The Marshal: A Collection of Tales of How He Got His Man

By Zimbell House Publishing

The Marshal is a collection of tales that show you how he got his man, told by fifteen talented new writers that are sure to revive the western genre.

Which will be your favorite?

Featured Contributors:

Ace Baker
Ben Fine
Bob Price
Bruce Harris
David Massey
Dawn DeBraal
E. W. Farnsworth
Gerry Wojtowicz
Kathryn Sadakierski
Lincoln Reed
Luis Manuel Torres
Matt McGee
Oliver Brady
Steve Carr
and
Todd Salvia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zimbell House Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643901268

Zimbell House Publishing

Zimbell House Publishing is an independent publishing company that wishes to partner with new voices to help them become Quality Authors.Our goal is to partner with our authors to help publish & promote quality work that readers will want to read again and again, and refer to their friends.

Book preview

The Marshal

A collection of tales of how he got his man.

A Zimbell House Anthology

THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

For permission requests, write to the publisher:

Attention: Permissions Coordinator

Zimbell House Publishing

PO Box 1172

Union Lake, Michigan 48387

mail to: [e-mail]

© 2019 Zimbell House Publishing

Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com

All Rights Reserved

Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-64390-124-4

.mobi ISBN: 978-1-64390- 125-1

ePub ISBN: 978-1-64390-126-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019954650

First Edition: November 2019

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Zimbell House Publishing

Union Lake

Acknowledgments

ZIMBELL HOUSE PUBLISHING would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase fifteen new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

A Dakota Saga

Steve Carr

The sound of a hand slap on bare flesh and then loud squeals from a newborn infant sprang out from behind the closed bedroom door. Seated at the table in the main room, John Harley jumped up from the chair, knocking it over, rushed to the door, and put his ear against it. As quickly as the squealing had started, it suddenly stopped. He stood there, his ear pressed against the wood, with sweat dripping from his forehead and into his eyes. The flames that lapped at the bottom of the pot in the large stone fireplace had not only boiled the water used during the childbirth, but they had also heated the room to an uncomfortable degree, far beyond what was needed for such a warm spring day, adding to the heat his body was producing from excitement. He wiped away the perspiration with the back of his hand, stood up straight, composed himself, and lightly tapped on the door.

A large woman, with a scowl plastered on her face and piercing green eyes, opened it. She crossed her arms, blocking his view into the bedroom. Well? she said to him as if he was a traveling salesman trying to sell her a new skillet.

He summoned up his courage. See here, Meer Sawkins, am I a father or not? he asked demandingly.

Meer Sawkins wasn’t a woman to be challenged, least of all by a young man not wearing his hat and boots. She stared at him for a moment, giving him the same withering gaze she gave dogs and colts that needed to be trained. That weren’t me you heard cryin’ in here, she said. She stepped aside and waved her hand, ushering him into the bedroom.

He ran in and before reaching the bed, nearly tripped over the leg of the table that held a pan of water and stack of wet, bloodied cloths and rags. Savannah lay covered by a quilt with the bundled baby cradled in her arms. She gave John a smile, the same kind of smile she had used when they were courting back in Ohio, and said, It’s a boy.

John repeated what she said, It’s a boy, but spoke it with the same awe and amazement he would have expressed if he had just discovered gold, and then he passed out.

THE SMELL OF THE PINE woods wafted through the open window as John put the finishing touches on the baby’s bassinet, wishing he had finished it before the baby was born, but both the baby and spring arrived earlier than expected. He carried it into the bedroom and placed it at the foot of the bed. Meer gave the bassinet a sideways disapproving look, took the baby from Savannah’s arms, and walked out of the room.

I don’t think she likes me very much, John whispered to his wife. He sat down on the edge of the bed and poked at a splinter that was lodged in the palm of his hand.

She fastened her top over her bare breast and shifted into a more comfortable position. She’s just grown more accustomed to caring for mothers and babies, not other men, she said. Without there being a real doctor around, she knew exactly what to do when I was giving birth to Joshua.

