Novel 1979 - The Iron Marshall (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Greenwood smiled. “You’ll wear it with pride, son. I know your kind.”

  “My kind?” Shanaghy turned his eyes on him. “Mr. Greenwood, I’ve been a shoulder-striker for John Morrissey.”

  “Then you’re a tough man, and that’s what we need. It was never my luck to know Old Smoke, but I saw him fight once. A rough man, a hard man, and a tricky one when it came to elections, but I never knew him to go back on his word, and I know you will be the same. If there is any way in which I can help, let me know.”

  Shanaghy hesitated. “I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “Who did you trust in New York?”

  “Nobody…Maybe McCarthy, the smith.”

  “Then trust nobody here, not even me. Son, in the job you’re taking you will stand on your own feet. You will get little help and no thanks from most people. They want the law, but they fear it, too.

  “If you need a posse or riflemen, they will be sworn in, but they won’t like it. Many men in this town have used guns and some are quite expert. But what a marshal needs is not men who are good with guns, but for himself to be good with men, with handling men.

  “Take my word for it, son, a marshal must be judged not by the number of men he has killed in line of duty, but by the tough men he has handled without using a gun, even without violence.”

  “I don’t know whether I am up to it.”

  “You are. Trust your own judgment of men and of situations. You must stand or fall by your own decisions.”

  “I think I know who—”

  Greenwood lifted a hand. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell anybody. Keep it to yourself. Gather your own facts, act upon them as you see fit. If you make a mistake you may be crucified for it. That’s the job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Greenwood suggested.

  Shanaghy shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

  Greenwood smiled. “Neither do I,” he said cheerfully. “I sell it to those who do and I have no moral scruples against drinking, but I myself don’t drink.”

  Tom Shanaghy walked back to the street. He was marshal of the town now, and he had no idea what the job paid. Nor did he care.

  He stood there, looking around. How did a man go about being a marshal? Where did he start? Shanaghy grinned at his own ignorance. He reflected that one job he had was to fire Drako, but that could wait until the former marshal appeared in town wearing the badge.

  That came first. Then he must ride down the country and meet Vince Patterson and talk to him before he arrived in town. And he must, if he could, convince Drako that he must stay out of town until the Patterson outfit was gone.

  His thoughts returned to George. George was staying at the same hotel as he was, but where was she?

  He walked down to the railroad station. The depot had three rooms, all connecting and with doors on both sides. The waiting room, which had four benches, the ticket seller’s office (the agent was also the telegrapher and freight agent) and the freight room, where freight was held until shipped or picked up, if incoming. On the train side of the depot there was a rough plank platform, already weathered and gray, about sixty feet long.

  Shanaghy stepped into the station and walked to the window. The agent looked around. He wore a black vest, a white shirt with sleeve-garters, and a green eyeshade. “Somethin’ for ya?” he asked. Then he noticed the star.

  “Hah? You’re the new marshal. What’s been done about Drako?”

  “Haven’t seen him since they gave me this. I am going to tell him when he rides in.”

  The station agent came to the window and leaned his elbows on the inside counter. “Don’t envy you. He’s a mean one, and so are those boys of his.”

  “I’ve met him, and one of them.”

  “Got your work cut out for you, and then Patterson comin’ up the trail. Boy, I don’t envy you! None a-tall!”

  “Any railroad detectives working this line?”

  “Nah! Why? We’ve had no trouble.”

  “If you had a valuable shipment, how would it be handled?”

  The agent shrugged. “Same as anything else. It would come in and it would set until picked up. I s’pose if it was very valuable, I’d be wearin’ my pistol and they’d be here to pick it up right off.”

  “You’ve got a gun then?”

  “I have.” The agent grinned. “Never fired a shot in my life.”

  “Then leave it alone,” Shanaghy advised. “You’d probably shoot the wrong man.”

