by Chuck Tyrell
“Leave them be, Becky,” said Gardner. “We’re having a discussion here.” He gave her an expectant look.
“Right,” she said. “I’m gone. Someone drop by and tell me when you all are finished. I’ll get the cups and stuff.” She opened the door. “See you all later.”
“Two to two,” Welsh said.
Slim took a third doughnut, his brow furrowed. When the doughnut was gone, his brow was still furrowed. “I see both sides,” he said. “I understand what Fletcher’s saying, but I have to agree with Herb that Stryker’s got himself a bit high-handed since Tom Hall got hurt. Hmmmm.”
“You know what happened before Stryker came, Slim. You, too, Herb. How much was it you were ‘donating’ to keep the cowboys out of your flour barrel?”
“Cahill’s been very quiet,” Gardner said.
“Why?”
“Maybe he’s learned his lesson.”
“Maybe he knows that if he steps out of line he’ll have Matt Stryker down his throat.” Comstock took a fierce bite into a doughnut.
“Don’t like the law scaring people,” Gardner said, “and Stryker’s got a face that would scare his own mother. Fletcher, he doesn’t even try to talk to the cowboys now. He just whacks them over the head with that monstrous pistol he wears. It’s gone too far, I say. Too far.”
Slim cleared his throat. “All said and done, Herb, I’m going to have to stand with Fletcher on this. I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cahill and his men don’t try some new angle before long, and I want Stryker to be here when it happens.”
“Majority says Stryker stays,” Comstock said, “so he stays.”
Dan Brady looked up at the rap on the frame of the open door.
“May I come in, deputy?” Prudence Comstock stood just outside on the boardwalk.
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I came to interview Marshal Stryker’s prisoner,” she said. “The constitution guarantees freedom of the press, you know.”
“Er. Well. Come on in. No harm in your talking to a hung-over cowboy, I reckon.”
“Thank you, deputy.” She stepped primly into the office. Dan hastened to open the door to the rear cell area.
“I’ll just leave the door open, Miss Prudence. Can’t have you alone in there with a prisoner, even if there are bars between you and him.”
“As you wish, deputy. May I at least have a chair?”
Dan dragged a high-backed chair in from the office. “I’ll be right in the other room if you need me, Miss Prudence,” he said.
She nodded, turned the chair to face the cell, and sat. “Now,” she said to the cowboy on the bunk, “suppose we start with your name and outfit?”
He lifted his head from his hands. “Ma’am, you’re an eyeful to look at, but my head’s busted and I don’t feel up to jawing with pretty girls at the moment.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here, Mr . . .”
“Name’s Caleb. Caleb Rossiter. Most folks just call me Ross. My head hurts something awful Miss. Maybe you could come back some other time.”
“Just a few questions, Ross, as long as I’m already here.”
The cowboy lowered his head to his hands. The slump in his shoulders said he’d given up trying to talk sense to Prudence Comstock.
“How long will you be in jail, Ross?”
“I reckon the marshal will let me go come evening. He knows I got to be at the ranch tonight.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was acting up. Had one or two too many. Marshal plonked me on the head with his six-shooter.”
“Why would he need to hit you?”
“Reckon I was a bit rowdy.”
“But did he have to hit you with a gun?”
“Reckon that was the handiest tool he had.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Marshal’s got to keep the peace.”
“Goodness, man. He acts like a despot.”
“What’s that?”
“A king. Someone who does only what pleases him and insists all others do likewise.”
“Marshal’s not tough and the rannies will run over him rough-shod. Gotta be tough.”
“Oh, my. Who’s side are you on?”
“Marshal’s fair, ma’am. I was wrong. I got no complaints.”
“Well. This interview certainly is getting me nowhere very quickly.”
“Just telling it like it is, ma’am. Just like it is.”
Clamping her mouth into a tight line, Prudence stood up so quickly that all her ringlets bounced. “I’ll leave you to contemplate your sore head, then, Mr. Rossiter, and hope that Matt Stryker doesn’t go too far.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Dan Brady said from the office. “Marshal Stryker knows exactly what he is doing.”
