by Lauran Paine
Charley spread his tobacco in sunlight too, very carefully, along with his wheatstraw cigarette papers. Boss watched this with something close to indifferent interest. He said, “I was thinkin’ about getting out of the damned cattle business anyway. But my idea was to sell off the cattle to have enough money to start up in somethin’ else. Like maybe a saloon somewhere. Built up off the ground, with a roof that don’t leak and a big stove. A man could stay warm an’ dry in winter and cool in summer.”
Charley looked surprised. “You never mentioned this before,” he said, returning to the edge of his bunk.
Boss did not look up when he replied. “But I been thinkin’ about it. It’s not just being a freegrazer an’ having just about everyone dislikin’ me, it’s spendin’ about half the year in mud or frost, or maybe blisterin’ sun. Charley, if it’s not a deluge it’s a drought. I’m gettin’ too old for it anymore.”
Waite leaned back until his shoulders were against the wall, studying his companion. If Boss sold out and quit, Charley would have to strike out again. Maybe take Button along. He’d worked for other outfits, but not for a while, and he’d been comfortable with Boss Spearman.
As the afternoon wore along, the noise in the roadway increased rather than diminished. Charley was finally able to roll a smoke. Boss was napping when the marshal returned to the cellroom with Sue Barlow. She was shocked at their appearance. Before when she’d seen them they had been muddy, soaked, rumpled, and disreputable looking, but not so slack and demoralized as this. She ignored the lawman when she said, “Button is on the mend. He’s even beginning to eat.”
Charley nodded at her. Boss was sound asleep, on his side this time so he did not snore.
She paused a long time before speaking again. “I asked if we could post bail for you, Mister Waite. The marshal said no.”
Charley finally pushed forward to the edge of the bunk again. “Sure good to see sunshine again, ain’t it?”
She nodded woodenly, then turned without another word. Marshal Poole threw Charley a triumphant smile before passing from sight following Sue Barlow up front.
She was white to the hairline as she faced Poole. “Can’t they at least wash? They look awful. Like trapped animals.”
The lawman sat down at his table looking up at her. “They don’t leave that cell until the circuit-riding judge gets here to try them.”
She returned his steady stare for a moment, then walked to the door and out into the noisy roadway without speaking or looking back. When she got home, Button was at the kitchen table with her brother. She sank into a chair and told them what she had seen and what she had been told. Button’s appetite dwindled to nothing as he listened. Doctor Barlow was gazing into an empty coffee cup, and neither looked at her nor opened his mouth.
She spoke sharply. “Walt! He’s going to railroad them and you know it. Otherwise, he’ll hold them until Mister Baxter rides to town, and that could be even worse for them. You know that too.”
Her brother leaned back in his chair, eyes raised to her face. “I’m a doctor, Sue, not a gunfighter. Even if I was, Al Poole’s vigilantes add up to more guns than a sane man could even think about facing.”
She said, “There was to be someone, Walt. Something we can do.”
He shook his head at her. “If they weren’t free-grazers, maybe. Just maybe.”
She stood up, ignoring Button’s stricken look as she said, “All right. You set bones and dose folks for fevers,” and flung out of the kitchen leaving her brother and Button staring after her. Neither of them moved until they heard the front door slam, then Button stood up. Doctor Barlow said, “Sit down, son, and finish your meal.”
Button sat down but ignored the food to put a troubled look upon Doctor Barlow, who tried to be reassuring when he said, “I’ll see what can be done.”
Button was not very reassured. He left the kitchen for the room he had been staying in. He did not have time to close his door before a commotion out on the porch brought him back toward the parlor.
Across the parlor Doctor Barlow was scowling in the doorway of his examination room when the door burst open. Sue backed into the parlor gesturing for a large, burly man in a plaid shirt to head for the examination room. The big man was cradling a forlorn-looking dog in his arms. Behind him was a girl of about eleven or twelve, red-eyed and obviously desolated.
