A Lawman for Destiny

How about a western? I'm a great fan of both Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove) and Robert Parker (Appaloosa) because they have such a great talent for writing strong characters that could make it in modern times as well as "way back then". I hope you find Hank Butters to be that kind of a character and that's why I've set this novella in a time period where we were not quite out of the wild west and not quite into the modern era.



A Lawman for Destiny

A Novella
By
Tony Killinger

PART I

John Trent looked into the mid-morning rain from the upstairs study of his fine house on the edge of town. He had watched for a full quarter of an hour as a figure slowly emerged from the mist and fog, slogging slowly and heavily through the sage brush, mud and rocks towards this tiny island of civilization. The thing had looked like a buffalo when it first broke out of the cedars a thousand feet before, now he could see it was a man, heavily laden and probably half-drowned. The man wore a heavy coat and had a pair of bulging saddle bags slung over his right shoulder. Off his left shoulder hung what looked to be a bed roll, tied on both ends, the loop of the rope around the man’s neck. He was wearing a hat but the rain and weather had long since taken any shape it ever possessed. It was hard to say if this person was a cowboy, a miner, a farmer or just a plain drifter. He did have one burden that gave him some character; in his right hand he carried a Winchester saddle carbine.

Coming into Destiny from the east road, which was called Main Street once you entered town, the first structure you would encounter would be the Trent house. It was a fine, old New England type mansion, painted in a pale yellow color with white shutters and a meadow green roof. The upper floor of the house was surrounded by a balcony with a narrow walk way and a railing with delicately turned styles.

The place was surrounded by a three rail white fence and encompassed a small pasture and a nice barn. Inside the barn you would find a pair of perfectly matched cream colored geldings and a surrey with a red top. The place was built by Jeremiah Trent some thirty years before. The senior Mister Trent was the founder of Destiny and owned the copper mine located west of town, a hardware store, a dry-goods store and was part owner of half a dozen other business enterprises. When he died his son John had inherited it all. John was the mayor, head of the town council and things were normally done the way he decided.

John had the prettiest woman in the territory for his wife, a striking creature who came from Boston. Her hair was as red as fire and it was rumored that she had a temper to match. John seemed to be a gentler type; he wore fine clothes, drove the aforementioned surrey with the red top, at least when his wife wasn’t using it, and had a silver belly Stetson hat.

The soggy figure barely lifted his head as he passed the ornate house. He had spotted the light in the café window and was headed straight for it. All the buildings on Main Street had a wide wooden walk and a cover from the weather. The stranger clomped up onto the walkway and stomped his muddy boots. The café was the first building actually inside the town. John Trent owned a part of that too. The stranger walked up to the door of the café and stood looking at the hand printed sign. “Open 6AM-9AM, 11AM-1PM, 4PM-7PM” was all that it said. According to a regulator clock he could see on the side wall it was about fifteen minutes past 9.

Henry Butters was sorely disappointed. He had been walking for nearly sixteen hours; he was cold, soaked to the bone and had a hunger nearly as great as his fatigue. He looked west on Main Street to see if there were any other signs of life on this dismal, dreary morning but there didn’t seem to be any. A team and wagon stood on the other side of the street, the horses hanging their heads and shaking occasionally, the owner apparently off on other chores. A block west, two saddle horses were tied to a rail in front of some shop or other; he couldn’t see from his angle what it might be. He had all but decided to head that way when the door to the café opened and a sturdy Mexican woman was there looking at him, half amused, half concerned. “You’d better come in,” she said,” it doesn’t look like you can make it much further.”

He tried to raise a smile but he wasn’t sure he had quite made it. He stepped inside and the heavy aromas of coffee and sausage, along with the faintest hint of verbena sachet greeted him and he felt the warmth on his chilled face. “I thank you miss,” he said. “You’re right, I might not have made it much more, and I’m about give out.”

“Get rid of that soaked coat,” she ordered. “Hang it on that chair by the door and then sit yourself at this table. I’ll get you a cup of hot coffee, that would be what you need first, I’d think.” She gave him a full smile and headed towards the back of the shop where a blue granite pot sat steaming on the top of a small pot-bellied stove. Hank threw off the saddle bags and the rolled bundle and placed them next to the door. He laid the Winchester in the seat of the chair next to where he had been directed to sit. There was a kitchen further back and Hank could see a short guy with dark hair busy preparing some sort of meat cuts. A moment later the woman was back; she put the coffee on the table in front of him and grabbed a sugar bowl and a small cream pitcher from a nearby table.

“What on earth could be so important that you’d be out in weather like this? I saw you coming for the last half-mile.” The woman’s Spanish accent was all but gone indicating she had been north of the border for a good long time, perhaps even born in the area. Her black hair was thick and long and as weary as Hank was, he noted it didn’t distract from her looks the tiniest bit. She was an attractive woman.

“Survival,” Hank grinned over the edge of the coffee mug. “I had to put my horse down twenty or twenty five miles back; I think he twisted a gut. He hadn’t been doing real well for the last few days but he gave me what he had right up to the end. Hate to lose a good horse like that.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death, why didn’t you hole up somewhere?”

“I wasn’t real sure just where I was,” Hank admitted. “I knew this town was fifty miles or so when we left Bixby but it was hard to calculate just how far we had come when old Shamrock gave out. Apparently it was a bit further than I had guessed.”

A pool of water was forming at Hank’s feet under the table. The same was true where his coat and bundles hung from the chair by the door. Wrapped around the hot mug his fingers were starting to have feeling again, but they and his whole body hurt from exhaustion.

“All we have left from breakfast is some pork gravy with sausage in it; could I fix you some over a couple of biscuits?” Hank had decided she was getting prettier by the minute.

“That would be just great, Miss,” he smiled. “You got to tell me your name though; I like to know who it is when I’m indebted.”

“My name is Juanita Jones,” she said, her smile turned up on full beam now.

Hank stood and touched his hat; a rivulet of water ran down his finger. “My name is Henry Butters, but my friends call me Hank. Truth is I don’t have many friends and none I value near as much as I do you, right at this minute.”

“Oh my,” Juanita said, “such a gentleman. In that case you can call me Nita and we’ll just figure we have been friends for a long time, ok?”

Nita reached into her apron pocket and produced a small sack of tobacco, a sheaf of papers and she tossed them on the table. “If you have makings I suspect they are too wet to burn,” she laughed. “Have one on me.”

Try as he may, Hank could not get his fingers to work properly, they were just too cold and stiff. After several tries he did manage to get a straggly substitute that was alternately fat and thin in several places. He pinched off the end of the sad excuse and placed it between his lips. He struck a match from the table tray and took a long drag on the cigarette. It was so loose that he doubted he could get more than two puffs, but it tasted fine and seem to put a spur to his blood flow. Hunger had overtaken the tiredness in his body for the moment, but he thought with a little nourishment and a place to lie down for a few hours he might survive after all. He remembered at daylight this morning, wading through the snow in the higher altitude he was not all that convinced.

The platter Nita set before him was steaming. Two puffy baking powder biscuits were all but covered with the rich brown gravy and clumps of pork sausage were plentiful. “You eat this, handsome, and you’ll feel much better, I can promise you,” she chuckled. Hank did not need a second invitation.

The hearty breakfast was all but gone when the door to café opened and a businessman slightly wet from the rain came in. He nodded politely at Hank on his way back to the kitchen and touched the rim of his silver-belly Stetson. Hank thought it was about the finest hat he had ever seen. He had hung his own on the back spindle of the chair next to him because every time he bent his head to take a bite the hat would run a trickle of water onto his plate. He knew his hair hadn’t been combed in many days, but the meal was just too good to dilute with second-hand rain water.

Finished with the ample meal, Hank slid his chair back away from the table a bit. Nita was talking to the businessman in the back but he caught her eye and held up the tobacco sack, seeking silent permission to roll another cigarette. She smiled and nodded.

The businessman cut off his conversation with the waitress and returned to the dining room. He approached the table where Hank was seated and paused. “Mister Butters, my name is John Trent; I’m the mayor of Destiny. Would you mind if I sit and talk for a minute?”

Hank nodded and motioned toward the chair on the other side of the table, and extended his hand. “No, not at all Mister Mayor, please have a seat.”

“I understand you had a bit of bad luck?”

“Well, a bit more than a bit,” Hank frowned. “I’m afoot, winter is approaching and I’m without a lot of options. You might even say I’m in trouble,” Hank chuckled.

“Good to see you haven’t lost your humor, just the same,” Trent smiled. “Is there anyway Destiny can be of help to you?”

“I’d say this pretty woman came real close to saving my life; you can’t ask much more of a person or a town.” He hesitated for a moment. “You might point me towards a hotel or somewhere I could get a bed for a few hours.”

The mayor scowled. “I’m afraid we don’t have a hotel, Mister Butters. You could get a bed at the Cantina but I couldn’t swear to the total cleanliness of the place. Are you planning on staying long?”

“To be honest with you Mister Trent, I’m too tired to think straight right now. I’m going to have to sit down and take a long look at my situation before I make any decisions and now that I have a meal in me, I’d probably fall dead asleep and stay out for a while.”

The mayor suddenly had a bright look on his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “You gather up your belongings and come with me; I think we can get you out of the weather and offer you a little solitude without you having to sleep in one of Rosa’s nasty little dens,” he laughed. “We got a Marshal’s office and a jail that are standing empty.”

“I’ve never been inside a jail,” Hank protested, “but right now I’m tired enough to accept anything.”

“Don’t you worry a bit,” the mayor laughed, “this won’t go on your record and one day you can tell your grandchildren how you spent some time in Destiny’s jail on a nasty September day in 1899.”

Hank had rolled a near perfect cigarette and he was reluctant to snuff it out, it being only half gone, but the prospect of resting, even if it were in a jail cell was just the incentive he needed. “Juanita,” Trent hollered towards the back, “put mister Butter’s meal on my tab, I’m taking him to jail.” He followed that with a chuckle.

The mayor grabbed up the saddle bags and the bed roll, Hank stuffed the still dripping hat onto his head, draped the soaking coat over his arm and picked up the Winchester. “I’m obliged to you Mister Mayor,” Hank said sincerely. “I’ve heard of hospitality, but I believe Destiny has demonstrated the very best of that fine tradition, be it north or south.”

The rain may have slackened just a bit, but it was what the Indians called a “female” or “mother” rain, one that replenished the earth and gently fed the streams, not a “male” show of lightning, thunder and downpours that tore the land and sent rivers crashing down canyons, destroying everything in their path. The building west of the café was a bank and it occupied all the space to and around the corner, the street named Washington. The covered walkway continued around the corner and few more yards south. The saddle horses Hank had spotted before were tied in front of a saddle and harness shop.

Across Washington Street, almost in the middle of the block was a building with boarded shutters, closed to the elements. It had a covered porch so the runners had only to cross the street, dodge a couple of puddles and they were out of the weather again. John Trent dropped the bed roll and got out the set of keys again, fumbled through them and finally selected the one he had sought, placed it in an old iron padlock and twisted it. He swung the door open and stepped inside.

Hank was just a step behind him. Inside the air smelled stale but not foul and it was dark and chilled. “Let me light a lamp and see if we can get a fire going,” John said. “Throw your parcels anywhere you please, there’s nobody here to object.”

Against the near wall was a large desk; Hank laid the Winchester down and hung his coat on the chair behind it. The light of a coal oil lamp brightened up the room as the mayor lit it and replaced the globe. Hank picked up a dusty book from the top of the desk, “George Washington, Our First President”; he read aloud and then laughed, remembering how his mother had used that same volume as a history primer during his early education.

“You read and write, Mister Butters?” The mayor asked, although it must have seemed fairly obvious.

“Yes sir,” Hank smiled. “My mother was a school teacher and felt strongly about it. I could probably recite this book given a little time to reacquaint myself with it.”

“Wonderful,” the mayor chuckled. He was poking a few sticks of wood into a large pot-bellied stove and when he had it fed he grabbed a small can of coal oil from behind the stove, splashed a little through the door of the stove. “This will get the chill off the air,” he said as he lit a match and tossed it into the stove. There was a short “whoosh” and flames shot out the opening, leaving a dirty streak of black in the still atmosphere of the building. He shut the door with a slam and opened the air intake at the bottom of the ash bin. “I’ll have Ned bring by some wood from the sawmill a little later and fill up that box, but I think there is enough in there now to get your warmed up to where you can sleep comfortably.” Hank was growing to like this friendly, helpful town official.

“I’ll be just fine,” Hank smiled.

“The old Marshal had a little house outside of town, but he had to stay here occasionally, so that cot there should do fine for you,” the mayor said, gesturing to the other side of the room and the sturdy bed there. That’s a genuine cotton filled mattress, but I suspect you could sleep on a rock right now if you had to.”

The air was starting to warm and Hank was about to get dizzy from the tiredness in his bones. He picked up the bedroll and untied the rope from it. His blankets were damp as were the extra clothes he had stashed inside.

“I’m going to get out of here and let you get some rest,” the mayor said. There is a privy out back and a pump too if you need to draw some water. Make yourself at home, Mister Butters and I’ll drop bye later this evening to see how you’re doing.”

“I’d like to thank you again John,” Hank spoke quietly. “It’s a Good Samaritan thing you’re doing for me, and I do appreciate it.”

The mayor was out the door within a minute. Hank stripped his shirt, set it across the back of another chair and then lined it and the one he hung his coat on a few feet in front of the crackling stove. He pulled off his boots and turned them upside down, a few drops of water ran from each one. He set them by the chairs, hoping they didn’t dry too rapidly and crack. His long johns were wet clear through, just as his jeans; he pulled them off and laid them on the seats of the chairs. The long johns from his bedroll were damp but not wet, so he pulled them on and sat down on the edge of the bed. He meant to unpack his other things and run an oiled rag over the Winchester, but he collapsed onto the bed and was asleep within a minute.



Hank thought it was about 4 PM when he awoke; the fire had gone out because he forgotten to close the damper and the ash drawer air inlets, but the fast burning, hot fire had done a good job of drying his clothes. He built another fire using wood from the box and the coal oil, just as John Trent had done. In a cabinet he found a large iron pot and he filled that with water from the pump out back and set it on the stove to warm.
The Marshal’s office was probably pretty standard, but Hank had little knowledge of just what the standard should be. There were two cells in the back of the building with thick adobe walls and roof, the rest of the place was done in rough-cut planks. There was the desk, now piled with Hank’s spare clothes and his Colt pistol. A few chairs were scattered about the room, all of which he had put to work as temporary clothes drying racks. The same cabinet that had produced the iron pot also held a coffee pot, a bean pot and a frying pan. He thought about fixing a meal of beans and bacon from the supplies in his saddle bags but decided it was still early; he’d wait, perhaps go to the café and have a real meal and smile at that Mexican woman again.
Just about the time he was ready to strip down and wash himself with a bar of white soap he found in the miraculous cabinet, there was a clomping of boots on the office porch. Hank went to the door and opened it. A fairly old man with an armload of wood stood there; Hank swung the door wide for him.
“Howdy,” the old man smiled through a few missing teeth. “I’m Ned. The mayor said to come fill up that wood box, so here I am.”

“Henry Butters,” Hank said, extending his hand once the old boy had deposited his armload of wood. “You folks around here are about as welcoming as I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Good folks around here,” Ned agreed. “Nice town, nice people, can’t ask for much more than that, now can you?”

“Indeed you can’t,” Hank replied. “You lived here long?”

“It’s been quite a spell,” Ned began. “I came here after the recent war between the states, when old Mister Trent just started digging copper. I worked for him at the pit for nearly twenty years when a wagon busted loose and rolled over my back. I’ve been sort of invalid ever since and the Trent’s kept me on as the town’s clean-up man.”

They chatted together as they filled the wood box from a large two-wheeled cart that Ned pushed around. The rain had stopped and the air was warming some. There were a few low puddles remaining but the sandy soil was soaking up the moisture rapidly. “Should be a nice day tomorrow,” Hank said, looking off to the east.

“That’s where I’d put my money, if I was a betting man,” Ned chuckled. “You have a nice evening, Mister Butters. You should consider sticking around here a while, there’s lots of worse places.”

“I might just do that,” Hank smiled back at the old man. “The truth is I might not have a choice.”

Ned was already pushing the empty cart up Washington Street, headed for some unknown place and probably did not hear the last part of the remark anyway.

An hour later Hank was pretty fresh. He had bathed with the hot water from the iron pot, shaved and ran a comb through his hair. The dry clothes, warm from the drying fire felt good. He sat and considered his situation. He had close to twenty dollars which would have put him in pretty good shape except for the fact that he didn’t have a horse. He had stashed his saddle and some extra grub in the rocks above the clearing where old Shamrock had given out. Actually, Shamrock wasn’t all that old it just seemed like that because they had been together for so long. He had raised the colt on his parent’s place when it appeared the youngster might be a bit too tall and light boned to be a good draft animal. He had a long step and could cover ground at a good rate and do it for hour after hour. He was steady to shot, although he used to flinch a tiny bit when he was younger, but he never bolted. In the two years Hank had spent buffalo hunting for the railroad the horse grew so used to the belching blast of that old Sharp’s rifle that a pistol or Winchester report hardly got his attention in his later years.

Hanks thoughts were interrupted when John Trent stepped onto the porch of the office, stomping loud enough to make sure he’d been detected. Hank had let the door remain open; the interior of the building was now warm and the evening didn’t seem all that cold, besides the whole place could use a thorough airing. “I saw the smoke from your fire as I came down the street,” Trent said, “thought you must be up and around. Did you get some rest?”

