"Five," Rockwell corrected him. "I'm still looking for one."
"You treat that badge of yours like it's a huntin' license."
"What else do you call it? These three were about to rape a woman, and they pulled on me. Maybe you'd rather stand around and jaw with them."
"They're white men, dammit!"
"You'd excuse them, then?"
"Well, I—"
"Because I never heard that evil had a color to it."
Fowler's cheeks had taken on some color of their own. "You plan on staying here in Tartarus much longer, Marshal?"
"Till I'm finished with the job that I was sent to do."
"By Brigham Young?"
"You have a problem with the governor," said Rockwell, "take it up with him. Meanwhile, if you're not helping me, the best thing you can do is stay out of my way."
"Another threat?"
"Remember what I told you about that."
Rockwell reversed direction, striding toward the east end of the alley. Fowler called after him, "Where are you goin' now?"
Under his breath, Rockwell replied, "To get my laundry done."
* * *
It was not difficult to find the Chinese quarter in a town the size of Tartarus. Rockwell knew where the laundry was and calculated they would dwell in close proximity. Approaching from behind it, rather than the Main Street entrance, he saw twenty-odd Celestials standing together, watching him approach with hostile eyes in faces otherwise devoid of all emotion.
Rockwell didn't know which ones spoke English, but he figured some must, if they managed to do business with the other folks in town. He tried it, telling them, "I'm looking for the girl who had some trouble up the street, there. It's been taken care of, and I'd like to see if she's all right."
Some muttering he couldn't translate, then a man older than those ranged out in front of him stepped forward, easing through their ranks, the young men parting silently. "You are not one of Chief Fowler's men," he said.
"No, sir. I'm not."
"His men would not have helped my granddaughter."
Granddaughter? Rockwell thinking this could work to his advantage if he handled it correctly.
"Well, it seemed the Christian thing to do," he said.
"Christian?" The old man's frown was in his voice, not on his face. "You are ... unusual."
"I've heard it said."
"I am in debt to you."
"Well, if you feel that way, I've got a question for you."
After due consideration, the old man said, "Ask it."
"I've been sent to find out what became of certain people hereabouts," Rockwell explained. "Prospectors and their wives. They worked a claim, out north of town, but now they've gone away without a word to anyone they knew, back home."
The old man talked with some of his people for a while, in their own singsong language, then he said, "You mean the different ones."
Rockwell considered that, then nodded. "I expect that's right."
"We had no dealings with them," said the old man. "They did not bring clothes to us for cleaning, but we saw them sometimes. They remained apart from those you see today. No whores or whiskey. Careful with their speech and with their women."
"Sounds like who I'm looking for."
"You come too late," the old man said.
"How's that?"
"You understand that we saw nothing. But we listen when the round-eyes think we do not understand."
"I'll take what I can get," Rockwell replied.
"Were these ones friends of yours?"
"I knew a couple of them. One was kin to me. My family."
The old man nodded solemnly. "One day, about two months ago, they all come into town. Go to the assay office, come out happy. Go to stores, come out with things. After they leave, Chief Fowler meets with other men."
"Beardsley and Walton?" Rockwell asked, trying his luck.
"You know them?"
"Haven't had the pleasure, but I aim to. Maybe they brought in a fellow by the name of Jacobs?"
"I do not know that one. First the three meet, then more come and go. One night, they have a celebration at the Lucky Strike. We do not see your friends again."
"That's all you heard?"
"A few nights later, two men drunk on Main Street talk and laugh about Mor-mons. You understand this lingo?"
"I can work it out all right."
"Some of the other men, later, bring bloody clothes to wash."
Rockwell had been anticipating this, but even so, it felt like stones had settled in his stomach. Lehi and the others, absolutely gone and never coming back. He still had work to do, more digging, but the old man had removed whatever fleeting doubt he might have harbored that the Saints had simply given up and left their diggings without looking back.
