Marshal Jeremy Six #6

by Brian Garfield

  Lanphier heaved a deep breath. “There, that’s it. I fixed Hook’s gun, knowing he’d try to use it sometime in a gunfight. I murdered him in cold blood, just like that. Just like that.”

  His eyes came up dismally to stare at Six. “I’ve been kicking myself ever since. But what could I do? I couldn’t very well walk up to Hook and tell him what I’d done. And then I came home last night and found he’d tried to rape my wife. I guess that was because I was foolish enough to let him know I’d been in Silver City when he was there. He told me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut about that, he’d kill my wife. I did keep my mouth shut, but he came after her anyway.”

  Lanphier went across to the end of the porch and locked his fists on the porch rail. His knuckles whitened. He spoke without turning his head. “It’s been a nightmare, Jeremy.”

  “And Briscoe?” Six asked.

  “Somehow he found out how I’d tricked up Hook’s gun. He was Hook’s partner, I guess he figured it was up to him to get revenge. He called me out. I don’t know if it means anything anymore, but he shot first. He got four shots at me before I shot him. Remember what I told you about long-range shooting? He didn’t know how to handle a six-gun at that distance.”

  “Uh-huh,” Six said. He was drawing thoughtfully on his cigar; his face was lowered and he squinted, looking up through the smoke, looking up at Lanphier from under the thick overhang of his heavy eyebrows.

  Lanphier said in a very quiet and tired voice, “I guess you’ll be arresting me now.”

  “Maybe. Could be I won’t have to.”

  “What? But after what I just told you—”

  Six said, “Walk up to the office with me.”

  “Mind if I just say goodbye to Sheila first?”

  “I think you’ll be coming right back home,” Six told him. “You won’t be gone long enough for her to miss you. Come on.”

  Nine

  Six pushed the door of his office open and glanced around, frowning. Somebody had been in here. The papers were in disorder on the desk; two or three had fallen to the floor.

  He went around behind the desk and opened the bottom drawer. Hook’s gun was still there, but it wasn’t in the same position he remembered. He took it out and examined it, having a look at the firing pin.

  “I see what you mean. You’d never notice it unless you knew what to look for.”

  “I know my trade,” Lanphier said dully.

  Six set the gun aside. “Something must’ve given Candy the idea to come in here and examine the gun.”

  “Maybe he heard that it misfired.”

  “Probably,” Six agreed. “Sit down. It’ll take me a minute to go through these.”

  Lanphier was obviously spooked. He sat down and kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. Six opened the top drawer and took out a thick stack of wanted flyers. With deliberate care he read the top one, slipped it aside, and read the next.

  It went on for some time. After a little while Lanphier got up and started pacing restlessly back and forth. “Mind telling me what you’re looking for?”

  “I’d rather not,” Six said. “If I’m wrong, I’d just be getting your hopes up for nothing.”

  “I wish I knew what in hell you’re talking about,” Lanphier said raggedly. “I don’t see any way to call what I did anything but murder. And sifting through a bunch of reward posters can’t do me any good. I’m not wanted for anything, if that’ll help—nothing except the murder of Fred Hook, that is.”

  “It’s not your name I’m looking for,” Six said, and then, with a roar of triumph, he snatched a document from the pile. “I knew it!”

  “What?”

  Six’s eyes moved down the document and a smile spread across his face. “Don’t ever tell me there’s no justice, Gene.” He reversed the flyer, end-for-end, and held it out. “Read it for yourself.”

  Frowning, not understanding a bit of it, Lanphier took the reward flyer and read aloud: “Wanted—for First Degree Murder and Armed Robbery—Allen Frederick Hooker. Age thirty-eight. Height five feet nine. Weight...” Lanphier looked up, exasperated. “So what? I’m not surprised he was wanted by the law, but that doesn’t change what I did. I don’t—”

  “Read what it says down at the bottom,” Six told him.

  Lanphier’s puzzled glance dropped to the bottom of the flyer and he read the bottom lines: “A bounty of one thousand dollars will be paid for this fugitive, dead or alive.”

  Lanphier looked up slowly. “You mean—?”

  “Exactly,” Six said. “A strange quirk, or maybe not so strange, but that’s the way it is. Hook was wanted, dead or alive. You didn’t commit murder, in the eyes of the law. You enforced the law. You haven’t committed any legal crime, Gene. You’ve got a one thousand dollar bounty coming to you.”

  Lanphier shook his head. “I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.”

  “Then sign it over to the padre’s school,” Six said. “That’s the least of your concerns, Gene. You’re a free man.”

  Lanphier’s head was still shaking back and forth. “I just don’t understand it, Jeremy. I guess I don’t really believe it yet.”

  “Go on home and take your time working it out for yourself, then.” Six smiled reassuringly at him.

  Lanphier sank weakly into the chair. He buried his face in his hands and sat like that for such a long time that Six began to think there was something wrong with him; but then Lanphier’s hands dropped into his lap and he stared vacantly at Six and said, “I just don’t believe it. Things like this just don’t happen.”

  “They do,” Six said. “It’s my fault you got into this mess and it gives me considerable relief to be able to get you out of it.”

