The Iron Marshall

by Louis L'Amour

  "I did."

  "And he took it?"

  "Well, I don't think he liked it very much."

  The other man was watching Shanaghy, and Tom knew he was being sized up carefully by a fighting man who knew his business. That part was good. Such men were less apt to make mistakes than a cocky youngster or a would-be tough guy trying to show how bad he was.

  "Rig knew something was crossways, Mr. Patterson. He went to Kansas City working on the case. Something happened to Rig there and I had to take over."

  Patterson looked at him. "Did Rig feel you were up to the job?"

  Shanaghy shrugged. "Well, that's Rig's shotgun over there tied to my saddle."

  Somehow or other he had to win this man over to accepting him and his story. He had to get Vince Patterson to stop and think, to help if he would-at least to hold off on whatever he meant to do. And Tom Shanaghy meant to use every artifice he could.

  "By the way, Mr. Patterson, I'm carrying a message for you."

  "A message? For me?"

  "Yes, sir. A very lovely young lady said to say hello and give her love to her Uncle Vince."

  The rancher flushed. "That sounds like Jan." His tone was gentler. "Do you know Jan?"

  "I've talked to her," Shanaghy said quietly, "I don't know her as well as I'd like to, but I'm quite sure I never will."

  Patterson and his trail boss were both looking at Shanaghy and he flushed beet-red. "She's a mighty fine young lady and I'm nothing but an Irish lad who's been given a marshal's job nobody else wanted."

  Nobody spoke for a few minutes. The slim man rolled a cigarette and Patterson finally said, "If nobody else wanted the job, why'd you take it?"

  "First, because it had to be done. Second, because I thought I could do it. I knew damn well that while I might whip one of your men, or even two or three, I couldn't whip all of you. I was also relying on something Rig said."

  "And what was that?"

  "He said you were a stubborn, hardheaded man who was also a decent man, and that you were reasonable. He intended to do just what I've done, ride down the trail to talk to you."

  "And if I don't listen?"

  "I'll protect my town with whatever means I have. If I win, you lose some good men. If you win, you destroy a fine town that's just becoming something. And then you have to drive your herd a hundred and fifty miles across grazed-over ground to another market. And while you and the town are fighting, these other people will steal all that money and we will have aided and abetted them in their crime.

  "I know you're an honest man, Mr. Patterson, and no matter how much you hate our town, you don't want to help a bunch of crooks steal the money that was to be paid to you and your men."

  The herd was streaming into the valley, and Patterson's trail boss swung into the saddle to help turn them and round them up. Patterson drank his coffee, thinking, and Tom Shanaghy kept his mouth shut.

  Finally, Patterson said, "These other people? Who are they?"

  "Mr. Patterson," he said slowly, "I'm working on that and right now I just don't know. I think I have three of them spotted, but where they are holed up and just who or how many are involved, I don't know.

  "There's a woman involved ... I think."

  "A woman?"

  "Yes, sir. And the one thing that may be in our favor is that she thinks we are all a pack of fools."

  "Maybe we are," Patterson muttered. "Maybe we are."

  "Sir? I'm not going to let them get that money. Not one red cent of it."

  "You said you wanted my help ... In what way?"

  "This is good grass. The grass around town, and west or east of town, is no way as good as this. I want you to hold off ... let your cattle fatten while I get this thing worked out. All I need is a couple of days."

  "I think," Shanaghy added, "they've got a schedule figured out. I think they know when you're coming in, or about when. I think they have it all set to start, quickly, quietly, efficiently, as soon as you come busting into town to take it apart. While you and the town are busy, they'll get the money and get out ... Then they'll be gone and we'll be left holding the sack ...

  "If you hold back, three things happen. Your cattle get fatter, their timing is thrown off, and I get a chance to work on the situation before it develops. Personally, I think if their timing is thrown off, something is going to come unglued."

  Patterson refilled their cups. "How did you get involved in all this?"

  "Well, Drake's son and some others were fixing to hang Josh Lundy. They decided to include me. I persuaded them not to. And, of course, somebody had to take Rig's place."

