by John Legg
Chapter Nineteen
After some experimentation for several days, Coffin decided to do most of his drinking in the Pittsburgh Saloon. It was a large, rollicking place, with plenty of faro tables, roulette wheels, hurdy-gurdy girls, two bars, a piano, small stage and a plethora of fallen angels who plied their trade in the second floor rooms. For Coffin it was a comfortable place.
Like any other saloon in any mining town, even one that had been civilized to a small extent, the Pittsburgh had its brawls, gunfights and other trouble. Coffin generally managed to stay out of such melees, but he could not ignore everyone who got drunk and bothered him.
Like the fool who turned around and bumped into Coffin, and wound up spilling half his glass of beer all over Coffin. That was bad enough, but then the man snapped, “Goddamn, boy, why’n’t you grow up some so’s a body could see ya.” It was not a question.
“Why don’t you watch where you put your big feet, you dumb bastard!” Coffin snapped, also not making it a question.
“I’ll tell you where I’ll put my big feet, you shrunken little peckerwood,” the man drawled. He was maybe six-foot-four and seemed all legs and arms. His eyes—what Coffin could see of them—were bloodshot. “I’ll ram one of ’em right up your skinny little ass, boy.”
“You’d have to take ’em out of your mouth first,” Coffin said evenly.
“Goddamn, why is it that the smaller the man, the more petty he is?” the man mused aloud.
“Well, why is it that the bigger a man is, the dumber he is?” Coffin countered. “You so far up there you ain’t got enough air? That it?”
The man laughed some, a deep, bearish sound. “Hell, boy, you got a lot of gumption for a little squirt. Now what say you buy me a beer, and we can go our own ways?”
“Why don’t you just shit in your hat and pull it down over your ears. I hear tell you look good in brown.”
Silence grew among the small circle of men standing there, though the rest of the saloon was still going full blast. Then the man’s face mottled up in anger. “You smart-ass little bastard,” he snapped.
“Pick on someone more your size, Harlan,” a nearby bartender said.
“Go to hell, bub,” Harlan Gilmore snapped. “A man goes through life tryin’ to avoid trouble, goes out of his way to not pick on some half-pint little bastard, and all he gets is abuse.”
“Christ, you are a windbag, which is hard to believe—considering you’re so full of shit I didn’t think there was room for so much wind.”
Several men snickered. Gilmore snarled, then said in clipped tones, “You just bought yourself a peck of trouble, boy.”
“Have at it,” Coffin said quietly. He almost jumped when he suddenly heard a loud clanging nearby. He turned his head, muttering, “What the hell...?”
One of the bartenders was banging on an iron bell with a hammer. Gradually the sounds of the saloon dwindled, until it seemed as if the only sound there was in the saloon was that infernal bell. Coffin became aware of people gathering around, having left their games of chance or whatever else they were doing. It was strange, but Coffin accepted it. The men would’ve gathered for the fight sooner or later anyway. The ringing of the bell and the gathering of the crowd just sort of made it all “official” somehow.
Gilmore slugged Coffin on the side of the head, and Coffin’s right arm hit hard into the bar. Before Coffin could recover, Gilmore pounded him twice more, both punches catching Coffin on the jaw, rattling his head. But as Gilmore reared back to pelt him again, Coffin jerked himself forward, head lowered.
Gilmore’s punch sailed over Coffin’s head, just about the same time Coffin’s head slammed into Gilmore’s breastbone. Gilmore grunted more in surprise than in any pain.
It gave Coffin a moment’s respite, though, and he took advantage of it by snapping three quick jabs to Gilmore’s midsection. That opened up a little more room for him, and Coffin shoved Gilmore away. Then Coffin stood for a moment catching his breath.
Gilmore figured Coffin was about ready to quit, seeing as how the short man was just standing there looking winded. Confidently, Gilmore moved up a step and sent a bony fist at Coffin’s head.
Coffin blocked the blow with his left forearm and then slammed three hard little punches to Gilmore’s abdomen, knocking the taller man’s wind out.
Gilmore staggered back a little, wheezing, and trying to breathe.
“What’s the matter with you, big man?” Coffin said sarcastically. “Ain’t so tough now, are you?”
