Chapter Nineteen
Since Crown couldn't bend over far enough to use his mirror--or raise his right arm up to the level of his face--his willing young deputy became his unwilling young barber.
And so it was that Francis ended up giving his boss a close shave--along with his full report, "You wanna hear it from the beginning?...Or shall I skip right ta Washington?"
The Marshal sat stiffly up in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk and his one-day's growth of beard buried beneath a thick layer of foamy white lather. "The beginnin' will be fi-ine," Crown answered, staring nervously up at the glistening blue blade of the straight-edged razor in his young friend's trembling hand.
"Okay. Then, let yore head drop back and close your eyes," the reporter turned barber requested.
Instead, the lawman's eyes widened and he sat up even more stiffly.
"Loo-ook," Francis calmly continued, "I can't do it with you watchin' me! You're making me too nervous! So, if you really expect me to go through with this, you're gonna have ta close yore eyes!" he repeated rather impatiently and proceeded to push his rebellious boss carefully back down in his chair.
Somehow, the Marshal managed to crack a smile through all that shaving cream.
"That's better!" Francis exclaimed as the lawman settled uneasily back down in his seat and his head obediently dropped back...and his eyelids obligingly dropped down. "Now hold still! An' try ta relax!" he urged--as an afterthought.
"I will if you will..." the Marshal muttered, cracking yet another smile.
Francis smiled and then took his boss up on his challenge before beginning his rather tricky task, "We-ell, like I said las' night...as things turned out, you were absolutely right about everything! Including about Mareck havin' me followed. An'--just like you predicted--the guy stopped tailin' me the moment I boarded that train for Boston instead of Washington. Once I got ta Boston, I placed that ad you gave me in all the major papers. Then I went to that meeting with Mr. Hanley. That's when I found out what he'd done. When I asked him why he had done it, he said he'd heard the Outlet was gonna be openin' soon. An', like everybody else, he wanted ta cash in on all the free publicity that was bound to be stirred up. He said he jes' naturally assumed I'd approve of the idea, an' that he wanted ta surprise me. He figured I'd be real pleased to see that my articles had been made into a book," he finished rather bitterly, and wiped the blade of the razor in his right hand clean on the towel draped over the back of his boss' chair.
Crown had everything he could do to keep his eyes and his mouth shut.
His barber seemed to sense that fact and quickly changed the subject, "Oh, an' you were right about Mareck's money, too. I talked ta several different bankers an' they all said exactly the same thing. Roger Mareck receives his financial backing from an East Coast business cartel, 'Goldman-Hunt-Reimer an' Associates'. I did some more checkin' an' found out that Felix Reimer--an' several of the associates--were located right there, in Boston. So I contacted Mr. Reimer. Of course, he denied any knowledge of Mareck's illegal activities. He claimed he never even knew Mareck--personally. He said that the man had been hired--sight unseen--solely on the merits of his reputation. It seems their firm was looking for some new ways to diversify an' double its investments. An' they heard that Roger Mareck had a knack for turnin' low risk real estate ventures into highly profitable returns. I sort a' got the impression that--as long as their stockholders were happy--nobody really cared what 'methods' Mareck might 'venture' ta use," Francis added, even more bitterly. He paused again to wipe the razor's blade off on the towel, "Anyways, the moment they heard there was gonna be a Justice Department investigation into the whole affair, Goldman-Hunt-Reimer an' Associates disassociated themselves from 'Mister' Roger Mareck, an'--immediately--withdrew all their financial support of the man. Mr. Reimer called it: 'Cutting their losses'. After that, I spoke ta my lawyer--again--an' he told me that the Court had granted my injunction. So I handed Mr. Hanley the 'writ' an' took off for Washington!" Francis finished rather quickly. His boss' eyes would've snapped open--if he hadn't placed his left hand over them. And Crown would've sat up in his seat--if he hadn't pushed his head back. And the lawman surely would've said something--if he hadn't held the razor to his throat.
The Marshal took the 'hints' and let the matter slide--for the moment, at least.
"Any questions on Boston?" the razor-toting young ex-reporter for the Boston Globe asked innocently, "If not, we kin move on ta Washing--" he stopped as the lawman suddenly snatched onto his right wrist and then held the hand with the razor in it away from his throat, "--ton..." he finished rather uneasily.
"How'd you ever manage ta get all a' tha-at accomplished in jes' one da-ay?" Crown wondered in amazement.
Francis breathed a silent sigh of relief, "Yah know those new-fangled communication devices you been readin' about in the papers? Well, Mr. Hanley had one of 'em installed in his office, an' he let me use it. I tell yah, Jim--the 'telephone' is the greatest invention since the telegraph! I was able ta talk ta people who were scattered all over the city--without ever once leaving the newspaper build--"
"What about Doctor Jarrod Michael Ellis?" Crown interrupted and--finally--released the reporter's wrist, "Where, exactly, does he fit in?"
Francis breathed another sigh of relief and then smiled thoughtfully. "He doesn't...'exactly'. Yah see, he showed up later on that evenin'...on the train down...somewheres between Boston an' Washington," he added and uncovered the lawman's eyes.
But his boss apparently did not see for his closed eyes remained scrunched up in confusion.
So Francis went a bit further with his explanation, "We'd run into each other earlier--back at the train station. I had just bought this incredible new camera--wait 'til yah see it, Jim! It's one a' those new Kodak's! Remember? I showed yah the advertisement in my photo journal. I tell yah, this camera is incredible! It completely revolutionizes photography! The Kodak is--without a doubt--Mr. Eastman's greatest invention since his dry-coated glass plate! I mean, picture this: no more chemicals, no more flash powder! An'--instead of heavy tintypes or fragile glass plates--the 'Kodak' uses a photo-sensitive coated roll a' paper! An', would you believe, you kin fit a hundred pictures on a single roll a' this new, paper film?! An' talk about light-weight! You kin carry this camera around all day! An' it's small, too! I bet it's only about one-sixth the size a' my old camera! Why, it practic'ly fits in the palm a' yore hand! So, yah kin take it practic'ly everywhe--"
"Fran-ci-is..." his fascinated, but even more anxious to get back to business, boss interrupted finally.
