by L. J. Martin
“I got a place you can look at?” he said.
“Place?”
“Residence. A place the city can rent for you…although it’s not in the city.”
“How far.”
“Mile or so. Were I marshal, I’d want to be out of town aways.”
“Two rooms with an inside pump?”
“One room, but big as two, and the pump’s a short ramble between it and the main house.”
“So, who’s in the main house?”
“Preacher.”
I smiled as I presumed Miss Maddy would be on the property as well, and suddenly an inside pump wasn’t nearly so important.
“So, when can I take a look?”
“How about right now. My buggy’s waiting.”
“Let’s see, it’s been about twenty years since I went for a buggy ride—“
“Too comfortable to suit you, marshal?”
I smiled. “I believe I’d enjoy being squired out for a country ride.”
“Then let’s get at it. Wife is watching the store, and she’ll eat half my hard candy I leave her too long.”
Pointer rattled the traces on the hindquarters of a big bay mare and we headed north out of town, Ranger trotting alongside hardly working up a pant, north along Paradise Road, the only other road leading away from town, except for the east-west road that roughly followed the Transcontinental Line. To my surprise, I learned that the room I was about to see was on property owned by no less than Colonel Mace Dillon himself. That galled me a little, until Mayor Pointer explained that Preacher McGregor rented the place for a small fee, and would be subletting the room to me, so I’d have no call to face Dillon and would not be beholding to him for anything. Still, had it not been for Miss Maddy….
As Pointer reined the buggy into the yard, I could see Miss Maddy herself hanging clothes on the line. To my disappointment, she did not walk over to greet us, but rather Preacher McGregor strode out of the house as if he had a fat beaver in his trap and was afraid it would get away.
As I admired the woman at the clothes line, I remembered Mr. Twain’s words, “One frequently only finds out how really beautiful a really beautiful woman is after considerable acquain-tance…,” so I tempered my enthusiasm, not that I held high hopes for my acquaintance with the beautiful Christian woman none-the-less.
I climbed down from the buggy, and noticed a foot long piece of stiff wire on the ground, sticking up where the wheel had run it over. I bent and retrieved it, bent it, and stuffed it in my pocket, having a use for it.
As he approached, Ranger trotted by him, paying him little attention, but rather walked right up to Miss Maddy, and allowed her to give him a scratch on the ears. She paid me absolutely no attention. I was jealous of the damn dog.
“Nice to see you, John,” McGregor said, hand out to the two of us. “And you, Mr…. What was it?”
“Slade,” I said, again having to think a second.
“Mr. Slade…or now I guess its Marshal Slade.” He looked as if he was sucking lemons when he said it.
“Yes, sir, that’s what it is now.”
As Pointer was tying the bay’s traces to a hitching rail, McGregor headed out toward the barn fifty paces to the rear of the house, at a brisk pace.
“He always got a fire under him?” I asked Pointer as we set out to follow.
“He’s a man driven…by the good Lord I guess,” Pointer said.
The room was a lean to on the side of the barn, a good five paces wide and twenty-five deep, the depth of the barn alongside. Hell, there was room enough for a whole squad of my blue coat boys. Even though there wasn’t a pump inside, there was a beautiful woman at the clothes line not a stones throw away. There I go again, thinking about a future that can’t be with a woman who seems to detest me who’s got a father who looks as if he’s sucking lemons every time he looks at me. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
“What,” Pointer said, “you don’t think this will do.”
“Not enough room—“
“Not enough room. My whole family—“
“Not enough room for me, my horse, my mule, my mutt, and a herd of longhorns,” I said, and laughed again.
“Then you want it?” Pointer asked.
