Episode 31
A Man Without a Gun
Cowboys from the Three Rivers whooped and swung coiled lariats to urge a thousand-head herd down the main drag to the stockyard where they expertly manipulated the cattle into the holding pens. They were eager to be done with the work and eager to be drowning their sorrows with beer and sharing them with some soft company. A mile or more of cattle strung out all the way to the blue hills leaving a plume of yellow dust hanging in the sky above.
The work that morning was dirty, noisy and tiring. Even for Joe Wiley and his deputies who kept the street clear of traffic as the beeves moved by at a trot. The town turned out to watch the parade go by with hollers and waves. The town fathers stood on the plank walk before the post office, smoking cigars and watching the passage of money on the hoof. All were covered in trail dust as surely as if they’d rolled in the stuff.
Behind the last steer, the water wagon trundled along to damp the dust down with spray. The citizens retreated into their homes and businesses, slapping grit from their clothes with their hats. The saloons opened in anticipation of the rush of cowboys sure to come once the beeves were home and penned.
Joe sent the Dugans and Coolie to breakfast and took a seat in a kitchen chair he set on the walk before the jailhouse.
A horse and buggy rolled up the street, splashing through the new mud created by the water wagon. It was a fine rig to look at. Black lacquered with tall wheels and bright yellow spokes. It was decorated with gilt scroll work and the rear compartment was covered with a black canopy of cloth that shimmered like satin in the sun. The twin team of horses pulling it were just as black and just as shiny. They gamboled along like show horses rather than nags. A stern-faced Indo-Mexican held the traps. Joe noted a coach gun leaning against the Mex’s far leg. He’d never seen this rig or the driver in town before.
The brougham pulled to a stop before the jailhouse, the Mex clucking at the reins. A man stepped from the shade of the canopy to the street. A tall man in an eastern dude suit of tweed topped by the biggest Stetson hat Joe had ever seen. Tall white crown with a silver ring and a brim near round about as a Mexican sombrero. The man looked at a blob of mud on the toe of one boot with disdain.
“Take care of the team and buggy and meet me at the Grand Prairie, Diego,” the man said, stepping to the boardwalk. He was maybe in his forties or a fit man in his fifties. A hint of paunch behind his vest.
“Sí,” the driver answered in a low baritone before flicking the reins to move away.
“Can I assume that you’re Marshal Wiley? I’m Hector Nostrand,” the stranger in the big Stetson said and offered a hand.
“You may assume so. Pleased to finally meet the big man. Thought for a time you might be one of those absentee owners,” Joe said, standing to take Nostrand’s hand. The grip was firm for a man with hands as soft as the easterner’s.
“No, marshal. I’m not, at heart, a trusting man. I like to see where my money is being made as well as where it’s being spent.” Nostrand held his grip until he’d said his peace then released Joe’s hand. He was a man used to being heard out.
“I thought it was past time we met,” Joe said. “I see your boys have brought in a big herd, and I imagine a big hankering for some fun and frolic. And possible trouble.”
“They’re hard-working men, marshal. I find the harder a man works the harder he needs to play,” Nostrand said.
“I get that.” Joe nodded. “Done it a time or two myself. But it’s how hard they play that brings them across my trail.”
“Can’t you take it a bit easy with my boys? They don’t mean any harm.”
“They may not mean harm, but some have caused it. No sir. I can’t go easier on them then I do. They know where the line is. As long as I wear this badge that’s where the line stays.”
“I understand that. I’ll offer a compromise,” Nostrand said. “I won’t pay my boys until after the cattle cars are loaded tomorrow.”
“I appreciate the cooperation. You keep them down to the stockyard tonight. Give them a night to settle,” Joe said.
“Think nothing of it. I’m a citizen of Mercury Wells myself. I have vested interests in this town and mean to see it do well. Have a good day, Marshall. You can find me at the Grand Prairie if you have need of me.” Nostrand made his way down the wooden walkway toward the hotel.
Joe watched as the rancher departed, noticing for the first time that the man wore no firearm. None that was visible in any case.
