Chapter 18

“The county clerk?” Mr. Marshal asked.

“Ayup,” I agreed.

“Over at the court house?”

“That’s him,” I said.

“Tall skinny fella?” The Sheriff clarified.

“Weaselly looking man,” Seven said.

“Second floor?” The marshal was making sure. “Took your money?”

“Second floor ... office left of the courtroom,” Seven acquiesced, “Fifty dollars.”

“Every penny,” I said.

“Pocket?”

“Shirt pocket,” Seven said.

The marshal asked, “He give a reason?”

“Said a woman can’t collect,” Seven said.

“A husband could. Woman can’t sign a contract,” I said.

“Twenty five dollars reward?” The light came on just before the ship went on the rocks.

“Yup,”

“Dead or alive?”

“Uh huh,” I said, “Cash.”

Seven jingled a coin pouch.

He dropped his feet off the desk, hitched his gunbelt off his hip, settled his Colt’s Patent Dragoon Revolver in front of his crotch and said, “Let’s go collect.”

The sign on the Clerk of the Court’s door read LUNCH.

That foiled our revenge ... temporarily.

“He’s mighty fond of spicy food,” said the marshal. “He’ll be at Rosa’s Cantina. They have good beer.”

Rosa’s Cantina.

First ... let me tell you about the town, and it’s Spanish residents. Not Mexicans ... Spanish ... from Spain. They’ve been in the area since before the pilgrims settled New England ... before the French stole it from the Spanish ... who stole it from the Indians ... and Lord knows who they took it from. There are old Spanish diggings and Spanish ruins all over the area.

The Cantina structure was dated at least 1750 and probably fifty years before that. It had been a fort, a hacienda, a trading post and various other official and unofficial offices and homes for a hundred and fifty years. The adobe building boasted numerous arrow heads and bullet holes from bandits, Indian raids and military attacks. In the coming years, the Cantina would feature heavily in court cases and drunken brawls.

It was ideally situated over the best water well in town. A bone of contention between the Anglos and the Spanish chewed regularly. All the stories claim that the Spanish side was the “wrong side of the tracks.”

The Anglos settled on the leavings. Seems as though the Anglos were on the wrong side.

Mr. Clark ... the clerk ... didn’t notice when we pushed through the double doors. Or maybe he did. He was paying attention to his plate but Rosa’s had a bar length mirror and the mirror was clean. He could see the door in the mirror.

As we went through the door, the marshal drew his heavy Colt and stationed it by his hip.

“Mr. Clark,” announced the sheriff. “I’ll trouble you for your pocket revolver. These ladies have laid a complaint against you.”

“They can’t,” Clark said. “They’re women ... women have no say.”

“There’s a reward. Twenty-five dollars. Grand Theft, malfeasance in office and general sleaziness.” He said, “The court will have to decide on the first two ... but I whole heartedly agree with the sleaziness.”

Clerk Clark didn’t hesitate ... red faced, he drew. An 1848 baby dragoon slid out of his baggy pants pocket. A .21 caliber baby dragoon struck hammer down on the floor as the .44 caliber round ball from the lawman smacked him between the eyes and scattered gore all over the bar front. The baby dragoon added insult to injury by discharging a minuscule lead bullet in Clarks groin.

The marshal checked Clark’s pocket. Sure enough ... two gold doubles and a gold single ... and a forged receipt saying that he’d paid the reward to me and Seven.

“This here’s yours,” he told us

Seven handed him the leather pouch, “And this here’s yours.”

Judge Clark wasn’t happy when several townsfolk and local ranchers came forward with complaints about losing money to the clerk ... double payments and the like. Especially since the clerk in mention was his son-in-law.