The Marshal of Whitburg

by E. R. Slade

  “I’ve got this,” Everson said to Lon. “Better be out on the street so folks see somebody’s in charge.”

  Lon thought that wasn’t the reason Everson wanted him out of there. He looked at Ames, but Ames didn’t look at him. He went out.

  He considered hanging around under the window, but decided that might well backfire and so continued on about his rounds. He did try to stay in sight of the office door as much of the time as he could. He wanted to see what happened to Ames afterwards.

  The conversation went on long enough that Lon thought he might have missed seeing them come back out of the office. But then, there they were. Everson held his gun. Ames walked before him, hands up. They went around the corner into the alley where the jail was.

  “So he does use it sometimes,” Lon muttered, and was just turning to continue on when from the direction of the alley he heard a shot. Then another.

  Lon set off at a run.

  Chapter Twelve

  He met Everson coming back out of the alley, his jaw set firmly. His gun was in his holster.

  “Heard shots,” Lon said. “Everything all right?”

  “Get the undertaker,” Everson said. “Ames tried to make a run for it.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Trying to escape. Wouldn’t stop. Go on, get the undertaker.”

  Lon started past Everson. “You’re sure he’s dead? Should I get the doc?”

  “He’s dead, confound it. I told you, get the undertaker.”

  Lon wanted a look and there were getting to be too many questions surrounding Everson to let the man stop him from having it. He kept on down the alley.

  “Pike!” Everson roared, clearly furious. “Get back here!”

  Lon spun to face him, ready to reach for his Colt if necessary.

  By stray light from the street behind, Lon could see Everson’s gun hand fingers working as if he were considering his chances against Lon. They stood looking at each other for the space of several seconds.

  Then Everson suddenly turned on his heel and walked away as though he no longer cared what Lon did.

  It was an odd reaction and stuck in Lon’s mind as he hurried down the alley to the jail.

  There lay the dim bulk of Ames sprawled facedown right in front of the jail’s door—not five feet from it—his hands still above his head. There were two bullet holes in his back—Lon struck a match to see. Not much blood around either one of them. If the man had been running when he was shot, it was toward the open jailhouse door.

  Lon tried to imagine some way it might have happened that would excuse what Everson had done but couldn’t think of a way. Which left him with the question of what he ought to do about all this.

  He checked Ames for a pulse, but knew there was no chance of finding one. The first shot had probably killed Ames. The pause between shots was probably Everson watching the body to see if there was any movement. The second shot was to make absolutely sure the man was dead.

  As he walked back out of the alley he thought again about Everson appearing to suddenly decide he didn’t care any longer what Lon did. Suppose that meant Everson would be watching for a chance to kill him, too? It certainly wouldn’t be smart to assume he wasn’t.

  The thought made him approach the end of the alley cautiously, hand on his gun.

  But nothing happened. Everson was nowhere to be seen. Lon went along to find Rawson, but on the way he passed the doctor’s little office and saw the frail old man sitting inside pouring something from one bottle to another. Lon stopped, thought a moment, adjusted his hat and went in.

  “Doc,” he said. “There’s a man been shot. He’s dead, but I wonder if you’d come look at him and give me an opinion about something I’m wondering about.”

  The doctor gave him a long appraisal out of sad eyes. Did he already have suspicions?

  The old, bent doctor walked more quickly than Lon had expected, clutching his black bag as though in a death grip. Lon kept an eye open for Everson but didn’t see him. He and the doctor went up the alley and stopped next to the body. They’d brought a lantern and now lit it.

  “How would you say this man’s death happened?” Lon asked.

  “Shot in the back,” the doc said, on his knees, looking up at Lon hollowly.

  “Was he standing up, do you think?”

  The doctor rolled the body, pointed at the ground.

  “Both bullets went right through him. Only one shot was fired with him on the ground. I’d guess the other knocked him down, and by the look of where it hit, I’d say it killed him. Looks like a bullet hole in the doorpost there.”

  “So he was standing up?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Can you say whether he might have been running when he was shot the first time?”

  The doctor’s aged face seemed to age even further. Plainly he understood the reason for the questions and also the import of the answers.

  “Hard to say,” he said.

  “Can you think of a reason he might have fallen aimed this way if he’d been running in the other direction?”

  The doctor considered.

  “He’d have to have turned after being shot,” he said slowly. “If that bullet hole in the doorpost isn’t related to this, I guess it could have happened.”

  “Do you think it’s likely?”

  “No. The shot that killed him, in fact both of them, were fired from pretty close up, I’d say. See the powder burns? The slam from the slug would have knocked him off balance at least, maybe knocked him right down. If he’d fallen trying to turn I think he’d more likely have landed on his side but still aimed in about the same direction. I can’t say for sure.”

  “How about his arms? They’re up over his head.”

  “That’s odd. If it weren’t for that bullet hole in the ground under the hole in Ames I’d have said the body had been dragged by the arms or feet.”

  “If,” Lon said, and stopped to work up his courage before going on. “If,” he started again, “Ames had been shot standing still with his hands up, would he look like he does?”