  “How in God’s name is it your fault?”

  Six pointed toward the wanted flyer. “I should’ve remembered that poster before. It wasn’t until you said Hook used to call himself Al Hooker that the connection snapped into place in my head. But if I’d been as smart as I’m supposed to be, I’d have recognized Hook as soon as he came into town, arrested him and thrown him behind bars and had him extradited to New Mexico to hang.”

  “Good God, Jeremy, no man alive can be expected to remember every reward poster that comes in the mail.”

  “It’s my job,” Six answered. “My mistake, Gene, and I’m sorry you and Sheila had to suffer for it.”

  Lanphier looked dazed. He grinned awkwardly. “I don’t reckon we’ll be holding it against you, Jeremy. For some strange reason I don’t reckon we will.” He laughed, half hysterically. He leaped out of the chair and rushed forward, grabbed Six’s hand and pumped it up and down.

  “Jesus,” Lanphier said, “you are a good man, Jeremy!”

  Lanphier was near the door when Six said, “Hold on a minute.”

  Lanphier turned, half afraid. Six waved a hand. “Sit back down for a minute, Gene. There are a few things we’d better get settled right away.”

  “Things? What things?” Lanphier moved back to the chair and sat down, on the edge of it.

  “Relax a little. I’m not going to arrest you. But I wonder if you’ve thought about what happens next?”

  “I can tell you that right now,” Lanphier said firmly. “I’m going to put this gun back where I got it in the shop, and do my damnedest to forget any of this ever happened. I’m going to take care of my wife and stay as far as I can from loaded guns except on the tin-can target range. I’m a gunsmith, not a gunfighter.”

  “Not anymore,” Six murmured. His eyes narrowed down and he said, in a vaguely regretful way, “You’ve gunned down two of the toughest gunslingers in the Territory, Gene. And there’s no way to prevent the word from getting around. The first thing that’s likely to happen is that Wade Cruze will get mad. He stood still for it when you killed Hook, but now you’ve wiped out his other gunnie too. He’s not likely to be too friendly. But I can handle Cruze. It’s the rest of them you’ve got to think about.”

  “The rest of who?”

  �
�The would-be gun-notchers,” Six said. “The woods are full of them, Gene, and when the word gets out, they’ll reckon you’re fair game for them.”

  Lanphier nodded slowly. He didn’t seem shocked. “I should have known I wouldn’t get away scot-free.”

  “You never can,” Six said. “You’ve got the brand of the gun on you now, and nothing but time can rub it off. If you’re lucky enough to keep yourself out of fights for a few years, sooner or later they’ll forget all about you. But if you let even one trigger-happy tough needle you into a gunfight, you’ll be right back on the list.”

  “Jeremy, if I have to bend over backward so far that I’m standing on my head, I swear to you I’ll back-pedal my way out of any gunfight that comes my way.”

  “It may not be all that easy, Gene. When Candy Briscoe came after you just now, you didn’t want to fight him either. But there wasn’t any way out of it, was there?”

  “Not that I could take.”

  “Think about that, then,” Six said quietly. “And think about this, too: it doesn’t take any time at all for rumors to get around. The rumor’s already all over town that you’ve got some sort of special magical gun.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Sure I do. But neither of us can do anything about rumors, Gene. We can both deny them until we’re blue in the face. It won’t do any good. That gun of yours is as famous as you are, and getting more famous every minute of the day while the story spreads. A week from now there won’t be a town in Arizona where they’re not discussing you in saloons. I’m not suggesting you make yourself into a professional gunman, but you’d better have a long, hard think. You’ll have to decide just what you’re going to do when the first gun-notcher catches you off alone somewhere and challenges you to gunfight him.”

  He added more softly, “I’m sorry, Gene, but I had to caution you. It won’t be easy.”

  “I reckon it won’t,” Lanphier agreed moodily. He got up and said vaguely, “Much obliged, Jeremy,” and left the office like a sleepwalker.

  Six sat looking at the door for quite a while before he shook himself and got back to business. He took out a sheet of office stationery, and in his crabbed hand wrote up a report of the last twelve hours’ events. He signed it and addressed it to the U. S. Marshal’s Office at Prescott.

  After he mailed the report he started out on his rounds. He stopped at the Drover’s Rest, and as he expected, Wade Cruze was up in arms.

  Cruze was in a table-thumping mood. His short, powerful arms slammed down on the card table and he demanded to know why that sonofabitching killer, Lanphier, wasn’t behind bars.

  Six explained it, coolly and briskly: “Your two hired gunnies weren’t good enough, Cruze. That’s all. Hook was wanted dead or alive for a murder over in New Mexico, and Candy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from inside the barn. There are no charges against Lanphier—and let me add this: Lanphier is strictly out of bounds to you. If you’ve got a gun that needs fixing, you bring it to me and I’ll see it gets delivered.”

  “You’ll stick to your own townsfolk, right or wrong,” Cruze accused him, “no matter how many of my boys get killed. Is that it?”

  “If one of your men got in a fight and had to defend himself, I’d stick up for him just as fast,” Six told him. “Understand me. I’ve got no quarrel with you or your men. But you’ve got no quarrel with me or my people, by the same token. Do I make that clear to you?”

