Haxan (4 page)

“What you want is to know if I can stay off the laudanum.”

“Let’s say I’m asking for mutual respect, one professional to another. That’s all.”

Doc Toland turned my proposition over in his mind. He rose and used a small silver key to unlock a walnut sideboard. He removed a tall square bottle with liquid sloshing around inside.

He pressed the bottle into my hand with some reluctance. “You hang onto that, Marshal. There may come a time when I need it. When that time comes, I request there be no questions asked on your behalf.”

“Okay.”

He took a deep breath. “However, in the meantime, I’ll try and do as you ask.”

I got up, slipping the bottle inside my grey duster. “Thanks, Doc. I won’t forget this.”

“Marshal Marwood, it’s been a long time since someone treated me like the professional I once was,” he said. “I want you to know that meant a lot, what you said. I thank you for it.”

“We’ve got to pull together on this job, Doc, and that’s a fact. Oh, one last thing. Can you perform autopsies?”

“I have all the equipment I need. I left Georgia with every-thing but my pride intact.”

“It might be necessary, time to time. Submit your fee through my office. Okay?”

He looked as if an iron yoke had been lifted from his bowed shoulders. He was standing a little straighter and there was more more hope than despair in his face.

“I will look forward to working with you, Marshal.”

I touched the brim of my hat. “Take care, Doc. Hope I don’t have to see you too often.”

A pawky grin tugged the corners of his mouth. “From what I hear that might be a false hope. But I share your sentiment.”

I followed the stairs down and walked across the plaza into a general store. It was the one with stamped metal panels on the outside.

“I’m going to need a few things, and provender, for the office,” I told the proprietor after I introduced myself.

Mr. Whatley whipped a pencil from behind his ear and pressed it to paper. “Go ahead with your order, Marshal.”

“Five pounds of beans. Salt. Sugar. A tin of Arbuckle coffee. Enough to last the week. You got any pemmican?”

“We’ve got
charqui
.”

“That will do, along with hard biscuit or tack. Oh, and one of those new blue enamel coffee pots over yonder. New lamp and coal oil bucket. Potato for the spout. Block of sulphur matches.”

I walked across the store toward the gun cabinet. Rifles and shotguns lined the wall, kept under lock and chain. Pistols and ammunition were laid out neat beneath a shining glass case.

“Five of these new Winchester rifles, a hundred rounds of ammunition, and gun oil.” I remembered the gun Magra carried. “Before I forget, a box of double-ought shells for a Stevens double-barrel coach gun. I’ll also need powder, cap and ball for this.”

I swept my grey duster aside, revealing the yellow-bone handle of a Colt Dragoon.

“Nice percussion gun, Marshal. A real stopper, too.” His brow crinkled. “That handle made of antelope horn?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s not ivory or jigged.” He watched me close.

“No, it’s not.”

“Carve it yourself?”

“Yes. I always change the loads every morning in case they get damp overnight.” That wouldn’t be much of a problem here in the desert, but old habits were hard to break.

“I hear you,” he said. “Pays to be careful.”

“Therefore I will need enough ammunition for the week,” I said. “I also have need of writing paper, pen and ink, lead pencils, and envelopes for office work. Got all that?”

He finished writing it all down in a careful hand. “When do you want this delivered, Marshal?”

“Anytime tomorrow will suit.”

“Happy to oblige. I’ll box it up myself.” I started for my wallet.

He put out a hand to stop me. “No, Marshal. I fought for the Union Army in Gettysburg. I guess I have to believe you’re good for it. Anyway, I prefer to settle up a bill like this at the end of the month. Makes booking easier, my end.”

“Not a problem with me, Mr. Whatley. Good night.”

“Night, Marshal.”

I stepped outside. Polgar had said a Texas herd of four thousand longhorns had dusted in yesterday morning, beaten and tired from the trail. Another herd of three thousand was arriving tomorrow, or the day after, though they were scheduled to press north for Denver. Nevertheless, cattle agents were already trying to undercut one another and vying for limited space on the night train. Cowboys had been paid off and were looking to shoot the moon and maybe anyone who stepped in their way. Three of them raced down Front Street on their cow ponies, firing pistols in the air. One or two pistol shots answered in reply around the plaza. Five men staggered down Cutt Street, singing and passing a bottle of rye between them.

