Ralph Compton The Reluctant Lawman

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

This is respectfully dedicated to the American Cowboy. His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

—Ralph Compton

CHAPTER ONE

Virginia City, Nevada Territory, 1863

Lucas Lessing set the night’s dinner stew at a simmer, cubed a chunk of lamb brisket, diced potatoes and carrots, rolled out his special-recipe dough for the pasties the Cornish miners bought for their lunch pails. Rolling the dough was his favorite part of the job these days. While the dough rose, he’d have time for a few minutes of relaxation with that cheroot left by a customer in appreciation of his cooking. Before he could step out onto C Street to fire up, a mustached man darted into the Comstock Café.

From the frazzled look of him, the intruder was in his mid- to late twenties and needed a haircut and a place to hide. He looked familiar. Obliged if I could blend into the woodwork, he told Lessing. I done bought me some serious trouble.

Lessing made the connection. "Clemens, right? From over at the Territorial-Enterprise, always stirring up some mischief or other with your stories. What’s the beef this time?"

I riled up Sal Stone good and proper when I wrote how that face-off between him and the late marshal didn’t make him look so good. More likely story, Sal come up from behind the marshal, if you get my drift.

Same kind of situation Lessing had faced during his early years inside the law. If you had a badge, there was always some kid out there with a borrowed Peacemaker looking to take you down and make a name for himself. He was glad to have all that behind him.

Stone, you say? Didn’t wait for a response, took a quick check of the Comstock Café, made a plan. A former lawman’s plan. Cooks didn’t need escape routes. Let’s see what we can do for you. He grabbed the lone wide-brimmed Stetson from the hat tree, plunked it on Clemens’s head, led him to a rear table, and nudged him into a chair. Arms on the table, head on top. Anyone asks, you’re sleeping off a drunk.

I can sure do that, Pilgrim. Clemens grinned, settled into the posture.

To complete the picture, Lessing poured half a cup of coffee from the morning’s percolator, set it down near Clemens. Suggestion, he said.

What’s that, Pilgrim?

You might consider writing your stuff under another name.

*   *   *

Lessing had returned to wrapping the lamb and vegetables into the pastry dough when Sal Stone burst in. Pretty much the way Lessing remembered him: the right body size to have his choice of leftover bunkhouse clothes. He sported a tatty, sweat-stained Stetson and a scraggly beard. From the look of his two guns, they’d come out of a pawnshop or been got from dead cowboys. The serious gunfighters Lessing knew used Colt’s Navy or Dragoon revolvers. Stone’s looked like the clunkier, less reliable Colt’s Army.

Stone scanned the interior, then advanced on the table where Clemens snored into his subterfuge. You the owner here? Stone asked Lessing.

I’m the cook. Owners don’t come in much except for at the dinner hours.

Stone frowned. Then this is on you.

What’s on me?

Stone pointed at Clemens. This disgrace right here. How can you live with this? He kicked at Clemens’s boot. Clemens, staying with his part, didn’t respond. You let drunks in here, Stone said, they’ll disrupt your dinner trade.

So far, so good. Stone had bought the subterfuge. Working his anger to a higher notch, he prodded his finger into Lessing’s chest. What do drunks do? They puke. Suppose I’m in here for my evening meal. That’s fifty, sixty cents, my meal spoilt by some drunk.

Lessing let him play his hand. In a few moments, Clemens could stroll on out of here, free to rile someone else with his writing. Minute you leave, I’ll toss him out. You have my word.

Not so fast, cook. I know you from somewhere, don’t I?

Possible.

I shot you one time, didn’t I?

Possible.

Forget possible. Let’s have a look at that right ear you got hid away under that clump of hair.

Lessing swept the bushy overgrowth away from his ear, revealing the gap left by the missing earlobe.

Thought so, Stone said. I remember people I shot. He allowed a moment for emphasis before he held up his left hand. I also remember people who shot me. Wagged the stub of his little finger. "Not many of them around to brag on it. Lester, right? Only a deputy back then."

Lessing. Then and now. You were already a bully back then. He pushed hard enough to provoke Stone. Wanted to provoke Stone. Better slow that urge down. He looked for and caught Stone’s response, the twitch of both thumbs, the quick snap away from the lower fingers in case he’d need to draw fast. Lots of dead gunnies didn’t have Stone’s reflex to get their pistols cocked the moment they cleared the holster.

Maybe I took pity, sent you a warning when I shot your earlobe, Lessing. Besides, bullying has its advantages. Can buy a man a few seconds’ advantage if push comes to drawing guns.

Lessing still had reflexes of his own. He took a step toward Stone. "All this time, I thought I’d sent you a warning when I took your pinkie instead of your thumb. Name me one thumbless gunman can still cock a pistol on the fast draw."

