by L. J. Martin
“Fine, tell Pelletier that you want to go back to Mexico, and if you get out that you’ll head east to the road out of Salt Lake City, just to throw any trackers off.”
“East, to the road south out of Salt Lake City.”
“Make sure Pelletier knows.” I handed him the piece of wire I’d picked up at McGregor’s, and had shaped like a key, and handed him a key to the cell. “Leave the wire in the keyhole, bent just like I’ve got it, as if you’d used it to pick the lock. Return the key to my desk drawer. I’ll make sure Snodgrass is out of here after I have supper with the judge. When you hear us leave, wait until you count five hundred…you can count?” He nodded, and I continued. “Then you hightail it out of here, out the back. The saddled mule, outside the back door. Try not to wake Pelletier.”
I repeated the instructions, until I was sure he had them down, then returned him to his cell, key and wire in his pocket. Luckily, Pelletier was snoring away, oblivious to all else.
Jackson was at Pettibone’s Livery stable and I headed there, paid his bill of fare, and explained to the stout little stable master that I was taking the mule out to my new facilities at the McGregor’s, then grained him well, watered him, and tied him behind the jail with a hackamore on and lead rope keeping him at the ready. Angel was young and tough, and could ride bareback.
The judge was a pleasure to dine with, and although he was a bit of a sycophant when it came to Colonel Dillon, he seemed a decent sort of gentleman. Before he had the chance to grill me, I made it clear that I wasn’t particularly fond of talking about my past, that the memory of killing men upset my digestion, and I’d just as soon talk of the future. That seemed to satisfy him. We sat, and talked, with Ranger curled up beside me, and sipped a decent whiskey until almost half past eight, then he excused himself. I purposefully lost the flip, telling him a white lie about which face was up, and bought his supper with most of what little I had left. With luck, the town would be returning my rent money soon.
As I suspected, Shorty was at the sheriff’s desk, already asleep. I slammed the door, and he leapt up and ladled a cold stare over me.
Chapter Eleven
Shorty, we’re going to have to work together, and I, for one, don’t like to have bad feelings. I’d be proud if you’d accompany me over to Sally’s and let me buy you a few drinks of good bourbon whiskey?”
He eyed me, more than a little suspiciously. “You want to buy me a few drinks?”
“Yeah, I feel bad about your wrist and all. How about it.” I gave him my best gambler’s bluffing smile, and he folded.
“Sure. Why not. I could use a nightcap.”
“Hell, have you eaten?”
“I had a can of peaches.”
“The hell you say. That’s not fittin’ for a hard working lawman. I’ll buy you a beef steak as well.”
“Let’s go,” he said, finally managing a stupid grin.
Shorty was short in stature, and quite a bit shorter in brains.
It was midnight, and a half dozen whiskies, before I helped Shorty back to his boss’s desk, where he promptly put his feet up and went to snoring, not bothering to check on his prisoners. I did so, and found the one cell door standing open, and Pelletier snoring away.
Before I left I checked to see that the wire was left in the keyhole and my key returned to its place in the drawer. Angel proved himself to be an Angel.
With Ranger at our heels, Dusty took me out to my new abode.
*
I was up before sunup and surprised when I walked into the barn to saddle up, that Preacher McGregor was feeding a couple of shoats he had in a stall with hog-wire around it’s lower half at the far end of the barn.
“Mornin’,” I said, grabbing my saddle off a rack that had had an empty slot.
“Good morning, marshal. I’d appreciate it if you’d flop your tack over the rail to the stall you use, and I’d appreciate it if you’d use the stall next to the pigs.”
I started to say that I’d appreciate it if he’d jam a pitch fork in his butt, but didn’t. Nor did I sic Ranger on him, as came to mind. Rather, I nodded.
He finished and waited by the barn door until I had Dusty saddled. I started to mount up, and to my surprise, he asked, “I don’t guess you’ve got any supplies yet. Coffee?”
Thinking he was already setting out to be a borrowing neighbor, I merely shook my head.
