by John Legg
The longer Coffin rode, the more certain he became that he was on the wrong trail. He decided sometime in the afternoon that he would give it till nightfall. If by then he had no proof that Swafford was on this trail, he would turn back. The day began winding down, and Coffin was about ready to call it quits for now, when a faint aroma of wood smoke slid into his nostrils. He stopped, sniffing, trying to catch another scent of the smoke. He did, and nodded. He thought he had it pegged now.
Coffin pulled off the trail amidst trees and large boulders. Quickly he unloaded the mule and unsaddled the horse. He figured they could wait a while for their tending. He checked his pistols. Then he pulled off his spurs and tossed them on the ground next to his saddle. Finally he moved out on foot, edging through, over or around tangled brush, fallen logs, trees and rocks.
He slowed as he neared where he thought the fire smoke was coming from. He proceeded carefully until he suddenly stopped behind a large cottonwood and peered out from behind it. He felt a great deal of relief when he saw that it was Swafford.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Swafford was leaning back against his saddle, sipping coffee from a battered tin cup. He seemed at ease, but there was no easy way for Coffin to sneak up on him. The outlaw was in a clearing with an arc of trees and brush about. Directly behind where Swafford was sitting, a rocky outcropping bulged out from the mountainside.
Coffin’s instincts told him to just put a bullet into Swafford from here. But his head told him that he had taken on the duties of a United States marshal. Those duties did not include killing people in cold blood. Not when he hoped to get information from the man. He sighed. There was only one way to do it.
Coffin eased out a Remington and swiftly checked it. Keeping it uncocked alongside his leg, Coffin moved through the trees to his left. Once more he stopped and scanned the outlaw’s camp. Then he stepped out of the brush, pistol leveled but not cocked.
“Evenin’,” he said quietly.
Swafford looked like he would jump right out of his skin. “You!” he hissed angrily.
Coffin nodded. “Yep. And I am one unhappy son of a bitch, too.”
“Well, you got the son of a bitch pail; right,” Swafford said with a smirk.
“That very well might be, boy. But when I’m unhappy, I get real mean.”
“You think you’re a tough one, don’t you?” Swafford said with a nasty tone. “Think ’cause you walloped me when I wasn’t lookin’ that you’re a tough man. You put that gun down and give me an even chance without weapons, I’ll clean your goddamn plow for you.”
“You must think I’m as goddamn stupid as you are,” Coffin said evenly.
Swafford grinned without humor.
“Who helped you back at Busted Shovel?”
“I told you back there, I ain’t gonna tell you shit. You’re gonna shoot me, go on and get it over with.” He was feeling mighty confident. A United States marshal wouldn’t shoot somebody like this. No, they preferred legal niceties and such.
Coffin shot Swafford in the right leg.
“Holy shit!” Swafford screeched in shock and surprise. “Now,” Coffin said, voiced unchanged, “who helped you get away?”
“I can’t tell you that, Marshal,” Swafford said nervously. He was sure now that he was in deep trouble here. “Merkle and his boys’ll kill me sure soon’s they find out I said anything.”
“And I’ll kill you here and now if you don’t tell me. That leaves you with a choice. Tell me and take your chances that the law’ll find Merkle first. Or keep your mouth shut now and die.”
Swafford looked down at the blood welling out of his leg. There was relatively little pain, but Swafford knew from experience that it would get worse, and soon. “That ain’t a very good choice, is it?”
“Nope. But it’s the only one you’re gonna get.”
“Can I cogitate on it a spell?” Swafford asked.
“Sure. I’m in no hurry. Well, not too much of a hurry.” He figured Swafford was trying to figure out a way to get out of this predicament, maybe distract Coffin for a moment or two. Coffin would not, however, give Swafford any false sense of security and then kill him. Coffin tried to be evenhanded in such things.
Time ticked on, until Coffin started to get bored. That, he knew, would leave him vulnerable. “You gonna think on this forever?” he asked.
“If I had my druthers, I would,” Swafford answered honestly.
