The Marshal of Denver

by Judge Rodriguez

  John replies, “You’re not kidding!” He comes to a stop by the heavily laden wagon and dismounts. The two men clasp forearms in greeting. John slaps Red-Feather’s shoulder in friendship.

  “Explain,” Red-Feather motions around.

  “Where to begin? A couple days after you left, I saved the Ling family. They got burned out by bald-knobbers. We’ve been building around here, as you can tell. Yesterday, we discovered they had been claim jumped. When we went back to get their money and claim papers, they tried to kill us. So, we killed one of them and captured the other. That just about sums it up. How did the buying go?”

  “Good enough. No buffalo. Some beef-alo though. Surprised when we came in around dawn, and you not here. Pretty China woman cooking. Thought you done got married while I was gone.” The twinkle in his eye says it all.

  John, seeing he was being poked fun at, replies, “Aww, why would I get married, when I got you to nag me?” John motions Quan forward with the prisoner. “What do you think we should do with him, 'til we get to town?”

  “Think he will try to escape?”

  “Nah. He knows I don’t mind shooting him. Plus, I’m hungry.”

  “Ling We still has some breakfast left over. Nice girl, that one.” Red-Feather looks to Quan and says, “You married well.” Quan smiles and nods his agreement while walking to the soddie.

  “Have any trouble on the road?” John asks, eyeing the wagons full of supplies, noting several bullet holes in the sideboards.

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle. Just a couple robbers that thought since I’m an Indian, they can take whatever they want from us. We proved ‘em wrong.” His eyes flinty, he looks away, gazing into an eternity. His eyes come back into focus and he looks at John with a penetrating gaze. “What?”

  “Our prisoner looks familiar. Not sure where, but I’ve seen him before.” John strokes his jaw thoughtfully.

  “Huh. Come eat. He won’t die, you won’t die, but if you starve, Heart-of-Falcon will kill me.”

  After everyone has been fed, feeling well sated, they sit around the campfire. After a long day, a sleepless night, an early morning forced march, and a filling meal, John is falling fast asleep standing up. Quan is in the same shape. It only takes Red-Feather saying one time for them to go to bed and catch what sleep they can.

  While they sleep, Red-Feather asks Ling We to watch the prisoner while he, his wife, and their four children continue to unload their supplies. The two men sleep until late afternoon, even then, when they rise, they are still quite out of sorts.

  Red-Feather finishes unloading the equipment and sends his two sons out with the herd to graze. He and his wife are discussing recipes with Ling We when John comes stumbling over to the fire from his bed roll.

  Hearing his long-time friend approach, Red-Feather wordlessly pours a cup of coffee and holds it out to the side as John comes up from behind. Seeing the look Ling We gives him, he smiles and replies, “No one else I know wakes up crashing around like a drunken bear like he does.”

  Ling We dishes up some of the stew she has left on the fire and hands the bowl to John.

  John sits close to the fire, bowl in hand, and says, “Prisoner.” Then starts eating with gusto.

  Red-Feather points over to the wagon, where their prisoner is bound to the wagon wheel. “We fed him, and are watching. He’s been a good boy, so far.”

  John finishes shoveling the food into his mouth, then drinks the broth. Rarely has he ever been fed so well as he has here. “So, think getting an early start to go to Denver and turn him over to the law will work?”

  Red-Feather nods. “You and Quan go. We will hold down the fort while you do.”

  “Guess that means I gotta go get more sleep. Night all.” He gets up, hands his cup to Ling We, and moves back off to his bedroll. About halfway there, he passes Quan, in much the same condition he was in before the food and conversation. They both wave a greeting to one other.

  As John lays back down, he is struck by how the smallest details seem to be taking over his life. Oh, well, at least it’s not boring.

  The last thing on John’s mind before he goes to sleep is the memory of the last time he saw Liz’s face. She was relaxing on that couch just before he left Pleasant Grove. With tears of loneliness clutching at his eyes, he once again allows the darkness to overtake him.

  Early the following morning, John and Quan have a sumptuous breakfast and leave just after false dawn. They have their prisoner, still bound, in the back of their buckboard. Under the seat, they have the chest with a small amount of Quan’s gold and the Ling’s claim papers.

