Marshal Jeremy Six #7

by Brian Garfield

  “I’ll talk to him,” Destiny replied. “But I’d rather hang this one on Stratton.”

  “Just take it easy,” Chavis counseled. “If you boil over this early, you’re likely to run out of steam before this thing ends.”

  Destiny watched Chavis disappear down the street, walking with the choppy strides of the born horseman. Chavis reminded him a little of his brother Steve—big, tough, straitlaced, ironbound by a stem sense of justice and duty. It had always been Jim Destiny’s belief that if you came across a rattlesnake you didn’t wait for proof of its intentions before you cut off its head; he was impatient with the slow wheels of courtroom proof, and unsatisfied by the rusty machinery of the book-of-rules by which lawmen were supposed to live. The rule book hadn’t kept his three brothers from being killed—two of them shot from ambush, the third shot down when he was too drunk to fight back. The men who’d killed his brothers had a different set of rules, and Jim Destiny was half convinced they were right, in the sense that the only way to fight fire was with fire.

  But his upbringing, at the hands of his three strict older brothers, had instilled in him at least one quality they all shared: a sense of honor. Jim Destiny had given his word, in what he now regarded as a moment of weakness, to Jeremy Six. He was bound by his own word to stick to Six’s set of rules.

  He looked down. He still had in his hand the gun he had taken out of the dead man’s fist. It was a forty-five caliber revolver, a Colt Frontier model with a 5½-inch barrel and all six chambers loaded with cartridges, one of them empty now. He punched out the empty shell case and stared at it in his palm, as if it could lead him to answers. It could not; it was mute. He put it back in the sixgun and rammed the gun in his waistband, which made him recall the fact that the dead Amos Krausmeier had not been wearing a gunbelt.

  He might head for Earle Mainwaring’s place right now and confront the youth, but he decided not to. The kid was the son of a rich man, which meant that if he was innocent —or if he was guilty but planned to bluff—he would stay put and depend on his father’s wealth and power to defend him. If the kid ran away, that would be a strong circumstantial indication of guilt. Destiny decided to let the youth have the rest of the night to think things over. In the morning, he’d confront Earle and have it out with him. Meanwhile, it had been a long day’s ride and a long night’s patrolling. He walked back to the hotel and went to bed.

  “I’m sorry I brought him into this,” Chavis grumbled. “It was my idea. But now I’ll tell you this much, Jeremy, I wouldn’t trust him any farther than I’d trust Sid Stratton himself.”

  Six said, “Why? You think he’s a crook?”

  “No. Not a crook. But I watched the way he handled that business at Stratton’s and I can tell you this—if that kid had justice in his mind at all, it came in a poor second. He wasn’t interested in finding out what happened. He was interested in figuring out how he could pin it on Stratton,”

  Six said, “You’ve got to understand, Destiny’s got a long-standing grudge against Stratton. From what I hear, it may well be justified. But I’ll grant you he’s got that blind spot. The question is, how’d he seem to handle the job otherwise?”

  “All right, I suppose,” Chavis said, dismissing it with a hand wave. “He knows the routine: what questions to ask, how to calm down the drunks without starting a free-for-all, how to stay out of strong light on the street. But it’s as if he went to school someplace and learned all the rules without really believing in them. He knows what to do, and he knows how he’s supposed to do it, but the question is, what’ll he do in a pinch? Will he stick to the rules or will he let his instincts take over?”

  Six stirred in bed, hitched himself up a bit, and steepled his fingers. His eyelids were low, making him look sleepy, which was not unusual considering the hour. He said thoughtfully, “Instincts. Which instincts, Tracy? You think he’s a killer?”

  “A lot of peace officers are killers—out of circumstance, not choice. But maybe, just maybe, this one could go too far. With somebody like Sid Stratton, I mean.” Chavis got up, reached for his hat, and half-turned toward the bedroom door. “I just thought I’d better fill you in. Sorry to wake you up at this hour, but I’ve got to get back to my outfit and catch up on the work I haven’t done the past few days.” He pulled the hat down over his eyebrows and headed for the door.