“Then how about coming inside and letting me pour you a cup? Fella shouldn’t have to leave home without a cup of mud.”
I was almost speechless, but managed to nod and to tie Dusty to a stall rail, and then follow him in.
Miss Maddy was at the stove, her bruise considerably better, at least the swelling had receded, and gasped when she looked up to see me enter. She was fully dressed, but her hair was up in a pile on her head, and she ran for a door leading into the living area, with what I presumed was a pair of bedrooms beyond.
“Father,” she called out as she scattered. “The least you could do…”
The preacher laughed. “Women, vanity is a heavy cross they must bear.”
I smiled, and took a seat at a beautiful walnut kitchen table, as he poured me a cup and sat it in front of me. “Cream?” he asked.
“No, sir. Never developed the habit. Most of my coffee’s been aside a campfire a far piece from a milch cow.”
“Cattle droving?” he asked, taking a chair across from me.
“Some, but mostly in the Union blue.”
“Here’s to the end of slavery,” he said, toasting me with his coffee cup.
“And to the country, rejoined.”
We drank. I had figured him for a southern man, but now I wondered.
I glanced up to see a fine double barrel shotgun resting on a separated pair of antelope horns over the kitchen door.
“Fine looking weapon,” I said.
“Good for coyotes, should they bother my chickens,” he said, a bit of a sly smile.
“Two legged ones as well?” I asked, my smile equally sly.
“Only if absolutely necessary.”
I was pleased to note he was a practical man, even if a God fearing one.
“That, sir,” I said, “is about as fine a cup of Arbuckles as I’ve ever had.”
“Compliments to Maddy, not to me.”
About that time, she reappeared, a dust cap covering her mound of hair. And if I wasn’t mistaken, she’d added a little color to her cheeks and lips.
“As I said, that’s a fine cup of coffee, Miss Maddy.”
She actually smiled. “An everyday task, marshal. Since you’re to be a neighbor, possibly you’d like to join us for Sunday supper? I’ll show you some real home cooking.”
“I would, ma’am, should the job not interfere. I’ve found that law enforcement doesn’t always respect the Lord’s day.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Let me know by Saturday, tomorrow, I guess, and if you can come, the invitation stands.”
We made small talk until I finished my coffee, and the preacher walked me out. “I thought you mentioned you had a mule as well?” he asked as I mounted.
I was forced to tell a small lie. “He’s still at the livery. I’ll bring him, or one of my new horses, out this evening.”
“Fine, stall next to the pigs, remember?”
“Yes, sir, next to the pigs.”
It was a quiet ride into town, along Paradise Road, with not a soul to pass.
Shorty awoke as I entered.
“I guess I owe you a thank you for the steak and too damn many drinks,” he said, rubbing his forehead.
“My pleasure, Shorty,” I said, and headed for the door to the cells. “You’re fine company,” I lied.
I slung it open, and feigned a surprised gasp, then turned back. “Where the hell is the boy?”
“What,” Shorty said, and ran over to stare at the open cell door.
I walked over and pulled the wire from the keyhole, and heard Pelletier cross to the bars. “What the hell…”
he said.
“You didn’t see him escape?” I asked the Frenchman.
“Hell no, or I’d have gone with him.”
I turned to Shorty, officiously and accusingly, “How the hell did this happen, deputy?”
“I don’t… I got to find the sheriff.”
“A little late for that,” I snapped.
“How about a cup of coffee?” Pelletier asked.
“Sure, when you tell me if the boy said anything.”
“I should help my hangman?” he asked with a laugh.
“You should, and I’ll throw in some hotcakes from Sally’s.”
He seemed to think on that a moment, and I could almost see his mouth water.
“And bacon?”
“Yeah, where did he go?” I could see Shorty lean forward, hopefully.
“Last night, after those rotten beans Shorty brought us, we talked a little. He said, should he get out of this hoosegow, he was headed east, to pick up the Salt Lake road south, then all the way to Mexico. …A half dozen flapjacks and I like my bacon crisp.”