Women always know what to do when it comes to those kinds of things, he said. He then looked up. Joshua? he asked, suddenly realizing his wife had given his son a name. My father will bust wide open with pride when he finds out his grandchild has been named after him.

I’m glad you approve, she said. It was Meer’s idea.

I wonder why she thought of it?

She has no reason to hate your father or his name, she answered. It was that outlaw that killed her husband, not your father.

My father was marshal at the time, he said, which Jenny Sawkins reminds me of every time she sees me.

She can’t forgive your father for letting the killer get away, Savannah said. Meer is more forgiving than her daughter is.

John stood up, walked to the doorway, and peered into the main room. Meer was sitting in the rocker by the fire, rocking Joshua. The light from the flames danced on her face, softening her features. For a moment, he saw the girl his father talked about being sweet on when they were both young. He turned away and looked back at his wife.

I wonder if coming back here was such a good idea after all, he said.

THREE MONTHS LATER, John sat on the seat of his wagon and guided the two mules down the center of the street. The throngs that walked on the loose boards, which lined both sides of the street forming walkways in front of the stores and shops, jostled one another as they attempted to keep from stepping from the walkways and into the thick mud. Heavy rainfalls in the higher elevations in the Black Hills formed streams and creeks, which cascaded down the mountains, forming tributaries that turned the streets to mud and swelled Rapid Creek, which ran along the southern outskirts of the town. The army garrison that was stationed there had temporarily relocated a short distance to the north where the ground was dryer, but the soldiers could be seen everywhere, many of them going in and out of the two saloons located at the opposite ends of the street. John pulled up in front of the stable, jumped down from the wagon, and tied the mules to a hitching post.

Hans Thorson, the town blacksmith, stepped out of the stable. He was short in stature, but all muscle. The sheriff was just askin’ about you, he said to John.

Me? Why? John asked.

I think it has something to do with the Sawkins girl being kidnapped, Han replied.

Meer Sawkins’s daughter? John stuttered, unable to contain his astonishment.

Hans spat out a wad of chewing tobacco. Yeah, that’s the one. I pity whoever took her. She’s a hellcat.

I stopped to pick up Glory. You get his shoes done? John asked.

Yeah, he’s all ready.

I’ll be right back for him. Keep your eyes on my mules for me, John said and then turned and crossed the street, trudging through the mud that collected on his boots. He walked into the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Truman looked up from a wanted poster that lay on his desk.

What’s this I hear about Jenny Sawkins being kidnapped? John asked.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair. I was about to ride out to your place. I need a marshal, and you might be just the right man for the job. I have reason to believe that the man who took Jenny Sawkins may be the same man who killed her father.

What does that have to do with me?

Ain’t no one who’s lived here since this town was nothing but a settlement who doesn’t know that it was the man who killed Henry Sawkins who made your father hang up his badge and gun and leave town, the sheriff said. He lifted the poster and showed it to John. This is Carl Malone. You might be kinda young, but how’d you like to be the new marshal and get the man that your father couldn’t—and save the Sawkins girl at the same time?

SAVANNAH HELD JOSHUA in her lap as the baby reached for the silver, six-pointed badge pinned to John’s shirt. John kissed the top of Joshua’s head and inhaled the infant’s scent, something he likened to freshly melted snow. He gently stepped back, out of reach of the child’s grasp, and turned to watch the strong summer breeze bend the stalks of corn that grew in a large patch several yards from the front of their cabin. His gaze wandered to the garden of cucumbers, potatoes, and strawberries that Savannah had planted alongside the corn. Adding the chickens, two cows, and six pigs to what their farm offered, he was comforted knowing that his wife and child wouldn’t go hungry while he was away.

The day before, when he told Meer that he was going after the man who kidnapped her daughter, he asked her, Will you please look after Savannah and Joshua?

