The Marshal of Whitburg Read online

  He’d also been round and round in his mind about whether he ought to slip out and poke around, see what he could learn. But, short of breaking into the man’s house, further investigation tonight seemed futile.

  Probably all the tension about his situation had warped his sense of proportion and the wise move would be to get some sleep and see what everything looked like in the morning. But sleeping had never come handy to him when he was worried about something.

  Just as the first hint of dawn began to give definition to things in his room, and with the wind moaning almost monotonously under the eaves, he finally did drift into a tense fitful sleep full of ominous dreams.

  When he woke the sun was well up and all he recalled of the dreams was that they were ominous. It felt more like he’d spent the last few hours riding full tilt straight down a mountainside than sleeping, and as he thought of this analogy he wondered if that was what his dreams had been about.

  Still trying to remember and wondering why he couldn’t when he usually could, he washed his face using the bowl of water and ratty towel on the side table and got dressed. Muscles felt sore and the heel of his right hand hurt slightly, puzzling him momentarily, until he recalled the fate of Jack the drunk. Thinking of how Jack’s body had jerked at the thud of Everson’s bullet he felt no desire for breakfast. Once dressed he hefted his gun belt, eyed the Colt in the holster warily as though the familiar old gun had been replaced with a look-alike that might bite him, and then determinedly strapped it on.

  There was a cracked mirror on the wall over the wash basin and without intending to he caught a glimpse of himself in it, startled at how pale and gaunt he looked. To take his mind off that detail, he faced the mirror squarely, looking at the gaunt fellow in it with his hand hovering over his hogleg self-consciously, and had the momentary silly idea of trying to outdraw his own image in the mirror.

  “Fool,” he muttered, turning away.

  Then, just as the image was disappearing from the mirror, he spun on his heel, snapping the gun smartly out of its holster.

  Seemed to him his image got there first. Then he noticed that his trigger finger was tight on the trigger guard rather than the trigger. And his hand was shaking.

  He put his finger in the right place and tried to hold the gun steady. It seemed to shake even more.

  In disgust he jabbed the gun back into the holster, turning resolutely away from the mirror.

  “This ain’t good,” he muttered as he headed for the door.

  The wind was still blowing, gusting along the street sweeping dust into open shop doors, making men hold their hats on, the people walking against the wind lean into it heads down to keep the dust out of their eyes. A rag or two of cloud raced by overhead, but this was a dry wind, not a drop of rain. Lon sought out a feed bin and had a stout breakfast of bacon and eggs and hot, strong coffee.

  Starting to eat it, he felt a lot better. The shakes he’d had since getting up had faded and he could now remind himself that though he was no quick draw artist he was normally fairly accurate with a pistol. Not the kind of accurate that could drive a cork down a bottle neck at fifty paces, but good enough to hit a man at typical gunfight distances most every time.

  As long as his hand wasn’t shaking on account of his having bitten off about six times as much as he could chew.

  But as he thought about it and reasoned with himself, and with the bright sunshine of day making objects and people around him look mundane and normal and unremarkable, it occurred to him that if he was careful to think things through as he went along—used his head a little from time to time—he might get along all right. After all, Everson hadn’t reacted as quickly to Jack barging in as he himself had. And Everson was still alive.

  So far. How long had he been marshal, anyhow?

  The little eatery tent was almost across the street from the marshal’s office, and from where Lon sat he could see the office door. He hadn’t taken this seat by design, but here he was and now the door opened and out came Vern. He was not, it appeared, an official deputy, but a man Everson put in charge of keeping the lid on whatever happened in the dance hall. Lon had the impression Everson owned the dance hall as a sideline, but in any case, Vern seemed to be Everson’s own man, not the town’s.

  And here he came. Maybe he ate breakfast at this same eatery. There were only about three in town, as far as Lon could tell.

