The Iron Marshall

by Louis L'Amour

  Up the street the three men had spread out and were walking toward the saloon.

  Chapter Eighteen

  HE SHOULD feel fear, but he did not. He should be wary, but he was not. The three men walking toward him were coming to kill. Their one intent was to kill him, to shoot him down.

  He was disturbed that he was not afraid, for all good sense told him he should be. Three to one ... the odds were long.

  Suddenly he remembered something. There were two other Drakos ... Dandy and Wilson. He had not seen them but he had heard of them. The moment he thought of them he knew he was in trouble-far deeper trouble than came from just the three men headed toward him.

  They were the window dressing, they were the ones to draw his attention. The others would be nearby ... ambushed, waiting.

  Five ... It was too many. Sweat beaded his forehead but still, he told himself, he was not afraid. He felt a strange sort of triumph. This was something with which he could deal. He was not by nature a plotter or planner. He liked straightforward enemies with whom he could deal in a straightforward way.

  Holstrum's store ... One or more of them would be there, waiting. From the tail of his eye he caught the slightest of movements. He had taken only three steps out from the store, ahead and to the side. Now the awning posts were on his left, slim trunks of cottonwood holding up the awning. He was a little in the shadow, the three men before him in the bright sun. Then he saw the other man, standing on the steps of the hotel. He had a rifle in his hands and he was lifting it.

  The man in Holstrum's store suddenly stepped out. Shanaghy caught a fleeting glimpse of the man, wearing a black vest and a red handkerchief about his neck, and then he went for his gun.

  As he did so he heard a sharp cry from his right and up the street. "Win!" It was Josh Lundy's voice.

  And then Shanaghy was firing. He shot over Drake's head at the man on the hotel steps with the rifle. And without glancing to see what effect his shot had, he turned right and shot at the man on the store steps.

  His action was swift and totally unexpected, in that both men believed all his attention was on the men before him. At the same moment he heard a burst of gunfire from right and left, and he saw Win Drako down in the dust and Bass running, hands in the air.

  Drako was looking at him, lifting his gun. But there was something wrong with Drako, the gun was coming up too slowly. Another shot from the left and Drako turned half around and fell.

  In the distance, a train whistled.

  Shanaghy saw Josh Lundy come into the street, rifle in hand, and Josh was walking toward the two men down in the street, walking cautiously.

  From the other side came a tall young man in a black hat and coat, a man he did not know.

  He walked toward Shanaghy, shifting his rifle to his left hand. He held out the right. "Am I always to be getting you out of trouble?" he asked.

  Shanaghy stared. There was something familiar, yet ...

  "On the pier, in New York," the man said. "We were boys then and John Morrissey saved our bacon."

  "Well, I'll be damned! I-!"

  "I am Dick Pendleton ... Jan's brother. It's been a long time."

  The train whistled again, nearer.

  Shanaghy grabbed Pendleton's hand, then suddenly everything started to fall into place.

  "Dick! Another time!" He ran for Drake's horse, jerked loose the slip knot and sprang to the saddle.

  The water tank! Of course, they'd be doing it there and never coming into the station at all. It was only after he cleared the town that he began to realize what he was letting himself in for.

  There would be several of them. The women ... women? Why had he thought that? Then he knew-because there had to be two women. He couldn't make it out otherwise.

  Two women who might or might not be present. There'd be George, and George, he thought, would be good with a gun. Used to using one, at least. There'd be the man who had posed as the brakeman ... and how Shanaghy wanted to see him. He'd made him jump off a freight into darkness. Shanaghy had never wanted to kill a man, and he didn't want to kill that brakeman, but he would like to give him a taste of what he'd had.

  He slowed his pace. He would be within sight of the train in a minute.

  He had forgotten to ask Dick Pendleton about Jan. Was she home? Was she safe? The thought that he had forgotten left him feeling guilty. And that old man ... Coonskin ... who wanted a shot at the eastern dude. Where was he?

  When he topped the hill he saw the train. It was pulled up at the water tank and was taking on water. There was nobody around.

