by Chuck Tyrell
The sound of boot heels in the hallway took Comstock’s attention to the door. Who could it be, this time of night? Where was the night watchman? Before he could call for the night man, Nate Cahill stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame.
“Midnight oil, eh, Comstock?”
“None of your by-God business, Cahill.”
“You’re wrong, Comstock, dead wrong. Now, we’ve been without a marshal for nigh on to a month. Things are getting almighty lawless around. Like I said, it’s time we had us a marshal.” Cahill grinned at Comstock’s discomfort. He plucked the makings from a vest pocket and rolled a cigarette. He stepped across to the desk to light the smoke over the chimney of the lamp. He drew deeply, then blew the smoke in Comstock’s direction. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Comstock. You all ain’t invited me to join the Ponderosa Club, but I’ll still donate a good man to be marshal, and you can bet he’ll have plenty of backup.” Cahill pulled a Colt from his waistband, cocked it, and laid it on the desk, muzzle pointed at Comstock’s chest. “I don’t want your sawmill, Comstock. I just want a good safe town to do my business in. Now give me that marshal’s badge.”
Comstock stared at Cahill for a long moment. Then opened the middle drawer of his desk.
“When your hand comes out of there, it better not be holding a gun,” Cahill said.
Comstock said nothing, but his face showed his disgust. “If I thought it would solve anything,” he said, “I’d walk through your cocked Colt and strangle you with my bare hands.” His hand appeared, holding a star-in-a-circle badge with MARSHAL stamped on it. He tossed it on the desk. “You take the badge, Cahill. But let me warn you. It’s going to being you grief like you never had in your whole life. Count on it.”
Cahill pocketed the star. “Won’t be me wearing it,” he said.
“Be you that gets the grief, though.”
“Aw, shut up. You run your sawmill and I’ll run the town. Get that?”
Comstock said nothing.
Cahill picked up the Colt and pressed its muzzle against Comstock’s forehead. “Get that?” he repeated.
Comstock stared at him without a word.
Tag Riddle wore the badge and Ponderosa turned into the rowdiest town north of Tombstone. It didn’t have the gold of Vulture City or the copper of Bisbee, but the Comstock sawmill’s lumberjacks and sawyers, Camp Kinishba’s blue-coated soldiers, and cowboys from ranches scattered through the foothills of the White Mountains from the Mogollon Rim to the badlands in New Mexico converged on Ponderosa to gamble and carouse. Mostly the rowdies stayed across the creek in Bogtown to have their fun, but they sometimes strutted on Main Street, too.
Marshal Riddle opened one eye as Herbert Gardner charged into the marshal’s office, his face livid. Flour streaked his hair and dusted his shirt and apron. “Marshal! You’ve got to do something.”
“I am. Right now, I’m busy keeping the peace.”
“You are not. You’re sleeping on the job.”
Riddle opened his other eye. “Are you telling me how to do my job?” His voice carried the threat of violence.
“Er. Oh. No, I wouldn’t do that, Marshal. It’s just that those Bar B Bar cowboys are having a flour fight in my store.”
Riddle laughed. “Sounds like it might be amusing. Can’t see where flour’d break things. You just stand back out of the way and let them have their fun. They’ll go back down to Old Glory when they run out of booze.”
Gardner’s shoulders sagged. “I should have known,” he said, and dragged his feet as he went out the door.
“Why didn’t we help him?” Dan Brady asked.
“Why should we?”
“We’re the law. We’re supposed to help the people in this town, right?”
Riddle sneered. “Do what? Help who?”
“Well, ain’t laws supposed to protect them what can’t use a gun or knife to protect themselves?”
“Riddle swiveled to face the deputy. “See here, Brady. I got this badge from Nate Cahill. I do what makes him happy. Them cowboys cutting up in Gardner’s store ain’t no skin off the boss’s nose. Bye ‘n’ bye, they’ll wander back to Bogtown where the boss wants them.”
Brady couldn’t meet Riddle’s angry eyes.
“You all just be glad you still got a job. The boss coulda fired your ass, you know.”
Brady dug a boot toe at a stain on the floor. He didn’t raise his eyes; he didn’t speak.