The enthusiastic young photographer looked confused, but then gradually realized how completely carried away he'd gotten from his full report--and his close shave. "Oh...yea-eah," he mumbled--a bit embarrassedly and quickly returned to both, "Like I was sayin'. We were jes' sittin' around the depot, waitin' for our trains...an' we got ta talkin'...an' I told 'im about my new camera...an' he told me about this new-fangled' piece a' medical equipment he'd jes' brought back from France. I think he called it a 'micro-scope'. Anyways, he claims that you kin see things with this 'micro-scope' device that no one has ever seen before! Things normally not visible to the human eye--" he caught himself, this time--before he could get too carried away, "Anyways--when I discovered that I was talkin' to a doctor--I figured it couldn't hurt ta show 'im yore ad. So I pointed it out to him in the paper...an' then gave 'im my best Cimarron sales pitch. Bu-ut, it turned out that he was on his way ta New York. Seems there was a position already waiting for him--at one a' the largest an' most prestigious hospitals in the entire city. Right about then, they announced that his train was ready ta pull out. So we said our good-byes an' parted company. The next thing I know, he's sittin' in the seat next ta mine--an' he's on his way ta Washin'ton with me! He said he'd thought yore ad over. An', the more he thought about it, the more he realized that THIS was exactly the position he'd been lookin' for--all along! So he traded in his ticket...an' transferred his luggage...an'--voila`! Here he is!" A final stroke of the razor--and Francis' job as a barber was completed! And without so much as even the slightest nick! "A-An' there you are!" he added, finishing both his sentence and his shaving--with a bit of a flair.
The Marshal's eyes slowly opened and he shot his flamboyant young friend a strange stare. "Thanks!" he said. "I thi-ink..." he added, suppressing a slight smile. Crown slowly lowered his feet to the floor and then sat carefully--and stiffly--back up in his seat. He used the towel that had been draped about his neck to pat the rest of his face dry. Then he stared down at the now damp cloth somewhat in disbelief. Left-over shaving cream was all that it contained! There were no traces of any blood on it--anywheres! Somehow, he'd just managed to survive another close shave. He glanced back up at his barber, looking duly impressed.
"You're welcome!" Francis said smugly and handed his now duly impressed looking boss back his razor. "I thi-ink..." he added, suppressing a smile of his own.
The Marshal gave his amusing--and talented--young friend a wry grin and a grateful nod.
The smug smile Francis had been suppressing escaped from him and he bent his head forwards in a bit of an elaborate bow.
Crown tossed the towel--and the razor--down on his desk with an amused gasp and then flipped open the top folder that was sitting there in front of him. An official looking form appeared. And--as it did so--the Marshal's amused look vanished.
Francis watched helplessly as his friend's freshly-shaved face suddenly filled with a look of unbearable sadness. The deputy stared down at the document on the desk and then at his friend in complete confusion. It was just a simple 'Application To File For A Homestead' form. They'd both seen dozens of them before. So then, why did this particular piece of paper seem to be having such an adverse affect on his boss? He bent his head forwards again and then cocked it so that he could take a closer look at the culprit in question. Francis stared down at the application in amazement. All of the form's blank spaces were filled in--with the Marshal's handwriting! And an even closer inspection of the first few lines revealed the answer to his question. His boss had filed the application in behalf of...John Two Rivers. Actually, since Indians couldn't file an application for a homestead, the lawman had listed the Comanche's white wife--Beth--as the form's official applicant. And not all of the form's spaces were filled in. One was still blank.
"So-o...when's the big date?" Crown inquired rather bitterly and began reaching for his pen.
Francis stiffened as his friend suddenly stiffened and then gasped in pain. He continued watching--helplessly--as his hurting boss sat there, holding his breath and gritting his teeth...waiting for the agonizing pain in his right side and shoulder to subside. Seeing as how the Marshal's right arm remained frozen in mid-reach, Francis dutifully picked up the pen...dipped it into the inkwell...and then handed it to the man--along with a smile of approval. "September 16th," he replied, his soft-spoken voice reflecting the admiration he had for his boss.
The lawman gave his young deputy an appreciative smile and then filled the appropriate space in with the appropriate date--September 16, 1893. The Marshal had made a duplicate of the document and he carefully filled the date in on it, as well. There! Now the property John was buried on was legally Beth's. John would never have to leave his land now. And now Beth would never have to leave her husband. Crown 'gasped' again�this time, in complete exasperation. If only he had had that missing bit of information six days sooner...his friend might still be alive! The exasperated lawman 'gasped' again�this time, in frustration. If he was gonna do himself--or anyone else--any good, he needed to keep all of his thoughts focused on the present--and the clear and immediate dangers which it contained. So he took a slip of paper and a pencil from the center drawer of his desk and began making a list--a list of probable ways to eliminate those clear and present dangers.
Francis suddenly felt very alone. Oh, the Marshal's body was still there in the room, all right. But the Marshal's mind now seemed miles away. Though he doubted seriously that he could reach him, the deputy sighed and then tried to draw the lawman's attention back to his not quite fu-ull 'full report'. "I got ta meet yore boss..."
No reaction.
"Got ta sit right across from 'im in the Oval Office, while he read yore report..."
Still no reaction.
"Even got ta shake his hand--twi-ice!"
"That's ni-ice..." the still inattentive Marshal muttered and kept right on writing.
"Don't yah wanna hear how things went in Washington?" the disappointed deputy wondered finally, following another long bout of silence.
"I know how things went in Washington," Crown replied bitterly and didn't even bother to look up from his growing list, "My reinforcements never arrived. Remember?!"
"Yea-eah...An' I can't understand that, either! I gave Mr. Phillips an' Mr. Gerard a-an' Mr. Thompkins each a copy a' yore report--jes' like you said! An' all three of 'em promised they'd send you some help! RIGHT AWAY! I was assured that help would be here--six days ago, already!"
"I was sure it'd arrive by then, too--or I would a' never took off after Tanner," the Marshal finished his sentence--and his list at the same time. Then he took one of the telegrams from one of the two stacks of telegrams on his desk and stared solemnly down at it, "We're bein' railroaded here, Francis. An' the engineer comes from way up the line!" he finished and finally looked up, "So...did yah get ta take his picture? Or was yore new camera too revolutionary for 'im?" he added lightly and tossed the telegram back onto his desk. "My 'boss'...Remember?" the lawman teased, seeing the young reporter looked completely perplexed. "I got ta meet Mr. Arthur, once. In fact, he swore me in. An' I met Mr. Cleveland, too. It was durin' his first term--when I got...'ca-alled' ta Washington..." the Marshal shot the sleeping Senator an annoyed glare, "...for this assignment. He jes' swore at me. Never did get ta meet Mr. Harrison, though. Never even seen so much as a picture a' hi-im. You did get one a' Mr. Cleveland, didn't you?"
