The Iron Marshall

by Louis L'Amour

  "Mostly guesswork, Marshal."

  Suddenly Lundy said, "Is that the girl you've been talking about, Marshal?"

  It was ... She came riding up the street, then dismounted in front of the cafe.

  Shanaghy got to his feet. "Josh, I'm going to have a talk with her. Right now."

  Chapter Eleven

  IT WAS cool and quiet in the restaurant and at this hour it was empty, something she had no doubt counted upon. When Shanaghy entered she looked up, a flash of annoyance crossing her face.

  After crossing to her table, he said, "Mind if I sit down?"

  She looked up. Beautiful, she undoubtedly was, but her features might have been cut from marble. "I do, indeed. I wish to be alone."

  "I am sorry, ma'am, but I have some questions."

  "And I have no answers. Must I call the manager?"

  "If you like."

  She looked at him with contempt. "If you wish to take advantage of your authority, ask what questions you will. I shall decide whether or not to reply."

  "Fair enough. Mind telling me how long you've been here?"

  "In this town? Slightly over a week."

  "What's your purpose here?"

  Her expression was one of exasperated patience. "I am looking for ranch property. My father was unable to come, and we share our financial interests. We are looking for good grass and a source of permanent water."

  Shanaghy felt like a fool. Of course, what could be more likely? "Found anything that suits you?"

  "No ... There are two possibilities, that is all. Now, is there anything more?"

  "Do you expect to be here long?"

  She put her cup down sharply. "Marshal, or whatever you are called, I have told you why I was here, and I am on legitimate business. I am not the sort of woman who expects to be badgered by every small-town officer with an exaggerated sense of his own importance. Unless you have some kind of a trumped-up charge, I would prefer you to leave ... now."

  He got up. "Sorry, ma'am."

  She did not reply.

  He started to leave, then turned and seated himself where he could watch the street outside. She had made him feel a fool, and it was not a feeling he liked. Her story was perfectly logical. Of course, every really smart crook he had ever known had a good cover story. He had heard them discussed on a number of occasions. They had considered him as one of them and talked freely. Yet he couldn't see anything he could get a handle on.

  One thing he had neglected to ask: where was she staying? No doubt she had a good answer for that, too.

  The waiter brought his coffee and he stared out toward the street. Suppose he himself was planning such an operation, how would he bring it off?

  By involving as few people as possible, so there would be less chance of loose talk. And keeping those few out of sight until they made their move, or else by using people who had a reason for being around town.

  The plotters, if there were any, would want to make their move, as Barrett believed, just when Vince Patterson hit town.

  Shanaghy swore softly and the girl glanced his way. It had suddenly occurred to him that they must know exactly when that cash shipment was to arrive, and that meant they had somebody on the inside at one end or the other.

  How would they do it? They might strike just as the stuff was brought from the train, move in quietly, knock out or strangle the guards, and reload the stuff on the train to be taken off at some point further along.

  That would be one way. Another would be to have a rig standing by, or a wagon, and load the money on and move out while the shooting was in progress. Undoubtedly those ranchers who were in town would try to get away, and they could simply go with them.

  There was still another way. Arrange to hide it right in town until the shooting was over, and until people had stopped looking for it. If they should hide it in town ... where? And how could they get it away, or be sure of getting it away, during the fighting they would expect to take place?

  The way Shanaghy saw it was that the money must be taken right from the depot. If not on the train, then by a rig ... but taken where?

  There would be immediate pursuit when the robbery was discovered ... or would there? Who would be apt to pursue? Who would first realize the gold was missing?

  Suppose ... just suppose there was no one who knew the gold was due to arrive?

  Carpenter, Holstrum and Greenwood all knew, but supposing that during the fight they were killed or otherwise put out of action? If that were to happen the thieves might have several days in which to disappear.

  If those men were marked for death, then he would also be on such a list.

  When would these killings be carried out? Either at the time or just before the robbery, and probably under cover of the Vince Patterson raid on the town.

