Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

“Whoa, Mayor,” Sam said, “don’t hang the gate until the corral’s built. I don’t want to be rushing into things here. Who was the ranny who took the hoss, and will he be willing to give it back?”

“You may have to persuade him,” Sheriff Moseley said.

“You mean gun persuadin’?” Sam said.

“Yes, if need be,” Meriwether said.

Sam took time to get his thoughts in order. When he did, he said, “Mayor, the only thing I ever used my iron for was to string bobwire fence an’ lately to take pots at thieving Apaches that I missed every time.” He shook his head. “I’m no gun hand.”

A series of high-pitched, wailing screeches raked across the fabric of the morning silence like talons. Sam glanced out the window. The few people walking in the street had frozen in their tracks, looking beyond the mayor’s office to the houses beyond.

“What,” Sam said, “in the world is that?”

“My daughter giving voice to her grief,” Meriwether said. “Soon you will meet her and share in her anguish.”

“Mayor, I’ve been thinking, and I reckon I don’t need the twenty dollars that badly,” Sam said. “I guess I’ll be moving on.”

“Wait,” Meriwether said. “Sheriff Moseley says you have no horse. It’s a long walk from here to Silver City, especially with the Apaches out.”

“I’m listening,” Sam said. “Have you got something more to say, add to the pot, like?”

“Yes, and here it is. In addition to the twenty dollars, I’ll supply you with a saddled mount. When you bring the skewbald pony back, the horse will be yours.” It was a bad mistake for the mayor to smile. It made him look like a grinning rattlesnake. “Now, what do you say, Mr. . . . uh . . . ? Speak up, fellow.”

Sam would not be pushed. “Hold on there just a minute,” he said. “By nature I’m a questioning man.”

“Then ask your questions,” the mayor said. “I’m a busy man.”

“How come the sheriff ain’t going after the skewbald pony?” Sam said.

“Good question.” Moseley beamed. He looked at Meriwether. “Is that not a good question, Your Honor?”

“Answer it, then, for goodness’ sake,” the mayor said, irritated. He winced as more prolonged screams echoed around the town like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“I say the recovery of the pony is a county matter,” Moseley said, raising his voice above the din. “The county sheriff says it’s a town matter. But he also says I have no county jurisdiction, so you see how it is with me.”

“No, I don’t,” Sam said.

“My hands are tied. If I have no jurisdiction outside the town limits, I can’t get the skewbald pony back. And if I attempt it . . . well, the county sheriff would love to find an excuse to arrest me and strip me of my office.”

“So it’s down to you, Mr. . . . uh . . .” the mayor said.

Sam smelled a rat. The fact is, he smelled a passel of them.

“You didn’t tell me this afore,” he said, “but who was the ranny who stole the pony in the first place?”

Moseley and the mayor exchanged glances. Then the sheriff said in a small voice, “Dan Wells and his three brothers.”

Sam Sawyer almost fainted and had to lean on the mayor’s desk to steady himself.

Chapter 9

“Here, drink this,” the mayor said, handing Sam the glass of water he’d just poured from the pitcher on his desk. “You took a turn.”

Sam drank the water, then set the glass on the desk with a thud.

“Are you talking about Starvin’ Dan Wells, the feller who ate the Comanche in Fannin County, Texas, a few years back?” he said.

“He didn’t eat a whole Comanche,” Sheriff Moseley said. “That story gets exaggerated every time it’s told.”

“He only ate the Indian’s liver and heart,” Meriwether said. “A snack, you might call it.”

“Why did he do that?” Sam said, horrified.

“Because he said he always wanted to know what a Comanche tasted like,” Moseley answered. “How the hell should I know? Wells did confess later that he regretted it, and some say he’s gotten religion since.”

“And that’s why he robbed a store and stole a hoss,” Sam said.

A silence stretched tight in the office—until it was shattered by another round of female shrieking.

“Forty dollars,” the mayor said quickly. “I can’t say fairer than that.”

“And a horse,” Moseley said. He laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Just Injun up on Wells’s place and steal the pony back. Gunfighting don’t even have to enter into it.”

“Find yourself another rube,” Sam said. “Summing it up fer you gents—I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Is that your last word on the subject?” Meriwether said.

“Yep,” Sam said, heading for the door. “My talkin’ is done and I’m outta here.”

“Sheriff Moseley, arrest that man on a charge of vagrancy,” the mayor said. “He’s up to no good, I’ll be bound.”

Moseley stepped in front of Sam, and Sam put his dukes up. But the sheriff’s right hand moved with lightning speed and Sam felt the barrel of the lawman’s gun slam into his head . . .

And then he felt nothing at all.

* * *

Sam Sawyer woke to a splitting headache and the taste of raw iron in his mouth. The waning afternoon sun angled through a narrow, barred window above his cot and made dust motes dance like tiny moths.

He groaned and tried to recollect what had happened.

Then he remembered: Sheriff Vic Moseley had buffaloed him. The man was faster with a gun than he’d given him credit for.

Sam touched fingertips to the side of his head. He felt a bump the size of a hen’s egg, but there was no blood. A good sign, he reckoned.

For a while he lay still and watched the beam of sunlight. He heard rats rustle in a corner, and his cell smelled of piss and ancient vomit. As the light faded to darkness, the cell door opened. Sam rose to his feet and stood at the bars just as Moseley entered with a lit oil lamp.

The sheriff set the lamp on a wall bracket, then turned to look at his prisoner. “You’re awake,” he said.

“I’d say that’s kinda obvious,” Sam said. He let anger creep into his voice. “How come you buffaloed me and how long do you plan to keep me here?”

Moseley smiled. “Answer to the first question—because you resisted arrest. Answer to the second question—until you’ve paid your fine.”

“What fine?”

“The one the mayor had Judge Rawlins impose on you for vagrancy and assault on an officer of the law.”

“Damn you, Moseley, how big a fine?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“How am I gonna come up with twenty-five dollars?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the sheriff said. “Do you have any friends or kinfolk around that might spring for the money?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Then you’re in for a long visit, ain’t you?” Moseley smiled, his teeth white under his groomed mustache. “By the way, I took the eight dollars you had in your pocket. It’ll help pay for your grub until you come up with the fine.”

“You go to hell,” Sam said. “You’re a danged robber.”

Moseley ignored that and said, “The menu for tonight is beans and warmed-over coffee. Of course, the menu for every night is beans and warmed-over coffee.”

* * *

The lamp cast a dull orange glow, enough for Sam to see for the first time the man in the next cell who stood at the dividing bars, watching him.

Startled, Sam said, “I didn’t see you there afore.”

“I was lying on my bunk”—the man pointed into the shadows—“there.”

“What you in for?” Sam said, prepared as always to be sociable.

“Public drunkenness,” the man said.

Sam blinked against the gloom. “You know, at first I took ye fer an Injun.”