THE JAIL WAS DANK as a cavern. Located in the basement of city hall, it consisted of an office and a lockup with six barred cells. Spotty rays of sunlight filtered through small above-ground windows.
There was an outside door, situated on the north side of the building. Clint hustled his prisoner down narrow stone steps and into the office. By now, the man was fully alert and simmering with hostility. His bottom lip was puffed and the corner of his mouth was caked with dried blood. His eyes were murderous.
“Goddammit to hell!” he raged. “You got no right to arrest me!”
Clint ignored the protest. He found a ring of keys hanging on a wall peg and unlocked the door to the lockup. Shoving the man ahead of him, he entered a dim corridor and saw that the jail was indeed empty. He halted before the open door of one of the cells. He motioned inside. “Don’t give me any trouble.”
The man glowered at him. “Mister, you got lots of balls, but no brains. You’re gonna be sorry you butted in like that.”
“Tough titty! I got friends that’ll take unkindly to you lockin’ me up. ’Specially since you ain’t no lawman!”
“Give your friends a message,” Clint said flatly. “Anybody who messes with me will wish he hadn’t.”
The man began a sputtered retort. Clint took a fistful of shirt and flung him backward into the cell. Then, slamming the door, he locked it and turned away.
As he entered the office, William Byers came through the outside door with another man in tow. The editor grinned broadly. “Mr. Brannock,” he said, motioning to the other man, “I’d like you to meet our mayor, Amos Stodt.”
Stodt held out a stubby-fingered hand. “An honor and a pleasure, Mr. Brannock. I understand you saved Will’s life.”
“Way it worked out,” Clint said, shaking his hand, “I sort of pulled my own fat out of the fire.”
“You are too modest, sir. Anyone who locks horns with Sam Baxter deserves our fullest commendation.”
“Baxter?”
“The man you killed,” Stodt explained.
“Not to mention Purdy,” Byers added. “He’s the little weasel you just locked up. And vicious as they come!”
Clint hung the keys on the wall peg. He gestured back toward the cells. “I reckon he’s where he belongs, then. A stretch in that cage might teach him some manners.”
Byers and Stodt exchanged a quick look. Stodt was an elegantly groomed man with a pencil-thin mustache and a politician’s convivial manner. He wore a hammer-tail coat and vest that fitted snugly over his rather broad waistline. He favored Clint with a neighborly smile.
“Well, now,” Stodt said genially. “Will tells me you’re Virgil Brannock’s brother.”
“Virge and Earl,” Clint replied. “You know Earl, don’t you? Owns the Bella Union.”
“We’ve never met,” Stodt said. “However, I know Virgil quite well. Everyone admires him greatly.”
“Yeah, he’s a go-getter, all right.”
“Apparently it runs in the family. You certainly didn’t hesitate when those ruffians attacked Will.”
Clint glanced sideways at the newspaper editor. He thought it peculiar that Byers had run straight to the town’s mayor. Somewhat bemused, he wondered where the conversation was leading.
“No big thing,” he said. “I just figured somebody ought to lend a hand.”
“Well put,” Stodt said, eyeing him keenly. “Perhaps you might consider doing the same thing for the town?”
“I don’t follow you.”
Stodt ducked his chin at the newspaperman. “Will thinks you’re a candidate for the job of marshal. From the way you handle yourself, I rather think so, too.”
Clint looked amused. “You’re offering me the marshal’s job?”
“I’ll be frank with you,” Stodt said. “Our marshal resigned somewhat unexpectedly. We need a replacement now—today.”
“Why’d he quit?”
“Personal reasons,” Byers said lightly. “Someone threatened his life and he took it to heart.”
“I thought lawmen got used to that kind of thing.”
“Not in our experience,” Byers remarked. “We’ve had six marshals since the spring of ’61. None of them lasted a year on the job.”
Clint studied him inquisitively. “What did you do for law before that?”
Byers tried to downplay the problem. In 1859, he explained, a vigilance committee was formed by the town’s more responsible citizens. Violence was rampant, with killings and shootings an everyday occurrence. To restore order, the vigilantes pursued and apprehended anyone accused of murder. After a citizens’ trial, which usually resulted in a death sentence, the condemned man was hanged. These public executions, lasting through 1860, served as a damper on the lawless element.
Then, in 1861, the vigilance committee was disbanded. The town leaders felt it was time to create stability through a more orderly process of law enforcement. Local ordinances were passed by the city council, all of them designed to put the rowdier element on warning. But lax enforcement of the laws, abetted by a speedy turnover in the marshals, brought a steady erosion of peace and order. The past four years had been a time of trial and error where marshals were concerned.
“In a nutshell,” Byers concluded on a jocular note, “none of them had any real aptitude for the job.”
“Aptitude?” Clint repeated slowly. “What’s that mean, exactly?”
Byers smiled. “They lacked the necessary intestinal fortitude. None of them seemed inclined to meet force with force.”