  "Where's Hank Drako now?"

  "On his ranch, I expect. Your business with Drako is none of mine. He strikes me as part coyote and part weasel. I think he will kill anything that's helpless or seems so, but if you move against him, don't do it in town."

  "You laying down the law?"

  "Yes, sir. You lay down the law on your ranch. I do it in town. What you do outside of town is your business and not mine. I wasn't hired to protect the whole state of Kansas, just this town."

  Vince Patterson finished his coffee and glanced at his cattle. Some were already lying down, most were still grazing. A few of his men were riding toward the fire. It would be sundown in a little while.

  "You staying with us tonight?" Patterson asked.

  "With your permission, sir."

  Patterson stared at him. "Are you always this respectful?"

  Shanaghy grinned. "No, sir. But you're a gentleman, sir, and this is one argument I can't win with my fists or a gun."

  Patterson stared for a minute, then chuckled. "All right, damn you, stay the night. I'll sleep on it." He held out his hand. "No promises, mind you, but damn it, Shanaghy, I like you."

  Chapter Ten

  SLOWLY THE hands drifted up to the fire, some of them to bed down, some to catch a quick supper and return to riding herd on the cattle. As they came in they regarded Shanaghy thoughtfully, noticing the badge first, then the derby.

  One redheaded cowpuncher looked across the fire at him and said, "That there hat's a temptation. Anybody ever shoot it off you?"

  Shanaghy pushed the derby back a little and grinned cheerfully. "Not yet. Maybe that's because they figured I wouldn't know if they were shooting at the derby or me."

  He dipped into the stew. "Anyway, it seems a waste of lead. I didn't buy my gun for shooting hats."

  He ate in silence for a moment and then said, "The way I figure it, the marshal of a town should be measured by the trouble he keeps clear of town rather than the gunfights he wins. The first thing I did when I took over," he spoke in a low, conversational tone, "was to study the arms situation and the shooters.

  "First off I found the town has thirty-seven shotguns, and folks who can use them. We have nine Big Fifty Buffalo guns, two Berdan sharpshooting rifles, five Winchesters, and seven

  Spencer fifty-six-calibers. We have fourteen assorted rifles from the Hawken to the Ballard, and every man in town and most of the women have pistols.

  "Next thing, I looked over what kind of people we had to do the shooting. Five of the men in town were sharpshooters during the Civil War, one side or the other. Nine others fought in the war. We've got one old mountain man, and six veterans of Indian battles. There's only two men in town who haven't been in battle, but they're just a frettin' and a fumin' to prove themselves as good as the others.

  "Long before I ever saw the place, they figured sometime there might be an Indian raid, so they built the town without any blind spots, front or back. The rifles and shotguns are kept loaded lest there be unexpected trouble, and they are stashed around town easy to hand.

  "Most of the folks there want no trouble. They figure outfits like yours will have money to spend, and they're anxious to help. They want to do business with you, the cattle bosses and whoever comes up the trail. They are right friendly folks, but they love their town.

  "Me, I'm just a driftin' stranger, and I don't quite see w
hat they like about it but they know. When you boys ride into town I want every one of you to hang up his gun in Greenwood's place."

  The redhead laughed, somewhat grimly. "Mister, you've got to be jokin'. I hang up my gun for no man."

  "All right," Shanaghy replied cheerfully. "I was just telling you so's you'd know. You see, what worries me isn't you boys at all. It's two or three of the townspeople who are trigger-happy. A couple of those sharpshooters, for example, I've been having trouble convincing them this isn't an all-out war.

  "They've agreed to hold their fire and sit tight, but if somebody should in the fullness of his spirits suddenly decide to discharge his piece into the air, that street would turn into a bloodbath.

  "All those boys and girls with guns are going to be hunkered down behind log walls or brick walls, and they are going to be shooting into an open street without cover."

  Tom Shanaghy shook his head woefully. "Of course, the street's dusty this time of year, and it soaks up blood real fast."

  Nobody had anything more to say, and Shanaghy simply finished his meal. After throwing the grounds from his cup, he walked to where his bedroll lay.

