The Wrong Side of the Law

by Robert J. Randisi

  “But wouldn’t you rather have them buried here in our cemetery?”

  “They’re buried where they died,” Palmer said. “That’s good enough.”

  “If you say so,” Winston said.

  He stood up, preparing to leave.

  “If I think of any other questions, may I come and see you?”

  “Why not?”

  “I might be interested in . . . your level of education.”

  “Check with the mayor, then,” Palmer suggested. “It’s all in the letters we exchanged, I’m sure.”

  “Quite right,” Winston said. “I’ll do that. Thank you for your time, Marshal.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  At the door the newspaper editor turned and gave the place a good long look.

  “They really should get you a new office,” he said.

  “This’ll do for now,” Palmer assured him.

  The newspaperman nodded and left.

  With the town meeting finished and Winston satisfied, Palmer went to the stove and made a pot of coffee. He was officially on the job. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Palmer took a walk around town later, looking for someplace other than his hotel to eat. He passed several people on the street who greeted him, and he touched the brim of his hat in return.

  “Takin’ a look at our town, Marshal?” a woman asked as she walked past him with her husband.

  “My town, too, now, ma’am,” he said.

  “We were at the meeting, my husband and me,” she said. “We were sorry to hear about your family.”

  “Thank you.”

  The handsome couple looked to be in their late thirties, but while the woman smiled and seemed friendly, the man exhibited no emotion and just stared. They had dressed well for the meeting, seemed to still be wearing the same Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

  “Are you lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?” the woman asked.

  “Supper,” Palmer said, “but someplace other than in my hotel.”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” She kept her right arm linked with her husband’s, but pointed with her left in the direction they had just come. “The Sweetwater Steak House, two blocks that way. We just came from there ourselves. Best steaks in town.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. . . .”

  “We’re the Hendersons,” the woman said. “I’m Belle. This is my husband, Ken.”

  “Nice to meet you both,” Palmer said, “and thanks for the tip.”

  “Always happy to help, Marshal,” Belle said.

  She turned, her husband turning with her, and they continued walking.

  Palmer continued on and came to the Sweetwater Steak House. There were two large picture windows in front, both with the name of the place stenciled on them.

  He went inside.

  * * *

  * * *

  Belle Henderson’s recommendation turned out to be excellent. He couldn’t judge if it was the best steak in town, but it was a good one.

  “No charge, Marshal,” the waiter told him when he stood to leave.

  “I’ll pay for my meal. Thanks,” Palmer said.

  “Suit yerself.” The waiter gave him a check and Palmer left the money on the table. It reminded him that he didn’t have much left in his poke. He was going to have to ask the mayor when he got paid. And how much. It had probably been discussed in the letters, which were in his saddlebag.

  He headed back to his hotel.

  * * *

  * * *

  In his room he tossed the saddlebags on the bed and took the letters out. As he studied them, he found the answers to his questions. He was to get forty a month, plus room and board. The money would be paid the first of every month, which meant he either had to ask for an advance or make the money he had last the next two weeks. He could make it by eating most of his meals in the hotel, or accepting free meals in places like the Sweetwater, which he didn’t want to do. He didn’t want anybody thinking they had managed to buy him. He had already told everyone at the town meeting that his hand would not be out, and he intended to stick to that.

  So meals and drinks in the Utopia Hotel until he started collecting his pay.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Palmer had already resigned himself to the fact that he would be spending much time in his hotel dining room and saloon, when the mayor visited his office the next morning and dropped an envelope on his desk.

  “This month’s pay,” O’Connor said. “I hope you agree you’re entitled to half a month’s worth.”

  “That’s fine,” Palmer said. “I was getting down to my last nickel.”

  “I thought that might be the case,” O’Connor said, “and since you’re determined to pay your way, I wanted to make sure you’d be able to.”

  Palmer picked the envelope up and said, “Much obliged to you, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Looks like you cleaned this place up,” the mayor said.

  “I’m a pretty good hand with a broom,” Palmer told him.

  O’Connor smiled. “We didn’t discuss that talent in our letters, did we?”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Just your proficiency with a handgun.”

  “That seemed to be of more importance for the job,” Palmer observed.

  “I don’t want to ask for a demonstration—”

  “I don’t do trick shooting, Mr. Mayor,” Palmer said. “I thought our letters satisfied all your questions.”

  “Of course,” O’Connor said. “After all, you have the job.”

  “Yes.”

  “If it turns out you can’t shoot as well as you indicated—”

  “That’ll be my problem, won’t it?” Palmer asked.

  “Indeed,” the mayor said. “I understand you met the Hendersons yesterday.”

  “That I did,” Palmer said. “How did that fact get around?”

  “Oh, somebody saw you talking to them on the street.”

  “He didn’t talk much, but she steered me to the Sweetwater for supper.”

  “That’s a good place.”

