The Western Justice Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  He went over and picked up the paper and stared at the picture of Marlene and her lover. “I can become a man she would admire.” He spoke the words aloud, and the sound of his words seemed to startle him. He fixed his eyes on Marlene’s face and the poor reproduction, and the real memory of her came to him. I can be the kind of man that she would learn to love.

  He moved quickly to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. He began to write, and what he designed was a list of achievements that he would have to conquer in order to be a real hero. He listed the books that spoke of such men then jotted several physical activities. His mind worked rapidly as he thought of what all he would have to achieve. “I can do it!” he said through gritted teeth.

  The sun was lighting up the east when he finally put his list aside. He picked up the newspaper, stared grimly at Marlene, and then his eye caught a story he had not noticed. He began to read it. The story concerned Judge Isaac Parker who had been appointed judge in a large territory that included the Indian lands of Oklahoma as well as parts of Arkansas. The story was well written, and Judge Parker’s choice of marshals had been outstanding. The marshals were described in vivid detail, all of them hard-bitten men, fearless, expert with a rifle or a side gun, ready to face danger and endure the hardships of the blistering heat and crippling snows as they pursued the criminals. He read that only the marshals were permitted to enter the Indian Territory. One of them was a man called Heck Thomas. Thomas was a family man but had sent his family away because his wife could not bear the stress of knowing that her husband was out facing killers, both red and white, in the Territory. As he read this, Faye put the paper down and thought about the stories he had read of the West. “That’s the kind of man I’d like to be. One who could be a federal marshal under Judge Isaac Parker!” he decided.

  The next morning Faye got up, dressed, ate a hurried breakfast alone, and went to downtown New York. He made inquiries and found a gym on the east side that he was told produced some of the best pugilists in the state. When he went in he was met by a man who had beetling eyebrows, a beefy red face, and hands the size of hams.

  “My name is Kelly, sir. What can I do for you?” the man said.

  “My name is Faye Riordan, and I want to learn how to box.”

  “Oh, do you now? Are you intending on winning the championship?”

  “Nothing like that,” Faye said. “Just enough to take care of myself.”

  “Well, if you’ve got the money, we’ve got the men who can train you.”

  “I can pay whatever you ask.”

  “All right. We got some fighting togs. Come along.”

  Faye followed the husky man to a dressing room that smelled strongly of smoke and human sweat and other things even more vile. He stripped, and the man watched him carefully. “How much you weigh?” he said.

  “About a hundred and eighty-five.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for that much. You’re all packed in. Come along,” he said, seeing that Faye was dressed.

  He took him upstairs, and Faye found himself in the middle of rather fervent activity. There were three rings, and in each one two men were battering each other. There was a rat-tat-tat-tat from suspended punching bags, and men were punching them with fierce rapidity. Other men were striking at huge punching bags being held by trainers. There were sounds of grunting and cries when men were hit, and some of them were knocked completely down.

  “Well, let’s see. I’ll tell you. It’s not strength in this game, Mr. Riordan. It’s speed. If a man is fast enough, he don’t have to be no Samson. Now look. I’m holding up my hands, you see, and I want you to try and hit one of them.”

  It was the same game that Faye had played with Pat Ryan. His fist shot out and caught Kelly’s big beefy hand with a sharp splat.

  “Ho! That’s the fastest I’ve seen in a while. Try it again.”

  It was the same with Kelly as it had been with Pat. If a hand stayed still for one second, Faye’s hand shot out and struck it.

  “Well now. You’re the fastest thing I’ve seen around these parts. Hold your hands out now and let’s see if I can hit yours.”

  The experiment was the same as it had been with Pat Ryan. The big man simply could not hit Faye’s hands.

  “Well, that’s one part of being a fighter, but there’s more to it than that. A man has to be able to take a punch. You’re fast enough to miss most of them, but you’re going to get hit. That pretty nose of yours is going to get flattened.”

  “That’s all right. Just put me with somebody who can show me.”

