He didn't rush, returning to the Murphy claim, raking the slope above him and the drop-off to his right with narrowed eyes. Some fifty yards before he reached the shaft, Rockwell saw Brett and Clem out front, watching him ride their way. Clem had the Colt Walker still tucked under his belt, but Brett had left his pick somewhere and come out empty-handed.
"Heard some shootin'," Brett called out, when they were close enough to speak up without shouting.
"So did I," Rockwell replied. "Figured I'd better check and see if you were having trouble."
He couldn't read their faces clearly. If the brothers were surprised to see him breathing, they'd had time to mask it during his approach. Brett posed no threat to Rockwell at the moment, but he kept a closer eye on Clem, in case he started getting rattled and it drove him to a draw.
"No trouble here," Brett said. "Just gettin' back to work."
"I'm glad to hear it. If a wounded man turns up, you have the wherewithal to deal with him?"
"What wounded man?" Clem asked.
Rockwell allowed himself a shrug. "We all heard shooting. Stands to reason someone could be hit."
"Oh. Right."
"We ain't no doctors," Brett reminded him.
"You'd have some way to get him down the hill and into town, though?"
"Only got our mule," said Brett, and nodded vaguely toward the mine shaft.
"Oh, well. Don't fret about it," Rockwell said. "A man gets holed out here, he's likely done for, anyhow."
The brothers frowned in unison, Clem looking more confused than Brett. "You didn't see nobody when the shootin' started?" he inquired.
"Nary a soul," Rockwell replied. "You boys be safe now, hear?"
He left them chewing on it, holding off his smile until he'd turned his back on them and started down the dusty track toward level ground and Tartarus. Left them with something to consider, whether they had been involved in jumping him or not. Rockwell had no faith in coincidence, where killing was concerned, and seriously doubted that a pair of highwaymen would try picking him off by chance.
The answer, he felt confident, lay back in Tartarus. He didn't have enough to file a charge, by any means, but the attempt to kill him meant someone was scared enough to bet the limit. What they hadn't reckoned on was Rockwell's blessing from the Prophet, shielding him from any threat by mortal men.
Did he believe that? Was it literally true?
Why not?
Faith was the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen. If he believed in Joseph Smith, the Holy Bible and the Book of Mormon—which he did—then nothing was impossible for God or His elect. How could he doubt the Prophet's power to invest a chosen warrior with invincibility?
Rockwell didn't think he was immortal, naturally. That would be ridiculous and contradictory of scripture. Hebrews spelled it out in no uncertain terms: it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.
Rockwell knew that he would die, someday, but whether any mortal man could kill him was another question all together.
As for judgment, he was bringing it to Tartarus. He simply didn't know, yet, who would fall under the sword and which ones would be spared.
* * *
The town felt different to Rockwell as he entered it, the second time. Was he imagining an air of tension hanging over Main Street? An expectancy? The townsfolk passing up and down on either side all looked the same to him, first slightly curious, and then suspicious when they spied his badge. Rockwell ignored them, heading for the livery. The hostler greeted him and held his Appaloosa's reins as he dismounted.
"Any luck?" the old man asked.
"Not much. You have a sawbones here in town?"
"Sure do." The hostler looked concerned now, seemingly sincere. "You hurt or somethin'?"
"Just a question for him."
"Oh. Well, that'd be Doc Crowder, halfway down and on your left, next to the hardware store."
"Thanks. Can you go another night?"
"No trouble, Marshal. Long as you've a need."
From the hotel, dropping the Sharps off in his room, it was a short walk to the doctor's office, where a sign identified its occupant as Milton Crowder, M.D. It was supposed to be an office, so he didn't bother knocking, simply opening the door and stepping in. That set a small bell jangling overhead and brought a man of middle age from a backroom.
"Help you?"
"I'm looking for the doctor," Rockwell answered.
"And you've found him. Milton Crowder, at your service, Marshal."
