“I tell you, Tom, a man who has never taken pride in a job well done is an empty man.”
They ate then, and drank their coffee, but Carpenter had set Tom to thinking.
Why not stay, after all?
What did he owe Morrissey, or any of them back east? Morrissey had given him a job when needed, but Tom had repaid him with an honest day’s work and no shirking. He had fought Morrissey’s enemies and made a few of his own in the process, but what had he to show for it? A little money in the bank, a tribute to his mother’s advice.
Surely, there was not a soul there who would miss him past the week. Others had disappeared or gone away, and Shanaghy remembered well how little they were missed.
He could scarcely remember the Bowery for the grass blowing in the wind. Carpenter put down his knife and fork. “Holstrum said you were taking the job as marshal, and that you were sent by Rig Barrett.” “In a way,” Tom said, “and it doesn’t look as if Rig is going to make it in time … I shall do what he planned to do and ride out to meet Vince Patterson,” “You said you did not believe him to be the greatest trouble? What, then?” “At this moment, I am not sure. I trust no man now, although you most of all.”
“You won’t be leaving on the train?”
Tom hesitated for a long time and then he said, “Not right now. Maybe later.” He looked over at the smith. “I shall need a horse for a few days.” “I have one … the blue roan in the corral. There’s the rig for him, too.” They went back to work then, and they handled their iron. And when the train came in, Tom was standing outside to see it stop. There was, he knew, still time. He could still make it. For a moment he hesitated, then went back into the shop and took off his apron.
“South of here,” he asked Carpenter, “are there any ranches?” “Nothing this side of Texas that I know of. Holstrum has a place about seven or eight miles southeast. Nothing but a cabin, shed and a corral. He runs a few head down there and usually has some horses for riding.” “Who takes care of the stock?”
“He’s got a man there, but the stock doesn’t drift much because he has the best grass and water for miles. He’s a canny man, Holstrum is. I’ve a place, too, but not as good as the one he found.”
Carpenter considered the subject, then added, “Only other place around is about ten miles west. There’s a two-by-four saloon over there and about three dugouts. Drako lives about three miles south of it, he and his boys.” “Who makes me marshal?” Shanaghy asks. “If I am to do anything I’d better be wearing a badge … or have one.”
“Greenwood. You go see him. It was him suggested Rig Barrett. Greenwood’s had experience with tough towns. He held out for Barrett and I backed him.” “What about Holstrum?”
“He was worried we’d get a worse Drako. So were some of the others. I could see his point, because Drako is bad enough.”
Greenwood was leaning in his bar in the empty saloon when Shanaghy walked in. He was a pleasant-looking man who seemed to be in his late thirties. He smiled a little when he saw Shanaghy. “Talked you into it, did they? I hoped they would.” Shanaghy took the badge Greenwood pushed toward him and pinned it on his shirt pocket. “First time I ever wore one of them,” he said. Greenwood smiled. “You’ll wear it with pride, son. I know your kind.” “My kind?” Shanaghy turned his eyes on him. “Mr. Greenwood, I’ve been a shoulder-striker for John Morrissey.”
“Then you’re a tough man, and that’s what we need. It was never my luck to know Old Smoke, but I saw him fight once. A rough man, a hard man, and a tricky one when it came to elections, but I never knew him to go back on his word, and I know you will be the same. If there is any way in which I can help, let me know.”
Shanaghy hesitated. “I don’t know who I can trust.”
“Who did you trust in New York?”
“Nobody … Maybe McCarthy, the smith.”
“Then trust nobody here, not even me. Son, in the job you’re taking you will stand on your own feet. You will get little help and no thanks from most people. They want the law, but they fear it, too.
“If you need a posse or riflemen, they will be sworn in, but they won’t like it. Many men in this town have used guns and some are quite expert. But what a marshal needs is not men who are good with guns, but for himself to be good with men, with handling men.
“Take my word for it, son, a marshal must be judged not by the number of men he has killed in line of duty, but by the tough men he has handled without using a gun, even without violence.”
“I don’t know whether I am up to it.”
“You are. Trust your own judgment of men and of situations. You must stand or fall by your own decisions.”
“I think I know who-“
Greenwood lifted a hand. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell anybody. Keep it to yourself. Gather your own facts, act upon them as you see fit. If you make a mistake you may be crucified for it. That’s the job.” “Thanks.”
“Let me buy you a drink,” Greenwood suggested.
Shanaghy shook his head. “I don’t drink.”
Greenwood smiled. “Neither do I,” he said cheerfully. “I sell it to those who do and I have no moral scruples against drinking, but I myself don’t drink.” Tom Shanaghy walked back to the street. He was marshal of the town now, and he had no idea what the job paid. Nor did he care. He stood there, looking around. How did a man go about being a marshal? Where did he start? Shanaghy grinned at his own ignorance. He reflected that one job he had was to fire Drako, but that could wait until the former marshall appeared in town wearing the badge.
That came first. Then he must ride down the country and meet Vince Patterson and talk to him before he arrived in town. And he must, if he could, convince Drako that he must stay out of town until the Patterson outfit was gone. His thoughts returned to George. George was staying at the same hotel as he was, but where was she?
He walked down to the railroad station. The depot had three rooms, all connecting and with doors on both sides. The waiting room, which had four benches, the ticket seller’s office (the agent was also the telegrapher and freight agent) and the freight room, where freight was held until shipped or picked up, if incoming. On the train side of the depot there was a rough plank platform, already weathered and gray, about sixty feet long. Shanaghy stepped into the station and walked to the window. The agent looked around. He wore a black vest, a white shirt with sleeve-garters, and a green eyeshade. “Somethin’ for ya?” he asked. Then he noticed the star. “Hah? You’re the new marshal. What’s been done about Drako?” “Haven’t seen him since they gave me this. I am going to tell him when he rides in.”
The station agent came to the window and leaned his elbows on the inside counter. “Don’t envy you. He’s a mean one, and so are those boys of his.” “I’ve met him, and one of them.”
“Got your work cut out for you, and then Patterson comin’ up the trail. Boy, I don’t envy you! None a-tall!”
“Any railroad detectives working this line?”
“Nah! Why? We’ve had no trouble.”
“If you had a valuable shipment, how would it be handled?” The agent shrugged. “Same as anything else. It would come in and it would set until picked up. I s’pose if it was very valuable, I’d be wearin’ my pistol and they’d be here to pick it up right off.”
“You’ve got a gun then?”
“I have.” The agent grinned. “Never fired a shot in my life.”
“Then leave it alone,” Shanaghy advised. “You’d probably shoot the wrong man.” Shanaghy walked out on the platform and looked down the track. Nothing but twin rails disappearing in the shimmering distance. He doubted if the agent knew about the shipment of money that would be coming in, and to mention it would be merely to start gossip.
He would have to see that men were here to meet the shipment on arrival. Yet the moment he thought of that, he thought of another aspect. What if they decided to stop the train before it came to town? Chances were, the shipment would be in an express car and guarded only by the agent en route. For the idea that this was what Rig Barrett guessed would happen had come to Shanaghy only a few hours before. When everybody in town was involved with what might happen when Vince Patterson came to town, the thieves could steal the money brought to pay for the cattle and to pay off the hands. Barrett might even have had a tip, being the man he was, with connections everywhere.