“Trying to steal my wife, Jack?” Dale said.
Sarah released Posey. “Be quiet, you big dope,” she said.
Dale and Posey shook hands.
“We have some talking to do,” Dale said.
“Reckon so,” Posey said.
Alone on the porch, Posey and Dale had fresh cups of coffee. Posey smoked a cigarette while Dale smoked his father’s pipe.
“I remember Dad smoking that old pipe,” Posey said.
“Calamity Jane and Belle Starr, Jack?” Dale said. “Jesus.”
“Jane hates being called Calamity, and Belle Starr is a right fine woman,” Posey said. “Sam Starr doesn’t want to do much except get drunk. I met Blue Duck along the way.”
“That outlaw? What happened?”
“He took a fancy to my Colt,” Posey said. “I had to set him straight on the matter.”
“I can imagine how you did that,” Dale said.
“The trail to Spooner leads south to Old Mexico,” Posey said. “I’ll be leaving as soon as my horse is rested.”
“I’m two or three weeks away from hard riding, Jack,” Dale said.
“I’m not asking you to go with me,” Posey said. “All I need is to resupply and some expense money.”
“It can’t wait?”
“I don’t think so.”
Dale sighed. “At least take a few deputies.”
“They’ll just slow me down and I told you, I won’t be responsible for another man’s life.”
“God, you’re stubborn,” Dale said.
“So was Ma, if you recall,” Posey said.
“Where’s your badge?”
“My pocket,” Posey said. “I couldn’t very well ride in to see Belle Starr and her clan wearing it.”
“I suppose not,” Dale said. “When do you figure to head out?”
“I’d like to rest up my horse for another day,” Posey said. “I’ve grown right fond of him.”
“Tomorrow we’ll go to the office and I’ll swear out official warrants and see about expense money,” Dale said. “If it takes long enough for you to track him down, I can probably join you on the road.”
Sarah opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch.
“If you men want supper, now is the time,” she said.
From the front porch, the lights of a very awake Santa Fe glowed brightly. Even faint piano music could be heard. Dale, Sarah, and Posey sat in chairs to take in the cooler night air.
“This is a right nice town,” Posey said. “I see why you settled here.”
“You missed the Fourth of July celebration we had a few days ago,” Dale said. “The whole town showed up. The mayor hired a professional pyrotechnician from back east to put on a fireworks show right on Main Street.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Sarah said. “There will be our annual fried chicken picnic after services. I expect you to attend.”
“Of course,” Dale said.
“I meant your brother,” Sarah said.
“He knows what you meant, honey,” Dale said. “I was just fooling with you.”
“Service is at ten,” Sarah said. “I’m going to see to the children and turn in. Don’t you men stay up late talking foolishness. I won’t abide grown men falling asleep in church.”
After Sarah went inside, Posey rolled a cigarette.
“I saw a telegram last week that said you arrested Wil Stockburn in Miles City,” Dale said.
“I was on my way to see Jane,” Posey said. “It just came up.”
“Well, that was good work,” Dale said. “Maybe you’d like to keep that badge permanently?”
Posey looked at Dale.
“I best join Sarah,” Dale said.
“I’ll be in shortly,” Posey said.
Alone on the porch, Posey finished his cigarette and coffee before deciding to turn in for the night.
Posey sat in a front row pew with Dale, Erin, and John while Sarah conducted the hour-long service. The church was packed and Posey wasn’t sure if that was due to Sarah’s fire and brimstone sermon, or the free fried chicken that was to follow.
Shortly after the service, the congregation gathered behind the church in the large garden where several picnic tables had been set up. While the women gathered the food and set the tables, the men clustered in groups and the children played.
Girls jumped rope; boys played marbles and the game called tag. The men talked politics of the day.
“Uncle Jack, would you play catch with me?” John asked Posey.
“I don’t know what that is,” Posey admitted.
“When they played baseball last month, I got to keep a ball used during the games,” John said and produced a worn baseball from his pocket. “We just sort of toss it back and forth.”
Posey took the ball and inspected it. “The ball has changed some since I last saw it during the war,” he said. “Let’s move away from the tables.”
Posey and John engaged in a game of catch on the side of the church until Sarah called them to the tables.
“We’ll take a walk over to the office after we’re done eating,” Dale said.
Dale limped to his desk and took the chair, resting his cane against the wall.
“Something you should know,” he said to Posey.
Dale slid open a desk drawer and removed some documents. “Official warrants from the Justice Department in Washington on Tom Spooner,” he said. “And this.”
Posey picked up the second warrant. “Pepper Broussard,” he said. “When did that scum take up with Spooner?”
“They robbed a bank in Boise just last week,” Dale said. “People in town claimed they recognized Broussard from his wanted posters.”
“Boise?” Posey said. “That’s far west.”
Dale nodded. “They killed three more people, Jack,” he said. “We sent six federal marshals to Boise just the other day.”
“They won’t find them.”
“I expect not,” Dale said. “Jack, Broussard is suspected of killing at least twenty men, maybe even more.”
