"Just how well do you know Marshal Taggart, boy?" asked Lindsey, pulling his shaggy, unkempt eyebrows lower, forming a deep furrow between his dark eyes. An old scar just above his left eye pulled down the eyelid at the corner, giving the eye a perpetual squint. Those same deep-lined, hard eyes narrowed as he said: "Take my word for it. You're gonna know him plenty well when he slaps the bracelets on you and drags you back to get yours."
Lindsey's round, no-necked face was deceptive of the bull-like power in his stout, barrel-chested frame. Legs too short and arms too long distorted the size of his upper half.
"Yup. Taggart'd bust your jaw jus' for looking cross-eyed at 'im. I saw 'im once do just that. Dropped some braggin' drunk feller poppin' off rounds over in The Bull Herd with the flat stock of his Winchester faster than that feller could even draw. Never even knew what hit 'im. That feller woke up with a busted nose right here in my jail, he did. Dried blood was all down the front of his shirt. Taggart probably saved a couple of lives takin' that drunk down and never fired a shot to do it. Walked straight up to 'im and popped him. No fear. No fear."
Lindsey turned back to his magazine and flipped through its pages. "You know, that drunk feller's nose never did set straight."
After a moment, Lindsey absently went on, "And huge hands Taggart's got. Seen 'im once walk over and grab a bridle with his left hand, jerkin' the palomino's head down and collared its dude rider with his right hand. Yanked that dude clean outta the saddle. Did it right out here in the street, broad daylight, I tell you, in front of a crowd o' witnesses, too.
"Takes a strong man to do that—to jerk a horse around like that. Wonder he didn't hurt the horse. Wasn't anybody real worried 'bout the dude he throttled. He was gonna hang anyway."
Lindsey laid down the magazine and reached into an inner vest pocket to pull out a half-filled bag of tobacco. Opening the right-hand drawer of the desk he extracted a dark pipe with a well-chewed stem, filled it, and fired it up.
"Yessiree. Tough as a cob he is," he said between puffs of blue smoke. "Marshal Taggart carried three slugs down low in his back when he brought in those Seller boys that robbed that train up near Crossfork in '73. Wouldn't bother seein' Doc Rogers 'till they was stuffed in a cell, his blood running clean down to his stirrups that day. Hmm! Tough as a cob.
"Another time Taggart—"
"Ya, ya, ya. I heard them stories," said the boy, adding "plenty of times," under his breath as he flopped down onto the cell bunk with a grunt. He lay back, crossed his feet, interlaced his narrow fingers over his chest and studied the oblong square of blue up high on the adobe wall, staring out at the failing light of day. A dog was barking somewhere out on the street. The frequent clop-clop-clop of passing horses earlier had disappeared as traffic slowed in the enveloping blue light of dusk. He reached up to run a fingernail along the rough finish of the wall.
Pangs of hunger wracked his slender frame. "What time you get fed around here, anyway?" he yelled.
"Mrs. Brown'll be 'long with some kind of dinner purty soon, I'm sure, replied Lindsey. "Maybe she'll have some of her deep-dish apple pie for your last meal."
Everyone seemed to think of this Marshal Taggart as a knight errant, doling out his brand of hard case frontier law. The boy began to wonder if he should be afraid of him. He had heard such stories of Taggart's accomplishments nearly his whole life. No one had ever bested Taggart that he could recall hearing about. And, like a wolverine obsessed, no one got away from Taggart once he was on their trail. Now he was coming after the boy. The more he thought about it, and brooded on it, the fear of this Marshal Taggart began to eat away at the boy and get under his skin. Dawning realization came. He really was going to be taken back. His heart beat faster and his mouth got dry. What would Taggart do when he took him back? Panic flooded the youth. In desperation an idea overtook him.
"Hey! Sheriff?"
"Ya."
"You got that gun you took off me?"
"Locked right here in the desk drawer. Why?"
"It's a good gun, isn't it? Worth some money I mean?"
"Probably. Why?"
"How 'bout I let you have it—and you just look the other way and let me ride off tonight. Would that be worth your while?"
