by John Legg
Junior looked angry and sheepish in the morning. Coffin paid him no mind. Coffin simply ate a filling breakfast, while Wintermeyer had Junior go saddle Coffin’s horse. It was still raining when Coffin left, but not nearly as much or as hard as it had yesterday.
He headed north, figuring that was as good a direction as any to go. Two days later, he pulled into Helena. He asked around at the stage station and elsewhere, but he learned nothing. Disgusted and dispirited, he stopped in a saloon for a couple of drinks before heading out again.
He had just downed a shot of bourbon and was working at a mug of beer when a nondescript man clomped up beside him. “Hey, Shorty,” the man said. He paused to belch. “I hear you been askin’ a bunch of questions around here about Cady Merkle. That right?”
Coffin ignored him, since it was obvious that the man was not going to offer any information about Merkle. Instead, Coffin just sipped his beer and stared straight ahead. He kept an eye on the man in the mirror set in the back bar.
“Hey, goddammit, I’m talkin’ to you, Shorty,” the man snapped.
Coffin set his mug softly on the bar. Then he whirled and slammed his right fist into the man’s midsection.
The man’s face contorted and reddened while his mouth flapped ineffectually.
“I could arrest you for botherin’ a federal marshal, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary, will it?”
The man shook his head, still unable to breathe, let alone speak.
Coffin nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder to the bartender. He turned to the man and then grabbed a handful of his shirt and another by the seat of his pants. He frog-marched the man across the saloon and out the door. Then he gave the man a good shove. He landed in the muddy street, still trying to breathe. Coffin brushed off his hands and went back to his drink.
Half an hour later, Coffin saw in the mirror that the man had come back into the saloon, this time with two other men. They spotted him and moved forward, stopping about eight feet from Coffin, who turned to face them.
“I come to make you pay for what you done,” the man said.
“All I did was to throw out the trash,” Coffin said easily. His right hand moved up, as if it had a will of its own, and began the little circular pattern on his stomach.
“You shouldn’t have insulted Stony here,” another man said. “He’s a good...”
“Stony?” Coffin said with an insulting laugh. “That his name? Stony? I guess it fits, come to think of it, since he’s got nothin’ but rocks in his head.”
Stony seethed and went for his revolver. The man who had spoken stopped him.
“I’m gonna say this only once. Get your asses out of here, and stay the hell out ’til I’m done and gone from here.”
“We can’t do that,” Stony said angrily.
“Then you’re gonna die today. You think about that for a while.”
“The hell I will.” Stony and his two friends went for their guns.
Coffin wasted no time in grabbing a Remington, but he was far slower than these three. Stony had fired two shots, and the talker one by the time Coffin got his pistol out. Bullets were still flying at Coffin, but the closest one only clipped his left sleeve.
Coffin calmly fired, emptying his one Remington. He had learned long ago that accuracy and steadiness were generally a heap better than sheer speed in a gunbattle. It proved true here, as all three men went down, dead before they even hit.
Coffin turned and drained his beer mug. He tossed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the bar. “That’s for buryin’ those three assholes.” He put on his hat, turned and walked out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Coffin left Helena the next morning. Ted Whitmore, Helena’s town marshal, had come by the hotel and started giving Coffin a hard time about the three killings.
Coffin took it for a bit, but then said, “Shut your yap, or I’ll shut it for you.”
Whitmore looked at him in angry surprise.
“It was evident that those three assholes were either members of Cady Merkle’s gang, or they wanted to be. I just rid your town of some vermin is all.”
“But...”
“You keep on pesterin’ me with this, and I’ll throw your ass in your own jail for obstructin’ justice.” Coffin paused, then nodded. “Now I know what this is all about,” he said with more nodding. “You figure there’s bounty on those three, and you’re figurin’ I’m gonna take it. Well, I reckon I deserve it, seein’ as how I was the one who sent ’em across the divide.” He could tell he was right by the sudden spark of greed in Whitmore’s eyes. “I got no use for that bounty. Nor do I have the time to sit around here and wait for it. It’s yours.”