Matt Stryker stood at the top of the Corduroy Road upgrade. Old Glory sat across the Bog Creek ford where Corduroy ran its way alongside the trickle of water in the creek bed until it reached the end of the swale. Stryker didn’t know what to do. He knew good and well that the Cahill gang took the strongbox off the GW&SF train. There’s no way a man can fake the way he rides a horse, and Stryker saw Cahill, Wynn, Morales, and the Breed in the way the four owlhoots sat in the saddle. Stryker came down hard on the rowdy cowboys, hoping to push Cahill into making a move. So far, nothing had happened. If anything, Cahill tended to stick to Old Glory, using Breed or Morales when he needed something from town. He showed no signs of leaving Ponderosa either. “Damn,” Stryker said aloud.
“Are you daydreaming, Marshal?” Somehow Prudence Comstock had walked right up to Stryker without him noticing. He’d have to be more careful.
“Dreaming, Miss Comstock? What I’d like to do is dream myself right out of a job, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.”
“Is that why you always hit young men in the head with your pistol?”
“Doesn’t matter if they’re young, miss. Rowdies lose a lot of their steam after a gun barrel’s been laid alongside their heads. Best attitude controller I know.”
Prudence Comstock took a step back, looking up into Stryker’s face. “If I could think of a way to accomplish it, Marshal, I’d put you out of a job post haste.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ponderosa doesn’t need a strong-arm gunman to enforce its laws, Mr. Stryker. Sternness has its place, I’ll admit, but violence is completely unnecessary.”
“I’ve always found that a town tames quicker when you fight fire with fire.” Stryker shoved his hat back on his head. “Take a good look at my face, Miss Comstock. See how it caves in around the cheekbones and eye sockets. Notice the scars. Look at how they pull my eyes out of kilter, how they make my mouth turn down, even when I try to smile. Listen to my voice rattle. You know who did all that to me, Miss Comstock? Nate Cahill. With doeskin gloves on his hands and lead bars in his fists. With half a dozen of his cowboy friends holding me while he smacked my face into the mess you see.”
“It’s revenge, then?”
“Yes and no.”
Prudence raised an eyebrow. “Yes and no?”
“I want the Cahill gang. Especially Nate and Wynn. Nate for what he did to me. Wynn for what I hear he did to others – Bart Sims, Brax Webber, Richie Brown, Tag Riddle, and probably Clanton Reeves. Those men deserve to spend the rest of their lives in the Hell Hole at Yuma. If I’m to put them there, I must catch them out.”
“Mr. Cahill seems to keep himself mostly to Old Glory, doesn’t he?”
“He does. The day will come, I’ll wager, when he shows his rattles. I know him for a snake, and I know he’s poison. If you’re smart, Miss Comstock, you’ll stay as far away from Nate and Wynn Cahill as you can get.”
“The Examiner is a newspaper, Marshal, and we can’t print the news without information. Thus I must go where the line of information leads. Our readers deserve to know the reality of every situation our city faces.”
“I’m giving you fair
warning. Stay away from Old Glory. Nate Cahill’s a rattlesnake from Hell and your being a woman won’t make no never mind to him.”
“I’ll do what I must, Marshal.”
Prudence turned in a whirl of skirts and walked back down the boardwalk with her head held high. In any other situation, Stryker would have applauded her grit. Now he only felt she was headed for trouble. “Best shake the apple tree to see what falls out,” he said, talking to himself. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his mackinaw and strolled back to the marshal’s office. Planning had to be done. A skunk had to be flushed from its hole.
“Turn Ross out,” Stryker said as he entered the office. “He’s been in there long enough to clear his head.”
Dan pulled the ring of keys off its peg and went into the back room. Stryker laid the cowboy’s hat and gun on the desk. Ross limped through the door.
“Take your hat, son,” Stryker said. “And let your steam off the other side of Bog Creek from now on. I don’t like to hit people over the head, and when the head’s as hard as yours, it’s likely to bend my barrel out of shape. You hear?”
Ross ducked his head. “I hear you, Marshal. I hear you, but now and then a man’s got to lay one on, and after a few of that rotgut they sell as whiskey, my sense of direction ain’t too good. I’ll try, Marshal, I’ll try.” He picked up the hat and placed it gingerly on his head.
