Chapter 7

All the lamps in the coach had been extinguished. Malik slumped low in his seat, only his upper head and eyes above the bottom frame of the windows “Unusual number of men with long guns standing around on the platform,” he commented.

Lonegan said, “I can see ten, but only two badges.”

Edwards said, “That’s Sheriff Hanson by the station door. That deputy from Jackson County is over by that support post closest to the train. These other fellers look to be hands from the B-Bar-L, from the north end of Long Valley. The hell are they mixin’ in this for?”

Malik said, “Lestly has a minor share in the B-Bar-L, along with an English syndicate and some men from back east. Say, Cowboy, take a peek on that side.”

After a few seconds, Cowboy said, “I can see three, Shadow, all with long guns, looks like.”

Malik said, “Marshal, tell you what. Whyn’t you take these chains off us, at least ‘til this mix-up is sorted out. There’s a hatch out the roof in the privy. Cowboy can boost me up and I’ll see to those men on the back side over there. You step out on the platform, meanwhile, and wrap them up with that silver tongue—”

“Oh, hell!” Edwards said, looking at the depot.

“What?!” Lonegan demanded.

“They’ve got Missus Malik!”

All the men moved quickly to the windows facing the station platform, Andy biting hard against the pain. A man was standing just outside the station door, Christina in front of him, with her left arm twisted behind her back and the man’s left arm crooked around her neck. Oddly, though, the man was stopped in front of Sheriff Hanson, who was leaning close and speaking directly into the man’s ear.

Andy started toward the back door. Cowboy grabbed his belt from the back. “Whoa up there, Frog Catcher. Alls’ll happen is you getting shot and the Missus’ll be cryin’ at your grave. Might be she could get shot, too. Let’s go with Shadow’s plan.” Andy went back to the window.

“Deputy,” Malik said to Lonegan, “go out there and bamboozle ‘em. Some a’ them boys don’t look all that happy to be here. I’ll take care a’ those out back.”

“You want one of the Greeners, or a pistol?” Lonegan asked.

“Don’t think so. I’ve a couple knives in my boots, but I’ll likely use some rocks. Cowboy, come give me a leg up. Deputy Goodson, if you would, please release these irons, then count to ten and open or shut a window at the other end of the coach on that off side. Just make enough noise to get their attention for a few seconds.” Goodson un-cuffed all three men, then moved to the rear seat on the side away from the station.

Lonegan, with the double-barreled Greener hanging casually in the crook of his right arm, walked out onto the car’s front platform, between it and the other passenger coach. He surveyed the group and saw that the tableau behind Christina hadn’t changed. He suspected the Sheriff had hold of the man’s belt and a pistol jammed into his back, though the man still held onto Christina.

He looked toward the deputy from Jackson County, who was the man closest to him, but spoke in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I am Deputy United States Marshal Connor Lonegan, out of Fort Birney, the federal courthouse there, under Federal Judge Clarence B. Westcott and United States Marshal Earl Nolan. I have prisoners in custody following the murder of a sixteen year old girl. Judge Westcott has instructed me to hold them in isolation, so no one comes near them. There are three more deputies with me. Mister Trombley, would you please step out onto the back platform. Thank you. As you can see, we are heavily armed. You men need to clear out.”

He was answered in an equally loud voice. “Mister Deputy Marshal, I’m Jackson County Deputy Sheriff Frank Porter. I have been instructed to take Emil and Anders Malik into custody for crimes committed in Jackson County. You need to turn those men over to me. I have twelve deputies with me, also heavily armed.”

At that point, one after another, three men’s hats, one broad-brimmed and two bowlers, came sailing over the passenger coach and landed on the depot platform, one of the bowlers spinning around briefly on its spherical crown.

