Relentless

by Ed Gorman

  We were now officially in bullshit land. He’d come in here sincerely enough, a father doing his desperate best to save his son from a prison stint. But now he was all calculation and oil, trying to smooth me into agreeing with him. There was an implicit threat in all this, of course. In a very real sense, he ran this town.

  “I’m hoping you’ll keep that envelope, Marshal.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “First, because it’s a bribe. And if I accepted it, then I’d be just as guilty as you are right now. Second, because I still plan to testify tomorrow. Third, because I meant what I said. Even if I did want to back down, I couldn’t. People saw him try to kill me. I admit he was drunk. And I admit he probably does regret doing it, if only because he knows he’s in trouble now. But how the hell can I claim to be an impartial lawman if I let him get away with it? I’m in just as much a fix here as you and your boy are, Paul.”

  “You’re not the one who’ll have to go to prison.”

  I sighed. “Look, Paul, the county attorney wants to go ahead with this. He feels the same way I do. We don’t have any choice. But I talked to him yesterday and he’s agreed to recommend to the judge that we go easy on this. What it’ll come down to is he drops the charges to drunk-and-disorderly, resisting arrest, and carrying a firearm in the city. He’ll give him six months in county jail and a three-year probation. Now, Trent can sure as hell live with that.”

  “Do you know what my father would do if he knew his grandson was being sent to jail, even for six months?”

  “Your father’s dead, Paul.”

  “But his name isn’t. His heritage isn’t. We built this region, Marshal. It was my father’s capital that got everything going out here.”

  This was the only part of the conversation that surprised me. I’d expected him to plead like a father, I’d expected him to threaten like a Webley, but I hadn’t expected him to invoke some mythical, mystical “heritage” that sounded vaguely like the legend of King Arthur. Maybe there was a magical sword somewhere in the Webley family.

  Then: “Every town marshal before you cooperated with me, Lane. And I took care of them. They all retired with nice little bank accounts because of me. And if you won’t cooperate with me, maybe the man who replaces you will.”

  I just shook my head. It wasn’t a threat worth responding to. “I thought you’d be happy to hear what the county attorney came up with, Paul.”

  He stood up. I adjusted my evaluation of his height downward. Five-four. A kid with graying hair and wattles.

  He slid it out from inside his jacket. It was a day for envelopes bearing all sorts of ominous news. A mysterious friend from my wife’s past. A pack containing ten thousand dollars. And now what would this be?

  We traded envelopes.

  He picked up the ten thousand I pushed back at him, and while he was doing that, I checked out the envelope he pushed at me.

  It wasn’t addressed to anybody, but it had a familiar business name on the upper left-hand comer.

  ROYALTON HOTEL Chicago, Illinois

  “There’re some interesting things in there, Marshal. One day I got to worrying about you and your wife. Just curious. You know how people get. So I hired the Pinkertons to check you two out. You checked out pretty well, Marshal. A lot of people have a lot of respect for you.” He hesitated, enjoying himself. “But your wife-and I’m sure she’s a fine woman-well, why don’t you read some of the things in there and see if you still want to testify tomorrow. I’m staying in town tonight at the hotel. I’ll be glad to talk any time you want to.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  I went to the window and watched him board his fancy buggy. His wife Laura waited there with fragile serenity. She was a treasure he’d brought back from the East. It was rumored that she was subject to serious mental lapses and had been in and out of asylums for much of her life. There were also rumors that she’d grown restless in Skylar. But there are always rumors about rich women, especially if they’re as elegantly icy as Laura Webley.

  FOUR

  I PUT THE letter in the drawer and left it there the rest of the afternoon. I was afraid if I read it I wouldn’t get any work done.

  A federal marshal had a train layover, so he stopped in to kill some time. We’d known each other slightly over the years but hadn’t ever become friends, and that was obvious in the strained nature of our conversation.

  After he left, a man from the livery came up and said he’d just had a horse come in bearing the brand that I’d alerted him to. A dozen of the horses had been rustled, nice roans that would bring a good price. He said the man who’d brought it in was now over at one of our more popular saloons.

  I was grateful for activity. I locked my desk and left.

  This was another one of those incidents that would disappoint the kids. In dime novels there’d be a shoot-out and law and order would prevail. Well, law and order did prevail, but not because of any shoot-out.

  The rider, who looked barely old enough to get served, sat in the back of the saloon with a sudsy beer in hand talking to a tired-looking town drunk. I shooed the drunk away and sat down.

  The kid looked at me and said, “Dammit, I should’ve known better.”

  “Better than what?”

  “Ride that horse in here. With that brand still on it.”

  “Yeah, I guess you should’ve.”

  “But I had to see a doctor.”

  “How come?”

  ‘This stitch in my stomach.” He showed me where it was. “Hurts like hell and won’t go away.”

  “You still got your appendix?”

  “My what?”

  “Your appendix.”

  “What’s appendix mean?”

  I told him. “That sounds like what it is,” I said.

  “No way am I gonna let him operate. I heard about them operations. How they go, I mean. Cuttin’ you with a knife ’n all. No way.”

  “You could die if you don’t get it out.”

