Henderson blinked and took a step back.
“Lost your wife?”
“They killed her and my children.”
“Jesus—”
“So I’m just here making sure your door is locked and your store is safe.” Palmer reached for the doorknob, hoping it wouldn’t turn. He doubted Belle Henderson would leave it unlocked for him, even though she had been flirting with him. But if she flirted with him, she must have done the same with other men, and maybe she’d left the door unlocked for one of them.
He tried the knob and found it locked.
“There you go,” he said, removing his hand from it. “You have a nice evening.”
He left the other man there with his mouth open, hopefully feeling like a fool.
* * *
* * *
Back in his office, Palmer sat at his desk with a cup of coffee. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Supper seemed to be the thing to do, but since he didn’t have a deputy, did that mean he’d have to lock the office?
He’d had plenty of experiences with lawmen in his life, but usually it was because they were chasing him. He didn’t know if sheriffs and marshals locked their doors or what they did after they finished their day. He assumed, like any other business, that when he was done and went to his hotel room, he should lock the office. But when was a lawman done for the day? Was he on call all the time, much like a doctor would be?
Since he couldn’t ask anybody these questions without raising suspicions that he had never been a lawman before, he was just going to have to make up his own mind and stick to his decision no matter what anybody said. He was going to be Marshal Abe Cassidy, a man who had his own way of doing things.
He left the office to go have supper, and locked the door behind him.
* * *
* * *
He dined at the Sweetwater Steak House because Belle Henderson had been right about it. While he ate his steak, he thought about her. Ken was right: She was a very good-looking woman, and under other circumstances, Palmer might have been interested in her, especially since she was a flirt. But he was supposed to be a man who had just suffered the death of his wife at the hands of the Indians. How would it look for him to pursue another woman so soon after, and a married one at that?
He knew he had to try not to do the things Tom Palmer would normally have done, and figure out what was normal for Abe Cassidy.
The waitress put his plate down in front of him, set down the mug of beer, and then stepped back.
“Anything else I can get ya, Marshal?” the woman asked. She was thick waisted and in her fifties; she had probably been in Integrity all her life.
“Has this town always been called Integrity?”
“Oh, no,” she said.
“Can you sit a minute?”
She looked around at the other tables. For the moment, all the diners seemed satisfied, so she pulled out the chair across from him and sat.
“What can I do for you, Marshal?”
“What’s your name?”
“Alice.”
“Tell me about the town, Alice,” he said, cutting into the venison steak. “Give me some history about the place and the people.”
“The town used to be called Oakwood,” she said. “There are only a few of us left who were born here. Everybody else moved here in the last twenty years.”
“What about Mayor O’Connor?”
“He’s new,” Alice said. “He came here five years ago.”
“And he’s mayor already?”
“And he’s the one who changed the town’s name,” she said. “We became Integrity when he became mayor.”
“The town went along with that?”
Alice shrugged.
“They voted him in,” she said. “He promised the town would grow. So far, it has. Bringing you in was supposed to be part of that.”
“Me?”
“Well, a lawman,” she said. “It just happens to be you.”
“O’Connor’s a politician,” Palmer said. “They usually have somebody behind them supporting them, financing them.”
“That’s right,” she said. “It’s most likely Mr. Waverly.”
“Waverly?”
“He’s the biggest rancher in the territory,” Alice said. “The richest.”
“And when did he come here?”
“Just after O’Connor,” she said. “I think that’s why he backed his campaign, because they were both newcomers.”
“Did you have a lawman before me?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, “an old-timer named Kendrick. But O’Connor wanted a new man, somebody who wouldn’t do things the Old West way.”
“And he chose me,” Palmer said.
“There was somethin’ in your letters,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“I went to the town meetings where he talked about candidates. He said you were the most qualified.”
“In what way?”
“You don’t know?” she asked.
“I’d like to know what it was in my letters that appealed to him.”
“Waitress,” somebody called.
She turned and looked.
“I gotta go back to work.”
As she stood up, he said, “Just tell me one thing that stood out to him.”
“He said you had knowledge of the law. He said your justice wouldn’t be the old-time justice of the gun.”
“Okay,” he said, “thanks.”
“Lemme know if I can get you anything else, Marshal,” she said. “Enjoy your meal.”
Thanks to Alice he now knew some things he hadn’t known before. Most important, he—as Cassidy—was supposed to have some knowledge of the law. Did that mean Cassidy had been a lawman back East? Or that he had studied the law? Could the real Cassidy have been a lawyer?
Palmer realized he was going to have to go through the letters he had again and read every word. He couldn’t afford to have Mayor O’Connor doubting him. He was just going to have to put his best Abe Cassidy foot forward.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next morning Palmer was sitting in his office, thinking about the letters he had read the night before. He had to leave them in his room. He couldn’t bring them to the office and get caught reading them there. And he had to remember that he had only the letters that had gone one way, from the mayor to Abe Cassidy. He had no idea what Cassidy had written to the mayor. He could only guess. . . .
