Law at Angel's Landing: A Western Story

by Wayne D. Overholser

  I nodded. “Ben Scully called me a clodhopper sheriff and I guess he’s right.”

  She laughed aloud and slapped a fat thigh. “From what Red tells me, you do your job.”

  “He ain’t as much clodhopper as Ben made out,” Redbeard said. “We spent a night in two of his lousy cells.”

  “That makes you a little more than a clodhopper, Mark,” she said. “These men are tough customers. I’ve known them for a long time. It takes a good man to handle them.”

  “I aim to do the job they elected me to do,” I said.

  “I’m betting that you will,” she said. “I’ve been around a good deal since I had the Pleasure Palace here in Angel’s Landing when you were a boy. I’ve been in Deadwood and Leadville and Miles City. I’ve had some nice places and I’ve been pretty lucky and I’m going to try it here again. I bought Ben Scully out.”

  I let on I was surprised, though I wasn’t really. I’d had a hunch that was what had happened and why she had sent for me, but I played it cozy and said I was glad she was here and hoped she would have good business.

  “I’m sure I will,” she said. “I’ve never built the kind of layout that I really want. I’ve dreamed about it and drawn up dozens of plans, but I never hit just the right camp where I thought I’d stay. Now maybe I’m making a mistake, but I think Angel’s Landing will be a good business camp for years. What do you think?”

  “From what I hear about the new strikes they’re making up Banjo Creek, it will be,” I said.

  She leaned toward me. Her face, which had held a mask of good nature, now turned tough and hard. She said: “I hear that John Wallace is coming to Angel’s Landing. What are you going to do about him, Mark?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “Well, by God, you’d better know,” she said. “I’ve been driven out of two towns by that bastard because I couldn’t pay the tariff he was collecting. He ruined those towns and broke almost every businessman there. He didn’t leave until he had their money. He’ll do the same thing here.”

  “If he breaks the law, I’ll arrest him,” I said.

  She laughed. It wasn’t a good sound, one of contempt rather than humor.

  “Listen, boy,” she said, and she made the word boy sound as if I was still the kid she had given pie and cake to, “I got this outfit cheap from Ben Scully because he didn’t have the guts to fight Wallace again. He’s lost out in other camps, too. Just like I have. Now I aim to build a place here that you and everybody else will be proud of, an honest place where a man can get a woman, a drink, or a game, and know that he’s getting his money’s worth. Well, I want to be protected, or I’ll walk out the same as Ben Scully did.”

  I rose, irritated and insulted. “Don’t call me boy, ma’am,” I said. “I told you I’d arrest him if he broke the law, and I will.”

  I started to turn around to walk out, but she came up out of her chair fast for a fat woman and grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry, Mark, but this is important to me. It’s the chance I’ve been looking for as long as I’ve been in business. I’ve got a right to know what you’re going to do to keep Wallace from cleaning this camp out just like he has the other ones that hired him.”

  “This is the third time I’ve told you,” I said angrily. “If he breaks the law, I’ll arrest him.”

  “Oh, my God.” She threw up her hands. “Don’t you know that nobody arrests Captain John Wallace? Nobody can draw a gun as fast as he can. Nobody operates without any conscience the way he does. Nobody can scare the living hell right out of you by looking at you the way he can. Now what makes you think you can arrest a bastard like that?”

  “I can try,” I said. “It’s all you can expect of any man.”

  “And you’ll get killed,” she said. “That’s what I don’t want to happen. If you’re gone, there’s no one left to fight. He’ll have his own way for sure.”

  “There’s got to be a way,” I said. “I haven’t thought of it yet, but I will. I’m going to Durango in the morning. I aim to talk to him. Maybe I can convince him he shouldn’t come to Angel’s Landing.”