  Had he guessed wrong? Would he have to turn and race back into town again?

  He rode down the hill and pulled up, looking at the train. It was longer than usual, at least eight cars. An express car, a baggage car, a passenger car and five freight cars, as well as a caboose.

  He checked his guns and flushed with embarrassment. He had forgotten to reload.

  He did so now. There was a rifle in the saddle-scabbard, too. What had Win been shooting with? He could not recall. It had happened so fast, there'd been no time to consider anything, even to notice.

  Those two men he'd shot. Both had gone down and they must have been the other sons of Drako.

  There was some activity on the other side of the train. He heard somebody swear and heard the rattle of trace chains. His heart was pounding. When that train started to move ...

  How many would there be? Too many.

  Suddenly a brakeman appeared and gave a signal. The train whistled, then started taking up slack. Then slowly it chugged forward. On the far side of the train the wagon was also moving.

  He drew his gun.

  The rifle was probably loaded and ready but he felt more at ease with a six-gun. The train started forward and he walked his horse. He was ready, poised. Suddenly the train started to back up. It backed a dozen yards, then stopped, the locomotive puffing contentedly.

  Swearing, he rode toward the rear, planning to ride behind the train. It started backing up again. He wheeled his horse, rode alongside the train and leaped for the ladder. He scrambled up the ladder as the train suddenly jerked to a stop, before spinning its wheels and starting forward again. He ran forward along the car tops. Suddenly a bullet clipped near his feet. It had been fired from the engine. Shanaghy fired back and heard the clang of the bullet as it struck, somewhere in the cab.

  Another bullet whipped by him and he dropped to the top of the car, clinging tightly with his one free hand. He fired again and then leaped up, ran forward and sprang down to the tender atop the coal pile.

  The engineer held a gun in his hand, one hand on the throttle.

  "Drop it!" Shanaghy said. An instant the engineer hesitated, then let go of the pistol.

  Shanaghy scooped it up, then said, "Now back up, carefully ... slowly."

  "What is this? A holdup?"

  "You know damn well what it is," Shanaghy said.

  He glanced toward the road that led south. The road was empty as far as he could see. Win Drako's horse was grazing beside the road.

  "You," he said to the engineer. "When you get to town, you go to Greenwood's and report to him and tell him what has happened and what you've done."

  The engineer stared at him unbelieving. "You think I'll do that?"

  "I do." Shanaghy smiled at him, and it was not a pleasant smile. "You do it. If you don't, or if you try to get away, I'll come after you."

  The engineer shrugged. "You ain't done so well so far. Maybe I ain't scared."

  "You ask them in town how well I have done. But look, mister, I'm not persuading you. I really don't give a damn what you do, but if I have to come after you you'll wish you'd shot yourself first."

  He swung down and walked toward the horse. It looked up at him and started to walk off. Shanaghy spoke gently. The horse stopped, looking at him again, and he caught up the reins and stepped into the saddle.

  The tracks of a wagon were in the road, if one could call it that. For it
was merely two wheel tracks leading off to the south. Such a wagon could not be far ahead, but he still had no idea how many men were with it. Yet when he crossed the next rise there was no sign of the wagon at all.

  The wagon and its cargo had vanished!

  Ahead of him lay open road, visible for over a mile, with only a few dips. And there was nothing in sight. The road itself and the plains around it were empty. He rode on, more swiftly, dipping into a dry wash where the banks were caving badly, then up the opposite side.

  Nothing ...

  The gently rolling plains stretched far away, and there was nothing in sight but a few cattle, feeding on the drying grass.

  He slowed down. Something was wrong, radically wrong.

  There had been a wagon. He had seen its tracks. He knew he had.

  But now there were no tracks!

  For a moment he sat very still, simply staring. It was no illusion. There simply were no wagon tracks in the road. Not fresh ones, at least.

  He rode right and left on the prairie but found nothing. He swung wide in a big circle ... Still nothing.

  Irritably, he rode on, searching for some sign of a wagon passing, but he found nothing. So, he thought, the wagon had turned off. Swinging his horse around, he rode back.

