Chapter Thirty
Being the good hostess that she was, Dulcey had provided the party attenders who lived furthest away with free overnight lodging. But, seeing as how the party had ended so early, the majority of the girl's guests had headed back home that very evening. And, on account of how they all had various other obligations to attend to, the few who had stayed on had packed up and gone--even before dawn. She had had only two paying customers, and the last one of them had left late that afternoon. Now, being the good innkeeper that she was, Dulcey insisted on refurbishing every one of the rooms that had been used with fresh linens.
Being the gentlemen that he was, Jarrod had insisted on helping her. And so the thoughtful young fellow followed the young maid quietly along, from room to room, stripping mattresses and pillows.
"What's wrong?" the female wondered finally, unable to withstand a single second more of the insufferable silence.
"Nothing," Jarrod replied, e-er, lied. "Why?"
"You're being uncharacteristically quiet this evening," the pretty miss explained, "and that nothing must be really something, because it's been troubling you all day..."
The young man kept his head down to hide the look of astonishment that he was sure must be on his face, "Nothings wrong!" he reassured her, "Honest!" he added. But then his seared conscience caused him to tack on a more truthful comment, "At least, not 'exactly'..."
"When things are not 'exactly' wrong, they're usually not 'exactly' right, either," the girl wisely surmised. "So-o," she said softly, pausing in mid-tuck. "What 'exactly' is it that has been bothering you? Perhaps I can help..." she offered sincerely and flashed the troubled fellow a shy, sweet smile.
Jarrod glanced up just then, saw the girl's smile and surrendered to it. "I've been here for over twenty-four hours now," he said at long last and took a seat on the blanket-less bed, "and--during that entire time--not one single soul has come to me for help! I know the Marshal said that trust isn't something that develops overnight...and I can see where someone might hesitate to have me perform major surgery on them--but I haven't even been called upon to lance a boil! There must be at least several hundred people living here-abou--"
"Several thousand," Dulcey cut in, taking a seat directly across from the young doctor, "...counting the Settlements."
"That makes matters even worse!" Jarrod glumly declared, "With several thousand people around, there's got to be at least ONE of them in need of a doctor!"
"I'm sure you're right," the girl agreed, "I know Doctor Kilghren was kept awfully busy!"
"Well then, where are all my patients?!" Jarrod demanded. "Where is this 'desperate need for a doctor' that the Marshal wrote about in his ad?! I sure haven't seen any sign of it!"
"My guess is, that folks are more concerned about Jim's health at the moment--than they are their own. So-o," Miss Coopersmith confidently continued, "they aren't coming to you because they're afraid that they might draw you away from doctoring him."
"That's ridiculous!" the snubbed doctor decreed, "Nobody even knows he's been hurt!"
"O-Oh, they know all right. Believe me!"
"How do you know they know?"
"Because, as Mr. Lundquist so very aptly put it, 'Trying to keep a secret in Cimarron is like trying to hide ice in an oven. You may be able to keep it for a little while, but, sooner or later, something is bound to leak out'!'"
They sat there in silence for awhile as Jarrod lulled Mr. Lundquist's quaint little saying over...and over. "You really think that THAT may be the reason?" he inquired at last.
"That has to be it!" the girl assured him. "It's the only one that makes any sense!"
There was another brief bout of silence. Then, apparently satisfied, the young fellow gave the girl seated across from him a grateful smile, "Thanks...for your help."
"Thanks...for your help," Dulcey declared, copying both the gentleman's comment and his smile.
Their smiles broadened into duplicate grins. Then the two of them got to their feet and went back to making the bed.
Jarrod felt genuinely happy no-ow. Now nothing really was troubling him...at least, not at that 'exact' moment...
####################
When Dave Fisher arrived at the Wayfarer's Inn, he found Miss Dulcey and the young doctor sitting side-by-side on the bench in front of the window in Jim's office--holding onto each other's hands and staring silently and solemnly off--into space.
"So, tell me," the Congressman requested, "has Roger Mareck left town yet?"
Jarrod glanced glumly up as the older gentleman joined them in the room, "According to Dulcey, the man's not leaving no-ow unless he gets his twenty thousand dollars back."
"Then," Dave declared, failing to find that a problem, "by all means...let's give the man back his money!"
"We can't give the man back his money," Dulcey glumly announced, "because Jim gave Mareck's money to Charley Adams, and he hauled it off into the Outlet this afternoon."