Gilmore still couldn’t breathe with any comfort or regularity, but the look on his face might have melted a lesser man than Joe Coffin. And he shook his head angrily.
“I couldn’t hear you,” Coffin said with a smirk. He balled up a fist and moved up, ready to put the finishing touches on Harlan Gilmore. Then someone landed high on his back. The new assailant began flailing away at Coffin with one fist. His other arm went around Coffin’s throat.
“You son of a bitch,” Coffin muttered. He charged straight backward, smashing the new assailant’s back against the bar. The man groaned and lost his grip around Coffin’s throat.
Coffin surged away from the other man and charged at Gilmore, legs slipping some on the sawdust-covered floor. Gilmore tried to punch Coffin but had little strength back yet, and it was but a feeble blow. Then Coffin crunched into Gilmore, and both went down.
“Try and have someone help you, you goddamn son of a bitch,” Coffin muttered. “Goddammit all to hell and gone.” All the while, he was pounding on Gilmore’s head and face.
Once more someone landed on Coffin’s back. He rolled off, but as Coffin pushed himself up, someone else plowed into him. He went down, with the unseen attacker’s grasp solid around him.
Coffin found himself with his face mashed against the floor. The sawdust was fouled by mud and dust, spilled beer and whiskey, and tobacco spittings. Coffin was not happy with being ground into the fetid muck. He managed to get his hands under him. With them and his legs, he shoved up until he was on hands and knees. He was barely aware of someone hitting him. Right now, all he wanted to do was get the one tenacious assailant off his back. He would worry about the others, however many of them there were, later.
With a roar, he pushed up some more. He could feel the man on his back start listing to one side. Coffin hoped he had a little room to get some leverage, and he jerked his left elbow back. It hit the man in the ribs, but there was no power to the blow. The man merely grunted.
The two strained and struggled, until Gilmore, who had gotten his wind back, came up and pelted Coffin a good shot to the solar plexus. Coffin had tightened his stomach muscles in anticipation, and so the punch wasn’t too bad to handle. But it hurt nonetheless.
As Gilmore prepared to pound Coffin again, Coffin bent backward as much as he could while still being held, and then snapped himself forward, bending at the waist. The man holding him lost his grip somewhat and half tumbled off Coffin’s left side—and right into the path of Gilmore’s punch.
The man cursed and released Coffin as he stumbled. Gilmore’s midsection was wide open to Coffin, who wasted not a moment in slamming two powerful punches into Gilmore’s stomach again. Gilmore doubled up, wheezing once more.
Coffin swung around and another man charged into him. Both fell, Coffin hitting his elbow on the hard floor. Before Coffin could do anything more, one more man jumped on him, and then a third. Two half lay across him, while the third hastily stood, looming over the wildly struggling Coffin. He raised his foot, ready to stomp Coffin’s stomach—or lower.
A shotgun roared. The man teetering on one foot fell sideways. The two men holding Coffin started at the noise, giving Coffin a little leeway. He jerked his right hand free and slammed a punch to one man’s jaw. The other one tried to keep his grip on Coffin, but it was a tenuous hold. Coffin pounded him, too, and suddenly was free.
As Coffin began sitting up, Gilmore kicked him in the back of the head. It wasn’t a hard blow, a
nd it annoyed Coffin more than hurt him. He jumped up and spun, “Bastard,” he snapped, just before smashing Gilmore’s nose flat.
Coffin was ready to wallop Gilmore again when someone rammed into his back again. As he went down, he thought, I’ve had about enough of this.
The shotgun roared again as Coffin began pushing himself up once more. Just as he got up, two men came hard at him. Coffin ducked and grabbed the man nearest him, one arm over the man’s shoulder, the other between his legs. Coffin shoved upright, bringing the man up with him, and then he dashed the man to the floor.
Coffin whirled to face the second man, but a burly, middle-aged man had just thumped the butt of his scattergun against the man’s neck. The burly man looked at Coffin, and his eyes grew wide. “Well sweet jumpin’ Jesus. Joe Coffin.”