“Your gear in Bogtown?” Stryker asked.
“Old Glory. My plug’s in the corral behind. Furniture’s in the lean-to. Didn’t bring nothing else except my gun and my pay, and I reckon the pay’s gone.”
“Dan, you go with Ross to the top of the upgrade. Make sure he knows which way’s to Bogtown. Give him his gun and let him go. Make sure the gun’s empty.”
Dan Brady clapped his hat on. “Come on, Ross,” he said. He picked up the cowboy’s six-gun, rolled the cylinder to make sure it was empty, and stuffed the gun back in the worn leather holster. “You should take better care of your short gun, Ross. You do and it’ll save your life one day. You don’t and it’ll let you down when you need it most.”
“Boy, you’re getting to be a philosopher, and you’re dead right. Ross. You be careful. They serve poison at Old Glory. Not all of it in a bottle. You’re too good a man to die young.”
Ross grinned. “Ain’t much of a choice around here where a man can sew what few wild oats he has. In Ponderosa, it’s Old Glory or it’s sitting on the porch in a rocking chair. Never was too hot with rocking chairs.”
Stryker barked a laugh. “Get out of here, you footloose Jehu. Don’t let me see you again except when you’re dead sober. I’ll tell you again. They serve up poison at Old Glory. Don’t you die from it.”
“See you around, Marshal,” Ross said. He followed Dan out the door and off toward Corduroy Road.
Stryker leaned back in his chair and put his foot up on an open lower drawer. Now, if he could just figure out a way to make Nate Cahill show his stripes.
Nate Cahill fumed. Damn. Twenty grand. His for the taking. Train from Ponderosa stopped perfectly. No problem getting the strongbox. No resistance . . . no resistance. Damn. That Clanton Reese must have let the cat out. How else would Stryker know? Damn. Fletcher Comstock owes me money, Cahill thought. By God he owes me money. But the money lay in the big safe at Wells Fargo in Holbrook. Cahill had no intention of going up against Wells Fargo. That was a good way to get federal law after you. No one wanted U.S. Marshal Stomp Hale after them. He was like a damned bulldog. Worse than a hundred Strykers. Stryker thought he knew Cahill held up the train. He had no proof. Nothing he could do. Besides, what law got broke by taking a strongbox full of goldam iron washers? There’s got to be a way to get that money. Cahill slammed the flat of his hand against the top of his desk. He’d come up with a way. There had to be a good way . . . had to be.
“Boss?”
“Yeah, Breed. What do you want?”
“Tom Hall’s not here, boss.”
“I know that.”
“No one’s watching Stryker’s back.”
“I know that, too.”
“Were I you, I’d be thinking of ways to get rid of Stryker.”
“I am.”
“You know, that girl at the Examiner is no friend of Stryker’s. You read what she’s got to say?”
“What?” Cahill had better things to do with his time than read a rag like the Examiner.
“She’s all het up about how he buffaloes drunk cowboys if they’re a bit too rowdy.”
“So?”
“Maybe a few . . . well, more than a few, drunk cowboys would do away with his reputation. Once Stryker’s gone, all you have to deal with is that kid, Dan Brady.”
Cahill brightened. “Yeah. Stryker buffaloes a lot more cowboys. The girl paints him a bastard. Then the Ponderosa Club fires him. I like the sound of that.”
“I got work to do, boss. Just thought you’d like to remember about Tom Hall.” Breed let himself out. Cahill’s smile was not a pretty thing to see.
Chapter Nine
Stryker bought a double-bitted axe at Gardner’s Mercantile and carried it against his leg up the boardwalk and across Main Street to the marshal’s office.
“Why the axe?” Dan asked.
“I’m going to shake the apple tree,” Stryker said. “Maybe even cut it down. I’m going to need you on the shotgun. Grab the sawed-off 10-gauge and a handful of shells and come along.”
