Chapter Twenty-Four
It took Francis forever to finish the Marshal's little list of things for him to do. It wasn't so much that his boss had asked him to do so mu-uch. No, it was mainly because the last item on the list was the sending off of several telegrams.
Now, since Mac had taken the town's telegraph operator off into the Outlet with him, that meant that he had to--literally--dra-ag Old Man Ruckles out of retirement. But, because the first item on his boss' list had been the confiscating of all telegraph equipment, the two of them were able to tap into the lines--a safe distance from Cimarron--and send off the following urgent dispatches. One wire went to the Justice Department's Kansas City Office. One wire requested the 'ATTENTION' of 'ALL U.S. BORDER PATROLS, PORT AUTHORITIES, AND FEDERAL MARSHALS'. Another telegram went to each of Jim Crown's hand-picked, government-approved and appointed town Marshals: Joe Bravo--over in Hardesty; Pete Keplinger--up in Shades Wells; Bob Iverson--down in Beaver City; and Walt Greer--way over in Guyaman. And the last wire they sent went--way and the heck off to San Francisco!
The Marshal had kept his messages very brief. Still, it took the old man forever to finish. No doubt the reason why-y Mr. Ruckles had been retired! Why, in about the same amount of time it had taken he and Mr. Ruckles to send off seven measly little telegrams--he and Mr. Harold had put together, cranked out and sent off nearly a thousand single page newspapers! Several hundred copies of which were shipped out on the noon, north-bound stage. And several hundred copies of which went off with the two o'clock south-bound train. The remaining 'Strip Opening' pamphlets had been divided up and distributed to the folks in town and the three surrounding Settlements.
So--with one thing and another finally taken care of--the reporter headed out to rendezvous with the Senator.
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It was nearly three-thirty before Francis' buckboard finally rolled into the little clearing where he and Dave Fisher had agreed to meet.
"What kept you?!" the concealed Congressman casually called out.
The unseen Senator's sudden inquiry startled the understandably on edge U.S. Deputy Marshal and he drew in the direction of the questioner.
The person who had posed the question appeared, stepping out from the thick cover of brush he'd been hiding behind.
The voice was Dave Fisher's. The clothes were Jim Crown's. It seemed odd to see someone else's body in his boss' black slacks, hat and vest. "Business," Francis confided and quickly holstered his gun. "You been here long?" he wondered, climbing down to meet the Marshal impersonator who came limping up to him with a tall, red horse in tow.
"Jes' long enuff ta cool down this ma-are," Dave Fisher confessed, shaking some of the stiffness from his long legs, "You were right! Jim's got himself one fast animal, here!"
"Then I take it things went accordin' ta plan?"
"We rode circles around 'em!" the Marshal impersonator replied with a grin and a nod, "We made enuff tracks out there ta keep Mareck's men busy--an' dizzy--for da-ays! I tell yah, this horse has got speed I never even tapped into! We'd a' prob'ly been here hours ago--if I'd a' really asked 'er ta run--" He stopped suddenly and looked around, "Speakin' a' horses an' pla-ans...Where's the horse I'm s'posed ta ride back on?"
"I been thinkin'..." the young deputy declared rather matter-of-factly. "What's the fastest way ta get rid of Roger Mareck? Short a' killin' 'im..." he added, seeing the Senator's gaze settling upon his pistol.
"There ain't no other way!" Dave adamantly declared, "I told yah, he ain't leavin' town now 'til he gets what he wants!"
"Then we'll jes' have ta give the man what he wants!" Francis calmly rationalized on his way over to the back of the wagon.
Dave was dumbstruck. He found Francis' statement totally irrational. So he wrapped the fast animal's reins around one of the wagon's wheels a few times and went stomping over to tell him so, "But--what he wa-ants is ta see JIM...dea-ead!"
"Precisely!" came back Francis' rather smug reply and he gave the canvas tarp in the back of his buckboard a sharp tug. A naked, headless corpse appeared.
Actually, upon further--but certainly not any closer--inspection, Dave discovered that the naked, headless 'corpse' was really a very life--er, dead-like, undressed, decapitated clothes' dummy! "What on earth are you doin' with tha-at?!"
"That's not a tha-at!" Francis corrected, "That's a who-o! Whose name happens ta be Mannequin. But everyone jes' calls 'im Manny, for short," he added, climbing gingerly up into the back of the wagon. "Manny, here, was a professional model," the reporter continued, passing the Senator a complete change of clothes, "until some kids kidnapped 'im from Greyson's Mercantile one dark an' dreary night. Well, as you might expect, one prank led ta another an', somehow, Jim ended up blowin' Manny's head clean off!"
The Senator stopped undressing and stared incredulously up at the Marshal's young deputy.
"It's a lo-ong, outrageous story," Francis said, seeing the look. "Remind me ta tell yah about it some day--when we have the time..." he tacked on rather tactfully.
The Senator took the hint and went back to changing.
And, as each article of the Marshal's clothing was handed to him, Francis promptly placed them on the dummy. "Anyways," the reporter went back to his storytelling, "that unfortunate incident tragically ended Manny's modeling career. Unfortunately, it didn't put an end to the pranks. The kids in town kept right on borrowin' 'im--an' usin' 'im ta play some particularly cruel practical jokes on people. An', since Mr. Greyson refused ta get rid of 'im, the Marshal was forced ta confiscate 'im. An' Manny, here has been hidin' out in the Inn's attic ever since. Dulcey's been after us for two years now ta get rid of her unwanted 'guest'," he confessed and gave the last black boot--which he had conveniently brought along--one hopefully last tug.
