by Paul Lederer
‘Give me that pistol, Cheyenne,’ I said. I knew he wouldn’t turn his gun over to me. It wasn’t only that he hated my guts, but he couldn’t be seen to back down in front of the saloon crowd. If he happened to kill me and had to run – well, Hatchet had fired him and he would be drifting soon anyway. I could read all of that in his eyes, still I was a little surprised when he dropped to a knee and brought up the muzzle of his .44.
I shot him through the shoulder.
Either I had not had enough practice lately, or I was getting soft-hearted. I should have placed my slug where it would put Cheyenne out of his misery and me rid of him. But the .44 bullet tore into his shoulder just below the neck, passed through and thudded into the plastered wall behind him, sending Cheyenne Baker from his knees to his face, pistol clattering free.
‘Pick that gun up for me,’ I said to the dirt farmer Cheyenne had been bullying. My eyes searched the circle of men gathered near me, but no one was making a play. I spoke to two men I knew by name. ‘Grant and … Eddie, tote that pile of meat over to jailhouse for me.’
Remembering the third member of Cheyenne Baker’s gang I asked, ‘Where’s Frank Short?’ No one spoke. Then, to the bartender, ‘Where’s Frank Short, Gus?’
‘Haven’t seem him, Lang,’ Gus said, polishing a glass that didn’t need polishing.
‘If you run across him tell him that it would be a fine idea for him to just ride out of Montero and keep on going.’ I spun back to Grant and Eddie who were standing by idly, their faces blank.
‘I told you to carry this man out of here! Or you can leave him lying there to bleed to death if you’d rather, I don’t really care.’
Cheyenne was writhing in pain, pawing at his damaged shoulder, but he did not make a sound as the two men picked him up, ankles and shoulders and carried him toward the front porch of the saloon. I backed out, my gun still leveled in the direction of the bunched men.
‘Send someone to get Mama Fine,’ I told the bartender as I eased through the batwing doors and started across the street, following the two men toting their bloody burden.
Indio leaped from his bunk as we entered. He gawked at Cheyenne Baker whose white shirt was a bloody mess and said, ‘You don’t waste time, do you, Lang? Going to clean up the whole town tonight?’
I ignored him and opened a second cell, watching as Grant and Eddie eased Cheyenne onto his bed. ‘Is that all … Marshal?’ the larger of the two, Grant, asked, sarcastically.
‘That’s all. Try to remember what I said over at The Golden Eagle, though. I’ve got two empty cells ready and waiting for anyone who forgets.’
In a display of sullen insouciance the two grinned at each other and sauntered out of the office. I didn’t bother to lock Cheyenne’s cell door. He wasn’t going anywhere. Indio was again gripping the bars of his cell angrily.
‘Are you going to let him die!’
‘I sent for Mama Fine,’ I told him, taking the boiling pot of coffee from the fire to let it cool for a minute before I poured myself a cup.
‘That Apache! You’re going to let her work on Cheyenne?’ Indio bowed his head. ‘Her and her potions and leeches and snake oil!’
‘She’s all this town has, Indio.’ He knew it. We had once had a real doctor, but he did not much care for the atmosphere in Montero. Three months after he had arrived he was seen slipping aboard an eastbound stage. So all we now had in the way of a doctor was the medicine woman, Mama Fine. They said she was an Apache, but she didn’t look it to me – her nose was too flat, her body too thick. Not that it mattered what she was. She sometimes managed to heal a man, but on the other hand – like a lot of real doctors – she didn’t save them all. Of course when she succeeded it was taken for granted; when she failed it was because of her primitive ways.
I poured a cup of steaming coffee into a blue glazed cup and settled behind my desk, reaching for the yellow pad again. Indio kept watching me as if I were going to offer him a cup of coffee too. I didn’t. I got to my scribbling instead.
The shadow in the doorway brought my head up. I was expecting to see Mama Fine standing there, but it was the kid whom that Cheyenne had been roughing up over at the saloon. I had completely forgotten about him – he was that kind of a man.
‘I brought the pistol over,’ he said hesitantly. ‘The one you told me to pick up?’
