the Iron Marshall (1979) (7 page)

Rig? Rig Barrett?

"Last word we had he was in Kansas City. That was last week."

"He may be here, scoutin' around. You know how he is, never makes any fuss." "I'm worried, Judge. You know what Vince Patterson said, and Vince ain't a man who blows off a lot of hot air. Last I heard he was hirin' hands down around Uvalde and Eagle Pass, tough hands. Joel Strong rode in a few days ago and he said Vince had hired twenty-five men ... Now you know he doesn't need more than half that many to bring twenty-five hundred head over the trail. So why's he hirin' so many men?"

"Maybe worried about Indians."

"Him? Vince would tackle hell with a bucket of water. No, this time he figures to get even. When his brother was killed, Vince promised us he'd be back." "He can't blame the whole town for that."

"He does, though. Vince is a tough man and he doesn't fool around. Rig Barrett could make him see the light, but you know and I know that Vince won't back down for no man."

The judge sipped his coffee, then lit a cigar. "I know Vince. He's a hard man, all right. It takes hard men to do what he did. He came out from Kentucky and started roping and branding cattle. He made friends with some Indians, fought those who wanted to fight, and he built a ranch. He worked all by himself, the first two years. Then his brother came out and worked and fought right beside him. That was the brother Drako killed."

Drako?

Tom Shanaghy heard only snatches of the conversation from there on, no matter how he strained his ears. He was curious, naturally. Rig Barrett had evidently planned on riding that freight west and somehow had gotten off again and left his gear behind ... But why should such a man ride a freight? To come into town unseen? Maybe, but Rig didn't seem like a man who would care. He might even want the townspeople to see him arrive.

So what had become of him? Shanaghy wished there was a train that night. Right away. He began to feel hemmed in. His old friend of the shooting galleries had told him much about the West. If you shot a man in a fair fight there was no argument. If you shot a man in the back, or murdered him otherwise, you could get hung. You had a choice ... run or be hung.

If Shanaghy was found with the shotgun and blanket-roll that belonged to Rig, he would be presumed guilty.

He finished his coffee and got up, then paid for his meal and left. Two-bits ...

Well, that wasn't too bad. And the food was good. The air was fresh and cool in the street and there were few people about. The sound of the blacksmith's hammer drew him forward and he strolled down the street.

The wide doors of the shop were pushed back. The fire on the forge glowed a dull red, and there were several lanterns hung about to give light. The smith glanced up as Shanaghy stepped into the door.

"Workin' late," Shanaghy commented. "Buy you a drink?"

"Don't drink."

"Well, neither do I. Have one now and again." He glanced at the work the smith was doing. "Makin" a landside? I haven't made one of those in years. Seen my pa do it many's the time."

"Are you a smith?"

"Now and again. My pa was a good one."

"Want a job?"

Shanaghy hesitated. "I'm leavin' town tomorrow night, but if you're crowded with work I could work nine, ten hours tomorrow. What is it, mostly?" "Shoeing horses, a couple of wagons to fit with new tires, some welding." "I can do that. I'm not experienced with plows or plowshares. I've been living in New York City and it has been mostly shoeing, driving or riding horses ... putting tires on a few wagons and buggies."

"You come in at six o'clock, you've got a day's work. Wish you could stay. I've got enough work for three men, and everybody wants his work done right now." The smith mopped his brow. "Here," he pulled an old kitchen chair around. "Time I took a rest. You set for a while. New York, eh? I've never been there." "You got you a tire-bender?"

"Heard of them. Are they any good?"

"Some of them. I never saw one until last year, but a mighty good smith I worked with in New York, name of McCarthy, he used one. Liked it." "Maybe I should get one. Might save some time."

"Been smithing here long?"

"Long? Hell, I started this town! Man down the road a piece saw my gear when I was passin' along the trail, and he asked me if I could bend a tire. Well, I did four wagons for him, and meanwhile several people brought horses to be shod. "Out here folks do most of their own shoeing, but it leaves a lot to be said for it. Most of them do a pretty slam-bang job of it. "Well, I worked there for about two weeks and then I moved back under that big cottonwood, and between times I put up a shed. Then old Greenwood came along with a wagon loaded with whiskey, and he pulled in and began peddling drinks off the tailgate of his wagon.

