The Killing Season (54 page)

“Hagerman,” said Nathan, “you're
always
out on some kind of limb. One day I aim to back off and see just how big a fool you can make of yourself. So much natural talent just shouldn't go to waste.”

“Then you'll do it?”

“On a temporary basis,” Nathan said. “Like I told you, I'm riding to Dakota Territory in the spring, even if you have to board up Dodge and shut down the railroad. Now where do I go to be sworn in?”

“Over to the mercantile,” Hagerman said. “I told Langley you'd be there right after breakfast.”

Only when Hagerman realized what he had said did he seem a trifle embarrassed, and he didn't miss the hard look in Nathan's eyes. Here was a man it didn't pay to take for granted, and Foster Hagerman knew he was near to stepping over the line.

“Your dog has been fed, sir,” said the waiter who brought Nathan's breakfast.

“I'm obliged,” Nathan said.

“Just coffee for me,” said Hagerman.

Nothing more was said until Nathan had finished eating. Finally Hagerman put down his coffee cup and spoke.

“The AT and SF will continue to pay for your room and meals.”

Nathan nodded, shoved back his chair, and stood up. He didn't like Rufus Langley, and he wanted to be sworn in and done with the man. He left the cafe and found Empty waiting for him. It was still early, and the mercantile was deserted. Langley seemed ill at ease, stumbling through the swearing in, even though he had the procedure written down. When he had finished, he dropped the sheriffs badge and the key to the office. Nathan said nothing, waiting.

“Do you ... ah ... understand your duties?” Langley asked.

“Probably better than you,” said Nathan. “Have you done anything toward returning the money taken from the Bank of Santa Fe?”

“No,” Langley said. “I took possession of it late yesterday, and it's not even eight o'clock in the morning.”

“Get it,” said Nathan. “I'll see that it's returned, along with a report on Virgil Monroe and of his killing of Santa Fe's Sheriff Monroe.”

Langley had transferred the bundles of bills to an enormous sack, and he surrendered it without a word. Nathan couldn't help wondering if the sack contained all the money he had taken off Virgil Monroe's body. Pinning the sheriffs badge on his shirt, Nathan put the office key in his pocket, took the sack of stolen money, and left the store. Reaching the sheriffs office, he unlocked the door and let himself in. The place was familiar to Empty, and he followed. Nathan sat down at the scarred desk, and in a drawer, found paper and pencils. He set about composing a telegram to the Bank of Santa Fe. Finished, he took it and the stolen money to the depot. There he knocked on Foster Hagerman's door.

“It's open,” Hagerman said.

“This,” said Nathan, dropping the sack on the desk, “I want you to lock in your safe until I'm told what to do with it. Now here's the telegram I want sent to the Bank of Santa Fe.”

Nathan left Hagerman's office and walked around town. They might as well get used to him wearing the badge. Time dragged, and at noon, Nathan went to Delmonico's to eat. He wasn't all that hungry; there just was nothing better to do. When he heard the distant whistle of the westbound, he went to the depot to watch the train come in. He recalled the many times Sheriff Harrington had done this very thing, and now he understood the old sheriff's reason. Two men got off the train, and Nathan sized them up immediately as gamblers. Another reason Sheriff Harrington had always met the train, for a good lawman made it his business to be aware of newcomers and their purpose for being in town. On the frontier, many a man's purpose for being in town was his having been run out of the last one. At a distance Nathan followed, watching the new arrivals head for the Long Branch Saloon. It was the most popular of all the saloons in Dodge, and generally the less troublesome, insofar as gamblers were concerned. Empty had quickly developed a dislike for the saloons, and like Cotton Blossom, remained outside when Nathan entered one. Some saloon gambling went beyond poker and faro, with cockfights, dogfights, bare-knuckle boxing, and knife fights. The many times Nathan had been in Dodge, he had avoided these “sporting” saloons, because he disliked the cruelty. Now, wearing a badge, he felt he ought to know what was going on there. Some saloons featuring bloody entertainment had lower or “cellar” rooms for that purpose. One such saloon was the Saratoga, and it was near ten o'clock when Nathan arrived. A few men loitered around the bar and there was a poker game in progress, but most of the commotion came from below.

