The Iron Marshall

by Louis L'Amour

  "Uh-huh. Railroad bull bounced me off back yonder a ways. I walked for a while, then saw this stream and followed her to here."

  "Got you an outfit there. Didn't figure you fellers in New York carried blanket-rolls."

  "We don't."

  "You were almighty quick with that gun," Lundy said. "I never seen a man no quicker."

  "Fellow taught me. I never used a gun very much. Where I come from it's knuckle-and-skull, the boots if you go down."

  Tom Shanaghy was used to walking and he stepped off briskly. He was puzzled by all that had happened and waited for Lundy to explain, which he seemed in no hurry to do. In fact, since seeing the shotgun he had said very little.

  Shanaghy looked around as he walked. As far as he could see there was nothing but grass and sky and the twin ruts of the trail cutting through the grass ahead. Here and there along the road there were sunflowers in bloom.

  He paused suddenly. "Lundy, what in God's name do they do with all this country? There's no farms."

  "Cattle country," Lundy replied, "grazin' land. Used to be buffalo."

  Something moved in the distance, a moment of tawny-red when caught by the sun's rays, then a flicker of white and they were gone.

  "What was that? Cows?"

  "Antelope," Lundy said. "There's a good many of them."

  "Who they belong to?"

  Lundy glanced at him. "God, I guess you could say. They're wild."

  "Can you hunt them?"

  "Uh-huh. Not the best eatin' though. They're good enough, but not so good as buffalo or deer meat." He walked the horse in silence for several minutes and then asked, "What do you aim to do now?"

  "Me? Catch a train back to New York. I piled on that train in a hurry and I was dead tired. I never wanted to get this far away." He hesitated, suddenly thoughtful. "Say, how far is it to New York, anyway?"

  Lundy shrugged. "You got me. Maybe a thousand miles."

  Shanaghy pulled up short. "A thousand ... ? It can't be!"

  "It is. Maybe more. This here's Kansas you're in." Lundy pointed ahead. "Colorado's right over there. You must have been really knocked out when you hit that train."

  "Well ... I'd been movin' a lot. Hadn't slept much, that's true. I was dead beat." He scowled, thinking back. "I woke up now and again but it seems the train was always movin'. One time I looked out and there was nothing but four or five buildings across the street and some riders ... I don't know where that was."

  "Least, you had you an outfit."

  Shanaghy offered no reply. He was growing increasingly uneasy. The best thing he could do was get to a station and buy a ticket for New York. There, at least, he knew what was going on.

  "Those lads back yonder," he said suddenly, "what were they going to hang you for?"

  "I stole a horse. That's hanging out here. But this one I stole back. Belongs to a girl-kid. That Drako ... he wanted the horse."

  "The girl got the horse now?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Shanaghy looked at the saddle. "That's a heavy piece there. That saddle, I mean."

  "Stock saddle. It's a work saddle. A man handlin' cattle and rough stock needs a good saddle to work from and this here's the best. Most cowhands spend most of their lives settin' in saddles just like this.

  "I seen some of those eastern saddles ... like postage stamps. They're all right for somebody who spends an hour or so in the saddle, but a cowhand is up in the leather sixteen to eighteen hours a day. He's roping stock from the saddle and needs a pommel where he can either tie fast or take a turn, depending on how he was raised and where he learned his business. A saddle is a cowhand's workbench."

  Lundy pulled up. " 'Bout time you took a turn, although I ain't much at walkin'."

  Shanaghy mounted and settled himself in the strange saddle. It felt good. The seat was natural, and although the stirrups were longer than he was used to he did not take time to shorten them.

  "Town up ahead," Lundy commented, after a while. "You keep that gun handy. Drako may be around. That's a rough crew he runs with and they don't like anybody messing with them."

  "What about you?"

  "When we get close to town I'm goin' to cut an' run. I've got friends there, somebody who'll lend me a gun. I ain't huntin' trouble. You being a stranger ... you be right careful. From what I've heard they fight with fists back east. Well, out here it's like in the South. We settle our troubles with guns."

