Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs (22 page)

The training took ten days. Everyone worked hard. But at last the marshal expressed his satisfaction that Andrew was ready to go out with him, that the others could protect themselves and the ranch,
and
serve as backup to Andrew when he would be on his own.

“Right now,” the marshal said, “counting Andrew here, I have three deputy marshals to help me cover all of the Arizona Territory and the western part of New Mexico Territory. After we take care of the Death Bringer problem, Andrew, you will be policing most of southern Arizona. A place you know well. You can operate out of here.”

Andrew nodded. The others smiled at that news.

“Reckon it’s time we got to work, then. Andrew, we ride out at first light.” The marshal removed his wallet and counted out a hundred dollars. “Your first month’s pay. I’ll do the paperwork later.”

Andrew took the money, looked at it, and passed it all to Wichita.

The marshal shook his head, and Wichita was already handing half of it back to him. The marshal smiled. “That’s about right. You need to have some money on you, son, to buy food, lodging, and the like. I’ll show you how to do an expense account as we go along.”

The Marshal Business

The next morning, early, Marshal Dawson and Andrew rode away from the ranch, their bedrolls tied behind their saddles.

“Where we going, boss?” Andrew asked.

The Marshal grinned as their horses plodded along the dusty road. “Now you’re sounding more like a deputy marshal, but call me Sam or even Fast Sam. Does me good to foster that legend, gets the bad yeggs thinking of surrender instead of gunsmoke. May I call you Andy?”

Andrew looked at Sam. “No. Name is Andrew.” The marshal shrugged good-naturedly.

Andrew relented. “Yes, you can call me Andy. But only when we alone.”

They both laughed. “Now,” said Fast Sam Dawson, “I’ve got a few chores that will give you some practical law-enforcement experience. And, as we ride, I’m gonna talk some more to you about how to be a U.S. marshal and what it means.”

“That good . . . ah, I mean, that
is
good,” Andrew said. This way of talking took some extra effort. “Do you really know Great White Father?”

The marshal laughed again. “I’ve seen him only once. It was in Kansas City. He had come there on political business and called my boss and me in to a private meeting. Both of them made it clear I had been summoned because of the seriousness of Death Bringer’s threat and that it was up to me to find and stop him. The army did not have the first idea in this kinda situation. President seemed nice enough. Has a lot of problems in a lot of places, though.”

“And Great White Father suggested you find an Indian to help you?”

“No, Andy. I done thought of that myself out of pure desperation.”

“You’ll not be sorry,” Andrew said.

“I know, Andy. Marshals learn to see men as good or bad. You’re good.”

“Then I get raise?” Andrew asked, grinning.

“Don’t push it, son. I already blew a good part of my expense budget on buying food to replace them beans.”

“For which everyone at the Billings ranch is eternally grateful, Sam.”

The next day, they stopped at a town on the new railroad, where the marshal, with Andrew in tow, visited the telegraph operator’s small nook in the train station. “This here,” the marshal said, “is Willy Swartz. Willy, my new deputy, Andrew MacDuff.”

Willy shook hands with Andrew. “You the Apache lawman, huh? Sure don’t look like no Scot.” He grinned good-naturedly.

Andrew returned the grin. “Scotch-Irish actually, by way of the
Be-don-ko-he
.”

“Here’s one of my big secrets, Andrew,” the marshal said. “I’m the only U.S. Marshal right now in all of the Arizona Territory. I got just three deputies to cover this whole dang area, and one of them is plumb worthless so far.”

Andrew’s face went Apache-impassive. Sam patted him on the shoulder. “No, not you.”

“He’s talking about Billy Windom,” Willy said. “That boy couldn’t find his way outside if all the doors and windows were wide open. Dumber than a cow in the middle of the road.”

“So here’s the thing, Andrew,” the marshal continued. “I’ve made friends with all the telegraphers up and down the railroad. People ignore these men, but they see and hear everything, and they got the means of communicating all over the territory. Gotta adapt modern technology to get this here nigh-impossible job done.”

Willy tapped out something on the key, and the marble-based telegraph sounder quickly replied at length. Willy wrote down the message and handed it to the marshal.

Sam scanned it. “Hmmm. When’s the next northbound train, Willy?”

Willy cupped his ear and listened out the open window. They heard a not-so-distant steam train whistle. “I’d say ’bout a minute or so, Marshal.”

Sam passed a bit of money to Willy. “Thanks, Willy. C’mon, Andrew. Time for your first train ride. Go get the horses and we’ll get them loaded on the stock car.”

Andrew intently watched the scenery flash by. Sam, sitting next to him, was amused. “How you like your first train ride, Andy?”

Face blank, Andrew turned and looked at the marshal. “Him like iron horse. Run fast as wind.”

The marshal let out his breath. “Son, sometimes I’m just not sure how to take you.”

Andrew suddenly grinned. “Good trait for a lawman, huh?”

The marshal laughed. “Reckon so, Andy. You scare me how quick you’re learning stuff sometimes.”

“Like how to use the telegraph network for information and trains as fast transport to reach problems, thereby magnifying our efforts?”

The marshal grunted, pleased. “Yep. Now, here’s another valuable lesson.” He settled in the seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Sleep whenever you can. Be fresh and ready for emergencies.”

On his own, Andrew, his badge in his pocket, pushed aside the swinging doors of a saloon. It was mid-afternoon and the place was not very crowded. He walked across the sawdust floor and passed a couple of mean-looking cowpokes leaning on the bar and flipping a coin to see who would buy the next round. He bellied up to the bar beyond them.

