by Monty McCord
“How long has Welby been gone?” Joe asked.
“Oh, well over a year now. We’ve been dependin’ on the sheriff since then, but, well, you heard how that’s been working out. In the meantime, the cowboys and some coyotes on their way to the Black Hills come through. They know there’s no law here, at least none close enough to matter. They do what they want, to whoever they want, and mosey on out of town at their leisure.” Siegler pulled a wallet out of his inside coat pocket and counted out one hundred dollars and handed it to Joe.
“We’ll see what we can do about that,” Joe said.
“Oh, before I forget,” Siegler said. With both hands he reached into his two front vest pockets. “Here’s two keys to the front door of your office, and you’ll need this.” He handed Joe a silver, star-shaped badge. Each of the five points was tastefully engraved, and the smooth center portion read, simply, MARSHAL. “We’re fortunate enough to have a very good jeweler here in town. German fellow. Real good with fixin’ watches and clocks and can do some nice work like that. Since Welby took his when he left, I had this one made last spring and been hopin’ to pin it on someone ever since,” Siegler said.
“It surely is handsome,” Joe said.
“Got to get back to the store. Welcome, Joe,” Siegler said. He stood up and put his hat on.
“I’ll come along. A few things I need to pick up.”
Siegler hesitated. “Ah, Joe. I kinda’ went out on a limb here. You won’t disappoint us will you.” It was a statement and not a question.
Joe pinned the star to his black vest so his suit coat covered it. After retrieving his belongings from the hotel room, he followed Siegler into his store. It was well stocked with everything from seeds to guns. Oil lanterns hung in a row across a rafter. To the left, an old man stood behind a long counter covered with glass cases and jars of candy. His white apron matched his beard and hair.
“Joe, this is Earl. He’ll fix you up. Earl, Joe Mundy, our new marshal.”
The old man shook Joe’s hand. “What can I get you, Marshal?”
“Well, let’s see now. I need twenty pounds of flour, ten pounds of sugar, five pounds of salt pork, sack of them beans, three pounds of salt, sack of that coffee, a pound of baking powder, can of molasses, sack of that tobacco, ten pounds onions, potatoes, and dried apples, a bottle of whiskey, jar of that vinegar . . .”
Earl was furiously writing down the order in between glances at Siegler, who had started toward his little office in the back of the store but stopped as Joe’s list grew.
He turned around.
“Don’t mean to stick my nose where it don’t belong, Joe, but you must not cook much. You couldn’t go through all those supplies in a year,” Siegler said. He scratched his head as he watched Earl finish writing.
Joe looked at Siegler and then back to Earl. “Did you get that?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
Joe took the glass top off each of the three candy jars on the counter and removed a small handful of each flavor. Earl looked at Siegler again. Joe laid the candy on the counter and replaced the lids. “Give me that set of dishes, that doll, that pocket knife, and that little toy wagon,” he said, pointing into two different glass cases.
“Uh, Marshal, that dish set is twelve dollars,” Earl said quietly. Joe nodded.
Siegler’s mind raced. He was mystified at this point and became worried that they had hired a jester for a marshal. He would never be able to live this down, being’s he was the one who brought Mundy to town and recommended him. It was true, he didn’t really know him, but felt he was the man they needed, until now. He didn’t want to imagine the grief he’d suffer from Jarvis if Mundy turned out to be some sort of a crackpot.
Joe turned to him. “What kind of gun does Lars Forsonn have?”
Siegler was caught off guard, and then he realized what Joe was doing. He felt ashamed for his earlier panic and doubt. A big smile creased each side of his face as he got his thoughts in order. “Uh, oh, a shotgun, a front loader. I sold it to him two summers ago, when we first opened for business.”
“A pound of powder, shot, and tin of caps there, Earl.” The clerk jerked out of his daze and reached back to the shelf behind him. “Tie up some nice red ribbon on the crates, and I’d like this all delivered to the Forsonns in plenty of time for Christmas. How much do I owe you, Earl, with delivery?”