"Four!" Francis told him excitedly, but then looked glum again. "Only...it may be a while before I kin show 'em to you. Yah see, I have ta take seventy-six more pictures before I kin get those four developed..." he explained rather embarrassedly.
"That's...revolutionary, all right!" Crown conceded, not sounding too sincere. Then he gave his photographer friend the list--and the smile he'd been suppressing, "I kin wait. Besides, it ain't likely that a second term has changed his looks any."
Francis returned the smile, but kept the list, "I s'pose you want me ta get started on this right away..." he muttered, looking the lawman's very lo-ong list over.
"That's ri-ight. By the time the sun sets this evenin', I want everyone in the Strip ta know about the Outlet's openin'."
The Marshal's young deputy glanced up and stared at his daring boss in disbelief, "But...it's supposed ta be a secret. We're supposed ta keep it to ourselves."
"An' so we will!" Crown vowed. "We'll show Congress that we kin keep a secret--here in Cimarron--jes' as well as they kin--in Washington! An' we won't tell a single soul--outside a' the Strip!" he added conditionally. (Everybody else seemed to know about it already, anyways.)
Francis' look of disbelief gave way to a grin. Then he gave the list in his hands a second glance--and his grin gave way to a look of absolute horror.
The list's creator read the look, "You don't have ta put together a whole newspaper," he reassured the young reporter--accurately pinpointing the cause for his horrified expression, "Jes' give me a front page an' a headline: 'Outlet Openin' September 16th!'--or some such thing. As for the story�We-ell, I'll leave that up ta you." He flipped open another folder, grabbed a handful of papers and passed them on to his star reporter, "He-ere, you kin use my report. In fact, you kin print it word-for-word, if yah like."
Then again, maybe the Marshal wasn't so accurate, after all. It wasn't what he wanted his deputy to do, so much as where he wanted him to do it that Francis had found so horrifying. "Why should I go clear over ta Hardesty...when we kin print the thing right here...in Cimarron?!" he demanded.
"It's too dangerous here! Mareck might get wind of it an' try ta stop the presses."
"How will he ever get wind of it? There'll only be the three of us that knows what's goin' on..." the irate reporter glanced uncertainly at the sleeping Senator, "...four, at the most!"
But his boss didn't look the least bit convinced.
So Francis decided it was time to change his tactics, "Loo-ook...We been together over five years now! An', during all that time as yore Deputy, I never once disobeyed yore orders! Well...not deliberately, anyways. But I ain't leavin' this time! I left here once, already--because you ordered me ta go! An' it was the worst eleven days a' my life! I'm NOT leavin' here again! Call it the reporter in me--but I simply cannot stand NOT knowin' what's goin' on!"
Crown considered his very determined young deputy's rebellious comments over carefully. The lawman was in no mood for a major confrontation--or even a minor one for that matter. So he surrendered--unconditionally, "All right, Francis. Since you feel that strongly about it...you kin print it right here--in Cimarron. But you're gonna have ta keep both eyes open! An', if you should happen ta see any run-away trains bearin' down on you...we-ell, you jes' be sure an' step out a' the way!" he concluded--tacking on a condition or two, after all.
'Speakin' a' stayin' out a' the path of movin' trai-ains...' Francis thought rather nervously, "And what are yore plans for the day?"
Crown could tell by the tone of his question that Francis had found out about his little run-in with Roger Mareck. Was there anybody in town who hadn't heard about it? "Because a' the lack a' reinforcements--on the law's side--there's been a major change a' plans. I could slap Mareck behind bars. But--since I don't have the man-power ta keep 'im there--I guess I'll jes' have ta settle for runnin' 'im out a' town...on a rai-ail! So-o, after I examine Doctor Ellis' 'credentials'...an' register Beth's application over at the Land Office...an' make my usual mornin' rounds--I plan ta head on over ta the depot, where I'm gonna--personally--see to it that Mareck's private car is moved back onto the track! Then I'm gonna arrange ta have it hooked onto the first train that comes through!"
Speaking of being railroaded...
Francis went from feeling rather relieved to feeling rather anxious again. "An' you figure Roger Mareck is jes' gonna climb aboard?" he inquired, his face and his voice filled with skepticism.
"Why not!" the Marshal calmly replied. "After all, the man has no reason ta stay. He came here to acquire property. An' now--thanks ta you--he no longer has anything to acquire it with! He does have a very good reason ta lea-eave, however. An' it goes by the name a' Clifford Ea-Earl Tanner!"
Thanks to the lawman's calm, rational, reasonable remarks, Francis no longer felt so ill at ease about leaving his boss on his own for the day. "All I kin say is good riddance! An' I sure hope you're ri-ight..." he added under his breath.
But Crown caught the comment and gave his concerned young deputy--and friend--a confident nod and a wink, "If he wants ta live, he's got ta leave! An'--right about now--those attorney's a' his are probably advisin' him accordin'ly. It's either the steps a' that train, or the steps a' the gallows!" he stated confidently. "An', speakin' a' leavin'...you'd better get goin'! I'll bring you over somethin' ta eat--later on," he added and passed the young reporter the folder containing his own full report.
"Right, Jim!" his deputy dutifully acknowledged and turned to go.
Speaking of eating...
"Oh, an' by the way," Crown called after him, "you'd better call in the home gua-ard! I imagine they mus' be in the mood for some home cookin'', by now! Not ta mention slee-eep!"
Francis halted and then stood there, looking both surprised and curious. He slowly turned his head back around.
His boss saw the looks and turned his gaze in the direction of his half-emptied gun rack.
Francis followed his gaze and then turned back again to give the very astute lawman a grin and a nod.
"Be careful out there!" Crown advised as his young friend finished fumbling with the key in his hands and unlocked his office.
"I will if you will!" the still-grinning deputy called back over his shoulder and then disappeared out the door.