“That’s not what I wanted, Marshal, no, not at all.”
“Not only are you a poor lawman, you’re also a poor liar. Now get the hell out and let me get some shuteye.” Coffin headed west out of Helena through MacDonald Pass across the Continental Divide. In the vast north-south valley to the west, he. rode north a little way to Goldcreek. He spent a day or two there, but learned nothing more than the people there had reactivated their vigilance committee in the wake of several stage robberies, in which two people had been killed.
He pushed on, heading south through Deer Lodge and then east to Butte, where he spent a few more days learning that he once again was too late to be of any use, and that the good citizens of Butte would take care of the problem themselves. Coffin knew better than to argue with a mob. He just nodded, told them not to hang any innocent men, and rode out again.
He rode south, stopping to question anyone he happened to see, as he had since he left Helena. His frustration was increasing each day. Leaving Butte, he worked his way through Pipestone Pass and down into another big valley. He generally followed the Jefferson Fork south and then southeast.
Five weeks after he had left Madison, he rode back into town. He had nothing to show for all his time on the trail other than a scruffy beard and a sour disposition. Coffin stopped in front of the office and dismounted. He rubbed his rear end and went inside.
A drawn, haggard Enoch Pembroke sat at his desk. His eyes were ringed with black and red, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “Joe,” he said quietly, his voice sounding small and far away.
“Jesus, Enoch,” Coffin said as he poured himself some coffee, “you look terrible.” When he got no response, Coffin turned, looking at Pembroke curiously. “Where’s Beryl?” he asked, suddenly feeling a chill of anxiety.
“Dead,” Pembroke croaked.
“Dead?” Coffin echoed in a faint voice. “How? When?”
“Sit,” Pembroke said. “And bring me some coffee while you’re over there.”
Coffin grabbed another tin cup from the nail on the wall and filled it. He carried both cups to Pembroke’s desk and set them down, and then slumped into a chair in front of the desk. “What happened?” he said.
“Beryl doesn’t usually go chasin’ outlaws—alone or with a posse—out of town if I ain’t here. Too risky. But a couple boys we think are new recruits by Merkle tried robbin’ the stage to Virginia City almost within sight of town. Some poor miner was headin’ the same way, saw what was happening and raced back here to tell Beryl. He didn’t really have any time to throw together a posse, so he just jumped on the nearest horse and rode like hell.” He stopped, choking back some tears.
“And he found them?” Coffin said softly.
Pembroke nodded. “Yes. After an hour or so, when Beryl didn’t come back, a couple boys rode out to look around. They found him shot several times.”
“I’m sorry, Enoch. I really am.”
“I know. But sorry doesn’t mean shit right now.”
“If you weren’t here, how do you know all this?”
“Folks told me. Damn, Joe, I rode in here that goddamn afternoon. Shit.”
“How long ago, Major?”
“Five, no, six days ago now.” He dragged a listless hand over his sagging face.
“I looked in on Beryl, who was already being worked on by Horst. Christ, Joe, he looked like they used him for target practice. He was shot full of holes.”
Coffin could see that Pembroke was getting angry, and he figured that was a good thing. Pembroke would be able to deal with his loss more easily if he was enraged and looking to make someone pay for his brother’s death.
“But I swear, that ain’t what killed him.”
Coffin almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. “What the hell’s that mean?” he asked, drying off his face with his sleeve.
“Joe,” Pembroke said with deadly earnestness, “I think he was hanged.”
“Hanged?”
“Hanged.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I looked the body over pretty well. I think Doc Smith just saw a heap of bullet holes and decided that was what killed him.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“Well, sort of.” He lit a pipe, trying to keep his composure. “I ain’t sure the hangin’ killed him, but I’ll swear on Ma’s gravestone that he was hanged.”
“You don’t want to talk about this no more, you don’t have to,” Coffin said sympathetically.
“No, no, I’m all right.” Smoked poured out of Pembroke’s pipe as he puffed furiously. He finally pulled the pipe away from his mouth. “You know what I think they did, Joe?”
Coffin only shook his head.
