by Chuck Tyrell
“I’ll pay the fine,” Cahill said. “Just get out of here.”
“Stryker laughed. “That would be too easy, Cahill.” He walked to the second roulette wheel and felt under the table. “You really stack the deck, don’t you, Cahill?” Stryker chopped the wheel and table to kindling. “I reckon your card games are rigged same as the wheels,” Stryker said, “but it does no good to chop up card tables. Don’t let me hear of you cheating. Who’s Ferguson Nye?”
A suave man in gray raised a hand.
“Nye. I hear cowboys lose regular at your table. I’ll not run you out of town now, but don’t let me hear of you shaving cards again. Clear?”
The man in gray looked at Cahill, then nodded. “As you say, Marshal,” he said.
Wynn Cahill groaned.
“I’m nearly through here,” Stryker said. “I do howsoever find the premises somewhat risqué.” He thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and shot the plate glass mirror behind the bar. “Get one with no naked women on it, Cahill,” he said, and shot again. The mirror cascaded to the floor in shards.
“Inspection complete,” Stryker said. “Let’s go, Dan. The apple tree’s been shook.”
“Why didn’t you plug the bastard?” Breed stood quietly while Cahill ranted. “You were right there. You had your gun. You could have plugged Stryker dead to rights. Goldam but that pisses me off. Shee-it. First the money. Now my roulette games. And the bar mirror. You know how much that mirror cost? A hundred and forty dollars in Saint Loo, plus all I had to pay to get it here. Damn. I don’t understand you a bit, Breed. Most men are loyal to the brand. You. You just stood there, gun and all. I don’t get it.”
Breed looked Cahill in the eye. “You invited me to ride with you, Cahill. I’ve come this far. You never asked me to be your bodyguard. You never said I was supposed to be loyal to you, whatever that means. I’ll tell you, Cahill. I’m loyal to me. Stryker wasn’t out for blood, he just wanted to make you mad. Sometimes an angry man will do things he wouldn’t even think about with a cool head. If I were you, I’d eat the losses and let things go. Maybe even talk to that good-looking woman who writes for the Examiner. Tell her what a bastard Stryker is. Do more damage than a gunfight, I reckon.”
“Bullshit.” Cahill paced the room. “I’m going to get that bastard. I beat him to within an inch of his life. Now he breaks up my saloon. I can get him again. Only this time I’ll let Wynn slit his belly open and feed him his own guts for breakfast. I swear. I’ll get that scar-faced monster. I will.”
Breed shook his head. “I’ll watch, boss, and stay out of your way if I can, but don’t count on me bushwhacking Stryker or even ganging up on him for that matter. I like to keep things halfway fair.”
“Fair? Fair! Shee-it. Stryker comes strolling in here with a badge and an axe and a boy with a sawed-off scattergun, and you say ‘fair’?”
“He asked for my gun. I said no. He let me keep it, knowing I’d use it if he made a move my way. He didn’t.”
“You getting soft on Stryker?”
“No. Not hard, either. At the moment, I’m entirely neutral. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go take care of my horse.”
“You spend more time on that nag than he’s worth.”
“Come the time, that horse may have to carry me far and fast. I want him ready.”
“Yeah. You’ve got a point. Get out of here. I’ve got to think of a way to get Stryker.”
“I’d leave him, boss.” Breed raised a finger to the brim of his hat. “See you later,” he said.
Cahill sat back and stared out the window. Ponderosas waved needled branches in the soft breeze. Frost covered the needles on the pines most mornings, and ice rimmed the water in the hoof prints where horses and cattle crossed the Bog Creek ford. Damn. Somehow he had to get Stryker. Wynn still nursed the cracks put in his skull by Stryker’s gun, but when he recovered, he’d be out for blood. Until then, maybe Breed’s suggestion would be a good idea. Cahill retrieved his planter’s hat from the tree and headed for Ponderosa, the first time since he’d stopped the GW&SF train. He wore a heavy wool coat made from a Navajo blanket and his trousers were denim, lined with flannel. The bite of the autumn wind coming off Old Baldy didn’t bother Cahill a bit. He walked down Main Street on the south side, opposite the marshal’s office, then crossed over to the Examiner. Prudence Comstock stood behind the counter when Cahill opened the door. Involuntarily she took a step back. Cahill smiled.
