Mundy's Law

by Monty McCord

  “Luther. Cookie, it’s Marshal Mundy.” There was silence. Farnham’s dog started barking again. He drew his Colt and pulled the door open. After turning the lamp high, he could see the two rustlers lying face down in the dirt. The back of their heads looked wet in the lamp light. Joe touched them and brought back bloody fingers. He felt them again and found neat little holes that the end of his finger almost fit into.

  “Damn it!” He stepped out with the lamp and gave Adam a wave.

  When Adam ran up, he stopped and looked over Joe’s shoulder. “Gawd, are they killed?”

  “They are,” Joe said. “Go tell the judge our witnesses have been shot. When you get back, wake up MacNab.”

  “You suppose Canfield and his deputy did it?” Adam said.

  “Surely possible, especially if they got wind that these two were talkin’.”

  Adam headed to Judge Worden’s office. Joe went down the alley and knocked on the side door of the North Star, where Gib Hadley was inside sweeping. Joe saw that the chairs were piled on top of the tables when he went in.

  “Sorry to bother you, Gib.”

  “Joe, you’re up late. What can I do for you?” Hadley said.

  “Adam said Sheriff Canfield and his deputy were in here playing cards tonight,” Joe said.

  “Yes, they were. Budd took ’em pretty good.”

  “Do you remember what time they left?” Joe said.

  “Sure do. They kept tryin’ to get their winnings back before they headed out. Was belly achin’ it was going to be late getting back to the Flats. They called it quits at ten thirty,” Hadley said. “Why, what’s wrong, Joe?”

  “Oh, nothin’. Thought I’d catch ’em before they left.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I can’t believe it. Those are the first killings in our town, other than, ah, at the Palace,” Siegler said. He slowly shook his head. Joe and Sarah were sitting at a table in the hotel with Siegler. All three had bowls of buffalo stew with homemade bread on the side, which was the special for the day. The dining room was full, and most of the people were minding their own business.

  “Those two said Canfield and his deputy killed that Carlson fella, and they were going to tell the judge, and now they’re dead. And those two so-called lawmen were here when it happened . . .” Siegler said, and sighed. “Coincidence?”

  “We’re not likely to find out with Luther and Cookie dead,” Joe said. He tore off a piece of bread and dunked it into his stew.

  Joe finished chewing, took a drink of coffee, and wiped his mouth with a cloth. “According to Gib, they left at ten thirty. They could have killed ’em then, or headed out to make it look like they were really leaving, and then doubled back and done it. Either way, there’s no proof. No one seems to know anything other than they heard Farnham’s dog barking.”

  “How did they find out those two were here in town?” Sarah said.

  Joe shrugged. “Probably followed their tracks here. Hard to hide in a town this small. I shoulda’ locked ’em up though. Guess I wasn’t real sold on their story.” Joe considered that his inaction in that regard had possibly cost the lives of the two hapless thieves. If he would have locked them up, and it was Canfield’s intent to see them dead, he wondered if the sheriff would have tried to take them at the jail. That’s exactly what Luther had said they were afraid of. The mystery behind Canfield and his deputy might have been resolved with that confrontation.

  “I was thinking maybe things would settle down a bit now, but with that fella from Kansas after you . . .” Siegler said, stopping abruptly. Sarah looked at him and then at Joe.

  “What’s he talking about? What fella from Kansas?”

  Joe knew better than to try and talk around it. “Had to kill three men in Baxter, lawful like. One of them’s missus maybe sent a man to find me.”

  “Three men? All at once?” Sarah said. Joe nodded. “Who is this man? What’s he look like?”

  “I don’t think he’s coming, ’cause he should have been here long before now.” Joe stuffed the last of his bread into his mouth and started chewing.

  “So that explains why you’re carrying that around,” Sarah said, and nodded toward the ten-gauge that was leaning against the wall beside Joe. Lately there was more than one reason to be carrying the shotgun along. Joe didn’t care to list them all over lunch. He was only kidding himself if he thought that Kinney wasn’t one of them. He wanted every edge he could get with someone like him. Of course, the possibility of a confrontation with the sheriff was another. Joe wasn’t sure just when, but he had decided that if Canfield tried to arrest him, he would respectfully decline and invite him to send for the U.S. marshal. He wouldn’t be surprised, now that he thought about it some more, if the sheriff tried hanging the killings of Luther and Cookie on him as well—just like he was aiming at with Carlson.