  He found the tracks again, then lost them in the wash with the caving banks. A moment of digging and he found the wagon, wheels pulled off, the wagon bed lying flat ... and empty.

  There were horse tracks some fifty yards from where he found the wagon, a place where several horses had been tied. He found tracks, but nothing else distinguishable.

  He was no tracker and he made no attempt at it now. He rode straight for the cabin that Holstrum had on his claim, where the man named Moorhouse was the caretaker.

  There was a small cabin, a stable, and a corral. In the corral were several horses, none of them showing signs of having been recently ridden. As he pulled up in the yard the cabin door opened and a big man came out. And he was very big.

  He came out of the door slipping a suspender over his shoulder. "You lookin' for somethin'?"

  Shanaghy touched the badge on his chest. "I have to search the place."

  The big man came into the middle of the yard. "You'll play hell. If you know what's good for you, you'll git!"

  "Sorry, I have to search the place, Mr. Moorhouse."

  "Know my name, huh?"

  "Of course. The law knows such things."

  "Then you should damn well know that tin badge ain't worth nothin' outside of town. And not very much in it."

  Shanaghy smiled. "I'd hate to have to put you in jail for obstructing the law."

  Moorhouse laughed harshly. "You arrest me?"

  "That's right." Shanaghy was smiling. "But I'll have a look at the stable first."

  "Mister," Moorhouse said, "I given you a chance. You git out of here now or they won't be enough left of you to pick up with a sponge."

  Shanaghy smiled. "You know, Mr. Moorhouse, I like you. Now I'm going to search the premises, and if you obstruct me I'm going to throw you in jail. We haven't any courthouse and we haven't any city hall and we haven't any jail, but I can shackle you hand and foot, and I'll do it. Maybe next week I'd come out to see how you're getting along, but I might forget."

  Moorhouse started toward him. Shanaghy kicked his feet out of the stirrups and dropped to the ground. He moved so quickly, Moorhouse was surprised. The big man stopped abruptly, half turned and Tom Shanaghy hit him.

  The punch was a good one and Shanaghy could hit, but Moorhouse didn't even stagger. He swung a wicked roundhouse blow that Shanaghy went under, smashing both hands to the ribs.

  Moorhouse grabbed him by the shirt and vest and swung him around, throwing him to the ground a half dozen feet away. Tom lit on hands and knees and drove at Moorhouse with a driving tackle that brought the big man crashing down.

  Shanaghy was up first. "Get up, Mr. Moorhouse. They tell me you're a tough man. You can let me search the place or continue with this nonsense and take a beating."

  "Nobody ever beat me," Moorhouse said, and he started at Shanaghy.

  Tom feinted and smashed a right to the ribs. He stepped around, feinted again and started to the right. Moorhouse rushed, swinging with both fists. He caught Tom with a roundhouse left that knocked him staggering, and followed it up with a clubbing right that drove him to his knees. Tom came up fast, hooking to the body again, and Moorhouse grabbed him in his huge hands, throwing him over his knee. "Now I break your back," he said calmly.

  Shanaghy turned, twisted and tried to break free, but the big hands drove him back. Excruciating pain shot through Tom's back. He jerked a hand free and smashed a right to the big man's face. He seemed impervious to blows, as Tom hammered him again and again, and then he hunched himself higher and began to press Shanaghy down harder and harder.

  Shanaghy threw his legs high, trying to break free, then higher. He managed to lock one leg under Moorhouse's chin and against his throat.

  He smashed his knee toward the man's Adam's apple. Although he did not reach it, the big man let go with one hand to tear the leg from his throat. Shanaghy gave a terrific iunge and broke free.

  He staggered to his feet and Moorhouse came up, diving at him. Shanaghy clubbed him behind the head, driving him to the earth. Moorhouse came up again, caught him with a wild swing, and Shanaghy stepped inside, ripping wicked uppercuts to the bigger man's unprotected body. Moorhouse staggered and went back, and Tom threw a high overhand right to the chin.

