Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  No way anyone could survive the beating and stomping Butler was receiving. Bobby finally reined up. Butler’s horse acted like he would run forever to escape the trailing object at his heels. Number two down, one left.

  A small cluster of Black Pine’s settlers attended Reginald’s funeral. Greta and some of her girls dressed up respectable, arrived in a two-seat buckboard, and the putas crossed themselves several times during the services. A bald-headed Baptist preacher with a squeaky voice spoke the sermon above the hard south wind. Old man Butler gave Bobby a hard look when it was over, climbed on his horse and rode off.

  The next day, Bobby waited in the brush until the old man left the ranch on horseback, then he went in. Prowling in a shed, he found three hides with Chisum’s Lightning brand on them. Proof enough for him that Butler had been killing Chisum’s beef. He stood back in the shade of the shed and considered his options. This would be no accident; he needed to show folks the reason why. No one had learned a single thing from those boys’ horse wrecks. The old man’s death had to show that rustling Chisum stock didn’t pay.

  Stealthily, Bobby crossed the yard in the midday sun. Looking all about, he tried the front door of the house and found it unlocked. Carefully, he slipped inside. He found no evidence of a woman inside the house—it reeked of stale cigarette smoke, sweaty socks, and horse. The dry sink was piled with dirty dishes and the beds unmade. Filthy blankets were wadded up on the bare mattresses. Bobby found a great leather chair with oak arms and situated it so he could cover the front door and settled into it to wait the owner’s return.

  It was past sundown when Butler stalked into the dark house, lit a lamp, and then turned as if he realized he was not alone.

  “Don’t make another move,” Bobby said, cocking the Colt in his fist with a loud snap.

  “It’s you!”

  “It’s me.”

  “You killed my boys.”

  “They killed themselves.”

  “You—” Butler raged.

  “You stole the wrong man’s cattle.”

  “Stole what?”

  “Don’t try to lie to me, I found the Lightning brands on those hides in your shed. Chisum, he really hates rustlers.”

  “Why, I’ll—”

  Bobby’s first bullet doubled Butler over, the second one spun him around in the haze of bitter gunsmoke and ear-shattering explosions. Then standing over him, Bobby emptied the rest of the ammunition into his body.

  Coughing and choking, Bobby fled outside on the porch and used the front of the house to lean on while he regained his breath. When he recovered he went for the hides in the shed, and brought them back. He dragged Butler’s limp body outside into the starlight on the porch. Then he rolled his stiffening corpse in the hides, and bound him in his shroud with a lariat rope.

  Bobby took Butler’s horse from the corral, saddled him, and tied the body over it. Two hours later, he hung Butler’s corpse by the neck in his funeral suit of mixed hides from a large oak limb near the crossroads.

  With a last look at Butler’s twisting form in the silver starlight, Bobby felt satisfied with a job well done and headed for his hideout. Word of this would get to Chisum in a few days and he planned to ride over to the Tanks, collect his money, and find out his next mission.

  Three days later, hungover from his private drinking binge at the hideout, Bobby rode to the Tanks. He circled around on the hillside, making certain no one was there, then satisfied it was not occupied, he rode in, dismounted, and pushed open the door. He blinked in disbelief at his discovery. Seated on a crate was John Chisum, himself.

  “I never—”

  “Expected me to be here.” Chisum closed his eyes as if pained. “You went too far, Bobby. Wrapping him in them hides with my brand on them!” Chisum shook his head in disapproval. “You’ve got the law all stirred up.”

  “Hell, I’ll keep low for three or four weeks,” Bobby protested.

  “No. You’re too dangerous for me to use.”

  “They’ll settle down.”

  “No they won’t.”

  “Hell, they can’t prove—”

  “Those were my hides that you wrapped the son of a bitch up in. It points at me!” Chisum looked at him in disbelief. “Why did you use them? I wanted him killed not a testimony that I was responsible.”