"Appreciate the help," he told the old man. "And I'll do my best to see that none of this lands back on you."
"How will you punish them?"
"I've not decided yet," said Rockwell. "But you'll know it when I start."
* * *
"A Chinese girl?" Paul Beardsley looked confused. "The hell's he doin', here?"
"Maybe it struck him wrong," said Fowler. "Three on one. Who knows?"
"Mormons are odd," said Isaac Walton. "Marry all the wives they want, but won't touch liquor. Don't want anybody else to have a little fun."
"These men he smoked," said Beardsley. "Were they anybody?"
"Had a claim they call the Glory Hole, out east of town," Fowler replied.
"Survivors?"
"If the one he gut-shot makes it."
"We should take a look at that. Make him an offer," Walton said.
"Unless he croaks," said Beardsley. "Wouldn't cost us nothin', then."
"Before you get distracted," Fowler interjected, "what about ol' Rockwell."
"Why don't you arrest him?"
Fowler snorted. "He as good as told me that he'd liketa see me try it."
"That's defiance of the law, right there," said Walton.
"Overlookin' that he has a U.S. badge, hisself."
"He's shot four men," Walton replied.
"Five men," Beardsley corrected him. "Lou didn't make it, by the way."
"Goddamn." Fowler slumped back into his chair, shaking his head. "I ain't about to tackle Porter Rockwell. You can take my badge and—"
"Simmer down," said Beardsley. "No one's askin' you to sacrifice yourself."
"Although you might consider offering a little public service," Walton interjected.
"I already did that," Fowler said. "I covered up your tracks."
"Now, see here—"
"Rance! Isaac!" Beardsley's voice cut through their bickering. "If we can't stick together, we're as good as done for."
Fowler bristled. "I'm just sayin'—"
"You already said it. What we need to do, right now, is put our heads together and decide what happens next."
"What happens," Fowler said, "is that he keeps on sniffin' till he finds somethin' to hang us with."
"Maybe. But only if we let it go that far."
"You tried to kill him twice," Fowler replied. "Seems like it didn't work too well."
"I hardly count the time with Hannigan," said Beardsley. "Lou and Jake, I will admit, were disappointments to me."
"Think how Lou must feel."
"That's funny, Chief. You oughta be a comic on the stage."
"I just meant—"
"Where is he now?" Beardsley cut into his apology. "I mean, right now."
"Delmonico's," said Fowler.
"Shooting people doesn't spoil his appetite, I guess," said Walton.
"Shouldn't," Fowler said. "From what I hear, he's done enough of it."
"He's damn sure done enough in Tartarus," said Beardsley. "And I want it stopped."
"Okay, but how?" asked Fowler.
"Where'd you say he's goin' next?"
"To see the pair of you."
Walton leaned forward in his chair, closer t
o Beardsley. "If he comes in here, you've got him, Paul."
"How do you figure that?"
"We all know people have a tendency to disappear when you get tired of 'em."
"Just drunks and drifters, now and then a miner winnin' more than he's entitled to at faro."
"All the same."
"It ain't the same. Rockwell's a U.S. marshal. He can't walk in here and disappear."
"Why not? Who's ever gonna say he did walk in?"
"There's always somebody. The next marshal shows up, or maybe more than one, they'll sniff around till they shake somethin' loose."
"So, what's your plan?"
"Let Jacobs handle it."
"How's that?" asked Fowler.
"Simple. He comes to either one of us, we point him toward Emil at the Plata Belleza."
"Silver Beauty," Fowler muttered to himself.
"What's that?"
"I gave Rockwell the name. He told me what it means in Mexican."
"Spanish," Walton corrected him.
"Whichever. Anyway, how's Jacobs know to deal with him if he rides out there."
"When he rides out. Someone needs to go out first and talk to Emil. Let him know what's goin' on."
"Who's doin' that?" asked Fowler.
"You are, Chief."
