When he reached the town trail and approached the first bend, he heard his name called. The voice was feminine and familiar, and its owner presented a pleasing picture —despite her freckles and unruly tow hair—as she walked her mount out of a clump of mesquite. He reined up and waited for Trish to swing astride the sprightly bay colt. In her fresh white blouse and corduroy riding skirt, she appeared crisp, cool and very appealing, although her expression was somewhat truculent.
“I just hope, Jim Rand,” she tartly jibed, “that you enjoyed your sociable visit to Trinidad Canyon—the home of that—that...!”
“That megalomaniac,” said Jim, pensively.
“That—what?” she blinked.
“Let’s keep riding,” he grunted, as he nudged Hank to movement again.
They rode almost a quarter-mile before Trish ceased to sulk and began interrogating him—or at least tried to do so. She was at that in-between stage of her development, he observed. Out of childhood, but not quite a woman. Wise in some ways; immature in others.
“How’d you know I’d gone out there anyway?” he demanded.
“Your little Mexican friend told me,” said Trish. “Also, you were seen leaving town with that good-for-nothing Perry Storl. Oh, Jim, for pity’s sakes, couldn’t you realize the risk you were taking?”
“I didn’t figure Magnus would be out for my hide—at least not yet,” said Jim. “It was curiosity that made him send for me. He wants me on his side.”
“He—tried to hire you?”
“Why not? He thinks I’m a professional gunslinger.”
“Well—what did you tell him?”
“Said I’d think it over. No sense in showing my hand just yet.”
“What was that name you called him?”
“Megalomaniac.”
“That means he’s loco?”
“Crazy with self-esteem—if you savvy what that means. Also, he’s a man who can’t abide to be deprived of what he wants. Did you know he has a room decorated with pictures of Selma? Uh huh. It’s a fact. He has his sights set on her.” Trish frowned worriedly in the general direction of the settlement. “I knew he wanted her,” she murmured. “I guess, in a way, that’s only natural, but...”
“There’ll be plenty of trouble between now and Saturday,” he interjected.
“Yes—that’s for sure,” she nodded. “He’ll stop at nothing to take Selma away from poor Nathan.”
“I’m gonna have to keep a wary eye on Nate Page,” Jim decided.
Towards sundown of that day, in the bedroom he shared with Benito, he aired a theory to two interested listeners, Benito and the bridegroom. He had recounted the gist of his conversation with the XL boss. Now, he suggested, “This wedding is a kind of symbol.”
“Yes.” Nathan nodded understandingly. “That idea occurred to me, too. He bragged of how no other man could have Selma. He said he’d never let her marry me. And now—if he doesn’t make good on his threat...”
“That’s it,” said Jim. “The wedding is the symbol. If Magnus can stop it, the whole community has to admit he’s the boss-man, the law in San Rafael. If he can’t stop it—if you and Selma end up married—it proves Magnus isn’t so all-fired powerful after all. This is going to be the most interesting weddin’ I’ve yet to attend.”
By Thursday morning, in their living quarters above the emporium, the Garfields were caught up in last minute preparations for the great day. There were adjustments to be made to the white gown to be worn by the bride; it was the same silken gown worn by Rose on her wedding day, and Selma was slightly trimmer at the waist, slightly more rounded in other areas.
In his workshop, the bridegroom-to-be was running out of chores, filling in time by beginning the construction of various articles of furniture and domestic equipment, items ‘he wasn’t apt to need until after the first nine months of his marriage, a cradle, a child’s commode. And, during this period, his burly bodyguard was never far away. If Big Jim were otherwise engaged, Benito would be on hand, ready to go fetch him the moment a gun-toting hardcase ventured within twenty yards of the carpenter’s premises.
It was on this Thursday morning that Kane Magnus summoned his foreman and gave the command for a stepping up of the tactics calculated to hinder and harass the Garfield-Page wedding. Storl reported, “I had one of the boys throw a bad scare into old Lucy Bilbow, the female that usually plays the harmonium at weddin’s.”
“What about Breen, the clergyman?” Magnus demanded.
“You want to scare Breen off?” prodded Storl.