  Shanaghy walked out on the platform and looked down the track. Nothing but twin rails disappearing in the shimmering distance. He doubted if the agent knew about the shipment of money that would be coming in, and to mention it would be merely to start gossip.

  He would have to see that men were here to meet the shipment on arrival.

  Yet the moment he thought of that, he thought of another aspect. What if they decided to stop the train before it came to town? Chances were, the shipment would be in an express car and guarded only by the agent en route.

  For the idea that this was what Rig Barrett guessed would happen had come to Shanaghy only a few hours before. When everybody in town was involved with what might happen when Vince Patterson came to town, the thieves could steal the money brought to pay for the cattle and to pay off the hands.

  Barrett might even have had a tip, being the man he was, with connections everywhere.

  How many people were involved? And what would be their roles? Plan the job yourself, he suggested to himself, and see how you would do it. You’ve associated with crooks long enough to know.

  The fewer involved, the larger the cut for each, and the less likely they were to be noticed. What if the supposed railroad detective had been a crook? Was the girl involved? And George?

  Tom Shanaghy walked up the street to the blacksmith shop and Drako was standing by his horse, waiting. He was wearing a badge.

  Chapter 8

  *

  TOM SHANAGHY WALKED on up and stopped, facing Drako. The man was smiling but he was wary.

  “Wearin’ a badge, hey? What do you think that will get you?”

  Shanaghy had been facing such issues since he first walked off the boat in New York. “I’ve been appointed town marshal,” he said, “and one is all the town needs. I want your badge, Drako.”

  “You think I’ll give it up? Just like that?”

  “The authority is not the badge, it is in the vote of the council. They’ve chosen me Marshal. I want your badge, Drako.”

  “All right,” Drako reached up to unpin the badge, and in that instant Shanaghy knew what the man would do, for it was just what he himself might have done.

  Drako unpinned the badge and took it in his left hand and tossed it to him. “Here…catch!”

  Shanaghy made no move to make the catch. He simply drew his gun, and he was an instant faster…Drako had tossed the badge and dropped his hand to his gun, but he was already covered by Shanaghy’s pistol.

  Drako’s hand froze, gripping his gun. Startled, he hesitated, but Shanaghy’s thumb was holding his hammer back. And slowly, carefully, Drako released his grip on his gun and moved his hand to the pommel of the saddle. “Smart, hey? We’ll see how smart you are when Vince Patterson comes to town.”

  “He’ll be looking for you, not me, and he will know where to find you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You and your boys…Come to town whenever you like, only come unarmed.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “That’s it. They can hang their pistols in the saloon, but if they wear them on the street I’ll throw them in jail.”

  “What jail? You ain’t got no jail!”

  “My jail will be that hitching-rail right yonder. I’ll shackle them to it and there they’ll stay until their fine is paid…rain or shine.”

  Drako stared at him, then turned his horse sharply around and walked him out of town.

  Shanaghy picked the badge out of the dust and put
it in his pocket. He looked up to see Holstrum watching him. Greenwood was standing in the door of his saloon and Carpenter had stopped work. He ignored the others and walked over to Carpenter. “Be busy for a few days. After that I’ll lend you a hand.”

  “My offer stands. You can buy a piece of my business.”

  “Maybe…later.”

  Shanaghy went to his room and checked the shotgun. Then, trusting to nothing, he reloaded it with buckshot.

  Sitting down on the bed he studied the situation. First he must find out where Patterson might be. Coming up the trail, of course, but where was he now, and moving how fast?

  What had he gotten himself into, anyway? There he was, just waiting for the train to take him back to New York, with everything settled in his mind, and now where was he? Marshal of a hick town with all the trouble in the world about to come down on him. What did he know about being a marshal?

  Well, someone said, “Set a crook to catch a crook,” but he had never been a crook, exactly, although he had known enough of them and had witnessed a lot of their activities.

  He looked around the room. Only a bed, a chair and a small table with a lamp on it. In the corner a washstand with a bowl and pitcher. Beside the table was a strip of what passed for a towel, and at the end of the hall a bath.

