Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1

by Gilbert, Morris

  I get up before daylight and work on preparing the breakfast with the cook. Afterward I clean up the dishes. Then Marshal Swinson puts me to some work that usually takes me the rest of the day. As a matter of fact, I hardly ever finish the list he gives me.

  As I was saying, I have never been comfortable around horses. I told you about Patsy, the one I rode on vacation. She was a sweetheart, but there’s a horse here that I’ve grown rather close to. Her name is Maggie, and none of the marshals will have her, or at least she’s always the last choice. I found out that she’s gentle, too lazy to buck, and the men think she’s not tough enough to go on the scout with them. That’s what they call it, “going on the scout.” But I’ve learned she’s very patient and never bucks. I’ve learned how to throw on a saddle and put on a bridle very quickly. I’ve learned to get on a horse without any problem and stay on. Well, there’s no triumph there, Mother, because any ten-year-old could stay on Maggie, but I’ve grown very fond of her.

  I must close this letter and get it in the mail. One of the men is going to the post office, and he said he would drop it off for me. I miss you a great deal, and once again I tell you there’s no point in worrying about me. I’m doing nothing more dangerous than washing dishes and cleaning up after horses.

  I did make one friend here. A big dog that’s been hanging around, they say, marshal headquarters for a long time. He has one eye, no tail—it’s been chopped off—and three legs. His name is Lucky, which I think is really poignant, but he’s a good dog. I save him scraps from the kitchen, which nobody ever did, and he and I have a good time together.

  I’ll close this letter by asking you to continue to pray for me. Sooner or later I will be going on the scout, but I will let you know. Just give my regards to Dad and my brothers, and tell them I’m thinking of them.

  With warm regards,

  Faye

  Faye quickly folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, and went to find Clyde Jordan, one of the marshals, who was headed for town. “Would you mail this letter for me, Clyde? Here’s the money for the postage.”

  “I reckon so.” Clyde was a big, bulky man, good-natured, and not as standoffish as some of the other marshals. “This to your sweetheart?”

  “In a way. It’s to my mother.”

  Clyde nodded approvingly. “That’s good, Riordan. You can have lots of sweethearts, but you only have one mother, and I’ll bet she’s a dandy.”

  “Yes, she is. Thanks a lot, Clyde. I’ll save you some pie tonight before the gluttons eat it all up. What kind do you like?”

  “Any kind.” Clyde took the letter, and he left.

  Almost at once Faye ran from his room, which was nothing more than a space above one of the stables. He had made a fairly good bed there and kept his belongings nearby. He came down the steps quickly and went to help with the breakfast. The cook was a fat, greasy man, good-natured enough except when someone crossed him. His name was Davis Beauregard. He was a French Cajun and a pretty good cook.

  As soon as Riordan entered, Beauregard said, “Get started on them pancakes. You know how these sorry lawmen eat ‘em up quicker than we can make ‘em.”

  “Sure thing, Beauregard.”

  The men came trooping in, and Riordan put plates down and big cups. They were all hollering for breakfast, and he carried in a huge stack of pancakes and divided them up. He went back and brought another stack in and then filled their coffee cups. He ran back and forth, and finally, when the last pancake had been devoured and the last marshal had left, he drew a sigh of relief. “Well, I guess that will keep ‘em fed, until noon anyway, Beauregard.”

  “They ain’t got no manners. You sit down and eat something, Riordan. You’ve got to be hungry.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  “Shut up and sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

  Riordan grinned, for beneath the crusty manner of Beauregard was a heart that was fairly good. He ate five pancakes along with fried ham and downed several cups of coffee. He got up, took his dishes back, and said, “You make the best pancakes in the world, Beauregard.”

  “You’d think I was feedin’ ‘em hog feed, them marshals. Back where I come from in Bastrop, Louisiana, we had a few manners. We’d tell the cook he done good. They never say a nice word.”

  This was true enough, so Riordan always made sure he managed to say something nice about the food to the cook. “I’d better get these dishes washed,” he said. For the next hour he worked hard scrubbing the plates and the silverware and putting them away. He was just finishing when Chester Swinson came in.