The Senator watched the young man's mischievous smile turn to one of satisfaction as the stubborn thing finally fell into place.
There! With the exception of the Marshal's black hat and vest, the dummy was now completely dressed.
Dave stared up at both the deputy and the dummy, looking duly impressed. Francis had figured out a way to give Dulcey what she wanted, and Mareck what he wanted--all at the same time! "Yah know somethin', you been hangin' around Jim Crown so long--you're actually beginnin' ta think like 'im!"
Francis apparently took the man's comment as the highest of compliments, for his satisfied smile broadened into a satisfied grin, "Here! Ca-atch!" he advised, tossing Dave Fisher a blood-soaked, burlap bag.
But Dave, who had decided he wasn't touching the unsavory-looking sack, stepped aside and let the bag--and its bloody contents--drop into the dust at his feet. There was blood all over it! Worse yet, there was definitely something dead in it! "What on earth is tha-at?!" Dave demanded, "An' plea-ease, don't say that's a 'who'! " he earnestly implored.
Francis' grin broadened and he gave the rather pale looking politician an 'oh brother!' look, "I had ta shoot a jack rabbit on the way here."
Dave stared up at him in disbelief, "You 'had' ta shoot it?! What?! Yah mean like in 'self-defense'?!"
Francis found the Senator's light-hearted comments highly entertaining and he had everything he could do to keep from laughing, "No-o. We needed a head, remember? Manny here lost his years ago!"
Dave decided it was a case of 'justifiable bunnycide'...or was it? "I always pictured Jim as more of a rock badger..." he said, staring thoughtfully down at the sanguinary sack.
"Yeah? Well, I didn't run inta any 'rock badgers' on the way here," the reporter reminded him with another roll of his eyes.
"Funny, but it don't look like a bunny..."
"You wouldn't be recognizable, either," the deputy declared, jumping down from the wagon with a shovel in each of his hands, "if someone turned you inside out an' then rolled you up into a ball!" He passed the now disgusted looking Dave one of his shovels so he'd have a hand free to pick up the sack, "Come on! We got us a grave ta dig..."
The Senator glanced distastefully down at the round point, then up at the bossy deputy's back. Grave digging was a little out of his line.
"Don't worry!" the reporter called back, as if reading his mind, "You'll develop a rea-eal 'fee-eel' for it...after the first four or five feet!" he tacked on truthfully.
Dave grinned and followed the sound of Francis' evil chuckle over to a nice, peaceful, shady spot where the earth wasn't packed very hard.
Francis placed the burlap bag down and then traced a huge rectangle with the tip of his shovel. "Dig in!" he invited, ramming his grave digging instrument into the ground with the sole of his boot.
Dave rolled up his sleeves--and reluctantly dug in.
"Kin I ask you somethin'?" Francis wondered as the two of them began sending shovelful after shovelful of the soft, slightly damp, pink-tinged soil sailing through the air.
"Go ahead," the Senator said.
"How did you an' the Marshal ever become friends?"
"It's a lo-ong, outrageous story," Dave declared with a smile, and kept right on shoveling, "Why, we'd be diggin' clear down ta China if I was ta go inta tha-at! But I will tell yah how he came ta be a Marshal..." he added, seeing how disappointed the young deputy was with his 'no answer' answer.
Francis' look of eager anticipation returned. The writer knew everything about Jim Crown--for the last five years--and little or nothing about the man prior to that. Hence, any and all information concerning the legend's 'background' was definitely appreciated--and most certainly welcomed.
"It was ten years ago--almost to the very day. President Arthur was passin' through Texas on his way to a meetin' with the President of Mexico. I had jes' been re-elected ta the House a' Representatives--on account a' my campaign promise ta rid the state of corruption. An', since a lot a' the corruption came from local law officials, I was able ta talk President Arthur into appointin' four Federal Marshals ta help me take care a' the problem. That left me with another problem--findin' enough qualified men ta fill these new positions. Jim Crown was the first man who came ta mind. After I left for law school, the two of us sort a' lost touch. But I was able ta keep track of 'im on account a' how--as a personal favor ta my Father--Jim was workin' for my older brother, Daniel--who was Commandin' Officer at Fort McKinley. But, when I contacted Dan, he said that Jim had had his fill a' scoutin' for the Army an' had gone back inta ranchin'. So, I made some further contacts an' finally found out that he had settled down in Duran--where he was real busy--raisin' hell an' horses," the Senator stopped his storytelling to exchange grins with the Marshal's young friend.
The two men mopped the sweat from their brows and then resumed shoveling.
"I knew that none a' the men I wanted were gonna 'volunteer' for the job. But I really needed their assistance! So-o, in desperation, I turned ta some slightly underhanded recruitin' methods," Dave confessed, returning to his narrative. "That's how President Arthur an' I happened ta be sittin' in the 'Broken Arrow Saloon' in El Paso--on the same day that Jim Crown was due ta deliver a herd a' horses to an 'anonymous' buyer..." the Senator smiled thoughtfully as memories came flooding back. And--as he told his little tale--he found himself reliving every moment, remembering every little detail--all the smells, and sights, and sounds...
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The 'Broken Arrow' wasn't the only saloon in El Paso, but--of all the cowboy watering holes in town--it happened to be 'the' closest one to the corrals. So Congressman Fisher had chosen it as the place where he--and the President of the United States--would wait for Jim Crown to appear.