“I think they pulled that job to lure Beryl out of town. I think Merkle and his men were waitin’ out there and then...then...” Pembroke looked stricken and suddenly the pipe was pouring out billowing clouds of smoke.
Coffin got up and walked around Pembroke’s desk. In the bottom drawer, as he knew there would be, was a quart bottle of rye whiskey. He pulled it out, opened it, and poured a heaping dose into Pembroke’s coffee cup. Coffin took a good swig straight from the bottle and then set it on the desk. “Drink it,” he ordered. Pembroke did, and it seemed to settle him. “Sorry, Joe.”
“No need to be sorry, Enoch. I know what you’re goin’ through.” He sat back down and had another swig of rye. “You feel like stopping I ain’t gonna argue.”
“No, it’s best gettin’ it out and done.” He paused, ordering his thoughts. “I think they hung him in a tree and then used him as a target,” Pembroke got out before he gulped down half his cup of rye in one prodigious swallow.
“Jesus,” Coffin said.
“Yeah. Jesus.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Coffin asked, baffled by the horror of something so heartless.
It took a little before Pembroke spoke. He had thought of almost nothing else than the reasons for such inhumanity. He thought he had an answer, but he was not sure. “I think maybe Merkle and his gang are trying to pay back in kind,” Pembroke said.
“What?”
“With all the stage robberies goin’ on these days, the vigilantes have been busy. Not only in Madison, but Virginia City, Butte, Helena, Bannock. All over. I think Merkle was tryin’ to send us a message.”
“But why didn’t they leave him hangin’ then? There would’ve been no question then that they were warning us.”
“I don’t know,” Pembroke admitted. “I can’t figure it out, but I’m as sure of it as I am of anything.” He paused, looking up at Coffin. “I want their heads, Joe,” he said, voice cracking. “I was just waitin’ for you to come back so there’d be someone to watch things.”
“You stay here and do that,” Coffin said. “I’ll dog those bastards to Kingdom Come if need be.”
“No,” Pembroke said flatly, harshly. “I’m goin’ after ’em.”
“No you ain’t. The people here in Madison need you. To these folks, I’m only a newcomer, and not to be fully trusted. But you, you’ve been here for quite a spell. Somebody’s got to act as town marshal. That’s you. Not me. The people here wouldn’t accept me as their marshal. Not yet anyway.”
Pembroke was about to argue, but Coffin cut him off. “No, Enoch, your place is here. Besides, you have to think of Amy.”
“I ain’t the one courtin’ her,” Pembroke said.
“True. But she still needs her brother, especially when she’s just lost her only other brother. You’re about the only family she’s got left.” He smiled tightly. “Soon’s I get those bastards, I’ll come on back here and marry Amy, take her off your hands.”
“I still don’t like the idea, Joe,” Pembroke growled. “But I expect you’re right.” He smiled wanly. “I reckon I am gettin’ a mite old for such runnin’ around. I figure you’re a hell of a lot better than me these days at living on the trail.”
Coffin was ready to just up and leave, but he realized that he had no idea of where to go chasing Merkle’s men. “You still got that feller Pendergast locked up?” he suddenly asked.
Pembroke nodded. “Yeah. He was sentenced to six months for bein’ drunk in public. It was all we could get him on. Why?”
“I’m gonna go talk to him.”
Pembroke looked shocked, but bit back a retort. As soon as he thought about it, he changed his mind. The idea sounded fine to him. He nodded in agreement and started to rise.
“Just stay where you are, Enoch,” Coffin said quietly but firmly. “I’ll handle this.”
Pembroke sat back down. He smiled weakly at Coffin.
“Ain’t it somethin’,” he said, “with a corporal givin’ the major orders.”
“You ain’t a major no more. You told me that yourself. And I ain’t givin’ you orders. I’m just tryin’ to pound some sense into you. And I’m tryin’ to help a friend.”
Coffin grabbed the keys to the cells and went into the back room, shutting the door tightly behind him. Two smoky lanterns attached to the wall on each side of the door spread a sickly light. Coffin stopped to remove his gunbelt and hang it on a peg next to the door.
