by Dan Arnold
I tried again.
“My name is John Sage…” I started.
“I know who you are,” he said flatly.
I was wondering how the word about a new deputy could possibly have gotten around town, so fast. Maybe he knew about Rawlins and the shooting.
A man seated at one of the tables stood up and started across the room toward us.
“Hold on there, Bob,” the bartender said.
I turned to meet the man. He was built like the proverbial brick outhouse, about two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. He had a handgun in a holster, pulled high up on his hip. On him it looked like a toy.
He was looking me over pretty good.
“Hmmm, you must be new,” he said. “I know the big dog; Marshal Watson and his puppy, Smith. But you, I don’t know.”
The other men who had been seated at the same table, stood up.
“Now wait a minute, Bob. Don’t start any trouble here,” the bartender said. “He’s a heller with a gun,” he glanced my way, indicating me. “In Tascosa, I saw him shoot three men down, as easy as counting to three. He’s a Texas Ranger”
“Well that don’t mean squat to me,” Bob growled, looking at the bartender.
He turned back to me.
“Is that right?” He sneered. “You a gun hand?”
“No, I’m not a gunman, or a Texas Ranger. Here in Bear Creek, I’m just a deputy marshal,” I said, pointing at my badge.
The other men sat back down.
“Huh!” he snorted. “That don’t carry no weight. My boss is the new County Sheriff.”
“I met Mr. Atwater this morning!” I beamed. “He seems like a real nice fellow. You remind me of him”
He turned his back on me and went back to his table.
“We’ll see about that,” he growled.
I looked over at the bartender. He was as white as his apron.
I rapped my knuckles on the bar.
“Y’all have a nice day,” I said.
I walked out through the swinging doors.
Outside the Ox Bow, I looked down the street toward the railroad tracks. There was a lumber yard on one side of the street and a brick yard on the other. Down a ways, was a wagon yard for the freight line and on the other side of the street, right by the tracks, was the freight yard and a warehouse. I headed that way. As I did, I heard the band at the depot strike up a march. I figured the parade was getting started.
Ever since walking by the corner where Rawlins had killed the boy, I’d been thinking about Rawlins and his big bay gelding. I decided to cut across the freight yard and go back past the depot to the livestock pens. Then I would come back into town on Line Street, past the livery stable and the blacksmith’s shop.
As I was cutting through the freight yard, I noticed two men who looked like they were guarding the warehouse. Either that or those shotguns were handy for scaring away pigeons.
My timing was good; the last wagon in the parade was just leaving the station. There were several women standing on the wagon. The sides of the wagon had signs promoting women’s suffrage, and there were several women and children marching along behind it. Some of them were holding up signs, demanding a woman’s right to vote.
If that happened, the next thing you knew, women would be serving on juries, too. I’d read in some newspaper, in Wyoming, women were already allowed to serve as jurors.
How was that working out?” I thought.
As I followed along behind the parade, I checked out the livestock yard.
Several horses were in one of the livestock pens, and a bunch of cattle were in another, but the big bay gelding was not to be seen. I wandered down to the livery stable. There was an office at the front of the barn, and there was a man standing there, watching the Suffragettes go by. He saw me coming down the boardwalk and smiled.
“Howdy,” he called. “Don’t you just love a parade?”
When I got closer and he saw my badge and gun, he raised his eyebrows.
“Howdy,” I said. “I’m John Sage.”
As we shook hands, he told me his name was Alexander Granville Dorchester, the third!
“You can call me ‘Al’,” he said.
It turned out he owned the livery stable and had been Willy’s boss. More than that, he had probably been Willy’s closest friend. His eyes welled with tears, when I told him I’d been a witness to the killing.
“Willy started working here when he was just thirteen. I had him cleaning stalls, feeding the horses and so on. I saw he was really good with the horses, and it wasn’t long until I found out he was also a really good rider. By the time he was fifteen, I had him starting some colts for me. He didn’t snub em down and buck em out. He knew how to gentle em. The year he turned sixteen, his parents were killed in a fire. Willy moved into a room at the back of the barn, and he basically managed the stable, ever since. We were making money. I have an eye for good horseflesh. I would buyt the young horses cheap, and Willy would do the breaking and training. He did a damned good job of it, too. We’ve been able to sell horses for three times what I paid for em.”
I asked about the big bay gelding.
“I have him inside, in a stall,” he said. “Come on in.”
Every stall was full of people’s saddle horses, being boarded for the festive weekend.
The bay horse was calm and quiet in the stall, as I looked him over. He had a −C brand on his hip.
“Mr. Dorchester, did Willy break this horse?”
He shook his head.
“No, I have some horses Willie started, but this isn’t one of em. Please, like I said, call me Al.”
“OK, Al, have you ever seen this horse before?”
“Not this particular horse, but I see the brand all the time.”
“Why is that?”