“What's going on down there?” Nathan asked.

“Dogfight,” said the barkeep.

Nathan descended the stairs, and nobody even noticed him. Every eye was on the circular pit in which a pair of bleeding dogs stalked each other. Men shouted and cursed in turn, depending on which of the desperate animals seemed to have an edge. As Nathan's eyes grew accustomed to the poor light, he could see that only one of the animals was a dog. The other was a prairie wolf, or nearly so, and the odds clearly favored the wolf. It was gaunt, had likely been starved for the event, and there was more at stake than who won or lost the deadly match. The dog, when it could no longer defend itself, would be ripped to shreds and eaten.

“This has gone far enough,” Nathan said. “I'm calling on the owners of those animals to separate them.”

“Don't be a damn fool,” somebody shouted. “That wolf will tear a man apart. He'll be shot when this is done.”

“It's done now,” said Nathan. He drew his Colt and shot the wolf.

“Damn you!” a dozen men shouted.

But Nathan had his back to the wall and had not holstered his Colt. The hapless dog was mortally wounded and would soon bleed to death. Nathan fired again, putting the dog out of its misery.

“I aim to look in on you gents every night,” Nathan said. “There'll be no more of this foolishness while I'm wearing the badge in Dodge.”

“You won't be wearin' it much longer,” said a voice, and a dozen others shouted their agreement.

Nathan said nothing. He backed up the stairs, his Colt steady in his hand. Somebody seized him from behind, and he flung the man over his head, into those who followed him up the stairs. He turned, barely in time to meet the barkeep coming up with a sawed-off shotgun.

“Don't!” Nathan warned.

Slowly the barkeep lowered the weapon, placing it on the bar. The poker game had broken up, and Nathan worked his way toward the door, his back to the wall. Reaching the door, he paused long enough to issue a warning.

“As long as I wear this badge, there'll be no more fights-to-the-death. If it happens again, somebody's going to the calabozo. You, maybe.”

“It ain't agin the law,” the barkeep said sullenly.

“It is now,” Nathan replied. “Spread the word.”

 

The word was spread, and more rapidly than Nathan had expected. Foster Hagerman again joined Nathan for breakfast, and his mood was somewhere between embarrassment and aggravation.

“The town council's meetin' tonight, and they want you there.”

“I'll be there,” Nathan said. “It wouldn't have anything to do with what I said and did at the Saratoga last night, would it?”

“It would,” said Hagerman. “Damn it, you're enforcing laws that don't even exist.”

“They should,” Nathan replied. “Hagerman, I've killed men that were needful of it, and I will again, but I won't see one animal pitted against another to the death. I didn't want this damn badge, but you insisted. Now you tell Rufus Langley and his gutless council I'll meet with them for just as long as it takes to drop this badge in their laps.”

“Nobody's going to ask for your badge, Nathan,” said Hagerman.

Nathan said nothing more, and Hagerman departed after finishing his coffee. While the day seemed to drag on forever, there were some gratifying moments. Every woman Nathan met smiled at him, and he believed that was a result of the stand he had taken the night before, in the Saratoga Saloon. One thing bothered him. He felt guilty, as though he had cast Sheriff Harrington in a bad light. Hadn't Harrington been confronted with the same cruel fights-to-the-death that Nathan had witnessed? Was that what it took to become a successful lawman, overlooking popular but shameful activities that violated one's sense of right and wrong? With some misgivings he left the Dodge House a few minutes before seven o'clock, bound for the town hall. He had no idea how many members were on the town council, and was surprised to find there were ten, including Foster Hagerman. Most of them—like Rufus Langley— were merchants, and they only nodded. Hagerman stood up and cleared his throat.

“On behalf of the council, you are to be commended for your action last night. In all due respect to the late Sheriff Harrington, we failed to stand behind him with laws that he could enforce. We're typical of most towns on the frontier, yielding to the saloons, allowing them to dictate to the rest of us.”

