The Wrong Side of the Law

by Robert J. Randisi

  Across from the barber was a small hotel that hadn’t been there when Palmer first came to town. It was probably the cheaper of the two hotels in town to stay in. There was a man out front lighting a cigarette when Palmer came out of the barbershop. As the marshal headed off down the street, the man with the cigarette stared so long, the match burned down to his fingers.

  “Sonofabitch!” he swore for two reasons.

  * * *

  * * *

  Who?” Rusty Briggs asked.

  “Tommy Palmer,” Johnny Brickhill said. “Come on, you’ve heard of him. He’s wanted in as many places as you are.”

  “And he’s here?”

  Brickhill nodded.

  “I just saw him comin’ out of the barbershop.”

  “And you’re sure it’s him?” Briggs asked.

  “I know ’im, Rusty,” Brickhill said. “We pulled a few jobs together. He’s shaved off his beard, but he has enough stubble on his face that I still recognized him.”

  “But he was comin’ out of a barbershop,” Chad Green said. “He didn’t have a shave?”

  “I looked in the window after he left. There were some fellas in there waitin’. I guessed he was gonna come back, but I went inside to ask.”

  “And?” Briggs said.

  “The barber told me it was the marshal, Abe Cassidy, and that he’d be back later for a haircut and a shave. Apparently, he just got back from transportin’ a prisoner.”

  The three of them were sitting in the Little Dakota Saloon with beers in front of them.

  “So this Marshal Cassidy looks like your Tommy Palmer?” Briggs said.

  “No,” Brickhill said, “he don’t look like him. It’s him. He walks like him and wears his gun like him.”

  “So what’s he doin’ livin’ here as a town marshal?” Briggs asked.

  “Well, like I said,” Brickhill answered, “he’s wanted in as many places as you are. I guess he came up here to hide out and took the marshal’s job under another name.”

  “So he switched sides,” Chad Green said. “He’s on the wrong side of the law now.”

  “I guess that depends on how you look at it,” Brickhill said.

  “So what do you wanna do?” Briggs asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brickhill said. “Now that he’s back in town, I guess we’re gonna run into him. Unless we leave.”

  “I’m not ready to leave yet,” Briggs said.

  “Well, then, I guess I can just pretend I didn’t recognize him.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Briggs said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How much is the price on his head?” Briggs asked.

  “At least as much as yours,” Brickhill said.

  “Five thousand?”

  “In some places.”

  “Well,” Briggs said, “that’s certainly an amount of money we could use.”

  Brickhill looked surprised.

  “You want to turn him in for the reward?” he asked. “How you gonna do that without turnin’ yourself in, too?”

  “I’m not gonna turn him in for the reward,” Briggs said. “You are.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Two hours later, Palmer came out of the barbershop, shorn and shaved.

  “Well, I’ll be—” a voice said.

  Palmer turned and saw the man who had spoken. After more than three years in Integrity, and at the point where he was firmly entrenched there as Marshal Cassidy, here was a face he recognized and one that apparently recognized him.

  He decided to try to brazen it out.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Tommy, come on,” the man said. “It’s me, Johnny Brickhill.”

  “Oh,” Palmer said, “you must be one of the three strangers who rode into town yesterday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I was going to come over and talk to you fellas,” Palmer said.

  “With that badge on and your beard gone, I almost didn’t recognize you, Tommy,” Brickhill said. “But I saw you goin’ into the barbershop with enough stubble on your face for me to know it was you.”

  Damn, Palmer thought. He should have gotten that shave as soon as he returned to town. That was careless.

  “Come on, Tommy,” Brickhill said, “it’s me. It’s Brick. Whataya doin’ up here with that badge on? Do they know who you are?”

  Palmer realized there was no getting rid of Johnny Brickhill.

  “Come to my office with me,” he said. “We can talk there.”

  “Sure, Tommy, sure.”

  “And don’t call me Tommy!” Palmer hissed.

  He led the way to his office. As they entered, Steve Atlee looked up from the desk.

  “Make some rounds, Steve.”

  “I did my rounds, Marshal—”

  “Do them again!” Palmer snapped. Then added, “Please.”

  “Okay,” Atlee said, “sure, Marshal.”

  He grabbed his hat, gave Palmer and the other man a puzzled look, and left.

  “Have a seat, Brick.”

  “So it is you,” Brickhill said, sitting. “You ain’t denyin’ it?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No,” Brickhill said. “I knew it was you. Whataya doin’ up here, Tommy? And what name are you usin’?”

  “I’m not wanted up here,” Palmer said. “And I wanted to stop running, at least for a while. When I realized this job was open, I thought I’d grab it.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  Palmer wondered if he should tell the truth or lie, but he’d already been caught, so he told Brickhill the whole story.

  “Wow,” the man said. “You know, the times we worked together I knew you were smart. But this . . . What’s your name?”

  “Cassidy,” Palmer said, “Marshal Abraham Cassidy.”