  First thing, he’d better step on down the street and buy some clothes. All he had was what he stood up in, and that was too little. He’d need some shirts, a new suit, and some of those pants they wore around here…maybe a hat.

  Give up his derby? Not by a damn sight!

  That Drako would act. Somehow he was sure. The man was not about to take this lying down, nor would his boys be willing to do so. Shanaghy knew he could expect trouble from them, and soon.

  What bothered him, as it must have bothered the missing Rig Barrett, was the mechanism of the robbery that he believed was to come. How did the crooks expect to handle it, and how many were involved?

  He could scarcely believe that the fashionably dressed young woman was involved, and yet why would such a woman be meeting with George? And who was she, anyway?

  Tom Shanaghy walked down the street to Holstrum’s. There was another man in the store but Holstrum came to wait on the new marshal himself. “You picked yourself a tough job, Marshal, but we’ll give you all the support you need.”

  “Thanks. What I need now is some clothes. I packed light when I came west.”

  “This on credit?”

  Shanaghy smiled. “Cash…I always pay cash, Mr. Holstrum. I like to keep the decks clear.”

  Luckily, he found some shirts. “Most women-folks make shirts for their men,” Holstrum explained. “Pendleton buys shirts here and there’s a few others.”

  He bought shirts, underwear, two pairs of pants, a thick leather belt and some boots. He also bought one hundred rounds of .44-pistol ammunition, a Winchester rifle and fifty shotgun shells.

  “Expecting a war?” Holstrum asked, curiously.

  “No, I’m not. But if one comes, I’ll be ready.”

  “Rig Barrett must figure you could do the job. I never heard of him sending anybody in his place. Didn’t know anybody was that close to him.”

  “Rig kept his personal affairs to himself,” Shanaghy replied. “I intend to do the same.”

  Shanaghy thought for an instant of his past. There had been fistfights, knife fights and gun battles. He could scarcely remember a time when he had not been fighting.

  “However,” he added, “this is only a precaution. I don’t think there will be trouble.”

  When he had taken his clothes back to the hotel and changed his shirt, Shanaghy came downstairs and went to the restaurant for a late supper.

  George was not there, but the young woman was. She looked up as Shanaghy entered and her eyes fell to the badge. She stared at it, then lifted her eyes to his. He thought he detected a glimmer of anger or impatience.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” he removed his derby. “Welcome to our fair city.”

  She regarded him cooly and then simply turned her head away, ignoring him.

  A voice spoke suddenly from behind him on his left, and he looked around quickly. There was a table there, in the corner, and another girl sat there, a younger, perhaps prettier girl. “You’re a stranger here yourself, aren’t you, Marshal?”

  “I am, and saddled with a job before I’ve got me feet on the ground. But then, by the look of the place, nobody has been here much longer.”

  The younger girl held out her hand. “I am Jan Pendleton and I want to thank you.”

  “Me? Wait until I’ve done something, miss. I am only just marshal.”

  “You saved Josh Lundy from hanging, and Josh is my very good friend.”

  “I can’t take credit,” he said. “They were going to hang me, too, just because I happened to be there. It seemed to me my neck was long enough, without getting it stretched.”

  “Thank you, nevertheless.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Please do.”

  He sat where he could see the other woman. She looked annoyed, and that pleased him. He put his derby on the chair beside him and ordered what the restaurant had to offer. There wasn’t much variety but he was accustomed to that and had always been a healthy eater.

  “Glad you got your horse back,” he told her. “Too bad there’s so many thieves about. Never could figure out why anybody, man or woman, would take to stealing. They never get as much as they stand to lose.

  “You take a woman now. Suppose she was a thief and went to prison? They work ’em almighty hard there, and they’ve no chance to take care of themselves. And when they come out, they’re not only old but they’ve lost their looks.”

  The young woman across the room looked up and their eyes met. He smiled and her lips thinned to a hard line.

