by John Legg
After eating, Coffin relaxed with a cigarette and another cup of coffee. He let his thoughts drift to Amy. She was a little shorter than he and not very heavy, though she was curvaceous where she should be. Her hair was a deep, shimmering chestnut color, her lips full and pale pink, her nose and ears small and dainty, her throat long and graceful. Coffin loved her voice from the first time he had heard it. It was soft and melodious and seemed to reach right down into his innards.
He found it hard to believe that he had been so overwhelmed by Amy Pembroke, especially since it had not been all that long since he had been hurt by Edna Yarnell. That made him wonder, too. He considered it quite possible that the pain he felt from his separation from Edna might be part of the problem. He thought he might have been so overwhelmed because of that heartbreak, and that he really didn’t feel this strongly toward Amy.
Still puzzling it over, he spread out his bedroll and went to sleep. In the morning, he ate and then looked up Partridge. “Where’s this Marty Hardings feller?”
Partridge pointed out a tall, fat miner panning along a slow spot in the river. Coffin walked over to him. “You Marty Hardings?” he asked. When the man nodded, Coffin said, “I’m Marshal Joe Coffin.”
“So?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Jasper.”
“Jasper’s dead.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about him.”
“I’m not interested in talkin’ wit’ you. I’m interested in findin’ me some goddamn color.”
Coffin’s hand snaked out and snatched Hardings’ pistol from the holster. Then he whacked Hardings a good shot on the side of the head with the revolver. “Now listen to me, you fat tub of shit, I want some information from you, and I’ll get it if I have to beat you to death in the doin’.” He paused. “Now, what’s it gonna be?”
“I don’t know much,” Hardings whined.
“Then why make a goddamn fuss over it, you stupid bastard? Christ, if you had talked to me in the first place, I’d have been gone by now. Dumb shit.” He paused a moment to control his anger. “Where’d you find Jasper?” Hardings half turned on his fat, stumpy legs and then pointed to a thin track moving out through the trees along the base of a stony hill southeast of the camp. “About three miles that way.”
“What were you doin’ up there?”
“We’d heard some gunshots that way, and we figured it was trouble. But when Jasper didn’t come back, and nobody else showed himself, we didn’t know what to think. We drew straws, and I got the short one, so I rode out. Then I found Jasper and brought his body back here.”
“He have any money on him when you found the body?”
“Nope. Only thing he had on him when I found him was the note stuck in his chest. And the knife holdin’ the note.”
“You able to tell anything about which way the killers went?”
Hardings shook his head. “I found Jasper, and I got his body and my ass back here with the utmost dispatch,” Hardings said with what little dignity he could muster. “There any side trails or anything up that way?”
“Not that I know of. I reckon there’s a bunch of ’em, though. Either that or Merkle and his men appear and vanish by magic.”
Coffin squatted there a little longer, mulling things over.
“Why was he on that trail?” he asked. “I come up from Madison on a more direct route, comin’ into camp here from the southwest.”
“Yeah, ain’t that a ball buster?” Hardings said quietly. “Jasper decides to go by a side way. It’s a little longer, but not hardly known, so he figures he’ll be safer than on the track that sees a heap of folks traveling. A heap of folks for this area, anyway. And he gets himself killed. Damn if that don’t beat all.”
“You were good friends with him then?” Coffin prodded.
Hardings nodded. “We’re all friends here. Small camp like this, you’d best be able to get along with everybody. But, well, me and Jasper go back a little ways. He was a good man.”
Coffin nodded and dropped Hardings’ pistol back into the battered old holster. As Coffin rose, he slapped Hardings on the shoulder. “Thanks, Mr. Hardings,” he said.
Hardings appeared not to hear Coffin. He was already back to his panning.
Coffin saddled his horse, loaded the mule and rode out. There was nothing more he needed here, though something nagged at him. He could not place it, though, and he tried to put it out of his mind. He figured that if he left it alone in there to percolate in his brain, the answer would come sooner or later.