“I never thought Spooner was running with a Sunday school bunch, Dale,” Posey said. “Pepper Broussard is just the sort I figured Spooner would recruit.”
“I didn’t dissuade you, did I?”
“No.”
Dale sighed. “Take those warrants,” he said.
Posey folded the warrants and stuck them in his shirt pocket.
Dale dug out a small strongbox from the bottom desk drawer. “You’ll need expense money,” he said and removed one thousand dollars. “And sign for it.”
Posey signed the expense book and then pocketed the money.
“I hear fiddle music,” Dale said. “Maybe you might like to dance with my wife.”
Sarah was a delightful dancer and danced with Posey to several different songs.
When they took a break for some punch at the table where Dale sat, Erin approached Posey.
“Would you like to dance with me, Uncle Jack?” she asked.
“I sure would,” Posey said.
While the fiddler played a waltz, Posey danced with Erin to the delight of the crowd.
Posey sat on the front porch after the evening meal. He had a cup of coffee and was about to roll a cigarette when Erin opened the screen door and came out.
“I thought you went to bed,” Posey said.
“Ma said I could say goodnight,” Erin said.
“Well, goodnight, sweetheart,” Posey said.
“I wanted to thank you for dancing with me,” Erin said.
“It was my pleasure.”
“You will come back?”
“Sure, I’ll be back,” Posey said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Erin went over and gave Posey a tight hug.
“Good,” she said.
“Now you best get to bed.”
“Goodnight, Uncle Jack,” Erin said and went inside.
Posey rolled a cigarette, lit it wi
th a wood match, and was alone with his thoughts.
CHAPTER TWENTY
* * *
Posey stood beside his horse and shook Dale’s hand.
“Sorry I can’t go with you, Jack,” Dale said.
“It’s better this way,” Posey said.
Sarah stood with Erin and John on the porch. Erin was crying, and Sarah was nearly in tears herself.
“I don’t see why you have to go at all,” Sarah said.
Dale looked at her.
“We been over this, Sarah,” he said.
“Well go on and get yourself killed then, you damn fool,” Sarah said.
“Mama, you swore,” Erin said.
“And I’ll swear again if I feel like it,” Sarah said.
Dale sighed. “Put your badge on, Jack,” he said.
Posey dug out the badge and pinned it to his shirt.
“Watch yourself, Jack,” Dale said.
Posey mounted his horse, looked at Sarah, and tipped his hat.
“I’ll be back if for nothing else than your fried chicken and one more dance,” he said.
After a day and a half on trains, the best the railroad could do was take Posey to Houston, Texas.
It was an enormous city of sixteen thousand people, due mostly to the fact that it was the hub of the railway system in the state. The railroad yard was the largest Posey had ever seen and dwarfed the yard he saw when he visited Saint Louis years ago.
He retrieved his horse from the boxcar and walked the tenth of a mile from the railroad yard to the edge of town. There were horse-drawn carriages to take passengers from the station into town. Posey was astounded at the height of the buildings, some reaching heights of ten or more stories.
People were everywhere, walking the streets and riding in carriages. A few cowboys were on horseback, but not many. Even though it was just noon, saloons were open on nearly every block.
People on wood sidewalks stared at Posey as he walked his massive black horse along the streets. On the corner of a street, a police officer wearing a blue uniform, armed with a short-nosed revolver and a nightstick, approached Posey. A whistle dangled from a cord around his neck.
“Firearms aren’t permitted inside the city limits,” the police officer said.
Posey moved his vest and displayed the US marshal’s badge.
“Sorry, Marshal, I didn’t see your badge.”
“Where can I find the federal marshal’s office?” Posey asked.
“Six blocks ahead and two blocks over,” the police officer said. “The courthouse building, second floor.”
“Obliged.”
Posey was impressed by the size of the courthouse building. It was constructed of red brick with white stone steps and had a corral on the side for visitors to leave their horses. An attendant guarded the horses.
“Do you see that Winchester and Sharps rifle on my horse?” Posey asked the attendant.
“Yes, Marshal.”
“If they’re not there when I return, somebody will be kicked up and down Main Street,” Posey said.
“No need to worry, Marshal.”
The interior of the courthouse was all polished wood with fancy office doors with etched glass and names picked out in gold lettering. A staircase took Posey to the second floor where he found the federal marshal’s office.
Gold lettering in the etched glass read: M. Clinton United States Marshal.
Posey opened the door and entered the office. A woman sat behind a large desk. On the desk was a typewriter and telegraph. She was typing and looked up at Posey.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Deputy Marshal Posey. Is Marshal Clinton available?” Posey said.
The woman looked at Posey’s badge. “From?”
“Santa Fe.”
She stood up and went down a hallway. Posey looked at the photographs on the wall, mostly of Houston in various stages of growth.
The woman returned and said, “This way, Deputy.”
Posey followed her down a long hallway, passing several more desks and offices to a door marked US Marshal Clinton. She opened the door and stepped aside to allow Posey to enter.
The office was large, with a desk, file cabinets, and even a rug. Behind the desk, Clinton stood. He was a short, balding man in his forties, and he wore a suit like a city banker.
