the Iron Marshall (1979) (10 page)

Shanaghy put the letters down, and glanced at the notebook. Probably nothing there but he would have to see. The trouble was, he was hungry. He had been up since daylight and had put in a hard morning's work at the smithy. Yet he sat still, thinking.

Tom Shanaghy had never considered himself a bright man. He had not even thought about it. He had survived in a hard, rough world along the Bowery and in the Five Points, and he supposed he was shrewd after a fashion. Most of his problems he had solved with his fists, but they did not help much now. Rig Barrett, now, how about him? Barrett was supposed to be here and was not. Yet he was the kind of man to keep appointments. Hence he was either here and hiding out somewhere, or he was not here. If he was not here, he must be unable to be here. And that meant he was either a prisoner, which was unlikely, injured or dead.

His gear had been on the train and in the gondola in which Shanaghy was riding. That meant he had either put the gear there himself, and had not followed it, or that the stuff had been thrown there by someone else. Of course, Barrett might have gotten on the train and, for some reason, gotten off again. But that was unlikely, because if he had arranged to travel by caboose he would have gone directly to it.

"The way it looks," Shanaghy muttered, "is that Barrett was headed for the caboose when somebody laid one on him. Probably conked him on the noggin and then tossed his gear aboard a passing train, figuring to leave nothing that would name him when they found the body."

That also looks, he told himself, as though Mr. Rig Barrett is not going to arrive in town, and that means whoever plans to pull something off is going to have mighty little trouble doing it.

There was a sharp rap on the door. Shanaghy got to his feet and opened it. Four men stood there and they all held guns. One of them was Holstrum. "They tell me," the big storekeeper said, "that you have Rig Barrett's shotgun." Shanaghy glanced from one to the other. Nobody needed to tell him that he was in trouble. Just like Lundy had told him. He started to step forward and their guns lifted. One of them held a rope in his hand.

Chapter
Seven.

Tom Shanaghy was in trouble, but he had been in trouble before. He smiled, suddenly, thinking that he could remember few occasions when he had not been in trouble.

"That's right," he replied cheerfully, "I do have his shotgun. When he knew I was coming out here he said I might need it."

That was a lie, of course, but what he needed now was to keep himself from being hung, and he gave them the most likely story. They had already suggested that he might be the man to take Rig's place, so what better story than that Rig had actually sent him?

"Rig sent you? You know him?"

"Let's put it this way. Rig Barrett isn't here. I am. You need a man to take his place. I can do it. You want Drako fired, and I can do that, and will do it." Shanaghy smiled again, at the thought. That, at least, he would enjoy doing.

"You mean to stop Vince Patterson?" Holstrum demanded. "You think you can?" "It isn't Vince I'm worried about, gentlemen, nor was it Vince who worried Rig Barrett. Rig was quite sure he could talk to Vince and could reason with him. I mean to try the same thing."

"If he wasn't worried about Vince," Holstrum demanded, "then what did worry him?"

Now he had him. Rig had gone to Kansas City because of some suspicion he had, yet what that was Shanaghy did not know. He reached for the first thing that came to mind, and the moment it shaped into words Shanaghy was sure he had hit upon it.

"What worried him," Shanaghy paused, then suddenly decided to keep his mouth shut, "was something else entirely, but I am not free ... I can't betray his confidence. Yet have no fear now. I shall handle it." Yet all the time Shanaghy kept in mind that eastbound train that would get him out of all this. Would it come in time? Would he be able to get away? Whatever else he had done, he had now made them unsure. So he spoke up with confidence. "Now, gentlemen, I am hungry. I want to eat and then get back to the smithy. But choose your time and if it is me you wish to be marshal here, let me know. I have work to do."

They turned to go and suddenly an idea came to Shanaghy. He said to Holstrum, "You know something of the railroad operations here. Is it customary to have a railroad detective riding the trains?"

Holstrum shook his head. "Never heard of such a thing. There's been no theft from freight cars, and we've had no goods lost." When they were gone Shanaghy put his things together on the bed, then went down the stairs. This would be a good place to be away from if Rig Barrett did show up.

