Rogue Law Read online

  We entered the mayor’s private office where heavy dark-green drapes cut out the harsh glare of the lowering sun. The mayor closed the door behind us and seated himself behind his desk. Plank and Reg Kent took chairs. I remained standing. I wouldn’t have wanted to soil the furnishings with trail dust.

  ‘What bring you here, Lang?’ the mayor asked with wariness.

  ‘I’ve decided to take the job of town marshal,’ I answered, and for a long minute the only response was silence as the three men communicated with their eyes. I couldn’t read the messages they were passing.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ Mayor Jefferson said cautiously. ‘Yesterday when we offered it to you, you seemed to have no interest at all in the position.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Of course we would have to consider—’ Judge Plank began. He never finished the sentence.

  ‘What is there to consider?’ the mayor asked. He glanced again at Kent. The rancher gave him a small nod. ‘Lang’s experienced, willing—’

  ‘We can’t rush into anything, Calvin,’ Plank said nervously.

  ‘Nothing will be different tomorrow,’ the mayor responded. ‘We still won’t have a town marshal. Unless you know of someone?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that,’ Plank murmured. He took a cigar from his vest pocket, toyed with it and put it away again.

  ‘Kent?’ the mayor asked.

  ‘Have I a vote?’ Reg Kent still wore that charming, humorless smile. He shrugged. ‘I have no objection to Lang taking the job. Somebody has to do it. He’s salty enough, and we know he can use a gun.’

  I don’t know what Kent meant by that remark. I let it slide.

  ‘What would you require, Lang?’ the mayor asked, his faded blue eyes now meeting mine directly. I told him.

  ‘First, your authorization to do the job right,’ I said. ‘The town marshal has never been given a chance in Montero to make a real difference. There are too many privileged types running around. Men who see themselves as above the law.’

  ‘That’s a pretty general demand, Lang,’ Judge Plank commented. ‘What do you mean by “authorization” exactly?’

  ‘I want to know you’re going to back me, Judge. Unless I know that, there’s no sense in me – or anyone else – taking this job. If I am ever guilty of malfeasance, I expect to be fired. Let me do the job my own way and back me up: I can’t do it otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t see—’ the judge began. The mayor cut him off again.

  ‘Plank? You know the direction we want this town to take. We are more or less obligated to clean out some of our cobwebbed corners.’

  Again unspoken messages passed among the three. I didn’t care about that.

  ‘Well?’ I asked.

  ‘We agree to those terms,’ Mayor Jefferson said. ‘What else will you require?’

  ‘I’ll need at least one deputy; I’ve got to sleep sometime.’

  ‘Not Virgil Sly, I hope?’ Reg Kent said.

  ‘No, not Sly. He’s got a job managing the Rafter L for Miss Ullman. I haven’t got anyone in mind yet, but I will need someone to watch my back.’

  ‘What else?’ the judge asked uneasily.

  ‘It’s going to have to be made clear that discharging a firearm in town is a jailable offense. No exceptions,’ I said, focusing my eyes on Kent.

  ‘I assume you’re referring to the incident involving Cheyenne Baker, Indio and Frank Short,’ the cattleman said.

  ‘I wouldn’t characterize the murder of Les Holloway as an “incident”, Kent.’

  ‘I don’t know that they’re responsible for that, and neither do you,’ he said, his eyes challenging and cold. ‘No matter – I’ve fired the three of them and after they’ve finished drinking up their wages, they’ll no doubt drift down the road.’

  That announcement seemed to surprise Judge Plank and Jefferson as much as it did me. There was no way of knowing if it was even true. You never did know with Reg Kent. The mayor wanted to wrap things up. Maybe the smell of that roast cooking was taking his mind in other directions.

  ‘If everything is settled then,’ Jefferson said, rising to his feet.

  ‘It is,’ I told him, ‘except for one last point. I’ll need some kind of line of credit with the bank.’

  ‘I don’t see.…’ the mayor stuttered in confusion.