“You're all commending me for enforcing laws that don't exist,” said Nathan, “because none of you have to face up to the responsibility. You never gave Sheriff Harrington a legal leg to stand on, because you were—and still are—intimidated by the saloon. owners. I'm in a position where if I continue what I started last night, every damn saloon owner in town has a perfect right to hate my guts. These fights-to-the-death should be illegal. Are you going to side me, or not?”

“I am,” Foster Hagerman said. “I'm making a motion that saloon fights of all kinds be outlawed. Do I hear a second?”

There was no second. Nine men hung their heads, while Hagerman grew furious. He finally spoke, posing a question to the silent council.

“Why? Damn it, when you have a sheriff willing to enforce the law, you won't let him do it. Why?”

“I'll tell you,” said Max Rucker, owner of the livery. “We all got wives, Foster, and they see what happened last night as the start of a movement that will eventually close the saloons on Sunday and the whorehouses permanent. We can't do a little without doin' it all, and that'll be the death of us. Come spring, when the herds come up the trail from Texas, you want the saloons dark on Sundays and the whorehouses shut for good? If that happens, it's purely goin' to ruin business.”

Hagerman looked helplessly at Nathan, and it was he who spoke.

“I have nothing against saloons being open all night and all day, every day. If a man wants to drink, that's his business. I favor whorehouses, because there's a need for them. The men and women who make them possible are there by their own choosing. But damn it, when two animals are trapped in a pit, being forced to fight for their lives, they have no choice. I can't reform the world, but I aim to stand up for the dumb brutes that can't speak for themselves. Those of you whose women have you haltered and muzzled, I hope you can bust loose long enough to tell them where I stand. I'm my own man, and if I have to enforce the law according to my conscience, then I'll do it.”

“Unless somebody has more to say on the subject,” Hagerman said, “I'm declaring this meeting adjourned.”

Nobody said anything, and Nathan didn't linger. He stepped out the door, and with Empty trotting along beside him, returned to the Dodge House. The saloons wouldn't begin to roar for another two hours, and he intended to rest while he could. There came a knock on the door.

“Identify yourself,” Nathan said.

“Hagerman,” a voice replied.

Nathan unlocked the door, allowing Hagerman to enter. Without waiting to be asked, he took a chair, leaving Nathan the bed.

“You see how it is,” said Hagerman.

“Yes,” Nathan said, “but you didn't come here to say that.”

“No,” said Hagerman. “I came here to tell you that what you said was exactly right. I don't agree with the position they're taking, but I understand it. It all comes back to the old adage that when you give somebody an inch, he'll take a mile. I never saw it coming to all this when I asked you to take the badge, and if you give it up, there'll be no hard feelings on my part.”

“I reckon I'll just ride this bronc for a while,” Nathan said. “I aim to see that Dodge gets more law than it's accustomed to. When I'm gone, and it falls back into its old hell-raising habits, your town council will be roasted over a slow fire.”

Hagerman laughed. “Then you don't aim to close the saloons on Sunday and board up the whorehouses.”

“Not until the town council makes them illegal. As a lawman, I'll try and keep men from killing one another without cause, abusing women, or torturing animals. I reckon the wives of the town council will be disappointed, but it's unlikely they'll ever find a man who can enforce the Ten Commandments for fifty dollars a month.”

 

The moment Kurt Graves stepped off the westbound, Nathan suspected trouble. On his right hip the newcomer carried a thonged-down Colt and slung over his shoulder was a saddlebag. He was dressed entirely in black, including his hat. A black leather vest was studded with silver conchas. His belt buckle was a silver wagon wheel. His eyes paused on Nathan's twin Colts, worked their way up to his sheriffs badge, and finally focused on his face. Nathan's eyes never faltered as he went to meet the stranger. He paused a dozen yards away.

“You have business here, I reckon,” Nathan said.

“I do,” said the stranger. “My own. None of yours.”

“I make it mine,” Nathan said, “when a hombre looks a mite gun-handy.”

“You got a gun ordinance here?”