“Sorry, Marshal. Seems I plum forgot how to fix one up,” Jem said. “I reckon ol’ Elijah is going to perish.”
McParlan smacked Jem’s hat off of his head and put his face close to the younger man’s, giving him a clear view of the dark recesses of his empty eye socket. “I dragged that bastard halfway across the galaxy to see justice served and I ain’t about to let you piss it away just because you think it’s some kind of sick fun.”
Jem looked down at his hat and then back to McParlan. His hands were near enough to the handles of either Defeater to draw them with the slightest effort. McParlan saw the muscles in Jem’s arms flex and said, “Oh, is that it? You thinking about stepping up in the world of crime, Jim?”
“Jem. Not Jim.”
“I know what I said. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I just don’t like his kind, is all.”
“Good, cause I don’t either,” McParlan said. He reached down to pick up Jem’s hat and cleaned it off, making sure the brim was straight. “In our line of work you don’t just kill these bastards. You make them suffer. A judge is going to sentence him to a lifetime of hell on a penal colony where every maniac sideshow freak is going to be lined up to play with him. It’s our job to deliver him there.”
“Who said anything about this being our line of work, Marshal?”
McParlan opened the carriage door and said, “Get that tourniquet on him.”
Jem cut a long leather strap from the destrier’s harness and snapped it in his hand. He tapped his vest, “No badge, Marshal. That means I don’t take orders from you.”
“You never know. I’ve got an eye for talent.”
“That ain’t the one you lost, is it?”
“No, that’s the foot I broke off in the last smart ass’s rear end. Get that tourniquet on him.”
* * *
The VISITOR’S STATION outside of Seneca 6’s fortified security gate was just a computer screen attached to a wooden post. Jem touched the screen and waited. Beyond the gate, dozens of people crowded the sides of Pioneer Way. The closest building to the gate was the Sheriff’s Office and Jem only looked long enough to see that not much had changed.
He looked up at the cameras mounted to the gate, waiting for an answer. He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble in the palm of his hand, and tapped the screen again and the words SECURITY AUTHORIZATION CODE appeared. Jem typed in his old residential identification code and watched the gate for signs of movement.
The gate’s clear electrical field rippled and a stooped-over man shuffled through it carrying a clipboard. He looked from his clipboard to the wagon and frowned, pushing his thick glasses up on his nose to squint at Jem. “Where did you get that code, young man?”
“It’s the same one I’ve used since the day I was born. I’ve been away on business for awhile, but I should still be on your records.”
“Clayton?” the gatekeeper said. “Jem Clayton?” Jem nodded and the man looked over the information on his chart. “Well, I see you still listed here, but it shows you haven’t paid your occupancy tax in over ten years. You owe quite a bit of money.”
“I don’t seem to recall any occupancy tax. How long’s that been in effect?”
“Over ten years.”
Jem reached into his shirt pocket for his small clip of flash money. “And I thought all the robbers were out in the wasteland. Here you go, sir. I reckon that should settle us up and still put me ahead for a few years at least.”
The gate keeper frowned at the folded bills. “I don’t think I’m authorized to accept such a large sum, partner. You probably need to take that to the Sheriff. He’s the one who collects the taxes around here. You can come in, but don’t let me find out you didn’t go see him and settle up.”
“Not a problem. Who is the Sheriff nowadays?”
“Walt Junger, of course.”
Jem shifted in his seat and kept his smile plastered tight to his face. “Is that right? What about that old rascal Billy Jack Elliot? He’s the deputy, I suppose?”
The gate keeper bristled, “I’d prefer you call him Mayor Elliot, mister. Or even Judge Elliot. He’s both.”
“Judge and Mayor? Don’t that just beat all. And here I was worried about what had become of my old home town. We’re just on our way to see those boys. I’ve got a carriage full of prisoners and lawmen and sickly folks who could use some services. Can you send the doctor around to the sheriff’s office?”
“I can,” the gate keeper said, cocking his head sideways. “By any chance, was your daddy Sam Clayton?”
“Yes, he was.”
“You look just like him.”
“That right?” Jem said. “Did you know him?”
