The man who had run to fetch the lawmen was pointing at the horse McCall was sitting on.
‘There, you see it, Mort. That’s a Boxed-C horse. One belonging to Major Culhane. I’d say this feller is nothing but a horse thief ‘cause he isn’t one of the Culhane riders.’
Mort stepped closer, running his eyes over McCall’s disheveled appearance. There was a look in the man’s eyes that warned the Texan to step carefully with the man. McCall didn’t like the way Mort was fingering the shotgun.
‘Mister, you’d better step out of that saddle and have one hell of a good story to tell.’
‘You just point that scatter gun away from me, son, and I’ll oblige you.’
‘I don’t think you got much say in the matter.’
‘You tell him, Mort, an’ don’t take any bad mouth from him.’
McCall glanced at the speaker. The man who had brought the lawman. Skinny as a rake, his pale face flushed with excitement. Dressed in a dark suit, high collared shirt and black tie. He was figuring he was someone really important the way he crowded the deputy and kept jabbing a finger at the Texan.
‘Something seems to be stuck in your craw, friend,’ McCall said. ‘Way you’re jabbering I can see you running off to fetch a hang rope any time soon.’
The man turned his gaze on McCall. ‘Wait ‘til the Major finds out,’ he said, his voice thin and peevish. ‘He’ll know what to do with you.’
McCall gave a slow smile. ‘Son, I hear you, but all I see is feller who tags along in another man’s shadow.’
Mort gave a harsh laugh. ‘He got you there, Begley.’
Begley’s thin face flushed deeply. He took a slight step back. Almost immediately he paused, stared, then gave an excited cry.
‘There,’ he crowed. ‘In his holster…it’s Perry’s gun. He’s got Perry Culhane’s gun.’
This time even Mort showed interest, following Begley’s accusing finger. The expression on his bony face hardened.
‘By God, you’re right. I’d recognize that fancy piece of hardware anyhows.’ The shotgun centered on McCall. ‘Step down, mister and do it right quick. No more playing innocent. We got you dead to rights.’
McCall saw no profit in putting up any form of resistance. Especially not with a twelve-gauge no more than a couple of feet from him. He eased himself out of the saddle, hands held well clear of his body and stood next to the horse.
‘Begley, go lift that smoke wagon out his holster and bring it here,’ Mort said.
For a second Begley’s face dropped a shade paler than it had been originally. It was plain he was big on words but not so when it came to actions. He edged off the boardwalk and approached McCall with the expectations of a man face-to-face with a rattler.
‘Y – you make sure he isn’t going to make a grab for me,’ he said.
‘Christ, Ira, I got a head buster on him so he ain’t doin’ a damn thing. Now get that gun.’
McCall stood motionless, with no intention of doing anything for the moment. Resistance was a losing hand right there and then. He felt the ivory-handled revolver lifted from his holster, Begley jerking away from him the moment he had the weapon in his hand. He scampered back onto the boardwalk, then turned to face McCall, a satisfied smirk on his face now he was out of reach.
‘Perry’s gun. No doubt on that,’ he crowed. ‘Jesus, Mort, you think he done killed Parry?’
McCall was about to make a comment but chose to remain silent. It was, he figured, the time to stay silent and see what was in the wind. He realized he had ridden into the wrong town. It appeared to favor the name of Culhane. He wasn’t about to be offered much in the way of sympathy, so keeping his mouth closed looked to be a wise move for the moment.
‘Let’s move, mister,’ Mort said, gesturing with his shotgun. ‘Jail’s along the street.’
He stepped off the boardwalk, close behind McCall. The shotgun centered on McCall’s spine. Ira Begley fell in step next to Mort, self-importantly brandishing the retrieved Colt.
McCall caught sight of the jail. It looked to be the only stone-built building in town. Solid and with a sturdy wood door, barred windows on either side. When they reached it, under the curious gaze of other citizens, Mort prodded McCall with the shotgun.
‘Keep goin’.’
What happened next did little to improve McCall’s mood.
Ira Begley edged in close and hit McCall across the side of the head with the pistol in his hand.
‘You heard the deputy, you son of a bitch, so step up there fast.’
McCall absorbed the sharp streak of pain from the blow, teeth clenched as he climbed to the boardwalk. He felt a worm of blood slide down the side of his face and promised himself he wasn’t about to forget Mister Ira Begley in a hurry.
‘Open the door, Ira,’ Mort said.
Begley edged around McCall and lifted the iron latch, pushing the door wide. For a moment he was caught between the door and McCall. Despite the gun in his hand the man showed fear in his eyes, quickly stepping away from the towering figure.
As McCall walked inside he took in the scene. A typical law office. With all the usual features McCall had seen before. Sometimes on the right side of the law, sometimes not. Across the room was a barred door leading to the cell area. On his left a desk. Gun rack behind it holding an assortment of rifles and shotguns. Flyers pinned to the cork board on the wall. Stove on the other side of the office. Couple of ladder-back wooden chairs facing the desk. Windows on either side of the door with latched-back wood shutters.