  “How’s Missus Siegler feeling this morning?” Joe said. He decided a change in conversation might help the taste of the stew.

  “Doc says her fever has peaked,” Siegler said. “Thinks she’ll pull through this just fine. She’s a strong woman.”

  “Kinda guessed that,” Joe said, smiling at Siegler. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Bad news is we’ve got two more sick ones come into Doc’s this morning,” Sarah said.

  “Doc looked like hell when we took Fern to him,” Siegler said.

  “Katy Sanderson’s death hit him very hard. So young,” Sarah said. She sipped from the cup and stared into space. “I thought he’d be used to that sort of thing, being a doc and all.”

  “Well, he’s not an old doc. A thick skin takes a while to grow,” Joe said.

  “He was born in Boston thirty-two years ago. Served in the medical corps during the last two years of the war, then he went to medical school,” Sarah said. Joe and Byron looked at her.

  Joe said, “Well, aren’t you a fountain of knowledge?”

  “We had a chance for coffee in the middle of the night. He proceeded to tell me about himself.”

  “Doc’s a real decent sort,” Siegler said. “Joe, have you met Thord Sanderson yet?” Joe shook his head.

  “He’s a blacksmith, started in business here just before you got here. Nice folks. Friends with the Forsonns. In fact, I believe they came to America together. Little Katy was their only child, and sweet as a sugar plum.”

  “I better be getting back down there so Pastor Evans can get a little rest before the funeral,” Sarah said and smiled at Siegler. The smile evaporated when she looked at Joe. “And, Marshal Mundy. I’ll be interested to hear why you felt that you couldn’t confide in me about someone coming here to kill you.” Joe had no words to offer. Nor did she give him the chance.

  They all stood and headed for the door. Many of the customers stared at Joe as he walked by carrying the shotgun.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Katy Sanderson’s tiny coffin was placed in the back of the undertaker’s wagon, which was the same wagon that he used to pick up bodies. Today, the businesses in town were closed as the wagon rolled slowly down Main Street. The wagon and harness were draped in black ribbon, and the team wore black feathered plumes. A cedar wreath tied with ribbon lay on top of the coffin. Thord and Dana Sanderson walked behind the wagon. He was dressed in a black suit and carried his hat. He held his wife with his free arm and, at times, seemed to be her only means of support. She wore a black dress and veil. Mrs. Sanderson wiped nervously at her nose with a hankie, and those in the procession could hear her convulsive sobbing.

  Behind the grieving parents walked Pastor Evans, Doc Sullivan, the Forsonn family, and then nearly every man, woman, and child of Taylorsville.

  As the procession neared the marshal’s office, Joe and Adam stepped off the boardwalk and fell into line. Hats in hand, they followed the wagon to the west end of Main Street, where it turned south toward the cemetery. The line of people was still making the turn off Main Street when the wagon inched by Sarah’s house.

  When the wagon cam
e to a stop, four men eased out the pine box and carried it to the grave. They gently set it on two short poles that were positioned across the open hole.

  With Bible in hand, Pastor Evans took up a position at the head of the grave and waited for the line of mourners to arrive. The Sandersons and Forsonns stood alongside the coffin, and others filled in around them. The silence was numbing. The chill of the air was tempered with bright sunshine and a cloudless sky.

  Behind Pastor Evans, at the far south end of the cemetery, Joe could see the three fresh graves of Bob, Luther, and Cookie. No funeral for them, just a few words spoken over them by the pastor and a burial. He hoped they got along well, because they were now together for eternity. About twenty yards out, a man in a dirty coat leaned on a shovel and watched. A pickax lay near his feet. Joe didn’t envy the gravedigger’s job, most particularly in January.

