The Murdock's Law (2 page)
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Once in Missoula I had waited outside a cabin for two and a half hours until the killer who was laying for me got impatient and tried to shoot his way out. I put three slugs in him sight unseen before he reached the door. I could have played it that way this time, except that I was too tired for stealth and too mad to give whoever it was the satisfaction. Instead I kicked the door open and dived in headfirst, sliding on my stomach with my Colt clasped in front of me in both hands. I interrupted a game of solitaire on the bed.
The player, seated on the edge of the mattress, was thin in a sickly sort of way, with pinched shoulders and a sunken chest and hollows in his cheeks that were accentuated by the curve of his reddish side-whiskers. Startled, he dropped the deck and swept aside the skirt of his Prince Albert to get at a small pistol stuck in his waistband.
“Call!” I shouted.
He froze with his hand on the curved butt. I could hear his labored breathing. Slowly he raised his hands to shoulder level.
There was another man standing next to the window, but his hands were empty and clear of his body. For what seemed a long time I lay motionless, the .44 cocked and commanding the middle ground between the two, before the thin man spoke. He had the kind of voice that made you want to clear your throat.
“You always come into a room like that, or is this a special occasion?”
“It varies with my mood.” I got up, keeping them both covered. “Do you always break into other people's rooms just to play cards?”
“No one broke anything,” he said. “The clerk let us in while you were bathing.”
“Nice town. The merchants and the burglars work together. Who goes to jail, the marshal?”
“The responsibility is mine.”
I studied the man at the window. He was small, not much larger than a twelve-year-old boy, but with a large head, and looked so dapper in spats, striped trousers, and a black coat with a pinched waist that I was reminded of a poster I had seen of General Tom Thumb in full uniform standing in the palm of a man's hand. His black hair was combed into a fussy lock on his forehead, which, together with his spadelike chin whiskers and moustache waxed into points, turned him into a junior-size Napoleon III. He had liquid brown eyes.
“I persuaded the clerk to allow us to wait for you in your quarters.” His French accent was guttural.
“It was unseemly for men of our reputation to be seen standing about a hotel lobby. We have tampered with none of your things.”
“It was unseemly for men of our reputation to be seen standing about a hotel lobby. We have tampered with none of your things.”
I said, “Who are you? Just so I can introduce you to Marshal Yardlinger when we get to the jail.”
The thin man chuckled dryly. I glared at him and he fell silent.
“I am Michel d'Oléron, Marquis de Périgueux,” the little man replied, bowing his head slightly and exposing a bald spot like a monk's tonsure. “You may call me Périgueux if you wish.”
“I'll think about it.”
He turned his palm upward, indicating his partner. “The gentleman you found too slow with the firearm is Dick Mather, owner of the Six Bar Six, across which you doubtless rode on your way to Breen. We are both ranchers. As of last month, I control something over two million acres of grassland between Monsieur Mather's property and the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming Territory.”
“That's a bite to chew for someone from Europe,” I said.
He smiled complacently without showing teeth. “It is larger than Corsica and Sardinia combined.”
“Thanks. Now that I've had my geography lesson, I'd appreciate it if you and Dick would pile all your excess iron on the floor at the foot of the bed.”
“But of course. Monsieur?”
Carefully, the emaciated one the Frenchman called Mather drew the derringer from his waistband, got up to place it on the floral carpet, and backed away. I looked at Périgueux.
“I am unarmed, monsieur.
VoilÃ
.” He unbuttoned
and swung open his coat. His vest was yellow silk, with an ornament of red and gold dangling from one pocket.
VoilÃ
.” He unbuttoned
and swung open his coat. His vest was yellow silk, with an ornament of red and gold dangling from one pocket.
“Nice fob,” I said.
He fondled it. “It was presented to me by the late emperor. Unfortunately, military medals have no place in civil life, and so it must serve the purpose of assisting me in learning the time of day. It is all I have left to remind me of a glorious era.”
“Show me the watch.”
He raised his eyebrows. There were traces of gray in them, like dust in snuff. I explained.
“I cornered a rapist in Deer Lodge a couple of years ago who had a derringer attached to a fob like that one. I'm still carrying the ball.”
With a continental shrug, he reached two fingers into the pocket and produced an ornate gold watch with a capital N engraved on the lid, encircled by oak leaves. I nodded. He replaced it.
“You and Louis Napoleon must have been pretty tight.”
“I was a marshal of France.”
“I didn't think the nobility got along with the Bonapartes.”
“It is to them that I owe my title. It was bestowed upon me along with certain lands when I married into the family.”
“Cozy.”
“
Pardon?
”
Pardon?
”
I shook my head and put up the Colt to retrieve Mather's gun from the floor. Unloading it, I placed the cartridges on the writing desk next to the door and returned the piece to its owner. “Now, let's all
have a seat and discuss why I shouldn't turn you over to the marshal.”
have a seat and discuss why I shouldn't turn you over to the marshal.”
“To begin with,” growled Mather, “the marshal takes his orders from us.”
I scaled my hat onto the bed and leaned back against the desk. Périgueux had claimed the room's only upholstered chair, while Mather had resumed his perch on the edge of the bed.
“Isn't that the city council's responsibility?” I asked.
“Indeed,” responded the Frenchman. “In addition to the Six Bar Six, Monsieur Mather maintains controlling interest in two local saloons, which qualifies him for his elected position on the council. I hold no property in Breen. To do so would be just a formality in any case, since I am now the largest rancher in Montana and my word alone carries certain weight.”
Mather was growing impatient. Two feverish spots of red the size of half-dollars showed high on his cheeks. Together with his otherwise sallow complexion and wasted frame, they branded him a consumptive. “Oh, get on with it, Mike!” He nailed me with glistening eyes. “We understand you're a United States marshal.”
