Randolph Parker had been running his herds across the range here for over twenty years now. He had begun his ranch ten years before the Wyoming Territory had even come into existence. He had been here since this land was officially designated as part of the Louisiana Purchase, watched as it became the Nebraska Territory and then seen its name changed to the Dakota Territory. Seven years ago, the name had been changed again, into the Wyoming Territory and it was about then that the trickle of hopeful settlers began to arrive on his land. Because Randolph Parker regarded all the wide acres on which he grazed his cattle as being his land, he had come here before any of them. Built his house, raised his family and hung on there through those difficult early days. Hung on, until now he was one of the richest men for many miles around. And now, everything that he had worked and fought for was being cast into hazard.
Every day, the squatters and nesters were making his life more and more difficult. Already, his herds were having to travel fifteen or twenty miles to find unobstructed access to water, and the fences going up all over this part of the country were reducing the area available for the steers to eat. Not this year, maybe not next year or the year after that, but certainly within five or ten years, the range would have disappeared entirely and his ranch would be hemmed in and surrounded by little dirt farmers, grubbing for a living on his land. Well, not while Randolph Parker had breath in his body, they wouldn’t!
Hiring those men from the south had been the first gambit in a campaign which would eventually bring this whole district under his control. It was no good fighting one little battle here, driving one man off the land there; he needed to assert his authority over the range and the town both, once and for all. If there would be bloodshed, then so be it. He hadn’t sought this trouble, but he was damned if he would back down from it now that it had arrived.
On the morning after the killing of old Chivers, the store-keeper, Parker was standing outside his massive, stone-built house. He was admiring a strange contraption which had been put together on his instructions over the last week or so. It was a wooden hut, little bigger than a toolshed, carried on the back of a specially adapted cart with a ramp at the back which could swing down. Although it was so small, the hut had two neat windows cut at the front and looked for all the world like a giant-sized doll’s house.
‘That will do just fine,’ said Parker to the men who had brought the structure for his approval, ‘We can start using it this very day. Go and plant it by the stream running by Sadler’s fields. You can take it in turns to sleep there until we stake our claim. I don’t see Sally Sadler trying to stop you.’
‘How long we got to leave it there?’
‘No more than a week. Once I register the claim, we’ll move it on.’
Parker had come up with this new tactic just recently. In addition to scaring off the settlers by the occasional killing, he had decided to try and tie them up in legal disputes; court cases for which he had the time and money and they did not. One of these was to set down this wooden cabin on somebody else’s land and file a claim. Then, if there was an argument about the matter, he would get his lawyer in Cheyenne to fight the case. In the meantime, he would treat the 160 acres surrounding his little shed as being his own land, to do with as he wished. In this way, if his plans went well, Randolph Parker would, little by little, be returning the cultivated land around his ranch to open range.
As this conversation came to an end, Parker spotted a lone rider coming along the drive leading to his property. It was a man dressed entirely in black and for a moment, he felt uneasy, as though the man coming towards him might be a harbinger of misfortune. Then he saw that it was only the teacher from town and he laughed at his misgivings.
‘Good morning to you, Teacher,’ said Parker, as Mark Brown rode up, ‘I hope you’re not looking for new pupils here? There’s no young’uns on this ranch.’ As he said this, he glanced towards his men, who dutifully gave sycophantic sniggers at their boss’s wit.
‘What I wished to see you about has no reference to education,’ replied the other gravely. ‘I wonder if you could favour me with a few minutes of your time?’
The rancher stared at Brown for a few seconds, unable to figure out the play. Then he said, ‘Come into the house.’
Parker’s house looked to Mark Brown more like an expensive whorehouse than the inside of a normal home. Everywhere he looked, there was red plush, pier-glasses and more vases and etchings than he had ever seen outside of a gallery. This, he thought, is what happens when a man with no taste at all gets hold of too much money.
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Parker in a friendly enough fashion. ‘I know it’s early, but would you care for a drink?’
‘Coffee or soda water would be nice. Thank you.’
A servant brought in a huge, solid silver coffee pot and once their cups had been filled and the woman had retired from the room, Parker said, ‘Well, what’s to do?’