  Shadows were long when they rode into town. Shanaghy was again in the saddle when they reached the town's edge and he stepped down. "Here's your horse, Lundy," he said. "See you around."

  "Shanaghy?" Lundy hesitated a moment as if reluctant to speak. "Better keep that shotgun out of sight. Somebody will recognize it."

  "Recognize it? How?"

  "I don't know how you come to have it," Lundy said, "but that shotgun is known by sight in at least twenty towns out here. That shotgun belonged to Marshal Rig Barrett."

  "I never heard of him."

  "Well, ever'body out here has. Rig was his own army. When he moved into a place folks knew he was there. He cleaned up towns, outlaw gangs, train robberies, whatever. And he never let anybody even handle one of his guns."

  "So?"

  Josh Lundy gathered the reins and stepped into the saddle. "Marshal Rig Barrett had a lot of enemies, Shanaghy. He had a lot of friends, too. And they are going to be asking questions and wanting answers."

  Lundy looked up the dusk-filled street. He wanted to be away, but he stalled. "Shanaghy," his tone sharpened with irritation, "don't you see? They're going to want to know how you came by Rig's shotgun. They're going to tell themselves the only way you could lay hands on it would be over Rig's dead body, and they just aren't going to believe any eastern pilgrim could kill Rig in a fair fight."

  "I didn't kill him. I never so much as saw him."

  "Who's going to believe that?"

  "Nobody will have to. I'll be out of town on the next train. This town will never see hide nor hair of me again."

  "If they see that shotgun and figure you killed Rig, you'll never get a chance to leave. They'll hang you, boy. They'll give you the rope they planned to use on me."

  "When's the next train leave? You know this town."

  "Nothing out of here in either direction until tomorrow noon, and that one is westbound. There will be an eastbound train tomorrow evening about nine o'clock."

  Lundy turned his horse and rode off. When he had gone about fifty feet he called back. "Was I you I'd not wait for that evening train."

  Tom Shanaghy stood alone in the dusty street and swore, slowly, bitterly. Then he unrolled the blankets, took down the shotgun, and rolled it up again.

  He would get something to eat, then a ticket and a bed.

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS suppertime in town and the streets were almost empty. Not that there was much to the town, only a row of stores, saloons, gambling joints and a hotel or two facing a dusty street from either side. Here and there were hitching rails and there were boardwalks in front of most of the buildings.

  He walked to what looked like the best hotel and went in. The clerk, a tall young man with a sallow face and hollows over his cheekbones, pushed the ledger toward him. He signed it Thomas Shanaghy, New York, and pushed it back.

  "That will be fifty cents, Mr. Shanaghy. Will you be staying long?"

  "Until the eastbound train tomorrow night," Shanaghy said.

  He paid for the room with a ten-dollar gold piece and received his change.

  "If you are interested in a little game, Mr. Shanaghy," the clerk suggested, "there's one going in the back room right here in the hotel."

  "Thanks." Shanaghy had been a shill himself and was not to be taken in. "I never gamble."

  "No? Then perhaps-"

  "I don't want a girl, either," Shanaghy said. "I want something to eat, some rest, and a New York newspaper if you've got one."

  The clerk did not like him very much. He jerked his thumb toward a door from w
hich there was an occasional rattle of dishes. "You can eat in there." He indicated the opposite direction. "And there's a saloon over there. As for a New York newspaper ... "

  He shuffled through some newspapers on the desk, all well read by the looks of them. "I am afraid we haven't any. Occasionally some drummer leaves one in the lobby, so you might look around."

  Shanaghy considered that and decided against it. He took his key, listened to the directions of the clerk and took up his blanket-roll and went up the stairs. Chances are there would be nothing about the New York gambling war in the paper anyway, he decided. There were always brawls, gang fights and killings, and the newspapers reported only a small percentage of them. John Morrissey was a popular figure, of course, but Eben Childers was scarcely known away from the Five Points, the Bowery and a scattering of places in the vicinity of Broadway.

  The room offered little. A window over the street, a bed, a chair, a dressing table with an oval mirror, and on the table beneath the mirror a white bowl and pitcher. There was water in the pitcher. On a rack beside it there was a towel.