  “Die? From what?”

  “Infection. You think you’re in pain now, wait till it gets infected.”

  He was scared. He was a kid and probably a good ways from home and scared, and I didn’t blame him at all. He looked up at me. “You gonna arrest me?”

  “I have to.”

  “The rustlin’, it was Walt’s idea.”

  “Walt Crimmins?”

  “Yeah. You heard of him?”

  “I thought he was rustling up in Montana.”

  “He’s got a gal somewhere near Denver. So we came down here.” He grimaced. “You know the doctor here?”

  “There are two of them. A woman and a man.”

  “A woman doctor?” he said. “I heard of that before, but I’d rather see the man, I guess. Especially if I have to take my pants off. I’d feel funny if I had to take my pants off in front of a woman and all.” Then: “I just stopped in here to get a little courage.” He nodded to his beer. Then: “How much time you think I’ll have to do?”

  “You cooperate, you help catch Crimmins, not too much. You ever been in trouble before?”

  “I busted out some windows the night my dad died. I was pretty drunk. I was only ten. He died and they took him away-he had cholera-and I finished off his last pint of whiskey and then I went to town and started smashin’ out windows of stores. I couldn’t even tell you why I done it. But the sheriff, he arrested me.”

  “That’s the only time?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’ll help with the judge. Just that one arrest. And there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means you were just a kid and that your dad had died and maybe you weren’t quite right in the head.”

  “Some folks always says I’m never right in the head.”

  “I wouldn’t mention that to the judge.”

  “I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “I didn’t
say you were.”

  “I’m just a little high-strung. That’s what my ma said was the only thing wrong with me, whatever them other people said. That I was just a little high-strung was all.”

  ***

  I took him over to the doctor, and the doctor examined him and said that the kid’s appendix had to come out, and the kid broke down right there. Nothing big and dramatic. Just silent tears and real fear on the face.

  Long shadows. That aching melancholy of day’s end.

  Kids scurrying home for supper. Merchants locking their doors. The barber taking in the wooden Indian he keeps outside on the boardwalk. The priest climbing the tower to ring the bell that only deepens the melancholy of the moment.

  ***

  I sat in my office. My desk was still locked, the letter inside.

  Deke Newton came in right at five, ready to take over for the night. Deke is part-Cherokee and part-Irish. He was an Army scout for a little over a decade before settling in with a wife and four kids, one of which always seems to be sick. He’s quiet, reliable, quick as a snake. He isn’t much for guns, which I’m happy about, but he knows various jabs and holds that can slam a man to the ground in seconds. He isn’t anybody I’d ever care to fight. He wears dark suits, looks like a middle-aged businessman except for his shiny dark hair, and sports a badge that is always polished to a perfect gleam.

  He got himself some coffee, sat down at his desk and went through the docket to see what kind of activity we’d had today, and then said, “You all right, Lane?”

  “Yeah.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes from the desk drawer that held the letter.

  He obviously sensed something wrong, but didn’t push it. He wouldn’t. Not his style. He stood up and grabbed the jail keys and did his first check of the cells.

  By the time he was back, I had the letter shoved down in my jacket.

  “Anything I should know about tonight?” he said.

  “Well, I’m told there’ll be a couple of night raiders coming in to lynch the night marshal, but other than that things look to be pretty quiet.”

  He grinned. “Why don’t you hang around for a while?

  Maybe they’ll think you’re the night marshal. I’ve got six mouths to feed.”

  “Six? Your wife and five kids?”

  “I don’t need to eat?”

  “I guess that’s a fair point.”

  It was a little strained, and he knew it and I knew it, but strained was better than sulking, which is what I’d been doing when he came in.

  “Only thing that happened was that Paul came to see me."

  His eyes narrowed. “That must’ve been something.”

  “He hasn’t changed any. Wants me to drop the charges- or just not show up to testify.”

  He paused before speaking, his features sharp in the darkening room. “ Lot of people want you to back off, Lane.”

  “That include you, Deke?”

  “You know better than that.”

  I put my hand out. We shook. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

  “Don’t let him spook you, Lane. He’s a little shit, but that’s the one thing he’s good at. I’ve been in this town a lot longer than you have, and I’ve learned one thing-Paul knows how to get his way without ever landing a single punch or firing a single shot.”

  I thought of the letter in my pocket. “Yeah, he sure does.” Win Evans came in. He was the junior night deputy, a former farmhand who is a big gentle bear until you push him a single inch across his private line. Then he’s not so gentle at all. He’s especially helpful on weekends when the youngsters take over the saloons. Deke and Win together are one hell of a formidable force. Perfect for the night watch.

  ***

  I went out, walked over to the park, and sat down next to the Civil War memorial depicting one soldier carrying a wounded soldier on his back. My pop had been in the war. He screamed about it a lot in his sleep. I can still hear my mother shushing him, holding him, wrenching him from his nightmares so she could soothe him. It must’ve been a hell of a thing for him to see. It must’ve been a hell of a thing for anybody to see.

  I took the letter out, and was about to open it and read it when I saw him across the street, watching me. I slid the letter back into my jacket. We stared at each other for a time, and then he started across to me, having to pause in the middle of the street to let a surrey go by.