Lonegan said, “I think you’re down to nine deputies, Deputy Porter. But I’ll tell you boys what. Since this whole thing is a question a’ numbers, I’ll lay it out. I’m almost certain to get killed, if it comes to a gunfight here. But then, before I die, I’ve got two barrels a’ double-aught buck that won’t take me more than a second to let fly. The first barrel’s for you, Mister Porter.” Lonegan nodded toward the deputy sheriff, who was only twenty feet away, then looked past him. “The second one’ll be for that youngster behind you. I figure each of my deputies can get one or two a’ you with their double-barreled scatter guns before they go down, too. So, the question is, who volunteers to get shot with a load a’ double-aught buck at this close range? Those that volunteer can just stay here on the platform and those that ain’t interested in participatin’ can just go off to the saloon for a beer or maybe turn in, get some extra shut-eye. That plan suit you boys?”

The teen-aged young man behind Porter backed away, then walked off into the darkness. Two men at the far side of the platform also turned and left, headed up the street into town.

Lonegan said, “Well, it looks like we still have six volunteers. We should be able to fix it so nobody leaves disappointed. What about that man in front of you, Sheriff Hanson? Is he in this game or do you have another one goin’?”

Hanson called, “I reckon this bird is more interested in which way I might aim my gun so that my bullets will pass through parts of his body without hitting Missus Malik. I’m kind ‘a excited at the prospect, myself. I know at least one will go through his ass and into his left hip bone. Another, up through his right shoulder. You give the word, Marshal.”

“So that makes it five, Mister Porter. And, since your young friend left and we’ll likely have extra, I’ll give you both barrels at once. You can start us off. Just swing the business end of that rifle in my direction.”

A big man near the rear of the coach called out, “Hold on, Porter! We came to stand guard while you took three men into custody, not to get in a shoot-out with a bunch a’ federal marshals. I’m takin’ the rest a’ my men out a’ here. C’mon, boys.”

“Boss, what about Chuck an’ them?”

“Ah, hell. Chuck! Hey there, Chuck! Johnnie! Cal! Hey you—”

“I hear ya, Mister Macready. Someone conked me a good un.”

“What about Chuck ‘n Calvin?”

“Hold on a ... Hey m’ damn gun’s gone. Rifle, too. Sonuvabitch!”

Macready pointed at two of his hands, “Pokey, Walker, come with me.” They crossed the tracks behind the train.

Lonegan looked down at Porter. “Your call, Deputy.”

“Well, then, I, ah, reckon ... Ah, hell! I got some papers to serve on Emil Malik. If I can jus’—”

“No, Deputy. Like I said, isolation. Nobody gets to them, they get to see nobody. To be honest, with the stunts you Jackson County people have been pullin’, I don’t even want you within hollerin’ distance. You’re the sorriest bunch I’ve come across in a fare-thee-well. Just stay away altogether.”

After one last speculative glance at Lonegan, Porter dropped his gaze, shook his head, turned, and walked off toward the dark street.

Lonegan looked up to see how Christina was faring but there was no sign of her, nor Sheriff Hanson, or the man who’d had hold of her.

Macready and his men walked slowly around the rear of the train. He looked up toward Lonegan. “Marshal,” he called, “where’s my men’s sidearms and long guns?”

“I have no idea. I don’ have ‘em. Might try huntin’ for ‘em come daylight.”

Macready could be heard to mutter as they walked away, “ ... sorriest damn ... if I ever...”

It was at this moment that the engine and tender, which had been shunting the cattle car to a siding by some livestock pens on the far edge of town, unceremoniously banged its return onto the train, giving everyone aboard reason to grab hold of something attached firmly to the coach’s structure. Lonegan ducked back inside and saw Malik in his seat. He said, “I don’t know what happened to Missus Malik.”

Cowboy said, “She’s on her way to the boardin’ house with the sheriff.”

Goodson said, “They were both out there, Marshal, Mister Malik and Mister Tsosie. Both of ‘em went out through the roof.”

“What happened to the firearms?” Lonegan asked.

Malik said, “Left ‘em wrapped in some old sackcloth on that freight dolly over there. Reckon the stationmaster might see ‘em first thing.”