It was going to be a long, and busy, first night.

I drew a deep breath and hefted the Sharps rifle in my hand. I walked with purpose across the plaza, pushed through the flap doors of the first saloon I came to—a raucous place called the Texas Star. It smelled of sour whisky, rank sweat, and stale tobacco.

Without any warning at all I discharged the buffalo gun into the ceiling.

“Welcome to Haxan, boys,” I said.

I
stepped out of the way of yellow plaster sifting down from the ceiling.

“Now that I’ve got your attention, here are a few new rules,” I told the stunned audience. “As set down by the Haxan Peace Commission and enforced by myself, United States Marshal John T. Marwood. These rules are posted outside my office for anyone to see. For those who can’t read, I’ll make it plain.”

I swept back my grey duster so they could see the yellow-bone handle of my gun and the federal badge. No one moved or said a word.

“I’ve already talked to Mayor Polgar and cleared it with him and the Haxan Peace Commission. First, the deadline on Potato Road remains down long as everyone behaves himself.” There was a lessening of tension. People smiled at one another. So far they liked what they heard.

“We want you to have a good time in Haxan,” I said. “Spend your wages and buck the tiger. The beer is cold, the whiskey raw, and Haxan girls are pretty.”

Laughter.

“Now that’s the kind of law I like,” someone said aloud. He was a cowboy sitting at a table with another man.

I was aware of people gathering outside, listening through the flap doors.

“You may wonder about your side guns. Keep them. You don’t have to check them with my office like you do in other towns.” That trick never worked anyway. A man could always hide a gun. You give a man a reason to break a law, he’s going to do it.

“However, they must stay holstered,” I added. “Same goes for knives and coshes. It’s illegal to discharge any gun in city limits unless you’re defending yourself, or it’s the Fourth of July. Doing so is a ten-dollar fine and a night in jail for every shot fired. No excuses.”

I made it a point to look at three hard men clumped around one end of the bar. I could smell the dust, leather, and rank sweat emanating from them.

“If you don’t give a man a call, and if eye-witnesses don’t testify it was a fair fight, I’ll see you kick at the end of a rope. That’s all.”

“Plain enough,” one of the men said with a careless shrug and drank his whiskey.

I walked between beer-stained, cluttered tables toward the bar. It was nothing more than a wooden plank on empty nail barrels. Someone had slapped a coat of cheap varnish on it as an afterthought. Antelope and bison horns decorated the walls. The grimy mirror behind the bar was festooned in red, white, and blue bunting that had never been washed. The floor was thick with old, sour sawdust. A tattered Texas flag hung limp from one of the middle rafters.

Two men stood uneasily behind the bar. “Which one of you is the owner?” I asked.

“I am,” the older and slimmer of the two answered. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles and a paisley vest. “Jonah Hake at your service, Marshal. I can’t say I appreciate you coming in and shooting up my establishment.”

I gazed at the ceiling. There were over a dozen bullet holes in the dark rafters and cheap plaster.

“You find which one I’m liable for and I’ll pay to have it plugged,” I said.

General, whooping laughter. More of the marked tension in the room eased. So far no one had heard anything unexpected. If anything, with the deadline down, and allowing them to keep their guns, it was better than anyone had hoped.

“You run gambling tables, Mr. Hake?”

“A little faro.” He made a side gesture. “The usual draw poker and stud, if the boys can scare up a game.”

I faced the crowd, elbows resting on the rim of the bar. The cowboy who had quipped about the laws he liked sat two tables away, big feet propped on a chair. The rowels of his Mexican spurs cut the wood. A scornful smile touched his face as he returned my stare. He had a tall glass of beer in one hand. He was going on thirty, with long, greasy hair and a walrus moustache that was mud-brown at the ends. He wasn’t wearing a rig, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying a gun or some other weapon. The second man sat across from him. He wore striped pants, green suspenders, square-topped boots with mule ear tugs, and a wide-brimmed hat with a frayed horsehair band.

