The Marshal of Whitburg Page 3

  Now he allowed himself a glance at Zinnia, which was a mistake because all it took was one glimpse of her beautiful face animated with what appeared to be extraordinary interest in his every word and the spokes of his spinning mind blurred like those of a wheel on a sulky drawn by a fast horse.

  Of course, it was just her way, certainly. She probably looked the same when she swept the floor or emptied the garbage. If she ever did such things at all.

  “... incompetent, I say,” Tuft was going on. “It may interest you to know, Mr. Pike, that I happen to be chairman of the town council here in Whitburg and at the next meeting, which is tomorrow night, I intend to raise with the others the possibility of relieving Everson of his duties.”

  “I could see where you might want to discuss that,” Lon said noncommittally. “This stew is excellent, by the way,” he added, glancing at the stolid cook. At that her eyebrows shifted upwards ever so slightly and she stepped nearer and made as though to serve him more.

  He nodded, smiling at her, wondering if she knew that the reason he felt like smiling had more to do with Zinnia than with the stew, much less the cook, but if so she remained just as stolid and unmoved by it as by anything else.

  “Mr. Pike,” Tuft asked, his voice growing serious, “what brings you to Whitburg, may I ask?”

  He was reluctant to talk about his job hunting lest discussion of the mundane sorts of work he was fit for cut short any illusion in Zinnia’s mind about how worthy a man he was. So he said, “Just passing through,” and left it at that. Which wasn’t a lie since he’d only intended to stay long enough to earn a few dollars.

  “Through to where?” Zinnia asked, catching him off guard.

  To the mountains where gold had recently been found was the answer to that question, but he didn’t want to spark an image in her mind of mangy burros and broken-down prospectors chewing cheap tobacco.

  Tuft was leaning toward him earnestly, his eyes intent on Lon’s face. “Could your business elsewhere wait a while?” he asked. “I have an important reason for asking.”

  “I—well, I suppose.” He felt disoriented by the question. What was Tuft’s interest in what his business was?

  “Mr. Pike, I still can’t get over how quickly and effectively you reacted to that man with the gun. Do you have professional experience with that sort of thing? Perhaps you’ve been a town marshal somewhere, or something like that?”

  “Not really,” he said uncomfortably, now seeing what Tuft might be after and wanting to head it off. He was thinking of the time he’d been made a temporary deputy as part of a posse and how they’d gotten into a sizable gun battle that left four dead—and how the men they were after had gotten away. He didn’t want any more experiences like that one.

  “I just saw the gun coming up and jumped to knock it aside,” he said. “It wasn’t that difficult. Anybody might have done the same.”

  “No, not anybody, Mr. Pike. That was cool work. You know my opinion of Everson. How would you like to take his place?”

  Lon came close to choking on a chunk of beef. He’d thought Tuft was after him to be part of a posse. What in the world would make Tuft think he was qualified to be marshal?

  In his amazement he found his eyes going to Zinnia. Her gaze was fixed on him so intently he glanced quickly away as though he’d been looking into the sun.

  “Mr. Tuft,” began, and stopped, unable to sort out either his words or his thoughts. “I’m not sure ...” he tried again. He was aware that had Zinnia not been there he would have promptly turned the crazy idea down and been done with it.

  So what was he going to do, take a job he didn’t want and wasn’t qualified for to impress a pretty girl?

  “You will do it, won’t you, Mr. Pike?” asked Zinnia earnestly. “If you do we’ll all feel so much safer.”

  Chapter Three

  Afterwards, he could never quite remember having actually said yes. But yet he must have since he did remember Zinnia’s delighted reaction.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Mr. Pike!” she had said. “I knew you wouldn’t leave us to our fate! It’s been such a long time since I’ve felt safe going out of the house, but now I shall.”

  The enormity of what he had just taken on started to sink in the moment she said that. Thinking of it now, lying on his back on the shabby bed in a room in the one shabby little hotel in town, he recalled being aware that that was the moment to back out, to think better of it, to explain that he didn’t have the qualifications, and so on. But the moment had passed and he’d said nothing.

  Shortly after, he’d left, Tuft all smiles, giving him a twenty gallon handshake this time.

  So here he was lying on his back studying the water-stain patterns on the ceiling, all of which looked ominous by the dim light from the chamber lamp turned low. He kept wanting to go get his horse and ride. The marshal’s job would be everything he wanted to avoid. Every fight in town would be his business to straighten out. And lots of people would hate him just because he was the law. He’d hated lawmen for not much better reason himself, one time or another.

  And Zinnia thinking she’d be able to go anywhere safely! He couldn’t possibly guarantee her safety. Or anybody’s. Even his own.

  And of course Everson was going to like this idea. He might like it well enough to make a point of undermining the new marshal. Probably if Whitburg was the same as most towns Everson would have supporters, and they’d automatically become Lon Pike’s political enemies. He recalled a town in Dakota Territory that had switched marshals and feelings ran so high two men were shot dead and seven more wounded in the settling of the issue. What guaranteed something similar wouldn’t happen here?