  On the floor there was a strip of worn carpet. Shanaghy removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves and bathed his face and hands, then put water on his hair and combed it.

  He studied himself critically. At five-nine he was a shade taller than average, and he was stronger than most, due to the hard work in the smithys. The girls along the Line were always telling him how handsome he was, but that was malarkey. They knew he was a friend of Morrissey's and the Morrissey name stood for power and influence in the world they knew, so they were always buttering him up. Not that he saw much of them. He had always been on the gambling, roughneck side.

  Brushing his coat with his hands, he put it on and picked up his hat and went down the stairs. The restaurant was open, and he went in, ordered some beef and beans and began to relax.

  The waiter was a portly man with slicked-back hair who wore a candy-striped shirt and sleeve garters. He filled Shanaghy's cup and slopped a liberal portion into the saucer.

  A screened window was open on the street and Shanaghy heard the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. He jerked his head toward the sound. "Workin' late, ain't he?"

  "Lots of work," the waiter put down the coffeepot. "Soon be time for the cattle drives, too. There's always riders who need horses shod when the drives are on. He keeps busy."

  The waiter took his pot and moved away and Shanaghy relaxed slowly. It felt good just to sit. For days now ... weeks, actually, he'd been on the go. Now he had nothing to do until this time tomorrow night. He'd better buy that ticket right away. If anything happened he would at least have his ticket, and once in New York again he'd be all right.

  What could happen? He shrugged a shoulder in reply to his own question and looked up to see the waiter returning with a steaming plate. "If you want more, sing out," the waiter said. "We're used to hungry men."

  Shanaghy was halfway through his meal when the door from the street opened and a man came in, spurs jingling. He crossed to a table where two other men sat eating. Pulling back a chair he dropped into it. "Ain't no sign of him," the newcomer said. "He's three days overdue. That ain't like Rig."

  Shanaghy was cutting a piece from his steak, and at the name he almost stopped. Rig? Rig Barrett?

  "Last word we had he was in Kansas City. That was last week."

  "He may be here, scoutin' around. You know how he is, never makes any fuss."

  "I'm worried, Judge. You know what Vince Patterson said, and Vince ain't a man who blows off a lot of hot air. Last I heard he was hirin' hands down around Uvalde and Eagle Pass, tough hands. Joel Strong rode in a few days ago and he said Vince had hired twenty-five men ... Now you know he doesn't need more than half that many to bring twenty-five hundred head over the trail. So why's he hirin' so many men?"

  "Maybe worried about Indians."

  "Him? Vince would tackle hell with a bucket of water. No, this time he figures to get even. When his brother was killed, Vince promised us he'd be back."

  "He can't blame the whole town for that."

  "He does, though. Vince is a tough man and he doesn't fool around. Rig Barrett could make him see the light, but you know and I know that Vince won't back down for no man."

  The judge sipped his coffee, then lit a cigar. "I know Vince. He's a hard man, all right. It takes hard men to do what he did. He came out from Kentucky and started roping and branding cattle. He made friends with some Indians, fought those who wanted to fight, and he built a ranch. He worked all by himself, the first two years. Then his brother came out and worked and fought right beside him. That was the brother Drako killed."

  Drako?

  Tom Shanaghy heard only snatches of the conversation from there on, no matter how he strained his ears. He was curious, naturally. Rig Barrett had evidently planned on riding that freight west and somehow had gotten off again and left his gear behind ... But why should such a man ride a freight? To come into town unseen? Maybe, but Rig didn't seem like a man who would care. He might even want the townspeople to see him arrive.

  So what had become of him? Shanaghy wished there was a train that night. Right away. He began to feel hemmed in. His old friend of the shooting galleries had told him much about the West. If you shot a man in a fair fight there was no argument. If you shot a man in the back, or murdered him otherwise, you could get hung. You had a choice ... run or be hung.

  If Shanaghy was found with the shotgun and blanket-roll that belonged to Rig, he would be presumed guilty.

  He finished his coffee and got up, then paid for his meal and left. Two-bits ... Well, that wasn't too bad. And the food was good.

