the Iron Marshall (1979) (16 page)

On the opposite side there was simply the wall. Nails had been driven into the boards on which to hang odd bits of old harness, links of chain, and whatever had been lying around loose. Near that wall was a wooden bucket and a pitchfork. On the ledge formed by a two-by-four that ran the length of the side between supporting posts, there had been a currycomb, a brush and some heavy shears. At the back of the barn was a window. Here and there cracks allowed a glimpse of the lights of the town. The nearest building was about fifty yards off, the pole corral on the side away from the town.

Somebody had either come here with Carpenter or had followed him here. Perhaps had lain in wait for him. And Carpenter was dead. Again, a faint stirring. Shanaghy cleared the thong from the hammer of his six-shooter. He heard a faint creak and looked up. One of the big barn doors was slowly swinging shut!

He started to rise ... Was it a trap? Or just the wind? He was in the fourth and last stall. He got up suddenly and started for the door. As he did so it swung shut and he heard a latch drop into place. Rushing to the door, he pushed against it, but the door held firm. He knew the hasp on the door couldn't be very strong. He stepped back to lunge against it, hesitated, for fear of a shot, then threw himself at the barrier. The door was immovable. Something was wedged against it from the outside. He turned quickly toward the window ... It was too small! For an instant Shanaghy stood perfectly still. This was stupid! What in the world could be the reason? Nobody could be kept locked up like this for long. He would get out on his own, or, when morning came and people began moving about, he could call out ...

If he was alive.

Realization came to him one instant before he smelled the smoke.

Fire!

Destroying not only him, but Carpenter's body, as well->* Carpenter's body with its telltale wounds.

Shanaghy was no fool to waste time in charging about or battering at walls. The closest buildings were stores, empty at night. The feeble sounds he could make, unless he started shooting, would attract no attention, and even the shots might be passed off as some drunk celebrating a little. The smoke was coming through cracks from the north side of the barn, the side away from the town, and from the smell it was hay burning. Hay would create the most smoke, and might smoulder for some time before growing into flame, but it was smoke that killed most people in fires. Shanaghy knew that from the firemen working Morrissey's volunteer companies in New York. He had to get out, and he had to get Carpenter's body out. He'd never get the doors battered down in time.

The smoke was getting thicker. As he ran to Carpenter's body, he started coughing. He lifted the smaller man from the manger ... to the back of the barn. The loft ... the small loft where hay was stored for use during bad weather! There was a simple ladder of crosspieces nailed to a post that gave access to the loft.

Higher up, the smoke would be worse. No matter. It was the only way. Lifting Carpenter's body, Shanaghy slung it over his shoulder. Holding the body in place, he grasped the post itself with his free hand and climbed. Five steps. He dumped the body on the little hay that remained. Then, coughing and gasping, he reached for the roof.

It was made of poles with a crude thatch of branches and straw. Almost unable to breathe, his eyes smarting from the smoke, he clawed at the poles with his bare hands. He ripped and he tore. He got hold of a branch and broke it free. Dust and dirt cascaded over him. He tore at the thatch, coughing with great, lung-tearing gasps. Suddenly, his hand went through and fresh air flooded around him. Below him, he heard the crackle of flames from inside the barn. After ripping branches away, he grasped a pole and broke it by sheer brute strength. More dust and straw tumbled through upon him, but there was more fresh air, too.

Stooping, he grabbed Carpenter's body by the collar and crawled through the hole onto the roof. Flames were leaping up behind him. None were yet visible outside, although there was considerable smoke.

After reaching the edge of the barn, he dropped the body and leaped down himself, falling quickly to one side, gun in hand. Nothing ... the would-be killer was gone, fearful of being seen close to the burning barn.

Tom Shanaghy gathered Carpenter's body in his arms and walked slowly away. Behind him the barn exploded into flame, and he heard shouts and yells from the town. The Carpenter home was but a hundred yards or so away, and he walked toward it.

She was standing on the step, looking toward the fire, and she saw him coming. He saw the white of her wrapper when she stepped away from the door and came toward him, walking slowly.

"Marshal? Mr. Shanaghy? Is it him?"

"Yes, ma'am. He was murdered, ma'am."

"Marshal, would you bring him in, please?" Then she paused. "What is happening, Marshal?"

"I found his body, but they locked me in the stable and set it afire." She indicated a bed and he placed the body there, gently. "Ma'am? They'd left him in the manger, covered with hay, but the worst of this is from bringing him through the roof."

"Even then, with the fire, you took time to bring him out? Marshal, I-" "Ma'am, forget it. And don't worry. I'll find who did it. I'll find them if it's the last thing I ever do."

Men had crowded around the fire, watching to keep it from spreading, although the building was isolated. Shanaghy glanced toward them and went on to the street again, pausing there a moment to brush the dust from his derby. There were still a few horses along the street and there was one rig ... A man was untying the horses and he turned at Shanaghy's footsteps. It was Pendleton. Shanaghy paused. "Leaving town, Mr. Pendleton? You aren't staying for the fire?" "I have seen a fire, Marshal." The Englishman turned toward him. "What has happened?"

"Carpenter has been murdered. I had just found the body when somebody set fire to the barn. An attempt, I presume, to destroy both me and the evidence." "But you got out? And the body?"

"I brought it with me. Is Jan with you?"

"At this hour?"

"I was hoping she was. Somebody ... a woman, I think, should be with Mrs.

Carpenter. I could think of no one better than Jan."

"I'll bring her in. But there's Mrs. Murphy, too, over at the boardinghouse." Puzzled, Shanaghy watched Pendleton drive away. It was late, almost midnight, in fact, and not a likely hour for anybody to be out. Western towns were not like New York. Here, people arose at daybreak or before and worked the day through. By night they were ready for bed, and sleep.