  “I figured—”

  “You didn’t figure shit. There is only one thing to do. You need to ride out of the territory and do it quick.”

  Bobby could not believe the man’s words. Hell, he had murdered those two brothers, done it all so smoothly they could never point a finger at anyone. And he had used that damn old man’s corpse to show the others that they shouldn’t rustle his stock. Taken aback by Chisum’s disapproval, he shook his head to try and clear it. His stomach balled into a knot. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Here’s five hundred dollars. I want you to shake the dust of New Mexico tonight and not come back.”

  “Sure, sure,” Bobby said, still in shock, jamming the roll of money in his pants. “You won’t get a better avenger.”

  “Maybe I’ll hire a smarter one. Now ride out of here before Sheriff Garrett finds you on my place.”

  “Fuck Garrett.” Bobby turned on his heel and went outside. The same to you, Chisum. Folks always said that you turned your back on Billy the Kid the very same way after things got hot for him when he was working for you.

  Bobby climbed into the saddle. For one last time, he considered with contempt and burning hatred the big man standing in the crude doorway. Without a word he turned away. He never wanted to see that rich bastard again. And after all he’d done for him. Seething wtih rage, he booted the bay horse eastward.

  2

  “Another drunk,” the officer said, shoving his latest arrest through the city marshal’s office and toward the row of jail cells.

  John Wesley Micheals looked up to observe his deputy, Mike Anser, half carrying the derelict past his rolltop desk. With a quick shake of his head, John turned his attention back to his paperwork. He cringed at the unmistakable sounds of the new prisoner’s gagging and heaving. Anser’s sharp words followed in protest. No need for John to turn around and look, the vile odors of puke had already assailed his nose.

  He glanced up at the clock. It was only eight o’clock on Saturday night in Walsenburg, Colorado. There would be scores of other drunks to be herded through that front door before the Sabbath sun came up. Night after night, he and his deputies paraded the louts to the jail. At times, John grew so weary of the slobbering fools, he wished he had chosen another profession besides law enforcement.

  Anser, a big man, came back attempting to wipe away the damage to his clothing with a wet towel.

  “I didn’t see it coming in time,” he said and dropped heavily into the vacant chair. He shook his head wearily and sighed. “By damn, they’ve started early tonight.”

  “Saturday night. Payday always gives us a full house.” John sat in the barrel-back wooden chair and tented his fingertips. “We will be full to overflowing by morning.”

  “Yes, we will. Aren’t you going to the church social tonight?”

  “If things don’t get out of hand.”

  “Me and the boys can handle it, Marshal. It’ll just be drunks.”

  “Yes,” John agreed. “There will be plenty of them.” He better be getting over there if he didn’t want to be too late.

  “You go ahead. We won’t have a problem,” Anser said again to reassure him.

  John agreed, put the jail expense accounts away in the center drawer until later, and stood up. He strapped on the holster and short-barreled Colt, buttoned his coat, jerked it down by the hem, and put on his stiff-brimmed hat as he headed for the door.

  “Send word if you need help,” he turned and said to Anser. After the man’s nod, he went outside.

  From the city jail, he hurried the four blocks to Altersgate Methodist Church. The social was being held in the Sunday-school portion of the stru
cture in the basement. He removed his hat when he entered the well-lit room and a smiling gray-haired lady greeted him. It was Sam Caughman’s wife, Sarah.

  “Oh, Marshal Micheals, so good of you to join us. The singing is about to begin. Get some ice-cold lemonade first, though.”

  “Thanks,” he said, giving her his hat to. put on the wall pegs with the others.

  Several of the men waved to him from around the piano where they were finding their pitch. He held up his hand to beg a minute to get a drink. Bessie Jergen stood behind the giant lemonade bowl, ready to dip him a mugful.

  “Good evening, John,” she said and dropped her gaze to the floating chunks of ice and lemon rinds bobbing in the mixture.

