by John Legg
“You always this full of compliments for folks you’re tryin’ to hire?” Coffin asked with another laugh.
“Hey, some of us just have the gift.” Pembroke could no longer contain his laughter. When it wound down, he said earnestly, “Me and Beryl could really use the help, Joe.”
Coffin sat there looking at the scrap of metal. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and touched it with a forefinger. He felt odd even considering such a thing. He had always thought he was a reasonable man, one who wanted to see justice done no matter what the odds. But to think of becoming a lawman—a U.S. deputy marshal, no less!—was utterly foreign to him. He supposed it shouldn’t be such a surprise, but he couldn’t help being baffled and worried by the possibility.
“You allowed to hire people just like this?” Coffin finally asked, still uncertain about it all.
“Officially, I’m supposed to clear it with the U.S. marshal for the territory. He’s appointed by the president and doesn’t have to really do anything except to show up at church of a Sunday and at public functions now and again. Since it’s me got to do all the work out here, I figure I’m entitled to hire my own deputies.” He grinned. “Actually, the old buzzard gave me permission to hire who I want.”
“How come you were carryin’ this”—he tapped the badge—“in your pocket?”
“Just in case.”
“Just in case what?” Coffin asked roughly. “Just in case you found some poor sucker like me to stick it on?” Pembroke laughed and refilled their glasses. “Hell, that’s a good idea,” he offered. “To be serious about it, Joe, I took it off one of my deputies yesterday. He was in cahoots with a few highwaymen. I found out about it and confronted him yesterday. I took the badge, and then ‘encouraged’ him to leave these parts.”
“You have any other deputies?”
“Nope. Had a couple, includin’ the one who went bad. The other three...well, none of ’em lasted too long before I had to plant ’em over in the boneyard.”
“Such a cheery future you’re offerin’ me,” Coffin said. Pembroke laughed again. “Jesus, Joe, you gone soft in your ‘old age’? Damn, I remember durin’ the war, you were one of the craziest bastards ever to fight at my side. That’s the kind of man I want with me out here. Unless you’ve gone yellow.”
“It’s a good thing you’re a friend and a former commander of mine.”
Pembroke grinned. “And that’s the kind of man I want. Jesus, Joe, you weren’t afraid of nothin’ before. You’re about the coolest man under fire that I’ve ever seen. Such qualities don’t come along that often, and when they do, it’s wise to avail yourself of them.”
“Good God, Marshal, you gonna set here and whine until I take the damn job?” Coffin asked in mock exasperation.
“If that’ll firm your mind to the task, sure,” Pembroke said with another laugh.
“And you’ll promise to quit the damn whinin’ if I take it?” Coffin was grinning hugely.
“I promise.”
Coffin sat a few more moments staring at the badge. It was still an eerie feeling to contemplate wearing a badge. He had never done so; never had even given it a thought. Still, Enoch Pembroke was a former commanding officer, and a fair and compassionate one. Coffin would have no problem working with him. Or with Beryl Pembroke either.
Finally Coffin picked up the badge, holding it as if it were a red-hot piece of iron.
Pembroke poured them each another glass of whiskey. “To a safe and long life,” he said, holding up his glass.
Coffin smiled a little and tapped his glass on Pembroke’s. They drank.
Pembroke put his glass down. “Raise your right hand,” he ordered.
Coffin did so, but skeptically.
“You promise to uphold all the laws no matter how stupid they are?” he asked.
“Sure.” Coffin felt like an idiot.
“Good. Now you’re a deputy U.S. marshal.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“First rule of deputy-dom: Don’t piss off your new boss.”
“Hell, Major, if I had to work around somethin’ like that, I would’ve never gotten through your command in the war.”
“You’re right on that one, Joe.” Pembroke stuffed the cork into the bottle and stood. Coffin followed suit. Both put their hats on. Pembroke grabbed the scattergun in his right hand and the bottle in his left. “Let’s go on and see if we can find Beryl.”
They did. It took more than an hour, and the search had wandered through a plethora of saloons. Then they found Beryl Pembroke in a brothel, of all places.
