the smell of dove weed in the clear morning air, and it wasn’t long before I had a frying pan of venison chops crackling while I busied myself with ablutions, including the combing of my hair as best I could. I guessed I looked respectable enough with only two days growth of beard. I’d used some of the doe’s tallow to darken up my leather goods and had combed Dusty to a sheen.

  It took some convincing to get Ranger to stay with the mule and guard the camp, but I finally lowered the doe’s hide from where I’d hung it high up a tamarisk, as wrapper for meat and such, and pulled out a nice thigh bone from the doe, and the convincing became easier.

  Mr. Wong Lee was pleased to see the shiny dime and to loan me his tent to change, and even supplied a mirror, a dash of water, and a fine turtle shell comb to touch up my hair.

  By the time the church bell went to ringing, I was as polished as a rough hand, with limited wardrobe, fresh out of the wild, could be, and joined the throng gathering at the steeple.

  Miss Maddy McGregor stood with her father at the door, greeting those attending and seemed rather surprised when I appeared and gave her a tip of the hat, a polite nod, and extended a hand to her father. And I was surprised she recognized me, as

  I don’t think that other than when she berated me, she’d ever lifted eyes to mine.

  This time her gown was robin’s egg blue and her father was dressed in a fancy black frock coat and a store-bought white shirt with a black silk stock pinned with a gold cross that must have gone two ounces if a pennyweight. He was either the best paid preacher I ever saw, or the heir to an eastern fortune…I guessed the latter.

  I was barely seated as far against the outside aisle as I could get, when in walked Colonel Mace Dillon his self, followed by a half dozen of his riders, hats in hand, hair slicked down, all spit and polish as drovers go. I watched carefully for another familiar face, but Shank Cavanaugh had been left to his own devices, and I presume those devices were currently healing up and trying to get over looking like a piece of pounded flank meat.

  I was impressed with the facility, which must have seated a hundred, if only on backless benches. And with the upright piano, where Miss Maddy seated herself and began to play quietly, a piece I recognized—you’d have to be a dog eating heathen not to know Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus—until her father positioned himself behind the pulpit and lifted his hands for silence.

  After a short prayer and a dose of piano from Miss Maddy and some wailing from the congregation, a smattering of whom even sang in key, he lau
nched into the sins of those of us who had come to pay, cash and penance, for the privilege of having our characters besmirched. I almost made it through the whole service before I

  was called on the carpet, by newfound reputation if not by name, due to the fact that two men had been called to climb the golden stairs only two days prior, and one, currently incarcerated, would surely follow.

  He did make mention that the good of the whole evil incident was the fact the town’s money was still intact, and that, of course, was the last thing said before the offering was taken.

  I ponied up a thin dime, although it pained me greatly to do so.

  To my great surprise, as soon as the service was over, the pews were dragged aside with the help of the whole congregation, and tables sat up. Women retreated to wagons outside and as quickly as one might work up an appetite, those same tables were laden with fried chicken and all the trimmings—I was pleased to see I was to get my dime’s worth and some to boot. I was handed a cup of some kind of fruit punch, which, to my great dismay, seemed to be missing the miracle of fermentation, but didn’t have to pine for long.

  Mr. John Pointer soon sidled up beside me and extended a welcoming hand.

  “Would you care for a little something to put some teeth in that punch?” he asked.

  “Can’t say as I’d object,” I said.

  He looked around making sure he spotted the preacher, who was being admired by a pair of gray headed ladies with girth to match their ages, and looked to be deeply involved in their adulation, before Pointer slipped a flask from his inside coat pocket and quickly topped my cup off.

  “Obliged,” I said.

  Miss Maddy wandered by, not meeting my gaze, until I offered, “That was a well done Brahms lullaby you were playing while we awaited your father.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, and looked slightly surprised, probably that I had any appreciation of music that might be played on anything other than a juice harp.

  The fact was my sainted mother did not neglect my musical education and taught me a fair fiddle, which I seldom used of late.

  She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved away, looking a little confused.

  “Now, to business,” John Pointer said, and got my full attention.

  I was hoping the business involved the reward he’d mentioned.

  “Mr. Slade, in the short time you’ve been in Nemesis, you’ve made it quite clear you can handle yourself in the face of adversity. I know you are on your way to California, but rather than that quite so quickly, how would you like the job of town marshal?”

  I was a bit dumbfounded. I’d come to this town to perform what would probably be the biggest crime of murder and mayhem ever undertaken on any of the many rough and tumble towns along the Transcontinental: the slaying, any way I could affect it, of six men, and here I was being offered the job of the town’s chief law enforcement officer. It was all I could do not to break out laughing, but that being impolite, I rather asked the obvious, “I presume this is a paid position?”

  “Of course. We can talk remuneration in a moment. You do, I presume from your background, know a great deal about law enforcement?”

  I presume he was still under the impression I was that “lawman” from Texas, and I didn’t dissuade him, but again answered without lying. “Sir, I know only a little about the law, and nothing about the laws of Nevada and Nemesis, but then the job of a law enforcement officer is to execute and enforce what others know about the law. I would do as I was instructed as to the laws of the land…and of Nemesis.”

  “Well, sir, then what would you say to three dollars a day and found.”

  “That’s not equal to my last job as a captain in the Union Army.”

  “What does a captain make?”

  “A touch under four dollars a day.”

  “I’ll get that approved.”

  “A touch under, or four dollars?”

  He laughed again. “Okay, four dollars.”

