Sometimes a long shot pays off, sometimes it doesn’t. Deputy Marshal Bill Fellows knew this when the notion first hit him back in Prescott. He also knew how the odds stacked up against a long shot. That’s why it was called a “long shot” and not a “soft option” or a “dead cert”. On the other hand, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Leastways, that’s the way he put it.
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ his boss had echoed with more than a hint of cynicism in his voice when Fellows had tried the tack on him. ‘More like a God-awful waste of time and manpower.’
‘A man can’t win a prize if he don’t buy a ticket in the lottery, boss.’
‘Bill,’ his superior sighed, ‘where in the hell do you get these platitudes? Seems to me you been eating too many Chinese fortune cookies.’
The deputy pointed to the poster that he had found in the files and had just spread across the marshal’s desk. ‘Johnny Maverick, sometimes known as The Maverick Kid. Wanted Dead or Alive,’ he read. ‘The case has never been closed, boss.’
The marshal ran his fingers along the edge of the fading document and examined the dust that he had gathered on his fingertips. ‘I figure it took you some time to drag this thing out of the file. How old is it?’
‘Ten years, give or take, sir.’
‘Ten years? And that’s the last thing we have on him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He could well be dead now.’
‘Or operating under a different name. Or just settled down out of the way to live some normal kind of life using his takings. Whatever, I think it’s worth our while grabbing the opportunity to do a bit of checking. This could be a chance to nab him. Or to find out he’s dead, and we can close the book.’
The opportunity to which the deputy referred had come to his attention by accident. He’d stumbled across a newspaper item detailing the death of an old-timer by the name of Tom Harding. The name had rung a bell and he had ruminated on it until eventually the thing had clicked. If he was not mistaken this was the Tom Harding who was the father of long wanted outlaw Johnny Harding. Whether or not the son’s full name was Johnny Maverick Harding was not known, but he sported the name Johnny Maverick – or Maverick Kid on account of his less than average stature – and that was how he was known on the many wanted posters.
He pointed to the news clipping. ‘See, Tucson,’ he said. ‘It’s got to be Johnny Maverick’s father. He lived out there. And the two––father and son––were very close so I figure there is no way, the man would let his pa get buried without finding some way to pay his respects.’
‘Whenever Maverick’s been cornered he’s always managed to evade capture, Bill. Or nearly always. The few times the law managed to get him behind bars, he escaped. The kinda guy he is, he ain’t gonna openly ride into Tucson, even after all this time, funeral or no funeral.’
‘I’d still like a shot at it, boss.’
The Territory’s chief peace officer looked at the deputy. Fellows was a good guy but a mite slow, which is why he had never been promoted. Or, on the other hand, he could be as persistent as a hungry hound with a bone. Sometimes that could be a drag, sometimes it could be a virtue. So, after some moments, the marshal capitulated. ‘OK, Bill, I’m gonna give you your head for a spell. But you’re gonna have to handle it alone. I can’t afford to take other men off their duties.’ He looked at the calendar. ‘It’s a days’ ride down to Tucson. You hit the trail now, you’ll might just make it in time for the burying.’
‘Thanks, boss. Meantimes, I’d appreciate it if you’d send a cable, so the Tucson law office know I’m coming and maybe you can persuade them to offer some cooperation.’
‘OK. The quicker you get your ass across leather, the better. And the quicker you can get this bee out of your bonnet, the quicker you can return to normal duties.’
The chief was still shaking his head in resigned acceptance as his deputy left the office.
It was a hot day; the sand along the Calle Real, the main drag of Tucson, was blistering under the heat. The adobe church was at the end of the street and Territorial Deputy Fellows was slumped in a chair at the end of the boardwalk. For all intents and purposes he was some idler taking a siesta, his hat pushed forward, his badge unseen, pinned on the inside of his leather vest. But beneath the hat rim he had scrutinized the mourners with an eagle eye as they had passed.
His chief had put through the wire and the Tucson sheriff––name of Jones––had cooperated. First off, the local officer had made enquiries and found that no strangers had come to town within the last day or two. Then he had deployed his own two deputies, kitted out in black suits, to mingle with the congregation. And now, at the appointed time of the funeral, Jones himself had taken up a similar, laidback station in a chair on the other side of the drag.
