Episode 14

A Man with Sand

The U.S. post office was one of the few brick buildings in town. It had a roof of tin metal sheet and tiny windows braced with iron bars. Strands of telegraph wire ran to it from the station house along a row of poles set behind the buildings on the north side of the main street. The front and rear doors were propped open to allow for a breeze.

Two men stood in the lobby area playing a game of checkers on a board resting atop a pile of wooden crates. An older man with steel gray hair, thick around the middle, in shirtsleeves and a vest worn open. The other was leaner, taller, in a loose blouse and whipcord trousers. Hair pomaded and parted in the middle. Joe took note of the revolver hanging low on the man’s thigh. A third man watched the game with indifference, a flay pipe clamped in his lips. This man was slight with sloping shoulders, eyeglasses fixed on a chinless face atop a wattled neck.

At the desk window Joe asked after the mayor.

“And who may I ask is calling?” said the man at the window cage. A man in shirt sleeves held up by garters, a wrinkled ribbon tie, a plug hat on his head. He had the saddest eyes Joe had ever seen, pearly blue and wet like a hound’s, framed by a salt-and-pepper beard and sideburns.

“Joe Wiley. I believe he’s expecting me.”

“Welcome to Mercury Wells, Mr. Wiley,” the man at the desk said, his demeanor brightening, a hand shooting out through the gate in the window to shake Joe’s. “Mayor Geoffrey Tuchman. I hope your trip here wasn’t too onerous.”

“A train ride is pleasant in comparison to sitting a saddle that distance,” Joe said.

“As well it might. Yes, sir,” the mayor said and slipped on a coat with silk lapels. He opened a gate in the cage to take Joe by the arm. He gestured to the men about the checkerboard. “These men are my colleagues and fellow town fathers. Our banker Ned Merriweather.”

“Greetings,” Merriweather said, the chinless man giving a sharp darting of his head which caused his slicked back hair to flick slightly and his wattle to sway.

“Our railroad man from Southwest General, Tom Blankenship.” The chunky man stood and extended a hand.

“Welcome to Mercury Wells,” said the man as he took Joe’s hand with a firm grip. Joe saw now that Blankenship had steely eyes to go with his hair, and the complexion of a man who has worked outside more often than not. Joe reckoned the man had worked as a railroad man before he became the boss of one. His hand, still rough from old calluses, was proof of that.

“Based on my ride here you run a fine train,” Joe said.

The mayor said, “And our County Constable Bob Miller. The two of you will be working together the most.”

“Hello,” said Miller. The youngest man here and someone Joe could immediately see was an ambitious sort who meant to be someone sooner rather than later. The tie-down gunfighter rig and the narrowed eyes told Joe all he needed to know.

“I reckon so,” Joe agreed and shook Miller’s hand. He didn’t have the iron grip of Blankenship, but not for a lack of trying.

“Have a seat so we can dicker out this whole thing,” Mayor Tuchman said. “And smoke yourself one of these.” Tuchman produced what Joe could tell was a fine cigar from a silver holder he’d fished from an inside pocket of his coat.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Joe took the offered cigar. He took a seat in an empty chair. Blankenship produced a match and lit the corona for Joe.

Joe relaxed in the comfortable leather chair and took a few puffs.

“We asked you here, Mr. Wiley, because our new town has a problem. Not a problem that is unique to us by any means, but a problem, nevertheless. And it is the sort of problem you have a reputation for being very good at sorting out,” Tuchman said.

“Drifters. Sharpers. Wild cowboys. Mexicans. All sorts of ill repute have descended on us. We need some order,” Blankenship said.

“We want to build something here. A place where we can raise families,” Merriweather said, eyes intense behind his bottle-glass lenses.

A place where you can make yourselves a shit-pile of money, Joe thought.

Joe nodded. “That’s a sure common problem, all right. Common as dirt.”

“As I stated in my wire, we mean to hire you as our town marshal. We’ll need you to bring this town to heel, save it from going to hell before it has a chance at a future. We stand to lose a lot of money if our plans are ruined or even stalled,” the mayor said.

“I imagine so,” Joe said, taking a long pull on the cigar and allowing a thin stream of blue smoke to fan out over the low ceiling.

“And it’s worth a lot to protect those plans, am I right?” Joe said to the men, each for their own reasons anxious to hear his ideas on the matter at hand.

“Of course. We asked around for the best. Your name kept coming up. Nostrand out at the Three Rivers suggested we contact you. We’re in a tight spot here, Mr. Wiley. Tell us what it will take to bring you to Mercury Wells,” the railroad man said, tapping the top of the crate with a finger causing the pieces on the checkerboard to clatter about.

Joe sat forward to lean elbows on the crate, the cigar between steepled fingers before him. The men leaned in, all but Miller who remained upright, keeping his distance and his eyes hooded.

“I need room and board at the Grand Prairie for me and my… associate. Any expenses incurred while serving the law will be covered by the town. Livery costs, ammunition and other sundries. Plus, two hundred dollars a month and a fifty dollar bonus for each conviction,” Joe said.

The men sat silent and drank in Joe’s proposal. All but Miller.

“My ass!” Miller sputtered, kicking back his chair as he stood. “How do you reckon you’re worth so much?”

“Which saloon is the worst in town?” Joe asked the room, ignoring the constable’s outburst.

“The Paradise. It’s a bucket of blood,” Merriweather answered. His voice quivered at the mention of the place.

“Have a contract drawn up to my stated specifications and a month’s payment when I get back,” Joe said, rising from his seat.

Joe left the post office, Miller on his heels.

“Well, you have to admit, the man has sand,” the mayor said.