“Well, I might not be in a real hurry, but I think forever’s askin’ a bit too much.” His voice hardened. “Now, who helped you? I won’t ask again.”
Swafford sighed. “Floyd Biggs. He cut me loose, gave me a gun and some grub and I skedaddled.”
“I ain’t got a paper on him,” Coffin said, a little baffled.
“Hell, there’s a lot of Merkle’s boys you don’t have paper on.”
Coffin nodded. “Why didn’t you come on and blow my brains out while you had the chance?”
Swafford shrugged. “That would’ve got me killed sure as anything. Hell, that parsimonious bastard Partridge would’ve made sure of that.”
Coffin nodded in agreement. “Anybody else in Busted Shovel belong to Merkle’s band of cutthroats?”
“No.” He paused, but when he got no response from Coffin, he asked, “So, what next?”
“Depends on you, boy.”
“How’s that?”
“You give over your gun and promise not to be a nuisance, I’ll take you back to Madison. Marshal Pembroke and I’ll ask you some questions. You cooperate there, we’ll speak up for you when you go on trial.”
“Don’t sound like there’s much good in that for me.”
Coffin shrugged, unconcerned. “Think of the alternative.”
“Yes, most unpleasant, I’d venture to say.” Swafford had seen enough of Marshal Joe Coffin in just two short encounters to know what kind of stuff the lawman was made of. He had no doubts whatsoever that Coffin would put a bullet in his head at the first hint of resistance. Swafford sucked in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. His leg was beginning to hurt a lot. “Reckon I ain’t got much choice, do I?”
“I suppose not.”
Swafford nodded. “All right, then. But you’ll have to help me out some once we hit the trail.” He pointed to his leg.
“I could whack it off for you,” Coffin said coldly. “I saw it done enough during the war to figure I could do it in a pinch.”
“I’ll get along all right,” Swafford said, sweating. He figured Coffin was crazy enough to do it. Still, he really had no plan to be dragged back to first Busted Shovel and then Madison. Not if he could prevent it.
“Good. Now, let’s ...”
Swafford threw his coffee cup at Coffin, who ducked reflexively. It gave Swafford two or three heartbeats of time, in which he managed to jerk out the belly gun he was carrying. He had barely gotten it out and cocked when two balls from Coffin’s Remington punched holes in his heart.
Coffin didn’t regret for a moment killing Swafford. Not with the record the outlaw had amassed. What he couldn’t figure out, though, was why Swafford had been tin panning in a place like Busted Shovel. Not that it mattered now.
Coffin holstered his pistol and walked back to where he had figured to make his camp. He tossed his saddle loosely over the horse’s back and led it and the mule to Swafford’s camp. Then he made another trip to get his supplies and such. Finally he tended his horse and mule, after which he had a cup of coffee from Swafford’s pot.
He checked through Swafford’s supplies but found little that he could—or would—use. His supply of food was better, so he cooked some of that. He ate quietly, sitting two feet to the side of Swafford’s corpse. In the war, he had eaten a great many of his meals within spitting distance of bodies.
When he was done, he tossed a good pile of wood on the fire. It was not that cold, but he was hoping the man scent as well as the fire would keep the scavengers away from the body, which he covered with a piece of canv
as.
In the morning, Coffin uncovered Swafford’s body. Going through the man’s pockets, he found a penknife. Pulling the wanted poster on Swafford out of his pocket, he scribbled on it in pencil: “Your days are numbered, Merkle.” He signed it “U.S. Deputy Marshal Joe Coffin.” He placed the paper on Swafford’s chest. Then he stabbed the penknife through the paper and into the body to hold the note in place.
He loaded his mule and saddled his horse. Trailing Swafford’s mule behind him, he pushed as hard as he dared. He didn’t want to be on the trail forever. He finally stopped just before dark.
He reached Busted Shovel shortly before noon the next day. He stopped where he had the last time and tied the horse and mules off to the tree.
Partridge looked at him. “Where’s Elgin? Or is it Swafford?”
Coffin shrugged. “Either way, he’s worm food now.”
