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MARSHAL

  By Russ Durbin

  Copyright © 2012 by Russ Durbin

  Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia

  MARSHAL

  Summer was still in the air when Murdock walked down the main street of the town and thought about his own problems—a good feeling after years of thinking about the problems of others. He was no longer Marshal Murdock. Now, he was John Murdock, rancher and private citizen.

  Steady gray eyes swept the peaceful street as he paused with his hands on his hips. The upturned corners of his wide, mobile mouth suggested the barest of smiles as he thought how every building and alley in this town held some memory for him.

  An unseen bird chirped cheerily in the Sunday morning sunlight, and Murdock thought it hadn’t always been this way. This was the peacefulness Murdock had worked for. He inhaled deeply, a contented man, and walked toward the marshal’s office. The door was closed, the shade drawn.

  This had been his regular Sunday morning routine for the past nine years, but now he could enjoy the luxury of knowing he was making it because he wanted to, not because it was his job. He was like a man who had built a house or a church with his own hands; he could sit back now that it was done and survey the finished work, remembering the struggles and the heartaches that had gone into it.

  Murdock was still as straight and lean as when he first took the job as marshal. But now, he was a little gray and a little slow. Not much, but just enough to mean the difference between living or dying.

  He was nearing forty and beginning to think about it. He also was thinking about June, whom he’d married early in the spring. He had given up his job as town marshal in order to get settled on his little ranch before summer was gone and winter snows arrived.

  In front of the marshal’s office, Murdock paused, then turned and pushed open the door. He grinned at the new marshal and said, “Caught any criminals lately?”

  The young man behind the desk glanced up, his eyes worried.

  “How could I? You ain’t been in town since last Sunday,” he joked. He kicked a straight, cane-bottomed chair toward Murdock. “How’s the cattle business?”

  “Good,” Murdock replied. “Mighty good.”

  He sat down and stretched his long legs, pushed his wide-brimmed hat back, and rolled himself a cigarette. A feeling of well-being filled him. The marshal’s job was another man’s responsibility now, not Murdock’s.

  “How’s it with you, Billy?”

  The answer came too quickly. “You ought to know, Murdock. The mayor and the council came to see you, didn’t they?”

  Murdock frowned. That was true, but he hadn’t liked the idea. He felt the city fathers had gone behind the new marshal’s back. If they didn’t like the job Billy was doing, they should have gone to Billy, not to Murdock. Just because he had recommended Billy didn’t mean the job was still his responsibility.

  “They made the trip for nothing, Billy,” he said, adding “If you’re worried about me wanting your job, you can forget it. I told them that plain.”

  “They’ll keep askin’ you, Murdock.”

  Billy Winslow stared at the drawn shade of the front window, the thumb of his left hand toying nervously with the silver badge on his calfskin vest. He was a small man with eternally pink cheeks and pale blue eyes. He was married and had three children, and he had clerked in the general store most of his life until he was appointed marshal.

  Billy had taken the job because it paid more and the town was quiet. But now, there was trouble brewing, and Billy wanted no part of it.

  “You can’t blame them, Murdock. You done a good job.”

  “Regardless of what a man does right, there’s some who won’t like it,” Murdock said quietly.

  “Like Luke Callahan?”

  Murdock shrugged his wide shoulders. Callahan was a cattleman who wanted to take over the town and run it the way he had before Murdock became marshal.

  “He’s in town,” Billy said, watching Murdock closely.

  Murdock felt the old tension rise in him at the sign of trouble, although outwardly he appeared just as relaxed as before. He inhaled, letting the smoke trickle out his nostrils as the tension left him. Murdock was a rancher now, and Callahan was his neighbor.

  “I’m in town too and so are fifty other people. There’s no law against it.”

  “You know what I mean, Murdock,” Billy said. “You talked to Henry Schmidt’s boy.”

