The Iron Marshall

by Louis L'Amour

  Chapter Six

  GEORGE STOPPED so abruptly it was a wonder he didn't fall on his face. He turned slowly and for a moment they stared at each other.

  George, Shanaghy reflected, did not like him. He didn't like him at all. Yet George's tone was even. "Who was that you mentioned? Rig, did you say?"

  "Rig Barrett," Shanaghy said, "a careful man. Leaves nothing to chance."

  He didn't know what he was talking about, but he didn't like George any better than the gambler, or whatever he was, liked him, and he spoke merely to irritate him. Yet there was more, for the townspeople were worried about Vince Patterson and George, he knew, was somehow connected with all that might happen.

  Most of the people he had known made crime a profession, and there were many such around the Bowery, the Five Points and lower Broadway. Many believed all honest men to be stupid, and usually were overly optimistic about their own plans, believing they couldn't fail. Nor did they ever seem to realize they were risking their lives or, at the very least, several years of their lives against sums of money that could in no way pay for the time they were losing or the pleasures they would be missing.

  The man called George was such a one, sure that he was much smarter than those with whom he dealt. And even when he was being used, he would be certain he was using them. But who was the girl? What was her part in all this?

  "Rig Barrett? I don't believe I know him." George's left hand unbuttoned his coat. "Is he from around here?"

  "Figured you knew him," Shanaghy replied blandly. "Everybody's talking about him. Folks seem to be expecting trouble when the cattle come up the trail, and they're figuring on Rig to handle it. If he gets here, that is. Personally, I think he's just keeping out of sight until the right moment, as he's not the kind of man to let people down."

  George shrugged and turned away. "Sometimes a man can't help it," he suggested.

  Shanaghy picked up his hammer again and went to the forge. He looked at the iron heating there. He put down the hammer, took the tongs and lifted the iron from the fire.

  "A man like that," he said, "if he couldn't make it, would surely send somebody in his place."

  George walked away, ignoring him, and Shanaghy chuckled, continuing with his work. He was punching holes in a hinge when a man came from across the street and stopped in the door.

  "Where's Carpenter?"

  "Carpenter?"

  "The smith."

  "Oh? I didn't know his name. Just called him Smith."

  The man nodded. "Many do. Where is he?" He stepped forward, holding out his hand. "I'm Holstrum."

  Shanaghy held up his. It was black with soot. "Sorry. I'm Tom Shanaghy. I've just been lending a hand here for a few hours."

  "Glad to have you. We need good men."

  "Drako still the marshal?"

  "He is."

  "Best fire him then, if Vince Patterson is hunting him. You'd best find a man the town will stand behind."

  "Rig Barrett will fire him. Then there won't be any gunplay. We don't need any shooting."

  "And if Rig doesn't get here?"

  Holstrum hesitated, not enjoying the thought. Then he looked across the street, his face blank. "I will do it," he said. "It must be done before Vince Patterson arrives. Maybe if Drako had been fired, that will be an end to it, and if there is trouble let Drako handle it. He's been hunting trouble ever since the shooting."

  "Suppose," Shanaghy wondered, "if Rig sent somebody in his place?"

  "It wouldn't work. There is no other who would do as well. Rig is known. Perhaps Hickok ... I do not know."

  Shanaghy walked back to the bellows and worked at it, heating up the fire. "You can't know what will happen, Mr. Holstrum. Nor if Barrett will come. You had best be rid of Drako and have another marshal."

  Holstrum shook his head. "That's the trouble. There are brave men here, but none of us are experienced at the handling of such trouble. All of us will fight, but it is not a fight we want. If there is shooting, there will be killing, and the more shooting the more killing. It is a job for Rig Barrett."

  He paused. "There must be no trouble, for there are other herds coming, and there will be much business here and our town is young. We must have that business."

  Holstrum walked back to the forge and watched the glowing embers, and the irons heating. "The cattle-buyers will come on the noon train, and they will be buying the herds that come over the trail. In the next few weeks there will be two or three hundred thousand dollars paid for cattle, and the cattlemen will pay off their hands. And many of them will buy clothing, food, supplies, liquor, whatever they need in our stores. Such money will put the town on a solid footing. We will be able to build our church and our school."