“I had a fine sleep, thank you,” Hank told him. “Got cleaned up a little and was just trying to decide if I wanted to go to the café or to use up some of my provisions.”

“If it will help you make up your mind I can tell you that they are having calves liver, fried potatoes, corn and pumpkin pie at the café,” John chuckled. “Now I can tell you from many of my own experiences, Jose has some secret when it comes to fried calves liver, it’s definitely worth the two-bits,” and then he laughed heartedly.

“That does sound good for a change,” Hank smiled. “I think I’ll just go over there and get a full plate of that. I owe you for breakfast, how about letting me treat you this evening.

John Tent looked almost shocked. “By golly, I’ll take you up on that.”

Fifteen minutes later they were both enjoying their dinner, and John was right; the liver was exceptional. “Tell me about Henry Butters,” John smiled. “What brought him to best little town in the west?”

Hank paused while he sliced through the tender meat. “Well, the long and the short of it is I was on my way to Denver. If I could have made it by the first of next week I had the promise of a job there with a freight hauler, training and working with his horses. A few days back my own horse developed a bad stomach; twisted gut I think. He couldn’t make more than ten to twenty miles a day and even that was hard on him. Yesterday, towards noon, he went down and I couldn’t get him up, he’d give me all he had. So, I did the humane thing and put him out of his misery. No hope of making Denver now, so I’m not sure just what I’ll do.”

John looked at him with some understanding. “Had that horse for a while, did you?”

“Nearly ten years,” Hank answered solemnly.

“I could see some anguish in your eyes. It’s something people who care for animals have to get used to, I suppose. They can’t last forever, but that don’t make it any easier to deal with.”

“Well, my family has been in draft horses all my life. We had a nice operation in North Texas, my folks, an older brother, a younger sister and I. My brother was killed in Cuba last year and my sister’s husband hauled her up to Ohio where he is going into business with some folks making gasoline motors.” Hank laughed, although the laugh lacked humor. “They say that within a few years they’ll be putting those engines onto carriage bodies and nobody will need horses anymore.”

“I believe him,” John grinned. “The twentieth Century is going to be a lot different than the past, and it just can’t wait to get going. This new millennium is going to be quite a thing, I think.”

“I’m not real sure I wouldn’t rather go back than forward,” Hank scoffed.

“So your folks are doing this horse operation all alone now?” John inquired.

“Nope,” Hank answered. “Dad sold out, said he and Mom are going to take life easy now. Maybe take a train ride, see some of the country.”

Ever since they had arrived at the café Hank had been somewhat disappointed to see that Nita was not serving. “They’ve had a change of crew in here since this morning,” he noted.

“We’ve got four girls and three cooks,” John explained. “The girls work two meals in a row and then set out for three meals. The cooks do the same, just on a shorter schedule.”

“You own this place?” Hank looked astonished.

John Trent puffed up the slightest bit. “I own part of it,” he crowed. “I also own the hardware store, part of the bank, the dry goods store and of course the copper mine is in the family name.”

“Well isn’t that something?” Hank said, truly impressed. “When I first saw you this morning I wondered how much money a fellow would need to save to wear such a fine hat as that silver-belly Stetson you have.”

When their meal was finished the two men lingered over their coffee. It was nearly dark, the coffee was good and the conversation came easy between them. “Hank,” John Trent said seriously, “I wonder if you could do me a favor?”

“Anything at all,” Hank answered truthfully. “I already owe you more than I generally feel comfortable with.”

“I know you are under some pressure to make some quick decisions, but I’d like to ask you to delay any firm choices until I have a chance to talk to a few people. I’ve got an idea germinating in my mind and I think it might be worth your consideration.”

Hank agreed although he was somewhat mystified. “I guess I can do that alright.”

When they left the café John Trent walked east, towards the fine house on the edge of town. Hank went back to the Town Marshal’s office, stirred up the fire and put in a couple of slabs of cedar, trimmings from logs that had probably since been turned into shingles or shakes. He was still fairly tired but not to the point of exhaustion as he had been earlier in the day. He thumbed through the copy of George Washington and smiled, remembering. Music was drifting in through the shuttered windows and Hank went out to the porch to investigate.

There was an open lot directly across from the jail, but on the south side of that vacant space was a cantina. There were two horses tied in front and bright lights beamed through the doors and windows. He could hear a piano and a guitar, neither of them playing the same song but it sounded happy just the same. Hank grabbed his crumpled hat from the peg just inside the room, pulled the heavy door shut behind him and walked obliquely across the street.

Inside he found a long bar manned on one end by a big strapping fellow with a handlebar mustache and a face like an angel. The near end of the bar was a pretty woman wearing a scarlet red dress and matching shoes. She smiled at him and Hank walked up to the bar where she stood. “A stranger in town,” she smiled again. “We have fairly cold beer, warm whiskey and hot girls,” she giggled, “what’s your choice.”

“Just a small glass of tequila, if you have it,” Hank said returning her smile.

“Tequila I’ve got, but no lemon,” the woman said turning around. “Salt we got, but no lemon.”

“That’s ok,” Hank said, “I’ll just sip it anyway.”

“That’s no way to drink tequila,” she snorted. “You got to belt it down; let it get in there and do its magic; can’t be sipping it, it ain't natural.”

“Sorry,” Hank chuckled. “I’ve learned over the years to try and make the finer things of life last a little longer. A fine, aged tequila, a cool glass of water on a hot day, a sunset in the high country, things like that are special and just don’t do well when rushed.”

The woman laughed aloud. “Somewhere you have a happy wife or a contented lover,” she said loudly. “I’m Rosa, this is my place here and you’re welcome. We don’t get many philosophers in here.” She giggled again.

“Henry Butters, mam,” Hank said taking her extended hand.

The woman raised her head and hollered in the direction of the piano. “Tremont,” she growled, “you’ve got a fellow gringo poet over here, stop torturing that piano and come over and meet him.”

A rather unkempt looking fellow in a raw cotton shirt, resplendent with more stains and splotches than a butcher’s apron stood up and faced the bar, then took a couple of hesitating steps, one in either direction before he settled on a course that would bring him to the area of the two people. He had a beard that resembled a bird’s nest and a twisted straw hat perched on the back of his head. “Don’t let his appearance fool you,” Rosa winked, “he could buy and sell anybody in this town with the possible exception of John Trent.”

“You could have fooled me,” Hank laughed.

“Doulas Tremont,” the man slurred. “And you would be?”

“Henry Butters,” Hank said rather amused.

“But of course you would be,” Tremont said, trying to act sober. He had a slight accent but Hank thought it might be the liquor talking too. “Rosa, my dear, give mister Butters a beverage of his choice, if you would be so kind, while he and I engage in some meaningful conversation. Are you just passing through our booming little metropolis, Mister Butters or are you here to increase our cultural level on a more permanent basis.”

“That remains to be seen,” Hank said, trying to be as polite and proper as possible.

“Don’t be an arse,” Tremont growled, “You’re not cut out for it. I, on the other hand, I can be whatever I want. I came to this country some years ago intent of documenting the life and times of the American Plains Indian through the new art of photography. I have published four volumes of photographs and they have given me a rather substantial independence. You,” he said, pointing a finger at Hank’s chest, “Are the honest, hard working sort that I could never be, and I salute you for that accomplishment.”

“And I salute you for yours,” Hank said, raising his glass.

“Charming fellow,” Tremont said, speaking to Rosa.

“I’d love to see your work,” Hank said enthusiastically. “You’ve been all over the west then?”

“Oh yes, dear chap,” Tremont slurred again. “I have been a faithful witness to the slaughter and subjugation of the native American from Florida to California and all the God forsaken spots in between. And then,” he crowed, “as the ultimate crowning glory to my career I followed Mister Roosevelt to Cuba and captured for time and eternity that tragedy.”

“I lost my brother there,” Hank sad sadly.

“Ah yes, so many fell there, my young friend, so many. I have files and files of ghosts, who will never be again, I’m afraid. Red and white, black, brown and yellow, they all bleed and die the same.”

“So, how did you end up here in Destiny?” Hank asked.

“It’s so appropriate, don’t you think?” Tremont laughed softly. “Actually, I came here seeking the services of a blacksmith when one of my horses threw a shoe. I left my mobile laboratory next to the blacksmith’s shop, came here to Rosa’s for a drink and I guess I’ve been here ever since. My noble goals have been reduced to the recording of weddings and 25th anniversaries, family reunions and funerals and the occasional uneventful event.” His voice was dropping off, slowing down and his eyes were nearly closed. “But perhaps in these seemingly mundane efforts I will succeed in capturing the real essence and history of this cruel and wonderful land.” Tremont’s head sagged to his chest.”

“Now what happens?” Hank wondered aloud.

Rosa smiled, lovingly, like a mother would smile at a sleeping child. “Chuy will carry him to his room in the back of his wagon down by the livery stable, like he does most nights. He’ll sleep until he’s sober and hungry and then he’ll get up and, sooner or later, start the same thing all over again.

Hank yawned right after he drained the last of his second tequila. “It’s been quite a day,” he remarked to the bar owner. “Now I believe I will put my tired body to bed and sleep until tomorrow; we’ll see if that gets any better than this one.”

“Don’t start sounding like Tremont,” Rosa laughed. Destiny can only stand one of those at a time.”

A few minutes later Hank had banked up the fire and had pulled back the blankets on the comfortable bed in the Marshal’s office. The last time he went to sleep he had more or less collapsed; tonight he had time to get settled in, enjoying the firm softness of the cotton mattress. As he turned his head to the wall he thought he caught the scent of verbena sachet on the pillow. He smiled and drifted off to sleep.

Old Ned would have won his bet, Hank thought to himself as he looked out on the breaking morning from the covered porch of the Town Marshal’s Office, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. It is going to be a nice, warm, late-summer day. Already there were more signs of life in Destiny than he had seen the day before; several wagons passed the intersection of Main and Washington Streets headed in both directions. A couple had turned north on Washington street but he had no way of knowing what sort of business establishments were in that section of town. He thought perhaps he might take a walk around, later, maybe when the light was full and the air had lost its chill.

When he woke up, an hour or so ago, he hadn’t been the least bit hungry. He made a pot of coffee, a bigger one than he would have made had he been on the trail. Out there he wouldn’t have taken the time to drink more than a cup and also precious rations had to be used sparingly; you never quite knew when you might have the chance to reprovision. He would have gulped down the one cup of coffee, perhaps ate a biscuit he would have made the evening before, topped with a single slice of bacon, then brushed and curried old Shamrock, picked any pebbles out of the frogs of his hooves, saddled him, loaded up his bedroll and been off before the sun topped the eastern ridge.

Mentally going through that routine again made Hank think of his saddle, stashed out there among the rocks along with his small coffee pot and a couple of tins of beans. He needed to make some arrangement to go back there and pick up that saddle before some critter found it and chewed through the sweaty, salty latigo cinch straps. Besides, a saddle is a personal thing, not something a man should borrow, lend or rent, and his was a good saddle, only four or five years old and made by a real craftsman all the way down in San Anton. He wanted that saddle back.

As he was pouring another cup of coffee he heard the crunch of an iron wheel on gravel and glanced up to see Ned, pushing his two wheel cart onto the vacant lot next to the office. A long-handled manure fork protruded out of the back of the cart and the cart contents steamed a bit. It was plain to see what Ned’s job was this fine morning; Hank chuckled.

Ned walked slowly to the porch and then up on it. “Good morning Ned,” Hank said loudly from his place near the pot-bellied stove. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Ned shaded his eyes. “Can’t hardly see you there in the darkness,” he mumbled, “but good morning to you too Mister Butters. I brung you something.”

“Well great, bring it in,” Hank said.

Ned reached into his shirt and withdrew a rolled up sheaf of papers. He began to grin. “See here,” he said proudly, “it’s a calendar from the feed store.”

“That’s mighty nice of you Ned,” Hank acknowledge gratefully. “We’ll hang it right up here on the wall.

Hank took the calendar and unrolled it and then found a protruding tack on one of the boards of the wall behind the desk. He opened it up to the September page, slipped the wire clasp over the tack and he and Ned stood there, inspecting the way it made the desk look somehow more official.

“I know its September,” Hank said slowly, “but I couldn’t say with certainty what day or date it is. Would you know Ned?”

Ned looked puzzled for a moment. “No, I don’t think I know neither, why, does it make a difference?”

Hank laughed. “I see the mayor has you busy at work this fine morning.”
“I do this nearly every morning,” Ned said, his jack-o-lantern grin showing through the stubble on his chin.

“The rain kept most everybody off the streets yesterday, not much to pick up today. Some days I get a whole cart full by the time I head up Washington Street. And that’s where I best be heading too.” His face showed the determination and importance he obviously put on his job. With a nod he was out the door.

It was about an hour later that John Trent and another man walked into the Marshal’s Office. Hank had busied himself by completely breaking down his Winchester and Peacemaker, drying and lightly oiling each piece and reassembling both weapons. John smiled and turned to his companion. Mister Butters, this is Doctor Hanley, Doctor Clifford Hanley to be precise, but everyone calls him Doc.” Hank shook hands with the man while the mayor gave his name. The Doctor was a short man, wore a very dark grey suit and a black hat with a turned up rim. He smiled over small spectacles and had a firm, warm, handshake. “Doc and I represent the town council, abbreviated as it is for the moment. Fred Denton, president of the bank and Sam Jensen are both out of town for the next week, so anything we decide here today will be subject to their approval when they return,” John said, smiling broadly, “but it is pretty safe to say I think they will endorse anything we might do in their absence.”

Hank was a bit puzzled but didn’t say anything except to invite the men to sit down. John Trent went over to the desk and sat down behind it, wiped his hand over the surface and symbolically swept all other matters aside.

“Destiny has three employees Hank,” he began, being very serious. “You’ve met Ned. He is our general clean-up man and does a hundred and one different things for us. We also have George Barton who has a little place outside of town a ways with a spring that comes out of a rock about 7 feet in the air. That makes it very easy for him to drive a pretty big tanker under that spring and fill it with water. George keeps our horse troughs supplied and sometimes even waters down the streets in the hot months when it tends to get pretty dusty. The other employee would normally be a town Marshal. We lost our old Marshal a few months ago and we need to fill that position.”

Both the Doc and John Trent had a faint smile playing around their face.
Trent continued. “We don’t have a lawlessness problem in Destiny, it’s a nice town. We have all the things necessary for a town to prosper and grow and we’ve been doing that for forty years. We’ve got a bank, a hardware store, a telegraph office, stage depot, livery stable and a dress shop. We have two blacksmiths, two saloons, a café, and we’ve got a Chinese Laundry. Within the next two years we plan to start building a school and I wouldn’t be surprised if someday a preacher will decide we need some religion.” Both Doc and Hank chuckled a little.

“I guess what the mayor is trying to say here Hank,” Doc injected, “is that we don’t need a gunfighter who breaks as many laws as he enforces, we don’t want our folks to fear the law, we want them to respect it and trust and rely on it.” Hank nodded but didn’t say anything; he had all but figured out what was on these men’s minds.

“Exactly,” John said enthusiastically, “We want a man who can bring people and their differences together, negotiate rather than confront, a fellow with the good sense to come in out of the rain, and by golly you’ve demonstrated that already.” All three of them laughed.

John Trent continued. “There is a U.S. Marshal over in Justice, the county seat who handles all the real crime in the area, but the town Marshal might have to throw a drunk in jail now and then, although it happens rarely. The miners and the cowboys from here and around aren’t the explosive types, but I can’t say you wouldn’t ever have to back down some loudmouth or a cheating gambler. I think you could handle that quite appropriately and I’ve brought Doc along today to get his opinion on that also. What do you think, Doc?””

“From what I’ve seen, Mister Butters seems to be what we’ve been looking for,” Doc smiled broadly. “The fact he can read and write, and if what he told you about never having been in jail is true, he should do quite well. But, perhaps we should ask Mister Butters what he thinks.”

Hank was about to enter his objections when John Trent broke in front of him. “First let me set out the deal for you Hank. We’re willing to pay you nineteen dollars a month; now I know that is neither miner nor cowboy wages, but you could live here in the office unless you make other arrangements on your own. We’ll pay your expenses at the livery stable, furnish your firearms and ammunition, and you can eat at the café on the house. How does that sound to you?”

“Gentlemen,” Hank began, “I am honored that you would even consider me for this job, but I have to say, I’m not a lawman sort of person. I’ve never been in a serious fight in my life. Even the way I was brought up to train horses avoids confrontation and conflict. I might not be tough enough to do the job.”

Doc smiled, knowingly. “If you are intelligent enough to know that, then the mayor was right on the mark in his evaluation of you. You’ve got my vote John.”

“So, it looks like it is your decision, Hank,” John said, still grinning. “I want you to know, if you don’t take the job I’ll still put you to work at the mine, but I would really hate to see that. It wouldn’t solve your problems or the town’s either.”

Hank sat there for a minute, thinking. Working in the copper pit, especially with winter just around the corner, was not to his liking at all. It might be possible to work a couple of months, save enough money to buy a horse that was pretty long in the tooth, or one who was half crazy, but heading anywhere in the middle of winter made no sense either. Finally, he raised his head and looked at the two men.

“If you can give me a couple of days I’ll do it. I’d like to hire a saddle horse and a pack horse, go back and get my saddle and my other gear, and then I guess I’ll be ready to start.” He wasn’t completely comfortable with his decision, but it would have to do for the moment.
“You’ll do no such thing,” John said adamantly. “We’ll pin this tin star on you right now and you will be on the payroll when you do that errand. It’s the kind of thing a town Marshal should be doing anyway.”