  The marshal’s face was red, as it usually was when he was upset—which was most of the time. “Quit loafing here, Riordan! You got to clean out the stables. Take the refuse over to the judge’s garden. I’ll be watching you to see that you don’t go to sleep.”

  “Sure thing, Chief Swinson.”

  As always, Riordan was careful to give a quick word to the marshal. He had done that ever since he had been there. Never once complaining. Always ready to go.

  He went out at once, and for the next hour and a half he shoveled the stalls of the horses.

  He whistled and continued to work, and when he finally finished, he walked over and washed his face and hands but knew there was no point in changing his clothes, for Marshal Swinson would have another dirty job for him.

  The judge and Swinson were talking over the cases on the docket and deciding which men to send out on the scout. After they had settled all this, the judge suddenly asked, “How’s that boy doing? Young Riordan?”

  “Well, Judge”—Swinson scratched his head, and a puzzled look came into his face—“I’ve treated that boy like a dog. He should have hit me and left here. He’s got determination if he ain’t got nothing else.”

  “Well, I thought he would have quit by this time, Chester. Just keep pouring it on.”

  “His ma still worried about him? I don’t think she has to worry. He’s good at mucking stalls and washing dishes and other dirty jobs, but that ain’t what we need out in the Territory.”

  The judge was thoughtful for a while. He tapped his chin with a pencil then ran his hand over his hair. “I’ll tell you what, Swinson. Heck is going out to serve a paper on Sudden Sam Biggers. Why don’t we send Riordan along?”

  “Why, he ain’t ready to go out on the scout.”

  “It’s not much of a scout, as Biggers is pretty small-fry. He won’t give any trouble. And you know how Heck wears his partners out. Riordan might get worn down to the knees trying to keep up with him and give up this idea.”

  “But he could get hurt. He might meet somebody worse than Sam.”

  “Well, you tell Heck to look out for him.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Judge. Maybe a taste of what marshals have to do will discourage him. It makes me nervous when a grown man don’t get mad when he’s put on the way I put it on Riordan.”

  “Okay. You talk to Heck. Be sure you make it plain. We don’t want him shot up.”

  “No danger of that. Sudden Sam never shot nobody. Ain’t nothing but a two-bit thief.”

  “Well, there are other rough ones out there besides Sam. Just make it clear to Heck I don’t want the boy hurt.”

  “All right, Judge. Maybe it’ll work.”

  A hand grabbed Riordan, who was in a deep sleep, and he came up fighting and striking out.

  “Keep your hands to yourself!”

  Riordan sat up in bed, and by the lantern that the man was holding, he saw that it was Heck Thomas, probably the best of Judge Parker’s marshals. He always got his man, though not always alive. “What is it, Marshal?”

  “Get up. Get your clothes on and get your gun.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re going to ride with me on a little job. I’m going to give you a taste of what it’s like on the scout.”

  Riordan at once came off the bed and began to throw his clothes on. He strapped on his pistol, his rifle, and followed Heck out.<
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  “Get yourself a horse.”

  “I know which one I want, Marshal. Maggie over there.”

  “That ain’t no horse. She’s just a big pet.”

  “Well, she’s not mean and she doesn’t buck, and you know, Marshal, I’m not very good with horses.”

  “Well, throw a saddle on her. She looks strong enough. I guess she can keep up.”

  Quickly Riordan saddled up.

  Heck, who was sitting down smoking a cigarette, said, “Go in the kitchen there and get us some grub. Enough to last two or three days.”

  “What kind?”

  “Anything we can keep down.”

  Quickly Riordan went into the kitchen, grabbed two sacks, and filled them with things they might use on the trail. He threw in some dried beans, bacon, some hard rolls, some salt meat, and several other things.

  When he returned outside, Thomas said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  They left before the sun peeped over the western ridge. Riordan kept waiting for Thomas to tell him something about what they were after, but Thomas said nothing.