“Choose a good man for the job,” ordered Magnus. “I want that sin-killer frightened—I mean really frightened. Is that clear?”
“Whatever you say,” shrugged Storl.
“Also,” Magnus continued, “make sure they haven’t hired another organist. If they have—you know what to do.”
“Anything else?” asked Storl.
“Just one thing.” Magnus grinned satirically. “I believe we’re entitled to the full co-operation of our—uh—esteemed Marshal Lomax.”
“That’s funny,” chuckled Storl. “That’s real funny.”
“Get a message to the marshal,” drawled Magnus. “Make sure he gets the point of it.”
“Sure,” nodded the ramrod. “And what’s the message?”
“He’s to arrest Page on Saturday morning,” said Magnus.
“By thunder!” breathed Storl. “You sure get the damnedest notions.”
“I want Page in a jail cell at the time he’s supposed to be going into church,” smiled Magnus.
“What’s the charge?” grinned Storl.
“Lomax will think of something, I’m sure,” said Magnus. “Some petty offence will do. I don’t care a damn how he frames Page—just so long as Page ends up in jail.”
Late that afternoon, San Rafael’s aged and well-loved preacher of the gospel was relaxing in the shade of his back porch, fanning himself, contentedly watching his wife tending the flower garden behind their small home. At the age of sixty-seven, the Reverend Noah Breen was slight of build, snowy haired and stoop-shouldered; rarely in the past fifteen years had he enjoyed good health, but he wasn’t the kind to complain, and had won the earnest respect of his physician, the dedicated Dr. Lucien Hayward.
Almost as frail was the clergyman’s wife, the thin, but always busy Beulah. An arthritic condition was her big problem and, to her credit, she tried to make light of it. Her small garden afforded her much pleasure. She was, at this moment, scooping water out of a pail and emptying it onto a small clump of bright yellow blooms. To the preacher, this was a pleasing sight—his devoted spouse happily occupied with her small chore, the splash of color from the flowerbed, the open stretch of green ground to the north backed by the line of brush and the darkening blue sky of late afternoon. There was nothing to blight the simple pleasure of this moment—until the harsh bark of a rifle smote his ears.
Simultaneous with the sound of the report, the tin dipper held by Beulah Breen was perforated by a 44.40 slug. She felt its handle jerk in her grasp, then she was gaping incredulously at the jagged hole through which the residue of the water now spilled to the dust. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her husband was struggling out of his chair, clenching and unclenching his fists. His lined face like hers, had lost all color.
“Beulah...!”
“I’m all right, Noah,” she murmured, still staring at the punctured dipper. “Quite—all right...”
The lone rider broke from the brush and moved towards them unhurriedly. Noah Breen recognized him as an XL hand, but did not know him by name. As he approached, the hardcase coolly returned his rifle to its scabbard. He walked his pony clear through Beulah’s flowerbed, reined up and grinned down at her.
“Real close, huh, ma’am?” was his greeting.
“You—shot—at my wife!” panted the preacher.
“Shucks, no, Deacon,” grinned the hardcase. “I was just comin’ through the mesquite when—uh—I thought I spotted a
jackrabbit. Took a shot at that old cottontail, missed him by just an inch.” He looked at the dipper again and repeated, “Real close. Well—every bullet has to get stopped by somethin’, huh?”
“So,” breathed Noah Breen. “You claim—this was an accident.”
“Accidents happen all the time,” shrugged the hardcase. “You take, for instance, this weddin’ on Saturday. If I was you, Deacon, I sure wouldn’t go to that old chapel to say the words over the Garfield gal and that Page hombre. No, sir. I wouldn’t do that at all. Figure it’d be too dangerous—for the little lady here.”
“You dare to make threats against my wife?” gasped Breen.
“Who’s makin’ threats?” The hardcase grinned crookedly. “I sure ain’t threatenin’ you, Deacon. All I’m sayin’ is, if you go ahead and try to marry them two, the excitement might be too much for your woman. She might faint—fall in front of a wagon and team or get trompled by some likkered-up cowhand. Or some fool might cut loose with a six-gun—and maybe she’ll be unlucky—unlucky enough to get in the way of the bullet.” He began to wheel his mount. “Well, I’ll be seein’ you folks. But, for your own sakes, I hope it won’t be at that weddin’.”