  Chapter 15

  It is early afternoon as the wagon bounces its way into Denver. In the last month, the town has ballooned and is a bustling metropolis of eight wooden buildings. It has a city marshal’s office, hotel, church, land office, livery and blacksmith, an office building marked Lion’s Law, and another building that is unmarked. Out beyond the unmarked town, John notes what appears to be several other buildings, possibly houses, but can’t see them in all the dust. The wind is blowing rather steadily and is kicking up almost as much dust on the street as his wagon does.

  John guides the wagon to the front of the Marshal’s Office. Dismounting, John gets the feeling he is being watched. Surreptitiously, he looks up and down the street. Nothing. He pulls his prisoner out of the wagon, sets him on his feet, and guides him through the door.

  When they are fully in the office, the first sensation John has is of the smell. His eyes water as he fights down his gorge. The odor in the office is a mixture of the acrid stench of rancid sweat, sweet oil, alcohol, and old sex. He’s surprised by the lack of flies, since it smells as if something might have been decomposing in this room for days. The next thing he notes is the sound of someone that is snoring loudly enough that he is surprised he didn’t hear the sound outside. The sound is obviously someone sleeping off a major drunk.

  The third thing he notes is that there is a corpulent man, with feet up on the desk, leaned back in a chair. He is middle-aged, mostly bald, red-faced, and his clothes are rumpled, stained, and have obviously not been washed in the last year or so. After a momentary glance, he sees the star pinned to the outside of the man’s vest. Any respect he might have for the man being law enforcement vanishes immediately. The man is obviously a drunk and sleeping at his post. Were he still in the cavalry, this kind of lapse would get his troopers flogged, at the least. Out of disgust, John slams the door shut.

  The drunken man falls out of his chair with a curse. He rolls over, and in a smooth action, pulls his revolver, pointing it towards the door. “Just who do you think you are?” the man demands.

  Trying to keep his voice neutral, John says, “I want this man tried for attempted murder and claim jumping. He tried to kill me and my friend the other day. His friend died in a freak accident when they’d attacked.”

  The prisoner, who had been keeping his head down this entire time, raises it and the Marshal gasps. “Jeff? What are you doin here? You know your pa isn’t gonna be happy about this. Mister, you just bought yourself a whole passel of trouble. Do you know who this boy is?”

  “He’s the boy that tried to kill me and the one I want tried for it.”

  “His pa owns the Jacobson Cattle Company. They own most of the lands here abouts.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the son of President Harrison himself. He tried to kill me and is stealing my friend’s land. We insist on having justice here.”

  The fat man walks forward, lowering his pistol and takes hold of the rope. “I’ll take it from here, then. I’ll have him bound over for trial. I will need to take your statement and that of your friend too. I will have to get some paper so I can, though. Until then will you be able to stick around town?”

  “It’s been awhile since breakfast. I guess we can have a bite to eat. Can you recommend somewhere?” John has a feeling that something is not quite right. The delay seems unnecessary, but if it is only a little w
hile, he doesn’t see where the harm could be.

  “The best place to have a bite will be in the hotel. I’ll send word to you when the paperwork is ready.”

  John turns and hurriedly leaves the office, looking back to see the obese man leading the prisoner to the door in the back of the office. When he gets out the door, John takes a moment to enjoy the fresh, albeit dusty, air. When he climbs into the wagon, he looks to Quan, smirks, and asks, “Hungry?”

  “Food? Suhr. Whed we go?”

  “We are gonna have to stay here a little while, so we may as well go ahead and get some grub.” They move the wagon over in front of the hotel, and enter, carrying the chest in with them. John and Quan seat themselves in such a way that they can watch the door.

  Just after their food is ordered and delivered, the door to the hotel opens and a man enters. John immediately recognizes him. The last time he saw this man, he was riding off with his guards after having been disarmed and shamed by John.

  At the sound of the door opening, the waiter enters the dining area, and asks, “Mr. Jacobson, would you like your usual?”