  “He’ll kill you before he even gets here!” she cried. “Listen, you idiot. All that it takes when you’re talking to him is to make a move with your right hand. You’re going after your pipe or a pocket knife or a bandanna to blow your nose and he’ll draw and kill you and say you were going for your gun, and everybody who’s watching will testify you might have been doing just what he said. He’s supposed to be a lawman, so no one questions him very much. It’ll be murder, Mark. Just plain murder.”

  I looked at Redbeard and Baldy, who weren’t acting as smart as they had been a few minutes before. I would get no help from them. Then I looked at the woman. I could see the greed in her, but she had a right to the protection she was asking for.

  How was I going to give it to her? I still didn’t know, so I didn’t have anything to tell her. I just walked out, and this time she let me go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Abbie cooked supper for me that evening. Afterward she cleaned up the kitchen while I sat at the table and smoked. When she finished, we went out to the back porch and sat down. The evening was warm enough to be comfortable, so we stayed there a long time while the day turned to dusk, and then night came with its millions of stars and the hills bordering Banjo Creek became black curves against the lighter sky.

  I wasn’t sure how much Abbie knew about John Wallace. I had not told her all that I’d heard and I didn’t tell her about Maggie Martin’s being back in town. I didn’t tell her I was going to see Wallace in Durango on Friday, either. I thought the less she knew the better, but I think she sensed what was happening and what lay ahead for me.

  I didn’t say it in words and neither did she, but there was a strange feeling between us that evening, as if we didn’t want it to end because it might be the last time we’d be together. At least that thought was in my mind and I had a hunch it was in hers.

  Later we walked to her house with our arms around each other. When we reached her gate, she asked: “You’ll be back Saturday?”

  “I sure will,” I said. “I’ll buy the horses tomorrow and leave Durango early Saturday.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. She just stood there with her head tipped back, trying to see my face in the darkness, then she raised a hand to my face and ran her fingertips over it. Suddenly she began to cry and hugged me with a fierceness I had not felt from her before.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Oh, Mark, you know what’s the matter!” she cried.

  She brought my face down to hers and kissed me, then whirled away and ran up the path to her house. I walked back slowly, convinced that she did indeed know, but whether from woman’s intuition or from hearing the gossip was something I couldn’t decide.

  The week had been the longest of my life, and it wasn’t over yet. The night dragged on second by second. Sometimes I would drop off for a few minutes, and then I’d be awake again. I tried to imagine what John Wallace looked like. He must have horns and a tail, I thought. I had yet to hear anyone who had known him in recent years say anything good about him.

  I had a good look at death that night, too. Not that I could understand it, or know what happened to a man when he died. I thought about what a good world it was, or had been for me anyhow, about my mother, about my father, who must have lived a frustrating life, and then I thought about Abbie and how much I loved her and wanted to sleep with her and wanted her to have my babies.

  I tried to think of some way I could meet Wallace and shoot it out with him and have a chance to survive. Some trick, a hidden gun, a knife, words I could use to talk him out of wanting to kill me, or to leave Angel’s Landing as soon as he got here, or not to come at all.

  Finally the dawn light began seeping into my bedroom, and I had no more idea what to do than I’d had when I’d gone to bed. I was damned scared. That was all I was sure of.

  I got up, dressed,
had breakfast, and shaved, then walked to the livery stable through the cool, wine-like air of the high country. As I saddled my horse, Dutch Henry came dragging along the runway, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

  “You’re getting away early,” he said.

  “It’s a long ride. I want to buy my horses today so I can leave early tomorrow morning. I figure I’ll have a tough day tomorrow.”

  “You’re aiming to see Wallace today, ain’t you?”

  “I’ll try to,” I answered. “There’s a six o’clock train. I’ll meet it just on the chance that he’ll be on it.”

  He peered at me in the dim light, then said: “I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on committing suicide, Mark. It strikes me that you’d be smart to wait till he gets here. You’ve got lots of friends in Angel’s Landing. I don’t think you’ve got that many in Durango.”

  “Yeah, I have got lots of friends here, all right,” I said, and mounted and rode out through the archway.