Doc reached out for a hand shake. “Congratulations, Marshal Butters,” he grinned.

“Why don’t we make this temporary appointment as a constable?” John suggested. “At least until the full council has a chance to vote on it. We’re not going to make up a special badge though,” he laughed and put the star back into his pocket. “Just don’t run up too big an expense account for the next week or so.”

“I’ll try not to, Mister Mayor,” Hank laughed.

They spent the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon touring the town. Hank met all the shopkeepers and employees, got a pretty good layout of the town and was setting up a night door-check routine in his mind. They ate lunch at the café, Hank happy to note that Nita was working and she smiled at him several times. In the afternoon he went through the desk, glanced briefly through the wanted posters. About mid afternoon Ned showed up with his cart. He was loaded up and Hank had to help him with a long wooden box they hauled into the office. Inside the box was a 44 caliber Colt Peacemaker, much like the one Hank carried in his bedroll, a couple of pairs of handcuffs, a Henry repeating rifle and a beautiful old 50 Caliber Sharps. Ned took the weapon out of the box and looked at it, almost wistfully. “This was my rifle, Hank,” he said, sadly. “I sold it to the town many years ago.

Hank could see the old man wanted to tell his story. “It’s a fine weapon, Ned. I used one much like this when I hunted buffalo a couple of seasons.”

“I was a sniper in the war between the states,” old Ned said solemnly. “I could shoot anything from any range. I had a Yankee General in my sights one time, about six hundred yards away, I recon. This gun shoots about an inch low and an inch to the left at three hundred yards with the sights set, and I guess I got kind of excited and missed the old boy. At least that’s the story I tell myself. I think at that point of the war I wanted to miss more than I hit. I’d hit too many before that.”

Hank clapped him on the shoulder. “You did what you had to, my friend. I suppose we all do, when it comes right down to it.”

Suddenly there was ringing and clanking from the box as Ned pulled out a genuine Regulator wall clock. “Can’t have the town Marshal sleeping in neither,” Ned cackled. “There’s some gun oil, and ammunition in that box too. I’ll put the weapons away and stash the other stuff. We got a double-barreled sawed-off sixteen gauge shotgun and a saddle gun out in the cart to bring in yet too.”

Hank spent the remainder of the afternoon lightly cleaning the weapons old Ned had brought from some unknown place, hanging and setting the clock and generally just tinkering around.

Shortly before supper time he walked down to the livery stable. He had been introduced to the Olsen brothers on his tour of the town. Olaf and Sven were two huge mountains of men, both excellent blacksmiths and workers of iron in general. Work from the sawmill and the copper mine kept them busy from daylight to dark nearly every day of the week. The livery end of the business fell to a smallish man named Herb. He had not been given much of a chance to talk to him, they just shook hands and exchanged names; yet in that short moment of contact Hank felt a kinship with the man, something unexplainable yet very familiar.

After a friendly wave to the sweating Olsen brothers, Hank walked towards the corral where he found Herb doing the evening feeding. Herb had pitched several mounds of hay over the fence into the pen that held seven or eight horses. There was a flurry of activity, horses going from pile to pile, snatching a bite and moving to the next pile, some pinning of ears, threatening stances, even a protesting squeal when it seemed one particular horse wanted to dominate one particular pile of hay. Eventually they got it all sorted out and all the animals settled down to eating.

“The old pinto mare sort of rules the roost, I’d guess,” Hank said as both men watched from outside.

“She does,” Herb said smiling, “but they have to go through this ritual every time, the jostling and bumping, the threats and the challenges, and it’s all to see if anything has changed since morning.”

“Where does the tall grey colt fit into the squabble?” Hank wanted to know.

“Fairly close to the bottom,” Herb laughed. “He and the older bay gelding at his side are allies, but I believe one day soon they may move up a peg or two. The colt is learning fast. Anyway Marshal, what can I do for you?”

Hank retold the story of old Shamrock and having to leave his saddle in the rocks twenty or thirty miles back and walking to town in the rain and snow. “What I’d like to do,” Hank said, “is to take a saddle horse and a lead horse out there tomorrow, spend the night and then bring my gear back to town the next morning. It shouldn’t be a hard ride, I could almost do it in one day but that would be a tough one.”

“I think you’d be right,” Herb replied seriously. “I’ll have the grey and the bay ready for you in the morning, anytime you’re ready. You can ride or lead either one you want. The colt is still a little green and a good long workout would do him a world of good. He tends to do a lot of gawking around, interested in everything around him and a bit fidgety, but having the bay with him will be a comfort. You can continue his schooling for me and maybe increase his value by ten dollars before he comes home.”

“Or he might pitch me to the top of a pinion tree and teach me a lesson or two,” Hank laughed.

“Marshal,” Herb said slowly, “I’ve been hitching horses to stagecoaches, working in liveries and tending stock my whole life. You think I never threw a harness on a Butters horse before? Ours is a pretty small world, and fame, if you want to call it that, is kept within a tight circle. But, names like Butters, Kennedy and Delaney have value. I’d bet you a beer and a shot that those creams the mayor owns are either Butters or Delaney’s and if they ain’t, there is some competition out there for your family.”

“The Amish folks out east in Pennsylvania turn out some very fine teams,” Hank protested. “Even my dad envied them.”

“I’d agree, except for one thing,” Herb said, “all their horses have a touch of terror in them. They might not have been abused, but they have that fear in the back of their minds. You ever notice when you sit behind a Butters team, the horses heads usually bend towards each other? They aren’t just a team, they are partners and they work that way. Fear doesn’t get that kind of results, gentleness does.”

The men talked horses together for a few more minutes and then Hank left, heading for supper at the café, but he decided to stop in at the office and wash his face and hands; he even ran a comb through his hair.

When he walked into the café he noticed Doc Hanley sitting alone at a table close to the far wall. Doc noticed him too and motioned for him to have a seat with him. Hank went over and sat down, smiling and nodding at Nita as he crossed the room. “Well, how was your first day on the job?” Doc joked.

“I haven’t been that busy in a long time,” Hank laughed. “I don’t think I did anything wrong yet, so I guess it was a pretty good day.”

Doc explained that the menu was chicken, mashed potatoes and creamed corn, plus fresh biscuits and canned peaches. “Good Lord,” Hank exclaimed, “I’ll be fit to slaughter within a month at this rate.”

It seemed the mayor had gone home for supper and the indication was that perhaps his pretty red-headed wife was growing a little testy with his absences of late. They talked general things all through supper, smoked a cigarette afterwards with their coffee and Hank mentioned he would be heading out in the morning to retrieve his saddle. Several times during the meal he had made eye contact with Nita and smiled, but he never had the opportunity to speak to her except when she brought his platter of food.

The chimes of the regulator clock had just rang eight o’clock and Hank was thinking about making a small fire and then perhaps going over to Rosa’s for a glass of tequila, until he heard a soft tapping on his door. Nita was standing on the porch, a black mantilla over her hair, a shawl over her shoulders and a small bag in her hands.
“Here’s something for the trail tomorrow,” she said sweetly. “Just some biscuits with honey on them, but they will be good with coffee in the morning.” Hank reached out and took the bag, but he couldn’t say anything. “Try to be careful out there this time,” she smiled. “The last time I didn’t know you were out there; this time I do and I’ll be concerned until you get back.” She turned and skipped off the porch and took off at a good pace down Washington Street.
 
