Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  “Right. I better go pack.”

  “Yes, be careful, Gerald. I understand that Fort Smith is even wilder country than Arizona.”

  “I don’t know how it could be,” the major said, and left the mansion.

  The major had a lot to do. As he made his way downhill to the Walnut Creek Bridge, he considered his new alliance with Ellen Devereau, the madam who ran that high class house of ill repute, the fancy two-story brick Harrington House on the hill. It would do to speak to her about this matter. Women like her learned more in ten minutes than some diligent lawmen could in a month. He would do that upon his return. First, he needed that man in place up there at Fortune, and all this arranging might take as long as a month. So poor Sterling’s upset stomach could last for that long. The governor would simply have to wait, if Sheriff Rupp’s men didn’t turn up anything more in their investigation.

  At the house his wife, Mary, helped him pack his bags and acted concerned. “You need to be careful. You aren’t a boy anymore.”

  “Oh, an old man at forty-three, am I?” he teased her.

  “You aren’t in authority either. You’re a retired military officer.”

  “You’re saying I still act like an officer?”

  “Well, you aren’t one.”

  He hugged her and laughed. Then he kissed her on the cheek. He would miss her. It was a shame they never had children to share their lives. Wasn’t to be, the doctor said. The famous physician they sought back east really had few answers then, and after years without results, they gave up looking forward to ever having any offspring of their own. At different times, they kept several orphaned Indian children, but each one was later claimed by relatives.

  He could recall their saddest ordeal, when the squaw came and asked for Betsy Sue. Then they lived in officers’ quarters at Fort Bowie. Fine two-story house, and the young Indian girl made it come alive. At her age, which they guessed as seven, she had proven a delight to Mary. Then one day her aunt showed up at the front door and asked for her.

  All the Chiricahuas were being sent to the San Carlos Agency. Her aunt felt Betsy should go and be with her people there. When Mary asked Betsy Sue what she wanted, the child, close to tears, hugged her and whispered, “Go with Nan-Nah.”

  The separation proved hard on Mary. She never spoke of another adoption or caring for a child again. It was like she shut her heart away until they moved to Prescott and she found a new pursuit: her blooming flowers, which were the talk of the town. It pleased the major that she had found a new love to take up a portion of her loss.

  The stage for the railhead at Ash Fork left Prescott at four in the afternoon. The driver put the major’s bags in the back compartment, spoke cordially to him, and motioned he could get aboard, if he liked. In the flurry of activity around the stage office, the major climbed inside and took the back facing seat.

  A long purple ostrich feather came at him first. Like a shaking bird’s head, it probed the inside of the coach. Then the young woman under the hat blinked her long black lashes at him.

  “Is that seat taken?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “No,” she said, standing in the aisle and switching her skirt around her narrow waist until it satisfied her. “My name ain’t ma’am. It’s Lily Corona.”

  “Lily Corona.” He tipped his hat. “Gerald Bowen.”

  She plopped down beside him in a great show of petticoats and high-top buttoned shoes. Then she pressed her skirt down and turned to smile at him.

  “I’m going to St. Louis, Gerald.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  She gave him a wicked wink. “I do both, Gerald. What do you do?”

  “Retired military. I work for the governor.”

  “I would love to be retired,” she said, and looked at her fingernails. They must have satisfied her, for she quickly put her hands down and half turned to look at him. “What do retired people do for the governor?”

  “I work for him because I can’t live on the money that I retired upon.”

  “Do interesting things?”

  “Like go to Fort Smith to hire a man.”

  “I’ve been there,” she said, sounding amazed. “I worked in Molly Mather’s Cathouse right there on the Arkansas River.”

  “Guess you saw the seedier side of Fort Smith from there.”

  “No, not really. I met some really nice marshals when I worked there.”

  “Did you say lawmen?” he asked. She might know one who would work. He weighed whether he should continue. With her leaving the territory, she couldn’t be too great a risk and might even know the man he needed. “You knew some of the marshals that work for the court?”

