Seymour wondered if this conversation was real, or just a figment of his whiskey-addled imagination. Deciding that it was real—but unfathomable—he asked, “Why in the world would you think that? Everyone else who pinned on a lawman’s badge in your town has been killed! Gunned down ruthlessly!” Seymour looked at Heathcote. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
The newspaperman shrugged. “Yes. But you’re different, Seymour.”
“How am I different, except that I’m even less of a threat to the lawless element than those other men were?”
Mitchell said, “But you see, that’s what makes you perfect.” When Seymour just stared at him in incomprehension, the mayor went on. “Cole Halliday, Jack Keller, and Ned Akin—three of the most notorious gunfighters and killers west of the Pecos—have already confronted you . . . and yet you’re still alive.”
“Because they all said that I’m not worth killing!”
“Be that as it may.” Mitchell stepped closer and prodded Seymour’s narrow chest with a finger. “You’re still alive. You faced down those gunmen and survived to tell the tale.”
Heathcote put in, “That part of the story will spread rapidly, too.”
Seymour shook his head. “I . . . I still don’t understand.”
“No self-respecting gunfighter wants to be known as the man who shot Seymour the Lily-Livered,” Heathcote said. “If someone killed you, that moniker would follow him for the rest of his days. He would become the object of ridicule, not you.”
“Of course I wouldn’t be the object of ridicule anymore,” Seymour muttered.
“I’d be dead.”
Heathcote didn’t pay any attention to that. He went on. “There might as well be a bulletproof wall around you, Seymour. Your lack of bravery actually makes you the safest man in the West.”
Based on the evidence of everything that had happened since his arrival in Sweet Apple, Seymour had to concede that Heathcote might be right about that. But he still didn’t see how that would make him an effective lawman.
He said as much. “No one’s going to pay any attention to what I say if they’re not afraid of me. I can’t keep order.”
“No?” Heathcote arched his eyebrows. “If not for you, there would have been at least one more killing in Sweet Apple. If any other dude had come to town and bumped into Cole Halliday, Cole would have shot him dead. No doubt about it.” The other men murmured agreement with him.
“And we can’t forget Miss O’Ryan either,” the journalist went on.
“What about her?” Seymour snapped. He didn’t want Maggie getting dragged into this ridiculous farce.
“Chances are she would’ve been killed yesterday afternoon if you hadn’t acted when you did,” Heathcote said. “Your quick action really did save her life, Seymour.”
For a second, Seymour stared at him and thought about that. Heathcote was right, he realized with a shock. Knocking Maggie out of the way of that bullet had been entirely an instinctive reaction, but even so, he had saved her.
“So you see,” Mitchell said, “you’ve been of service to the community already, Mr. Standish. If Miss O’Ryan had been killed, Lord knows if we ever would have found another teacher. And a town has to have a school if it’s going to grow and prosper.”
Seymour couldn’t argue with that. But these men had forgotten about one important thing.
“I’m a dry-goods salesman,” he said. “I have no experience or training as a law officer. I wouldn’t have any idea what to do!”
“Just keep the peace,” Heathcote said. “Arrest anyone who gets too obstreperous. They’ll cooperate with you. They’ll probably think it’s all a grand joke, being arrested by Seymour the Lily-Livered.”
Seymour winced. He hated that name.
“I came to Sweet Apple to sell dry goods.”
“We thought of that,” Mitchell said. “It just so happens that I own the largest general mercantile store between Del Rio and El Paso. Mr. Manning and Mr. Less- er here also own emporiums in Sweet Apple. We’re all prepared to open accounts with Standish Dry Goods and purchase a considerable amount of merchandise from your company, Seymour . . . if I may call you Seymour.”
He nodded as he tried to take in the offer. Being able to deliver three big new accounts might elevate his standing in his uncle’s eyes.
“And with that leg up, so to speak,” Mitchell went on, “you’d be free to devote more of your time to your duties as marshal.”