“Joe Mundy. You’re a very engaging man,” Siegler said. He smiled at Joe as Earl began adding up the order. “Don’t worry about the delivery charge, I’ll have my man do it first thing in the morning, least I can do.”
“Mighty good of you, Mister Siegler,” Joe said.
“Ah, Marshal, that’ll be twenty-five dollars and fifty cents,” Earl said. The old man stared as Joe pulled out some of the bills Siegler had just given him and counted out what was owed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Joe looked over the main street of Taylorsville as he walked toward the northwest. Traffic in the street had turned the new snow into a soft mire. His destination was the fourth building in, on the north side of the street. The small gray building, wedged between a drugstore and a shoe repair shop, featured a sign on the awning that read CITY MARSHAL & JAIL. Joe stepped up onto the boardwalk and scraped most of the mud from his boots. He propped the carbine on his left arm and dropped his saddlebags at the front door, which was centered between two narrow windows. The key snapped the lock, and he pushed the door open. Once inside, he laid his carbine and bags on the desk. The only source of natural light was those front windows and the door window. Near the corner to the right was a flat-iron jail cage equipped with two bunks. The rear office door was barred by a heavy plank. He placed his Winchester on the gun rack behind the desk. Only a double-barrel shotgun occupied the rack. He took it down, broke it open, and looked into the cavernous ten-gauge holes. The barrels were slightly longer than the short ones carried on stagecoaches. Snapping the gun closed again, he tested the hammers and triggers. It seemed to work fine. On the side of the receiver, it said “Baker, Rochester N.Y.”
To his left, just past the desk, was a narrow room made of heavy wooden timbers. This, Siegler had explained, was the original jail cell. The thick door had a narrow slit cut in the middle. Inside, a cot and a table with a wash basin pretty much filled the room. After stowing his gear, Joe sat down behind the desk and looked through the drawers. Other than the cell door keys, handcuffs, leg irons, and some old Wanted posters, there wasn’t much of anything very interesting in the top drawer. Inside the lower right-hand drawer was a half-full bottle of whiskey and four shot glasses. After pouring a glass full and downing it, he sat there several minutes watching dust particles float through the fading rays of light coming through the windows. The meeting with the town board had gone well. Siegler and the Martins seemed like decent folks, but he’d have to find out why Jarvis was against hiring a new marshal. A chore that came under the heading of self-preservation. The man reminded him in far too many ways of the late Hobe Ranswood.
He thought back to Baxter Springs and the few friends he’d left there. Charlie hated to lose him, he knew that. But Alice was angry. She’d assumed he would go to work for her father in his dry-goods business, but when told he’d be looking for another law job, she wouldn’t speak to him further. He’d held the bay to a slow walk when he left town, hoping she’d come out to say good-bye. She hadn’t. Joe didn’t bother to tell her of the reason for his devotion to enforcing the law. He figured standing up for those who couldn’t do it themselves was important work, and he had good reason to feel that way. Thoughts of Russ Pickard, the foolish cowhand who’d attempted to avenge the death of his friend, caused a malingering sadness. Joe guessed the sadness was due to how close he’d come to killing Pickard. He’d given the cowboy more rope than he should have. If it had been most anyone else, he would have killed them the moment they squared off in the saloon in Mahaska. The occurrences in Joe’s life had taught him that the slightest hesitation meant death. All the same,
he hoped Pickard would find a good outfit to work for again.
The light had nearly faded when Joe pushed away the past, so he lit a couple of the oil lamps in the office and walked out. Time to start earning his money.
Joe grabbed at door knobs as he walked down the boardwalk. The town was preparing for darkness. Lamplight slipped out of a few windows along main street. Although the sun offered some warmth during the day, when it went down, so did the temperature. He checked on the bay at Jarvis’s livery and came back to Main Street. At the corner, he stepped off the walk, crunching through the frozen muck that a few hours ago had been mud. The saloons were still open at ten o’clock, of course, and he could hear chatter and the occasional loud voice from the North Star. The establishment was long and narrow, with the bar at the left and a single line of tables along the right wall. A good-sized heating stove sat in the middle of the tables. Joe was surprised at how many people were inside.