“Alright. Just want to say, deputies, you did a stand-up job. Thanks for havin’ my back. Now it’s high time for us to get off this train. Mister Goodson, you see to our baggage?”

“We’ll need pack horses or a wagon to carry it all.”

“Sheriff’s bringin’ a buckboard soon’s he sees Missus Malik to the boardin’ house,” Cowboy said.

“Then let’s go by the baggage and wait there with it. Same set-up, prisoners in the middle, deputies facin’ out. Oh, you men have your shackles on again?”

They all held up their manacled hands.

“Good. Let’s move out. By the way, nice work out there, Mister Malik, Mister Tsosie.”

The three temporary deputy marshals had taken the buckboard, with their packs and equipment, to Mrs. Edwards’ boarding house, while Lonegan and Sheriff Hanson settled the three prisoners into their cells. Andy and Cowboy went into one cell while Malik was put in with a sleeping drunk who’d broken up some furniture at the hotel. The other two cells held five men awaiting transport to the state prison to begin five year sentences for cattle rustling. One of those men was asleep on blankets on the floor, as each cell had but two narrow bunks.

In the privacy of the Sheriff’s small office, Lonegan said, “I see we’re pressing your hospitality pretty hard, here, Sheriff.”

“Can’t be helped,” Hanson replied, “and I’m glad to provide a service to the Maliks, even if it is to lock ‘em up in my jail.” Then he elaborated. “I rode with their pa some, before they’d set up the county sheriffs, like we have now. Valerian Malik, me, and some other fellers, even a coupl’a the Sonora, we took it on ourselves to go after the worst elements. Even rode with Emil a coupl’a times, when he was old enough, by his pa’s mind. Emil’s a smart and kind man, but I’ve seen him take terrible retribution against men who stole, killed, raped, or who just destroyed innocent folks for no good reason but their own greed. An’ his pa...,” Hanson was shaking his head, looking down at the floor, “his pa was even more so. Those Maliks have a, uh, notion of what’s right, a sense of, well, justice. They won’t back down, won’t compromise, least not when it comes to what’s important. If there was somethin’ needed doin’, by god, they did it. I’m proud to provide any service to ‘em.”

He looked up at Lonegan and shrugged. “That kind of need is pretty much seen to, now, by reg’lar lawmen and courts. Now, instead, we got hooligans in the damn county gov’ments, like those bastards down t’ Waypoint. They’re worse ‘n some of them sonsabitchin’ carpetbaggers back after the war. Ah, hell. I get wound up like this ‘n I’ll never get to sleep. I got a bottle here. You wan’ a drink?”

“Sounds good. Be right back. I want ‘a talk to my prisoners for a minute.”

“See you in a minute, then.”

Lonegan went out to the cells. “So, Mister Malik, a mite better than the jail in Waypoint?”

Andy said, “You kiddin’? Straw-stuffed mattress, a blanket, clean floor, rinsed-out slop bucket, and no shackles? If I weren’t in jail, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“Hey, shut up over there. Tryin’ to sleep,” grumbled one of the men in the three-man cell on the end.

Lonegan hushed his tones and, turning his back toward the other cells, he moved to the narrow space between the first two cells. “Mister Tsosie, bring yourself over here, please.” Andy’s and Malik’s bunks abutted the gap, so it was only Cowboy who had to move closer to hear.

“You men still got your, uh, defense tools?” Lonegan asked, in hushed tones, referencing their boot knives. All three gave him a nod. “Hidden even if you take off a boot?” Lonegan pressed.

Malik whispered, “Not to worry, Deputy. They’re secure.”

“Good, then. Mister Edwards will be here shortly and, as long’s the weather’s nice, my deputies and I will sit right over there, outside th’ office door. If the weather gets ugly, we’ll sit over near that small door from the sheriff’s own office. I’ll go visit with the state court clerk first thing tomorrow, see if he’ll lend those books you’re after.