Partners, I thought. Both looked like they had just beat trail dust off themselves.

I addressed the crowd again, and the crowd outside the bat-wing doors. “As for gambling, it’s your money. But if I hear of a dealer running a crooked game I promise you he’s seen the last of Haxan.”

“Marshal,” one of the girls across the room piped, “I heard tell a town marshal in Dodge, he caught a card sharp. He broke the man’s dealing hand with the edge of a shovel and posted him out of town.”

“Is that all? They’re going soft in Dodge these days.”

A few men thumped the bar and called in high voices for drinks. Even the scornful cowboy joined in the laughter.

“Furthermore, any crooked game run by a saloon, or a saloon turning a blind eye so a card sharp has an easy time of it, I’ll shut it down for a week. If the saloon repeats the offense, I’ll horsewhip the proprietor out of town and
burn
his place down.”

“Marshal, you don’t have the authority to do that,” someone challenged.

“Mister, you telegraph Helena and ask what happened in the Bucking Sally last winter when they called my bluff.”

That grabbed their attention. Everyone west of the Mississippi had heard about that fire.

I cocked an eyebrow at the bartender. “Do I make myself clear, Mr. Hake?”

“I run a square house, Marshal. Never had a complaint and that’s a fact.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Hake. I wasn’t singling you out. You’d best prod the other owners and let them know how I stand. The days of running wild in this town are over.”

“I got no problem with that, Marshal. I can make more money your way.”

I addressed the crowd one final time. There was now a sea of faces in the street outside. Pale blobs in the dim light. Good. That’s what I wanted. Word would spread fast.

“As you can see I’m an easy man to get along with.” Most people returned my grin. “But the first time it looks like this saloon can’t abide by these rules, then the deadline goes back up and I start checking guns. Then I’ll push the rest of you out of town. I’ve said my piece.”

I touched the brim of my hat. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.” Two girls were in a corner of the room. One was perched in a wolfer’s lap, her naked arm hooked around his shoulders. “Ladies.”

As I shouldered my way through the throng I heard someone clip in a loud, shrill voice, “Just another quack-doodle.”

I stopped. There is always one. There always has to be at least one no matter how hard you try and make them understand you want to be fair.

I retraced my steps and stood in front of the cowboy who had his boots resting on the chair.

“What was that you said?”

“You heard me, lawman. You’re a quack-doodle. Quacking like a momma duck to get her baby ducks in a row.”

“Shut up, Fancer.” The other man at the table had a bland, but weather-seasoned, face. “Marshal’s doing his job.”

“Well, I ain’t no duck,” Fancer told him without taking his eyes off mine, “and I don’t skeer from big talk. I don’t like any man thinking I’ll fall in line ’cause he barks orders.”

He had said his piece. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

He turned his head and spat on the sawdust floor. “Fancer Bell.”

“Sounds like a summer name.”

He laughed under his breath and knuckled his moustache. “Mebbe. There ain’t no readers out on me. You can look.”

“Stand up, Mr. Bell.”

“I’m comfortable where I sit, quack-doodle.”

I kicked the chair out from under his feet. “I said stand up, you shitheel.”

That got him riled. He rose swiftly, narrow eyes blazing, calloused fists balled. He was ready to go at me hard.

I pointed. “That your beer?”

He paused, blinking with uncertainty. He took in the half-filled glass. “Yeah. I reckon it is.”

“Drink it.”

He glared from the corner of his eye. “Say again, quack-doodle?”

“Drink your beer.”

He mugged in disbelief. “Like I said, them are laws I like.”

No one smiled. There was danger in the room. They could smell it even if he couldn’t. Fancer didn’t like their reaction. People of his sort, hitting out at the world, never do. They never understand if they swing too wide, too far, all they do is leave themselves off balance and defenceless.

To save face he lifted his beer mug and drained it.

He slammed the empty glass down and swept the back of his hand across his lips. A questioning look filled his face. I had flummoxed him.

“Why’d you ask me to drink off that beer, Marshal?”

“Because there’s no sense wasting paid-for liquor before I take you apart.”