“You hearing me, kid?”
Brady nodded.
Morales stuck his head in the door. “Boss wants you.”
“All the way to Bogtown?”
“Over to the general store.”
“Shit.” Riddle buckled on his gun belt as he left the office. “You stay here,” he said to Brady.
Nate Cahill stood just inside the door of the general store when Riddle and Morales rushed in.
“Boss?” Riddle said.
Cahill swept his arm at the room. “Look at this mess, Marshal.”
The contents of at least a barrel of flour covered Gardner’s goods and lay thick on the floor. A fine white dust still clung in the air. Three cowboys, liberally decorated in white, stood in a line at the counter, swaying slightly on unsteady legs.
“Just some high-spirited cowboys, boss,” Riddle said. “No harm done.”
Cahill shook his head. His oiled curls danced beneath his hat. “Oh no, Marshal, this kind of thing should not be allowed to happen. Don’t you agree?”
“Uh, well, of course you’re right, boss, of course.”
“Mr. Gardner.” Cahill beckoned the storeowner over. “Marshal Riddle can’t do much about what has already happened, and it takes men and money to lay down the law to the whole town. But I think that if you were to help foot some of the bill, say thirty dollars a month, that’d go a long way towards keeping skylarking cowboys from dusting your goods with flour like this.” Cahill waved his arm at the flour-splotched goods again. “Wouldn’t thirty a month help, Marshal?”
Riddle started. “Oh, yeah, boss, that’d be real fine.”
Cahill showed Gardner his feral smile. “Of course, if you can’t see fit to contribute, who knows what those fun-loving rannies will do to your . . . establishment.”
Gardner’s mouth hung open.
“Ah, you’ll want to think about what I’ve said. All right. The Marshal will come by in the morning for your answer. I’ll leave you to the job of cleaning up.”
Outside, Cahill said, “He’ll pay. I can see it in his eyes. You collect tomorrow, Riddle. And bring the money straight to Old Glory, y’hear.”
Riddle laughed. “Boss, you’re better’n anything I ever saw. This beats the hell outta hitting trains.”
By the end of the week, every business in Ponderosa paid Nate Cahill for protection against rabble-rousers; every business, that is, except Comstock Log and Lumber Company.
A tap came at Fletcher Comstock’s bedroom window. His lapstrake whitewashed house stood back from Ash Street in a grove of ponderosa and spruce.
“No lights,” a gravelly voice said, and Comstock obeyed. He lifted the window, which he found by feel. A huge black shape loomed, and Comstock stepped back.
“It’s me, Fletcher,” the voice said.
“What in Hell . . . Matt?”
“Yes, Fletcher. Matt Stryker.”
“In the middle of the by-God night? Are you running from the law?”
“No, I’m not running, Fletcher. I’ve got debts to pay in Ponderosa.”
“You never spend money. What do you mean, debts?”
“I reckon you heard about Nate Cahill running me out of town riding my own horse backwards?”
“I heard.”
“He did that to me, Fletcher.” The rasp of Stryker’s voice seemed to deepen. “And I can’t let him get away with it.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“If I must.”
“W-what? How?”
The dark shape leaned closer. Comst
ock strained to see in the black shadows, but saw only darkness.
“Is that marshal job still open?”
“Tag Riddle’s wearing the badge.”
“Is the job still open?”
“Cahill runs the town.”
“Fletcher? Is that you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Doesn’t sound like you. Sounds like a quitter.”
Comstock said nothing.
“Is that right? Are you buffaloed?”
Comstock remained silent.
“Well I’ll be damned. The man who chewed cactus all the way back to Virginia City’s got faint. I’d have never reckoned that.”
Comstock stirred. “It’s not that, Matt. But I’ve got more than twenty grand tied up in that mill. I’d just as soon not get it burned down.”
“Fletcher. I’m going to take Cahill’s little castle apart, starting with the marshal’s office. I’d hoped for your support, but I’ll do without it if I have to.”