Seymour wished his head wasn’t pounding so bad. The aftereffects of his drunken binge were brutal. He found that it was difficult to think clearly. The idea of him being a lawman was crazy, of course. Absolutely insane.
But these men seemed determined that he take the job, and they believed that his reputation for cowardice would keep him safe and even make him a more effective law officer. On the face of it, the idea made no sense at all.
And yet Seymour knew that in real life, things that seemed to have no chance of working out sometimes did. If they didn’t, then phrases such as “against all odds” and “the exception that proves the rule” never would have been coined. Lightning had to strike somewhere.
Why not in Sweet Apple, Texas?
And there was one more consideration that began to loom larger and larger in Seymour’s mind. Right now, despite the gratitude that she probably felt toward him, Maggie O’Ryan had to hold him in contempt. She knew that he had been humiliated again and again. She had heard the chants of “Seymour the Lily- Livered” and had no doubt read that horrible headline and story in J. Emerson Heathcote’s Sweet Apple Gazette. No matter what he did now, he told himself, chances are he could only go up in Maggie’s estimation.
“All right,” he heard himself croaking in a strained voice. He reached out with a shaky hand to take the badge from Mayor Mitchell. “I’ll do it.” He pinned the tin star to his coat, although it took him two tries to do it.
Heathcote grinned, raised a clenched fist, and said, “Huzzah!”
He was probably thinking about what a fine story it would make for the Gazette when the foolish new marshal was murdered, Seymour thought.
* * *
The three merchants insisted that he fetch his sample case so that they could conclude their business arrangements. Seymour was still hungry and thirsty, but he knew that a salesman had to take his opportunities where and when he found them. A deal postponed was often a deal lost. So he went upstairs, got his samples, and within half an hour had written three sizable orders to send back to Uncle Cornelius in Trenton.
The other members of the town council, with the exception of Heathcote, had left the hotel. Now the newspaperman took Seymour’s arm and said, “I’ll show you the marshal’s office. We do have one here in Sweet Apple, you know. It’s just unoccupied at the moment.”
“But no longer,” Mitchell said, obviously pleased with the afternoon’s developments. “It won’t take long for people to hear that Sweet Apple has a marshal again.”
In fact, the word had already spread through the settlement, Seymour judged from the way people looked at him and the buzz of conversation got louder as he and Heathcote and Mitchell walked down the street. The citizens seemed to know what was going on. In fact, some of them started trailing along behind the three men, as if they wanted to see what was going to happen.
They came to a small adobe building with a padlocked door. There were hooks in the wooden awning over the boardwalk where a sign of some sort had once hung, but they were empty. Mitchell took a key from his pocket and used it to unfasten the padlock. He swung the door back, reached inside, and picked up something that was leaning against the wall.
It was the sign that was supposed to hang from those hooks, Seymour realized.
Painted on it was the legend MARSHAL—Sweet Apple, Texas. The words were still readable despite the fact that half a dozen or more bullet holes were punched through the sign.
“Some of our rowdier citizens had a tendency to take potshots at the sign, especial
ly when they were drunk,” Mitchell explained. “That’s why we put it away.”
“And we didn’t have a marshal anymore anyway,” Heathcote added. He smiled. “But now we do.”
He and Mitchell each took one end of the sign and raised up on their toes to hang it from the hooks. It swung back and forth a little as they let go of it. Seymour gazed up at the sign and thought that he ought to feel a little pride at the sight of it. He was the marshal now after all.
But instead he just felt a little dizzy and confused and disoriented, as if he were trapped in a dream world where things were happening that had no business happening.
Heathcote and Mitchell ushered him inside. Heathcote lit a lamp that sat on a desk with a scarred top. The desk, like everything else in the room, was covered with a fine layer of dust. Seymour turned to a rack on the wall that held several rifles and shotguns. He brushed his fingers over the smooth, polished stock of a Winchester, leaving marks in the dust that coated the wood.