“The Bar C brand is the Courtney ranch. The Bar C is the biggest ranch in these parts. They ship cattle and horses all over the country. Mr. Courtney had the biggest and fanciest wagon in the parade just now. Hell, the Governor, the Mayor and all the big wigs, were riding with him on that wagon. Didn’t you see the big Bar C brand painted on the side?”
I’d seen all that, including the gruff giant, with the gold County Sheriff’s star, sitting right next to the mayor.
Mr. Alexander Granville Dorchester, III, took me to a corral behind the barn and showed me some of the horses Willy had trained. I liked them all, but I especially liked a big line-back dun gelding.
Al told me the dun was Willy’s own horse, which he had been riding for about three years.
6.
When I arrived back at the square, the official activities had started at the courthouse. There were dignitaries sitting on chairs up in the gazebo. The band was assembled directly under them. Now I understood the purpose of the raised gazebo. It was both a platform for giving speeches and a covered bandstand.
The Mayor was standing, in the middle of giving a speech.
“…and these streets will be bricked by the end of the year!” He shouted.
The band struck up “The Bear Comes over the Mountain.”
“We’re looking into having the town wired for the new electric lights. Why in no time at all, Bear Creek will be as big as Denver!”
From directly under his feet, the band blasted away again.
“And speaking of Denver…without further ado, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, the man who has the vision to lead us into the next decade, should I suggest the next century? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the Governor of the great state of Colorado, the right honorable J. Huxley McGee!”
Again, the band gave it all they had. The crowd was cheering.
The Governor stood and shook the Mayors hand then put his arm around the Mayor’s shoulder, smiling and waving at the crowd. They froze like that as a photographer held up his flash pan.
FLOOSH!
You’ve probably seen that photograph. I think it was printed in every newspaper in the country.
The Governor started speaking, and I found Jack at the west end of the courthouse, standing at the top of the stairs, with a small group of people. Becky was nowhere to be seen.
Since we were in public, I decided to be a bit formal.
“Marshal, I’ve been patrolling on the west side of town. If it’s alright with you, I’ll continue on to other areas, until it’s time to get my gear from the station.”
He nodded.
“That’s a good idea, John. Get to know your way around town. I’ve got this covered. Check back with me in a couple of hours.”
He glanced over at the gazebo and the Governor. He winked, indicating he might have to be there listening to speeches for that long.
Because the town of Bear Creek was built on the top of a hill above the creek, the highest point in town was the courthouse. As I worked my way across the street and through the crowd of people listening to the Governor’s speech, I was amazed at how clearly I could hear him.
“…and today I am happy to announce …The city of Bear Creek, has been chosen as the location for the new college!”
I was on the south side of the square now, and all the buildings on this side were also brick. On the corner opposite from the barbershop was another bank. This one was the Farmer’s Bank and Trust. I’ve always found a town that has more than one bank tends to be a pretty healthy place. It means there are enough people and enough businesses to support two banks. With more available money in circulation, more business can thrive.
Right next to the bank, on the other side of a narrow alley, directly in the middle of the block, was another saloon.
The elaborate sign above the double swinging doors said simply, “The Palace.” It was open for business, so I went inside.
I think I was grinning as I walked in. As dark and shabby as the Ox Bow was, the Palace was just the opposite. The open doorway and all the windows let in quite a bit of light. That light was reflected by the giant mirrors behind the beautiful bar, which ran for about seventy five feet down the north side of the building. That light, was also reflected by all the polished brass and gilded fixtures. The bar itself was magnificent. It was a hand carved and lacquered marvel. The entire top of the bar was marble. The brick walls had been plastered over and painted to match the color of the marble. Every table, chair and wood surface was carved and lacquered like the bar. Even the wood floor was polished oak. At each window, damask drapes hung from ceiling to floor.
The ceiling looked to be twenty feet above the floor and was paneled in decorative tin. Hanging from it were beautiful chandeliers. I couldn’t see a single bullet hole in the ceiling. Some saloons I’ve been in, leak like a sieve when it rains.
At the very back of the building was a stage.
Most startling of all were the well- dressed ladies sitting at the table with some of the gentlemen. In many towns I’d worked, ladies would not dare enter a saloon. Oh, there might be women inside, but they probably weren’t ladies.
Every little thing about this place spoke of style and sophistication. It really was both a restaurant and a saloon.
I was self-conscious because my suit was rumpled and dirty from days of traveling. My shirt could no longer really be called white, and I hadn’t shaved since I was in Denver.
“Howdy, sir” called the bartender.
I realized I’d been standing and gawking. I walked over to the bar.
“You must be a new deputy. I don’t think you’ve been in here before.” He said.
This bartender had a waxed handlebar mustache, and his hair was slicked down over the top of his head, with some kind of grease. His apron was as white as the snow on the mountain tops.
“No, I’m new in town.” I replied.
“Well, then, welcome to Bear Creek, and welcome to the Palace, Mr…?”
“Thanks. My name is John, John Everett Sage.”