‘I’ve come about the shooting in town last night. You heard about it?’
‘I heard. What of it?’
‘I was wondering what you were fixing to do about it?’
‘Do?’ asked Parker, a note of amusement in his voice, ‘Do? What do you think I should do?’
‘The men who carried out those killings are employed by you. I’d say as that gives you some responsibility to act.’
‘Employed by me, were they? Well now, that’s a horse of another colour. What are their names?’
‘I don’t know their names.’ admitted Brown. ‘Why do you think they were from my ranch?’
‘There’s a bunch of men, Southerners, who you’ve recently engaged. They were part of that crew.’
Randolph Parker laughed out loud at that. ‘You know more than I do then. Sure, I have a few boys from Texas. I got cowboys here from all over the Union. You say that some of my men were mixed up in a shooting at Barker’s Crossing. Well, I’m a law abiding man. Give me the details and I’ll do what any other man in my position would.’
There was an uncomfortable pause, before the teacher got to his feet and looked down thoughtfully at Parker. He said, ‘I won’t fox with you, Mr Parker. It’s enough that you know I’m on to this. Leave those homesteaders alone and don’t send your bullies into town.’
Without moving from the leather armchair, Parker said, ‘For a teacher, you’re taking an awful lot upon yourself. What are you about?’
‘Like I say, Mr Parker, just leave folk be and look after your own ranch. I can see myself out.’
After the teacher had gone, Parker went out to his men and said, ‘Anybody know anything about that fellow?’
‘The teacher? They say in town as he’s a bit of a sissy. Quiet type, never seed him yet in the saloon.’
Another man said, ‘Why, boss? You want that we should deal with him?’
‘Maybe. Let’s see how things pan out over the next week. Get that hut over to Sadler’s fields now and set it down by the stream. Johnson, you can stay there tonight.’
The first person Brown saw when he got back to town was Linton Avery. He hailed him and then dismounted, the better to have a private chat with the fellow. ‘Any success with your town council plan?’ he asked.
Avery shook his head and said, ‘I haven’t asked all those I’d like to see on it, but so far not one man will take part. They all think that if they just sit tight, those problems on the range will pass ’em by.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said the teacher suddenly, ‘I’ll be on your council.’
‘Good man! Well, it’s a beginning.’
Many schools ran on Saturday mornings as well, but Brown didn’t like to see children cooped up in the classroom for too long. The way he saw it, running around in God’s open air would do their bodies good and that was every bit as important as their minds. As he walked down the street, he bumped into various of his pupils, all of whom greeted him cheerfully. The teacher fancied that the adults he saw were a little more polite to him as well. It was strange how hearing that a man had been mixed up in a rough-house could alter so many people’s view of him! He was, after all, the same fellow he had been before he knocked down that scoundrel. Then he recalled that the man was dead now and felt that he owed him a little respect. Still, a scoundrel was what he had been in life.
While he was musing in this way, Brown nearly bumped into a young man who was standing right in front of him, blocking the boardwalk. ‘Sorry, fella,’ he said, as he made to walk round the youth, ‘My fault entirely, I was miles away.’
‘Oh, I was waiting for you, you sir. My name’s Andy.’
‘Andy? That doesn’t bring anybody to mind. Do I know you?’
‘No, Mr Brown, but my great aunt, Miss Clayton, that is to say, told me as you wanted my help.’
‘Help? What do’you mean? Help in the schoolroom?’
‘No, sir. Aunt Jemima said that you might need somebody who could shoot straight. I’m the best shot in town.’
‘I don’t understand this conversation at all,’ declared Mark Brown. ‘Why would a teacher need somebody who could shoot straight? I’m not aiming to keep control of the classroom by gunfire. Lord, I don’t even strike those children, let alone shoot ’em.’
The young man, who could not have been older than sixteen or seventeen, moved a couple of paces closer to the teacher and lowered his voice. ‘I think my aunt has the idea that you are going to be doing something other than teaching before too long.’
