by Monty McCord
The bay splashed through the cold water, soaking Joe’s lower pant legs. The tracks were so easy to follow that he forced himself to stay vigilant for ambush. About two hours later, he stopped on the upside of a hill, at a point where only his head was exposed. Through the spyglass he could see Carlson starting down another hill. He collapsed the glass and pulled out his watch. It was almost four o’clock. He waited to see the wagon make the incline on the next hill. By four thirty, it hadn’t. Joe wondered if this was Carlson’s destination or if he had only stopped for the day. He was losing daylight, so he decided to take advantage of what light was left.
An hour later he was approaching the hill he had last seen the wagon on. He dismounted and ground-hitched the bay. With the Winchester in one hand and the spyglass in the other, Joe tromped through the snow to the top. He could smell the smoke before he reached the top of the hill. Joe eased up to the hilltop, staying low. The glass revealed a small soddy and corral built into the south side of the next hill. It was almost unnoticeable unless you knew where it was or happened on it by accident. Carlson and three other men had finished unhitching the team and were unloading the wagon. The tiny soddy had to be cramped with four people and the newly arrived provisions. One section of the corral had four horses and another held a dozen longhorn cattle, which Joe wanted to get a closer look at. It was getting cold, but he waited to move until after the men went inside. Joe returned to the bay and rode west and north, then turned back toward the soddy and dismounted on the north side of the hill. He carefully made his way to the corral. Light was starting to fade from the gray sky. It wouldn’t be long before the livestock would be difficult to see.
Joe kneeled down above the corral, which was cut into the hill. The front had a gate made of skinny wood rails. He took a leatherbound notepad from his overcoat pocket and jotted down four different brands that he could see without disturbing the cattle. One of the steers let out a loud bawl while he looked over the horses. He didn’t see any brands on them. A moment later the cabin door opened, and one of the men, armed with a rifle, came outside to look around. Joe took off his hat, threw it behind him, and hunkered down with his face almost in the snow. The man walked over to the corral, looked around, and leaned the rifle against the gate. He hiked up his coat, unbuttoned his pants, and urinated. When finished, he went back inside. By then the smell of frying pork swirled from the chimney.
It was dark when Joe got back to the bay. He figured that riding easterly would take him to Gracie Flats. He would give the information he had to Sheriff Canfield and let Canfield take care of it from there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The men carried in the last crate and piled it in the corner of the tiny soddy. The bundle of branding irons was leaned in a corner. Heat radiated from a small stove, and two oil lamps brightened the inside of the soddy. The men who occupied it were used to the stink of body odor and coal oil. The short, sickly-looking one with a cloth cap dropped four slabs of pork into a frying pan on the stove and went about making coffee.
“Okay, Bob, we’re all unloaded.You gonna tell us where Darnell is, or is it still some kinda secret?”
“Ain’t no secret. Jus’ wanted to get unloaded and in here where it’s warm,” Carlson said.
“Well, are ya’ comfortable ’nuff . . . ?” Peering more closely, the bear-sized man went silent, grabbed a lamp, and held it up to Carlson’s face. “What in hell happened to you?”
“Darnell and me, well, we’s needin’ a woman, bad, you know? So we stopped in Taylorsville,” Carlson said.
“You dumb som’ bitch, the boss tol’ ya’ no stops after you snatched the stuff at Loup City.You’s to come straight here.”
“Luther, I knowed that. It’s just that we really needed some, been too long,” Carlson said. “We’s up in the room with the whore doin’ our business when this tin star kicks in the door and feeds me the butt stock of his gun. Next thing I knowed, I’m on the floor feelin’ starry-eyed, chokin’ on my teeth, and then I heared gunshots. One small one and one big one that hurt my head. Musta’ been dazed a second, ’cuz when I come to, there’s Darnell and his brains was spillin’ out on me!”
“Darnell’s kilt?” Luther asked. The scrawny cook turned and silently watched for Carlson’s answer.
“Christ! Ain’t ya’ been listenin’? Hell yes, he’s kilt,” Carlson said. “And then some! Then the tin star drags me to jail, and we wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but our business why we came for in the first place.”