  He smelled of heat and sweat and barbershop oil. I was told he’d been sober since it had all happened, and I had to say I was impressed.

  He put his hand out, clearly uncertain if I’d shake it. I shook it.

  “I guess my dad was in to see you.”

  “Yeah, he was, Trent.”

  “He says you’re still pretty pissed off at me.”

  “It isn’t a matter of being pissed off, Trent. It’s a matter of the law.”

  “Well, sometimes you can get around the law. If you really want to, I mean.”

  His sport was football and he was good at it. Hard to believe he’d been sired by Paul. The shoulders spanned a good four feet, the hands were powerful enough to put a dent in a surface of iron, and the legs were fast enough to outdistance a trained runner. He had dark, curly hair, blunt blue eyes, and a smile that made you like him unless you knew him.

  I didn’t think he was a bad kid, just an unlucky one. He was one of those people who couldn’t hold his liquor. Later on, he’d have serious problems with the bottle-blackouts, hallucinations, maybe even a fatally damaged liver. But for now what he did was go somewhat insane whenever he went on one of his sporadic binges.

  I’m no patron saint of lawmen. I live and work in a very political context. All peace officers do. I’d given him a lot of room because he was Paul’s twenty-two-year-old son. He’d been in fights, he’d smashed up saloons, he’d even, if you wanted to get technical, stolen a horse. I always managed to handle these things. But the night he fired a Winchester at me-and it wasn’t just shooting to make some noise, he deliberately aimed at my head-I didn’t have any choice but to arrest him and charge him with attempted murder.

  “I’ve already let you get around the law, Trent. Several times, in fact.”

  You could sense his disappointment. I suppose he’d hoped that by coming over here and bowing and scraping a little, I might change my mind.

  “I’m really sorry about what I did, Marshal.”

  “You know what? I believe you. That’s why-and I sure hope your dad told you this-I’ve worked out a way so that you get minimum jail time. Hell, you could have served eight, nine years on this, Trent. You’ll get six months at most. The rest will be probation.”

  He got mad. He didn’t want to get mad. He knew he shouldn’t get mad. But he couldn’t help himself. “That isn’t what I want and it sure as hell isn’t what my dad wants, Marshal.” He visibly forced himself to calm down. He sighed. “C’mon, Marshal, put yourself in our position for just a minute. That’s all we’re asking you to do. We’re an important family in the valley. Maybe the most important. I know that sounds arrogant to say, but it’s true. It just wouldn’t look right for a Webley to go to jail. Even for six months.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “It’s the best I can do, Trent. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  The anger was back. But this was cold anger. “My dad said he gave you a letter.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, I came over here hoping he wouldn’t have to do anything about that letter. But I’ll tell you-now we won’t have any choice.” The eyes were harsh. “I guess it’s time everybody in this town heard the truth about that wife of yours.”

  He turned and walked away.

  FIVE

  SHE WASN'T HOME.

  Originally, our place was a cabin by the river. But a new roof and some white paint and a lot of vines crawling up the front and sides gave it the look of a cottage by a brook, a New England kind of feel that Callie wanted.

  Conner, our collie, came to greet me, all long lapping
tongue and quick jumps up to be petted. Sometimes during a long and difficult day, after I’ve thought how nice it will be to see Callie again, I think of old Conner. He’s like the kid we’ve never been able to produce for some reason.

  But Conner wasn’t enough tonight.

  All the way home-we live on the northeast edge of the town limits-I thought of what I’d say to Callie. How I’d approach the subject of the letter and its contents. I wouldn’t be accusatory; I wouldn’t be self-righteous; and I’d try very hard not to be pompous, something peace officers can do without knowing it. I’d ask her for the simple truth. And I’d take her word for what she said.

  Just outside the open doorway I could hear the crickets and the night birds and the lonely call of coyotes. I poured myself a shot of bourbon and carried it out to the front stoop. Conner sat next to me on the step.

  I had a lot of ideas where she might be, and all of them involved the same person. The man in the newspaper articles; the man on the WANTED poster. I wondered what her envelope had contained. Pretty much the same thing, I imagined.

  Paul had been smart about it. If he couldn’t get to me, maybe he could get to her. So give us both envelopes. And then give me one final chance to change my mind by having Trent come over and apologize and sound reasonable as all hell, until he realized that I wasn’t going to change my mind.

  I wondered how they’d spread the word. It wouldn’t be anything as obvious as talking to the newspaper editor. He was a friend of mine and as much as he feared Webley, he wouldn’t consent to any gossip-mongering in his weekly.

  The town council would be his best opportunity. Under the guise of wanting to keep them apprised of their lawman’s past, he could say, This is the sort of woman he married. Is this the kind of man we want wearing our marshal’s badge?

  It would be an obvious way to discredit me, to shift the trial tomorrow away from his boy and make it a trial about me. He’d be sure the jury heard the whispers before they were seated. And he’d be sure that they all knew how appreciative he’d be if they failed to convict his son. Trent would walk free and my reputation would be destroyed.