The Wrong Side of the Law

by Robert J. Randisi

* * *

  Half of the people he encountered ignored him; the others exchanged some sort of greeting—a nod, a tip of the hat. He finished his walk and made his first visit to a saloon. He chose one called the Palomino.

  As he entered the busy saloon, about half the heads turned to have a curious look, then turned away. A few might have noticed the badge, but no one seemed to have an obvious adverse reaction to the law. More important, Palmer didn’t recognize anyone, and nobody seemed to know him. He touched his upper lip, where he had left a mustache when he shaved his beard. Now that he was thinking about it, he should get rid of it, too. Present a whole new, fresh face to the world. Then maybe be wouldn’t have to worry every time he walked into a crowded saloon.

  He walked to the bar and found a spot with no trouble.

  “The new marshal, right?” the middle-aged bartender asked without smiling. “What can I get ya, Marshal?”

  “A beer, thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  “How much?” Palmer asked when the bartender put the mug in front of him.

  “It’s on the house.”

  “I can’t do that,” Palmer said. “I want to pay my way.”

  The bartender frowned.

  “Whataya— Oh, I get it. You think I’m givin’ it to you because you’re the law? Naw. Strangers always get the first one on the house.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, thanks.”

  “Sure thing,” the bartender said. “Welcome to Integrity, Marshal.”

  Palmer turned his back to the bar with beer in hand and took a long look at the interior of the saloon. Everybody seemed to be having a good time, either gambling, drinking, or flirting with the working girls. Unlike many saloons Palmer had been in over the years, there were no arguments or fights going on at the moment.

  He turned back to the bar and waved the bartender over.

  “Yeah, Marshal?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Wade.”

  “Is this a typical night in here, Wade?” Palmer asked. “Quiet, with everybody having a good time?”

  “You ain’t gonna find no trouble in here durin’ the week, Marshal,” Wade said, “but weekends are different. Friday and Saturday nights the cowhands come to town, and the usual stuff happens.”

  “Arguments and fights?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Gunplay?”

  “Not usually,” Wade said. “Might be some if there’s a disagreement about a woman or a poker hand, but it don’t happen much. Not here, anyway.”

  “Is it different at other saloons?”

  “I don’t wanna talk bad about the competition,” Wade said, “but there’s one or two that have—whatchacallit—nondesirable customers?”

  Palmer knew he meant “undesirable,” but didn’t bother to correct him. Being educated was never something he flaunted, especially considering the types of outlaws he had worked with over the years. . . .

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sixteen-year-old Tom Palmer held the reins of the four horses while mounted on his own. He looked around nervously, feeling like everyone on the street who walked by was staring at him.

  The other four members of the gang were in the bank, and there hadn’t been any shots yet. That was good. Carson had told him to hold on to his nerve and to act like nothing was wrong.

  “If anybody asks you what yer doin’, just say yer waitin’. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “You can do this, kid,” Carson said. “I know ya can.”

  “Right,” Palmer had said, “I can do it.”

  Jeff Carson was a forty-year-old man who had been an outlaw for more than half his life. He said he could always spot talent, and he spotted it in Tom Palmer, who at that time was an orphan.

  “Your parents are dead, you had plenny of schoolin’, and you’re a smart kid,” Carson told Palmer. “And now it’s time for you to go on your first job.”

  It was a small bank in a small town—easy pickings, according to Carson.

  “All you gotta do is hold the horses,” Carson told him. “Easy. Nothin’s gonna go wrong.”

  But it did. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Palmer woke with a start. He hadn’t dreamed about his first job in years, but lately it had been recurring. He figured that was because things had gone very wrong his first time out, and now things had gone wrong his last time. He had come full circle in twenty years, and now he was hoping to put that life behind him and start over as Marshal Cassidy.

  He sat up in bed, swung his feet to the floor, and rubbed his face with his hands. Again, he thought he should get rid of the mustache. After washing up, he got dressed, pinned on the badge, and looked at himself in the mirror. This was his second day on the job. It was only because he knew his own past that it looked odd. Nobody else would give it a second thought.

  He went downstairs to have breakfast, but as he reached the lobby, the clerk waved at him.

  “Got somethin’ for you, Marshal,” the man said, holding an envelope.

  “When did this come in?” Palmer asked, accepting it.

  “Earlier this morning,” the clerk said. “One of the mayor’s lackeys— I mean, one of his men brought it in, told me not to wake you, just to give it to you when you came down.”

  “All right, thanks,” Palmer said.

  He took the envelope with him into the dining room, ordered his breakfast before opening the envelope. It was a note telling him about the meeting that was to take place later that evening to introduce him to the townspeople who attended. He refolded the note, put it back in the envelope, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  After breakfast he went across the street to the barbershop.

  “You’re the new marshal,” the barber said as he entered.

  “That’s right.”

  “What kin I do for ya?”

