Badman Sheriff

Chapter 10

By the time that he had made peace with the miners and other men up at the diggings, Jack Crawley was feeling pretty braced with things in general. Before returning home, he had one final thing to do that day. His first port of call was the undertaker’s shop.

Abe Calthorpe did not look best pleased to see him. ‘I picked up Turner’s body from the street. What do you want me to do with it?’

‘Just hang on to it for a space. There are some men from the Pinkerton’s agency who might want to take a look at it later. Do not worry, the town will pay the expenses, including a funeral if that is what happens.’

‘If it happens? What the hell else can you be think ing of doing with a corpse, other than burying it?’

‘I have an idea that those boys might be wanting to take some of the dead from today’s affair to claim rewards for them. I don’t really know what they purpose.’

‘You mean others were killed, beside Turner?’

‘Yes, from what I am able to comprehend, all those so-called deputies of his have been killed.’

‘That’s a hell of a thing,’ said Abe Calthorpe soberly.

‘I guess,’ said Crawley, ‘that you know why I have come here?’

‘Apart from talking of the disposal of Ned Turner’s dead corpse, you mean? No, I could not venture a guess.’

‘Abe, you and some others on that citizens’ committee helped put Turner in power and then helped keep him there. I am thinking that you were scared, maybe he knew something about you that you would have rather kept secret. I don’t know what that might be and do not wish to enquire. Truth is, neither you nor Jim Kincaid is fit to help run the town and I am looking for you to step down.’

‘You are taking a heap upon yourself and no mistake. What if I refuse?’

‘Then I shall have to make it a public matter, which I do not wish to do. Push me, though, and I shall do it. Just resign, Abe. This is the best I can do for you.’ Calthorpe thought the question over and then nodded. Before he went to see Jim Kincaid with a similar request, Crawley thought it worth searching Turner’s rooms above the Tanglefoot. He reached the saloon at just about the same time that Ike Holbeech came into sight of Coopers Creek.

For all his challenging of Ned Turner’s authority, Holbeech was not a man who could really have headed any group of men engaged in any sort of enterprise. For one thing, he was not overburdened with brains; for another, he acted best when being given simple and clear instructions. This was why he had made a good right-hand man for Turner, but as soon as he had started initiating plans of his own, like the attack on the stage, things had ended up disastrously.

Holbeech had not had above a couple of dollars in his pocket when he went on that robbery, and he had no clear idea of what he would do if left to make decisions for himself. He wanted only to fix up again with Ned Turner and then they could get back to normal, with Ned working out what to do and he, Holbeech, following Ned’s instructions. Crouched behind that rock outside of town now, Ike Holbeech felt very much alone and without any notion of what to do next, beyond finding Ned.

***

Jackson and the other two men had more or less worked out just what had taken place in their absence. Both the Pinkerton’s men who had been left behind had been shot twice in the chest. Add to that the indisputable fact that there were only four dead robbers scattered around the stage and every thing was plain as daylight. ‘We had best get back to that little town and give them warning that things are not altogether settled just yet,’ said Jackson. ‘I will go on ahead. You men harness up the coach again and follow on, with all those men loaded up. I do not want to leave a rackful of “Volcanics” here for anybody to help themselves. We have lost one already, now. You will not be able to bring the coach through the wood. I mind that there is a track up in that way, that turns off to the right after some miles. Do not take all day, I want this to be settled before dusk.’

It did not take Crawley long to find the weapon that had been used against Jim Kincaid. Turner had not made any great effort to hide the notes of hand signed by Kincaid. When he totalled up the amount, Jack Crawley shook his head sadly. Nearly $1,000! No wonder that Kincaid had not wished to oppose Turner’s plans. This would have ruined the man. There was nothing else of much interest in Turner’s belongings, except for some papers relating to a town in California called Redemption. And, right at the bottom of the leather bag, tucked away in a corner so that he nearly missed it, there was a sheriff’s star. It was of a slightly different design from the one that he himself was wearing. It was a fair guess that there was more to Ned Turner’s past than any of them had known.

Holbeech was wholly at a loss to know what next to do. If Ned had returned to town, then presumably he would have gone back to his rooms over the saloon. All that he could think was that if only he could find Ned, then his old boss would make everything all right and come up with some new plan for their future.

Ike Holbeech began to work his way round the edge of the town, moving for cover from rock to tree, making his way to the back of the saloon. He had with him the rifle that he had taken from the rack in the stagecoach. When he was in plain sight of the saloon, he worked the lever, which chambered a car tridge at the same time as cocking the piece.