  Shanaghy took the iron in the tongs and walked back to the anvil. He took up his hammer. He struck a blow, then another. He stopped. "Two or three hundred thousand dollars? Where would a town this size get that much money?"

  "Oh, we don't have that much! Not by far. But we have sent for it and it will be here. We must pay off the drovers, you know, and the buyers will want checks cashed, and-"

  "Two or three hundred thousand? It is coming by train?"

  "How else? It will be here, and Rig Barrett is coming with it. I tell you, there must be no trouble."

  Holstrum walked away and Shanaghy went on about his business. There was no bank in the town, although there was a building on which some ambitious person had painted "bank" a sign, no doubt with the best of intentions. Banking, such as there was, was handled by Holstrum himself or by Greenwood. No doubt the money for cashing checks written by the cattle-buyers would come from the safe of one or the other.

  Carpenter did not return, so Shanaghy continued to work. One of the things he had always enjoyed about blacksmithing was the time to think. Once a man knew what he was doing, he could work swiftly, smoothly, and there was time to ponder.

  The smith was a good man with tools-not so good as either McCarthy or his father, but good enough. He laid out his work well, and Shanaghy fitted two more rims to wheels and added to the supply of hinges.

  In the corner of the room, fastened to a timber brace, he found a soot-stained sheet of paper listing work to be done. He studied it, then went ahead with what was needed, but his thoughts kept reverting to the girl in the restaurant and to George. What did they want? What were they after? Surely, the two could not be ... no ... whatever she was, she was not that type. Larceny maybe, prostitution, no.

  The more he considered the situation, the surer he was that somehow or other George had contrived that Rig Barrett not be present when Patterson arrived with his cattle.

  Was Barrett dead? Even the shrewdest of gunfighters can be shot from ambush ... especially if it were done at some unexpected time or place. He thought again of the letters, the map in his pack. They would surely tell him something of where Barrett had been and what he had been doing.

  Why a map?

  Shanaghy had no answer to that. Suddenly he was restless. He must look at those letters.

  Why had he not read them before? He hesitated over the answer to that, and then admitted that he felt a curious reticence about invading the privacy of another person.

  A gentleman, his father had told him once, did not read another person's mail. Whatever these letters were, they were not addressed to him but to Rig Barrett ... Yet Rig Barrett was not here, or didn't seem to be, and this was an emergency. He knew little of Barrett except what he heard, but he tried to put himself in Barrett's place.

  What would Rig do? What would John Morrissey do? What would his father have done?

  They would read those letters and plan accordingly. Look at the situation, Shanaghy told himself. These people expect Barrett. He has not come. George believes he will not or cannot come. Yet Shanaghy himself had Barrett's clothing, his blankets and his prized shotgun.

  Damn it, he swore softly. Where are you, Carpenter?

  He worked, but as he worked he wondered where George was and where tha
t girl was. He also thought of those cattle with twenty-five tough cowhands moving north, mile by mile, coming closer and closer to that inevitable hour.

  And what about Drako? Drako would also know of that, he and his tough sons. What were they doing? Were they going to run or fight?

  Fight, he decided. They were too proud or too foolish to run. But they would need help ... and probably knew where to get it.

  At last Carpenter returned, and Holstrum was with him.

  Shanaghy stripped off his apron. "Got to go up the street," he said. "I'll be back."

  "Wait just a minute," Carpenter suggested. He turned to the storekeeper. "Holstrum, you tell him."

  "Shanaghy, we don't know you, except that Carp here says you're a mighty fine smith and a good worker. He also says you backed down Drako."

  Shanaghy shrugged. "I wouldn't say that. Drako likes to know who he's fightin', and I'm kind of unknown. He wasn't scared ... He just wanted to think it over some. Just the same-" he paused- "I don't think Drako is as tough as he'd like to have people think, or as tough as he'd like to believe he is."

  "Nonetheless, you stopped him. He stood off when you showed yourself ready. Now, we've been expecting Rig Barrett and something's happened, because he hasn't showed."