When the door opened, he almost expected to see Steve Atlee again volunteering for deputy duty. But it wasn’t Atlee or anyone else Palmer knew. It was a tall, rangy man wearing work clothes, worn boots, a black hat, and no gun. Obviously a cowhand.
“Are you Marshal Cassidy, the new lawman here?” the man asked.
“That’s right. I am,” Palmer replied. “What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Rogan, Marshal,” the man said. “I’m the foreman out at the Bar W ranch.”
“Okay.”
Rogan smiled.
“Since you’re new around here you probably don’t know about—”
“Mr. Waverly?”
“Then you have heard of him.”
“The richest man in the county?” Palmer asked. “Yeah, I have.”
“Well, the boss sent me into town to invite you to have lunch with him at his house.”
“Why?” Palmer asked.
“I reckon he just wantsta get to know the new lawman in town,” Rogan said.
“You sure he doesn’t want to see if he can buy me?” Palmer asked.
Rogan frowned.
“That’s a little out of line, ain’t it, Marshal?” the foreman asked.
“Maybe it is,” Palmer admitted. “Tell Mr. Waverly I accept. When would he like me out there?”
> “How does noon suit ya?”
“Just fine,” Palmer said. “Tell Mr. Waverly I’ll see him at noon.”
“I’ll do that, Marshal. Do you know how to get to the ranch?”
“No, I don’t.”
Rogan gave Palmer directions on how to get to the Bar W, then touched the brim of his hat and left the office.
Palmer wondered if he should stop in and see the mayor first, get some idea of how to handle Waverly. But on the other hand, the rancher had backed O’Connor’s campaign, so the two were obviously in bed together. Palmer decided to go in cold and get his own reading on the man. It would probably be very interesting.
* * *
* * *
Ben Rogan rode directly back to the ranch to relay the marshal’s acceptance to his boss.
“How did he take it?” Waverly asked.
“He wondered if you were gonna try to buy him.”
Waverly grinned wolfishly.
“Smart man,” the rancher said. “I’m sure as hell going to feel him out and see if he’s for sale. What do you think of him, Ben?”
“He doesn’t seem like an out-of-place dude from the East to me,” Rogan said. “He’s too . . . comfortable.”
“That’s something the mayor mentioned, too,” Waverly said. “I’m going to have to get my own reading on our new lawman. Rogan, do me a favor and tell the cook I want her to go all out for the marshal.”
“Yessir.”
“Oh, and, Rogan?”
“Yessir?”
“You won’t be joining us for lunch.”
“I didn’t think I would, sir.”
“Like I said,” Waverly went on, “I’ll need to get my own reading on the man. For that, I’ll need it to be just him and me.”
“I get it, boss,” Rogan said.
“Good man.”
Rogan left to give the cook the message. Waverly sat back in his chair, then swiveled it around so he could look out the window at his holdings.
* * *
* * *
Palmer went to the livery stable to see what kind of shape his horse was in. The hostler there was an old geezer named Lionel. Palmer was willing to bet that, as Alice had told him, he was one of those few people who had lived there all their lives.
“The mayor tol’ me ta give you any horse you want,” Lionel said. “The one you rode in on is still kinda wore out.”
“What have you got, Lionel?”
“I got a good solid six-year-old mare, a five-year-old gelding, and an eight-year-old dun.”
“I’ll take the gelding,” Palmer said. “Can you saddle him up for me?”
“’Course I can,” Lionel snapped. “I’m old. I ain’t crippled.”
Palmer waited outside as the old man saddled his new mount. He didn’t watch, for fear the hostler would think he was waiting for him to stumble. Eventually, Lionel walked the gelding out; it wore Palmer’s saddle.
“Much obliged, Lionel,” Palmer said.
“Where ya headed?”
“The Bar W,” Palmer said. “How long a ride is that?”
“’Bout a half hour.”
“Well,” Palmer said, “I’ve got an hour to kill, so I guess I’ll just get acquainted with my new buddy here. Has he got a name?”
“Nope,” Lionel said. “Don’t hold with namin’ horses.”
“Why’s that?”
“In the old days,” Lionel said, “ya never knew when you was gonna hafta eat one.”
“Well, then,” Palmer said, “I’m just going to go ahead and call him Buddy.”
“Suit yerself, Marshal,” Lionel said. “He’s yore horse now.”
“Let’s go, Buddy!” Palmer said, and gave the gelding his heels.
* * *
* * *
He took a good half hour just to ride the gelding so they could get used to each other, and then he headed for the Bar W ranch. When he came within sight of it, he reined in to have a look. It was an impressive layout, with a large, imposing two-story house in the center. On one side were a barn and corral, and on the other a bunkhouse. There was a third building, which Palmer assumed was a mess hall for the hands.
