“John Cardwell. This morning, I brought in a prisoner from a citizen’s arrest. Davis said he was going to take my statement in awhile and sent me to go get food. Instead, he sent the boy’s father to confront me. I captured the father in another citizen’s arrest, brought him back here and had him put in a cell.” John points to the supine body on the floor. “When he came back out, he tried to draw on me and I outdrew him.”
“Why did he do that? Who was it you had arrested?”
“Jacobson.”
“Oh. I was on my way out to deal with the rest of your handiwork, with that cattle guard, when I heard the gunfire.” The doc looks at the land agent questioningly. “What’s your role in all this?”
“He asked me to be escorted down here, something about a dispute over land.” He points a finger toward John, and says, “He’s lying. When Dan came out, this man shot him in cold blood. He murdered him. I want that on record, too.”
The doctor goes over to the body, picks up the cocked gun, and looks back at him. “I think it's pretty obvious he’s telling the truth, don’t you?” He looks back at John. “Why is he here other than his cousin having been arrested?”
“Like he said, I’d sent for him. I was going to level charges of claim jumping against Jacobson, but when I found out he was Jacobson’s cousin, I decided to call in the cavalry. Obviously the town law is corrupt enough that he will get off.”
“And when Davis figured out what you were doing, he decided to try and shoot you. That makes my job easier. You said you sent for the cavalry. Is there another witness to all this?’
“Yea. He left about thirty minutes ago. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, we should have a troop or two of cav here in town the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll get this body buried. Do you have somewhere to stay while waiting on the cavalry?”
John nods and then pats the desk in response.
“I’ll make sure to have food sent down. I think that what you’re doing is the right thing, but maybe not the easiest. I don’t like the way Jacobson is running roughshod over everyone here. You need to watch your back though, otherwise, you will end up with a knife in it.”
“Thanks, I’d kinda figured that,” John replies sardonically.
The land agent looks at John and asks, “Can I go now?”
John takes a long, hard look at the man, noting his growing agitation. “Just remember, the doctor here knows who is to blame if anything happens to me.” The doctor nods in agreement, and the land agent takes on an affronted expression just before leaving.
“You gonna be able to get someone to help move that beast?” John asks pointing to the dead marshal.
The doctor goes over to the dead body, rolls it over, notes no exit wound, shakes his head, then says, “Nah, a good stout rope and a horse should do the trick.”
John shakes his head in disbelief, chuckles to himself, and goes back to the desk to finish his report while the doctor leaves the office. Once the door closes, however, Jacobson starts calling for food or water.
John walks through the door to where the holding cells are.
His prisoner is standing at the door to the cell, yelling, “Hey, what is it gonna take to get something to drink around here?”
“I would offer coffee, but that disgusting lump of flesh wasn’t keeping a fire going. Plus, I’m not going to start a fire while his body is in front of the potbelly. You will have to wait until he gets moved out. So, you can have water, or you can go thirsty for the while. Which is it?”
“I know he has at least a bottle of whiskey in the drawer, because I bought it for him. It’s mine and I want some of it.”
John walks into the other room, reaches into the desk drawer, pulls out two bottles of whiskey, and takes them to the other room. “Can you identify the bottle you bought him?” He uncorks one, and pours it out on the floor while Jacobson nearly dances in agitation. It’s obvious, had he not been behind bars, the prisoner would have attacked John for such a blatant show of disrespect to what he feels are his possessions. John holds the bottle up and asks, “Was it this one, or was it this one?” He smashes the other bottle against the wall. He holds up the broken bottle neck, all that is left of the bottle, and points it at the prisoner. “Your choice is water or thirst. Decide now.”
Finally, through gritted teeth, Jacobson says, “I swear I will kill you before this is over with.”
“I invite you to try. Now did you want the water, or just to continue wasting my time?”
In answer, the man turns around and sits back down on the cot. John shrugs and leaves the room, aware of the baleful stare from the prisoner.
As he enters the office once again, he sees the arms of the body being dragged behind as the doctor removes the office’s previous occupant. John looks at the streak of waste that the body leaves behind and is glad that, unlike the room with the cell, there is no wooden flooring to the office. He notices a spade that Doc Bakker left behind. He breaks the ground and turns it over to cover the foulness left behind.
John sits in the chair, and looks under the desk. He looks at the frame, to see if he can mount something to hang a shotgun on. Unfortunately, the desk, being quite rickety, doesn’t have any available places for it. In fact, John is surprised that the desk has stood so long.
He goes to the cabinet on the wall and checks for weapons and ammo. He notes that the cabinet, while it has a lock on it, the lock is not set. Inside, there is a break open double barreled shotgun, and half a box of 44-40 ammo, with no revolver or repeater. He checks the shotgun, and of course there is no ammo in it. What a waste of space. Can’t even keep a weapons locker stocked. I wonder if this ammo even fits his gun at all.
With the way the office is laid out, the door opens to the inside, and anyone can barge in and shoot whoever is sitting at the desk. Since John is having to watch the prisoner for the next few days, he decides to rearrange the office a bit and make it more difficult for anyone to gun him down.