“Why didn’t you bring the body back? Hell, he had a price on his head.”
Coffin grinned viciously. “I left him back there with a note pegged to his chest. I used his poster for it, and left it as a warning for Merkle.”
“He tell you who helped him?” Partridge asked harshly.
“Floyd Biggs. Which one is he?”
Partridge pointed to a big, lumpy looking man. Coffin remembered from the last time he was in the mining camp that the man had a scarred face and dead eyes. “Thanks,” Coffin said curtly. He headed toward Biggs. Partridge caught up to him in a moment. “This is my camp, Marshal,” Partridge snapped. “I’ll deal with him.”
“Like hell you will.”
“Now, Marshal...”
“You get in my way, goddammit,” Coffin growled, “I’ll put a slug in you as fast as I will him.”
Partridge saw the anger and determination on Coffin’s face, and he nodded. “Mind if I walk along?”
“As long as you keep out of my way.”
Biggs was kneeling at the edge of the river, where the water eddied around a large rock. He swept his pan round and round, dipping and shaking.
When Coffin was ten feet from Biggs, he drew a pistol and calmly shot Biggs through the right arm. The big man dropped his pan and screeched. He pushed to his feet and turned while reaching for his own pistol. It was an awkward maneuver since his right arm hung uselessly at his side.
“You got one goddamn chance to stay alive, Biggs,” Coffin snapped. “You pull that pistol on me, and I’ll shove it up your ass and blow your brains out.”
“What the hell’s wrong wid you, lawman?” Biggs asked, voice gravelly and uncultured.
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” He did not seem in the least surprised. “Well, for now, just helpin’ a known criminal to escape. I reckon I’ll be glad to find a heap of other charges given some time to think on it.”
“You’re loco,” Biggs said.
“That’s funny,” Coffin said easily. “Dick Swafford said the same thing just before I put two slugs in his heart.” Biggs’s eyes narrowed a little. It was the only sign of recognition of the name or deed.
“Now, I’m gonna make you the same offer I made him. You ride back to Madison with me, nice and peaceable, and answer the questions we’ll be askin’ of you, and we’ll speak up in your defense at your trial.”
Biggs laughed loud and hard.
“That’s not very polite,” Coffin said.
“Oho, did I make the little lawman mad at me?” Biggs said with a sneer.
Coffin shrugged and shot Biggs in the other arm. Biggs looked like an enraged bull, his eyes popping, and snuffling grunts popping out of his nose.
“Naw, I ain’t mad at you, boy,” Coffin said lightheartedly. “You still havin’ a good time?”
“You little bastard,” Biggs snarled. “You goddamn, backshootin’, busybody son of a bitch.”
“I ain’t backshot nobody,” Coffin said. “You want to try it, though, I’ll be glad to oblige you if you turn around.”
Without warning, Biggs charged, snarling and snorting.
Coffin calmly moved back a few steps and to his left a little. Then he emptied the Remington into Biggs. The big man had so much momentum that he continued on for a yard or two before he fell facedown in the dirt.
“Have some of your boys get him up on Swafford’s mule,” Coffin said coldly to Partridge. “Tie him down good and cover him over with canvas.”
“I take it you’re not going to enjoy our hospitality one more night?” Partridge asked dryly.
Coffin smiled just a bit. “Reckon not.”
“Want some grub?”
“If you got somethin’ ready, I’ll bolt down a bit.”
“We do.” Partridge walked off, shouting orders. Coffin followed more slowly. Stopping at his horse, he got his materials and quickly cleaned, oiled and reloaded his pistol. Then he sat at the fire and hungrily downed several large hunks of venison, a half-dozen biscuits and three cups of coffee.
Lethargically, he rose. He felt like doing nothing more than climbing into his bedroll and sleeping for a couple of days. But he could not afford that luxury. He wanted to get back to Madison to see Amy. He also wanted to get back there before Biggs’s body really started to ripen.
“Well, Mr. Partridge,” Coffin said, holding out his hand, “I hope I don’t see you for a while.”
Partridge shook Coffin’s hand. “I know what you mean, Marshal.”