  “You mentioned a reward?”

  He laughed. “Well, there’s damn sure nothing wrong with your memory. I’m authorized to pay you one hundred dollars from the city treasury.”

  “If I take the job, or is that a stipulation of the paying of the reward?”

  “You, sir, earned that reward, job or no job. And you’ll also take possession of the horses and weapons you captured from those blackguards. There was enough cash money in their pockets to cover the window at Sally’s.”

  That made me smile, if tightly. I continued, “By found you mean a place to hang my hat, with at least two rooms and a decent indoor sink and pump and a privy not too far from the back door and my choice of the local restaurants, limited as they may be?”

  He laughed and slapped a thigh. “That’s exactly what we mean. We’ll provide you with a pair of fine horses, your choice of weapons, sidearm and long gun, from any of those my store offers, adequate ammunition, a copper badge, and an office which you’ll share with the sheriff, but you’ll have your own desk…and that’s in addition to what you’ve captured. It’s the town’s office, but the county pays a few dollars a month so the sheriff will have a place.”

  “And a contract for a one year minimum with a month’s severance should my services be no longer needed at some earlier time?” My old daddy said to never sell yourself short. But then again, don’t crowd the trough with the rest of the pigs, and I had multiple reasons to become a Nemesis law officer.

  Hell, I’d take the job for a dime a day, if he’d said no to everything else, particularly as the last job of pay I had was with the Union Army, and the paymaster seldom caught up with us and it was slightly more, one hundred fifteen dollars and fifty cents a month. Of course, I wouldn’t end up as canon fodder in this job, although I more than likely would have my hide equally ventilated with lead pills. And there were times, as Captain, when you were at work twenty four hours a day…but come to think on it, it may be the same with lawman.

  “Done,” he said.

  But I was not quite ready to shake on it. “It has come to my attention that Colonel Dillon seems to be the stud duck around these parts. Is he part and parcel of this offer?”

  Pointer looked a little offended, and cleared his throat before he answered. “Dillon runs the Lazy Snake, the bank, and the Paradise Valley Land and Cattle Company over across the way. He doesn’t run the town, we do…by we I mean the city council, with me as the ‘stud duck’ to coin your terminology. Nemesis is located on part of three hundred twenty acres my wife and I homesteaded a month before Dillon showed up around here, bought up some railroad sections, and started consolidating the Lazy Snake. I sold every town lot for every business you see around here, including trading Dillon a couple of lots for a couple of stray parcels he had separate from his ranch…and he’s still got a burr under his saddle as he thinks I beat him in the bargain. He may be the stud duck at the Lazy Snake, but he doesn’t own Nemesis, even though he acts as if he does from time to time. He was not consulted on this offer, and there was no reason to do so, as he’s chosen not to serve on the council.”

  “Good enough,” I said as I extended my hand. “You’ve got yourself a lawman, Mr. Pointer.” As we shook, I couldn’t help but think about how much easier it was going to be to discover exactly what, and who, had executed the dirty deed at the Bar M.

  As soon as he dropped my hand, he turned and waved to three other men who had gathered at one of the tables. They headed our way.

  “Now, I’d be pleased to introduce you to two of the town council.”

  Isaac Ironsmith was one of them, as was the town doctor who was somewhere on a call, Phinias Pettibone who ran the livery, and Paul Polkinghorn who was the manager of Sally’s but was also among the missing as he was not a church going sort, so that was the five of my new employers.

  At least, I presumed, until they discovered my intent was to fill the town with cold bodies.

  Chapter Eight

  Dillon was up before the sun as was us
ual for the cattleman. Chang always brought him his coffee as he finished his ablutions. It was his habit to shave every morning as he felt a clean face showed off his Van Dyck mustache and beard nicely. He sent Chang to fetch Curly Stewart, who’d gone into town and not returned until after he’d doused the house lights.

  Curly was awaiting him in the kitchen, enjoying a cup himself.

  “So, did Willard have an answer from the Salt Lake sheriff?”

  “He did. Seems no one over that way ever heard of Taggart Slade.”

  “Means nothing,” Dillon said thoughtfully. “The man said he came from that direction. No reason the sheriff should know anything bout him, particularly if he stayed out of trouble.”

  “What’s your interest in him, Colonel?”

  “You worry about the cattle, Curly. I’ll worry about you, the cattle, and every other damn thing that effects, or may effect, the Lazy Snake.”

  “Yes, sir, no offense.” Curly sucked his coffee down and rose to leave. “Anything special on your mind, Colonel…regarding the ranch, I mean,” he added sheepishly.

  “Is Cavanaugh up and around?”

  “Haven’t seen him. He’s still out of sorts. You hear about the council offering that fella Slade the job of town marshal?”

  “The hell you say. They’re damn fools, knowing nothing more about the man other than he is a fair shot. Hell, every man in my brigade could have made that shot with a Sharps.”

  “Still, he’s the new town marshal.”

  Dillon couldn’t help but smile. Shank Cavanaugh was as fast with a gun, and as accurate, as any man he’d ever seen, but he didn’t take to an injury of any sort, in fact he babied himself with the slightest bruise or even a runny nose. Then man was a former bullwhacker, not the kind you’d think was faint of heart, and had killed many a man since…but always with a sidearm, never in a rough and tumble brawl. Still, he was a man to be reckoned with, dangerous as the snake who’d probably sired him. Dillon wondered, should he have Shank put an end to this new town marshal before he became a pain where a pill couldn’t reach, or just ignore the man?