It was sparsely, but adequately, furnished. There was a bed, which was made up with a thick down comforter atop, a small side table with a coal oil lamp atop it—a fine place to finish my Mark Twain volume—a dresser with a small looking glass over it, an armoire facing the bed which would hold ten times the clothing I owned, a couple of benches at the far end flanking the bed, which was well away from the pie safe, kitchen cabinet, and lion-footed oak kitchen table seating four also with a coal oil lamp atop it, with spindle back matching oak chairs. One upholstered piece, a love-seat if my memory served me correctly, slightly worn with a God awful green wool cover—not that I gave a hoot—separated the room into two areas. And two multi-colored oval hooked rag-rugs, each delineating the two sections of the room, would keep the feet warm on cold mornings.
A fella could raise a family in less.
A steamer trunk sat in front of the love seat, serving as a table of sorts, and would do for even more storage.
I turned to the preacher, who was standing at the doorway.
“How much?” I asked, “including the furnishings.”
“Not so fast. Are you a drinking man, marshal?” he asked.
“Not to excess.”
“Well, some think any is an excess.”
“Some can think what they might. Nor do I chew, nor spit on the floor, nor curse unless called for…and never do I take the Lord’s name in vain. And I’m very respectful of women folk and other’s privacy.”
“Humph,” he said. “Well, I’m not taking you to raise. It’s merely a business arrangement.”
“Good thing, as I’m full grown,” I said in return, and got the lemon look again. “How much?”
“Eight dollars a week,” he said, but I could see he was reaching for a star.
“I’ll give you three, and you’ll throw in a stall for my two animals, and give me no trouble about the hound.”
“Humph,” he said, and spun on his heel and headed away.
Pointer laughed and shook his head. “I should have you running the store,” he said, low enough that the preacher couldn’t hear. “I do appreciate your watching out for the town’s money.”
“I don’t favor throwing money away, particu-larly not my employer’s. Let’s go,” I said, and headed out the door behind McGregor.
Chapter Ten
Pointer followed me out and I angled for the buggy. Miss Maddy was still at the line, hanging up a pair of the preacher’s fire engine red long johns. Ranger, at her side, looked as if he was none too eager to leave,…for which I could not blame him, traitorous damn dog.
McGregor paused at the back door to the house and called out just as we reached the buggy. “How about six a week?”
“I’ll go four, including the stalls, and a share of that pasture.” Two fine looking matched grays grazed in a pasture of at least forty acres beyond the barn.
“Blaspheme,” he muttered loud enough that we could hear, and I continued to mount up to the buggy seat. I waved Pointer up alongside.
“All right, damn the flies and all you republicans,” he said, seeming mad enough to spit.
I couldn’t help but laugh and dismounted and walked his way, and Pointer followed. “I guess a fella’s politics should be his own business,” I said, but with a smile. He growled, so I continued, “And I guess the good Lord will forgive me for driving a self-serving bargain, and will forgive you for the ‘damn’ which was, I guess, because I did.” I extended my hand, and he took it.
“Yes, …pardon my language.” He looked a little sheepish for the first time.
Miss Maddy had finally stopped her laundry hanging and was staring at her father as if he’d just made a bargain with the devil for his immortal soul.
Digging in my pocket I
pulled out the last of my twenty dollar gold pieces. “Here’s twenty. That’s five weeks in advance.
Pointer growled. “Now, you’re pretty damn free with the town’s money.”
I could see McGregor’s eyes flare with the generous pre-payment, and he half smiled for the first time.
“Come in and we’ll seal the bargain with some sweet tea,” he said, seeming to calm himself. He turned to the clothesline. “Maddy, will you favor our guests with some tea?”
Now it was Miss Maddy who looked as if she was sucking lemons.
It must run in the family.
To her credit, she gave Ranger another scratch on the ears before heading to the back door.
As we headed for the house, I reassured Pointer. “Town can pay me back by the week, should it need to do so.”
“Town can pay you the twenty, forthwith,” he said, but looked about half irritated.
“Mr. Pointer, Mr. Slade,” Maddy said, in the way of a greeting as she brushed by. This time her dress was simple and soft and hung to her ankles, and, I couldn’t help but notice, clung to her womanly figure. She was shapely enough that the bustle I’d seen her wear was unnecessary, but you can’t figure fashion, nor the thoughts of women who cling to it. One thing was sure, the soft dress clung nicely to Miss Maddy.
