A Bad Place To Be

by John Hansen

  The sheriff gave Josh a dirty look and then glanced disapprovingly at Sarah. He had a big chaw of chewing tobacco in his left cheek. With deliberation he mustered up a large quantity of tobacco juice and spat it in the direction of Sarah’s horse, clearly intending it as an insult to her. “Get the hell outa my town, the both of ya. Don’t come back or you might find yourself in the hoosegow or worse.”

  By this time there were a number of townspeople that had paused on the street to see what was going to happen. Peripherally, Josh sensed these people. He knew that spectators could sometimes make men do irrational things. It was time to leave, discretion being the better part of valor on this particular day. Looking at Sarah, he said: “I guess we best be movin’ on.” And with that they nudged the sides of their horses to a trot and rode out of town. For a good distance, probably close to a mile, neither of them spoke. The incident with the sheriff had impacted each of them in a different but yet connected sort of way. The sheriff’s insult directed at Sarah was the third such transgression upon her reputation since last night at the Gold Strike. The Swede had called her a whore, the bartender a sniveling bitch, and now the sheriff had spat at her; was she deserving of this kind of treatment? It had only been a few weeks ago that she had been treated like a lady. And for Josh, he wondered if there would be others—a miner or cowhand that had known Sarah during her brief stint at the Gold Strike that would feel free to take liberties with her reputation in his presence. He had already killed one man because of her and he didn’t want there to be a second.

  It was a hot day. The crackling noise of grasshoppers springing from one spot to another in the sagebrush on each side of the wagon road seemed to accentuate the growing heat. Josh and Sarah had slowed their horses to a walk only to discover that they had become a less mobile target for the hordes of deer flies. It was shaping up to be a semi-miserable ride, when off in the distance behind them, Josh and Sarah became aware of a rider approaching. He was coming fast. Both Josh and Sarah turned their horses to face the oncoming rider. Josh pulled his Spencer repeater from its scabbard and chambered a round. There was a look of fear in Sarah’s face, while Josh’s was more reflective of bewilderment and concern. Who could be approaching them this fast?

  As the stranger neared Josh and Sarah, he slowed his horse to a trot and finally to a walk when he was about 50 yards away. Josh eyed the man. He looked familiar. He was of medium build, but shorter than Josh and had a large black handlebar moustache. He wore a Stetson hat that had multiple indentations, causing the crown to be sharply peaked. A small round paper tag affixed to the drawstrings of a bag of Bull Durham tobacco dangled outside the man’s right shirt pocket. He wore his pistol in a cross-draw position on his left side and was careful to keep his right hand filled with reins.

  “Afternoon,” said the stranger in a loud voice while keeping both hands on his saddle horn. “Mind if I ride on up?”

  And then it came to Josh. The stranger was the one who had spoken up last night in the Gold Strike. “Come ahead on,” replied Josh.

  The stranger reined his horse in just short of Josh and Sarah. “Didn’t mean to cause you no alarm,” he said, eyeing Josh’s rifle. “Name’s Marshal Caleb Johnson. I’m outa Boise.” The stranger paused, waiting for the effect of his identity to register.

  There was obvious surprise in Josh’s eyes. “Well, I reckon ya’ll know who we are.” Sarah remained silent but her face conveyed an uneasiness with the stranger.

  “Yessir, I do. You made quite a name for yourself for no longer than you was in Bear Creek,” replied the marshal.

  “It wasn’t by choice,” said Josh. “Sometimes a crap-storm comes your way and you just can’t get outa the way quick enough.”

  Sarah looked hurt. So that’s what I am, a crap-storm, she said to herself.

  “Yeah,” said the marshal, “the Swede didn’t give you much wiggle room. But truth of the matter is if it hadn’t been you it woulda been someone else. The Swede was a bully just lookin’ to get his ticket punched.”

  “So what brings you out here, Marshal?” asked Josh.