“What’ll it be, Mr. Sage.? The first drink is on the house.” He smiled cheerily, spreading his arms wide.
I could see in the mirror the people at the tables were looking our way, with some curiosity.
“Could I get a cup of coffee?
“You surely can, and I’ll join you. We also have tea, fresh lemonade, cold beer, or just about anything you can imagine.”
“Just the coffee, thanks…Did you say cold beer?”
“I did. Would you rather have beer?”
No, I was just wondering how it could be cold.”
“Oh, we keep the barrels and bottles on ice. The ice house is right behind this building. It’s handy to both the Palace and the grocery store, next door. Would you like cream with your coffee?”
When I left the Palace, the speeches were over, the new Sheriff of Alta Vista County had been sworn in and the Courthouse of the County Seat was open for the public to tour.
I walked north past the grocery store, with rows of fresh produce on display out front, under a bright green and white striped awning. I turned the corner and headed south. Sure enough, the first and only commercial building on the south side of the street was the icehouse. It took up most of the back part of this block. Between it and the back side of the grocery store and saloon was an alley that was wide enough for delivery wagons.
I had noted earlier, there were pipes running down into rain barrels from the roofs of nearly every building in town. These barrels were readily available if they needed to be used to fight fire.
From where I was standing, I could look down the hill at several blocks of homes. The nearest, were beautiful two story houses, many built of stone and brick. They had a variety of fancy gingerbread decorations with rambling porches, fenced yards, flower beds and trees. They all had carriage houses behind them. I guessed this was where the rich folks lived.
I heard a train whistle blow, reminding me it was time to go back to the railroad depot to get my things.
When I got to the platform, the train was still in the station. The clerk at the depot informed me my gear had been shipped as freight, so I would have to go to the freight office to get it.
As I headed north to the freight office, the train whistle blew, and a few minutes later it chugged off for Denver.
At the freight office, the clerk looked over his manifest and said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Sage, we have your things right here. That’ll be one dollar. Sign here, please.”
“A whole dollar!” I exclaimed. “That’s a lot of money just to send it back here from Cheyenne.”
“Well, if you don’t want your baggage, we can just sell it or dispose of it in some other way.” He said crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
“No, no, I want it. Thank you.”
I slapped a shiny silver dollar down on the counter, and grudgingly signed the manifest. The clerk took me through a door into a big empty room, and there, piled on the floor, were my saddle and saddle bags, my rifle in the scabbard and my valise.
“I can’t carry all this into town.” I said.
“Well, we can send it to the hotel or wherever you want it delivered.”
“Is there an extra charge for that?’
“Yes, ordinarily there would be, but seeing as how you’re a Deputy Marshal, we’ll just chock it off as a professional courtesy. Where do you want it sent?”
I had him send my saddle and rifle to Al, at the livery stable. I picked up my saddle bags and valise and carried them back into the freight office.
“If I wanted to go to Cheyenne, and ship my saddle horse on the same train, how would I do that? I asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “You just go to the depot, buy your ticket and pay the shipping fee, right there. They’ll have somebody go to the livery stable and get your horse, when the train comes in.”
“What if it was a last minute thing? You know- like if I just barely got to the station in time to catch the train, and I had my horse with me.”
“No problem, as long as there’s room in a livestock car…and you pay the shipping fee.”
I went back to t
he railroad depot with my saddle bags slung over my shoulder and my valise in my hand.
“Hello, again” said the clerk. “How can I help you, Deputy?”
“Can you tell me how many passengers boarded the train for Cheyenne, yesterday evening?”
He got out his manifest and looked it over. As he was doing so, he mused;
“Yesterday there weren’t many departures at all. We had people coming in for the festivities, but not many leaving, only two, in fact. Well, one really. You know the guy they say shot Willy? He never got on the train to Cheyenne.”
“Yeah, about that guy…did he pay to have his horse shipped?”
“No, sir, he didn’t. He didn’t pay for his ticket either.”
“Well, that’s odd. I saw his horse being loaded on the train.”
“Oh, you probably did, but I hear that horse off loaded himself.” He grinned.
“I don’t understand how he could have his horse loaded on the train, without buying a ticket or paying the shipping fee.”
”That’s because he just had the whole thing put on the ledger.”
“Pardon me…what ledger?”
“The Bar C keeps an account with us, the freight company does too; because they both do so much business with the railroad, we keep account ledgers for them. Anyone who works for either the Bar C or the freight company can just add something on the account.”
7.
I went straight to the Marshal’s office. When I arrived, I found Jack sitting at his desk.
“I sent Tom out to get some lunch for himself and our prisoner,” he said.
“What about you?”
“Oh, you might say I’ve eaten. I had to judge the chili cook off!”
I laughed. Then I remembered what I wanted to ask him.
“Jack, when you brought Rawlins and me in, you asked me where I was from and what I was doing here in Bear Creek. Did you ever ask Rawlins those questions?”