“Are you Marshal Clinton?” Posey asked.
“I am,” Clinton said. “How can I help you, Deputy?”
“Tom Spooner, know of him?” Posey asked.
“Of course I know of him,” Clinton said. “He isn’t in my territory or I’d have every man I got out looking for him.”
“I have warrants from Washington for his arrest,” Posey said.
“How many with you?”
“Just me.”
“Just you? Are you crazy?”
“Probably.”
“If you’re looking for help, I can’t give you any,” Clinton said. “I have a territory twice the size of Rhode Island and just twenty-four men to police it. Texas is full of horse thieves, murderers, bank robbers, and bandits and I can’t spare a man to . . .”
“I’m not asking for your help,” Posey said.
“Then why are you here?”
“Tom Spooner picked up a new man, a Texan named Pepper Broussard,” Posey said. “What can you tell me about him?”
“That one,” Clinton said. He came around from behind his desk and went to a large file cabinet against the wall. He opened a drawer and removed a file. “Originally from San Antonio. Born in ’fifty-one. Wanted in Texas for horse stealing, cattle rustling, murder, rape, barn-burning, card-cheating, and just about everything else you can name. Here’s a sketch of him.”
Posey looked at the sketch.
“He has gold-colored hair and a scar on his left cheek,” Clinton said.
“I hear he’s good with a gun,” Posey said.
“Reports say no one is better,” Clinton said. “At one time he worked as an enforcer for Judge Roy Bean in a makeshift courtroom in a saloon near Eagle’s Nest. Bean is a duly appointed justice of the peace, but calls himself ‘judge.’ Folks in those parts call him the hanging judge.”
“Thanks for the information, Marshal,” Posey said.
“You’re not seriously going after Spooner’s bunch alone?” Clinton said.
“Seems that way,” Posey said. “Unless you want to give me a dozen or so of your men.”
Clinton stared at Posey.
“No, I guess not,” Posey said. “I’ll see myself out.”
At the front desk, the woman was typing again and Posey paused to look at her.
“What is that thing?” he asked.
“This? It’s a typewriter,” she said. “All the newspapers have them now to write their stories on. We use it so there are no mistakes caused by poor handwriting or grammar.”
Posey looked at the telegraph on the desk.
“Can you work that thing?” he asked.
“Of course. They say in ten years the telephone will replace the telegraph in every newspaper and courthouse in the country.”
“They say that, huh,” Posey said.
The woman looked at Posey.
He nodded and left the office.
Houston had a metropolitan police department headed by a city sheriff. As Posey walked his horse from the courthouse back to Main Street, the sheriff and two of his uniformed officers approached him.
“I’m Sheriff Jess Monte. You look like a man in search of a hotel,” Monte said.
“And a livery for my horse,” Posey said.
“The Westerner is as good a hotel as any,” Monte said. “Even has its own livery. I’ll walk you over there.”
“Obliged,” Posey said.
The Westerner was a six-story structure with balconies on each room facing Main Street. A large livery stable was in the rear, and after checking in and bringing his rifles and gear into the lobby, a stable boy took care of Posey’s horse.
&nbs
p; “They serve a good steak here,” Monte said.
“Join me for that steak around seven,” Posey said.
“I’ll do that,” Monte said.
At the desk, Posey ordered a bath and was surprised when he was told his room had a tub, and a man would bring him hot water.
The fifth-floor room was large, well furnished, and the balcony overlooked the very busy Main Street. The tub was behind a door that led to a small private room. While the man brought in gallons of hot water, Posey shaved in front of the wall-mounted mirror.
“Well, I lived long enough,” Posey said aloud, referencing the indoor tub Dale mentioned a while back.
“Excuse me, sir?” the man toting hot water said.
“Nothing. How do you get rid of the water when I’m done?” Posey asked the man.
“When you’re finished, pull the plug at the bottom of the tub,” the man said. “It’s connected to a pipe that drains the water into a sewer underground.”
“Where does the sewer go?” Posey said.
“I really don’t know.”
Posey gave the man a dollar and after he left, he slipped into the hot tub of water.
He thought about sending Dale a telegram, but other than worry his brother, what good would that do?
He stayed in the tub until the water cooled, then he pulled the plug and got out. As silly as it sounded, Posey stood naked over the tub and watched the water drain out of the tub until it was empty.
“I know Pepper Broussard only by reputation,” Monte said. “And none of it is good.”
Posey and Monte had just finished their steaks and were waiting for the waitress to clear the table.
“Let me ask you something. Why are you tracking this bunch alone?” Monte asked. “It seems like a job for an entire company.”
“It would be if we knew his whereabouts,” Posey said. “I’m just trying to get an idea where his hideout may be.”
“It’s not in Texas, I can tell you that much,” Monte said.
“I’m going to see Judge Roy Bean,” Posey said. “I understand he knows about Broussard.”
“I never met Bean, but a lot of folks say he’s just plumb crazy,” Monte said. “My understanding is Broussard worked a few years as an enforcer for his so-called court.”
The waitress came to the table.
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