Henry stood maybe three inches taller than Jack, and was muscled like a circus strongman. His hair was short and tightly curled, and had been black when he and his family first moved to this town but was now showing gray.
He had a lantern jaw and a wide, toothy smile, and he was showing that smile now.
“Looks good on you, Jack,” he said.
“Thanks Henry. What do I owe you?”
“Nothin’. We can’t pay you, but what we can do is offer our services for free.”
Jack grinned. “Now, I wonder what Aunt Ginny would say at Miss Alisha’s part in that.”
Henry laughed. A large, from-the-heart laugh, like he always did. “Now, I’d like to be a fly in the wall for that conversation.”
Jack found, as expected, the gambler had dug through the earthen floor of the tool shed and squeezed out from under the wall, and had been long gone by morning.
“We need a jail,” Jack said to Hunter and Franklin and Henry. “Nothing fancy. None of us can afford that. But some sort of structure. Maybe made of logs. And we have to have some sort of floor so no one being held there will be able to dig their way out.”
“A wooden floor,” Franklin said.
Hunter nodded. “Ford, down in the valley, is setting up a saw mill. We can maybe get him to donate some lumber. After all, they’re going to be part of this community.”
“In the morning, I’ll take a ride out and have a talk with him.”
By four o’clock, a few of the local cowhands had begun to trickle in. Jack saw one horse at Hunter’s hitching rail had a Circle M brand, so he went in to see who it was.
He found Fred Mitchum at the bar, with a mug of cold beer in his hand. Fred was wearing a baggy white shirt and suspenders, and a dark, wide-brimmed sombrero.
Fred broke into a wide grin. “Well, look at you. When you rode out this morning, I figured you had a long ride ahead of you.”
Jack said, “I thought so, too. But I ended up here.”
“That badge looks good on you. I’m heading back to the ranch after this here beer, and I’ll tell everyone. Aunt Ginny will be specially pleased, I reckon.”
Jack said, “You’re not staying in town for the festivities tonight?”
Fred shook his head. “I’m too old for a Saturday night in a cow town.”
Eventually, Fred rode out, and more cowhands rode in. Jack didn’t figure it would be as wild as the first Saturday after payday, but he knew it wouldn’t be a quiet night, either.
As dusk was casting the land into shadow, Josh and Dusty reined up in front of Hunter’s. Jack was standing on the porch.
“Well, looky here,” Josh said with a wide grin. “I guess the rumors are true.”
Dusty stepped out of the saddle and shook Jack’s hand. Dusty said, “I’m glad you didn’t ride off. Aunt Ginny’s really happy, too.”
Jack said, “I’m riding down into the valley tomorrow to talk to Mister Ford. I’ll make sure and stop at the ranch to say hello.”
Josh slapped Jack’s shoulder. “They couldn’t have picked a better man to wear that badge.”
By eight o’clock that night, Hunter’s was half full, and in front of the Shapleigh’s hotel there were some horses tethered, and the piano in his barroom was filling the night with an old tune. Normally played on a fiddle, Jack thought. Might have been Sally Gooden, but he wasn’t sure. He doubted any of the patrons cared.
Jack strolled about the town, stopping in at the hotel to make his presence known, then crossing the wide expanse of street to Hunter’s to do the same. He then checked Franklin’s to make sure the door was locked, which it was. He then headed down to Miss Alisha’s to stick his head in the lobby and door and let them know the law was present.
Miss Alisha was sitting on a sofa with tattered, old velvet upholstery.
Jack said, “If you need anything, just give a holler. I won’t be far away.”
She gave that strange smile, whorish and yet motherly. “I know we picked the right man for the job.”
The night was going smoothly, he thought. The two barrooms were doing a steady if not explosive business. He figured Miss Alisha would have a fistful of cash before the night was done, too. Looked like the night was going to pass without incident.
However, before the night was done, he found his first day on the job was going to include having to kill a man.