He tried to guess at the distance he traveled, and eventually found the spot where Daniels had been killed. Looking around there told Coffin nothing, so he pressed on, moving with deliberate slowness, trying to spot any indication of a trail cutting off this one. He had no luck, though, and because of it he was frustrated and annoyed when he decided to call it a day.
He pulled into a clump of trees near a trickle of water and went about his chores. They did not take long, and soon he was spooning in a poor stew he had made for himself. It was nearly tasteless, and he was grateful to at least have coffee to wash it down with.
After eating, he puffed on a cigarette. On a whim, mostly to keep his mind off Amy, he pulled out the wanted posters Pembroke had given him and started looking at them in the firelight.
Suddenly he started. He was looking at the face of one of the men in Busted Shovel. “Damn,” he snapped. Now he knew what had tugged at his brain when he left the mining camp. It was too late to head back there now, but he knew he would be riding back to Busted Shovel sometime tomorrow.
With that plan firmly in mind, he went to sleep. It took a little while as he was tom between thoughts of Amy and thoughts of regret at having not recognized Dick Swafford when he was in Busted Shovel. Finally, though, he drifted off.
In the morning, he wanted to be on the go, so he hurried through breakfast and the rest of his chores. Less than an hour after dawn, he was on the trail.
He wanted to race down the trail, to get to Busted Shovel as fast as possible. But that, he knew, was foolish. If Swafford had been worried, he would’ve slipped away from Busted Shovel already. But since Coffin had seen Swafford when he had ridden out of the mining camp, he figured Swafford was still there. So he beat back his sense of urgency, and rode at a reasonable pace. There was no need to punish the horse and the mule just because he wanted to go arrest somebody.
By mid-afternoon, he was on the edge of the ramshackle mining camp. He stopped and watched over things for a while. Everything seemed the same as it had the day before. Some of the men squatted by the side of the river and panned. A few more worked sifter boxes, and several more were building a sluice box. Coffin spotted Swafford. The man was one of those working on the sluice.
Coffin had no experience in such things. His first thought was to just ride on into the mining camp and blast Swafford a couple times. However, that would not be a good way to get information on the rest of the outlaws. It also was not the way a United States deputy marshal should act. What he needed to do was arrest Swafford. He’d never done that before, and he wondered how he should go about it.
Then he shrugged. He would just go down there and tell Swafford he was under arrest. He would react then to whatever happened rather than sit here all day wondering what he should do.
“Come on, horse,” he said quietly, brushing his spurs oh the horse’s sides.
Chapter Twenty-Four
None of the men looked up at his approach. Not only were they dedicated to their work—obsessed as they were with finding gold—but they also had the roar of the river in their ears.
Coffin pulled up near Partridge and dismounted, tying the horse and mule to a wind-blasted tree.
Partridge looked up as Coffin approached. “Christ, you back already?” Partridge asked, irritated.
“You always this friendly?” Coffin countered.
“Eat shit, Marshal. What do you want now?”
“A qu
estion first.”
“Well, out with it, dammit. I ain’t got all day to jawbone with you.”
“Tell me, are you in cahoots with Merkle?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Partridge snapped. “Why in hell would I be in cahoots with a bloodthirsty son of a bitch like that?”
“Because, you parsimonious bastard, one of your men is one of Merkle’s men.”
“Bullshit,” Partridge growled. “Who?”
“Dick Swafford.”
“We don’t have nobody named Swafford here. Now get the hell out of here, you bastard, or I’ll drop you where you stand.”
“Now I’m terrified,” Coffin said scornfully. He pulled out the papers and peeled the top one off. “Take a look.”
Partridge’s face contorted in anger. “That son of a bitch!”
“What name did he give you?”
“Russ Elgin. Not that it matters now.” Partridge was steaming. He turned his hard-looking face on Coffin. “You want some help arrestin’ him?”
“Wouldn’t put me out none to have some help.” He looked a little sheepish. “Hell, I’m still new at this marshaling shit.”
“It don’t show,” Partridge said honestly. “Let’s go.”
