by Tony Masero
‘You want to talk about that?’
She shook her head, ‘Nope. He chose his life and me mine. I rode along with him and played the army wife. It was never my style really though.’
‘You know,’ said Slade, savoring the wine and thinking how he had better not get to like it too much. ‘You don’t strike me as a simple down-home girl who had no life at all before the army. I’d put you down as having a mite more experience of things than that.’
‘Well,’ she said, arching an eyebrow provocatively. ‘There’s always that possibility.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked, intrigued.
She reached across the table and laid her hand softly over his. ‘Lets just eat our supper, huh, Jack? Another life and other times.’
Chapter Four
‘I’ve got a job for you Jack,’ said Garrett.
They sat awkwardly in Garrett’s small second story hotel room, wedged in on an odd pair of straight-backed chairs sitting between the bed and a cheap nightstand. Two curtained windows looked out onto the street below and weak mid-morning light barely penetrated the shabby lace curtains covering the dust-streaked glass. Generally it was quiet at this hour, although there was the steady sound of a bedstead knocking repeatedly against a wall next door and small grunts that indicated tones of increasing pleasure.
‘Some early morning congress in progress perhaps,’ observed Garrett dryly with a wry look at the wall.
‘I’m still about my business here,’ Garrett continued, returning to the matter in hand. ‘Then I have to attend to a house I’m building for my family over in Roswell. After that I’m going to track down the Kid and catch up to that rascal Charlie Bowdre. So, right now my time is pretty full and I need you to take this one on alone. Are you ready for it?’
‘You have it, Pat. I can handle it.’
‘Here’s how it goes. Six months ago a special prosecutor was commissioned to come down from Albuquerque and take care of all the backlog of criminals they had penned up here. And he did a fine job too. An ex-army man named Colonel Samuel Friday. A widower who moved down here with his family for the duration, his wife died some years back and left him with a six-year-old boy to raise. All the cases he was involved in were held before Judge Sol Bass and the Judge was well satisfied with Friday’s presentations. Sam Friday was about to return back to Albuquerque after finishing up but he told his clerk there was one last matter he wanted to look into. Apparently he had to go check out some items from some dead prospector’s gear, odds and ends, I ain’t sure exactly what. And he rode off with his young son Peter, to make an inventory. Pleasant easy ride I guess he thought. Trouble is, he ain’t been seen since.’
‘When did all this happen?’ asked Slade.
‘About two weeks ago. I want you to go find out what happened to them, Jack?’
Garrett’s neighbor was reaching for a noisy crescendo in the room next door and the Marshal frowned at the interruption.
‘You realize if its gone bad they’re probably dead already, don’t you?’ said Slade.
‘I know it,’ Garrett demurred grimly, ‘And that’s more than you can say for those two in there,’ he growled irritably as he reached in his pocket for a cheroot. ‘But if so, then it all becomes murder outside the town boundaries and falls into our province. Go check in with the town law here in Lincoln first. Fellow named, Sheriff John Smith, he may have some information. I usually occupy rooms over there but right now I can’t abide the Sheriff, who is an ass and that’s why we’re in here. Thing is, this whole mess has raised a stink of public complaint, seeing as Friday is a favored man and was travelling with the young boy. It’s gone all the way up to Governor Wallace and he wants it seen to right off.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Slade, rising to go. ‘Certainly strange, a man in his position. Do you think there’s more to it?’
‘Maybe,’ Garrett struck a match and lit his cheroot. ‘Its just possible that....’
The next-door pounding reached a new level of persistence as efforts were redoubled and with an angry look, Garrett got up quickly from his seat and rapped his pistol butt hard against the wall.
‘Will the two of you damned well get to the finish. Do it or take your partner and go rut in a field somewhere before I run you both in for disturbing the peace.’
Sudden silence followed for a moment, then a dull male voice answered. ‘And just who the hell might you be?’
‘Marshal Pat Garrett,’ Garrett bellowed back.