The bartender, wiping his hands on a dirty towel, wandered over to see what he wanted. Andrew missed the barkeep’s arrival at first, staring open-mouthed at the painting of a mostly naked lady hung behind the bar.

“You an art critic or you here for something?” the bartender asked.

Andrew shut his mouth. The two cowpokes glanced back, then dismissed him. No one—a little to his surprise—was yelling
redskin
or anything like that. He placed a quarter on the counter. “Cold beer.”

The bartender snorted. “Funny, this here’s Arizona in summer.” But he took the two-bit piece and went to draw the beer.

Andrew was hoping not to have to drink the beer, when Marshal Dawson came through the door, hands close to the butts of his two revolvers.

“Oh, hell,” said one of the cowpokes. “It’s Fast Sam!”

Still ignoring Andrew, they both lined up facing Sam, their hands close to their six-shooters.

Andrew took a couple of quiet steps to close on them and jerked both their guns from the holsters and stepped back. They whirled to find what they had assumed was a harmless cowboy covering them with their own dang guns.

Sam came up. “Say the words, Andrew.”

“Butch Martin and Ike Clavers,” Andrew said with a formal intonation, “We are U.S. Marshals, and you are under arrest for murder on the Navaho Indian Reservation.”

“He was just an Injun,” Clavers said.

Andrew’s hands trembled slightly, but he did not shoot them. The marshal nodded his approval.

“Let’s go, boys,” Sam said. “The sheriff here is gonna give you room and board until the circuit judge gets up this way.”

On the way out, Andrew saw the bartender pouring his beer back into the barrel. He walked over and held out his hand. In disgust, the man returned his quarter.

After they had deposited the prisoners, Sam treated Andrew to a steak at what passed for a cafe in this one-horse, one-train town.

“Very handy getting information by letter and telegram. Coulda used something like in my old job.”

The marshal cut and speared a piece of steak. “Got a network of law-enforcement officers and others all through this here territory. But you had smoke signals, didn’t you?”

“Smoke signals low word count. Not much information. Can’t carry around to read later.”

Sam laughed, then grew serious. “And what did you learn from today?”

Andrew waved a fork of steak. “Trickery better than gunfight. This Apache concept also.”

Sam nodded. Pleased.

A few days afterwards, late one evening, Homer McClusky and his pard Texas Slim Smith were moseying their trade wagon, pulled by two mules, along a trail toward a nearby Indian reservation. They were licensed by the federal government to trade foodstuffs, geegaws, and whatever else the savages would accept in return for skins. Back in civilization, McClusky and Smith got good money for the skins. It was a high-profit occupation, but they had devised ways to make it even more profitable.

As they rounded a bend, they found an Indian setting on a horse saddled only with a blanket. He was naked except for a loincloth, bronzed and muscled. He held up his hand, but they had already stopped.

“What you want?” Homer asked, a bit nervously.

“Want trade.”

“Wal, we’ll be set up near the chief’s hogan tomorrow. Come on by then,” Texas Slim said.

“Want trade for something no can on reservation.”

Homer glanced at Texas Slim, avarice in both their eyes.

“Want some firewater, d’ye?” Homer asked.

The Indian shook his head and waited, staring at them.

“Ah, what do you have to trade?”

The Indian reached in his loincloth and pulled out a roll of greenbacks.

“Now, where would a heathen Indian get real money?” Texas Slim asked.

The Indian just stared at them.

“Ah, right, none of our business, now, is it?”

“Reckon not,” Texas Slim said. “You wanting a rifle or pistol? We got both for sale.”

“Rifle,” the Indian said.

“That’ll be $50 for a good Winchester,” Homer said while Texas Slim bit his lip to keep from laughing. The junk weapons they had were about as far from Winchester as you could get. As liable to blow up in your face as roll a bullet out from the rusted barrel’s business end.

The Indian looked at his roll of bills in confusion.

Homer was quick on the uptake. “Reckon you might be a little short, but we’ll take what you got for one rifle.”

The Indian nodded. “Where rifle?”

The two men got off the wagon, moved some trade stock, and pried up some false floorboards. They never heard Marshal Dawson come up behind them until he cocked both his weapons, which sounded mighty loud in the cool, quiet evening. The Indian had pulled a big revolver from under his saddle blanket and had them covered as well.

“U.S. Marshals,” Andrew said. “You are under arrest for gunrunning. That’s a federal crime.”

Homer and Texas Slim resignedly raised their hands while Sam disarmed them.

“You purely make a convincing Indian, Marshal,” Homer said.

“I do, don’t I,” Andrew said in agreement.

Gunfight at the Not So OK Corral

Two days later, near noon, the marshal and Andrew were back on horseback. The marshal had gotten a telegram about trouble in the small town of Red Rock but didn’t want to arrive so obviously as getting off the train in sight of anyone who might be watching for someone like them. They had gotten off the train one town earlier.

“So when do we start looking for Death Bringer?” Andrew asked.

“After we take care of this gang that killed the sheriff and postmaster and took over Red Rock. Federal crime killing a mailman.” Sam removed his hat, wiped sweat from his forehead, and replaced it. “Andy, to be honest, I ain’t got much idea how to find him. I’ve heard rumor he’s in Tucson, the territorial capital. Reckon we’ll just have to go down there and let you see if you detect any Apaches masquerading as white men.”

“Like me, Sam?”

Sam looked at him. “No, not like you. These are bad men. Very bad men.”

They rode on for a bit, and the buildings of Red Rock came into view.