“Mr. Wilkins,” Palmer said, “I’m going to take my gun out of my holster, just so you can see it. I want you to look at it closely, and then I think you’ll leave here.” Palmer put his hand on his gun and saw the man tense. “I ain’t going to use it. I’m just going to show it to you.”
He drew his gun slowly with his right hand. He didn’t grip the gun like he was going to use it, but just palmed it so he could show it to Wilkins. It had gotten very quiet in the saloon as everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the new lawman at work.
“See it?” he asked.
The gun sat on its side in his palm.
“What the hell are you talk—”
Palmer’s hand suddenly darted forward, and his gun smashed into Wilkins’ face. The man went down like he’d been poleaxed.
Suddenly, the room erupted into applause as Palmer slid his gun back into his holster.
“I’m going to need some volunteers to carry this man outside,” Palmer announced.
Hurriedly, three men stepped forward.
“We takin’ him to jail, Marshal?” one asked anxiously.
“No,” Palmer said, “he’s right. He hasn’t broken the law yet. Just take him outside and lay him down on the ground.”
“Yessir.”
As the men lifted the unconscious Wilkins and carried him out, the gambler looked up at Palmer and said, “Much obliged, Marshal. I didn’t want to have to kill him.”
“And I didn’t want you to kill him,” Palmer said, “or him you, not on my first Saturday night on the job.”
“Can’t blame you for that.”
“You gents go ahead and continue your game,” Palmer said. “I’m sure you can get someone to fill the empty seat.”
Palmer turned, walked to the bar, set his half-finished beer down, and handed Wilkins’ gun to Bartender.
“Hang on to that for me, will ya?”
“Sure. That was somethin’,” the man said.
“Thanks,” Palmer said, and left the saloon.
* * *
* * *
They had carried Wilkins out and laid him in the street, just off the boardwalk. Palmer sat down next to him, removed his gun from his holster, and waited for him to come to.
“What the hell—” Wilkins sputtered as he woke. “You—you hit me in the face with your gun.”
“I know,” Palmer said, “not a smart thing to do. I could’ve bent the frame. But I think it’s all right, and you’re alive, so . . .”
Wilkins struggled to sit up, put his hand to his face. There was a knot on his forehead where Palmer’s gun had struck him, and it was just starting to crack and bleed as it swelled larger.
“You’re going to need to have that looked at, Wilkins,” Palmer said.
Wilkins held his head in his hands for a moment, then looked at Palmer with mean eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded.
“Hmm, let me guess,” Palmer said. “Jesse James? Billy the Kid? Am I getting close?”
“This ain’t funny!” Wilkins snapped.
“It would’ve been even less funny if you’d ended up dead,” Palmer said.
“I could’ve taken that gambler,” Wilkins told him.
“Sure, you would’ve killed him, and then I would’ve had to kill you. This way everybody stayed alive.”
“And what do you expect me to do now?”
“Move on,” Palmer said. “Go home, get some sleep, sober up, and have that looked at in the morning. There is a doctor in this town, isn’t there?”
Wilkins nodded and said, “Doc Stack.”
“Well, go and see him in the morning, Wilkins,” Palmer said.
Wilkins put his hand down to his holster.
“Where’s my gun?”
“I have it,” Palmer said. “You’ll get it back tomorrow, after you see the doc. Come to my office.”
Wilkins started to get to his feet, but needed help from Palmer to do so. When he was up, he staggered for a moment.
“Can you walk?” Palmer asked.
“I’ll walk.”
“Good,” Palmer said. “Walk home, Wilkins. I’ll see you in the morning in my office after you see the doc.”
Wilkins put his hand to his head, then looked at the blood on his palm.
“That was a dirty trick,” he said, and started walking away.
* * *
* * *
Palmer went back into the saloon and up to the bar.
“I’ll take that gun,” he told Bartender.
The man handed it to him and he slid it into his belt.
“That was pretty slick,” Bartender said. “Where’d you learn that trick?”
“I saw Bill Hickok do it once.”
“Is that for real?”
Palmer nodded. What he didn’t tell the man was that Wild Bill had done it to him when he was younger, rather than kill him.
“It’s for real,” he said.
“I thought Hickok was a killer,” Bartender said.
“When he had to be,” Palmer said. He looked around, then glanced at the batwing doors. Apparently, Wilkins was not coming back in.
“Nice crowd,” he said, preparing to leave.
“Where are you headed?” Bartender asked.
“The Little Dakota.”
“Ah,” Bartender said, “if you think this was trouble, wait until you get there.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He’d been warned several times that the Little Dakota was rough, especially on Saturday night, but when he got there, the place was as quiet as a church, even though most of the tables seemed occupied. There was room at the bar, though, where only a few men were lounging.
He walked to the bar, and although heads didn’t turn, he felt the eyes on him—including those of the old bartender whose name he never got the first time he was there.
“Marshal,” the old man said, “you havin’ a drink while you’re here?”