Before he could react I slammed the stock of the Sharps rifle into the middle of his stomach. He doubled over. His hand flicked from under a thick fleece-lined jacket—he was holding a long, cruel knife. I spun on my boot heel and brought the heavy octagonal barrel of the Sharps down across the back of his head.

He crashed to the floor, overturning two tables in the process and sending cards and chips flying. He was senseless.

“You killed him!” one of the girls shrieked.

“He’s not dead,” I said. “I just crunched him some.”

I picked up the knife. It was a long tooth-picker with “G.R.” stamped into the blade. I leaned it against an overturned table and broke the tempered blade with my boot heel.

I asked the man who was sitting immobile in the other chair, “This man your partner?”

“Not if it means going to jail, he ain’t.”

“Take your friend to Doc Toland’s and get him patched up. Pour hot coffee into him and sober him. You men ride in with a herd?”

“Four thousand head up from Brownsville. We got paid off yesterday.”

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Jake Strop, sir.”

I returned a respectful nod. “Take care of your friend. Next time he acts up I’ll arrest him.”

I walked out of the Texas Star. People shouted with joy behind me and clamoured for beer and whiskey hand over fist.

“Right there,” I heard someone’s nasal cry. “That’s where he shot the ceiling.”

The night was off to a good start. Word of mouth would see that most people remembered it. I had to make it clear with a kind of brutal finality that the new laws in Haxan were chiselled in stone and irrevocable.

Haxan had to be shaken up. People had to awaken from their stupor and know, once and for all, things had changed.

And changed for the better.

So I wasn’t peeved an opportunity had presented itself in the form of one hapless Fancer Bell. If busting up one drunk cowboy like Bell got the word across then it was a good trade, in my estimation.

I went from saloon to saloon, cantina to cantina. The town had had no real law for months. I couldn’t help but wonder if that might have been the reason Shiner Larsen’s murderers felt so free to act in the brutal manner they did.

When I had a little free time from my rounds, I decided I’d try my hand at some detective work. Playing a hunch, I went inside the livery stable. The night man and proprietor, Patch Wallet, had a broad stomach, thick forearms, and a wide face with many broken teeth in his lower jaw. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing a mat of grizzled hair on his chest.

“Horse kicked me in the jaw when I was sixteen,” he said. His words jumbled together like rocks in a wooden pail. “Kind of messed up my teeth and my talk, and I never had them fixed. Got a pot of coffee boiling, if you’re interested.”

“I could use some.” The long night stretched ahead of me.

We entered a narrow L-shaped room behind the stables with a frame bed, cotton ticking mattress, and a cast-iron stove. You could smell the warm horses, sweet hay, and sharp manure through broken wall slats. The soft movements of the animals in their stalls served as an undercurrent of familiar song on the night air.

Patch Wallet poured me a steaming cup. “I don’t have sugar. Molasses do?”

“Black suits me fine.”

He nodded. “Coffee ain’t good anyway ’less it’s black.”

We drank in quiet for a space. “Heard you’ve had a busy night,” Patch said.

“It’s not over, Mr. Wallet. That’s why I’m here. Maybe you heard about Shiner Larsen. I found wagon tracks where he was murdered but I didn’t have enough light left to run them down. Have you sold or rented a wagon to anyone of late?”

He rubbed his whiskered face. The broken teeth raised bumps through his skin along his jaw. “Now you mention it, Marshal, I rented a spring-seat buckboard with team only three days ago.”

He showed me the transaction in a records book he kept under the bed.

“Fellow by the name of Connie Rand paid in advance for the wagon. Said he wanted it for a week because he had light freight to move. Two men rode with him. I didn’t recognize their faces, though.”

“You knew this first man?”

“Yes, sir. Conrad Rand. Tall man, early forties, I guess, with short white-blond hair. Brown eyes. Left eyelid droops. Folks around call him Connie. He doesn’t like that name much ’cause he thinks it’s girly. He done anything wrong, Marshal?”

“What work does he do, this Rand?”

“Hires out the week on the big ranches, drinks and whores his wages on the weekend like everybody else. Heard he also runs with a gang of
comancheros
out of Texas panhandle.”