PART II


The tall grey colt fidgeted as Hank tied his bedroll on behind the saddle and Hank felt a bit uneasy himself. The stocky bay horse stood by the hitching rail, nearly asleep. The morning was clear and cool, the previous day’s heat had risen through a cloudless sky during the night and the feel of autumn was in the air. Hank jostled the saddle a bit more than he might have, but he felt the colt needed to be agitated a bit and learn on his own that things that make you nervous aren’t necessarily going to hurt you. The weather was cool, but it wouldn’t freeze you, the saddle squeaked but it wasn’t going to claw and bite your back, they had a sixty mile ride ahead of them, but they’d be back by tomorrow afternoon. The colt was slow absorbing the lessons and Hank hadn’t rid himself of all the butterflies in his stomach either.
He climbed astride the colt and stood up in the stirrups; Herb had made a good estimate when he lengthened the leathers to compensate for Hank’s height. The Winchester was stuffed deep in the scabbard, saddle bags on tight, everything seemed ready to go. Only the weight of the peacemaker at his right side, snug in its holster felt strange. Hank kept his own pistol in his bedroll and never wore a gun belt, but he supposed Town Marshals probably should wear a side-arm if only to make the good folks feel safe and the bad folks wonder.
He unwound the lead rope from around the saddle horn and jiggled it a bit rousing the bay horse from his slumber. He grinned and bent over and whispered in the colt’s ear, “When you get a little older and a little more settled, you’ll be able to relax and catch a nap like he does and appreciate the break.”
He started the colt off on a slow walk north on Washington Street up to the intersection and turned east on Main Street. They passed the bank and the colt only shied once, that being the water trough across the street on the side of the dry goods store. It didn’t matter that he’d seen water troughs before, he hadn’t seen that particular one and in his mind there might be a lion, tiger or a bear behind it, ready to pounce on him. Hank kept whispering to the colt. “You’ll see a million new things today and if you shy at each of them you’re going to get mighty tired.”
Herb had taken the time to break out a map of the area and show Hank the best route back to where he thought old Shamrock must have went down. As it turned out, Hank’s route out of the high country was pretty direct, he wasted only a couple of miles at most, but heading east a ways further before angling off to the north would be a lot easier country to ride and be less stressful on the horses as well. The valley was wide and green, the land rose and fell gently, and all it all it was a fine day for a ride.
Within an hour the colt had settled down a good deal. He stopped trying to move off to the left or the right because Hank would cue him with leg pressure to just move in a straight line unless asked to change course. He had stopped continually looking around to see if his bay companion was still there, but he hadn’t stopped the constant movement of his head, usually directly up and down. “You have a little pepper in your blood,” Hank said softly. The colt’s ears moved back, he was listening. “Pepper might be a good name for you; you’ve got those flecks of black in your coat that goes along with the spice. However, I think I know a couple of things that might be bothering you. First of all you have round withers and horses with round withers saddled with a regular saddle built for mustangs and leggy thoroughbreds need to be cinched down pretty tight. Now, I’ve got a saddle stashed up in the hills that will feel a whole lot better to you, I’m sure. You’ll probably have to have a breast collar because when you get older and fill out a little more, saddles will always be slipping back on you, especially when you’re headed up-hill.” The head movement slowed somewhat, it seemed the man’s voice, or perhaps what he was saying, was interesting to the young horse. “Plus that, I think maybe that curb bit you have in your mouth might be just a little premature.” Hank was thinking aloud as much as he was trying to calm the horse. “Out west, in California, the Mexican vaqueros use a thing they call a bosal. It is a braided rawhide loop with a big weighted knot on the end of it; that knob goes to the rear and rides just under your chin.” He reached forward and touched the colt in the appropriate spot, then scratched and patted his neck. “They attach a loop rein to that knob. It works like a lever; when you pull the knob up, the front of the bosal goes down and puts a little pressure on the bone of your nose, but there is nothing at all in your mouth. I think you might have some extra sensitive bars on your jaw, so maybe we’ll have to do a little experimenting to find out what works best for you.”
It was still in the early part of the afternoon when Hank, studying the landmarks, judged they had come twelve or thirteen miles, and made good time doing it, when he pulled his small expedition off to the shade of an aspen grove. They were into the high country where, just days ago, he had waded through boot-high snow in the middle of a cold night. On this day, the sun warmed the ground and there was no trace of any snow to be seen. The yellow gold leaves of the aspens rattled softly in the breeze and somewhere, a mile or two to the north, a bull elk whistled at some real or imaginary opponent.
He unsaddled the colt, rubbed his back with some dry grass, slipped a pair of hobbles on him and turned him loose to graze. He didn’t bother to hobble the bay; he would stick around without restraint. They took about a forty-five minute break; Hank munched a biscuit and wished he’d had the presence of mind to at least say thank-you to Nita for being so thoughtful. He wondered about her, wondered about the verbena sachet that he had smelled on her and on the pillow in the Marshal’s Office. It didn’t seem to matter, whatever way he thought about her made him smile.
When they hit the trail again Hank rode the bay and led the colt. When the ground was smooth and open he urged the horse into a gentle canter, when it tightened up they moved at a trot. It was not much past four in the afternoon when they arrived at the clearing with the sheer rock pile where Hank had hidden the saddle.
Hank judged the wind. It was coming from the west and would probably remain that way barring a sudden change in the weather, and no such change looked eminent. They made camp in the lee of the rock formation. When he had tended the horses, hobbled them and set them feeding, he climbed the rocks and retrieved his saddle. It looked good as new. Tomorrow both horses would be saddled; one with Hank’s and the other with the one that came from the livery. He’d put his saddle on the colt, ride the bay down to the valley and then come back to town on the colt, just a mirror image of what they had done today.
Hank made a short version of a trail supper. He didn’t cook beans but he fried a few strips of bacon and ate them with Nita’s biscuits. He noticed the colt stayed close to the camp but didn’t make much of it. The bay seldom raised his head, munching sweet meadow grass to his hearts delight, taking him wherever his footfall came.
Before dusk, the colt became visibly agitated, looking off to the west, sniffing the air and even whinnied a time or two. Hank gathered him up, led him up to where he could see the fire and tied him to a picket rope. He did the same thing with the bay a few moments later. He spotted a rider at the far end of the clearing, but made no sign. It was the flash off something silvery that had first caught his attention.
When he had secured the bay he climbed to a vantage point in the rocks and watched. It was nearly dark when two riders emerged from the aspens; two riders and three horses. The lead rider wore a flat Mexican hat, was dressed in black, and rode a near black horse saddled with a globe-horned Mexican saddle, complete with tapaderos. It was his silver that Hank had spotted. The second rider was a smaller man on a sorrel horse and looked pretty ordinary. The horse they led was also saddled. Hank slid down the rock and threw a couple more pieces of wood on the fire.
It was full dark when someone yelled from outside the halo of light Hank’s fire provided. “Hello in the camp,” the voice called. “We’re not hostile, I wonder if you’d mind if my partner and I shared your fire and coffee, if you have any.”
“Not at all,” Hank called out, trying not to sound cautious. “I didn’t make coffee, but you’re welcome to take the chill off.”
The men approached on foot, leading their mounts. The big man with the Mexican flat hat was the first into the light. “Thank you friend,” he said. “We didn’t expect to encounter anyone up here in the high country and I guess we waited a little too long to set up a campsite.”
“It is getting a little dark,” Hank agreed.
“I’m Frank Johnson,” the big man said loudly as though he wanted to make sure his partner had heard him, “This is my partner George Parker. We’re horse buyers, and I see you seem to have an extra here. Are you looking to sell one or the other?”
Hank smiled. “No, I don’t think so,” he said politely.
“George,” the big man barked, “run a picket line between those two aspen trees over there and fetch the coffee pot from the saddle bags and grab a handful of grounds when you’re done.”
“Okay Frank,” the other man responded, artificially emphasizing the word Frank.
“If you don’t mind we’ll use your coals to brew up a pot of coffee,” Frank announced. “We’re not going to eat tonight; we need to be off early in the morning to meet up with a fellow in Destiny that brought in a bunch of mustangs a few days ago.”
“Well, I’m headed for Bixby myself,” Hank lied, “otherwise we could ride on together.”
“You’ll want to be up early then too,” Frank, or whatever his name was, laughed.
It wasn’t long before “George” had finished tying up their horses. He didn’t bother to take off the saddles but at least he was kind enough to loosen the cinch straps on all three. He filled the coffee pot from a canteen and set it next to the fire on a flat rock to heat. Even in the dim light of the campfire, Hank could make out that the little man was a slimy, lizzardly looking individual with dirty teeth and a stench about him that was detectable from ten yards away. Even if he had brushed and curried the horses and fed them a ration of grain Hank doubted if he could have been friendly towards him.
Hank did drink a cup of their coffee, but when the two men broke out a flat bottle of whiskey Hank moved off to his bedroll. He thought it strange, if he had come upon one man in a camp with two horses and two saddles, the first thing he would have assumed is that there was another man somewhere. These two never questioned him about it, in fact they said very little to Hank at all. He figured they had probably spotted him earlier and knew exactly what his situation was. It would be a good night to sleep with one eye open, or better yet, not sleep at all, he decided.
“Going to bed so early? The slimy one asked.
“Yeah,” Hank yawned. “Early to bed, early to rise, well, you know the rest.”
Hank unbuckled his gun belt and laid it to the dark side of his bedroll. Sitting down he pulled off his boots and set them on the warm side, towards the fire, pulled back the blanket and slid under it. He almost jerked upright as his hip came down on the hard lump made by the 44 caliber Peacemaker. “Damn,” Hank cussed, “got myself right in the middle of a rock.”
“Better than a snake,” Frank bellowed.
In spite of his best efforts, within two or three hours Hank found his eyes closing occasionally. The two ‘horse-buyers’ had finally given up on both the coffee and the whiskey an hour or two earlier, but they never turned in. They lay up against a log, their feet towards the fire, and saddle blankets over their chests and snored loudly. The moon was coming up and the wind was calm. He wasn’t sure just what he should do, but the main thing was to stay awake.
The next thing he was aware of was somebody kicking the bottom of his feet. “Wake up, friend,” Frank said loudly.
Hank reached beside the bedroll, feeling for his gun belt, it wasn’t there.
“No, no, no,” Frank laughed, I’ve got that hog-leg of yours right here in my hand. Now I haven’t made up my mind yet if I’m going to kill you or not, so don’t do anything stupid to push me over the line. My idiot partner here, and his name ain’t George by the way, told me there was a bunch of elk hunters up in these hills with ten or twelve horses we could steal easy. Well, as you can see, all we come across was one poor old dirt farmer on his way to Justice to fetch a doctor for his sick wife. I didn’t kill him, although I probably should have, and I won’t kill you either if you just stay put in that bedroll until we’re safely out of here. You understand that real good?”
Hank nodded.
“I thought you might,” Frank laughed. With that he swung his hand, colt and all, and hit Hank on the side of his head. Everything went black.
He had no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious, but when he started to regain some knowledge of being alive he heard a lively discussion going on. Frank was sitting astride his horse, it was almost full daylight. George was running a lead rope through the bit rings of all the horses except Frank’s and his own. Pepper and the bay were saddled along with the farmer’s horse.
“And I’m telling you,” George was hollering, “we can still find those elk hunters; get their bunch along with these that would give us maybe fifteen head. We could lay up all winter on that kind of money.”
“Sooner or later, within a day or two, that farmer is going to get word to some lawman and they’ll be out looking for us, you stupid bastard,” Frank yelled. “We better head south with what we got and look for easier pickings down there.”
“Well I told you to shoot the son-of-a-bitch when we had the chance, but, oh no, you had to let him go. You should punch a couple of holes in this one here too, or do you want me to do it?”
“What I should do,” Frank said coarsely, “is shoot you and add that piece of dog meat of yours to my string. That would keep me over the winter and I wouldn’t have to put up with your stink from now until spring.”
“You got neither the starch nor the hand for it,” the slimy one sneered.
With that, Frank drew his pistol and fired. The bullet hit the slimy one full in the chest, knocking him off his feet and back about a yard.
Hank grabbed the revolver from under his hip and rose up from his bedroll. His head hurt like fire and his vision was blurred, but he put the front blade of his sight on Franks left shoulder and squeezed off a shot. Franks horse took that very moment to react to the first shot and lurched to the left. Hank’s bullet hit the man in the chin, threw him backwards, off his horse.
When the smoke cleared Hank got up from his bed and staggered to his feet. He had no doubt that George was dead but he couldn’t be sure about Frank. The ground was cold on his stocking feet and he could barely stay upright, but he walked slowly towards the inert figure on the ground. What he saw made him throw up. The entire back of Frank’s head was gone.
It took nearly two hours to get things ready to leave. He had wrapped the two bodies in their blankets and had draped them over their saddles and tied them down. It had taken two saddle ropes, cut into precise lengths to rig up a way to put all the horses into a line he could control. A rope went from each halter ring to the tail of the horse in front of him. Hank put Pepper at the back of the string because he wasn’t sure if the colt would tolerate the pulling of his tail for thirty plus miles. He had done this while having to stop every few minutes and throw up, but his stomach was empty and there was nothing left. He was dizzy and he wasn’t sure if he could make it back to town or not.
Hank walked back to Pepper and scratched his neck and patted it. “This isn’t quite the kind of schooling I had in mind for you today, but you’re going to do fine. Just follow this sorrel in front of you and go where he goes. I’ll be up front on old bay and we’re going to have to cover some ground fast or I might not make it at all.” The colt nickered at him.
Hank swung aboard the bay and gathered the reins. He looked back and for a moment he almost gave up, but he rubbed the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and spit the bitter taste from his mouth. “Okay, bay horse,” he said softly, “it’s pretty much up to you now. Take us home to Destiny and don’t stop until we get there.” He dug his heels into the old horse and they hit out on a fast lope.
It was Nita who first spotted the horses coming up the east road on a fast trot. She and a customer from the café ran into the street, flagged down the bay and grabbed the loose reins. All the horses were lathered in sweat and Hank was barely conscious, clinging to the saddle horn and trying desperately to stay erect. Other people from town gathered around and somebody ran for Doctor Hanley. Two men pulled Hank down from the saddle and eased him onto the ground. “Somebody tell Doc there is a sick woman out there somewhere and her husband is afoot since yesterday.” Hank mumbled.
They carried Hank to the Marshal’s office and laid him on the bed. Some men began separating the horses and led them towards the livery stable. “Doc, what should we do with these bodies?” someone yelled as Doc rushed towards the jail.
“Take them to the upstairs room above my office,” Doc yelled back. “Then get those horses down to the livery.”
Nita was bathing Hank’s head with a cool wet cloth when Doc came in. Three or four men were standing around the bed. “Get those shutters open and give me some light in here,” Doc ordered. “Then all of you get the hell out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Nita scowled at him.
“Well then, make yourself useful,” Doc smiled. “Make a little fire and get some water on to boil. I’d better see if there is any skull left under that swelling on his temple.”
Hank lurched in and out of consciousness for the next several hours. Finally, somewhere around midnight he fell into a deep sleep, but it was a true sleep. Even Doc relaxed a little at that point.
“He has a pretty serious concussion, but I think he’s going to be alright. His heart has steadied up and his eyes seem to be focusing and adjusting to different light. Why don’t you go home, Nita? I’ll sit with him until morning.”
“Why don’t you go home Doc,” she said wearily, “and I’ll stay with him until morning. If anything changes I can come and get you or send someone for you.”
Doc scoffed. “Who would you find to fetch me at this time of night? The town’s gone to bed and so should you.”
Nita nodded towards the door. “Take a look,” she said.
Doc walked towards the door and opened it.
“How’s he doing, Doc?” Ned said, peering into the lighted room. Behind Ned stood Herb from the livery stable and a strange, sober version of Douglas Tremont. They had all been sitting on the porch together.
“He’s doing fine now,” Doc smiled. “He’ll be right as rain in a day or two. Now, you guys get out of here and let the poor man get some rest. You can check back in the morning if you’d like, but don’t make it too early. I’ve got to get some sleep too.”