“He done that, and you two wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong?” asked Luther.
“Swears to God, that’s the truth, best I can recollect!”
“Well, we gotta go down there and set that som’ bitch straight on a few things,” Luther said.
The fourth man had been reclining on the crates, smoking a cigarette and listening to the conversation. Without getting up, he joined in. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere less the boss says we do. He’ll be up here in a day or so to tell us where these steers go. You can tell him about it then.”
“We ain’t gonna let that tin star get away with that, are we Tyler?” Luther said.
“Until the boss says otherwise. Those two idiots were told not to stop anywhere. What they found was their dumb luck.”
“What was that? Did you hear something?” Luther said. The men were silent. The pork sizzling in the pan and some snaps from the fire in the stove were the only sounds.
“’Less I’m mistaken, that was a steer bellerin’, but if you’re so worried, maybe you better go check,” Tyler said.
Luther pulled on his coat and hat. “Think I will. You better not a’ let anybody follow you here, you dumb bastard!”
Carlson shook his head.
Three tiny lights in the distance off to Joe’s right told him he was well north of a town, probably Gracie Flats. From only a nudge to the shoulder with the left boot, the bay turned south. A gentle touch with the spurs moved him into a trot.
Lamps were burning inside the houses Joe passed as he entered town. A dog was barking behind one of them. Farther on were more businesses than houses. From what he could see, the town was barely twice as large as Taylorsville. Most of the businesses were closed, except for the saloons, of course. Joe dismounted at the first one he came to—the sign read J. HOOVER SALOON—and tied up the bay.
He stood on the boardwalk in the light of the window for a minute, to let his eyes adjust before going in. His pocket watch showed almost eight o’clock. The saloon was about half full, and a small man in a white shirt and black vest hammered away on a piano. The man was good, and Joe enjoyed it. He hadn’t heard any music for some time. At the bar, he ordered coffee and asked the bartender where he could find the sheriff.
The county courthouse was two blocks east of the saloon. It was a two-story, wood-frame building smaller than Harold and Harvey Martin’s hotel. Joe went through a front door and into a narrow hallway. Light came through the door window of only one office. Above the door was a small hanging sign: SHERIFF. He tried the knob, but it was locked. A few knocks brought a man from an inside door that looked like the jail area.
“What is it?”
“Sheriff Canfield?” Joe said, and introduced himself.
“No, I’m his deputy. Sheriff’s at supper, be back shortly. Come on in,” the man said in a monotone. The deputy wore a tan cloth vest over a blue shirt and red floral tie with a black coat and trousers. He was about thirty and of average size, with what Joe thought was prematurely graying hair. His mustache hung just past the sides of his mouth, and a small patch of hair perched under his lower lip. The deputy was unassuming—in fact there was nothing striking about the man at all, except for his eyes, which seemed to bulge slightly. And the fact that he hardly ever blinked. He looked like he would be right at home in front of a schoolroom chalkboard. A short-barreled revolver with bone handles rested snugly in a cross-draw holster under his suit coat. The handles were of a shape Joe didn’t recognize.
Joe could he
ar some merry singing from behind the jail door.
The deputy went over and opened it. “Shut up or I’ll kick ole’ Susanna up between yur’ ass cheeks!” he said, in a voice that barely approached a yell. He received a lower volume for his effort.
Push come to shove, Joe wondered if he could actually back up a threat like that.
“Care for some coffee?” the deputy said. The deadpan voice returned.
Joe was about to answer when the front door opened, and another man walked in.
“Sheriff, we got a visitor,” the deputy said.
“I’m Joe Mundy, city marshal in Taylorsville,” Joe said and extended a hand.
“Wick Canfield, Marshal, heard they hired a new man. Good to meet you. Been trying to get down there. If I had a second deputy . . .” The sheriff pulled off his coat and a brown, wide-brimmed hat and hung them on a rack inside the door. He was as tall as Charlie Oster but not as heavy. The sheriff had a tall forehead and thick black hair that was centered more toward the back of his head. Not quite collar length, wild bunches of it protruded backward giving the effect that he was facing a terrific headwind. His heavy mustache drooped outward and off from the jawline, and the eyebrows each made an upward arch, which offered a permanent look of scrutiny. It looked like his huge hands had seen years of hard work.
