“Nonetheless, you stopped him. He stood off when you showed yourself ready. Now, we’ve been expecting Rig Barrett and something’s happened, because he hasn’t showed.”
“I don’t think he’s going to show,” Shanaghy said.
They looked at him, suddenly attentive. Tom remembered, too late, about Josh Lundy’s warning.
“I heard this man George tell a woman he wouldn’t show.” It sounded weak, he knew. There was suspicion in their eyes now.
“How could he know that?” Holstrum asked.
“He couldn’t…unless he knew somebody had made certain of it.” Shanaghy hung up the apron, took down his shirt and put it on. The two men watched him until he donned his coat, then somewhat reluctantly Holstrum suggested, “Shanaghy, I don’t know you but Carpenter has respect for you, and he liked the way you stood off Drako. Well…if Rig doesn’t show, how about you? Would you take on the job? Rig being a known man, he had the battle half won. It will be tougher for you.”
Shanaghy smiled. What would Old Smoke say to that? Offered a job as marshal! Old Smoke, he realized suddenly, would have taken it, and he would have been right out there in the street to stop them. John Morrissey never backed water for any man. And come to think of it, he never had either. He’d run a couple of times, but only from numbers and when he knew he was coming back.
“Thanks,” he said. “I have a ticket on the night train. I’m heading back to New York, where I’ve trouble enough waiting and some old scores to pay.”
“Shanaghy,” Holstrum protested, “we’re in serious trouble here. Patterson’s liable to burn our town. He has said he would.”
“Sorry. When that train goes, I’ll be on it.”
He walked away up the street. Damn it, this wasn’t his fight! What did they take him for? He just showed up in town and…What did they know about him, after all? And if they did know about him, what would they think then? It was like McCarthy said, he was nothing but a Bowery thug. Would they want him for marshal if they knew that?
Shanaghy went to his room and opened the haversack. For the first time he looked at the shirts. They were much too small for him, with his seventeen-inch neck. The cuffs were frayed and worn. Mr. Rig Barrett did not make much of being a peace officer, for the outfit was that of a poor man. Only the guns were neat and well-kept.
If Rig Barrett had been less than an honest man, these shirts might have been made of the striped silk the gamblers wore—or some of them, at least.
Shanaghy took out the packet of letters, the notebook with the loose papers tucked inside, and the map. He put them down on the bed, then walked over and locked the door. He took out his six-shooter and placed it on the bed beside him as he sat.
There were four letters in the packet, and he put them aside, reluctant to open them. First, he looked at the loose papers.
The first was a carefully written description of the town, all compressed into about three lines, with a list of the stores, saloons and other buildings, and a diagram showing their locations along the street.
Below it were brief written outlines of several people, the first being: Patterson, Vincent, age 36, height five feet ten inches, hair brown, eyes brown. M. Marcella Draper, 2 sons, 1 daughter. Father to Texas with Moses Austin. Mexican War 1 yr. service; Texas Rangers, 2 yrs. Veteran several Indian battles. Runs about 6,000 head. Rarely drinks, Strong, stubborn, fearless. Never leaves a job incomplete. Honest, a driver of men but feeds them well. Always has the best cook on the range. Excellent stock in remuda. Cattle always top grade. Can be reasoned with if in the mood. Once started, no stopping.
Drako, Henry, age 41, five feet eleven inches, black hair, mixed gray. Mustache, often unshaven. Believed wanted in West Virginia for horse theft; 3 sons, Win, Dandy, and Wilson. No record on boys. Suspected horse theft. Cattle theft. Movers. W. Va. to Ohio; to Illinois; served in Blackhawk War; to Tennessee, trouble with man named Sackett whose horse Drako “borrowed.” Sackett recovered horse, suggested they leave. They did. Marshal killed V. Patterson’s brother. Victim apparently under the influence.