Lindsey unlocked the drawer and lifted the gun out. Pulling the big pistol closer he began to look it over. Walnut grips. Good weight. The steel frame felt good in the hand. Big bore. He thumbed back the hammer and spun the cylinder. A well made firearm. Colt .44-caliber 1860 Army model with very little use. Lowering the hammer he sighted down the barrel. He turned it sideways to look at it and ran his thick fingers across the weapon.
Wait a second. He went to get an oil lamp from across the room and brought it back to his desk. Under the bright light he looked at the intricate engraving on the steel body. He squinted down his nose at the inscription on the barrel and started to read—
Suddenly he blurted out: "Where'd you get this gun, boy?"
"What's it matter? I just got it. Ain't it worth somethin'? We got a deal?"
"Deal hell! This is a presentation gun. Did you know that?"
"What's a pres'ta-shun gun?"
"You mean you don't know? You never read the inscription?"
"No," said the boy angrily, adding softly, "I can't read."
Sheriff Lindsey stood, hitched up his belt and, in his most important and teacher-like tone, began: "A presentation gun is given to someone for a reward. No, that's not right. They're given to someone to honor somethin' they've done. Somethin' special. Or services rendered. They are bestowed to recognize a happenin'—or an accomplishment—"
"Like a medal?" the boy blurted out.
"Well, yes," Lindsey went on. "A gun like this is special made. They have special gunsmiths work on 'em, engrave and inscribe 'em and personalize 'em." Lindsey walked closer to the cells and waved the gun toward the youth. A serious tone came into his voice as he said: "A gun like this is maybe one in fifty. Maybe one in twenty-five. You understand what that means, boy?"
"No."
"It means there ain't very many others around like it!"
"Does that make it worth more?"
Lindsey exasperatedly waved his arms in the air. "Value has nothing to do with this, boy. Yes, it's valuable, but it's more valuable to the person it was presented to. By taking this here gun you have stripped the owner of this honor. Of the public recognition of his accomplishment."
After a moment of taking in what the sheriff had explained to him, the boy asked: "What's the inscription say?"
Lindsey took the gun back towards the yellow glow of the lamp. Solemnly he read:
"Presented in honor of the courageous duties performed at the Battle of Gettysburg, July 3, 1863, from General Geo. G. Meade, Commander."
Lindsey sighed and the room grew quiet. He silently reflected upon the gun, carefully wiped the pistol off with the front of his shirt and gently, reverently, placed it back in the lower desk drawer.
"You like that gun, then? It's yours. You gonna let me go? We got a deal?"
"Do I look like an idiot to you, boy? Hell no I ain't gonna let you go. Both you and this here gun are gonna stay right here 'till Marshal Taggart arrives and takes you both back where you belong." He stood straighter and then continued like he was giving a political speech. "When Marshal Taggart wires out a description of who he's after and I wires back that he's now in my jail, ain't hell nor high water gonna stop me from performin' my duty 'till Taggart arrives to get 'em."
A knock at the door interrupted Sheriff Lindsey's monologue. "Who is it?" he shouted out.
"Mrs. Brown. Brought dinner over for you and your prisoner."
The sheriff and his prisoner both ate in silence. The boy greedily attacked the plate handed him, quickly forgetting his attempt to bribe his way out of the cell, and when finished with his meal settled back on his bunk quite satisfied. Sheriff Lindsey had relit his pipe and contented himself with an after-meal smoke, drawing solace from the comforting cloud of blue
smoke blanketing his head.
* * *
The night had grown quiet except for the crickets or an occasional whoop echoing up the street from The Bull Herd.
"Sheriff, you think all them stories 'bout Marshal Taggart are true?"
"Well, why wouldn't they be?"
"I don't know," replied the boy. After a pause he continued: "It just seems that some of them stories make him out to be kind of larger than life. A Sir Galahad. Like he's never failed—"
"No, not all of the stories are like that ...."
"I think all he ever cares about doin' is ridin' off so he can go bust up some drunk cowboys an' be some kind of lawman hero."
"Hero? 'S that what you think? Marshal Taggart does what he does to be a hero?"