“No,” Palmer said, “I doubt there’s a clean glass in the house. No offense.”
“Offense taken,” the old man said. “Whataya want, then?”
“Just taking a look at the place on Saturday night,” Palmer said.
“This is as rowdy as you’re gonna see it in here,” the bartender said.
“That’s not what I heard,” Palmer said, looking around.
“This is my regular crowd, Marshal,” the man said. “It’s when a stranger—like you—comes in that somethin’ might happen.”
“I didn’t get your name last time I was here,” Palmer said.
“My name’s Art Pope. The folks hereabouts just call me Artie.”
“Well, Artie,” Palmer said, “I’ve got to tell you I’m feeling like somebody’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes. This is my first Saturday on the job, and I figure you were expecting me.”
“Don’t know what yer talkin’ about, Marshal,” Artie said. “This is just a nice, quiet place.”
Palmer looked around again, saw several heads duck away as he did. He was sure the word had gone out that when the new marshal walked in, everybody was supposed to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. Well, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if they all behaved every time he came around.
“Sure you don’t want a drink?” Artie asked.
“I’m sure, Artie,” Palmer said, looking down at the grime that covered the bar. “You really should clean this place up sometime.”
“Sure thing, Marshal,” Artie said, “I’ll get right on that. Come back anytime.”
Palmer looked around one more time before turning and heading for the door.
* * *
* * *
The Silver Spur was Palmer’s next stop. The music, chips, and laughter he’d heard his first visit seemed even louder
this time.
The bartender Skinny watched as Palmer approached the bar. He leaned forward and said something, and several men moved to accommodate the new marshal.
“Skinny,” Palmer said.
“Evenin’, Marshal,” Skinny said. “You should know Brazos and his friends are in the back.”
“That’s okay,” Palmer said. “I’m just here to have a look around. Not to make trouble.”
“Well, if you stay around here long enough,” Skinny said, “it’s gonna find you.”
“I’m just finishing up my rounds, Skinny,” Palmer said, “so if there’s trouble, I’ll be in my office. If it finds me there, I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Marshal,” Skinny said. “You want a drink before you go?”
“No, thanks,” Palmer said. “I’m about five minutes away from a cup of coffee.”
Palmer touched the brim of his hat and left, heading for his office.
* * *
* * *
His first Saturday night had been uneventful, which suited him just fine. Sunday morning he was in his office after having breakfast in his hotel. He saw people in the dining room who were dressed for church. He didn’t know if the real Abe Cassidy had been a religious man or not, but he certainly wasn’t. When the mayor entered his office wearing a black Sunday suit, he figured he was going to have some explaining to do.
“Marshal,” Mayor O’Connor said, “ready for church?”
“Not today, Mr. Mayor,” Palmer said, “and probably not ever.”
“Really?” O’Connor said. “In your letters you came off as a very religious man. I thought for sure you’d want to go to church your first Sunday here. We have a couple of different denominations in town.”
“That’s all right,” Palmer said. “You just go on ahead without me.”
“I suppose I can’t blame you,” O’Connor said then. “You must be pretty angry with the Lord for what happened to your family.”
“Please don’t try to tell me that He moves in mysterious ways,” Palmer said, “or that He has a plan. There’s no plan that calls for children to be killed.”
“Well,” O’Connor said, “if you change your mind in the future, I know my church would be happy to have you.”
“I thank you for the invitation,” Palmer said.
“To each his own, Marshal,” O’Connor said. “You have a nice morning.”
Palmer sat back in his chair as the mayor left his office. It sure felt like the man had given him a way out even before he’d thought of it himself. He had managed to read all the letters the real Cassidy had received from the mayor. He only wished he could see the letters Cassidy had sent. He wondered what else there was about the man he didn’t know that he was going to have to fake.
* * *
* * *
Palmer got out of the office and walked around, seeing a slight difference in the town on Sunday morning. Many of the businesses were not open yet, as the owners were probably in their chosen houses of worship. People were walking the street, heading to church and eyeing their new lawman. He knew some were wondering why he wasn’t in church. Others probably didn’t care.
The saloons weren’t open for business, but when he looked in the window of the Palomino, he saw Wade behind the bar, wiping it down. The bartender looked up, as if he sensed he was being watched, waved at Palmer, and came to the door.
“Marshal,” he said, “you wanna come in for coffee?”
“Why not?” Palmer said.
Palmer entered and followed Wade to the bar. The man poured him a cup of coffee and pushed it over to him.
“Why aren’t you in church?” Palmer asked.
“I don’t worship,” Wade said. “At least, not any kind of God.”
“You don’t believe in God?”
“Lemme just say if there is a God, He’s got a lot of explainin’ to do.” Wade studied Palmer for a moment. “You must feel the same way after what happened to your family.”
“I do,” Palmer said. “I told the mayor as much this morning when he came to take me to church.”
“Oh, yeah,” Wade said, “our mayor is a devout Catholic.”
