The Iron Marshall

by Louis L'Amour

  What bothered him, as it must have bothered the missing Rig Barrett, was the mechanism of the robbery that he believed was to come. How did the crooks expect to handle it, and how many were involved?

  He could scarcely believe that the fashionably dressed young woman was involved, and yet why would such a woman be meeting with George? And who was she, anyway?

  Tom Shanaghy walked down the street to Holstrum's. There was another man in the store but Holstrum came to wait on the new marshal himself. "You picked yourself a tough job, Marshal, but we'll give you all the support you need."

  "Thanks. What I need now is some clothes. I packed light when I came west."

  "This on credit?"

  Shanaghy smiled. "Cash ... I always pay cash, Mr. Holstrum. I like to keep the decks clear."

  Luckily, he found some shirts. "Most womenfolks make shirts for their men," Holstrum explained. "Pendleton buys shirts here and there's a few others."

  He bought shirts, underwear, two pairs of pants, a thick leather belt and some boots. He also bought one hundred rounds of .44-pistol ammunition, a Winchester rifle and fifty shotgun shells.

  "Expecting a war?" Holstrum asked, curiously.

  "No, I'm not. But if one comes, I'll be ready."

  "Rig Barrett must figure you could do the job. I never heard of him sending anybody in his place. Didn't know anybody was that close to him."

  "Rig kept his personal affairs to himself," Shanaghy replied. "I intend to do the same."

  Shanaghy thought for an instant of his past. There had been fistfights, knife fights and gun battles. He could scarcely remember a time when he had not been fighting.

  "However," he added, "this is only a precaution. I don't think there will be trouble."

  When he had taken his clothes back to the hotel and changed his shirt, Shanaghy came downstairs and went to the restaurant for a late supper.

  George was not there, but the young woman was. She looked up as Shanaghy entered and her eyes fell to the badge. She stared at it, then lifted her eyes to his. He thought he detected a glimmer of anger or impatience.

  "How do you do, ma'am?" he removed his derby. "Welcome to our fair city."

  She regarded him cooly and then simply turned her head away, ignoring him.

  A voice spoke suddenly from behind him on his left, and he looked around quickly. There was a table there, in the corner, and another girl sat there, a younger, perhaps prettier girl. "You're a stranger here yourself, aren't you, Marshal?"

  "I am, and saddled with a job before I've got me feet on the ground. But then, by the look of the place, nobody has been here much longer."

  The younger girl held out her hand. "I am Jan Pendleton and I want to thank you."

  "Me? Wait until I've done something, miss. I am only just marshal."

  "You saved Josh Lundy from hanging, and Josh is my very good friend."

  "I can't take credit," he said. "They were going to hang me, too, just because I happened to be there. It seemed to me my neck was long enough, without getting it stretched."

  "Thank you, nevertheless."

  "May I join you?"

  "Please do."

  He sat where he could see the other woman. She looked annoyed, and that pleased him. He put his derby on the chair beside him and ordered what the restaurant had to offer. There wasn't much variety but he was accustomed to that and had always been a healthy eater.

  "Glad you got your horse back," he told her. "Too bad there's so many thieves about. Never could figure out why anybody, man or woman, would take to stealing. They never get as much as they stand to lose."

  "You take a woman now. Suppose she was a thief and went to prison? They work 'em almighty hard there, and they've no chance to take care of themselves. And when they come out, they're not only old but they've lost their looks."

  The young woman across the room looked up and their eyes met. He smiled and her lips thinned to a hard line.

  "Biggest trouble with being a crook," he added, "is the company you have to keep." He paused. "If I saw myself getting involved in such a thing, I'd grab the first train out of town."

  Jan looked at him curiously, her eyes flickering to the elegant and composed young woman across the room. She changed the subject.

  "Are you going to be with us long, Mr. Shanaghy?"

  "It is in my thoughts," he said, "although there be some who hope I'll not."

  The cool young woman looked up. "Isn't the life expectancy in your kind of job rather short?"