He waited until the last of the mourners had entered the church, then he ambled over to the Prescott man.
‘I think you’ve had a wasted journey, Bill,’ he said as he handed a cigarette to his colleague, and hunkered down on the edge of the boardwalk. ‘All you’ve got in that church are oldsters. They’re all local and we know every one.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, we gave each of ‘em a look-over as they passed in. Rest assured, any strangers managed break in there by some other means, one of my men would have come to the door and given us some kind of signal.’
Fellows lit the cigarette, drew deep and exhaled noisily in frustration. ‘It ain’t finished yet. There’s still time for the varmint to roll in. Maybe he’s just late is all. Anything could have delayed him, a thrown shoe or such.’ He looked both ways out of town. ‘He’s still got time to attend the burial after the service. With all the words and necessaries, that’ll take another half an hour or more.’
‘Fair enough,’ the other lawman said, ‘After the time it’s taken you to get down here, you may as well see the whole thing through. But I shouldn’t put any bets on it.’
The priest was just about to the close the door when Fellows stiffened and pointed. There was a single, slightly built figure walking very quickly along the boardwalk on the other side, clearly heading for the church. ‘That could be him! About the right height.’
The man wore thick pebble-glasses and sported a beard and a mane of long, flowing hair. But none of that perturbed Fellows; they could all be the part of a disguise.
‘Where did he come from?’ Fellows continued. ‘Seemed to appear out of thin air.’
‘Didn’t see.’
‘Know who it is?’
‘Nope.’
‘Let’s stop him,’ Fellows went on, ‘and check him over.’
By this time the man had left the boardwalk and was walking determinedly towards the church door while the priest waited.
‘No, we’ll leave it a while,’ the Tucson man said. ‘See, the priest’s already seen him and is holding up the service. I’ve got an election coming up and the scuttlebutt is the voters are split fifty-fifty between me and my opponent. It wouldn’t be politic for me to hold up a funeral service without due cause or, worse, stop a grieving son attending his pa’s funeral. My opponent is a religious type and could make easy capital out of that. Likewise the townsfolk are God-fearing people. But don’t worry, we’re here and I’ve got two guys inside. There’s no chance he could escape, if he’s the one.’
Impatience creasing his mouth, Fellows looked back along the street. ‘Yeah, but where the hell did he come from?’
The other mused on it and pointed. ‘Figure he came out of the hotel yonder.’
‘I can’t sit here doing nothing. The place is not too far away. I’ve got time to nip over there and do some checking while he’s away. Keep your beads on the church.’
The clerk was settling down for a nap behind the reception desk when Fellows walked in and opened his vest to show his badge. ‘Territorial Deputy,’ he announced. ‘The guy who just left here, who is he?’
‘Can’t say,’ the man said, pushing forward his register for inspection, ‘I can’t make out his hand script.’
Fellows studied the scrawl in vain. ‘So, he staying here?’
‘Oh yes, he’s a guest. Been here three days now. But haven’t seen much of him. Mysterious fellow, stayed in his room most of the time. Even took his meals there. Said he didn’t feel very well.’
Three days, Fellows mused. That’s why the local law hadn’t seen anybody come into town over the last day or so. And the guy had kept a low profile so as not to be noticed.
‘Take me to his room,’ Fellows said. ‘Make it quick and bring your key.’
Inside he went through the resident’s belongings but found nothing. He opened the wardrobe. There was bundle wrapped in a blanket. He took it out and by the weight and feel, could tell it contained a brace of guns. He flipped it open on the bed. A couple of Colt.45s bounced on the cover. He picked one up. The letters JM were carved in the wooden handle. The other gun bore the same letters.
He rewrapped the revolvers up and took the bundle downstairs.
‘This is him all right,’ he said triumphantly to the sheriff, explaining his findings and showing him the guns.
Eventually, the service finished and the coffin emerged followed by a somber procession.
Fellows was still eager to intervene but the sheriff stayed him. ‘We wait until it’s all over.’
‘Probably wearing a wig,’ the deputy said. ‘Maverick has always been shorthaired. And the spectacles would be a disguise too.’
Out of sight of the stranger the sheriff made signals to his two men at the back of the mourners, pointing out the suspect.
At the graveside the priest droned the prescribed words and the coffin was lowered into the awaiting hole. Final words were enunciated and the mourners began to drift away. The lone man walked quickly down from the scene and onto the main drag.