  “Come along. I got just the fellow for you.”

  Faye followed Kelly to the back section of the room where a man was punching a bag. He had a wealth of curly black hair and an olive complexion—and his hands were very fast.

  “Hey Tony, this here is Riordan. He wants to learn how to box. You take him in hand, will you? Don’t hurt him now. He don’t know nothing.”

  Tony nodded. “Sure, Mr. Kelly. Come along, Riordan. We’ll try a little sparring.”

  Faye had never sparred with anyone. He had been in only one fight and had lost resoundingly. He put on big padded gloves and watched as Tony did the same.

  “We’ll just skip around and throw some light blows. Nothing heavy. Don’t try to knock me out.”

  “All right.”

  Faye did not know a thing about footwork. He pretty well stood still, and from time to time Tony would throw a punch, which he easily avoided. He learned that when a punch came at his head, his hands were fast enough to reach up and deflect it.

  “Say, you’ve done this before.”

  “No, I really haven’t.”

  “Well, let’s go at it a little bit faster, okay? This time I’m going to throw some harder punches, and you try to hit me, too.”

  “All right.”

  The Italian came in and shot a hard left, which caught Faye by surprise. It grazed his head, but immediately he threw out a hard right that caught Tony full on the forehead.

  “That’s a good counter punch!” Tony exclaimed. “Well, I’m not going to believe you’ve never had boxing lessons.”

  “No, I never have.”

  “Well, you’re not going to need a whole lot of them. Come on. Let’s just go at it now. I’ll have to show you a few things, but you’ve got the speed and the build to throw a good enough punch to make it. Here we go…!”

  Faye had been back for three lessons at Kelly’s gym, and on Tony’s advice he had started running. “You’ve got to build up stamina. If you ever go up for the championship, you’ll have to go fifteen rounds. Just try sometime walking around for fifteen three-minute rounds just holding your hands up not trying to hit. What kind of exercise you like?”

  “I like swimming.”

  “That’s the best! Swim all you can. Run all you can. You’re doing great, Mr. Riordan.”

  Faye reduced his visits to the gym to once a week. Both Tony and Kelly told him he had it in him to be a professional fighter, but he had laughed that off. “No, nothing like that for me. Just to be able to handle myself, that’s all I want.” They had both assured him that he could, and he was satisfied.

  All the heroes he had read about were experts with guns of some type. He had begun learning how to shoot by enlisting Pat Ryan and buying his own set of equipment for skeet shooting. They had gone out one day far from the house, and Pat, who had done this often for his brothers and his father, set up the equipment ready to shoot. “You holler ‘Shoot,’ and I’ll let it go. You try to hit it. Wait a minute.” Pat quickly came over and looked at the gun. “That’s not a shotgun.”

  “No, it’s a Winchester. I just bought it.”

  “Why, you can’t hit skeet on the move with a rifle. Nobody does that.”

  “Well, I’m going to try.”

  “All right. If that’s what you want, Mr. Faye.”

  He went back and Faye called out, “Shoot!” The circular clay pigeon flew through the air. Faye go
t off one shot, but the pigeon was not harmed.

  “You see. I told ya. You wasted your time.”

  “Let’s just keep going. You throw them as fast as I call. Now, shoot!”

  He missed again, and for the next half hour he missed consistently. Finally he hit one, and Pat said, “Well, that’s an accident.”

  Faye smiled. “With enough practice you can do anything, Pat.”

  Indeed, practice he did, until finally he became so adept with the Winchester that he could hit three out of four of the clay pigeons. By then, he knew he could hit anything on the run.

  Next he knew he would have to handle a pistol. He went to a gun shop in the center of the city and looked for quite a while at guns.

  The owner’s name was Abe Lemmons. He seemed curious. “What will you be doing with the gun, Mr. Riordan?”

  “Oh, I just need to handle a gun.”

  “Well, I tell you what. Most men these days want one of those .44 Colts.” He reached into a glass case and said, “Here. Hold that.”