  All morning all Riordan heard was, “Catch up! Put the spurs on that nag. We ain’t got all day. You ride like a squaw!”

  Since this was fairly well true, Riordan could hardly answer, so he kept up as best he could. When they stopped for a meal, he did the cooking, which amounted to frying some bacon and slicing some biscuits he had brought and breaking out a bottle of honey. They ate the crunchy bacon, poured honey all over the biscuits, and got their hands all sticky. As soon as they were through, they sat there drinking coffee.

  Heck stared at him for a moment then said, “We’re out for Sudden Sam Biggers.”

  “Is he an outlaw?”

  “Well, not much of one. He’s pretty small potatoes, but we’ve got to pick him up.”

  “You think there’ll be any shooting?”

  “No, Sam ain’t a killer.” He took another bite of biscuit and then wiped the honey from his lips and mustache. “But he’s got a brother who is. His name’s Hardy. He’s a mean one, and they got a cousin, Dent Smith, that’s rough enough to suit anybody. If we catch them, we’ll serve the papers on Sam, get the cuffs on him, and bring him home.”

  “What if his brother’s there or this cousin of his?”

  “Well, we’ll have to do it anyway.”

  Riordan began cleaning the frying pan and then stored it away, for he knew they would leave as soon as possible. “Has this Sudden Sam ever killed anybody?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s he wanted for?”

  “He’s wanted ‘cause he robbed Jim Tyler’s widow.” Heck’s eyes glinted with anger. “He was my partner, Jim was, as good a man as I ever had. He got killed by Henry the Fox. I’m going to stop that gentleman’s clock. You see if I don’t! I’ll get him sooner or later.”

  “Henry the Fox? What is he?”

  “He’s the roughest outlaw in the Territory. His real name is Henry Beecher.”

  “And he’s the worst man in the Territory?”

  “Yeah, I reckon he is, and that’s saying a lot. He’s got some pretty bad ones working for him. Sal Maglie, Hack Wilson, Red Lyle. A couple more. When they get together it’d take an army to stop ‘em. They’re all tough. They can all shoot.”

  After putting the remnants of the food and the utensils away in the pack and tying it on the saddle horn, Riordan climbed on his horse. When Heck came up beside him, he said, “How much did Sudden Sam steal?”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars … and two chickens.”

  The report amused Riordan. “So we’re out after a chicken thief?”

  “No,” Heck said, his voice hard, “we’re after a low-down skunk who stole from my partner’s widow, and I intend to have his hide for it. We’ll put him where the dogs don’t bite him.”

  “Is he fast with a gun, this Sudden Sam?”

  “Not a bit. He’s slow as mud.” He laughed harshly. “Why, you could get a shave and a haircut while he’s pulling a gun. But his brother, Hardy, he’s fast as lightning, and so is their cousin, Dent. You just let me handle them if we happen to run into ‘em. They’d shoot you before you could pull a gun.”

  Riordan was cooking the last of their bacon and heating the last of their beans. They had traveled hard for three days with no success. Heck had spoken very little, so Riordan had kept his own counsel. Now he put the beans and bacon onto the tin plates and poured the coffee into the tin cups and walked over. “Marshal Thomas, got the grub.”

  Heck had been lying down taking a nap. He got up stiffly, stretched, and looked down at the meal. “That ain’t much,” he said.

  “It’s all we got, Marshal.”

  “Well, we got to have grub. I’ll tell you what.” He picked his plate up and began shoveling the beans into his mouth at a fierce rate and washing them down with boiling coffee. He seemed to have no feeling in his mouth. It was said that Heck Thomas could drink coffee boiling straight out of the pot. “We’ll go over to Mason Peterson’s store. It ain’t but about ten miles. We can get what we need.”

  Riordan made sure the fire was out, climbed on board Maggie, and said, “Get up!”

  Heck was amused. “One thing. There ain’t no danger of that horse gettin’ a bit between her teeth and runnin’ off with you.”

  “No, she’s a lady, she is.”

  “I never rode her, but she holds up pretty good.”

