Haxan (11 page)

I took my leave. I was eager to get back to the office. Maybe there was paper on Silas Foote. It was the first real lead I’d had in a long time, and I wanted to bird dog it to the end.

Hew was relieved there had been no gunplay upstairs. He almost pushed me out the door. “Come back anytime, Marshal.”

I met Jake at the office. “Go through these circulars and the ones in the filing cabinet. Go back at least five years. We’re looking for a man named Silas Foote.” I relayed the description Nichols had given. “There could be paper on him. I’ll wire the lawmen in Kansas and see what they know about Foote. It’s worth a gamble.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it.”

“Also, find Piebald. If he’s up to it, have my horse saddled and brought on over. I’m going for a ride.”

“You want company, Marshal?”

“No.” I checked the loads in my gun. “Not for this.”

“Yes, sir. Here’s your Sharps, in case you need it.”

Within fifteen minutes I was riding out of Haxan toward the south fork of Gila creek.

I
followed the south fork until it took a bend through a jumble of sun-baked boulders. When I came to Larsen’s burned out jacal I drew rein.

There wasn’t anything left of the shack except the charred posts that continued to stand ghost-like in the late afternoon haze. Magra stood in the middle of the black destruction, her hands out to her sides. The hot breeze lifted her raven hair like a cape and tugged her calico dress against her legs.

“Magra.”

She lowered her arms. Her broad face streamed tears.

“Magra, you shouldn’t come here by yourself. It’s much too dangerous.”

“Papa won’t talk to me anymore, John,” she said. “I thought I would try one last time. He always night-walked to me whenever I needed his advice before.” She made a helpless gesture. “Now he’s not there.”

She took in the charred timbers that stood like a cage around her. She shook her head with sadness.

“There’s nothing to remind me of him, except his old shotgun in your office. I have nothing left.”

I dismounted and walked toward her. She looked warm and vulnerable. “I think your father knew he could leave safe when I came, Magra,” I said in a low voice.

“I went into a general store today and paged through their mail order catalogue. They have some awful pretty dresses, John, but I didn’t buy one. Like I said before, I suppose I could always go back to the reservation and teach.”

“Or you could stay in Haxan.”

“And cause you more trouble. I heard about that set-to you had with Alma Jean. John, things like that are only going to get worse if I stay.”

“Magra, compared to what I have to put up with on a daily basis in that town, any trouble you cause me would be most welcome.”

That made her smile a little and it warmed my heart to see it.

“You’re a difficult man to convince of the truth, John Marwood.”

“Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

The corners of her mouth turned up a little more. We walked around and through the blackened ruins for half an hour.

“You never told me the name of your horse,” she said. I think she was trying to find something else to talk about other than the broken pieces of her own life.

“I didn’t name him,” I said, “and I don’t use it very often, but he has a name. He’s called Acheron.”

Magra smiled. “I like it,” she admitted. Perhaps because I had shared something she started to tell me about the desert and what her life was like as a little girl, playing way out here, all alone.

“After Mama died Papa was often away riding shotgun for Wells Fargo. Papa always took the most dangerous jobs, when they transported gold or a cash box, because they paid more. I was by myself but I never felt lonely. Before she died Mama taught me lots of things about the desert and how to listen to it.”

“Did she night-walk with you?”

“
Ai
, often. Especially after she died. Then she stopped and I had Papa all to myself. Now I don’t have him. I don’t understand it.” She dropped her head, raised it again. “I’m sorry. It sounds as if I’m ungrateful for everything you’ve done.”

She looked up at me. “I’m not, John. I want you to know that is not the case.”

“I know.”

“Please, be honest with me. Will you ever catch Papa’s killers?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not unless they make a mistake. Every day that passes the trail grows colder. I’ll tell you a secret only lawmen out here know: most criminals never get caught. That’s a solid fact.”

We stood beside my horse. “I can make you this promise, Magra Snowberry. I’ll never stop trying. Come hell or high water, if there’s the slightest chance to find Conrad Rand and make him pay, I’ll do it.”

We rode slow back to town. I dropped Magra off at the hotel and continued down Front Street. I came to a recessed door with a wooden shingle proclaiming: “
J
osiah
H
artleby:
D
entist
” burned into it with a hot iron. I stepped out of leather and went through the door.