  Suppose somebody actually riding with Patterson was involved? The cowman had taken on some gun-hands for this trip north, and among them might be one or more men involved in the theft.

  As Shanaghy considered all that might happen, a rider approached outside and dismounted across the street and one door further along. He dismounted stiffly as if he had been riding for some distance. He whipped the dust from his clothes with his hat and then turned to loosen his cinch.

  As he did so, another man crossed the street to the walk just beyond the rider and turned to walk past him. It was George.

  When near the cowhand, George paused to light a cigar, and for a moment his hands were cupped around the match. Was he speaking? After a moment he shook out a match and dropped it, then walked on.

  Off to his left where the young woman sat, Shanaghy heard a cup click hard against a saucer, as though it had been put down with some impatience or anger.

  Shanaghy turned and looked at her, smiling. Her lips tightened and she turned her eyes from his. She was angry, without a doubt.

  He glanced around again. The rider was walking toward Greenwood's. His horse wore a-p-connected brand ... one of those used by Vince Patterson.

  When Shanaghy looked back, the girl was gone. A moment later he heard the click of her heels on the boardwalk. He got up, leaving money on the table, and went outside.

  Who was the rider? Had he actually spoken to George? Had the girl been angry because it all happened while he, Shanaghy, was watching?

  Was the rider a messenger? If so, from whom? Did Patterson know he had come?

  Shanaghy hesitated, then turned toward Greenwood's. No guns were to be worn in town, he had said. Well, that meant now.

  Or was this man merely a bait for a trap? Perhaps today was the day they meant to eliminate him. Tom Shanaghy had served too long with Morrissey not to suspect such things.

  If this man was bait, there would be others around. They would not be likely to trust such a job to one man alone, unless he was very, very good.

  Even then they would have someone else. They would want some insurance. Which meant another marksman.

  Would that be George?

  For several minutes Shanaghy sat still, thinking it over. Wherever the girl had gone it was not to the street, for she had not appeared there. He finished his coffee and went back through the kitchen and out the back door-but only after a careful glance up and down to see if anyone lurked there.

  At the corner of a building, he hesitated, looking around it toward the saloon. From there, he had a good view of the swinging doors. This rider was from Patterson's outfit and he had issued his ultimatum to them ... no guns in town. Now this man had ridden in wearing his guns ... Was it a test? A direct challenge?

  Or maybe the man had gone to the saloon to hang up his guns?

  If not, the challenge must be met, and he would meet it now.

  From inside the saloon the patrons could see up and down the street, but approaching the building indirectly, Shanaghy could be crossing the street before they saw him. He was in the middle of the street and walking fast before he glimpsed the two horses tied in the alleyway beside Holstrum's store, and then he was going up
the steps and into the saloon.

  Two strangers sat at a table on the right side of the saloon. The Patterson rider was at the bar. Greenwood looked up and directly at him, but he said nothing.

  Shanaghy walked to the bar. "Sorry, cowboy," he said, smiling, "while you're in town you will have to hang up the guns. Mr. Greenwood will take them for you."

  "Hang up my guns?" the cowhand took a half step back. "You want my guns, you got to take them!"

  The man was ready, and so were the other two. "Oh, well," Shanaghy replied cheerfully, "if you feel that way about it." He turned away and to the bar, as if no longer caring.

  Frustrated in his attempt to start a fight, the cowhand let his hands fall away from his guns, and Shanaghy hit him.

  It was a smashing backhand blow to the mouth, yet no sooner had the blow struck than Shanaghy's hand dropped to the cowhand's shoulder and grabbed him by the collar. Shanaghy jerked the man into a wicked left hook to the belly. Flipping the man around with his back to Shanaghy, the marshal flipped his guns from the twin holsters, covering the two men at the table.

  "Get up!" he spoke sharply, but cooly. "Get up and unfasten your gunbelts!"

  "Look here! You got no call to-!"

