Episode 23
Convictions Where Necessary
Joe walked from the tent and almost smack dab into Mayor Tuchman.
“Marshal, I need a word or two with you,” His Honor said.
“Well spit them out,” Joe said. He nodded at Ned Merriweather and Bob Miller who tagged along with His Honor.
“The two men you gunned down last night were employees of the Twisted Tree Ranch. Big Cal Randall isn’t going to like that. He’s ramrod for the Tree.”
“Oh my, no,” Merriweather echoed.
“Well, that’s tough for Big Cal,” Joe said. “You are paying me to settle this town down to a purr. I can’t do that by pussyfooting around. I’ll only spill as much blood as I need to. So, tell Randall to let his men know to behave themselves and they’ll be able to keep working for him. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise, what?” the mayor said.
“I start posting cowboys out of town. That means barring them. And a deadline either side of town where they surrender their arms. Meaning I’d need more deputies than stipulated in our contract,” Joe said.
“The city would pay for them, I suppose?” Merriweather put in.
“Or let me handle this the way I see fit. Arrests where possible and convictions where necessary.”
The mayor and banker understood that by “convictions” their new marshal meant another unmarked grave in the growing cemetery just outside of town.
Merriweather prodded the mayor with an elbow. The mayor sighed, irritated, and cut his eyes at the banker.
“I’m handling this, Ned.”
Merriweather cleared his throat and stepped away down the plank-way.
The mayor looked back at Joe beseechingly, wet eyes glimmering.
“Marshal, Mercury Wells counts on the cowboys and hands that work on that spread. If this town is to thrive, we need their money for our businesses. It’s not all about the railroad.”
Joe nodded.
“I get that. I do. But this town also needs order to survive. Once the cowboys understand that this town isn’t wide open to their hellraising anymore, they’ll settle down. You need to pick a side, Mr. Mayor,” Joe said.
Without a word of farewell, Joe brushed aside the mayor and eyeballed Bob Miller for a moment. The county constable was coming up the walk. He stepped aside but not without a disapproving glance at the new marshal. Joe fixed him with a look before heading across the street to the Texas and New Orleans telegraph office. The three men watched his departure with displeasure.
“He told me to pick a side,” Mayor Tuchman said.
“It’s more complicated than that,” the reedy little banker said.
“There might come a time to end his contract, Mr. Mayor,” Bob Miller said, thumbs hooked in his gun belt.
* * *
Joe stepped into the modest shack that served as the telegraph office by the station house. Tending to things was a boy not much older than he was when Ben Temple found him fighting for scraps in the street. A towheaded, small-framed boy who seemed to Joe to be naturally agreeable.
“Anything for me, son?” Joe Wiley asked.
“Yes, sir, it just come in a bit ago. I was gonna run it down to you when I got a chance.” The young man eagerly handed Joe the telegram. The printing on the Western Mail paper was neatly penciled in a schoolboy hand. The boy stared at the new marshal with not a little bit of hero worship in his young eyes. Word got around fast it seemed. The new lawman was a genuine gunhand.
“Much obliged.” Joe nodded.
Joe read the message and a wry smile grew across his face. He crushed the paper and tossed it to the floor, tousled the youth’s hair and departed the office with an easier gait than he used when entering.
The boy bent down and retrieved the ball of paper and opened it back up. He wrapped his wire spectacles around his ears. He reread the message that had been sent to the marshal. He looked up in wonder.
“Who are the Dugans?” he asked no one in particular.