As he rode slowly back to the mesquite, Noah Breen was seized by a fit of trembling. He sank weakly into his chair, while his wife discarded the punctured dipper and came up to the porch to comfort him.
“There, Noah. Be calm. Don’t be worrying about me. It probably was an accident, and…”
“You know better than that, my dear,” he mumbled. “We both know better.”
“Yes,” she sighed.
“This was a threat—and a warning,” he declared, staring away towards the brush. “Deliberate, cold-blooded intimidation! These evildoers have no respect for the welfare of the God-fearing, the law-abiding...”
“Be calm, Noah,” she begged. “Excitement is bad for you.”
“This was the work of Kane Magnus himself!” panted
Noah Breen. “He lusts for she who is promised to another. He’ll stop at nothing to prevent her marriage to his rival!”
“Noah, I am not afraid,” she softly assured him. “We’ve had many good and happy years together, though the Lord saw fit to deny us children of our own—His will be done in all things...”
“Amen,” he grunted.
“So you must not hesitate on my account,” she declared. “You have agreed to officiate at this wedding. If you refuse to carry on, you’ll be—acknowledging that this sinful man holds power over our church.”
“God forbid,” he breathed.
“Come Saturday,” said Beulah, “we’ll go right to the chapel—and put our faith in the Lord.”
Around six p.m., the marshal of San Rafael prepared to eat a lonely and much-needed supper. The waitress from a nearby lunch room had fetched him a bowl of beef stew, and he was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he had been drinking more and eating less these past few months. He was becoming weaker—physically as well as in spirit. His last swig of whiskey had tasted like anything but whiskey.
He seated himself at his desk, took up his fork and moodily inspected the contents of the bowl. It was a tribute to the cook at Donohue’s that, despite his reduced condition, the marshal found himself savoring the stew’s aroma. He bit into a slice of bread, then took up his fork and scooped up a mouthful of the stew. It tasted fine. No food, in fact, had tasted so fine in a long time.
While he was chewing on his second mouthful, the two XL men came swaggering into the office. It would never have occurred to them to knock. And why should they? He recognized them, and his scalp crawled. Their names were Gurney and Trock, and they were two of the group that had battered him senseless some time back; so thorough a thrashing had they administered that he had never been the same since. Gurney was a brawny six-footer, red-haired and truculent. His fists, as Lomax well remembered, were as hard as rock. Trock was taller and leaner, a sardonic, hawk-faced killer whose Smith & Wesson was bolstered at his left side, the butt jutting forward for a cross draw by the right hand.
“Well! Will you look at him?” chuckled Gurney, as he advanced to the desk. “Our marshal’s about to take some nourishment, Trock. How about that?”
“He looks like he needs it,” leered Trock. “Damned if he don’t.”
Lomax sat very still. A chill of apprehension gnawed at the pit of his belly and up his backbone, while perspiration beaded on his brow and began trickling down his cheeks. He was, at this moment, as frightened as a man can be. He was remembering the beating he had suffered at the hands of these efficient sadists, and he was assuring himself that he couldn’t survive any more of that.
He bowed his head, not daring to look at them. Grinning, Gurney removed the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it into the stew. As he drew his hand away, the wet, well-chewed end of the stogie remained perpendicular, poking up from the meal for which the marshal would now lose his appetite.
“That’ll make it taste fine, Marshal,” guffawed Gurney.
“Go on,” urged Trock. “Go ahead and give him the message. We got another Chore to handle ‘fore we can get to our drinkin’.”
“Sure,” nodded Gurney. He came around to perch on a corner of the desk. “Got a little news for you, Marshal. About the weddin’ Saturday. Thought you ought to know.”
“Ain’t gonna be no weddin’,” drawled Trock. “It’s as simple as that, Marshal.”