"Well," the Senator said, finding that a problem all right, but, not necessarily an insurmountable one, "There mus' be some way for us ta raise the money! We'll go door-ta-door askin' for donations, if we have to!" he vowed.
But the glum-looking girl looked even glummer.
"According to Francis," the doctor said, sounding every bit as glum as the girl looked, "the bulk of the bank's cash was placed into several strong boxes and put on the noon stage. Everything else of any value was hauled on over to Hardesty on the two o'clock train. There's no way we can raise twenty thousand dollars in this town! RIGHT NO-OW, we couldn't even come up with a hundred dollars!" he glumly concluded.
And it was Dave's turn to look disheartened. "Where is Francis, anyways?" he wondered curiously.
"You just missed him. Since Mareck won't be leaving, he's gone off to see about 'evenin' the odds some'," the young doctor answered, ending with a direct quote.
Dave didn't like the sounds of tha-at, "Didn' he get Jim's message?"
"He got it!" Jarrod assured the upset-looking Senator, "I told the both of them what Katelyn said. And they both chose to completely disregard the Marshal's message!" he added, giving the obstinate girl seated beside him an angry glare.
"Well, what am I supposed to do?!" Dulcey exasperatedly exclaimed, "This is the only home I have! There's no place else for me to go!"
"Speakin' a' places ta go..." the Senator suddenly interjected. "Is Mr. Adams back yet?"
"He's in the kitchen," the pretty girl poutingly replied, "enjoying a belated supper."
"I'm afraid his supper's gonna have ta be even later!" Dave declared, "'Cuz the two a' us are leavin'--right now--for Fort Dawes!"
The curious couple got quickly to their feet and followed the determined lawmaker into the kitchen.
####################
The Senator stepped up to the table and stared down at the Inn's lone diner, looking tremendously disappointed.
Charley saw the look and swallowed so that he could say something in his defense, "The Marshal asked me ta deliver somethin' for 'im...so I delivered it! He never said anything about bringing anything ba-ack!" he added annoyedly.
"Forget Mareck's money. I've got something that's as good as gold!" Dave promised, patting the 'Presidential Directive' that was in his pocket. "C'mon!" he urged, taking the Marshal's messenger by the elbow and coaxing him up out of his chair, "You got one more delivery ta make for the Marshal!" he added solemnly and began escorting the elderly gentleman over to the exit.
"Wha-at?! Are you crazy?!" the even more annoyed now Mr. Adams wanted to know, "I jes' got back!"
"You are gonna 'deliver' me ta Fort Dawes!" Dave revealed, "So's I kin 'deliver' this ta Blakesly's second-in-command!" he continued, whipping out the leather-cased document and flipping it open. "You heard Mareck this afternoon. He said that the Major accepted ten thousand dollars from him in return for his services. Now, our sworn testimony should provide the next Senior Officer in Charge with enough evidence ta toss the turn-coat in the guardhouse. The second this new man assumes command--I'll issue him this 'Presidential Directive'. The sooner Martial Law goes inta effect, the sooner the soldiers'll be able ta come ridin' in here ta rid us a' Roger Mareck an' his men!" he concluded, waving the case's official-looking contents in the still somewhat confused looking gentleman's face.
"Bu-ut..." Charley stammered as the man replaced his 'good as gold' document, "I havent't slept in TWO DAYS!"
Dave ignored the statement and used his now free hand to unbolt the Inn's back door.
"Have a heart, will yah?" Charley pleaded, as he was dragged out into the back alley, "I haven't had anything ta eat since breakfast!"
"All right," Dave Fisher--who was feeling a little famished himself--finally conceded, "I'm gonna go find us two fresh horses," he informed his starving guide, "Be ready ta leave by the time I get back! What you haven't finished eatin' by then, you'll have ta toss in a sack, an' eat on the way there!"
Charley glumly acknowledged the pushy politician's proposal and quickly re-entered the Inn's kitchen. "Who is that crazy fellah, anyways?!" he asked rather irritatedly, returning to his seat and his interrupted supper.
"Who-o? Hi-im?!" Jarrod jokingly inquired, "Why, EVERYBODY knows hi-im! Sure--he's...'an old friend a' Jim's from back east'!"
Assuming that the kid doctor must be a bit crazy himself, Charley turned his questioning gaze to the girl in the hope that her reply might prove to be a little more ...enlightening.
"That 'crazy fellah' happens to be a United States Senator," Dulcey dutifully informed him. "His name is David Samuel Fisher. He is 'an old friend of Jim's'," she conceded, "But," the wry smile she'd been suppressing escaped in the crazy kid doctor's direction, "he happens to be from TEXAS!"