Walt stepped aside. The big man gently put the dog on Walt’s examination table and turned a little apologetically. “I know you doctor people, not animals, but there’s no one else. We tried the apothecary an’ he sent us up here.”
Walt approached the dog and winced. He had obviously tangled with a skunk. The big man leaned to lift a foreleg and expose a bloody long gash to the bone. Walt told his sister to get a tourniquet, then raised the leg to exert pressure until most of the bleeding stopped. The little girl stood in ashen agony watching as Sue got the binder in place and gently turned it until there was no bleeding.
Walt used a razor to cut away the hair, cleansed the injury with carbolic acid, leaned as close as he could to estimate the amount of damage, then told the big man to hold the tourniquet and sent Sue for chloroform. The moment the dog went limp, Walt went to work.
Behind the girl, Button was standing in the doorway. She turned away, fighting back the tears. Button put a hand lightly on her shoulder and smiled. “She’ll be all right.”
“It’s not a she, it’s a he.”
Button offered the little girl a handkerchief. She fiercely blew her nose and handed the handkerchief back. The older people did not seem to know they were back by the doorway.
When Walt was satisfied he was in control, he did not raise his head as he asked the big man what had happened.
“Tangled with a skunk who came out from under one of our wagons. I guess it was the only dry place the skunk could find. My daughter’s dog picked up the scent.”
Walt dryly said, “I can’t imagine how he did that.”
The big man went on though there had been no interpretation. “The dog couldn’t really do much hunched down beneath the wagon, but he made a rush an’ that skunk raked him down the inside of the leg with one paw.”
“What happened to the skunk?” Walt asked, and got a quizzical look from the large man. “He got shot to death.”
“The reason I asked,” stated Walt, drawing open flesh together before each stitch, “is that if the skunk had hydrophobia, your dog may get it. If he gets it and bites anyone, they’ll get it. There’s no cure.”
The large man answered solemnly. “Yeah, I know. I lost a good mule to the hydrophobia once. Bit by a crazy-mad coyote. That skunk didn’t act crazy, just scairt and fighting mad.”
Walt let the topic die and finished the sewing before stepping away so his sister could start the bandaging. He saw the girl and Button and smiled. “He’ll be fine. Unless that was an infected skunk. It probably wasn’t, but you keep watch on him, young lady. Don’t let him get near you if he starts snarling or dripping saliva.”
The large man dug in a faded trouser pocket and produced several silver cartwheels. Walt selected one. As the big man was returning the other coins to his pocket he said, “That’s the dog’s second close call. He got swept into the roadway in that storm. I tried to grab him but the current was too swift. Two stockmen was wading across. One of them caught the pup as he was whirling past and brought him to the plankwalk with him.”
Button, Sue, and Walt stared at the man. Walt said, “Was one a big older man, the other one a husky, younger and shorter man?”
The girl’s father nodded. “Yeah. I saw them at the cafe later. My brothers was in there havin’ somethin’ to eat before we went back to our wagoncamp on some high ground northeast of Harmonville. One big old man an’ a shorter, stocky feller who was younger. You know them?”
Sue answered ahead of her brother. “Yes. The large older man is Boss Spearman. The other man is Charley Waite.”
The large man smiled. “My little girl an’
I owe them, ma’am. Do they live in town?”
Doctor Barlow replied dryly, “Down at the jail-house.”
The big man’s eyes widened. “Prisoners? What’d they do?”
Button spoke from the doorway. “They’re free-grazers. I’m one of them. A cowman told us to get out of the country, then killed Mose, tried to kill me, and—”
Sue interrupted. “Button, take the young lady to the kitchen and see if she’d like some of that apple pie under the saucepan.”
Until they were gone not a word was said. Afterward, Sue explained everything to the large man, who went to a small chair and sat down as he listened. On the examination-room table the loudest sound after Sue had finished was the raspy breathing of the unconscious dog.
The big man drifted his gaze from Sue to her brother. Walt nodded. “It’s the truth.”
“An’ the town marshal’s some kind of partner to this cowman named Baxter?”
“Yes.”