“What are ya’ doin’ up here so late?” Canfield said.
Joe told Canfield the whole story, starting with his killing of one and arrest of the other “freighter” in the Palace Saloon. He finished with the little hideout and corral full of cattle wearing various brands that he found northwest of Gracie Flats.
Now sitting at his desk, Canfield stroked his mustache. He shot a quick glance at his deputy. “We haven’t heard of any stock thievin’ goin’ on ’round here for a spell. You remember any since them was took last fall?”
The deputy shrugged. “Nope.” He continued to build a fresh pot of coffee.
“You remember any of the brands?” Canfield said.
“Wrote down a few that I could see without bein’ discovered,” Joe said. He slipped the little notebook from an inside coat pocket, opened it, and handed it over.
“Hmm, the TO Bar, the Block S, the Lazy 2, the Circle A. Don’t recognize any from around here. The Lazy 2 might be up at Long Pine. Budd Jarvis had any stock go missing?” Canfield said. He picked up a pencil and copied the brands down on a piece of paper before he handed the notebook back to Joe.
“Hope not,” Joe said.
“You know Jarvis then?”
“He’s on the town board. Wasn’t very tied to the idea of hiring a new marshal.”
“He’s got a nice ranch. Little standoffish, but a hard-workin’ fellow, I understand,” Canfield said. He stood up and walked to a county map tacked to the wall. “Can you point out where you saw ’em?”
Joe studied the map and made a small circle with his index finger in the northwest part of the county. “Ain’t exact, but that’s close. Not much for landmarks out there. I came across the Calamus River here, where two big trees sit right across from each other, and turned south to get here.”
“The irons you saw in the wagon match any of these?” Canfield said and looked at his notes.
“None that I recall,” Joe said.
“By God, we’ll head out that way at dawn. Appreciate you bringing this to me.”
“Be glad to help,” Joe said. “There’s four of them fellers out there.”
“Thanks, but I can get a couple others to ride along to discourage any foolishness,” Canfield grinned. “We should be able to pick up your tracks and follow ’em in.”
“In that case I better head back,” Joe said.
“You goin’ back this late? Won’t get there ’til three or after,” Canfield said. “I can get you a good rate at the hotel.”
“Thanks, but I better be gettin’ back. Appreciate your time, Sheriff,” Joe said.
Other than the noted lack of presence around Taylorsville, Joe thought, the sheriff seemed a diligent sort. But Budd Jarvis seemed to be the only town board member to show any confidence in Canfield. It wasn’t Joe’s intent, but maybe hiring a new marshal somehow reflected badly on Canfield and the job he’d been doing for the county. If he and Jarvis were friendly, it might explain why Jarvis didn’t like Joe.
When Joe tried the door of his office, it was locked. He could see Adam tilted back in his chair, feet on the desk, fast asleep. He used his key and went inside as quietly as he could. The Regulator said 3:25.
“Glad you’re back, Marshal,” Adam said, his eyes still closed.
“You can see through closed eyes?” Joe asked. Adam smiled and sat up.
“All quiet in town?” Joe said.
“Quiet as a church mouse,” Adam said. “Oh, Missus Welby came by to surprise you with a basket supper she cooked, so we, her and I, ate it. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Course not, Adam. I was only out on the frozen prairie, wind blowin’, cold and hungry, no food in sight . . .” Joe’s lips turned up slightly at the corners.
Adam hesitated for a moment and then grinned. “Find out where that Carlson went?”
“Followed him north across the river a spell where him and three others have a soddy northwest of Gracie Flats. They had some cattle there, and the place looked more like a hideout than anything else. Told Sheriff Canfield about it.”
Joe pulled the cavalry Colt from his left side, placed it on the table, and hung his gun belt on the peg next to his bed. It felt good to pull off the boots and vest and stretch out for some sleep.
