“I’m much obliged.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Hannah said. “Don’t tell him I said this, but the job has gotten to be too much for one man, especially one who’s getting on in years like Dad. The town is too big, and what with this new liquor law…” She shook her head. “There’s going to be real trouble one of these days, and I’d like to think there’ll be a good man siding him when it comes.”
Sam warned, “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay on here.”
Hannah shook her head. “You know how the air feels when there’s a thunderstorm brewing?”
Sam nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.
“Well, there’s a storm brewing here in Cottonwood,” she went on, “and I don’t think it’s going to be long before it breaks.”
Chapter 22
Hannah left the office, and Marshal Coleman came in a short time later. “I just talked to Doc Berger,” he said as he hung his hat on one of the nails by the door. “A couple of that fella’s fingers were broken, all right. Doc splinted ’em. He had a bullet wound in his leg, too.” Coleman’s voice took on a grim tone. “But he was in good shape compared to some of those other hombres.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sam said. He was at the stove, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Not after the way I heard them groaning in those prison wagons.”
Coleman went behind the desk and sank into his chair. His movements held the bone-deep weariness that the years will give a man, especially when he’s burdened down with troubles besides growing old. “According to Doc,” he went on, “all the boys in that first wagon are shot up pretty bad. He wasn’t sure that some of them would make it, and they dang sure aren’t in any shape to be jolted all the way to Wichita. He told Porter and Bickford that they ought to bring the worst ones down to his house so he can tend to them better. Porter refused, though. Said the prisoners had to stay locked up. Doc told him that in any case they shouldn’t be moved for at least a week, and that if they were, it’d be the same as killin’ ’em.”
“So what’s Porter going to do?” Sam asked.
“He wanted to move on anyway, claimed those prisoners didn’t deserve any special consideration, but Bickford talked him into staying here for a few days and seeing how they’re doing then. That’s what Doc told me, anyway. I wasn’t there.”
Sam nodded. “And did the doctor find out anything about how those men came to be wounded so badly?”
“Porter wouldn’t let any of the prisoners say a word. He stood right over them with a gun while Doc was examining them and told them to keep their mouths shut.” Coleman grimaced. “I’m sure those fellas put up a fight when Porter and the others went to arrest ’em, and that’s how they got hurt, but I’m tellin’ you, Sam…I don’t like the way that fella goes about his business.”
“Neither do I. Maybe someone should write the governor a letter and make sure he knows how his special marshals are doing their jobs.”
Coleman nodded slowly. “Now, that’s not a bad idea. I reckon I could do that.” He chuckled. “Might need a hand gettin’ all the words right from somebody who’s had more book learning than I have. That would be you, Sam.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, Marshal,” Sam agreed.
But writing a letter to the governor wasn’t going to help those men who were locked up in the prison wagons right now, he thought. Even if the letter caused the governor to look into Porter’s activities, any investigation would come too late to do any good for those prisoners.
This wasn’t over yet, Sam vowed to himself. There were still truths to be uncovered.
The rest of the day passed quietly enough. Hannah brought lunch to the office for Sam and her father, as she had promised, and the food—savory ham, thick slices of bread, and a hefty piece of pie for each man—was good enough to make Sam think that he had gotten the best end of the deal when he’d agreed to work for room and board. Hannah’s cooking alone made it a worthwhile arrangement.
During the afternoon, Sam took a couple of turns around town to let people see him wearing the badge and get used to the idea that he was Coleman’s deputy. As Coleman told him to do, though, he kept his distance from the creek and the prison wagons parked under the cottonwood trees.
It wasn’t just a matter of following orders. Sam didn’t want to put Porter even more on his guard than the special marshal already was. If Porter thought he was getting his way, he was more likely to relax a little…although Sam didn’t figure that the stiff-necked son of a bitch ever really relaxed much.
Supper at the marshal’s house was every bit as good as lunch had been, if not better, and after Hannah refused Sam’s offer to help clean up, he and Coleman went out to sit on the porch and enjoy the evening air as they had done the previous night. The main difference was that Matt had been with them, then. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what his blood brother was doing out there at the Harlow place. He hoped Matt was all right.
“I got that letter to Governer St. John started,” Coleman said as he filled his pipe. “Left it on the desk in the office, if you’d care to take a look at it when you go back down there.”
“Sure, I’d be glad to,” Sam said with a nod. “Would you like me to make evening rounds?”
Coleman scratched a match into life on the sole of his boot and held the flame to the bowl of his pipe. When he had puffed until the tobacco was burning to suit him, he shook the match out and dropped it onto the porch.
“I’d sure appreciate that, son,” he said. “To tell you the truth, once I’ve had supper, it’s hard for me to rattle these old hocks of mine into much motion again.”
“Then don’t worry about it,” Sam told him. “I’ll make sure the town’s locked up tight.”
“Much obliged to you. Once you’ve done that, you can head back to the office and turn in. If those cousins of Cimarron Kane that we’ve got locked up make too much racket for you to sleep, toss a bucket of water on ’em. Maybe that’ll cool ’em off.”
“It probably won’t come to that,” Sam said. “They carry on so much they’re bound to be getting tired by now. Anyway, I just don’t pay any attention to them.”
“That’s smart.”
Earlier, while Sam and Coleman were both at the marshal’s office and jail, the owner of the local café had brought meals over for the prisoners. They didn’t get much to eat—the town’s budget wouldn’t allow for that, according to the tight-fisted town councilmen—but the prisoners were fed well enough that they wouldn’t starve while they were locked up.
Having the three of them in jail was yet another worry. Sam knew that he and Coleman couldn’t forget about the possibility that Cimarron Kane and some of his hard-bitten relatives might come into town and try to spring Dud, Nelse, and Wiley Kane. As Sam thought about that, he was glad that he had agreed to pin on the deputy’s badge. Caught between two sets of troubles—the Kanes on one side, Porter and the other special lawmen on the other—Coleman would have had a hard job dealing with both.
He’d feel better about things if Matt were here, too, Sam mused, but he was practical enough to deal with a situation the way it was, not the way he wished it might be.
Hannah came out onto the porch and sat down next to her father. Sam was on the steps with the shaggy little mutt Lobo nuzzling his hand.
“It’s a beautiful evening,” Hannah said as she began to move the rocking chair back and forth a little.
“Sure is,” her father agreed.
“That was a wonderful meal, Hannah,” Sam told her.
“Thank you. I do my best.”
The small talk continued for a while. Then Sam stood up and stretched. “I guess I’d better get going.”
“Sam’s going to make the evening rounds so I won’t have to,” Coleman explained.