  “Marshal Cassidy,” Brickhill repeated. “Not bad. You know, there’s still paper out on you in the Southwest.”

  “I figured,” Palmer said. “Those things don’t go away.”

  “You ever gonna go back south?”

  “I don’t see why,” Palmer said, “unless you’re going to go back and tell the law I’m here?”

  “What good would that do?” Brickhill said. “They can’t come here and get you unless they get a federal warrant issued.”

  “And they’d do that only if somebody told them I was here,” Palmer pointed out. “You going to do that, Brick?”

  “Me?” Brickhill said. “Tom—Marshal, we’re friends, ain’t we?”

  Palmer had never thought of any of the men he’d pulled jobs with as friends. He never understood why or how a dishonest man would honor a friendship.

  “By the way,” he asked, “who’re you here with?”

  “Two fellas named Rusty Briggs and Chad Green,” Brickhill said.

  “Wanted?”

  “Briggs is,” Brickhill said. “He’s got about as much paper out on him as you do. Me and Chad, we’re small potatoes. No posters.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “You know,” Brickhill said, “if I’d seen you only with this haircut and shave, I don’t know if I woulda recognized you.”

  “I figured.”

  “That was pretty careless of you.”

  “Yeah,” Palmer said, “I think I got too comfortable thinking nobody I know would end up here.”

  “You’re gonna have to be more careful in the future, Marshal,” Brickhill said, standing up. “I’m guessin’ you won’t wanna have a drink with me while I’m here.”

  “I’m thinking that wouldn’t be a good idea, Brick,” Palmer said.

  “I getcha, Marshal, I getcha,” Brickhill said. “If I see ya around town, I won’t let on.”

  “I
appreciate that, Brick,” Palmer said.

  Brickhill nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and left the office.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  After Johnny Brickhill left the office, Palmer sat there at his desk and did some quick thinking. Probably the best solution to the problem was to kill Brickhill. The only problem with that was Tom Palmer had been an outlaw for most of his life since he was sixteen years old, but not a killer. And there were two other men with Brickhill. Palmer didn’t bother asking if Brickhill was going to tell his partners about the town marshal being an old comrade in arms. Brick probably would’ve lied and said no.

  Palmer decided he was just going to have to wait and see if Brickhill returned to the Southwest and gave him up. Still, he doubted even in that case that a federal warrant would be issued. But you never knew what a bounty hunter would do. Palmer was going to have to go back to being very careful.

  And he still had Jeffrey to consider. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Brickhill found Briggs and Green right where he left them, in the Little Dakota. It was early, but the grubby little saloon was open. He sat down in front of the beer they had waiting on the table for him.

  “So?” Briggs asked as Brickhill sat.

  “It’s him.”

  “He admits it?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s he doin’ up here?”

  “Hidin’,” Brickhill said. “Livin’ under somebody else’s name.”

  “I gotta admit,” Briggs said, “that’s pretty smart.”

  “So whatta we do now?” Chad Green asked.

  “That’s easy,” Briggs said. “We take him back to wherever he’s wanted—”

  “New Mexico, Texas, Arizona,” Brickhill said. “You name it.”

  “—and turn him over for the reward.”

  “And then?” Green asked.

  “And then we split it three ways.”

  Brickhill was quiet.

  “Whatsamatta, Brick?” Green asked.

  “Feelin’ guilty about turnin’ in a friend?” Briggs asked.

  “We was never exactly friends,” Brickhill admitted. “We pulled some jobs together over the years, is all.”

  “So whataya feelin’?” Briggs asked.

  “I dunno,” Brickhill said. “It ain’t guilt exactly. It’s . . . I dunno. It just don’t feel . . . right.”

  “You said the price on his head is as big as mine,” Briggs said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I know in Texas they got five thousand on my head,” Briggs said. “Is that enough to make it feel right for you?”

  Brickhill thought the question over, picked up his beer, and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Okay.” Briggs and Green picked up their beers as well. “This is how we’ll do it. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  Palmer stopped in at the mercantile to see Jeffrey and Belle.

  “Ah, you’re back,” Belle said.

  “Got in yesterday.”

  “And you’re only comin’ to see me now?” she asked.

  He smiled.

  “I needed to get cleaned up first,” he said.

  “I can see that,” she said. “Haircut and a close, close shave. Looks good.”

  “Where’s Jeff?” he asked.

  “I’ve got him doin’ some work in the storeroom.” She frowned. “Anythin’ wrong?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I just need to talk to him.”

  “Well, go on back, then,” she said. “I’ll stay here and give you some privacy.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he walked to the back, she called out, “Just don’t talk about me.”

  Palmer went through the curtained doorway, saw Jeffrey stacking boxes. The boy was almost six feet tall and had filled out. He bore no resemblance to the kid who had been rescued from the Sioux three years ago.

  “You here to help me?” Jeff asked when he saw Palmer.

  “Not exactly, but I don’t see why I can’t while I’m here.”

