Marshal, Page 3

hadn’t needed it. It was a place to shop and a man could shop just as well with Luke Callahan running things. But now, suddenly, that had changed, and there was tomorrow. One day, Murdock might have to explain his actions to his own son. He had to show his son that he believed what he said and that he backed up his beliefs.

  “I was wrong about Billy,” Murdock said to June. “He’s not going to stand up to Luke Callahan.”

  June looked into his eyes. After a long pause, she said, “I have some curtains I promised Mary Schmidt. Will you take them to her when you go?”

  When Murdock left, she didn’t give him the usual lingering embrace; she pretended to be busy. She turned her head so that his lips just brushed her temple, as if he only were going off to his regular ranch chores. “Oh, and thank her for the pickles, John.”

  He stalked out of the house as if he didn’t like having his Sunday disturbed by such feminine nonsense, but when he was half-way to the barn, his stride lengthened. His back stiffened and his shoulders straightened; he knew that she was sitting in her rocker, crying. He saddled the roan and rode off.

  Jimmy was pouring sour milk into a trough for the pigs when Murdock rode up. The world might collapse, but pigs had to be fed, Murdock thought as he dismounted. The door of the little house, which was half soddy, half dugout, opened and Mary Schmidt mumbled a cool greeting. Murdock tipped his hat and said, “Those pickles you gave us were sure fine, Missus Schmidt. June wanted me to bring these curtains over.”

  Mary Schmidt let her rough fingers caress the curtain material. “I’ll give you all the pickles,” she said. “We won’t need the curtains; we ain’t gonna stay here no more.”

  In the dark interior of the sod house, Murdock could see Schmidt sitting in a chair, a man without hope, dulled by too much hard work and too much disappointment.

  “Can I come in for just a minute, Missus Schmidt?” Murdock asked.

  She stepped aside and Murdock doffed his hat and stepped inside, ducking his head to avoid the door frame. “We ain’t stayin’,” Schmidt said, a tear rolling down his large face.

  “Sure, Henry,” Murdock said soothingly. “You’re going to stay.”

  Mary Schmidt began to sob, dry choking sounds made for her man. “But they’ll fight us,” she said. “They’ll put cows in my Henry’s corn—the corn he’s worked so hard to raise. They’ll kill him. It’s too much.”

  “You stay, Henry,” said Murdock. “You ask Jimmy. He knows.”

  “I did,” Schmidt said. “He says I’m right to leave. No law, no protection now.”

  Jimmy came to the door, his face white and drawn with worry. But seeing Murdock there a flicker of hope appeared in his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

  Murdock could hear the sound of approaching horses. He stood up, feeling that old familiar tension in him again. He walked to the corner of the room and picked up Schmidt’s shotgun, checking to see it was loaded.

  As he stepped through the door, he said to Jimmy, “You explain to your pa that the law will protect him, won’t you?” The boy nodded. “The law is for everyone, Jimmy, cattlemen and farmers alike. You tell him that, Jimmy, no matter what happens.”

  “I know,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tell him.”

  Murdock saw Callahan and the same two riders who had been with him in the saloon coming toward the house. Only Callahan was wearing a pistol. That way, Murdock realized, if Callahan should have to talk to a judge later, he could say, “If we had expected trouble, all three of us would have been armed.”

  They rode stiffly, holding their horses in. Murdock stood the cocked shotgun by the fence post, placing it carefully within easy reach. Then he turned so his face was shadowed, his back to the sun.

  “Looks like we’re seein’ a lot of each other, neighbor,” said Callahan.

  “Looks that way,” Murdock agreed.

  Callahan’s eyes never left Murdock’s face. “I asked you once today if you was a friend of this sodbuster. Maybe I better ask it again.”

  “Maybe. It all depends what you have on your mind, Callahan.”

  “That soddy’s been butchering my beef,” Callahan snapped. “I’m sick of it.”

  “You sure that’s the case?”

  “I said this sodbuster’s eating my beef,” Callahan fairly shouted. “You doubtin’ my word?”

  “No, Luke,” said Murdock. “I’m callin’ you an outright liar.”

  He saw the sudden anger in Callahan—a sore, whisky-nursed anger. The cattleman cursed, twisted in his saddle blinking into the sun. “You forgettin’ you ain’t the law any more?”

  “You decide that, Luke,” Murdock said.

  The two men looked at each other, understanding each other. Murdock’s expression warned Callahan to back down.

  Callahan saw the shotgun leaning against the fence. But, he had been called in front of his men, and he had to make his move. If he backed down, it was all over for him, he realized. He’d have to leave the country.

  He jerked his horse around, trying to avoid the direct glare of the sun. His hand streaked for his gun and he was fast.

  Murdock had plenty of time. He whipped the shotgun up from the hip, firing at the same time. He didn’t hear the gun’s explosion, but he saw Callahan’s eyes pop open, his mouth dropped and he clawed at what was left of his chest. His horse reared and the cattleman’s body pitched to the ground like a sack of grain. He lay face down in the dust.

  Time passed in a haze for Murdock as it always did when he was forced to kill. He stood by the barn, trembling when he heard Jimmy come up behind him.

  “This was in the street in town, Mr. Murdock,” the boy said as he held out a silver star. “I told my pa how the law is for everybody and now he knows.”

  Murdock stared as the star for a long moment, then took it and dropped it in his pocket.

  June saw him through the front window. Murdock came in wearily, still trembling slightly. “Missus Schmidt was right happy to get the curtains.” His lips brushed her forehead and he walked into the bedroom.

  Later, when she picked up his coat and laid it across her arm, the silver star fell to the floor. She looked at it for a long time, then picked it up and pinned it on his coat.

  From the bureau drawer she took a clean, white, pleated-front shirt and laid it out along with a black string tie. Marshal John Murdock had worn a clean, white, pleated-front shirt to the office on Monday mornings for as long as June could remember, and she didn’t expect him to change his habits now.

  * * *

  Other Westerns by Russ Durbin

  The Crossed Guns

  “…the crossed guns on the west wall of Mr. Howard’s parlor drew me like a magnet.” That was how my grandfather started his favorite story. His pa, my great-grandfather, was marshal of a quiet little Ozark town that one summer day erupted in gunfire and an old-fashioned shootout on Main Street. As a boy, he was there when Frank James confronted the bounty hunters who killed his brother, Jesse.

  The Last Stage

  The high-wheeled mud wagon stood before the entrance to the Yuma House behind two spans of mules. John Dudley stepped out of the hotel into bright moonlight and handed his valise to the driver, who tossed it unceremoniously into the carrying rack. Dudley was leaving for San Diego where he would catch a steamer bound for New York and ultimately to the woman he was to marry. But there was a complication…and her name was Margo.