The town of Fort Smith sat on the border between Arkansas and the Indian Nations. It was founded in 1817 as a military post, but abandoned by the Army seven years later. A speculator bought up the land to establish a settlement at that spot on the Arkansas River.
In 1881, when Charlie Martell brought in Cimarron Gleason to turn him over to the authorities, Fort Smith was the site of the Federal court directed by Judge Isaac D. Parker, This magistrate and his marshals administered justice in the wild areas governed by the Indians.
Charlie kept a wary eye on his desperate prisoner as they turned off the town’s main street to ride toward the building that served as both courthouse and jail. The solid brick structure had once been the officers’ quarters of the old fort, but was now the headquarters for Judge Parker and his Federal marshals’ operations. Charlie swung out of his saddle and gestured at Gleason with his shotgun to do the same. The two suddenly noticed a strong disagreeable odor.
Charlie sniffed the air. “Phew! It smells like the biggest shithouse in the world.”
“It is,” Gleason replied sullenly. “But it’s knowed as the U.S. jail in these parts.” He indicated the steps that led down to the basement cells used to house prisoners waiting for trial and/or execution.
“Well, it’s gonna by your home-sweet-home for awhile,” Charlie said as he pushed the Creek up the steps. The two crossed the porch and went inside to the marshal’s office.
U.S. Marshal Heck Thomas sat at his desk laboriously writing out an arrest report as the two entered. The husky, mustachioed lawman looked up at what obviously was a man and his prisoner. He recognized the cripple holding the shotgun. “Charlie Martell?”
“Howdy, Heck. It’s been awhile.”
“It sure as hell has,” the lawman said as he stood up to offer his hand. “I see you ain’t been just a-laying around.”
“Nope. I got a prisoner to turn in. I heard there was a warrant out for him.”
“Yep. We been wanting ol’ Cimarron for a spell now. But we couldn’t figger a good way of getting him outta Muskogee without having to kill a dozen or so folks.”
“I had to shoot a couple that snuck up on us last night,” Charlie said. “So I reckon he don’t have as many good friends as he thought he did.”
“Who was they?” Thomas asked.
Charlie shrugged. “You’ll have to discuss that with Cimarron. I didn’t recognize either of ’em.”
Thomas now noticed Charlie’s bare shirt front. “You ain’t packing a badge?”
“Call it a citizen’s arrest.”
“Good enough,” Thomas said. “I reckon this is on account of Nolan Edgewater, huh? By the way, your reward money for Dandy Kilgallen has been sent up to Kansas.”
“Good,” Charlie said. “I already drawed on it from a local bank. My landlady guaranteed it for ’em. She’ll be glad to get it.”
“I was surprised to hear you was back in action,” Heck said. “Nolan told me quite a while back that you was…well, sorta down on your luck.”
“I was. But him getting killed snapped me back together somehow.”
“Let’s lock up Cimarron here, then we can talk over some hot coffee,” Thomas said. “I gotta let Judge Parker know he’s been turned in. As a matter of fact, I think the judge is gonna wanta palaver with you on all this, Charlie.”
“Sure. Fine with me.”
Thomas’ voice bellowed out for the jailer down in the basement as he turned his attention to filling out the booking papers on the court’s newest prisoner.
Gleason snarled, “If you two son of a bitches think I’m just gonna sit around down in that hellhole and wait for Parker to have me strung up, you’re both loco!”
Thomas’ big hand shot out and slapped the Indian’s face hard enough to stagger him back into Charlie’s shotgun. The marshal scowled. “You speak respectful and use the word ‘sir’ around here. You got that?”
“In that case,” Gleason said, “you two son of a bitches are loco…sir!”
“That’s better,” Thomas said as he turned back to his paperwork. A burly marshal, obviously the jailer, walked in with a set of heavy handcuffs. Charlie wordlessly removed his own and they were quickly replaced by the others. Thomas finished off the form and waved toward the door. “Take him away, Ned.” He stood up and looked at Charlie. “Have you ever met Judge Parker, Charlie?”
“Cain’t say as I have.”