“Hey, Beryl,” Enoch shouted, “look who showed up.” Beryl looked at Coffin, taking no more than a second or two to place the face. “Joe Coffin, right?” he asked.
“Yessir.” Coffin was a little surprised to see that neither man had changed very much since the war. Both were a bit over medium height and had barrel chests. Stark blue eyes shone out of the two faces. Big, round heads sat on bull necks. The main difference—physically—between the brothers was Enoch’s big, thick brushy mustache. The adornment was so thick and long that it covered the entire bottom portion of his face below the nose except for the long, pointy chin. Beryl was clean-shaven.
“I hired him,” Enoch said. “That all right by you?”
Beryl nodded. “As I recall, he was one of our finest soldiers, despite his tender age.”
“That he was,” Enoch agreed.
“Well,” Enoch said, “I’d best get Joe here to the office so he can get to know things a little. You need any help here?”
“Nah. Big Sophie had a complaint about one of the customers. I came right over and pitched him out, nearly buck naked, too,” he said with a laugh.
Coffin did not think that very funny, but he grinned vacuously so he did not have to explain himself.
“Anyway, I just got that done, and I thought I’d collect the fine,” he said stiffly.
Pembroke laughed again. “We’ll see you later over to the office. Come on, Joe.”
As he and Pembroke walked outside, Coffin asked, “Collect the fine?”
“The job of town marshal doesn’t pay all that well, of course, so we sometimes collect our own little ‘fines.’ In the case of Big Sophie’s place, we generally take our fines out in trade.”
Coffin gazed at Pembroke a moment, not sure if he should laugh or be outraged. He decided, though, that it was not the worst thing in the world. He nodded, thinking that perhaps this job would be a better deal than he had thought. It did strike him as odd that Beryl Pembroke would take such a “fine.” Coffin had remembered Beryl as somewhat of a prig. That would explain Beryl’s stiff embarrassment, though.
Chapter Twenty-One
As Coffin and Enoch Pembroke walked toward the office the Pembroke brothers shared, Coffin mentioned some of his concerns. “How the hell do you know I ain’t been an outlaw since the war ended?” he asked.
Pembroke gazed levelly at him. “You’ve always been an honest man, Joe.”
“Lots of men’re honest but go bad somewhere along the way.”
“True enough, I guess,” Pembroke said easily. “But I doubt it. I’ve been a pretty good judge of men most of my life, Joe. I ain’t infallible—no one is—but I can generally figure out who’s on the up and up and what fellas ain’t. I’ll bet on you.”
Coffin smiled, enjoying the praise but quite uncertain that he deserved it. He had always been that way, especially with men he believed in. Men like Pembroke. “I just hope I can live up to your trust, Marshal. I...”
“Joe, I might be your boss, but I ain’t your commander no more. Call me Enoch.”
“Yessir.”
“And don’t you worry about livin’ up to my trust. You did so durin’ the war, and, by God, if you could come through that all right, this here’ll be a piece of cake.”
“Now I’m really worried!” Coffin said with a laugh. They arrived at the jail, and Pembroke showed Coffin around. It was larger than Coffin had expected it woul
d be, but when he thought about it, it made sense. Madison was a fairly big city with a lot of tough men, which meant more than a little crime. It also was shared by two lawmen.
There wasn’t much to the place, really—four thick log walls, with a door and two glass windows in the false front. There were two rickety desks; a potbellied stove and several chairs in the office part. A log wall with a plank door separated the cells from the office. The door had a small window in it, with three vertical iron bars. A bunch of wanted posters were held onto a log wall with a stiletto next to the gun rack. A chain and lock prevented the theft of the weapons in the rack.
The rear of the office held seven cells in a horseshoe shape with the “opening” toward the office door—two to the left, two to the right, one dead center from the plank door, and then two slightly larger cells in the far corners. There was little to the cells: simply vertical iron bars planted in the ground at bottom and imbedded in the log ceiling. Bars also separated the cells from each other. The cells had no windows and no furnishings except for a hard iron cot bolted to the logs. They did not even have blankets.