  Vern stepped in, ducking under a tied-up wall of the tent. He glanced around, saw Lon and came over to sit across from him. Lon was noticing what an expressionless fellow Vern was. Sometimes the parts around his eyes moved a little, but his mouth stayed just slightly open in a way that made you think that he was always expecting to be perplexed about whatever he was looking at.

  “Mr. Pike?” he asked, very respectfully, his eyes never meeting Lon’s for more than a fraction of a second at a time.

  “That’s me,” Lon prompted, trying to imagine what Vern could possibly want to see him about.

  “Marshal Everson would like to talk to you in his office as soon as you have a chance.”

  “Oh. More about Billy getting shot?”

  Vern hunched his shoulders forward, looked right, then left.

  “I don’t know. He just wants to talk to you.”

  “Let me finish my breakfast.” Lon said.

  “Of course,” Vern said. He was the unsmilingest man Lon recalled having ever met, but he didn’t come over as threatening or dangerous.

  Lon thought Vern might get up and leave having delivered his message, but instead he just sat and waited. Lon finished his coffee and bacon and eggs, wiped his mouth, trying unsuccessfully to guess what this might be about, and stood. Vern stayed right with him, within reach even, as they crossed to the office, where Vern held the door—to make sure Lon went in rather than elsewhere, he had the feeling.

  Everson was sitting behind his desk when Lon entered, but, remarkably, stood at the sight of Lon—holding out his hand, even more remarkably. Beyond these improbabilities, he even opened up in a sort of grudging, uncomfortable, crooked little smile. At least, that’s what Lon guessed he was trying to make.

  Vern slipped obsequiously out through the door to the dance hall, closing it softly behind him.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Everson said, as Lon hesitated at a little distance, waving at the uncompromising, straight-backed, hard-seated oak chair on Lon’s side of the desk. Though the chair’s normal purpose was to make sure the occupier was unable to get comfortable while being interrogated, Everson was now acting as though it was the most inviting chair he possessed. Why?

  “I think I told you all I know,” Lon said, not sitting yet.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Everson happily agreed. “This is about something else. Have a seat.”

  Lon chewed his lip but sat, and Everson sat also, looking grateful to get back off his feet. He leaned forward over his scarred, gun-oil-stained desk and worked his crooked smile for all it was worth. Lon watched him, uncertain.

  “Have a good breakfast?” Everson asked.

  “Sure,” Lon said, trying to figure out why Everson would want him to think he cared half a tinker’s damn about that.

  “Pam’s a good cook,” he said. “Lot of us like that eatery.”

  “Sure,” he said again. It was plain Everson was trying to sweeten him up for something, but possible reasons eluded him.

  Now Everson leaned back, put his hands behind his head, looked at Lon slightly sideways.

  “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about yesterday. I believe I owe you a thanks for what you did. It’s possible you saved my life.” He paused and looked at the ceiling. “I wasn’t in too good a humor yesterday, what with you bringing in Billy dead like that and all. Reckon I didn’t think too much about what you did just then.”

  He cast an appraising look at Lon. Lon rubbed his chin, trying to make up something bland that would sound right, but Everson looked again at the ceiling and went on talking.

 
“Tuft was right,” he said, maybe slightly stiffly. “That was quick work. I doubt Billy would have done any better, maybe not even as well.”

  Lon suddenly got a suspicion of what might be coming but, incredulous, held still.

  “Lon,” Everson said, now looking at him sideways again, “you ever been a deputy before?”

  Well, he’d guessed right, but something smelled a little off about this, like butter that was a bit poor.

  “Never,” he said flatly, which was true, but he thought maybe he’d have said the same thing if it wasn’t, just to see how Everson would react.

  “Don’t matter,” Everson said, sitting forward again, leaning his forearms on the table and looking squarely across at Lon. “You already know I lost my deputy. I need another. A good man. Somebody steady and capable I can trust. Can I trust you?”

  Lon thought that an odd question and decided it was more about dressing up the window than anything else.