  It caught Moorhouse squarely and he went to his knees.

  Tom Shanaghy backed off a step. "Get up," he said. "You wanted to fight. Now let's get started."

  Moorhouse looked at his bruised knuckles. "There has been enough fighting for today," he said sourly.

  "Then I shall search the house."

  "Search and be damned. There is nothing there." Moorhouse turned and stared at him from bloody, battered features. "They have beaten you," he said. "You are whipped."

  He smiled, revealing a broken tooth and bloody lips. "And now they will kill you. I heard them say it. If it is the last thing they do, they will kill you."

  Chapter Nineteen

  A QUICK survey of the house revealed nothing beyond the fact that a woman had been living there. A few odds and ends remained, a broken comb for her hair, some strands of ash-blonde hair, and a faint lingering perfume, almost intangible.

  Moorhouse was sitting on the steps, his head in his hands, when Shanaghy emerged. He looked up, a bloody handkerchief in his hands. "You hit hard," he said grudgingly.

  "You asked for it."

  "That I did. Never figgered anybody could do it."

  "No need to feel ashamed. I've done some bare-knuckle fighting."

  "Figgered it. Why I quit. There's no use bucking a stacked deck."

  Shanaghy sat down beside him. "These folks friends of yours?"

  "Not by a damn sight. That woman ... She's too high an' mighty. Ordered me around like I was a slave. Only one she'd talk to was him."

  "Holstrum?"

  "Aye. Seems like she'd set her cap for him-only I don't think she liked him, either. They was up to something, all of them together."

  "They stole a gold shipment that was to pay off cowhands in town. Most of it belonged to Greenwood."

  The big man was silent, dabbing at his broken mouth. "Well, I done killed a man or two but I'm no thief. I'd no part in it."

  "Didn't think you had. How many of them are there?"

  "There's him ... Holstrum, I mean, and there's that young woman who lived here. Then there was George Alcott, Pin Brodie, an' there was two others whose names I never did get. They didn't come here but once or twice."

  "They are all together now?"

  "They are."

  "Any idea where they are headed?"

  "You think they'd talk to me? Scarce give me the time of day. Was I you I'd guess they was going east. Two or three of them are easterners, and her who was running the shebang,
she wanted to go east."

  "The woman who lived here? She was running the show?"

  "Not her. The other woman. I never seen her. She come here a couple of times but at night. Seems like she met them out on the grass somewheres. Now and again I heard talk. Led me to thinkin' she was the bull o' the woods ... the boss, I mean. She was somewheres over west, I reckon. She come and went from that direction, and from a thing or two she said I figgered she had her a place over yonder."

  Shanaghy took his time thinking about it. They were on horseback now, and they were headed south, but he had a hunch that Moorhouse's comment was probably the right one, and that they were headed east.

  Holstrum had been looking for a "lady," an eastern woman who had what he considered class. Now he had her, and he would have money and he would be heading east. At least, that was the way he had it planned.

  "You liked Holstrum?"

  Moorhouse shrugged. "He paid me on time. He never complained none. He just wanted folks kept off and away, especially after that woman come. He didn't want anybody around ... Not that anybody ever did come."

  "I think they mean to kill him."

  "What?" Moorhouse passed a hand over his brow. "Well, I feared for it. It was plain to see he figgered he was in charge, but he wasn't. Not a'tall. It was that woman, and after her it was George. Holstrum, he give orders an' ever'body was almighty respectful of him, but behind his back they made their own plans. I heared 'em."

  The whole gang was riding now and they had a good start. Shanaghy had taken time looking for wagon tracks, and he had lost time in his fight with Moorhouse, but from the information he might save time. Never one to arrive at decisions too quickly, he thought the situation over carefully.

  "Mr. Moorhouse? What's off to the south?"

  "Ain't nothing. Not for miles 'n miles. Nothing but prairie grass an' antelope. 'Casional buffalo. That's why I figgered east. West there's nothing, either, 'cept maybe that other woman's place, an' it don't seem likely she'd take 'em there, her bein' so careful not to be seen, and all."