She brushed her graying hair back from her face and smiled wanly. Of course, she said. Her usual hardness melted as tears formed in her eyes when she added, Bring my child home.

I’ll be back home soon if Carl Malone hasn’t gotten very far, he said to Savannah as he shifted his gaze to her face. Malone, with Jenny on his horse, was seen leaving town with another man heading east toward Sioux country.  

Why did they take her? Savannah asked.

No one knows, he replied. The feud that Carl Malone had with Henry Sawkins has never been explained, but it was serious enough to get Henry shot in the back. It makes no sense that he would come back almost fifteen years later and kidnap a dead man’s daughter.

You’ll keep yourself safe, won’t you? she asked, her voice trembling.

Of course I will, he said. He hugged her, kissed her, gave Joshua another kiss, and then climbed up onto the saddle on Glory’s back. He checked to make sure there was plenty of water in his canteen, that his Springfield rifle was securely in place in its scabbard, and that his Colt revolver was in the holster and would be easy to get to if needed. He scanned his farm, hoping he would return to it before the summer light that blanketed it every day was gone, and then he rode off.

Five miles later, Glory’s hooves kicked up small clouds of dirt as John rode into town. Visible waves of heat rose up from the solidly packed dirt in the street. Townsfolk crisscrossed from one walkway to the other, narrowly avoiding being run over by wagons and men on horseback. Women held parasols high above their heads, blocking out the intense noonday sunlight. A squad of soldiers marched in loose formation down the middle of the street, drawing complaining yells from the wagon drivers that followed behind and struggled to rein in their teams of mules. The sounds of shouting and shooting that spilled out of the saloons mixed with the noise of wagon wheels bumping up and down in the dirt and boisterous children who ran up and down the walkways, playing. John stopped in front of the livery stable, hopped down from his horse, and tied it to a hitching post. He went into the stable and watched Hans beat a fiery red horseshoe into shape with a large hammer that sent sparks into the air.

Hans looked up from pounding on the metal. Using a pair of tongs, he lifted the horseshoe from the anvil it was laid on and threw it into a bucket of water, causing it to sizzle and pop. I heard you took the marshal job, he said. If Jenny Sawkins ain’t dead already, she soon will be, or wish she was after those men get done with her.

As you said, she’s a hellcat, John replied. She’s the same age as me and as strong as her mother. I’ve been at the receiving end of her anger, and I wouldn’t underestimate her.

Maybe so, Hans said. You gettin’ ready to head out?

Yep, but I wondered if you have a horse I could swap with Glory? he asked.

What do you want to do that for? Glory’s the finest palomino around, Hans replied. I don’t have or know a horse that can rival him.

John kicked at the sawdust on the floor with the tip of his boot. I just don’t want to see Glory come to a bad end on my account, he said. He’s about the best friend I got.

Hans stared at John, mouth agape for several seconds before bursting out laughing.

At that moment, Sheriff Truman walked into the stable, followed by an army lieutenant. I thought I saw you come in here, he said to John. This is Lieutenant Clay Patterson, Jenny Sawkins’s fiancé. He’s going to go with you to find Jenny.

BRIGHT GREEN PRAIRIE grass carpeted the landscape for as far as the eye could see. Driven by the wind, the grass bowed to-and-fro, like ripples shifting on the surface of a pond. Meadowlarks warbled their brief arias from hidden places among the rolling hills.

Sitting on Glory, John tilted his head back and stared up at the white sun in the cloudless baby blue sky. Sweat ran down his back, gluing his shirt to his skin. He took his red bandana from around his neck and wiped perspiration and grit from his face. He then removed his hat and closed his eyes as the sun and wind dried his sweat-soaked hair.

You plan on us just sittin’ here all day? Lieutenant Patterson asked from astride his horse a few yards behind.

John opened his eyes and scanned the horizon. One thing I remember my father telling me is that a good marshal knows where he’s going before going anywhere. He placed the hat back on his head and glanced down at the ground. We ain’t seen any tracks for a while.