  “I need a shave.”

  “They got a barber at the hotel—”

  “I know,” Palmer said. “He cut my hair yesterday, but I decided to give you a try with the shave. That all right?”

  “It’s fine with me, Marshal,” the man said.

  “Don’t worry,” Palmer said. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “Have a seat, then,” the man said. “How close you want it?”

  “Pretty close,” Palmer said, “and let’s get rid of the mustache, too.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  The barber had a lighter touch than the one at the hotel and worked very quickly.

  “How’s that?”

  Palmer leaned forward for a look in the mirror and was quite shocked. Even he wouldn’t have been able to identify himself. That was what happened when you wore a mustache and beard for so many years. He put his hand to his face and rubbed it, just to make sure it was him.

  “That looks fine,” he said. Palmer had noticed a sign outside that said BATHS. “What kind of bathtubs do you have?”

  “Porcelain.”

  The tub Palmer had used at the hotel had been wood.

  “I’ll remember that for next time,” he said.

  “Oh, no charge, Marshal,” the barber said as Palmer tried to hand him money.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Barney.”

  “I’ll be paying for what I get as long as I’m marshal here, Barney, so take it,” Palmer said.

  “Yessir.”

  Palmer left the barbershop, feeling not so much like a new man but certainly a different one.

  * * *

  * * *

  Palmer spent much of the rest of the morning and afternoon in his office, getting it cleaned out from all the dust and grime that had built up since the last occupant left. He had cleaned the day before, but it was a two-day job. The cellblock behind the
office had three cells, all of which he swept out. It felt odd for him to be inside a cell with the door wide open. That was just one of the perks of wearing a badge.

  Around suppertime he went back to his hotel to eat there, but intended to find some other restaurants or cafés in town for more variety in future meals.

  As the clock approached seven p.m., he made his way to city hall for the meeting where he would be presented to some of the townspeople as their new marshal. He didn’t feel comfortable that he would probably be put on display in front of them. He hoped that any nervousness on his part would be seen as normal.

  As he entered, the mayor’s assistant, Mrs. McQueen, was there, obviously waiting for him.

  “Ah, Marshal,” she said, smiling, “the mayor asked me to take you into the meeting hall.”

  “Lead the way, Mrs. McQueen.”

  As he followed her, he noticed a table in the front of the room with several chairs around it. The rest of the room was arranged with chairs for attendees. There were about twenty of them, but at the moment only three or four were being used.

  When she got to the front of the room, he asked Mrs. McQueen, “What’s the usual attendance for these meetings?”

  “Actually, not very good,” she said. “Usually the council members, but the townspeople don’t normally turn out for meetings.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Palmer asked.

  “I believe they feel they voted people in to make decisions for them, and they want to leave them to it. I expect more today, though. They’ll want to have a look at you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  She touched his arm.

  “Don’t be nervous. You’ll do fine.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She nodded and said, “Why don’t you take a seat right in front, and the mayor will ask you to stand at some point.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  As it got closer to seven p.m., men and women began to file in, and Palmer realized that there would probably soon be only standing room. When Mayor O’Connor finally entered, there were three other men trailing behind him.

  O’Connor approached Palmer, who stood to greet him. The mayor shook hands and introduced him to the others.

  “These gentlemen are our town council,” he said. “Bob Forest, Harvey Beckett, and Sam Galway.”

  The three men shook hands with Palmer, who found their grips distinct from one another. One was as limp as a noodle; another was moist and clammy while the third—Beckett’s—was firm and strong. Beckett was a large, powerfully built man, and Palmer suspected that he was the blacksmith in town.

  Forest and Galway didn’t speak, just ducked their heads and sat at the table. Beckett said, “Pleasure to know you, Marshal,” and then sat.

  “We’ll be starting in a minute,” O’Connor told Palmer. “When I introduce you, I’ll call you up to sit with us.”

  “There’re only four chairs,” Palmer pointed out.

  “Don’t worry,” O’Connor said, “one of these gents will give you theirs.”

  “Or I could stand.”

  “Your choice,” O’Connor said, and joined his council at the table. Palmer sat back down in the front row, where he now had a man on his left and a woman on his right. They each gave him a nod, which he returned.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” O’Connor called out, “I see we have a good turnout tonight. I’m sorry there aren’t enough seats, but this won’t be a long town meeting.” A few more people entered the room and O’Connor said, “Find a place, please. Thank you.”

  Palmer turned in his seat to have a look at the crowd. There were men and women of all ages, most of whom had dressed for the event. He saw only one or two men who were sporting pistols. Townspeople, all.

  “All right,” O’Connor shouted, and Palmer turned back to the front. “Thank you all for coming and let’s get right to it. We’re here to introduce and welcome our new marshal.” He pointed at Palmer. “Meet Marshal Abraham Cassidy.”

  Palmer stood up and the crowded room treated him to a smattering of applause.