Four men played poker at one of the tables. The loudest voice came from there. Joe walked past and stopped at the bar.
“Got any coffee?”
“Sure thing. You must be, Mundy?” the bartender said. “I’m Gib Hadley, owner of the North Star.”
“Nice to meet you, Gib,” Joe said.
The barkeeper leaned in close to Joe and lowered his voice. “Could ya’ stick around a bit? That big farmer’s been drinking a lot and gettin’ bolder in complaining about his poor luck.” Joe nodded. Hadley walked away and came back with a heavy porcelain mug of steaming coffee.
Joe took a couple steps over so he could see the card game in the mirror behind the bar. He couldn’t see any shady dealing. It looked like a game of locals. The loud one was a fair-sized fellow in dirty clothes. As Joe took another sip, the loud one threw his cards at the others.
“You cheatin’ sons-a-bitches, you’ll have it now!” The big man swayed when he stood and produced a Bowie knife. The card player in a dirty gray slouch hat across from him pulled a nickel-plated British Bulldog revolver.
“Put that pistol down!” Joe said.
The big man, with his back to Joe, whipped around as if to defend himself.
“I’m Marshal Mundy. Drop the knife.” Joe pulled his coat open to show the badge.
“Hell I will! Them sons-a—” The big man turned his head back to the table as he spoke, and Joe used that as his opportunity. He pulled Hobe’s cavalry Colt from his left side and laid it across the man’s head. There was no noticeable reaction to the thud that everyone heard, which made Joe wonder if he’d have to shoot him. He turned slowly toward Joe with the knife still in hand. His eyes looked like the fake glass eyes used by doctors. The man took a slow step backward, gradually tipped over, and fell onto the card table, smashing it flat to the floor.
“You three,” Joe said, pointing at the remaining card players. “Carry him down to the jail. Keys are on the desk.” They decided against arguing and walked reluctantly around to pick up the unconscious farmer. Joe jerked the pistol from the man who still held it. “When I say to drop it, you do just that.” The man was angered, but when he looked at Joe, he let it go.
Joe tossed the pistol to Gib. “You can pick it up when you’re ready to call it a night.”
As the group stumbled out the door, Joe turned back to the bar. Gib sat a glass in front of Joe and poured. “On the house.”
When Joe left the North Star, he glanced up and down the street. The only other lights were at the Palace Saloon.
When Joe walked in, he could sense a different atmosphere. The name didn’t faithfully describe the establishment. It was a little wider and not as deep as the North Star, and not as clean. Apart from the normal smell of smoke and liquor, there was an ingrained stench of sweat and horses. Joe liked the smell of a horse, but in this combination assaulting the senses, it just plain stunk. And the clientele was different. Although he’d not met anyone here before, these folks could smell a lawman.
Though his badge was covered by his coat, the crowd hushed when Joe walked in. Most appeared to be cowboys, along with some farmers and other laborers. Once the initial inspection was over, the noise commenced, but at a noticeably lower tone.
Joe stepped around a dark brown puddle near a spittoon and walked to the far end of the bar. He stopped and leaned against it. The bartender moved over and looked at him but said nothing. He had a mustache and a little patch of hair on his chin. The rings under each of his half-open eyes had the look of an eternally sad human being.
“Coffee?” Joe asked.
The bartender walked away without a word and brought the coffee back. He wore a dirty brown derby. The apron he was wearing had been white, many years ago. Even though the coffee was better here than at the North Star, Joe hoped they didn’t offer him any food. The coffee was good. Joe took his time and savored it.
Surveying the crowd, he saw a narrow stairway that led to three doors on a second-floor balcony. He wondered how many of the men here worked for Budd Jarvis. A sandy-haired woman, plain but acceptable, in a very low-cut dress, mingled through the crowd. Her breasts were prominently on display. She provided an entertaining view until he noticed the face coming down the narrow stairs. It fit the place like a diamond in a cow pie. The woman had dark brown hair, hung partly over her ears, and eyes to match. The drunken cowboy following her down the stairs brought the scene into focus. Joe glanced at the bartender, who was watching him as he wiped down the bar. The two women met near a back table, and Joe could see the plain one say something to the other and nod toward the bar. The brown-haired woman gradually worked her way to the bar and stopped beside him.