  Vince Patterson had sat over at one side and heard it all. He struck a match on the side of his pants, lit a cigar, and approached Shanaghy. "Was that Rig's idea?" he asked mildly.

  "Can't blame it on him. Folks there needed a little organization, but they'll go about their business like always unless trouble starts."

  "You could be running a bluff."

  "Yes, sir. That I could. Be mighty expensive, though, if it was called and I proved to be holdin' the pat hand I've told 'em about.

  "Also," Shanaghy added, "I had to have a diversion."

  "A diversion?"

  "Something to trim the odds, sort of. You've got some loyal hands there. If trouble started in town and then something happened to your herd, I figure about half your men would cut and run to protect the cows."

  "What could go wrong with my herd?"

  Shanaghy shrugged. "Well, a few days ago some Kiowas showed up. Least that's what the old-timers said they were. I don't know one Indian from another.

  "Well, these Kiowas had been raiding Pawnees up the country a bit, they caught the short end of the stick, and they were sore.

  "We fed 'em, and I sort of suggested they stay around and keep out of sight. I also suggested that it might be worth a bunch of presents if they sort of listened for gunfire."

  Patterson was looking at him. "Gunfire?"

  "Uh-huh. If they heard gunfire from town, they were to stampede your herd."

  Patterson swore.

  "Stampede 'em, and scatter them all over the prairie."

  Patterson swore again, and then he said, "But we have you, Marshal. What about that?"

  "You would lose a man or two taking me, Mr. Patterson, but it would change nothing. You see, the way that plan of mine is set up, it works without anybody saying anything. They don't need me at all now.

  "Things been pretty dull around town lately. No fights to speak of, and the boys are kind of restless, kind of keyed up, if you know what I mean."

  "You seem to have thought of everything."

  "I've tried. You see, I've heard your boys ride for the brand. Well, that town is my brand. They hired me to do a job, and I'm doing it the best way I know how."

  Later, Shanaghy lay in his blankets staring up at the stars. He had lied, of course. His plans were not nearly so thorough as he had implied. Nonetheless, they were good plans and he planned to put them into execution as soon as he got back ... if he got back.

  If he avoided trouble and saved some lives with his stories, all would be well. At least he had offered a little doubt, and nobody wanted to get shot down in the street. If what he had said was not true, it was all possible, and they could not know whether he was telling the truth or not.

  When he heard stirring around the camp he got up. It was not yet four o'clock in the morning, he noticed by his big silver watch, but the camp was coming alive. He crawled out of bed, put on his derby and then got into his pants and boots.

  Nobody was paying any attention to him, and he went to the fire for his grub along with the others.

  Patterson was there. He glanced at Shanaghy, gave a short nod and went on eating.

  The air was clear and cool. There was a smell of dust and cattle on the air, and off to one side a cowpuncher was letting his bronc buck the kinks out of his system. Nobody was talking until he went to get coffee and Red picked up the pot and filled his cup for him.

  Red grinned at him. "You spin a good yarn, Marshal, but, you know, we didn't figure any of it was worth throwin' a loop over."

  "I can carve it on your headstone," Shanaghy said.

  "What?"

  " 'He asked to be showed; we showed him.' "

  "Hey," Red said, "that ain't bad! I've seen men buried with less."

  "To tell you the truth, Red," Shanaghy said, "I'd rather buy you a drink than shoot you."

  "Well, now," Red said cheerfully, "I'll remember that, Marshal. How many do you figure to set up for?"

  "Hell," Shanaghy said, "I'll buy a drink for the whole crew. You're a good bunch of lads."

  He finished his coffee. "Besides, you've got a good cook."

  He saddled up. As he was tightening his cinch, Vince Patterson walked over. "Don't expect us for about four or five days, Marshal. And if you need any help with those hold-up people, you let us know. We'll ride with you."

  Shanaghy held out his hand. "Rig sure had you figured. He said you were a decent and a reasonable man."

  They shook hands. "Shanaghy," Patterson said, "I think Jan Pendleton is the finest girl I know, but she could do a whole lot worse than you."

