Nemesis

by L. J. Martin

  “But not a bit of remorse?”

  “Not so you’d notice.”

  “Who were they, Lizzy.”

  “I normally wouldn’t spread rumors, but they smelled of kerosene, and smoke. I wondered at the time….”

  “So, who?”

  “Toole. Zaragosa. Cavanaugh. Stark. Jorgen-sen. The Indian, Crooked Arm, was there also, but I don’t allow him inside. He was out on the boardwalk. Cavanaugh took him a bottle out there. And Dillon’s nephew…but I can’t imagine….”

  “Dillon’s nephew?”

  “Seth…Seth Rheinhart, a nice young man. Not like the rest of them.”

  “But he was there. Ignacio named him.”

  “He’s a nice young, man, Tag.”

  My tone hardened. “He was there, and my sister, her two girls, and her husband, nice as they were, burned just like they were in hell.”

  “Do me a favor and keep it out of my place,” Lizzy said, and started back to Sally’s, then stopped and turned to me. “All of this is your business, Tag. I’ll say nothing to nobody.”

  “I appreciate that, Lizzy. I’ll save you a seat in heaven. Or at least recommend you should I be sent the other way…which is more than likely.”

  “You do that, should I change my ways and get a ticket.” She smiled sadly and walked away.

  I slipped into my office and let Ranger out, then followed, mounted, and reined away toward the McGregor place, and what I was sure would be a good nights rest, as I knew my task.

  *

  Tobias Wentworth cancelled his hunt for Angel and had made the long ride out toward the Lazy Snake at a cantor, tiring his horse badly. He found Colonel Dillon, already in his Sunday best, heading into town with a half dozen riders following.

  “What brings you here, Tobias?” the Colonel asked as Tobias spun his horse and reined up beside him.

  “Need to talk, Colonel, in private. Figured you’d be riding in.”

  Dillon waved his men away and they dropped back a few horse lengths.

  “What’s the problem,” Dillon asked.

  “That peckerheaded marshal, that’s what.”

  “He gettin’ on your nerves, sheriff.”

  “Damned if he isn’t.”

  “Hell, marshals are a dime a dozen here abouts. Why not take him out to hunt down that kid and maybe have your gun misfire…about the middle of his back, I’d think. He’s a little hard on Lazy Snake hands, and I want him gone before I have to advertise and fill my bunkhouse with greenhorns.”

  Wentworth chuckled. “Would be fine, blowing the peckerhead’s backbone to splinters, ‘cept he won’t go outside of the city limits with me in tow.”

  “Smarter than he looks, is he?” Dillon asked, but didn’t await an answer. “I guess if he got shot down right there in town, no one would much give a damn…no one that matters, anyhow.”

  Wentworth sighed deeply. “To be truthful, Colonel, as much as I dislike the peckerhead, I don’t think it’s my place to settle your grudges. Judge Thorne would take exception—“

  “Thorne doesn’t have to know everything that goes on in Nemesis. He’s got a lot of territory to cover, and he’ll be off riding the circuit soon enough.”

  “So, how much would it be worth to rid yourself of this Slade?”

  “A couple of hundred wouldn’t break me.”

  “You wouldn’t notice a couple of thousand. Hell, a couple of hundred is hardly worth the risk. Maybe you should wait until Cavanaugh heals up as he’s a real hand at dirty work.”

  “And maybe I’ll just have Cavanaugh open season on all the lawmen who hang their hats in Nemesis?”

  “Is that a threat, Colonel?”

  “Just do your part, and keep your easy job. Talk Slade into climbing on the train and heading out, and save us all a lot of trouble…not than Shank will like that as he wants to see the marshal squirm with a belly full of hot lead.”

  “That I can do, free of charge. I’ll have another talk with Slade, and try and send him on his way.”

  “Don’t waste a lot of time doing so, as Shank is healing fast, as you can see, he’s with us today and he’s been pokin’ holes in peach tins for the last two days.”

  “I’m going on ahead. I ain’t et yet.”

  “Go on into Sally’s and have a plate full of eggs and peppers. You need something to heat your blood up, sheriff. You’re gettin’ at little chicken hearted.”

  “Don’t count on it, Colonel.”