  Six said, “Tracy.”

  Chavis stopped and looked at him. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait’ll we see what kind of job the kid does before you decide to thank me or chew me out.”

  “Whatever happens,” Six said, “I’m in your debt.”

  “Aagh,” Chavis said gruffly, and left.

  Six laid his head back on the pillow and frowned at the ceiling. He didn’t like his situation at all. An active man, he had always succeeded in his profession by keeping his finger on the pulse of events; it was, as much as anything else, the ability to anticipate that made for success as a lawman. To prevent trouble before it could start. But now, getting all his information second-hand, he was losing the feel of the time and place, losing the ability to stay one jump ahead of trouble.

  Bullet wound or not, he would have to get back on his feet as fast as possible. And just hope that would be soon enough.

  Early in the morning, before the heat could build to oppressive closeness, Lisa Mainwaring drove the buggy into town to shop and pay a few calls. It was in the butcher shop that she first heard of Amos Krausmeier’s death. She immediately recalled the gunshot she had heard, while she and her brother had been arguing in front of Stratton’s saloon. Nobody seemed certain whether Krausmeier had killed himself or been murdered.

  At the same hour, unknown to Lisa, her father, Garrett Mainwaring, stepped off the morning train from Tucson. He had come home a week earlier than expected, mainly because San Francisco had been wet, cold, windy and foggy, and he had found himself longing for the desert’s clean heat. Mainwaring walked to the livery stable and hired a small buckboard, took it back to the railroad depot, picked up his valises, and turned the rented rig toward home.

  At the moment of Mainwaring’s arrival at the depot, Jim Destiny was knocking at the door of the Mainwaring house. He knocked several times before he got any response. Finally young Earle opened the door. Groggy and half asleep, Earle peered spitefully out, squinting against the daylight. He had obviously yanked his clothes on; his shirttails hung out, he wore moccasins like bedroom slippers instead of boots, his hair was unkempt.

  “What the hell you want?” Earle demanded.

  “Want to talk to you. I’m the new deputy marshal.”

  “Yeah? What do you want to talk to me for, at this hour of the morning?”

  “Man called Amos Krausmeier.”

  “Amos? What about him?”

  Without pushing hard, Destiny slid past Earle into the house and said, “Let’s sit down someplace. You could use some coffee before you talk.”

  “To hell with that. Who the hell you think you are, barging in here and—”

  “Krausmeier,” Destiny interrupted quietly, “is dead.”

  “—orderin’ me around … Krausmeier’s what?”

  “Shot dead last night, just before you came whipping that buggy away from Stratton’s place.”

  Earle shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait a minute,” he said sluggishly. He turned past Destiny and padded across the room. “I think I do need some coffee.”

  Destiny followed him through a hall and into a big kitchen, where someone had left coffee on the stove and uncooked bacon with two unbroken fresh eggs in a frying pan, ready to be cracked and cooked.

  Earle said vaguely, “Guess my sister must’ve gone to town. The old man gave the house servants a couple weeks off. Reckon she left this for me to fix my own breakfast.” His lip curled. “Hell of a lot she cares. Woman can’t even wait around to fix a man his breakfast.”

  Earle poured himself a cup of coffee and swallowed it, made a face, and
turned. He ground knuckles into his eye sockets and brought Destiny into sharper focus. “Now what’s all this about Krausmeier?”

  “He’s dead. Shot with a forty-five, once, in the head, at point-blank range. The gun was in his hand.”

  Earle frowned. “Krausmeier? Suicide? I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m inclined to be a bit dubious myself,” Destiny said dryly. “Do you own a handgun?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “Mind if I see it?”

  “What for? I thought you said the gun that killed him was in his hand.”

  “It was.”

  “Then what do you want to see mine for?”

  “Just for the hell of it,” Destiny said. “Of course, I can get a search warrant if you—”

  “Jesus,” Earle said, “let’s not make a big thing out of it. Come on upstairs.”

