by Monty McCord
“He beat Miz Lucy at the Palace, but she declined to testify against the man afterward. That’s why I ordered the marshal to release him from custody.”
“And as to the complaint of Missus Welby attending church, have you a complaint about that, Pastor Evans?”
“Goodness gracious, no. All of God’s children are welcome in the Lord’s house, and if I may—”
“Thank you, Pastor, that’s all we need for now,” Siegler said.
“Yesterday, Mundy left town and his duties, poking his nose in business outside of town limits. I motion to fire Mundy as city marshal,” Jarvis said.
Joe could see that Siegler was exasperated with Jarvis, but did his best to give an even accounting of his protests.
“Budd, Joe told me before he left what he was doing and that he would be back later in the night. I had no objection with that,” Siegler said. “His actions were aimed at possibly avoiding further problems from those folks here in town. I vote no firing, there being no grounds for such a move. Harold?”
Harold shook his head, “No, for firing.” He carefully avoided Jarvis’s eyes and made notes in the book.
“Motion fails on two to one vote against firing,” Siegler said.
“If that’s all that pertains to me, I have work to do,” Joe said. He met Jarvis’s stare as he stood and walked out. The store was silent except for Joe’s spurs raking across the wooden floor. He accepted the dressing down that Siegler had given him, but knew he would deal with Smiley the same way if it happened again. It seemed to Joe that Sheriff Canfield might have voiced a complaint to Budd about sticking his nose in county business. Canfield let on like they weren’t close, but maybe they were. Joe wondered if a rider could have followed him back to town—a rider who talked to Budd or someone else.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The low eastern sun made the white barren landscape sparkle as far as the eye could see. The only sound for miles was the hooves of two horses crunching through the snow. The horses puffed clouds of vapor with nearly every step. When they stopped, the riders looked down at their destination. It was time to signal as they approached.
“Hello the camp!”
A few moments later a man stepped out of the soddy and waved his hat.
“Good to see ya’, boss,” the cook said, and took their horses.
The men inside didn’t have a chance for a greeting.
“Let’s play a guessin’ game, shall we?” the big man said as soon as he and his partner entered. His partner carried a sawed-off shotgun pointed at the roof.
Luther and Carlson looked at each other. Tyler watched the boss.
“Guess who followed the professor here, right back to this spot?” He nodded at Carlson.
“Too hard for you? How about this. If you dumb bastards go up behind the corral, guess whose footprints you’ll find?” Luther and Carlson looked at each other again. “After bein’ here and findin’ this place, guess who came to my office last night and told me all about it?” Everyone was silent. “You buncha’ dumb bastards! The answer is, the same person that splattered Darnell’s brains on the wall of a whore’s crib in Taylorsville.”
“That tin star in Taylorsville?” Luther asked.
“Well, hell, we have us a damn winner! How ’bout explaining yourself, Carlson? Since Darnell can’t add to the conversation!”
Carlson’s bruised, puffy face turned pale.
“I’m waiting. I’m waiting to hear why you stopped in that town when you were told to come straight here. I remember telling you good, so’s you’d hear me and understand. I know you did, ’cuz you and Darnell both said you did. So, that means that you just decided ol’ Wick didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. That about it, Robert?”
Carlson looked faint. “Uh, na, no, Mister Canfield, that ain’t it at all . . .”
“Why don’t you tell me what it is then, Robert.”
“Wah, wah, well, I was tellin’ the boys here,” he motioned with his hand to each of his pals to stall the inevitable haranguing he knew was coming. “We both had such a horn on, we had to stop for a dip. It was just eatin’ us fierce. I didn’t mean for Darnell to go gettin’ kilt,” Carlson said. “And that damned marshal threatened to kill me if I set foot back there too!”
“I don’t give buffalo shit about Darnell, you dumb ass! That tin star knows about this place now and suspects you all as cattle thieves!”
“Bah, but, boss, we is cattle thieves,” Carlson said.