“I’m Queenie. Haven’t seen you in here before.” Her smooth face and deep brown eyes were a genuine treat to look at, and Joe thought he could spend a great deal of time doing just that. Her friendly expression appeared to be slightly forced.
“Good reason for that. Haven’t been in here before,” Joe said. He couldn’t help a quick glance at the woman’s cleavage.
“Two bucks, and you can see a lot more than that.” Joe felt a flush pour over him that he hadn’t felt for awhile. “I’ll be. I made a man blush,” Queenie said.
“How about I buy you drink?” Joe said.
“That’ll be fine, uh . . .”
“Mundy, Joe Mundy.”
“Okay, Joe Mundy, I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Barkeep, another coffee,” Joe said. The barkeeper looked at him like he’d just set himself on fire.
“Yes, Smiley, a coffee, on Mister Mundy here,” Queenie said. Joe gave Smiley a nickel for the coffee when he brought it, and ignored the stare he gave both of them.
“Would you care to sit down?”
She was studying him like some extinct artifact. “I would. I would indeed.” They walked to a table past the bar that had just been vacated by three card players.
“So, Joe Mundy, what brings you to our big city, or are you just passing through?”
“Not passing through,” Joe said.
“So, you live here? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Rode in recently.”
“What line of work would you be in? I can see by your clothes you’re no cowhand. Businessman?” she asked.
“You might say I have an interest in this town.”
“Oh, mysterious, huh? You want me to guess?” Queenie said.
“What I want is . . . to buy you breakfast,” Joe said, not expecting those exact words to jump out.
“Sorry, I don’t do overnight work.” Her answer seemed automatic.
It was obvious to Joe that she’d been asked that before. “Oh, uh, I don’t mean that. I mean I’d like you to have breakfast with me at the hotel in the morning.”
A laugh burst out like a belch, drawing the attention of a few men nearby. She swallowed the laughter and looked closely at Joe. Her smile slipped away.
“You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“I . . . I can’t,” Queenie said.
“Why
not?”
She leaned over to him and spoke softly. “Women in my line of work . . . you do know what my line of work is, right? They don’t go into the hotel to take a meal.”
“What’s your real name? You know mine,” Joe said.
She had to swallow another burst of laughter. “You’re a bold one, Joe Mundy!”
“You’re Sarah. Sarah Welby, aren’t you?” Her grin went flat. “Hello, Sarah, I’m Joe Mundy. See, now we’re properly introduced.”
She frowned at him. “Who are you, and what do you want?” Her playful tone turned cold.
“I’m the new city marshal, and what I want is to take you to breakfast.”
“What! You think this is funny? You take my husband’s job, and you assume his abandoned wife’s bed is yours?”
“No. That’s not it. That’s not it at all,” Joe said, remembering that the mysteries of women were alive and well.
“Well, Mister Mundy, or should I call you ‘Marshal,’ what is it . . . exactly? What do you want?” Sarah demanded.
“Where do you live, I’ll stop by at, say, eight o’clock? Or, if you’d feel better about it, meet me in front of the drugstore.”
“I get all kinds of offers, not breakfast at the hotel, but all kinds of offers. What makes you think I’d accept yours?”
Joe stood up and dropped some cash on the table. “Because that’s all I’m asking of you, Sarah.” She watched with an open mouth as Joe made his way to the front door.
Joe stood in front of the small mirror near his cot and clipped wild mustache hairs. He felt foolish about his nervousness. He stepped into the office and buckled on his gun belt.While reaching for his coat, which hung from a nearby peg, he heard a noise. He drew the Colt and had it aimed toward the cell. The farmer was starting to wake up and unscrewed himself from the bunk, which was too short. Joe shook his head and mumbled to himself for forgetting his prisoner. He holstered the Colt and grabbed up the cell key. The farmer stood up carefully, holding his head.
