Chapter Six
About the time the Marshal was getting off his train, three other men--three hundred miles to the northeast--were just getting on their's. An independent journalist, a U.S. Senator and a young physician--all wearing three-piece suits--'all-aboarded' a twelve car, passenger/freight train leaving Kansas City, Missouri for Albuquerque, New Mexico--and thus embarked on the final leg of an extremely fatiguing four-day journey from Washington, D.C. to Cimarron, I.T.
"One night in a hotel. Just one night in a bed that doesn't move. Is that really so much to ask?" the young doctor complained as he and his companions settled into their assigned seats.
"I told you," the young reporter who had taken the aisle seat told him, "I'm due back today. If you want to stay over here in Kansas City, go ahead. No one's stoppin' you. There'll be another southbound along...in three or four days."
The young doctor--who had taken the window seat--momentarily forgot his fatigue, "You mean we're actually almost there? I'll get to sleep in a real bed tonight?"
"If this thing stays on schedule," the young reporter added conditionally, "we should be pullin' into Cimarron sometime early this evening."
"Cimarron..." the young doctor whispered, his voice filled with wonder. "What's it like, Francis? I think it's time you told me a little something about the place. Don't you? And the people. I especially want to hear about the people," he urged eagerly.
But Francis, who didn't feel like talking at the moment, failed to comply with a reply.
So the Senator, who had taken the seat in the center, slipped a paperback book from his coat pocket and passed it on to the young physician like he was handing out a prescription, "Here. Read this. It's all in here."
The young doctor stared down at the book, and its cover, for a few moments before commenting, "Thanks, Senator. But I'm interested in facts not fiction. And in real people, not some dumb legend."
"Doctor Ellis, I assure you, this book is factual. It's all based on facts. And the characters in here are all real people. Why, even the 'dumb legend' is real. Although he isn't really so-o 'dumb'," the politician added with a wink and a grin.
Then, since Francis still didn't appear to be in too talkative a mood, Doctor Ellis took the book, which he had first regarded so skeptically, and eagerly began reading it. But the fact that he accepted the reading material did not mean that he accepted the material he was reading as fact. It just meant that he was bored--really bored...out of his gourd!
Francis--who was staring in shocked silence at the Statesman in the seat beside him--frowned and finally found his voice. "You mean, you actually bought a copy of that?!" he declared in utter disbelief and obvious disapproval.
"No-o. I bought a couple a' dozen of 'em, actually," the Senator confessed unashamedly. "I was sort a' hopin' I could get you an' Jim ta autograph 'em for me," he continued, pulling another copy out of his other pocket, "I mean, since you slapped the publisher with that injunction and put the kibosh on any further sales an' distribution, that means these little beauties are now limited editions. Which makes them a real collector's item. And, autographed limited editions...why, in no time at all, they'll be worth their weight in gold!"
Francis' frown deepened and he stared off down the aisle, looking lost in his thoughts. He was suddenly--rather vividly--recalling a conversation that he had had with Mac some three years back...
He had just stepped out of the Marshal's Office and up to the bar, where the Scotsman stood, polishing a long row of clouded whiskey glasses. "How am I ever gonna know what he thinks of my writing if I can't get him to read anything I've written?" he muttered dejectedly. Then, as proof of his problem, he produced an unopened newspaper and plopped it down on the counter between them.
MacGregor shot the sad-faced reporter standing before him a sympathic glance and then gazed off across the room at the Marshal. The lawman was sitting at his desk, busily writing away, apparently doing a little 'reporting' of his own at the moment. "The fact that the man refuses ta read what yah've written should tell yah all yah need ta know about what he thinks of it," he reasoned rather casually and then reluctantly returned to his polishing.
"But that doesn't make any sense, Mac. I mean, how can he possibly feel that way when he's never read any of my articles? Never even gave them so much as a glance?" the young reporter pondered, looking and sounding more perplexed and dejected than ever. "I dunno. Normally, the Marshal's a pretty fair man. But that doesn't sound very fair ta me!"
MacGregor studied his cleaning cloth carefully for a few moments before commenting further, "That's because yer viewing the matter strictly from a writer's standpoint. Try taking another look at it--from his perspective. If Jim were a doctor or a barrister, or a stage actor, or even a writer--like yerself--he'd probably welcome all the fame and notoriety yer articles have been stirring up for 'im. For men in those professions, fame can--and often does--lead to fortune. But Jim is a lawman. And lawmen like ta keep a low profile. For all fame seems to lead to in their chosen profession is a premature funeral! Usually theirs!"