“We tried to provide the marshal with the tools he needed to do the job,”
Mitchell said. “You’ll find plenty of guns and ammunition here. There’s a file draw- er in the desk for reward posters and other important papers. A couple of cells in the back where you can lock up prisoners. Also, there’s a little room with a cot where you can sleep if you want to.”
“We’ll have some wood for the stove brought in,” Heathcote said. He looked Seymour up and down with a critical eye. “Also, you’ll need some clothes that are more suitable. And a hat.” He chuckled. “I know you don’t have a hat.”
Seymour flushed at the memory of how Cole Halliday had shredded his hat with bullets.
“Don’t worry about any of that,” Mitchell said. “Anything you need, my store can supply, and the town will pay for it. I’ll bring over some clothes and a hat. Do you have a gunbelt and holster for that pistol?”
Seymour shook his head.
“I’ll get that for you, too. And some coffee, a pot, and a few other supplies. How about a saddle?”
“I don’t have one,” Seymour said. “I don’t have a horse.”
“Frank Thomas down at the livery stable can provide a mount any time you need one,” Heathcote said. “The same goes for a saddle.”
“What else do you need?” Mitchell asked.
“Something to eat. And perhaps some cool buttermilk.” Seymour hoped that would settle his stomach.
“Sit down,” Heathcote said. “I’ll have Agnes from the café bring a tray over right away.”
“I could go over there to eat—” Seymour began.
Heathcote and Mitchell both shook their heads.
“It’s taken us a long time to get someone back in this office,” Mitchell said.
“You just sit down and stay right here, and we’ll be back.”
“Well . . . all right.” Seymour lowered himself into the swivel chair behind the desk. It was covered with worn leather upholstery, but was more comfortable than it looked.
The other two men hurried out, leaving him there alone. They were showing a lot of faith in him, Seymour thought with a wry smile as he took the gun from behind his belt and placed it on top of the desk. He felt a strong urge to run as far and as fast as he could while they were gone, leaving that marshal’s badge behind for them to find when they got back.
But instead he looked down at the badge pinned to his coat and stayed where he was. He was trying to remember the last time when anyone had actually had any faith in him. . . .
A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman with graying blond hair and bright blue eyes came bustling in with a cloth-covered tray in her hands. “You’d be the new marshal,” she said. “I’m Agnes Swenson, from the café. Mayor Mitchell asked me to bring some supper over to you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Seymour said as he got politely to his feet. “I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”
Agnes Swenson set the tray on the desk. “Not a blessed thing, Marshal. The town pays for all your meals while you’re wearing that badge.”
“Well, I . . . I’m much obliged.”
Agnes whisked the cloth off the platter of food. Seymour saw fried chicken, mashed potatoes swimming with gravy, greens, and a large biscuit. The tray also had a glass of buttermilk on it, cool enough so that drops of condensation had formed on the outside of the glass.
At the sight and smell of the food, Seymour’s stomach rebelled for a second, then settled down. Under the watchful, approving eyes of Agnes Swenson, he sat down and began to eat. With every bite he felt a little better. He washed the food down with swallows of the buttermilk.
“You know, you don’t really look like a coward,” Agnes commented. “You just look like a nice young man.”
Seymour wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or amused. He settled for amused.
“You’d better hope I am the most cowardly man in the West, as Mr. Heathcote dubbed me,” he said. “The town council seems to be counting on it.”
“Well, all I know is, you should be careful. Being the marshal is a mighty dangerous job in this town.” Her voice caught a little as she went on. “I should know.
They talked my husband Axel into pinning on that badge a while back.”
Seymour laid down his knife and fork and frowned. According to everything he’d been told, the previous marshal of Sweet Apple had been killed in short order. That meant . . .
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Swenson.”
