The Lawman Takes A Wife

Witt shook his head. He’d never been much of a talker, but Hancock didn’t want a response. He wanted somebody to talk at, somebody to show off for.

“Railroads, Sheriff! Think of ’em! And that big steel mill down in Pueblo. And the electric plants going up around the state. There’s not much of that yet, but someday electricity will be for more than just a factory here and there, you mark my words. And our homes! Where would we be without coal to heat our homes and cook our meals, eh, Sheriff? People might give up buying gold and silver, but they still have to eat and keep warm, don’t they?”

Hancock punctuated his remarks by stabbing at the air with the glowing tip of his cigar. With the last point, he glanced down at that bit of fire in his hands, and smiled, a small, secret smile just for himself. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep draw, held it, then pursed his lips and slowly exhaled.

“Yes sir, Sheriff, coal’s going to be around for a while, and that means Elk City’s going to be there, too. Growing, expanding, getting richer every day, by God!”

“And you want to make sure someone’s here to keep those riches safe for you.” The dryness in Witt’s voice wiped the smile off the banker’s face.

“That’s right.” His eyes glittered coldly. “Not that there’s much to worry about in the way of trouble around here. A few drunks on payday, a quarrel between a shopkeeper and a customer every now and then. That’s about it. We’d like you to keep it that way.”

Witt gave a small, noncommittal grunt. It’s because of Clara, he told himself. I’m thinking of that smooth-talking fancy man she fell in love with. It has nothing to do with Hancock. Nothing.

“Paydays for the mine,” he said, remembering Dickie Calhan’s tale. “Gotta be a lot of money coming in for those payrolls.”

“True.” Hancock smiled in wolfish satisfaction. “A very great deal of money, and we take good care to keep it safe, I can assure you. Only a few people know what train the money’s coming in on. Even some of the railroad and bank people aren’t informed. That way, there’s less chance of the train being stopped and robbed. No sense in stopping a train when all you might get is a few wallets and women’s purses for your troubles.”

Witt remained silent, waiting.

“This bank is solid, too, of course. You saw. Solid brick, bars on the windows, and the best safe money can buy. The mines, of course, have their own guards for when the money is actually being paid out.”

“Are you the only bank that handles the payrolls?”

Hancock shook his head, took another drag, blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “No, but we handle the majority. All the big mines, certainly.”

“And you’ve never had an attempt on the bank or the payroll?” Witt persisted.

“No, I told you. Nothing like that.” Hancock was growing irritated. “Watch the saloons. A few of the men get drunk and rowdy, but that’s as far as it goes. We’ve never had more of a problem than that. But if we do…” He stared at Witt across the desk, his eyes hard and unblinking. “If we do, then you’ve proven you’re the man for the job. That’s why we hired you, you know. Because you proved you knew how to deal with real problems.”

A chill swept down Witt’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, Sheriff. There’s no need to play the silent hero here, between the two of us. Frankly, that little incident with those two bank robbers over in Abilene is what convinced us to hire you. Convinced me, anyway. I had to do some arguing to talk some of the other council members into the idea. They weren’t sure they liked the idea of a gunfighter serving as our sheriff.”

“I’m not a gunfighter.”

Hancock looked skeptical. “You’re not trying to tell me you didn’t kill those two, are you? We checked into that incident pretty thoroughly, and—”

“No, I’m not going to say I didn’t kill those men. I did. But I’m not a gunfighter.” After five years, he still found himself sweating, just thinking of it.

“But you faced them down, right there in the street, didn’t you?”

“It happened outside the bank, yes. They—”

He stopped. He didn’t owe this man an explanation, but he should have known the minute that little Dickie Calhan asked him if he was a gunman that he would have to face it. Like divorce, the fact that he’d killed two men—two boys, dammit—wasn’t the sort of thing people forgot.

“I’m not a gunfighter.” He shoved to his feet. “If that’s what you and the town want, Hancock, hire someone else.”

“No, no. Sheriff!” Hancock was on his feet, hands raised, palms out, the still smoking cigar between his fingers. He smiled. “Please. Forgive me if I’ve offended you. My choice of words was…ill-considered.”

Witt’s hands twitched with the urge to punch that handsome face.

“I’d best get going.” He bent to retrieve his hat.