The young man simply smiled back and gave his shoulders an innocent shrug.
"We-ell, now...that explains everything!" Charley stated, his words oozing with sarcasm.
And the young folks were forced to grin.
"You can stay at my place!" Jarrod suddenly realized, his face and voice filled with joyous relief, "Go on up and pack a few things and I'll walk you over there--RIGHT NOW!"
The pretty girl's mouth went from a grin to agape, "I can't possib--"
"Sure you can!" the doctor assured her, interrupting the prude right in mid-protest, "You can stay upstairs--with Katelyn. It'll be perfectly proper...A-And it'll give the two of you a chance to get to know one another..." he tacked on rather tantalizingly.
The girl released her held breath as a long sigh of surrender. Since the foxy physician had already overcome her only real objection, surrendering seemed like the sensible thing to do...at the moment. "But what abou--?"
"Don't worry! I'll have Francis send over some trustworthy soul to play the role of temporary Innkeeper," the doctor promised and gave the procrastinating girl a playful push towards the door.
The young lady didn't like being pushed--or ordered around--by anybody! But then Jarrod wasn't just anybody. Besides, when push came to shove--it was actually more of a good-natured 'nudge' than anything. And she supposed one might consider the young doctor's order as more of a helpful suggestion... "Where will you sleep?" the single girl wondered nervously.
Jarrod stared at the pretty miss in disbelief. The lady was more worried about losing her 'reputation' than her life! The baffled young man drew in a deep breath and expelled it with one, lou-oud, exasperated gasp, "On the floo-oor, if I have to! Now hurry up!"
The independent young lady shot the bossy young fellow the most incredibly intense--and ICY--glare imaginable...but then she turned and started striding aloofly off in the direction of the stairs.
Charley watched as the kid doctor's sad eyes followed the infuriated--and infuriating--female across the Inn's dining room, and then continued following her until she was completely out of sight. "Miss Dulcey mus' be takin' quite a shine ta you..." he realized rather dryly and flashed the miserable-looking young man a wry smile.
Jarrod gave the grey-haired gentleman an 'are you for rea-eal?!' look, and stood there wondering how anyone could mistake FURY for 'fondness'!
"She used ta use that look exclusively on the Marshal..." Mr. Adams added by way of an explanation.
And the now 'enlightened' young fellah looked even more flabbergasted.
####################
"Wha-at?!" Roger Mareck inquired, his slurred voice filled with annoyance. Someone had approached the plush easy chair--into which he had collapsed--fully clothed--and was tapping him on the arm.
Mr. Gordon waited until his inebriated boss had raised his half-closed, bloodshot eyes from his half-empty shot glass, and re-riveted them upon him before bothering to reply, "Some of the boys are here to see you, sir."
"We-ell?!" the perturbed, disturbed drunk demanded, "What do they want?!"
The bodyguard looked at a complete loss and gave his broad shoulders a shrug, "All's they'll say is that they got to see you--right away...and they don't look too happy..." he added, expounding on matters a bit.
There followed a brief silence, during which time his boss calmly finished his drink. "All right...send 'em up!" Mareck ordered sharply. "But first...go get Luther and Denny. I want you boys in here...in case there's trouble..."
Gordy nodded and then vanished from the room.
Then--before his boss could even get another drink poured--Mr. Gordon reappeared...along with Mr. Nyman and Mr. Bowlen--and some of the boys. Gordy was right. They didn't look very happy.
And the unhappiest looking one of the bunch promptly stepped forward.
A bit too promptly perhaps, because two of Mareck's three bodyguards proceeded to pull out their pistols and block his path.
"Mister Mareck," the unhappy man began, but then backed off a bit with his hat in his hand, "are you tryin' ta pull a FAST ONE on us?!"
Mister Mareck finished refilling the shot glass in his hand and then gazed up at the enraged gunman in confusion, "A fast one?"
"Yeah...you know...a DOUBLE-CROSS!"
Mareck's grip suddenly tightened on the shot glass and his own, now fully-opened eyes flashed with rage, "If I were you, Sha-ag...and I wanted to be around to watch the sun rise tomorrow!...I wouldn't be so careless with my accusations!"
But 'Sha-ag'--who prided himself on the fact that he did not frighten easily--flared his nostrils and narrowed his eyes--and continued on, undaunted, "Polk said that you said the Marshal was dead! He told us you said that we could take the town! That all you wanted out of it was twenty thousand!"