“An’ that’s why he’s been after those freegrazers?”
“Yes.”
The large man arose. “Those freegrazers didn’t kill anyone or steal horses or something else, did they?”
Sue vehemently shook her head.
The big man stood in thought for a moment before making a grunting sound as he cleared his throat before speaking. “I owe that big old man. My little girl would have lost her dog. She sets a world of store by that dog, an’ I got to admit he’s mannerly and friendly and all. Good around horses and mules. I’m a freighter. Me an’ my two brothers. Doctor, anyone who does a good turn for my little girl does one for me, an’ I’m a man who believes in repayin’ a debt. A good debt or a bad debt.”
The big man brushed past Walt to lift the inert dog in powerful arms. He went to the parlor and called loudly, “Annie? Time to go. Annie?”
She came with pie crumbs still on her face. The big man grinned. “Wipe your chin, Annie. Tell these folks thanks.”
The little girl did better. She thanked them, then she curtsied. Sue bent over and kissed her, held her hand as they walked out to the porch, and stood watching until the large man and the small girl were out of sight.
Chapter Fifteen
Another Week
Three days after the ruined roadway had been graded back into shape, the morning coach from up north arrived in Harmonville with three passengers. Two were grizzled livestock buyers, both attired in riding coats that reached lower than their knees. Those two passengers headed straight for the saloon.
The third passenger was a rumpled man in a rusty dark suit, scuffed black boots, and an unbrushed dark hat who was wearing a string tie. He chewed cigars instead of regular chewing tobacco, had a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and a paunch that hung over his belt buckle. His name was Ambrose Collins. He was a circuit-riding territorial judge whose area included the eastern part of what would one day be the state of Arizona, and all the lower, or southern section of New Mexico.
His reputation matched the granite set of his jaw as well as the uncompromizing testiness of his gaze. When he entered Marshal Poole’s office the lawman was frowning over a badly scrawled handwritten note a rough-looking rangeman had given him a few minutes earlier. The rangeman was sprawling in a chair holding a cup of coffee when Judge Collins walked in.
Marshal Poole looked up, still scowling. His features cleared in an instant. He arose and pushed out his hand. “Glad to see you, judge. Didn’t expect you for another week or so.”
Ambrose Collins shook hands and eyed the cowboy, whose curiosity had been piqued by the use of Collins’s title. They nodded to each other, like circling dogs. Al Poole went after a cup of coffee for His Honor and squared around an old chair facing his desk.
He glanced at the cowboy. “All right. You can tell Mister Baxter I got the note.”
The lanky man arose, put his cup aside, and said, “What’ll I tell him?”
Marshal Poole reddened. “Just what I said, that I got his note.”
The rider persisted. “He’ll want to know what you are goin’ to do.”
Marshal Poole’s eyes smouldered. “All you got to worry about is that you delivered the note.” He and the rangeman exchanged a long look before the cowboy shrugged and went to the door. After he was gone Marshal Poole sat behind his desk to ask how the coach ride down to Harmonville had been.
Judge Collins’s thick bony forehead protruded above sunk-set unsmiling eyes. He sipped coffee and studied the marshal. Eventually he said, “Bumpy, wet. . . . Looks like you folks got the full brunt of it.”
Poole briskly nodded. “We did. Like I never saw it rain before. There was chuckholes in the road you could bury a man in.”
Ambrose Collins’s eyes were fixed on the lawman’s face like the eyes of a ferret. “You got trouble?” he asked, gesturing with his half-empty cup in the direction of the roadside door.
Poole spread both hands palms down. “Him? He’s a rider for a stockman up near the foothills. Naw, it’s not trouble.” He smiled again. “I got two prisoners. When d’you want to hold court?”
Judge Collins drained his coffee and arose before replying. “In the morning. I been riding coaches since day before yesterday an’ feel like I been yanked through a knothole. Is the rooming-house still in business?”