The men all smiled in relief, and headed across the street to Rosa’s cantina. Doc came back in, closed the door and drank the rest of the cold coffee left in his cup. “The guy has been in town two days and already has more friends than either of us, Nita.” But he grinned as he said it.
Doc was back just after 6AM. Nita was sitting beside Hank’s bed, the damp cloth in her hand all but dried out completely. Her head was nodding and she would jerk upright and open her eyes rather than let herself give in to the overwhelming temptation to sleep. Doc touched her shoulder, lightly. “I think you need to get some rest, young lady.”
“Oh, good morning doc,” she said sleepily, stretched and yawned. “No, I think I am supposed to be at work. I can’t remember; things have been so mixed up since this all happened. When was that, anyway?” She smiled.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Doc chucked. “It does seem like longer, doesn’t it? How was our patient during the night?”
“He slept like a baby,” Nita smiled, “One time he groaned and thrashed about a bit, but he quieted right down again. He never opened his eyes.”
“I suspect he has some physical pain, maybe some mental anguish too,” Doc said frowning. “He’s gone through pretty harrowing stuff in the course of just a few days, and I doubt that he just picked up those two bodies along the trail. I don’t believe we’ve heard all there is to tell about this story quite yet.”
“What do you think happened to him, Doc? Maybe he got thrown off his horse or was knocked off by a tree limb, something like that?”
Doc shook his head. “I think a very big, very heavy fist hit him. You can see the darker areas in the wound where the knuckles struck. The big fella in my store room has bloody knuckles on his left hand but I’ll wager his hand wasn’t empty when the blow was landed either.”
“I’ve made coffee,” Nita frowned, “so I suppose I’d better get over to the café; I hate to leave before he wakes up, even in your hands, Doc.”
“I’ll send word if anything changes; I’ve got a good feeling that he’s going to be ok.”
A few minutes later Ned came by, pushing his two-wheeled cart. He tiptoed up onto the porch and peered in. “How’s he doing, Doc?” Ned asked.
“Still asleep,” Doc said quietly, approaching the door. “We’re going to need a couple of graves dug, Ned, can you take care of that?’
“Sure thing, Doc,” Ned assured him. “You know who those men are? We can’t just put ‘em in the ground without knowing can we?”
“We can’t leave them in my store room forever either,” Doc answered him. “If you can come back here when you get your chores done and watch over the Marshal for a while, I’ll go write up a description of both of them, telegraph it to the U.S. Marshal in Justice, and see if he has any idea of their identities too.”
“Good idea, Doc,” Ned said quietly. “You know, there is a stack of wanted posters around here somewhere. You might look at them and see if they are wanted desperadoes or some such thing.”
Ned left, promising to return within the hour. Doc went over to the desk and rummaged around until he found the stack of wanted posters Ned had spoke of. He started going through them slowly. Most were just drawings but there were a few photographs among them too. Half-way through the stack Doc stopped. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath.
“I seriously doubt that,” a weak voice came from the bed. “You seem like a pretty nice guy to me.”
“Well now,” Doc said, a broad smile spreading on his face, “that’s a pretty good sign.” He got up from behind the desk and walked over to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not going to lie to you and say I feel fine, Doc.,” Hank said. “My head feels as big as a bass drum and somebody’s beating on it.”
“That is to be expected. Any nausea, feel like you need to throw up?”
“I don’t think so,” Hank hesitated. “My gut hurts from all the vomiting I did and I’m terribly dry, but I think its ok.”
Doctor Hanley sat on the bed beside his patient. The morning light was coming in the window and Doc shaded Hank’s eyes for a moment and then withdrew it quickly. “Your pupils dilate, another good sign. Is your vision clear or blurred?”
Hank tried to raise his head and quickly lowered it to the pillow again. “Wow, that hurts,” he winced. “I think it’s clear, but I don’t want to try that again for a minute or two.”
“Just lay still,” Doc ordered. “More than anything, that is what will get you back on your feet the quickest. Rest and quiet beat most of the things I have in my bag of tricks.”
“What were you damning yourself for over there?” Hank asked. His eyes were tightly closed and he was reaching to feel the right side of his head.
Doc restrained his hand. “Just never mind about that wound on the side of your head nor the bandages either for right now,” he said firmly. “You’re still bleeding a little and we don’t want to add infection to the list of your ailments.”
“Ok,” Hank tried to grin but couldn’t. “What about the damnation?”
“One of those men you brought in yesterday was a wanted outlaw; goes, or went,” Doc corrected, “by the name of Spanish Jack Terkel. Stage coach line and the cattlemen’s association each had a twenty-five dollar reward on him.”
“The big fella in black that wore the Mexican flat hat?” Hank guessed.
“Yes,” Doc answered simply. “You have any idea who the other one was?”
“They were using phony names. I killed that big fella Doc, I didn’t mean to mortally wound him, but his horse bolted and put him right into the path of my shot. Jack, or whatever you called him, killed his own partner.”
“You’re not to think about that for now,” Doc ordered again.
“Do I remember rightly Nita being here or was I just dreaming that?”
“She sat with you the whole night,” Doc smiled, “She only left a few minutes ago and then I had to order her out of here.”
“You’re pretty good at giving orders,” Hank actually did manage part of a grin at least that time.
“Well you notice I give most of my orders to sick people who don’t have much choice,” he chuckled.
“Doc,” Hank said with some urgency, as if he’d just remembered something, “did anyone find that farmer with the sick wife?”
The doctor wondered for a minute if Hank was delirious. “What farmer, Hank?”
“That spare horse I brought in, those guys took it from a farmer who was riding to Justice to fetch a doctor for his sick wife. I didn’t see it happen, but they told me the story anyway. I was sure I had told somebody to tell you.”
“I’ll put that in my telegram to the U.S. Marshal. Now, let me get you a small drink, and then I think you had better rest.
The shootings had taken place on Saturday morning. Saturday night had been touch and go for Hank but he had survived. Doctor Hanley sent a telegram to the U.S. Marshal in Justice on Sunday morning and received a short reply Sunday evening saying that Marshal Thad Michaels would ride over to Destiny early in the week to question Mr. Butters about the incident. He also gave permission to bury Spanish Jack Terkel but asked that the unidentified partner be retained or, if possible, a sketch artist or a photographer be used to make a likeness of the individual’s face and features. Mayor Trent gave the task over to Douglas Tremont who did a fine job of posing the corpse and shortly thereafter both bodies were laid in unmarked graves at the edge of the cemetery on Copper Creek hill.
Hank’s recovery was marked with occasional severe headaches, but the pain was reduced markedly when Doc Hanley gave his patient a newly patented chemical compound called Aspirin. By Sunday evening he could sit erect in bed and on Monday afternoon he was able to stand and Doc and old Herb assisted him out to the privy. Nita flitted in and out when she could and spent the evenings with Hank until she was sure that he was safely asleep. She also brought food from the café at mealtimes, but it was food she or the cook prepared and not usually part of the café’s menu.
It was mid-morning Tuesday when a tall man riding a splendid looking chestnut gelding with a white mane and tail dismounted in front of the jail, looped a rein around the hitching post and walked into the office. If it hadn’t been for the badge on the left side of his vest, Hank would have guessed him to be a regular cow-hand, except his clothes were clean and pressed. He took off his wide brimmed hat when he entered the office and smiled at Hank.
“Marshal Butters? He questioned, politely.
Hank extended his hand. “You would be Thad Michaels, the United States Marshal from Justice, I guess. Sit down; can I pour you a cup of coffee?”
“That would be fine,” the man replied. “That’s quite a lump you got on the side of your head, I was glad to hear you were doing better. You feel like talking about it a while?”
“You’re a bit younger than I would have thought,” Hank chuckled. “I supposed all U.S. Marshals were old, rough and tough gun-fighter types with steel-grey eyes and wills of iron.”
“Only in the dime novels, Marshal,” the young man laughed. “Most of my contemporaries wear suits and ties to work now, but I try to maintain my comfort unless there is a visiting bureaucrat prowling about.”
Hank delivered a mug of coffee to his visitor and then sat down on the edge of the desk. “Ask anything you’d like,” Hank said. “The whole thing took three seconds and it was over.”
“That ride back you made wasn’t over in three seconds, and I can’t imagine how you withstood the pain and effort it must have taken to put together that string of horses, get those bodies tied to saddles and everything else.” He extended his cup towards Hank in a toasting gesture.
“All I knew was that I didn’t want to die out there and in order to get back I needed to do those things.” Hank explained simply.
“Tell me about the shootings,” the Marshal said directly.
Hank told the whole story again while the younger man listened intently. When he finished the Marshal looked up towards the ceiling. “I try to take a lesson from every successful lawman’s experience and file it away for future reference. I’ll remember about your tail-to-halter method of moving a number of horses, and I believe I’ll start packing an extra side arm in my bedroll.” He chuckled for a moment and then got a very serious look on his face. “And the lesson you should take away is this. When you have a man in front of you with a gun, especially if he has just killed someone, you don’t aim at his shoulder. You put him dead on the ground just as fast as you can and you don’t think twice about it.”
Hank felt a little inadequate, he still would rather have brought Spanish Jack in upright in his saddle, but it was a moot point now.
“Some travelers picked up that farmer about dark, Saturday night. They brought him back to Justice and we sent help to his place, but it was too late. His wife had already died of a ruptured appendix. Those two were cold, evil men, Marshal Butters; you have no need to apologize to anyone for their fate.”
Hank sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke. “If you can give me directions to his place I’ll see to it that he at least gets his horse and saddle back. I can do that much.”
“There’s no need for that Marshal, I will take his horse back to Justice with me and deliver it to him tomorrow. You’ve done your full part and you need to take it easy for a while.”
“What about the animals and tack from the other two?” Hank asked, and then added as he thought of it, “do we know who the other guy was? The partner?”
“I’m pretty sure it was a petty crook by the name of Charlie Guthrie; I’m hoping to confirm that by looking at a picture your local photographer took a few days ago. As for their gear, as far as the Federals are concerned that is up to you. You can sell it and put the proceeds into the town fund or you can keep it yourself.”
The young Marshal reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a wad of bills and tossed them on the desk. “The reward for Spanish Jack is yours, that was pretty well spelled out in the specifications of the cattlemen’s association and the stage line.”
Hank picked up the money and put it in the top drawer of the desk. “Kind of makes you feel like a bounty hunter, doesn’t it?”
“Marshal Butters,” the younger man said with some disdain, “as far as I can tell you didn’t go hunting for anything other than a saddle you were forced to leave behind because of dire circumstances. You didn’t ask for this fight and any man in your same position, lawman or not, would probably have faced the same choices. It’s small compensation for that blow to your head.” He smiled, craning his neck to see the other side of Hank’s face. “That bruise will color you like a rainbow in a few days and you probably won’t be able to put your hat on for a week.”
“Ah, that hat of mine isn’t exactly what you would call a fashion enhancement,” Hank chuckled. “It’s seen too many storms, been stomped on too many times and it was no beauty to begin with.”
“Well now,” Thad laughed, “here is your opportunity to buy a hat appropriate to your enhanced position in the community. Your predecessor, Marshal McCormack, wore a fine beaver hat, very snappy.”
Hank laughed. “Do you know him well?”
Marshal Michaels looked confused for a second. “I knew him well, yes.”
“He’s dead?” Hank inquired seriously.
“Why yes,” he said solemnly. “He was murdered right out in back of this building on the 4th of July of this year.”
Hank was shocked. “I guess I never asked for a clarification. The mayor told me they had lost their marshal a few months ago and I just assumed he left town or something.”
“I wish that was true; unfortunately, we think a drifter or some other unknown shot him right out by the pump. Him, or they, knocked him to the ground and shot him in the chest, although he didn’t have any bruises or marks to show that he’d been knocked around. There were firecrackers and shots being discharged all day and nobody took any special notice.”
“I suppose,” Hank said thoughtfully, “you’re never far removed from violence, even in a nice town like Destiny. It can come drifting in from the prairie or the high country and, before you know it, strikes at someone close.”
“Destiny can certainly bear witness to that,” Marshal Michaels said.
It was Hank’s turn to look confused. “Oh, how is that?”
“Well, just that Marshal McCormack’s was the third murder in Destiny in as many years.”
“You can’t mean that,” Hank said, shocked one again.
“Three years ago the eighteen year old daughter of Wang Li, the fellow who owns the Chinese Laundry came up missing. Everyone in town searched for her for several days and finally they found her in a gorge north of town. It wasn’t real pretty. She had been partly devoured by animals. It probably would have ruled an accidental death but the marshal and Doctor Hanley both had suspicions, although nothing concrete. So, it’s on the books as a homicide until we have further information. Beautiful girl, she was too.”
“And the other one?” Hank asked.
“A little over a year ago,” Thad said. “A sixteen year old girl, part of a group of Portuguese shepherds who were moving a huge flock of sheep through the valley, was found strangled, probably sexually assaulted, in the sage brush with nothing much to go on.”
After a few moments of silence Hank wondered aloud, “so, what do we do now.”
“Not really much we can do with the information we have,” the marshal answered. “There is always the off chance that we’ll pick up somebody on an unrelated offense and he will admit to one of the crimes, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
Hank felt somehow helpless. “I don’t know what I can do about any of this, marshal, but I will certainly keep it all in mind.”
“You might want to take a look at Marshal McCormack’s notes, just to see what he thought about these cases,” the younger man said. “He kept notes on everything.” “I haven’t run across anything like that,” Hank answered. “I’ll look around though. I’d sure be interested in seeing what he found.”
After a few more minutes of talking, the young marshal left, walked his fine looking horse down to the livery stable, picked up the farmer’s horse and tack and left for Justice. He waved as he passed the jail and Hank waved back.
That afternoon, shortly after he had finished the big bowl of chili Nita had brought him he heard Old Ned’s two-wheeled cart coming down the street. Standing on the porch he waved Ned over. “How about letting me lean on your cart and taking me down to the livery, Ned?”
The old man laughed. “Why don’t you just jump in and I’ll wheel you over there.”
“Because I got my last pair of clean pants on,” Hank chided him. “I don’t need to be sitting on a pile of horse manure. You suppose you could take some things of mine up to the Chinese laundry for me?”
“Sure, I could do that for you, be glad to.”
When they arrived at the livery one of the big Olsen boys came out and lent Hank a hand and escorted him over to a bale of hay and sat him down. Herb came over and shook his hand. “It’s good to see you up and around, Hank,” he said
“I’m not quite sure I’m up and around just yet,” Hank chuckled. “I still need Ned’s cart to lean on for the long stretches.” He got a serious look on his face then. “Herb, I’d like you to let me know if you get an offer on that grey colt I rode the other day. I’m interested in buying him, but it might take me a while to put together the finances. Just keep me informed, ok?”
Herb agreed, but you could see he would not accept any offer on the horse now that he was sure Hank was interested.
“But,” Hank said smiling, “the U.S. Marshal told me we could sell the two horses those outlaws were riding, along with their tack. The town will get the money, less your board fees naturally and I’ll see if I can talk the mayor into paying you a commission. Ned, you can take their weapons up to the hardware and we might as well sell them too. Maybe they can be useful tools for decent folks.”
When they arrived back at the office Ned gathered up Hank’s clothes and stuffed them into a burlap sack that he had hung over the sideboard of his cart. The shirt he had worn the morning of the gunfight was bloodstained, perhaps beyond further use, but he took it anyway. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a wardrobe, Ned,” he laughed.
“If a man has to live out of his saddlebags and a bedroll, he tends to limit his possessions to what he needs,” Ned chuckled knowingly. “I’ve never had a horse mention to me that I was wearing the same clothes today as the ones I had on yesterday.”
Later that afternoon Hank had an unexpected visitor. The mayor’s surrey, driven by a younger Latin man pulled up in front of the jail and the driver assisted a beautiful red headed woman wearing a dark green suit to the ground.
She approached the open door, paused and knocked softly. Hank stood and invited her in and pulled out a chair near his desk and asked her, politely, to have a seat. She laid a matching green purse on the desk which seemed quite bulky and slightly out of balance with the rest of her ensemble.
“Mister Butters,” she began, “you have probably guessed by now that I am the mayor’s wife; my name is Samantha, but please call me Sam.”
“A mother who taught me respect for women and a father who backed up her teachings with a timely cuff to the head when needed wouldn’t allow that; how about I just call you Missus Trent?” Hank smiled, respectfully.
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Mister Butters,” she dismissed. “It was your recent cuff to the head that brings me here today. I meant to come by before and welcome you to town, but events happened so quickly that I have missed that opportunity. Perhaps I can wish you a speedy recovery and welcome you on the same call?”
