The Wrong Side of the Law

by Robert J. Randisi

  There were no horses around. The Indians would definitely have taken them. Palmer also didn’t see any blankets or much in the way of clothing. Those were also things that would have been taken. There were no guns.

  Although it went against the grain for him to go through a dead man’s pockets, he forced himself and came away with some paper money and coins, both of which the Indians would’ve left. It came to about forty dollars, which almost made him feel rich—guilty, but rich.

  In the back of one of the burned-out wagons, he found an open trunk. Some articles of clothing had been removed and tossed about; others must have been taken away. He knew Indians liked colorful clothing, especially women’s dresses. They took them for their squaws and sometimes even wore the dresses themselves. The other thing he couldn’t find neither hide nor hair of was whiskey. If there had been any, the Indians would’ve gotten it. He did find a barrel that was still half filled with water, and so dipped his canteen in to fill it.

  He was almost satisfied with what he had gotten and ready to leave these folks in peace when he saw some papers blowing in the slight breeze. He gathered them up, smoothed them out, and read a few of them. Most were letters, but not from family members or friends. A few were from the mayor and town council of a town called Integrity. The dead man was apparently on his way there to become the town’s new marshal. According to the letters, the officials of Integrity were very impressed with his history as a lawman back East, and were very pleased that he was looking to do the same work as he came west with his family. The last letter was the formal offer of the job, complete with a house for him and his family to live in.

  Palmer carried the correspondence back to his horse and stuffed it in one of his saddlebags. There was a thought brewing in his brain, but he needed time to allow it to take root. He decided these folks deserved a decent burial, and he could roll the idea over in his head while digging.

  * * *

  * * *

  By the time he had dug the five graves—rather than one mass grave, which had been his first idea—Palmer had decided what to do. He was wanted for several different crimes in some of the Southwest territories, which was the actual reason he had ridden north in the first place. But he had left Colorado rather quickly, hadn’t felt safe enough to stop in Wyoming or Montana, but had run out of funds and now needed a place to stop. And when he got there, he was going to need a job.

  What had befallen this family was a tragedy, but it put a job right in his lap. Abraham Cassidy had been on his way to take the job as town marshal of Integrity, South Dakota. From the letters Palmer had read, nobody in that town had ever met the man in person. They were hiring him based on an exchange of information in the mail. All Palmer had to do was show up in Integrity with those letters, and the job would be his. And what would be so hard about working as a lawman? He’d spent enough time in the company of them over the years to be able to impersonate one—just for a while, until he figured out what his next move should be.

  In the letters the town fathers told Cassidy the town was a small, quiet place. If Palmer had to jail a few drunks on Saturday night and shoot a stray dog or two, he could certainly do it.

  There was nothing he could do about the burned-out remnants of the wagons. After he finished burying the family, he mounted up and headed north for Integrity.

  * * *

  * * *

  When he camped that night, he took care of his beard, first chopping it away with his knife, then shaving it off. He’d found a small amount of coffee in one of the burned-out wagons and still had a piece of beef jerky, so he made a meal out of that.

  He thought about starting the next day living as Abraham Cassidy, lawman, family man, good man. Could he do all that? Especially the good-man part? He didn’t know for certain, but he sure as hell was going to give it a try. At least for a while. He needed to let things cool off down south, let all the wanted posters on him fall down to the bottom of the pile.

  In the morning he rose, put his hand to his face, and remembered.

  He was a new man. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Palmer realized he was going to have to tell a story when he reached Integrity. After all, where was his wife and where were his children? Why was he riding a horse rather than driving his wagons? And he had been wearing the same clothes for weeks now. He’d had a shave, but he was going to need a bath and some new clothes.

  Since “Abraham Cassidy” was coming from the East, were the people of Integrity going to expect him to arrive all duded up? They must have known he was traveling with wagons and all his belongings, but when Palmer buried the man, he noticed his clothes had been Western garb, not Eastern duds. Apparently, the man had already started to dress for his new job.

  Palmer’s only problem was going to be talking about the East. He’d never been that way, and Cassidy was a man who had lived there, probably all his life. Palmer was going to have to come up with a story for why he didn’t want to talk about it. He could claim it was too painful a subject, what with his wife and children having been killed by Indians.

  He was also going to have to do something about the way he spoke. He’d had some education when he was younger, and by the time he ran away from home at sixteen, he hadn’t spoken like his farmer parents. Now he thought he sounded like an educated man, but he might have to ramp that up some as Marshal Abraham Cassidy. So while he rode, he practiced saying some words a little differently, not shortening them or dropping his “g”s so much.

  He didn’t know how much farther Integrity was, so when he came to a town called Birchmont, he stopped to buy some clean clothes and a new hat. He needed to arrive in Integrity looking newly dressed for the West.