  “Well sir, the Bear Creek gold strike is in Idaho Territory, and that means it comes under the jurisdiction of the federal court in Boise.” The marshal paused momentarily while he fished his tobacco and cigarette papers out of his pocket. “The reason I’m here,” continued the marshal as he plucked a single paper from its small packet, “is I’m at the beck and call of a federal judge named Charles Higgins. Ever hear of ‘im?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” replied Josh as he watched the marshal shake a small amount of tobacco from the pouch onto the cigarette paper, which he had formed into a shallow trough with the fingers of his left hand. Josh couldn’t help but notice that the marshal’s hands were as steady as a rock. Here he was casually rolling a cigarette in front of a man with a loaded rifle that he had watched kill a man less than twenty-four hours ago. The marshal was either a fool, a great judge of character, or, Josh reasoned, maybe he was just that fast with a gun.

  “Well, sir,” continued the marshal as he dabbed at the edge of the cigarette paper with his tongue to complete the seal. “Higgins is a no-nonsense kinda guy. He don’t abide stealin’ and killin’. And so when he kept hearin’ all these stories about the goings-on in Bear Creek, he sent me to check it out. Only thing is I was instructed not to let on to anyone who I was or why I was here.” As the marshal concluded, he glanced at Sarah. Their eyes met for just an instant, with Sarah diverting her attention downward and the marshal quickly back to the task of lighting his cigarette. This recognition, this unspoken communication, had not gone unnoticed by Josh. It was as if it was an awkward moment for the marshal and a desperate plea for secrecy from Sarah. It was one of those totally unforeseen feelings that comes over a person, but Josh felt as if he was an intruder. It made for a pause in the conversation that was rapidly becoming an uneasy silence. Josh decided to remain quiet and let the marshal rescue himself.

  The law man puffed gingerly several times in rapid succession to bring life to his cigarette. It was a dead calm day and for a brief moment the blue smoke obscured his face; perhaps it was fortuitous given the situation. “Mr. Morrow,” he continued, “I’m looking for an ally, someone who’s honest and that I can trust, especially if things go to hell.”

  Josh smiled. “And you think I’m that man, a guy who was just told to get outa town by the sheriff.”

  “I do,” replied the marshal in a deliberate tone. “In fact that’s all the better. Nobody would suspect you was helpin’ me, not with that kinda reputation.”

  Josh felt anything but proud of last night’s events, but the marshal’s words served as an unnecessary reality check. In these parts he would forever be known as the guy who killed the big Swede in a fight over a saloon girl and was ordered by the sheriff to get out of town. These weren’t exactly desirable attributes for a lawman. Josh adjusted his hat in a casual manner and sighed. “So what would you want me to do?” he asked with some hesitation.

  “Be my eyes and ears mostly,” replied the marshal as he took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke such that it briefly looked like he was talking smoke. “The sheriff and his deputies is up to no good.” The marshal paused and then added: “I will tell you something and I guess as far as that goes, the lady here as well, if I have your word that you’re sidin’ with me and whatever I tell you is just between us.”

  Josh pondered his options for a moment. He was determined to find Seth’s killer and bring him to justice, however that might happen. He reckoned it would be better to have the marshal on his side in case things went south. “Alright, Marshal,” said Josh, “count me in.”

  “Good,” said the marshal; he paused and looked directly at Sarah: “What about you? Can I count on you to keep to yourself whatever you hear today or on down the road?”

  Sarah didn’t really want to get involved with anything that might involve another confrontation with the sheriff or violence, but she�
��d stepped off into this quicksand when she came to Bear Creek with her husband and now the only helping hand appeared to be in one or both of these men. She replied meekly with as little eye contact as possible to the marshal: “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Can’t be no guessin’ about this,” said the marshal, looking at Sarah. “This is deadly serious business, gotta be yes or no.”

  “OK, yes,” said Sarah firmly.

  Apparently satisfied, the marshal turned his attention to Josh. “The thing that prompted the judge to send me up here in the first place was the sheriff comin’ down to Boise with bags-a gold dust.”

  Josh’s eyes widened. “Anybody ask him where a sheriff gets bags of gold dust?” he said sarcastically.

  The marshal scoffed. “Wasn’t necessary. Hollis freely volunteered to the people at the bank the fact that he had an interest in a mining claim that his partner was workin’. Said he worked the claim on his time off and that the gold he was depositin’ came from that claim.”

  “I suppose you already checked to see if he really does have a claim,” said Josh.