Hancock deliberately set the cigar on the rim of a massive polished stone ashtray. “You know about the council meeting tonight?”

“Six o’clock.”

“In the town hall. You know where that is?”

It wasn’t because of Clara. “I’ll find it.”

“Good. Good.” Hancock came around the desk. “I’ll see you there, then.”

Witt gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. He didn’t trust his tongue for more.

The instant they stepped out of the office, the clerk looked up, face squinched in disapproval. “Mr. Hancock? There’s Mr. Dermott here to see you.” His face pinched a little tighter. “And Mrs. Thompson.”

“Mrs. Thompson.” Hancock turned pale. “What—”

A thin, stooped little woman popped up from one of the chairs set near the office railing. “My accounts, Mr. Hancock! I want to speak to you about my accounts!”

“Mr. Dermott was here before you, Mrs. Thompson,” said the clerk, peering at her disapprovingly from over the rims of his glasses.

A stout, middle-aged gentleman occupying the chair farthest from Mrs. Thompson’s waved his hands to indicate he’d rather wait than be dragged into the discussion. Both the combatants ignored him.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your accounts,” the clerk insisted. “I reviewed them myself, just last week. Accurate to the penny and so I told you.”

The woman sniffed. “As if that makes me feel one whit better, Hiram Goff! You’re so tight your shoes pinch, but that doesn’t mean you’ve the wits God gave a goldfish or you would know a two from a twenty at the back end of the day.”

Gordon Hancock’s smile was getting a little forced around the edges. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure if Mr. Goff says your accounts are accurate, there’s no need for you to worry, Mrs. Thompson. In fact, now we have Sheriff Gavin on the job, you can stop worrying about anything.”

She looked Witt up and down. “So you’re our new sheriff.”

The corner of Witt’s mouth twitched. He could make two of her, with some left over, but that didn’t bother her in the least. He’d seen banty roosters that weren’t half as feisty. “Yes.”

“Sheriff Gavin—” Hancock began.

“Can speak for himself, I shouldn’t wonder,” the old lady snapped. She leaned closer. For a moment, Witt had the feeling she was going to poke him, as if he were a smoked ham and she was judging the balance of meat to bone.

“Well?” she demanded. “You can speak for yourself, can’t you?”

Witt stifled the grin that threatened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

He nodded.

“Huh!” she said, and skewered Gordon Hancock with her stare. “Hired yourself a fool for a sheriff, did you? Trust the mayor for it. Isn’t a thing in the world that Josiah Andersen can’t foul up, including hiring a sheriff.”

“Mr. Dermott…” Hancock began, a little desperately.

“Though if it’s a choice between a fool and Zacharius Trainer, I’d rather have the fool. At least there’s a bit more of this fellow than that old windbag, Zacharius.”

“Mr. Dermott,” said Hiram Goff with a pinched little frown, “has left.”

Witt clapped his hat on his head and sidled toward the railing gate. “Ma’am.” He glanced back at Hancock. “Six o’clock.”

“I’ll just see you out.” Hancock darn near trod on his heels following him out to the boardwalk in front. “Good of you to drop by, Sheriff. I’m glad we had this little chat, just the two of us.”

Witt gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Not real talkative, are you, Gavin? But that’s all right. We hired you because you’re a man of action. Proved that in Abilene.” Hancock beamed, then clapped him on the shoulder as if they were old friends. “You do the right thing at the right time, we won’t care how few words you use to tell us about it. Guaranteed!”

From the shadowed safety behind her storefront windows, Molly watched Gordon Hancock escort the new sheriff out of the bank. Hancock was a handsome fellow and by far the best-dressed man in town, but it wasn’t Hancock she was watching.

From the looks of it, DeWitt Gavin didn’t have much more to say to the bank president than he’d had to say to her. That made her feel a little better. Not a lot, but a little. For a few minutes there, she’d been fool enough to think he’d been rather more dangerously aware of her as a woman than most of her customers ever were.

She watched as Hancock slapped the sheriff on the back, just as if they were good friends and had known each other for years. The sheriff’s expression was so impassive, she couldn’t tell what he thought. When he stepped off the boardwalk and started up the streets, she shifted to get a better view.