  He ought to go back and talk to Tuft. He really should. Tell him the potential problems that were going to be set up. Tuft seemed a reasonable man. All he wanted was more efficiency in the marshal’s office. Perfectly sensible thing to want. But in a situation like this you had to think things through and act with care.

  He actually got out of bed and started to put his boots on back on—he was still fully dressed otherwise—before an image of Zinnia rose in his mind: she’d looked so pleased—so relieved—at the idea that she was going to be safe now. He stopped putting on his boots trying to think how to explain to her why he wasn’t capable of making her safe after all.

  In a few minutes the boots came back off, were slammed onto the floor in disgust, and he lay down again on the bed.

  Deliberately he pulled in a long breath, held it five seconds and then slowly let it back out again, trying to shake off the tension and lurking hints of desperation. First of all, it hadn’t actually happened yet. Just because Tuft wanted to change marshals it didn’t mean the rest of the councilors wanted to. Maybe it wouldn’t happen and his mistake wouldn’t have the repercussions he’d been starting to outline in his mind.

  That wasn’t how Tuft told it, though. He’d said he was certain they’d make the change because nobody had been satisfied with Everson for quite some time. It was just that they’d had nobody to replace him with. Until now.

  In fact, Tuft had been so confident of the outcome of a council vote on the thing that he’d suggested Lon might want to start tracking the bank robbers immediately.

  Already the bank robbery was his problem as far as Tuft was concerned. He thought of Billy with a bullet hole in his forehead. There could easily be one in his own forehead soon.

  Well, there was no way he was going to track anybody in the dark.

  Of course, if he were of a mind to he could be up there at the place where he’d seen them last waiting for first light.

  And ride that trail up the cliff at night?

  He’d have to do that and worse if he became marshal.

  And to think that this all came of making a fool of himself over a girl. It was hard to believe. It wasn’t like him. Well, not usually, anyhow.

  But there had been that dancing light in Zinnia’s eyes as she laughed. And such earnest faith in him ...
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  “Hmph,” he said irritably, and rolled onto his side. This was a serious business he’d gotten himself into. It was time to get his wits about him.

  So, okay, he had made a fool of himself. And hadn’t the wit to figure out how to back out of the thing honorably. That meant the only thing left was to go forward and try to make a credible job of the business. And try to avoid winding up dead. And avoid somebody innocent winding up dead.

  Like Zinnia, for instance.

  In the distance he could still hear the tinny dance hall piano. Under normal circumstances he would have welcomed this sound of civilization but now it irritated him. Even the occasional clopping of hooves when somebody rode by in the street below his window got on his nerves.

  Restless, he went to the window and sat in a chair looking out, just for a change. Light spilled here and there into the dark street. But all he could think of was how the safety of the people out there living their lives—working, dancing, singing, arguing, drinking, playing poker, sleeping—would suddenly be his responsibility the moment he became marshal.

  Sitting grimly in the near-dark he tallied up his meager assets against the possibility of making deadly mistakes. He could use his fists with fair effect, but he was no prize fighter. With a knife he was nothing more than the average man. With a rifle he was a pretty fair marksman—if he had lots of time to set up the shot. With his Colt ...

  There was Everson coming out of Gabe’s leading a horse. He was sure it was him. There was no mistaking the distinctive shape. And now the light from the open livery doorway fell across the marshal’s jowls—no mistake at all who it was.

  Very sharp, Marshal Pike, mocked an inner voice. Maybe you can deduce whether he’s making his rounds or just going home to bed.

  But suppose he was going in pursuit of the bank robbers? Could he be? After all? In the dark?

  If he couldn’t track them by day, would he try it at night?

  But there was something about the thing that stuck in Lon’s craw. He wanted to know about this. For if Everson was going after the bank robbers, it would mean he’d misjudged the man—and so had Tuft, perhaps.

  He hauled on his boots as quickly as he could and went downstairs and out the door. Everson was mounted now and riding at a walk south out of town.

  Lon would have liked to casually stop and talk to him, but that chance was past. Running after him hollering seemed the wrong approach.

  He stood there in the dark getting a glimpse of the man now and then as he rode through light spilling out somebody’s window. There was something about the marshal’s manner that nagged at him, yet he couldn’t place it.

  At the moment there were no other horses in the street and the night was quiet. He could hear the slow clip-clop of the marshal’s horse receding.

  Then it stopped. The marshal was in the dark out of sight. Lon listened intently, heard nothing.

  The clip-clopping started again, then sped into a canter and receded from earshot.

  Seemed not to be making his rounds. So he was likely going home to bed. He’d stopped at the edge of town to take a last look and listen and make sure there was nothing to keep him and then he’d ridden for home.

  That made the most sense.

  When he went back inside he stopped at the front desk, behind which a played-out, game-legged ex-cowboy named Scott Warner sat cleaning a pistol.

  “Marshal live out of town?” Lon asked him.

  Warner looked up at him appraisingly.

  “No,” he said. “Down the street to the right about a hundred yards. Hard by the dry goods store. What you need him for?”