Crowder was a man of average size, five-nine or –ten, around 180 pounds. He wore a vest over his white shirt, with the collar open. Striped trousers below, with shoes on small feet polished to a gleaming shine. His face was round and ruddy, with a thick moustache that matched his bushy eyebrows.
"What it is," Rockwell explained, "I'm looking for a wounded man."
"When you say wounded—"
"Shot."
"I see. So, you're not injured, then?"
"They missed," Rockwell replied.
"Thus, more than one."
"One hit. They both shinned out."
"And this happened today?"
"Within the past two hours."
"Well, sir, no one has required my services for any sort of wounds today."
"Thanks, anyway. Long shot, I guess." Then, almost as an afterthought, "You wouldn't have an undertaker in the neighborhood, by any chance?"
"We do," said Crowder. "Up a block, across the street. Marion Small."
"A woman undertaker?"
"No, sir. With an 'o' before the 'n,' it makes a man's name."
"Live and learn," said Rockwell, then he turned and passed into the street—where Rance Fowler met him on the sidewalk, looking startled.
"Marshal!"
"Chief."
"You're back."
"Looks like it."
Fowler flicked a glance in the direction of the doctor's office. "Any trouble?"
"None I couldn't handle."
"But you're talking to the doctor?"
"Nothing gets past you."
"I mean to say, if you're not hurt—"
"Somebody is," said Rockwell.
"Oh? You want to fill me in on that?"
"Outside your jurisdiction, Chief."
Fowler was clearly growing frustrated. "The Murphy brothers?"
"Nope. I left them safe and sound." Not tacking on, For now.
"Well, if you don't mind telling me ...."
"Somebody bushwhacked me, out by their claim. I paid them back in kind."
"You tellin' me you shot at someone?"
"We've been over that."
"Awright, then, are you tellin' me you shot someone?"
"I got a piece of one. There were a couple of them."
"Not the Murrphys, though."
"I answered that already."
"And you thought the doctor might have seen them?"
Rockwell shrugged. "They headed this way, riding out. I took it as a possibility, unless they stopped off somewhere in between."
"No spreads to speak of out that way," said Fowler. "Only mining claims."
"Narrows it down. I'm talking to your undertaker next."
"Uh-huh. Well, I suppose I'll leave you to it, then."
"Before you go, Chief, I'll be looking for some of your people here."
"Which people?" Wary now.
"Your mayor. Justice of the peace. Head of your miner's league."
Fowler wore the expression of a man who'd stepped in something rank. "Why them, for heaven's sake?"
"I'll lay that out for them in person. What I need from you is how to find them."
"Well, um ... Mr. Beardsley's got an office at the Lucky Strike. You woulda passed it, ridin' in."
"The others?"
"Mr. Walton runs the assay office. Mr. Jacobs works the Plata Belleza mine, west of town. Means somethin' in Mexican, he claims."
"Silver Beauty," said Rockwell.
"You speak their lingo?"
"West of town, that was?"
"Uh-huh."
"Looks like I'll need another of your maps."
"Oh. Well ...."
"You need another pencil?"
"Reckon I still got one in the office."
"I'll just walk down with you, then."
"Okay." Chief Fowler didn't seem enthused about it.
"Funny," Rockwell said, as they were walking back to Fowler's office.
"What is?"
"Someone jumping me, when I went out to see the Murphy boys."
"This is a wild neck of the woods, I won't deny it."
"All outside your jurisdiction, though."
"Well."
"It may be lucky that I get to meet your undertaker."
"How's that lucky, Marshal?"
"Hey, you never know. I might be throwing him some business pretty soon."
* * *
Marion Small was more or less as advertised—a short man, though not dwarfish. Say a foot shorter than Rockwell, give or take a quarter-inch. He had the solemn look that seems to be a standard for the trade, like black frock coats, string ties, and shiny trousers. This one's eyes were even tombstone gray, which seemed to fit. The only color anywhere about him was the shock of red hair covering his scalp, extending into bushy muttonchops. His skin was pale behind that hair, his roly-poly figure testifying to a measure of prosperity. The undertaker's parlor smelled of flowers, although there were none in evidence.