Dave was seated across from the country's Commander-in-Chief, in a smelly booth in the noisy bar's darkest corner--completely surrounded by Secret Service men! The booth smelt of spilt beer and stale tobacco. The noise was a raucous mixture of people's shouted voices--and an out-of-tune piano. The beer was flat and warm. The whiskey was watered down. The air reeked of unbathed bodies and cigar smoke--all in all, it was a typical Western waterin' hole. The two politicians had spent the past several hours playing cards with two of the six Presidential bodyguards.
The President was a pretty good poker player, but he was becoming bored--and his patience was wearing thin. He'd had about all of the 'rustic atmosphere' that he could possibly stand--for one afternoon. "David," the distinguished gentlemen said, sounding even wearier than he looked, "Are you positively certain that he's coming?"
"Yes, Sir!" David reassured him, "If he says he'll be here-- he'll be here! When Jim Crown gives his word you kin rest assur--" he stopped in mid-sentence and pulled the brim of his hat down low in an attempt to hide his face, "Here they come now!"
Three dust-covered, saddle-weary cowboys stepped in off the street and started heading for the bar to place their orders.
The same hired thug that had accosted the President and his party approached them, "You boys new in town?" he inquired gruffly.
The boys nodded.
"You plannin' on stayin' long?"
"Nope!" one of the boys replied, "We'll be leavin' first thing in the mornin'!"
"El Paso is a real wide-open town. Strangers here are sometimes beaten an' robbed..." the hired thug icily insinuated.
The boys were real quick to catch on. The three of them glanced knowingly at each other and began digging out their money.
"How much is it gonna take ta guarantee our 'safety'?" the group's spokesman wondered irritatedly.
"A dollar a day!" the hired thug--who, coincidentally, happened to be wearing a deputy sheriff's badge--informed them.
The bo-oys glanced at each other again, looking stunned.
Their spokesman cleared his throat and turned back to stare at the thief in disbelief, "But that's a whole day's wages!"
"Hell! That's extortion!" his closest companion angrily chimed in.
"Easy!" the third member of their trio urged, "We're already bein' robbed an' I don't fancy bein' beaten. So let's jes' pay up--an' then go get good an' drunk!"
"Was that a dollar a piece?--or for all three of us?" the group's spokesman inquired sarcastically--as a cooler head prevailed.
The thug was not amused and he glared icily back at them as they each, in turn, flipped him a silver dollar.
"Which one is he?" the President wondered as the trio turned and started heading towards the bar.
"Those three are his friends," Dave informed him, "Jim should be along any minute now. He's probably still seein' to the horses."
"Speaking of the 'horses'," the country's Commander-in-Chief continued, his interest suddenly sparked, "how much did the Army end up paying for these animals?"
"The agreement was that--if they could guarantee delivery of sixty head of horses to El Paso within twelve days--they would be guaranteed payment of one hundred dollars per head."
"For that price, they'd better at least be broke!"
"They couldn't really guarantee that, Sir, given such short notice. But I'd be willin' ta bet that--when you get out ta that corral--you're gonna find sixty head a' the finest broke-ta-saddle horses in all a' Texas!"
"You're on!" the country's Senior Executive exclaimed, slapping a twenty dollar gold piece down on the table.
Dave Fisher fished a matching sum from the front pocket of his suit and tossed his half of the wager down onto the table, "This isn't really a fair bet, Sir. Yah see, I know Jim Crown!"
"And I know 'human nature'!" the President countered, "Men will only work as hard as they have to!"
"What's takin' him so long?!" one of Jim Crown's friends shouted suddenly, "What's he doin'?! Kissin' every one a' them nags good night?!"
"That'd take 'im forever! Las' time I saw 'im he wasn' movin' so fast!"
"You'd be draggin', too, if you jes' busted five dozen broncs in a dozen days!"
"Nights!" his comrade corrected, "Remember? He was too busy drivin' 'em da-ays!"
Upon hearing this, the President turned to Dave, looking--not disappointed--but duly impressed.
Dave looked relieved that he hadn't been disappointed, also. It had been nearly ten years and--sometimes--men change.
"Yeah...well," the group's spokesman continued, "he ain't gettin' no sympathy from me-e! He wouldn' a' had ta break none a' them broncs! The man was perfectly willin' ta pay for 'em unbroke!"
"You heard 'im! He couldn' take no hundred dollars for no unbroke horse! Why-y, it jes' wouldn' be right!"
"Speakin' a' things not bein' right...What da yah reckon'll happen when he meets up with the 'Deputy' over there?"
"I dunno. But we're about ta find out..." the cooler headed of the three said, motioning to the lone figure who had just stepped through the swinging doors and into the saloon.
"That's him, Mr. President!" Dave proudly pointed out, "That's Jim Cro-own!"
The President eyed the honest, hard-working, handsome young cowhand approvingly. He looked like a man who could take care of himself. He radiated confidence--and yet he didn't seem cocky.
Jim Crown also appeared to be an extremely cautious young man, for he didn't take another step until he had finished surveying every square inch of the dimly-lit, smoke-filled saloon. "Save it!" the cowboy advised the approaching 'thug', "I've already been preached that sermon an' been passed the plate!" he added, his witty words seething with equal measures of contempt and disgust.
And the 'sermon preacher' wisely withdrew from him.
"I got us some rooms across the street," Jim Crown informed his three friends when he finally rejoined them at the bar.