‘Put it on the desk,’ I said. He looked more dazed than ever. Rail-thin, his oversized twill trousers were held up with suspenders. His red shirt was too big for him as well. His hair resembled a shock of straw. His blue eyes appeared childlike and world-weary at once. He placed Cheyenne Baker’s gun gently on my desk.
‘Pour yourself a cup of coffee,’ I told the farm boy.
‘Me?’ he said hesitantly.
‘You’re the only one here. Stick around for a minute. I might need to ask you a few questions for my report.’
‘What are you charging Cheyenne with?’ Indio enquired sharply. I didn’t lift my eyes when I answered.
‘He drew down on me, Indio. You can’t be shooting at the law. It looks like you two might be together for a long, long time. I told you I’d get you some company.’
‘You just won’t let up, will you, Lang?’
‘Why should I? Now that you’re coming in in bushels.’
Yesterday, I thought, I couldn’t have done this. Yesterday Kent and his political friends would have been over here hollering and demanding the release of these two harmless fun-lovers I had heavy-handedly arrested. Yesterday I couldn’t have gotten any of the concessions they had given me at the mayor’s house. I frowned. What had changed since Saturday morning when Les was gunned down at the door of this very office?
Mama Fine wearing a long striped dress and a fringed shawl that looked like it was made of burlap waddled in carrying her medicine sack. I titled my head toward the cell and she went in to see what she could do for Cheyenne Baker.
Yesterday morning I couldn’t have gotten away with this. What had happened since then to change the attitude of the town bosses? Or, better yet, what hadn’t happened? Matti had arrived, I’d found my deed challenged, land taken away, offered this job, refused it, taken it, got kicked out of my own house, been bushwhacked, had to arrest Indio after he seemed to be trying to steal my deed, shot Cheyenne Baker and laid down the law to the whole town about gunplay.
Wasn’t that enough?
I looked up as Mama Fine’s ministrations brought a pained groan from Cheyenne.… Since Saturday morning. I had hired Bill Forsch to go to Santa Fe to look into the disputed land title. Something else … oh, yes. Three strange riders in town. Three strange horsemen moving around on the Panhandle. The same three? Who knew? Did it matter in the least?
I finished scribbling down Cheyenne’s arrest report and shoved the pad aside. I tasted my coffee, found it already cold and rose to refill my cup. He was so quiet, so unobtrusive that I was startled when I rose, turned and found the scarecrow of a man still in my office, standing in the corner sipping at a cup of coffee.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
‘Clarence Applewhite. Friends call me Cal.’ His voice was so diffident as to be almost inaudible. I nodded and seated myself again, facing him.
‘All right, Cal, suppose you tell me what happened in the saloon tonight.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I asked the bartender if I could maybe get a job there, mopping up in the mornings – Gus, is it? – Gus said he was too busy to talk just then and would I wait. So I went back to watch a poker game and this man – that one in there – said I stepped on his foot. I said I didn’t think so, but I was sorry if I had, but he wouldn’t accept that. I guess he was kind of drunk. He stood up and back-heeled me, knocking me down and when I looked up, he had a gun in his hand. He triggered off a round into the ceiling and told me to get out of there … that’s about when you came in, I think.’
‘Stupid things like that,’ I muttered. Thinking it was things like that that
got men shot, killed, or in prison. Cal looked at me, not understanding.
‘I don’t suppose Gus would hire me now,’ he said ruefully.
‘Need a job bad?’ I asked and he nodded.
‘House burned down. Daddy died fighting the fire.’
‘Do you want to work for me?’ I asked Cal, and Indio brayed a laugh from his cell.
‘Do you mean it?’ Cal asked uncertainly.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, sure! Of course. Anything at all.’ He asked with increased caution, ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Run errands. Watch the jail when I’m gone. Tomorrow I’m getting some posters printed. You can tack those up around town.’ I reached into the lowest drawer and took out Les’s gunbelt and placed it on the desk top. ‘Wear this.’
He picked it up and reluctantly strapped the gunbelt on. Indio snickered again at the sight of this pole-thin farmer wearing Les’s big Colt, the belt tightened up to the last notch to keep it from falling down.
