The One-Horse Lawman

By Gray McCoy

In 1881, Virg Slappey, a U. S. deputy marshal in Denver, Colorado, has decided to retire, marry his childhood sweetheart, and begin cattle ranching in Wyoming after a career of fifteen years as a lawman. Virg is an easygoing, fun-loving individual who never fired a shot while on duty. For the entire fifteen years, he has ridden one horse almost exclusively: Bob, a comatose, skinny, swayback bay. On the rare occasions when Virg had to ride another horse in the line of duty, disaster usually struck. When Virg noticed on his last assignment that the enfeebled Bob could hardly make it back to Denver, he knew he had chosen the right time to end his career as a lawman.
On the day that Virg submitted his resignation, Brian Oakes, his boss and closest friend, tells him that he could have been famous except that he had engaged in too much horseplay and was involved in too many petty feuds with people in high places. He also tells him that he has a gift for making people as mad as hell at him. Before their meeting is concluded, Oakes is notified by telegram that Curt Baxter, a famous outlaw, has been captured and jailed in Mayville, a mining town located in the mountains west of Denver.
For Oakes, selecting the right man to send to Mayville was a simple matter. It had to be Duke Trenta legend in his own time. Six-feet-two and ruggedly handsome, Trent could outshoot, outfight, and outride any man in the West. He was the best lawman Oakes had ever seen. Without giving the matter a second thought, he wired Trent to go to Mayville immediately to get Baxter.
But Denver politics got into the decision. The governor and other powerful poker cronies of Oakes were adamant that all measures should be taken to ensure that Baxter would be brought to Denver alive so that he could be given a fair trial before they hanged him. The main fear was that Baxters gang would try to rescue him as they had in the past, and that Baxter would be either on the loose again or killed by Trent. Bruce Thackeray, a powerful banker, points out that Virg had brought in hundreds of prisoners alive without taking his gun out of his holster. Buckling under pressure, Oakes reluctantly persuades Virg to go on one last assignment.
The plan was to send Virg to Mayville in a diversionary scheme in which Trent would return to Denver by the most-used route with someone posing as Baxter, while Virg brought the famous outlaw back by a back trail. Trent was notified by telegram to stand pat until Virg arrived.
A weighty problem for Virg was that he had to have a horse to make the trip and horses were in a short supply in Denver at the time due to recent U.S. Cavalry purchases in the area. Suckered into a bet with an old antagonist, Judge Grayson, Virg agrees to ride the judges horse, Dolly, a hellacious mare known for bone-breaking. To win the bet, Virg must ride to and from Mayville on Dolly and bring back Baxter in the process. He let himself be the judges foil due to his inordinate pride at having served under Jeb Stuart in the Confederate cavalry during the Civil War. When he bragged that he could ride any horse, Grayson called his hand and the bet was consummated.
The assignment turned out even worse than expected. Before Virg arrived in Mayville, Baxter escaped from jail with both Trent and the local sheriff hot on his trail. Starting a day later, a reluctant Virg also joined in the pursuit. In the next few days, both Virg and Trent are engaged in several gunfights. As bodies piled up, and despite Dollys efforts to maim Virg, the two marshals plod forward, determined to see the matter through to the bitter end.
Both Virg and Trent encounter attractive young women who complicate their efforts to snare Baxter. One is Leah Anderson, a redhead with exceptionally good looks, who Trent falls for. The other is Megan Moran, the step-daughter of an evil town boss, who takes a fancy to Virg despite the fact hes engaged to another woman. However, th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462840120

Gray McCoy

The title is Gray McCoy 2nd murder-mystery. His first one being "The Long Game". The author enjoys murder mysteries -- both real and fictional. His intent in the story is to give the reader something different and he feels that he was able to accomplish that.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Virg Slappey reached the outskirts of Denver a little after nine in the morning. He had planned to arrive an hour or so after sundown the night before, but Bob seemed to be more heavy-footed than usual. As a precautionary measure, Virg decided to make an early camp and finish the last few miles in the morning hours at a slow, easy pace.