  I didn’t want to tell him because I would have hurt his feelings, but the friends I had in Angel’s Landing including Dutch Henry wouldn’t be any help when it came to fighting John Wallace, and I couldn’t see any other end to this.

  Sooner or later Wallace would step over the thin line between what a lawman could do and could not do, and I would have to go after him. It would be Mark Girard against John Wallace any way I cut it, and friends wouldn’t do me one damned bit of good.

  I glanced along the street and saw Rip Yager come through the batwings and throw a bucket of dirty water into the street. Rip had a lifelong habit of waking at dawn regardless of the season, the weather, or what he had to do that day. During all the years he had run his place alone, he had come to the saloon by sunup and had swamped it out. He was still doing it from habit, I guess, though he had enough hired help so he could have stayed in bed.

  I reined over to him, calling: “Good morning, Rip.”

  He stood looking at me, ramrod straight, an old man who refused to accept his age. He still felt he could make a fortune out of his saloon, that there was a lot of life left for him, and he aimed to live it, and that was probably the reason he had done what he had.

  He was sore at me because I aimed to stop Wallace. Maybe he was honestly afraid I’d get killed. On the other hand, maybe he thought I might succeed. I wasn’t sure any more how he felt about anything.

  Anyhow Rip’s—“Good morning.”—was as frosty as a January freeze.

  “I’m going to Durango to buy a couple of horses,” I said. “Dutch Henry says I need a dozen, but I can’t afford that many. While I’m in Durango, I’ll see Wallace. I’m going to try to persuade him not to come to Angel’s Landing.”

  “He’ll come.”

  “I’ll make it clear to him that he will have no authority as a sheriff’s deputy, and he will not be allowed to use the county jail. He will also receive no pay from the county. He might change his mind.”

  “He won’t.” Rip’s eyes narrowed, and for an instant I thought he felt some concern for my safety. He said: “Don’t provoke him, Mark.”

  “I guess you know what kind of man he is,” I said, “or you wouldn’t say that.”

  “I know he’s handy with a gun and I know he has a short temper,” Yager said. “I just want you to stay out of his way until he’s chased all the riff-raff out of camp, and then we’ll send him away and you and Tug can go back to what you’re doing now.”

  I lost my patience then, and I said sharply: “Damn it, Rip, there isn’t any riff-raff in camp.”

  “We’ll have ’em,” he said. “It won’t be long.”

  “Rip, don’t you know what his record is in other places that have hired him?”

  Yager shrugged. “Lies.”

  “No they’re not,” I said. “I talked to Ben Scully before he left. I’ve talked to Maggie Martin. They both have been in towns that hired him. He’s a leech, Rip. He gets a pay-off from every business in town. You pay or you get your head knocked off. He’ll bleed the camp white.”

  “I wouldn’t believe anything a whore like Maggie Martin says.” Yager started to turn toward the batwings, then paused to add: “Ben Scully is the riff-raff I was talking about. I’m glad he’s gone.” He waggled a finger at me. “He left because Wallace is coming, not because of anything you or Tug did.”

  He went on into the saloon then, ending the conversation. I reined back into the street and headed south for Durango. Yager and the others had gone too far to back down. They’d learn the hard way, I told myself bitterly, and then they’d come to me for help, help which I didn’t know how to give them.

  As I rode, I told myself that Wallace was only one man. He pulled his pants on one leg at a time like any of us. He couldn’t do everything that it had been said he’d done, and that, of course, was exactly the way Yager and his friends looked at it. But, damn it, he had done the things I’d been told about, and not alone, either. He had toughs who did his muscle work for him, and the chances were I’d never be able to prove his connection with the plug-uglies. That was his strength.

  What could I prove if I took him before Judge Manders? I had given some thought to looking up the judge after I got to Durango, but had discarded the idea. There was nothing he could tell me at this point. The court was helpless until a crime had been committed, and, after it was committed, I’d still have to have witnesses, providing, of course, that I was still alive. If Wallace was alive, I probably couldn’t get anyone to testify against him.