Coffin stopped and stared, blinking rapidly to make this vision go away. Trouble was, it didn’t. “Major?” Coffin said in surprise and wonder. “Major Pembroke.”
“Marshal Pembroke now, boy,” Pembroke said with a small laugh. He looked around at the mild amount of carnage. “Jesus, you still can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Joe?”
Coffin shrugged. “Hell, Maj ... Marshal, somebody asks me to dance, I just can’t turn ’em down.”
Pembroke laughed. “You always was a feisty cuss.” He glared at Gilmore. “Damn, Harlan, you gotten so old and stove-up that it takes four of you galoots to whip up on one little man?”
Gilmore growled in annoyance.
“Don’t you take that goddamn tone with me, you presumptuous snot,” Pembroke said evenly. He neither looked nor sounded agitated, but there was a warning in his soft, fluid tones nonetheless.
Gilmore glared but said nothing.
“What caused all this ruckus?” Pembroke asked.
Coffin shrugged. “Ask that damn fool,” he said, chucking a thumb over his shoulder at Gilmore.
“Harlan?” Pembroke turned his hard, blue eyes on Gilmore.
Gilmore shrugged. “He was gettin’ on my nerves is all,” he said lamely.
“Oh?”
“Well, he kind of bumped into me and…”
“Jesus, Harlan, you can’t even lie good.” He sighed.
“Take yourself—and those three pissant cronies of yours—over to the jail. If the marshal ain’t there, stash your pieces in the desk and lock yourselves in.”
“Ah, come on, Enoch,” Gilmore pleaded. “Ain’t nobody really got hurt or nothin’.”
“Joe?” Pembroke asked after a few moments’ thought. “What do you think about it?”
Coffin rubbed his jaw. It hurt more than a little. So did his back and several other body parts. “Well, I ain’t a vindictive sort of man, Enoch, as you well know. But I don’t take kindly to havin’ four men set against me for no goddamn good reason at all. Still...” he paused, thinking. “Well, hell, Enoch, I don’t know,” he finally continued. “I could use some guidance here. I’m new in these parts.”
“Well, let’s see,” Pembroke said expansively, “Harlan there is a royal pain in the ass. Causes more goddamn trouble than any three or four men, except for his dimwitted cronies there.”
“Maybe I just ought to shoot ’em all. That’d solve things, I expect,” Coffin said.
“Probably cause more trouble than it’d solve,” Pembroke offered. “But it does sound enticin’.” He sighed, as if he carried a heavy burden. “I’ll tell you what, Harlan. You and your boys there buy me and Joe here a bottle and then keep yourselves away from us, and I’ll not lock you all up. How’s that?”
“Sounds good to me,” Gilmore said firmly. “What about you boys?” he added, looking from one of his friends to the other. All three nodded eagerly. “You got yourself a deal, Marshal.” He strode the few feet to the bar, slapped some coins down and grabbed the bottle that materialized where the coins had just been. He turned and held the bottle out. “It’s the good stuff, too, Marshal, as you can see. Not that cheap shit Foster usually tries to foist off on everyone.” Pembroke took the bottle. “Now get your ass out of here and take that scum with you.”
Gilmore looked angry, but he said nothing. Then he and his three friends headed toward the door.
“What say we find us a table, Joe, and talk of old times? And, what the hell, maybe some new times, too?”
Coffin nodded. He picked up his hat from the floor and slapped it on.
Chapter Twenty
“So,” Pembroke asked as he poured whiskey into two glasses, “what brings you to Madison, Joe?”
Coffin shrugged. “Just kind of rolled in here.” He poured tobacco into a wheatstraw paper and then licked the edge. He scraped a match across the rough wood of the table and then lit his cigarette. Once it was going, he explained quickly and with no frills how he had landed in Madison, Montana Territory.
While Coffin talked, Pembroke reloaded the muzzle loading shotgun.
“How about you, Major...Marshal...that’s gonna take some gettin’ used to, I think.” He grinned. “Anyway, how’d you wind up in a place like this?”
“Wasn’t much reason to stay back East. Jobs was scarce, and then Netty died.”
“No,” Coffin breathed.
