The Lawmen (5 page)

9

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Mayor Price informed him.

“But why?”

“Because you’re starting a battle you can’t win. And even if you did win, it wouldn’t be in Topaz’s best interests.” Price motioned the bartender to bring him another sherry cobbler, then he went on. “Wes Hopkins and his men bring a lot of money into this town. Things haven’t gone well at the mine lately; the town’s future is in doubt. Frankly, we can’t afford to lose the Hopkins trade. Also, the Hopkins brothers own a percentage of just about every business here. When you buy a Border Beer, you’re buying it from Wes Hopkins. All the beef sold in Topaz comes from Wes’s ranch. All the wood comes from his sawmill.”

“Does he own a piece of you, too?” Clay asked.

“I’m not ashamed of it. I had nothing when I came to this part of the country. Wes staked me. He’s made it possible for me to succeed, to provide for my family.”

“Did he make it possible for you to become Mayor?”

“He aided my election bid, yes.”

“So you all have a deal with Wes—he leaves the town alone and you give his gang a safe haven.”

“The Hopkins brothers have invested heavily in this town,” said the bespectacled justice of the peace, Amos Saxon. “They’re entitled to some consideration.”

“Gunning down an unarmed man in a saloon is a hell of a lot of consideration. Seems the Hopkins boys have broken their end of the deal.”

The red-haired banker, Cruickshank, spoke. “When Wes was here earlier, he said that if any of us helped you, he’d destroy our businesses. He’ll do it, too. It would hurt him, but he’d take the loss for his brother. It’s not as though he’d go broke. He’s got considerable investments in land and cattle.”

Clay looked around the table. “So there’s none of you willing to fight them?”

“I’m afraid not,” Cruickshank said.

Judge Saxon said, “I’m not a fighting man, I wouldn’t be much use to you.”

Dunleavy cleared his throat. “I’m the attorney for the accused. I’d be putting myself in an unethical situation if I—”

Peter McCarty, the one-armed newspaper editor, had been listening to the conversation with growing anger. Now he stood, a black look on his face. “I can’t believe I'm hearing this rubbish. God Almighty, have you men never heard about the rule of the law?  ’Tis the principle this country’s founded on, or I'm sadly mistaken. If you’re not willing to fight for it, you’ll lose it.”

To Clay he said, “I’m with you, Marshal, and proud to do it. It’ll be like the war all over again, sure and it will. By God, I wasn’t scared of the rebels, and I’m not scared of Wes Hopkins. The sooner he and his gang are gone, the better off we’ll all be. We’ll fight them by ourselves if we have to.”

Mayor Price rose from the table. “This discussion is immaterial. Marshal, I’ve given you an order. Release Vance Hopkins.”

“That order’s unlawful,” Clay told him. “I won’t accept it.”

Price’s voice rose. “By God, sir, if we fire you, you’ll accept that.”

All around the saloon, heads turned. Clay replied calmly. “I'm paid through two weeks. I won’t go till my time’s up.”

While Price fumed, the lawyer Dunleavy said, “Let’s try and be civilized about this. Judge Saxon, my client has a right to bail. Perhaps you would set a figure?”

Saxon took the hint. “One dollar,” he said.

“I’m willing to post bond immediately,” Dunleavy announced. He looked at Clay. “Is that satisfactory with you?”

“Only if the judge will set a trial date for your client.”

Saxon was exasperated. “There isn’t going to be a trial, don’t you understand that? You’ll never find anyone in this town to testify against Vance.”

“I’ll testify,” Clay said. “I was there.”

“I hadn’t realized you witnessed the crime,” Saxon said. The carefully tended forks of his beard seemed to droop. Then he perked up. “But there still won’t be a trial. Because there won’t be a judge. I’m tending my resignation.”

Clay said, “You spineless—” Then he stopped. It was no use. “Get this straight,” he told the councilmen. “I’m not letting Vance go. If the rest of you won’t help, I’ll find men who will. I’ll hire extra deputies.”

