Mundy's Law

by Monty McCord

“Rough night,” Joe said.

  “What happened?”

  “You were about to get yourself shot down at the North Star. Had to put a lump on your head to get your attention,” Joe said.

  “Marshal, I don’t got no money for a fine,” the big man said and looked down.

  “Oh, in that case, it’d be ten days.”

  “I got hogs and chickens to feed, and my wife . . . and Mary and Lacy and Jake,” his voice drifted off. His eyes held steady on the floor and he continued to rub the knot on his head.

  “You got a wife and children? What the hell ya’ doin’ gambling away your money?”

  The man didn’t raise his head. “My wife’s gonna be awful sore. I’m sorry, Marshal.”

  “Don’t help nothin’ apologizin’ to me. Ain’t nothin’ to me,” Joe said. “What’s your name?”

  “Booth, folks call me Booth.”

  “Go home, Booth. Don’t drink so much. It’ll get you killed with your temper,” Joe said and unlocked the cell door.

  The big man raised his head and looked at Joe. His eyes glassed over and were on the verge of dropping a tear. “Thank you, Marshal. I won’t never be forgettin’ this.”

  After Booth left, Joe hurriedly brushed off his clothes and looked at the Regulator. It was 8:10. He stepped out of the marshal’s office and looked toward the drugstore next door. A woman was standing there, facing away. He was close when she turned around.

  “Do you always keep a lady waiting, Joe Mundy?” she said.

  “I try not to,” Joe said.

  “Well, I’ll forgive you this time.” She was wearing a dark green wool parlor skirt with a matching black wool paletote and velvet neck ribbon with a cameo brooch. Her dark hair was piled and pinned at the back of her head. Joe thought she was very comely.

  “I can’t go to the hotel. How about the chop house? The food there is edible.”

  “No,” Joe said. He offered his arm, and she reluctantly took it. They didn’t speak on the way to the hotel. Joe opened the front door for her, and she walked inside.

  Four of the six tables were occupied, and the conversations ceased when they entered. Joe pulled back a chair and waited for Sarah to sit down. He pulled off his hat, laid it on an extra chair, and sat down. He met the stares of the other diners until they returned to their own meals. The waitress, who had served him during the meeting with the town board members, arrived at their table.

  “What will you have, Marshal?” she asked. Joe looked at Sarah, who fidgeted and stared with fright at the table top.

  “Give us both the special and coffees.” The waitress nodded and glanced at Sarah, who still hadn’t blinked. The waitress returned to the kitchen to turn in their order.

  “What is it you want, Mister Mundy?” Sarah said.

  “First, call me Joe. Second, this is what I want. Nothing else, nothing uninscrutable going on here, Sarah. Just a nice breakfast.”

  “How did you know who I was?”

  “I didn’t at first. I guess I surmised, as I watched everyone in the saloon,” Joe said.

  “Someone must have told you about me.”

  “My job requires I listen to folks. Never know when those things might come in handy,” Joe said.

  “Did you know my husband?”

  “No.”

  She still eyed him suspiciously as the waitress brought their breakfast. Joe dug right in. Not being able to detect any deviousness to his plan, she began to eat as well.

  “You know, I’m still a married woman?” Sarah said, in place of anything else she could think of.

  Joe stopped chewing, and the normal remote friendliness, which with effort he could manage, faded away. His cold blue eyes met hers. “If your husband returns and is desirous to complain, send him right to me.”

  She found his response both chilling and exciting. Something she’d never felt with George. “I don’t ask you to stand up for me.”

  They both noticed that some of the customers had finished their meals and left. Joe and Sarah had been there barely half an hour by the time all the others had vacated the dining room.

  Byron Siegler came in with his wife. They were inside the doorway to the dining room before they recognized Sarah. Siegler’s wife held his arm until he convinced her to approach the table with him.

  “Ah, Joe,” Siegler said, taking his hat off. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Fern. Dear, this is Joe Mundy, our new marshal.”

  “Marshal Mundy,” she said. A curt nod was all the acknowledgement Joe would get. She ignored Sarah.

  “Good morning, Mister Siegler, ma’am,” Joe said, standing. “I guess you know Sarah.”

