Back at the office, McAllister found Sime cleaning a rifle and singing a song in praise of the Rebel cause. It was as well he omitted the words, because they were coarse and highly uncomplimentary to all Yankee sons-of-bitches. McAllister told him to take his badge off, go into town and forget he was a marshal for a while. He was after information: who did George Paston make bets with regularly? Or better still: who won Paston’s gun in a bet?
Sime dropped his badge into a pocket and went out onto the street.
Five minutes later a drunken man came in with a gun in his hand and demanded the release of his brother whom McAllister had in the cells. McAllister nearly broke his wrist with his club and put him inside to keep his brother company. Later in the night, the two brothers started to fight and McAllister had to beat them apart. All the time, Jenny Mann stayed discreetly with her patient and did not show her face, for which McAllister was a little sorry, for the sight of a pretty face was like a tonic to him.
About a couple of hours before dawn, Sime returned slightly drunk, showing a black eye and bearing information.
George Paston was one hell of a gambler and would bet fifty dollars on where a fly would land. He’d won his saloon on the cut of a single card.
Who, McAllister demanded, had won the Smith and Wesson?
A man named Peck O’Grady, Sime told him.
McAllister asked: “Where does he hang out?”
“He’s dead.” O’Grady had had his throat cut for a few ounces of gold he had carried in his poke. Two days back. McAllister wanted to know what this O’Grady looked like. “I didn’t think to ask,” Sime confessed. “He’s dead. I thought that kind of ruled him out. All I know is he was a runty guy.”
“Did you find out who got the gun?”
“Nope. Not even O’Grady got it.”
“What does that mean?”
“O’Grady never picked it up. He was so drunk he forgot it. Left it lyin’ on a table in the saloon.”
So they were no further. The only clue that McAllister had come on was useless. There was not even anybody he could beat the truth out of. He told Sime to get some sleep. The crowd in the cells started raising a little hell and he went and told them he’d beat their ears off if they didn’t quit the racket and they knew he was telling the exact truth. His mood was growing steadily meaner by the minute now. They stopped and he went back to the desk to doze fitfully till dawn.
Just as the sun started to peek weakly through the dust of the windows, Jenny Mann brought him piping hot coffee, syrup-sweet as he liked it. She looked as lovely and fresh as she had the evening before.
“Thanks. How’s Diblon?”
“The fever’s passed, I think. That was my main concern.” She returned to her charge and McAllister heard him muttering softly to her. He sat in his chair, easing aching buttocks and envying Sime his peaceful sleep on the floor. He nursed black dawn-thoughts till the coffee was finished, then kicked Sime awake and told him he was going down-town for a shave. He found a good barber, one that would give him credit, and enjoyed the luxury of a shave and hot towels. When he hit the street again and headed back to his office, he could drag a smile up from some place. Sime was eating a breakfast of ham and eggs and refused to divulge the secret of how he had managed to raise such rations in this hungry town.
“Just put it down to political influence, Rem,” he said.
“Miss Mann in there still?”
“Gone to see her sister. I have to keep my ear cocked should Joe want for somethin’.”
McAllister looked in on the wounded man and found him quiet, apparently sleeping normally. The prisoners started yelling that they were hungry and demanding to know if the town planned to starve them to death. McAllister went to the cells and told them the town planned no such thing. It was going to try them, fine them and release them pretty damned quick. If they wanted to pay a double fine, they could go ahead and raise hell. That would suit McAllister nicely. They shut up. McAllister returned to the office to find that Sime had magnanimously saved him a few scraps for his breakfast. He ate them and drank the remainder of the coffee in the pot. After Jenny Mann’s it tasted like trail dust.
Out on the street, the day-time town was coming to life. Teams of ranch and farm horses dragged their wagons through the mud, a rider splashed by; the stage started on its bi-weekly run into Deadwood. The butcher on the opposite side of the street took his shutters down and beamed fatly on a good world that provided him with fantastic prices for beef. McAllister reckoned he looked Pennsylvania Dutch.