  “A few,” she said, and pursed her lips as if satisfied with her intuition.

  “Ready to roll,” the driver said from on top. He kicked the brakes loose and hurrahed at the horses. The major realized that they would be the only ones on the stage for Ash Fork. In a lurch, the conveyance left Prescott, tossed him from side to side with Lily. The stage cornered the block and headed for Chino Valley.

  “Any of these lawmen you knew were real cowboys?” he asked, looking out the open window at Thumb Butte to the west.

  “Yeah. One I knew was a drover. Luther Haskell. He’s the real thing, if you truly need a drover and a lawman.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty, but he’s hard as nails and brings in lots of prisoners. They say he can ride anything with hair on it.” Then she laughed aloud at her words and he felt his face grow red.

  She slapped his leg. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude. You will forgive me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Luther originally came to Fort Smith to sell cattle to the Indian agencies. But them agents was so crooked, he gave up on that. He wanted no part of them. Why, they were giving them poor starving Indians old tough beef they bought dirt cheap and pricing it to the government like it were good stuff.”

  The major looked out the side window as they passed through the jumbled malapia rocks of the Dells. Luther Haskell might be a man to look up and talk to when he reached Fort Smith. He would keep the name in mind.

  “Yeah, he’s a real cowboy.” She smiled as if there was more unspoken about the lawman. “Good-looking, too.”

  “Guess that counts,” Gerald said, to make conversation.

  “Oh, yeah. My, it does. You sometimes get guys that are ugly as a bear. Have to shut your eyes tight. But now Luther’s took up with me girlfriend Tillie McQuire.” Lily nodded her head as if that were the fact of the matter. “She wrote last week in a letter all about how a couple of months ago him and her captured some marshal killer over in Shack Town.”

  Gerald nodded. Why in the hell did he have a dove along with him going after a killer? That would be suspect of poor judgment in his book. Yet Haskell was still a lead.

  “She said she drove the buggy to run down the scudder, and he jumped off and got him. Must have been hairraising, don’t you think?”

  “Must have been. You worked in Preskitt?”

  “Naw, I went up to the Crown King district. To the mines. I dealt some cards. But there ain’t much money or gold floating around up there. Not like a real gold camp, where them good old boys find some in their sluices every day and come to town every night to spend it. Whoopee! Why, a girl can get rich in them kinda of camps.”

  “You didn’t get rich at Crown King?”

  “Naw. But I made some money. Only, you have to be there on the first and fifteenth—that’s when the workers get paid at the mine.” She made a face like those dates must have posed real work for her. “Like I said, there weren’t many good old boys with pokes of gold up there.”

  “You found one, though?” He chanced aloud what he suspected.

  “Yeah, I did.” She leaned forward and looked at him as if to say “How did you know?” “That’s why I’m going home to see my momma in St. Louis. She ain’t well.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”


  “Well, she’s never claimed me for the past ten years. Mad that I was working in them cathouses and dealing cards. Said it ruined the family name. Hell, I never used that name. Now she’s sick and the rest of them worthless kids say they can’t help her, so she calls on me.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t think she’d want my soiled money, would yah? But she does.”

  They soon arrived at the Chino Valley relay station and the men came hurrying outside to switch horses. The major felt grateful for the still portion of the ride at last. The driver popped open the door and stuck his mustached face inside.

  “Only be here five minutes. Facilities are out back and coffee’s inside.”

  She looked pained at the major, removed her hat, and put it on the vacant seat. “Better go use it,” she said, and in a rustle of skirts and petticoats bailed out of the stage. “Be right back.”

  He swung down to stretch his already sore frame.

  “Nice night,” the driver said, standing on the porch, cradling a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. “We should be there on time.”

  The major thanked him, his mind set on the woman’s referral. Luther Haskell, a man he wanted to at least talk to at Fort Smith.

