MARSHAL
By Russ Durbin



Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Russ Durbin

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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 I’m trying to run him out of the country.”
“You’re used to that kind of talk, Luke.”
“You pretty friendly with the Schmidts, Murdock?” Callahan’s voice had an edge. He was standing with his back to the bar, his elbows supporting him. His position made the holstered gun he wore obvious.
“They’re hard to know. But I think a lot of their boy, Jimmy. He’s a nice kid and a bright one, too.”
Slowly the smile came back into Callahan’s eyes. He turned around and took the bottle, pouring a drink for himself and one for Murdock. “That forty acres of bottom land you were asking me about for a calf pasture,” he said. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it. I guess I could lease it to you, being a neighbor and all.”
“That’s fine, Luke,” Murdock said as he downed his drink. It didn’t taste quite right somehow, but he drank it anyway. The two cowboys started scuffling, and one of them collided with a table. It overturned with a crash. Both men were loudly cursing each other.
“Please, Luke,” the bartender said. “They’re gonna get me in trouble….” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened. A man had come through the door. He stood there, blinking from the bright sun outside.
“Morning, Mr. Schmidt,” the bartender mumbled.
Henry Schmidt was a thick, dull man with black hair and brows. Murdock saw Schmidt wore the rusty black suit the man always saved for Sundays. There were faint dirt stains on the knees, the mark of a farmer who could not leave the soil alone, even on Sundays.
He looked at Murdock, not at Callahan. “It’s no good,” he said. “My son says I must talk to Billy Winslow. I talk, sign paper but he does nothing. It’s no good.” He shook his head.
There was silence in the room, and the two cowboys who had been scuffling stood looking at the farmer.
“Say what’s on your mind, Schmidt,” said Callahan.
“You broke my fence,” Schmidt said, pointing a stubby finger. “You drive your cows in my corn and spoil my crop. You pay for damage.”
“Maybe you’re mistaken, Schmidt.”
“My boy says this is for judge (he pronounced it chudge) to decide,” said Schmidt. “My boy tells me to go to Marshal Billy and he will make a paper and a judge will decide.” Schmidt stubbornly insisted. “My boy says this is fair, and he has learning.” He stared unblinkingly at Callahan.
“You’re a liar, Schmidt!” Callahan snarled. He backhanded Schmit across the face; then put his hand to Schmidt’s chest and shoved. The farmer stumbled backward, out the batwing doors. His heel caught in a loose board on the sidewalk and he fell heavily in the dust of the street. For a long time he lay there, his face red and his brown eyes staring questioningly at Murdock, not Callahan. Then he got up and brushed the dirt off his suit.
Murdock saw the blind on the window of the marshal’s office across the street move and then drop into place. Billy came hurrying across the street.
“What’s going on heah?” he asked Schmidt.
Callahan spoke first. “Schmidt was looking for trouble. I threw him out.” Callahan was standing in the doorway, beside Murdock. For a brief moment, Callahan’s eyes met Murdock’s and Murdock saw the challenge. Unspoken was the thought, “If you don’t like it, do something about it. “
There was a dryness in Murdock’s mouth. He had backed Luke down years before; he could do it again. But there comes a time when a man has to live his own life.
He looked toward the church, and the doors were just opening. People were coming out to stand on the porch, a small block of humanity suddenly aware of trouble. Murdock saw June, and he knew her hand was at her throat, twisting the ribbon that held her cameo. It had been a wedding gift from him. 
He thought of his little ranch and of the things he and June had planned for the future. He looked back at Billy Winslow, and he knew Billy wasn’t going to buck Luke Callahan. So Murdock could make a stand, and he would be right back into it again, just the way he had for nearly a decade. There were beads of sweat on Murdock’s upper lip.
“That’s the way it was, Billy,” Murdock said at last.
He saw a quick smile cross Callahan’s face, and the relief in Billy Winslow’s eyes.
“Get out of town, Schmidt,” Billy ordered. “If Luke’s cows got in your corn, it was an accident.”
“It was not accident,” Schmidt insisted. “Let judge decide. My boy says….”
“It was an accident,” Billy repeated. “Make your fences stronger next time.” He didn’t look at Murdock but turned to Callahan, “Sorry it happened, Luke.”
Schmidt stared at the star on Billy’s vest, then turned and walked slowly up the street to his spring wagon. His wife, Mary, was there, a woman with tired eyes and a trifle gone at the waist. She never smiled and never complained.
Watching them, Murdock saw Jimmy, their son, who thought Marshal Murdock could do no wrong, and who always believed every word Murdock said. Murdock liked talking to Jimmy. The boy had questions, always questions. Jimmy was a bright lad with an unlimited belief in the future, living in a house where there was no future. Jimmy was watching Murdock, disappointment in his eyes.
Murdock saw Schmidt reach under the seat of the wagon. Mary grabbed her husband’s arm, but he pulled away and started back down the street, the sun glinting on the barrels of the shotgun he carried.