  “I reckon you do,” Cruze said darkly. “Hell, I got bigger fish to fry than some local tinhorn gunsmith who wants to make a rep for himself. Look, just tell your Lanphier feller to stay clear of my way.”

  “He won’t give you any trouble,” Six said.

  “Hell, Marshal, he’s already give me plenty of that. Killed my best two fighting men.”

  “If they were your best,” Six answered, “then you were in pretty bad shape already, weren’t you?” He left that hanging in the air and went out of the saloon.

  Six was surprised to see Cort Danziger in the Glad Hand. Danziger had posted himself back in a dim corner, on a straight chair with his shoulders wedged into the intersection of the adobe plaster walls. A whisky bottle stood on the table in front of him, untouched. Old Will Greer was sitting at the table talking energetically. Will Greer was the town gossip, a one-man grapevine. It looked as if Danziger wasn’t drinking but he was staring at the whisky bottle the way a starving man might stare at a loaf of bread through a bakery window.

  Six moved along the bar, nodded to the bartender and waited for his customary cup of coffee. He had his back to the rear corner but he could hear Will Greer’s husky voice clearly. Greer was saying, “Sure, that’s her stepfather, guardian, whatever you call it. That cattle-buyer feller. But he ain’t her natural-born daddy. I used to haul freight for the Army and I recollect her old man was a Cavalry captain, Cap’n Holbrook. He came from some rich down-East family that dated back to the Pilgrim days. I never knew her ma—she must be dead a long spell now. The Cap’n got himself killed by ’Paches up in the Chiricahuas, four—five years back, when General Crook came down here with the Fifth. I recollect that campaign right well. I was still hauling supplies for the Army, civilian contractor I was, and I was with the troops when they moved out, spring of ’Seventy-nine it was. I recollect we—”

  Danziger interrupted in a voice too soft for Six to pick up the words. Six hooked a boot heel over the bar rail and nodded acknowledgment to the bartender, who set the mug of hot coffee in front of him and drifted away down the bar. Greer’s voice started up again, evidently in answer to Danziger’s question.

  “Danville, I recollect it was. Cap’n Holbrook came from Danville, Connecticut. That’s where the family came from. I recall he told me one time. Seems his family didn’t think much of him joining the Army—that was during the War Between the States, of course. He was quite a soldier, got himself brevetted brigadier general when he was twenty-eight years old. You might recall he commanded the Nineteenth Connecticut at Vicksburg. That’s where he lost his hand, you know.”

  Danziger said something quietly. Six sipped his coffee and eavesdropped unashamedly; he was no busybody but he had the feeling that he ought to make it his business to be interested in anything Cort Danziger was interested in.

  Greer went on gossiping; he seemed to have a memory full of pigeonholes, each one filled with information.

  “Left hand, it was. He got hit in the forearm with a minié ball and the Rebs captured him half dead from loss of blood. His left hand was amputated in a Reb field hospital. Seems there was a young Yankee spy who helped him escape and get back to his own lines—name of Boone, I recall. I remember that on account of Dan’l Boone, of course. This spy’s name was Jim, I think—Jim Boone. The Cap’n told me he met this Boone feller in the Reb hospital and Boone sneaked him out one night and got him back to General Grant’s headquarters. The Cap’n never set eyes on that Boone feller after that, but when I knew him he told me he was still looking to find Boone and thank him.”

  Danziger asked another question, and Greer answered, “Nope, not that I can remember. All he said was that Boone was a young feller, a Southerner from New Orleans or thereabouts. Never did say what he looked like. I reckon he was kind of half dizzy from the amputation and all. He probably never did get too good a look at Boone.”

  Danziger spoke again, and Greer said, “Sure, don’t mention it, mister. Nice talking to you. Thank you kindly for the nourishment here.” Greer chuckled. When Six glanced over his shoulder, Greer was picking up the whisky bottle possessively. Greer stuck the bottle under his arm, tugged his hat down, and scurried out of the saloon.

  Six finished his coffee and left the bar to go back to Danziger’s table. Danziger’s eyes came up, like two holes burned in a coat. He gave no sign of recognition. Six said, “Hello, Cort.”

  “Hello, yourself,” Danziger said, with no audible enthusiasm.

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  Danziger laug
hed mirthlessly. “Yeah. I have to be.”

  Six said, “Mind if I ask you something?”

  “Why? So you can twist it around?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Never mind,” Danziger said. “Just making conversation. What’s on your mind, Jeremy?”

  Six hooked an empty chair over from where Greer had been sitting. He reversed it and sat down cowboy fashion, legs astraddle and arms folded before him over the back of the chair. Danziger asked, “How come you’re not busy polishing your armor?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cort. Do you?”

  “You always were a crusader. That’s all I meant. No offense. You look like you’ve got a burden, Jeremy.”

  “Could be.”

  “Wade Cruze?”

  “Might be.”

  Danziger said, “You’re a damned fool, you know that? You pin on that marshal’s badge and sooner or later get yourself killed for people who won’t even remember your name.”

  “I know my name,” Six answered. “All right, then—what would you do? How would you handle Cruze?”