“Good afternoon, Miss Comstock. May I interest you in a cup of coffee at Clark’s Kitchen? I have a story I think you’ll want to hear.”
Badge-clad Bully Smashes Local Property
Local lawmen have once again show their lack of respect for the businessmen of our good town, marching into the saloon Old Glory and smashing two of that establishment’s gaming tables. Marshal Matthew Stryker, accompanied by Deputy Daniel Brady, barged into Old Glory the night before last. Upon entering the establishment, Marshal Stryker fired three rounds into the ceiling, where the bullet holes can be observed to this day. The marshal then forced all patrons of the establishment to stand against the west wall. When Mr. Wynn Cahill protested the marshal’s intent, the lawman struck Mr. Cahill in the head with his revolver twice, rendering Mr. Cahill unconscious. The marshal then proceeded to smash the establishment’s two roulette wheels. Mr. Nate Cahill also protested the marshal’s deportment, but was held at gunpoint. The marshal destroyed the plate glass mirror behind the establishment’s bar, declaring its artwork “offensive.” Mr. Cahill estimates the damage caused by Marshal Stryker’s unjustified violence at approximately five hundred and thirty-three dollars. How long must the citizens of Ponderosa suffer under the yoke of this tyrannical lawman?
Dan Brady read the piece in the Examiner over breakfast. The facts were correct, but he figured Prudence Comstock fairly well disliked Marshal Stryker, and he wasn’t sure why. That puzzled him. He sopped a piece of sourdough biscuit in the yolk of his egg and popped it in his mouth. Marshal Stryker had hit Nate Cahill in the money pouch, where it hurt worst. Dan didn’t think Cahill’s reaction would end with the nasty article in the Examiner.
Borg Larsen and Slim Welsh had their heads together at the corner table. They spoke in low voices, and Dan paid them no mind. Gradually, their voices got louder, and Dan couldn’t help but listen.
“He’s gone too far, Slim. Too far.” Borg shoveled a forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth. “He buffaloes every cowboy on the streets, keeps the army out of town, and now he’s gone to breaking up private property. You read the piece in the paper?”
Slim Welsh nodded and said something Dan couldn’t hear.
“Maybe so. But there’s limits,” Borg said. “We get your vote, Slim, and we can throw him out. Get someone else. Or let Dan take over.” The men ignored Dan as if he wasn’t even there.
Dan sat back to enjoy his after-breakfast coffee.
“I haven’t changed my mind, Borg. Until Cahill is gone, we need Stryker. ‘Nough said.”
“Damn it, Slim. What’ll it take to get you to come around?”
“Borg, you can’t fault a man for doing his job the best he sees fit. In my book, that’s what Stryker’s doing. I’ll see you later. Got stock to feed.” Slim Walsh pushed his chair back and unraveled his lanky frame. “Mighty fine grub, Becky,” he said, leaving a quarter on the table.
“Any time, Slim. Any time.” Becky swept his cup and saucer away and swiped the place clean with a wet towel.
“Time for me to go, too,” Dan said. He left a nickel on the table for Becky. The town paid for his meals. He caught up with Slim as he stepped out on the boardwalk. “Sounds like some folks are unhappy with how Marshal Stryker runs Ponderosa,” Dan said, “not that I was listening to you and Borg talk.”
Slim smiled. “’Lo, Dan. Nah, anyone could hear what Borg was saying. That man talks almighty loud.”
“He does at that. Anything I or the marshal can do?”
“Don’t reckon. When you enfo
rce the law, you gotta stand up. You don’t, and the likes of Nate Cahill will make hoofmarks all the way up your backbone.”
Dan nodded. “That’s the way the marshal sees things, too.”
“I’d best get back to the Flying W,” Slim said. “Borg wanted to see me, so I came in, but I’ve got stock to care for. If you ever get a day off, Dan, come on over. Nellie’d like to have you for supper, sure. Being without kids gets her lonely sometimes.”
“I’ll do that, Slim. Thanks for the invite.”
Slim Welsh forked a paint gelding that stood tied to the hitching rail in front of Clark’s Kitchen. Dan strolled up the boardwalk, greeting the people of Ponderosa as he went.