At first, Francis scoffed at the Scotsman's statement, "That's ridiculous, Mac. Why that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Then he paused suddenly, looking less certain of his skepticism, "How could you possibly come up with anything so preposterous?"
"Preposterous is it?" MacGregor rested his rag on the bar and his gaze upon the young skeptic,"Then suppose you tell me why it is that there are so few--if any--famous lawmen alive taday..."
Francis appeared thoughtful and then at a loss for an explanation.
So Mac was forced to supply one for him, "Then Ah'll tell you why. It's because they've all been kill't off in the line of duty, or mer-r-rdered outright!"
The young reporter looked even more thoughtful. Then his face filled with a look of sheer horror as the terrible truth of the matter finally began to sink in.
"A-Aye..." MacGregor nodded solemnly, "And, thanks to yer articles, our Marshal Crown is a rapidly developing quite a reputation--both for how well he outwits the outlaws, and how well he handles his gun. And, when word of our famous lawman/gunfighter gets out...why, every creeping criminal desiring ta attain a degree of notoriety for 'imself...every pistol packing young punk looking ta earn a fast reputation for being fast with a gun...every miserable, rotten scoundrel of that sort will be out gunning for 'im! And when they find 'im...it won't matter if he's unarmed at the time--or if his back is turned to them--they'll kill 'im! And then he'll be just another legendary ex-lawman, and they'll be famous. And they'll have the reputation they wanted, for making him such."
Francis' look of sheer horror was replaced by one of absolute dread...and then, extreme sadness. He slowly turned to stare at the seated figure of his friend--still working away at his desk, filling out reports. 'No wonder you never cared to read any of my articles about you', he realized silently, 'No man wants to read his own obituary.' A look of sheer horror returned to the young writer's face, along with the even further realization that--every time he published one of his articles about the Marshal--it was like he was pounding another nail in his friend's coffin. "Why didn't he ever say anything to me about it?"
"But he did, lad!" MacGregor assured him, and handed the lad a freshly-polished glass of freshly-poured Scotch, "Many times and in many ways. Yah've just been too wrapped up in yer writing for any of what he's been saying ta register with yah."
Francis numbly lifted his glass to his lips and then drained it dry in one long gulp, eager to experience the elixir's numbing effect on his now aching noggin. And, when he set his glass down hard on the bar, MacGregor obligingly poured him a refill. "I'm glad you finally made it register then, Mac..." Francis admitted, when he finally got his breath back. "I just wish someone would've said something sooner," he added, his regret gradually giving way to anger.
"Ah wanted to. Oh, how Ah wanted to! And, believe me, Ah would have. But the man made me promise never ta broach the subject with you. However, since you brought the matter up yerself just now," Mac added innocently in his defense, "my conscience has allowed me to comment freely."
But Mac's explanation only served to puzzle the young reporter all the more. "I don't get it, Mac. Why would he do a thing like that?"
"Because," the Scotsman paused to take another satisfying sip or two of his own drink, "you seemed ta feel that he'd made you some sort of deal."
"Well, he did!" Francis declared adamantly and pointed to his newspaper, "I got a legend--him, and he got a deputy--me." He tapped his Deputy Marshal's badge a few times for added emphasis and then drained his glass again.
MacGregor studied his own nearly drained glass thoughtfully. "My memory doesn't always serve me so well. But, for some reason or other, Ah seem to recall that conversation quite clearly. And, as Ah recollect it, the Marshal's exact words were, 'You want a legend? You're goin' ta be part of it! I want deputies!'...and Ah never took him ta mean those words the way you took him ta mean them, at all. Ah believed at the time--and still do--that the Marshal was trying ta prove a point, not strike up a bargain with yah!"
"S-so th-then," Francis slurred, snatching the bottle from the bar and pouring his own refill this time, "suppose you tell me what the point was...that he was tryin' ta prove."
MacGregor retrieved the bottle and refilled his glass as well, "Think on it laddie--long and hard--and I'm sure it will come to yah...eventually."
Francis downed his third drink, in as many minutes, and then tried focusing his fuzzy vision on the man behind the bar--the man with all the answers. "I don't think I can think...any more...too clearly, Mac. So, if you would kindly point out the point, I would greatly appreciate it. Greatly...very much."
