Nemesis

by L. J. Martin

  Like he did often, he decided to merely sit back and watch. Hell, the man didn’t look so tough to him, even if he had beat Cavanaugh down like a chicken fried steak.

  The man would probably head out to California after receiving his first month’s wages.

  *

  I’ve always been an early riser, and I was up, packed—leaving some of my weapons and gear hidden in the wind cave—and at the front door of my new office with a brass sky to the east just as the edge of the morning sun licked the horizon, melting the brass to white hot.

  The door was open, and I entered, presuming there may, or may not, be a jailer at hand. Sure enough, there was a fella with a copper star on his chest asleep in the sheriff’s chair, leaning well back, legs propped up, mouth hanging askew, snoring away.

  He didn’t stir when I walked in, Ranger at my heels. I guess he couldn’t hear over his own window rattling snore. A black-iron pot belly stove hunkered in a far corner, and atop it sat a tin coffee pot. Ranger put his haunches down a few feet from the sleeper and eyed him carefully, seeming to be a little distrustful, as I crossed and found the stove and pot cold to the touch.

  “Damn,” I said aloud, as I had not slowed enough to brew a pot before packing up and leaving camp.

  He stirred, Ranger growled low, and he opened one eye. I guess he thought a timber wolf had snuck up on him as he leapt to his feet, slapping as his holster, not realizing his six gun was at rest on the desk top.

  “Whoa, there,” I yelled at him. “That’s my hound, and he won’t take lightly to you puttin’ a muzzle in his direction.”

  He stumbled a half dozen steps away from Ranger, his back to the wall, his sleep reddened eyes still sweeping the room until they finally lit on the Colt’s on the desk. Ranger growled a little more ominously.

  “Don’t pick it up,” I warned, but his brain obviously had yet to kick in, and he dove forward and snatched the firearm up, and, as I expected, Ranger was in the air before he could bring the Colt’s to center on the big dog.

  One hundred twenty pounds of flying Dog, and deputy, crashed against back against the wall, his gun-arm wrist in Ranger’s big chompers, and him screaming like he was being et by a bear, which wasn’t far from wrong.

  Sighing, I only hesitated a second before I charged across the room and got between them, yelling, “Ranger, down. Down, boy. Don’t eat him till we know who the hell he is.”

  Both Ranger and I backed away, but not before I had the man’s firearm in hand. The deputy’s eyes were the size of saucers as he rubbed a bleeding wrist, and eyed the gun rack behind the sheriff’s desk as if he was going to go for a scattergun.

  “You’re pretty much a hard head, aren’t you, deputy?”

  At least he turned his attention to me and away from the rack. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  “I’m the new City Marshal, Taggart Slade, and I presume you’re a sheriff’s deputy as I was told the marshal would be working alone.”

  “You’re Slade. I heard about you.”

  “I’m Slade. And that’s Ranger, and he don’t much like guns in hands other than mine.”

  “Humph,” he managed, studying his wrist.

  “You’re lucky if it’s not broken.”

  “No, the damn mutt is lucky, as I’d kill him for sure was it broke.”

  “You got a name, deputy?” I asked, not too politely.

  “Yeah, I got a name. Shorty Snodgrass, from Moline, Alabama, by way of the Confederate Army, if it’s any of your beeswax.”

  I smiled, if a little tightly, then advised him, “Well, Shorty Snodgrass, killing my mutt might take some doin’ as you’d have to go through me. He and I are pretty tight.”

  “Humph,” he again managed, then snapped, “I got to go see the sawbones and he’ll be charging me at least a quarter, and more if’n I need some cat gut. You gonna pay?”

  “Ain’t my wrist, and I didn’t swing on Ranger. But I’ll take it up with him…maybe he’s got a quarter hid out somewhere.”

  “Very damn funny,” he said, and headed for the door, slamming it hard enough that dust motes floated down from the ceiling.