The Marshal managed an amused gasp. Then his grin gave way to a grimace and he 'gasped' again--this time, in pain. The morphine had definitely worn off--most definitely! And the lawman was beginning to have mixed feelings about getting his feelings back.
As Francis exited his office in one direction, Jarrod entered it from another. "Hope I'm not late!" he stated and handed the now fully recovered lawman his credentials, etc., etc.. "I was over in the Livery...with Dulcey," he explained rather breathlessly and began picking bits of hay and straw from his hair and clothing.
The Marshal's dark eyes widened and then sparkled with amusement.
Jarrod glanced up, read the look in the lawman's eyes and realized his words may be have been slightly misconstrued. "We were feeding your horse!" he continued, expounding on his explanation, "And--before I knew it--she had me feeding and watering a few dozen more! You see, the liveryman was nowheres around!"
The more the young man tried to explain things, the harder it became for Crown to suppress his smile. "Why don't you jes' relax...an' have a seat," he suggested finally.
The flustered young physician sighed in relief and took a seat on that bench in front of the window. He was right! It was both warm and comfortable.
The Marshal, who was still finding it difficult to keep a serious expression on his face, carefully cleared his throat and then began looking the young man's papers over--as promised.
"So, how did you ever come to own a Saddlebred?" Jarrod inquired, just for something to say.
"If you're referrin' ta 'Lancer', I found 'im...along the trail," the lawman replied, just to be polite.
"I wasn't expecting to see any Saddlebreds in these parts," Jarrod continued, following another long period of complete silence, "Come to think of it, they're pretty rare everywhere! The breed's only been around for about twenty years, you know."
"No-o...I didn' know," the Marshal mumbled politely and never once lifted his eyes up from the papers he was examining.
"Is Lancer three or five gaited?"
"Probably. I've noticed he has a sort a' peculiar way a' goin'..."
There was another long, uncomfortable--at least, for Jarrod--silence.
At last the lawman set the doctor's documents down.
Jarrod watched and waited expectantly for him to begin his job interview.
The Marshal glanced up in the young doctor's direction, looking duly impressed. No wonder the kid was so cocky! Not only had he completed medical school, but he had graduated at the top of his class! Why-y, the kid had enough 'degrees', 'diplomas', and 'certificates of academic achievement' to cover an entire wall! Francis was right! He'd found them a good one, all right! Maybe too good. "Congratulations, Doctor! You certainly do have all the proper credentials, etc., etc.'! I am now more than fully satisfied that you are more than fully qualified to practice medicine! So the job's still yores!" he announced with a smile...and then watched--in confusion--as the young man's look of keen anticipation suddenly turned to one of extreme disappointment.
"There you go again!" the doctor declared, sounding somewhat miffed.
The peace officer looked somewhat puzzled.
"How can you possibly conduct an interview without asking questions?!" Jarrod continued, sounding even more miffed.
The Marshal--who was becoming a bit miffed himself--gave the young man seated across the room from him an annoyed glare and slowly started getting to his feet, "All right! If questions mean that much to you, I suppose I kin come up with a few..." he figured aloud, announcing his decision to humor the kid. Crown finished the slow, painful process of standing and then stood there at his desk, using it for support, "Was last night the first night you ever spent behind bars?"
Jarrod stared disbelievingly back at his questioner for a few moments before forcing a reply, "Last night was both the first and the last night!" he vowed, getting a kink out of his back, "Your 'constabulary' may be clean, but it is definitely NOT comfortable!"
The Marshal was forced to smile, "So, what'd yah learn about medicine--over there in Paris--that they couldn't a' taught you right here, in the States? Besides how ta say 'Stick out yore tongue' in French, that is..." the lawman added lightly.
And the young doctor was forced to smile, "European schools of medicine are far superior to those here, in America."
"An' you figure that makes you far superior?"
The job applicant considered the question and his questioner over carefully before commenting, "In some areas...yes!"
The Marshal smiled again and then stepped stiffly out from behind his desk to stand stiffly behind his chair.
Jarrod watched as he carefully lifted his black, leather vest up from off the back of it and then waited as he slowly began sliding the new garment on. (Well, the vest may not have been 'new', exactly. But it was definitely different--for its right front panel had no 'bullet holes' in it, nor any 'dried blood' on it.) The physician spotted the U.S. Marshal's badge pinned high on its left front panel and realized the lawman must have made the transfer earlier--in the little alcove.
"What're you doin' here?" Crown inquired, suddenly sounding extremely cautious.
Jarrod caught the tone of the lawman's latest inquiry and realized that his interview was rapidly turning into an interrogation, "I, uh...don't think I understand the question, Marshal."
"I think you do, Doctor," Crown calmly corrected and calmly flipped the collar up on his shirt.
"The advertisement said that Cimarron desperately needed a doctor," the doctor calmly replied,"and the fully-furnished home and well-equipped office sounded li--"
"I know what the ad said!" the lawman interrupted, and carefully looped his long, black tie about his neck, "I-I wrote it! I also know that you had a far superior position waiting for you back East. What I don't know is WHAT made you suddenly decide ta leave all that ta come runnin' way out here--in the middle a' nowheres?" he added and finally finished forming the tie into a large, limp, loose bow.
"What makes yah think I came runnin'?!" the young doctor demanded, sounding defensive.
The Marshal smiled at the young Easterner's attempt to duplicate his Texas dra-awl, "I've been a lawman for so long now, that I kin spot whether or not a man is on the run the first moment I meet 'im!" he calmly and correctly stated. "An'--when I first met you--you had all the appearances a' bein' a man on the run!" Crown calmly continued and calmly flipped his collar back down. "Don' worry, Doctor," he added, seeing the young man was becoming even more defensive, "you came ta the right place! Yah see, this whole town is 'on the run'. It seems everyone in Cimarron is either runnin' towards...or runnin' away from somethin'!" He studied the now less ill-at-ease looking young man carefully for a few moments and then quickly rephrased his last question, "So-o, tell me, Doctor. Which direction are you headed in?"
Jarrod sat there in stunned silence for a few moments, admiring the Federal Marshal's fine, freshly-shaved, 'spit and polished' appearance--and insight. The 'legend' looked like he was all set to go out and face the world! But then, appearances could be deceiving. Not so in the young doctor's case, however. The lawman was right on target with his initial assessment of him. "I don't know..." the physician muttered thoughtfully, "A little of bo-oth, I guess. You see, I came out here, hoping to find open spaces and open minds. All I want is to be left alone! To be able to practice my medicine in peace! I mean, I figured there had to be some place out here where people wouldn't care about me using new techniques! Or complain about me 'cookin' my instr-r-ruments!'," he added angrily.