  "Now," Shanaghy shoved the gasping cowboy toward them, rearing back both hammers. The clicks of the cocking hammers were loud in the room.

  "All right," the shorter man said, "looks like you got-"

  He drew, and Tom Shanaghy shot him through the tobacco tag hanging from his shirt pocket. The man went down, and the left-handed gun was on the other.

  His face yellow and sick-looking, the second man slowly, carefully, lifted his hands.

  "Put 'em down," Shanaghy said, "and let go your gunbelt. If you feel lucky, you just play the fool like your partner did."

  He shoved the cowhand he had grabbed over to the table. The cowhand was grasping his side, a pained expression on his face. "Damn you!" he said. "You busted a rib!"

  "Only one? That punch is usually good for three. My best day it was five, but he was coming at me."

  Without turning his head, he spoke to Greenwood. "See what you can do for that man, will you? He's hurt but he's not dead."

  He gestured with a gun, shoving the other into his waistband. "Court ain't in session," he said, "so I'll handle it. Fifty dollars or fifty days."

  "Hell, who's got that much money?"

  "If you've got a friend who has," Shanaghy said cheerfully, "you'd better get word to him. Start walking now ... outside."

  The hitching-rail in front of the smithy was built with posts of good size set deep in the earth, and the rail itself was of oak, notched into the posts and spiked in place. He handcuffed each man to the rail by one wrist.

  "How long you goin' to leave us here?"

  Shanaghy did not smile. "Fifty days, unless you can come up with the fine."

  "Fifty days? You're crazy! What if it rains?"

  "Well," Shanaghy said, "the overhang will protect you if the rain comes from thataway. Otherwise, I'd say you're liable to get wet. The same thing goes for the sun."

  Shanaghy pushed his derby back on his head. "You boys came in here asking for it. Maybe the man who sent you will put up your fines." He grinned suddenly. "But I've a notion he'll just let you rot. You're no good to him any more."

  "When I get loose-!"

  Shanaghy shook his head reprovingly. "That's the feelin' that got you into trouble. My advice is to just pull your freight and get out of here."

  "Where'd a man who wears a derby learn to use a gun like that?"

  Shanaghy smiled. "I had a good teacher, and a lot of time to practice."

  He went back to Greenwood's. The place was empty and Greenwood was mopping the floor. "How is he?"

  Greenwood shrugged. "If he's lucky, he'll live. If your bullet had been an inch or two lower, he'd never have made it to the doctor."

  Greenwood took his mop and bucket to the back room and returned, drying his hands. "You don't waste around much, do you?"

  "I do not. At such a time a man can only do what he must."

  Shanaghy drank part of a beer and then remembered the horses. Leaving his beer on the bar, he went out quickly and hurried down the street. He rounded the corner into the alley beside Holstrum's store and pulled up.

  The horses were gone ...

  Chapter Twelve

  SHANAGHY STOOD for an instant, realizing that the horses might have belonged to someone other than the men in the saloon. But if such was the case, who did they belong to?

  He glanced down at the tracks. One resembled a track seen at the seep where the unknown riders had met.

  Turning, he walked back up the street, but as he went, he was thinking. If those horses had belonged to the men in the saloon, they were still in town ... Nobody had ridden out, for in this wide-open country, except at night, it was impossible to enter or leave town without being seen.

  He returned to Greenwood's. "Know any of those men?" he asked the saloonkeeper.

  Greenwood shrugged. "They're strangers, Tom. The minute they walked in I had them pegged for trouble. A man in my business has to know."

  "Mine, too."

  "You acted like you knew what to do!"

  Shanaghy shrugged. "I broke up fights and bounced tough guys out of Bowery saloons when I was sixteen. I've been through that a couple of hundred times."

  "With guns?"

  "Sometimes. More than likely slungshots, billies or chivs ... knives, I mean. You take the mean one first ... Then the others lose their stomach for it.

  "That one," he added, "he was going to start trouble, and the others were going to shoot me."