  ‘The office won’t run itself,’ I said. ‘The rest of you in city government have expenses, don’t you? I need to have a source for petty cash, too. I’ll need to stable and feed my horse. I’ll need to eat. There are bound to be dozens of small items like printing notices and wanted posters, buying ammunition, meals for prisoners, janitorial work, fresh paint now and then, gunsmith’s fees … any number of things. I can’t be running to you, Mr Mayor, every time some incidental cost arises. I’ll promise to itemize all expenses and submit receipts at the end of each month.’

  ‘Lang’s right,’ the mayor agreed reluctantly. ‘I’ll set something up with Rufus Potter at the bank.’

  ‘Is there anything else!’ Judge Plank asked, more than slightly frustrated with me. I grinned at him.

  ‘Just a badge and the keys to the jail.’

  After I had put on my hat and had the heavy front door shut firmly behind me I stood congratulating myself. I watched the sunset as it painted the sky with wild colors and considered that I had pulled that off rather well. It did matter to me that I had now pinned the tin bull’s eye on myself, but that couldn’t be helped for the moment. Anyway, I had no idea of remaining town marshal any longer than it took for me to see my plans through. I swung onto the sorrel’s back and started back toward town through the settling dusk. I wanted to have another meeting with Bill Forsch.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ was the lawyer’s first reaction when I told him what I wanted.

  ‘I’m dead serious, Bill. If I weren’t, this would be a hell of a lot of trouble to go through for a joke.’

  Forsch sat tilted back in his spring chair, cold cigar in his mouth. He rumpled his hair and attempted a smile. ‘They’ll hit the ceiling, you know.’

  ‘I know it. When they get the bill – but that’s not until the end of the month. By then I expect to be retired from the job as marshal. You just have your bags packed. I’ll check with Potter at the bank in the morning to make sure the mayor has spoken to him about funding the marshal’s office. You should be able to draw your money by then and catch the afternoon stage to Santa Fe.’

  ‘Lang, they just won’t stand for it,’ Bill said worriedly.

  ‘They will have no choice. They may not like it, but what can they do? Bill, they told me I was authorized to draw against town funds for valid expenses. Well, it seems to me that a part of my duties includes investigating suspected fraud.’

  ‘Even when the victim is you.’

  ‘I’m as much a citizen as anyone else. It’s my duty to look into this land theft.’ I wasn’t able to maintain my solemn look. ‘Withdraw what you require for stage fare and for your own expenses. As legal representative for the town government, you’re authorized to do so.’

  ‘You want me to compare the two deeds – yours and Miss Uliman’s, discover if possible why your deed has two hundred more acres than hers, which two hundred they are, keep a sharp eye open for evidence of a fraudulent filing … anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Check out that easement that’s supposed to border the property. Find out where it actually runs. If you can locate them, find the original surveyor’s maps, that might help as well.’

  ‘All right, Lang,’ the attorney said with a sigh. ‘I don’t know where this is all going to lead, but I know it’s bound to take you deep into trouble.’

  That was true, but what did I have now but trouble? Displaced from my property, wearing a badge in a gun-crazy town. A pesky little woman kicking me out of my own house without so much as a thank you!

  I closed Bill Forsch’s office door behind me and stepped out into the purple hush of evening. The saloon
s were still quiet. It was early for the regular drunks to start getting their heads full of nonsense. I would just about have time to get over to the jailhouse and pin my badge on before whiskey-fused tempers started rising and the hell-raising began.

  Or so I thought.

  I would have to stable the sorrel, so I left it tied where it was and walked the short block to the jail-house. Four strides on I reached the alley between the two buildings. Five strides on I heard the man’s voice.

  ‘Hands up! Step back in here, Lang. You’re in my sights.’

  ‘Indio?’ I guessed. I could not see his face in the shadows of the alley. I could, however, make out the gun in his fist.

  ‘What did I tell you to do, Lang? Or do you want to take it right there?’

  I didn’t. Nor did I want to take it in the alley. I considered my options, draw on a man who had me covered, try to dive toward the corner of the building, outracing a bullet. Docilely obey Indio, getting closer to him, maybe finding out that his intentions weren’t as murderous as they seemed.

  I liked none of those options. With resignation I entered the oily-smelling alley and approached the little gunman. ‘What do you want, Indio? A few dollars? I heard you got fired off Hatchet today.’