  “Biggest trouble with being a crook,” he added, “is the company you have to keep.” He paused. “If I saw myself getting involved in such a thing, I’d grab the first train out of town.”

  Jan looked at him curiously, her eyes flickering to the elegant and composed young woman across the room. She changed the subject.

  “Are you going to be with us long, Mr. Shanaghy?”

  “It is in my thoughts,” he said, “although there be some who hope I’ll not.”

  The cool young woman looked up. “Isn’t the life expectancy in your kind of job rather short?”

  “It is. Although while I live, the life expectancies of those who break the law will be even less.”

  He turned from her and began to talk to Jan Pendleton of horses, range, Josh Lundy. “Do you know Mr. Patterson?” he asked suddenly, remembering that her father sometimes bought cattle from him.

  “Oh, of course! Uncle Vince is a lovely man! He can be very stern, I suppose, but I’ve never seen him that way. Whenever he is here he stays with us, and he has such wonderful stories to tell. He gave me my first horse.”

  “The one that was stolen?”

  “The very same. I am glad Josh got it back before Uncle Vince returned, because he would have been furious.”

  “Seems to me he’s already sore at Hank Drako.”

  “He is.” She looked at him seriously. “Mr. Shanaghy, you must not let there be trouble. Father says Uncle Vince may burn the town. He holds all of them responsible for the killing of his brother.”

  “He’ll not burn it,” Tom said. “There will be no trouble.”

  The young woman across the room laughed gently, and Tom Shanaghy felt his face flushing. Before he could speak, however, Jan interrupted. “My father is in town and I am sure he would like to meet you. He will wish to thank you for helping Josh.”

  Pendleton came in as she was speaking and crossed to the table. After he had talked a bit, Shanaghy said, quite casually, “Mr. Pendleton, you know much of what goes on around here. Do you know of any shipments that have come in during the last couple of days?”

  Shanaghy’s eyes were on the woman across the room as he
spoke, and he saw her fork suddenly stop in mid-air. For just an instant she was absolutely still, then she continued to eat.

  “What sort of shipments?”

  “I am not quite sure, but I’d be guessing it would be something unusual, or to someone not well known here.”

  “No…I’m afraid not. But then I am not about town very much. What were you thinking of?”

  Shanaghy had been talking only to see the face of the woman across the room, for he was but feeling his way. What could it be, after all? What made it important he be off the train?

  Or…the thought came suddenly, what if it was not something but somebody? Suppose there were others hidden on the train who did not wish to chance being seen by a hobo who might climb over the cars looking for a place to hide out?

  That was it, that had to be it.

  Alfred Pendleton spoke with a decided British accent. Although the Irish had no love for the British, it sounded close enough home to have a pleasant sound. Pendleton asked where Tom was from and Shanaghy replied, “Killarney.”

  “A lovely place. We vacationed there once.”

  “And now we are all in Kansas,” Jan said.

  “And that isn’t strange,” her father remarked. “There are just two lines of railroad to the west, and most people who come out here stop along one or the other. I am constantly meeting people I knew in England or in the eastern states.

  “The fastest development will naturally be along the railroads, and the best opportunities.” Pendleton glanced at him. “I suspect you’ve run into some old friends, haven’t you?”

  Old friends? What friends did Shanaghy have who might come west? No friends, but what of enemies? Eben Childers was a hater, he had been told, and his men would guess that he took a train to escape them. Finding him would be no great problem. Shanaghy shook his head. “No old friends, and I hope no enemies.”

  Pendleton talked for a few minutes about the future of Kansas and the way the country was growing and then added, “I think you have chosen wisely, Mr. Shanaghy, in settling here. Carpenter says you are an excellent smith and that you may buy a share of his business.”

  There it was again. Everybody was taking it for granted that he was here to stay. Shanaghy was remembering John Morrissey and the Bowery, although the memories had been fading away in the warm Kansas sun and the demands of his new job. Then he remembered and looked around. The woman across the room was gone.