  “Ah, Sarah,” Siegler said. His voice barely carried across the table. The Sieglers retreated to a table near the front of the room, and Joe could see by the quiet disagreement that Fern didn’t want to stay. To Byron’s credit, he insisted.

  After finishing breakfast, Joe tried to talk Sarah into another cup of coffee, but she refused. He thought better of pushing the matter, and nodded at the Sieglers on their way out.

  In front of the hotel on the boardwalk, Sarah spoke. “Thank you for breakfast. I’ll see myself home now.”

  “It’s a gentleman’s responsibility to walk a lady home,” Joe said.

  She spun toward him. “I’m not a lady, Marshal. I’m a whore. And if there’s any question about that, just ask these upstanding citizens. It’s what I do. Now if you want to see me again, bring two bucks!” Tears filled her eyes before she stormed away.

  Joe found women difficult to figure, and that feeling hadn’t wavered any.

  The day after the breakfast with Sarah, Joe took the bay for a ride. When he returned to the office, he found Harold Martin sitting in a chair in front of his desk.

  “Afternoon, Mister Martin. Hope you haven’t been waiting too long?” Joe said. He pulled off his hat and overcoat and hung them from the wooden pegs on the wall.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Marshal, haven’t been here long.” Harold sat erect, with his hat resting on his lap. He seemed nervous as usual.

  “Say, I heard about what you did for poor ol’ Booth. That sure was nice of you, letting him go like you done. Booth doesn’t have the brains God gave a cow, but he’s got a beautiful family. Yes, sir, he does, uh huh.” Joe hadn’t heard Harold talk this much during or since the meeting with the board.

  “Coffee?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, no, no thank you, Marshal. I won’t take much of your time.”

  Joe poured himself a cup from the pot on the heating stove, which had gone cold, and sat down behind the desk. “Good thing you didn’t accept. Coffee’s cold. What can I do for you, Mister Martin?” Joe said.

  “Oh, uh . . . Well, Marshal, it’s just that . . . Well, we depend, my brother Harvey and I, that is, we depend on satisfied clientele. If the customer’s room isn’t to his satisfaction, or he doesn’t get the right dinner order, well, that’s bad.”

  “Some folks are a might high on bein’ particular, I s’pose,” Joe said.

  “Ah, yes. I suppose some of them are high on that, yes. Well, Marshal, I just wanted . . . my, this is difficult to say. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong impression of us . . . my brother Harvey and I, that is . . . or the folks here in town . . . for that matter.”

  Joe knew where Martin’s conversation was heading, but let him sweat through every inch of it.

  “Well, you see, Marshal, we’ve had some complaints, you see, ah . . .”

  “Someone get some bad food, Mister Martin?” Joe asked. “I ate breakfast there yesterday morning, and it was fine. I didn’t have no complaints.”

  This seemed to confuse Martin, but he recovered. “No, Marshal, nothing like that. It’s just that, well, you brought Sarah Welby in . . . in your company, and well, she’s a married woman. And she’s not married to you . . . you see.” Even though the office was next to uncomfortably cool, Martin whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead.

/>   “You’re right about that. If I’d a married her, well, that is something I believe I would have remembered,” Joe said with no facial expression.

  “Uh, Marshal.” Harold was confused again. “Well, you understand, don’t you? The way it looks?”

  “Mister Martin, you and I, and the whole town, for that matter, know her husband left her high and dry. Well over a year ago, I believe?”

  “Close to two years, yes, that’s right,” Martin added, before catching himself. “But see, Marshal, it still, well, it still isn’t right.You know, in . . . in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “The real reason is that she’s a sporting lady now, isn’t that right, Mister Martin? And some of them God-fearin’ folks didn’t like swallowin’ their bacon with a sporting lady in their midst, isn’t that right?” His tone was firm but not unfriendly. Martin swiped at his forehead again.

  “Marshal, well, yes, I suppose that could be it, too. But they said that if she comes in again, they’d stop eating there. They’d go elsewhere.” Martin’s voice drifted into a whine.