Virg did not know Bob’s age. He only knew that the old horse was fully grown when he bought him fifteen years ago, and in recent weeks, the gentle bay had less and less stamina. Judging by Bob’s teeth and general physical condition, Virg knew he had to be in his twenties. He did not want to push Bob too hard on the last leg of his last assignment. Virg started his career as a lawman with Bob, and it was important to him that they finish together.

After breaking camp, Virg left Bob mostly to his own pace and direction. Once in familiar territory, Bob knew exactly where to go. Over the years, the horse’s disposition and sense of direction made things easy for Virg since he could loop his reins around the saddle horn and, with two hands free, roll a cigarette, play his harmonica, or do whatever else tickled his fancy. He knew Bob gave him his all, and if he fell out of his saddle dead drunk, the skinny old horse would hang around nearby until he awoke. But it was not a one-way relationship. Old Bob never had to worry about going without food or water too long or being cut by spurs or ridden until he dropped. They worked as a team. Seldom had horse and rider been so well suited to take to the trail together.

Despite the badge on his vest and a Colt .45 strapped to his waist, the U.S. deputy marshal did not make an imposing figure as he rode into Denver on this warm August morning. He sat a little hunched in the saddle, something that he did to accommodate old wounds accumulated during the Civil War as a member of the Army of Northern Virginia. The only time he rode tall in the saddle was when he was alerted to action. However, this was an occasional thing. Just a little shy of six feet, the dark-haired, brown-eyed native of Texas was a slim man, but as hard as nails.

Slowly, but surely, both rider and mount found their way to the livery stable. Tig Broman, the stout, balding owner, looked at Bob critically. You need something better than that bag of bones in your line of work, Virg.

He’s lost weight because we’ve been on one trail too many, said Virg as he dismounted. Anyway, today is my last day as a federal marshal. All Bob has to do is take a train ride north. I’m going to have a horse doctor in Cheyenne check him out. After that, his time is his own. I’m putting him out to pasture. He looked around. Where’s Bama?

One of the horses kicked his ribs in.

Virg’s eyebrows shot up. Gosh, Tig, I’m sorry to hear that. How’s he doing?

Doc Stokes patched him up, but Bama is still complaining. He’s going to see some big city doctors, I think in Chicago, to see if he can walk upright again.

Virg shook his head. Bama is a good man with horses. I thought he was too smart to let a horse embarrass him like that.

Horses are unpredictable – just like women. Anyhow, it’s awfully inconvenient with Bama not here. I have to do my work and his. It’s morning and I’m already sweating like a pig. Virg, do you really mean it? You quitting?

Virg nodded. You bet. I’m going to Wyoming to marry Cathy DuBard. You probably forgot, but I once talked to you about her. She was my childhood sweetheart. We’re going to settle down north of Cheyenne and do a little ranching. Me and Bob have worked long and hard to protect you sorry no-accounts. It’s time you looked after yourselves.

I’m sure happy for you, Virg. But I’m surprised about the bride. I thought you were going to marry Conchita.

At one time, I thought that, too. The truth is, one day she got mad at me and up and left.

Does Brian know you’re leaving?

Sent him a letter about three weeks ago.

Well, it really looks like you mean it this time. I want you to know, Virg, I’m going to miss all the trouble you cause around here. But before I forget it, Brian is out of town. He told me to tell you he won’t be back in his office until tomorrow. Ned Grange is tending to things until he gets back.

Virg frowned. I wanted to see Brian today so I could leave tomorrow. Oh well, I guess a day’s delay won’t hurt none.

You want Bob to have the usual?

And then some, said Virg as he affectionately rubbed the horse on the neck. Double-feed and a good brushing. Later I’ll go down to the general store and get some sugar for him… and maybe some carrots and apples if they have any.

He’s not going to regain all that weight overnight.

Just get him comfortable and rested, said Virg. I don’t want Bob to give out on me before I get him to my new ranch. He then noticed the sparse number of horses in the corral and stalls. Tig, where’s all your stock?

I sold everything I had to the army. They were in here a few days ago. Bought every horse for sale for miles around. The only ones you see here are boarded.