  “Yessir, I did,” replied the marshal, “and he does have a claim up on Bullwhacker Creek. I been by there; didn’t see a whole lot of activity. Definitely not $40,000 worth.”

  “$40,000,” exclaimed Josh.

  “Yup,” stated the marshal flatly. “The judge is friends with the president of the bank so that number is the gospel truth.”

  Josh shook his head. He wondered if some of that gold had been Seth’s. It was probably a good bet that some of it had been, but proving it might be difficult. “So what’s next?” asked Josh.

  “Well, sir,” began the marshal as he took another drag off his cigarette. “I got me a plan that hopefully will play upon the sheriff’s greed and stupidity. Several months ago a merchant from Boise come up to Bear Creek with about a half dozen wagons full of dry goods, mining supplies and such, and sold it. He had upwards of $30,000 in gold when he headed back to Boise. And since he’d been in Bear Creek a couple of weeks a-tradin’ it was pretty common knowledge that he was bound to have a lot of gold on him when he left town, and with six wagons you don’t exactly sneak out. Well anyways, the trader gets robbed about halfways between Bear Creek and Boise. One of the mule skinners tries to stop the affair and he gets killed for his trouble. Course there’s a big uproar about the deal and the sheriff and his deputies supposedly went out and tried tracking the robbers but somehow lost the trail and that was that.” The marshal paused while he took another drag off of his cigarette, which was pretty short now—so short that he had to pinch the butt of it between the index finger and thumb of his right hand, being careful not to touch the burning end, and purse his lips such that they could grasp that tiny portion available for that last inhalation of smoke. He had contorted his face and squinted his right eye, as if these machinations were reflective of the satisfaction he was deriving from that last bit of tobacco smoke. Exhaling, the marshal began again: “I don’t think the sheriff nor any of his cronies are very smart, and I’m hopin’ not very observant either for I intend to trick them. The merchant from Boise is in Bear Creek now with another load of goods to sell. He’ll conduct his business as usual and then leave for Boise, probably a couple days from now. I’m hoping that somewhere along the way he gets robbed again, except this time no one will resist and the robbers will only be getting iron pyrite for their efforts. Iron pyrite, or fool’s gold, looks very similar to the real thing. Hopefully, the thieves won’t look too closely at their take and I’ll be able to tie the robbery to whoever shows up with some fool’s gold.”

  “What about the real gold? How does this merchant get that back to Boise?” asked Josh.

  “I’ll be takin’ that on a pack horse,” replied the marshal. “Gonna leave Bear Creek the night before the merchant. I’ll be stayin’ off the main route to Boise. Hopefully, any desperado types will just take me for another prospector lookin’ for that big strike. Besides, they’ll be payin’ more attention to the merchant and when he leaves than a single person.”

  Josh shook his head slightly. “I don’t know, Marshal. I ain’t no expert on rocks or gold or any such stuff, but I got my doubts.”

  The marshal scowled. “Well if we don’t use some kind of trickery like this, then a fellar’s pretty much got to catch’em red-handed, actually committin’ the crime, and that’ll probably involve considerable gunplay. And when it’s all said and done I still might not be able to tie this back to the sheriff, if he’s involved.”

  “Maybe so,” said Josh doubtfully. “But what’s my part in this?”

  “Well, sir,” began the marshal, “I saw the way that you handled yourself at the Gold Strike last night. I need someone like you to back my play, somebody that’d be good in a tight spot. So, I was wonderin’ if you’d be interested in being my deputy?”

  The marshal’s offer caught Josh by surprise. He sighed thoughtfully. “Never have gave much thought to being a lawman. Always pictured myself workin’ a ranch.”

  “Pays seventy-five a month,” added the marshal. “You can always punch cows on down the line.”

  Josh thought of his commitment to find Seth’s killer. Being a deputy marshal might actually be useful in that endeavor, but he also had Sarah to consider now. He’d made a commitment of sorts to her even though he was beginning to have second thoughts. Regardless, he was living on his savings now, money that was supposed to go towards buying a ranch. That was not a situation he liked being in. “Alright, Marshal, you got yourself a deputy.” The words seemed to tumble from Josh’s mouth as if he had no control over them. They were propelled by gut instinct.