At about ten o’clock, he was walking toward Hunter’s when he heard the sound of voices raised and it sounded more like anger than the sort of hooting and hollering drunk cowhands will engage in when they’re having a good time. He ran the last few steps and in through the open doorway.
A table was overturned, and one cowhand was standing with a knife in his hand. Jack didn’t recognize him. A sombrero with a floppy brim and a rawhide chinstrap hanging loose. He wore his gun hanging down on the hip a bit, but not tied down. He was cowhand through and through, but the way he wore his gun told Jack he fancied himself as a gunman. The other cowhand was Fat Cole, from the McCabe Ranch. The Circle M.
Hunter was in the small crowd that had gathered around them, and was saying, “Put that knife down.”
Jack said, “What’s going on?”
Fat was more scared than angry. He said, “He accused me of cheatin’, Mister McCabe. I ain’t no cheat.”
Josh and Dusty were in the crowd, too. Dusty said, “I’ve known Fat for a while, now. I can vouch for him.”
Josh was focusing his attention the other cowhand. His normally booming baritone dropped a notch and he spoke through tight lips. “Put that knife down or I’ll put it down for you.”
The McCabe temper was rising up. Jack didn’t think it rose up stronger in anyone else than it did in Josh.
Jack stepped forward. “I’ll handle this.”
The cowhand said, “Get out of the way. This is between me and Stringbean.”
Jack stopped between the cowhand and Fat. “Not anymore. There’s law here, now. Put the knife down, and leave.”
The cowhand was maybe Jack’s age. Maybe a little more. But on the frontier, he might have been a cowhand for three or four years already, making him a seasoned veteran of the range.
He was smiling, though there was no humor in his smile. He said to Jack, “You gonna make me?”
Jack was not smiling. “If I have to.”
“Even better.” He stepped back, and slid his blade into an empty sheath at his left side. “You got that gun on, and you carry the name McCabe. Let’s see if you have what it takes to earn it.”
“Turn around,” Jack said, “and walk away.”
Jack wanted to tell the cowhand he would spend the night behind bars, but there was no jail. Telling him he would spend the night in a tool shed just didn’t carry the same weight.
The cowhand’s right hand dropped down to his gun. He was drunk enough to be foolishly brave, but not enough to lose his steadiness. He said, “Is that gun you wear for show, or do you know how to use it?”
“Don’t do this,” Jack said. “It’s not worth dying for.”
“I ain’t the one what’s gonna do the dyin’.”
“Don’t,” Jack said again.
The man went for his gun, but Jack was faster. The cowhand’s gun cleared leather, but Jack’s was already out at arm’s length and firing. One shot. The bullet caught the cowhand in the chest. His knees buckled and he landed on the floor on them, looking down at his chest and then up at Jack with surprise. As if he suddenly realized the foolishness and the seriousness of the game he was playing, but it was too late to go back.
Blood was already soaking into his shirt. Must have hit a major artery, Jack thought. Or pierced the heart muscle itself. The cowhand fell backward and stared at the ceiling. He twitched a bit, kicked a couple of times, then his eyes lost all life and he stopped breathing.
Josh and Dusty were suddenly at Jack’s side.
Josh placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder and said, “It wasn’t your fault. He would’ve killed you.”
“Why, though? Why did he force my hand?”
Dusty said, “Josh and me – we’ve been here for a while, Josh especially, and we have a reputation.”
“But they all see me as nothing but a college boy.”
Hunter knelt by the cowhand and touched two fingers to the boy’s neck to feel for a pulse, and shook his head.
Dusty said, “I know what you’re capable of. I saw it back on the trail with the settlers. But the folks here, they’re gonna have to learn what you’re all about. Some folks have to learn the hard way.”
Jack slapped his pistol back into his holster. “I suppose. But that’s a hard way to learn.”
40
The following morning, Jack hauled a wooden chair from Hunter’s barroom out to the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
Hunter said, “I’m gonna have to build me a bench out front, the way Shapleigh has in front of his hotel.”