Six of the cells were occupied by nine men, and Coffin asked why the seventh cell was not being used.
Pembroke shrugged. “We always like to keep one of ’em open if possible. We bring in a particularly nasty bastard, it’s easier to deal with him that way. Besides, most of these boys ain’t in here for anything major. Most of ’em’s just sleeping off a drunk or somethin’. Except that one.” Pembroke pointed to the left rear cell.
“What’s he here for?”
“Robbin’ stagecoaches. Asshole got himself caught. He’s goddamn lucky he ain’t been hanged yet.”
“Why ain’t he?” Coffin asked. The prisoner was fairly nondescript. He was about medium height and thin, about Coffin’s age. His clothes were filled with holes and patches. His thin, sallow face had locked onto the two lawmen when they had come through the door and had never left them.
“Vigilance committees in these parts’ve been idle of late. I’d like to think it’s ’cause Beryl and me’ve been doin’ a good enough job so they ain’t needed. It might even be true. Besides, we’re tryin’ to get him to talk. We figure he’s one of Cady Merkle’s bunch.”
“Who’s this Merkle feller?”
“Head of a band of outlaws. We ain’t sure how many men ride with him, but it’s a fair number. He only takes a few on each job, so it’s not like he’s got an army with him. It does make it a little hard, though, to get much information about how many men he does have.”
“What’s this oaf’s name?” Coffin asked, pointing to the man in the cell.
“Alvin Pendergast, a useless little shit if ever one was born.”
“Lookin’ at him,” Coffin said with a smirk, “I don’t think he’s got the brains to tell you—us—about Merkle’s gang.”
“He does seem a mite slow, don’t he,” Pembroke commented.
The two went back out into the office. Pembroke reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a key. He tossed it to Coffin, who snared it. “For the weapons rack,” Pembroke announced. “Keys for the cell are over there.” He pointed. Another knife was stuck into the log wall next to the door to the cells. On it hung an iron ring with what looked to be about a dozen keys.
“I think that’s about enough for one night, Joe,” Pembroke said. “Especially when you’ve been clobbered about some.”
Coffin nodded. His jaw still hurt, and he was sure that by morning his face would be as colorful as the sunset.
“Come on over first thing. We’ll all go have us a breakfast over to Terwilliger’s. Second best place for eats in Madison.”
“See you then.” Coffin left, wondering why Terwilliger’s was only the second best restaurant in town as he walked tiredly to his hotel.
Coffin stepped out of his hotel into the bright, warm morning sunshine. He still felt very self-conscious about the gleaming bit of metal pinned to his shirt. The brightly mottled purplish-yellow bruises on his face did little to help his self-consciousness, but there was nothing he could do about those.
He was tired, too, having lain awake much of the night wondering about what he might have gotten himself into as well as how foolish this all seemed.
The Pembroke brothers were in the office and rose as soon as Coffin walked in. “Well, good goddamn,” Enoch said with a laugh, “you sure are one colorful fella.”
“He’s gonna blind us for sure as soon as we walk into that sunshine out there,” Beryl added.
“Hell,” Coffin growled, his self-consciousness trying to assert itself. “Even all thumped-up like I am, I’m still handsomer of countenance than you two.” Once more he felt odd. After all, this was Maj. Enoch Pembroke and his brother Lt. Beryl Pembroke he was making fun of. He, a lowly corporal.
The Pembrokes did not mind. Both laughed heartily. “Pugnacious little pup,” Enoch offered.
“Enough of all this banterin’,” Beryl said, still chuckling. “I’m hungry. You boys want to stand here throwin’ insultin’ words at each other, you can do so. I aim to fill my belly.”
“Crab ass,” Enoch joked. An hour later, Coffin had to admit that Enoch had been right—Terwilliger’s was a fine eatery, as least as far as the food went. Little good could be said about the decor, or even the service, but that was all secondary to eating for Joe Coffin. He chowed down on eggs from Mrs. Terwilliger’s hen house, bacon from the Terwilligers’ hogs, plump, hot biscuits slathered with fresh butter or creamy gravy. All of it was topped off by hot, thick coffee.
