“I thought you had duties to do,” Fred said.
“Answer the question.”
Fred had been too busy trying not to be shot to consider much of anything. “Which word are you talkin’ about? That we arrested a murderer?”
“Honestly, Hitch,” Mayor Crittendon said in mild disgust. “Obviously it hasn’t occurred to you that Sweetwater will become the laughingstock of the territory.”
“What’s to laugh at?” Fred asked in confusion.
“Do you mean besides the fact that we’ve had a notorious killer living among us and we had no idea?”
“How were we to know?” Fred said. “He didn’t use his real name.”
“Which you never caught on to. A good lawman would have. A good lawman would have sensed that something about Hiram was amiss and done some digging into his background.”
Fred stopped and rounded on Crittendon. “Now, you just hold on. You’re not layin’ this on me. Hiram—I mean McCarthy—acted as decent as could be. He even had you fooled.”
“Not really,” Crittendon said. “I’ve long had my suspicions about him.”
Fred almost bashed the mayor’s bowler himself. “That’s a lie. You and him were friends. He’s been to your house many a time.”
“I couldn’t let him suspect that I suspected.”
Fred bit off some cusswords. He’d forgotten how oily Crittendon could be, or most any politician, for that matter. They were forever scheming, forever manipulating. Their knack for talking out both ends of their mouths was a wonderment. “Claim what you want, but everyone knows better.”
“We’re getting off track,” Critttendon said. “The issue isn’t me. The issue is how to keep Sweetwater from being sullied by scandal.”
“A good sullying might be good for us.”
“Be serious. It’s your civic duty to do all in your power to prevent that from happening.”
“And how do you suggest I do that, exactly?” Fred demanded. “Not let anyone leave town from now until kingdom come?”
“Spare me your attempts at humor,” Mayor Crittendon said. “I propose that we hold a town meeting and advise everyone to keep quiet about it. They’re not to mention it in letters, or talk about it when strangers are in town.”
“Make a mountain out of a molehill, why don’t you?” Fred said.
“In my judgment you fail to appreciate the stigma this could bring down on our heads,” Crittendon criticized. “In fact, your handling of this whole affair has been less than exemplary. You allowed that child to accost Hiram in his place of business. You let a revolver fight spill into our streets.”
Fred was trying to remember what accost meant. He couldn’t recollect ever hearing it before. “No one was hurt.”
“You’re forgetting the poor horse.” Mayor Crittendon smoothed his jacket and ran a finger along his pencil-thin mustache. “No, Marshal Hitch. You have performed poorly all around. It wouldn’t surprise me if the good people of Sweetwater regard you in a whole new light after this. There might even be talk of replacing you with someone more competent.”
It took a lot to rile Fred, but he was riled now. Clenching a fist, he started to raise it so he could shake it in the mayor’s face but caught himself in time. “Are you threatenin’ me?”
“Perish the notion,” Crittendon said. “I’m only offering my opinion on how events might develop.”
“Two can play at that,” Fred said.
The mayor smirked. “What can you possibly do?”
“I lose this badge,” Fred said, tapping it, “I’ll ride clear to Cheyenne and tell the Cheyenne Leader everything that happened. Care to bet they won’t be interested? Care to bet the story isn’t in their next edition?”
“You’d go to the newspaper?” Crittendon said in horror.
“I will if you don’t leave it be. Let me handle this. That kid will likely leave in the mornin’ and it will all be over.”
Mayor Crittendon’s face twitched a few times, as if he were about to have a fit. Instead he said, “Very well, Marshal Hitch. We’ll do it your way. And may I say that I have underestimated you? I took you for a pushover, with no more spine than a bowl of pudding. But you’ve surprised me. You have more mettle than I’d imagined.” Crittendon touched his bowler and walked off after the townsfolk, who had followed Tyree and McCarthy.
“Well, now,” Fred said, and grinned. “Ain’t I somethin’?”
Chapter 5
Everyone had left: the mayor, the townsfolk, even the kid. Except for Tom McCarthy, seated forlornly on the bunk in his cell, Marshal Hitch had his office to himself.
“Finally,” Fred muttered as he bent to open the bottom desk drawer. He moved some papers, took out his silver flask, and opened it. A glance at the window showed no one was looking in. He raised the flask to his lips, swallowed happily, and sat back. The pleasant sensation that spread through his body made him smile. Propping his boots on the desk, he held the flask in his lap where no one could see it.
Fred was aware that there were whispers about his drinking. He liked his Monongahela, no doubt about that. He wasn’t supposed to treat himself while he was working, but after the ordeal he’d just been through, he deserved a few nips.
McCarthy didn’t notice. His face was in his hands, and his shoulders were slumped in misery.
Fred didn’t blame him. The man was in for sheer hell. And all because he lost his head.
Taking another swallow, Fred coughed. One thing he could pride himself on was that he rarely lost his. He’d been that way since he was little. Other kids teased him and tried to make him mad, and it seldom worked. He had an easygoing nature, his mother used to say. Too easygoing, she’d often complained. He never let anything get to him. Not deep down the way most folks did.
Fred drank and sighed with contentment.