Small greeted Rockwell with a handshake, heard him out, nodding along the way, then said, "I'm sorry I can't help you, Marshal. No one's been brought in to me today."
"Well, if you get a call—"
"I'll let you know at once, of course. You say you're staying at the Grand Hotel?"
"That's what they call it."
"Are you not impressed with the amenities?"
"Beats sleeping on the ground," Rockwell allowed.
"I should imagine so. Will you be staying long?"
"A while, yet. Let me ask you something."
"Certainly."
"What have you heard about the Mormon claim, as was, out north of town."
"Mormon?"
"A group from Salt Lake City. It's the Murphy claim today, they tell me."
"Ah. Then I'll afraid I have to disappoint you once again. My only contact with the miners is in a professional capacity."
"When they're toes-up, you mean."
"Correct."
"Most of your deaths are natural, I take it?"
"Most," Small said. "Not all, by any means. The town and its vicinity are somewhat ... unsophisticated, shall we say?
"I got that feeling, too. You've seen your share of killings, then."
"Regrettably."
"Claim-jumpers and the like?"
"A few. Most of the homicides come out of the saloons."
"Police clear most of those?"
"There's rarely any prosecution. Fighting over cards or women. Most of them go down as self-defense."
"Would you agree with that?"
Small frowned. "I leave that to the courts."
"Meaning the miner's court, or Mr. Walton?"
"That depends on jurisdiction, I suppose."
"It would," Rockwell agreed. "And you'd have known if any Mormons cycled through your shop here, either natural or otherwise disposed of."
"Most assuredly."
"All right. Thanks, anyway."
"I'm happy to assist you, Marshal."
Which you didn't, Rockwell thought, but let it go. Standing outside of Small's establishment, he made a mental list of things to do. Lunch first, because his stomach had begun to grumble at him, which would mean another visit to Delmonico's. From there, he could decide whether to call on Mayor Beardsley first, or drop in on the justice of the peace. He didn't feel like riding out to see another mine just now, and put that off until tomorrow, if he hadn't dug up anything in Tartarus.
He had a steak in mind, or maybe stew if it was on the menu. Food was just about the only thing he couldn't criticize so far, in Tartarus—that, and the livery. He didn't trust the people any farther than he could have thrown his Appaloosa. Fowler, he believed, possessed some kind of guilty knowledge, but he couldn't pin it down. Rockwell imagined he would have a better take on what was happening after he'd spoken to the Murphy brothers' various investors and discovered how the Mormon claim came up for sale.
Although he had a fairly good idea.
Jumping to a conclusion, Rockwell understood from prior experience, was perilous. Hasty decisions put himself at risk, along with others who might suffer injury. His best bet was to gather all the facts available, see where they led, then choose a course of action suited to the circumstances.
He was moving toward Delmonico's, passing along the west side of the street, when someone called out to him from a shadowed alleyway. No, that was wrong. It hadn't been a call to him, specifically, more of a bleating cry for help. A woman's voice, although he couldn't make out what she'd said and wasn't even certain that the words were English.
Putting away his thoughts of food, Rockwell turned to his right and stepped into the alley's mouth.
Chapter 8
Three ruffians had trapped a woman there, well back from Main Street, and were shoving her around between themselves, playing some kind of game that Rockwell took to be a prelude to the violation they intended. All of them were burly, of a decent size, though not his height. Their chortling laughter told him they were drunk, but nowhere close to passing out.
Too bad.
As Rockwell closed the gap, the woman turned in his direction, sobbing, blouse torn down the front, and he could see she was Chinese. Celestial, the press and common lingo dubbed them, not because they were presumed to come from some far distant world among the stars, but because their emperors referred to China as the Celestial Empire.