The Marshal smiled at the young man's attempt to mimic MacGregor, but then turned solemn--and serious--again, "Soun's ta me like you're takin' things too personal, Doc! Fearin' the unknown--bein' afraid a' sudden changes...well, that's jes' human nature! When people fight cha-ange, they ain't bein' malicious--they're jes' bein' human! Now--if you can't bring yourself ta deal with that--then maybe you should consider becomin' a vet..."
Jarrod was stunned into silence once again. Stunned by the accuracy and annoyed by the callousness of Doc' Crown's comments. Or was he annoyed by the accuracy and stunned by the callousness? Either way, he was too miffed and too amazed--at the moment--to speak.
And, seeing as how the kid already appeared to be preoccupied with his thoughts, Crown decided that now might be a good time to share some more food for thought with him, "One other thing, Doc'. If you want people ta trust you, you got ta give 'em some time. Trust ain't somethin' that develops overnight. The fully-furnished home an' well-equipped office become yores autamatic'ly--they go with the job. But tru-ust? Well, that's somethin' you're gonna have ta earn...on yore own. The folks here-abouts are basically good, open-minded people. You jes' give 'em half a chance an' you'll see! You won't be disappointed!" The Marshal stared down at the gift that the good, open-minded people of Cimarron had given him, and smiled to himself. He was speaking with the voice of experience. And he had experienced a hell of a lot these last five years!
Jarrod continued mulling things over for a few more miffed moments. But then, a look of dawning understanding gradually came over him. As a student of medicine, the young man had kept all of his attention focused on human bodies. While, as a student of human nature, the Marshal had been focusing his attention on human beings. They were both 'experts'--in their chosen areas. And the lawman didn't seem to resent hi-im. On the contrary! Doc' Crown openly admired, and genuinely appreciated his 'medical' expertise. So then, why should he resent the Marshal? Why should he find the lawman's uncanny ability to read a person like they were an open book so unbelievably aggravating? Jim Crown was a lot like Louis Pasteur. Jarrod had found the Marshal's French counterpart to be unbelievably aggravating, as well! Still, no one had taught him more about 'medicine'. Perhaps he could learn a little something from this American 'legend', as well--about 'people'. After all, he'd already learned a little something from this living legend--about himself! "I'll, uh...try to keep that in mind!" he declared at long last and flashed his instructor in human behavior a genuinely appreciative smile, "Francis tells me that you and Doctor Kilghren were good friends. I hope that we can become good friends, too!"
The Marshal carefully collected the doctor's documents up from his desk and then crossed stiffly over to the window bench, "I'm sure we can!" he stated confidently and returned the young man's smile--along with all of his very proper papers.
Jarrod's smile broadened, "So-o...what brings you to Cimarron, Marshal?"
The 'legend's' smile broadened as well, "Me-e? Why, I'm here because a certain silver-tongued Senator from San Antone conned me in ta comin' here!" he stated truthfully and shot the no longer snoring legislator another annoyed glare.
The Senator's eyes suddenly shot open and he sat rather stiffly up in his chair, "Ah, now...Really, James! Conned has such an evil connotation to it! Don't yah think?"
But 'James' didn't comment. He just stepped stiffly over to his hat rack and carefully lifted his left hand up to retrieve his Stetson.
Sensing that his 'partner' was about to depart--and that he was about to be left behind--the statesman shot up out of his armchair/bed and then stepped in front of Jim--to block his path.
"You're right!" Crown finally conceded as he finally came face-to-face with his 'old friend from back East'. "Lie-ied is much better!" And--with one, lightning-fast blow from his left fist--the Marshal proceeded to deck the silver-tongued Senator from San Antone.
The young doctor was so stunned by what he'd just witnessed that it took him a while to react. He stared disbelievingly down at the decked legislator and then shifted his amazed gaze to the now hunched over--and obviously hurting--legend. Jarrod decided that his initial reaction had better be in the doubled-up lawman's direction. So he tossed his papers down onto the bench and then crossed quickly over to his collapsed patient--to keep him from collapsing further.
But the Marshal waved him away.
So he turned around to lend the decked law man his assistance, instead. "Are you all right, Senator?!" he inquired anxiously, dropping to one knee.
Dave nodded and then lifted his slightly shook head up off the floor to give it a few more shakes. Next, he tried to slide his jaw from side-to-side. His jaw was sore. But it seemed to function okay. So he formed and audible answer, "Yeah, Doc'! I'm all right," he assured the deeply-worried looking young man, "But I ain't so sure about hi-im!" he added solemnly, and shot the still doubled-over decker a deeply worried look of his own.
Which Jim Crown did not see--for both of his eyes were still tightly shut.
Jarrod gave his grimacing, gasping, still collapsed patient another concerned glance as well. "There's nothing wrong with the Marshal!" he announced, his words oozing with bitter sarcasm. "Why, can't you tell? He feels 'jes' fi-ine'!" The doctor finished his insincere statements and then offered to help his decked patient up onto his feet.
But the Senator waved him away. Dave decided he'd better stay down. Because, if he were to get up, Jim would just hit him, again. And he didn't think his still doubled-up partner could withstand another blow!
So the first sight 'James' saw--when his eyes finally did reopen--was that of his lyin' friend lyin' there on the floor--right in front of him. The expression on Fisher's handsome, familiar face was a mixture of deep concern, extreme remorse--and devilish mischief. No, sir! Da-ave hadn't changed a bi-it!
The Senator propped himself up on his elbows and then extended his left hand out to his partner--palm up and open--in the universal sign for friendship.
But the Marshal--who was still clutching his chest with both arms--completely ignored it. Crown wasn't feeling very 'friendly', at the moment. He still had five years worth of animosity bottled up inside of him! And it was gonna take more than a couple of minutes (and one, weak, left-handed blow) to get it out of his system! "You LIED ta me!" he shouted--when he finally recovered from the blow.
"I never did!" the silver-tongued Senator contested, "I jes' neglected ta tell you everything."