"Hey, barkeep! Another beer--for our friend, here!"
The barkeep nodded and promptly set a fresh, foaming mug down in front of their friend. Then he watched in amusement as all three of his customer's companions proceeded to pay for it. The barkeep looked at a loss as to whose money he should accept.
Jim Crown promptly settled the dispute by plunking a nickel of his own down on the bar.
All five of them exchanged amused glances.
Then the barkeep calmly went about his business, leaving all four of their nickels just a settin' there.
Jim gave his companions--and the barkeep--a grateful nod and then drained his glass dry. The beer was both warm and flat, but the cowboy didn't much care. He'd eaten a lot a' dust since leaving Duran and anything 'wet' would help ta settle it.
"Anybody seen our buyer?" Jim Crown wondered curiously, setting the empty mug down on the bar to take another cautious look around.
"Nope!"
"Well, I think I know who he's 'buyin'' for..." the cautious cowboy confessed.
"Who?" all three of his companions wondered, at once.
"The Army!...Wha-at?" Jim Crown continued, seeing the looks of extreme skepticism on his friends' faces, "You think it's just a coincidence that those boys-in-blue are camped down by the corrals?"
The three men looked thoughtful--and then a bit confused.
"If that guy was a buyer for the Army--why didn' he jes' say so?"
"An even better question is, why did he want ta buy horses that were four hundred miles away," Jim Crown cautiously inquired, "when there mus' be hundreds of 'em for sale right around he-ere?"
"That's an easy one ta answer!" his cool-headed comrade commented lightly, "The man must a' heard about the reputation that we have for sellin' fine horses at fair prices! An' so he felt that it was worth his while ta go out a' his way ta dea-eal with 'us'!" he added--for the benefit of his unsympathetic companions.
The man's light comments caused Jim Crown to crack another smile--and the two complainers in their little group to look thoughtful.
They hadn't looked at it that wa-ay.
"Speakin' a' the Army," Jim Crown continued, "Captain Fletcher gave me his word that they'd keep a close eye on the herd, so I'm goin' ta bed. Right after I've had me a bath...an' a bottle...an' a shave...though--not necessarily in that order," he corrected.
"Try the bottle first," one of the two hot-heads teased, "an' you won't need the bath o-or the shave!" His highly amusing advice caused everyone within earshot to grin. "I'm gonna get me a bottle," he continued, amidst the sound of soft chuckling, "an', with a little lu-uck, a lovely young lady ta go along with it!" he added--as one of the drinking establishment's three skimpily-clad barmaids scurried past them, carrying a tray full of whiskey glasses.
"Try bathin' first," Jim Crown suggested with a wry smile, "an' you won'' have ta rely so heavily on 'luck'!"
And pandemonium practically broke out in the place--as the cowboy's witty comeback caused the entire room to erupt with laughter.
Jim's wry smile gradually widened to a grin. The bronc-bustin', beat-on-his-feet cowboy pointed out a particular brand of painkiller.
The still broadly grinning barkeep passed him the bottle.
He paid for it and turned to go. "Oh," Jim Crown stopped and stared back at his still chuckling chums, looking deadly serious, "bein' as how this is such a 'wide-open' town an' all, it might be a good idea if one a' you's was ta stay 'sober'. It jes' might keep the three a' you's from bein' murdered in yore sleep!" And he shot the paid assassin--with the badge pinned on his chest--an accusing, angry glare. When he glanced back in the grinning group's direction, he saw that the boys back at the bar were now--not even so much as smiling. His three fun-filled and fun-loving friends had apparently found his latest piece of advice to be not only sound, but also quite sobering. Jim gave the now glum-looking group an apologetic shrug. The cowboy flashed his very forgiving friends one last wry smile and then he and his bottle stepped back out into the street.
"David," the President enthusiastically exclaimed as the saloon's swinging doors stuttered to a standstill, "you've out-done yourself this time! You've obviously saved the best for last!"
"Yes, Sir-ee!" David agreed, looking pleased that he had so apparently pleased the 'Marshal Appointer', "Mister President!" he added respectfully.
"Come on, Congressman!" Mr. Arthur invited, "I want you to introduce me to this 'Jim Crown'."
"But," Dave began as the President began getting to his feet, "couldn't it wait until morning? He'll be rested then, an' in a much better mood."
The President considered the Congressman's earnest plea--and the rational explanation for it--over for a few seconds, "Sorry," he said, looking extremely sympathetic, "but waiting until your prospective Marshal's were in a better mood to be recruited has already wreaked havoc with my schedule!"
The Congressman considered the President's earnest apology--and the rational explanation for it--over for a few seconds and then adjusted his tactics accordingly, "What if you were ta jes' sign all the necessary dotted lines...couldn' a Federal Judge or somebody swear him in at some future date?"
"I have to deal with corruption, too, David," the President reminded him, "and that is why I never appoint any man to any office without first meeting with--and then approving of--him personally! I put a lot of stock in the way a man shakes my hand and looks me in the eye. I will rearrange my plans to suit you, but I will NOT change my policies!" the nation's Premier Policy-Maker concluded, very deliberately.
"Could'n you at least wait until after he's had his bath?" Dave pleaded, now looking almost desperate, "He gets a might 'surly' when he's sore. He'll be feelin' a whole lot better after he's soaked in a hot tub for a while--an' downed about half a' that bottle..."