Shanaghy watched the receding back of the buckboard and then walked across to the hotel.

Carpenter was dead and an attempt had been made to kill him, so it was no longer fun- and party-time. Also, somebody had either been watching the barn or trailing him. More likely the latter.

From his room in the hotel, Shanaghy looked down into the street. He had no light burning and offered no target, yet he himself could see into the street. He was puzzled.

He had always been wary of being followed. This caution had developed from his days around the Five Points, for the area had been a hangout for thugs. Even the children would rob a man, setting on him in gangs and tripping him up or pulling him down. Shanaghy was as sure as a man could be that he had not been followed. Yet he had been observed.

Somebody, or several somebodies, was taking time out from whatever else they were doing to watch him ... which meant they were worried. First they had tried to have him killed in Greenwood's, and second, in the burning barn. What next? That there would be another attempt, and that it would be soon, he knew.

He put his derby on the dressing table, took off his boots, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

What actually did he have? He believed an attempt was to be made to steal the money, which was due in the day after tomorrow by the latest reports. He believed the mysterious young woman was involved. He believed the supposed railroad detective who had put him off the train was also involved. Whoever was in on the action had a local base, and sources of local information.

That person, or persons, had hidden the horses, had attempted to kill him. He thought of the men down there in the street. He had taken food to them, and water. What disturbed him was that they seemed less worried by their captivity than expected.

Escape would not be easy. The posts were deeply sunk and the railing was thick, strong, well-seasoned wood. The sound of a saw or an ax would be heard all over town. Digging the posts out of the ground would be a formidable job. Had they received some promise they would be taken care of? Irritably, he got up and paced the floor. In just a matter of hours, the money would be arriving. If Vince Patterson did not come in with his cattle and his riders, the robbers would have planned some other diversion. As quietly as possible, he moved his bed closer to the window, put two pillows behind him and sat up, looking out at the street. From where he sat he could see the two men chained to the hitching-rail. Both seemed to be asleep, and the street was empty.

By now the plotters might have discovered that Patterson was not to make his move. In any event, he must think that way and not blind himself to whatever else might happen.

Suddenly, he sat up. One of the men at the hitching-rail had lifted his head and was peering intently across the street toward a place hidden from Shanaghy's view.

Shanaghy got up, pulled on his boots and slipped into his coat. After donning his derby, he went quietly down the stairs into the deserted lobby. A faint light glowed over the desk but all else was dark. He moved to the wide window where, standing near the pillar, he had a good view up and down the street. Suddenly he saw the hand of one of the chained men shoot up as if to catch something, then saw him clawing in the dust to get hold of it. Shanaghy wheeled. Moving swiftly, he went down the hall. At the back door he paused, then eased the door open, and slipped out into the darkness. As he did so a figure emerged from between the buildings and moved away from him.

There was no chance for identification, not even a glimpse of more than the shadowy figure. Shanaghy started after him, running as softly as possible on the sandy earth.

Some sound must have reached the figure ahead, for Shanaghy caught a glimpse of a startled white face. Then the figure broke into a run, disappearing around a corner. Shanaghy pulled up at the corner, expecting a trap. Then he heard a pound of hoofs and he rushed from between the buildings to catch the merest suggestion of movement and the sound of retreating hoofbeats. He swore, then spat. The luck of him! Another step or two faster and he might have caught at least a glimpse.

Wearily, he walked back to the hotel and went to bed. He was not especially interested in what had been thrown. He was pretty certain what it had been ... a lock pick, he was sure. At this point he didn't care, for if the three escaped it would be all the less to watch out for when the showdown came. He awakened in the cold light of dawn unrested, worried and sure that things were completely out of control.

All hell was about to break loose, and he did not know where or from whom or just how.

After he had eaten breakfast he went from place to place, trying to complete setting up the organization he had told Patterson was already in existence. There was some grumbling, but there was also some eagerness. Things had been quiet in town and some of the townsfolk were ready for action, any kind of action.

Work had piled up at the blacksmith shop. After taking off his coat and shirt he put on a leather apron and went to work. He always thought better when his hands were busy, anyway. Physical labor seemed to open all the channels of his mind. He completed an order for andirons, made two sets of hinges and put shoes on two horses. It was when he was paring down a hoof for shoeing that the thought came to him. He finished the job, tied the horse at the hitching-rail outside the shop, and stood for a moment, looking up the street. There were a few places in town from which almost everything could be seen. One of them was Greenwood's.

He hung up his apron, put on his coat and hat and started up the street.

Chapter
Fourteen.

He paused in front of Holstrum's store, then walked over to where the would-be gunmen were shackled to the hitching-rail. He checked their shackles, then commented, "You boys should get wise to yourselves. If they ever brought off this job, how much would you get? The fewer there are around to split with, the bigger the shares for the others."

He pushed his derby back on his head. "Was I running this job I'd see you boys got turned loose just as the shooting starts. You'd help to create a diversion, and you'd get killed in the process."

Shanaghy knew too much about crooks not to know there was always mutual doubt and suspicion. "How well do you know the people you're working with?" he asked mildly. "I'd say you boys better be looking at your hole card." "I don't know what he's talkin' about, do you, Turkey?" said one. The thin, scrawny man shrugged. "Surely don't. We just come into town for a peaceful drink."

Shanaghy chuckled. "This here's a right deceiving town," he said. "For instance, I'd bet you boys don't know I've got men staked out all over town? And that when the shooting starts they'll be using shotguns and buffalo guns at close range?" He waved a hand around. "Boys, there ain't an inch of this street that isn't covered at less'n fifty yards, and mostly twenty yards, by shotguns and rifles. You boys are going to be right in the middle of a bloodbath."