He sighted Jenny Mann hovering on the sidewalk over the way, not wanting to venture into the mud. The butcher came forward and offered his leering help and she shook her head. McAllister waded across to her, grinned and thought she really was just about the prettiest little thing in women-folk. Standing ankle-deep in the mud, he touched his hat, reached for her and lifted her from her feet without a word. She gave a little scream of surprise, put one arm around his neck and the other on his chest.
“My,” she said, giving him the full benefit of her eyes as the warmth of her full little body seeped into his own. “You quite took my breath away, Mr. McAllister, I do declare.”
“Took mine away soon’s I laid eyes on you-all, ma’am.”
She showed mock annoyance and said: “If we weren’t right in the middle of the street, sir, I’d say put me down this instant.”
“An’ me prayin’ a miracle could happen and this street would turn out to be a mile wide.” He gave her waist a small squeeze and her arm tightened around his neck and she smacked his chest in ladylike anger.
“You do go on so.”
“As far as I dare, ma’am.”
She turned her head away. He reckoned that was to hide a pleased smile.
When he reached the sidewalk in front of the office, he took his time getting out of the mud. In fact, it seemed he would never make it. She insisted that he hurry, her patient was waiting. He said, sure, if she said so, but she must let him know when she wanted to re-cross to the store. She said that she agreed, but only under duress. “I’m really quite distressed,” she ended. “What will folks think?”
“Me, too, ma’am,” McAllister informed her and deposited her gently on the boards. She straightened her skirts, patted her hair and, with heightened color, went through the office so fast that Sime wanted to know what the stampede was in aid of. McAllister walked in and Sime said it was hell playing second-fiddle to a goddam Casanova.
“Put a gun-belt around that burstin’ belly of yours,” McAllister told him, “and help me get that cawy of arch-criminals down to the judge.”
They buckled on their gun-belts, Sime chose himself a shotgun with all the care a woman takes to choose a hat and they opened up the cells and crowded the prisoners into the office.
McAllister said: “Let’s do this nicely, boys. I don’t want to put irons on any of you. Just walk ahead and mind your business. Court’s in the Paradise saloon. We get this over like I plan it and you can be proppin’ up the bar in an hour.”
One or two had the shakes from last night’s drinking and these showed a wild-eyed gratitude and longing. He and Sime got them onto the street and herded them slowly through the mud. The mud was a Godsend. Nobody could move fast in that. Folks stopped on the sidewalk to watch the wretched procession and heads were nodded approvingly by the few regular towns-people. Loungers exchanged ribald remarks with some of the prisoners and sauntered along with them to the saloon. There, McAllister found the judge and the mayor waiting for him. Sillitoe was immaculately dressed, but with mud nearly to his knees.
“Mr. McAllister,” he boomed, “you have a fine crop there.”
“Anything tricky, marshal?” the judge wanted to know.
“All tangling with a police officer in the pursuance of his duty. Two common assaults and one attempted murder - well, the little feller in the pink shirt tried to shoot a man at a hundred paces. Not a hope in hell of hittin’ him. All ten dollar stuff.”
Sillitoe said:” Yessir, judge. Remember now - no committing to jail. The town needs money and can’t go feeding idlers with food the price it is.”
The judge frowned. “The law does not make allowances for economics, Mr. Mayor,” he said coldly.
“It does in my town,” the mayor replied briskly.
That was too pointed for the judge and he choked on it. “I can’t say I like that tone. This is blackmail.”
“Ain’t it,” McAllister put in. “An’ just to prove it - if there’s a single prisoner in one of my cells come noon, you can find yourself a new marshal.”
The judge looked furious. And helpless. But his anger did some good. When the drunks, layabouts, and roisterers came up for trial, the fines were heavy. McAllister nodded with somber satisfaction. The budget was going to be balanced fine. Now he could knock this town into some sort of shape, get down to some real police work and find the man who had shot a marshal nearly to death.
Within the hour every one of the prisoners had been found guilty, had paid their fines and were at the bar having their first drinks bought by McAllister. He and Sime gave them ten minutes’ conversation, wished them luck, shook hands all around and went back to work.
It was waiting for them on the street.
They were no sooner stepping carefully through the red mud when a four-horse vehicle limped into sight around the bend, hit the mud and came to a tired standstill. McAllister saw that it was the stage minus two horses. The two marshals got up on the sidewalk and hurried to it.