"According to Major VanCleef--who is in charge of my military escort--these little detours of yours have already cost us two full days of travel! And now, Mr. VanPelton--who is in charge of diplomatic affairs--has informed me that--unless I want to keep the Mexican Ambassador waiting for me in Salinas all morning, and be a day late for my meeting with President Juarez--I simply must be across the river and in Mexico before dark!" Mr. Arthur informed Mr. Fisher. And then he finished getting stiffly to his feet. They had been sitting there a long time...too long a time!
Congressman Fisher sighed in surrender and reluctantly got to his feet.
And then all eight of the fancy-dressed Easterners left the 'Broken Arrow'--en masse!
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While the President was reviewing 'some a' the finest horseflesh in all a' Texas', Jim Crown was getting a shave.
By the time the Chief Executive's little entourage reached the hotel, the cowboy had his bath all drawn--and paid for--and was about to start undressing.
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"Mr. Nichols, Congressman Fisher and I are going into the restaurant for a cup of coffee," the President informed his head of security, "Send a couple of your men up to Jim Crown's room and have them--'ask' him to join us."
"Yes, Mister President," Mr. Nichols acknowledged with a slight smile and a nod. "Mr. Braames! Mr. Hanover! Get that cowboy down here! On the double!"
"Only two-o?" Dave said as the requested detail was promptly dispatched, "Si-ir, you'd better send at least four! Two'll never take 'im if he gets limbered up." It wasn't that Dave was eager to have his old friend beaten up. No, he was hoping rather, that going a few rounds with 'Arthur's Gorillas' would make the horse-rancher more...receptive to recruitment.
All six Secret Service men turned to the man who had such a poor opinion of them and their abilities and gave him icy, insulted looks--along with some angry, annoyed glares!
"You boys don' know Jim Crown," Dave said, seeing the looks, "you don' know what he's capable a' doin'--when he's feelin' a might 'surly'! Why, I'd rather get between a she-grizzly an' her cub--than between Jim an' a nice, hot tub!"
The President and his bodyguards exchanged thoughtful glances. "Very well, Mr. Kingsley and Mr. Foster will accompany you," their Commander-in-Chief commanded.
And the two special envoys and their requested reinforcements readily, though unhappily, obeyed.
Mr. Arthur--and his two remaining bodyguards--disappeared into the hotel's adjoining restaurant.
While Mr. Fisher lingered behind--in the lobby.
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After procuring Jim Crown's room number from the hotel's clerk, the group proceeded up the stairs...and down an open hallway...to the last door on the left.
"Who is it?!" the room's occupant called out rather irritatedly in response to the sudden--and loud--rapping on his door.
"Norbert Foster!" the door rapper obligingly replied.
"What do you want?!" Jim Crown wondered impatiently as the door knocker's name failed to ring any bells.
"I would like you to accompany me to the dining room, sir!" Norbert Foster politely called back through the still-closed door.
"Why-y?!" the cautious cowboy inquired, following a few tense moments of silence.
"My boss wants to talk to you, sir!"
"Yeah...Well, I jes' paid yore Mr. Hawkes for the privilege a' bein' left alone for twenty-four hou-ours! An' I still got twenty-three hou-ours a' 'privacy' comin' ta me! So GO AWAY an' leave me be! I'm tryin' ta take a bath in here--an' this water ain' gettin' any warmer!" he hinted, his growing annoyance giving way to anger.
Norbert Foster was growing angrier as well, "I don't work for Sheriff Hawkes!"
"Who do you work for?!" the cautious cowboy wondered curiously.
"I am not at liberty to say!" Norbert Foster yelled back, "Now, will you please accompany me downstairs?! My boss would like to speak with you--immediately!"
"Loo-ook, I jes' paid pert' near another day's wages ta have this water heated an' hauled up here! An' I ain' gonna go gallivantin' off an' lettin' it get cold! Yah might say that I am not 'at liberty' ta leave--jes' yet!" the cowboy concluded, using the annoying man's own vernacular.
"Sir, if you don't come with me--right this moment--I will be forced to come in and get you!"
"I should be down in about an hour," the room's occupant informed him, trying a calmer approach, "Tell yore boss that, if he wants ta speak ta me before then, he's more than welcome ta come up here. That is, a' course, unless he's a she. In which case, the two of us would have ta talk through the door--like we been doin' for the past five minutes!" he added rather irritatedly.
"Sir, if you don't open this door--I'm going to have to break it down!"
"Sir, if you try breakin' down that door--I'm goin' ta have ta shoot you!" There followed an incredibly long--tense silence.
Finally, realizing that he had reached an impasse, Mr. Foster stepped aside and motioned for Mr. Kingsley to take his place in front of the door.
Mr. Kingsley thought the situation over for a few seconds and then banged loudly on the door.
"What NO-OW?!"
"My name is Kingsley, Mr. Crown. You don't know me. I work for the man who bought your horses. I have a bank draft for you here--for six thousand dollars..." he added enticingly and smiled, seeing that his friends were forced to grin.
"Fi-ine!" Jim Crown declared, sounding surprisingly disinterested, "You'll find my friends in the saloon across the street. Give them the money. They'll write you out a 'bill a' sale' and then make you up a 'receipt'!"
Mr. Kingsley's smile quickly turned into a frown. He stood there, looking stunned by the speed at which he'd just been shot down.
Recalling that they had been dispatched to bring the cowboy down 'on the double', the two remaining Secret Service men elbowed their associate out of the way and then threw their shoulders into the door. Their combined weight caused the thing to cave in.