Well, with Bama gone, it makes less work for you. See you later, Tig.

Carrying his saddlebags and rifle, he made his way to the Little Tree Hotel where he stayed when he was in Denver and stored his personal things. It was hard for him to believe his days as a lawman were over. It was a profession he had drifted into unintentionally. Most of the time he had to perform routine, boring assignments, and frequently, he had to endure a lot of misery. But the past few years had been different. Occasionally, he became involved in more interesting cases which required intensive detective work. It might have been an enticement to stay longer except that his circumstances dictated otherwise. At the age of thirty-four, he was an old man by standards of the Western frontier. His pending marriage and the fact that he could no longer ride Bob in his work ended any second thoughts he might have had about staying on as a federal marshal.

When he tried to visualize what it would be like to be a cattle rancher in Wyoming, he wondered whether he would be good at it. A ranch had a lot of responsibilities, and being around a bunch of steers all day did not seem too exciting. Despite his concerns, raising cattle would at least follow the Slappey tradition. His father had been a successful rancher in Texas, and his oldest brother, John, had followed in his footsteps when he inherited the family ranch.

At the hotel, Virg took a hot bath and changed into a clean set of clothes almost identical to the ones he had been wearing – a black vest, blue cotton shirt, Levi’s, and black boots. There was one difference. He replaced the neat, low-crowned Stetson with an old, battered black hat that had an unusually high crown. He chuckled to himself thinking about how much his boss detested the hat he wore only in Denver. No self-respecting federal marshal would wear a hat looking like that! Brian had complained on many occasions.

The thought occurred to Virg that things were going his way. Aside from the more interesting work assignments, he had been winning at poker, his childhood sweetheart had agreed to marry him after being made a widow, and thanks to collecting a large reward from Wells Fargo, he had raised enough cash to buy a ranch in partnership with his youngest brother, Brad. Yes, for the first time in his life, he was on a long lucky streak, and he intended to enjoy it while it lasted.

In the meantime, he had almost two days to enjoy the pleasures of Denver, a booming Western city with a grand mixture of saloons, stores, and restaurants. After a shave and a haircut, and a steak at Delmonico’s, he would make the rounds of the saloons on Larimer Street. Most of his old drinking companions had already moved on to settle down – at least those who hadn’t been killed. Nevertheless, he had always been lucky enough to run into an old friend or someone interesting who would make an evening in Denver something special. He looked forward to the prospects.

Later that day, four hardened men shared a bottle of expensive whiskey in the only saloon of a seedy town west of Denver called Pottston. The center of attention was a handsome man in his midthirties dressed in a neat black suit. People not knowing his true identity would hardly suspect that this genial individual with light blond hair was Curt Baxter, an outlaw chieftain known throughout the West.

This is good whiskey, Zeke, said Baxter. He waved his hand around the saloon that was empty except for the young girl behind the bar and the four men at the table. And this is a nice, clean place. You should do something to get the rest of your settlement up to this standard.

Zeke Pottston – bald, red-faced, and sporting a salt-and-pepper beard – poured fresh drinks for all at the table. At fifty-two, he was the head of the Pottston clan. He wore a suit and shirt that had not seen soap and water for quite a while. He was mean and tough, and his cruel face showed it. This settlement is perfect the way it is. It doesn’t attract too much attention. I can do whatever I want to when I want to.

That’s a good reason to keep it the way it is, said Herb Dolvin, Baxter’s chief lieutenant, whose spectacles, brown suit, and derby combined to make him look more like a bookkeeper than a man on a wanted poster. It doesn’t hurt to have a place to come back to when the law gets on your trail.

Zeke pointed to the young brunette working behind the bar. The reason this place is so clean is that Meg has a gift for hard work. She spends most of her time here scrubbing the place. Her ma was a schoolteacher who taught her a lot of smart things. She’s going to make the perfect wife for Lake.

When Zeke motioned toward Lake, all eyes focused on him. Lake Pottston was the spitting image of his father except that he was twenty-three years younger and had a lot more hair.

