by John Legg
“Howdy, Chris,” Wilson called to the young clerk when he and Coffin had walked into the store. “Tell Mr. Crown I’d like to talk to him.”
“He ain’t here.”
“He’s not, huh?” Wilson was a little surprised. “You know where he is?”
Chris Baker shook his head. “All he said was he was goin’ out of town a while, and that I should open the store mornin’s and close it nights.”
“When did he tell you this?”
“Three, four days ago, I guess. I ain’t kept much track of it. There a problem, Marshal?”
Coffin and Wilson looked sharply at each other. “No, no problem, Chris. We just needed to talk to him about somethin’. He didn’t say where he was goin’ though, huh?”
“Nope. Just that he had business to tend to elsewhere.” Wilson nodded. “He comes back, you tell him I need to see him, will you?”
“Yessir.”
Outside, the two lawmen stopped. “Well, what do we do now?” Wilson asked.
“Don’t he own some other business in town?” Coffin asked.
“Several. You want to try them?”
“Might as well. If that son of a bitch is in town here, I aim to flush him out and then stomp on him.” Coffin felt so much older than he had when he had ridden into Madison less than half a year ago. In his reflection in the store window, he could see that he looked older, too. Not so boyish in looks or in wear.
A stop at every store or business that Crown owned produced nothing more than the familiar refrain, “He said he was goin’ out of town on business.”
At last an exhausted Coffin called an end to the search. It was not an entirely fruitless day, though. For one thing, it seemed certain at this point that Crown was not in Virginia City. For another, Coffin had finally decided that Marshal Jud Wilson was not all that bad a fellow. Under other circumstances, in a different place maybe, they might’ve been friends.
“You hungry, Jud?” Coffin asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Almost as hungry as I am tired. How about I buy you supper?”
“Only if I can buy us a bottle to kill afterward.”
“It’s a deal.” Coffin wasn’t sure why he had invited Wilson to supper, though he figured that he knew deep down inside that he should not be alone, at least for a little while. He might go off on another rampage. Not that Wilson would be able to stop him if he decided to do it; it was just a lot less likely if Coffin was amid company.
They ate buffalo steaks, potatoes, yams, biscuits, and two kinds of beans. With coffee they ate blueberry pie. Feeling sluggish, they went to a saloon and bought two bottles of rye whiskey.
“Where’re we gonna go?” Coffin asked.
“You got a room?”
“Nope.”
“Best find you one then, and just set there for the night. I usually just stay at the office, so I don’t really have a place to offer for you to stay.”
Twenty minutes later, the two lawmen were sitting at a small table in a hotel, drinking whiskey and playing poker for pennies. Coffin did not remember going to bed, and when he awoke in the morning, he felt awful. Too much rage, too much rye, too much hate, and too little sleep.
He dragged himself through the day by sheer will. He slept well that night, though, and in the morning, he headed out early. He just said farewell to Wilson and left Virginia City. He wanted to see how Pembroke was doing, and then load up his mule with supplies. Then he would hunt down Giles Crown, Hugh Vickers and Cady Merkle. No matter where they went, he would find them.
He explained all that to Pembroke when he saw the lawman. He was surprised that Pembroke looked so good. He was still pretty much bedridden, but he could move about some, and he was much hardier. It was almost as if Pembroke had gotten better physically once he was freed of the burden of telling Coffin the bad news. That and knowing that Coffin was back in Madison and ready to take up his duties there. Still, Coffin could see the rage and pain lurking in his friend’s eyes.
Pembroke nodded when Coffin was finished. “Soon’s I get back on my feet, son, I’m ridin’ with you.”
Coffin said nothing.
“Don’t you get like that with me, son. I can see the thirst for revenge in your eyes. I got every much right—more—as you do to kill those bastards.”
Coffin nodded. “I ain’t aimin’ for it to take that long, but if I can’t find ’em by the time you’re better, I’d be pleased to have you ride along with me, Major.”
“Then it’s settled. When’re you leaving?”
