Episode 82

No Marshal, No Jail

Sam enlisted the help of the gamblers to haul the insensate Bob and Johnny Swede outside where they were rolled off the boardwalk. Over a round of drinks on the house all toasted the notion that neither man would remember how they came to wake up in the street.

With the help of their rescuer, Arabella got Geoffrey to one of the rooms upstairs where they laid him down with a groan on a spring bed with a dingy pillow propped behind his head.

“You husband should be fine once the swelling goes down,” the rustic offered.

“He is not my husband,” Arabella snapped.

“Your brother, then.”

“He’s nothing to me!” she said, bringing a fresh moan from Geoffrey. “He works with my father.”

“He might need that mouse looked to.” The rustic pointed at the dark blood-filled sac under Geoffrey’s eye that had grown more engorged than it had appeared downstairs.

“I’ll send for a doctor,” she said and bent to loosen Geoffrey’s tie and remove his collar.

“You’ll have to wait a might. Nearest doctor is in Odessa.”

“What does one do when one needs medical attention?”

“One would be on one’s own, I suppose. This is Big Bend country, ma’am, the most unforgiving corner of the unforgiving state of Texas. I could see to your father’s man, if you’d like.”

“I would appreciate that,” Arabella said, turning to a dusty washbowl that rested atop a sagging chest by the bed. “I’ll see to getting some clean water and–”

“No call for that, ma’am,” the rustic said and drew a long-bladed knife from a sheath on his gun belt.

Before Arabella could protest, the man had planted a knee in Geoffrey’s chest and pressed his head back into the pillow with a hand clamped on his forehead. A swift flick of the pointed blade opened a minute slit in the sac growing on Geoffrey’s cheek. Thickened blood ran out until the sac drew down and the skin there returned to something closer to its normal hue. The rustic caught the blood in a filthy cloth he’d removed from his neck.

“I find it goes best when things like this are handled swiftly,” the rustic said, standing now to drop the bloodied bandanna into the washbowl held in Arabella’s hands.

“We both appreciate your help, sir,” she said, setting the bowl aside.

“I know Bob and Johnny. They were just drunk.”

“They should be arrested. Is there a constabulary here in Eagle Flat?”

“Nothing like that. No marshal. No jail.”

“Who enforces the law?

“Like I said, out here you’re on your own. Texas Rangers come through now and then but only when they’re on somebody’s tail.”

“There’s no policemen of any kind? No law officers?” she said.

The rustic appeared to be considering this but only shook his head in the end.

“If I might ask another favor,” Arabella added. “Would you happen to be familiar with a Thaddeus Jones?”

* * *

Nestor Cedillo was waiting for Cal when he came back down the stairs to the bar room.

“I thought you had gone back on your promise,” Nestor said from where he leaned on the bar with a beer mug in his fist and an arm around Molly’s waist. An empty shot glass sat atop the bar.

“You have your drink, have you had your poke already?” Cal said and bellied up the Mexican.

“Sam allowed me credit,” he shrugged. “Molly would not.”

Cal flipped a dollar to his friend. The girl caught it in mid-air. Nestor gave her a playful pat on the rump to send her on her way toward the stairs. With spurs jingling, the Mexican followed after her, bringing his beer along with him.

“You seen Thad Jones around anywhere?” Cal asked Sam as he paid Nestor’s tab and enough for a shot and beer for himself.

“Those strangers was asking after him too,” Sam said, setting down a beer that that was mostly foam before Cal.

“It’s them I’m asking for.” Cal tipped back the shot.

“This railroad business?”

“In a way. You seen Thad or not?”

“He don’t come in here. He goes to one of the shot houses over in the miner’s tents. Rather drink that paint than pay for good branded whiskey.”

“Guess I’ll be looking over that away then.” Cal drained the beer to wash the bitter taste of Sam’s ‘good-branded whiskey’ from his mouth.

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