Lake, listen to your pa, said Baxter. She’ll make a fine wife for any man. I didn’t notice it at first, but she’s a mighty pretty girl. And she seems to get better looking each day. Those big brown eyes of hers have a way of growing on you. He added with a laugh, Zeke, I’m glad you brought those four young ladies into town for us. Otherwise, one of my men might have been tempted. Mind you, Lake, I mean no disrespect.

Lake, the oldest, biggest, and meanest of the Pottston boys, shrugged. No offense taken. I don’t like having to wait until her birthday to marry up with her, but Pa says I have to. Anyway, in December, I won’t have to wait no longer.

Why wait? asked Herb. Girls in these parts get married and have kids before they are fifteen. Who would care?

Her ma would care, said Zeke. I promised her on her deathbed I wouldn’t marry her daughter off to Lake until her sixteenth birthday. I intend to keep my promise.

How long will it take us to get the gold? asked Lake of Baxter, partly because he wanted to know and partly to change the subject to keep his mind off his desire for Meg.

Just a few days. If you go with us to Mexico, you’ll be gone two or three months longer. Either way, you’ll be back in plenty of time to get hitched.

How much do you think will be my cut? asked Lake.

If everything goes according to plan, maybe a couple of thousand. Maybe a little more. Maybe a little less. Your two pards should make the same.

While Lake’s face brightened, Zeke took a glance at his pocket watch. I’m going to have to be getting out of here soon. Let’s settle the matter with Hooker.

Baxter nodded in agreement. That’s a good idea. We’re going to have to make tracks ourselves.

Go get him, Lake, said Zeke.

In a few minutes, Lake and two of his seedy brothers – Ralph and Dooley – returned with a young man in his early twenties. Hooker was carrying with great difficulty a large anvil with a cavity at the base to which his shackled hands and feet were secured by massive chains.

That’s far enough, said Zeke when Hooker was inside the doorway about six or eight feet.

Hooker let the anvil crash to the floor. He was ragged, badly battered, breathing heavily, and sweating profusely. Yet he stood there defiantly.

It doesn’t look good, said Zeke. We checked his saddlebags. He is Adam Hooker for sure – the bounty hunter. He has several wanted posters. One of them has your face on it, Baxter.

Baxter studied the young man for a moment. Adam Hooker… I’ve heard of you. You’re supposed to be good with the gun. I didn’t know you would be as young as you are.

Hooker shrugged.

Baxter took a sympathetic look at the bounty hunter. Then he motioned to Meg behind the bar who was staring worriedly at Hooker. Meg, would you please give our friend some water?

Moving quickly – something the Pottston clan expected of all womenfolk – Meg dipped some water from a large bucket, poured it into a large glass, and gave it to Hooker. Thank you, ma’am, he said. She nodded to acknowledge his words of politeness, and returned just as quickly to her position behind the bar.

Hooker drank greedily and finished the drink in one tip of the glass. After wiping his mouth, he placed the glass on a table next to him. Now, even more defiant, he stood to his full height of six feet. You have no right to treat me this way.

Why not? asked Zeke, pointing to the badge pinned to his vest. I’m the town marshal. You came here looking for trouble. You wanted to put a few holes in this peaceable citizen here.

Why do you want to kill me? asked Baxter.

Who said I wanted to kill you? replied Hooker.

You came into Pottston looking for me, said Baxter. You told Ralph here you wanted to put a bullet between my eyes. Was it for the reward?

Hooker knew he was cornered. He had talked to Ralph before he knew the town was a settlement completely controlled by friends of Curt Baxter. They got the drop on him and that was that. Lying would do him little good in the present situation, so he decided to level with Baxter. It wasn’t the money. You killed my ma and little brother when you robbed the bank in Tucson.

Now Baxter understood. So that’s it… I remember… I remember everything. I’m sorry, boy, but they just happened to be in the bank when the shooting started. They got caught in a crossfire between my men and some foolish deputies and townspeople. I don’t know exactly who shot them. It might have been one of my men. But it could just as easily have been a trigger-happy deputy or one of the shopkeepers. I didn’t pull the trigger on either of them.

The sheriff said you did it.