Lindsey drew in a deep puff of smoke, slowly exhaled, looked down at the creased and worn but comfortable boots on his outstretched feet crossed in front of him and continued. "Listen, son, the frontier is a rough place. A complicated place. There is nothin' easy 'bout livin' out here. Not everything is black or white when it comes to survivin'. And sometimes a man has to go beyond what is necessary to tame this frontier so folks can live here. Men like Taggart are necessary to keep the peace, by fist and by gunfire, and partly by intimidation, too. And if it takes a little hero inflatin' of some stories to get that job done, to intimidate or sway a few on the fence of lawlessness or troublemakin', well so be it."
After a few more puffs Lindsey casually went on. "A couple of fellers didn't get that message and tried to hold up the Cattleman's Savings and Trust one day. Well, the holdup didn't go off as planned. Somebody, namely me, cut down with a scattergun the feller they had left outside holdin' the horses. Blew that feller all over the sidewalk. Made a mess of him. When the rest of the gang came out of the bank and saw what was left of their friend they got jumpy. They thought this would be a simple job, quick and easy with no resistance. The leader, a feller by the name of Simpkins, grabbed a little blonde girl, Sally Miller, from a nearby storefront as a hostage and said they were gonna shoot the little girl, blast her brains all over the street like what had been done to their friend if we didn't let 'em get out of town.
"Wasn't anybody goin' to stand up to 'em and risk Sally's life, so we let 'em ride out."
"That night it came a terrible storm. Rain was comin' down in sheets. But word had gotten to Taggart and he set out after 'em. It rained for a week straight and we thought for sure they had gotten away. Then a tip came in and reached Taggart of where it was thought they were hidin' out a couple of counties away. Finally he caught up to 'em. The gang had holed up in some rancher's barn and was up in the hayloft waitin' for the rain to break. They still had the girl. We was worried what they might be doin' to her.
"Taggart knew they were up in this loft and called out to them but got no answer. He told them who he was and warned them he was comin' up. Still no answer. Taggart then starts a small fire on the dirt floor of the barn, partly to scare 'em into thinkin' that he's gonna burn 'em out, but mostly to dry himself out and warm up from the rain. He waits about an hour, with them fellers knowin' he is right underneath 'em with no means to get away. He listens to the floorboards creakin' above and has a good idea of where each one is keepin' hisself to.
"So finally he starts up the ladder knowin' full well the second his head tops the trap door they'll cut down on 'im. But he had to get that girl back if she was still alive.
"I beat every rung of that ladder rang hollowly like a death knell as his boots slowly, purposefully, made their way up it.
"By the time he got to the top them fellers was so scared and jumpy of Taggart that they let him get the first shot off though the trapdoor. He cleared the door, hit the floor, rolled and fired again, takin' two more of 'em out. In three quick flashes it was over. A fourth man back in a corner gave himself up. And Taggart got Sally and the money back safe."
"Hm," the boy said. "That's just another guts and glory story about Taggart thumpin' some bushwackers. Probably not even true. Just more inflatin' to intimidate folks. I told you he don't really care for folks. All the selfish glory-seekin' bastard wants to do is be some hero."
"Sally Miller still lives here in town," said Lindsey, "although she never talks about the matter. How 'bout I bring her over tomorrow and you can ask her yourself if it's a true story?"
"No time. Taggart'll be here tomorrow to get me, remember?"
* * *
Lindsey became quiet and reflective, still smoking his pipe and deep in thought awaiting the nighttime relief deputy who should arrive by nine. "You know, not all the stories about Taggart have to do with bringin' in some bushwacker."
"'S that so?" belligerently asked the youth. "You could've fooled me."
Lindsey ignored the comment. "You're not old enough to remember it, but 'bout ten year back, Father Murphy came to town and right away got folks excited to help him start buildin' a church. Quickly it startin' goin' up, and a right pretty church, too, with a steeple and all.
"Now some folks, who will remain nameless for this here story, didn't want no Catholic church in our town and was quite outspoken 'bout it, even tryin' to run Father Murphy out of town. But that priest stuck tall and turned the other cheek, stayin' the course to see the church got built.
"When the church was real close to bein' finished so folks could use it, a fire started. A very suspicious fire. We started a bucket brigade but the fire was spreadin' too fast. Father Murphy kept goin' back inside to save the stuff off the altar. Said those crosses and Virgin Marys and things had made it safe all the way overland from St. Joe and he wasn't about to leave 'em now.