Palmer sipped from his cup.
“Good coffee,” he said. “You don’t serve this to your customers, do you?”
“Nope, I just make it for myself,” Wade said, “and occasionally a friend who comes around.”
“How many of those friends do you have?”
“So far,” Wade said, “just you.”
“Are we friends?” Palmer asked.
“We’re gettin’ there,” Wade said. “How was your Saturday night?”
“Quiet.”
“Do you wonder why that was?”
“I figure word got around the new lawman was on duty, so everybody was on their best behavior.”
“You got it,” Wade said. “Skinny and Artie put the word out.”
“Not you?”
“Hey,” Wade said, pouring more coffee for both of them, “I leave my customers on their own. They want to tangle with you, that’s up to them.”
“You got a shotgun under the bar?” Palmer asked.
“Oh, yeah, and a pretty good-sized club.”
“I figured.”
“I tend to handle rowdy customers myself,” Wade explained, “but if it comes to gunplay, well, I’ll probably leave that to you.”
“Much obliged,” Palmer said sarcastically.
“So you stuck your head inside all the saloons last night?” Wade said. “How about all the churches Sunday morning?”
“No churches for me,” Palmer said.
“Guess I can’t blame you for feeling that way,” Wade said.
“Folks on the street were looking at me kind of funny this morning, but I’ve got to go with my feelings.”
“You want me to sweeten your coffee a bit?” Wade asked, producing a bottle of whiskey.
“Why not?” Palmer said, pushing his cup closer to Wade.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marshal Abraham Cassidy—Palmer had started to think of himself by that name—stepped out of his hotel and took a deep breath of crisp morning air into his lungs. It was getting colder as winter approached, but Palmer was finding he liked the weather, even though he had spent most of his life in the arid Southwest. He had bought himself some heavier shirts and a couple of jackets from the mercantile store, all at the suggestion of Belle Henderson. Palmer had taken to doing his shopping when Belle was around and her husband wasn’t. She continued to flirt with him, but neither of them had tried to take the flirtation any further.
Two months into his tenure as town marshal, Palmer had used his jail cells on only three occasions, and all those were rowdy, sloppy drunks. One was from the Palomino Saloon, the other two from the Last Chance. The patrons of the Little Dakota had continued to be on their best behavior, but he knew that wouldn’t go on forever.
He’d had breakfast in the hotel, as he usually did. It was just more convenient. The same was true of having his supper each night at the Sweetwater. The owners of both eateries were committed to feeding him for free. Palmer finally accepted, figuring it was part of his salary and not a handout—like his hotel room.
He had gotten into the habit of walking around town after breakfast, just watching it wake up. Storekeepers were unlocking their doors, sweeping the boardwalk in front of their places, just opening for business. Most of them had gotten into the habit of waving or even calling out, “Mornin’, Marshal.” They were beginning to accept him.
He finished his walk at his office, did his own bit of sweeping out front and inside. He locked up when he went to his hotel for the night. The only time he stayed in the office overnight was when he had somebody in a cell. Up to this point, he hadn’t seen the need for any deputies, although Steve Atlee still
dropped in from time to time to check.
Palmer was starting to feel comfortable in his new identity. He kept his face clean-shaven, and his hair cut short, so that he looked little or nothing like Tom Palmer the outlaw. If anyone who had known him slightly ever came to town, they wouldn’t recognize him. He checked the new wanted posters when they came out, but there were none of Tom Palmer because he wasn’t wanted in South Dakota. How could he be? He’d never been there until coming to Integrity to take this job.
He was feeling very comfortable inside Abe Cassidy’s skin. He had even made a couple of friends in Wade, the bartender at the Palomino, and Belle Henderson—if you could call a man whose last name he didn’t know and a married woman his friends.
He stayed out of the saloons except for an occasional beer and his rounds. Sometimes he’d stop at the Palomino before it opened to have coffee with Wade. He did no gambling, didn’t dally with any of the girls, didn’t even play checkers with anyone. He simply didn’t want to get that close to people.
He did his job the best way he knew how. So far, there had been no complaints from the mayor, and no run-ins with Franklin Waverly or any of the hands from his ranch. Occasionally, he saw Rogan in town, and they exchanged only nods. So far, neither Waverly nor the mayor had made any attempts to buy his badge. Maybe he’d managed to convince them it wasn’t possible. He was pretty sure he’d convinced himself. So far, he was happy with the time he had spent on this side of the tin star.
Was he lonely? Not really. Even as the outlaw Tom Palmer, he had never really had close friends. In the outlaw life, there was too much chance a friend would turn on you. Money did that to people. So far, in the life of a lawman, he hadn’t had to worry about any of those things. He hadn’t even taken his gun from his holster, except for that one time with Wilkins—who seemed to be making sure their paths didn’t cross again.
On this day he relaxed at his desk with a cup of coffee, ready for another quiet day.
But all good things had to come to an end. . . .
The Wrong Side of the Law Page 9