"But that's—"
"Don't tell me it's outside your jurisidiction, Rance. I have to wait around till Rockwell comes to see me. Same for Issac."
"Send one of your boys," Fowler suggested.
"Why not just go up and down the street askin' for volunteers?" Beardsley suggested, sneering. "I'd prefer to keep it private, if you don't mind."
"Sure. Okay."
"And on your way back, fetch the Murphy brothers into town."
"What for?"
"Because I said so!" Beardsley snapped at him, then softened. "Anything goes wrong at Emil's place, I want 'em here. They done good work for us with Mormons last time 'round, remember. If they wanna keep their share, they need to help us clean this up."
"Okay."
"You'd best get goin'."
Fowler had another thought. "Suppose he sees me headin' out?"
"What if he does? You got a right to take a ride, don't you?"
"I guess that's right."
"It's time you grew a backbone, Chief."
"Uh-huh." The insult warmed Fowler's cheeks.
"And come straight back here when you're done," said Beardsley.
"With the Murphys," he replied. "Awright."
"Hell, no! Don't bring 'em back here with you. Have 'em ride in on their own, for God's sake."
"Okay. Right."
"Like talkin' to a kid, I swear," Beardsley was saying, as he closed the office door.
Fowler was sick of being bullied and talked down to, but he couldn't think of anything to do about it. He was stuck—in Tarturus, behind the useless badge he wore, under Paul Beardsley's thumb. Most of the townsfolk treated him like he was nothing but a stooge, and Fowler couldn't blame them. He was no more cut out for a lawman's job than he was fit for surgery or teaching school. Sometimes he sat and wondered what he was fit for, and wound up drinking when he couldn't think of any decent answers.
Serve them right if I rode out and kept on going, Fowler thought. But then, what would he do? Where would he go? Not Salt Lake City, after this. Maybe head west, to California, or south, into New Mexico. Why not keep going all the way, while he was at it, into Mexico itself? A man could lose himself down there, maybe forget what he was running from if he put down enough tequila.
Maybe Porter Rockwell wouldn't find him there.
He knew that Beadsley was mistaken, thinking they could kill a U.S. marshal and their trouble would evaporate. It might be weeks before the hammer fell, but Fowler had no doubt that it would fall. He'd heard the stories: Rockwell and the governor; the Danites, Brigham Young's "Avenging Angels." Some said all of that was hogwash, fairy tales to frighten children, but Rance Fowler wasn't sure. Someone had obviously shot the governor—ex-governor, whatever—in Missouri, and it seemed to him that Rockwell hadn't quite denied it, after all. Then, there was Mountain Meadows, better than a hundred dead, and that was no damn fairy tale.
Clear out, a voice said, in his mind. And then another answered back, Too late.
He'd cast his lot with Beardsley and the others, took the path of least resistance when he could have cut and run with hands still clean. Now, any way he sliced it, Fowler reckoned that he had to stay and face whatever happened next.
And hope that he came out of it alive.
Chapter 9
Rockwell ate steak with all the trimmings at Delmonico's, then headed for the Lucky Strike to find Mayor Beardsley. Pushing through the bat-wing doors, he was assaulted by the too-familiar smell of every saloon he'd ever visited: tobacco smoke and alcohol, stale sweat and desperation. He moved past gaming tables, most of them unoccupied at that hour, and went directly to the bar.
"What'll you have, Marshal?" the barkeep asked.
"Your boss," Rockwell replied.
"Don't know if he's around."
"It shouldn't be much trouble finding out."
"I'm kinda busy here, right now."
"All right. I'll just go back and have a look around, myself."
"Hang on, now. Lemme check the office."
Rockwell waited for a good two minutes, then the bartender came back wearing a sour expression on his homely face. He cocked a thumb over his shoulder, toward a doorway at the far end of the bar, to Rockwell's left, and said, "He'll see you. Go on back."