Chester, over at the stable, once asked him why he drank so much if it wasn’t to dull whatever problems plagued him. The answer was simple. Fred liked to. For him liquor wasn’t a crutch. It was an enjoyable pastime. Some people liked to read. Some knit. Some played checkers. He drank.
“How about letting me have a nip?”
Fred almost jumped.
“Just a couple of swallows,” McCarthy said. “I could really use it.”
Fred could see that. The man looked as forlorn as a human being could look. “Why not?” Rising, he went over and extended the flask between the bars. “So long as you don’t tell your friend the mayor.”
“Crittendon is a jackass.”
“For that you can have an extra swallow,” Fred said with a grin.
McCarthy took a tentative sip and grimaced. After a couple more, he passed the flask back. “I’m grateful.”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Fred said. “I’ve always liked you.”
“Same here. You’re about the nicest lawman I ever ran across. You don’t put on airs. You don’t boss people around.”
“My mother used to say that I was too nice for my own good,” Fred revealed. “The mayor thinks the same. He called me a weak Nancy once when I refused to arrest a couple of cowpokes who broke a mirror at the saloon. I made them pay for the mirror and told them to go sober up, but that wasn’t enough for him.”
“You should have been a parson.”
“To do that you have to be good at rememberin’ things so you can quote the Bible in your sermons. I can barely recollect what I ate the day before.”
McCarthy gave a slight smile. “You’re all right, Hitch. Don’t let that jackass get to you. Go on being as you are. There aren’t enough nice people in this world.”
“I’ve always thought that,” Fred agreed.
“If I had your disposition,” McCarthy continued, “I wouldn’t be standing here. I wouldn’t have lost my temper when I caught my wife and my friend in our bed. I wouldn’t have done what I did.�
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“Sometimes we can’t help what we do. It just comes over us.”
“What a damn decent thing to say,” McCarthy said. “But there’s no excusing what I did. It was wrong. Had I to do it over again . . .” He shrugged.
Fred tried to lighten his mood by saying, “I bet you never expected some boy to come after you.”
“Not in a million years,” McCarthy said. “If anything, I figured it would be a U.S. Marshal or a deputy from Cheyenne. I murdered two people, after all. It surprised me considerably that no one ever showed up until now.”
“I wonder how the boy found you.”
McCarthy gripped the bars and placed his forehead on them. “I believe I know. I made the mistake of writing a letter to my sister. Confided where I was and the name I was using, and told her I’d be happy as could be if she paid me a visit someday. The boy must have found out from her.”
“Would she betray you like that?”
McCarthy grew thoughtful. “She was good friends with my wife. I thought we were closer, but it could be I was mistaken.”
“Well . . . ,” Fred began, and got no further. Boots clomped outside and the front door was flung open. He moved his arm behind his leg to hide the flask as he turned.
A man who worked at the general store was in the doorway, breathless from running. “Tully the bartender sent me,” he said. “You have to come quick.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s that kid with all the hardware. He’s threatening to shoot somebody.”
“Go back and tell Sully I’ll be right there.”
The man nodded and ran off.
Going to his desk, Fred replaced the flask in the drawer. He hurried out and over to the saloon and heard the kid before he reached the batwings.
“. . . by golly have one. And don’t you call me no kid again, you peckerwood. I’m as much a man as you.”
Fred pushed on in.
Tyree Johnson had both hands on the bar and was glaring at the bartender. “Give me a damn bottle.”
“I will not,” Tully said. He wore an apron and had skin that was the color of old parchment. “You’re too young. I’m not supposed to serve young’uns.”
“You’ll serve me.”
Fred advanced, saying, “What’s going on here?”
“I want a drink and this cantankerous buzzard won’t give me one,” Tyree growled.
“The town council says I’m not to serve no kids,” Sully said. “You know that, Fred.”
“He’s right,” Fred said to Tyree.
“I’m not no kid,” Tyree practically yelled. “And after the day I’ve had, I should be allowed. One measly drink is all I want.”
Fred thought of his flask. “Give him one.”
“You sure?” Tully said. “The mayor won’t like it.”
All the more reason, Fred almost said. “Give him one on my say-so. But only one and no more.”
“I’m obliged, Marshal,” Tyree said.
“How long have you been drinkin’, boy?” Fred asked. He’d started sneaking drinks from the family cupboard when he was eight or nine.
“I hardly ever do,” Tyree said. “I just wanted one today, is all.” Leaning an elbow on the bar, he said, “How’s my bounty money doing?”
“He’s in misery.”
“He should be, killin’ his wife and his friend like he done. It would serve him right if they stretch his neck.”
“You have a lot of bark on you for someone your age,” Fred observed.
Tyree touched his scar and said, seemingly to himself, “I have cause to be.”
Curious, Fred said, “How did you get that, if you don’t’ mind my askin’?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“How can you not? That’s one big scar.”
“I don’t need to be reminded, thank you very much,” Tyree said resentfully. Tully placed a glass in front of him and he grabbed it, spilling a little as he raised it to his mouth.
“You’re sure tetchy,” Fred said.
“You would be too, were you me.” Tyree moved toward a table, ignoring the stares of the other customers.
Fred went with him.