The office was small and stuffy and lined with piñon wood, but it looked reasonably clean. There was a framed diploma from the Baltimore College of Dental Surgery hanging on the wall and a colour chart showing the many parts of a tooth.

“Afternoon,” the spare little man with a long chin and pale, freckled hands welcomed. “How can I help you?”

“You Doctor Hartleby? My name’s Marwood. I’m the new marshal here and I’m trying to run down a man by the name of Silas Foote.”

“How am I supposed to know this Mr. Foote, Marshal?”

“Pate Nichols’s foreman, man by the name of Jenks, believes Silas Foote came to your office for a bad tooth one day.”

Hartleby held one long finger across his lips. “Hm. Let’s check my record book. Perhaps it can be of help.”

He bustled around a mahogany desk and flipped the yellow pages of a book where he had itemized all his transactions. “Foote. Foote. Ah, yes, here we are,” he said with excitement. “Two weeks ago, almost to the day. Had an impacted molar he said hurt like a sumbitch. I pulled the tooth and charged him five dollars. He paid his bill and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Can you give me a description of this man, Doctor?”

He scratched his head. “I tend to remember a person’s mouth, not his face,” he admitted. “Part of the trade, you might say. Speaking of which, I don’t get much trade to speak of as is. Even with the trail herds, and the population explosion, and that little silver strike we had a year or two back. With all that, and Haxan being a new boomtown and all, there’s not much call for a dentist in these parts. Isn’t that something? I came all the way from Maryland. That’s why I’m thinking of pulling up stakes and heading to California. I hear a man can make his meat out there.”

I felt sorry for his troubles, but I wished he would get on with what he knew about Silas Foote. I was trying to catch a cold-blooded murderer and he was sobbing his life story out to me.

Hartleby detected my impatience. He fidgeted and hurried on with his tale.

“This man, yes, I do remember him, Marshal. He had a pockmarked face with a very wide jaw and black greasy hair that straggled down his temples. I remember the hair because I was bent over him to pull the tooth and it stank. Don’t remember much else, I’m afraid. His mouth was rather small so the bottom teeth were impacted. I guess that’s not much help to you.”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Hartleby, it fits the description I already have for the man. Can you remember anything else?”

“I had a terrible time extracting the tooth, as I recall. He yelped like a dog but said he felt better afterward.”

“He have a partner? Man with white-blond hair and a droopy left eye. Runs by the name of Rand—Conrad or Connie Rand.”

The dentist shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t have anyone like that with him. Foote came alone into my office and left alone.”

“All right, Doctor. Thank you for your help. If you remember anything else I’d appreciate if you would stop by my office to let me know.”

“Is that Sheriff Cawley’s old office?” he asked.

“It’s my office now.”

“Of course, Marshal, I didn’t mean offense.”

“No offense taken, Mr. Hartleby. Thanks again for your time.”

After stabling my horse I helped Jake leaf through the circulars and warrants. We had just begun when a man and woman bustled through the door of the office. The man’s right hand and forearm were heavily bandaged. He had a long-barrelled shotgun cradled in his left arm.

“We’re looking for the town marshal,” he said.

“I’m the U.S. Marshal.”

“My name is Ambrose Watkins. This is my wife, Hester. We were riding home in our wagon when the blamed axle froze up. I guess I forgot to grease it proper. My fault. Anyway, we figured we would overnight in Haxan since it wasn’t much of a walk.” He got more and more worked up as he told his story. “Well, it’s them coyotes and wolves, Marshal. They set upon us and killed both our horses. Then they liked to chase us down and take
us
for meat.”

“It’s getting bad out there, Marshal,” the woman said, her voice quavering. She was a bone-thin scarecrow dressed in frayed gingham and high-button shoes. “Something must be done about them.”

I pointed at her husband’s arm. “They take a nip out of you, Mr. Ambrose?”

“Sure did, the yellow-eyed bastards. I had to see Doc Toland. He sewed me up with boiled horsehair and told me to keep the sutures clean with alcohol.”

“That means you splash it on the wound, Ambrose,” his wife said, “not drink it down.”

“I know that, Hester. Hell, what do you take me for?”

She ignored him and spoke to me. “It was a frightening experience, Marshal. I have never seen coyotes act that way and run with wolves. They’re hunger-crazed. Their eyes are all yellow and fierce and those red tongues.” She shuddered. “When we made it to the city they backed off like they was scared of the lamplight.”