There was a loud 'BWHOOMP!' Closely followed by the sound of splintering wood.
Jim Crown watched--with slightly raised eyebrows--as his door disintegrated and four bi-ig, brawny-looking boys--sporting fancy suits and frowns--came spilling into his room. The cowboy recognized them as some of the dandy dressers from over in the saloon.
"Sorry, sir," Mr. Hanover apologized, seeing the cowboy eyeing his destroyed door, "but we had no other choice."
"Yeah yah did!" came back the highly annoyed cowboy's bitter reply, "Yah could a' tried turnin' the kno-ob! It wasn' locked!"
The two human battering rams glanced at each other--and then at the unlocked door they'd just demolished--with arched brows of their own.
"All right, tough guy!" Norbert Foster bellered sarcastically, stomping off across the carpeted floor and up to the room's ornery occupant. "...Let's go!" he ordered gruffly and motioned with his head in the direction of the 'opened' doorway.
But the cowboy--who was sitting on the edge of his bed with a half-drained bottle of red-eye in his left hand and a boot-heel in his right, stubborningly refused to budge.
"Move it, Mister!" Norbert Foster gruffly advised, glaring menacingly down at the otherwise unarmed tough guy.
Jim Crown lowered his crossed left leg and angrily stomped his half-off boot back on, "You don' hear too well, do you!" he declared--equally gruffly, making more a statement of fact than an inquiry.
"Neither do you, Mister!" Norbert Foster very smartly observed, "I sai-aid LET'S GO!" he ordered again.
The cowboy calmly raised the bottle to his lips and refused again to obey.
So Mr. Foster latched onto Jim Crown's right arm and started jerking him roughly to his feet. "Ahhh!" the bodyguard gasped in agony as the cowboy kicked him in the shins. He gasped again and began reaching--involuntarily--for his aching right leg.
The cowboy brought the bottle in his raised left hand down hard, breaking it over the back of his thick-skulled assailant's bent head. 'One down,' thought Jim Crown, as Norbert Foster slumped to the room's carpeted floor. 'an' one ta go!' he added, with reference to himself. Three of the four ruffians remained standing, and--judging by the unfriendly looks on their faces--the cowboy was in for a lot of punishment...if he remained with them in the room.
Anticipating that there may be trouble, the cautious young cowhand had deliberately taken a room overlooking the street...a room with a window that--when opened--would allow him to climb out on to the hotel's balcony--and escape!
Anticipating that their quarry would try to escape, Mr. Hanover positioned himself in front of the open window, while Mr. Braames used his bulk to block the 'opened' door.
Anticipating that the now trapped cowboy would try going for his Colt, Mr. Kingsley snatched the holstered gun up from off the foot of the bed and handed it to Mr. Hanover, who, in turn, whipped the weapon out the window.
Jim Crown eyed his assailant's associates with growing respect. Apparently, they were as brainy as they were brawny. "What would you say if I were ta tell you--that I would be willing to 'accompany' you now?" the cowboy asked the genius who was now approaching him with a vengeful gleam in his eyes.
"Sorry, sir," Mr. Kingsley politely replied, "I didn't quite catch that. You see," the brute squad's biggest member--and best boxer--added with an innocent grin, "I don't hear too well."
"I sort a' figured you'd say that," the cowboy glumly confessed as he cautiously began backing away. 'A warm bath wouldn' a' been so bad,' he glumly reminded himself. At least it would've been a step up from the cold creeks he'd been bathing in for the past two weeks. He'd been saying that he was 'dying for a nice hot bath' for the last five days--but he had no idea how 'prophetic' his words would turn out to be. "Who a-are you people?" Jim Crown asked the thugs in the three-piece suits, suddenly curious as to his killers' identities.
"Sorry--but we are not at liberty to answer that," Mr. Kingsley apologized--and kept right on approaching.
"I'll say this much for you," the cowboy conceded and kept right on backing, "you boys are the 'politest' bunch a' cut-throats I ever come across!" As he backed past his room's blocked doorway, Mr. Braames gave him a shove and he went flying forwards--off balance--right into the path--and within reach of--the approaching Mr. Kingsley, who led with a vicious left jab. But Jim Crown anticipated the man's move and turned his head aside so that the potential K.O. blow glanced harmlessly off the right side of his jaw. The big man followed with an even deadlier right cross, which the cautious cowboy also ducked. Then it was the little guy's turn. Well, littler guy's, anyways. (The two hundred and ten pound Secret Service man stood at six foot four. The hundred and forty-eight pound cowboy stood at five foot eleven and a half.) The littler guy let loose with a whole series of powerful punches--which were strategically designed to cut his opponent down to size. But the big man's jaw proved to be hard as nails--and the rest of him didn't cut very easily, either. About all Jim Crown did by delivering his blows--was to wear himself out!
Now, you would think that any man who was capable of covering four hundred and some odd miles and busting five dozen broncs in a dozen days--er, nights, would have no problem busting one 'dandy dresser' down to size, ri-ight? Wro-ong! It was precisely because he had performed the former that he was now experiencing so much difficulty with the latter.
If the cowboy was experiencing an overwhelming sense of fatigue--his opponent was experiencing an overwhelming sense of frustration! Blake Kingsley was a highly trained, professional jaw-breaker who went by the Marquis of Queensbury Rules. He figured the cowboy would be knocked down and out within the first few moments of the fight. But the battle had been raging for some time now, and the little tough guy was still on his feet! The big, burly boxer had failed--as yet--to get a single one of his--usually devastating--punches to connect with anything. The Secret Service man was somewhat devastated to discover just how amazingly agile and unbelievably strong--for a man of his stature--his elusive little opponent actually was!