Canfield slowly shook his head. “You couldn’t track a fat squaw through a snowdrift, could ya?”
Because of the silence that followed, Carlson thought he was expected to answer.
“Wah, well, yeah, if she was fat enough, I—”
Canfield looked at his deputy. “Shoot him!”
The deputy lowered and cocked a barrel of the shotgun in one smooth motion. The blast shook dirt loose from the roof of the soddy, and it streaked downward onto them all. Carlson lunged backward into the stove and knocked the chimney pipe loose. He came to rest face down on the dirt floor.
“There ends today’s lesson. Any questions?” Canfield said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Steam drifted upward from the tub water. The warmth soaked deeply into the parts of Joe that were in it. A person could either slide down into the water so it covered the torso and expose most of the legs, or sit up and cover most of the legs and not the torso, but not both. Not unless one was very short. The four-foot-long bathtub was made of heavy tin with a wooden bottom. It was painted blue on the outside and adorned with a narrow gilt stripe.
The bathing room had no windows and was about eight feet square. Heat was not evident, but as long as the tub water was hot, it was comfortable. Entry was through a door in the hallway, but the door off the kitchen made it easy for the cook to carry in a bucket of boiling water straight from the stove. In addition to the tub, wooden boxes and small barrels were stacked against the walls, and canned foods occupied six shelves of the storeroom.
Joe’s gunbelt and both Colts rested on a chair next to the tub. A fifty-cent payment had been tendered to Harvey Martin, who let him use the tub normally reserved only for hotel guests. As it was late, there wouldn’t be any conflict with guests.
He finished scrubbing with lye soap and leaned back to relax a few minutes. Thoughts drifted in and out, but one caught, and he centered on it. Lute Kinney.
Joe didn’t look forward to the prospect, but if there was ever anyone in desperate need of killing, it was Kinney. He pictured Thad and Callie Green walking out of their cabin on the Neosho River to see what Lute Kinney wanted. They knew him and who he worked for and no doubt expected more foul talk and threats.
Joe knew that there had been hard feelings between Hobe Ranswood and the Greens since the court battle over the land that they had settled on, and he knew of no other reason for paying them a call. It was simple—Ranswood wanted them to abandon their land. He sent Kinney to convince them to leave.
Callie evidently had the baby in her arms. No doubt Thad wasn’t armed. They weren’t the violent type. Joe believed the only gun Thad owned was a muzzle-loading rifle that he used for hunting. The words exchanged were lost, but the actions were witnessed. Kinney pulled out one of his Smith & Wesson revolvers and shot Thad in the face and then shot the baby in the head. Callie would have screamed as she ran back to the cabin, covered in her baby’s blood, before the final bullet tore into her back. Charlie Oster’s words came back to Joe like a recurring nightmare, I ain’t never seen no worse. Oster had tried repeatedly to find a Wanted flyer on Kinney, and even wired the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago, but with no luck.
Unfortunately, though, for Kinney, his murders were witnessed by Doc Whelan, who easily knew him by sight, having stitched up a stab wound to Kinney’s leg on one occasion. Kinney had picked a fight with a gambler and knocked him down with a whiskey bottle, slicing the man’s scalp. The gambler, on his hands and knees, drove a knife i
nto Kinney’s leg. Kinney had pulled a pistol and shot him in the forehead. The court had ruled self-defense.
Kinney was a predator who killed without hesitation, for more than just survival. From the talk Joe had heard, the man was oblivious to danger, or maybe needed it. Some thought he was from Missouri or Arkansas. Other than being employed by Hobe Ranswood, that was all that was known of Lute Kinney. And now Joe had the honor of being his prey. Valuable prey. Joe wondered when Kinney would arrive in Willow Springs and who would direct him to Taylorsville. Considering riding time, he should have arrived by now.
The water started to turn chilly so Joe got out of the tub. He was expected at Sarah’s house and looked forward to the visit. No silver dollars needed.