“I’ll get to it,” I said, watching as Shorty headed for the door.
*
Sheriff Wentworth was a little put out when I refused to join the posse he assembled. I told him I was a hunter from the old school, and I’d hunt alone.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and mounted up and lead a half dozen men east, none of whom looked as if they’d last the day out. It was all I could do not to smile.
I had another pair of horses that Pointer had promised to me, also stalled at the livery stable, the two that the bandits I’d shot down had bequeathed me, post mortem. I also had a pack saddle there, that Jackson had carried all the way from the Salmon River country. I decided to see how one of the horses would pack, and headed that way, then to Pointer’s store, where I stocked up for myself, and for Angel.
“God’s eyes, marshal,” Pointer said, as I stacked the counter full of goods. “You plan on spending a month chasing that kid?”
“Can’t be too prepared,” I said. “I got to sign for this as you haven’t gotten my twenty back to me yet.”
He shook his head. “I’ll front you the twenty, then take what you owe for the supplies out of it and give you the change when the council approves the expenditure at the next meeting, and I turn in the total of the supplies for your reimbursement.”
“Fine,” I said, and headed out with both of us carrying an armload. I packed the panniers on either side of my new steel gray gelding, mounted up, and rode out of town into the hills to the south for a half mile before turning west, following Angel’s directions.
Henderson’s place was little more than a pair of line shacks, a small barn, and a corral, but it had a fine flowing spring, and Henderson himself was cordial, sitting me down at his table for a cup of coffee, laced with a little shot of rye whiskey.
Ignacio, Angel’s brother, was already headed west into the hills, driving a flock of a hundred woolies with the help of two Shepard dogs, or so Henderson informed me. Another two hundred head grazed the hills near Henderson’s shacks.
“Fine looking sheep,” I said, but he ignored the compliment.
“You know, Ignacio Sanchez was a fine man, and his sons are both good boys.”
“What I know of Angel, I’d agree.”
“But you’re dead set on taking him back to jail? As I heard it, he was just seeking information on the shooting of his father.”
“He’ll get a fair trial,” I said, lying, for if I had my way he’d never see the inside of a courtroom. He’d stay free.
“Not if that damned Colonel Dillon or that scum, Cavanaugh, has anything to do with it, and if it takes place in Nemesis, you know they’ll be in the middle of it.”
I finished my coffee, walked out while trying to reassure him. As I sucked up the latigo on Dusty and the steel blue, I continued, “I can offer you my word, Mr. Henderson, Dillon and Cavanaugh will not interfere with a trial in my town.”
“Humph,” he said, almost insultingly, but I understood his reticence, as he had no reason to believe me, marshal or not.
As I rode away, he called out, “I wish I could wish you good luck in finding Angel.”
“I understand.” I waved over my shoulder.
“Don’t hurt that boy, marshal,” he yelled from behind. “Like I said, he’s a good lad.”
I nodded, waved again, and rode out to the east.
Now, to get my eyes on that journal.
*
Colonel Mace Dillon sat on his veranda, chatting with Judge Felix Thorne. Shank Cavanaugh and Tobin ‘Curly’ Stewart leaned against the porch rail.
“Kind of you to call on me, Judge,” Dillon said.
“You know I always do, when in the neighborhood, Mace.”
“So, you picking a jury for the Pelletier trial?”
“Yes, we drew lots this morning. Curly there is on the panel…I presume you can spare him for a couple of days?”
“Of course. Civic duty and all that. And the boy, Sanchez?”
“You didn’t hear, then I guess you wouldn’t have. He escaped last night sometime. Wentworth and six men rode out after him this morning.” He laughed. “Seems he stole the marshal’s mule.”
“The hell you say,” Mace said, but didn’t laugh. “What did Tobias think about catching him?”
“Pelletier gave him up for heading east to Salt Lake then south. Wentworth will have him by the time the day is out. Slade said his mule was half stove up, so it should be no problem.”
“And the boy will go to the pen?”
