by Monty McCord
Joe walked east down the boardwalk until it ended, then headed around the north side of town, which didn’t take long. A few inches of snow still covered the ground, and the air was cold enough to freeze the inside of his nose when he inhaled. As he headed south toward the livery, he noticed that the new sign for the meat market had been installed. He also noticed the wagon behind the livery. The wagon belonged to the freighters and might be worth a look.
He didn’t see anyone in the livery as he walked through. The bay shook his head up and down in approval after receiving a sugar cube from Joe. He looked over the stall, food, and water, and was satisfied that his horse was being taken care of. Out back, Joe started to pull back the canvas that covered the goods in the wagon.
“What ya’ think you’re doin’?”
Joe turned and saw a man in a shabby brown coat and tall crowned hat approach.
“You the manager here?” Joe said.
“That’s right. That ain’t your wagon so get the hell away from it.”
“It’s okay, I’m Marshal Mundy. It belongs to my prisoner.”
“I don’t give a shit who you are . . .” The man grabbed Joe’s arm. In one swift move, Joe turned and spun the man into the wagon and pulled his arm up behind his back.
“Ahh, that hurts, damn it!”
“Bet it does,” Joe said. “Now let’s start over. I’m Joe Mundy. What’s your name?”
“Ace. Ace Todd, I work for Budd Jarvis. Now lemme go!” Joe released him, and Todd stood rubbing his shoulder.The marshal could see by the lump under the coat that Todd was wearing a gun. He watched a moment to see if Todd would settle down or pursue the matter further. Todd seemed content to nurse his shoulder.The man was clean shaven, which made his prominent cheekbones stand out.The intense eyes and thin lips that turned down at the sides betrayed the look of an unhappy person.
“What is it you’re lookin’ for exactly, or just anything that suits your fancy?” Todd said, not hiding his sarcasm.
“Curious to see what they need in the Black Hills,” Joe said and pulled back the canvas. He looked over several wooden crates marked with various manufacturers’ names from the East. There were a couple of whiskey kegs and two cases of Winchester ammunition, one of .44–40 cartridges and one of .56–50 cartridges. Four large bags of grain were stamped QUALITY MILLS–LOUP CITY, NEB. A large bundle on the floor wrapped in canvas caught Joe’s attention.
“That’ll be all, Mister Todd. Glad you’re keeping such a close eye on things.” Joe eyed the manager, who grumbled something before he walked back to the livery office.
Joe pulled the end of the bundle open and found several branding irons. He could see ten for sure. He recognized the straight bar ends of two as running irons. These were used by rustlers to alter existing brands on animals they stole. There were other irons as well, with legitimate-looking brands. He covered them and headed back through the livery, stopping to give the bay another sugar cube.
“So, what do you think? You think those two are rustlers?” Sarah asked and wiped her mouth with a napkin.
Joe swallowed a bite of fried chicken before answering. He enjoyed sharing a meal with Sarah in the privacy of her home. She was a terrific cook. Adam had agreed to sit with the prisoner while he was gone, so there was no reason to hurry.
“Well, it sure wasn’t mining supplies like Carlson said. They don’t use branding irons in mines, far as I know.”
“Wonder where they were headed?” Sarah said.
“Hard to say, maybe western Nebraska, or up in Dakota,” Joe said. He finished the last of his chicken and took a drink of coffee. “May have to follow him a ways and see where he goes.” Joe could see the concern in her face when he said that. “Wish I didn’t have to let him go,” Joe said. He gently swirled his cup and watched the coffee churn.
“Yes. But Joe, don’t blame Lucy. She’s got no family and no other way to make a living. Doc Sullivan was right what he told you. It ain’t the same for women as it is for men out here. Maybe Budd Jarvis will hire her at his new saloon.”
“If I could prove to Judge Worden that he threatened her . . .” Joe said.
“Joe, he didn’t have to threaten her outright. She lives in that room at the Palace. All he had to do was remind her that she’d be out on the street with no money, no food, and no options.”
“What does Smiley pay, anyway?” Joe said.