"The worst kind a' lie!" Crown declared calmly, when he finally recovered from the shouting, "The half truth! 'A couple a' weeks', you said! 'A month at the most!' Well, do you have any idea what the past five years have been like around here?!"
Dave noticed that his partner's voice was rising in volume again and that his dark eyes now flashed with anger. No, sir! He couldn't recall ever seeing his partner look any angrier. Bu-ut one of the many things that Dave Fisher liked about Jim Crown was the man's remarkable sense of humor. James always had a tendency to look on the lighter side of life. In the past, Jim's sense of humor had seen them through more than one tight spot. Hopefully, he hadn't lost it. The Senator stopped cringing and started sliding something out of his coat pocket. "Yes!" he declared definitively, "As a matter of fact--I believe I do!" There--in his right hand--was his own, personal copy of the 'legendary' book: 'Taming The Territory'. He stared sheepishly up at the 'legend'--who was now looking both furious and amused--and smiled uncertainly. The amused look would win out! Jim's sense of humor would get the best of him! Bu-ut, just to be on the safe side... "I, uh...suppose now is not a good time to ask you to sign this for me..." he rationalized lightly, making one of the greatest understatements of the century! Then he gazed up at his partner--who was looking more furious and more amused than ever--with an almost child-like innocence...and chanced another, almost angelic smile.
Who knows? Maybe it was his sense of humor. Or maybe it was the sight of his incorrigible friend smiling innocently up at him? It may even have been Katelyn's sermon on not seeking vengeance. At any rate--and for whatever reason or reasons--Jim Crown pulled the cork on all that bottled up anger of his...and just let it evaporate! He never was any good at harboring animosity, anyways.
Dave watched--in joyous wonder--as the anger gradually diminished--and then completely disappeared--from his partner's eyes. No, sir! Ji-im hadn't changed a bi-it! A fact for which the lawmaker--repeatedly--thanked God! Dave shot his friend a hopeful glance and then held his left hand out again.
And--this time--the lawman locked onto it, "All right!" Jim Crown reluctantly conceded. "But I still owe you one!" he added conditionally and gave his sore right shoulder a quick glance.
Dave Fisher thought his partner's terms over carefully. He had been hoping for an unconditional surrender. "All right!" he reluctantly agreed. "But only one!" he added conditionally, and gave his sore right jaw a quick rub. Even one right--from a healthy Jim Crown--was one right too many!
Doctor Ellis exhaled an audible sigh of relief as the Marshal carefully braced himself and then carefully began pulling his 'old friend from back East' back up onto his feet. Surely this helpful gesture signified that the two men had reconciled their differences...that they had decided to come to terms with one another instead of to blows. Then again...Jarrod waited expectantly for another friendly sign of some sort to appear. But the two 'old friends' just stood there--for a full sixty, silent seconds--with their left hands locked onto each other's wrists...and their gazes locked onto each other's eyes.
Speaking of eyes...
The 'legend's' eyes suddenly scrunched up a might and his head assumed a slight angle, "What are you doin' here?!" he demanded, sounding completely perplexed.
"You know how easily we politicians make--an' break--promises! So I decided to personally deliver this deliverance to you. Just in case the Justice Department failed to come through--which it di-id!"
Crown watched as the deliverer replaced his pocket book and then produced a document protected by a fancy, folded, brown, leather case. "That better not be another one of those Presidential Directives you're so keen on!" he warned and whipped his hand back, "The last one you handed me nearly got me killed! The thing turned out ta be totally worthless! Not even worth the price of the paper it was written on!"
Dave glanced rather nervously down at the document in his hand and then suddenly turned defensive, "But this gives the Army complete control of the Strip! And you-ou complete control of the Army!"
The Marshal stared across at the Senator, looking tremendously disappointed...and then down at the document, looking totally disgusted. Then he tensed--as a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh, now...that's jes' grea-eat! That's jes' what Mareck an' his mob need! PRESIDENTIAL approval! With 'Martial Law' declared, Mareck could ride rough-shod all over me-e a-an' the Strip!"
It was the Senator's turn to appear completely perplexed, "But I don't understa--"
"The only troops left in this part a' the Territory are stationed at Fort Dawes!" the Marshal interrupted, the anger returning to his voice, "Major Phillip Blakesley has complete control a' Fort Dawes! An' Mister Roger Mareck has complete control a' Major Blakesley!" he exclaimed, completing his little explanation.
The lawman's words slowly sank in--and took all the wind out of the Senator's sails. Dave gazed glumly down at the document that was supposed to have guaranteed his friend's deliverance. "I knew he'd bought himself a judge...an' I suspected he had someone high up in the Justice Department. But I never figured he'd ever gain control of the United States Army!"
"Yeah! Imagine tha-at!" the Marshal insincerely invited, "And without a 'Presidential Directive', too-oo! Then again," he added as something suddenly occurred to him, "whose picture do you suppose was on all those thousand dollar bills?!" he concluded bitterly and began side-stepping the now even more somber looking Senator.
But Dave took two steps back--and one to the side--and successfully blocked his path again, "You got a gun I could borrow?"
To avoid a painful collision, Crown had to come to a complete and bone-jarringly abrupt halt--once again. He grimaced and gasped and then gazed up at his 'old friend from back East' in disbelief. "You bes' stick ta makin' laws," he suggested solemnly, "an' leave their enforcin' ta ME-E!"
"Who said anything about enforcin' anything?" the silver-tongued Senator inquired innocently, "Yah see, I had ta leave my aide back in Washin'ton, ta tie up some loose legal ends for me. An', well, Jordan ain't jes' my aide. Normally, he also assumes the role of my personal bodyguard. Oh, I got me one a' those little pea-shooters. An' it may be big enuff ta impress the folks back East. But out he-ere, in order ta act as a real deterrent, a man's hardware has ta be more...visible! An' that's why I need ta borrow a bigger gun. Purely for protection, a' course. I promise I'll give it back. Jes' as soon as Jordan gits here..."
But Crown remained unconvinced, "The only one you need 'protection' from is yourself!"
Dave looked somewhat amused, but remained undaunted, "I could jes' go out an' buy me one!" he threatened aloud.
"An' I could jes' slap you behind bars!" the lawman said even louder, matching the Senator's threat with one of his own.
And, this time, Dave looked highly daunted, indeed! "You cain't jes' kidnap a United States Senator!"
