Death by Grit

by A. T. Butler

  The kid helping a diminutive older woman nodded to indicate he had heard. Marlowe gestured Jacob to follow him into the small storeroom in the back. As they walked between stacks of fabric bolts and barrels of sugar, Jacob wondered where Maloney was at that moment.

  There was another door on the far side of the storeroom, and Marlowe made a beeline toward it. He opened the door into the sunshine and seemed to gulp in the fresh air. Stumbling forward, Marlowe left the door open and didn’t give Jacob a second look. There was an old tree stump ten feet away and Marlowe collapsed onto it.

  “Mr. Marlowe,” Jacob said hesitatingly. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

  The storekeep shook his head, and continued to take deep breaths. As Jacob watched, he seemed to be calming. Maybe all he needed was a minute to compose himself.

  “I’m alright,” Marlowe said. “I’m alright. I just— When I think about that man I just … “ His eyes widened again and he breathing became more erratic.

  “Take your time,” Jacob said, though he didn’t really want to give the man any time. How much time had already been wasted? “Tell me what you know when you’re ready.”

  Marlowe nodded. “I can. That is, I will. I just need … “ He held up a single finger, as though to indicate one moment, and continued to take his deep breaths.

  As he waited, Jacob looked around. Behind the store was a wide dirt alley. No, not even an alley. It was wide enough to be a street on its own; in any city back east this would be a waste of space between rows of buildings. About ten feet past the tree trunk where Marlowe was sitting was an outbuilding, and a house another several yards beyond that.

  The organization and planning of Haven was haphazard at best. Which, to be honest, likely made hiding in plain sight even easier for Maloney. He could easily circumvent common meeting places and take alternate routes wherever he wanted to go.

  “What’s that fellow’s name again?” Marlowe asked.

  Jacob brought his attention back to the man in front of him. “Maloney. Seamus Maloney.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s the name he gave me. It was more like … Moore, actually. Mr. Moore. I’m not sure I got a first name.”

  “Alright. When did you see him?”

  “Thi— this morning,” he stammered. “He was in about an hour ago.”

  This additional piece of information made Jacob fume. If only the sheriff hadn’t detained him in the jail, he could have already laid hands on the outlaw. He sighed. Well, there was nothing to do about it now.

  “And he bought something from you?”

  “Three boxes of bullets, a rope and two apples.”

  “Well. That’s not great,” Jacob said wryly. “Did he take the items with him? I don’t suppose he gave you an address to deliver them to, did he?”

  Marlowe shook his head. “No, he took it all with him. I’m sorry. If I had known, I could have insisted.”

  That was precisely what Jacob had been thinking. If Marlowe had known. If anyone else in the town had known. Thank goodness Larson had thought to tell his wife, at least, so Santos heard about Maloney being in Haven. Without that lead, the outlaw could be halfway to California by now.

  Jacob rubbed his temple. This was getting frustrating, but he had to stay focused.

  “I understand. Not to worry, Mr. Marlowe. If there’s anything else you can tell me—”

  “When he left he went that way,” the man said, pointing eagerly in the direction Jacob had just come from.

  “Toward that end of town? Is there anything down that way that he might have mentioned, or … anything, Mr. Marlowe. I need to impress upon you the seriousness of this. There is no one else in this town I know to ask.”

  Marlowe looked surprised. “Well, the church is down that way. And the jail and the school. Some houses—”

  “The church?” Jacob said. “It’s not a Catholic church, is it?”

  “No. Not Catholic.”

  “Does the reverend live near there?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s a parsonage just behind the church building. Reverend Chadwick was one of the first men to help settle this town.”

  Jacob wondered to himself what kind of man Maloney was. Sure, he murdered seven, maybe eight, people out of greed and desperation. But did he think of himself as a good person at his core? He may very well be the kind of outlaw who would confess his sins to save his soul and clear the slate—even if only to give himself free rein to commit some other heinous crime.