  “She’s a strong girl.”

  “What are you doing out here anyway?”

  Riordan was surprised. “What do you mean … out here in the prairie with you?”

  “No, why are you washing dishes and shoveling refuse when you could be doing something easy? You got some education. You been to college?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “What you doin’ out here then? You could work in an office.”

  “I did help out some in an office at my dad’s factory when I was younger. Couldn’t stand it. Got bored stiff.”

  Heck suddenly grinned. “If we run into Henry the Fox you won’t be bored stiff.”

  “Well, have you ever gotten close to him?”

  “Oh yeah. Traded shots with him, but both of us missed. He’s a slick one, he is. Not very big. He’s got small eyes, and they’re green. He’s not heavy. He’s kind of built like a—I don’t know, like a panther or something. That’s why they call him the Fox, I guess.”

  They rode on for a time as Heck Thomas described Henry the Fox in his wrongdoings, and finally he said, “You ought to quit this. Go on back and do something that pays more. You’re not going to be shoveling out horse stalls the rest of your life, are you?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why do you want to be a marshal?”

  “I’ve never done anything hard. Everything’s come easy to me, and I wanted to find out if I could do something hard.”

  “Well, you picked a good one. Not what you’re doing now, washing dishes, but if we run into some of these outlaws, or wild Indians, you’ll find out if you can take it hard. What if you can’t?”

  Riordan took a deep breath and looked over at Thomas. “Well, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life doing something I don’t want to do.”

  “Most of us do that anyway.”

  They reached the makeshift store a few hours later. Mason Peterson served them himself. They were able to get coffee, beans, salt meat, and a few other things.

  After they had acquired all the goods they could think of, Thomas said, “Mason, we’re on the scout looking for Sudden Sam Biggers. You seen him?”

  Mason was a well-built man. He had lost most of his hair but was not bad looking. “Why, it’s funny you should ask, Marshal. He was in here yesterday with his brother Hardy and Dent Smith.”

  “Aw, we just missed ‘em.”

  “Well, I can tell you where he’s going. I heard ‘em talking. They’re going for Sam’s cabin.”

  Heck looked glum and shook his head. “I was hoping to catch Sam alone
. It’d be easier to take him in.”

  “Well, Dent and Hardy won’t take easy, but you know that.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mason.”

  The two went outside and loaded the grub and other supplies. Heck was quiet.

  “What’s the matter, Marshal?”

  “Blast it! Seems like everything goes wrong. It’d be easy to take in Sudden Sam, but there’ll be three of ‘em. If we bump up against ‘em, and it comes down to facin’ ‘em off, you try to keep Sam. Even you can outdraw him.”

  “You want me to shoot him?”

  “Well I don’t want you to powder his nose! What do you mean? Don’t you know what we’re up against here?”

  “Well, what about the other two?”

  Heck was silent. “I can’t beat ‘em both. I don’t know what it’ll be like, but that’s what it is bein’ a marshal.”

  “I wish you had a good man along instead of me.”

  “You keep Sam off of me, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  For the next few hours they rode in a westward direction. There was no question of getting lost because Heck knew exactly where Dent Smith’s cabin was.

  They stopped late in the afternoon at a stream on the lee side of a mountain. As they watered their horses, Riordan pulled some cheese and crackers out of the sack, and the two munched on them. After they had finished, Thomas brushed the cracker crumbs from his mustache and said, “We’re getting pretty close. We’ll reach the cabin before dark. I don’t want to take ‘em on after nightfall, so we’ll get ‘em out before then.”

  They continued riding, passing a herd of deer feeding off the bark of saplings, and after a while Thomas threw up his hands and said, “There it is.”

  “I don’t see any cabin.”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s not a cabin.”

  “Well, I guess you might say it’s a cave. A dugout.”

  It was a small structure only about ten feet by twenty. Half of it was sunk back into a clay bank. The part that was sticking out was poles and sod and a roof of sod supported by a center pole. There was a shed adjoining it, and the horses were stamping and blowing out their breath.