  “The marshal started his new job yesterday and has taken up this position in the old sheriff’s office.”

  “I thought we were going to build him a new office,” someone called out.

  “Yes,” O’Connor said, “that suggestion is still under review. Marshal Cassidy is available for any questions.”

  “Marshal,” a woman’s voice called out, “we understood you were bringin’ your wife and children here with you.”

  “I was,” Palmer said, “but our wagons were attacked soon after we crossed into South Dakota. My family was killed.”

  “How did you manage to survive that attack?” a man’s voice asked.

  Palmer hesitated, then said, “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I think that’s enough questions about the marshal’s family,” Mayor O’Connor said. “I think the man’s dedication is unquestionable, considering he continued on after burying his family out on the prairie and arrived in town yesterday to take up his new job. So let’s have some questions that don’t have to do with that tragedy.”

  Palmer spent the next fifteen minutes fielding questions about what he planned to do to keep the people of the town of Integrity safe and how he hoped to help the town grow.

  “All right,” Mayor O’Connor said, as more hands went up, “that’ll be all for now. I’m sure you’ll all have time to meet the marshal around town as he’s doing his job. Some of you might even want to buy him a drink or a meal—”

  “Do you mind if I say something?” Palmer asked, cutting him off.

  “No, of course,” O’Connor said. “Go ahead.”

  “I won’t be expecting anything free in this job,” he told the assembled people. “Those of you who have businesses, I’ll be paying for anything I need, whether it’s a drink, a meal, or . . . a shirt. Whatever I buy, I’ll be paying for.”

  “Well,” the mayor said, “the town will be supplying you with a place to live.”

  “That’s fine,” Palmer said, “and I appreciate that. I just want it known that I won’t be the kind of lawman who has his hand out. I’ve known those kinds of men . . . even back East . . . and I’m here to tell you: That’s not me. Thank you for coming to welcome me tonight.”

  Again he was treated to a smattering of applause.

  “And with that,” O’Connor said, “this town meeting is adjourned.”

  Some people began to file out, while others came up to Palmer to shake his hand or ask one last question. When the room was finally empty, the town council members also moved past him, all giving him a nod, except for Beckett, who shook his hand.

  “That was well done, Marshal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Beckett.”

  “Especially the part about not havin’ your hand out,” Beckett said. “And please, in the future, just call me Harve.”

  “All right, Harve,” Palmer said, “and you can call me—”

  “I’ll be callin’ you ‘Marshal,’” Beckett said, “because that’s the respect you deserve.”

  Beckett left, leaving Palmer with the mayor and Mrs. McQueen.

  “Well,” O’Connor said, “that went well. I think you’re ready to carry on.”

  “I had a visit from a fella named Atlee?” Palmer said. “Told me he was my deputy.”

  “Steve Atlee is no deputy,” the mayor said. “Oh, he’s volunteered for the job often enough, but believe me, he’s not qualified. As for deputies, that’s going to be up to you, Marshal. I assume after a few days or weeks, you’ll know if you need any. When the time comes, just check in with me and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “I’ll do that,” Palmer said. “Thanks, Mayor.” He touched the brim of his hat and, after nodding to Mrs. McQ
ueen, turned and left.

  A man approached him as he stepped outside city hall.

  “Marshal,” he said, “my name’s Winston, Harry Winston.”

  “Mr. Winston,” Palmer said, “I saw you inside.”

  “I’m the editor of the local newspaper, the Integrity Times. I wonder if we might talk awhile.”

  “Talk, yes,” Palmer said. “An interview, no.”

  “That’s fine,” Winston said. “We won’t call it an interview. But I think the people who didn’t attend the town meeting have a right to know what they missed.”

  “Just between you and me, Mr. Winston,” Palmer said, “I don’t think they missed a whole helluva lot.”

  “I think we should leave that to them, don’t you?”

  Palmer studied the man. He appeared to be in his forties. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a bowler hat, and he had a pencil in his hand, ready to take notes.

  “Come with me to my office,” Palmer said, “and we’ll talk.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They spoke for an hour, and each time the danger arose that it might become an interview, Palmer steered it away.

  “I think people will want to know about . . . the tragedy,” Winston said. “Where it happened and how.”

  “How does an Indian attack happen?” Palmer said. “They came rushing down on us before we even knew it. I killed two, perhaps three, and then I blacked out. When I woke, my family was all dead, the wagons burned.”

  “You blacked out?”

  “Something must’ve hit me,” Palmer said. “I had a bump on my head.”

  “They probably thought you were dead, too,” the newspaperman said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Palmer said, and then added—as he thought an Easterner might—“but I’ve read the stories about Indians scalping their enemies. They didn’t scalp me or the others. They just left us for dead.”

  “Where did this happen?” Winston asked.

  “I’m not gonna say,” Palmer replied. “I don’t want people trying to dig them up.”