‘Did you ever shoot a man?’ I asked. Cal’s answer was firm.
‘No, sir! I have not.’
Indio thought that was funny too. I glanced toward the cell.
‘You’ve hunted a lot.’
‘Yes, sir. Deer, turkey, quail, dove with a shotgun, rabbits and such.’
‘It’s the same thing,’ I said quietly. ‘If you’re more comfortable with a long gun, take that first Winchester on the rack.’ It, too, was Les’s weapon. ‘Take care of those guns; they belonged to a good man. Have you got a horse, Cal?’
‘No, sir.’
‘See if you can find one you like at the stable tomorrow. The town will pay for it.’
Indio wasn’t through talking yet. ‘I thought you were crazy, Lang; I just didn’t realize how far gone you were. Think the boys will back down when they see this deputy of yours brace them?’
I didn’t bother to answer. I took a deputy’s badge from the desk and slid it to Cal who pinned it on after studying its shine with a kind of awe for a minute. Mama Fine was finished with Cheyenne Baker, I saw. I walked over to look at him. There was a bandage wrapped around his shoulder and chest, holding the arm immobile. His face was chalk white, but calm-appearing. I let the medicine woman pass me and locked the cell door behind her.
‘What do you usually get for a job like that?’ I asked her.
‘Two dollar. Two dollar,’ she said, holding out a thick hand.
‘I’ll see that you get five. You have to come back tomorrow, though. After the bank is open, all right?’
She was used to cash on the barrel head and when she left she appeared a little disgusted with me, but I couldn’t do anything about that. I told Cal to watch the jail while I went and stabled up my sorrel.
‘Anybody tries to break in here, shoot ’em. If that bird in the cell, gives you any trouble,’ I said, indicating Indio, ‘shoot him.’
Later, when Cal had gone off to sleep in the loft at the stable and Indio had finally settled down, I turned the lamp wick down low and lay on the bunk where Les had died, watching the smoke from the lantern make eerie drifting shadows across the ceiling. I lay awake a long time, reliving the hectic, crazy day, thinking about what tomorrow might bring.
And I wondered – for just a short hour or so – how Matti was sleeping on this warm, lonesome night.
I was at the bank before Rufus Potter had gotten there with his keys to open up the heavy mahogany door. I started to ask him, but he told me before I had finished my question.
‘Yes, Lang – Mayor Jefferson has informed me. Just wait until one of my clerks arrives and we’ll set up your account.’
It didn’t take long, probably because Potter wanted me out of his way as quickly as possible. So, smiling, as the new sun rose, lost color and shrank in the flawless sky, I made my way to Bill Forsch’s office to inform him that he was indeed bound for Santa Fe, courtesy of the town of Montero. I walked slowly back toward the office, feeling pleased with myself, jingling the walking-around pocket money I had drawn from the bank on my new account.
Somehow I had forgotten about Clarence Applewhite, but when I returned to the jailhouse, I found him outside, nervously guarding the door. ‘Hope I wasn’t late,’ he said nervously. ‘I know I’m supposed to watch the jail when you’re gone.’
‘No, everything’s all right,’ I said, unlocking the door. Indio was still on his bunk, but not sleeping. Cheyenne Baker had his eyes open, but he might have been asleep. It was hard to tell. His chest was rising and falling, however, so I supposed he was alive. I went to the desk and seated myself.
‘Did you find a horse?’ I asked Cal.
‘The man there was showing me a bay pony. It seems sound, but he’s asking quite a bit of money for it.’
‘Buy it if you like it,’ I told him. ‘Have the stableman bill the town marshal’s account. Also – buy yourself a hat, will you, Cal? After that get yourself some breakfast and bring back something for our prisoner and for me. Cheyenne doesn’t look like he’s going to be eating this morning, but we’ve got to keep Indio fed.
‘Then,’ I continued, ‘I want you to go to the print shop and get fifty posters made up – I’ll write down what I want them to say. You can pick them up later. After that come back here to hold things down while I look around the town a little.’
Cal looked pleased to have the assignments. I suppose it made him feel that I really did need him there and hadn’t just offered the job out of pity.