  “It’s pretty heavy.”

  “Yes, it’s heavy, plus your hands are small and that handle’s big. Most of these are single action.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means when you fire the gun you have to use your thumb to pull the hammer back before you can shoot again. As I say, you’ve got small hands.”

  “What do I need, Mr. Lemmons?”

  “Well, I’d say a .38 would just about fit your hand. Here. Try this one for size.”

  Faye took the .38, and it did feel very comfortable. “Yes, I can hold this.”

  “Well, it has another advantage. It has a double action. You pull the trigger, you can fire again immediately. You don’t have to cock it again before each firing.”

  “But it’s a smaller gun than the .44.”

  “That it is, but let me tell you something, sir. A .38 will stop a man as quick as a .44… if you put the bullet between his eyes.”

  “Well, I’ll take this one. You have a belt and a holster?”

  “You’re going to wear it?”

  “Well, when I go into the woods, it’ll be a handy way to carry it.” This was not what Faye had on his mind, but it was a good enough story for Mr. Lemmons.

  “Well yes, of course, we have all kinds of belts.” He fitted him with one that would work fine. Faye put it on and slipped the .38 into the holster. It was about even with where his hand was hanging.

  “See how quick you can get it out. That’s what those big lawmen out west do.”

  Faye’s tremendous speed came to his aid. He pulled the gun and leveled it so quickly that Lemmons batted his eyes and took a step backward.

  “Heaven help us! I’ve never seen a man so fast! Well, you got what you need. I hope you don’t ever have to use it.”

  “So do I. How much?”

  For the next two weeks Faye went deep into the woods carrying a leather bag full of .38 bullets. He carried targets and practiced drawing his gun and shooting at them. At first he would miss the whole tree, but he had a quick, steady eye and a steady hand, and soon he was able to at least hit the tree. He improved daily, both with the speed of his draw and accuracy of hitting the target. Finally the day came when he put six bullets into a six-by-six-inch piece of paper from forty feet away. He smiled, pulled the gun up, and said, “Well, I’ve done that.”

  The next few days he went to the public library and found all the writings he could about Judge Parker and his court and especially about the marshals that represented the law in Indian Territory. He had made up his mind that this would be a good place for him to be a man, but how to tell his mother he could not imagine. She’s going to have a terrible fit, and she’s going to say no, but it’s something I’ve got to do.

  “You want to do what, Faye?”

  “I want to prove myself to be more than just a painter.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I feel like I’m only half a man, Mother.”

  “You’re just measuring yourself against your father and your brothers.”

  “I’m sure that’s true and also against some other people. They’re bigger than I am and stronger, but I want to prove to myself that I am a man. That I’ll survive.”

  That was the beginning of the argument. It went on for a week but never in the presence of his father or his brothers. Always the battle took place between Faye and his mother.

  As for his mother, she was shocked so greatly she could not even speak for a while. She was completely against the idea.

  Finally Faye said, “I’m going away for a few days. Maybe even a month.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, I’ve never gone anywhere. I want to wander around and learn to take care of myself. When I come back we’ll talk some more about what I want to do.”

  “Yes, you think it over carefully. It would be the wrong thing, I’m sure.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning Faye left his house before breakfast, leaving his mother to explain his vacation to the family.

  He took a train to upper New York State and got out at a small stop where there seemed to be nothing but three or four buildings. The trees were huge, and it was a large enough forest to intimidate him.

  He went at once to the livery stable and said, “I want a very tame horse. No bucking broncos.”

  “Why, I’ve got just the horse for you, Mr. Riordan. Name is Patsy. She’s just as gentle as a mother. She’s never thrown a man in her life, I don’t think. You’re not going to win any races with her, however.”

  Indeed, Patsy was a gentle horse. She was strong enough and could carry his weight easily. He led Patsy down the street to a general store, and when he left he had bought a frying pan, a saucepan, salt, a knife to hang on his belt, a spoon, and matches. He already had a blanket, some soap, a fishing line, and some hooks. He also took a toothbrush, and the biggest part of his load was feed for Patsy.