Sheriff Ellis wasn’t there. He never did know what he was talking about. Nobody wants to claim credit for killing a ma and her young’un. I know I didn’t do it. But Mr. Bounty Hunter, what am I going to do with you? I don’t want to kill you.

Let’s meet in the street outside, man to man, your gun against mine.

As the other men eyed Baxter, the outlaw stroked his chin a few times. Boy, I can put two holes in you before your gun clears the holster. But there’s an unwritten code out here men like me honor. We don’t take unnecessary risks. Why should I take a chance of outdrawing you? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I can plug you cleanly. But it simply isn’t worth the risk. It might be that one hundredth time when you’re lucky. I would be within my rights if I plugged you right now. Nobody would blame me.

You’re yeller! shouted Hooker.

Baxter scoffed at the insult. You’re not going to rile me, boy. Now just stand there for a moment while I give this matter a little thought.

Herb said, If you let him go, I don’t think you could take his word he wouldn’t come gunning for you.

Zeke said, You would have to watch your back for the rest of your life.

I’m already doing that, said Baxter. One more man gunning for me would hardly be noticed. The fact is, I don’t want to kill him and I don’t want him hounding me either. If he was a little older…

Behind the counter, Meg watched the situation in pure agony. Over the years, she had seen many unfortunate riders get sucked into the Pottston net. If they were lucky, they were allowed to continue on their journey after being beaten up and relieved of their valuables. The others had perished under miserable circumstances. During the night, she had been denied permission by Zeke to give Hooker some food and water in the shack where he was being held. She prayed silently that the young bounty hunter would somehow get away. At least, there was a glimmer of hope, she thought. While Baxter was an outlaw of considerable reputation, he was not as ruthless or despicable as the Pottstons. Perhaps, he could think of something that would spare Hooker’s life.

You got a bad deal, Hooker, said Baxter. I can’t ever make it up to you. No one can. From what I see, you would be a good man to have around. If you join up with me, you’ll make a lot more than you’re making now. I’ll give you the same share my regular boys get. What do you say?

Suddenly, Zeke’s youngest son, Jed, burst through the saloon doors. Unaware of what was going on, he stopped to take it in. Without realizing it, he stood too close to Hooker. What happened next put the small group in the saloon into pandemonium. Hooker grabbed Jed’s gun with his manacled hand, and started firing toward Baxter. Dodging bullets was nothing new to Baxter. Almost in a single motion, he overturned his table, crouched behind it, drew his revolver, and returned the fire. The gunfight was over in a matter of seconds. Hooker’s shots were wide but not by much. The two shots Baxter fired hit their mark. Hooker grabbed his chest and pitched forward to the floor. Meg turned her back to the men and started sobbing.

Although the rest of the men in the saloon had drawn their guns, the gunfight was over before they had a chance to shoot. Enraged, Zeke walked over to Jed and gave him the back of his hand. The boy fell on top of a table and rolled over to the floor. You dumb fool! yelled Zeke. You almost got us shot!

Easy, Zeke, said Baxter. The kid didn’t know.

Herb holstered his gun and took a closer look at Hooker. You don’t have to worry about this one anymore.

With his left hand, Baxter pulled back the bottom part of his coat to display two bullet holes. He swallowed hard and smiled weakly at the others.

Zeke looked at Baxter in amazement. I’m beginning to believe the story that you can’t be killed by a bullet. I don’t see how Hooker missed you as close as he was to you.

Any man can be killed by a bullet, said Herb as he wiped the sweat off his face with his handkerchief. Under the circumstances, Hooker was desperate. He knew he was going to get killed. He just thought he had to shoot faster than he normally had to. If he had taken his time and didn’t have the shackles to deal with and wasn’t beaten up as badly as he was, Curt would be on the floor with him.

Baxter was visibly depressed. What a waste. Poor kid. Things turned out poorly for him.

Don’t waste any tears on him, Curt, said Herb. He didn’t have to strap on a six-gun and track you down.

I suppose he reminded me of me, said Baxter. Back in my hometown, the town marshal killed my pa when I was fourteen. I killed the town marshal the next day. Been on the run from the law ever since.