‘Say, Lang,’ Indio said. He was sitting sleepily on the side of his bunk, rumpling his hair. His eyes shifted to me, ‘How’s about a cup of coffee?’
‘Soon as I get it started. You’ll need it. You are going to have a busy day, after all.’ He looked at me blankly and I explained. ‘I’m taking you to see the judge this morning. There’s no sense in wasting time, is there?’ He gave a small moan, anticipating what might be coming after he was brought up before Judge Plank.
I sent Cal on his way and started the fire in the stove going. That would heat up the office sooner than I liked, but I wasn’t going to leave the door standing open. I needed no unexpected guests.
When Cal returned with a tray of boiled eggs, sliced ham and biscuits, we sat down to eat. I asked him what the printer had told him and if he had purchased that bay horse.
‘The printer said he would have the posters ready by four or five o’clock,’ Cal told me around a mouthful of food. ‘As for the horse’ – he shook his head unhappily – ‘I told the stableman what you said about drawing from the marshal’s account at the bank, but he looked at me as if I was a halfwit. Said he never heard of no such thing.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ I promised. ‘I’ve got to go over and fetch my sorrel after a while anyway. Then I’ve got to try and catch up with the judge,’ I said, glancing at Indio who was eating one hard-boiled egg after the other, popping them whole into his mouth. He took a moment to glare at me. ‘Hope you don’t mind, Cal,’ I said, ‘but you’re going to have to spend most of the day locked down here.’
‘That’s what I hired on to do,’ Cal said cheerfully.
I looked in on Cheyenne Baker. He had shifted position on his bunk, so I knew he was still alive. I’d have to talk to the judge about when we could have his trial. I took the time to warn Cal, ‘If you hear any shooting out on the street, don’t be rushing out to see what the trouble is. I’ve seen men killed when they were tricked into doing that.’ Again I was looking at Indio. He knew what I meant. I would never find out for sure who had gunned down Les Holloway, but I would have bet anything that I had two of them in custody for other crimes right then.
Wandering over to Ike Kimball’s stable, I retrieved my sorrel and began saddling while Ike watched me, his thick forearms draped over the stall partition. I had looked over the bay horse Cal wanted and agreed it was a good mount and that the price was a little high, but what did I care – it wasn’t my money I was spending.
‘So it’ll be the same deal from now on?’ big Ike
was asking me. ‘Stable fees, feed costs all get billed to the city.’
‘That’s right. For both horses. Just make up a bill daily, weekly, whatever you want and have me or Cal sign it. The bank will honor it.’
‘Well,’ Ike said, scratching his melon-shaped head, ‘I guess that’s all right then. The bank, at least I always know where it is. Some of these fellows that have tried to skin me by riding out when I ain’t here I haven’t found yet.’
‘Ike?’ I asked, as I slipped the sorrel its bit. ‘There were three strangers passing through yesterday. They must have needed feed and water for their ponies. Did you see them?’ I described the horses, but he shook his head.
‘No. Maybe they went to Martinez’s. If not there then they must be staying at a local ranch.’ Like the Hatchet, maybe, I thought. I also wanted to know: ‘How about Frank Short. Has he been around?’
‘Frank? Yeah, he was in early this morning to pick up his paint pony. I heard him tell one of my boys that he was going to Santa Fe.’
Santa Fe? That could mean nothing at all. Frank was drifting now; why not head over to the big town? Still it was a coincidence considering that I was sending Bill Forsch out on the Santa Fe stage to check the legal records there. I convinced myself that it was only coincidence. No one could have known that the lawyer and I had discussed that plan.
Or could they?
I decided to warn Bill before he left so he would know that the possibility existed. After that I would see Judge Plank and find out about walking Indio over to the courthouse to be arraigned. Then, if nothing was stirring in Montero, I meant to make a patrol of the surrounding countryside. I wanted to know what was happening up along the Whipsaw that would invite someone to take a potshot at me.
Maybe – if I had the time – I just might swing by the Rafter L. Find out if Virgil was making out OK. I might even – if I had the time – stop for a few minutes and talk to Matti. It was hard to escape the thought that somehow, knowingly or not, the little woman with the quirky personality and those big blue eyes was somehow at the center of things.