  The older man scans the dining area. His eyes settle on John and spark with recognition. Jacobson’s hand settles on the gun on his hip and he starts walking towards the table John and Quan are sitting at.

  Cursing, John finds the grip of his Colt .45. “Well, I guess that disgusting tub of lard didn’t get word to the circuit judge after all. I don’t recommend pullin’ that hog leg unless you wanna make a trip to the undertaker.”

  The man glares right into John’s face. “You the one as attacked my boy?”

  “If you mean turned him in for attempted murder and claim jumpin’, sure am. We got the claim papers provin’ that land isn’t yours. You wanna take this up at the land office? We can if you want to.”

  Jacobson takes a long, hard look at John, who is sitting with a hand on his gun, waiting to draw down on him. A look of fear flashes by on his face so quickly, John can’t decide if he saw it or not. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls his hand off the gun and crosses his arms.

  “My boy didn’t claim jump no one. I have the sale papers of all the claims I own in my office. If you mean to call ME a thief, then let’s just take this up at the land office.”

  John draws and cocks his gun, pointing it directly at Jacobson’s heart. “I mean to.” He stands purposely, places a five dollar silver piece on the table, and motions to Quan, then he motions Jacobson forward. “Let me guess. You have someone watching the door, eh? You go first.” When Jacobson’s eyes widen, John smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t ever think I’m that stupid. Now unless you wanna breathe out of a few different holes, move.”

  Annoyed that his ruse was so easily discovered, Jacobson moves to the door, opening it. He yells out, “Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!” He turns his head back to John, and through gritted teeth, says, “That’s three I owe you for.”

  “Go on. If they try anything, you die first.” John pushes the barrel of his gun into the man’s back. He looks to Quan. “Ready?” A nod in answer. John says, “Go on, then,” and pushes the man forward with the barrel of the gun.

  When he leaves the hotel, the sun is blinding. With his free hand, John covers his eyes to allow them to acclimate to the sunlight once more. He glances around quickly and notes three gunmen with rifles leveled toward the pair of men coming out the door. John snarls. “Tell them to drop their guns, or you die. They may be able to get me if they rush me, but you won’t live to get the satisfaction of seeing me die. Tell them to drop their guns now!”

  Jacobson sighs and says, “Drop your guns boys. He’s serious.”

  When Jacobson tries to pull away, John grabs his shirt, and pulls him back into the barrel of the gun pointed directly in his back. “You should know by now that you can’t get the drop on me. Instead of going to the land office, let’s take a walk to the Marshal’s office, shall we? Quan? You all right?” In his peripheral vision, he sees Quan nod in response. “Okay, you follow behind us. We need someone to watch our backs.” John pushes Jacobson in the direction of the Marshal’s office and halfway there, notices that the gunmen Jacobson had hired were leaving the area.

  John has the man open the door to the rank smelling office and pushes him inside. Being certain to breathe shallowly, John says to the marshal, “Now that you have shown who owns you, you are going to go to the land office and bring back the land agent. Tell him there’s a dispute over land here, and he is needed to clear it up. If anyone else comes through that door, your owner dies first, then whoever comes through the door does.

  Chapter 16

  The marshal, sweating profusely, takes one look at his employer, who nods in response, and starts to shuffle across the dirt floor of the office toward the door. The dust sticks to his rancid smelling body as he kicks up more and more.

  Quan enters through the door and sets the chest on the desk, grunting as he sets it down, the weight beginning to wear him down. John seats himself at the desk, keeping his gun trained on the rancher.

  Ten minutes later, John hears a knock on the door and it cracks open. “We’re coming in. It’s me, Marshal Davis and the land agent.”

  John replies, “Come in slow, don’t make any sudden moves.”

  The two men enter, hesitant. The land agent is a seedy looking person of medium height, thin, middle aged, wearing a three-piece suit and glasses. He looks strikingly familiar to Jacobson.

  His heart sinking, John asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel Jacobson.”

  John shakes his head. He knows where this is headed. He asks the land agent, “Let me guess, you two are related?” He waves his gun between the two for emphasis.

  “He’s my cousin, what’s this all about?”