Jack rocked the chair onto its back legs and rested it against the wall, and took a sip of coffee. Chen was Chinese, but he made trail coffee as good as Jack had ever tasted.
“Nothing to it,” Chen said. “Just put it on the fire and let it boil over three times. By then it has turned to mud.”
“That’s about it,” Jack said.
It was Sunday morning. The wildness of the night before was gone as though it had never happened, and now Jack sat and drank coffee and watched people drifting in for church. The only game in town was Baptist, as that was the denomination of the young minister.
Hunter stepped out, a cup of Chen’s coffee in his hand. “Hard thing for church goin’ folks. If you’re not a Baptist but you want a church service, you sort of gotta bite the bullet.”
“I started attending a Methodist church in Boston a couple years ago. I went most Sunday’s, except when I was too hung over.”
As they watched, the Carters rolled in. Or the Hardings, as most folks in the area knew them. They were using the buckboard they had acquired when their original conestoga wagon broke an axle. He and Emily were at either end of the seat, with Nina tucked in between them.
The wagon was being driven by a team of horses. Must have bought some somewhere, Jack thought. Possibly from old Jeb. He doubted Carter would want to do business with Dusty or Josh.
Nina looked over at Jack and Hunter as they rolled past. Jack raised a hand to touch the brim of his hat. She nodded back, but then turned her gaze away.
“That girl sure holds a grudge,” Hunter said.
“It’s more than that,” Jack said. “She doesn’t want to build her life with a gunfighter. And maybe she has a point.”
“You’re bein’ too hard on yourself.”
Jack shook his head. “Not really. I think in her place I might have made the same decision.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a lot of thinking about it.”
“That’s about all I think about.” Jack got to his feet. “I’m going inside. Suddenly I have a thirst for something stronger than coffee.”
That afternoon, Jack rode out to the ranch and had tea with Aunt Ginny. Then he headed down to the center of the valley to visit Ford. To do so, he had to ride past the acreage Harlan Carter was claiming.
The trail took him to within a quarter mile of the Carter camp. He could see a stack of logs, and someone moving about. Probably Carter, cutting the logs and getting ready to put up a cabin. The tent still stood, and the buckboard rested idly nearby. Their horses grazed contentedly off to one side. There were no oxen in sight, so Jack figured Carter must have traded them for the horses. Old Jeb would have no need for oxen and Jack saw no oxen grazing at the ranch, so he had to wonder if Carter had ridden all the way down the stretch to Zack’s ranch to do business with him.
Jack wanted nothing more than to ride in. To ask how they were doing. Specifically, to ask Nina how she was. He was also thinking maybe he owed Carter an apology. Nina was right – Jack shouldn’t have given in to his temper. Regardless of how badly Carter seemed to want the fight, he was Nina’s father and Jack should have respected that. But he forced his gaze away from their camp and continued riding along.
Ford had a cabin partially built. He and Brewster and Carter had been cutting logs on a nearby ridge and hauling them down with horses.
Jack explained the situation. He and the others in town were planning to build a jail, but they needed lumber. They were hoping Ford would be able to donate some.
“I’d be pleased to. Problem is, I won’t have a sawmill up and running until next spring. I’m going to build a water wheel for power, but the stream feeding this lake only runs fast enough to power a water wheel until maybe May or June. So any mill business will have to be done in the spring months.”
Jack said, “I don’t know if we should wait until then.”
“Well, maybe Abel and I could cut some logs and haul them into town for you. You and Hunter and the others would have to do the building. Maybe even Carter would help out, if we caught him in the right mood.”
Jack shook his head. “I wouldn’t gamble the farm on that.”
Ford grinned. “Abel and I and my boy should be able to handle it. And Abel’s son Age. The boy works like a man.”
“You have to in this land, if you hope to survive. As soon as you’re grown enough to handle an axe or a shovel, you’re expected to do the work of a man.”