"That is correct..." Mareck confirmed, his voice condescending.
"The hell it is!!" Shag shouted, his voice filled with fury, "Every safe an' cash register in Cimarron has already been cleaned out! There ain't nothin' left in this town worth takin'! An'--if Crown's DEAD--then who's pickin' our boys off?! Polk an' Ramsey...an' Geofreys an' Acelinger didn't jes' drop out a' sight by themselves! SOMEBODY had ta nab 'em!"
"Shag's right, Mister Mareck!" one of the gunman's three equally upset associates gloomily agreed, "'An'--whoever it is--is STILL OUT THERE!"
Being as how their boss was under the influence and all, no one was particularly surprised by the long period of silence that followed. The infuriated foursome simply figured that it was taking a while for their shocking words to register with Roger Mareck.
"Sounds to me like you boys may be thinking of heading out..." the supposed double-crosser with the supposedly dulled brain remarked at last, keeping his strained voice calm and low.
"You better believe we're headin' out!" Shag shouted sharply.
"It sure beats hangin' around this NOTHIN' town waitin' ta be 'picked off' by some PHANTOM Marshal!" the gunman behind him tacked on bitterly.
"Yea-eah!" a third riled gunman cried, tossing his two cents in, in their support.
The fourth furious fellah simply nodded.
"What leads you boys to believe that the Marshal may be behind these 'so-called' disappearances?" Roger Mareck wanted--needed to know.
"Because people don't jes' up an' vanish inta thin air!" Shag bellered.
"An' because that's what he was doin' before he took off after Tanner!" the-so-far-silent gunman ruefully remarked, "Pickin' us off! ONE-BY-ONE!"
Roger Mareck took a soothing sip from the glass in his hand and then swallowed--somewhat nervously. "Yes, well, there's no need to leave and there's no need to worry, because the Marshal is DEAD!...It's true, I tell you!" he angrily insisted as the looks of deep skepticism failed to flee from the four furious fellows frowning faces, "Luther, here, saw the BODY with his own eyes!"
And, speaking of eyes...
Luther watched as every last one of them in the room suddenly riveted upon him. Mr. Nyman, who was still recovering from his little grave robbing escapade, scratched an insect bite on the side of his neck and dutifully nodded.
But the belligerent bunch wasn't budging.
"Dead or alive! It don't make no difference!" Shag announced, "Either way--we're STILL leavin'!"
"Marshal's are like mosquitas!" the gunman behind him reminded everyone in the room, "You kill one of 'em, an TEN more show up for the funeral!"
There was another long, solemn silence, and no one even so much as smiled at the gunman's very grim humor. Apparently, they had found his sobering statement more accurate than amusing.
"So-o, jes' as soon as you pay us off...we'll be partin' company!" the group's angry leader declared, and his three equally unhappy underlings nodded their concurrence.
Roger Mareck thought the situation over for a few moments and then nonchalantly lifted his drink to his lips. "I'm broke..." he spoke into his shot glass.
"WHA-AT?!" Shag exclaimed, his voice a mixture of absolute horror and disbelief. The man who didn't frighten easily found the very idea that he had traveled some six hundred miles and spent some four weeks terrorizing the residents of some hole-in-the-wall town--all for NOTHING--very frightening, indeed! Why-y, it was unthinkable! "Mister, you got an even worse sense a' humor than Morley, here! Money don' jes' vanish inta thin air, neither!" the gunman--who'd gone beyond the bounds of anger--decreed with an unamused--unnerving even--edge to his once again shouting voice. And, once again, his companions nodded their concurrence.
"I handed the last of my 'cash on hand' over to..someone...this afternoon, and I haven't gotten it back...yet," their broke boss calmly went on, without even bothering to look up from his drink, "And, as for the town's treasure," their partially plastered employer aimed his dazed--but defiant--gaze up at the disbelieving--and about to fly off the handle--group and gave them that condescending, smirky smile of his, "I-I didn't take it!"
But the 'bo-oys' didn't buy it.
"Well then, who the hell DI-ID?!" the very ba-ad humored Morley demanded.
"CROWN!" came back a rather sharp reply, in a cool, crisp voice from somewhere's clear across the room. That voice's owner then watched with inward amusement as the four fat heads and the four hot heads turned--in perfect unison--towards him and the open door. (Through which he and his bodyguards had entered--without bothering to knock.) "Go on, Calvin," Judge Rutgers urged and motioned for the man he had towed into the room with him to get on with it, "tell them what you just told me!"