“I thought you’d stop by yesterday to celebrate. I bought this special,” Sarah said. She held up a small bottle of brandy and smiled.
“It wasn’t your birthday, was it?”
Sarah shook her head. “For your information, Marshal Mundy, we’re in the second day of a brand new year. Eighteen-seventy-seven, can you believe it?”
“Plum forgot about that. I guess it is. Was gone trailin’ Carlson and then rode to Gracie Flats,” Joe said.
“And I brought a dinner to the office, and you weren’t there, so Adam and I ate it. He was very good company. Read some to me from his book.”
“He told me. If I knew you were comin’ . . .” Joe said.
“You’d still have rode off following that man, right?”
“S’pose so.”
She poured and handed Joe a tumbler. “To the new year and better times.” Joe touched his glass against hers and downed the brandy.
“No, no, no! This ain’t whiskey.You’re supposed to sip brandy and enjoy it!”
“Oh,” Joe said. He held the tumbler out with both hands. “Please, may I have another?” She smiled at his poor English accent and poured.
“That was pitiful.” She held up the bottle and walked toward the bedroom. “How about we start on those better times?”
“To better times.”
Joe enjoyed lying next to Sarah after sex almost as much as the act itself. Troubles seemed far away. He liked it when she slid her bare leg over his, and he liked the feel of her skin under his hands.
“Tell me about you. I don’t even know where you were born, or when you came out here or . . .”
“Okay. I was born on a farm in Indiana. My sister and I helped mother in the house, and my brother fed the chickens and pigs. Had a pony to ride for awhile.”
“When did you meet George?” Joe asked.
Sarah was silent for several moments. Joe wondered if she was reflecting on bad, or maybe good, memories.Then he began to wonder if she was going to answer him at all. Finally she spoke. “For a couple years our farm served as a stage stop. His family lived about three miles west of ours, and one time he came through on his way home.”
“Fell in love on the spot?”
“Not exactly, but we married when I was eighteen. Father walked in on us one evening in our barn, at an awkward time.”
“George offered to marry you then?” Joe said.
“Father offered him to marry me or else.”
“How’d you end up here?” He kissed her on the forehead.
“George wanted to be a lawyer. Parents all gave us what money they could, and we moved to St. Louis, where he worked in his uncle’s law office. George couldn’t handle being cooped up in an office, so we moved to Omaha, and he took a job on the railroad. That didn’t work, either. He heard this new town was going to need a marshal, so here we are.”
“Do you know why he lit out without sayin’ nothin’?” Joe said.
“Next time I see him, I’ll ask.” Sarah’s tone was coated in sarcasm. Joe thought he’d like to ask him, too, but at the same time was glad he’d left.
“Just because I’m tellin’ you all this don’t mean that anything’s changed in what I have to do, you know, to earn a living.”
“Never occurred to me that it would,” Joe said. He felt the atmosphere cool.
“I talked to Judge Worden, and he said he’d help me to dissolve the marriage legally. He said that it could be done on the grounds of abandonment.”
Joe thought he heard a bit of sadness in her voice. “That’s good. Glad to hear it,” he said. “Is that him?” He pointed to a framed photograph on the wall, wondering at the same time why she hadn’t taken it down yet.
“Yes. Taken when we were in St. Louis.”
“I guess a woman would consider him smart-lookin’.”
“George was the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. Course, that doesn’t beat a manly ruggedness,” Sarah said and smiled at Joe.
Joe ignored the smile. “You still love him?”
A few too many moments passed before she answered. “Loved that bastard a long time.”
Joe left Sarah’s house about one-thirty and decided to walk through town before turning in for the night. He pulled his collar up to block a frigid breeze as he crunched through the snow. When he approached Doc Sullivan’s house, he saw lights on, and as he got closer could see the doctor moving about inside.
When Sullivan opened the door, Joe said, “Saw the lights on, Doc.”
“Come on in, Joe. Just going to have some coffee, I’ll get another cup.”
“Keepin’ late hours, aren’t you?” Joe’s question had just left his lips when he heard crying in the patient room.