Dan jammed on his hat and took the short shotgun from the gun rack. He opened the drawer at the bottom of the rack to get the shells. “Birdshot okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Make it two hands full. You may have to make some noise.” Stryker added a sixth cartridge to the cylinder of his Frontier Colt .44. He picked up the axe. “Don’t you let anyone take a shot at me while I’m shaking the tree,” he said. “Just pretend you’re Tom Hall.”
“I’m ready,” Dan said. Breaking the shotgun and shoving two shells into the double breech. The grim look on his face said he took Stryker’s admonition serious.
Stryker strode out of the marshal’s office, across Main Street, and down Corduroy Road. Dan Brady followed three steps behind and off to the left. He tried to watch all the shadows like Tom Hall would, but wasn’t sure he did it right.
The marshal took a long step across the trickle called Bog Creek and walked up to Old Glory. Dan was still three steps behind. He watched left toward Murdock’s cribs, then right toward Comstock Dam. The dark shapes of tarpaper shacks dotted the swale to the tree line. Lights showed in two.
Old Glory’s piano man played that new one called Chopsticks, then went into I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen. A rumble of male voices came through the batwing doors as Stryker mounted the steps to the porch at the front of the saloon. Dan stayed on the wagon-rutted street, watching out for danger. Stryker switched the axe to his left hand and drew his Colt .44 with his right. As he pushed through the batwings, he fired three shots into the ceiling as fast as he could thumb back the Colt’s hammer.
The room went still.
“Gentlemen,” Stryker said, “word has come my way that says the games at Old Glory are weighted toward the house. I hear that the common sawyer or lumberjack or soldier or cowboy has the chance of an icicle in Hell of winning at the tables here. So I’ve come to inspect those games. Dan!”
“Here, Marshal.” Dan stepped through the batwings, shotgun ready.
“Keep that scattergun handy,” Stryker said. He waved to the men at the tables, then those at the bar. “Stand over against the far wall, gentlemen. This won’t take long.”
“Hey! What the hell’s going on?” Wynn Cahill came barreling through the back door to face Stryker’s gun.
“Hello, Wynn,” Stryker said. “The law’s inspecting Old Glory. Take your gun out with two fingers. That’s a good boy. Put it on the bar. That’s right. Now walk over here.” Stryker smiled. The effect was anything but pleasant.
Wynn stopped half a dozen feet from Stryker. “What do you
want, asshole?”
Stryker took a long step forward and hit Wynn across the face with his Colt. He reversed his swing and cracked the younger Cahill hard on the crown of his head with the gun. Wynn went down, unconscious.
“Don’t do it, Morales.” Dan shifted the shotgun toward the Mexican, who left his gun in its holster. “Put the gun on the bar,” he said. Morales hesitated, then complied.
Stryker turned to the barman. “Jigger, pull out the shotgun. Careful.”
The ‘keep took his Greener from beneath the counter.
“Pop it and take out the shells,” Stryker said.
Jigger did as he was told.
“Now lay it on the bar. That’s a good man. Breed?”
“I’m here.” Breed stood against the back wall with his arms folded.
“Gun on the bar?”
“Rather not, Marshal. But I won’t try for you unless you come after me.”
Stryker gave Breed a long look. “Okay. I’m here to check the games, not for a shootout. I figure Wynn’s the only one crazy enough to go up against me and Dan. Just stand easy against that wall, men,” Stryker said to the crowd. “I’ll be finished shortly.”
Old Glory had three card tables and two for roulette. “Scattergun on the crowd, if you please, Dan,” Stryker said. He walked to the nearest roulette table and felt beneath it, at the edge of the wheel. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Stopper. No one wins much at this table.” Stryker hefted the axe and brought it down on the roulette wheel. The bit sank into the wheel, splitting it in two. Stryker chopped again, and again, until the wheel lay in shattered pieces.
Boots sounded on the outside stairs. Nate Cahill burst into the saloon. His string tie was undone and his pomaded hair had not been combed into submission. As he came through the door, he roared, “Can’t a man get a little sleep . . .” He came up short, staring at Stryker’s cocked pistol, the ruined roulette wheel, and Wynn stretched out on the floor. “What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?”
“Inspection, Cahill. Can’t have anyone running crooked games in Ponderosa,” Stryker said.