Poole nodded and watched the rumpled, heavy, older man leave his office. Then the marshal sank back in his chair, scowling in the direction of the cellroom door. Baxter’s note had been short. He had completed a three-day roundup of those free-grazers’ cattle and was getting ready to send them over the mountains with his riders. He and the two men he’d kept back would be coming down to Harmonville to take care of those prisoners he’d heard Poole had locked in his jailhouse. He expected to reach town by midafternoon. His suggestion was that Marshal Poole be out of town, a long way out of town, and remain away until after nightfall.
Poole dumped on his hat and strode diagonally across the repaired roadway to the saloon. It was midmorning, so the place was not crowded, but there were three freighters lined up at the bar like crows on a tree limb, saying very little as they considered their little whiskey glasses. When Marshal Poole entered, they studied him with bold eyes and said even less.
The barman approached Poole with raised eyebrows. He had served the town marshal for a long time, but never before in the middle of the morning. He set up a bottle and glass, hesitated long enough to realize that Poole was not in a talkative frame of mind, and went back up midway between the solemn freighters and the lawman, where his pail of greasy water was, and began fishing out glasses, which he dried on a limp old gray towel.
The saloon was quiet, but noise from the repaired roadway was loud and fairly regular. People who had been unable to move around much during the storm were making up for it now. Down at the emporium the place was full of women shoppers. Even the blacksmith’s shop at the lower end of town opposite the livery barn and the public corrals was busy. Two men down there shaping and fitting hot shoes over anvils sent a familiar sound all over town.
One of Marshal Poole’s vigilantes walked in out of what was shaping up to be a muggily hot day, settled beside the lawman, nodded for a glass, and softly said, “There’s a circuit-ridin’ judge in town.”
Poole’s scowl deepened. “I know that,” he snapped.
The vigilante had the kind of reedy voice that carried even though he tried to keep it very low, particularly in the saloon, where there was no other sound.
The vigilante considered Poole’s profile, downed his whiskey, and slouched in thought regarding the half-empty bottle. Eventually he straightened up as though to turn and depart as he said, “Marshal, there’s a right nice pair of big horses go with that freegraze wagon.” He paused to assess the effect this might have had, then continued. “We was wondering . . . countin’ the wagon, which ain’t worth much, and them big horses, we could get our wages by sellin’ ’em.”
Poole turned slowly. “Baxter’s coming,” he said, speaking so quietly his
words would not carry beyond the other man. “He’ll be here this afternoon.”
“What of it, marshal?”
Poole’s color darkened. “What of it! That damned judge is here, that’s what of it! Dent Baxter is comin’ to settle with the freegrazers for in-jurin’ a couple of his men, and for grazing off his feed west of town.”
The vigilante gazed at his companion. “You mean . . . ?”
Poole did not reply. He turned to reach for the bottle and refilled both their glasses. He dropped the second shot as straight down as he had dropped the first one. He blew out a fiery breath and said, “Either someone’s got to ride north, find Baxter, and tell him about the judge bein’ here an’ for him not to come to town, or someone’s got to get that damned judge out of town overnight.”
The vigilante was still calmly regarding the agitated lawman. He did not touch his refilled glass. “How?” he asked softly.
Poole’s retort was curt. “That’s what I been trying to figure out since I came in here.”
The vigilante glanced at the back-bar mirror, back to Marshal Poole, and then asked a question. “About them big horses and the wagon, marshal? Paul, George, an’ Buff is down at the poolhall. We saw you come up here. They’re waitin’.”
A vein near the lawman’s temple seemed to swell as his face reddened. He clutched the little whiskey glass until his knuckles were white, but when he spoke his voice was very low. “You tell them that none of you goes near those horses nor that wagon. You understand? You don’t do a damned thing until the judge leaves town. . . . Alf?”
“What?”
“Saddle up and ride north until you find Dent Baxter and tell him to stay out of town until the damned judge leaves.”
“It’s a long ride, marshal.”
Poole rammed a fist into his trouser pocket, drew forth a silver cartwheel, and slammed it down atop the bar so hard the barman’s head snapped up and those more distant freighters who were still nursing their jolt glasses turned to stare.