  Billy was accusing him of meddling, and Murdock didn’t like it. Murdock had not had anything to do with the marshal’s job since his retirement. But when a twelve-year old kid who thought you were something special asked you a straight question, you gave him a straight answer.

  “Sure, Billy,” Murdock said easily. “I talked to Henry’s boy. I told him to have his dad see you. I told him the law was for everyone and would protect him too.”

  Billy picked up a piece of paper from the roll-top desk.

  “He took your advice three days ago. Henry came in and swore out a warrant against Callahan for trespassing.” Billy paused. “He told me his boy said it was the right thing to do. He said you told the boy that.”

  Suddenly, Murdock had the feeling that he was two people. One was Murdock, marshal; the other was Murdock, private rancher with the right to live his own life.

  Finally, Murdock, the rancher, grinned. “Luke pawin’ and bellerin’ about it, is he?”

  “I don’t know, Murdock,” Billy answered worriedly. “I ain’t talked to Luke and I’m sure not goin’ to.”

  Murdock only half believed what he had heard. Surely Billy knew that if you gave a man like Luke Callahan an inch, he would take a mile of your best grazing ground.

  He caught himself quickly before he gave voice to his thoughts. It was none of his business how Billy Winslow thought. There were plenty of businessmen in town who had argued that Murdock’s methods of law enforcement had been bad for their businesses, especially the saloon keepers. They had liked the old days—the days when Callahan was running a wide-open town. Maybe they wanted it that way again.

  “Well, that’s none of my affair,” Murdock said, rising. “Come on, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Billy stared at the drawn shade and thought of Luke Callahan, a man who was big in this country, waiting over at his saloon. Luke knew about the warrant; the whole town knew it by now. And before long people would know who the real law was in this town, Callahan or Billy.

  There was a thin film of sweat on Billy’s forehead. “Naw, you go ahead and have your drink, Murdock. I’ve got some paper work to do,” Billy said, shuffling papers on the desk. He didn’t look up when Murdock left.

  The gathering heat of the day struck the west side of the street and brought a resinous smell from the old boards of the false-fronted buildings. Murdock glanced at the little church, seeing Henry Schmidt’s wagon there. He remembered a time when the church hadn’t been there. Then, he crossed the street to the saloon, the first building the town had erected. Callahan owned it along with some other, less respectable establishments.

  Two of Callahan’s riders were standing at the piano, leaning on it, one of them fumbling out a one-finger tune, cursing loudly when he missed a note. Callahan was at the far end of the bar, and Murdock walked over.

  A little cow talk on a Sunday morning was good, and Callahan knew cows. The two men at the piano started to sing off-key. The barkeep was nervous. He wiped his cloth across the dry bar, making a squeaking sound. “Tell your boys to quiet down, Luke. I’ve been gettin’ a lot of complaints about stayin’ open on Sundays.”

  “They’ve been workin’ hard,” Luke said to the bartender. “They’re just lettin’ off a little steam.” His smile was brief as he turned toward the newcomer.

  “How are you, Murdock?”


  “Good enough, Luke,” Murdock replied. “Buy you a drink?”

  “You just twisted my arm,” Callahan laughed.

  Callahan was a well-built man with a face like weathered leather. His brows were heavy and came together over his hawk-like nose. His voice was quiet, his manner calm.

  Murdock thought of the times he had crossed this man—enforcing the no-gun ordinance, keeping Luke’s riders in jail overnight to cool off. He noted that Callahan was wearing a gun again. That wasn’t right; it was against the town law, but that was Callahan. Tell him he couldn’t so something, and that was exactly what he wanted to do.

  “Didn’t figure on seeing you in town,” Murdock said. “Thought you and the boys were rounding up some of your strays over in the Ridges.”

  “I had a little personal business come up,” said Callahan, sipping his drink. “You hear about it?”

  Murdock shrugged.

  “Henry Schmidt’s telling it that I ran a bunch of my cows through his corn. That German sodbuster claims