They walked up to their quarry, who had his back to them. “Dick?” Partridge said.
The man almost jumped, but then he continued working as if he had heard nothing. Partridge and Coffin looked at each other and nodded.
“Russ?” Partridge tried again.
Swafford turned around. “You want somethin’, Lem?” he asked, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. He was a short, pudgy man with a sweaty face and a mouthful of buck teeth. His face was covered with stubble, and one ear was deformed.
“Marshal Coffin here wants to chat with you a bit,” Partridge said tightly. He wanted to pound Swafford—or Elgin or whatever he wanted to call himself.
“What about?” Swafford seemed more tense.
“About this.” Coffin held out the paper with the sketched likeness of Swafford on it.
“Piss on you both,” Swafford snapped. He kicked Partridge in the leg and tried to jerk out his pistol at the same time.
Coffin’s right hand flew to the butt of one of his Remingtons and hesitated there just a second, then moved away. Coffin’s left arm knocked Swafford’s gun away, and then Coffin pounded him a sharp shot to the face with his right hand.
Swafford fell backward, but caught himself on the partially built sluice. He was dazed.
Coffin took advantage and popped Swafford in the face twice more. Then he grabbed Swafford’s shirt and jerked him forward, bringing his own knee up. The knee thudded into Swafford’s stomach. Coffin let him fall to the ground.
Coffin knelt next to him. “There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with you,” Coffin said quietly. “When you get your breath back.” Coffin rose, turned and picked up Swafford’s fallen pistol. He tossed it into the river. “You packin’ another piece, Swafford?” Coffin asked, looming over him, placing a boot on his back.
“No,” Swafford squawked.
“I find out you’re lyin’, asshole, I’ll carve off your ears.”
“You let me up, you bastard, and I’ll stomp your little ass into the ground.”
“You had your chance, boy.” He moved his boot. “Get up.”
Swafford rose and brushed off his worn, dirty clothes. He turned to face Coffin, looking for a chance to pelt the lawman.
“Mr. Partridge,” Coffin said, “would you see if he’s packin’ another piece, please?” It was an order, not a question.
Partridge patted Swafford much harder than really was necessary, but Coffin did not mention it. All Partridge came up with was a pocketknife. He pitched that in the river. “He’s all yours, Marshal.”
Coffin nodded. “He got a horse?”
“Rides a mule,” Partridge said.
Coffin nodded. “Would you mind havin’ someone saddle the mule? I’m gonna truss this bastard up, and then we can head out.”
“Right away,” Partridge said, turning and leaving. “Where you gonna take me?” Swafford asked, worried. “Madison. Me and Marshal Pembroke have a few questions we’d like you to answer.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you shit,” Swafford snapped.
“No skin off my ass,” Coffin said almost gleefully. “I’m sure there’ll be a few folks who’d be plenty willin’ to encourage you to reveal your secrets.” He shoved Swafford’s shoulder to spin him around. Then he pushed Swafford on the back. “Move out.”
When they got into the heart of the camp a few minutes later, Partridge came up. “You want some grub before you pull out, Marshal?” he asked.
“Might not hurt.”
“It wouldn’t put us out none was you to stay another night here. That’d let you get a fresh start in the morning.”
Coffin thought about that for a few moments, then nodded. “That’ll be good. You want me to stay in Jasper’s tent again?”
“Yep.”
“What about Swafford?”
“John, Sam!” Partridge roared. Two men hastened up. “Tie Elgin—Swafford, whatever the hell his name is—to that big oak. Make sure he’s good and snug.”
The two men pushed Swafford along, and within minutes he was tied to the tree.
Coffin ate with Partridge and several other men. After the meal, he passed around the posters he had, since he wanted the others to know about Swafford. He also hoped that the miners might be able to give him some clue as to where he might find the other men in Merkle’s gang. He had no luck in that, though, and he turned in soon afterward.
Coffin was up first in the morning. Or so he thought. When he stepped out of the noisily flapping tent, the eastern sky was ablaze with red. It spread a faint, bloody glow over the whole camp. As Coffin headed toward the river, he glanced over at the tree. And he stopped.