Pendleton, Alfred. Brn Suffolk, Eng. Age 44 yrs. Six feet. Hair blond, eyes blue, slender build; 1 son, 1 daughter. Widower. Buys cattle, feeds, ships. Occasional buyer from Patterson. Win Drako suspected of stealing Pendleton calves. Quiet man, avoids trouble. Son, Richard, strong, athletic, attended William & Mary College 2 years. Now 25. Good horseman, good shot. Pendleton suffered reverses due to drouth, cattle theft.
There were brief listings on Carpenter, Greenwood and Holstrum that told Shanaghy nothing he did not already know. There were notes on several other businessmen and, at the end:
Josh Lundy, cowhand, five feet eight inches, slender, age 29. Brn Texas. Presently employed by Pendleton. Witness in cow theft against Win Drako. Claimed horse in possession of Drako was stolen from Pendleton range, horse Lundy said owned by Jan Pendleton.
That must be the horse Lundy had been accused of stealing. He said he had stolen a horse, stolen it back, for a girl.
Lundy’s father killed by Indians when he was twelve, supported mother and three sisters herding cattle, raising a few on his own. Wounded in Indian fight. Wounded again in fight with border bandits. Cattle drive to east, swam herd over the Mississippi. Right arm broken when thrown from bad horse. Good man with a rifle. Short arm makes handling pistol difficult. Reliable.
Obviously, Rig Barrett was no fool and left little to chance. He wished to know what kind of men he must deal with.
Pendleton…Why did that name hold his attention? Lundy might have mentioned it when he spoke of stealing the horse. Jan Pendleton was obviously that girl.
The second page was a simple list of expenditures for supplies, ammunition and such items, along with a note of fifty dollars sent to “Maggie.”
A third sheet was the beginning of a letter to Mag, evidently Barrett’s wife:
Dear Lady:
I taken pen in hand to inform you of my whereabouts and destination. Unfortunately, the prairie town to which I go offers employment for two months only, making it impractical to send for you, Dear Lady. I shall ride down the trail to meet Mr. Patterson before he is close to town. Perhaps we may reach an understanding.
The trouble I foresee will not come from him. There are other elements entering into this, which accounts for my presence in Kansas City. Be assured that when this task is complete I shall come to you at once, in St. Louis.
Do you remember Mr. Pendleton? The gentleman who loaned you the handkerchief on the train? He is here—in the town, that is—and, I fear, is having trouble.
I shall write aga…
The letter ended there and Tom Shanaghy put it down with the others. It wasn’t much help except to indicate that Barrett had not anticipated trouble from Patterson that he couldn’t handle. What worried him was apparently something he had apparently come upon in Kansas City, or something that led him to go there.
What?
Shanaghy glanced through the packet of letters, but none of them seemed of consequence. They were from friends and business associates, but offered no clue to what might have been the trouble in Kansas City.
There was one other note, another unfinished letter written by Barrett to somebody:
I shall not ride the cushions, as I did before. This time I’ll speak to a conductor I know and arrange to ride a caboose into town. That way I might arrive unseen…
Shanaghy put the letters down, and glanced at the notebook. Probably nothing there but he would have to see. The trouble was, he was hungry. He had been up since daylight and had put in a hard morning’s work at the smithy. Yet he sat still, thinking.
Tom Shanaghy had never considered himself a bright man. He had not even thought about it. He had survived in a hard, rough world along the Bowery and in the Five Points, and he supposed he was shrewd after a fashion. Most of his problems he had solved with his fists, but they did not help much now.
Rig Barrett, now, how about him? Barrett was supposed to be here an
d was not. Yet he was the kind of man to keep appointments. Hence he was either here and hiding out somewhere, or he was not here. If he was not here, he must be unable to be here. And that meant he was either a prisoner, which was unlikely, injured or dead.
His gear had been on the train and in the gondola in which Shanaghy was riding. That meant he had either put the gear there himself, and had not followed it, or that the stuff had been thrown there by someone else.
Of course, Barrett might have gotten on the train and, for some reason, gotten off again. But that was unlikely, because if he had arranged to travel by caboose he would have gone directly to it.
“The way it looks,” Shanaghy muttered, “is that Barrett was headed for the caboose when somebody laid one on him. Probably conked him on the noggin and then tossed his gear aboard a passing train, figuring to leave nothing that would name him when they found the body.”