"I'd taken the trouble to claim a quarter section, so he was on my land. I told him so and he made me no argument but started paying rent. Then Holstrum came in, and he found where my quarter ended and filed on the quarter section right alongside. He put in his store and we had a town. "Today we've got the stockyards and the railroad, so there's eighty-odd people livin' here now."

"Much trouble?"

"Some ... Them Drakos are trouble. They settled down over west of here. There's the old man and three, four boys. Unruly. That's what they are, unruly. Greenwood, Holstrum an' me, why we want this here to be a town. We got it in mind to build a church and a school ... maybe both in one building until we can manage more.

"We made a mistake there at the beginning. We chose Bert Drako for marshal and he straightened out a few bad ones who drifted in ... killed one man. "Then it kind of went to his head. That killing done it, I guess. He's got to thinking he's the whole cheese hereabouts. Him and those boys of his. They've begun to act like they owned the town, and we don't need that. Don't need it a-tall! This here's a good little town.

"Four or five of us got together and formed ourselves a committee. We've transplanted several small trees to start a park, and we're diggin' a well in our spare time ... a town well, and then one for the park, too." He got up. "Well, back to work. If you're still of a mind to do some smithing, you come around. I'll be in here shortly after sunup." Tom Shanaghy walked back uptown and stopped in front of the hotel. For a moment he stood there, looking up and down the dim street, lighted only here and there by windows along the way.

He shook his head in disbelief. This was a town? It was nothing, just a huddle of ramshackle frame buildings built along a railroad track, with nothing anywhere around but bald prairie. Yet the smith had sounded proud, and he seemed to genuinely love the place. How, Shanaghy wondered, could anybody? As for himself, he couldn't get out of it fast enough. He would help the smith tomorrow, as it would serve to pass the time. Besides, he liked the feel of a good hammer in his hand, the red-glow from the forge and the pleasure of shaping something, making something. Maybe that was why these people liked their town, because they had built it themselves, with their own hands and minds. He went upstaiife, turned in and slept well, with a light spatter of rain to aid his slumber and cool things off. Awakening in the morning he thought of the letters and papers in the blanket-roll. He should look at them, as there might be some clue in them as to Rig Barrett and what had happened to him. The sun was not yet up, although it was vaguely gray outside. He lay still for a while, gathering his wits and somewhat uncomfortable. The bed was good enough, and the fresh prairie air through the window was cool and pleasant. The discomfort, he realized, was only within himself, yet he could find no reason for it.

Oddly, New York, to which he would be returning, seemed far away and he had a hard time placing it all in his mind. Every time he tried to bring the city within focus, it faded out, and the feeling irritated him. He bathed, dressed, prepared his things for a quick departure, and then went down to breakfast. The citizens of the town ate at home, and only transients such as himself ate at the hotel. On this morning there was only one other person in the dining room ... a young woman wearing a gray traveling outfit, a very cool and composed young woman who took him in at a glance and then ignored him.

She was quite pretty, an ash-blonde with very regular features. Obviously awaiting someone, she was impatient now, and she glanced often at a tiny watch she carried in her purse. Curious, Shanaghy took his time, wondering whom she was to meet and what such a girl was doing in this place. He knew little of women. Most of those he knew had been the girls off the Line or those who walked the streets on the Bowery, and he knew them only by sight or the casual contacts made in dance halls where he went often to collect for Morrissey, who owned several.

It was early for such a woman to be around. Had she come in from the country? That was unlikely. Had she got off a train? The first of the day had not arrived yet.

A new man entered. He was slim and dark, wearing a Prince Albert coat and a planter's hat. He was neat, his gray vest spotless, the striped gray pants hanging down over highly polished boots.

Shanaghy glanced at him. Though he had never seen the man before, he knew the type, a con man and a four-flusher. He was smooth and handsome, with a face that seemed to have all the right lines but somehow missed something. The girl started up, then sank back. "George! Of all people!" She acted surprised, but Shanaghy was sure this was the person she had waited for. Why the act then?