  I stabled my horse as soon as I arrived in Durango, had dinner, and then looked up the trader I usually dealt with. It took the balance of the afternoon, a good deal of riding to check out the two animals, and some haggling before I bought the horses for a figure that I considered reasonable.

  It was almost 6:00 p.m. when I finished. I ran to the depot that was four blocks away. The train had just pulled in and had stopped with the squealing of brakes and jangling of the bell, and it was still puffing like a huge, prehistoric monster.

  I walked along the line of cars, trying to see a man who could be John Wallace. I didn’t know what he looked like, but it was easy to check off the passengers by the simple process of elimination. None fitted.

  I turned back, disappointed, and decided to try the hotels. I took a room in the first one I came to, about a block from the depot. I asked: “Has John Wallace registered here?”

  “Captain John Wallace is registered here,” the clerk said, emphasizing the word Captain. “He and his wife arrived on the two o’clock. They’re in room One-Oh-Four just across the hall from you. They’ll be leaving for Angel’s Landing in the morning. He rented a horse and buggy for the trip he told me.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and crossed the lobby to sit down in one of the chairs that lined the wall along with the geraniums.

  I could go up to his room, I thought, but I decided I wanted to look at him before I jumped him. I was surprised that he had a wife, but it wouldn’t make any difference. She might as well hear what I had to say, so I settled down to wait, certain that I would know him when I saw him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I guess I waited fifteen or twenty minutes, studying every person who walked through the lobby. Most of them were single men, largely drummers who were heading for the bar or moving from the dining room to the bar. A few were miners and several were cowboys. I judged the only couples to be ranch people, probably in Durango for an overnight visit to buy supplies.

  Then I saw them. I didn’t have the slightest doubt about their identity from the minute they came down the stairs. The woman was younger than I expected, actually a girl hardly out of her teens. She was very pretty, and I could see why Wallace or any man would be attracted to her.

  As they walked past me and moved to the dining room, I watched them, particularly the girl’s hind end, which swayed with a titillating rhythm. This was something that a woman learned; it was too exaggerated to be natural. A woman had only one reason to learn to walk that way, and I will ad
mit I made a judgment about Mrs. Wallace that was far from complimentary.

  Wallace looked to be about the right age, somewhere in his middle fifties. He wasn’t a big man, but he contrived to look bigger than he was. I had seen other men who could do that, men who considered themselves very important and wanted to impress everyone who saw them.

  It has always struck me as a weakness because a man who is really important never has to do anything to convince other people that he is. I’m not really sure how Wallace managed this unless it was the way he held his shoulders and kept his back overly straight.

  The main thing that gave the man away was the way in which he carried his pearl-handled .45, very low and tied down in the manner of an old-fashioned, professional gunman. Now few men carried guns unless they were lawmen, and no one carried his gun in that manner. At least I had never seen it done before, though I had heard about it from old-timers like Rip Yager.

  This bore out what I had suspected, that John Wallace was a relic from the dead past, a fact that did not make him any less dangerous because to him the past was not dead. He lived as though this was still the 1870s, and he would force me to live the same way.

  I had thought through exactly what I was going to do. I waited until I was sure they were seated at a table, then I rose and crossed the lobby to the dining room door. I paused there until I saw them, then threaded my way through the maze of tables to them.

  Not waiting for an invitation to sit down, I pulled a chair back and dropped into it. I said: “You’re John Wallace, aren’t you?”

  He glanced up from his menu, only then aware of my presence. “Captain John Wallace, sir,” he said, his voice reflecting his annoyance at my intrusion.

  I could see Mrs. Wallace on my left, but I kept my eyes pinned on her husband as I placed my hands, palms down, on the top of the table. I said: “I’m Mark Girard, sheriff of Bremer County. Notice that my hands are in sight. When I leave, I will clasp them back of my head. If you shoot me, it will have to be accepted as murder because it will be evident to all of these witnesses that I have not made any kind of motion toward my gun.”