Pembroke nodded. “The cholera took her, God. rest her soul.” He paused a moment, then said, “Anyway, that left me no reason a-tall to stay back there. Then I guess I got bit by the gold bug some. Don’t know why exactly, but since I didn’t have no strings on me...”
“Seems you’re doin’ all right,” Coffin said, pointing to the star on Pembroke’s chest.
“Hell, I sometimes think I’m the biggest damn fool in Madison for wearin’ it.”
“What the hell’re you doin’ breakin’ up bar fights if you’re a deputy U.S. marshal?”
“You remember my brother Beryl, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“He’s town marshal here. We help each other out when we can. He’s probably off in some other damn saloon stoppin’ another damn fracas.”
“Keeps you busy, I take it,” Coffin said, making a question out of the statement,
“Hell, busy ain’t the word for it.” Pembroke took off his hat and tossed it down on the table. Without the hat’s shade on Pembroke’s face, Coffin could see the tiredness in Pembroke’s eyes. “Christ, Joe, we can’t keep up with it. Madison’s a heap more civilized than Virginia City and some of the other places around here, but it’s got more than enough rough edges. It’s a big town and still growin’. We’ve got all kinds here from good, hardworkin’ storekeepers to hell-raisin’ miners.”
“Sounds typical of such an area.”
Pembroke looked sharply at Coffin, then he nodded. “I’d forgotten you were raised in places like this. It must seem like home to you.”
“A piss poor home, if anything,” Coffin commented. Pembroke nodded “I usually ain’t around town much. Not with all the highwaymen, claim jumpers and bushwhackers we got around here. Christ, I’m traipsin’ all over the goddamn countryside chasin’ those lawbreakin’ bastards.”
“You never was one to do much sittin’ around,” Coffin said with a smile.
“That’s for sure. As I recall, you weren’t much different.”
“A failin’ we’re both stuck with, I figure.”
Pembroke nodded. He drained his whiskey glass and poured another. “What’re you up to? You lookin’ for work?”
“Hadn’t thought much on it. I’ve only been in town a few days.”
“You got enough money to live on?” Pembroke asked, somewhat surprised.
“For a while.” Coffin grinned tightly. “Got me a few bounties back in Missouri.”
“Bounty man?” Pembroke asked. It was obvious he did not like the breed.
Coffin shrugged. “More a case of protectin’ myself and others and havin’ the money fall into my lap. I’ve got no real desire to take up such a thing for a livin’.”
“That’s good,” Pembroke said firmly. He hesitated, not sure he should say anything, but then he decided he
had to.
“I got a job for you, if you want it.”
“Doin’ what?” Coffin was surprised this time.
Pembroke fished around in his shirt pocket for a moment, pulled something out and placed it on the table. He slowly pushed it across the table toward Coffin.
Coffin looked at the small, glittering star in a half circle. “You are joshin’ me, ain’t you, Major?”
Pembroke shook his head slowly. “Nope.”
“I’ve got no experience in bein’ a lawman, and I ain’t so sure it’d be somethin’ I’d want to do.”
“I could use the help, Joe.”
“I still don’t see why you’d want me,” Coffin said quietly. “Look, Joe, there’s a heap of ground to cover, and I can’t do it all myself. I need men I know, men who ain’t afraid of goin’ against long odds. Christ, just tryin’ to track down the road agents who hit between here and Virginia City’s damn near a full-time job.”
“There’s no others you can trust?”
“Only Beryl. If he wasn’t marshal here, I’d never leave town to hunt outlaws.” He paused. “I can trust you, Joe. It’s been a few years since we saw each other, but I don’t see no signs in you that you’ve given up what you was back in the war.”
“And what’s that?” Coffin asked somewhat wryly. '
“A straight-shootin’, tough-ass, no-give-up son of a bitch. An honest man and one who lives by his word.”
“Such praise is likely to make my head swell,” Coffin said modestly.
“Bullshit.”
Coffin laughed. “Can’t get nothin’ by you, can I?”
“Nope.” Pembroke grinned. “Besides, you don’t take this job, I can’t go pullin’ your nuts out of the fire all the time like I did tonight. And knowin’ how easy you get into scraps, you’ll likely to be in some deep shit more often than not.”