Come Monday, Brewster and Ford rode into town and announced they were headed off into the ridges to cut wood. Age was with them, and Ford’s son Randall. Jack joined them, as he didn’t expect to have to do a whole lot of marshaling on a Monday, and Hunter came along, too. The stage was not due until Wednesday, which meant his only customer would probably be himself.
They hauled logs down to the location Jack had picked out. A flat, grassy area maybe a hundred feet to the right of Hunter’s.
Jack said to Hunter, “Since most of the men I lock up will probably be coming from your establishment, it’d be easier if the jail is next door.”
That evening, Jack sat at Hunter’s and wrote Darby another letter, bringing him up to date on events. He sent it off with the Wednesday stage.
The following day, Jack and Hunter went to work notching the logs and setting them into place. Franklin and Shapleigh joined in, though neither of them had ever built a log cabin before, so it was a learning experience for them. Henry Freeman joined in, and Josh and Dusty rode in from the ranch to lend a hand.
By the end of the week, a cabin stood on the spot that had been simply a flat stretch of grass. The front section was to be Jack’s office, with a couple of bunks against one wall. The back section was a holding cell. Essentially, it was a room with a one foot by one foot window cut into the back wall – enough to let light in but not large enough for a man to crawl through. A second window was on the back wall of the office so Jack would be able to check on any potential prisoners without having to unlock the door. The floor was made of logs they split in half, with the flat ends aiming up.
Josh said, “There’s an old cabin, maybe four miles north of the valley. Used to belong to an old trapper. It’s been deserted for years.”
“I remember the place,” Jack said.
Josh said to Dusty, “Pa used to take us out there, sometimes. It was a good place to spend the night if we were deep in the hills and wouldn’t have time to get back home before nightfall. Often we slept under the stars, but sometimes we used the cabin.”
He said to Jack, “I was out there a couple years ago. The stove was still in good shape. Maybe we could haul it down here and set it up for you.”
And so they did. The stove was small and the three of them were able to carry it from the cabin and tie it onto a travois pulled by a couple of mules. They managed to drag it down to the base of the ridge and then load it onto a buckboard. By the end of the day, it was standing in the front of the jail building, its stovepipe protruding through a small hole in the wall.
Hunter took a wide wooden plank and painted the word JAIL on it in blac
k letters, and they nailed it to the front wall just above the door.
With an old wooden roll top desk that had been at Franklin’s and unable to find a buyer, and a couple wooden chairs, one from Hunter’s and one from Shapleigh’s, Jack’s marshal’s office was complete.
There was no boardwalk. You simply stepped from the front door down onto a plank and then into the mud. And there was no actual lock on the door leading to the single jail cell. There were two steel brackets nailed at either side of the door, and a two-by-four dropped into place served to hold the door shut.
Jack stood outside with Dusty and Josh, looking at the cabin.
“It’s not fancy,” Jack said, “but it doesn’t have to be. It’ll do nicely.”
The days passed. Life about the small town of McCabe Gap was slow and simple. Jack would have breakfast at Hunter’s, prepared by Chen. And then he would walk about the town. Stop in and visit Franklin, or Shapleigh. Saddle up sometimes and ride about the area. Visit with the Freemans, or ride down into the valley and visit the ranch or the farmers. Essentially, making a visible presence of the law. He avoided the Carter farm, though. Jack figured there was no one there who wanted to see him.
At night he would have dinner at Hunter’s, or sometimes ride out to the ranch for a taste of Aunt Ginny’s cooking. And he would walk about the town, checking the locks on the buildings. Walking the rounds, he had heard lawmen calling it.
He knew he had no actual authority. All he could really do was lock up a miscreant and hold him until the territorial marshal could come and take the prisoner away. But it was more than the town had before Jack took the job.
One morning, he went to Hunter’s for breakfast, and then took his coffee on the front boardwalk. On the boardwalk was a bench Hunter had built from split logs.
“Well,” Hunter said, “what do you think?”
Jack sat on the bench, and nodded. “Good and solid.”
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 35