  A fair-haired widow in her thirties, Mrs. Jergen had spoken quite frankly to him on several occasions about the benefits of a spouse. Each time she apologized and said, of course, she intended nothing personal regarding herself.

  Pale-complected, she stood ramrod tall with her head tilting forward of her body. A pleasant enough woman in looks and demeanor. He felt certain he could do much worse than arranging matrimony with her. However, he worried that his low pay as chief city marshal was inadequate to support a woman and two school-age children. A matter that he had never discussed with Bessie, since he felt talking about it would only give her false hopes. Still, he enjoyed her company and found the time spent with her a welcome change from the worthless sots he continually dealt with on his job.

  “Warm evening,” she said, handing him a mug of the yellow concoction.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “If I don’t get called away on duty, I would consider it an honor to escort you home afterward.”

  A pleased smile parted her lips. She nodded. “That would be nice, John.”

  “Good,” he said, satisfied the matter was settled. With the mug of lemonade in his hand, he joined the other singers. They were already into the first verse of “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”

  John’s deep bass blended in with the choral group. An assortment of businessmen, miners, ranchers, and railroad folks were melding their voices to the songs in the booklet. At the end of each number, the choir director, Mike Farr, told them the next page number so that no time was lost until they sung a new song.

  Following the hour and a half of singing, they fell into friendly conversation and another round of lemonade and cookies before they began to disperse. Handshakes and good wishes were exchanged around the room, with promises to see each other at church the next morning.

  John waited patiently while Bessie and some of the other women washed the glasses and put things away. He retrieved his hat. With his fingers gingerly holding the edge of the brim, he wondered what he would say to her. Filled with misgivings about how things were going uptown, he wished he had not asked her. Still, since no word of trouble had reached him, he felt obligated to accompany her home.

  In the light from the kitchen door, he saw her hold up her chin and stride toward him. She wore a hat that reminded him of a hen’s nest, and he wondered what would hatch from it.

  “Marshal,” she said, as if reporting for duty.

  “John is fine,” he reminded her and opened the door to the outside stairs. He followed her up and out into the starlight that shone between the large fir trees.

  “I’m glad you weren’t called away,” she said quietly.

  “So am I,” he said. She would never know how grateful he was to be in her company and not dragging drunken derelicts to jail. He moved wide to avoid a spreading juniper bough. They continued their walk up the gravel street with light from the houses reaching into the shallow ruts.

  “John, you have been very kind to me, but somehow I wonder if I have offended you, or else—”

  “Offended me?”

  “Did you ever have a wife or did you lose a girlfriend in your past? David and I were very happy. His departure was—well, very hard for me to accept, but after so long, I mean one should—”

  “One should let it pass.” He wanted to add, “And get on with one’s life,” but he didn’t say it aloud.

  “Yes.”

  “No, Mrs.—I mean Bessie, I have no one in my past. I’m afraid I’m a very practical man, and to take on the responsibility of home, wife, family, is more than I can afford at this time.”

  “Afford?” she managed as if the word had eluded her.

  “Yes, it isn’t you, Bessie or your fine, polite children. A chief marshal’s pay is too low.”

  “But—but you could do other things.”

  “Not hardly. Since my discharge from the army, I’ve worked as a peace officer in some form or fashion. It’s all I am qualified to do.” No need for him to try and be something he wasn’t and fail at it.

  “Very well,” she said in a small voice. They went the next half block in silence.

  “I am pleased that is the reason,” she finally said, looking down at her shoes. “And that you are that thoughtful.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you have considered me—I mean us—in your future?”

  “Yes, I have, but you must understand my low salary makes it prohibitive.”

  “We could live in my house. It’s paid for.”

  He nodded, acknowledging that he’d heard her.

  “I could continue to sew, which is an honest living.”

  “Yes, but it still would not be enough—”

  “I am a fair manager of accounts.”

  “I am certain that you are.”