  “Glad to hear it,” said the marshal as he dug into his shirt pocket for a badge. “Raise your right hand.”

  Josh raised his right hand. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d raised his hand to take an oath; it had been to join the army. That had resulted in five years of fighting and killing, mostly hard times, but he had become a man during that time and he had made a good friend—a friend who was now dead. Taking another oath might just help him avenge his friend’s death.

  “Usual way ah doin’ this would be for you to put your left hand on the Bible,” began the marshal, “but since I ain’t got one with me, I guess just bein’ out here in God’s creation will have to do. Repeat after me: I Josh Morrow do solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the Idaho Territory to the best of my ability, so help me God.”

  Josh parroted the words back to the marshal while Sarah looked on, almost as if she was a privileged guest. “Congratulations, Mr. Morrow,” said the marshal as he handed him a deputy’s badge. “I’d be obliged if you’d keep this in your pocket for the time being. We don’t want to be tippin’ our hand just yet.”

  Josh looked at the badge briefly and then stuck it in his shirt pocket. “You know, Marshal,” said Josh, “the only thing keepin’ me from ridin’ on over the mountain is my friend’s murder. I mean don’t get me wrong. I’ll lend you a hand however I best can, but that can’t take away from me settlin’ the score for my friend.”

  The marshal frowned and sighed heavily. It was obvious by his facial expression that he was crafting his response carefully. “Josh,” he began, “I know we ain’t exactly dealin’ with the cream in the milk bucket here, but we can’t step outside the law. We gotta try to have due process.”

  Josh scoffed. “Due process,” he said coldly. “Ya’ll suppose that’s what my friend got down the road here when he was bushwhacked and left to bleed out.”

  The marshal shook his head. “I’m sorry ‘bout your friend but he ain’t the first good man that’s been killed by some riffraff. The problem I see is when the good people drop down to the level of the riffraff tryin’ to get even. A fellar’s walkin’ a fine line there.”

  “Maybe so,” replied Josh. “I guess we’ll just have to see how it shakes out.”

  Chapter Five

  It was early evening when Josh and Sarah started their desce
nt down the gentle ridge overlooking Lester Scoville’s claim. They were following the tracks that Lester’s freight wagon had made through the sagebrush and grass. Scattered ponderosa pines partially obscured from view Lester’s cabin near the edge of the creek. Smoke coming from the stovepipe that protruded through the roof suggested that he was home, probably cooking his supper. A Steller’s jay perched in the tree near the cabin screeched noisily at Josh and Sarah’s approach. Not to be outdone by the jay, Rufus came bounding out of the cabin to sound the alarm, albeit a little late, of the approaching company. Shortly, Lester appeared in the doorway with rifle in hand, and then recognizing Josh, he leaned the rifle against the wall of the cabin.

  “Evenin’,” hollered out Lester.

  Josh could see that Lester had a bit of a puzzled look on his face. “Hey Lester, how ya’ll doin?” he said as he and Sarah reined their horses in near the cabin and dismounted. Josh knelt down to greet Rufus. He seemed to remember Josh and was mostly tail wags and a few excited licks. Josh scratched Rufus’ ears and gave him a couple of pats on the side. “You’re a good dog, Rufus. Good dog,” he said as he rose to shake Lester’s hand.

  “Well, boy, you timed it ‘bout right,” said Lester in a friendly tone of voice. “Supper’s just about ready.”

  Josh could see that Lester was almost beside himself with curiosity over who this woman dressed like a man was and why she was standing in front of his cabin. Josh assumed that since Sarah was with him that she would be welcome. Josh turned so that he could divide his attention between Lester and Sarah. “Lester, this here’s Sarah MaGinty,” he said. And since Josh had told Sarah all about his meeting Lester, he did not reiterate Lester’s name to her.

  In the brief time that it had taken to walk from the doorway of his cabin to where Sarah and Josh stood, Lester had surveyed the person standing next to Josh closely. He thought that he recognized her as one of the girls from the Gold Strike but not by the name of Sarah MaGinty; she had been Pearl then. He was conflicted as to whether he should go along with the girl’s ruse or call her on it now, but then he said: “You know, ma’am, you look an awful lot like a woman I met about a month ago in Bear Creek but she went by the name of Pearl.”