  "I don't think he's going to show," Shanaghy said.

  They looked at him, suddenly attentive. Tom remembered, too late, about Josh Lundy's warning.

  "I heard this man George tell a woman he wouldn't show." It sounded weak, he knew. There was suspicion in their eyes now.

  "How could he know that?" Holstrum asked.

  "He couldn't ... unless he knew somebody had made certain of it." Shanaghy hung up the apron, took down his shirt and put it on. The two men watched him until he donned his coat, then somewhat reluctantly Holstrum suggested, "Shanaghy, I don't know you but Carpenter has respect for you, and he liked the way you stood off Drako. Well ... if Rig doesn't show, how about you? Would you take on the job? Rig being a known man, he had the battle half won. It will be tougher for you."

  Shanaghy smiled. What would Old Smoke say to that? Offered a job as marshal! Old Smoke, he realized suddenly, would have taken it, and he would have been right out there in the street to stop them. John Morrissey never backed water for any man. And come to think of it, he never had either. He'd run a couple of times, but only from numbers and when he knew he was coming back.

  "Thanks," he said. "I have a ticket on the night train. I'm heading back to New York, where I've trouble enough waiting and some old scores to pay."

  "Shanaghy," Holstrum protested, "we're in serious trouble here. Patterson's liable to burn our town. He has said he would."

  "Sorry. When that train goes, I'll be on it."

  He walked away up the street. Damn it, this wasn't his fight! What did they take him for? He just showed up in town and ... What did they know about him, after all? And if they did know about him, what would they think then? It was like McCarthy said, he was nothing but a Bowery thug. Would they want him for marshal if they knew that?

  Shanaghy went to his room and opened the haversack. For the first time he looked at the shirts. They were much too small for him, with his seventeen-inch neck. The cuffs were frayed and worn. Mr. Rig Barrett did not make much of being a peace officer, for the outfit was that of a poor man. Only the guns were neat and well kept.

  If Rig Barrett had been less than- an honest man, these shirts might have been made of the striped silk the gamblers wore-or some of them, at least.

  Shanaghy took out the packet of letters, the notebook with the loose papers tucked inside, and the map. He put them down on the bed, then walked over and locked the door. He took out his six-shooter and placed it on the bed beside him as he sat.

  There were four letters in the packet, and he put them aside, reluctant to open them. First, he looked at the loose papers.

  The first was a carefully written description of the town, all compressed into about three lines, with a list of the stores, saloons and other buildings, and a diagram showing their locations along the street.

  Below it were brief written outlines of several people, the first being: Patterson, Vincent, age 36, height five feet ten inches, hair brown, eyes brown. M. Marcella Draper, 2 sons, 1 daughter. Father to Texas with Moses Austin. Mexican War 1 yr. service; Texas Rangers, 2 yrs. Veteran several Indian battles. Runs about 6,000 head. Rarely drinks. Strong, stubborn, fearless. Never leaves a job incomplete. Honest, a driver of men but feeds them well. Always has the best cook on the range. Excellent stock in remuda. Cattle always top grade. Can be reasoned with if in the mood. Once started, no stopping.

  Drako, Henry, age 41, five feet eleven inches, black hair, mixed gray. Mustache, often unshaven. Believed wanted in West Virginia for horse theft; 3 sons, Win, Dandy, and Wilson. No record on boys. Suspected horse theft. Cattle theft. Movers. W. Va. to Ohio; to Illinois; served in Blackhawk War; to Tennessee, trouble with man named Sackett whose horse Drako "borrowed." Sackett recovered horse, suggested they leave. They did. Marshal killed V. Patterson's brother. Victim apparently under the influence.

  Pendleton, Alfred. Brn Suffolk, Eng. Age 44 yrs. Six feet. Hair blond, eyes blue, slender build; 1 son, 1 daughter. Widower. Buys cattle, feeds, ships. Occasional buyer from Patterson. Win Drako suspected of stealing Pendleton calves. Quiet man, avoids trouble. Son, Richard, strong, athletic, attended William & Mary College 2 years. Now 25. Good horseman, good shot. Pendleton suffered reverses due to drouth, cattle theft.