"No-o..." the United States Marshal calmly agreed, "But I could place one under 'protective custody'...if I had to!" he warned, without so much as batting an eye.
His now totally-flustered friend's completely-exasperated gasp gradually gave way to a long sigh of surrender, "All right! So...what a' yah say we negotiate! You don't interfere with me--an' I won't interfere with you!"
"Unh-uh! No good!" his partner informed him, "You're already interferin'--jes' by bein' here! No. What I want from you is yore word that you won't do or say anything--while you're here--that might make Maggie a widow!"
Dave pondered his partner's proposal over carefully. Either way--on either side of the bars--he wasn't going to be able to lift so much as a finger to help out his friend! At least, not while he was the-ere--in Cimarron. He glanced down at the 'Presidential Directive' again. Maybe it wasn't totally worthless, after all. Maybe the Major didn't have as complete control over Fort Dawes as the Marshal thought. Dave stowed the documents safely out of sight and then focused all of his attention back on his friend, "You have it!" he vowed, "I promise--that while I'm here--I won't do or say anything that might make Maggie a widow!" he said, repeating his partner's proposal almost word for word. "No-ow will you loan me a gun?"
Crown considered his friend's request over carefully, "You're bein' awful obligin'..." he commented cautiously. But then he strolled casually over to his corner filing cabinet, pulled his top drawer open and then proceeded to grant his follower's request. "There wouldn't be somethin' you're neglectin' ta tell me, now--would there?" he wondered, sounding even more suspicious. Then he turned slowly back around and handed his awful obligin friend a holstered gun--identical to the one that was strapped to his own right hip.
Dave gave his obligin' friend a grateful look and was just about to open his mouth--when the office's front door flew open and saved him from having to answer.
Speaking of the gun that was strapped to the Marshal's right hi-ip...
At the first sound of someone's hand on the doorknob, Crown's gun had cleared its holster and its hammer had been thumbed back. By the time the knob turned, the lawman had turned towards the door, so that--when it finally swung open-- the person it revealed found the gun's glistening barrel aimed directly at him.
Jarrod's jaw dropped and his breathing stopped.
The stocky, gray-haired man, who had froze in the open doorway, stared beyond the gun's barrel to the person responsible for pointing it. "Come on, Cro-own! You're not gonna shoot me just because I'm a little la-ate!" he quipped lightly.
The young doctor watched as recognition and then relief filled the fast gun's face. Wow! Was he ever fast! Why, the legend's draw had been nothing more than a blur!
"No, Charley. I'm not gonna shoot you!" the Marshal assured him and quickly lowered his aim--suppressing a slight smile all the while.
The gray-haired gentlemen feigned tremendous relief and then stepped the rest of the way into the office, closing the door behind him as he did, "Francis said somethin' about you wantin' ta see me...?"
Crown eased the hammer back down on his gun and then slipped it back into its holster. "Yeah, Charley. I did!" he muttered dejectedly and watched as the person whose presence had been requested proceeded to return one of the rifles to its rightful place in his now less empty-looking gun rack. He saw Charley giving the two strangers in the room some deeply suspicious glances, and realized some introductions might be in order. "Dave Fisher...Doctor Ellis...Charley Adams."
The three men nodded to each other and exchanged forced smiles.
Charley turned his tired eyes back in Crown's direction and stood there looking tremendously curious.
"I wanted you ta run an errand for me. But it'll have ta wait. Right now, I want you ta go grab yourself some breakfast--an' a few hours a' shut-eye...an' then meet me back here, about noon."
"Right!" Charley acknowledged and started to leave. But then a strange look came over him and he turned back to pass that look on to his seemingly perfectly healthy friend. "You be real careful now, Crown!" he advised sternly. "I'd hate ta have ta find myself a new fishin' partner!" he added lightly. Then he flashed his old fishin' partner a genuinely warm smile and started heading off--in the direction of Miss Dulcey's kitchen.
"I appreciate yore concern!" Crown called insincerely after him.
"Any ti-ime!" came back Charley's voice from the little alcove.
The Marshal managed an amused gasp--and then stood there, gritting his teeth--to keep from grimacing.
Jarrod caught sight of the lawman's tightly clenched jaw and decided to try--one last time--to get him to listen to reason, "Couldn't you just sit there...quietly...at your desk? Sure!" he added, seeing Crown's completely disinterested look, "You could catch up on some of your paperwork or something."
The lawman glanced disinterestedly down at the two heaps of unopened envelopes on his desk and then shot his helpful young physician a 'Thanks! But no thanks!' look. "I cain't keep my mind on that stuff even when I'm not bein' constantly reminded a' how many times I breathe--each an' every minute!" he added annoyedly. Then he smiled, seeing that his comments had caused his overly concerned kid doctor to crack a smile.
But then the kid's smile faded and his handsome face quickly filled with a look of even greater concern.
The Marshal's own smile turned into a frustrated frown. He gathered the remaining folder up from his desk, stashed it under his left arm and then turned to leave.
Jarrod didn't follow him. Instead, the doctor beat him to the door!
Dave had the gunbelt he'd just been given strapped on and was also waiting for him at the front door--with hat in hand.
"There's no need ta form a posse!" he told the two men--who obviously intended to tag along, "I'm jes' gonna run a few errands an' then make my usual mornin' rounds."
But his calm reassurances left the two men undeterred.
"Why don't you go cure some sick people or somethin'!," Crown ordered more than asked the young doctor. "Or--better yet...Why don't you go bother Dulcey? I should think you'd prefer her company ta mine!"
"Oh, I do!" Jarrod assured him, "Believe me, I do!"
"Goo-ood! Then go find her and tell her I said ta take you on over ta yore place an' show you around!"
Jarrod gave the pompous, pampered, overbearing, egotistical, domineering, dictorial 'living legend'--with the long barreled, very large, reloaded gun--a defiant glare...before backing down and heading off--in the direction of the Inn's kitchen.
The Marshal suppressed a slight smile of satisfaction and then directed his no-nonsense, and in the mood for no excuses, gaze at his 'old friend from back East'.
"Now, Ja-ames...You know how much I love a good 'high stakes' 'poker game'. You know I wouldn't miss this for the world! So, you jes' go on about yore business...an' I'll jes' follow along--at a nice, safe distance--an' watch you 'open up the bidding'!" Dave declared and flung wide the office's front door.