  “I guess so,” he said noncommittally. “But why would you pick me? I’m a stranger here. I’ve never been a deputy before. You don’t even know if I can shoot.”

  “I already told you why,” Everson said, maybe a little testily. “Every deputy had to start sometime. Shootin’s important, but not as important as other things. The best lawman I ever met didn’t even wear a gun. Kept order with his fists. He did finally get shot, but if he’d been the fastest draw in the world it wouldn’t have helped him any. He was shot in the back as he slept.

  Just the way I’d like to end my days, Lon thought sourly.

  “I can shoot okay,” Lon said, “but nothing special. I don’t know. I’d have to think about this.”

  “What is there to think about? There’s no big mystery about the job. Mostly it’s just dull unless some cowhands are in town, or somebody finds a little color and comes in to celebrate. Just patrol and keep some sort of reasonable order. Not hard. Most times the minute they see you everything quiets down, and it’s yes sir, no sir and lots of respect. They know you can jail them and spoil their fun.”

  “I guess. I’d still have to think about it. I never thought about being a deputy before.”

  “I got to fill the job pretty quick.”

  “How quick?”

  “By tonight. Don’t want word to get around too much that I’m short-handed. It’ll make it tough to keep the lid on.”

  Lon had a suspicion that there might be another reason but didn’t bring it up. “All right,” he said, “give me the day to think it over. I got to get used to the idea some before I can decide.”

  “By, say, six o’clock, then? That okay?”

  “All right.” He stood up, glad to get out of the chair, though little of his discomfort came from sitting in it.

  Everson rose ponderously to his feet also, held out his hand. Lon shook it and left, the marshal’s idea of an ingratiating smile dancing around in his head like a drop of water on a hot stove.

  Chapter Five

  The wind nearly yanked the door out of his hand when he opened it to go out. He got it shut and turned away and the first thing he saw, far down the street, was Zinnia going into a shop. She didn’t appear to have seen him, but his stomach writhed and knotted like a pinned snake just as though she’d waved to him.

  He stood a moment getting his bearings, hanging onto his hat against the wind, then deliberately turned and went back toward the hotel, thinking longingly about getting his horse and riding away but knowing he wasn’t going to on account of Zinnia. What would she think of him? His palms sweat just trying to imagine it.

  The wind slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the tiny lobby of the hotel, and Scott Warner looked up from his sweeping, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling unlit from the corner of his mouth. He was often to be seen with that same cigarette, never lit. Looked like his idea was to wear it out rather than smoke it.

  “You looking for a job?” Warner asked.

  “Not you, too,” Lon exclaimed before he thought. “I must be the only employable man in town.”

  Warner’s eyebrows lifted, then dropped again. He shrugged and went back to sweeping.

  “So what’s the job?” Lon asked, wondering if he could possibly use taking another job as an excuse not to be marshal or deputy.

  Warner looked up again, moved his lips so the end of the unlit cigarette bounced up and down.

  “Gabe from the livery was just here, said his stable hand left sometime last night. That fellow was never worth anything anyhow. Spent most of his time drinking, left all the work to the boy. Drank more than he made, too. There’s tabs all over town he’s skipped out on. If you want the job, it won’t be hard to get. I told Gabe you looked like a good man.”

  “That was right kind of you,” Lon said, a little surprised he’d made that sort of impression on Warner. “If things weren’t so confounded complicated I’d head for that livery right now.”

  Warner stood his broom in the corner and squinted at Lon questioningly. It was plain he was having trouble figuring what could be complicated for an ordinary man like Lon.

  It wasn’t normally Lon’s way to gab about his problems like a silly schoolgirl, but it now occurred to him that if he became marshal or deputy it might be good to know ahead of time how people like Warner would react.

  “You got a minute to tell me something?” he asked him.

  “A minute?” Warner removed the cigarette. “All I got these days is time.”