“Too bad about Page,” said Gurney. “Well...” He shrugged philosophically, as he reached for the inkpot, “that’s the way it goes.” Lomax didn’t dare budge an inch, while the hardcase emptied the contents of the inkpot over the front of his shirt. “First thing Saturday mornin’—right When Page is riggin’ himself in his Sunday-best to go get wed—you’re gonna arrest him. Yep, that’s a fact. Of course I wouldn’t know why.”
“Who...?” he began.
The door opened. Jim strode in, shoved the door shut behind him and advanced to the desk.
Jim’s eyes flicked over the telltale signs—the condition of the lawman’s shirt, the upended inkpot, the bowl of congealing stew with a cigar butt still protruding from it. He added these to his memory of two tough-looking hombres quitting this office and came to the obvious conclusion. Somehow, he managed to speak quietly and without heat.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve seen men in a far worse condition.”
“That’s easily said,” grunted Lomax.
“I’ve had the experience—you know that,” said Jim. “In the cavalry, after a half-dozen rough campaigns, you’ve seen all there is to see of pain and hardship and fear and courage.”
“Yeah,” shrugged Lomax. “Sure.”
“Some of the men I’m thinking of,” drawled Jim, “were older than you.”
“All right,” said Lomax. “I believe you.”
“I’ve seen tough old veterans return to combat duty after convalescing from bad wounds,” declared Jim, “and then distinguish themselves in battle. And quite a few of them didn’t believe they could go back. They thought they wouldn’t have the nerve for it, but they were wrong—they were selling themselves short. And maybe you’re doing the same, Marshal.”
“Don’t try to tell me how I feel,” growled Lomax. “Nobody realizes it as much as I do. You suppose a man doesn’t know when he’s licked, washed up, finished, burnt out? For me, it began when my wife Anna died. And Magnus’ hardcase crew, they finished the job. Yes, by all that’s holy, they really finished me. I took a beating that...” He gestured impatiently, bowed his head again. “Well—never mind.”
“You could still be fooling yourself,” Jim insisted.
“No,” sighed Lomax.
“You’ve gotten into the habit of thinking the worst of yourself,” suggested Jim. “You call yourself a coward, and you believe it …”
“It’s a fact,” said Lomax.
“The boss said you’re bound to think up a good reason, Marshal,” said Trock. “He’d be powerful disappointed if you let
him down.”
“That’s okay, Trock,” grunted Gurney, staring hard at the lawman. “The marshal would just never let Mr. Magnus down.”
“Page gets arrested—early,” Trock told Lomax. “You stow him in a cell and you keep him there...”
“All day,” stressed Gurney.
“That’s all,” said Trock, abruptly. “He’s got his orders.”
“Why, sure,” nodded Gurney. “I reckon we can rely on good old Marshal Lomax.” He grasped the back of the lawman’s head and, with a fast and hard movement, thrust it downward. Lomax tensed, but the thug was too strong for him; his face was shoved into the bowl of stew. “Enjoy your supper, Marshal!”
Because Nathan was visiting the Garfields, and because it seemed unlikely Magnus would permit any violence at the store that was home to the woman he coveted, Jim wasn’t keeping the carpenter under observation at this time. Benito was across town at Shadlow’s Bar. Jim was emerging from the Drury House when, glancing towards the law office, he saw the two rough-looking men making their exit and sauntering uptown. Maybe his sixth sense was working overtime, but something about their demeanor caused him disquiet.
In the act of rolling a cigarette, he restored his tobacco and papers to his pockets. He had intended paying Lomax a second visit. Maybe now would be the best time. Slowly, he crossed the street and moved towards the marshal’s office.
Chapter Six – Breaking Point
The sound of heavy footsteps caused Lomax to tense again. In an agony of apprehension, he stared towards the door. Hard knuckles rapped at it.
“You can’t say that for sure,” countered Jim. “You’ll never know for sure—there’ll always be a doubt in your mind—until the next time you face up to a problem, instead of closing your eyes to it.”
“That day will never come,” muttered Lomax. “And now—if it’s just the same to you...” He opened a drawer of his desk, produced the tin mug and a bottle, “I’d as soon be by myself. I don’t crave company right now.” Without another word, Jim turned and walked out of the office. From there, he sauntered some twenty yards uptown to the same lunch room that had supplied the marshal’s supper.
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