“Help yourself to a bunk in the cell, Adam,” Joe said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
It seemed to Joe that he had just drifted off to sleep when knocking on the front office door woke him. Wondering at first who it could be at that hour, he gradually pulled himself up. He glanced out and saw Siegler standing there with his nose pressed against the glass. Joe was too tired to care that he was in stocking feet and shirtsleeves when unlocking the door. The cell was empty, and the Regulator said it was 9:03.
“Morning, Joe. Long night?”
“Might say it was a short one,” Joe said. “Coffee? I see Adam made some already.” Siegler sat quietly as Joe filled him in on the night’s activities, including his visit with Sheriff Canfield.
“Hope he looks into it. Sometimes I think the great sheriff has grown too important for the likes of us. And, I might be a bit hard on the man. He does have only one deputy. Well, you told him what you found, up to him what he does about it,” Siegler said.
“How long’s he been sheriff?” Joe said.
“About two years. I guess he went broke ranching down at Plum Creek before that. Remember I said you might hear from Jarvis? Well, our regular board meeting is at my place at ten. He wants you there. Don’t know his intentions, but I guess I’ll see you there.”
Joe rinsed his face in the wash basin and dried with an old towel. After the clean shirt, vest, and boots, he strapped on the gun belt and replaced the cavalry Colt in his waistband. He knew he’d find out what Jarvis wanted soon enough, so he didn’t dwell on it during the walk down the street. The air was brisk, and no thawing of snow was evident.
Harold Martin, Budd Jarvis, and Byron Siegler were seated around the small table by the stove that usually held a checker game. Harold had a ledger book in front of him, and Byron was looking over some papers.
“Gentlemen,” Joe said, and sat down in the extra chair beside Harold. Byron and Harold greeted him in return. Joe noticed Judge Worden, Christmas Evans, and two other men he didn’t know leaning against the long counter.
“We’ll call the meeting to order,” Siegler said. “We have a few items of general business to cover, but we’ll start with Budd, who has something he wants to say.”
“What I got to say is on the actions of our new marshal. He’s been here less than a month and already killed a man. We had no killin’ here before he came, and then he beats the man’s partner half
to death and arrests him. Then he lets him go for lack of charges. If that’s not enough, he beats Smiley in his own establishment for no reason at all. What kind of example is that for the town marshal to set? I’ll tell you. He shows us the kind of example he sets by taking a whore to a meal at the hotel, and then to church! Why, the women are so disgusted by all these actions that they want him gone, pronto!”
Siegler could see Joe stiffen and his face reddening and gave him an almost undetectable shake of his head.
“Are any of the women coming in to complain, Budd?” Siegler said.
“What? Hell no, they won’t, you know that!” Jarvis said. “They complained to me as a member of the town board.”
“Harold, have you received any complaints on Marshal Mundy?” Siegler asked.
“Huh, well. Some of those ladies, well, you know, about the . . . ah, Missus Welby taking a meal in the hotel,” Harold said.
“Don’t you have a complaint about that, Harold?” Jarvis asked and stared at him.
Harold squirmed in his chair and checked each face at the table. When he met Joe’s stare, he quickly turned back. “Well, no. I’m in business. Be foolish to turn down business.”
“Joe, can you account for the . . . uh . . . incident with Smiley, uh, Mister Wilkie?” Siegler said.
“He asked me to pay for a room cleanin’, and I had to point out the error of his thinkin’ in not summoning help for Lucy when she was gettin’ beat. He was a little slow on the uptake at first.”
“So you beat him?” Jarvis said.
Siegler nodded for Joe to answer him.
“I slapped him a couple times to aid him with the understandin’ process,” Joe said.
“Did Mister Wilkie complain to you, Budd, or, Harold?” Harold shook his head.
“No, but I was told by two of my boys what he done to him,” Jarvis said.
“In that case, I will say, it was not in town’s best interest to handle Mister Wilkie’s . . . lack of understanding, in that manner, and I’d ask Marshal Mundy to refrain from physical violence unless necessary,” Siegler said. “As for the killing and the arrest of the deceased’s partner, Judge Worden, could you address that?”