Jim Crown was a rough an' tumble, Indian wrestlin', bar-room-brawlin' graduate of the 'School of Anything Goes'! The cowboy hadn't really been hit--as yet--but his well-muscled, well-disciplined--and very dangerous--opponent was RELENTLESS in his pursuit! The big man's pile-driving fists were constantly flying at his face. And, either the big goon's delivery was speeding up--or the cowboy's reflexes were slowing down because there were more and more near misses. Unfortunately for Jim--it was him. All that constant ducking and dodging he'd been doing had begun to take its toll--and it was all just a matter of time, no-ow.
Speaking of time...
Mr. Hanover had again recalled that their orders had been to deliver the cowboy 'on the double'! And, not being one who likes to disappoint his boss, he took it upon himself to speed up the inevitable. As Mr. Kingsley's moving target moved within range of him, he stuck out his foot and tripped him up.
The ducking and dodging cowboy lost his balance and went falling backwards, this time. An involuntary, "Oo-oomph!" exploded from him as he landed very hard on his back--on the carpeted floor.
The exasperated boxer leaped upon his fallen prey and began pummeling him with his fists.
Dave Fisher, who had been watching from the 'opened' doorway the whole while, winced and looked away. He couldn't bear to see his friend being beaten--especially when he knew that it was he who was responsible for the beating.
It wasn't bad enough that he'd just had the wind knocked out of him, no--now it felt like the whole front of his face was being caved in! And, suddenly, Jim Crown was tasting blood. He tried to roll away from the punches, but his opponent's superior weight kept him pinned to the floor. Being whomped on by the gargantuan goon was like getting run over by a herd of galloping horses--with very hard, sharp, heavy hooves! Well, Mr. Kingsley may have been brawnier, but Jim Crown was brainier and he came up with a plan to keep himself from bein' completely pulverized inta the carpetin'. All at once, the cowboy went completely limp--feigning unconsciousness. (He didn't have to 'feign' very hard, either--for he practically was unconscious!)
The Secret Service man stopped in mid-punch as his opponent's head suddenly fell to one side--and he lay there perfectly still. Feeling perfectly satisfied, the big, burly boxer exhaled a victorious grunt and got quickly to his feet. He stood there for a few moments, triumphantly straddling the cowboy's still body. Then he stooped down to pick his pulverized opponent up by his shirt collar--and pull him to his feet.
Instea-ead, the suddenly come back-to-life cowboy latched onto the lapels of the dandy-dresser's suit and slammed the sole of his raised right boot into the bent over boxer's belly. Then, using his extended right leg for leverage, Jim Crown sent his two hundred and ten pound opponent sailing through the air.
All eyes in the room--and doorway--watched as the Secret Service man went flying over the cowboy's head--and crashing into the room's dresser.
Jim Crown tilted his head back to see where the well-muscled missile had crash-landed--and whether or not it was going to come crashing back at him. It wasn't--at least, not for the moment. For, at the moment, his opponent was lying in a huge, motionless heap on the carpeted floor in front of his dresser. Mr. Kingsley had cracked the back of his head against the corner of the said dresser and had been--for the moment, at least--rendered unconscious. '...two do-own,' thought Jim Crown, 'An' FOUR?! to go?!' He stared rather dazedly up at the mob that was now standing over him for a few anxious, disheartening seconds. 'I mus' be seein' double...' he realized finally.
"C'mon, cowboy," one of the four urged in a gentle, good-natured fashion. Jim Crown had bested their best in a relatively fair fight. And, while they were understandably disappointed at the outcome, they harbored no animosity towards the winner. Quite the contrary, the resourceful young cowboy had won--not only the fight--but their admiration as well. "let's go! Get up!"
But again the cowboy didn't budge. It wasn't that he wouldn't move. No-o, this time--he just couldn't move. Jim Crown--who had been real close to complete exhaustion even before the 'fighting' broke out--simply did not have the strength to stand. Heck, he couldn't even muster up enough energy to pick his aching head up off the floor!
Apparently, their best had gotten the better of Jim Crown, too--the two remaining Secret Service men realized, as the still out-of-breath cowboy just continued to lie there...gasping in pain and frustration.
So Arthur's two remaining Gorillas pulled Jim Crown to his feet and then half-dragged and half-carried him--out the door...along the hallway...down the stairs...through the lobby...into the dining room...and over to the President's table--where they propped their limp cargo up between them and then stood there--jointly supporting his weight.
"Mr. Crown, Sir!" Mr. Hanover said, presenting the requested presence.
The President set his coffee cup down and stood up to shake Mr. Crown's hand.
Mr. Braames unwrapped the cowboy's right arm from around his neck and offered it to his boss.
The President made a quick head count of his bodyguards--and came up two short, "Congratulations, Mr. Crown! It would appear that you have single-handedly wiped out one third of my Secret Service detail! No small feat, when you consider that they are considered to be some of the best 'hand-to-hand combatants' in the entire Country!" he added proudly--and took the hand that was proffered him.
The barely conscious cowboy stared up at the distinguished-looking gentleman who was standing before him--through barely open eyes--and barely managed to return the man's firm, confident handshake. (Not exactly the kind of greeting you could put a lot of 'stock' in.)