Agnes used a corner of her apron to dab a tear away. “Just you take care of your- self, Marshal Standish. Don’t try to stand up to those bullies and killers. It’s enough that the town has somebody to call the marshal again. You don’t have to actually do anything.”
Was that what they really wanted? Just a figurehead, so that the community leaders could claim they had brought law and order to Sweet Apple whether that was actually the case or not? Maybe he was supposed to just sit here in the office and ignore his duties, so that Mitchell and Heathcote and the other politicians could put on a big show and pretend to care about the citizens, all the while allowing the forces of lawlessness to run roughshod over them. A hollow feeling grew inside Seymour’s chest as he realized that might be exactly what they wanted. Well, if ineffectual was what they wanted, he could deliver that, he told himself. He had been doing it all his life, after all.
* * *
Later, after Agnes Swenson was gone, Mitchell and Heathcote returned with everything they had promised. Seymour went into the back room and emerged a few minutes later dressed in black whipcord trousers, a white shirt, and a black leather vest. He wore high-topped boots and a black hat that seemed ridiculously large. Around his hips was buckled a gunbelt and holster of hand-tooled leather. He slipped the pistol into the holster and found that it fit fairly well.
“Don’t forget your badge, Marshal,” Heathcote said. He had taken the star off
Seymour’s coat. He held it out to him now.
Seymour took it and pinned it to the vest. “How do I look?”
“Like an actual lawman,” Mitchell said.
“Except for the, uh, spectacles,” Heathcote said.
Seymour smiled. “Well, they’ll have to stay; otherwise I can’t see well enough to do my job. Shouldn’t I go and make my evening rounds, or something? Isn’t that what a marshal does?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that tonight,” Mitchell said. “There’ll be time enough to start that later.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, of course. Just stay here in the office tonight. Let the people get used to the idea of having a marshal again.”
It seemed to Seymour that the citizens of Sweet Apple would get used to the idea quicker if he were out and about among them, but Mitchell and Heathcote were both adamant that he didn’t have to make rounds tonight.
It would be all right with them, he thought, if he didn’t make rounds at all. Ever.
They left, and with a sigh he took his hat off, put it on the desk, and sat down in the swi
vel chair. To have something to do, he opened the file drawer and started looking through the wanted posters that were jumbled inside there. He had been at it for half an hour or so when the door suddenly opened. He looked up, feeling a surge of alarm. But instead of some gunfighter who had come to shoot him, he saw Maggie O’Ryan.
Perhaps she was no less dangerous, though, because she stormed into the marshal’s office, slapped her hands down on the desk, glared at him, and demanded,
“Seymour Standish, have you lost your mind?”
Chapter 18
“M-Miss O’Ryan!” he gulped. “What are you doing here?”
Maggie straightened and crossed her arms over her bosom as she glared at him.
“I heard people talking about it, but I didn’t believe it,” she said. “I had to come see for myself. Now I almost wish that I hadn’t!”
“Come to see what?” Seymour forced himself to ask, even though he was afraid that he already knew the answer to that question.
“The biggest fool north of the Rio Grande! Seymour—may I call you Seymour?”
He nodded dumbly.
“Seymour, have you lost your mind? Why in heaven’s name would you want to take the job of marshal in Sweet Apple? You’re going to get yourself killed!”
Finally, he was able to shake his head. “Mayor Mitchell and Mr. Heathcote and the other members of the town council assure me that won’t happen.”
“J. Emerson Heathcote is a pompous windbag and the mayor and the other councilmen aren’t much better! How could they promise you that? How could you believe them?”
Seymour leaned forward, getting over his surprise at her visit and warming to his subject. “It makes perfect sense, Maggie. I can call you Maggie?”
She jerked her head in a nod.
Somewhat surprised at his own daring, Seymour went on. “I’ve encountered three of the most notorious gunmen in the area—Cole Halliday, Jack Keller, and Ned Akin—and lived to tell the tale. Despite everything, none of them were willing to kill me. To do so would be bad for their reputations.”
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