“Well, I’m about to give you the privilege. C’mon.” They went out into the hallway and crossed over to the courtroom where many a desperado had heard the grim sentence of death from the famous judge. Thomas led Charlie past the large elevated desk to the door to the judge’s chambers. He knocked, calling out, “Your honor?”
When he first caught sight of the judge, Charlie was surprised. He had expected to see a fiery, evil-looking old cuss, but instead there sat a gentleman with large, kindly eyes that belied his reputation as a merciless dispenser of justice. The judge nodded politely to Charlie, taking a quick notice of his injuries as he limped up to his desk.
Thomas said, “Your honor, I’d like to introduce a friend of mine Charlie Martell. He was the one that did in Dandy Kilgallen up in Kansas. And he just waltzed in here with Cimarron Gleason in custody on a citizen’s arrest.”
The judge smiled and stood up with an outstretched hand. “Well! I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Martell. And I certainly wish to thank you for the great service you have performed for us.”
“You’re welcome,” Charlie said.
Heck Thomas interjected, “Charlie was a town marshal up in Wichita. He got hisself shot up bad—as you can see—and I might as well explain away his grabbing Cimarron and shooting Dandy by just saying that him and Nolan Edgewater was mighty good friends.”
“I see,” Parker said. “I believe the other man involved in Nolan’s death was John Dougherty. True, Heck?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Thomas said. He turned to Charlie. “You ain’t got him by any chance, have you?”
“No,” Charlie answered. “But I expect him to show up in Caldwell once he hears from Harry Green about Dandy. I was figgering on waiting for him there.”
“There is a warrant for Dougherty, naturally,” Judge Parker said. “Would you care to serve it in the name of the court, Mister Martell?”
“I’d be glad to, Your Honor,” Charlie said. “But …” He held up his crippled hand.
“Your impairments seemed to do little to hinder you in besting Messieurs Kilgallen and Gleason. However, I feel that even a healthy officer should take advantage of all the aid he can possibly muster. Would the local lawman in Caldwell be of much help to you in apprehending John Dougherty?”
Charlie shook his head. “The town marshal is the same Harry Green who is friends with Dandy, Cimarron and John Dougherty. And he’s had a few brushes with the law hisself. I couldn’t trust him for a single minute.”
The judge nodded knowingly. “I fear that many of my own marshals could not come out unscathed from a close investigation of their past lives, but it takes tough, determined men to administer the law in this part of the country.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t wish to be insensitive, Mister Martell, but can you shoot well?”
“Yes, sir. I had my shotgun altered to handle in my left arm, see? And I figgered out a way to shoot pretty good left-handed by holding my bad mitt up to steady my pistol. I did a lot of practicing.”
The judge was favorably impressed. “Since you are obviously set on avenging Nolan’s death, perhaps, you would care to do it under the authority of this court.”
“Sir?”
Thomas looked at Charlie. “His Honor wants to swear you in as a U.S. deputy marshal and take a warrant with you for Dougherty’s arrest.”
Charlie blinked hard. The idea of actually wearing a badge again and riding back to Kansas as a working law officer, staggered him for a moment.
Thomas chuckled. “Charlie’ll do it, Your Honor. And he’s the logical man too. Like he said, Dougherty’s gonna be going to Caldwell to look for him. All he has to do is sit there and wait.”
Judge Parker replied, “I would like Dougherty brought back here alive for trial.” Far from being the insensitive executioner that many thought him to be, Isaac Charles Parker was a well-educated man with a deep intellect coupled to a great understanding of the law and its intent. His sole purpose in accepting the post at Fort Smith was to be the driving force in establishing decency and order so that the area might begin to prosper. That way good people, convinced they could safely go about their business, would move in and add their valued presence to the territory.
Charlie shrugged. “I’ll try, Your Honor, but I know Dougherty from Wichita. He’s mean as hell and with his good friend Harry Green the marshal of Caldwell, I don’t think he’ll consider surrendering to me unless he’s shot up bad.”
“We live in brutal times, Mister Martel, and must deal with men who are little better than beasts. I commend you on your lawful treatment of Cimarron Gleason by bringing him to justice in a proper manner despite your hatred for him. All I can ask is that you attempt to apprehend Dougherty in a peaceful manner. I’m sure you know what to do if he resists.”