“Oh, I doubt it, Mace. All the kid did was wave that old Remington around. Didn’t even cock it, the way I heard it. Thirty more days in the city jail should do.”
“That’s not right, Felix. He’s a mean kid, had they not beat him down, he would have killed someone.”
“Not the way I heard it, Mace.”
“Well, the way you heard it is not the right way. You put that kid away, understand?”
The judge eyed him for a moment, the defiance apparent in his gaze, then he smiled albeit tightly, and added, “It’ll go harder on him, with the escape and all, but I doubt if he’ll see the pen. However, its whatever the law dictates, is what I’ll do, Colonel.” They stared at each other like two bull elk in rut, about to lower their heads, until the judge cleared his throat and continued, “Well, I got to get back to town and back to work.” He rose, and extended a hand, which Colonel Dillon seemed a little reluctant to take, but finally did.
“I’ll see you soon, Colonel,” the judge said, heading for his buggy and the long ride back to town.
“You’re welcome to stay for supper,” Dillon called after him.
“Got work to do,” Judge Thorne said, waving over his shoulder.
“Damn rights. Put that boy away, judge!”
Thorne waved over his shoulder, and climbed into his buggy.
The three of them watched as the judge whipped up his team, slapping the traces against horseflesh and cluck, clucking the horses into a trot.
“I always thought those Sanchez boys…and the old man…were good people,” Curly said.
“Don’t you have work to do?” the Colonel snapped.
“A course,” Curly said, a little sheepishly.
“Then get to it.”
Curly disappeared off the porch, heading for the big barn.
“That rile you a mite,” Cavanaugh said, his wounds from the beating Slade had given him, still raw and swollen. He tried a grin, but winced.
“A mite, but I’ll be a hell of a lot more riled if you don’t get rid of that smartass marshal, and the Sanchez kid, first chance you get. I’m tired to death of them already, and I don’t want that kid popping off about anything his old man might have told him.”
“No problem,” Cavanaugh said.
“Ask those knots on your head, and those ribs you keep rubbing, if it’s any problem.”
“Like I said, boss, no problem. I was took b
y surprise….”
“Well, Shank, I don’t like surprises, and you’d better not be surprised again, or you’ll be looking for a payday somewhere down the road.”
Shank Cavanaugh was not used to being talked to that way, and he centered cold amber eyes on the colonel. “Don’t threaten me, Colonel.”
“You getting soft on me, Shank?”
“I’ll take care of that peckerhead marshal, soon as I can breath deep again.”
“We’ll see, Shank, we’ll see. Maybe the marshal, the boy, and that damned judge if he sees fit not to do my bidding. You don’t need ribs to jerk that iron.”
“Who ever, Colonel. I don’t give a damn who it is, long as I get my paycheck, and a bonus or two for good work accomplished.”
“All you got to do, Shank, is actually accomp-lish something.”
Shank grabbed up his hat, fitted it tightly on his head, then spun on his heel and descended the stairs, one hand on his ribs. He stopped at the bottom, and breathed shallowly for a moment before continuing on.
*
I passed Ignacio Sanchez, his dogs, and his flock of a hundred sheep only four miles from the home place, and paused long enough to dig a couple of pieces of hard candy out of the steel blue’s packs and give them to the boy. He was suspicious, and careful, but respectful. Ranger and the boy’s two herd dogs did some growling and sniffing, then finally settled into a tenuous friendship.
Three miles beyond the line shack hunkered in a mile long meadow, now green with Spring grass, with a trickle of water down it’s middle, ending in a pond over an acre in size. Lupine and a few poppies bloomed in spots among the meadow grass and cedars lay thick on the hillsides surrounding.
I reined up in front of the shack which was flanked by the only pair of cedars in the meadow, and dismounted, calling out. “Angel.”
No one answered. So I yelled even louder.
A hundred yards away, Angel Sanchez appeared out of the cedars, pausing to carefully eye my back trail.
He trotted over as he’d recognized me, and helped me unload the supplies.
“You got the journal?” I asked.