***

‘Jack,’ said Jim Kincaid, ‘I surely am pleased to see you. You have had by all accounts a trying day. However, you have come through it without any harm and so I believe that I should be offering you my congratulations. I shall tell the committee that I think you should remain sheriff after this day. You are surely the best man for the job and I can’t think what we were all about, voting in that Ned Turner.’

Judging from the rush of words, it was obvious that Kincaid was nervous and anxious to ingratiate himself with Crawley. Jack Crawley did not like to hear a man abase himself in this way. He cut short the flow of Kincaid’s thanks, by saying, ‘It’s no manner of use, Jim, I know all about it.’

‘About what? I have not the pleasure of understanding you, my old friend.’

Crawley pulled out the IOUs and laid them on the table. ‘It’s no use, Jim. I see now what Turner had over you. The best thing would be if you were to leave the citizens’ committee and we will then forget about all this.’

‘What? Then you too are blackmailing me?’

‘I am not blackmailing you. The record of your debts to Turner lies there. You may burn it or do what you will. I do not want another scoundrel like Turner to get a toehold in my town. You and some others let him get a hold and so you are not the best man to be running the town. Just give it up and we can forget all about it.’

After some wrangling Kincaid agreed and it looked to Jack Crawley like he had done all that he could for one day. Josie was sitting at her friend’s house, waiting for Albert to be ready to come home. He was playing some complicated game with his schoolmate which involved charging up and down the stairs like a herd of buffalo. ‘So your husband is now the sheriff after all?’ said her friend.

‘So it would appear,’ replied Josie. ‘Although I do not have a good understanding of the events of the day. Which is why I really will have to be taking Albert home now. I am expecting my husband home at any moment.’

‘Lord, yes. I will go and call my son and tell him to bring Albert here directly.’ After another fifteen minutes of argument and complaint from the two boys, her son was ready to leave. Josie thanked her friend and she and Albert made their way home.

Ike Holbeech caused enormous consternation when he walked through the doors of the Tanglefoot. The bar-room was not busy, but those customers who were there were all talking excitedly about the astounding change which had taken place that day: Ned Turner being shot dead by the baker, who was in turn proclaimed the new sheriff. Not to mention where all Turner’s friends had also seemingly been gunned down by Pinkerton’s men.

It was in the middle of feverish conversation of this sort that one of those sitting facing the door to the street stopped speaking. His mouth quite literally dropped open in the most comical way imaginable. His drinking partner glanced round to see what could have caused this, and then his jaw also dropped and he too fell silent. Gradually, all those drinking in the saloon stopped talking and stared at the door, where Ike Holbeech stood with a rifle tucked under his arm. The man whom they had all been assured was stone dead walked to the stairs which led to Turner’s suite of rooms. ‘Is Mr Turner at home?’ he asked the barkeep.

The man hardly knew what to reply and simply shrugged. ‘What does that mean?’ said Holbeech. ‘Is Ned Turner up there or is he not?’

‘He’s over at Abe Calthorpe’s place, I think,’ said the barkeeper after thinking the matter over. ‘What the hell is he doing at the undertaker’s?’ asked Holbeech in bewilderment.

‘Well, he’s kind of deceased,’ explained the man.

‘That cannot be so. He was alive this morning. What has happened to him?’

‘The sheriff shot him.’ ‘What are you talking about? Are you crazy or what? He is the sheriff. You mean he shot himself?’

‘No sir, I mean the new sheriff, Mr Jack Crawley.’

Crawley! He might have guessed that that mealy mouthed runt would have had a part in this. ‘Where’s Crawley now?’

‘I don’t rightly know. I think he was going over to see Jim Kincaid.’

Without another word, Ike Holbeech charged like a bull from the saloon, leaving shocked amazement in his wake.

When Jackson returned to Coopers Creek after finding the bodies of his fellow agents, he began at once to look for a desperate man armed with a ‘Volcanic’ repeating rifle. All else apart, his job would be on the line if things went any more wrong than they already had. What had looked at first sight like a glorious victory, was swiftly degenerating into a possible catastrophe.

It did not take long for Geoffrey Jackson, Crawley’s former sergeant and fellow veteran of the Mexican War to run Holbeech to earth. It happened by the purest chance as dusk was falling and Jackson was scrutinizing everybody in sight, wondering if any of them might have a repeating rifle concealed about their person. Having seen nobody likely, he turned round and found himself face to face with an overweight man in early middle age, carrying one of the very distinctive ‘Volcanic’ rifles under his arm. ‘Wait up, fellow,’ said Jackson, moving his coat aside to give him easy access to the pistol at his side. ‘I think you might have a piece of my property there.’

