Chapter 5 #2
Behind them, there was a closed door that probably led to the land sales office where he’d done business.
On the left side of the lobby, a set of double doors stood open, displaying the insides of a courtroom.
The judge’s bench lorded over everything else, in front of a picture of Rutherford B.
Hayes, flanked by Washington and Lincoln.
As he started toward the wide stairs at the far end of the lobby, Caleb chewed over the arrival of Sheila Burnett in Elkhorn. Doc hadn’t said anything to make him think the daughter was thinking of making the long trip to Colorado.
From what Caleb gathered from conversations with Doc, there wasn’t much to the relationship between the father and daughter.
He’d left New York when she was very young, and his letters didn’t do much to tighten the bond.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love her—Doc had said one night over a game of chess—he just didn’t know her well enough.
Caleb couldn’t blame Doc for leaving her back East with her mother’s kin.
The West was no place for raising a girl without a mother.
He paused at a turn in the stairs and looked back at the front door.
He only hoped she’d be smart enough to stay safe in Doc’s house until her father returned and shipped her home.
Though for reasons he didn’t care to think about too closely, the idea of her leaving Elkhorn suddenly bothered him more than it should have.
At the landing at the top, a black-suited guard about the size of an ox stood by a closed door that had to be the judge’s office.
He had his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pocket, displaying a brace of short-barreled Colts in cross-draw holsters.
He had an unexpectedly squeaky voice, the blotchy white face of a sick pig, and the sorriest excuse for whiskers Caleb had seen on any man over the age of twenty.
And he was talking to the sheriff. The hackles on Caleb’s neck immediately rose.
“Sleep well, Marlowe?” Horner smirked at the mountain standing next to him. “We’ve had a problem with rats over there in my office lately.”
“The kind with four legs or two?” Caleb replied.
Horner bristled, and his smirk disappeared.
“Cuz I got a good idea which.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and his hand drifted to the iron at his hip. “Keep it up, slick.”
“We both know you ain’t above shooting an unarmed man.” Caleb opened his jacket. “Here’s another chance for you, killer.”
About ten feet separated them, but Caleb knew he could cut that distance in half or better before Horner cleared leather. If the sheriff hesitated a split second, Caleb would drive his shoulder into the burly bastard. Once they hit the door behind him, it’d be every man for himself.
But deep down, he knew he was tired of settling everything with blood and broken bones. He wasn’t going to make the first move.
The air was as still as death.
Then, Pig Face let go a stream of tobacco juice into the spittoon next to the door, breaking the tension. Horner made an effort to laugh off the taunt, but the sound that came out was more like a strangled bark.
Caleb turned his gaze to the big man. “The judge is expecting me.”
“He’s right inside,” Horner answered. He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, and the smirk returned. “Oh, you just missed the prettiest piece of calico, Marlowe. Doc’s daughter was here, looking for her father.”
“Saw her outside. What of it?”
“I’m thinking of paying her a call.”
Caleb felt his temperature rising.
“I reckon your friend would be mighty appreciative of an officer of the law keeping an eye on her till he gets back to town. What do you think?”
“I think you should do just that, Horner.”
“Do you?”
“Cuz I’m sure Doc will cut out the heart of any man who looks twice at his daughter. And I’d pay money to see that.”
The truth was, the idea of Horner anywhere near Sheila Burnett made Caleb’s blood run cold. Ice cold.
The sheriff stiffened again as the hulking presence beside him snorted. Still fighting the desire to plant a fist in Horner’s face, Caleb looked up at the guard. The man had to be half a head taller than him.
“You gonna announce me, Virgil? Or do I just waltz in there on my own?”
The man’s black button eyes went dead as he tried to decide if Caleb was mocking him or not. Without a word, he turned and knocked once. A voice within answered, and Pig Face opened the door.
The two men separated to make way for Caleb to enter. But as he went by, the big man took hold of his arm with a hand the size of a saddlebag.
“Take care,” he said in that squeaky voice that did not go with his size. “Cuz I’ll rip your damn head off.”
“Well, I wear it right up here on my shoulders, any time you’re feeling the urge.”