  “Talk’s cheap, Wentworth. Talk is cheap.”

  “Humph,” the sheriff said, and spurred his horse away from the group.

  *

  I returned to my office and was not disappointed that neither Wentworth nor Shorty were anywhere in sight, then remembered I’d promised Natchez Pete some breakfast, and had to return to Sally’s. In the meantime, John Pointer and the judge, Felix Thorne, had come in to grab a bite to eat.

  “Mind if I join you while I wait for a take out order?” I asked, and they waved me down into a seat.

  “A little excitement last night?” the judge asked.

  “Just a card cheat, too damn fast to pull his gun,” I said. “Could’a ended peacefully, but he lay down on me and I had no choice.”

  The judge turned to Pointer, who added, “That’s the way it came down. This Toole fella pulled a gun, fast as I’ve ever seen, and had it full cocked before Slade here could blink.”

  “So, you got the best of him in the end, it seems?” the judge said, eying me carefully.

  “I did, luckily.”

  “Sometimes stealth is better than speed,” he said.

  “Usually,” I said. “A fella oughta keep his eyes on his business.”

  “He was Colonel Dillon’s man, and Dillon was here?” the judge asked.

  “He was,” I said, “but he saw it was justified.”

  “Be careful with Dillon,” the judge advised.

  “I’m careful with everyone, judge,” I said.

  “Be extra careful with Dillon,” he said.

  “He above the law?” I asked, and could see Judge Thorne bristle.

  “No one’s above the law, marshal. You should know that.”

  “Well, sir, this is the frontier, and some strange things happen out here.”

  The judge’s words came through clinched teeth. “Not when I’m the judge,” he said.

  “Hope so,” I said, and Pointer cut in, as if he thought things had gone far enough. The mayor was looking a little pained.

  “It was cut and dry, judge. Toole drew on Tag here, and he had little choice.”

  “And,” Judge Thorne added, “you’ll not be treated any way different than Colonel Dillon would, nor he than you, marshal. Lawman or no lawman, you have to abide by the law, and so does Dillon.”

  I nodded, knowing than money talks and bullshit walks, and hoping the judge wasn’t walking on me with his brand of b.s., and just then Brighid appeared with a tin plate full of food. I tipped my hat to the two men, possibly leaving them with a little indigestion, and headed back to my office.

  “Bring the plate back, please,” she called behind me.

  I’d just given Natchez Pete his plate when the church bells began to chime.

  “Where’s the coffee,” Pete called out as I headed for the door. I took a moment to pour him a cup of cold mud from the pot on the pot belly stove, and listened to him complain until I shut the front door behind me.

  Dusty was still tied at the rail outside the office. I’d planned to take him to the livery so he could have the run of a stall and a handful of oats, but instead just said, “sorry boy” and dropped the saddle onto the hitching rail, then headed to church on foot.

  Maddy, this time in a blushing pink boddiced dress with a lace wrap, and her father, in his fancy frock coat and a low-cut top hat, were at the doors, greeting folks. She saw me coming from a hundred feet distance, whispered something in her father’s ear, and disappeared inside. I shook solemnly with the reverend, who glanced down to see I w
as packing my 44 then back to give me a frown. He started to speak, but was interrupted when a miner to my rear stuck a hand out to pump his. I tipped my hat, removed it, and entered, ahead of the potential chastisement.

  The church, to McGregor’s credit, seemed to attract settlers, miners, railroad workers, and drovers from near and far, as there were a number of faces I didn’t recognize. I did recognize the silence that fell over the place when I entered, taking a seat in the second row from the back, but then the chatter resumed. I guess the word of last nights killing had already made the chatterbox rounds.

  Colonel Dillon and his pack were noticeably absent, as the back row where they’d last sat was empty. Apparently everyone knew that was the herd bull’s spot.

  Maddy and her father walked in from the rear and we locked eyes for a second, from a good distance, but I got no acknowledgement from her as she cut hers quickly away. I was rapidly getting the impression I was, as I think the Latin phrase goes, persona nongrata again…and there goes my home cooked supper. Obviously, she’d heard of Toole climbing the golden stairway…or more likely falling in a deep dark hole with hell’s fire at its bottom.