At this point, Holbeech raised the rifle and shot the Pinkerton’s man at almost point-blank range. Leastways, he had meant to shoot him, but so finely honed were Geoffrey Jackson’s reactions after ten years in the army, five in the police and another five working for the Pinkerton’s agency, that his arm was up, knocking away the barrel of the rifle before Holbeech could pull the trigger. The bullet shot up into the evening sky. Ike Holbeech dropped the rifle and bolted across the street. Jackson was feeling elated at his narrow escape, when the fleeing man turned and halted, pulled out his pistol and shot the Pinkerton’s agent dead.

Crawley, who had met his wife and son on their way home, heard the shots and wondered what new devilment was afoot. He had not long to wait before finding out, because Holbeech came racing round the corner with his gun in his hand and, seeing the new sheriff pulling his pistol, Holbeech grabbed a hold of Albert and put his gun to the boy’s head. ‘You back off now, Crawley, or I swear to God I will kill the boy.’

‘There’s no call to do so,’ said Crawley. ‘Just let him go now and I will give you my oath to let you go as well. I will not pursue you.’ Even as he was speaking softly to the dangerous killer, Jack Crawley was sliding his pistol gently from the holster until it just hung there in his hand. Seeing this, Holbeech jerked the boy round sharply, so that he could more effectively use him as a shield.

Josie said, ‘Please let my son go. He has no part in this, he is only a child.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Holbeech. ‘But that husband of yours has wrecked my life. He has left me with nothing.’ He began to edge away backwards, dragging the terrified boy with him. Jack Crawley just stood there as calm as a statue, saying and doing nothing that might provoke the man who held his son’s life in his hands. The two other Pinkerton’s men came round the corner at this point, to one side of Holbeech and Crawley. They too had heard the gunfire and both had pistols in their hands. ‘Put up those weapons,’ said the sheriff. ‘This is my call and you have no authority here.’ Reluctantly, the men holstered their guns. They stood there watching the unfolding drama, wondering how it would end.

All this time, Holbeech was backing away with the boy held in front of him. Albert was tall for his age and Ike Holbeech was pretty short, although some what tubby. The result was that the boy’s body almost completely obscured Holbeech from view. It looked impossible that anybody would be able to shoot him without a good chance of hitting the boy. And still he continued to back away; twenty feet, thirty feet, forty feet.

When he was a good fifty feet from Crawley, his wife and the two Pinkerton’s agents, Holbeech stopped to make his hold upon the boy more secure. He put his left arm round the child’s throat and kept the pistol stuck right in his ear. As Holbeech shifted position and was on the point of continuing to shuffle backwards, Jack Crawley raised both arms simultaneously. He bent his left elbow as he raised that arm and held the forearm in front of him at chest height. As he was doing this, he brought up his right hand, with the pistol in it, and rested it on the raised forearm for a fraction of a second, to steady his aim. Then he shot Ike Holbeech in the face, missing his son’s own head by no more than two or three inches.

In the ensuing chaos, with his wife rushing over to enfold her child in her arms and various townsfolk arriving to see what the shooting was about, one of the Pinkerton’s men came up to Crawley and held out his hand. ‘That was the finest pistol shot I have seen in some years. Fifty feet if it was an inch. Do you mind me asking what calibre that gun of yours is?’

‘It’s nominally 0.44,’ said Crawley.

‘Would you mind if I had a look at the weapon?’ asked the man. Crawley was aware that his wife would be justifiably angry with him over this whole business later, and since she seemed to be doing a reasonable enough job of soothing Albert and explaining what had happened to a sympathetic crowd, he did not suppose that his presence was called for immediately. He pulled out the pistol and handed it to the other man, whose eyes widened in surprise. ‘Colt Walker, hey? You don’t see too many of these around. Special model too, I see. What’s all this fancy engraving?’ He held the pistol up close in the fading light and deciphered the inscription. ‘Hero of Buena Vista? That would never be you, would it, my friend?’

Crawley shrugged modestly. ‘It was a long time ago.’ he said.

Some weeks after all this three men sat round a table at the Tanglefoot saloon, just shooting the breeze. ‘That was a strange business, that day we woke up to find that we had not one but two sheriffs in the town.’

‘Mark you,’ said another, ‘I am strongly of the opinion that we had only ourselves to blame for all that fuss and bother. Had we but voted in Jack Crawley in the first place, none of that blood would have been shed.’

‘True,’ said the man who had first spoken, ‘but still and all, it all worked out well enough in the end.’

A third man said thoughtfully, ‘It only goes to show that you can never tell about folk, just by what you see on the surface. Mark you though, it is few towns that have had two sheriffs at one and the same time, one then killing the other. If nothing else, it sets Coopers Creek aside from anywhere else.’ The three of them then poured another drink and the talk turned to other matters.