After they left, I gazed longingly at the bed for a few seconds, then retrieved my hat and followed them out. I had three hours of daylight left and too much to do to spend them between sheets, even if they were the first sheets I'd seen in days.
Yardlinger was poking a fresh chunk of maple into the stove when I entered the marshal's office. A heavy-shouldered farm boy in overalls and a burlapbrown suit coat was reading a yellowback novel in a chair behind the railing. He marked his place with a dirty forefinger and studied me through suspicious blue eyes. His hair was corn-yellow, and a sparse sprouting of the same color glittered along his upper lip. He wore a plain star pinned to one overall strap.
“No Shedwell yet,” announced the other, swinging shut the stove lid with a squeal of rusted hinges.
“I'm replacing you as marshal.”
Some kinds of news are best sprung right away,
with no waltzing. This wasn't one of them, but I was tired and didn't have a lot of time. Some of the murkiness had gone out of his gaze as he turned it on me.
“Who says?”
“Western Union.” I extended the telegram. He hesitated before accepting it, as if that meant surrender. It struck me, as he read, that his paperwork had doubled since I had come to town. He went through it again, more slowly the second time, then refolded it and put it in his inside breast pocket.
“I'll have to confirm this.”
“I thought you would,” I said.
“You want him out of here, Oren?”
We both looked at the towheaded deputy, who had risen from his seat and slipped a hamlike hand into the right side pocket of his threadbare coat. He was two inches taller than I and a dozen pounds heavier, which didn't concern me. The lump in his coat pocket did.
“All right, you've stood by your boss,” I said. “Now put the gun down on the railing and let the grown-ups finish their business.”
“You talk tall for a dead man.” He was quivering all over.
“So do you.”
His brow knitted, and then he looked at my right hand. I had the Colt pressed to my hip and pointing at his navel.
“How the hellâ”
“Experience. Empty that pocket or I'll paint you all over the wall.”
“Do what he says, Earl,” Yardlinger counseled.
The gun was a Smith & Wesson pocket model .38, good enough for indoor shooting, which was the kind lawmen usually had to deal with. When it was on the railing and he had moved beyond reach of it, Earl looked even younger, nineteen at the outside.
“Go home and get some sleep,” the erstwhile marshal told him. “You'll be needed tonight when those rannies from the Six Bar Six start showing up.”
“You ain't going to just let him take over!”
“Go
home
, Earl!” Yardlinger's voice was higher and thinner than usual. The deputy reddened around the ears and banged through the gate, trailing muttered barnyard expletives into the street.
I holstered the Colt. It hadn't been fired except for practice since I'd bought it to replace the lost Deane-Adams, but all this leathering and unleathering was going to wear it out. “Did you tell him about me?” I asked Yardlinger.
“Why?” He produced a long cheroot from the pocket containing the telegram I'd given him and struck a match on the stove, just to give himself something to do. He had quick, nervous fingers, lean like the rest of him and callused.
“One of your deputies told Périgueux I was in town.” I told him about our meeting.
The former marshal finished lighting the cheroot and held up the match, watching the flame burn down to within an eighth of an inch of his thumb and forefinger before he blew it out. It seemed to calm him.
“They were all here when I brought up the
subject,” he said. “I told them to keep an eye on you. That was when I was still employed.” He started to undo the splendid badge.
“Hold onto it. You'll just have to put it back on when Périgueux gets through wiring my boss about what a menace I am to the community.”
“I never keep anything no one wants me to have.” The scrap of metal clattered onto the desk.
“Pin on a regular star then. I need deputies.”
He hesitated. “I didn't think you liked me. Besides, you don't wear one.”
“They put holes in your shirt, most of them from bullets. And I haven't met anyone I liked since I came to this town.”
I watched him lean across the desk and open a drawer from which he plucked an unmarked sixpointer like the one Earl wore. He wiped it off on his sleeve and put it on.
“I wouldn't be doing this except that I don't ever want to smell another cow close up,” he explained.
I'd handled cattle too before turning to the law. I was beginning to like him in spite of myself. Brusquely I said, “This thing about deputies carrying tales bothers me. Did any of them leave the office within a half hour after you told them I was in town?”
“I couldn't say. I left right after to grab a bite. I put Randy Cross in charge. He's myâyour other full-time deputy. You just met Earl Trotter. That leaves Major Brody, the old-timer who fills in as jailer when the rest of us are busy. He just stopped by to kill some time. Any one of them could have done it.”
“Who would you suspect?”
“None.” He smoked and brooded. “At least we know it wasn't Earl. You saw how much he thinks of your taking my place.”
“I saw what he wanted me to see. That puts him at the top of my list.”
“Well, you'll meet them all soon enough. That's your worry now. I don't suppose you want to tell me why it's so important for Périgueux and Mather to have a spy in this office, or why they're so het up to have you here.”
“Were,” I corrected. “I told you, they're worried about Chris Shedwell. They didn't hire him, so they figure the other ranchers did. They looked at my background and thought I'd be a good one to fire the last shot Shedwell ever hears. Sort of a noisy object lesson.”
Yardlinger's cheeks paled slightly, a dangerous sign. “So here you are,” he said. “A hired killer who carries a badge.”
“I didn't say I took them up on the offer. You've got the reason I'm here in your pocket. They like me even less than you do right now.”