“She gets a dollar a turn, gives Smiley eighty cents of it, since she has the room, and still has to pay for her food and drinks. She has no way out.” Sarah took a sip from her cup. “I get two dollars, as you know, and I keep seventy-five cents.”
Trying to ignore Sarah’s additional information, he replied, “Guess you’re right, but I may have to offer Smiley my opinion on the matter.”
CHAPTER TEN
It was Sunday evening, and the activity in town was light. Saturday night had been quiet except for Sanderson’s pigs getting out and running around on Main Street. Joe sent two drunken cowhands back into the North Star without their pistols after they tried shooting them.
Joe passed by Jarvis’s new saloon, which looked about ready to reopen. After checking in at the North Star, he walked across to the Palace. Both establishments had a half dozen customers, some of them playing poker.
When he walked through the door, Smiley gave him a short stare. Joe continued down to the far end of the bar and leaned an elbow on it. He didn’t plan on ordering anything, and Smiley accommodated him by not offering. Mugs and shot glasses littered some of the vacant tables. The odor of the place hadn’t improved any, and it seemed to have an eternal smoke cloud hanging in the air.
After several minutes of watching a card game, Joe thought about leaving. As if on cue, Smiley walked over and placed both hands against the bar.
“Almost forgot, Mundy, you owe me three dollars for cleaning that room you messed up. That stinkin’ whore ain’t been back to work yet, and money’s tight.”
Joe forced a grin, turned, and leaned both arms on the bar. He slowly looked up and met Smiley’s bloodshot eyes. In an instant, Joe reached across, grabbed the man’s shirt, and pulled him onto the bar. He slapped Smiley hard across the face, sending the barkeeper’s hat flying. “If someone lays a hand on her again, and you do nothing, I’ll give you what she got!”
Conversations ceased, and the customers turned to look. A few who were there the night of the shooting upstairs grabbed their chairs, ready to dive to safety should there be a repeat performance.
“You can’t hit me, you son-of-a-bitch!” Smiley said.
Joe slapped him harder this time. “Do we have an understanding, Smiley, or do we continue the lesson?”
“Okay, okay. If it happens again, I’ll . . .” Smiley’s voice drifted off.
Joe slapped him again.
“Okay, I’ll send for you, damn it.” Joe pushed him backward off the bar, and he stumbled back a few steps to catch his balance.
“You catch on real quick, Smiley. Be sure you don’t forget,” Joe said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sun was bright on Monday morning with the temperature slightly warmer than it had been. The snow in the street hadn’t melted much, only mashed around by horses’ hooves, human feet, and the occasional wagon. Joe sat at his desk and half-cocked his pistol, opened the loading gate, and used the ejector rod to remove each cartridge. That done, he loosened the screw at the front of his Colt’s frame and pulled out the cylinder pin, letting the cylinder slide out. The cleaning rod went smoothly through each cylinder chamber and then the barrel. He wiped a lightly oiled rag over each of the parts, then reassembled and reloaded the gun with six cartridges. Some men left one chamber under the hammer empty for safety reasons, in case the gun was dropped. Joe felt that anyone who dropped their gun deserved to get shot by it or their opponent. Besides, he wanted all six if he needed to shoot. Joe had finished the cavalry Colt when Adam walked in.
“Mornin’, Marshal.”
“Mornin�
� to you, Adam,” Joe said.
“I come with a message from Judge Worden,” Adam said, and sat down in the chair across from the desk. “He wants to see you.”
Joe was expecting that, of course. He nodded at Adam.
“I’ll stay here ’til you get back,” Adam said.
“Thanks.”
“Was them shooters cleaned okay?” Adam said.
Joe pulled open the drawer, took out the two confiscated cap and ball revolvers, and inspected them closely. “Looks like they’re clean as a whistle, Adam, thanks.” Joe finished his coffee, pulled on his black overcoat and hat, and headed out to see Judge Worden. Adam took Joe’s place behind the desk and pulled out his book of conundrums.
When Joe walked into Worden’s office, the judge was sitting at a table off to the side of the bench, where he did his paperwork. He didn’t look up when Joe walked in.