"We-ell," Calvin Bryse--a.k.a. 'the judge's informant'--drew a deep breath in and his sagging head and shoulders up, "He's done this sort a' thing before...at least a half a' dozen times since I been here. Whenever he suspects there might be more trouble than he an' his deputies kin handle--instead a' leavin' the people an' property unprotected--Crown arranges ta have the people an' property leave. Some a' the men send their families out to the Settlement. An' the businesses generally co-operate by shippin' all their cash an' other valuable merchandise off ta one a' the other towns...exactly which one depends on the direction the train--or stage--happens ta be headed in at the time. Mos' folks find the Marshal's plan a major inconvenience, an' frequently accuse 'im a' bein' overly cautious...still, EVERYBODY most always goes along with it. After all," the snitch summarized with a smile, "it's like he says: 'They can't harm those who ain't here, an' they can't take what's already been took'!"
The four angry gunmen thought the Marshal's theory over for a few moments and found--much to their dismay--that it was, indeed, flawless!
Roger Mareck remained more interested in the Marshal's murder than in his motto. "That plan doesn't prove anything! Crown could have put it into effect before he was killed! And--about those deputies of his--they are probably the ones behind these latest disappearances!" he insisted.
The gunmen thought their boss' comments over for a few moments and then turned their angry gazes back in Bryse's direction.
"Where are Crown's deputies, anyhow?!" their leader demanded. "We ain' seen hide nor hair a' either one of 'em all day!"
"The both a' them disappeared," Rutger's rat replied, "even before their boss did. But," he paused to pull a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. He fumbled with the thing until he finally had it open, and then handed it to one of the bodyguards--who promptly passed the crumpled pamphlet along to his boss, "I think I've discovered what at least ONE of 'em's been up to..."
The pamphlet turned out to be more of a single-paged newspaper actually, and the headline it bore had an extremely sobering effect on both Roger Mareck and his bodyguards.
"People been secretly passin' those things all over town!" Calvin continued informatively, "It took me all afternoon ta git my hands on one!"
Mareck stared down at the 'Outlet Opening' headline in utter disbelief. After glancing (and grimacing) over the first few paragraphs, he crinkled the already crumpled piece of parchment into a tight and tiny little wad and then pitched the 'complete pack of lies' clear across the room.
Eight sets of narrowed, angry eyes followed the paper missile's path of trajectory...and then widened as they witnessed its return! After bouncing off the wall, the little paper ball fell to the floor and went rolling clean back across the carpeting...and right up to Roger Mareck's feet.
The frustrated flinger cursed under his breath and then booted the bad news under a table and out of his sight. But--once again--the obstinate object came rolling back up to him.
So, Mr. Gordon placed the persistent wad of paper in an ashtray and then took out a match and torched it.
"The jig is up!" the Judge said as the blaze began dying down. The Marshal had made good and sure that the news had gotten 'out and about'.
And, speaking of the Marshal and news getting out and about...
"Go on," the Judge urged his eyes and ears, "tell them what else you told me!"
Again all eyes and ears riveted upon Rutger's rat.
"We-ell..." began the snitch, his right eye squinting with a nervous twitch, "Las' night...when the Marshal didn't make it back in time for his party...folks got ta figurin' he was dead. You should a' seen the way they was behavin'! I tell yah, I never seen so many long faces in this town! An' now, word on the street is that Crown has been killed!"
"So-o?!" Mareck interrupted, impatient for the informer to make his point.
"So-o," Bryse obligingly summarized, "folks may be sayin' that the Marshal's dead all right, but they sure ain't actin' like it! Why, I ain' seen nobody shed so much as one single tear!"
"Perhaps people are still in shock..." Gordy speculated, upon realizing what the rat was getting at.
"Crown IS dead!" Roger Mareck re-insisted, "Just ask Luther, here! He saw the body!"
Judge Rutgers turned his skeptical gaze upon the bodyguard in question--to pose one, very goo-ood question, "About that 'body' that you saw...are you certain it was the Marshal's?!"
Mr. Nyman squared his shoulders and took a defensive stance, "Reasonably certain, YES!" he stated confidently.
But Rutgers remained skeptical. "Let me guess," the good Judge said, his voice filled with sarcasm, "the 'body' was disfigured somehow..."
Luther didn't answer. He didn't have to. The look of surprise on his face said it all.