Stone took that in, let it settle. Willing to let the matter rest for now. You take care, cook. Keep your strut in the kitchen. Gonna take mine back out to Mount Davidson, where a man can get away from this Comstock madness. He shot another glance at Clemens, deep into his drunk role, then stomped out of the Comstock Café, the rowels of his spurs a cranky undercurrent.

When the door slammed, Clemens roused from his pose and said, Much obliged. He tossed the borrowed Stetson to Lessing. Lots of drama here.

You’d find a lot less drama if you’d stop pissing off gunfighters.

And you, Pilgrim. You’d cook better and longer if you stopped acting like a lawman.

CHAPTER TWO

The steady screech of knives and forks on plates at dinnertime told Lessing his two main dishes of the day were a hit with the customers. Tom Powers, the Comstock Café’s owner, chatted up customers while he and a waitress delivered the corned beef or the fried chicken soaked in buttermilk.

Time to prepare tomorrow’s breakfast biscuits, one of Lessing’s favorite kitchen activities. Kneading the dough, the gooey, mindless grab and release of fingers at work. Nice.

He jumped when Tom Powers spoke behind him. Nothing like keeping those fingers limber, right, Luke? Never can tell when you might need a fast draw. He thumbed back an imaginary revolver hammer.

Lessing longed for the day he could buy Powers out, be quit of the man’s constant taunts. Own a restaurant of his own. No more with the guns for me, Tom. That’s final.

Powers had ways of talking, even when he welcomed customers to the Comstock, that suggested a place between mild and complete scorn. I believe you, Luke, but thousands wouldn’t. Like Orion Clemens out there, our secretary of the Nevada Territory from over t’ Carson City. Argue all you want that he’s here for your fried chicken. I say he’s here to convince you to pin on the badge after Sal Stone put that last marshal down.

Lessing waved the suggestion away. More like he’s here to thank me for getting his kid brother out of a jam. A suspicion caught him. How would he know anything about me and guns, unless someone went talking outta turn?

Powers shrugged like someone shaking off hungry chickens at feeding time. Some things don’t stay secret, Luke. Things like your way with a Colt’s revolver or a Henry rifle.

Couldn’t have said it better myself, Luke. Orion Clemens stepped into the kitchen, a taller, better-dressed, less shaggy version of his kid brother. Not too many three-piece suits in Virginia City. Tom’s right. Grateful you helped Sam—that’s for sure—but I need you to help someone else. He unbuttoned his jacket, probed a vest pocket.

Who do I help this time? Lessing said.

Clemens found what he’d been looking for in a vest pocket. May I assume you’re sympathetic to our cause, Luke?

A man can only have one cause. I used to have the law for my cause. Got me a new one now. The kitchen. No room for politics in either one, the way I see it.

I’m talking statehood, Luke. Statehood for Nevada. Union, of course. That’s why I’m here.

All respect, sir, that means nothing to me.

Maybe politics means nothing to you, but I know the law does. He tossed the marshal’s badge up and down. You got any feel for the law, you got to take down that murdering renegade Sal Stone. Here’s your chance to make a presence in your true profession, Luke. The rule of law.

That time’s behind me, Mr. Secretary. Already too many dead professionals to suit me. Rather be a live cook than a dead marshal.

Orion Clemens tossed the badge higher, caught it. Tossed it again. I might accept you saying no to me, Luke, but— He stopped, gave a quick shrug. Can you say no to the man who sent me out here, the man I want you to help?

Lessing cast a quick glance at Tom Powers, who was flicking back the hammers on imaginary revolvers with his thumbs. And who sent you out here, Mr. Secretary?

Why, President Lincoln, of course. He deputized me to get your help.

If I accept, Mr. Secretary, I’ll accept for three people: the president, you, and the only kind of lawman I know how to be. You want me to take down Sal Stone, but in order to do that, you’ll have to live with the consequences of how I do my job.

The clear-eyed expression on Clemens’s face and the boyish uptick of his smile put to shame any smiles from politicians Lessing had ever seen. This guy had the goods. Not a trace of guile. If I had the right kind of book with me, Lucas, I’d use it to swear you in right here.

Tom Powers pulled imaginary triggers and mouthed the words Bang bang.

*   *   *

When Tom Powers saw the opportunity for publicity, he reached out and grabbed it, so he offered the Comstock Café for Lessing’s swearing-in ceremony. Close to ninety persons came—some for the chance to place bets on how long the new lawman would last, others to snag some free vittles and beer, and yet others to judge Orion Clemens’s skill at oratory.