“The other news is, turns out, Missus Edwards cooks the meals for the jail and she or one of the women who work for her bring ‘em over in baskets. I’ve heard they’ve got a new volunteer helper from out-of-town who’ll be bringing most of the meals over for the next day or two. That work for you, Mister Andy?”

“Well, I do like to eat reg’lar.”

Lonegan smirked. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

Gaspar Eland, a short, balding, clean-shaven lawyer in his mid-forties, clad in a black business suit, white shirt, high collar, black four-in-hand, and top hat, hurried across the dusty street that separated the state court clerk’s office from the Franklin County Courthouse. Under his left arm he carried two thick volumes and a thin leather folio case. He took a brief, sidelong glance at Jackson County Deputy Sheriff Frank Porter, who was lounging in the shade on the front porch of the white clapboard-sided Shepherds Rest Hotel. When he reached the courthouse, Eland took the single step up onto the boardwalk of its covered verandah and proceeded into the relief of its shade. Without pause, he walked directly to the varnished, arched double doors, pressed down on the lever knob and pushed through the right-hand door, turning to close it, behind him.

Though it was cooler inside, he did not tarry, but continued straight ahead, waving only an abridged salute in response to the “Mornin’, Mister Eland,” sung out by a cashier in the county clerk’s office. He walked across the open entrance hall and out through another set of double doors, a matched pair to the sturdy, ornate doors by which he had entered. This gave egress to the covered verandah encircling the inner courtyard, an open area of native plantings intercut with graveled walkways, a century-old Spanish Colonial fountain burbling at its center. He followed the crushed stone walkways to the far left corner, where he entered the Franklin County Sheriff’s office.

The deputy at the desk pointed at the open door across from him and said, “They’re in the Sheriff’s office, Mister Eland.”

“Thank you, Deputy.”

As Eland stopped in the doorway, he saw that Malik, in shackles, was sitting at the sheriff’s desk, folio paper, pen, and ink before him. Lonegan and Sheriff Hanson sat in two straight-back chairs in front of the desk, filling the remaining space in the cramped office. All looked up when the state court clerk came to the door. During the exchange of “Good mornings,” Hanson rose and offered his chair.

“Yes, thank you, Sheriff Hanson, I think that would work best,” Eland acknowledged, in a politic, rather than polite, tone.

He placed the law books, the leather brief cover, and his top hat on the desk as he sat down. “Mister Malik, how is your family?”

“My brother will be some weeks recovering from broken ribs, but is in good spirits. His wife, though worried, was not harmed, save for a sore shoulder. My friend, Cowboy Tsosie, seems recuperated, barring the indignity of a partial scalping.”

“And yourself, sir?”

“Put upon, but looking forward to setting things aright.”

“Then, while not good news, it is better than it could have been.” He pushed the books forward and flicked at some torn scraps projecting from between the pages. “These mark citations I thought would be helpful. And here,” he set the leather folio cover on the legal tomes, “is a case from Washetaw County, with some striking similarities. It was successfully litigated and upheld on appeal. In the motions, Mister Isaac Falberg, a man I worked under some years ago, very ably represented his client, a real property titleholder in Arabola.”

Malik, nodding, said, “I’m very much obliged, Mister Eland. I know your time as the court’s administrator in the district keeps you quite busy as ‘tis. I am sure you have saved me time as well as strengthening my arguments.”

“I am happy to do it. For one, I accept any opportunity to bring some semblance of order to that buccaneer’s camp in the Jackson County Courthouse. For another,” he added, in a carefully restrained but clipped voice, “I’ll not stand idly by while the law of the land is perverted for injustice.” He pulled a folded, white kerchief from an inner pocket on his suitcoat and dabbed at his brow, saying, “Please excuse my display of sentimentality.” As he pushed the kerchief back into the coat pocket, a shoulder holster containing a compact pistol was briefly visible.