The arching doorway could have been a trap, but Rockwell risked it, stepping through into a hallway that ran on for thirty feet or so, with closed doors lining either side. The first door on his right was labeled OFFICE—PRIVATE. Rockwell knocked and waited for a deep voice on the other side to say, "Come in!"
A reasonably tall man stood behind a desk piled high with money. Rockwell spotted gold coins minted by the federal government, others stamped by mining companies, and stacks of multicolored paper currency emblazoned with the names of banks that issued them. There was no standard paper currency for the United States at large, but rather notes printed by sixteen hundred private banks from coast to coast, some thirty thousand different colors and designs in all.
"Looks like you do all right," Rockwell allowed.
"I'm getting by," the boss man said, coming around his desk, right hand extended. "You'd be Marshal Rockwell."
"And I take it you're the mayor?"
"Paul Beardsley."
Rockwell pumped his hand once, then released it. "You're a man of many parts, I understand."
"A businessman, that's all. I try'n make a profit where I can."
"Saloons and such."
"In part."
"And mining claims?"
"I've got a few. You'd be surprised what some men wager when they're drawing to an inside straight. You want to have a seat?"
"I won't be here that long."
"Quick business, then. What's on your mind."
"The Murphy claim, out north of town."
"I'd need to hear a little more."
"They tell me you're one of their backers."
"Do they, now?"
Rockwell let silence answer that one, waiting out the mayor. When it began to grow uncomfortable, Beardsley said, "I did provide some funding there, along with others."
"Like your justice of the peace."
"As an investment. Think of us as silent partners."
"What I'm interested in is how the first folks on the claim happened to sell."
"Why ask me?"
"It struck me that the Murphys were a mite confused about the sale, what prompted it and all. Their story doesn't jibe with what Chief Fowler told me, come to that."
"Not sure I follow," Beardsley said.
"One side tells me the claim played out, another says the people working it got tired of all the work and just moved on. You see my difficulty."
"Well ..
.."
"And then I hear a rumor that the folks who filed the first claim never left at all."
Beardsley was frowning now. "Who told you that?"
Rockwell ignored him. Said, "Meaning, as I was led to understand, that something might have happened to them that would leave the mining operation up for grabs."
"'Fraid you're beyond me now, Marshal."
"Claim jumping's what I had in mind."
"Uh-huh. I wouldn't know a damn thing about that."
"The Murphys come to you for money, but they never mentioned anything about their claim to someone else's property?"
"I put some money up, is all. I never saw a bill of sale, only the paperwork drawn up to certify my share."
"Of anything they find."
"That's it."
"And I suppose your Mr. Walton has the same perspective."
"Never held a pick or shovel in his life, that I know of."
"Or talked to any Mormons about selling out their claim?"
"Know who might help you there, and I say might. You oughta have a word with Emil Jacobs."
"Chairman of the Miner's League," said Rockwell. "At the Silver Beauty mine."
"The very same."
"Another partner."
"But more direct, though," Beardsley said. "Some of his boys go help the Murphys out from time to time."
"Thanks for the tip."
"I try to help the law whenever possible."
Rockwell let that one go, was turning toward the door when Beardsley said, "You'll keep me posted? On whatever you find out?"
"Won't be a secret," Rockwell said, and closed the office door behind him as he left.
* * *
His next stop, after seeing Beardsley, was the Grand Hotel. He used the privy in the yard out back, then went upstairs. The room was undisturbed from when he'd left it last. Rockwell retrieved his Sharps, the bandolier and tomahawk, then headed back downstairs. The clerk, not present when he'd entered, had returned from somewhere and was fidgeting behind his counter.
"Marshal Rockwell! Are you leaving us?"
"Just for an hour or two."
"Further investigation?"
"Thought I'd do some hunting.
"Hunting?"
"Try my luck, you know."
"With deer, or ... what, particularly?"
"Anything that makes a run for it."
"Well ... would you care to book another night?"
"Looks like it."
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 16