  “We are gathered here today to commit the body of Katy Isa Sanderson to the ground, and her soul to God and his glory. Katy, precious daughter of Thord and Dana Sanderson, was aged six years, ten months, and four days, when her lone journey began . . .”

  Joe watched as Missus Sanderson’s knees buckled, and her husband grabbed her with both arms to keep her from falling down. No one ever wanted to experience the pain that gripped her.

  “. . . Grasp firmly, the shield of faith.You will need it in your contest with the last enemy, which is death . . .”

  Joe felt a nudge at his side and saw Sarah standing next to him. Her eyes were overflowing and solidly fixed on Evans. He pushed gently against her to acknowledge her presence.

  “. . . I have fought the good fight, I have kept my faith. Laid up for me is a crown of righteousness, which the Lord shall give unto me in that day . . .”

  MacNab produced a straight-backed chair and placed it behind Mrs. Sanderson. Hadda Forsonn kept her arm around Mrs. Sanderson and eased her into it. Thord Sanderson stood solid as a rock, tears streaming down his face. Doc Sullivan stood off to the side and stared blankly at the coffin. At a glance, one might have thought he wore a thin mask due to the dark circles around his eyes. For the first time, Joe noticed that the doctor’s clothes hung from him as if draped over a scarecrow. Sullivan had brought Lucy, and he kept his right arm around her waist to keep her from falling down. This was the first time Joe, or anyone else for that matter, had seen Lucy in a dress that was buttoned up to the neck. Though Doc Sullivan held onto her, who was actually supporting whom was not clear.

  “. . . Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .”

  Memories flooded into Joe’s mind as he stood there. The words he heard were familiar. He remembered them from that summer of 1852. No tears left to lose for the two split-log coffins sitting side by side.

  “. . . a table before me in the presence of mine enemies, thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over . . .”

  Nada and Jorund Forsonn and a handful of other children walked up one at a time and placed small homemade flowers of paper and cloth on the coffin. One was a paper doll. A young man stepped forward with his son, close in age to Katy, and held him over the coffin so he could place a dried leaf that he brought.

  “. . . and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.”

  Pastor Evans closed his Bible and nodded to the four men who had carried Katy’s coffin. They picked up the ends of two ropes under the coffin and gently lifted the box while two other men pulled the poles out of the way. They carefully lowered the box into the hole and pulled out the ropes.

  Dana Sanderson fell to her hands and knees beside the grave and shrieked. Her husband knelt beside her and tried to ease her back to the chair. Reseated for only a moment, she flung herself down again beside the hole, almost falling in. He didn’t try to lift her again. He knelt down and placed his arm around her shoulders.

  Many of the people gradually broke away and walked back to town. Joe, Sarah and Adam followed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “What ya’ got there?” Joe asked when Adam came into the office. He was carrying a burlap bag.

  “MacNab told me to give this stuff to you to hold. Personal things of them two who was killed. I signed a note saying he gave me the stuff.”

  “Our undertaker is the careful one,” Joe said. “Let’s see what we have.” He turned the bag upside down and emptied the contents on the desk. The two gun belts were nearly worn out. Seams of both holsters were coming apart, and the belts were dry and cracked. Joe laid two pistols aside, one a Union Army Colt .44, and the other a short-barreled .36 with missing loading lever. A cloth bag of tobacco, pad of cigarette paper, a pair of homemade dice, a piece of jerky, and a silver pocket watch comprised the worldly possessions of Luther Brennan and Cookie Jones.

  “MacNab said he only kept their clothes that he buried ’em in.”

  Joe squeezed the tobacco sack and thought about the two. As he worked the sack he felt a piece of paper inside and assumed it was a cigarette paper. He worked the sack open to look inside and found a note. “Looks like they saved a scrap paper to smoke.” Joe said. He pulled out the worn, wrinkled paper and unfolded it. “A has hids to haul out. Be quik bout it.” He read it aloud.

  “A has hides to haul out?” Adam said. “That don’t make no sense.”

  “I think A is somebody’s initial,” Joe said. Adam nodded.

  “If they was rustlin’, think maybe they was doin’ some slaughterin’ out there at the soddy? And needed to get rid of some hides?”