  The doctor met Lon’s gaze, held it. “Seems the likely explanation,” he said in his low, deep, sad voice.

  “You understand what this means,” Lon said to him, quietly.

  “I think so.”

  “Better keep it to yourself. Mightn’t be healthy to let Everson hear your opinion of this.”

  “I’m used to keeping secrets,” the doctor said tiredly. He was up on his feet again having rolled the body back the way they’d found it. He picked up his black bag. “Young man,” he said, “you be careful.”

  “Thanks for coming, doc. Maybe you’d be smart to leave here the back way.”

  “I think so,” the doctor said, and went off, blowing out his lantern.

  Lon stood there for some time trying to decide exactly what he should do next. A lot about Everson seemed now to be decided, but not necessarily everything. He left the way the doctor had and went for the undertaker. Rawson didn’t look particularly surprised. He called to a boy who brought a horse and cart and lantern and they went to Ames’ body. The horse and cart being unable to get into the narrow alley, the boy unceremoniously grabbed the dead man under the armpits and dragged him out to them. Lon helped him heft the body in. After they’d gone, Lon shifted his hat, checked the load in his gun and stepped around the corner to Everson’s office.

  Everson sat calmly behind his desk cleaning his pistol, a lamp pulled close. He looked up with a mild expression.

  “All taken care of?” he asked.

  “Rawson and his boy just left with the body,” he said, trying to make out Everson’s attitude.

  “Good,” he said. “Sit down a minute, will you, Lon?”

  Lon sat, trying to see one step ahead but unable to do so.

  “Lon,” Everson said, “I guess I’ve been a little hard on you. You’re brand new, never had a job like this before and every time you try to do something you think needs do
ing I jump on you for it.”

  There didn’t seem to be much to say to this so Lon kept quiet.

  “There’s more to that business with Ames but I can’t tell you what it is, yet. You’ll have to trust me on that. You did a finer thing than you know hearing that break-in. If it hadn’t been for you, he’d have gotten away with it and there would have been other things happen on account of it that I have to keep to myself for now, but they would have been bad. I think you’ve at least earned a day off, if you want it. Better help me keep after things tonight till about midnight or so. But take tomorrow off.

  “All right,” Lon said.

  “I think I got lucky when you agreed to be my deputy.”

  Lon went on with his rounds trying to make sense of all this. What possible excuse could Everson have for shooting an unarmed man standing in front of the jail with his hands up? All the rest of this had to be window dressing, didn’t it? Or was he somehow misjudging the man?

  He thought he wasn’t, but needed to be sure before he took any action. He needed to know.

  Off duty, he went back to his room, musing. Billy’s girl was on his mind. He was certain she knew more than she was telling. The question was whether it would be better to try to talk to her now or wait until the next day.

  He’d be fresher in the morning and it would give him more time to cipher out exactly out how to approach her, what to say and what not to. But cover of darkness would not only make her feel safer, it would actually be safer since he’d have a better chance of getting in and out of the boardinghouse unknown to Everson.

  Or Vern. Seemed wise to assume Vern was posted somewhere to keep watch on the hotel entrance. That meant leaving another way. And maybe it would be best not to let anyone at all, even Scott Warner, know he’d gone out.

  He opened his window and tried to figure how he might leave that way. He could with a rope, but had none. He slipped silently into the short hall, went to the rear end of it where there was a window that opened on a shed roof. He climbed out, pulled the counterweighted window shut, and cautiously walked down near the lower edge of the roof, hoping for a ladder.

  Of course there wasn’t one, but there was a pile of firewood which came within a few feet of the eaves. He found it fairly easy to get down to the top of it and from there to the ground.

  He stood a moment, listening and looking, but mostly listening since he could see very little in the darkness. No sound seemed out of place, so he slipped along quietly behind the buildings toward the boardinghouse, which was on the same side of the street as the hotel. Passing Tuft’s house, which was also on that side of the street, he noticed light in an upstairs window and couldn’t help wishing for a glimpse of Zinnia’s face. No face appeared. Probably her father’s room, or some other, anyhow.

  And what would she think if she knew he was sneaking along to the boardinghouse—with the most questionable reputation in town—to see a pretty young girl? And what would “Eggy” suggest to her his purpose was in doing so?

  He stopped for a moment, aware he was sweating even though the evening was cool. Time to get hold of himself, put his attention back on how to convince Billy’s girl to tell him more of what she knew about Everson.

  At the rear of the boardinghouse he stopped again, thinking, then went to the back door and tried it. It wasn’t locked, so he edged it open. It was just as dark on the inside of the door as it was outside.

  He gently and slowly opened it enough to let himself in, waiting for the hinges to squeak, but they didn’t. Once inside, he shut the door and listened. In another room nearby he heard voices, talking low enough he couldn’t quite make out the words. They were women’s voices, and he thought one of them might be the girl’s.

  As his eyes adjusted a bit more to the darkness, he became aware of a faint hint of light coming from under a door leading toward the voices. He went and felt for the knob.