  ‘That’s news to me,’ the small man with the slicked-back dark hair said, easing toward me. Starlight gleamed in his eyes and shone on the bright steel of his Colt revolver.

  ‘Why don’t you turn around for me, Lang?’ Indio suggested coolly. I was still weighing options, still not coming up with a good one. I didn’t relish the possibility of a .44 slug tearing into my body, and at that range Indio would not miss. I hesitated and he repeated his demand.

  ‘Turn around or I’ll drill you where you stand.’

  I thought he would have already done that if he was going to. I slowly turned, hands held high. In three steps he was to me, slipping my revolver from my holster. I heard it thud against the alley floor as he winged it aside. He wasn’t finished. I felt his free hand patting my shirt and trouser pockets as the muzzle of the Colt remained jammed against the base of my spine.

  ‘If you need a few dollars—’

  ‘Shut up!’ He continued to search me. Slowly it came to me. He was looking for the deed! With the map gone and my deed missing, I hadn’t a leg to stand on. He couldn’t know that Bill Forsch was now holding the deed. Indio was going to be frustrated in his search. Frustrated enough to shoot me where I stood? I knew he had no conscience and a bad temper. And I could smell raw whiskey on his breath. It was a bad combination. His right hand held the pistol. His left was busy frisking me. I couldn’t wait.

  I spun to my left, my left hand coming around to slap the muzzle of his pistol up and away from me as I grabbed his wrist with my right hand. The revolver discharged over my shoulder, the bullet whipping past within inches of my skull.

  My nostrils were filled with gunsmoke. I tried my best to break Indio’s arm, bending it back on itself at the elbow. He screamed in a high-pitched voice. I drove my knee up between his legs and he made another, deep tortured sound and went to his knees as I ripped the Colt from his hand.

  Kneeling in front of me he clutched his groin, looking up at me with angry, savage eyes. He opened his mouth to curse me and I slammed my fist against his ear, sending him toppling to the filthy earth. A muttered curse came from his lips as he tried to rise.

  Taking hold of his belt in back, I yanked him up into a crouch. I dragged him to the head of the alley. He pawed at the earth with boot toes and the heels of his hands, but I kept him moving. A few men, drawn by the shot, had emerged from the Golden Eagle Saloon to watch. They jeered and catcalled at Indio as I dog-walked him along the boardwalk toward the jail.

  Kicking the door open, I dragged Indio into the marshal’s office, crossed the room with him still in tow, and threw him roughly into a cell. Taking the ring of keys from the peg on the wall I turned the lock and stepped away to watch, hands on hips, breathing deeply as Indio crawled to the iron bunk pulled himself to his feet and turned to spit curses at me.

  I walked to the desk, removed the marshal’s badge from the top drawer and pinned it on my torn shirt.

  I was officially open for business.

  FIVE

  With Indio’s pistol shoved behind my belt I walked back to the alley and retrieved my own revolver. Back in the office I took the time to clean and oil the Colt. Indio’s gun I unloaded and shoved away in one of the lower desk drawers.

  ‘I need a doctor!’ Indio complained from his cell. He was hanging onto the bars, head pressed against them, dark hair falling across his eyes. There was blood trickling from his ear, but I saw no other obvious wounds. If I had it probably would have made little difference. I ignored him.

  I checked the action on my reassembled Colt and holstered it. Taking a yellow pad of paper from the desk I licked a pencil and began writing.

  ‘I need a doctor, Lang!’ Indio said again. I didn’t bother to glance up this time. He watched me with silent curiosity for a time as I labored over my writing and finally asked, ‘What is that you’re doing?’

  I leaned back in the chair, holding the writing pad up. Without looking at him, I replied, ‘Toting up the charges I’m going to lodge against you.’

  ‘We got in a scuffle, that’s all,’ he said with a disparaging snort. ‘What’s that, a ten-dollar fine? Kent will have me out in half an hour.’

  ‘No bond,’ I said, placing the pad on the desk. I squared it and placed the pencil away.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, no bond?’ Indio demanded.

  ‘Can’t do it,’ I said. ‘Not with these offenses. Get used to stone walls, Indio. They’re all you’re going to be seeing for a lot of years.’