  “Maybe. If they were, who were they writin’ this note to? Who’s A?” Joe said. “None of them boys had an A for an initial. Don’t know about that Tyler, though.”

  They thought silently about the note. Adam walked to the front door and looked out. “Freight wagon come in. Mister Siegler has been expectin’ one of them new Winchesters. Think I’ll head over there.”

  Joe sat quietly thinking about the note after Adam had gone. Hides meant that they had been doing some slaughtering.Where would they sell the meat without raising questions? A meat market down at Kearney had been caught red-handed with the remains of stolen stock. Joe didn’t know about Gracie Flats, but Taylorsville had a meat market. He thought about the initial. The “A” could stand for Ace, as in Ace Todd, who managed the livery and meat market for Budd Jarvis. The pleasure in arresting them both would be more than any one man deserved. But first, he’d have to find proof. Joe slipped the note into a vest pocket, rebagged the other items, and dropped the bag into one of the desk drawers. A little snooping around would be in order, but first a stop at Siegler’s in case that new rifle did come in.

  Inside the store a group of men were standing at the counter. The “oohs” and “ahhs” told Joe that the new rifle was indeed the center of attention.

  “Joe, take a look at this,” Siegler said, and handed him the gun. “The Winchester model of 1876. They call it the Centennial model, because it came out on our country’s one-hundredth birthday.”

  “It’s heavy,” Joe said, and took a bead on a window across the street.

  One of the onlookers held up a cartridge for him to see. “Look at this, Marshal, it’s a damned big one!”

  “It’s chambered in .45-75. Easily bring down a buffalo or elk, or about any other game animal,” Siegler said with pride. “Any one of you fellas can own it for $14.25.”

  “It looks like a ’73, but bigger,” Adam said. His eyes were fixed solidly on the rifle.

  “Surely is a beauty,” Joe said. He handed the rifle back to Siegler, but one of the men intercepted it. “I’ll leave you men to fight over it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The moon glared down and cast shadows around the buildings of town. It was cold but not bitter as it had been. Joe once again stood against a shed watching the rear of Jarvis’s meat market. It was the seventh night in a row that he had held vigil over the business, the third that included getting up in the middle of the night to take a look as well. He calculated it was now abou
t three o’clock and thought about going back to bed. He looked over the small corral behind the market, and the door on the back of the building where the animal entered to be slaughtered. Joe guessed they could bring in only one or two at a time due to the size of the building.

  He was thinking that this was probably a waste of time when he heard hooves crushing the thin layer of snow. From the north came two riders herding a steer down the side street in front of them. The back door of the market opened, and a man who resembled Todd came out and opened the gate. The steer was guided into the corral and then inside the building. The door closed, and a moment later Joe heard a thud and the sound of what he thought must be the animal falling to the floor. This activity in the middle of the night was suspicious. Joe picked up the ten-gauge and approached the two mounted men. They were closing the gate behind them when they noticed him.

  “Hold up there, I’m Marshal Mundy,” Joe said.

  In an instant the two riders spurred their horses into a dead run, heading north from where they had come. Joe slipped into the corral and to the back door. As he reached for the handle, the door opened a crack. He jerked it open and shoved the shotgun into a man’s face and pushed him inside.

  “Nobody move!” Joe said.The man on the end of the shotgun was bald and fat-faced, with wide eyes, and he held a large butcher knife with his right hand. Three lanterns were burning, and Joe saw Ace Todd standing over the dead steer, a bloody sledgehammer lying on the floor nearby.

  “Take ’im, Dan!” Ace screamed. “Take ’im, damnit!”

  Dan gave a cross-eyed look at the cavernous twin barrels at his nose. “I . . . I . . . I’m just a butcher, Mister Todd, I . . . I ain’t no fighter!”

  When Todd saw that Dan wouldn’t move, he started forward.

  “You’ll never make it, Todd!” Joe pushed Dan backward and aimed the shotgun at Todd, who froze in midstride. His eyes locked onto a Winchester carbine laying on a counter next to him.