The elder Clemens obliged the crowd when he turned a thirty-second oath he could give anywhere into a pitch for his appointment as governor of the Nevada Territory. The crowd liked any speechifying, saw it as entertainment. Lessing read the elder Clemens’s genuineness and sincerity into the speech. The man wanted to serve. Willing to risk the extremes of public opinion for the chance to service in public office. Lessing understood. Used to be that way with him when he worked Pinkerton’s agency or wore the marshal’s badge. Authority gave a man a chance to work some good. Not anymore.

Clemens’s kid brother appeared and turned the event into a lark with a piece in the Territorial-Enterprise that eventually got picked up by the San Francisco Call: Local Cook Trades Waffle Iron for Shooting Iron.

The moment came when a gaunt, Lincolnesque guy stepped out of the crowd, carrying a thick book, and introduced himself to Lessing. Marcus Tolliver. Let’s get this over with, shall we? He snapped his fingers to get Orion Clemens’s attention. Lessing disliked him on sight. Reminded him of guys from privileged families at school. Reminded him of the last time he wore a badge. Lovelace, Colorado. A guy just like this Tolliver. Murchison. Bentley Murchison. Nothing personal, Lessing. Merely doing my job. Sure you’ll understand. Lessing understood the bad taste in his mouth this Tolliver dude produced.

Clemens made his politician’s walk toward them. I see you’ve met Tolliver. My Mr. Fix-it. He gets things done for me around here. Lucky to have found him. Now I’ll have two fellas who get things done for me. He nodded to Tolliver, who extended the book.

Your hand, Tolliver said.

Lessing understood well enough. The idealistic boss and his Mr. Fix-it. He plunked his hand on the Bible, heard Clemens mumble some words.

Tolliver nudged Lessing. He and Clemens waited for Lessing to say something. Lessing’s response was lost in another jumble of words.

Congratulations. You’re the new, sworn marshal of Storey County, Territory of Nevada.

Need to get you back to Carson City, Mr. Secretary, Tolliver told Clemens.

Good luck on the job, Clemens told Lessing.

Lessing asked himself about his growing distrust of Marcus Tolliver. He looked on while Tolliver whispered something to Clemens.

Right, Clemens said. Then to Lessing: Remember: Stone. Get Stone.

Tolliver poked a finger at Lessing. A word with you, Marshal.

Lessing knew what that meant. Mr. Fix-it was about to demonstrate his authority. Lessing also knew what to do next. Tolliver stood next to him, that poking finger starting a slow up-down movement. Lessing caught Tolliver’s finger midwag, applied a bit of pressure. Trying to score points with the boss, Tolliver. I get it. You want him seeing you in command here. He increased the pressure on Tolliver’s finger until the man was no longer able to keep the response from his face. We both got jobs to do, he told Tolliver. Best you do yours, let me do mine. Gonna give you a chance to save some face, offer to shake your hand. Looking for a nod from you to see if you’re okay with that.

This is not over, Lessing.

Another squeeze of Tolliver’s finger.

Another wince from Tolliver. Then as phony a smile from Tolliver as Lessing had seen from anyone. Then Tolliver’s nod.

Lessing let go of the finger, extended his hand.

He resisted the temptation to squeeze.

Politicians.

Throughout the proceedings, Lessing noted three youngsters scarcely in their teens. He thought of himself at their age. Dressed way too neat and clean to be cowboys, moved too limber to be miners scrunched over in the tunnels every day. Their Colt’s revolvers and tie-down holsters advertised their career interest as guns for hire. Didn’t much matter to them, did they work for the law or against it.

Lessing caught the way those boys watched him. The same speculative way he’d seen robbers case banks or trains taking on water at remote stations. How soon before they’d start pushing him with confrontations? Small run-ins at first. Testing him, getting a sense of how deep his professional cool went.

Those brief moments when he took the oath to uphold the law of Storey County, Nevada Territory, and the law of the land, Lessing recalled his brother, now a high-priced lawyer in San Francisco. Bernard Lessing, Doctor of Law. Like the time Bernie grabbed him, twisted Lucas’s arm behind his back, giving it enough of a hitch to cause pain. You’re smart enough already, little brother. I need to do this only once.

He left the celebration right after Tom Powers’s speech: Today I lose a cook and gain a marshal. He thought about those three youngsters. Poked at his shoulder all the way home, urging it to wake up, keep ready. Squeezed his fingers into a fist, remembering how a concert piano player showed him that. Squeeze two, three hundred times a day. Keep things limber and strong. Got quite a distance before he got reminded about his knee.