I gave her a nod and a tip of the hat, and said, “I hope you’ll call me Tag,” but she paid no attention.
That greeting was the last thing she said to either of us, as she disappeared after serving us the tea, and was not seen again.
*
I was surprised by an office full when I returned, ranger close at my heels. Judge Felix Thorne and another fellow I hadn’t met, Tobin Stewart, were introduced by Sheriff Wentworth. His deputy, Shorty Snodgrass, leaned against the wall in a corner, his wrist bandaged, his eyes glaring at me with something other than brotherly love. Ranger curled up beside my desk, never taking his eyes off Snodgrass. All of them had coffee mugs in hand.
The judge was eyeing me carefully from sunken eyes, deeply set in a rather skeletal face, under a top hat which was the same shade of dark brown as was his cravat, waistcoat, and finely cut coat and trousers.
Before I took my chair—the others were seated around Wentworth’s desk—I asked the deputy, “How’s the wrist doing?”
“Nothing killing a damn dog won’t fix,” he muttered, and I gave him a look that said what I was thinking, until he cut his eyes away.
“So, marshal,” the judge asked, “what do you think of Nemesis?”
“Decent little town,” I said.
“You’ve been a lawman, down in Texas, in lots of other decent little towns?” he asked.
“Who told you that?” I replied, and he looked at me curiously.
“You sons-a-bitches,” the man in the cell yelled through the door. “All of you can go to hell.”
I walked to the doorway separating the office from the cells, and could see my prisoner now had a sling on his arm. I guess the sawbones had visited the jail while I was gone.
“Shut up, or I’ll break the other wing,” I growled at him, but was happy for the interruption so I didn’t have to answer the judge, then closed the door to keep the noise down.
When I turned back I didn’t give the sallow man a chance to continue his questioning. “So, your honor, when do these two go on trial, so we can have a little peace around here?”
“We’ll pick a jury tomorrow and the next day, can we get twelve honest folks together, that’ll take us to the weekend, then maybe next Monday, or Tuesday…give the town folks time to build a decent gallows.”
“Pretty sure we’ll need one, are you?” I asked.
“You know who you got in there?” he asked.
“No idea, I do know he’s got a mouth on him, but other than that….”
“That’s not a Hutchin’s as he claims. That’s Natchez Pete Pelletier, wanted from here to St. Louis, and some farther, for murder and both train and bank robbery. He’s got a birthmark shaped like an eye on his upper left shoulder. No question it’s him. There’s a fifteen hundred dollar railroad bounty on him. We’ve got three witnesses to a murder in a bank in Wichita headed this way on the train, and another coming up from Colorado, all the way from Leadville…but I have his declaration by way of the wire, should he not get here in time. Another, an ex-railroad guard, now unemployed due to the fact he’s got one arm, thanks to Pelletier and his boys, will be in on the Sunday train. No, we’ve got Natchez Pete cold as a whore’s heart.”
“And that reward goes to…?”
“Why, to you and to Wentworth here.”
That took the smile off my face. “Wentworth?”
“Sure enough. You and Wentworth.”
“And to Wentworth because…?”
“Why, he said he was working with you.”
I guffawed. “Sheriff Wentworth was home feedin’ his face, or hoeing weeds in the garden,” I said, not backing up an iota. “First time he saw…what did you say his name was?”
“Natchez Pete Pelletier.”
“First time Wentworth saw Pelletier was right there in that cell.”
“The hell with that,” Wentworth yelled, spittle flying. “We share the law enforcement, hereabouts,” he snapped, lurching to his feet, his arms thrown back as if he was about to charge across the room. Snodgrass, like a yap dog, was close at his heels.
I arose slowly, and spoke softly. “You can have half the work around here, Wentworth,” I said, “when you’re around to do it. You don’t get half the money unless you’ve done something to earn it.”