Jim shot his shadow an 'Oh, brother!' look and then headed out the door and off across the boardwalk. The Marshal's stride--while maybe not as broad or as brisk as the previous morning's--was still every bit as confident.
Dave waited until the lawman was half-way to the Land Office before daring to leave the Inn. And he had a long wait. According to the signs, Jim's destination was the grey-sided building just across the street from his office. Dave's long wait resulted from folks stopping Jim--every few feet--to tell him how glad they were to have him safely back and to shake his right hand.
Two of the town's Fathers, a Mr. Wisler and a Mr. Andrews, met with their Marshal--smack dab in the middle of Main Street--along with a Mr. George Rawlings who--it turns out--was the closest thing Cimarron had to a mayor. The three men thanked the Marshal--and shook his hand--and told him how relieved they were to have him back--safe and sound. Well, maybe not 'safe', exactly--but sou-ound. Well, maybe not 'sou-ound', exactly.
"We'd heard you'd been hurt!" Dave heard Mr. Wisler nervously announce, from his position in the open doorway.
"Wha-at? Thi-is?" he heard his old friend reply.
Dave watched--in appreciative silence--as Jim unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve and then folded it back up a few times to reveal his nicely, neatly, brightly, whitely bandaged wrist.
"It's jes' a little scratch!" the lawman lied--er, bluffed, "Why, the bullet barely grazed me!"
Dave couldn't tell if the three men actually believed Jim--or if they were just kind enough not to 'call' his bluff.
Mr. Rawlings mumbled something to the Marshal--that the Senator's straining ears couldn't detect--which left the lawman momentarily stunned. Finally, Crown recovered and mumbled a reply. The four friends exchanged smiles--and handshakes--and then went their separate ways.
Dave had no idea what the four of them had been discussing. But he figured it had to have been something pleasant.
Because, when Jim finally made it up on the opposite boardwalk, he glanced back in the three men's direction and smiled again. By the time he turned his head back around, more folks--er, friends had appeared in his path. They, too, wanted to welcome their Marshal back--and shake his hand.
"It's a shame you ain't runnin' for office, James!" Dave whispered regrettably, "You'd make a heck of a politician!" The politician readjusted his borrowed gun belt and gave his borrowed pistol's chamber a quick check--to make sure that it was loaded. Then he pulled the brim of his hat down low across his forehead and left to back up--er, follow his partner.
####################
Not everybody was pleased to see the Marshal up and about, that morning. 'Mister' Roger Mareck cursed aloud and quickly turned his head away from the window he'd been staring out. "I thought you said he had to be 'helped down' from his horse and 'practically carried' into his office'!" the man practically screamed--and aimed his somewhat dumb-stuck expression in the general direction of his bodyguards.
The three muscle men glanced uncertainly at each other and then sat forwards in their seats.
"We said that's what the Judge's man said that crazy Injun said in the saloon, last night!" one of them calmly corrected in their defense.
"Yeah?! Well, I just saw him standing down there in the middle of the street--in broad daylight--and he looked pretty damn healthy to me-e! What--?!" their bitter boss wondered as he withdrew from the window and let the curtain fall back into place, "Am I completely surrounded by incompetence!"
The trio remained silent.
So he turned to two of the eight attorneys he had working for him and posed his question again, "Huh?! What do you gentlemen think?!"
His lawyers were not willing to render an opinion, either. But they eagerly offered some sound legal advice.
"Fortunately, only four of the property transactions have actually been finalized," the taller of the two attorneys announced.
"And you are under no 'legal' obligation to close any of the subsequent deals," the shorter joined in.
"Which means, you will be able to cut your losses," the taller continued.
"Considerably!" the shorter summed up.
Mareck looked even more dumb-struck, "Are you two suggesting that I leave town?!"
"Not just town," the taller attorney told him, "We feel the time has come for you to seriously consider leaving the country."
"Yes," the shorter continued, "In fact, since the United States has signed 'extradition' treaties with the Canadian and Mexican governments, you may have to leave the entire continent!"
"You could visit Europe," the taller invited helpfully.
"Or South America," the shorter suggested, seeing their boss' look of complete and utter disdain.
"One man is NOT going to run me out of this town! Or this country! O-Or anywhere else--for that matter!" Mareck shouted defiantly.
"Perhaps not," the taller attorney conceded, "But--sooner or later--reinforcements will arrive."
"Yes," the attorney's shorter associate agreed, "And when they do, you will be facing Federal prosecution."
The taller lawyer nodded his solemn concurrence, "The Government frowns on people murdering its Marshals."
"The Government frowns on murder period," the shorter said--by way of reminder, "You'd be trusting that Tanner fellow with your life."
Mister Roger Mareck looked even more disgusted, "Do you have any idea how much time and money I have invested in this little operation here?"
"Two months," the taller attorney replied.
"And thirty six thousand, seven hundred ninety-five dollars and forty-seven cents," the shorter summed up, "But, surely your life must be worth more than that to you."
There was a tense silence in the room. Interrupted only by a timid 'tap' on the door.
One of the muscle men got up and answered it. It turned out to be another messenger of doom.
Mr. Gordon concluded a whispered conference with the man and then turned to pass the message along, "Mead says that telegraph operator and his family are...missing. He says they must've took off some time during the night. He, uh...claims that the telegraph equipment is also missing..." he finished glumly and then waited--along with his four fellow employees--to witness their boss' reaction to THA-AT!
Roger Mareck's eyes burned with rage and his face seethed with contempt. He glared around the room at five of the 'incompetents' with which he had 'completely surrounded' himself and then gasped in utter exasperation, "Can't anybody do anything right around here?!" he blasted bitterly.
But again, no one cared--or dared--to render an opinion.
Then--once again--a 'tap' interrupted the room's tense silence.
Mr. Gordon opened the door and held another whispered conference with yet another messenger--of even greater doom. All eyes riveted on him as he slowly turned back around. Gordy nervously cleared his throat and reluctantly conveyed the conference, "The Marshal's down at the depot. He's ordered the Station Manager to move your car back onto the tracks. Porter and Jarvis want to know what you want them to do about it..."
Mister Roger Mareck grimaced--in even greater exasperation and shut his eyes tightly, to block the 'incompetents' from his view. For a long time, he said nothing. Then he sighed in surrender and simply said, "...nothing!"