  She played a hymn or two then her father took the podium, led us in a hymn, which I croaked along with until I was distracted by some commotion, and turned to see Dillon and his murder of Lazy Snake crows enter, taking no particular care to be quiet.

  Colonel Mace Dillon’s Spanish spurs rattled a jingle-bob tune, and he removed his ten dollar hat as he crossed to the bench. This time he wore a red neckerchief, but still sported the diamond stickpin and a fancy store bought shirt that looked like it might be of Chinese silk. A silver studded belt buckle the size of my palm and carved leather boots with the stripped pants tucked therein completed the outfit. He looked peacock proud, and a little barnyard cock foolish, to my way of thinking. He was not heeled, probably having the courtesy to leave his sidearm hanging on his saddle, or in his buggy should he have brought one.

  His men, like me, lacked that courteous affectation.

  Shank Cavanaugh led the pack following Dillon, and rather than take a seat with the others, moved to my side of the aisle and moved right in behind me, and plopped down. He was the least courteous of all, wearing two side arms, each butt forward—he was loaded for bear. That made my gut knot a little, but I couldn’t imagine him drawing on my back in the Lord’s house. Rather, his boot began a steady tap on the back of my bench, until I turned, and, over my shoulder, spoke to a homely homesteader woman next to him, who had three step-stair kids to her right, shirts made from barley sacks, and Cavanaugh to her left in a black cavalry shirt with pearl buttons.

  “Ask your kids to keep their feet off my bench, please,” I said to her, ignoring Cavanaugh. He grunted, and she looked very confused, only giving me a nervous smile.

  Cavanaugh went from two four time with the boot to four four. This time when I turned, I looked him square in the eye. “You feeling your oats there, donkey?”

  “You bet,” he said, glaring at me.

  “Them ribs couldn’t have healed in a week.”

  “Don’t need ribs to draw, and my draw is just fine. Tested it just again this morning. Heard how slow you was when you chicken shot ol’ Toole.”

  “You say chicken shot, I say save-my-ass shot, but that’s neither here nor there. You’re the subject at hand at the moment, so let’s step outside. Wouldn’t be fittin’ to mess up church services.”

  I rose, as the homesteader woman gathered her kids to her as if she was a hen wrapping chicks in her wings, and half the congregation turned and eyed Cavanaugh and me. I got to the end of the row and waited for him, hands hanging loosely at my sides…as he brushed in front of a half dozen wide eye staring homesteaders. When he pulled out of the aisle, only three feet from me, I stepped into him and drove a hard left uppercut into his plexes, just short rib height, where I figured he was sporting some splinters, at the same time snatching one of his guns from its holster with my right hand.

  He made a croaking sound like a stomped on bullfrog and crashed to the floor in a heap, going purple in the face. I stooped and gathered the other gun, so he’d get no ideas.

  “And you thought I’d go outside with you?” I couldn’t help but guffaw a little.

  “Bastard,” I heard the sound ring across the room from the other side of the aisle, and saw Mace Dillon on his feet.

  But he held no weapons, and his gaggle of men looked confused.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Most of the congregation were suddenly on their feet, and some women who didn’t have children at hand to protect, retreated to the front of the room, where McGregor had suddenly stopped his spiel. I turned to the mass of now standing folks.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh has had a spell of some kind, ladies and gentlemen. I think it best he rest a while in my jail.”

  A buzz went over the room. I could see the rest of the Lazy Snake boys edge forward, so I jammed the barrel of one of Shank’s revolvers deep into his rib cage, and he bellowed the bull frog mating call again. I shook my head at the Lazy Snake boys, a silent warning. Mace Dillon said something I couldn’t hear, and they retreated to their benches. But they didn’t look a damn bit happy.

  Easy as eating a piece of Sally’s apple pie, I led Cavanaugh out, speaking low to Dillon as I passed. “You fellas sit tight. I’d hate to have one of you go down just outside the church door. Although it would be handy for the services.”

  He glared at me, but didn’t respond.

  It was a long walk to the office and jail, with Cavanaugh gasping and sucking short wind with every step. I enjoyed every pant, wince, and whine coming from the man.