"Well, one trip he just didn't come back out. Bein' busy with the buckets and all we didn't notice.
"Marshal Taggart just happened to be in town that night, too. He noticed Father Murphy was missing and started into that inferno to look for him. He was gone a long time but none of the rest of us was brave or foolish enough to go in after Taggart.
"The flames reached up, up, up into the night sky. Smoke filled the street and we was all 'bout sick from fightin' the fire. The church roof was on the verge of comin' down. And if that happened there wasn't nothin' gonna come out of there alive.
"Finally, after what seemed an eternity of us waitin' and watchin' and callin' their names, we could make out Taggart through what was left of the open front double doors. Taggart, with flames all around him, and Father Murphy slung over his shoulder was comin' out. How he ever come out of that hell I'll never know, but he did.
"He carried that priest out, and we got 'em both drug over near Shorty's store. It was then we saw how bad both of 'em were burnt. Taggart's clothing was burnin' and we had to put that out, too."
Lindsey paused for a moment before continuing.
"We buried Father Murphy the next day, out under a dogwood, wrapped in an angel-white shroud and laid him to rest with his crosses and things. Some of the womenfolk sang hymns over him.
"Taggart, as you know, survived, but was laid up a long time convalescin'. Weren't no thoughts of bein' a hero when he did that. It was just somethin' that needed to be done. Burnin' is an awful way to die ...."
"That church would have brought hope an' compassion to weary folks out here an' would have been good for the town. Taggart realized that and I guess that's why he ran into the fire. To try and save somethin' for other folks. Nearly gave his own life, too, tryin' to give for other folks!
"Now you just lay in there and think about that one, boy, before you go callin' my friend, the marshal, a glory-seekin' bastard! By a lot of folks in these here parts, he's a better man than you'll ever hope to be, hero be damned."
* * *
The relief deputy arrived on time and the night passed uneventfully as far as the jail was concerned. The redheaded boy tossed and turned on his bunk, first trying to get comfortable, then trying to find understanding in this Marshal Taggart. Yes, he may have done well by some, but others suffered from his hand, too. It seemed an odd contradiction in
the boy's unworldly mind. Did he really do what he did simply to serve others? Or to serve himself? To reinforce his own ego and serve his own needs.
Mrs. Brown came over with breakfast about eight.
"Won't be long now," said Lindsey. "I'd expect the marshal any time."
Soon Lindsey heard the boardwalk echo hollowly under heavy booted feet. The door rattled with a loud knock. "Cyrus! You in there? Cyrus!"
"Sure am. That you Marshal? Let me open the door." A moment later, now face-to-face and shaking hands, the sheriff offered, "Good to see you, Jedediah. Want some coffee?"
"Sure, Cyrus. Black and strong."
"Coming up. You still enjoyin' the job, always livin' on the trail, Jedediah?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
The boy could hear them from the cell jocularly carrying on. He sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees and stared at the floor with apprehension, the weight of worry marring his freckled face. God knew he didn't want to go back. He supposed the marshal was going to ask him a string of questions. What was he going to say?
"Well, I guess you know why I'm here today, Cyrus."
"Sure do."
"Got the boy locked up in the back?"
"Yup. I'll holler for Perkins to get a horse over here so the two of you can get a move on. Daylight's a burnin'."
After the horse was saddled and hitched out front alongside the marshal's dun, Sheriff Lindsey went to open the cell door, first stopping to get a pair of steel bracelets off the wall.
"I think we can do without those today," said Taggart.
"You sure? Think you can handle 'im?" asked Lindsey playfully.
"That's all up to the boy," replied Taggart. "Let's ask him. Think I'm gonna need to cuff you today, boy?"
Eyeing the heavy steel bracelets dangling in Sheriff Lindsey's hands, the boy replied, "No sir. I'll come 'long—peaceful-like."
"That's what I thought," commented Taggart.
The pair moved out the front door of the jail, when Sheriff Lindsey called to Taggart. "Think I got somethin' else here you might want to take along," and handed him the Colt .44 Army revolver.
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled 2 Page 9