  John looks at the marshal. “All right Tubby, where’s the closest US Marshal’s office?”

  “Oklahoma Station, but there’s a cavalry detachment in Norman, why do you ask?”

  “Norman? Never heard of it. How close is it?”

  The man points due west. “About fifteen mile that direction.”

  Two days at least, then. Why do I get myself involved in this manure? “Where’s your paper, quill, and ink?”

  “Top right desk drawer.”

  John motions for Quan to cover everyone with the revolver while he writes out a short letter to the local cavalry commander. In the letter, he outlines the problems, the corruption happening in this town, and requesting the assistance of a troop. He signs the letter, Sgt. Major John Cardwell, Fourth Cav., knowing it will get more attention that way.

  He hands the letter to Quan and tells him quietly to ride back to the homestead in a roundabout path and give the letter to Red-Feather. He also tells him to explain everything that has gone on so far and to ask him to high-tail it to Norman.

  Quan nods his understanding of the orders, hands the cocked pistol back to John and asks, “Shest?” Then points towards the chest.

  John nods and makes a shooing motion, indicating he should take it with him. He turns and looks at the men still standing there. Knowing he has a captive audience, John smiles and says, “So, since we have an obvious conspiracy here, let’s see what we’re gonna do. You, Tubby, lock Jacobson in one of the cells there in the back. Is his son still in there?” A shake of the head is his reply. “Too bad. Here I was hoping not to have to chase him down again. Oh, well. Lock the father up, let’s say under the charges of attempted murder. You, Daniel Jacobson, need to stay right where you are until he gets put in his cell.” John leans back in the seat once the rancher is led back to his cell. “Once you get back in here, Tubby, I will explain what is going on and what will happen around here.”

  John hears the cell door lock clang as the door closes. As Davis comes back into the main part of the office, John relaxes the hammer back down on the revolver, sets the gun on the desk and starts writing a report describing everything that has happened, starting with the first time Jacobson tried to claim jump him
and Red-Feather.

  John makes a show of writing the report. From the corner of his eye he watches as the marshal comes back into the room and, seeing John’s apparent distraction, makes several hand gestures to the thinner man to go for John’s gun. John continues the ruse as the land agent starts surreptitiously moving toward the desk. He is rather shocked that they are dumb enough to think he would be stupid and leave himself that open.

  When the agent gets to what John judges to be about a foot from the desk, John stands, grabs the gun, cocks it, and points it directly into the man's forehead. “Please tell me you didn’t think I was that stupid.”

  The man, stopping dead in his tracks, starts backing up and raises his hands in a placating gesture. While backing up, however, he places himself in a position to block John from being able to really see what the obese city marshal is doing. John, seeing Davis’ arms moving, sighs, and sidesteps the land agent. He sees past the man just in time to see Davis begin to pull a revolver from behind his massive bulk. Without thinking, John pulls the trigger putting the first bullet directly into the man’s heart and the second one close to it as he falls back from the force of the shots.

  John swings his revolver back over to the thinner man and pulls the hammer back again. “Now tell me while we wait for the cavalry to come out here, is there anyone close by that can deal with that excessive waste of meat, or are you going to have to deal with it yourself?”

  The sniveling weasel stammers nervously, “We have a doctor here. He’s down in the same building as Lion’s Law.”

  “Go get him, and bring him down here. If you bring any hired guns, just remember, I am a sure shot. Now, go.”

  Just as Jacobson opens the door, a young man carrying a medical bag walks in. He takes one look around the room, then without a word bustles over to the body, “Well, Dan, I told you this was gonna happen someday. Idiot.” The doctor is young looking, wearing cotton trousers, a simple cotton shirt, a beaded belt, and moccasins. He stands, looks around and, seeing John standing there with a gun drawn, addresses him directly. “Nice shot. I take it you are the one that killed him?” A curt nod in response. “I think you can lower your gun. Mr. Jacobson isn’t gonna cause you any trouble, if he knows what’s good for him, that is. My name is David Bakker and I am what serves as a doctor hereabouts. Mind telling me your name and what happened, so I can put it in my report?”