“You’ve no authority for that,” Price countered.

“Then I’ll get volunteers, like McCarty here. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll send to Tucson for help.”

“You’d never get the message out in time to save yourself,” Price told him. “There’s no telegraph, no railroad. Our only communication with the outside is the daily stage, and it’s two days’ ride to Tucson.” He calmed down, trying to make Clay see reason. “Face it, Chandler—no one is going to put his life on the line to help you. They wouldn’t do it for a live Negro, they certainly won’t do it for a dead one. I doubt many people in this town even care what Vance has done. And you—you’re a southerner. Why do you care?”

Clay said, “When I put on this badge, I swore to uphold the law, and that’s what I intend to do. My honor is all I have left in this world, and I won’t see it tarnished.”

Price was incredulous. “You’re asking us to risk our lives— our businesses—for your honor?”

“I’m asking you to see that justice is done,” Clay replied. No one at the table spoke. Clay stood. “Thanks for your time, gentlemen.” Motioning McCarty to join him, he left the saloon.

“Typical damned rebel,” Mayor Price swore when Clay was gone. “They never know when they’re beaten. I told you he would be more trouble than he was worth.”

Cruickshank the banker pulled at his long nose. “Wes isn’t going to like this. He isn’t going to like it at all.”

Dunleavy pulled out his wallet. He counted out fifty dollars and gave the money to Judge Saxon. “Here, Amos, the bet’s yours. This time tomorrow Chandler will be dead. How did I ever think an idiot like that could last three days? By the way, that was a smart move of yours—resigning.”

Saxon shrugged. “I’ve got more sense than to put one of the Hopkins boys on trial—much less pass sentence on him. I know what would happen to me. Anyway, I can always be reelected after Chandler’s dead and Vance is set free.”

Mayor Price stepped away from the others, staring out the saloon doors into the bright sunshine. “What’s the matter, Tom?” Cruickshank said, coming up behind him. “You all right?”

Price let out a long breath. “I guess I’m ashamed. What Chandler and McCarty said about us was true, you know. We should stand up to Wes and his brothers. We shouldn’t put business interests first. And yet. . . I’ve lost everything before; I can’t afford to go through that again. I’m too old to start over. I’ve got a wife and children. I’ve got responsibilities.”

Cruickshank tried to console him. “It’s not only our interests we’re putting first, Tom, it’s the town’s interest, as well. Look, I feel as badly about this as you do. I’ve struggled my whole life to get where I am. I’ve always been honest with my customers. As bankers go, I’m well-liked. But I’ve got debts now, complicated investments. A robbery by the Hopkins gang would ruin me. It would ruin everyone who has deposits with my bank. It would ruin everything I’ve worked for since I was an apprentice in Glasgow. It’s just not . . . it’s not worth taking the chance.”

“All the same, I wish I had Pete McCarty’s guts,” Price said wistfully. “We ask men like Chandler—men we don’t even know—to risk their lives for us, but when the chips are down, we don’t back them up.”

“Aye,” Cruickshank agreed, “but if we back him, the town could go under. Everything we've tried to build here could be lost. What else can we do?”

“I don’t know,” Price said, shaking his head. He looked toward the bar. “Fred, bring me another drink. Hell, bring us all one.”

10

Clay and Pete McCarty stopped in the shade outside the Green Cloth. “I’ll get my pistol,” the brawny newspaperman said with relish. “I only wish I had my other arm so I could use a rifle. By Jesus, I’ll print up a fine notice, too, so I will, calling for volunteers. You’ll see, Marshal, we’ll find help. We’ll give the Hopkins boys a beating they won’t forget.”

“I hope so,” Clay said, feeling heartened. “Meet me at my office. I’ve got one more stop to make.”