MacGregor swallowed his second glass of Scotch, then quickly poured and went to work emptying another. It wouldn't do for him to lag too far behind...to be 'out drunk' by his much younger drinking companion. "Ah think that he was trying ta get us to see that sometimes ordinary men--such as ourselves--are forced ta face extraordinary circumstances...to deal with events of monumental proportions...and ta go up against seemingly insurmountable odds. And that, being cast up against such sizeable settings as these can cause ordinary men--such as we--to temporarily loom larger than life. But then, we are, after all, just ordinary men. And we draw on the same raw courage, inner strength and determination ta cope with life's little every day nuisances that we use to overcome the truly overwhelming situa--"
"Excuse me a minute, Mac. But," Francis had pulled his ever present pad and pencil from his pocket to copy down what was being said, just in case he couldn't remember the conversation later on when he was sober. But it hadn't taken him more than just a few words to realize that he was in no condition to copy more than just a few words. Hence his present interruption, "is there some point to this point?"
MacGregor filled both their glasses again and then passed the impatient reporter his--along with an obvious glare of annoyance. "The point being simply this: Legends are created when ordinary men are confronted with extraordinary situations. And it's these sizeable settings, more than anything else, that causes some ordinary men ta temporarily loom larger than life'..and, thus, appear legendary." There followed a long silence as Mac first finished his point...and then, his drink.
The fact that his philosophical friend must have finished making his point finally registered with Francis. The young reporter looked as thoughtful as a man in his current condition could, and then rather disappointed. "Oh, well...I guess everyone's entitled to an opinion," he reasoned, waxing somewhat philosophical, himself. Then he replaced his writing paraphernalia and started reaching for his drink again.
"Do no' tell me," MacGregor lamented, latching onto the lad's wrist, "that, after all that, yah still do no' get the point?!"
"No-o...no I think I got it all right," Francis calmly replied.
The Scotsman sighed in relief and released his grip.
The young man pressed his drink to his lips and then tipped it and sipped it. "And I can sort a' see how it could sort a' apply ta you and I. But not in Jim's case. Because Jim Crown is no 'ordinary' man. I'm tellin' yah, from the first moment I met 'im, an' saw 'im in action, I said to myself, I said, 'Francis, this is no 'ordinary' man you're lookin' at here. This, here, is the stuff that 'legends' are made of! And, after closely observing him for over two years now, I can still say--with even greater confidence--that there is absolutely nothin' 'ordinary' about Jim Crown. If the Marshal appears 'larger than life', it's because he is 'larger than life'. The man is equal to any event! And he's a match for any odds! I know a 'legend' when I see one, Mac. And, when I look at him," he glanced back over his shoulder and grinned, "believe me, I see one!"
MacGregor duly noted the degree of enthusiasm in the young writer's voice and suddenly felt a little nervous. No-o, extremely nervous. "A good reporter also knows a good story when he sees one," he commented cautiously. "So, tell me, when yah look at him now, do yah still see one?"
The Scotsman's sobering question caused Francis' facial expression to sober considerably. But it didn't seem to dampen his enthusiasm even one degree. "I have ta write it all down, Mac," the 'good reporter' replied, following a long solemn silence. "I have ta. Don't yah see? What's happening here is special. It's the 'opportunity of a lifetime'--my lifetime. It's 'history in the making'. And I get to record it all. But, just because I intend to record it, don't mean I still intend to report it. It needs to be written down, but it don't need ta be published. Leastways, not yet it don't. Not during his lifetime, anyways." The Marshal's young friend finished and flashed the now extremely relieved looking Scotsman a sheepish grin.
MacGregor returned his grin and raised his glass, "Aye, laddie!" he shouted, giving voice to a little enthusiasm of his own, "And Ah'll drink ta that!"
Francis raised his glass as well, and the two of them were just about to 'clink and drink' when their boss suddenly appeared from out of nowhere...well, from out of his office, actually.
The Marshal stepped up behind the bar and then stood there, beside MacGregor, with his right hand clasped tightly in his left and his back turned. He flexed the writer's cramp from his fingers for a few moments and then tested their grip out on one of the emptier--and thus lighter--bottles on the shelf containing his own private stock. "I'd rather face a dozen desperadoes than one desk full a' paperwork, any day!" he conceded rather candidly.