“There was no need for either,” Hank insisted, “but I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, just the same.”
The woman looked at him for a long moment, her green eyes sparkling, almost mischievously. “Are you a man of discretion, Mister Butters? Could a lady trust you with one of her closely held secrets without fear of being revealed and put up to local ridicule?”
“I’ve never been entrusted with a lady’s secrets before, but I believe myself to be a trusted individual. I can’t imagine you have anything scandalous in your nature at any rate,” Hank replied.
Samantha laughed aloud, a bright, cheery sound that rang delicately through the room. “Never be too sure what a lady might be hiding, Mister Butters. Often it is the unknowns that make us worthy of any special note, and it’s a position we greatly desire.”
“If you say so,” Hank laughed.
She opened the green, slightly bulky handbag, withdrew a small silver pistol with pearl handles and laid it unceremoniously aside. She then took a small metal box from the bag, opened it and pulled out a very small cigar, not much bigger than a rolled cigarette. “You would, of course, offer to light her cigar then?”
Hank struck a match and held it out to the woman. She touched his hand lightly and lit the diminutive smoke and inhaled deeply. From the aroma, he could tell it was quite strong. “May I?” Hank asked, reaching for the pistol.
“Of course,” she replied.
It was a weapon superbly crafted and engraved, well balanced and light. In design, it resembled a derringer with two barrels set one over the top of the other, but it was somewhat larger. The bore of the barrels appeared smaller than the 40 calibers, the current standard, smaller even than the .38 calibers that were gaining acceptance, but much larger than the rim-fire varieties. She guessed his forthcoming question. “It is a .25 caliber”, she stated authoritatively. “I come from a more gentile area of the country where firearms are seldom carried in plain view, but a woman can sometimes find herself in situations where a weapon might save her from terrible fates out here in the remote vastness of the west.”
“If it makes you feel safe, then I heartedly endorse it,” Hank answered truthfully.
Samantha told Hank about her goals of bringing education to Destiny, especially stressing that the facilities would be for both sexes. She also mentioned her hope of one day seeing the town electrified, having a central water source and building a sewer system that would do away with outhouses and privies.
“Yours is a voice that should, perhaps, be heard in the city council,” Hank suggested, although he wasn’t sure that forward thinking of that type would find favor with the male population of the town. “My mother was a strong woman,” Hank explained. “Her ideas were as valid as anyone’s in the family and respected by my father. I might have a different view than some, I fear.”
“We have but to look at Wyoming,” Samantha said smiling. “Women will be heard, one way or the other.”
Shortly thereafter she rose, preparing to leave. “Thank you for letting me take temporary sanctuary here in your office, Marshal Butters. If my husband inquires, I hope you will inform him that we had a pleasant visit and I trust you won’t give my small indiscretion away.”
“You needn’t have any concerns,” Hank smiled.
“May I offer you a small piece of council, Marshal?”
“Of course you can, I’d be pleased to hear what you have to say.”
She looked seriously at her host. “Your loyalties must always be to the law and the people of this town,” She said. “And the law must take precedence in all cases. I happen to believe that my husband and the others who had a voice in your appointment made a good and wise choice, but you owe them nothing in the way of special favors. Maintain your independence and guard it. One day you may need it far more than the friendship or approval of anyone.” With that she left, walked to her surrey and her driver assisted her to the back seat.
Nita came to the office shortly after the café closed. Hank thought she must have hurried through her clean-up routine to have arrived so early. She brought a bundle wrapped in brown paper with her.
“Here are some things you might be able to use,” she said with a very cautious tone in her voice. It was as if she was gambling on something and was not all that sure of the outcome.
Hank untied the bundle to find two washed, starched and ironed shirts, a pair of the nearly new denim pants, the kind being manufactured in San Francisco that had gained such wide popularity with cowboys and miners, and two red handkerchiefs. “Where did all this come from?” Hank wondered aloud, but he had a pretty good idea of what Nita’s response would be.
“They belonged to Bob,” and she hesitated for an instant, “Marshal McCormack. This bundle was in the laundry when he died and I’ve been holding it since then. The pants might be a little big in the waist, but you can have them taken in if you like.” Hank smiled at her, but did not comment.
“I just had Ned take some things of mine up there this afternoon,” Hank said, shifting the subject without making it seem obvious. “I doubt that one shirt will ever come clean from the bloodstains; it’s good that now I have a spare or two.”
A few minutes later when they were drinking a cup of coffee together Hank asked a question that subtly tipped his hand and yet did not cause either of them any embarrassment or anxiety. “Nita, would you know where Marshall McCormack might have put a notebook or a journal, something he kept records in or notes of criminal matters?”
“He did have a book like that,” she said, remembering back. “After the marshal was killed I came here one day to get some things and the mayor came in, went through all the drawers, looked under the bed and just about everywhere, but I don’t think he took anything. But, I have never seen that book since.”
“I’d sure like to find it and see what was in it,” Hank said, puzzled.
“And I hear you had a visitor today.” Nita’s eyes sparked even in the dim light.
“Oh yes,” Hank said, rather nonchalantly, “the United States Marshal from Justice came over for a talk. Gave me fifty dollars for killing a man I didn’t even know. Seems kind of wrong, doesn’t it?”
“I’m talking about your other visitor,” Nita said coldly, although there was some noticeable heat behind her statement too.
“You mean Missus Trent?” Hank was intrigued by Nita’s attitude. “Yes, she came by to welcome me to town and offer me a little advice on how to choose my friends.”
“She is a very attractive woman, no?” Nita said, still being on the cold side of the comfort scale.
“A very attractive married woman,” Hank added. “She was just fulfilling a social obligation, I’m sure.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Nita said, something knowing in her voice. Not all the soiled laundry is washed at the Chinaman’s, some of it gets rinsed out in the café and similar places.”
“Oh really?” Hank said, amused. “You must tell me all of it, although I don’t know anyone well enough to make it worthwhile.”
Nita was not about to be deterred. “Do you think she is beautiful?”
“Of course she’s beautiful, but she just doesn’t happen to be my particular type.” Hank was still amused.
“Oh, you have a particular type, do you?” Nita had regained the upper hand, and she knew it. “Tell me about this type of yours,” she laughed.
“Why,” Hank questioned. “Will you set out to help me find a woman that fits my needs?”
“I already have one in mind,” Nita laughed. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly. “I won’t tell you that I am a naive schoolgirl, Hank. Somehow you already know that the old marshal and I were very good friends, but there was nothing permanent between us. I don’t feel that way about you; so if you don’t want to contend with me, send me away now”
“I’m not sending you anywhere,” Hank said.
“Good,” Nita said hoarsely, “I wouldn’t go anyway.”
A few days later the mayor came into the office, a wide smile on his face. “We had a meeting of the town council today; there were a couple of irregular agenda items that needed finalizing. They both concerned you.”
“You reconsidered giving me the job, right?” Hank joked. “Now you want me to move along.”
“Just the opposite,” John laughed. “First of all we had all members present and we confirmed your appointment.” The mayor reached in his pocket and withdrew a tin star badge and tossed it to Hank. “Its official now, you are the Town Marshal with all the duties and responsibilities that go along with that title.” He had been holding a stack of papers in his other hand and he tossed them onto the desk. “Homestead prove-up statements that need to be verified, tax delinquencies that have to be served and a couple of cattle brands that need to be checked out. Get to work, Marshal Butters.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Hank said. “I’m getting a little tired of sitting around doing nothing and not earning my keep.”
“About the other item on the agenda today,” John said, humored for some odd reason. “A man on his way to Utah territory stopped by the livery yesterday looking to pick up a spare horse. Herb showed him that black gelding Spanish Jack rode and told him a little of the background. The guy bought the horse, the saddle and the other tack, at a somewhat exaggerated price, never quibbled about it a bit. So, we had to come up with a procedure to take care of the money. We never figured that the marshal would be a source of revenue, we didn’t have a thing on the books to handle such a situation.”
“I hope you allowed a commission for Herb and the board fees as well.” Hank remarked.
“We did, sort of,” Trent explained. “We took the board fees off the top and paid them in full. We also allowed for a ten percent sales commission, either to the livery for livestock and tack, or to the hardware or saddle shop if they end up with some of the stuff. The net of it we split evenly between the town treasury and the marshal. What do you think of that?”
“It sounds like a bad incentive for a lawman to shoot first and ask questions later,” Hank said forcefully. “Donate my portion to the school fund.”
“What a noble gesture,” the mayor responded. “You just cost me a dollar.”
“How’s that?” Hank questioned
“Doc Hanley bet me a dollar you wouldn’t take the money.”
A couple of days later, following a map that Herb had laid out for him, Hank left on a two day trip to accomplish some of the pending tasks that had been delayed while there was no marshal. It was an easy trip and he looked forward to riding open country again. In the days since he was steady on his feet he had taken time to school the colt he called Pepper and he was anxious to see if the young horse could handle the solitude and the absence of his companions from the livery. He had been right about the saddle with a slightly wider and lower space for the colt’s withers and replacing the curb bit with a snaffle had worked well too.
Nita was not happy about the trip. It was early October, but to Nita it was as though someone was taking Christmas away from her. “I’ll only be gone two days,” Hank protested, in vain. She came up with a thousand and one reasons why he shouldn’t go at this particular time, but when asked to suggest a more convenient schedule she would pout and mumble something about spring being more appropriate.
Hank finally succumbed to the temptation of all that money just lying in his desk drawer and bought a new hat. It was a fine hat, not nearly as nice as the mayor’s, but it was lined with red silk, and was about the color of a late fall evening. Nita flat-braided a hatband from rawhide and interwove alternate blue and white stones she gathered from Copper Creek, polished them and drilled holes in each of them to facilitate the intricate pattern she designed. When Hank rode out of town he had bulging saddle bags, stuffed with biscuits, dried meat, and coffee, a small jar of strawberry jam, boiled eggs and eighteen tortillas wrapped in a checkered napkin. Nita was determined that he return well fed and lonesome.
Hank had completed three of the visits he intended by early afternoon, and at each farm, ranch or homestead he had been fed. Pulling up in the shade of a pinion tree for a break that neither he nor Pepper really needed was just an effort to kill some time. Hank reached into his saddle bag and got out the tortillas. He unfolded the napkin and looked at the flour delicacies he was fond of but, at the moment, he simply had no appetite. “I’m going to be in big trouble if I bring all these back home tomorrow,” he said, apparently to the colt because there was no other living creature around. Pepper was standing with a loose rein a few yards behind the log that Hank was using for a temporary easy chair. The horse lifted his head and sniffed the breeze and walked up behind the man, pushed his nose against his shoulder and nickered.
“Are you volunteering to help me out of this predicament?” Hank laughed. The horse nickered again. Taking a tortilla between two fingers he held it up to Pepper’s lips. In a very delicate maneuver, the horse first closed his lips around the edge of the round morsel and then, jerking his head, flipped it into his mouth. Hank laughed so hard he nearly frightened the colt away, but within a second or two he nudged the man’s shoulder again. They repeated the whole process with the exact same results. Two more tortillas convinced Hank that the horse would do it the same way every time. Excess tortillas would not be a problem.
Hank and Pepper spent that night in a farmer’s barn after both of them had been fed a full meal. There was soft straw for the horse and for Hank’s bedroll and they were warm and dry while a soggy rain fell outside. A crowing rooster, welcoming the dawn, woke them and the farmer’s wife brought Hank a cup of coffee shortly thereafter. Pepper supplemented his hay with six more tortillas.
The horse and rider arrived back in Destiny shortly before dark the next evening. Coming in past the mayor’s house on East Road brought them in front of the café, so Hank pulled up, tied Pepper to the hitching rail and went in.
Nita did nothing to reveal the depth of their relationship, but she brought Hank a steaming cup of coffee and told him what was on the menu for the evening while smiling broadly. “I’m so full of food, I doubt I could eat a thing,” Hank chuckled. “I just wanted to drop by and say hello. I’ll drop off my things at the office, take Pepper down to the livery and maybe I’ll stop at Rosa’s and have a glass of tequila with Tremont.”
Nita continued to smile. “I hope you’ll like your new office,” she said mysteriously.
It took about 45 minutes for Hank to get Pepper fed, watered, brushed and bedded down. He had dropped his Winchester, the bedroll and saddle bags on the porch of the jail on his way by, which left him empty handed when he walked into Rosa’s. The place was pretty dead for the most part. A couple of cowboys were at the bar and Chuy was tending to their needs; Rosa was at the other end of the bar playing solitaire. Douglas Tremont was playing the piano, obviously sober because he sounded every bit as good as a concert pianist.
“You had a good trip, marshal?” Rosa inquired.
“Yes, a nice long ride,” Hank answered. “It won’t be long and it will be too cold to be out on the trail overnight. Winter isn’t far off, probably already started in the high country.”
“It happens every year about this same time,” Rosa laughed. “It isn’t spring that makes a young man think of love,” she chuckled knowingly, “it’s the thought of a cold winter. An early blizzard has brought more men to the altar than all the roses of summer.”
Hank sipped at his tequila, listening to Tremont’s excellent playing. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a more tangled up man than Tremont,” he found himself saying out loud. “So much talent, so much creativity and it all seems to have been a curse.”
“Tremont is a vagrant spirit, as the old ones would say. He soars so far above the rest of us and when he comes to earth it always seems he picks a place of sadness and desperation. He will never be content and will never feel love, but the world will remember him because he makes us remember.” Rosa had a kind and loving look on her face.
When Hank lit a lamp in the office he smiled. Someone, obviously Nita, had taken it upon herself to spruce the office up a bit. There was a curtain on the front window, the desk had been moved towards the far wall, a rough plank table now stood in the center of the room and the bed had also been moved back slightly. A brightly colored Mexican rug was next to the bed and there was a small table in the corner with a wash basin and water pitcher in it. After several minutes of observation Hank had to reach the conclusion that the new layout made a lot more sense than the old one had. From his desk he could observe both cells in the back of the building although he doubted that those cells were ever occupied for more than an overnight stay to bring some cowboy or miner from drunkenness to sobriety.
He unloaded his saddle bags on the new table and frowned. Not much of the food had been eaten and Nita would probably be upset. The tortillas were gone but Pepper had eaten them. Hank decided he wouldn’t mention that particular fact if he could get away with it.
Hank had plenty of time to get cleaned up before Nita came from work. She jumped at him, covering his face with kisses. “Oh querido,” she breathed, “I missed you so much.”
“I think you did,” Hank laughed. “I didn’t get the chance to eat much of the food you sent with me, everywhere I went folks kept feeding me. It’s a good thing I came back or I’d be a big as a barrel.”
“No you won’t,” Nita smiled.
It was not many minutes later that the bed seemed to collapse. It pitched violently to one side, nearly dumping its animated occupants to the floor. “What happened?” Nita said, nearly laughing.
“I don’t know for sure,” Hank whispered, “but I think we must have busted one of the legs of the bed.” He was almost ready to burst into laughter as well.
A closer inspection revealed the real cause. Nita stayed in the bed, sheets and blankets pulled up around her neck; she was quietly giggling. “We didn’t break it,” Hank said mysteriously, “it fell through the floor.”
“How could that be?” She smiled. “Those are two inch thick planks.”
“Be that as it may, about a foot of this board just fell off.”
Nita gather a blanket around her otherwise naked body and got up, retrieved an oil lamp from the desk and turned up the wick. She came to where Hank was looking at the dark void under the leg of the bed.
Hank grabbed the foot rail and lifted the bed, moved it over to where it was setting on solid planking again.
“There is some kind of compartment here,” Nita exclaimed, no longer laughing. “The top of it fell in; I can’t get my fingers around the edge.”
Walking over to the desk, Hank opened a drawer and took out a large hunting knife. He stabbed the blade into the thick board and lifted it. “When I moved the bed towards the wall I must have set the leg right on the top of this place. Before it would have been hidden under the bed and we never noticed it.” Nita said.
“What’s in there?” Hank asked.
“Something you and maybe others have been looking for,” she exclaimed. When she stood up she held a small book, wrapped in soft deer hide. “And, something Marshal McCormack thought needed to be hidden away.”
 