  “Mr. Marlowe, could I ask you to do something for me?”

  “Of course, Mr. Payne.”

  “If this man comes in again could you … I don’t know where I’ll be staying, but I’ll drop in here as often as I can to see if there’s any news. If you don’t see me for a day or so, send a telegram to Tucson.”

  “Not tell the sheriff?”

  “Well … “ Jacob didn’t want to undermine Whitaker’s authority. “Sure. Tell the sheriff. But also tell the U.S. Marshal.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Thanks much. I … ” He gulped. “I don’t know how I’ll keep my composure if he comes back, though.”

  “Maybe your assistant could help him?” Jacob suggested. “You can just observe.”

  “I’ll try that. Of course,” he said, brightening, “maybe you’ll catch him before he comes back in here.”

  “Let’s hope. I’ll leave you to the rest of your day and your customers, Mr. Marlowe.”

  Jacob didn’t look back as he strode away in the direction Marlowe had indicated.

  Chapter Seven

  Jacob all but ran down the street to the small Haven church. As he neared, he slowed, realizing that if Maloney was inside, he could be watching for him or ready to ambush anyone that sought after him. Jacob would need to seem as harmless as possible.

  He remembered Marlowe’s description of Reverend Chadwick’s home, and looked for the parsonage that shared the same property as the church building. It was a small structure, behind the place of worship, but inviting. Jacob walked a wide arc, avoiding the church itself and followed the path to the front door of Reverend Chadwick’s home.

  When he knocked on the door, he heard giggling and shouting from within. A faint set of footsteps ran toward the door and it was flung open. A tiny, four-year-old girl with her blonde hair in pigtails stood grinning up at him. Jacob couldn’t help but match her grin with his own.

  “Hello!” she said loudly. “I’m Mary!”

  Jacob laughed. “Hello, Mary. Is your father home?”

  She shook her head, still grinning.

  “Is your mother home?”

  “Mary!” a voice called from down the hallway. In moments, a young woman with the same blonde curls as Mary came rushing towards the door. “I’m so sorry, sir, I had my hands full and …” She gestured wildly.

  “It’s really no trouble ma’am.” Jacob removed his hat. “Are you Mrs. Chadwick by chance?”

  “I am, yes. But I’m sorry I can’t place you. You must be new to Haven.”

  “I am. That is … I’m passing through.”

  Mrs. Chadwick laughed. “Are you? That’s new. No one just passes through Haven.”

  “Yes, well. I have … ” Jacob glanced at Mary who was listening to every word. “I have some special circumstances. I was actually looking for your husband, ma’am. The Reverend Chadwick? He isn’t here, is he?”

  Mrs. Chadwick nodded. “He’s in the church at the moment. We’ve had another new face this week, and he seems to be needing a lot of guidance. Mr. Chadwick has been so gratified to see this man’s devotion to the Scripture. I have no doubt they are in there together.”

  “Do you think it would be alright if I went in too? Would I be disturbing anything?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. Likely not. You seem like the kind of man who would be respectful if another was praying, wouldn’t you?” She smiled at him. “I’m sure it will be just fine. You go on ahead.”

  “Thank you very much,
Mrs. Chadwick,” he said. “I’ll leave you and Mary to whatever you were playing.”

  “Stagecoach,” Mary said. “I’m gonna be a stagecoach driver when I grow up.”

  Jacob felt a small twinge of melancholy, thinking about this sweet child being on the stagecoach that Maloney had held up and massacred. He hoped none of his concern showed on his face. It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Chadwick to begin asking questions.

  “That sounds wonderful. What a fun game,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure you’ll be a great one.”

  Jacob made his good-byes and crossed the yard to the front double door of the church. It hadn’t closed entirely the last time someone had passed through, and Jacob could hear the conversation going on inside.

  “The Lord can forgive, Mr. Moore,” the first voice said. It was melodic and soothing. Jacob could easily imagine this man preaching and expounding on the truth of the Bible every Sunday. “You just need to repent.”