“You know I’ll do what I can,” Comstock said, then the shadow was gone. He stood for a long moment, listening to the soughing of the pines. What will Matt Stryker bring to Ponderosa, he wondered. He listened hard at the open window, but heard nothing. Damn. Sure, no one wanted to be strong-armed by someone like Nate Cahill. But now that everyone paid for protection, unruly cowboys and sawyers and soldiers stayed across the creek in Bogtown for the most part. Now Stryker had to come along and threaten to turn things upside down. Comstock’s operation, well, all the businesses in town for that matter, depended on the peace being kept. Cahill saw to it that rowdies didn’t get out of hand. That helped business. Most made much more than the few dollars they paid for protection. . . no, paid to help the law keep the rowdy element in check.
Comstock sighed. He knew Prudence would argue with his logic, but he had to get new saws and a planer mill in place, and a quiet situation was all he wanted until the equipment was installed and operational. Damn. Matt Stryker. Comstock had promised to do what he could, but for a moment, he wondered if he should warn Nate Cahill. Maybe so. Maybe in the morning. He felt his way back to bed, but sleep eluded him. Matt Stryker didn’t make idle threats. War was coming to Ponderosa.
When morning came, Comstock put off telling Cahill about Stryker’s threat. He figured he could stand back and let Stryker and Cahill fight it out. Most likely, the conflict wouldn’t involve the mill. Besides, whoever was in charge, Comstock had to find a way to work with them. He had a business to run. He couldn’t afford to get involved in trivial turf wars or petty revenge plots. His decision made, Comstock took his time dressing. He chose fawn-colored trousers and an off-white linen shirt. He tied a maroon cravat at his throat and shrugged into an embroidered waistcoat. Gold this morning, he thought as he thrust a gold-plated watch into a vest pocket and draped his heavy beaten gold chain across his spare midriff. Nearly thirty-five and no sign of middle-age spread. Comstock felt proud of that.
His bottle-green topcoat with velvet collar made him look exactly like what he was – a business magnate and pillar of the community. Comstock picked up a light cane and stepped to the front door. “Breakfast at Clark’s,” he called, though the fragrance of chorizo and jalapenos came from the kitchen.
“Sí patrón,” replied Ramona, his housekeeper. She always prepared breakfast, though he ate at Clark’s as often as he ate at home.
“Morning, Mr. Comstock,” Dan Brady said. Comstock nodded to the deputy and barged on through the door to Clark’s. Briefly, Dan wondered what was going on in Comstock’s head. He looked awful preoccupied. Dan shifted his shotgun to the crook of his left arm and continued on down the boardwalk. The new rules said a badge had to be out on the boardwalk during daylight hours. That will show folks the law is serious, Cahill said, and Dan could see his point. Dan just didn’t think he should do all the walking and badge displaying. Not that he minded seeing all the citizens of Ponderosa. He tipped his hat to Parson Hunt’s wife as she entered the general store. He stuck his head in. “How are things going, Mr. Gardner?”
Gardner looked up from where he was measuring yard goods. “Things are quiet, Dan. Hope they stay that way.”
“Reckon they will,” Dan said. “Reckon they will.”
A murmur of voices down the boardwalk brought Dan’s head out of the store. He turned to look down Main Street. Two riders came up the street abreast. People stopped to stare. The big man in a black duster with his hat pulled low over his face rode on the left. A wiry man on a long-legged dapple gray built for speed rode beside him. The big man’s hat put his face in the shadow, and his jaw showed dark growth that said he’d not shaved in a month or so. The smaller man’s narrow brim hat hid his face not at all, but his frank open expression held a hint of humor that was belied by the sawed-off shotgun held like a lance on his thigh. “Seen that black horse before,” a cowboy commented, “Can’t recall where.”
Dan Brady knew where. That black horse was Matt Stryker’s Arabian. Dan scurried down the boardwalk ahead of the two riders and burst through the door to the marshal’s office as they reined in their mounts at the hitching rail.
“Marshal,” Dan said to Riddle, who sat as usual with his boots up on a pulled-out bottom drawer. “Marshal, I think Matt Stryker’s coming.”
“Matt Stryker?”
The door swung open and crashed against the wall. A huge shape filled the doorway. “I’ll have the badge, Riddle,” a gravelly voice said.
“Like Hell you will.” Tag Riddle scrambled to his feet. He pawed at the gun rig hanging at the side of his desk.