  Tom Shanaghy flushed. "Mr. Patterson," he said, "don't you even think that. I'm not the man for her, and I know she's given no thought to me. Why, she's only seen me once."

  "I married my wife the second time I saw her," Patterson said, "and we've got twenty years of happiness behind us."

  Tom Shanaghy turned his horse and rode away.

  He had gone only two horse-lengths when Patterson called after him. "What about Hank Drako?"

  "Hank's going to be hunting me, he and his boys. If they find me, you've got no problem. If you boys find them you can have them, just so it's out of town."

  He rode hard. There were things he had to do, and time was short, and he did not think of Jan Pendleton. At least, he tried not to.

  The town lay quiet in the late afternoon sun when Shanaghy rode into the street. He took his horse to Carpenter's stable and stripped off the gear. He gave the roan a good rubdown, thinking all the while, then took his saddlebags and walked over to the blacksmith shop.

  Carpenter looked up. "Holstrum was by. Wanted to know where you were."

  "Drako been around?"

  "Not hide nor hair." Carpenter put down his hammer. "Had it for today." He took off his leather apron. "Oh, by the way! That young woman you're interested in. She came by. Wanted a horse shod ... today."

  "You do it?"

  "Uh-huh. A different horse, too. Sometimes I wonder about eastern folks. Seem to think horses all look alike."

  "Pendleton been around?"

  "No, but his son was in. He was asking for you."

  Shanaghy was not concerned about young Pendleton. His thoughts were on the robbery ... Or was he simply seeing ghosts? What did he have, after all, but a lot of suspicions?

  A strange girl in town for no apparent reason, who kept to herself. In other words, she was simply minding her own business.

  Her odd association with a man who looked like a tinhorn gambler, and the puzzle about where she lived.

  A man on a train who Shanaghy had believed to be a railroad detective and who apparently was not.

  Rig Barrett's suspicions that something was in the wind, which Shanaghy was inclined to trust.

  And the fact that somebody seemed to have taken pains to eliminate Rig before he could arrive in town.


  And the knowledge that a lot of money, probably a quarter of a million in gold and bills, would be arriving on the train someday soon.

  Who knew of that? Almost everybody in town who did not actually know could surmise. So could a lot of others. After all, there had to be money on hand. Such a town would not ordinarily have so much, so it would have to be brought in.

  That man on the train now ... Now that Shanaghy considered it, that man had not seemed western. Well, why should he? Neither was he, Tom Shanaghy.

  The trouble with Vince seemed to have been averted, but nobody knew that but him. He decided nobody must know, not if he could help it.

  He turned toward the hotel and halted suddenly. A man was riding toward him on a buckskin horse.

  "Howdy!" It was Josh Lundy. "Remember me?"

  "I do."

  "Figured you might need some help. My boss give me a few days off and I thought I'd ride in to see if you needed a hand."

  "You could get killed."

  "You didn't seem to pay much mind down by the creek that day."

  "I was saving my own hide."

  "No matter."

  Shanaghy liked the cowhand and remembered Rig's estimate of him. The man was seasoned, tough, and had local experience, knowing local people whom Shanaghy did not. "Let's get over to Greenwood's and I'll buy you a beer," he suggested.

  From where they sat, as Shanaghy had correctly remembered, they could look down the street. Besides, it was quiet here and they could talk.

  "Watch yourself." Greenwood walked over to give the warning. "There's talk that Drako and his boys are coming into town after you."

  He had started away when Shanaghy said, "Who told you that?"

  "Holstrum ... I guess somebody said something about it over at the store."

  They sipped their beers and slowly, carefully, Shanaghy told Josh Lundy of the suspected plan to seize the money shipment.

  His thoughts returned to the hoofprints by the seep. "Anybody running cattle in south of here?" He explained his interest.

  "Drifters, more than likely. There's a lot of odd characters stop by Drake's place." Lundy paused. "Four of them, you say?"

  "It looked to me like somebody brought them a message. He didn't get off his horse, just talked awhile and left."