  Birchmont had a small mercantile store, where Palmer used a portion of his forty dollars to outfit himself. After that, he found a small café and had his first hot meal in some time, a steaming bowl of beef stew.

  “Wow,” the motherly waitress commented, “you look like you ain’t eaten in weeks.”

  “Not that long,” Palmer said, speaking slowly, “but it’s been a while.”

  “I think I can get ya some extra, if you like,” she told him.

  “That’d be great, ma’am,” he said. “I’d be much oblig—very grateful.”

  She smiled and took his bowl, saying, “I like to see a man with a hearty appetite. Besides, ain’t much business today, so I might as well empty the pot for ya.”

  He looked around at all the empty tables as she went to the kitchen. It seemed he had come in at just the right time to get the most for his money. Maybe his luck was changing, after all. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  He left Birchmont with new clothes and a full stomach. He wondered about buying a new horse, but decided against it. His pony would be exhausted by the time they got to Integrity, but he’d be able to explain that with no trouble.

  Nobody in Birchmont knew how far it was to Integrity, but in the next town—Dexterville—a man told him he still had about a day’s ride.

  “You’re gonna come to a crossroads,” the man told him. “North will be Deadwood, and east, Integrity.”

  “Much oblig— Thank you,” Palmer said.

  “That pony looks plumb tuckered out,” the man said.

  “That makes two of us,” Palmer said, “but I’m sure we’ll make it. Thanks again.”

  * * *

  * * *

  He came to the crossroads, as the man had predicted. Under normal circumstances he might have headed for the town he had heard of, Deadwood, where Wild Bill Hickok had been killed. In fact he paused there, considering it. If he went to Integrity, he was committing himself to becoming “Marshal Abraham Cassidy.” How long would he be able to keep that guise up? Not only a lawman, but a widower who had lost his children. He saw only two ways he could be found out. One, if somebody dug those bodies
up and found the real Cassidy. And two, if someone rode into Integrity and recognized him for who he truly was. He felt fairly sure that anyone coming to this crossroads would head for Deadwood. What were the chances somebody he knew, or who knew him, would come riding into Integrity? And even if they did, would they recognize him without his beard?

  He turned the pony’s head east and kept riding.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Palmer rode into Integrity he saw that the description in the letters of a “small town” was a slight overstatement. He had been in plenty of towns smaller than this one.

  He rode down the main street—which he noticed was labeled Front Street—past a couple of saloons and hotels. Farther down were a mercantile store, a hardware store, a barbershop, a leather goods store, a small café, and what looked like a brand-new marshal’s office.

  He didn’t know if he should stop and get a room at one of the hotels, find a livery stable, or go to the marshal’s office or a saloon, but then he spotted another new building. Over the doorway it said CITY HALL. That seemed the likeliest place to find out where he should go. He reined in his pony in front, dismounted, and tied the animal off, although he thought it was probably too tired to wander off.

  He tried the double doors to the city hall, found them unlocked, and entered. He stood in an open hall with a stairway just ahead of him. He looked around, then saw what appeared to be a directory on the wall next to the door. When he took a look, he saw a list of offices, which included the office of the mayor, the town council, something called a city planner. There was another entitled county deeds, and still another that said treasurer.

  Palmer had folded some of the letters and put them in his pocket. He took them out now and noticed that many of them had been signed: Office of the Mayor, with the mayor’s name below that: Victor O’Connor.

  The decision made, he looked at the directory, saw that the office of the mayor was on the second floor, in room 201. He proceeded up the stairs, found room 201, tried the door, realized that it was unlocked, and entered. A middle-aged woman seated at a desk looked up at him from behind her wire-framed glasses and smiled.

  “Welcome to the mayor’s office,” she said. “Can I help you? Do you have an appointment to see His Honor?”

  “I guess I do,” Palmer said, and then announced out loud for the first time, “I’m Abraham Cassidy.”

  “Oh!” she said, looking delighted. “You’re our new marshal.”

  “That I am, ma’am,” Palmer said. “That I am.”

  She stood up quickly and said, “Oh, let me tell His Honor that you’re here.”

  And as she hustled away to deliver the news, Palmer was truly committed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mayor Victor O’Connor had been in office for two years. One of his first jobs had been to find a lawman for Integrity. He decided to look a little farther than the West. He didn’t want just another lawman, one who had worn the badge in many different towns and territories. He wanted a lawman who was as new to the job as he was. That way they could bond over making Integrity the kind of town it should be.

  When his assistant, Mrs. McQueen, came in and announced that their new marshal had arrived, his normally dour face lit up.

  “Well, send him in, Mrs. McQueen,” he said. “Send him in. Let’s not keep our new lawman waiting.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  She turned and went back out. Seconds later the door opened and Marshal Abraham Cassidy walked in.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Palmer entered the office, he expected to find a stodgy old politician in a dark suit. Instead the man seated behind the desk was a sad-looking fellow who looked like he hadn’t yet turned forty.