‘Well it’s news to me. Tell me, does your aunt Jemima often,’ Brown hunted around for a more polite expression than ‘poke her damned nose into other people’s business’, and finally came up with, ‘Take such a lively interest in other folk’s affairs?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Most all the time.’
‘Well, Andy, if I should find the need for a sharpshooter, I promise I’ll keep you in mind. But I wouldn’t cancel any other plans you might have. It’s apt to be a long wait ’til I call on your services.’
It was almost midday and so the teacher headed back wrathfully to Miss Clayton’s house. He was ready to eat, but also wanted to say a word or two to the old lady about her interference. Telling her young nephew that he needed a gunman, indeed! He’d never heard the like.
‘Is that you, Mr Brown?’ called Miss Clayton, as he entered the house. ‘Food will be on the table directly. You might come to the kitchen and lend me a hand with the plates.’
As he entered the kitchen, Brown saw to his surprise that Linton Avery was standing there, chatting to Miss Clayton. ‘You must have fairly run to get here before me, Mr Avery,’ said the teacher. ‘I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other.’
‘Oh, we’re old connections,’ said the other man casually. ‘What’s this I hear about you being a lawman in the past? You kept that quiet.’
‘I had my reasons.’
The three of them sat down to what was, for Mark Brown at least, a rather uncomfortable meal. He felt himself to be in somewhat of a false position and was regretting having confided in Miss Clayton about his past life. Once they began eating, Avery turned to him and said, ‘I’ll take oath you can guess what I’m going to ask you.’
‘Truth to tell, Mr Avery, I haven’t had much use for guessing games since I was a small child. You got something to say, then you’d best just come out straight with it.’
‘Go on,’ urged Miss Clayton, ‘Just ask him.’
‘I thought that you might want to be sheriff of this town, if we can get some sort of agreement, that is. I don’t believe that we’ve got anybody in town who actually knows anything about the business. I reckon you’d be a shoo-in for the post.’
‘It’s not to be thought of!’ exclaimed Brown. ‘After a little more time spent teaching here, I’m going to train for the ministry. I’m not using a gun again.’
‘He don’t mean it,’ chipped in the old woman, ‘You’ll see, he’ll change his mind yet.’
‘I’d be mighty obliged to you, ma’am,’ said Brown, turning to her, ‘If you would leave me to speak for myself. And while we’re on the subject, what made you tell your nephew that I’d want his shooting abilities?’
‘I did?’ asked Miss Clayton in surprise. ‘Did I? Well, I might’ve done at that. Well, if you are going to be sheriff, I suppose you’ll want a deputy or two. You could do a sight worse than young Andy.’
‘Yes, but I ain’t going to be sheriff. You know fine well that in another few months, I’ll be studying for the ministry.’
‘Oh, that!’ said the old woman with infinite scorn, ‘I already told you, that won’t come off.’
‘Tell me,’ asked Brown curiously, ‘Why are you so set on seeing me as sheriff here? Don’t you like church ministers?’
‘I like ’em well enough. It’s just that you wouldn’t make a very good one. You’d only ever be fair to middling. I’ll warrant you make a top-notch lawman though. I don’t like to see a man waste the talents as the Lord has given him.’
Between the shrewd businessman and the opinionated old lady, Mark Brown felt that in another moment he would be signing up as sheriff of Barker’s Crossing, just to shut the pair of them up. As it was, Linton Avery said, ‘Ah, leave the fellow alone now. He’ll come round in his own good time.’
‘As for you, Mr Avery,’ said Brown, goaded now to the point where he felt like speaking plainly and not mincing his words, ‘I reckon you’re playing some game of your own. You want a sheriff to stop Parker leaning on your fancy woman out there on the range, maybe.’
There was a silence and then old Miss Clayton laughed. ‘He’s got you there, Linton, and no mistake.’
‘I’ll tell you this, both of you. I won’t be made any man’s cat’s paw. I’ll do what I will for my own reasons, not to oblige another or fit in with his plans. And I tell you now, there isn’t the least hope of me being sheriff here.’
Which was funny, really, because the very next day, Mark Brown was knocking on Avery’s door, telling him that he was dead set on becoming the sheriff of Barker’s Crossing.