Despite his size, he moved with a deceptively lazy ease that got him from one place to another quicker than it seemed. Scarcely a minute had passed since he’d stepped out of the bank before he disappeared through the post office door.

Just as well, she told herself, regretfully abandoning the window. She had better things to do than get interested in a man. Any man, let alone one with nothing more to his name, it seemed, than a saddle and a rifle and a bedroll. A woman her age with two children to worry about should have better sense than that.

But still she couldn’t help pausing in front of the tall, narrow mirror she’d mounted on the outside of one of the storage cabinets for the convenience of her customers.

The sight was enough to make a grown woman cry. If this was how she’d looked when Sheriff Gavin had walked into the store, it was no wonder the man had had a hard time looking her in the face, then run as soon as he could.

Blushing, she hastily tucked up the tendrils that had escaped her bun, scrubbed the pencil smudge from her cheek, and tugged her shirtwaist into place. And then she sternly turned away to finish the task of putting up the rest of the notions and yard goods.

No matter what the town gossips might say behind her back, she was doing just fine without a man in her life. Richard had been a good husband and a kind lover, but he was dead and the dreams they’d shared and the children they’d had were her responsibility now, and hers alone. So far, she’d done all right by both the dreams and the children, but there were times…

Molly sighed, remembering the brief feel of her hand in Sheriff Gavin’s, the comfortable, solid, eminently masculine bulk of him.

Sometimes it was awfully hard to be a widow when she was still young enough to hunger for the pleasures of the marriage bed. The prospect of years of cold sponge baths in the middle of the night was too grim a possibility even to consider.

Chapter Three

As the broad double doors of Jackson’s saloon swung closed behind the last of their party, Witt surreptitiously checked his pocket watch. Almost nine. He sighed and snapped the case shut.

That six o’clock meeting in the town hall had lasted just long enough for a brief swearing-in and handshakes all around before they’d adjourned to the Grand Hotel’s private dining room—at the taxpayers’ expense, no doubt—for dinner and drinks and a sometimes heated political debate.

Three hours later, their political differences temporarily discarded under the mellowing influence of the Grand’s best whisky, the council had adjourned again, this time to the livelier environs of Jackson’s saloon.

Only Hancock had bowed out, saying something about a widow and the attentions due her that had roused good-natured laughter from the other council members and a strong urge on Witt’s part to flatten the man’s pretty nose. It was none of his business to wonder who the widow might be, but Witt found himself hoping it wasn’t Mrs. Calhan.

Mayor Andersen clapped him on the shoulder, driving out the thought of the woman and her smile and the tempting way those stray locks of hair had drifted against her cheek and throat.

“Move on in, man, move on in! Can’t stand in the doorway blockin’ traffic, you know!”

Witt slipped his watch into his vest pocket and stepped to the side, out of the way. Bert Potter swayed after him.

“Good place, Jackson’s,” he said with only a faint slurring of his sibilants. He cast a slightly bleary gaze over the room. “M’wife hates it. Won’t speak to me for a week after I’ve been in.”

“That so?” said Witt.

“Yup.” Bert looked around in satisfaction. “I try’n come once a month, at least.”

As Elk City’s only pharmacist, Bert had inquired right off into the general condition of Witt’s stomach, bowels and liver. The assurance that all Witt’s organs were in good working order and in no need of a revivifying tonic had been met with a resigned sigh. Since then, the man had been industriously trying to pickle his.

As the mayor stalked to the bar to order a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, Billie Jenkins, proprietor of Jenkins Hardware and one of Elk City’s leading businessmen, sidled closer.

“Don’t tell my wife about this, will you?” he said in what he no doubt thought was a low voice. He hiccuped solemnly. “She thinks I’m at a council meeting.”

Bert frowned. “Hell, Billie. If she don’t know what you’re up to by now, I’ll eat my boots.”

“Damn good thing there ain’t a chance in hell of that, Bert,” a man at a nearby table jeered good-naturedly. A rancher from the looks of him, rather than a miner. “Them’s the damned ugliest boots I’ve ever seen.”

“Savin’ yer own, Tony!” his victim returned. “And mine ain’t caked with that peculiarly odiferous stuff that’s adornin’ yours!”

Tony laughed and rose to his feet, gesturing to the empty chairs at the opposite side of his table. “Pull up a chair and join us.”