  “You’re a grumpy old fool,” I said to Ranger as I crossed the room to try and find some coffee makin’s in a white washed cabinet that sat far enough from the pot belly so as not to catch fire. He yawned, chased his tail a couple of circles, then flopped down and put his head on his paws, looking as if he wanted to spit the bad taste out of his mouth if dogs could only spit, while I fingered some kindling out of a box next to the pot belly.

  “Señor, the coffee is in the bottom drawer of the gordo sheriff’s desk.”

  I walked to the open door to the jail section, and saw the same boy I’d seen before, a little less swollen, with his face pressed to the bars.

  “I’m not sure it’s fat he’s carryin’,” I said, “He’s thick as Adam’s off ox, but looks pretty hard to me.”

  “Please, por favor, do not tell him I said gordo.”

  “No problem. What’s your name, son?”

  “Angel.”

  “And why are you in the hoosegow?”

  “I am in the jusgado because—“

  “How about you two shuttin’ the hell up,” the voice came from the darkness in the other cell.

  “Angel and I was about to have a cup of coffee,” I said, then added, “And if you want one, you’ll show a little more respect.”

  His “humph” was as loud as the deputy’s, but he did quiet down.

  “So?” I asked the boy.

  “I wanted to know who murdered mi padre. And all the gringos in the Saloon took offense…maybe because I asked with my Remington in hand.”

  “Did you aim it at anyone, or fire off a round?”

  “No, sir, but I would have if I thought it would help.”

  “So, you didn’t shoot nobody, just asked?”

  “I merely inquired,” he shrugged, “but they did not appreciate my manner, or so the sheriff has informed me.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be named for your father, would you, and your last name wouldn’t be Sanchez?”

  “Si, Señor, all that is true.”

  “I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “The pump is behind the jail, just outside the back door.”

  By the time I had the coffee brewed and had poured cups for the two prisoners and myself, Sheriff Tobias Wentworth strolled in.

  “I heard you was made marshal,” he said, without bothering with good morning or go to hell. He did give me enough of a smile to show off his missing tooth…then, again, maybe it was a grimace.

  “I heard that too,” I said, blowing on my coffee.

  “Is that coffee I see my prisoners drinking.”

  “Sure is.”

  “They only get one meal a day, and that’s supper.”

  “Is this a city jail, or county?”

  “Well, technically it’s city, but they’re damn sure my prisoners.”

  “Well, I don’t starve nor abuse prisoners in my jail, no matter whose they are. Unless they start the abusing, of course.”

  I could see him beginning to redden around the collar, but he endeavored to hide his anger. Finally, he asked, “What the hell is that hound doing in my office?”

  “Our office. I’ll keep him on my half, should he bother you.”

  “And that won’t bother me?”

  “Your problem, I guess,” I said. I figured I might as well get things square between him and me right off, as I figured he thought he was stud horse around the whole state, much less this shared office. After all, he was Colonel Dillon’s man in law, or so I’d come to believe.

  He stood and merely stared at me, as if I was something he’d cleaned off his boot sole after stomping through the corral.

  Finally, he fetched a cup out of the top drawer of his desk, walked to the pot belly and poured it full, then eyeballed me over it’s rim as he blew it.

  “Do you want me to put a chalk line on the floor?
” I asked, somewhat bemused.

  “Won’t be necessary. I’ll just give him a kick should he get in my way.”

  “As you wish…you’d probably do fine goin’ through life with a peg leg.”

  Again he stared at me. “Damn if I don’t find you a braggadocios sort, even when it comes to your cur.”

  “No brag, just fact. Ol’ dog don’t take to bein’ kicked, nor do I, to him being kicked, nor do I to myself being on the toe end of a boot.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, and headed for the door, then turned back when he had the knob in hand. “I’m gonna catch some breakfast. You seen my man Shorty?”

  “Didn’t catch his name,” I lied, “but there was a fella here about shoulder high to me and round as you snoozing like Methuselah, when I came onboard.”

  “So, where’d he go?”

  “Said he was headed for the sawbones.”

  Again, the glare, then he asked, “What the hell for?”

  “He was thinkin’ of givin’ ol’ Ranger there a kick. Turned out to be a serious mistake.”