‘Now you can take your man,’ the sheriff said.
‘Johnny Maverick!’ Fellows challenged, pulling his gun. The man stopped and turned.
‘We’ve got your guns from the hotel,’ Fellows continued, ‘but I guess you’ve got a gun hidden away on your person someplace. So I’m warning you, don’t use it. You’re covered by four men. Raise your hands and don’t try any funny business. If we have to gun you down, that will be one way of closing your file.’
The man raised his arms. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Fellows ignored the question and stepped in front of him. It was a good disguise. He flipped off the man’s hat, then wrenched away the wig, exposing close-cropped hair. Then snatched away the glasses and flung them aside.
But even ten years on he could tell the face now exposed in front of him was not that of Johnny Maverick. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Jim Middleton.’
The bottom dropped out of Fellows’ stomach. ‘Hell, that explained the JM. ‘What are you doing here?’
The man nodded back to the cemetery. ‘What do you think? I’m attending the funeral of the late departed Tom Harding, a pal of mine from way back.’
‘But why the wig?’ Fellows spluttered.
The man leant forward, tapped the bare crown of his head. ‘Kinda embarrassed by the surfeit of skin poking through, as if it’s any of your business.’
Fellows nodded, crestfallen. ‘And I suppose you need the glasses?’
The man squinted at him blankly. ‘You’re damn tooting I do. Can’t see a damn thing without them.’ He pointed vaguely at the ground. ‘So if you’ll kindly hand them back to me, I can get a better look at whoever’s giving me such an unfriendly welcome in this town of yours.’
Fellows returned the hat and wig to the man. Then he bent down to retrieve the glasses, handed them to him, and obsequiously dusted the mourner down when the accoutrements were all back in place. ‘My apologies, mister.’
The Tucson sheriff fetched the gun bundle from the boardwalk and handed it to the man. ‘There you are, Mr. Middleton. Sorry about this. Anything we can do to compensate for any inconvenience?’
‘No, it’s OK, sheriff. I guess it must be a case of mistaken identity. S’pose you’ve got your job to do same as any other working man.’
The sheriff looked at his colleague from Prescott, noting the disappointment in his face. ‘Don’t look so glum, Bill. It’s happened to us all some time or other. Can’t win ‘em all. Safe journey back to Prescott.’
A smart surrey bearing two figures in black rolled out of Tuscon towards a local homestead. The driver, an elderly man; the other to all intents and purposes his elderly bonneted wife.
‘Much obliged,’ the “woman” said, in a gruff masculine voice.
‘No charge, Johnny,’ the man said. ‘Anything to help a Harding. OK, you might have strayed from the straight and narrow––I don’t know too much about that and I don’t want to know––but your pa was a respected man in our community and did many a good turn in his day. Helping you attend his funeral was the least we could do in his memory.’ Then he smiled: ‘You were quite right in your suggestion. Out here, with women hardly ever leaving their homesteads, the local law might know all the men, but might have little idea what most of their wives looked like.’
Johnny Maverick nodded. ‘It was just a long shot, but worth a chance.’
‘Sometimes a long shot pays off. OK, your horse is well hidden in our barn so you can stay at our place until you figure it’s clear to head home.’
Back in town, laid out on his bed in his hotel room was a man; a man whose name wasn’t Jim Middleton. He took out his wallet and couldn’t resist counting the thousand dollars again. The easiest money he had ever earned and was ever likely to. All it had cost him was a few days, and the nuisance of a wig and a pair of glasses. And, of course, despoiling his six-shooters with the initials JM.
He had rubbed boot-blacking into the carved letters to give the appearance of age but he hadn’t cut them too deep and could file the markings away when the mood took him. But the more he thought about it, the more he figured he might just leave them there. They would sure provide a talking point over drinks in the years to come, evidence of how he had once helped the famous––or infamous––Johnny Maverick.
Outside, Deputy Fellows looked at the sun. It wasn’t yet noon. He had time to get a half-day’s riding behind him on his return journey. He thanked the lawmen of Tucson for their cooperation and headed north.
He was philosophical. Sometimes a long shot pays off, sometimes it doesn’t. That’s why they called it a long shot.
Oh well, can’t win ‘em all.