Billy moved to meet Schmidt and held out his hand. Murdock saw Schmidt hesitate; he was after all a law-abiding man. Billy said something to him. Finally, the farmer lowered his head and let his chin fall to his chest. As the boy came running up, Billy took the shotgun from Schmidt, shucked the shells, and handed it to the boy.
Murdock felt the triumph come into Luke Callahan. He didn’t need to look at the man.
Goaded by his ambition and sense of power, Callahan shouted, “No sodbuster tells lies about me and gets away with it!” His hand dropped to the butt of his holstered revolver as he shouted, “Get out of town or I’ll shoot the next time I see your dirty face.”
As he turned, Callahan touched Murdock on the shoulder. “Have another drink with me, Murdock?”
Murdock saw June standing in front of the church, and he could feel her anxiety reach through the hot, troubled air. And he saw the boy in the street, the shotgun in his hand, his eyes bewildered, searching Murdock’s face.
“I reckon I won’t have time, Luke. The Missus is waiting.” He walked up the street, a feeling of being two men strong in him. There was a responsibility to Billy Winslow that he couldn’t deny. He had talked Billy into taking his lonely job. He walked close to Billy and said in a low voice, “Look, Billy, if you can disarm one man, you can disarm another—Luke Callahan.”
Billy’s hands were shaking. “A two-year-old could have taken that shotgun away from Schmidt.” He reached up swiftly and unpinned the badge from his vest. “They don’t pay me enough to go up against Callahan. He’s poison mean with a six-shooter.” He held out the star. “You want it?”
Murdock looked at the familiar piece of metal, and he could feel Billy’s eyes on him. Then he looked up and saw June, still standing in front of the church, and he thought of their dreams and plans. “No, Billy,” he said. “I don’t want it.”
“Then let it lay,” Billy said as he dropped the badge into the dust and hurried off, a man happy to go back to selling shirts and overalls.
The Schmidt boy looked up and said, “Mr. Murdock, what’s wrong? You told me once….”
“We’ll talk about it later, Jimmy,” Murdock said. He walked swiftly toward June.
A mile outside town, Murdock pulled the horse to a halt in the shade of a sycamore to put up the buggy top. June, watching him, said, “If there’s anything you want to say, John….”
What could he say?
“Maybe the Schmidts would be better off someplace else,” she continued when he failed to answer. “They’ve never made their place pay.”
It was an argument he could have used on himself, but now, hearing it put into words, he didn’t like the sound of it. His voice was rough. “I reckon they look on it as home. Their boy was born there. I reckon it sort of ties you to a place if your first one is born there.”
June closed her eyes tightly, and then opened them. After a pause, she said softly, “I suppose we’ll feel that way too, John. It will always be our home and our town after our baby is born here. I…I talked to Doctor Williams yesterday.”
Murdock felt coldness run up his spine. It was surprise, mingled with fear and great pride. He swallowed hard, then turned to June. “You feel all right, honey? Anything I can do?”
He was so in earnest, she didn’t dare laugh. Instead, she reached over and put her hand on his hand, and smiled. When they arrived at the ranch, he lifted her out of the buggy and helped her up the front steps. “Land sakes, John, I’m not an invalid; I’m just having a baby,” laughing as they entered the house.
Murdock sat down in his big horsehide chair. “Good to be home and have nothing to do.” He raised his eyes to meet hers, and they both knew he was lying. There was always something to do, especially for a man like Murdock, June thought. She watched him with knowing eyes. He glanced up and their eyes met.
The moment he was sure she knew, the easier it was for him. But he still had to be positive that she understood what he had to do. Once he made this move there would be no turning back. She had to see that. 
An hour ago the town had been just another little cow town, nothing more, and Murdock hadn’t needed it. It was a place to shop and a man could shop just as well with Luke Callahan running things. But now, suddenly, that had changed, and there was tomorrow. One day, Murdock might have to explain his actions to his own son. He had to show his son that he believed what he said and that he backed up his beliefs.
“I was wrong about Billy,” Murdock said to June. “He’s not going to stand up to Luke Callahan.”
June looked into his eyes. After a long pause, she said, “I have some curtains I promised Mary Schmidt. Will you take them to her when you go?”
When Murdock left, she didn’t give him the usual lingering embrace; she pretended to be busy. She turned her head so that his lips just brushed her temple, as if he only were going off to his regular ranch chores. “Oh, and thank her for the pickles, John.”
He stalked out of the house as if he didn’t like having his Sunday disturbed by such feminine nonsense, but when he was half-way to the barn, his stride lengthened. His back stiffened and his shoulders straightened; he knew that she was sitting in her rocker, crying. He saddled the roan and rode off.
Jimmy was pouring sour milk into a trough for the pigs when Murdock rode up. The world might collapse, but pigs had to be fed, Murdock thought as he dismounted. The door of the little house, which was half soddy, half dugout, opened and Mary Schmidt mumbled a cool greeting. Murdock tipped his hat and said, “Those pickles you gave us were sure fine, Missus Schmidt. June wanted me to bring these curtains over.”
Mary Schmidt let her rough fingers caress the curtain material. “I’ll give you all the pickles,” she said. “We won’t need the curtains; we ain’t gonna stay here no more.”