Shanaghy refilled his cup. The smith could wait just a little longer.

Chapter
Five.

Whatever was happening here was none of his business, but Shanaghy knew breeding when he saw it, and the girl had it. The man did not. He was simply a flashy tough who had put on the outward manners of a gentleman, and Shanaghy knew that something was in the wind.

Seeming to be unaware of them, he accepted a plate of steak and eggs from last night's waiter. Scarcely had the waiter gone when Shanaghy heard George say, "Don't worry, ma'am. I promised you he'd never get here and he will not." "But what if they get someone else?"

The man shrugged. "There's nobody else. Barrett had the reputation, and he knew how to handle such situations. With him out of the picture it will happen just as we want it to."

After that there was only an overheard word here and there, but Shanaghy understood nothing. Barrett must be Rig Barrett, but how could George be sure Rig would not show up?

The couple turned suddenly to look at him, but he was seemingly oblivious to their conversation and they could not know they had spoken loud enough to be overheard. Anyway, from Shanaghy's dress he was obviously not native to the town, but a stranger.

Despite himself, he was puzzled. Who were these people? Why was it important to them that Rig Barrett not be present? And how could George be so sure Rig would not show up ... unless he had made sure he would not? Murder? Why not, if the stakes were great enough? But what stakes could be, in such a place as this? Yet ... Shanaghy didn't know. This country was new to him and he did not know where the money was.

Cattle, someone had said. Grazing land. There was a shortage of beef in the eastern states. He had heard talk of that. Yet if it was cattle, where were they? And why was it necessary for Barrett to be out of the picture? Tom Shanaghy was a cynic and a skeptic. The world in which he had lived in New York was a world where only the dollar counted. If people were after something, it had to be money or a commodity that could be turned into money. Such a girl as this was not meeting such a man unless there was money in it. No doubt she thought she was using him, and probably he believed he was using her. Cattle came from Texas. Vince Patterson was coming up from Texas with cattle. He was coming to revenge himself upon the town where Drako had been marshal. Hence it was possible that this girl was somehow connected with Patterson, or hoped somehow to profit from his arrival in town. Too bad he was leaving for New York. He would like to see what happened.

He got up, paid for his meal and walked down the street to the blacksmith shop. The smith was using the bellows on his fire. "Couple of wheels to be fitted with tires," he commented. "Hank Drako's wagon. He brought it in last week and was mad when I wouldn't fit the tires right off. Now I know Hank. He fords three little streams coming in here, and in one of them he always pulls up in midstream to let his horses drink. So while he's settin' there those tires and wheels are soaking up water. You can't fit a tire unless the wheel is all dried out and I told him he'd have to leave it. He was mighty put out about it." He pointed with his hammer. "There's the wheels. I made the tires. You go ahead and fit them."

Shanaghy took off his coat and shirt and hung them on nails inside the smithy. Then he built a circular fire outside in the yard at a place where such fires had been built before. When he had a small fire going, he laid the tire in it and put some of the burning sticks on top to get a more uniform heat. After a few minutes he tried the iron with a small stick and, after a few more minutes, tried it again. This time the stick slipped easily along the tire as if oiled, and a thin wisp of smoke arose from it.

In the meantime he had placed the wheel to be fitted on a millstone, fitting the hub into the center hole. Putting the tire in position, Shanaghy pried it over the wheel with a tiredog, aided with a few hefty blows from a six-pound sledge. The tire went into place, the wood smoking from the heat of the iron tire, the wood of the wheel cracking and groaning as the tire contracted. The smith had a rack with a trough in which the wheel could be turned until the tire could be contracted to a tight fit. The cool water in the trough sloshed as he turned. Shanaghy was busy with the second wheel when he heard a horseman ride up. He worked on, conscious of scrutiny, and when he finished driving the tire into place he added a few taps for good measure and then turned. A thin, stoop-shouldered man with a drooping mustache sat on a buckskin horse, watching him. The man wore an old blue shirt, homespun pants tucked into boots, and a six-shooter. He also carried a rifle in his hands. His hat was narrow-brimmed and battered.