Haxan (19 page)

I never did see the grave.

T
he inquest was the hellish affair I expected it to be. I had to relive the whole thing over again. As if I hadn’t been doing that since the shooting.

Throughout the legal proceedings I sneaked glances at my hand. I didn’t recognize it as being part of me.

I shot her. Without thinking. That coiled, wintry thing deep inside had awakened and I let it have full throat.

But—and I knew this to be true—if I didn’t have that thing inside me I never would have been sent to Haxan in the first place.

Nevertheless, it didn’t make me feel any better about what had happened.

I had done the unforgivable. I shot a woman.

The inquest was held in the Sassy Sage saloon, much to August Wicker’s dismay. He claimed the chairs “were wobbly in that saloon.”

Prior the inquest, Mayor Polgar apprised me of the political war being waged inside the commission. We discussed it over drinks in his freight office late one night.

“They don’t like you anymore, John,” he said, pouring a glass of rye, “but they’re making a profit so they’re willing to hold back their fire on you.”

“What’s got them backed up?” I waited until he poured himself one and we drank.

“They’re afraid if they push too hard you’ll put the deadline back. No one wants that. It would force the saloons to move out of the plaza. They’re the ones with the real voting power in the commission.”

“I suppose Wicker is one of those who wants me gone,” I said.

Polgar viewed me funny, like I should know better.

“As a matter of fact, August is one of your strongest supporters.” Polgar swirled the glass of brown rye in his hand. “He doesn’t like you, but he knows which side his bread is buttered on. Besides, it was only one or two men who were drumming for your removal. They lost interest quick enough.”

“What brought that about?”

He sipped his rye. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Come on, Frank.”

“Outside pressures,” he said. He wouldn’t elaborate when I pressed him for further details.

I had to wait for the judge to make his way to Haxan. Samuel Creighton wasn’t a bad judge. He was nicknamed the “Iron Hammer” and had sent his share of men to the gallows. Twenty-three by last count. Nevertheless, he wasn’t without compassion, though you saw little evidence of it in his courtroom. Given a choice, he would sooner send a man to prison for the sake of expediency than give him a second chance to put a foot wrong.

A lottery was held to see which saloon would provide the venue for the inquest. When the Sassy Sage won it gave away free drinks and then sold tickets to the inquest for ten dollars apiece. The owner, Henry Gumm, made a killing.

Even August Wicker grudgingly admitted that it had been a sharp business move.

On the morning of the inquest the Sassy Sage was crowded. Men sat shoulder to shoulder. Judge Creighton was dressed in a coal grey suit and black string tie. His snow-white hair was immaculately combed and his face scrubbed pink.

I sat up front, along with the other witnesses. Following my testimony, and that of Doc Toland and Jake, Judge Creighton ruled.

“Marshal Marwood acted in the only responsible fashion left open to him,” he pronounced from the bench—the rich mahogany bar that ran along one entire wall. The swings above the bar had been taken down in deference to the gravity of the judicial proceedings, and the parrot was locked in an upstairs room belonging to one of the girls.

Judge Creighton led us step-by-step through the reasons behind his decision. “Marshal Marwood could not knock a gun out of a crazed woman’s hand, or incapacitate her with a .44-calibre bullet, while she was intent on killing him. That is the stuff of dime novels. It has been suggested in this court Phaedra Finch used Marshal Marwood to commit suicide. I find no evidence of this. While I have little doubt Miss Finch was mentally unbalanced due to certain factors in her life, I find no reason to believe she used the Marshal to kill herself. And, even if true, this would have no bearing on the fact that the life of a federally appointed officer was in danger and, under these hazardous circumstances, he had every right to protect himself along with the citizenry of Haxan.”

I thought it was a long-winded way to say she had deserved to be shot. It sure as hell didn’t make me feel any better.

Judge Creighton regarded the packed spectators. The oil lamps above his head gave out a cider glow. The thinning crown of his bald head gleamed in response.

“Therefore, it is the ruling of this court Phaedra Finch was fleeing a charge of first-degree murder when she was forcibly, though the court admits, regrettably, brought down by lawful force. She was a dangerous suspect fleeing justice. This shooting is not only justified, deadly force was essential. Further shots from Miss Finch’s gun could have wounded or killed innocent bystanders, or claimed the life of the only federally-appointed marshal in this territory.”

He gathered his papers and books together. Those citizens who had been most voluble in wanting my badge pulled held their tongues. I could feel their eyes weighing on me.

They could afford to wait. Creighton would leave Haxan and they would start bending their political power against me. Letters to Washington, more editorials written against my harsh methods. Whatever it took.

Judge Creighton picked up his brassbound gavel. “My ruling stands. I hereby declare this inquest closed.”

He slammed the gavel down. Men bolted from their seats and rushed the bar, clamouring for drinks.

“I’m sorry this had to happen, John,” Creighton said, preparatory to leaving. “You can expect a firestorm. People aren’t going to like you shooting a woman, no matter what the provocation or how I tried to cover for you.”

“I know.” They had been happy enough to sing my praises when I faced Ben Tack. “I’m surprised you didn’t pull my badge, Judge.”

“What the hell good would that do?” he fired back.

I helped load his travelling bag and stack of leather-bound law books into a black Concord buggy.

“I’ve been in law enforcement a long time. Maybe it’s time I find a different line of work.”

“Problem is,” Creighton said, “you don’t know how to do anything else.”