“Why not bring back the vigilantes? From what you say, hanging worked pretty well.”
“That’s true,” Byers admitted. “Hanging was a persuasive deterrent. We had more law and order with the vigilance committee than we’ve ever had with marshals.”
“Why’d you stop, then?”
Stodt cleared his throat. “A civilized community,” he said in an orotund voice, “doesn’t resort to vigilantes. The outside world views that as mob rule, somewhat barbaric. It creates a bad image for the town.”
A ghost of a smile touched Clint’s mouth. “What’ve all these marshals done for your image? Sounds like an open invitation to troublemakers.”
“Precisely!” Byers said, staring at him earnestly. “And that’s why I’ve asked the mayor to offer you the job. We need a man who’s willing to go head to head with the rougher crowd.”
“And a man,” Stodt intoned hastily, “who believes in the sanctity of the law. We simply cannot condone violence on our streets.”
“Well . . .” Clint said doubtfully. “What makes you think I’m your man? I’ve never had any experience enforcing the law.”
“Perhaps not,” Byers said with conviction, “but you’ve demonstrated what I mentioned a moment ago—an aptitude for the work. Not one of our previous marshals so much as drew his gun.”
“Are you saying you want men shot instead of hung? Appears to me that’s six of one and half a dozen of another.”
“No,” Stodt said quickly. “We want our streets safe and orderly, nothing more. We have no intention of pinning a badge on a hired killer.”
“On the other hand,” Byers said eagerly, “we won’t quibble over methods. Whoever we hire will have the full support of the town council. Isn’t that correct, Amos?”
“Absolutely,” Stodt affirmed. “Our full and unanimous support, no strings attached.”
Clint mulled it over a minute. “How much does the job pay?”
“Salary plus fees,” Stodt replied. “One hundred and fifty a month plus ten percent of all court fines.”
“When do you need an answer?”
“As fast as possible. Someone has to be on the streets by tonight.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Clint walked to the door. As it closed behind him, Stodt’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. He glanced around at Byers.
“I hope you’re right about that man.”
“Trust me, Amos. He’s a natural.”
Clint went directly to the warehouse. News of the shooting had already spread through town, and Virgil pressed him for the details. The story was simply told, requiring no elaboration. Virgil agreed completely with what he’d done.
The matter of the marshal’s job was altogether different. As Clint related the conversation with Byers and Stodt, Virgil’s expression turned pensive. He understood, from the tone of Clint’s voice, that his advice was being sought. He listened without interruption or comment.
“That’s it,” Clint said finally. “They want an answer by tonight.”
Virgil looked troubled. “Aren’t you rushing into something sort of willy-nilly?”
“What’s to be gained by waiting? Tomorrow or the next day wouldn’t change the shape of it none.”
“Maybe not,” Virgil allowed. “But law work isn’t a casual occupation. You ought to give it some serious thought.”
Clint returned his stare. “You’re not worried about me getting myself killed, are you?”
“I’d say it’s a consideration. After all, six marshals in four years tells you something. Denver’s still a damn rough town.”
“What the hell,” Clint said, grinning. “I’ve got a few rough edges myself.”
“Don’t joke,” Virgil said sternly. “We’re talking about a job where kill-or-get-killed is ordinary stuff. Are you prepared to face that every night?”
“The war wasn’t exactly a Sunday-school picnic. We’ve both killed our share of men, Virge. I reckon neither one of us has lost any sleep over it.”
“Speak for yourself. I stopped carrying a gun the day I was mustered out. I’ve seen all the killing I want . . . and more.”
“Well, I reckon that’s what makes horse races. Nobody sees anything exactly the same.”
Virgil was silent a moment. “I thought Denver was just a stopover. Why would you get involved in anything permanent?”
“Nothing says I couldn’t quit whenever I took a notion.”
“Why sign on in the first place, then? I don’t see the sense behind it.”
Clint stared off into some thoughtful distance. Finally, as though he’d found the right words, his gaze swung around. “Wasn’t it you that told me to use the law to get Quintin?”
“Quintin?” Virgil fixed him with a dour look. “I don’t see the connection. You’d have no authority in the mining camps.”
Clint cracked a smile. “Any badge is better than no badge at all. Besides, who knows? Quintin might get an itch to see the big city. Denver’s not that far from the camps.”
“By Judas,” Virgil murmured uneasily. “Once you get your mind set, you just don’t give up, do you?”
“Any reason I should?”
“None you haven’t heard before.”
“No need to rehash it, then, is there?”
Virgil gave him a searching look. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You plan to take the marshal’s job.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then why bother asking for my advice?”
“Old habits are hard to break.”
Clint smiled and walked from the office. Virgil watched him out the door, wondering where it would end. He turned back to the desk and began fussing with a stack of invoices. Then, as though answering himself, he nodded silently.
It would end with still more killing.