“Did I know him? Shoot, boy, we was like best friends! He never told you about Fred Walters? Listen, I have something at my house that might be of interest to you. I live in Tom Master’s old house.”
“The deputy?” Jem said.
“Exactly. Stop over and see me and I’ll show it to you.” Walters entered a few codes into his box and the electrical static of the security gate went silent as it opened. “The Sheriff’s Office is the first building on your left,” Walters said.
“Thanks, but I remember.”
* * *
A child burst into Anna Willow’s office, “Dr. Willow! Come quick!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Mr. Walters gave me a penny to come fetch you. Said you’re needed at the Sheriff’s Office.” Anna grabbed her black leather medical bag and locked the door behind her. Maybe someone finally got sick of that bastard’s greed and shot him, she thought. Lord, forgive me for even thinking that. On second thought, forgive me for not being upset by the idea.
Anna stopped at the sight of the man standing on the Sheriff’s porch. He spit a cheek full of cut into the dirt and turned to look at her. Anna’s knees buckled slightly and she said, “Sam?”
She ran across the street, holding the bag against her chest, when the corner of the man’s mouth bent into a sly smile. Jem Clayton tipped his hat at her, “Well, look at you, all grown up and beautiful. Good evening, Miss Anna. Been awhile.”
Anna was frozen as he came down the steps, holding his hand out like it would be enough to just take her bag. She threw herself into his arms and yelled, “Jem!”
He embraced her awkwardly at first, but soon held her tight and patted her back. He ran his fingers through her hair and said, “It’s all right. I missed you too, Miss Anna.”
She pushed him back and wiped a tear from her eye. “Stop calling me that. I’m only four years older than you. Look at you.”
“Where’s the doctor? Are you his assistant?”
“I am the doctor, thank you very much.”
“Well, that’s good. I got a whole mess of people in there that need you to take a look at them.”
Anna followed Jem up the stairs toward the sound of shouting voices, to see Walt Junger leaning over his desk and pounding it with his fist. “I don’t give a goddamn who you are or what you represent, you son of a bitch! This is my office, and my town, and you can’t just waltz in here and lay claim to it!”
McParlan leaned across the desk until the tip of his large red nose was only inches from Junger’s. “This entire planet operates under a trade agreement with the PNDA, which makes every colony my territory. You can either clear out and let me house my prisoner, or you can share a cell with him until I’m finished.”
“I will be filing a complaint with the authorities,” Walt Junger said.
Jem whistled as he looked at the numerous plaques and certificates decorating walls. All bore Sheriff Walt Junger’s name. A framed medal hung in a shadow box over the desk chair citing Junger’s bravery for breaking up a bar fight seven years ago. There was a large plaque near the desk celebrating the bravery of Deputy Tilt Junger with the date of the Beothuk raid etched in fancy script across the center.
The old desk where Sam Clayton had painstakingly typed out his warran
ts with just his index fingers and a litany of curses for every mistake was gone. In its place, an expensive, hand-crafted one emblazoned with the words PRESENTED TO SHERIFF WALTER JUNGER, PROTECTOR OF SENECA 6 across the side closest to the door so it was the first thing visitors saw upon entering. Jem said, “Where’d you earn all these, Sheriff? I hadn’t heard of any other invasions.”
“Some people are able to run such a tight ship that no one would dare invade with them in charge, Jem,” Junger said. “I told you to wait outside while I discussed this matter with the Marshal.”
“Sounds to me like it’s been discussed, and you lost.”
Anna let out a gasp at the sight of Elijah Harpe spread out on the floor of the jail cell. The white bone of his thigh protruded into the air like the flagstaff of a ship, its wound covered with bugs that hungrily sucked on the blood and meat. Anna went to open the cell door, but Jem grabbed her arm. “Let go of me. That man needs treatment before he dies!”
“We’ve got other wounded that need to be seen first, Anna.”
She looked at the old man sitting on the bench with his arm around his son, who was contentedly rocking back and forth, flicking his fingers together. “Them?” she said. “I will decide what patients receive priority in this town, thank you very much.”