The lieutenant removed his gloves and rubbed his hands together, trying to ease the aching in his fingers from gripping the reins of his horse. Jenny told me about your father, he said. You have the same yellow streak he had?

John jerked Glory’s reins, quickly turning the horse around. He pulled his gun from his holster and aimed it at the lieutenant. You say that about my father again, and I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.

The lieutenant raised his hands in mock surrender. My apologies, he said. I just never heard why your father stopped lookin’ for this Carl Malone.

Henry Sawkins was my father’s best friend. He vowed he would kill Carl Malone if he caught up with him, but the Dakota territory is a big place—too big for one man to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, John said.

I hope two men can do better, the lieutenant replied.

John turned Glory back around. His mouth was dry, his throat parched. He put his gun back in the holster and opened his canteen. He took a swig of water and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing it. As he swallowed the water, it tasted bitter. He put the cap back on the canteen, tapped Glory’s sides with his spurs, and rode due east.

IN THE BRIGHT MOONLIGHT, the rock formations that stretched across the southern horizon reflected a rainbow of nighttime colors: dark purple, deep red, and shades of gray. The calls of coyotes echoed across the plains. A hundred yards from where John and the lieutenant sat on their bedrolls, a small herd of buffalo slowly pushed their way through the tall grass. The orange glow of a campfire shone from the top of one of the formations.

I hope they haven’t spotted us, John said.

Or Malone and his gang, the lieutenant said. What the Sioux would do to Jenny is much worse than anything Malone would do.

Or has done, John added.

The lieutenant was quiet for several moments before asking, Do you think she’s still alive?

John bit into a piece of hardtack. Before moving to Ohio with his family, Jenny had been a playmate. Despite the derision with which she treated him now, it was hard to forget her as the little girl with ribbons in her yellow hair who loved to play tag with the boys. Malone took her for a reason, and I don’t think it was just to kill her, he said. I’ll take first watch if you want to catch some shut-eye.

The lieutenant lay back, put his hands behind his head, and stared up at the stars. I’m not sleepy, he said with a yawn.

A few minutes later, John listened to the lieutenant’s snoring. He took his gun from the holster and laid it on the ground beside him for faster retrieval should he need it. He stared at the fire on the rock formation and thought about Savannah sitting by the fireplace with Joshua in her arms. Everyone told him that at twenty-one, he was still young, but he felt old. The responsibility of being a husband, father, farmer, and now marshal weighed on him. When he left Ohio to return to the town where he had been born, he thought of it as fulfilling an uncertain destiny. He hadn’t considered that chasing after a killer in Sioux territory would ever be part of that destiny.

GET UP.

John’s eyes flew open. Lieutenant Patterson was stretched out in the grass beside him holding his rifle, aiming it southward. John grabbed his gun and rolled onto his stomach.

What is it? he asked.

Sioux, on horseback, he said. They’ve spotted us but are holding back.

John raised his head and scanned the southern plain. A half-dozen Sioux Indians on horseback were stopped atop a large hillock about a hundred yards away. He glanced over at Glory, who was nervously shifting about and quietly neighing. What do you think we should do? he asked.

The lieutenant kept his gaze on the Indians. Our guns give us the advantage, and they know it, he said. But we’re pinned down here. They could easily outwait us. They may have a source of water, and we only have what’s in our canteens. He glanced at the two horses. Glory looks fit enough for a sustained run, but I don’t think mine can go for very long.

I say we chance it before more Sioux show up, John said. With that, the two men jumped up from the grass, ran to their horses, and leapt on them. They ran westward, back in the direction of the town about sixty miles away. Immediately the war cries of the Indians reverberated across the plain. John glanced over his shoulder. The Indians were following, their horses kicking up clouds of dust in the tall grass.

Maybe we can slow them down by crossing the Cheyenne River, Lieutenant Patterson yelled. The wind whipped his hat from his head and sent it into a patch of brambles, where it stuck.