PART III


The sun was just peeking above the eastern mountains when Nita woke up. Hank sat at his desk, a lamp close to him as he leafed through the soft leather covered book. He would study some note or entry and then go on, only to go back again and again. What was written or drawn probably made perfect sense to Bob McCormack, but not to Hank. They were just clues to clues as far as he could determine. One sketch seemed to be the side of a gorge and the deceased lawman had carefully recorded the swells and dips but made no mention of what significance they might hold.
Nita rose with a start and jumped up scrambling for her clothes. Hank smiled at her. “Why didn’t you wake me before daylight?” she said impatiently.
“Why would I want to do that?” Hank questioned, but he had a good idea of what her objection might be. She didn’t want to be observed coming out of the marshal’s office as dawn broke. It would be fairly obvious she had spent the night.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t make any sense to you,” she said, amused. “I’ll go out the back door.”
“I’m going to need your help; this book is what doesn’t make any sense. Can you come by at a respectable hour so we can talk about it?”
She was cramming her blouse into the waistband of her skirt and throwing a shawl around her shoulders when she came to his desk, kissed him on the cheek and started for the back door. “I’ll come back around mid-morning,” she said.
Ned had made a routine of stopping at the marshal’s office on his morning rounds. Sometimes he brought wood from the sawmill; sometimes he just stopped to talk. This morning he did have an armload of wood, but not nearly enough to do more than heat a pot of coffee, he would have to bring more sometime during the day. “How was your trip, Hank?” Ned asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m tired today; I think it must be winter is sneaking up on me. I may have to have George Barton bring his flatbed wagon and horse into town and get you a proper woodpile started out in back. I hate to think of winter coming, always seems so long to spring and then when spring gets here you realize you’re one spring closer to not having any left.”
“You’ll outlive us all Ned,” the marshal said reassuringly. “Have a cup of coffee; it’ll make you feel as though you can live forever.”
“It ain’t so, Hank, and you know it ain’t. None of us going to make it for the long haul, our days are numbered.”
“As long as you’re feeling so chatty about dying, tell me about those two girls that didn’t get so far in life.” Hank watched Ned for his reaction. There wasn’t anything, one way or another.
“Ming.” Ned said solemnly.
“Ming?” Hank questioned.
“Wang Li’s daughter.” Ned’s eyes didn’t move in any direction; he sat as though looking into a mist a thousand miles away. “Beautiful little girl, although near a full grown woman by the time she was killed. I can remember her when she was just a toddler, hanging on her mother’s leg at the laundry, peeking out from behind the curtains and grinning at people. Wang Li had her delivering packages of laundry by the time she was six or seven. She’d run or skip up the street with a bundle on her head and never drop it. A happy girl and everyone’s delight.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t think anyone knows for sure,” Hank sighed. “She left the laundry one morning with two or three bundles of laundry to deliver and never came back. Wang Li raised the alarm that evening; came and got Marshal McCormack. He got folks to look all over town for her and took some more horseback around the edge of town but they couldn’t find anything by the time it got dark. In the days that followed he had twenty men at different times, scouring every part of the valley and never turned up a trace of her. It was near a week later when two boys went up to the north gorge to dig flint from the rock and found her. It wasn’t a pretty thing to see Hank. Most of her flesh had been devoured by critters. It was Wang Li and Doc Hanley that said it was her, judging by her hair and a few rags of clothes we picked up.”
“What did Marshal McCormack think about it all?”
“He never got it settled in his own mind either, I don’t think.” Ned guessed. “But Lord, he worried on it a lot, I know that. He wouldn’t say anything, but once in a while I’d catch him daydreaming or looking down into a glass of whiskey and he’d just blurt out, ‘damn it, it just isn’t right.’ I’d know what he was talking about.”
“How about the Portuguese girl, you remember that one too?”
“Course I do,” Ned protested. “She wasn’t townsfolk, but it were our Christian duty to help out, if we could. Hank, you’ve never seen so many sheep in your life; thousands and thousands of them. There were maybe fifty people in that group moving them across three states and territories and you could look from one end of the valley to the other and see nothing but white critters moving like it were some kind of a wide, wool river. Dogs and riders, wagons and walkers, just moving with this stream of blatting, bawling sheep. Then this old feller comes out from the flock carrying a young girl. She was dead. He said none of his people could have done it, most of them was kin, but that she had disappeared from their camp the night before and they had found her the next morning. Seems the Government had bought that flock of sheep in different parts of the country and were taking them west to the Navajo’s and Ute’s and other Indian folks. They couldn’t hold up for no investigation and just left us scratching our heads. Now, I suppose it might be that they figured out who done it later and took care of it themselves, but it happened here on our horizon and the marshal thought it had something to do with town, not those shepherds.”
Nita came back to the office around ten that morning and Hank asked her about the killings too, and the only additional information he learned was that perhaps Ming had been seeing someone, secretly. That was only a woman’s intuition guess; Nita didn’t have anything concrete to go on. When he asked her who she thought it might be, Nita backed down, dismissed it, but she had a look on her face that suggested she did have an idea and that idea was repulsive in some way.
Marshal McCormack’s book was proving to be more of a confusion factor than a help. A couple of shorthand messages did make some sense, now that he knew the girl’s name, at least the Chinese girl’s name anyway. ‘M on delivery?’, one note was scribbled. Hank at least knew what that was about now. Another notation showed what seemed to be a one-sided “V” or “U” with an arched arrow pointing at the base of the letter. On another page the marshal had drawn two parallel lines with an arrow between the lines and scribble next to the arrow, 4-5. None of it made much sense and the more Hank studied the cryptic remarks the more he was baffled by them.
A few days later Hank decided Pepper needed an outing, or maybe that was just an excuse to do something he had wanted to do anyway. He asked Herb if he knew the gorge where the Chinese girl was found. As usual, Herb got out his map and showed him the easiest way to get to the place. “Is there any way I’ll be able to know exactly where the girl was found?” Hank asked.
“There is a wash there where runoff always runs into the gorge, but I believe somebody told me that Wang Li put some sort of an Oriental marker on the edge; kind of a memorial.”
On the ride to the gorge Hank nearly reconsidered and turned back. What could he possibly learn about a crime that happened three years ago, and there was a lot of doubt that there was a crime at all. It might have been a tragic accident, or more tragic, the girl might have jumped. But why would a beautiful, eighteen year old girl who, according to people he had talked to, was happy, jump to her own death? There were too many questions and too few answers as far as Hank was concerned. He hated being an investigator.
The gorge was an impressive piece of geography. Apparently it had been, and continued to be, a game trail that snaked its way towards the eastern mountains. The banks of the trail rose gradually at first, but within a quarter of a mile the angle increased rapidly and soon Hank found he was looking at near vertical walls. The bottom was perhaps thirty yards across and sandy; the sides were dotted with skinny clumps of sagebrush and jutting rocks. A big jackrabbit bolted from his hiding place about ten feet up the side of the left bank and scooted towards the top rim, ninety feet above him. Pepper froze in his tracks for a second and Hank decided there was little to be learned from following the miniature canyon to some indeterminate end ahead of them. He reined the horse around and started back towards the mouth. It seemed as though Pepper breathed a sigh of relief.
Back at the beginning Hank followed the left bank as it rose from the valley floor. Herb’s map indicated the site of the accident, if that’s what it had been, was approximately three quarters of a mile from the mouth. The horse and rider moved at a slow but steady pace and with every step game trail slipped further and further below them.
The mound of hand-placed rocks was about two feet high and a brightly painted incense burner nestled within a shrine-like recess of the stones, on the lee side of the normal south-western winds. Hank dismounted and let Pepper’s reins drop to the ground; the horse set out munching grass almost immediately. The marker was ten feet back from the rim of the gorge. Hank’s reaction was probably the same as most people would experience when they looked over the edge; one tended to jump back and make sure you were on steady ground. The game trail was at least one hundred and fifty feet below and the walls seemed to absolutely vertical. Hank sat down on his haunches, letting his senses try to convince his mind that he was not in peril. It didn’t happen immediately. After a few minutes of scanning the far side of the gorge and watching the wall he was able to move a little closer to the edge. He could see directly below now.
The walls were not vertical, but the slope was so steep that it almost seemed that it would be a straight drop to the bottom, but there were small shoulders here and there along the sides. The configuration was more like a narrow “V” than the “U” your mind first pictured, probably as a motivation to persuade you to stay back. Hank picked up the biggest rock he could find close at hand and rolled it over the edge. It never hit the bottom of the gorge. It lodged up against the root of a sagebrush plant about thirty feet below the edge. Hank repeated the test and the results were the same. He finally did manage to get a rock to go all the way down, but he had to throw it in order to get past the shoulder half way down.
Marshal McCormack was right; this was no cut and dried accident. A person who fell from the rim would almost certainly face death if they were alone and without assistance, but it would be from a subsequent attempt to either get back up or to reach the bottom. There was no way of knowing if either of those things had happened to Wang Li’s daughter and the secret would undoubtedly remain a mystery forever.
It had been a good idea to ride to the gorge, see it with his own eyes and come to the realization of just how hopeless the whole situation was and how little there was that could be done about it. Three years had passed. No one would remember details of that day any longer, even if they knew it had some bearing on Ming’s death, which was uncertain too. So, seeing it all had a calming effect on Hank’s desire to find out more. Yet, he couldn’t have explained to anyone just why he put the soft book back into its original hiding place or why he never discussed the contents with anyone except Nita. He had even asked Nita not to mention that they had found it. Still, one thing was certain, he hadn’t stopped thinking about it either.
It was a few days later that Hank decided to go to the laundry and pick up the bundle of clothes that old Ned had dropped off earlier. Normally he would have had Ned pick it up for him and deliver it the next morning, safely stashed alongside a pile of steaming manure in the old man’s cart. He wondered if questioning Wang Li or his wife would be a good idea or not. Had they put their daughter’s death behind them and resent this new intrusion, or would they want to go over it all again in hopes of a different outcome? Hank certainly couldn’t promise anything approaching that. Maybe they would take some comfort just knowing that the law, at least, had not dismissed the whole idea as something not worthy of concern.
Wang Li, like most Chinese in the west, came east through the mountains with the railroads. When the railroads were finished with them they were deserted. A few found work as hard-rock miners and a few others as cooks, but the vast majority of them drifted back West to California. Wang Li and his young wife were camped outside Destiny, or what was to become Destiny, hoping they might find work at the copper mine. One day, a wagon load of miners passing the Li’s camp stopped and asked if they might be interested in doing laundry for the dirty men. An enterprise was born. Two cousins of Wang Li came from San Francisco when the business expanded beyond the capabilities of the couple to keep up with the demand of the growing community. Ming had been a help to her parents, especially when one of the cousins died of influenza. Since her death, an older cousin and his wife had also come from California to help when picking strawberries became too difficult for them. Hank assumed, probably correctly, that the business would trickle down through the branches of Wang Li’s family, expanding or contracting as the community population demanded.
Wang Li’s wife was a woman named Chen. Questioning her would be a waste of time; she seldom spoke at all and always in Chinese. Who would be behind the counter of the shop depended on what time of day it was. Hank had learned that the women did the washing in the early part of the day. The men kept the fires going that boiled the water for the large oaken tubs where the women scrubbed and the men waited on customers. In the afternoons, the morning wash was hung to dry in the hot furnace rooms. In the evenings, the rough laundry was folded and packaged, but shirts, frocks and dresses, along with table cloths, napkins and other finish material was starched and set aside. It was the men who did the ironing and pressing; it was considered a task that required the expertise only a man could provide.
Because it was afternoon and Wang Li was busy ironing shirts and linen table clothes, Chen waited behind the counter. When Hank entered the building Chen bowed. Hank was never quite sure what response was suitable when someone bowed to you so he touched his hat and smiled. Chen looked puzzled at the marshal, turned and checked the cubby-hole bins behind her and then waved her hands in front on her, apparently indicating his laundry was not yet ready. Hank just kept smiling. “Could I please speak to Wang Li?” Hank said slowly. Chen bowed. Either she understood or she guessed, but she motioned for Hank to follow her. She led him through a curtain and then a door into a small room where Wang Li and his cousin were busily ironing and sprinkling water on whatever article they worked on while changing irons with one of a half dozen that set arranged in a rack around a roaring hot stove. The heat in the room was stifling and pressed against your chest like a rock.
Chen spoke to her husband in a hushed tone from a bow that was deeper than what she had made for Hank when he came in. Wang Li dismissed her with something curt and she scurried from the room. “This is not a place for women,” Wang Li said in explanation to the marshal for his seemingly bad behavior.
Wang Li did not bow and Hank noted it. “Wang Li,” the marshal started hesitatingly, not exactly aware of how this person should be addressed, “I don’t want you to think that I can do anything that others have not been able to do, but I need you to tell me some things about your daughter’s death.”
The man’s expression softened, noticeably. It had not been unfriendly before, but stern and businesslike. Now there was perhaps even a bit of warmth to the man’s face. He bowed, very slightly, but it was done.
“The day Ming disappeared; do you remember the events of that day?”
“Most clearly,” the man replied seriously, “I will never forget that day.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Hank agreed although he wondered if everything would be retained. “What time did Ming leave the shop?”
“Ming left the shop before third water change,” Wang Li said as though he was visualizing it in his mind. “She had three deliveries to make, a very heavy load. The time was nine-thirty.”
“Do you recall who was on her delivery list?” Hank questioned.
“Doctor Hanley had two shirts and three collars, two bed sheets and four hand towels. Mister Jensen from the bank had only dried laundry, but a large order; eighteen cents. Missus Trent had two table cloths, six bed sheets, one large doily for her piano, and two sets of lace curtain liners.” Hank watched the man as he ticked off the litany of articles and customers. His eyes never moved, he was telling the truth as he knew it to be. He had been over that list a thousand times in his mind.”
“And she made every stop?” Hank wondered aloud.
“Yes,” Wang Li replied.
Hank stopped to consider what he had just heard. He wished he knew where to go next, but he had no idea. He knew he was keeping this man from his work and he felt guilty about it; and guilty about his own inexperience as well. Finally, he breathed deeply, the hot air cutting into his lungs. “I rode out to the gorge a few days ago. It is a terrible place, but I wanted to see what it was like. I don’t know if I learned anything or not. Do you know if your daughter had ever been to that place before?’
Once more, the look on Wang Li’s face softened. Nearly all the businessman was gone now; only the face of a father, touched and concerned remained. “She was a young woman, marshal. She had so little time to herself, working, always working. Some days she would linger on her deliveries and I tried to understand. We had talked of sending to China or to California for a husband but she resisted. I wish now I had insisted, but it is too late.”
“I’m sorry,” Hank said the only thing he could think of. It seemed totally inadequate. “If I learn anything, I will let you know.” Suddenly Hank stopped the departure he had already started. “Has anyone else ever talked to you about this?”
“Not in three years,” Wang Li said, sadly. “Only Marshal McCormack and now you.”
Hank smiled. Wang Li put the palms of his hand just over the top of his knees and bowed, deeply and respectfully.
Outside the laundry the difference in the temperature was pronounced. The air was cold as the sun set; winter was just over the horizon. Hank was grateful that he had stumbled into his present situation, snug and secure for the coming months. Since his arrival in Destiny he had made an honest effort to provide that same security for the businesses and residents of the town. He had begun making nightly rounds of the shops, testing a door now and then, looking to see what was happening when lights were on late, taking note of any strangers. He had at least a passing familiarity with shop owners and clerks and he had made a point of checking with them from time to time to see if they had any special concerns. People called him by name and spoke to him on the streets, yet he thought if he could bring some end to the doubt they must have felt with these unexplained events of violence it would be so much better for everyone.
One evening, as they were finishing their evening meal together, Doc suggested they go to the saloon and have a beer before retiring. “We’ll be past beer drinking weather before long,” Doc warned. Hank knew the owner of the saloon but seldom patronized the place. Rosa’s was just too convenient.
Safely inside, buttressed against a stiff wind and blowing snowflakes, the two men relaxed. “How about a game of Gin?” Doc suggested.
“I’d rather talk about history,” Hank replied.
Doc looked puzzled. “I didn’t know you were a history buff, and to be real honest with you, I’m not up on the subject.”
“You are on this history,” the marshal smiled. “Tell me about the Chinese girl’s death; the U.S. Marshal told me that both you and Bob McCormack had doubts about it.”
Doc rubbed his chin and looked intently at his friend. “Doubts might be too strong a term; questions would be more appropriate. We looked at different aspects of the death of that poor girl but the marshal was right. We both had some blanks to fill in from our prospective.”
“Such as?” Hank insisted.
The doctor had a look of profound distaste on his face. “You have to remember that girl was out there for several days. I believe coyotes got to the body first and they did some gruesome damage. Even so, there indications that not everything was at it seemed. Animals will usually attack the soft tissue first. They finish off with the more difficult parts, like bones and things of that nature. Ming was reduced to almost nothing but skeleton. When I first looked at it I thought they might have made a mistake; that it wasn’t Ming at all. But, it was her, without a doubt.”
Hank frowned; he did not understand. “What put you off, Doc?”
“The bones I saw on my table could very well have been those of an older woman, a woman who might have had a child. If not that, then surely one who was some months pregnant.”
As shocking as that information was, Hank quickly realized that it didn’t change anything. Ming’s secret was locked in her grave. It could be a motive for suicide or murder and did not, even for the seconds that it paralyzed Hank’s speaking, eliminate the possibility that her death was an accident after all.
The two men sat in silence for a few moments; Hank confused by all the things he didn’t know, Doc probably reliving what must have been terrible, even for a man used to the intricacies of life and death.
“The U.S. Marshal said that Bob McCormack was tripped,” Hank said, turning to the only avenue open to him. “How did he come to the conclusion?”
“The path of the bullet through the body, I guess,” Doc said, his face showing some confusion. “The bullet entered his chest just below the breast plate, went up and exited the back of his neck.” The doctor held his finger, pointing up at that same spot on his own chest then moved it to a location just about shoulder height on the back of his neck. “A very effective angle; caught his heart, took a nick out of his spine and ruptured that big artery so there was lots of bleeding.”
“But?” Hank said, questioning the look on docs face.
“I suppose you could think that angle might come from Bob being on the ground, the shooter would have to have been several feet away though, far enough not to leave powder burns on the marshal’s shirt.”’
“And you’re saying there was a burn on his shirt?”
“Yeah, a rather large one,” Doc admitted.
“Or the killer could have been right on top of the marshal too, isn’t that possible?” Hank’s statement was more question than conjecture.
“A definite possibility,” doc said, raising his eyebrows as a small gesture of sudden realization. “Nobody has ever asked my opinion of such things before.”
“Tell me exactly where the marshal’s body was found, if you can remember, doc.”
“Oh I remember all right,” the doctor said firmly. “He was right next to the back wall of the jail, about, oh…..mid-way through the first cell. They might have moved him though Hank, before I got there. He had definitely bled out there, lots of blood on the ground.”
The snow of the previous evening turned out to be only flurries in the valley, but above, in the high country, the mountains received a hard blast. They would be snow-covered until late spring before they would show green again. The morning was actually quite nice; the sun was shining, the sky blue and the view up to the hills was spectacular.
About mid-morning Hank walked down to the livery carrying his Winchester. Herb Woods was not around, so he took Pepper from the pen, brushed and curried him, and threw his saddle on. He jammed the Winchester in the scabbard and rode out, waving to the Olsen boys as he left. The Kelly’s, who had a homestead south of town and a seventeen year old daughter had decided to combine their outfit with the Thompson’s. The Thompson’s had their own homestead and a twenty year old son and apparently there was a marriage in the offing. Together, the two ranches would probably run about 300-400 cow-calf pairs, providing a nice living for both families and a better corn and hay operation. It was the sort of union that made good sense for everybody. Hank was taking the approval of their new registered brand out to them.
The ride provided some time to think. What he thought gave him little cause to be optimistic; there was little or no hope that any of the three murders could be solved. There was no physical evidence, no witnesses, not even a rumor that he could follow. Going over it again and again would not change that.
Herb was at work when Hank rode in late in the afternoon. After tending to Pepper, Hank stopped to chat with the livery man, as he usually did.
Herb looked at Hank with a good bit of seriousness, perhaps even a bit too much. “Marshal,” Herb said in low tones, “have you given any more thought about buying that gray?”
“I haven’t given up the idea,” Hank said, rather puzzled. “I’ve managed to save up a few dollars, and when I have what I think is a fair offer I plan to make it.”
Herb was looking at the ground, shuffling his feet around. “I told you I’d let you know if I had an offer, and I do. I’ve been offered seventy dollars for Pepper, and I’m inclined to take it.”
Hank was sorely disappointed; he had already thought of the colt as his own and this news came as a real blow. “I understand, Herb.” He said. “Business is business and you’ve got to respect that.”
Herb turned and walked back to the tack room, carrying Hank’s saddle. Hank could have sworn he saw him smiling.