  The glare was hard enough to pierce the rock walls of the jail, but he didn’t bother to press it, merely slammed the door behind his broad butt.

  Again, dust motes filled the air. Should I anger the county law enough, at least the rafters would get a cleaning. I had to chuckle a mite as I plopped down in my new chair, behind my new desk, and it seemed Angel had heard the whole thing.

  “Señor Marshal, he won’t take being talked down to.”

  I arose from my new desk, grabbed a key ring, walked in and opened his cell and waved him out into my office, shutting the door to the cells as he passed through. I motioned him to a ladder back chair beside my desk, and he took it, looking a little surprised.

  “Am I free?” he asked.

  “No, not yet, but I want to have a little palaver with you, and I don’t want that other fella to hear what I got to say, you understand?”

  “Si, Señor. My mouth is sealed.”

  “Good.”

  We had a long talk, until I began to worry about Wentworth returning, then I returned Angel to his cell.

  The most interesting thing I learned, Angel and his brother, Ignacio, are in possession of a journal which should be of great interest to me.

  Chapter Nine

  I didn’t wait for the sheriff or his deputy to return, rather I placed a note on the door explaining that I was at Sally’s and would return shortly.

  Wentworth had finished his breakfast but was still sipping his coffee, while he regaled the skinny waitress with stories of his exploits as a lawman.

  I joined him at his table, without being invited. He did not jump with joy, particularly as Ranger moved to a nearby wall and flopped down so he could see the whole place.

  “How about cackle berries and crisp bacon?” I asked the girl.

  “And put my breakfast on the new marshal’s bill,” Wentworth said.

  I eyed him carefully, checking out his prodigious girth. “He only has one breakfast at a time, I hope?”

  “Only one,” the girl answered, as if he occasionally had two or three.

  “Humph,” he said, reddening, and still not smiling.

  “Sheriff job don’t pay much?” I asked.

  “Probably a damn sight more than marshal,” he mumbled.

  “So, I know what the old boy is doing behind bars, how about the kid?”

  “He’s my prisoner,” Wentworth said, a little defensively.

  “So, what’d he do?” I had already heard it all from the boy, but wanted Wentworth’s version.

  “Assault with a deadly weapon, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest—“

  “Damn sure looks like he resisted arrest, beat to hell as he is. How many of you did it take to bloody the kid up like that.”

  “He’s been a rebellious prisoner,” Wentworth snapped. “And it never takes more’n just me. That kid is going to prison.”

  “What’s he, about sixteen?”

  “He’s seventeen, and that’s old enough to pay for what you done.”

  I noticed him looking over my shoulder and heard quiet footfalls, so I turned. The woman was a beauty, even with tiny lines at the corner of her large opalescent blue eyes and rouged mouth. Just enough freckles showed through her paint to be charming and youthful.

  Pretty as she was, she didn’t look too pleased as she spoke. “He’s just a kid, and didn’t do a damn thing and you know it, Tobias. He was angry about Shank shooting his poor old daddy down like a dog, but he never even cocked that Remington.”

  I got to my feet and shed the hat, as any gentleman would, even though she dressed a little like a soiled dove in a lace trimmed velvet gown showing a hint of cleavage between generous womanhood, and looked as if she might have had a past.

  “Lizzy Perlmutter,” she said, extending her hand like a man would.

  I shook with her soft, slender hand as I introduced myself, almost saying my real name as I was a bit mesmerized by those eyes and the soft auburn hair that fell to the middle of her back…not to speak of the cleavage which was hard to keep eyes from.

  “So, you’re the new town marshal?”

  “Humph,” Wentworth grunted, but I ignored him.

  “Yes, ma’am. At your service.”

  “Well, welcome. Don’t believe everything Tobias tells you, he’s a regular blue norther when it comes to telling windy tales.”

  Again, he humphed, and I couldn’t help but smile, nor like Miss Lizzy Perlmutter.

  “Are you employed here, Miss Perlmutter?” I asked, still standing.