  The Frisco, more properly called the St. Louis and San Francisco Railroad, made a passenger run out of Monett, Missouri, to Fort Smith, Arkansas, twice a day. The tracks ran north to south over the Ozark Plateau, a familiar land where the major commanded troops during the last three years of the war. The puffing locomotive plowed southward through a recently completed tunnel at the top of the pass in the Boston Mountains, raced over several high wooden trestles, and stopped at Van Buren, then rumbled across the wide muddy Arkansas on a high bridge and arrived at the stone station on the riverbank, where the conductor called out, “Fort Smith, Arkansas!”

  Not bad, four days later and he made his destination. This whole United States grew smaller by the minute. Using a handkerchief to mop his neck and perspiring face, he had forgotten about the high humidity of this land.

  “Get them bags for ya, suh?” a black man asked.

  “Yes. Which is the cleanest hotel?” he asked, surveying the blocks of new multistory brick buildings that lined Garrison Avenue standing against the afternoon’s blue sky.

  “I’s never stayed in one, suh.”

  “Oh, I see. Take me to the one you think is the best. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Dan. Dan Tuney.”

  “Good, Dan Tuney, you’re the man.”

  “Yes, suh, you’s follow me.” The lanky built black picked up both bags and started up the grade to the street.

  “Where’s Molly Mather’s place?” he asked, looking around.

  “Oh, you’s wants to stay there?” The man frowned with concern and confusion in his eyes.

  “No.” The major chuckled at his reaction. “Later I want to speak to a young lady there.”

  Dan raised his shoulders in a shrug. “It be down there on the river. Folks goes there for lots of reasons. I guess you can talk all you wants to one of them if you’s got the money to pay her.”

  “I do.” The major looked around. Brick streets and gas lights, very impressive layout. Fort Smith’s recovery since the war looked impressive. Plenty of traffic. This place was really buzzing.

  He hurried to keep up with Dan in the congested sidewalk traffic of men in sea caps from the riverboats, cowboy hats, derbies, and stovepipes. Several Indians wrapped in blankets moved about. Some sat dejected in alleys, obviously having consumed too many spirits. Barkers shouted about the cheap prices and good deals of their respective saloons. Commerce in the city looked full steam. He stayed on Dan’s heels.

  The Diamond Hotel lobby’s hardwood floors shone from a wax polish when the major walked in off the street. An aloof young man behind the desk primped and acted very important. He adjusted his bow tie before he greeted them.

  “I need a room for a couple of days,” the major said, and looked around at the potted ferns and sofas.

  “Has someone recommended you to our establishment?”

  “You need that to stay here?”

  “We require it, sir.”

  “General Tecunseh Sherman did.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. That will be adequate.” The clerk opened the register, fanned the pages, and turned the book around for the major to sign.

  Smug over his quick answer, he shared a sly smile with Dan, then stepped up. He scratched his name and address on the line and the man produced a key tagged 224.

  “That’s upstairs and to the right, sir.”

  “Dan? Let’s go,” he said. Motioning for him to go first, he fell in behind the black man. They hastily climbed the flight of carpeted steps.

  “I’s sorry, Major, I never knowed about the recommendation needed stuff. Ain’t many of my customers stays in this fancy place,” Dan whispered over his shoulder near the top.

  “That’s fine, Dan. And by the way, I may need a guide. What do you charge by the day?”

  “Dollar be a good sum?”

  “Fair enough,” he said, unlocking the door. “I will be downstairs in half an hour, and you be ready to show me some places in Fort Smith.”

  “You need a buggy, suh?” Dan put his bags on the bed, opened them, and begun to hang up the major’s clothes on the rack in the corner.

  “Perhaps later. For now we will use shank’s mare.”

  “Oh, yes, suh, I sure be waiting.”

  The major tossed him a quarter. Dan caught it doublehanded with a clap that drew a wide smile of white teeth and pink gums.