  ‘You’re crazy!’ the little gunman said, but there was a quaver in his voice. Then: ‘They’ll bust me out, Lang.’

  ‘Who? I already told you that Kent has cut you loose. I saw him tonight and he made that statement in front of the mayor and Judge Plank.’ I paused and retrieved the pencil. ‘You are now unemployed. I’d better add that – “vagrancy”.’

  After a long minute Indio asked in a calmer voice, ‘What all have you got writ down there, Lang?’

  ‘I guess you have the right to know.’ I picked up the yellow pad and read to him: ‘Armed robbery. Assault. Assault on an officer of the law. Attempted murder. Drunk in public. Discharging a firearm within the city limits. Vagrancy … I’ll probably come up with a few other things if I consider long enough.’

  There was a stunned silence from the jail cell. I got up and checked the wood in the potbelly stove and started a fire to boil some coffee.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a lawman then, Lang,’ Indio complained.

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘What you’re talking about … if Judge Plank wants to make it tough on me.…’

  ‘Oh, he will,’ I promised Indio. ‘The town has suddenly got itself on a law-and-order track. I don’t know why, but that’s where they’re taking their position now. You can’t count on Kent to put a word in for you either. He was at that meeting at the mayor’s house, and your former boss is supporting me just like the others.’

  ‘But I mean …’ Indio began again. The firelight through the stove grate revealed a few beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. ‘If the judge finds me guilty of all that, Lang, what could I get?’

  ‘They won’t hang you,’ I said in mock consolation. ‘The frame of mind the town is in, the judge is in, they’ll be wanting to make an example of someone. You. I would guess you’ll probably get twenty years.…’

  ‘Twenty!’

  ‘Of course, that attempted murder could jack that up. No more than thirty-five to forty, though.’ I nodded and leaned back in my chair. The coffee had begun to boil. ‘Say thirty years, Indio. I hear some men have survived that long in the Territorial Prison. A few … it’s that hard-labor on the desert that gets most of ’em in five years or less. So if you were to get lucky.…’

&n
bsp; ‘Damn you to hell, Lang!’ Indio spat. Then he decided to try wheedling. ‘You could put in a word for me,’ he suggested with feeble hope. I laughed out loud.

  ‘I’m the injured party, Indio! Arresting officer and witness! Besides,’ I added more quietly, ‘I don’t like you, Indio. Never have.’

  From one of the saloons two gunshots rang out and I got heavily to my feet. ‘What I can do,’ I said, his face was briefly hopeful, ‘what I can do, Indio, is walk across the street and find some company for you.’

  The stars were bright. The street was empty except for two drifters dragging their way up Main Street. The porch in front of the Golden Eagle Saloon was empty – everyone had rushed back inside to see the excitement. Smoke rolled out over the top of the batwing doors. Some of it was tobacco smoke. I stepped up onto the porch, drew my gun, and eased up to the doors. From beside one of them I stretched out an arm and pushed, slipping into the clamor and stink of the saloon. The bartender looked up sharply. Men glanced at me and eased aside. The poker players around the round tables held their hands.

  ‘Who’s shooting?’ I asked, just loudly enough for my voice to carry, and the mob separated a little more, enough to allow me a corridor of vision to the overturned table where Cheyenne Baker stood, pistol in hand, standing over a lanky, poorly dressed youth. ‘Cheyenne, I’ve got to take you in,’ I said. He had already seen the badge on my chest, but it didn’t seem to surprise him. He only looked annoyed.

  ‘Just a disagreement, Lang. I didn’t even shoot him.’

  ‘I’ve got to take you in,’ I repeated, striding nearer, my gun held level. His own Colt was dangling low beside his leg. His handsome face sneered without movement.

  ‘Mind your own business, Lang.’

  ‘I am.’ I spoke loudly now, making the announcement without taking my eyes from Cheyenne Baker’s. ‘The posters haven’t been hung yet, boys, but there’s a new law in Montero. Anyone discharging a firearm in town will be jailed. I haven’t decided for how long yet. I’m thinking it might mean ten days in the can.’ I studied Cheyenne’s cold eyes, the frightened eyes of the hayseed cowering on the floor. ‘I might make it thirty days. We’ll just have to see how quick everyone is to get the idea.