“We’ll settle this later,” Thorn said, and rose, picking up a walking stick, with a knotted silver handle, that had been resting on the floor beside his chair. It would serve as a fine weapon, as it was Irish shillelagh sized, even if it didn’t conceal a sword blade, which I suspected.
Wentworth and I continued to glare at each other as the judge headed for the door. He paused as he was leaving, turning back to me. “I’d be obliged if you’d join me for supper, marshal. We should get to know each other as we’ll be working hand in hand on some things.”
“My pleasure, judge. And my treat. What time, where?”
“Sally’s is fine, say at six? And we’ll flip for the bill, if you’re a gambling man?”
“My pleasure,” I said.
Wentworth, with Snodgrass close on his heels, stomped out brushing by the judge.
“You got him a mite angry,” Thorne said, a sort of sly smile on his sallow face.
“Not the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last,” I said, not returning the smile.
“He’s a decent friend,” Thorne said, “and a formidable enemy. Don’t push him too hard. I’d hate to have to sit in judgment of one lawman shooting down another.”
“I don’t push at all, judge,” I said, this time the sly smile was mine, “I just push back when need be.”
“Humm,” he said, thoughtfully. “See you at supper, marshal.”
*
Tobias Wentworth, Shorty Snodgrass still close on his heels, strode away from the office, huffing like the Transcontinental, which was moaning it’s approach to town form the distance.
“Damn, that Slade is an irritating sort,” he snapped.
“You gonna let him have that reward, boss?” Shorty asked.
“I’ll get elected president first. Nope, he’s reaching beyond the length of his grasp on that one.”
“He’s a son-of-a-bitch all right. He got himself off to a bad start with the both of us.”
“And he’ll get the short end of the stick, I promise you that.”
“How about I slip that Pelletier a weapon, maybe a blade to stick him with through the bars. I can promise him we’ll let him out, should he stick Slade, then claim he was a liar if’n he says I did.”
Wentworth stopped short and turned to his deputy. “Shorty, I’ll do the thinking around here. That Frenchman would as soon stick you as Slade. Just do your work, let me do
the thinking.”
“Yes, sir,” Shorty said, shrugging.
*
As soon as the office was empty, I took a key back and let Angel join me in the front, pouring him a cup of coffee, thick enough to float a spoon, that was still warm on the stove.
He sat across from me, pulling a chair away from Wentworth’s desk.
“You’re leaving here tonight,” I said.
“You mean I am free? I thought they said a jury….”
“They did,” I said, “but they’ll railroad you right into the penitentiary, and I won’t have it. You’re out of here in the dead of night. My mule, Jackson, will be bridled and outside the back door. You got a place to go?”
“I do. I will go first to Señor Henderson’s to tell my little brother, Ignacio, where I will be in the mountains. There’s a line shack….”
“I want that journal you have.”
“I will take it with me, and keep it safe. Iggy will know where I am. He will be taking a flock to the meadows around the shack in a week or less, if things are as normal.”
“Don’t tarry, Angel, once you set out of here. You’re Remington is on the rack over there and I’ll have a box of shells on the shelf.”
“Si, Señor.”
“Angel, no matter what happens. Don’t use that rifle against anyone who’s after you. You’ll hang, you shoot someone down while you’re on the run, and I don’t want to live with you shooting someone, or your getting shot. You understand.”
“Si, Señor. The mule, she is fast?”
“He is fast, and steady. You keep at it and you’ll be twenty miles or more away come first light.”
“And that is as far as the Henderson place. Then I will go straight into the hills.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a week or less, probably day after tomorrow, Saturday or Sunday, and I’ll bring you some supplies. I’ve got to be back here Monday or Tuesday, depending upon when old Natchez Pete Pelletier is scheduled to be tried. What direction is the Henderson place?”
“Due west, fifteen miles to the next big trestle which is a quarter mile long, then five miles or a little more south, up the draw that is Dead Miner Creek near the place called Piute Spring. It is hard to miss.”