Caleb looked coolly into those dead eyes. The face got even blotchier. Wrenching his arm out of the man’s grip, he went in, and the door shut firmly behind him. Another friend made.
He found himself in a small outer room where a harried secretary sat at a desk piled high with papers. The man lifted his balding head and gestured to the open door beyond. Caleb went through and paused inside to take in the sight.
Doing some quick figuring, he decided the judge’s office could easily house an entire cavalry unit and their horses.
One end of the dark, wood-paneled room contained a long, heavy table and matching chairs of carved oak.
A chandelier of gleaming brass and crystal hung above it.
Wine-colored velvet drapes were held back by gold ropes, and the entire floor was covered by a half dozen carpets that looked like they came right out of some Ali Baba story.
It was the fanciest room Caleb had ever seen, outside of a whorehouse.
And somehow that much wealth gathered in one place made him uneasy. Men who built rooms like this generally expected the world to bend around them.
Horace Patterson, Justice of the Peace, sat at a desk the size of a small Indiana farm.
Behind him: a locked cabinet was topped with three handsomely bound law books.
In front of him, a pair of oil lamps, a desk set of pen and ink, a writing blotter, and a large, bronze sculpture of Napoleon with his hand resting on the head of a whipped-looking lion.
The judge stood. A man of medium height, he had a solid build and graying hair.
He wore no moustache or beard, but thick side whiskers spread like wings from his face.
The man knew how to dress, Caleb thought.
In that charcoal suit, silver-gray waistcoat, white silk shirt and black tie, he could dine with President Hayes himself.
Patterson nodded and slid his hand into his waistcoat. There would be no shaking of hands.
This was the first time they’d met. When Caleb bought his land, he dealt with one of the clerks in the land office downstairs and around the side.
“Mr. Marlowe, thank you for coming by to see me.”
“Didn’t have much choice, Judge,” Caleb replied. “As you know.”
Patterson eyed him, taking his measure, and Caleb did the same.
The judge had a kind of suppressed energy to him, like a timepiece wound too tight or an unbroken stallion waiting for his chance to either bolt or stomp you.
He had a sense that the man before him did more stomping than bolting.
And he had a look in his eyes that Caleb had seen too many times before.
It was the cold, hard look of a seasoned gunhawk.
Even if his business required that he kill you before breakfast, he wouldn’t remember you at all come suppertime.
Caleb had crossed paths with railroad men, cattle barons, army officers, and hired killers who carried that same look. Men who treated people like obstacles to be moved aside.
The judge waved him into a chair by the desk and sat down himself. “Drink, Marlowe? Or too early for you?”
“Never too early,” Caleb replied. “But I have cattle that need looking after.”
And for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he found himself wanting to get back home more than he wanted whiskey or trouble.
“Just a few questions before you go. Our good sheriff neglected to seek out some of the relevant details last night.”
He sensed from the judge’s tone that he was not entirely happy with Horner. Well, he hired him. He could live with him. “Go ahead and ask.”
“Why don’t you tell me the facts?”
Patterson sat back and steepled his fingers, looking intently as Caleb told him in about three sentences what happened.
“And you didn’t recognize any of the riders?”
“No,” Caleb replied shortly.
“The sheriff has implied that you shot first. Without cause.”
“He wasn’t there.”
The judge gazed at him for a long moment. “I believe you, Mr. Marlowe.”
“Then I’ll be going.”
Caleb planted his hands on his knees and searched around him for his weapons. It would definitely get ugly if he had to face Horner or Pig Face outside in order to get them.
The danger did not bother him. But he was growing more and more tired of it. Sometimes it seemed to him that a man could ride a thousand miles west and still never quite leave violence behind. But that was the reality of life here in the mountains.
The judge broke into his thoughts. “First, you should collect what you’ve earned.”
“What would that be?” He’d spent a night in jail for no reason. He’d come here this morning without making a fuss. But his patience was about pinched out.
“Two of those men had bounties on their heads. You’re a hundred dollars richer.”
Caleb’s irritation cooled slightly at that.
A hundred dollars he could use, for sure.