The two men split up. Clay rented a horse at the City Stables and rode two miles downstream to the stamping mill, where silver ore from the mine was processed. The mill was built on five levels, each one stepped back from the level below it. The desert air was split by the rumble and clatter of the ore crushers, the vanners, the stampers, and conveyor belts. Smokestacks belched sulfuric clouds into the cobalt sky. Nearby, the San Marcos River had been turned foamy brown by the wastes poured into it. Its banks were lined with sludge. Mounds of slag dotted the landscape like giant anthills. Wagons bringing ore from the mine rumbled through the dust alongside others bringing lumber from the Chiracahua Mountains to be used as fuel for the steam boilers.

The mill office was located in a shack on the upstream side of the building. The office also served as administrative headquarters for the mine. In the outer room sat two clerks in gartered sleeves and green eyeshades. “Can I help you?” one of the clerks asked as Clay entered.

“I want to see the superintendent,” Clay said.

“He’s busy now. If you want to make an—”

“He’ll see me,” Clay said. Before the clerk could stop him, Clay opened the door to the superintendent’s office and walked in. The office was small, cramped, and lacking decoration. Behind the desk sat a compact, tough-looking fellow with short hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves that displayed his big forearms. The man was struggling over a sheaf of accounts. He looked up, and Clay said, “I’m Clay Chandler, marshal of Topaz.”

The man rose and extended a big hand. It was a prospector’s hand, gnarled and swollen from years of hard work in harsh weather. “Jason Wilcox, superintendent for the Topaz Mining Corporation.” They shook, and Wilcox said, “Have a seat.”

Clay obliged, and Wilcox looked him over. “So you’re the new marshal. You’ve created a big stir in a little time, you know that? What can I do for you?”

Clay got right to the point. “I arrested Vance Hopkins last night for killing a man. His brothers have given me till tomorrow to let him go, or they’re coming after him. I want you to lend me some of your men to fight Hopkins.”

“Figured that’s what it was,” said Wilcox. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Marshal.”

“Why not? You must have a couple hundred men on your payroll.”

“Close to three-fifty, actually, and I mean to keep every one of them on the job. I’m here to make a profit for the directors, not to right the ills of the world. This mill has a production schedule, and my job is to see that it’s kept.”

“No matter what happens in town?”

“What happens in town isn’t my responsibility, or even my interest anymore. I ran against Tom Price for mayor, you know, which means that I really ran against Wes Hopkins. You can guess how that came out. Since then, I’ve withdrawn from civic affairs. My only responsibility now is to the Topaz Mining Corporation. I’m in a vulnerable position here. After my ore’s been processed, it’s freighted across the desert to Tucson. Wes Hopkins and his gang can attack those shipments any time they choose.”

“And you pay them to let you alone?” Clay guessed.

“Yes, and I’m happy with the arrangement. The directors still make their profit, and there’s no trouble. Not only that, but Hopkins protects me from anybody else around here that might have designs on the silver.”

“You could beat Hopkins, you and your men. Then you wouldn’t have to pay at all.”

Wilcox paused thoughtfully. “The man who held this job before me refused to pay them. He was gunned down in his yard, in front of his wife and children.”

Clay said nothing, and Wilcox went on. “Right now, the Hopkins gang is the least of my worries. The silver vein is drying up. I don’t know how much longer the mine and mill will stay open. If they close, I’m out of a job. I busted my ass for too many years to get where I am now, and I have no intention of going back to work with a pick and shovel and wash pan. I'm going to meet my schedule as long as I can, so that the directors will consider me for another job when this one is over. I can’t afford any disruptions. My advice to you is, let young Hopkins go. It’s not worth the effort of keeping him. You’re tearing the town apart for nothing. Nobody’s going to war over a black man—one war was enough, I think we all agree. Say he was killed by accident, and let it go at that.”

“I can’t,” Clay said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Wilcox spread his powerful arms. “Do as you see fit. But you’ll get no help from me.”

Clay stood. “Thanks,” he said. He turned and left. Outside, Clay mounted his horse and rode back to town. Behind him the mill’s noon whistle blew. The deep, mournful tones sent a shiver down Clay’s spine. He had a bit more than twenty-one hours remaining.