But that man who kicked him off the train? Just who was he? "Shanaghy," he told himself, "you've come upon something. That was no railroad bull, that was somebody who wanted you off the train for fear of what you might see. And what might that have been, lad? What, indeed?" Whoever he was, Shanaghy owed him one, but the thought nagged him that something was going on of which he knew nothing. Could that man have been tied in with George and the mysterious lady?

Carpenter himself was in the restaurant when Shanaghy entered. "Wife's sick," he said, "I'm eatin' out." He waved a hand and Shanaghy joined him. "Right where we sit I killed a buffalo, only last spring. Skinned him out right on the spot. "Them times, there was nothing anywhere a man might look on but grass waving in the wind. Now Holstrum has him a corn crop growing, and my wife has a vegetable garden. I tell you, my friend, this will be a town to be proud of! "A few years ago some called this the Great American Desert. They just didn't know soil! This here Kansas country will grow the finest corn, wheat and barley a man could wish for! You mark my words, one day this prairie where only buffalo ranged will feed half the world!

"We have been killing the buffalo. Magnificent as they are, a man must decide what his values are and you can grow no crops where buffalo range. There's no fence will stop them.

"My folks came from Europe and never owned a bit of land to call their own. They were beholden to the lord of the manor for their living, yet before my old father died he owned more than the lord of the manor had. "You see a few poor shacks now, but give us time. We have been shipping buffalo hides and bones to the eastern markets, and now we're beginning to ship beef. Give us a few years and we will be storing and shipping grain." He lifted a finger at Tom. "Shanaghy, we need young men here, young men like you."

"Like me?" Shanaghy's grin was sour. "What do you know of me?" "All we need to know, all we will ever ask. You can do an honest day's work and you take pride in what you do. No man who loves the working of iron as you do can be bad."

Their food was brought and when the waiter had gone, Carpenter said, "The wheels you fitted for Drako? Beautiful! You're a fine craftsman, Tom! A fine craftsman!"

Shanaghy felt himself flushing, and with pride, and embarrassment as well.

Nobody had called him a craftsman before, and he relished the term. "You take pride in your work. You have an eye for the color of red-hot iron such as only the true craftsman has.

"I tell you, Tom, a man who has never taken pride in a job well done is an empty man."

They ate then, and drank their coffee, but Carpenter had set Tom to thinking.

Why not stay, after all?

What did he owe Morrissey, or any of them back east? Morrissey had given him a job when needed, but Tom had repaid him with an honest day's work and no shirking. He had fought Morrissey's enemies and made a few of his own in the process, but what had he to show for it? A little money in the bank, a tribute to his mother's advice.

Surely, there was not a soul there who would miss him past the week. Others had disappeared or gone away, and Shanaghy remembered well how little they were missed.

He could scarcely remember the Bowery for the grass blowing in the wind. Carpenter put down his knife and fork. "Holstrum said you were taking the job as marshal, and that you were sent by Rig Barrett." "In a way," Tom said, "and it doesn't look as if Rig is going to make it in time ... I shall do what he planned to do and ride out to meet Vince Patterson," "You said you did not believe him to be the greatest trouble? What, then?" "At this moment, I am not sure. I trust no man now, although you most of all."

"You won't be leaving on the train?"

Tom hesitated for a long time and then he said, "Not right now. Maybe later." He looked over at the smith. "I shall need a horse for a few days." "I have one ... the blue roan in the corral. There's the rig for him, too." They went back to work then, and they handled their iron. And when the train came in, Tom was standing outside to see it stop. There was, he knew, still time. He could still make it. For a moment he hesitated, then went back into the shop and took off his apron.

"South of here," he asked Carpenter, "are there any ranches?" "Nothing this side of Texas that I know of. Holstrum has a place about seven or eight miles southeast. Nothing but a cabin, shed and a corral. He runs a few head down there and usually has some horses for riding." "Who takes care of the stock?"