That also looks, he told himself, as though Mr. Rig Barrett is not going to arrive in town, and that means whoever plans to pull something off is going to have mighty little trouble doing it.
There was a sharp rap on the door. Shanaghy got to his feet and opened it.
Four men stood there and they all held guns. One of them was Holstrum. “They tell me,” the big storekeeper said, “that you have Rig Barrett’s shotgun.”
Shanaghy glanced from one to the other. Nobody needed to tell him that he was in trouble. Just like Lundy had told him. He started to step forward and their guns lifted. One of them held a rope in his hand.
Chapter 7
*
TOM SHANAGHY WAS in trouble, but he had been in trouble before. He smiled, suddenly, thinking that he could remember few occasions when he had not been in trouble.
“That’s right,” he replied cheerfully, “I do have his shotgun. When he knew I was coming out here he said I might need it.”
That was a lie, of course, but what he needed now was to keep himself from being hung, and he gave them the most likely story. They had already suggested that he might be the man to take Rig’s place, so what better story than that Rig had actually sent him?
“Rig sent you? You know him?”
“Let’s put it this way. Rig Barrett isn’t here. I am. You need a man to take his place. I can do it. You want Drako fired, and I can do that, and will do it.”
Shanaghy smiled again, at the thought. That, at least, he would enjoy doing.
“You mean to stop Vince Patterson?” Holstrum demanded. “You think you can?”
“It isn’t Vince I’m worried about, gentlemen, nor was it Vince who worried Rig Barrett. Rig was quite sure he could talk to Vince and could reason with him. I mean to try the same thing.”
“If he wasn’t worried about Vince,” Holstrum demanded, “then what did worry him?”
Now he had him. Rig had gone to Kansas City because of some suspicion he had, yet what that was Shanaghy did not know. He reached for the first thing that came to mind, and the moment it shaped into words Shanaghy was sure he had hit upon it.
“What worried him,” Shanaghy paused, then suddenly decided to keep his mouth shut, “was something else entirely, but I am not free…I can’t betray his confidence. Yet have no fear now. I shall handle it.”
Yet all the time Shanaghy kept in mind that eastbound train that would get him out of all this. Would it come in time? Would he be able to get away?
Whatever else he had done, he had now made them unsure. So he spoke up with confidence. “Now, gentlemen, I am hungry. I want to eat and then get back to the smithy. But choose your time and if it is me you wish to be marshal here, let me know. I have work to do.”
They turned to go and suddenly an idea came to Shanaghy. He said to Holstrum, “You know something of the railroad operations here. Is it customary to have a railroad detective riding the trains?”
Holstrum shook his head. “Never heard of such a thing. There’s been no theft from freight cars, and we’ve had no goods lost.”
When they were gone Shanaghy put his things together on the bed, then went down the stairs. This would be a good place to be away from if Rig Barrett did show up.
But that man who kicked him off the train? Just who was he?
“Shanaghy,” he told himself, “you’ve come upon something. That was no railroad bull, that was somebody who wanted you off the train for fear of what you might see. And what might that have been, lad? What, indeed?”
Whoever he was, Shanaghy owed him one, but the thought nagged him that something was going on of which he knew nothing. Could that man have been tied in with George and the mysterious lady?
Carpenter himself was in the restaurant when Shanaghy entered. “Wife’s sick,” he said, “I’m eatin’ out.” He waved a hand and Shanaghy joined him. “Right where we sit I killed a buffalo, only last spring. Skinned him out right on the spot.
“Them times, there was nothing anywhere a man might look but grass waving in the wind. Now Holstrum has him a corn crop growing, and my wife has a vegetable garden. I tell you, my friend, this will be a town to be proud of!
“A few years ago some called this the Great American Desert. They just didn’t know soil! This here Kansas country will grow the finest corn, wheat and barley a man could wish for! You mark my words, one day this prairie where only buffalo ranged will feed half the world!
“We have been killing the buffalo. Magnificent as they are, a man must decide what his values are and you can grow no crops where buffalo range. There’s no fence will stop them.