  Muttering under his breath, Earle led the way upstairs into a small but well-furnished bedroom. The clothes he had worn last night were strewn across two chaffs; his hat was on the floor, his boots half under the bed. A gun-belt’s end showed under the trousers on one chaff. Destiny tossed the trousers on the bed and picked up the gunbelt. The holster was empty.

  Destiny drew the revolver from his own waistband and tried it in the holster for size. It was a perfect fit.

  He said, “This your gun?”

  Earle’s eyes had narrowed; he swallowed several times. “They all look alike, don’t they?”

  “Is it yours?” Destiny said again, icily.

  “Let me see it.”

  Destiny emptied the cartridges into his hand, then handed the Colt to the youth. Earle said, “I scratched the grip here once, pounding a nail to hang a picture.” His tone was vague, abstracted.

  “Too lazy to get a hammer?” Destiny said dryly. “Pound nails with a sixgun and you’re likely to spring the grip.”

  “Look, I admitted it’s my gun.”

  “All right. Did you kill him?”

  “No. I did not. For Christ’s sake.”

  “Then who did?”

  “How in hell should I know?” Earle’s frightened eyes darted around the room nervously. He started to back away, through the doorway into the hall.

  “Stand still,” Destiny said, and walked forward, reaching out his hand. “Let me have that gun.”

  Earle looked at the gun, at Destiny, and at the empty gun again. His mouth opened and closed. “Look, you ain’t going to railroad me into taking the blame for it.”

  “Nobody’s railroading you into anything. Just let me have that gun.”

  “The hell,” Earle said. His voice was choked up tight. Suddenly he hurled the sixgun at Destiny and wheeled away, running.

  The heavy steel gun hit Destiny in the chest and knocked him back across the bed. The sharp edge of the gun-hammer had raked his chest, ripping the shirt and drawing blood instantly from a small cut. He cursed, flailed at the tangle of rumpled bedclothes, leaped off the bed and ran out into the hall. His quick reflexes had moved him fast; Earle was only a few paces away, heading for the stairs, loose moccasins flopping on his feet. Destiny dug in his toes and ran for him. Earle glanced over his shoulder and reached the head of the stairs just as Destiny made a grab for him. Destiny’s fist closed on a handful of shirt; he dragged Earle back, arms windmilling, spun him around and got a grip on the front of Earle’s shirt. Earle’s lip curled in spasm. Destiny lifted him on his toes and swatted him across the face—once, not hard, but very loud. Enough to startle Earle, enough to frighten him.

  Destiny said through clenched teeth, “Quit fooling with me. Half a dozen witnesses saw you knock Krausmeier out with a chair. A few minutes later he was shot dead in the back card room. Then you drove your buggy hell-for-leather away from the place, and now I find it’s your gun that killed him. You had better quit playing games with me, bucko.”

  Earle flinched away from his upraised hand. “Look, I’ll tell you the truth. I lost more than I could afford last night. I was all keyed up; I flew off the handle. I slapped my sister around, and Krausmeier called me out for it and knocked me down. I fell across a chair and maybe when I fell down the gun dropped out of my holster. After that I threw the damn chair at Krausmeier. Then I grabbed my sister and ran out and we were cussin’ each other out when I heard that gun go off inside Stratton’s. I didn’t want to get caught in some mess I didn’t have anything to do with, so I whipped up the buggy horse and got the hell out of there. That’s all I know. I didn’t shoot the old bastard. Now let go my shirt, damn you.”

  Earle had one hand braced behind him against the top of the staircase banister. Now, half in panic and half in rage, he let go his purchase to swat at Destiny’s hand. Destiny was already releasing his grip on Earle’s shirt when Earle swung at him; off-balance, Earle tipped back, shoulder dropping, hand flashing across the air. The slope of the banister caught him behind one kidney and he rolled, down and to the side. His eyes bulged with terror; his hands clawed for a grip. Destiny reached for him, but Earle was rolling away, across the steep banister. Earle’s right hand slammed against one of the rungs that supported the rail; as he went over the side he locked his fist around the rung, but it broke loose in his grip. Destiny leaped forward, braced himself against the banister and tried to grab him, but Earle was gone. His brief howling scream was cut off abruptly when he hit the floor fifteen feet below.