The man in black took three long strides into the room. His right arm snaked out to grab Riddle’s shirt by the collar. Riddle lost his grip on the gun rig and it fell to the floor.
“You’ve dropped your tool, gunny,” the man rasped. He pulled Riddle around and planted a gloved right fist into the pseudo-marshal’s midriff. Riddle’s breath exploded from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, only to have a left fist crash into his jaw and send him sprawling. Riddle struggled to his hands and knees, crimson slobber drooling from his smashed lips. The man in black bashed a polished boot into Riddle’s ribs.
“My God, man, you’re killing me. Take the damned badge if you want it so bad.” Riddle fumbled at the marshal’s badge pinned to his vest.
The big man stood spraddle-legged, his face hidden in the shadow of his hat’s wide, down-turned brim.
At last Riddle managed to unpin the badge. He dropped it at the big man’s feet. “There’s your stinking badge.”
He crawled for the door.
The man in black swept the badge up with the clawed fingers of his right hand. He pinned the badge to his black leather vest. “Now Ponderosa’s got some law,” he said. He sat in the marshal’s chair and pushed the black hat to the back of his head. Dan Brady gasped.
“What’s the matter, son? Nate Cahill’s handiwork take you aback somewhat?” Matt Stryker ran a hand over his scarred and misshapen face. “Seems that I remember you were Braxton Webber’s deputy. I see you still wear a star.”
“Yessir. This is all the job I got, Mister Stryker.”
Stryker smiled, but the scars pulled his lips in directions the smile never intended. The result was closer to a grimace. “Does that mean you’d like to keep your badge?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to get to be a bona fide lawman some day.”
Stryker raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear him Tom? We’ve got an idealist on our hands. What do you think? Shall we let him stay?”
Tom Hall had a smile on his open frank face. “Don’t see why not, Matt. We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“You’re right about that. All right kid, keep your badge. What’s your name again?”
“Daniel Brady, sir. Most people just call me Dan.”
“All right, Dan. I’m Matt Stryker—”
“I know that, sir.”
“—and the little guy with the big shotgun’s Tom Hall. He watches my back. I’m here to break Nat Cah
ill’s hold on this town and my back’s going to need a lot of watching.”
“He makes everybody pay,” Dan said.
Stryker nodded. He rummaged in the desk drawer and came up with a ring of keys. He unlocked the guns and chose a long Winchester shotgun. “Come on, Tom. We got work to do. He shoved half a dozen shotgun shells in a vest pocket and loaded the shotgun as he strode out onto the boardwalk. Tom Hall checked his loads and left three steps behind and off to one side. No one said Dan had to stay in the office, so he followed Stryker. Something was about to happen, and Dan Brady wanted to be there when it did.
Chapter Four
Tag Riddled crashed through the new batwing doors of Old Glory.
“Take care, Riddle,” said Nate Cahill, a half sneer on his face. “Those swinging doors cost more than two bits.”
“He’s back!” Pink foam formed in the corners of Riddle’s mouth. “The goldam bastard’s back, Nate.”
“What in Hell are you blubbering about?”
“He was stark raving mad, boss, punching and kicking me. He woulda killed me, sure.”
“Who would have killed you? Where?”
“Over to the marshal’s office.”
Cahill noticed the badge was missing. “Where’s your badge, Riddle?”
“He’d a killed me!”
“So what?”
“So I had to give him the badge, I had to. Or I’d be dead right now.”
“Ass. You gave away the law? Just because you got busted in the teeth? I oughta kill you myself.”
Riddle backed away from Cahill until he hit the bar. He seemed spitted by Cahill’s glare. “B-b-boss. I couldn’t do nothing else. I swear. I had to turn it over.”
Cahill upended his table. His glass and bottle of Turley’s Mill crashed to the sawdust-covered floor. The glass broke, but the whiskey bottle was made of sterner stuff. It rolled around so Cahill had to step wide to avoid it as he stalked toward Tag Riddle. He pulled on doeskin gloves.
“Oh God, boss. I couldn’t help it.” Riddle cowered against the bar.
“You gonna beat him, Nate?” Wynn Cahill stepped through the back door. “Can I help?”