Silence again, then a reluctant and somewhat coy, ‘Sorry, Marshal. But there’s only one of us in here. Ain’t no one else but me. I’ll try and quieten it down.’
Garrett looked across at Slade his eyebrows quirked in querulous indecision. Slade grinned back at him.
‘You’re on your own in there?’ Garrettt asked the wall incredulously. ‘You sure you ain’t got a sheep or some other form of livestock in there with you, have you?’
‘No, sir,’ came the vehement answer. ‘Just me and old ‘Captain Upright’, is all.’
‘Well, um...’ Garrett called back with a slow grin creeping over his own lips. ‘Just keep it down will you?’
Slade covered his silently laughing mouth with his hand as Garrett shook his head in dismay.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Where the hell was I?’
‘Might be more to it...’ Slade reminded him.
‘Yes. Yes. Its possible there is more to it. Seemed peculiar to me the fellow was all finished up when this happened, could be a sight more to it than at first appears. Anyway, go take a look.’
Jack nodded ascent.
‘Right, that’s it. Report back when you have something. I’m all of a daze right now,’ he stared at the wall again. ‘Eight rooms in this hotel and I have to get the one next to that fool. I think I’ll just have to set here a spell and ponder on who this villainous old ‘Captain Upright’ might well be.’
Laughing aloud, Jack closed the door quietly behind him.
Sheriff John Smith was not a convincing lawman. He was one of a train of indifferent sheriff’s who had beset the town, taking on the job for the pay alone whilst avoiding any of the more dangerous aspects of the office. An unhealthy looking fellow with long tangled fair hair, a cast in one eye and a raw red rash covering the side of his neck, he sat behind his desk scratching uncomfortably at his pants trouser leg where a festering sore lay between his legs courtesy of a diseased whore who had offered her services at a reduced rate - and now he was paying the price for his stinginess.
The town’s police facility was situated in the Lincoln County Courthouse with the daily business carried out on the ground floor whilst the incarceration cells were kept upstairs. The Sheriff had three deputies hanging over from his many predecessors and they were the real law in the town.
The three composed a burly crew with cautious eyes and nervous fingers. They lingered now, drinking coffee from tin mugs and smoking hand rolled cigarettes whilst lounging around the room where the sheriff held office from behind his flat top desk. A show of paperwork lay spread before him, the same pile that had doubtless lain there for a full week already going by the dust Slade noticed.
‘Help you?’ asked Sheriff Smith as Slade entered.
‘Yes sir, I’m the new Deputy Marshal, Pat Garrett sent me over to say howdy and ask about a situation we have ongoing.’
‘That a fact, well come right in Marshal,’ Smith offered unctuously. ‘These boys here are my deputies. That there is Rio Palmer,’ he indicated a tall, sallow faced serious young man wearing a jacket and string tie. ‘Over by the window is Ben Raymonds,’ Raymonds smiled and nodded pleasantly but Slade could see it was with his mouth alone; his eyes remained steady and cold. ‘This one here, behind me is Tole Defford,’ Defford stood ominously tall, with broad shoulders and dark staring eyes. ‘And I’m John Smith, of course,’ the Sheriff finished.
‘Jack Slade,’ Slade said with a nod all around.
‘So, Deputy Slade how can we hel
p?’
‘Its about this Colonel Friday disappearance, you got anything you can tell me on that?’
‘Well,’ said Smith, rubbing at his raw neck. ‘These boys here dealt with matter. Maybe you should be talking to them. What do you say Rio, can you help the Deputy Marshal out?’
Rio Palmer eased himself away from the wall. ‘I don’t believe we can, Sheriff. You see, Deputy, we rode over half the Territory looking for the Colonel once word got out. It ain’t our department but we like to help out where we can.’
‘And you found nothing at all?’
‘Not a trace. Like he went up in smoke and with that little child with him as well.’
‘Sorry business,’ agreed Ben Raymonds.
‘So where was he headed?’
‘Over to the Freshwater Ranch,’ the Sheriff added. ‘Least that’s what his clerk said.’