Jem tightened his grip. “That man is a prisoner, and those two are innocent civilians. These two go first, then the Marshal. When they’re all cleared, you can come back.”
“How long has that tourniquet been on his leg?” Anna demanded.
“Not too long,” Jem said. “He’ll be fine.”
“This is ridiculous.” Anna ripped her arm away from Jem and said, “Sheriff, do something!”
Junger held up his hands and leaned back in his seat, “Apparently this ain’t my office anymore, Dr. Willow.”
Jem put his back against the jail cell and propped one foot against it. Anna ordered Adam and Harlan to get to their feet and remove their shirts. As Harlan stood to his feet he gasped, grabbing his side and had to reach out for Anna to stay upright. In a moment, he had regained his composure and said, “Ma’am, my son has a special condition, and he might not be able to get undressed in front of all these people. I’m afraid if we try to force him, he might have another fit.”
Anna sighed and waved her arm toward the door, “Let’s go then. My office isn’t very far.” Harlan thanked her and touched Adam on the shoulder, telling the boy to come along. He winced as Adam grabbed him by the arm to pull himself to his feet. Anna pointed at McParlan and said, “You too. Let’s go, so I can get back before this man dies.”
Sheriff Junger’s head shot up, “You better be taking your prisoner with you if you intend on leaving these premises, Marshal. I surely will not be taking responsibility for him.”
McParlan patted Jem as he passed, “Deputy Marshal Clayton will watch him.”
“Fine,” Junger said, collecting his hat to leave. He looked back at Jem and said, “Don’t touch nothing in here. This isn’t your daddy’s office anymore, boy. We do real law enforcement now.”
Jem watched him leave and then turned toward McParlan, “Since when do field agents have the authority to deputize somebody?”
“Since tonight,” McParlan said.
Anna put her hand in Jem’s and leaned close to him, “Listen, I understand this has all got to be a bit much for you, and I know you have no love for Walt Junger. But please, don’t play the tough guy role with me. I’ve known you since you were just a little boy, and I know in my heart you are not going to let me leave while there is a man laying inside that cell about to die. Now please, for me, let me at least look him over.”
Jem looked over his shoulder at Harpe, seeing that his face had turned marble white and his breathing grown so shallow that it took him a second to decide whether it even continued at all. He turned back to meet Anna’s expectant gaze and said, “Right after you get finished with the others.”
Anna threw the door open and left, and McParlan shook his head. “I see you got quite a way with womenfolk too.”
Jem sat on top of Junger’s desk and looked over the Marshal. “How is it you’re up and walking around so much, while Harpe is ready to give up the ghost?”
“There’s more metal and plastic inside of me than this whole complex. You think that was my first crash? Listen, we’ve got more pressing issues. If I don’t make contact with the Agency to let them know where we are and who we have, we’re sitting ducks.”
“How do you figure?” Jem said.
“Little Willy Harpe makes his brother look like a Sunday school teacher, and I will lay you money he is out there hunting for Elijah right now. If he finds us, he’ll burn this whole town to the ground. I need to send a signal to PNDA Control. Is there a long-range antenna nearby?”
Jem shook his head, “No. Seneca 6 never had much need for communication with the outside worlds. The closest one was at Fort Bane, but they abandoned it when I was just a kid.”
“If it’s still standing, we can use it. Those things were designed to withstand a fusion bomb. How hard is it to get to?”
“It’s probably four days ride from here, just past the mountains. But that territory was overtaken by the Beothuk before I was born. The mining colonies let them have it.”
“What the hell is a Beothuk?” McParlan said.
“It means ‘Original Man of Seneca.’ At least, to them it does.”
“Well, if we can’t send that distress signal, everything between Little Willy Harpe and his brother is going to be razed to the ground. If you give a damn about this place, you better figure out a way to get to Fort Bane.”
Jem watched McParlan limp down the steps toward Anna’s office, and he went around the Sheriff’s desk and sank into the deep leather chair. The leather cushion sighed under him and he leaned back, kicking his boots up onto to the desktop. He tapped them together so that dirt fell from their soles onto the desk’s immaculate surface.