  The discussion had stopped. He heard footfalls receding. Then silence. But it had been only one set of footfalls, and they had been heavier, more ponderous, than the girl’s would have been. Maybe he was in luck—if she didn’t scream and raise the whole house.

  He was about to knock when he thought of something.

  He was still wearing his deputy’s badge. It now occurred to him that if she thought he’d come on his own time—which in fact he had, after all—maybe it would encourage her to think about his questions a little differently. He pocketed the badge.

  Drawing a deep breath, he tapped lightly on the door.

  “Come in,” came the girl’s voice.

  He turned the knob and opened the door far enough to see into the next room.

  It was indeed the same girl, standing before a mirror with her tawny hair all down her back, doing something on a little dressing table under the mirror, a candle burning to her left, which now sputtered with the draft he’d just let into the room.

  She looked up into the mirror, then spun around, her hands going to her mouth as though to stop any scream that might come out of it.

  “I’m sorry,” Lon said—he seemed to be always apologizing to her—“I guess I should have told you who I was.” He almost said also that he’d had no idea this would be her bedroom, but didn’t. After all, it was well past midnight and why would he have thought she’d be anywhere else? The surprise was that she was up this late.

  She stood absolutely still, transfixed. He thought she was even holding her breath. Side lit by the candle, her face looked different from the impression he’d had of it before, which, he realized, had been in some part his imagination since she’d made a point of staying well into the shadows. She reminded him of girls that worked in the mills back home in Massachusetts. It was hard to place what made him think that; maybe it was something in the expression, or maybe a hint of coarseness in her features.

  “I wouldn’t bother you so late,” he said, “but I only just finished my shift.”

  She finally took her hands down from her mouth and frowned at him a moment before she said, “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  She’d apparently been expecting some other visitor and wasn’t pleased he’d appeared.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said; then, aware how that sounded, added, “I was wondering why you stay in town if you’re so afraid of Everson.”

  The frown deepened, but somehow changed in kind, and she clasped her hands together tightly under her chin. Her eyes grew larger and softer, appealing. “I’m going to go,” she said. “But I need to make some money first.”

  “I still don’t understand why you think he would try to kill you.”

  “I told you about that. On account of thinking I might know things Billy knew. I’m depending on you,” she said, coming close enough to Lon he could have reached out and taken her in his arms had he wished to. She looked up at him earnestly, and there was the fear again, no mistaking it. There were other things, too, and he had the fleeting thought that this sort of girl was probably supposed to be more his kind than Zinnia was. “You’ve got to keep my secret,” she begged softly.

  “If you’re worried I might go back and tell Everson all about this, put it out of your head. Things you’ve told me put together with what I’ve seen of Everson give me a picture of the man I don’t like the look of.”

  “What have you seen of him?” she asked, getting tense, also slightly closer.

  When he hesitated, she spun away from him and went three paces in a way calculated to make sure he was fully aware of all her most interesting shapes, despite the loose and baggy house dress she wore, stained from being on her knees scrubbing floors. Hers was the basic, primitive sort of femaleness—not refined like Zinnia’s—more about fecund coquetry than grace. Before Zinnia a girl like this would have interested and excited him; now his standards had been raised beyond what he could ever reasonably hope to aspire to.

  Which was hardly the thing he should be worrying about right now.

  The girl turned around,
put her hands to her long, full mass of hair and pulled it back from her face. As soon as she let go of it it fell forward again. “My name is Betty,” she said. “Betty Logan. I’m not from around here. My family is all in Connecticut.”

  “You came out west by yourself?”

  She pursed her lips momentarily as though realizing she’d put herself in the position of having to make an awkward explanation.

  “No,” she admitted, looking at him slightly sideways as though appraising carefully the effect of her words on him. “I came with my uncle and aunt. Uncle Robert wanted to find gold. But they both got yellow fever and died. That was about two years ago.”

  Lon wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not. He could almost picture her coming out here with some man she was only pretending to be married to. Maybe he died or left her and she had latched onto Billy. Now, he thought, she appeared to be considering whether to latch onto him. And were it not for Zinnia, he could imagine himself, as he used to be, thinking seriously about it. Though, like Billy perhaps, he’d have been thinking in terms of legal marriage rather than the other kind of arrangement. He’d seldom seen the informal kind of taking up together work out very well.

  Now she was stepping close again, looking up at him earnestly. He found himself trying to guess how calculating she really was. Was she just scared and alone? Thought him a nice enough man and hoped it might work out for her finally? Or did she have some hidden motive to manipulate him for reasons he didn’t know about?

  “Do you want to sit down?” she asked, gesturing at the bed, which was the only thing to sit on in the little room. She went to it and sat, hands on the edge, back slightly arched, looking at him invitingly.

  He moved to stand before her, changed his mind and sat far enough from her as to be out of reach.

  She ran her hands back down her hair as far as she could reach and then lifted it as though to shake it out, then dropped her hands into her lap and leaned earnestly toward him.

  “You were going to tell me the things you’ve seen of Marshal Everson that make you not trust him,” she said.