  “I know, Father. I mean, Reverend,” the second voice said. It was an older voice, tired and with the thick Irish brogue Jacob had expected to hear from Seamus Maloney. “But is repenting enough? ’Tis a fearsome thing I’ve done.”

  Jacob pressed his ear to the crack in the door, straining to hear every word.

  “The Lord loves all his children. No matter what you’ve done.”

  “I dunno … ”

  “That is why he sent his son Jesus to die on the cross, after all, isn’t it?”

  “Well … ”

  “To wash away your sins.”

  “But Father, what if I’m not sorry?”

  Silence. Jacob felt his anger rise at such nonchalance.

  The Reverend cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, see, I did this thing, that’s true. But I did it deliberately. I knew what I was doing and why.”

  “But now, though? Surely you regret the sin—”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Father. I would do it again in a heartbeat. How can I claim to repent of something I would willingly do again?”

  Jacob heard the reverend heave a deep sigh. He felt for the man. This was the leader of a congregation, trying to be helpful, trying to guide this man toward what he believed to be his salvation and everlasting life, and yet the man was resisting at every turn.

  “What is it that you’ve done, Mr. Moore?” Reverend Chadwick asked quietly.

  Silence again. Would the outlaw really admit to what he had done? Jacob pressed closer to the door, looking through the crack trying to see what the two men were doing.

  Just when he thought he had the perfect angle, behind him the front door of the parsonage opened and a child’s giggle startled him. In his turning to see, Jacob jostled the door to the church, pushing one side of the double door open and revealing his presence to the men inside.

  If there had been any doubt in Jacob’s mind, it was gone the moment he stumbled through the doors of the church. Sitting side by side in the rear pews were two men, one about Jacob’s age with dark brown hair and a neat mustache, and the other older, grizzled with the same blond-gray hair and blond-grey goatee as was depicted in the wanted poster Jacob was carrying at that very moment.

  Both men looked up in surprise, and while Reverend Chadwick quickly calmed and smiled welcomingly at Jacob, Maloney stood in a panic.

  “Freeze, Seamus Maloney,” Jacob said, drawing his weapon. “In the name of the law. I’m taking you in.”

  “Like hell you are,” Maloney said.

  Reverend Chadwick gasped at such vulgarity.

  The outlaw leaped over the back of the pew with the agility of a much younger man, and before Jacob realized what was happening, Maloney had pushed past him and was running down the street away from the church and away from him.

  He was stuck. He couldn’t shoot the man in the back. What kind of bounty hunter would he be if he did that? What kind of man would he be?

  “Momma, what’s happening?” a young voice asked.

  Jacob realized with a panic that the child was near to getting between him and the outlaw. He hadn’t yet seen Maloney draw his weapon, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t or wouldn’t. Jacob would never forgive himself if little Mary was injured in this skirmish.

  “Get her back inside,” he directed Mrs. Chadwick, who looked shocked at him. Jacob was worried she would be too surprised to take the action she needed to.

  He picked Mary up with one arm and carried her bodily to Mrs. Chadwick’s waiting embrace.

  Next he turned his attention back to the outlaw running away from him.

  “Stop that man!” he yelled as loudly as he could.

  There weren’t many people on the street at that time, and those that were likely saw that Jacob had drawn his revolver and wanted no part of this. He couldn’t blame them. No average person could hope to confront an outlaw like this man and survive.

  “Maloney!” he yelled. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.” He ran through the yard of the church, out to the middle of the street. “Stop!”

  “You’ll never catch me!”

  Jacob ran, sprinted after the outlaw. He would never shoot a man in the back. There wasn’t any situation when that would be okay with him. If Jacob couldn’t get one of the other citizens to help stop Maloney, Jacob would have to go after him himself.

  “Only a coward would run, Maloney! Turn around and face justice!”

  “I am no coward.”