  That afternoon he loaded Patsy and stepped awkwardly into the saddle. “Well, Patsy, we’re going out into the woods, and I’m going to stay there for about a month. The only food I have will be what I shoot with this .38. I’ll sleep on the ground, and if I don’t learn to hit something with this pistol, I’ll live on grass and leaves.” He suddenly felt good about the whole thing and slapped her on the neck. “Come on, girl. Let’s go make a man out of Lafayette Riordan!”

  It was cool but not uncomfortable as Faye walked through the woods. It was two weeks into his experiment, seeing if he could survive, and now he was feeling doubt, for he had not been able to secure much in the way of food. He had learned that squirrels are quicker than a man’s hand. Even when he would see one behind a tree, the creature could scoot around on the far side of the tree quicker than Faye could draw a bead on him. Up until this time he had caught two frogs and forced himself to eat them, but the only animal he had killed with his revolver was a porcupine who was a slow-moving beast to say the least. He had almost given up, but he had turned the porcupine upside down and dug out enough meat to at least fight off his hunger pangs.

  Suddenly Faye heard what he thought—and hoped—was a flock of geese. Looking up, he could barely see them through the trees. They were in a familiar V-formation and crying their familiar “K-whonk! K-whonk! K-whonk!” To his delight, they descended quickly, and although Faye knew little about wild geese, he assumed late in the afternoon they were looking for a place to spend the night. He was fairly sure that they stayed near water.

  As he moved forward, he realized that he was famished and beginning to feel a bit weak from hunger. More than once he had been tempted to give up his plan, but he had doggedly stuck with it. Once while out there, he had found a tree with berries on it that he could not identify. Hoping they were not poisonous, he ate them. They had filled his stomach, although they provided little nourishment. The other meal he had supplied himself was one he had never thought to sample. He had been moving through the woods when he heard
a rattle. Whirling around he saw a huge snake in a coil, ready to strike. He had pulled his .38 and got off three shots. One of them had hit the snake in the head.

  Now as he moved cautiously forward, Faye remembered how he had considered the monstrous snake. He had heard of men eating snakes but had never thought he would be one of them. Hunger had won out. He had cut the head and the rattles off, skinned it, and toasted the white meat on a stick over a fire. To his surprise it had been rather tasty and had filled his stomach at least for a period.

  Trying to walk silently as the Indians did in the stories by James Fenimore Cooper proved to be a problem. According to the books, they could walk silently through a forest unless they happened to step on a twig. But now the leaves had fallen. Some of them were crisp and made a crackling sound each time he stepped on them. Taking a deep breath, he started shoving the leaves aside with the toe of his boot so he could step on the bare ground. It was a slow method, but finally he came to what seemed to be a ridge of some sort, about six feet high.

  The sound of the geese came to him clearly as they were splashing, and their honking came to him on the afternoon air.

  They’re right over this rise down in the water.

  The thought touched him, and he knew he was still too far away to get an easy shot, but he eased the pistol out of his holster and took a deep breath. God, don’t let me miss. Faye didn’t even realize he was praying, but then in one motion he came to his feet and scrambled to the top of the rise. As he had surmised, a pond fed by a small creek was filled with geese, and as he had also known would happen as soon as he stood up, a warning honk filled the air, evidently a signal. I’m too far away for a good shot. Wish I had my rifle, but it’s too late.

  The large birds rose with a flapping of wings and a hoarse cry. Faye lifted his pistol, tried to aim at one, but when he fired he hit nothing. They were rising rapidly and going farther from his range. He fired again, counting his shots, and despair filled him as he fired his last bullet. He lowered his gun, disgusted. Then he saw one of the geese falling in an awkward fashion. Quickly he shoved the .38 into the holster and ran headlong into the water. He hit the edge of the pond running, his eyes fixed on the goose, recognizing that the bird was not dead but apparently hit in the wing.