The sun was going down fast. We could hear them now howling at the darkening sky. It was near a scream of madness as anything I’d ever heard.

“There they go,” Hester said with another shudder. “It’s enough to spook a body into a premature grave.”

“Well, Marshal,” Watkins said, preparatory to leaving, “we thought you should know. People are starting to lock their doors at night. Many are downright spooked. I don’t mind saying I’m one of them. Come on, Hester.”

After they left Jake commented, “We may have to bait traps and hire wolfers to hunt them down, Mr. Marwood. Killing livestock is one thing but now they’re attacking people.”

“A hard rain would go a long way to fixing things,” I said. “Since we can’t make it rain we’ll have to do what you suggest.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall and set my pocket watch to it. “We’d best start our rounds. Nervous people do funny things. This will be another long night.” However, for a Friday night the saloons weren’t doing much business. People were staying home.

It was close to ten when I sent Jake off to bed. I had helped him make two arrests and showed him how to fill out the paperwork. Then I put in another hour talking to the cowmen gathered around the cattle pens. They were waiting for the morning train to freight their stock.

“Look at ’em,” one of the men said, nodding at the enclosed herd. “Everyone one of ’em so nervous you can see ’em getting thinner alla time. It will be a wonder if they don’t stampede before daybreak.”

I stayed with them and we talked about the war. Someone passed around a jug of corn. By one o’clock I was beat tired and trudging for the Haxan Hotel. The town was shut down. No one wanted to be out tonight.

I was passing Slattery’s sawmill when someone fired a shot at me from an alley.

I dropped behind a water trough, my gun out. I listened to quick feet running fast in the opposite direction.

I went after the shooter, but he knew the alleys better than I did. I must have made a wrong turn because I ended up in a dead end between two stone buildings. There was a trash barrel lying on its side, empty. I had lost him.

The following morning I told Jake what happened.

“I want you to keep an eye ready, Jake. If this person feels pushed he might take a shot at you, too.”

“You think it was that boy you faced down the first night, Mr. Marwood?”

I had almost forgotten about him. “I don’t think so,” I said doubtfully. “He didn’t strike me as the type who would try and shoot me in the back. He was more the fatalistic type.”

Of course, this sort of thing wasn’t unheard of at all. Lawmen all over the country were shot at, or gunned down, from alleyways or through windows at night. Someone tried it on Bill Hickok in Abilene. Few lawmen ever died face to face with their killer.

It’s always easy for a coward to kill.

After loading my gun I ate a late breakfast. I met with Mayor Polgar and relayed the news about Ambrose and his wife. He said he would look into hiring wolfers to handle the problem before it got out of control. I returned to my office and started work on those circulars with Jake.

I didn’t know Sheriff Cawley, but he had built a superb filing system over the years. He had warrants going back seven years from all over the territory. We spent most of a good morning checking every one. Jake found who we were looking for along about noon.

He sat up in his chair abruptly as if a bee had stung him. “Yeow! Got him, Mr. Marwood. Silas Foote. Photograph matches the description, too.”

He read the particulars in a slow, halting voice. “Wanted for armed rob-robbery in Wichita, Kansas. Five hundred dollar re-reward offered by Wells Fargo. Known
comanchero
. Whereabouts unknown.”

Jake pushed the flier across my desk. “Guess they never caught up to him if he’s still our man today.”

“I’ll wire the sheriff in Wichita and see what he has to say about Mr. Foote.” I clapped Jake on the shoulder. “That’s top flight police work, Jake. Come on, dinner is on me.”

It was the first real break I’d had in the Shiner Larsen murder and I was anxious to tell Magra about it.

After collecting fines from our prisoners we locked up the office and wired Wichita. We decided on the Haxan Hotel for dinner. Before we arrived Hew Clay ran out on the porch, his face white as marble dust and eyes round as saucers.

“Marshal,” he skidded to a stop, winded. “I was about to come get you. Coffer Danby burned powder on Mr. Nichols up in his room. Put a pillow over his head to muffle the shot, but Alma Jean heard it from downstairs.”

“You sure it was Danby?”

“I saw Danby run out of the hotel with my own eyes. He shot him, Marshal. Shot him dead.”