  The man turned. Aimed. Jacob heard the oath from the outlaw at the same time that the sound of gunfire broke through the air.

  The pain that tore through Jacob’s torso was red hot, like a poker stabbing through his gut. Surprised, he put a hand to his side and felt the warm sticky coating of blood spreading across his stomach and dripping down his side.

  Jacob fell to his knees in the middle of the dirt street. Through the haze of his pain, he was dimly aware of Maloney escaping, of him running farther down the street, mounting a horse and disappearing. Which direction? Who would go after him?

  Jacob struggled, stumbled, trying to get to his feet.

  He collapsed again, face first, blood making mud of the dirt underneath him.

  Chapter Eight

  It must have been the pain that woke him up. The room was silent and dark with nothing to disturb him, but still Jacob felt himself regaining consciousness through the thick fog of burning pain.

  He had only been out west for less than a year, and in that time had never been shot. Not like this. Even during the war, his worst injuries were to his limbs, where the solid muscle could better bear the damage of a gunshot.

  But this. This blow to his abdomen …

  The door opened and the bright light of afternoon sun assaulted his eyes.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  As Jacob’s eyes better adjusted to the dim light, he realized it was Mrs. Chadwick who had come into his sick room, carrying a basin of water and a towel.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  She set the basin down on the table by his bed and wet the towel, wringing it out carefully before resting it on his forehead. The cool water was soothing, and distracted him a little from the pain.

  “Sore,” he croaked out. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Not long. A few hours. Doc Murphy was here to get out the bullets and stitch you up again. Thank heavens you stayed unconscious for all of that. I couldn’t even be in the room, with all the blood. My husband had to help the doctor.”

  She wetted the towel again, before replacing it on his forehead. He closed his eyes under the soft comfort of her touch.

  “A few hours? What time is it?” Jacob tried to sit up. “What happened to the man that shot me?”

  “Now, you lay back down, please, Mr. Payne,” she said soothingly but commanding. She gently pushed his shoulder back toward the bed. “Sheriff Whitaker is just outside here and I can have him come in to ta
lk to you. But you mustn’t upset yourself.”

  Jacob lay back down. “The sheriff?”

  “Promise me, Mr. Payne,” she said. “We all want you to recover, which means you need to rest.”

  “I’ll do my best. Sending the sheriff in to me will help.”

  She nodded, smiled, and left the room with the door open. Jacob heard murmurs of conversation outside the door and soon the light from the other room was blocked by the silhouette of Sheriff Whitaker.

  “Well, son, Mrs. Chadwick tells me you wanted to see me.”

  “Can we— Is there a lamp in here, Sheriff? Can we get some light?”

  “You don’t need to sleep more? Alright then, I think … Yes. Right here.”

  In a short moment, the kerosene lamp on the dresser across the room from Jacob illuminated a warm glow. Jacob looked down at his bandages. He was wound tightly all about his torso with wide, clean white fabric. His fingers probed; there were thick layers of padding over the gunshot wound. No blood yet had seeped through. Jacob experimented with taking deep breaths and didn’t feel more than the pull of muscles. His lungs must not have been in the line of fire.

  Jacob rested one hand on his stomach, right over the wound, imagining what his body must look like under all that protection.

  “Sheriff, I assume the Chadwicks filled you in on what happened here earlier today. As I told you before, the marshal’s office has sent me after this man, who has now shot me and escaped. Again.” Jacob tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I need to know what you have done about it, or plan to do about it, so I can fulfill the marshal’s request.”

  “Look here, Mr. Payne. Haven is my town and I’ll be in charge of keeping the law here.”

  “That’s fine,” Jacob said with a sigh. “I don’t aim to keep you from that, sir. And if you could see your way to not keep me from my job I’d appreciate it.”

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  Jacob made himself wait a beat before continuing. “I apologize. It must be the pain is getting to me. I was just wondering if you could give me any more info about this outlaw.”