Judge Creighton never minced words. That was more damning than anything else he could have said.

He climbed into the buggy and settled his bulk. He lifted the leather reins in a red, meaty fist.

“John, you need to shake yourself out of this. This isn’t the east where everything is civilized with ice cream parlours and indoor plumbing.”

He glared with belligerence at the ’dobe houses, the saloons, and the dance halls fashioned from ripsawed lumber.

“Helldorado,” he said. “That’s all this shithole will ever be. Someday the desert will open its maw and swallow it whole. No one will remember it existed.”

He swung his attention back to me. “We live on the border of a new world, John. A true
frontera
. This may be the last time it happens in the history of our country. Maybe the world. Therefore, it’s incumbent on us to see that the people who come after will build something of lasting value. They can’t do that if they don’t have a solid foundation. That’s why we’re here. That’s why the
law
is here.”

“Perhaps.”

He peered over the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses that he used for driving. “You know I’m right. I am truly sorry for what happened. It comes down to this, John. You’re on thin ice. I can only do so much to protect you. If you want to keep your job you will have to bring in Conrad Rand.”

He lifted his fat chin, ever a signal he was ready to change the topic. “Speaking of which, any word on that outlaw you’re trying to run down? You told me in Santa Fe you had promising leads.”

“Doc Toland mailed samples of the poison off to be analyzed. Santa Fe shipped them east for further tests. I hope to get results soon.”

Creighton pulled a face. “Hell, I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the poison,” he groused. “There’s enough evidence to hang Rand already. We’ve got warrants out for murder, arson, and attempted kidnapping. That’s for starters. You bring Rand into my court, Marshal. I’ll see he gets what is coming to him.”

“Yes, sir.” I understood Judge Creighton’s desire to wrap this up. Rand and his gang had run loose long enough, flaunting the law. He wanted to make an example of them.

But that wouldn’t solve the reason behind Shiner Larsen’s murder, or help me discover who had set Rand upon this path. This wasn’t happening by itself. Someone had set these events, and Conrad Rand, into motion.

I wanted Rand. I also wanted the man who was bankrolling Rand.

Creighton released the brake on his buggy. “You did an admirable job with that Indian uprising, John. Could have turned out a lot worse. Very important people in the War Department sat up and took notice of the man I have working for me out here. What I’m saying is, you’ve got spending capital.” He offered me a broad hand. “Just see you don’t spend it too fast.”

“All right, judge.” I didn’t know what to say. When it came to politics I was often lost at sea.

He fixed his blue-grey eyes on the horizon. “Heh. And maybe a guardian angel to boot.”

“I don’t get you, Judge.”

Creighton tipped his flat-crowned hat to shade the sun. “You’ve got a very good friend in town, Marshal.” He lifted his hand in farewell and whipped the reins. “Be seeing you, John.”

“S’long, Judge.”

He trundled out of town in a rising cloud of dust. I watched him round the far bend of Potato Road and disappear from sight.

I released a pent up breath and walked to the office. Jake was waiting with mail from the morning train.

“How’d the inquest go, Mr. Marwood?” he asked, eager for news. After giving his testimony Jake had come back to guard our prisoners.

“I still have a job. There may be political hell to pay later on, if I don’t bring in Rand.”

“For my money Creighton made the right decision.” Jake was much relieved. “I mean, about you keeping your job.”

“Perhaps.” I was trying to grasp how I felt about this now that it was over.

It wasn’t the first time I had killed someone. Far from it. In this line of work it’s often you or them. I had told Jake as much when I swore him in. At any rate I vowed long ago to make sure it was never me.

Fact is, from my days in Montana Territory, and the time spent in Haxan, I had built quite a raw and woolly reputation. But a reputation, like a politician, was a two-sided knife. Nevertheless, I was certain I had never killed anyone who didn’t, in one way or another, deserve it.

I knew people might argue with me on the
degree
of deserving. That was human nature. As I worked at my desk that morning, reflecting back, I’d have shot Rose Danby and never thought twice on it. I would have called it just, ignored any civil repercussions, and gone ahead with my life.

Phaedra was different. There was an air of Greek tragedy surrounding her death. I had made a fundamental mistake no lawman should make: I got caught up in her warped and bitter world. Maybe it was because Clayton had called me out on my first night in Haxan.

Clayton. Phaedra. Me. Like we were all tied together. Meant to happen, if you believe in things like that.

As I opened my mail and drank cold coffee—Jake had forgotten to stoke the iron stove—I decided life probably is like that. People are tied together in one way or another. Most men want to believe we are alone and dependent upon ourselves. But I had learned long ago life is like one big knot around your neck from the day you are born. Everyone in the world is tugging on their separate ends.

The trick is learning how to live without having the life choked from you.

“Have you seen Magra?” My preparation for the inquest had stolen my entire morning. And, naturally, she wasn’t allowed to attend. Forget the fact she was a woman—Judge Creighton didn’t allow Indians in his court unless they were being tried for a crime.

“Came in to sweep and make coffee,” Jake answered. “Then she hoofed it back to the hotel. Wanted to tell you she wished you luck and would meet you for dinner.”

“Sounds good.” I was looking forward to it. Talking to Magra, and being in her company, always made me feel better. We had gone riding last night and stopped by Broken Bow to look at the water gleaming under the moonlight. She had told me not to worry about the inquest, that everything would be all right.