  Ranger greeted me with a hard look as if he knew there was trouble at hand, and greeted Cavanaugh with a low growl, but didn’t bother rising. I guess he figured Cavanaugh little threat by the pained look still on his face and the fact he was gaspin’ like a catfish on a mud bank, and had those ugly amber eyes shut most the time.

  With my prodding encouragement Cavanaugh took Angel’s cell, across the aisle from Natchez Pete. He was still gasping in pain, only opening his eyes long enough to find the stone bench that served for bed, as I locked the cell door.

  “You’re dumb as a slimy tater slug, Cavanaugh,” I said, as I headed to the office.

  He tried to say something, but his ribs must have hurt him something terrible, as all he got out was another grunt.

  Just to be on the safe side, I took down the double barrel sawed-off that hadn’t seen use for some time, I gathered, as it was well covered with dust. I cleaned it quickly with a handkerchief, and loaded it with a couple of brass shells I knew to be packed with cut up square nails, and pocketed a couple more for good measure, then checked the loads in my 44, and took a seat to see what transpired.

  It wasn’t long before the door swung aside, me with the scattergun on my desktop, the barrels pointed doorway center and my hand casually on its receiver, hammers cocked.

  To my surprise, it wasn’t a Lazy Snake rider or Mace Dillon, but rather Judge Felix Thorne.

  He saw the double barrel and extended both hands in obvious supplication, and I swung it aside and let the hammers down.

  “What are you holding him for?”

  “Who,” I said, with a sly smile.

  “You know who. Dillon’s man.”

  “Breaking wind in church,” I said, and couldn’t help but guffaw slightly.

  “Don’t be a smart ass, Taggart. You got a charge against him?”

  “I guess you could say disturbing the peace.”

  “And the bail is?”

  “Twenty two thousand five hundred dollars and fifty cents.”

  Thorne sighed deeply. He gave me a disgusted look. Then asked again, “What’s the bail?”

  “I will release him on your recognizance, judge. You look to be a man of good character.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll release him on Colonel Dillon’s good name.”

  “I don’t know how good it i
s, but if you say so.”

  “Fetch him,” he said.

  I didn’t move, but merely returned his hard look.

  “Fetch him,” he repeated.

  “I guess they don’t teach manners in law school,” I said, smiling again, and rising.

  “I didn’t go to law school. I studied at Wilheim and Roberts in St. Louis. And no, they don’t teach manners there, but I’d appreciate it if you’d fetch him so I can get Dillon and his men to ride out of town before there’s hell to pay. I’m doing you a favor here, Slade. And should I need to give you a please in order to do you a favor?”

  “Don’t remember asking for any favors, but I appreciate it none the less.”

  “Then fetch him, before the street is filled with Lazy Snake riders.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and headed for the back, but I closed the door between the office and the cells before I let my self into Cavanaugh’s little abode. I crossed the cell in two quick strides, and jammed a boot heel deep into Cavanaugh’s ribcage, deciding I’d convince him to stay out on the ranch for at least a few weeks. He cried out like a chubby bottomed schoolgirl who’d sat on a cactus, then rolled to the floor, gasping for breath and in pain. I was eyeing him, looking for blood from the mouth, hoping I’d shoved a rib into a lung, but I wasn’t so fortunate.

  In a heartbeat, the door flung aside, and I palmed the 44, but it was again only Judge Throne.

  “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

  “Clumsy fool fell off his bench onto that hard floor,” I said, with concern in my voice.

  Natchez Pete, who I guess had seen the whole affair, began to laugh out loud.

  Thorne turned to him. “That true?”

  “Hell if I know,” Pete said, between bursts of laughter. “He does look like a clumsy sort,” he said, the smile not leaving his face.

  Thorne and I both managed to get Cavanaugh to his feet, and Thorne, talking to himself, led him through the office and out to where a pair of Lazy Snake boys waited.

  It was the one called Willy, and another, the Mexican, but he was across the road, his wide flat brimmed hat pulled low. He wore a serape, one of those blankets with a hole centered to put your head through. He mounted up and I never got a good look at him. They had a mount for Cavanaugh, and I got a little chuckle when Willy had to practically lift the gunfighter into the saddle. They rode out, with the Mexican joining up with them. I did note that the Mexican rode a spotted Appaloosa, white on gray, and Willy a sorrel. And the sorrel was missing a right rear shoe.