Hooking a chair with the toe of his boot, Tyree pulled it out and sat. “Why are you followin’ me?”
“Thought we might talk some.”
“You thought wrong.”
Fred pulled out another chair anyway. “What else do you have to do? You’re not leavin’ until mornin’, right?”
“About noon,” Tyree said. “I aim to sleep in. Haven’t had a wink in two days. Rode hard to get here so I can get back to Cheyenne that much sooner.”
“What’s your rush?”
Tyree didn’t answer.
“You’re a strange one, son,” Fred said. He chose son instead of boy in order not to anger him.
“Don’t ever call me that.”
“See? Tetchy,” Fred said.
“I’m no one’s son. I lost my folks when I was in the cradle. Been on my own ever since.”
“That explains a lot,” Fred said, and changed the subject by asking, “Doesn’t that saber poke you in the back when you sit in a chair?”
“It’s in a scabbard.”
“Why tote it around? What with those pistols and those derringers and that bowie, you hardly need it.”
“It was my grandpa’s,” Tyree said, “or so I was told. The bowie was my pa’s. The guns are just mine.”
Fred began to see the kid in a new light; Tyree had a sentimental streak. “I have a watch that was my pa’s.”
“Good for you.”
“You can quit bein’ prickly,” Fred said. “I’m the only friend you’ve got here.”
“Is that what you are?” Tyree said. “It makes you the only friend I’ve got anywhere. Not that I need one.”
Fred forgot himself and said, “A boy your age should have lots of friends.”
“There you go with that boy business again.”
“Sorry,” Fred said. “Habit.”
“I don’t have time for friends,” Tyree said. “I work every day. Sundays too. When most folks are in church, I’m huntin’ wanted men down.”
“Everybody needs a day off.”
“Not me,” Tyree said. “Not so long as they’re out there, somewhere. I’ll find them, sooner or later.”
“Who?”
Instead of answering, Tyree nodded at the batwings. “Ain’t that your mayor moseyin’ on in?”
Fred shifted. Sure enough, Crittendon had entered and was coming toward them. The last thing he needed was another argument with His Majesty. “What can I do for you, Horace?”
Without being asked, Crittendon pulled out the last chair. “I’ve been looking for you. Stopped at the jail and tried to talk to Hiram. . . . Sorry, McCarthy . . . but he clammed up on me.”
“And here you are,” Fred said.
Crittendon smiled at Tyree. “How’s our bounty man?”
“I’d tell you to go to hell, but you called me a man,” Tyree said. “Most are too dumb to do that.” He gave Fred a pointed stare.
“Anyone who does what you do, that’s what he is, a man,” Mayor Crittendon said.
“You hear that?” Tyree said to Fred.
“He’s a politician. He always says what he thinks people want to hear,” Fred enlightened him.
“No need for insults,” the mayor said. He removed his bowler, placed it on the table, and ran his fingers through his stringy hair. “Now, then. I’ve been giving it some thought and I’ve come up with an idea.”
“Givin’ what some thought?” Fred asked.
“What were we discussing earlier? How Sweetwater will be a laughingstock when people hear about McCarthy pulling the wool over our eyes all this time.”
&
nbsp; “I doubt anyone will care,” Fred said.
“I care,” Crittendon said. “So does the council. We got together at my house and talked it over. That’s when I had my inspiration.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
Crittendon turned to Tyree. “If you don’t mind my asking, when do you plan to leave with your prisoner?”
“Like I told your law dog, about noon or so. My horse can use the rest, and I’m tuckered out too.”
“That’s fine,” Crittendon said. “It gives our marshal plenty of time to get ready.”
Fred didn’t like the sound of that. “For what?”
Mayor Crittendon bared his teeth like a cat about to devour a canary. “To go with him, of course.”
Both Fred and Tyree said, “What?” at the same moment.
“We want you to go along, Marshal Hitch, to make sure McCarthy gets to Cheyenne to stand trial,” Mayor Crittendon said. “It will show everyone we take our law here in Sweetwater seriously, and that if someone hoodwinks us, we do all in our power to see that justice is served.”
To Fred it was preposterous. “Cheyenne is over three hundred miles.”
“It’s not the distance; it’s the message we’ll send to lawbreakers,” Crittendon said. “It’s sure to be mentioned in the newspaper, and you’re fond of newspapers, as I recall.”
“Consarn you, Horace,” Fred said.
“Refuse, and we’ll remove you from office for dereliction of duty.” Crittendon smiled and held out his hand. “And if that’s the case, you might as well give me your badge here and now.”
Fred was appalled. A journey to Cheyenne was no picnic. The country was rugged, and there were hostiles and outlaws and who knew what else? Without thinking he said, “I haven’t been out of Sweetwater in years.”
“Then the trip will do you good,” Crittendon said, and laughed. “What do you say?”
What could Fred say except “Son of a bitch”?
Chapter 6
The wilds south of Sweetwater were as picturesque as they were dangerous. Browned by the heat of summer, the high grass of the valleys rippled in the wind.
Higher up, ranks of pines and scattered oaks covered ever steeper slopes. Near the summits, firs and aspens were common.
Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do Page 4