  “Mister Martin, there’s not a big choice in this town. There’s the hotel, the chop house, and a few things at the saloons. But folks wouldn’t take their meals at a saloon, would they? So that leaves the chop house. They may stop comin’ for awhile, but they’ll be back. Ain’t no two ways about it,” Joe said. He turned his lips into his barely perceptible smile. Martin looked down and slid his shoe back and forth, as if he were trying to scrape a mud clod off the floor.

  “Mister Martin, let me ask you something, and I want an honest answer. You’re a businessman, correct? Do you really care if Sarah Welby, or anyone else, spends their money at your business?” Joe could see that this made Martin even more uncomfortable.

  After several moments of soul-searching, Martin opened his mouth. “Well, no, I guess not. If you put it all out that way. No, I don’t. As long as they pay their bill and don’t cause a fuss and don’t break anything, no, I don’t care!” Martin seemed relieved at verbalizing his core beliefs as a businessman.

  “And I respect your opinion, Mister Martin,” Joe said. “If God looks on me favorably, and I’m privileged to escort Sarah Welby to a meal at your fine establishment again, or anywhere else for that matter, other folks are gonna have to get used to it. And they will after a spell.”

  “You’re right, of course, Marshal. God looks at all of his children in the same light . . . I guess.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next couple of weeks were relatively uneventful. One fist-fight between two cowhands had started in the Palace Saloon. Joe made them take it out into the street, but they forgot what they were fighting about in the frigid air and soon lost interest. The participants shook hands and scurried inside next to the stove.

  Joe had seen Sarah once in the saloon and once on her way home. He wanted to call on her at home but talked himself out of it.

  It was midafternoon on the Saturday before Christmas. Joe was standing at a front office window watching big snowflakes drift down from the low, dark gray clouds. He sipped steaming coffee from a tin cup. Thanks to Adam Carr, the heating stove was crackling and a fresh bucket of firewood sat next to it. Carr was Siegler’s handyman, but Siegler didn’t have enough work to employ him full-time, so he took any odd jobs he could find. Joe paid him to keep the stove burning, the oil lamps full, and the slop buckets emptied. When Joe had prisoners, Carr would see to it they got fed. A young man of twenty-six years, he was slightly taller than average and muscular. He owned one suit of dark green clothes with a striped shirt.

  Carr was most proud of his new short-brimmed, black hat, similar to Joe’s, that he was able to buy with the extra income from the marshal. Joe’s hat had a slanted crown with a slightly rolled and curled brim, and Carr’s hat was almost flat-brimmed. Siegler had sold it to him at cost. Carr had delivered Joe’s gifts to the Forsonns, and he also helped clean stalls at Jarvis’s livery.

  Those parts of the ground that had melted off from the last snow were being covered again. A bitter cold spell had had a death grip on Nebraska for most of the time since the breakfast with Sarah. Fitting somehow.

  Brave souls were starting to move about. Some carried packages. Few stood around to visit. Two cowhands walked out of the hotel, mounted their horses, and trotted west past the marshal’s office. Two youngsters came out of the barbershop across the street and took off running east down the boardwalk. When they got to Siegler’s store they stopped and hurried inside. A moment later, a man, maybe the children’s father, came out of the barbershop as well and walked down to Siegler’s.

  Joe watched the freight wagon coming in from the east. It made its weekly trip from Willow Springs on Fridays bringing freight and mail to the budding town. It was then loaded with items being sent back to Willow Springs. The wagon stopped in front of Siegler’s store, where the two teamsters jumped down from the seat. The store also served as the post office.

  A white-painted sign was tied with ropes to the outside of the wagon. It read JARVIS MEAT MARKET in big red letters. Joe wondered what Budd Jarvis’s next business venture would be. He thought he must be doing pretty well with the ranch, livery, livestock sales, meat market, and soon-to-open saloon. Siegler was right, the town was growing. Barrels of beer and whiskey were unloaded onto the boardwalk to wait for hands to roll them down to the North Star and the Palace. A few wooden crates went into Siegler’s store. Joe was always amazed at how many supplies were packed onto the wagon. The man from Jarvis’s livery would come and get the team, while the freighters checked into the hotel.They would start back for Willow Springs at first light.