He eyed Witt, grinned, and stuck out his hand. “Judgin’ from the size of you, you’d be the new sheriff. Heard you were in Jackson’s last night. Zacharius Trainer must be some put out.”

Witt took Tony’s proffered hand. Before he could ask who Zacharius Trainer was and why he should be some put out, Josiah Andersen returned, loaded with glasses and a bottle.

“Don’t let Trainer worry you, Gavin,” he advised. “He don’t mind we didn’t elect him sheriff. It’s the missus Trainer you gotta look out for, not ol’ Zach. She’s twice as mean as he is, and carries a grudge, besides.”

Laughter swept the table. While Josiah passed the glasses round, Witt studied the room around him. Last night had been a workday night and the place had been relatively quite. Tonight, however, was Friday and the place was crowded.

According to the mayor, there wasn’t much else in the way of entertainment in Elk City except two smaller, less popular saloons at the opposite end of town and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union’s reading room. And that, thank God, Josiah had said, was closed of a Friday evening.

Though there were a few women scattered here and there through the crowd, none of them had the look of trouble. They were with their men and it didn’t take much looking to realize that an invisible and unmistakable hands-off sign had been posted on every one of them.

The men in Jackson’s didn’t seem to mind. The ones who wanted a woman had already taken the last train into Gunnison, twenty miles away. According to Josiah, who’d said his wife would have a stick to him if she ever found out he’d dare think such a thing, Elk City’s one lack was a good whorehouse.

The respectable ladies of the town had long since forced the closure of the two brothels that had provided the early miners’ entertainment. Josiah admitted the establishments had never been all that impressive, but they’d been Elk City’s own, and he missed them.

There were still a couple of women who entertained visitors privately, though, and the mayor had taken pains to tell Witt exactly who they were and where they worked. He hadn’t come right out and said it, but Witt had the feeling it would be as much as his job was worth to drive the last of those enterprising females out of Elk City. So long as they minded their business and didn’t disturb the peace, he didn’t have any intention of trying.

A checkers game in the corner had drawn a few onlookers, all of whom were more than willing to tell the players what they ought to have done and to argue over the differing strategies. In the opposite corner, a burly miner sat picking out a song on a battered, out-of-tune piano that didn’t look as if it had ever had much in the way of better days.

The pianist’s friends were urging him to play something else, anything else but that same, damned “Clementine” with which he’d been assaulting them for hours. Impervious to their pleas, he simply played louder. He couldn’t possibly have played worse.

The air reeked of cheap whiskey and cheaper cigars, and the language coming from a couple of the patrons would have gotten the ladies of the church going something fierce. A freckle-faced boy kept busy moving the spittoons and cleaning up the spills, and so far as Witt could see, there wasn’t anything other than the foul language that a boy his age shouldn’t be seeing or hearing.

Friday night at Jackson’s was remarkably peaceful. Provided the checker players didn’t turn violent from a surfeit of advice, Witt decided he could stop worrying about trouble. If this was the wildest Elk City had to offer, his tenure as sheriff was going to be a mighty peaceful one.

He settled comfortably back in his chair while a dozen threads of conversation swirled around him. Beneath the noise, he caught the faint rustle of the paper bag of chocolates in his shirt pocket as he shifted.

He stilled, but not soon enough to stop the sudden itch in his palms, and the bigger itch a little lower down.

Maybe not so peaceful, after all.

The Elk City Ladies’ Society biweekly meeting was in full swing. The group, which was presently engaged in making quilts for a church-sponsored orphanage in Chicago or New York—there was some disagreement about which, though they were all agreed it would be one or the other of those licentious hellholes back East—had assembled in Elizabeth Andersen’s parlor for this week’s session.

“The new sheriff’s been busy,” Coreyanne Campbell said approvingly. She finished pinning the fabric she was piecing and reached for the spool of thread on the table in front of her. “Already been to half the stores in town, introducing himself around. My Sam ran into him coming out of Potter’s Pharmacy this afternoon. Had a nice talk, the two of them, or so Sam said.”

Everyone tactfully refrained from mentioning that Sam and the sheriff already had a basis for friendship since the two of them had spent the previous evening drinking in Jackson’s saloon.