  There were brief listings on Carpenter, Greenwood and Holstrum that told Shanaghy nothing he did not already know.

  There were notes on several other businessmen and, at the end:

  Josh Lundy, cowhand, five feet eight inches, slender, age 29. Brn Texas. Presently employed by Pendleton. Witness in cow theft against Win Drako. Claimed horse in possession of Drako was stolen from Pendleton range, horse Lundy said owned by Jan Pendleton.

  That must be the horse Lundy had been accused of stealing. He said he had stolen a horse, stolen it back, for a girl.

  Lundy's father killed by Indians when he was twelve, supported mother and three sisters herding cattle, raising a few on his own. Wounded in Indian fight. Wounded again in fight with border bandits. Cattle drive to east, swam herd over the Mississippi. Right arm broken when thrown from bad horse. Good man with a rifle. Short arm makes handling pistol difficult. Reliable.

  Obviously, Rig Barrett was no fool and left little to chance. He wished to know what kind of men he must deal with.

  Pendleton ... Why did that name hold his attention? Lundy might have mentioned it when he spoke of stealing the horse. Jan Pendleton was obviously that girl.

  The second page was a simple list of expenditures for supplies, ammunition and such items, along with a note of fifty dollars sent to "Maggie."

  A third sheet was the beginning of a letter to Mag, evidently Barrett's wife:

  Dear Lady.

  I taken pen in hand to inform you of my whereabouts and destination. Unfortunately, the prairie town to which I go offers employment for two months only, making it impractical to send for you, Dear Lady. I shall ride down the trail to meet Mr. Patterson before he is close to town. Perhaps we may reach an understanding.

  The trouble I foresee will not come from him. There are other elements entering into this, which accounts for my presence in Kansas City. Be assured that when this task is complete I shall come to you at once, in St. Louis.

  Do you remember Mr. Pendleton? The gentleman who loaned you the handkerchief on the train? He is here-in the town, that is-and, I fear, is having trouble. I shall write aga ...

  The letter ended there and Tom Shanaghy put it down with the others. It wasn't much help except to indicate that Barrett had not anticipated trouble from Patterson that he couldn't handle. What worried him was something he had apparently come upon in Kansas City, or something that led him to go there.

  What?

  Shanaghy glanced through the packet of letters, but n
one of them seemed of consequence. They were from friends and business associates, but offered no clue to what might have been the trouble in Kansas City.

  There was one other note, another unfinished letter written by Barrett to somebody:

  I shall not ride the cushions, as I did before. This time I'll speak to a conductor I know and arrange to ride a caboose into town. That way I might arrive unseen ...

  Shanaghy put the letters down, and glanced at the notebook. Probably nothing there but he would have to see. The trouble was, he was hungry. He had been up since daylight and had put in a hard morning's work at the smithy. Yet he sat still, thinking.

  Tom Shanaghy had never considered himself a bright man. He had not even thought about it. He had survived in a hard, rough world along the Bowery and in the Five Points, and he supposed he was shrewd after a fashion. Most of his problems he had solved with his fists, but they did not help much now.

  Rig Barrett, now, how about him? Barrett was supposed to be here and was not. Yet he was the kind of man to keep appointments. Hence he was either here and hiding out somewhere, or he was not here. If he was not here, he must be unable to be here. And that meant he was either a prisoner, which was unlikely, injured or dead.

  His gear had been on the train and in the gondola in which Shanaghy was riding. That meant he had either put the gear there himself, and had not followed it, or that the stuff had been thrown there by someone else.

  Of course, Barrett might have gotten on the train and, for some reason, gotten off again. But that was unlikely, because if he had arranged to travel by caboose he would have gone directly to it.

  "The way it looks," Shanaghy muttered, "is that Barrett was headed for the caboose when somebody laid one on him. Probably conked him on the noggin and then tossed his gear aboard a passing train, figuring to leave nothing that would name him when they found the body."

  That also looks, he told himself, as though Mr. Rig Barrett is not going to arrive in town, and that means whoever plans to pull something off is going to have mighty little trouble doing it.