  Earl came down the street with a small bundle of mail for the marshal’s office. Usually reward posters, advertisements for guns, handcuffs, and goods made up the contents of the weekly mail.

  “Morning, Marshal,” Earl said and closed the door behind him.

  “Mornin’, Earl. You surely didn’t have to bring my mail, but thanks,” Joe said.

  “Had to stop in the shoe shop anyway!” Earl said on the way out.

  Joe refilled his cup and sat down at the desk to sift through the mail. The count this week was four new reward posters, one advertisement, and a large letter envelope. The envelope was addressed “Joe Mundy, City Marshal’s Office, Willow Springs, Nebraska.” Someone had scratched out “Willow Springs” and written “Taylorsville.” Joe opened it with his thumb and pulled out another reward poster, this one with a letter. He read the letter first.

  Baxter Springs, Kansas

  Nov. 9, 1876

  Dear Joe,

  How are you? Hope this finds you, and finds you well.Wanted to git this off to worn you. A few days after you left Thad Green and wife Callie and baby killed shot outside their cabin. You remember them? Lived on the Neosho?

  Doc Whelan stayed the night was still inside and witnessed. He identified Lute Kinney was won who dun it. I rode out to Rockin R with Sherif Watson to git him but Lyman said he wasn’t there. One of the RR cowhands talked to me on the sly and said Missus R sent him to find you. Gets $500 for killing you. He knows you went toWillow Springs so wach out for him.

  I seen the bodies Joe. Thad was shot in face. Little babys head almost blowed off in her mamas arms. Callie shot in back as she ran back to cabin. Joe, I ain’t never seen no worse.

  Your friend,

  Charlie Oster

  Joe read the letter a second time, then laid it on the desk. He felt a quick wave of nausea. He picked up the poster that came with the letter and unfolded it. “REWARD” was printed in bold letters across the top. Lute Kinney was wanted for three murders and a reward of $750 had been posted by the Baxter Springs Businessmen’s Association. The poster featured a poor sketch that didn’t much look like Kinney, describing him as five and three-quarter feet tall, brown hair, dark eyes. No other identifiers were listed. It was signed “William R.Watson, Sheriff, Cherokee County, Kansas.”

  Joe dropped it on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He close
d his eyes and saw the Greens. He had met them several times when the family came to town on Saturdays. They had moved west from Tennessee with intentions of buying a farm in Colorado, but when they found a beautiful spot on the Neosho River, they filed on it and put down roots. Hobe Ranswood felt it was attached to his property and fought them in court. The Greens won.

  And now they were dead.

  Joe could ride out and search for Kinney, but the chances of missing him were too great. Joe knew where he was headed; the best thing would be to sit tight and wait for Kinney to find him. He would deal with him then.

  The door rattled when it opened, and Joe grabbed the handle of his Colt.

  A man slammed it shut before noticing. “Don’t shoot, Marshal! It took this town a long time to find me. Be a damned sight longer to find a replacement, I reckon.”

  The man wore a buffalo robe overcoat that almost reached the floor, and he carried a basket covered with cloth. A furry cap provided warmth for his head. He peered at Joe over narrow gold-framed glasses, the lenses of which had fogged over upon entering the office. His bushy gray fan-tail beard was an eye catcher. After sitting the basket down beside the door, he offered a hand to Joe, who still eyed him suspiciously.

  “Cadwallen Christmas Evans, at your service, sir!” he announced.

  Joe stood up and shook his hand, knowing not much more than he did when the stranger first entered. “Joe Mundy. Let me guess, you’re selling one of those miracle cure-all patent medicines, and if you can tell folks the marshal bought your goods, well . . .” Joe said, letting his words hang in the air. He reseated himself and looked up.

  “Oh, goodness no!” the stranger said. “I am the Lord’s representative who delivers the gospel and guides the poor souls of this community from an eternity in hell. I would like to initiate this conversation by asking your forgiveness, Marshal, in that I haven’t paid you a visit since your arrival.”

  “You’re Taylorville’s preacher?”

  “Precisely! I can see that nothing much gets by you, Marshal!” The man pulled off the coat and hat and hung them on a peg. He wore a black shirt and vest with a white-banded collar.