Then the Marshal turned around and his two delinquent, slightly drunk deputies could see that the man's work must indeed be dreary, for they had seldom seen their boss look so weary.
It was then that Francis remembered that he had the night duty in the jail that evening.
And it was then that Mac remembered that Dulcey was due down any moment now for her usual 'sparkle' inspection. And he hadn't even started on the beer mugs yet!
So, it was also then that their grins vanished and their faces filled with looks of gloom and impending doom.
"Well...go on! Don't stop on my account," Crown urged, noting how his sudden arrival had caused his two friends to freeze in mid-toast...and the Scotch to slosh over the rims of their glasses...and the grins to disappear from their faces. "I'm jest passin' throu-ough," he promised and reached across the bar to snatch up one of MacGregor's 'glistening' shot glasses.
The two drunks slowly lowered their drinks and watched their boss' weary eyes widen as he flicked them from his slightly dazed looking deputies to the empty whiskey decanter and then back to his slightly dazed looking deputies again.
"Looks like 'glassware' ain't they only thing gettin' 'shined up' around here," Crown casually observed, noting how the two men seemed to emit a certain inebriated 'glow' of their own. The Marshal suppressed a smile and then assumed his best lecture stance, "If I'd a known what you boys were up to out here," he began sternly, "I'd a helped you 'polish off' that bottle..." he finished lightly.
His deputies watched as their boss' stern gaze softened, and settled slowly back down on the empty whiskey decanter.
Then the lawman looked up and flashed his friends the smile he'd been suppressing for so long.
The two men returned his smile.
And he turned to leave--as promised.
Francis suddenly appeared frantic. "No, Jim! Wait!" he urged.
And his boss obliginly ground to a halt. The Marshal turned back in his slightly alarmed sounding young deputy's direction, and shot him a questioning glance.
"U-Uhh...we were just about to polish off another glass here, and...well, we'd like you ta join us," Francis invited, smiling warmly.
"Aye!" Mac joined in, seconding the invitation and the smile, "That we would!"
The Marshal accepted their gracious offer with a grateful nod. Then he strolled back up to them and set his glass down on the bar so he could have a hand free to pull the cork from his bottle. It was then that he remembered that his deputies had been about to drink a toast. "What are we drinkin' to?" he wondered curiously.
His two deputies glanced knowingly at each other and their grins returned. They watched their boss pour himself a nice stiff shot of brandy and waited patiently for their friend to pick up his glass again.
"As a matter of fact," Mac told him truthfully, "we were just about ta drink...ta yer health!"
The Marshal looked rather pleasantly surprised and managed another grateful nod. "An' yores!" he proposed in return, and the three of them raised their glasses.
They had just finished 'clinking' and were about to start drinking--when somebody suddenly tapped Francis hard on the shoulder and then demanded to see his 'Ticket, please!'
Francis reluctantly returned to reality and started reaching for the ticket in his inside coat pocket.
"Never mind!" a familiar voice told him amid soft chuckles.
Francis turned and looked up in that voice's direction and, sure enough, it wasn't the train's conductor, but the Senator who was standing there beside him in the aisle, grinning devilishly down at him.
"I don't think they sell 'tickets' to wherever it is you've been for the last ten minutes," the statesman added, sinking carefully back down into his seat.
"Where'd you just come from?" Francis inquired curiously.
The Senator's amused look returned, "I told yah I was goin' ta stretch my legs. I even asked if either of you's would care ta join me. But you's both were already long gone from he-ere..." the stateman's words trailed off and he was forced to grin again, seeing that the doctor was still just sitting there with his nose still buried in his book. The young man had noticed neither his departure nor his recent return. Then the Senator turned back to his somber, solemn-faced fellow traveler and his grin vanished. "Yah know what yore problem is, Francis? You worry too much. Yah got ta learn ta lighten up!" he paused, "Jim was holdin' his own when yah left, wasn't he?"
"Yeah. But that was eleven days ago," Francis replied, sounding every bit as somber and solemn as he looked, "And a lot can happen in eleven days."
A lot had happened in the past eleven days--nine of which he had spent traveling on trains. One of which he had spent taking care of business in Boston, and one of which he had spent in secret meetings, in Washington. Yes, sir! The young reporter had a lot to report back to his boss. Hopefully, the Marshal would still be alive to hear it all. Hopefully...