  “Sit down. I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”

  “A pleasure,” I said and she took a seat between us.

  “Actually, I own the place, and appreciate your dropping in. I appreciate the business, and the rest of the customers seeing the law here now and again.”

  “So, Sally?” I asked.

  “Sally went to meet her maker. Consumption got her a couple of years ago. Sold me the place cheap and on time. I send her old mama a draft every month for another year or so.”

  Swan Neck arrived with my breakfast, with some thick slices of brown bread lathered with butter, and a fist-sized vat of honey to boot. And I dug in, listening to Miss Lizzy trade barbs with the Blue Norther while I ate. She didn’t give an inch, and he seemed real irritated that she didn’t fawn over him, particularly since I watched and listened.

  After they’d slowed insulting each other, the girl arrived again with the coffee, then left, and I asked Miss Lizzy, “What’s that girl’s name? This is the second time she’s served me.”

  “Brighid,” Miss Lizzy said. “Brighid Fimple. Been here longer than I have, straight from Cork County, via Boston. She was a friend of Sally’s, from the old country.” She laughed, and I liked it, then she continued. “She’s got lots of butterflies in her belfry, but she’s an honest soul and always on time. Of course she rooms here, so it’s hard to be late.” Again she laughed.

  I had shoveled in my breakfast and now my coffee was again too hot to drink, so I waved the girl back. “I am happy to stand Sheriff Wentworth to breakfast, this time,” I said, cutting my eyes to him so he’d know it wouldn’t be a habit, “so what do I owe?”

  Miss Lizzy extended a palm out, stopping her, then turned to me, “You sign the tab here if you’re a suspicious sort, if not I just tally it up and turn it into the town council every month.”

  “Suit’s me you keeping track, however I don’t put other folks on the town expenses, not in my contract, so I still owe you for Wentworth.”

  “My pleasure, on the house… . Like I said, I like having the law around.” She laughed and added. “Still he owes you for the favor… as it’s you I’m doing it for.”

  I dug in my pocket and dropped a dime on the table for Brighid. “I’ll do my own tippin’ I said, replaced my hat. “Nice meeting you, Miss Lizzy,” I said, and shoved my way through the batwings.

  Behind me I could hear Wentwor
th. “Damn peckerhead.”

  And Miss Lizzy’s reply, “Damn good lookin’,” she said.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I’ve often thought of myself as many things, but good lookin’ has never been one of them. Maybe those opalescent eyes don’t see so good.

  *

  After Slade left, Lizzy got up to leave but Wentworth waved her back to her chair.

  “So, you hadn’t met this Slade fella before?” the Sheriff asked.

  “No. First time I ever laid eyes on him. I was out back when the bank was being robbed.”

  “So, maybe you’ll feel him out…find out his background and such?” Wentworth asked with a bit of a sly grin.

  “You can do your own detective work, Tobias,” she said, with enough of a smile as so not to be insulting, but you could see she was a bit peeved.

  “You owe me, Lizzy.”

  “How’s that, Tobias. I don’t remember you doing a damn thing to indebt me.”

  “I help keep this place peaceful.”

  “I guess that’s true, and I feed you full of whiskey with no pay about half the time, and don’t tell Martha that you’re sniffin’ after my girls. That should make us about even.”

  Tobias got red in the face and stood so quickly he knocked the chair down to the floor behind himself. Then he leaned forward with his knuckles on the table. “Don’t you be using my wife’s name in this place, Perlmutter, and don’t you threaten me.”

  “That was no threat, Tobias….” She left the rest unsaid, as he knew she meant it was a promise.

  “You’re likely to have a fire here some early morning, Lizzy. That would be a shame, this canvas roof and all.”

  She arose and spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the back of the saloon. “Hope you enjoyed your breakfast, sheriff.”

  He sputtered a moment, then spun on his heel and stomped out.

  *

  No sooner had I plopped down at my desk, than the door swung open and the town mayor, owner of the general store, John Pointer, ambled in. I almost stood at attention, as he looked so much like our departed president, Mr. Lincoln.