“Tomorrow, first thing. I ain’t of a mind for dawdlin’. Now you get some rest. I got work to do.”
First Coffin took his horse to the livery and told Ray Hudson to take especially good care of the chestnut. The horse had done all it was called on to do and then some. He rated top-notch care.
“Sure,” Hudson said. “What do you want to do with all those horses and mules you brought in here the other day?”
“Just keep ’em here. If any of ’em needs work, take care of it. Either I’ll settle up with you—or the town will.” Hudson wanted to ask Coffin what was going on, but he was not senseless enough to ask such questions when a man like Coffin had that cold look in his eyes.
Then Coffin went to Rosencrantz’s Dry-Goods Store and bought new pants, shirt, hat, socks, and bandanna. Then it was off to Duncan’s for a shave, haircut, and bath. Dressed in his new clothes, he tossed the old ones on the trash pile out back of Duncan’s.
With a sigh, he headed for the office. Someone had come along and dragged Ochs out and cleaned up the cell. He was glad for that. Whoever had done it had also put a new pot of coffee on the stove. Coffin poured some and sat behind Enoch Pembroke’s desk with his feet on it. He smoked and sipped coffee, trying to keep the beast of rage caged inside him. He had surprised himself that he had been able to leash the fury when it was needed. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on this way, ready to erupt at any moment. He was going to end up shooting someone innocent.
He was still sitting there an hour later, when George Davenport slipped inside the office. He looked furtive and scared, as if he expected to be killed at any moment.
“What the hell you want here, boy?” Coffin asked harshly. He had been getting to a point where he was over the hot fire of rage, and into a state where the hate would stay with him always, simmer slowly below the surface, ready for release when he wanted it released. Now Davenport was jeopardizing that delicate balance of emotions. “I thought I told you to get your ass away from Madison and keep it away.”
“You did.” Davenport looked like he had just swallowed a horseshoe. “I did. I wanted to. I...”
Coffin sighed. “Just tell it, dammit.”
“I skedaddled out of here, but I didn’t have no money, no nothin’. Only thing I could think of doin’ was gettin’ to Virginia City. I was hopin’ maybe I could get a grubstake there. I took my horse and headed there, but Cady and Hugh stopped me about halfway. They blindfolded me and took me somewhere. Crown was there. They kept me there for a day or two, then took me out, blindfolded again. When they took it off, I wasn’t far from here. Crown told me to find you and deliver this.” Davenport held out a piece of paper as if it were a skunk.
Coffin took the paper and unfolded it. He read it, tight-lipped. Then he looked up at Davenport. “You got any money, boy?” he asked.
“No. No, sir.”
“You still got your horse?”
“Yessir. That, the saddle, and the clothes I’m wearin’ are all I got in this world.”
Coffin reached into his pockets and pulled out some cash. He counted out several bills and put the rest away. He rolled up the money he had in hand, and tossed it at Davenport.
The young man caught it, counted it, and his eyes got wide. “A hundred dollars?” he said in wonder. “That’s more money than I ever seen at one time.”
“After all those stages you held up?”
“I didn’t hold up that many, and
whenever there was big money around, I never got to touch it.”
“Take that money and go buy yourself some new duds, get a good meal. No whiskey. Then you get on that horse, and you ride the hell out of Madison. It’d be best if you were to leave Montana Territory. I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
“Yessir.” He spun and went to the door. Then he stopped and looked back. “Thank you, Marshal,” he said solemnly. Coffin nodded, wondering why he wanted to be so helpful toward Davenport. He supposed it was some need in him to prevent someone else young like him getting shoved into a life of guns, blood, and death.
With another sigh, Coffin rose and left the office. He walked to Pembroke’s house and let himself in. “Enoch,” he called out. “You awake?”
“Come on up, Joe.”
Coffin went up the stairs and into Pembroke’s room. He dropped the note on Pembroke’s lap.
Pembroke glanced at him in surprise, then picked up the paper and read it. “You going to meet them?”
“Of course.”
“I doubt they’ll stick to what they said.”