  “Why would you be concerned that I talked with them—that is, her?”

  “I’m not, really. It’s just that— Well, they own the mercantile, probably the biggest store in town. . . .”

  “Ah.”

  “And she happens to be the one I beat for my job.”

  “She ran for mayor?” Palmer asked. “That’s interesting. How close was the election?”

  “Not close at all,” O’Connor said.

  “Tell me,” Palmer said, “does the husband talk?”

  “Quite a bit, when he has a mind to,” O’Connor said.

  “She’s a good-looking woman,” Palmer observed.

  “You should also know,” O’Connor said, “that Ken Henderson is a jealous man.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Mayor.”

  “You have a good day, Marshal.”

  “One more thing,” Palmer said. “I’ve been in the mercantile and I didn’t see them.”

  “They have employees,” O’Connor said, “but they’re in there every so often.”

  “I see.” Palmer held the envelope up. “Thanks again, Mr. Mayor.”

  After the mayor had gone, Palmer opened the envelope and counted out twenty dollars. He wasn’t rich, but at least he was solvent.

  He had just tucked the money into his shirt pocket when the door opened again and Steve Atlee came in.

  “Mr. Atlee,” Palmer said.

  “Deputy Atlee, right?” the man said. “Did you make up your mind?”

  “Not at all,” Palmer said. “It’s going to take me a few days, maybe longer.”

  “But you’re the marshal,” Atlee said. “You can hire anybody you want.”

  “Can I?
” Palmer asked. “How come I didn’t see you at the meeting last night?”

  Atlee made a face.

  “They wouldn’t want me there.”

  “They? Who?”

  “The town council,” Atlee said. “And the mayor.” He made a face. “Especially the mayor.”

  “Yes,” Palmer said, “I have to admit he didn’t have anything nice to say about you.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He hates me.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask ’im,” Atlee said, then turned and left.

  Aside from the young man being a little too anxious to be a deputy, Palmer couldn’t see anything objectionable about Steve Atlee. When it came time for him to hire deputies—if that time came—he’d have to ask the mayor for specific reasons why he didn’t want Steve Atlee wearing a badge.

  The office filled with the smell of coffee and Palmer rose and poured himself a cup, carried it back to his desk, and took his time drinking it.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mayor O’Connor looked up when the door to his office opened.

  “How did you get past Mrs. McQueen, Rogan?” he asked.

  Ben Rogan walked to the chair in front of the mayor’s desk and sat. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, pushed his hat back on his head with his forefinger.

  “Mr. Waverly sent me.”

  “Why wasn’t the owner of the biggest ranch in the territory at the town meeting to meet the new marshal?” O’Connor asked.

  “He was busy.”

  “He could’ve sent you.”

  “I was busy, too,” Rogan said. “What’s he like?”

  O’Connor scowled.

  “He’s not like what I thought he’d be from his letters,” he admitted. “He’s too . . . calm, too assured. Especially for a man who’s just lost his family.”

  “Lost?”

  O’Connor explained to Rogan that the marshal’s family had been killed by Indians.

  “And they left him alive?”

  “That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense,” O’Connor said. “An Easterner should be dead, because he killed himself after his family was murdered. Instead, he walked into town calm as you please to take up his job.”

  “He may just be that kind of man,” Rogan said. “Mr. Waverly wants to know if he’s gonna be hard to handle?”

  “So far he says he wants no handouts,” O’Connor said, “but he’s taking the room and board, so I think he’ll come around.”

  “Deputies?”

  “None yet,” O’Connor said.

  “Is he gonna have any volunteers?”

  “He’s had one,” the mayor said. “Steve Atlee.”

  “Atlee,” Rogan said derisively. “He ain’t no deputy.”

  “That’s what I told our new marshal.”

  Rogan stood up. He had been the Bar W foreman for five years, since Franklin Waverly bought his spread. Approaching forty, Rogan was Waverly’s right hand, and he had all of the Bar W ranch hands under his thumb.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Waverly what you had to say,” Rogan said. “He’ll probably wanna see you at some point.”

  “He can come to town, or I’ll go and see him,” O’Connor said. “Whatever he chooses.”

  “Oh, he’s gonna want you to come out there as soon as ya can.”

  “All right,” O’Connor said, “tell him I’ll be out later today.”

  Rogan nodded and left.

  O’Connor sat back in his chair as Ben Rogan left his office. He had known Waverly was going to want to see him after the new marshal arrived. He opened his top drawer and took out all the letters Abraham Cassidy had written him and started reading them again. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Palmer decided he’d make rounds in the afternoon and in the evening: in the afternoon to let Integrity’s citizens know he was on the job, and in the evening to make sure all the businesses and homes were safe and secure. And in the evenings, he could also check in with all the saloons and be sure things were going smoothly. He figured he’d run into some troublesome drunks, but that was to be expected. And he had seen enough of those encounters in countless saloons to know how to handle them.