*   *   *

Lessing had never been inside the Storey County marshal’s office on C Street, between a saloon and the volunteer department office. Close enough to the Comstock Café to make it the approved source for meals in case the marshal’s office had prisoners in any of its eight holding cells. But until today it represented a world he’d wanted to leave in the past.

He stopped outside the office for a quick glance. Two deputies inside hunched over a game of cribbage. A scatter of tables and chairs suggested the former marshal had no sense of organization, which meant a disrespect for the rule of law. Virginia City ran twenty-four hours, with miners and prospectors every bit as likely to get into dustups at two in the morning or two in the afternoon. Like San Francisco. Men and women who had no real plans nor professions all too eager to get at money by any means possible.

Tomorrow, he’d establish his presence, set up his desk, meet the deputies, arrange a watch schedule. Kick some structural ass. Then he’d face the one problem he could never come to terms with when wearing a badge. Someone a notch or two up on the pay scale always had someone like Sal Stone they wanted out of the way. Worse yet, they wanted Lessing to do the removing.

At the hardware store, an enormous display of shotguns and Colt’s Navy revolvers claimed his attention. Cooks didn’t need such things, but adios to his cook circumstances. Inside, they’d have the .44 center-fire shells he needed, wouldn’t they? Went to enter, drew back when he noticed. None of the Colts on display bore the new Richards’s modifications. No, thanks. If a lawman wanted a comfortable future, he’d damn well better keep up and stay up with the growing technology.

He made it to a small apothecary shop half a block farther down. The door triggered a bell mounted on a spring. The sound drew a red-faced, nervous-looking man struggling into his coat, chewing. Probably caught during his midday meal. He took one last swallow before he nodded respect to Lessing, rolled his vowels. Ahh, we have the new marshal. Lessing made him for a recent arrival, from somewhere in or near Germany. You have the right place here, yes? Perhaps you wish to know, do I carry sperm whale oil, eh?

That’s a good call, Lessing said. Perhaps you’ll know where I can find—

Please, Marshal Lessing. With a swift flourish of hands, he produced an engraved business card. Allow me. Achilles Friedrich, gunsmith, designs and modifications. You, a man who knows to use whale oil for his pistol, will appreciate the ready availability of the .44 caliber cartridge.

Lessing, thinking he had Friedrich’s background sorted, pushed the next detail. What’s with the sign outside? Apothecary?

Yes, Frau Friedrich dispenses for the headaches and other symptoms.

Lessing decided she also contributed a good deal of the rent and the wherewithal for the meal he’d so recently interrupted. Lucky if they made a whole dollar profit on the fourteen dollars Friedrich charged for a box of a thousand .44s. Luckier still if Achilles brought in anything steady modifying six-shooters and rifles. The flaring tempers and differences of opinion in Virginia City could just as well get settled by those older-model Colts at the hardware store or a pawnshop, where less than ten dollars got you one of those cap-and-ball affairs and a thumb buster of a hammer mechanism. You’d be just as dead from a self-load or some flimsy paper cartridge. But a headache or a need for an opium tonic? Ah, yes, Frau Friedrich had the answers for those.

Lessing bought .44s for his Colt, .41 rimfires for the Henry, caught the way Friedrich’s eyes lit up when he pulled out the payment voucher from Storey County. Orion Clemens might have taken something from Lessing when he’d pressured him to pin on the badge, but at least he could pay for some of it. You want my guns, Lessing had said, you pay for my bullets.

Fair enough. Orion Clemens had tossed him the badge.

*   *   *

Lessing hadn’t worn the marshal star for two hours when he made his way home with the cartridges bought from Achilles Friedrich. Only two hours, but already his world had changed. He got the sounds of someone who’d started to trail him right after he turned off C Street, down the grade toward his lodgings. Someone who wore boots with spurs. Possibly one of those young gunnies from the swearing-in ceremony. Maybe only his lawman instincts kicking in with a taste of what awaited him, but one thing he knew for sure. He’d left a profession where the only person who’d ever followed him did so to present him with a cheroot. He’d exchanged a job as a cook for one where outcomes had different consequences.

When he reached his railroad flat lodgings, he went through the sitting room and stopped at the kitchen for a private ceremony all his own. Farewell to some of the cooking implements he’d bought in Reno or had sent over from San Francisco. He’d come to regard his chopping and dicing knives with the same affection he’d once shown his Colt. Now he wrapped the knives, a garlic press, a slotted spoon to skim grease off the tops of soups and stews, and an omelet whisk into an oilcloth, set the bundle in the tall cabinet where he stored his Henry lever-action rifle, and reached for another bundle far back in the cabinet.

It gave him a grim satisfaction when the rawhide strip on this bundle failed to budge when he tugged at it. Needed a few drops of the sperm whale oil