Worden finally put down the paper he was reading. “Good morning, Marshal.”
“Judge.”
“Had a visitor bright and early.”
“Lucy,” Joe said flatly.
“You knew she was dropping charges?”
“Heard she might.”
“She looks like hell, Marshal. Kept rubbing her eyes, poor thing. Looks like her balance is off a bit, too.”
“Doc says her vision is blurred from the beating. May not improve,” Joe said. “Isn’t there any way we can make that cur pay for what he did?”
“I understand your anger, but if she refuses to tell what happened, we won’t get a conviction,” Worden said and set a match to his pipe. He puffed several times before producing a great cloud of smoke.
“I can sure as hell tell what I saw, him on top of her, beating her,” Joe said. He tried to keep his voice from rising.
“We could try that, but if she isn’t interested enough to testify, and being a whore, we’d never get a conviction. Might not even if she did testify.” Worden sucked gently on the pipe and eased the smoke from his mouth. “I wish there was a better solution, Marshal, I truly do, but I don’t see it.” Worden stared vacantly out the front window. “Men must work and women must weep.”
Joe thought he understood the drift of that, but wasn’t sure.
After a moment the judge regained his attention to the matter at hand. “This is to make it proper,” he said, and handed Joe a sheet of paper. It was a handwritten order to release the prisoner.
“It is not to my taste, either, Marshal, but without law, we have chaos. Remember, let all things be done decently and in order.”
Joe swallowed hard, folded the paper, and tucked it into his coat pocket.
He wondered how many new legal papers he’d see now that they had a judge in town.
Too many. He was pretty sure about that.
Joe hung his coat and hat on pegs and poured a cup of coffee. Adam could see the solemn look on his face so held back on any conversation. Byron Siegler was sitting next to the stove with a cup.
“Mister Siegler,” Joe said.
“Mornin’, Joe. Came by to beg a cup while Missus Jarvis is picking up some things. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Joe said. “Figured you’d take care of Missus Jarvis personally.”
“Ahh, Earl has everything well in hand,” Siegler said. His face flushed slightly. “He is, how shall I put this? He has the required temperament to assist Missus Jarvis.”
Joe nodded.
Letting the prisoner go free was the last thing Joe wanted to do and knew it wasn’t right. But right, and the law, didn’t always cohabitate. He dropped Judge Worden’s order on his desk.
“Hand me the keys, Adam,” Joe said.
Joe walked to the cell, unlocked the door, and swung it open. Carlson stood slowly grabbing onto the flat metal straps that made up the cell. He looked at Joe cautiously.
“You threatened to kill me, remember?” Joe said, and waited for a response.
“Damn right I did!” Carlson said. A bubble of spit flew from his mouth when he answered.
“You’re free to go. But know this, if you step foot in this town again, I’ll kill you. Won’t be any warnin’. Won’t be any talk. You’ll just be dead,” Joe said and waited for a response. “Do you understand me?”
“Yeah,” Carlson said.
“Git,” Joe said.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me in the back, are ya?”
“That’s a thought,” Joe replied. He held up the paper in front of Carlson’s face. “Can you read?”
“Naw.”
“Adam, read this to him, will ya?” Joe handed it to Adam and sat down behind the desk.
Adam looked dubiously at the paper, glanced at Siegler, and then at Joe.
“I’d better be getting back. Thanks for the coffee,” Siegler said, and hurried out the door.
“Go ahead, Adam, you’re readin’ is comin’ along fine. You can do it,” Joe said encouragingly, seeing Adam’s worried look.
“Uh, this here says, ‘Tow-it. . . . hereas . . . bein’ no charges . . . hereby founded on Robert Carlson, that Robert Carlson is cur-rent-ly . . . in-car-cen-nated in the city jail of Tay-lors-ville, Nebraska, that Robert Carlson be released upon . . . re-cept . . . by the city marshal of said city. Judge Elsworth P. Worden, Justice of the Peace.’”
“Thanks, Adam,” Joe said. He turned to Carlson. “Now git.”
“You gonna gimme my knife and gun back?” Carlson asked.