While moving the desk, Doc Bakker comes back in the door, holding the revolver that was so recently held by the latest casualty of man’s greed. He hands the gun, hilt first, to John and says, “He may have owned the gun, but he sure didn’t use or maintain it. It should be kept here in the office for safe keeping.”
John takes the gun and checks it over. Sure enough, without a thorough cleaning, it was unusable. “Thanks for bringing this back. I hope that I never have to use it. I think, though, I will go ahead and clean it. I just hope it hasn’t rusted completely shut yet.” Barely able to open the cylinder, John wedges out a bullet. Well at least the ammo in the case is able to fit this thing. That idiot deserved to be shot, just for treating this gun this way.
As the doctor leaves, he says, “I’ll come by and check on you in awhile. I still need to go get that body from the creek and get everyone out to the undertaker. I should be back later this evening. I still have a few questions for you.”
John sits down in the chair and looks for equipment to attempt to clean the gun. Of course, there is nothing, not even any oil. Resigning himself to the fact that it would be mostly unusable, he sets the gun in the drawer and decides to talk to the blacksmith to have a few tools made when he next got the chance.
He stands up and walks over to the table with a tub that has a ladle sticking out of the top of it. The water inside is stale and brackish. It has several dead flies floating in it and when John moves the ladle, the water emits the acrid odor of stagnancy.
He sighs, not surprised. I wonder if anything will happen if I go to the well. I should be able to make it. Hrm. John looks out the filthy window toward the town well. The windows are so dirty, John has a hard time believing the building was built within the last month.
Considering it is early to mid-afternoon, the town is completely dead. John knows it has been a rather dry season this spring and the temperatures are mild compared to previous years. The weather is gorgeous compared to what he is used to out by Fort Sill. All thing
s considered; this day is beautiful. Too bad he is stuck babysitting a criminal.
John attempts to look up and down the street out the filthy window but is stymied by the dirt. He walks over to the door, cracks it, and checks the different nooks and crannies for different ambush spots. He doesn’t see anyone waiting in ambush, thankfully.
He steps out into the street and, making sure there isn’t anyone he didn’t notice before, carries the water bucket to the well. He pours the foul-smelling liquid out onto the dirt street, grabs a small amount of sand, and scrubs out the slime from the bucket. He rinses it out several times and fills it with fresh water from the well.
On his way back to the Marshal's office, he hears the rapid staccato of a horse’s hooves at full gallop in the distance. He picks up his pace and re-enters the office. After he sets the water bucket down, he stands by the desk, pulls his pistol, and waits for the inevitable. Five minutes later, he hears the rider ride on past and slide to a stop.
John looks out the window and sees a black man wearing black clothing run into the blacksmith’s shop. Several moments later, the same man runs out carrying something. He mounts his lathered horse and rides off again. John relaxes the hammer on his gun and goes back to the bucket to get a drink. He picks up one of the cups from a small table and curses as he drops the cup to the ground when he sees a fiddle-back spider crouched, ready to strike.
He kicks the cup over and the spider scurries off towards the interior wall, toward the cells. He steps on it, and it dies with an audible crunch. He reaches out and grabs a second and third cup. He cleans them out and pours some water into the both of them, placing one on the desk. He takes the other to the room with the cell.
Jacobson is still sitting on the cot, arms folded, glaring at John.
John walks up to the bars and says, “It’s up to you, if you want this, but I would recommend it. I know what not having enough water is like. It’s not pretty, and I’ll not give you anything else, so why not?”
The prisoner continues to glare at his captor for a moment longer, then adjusts himself to where his back is turned to the cell door. John smirks and places the cup on the floor just inside the bars of the cell. He turns around and as he enters the office, hears the clattering of the tin cup as the prisoner picks it up to have a drink of the proffered water.
John pulls his revolver from the holster, sets it down on the desk and then sits back down at the desk and starts working on the report once again. While he is working, the sun dips below the horizon, bathing the land in the red hues of sunset. In the darkening gloom, John notices that there are no lamps or candles. No wonder Tubby spent all his time at the bottom of a bottle.
John is able to locate the tinder box in a drawer of the desk. He sets and starts a fire in the pot-bellied stove. He cleans out the coffee pot and sets it to boil, then leaves the door open to allow the light from the fire to infuse the room. He steps outside, careful to keep an eye out for any hired guns, and looks at what the night has to offer. There's not a cloud in sight, not even the slightest hint of rain in the air. From what he has seen, the storms in this area come fast and strong.
He is struck by sudden wanderlust, by the desire to be back on the trail. He looks out at the stars and seeing their stark beauty drives the desire to be on the trail that much deeper into his heart. He turns and walks back into the office, his stomach giving him a loud report of exactly how long it has been since his last meal. He sits down at the desk and props his feet up. Folding his arms, he stares into the fire, the dancing flames conjuring images in his memory.
Chapter 17
Johnny has been looking for Josh for two weeks before being ambushed and captured by a Cherokee hunting party. Unable to speak their savage tongue, Johnny couldn't explain his peaceful intentions.