 
PART IV


Nita was waiting in the office when Hank came in from his supper. He was in a nasty mood and was nearly disappointed to see her there. He felt like lying down, being moody and being alone.
“Oh querido,” she purred, “you look so dejected; what is wrong?”
“Everything is wrong,” Hank scoffed. “I keep thinking about these murders and feeling helpless because there is nothing I can do about them. One of these days winter is going to hit full blast and I hate winters; and to top it all off, somebody bought my horse today.”
Nita faked a surprised look. “I didn’t know you had a horse,” she said, coyly. “When did you buy one?”
Hank slumped down in his chair behind the desk. “He wasn’t really my horse; it was just that I planned on buying him when I had the money saved up. I really like old Pepper, almost as good as old Shamrock.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Nita smiled. “You can always find another horse, can’t you?”
“Maybe,” Hank sighed. “It’s just that he was my kind of horse, and they don’t come along every day.”
“Like your kind of woman?” Nita was chiding him, and he wasn’t real comfortable with it either.
“Put it out of your mind for now,” Nita suggested, “we can go over to Rosa’s cantina and look at the new photographs Tremont received from his processing laboratory in New York today. And I think Rosa has a surprise for everyone, or she hinted at it. It should be a happy night.”
Hank was not convinced, but a diversion on such a melancholy evening was, at least, a change of pace.
Rosa’s was ablaze with lights, the piano was playing loudly and streamers had been strung across the ceiling. “People really get excited about photographs I guess,” Hank laughed.
“I think there might be a little bit more to it than just new pictures,” Nita smiled, a bit devilishly.
The girls were dancing on the stage, Chuy had three or four cowboys in front of him at the bar and Rosa was on her usual stool at the near end, dressed particularly elegantly. She and Nita hugged and then Rosa motioned for Hank to come closer. He bent close so she could whisper in his ear. “Tremont has something to ask you tonight,” and then she hesitated. “I hope you won’t deny him because of my lowly occupation.”
Hank was completely baffled. “Rosa,” he said loud enough so that she could hear even over the music and the dancing girls, “I consider you and Tremont as dear friends and how we make our living has nothing at all to do with that.” Rosa smiled, but her eyes were misty. “Where is the great artist tonight?” Hank asked.
“He’ll be along very soon,” Rosa said, still smiling.
A few minutes later, Tremont came in from the back, where the girl’s rooms were located. He had undergone a major transformation. His hair and beard were trimmed to a stylish length, his tattered clothes replaced by a three-pieced suit and he wore a new, jaunty Homburg hat. Many of the people in the cantina applauded and Hank joined them.
Tremont walked to the center of the bar and paused. He held his hands in the air, indicating he was about to make an announcement. “My friends,” he said, “I have a couple of things I want to say this evening.” He held out a hand towards Rosa; she smiled and walked to his side. “Rosa is selling the cantina.”
There was a soft moan that went through the gathered customers.
“Ah, don’t be dismayed, my good people.” Tremont continued. “The new owner is our esteemed friend and loyal bartender, Chuy.” Cheers and clapping replaced the moans. “The cantina will still be called Rosa’s and she will be here when she is available. Now, the second announcement may come as a shock to some of you, but, once again, we hope you share our joy. Miss Rosalinda Rodriguez has kindly consented to become Missus Douglas Tremont.”
Much cheering and clapping, along with shouted congratulations filled the bar room; Nita dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Rosa beamed as she kissed Tremont on the cheek. “And now,” Tremont shouted, “the best news yet, drinks are on the house this evening.” He paused and smiled devilishly. “Girls are still pay as you go. Enjoy with us, look at the new photographs, and everyone be happy.”
There was a rush to the bar, naturally, as soon as Tremont led Rosa down to where Hank and Nita were standing. “Marshal Butters,” Tremont said ceremoniously, “I wonder if I might be so presumptuous as to beg you and Miss Ramos to act as our best man and bridesmaid? We would both consider it a great honor.”
Nita looked at Hank with anticipation. There was no question she was thrilled. Hank smiled and extended his hand to Tremont. “We are the ones who are honored,” Hank said. “When is this fateful event to take place?”
“On New Year’s Eve,” Nita giggled.
“Why am I not surprised to find out that you already knew about all of this?” Hank laughed. He embraced Rosa and kissed her cheek.
“Remember what I said about the winter blizzards?” She whispered into Hank’s ear. “It’s something you should think about.” And then she laughed aloud.
Hank turned to Nita. “You told me your name was Jones,” he chuckled.
“I wasn’t sure of you when I said that,” Nita teased him. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, yet.”
“There are a lot of things I don’t know about,” Hank said, the old feeling of exasperation returning. “I think I need a tequila.”
The two couples took a seat at a nearby table. “You are still trying to solve these murders, aren’t you?” Tremont observed.
“Yes,” Hank said, almost dejectedly. “And I’m completely stumped. If only there was something, anything to go on. I wish some witness would contact me and say they had seen the whole thing.”
“Obviously, dear fellow, that isn’t going to happen,” Tremont stated flatly. “But, perhaps you would like to see the history that was recorded on one of those terrible days? The prints that I received today are mostly from the 4th of July celebration.”
The photographs were fascinating. They seemed to have captured the spirit of the town and the festive attitude of the day. These were not the posed, stiff pictures of one or two individuals with artificial faces, forced to hold absolutely motionless for the time required of an exposure, but live, animated people celebrating an historic event. In the process, Tremont had recorded yet another historical event that could be preserved for decades.
“I can’t believe it,” Hank exclaimed. “They all seem so real.”
“They are reality,” Tremont laughed. “A trained photographer learns to look at things the way a camera sees them, and then selects the right moment to record that reality. Like a policeman learns to look at crime the way a criminal looks at it, the same difference. But, I can’t take all the credit; the new film emulsions, recently developed papers, pure chemicals, all that has brought this art forward at a tremendous pace. It is a far cry from what I had when I first started. Now, Mister Eastman has put photography into the reach of nearly everyone. I can predict with absolute certainty that within ten years cameras will be available for even modest income families.”
The remainder of the evening was fairly uneventful as far as Hank was concerned. Nita was having a wonderful time, flitting about, talking and laughing. She seemed so friendly with everyone. She even danced with old Ned and just about everyone else. It was near midnight when she danced one time with Hank and then whispered in his ear, “It is time for you to be in bed.”
The following morning, at breakfast, Hank was aware that something was nagging at his mind. It wasn’t the usual concern about the killings, but it was not completely disassociated from them either. He was about half way through his ham and eggs when Doc came in and sat down with him.
“Someday, my friend,” Doc chuckled, “You are going to do more than walk through your evening rounds to absorb a breakfast like that or you will end up as big as Chuy.”
“I’m beginning to notice I have one layer of fat too many already,” Hank laughed. “Besides Doc,” he continued, “you will be around to remind me.”
Suddenly, Hank’s face brightened. “That’s it,” He exclaimed.
Doc looked puzzled. “That is what?” He said, confused.
“What I’ve been trying to think of this morning.”
“You have been thinking about getting fat?”
“No, no,” Hank objected. “Last night Tremont said he looks at things like a photographer. You look at things like a doctor. He said I look at things like a criminal, but I don’t. That’s the problem. I don’t look at things that way at all. I’m still a horse trainer, and that is how I see the world. That would be fine, if I were still training horses, but I’m supposed to be upholding the law and trying to solve these murders.”
“Oh for goodness sake, Hank,” Doc prodded him. “Those things aren’t your responsibility. Let loose of them. There is a United States Marshal who is supposed to take care of things like that, and even he has the sense to know that nothing will ever come of them. That is the way of things.”
“Yes,” Hank said, cautiously. “I was reminded of that the day I got this job.”
The marshal got up from the table, leaving the biggest part of his home fried potatoes, wiped his face with a napkin, put on his heavy coat, blew a kiss at Nita and was heading for the door of the café. “Sorry doc, but I have to run. Got some marshal chores I need to do.”
The morning sun was bright and the air was not terribly cold, but temperatures would probably not go much higher than freezing by afternoon. Hank stood behind the jail, looking closely at the southern wall. Adobe, or reinforced mud walls, even if they are partially protected from rain and snow, eventually erode and appear to be pock-marked and pitted. The walls of the jail were certainly no exception. Parts of the clay had been sun-bleached; other portions retained some of their original pinkish/orange pigmentation. The bottom 12 to 15 inches of the structure were stained a dark mud brown where rain and snow drifts had left eternal stain marks.
Nita had pointed out the image of Marshal Bob McCormack in several of the photographs they had seen the evening before at Rosa’s cantina. Hank estimated they were approximately the same height although the dead man was twenty to thirty pounds heavier than Hank. Hank understood how he might have put on those extra pounds.
Hank flattened his body against the wall and he drew an imaginary line from his breast-bone, up through his torso, and out at the base of his neck. He placed a finger on the wall, and then, using his pocket knife, he made a slight but visible mark. He repeated the process again, standing a foot away from the wall, and noted that the angle moved the impact point about 6 inches higher on the wall’s surface. He estimated the lowest point was fairly certain; the highest point could be up to 18 inches above that.
The sun was high in the sky by now, casting a thousand small shadows on the surface where tiny nooks and indentations provided shade. Hank looked and felt with his hands, systematically going between his self imposed upper and lower limits from the corner towards the west or back of the building. At just about the point that Doc had suggested, perhaps half way through the first cell he found it; a small hole about a foot above the lower limit line. The diameter of the cavity was slightly smaller than the tip of Hank’s little finger. It might have been made by an insect boring into the structure, or a pebble might have been washed out by some torrential downpour at some time, but those explanations didn’t seem to fit somehow. The small blade of the marshal’s pocket knife inserted into the fissure confirmed his doubts. First of all, the angle of penetration was exactly what Hank thought it would be; secondly, about an inch and a half into the wall the blade tapped against something that felt like soft metal, probably lead.
It was a little past one o’clock in the afternoon, Hank was sitting at his desk in the office unconsciously rolling the small, slightly mushroomed bullet from one palm to the other. His thoughts were scattered all over the place, he needed to collect them into one cohesive place in his mind and he wasn’t able to do that sitting at his desk. Finally, he closed the deerskin notebook, placing the bullet carefully within the envelope of the skin and replaced it in the hidey-hole under the bed. He tossed a few cedar shakes into the fire, pulled on his hat and coat and walked out the back door. He needed to take a ride and think.
“Could you saddle that bay horse for me, Herb?” Hank said, disappointment evident in his voice.
Herb returned about ten minutes later with Pepper, saddled, bridled and ready to go. “I thought you sold him?” Hank questioned.
“I did,” Herb smiled. “But the new owner says you are to have the use of him anytime you need him.”
“What is going on here, my friend?” Hank asked, almost pleading.
“I’m sworn to secrecy Hank,” Herb objected, still smiling. “I suspect you’ll know or figure it out soon enough. The sun sets pretty early these days,” Herb reminded him, “don’t stay out there too long. An early December blizzard is always a possibility.”
They rode south, out into the valley where the big flock of sheep had crossed more than a year before. Within his mind, the death of the Portuguese girl was settled. The sage brush would keep that secret forever more. Perhaps her killer had already been brought to justice, he hoped so.
“This is what I know,” Hank spoke softly to the gray colt and Pepper tilted his ears back, listening. “Marshal McCormack was shot and killed sometime during the 4th of July celebration by a gunman, or woman, as he stood two feet away from the south wall of the jail. Here is the strange part; the shooter was lying on the ground when he fired the fatal shot from a small caliber pistol. It had to be that way,” Hank explained as though the colt had asked him a question. “Either the marshal or the shooter had to be on the ground to get that kind of an angle of the bullet through the body. The bullet was lodged in the wall of the jail; therefore the marshal was the one standing.” Pepper twisted his head around, shook it for a moment and then went back to looking straight ahead. “I don’t know why he or she was on the ground,” Hank protested. “I don’t even know what time all this happened, I’m just guessing. There were firecrackers going off, people shooting in the air, all kinds of things going on.”
They rode on down the valley, gradually heading west, probably on the exact track that the sheep and shepherds had followed. Hank continued to speculate; Pepper had lost interest in the monologue and his head was drooping, the horse nearly asleep.
“Why was the marshal killed?” Hank spoke aloud again. “Saying it was a drifter doesn’t explain anything. Why would a drifter want to kill Bob? As far as we know, he hadn’t tried to arrest anyone; hell, it was a celebration. You suppose he spotted someone that he had on one of those wanted posters? I doubt that, don’t you? He sure didn’t catch somebody trying to break into the bank, the shooting and the getting down onto the ground happened at the jail. No, whatever happened began and ended right there between the jail and the pump, not a block away from a hundred people. My God, there was even a photographer there.”
The sudden tug on Pepper’s rein nearly startled the young horse. Hank never used a heavy hand on the reins and he hadn’t done so now, but it came so abruptly that the colt was caught unaware.
“And I looked at those photographs like a horse trainer at an engagement party,” Hank sighed. Pepper felt all the cues simultaneously; the right leg pressed against his side, slightly behind the cinch, the rein heavy on the left side of his neck, the rider’s center of gravity moved forward. The horse wheeled to the right and leaped forward at a full gallop.
The pictures were scattered on the table top. “What are we looking for, exactly?” Tremont wondered aloud.
“I’m not sure myself,” Hank answered honestly. “Maybe the real reality. Whatever it is, I think we’ll recognize it when we see it.”
Hank picked up a photograph that showed the members of the town council, all seated on a sort of make-shift reviewing stand. The marshal was seated between the mayor and Fred Denton, the president of the bank. “What time was this taken?” Hank asked.
“Early in the morning,” Tremont replied. “Everyone was just gathering for a small parade.”
The dead marshal was in three other photographs and Tremont was able to put them into a vague chronological order. The last photograph was taken just about noon.
Hank scanned each picture thoroughly, asking Tremont when he did not recognize a face. There were no strangers in town, or at least none who had their face and features recorded. One particular shot got Hank’s attention. It was slightly blurred and had been relegated to the throw-away pile. “Who is that?” Hank said, pointing to a figure in the background.
Tremont laughed slightly. “It’s the mayor,” he said, chuckling. “He apparently ran into a piece of lumber that had bunting nailed to it; he almost got a black-eye out of it. You can’t see it, but he had a piece of tape on that cheek.”
Hank leaned back in his chair, thinking. “They don’t have children?”
“The mayor and Samantha?” Tremont looked puzzled.
“Well, far be it for an English gentleman to partake in local gossip,” Tremont smiled, “but I understand that the junior Mister Trent is somewhat like his father before him. Wives are mainly for decoration and civility, the real reality, as you refer to it, happens in places like Rosa’s and occasional business trips to Denver or Kansas City.”
“Well, they certainly use a lot of bed-sheets,” Hank smiled.
“And the significance of that fact would be what?” Tremont chuckled.
Hank blushed, slightly. “I have no idea, my friend. The housekeeping standards of the rich and powerful are far beyond my understanding.”
In Hank’s mind the core of a story was beginning to take shape. Bits and pieces of information from various sources helped flesh it out, but the heart and soul of the tale was almost completely conjecture. The hardware store had one box of 25 caliber ammunition in stock. Samantha Trent had bought a box of it four or five years ago, and that was the only reason they had ordered it in the first place.
Another notation in the McCormack notebook was underlined. “Where was M?” The strange part of it was that this notation was not in the portion of the book where Ming’s murder was being investigated, it was for the Portuguese girl. The note couldn’t have been referring to Ming; Ming was already two years dead.
Thanksgiving had been an official American holiday since Abraham Lincoln signed a proclamation in 1863, at the height of the Civil War. Perhaps he had done it to remind the warring states just how much they had in common, but the war had continued for another year and a half. Hank and Nita celebrated with their closest friends, sitting around a huge table in Rosa’s cantina. Hank could hardly remember such a spread of food. There was turkey, elk, mule deer, roast beef, pork sausage, potatoes, pumpkin, squash, salsa, chili and another whole table just for the deserts.
The Olsen boys, whom Hank had always seen bare from the waist up with heavy leather aprons hung loosely around their barreled chests, were there. Wang Li, Chen and the cousins were also there; Chen had bowed courteously to Hank, touched his hand and smiled warmly. Herb, old Ned, George Barton and his wife, a gaggle of kids were there. Doc Hanley was not present, but Ned informed them that he was having dinner with the mayor but would join them later for the real celebration.
The Olsen boys announced that they planned a large new brick building which would house a machine shop. Olaf also admitted that when the ice melted sufficiently to resume trans-Atlantic shipping between Oslo and New York, twin sisters would be arriving to marry the brothers.
Children bobbed for apples in an oaken tub, Nita had a group of them sitting in a small circle on bar stools, teaching them a Spanish Christmas song, accompanied by Douglas Tremont on the piano.
Herb Woods approached Hank with a small glass of apple cider and handed it to him. “Quite a gathering, I’d say,” he remarked.
“I’d say so too,” Hank answered. “Destiny is a nice town; it would be a shame to see anything happen to it that might spoil all that.”
“There’s the town, right there,” Herb said, pointing to the people. “There, and out in farm and ranch houses a long way out of town. Pretty strong stock, tougher than a Butters horse,” Herb laughed. “Speaking of horses,” he hesitated, “you figured out who bought your horse?”
Hank laughed. “Yeah, I think I knew from when you told me. She hasn’t admitted it to me yet, but she’ll do it when she’s ready. I wonder how she managed to save up that kind of money?”
Herb chuckled. “Some things are important enough to scrimp and save for lots of years. You know what a dowry is, Hank?” He walked off, laughing.
The end came just a few days later. Hank asked Ned to tell the mayor he needed to talk to him and requested he come down to his office before lunch time. About eleven o’clock Samantha Trent’s surrey pulled up in front of the bank. Hank saw her and quickly ran across the street towards her.
“Missus Trent,” he called to her. “Could I have a word with you for just a minute?”
Samantha turned and smiled at him. “Of course, Marshal. I just came to speak to Mr. Denton about Christmas decorations for the street. How can I help you?”
Hank moved very close to her and whispered. “I wonder if you could spare me one of those little cigars. I just need something a little stronger this morning.”
She looked at him, suspiciously. “Certainly,” she replied. She opened her purse and dug down to the metal box. Hank saw the pistol. She took out one of the cigars, palmed it in her glove and handed it to the marshal. “Is everything alright, Marshal?” She asked.
Hank looked at her seriously. “I remember what you told me a while back, about my first responsibility being to the law and to the town.” He hesitated. “If anything happens I’d like you to know that it isn’t always that easy.” He touched his hat and walked back across the street to his office.
“What’s on your mind, Hank?” John Trent said. “We can’t afford to pay you any more money right now, if that is what you’re after.”
“Money isn’t the problem, John,” Hank said. “I’m probably going to get myself fired anyway.”
Trent laughed. “I’d have half the town down around my neck if I was to do that. What have you done that would even make me consider terminating you?”
Hank had not smiled. His expression was deadly serious. “You remember telling me when I took this job that there was a United States Marshal in Justice who would handle all the real crime?”
“I seem to recall that, yes.” The mayor said, his expression now serious also.
“I wasn’t sure that was happening; or if it was it wasn’t happening at a pace that I was satisfied with. I’ve been doing a little checking, John. I know who killed Marshal McCormack and I’ve got a pretty good idea the same person killed Ming and possibly that Portuguese shepherd girl too.
“You know or you think you know?” John leaned back in his chair.
“I know,” Hank said firmly. “There are things you know right down to the soles of your feet, and this is one of those things. I couldn’t figure it out, at first. Why would someone want to kill Ming? Because they had raped her? No, if it had been a stranger or a drifter and they had found this girl alone, they would more than likely just taken her. It had to be more complicated than that. Was she killed because she was pregnant?”
John Trent shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“That was a possibility, and if it was, it pointed to somebody who maybe didn’t rape her but had a relationship going with her. It was a relationship that could not be known, which to me meant that it was somebody who was probably married or had a position of some authority.”
“There are a lot of married men around here,” Trent scoffed. “A lot of single men too who might not want to be exposed either.”
Hank did not react to the mayor’s statement. Instead, he opened the drawer of his desk and took out the deer-skin covered book, unwrapped and opened it; the bullet rolled onto the top of the desk and Hank set it aside. “The day of the murder,” and Hank paused momentarily, thumbing through the pages of the McCormack book, “Ming had three deliveries to make. She had some stuff for Doc Hanley, and he remembers getting it. She also delivered a large bundle of laundry for the Denton’s; Mrs. Denton remembers paying Ming twenty-cents and telling her to keep the pennies. The third delivery was at your house, John. Your wife says she was out of town that day. I’d have to believe her, people tend to remember when somebody comes up missing; folks trying to find her, search parties and stuff like that. So, I figure she must have taken it to your place. That is the last time anyone ever saw her.”
John Trent sat silently, glaring at Hank.
“Marshal McCormack figured it was you that killed her even before he started looking. He made a note in his book to check and see if Ming was headed for your place. What made him suspect you, I have never been able to determine. Maybe it was the surrey tracks he found by the ravine. Of course he could never prove when those tracks were made. He thought about it enough to measure between the wheels though. And then when the Portuguese girl was killed he made another note. Check to see where “M” was that day. Did he ask you directly or did he find out from other sources?”
“You’re talking through your hat, marshal.” John practically snorted at him. “That notebook doesn’t prove anything.”
“You’re right,” Hank agreed, “It doesn’t prove a thing. But you see how it just keeps pushing this whole affair in your direction? No, you’ll never be hung for killing either of those girls, even though I know as sure as the sun will come up tomorrow that you did. Bob McCormack knew it too; that is why he never faced you down about it, not for a long time anyway. But he finally couldn’t stand it anymore, could he? On the 4th of July he told you what he knew and what he suspected.”
“This is getting to be ridiculous,” Trent boasted. “Every bit of this is speculation.”
“Well, something a bit more than speculation,” Hank admitted. “I’m not sure what else McCormack might have known, but it was enough to convince him that he needed to take it to Marshal Michaels in Justice. That’s what he told you he was going to do, isn’t it?
“And the U.S. Marshal wouldn’t have given it a second look; that would have been the end of it.”
“I don’t think so,” Hank said flatly. “It was enough to bring him over here for a full scale look into what happened, and you couldn’t risk that.” Hank picked up the bullet, rolled it between his fingers.
“Well, what happened next in this fairy tale you’ve put together?” John asked, a look of anger and scorn on his face.
“I think he told you right out by the pump,” Hank said, “somewhere between eleven o’clock and noon.”
“This is ridiculous,” Trent said, again.
“You’re repeating yourself,” Hank reminded the mayor. “I think, somehow, you had your wife’s pistol. Maybe you were firing some shots into the air like a lot of other people; I can’t be sure just why or how you got it. I do know you don’t have it now, I checked just a few minutes ago. I think Bob told you what he was going to do and you pulled that pistol. I think Bob punched you and knocked you to the ground. He didn’t manage to knock the pistol away from you and you shot him. And I think this is the bullet that killed Bob McCormack and I think you know it too.”
Hank shut up. He eased back into his own chair and watched the mayor. John Trent didn’t move for quite a long time. “And you are going to take all this to Thad Michaels?”
“I am.”
“Well, there is one thing you had better know before you do that, Mister Butters.” The mayor slipped his hand into his suit pocket. “I didn’t have my wife’s pistol, I had my own.” When he hand reappeared he was holding a pistol, an exact duplicate of the one Samantha had in her hand-bag. “They’re a matched pair; a wedding present from gunsmith in Boston. Worth a great deal of money, I’d think. Even more now.” He laughed. “Get up,” he ordered Hank. “We’re going to walk out of here, out the front door and into the street. Then I’m going to get into my surrey and drive off with you by my side. Your life depends on how casual you can make that look, but don’t think for a minute I’d hesitate to kill you. I won’t.”
“You’ve got to kill me,” Hank spoke calmly. “Now or later, we might as well make it now. What have I got to gain by letting you drive away?”
“Just my promise that I’ll kill everyone I can before they get to me. You have quite an arsenal in here, Marshal. Do it my way and there is just a chance you might get the best of me yet. Want to bet on it? Want to bet the lives of a lot of Destiny’s fine citizens?”
Hank took his coat from the peg by the door and slipped it on. He stopped for a moment and looked around the office. “I was starting to like this job,” he smiled. “You mind if I smoke? Don’t think it will hurt me too much; looks like I’m destined to die young anyway.”
“I don’t think that would be too good of an idea, marshal. Just open the door and let’s get this over with.”
The two men crossed the street without anyone paying them any attention. Nobody had any reason to believe there was anything amiss; nobody except Samantha Trent anyway. She watched them come out of the office and saw the pistol in her husband’s hand just as he stuck it back into the pocket of his overcoat. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at John.
“Samantha, my dear,” Trent said with an undue amount of emphasis in his voice, “the marshal is going to drive your team and surrey for a few minutes. It seems his father trained these horses and he wants to see just how good they really are.”
“He’s not driving anywhere, John,” Samantha spat out the words. “And you are not going anywhere either.” She was reaching into her hand-bag as she spoke and when she spoke again the twin of her husband’s gun was pointed directly at his head. “It ends now, right here, right this minute. I’ve pretended to myself for too long. I pretended while two young women died and there will be no more John, no more. The world doesn’t know about your sick mind, but I do and I should have done something about it long before now. Marshal Butters,” Samantha demanded, “does my husband admit to killing those girls?”
Hank wasn’t sure what to do or to say, but Samantha Trent was now in charge. “He admits nothing,” Hank said truthfully.
“Does he have a pistol in his hand?” she demanded again, never taking her eyes away from her target, her hand and arm steady as a rock.
“Yes mam, he does.” Hank admitted.
Samantha had not blinked her eyes as far as Hank could determine. “Step aside, marshal,” she ordered. “John, leave the pistol in your pocket, take your hand out very slowly.”
Hank took a step away. John smiled but didn’t move at all for a few seconds. Finally, he nodded his head and started to speak while pulling his hand quickly from his coat. “Samantha,” he said. It was the last thing he said. There was a shot, some smoke in the cold air that hung for a few moments and when it cleared John Trent was staggering, a small hole in his forehead oozed a drop of blood that dripped down onto the bridge of his nose. His hand flopped out of his pocket, still holding the pistol and he fell to the ground.





EPILOGUE



Somehow the eastern newspapers got hold of the story and for a few days Destiny was the talk of the nation. The sordid details were as much fiction as fact, but nobody seemed to mind. When the spotlight of publicity moved on it left only shadows in its wake.
Samantha Trent was elected to the town council to fill the vacancy she had created. She was not the mayor, but everyone knew who ran the town. Six months after her election she made a motion to change the name of the town from Destiny to Copper Creek. The motion was adopted without objection. She started construction on a school the following autumn. A few years later she sold all her interests including the copper mine to the American Copper Corporation. She left town in an automobile, newly arrived from the east, with her Latino chauffeur, moved back to Boston and was never known to come west again.
Douglas Tremont and Rosa were married on the 31st of January 1899; the last couple to unite in that century. Douglas published two more volumes of photographs in his lifetime, both widely acclaimed. He and his wife toured Europe and lived in Italy, but they came back to the cantina many times.
Doctor Clifford Hanley moved to Kansas City in 1901 where he became one of the first Medical Examiners in the country. Before his death he wrote several books on forensic medicine.

One evening in mid-December, 1899, Juanita Carmen Delores Ramos walked up Washington Street in Destiny leading a tall gray horse that she tied to the hitching post outside the marshal’s office. She went inside where her dowry was accepted.
Henry Butters and Nita were married on January 1st, 1900, the first marriage of the new century. In June 1900, Hank was recruited by the United States Marshals Service. He was hired shortly thereafter and was a U.S. Marshal for the next three decades. His first assignment was in Kansas City where his exploits and those of his tortilla eating horse became the stuff of legend. He was widely credited for adapting the service to the most modern of techniques and methods, such as finger prints, ballistics, photography and the use of medical examiners.
After Kansas City, Marshal Butters served in San Francisco, Chicago and Austin, Texas. He lived there with his lovely wife and five beautiful daughters until he died in 1938. On his retirement he was interviewed by a reporter from the Texas Morning Star. When asked to highlight the best of his accomplishments he said, simply, “the only man I ever had to shoot and kill was Spanish Jack Terkel, and he never gave me much choice.”


The end