  “Well, he just rode out the other way. I wondered if he was going home for the night.”

  “Everson? Hard to say with him what he’s doing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Comes and goes all hours of the day and night. Don’t know when he sleeps.”

  “Maybe he’s gone after the bank robbers.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  Warner gave him a slight smile. “Scared of ’em.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve seen him wade into pretty dangerous fights in saloons sometimes and he never seems to hesitate. But for some reason he never quite goes after these robbers. Maybe he knows more about ’em than we do.”

  “What do you know about them?”

  “The robbers? Not much. Just that there’s two of them. They say they’re brothers. But nobody knows their names. I’ve seen ’em once, a long ways off, riding away. They held up the stage a few miles east of here. I happened to be riding out that way a distance behind the stage. Of a sudden I come around a bend in the trail and there’s the stage with people standing around it palavering and pointing. And away off on down the trail I seen a pair of riders making off full tilt. I’d got there just after the holdup. Stage driver wanted me to go after ’em, but hell, I’m all stove up, and my horse was pretty poor anyway.”

  “Seems like everybody’s got a reason not to go after them.”

  Warner’s face darkened momentarily. He sighted down his pistol barrel. “I did go after ’em,” he said mildly. “I rode for six hours and never saw them again.”

  “Guess I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” Lon apologized. “This was in daylight?”

  “I quit when it got dark.”

  “Were you tracking them?”

  “Sort of. They might have got off the trail and I’d never have known it, though. They had fast horses and I figured they had no reason to leave the trail on account of me, so I didn’t go looking.”

  “Anybody else ever try to go after them besides you?”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of. One stage driver tried to get the drop on them and was shot dead for his trouble. That was the better part of a year ago.”

  “I gather there have been a fair number of holdups. Everson claims he’s about worn out his saddle trying to catch these two, even went after them with a posse at least once. Are you telling me he’s lying?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. He might have looked some, though I never heard of any posse. His deputy followed them this last time—I guess you know as much about that as anybody. Everson would sometimes ride and be gone a while, but never seemed to be in a hurry to get started, and always came back saying how hard they were to track.”

  “How much has been stolen, altogether?”

  “Oh, thousands worth. I don’t know exactly. Sometimes they got a money shipment, sometimes not. They’d take whatever anybody on the stage had.”

  “You’d think there’d be plenty of people with good reason to do something about all this.”

  “Well, you know how most folks are. Easier to complain than actually take action. And Everson makes out that it’s only a matter of time and he’ll nail them in the act.”

  “Think he will?”

  Warner sighted down his pistol barrel again—he’d been swabbing it—then set it on the battered desk.

  “If I was him and I was serious about catching those road agents I’d watch the place they hold the stage up. It’s always the same. I’d be there whenever the stage comes or goes. Especially goes since they hit it most of the time after it leaves town.”

  “And he never has?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s usually sitting in front of his office tipped back in his chair with his hat down over his eyes.”

  “He ever send Billy to watch?”

  “Don’t think so, though I can’t be sure as to that.”

  “Everson doesn’t sound any too competent.”

  “It’s like I say. He’s afraid of them.”

  Lon went back up to his room, undressed, put out the lamp, and got into bed. In the dark, all his forebodings came back and for some time he fought demons. If Everson was afraid of these holdup men, what chance against them would he have?

  He didn’t know how long he’d lain there sleepless, tossing and turning and looking for a way o
ut that didn’t exist, when he heard plodding hoof falls. He leaped from the bed and went to look out the window.

  And sure enough, it was the marshal. Lon suddenly realized that he could have been fairly sure the marshal wasn’t going after the robbers just by the fact that he’d had no bedroll on behind.

  What he did have, though, were a pair of hefty black saddlebags that rode as though there was weight in them.

  He remembered them hanging from Everson’s saddle when he left town—but had they rode then as though loaded?

  He didn’t think so, but couldn’t say for sure.

  Everson bypassed the livery, and went on past his office as well and on into the dark. Lon waited and watched. And then threw open the window to listen more carefully.

  He didn’t hear the horse any longer. Maybe he’d gone about as far as the dry goods store next to which Warner had said the man lived.

  There was nothing to see or hear for some minutes. Then here he came back again.

  And when he passed through a patch of light Lon saw the saddlebags were no longer hanging from the saddle.

  Chapter Four

  Lon didn’t sleep much in what was left of that night. Sometime after Everson’s return—it seemed many hours but might have been only one or two—the wind commenced to blow, creaking the building, rattling the windows, slamming a shutter or unlatched door somewhere off down the street. The sound of dance hall pianos was mostly blown away.

  He got up and went to look out. There were few lamp lit windows at this hour, whatever it was. Nobody on the street that he could see, but then he couldn’t see much.

  He’d been over and over the possible significance or insignificance of the saddlebags and Everson going off into the night and had gained no more insight than he’d started with. Everson’s trip was curious, but it didn’t necessarily mean what his feverish imagination was suggesting it might mean.