* * *

Pete McCarty hurried home. His neat frame house with its white picket fence stood on Topaz’s outskirts, near the river. Pete had been one of the first men to reach Topaz after news of the silver strike broke. He’d arrived with his family and his printing press, and for his home he’d picked a pleasant spot, shaded by a giant cottonwood, far enough away from the town that the gurgle of the river could be heard on still afternoons.

Pete’s wife Mary was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for the evening stew and trying to keep her four children from killing each other. “Get out of the kitchen,” she ordered the two oldest, a boy and a girl, as they came careening around the table.

“Mom, Terry’s trying to hit me,” squealed the girl, grabbing Mary’s apron strings and attempting to hide behind her mother.

“I don’t care,” Mary said, shaking her off. “I’m trying to get supper on the table, and I don’t need you two acting like wild Indians while I’m doing it.”

Terry, who was eleven, began clapping a hand rhythmically over his mouth and yelling “Whoo, whoo, whoo. Indians!”

“Do that again, and you’ll stand in a comer for the rest of the afternoon,” Mary warned him. “Now go play outside—both of you.”

At that moment, Pete came through the front door, stepping over the two youngest children, who were tussling on the floor, and heading for the bedroom.

“What are you doing home so early?” Mary asked him, surprised.

“Hm? Nothing,” Pete said, and he went into the room. From a battered trunk he pulled an old Army .44, wrapped in oilcloth. With his good arm he rummaged in the bottom of the trunk for cartridges.

“What are you doing with that gun?” Mary asked, coming in behind him. “You haven’t had that out since we moved here. What’s going on?”

Pete looked over her shoulder, motioning her to be quiet because of the children. “The new marshal’s in trouble with the Hopkins gang. I have to help him.”

There was a sudden change of expression on Mary’s face.

 “You’re going to fight the Hopkins brothers? You and this marshal and who else?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You mean there’s no one else?”

Pete stood, the heavy pistol feeling unfamiliar in his hand. “We’ll get somebody. I’m going to print up a notice.”

Mary folded her arms. Her blue eyes had gone as cold and unforgiving as the Irish Sea. She nodded over her shoulder to where the children were playing in the front room. “And what about them? What are they going to do for a father when you’re dead? Who’s going to support them? Not this marshal friend of yours—he’ll be dead with you.”

“I won’t get killed,” Pete insisted.

“Two men—against Wes Hopkins and his brothers? Of course you’ll get killed.”

“But I have to help, Mary. I can’t let Marshal Chandler go against Wes himself.”

“Of course you can. That’s his job. It’s not yours.”

“Mary-”

“You have a family; this marshal doesn’t. He’s expendable.”

“If I don’t go, a good man could be killed.”

“Better one than two. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel. Your family is supposed to come first. I don’t know why this marshal wants to fight the Hopkins brothers over a dead colored man, anyway. Oh, I’ve heard all about it—Charity Price told me.”

Pete hated his wife when she got like this. “It’s not like I can’t take care of myself, you know. I fought in the war and all.”

“The war was different. You were younger then, you didn’t have a family. Not only that, the odds on you staying alive were better than they will be against the Hopkins gang. How do I explain to the children that you’re not coming back anymore because you decided to go out and act like a . . . like a . . .”

“Like a wild Indian?” he mimicked her.

“Yes. Do you think it’s going to change anything, you taking on the Hopkins brothers? When it’s all over, they’ll still run this town—or someone like them. The only difference will be that you’ll be dead.”

Pete looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Mary, but there comes a time when you have to make a stand.”

“Go ahead,” she told him. “Make your stand. But the children and I won’t be here when you come back—if you come back. I mean it. We’re leaving.”

She met his gaze unswervingly. Pete hesitated, then his shoulders slumped and he let out his breath, as if he had been deflated. He stared at the old pistol. Then, slowly, he rewrapped it in its oilcloth and returned it to the trunk.