Slade thought he detected a quick look pass between Rio Palmer and the others at the sheriff’s words but it may just have been a casual glance, he could not really tell.
‘Who is his clerk, can I find him in town?’
‘Charlie Willows? Left town,’ said Ben Raymonds. ‘Oh, must be last week he went. Ain’t that right, fellas?’
They all nodded agreement.
‘Kinda funny, wouldn’t you say?’ observed Slade.
‘Funny!’ Rio frowned. ‘Wouldn’t say funny. Fellow takes it into his head to go, he goes. Nothing funny about it.’
‘I meant the timing. Just when the Colonel does his disappearing act, so does his clerk. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?’
‘Odd! Funny! You’ve certainly got a way with words, Deputy; I’ll give you that. Now if you’re implying that Charlie played some part in the Colonel’s disappearance, well, I couldn’t say on that score. Maybe, he did and maybe not. If I see him I’ll ask. Best I can do.’
Slade realized he was going to get nowhere but the evasiveness he experienced ensured him that the three men knew more than they were saying.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d like to thank you all for your time. Guess I’ll be getting along now. Maybe I should take a looksee at this Freshwater Ranch.’
Chapter Five
The ride out was not a pleasant affair. Slade’s metabolism was reacting badly to the lack of his regular daily dosage of alcohol and he winced with the grinding unpleasantness.
A searing late morning sun beat down on him with all the intensity of a blacksmith’s hammer and Slade felt as if he were burning up beneath the shoulders of his new jacket. Finally he dismounted and retched. Doubled over, one hand limply grasping his pony’s reins as he heaved emptily standing by the side of the road. His head hurt like hell with an irritating whine that seemed to play endlessly across the surface of his brain and it left little room to appreciate the brightness and raw beauty of the countryside he passed through. Clutching the pommel of his saddle he hung there, waiting for the moment to pass. Sweat creasing his brow and yet shivering as if he were caught in a bitterly cold wind.
The temptation was there. He could turn around and head back to town. Sit in the cool of the saloon. Maybe only a beer in his hand. No hard stuff just a beer. He could see the mug, the draught liquor, golden in the sunlight. Foam sliding down the sweat beaded sides of the glass where condensation had marked the chilled surface with trickling ribbons of cool liquid. Slade could almost taste it.
He hauled himself into the saddle. Grimacing and pushing his boot heels into the stirrups with such force that the pony whinnied in distress, Slade rode on up the road with grim determination.
‘You can do it.’
He heard the voice as plain as if she had been standing next to him. It was so strong in his head that Slade looked around quickly to make sure he truly was alone. But the road was empty, just a run of wagon tracks gouged from the dust with a copse of juniper trees off to one side. Nothing else in view but yucca and the distant hills.
‘You can do it.’ He played the words in his head again. She had said that to him. Given him permission to commit the sin he had never forgiven himself for.
‘Dammit!’ he cursed aloud, wiping the cold sweat from his brow and staring into the bright sunlight with blind agitation. He knew that when you felt as bad as he did, that’s when the demons always came calling. He recognized their arrival. Little doubts ready to needle him with guilt and remind him he was not worth the position he now held or the opportunity it offered. Gritting his teeth, Slade pressed the negative thoughts down and urged the pony into a gallop with the spur.
He had made the offer with all the dash and confidence he had felt back in those days. A choral and piano recital up at the church, nothing could be safer than that for the pretty schoolteacher newly arrived in town. He was the town Marshal sent down by the town council to greet her and see she was safely ensconced in her new home. The opportunity had been too good to miss. Not that he particularly liked such refined music, his own taste given to a more bawdy sort played on a pianola with the accompaniment of cheap perfume and a glass or two. But he knew that in her city born naiveté she would appreciate the offer and as a result see him more as a trustworthy and respectable citizen.