Johnny is quickly bound up, divested of all his weapons, and tied to his horse. The braves lead his horse for several hours, to a well-hidden winter hunting camp. After arriving at the camp, Johnny is pushed into a tent and all but thrown onto the elk skin that appears to serve as a rug. One of the hunters makes sure the prisoner sees him put Johnny’s gun into the waistband of his buckskins and stands just outside the entrance to the tent. The message is clear. Try to run, and I will shoot you. Why are they keeping me alive?
He stays in the tent for close to another four hours, alone, facing quite the uncertain future. About an hour after dark, Johnny is blinded by a man opening the tent flap, holding a torch. The brave walks over and hauls Johnny to his feet by the rope binding his hands together. Once he is on his feet and not wobbling all over, the brave points to the entrance of the tent, clearly indicating that he is expected to lead the way.
Just outside the tent, the rope binding his hands is grabbed by one of the guards and Johnny is led to a larger tent, this one able to accommodate several dozen people. The council lodge is filled with dozens of people all seated around a fire in the center. Johnny sees his equipment being examined closely by several tribal elders. He is brought to stand in front of the council. He, too, is examined closely by the council. He feels their glares going through his body, gazing into the core of his soul. The elder just to the left of the eldest in the center says something in Cherokee to the chief elder. The chief nods and points to Johnny’s colt, which has been laid in front of him.
The elder in the center gazes at the gun and replies to the other that spoke to him while making several hand gestures. An elder to the chief’s right clears his throat, points to Johnny’s gun, and says, “Where did you get this?”
Surprised beyond belief, Johnny just gapes at the man, unsure of what to say or do. The elder keeps his steady gaze on Johnny, and says, “I know my words are good. No answer?”
Johnny shakes his head dumbly. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to know how to speak my tongue.” He sighs. “I bought it. It is part of a matched set my best friend and I bought together. I have been looking for him. My fiancé and I need his help.”
“Help you say. You in trouble?”
“We got in trouble with some soldiers out by Pleasant Grove. We were hoping to be able to find somewhere to lay low until the smoke clears.”
“What is your friend’s name?”
“Josh.” As Johnny is answering, he sees a brave, who had been seated close to the far side of the lodge, stand.
“What makes you think this friend of yours will be able to help you hide? Hm?” asks a familiar voice. The brave walks up to Johnny and the two embrace. “Hello, Johnny. Where’s Liz?”
“Josh! Why didn’t you speak up?”
“I may be a member of the tribe but I don’t decide anything for it. It will have to be up to my uncle.” He points to the first elder that had spoken.
“You mean you have family? Why were you living in the orphanage?”
“One of my cousins found me about a year ago and told me what happened to my parents. How they lived, how I was stolen from them, and how they died from smallpox. He told me that the tribe was almost completely wiped out by that outbreak, and that I needed to stay where I was, so I wouldn’t catch it.” He sits down and motions for Johnny to seat himself as well. “When I spoke to the sisters about it, they refused to listen, saying I was born to a Catholic family, and I was not to be spreading anymore lies. That was the last time I tried to run away, remember? I tried to leave with Gray-Moon, but he convinced me to go back.”
Johnny can’t believe his ears. Josh was Indian! No wonder he wanted to get those guns to them. No wonder he wasn’t afraid to find his way here. Why didn’t he LOOK Indian though? “How can you be Indian? You don’t look like anyone around here!”
“My grandma was attacked during the Trail of Tears, and my dad was born from it. My mom had wandered her way to the tribe as a kid and was raised alongside my dad. They got married pretty young, and well, you know. After I was born, a wandering priest came by the camp, and assumed I had been stolen. So, he took me in the middle of the night to the orphanage. He thought
he was doing the right thing, still thinking the tribe full of nothing but savages.”
“Wow. Well, long story short, I promised to meet Liz at Ma’s in Springfield. She got hurt in a town up in Kansas by some soldiers and needed to stay behind to heal enough, but should be able to travel by now. Do you want to go there with me? Can I leave without any trouble? Is the tribe gonna be able to help hide us?”
Josh looks at the elders and haltingly speaks several words in the native tongue. Suddenly most of the tribe burst out in laughter, slapping him on the back. Josh’s face flushes, and the elder holds up his hand.
“Please, forgive. Instead of asking for permission to leave, you said, ‘I am a flower, please water me’. You still need to work on your words.”
Having heard this, Johnny cracks a smile. He sees Josh’s face darken, and can’t help himself anymore. A low chuckle escapes, turning into a somewhat hysterical full-bodied laugh.
Josh looks at the elder and says, “Atsilv quotnv udv sonvhi. May we go in peace? He is my blood brother, and we need to find his woman.”
A sympathetic look enters the elder’s face. “You may. Remember to let the Great Spirit guide your steps, and show you your path. May the Great Spirit go with you, Falcon-Feather.”
“You have our thanks, Uncle.” Josh bows his head in assent and rises. He motions to Johnny and they both leave the lodge. Josh motions Johnny closer and asks, “By the way, how the hell did you find me?”
The Marshal of Denver Page 8