“And Dougherty will do exactly that, Your Honor,” Thomas interjected.
Parker nodded. “You’re undoubtedly correct, Heck. Have my clerk come in and we’ll go about the business of swearing in Mister Martell for his mission.”
“Ready to go to work, Charlie?” Thomas asked.
“I sure am; except I don’t have a very good horse. The one I got is from a livery stable in Wichita. I got to take him back.”
“We have mounts confiscated from outlaws,” the judge said. “I’ll authorize one be assigned to you, Marshal Martell.”
Marshal Martell!
Those words made Charlie hope that Judge Parker and U.S. Marshal Heck Thomas didn’t notice how his eyes nearly watered with emotion as his chest swelled with new pride and confidence at being addressed as a lawman once again.
~*~
Charlie eased his horse down into a cottonwood grove along the river bank. He held the reins to lead along the old gray from Orv Pickett’s livery in Wichita. The new marshal’s leg was throbbing badly as a way of complaining about the days of mistreatment and neglect. The twisted muscles that need the relaxing stimulus of heat had drawn up tight and now were cramped badly.
He swung out of the saddle and tied both the horse of a former outlaw and the one from the Wichita livery to the low branches of a tree. He sat down by the water and gently rubbed the limb. He felt a little relief as the circulation of blood increased in the sore areas. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift away from the hurt. He was so far out of himself that within a few minutes he was completely and blissfully unaware of his physical surroundings.
“Hold it there, you son of a bitch!”
Charlie’s hands flew up automatically and he heard several pairs of boots coming down the bank toward him. He started to turn.
“Keep your eyes to the front!”
Charlie did as he was told as he waited. Within seconds three gunhawks stood in front of him, two with pistols and a third with a carbine leveled dead on his chest.
“Is that him, Hal?”
“Sure is,” a blond pistolero said. “He took ol’ Cimarron right outta Muskogee with him.”
The third individual, the carbine man, nudged Charlie with the business end of his piece. “Did you turn our pal over to Parker?”
Charlie decided not to answer and this earned him a quick poke in the jaw that sent him rolling down to the river. Infuriated, he struggled to his feet as quickly as possible. The effort caused hot stabs of pain through his leg. He cursed but wisely kept his hands up as the three men looked down on him.
“We asked if you turned Cimarron in and shot our pals. Don’t lie to us! We damn near caught up to you two before you crossed into Arkansas. So we’ve been waiting for you to ride back into the Injun country.”
“I…”
“Hey!” the blond man interrupted. “He’s wearing a badge.” He walked down and grabbed the piece of metal pinned to Charlie’s shirt. “A U.S. deputy marshal outta Hanging Judge Parker’s court, ain’t you?”
“I am,” Charlie said.
“So you’re a lawman after all. They said in Muskogee you wasn’t.”
“I didn’t have a badge then, but I got one now.”
“And we’re gonna shoot you right through it,” the carbine man said. “Then pin it on your ass.”
“That our style of doing in starpackers,” the third man said.
“Hold it, boys, shooting this bastard is too good for him,” the blond said. “Let’s string him up just like ol’ Hanging Parker is gonna do to Cimarron.”
“Good idee,” the carbine man said. He motioned to Charlie. “Get your gimpy ass up to them taller trees. Move!”
Charlie negotiated the slippery bank with some difficulty while his potential murderers followed. As he limped past the horse from the Wichita livery he suddenly reached out and pulled the reins that bound the animal to the tree. Yelling, he spun on his heel and smacked the brute’s flank hard with the flat of his hand. The old horse leaped forward and ran into the three outlaws who were trapped in the confined space that led up from the river. The impact sent them sprawling as Charlie took a half dozen shuffling steps to the government horse. He pulled the shotgun from its boot and quickly retraced his uneven steps. The carbine man got to his feet first and looked up just in time to see Charlie leveling down on him with those two big barrels.
“Oh, damn!”
The outlaw took the blast in the upper chest and flew down to the river like he’d been propelled by steam. His body splashed into the water and thrashed around for several seconds in the reddening foam before it stiffened, then relaxed in death.