Matt Stryker had the Examiner spread on the desk when Dan returned. His face looked stormy enough to bring clouds and rain. He looked up as Dan came in. “Wonder if this is the only apple we’re going to get from shaking that tree?” he said, punching at Prudence’s piece with a thick finger.
“You know better than me, Marshal, but I’d say not.”
“Probably not.”
“Slow day. No prisoners. No prospects.” Dan sat in one of the high-backed chairs.
Stryker stood and reached for his gun belt. “Better take a round through town. Folks feel better when they can see a star.” Then, as he got to the door, Stryker seemed to go very quiet. “Another apple just fell out of the tree,” he said, nodding toward Main Street.
Three men rode down the street like they’d just come from Round Valley. Dan came over to stand by Stryker. “Know them?” he asked.
“The man out front is King Rennick,” Stryker said. “The youngster riding on the left is the rattlesnake they call Kid McQueen. The dark man with the shotgun goes by the name of Ace Tyler. When those men ride in, someone usually ends up dead.”
Chapter Ten
Prudence Comstock noticed the three hard men through the window of the Examiner. The leader, or at least the man riding in the lead, wore a short-brimmed hat above a clean-shaven lean face. His frock coat flared over the cantle of his saddle, but failed to hide the walnut handles of the revolvers thrust into a red sash around his narrow waist. He wore striped California britches tucked into tooled boots with spurs that had very small daisy rowels. A dandy, Prudence thought, but the hard look on the suave man’s face disturbed her.
The youngster riding to the left of the lead man looked carefree and almost lazy. His gray Stetson sat on the back of his head allowing a curly forelock to hang over his eyes. Instead of a coat, he wore a cowhide vest over a heavy red-and-black checked flannel shirt, and his single sidearm rode high on his left hip, angled for a cross draw. His Levi’s covered worn boots and showed frayed hems at the bottom. His spurs were Mexican style with rowels half again as big as silver dollars. His freckled face wore a lopsided grin and his blue eyes sparkled just for the hell of it.
The small man on the right reminded Prudence of Tom Hall. Maybe it was the shotgun. Or perhaps the long-legged gray mare the man rode. He didn’t look like Hall, who always kept himself neat. This man obviously hadn’t shaved for several days. His coat was greasy buckskin and his trousers showed fraying at the knees. The shotgun shone as if it had been polished like a gem, and the gun belt at the man’s waist looked well cared for.
Prudence stepped out of the Examiner office after the three men rode past. Marshal Stryker stood at the edge of the boardwalk, facing the riders.
“Hello, King,” Stryker said.
“Matthew,” the leader said, drawing his horse to a halt.
“Staying long? Or just riding through?”
“Shouldn’t be here long, Matthew. You might say we’re riding through.”
“We have a rule in Ponderosa, King. No firearms in town. You’ve just ridden in and didn’t know, but next time I see you, you should be without the Remingtons.”
“And if I’m not?”
“I’ll let you keep me company from behind our cell bars, King.”
“You think you could jail me?”
“Yes.”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment.
“Maybe so,” King Rennick said. “Maybe so.” He clucked to his bay, which walked on down Main.
“King,” Stryker said. “If you’ve come after me, make it out in the open. Bushwhacking isn’t your style. And I’ve heard the Kid and Ace are honorable men.”
King Rennick chuckled. “If you ever take a bullet of mine, Matthew, you’ll see it coming, you’ll truly see it.”
“Just remember to leave the guns at home next time you come to Ponderosa,” Stryker said.
King raised a finger to his hat brim. “See you around, Marshal,” emphasizing the “marshal.” The three riders took Corduroy Road down the grade and across the Bog Creek ford. They stopped in front of Old Glory, dismounted, and went in.
Back in the Examiner office, Prudence thought about what she had heard. Could it be that those three men had come to Ponderosa to kill Marshal Stryker? Serves him right, she thought, his high-handed ways have brought this down upon him. If those in authority lord it over everyone else, then the oppressed have every right to rebel. That’s what happened at the Boston Tea Party. That’s what happened at Fort Sumner. That’s what happens every time. Still, the three men bothered her. They looked like gunfighters. Mercenaries. Men whose fighting ability was for sale, to be bought and paid for. Shouldn’t people fight their own wars? A shiver coursed through her body. Someone had hired those men to kill.