  "It is. Although while I live, the life expectancies of those who break the law will be even less."

  He turned from her and began to talk to Jan Pendleton of horses, range, Josh Lundy. "Do you know Mr. Patterson?" he asked suddenly, remembering that her father sometimes bought cattle from him.

  "Oh, of course! Uncle Vince is a lovely man! He can be very stern, I suppose, but I've never seen him that way. Whenever he is here he stays with us, and he has such wonderful stories to tell. He gave me my first horse."

  "The one that was stolen?"

  "The very same. I am glad Josh got it back before Uncle Vince returned, because he would have been furious."

  "Seems to me he's already sore at Hank Drako."

  "He is." She looked at him seriously. "Mr. Shanaghy, you must not let there be trouble. Father says Uncle Vince may burn the town. He holds all of them responsible for the killing of his brother."

  "He'll not burn it," Tom said. "There will be no trouble."

  The young woman across the room laughed gently, and Tom Shanaghy felt his face flushing. Before he could speak, however, Jan interrupted. "My father is in town and I am sure he would like to meet you. He will wish to thank you for helping Josh."

  Pendleton came in as she was speaking and crossed to the table. After he had talked a bit, Shanaghy said, quite casually, "Mr. Pendleton, you know much of what goes on around here. Do you know of any shipments that have come in during the last couple of days?"

  Shanaghy's eyes were on the woman across the room as he spoke, and he saw her fork suddenly stop in midair. For just an instant she was absolutely still, then she continued to eat.

  "What sort of shipments?"

  "I am not quite sure, but I'd be guessing it would be something unusual, or to someone not well known here."

  "No ... I'm afraid not. But then I am not about town very much. What were you thinking of?"

  Shanaghy had been talking only to see the face of the woman across the room, for he was but feeling his way. What could it be, after all? What made it important he be off the train?

  Or ... the thought came suddenly, what if it was not something but somebody? Suppose there were others hidden on the train who did not wish to chance being seen by a hobo who might climb over the cars looking for a place to hide out?

  That was it, that had to be it.

  Alfred Pendleton spoke with a decided British accent. Although the Irish had no love for the British, it sounded close enough to home to have a pleasant sound. Pendleton asked where Tom was from and Shanaghy replied, "Killarney."

  "A lovely place. We vacationed there once."

  "And now we are all in Kansas," Jan said.

  "And that isn't strange," her father remarked. "There are just two lines of railroad to the west, and most people who come out here stop along one or the other. I am constantly meeting people I knew in England or in the eastern states.

  "The fastest development will naturally be along the railroads, and the best opportunities." Pendleton glanced at him. "I suspect you've run into some old friends, haven't you?"

  Old friends? What friends did Shanaghy have who might come west? No friends, but what of enemies? Eben Childers was a hater, he had been told, and his men would guess that he took a train to escape them. Finding him would be no great problem. Shanaghy shook his head. "No old friends, and I hope no enemies."

  Pendleton talked for a few minutes about the future of Kansas and the way the country was growing and then added, "I thi
nk you have chosen wisely, Mr. Shanaghy, in settling here. Carpenter says you are an excellent smith and that you may buy a share of his business."

  There it was again. Everybody was taking it for granted that he was here to stay. Shanaghy was remembering John Morrissey and the Bowery, although the memories had been fading away in the warm Kansas sun and the demands of his new job. Then he remembered and looked around. The woman across the room was gone.

  "She left a few minutes ago," Jan said, impishly.

  "I was wondering who she was and what she was doing here."

  "No doubt. She's very attractive, don't you agree?"

  "I wasn't thinking of that. But she certainly was ... is."

  "If you are wondering who she is, you could check the register at the hotel," Pendleton suggested.

  "She's not registered."

  "Not here? But then where ... ?"

  "Exactly. Where else? She's not camping on the plains, and nobody sees her coming and going, although Carpenter did see her riding into town one day."