Fate killed the kid, said Herb, not you.

Baxter’s smile, forced that it was, returned. What’s done is done. Silently, he and Herb straightened their table and chairs and sat down again.

Disgruntled at the situation, Zeke unlocked the shackles on the dead bounty hunter and ordered his sons to remove the body and anvil. Since Jed was so smart, he’ll dig the grave. Meg, get this mess cleaned up. Zeke placed a new bottle and clean glasses before Baxter and Herb. You boys sit back down and have another drink. I’ll be back as soon as I make sure this is handled properly.

When Zeke and his sons left the saloon, Meg with rags and pail began cleaning the floor. Baxter and Herb watched, but said nothing, while she worked with economy of motion to complete her chore.

Herb continued to look at the young girl when she returned to her duties behind the bar, She’s too good for Lake. She doesn’t know how to smile, but I’d say she has a head on her shoulders. After our little enterprise, let’s kick Lake out of the gang and take her with us to Mexico. Once she gets off her high horse and wears some fancy clothes, I think she would be a little more cheerful and a lot of fun for both of us.

Baxter shook his head. Right now, the only woman I have on my mind is a redhead. Let’s not mix business with pleasure. We could do without Lake, but we never know about this place. We might need to come here again someday and hide out. We don’t want to get on the bad side of Zeke.

Herb stopped staring at Meg and scratched his chin. I suppose you’re right. But if you want to know the truth, I’ve felt a little edgy since the boys left yesterday. The ground here is full of people who wandered into this hellhole. Zeke and his boys are a little creepy. If Lake wasn’t riding with us, I wouldn’t put it past Zeke and his boys to cut our throats to steal our cash and collect the reward on our heads. I’m glad we’re leaving.

Baxter smiled understandingly at Herb to let him know his point was well taken. Unlike the other members of his gang, Herb was learned. That was one of the reasons he was Baxter’s second-in-command. Herb, as long as we keep our eyes open, we’ll be all right. Zeke is no fool. Both of us are handy with the six-shooter. Zeke ain’t going to start nothing unless he is absolutely sure he can finish it. Besides, he hates the law and we throw easy money his way from time to time. Then a thought occurred to Baxter as he showed an impish grin. Maybe I should tell Patch to hide out here for a while.

Herb did not warm up the suggestion, even though he knew Baxter meant it as a joke. If you want to get rid of Patch that bad, why don’t you do the dirty work yourself?

Baxter picked up the whiskey bottle and filled the two glasses. I just might do that. But first things first. I want you to go to Denver, Herb.

What for?

Nobody in Denver knows you when you don’t wear your derby and good clothes. Dress like a sodbuster or something. Take Hooker’s belongings with you and send them to his folks in Tucson. I’ll write a letter and put a hundred dollars in it for you to send with the stuff.

Isn’t that just a little too much? asked Herb.

I don’t think so. My reputation isn’t what it used to be before that bank robbery in Tucson. Most people seem to think I killed Hooker’s ma and little brother. I don’t want to take blame for something I didn’t do. I want you to get word to Hooker’s folks that I didn’t do the killings.

How will you explain the fact that you killed Hooker?

I’ll tell them the truth. He was after the wrong man. I killed him, but had no choice. He died very bravely and they should know that.

I don’t think it will make them feel any better, said Herb. Besides, it’s not a smart thing to do. Right now, nobody outside here knows you killed Hooker. Why confess to it?

I want people to know that bounty hunters after my scalp get planted six feet under, or maybe two feet under here in Pottston.

How about Zeke? asked Herb. He might want Hooker’s things.

I’ll just have to convince him to be satisfied with the horse and saddle. If I have to, I’ll sweeten the pot. But maybe I won’t have to.

Is there any way I can talk you out of it?

Ordinarily, you might, replied Baxter. But there is another reason I want you to go to Denver. I need for you to pick up a couple of suits from my tailor. Now that this one has a few holes, I have only one good outfit to my name. I had to leave Denver in a hurry when I was there the last time and didn’t get to drop by his shop after he took my measurements and made the suits.