“Heard he visited you first, Molly,” Emmy Lou Trainer commented. Above the gold-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, her eyes narrowed. “That true?”

“He visited me,” Molly replied noncommittally. “I have no idea if I was the first, but he did stop by.”

After he’d left the bank, she’d watched him work his way from store to store down the street. Which was sheer foolishness, and probably due to her having been so tired and suffering from the headache generated by that morning’s free-for-all. At least, that’s what she’d told herself when she’d caught herself staring out the window for the dozenth time that afternoon, waiting for him to reappear. Simple curiosity. It had nothing to do with the cut of his jaw or the breadth of his shoulders or the way he’d looked, savoring that chocolate.

Becky Goodnight, whose husband ran the smallest and least profitable general store in town, reached for the scissors that lay on the table beside her. “My George wasn’t impressed. The man didn’t have much of anything to say for himself, or so George said.”

Emmy Lou’s mouth pinched into a frown. “He’s certainly big enough. MayBeth Johnson said the floor shook with every step he took.”

“It would, as rickety as the Johnsons’ old building is.” The snick of Becky’s scissors seemed viciously loud.

Molly winced. George Goodnight had been spending most of the small profits from their store on a fancy woman down in Gunnison lately, so Becky was awfully touchy these days. It was easier to take her resentments out on her flourishing competitors than to admit that her husband wasn’t much good as a storekeeper, and an utter failure as a husband and father.

Sometimes, when she started thinking about remarrying, Molly remembered George, gave a little prayer of thanks for the good years she’d had with Richard and made herself think about something else entirely.

Nineteen-year-old Louisa Merton sighed, oblivious to Becky’s problems. “I was in the Johnsons’ store when he came in. I swear, I was never so disappointed in all my life! He looked so…old. He wasn’t at all handsome and he didn’t say two words when MayBeth introduced us.”

Old? thought Molly. She frowned down at the pieces of the wedding ring quilt in her lap. DeWitt Gavin wasn’t old. And only a mooney young girl like Louisa would think he wasn’t good-looking.

“And on top of it all, he’s divorced,” Louisa added, heaving another, deeper sigh. “At least Mr. Hancock’s always been a bachelor.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone chasing him!” Emmy Lou protested, clearly shocked.

“Wouldn’t have done me any good if I had. The only lady he ever looks at is Molly, and she’s always turning him down.”

“Really?”

All eyes turned on Molly.

Molly bristled under their stares, but managed to say evenly, “Louisa is mistaken. Mr. Hancock has not come courting me and never will.”

Which was the truth. Though he’d never been so crass as to say so outright, Gordon Hancock was interested in gaining her bed, not her heart.

“But he asked you out to dinner at the Grand, Molly. I heard him,” Louisa insisted.

“A business discussion,” she lied.

“Gordon Hancock never invited my Zacharius to dinner for a business discussion,” Emmy Lou observed tartly.

“Probably because he couldn’t afford the bill for the drinks,” said Thelma Thompson.

Thelma didn’t do much quilting—too expensive for a poor widow woman she often said—but that didn’t stop her from showing up at the meetings. Especially when they were being held at Elizabeth’s house. Elizabeth’s cook made the best sweet biscuits in town, though it wasn’t the quality so much as the quantity and the fact that they were free that was the main attraction for Thelma.

Elizabeth hastily passed the widow another plate of biscuits. “Well, I’m sure even a dedicated banker like Mr. Hancock likes to get out once in awhile.”

“Then why doesn’t he ask me?” Louisa demanded.

“Chit your age?” Thelma said, clearing the plate. “Why ever for?”

“At this rate, I’ll never find anyone to marry,” Louisa wailed. “Never!”

“I’m sure you’ll find somebody eventually, dear,” said Elizabeth. Before Louisa could demand to know just when that might happen, she added, “What I’d like to know is what the sheriff did for his wife to divorce him. He doesn’t seem the type to have a miss—” She glanced at Becky. “Be a troublemaker. He just doesn’t seem the type.”

She looked around the circle. “I don’t suppose anybody’s heard the details?”

“You’re married to the mayor.” Emmy Lou stabbed her needle into her quilting pieces as if it could have gone straight to the hearts of those who had deprived her husband of the position he deserved. “Seems to me you, of all of us, ought to know.”