“Sanderson’s six-year-old is very sick. The missus brought her in yesterday and is staying with her,” Sullivan explained. “Excuse me.” He got up and went into the patient room. While the door was open, Joe could see Missus Sanderson holding the little girl’s hand and daubing a cloth on her forehead with the other hand. Sullivan slipped the thermometer out of her mouth and examined it. When he returned to his seat at the small dining room table, Joe saw wrinkles around the doctor’s eyes that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Her temperature is up to a hundred and two.” Sullivan sipped at his cup, and they both listened to the little girl wail. Education aside, Joe could see how difficult a doctor’s life could be.
“What’s wrong with her, Doc?” Joe said.
“First thought maybe typhoid, but I’m bettin’ on influenza,” He said. “Had some experience with it back east, and I think that’s what we have here. On that occasion I helped care for twenty-four with the sickness, and seven of them died.”
“Is that worse than typhoid?” Joe asked.
“Neither is good. As long as there’s no complications, a person can survive. It can be very serious, but they can survive.” Joe thought the Doc was trying to talk himself into believing it.
“But . . .” Sullivan’s words stopped, and he looked down into his coffee. “The very young and older people have a tougher time with it. And if there’s an outbreak—”
“Doc!” Missus Sanderson screamed.
Sullivan hurried back into the room and came back a few minutes later carrying a bloody cloth. “Complications.” He poured hot water into a pan and rinsed the cloth.
“Doc, is there anything I can do, or go get for you?” Joe stood up preparing to leave.
“Any extra prayers would be good about now, Joe,” Sullivan said. He went back into the room, and Joe headed to his office.
The next morning Joe went down to the North Star for coffee. The saloon seemed to be an informal meeting place before businesses opened up for the day. It was a chance to share gossip and news as well as coffee.
Joe closed the door behind him and saw Byron Siegler, Harvey Martin, Budd Jarvis, Christmas Evans, and Gib Hadley, owner of the North Star, seated at the second table.
“Mornin’, Marshal, I’ll get you a cup.” Hadley served Joe and sat down again. The others, except Jarvis, greeted Joe and continued their conversation. Something in the Omaha Daily Bee seemed to be the topic for the morning.
“I still say it stinks to high heaven, excuse me, Pastor, but stinks just the damn same. Gover
nor Hayes is a veteran of the late war and he won fair and square. Why don’t they commence with swearin’ him in?” Hadley pounded a fist on the table.
“It sounds like some of those Southern states don’t know how to count their votes correctly. What do they want to do, keep recountin’ ’em ’til they turn out how they want ’em?” Martin said. “I agree with Gib, it stinks.”
“I recollect like it was yesterday, our ironclad, ringing like a bell from hell, the ringing in our damned ears never stopped. The Carondelet was sneaking by Island Number Ten, but the reb batteries saw us when our stacks caught afire, marking us like glowing ducks in a pond,” Hadley said.
Jarvis said, “Gib, just what in hell does that have to do with anything we’re talkin’ about here?”
“The war. Somebody mentioned the war!”
“I believe you did, Gib, if you don’t mind me pointing that out,” Martin said. Hadley’s head twitched slightly as he ignored Martin.
“According to this,” Siegler said, his right forefinger slid across the page. “Governor Tilden won the popular vote. It’s the electoral votes that are in question.”
“Samuel Tilden is a scoundrel of the highest order!” Evans said. His tone rose all the way to the end, and then he raised his eyebrows as if he’d surprised himself. The men looked over at him, expecting a sermon of some sort to follow.
“Pastor, do you know something we don’t?” Siegler said.
“I was still in New York back in sixty-eight, and that skunk was state Democratic chairman. He allowed his illustrious members to engage in fraudulent voting schemes.”
“What did they do to him, Pastor?” Martin asked.
“They were unable to prove up the charges, I’m afraid.”
Siegler continued, “It appears that a special commission has been appointed to settle the matter.”