  “Good,” Jeff said. “Help me with this crate. It’s heavy.”

  Palmer went over and together they moved the heavy crate across the room.

  “Thanks,” Jeff said, pausing to rest. “What brings you here?”

  “I have to tell you something,” Palmer said. He had decided to keep the boy informed no matter what happened. After all, he was the only one in town who knew the truth.

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It might be. Sit down a minute.”

  They each chose a crate to sit on and Palmer told Jeffrey what the problem was.

  “Is he gonna tell anybody?” Jeffrey asked when Palmer finished. “Like the mayor?”

  “He says no.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know,” Palmer said. “I think we’re just going to have to be ready for whatever happens, Jeff.”

  Jeffrey stood up in front of Palmer.

  “Why don’t we just leave?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” the boy said, “you and me, let’s get out before this Brick and his friends ruin everythin’.”

  “Easy, Jeff,” Palmer said. “Let’s not go off half-cocked. Brick and his friends may just leave town. Let’s wait and see.”

  Jeffrey sat back down.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m almost sixteen.”

  “In six more months,” Palmer said. “What’s your point?”

  “You told me you pulled your first job at sixteen,” Jeffrey said. “If I knew how to handle a gun, I could back you up.”

  “I have a deputy for that.”

  “No,” Jeffrey said, “I mean back up the real you.”

  “Jeff,” Palmer said, “when you’re sixteen, I’ll teach you to shoot. Not before.” Palmer stood up. “You’d better get back to work.”

  “And you’d better be careful,” Jeff said, then added, “Pa.”

  Palmer went back to the front of the store.

  “Trouble?” Belle asked.

  “There might be,” Palmer said. “There are three strangers in town I may have to deal with.”

  “Why don’t you and Jeff come to supper tonight?” Belle suggested. “You can tell me all about it then. Or not.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Palmer said. “You take him home from here with you, and I’ll be there later.”

  “Where are you off to now?” she asked.

  “Just to do my job,” Palmer said.

  * * *

  * * *

  So?” Chad Green asked. “Do we go and get him now?”

  “Just relax,” Briggs said. “He’s the law. He’ll be comin’ to us.”

  “You sure about that?” Brickhill asked.

  “I know lawmen, Brick,” Briggs said. “He’ll be comin’ to take a look at Chad and me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Palmer left the mercantile and decided to check the saloons. Knowing that the two other strangers in town were with Johnny Brickhill, he decided to check the worst saloon first. That was the Little Dakota.

  As he reached the saloon, he peered in over the batwing doors. He spotted Johnny Brickhill seated at a table with two other men. There were no other customers, so the only other person in the place was the bartender.

  Palmer entered the saloon, drawing the attention of all four men.

  “Marshal,” Brickhill said, “lookin’ for me?”

  “For the three of you, actually,” Palmer said, approaching the table. “I thought maybe you’d introduce me to your friends.”

  “Really?” Brickhill asked. “Under which name?”

  Palmer looked at the other two men, who were staring at him.

&n
bsp; “I’ll bet you already told them,” he said.

  “Well,” Brickhill said, “we’re partners.”

  “Have a seat, Marshal,” Briggs said. “Is there somethin’ on your mind?”

  Palmer didn’t sit.

  “I was just wondering how long you fellas plan on being here in town?” Palmer said.

  “Well,” Briggs said, “we really hadn’t intended to come here, at all. None of us had ever heard of Integrity before.”

  “So if you didn’t plan to stop here, you have no plan about when you leave.”

  “That’s pretty much it, uh, Marshal,” Briggs said.

  “I understand none of you is wanted up here,” Palmer said. “Are you going to keep it that way?”

  “I have no plans to break the law hereabouts, Marshal,” Briggs said. “Do you?”

  “I wouldn’t break the law since I am the law,” Palmer said.

  “That’s what everybody around here thinks, isn’t it?” Briggs asked.

  Palmer stared at him.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Marshal,” Briggs said, laughing. “We’re not gonna open our mouths. Your secret is safe with us.” He looked over at the bar. “Even the bartender doesn’t know what we’re talkin’ about.”

  “Still,” Palmer said, “I think it would be better if the three of you left town tomorrow. Better for all of us.”

  With that, Palmer turned and left the saloon.

  “Chad,” Rusty Briggs said, “get three more beers. We got a plan to make.”

  * * *

  * * *

  By the time they finished their beers, the plan was set.

  “Why didn’t we grab him while he was here?” Chad Green asked.

  “Because I didn’t want to have to kill the bartender,” Briggs said. “We don’t need no witnesses.”

  “He’s got a deputy,” Brickhill said.

  “We’ll go around him,” Briggs said. “We’ll grab Palmer off the street when he’s alone and then light out. We head south and keep goin’ until we can turn ’im in.”

  “You’ll want one of us to do it,” Brickhill said. “You don’t wanna take a chance on bein’ recognized yourself.”