  Even from where he stood, Destiny could see by Earle’s position that the fall had broken his neck. Earle was dead—as sudden and brief as pinching out a candle’s flame.

  Destiny went down the steps three at a time, rushed around the bottom of the staircase and ran to the youth. He was crouching down to seek Earle’s pulse, on a desperate unfeeling chance, when he heard a wagon draw up to the back door of the house. Someone got out of the wagon and climbed to the back porch; a key rattled in the lock.

  Sudden blind panic struck Destiny. He did not stop to reason, to make sense of things; all he knew was that he was alone with a man who had died violently, and whoever was at the back door had a key. They’ll think I killed him—I’ll hang! That was all that went through his mind. Breathing in gasps, Destiny jumped up and ran flat out for the front door. He dashed through, pulled the door shut, took the porch stairs in one scrambling downward leap, and wheeled into the cottonwood grove where he had left his horse, out of sight in the shade. He gathered the reins in quick synchronization with his leap into the saddle, leaned low over the horse’s withers and spurred savagely down the hill. The instinct for concealment kept him from using the gravel drive; he stayed within the thick lines of trees, and drew the horse down to a walk as he approached the coach road at the foot of the hill.

  He dragged a sleeve across his eyes and listened to his own breath saw in and out; he felt a nervous tremor in his knees and hands. He was about to put his horse out of the trees onto the road when he heard a buggy and several outriders approaching. He halted his horse and reached forward to put his hand over its muzzle, to prevent it from whinnying a greeting to the approaching horses. Sweat formed on his face and hands. The buggy came in sight, a vague moving object seen through lacings of branches and leaves; he recognized its passenger—Lisa Mainwaring, Earle’s sister. Several horsemen accompanied the buggy, probably family friends or business associates; they looked like mine foremen and managers. When they went by, the crowd was chatting amiably. They turned in at the Mainwaring mailbox and started up the gravel drive, hooves and wagon-wheels crunching on the crushed rock—and then a bull-throated roar, half white-hot anger and half alarm and grief, thundered from the house above.

  Somebody—and from the sound of the voice it had to be Earle’s father—had discovered the body.

  Destiny heard the horses and buggy clatter faster up the hill, the rising confusion of clamoring voices, the slam of a door at the house. With the crowd gone, Destiny put his horse into the road and held it down, by great effort of will, to a casual canter as he rode into town. All the way, he rode stiff-braced,
as if he half-expected a bullet to slam into his back.

  He hitched his horse outside the Marshal’s Office and stumbled inside, slammed the door behind him and stood for a moment paralyzed by a numbed mind, unable to think of anything to do. Finally he went around behind Jeremy Six’s desk and rummaged through the drawers, hoping to find a bottle of whiskey. He needed a drink desperately, to calm him down and set his brain’s machinery in motion. But there was no bottle in the desk, and recalling what he had seen of the marshal, he doubted he would find one anywhere in the office.

  He sank into the marshal’s chair like a totally defeated man. His face was a blank mask, eyes hollow, mouth slightly open. I’ve got to get hold of myself. Got to think.

  It had been stupid to run. Blind fear had propelled him out of the house, the fear of something nameless; it had always been with him, somewhere in the back of his mind. He had been the youngest of four brothers and the other three had been tough lawmen, never afraid of a fight. The pressure of circumstance, and not his own choice, had made him become one of them. He had built a facade, a surface of toughness to match his brothers’; but down in the pit of his soul he had always been sure it was false.

  I am a goddamned coward. That’s all I am. God help me.

  He never should have taken this job. The law badge had cursed all his brothers; not one of them had lived past thirty; and even as he had pinned on this deputy’s badge and sworn the oath of office, he had been unable to shake the feeling that tragedy would come with the tin star. Christ, what a fool I am! For the sake of cheap revenge against Sid Stratton, a man not worth the powder to blow him to hell, Destiny had backed himself into a corner from which there seemed to be no escape.

  I could run. I could chuck the whole thing and just run like hell until I'm so far from here I'll get the stink of this place out of my nostrils.