Coffin mounted and rode off without looking back. His opinion of Lemuel Partridge was not all that good, but it had risen a little since he had first met the man.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Coffin rode into Madison just before noon the next day after traveling all night. He stopped at his office and tied his horse and the two mules to the hitching rail. He ignored the small crowd that quickly gathered, talking and gesticulating at the canvas-wrapped corpse.
Inside, Beryl Pembroke had heard the noise growing, and he was about to step outside to see what all the commotion was about, when Coffin walked into the office. “Joe,” Pembroke said with a small smile. “Glad to have you back.”
“Glad to be back,” Coffin said wearily.
“What’s going on outside?”
“I brought a body in.” When Pembroke’s eyebrows raised in question, Coffin said, “One of Merkle’s boys.” Pembroke nodded. “Let’s go take a look.”
Coffin nodded and turned slowly.
“You look bushed, Joe. You all right?”
“Just tired. Had a few hectic days out there, and I rode through the night to get here.”
“Somethin’ chasin’ you?” Pembroke asked warily. Coffin offered up a wan smile. “Yeah. Scavengers looking for fresh meat.” He indicated that corpse outside.
“I reckon he is gettin’ a mite aromatic in this heat,” Pembroke said with a shake of his head.
The two men went outside and stopped. “Get away from here now,” Pembroke bellowed at the crowd. “None of this is your affair. Go on now, get going.”
Grumbling, the crowd began breaking up, and the people wandered off, somewhat angry at having been denied an opportunity to see who it was under the canvas.
Pembroke peeled back the covering from the body and lifted the head by the hair. “Never saw him before,” he noted. “You got paper on him I’m not aware of, Joe?”
Coffin shook his head. “Let’s go on back inside and set.”
“You got a bad story to tell?” Pembroke asked, a little worried.
“Nah. I just need to rest my bones,” Coffin said with a small grin.
Pembroke nodded. “Go on inside. I’ll be in directly, soon’s I can get this fella taken care of.”
Coffin walked inside and sat heavily. He thought about rolling a cigarette and decided he didn’t have the energy. He felt the same about a cup of coffee. He felt himself drifting off and unsuccessfully tried to fight off sleep. He jerked awake, hand streaking to a revolver when he heard the door rattle.
Pembroke froze in the doorway and shouted, “Joe! It’s me, Beryl
!”
Coffin shook his head, which did little to clear away the clinging fog of sleep. “Sorry, Beryl,” he apologized sheepishly.
Pembroke let out his breath. With his relief came a little smile. “Damn, I forgot that about you.”
“Forgot what?”
“The way you come awake if disturbed. It’s rather amazing you haven’t killed more people—friends.”
“Maybe I have, and don’t remember it,” Coffin said. He holstered his revolver, and then rubbed his face with both hands.
“Hogwash.” Pembroke poured two tin mugs of coffee, handed one to Coffin and then sat at his desk. “So, what happened? And who is that guy out there?”
Coffin explained it quickly, though he was not sure it all was coherent. He couldn’t remember ever having been this tired, and it worried him a little. When he was done, he rose wearily. “You got any more questions, they’ll wait till tomorrow. I need to get me some shuteye.”
Coffin was the one with questions the next day. He had slept the rest of the day before and most of the night. He rose an hour or so before dawn, dressed and found that Terwilliger’s was open. He was famished, and so packed away a huge breakfast. His appetite amused even Terwilliger himself, who generally had a sour disposition.
When he got to the office, Beryl Pembroke was there. Coffin poured himself some coffee and took a seat. “Where’s Enoch?” he asked.
“Gone, as usual,” Pembroke said with a smile. “Somethin’ in particular?”
“Sort of. The day you left three stages were hit.”
“Makes me a suspect, don’t it?” Coffin said in mock suspiciousness.
“There’s some that’d think that way,” Pembroke said. “But unless you’ve got a gang—and a large one—it couldn’t have been you. One was hit between here and Virginia City, one between Flat Busted and Bannock and another—one from here—northeast of Virginia City.”