  "You're very interested, aren't you?" Jan suggested.

  "Yes, ma'am. When there's trouble expected, it is my business to know as much as I can. I don't want anybody to get hurt."

  Shanaghy pushed back his chair. "Have you any message for Vince Patterson? I'm riding to meet him."

  Pendleton shook his head. "If you're expecting to talk him out of it, forget it. We've tried. He's a stubborn, hardheaded man. But a good man for all of that, and no fool."

  "I've got to try."

  "You can tell him hello for me," Jan said, "and give him my love."

  Well, that word did something to him. Shanaghy wished all of a sudden that he was a better man, and he said, "Miss, if that doesn't do it, nothing will."

  Then he turned sharply and left, wondering why he was suddenly feeling all hot and embarrassed.

  Tomorrow morning he would be riding out, and suddenly he did not want to go anywhere. He just wanted to stay right here.

  When the door closed behind him, Pendleton glanced at his daughter. "An interesting young man," he commented.

  "He's nice," she said, "and he's strong ... very strong."

  "Naturally. He's a blacksmith."

  "I wasn't thinking of that," she replied. "Perhaps resolute is the word. I don't think he knows what he wants yet, but when he makes up his mind ... he will get it."

  Chapter Nine

  THE HORSE Shanaghy rode was a roan, a mustang with a Morgan cross, and the moment he hit the saddle he knew he had a horse. The roan trotted into the street, and the moment he had the room he went to bucking.

  Shanaghy, who had ridden all his life, had never tackled anything like this. How he stayed with the horse he never knew, but stay he did. And when finally they loped away he heard a cheer from the few scattered people who had watched.

  There had been last-minute advice from Carpenter. The herd would move about twelve miles per day, perhaps less now, as the grass was good and Patterson would want to bring them in fat for the market.

  The country, which had appeared flat, proved less so than Shanaghy expected, for there were rolling hills and some deeper ravines. When he was well away from town, he drew up to look around.

  As far as the eye could reach there was only grass moving in the wind. These were the fabled buffalo plains, but there were no buffalo now. Far off, he glimpsed a herd of antelope. There was no sound but the wind ...

  For several minutes he sat very still, feeling the wind on his face. The air was fresh, the sky was clear, and somehow the soft wind and the coolness smoothed the troubles from his mind.

  Yet ... the thought came again ... what of that young woman? Who was she? What was she?

  That she was not staying anywhere in town was obvious, and he doubted if she could be living with Hank Drako ... She simply wasn't the Drakes' type.

  That she might live in the town to the west was possible but doubtful, as she seemed too fresh when she rode into town in the morning. True, she had come but twice, but nonetheless she must have somewhere to live that was close by, providing her with a means to keep her clothes pressed and clean.

  Where, then?

  Puzzling over the question, he rode steadily south, a vast sky above him, a vast sea of grass all about. As he rode, some of the accumulated tension began to dissipate. For the first time in days he began to feel relaxed and rested. He talked to the roan, and the horse twitched his ears, apparently liking the sound of Shanaghy's voice. Shanaghy had always liked horses and he liked this one. Once, sighting a small seep, he turned aside for it and allowed the horse a slow drink while he sat in the saddle, studying the country.

  He was riding away when he saw the tracks. He knew nothing of tracking, but he could see that at least three horses had passed that way heading for the seep. Turning, he followed the tracks back and found where the riders had dismounted and waited for some time. There were the tracks of the horses and a number of cigarette butts. Then he found the tracks of a fourth rider who had come in from the northeast. Thoughtfully, Shanaghy studied the tracks. Although he knew little or nothing about "reading sign," as the westerners called it, he did know a good deal about horseshoes and the shoeing of horses, and this looked like work Carpenter might have done.

  This rider had not dismounted but had remained in the saddle while talking to the others, then had turned around and ridden back along the original trail.

  Chances were, it was a casual meeting between some range riders who had stopped for a smoke.