  “Half an hour downstairs?”

  “Yes, suh-ree.”

  When he came from his room and stepped out front, he found his man waiting and on his feet. Dan informed him that the best food in town was at the Cotton Cafe. Of course, they parted company at the front door of the resturant. Dan waited outside, for no blacks were allowed in the place. The major ordered southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh greens, soda biscuits, and iced tea. He called the waiter over before he finished his plate.

  “Wrap me two drumsticks and two biscuits in a napkin. My driver will be starved.”

  “What is his name, sir?”

  “Dan. He’s out front.”

  “I will have him come to the back door in the alley and we will feed him whatever you request.”

  “The whole thing and a slab of apple pie,” the major said.

  “Very good,” the man said, and went to the front door. Through the front glass windows, he could see the waiter talking to Dan. The lanky form took off at a run. Satisfied his man would be fed, he went back to enjoying his own food. The railroad fare had been bad, but this delightful meal restored him.

  He finished with a large slice of the apple pie under thick cream and a succulent cup of hot coffee. In no rush, he noticed the grinning Dan had returned out front, busy picking his teeth.

  When the major came out, Dan nodded to him. “It sure be okay food and I sure thank you much.”

  “Good. I need to see the chief U.S. marshal now,” the major said, looking up and down the bustling afternoon sidewalk traffic. Attractive ladies with parasols in the latest fashion strolled by. Amongst the crowd, he noticed children dressed in fashionable clothing and other youngsters in rags begging as they went, and quick to dodge a intended kick or clout from an angry drunk.

  “Chief marshal, he be at the courthouse.” Dan pointed west. “Two blocks that way and two blocks south.”

  “Good.”

  “Ah, yes, suh. That was sure good food. Best I done had in a while. Thank you.”

  “You looked hungry. Tell me about this court business,” the major said as they strode down the sidewalk, weaving through traffic.

  “That old Judge Parker, he holds court all day and half the night. He be a workhorse, you could say.”

  “Parker?”

  “Yes, suh, Issac C. Parker. He hangs them killers too. Sends them others off to the Detroit federal prison by the carloads. They going
to have to build wings on that place pretty soon, he done send so many up there.”

  “Is he fair?”

  “I’s don’t know. What be fair? Them guys his deputies bring in, they all rough as bears. One guy says that they didn’t do that, but they sure enough done did ten things worse than that.” Dan laughed and showed his large teeth.

  “Do the deputies get paid well?”

  Dan shook his head like he wasn’t certain. “They gets two dollars an arrest, some mileage and money for food, but they don’t get no salary.”

  The major nodded. He had heard they were only paid for what they did, very similar to what his man had told him. Good. Then the right candidate could be hired for what he could offer him in wages. One hundred fifty a month, and expenses. The task would be picking the right man.

  Dan waited for him at the base of the stairs of the federal courthouse. Obviously he did not feel like going up the flight to wait at the white doors on the second floor. Climbing them, the major recalled the Army using these facilities for official business during the war. He entered, removed his hat, and spoke to the receptionist, a young man busy with many official-looking papers spread across his desk.

  “Chief marshal in?”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Major Gerald Bowen.”

  “Oh, I am sure he will see you, sir.” The boy popped up and hurried down the hallway.

  In minutes he returned with a bare-headed man who wore a walrus mustache. The man struck out his hand.

  “Major, I’m Carl Williams. What may I do for you?”

  “Good day, sir. I need a few minutes of your time. In private, sir.”

  “Come back to my office. You live near here?”

  “No, Arizona.”

  “I knew your face was new to me. Come on in.” The man showed him inside a spacious office. Cases of rifles and shotguns lined the wall. A picture of President Hayes and one of George Washington hung on the other wall. Light came in from some high windows and the office felt sweltering.

  Williams motioned for him to take a seat and dropped with a creak into a wheel-back, wooden chair behind the cluttered desk.