“Glad to see you men in Ponderosa,” Nate Cahill said. “Have a seat. Drink?”
“Never touch the stuff,” King Rennick said, “but the Kid likes a shot now and again. Ace does his drinking by the bottle, but he’s going to wait until this little job is done. Now, let’s see the color of your money.”
Wynn Cahill growled.
“Take it easy, Wynn. That’s what I like about King. He’s all business. No chance of feelings getting in the way. Right, King?”
“Not a chance.”
Cahill opened the safe in the corner of the room and pulled out a heavy sack. “Here. One thousand in double eagles just for taking on the job. When Matt Stryker is dead, I’ll match that with another thousand before you leave town.”
King Rennick opened the leather pouch and reached in for a handful of coins. He bit one. “Genuine stuff,” he said, passing a coin to Kid McQueen and another to Ace Tyler.
“Now, we need to coordinate our actions,” Cahill said. “I’ve got a little plan to earn some more money, and it will go a lot smoother if Stryker’s out of the way. When do you plan on doing the job?”
“Stryker seen us riding in, not that we were trying to sneak by, but he seen us, and he knows we’re after him. He’ll be on the lookout.”
“Ought to be some place you could waylay him.”
“That ain’t my way of doing things, Cahill. I can take Matthew Stryker, and I’ll do it in broad daylight. I just need to get the lay of the town and some idea of Stryker’s habits. Give me three days.”
King Rennick and his two men took rooms in the Comstock Hotel, and when they ate at Clark’s Kitchen, they wore no guns in sight. King spent the next day walking the streets of Ponderosa and going around the Comstock Sawmill. He watched the pond rats maneuver big ponderosa pine logs to the lift chain where gears from the steam engine caused the link chains to tighten over big gypsies and lift the logs out of the pond and onto a slide that led to the buzz saw carriage. He stood just outside where he could see the buzz saw carriage and its rider taking two-inch fletches off the logs. King watched the sawmill work intently but saw no advantage there for him and his men. He spent the afternoon at Old Glory, talking to the soldiers and cowboys, and later, the sawyers who gathered there to drink arsenic-laced whiskey and gamble away their meager earnings at the poker tables or hold hands with some of the girls sent over from Bucktooth Alice Murdock’s place.
The first day, King didn’t make up his mind. He’d take the day to look the town over before he sent his
challenge to Matt Stryker.
While King and Ace and the Kid spent the evening at Old Glory, Matt Stryker walked the town and sat in the marshal’s office while Dan made his rounds. The autumn air nipped exposed flesh at night and left rosettes of frost on the grass by morning. Ponderosa sat in the foothills of the White Mountains at the south edge of the Great Colorado Plateau, more than 7000 feet above sea level. Winter came early, and when the log pond froze up hard in December, the sawmill had to shut down, and sawyers and pond rats and machinists had to exist somehow on meager savings until spring thaw.
If rumor had it right, this year’s winter might hold jobs for some of the crew. Backroom gossip said Fletcher Comstock would expand the mill with a new buzz saw unit and build a whole new planer mill. That should mean work for many if not all of those laid off for the season.
Marshalling, however, was full-time work with no accounting for the seasons. Stryker hoped Comstock would get the construction started soon. Men with jobs were less likely to get in trouble than those with time on their hands. He leaned back in the desk chair and put his feet on a pulled-out drawer. He’d seen King Rennick casing the town. No use worrying about it. What would come would come.
Stryker caught the sound of a horse coming down Main from Corduroy. He thought little of it until the horse halted in front of the office. Stryker took his feet off the drawer. Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk and a rap came on the door.
“It’s open,” Stryker called.
The door opened and Tom Hall stood there with a hand on the frame. “Got a place where a wounded man could sit down?”
“Tom! For God’s sake, man. You should be in bed. What in hell are you doing here. Come in. Take a chair.”
Tom walked slowly across the room to sit in a high-backed chair. “Kept thinking about that train robbery,” he said. “Figured Cahill wouldn’t be happy with a box full of washers. He’ll try something else, Matt. He’ll want to get back at you for outsmarting him, and he’ll take another stab at Fletcher Comstock’s money, somehow. You’re going to need more backup than Dan Brady can give you, good man though he is. So I’m here. I’m not all the way healed, but I can pull a trigger.”