For twelve miles, John and the lieutenant raced across the prairie, stopping to allow their horses to rest for a few minutes at a time, but only when the Indians did the same thing. Glory was sweating profusely, but if he was fatigued, he didn’t show it. Lieutenant Patterson’s army-issued horse was struggling against the reins, frequently snapping his head, and attempting to pull them from the lieutenant’s hands. During the brief rest stops, white foam dripped from its mouth. Its sides heaved, and its breathing was labored. Just as they reached the muddy banks of the murky river, the lieutenant’s horse collapsed, pinning the lieutenant in the mud.

John leapt from Glory and pulled the lieutenant’s leg from under his horse.

I think my ankle is broken, the lieutenant said through clenched teeth. You’ll need to continue without me.

That’s not going to happen, John said. He slipped his arm under the lieutenant’s back and helped him stand and then hop on one foot to where Glory stood. There the two men climbed onto the saddle. John guided Glory into a shallow part of the narrow river and allowed the horse’s intuition to kick in as it swam through the deeper middle, carrying them to the other bank. The Indians reached the other shore just as John kicked Glory’s sides. Sitting on their horses, the Indians didn’t enter the water but shot arrows across the river that whizzed by the two men.

A mile later, John brought Glory to a stop and pointed at a sod house built into the side of a hill thirty yards away. The windows were dark, and its front facade was crumbling. There was a broken fence around an overgrown garden. Luck is with us, he said.

They were within a few yards of the house when a rifle barrel suddenly stuck out of a window. Hold it right there, John Harley, and get your hands up, both of you, a raspy, growling voice commanded. His face was hidden in the darkness inside the house.

John and the lieutenant raised their hands over their heads.

Who are you? John asked.

There was some movement heard behind the window, and a few moments later, the rifle exchanged hands. Then Carl Malone pushed the door open, and with two Colt pistols aimed at John and the lieutenant, he stepped into the sunlight. What took you so long? As you can see, I didn’t go very far.

You should have left breadcrumbs. The prairie is a big place, John said. Where’s Jenny Sawkins?

First, throw your guns on the ground, Carl demanded, and do it slowly. Any wrong moves and I may just have to make a mistake and shoot you before I’m ready.

John and the lieutenant tossed their guns onto the ground.

Without taking his eyes from the two men, Carl yelled, Bring her out, Sweeny.

Led out by a burly cowboy with a bright red scratch mark across his cheek, Jenny stepped out of the house and blinked hard several times as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she was barefoot. Sweeny had a tight grip on her left arm.

Jenny! the lieutenant shouted.

She looked past John to see her fiancé sitting behind him. Clay! she shouted as she struggled to free herself from Sweeny’s grasp.

Take her back inside, Carl said to Sweeny.

The cowboy grabbed her around the waist and dragged her, kicking and screaming, back inside the house.

"I knew she would be the perfect bait to lure the son of the famous, or should I say, infamous, Joshua Harley," Carl said.

John’s back stiffened at hearing his father’s name. Bait?

It worked out better than I bargained for, he said. I never imagined you’d be wearing a marshal’s badge when you came looking for the girl, which was a gamble in itself, but I’ve always been lucky with cards and knowing human nature. The Harley and Sawkins names are linked like honey and bees.

What’s this all about? John asked.

If that stupid girl’s father hadn’t accidentally gotten in the way, it would have been your father I would have killed for gunning down my younger brother. Just before I escaped from the jailhouse, I told your father I’d someday kill you in return, he answered. Too bad he was branded a coward for not finding me, when all he was trying to do was keep his son safe by not looking hard enough. I lost any hope of getting my revenge ever happening until it reached me that you had returned to town. I was just waiting for the right time. He waved his gun at them. Now get down from the horse. Time is up.