“My folks came from Europe and never owned a bit of land to call their own. They were beholden to the lord of the manor for their living, yet before my old father died he owned more than the lord of the manor had.
“You see a few poor shacks now, but give us time. We have been shipping buffalo hides and bones to the eastern markets, and now we’re beginning to ship beef. Give us a few years and we will be storing and shipping grain.”
He lifted a finger at Tom. “Shanaghy, we need young men here, young men like you.”
“Like me?” Shanaghy’s grin was sour. “What do you know of me?”
“All we need to know, all we will ever ask. You can do an honest day’s work and you take pride in what you do. No man who loves the working of iron as you do can be bad.”
Their food was brought and when the waiter had gone, Tom said, “The wheels you fitted for Drako? Beautiful! You’re a fine craftsman, Tom! A fine craftsman!”
Shanaghy felt himself flushing, and with pride, and embarrassment as well. Nobody had called him a craftsman before, and he relished the term.
“You take pride in your work. You have an eye for the color of red-hot iron such as only the true craftsman has.
“I tell you, Tom, a man who has never taken pride in a job well done is an empty man.”
They ate then, and drank their coffee, but Carpenter had set Tom to thinking. Why not stay, after all?
What did he owe Morrissey, or any of them back east? Morrissey had given him a job when needed, but Tom had repaid him with an honest day’s work and no shirking. He had fought Morrissey’s enemies and made a few of his own in the process, but what had he to show for it? A little money in the bank, a tribute to his mother’s advice.
Surely, there was not a soul there who would miss him past the week. Others had disappeared or gone away, and Shanaghy remembered well how little they were missed.
He could scarcely remember the Bowery for the grass blowing in the wind.
Carpenter put down his knife and fork. “Holstrum said you were taking the job as marshal, and that you were sent by Rig Barrett.”
“In a way,” Tom said, “and it doesn’t look as if Rig is going to make it in time.…I shall do what he planned to do and ride out to meet Vince Patterson.”
“You said you did not believe him to be the greatest trouble? What, then?”
“At this moment, I am not sure. I trust no man now, although you most of all.”
“You won’t be leaving
on the train?”
Tom hesitated for a long time and then he said, “Not right now. Maybe later.” He looked over at the smith. “I shall need a horse for a few days.”
“I have one…the blue roan in the corral. There’s the rig for him, too.”
They went back to work then, and they handled their iron. And when the train came in, Tom was standing outside to see it stop. There was, he knew, still time. He could still make it. For a moment he hesitated, then went back into the shop and took off his apron.
“South of here,” he asked Carpenter, “are there any ranches?”
“Nothing this side of Texas that I know of. Holstrum has a place about seven or eight miles southeast. Nothing but a cabin, shed and a corral. He runs a few head down there and usually has some horses for riding.”
“Who takes care of the stock?”
“He’s got a man there, but the stock doesn’t drift much because he has the best grass and water for miles. He’s a canny man, Holstrum is. I’ve a place, too, but not as good as the one he found.”
Carpenter considered the subject, then added, “Only other place around is about ten miles west. There’s a two-by-four saloon over there and about three dugouts. Drako lives about three miles south of it, he and his boys.”
“Who makes me marshal?” Shanaghy asks. “If I am to do anything I’d better be wearing a badge…or have one.”
“Greenwood. You go see him. It was him suggested Rig Barrett. Greenwood’s had experience with tough towns. He held out for Barrett and I backed him.”
“What about Holstrum?”
“He was worried we’d get a worse Drako. So were some of the others. I could see his point, because Drako is bad enough.”
Greenwood was leaning in his bar in the empty saloon when Shanaghy walked in. He was a pleasant-looking man who seemed to be in his late thirties. He smiled a little when he saw Shanaghy. “Talked you into it, did they? I hoped they would.”
Shanaghy took the badge Greenwood pushed toward him and pinned it on his shirt pocket. “First time I ever wore one of them,” he said.
Novel 1979 - The Iron Marshall (v5.0) Page 8