Here, in the United States and its territories, Celestial numbers were growing by leaps and bounds. Rockwell had read somewhere that there were fewer than four hundred in the whole of North America when Brigham Young had led the Saints to Deseret. Today, by all accounts, thirty thousand or more were employed in mining, building railroads, or huddled together in Chinese quarters of cities ranging nationwide, from San Francisco to New York. Rockwell had seen their laundry boiling sheets in Tartarus, and now he was confronted with a female of the species in distress.
He had a choice to make: move on and let the thugs amuse themselves, or intervene.
His badge and Christian duty took the choice away from Rockwell. Scowling at the turn his luck had taken, he advanced.
"Well now," he said to no one in particular. "What have we here?"
The three men paused, one of them hanging on to each of the young woman's arms, all facing Rockwell now. Drunk as they were, despite the shade, they saw and recognized his badge.
"Nothin' for you to be concerned about, Marshal," the nearest of them said. "A little fun, is all."
"It doesn't look like fun to her," Rockwell replied.
"This little China gal? She don't mind none." The second speaker clutched her left arm, giving her a strong shake as he slurred his words.
"I guess she's crying tears of joy, then," Rockwell said.
"She will be, in a minute," said the third man. "You could always stay and get yourself a piece."
"I'd rather that you let her go and walk away."
"An' what if'n we don't?" the first man asked him.
"Then your undertaker stands to have his work cut out for him."
Two of the men were wearing pistols, while the third carried both a revolver and a hunting knife. Despite the odds, Rockwell was not particularly worried. They were drunk, and he suspected none of them had benefited from a prophet's blessing of invincibility.
"You wanna try all three of us?" the gunman to the woman's right inquired, grinning.
"Wouldn't be my first choice," Rockwell answered. "But I've shot one man today,
already. I could just as easy make it four."
"The hell you say," their seeming leader growled.
"Hell's where you're going, if you pull that smoke pole."
With a snarl, their front man fumbled at his pistol in its low-slung holster. Rockwell drew one of his Navy Colts and shot the drunk as near dead center as he could, swinging around to face the others as the first one dropped. They'd both released the woman by that time, gaping at Rockwell for a second, then broke off in opposite directions, going for their guns.
The alley worked against them, keeping them from dodging out of range or finding any cover. Rockwell took the shooter on his left first, since he'd turned a bit in that direction for the first one anyway. His second shot was low, drilling the would-be rapist's gut, letting the wind out of him in a howl of pain as he collapsed.
That still left one, the slowest of the trio, with his pistol barely clearing leather. Rockwell covered him and said, "Be sure you want to go this way."
The drunk froze, thinking through it in a haze of fear and alcohol, then went ahead. Rockwell released a pent-up sigh and shot him in the face, skimming his old hat off behind him, spattering the nearby wall with gray and scarlet.
Sharp echoes from the alley rattled into Main Street, bringing morbid gawkers to observe the scene. Before they gathered, though, the Chinese girl was gone, escaping from the far end of the alley, ducking to her left and out of Rockwell's sight.
* * *
He waited for the chief, reloading while he stood there, watching townsfolk watching him. It took Fowler the best part of ten minutes to arrive, but Rockwell's gut-shot adversary still had life left in him yet, though maybe not for long.
"What in pluperfect hell is this about?" the chief demanded.
Rockwell summarized it for him, kept it short, if not exactly sweet. Fowler surveyed the carnage and inquired, "So what's become of the Celestial?"
"Ran off," Rockwell replied. "Seems natural, under the circumstances."
"Can you give me a description of her?"
"Young. Chinese."
"That don't help much."
"Yon fat one got a better look at her than I did. Maybe he can tell you, if you get him to the doc in time."
"Reckon he'll tell it your way?" Fowler asked.
"That's not my problem."
"Could be, though. Stranger in town who's shot four people."
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 15