  By nightfall, Shanaghy had traveled a distance equal to three days for the herd, and he made camp under some cottonwoods in a little draw where he found the remains of a campfire. He was learning that most places suitable for camps had been used by others before him, but there was water here, some shade, fuel and grass, whatever any traveler might need.

  At daybreak he was again on the trail. From what Carpenter and Pendleton had said, he surmised that Patterson would be no more than five or six days' drive from town, and so he rode with his eyes on the horizon to the south, looking for dust or any sign of moving cattle.

  It was almost sundown on the second day when he topped out on a small rise and saw them.

  They were still miles away to the south, but he could see the long dark line of the moving herd and a few smaller dots that would be outriders. He was still several miles from them when he rode down into a long, shallow valley and saw their chuckwagon, and the thin trail of smoke rising from the campfire. This, then, was where the herd would bed down.

  As Shanaghy trotted his horse down the long slope toward the camp, he saw the cook, a man in a once-white apron and battered hat, draw a Winchester from the wagon and lay it across the corner of the tailgate.

  He slowed down as he approached, and walked his horse up to the fire. "I'm looking for the Patterson herd."

  The cook, a sour-looking man with a handlebar mustache, noted the badge on Shanaghy's shirt with no approval. "You found it."

  "Mind if I wait?"

  "Light an' set." Then after a bit of kneading at the dough on the board before him, the cook said, "Where's Rig Barrett?"

  "I came in his place."

  The cook glanced at him with grim, unfriendly eyes. "They sendin' a boy to do a man's job?"

  Tom Shanaghy shoved his derby back on his head. "I been doing man's work since I was twelve," he replied calmly. Then he said, "You must be about the best trail herd cook there is."

  The man straightened up. "I do my job." Then he added, "Where'd you get that idea?"

  "They tell me Vince Patterson never has anything less than the best."

  "Well," the cook's tone was now less surly. "I do what I can. Those are hungry boys, yonder."

  "Hope there's enough left for a hungry marshal," Shanaghy said.

  He looked up to see two men riding into the hollow. One of them, he immediately guessed, was Vince Patterson. The other was probably his trail boss.

  Shanaghy got to his fet. He had decided long a
go that he could not fight Patterson and hope to win. One look at the man told him he had decided well. But it had been said that Patterson was a reasonable man, although hardheaded.

  "Mr. Patterson?" he said. "I'm Tom Shanaghy, and I need your help."

  "Help?" Patterson was surprised. He had expected a warning or a challenge. "What do you mean, you want my help?"

  He swung down from the saddle as did the other man. That second man was lean and hard, not a large man but wiry ... and dangerous. Shanaghy sensed that at once. The man was a fighting man, probably hired for the job.

  "When Rig couldn't make it," Shanaghy said, "I had to take over the job for him. But Rig was no damn fool, and he saw right away there was something else involved than a fight between a trail driver and a town."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Rig figured, and I think the same, that somebody decided to use you."

  Patterson stiffened. "Use me? I'll be damned if anybody is using me or is going to use me. What kind of talk is that?"

  "You're mad at Hank Drako, and rightly so. They heard you were coming up the trail to burn the town where your brother was killed. Now I never put any stock in that, because you're too bright a man to punish a lot of innocent people for what one damn fool did. But there are some others who figured you would do it and that the town would fight ... which they would, of course."

  "So?"

  "So these other folks, and I'm not sure who they all are yet, decided that while you and the town were fighting they would steal the money brought in to pay for your herd and to pay off your hands."

  Patterson stared at Shanaghy, then turned to the cook. "Fred, give us some coffee, will you?" Then he turned back to Shanaghy. "Sit down. I want to talk to you."

  When they were seated, Patterson looked him over cooly. "I don't know you."

  "No way you could. Like everybody else out here, I'm a newcomer. The people there in town decided they wanted me to be marshal."

  "What happened to Hank Drako?"

  "He's around, he and those boys of his." Then he added, "They told me to fire him, and I did."

  "You fired Hank Drako?"