  “Well, I got a surprise yesterday, and then another one this morning and I’m not sure what’s going on. Last night, Orville Tuft said he wants to get the town council to make me marshal instead of Everson. Now Everson wants to make me a deputy. Do I look like a lawman to you?”

  Scott Warner’s jaw dropped momentarily, but he covered it well with a bland expression and gave himself a moment to think by turning away to get behind his desk and sit down.

  “Well,” he said, brow furrowing slightly, “you do ask questions like a lawman. And I did hear what happened with Jack. Sounds like it was quick work. Tuft was there, was he?”

  “Yes.”

  “He must have been impressed. I know nobody is too impressed with Everson. You know what I think of him—scared to go after the holdup artists.” He paused, squinting into the middle distance as though he were watching a massacre going on there. “I don’t know why Everson would want to hire you other than that he was impressed, too.” But he said it like he didn’t half believe it.

  “If it was you, would you take one of those jobs?”

  Warner looked at him quickly, startled. “I’ve had enough of them kinds of doings. Besides, I’m not a kid anymore and I’m crippled up some. No good in a lawman.”

  “That business with Jack,” Lon said, “it wasn’t all that big a deal, you know. I was the one facing the door he came through. Everson was back-to. I saw the gun and it looked like Jack was going to use it and I just made a dive at him, got lucky and knocked it loose and down we went on the floor. I was still trying to get his arms pinned when Everson shot him.”

  Warner nodded, looking at him with his lips pressed firmly together. “Jack was no loss,” he commented. “But he was dangerous. Most people wouldn’t have done anything. It could as easily have been you dead as him.”

  “I guess,” Lon said, not having thought of it quite that way. “If I were to take one of those jobs, how do you think it’d go over in town? I’m a stranger. I don’t know anybody, really. Will there be people who’ll figure their toes got stepped on?”

  “I don’t know about that. I don’t see why anybody would care that way.”

  “Doesn’t Everson have friends? People who would be upset if he got replaced?”

  “Everson? Friends?” Warner gave a lop-sided half-grin. “I can’t imagine it. No, I’d guess you’d start off with goodwill. But if you’re worried about it, take the deputy’s job.”

  “You said you wouldn’t take either job because you’ve seen all of those kinds of doings you care to. What’
d you mean by that?”

  Warner’s eyes got a faraway look. “Just a lot of stuff in the past,” he said.

  “You told me before that that stage driver who got held up wanted you to go after the road agents. Was it because you’d been a lawman once?”

  Warner blinked. “Maybe you ought to take one of those jobs,” he said. “You’re pretty sharp. Yes, I was a U.S. marshal for a while in my younger days. Then something happened and I quit.”

  “What was that?”

  “It wasn’t good. Never could decide if it was my fault. Man died.”

  “It got you into trouble?”

  “Only with my conscience. If you take one of those jobs, don’t cross your conscience. If you do you’ll have to live with it the rest of your life.”

  Lon left this conversation with considerably mixed emotions. Warner had helped relieve one set of worries—partly, anyhow—but had added new weight to another. It had come into stark relief in his mind that anything that went wrong in town which he failed to head off when he should have would forever after be his fault. What did he want with a job that set him up for that?

  He’d gone into his room, but it seemed stifling and cramped as he went back out onto the street and walked up and down the length of town restlessly, squinting against the dust, feeling it gritty between his teeth despite not being aware of having opened his mouth to let it in, going over and over everything trying to sort out what to do.

  Every time he passed the bank he hesitated, willing himself to go in because, for all his ruminating, he knew all along how this had to come out. It was just working up the courage to face it that took all the effort.

  He also kept his eye on both Tuft’s house and the street, hoping Zinnia would appear again. He wondered vaguely if he’d become unhinged over this girl.

  Now here he was again in front of the bank. He stopped this time, looking over the imposing front of the place, stoking the fires of his resolution.

  Then his legs moved and he went up the steps and inside.