Rutger's turned back to Roger Mareck and shot him an 'I rest my case' look.
Mister Mareck sat there for a few moments, weighing and reweighing the evidence...half of which seemingly proved that Crown was DEAD...and half of which seemingly implied he may still be alive. Both halves seemed to balance out. So then, was the Marshal DEAD...or wasn't he?! Actually, when it came right down to it, the evidence for either case was completely circumstantial! Was it the Marshal's body that was buried out there? Mareck had to be one hundred percent sure--beyond a doubt--before he could get on that train in the morning! After all, he, too, was a man of his word.
"Forget about the Marshal!" Shag shouted, putting an end to the long period of silence, "What are you gonna do about the money you owe us?!"
Their soon-to-be ex-boss got stiffly to his unsteady feet and stumbled over to his desk. "Where are you boys headed? I'll write you up a bank draft for whatever town you're going to...and you can cash it when you get there. Sorry," he continued, seeing his ex-employees staring at him with great--the greatest of displeasure, "but, unless the Judge, here, has managed to retrieve my twenty thousand dollars," he paused to shoot his retriever a questioning glance.
Rutgers rolled his eyes before shaking his head--in the negative.
Mareck turned back to the thug named Shag and shrugged, "A bank draft is the best I can do for you boys..."
"Take it--or leave it!" Gordy icily advised.
The four hired guns eyed their ex-boss' bodyguards up for several tense seconds and then turned to face each other.
"Denver!" Shag announced, following a quick and quiet consultation with his traveling companions.
"The Denver branch of the Western Reserve..." Mareck confirmed, filling in the last empty blank on the bank draft he had found. After blotting the excess ink off of his ex-employees paycheck, he passed the slip of paper to Mr. Gordon...along with the following order, "Pay the quitters off Gordy, and then get them out of my sight!" he added aloofly.
The 'quitters' stiffened and started to step forwards, but again their arrogant ex-boss' bodyguards moved in to block their path. There followed several more incredibly tense moments. The fuming foursome eyed their opponents up again and again decided that the insult--like the pay issue--wasn't worth fighting--and hence maybe even dying--over.
So Shag snatched the bank draft from the bodyguard's extended hand and headed for the exit. His three companions quickly followed suit, saving Mareck's men from having to escort them out.
"Crown...ALI-IVE!" Mareck muttered on his way back over to his bottle, "You'd like that, wouldn't you, 'Your Honor'!" he continued, telling more than asking his uninvited--and unwelcome guest. "Yes, sir! You'd like that just fine! Because then you could use him to get to those 'witnesses' he's got stashed away! Who were they, did you say?" he inquired of Mr. Bowlen.
"The Hampton Brothers, I believe," the bodyguard politely replied.
"Yes...Of course! How could I have been so foolish as to forget? Why--on account of the Judge's little confrontation with Crown this afternoon--I don't believe you could find a single soul in town who hasn't heard about how his 'Honor', here, hired the 'Hampton Brothers' to bushwack the Marshal for--what was it? Seven hundred dollars..." he paused in his taunting to exchange smirks with his men and to raise his refilled glass in a mock toast to the 'much wiser than he' magistrate. "Well you can kiss your political career goodbye, Rutgers! Because--once those two 'birds' finish 'crooning' in Federal Court--the only 'office' YOU'll be 'running for' is 'Head' of some prison 'work detail'! And they will sing!" the pompous--and plastered--fool predicted.
"I wouldn't bet on it!" the Judge jeered and watched in disgust as the already obviously drunk man downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp, "And I wouldn't be so smug if I were you! What? Do you think TANNER won't talk?!"
"Let him! I don't care if he talks his heart out! Because I'll be somewheres in South America--or Europe--by then! You'd better run, too, Rutgers! Because you'll never silence those two 'songbirds' now--not when the only one who could lead you to them is DEAD and BURIED!"
"I wouldn't bet on THAT, either..." Rutgers reminded him, "...if I were you!"
"Luther," the drunk paused to pour himself yet another drink, "the Judge and his 'friends' are leaving now. Perhaps you could show them the way out..."
Mr. Nyman nodded and started ushering his 'Honor' from the room.
"No-o! Not you two!" Mareck reprimanded as Luther's fellow bodyguards began to follow their associate out, "I have something else in mind for the two of you!"
If Rutgers was right--and the Marshal wasn't dead--then he certainly would be by morning! What 'Mister' Mareck had planned would--MOST ASSUREDLY--see to that!