The three lawmen walked back toward their office a couple blocks from Terwilliger’s. It was a well-laid-out town, with neat streets and clean-looking businesses. Most of the stores and such had false fronts, giving the town a homey atmosphere. President Street was the main street through Madison. It came in from the east and ended at the town square, which abutted a low, barren hill. A brick city hall was straight across from the street on the opposite side of the square. Next to city hall was the courthouse on one side and the offices of the Madison Tribune on the other. The marshals’ office was a little east of Fifth Street, set back a little from President Street between Rosencrantz’s Dry-Goods Store and a two story building that housed Dr. Hyrum Smith on the upper floor and Crenshaw’s Pharmacy on the lower floor.
When they entered the office, Beryl put the big pot of coffee he had carried from Terwilliger’s on the stovetop and then stoked up the fire. Enoch went straight into the back to check on the prisoners. Coffin felt rather useless.
Those chores done, all three men filled coffee cups and then pulled up chairs around Enoch’s desk. Coffin rolled a cigarette, Enoch lit a pipe and Beryl picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail.
“Well, Joe,” Enoch said, “I’d like to officially welcome you to the ranks of the Madison Lawmen’s Association.” He laughed. “Hell, me and Beryl’re just glad to have some help.”
“Can’t you call on anyone else?” Coffin asked.
“There’s enough willin’ bodies for posses and such. But nobody wants to be a full-time deputy. We can usually deputize a couple of men when we need ’em for somethin’ special.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the job either,” Coffin said with a regretful smile. “With just three of us, we’re gonna be spread mighty thin.”
“That we are,” Enoch responded. “It’s one of the reasons Beryl and I’re glad to have you along.”
“There’s other reasons?” Coffin laughed.
Enoch nodded and smiled, but when he spoke, it was solemnly. “Hell, you handled yourself real well against Gilmore and those other peckerwoods last night. Ain’t many fellas can take on four men at once and come out the better of it. There’s more, though.” He paused for a sip of coffee.
“I remember back to the war how you handled yourself with up-close fightin’, as well as long, over the sights of a rifle,” Enoch finally continued. “And I recall that time at. Seven Pines. Them goddamn Rebs would’ve overrun our
position for sure, if it hadn’t been for you and them goddamn pistols of yours.”
“Hell, Major,” Coffin said, slipping back in time, too, “we got our asses whupped but damn good at Seven Pines.”
“That’s a fact. But your pistol work kept our militia from gettin’ ground into sausage that day. We only lost twenty percent of our men; damn near all the others had far more casualties than that.”
Coffin was uncomfortable again. He was proud of his abilities but it somehow seemed wrong to be praised so highly and openly for them, especially since it involved wholesale killing.
“You’re gonna need all those things in this job, Joe,” Enoch said earnestly. “The boys we hunt out here are tough bastards. Most were in the war and ain’t fazed the least by blood, guts and destruction. A number of ’em’re goddamn former Rebs, and’re as nasty as they can be, especially once they find out we’re damn Yankees—and proud goddamn Yankees to boot.”
“What Enoch says is true,” Beryl said. “A goodly number of the outlaws out here’re experienced killers. Have no other real talents, many of them.”
“Just like us three,” Coffin said softly.
Enoch nodded. “Yessir, just like us. That don’t change the situation none, though. We chose the right path—the path of law and justice. Them, well, they went the other way. And now it’s our job to bring ’em all to heel.”
“And just remember one thing about it all, Joe,” Beryl threw in. “There’s a whole lot more of them than there are of us. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, outrun half the time.”
Coffin nodded and then grinned lopsidedly. “I get it now,” he said, still smiling. “This is the talk that gets me fired up about doin’ a good job, ain’t it?” he added sarcastically.
“You know, Beryl,” Enoch said, “I think Joe here’s gonna do all right for himself.
They all laughed.
“Seriously, Joe, this is a dangerous job,” Enoch said. “But, I ain’t ever seen anybody handle danger and trouble as well as you. You are one cool-headed son of a bitch when the fight’s on.”