* * *
Jem had been to see Deputy Tom Masters once as a boy. Tom’s son Bart was the same age as Jem, but they lived too far apart to spend much time together. Anyway, Bart was a small, pudgy boy with a round face who didn’t like to get dirty. Whenever Jem or one of the other boys would pull a snake out of a rock and chase the girls around with it, Bart would run away too. Jem didn’t trust that.
The Clayton’s house was set toward the rear of the settlement and their closest neighbors were Royce and Katey Halladay. Sam preferred it that way because it meant people were less likely to bother him and his kids, especially if they were sore about something he did on his job. It was Sam’s practice to ride the length of Pioneer Way into work each morning, just to make sure nobody had stolen it during the night, he said.
On a summer morning, months before the Beothuk raid, Sam was sitting in his office watching a prisoner everyone called Shoelace Bob. Jem had no idea what his real name was, or why they called him that, they just did. He heard Bob’s snores from the street as he bounded up the steps two at a time. Bob’s stockinged feet were sticking out from the cell, with his toes curled around the cell bars. Jem opened the door and winced at the odor coming from Bob that was like fermented potatoes.
Sam looked up from his newspaper, “What are you doing here? Who’s watching your sister?”
“Miss Katey woke us up for breakfast and told me to bring you some.” Jem handed his father the basket of food Katey Halladay had prepared for him. There were biscuits wrapped in napkins, and thick sausages Sam could pick up and eat with his fingers.
“God bless that woman,” Sam said. He pushed an envelope across his desk at Jem. “Since you’re here, I need you to do me a favor. Take that to Tom Masters on your way home. Tell him not to be so damn careless next time.”
Shoelace Bob sat up in his bunk to listen as they talked. There was a huge, swollen lump the size of a fist over Bob’s right eye and an imprint of the butt end of one of Sam’s Colt Defenders sat in its purple nucleus. Whatever reason Sam
had to buffalo the man the night before, it had clearly taken the fight out of him. Shoelace Bob was meeker than a schoolmarm when he waved Jem over and said, “Hey, boy, come here.”
Jem hesitated and looked at his father, who considered it for a moment before telling Jem, “Go ahead. Okay, stop. That’s close enough.”
Bob wrapped his fingers around the bars. “Tell Tom I’m real sorry for what happened, and I didn’t mean nothing by it. Ok?”
“Ok.”
“You taking his badge back to him?”
Jem felt the hard star-shaped object inside the envelope and said, “If that’s what this is.”
Bob dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He flipped it through the bars toward Jem. “That’s for your trouble. Just make sure you tell him.”
Jem held up the coin for Sam to see and said, “Is it all right if I keep it?”
Sam said that it was and Jem darted down the steps with the envelope in one hand and the money in the other. He ran to the candy store and bought a cold bottle of soda pop and two honeysuckle sticks. He tucked the second stick in his back pocket for Claire, but as the first one dissolved in his mouth, he began having serious doubts about the second one’s life expectancy.
Tom Masters had a small, older home with a well-kept front yard and a wide porch. There was a freshly painted swing at one end that looked out on Pioneer Way. Jem knocked on the screen door and heard someone call out they were coming. Tom Masters opened the door, clutching a hunk of raw steak to his face. His mouth was busted open and he squinted like the sunlight made his bruises hurt even worse. “Jem? What are you doing here?”
Jem handed Tom the package and watched him struggle to open it with one hand. Jem asked for it back and ripped it in half. He handed Tom a badge with the word DEPUTY stamped across the front.
“Phew,” Tom said. “I thought I lost this in the tussle.”
“Shoelace Bob said he’s sorry and didn’t mean nothing by it.”
Tom clucked his tongue and pulled the steak from his face, showing Jem where his eye was completely swollen shut and the bare patch where his hair should be. There were stitches zigzagged across the freshly shaved skin. “My boy cried like a baby when he saw me. I lost a whole day’s pay at the mine, and will probably miss a few more. Plus, I still owe Doctor Halladay for these stitches. Ask me how worried I am about what that son of a bitch feels.”
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