  “Mr. Cassidy?” the man said. “Or should I say, Marshal Cassidy.”

  “Mr. Mayor?” Palmer said.

  The two men met in the center of the room and shook hands heartily.

  “Mayor Victor O’Connor, at your service,” the mayor said. “Do you mind if I ask for some kind of . . .”

  “Proof?” Palmer finished. He took the letters from his pocket. “Like these?”

  The mayor took the letters, looked at them, smiled, and handed them back.

  “Good enough,” he said. “And your family? Are they waiting outside?”

  Palmer adopted as sad a look as he could.

  “I’m afraid my family was killed by Indians,” he said. “I fought them as well as I could, but . . .”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “What’s terrible is the fact that I’m the only one who managed to survive,” Palmer said. “When it was over, the only thing I could think to do was bury them and then come here and do what I came west to do.”

  “Yes, of course,” the mayor said. “So you’re still going to take the job?”

  “If I don’t,” Palmer said, “then my family died for no reason, and I’ll have . . . nothing.”

  “I suppose that’s the only . . . sane way to think about it,” the mayor said.

  He turned, walked quickly to his desk, opened the top drawer, took something out, and brought it back to Palmer.

  “This is yours,” he said.

  Palmer accepted the marshal’s badge from the man, stared at it as it lay in the palm of his hand.

  “Do you want to . . . pin it on?” Mayor O’Connor asked.

  “Not at the moment,” Palmer said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take today to get used to the idea and start in on the job tomorrow.”

  “Of course, of course,” the mayor said. “Meanwhile I can show you the office and your, uh, house.”

  “Um, yes, the house,” Palmer said. “Without my family, I don’t think I’ll be needing a house, Mr. Mayor. A hotel room would probably suit me better.”

  “Of course,” O’Connor said. “I’ll make those arrangements quickly so you can get settled. Why don’t we walk over to the hotel together?”

  The mayor got his jacket and hat, and they left the office together.

  “Is that your horse?” the mayor asked when they got to the street.

  “It is.”

  “He looks worn out,” O’Connor said. “When we get to the hotel, I’ll have somebody take it to the livery stable for you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Palmer untied his horse and led it as he and the mayor walked to the hotel.

  “I’ll get you a room in the Utopia Hotel. It’s the best in town.”

  “I really don’t need the best,” Palmer said. “Just a bed and a dining room would be nice.”

  “We’ll start with the Utopia and see what happens,” the mayor said.

  When they reached the hotel, Palmer once again tied his horse off, then looked up at the two-story structure, which appeared to be new.

  “It’s only been open about two months,” O’Connor said, confirming that fact. “Brand-new.”

  “That’s great,” Palmer said, and they went inside.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Mayor,” the well-dressed clerk said. He was in his thirties, wearing a dark suit and tie, with his hair parted in the middle and slicked down.

  “Edgar, this is our new marshal, Abraham Cassidy.”

  “Just Abe,” Palmer said.

  “Abe needs a room,” the mayor said.

  The clerk looked confused.

  “I thought we were giving the new marshal and his family a house,” he said.

  “Just give him a room, Edgar,” O’Connor said. “It’ll all be explained.”

  “Whatever you say, Mayor,” Edgar said. “We’re happy to have you, Marshal.” He turned, took a key off the wall behind him, and handed it to Palmer, saying, “I’ll give you room seven. It’s a two-room suite.”

  “Much oblig— Uh, thank you,” Palmer said.

  “Edgar, hav
e somebody take the marshal’s horse to the livery stable,” the mayor said, “and bring his saddlebags up to the room.”

  “No luggage?” Edgar asked.

  “That will also be explained,” the mayor said. “Shall I walk you up, Marshal?”

  “I can find it, Mayor,” Palmer said.

  “Good, good,” O’Connor said. “Why don’t you get freshened up and meet me down here in the lobby in an hour? You must be hungry. We’ll have an early supper and then I’ll show you your office.”

  “Sounds good,” Palmer said. “I’ll see you then.”

  As Palmer went to the stairs and started up, he looked back and saw the mayor talking to the clerk in low tones, probably explaining about the marshal’s dead “family.”

  Palmer got to room seven and let himself in. Compared to most of the hotels Palmer had been hiding out in the past few months, it was lavish. There were a colorful sofa, a matching armchair, a round wooden table surrounded by two chairs with a lamp on it. The next room had a large bed with a chest of drawers and a dresser with a mirror, a lamp on a small table by the bed, and one on the wall by the doorway. On top of the dresser were a pitcher and a basin. He removed his gun belt, set it down on the bed, took off his shirt, filled the basin with water from the pitcher, and proceeded to wash his face, neck, torso, arms, and hands. At some point over the next few days, he would have a real bath. Followed by a visit to the barber. By the time that was all done, he wouldn’t resemble the face on any wanted poster that might show up.