Several of the prisoners looked at Coffin with hope in their eyes; hope that he might be coming to let them go. All of them but Alvin Pendergast lost interest when Coffin went to the cell in the left rear corner.
“Comin’ to set me free, eh, Marshal?” Pendergast said with a sneer.
Coffin said nothing. He opened the barred door, stepped inside and smashed Pendergast in the face. Pendergast staggered back until the back of his legs hit the iron cot, and he sat involuntarily.
Coffin calmly locked the door behind him, and left the keys in the lock. He turned back toward Pendergast. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions, Alvin,” he said coldly. “If you give me a hard time instead of answers, I will pound you until you beg me to kill you.”
“You made a big goddamn mistake comin’ in here like this,” Pendergast said with a blood-coated grin. He pushed himself up, and Coffin hammered him again, knocking him right back down on his seat.
“I don’t have the time or the patience to play games with you, Alvin.”
“Eat shit,” Pendergast grumbled.
“I sense some rebelliousness on your part, Alvin,” Coffin said derisively. “You want a little more softenin’ up before I start askin’ my questions?”
“You ain’t gonna get nothin’ out of me, dammit.” Coffin shrugged. “I don’t mind kickin’ the shit out of you for a while.”
Pendergast suddenly bolted off the cot, charging Coffin. The lawman deftly shifted a little and then shoved Pendergast’s back, adding to his impetus. Pendergast slammed into the cell’s iron bars.
Coffin grabbed the hack of Pendergast’s shirt and pulled him a foot or so away from the bars. Then he shoved forward, slamming Pendergast’s face into the bars again. He repeated the maneuver, then asked, “Feel like talkin’ yet, Alvin?”
“No,” Pendergast mumbled.
“Oh, well.” Coffin smashed Pendergast’s face into the bars twice more, then pulled him away, turned him and shoved him away. Pendergast groaned as he hit the cot and fell on it.
Coffin knelt beside the cot. “I’ll start breakin’ other parts of you, Alvin, unless you answer me. Now, wh
ere can I find Merkle?” Coffin asked.
Pendergast groaned again.
“Not much of an answer.” Coffin grabbed Pendergast’s bloody, broken nose with two fingers. Then he squeezed and twisted it.
Pendergast sucked in a breath and let it whistle out. “I’ll talk, dammit,” he said. The words were distorted some, but still understandable.
Coffin released Pendergast’s nose. “Where’s Merkle?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” His eyes widened in horror when he saw Coffin’s hand heading toward his nose again. “Wait!” he screeched. “Wait!” When Coffin hesitated, hand an inch from Coffin’s mangled proboscis, Pendergast said, “I don’t know. I really don’t. I been in here a couple of months now! I can’t know where he is.”
“Any idea of where he holes up?”
“Several places. Nearest one’s in Virginia City.”
“You expect me to believe that? The most notorious outlaw between Denver and San Francisco, and you tell me he’s hidin’ in Virginia City. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
“Wait! It makes sense!” He breathed heavily, trying to control the pain in his battered face. “He’s got somebody in Virginia City helpin’ him. Somebody respectable. Only Cady, Kurt, and Hugh know who he is. But what better place to hide than right under the noses of folks lookin’ for him?”
“Where else?”
“A cave in the mountains outside Helena. Another one overlooking the valley from the Madison Rage. There might be others, but that’s all I know of. Cady’s a closemouthed fella most times.”
“You know about Beryl Pembroke?” Coffin asked. “He’s dead. I suppose Cady had it done.”
“You know how or where?”
“No. I ain’t seen none of Cady’s boys since I been in here.”
Coffin nodded and rose. “Well, it ain’t much of a payment, but it’s somethin’.” Coffin took Pendergast’s throat in his hands and squeezed the life out of him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was two days before Coffin could head out after Cady Merkle’s band of cutthroats. He had needed some sleep, and so had Enoch Pembroke. The two had gone to Pembroke’s house, where Amy kissed Coffin and then ordered her brother to bed. She came back downstairs after seeing her brother into his room, and she sat next to Coffin on the couch.