"He's got a man there, but the stock doesn't drift much because he has the best grass and water for miles. He's a canny man, Holstrum is. I've a place, too, but not as good as the one he found."

Carpenter considered the subject, then added, "Only other place around is about ten miles west. There's a two-by-four saloon over there and about three dugouts. Drako lives about three miles south of it, he and his boys." "Who makes me marshal?" Shanaghy asks. "If I am to do anything I'd better be wearing a badge ... or have one."

"Greenwood. You go see him. It was him suggested Rig Barrett. Greenwood's had experience with tough towns. He held out for Barrett and I backed him." "What about Holstrum?"

"He was worried we'd get a worse Drako. So were some of the others. I could see his point, because Drako is bad enough."

Greenwood was leaning in his bar in the empty saloon when Shanaghy walked in. He was a pleasant-looking man who seemed to be in his late thirties. He smiled a little when he saw Shanaghy. "Talked you into it, did they? I hoped they would." Shanaghy took the badge Greenwood pushed toward him and pinned it on his shirt pocket. "First time I ever wore one of them," he said. Greenwood smiled. "You'll wear it with pride, son. I know your kind." "My kind?" Shanaghy turned his eyes on him. "Mr. Greenwood, I've been a shoulder-striker for John Morrissey."

"Then you're a tough man, and that's what we need. It was never my luck to know Old Smoke, but I saw him fight once. A rough man, a hard man, and a tricky one when it came to elections, but I never knew him to go back on his word, and I know you will be the same. If there is any way in which I can help, let me know."

Shanaghy hesitated. "I don't know who I can trust."

"Who did you trust in New York?"

"Nobody ... Maybe McCarthy, the smith."

"Then trust nobody here, not even me. Son, in the job you're taking you will stand on your own feet. You will get little help and no thanks from most people. They want the law, but they fear it, too.

"If you need a posse or riflemen, they will be sworn in, but they won't like it. Many men in this town have used guns and some are quite expert. But what a marshal needs is not men who are good with guns, but for himself to be good with men, with handling men.

"Take my word for it, son, a marshal must be judged not by the number of men he has killed in line of duty, but by the tough men he has handled without using a gun, even without violence."

"I don't know whether I am up to it."

"You are. Trust your own judgment of men and of situations. You must stand or fall by your own decisions."

"I think I know who-"

Greenwood lifted a hand. "Don't tell me. Don't tell anybody. Keep it to yourself. Gather your own facts, act upon them as you see fit. If you make a mistake you may be crucified for it. That's the job." "Thanks."

"Let me buy you a drink," Greenwood suggested.

Shanaghy shook his head. "I don't drink."

Greenwood smiled. "Neither do I," he said cheerfully. "I sell it to those who do and I have no moral scruples against drinking, but I myself don't drink." Tom Shanaghy walked back to the street. He was marshal of the town now, and he had no idea what the job paid. Nor did he care. He stood there, looking around. How did a man go about being a marshal? Where did he start? Shanaghy grinned at his own ignorance. He reflected that one job he had was to fire Drako, but that could wait until the former marshall appeared in town wearing the badge.

That came first. Then he must ride down the country and meet Vince Patterson and talk to him before he arrived in town. And he must, if he could, convince Drako that he must stay out of town until the Patterson outfit was gone. His thoughts returned to George. George was staying at the same hotel as he was, but where was she?

He walked down to the railroad station. The depot had three rooms, all connecting and with doors on both sides. The waiting room, which had four benches, the ticket seller's office (the agent was also the telegrapher and freight agent) and the freight room, where freight was held until shipped or picked up, if incoming. On the train side of the depot there was a rough plank platform, already weathered and gray, about sixty feet long. Shanaghy stepped into the station and walked to the window. The agent looked around. He wore a black vest, a white shirt with sleeve-garters, and a green eyeshade. "Somethin' for ya?" he asked. Then he noticed the star. "Hah? You're the new marshal. What's been done about Drako?" "Haven't seen him since they gave me this. I am going to tell him when he rides in."