“Let’s go, Buddy,” he said, urging the gelding into a walk. “We’ve got lunch waiting for us.”
As he rode up to the house, he was met by three cowhands.
“Take your horse, Marshal?” one asked.
“Sure, thanks.”
Another one said, “The boss is waitin’ on ya. He said to go on in.”
“Obliged to you,” Palmer said.
The third man didn’t say a word, just walked away with the one leading Palmer’s horse to the barn.
“Where’s Rogan?” Palmer asked the remaining hand.
“I think he might be checking out the fence line in the north pasture,” the man said.
“Oh,” Palmer said. “Well, thanks.”
“Sure thing. We’ll have your horse ready for ya when you come out.”
Palmer went up the steps to the front door, wondered if he should knock first, even if he was expected. He decided he was getting the royal treatment, so he simply opened the door and entered.
“There you are,” Rogan said, standing just inside. “It’s almost noon.”
“I know,” Palmer said, surprised to see the foreman. “I’m on time.”
“This way,” Rogan said. “Mr. Waverly’s waiting in the dining room.”
Palmer followed Rogan across the large expanse of tiled entry hall, through a double doorway into a room dominated by a long wooden table. At the far end of it, a man sat.
“Boss, this is Marshal Cassidy,” Rogan said. “Marshal, this is Franklin Waverly.”
“You’re prompt,” Waverly said. “I like that.”
As the man stood to shake hands, Palmer figured him for sixty or so, but his blue eyes were the clearest and sharpest he had ever seen. This man saw everything and processed it quickly. That was probably why he was rich.
As they shook hands, Waverly said, “Welcome to Integrity, Marshal, and to my home. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“I appreciate it, Mr. Waverly,” Palmer said. “I figured we’d have to meet sooner or later. Why not sooner?”
“Why not, indeed? Please, sit.”
Waverly walked back to the head of the table. Palmer had his pick of many chairs, including one at the opposite end. He thought about sitting there, but decided it would have been silly. They’d have to yell at each other to be heard. In the end he went and sat in the chair to Waverly’s left.
“Thank you, Ben,” Waverly said. “That will be all. Let the cook know she can serve, please.”
“Yessir.”
Rogan went into the kitchen and didn’t come back out. The next time the door opened, a stout woman wearing an apron came through, carrying steaming plates.
“This is my cook, Mrs. Butler. Best cook in the county.”
She set the plates on the table wordlessly and went back to the kitchen. Palmer noticed she never looked at her boss or cracked a smile.
“Go ahead, help yourself,” Waverly said.
“Thank you.”
The plates held chicken and beef, and he took a bit of each, along with vegetables.
“The mayor tells me you’re very qualified for this job,” Waverly said.
“That’s what I was hoping when I answered the ad,” Palmer said.
“What’s your background in the law?”
“It’s all in the letters I exchanged with Mayor O’Connor,” Palmer said.
“I’m sure it is,” Waverly said. “I just wanted to hear it from you . . . Marshal.”
Palmer looked at the untouched food on his plate. He wondered if he’d still get to eat it if he didn’t answer the man’s questions.
“Let’s just say I’m nosy.” The rancher smiled. “Go ahead, eat. You don’t have to answer all my questions. I just wanted to get acquainted.”
“I heard you’re fairly new to the area,” Palmer said, biting into the chicken.
“That’s true,” Waverly said, “but I didn’t come from the East like you did. I came from California.”
“Oh? What’d you do there?”
“I made money,” Waverly said. “That’s what I’ve always done. I was even in South America for a while.”
“You’ve seen a lot of places,” Palmer said. “Why this little town?”
Waverly took some beer and said, “This little town is going to grow, Marshal. Hopefully, you’ll be part of that.”
“I’ve only been here a couple of days,” Palmer said. “I guess we’ll have to see.”
“You don’t seem like an Easterner.”
“Don’t I?”
“They’re usually all duded up,” Waverly said. “You look comfortable in your clothes, and with that gun. And you don’t sound like an Easterner.”
“I’m trying to fit in. And they have guns in the East, Mr. Waverly,” Palmer said.
“I’m sure they do,” Waverly said. “Tell me, what side of the law did you get your experience from?”
“If I don’t answer that,” Palmer said, “can I still take another piece of chicken?”
“Sure,” Waverly said, “all you want. Only why wouldn’t you want to answer the question?”
“Like I said,” Palmer replied, “the answers are in the letters. And I understand you and the mayor are close. I’m sure he’d show them to you.”
“Could it be you just don’t like to talk about yourself?” Waverly asked.
“Sure, that could be it,” Palmer said. “It could also be I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
Waverly’s face became grim.
“Now there’s no need to get pushy, Marshal.”
“Mr. Waverly,” Palmer said, “let’s put our cards on the table. You invited me here to have a look at the new lawman, see if maybe I’m for sale. I accepted so I could look you over. I heard you were the richest man in the county.”
The Wrong Side of the Law Page 7