“Which part, exactly, of git, is it, that you don’t understand?” Joe looked at him.
Carlson slowly edged over to the door, not turning his back on Joe. He stepped out and hurried west toward the livery.
“Adam, go saddle the bay. Take my carbine and saddlebags,” Joe said. “Wait ’til Carlson has headed out, though. I’ll be down there as soon as I talk to Mister Siegler.”
“Where you goin’, Marshal?” Adam said.
“Carlson’s wagon had some odd cargo for a mining operation. A bunch of branding irons for one thing. Think I’ll trail him a ways to see where he’s headed.”
“But what about the town?”
“I’d like you to keep an eye on things,” Joe said. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“You mean, I’d be your deputy?” Adam said hopefully.
“Only unofficially, like a secret deputy. If there’s any problem, don’t do nothing, just go tell Mister Siegler about it.”
“I’m not too dumb to be your deputy.”
“Course you’re not. Didn’t mean to imply that, if I did. It’s only that the town board would have to authorize the money for me to employ one, you understand?” Joe said. “I won’t be gone long, and maybe we can talk about it later. And don’t tell anyone what I’m doin’.”
In Siegler’s office at the back of his store, Joe told him about Carlson.
“Sorry you had to let him go,” Siegler said.
“Yeah. If Smiley hadn’t threatened Lucy, she’d have testified. Carlson said they was haulin’ minin’ supplies to the Black Hills. I took a look and found ammunition, whiskey, some other crates, and a pile of branding irons, including runnin’ irons.”
“That’s a bit odd. What’s a running iron?” Siegler said.
“Used to make bars, or the straight line parts of brands, but they’re also used by rustlers to alter good brands. Don’t know why they should be haulin’ irons of different brands, and they all been used,” Joe said. “Ace was a bit protective. Didn’t like me lookin’ in the wagon. Had to twist his arm a bit, but he came around.”
“I suppose we should notify Sheriff Canfield and let him look into it.”
“Carlson would be long gone by that time. I plan to be back tonight. Follow him long enough to see what direction he heads. If he goes north, I may swing over to Gracie Flats and talk to the sheriff.”
“Okay, but be careful out there, Joe,” Siegler said.
“Always. I told Adam to keep an eye on things in town and tell you if there’s any trouble,” Joe said. Siegler nodded. “H
e wanted to be my deputy while I was gone. Told him the board would have to approve that.”
“I suppose we could pay a little, but only for special occasions.You think he’s up to it?”
“He’s a good man, honest. I won’t let him do much but watch prisoners right now, which I pay him for out of my pocket. After he’s been around it long enough, he’ll be okay.”
When Joe got to the livery, Adam and Ace were standing inside next to the bay, talking. The horse was ready to go and started walking when he saw Joe. Ace didn’t seem friendly, and Adam looked a little dejected.
“Where ya’ headed, Marshal?” Ace asked. He was nosy enough to act friendly.
“Gotta’ go up to Gracie Flats on official business. Be back tonight,” Joe said and glanced at Adam. Ace opened the door, and Joe walked the bay outside. After he closed it, Joe mounted up.
“Something on your mind, Adam?”
He looked back to make sure Ace had remained inside. “He tol’ me I was fired. I don’t think he likes me working for you. I needed that money.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll help you whenever you need it. Talk to you when I get back,” Joe said. “You have the extra key to the office. Stay there as much as you like.”
“You don’t trust Ace, do you?” Adam asked.
“Don’t trust many.”
The wagon tracks were easy to follow in the snow, which was only fetlock deep. They continued north until they met the Loup River and then followed it. Joe took his time, not wanting to get so close that he was easy to see. The bay was giddy, wanting to step it up a bit. Clouds had filled the sky and prematurely darkened the day, which, by Joe’s reckoning, had about five hours left.
It wasn’t long before he caught sight of the wagon. Joe stopped and pulled out the spyglass from a saddlebag, extended it, and took a look. Carlson didn’t seem to be concerned with watching his back. Joe sat still for several minutes and watched the wagon slowly ford the river. It continued north, leaving the river behind, until it went over a hill and dropped out of sight.