  During his afternoon rounds, he didn’t run into another friendly face like that of Belle Henderson. Most of the people either ignored him or gave him a nod, and both suited him just fine.

  Thinking of the Hendersons, he decided to make their mercantile store one of the businesses he would pop his head into just to make an appearance. As he did, he was pleased to see Belle behind the counter, and her husband nowhere to be found.

  “Marshal,” she said as he entered, “how nice.”

  He took a better look at Belle today. Not bundled up in a coat, he saw that she was much more than just a handsome woman. She was actually quite lovely and well formed. Why would her husband walk down the street with a sour look on his face when he had this woman on his arm?

  “Just thought I’d stop in and make sure everything was all right, Mrs. Henderson. Or should I just call you Miz Belle?”

  “I tell you what,” she said, leaning on the counter in what he could describe only as a flirtatious manner, “why don’t you just call me Belle?”

  “As long as it’s all right with your husband,” he replied.

  “Oh, pooh,” she said, “don’t you worry about Ken. You and I can become good friends without his say-so.”

  Yes, he thought, very flirtatious.

  “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?” she asked. “Or something stronger?”

  “I’m afraid I’m making my rounds, Belle,” he said. “I have to let the citizens know I’m on the job.”

  “Well, there’s a chill in the air,” she said, “so come back anytime for something . . . warm.”

  He touched the brim of his hat and left the mercantile, aware that this was the kind of brazen woman he was going to have to be careful of.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mayor O’Connor drove his buggy out to the Bar W, a huge, sprawling spread with a large two-story house, a big red barn, a corral, and a bunkhouse. He stopped the buggy in front of the house and a few of the hands drifted over from the corral.

  “Take a look, boys,” one of them said. “The mayor’s here.”

  There were three of them, all in their early thirties, wearing faded work clothes covered with sweat stains despite the cold.

  “I’m looking for Rogan,” the mayor said. “Is he around?”

  “Whataya want ’im for?” one man asked.

  “He came to my office and asked me to drive out here,” O’Connor said. “Here I am.”

  “He’s in the barn,” the spokesman said. He looked at one of the other men. “Go get ’im.”

  “Right.”

  That man turned and trotted off to the barn.

  “We got us a sick bull givin’ us fits,” the spokesman told the mayor.

  “Sorry to hear it,” O’Connor said.

  “We heard the new marshal got into town.”

  “That’s right. Started his job a few days ago.”

  “Good man?”

  “We’ll see,” O’Connor said, “won’t we?”

  “I guess we’ll meet ’im when we come to town Saturday night.”

  “Not to make trouble, I hope,” the mayor said.

  “Make trouble?” He looked at his friend, who was grinning. “Us? We’re just gonna have a few drinks and blow off a little steam, Mr. Mayor.”

  O’Connor saw the third man come out of the barn, followed by Ben Rogan.

  “You boys get back to the barn, keep an eye on that bull,” Rogan snapped.

  “Sure, boss.”

  The three men walked back toward the barn.r />
  “You can leave your buggy right there,” Rogan said. “The boss said he wanted to see you as soon as you got here.”

  “Fine.”

  O’Connor stepped down, tied the horses off, then followed Rogan up the stairs to the front door. Franklin Waverly had made sure when he built the house that it was the largest one in the county.

  Rogan led O’Connor into the entry hall and said, “Wait here.”

  “I thought he was expecting me.”

  “Let me see where he is,” Rogan said. “Just wait here.”

  The foreman disappeared into the house, came back about five minutes later.

  “Come on, he’s in the back.”

  Rogan led O’Connor through the house to a large room in the back. The walls were lined with books, and there was a large desk in front of a window that looked out the back. Franklin Waverly was behind the desk. He sat back in his chair as the two men entered.

  “Ben, get the mayor a drink,” Waverly said. “Sherry?”

  “Sure,” O’Connor said.

  “Have a seat, Victor,” Waverly invited.

  O’Connor sat down.

  Waverly was a well-groomed sixty, with a full head of gray hair and a beard to match. He had sharp blue eyes that were clear as a bell, and when he moved, it was with a vitality that belied his years. Some of that energy might have been generated by his wife, who was twenty years younger than he was.

  Rogan handed his boss a glass of sherry, and then the mayor.

  “Okay, thanks, Ben. You’d better get back to that bull.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rogan left the room.

  “So,” Waverly said, “Ben tells me the new marshal’s in town.”

  “You know he is,” O’Connor said. “I asked you to come to the town meeting to welcome him.”

  “I was a little busy. But you can tell me what I missed.”

  “A passel of nonsense questions from the town,” O’Connor said.

  “I heard something about him losing his family.”

  “He says they were attacked by Indians, and when he woke up, his family was dead.”

  “All of them?”