  The air was fresh and cool in the street and there were few people about. The sound of the blacksmith's hammer drew him forward and he strolled down the street.

  The wide doors of the shop were pushed back. The fire on the forge glowed a dull red, and there were several lanterns hung about to give light. The smith glanced up as Shanaghy stepped into the door.

  "Workin' late," Shanaghy commented. "Buy you a drink?"

  "Don't drink."

  "Well, neither do I. Have one now and again." He glanced at the work the smith was doing. "Makin" a landside? I haven't made one of those in years. Seen my pa do it many's the time."

  "Are you a smith?"

  "Now and again. My pa was a good one."

  "Want a job?"

  Shanaghy hesitated. "I'm leavin' town tomorrow night, but if you're crowded with work I could work nine, ten hours tomorrow. What is it, mostly?"

  "Shoeing horses, a couple of wagons to fit with new tires, some welding."

  "I can do that. I'm not experienced with plows or plowshares. I've been living in New York City and it has been mostly shoeing, driving or riding horses ... putting tires on a few wagons and buggies."

  "You come in at six o'clock, you've got a day's work. Wish you could stay. I've got enough work for three men, and everybody wants his work done right now."

  The smith mopped his brow. "Here," he pulled an old kitchen chair around. "Time I took a rest. You set for a while. New York, eh? I've never been there."

  "You got you a tire-bender?"

  "Heard of them. Are they any good?"

  "Some of them. I never saw one until last year, but a mighty good smith I worked with in New York, name of McCarthy, he used one. Liked it."

  "Maybe I should get one. Might save some time."

  "Been smithing here long?"

  "Long? Hell, I started this town! Man down the road a piece saw my gear when I was passin' along the trail, and he asked me if I could bend a tire. Well, I did four wagons for him, and meanwhile several people brought horses to be shod.

  "Out here folks do most of their own shoeing, but it leaves a lot to be said for it. Most of them do a pretty slam-bang job of it.

  "Well, I worked there for about two weeks and then I moved back under that big cottonwood, and between times I put up a shed. Then old Greenwood came along with a wagon
loaded with whiskey, and he pulled in and began peddling drinks off the tailgate of his wagon.

  "I'd taken the trouble to claim a quarter section, so he was on my land. I told him so and he made me no argument but started paying rent. Then Holstrum came in, and he found where my quarter ended and filed on the quarter section right alongside. He put in his store and we had a town.

  "Today we've got the stockyards and the railroad, so there's eighty-odd people livin' here now."

  "Much trouble?"

  "Some ... Them Drakos are trouble. They settled down over west of here. There's the old man and three, four boys. Unruly. That's what they are, unruly. Greenwood, Holstrum an' me, why we want this here to be a town. We got it in mind to build a church and a school ... maybe both in one building until we can manage more.

  "We made a mistake there at the beginning. We chose Bert Drako for marshal and he straightened out a few bad ones who drifted in ... killed one man.

  "Then it kind of went to his head. That killing done it, I guess. He's got to thinking he's the whole cheese hereabouts. Him and those boys of his. They've begun to act like they owned the town, and we don't need that. Don't need it a-tall! This here's a good little town.

  "Four or five of us got together and formed ourselves a committee. We've transplanted several small trees to start a park, and we're diggin' a well in our spare time ... a town well, and then one for the park, too."

  He got up. "Well, back to work. If you're still of a mind to do some smithing, you come around. I'll be in here shortly after sunup."

  Tom Shanaghy walked back uptown and stopped in front of the hotel. For a moment he stood there, looking up and down the dim street, lighted only here and there by windows along the way.

  He shook his head in disbelief. This was a town? It was nothing, just a huddle of ramshackle frame buildings built along a railroad track, with nothing anywhere around but bald prairie. Yet the smith had sounded proud, and he seemed to genuinely love the place. How, Shanaghy wondered, could anybody?

  As for himself, he couldn't get out of it fast enough. He would help the smith tomorrow, as it would serve to pass the time. Besides, he liked the feel of a good hammer in his hand, the red-glow from the forge and the pleasure of shaping something, making something. Maybe that was why these people liked their town, because they had built it themselves, with their own hands and minds.