"I think we can proceed with the ceremony now, Mister President," Dave Fisher, who had followed his friend into the dining room said. "He appears ta be plenty receptive..."
"Receptive?!" the country's Senior Executive shouted, "Why, the man's practically unconscious!"
Jim Crown had turned his head in the direction of the familiar sounding voice, "Da-ave?!" he muttered in disbelief. Then the cowboy's eyes widened in recognition as he spotted his old friend standing there, "Da-ave!" he exclaimed breathlessly--and took a step or two in his friend's direction.
"Ea-sy, James!" Dave urged, catching the collapsing cowboy under the arms and gently lowering him to the floor.
James ran the tip of his tongue across a cut on the corner of his mouth--and winced.
The President's personal secretary entered the dining room and strode up to his boss to whisper something important in his ear.
Mr. Arthur nodded his acknowledgment of the message and aimed an annoyed glare in the young Congressman's direction, "I've just been informed that the last ferry of the evening is being held up on my account..."
"Sir, we kin still pull it off!" Dave assured the upset President, "Mr. VanPelton could see ta the paperwork while you swear him in!"
The President glanced from the comatose cowboy to the Congressman--and then back to the comatose cowboy. "This is highly unorthodox!" he confessed, succumbing to the Congressman's persuasive powers. (He wasn't changing his policy--he was just bending it, slightly.)
"Thank you, Sir!" Dave declared in all earnest, giving the Commander-in-Chief a big, cheesy grin, "You won't regret this!"
The President glanced up from his table--and the papers he was signing--and smiled approvingly down at his most recently 'appointed' Marshal, "Hopefully, neither will he!"
"James? Ja-ames! Listen ta me!" Jim Crown's old friend ordered sharply, "Raise yore right arm!...Yore right arm!" Dave snapped, suppressing a smile all the while.
'Ja-ames' slowly lowered his left arm and then obligingly began--even more slowly--to raise his right arm. Apparently too slowly to suit his order-shouting old friend, for Dave grabbed onto his wrist and pulled his right arm up over his head. "...o-o-ohhh!" Jim groaned. Then his face contorted and his eyes closed tightly in a grimace. A Bible was placed on James' still heaving chest. Dave held his 'practically unconscious' partner's left hand down on it, and President Chester A. Arthur promptly proceeded to 'swear him in'.
"Do you, Ja-ames...?"
"Rolland!" Dave eagerly volunteered.
"Rolland Crown swear to uphold, protect and defend the Articles of the Constitution--" the President heard his personal secretary's impatient sigh and condensed the 'oath'...considerably, "--to faithfully enforce the laws of the land and to impartially perform--to the best of your abilities--the duties of the Office of United States Marshal?"
'James Rolland Crown' made no attempt to answer. It was doubtful whether the cowboy had even heard the question!
"Say I do!" Dave urged as the country's Chief Executive exhaled an impatient sigh of his own.
Still, the perfectly still cowboy said nothing.
So the Congressman gave him a few rough shakes, "Sa-ay I do-o, Ja-ames!" Dave ordered again and then watched as his shaking achieved the desired results.
His half-out-of-it friend's eyes half-opened and he obligingly half-whispered, "I do-o...Ja-ames!"
"Congratulations, Marshal Crown!" President Arthur said, giving the newly appointed lawman's limp right hand another warm, hearty shake, "And good luck with your new job! I have a...feeling you'll be needing it!" he added solemnly, and ceremoniously pinned the new Marshal's badge of office to his still heaving chest.
Jim Crown made a courageous attempt to pick his head up off the floor, but couldn't quite manage it.
All eyes in the room watched as the cowboy's half-closed eyes crossed and he finally passed out--completely.
Dave slid his hand beneath Jim's falling head and kept it from banging on the floor. "Kin you gentlemen give me a hand?" he asked the two surviving Secret Service men, "We should probably put the Marshal here to bed..."
"Give the Congressman a hand with the Marshal!" the President ordered, seeing his bodyguards' reluctance to move, "And bring down Mr. Foster and Mr. Kingsley while your at it..." he added, suppressing a smile.
The two men speedily obeyed.
"Thank you, Sir!" Dave repeated, and extended his hand to Mr. Arthur.
"Thank you, David!" the President replied, giving the young Congressman's hand a hearty shake, "And, if you should happen to come across any more 'Jim Crown's', let me know! The Justice Department is in desperate need of men like him!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Goodbye, David. I'll see you back in Washington!"
"So long, Sir! Have a swift, safe and successful journey!"
####################
Senator David Fisher snapped back to reality to pose what he--and his aching arms and back--thought was a real goo-ood question, "Don' you think this is deep enuff?" he asked, directing the young deputy's attention to the fact that the hole that they were now standing in was practically over their heads!
"It wouldn't do for anyone ta get too close a look at the 'body'," the deputy replied, "so keep digging."
Dave gave the slave-driving deputy an annoyed glare, but then sighed in surrender and went back to the back-breaking work.
"Was that really how Jim came to be a Marshal?" Francis--the eternal skeptic--wanted to know.
"Nope!" Dave told him truthfully, "That was how he came ta be 'sworn in'. I haven' got ta the part where he became a Marshal, yet!" he added, grinning broadly.
The reporter grinned and rolled his eyes again.
The Senator returned to his reminiscing, "Marshal Jim Crown slept 'til nearly noon the next day...an' then he woke up an' went back ta bein' a cowboy..." the story-teller stated rather glumly.