“Deputy,” I corrected. “Yardlinger didn't waste any time spreading the word around, did he?”
“It was not he who told us,” interjected Périgueux. “He mentioned it to one of his deputies, who got word to me at the Breen House, where I am staying on business. I decided to send a messenger for Monsieur Mather.”
“All that for little me,” I said.
“Yes.” If the Frenchman had picked up on the sarcasm, he didn't respond to it. “Ever since Marshal Arno's death two days ago we have been discussing what steps we can take to alleviate the current situation, and it would appear that your arrival is most timely. To be succinctâ”
“Too late.”
Again he ignored my bad manners. “We wish to engage your services.”
“We need a town marshal,” Mather said.
“What's wrong with Yardlinger?”
“Monsieur Yardlinger,” said the Frenchman, “is a boy. His experienceâ”
“There are no boys west of the Mississippi.”
Périgueux looked patient. “Yes, we are familiar with your frontier slogans. The fact remains that his experience has not prepared him for the duties of a man in his position. This is not true in your case. Your reputation, Monsieur Murdock, precedes you.”
I used a word I'd learned long ago in the cavalry. Even Périgueux was taken aback. “I do not understand.”
“I don't know how to say it in French,” I replied. “So far I haven't heard anything to change my mind about placing both of you under arrest. Why don't you start by telling me what's coming up that you'd rather I didn't know about until I'm pinned to that pretty gold badge.”
“You see?” Mather told the Frenchman. “We should have come right out with it at the beginning, like I said.”
The Marquis sighed. Why did I have the feeling I was watching a carefully rehearsed play?
“It is not really much of a revelation, since you have been inquiring around about it before this,” he said. “You know that a certain man, a certain gunman, is expected here shortly.”
“Shedwell.”
“Yes. But you do not know why, and neither do we. For some weeks past, there have been difficulties here. Perhaps you have heard something of them in Helena.”
“Range war,” I acknowledged.
“Yes, but only a little one.” He emphasized how little with his thumb and forefinger. “The small ranchers, they are jealous of the big ranchers and the grass and water we control. Until now the situation has been of small consequenceâa fight with the fists between cowboys from different spreads, an occasional bullet through a window, aimed high so that no one is hurt. The presence of a hired killer, however, changes everything.”
“Who's hiring him?”
He spread his delicate hands, hunching his shoulders at the same time in a Latin show of befuddlement. “Your guess is equal to mine, monsieur. Certainly not we. We have our suspicions, of course.”
“I'll bet you do.”
Mather said, “We can't have this kind of thing happening. If the small ranchers start hiring iron we'll have to retaliate, and then we've got a full-scale war on our hands. The next thing you know, the
army will step in like they did in Lincoln County, and then everybody loses.”
army will step in like they did in Lincoln County, and then everybody loses.”
“What do you want me to do? I'm planning to arrest Shedwell anyway.”
“That is precisely what we do not want,” spoke up Périgueux. “These small fry, as I believe they are sometimes called, crave a lesson in competition. As a servant of the federal government, your duty is simply to take him into custody. As city marshal and keeper of the local peace, you would be expected to deliver a somewhat more stringent message to those who would endanger it.”
I invested the better part of a minute picking apart his speech and turning the pieces over in my head before I grinned and said, “Mr. Marquisâ”
“Please. Périgueux.”
“That's got to be the politest way anyone ever tried to hire someone else to kill a man.”
The mood in the room changed, grew lighter. The pair exchanged triumphant looks. Said the Frenchman: “Then may we assume that we have reached accord?”
“You may assume that if you aren't out of this room in two minutes I'll pump you both so full of lead you'll reach the lobby without using the stairs.”
There was a very long pause. It might have gone even longer had not someone knocked at the door. I looked questioningly at Périgueux, who shook his head stiffly. His face had turned the color of old blood. I called out to the visitor to identify himself.
“Messenger, sir,” came the muffled reply from the hallway. “Telegram for Deputy Murdock.”
Some more time went by. I was still looking at the
Marquis. “If he has anything in his hand besides a telegram, you'll get the answer quicker than anything Western Union ever delivered.”
Marquis. “If he has anything in his hand besides a telegram, you'll get the answer quicker than anything Western Union ever delivered.”
I drew the Colt and sidled up to the door, opening it at arm's length with my back to the wall. A boy in worn overalls leaned in to stare at me around the jamb. He was holding an envelope and nothing else. I holstered the gun to accept it and gave him too much money to make up for feeling like a jackass.
“I had to make sure no accidents were arranged in case I turned you down,” I told the ranchers, after the boy had gone. I tore open the envelope. The wire was brief, the way the Judge liked them.
HAVE BEEN NOTIFIED DEATH MARSHAL ARNO STOP YOU WILL PERFORM DUTIES HIS OFFICE UNTIL PERMANENT REPLACEMENT SELECTED
HARLAN BLACKTHORNE
I met Périgueux's gaze above the margin. He read the gist of the message in my expression.
“We took the liberty of wiring your superior before coming here,” he explained. “We had no idea at the time that you would react so strongly to our little proposition. You will disregard the directive, of course.” He got up and retrieved a malacca stick from the corner next to the window. “Monsieur Mather?”
“Just a minute,” I said. “Where do I go to get sworn in?”
Mather's narrow face grew blotchy again. Périgueux studied me closely, his disproportionately large head tilted back to peer up at me.
“Your jest goes unappreciated.” He forgot to say “monsieur.”
“The gentle folk call me a maverick,” I explained. “It's a polite way of saying I don't know who my father is. Rules are not something I pay a great deal of attention to. But I'm not thickheaded enough to ignore a direct order, especially not when it's in writing.” I rattled the paper.
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