  "Rig Barrett couldn't have done it better."

  Shanaghy looked at Greenwood. "No? Well, maybe. He'd more than likely have it all figured out now and know who the front man was."

  "You believe there is one?"

  "Look ... Some of these boys came in from out of town. This job was planned out of town. Rig knew that. So how did they know about it? Either somebody tipped them off or they had a tip from the place that will supply the money."

  "I wish I could have seen those horses," Greenwood mused.

  "Seen 'em? Why?"

  "I'd know if they were from around here. Hell, Tom, every western man knows horses and he doesn't forget them."

  Suddenly, Shanaghy swore. "Damn! That must've been what Carpenter meant!"

  "Meant? What was that?"

  "Awhile back he made some comment to the effect that somebody didn't realize that horses could be remembered, or something like that. I think he recognized the horse that girl was riding."

  "You surely don't think she's involved? That girl's a lady."

  Shanaghy shrugged. "Anybody can want money, and I've seen some pretty cold-blooded ladies. I've seen them at cockfights and dogfights, real bluestockings, and enjoying every minute of it."

  He walked out again on the street. Right now he was wishing he had a friend, any kind of a friend. He was wishing he could talk to McCarthy or Old Smoke Morrissey, or that old-timer who taught him to use a six-shooter. He needed somebody he could talk to ... and he had no idea whether Greenwood could be trusted or not.

  He thought of Holstrum, but the storekeeper was a quiet, phlegmatic sort not likely to be of any help.

  Carpenter ... ? He turned toward the smithy, suddenly aware that he had heard no ringing of the hammer for some time.

  He walked more swiftly as he neared the smithy, and suddenly saw a woman standing in the entrance, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked his way.

  "Are you Tom?" she said as he walked up. "I'm Mrs. Carpenter."

  " I was looking for your husband."

  "So was I. I brought his lunch and he wasn't here. The forge is almost cold. I can't imagine-"

  "In this town? Where could a man go?"

  "He might be at Greenwood's. He said something to me this morning about having a talk with him."

  She paused. "Marshal? Would you go there for m
e? A lady can't go into such places."

  "He's not at Greenwood's. I've just come from there."

  "I'm frightened, Marshal. It isn't like him. He's ... he's a very meticulous man ... about everything. If he had been going anywhere he would have told me."

  "Ma'am? Did he talk any about horses? I mean, did he say anything about a horse he'd recognized lately?"

  "No ... not that I can recall. He's been preoccupied, and that's unlike him. I think he has been worried."

  "So have we all, ma'am. So have we all."

  Shanaghy paused, then continued: "Ma'am?" She was a pleasant-looking, attractive woman. Had someone asked her what she was, she would have said, "housewife," and been proud of it. "Ma'am? I can use your help.

  "You know the people in this town. I am still a stranger. Anyway, sometimes women are more perceptive about people than men are. Something's going on here. I think somebody is planning to steal the money that's being brought into town to pay for cattle and to pay off the drivers. Mostly it will be outside people, but I think somebody right here in town is in on it, and may have started the whole thing.

  "There aren't many secrets in a town of this size, and I want you to think about it. Meanwhile, I'll have a look for your husband. If he comes back, let Greenwood know."

  "Do you trust him? He's a saloonkeeper."

  "I trust no one. Not even you. But I think he's an honest man."

  "Enough money, that much money, would tempt many an honest man. My husband worked very hard this past year, and he has made just over seven hundred dollars. That's pretty good. I doubt if either Mr. Greenwood or Mr. Holstrum has done any better, so think of what two hundred and fifty thousand dollars represents."

  "Ma'am, I've known crooks most of my life, but the honest men I knew ... well, I don't think some of them would sell out at any price. I don't believe your husband would."

  She started to turn away, then hesitated. "Marshal? Who is that young woman who is staying at the hotel? The very attractive one we see riding about?"

  "She says she's looking at land, that she and her father are prospective buyers." He paused. "But she isn't staying at the hotel."