“What? About just the two of ’em comin’?” Pembroke nodded.
“Hell, I know Crown, Merkle, and Vickers are together. It might be all that come, but they might hire some other boys.”
“This is plain foolish, Joe,” Pembroke said, slapping the note against his blankets. “Take off. Get the hell out of here. Those bastards can’t do much more to me than’s already been done.”
“They have to pay.”
“Then set an ambush for them. Take one of the girl’s rooms over at the Pittsburgh.”
Coffin shook his head. “As devious as those bastards are, they might have help in town. Word got to ’em that I was set to bushwhack ’em might cause trouble. Even worse, if I ain’t out there, they’re liable to set on some innocent people.”
“Get some help.”
“From who? You’re all stove up. Beryl’s gone. Hell, there ain’t no one else in town I’d trust to go head to head with hard-ass outlaws. No, it’s best I meet ’em alone.”
“You better get some rest, then.” Pembroke sounded done in.
Coffin stopped at the Pittsburgh, had two shots of rye, and two glasses of beer. He fended off curious—well, he considered them plain nosy—people with their questions, and. accepted their words welcoming him back into town.
Afterward, he went to Blake’s Hotel, which had kept his room open for him. He was asleep almost as soon as he laid down.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dawn was cracking on what appeared to be a beautiful day. The temperature was just cool enough to make a body feel alive; the light brushing of the wind was refreshing; the eastern sky tinged with a perfect red.
Coffin walked to the office and leaned against the door jamb, waiting. Then he saw them. He counted seven of them, riding in from the east. They stopped at Blake’s and tied their horses off, then they marched up President Street as if they owned it.
Coffin flipped his cigarette away and stepped off the boardwalk. He faced east, toward the men and stood. He recognized Merkle, Vickers, and Chris Baker, Crown’s store clerk. He assumed the distinguished-looking middle-aged man was Giles Crown. The other three he did not know. Not that it mattered.
The seven finally stopped just past Third Street, maybe seventy-five feet from Coffin. With a shrug, he moved toward them a little. As he passed the corner of Crenshaw’s Pharmacy, someone stepped out of the alley. Coffin whirled, hand going for a pistol. Then he realized it was Pembroke.
The two stared at each other for a few moments. “I’m comin’ along, Joe,” Pembroke said softly. “This’s my fight as much as it’s yours.” Coffin nodded. Pembroke shifted the scattergun in his hands, and then the two moved slowly down the street, as did the seven other men. They all stopped with about thirty feet separating them.
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Marshal Coffin,” the middle-aged man said.
“You’d be Giles Crown?” Coffin asked.
“I would.” He paused, a seemingly reasonable man. “And it’s past time that you paid for all the annoyances you’ve caused me and my fellows.”
“Eat shit, Crown,” Coffin said flatly. “You’re a murderin’ bunch of scum and should—goddammit, will—be brought to account for your crimes.”
“And I suppose you,” Crown laughed, “and the portly old sheriff there are going to administer this justice.” His companions picked up the sign from their leader and laughed, too.
Coffin’s hand began rotating slowly on his stomach, between his gunbelt and shoulder rig. “Yes,” he said flatly.
“That’s interesting, Marshal. Yes, very interesting. You law dogs are certainly an interesting breed.”
“Joe, I can’t stand to hear any more of this bullshit,” Pembroke said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Coffin’s hand stopped moving. Then it moved upward until it hit the badge. He pulled it off and threw it in the dirt.
Pembroke, watching him, smiled a little and then did the same. They nodded at each other. Then both turned toward the enemy and began firing. Pembroke’s two shotgun blasts opened things up. By the time that was done, Coffin had a Remington in each hand and was firing smoothly.
The scattergun blasts had surprised Crown and the others, and it took them a moment to get into action. By then, Vickers was down, as was one of the unknown gunmen, hit by buckshot.
Coffin fired at Merkle and Crown first. He got Crown, knocking him down. The outlaw leader was not dead, but he was out of commission for a while though. Merkle, however, had flung himself to the side, and ducked behind a water trough.