  They were at her front door by that time. A crescent moon shone through the morning glory vines that ran up on strings tied to the porch roof. He removed his hat, feeling very uncomfortable; his stomach was upset, too.

  “You may kiss me good-night,” she said, looking down at her toes.

  He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. Then he jerked upright when she threw her arms around his neck, stood on her toes and pasted her mouth to his.

  His eyes flew wide open. Then his arms went around her, and he could feel her willowy body against his. For a long moment, she pressed her lips to his in a strong kiss, then she stopped. Dropping down from her toes, she rapped on his chest with a knuckle.

  “Don’t be too long deciding, John.” Then she turned and opened the door with a quiet “thanks” and disappeared inside.

  He slapped on his hat. His conscience grated him for asking her to let him walk her home. He had been honest with her; she’d taken it wrong. He removed his hat and beat it against the side of his leg as he walked up the dark street, challenged by a yard dog or two that he shooed away. No way with his small salary could he ever ask her to marry him. There was just no way. When he licked his lips, he could taste her and the lemonade still on them. Sweetness and the sour part, like his life. He hurried toward his office; his deputies would need him by this hour.

  John heard the shots before he reached the last block short of the jail. They came from farther down Main Street, somewhere close to the Hurricane Saloon. He unbuttoned his coat and pushed it behind the butt of the Colt. He seldom had to use his firearm, but at times the element of guns and alcohol proved to be pure poison and some innocent bystanders were usually hurt when it happened.

  His boot heels clattered on the hollow-sounding boardwalk as he hurried. Several of the curious came out of the saloon doors and called after him to see what was wrong.

  “Don’t know yet,” he managed and rushed on.

  “I’ll kill the first sumbitch—”

  John halted and spotted the big man, full beard, waving a smoking handgun and standing on the porch of the Hurricane. Outlined by the glow coming from the saloon’s front doors, the gunman was dressed in cowboy clothes, but was hatless and bald-headed, which reflected the light. This shooter was no regular in town and John did not recognize him.

  “Get back,” he said sharply over his shoulder to the onlookers behind him on the porch of the Franklin Mercantile. He drew his Colt.

  “Mister, either you throw down that gun or you
can prepare to die,” John said, stepping to the edge of the porch. He had the man in his bead.

  “Who the hell are you?” The man blinked his eyes in disbelief.

  “Chief marshal, now drop the gun.”

  “That card shark in there stole my money. Cheated me. He had cards up his sleeves,” the man began to whine.

  “Guns aren’t how you settle it.” John advanced with his body turned sideways to present as small a target as possible. The Colt at eye level, cocked and ready.

  “Yeah, well I did this time.”

  “Drop the gun!” he ordered.

  “Aw, all right.” The man let loose of the pistol and raised his hands. Anser rushed past John.

  “I’ll cuff him and take him in,” the deputy said. “I had two fighters back at the jail or I’d have been here sooner.”

  “It’s under control,” John said to him. “What’s your name?” he asked the big man, holstering his own gun.

  “Home, Isaac Home.”

  “Well, Mr. Home, you may get to learn all about Colorado justice. Now I better go see who is shot.”

  “He’s a damn cheating crooked card player,” Home protested as the deputy shoved him toward the jail.

  Inside the Hurricane, John parted the crowd and could see Doc Hampton was busy working with someone lying on the floor. The doc wore his small reading glasses, and when he looked up at John, he shook his head.

  “Johnny Delco. He won’t live till morning.”

  “Do what you can for him,” John said as several men helped move the gambler onto a board stretcher.

  “Take him up to my place,” Doc said to the two men on the handles.

  “If he makes a statement, take it down or send for me,” John said to the physician as he looked over the crowd.

  “I will—”

  When the men started away with the wounded gambler, Delco’s limp arm fell off the side of the stretcher and a playing card escaped from his snow-white shirtsleeve and fluttered to the sawdust floor. Doc saw it. John saw it. He bent over and picked it up. An ace of spades. It drew a wary loud murmur from the crowd.