The blond fired at Charlie from an awkward sitting position. The newly sworn-in marshal had already drawn his pistol. He hit the pistolero once in the shoulder and twice in the chest as another shot socked into a nearby tree.
One to go; but where was he?
Charlie quickly edged into the poor concealment of the heavy brush and stood still, barely breathing as he carefully listened. All he could hear was the running river and the hooves of the old horse as he clomped back to stand by the other animal. Charlie looked past his mount and could see where the outlaws had tied up theirs some distance away. The third man had a couple of choices. He could attempt an escape by dashing from the grove of trees or he could stay and fight. Charlie tried to figure which alternative he would choose.
The question was answered by a shot that chipped bark off the tree above Charlie’s head, and just as quickly a second bullet whipped by so close he could feel it zip past his nose. He dropped to the ground and crawled awkwardly but rapidly deep into the trees, dragging his bad leg behind him.
Charlie reholstered the pistol and broke open the shotgun to removed the spent shells. After quickly reloading, he began to put an old saying into practice. i.e. The best defense is a good offense.
He was on his feet now, every fiber of his being bristling with anticipation and alertness. He was glad he hadn’t eaten that day. Charlie was of the opinion that a man was keener and sharper with an empty belly. The belief went back to man’s primitive days when hunger made a fellow a better hunter.
A tree limb exploded into bits over his head and Charlie turned toward the sound and blew off both barrels. Vegetation flew and scattered as the pellets streaked through the brush.
Then silence as Charlie quickly reloaded.
A sudden cracking of a limb sounded from the right, and one barrel of Charlie’s shotgun roared through the afternoon air. Dust and bits of leaves floated in the trees, but no yells of pain or anger.
The stock of the shotgun literally splintered into pieces with the explosion of the shot that hit it. Charlie was barely able to maintain his grip on the weapon. He caught sight of his quarry’s shirt through the tangled limbs a few feet away. He awkwardly fired the second barrel of the ruined weapon and the scattergun flew out of his hands to somersault several feet behind him.
He started to draw his pistol as the gunman leaned out from behind a tree. The man’s face, white as chalk, was unnatural-looking. Charlie’s pistol was in his hand so fast he hadn’t realized he had drawn it. He began firing in that manner of his with the crippled hand steadying the barrel. His final three bullets found their marks but the man didn’t fall. He merely swung back and forth under the impact of the slugs.
Curious, Charlie edged forward, but the outlaw made no overt moves. As Charlie drew closer, he could see the man was obviously dead. He walked around the tree that concealed the gunman, and nearly vomited.
His shotgun blasts had cut the third assailant completely in half. Somehow the torso had caught in the low fork of one of the trees while the legs had been blown some dozen feet away. One foot was still twitching in an obscene gesture of death. Charlie left the hunks of meat where they were and went back to prepare for the resumption of his trip north.
Now he had three more horses that were now legally property of the U.S. Government. That also applied to the belongings of the three outlaws. He took time to go through their things and was surprised at their apparent poverty. Aside from some filthy bedrolls there wasn’t much worth taking. Their weapons were the only things of value and Charlie gathered them up into one of the saddlebags before he mercifully unsaddled and freed the outlaws’ miserable horses. There was no way he could manage a small herd of four animals. They would eventually wander to a place where they would be discovered. With luck, they could become the property of new caring owners.
With that done Charlie remounted and turned once again for Kansas. He rode deep in thought, suddenly realizing that the years he had spent as a drunk and feeling sorry for himself were worse than empty ones; they were wasted. All that time he had the potential of overcoming his injuries and returning to his job as a lawman. It would have taken hard work, as he now knew, and some convincing of other folks. Not all people, unfortunately, were as open-minded or had as keen a perception of their fellow man as Judge Parker. Every drunken binge and humiliation Charlie had experienced had been a useless burden to bear.
U.S. Deputy Marshal Charles Houston Martell suddenly realized that he had overcome his infirmities and that in doing so, he had become a better man now than he had ever been. But he wasn’t dumb enough to think he had become immortal.
He still had John Dougherty and Harry Green to face, and the luckier man, crippled or not, would be the survivor.