In the dark interior of the sod house, Murdock could see Schmidt sitting in a chair, a man without hope, dulled by too much hard work and too much disappointment.
“Can I come in for just a minute, Missus Schmidt?” Murdock asked.
She stepped aside and Murdock doffed his hat and stepped inside, ducking his head to avoid the door frame. “We ain’t stayin’,” Schmidt said, a tear rolling down his large face.
“Sure, Henry,” Murdock said soothingly. “You’re going to stay.”
Mary Schmidt began to sob, dry choking sounds made for her man. “But they’ll fight us,” she said. “They’ll put cows in my Henry’s corn—the corn he’s worked so hard to raise. They’ll kill him. It’s too much.”
“You stay, Henry,” said Murdock. “You ask Jimmy. He knows.”
“I did,” Schmidt said. “He says I’m right to leave. No law, no protection now.”
Jimmy came to the door, his face white and drawn with worry. But seeing Murdock there a flicker of hope appeared in his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. 
Murdock could hear the sound of approaching horses. He stood up, feeling that old familiar tension in him again. He walked to the corner of the room and picked up Schmidt’s shotgun, checking to see it was loaded. 
As he stepped through the door, he said to Jimmy, “You explain to your pa that the law will protect him, won’t you?” The boy nodded. “The law is for everyone, Jimmy, cattlemen and farmers alike. You tell him that, Jimmy, no matter what happens.”
“I know,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tell him.”
Murdock saw Callahan and the same two riders who had been with him in the saloon coming toward the house. Only Callahan was wearing a pistol. That way, Murdock realized, if Callahan should have to talk to a judge later, he could say, “If we had expected trouble, all three of us would have been armed.”
They rode stiffly, holding their horses in. Murdock stood the cocked shotgun by the fence post, placing it carefully within easy reach. Then he turned so his face was shadowed, his back to the sun.
“Looks like we’re seein’ a lot of each other, neighbor,” said Callahan.
“Looks that way,” Murdock agreed.
Callahan’s eyes never left Murdock’s face. “I asked you once today if you was a friend of this sodbuster. Maybe I better ask it again.”
“Maybe. It all depends what you have on your mind, Callahan.”
“That soddy’s been butchering my beef,” Callahan snapped. “I’m sick of it.”
“You sure that’s the case?” 
“I said this sodbuster’s eating my beef,” Callahan fairly shouted. “You doubtin’ my word?”
“No, Luke,” said Murdock. “I’m callin’ you an outright liar.”
He saw the sudden anger in Callahan—a sore, whisky-nursed anger. The cattleman cursed, twisted in his saddle blinking into the sun. “You forgettin’ you ain’t the law any more?”
“You decide that, Luke,” Murdock said.
The two men looked at each other, understanding each other. Murdock’s expression warned Callahan to back down.
Callahan saw the shotgun leaning against the fence. But, he had been called in front of his men, and he had to make his move. If he backed down, it was all over for him, he realized. He’d have to leave the country.
He jerked his horse around, trying to avoid the direct glare of the sun. His hand streaked for his gun and he was fast.
Murdock had plenty of time. He whipped the shotgun up from the hip, firing at the same time. He didn’t hear the gun’s explosion, but he saw Callahan’s eyes pop open, his mouth dropped and he clawed at what was left of his chest. His horse reared and the cattleman’s body pitched to the ground like a sack of grain. He lay face down in the dust.
Time passed in a haze for Murdock as it always did when he was forced to kill. He stood by the barn, trembling when he heard Jimmy come up behind him.
“This was in the street in town, Mr. Murdock,” the boy said as he held out a silver star. “I told my pa how the law is for everybody and now he knows.”
Murdock stared as the star for a long moment, then took it and dropped it in his pocket.
June saw him through the front window. Murdock came in wearily, still trembling slightly. “Missus Schmidt was right happy to get the curtains.” His lips brushed her forehead and he walked into the bedroom.
Later, when she picked up his coat and laid it across her arm, the silver star fell to the floor. She looked at it for a long time, then picked it up and pinned it on his coat.
From the bureau drawer she took a clean, white, pleated-front shirt and laid it out along with a black string tie. Marshal John Murdock had worn a clean, white, pleated-front shirt to the office on Monday mornings for as long as June could remember, and she didn’t expect him to change his habits now.


* * *



Other Westerns by Russ Durbin
The Crossed Guns

“…the crossed guns on the west wall of Mr. Howard’s parlor drew me like a magnet.” That was how my grandfather started his favorite story. His pa, my great-grandfather, was marshal of a quiet little Ozark town that one summer day erupted in gunfire and an old-fashioned shootout on Main Street. As a boy, he was there when Frank James confronted the bounty hunters who killed his brother, Jesse.


The Last Stage

The high-wheeled mud wagon stood before the entrance to the Yuma House behind two spans of mules. John Dudley stepped out of the hotel into bright moonlight and handed his valise to the driver, who tossed it unceremoniously into the carrying rack. Dudley was leaving for San Diego where he would catch a steamer bound for New York and ultimately to the woman he was to marry. But there was a complication…and her name was Margo.