She was a pretty little thing and it had done his heart good to see her. Small and yet perfectly proportioned. Grey eyes and dark curling hair around a heart shaped face. Pale, white skin on a long neck, ivory skin so fair that it lit a fire in him. Her movements, delicate and fragile, were orchestrated with such balanced coordination that they aroused a surprisingly crude and destructive urge from some primeval depths in the darkest part of his heart. Slade was not overly given to introspection and the lustful desire that arose in him on sight of Joanna Moore bore no second consideration. He made up his mind right then, he would have her whether she liked it or not.
But what a price he had paid for his callousness.
Hunched over with eyes downcast, Slade grumbled mentally as he remembered. So wrapped up in his own thoughts was he that he did not notice that the bend in the road brought him clear of the fields of yucca and onto open ground.
‘Help you, mister?’
Startled, Slade looked up to see a red headed boy of about eight or nine years standing in the road before him, dressed in dungarees with a fishing pole over his shoulder and a couple of smallmouth bass hanging from a string in his hand.
‘Uh, oh, yeah,’ Slade fumbled, coming sluggishly to his senses. His mind fuddled by the distress of his system and the troublesome thoughts that haunted him. ‘The Freshwater place. You know it?’
The boy looked at him a long moment, as if trying to make out whether he was a bit strange in the head. Finally, he shrugged and pointed with his rod. ‘Its right there, Mister.’
Slade looked in the direction he pointed and true enough, right before them, not a hundred yards away, stood a flat roofed adobe ranch house, gray with a coating of pale dust and surrounded by empty corrals. A large oak tree, that spread itself high over the crenellated walls that enclosed the roof, shaded the entire place. The building had something of the fortress about it, thick walls with slit windows and shutters with rifle ports cut into them.
‘That the place?’ asked Slade.
‘Sure is,’ answered the boy with a wry smile a little beyond his years. ‘The only one we got. You come to see my Pa?’
‘I guess,’ answered Slade. ‘You want a ride in?’
‘Thanks, mister.’ The boy raised a hand up to him and Slade lifted him bodily, dropping him behind him on the horse’s rump.
‘I’m Joey Causter,’ the boy offered by way on introduction. ‘Who’re you?’
‘New deputy out of Lincoln.’
‘Oh,’ said the boy doubtfully. ‘We in trouble?’
‘No, just some questions for your Pa.’
‘What questions?’
Slade frowned irritably, still feeling a little jaded. ‘You’re right curious, boy. Just wind your neck in a spell.’
Joey shrugged. ‘Just thought I could help.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’ll let you know when I need your help,’ growled Slade.
‘My!’ sighed Joey, the exclamation apparently saying little yet indicating much in the way of criticism at Slade’s attitude. Slade guessed the boy imitated his mother in this; the intonation had all the ring of female irritation.
A man carrying a rifle came out from the house as they rode up. A short, blocky figure dressed in denim work clothes and leather chaps and wearing the careful eyes of a settler far away from any military or civil protection. Two vaqueros appeared alongside him from around the corner of the building, as if they had been watching Slade’s approach from somewhere out of sight. One of them held a cocked pistol down by his side.
‘Who’s that you’ve got there, Joey?’ the man asked.
‘This here is the new deputy from Lincoln,’ supplied Joey as he slid down from the saddle. ‘He’s a mite ornery too, Pa.’
Slade snorted a laugh and the man smiled also and waved the boy on inside the house. ‘Go on, get along in, I swear you have more tongue on you than a six mule wagon.’ then to Slade. ‘That right, you the new deputy?’
Slade nodded, ‘Name’s Jack Slade.’
‘Step on down, Deputy. I’m Solon Causter, pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Causter waved a casually dismissive hand and his two Mexican cowhands faded as easily and silently as they had arrived.
Causter and Slade shook hands and Slade asked if he might water his horse. Causter agreed and followed him over as Slade led his pony to a water-filled trough situated beside the corral.
‘This a social call, Mister Slade. Or you have something special in mind?’
Slade stroked his pony’s shoulder abstractedly as it drank. ‘You had a visit by a Colonel Friday some weeks back I believe.’
‘Oh, that,’ Causter said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Yes sir, you here about that? The man disappeared with his child on his way over so I was told.’