After John climbed down and helped the lieutenant, he stood in the bright sunlight reliving his life after they arrived in Ohio when he was a boy. He hated his father for not catching Carl Malone, and even worse, leaving town without saying why. He had heard the gossip about his father being a coward in the days before they left. As he grew up and time wore on, his anger and disappointment toward his father abated, but never entirely evaporated. Returning to the town he had been born in, and had been in exile from, was done with the intention of someday making things right. Carl Malone was right: he knew human nature.

He was looking at Carl Malone when the whooshing sound of an arrow passed by his left ear. The arrow entered the front of the outlaw’s neck and came partway out of the back, slicing through his neck. With a surprised look on his face, Carl dropped his gun and fell to the ground, convulsing until he died, clutching the arrow. John turned to see the six Indians rushing toward them, their arrows poised in their bows aimed his way. He grabbed the lieutenant and pulled him along as he ran into the house and shut the door as the Indians unleashed their arrows.

Inside, Jenny handed the two men guns. She held up her wrists, dangling the ends of the broken strap. I was just waiting for the right moment.

Sweeny was propped up against a wall, a knife protruding from his chest.

The three of them went to the two windows and took aim at the Indians, picking three of them off before the other three turned and rode away.

THE FOLLOWING SPRING, John walked into the sheriff’s office and laid his marshal’s badge on the sheriff’s desk. I’ve been meaning to return this to you, Sheriff, but Joshua’s mother gave it to him to teethe on. He pointed at the teeth indentations in the metal.

I’m in no hurry to get it back, the sheriff said. The Dakota territory is a lot of land, and enforcing the laws isn’t getting any easier.

My father was the real marshal, John said. I’m just a farmer who had a little luck.

A Shadowed Gun

The Marshal McSelle Story

Gerry S. Wojtowicz

Marshal Hunter McSelle looked up from his long wooden desk, where he had scratched out the first four lines of the poem he called A Shadowed Gun on the back of a wanted poster. He read what he had written aloud,

"I sometimes hear your voice in rain

that scours my metal roof and when

I wake to emptiness I know

I won’t fall back to sleep again."

His voice, like the sound of a sharp knife scraping across a piece of burnt toast, seemed oddly poignant in the spartan space that was the Portal Jail. He cleared his throat, read the lines again, and started to add more to the poem when the thick oak door to his office swung open, tinkling a small brass bell above the door frame. Hunter looked up when he heard the bell tinkle a second time, followed by a loud thud as the door slammed shut.

A woman, long and thin like a shadow at dusk, stood just inside the door. She paused for just a moment, staring at the marshal, before striding directly to his desk, nervously tapping a foot on the dirty hardwood floor.

Hunter! the woman panted. It’s Gwen! She’s missing.

Hunter stared up at his wife—ex-wife. He still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that Mirabel was now Mirabel Laughlin. She stood in front of him, her thin hands pressed prayerfully to her chest. Brown eyes that would normally broadcast a smile from the slightest upturn of her full lips now locked fearfully on his.

Hunter instinctively reached out to her, pulling his arm back when he noticed her eyes narrow as she saw his hand, his ring finger still adorned with a gold band.

Hunter. Really? she said sadly.

Hunter McSelle quickly removed the wedding ring and slipped it into the top drawer of his desk. Sorry, he said meekly. He only wore the ring in the office when he was alone. He’d been telling himself for the last six years that he was going to get rid of it—pawn it, melt it down, exchange the gold for cash, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do any of those things.

What do you mean, Gwen’s missing? Hunter said.

She’s missing, Mirabel said again.

Hunter watched his ex-wife’s body loosen, and saw her begin to melt onto the pine bench that spanned the front of his desk. He rushed around his desk and helped to guide her down onto the seat. He sat down beside her, holding her soft right hand in both of his.

When was the last time you saw her? Hunter asked.

Mirabel took a deep breath. She let it out slowly as she pulled her sandwiched hand free. This morning, Mirabel said. She looked at the pendulum clock on the wall behind Hunter’s chair. Three hours ago?

Why are you only telling me now? Hunter asked.

Gwendolyn