Swafford was gone.
Coffin ran to the tree, thinking that perhaps someone had gotten up early and had freed Swafford to tend to personal needs. He skidded to a stop and picked up the pieces of rope. They had obviously been cut. “Goddamn son of a bitch,” he snapped quietly. He headed for his tent, fast. But then he had a change of heart. He went to where the men kept their horses and mules. Coffin’s chestnut and mule were there. Swafford’s mule was not.
By the time the others were stirring, Coffin had his horse saddled, and he was putting the last of his supplies on the mule.
“Leavin’ so soon?” Partridge asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Swafford’s gone,” Coffin growled.
“Where? How?”
“I don’t goddamn know, but I goddamn aim to find out.”
“How’d he get loose?”
“Somebody cut the ropes.”
“Who?”
“If I knew that, the son of a bitch’d be dead now. I’m not fond of being made to look the fool. And when I find out which one of your cohorts here helped Swafford, he’s gonna pay and pay hard.”
“You don’t think one of my men did it, do you?” Partridge asked, affronted.
“Who the hell else would it be? A goddamn ghost?”
“Could’ve been another of Merkle’s men come in here after dark,” Partridge offered.
“Could’ve been, I suppose. Could’ve been you, too.”
“Me?” Partridge exploded. “Why you badge-wearin’ little bastard, I ought to...” Partridge shut up when one of Coffin’s Remingtons suddenly bloomed an inch from his nose.
“What should you do, Lem? Huh?”
Partridge looked as if he wanted to chew the muzzle off Coffin’s revolver, but he neither said nor did anything.
“It could’ve been you since you got the run of the place here,” Coffin said, not moving the pistol. “But more importantly, you were the one who urged us to spend the night.”
Partridge nodded—carefully. “That’s all true,” he admitted. “But I’ll tell you somethin’, Marshal. It wasn’t me. I f
ind out it was one of the men here, and I’ll string him up with my own hands. I know you ain’t got much reason to believe me, but I’m tellin’ you the truth.”
Coffin uncocked the pistol and holstered it. “On the other hand, Lem, I ain’t got too much reason to not believe you either. So I’ll take you at your word—for now.”
“Fair enough, Marshal.”
Coffin swung into the saddle. He looked down at Partridge. “You find out who it is, you hold him here and get word to me.”
“If I’m of a mind to at the time.”
Coffin nodded. Then he spurred his horse and trotted out of Busted Shovel, heading north on a hunch. He figured Swafford would not want to head toward Madison or Virginia City.
Coffin did not bother trying to track Swafford. He just pushed up the well-marked trail at a steady pace. He rode until almost dark without seeing any sign of Swafford. He angrily pulled off the trail and made his camp. He was in a sour mood, and his humor was not lifted any by the meal of salted beef and beans.
He was feeling no better as he ate his breakfast the next morning. He had begun to doubt himself, thinking that he was not cut out for being a lawman. He wondered if perhaps he hadn’t missed a turn that Swafford had taken. He had not seen anything that resembled a real trail all along his ride yesterday, but if his anger was getting the better of him, he might’ve easily missed something. He cursed himself for not being a tracker, and he cursed himself for letting Enoch Pembroke rope him into wearing the badge.
For one brief moment, Coffin considered tearing the badge off and tossing it away. But he was not that kind of man. He might not be much at reading sign on a trail, but he was tireless and pugnacious. He would not quit until he had accomplished what he set out to do. And right now, that meant finding Dick Swafford.
Determined, he broke camp and hit the trail again, pushing a little harder than yesterday. His hope was that Swafford had moved fast yesterday and would be moving slower today, not thinking there would be much pursuit. Of course, Coffin realized he could be spitting into the wind here. There was as good—maybe even a better—chance that Swafford had gone south. It would be easy enough for him to ride around Virginia City, or even ride right through it at night. Nobody would see him, or most likely would know him.