Behind the desk, seated in a leather cushioned swivel chair was the man McCall was to know as John Teague – the badge on his blue shirt indicating he was town Marshal. Teague was in his forties, hair and mustache already gray. Mid height, with wide shoulders. A competent looking man with a searching expression in his keen eyes. His solid gaze took in McCall’s condition and was not slow in seeing the fresh trickle of blood coming from the gash in the side of his head.
‘Somebody like to tell me what’s going on?’
‘This man rode into town on a Boxed-C horse,’ Begley said in a rush. ‘And he had Perry Culhane’s gun. We caught him. Figured he’s smart but we caught him.’
Teague’s uncompromising stare moved from Begley to his deputy. In that brief moment McCall saw something like distaste in his expression.
The marshal doesn’t take to Begley, he thought. Could be in my favor.
‘Mort?’
‘True enough,’ Mort said. ‘Rode in big as all get out on a Boxed-C nag. Had Perry’s gun in his holster.’
Teague considered the words, then glanced at McCall.
‘What happened out there?’ he asked.
‘We braced him and brought him in,’ Mort said.
‘He resist?’
‘No. I had my shotgun on him.’
‘He fall down?’
Mort’s confusion was all too obvious. ‘No.’
‘So how did he get that fresh cut on his head? Still bleeding.’
Even McCall felt the silence that fell over the room. He decided it was his turn to say something.
‘That came from the other deputy,’ he said quietly. ‘The one who must have forgot to pin on his badge this morning.’
Mort kind of cleared his throat as Teague fixed Begley with an unwavering look.
‘Ira, put the gun on my desk.’
Begley did what he was asked.
‘He…’ His voice was low, shaky. ‘This man…’
‘Door’s behind you Begley. I suggest you use it before I decide I ought to charge you with assault.’
‘The Major won’t be pleased about this.’
‘Now that will give me no sleepless nights. Just get out of my sight. Go scuttle off and tell Major Culhane you’re lucky I’m not tossing you into one of those cells back yonder. Now get out.’
Begley left without another word, closing the office door.
‘Mort put down the shotgun. Take the horse this man rode in on to the stable and tend to it. Then do your rounds. And, Mort, take your time.’
‘What about him?’
‘I can handle…mister?’
‘McCall. Jess McCall.
‘We’ll be fine, Mort. You go do what I just told you.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Mort said.
‘That I am, Mort. It’s just nice to be reminded once in a while.’
Mort exited the office, leaving McCall and Teague alone.
‘Sit down, McCall. I imagine we got some talking to do.’
McCall dropped into one of the chairs. He heard Teague moving about behind him. When he reappeared he handed McCall a folded cloth and a tin basin of warm water. McCall used it to clean the gash in his head. A mug of coffee was placed on the desk in front of McCall, then Teague returned to his own seat.
‘You got something to tell me, Mister McCall?’
McCall told him, relating everything that had happened from the moment he had been confronted by the burning man. He told it straight, with no embellishments, hiding nothing and when he’d finished Teague leaned back in his seat, showing nothing on his face. He drew a big hand across his mouth, nodding slowly as he absorbed McCall’s story.
McCall devoted his time to drinking the coffee which was welcome following his journey to town.
‘I have two choices,’ Teague said. ‘One I figure you’re a damn good story teller and the other is that you’ve told me the truth.’
‘Can I make a suggestion, Marshal?’
‘Sure.’
‘Send a couple of telegraph messages. One to Marshal Ray Bellingham in Beecher’s Crossing, Texas. The other to Brigham Tyler of Hope, Colorado. Ask them who I am and if they’ll vouch for me..
‘You’re way ahead of me there,’ Teague said. ‘That’s just what I’m about to do.’
Teague got to his feet, picking up a bunch of keys. McCall understood what was going to happen. He drained his coffee and showed the mug to Teague.
‘Mind if I take another mug with me?’
Teague refilled the mug. He handed it to McCall and followed him through to the cells in back of the jail.
‘I hope you’ll take this as just a precaution,’ he said as he locked McCall into one of the empty cells. ‘I know you ain’t been charged with anything but I’d not be doing my job if I didn’t hold you for now.’
McCall sat on the edge of the cot. ‘Be obliged if you could send me in some food. Right now I’m hungry.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Marshal. Just one thing.’
‘Ask it.’
‘I have a feeling I already know the answer, but humor me. What’s the name of this town?’
A smile ghosted across Teague’s face. ‘Culhane,’ he said. ‘Like most everything else The Major owns.’
He picked up on McCall’s unwavering look.
‘No, McCall, he doesn’t own me.’
McCall raised his coffee mug. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘McCall, you brought me a mess of questions that need answering, so sit tight while I earn my pay.’
‘I reckon the answer to one of those questions is something we both need to know.’
Teague nodded.
‘Who was the man on fire? That, McCall, is top of my list.’
‘All I got was the name Sturdevant. That mean anything?’
‘Yes it does.’