He continued to stare at me. After a long time he nodded jerkily. “I'll believe that. Right up until you kill Shedwell or he kills you. Either way you die.”
“I think your fire's gone out.”
I indicated the stove. The cheery glow had faded from the space where the hinged lid didn't quite fit the opening. Clamping the half-smoked cheroot between his teeth, he yanked open the lid, worked the damper, and blew and stirred the embers until a flame appeared.
“What's the problem with the men from the Six Bar Six?” I asked.
“Hm?” He was watching the blaze creep along the edge of the split maple. It burned blue in the center.
“You told Earl you'd need him when those rannies from the Six Bar Six showed up. That's Dick Mather's spread, isn't it?”
He nodded, closing the lid. “He's got a lot of hotheads slapping his brand this year. A bunch from Bob Terwilliger's ranch east of here is staying in town and there might be trouble.” He snorted. “There
will
be trouble. Mather's been accusing Terwilliger of cutting out Six Bar Six strays for months.”
“Has he been rustling them?”
“Hell, you know these cowboys. Of course he has. But no one ever paid much attention to it. Until now.”
“Is it just Terwilliger?”
“Probably not. He's kind of the unofficial head of the small ranchers around the territory, and none of them has enough respect for the big runners to fill a busted bushel basket, especially not for the Marquis. Folks around here generally tolerate foreigners until they start swallowing land like it's sugar-coated.”
“Doesn't sound like you admire him much yourself.”
His smoke didn't taste so good any more. He made a face and opened the stove to dispose of the stub. “Let's just say I don't have much use for rich people safe in Europe getting hold of the water rights over here and using them to control a hundred times more pasture than they own.”
“I've seen it before,” I said. “The rustling's an excuse for Périgueux and Mather to run the small fry out and claim their spreads. I take it there's been trouble already.”
“Night riders. Grown men with pillowcases over their heads who gallop in and kidnap ranchers out of their beds and dump them out on the prairie to walk back ten miles naked. Last week they caught one of Terwilliger's hired hands on his way back to the bunkhouse and made out like they were going to lynch him to a dead oak.”
He had been watching the fire. Now he twisted shut the damper and replaced the lid with more clang than was necessary.
“How'd you like to be set on your horse in the dark with your hands trussed behind you and a rope around your neck so tight you can't swallow, one slap away from a slow strangle? Yeah, they had a high old time that night. So high that when they finally untied him and let him go he just kept on riding until Terwilliger's son caught up with him to ask why he was stealing one of his father's horses, and the hand blurted out the story. He was so scared he'd soiled himself.”
“You favor Terwilliger.”
“I favor a man's right to do his job without having to hunch up every time he hears hoofbeats. Terwilliger's contributed his share to that feeling. He's offering a bonus to the first hand that brings back an ear belonging to a Six Bar Six man. Along about midnight, when every cowboy in town's had his fill of liquor, someone's going to try and collect that bounty. And that's why I told Earl he'd be needed.”
“I hope you told the others the same thing. Those loaded?” I nodded at the rifles and shotguns in the rack behind the desk, chained together like convicts on a work detail.
“Every last one of them. Think we'll need them tonight?”
“Maybe not for shooting, but five men in badges standing around with long guns don't do much for a cowhand's fighting spirit. I'll need a key.”
“Take mine.” He pulled a ring out of his hip pocket.
“Keep it. They have a habit of getting lost just when you need them most. Did Arno have a separate key?”
“Up at the Breen House. He lived there the past year or so to get away from his wife. Room seven.”
I'd seen the Breen on my way in. Four stories, with a restaurant on the ground floor and colored glass out front. I whistled. “What do you folks pay your marshals?”
“Forty a month and ten cents for every stray dog he shoots in the city limits.”
“He must have shot a lot of dogs to afford a room in that hotel. Or that fancy box they planted him in.”
When he scowled, the tips of his black moustache almost touched beneath his lower lip. “It helps to claim a cut of the profits of every game in town.”
“I figured as much. His stuff still in the room?”
“Most of it. I packed up his clothes and sent them over to his widow. The rest is going to take some time. He was long on taking and short on giving away.”
“I'll fetch the key. Get word to all the deputies I
want to see them here in half an hour.” I started for the door.
“All of them?” he called after me. “Even the Major? Hell, he's justâ”
“All of them.” The door swung shut on the end of it.
The Breen's lobby was carpeted in green plush with petit-pointed leaves and lit by a crystal chandelier whose journey around the Horn had me beat by twelve thousand miles. I'd seen bigger places, but they didn't have walls around them. The desk clerk wore a waxed moustache and parted his hair in the middle. He didn't want to give me the key to Room 7 even after I'd showed him my badge. He changed his mind after I grabbed a handful of his cravat and prepared to pin it to his tonsils. I left him repairing his haberdashery and mounted a broad, curving staircase clothed in more leafy green.
The room was three times the size of the one I was staying in at the Freestone. It too was carpeted, and ringed with marble-topped tables and chests of drawers covered in brocade and supporting most of the doodads a nineteenth-century gentleman required to survive socially. The bed was shiny brass and required a stepping stool to get into it from either side. A pair of double doors on my right suggested a closet. I had just started my search for the key to the gun rack when the room swelled with a tremendous explosion and I went down hard.