Pembroke dropped the shotgun and grabbed his pistol. He knew, in a peripheral sort of way, that the outlaws didn’t consider him all that dangerous. All of them seemed to be concentrating their fire in Coffin’s direction. Pembroke fired slowly and evenly. By the time he had emptied the big Colt, Chris Baker and the two other unidentified outlaws were down.
Pembroke dropped the empty pistol and went for the spare he had tucked into the waistband of his pants. Then a bullet hit him in the right leg. He went down, landing heavily on his shoulder and chest. The pain in his older wounds flared up hot and strong. He groaned, without realizing he was doing it.
Coffin emptied the two Remingtons, hitting Crown several more times, killing him. He had seen the last two unidentified outlaws go down, but they still had some life in them, so he made sure he picked them off.
Then he felt a burning, massive punch low down on the side of the abdomen. It spun him and knocked him down. “Shit,” he groaned. He half pushed himself up and fired one more shot, as Merkle poked his head around the trough. The shot missed, but Merkle ducked behind the trough, giving Coffin enough time to get to his feet and stagger toward the side of the street Merkle was on.
He was hit again, as a bullet ripped through the flesh on his left thigh. But he could see, through the pall of gunsmoke, that Merkle was frantically trying to reload. Coffin grinned viciously and hobbled that way. As he moved he put the Remingtons into the holsters and drew one of the Colts.
He stopped three feet from Merkle. “Your time’s up, boy,” he said quietly. “Get up.”
Merkle complied, figuring that Coffin was planning to arrest him. That almost pleased him. It wasn’t good, but at least there might be a chance to break out of jail. Coffin shot Merkle in the right forearm.
“Jesus,” Merkle said, eyes widening. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Marshal?”
“I ain’t a goddamn marshal no more.” He shot Merkle in the other arm.
“Goddamn. Son of a bitch.”
In quick succession, Coffin shot Merkle in the abdomen, low down; and then both legs. With the last shot in the Colt, he shot Merkle in the left leg again, this time hitting the femoral artery.
Coffin put the pistol away. He turned and took two steps before he fell.
It took Coffin quite a while to recover. By the time he was able to get aroun
d reasonably well, winter was on them, and he knew it would be foolish to leave Madison. So he sat out the winter in the house with Pembroke. Once they started getting better, they spent a fair amount of time in the Pittsburgh Saloon—both downstairs at the bar and upstairs in the fancy rooms.
Both men had ignored the many pleas of town officials to take up badges again.
Spring finally arrived, and Coffin saddled his horse. Pembroke hadn’t yet made up his mind what he wanted to do, so he was staying in Madison for the time being.
“Now don’t you go pinning on no law badge anytime soon, my friend,” Pembroke told him just after Coffin had climbed into the saddle.
Coffin chuckled a little. “You’ll be a grandmother before I ever put a badge on again,” Coffin said.
They shook hands, and Coffin rode slowly out of Madison.
THE END
About the Author
John Legg has published more than 55 novels, all on Old West themes. Blood of the Scalphunter, is his latest novel in the field of his main interest — the Rocky Mountain Fur Trade. He first wrote of the fur trade in Cheyenne Lance, his initial work.
Cheyenne Lance and Medicine Wagon were published while Legg was acquiring a B.A. in Communications and an M.S. in Journalism. Legg has continued his journalism career, and is a copy editor with The New York Times News Service.
Since his first two books, Legg has, under his own name, entertained the Western audience with many more tales of man’s fight for independence on the Western frontier. In addition, he has had published several historical novels set in the Old West. Among those are War at Bent’s Fort and Blood at Fort Bridger.
In addition, Legg has, under pseudonyms, contributed to the Ramseys, a series that was published by Berkley, and was the sole author of the eight books in the Saddle Tramp series for HarperPaperbacks. He also was the sole author of Wildgun, an eight-book adult Western series from Berkley/Jove. He also has published numerous articles and a nonfiction book — Shinin’ Trails: A Possibles Bag of Fur Trade History— on the subject,