Trevor Colby hated courtrooms. He hated every hour he had spent squirming on thehard-bottomed benches where men like him sat, breathing in the stuffy air produced bydozens of bodies, some with their jailhouse stink, waiting and listening to the yakking ofbook-smart townies who never saw more of the world than could be seen from theirswivel-chair offices. None of them ever found one of their partners, a vigorous manthey had worked with for years, bloody-shirted and left to leak out his life under thescorching sun. None of them ever had to call upon the widow, give her the heart-rending news, and make the promise that he would extract justice.
A man belonged on horseback, riding purposefully across the open range, iron on hiship, rifle under his thigh, breathing God's free air, basking in the warmth of sunshine, orwelcoming the freshness of rain, making things happen, not waiting helplessly for somewizened old man looking down from his high dais who, if Colby read the omens right,was about make a mockery of his promise to Fred Allred's widow.
"Upon the evidence before me," the judge's reedy voice intoned, as though bystretching out his decision and using high-sounding words he would mask the injusticeof his ruling, "considering the lack of corroboration of the testimony of the arrestingofficer," that was Colby, "cognizant of the claims of alibi," false though Colby knew themto be, "and in recognition of the obligation of the government to prove its case beyond areasonable doubt," and now came the damning words, "I find the defendant not guilty."
Not for the first time did Colby resent the limitations imposed on him by his badgewhich made the law's claims of the justice a travesty. Not for the first time did heconsider that a truer verdict could be administered in the field without the need of black-robed interference. In his anger, he squirmed in his seat, waiting for the courtroom toclear, not out of respect for the judge who had just set a killer free, but because his paydemanded the semblance of submissiveness. He was still sitting as Eugene Darnellstrode out, smirking at Colby as he passed.
"You won't see a judge next time I hunt you, Darnell," Colby called after the killer. "Justmy jury of six."
Out on the street, Colby took three steps and paused to fill his lungs with unpolluted airas he tried to master his fury.
Colby was a tall, Texas man-of-the-saddle, chin scraped clean this morning because ofthe judge's dictum of proper decorum, but still sporting a thick black mustache on hisupper lip, and with muscular hands that had grown comfortable around the grip of theforty-five secured snuggly against his thigh. For what purpose, he asked himself. Tenyears riding for the law, and Fred Allred's killer rides free.
"They say law and order works back East," a voice sounded in Colby's ears. "Maybesomeday it will work here, too. But for now ..."
Colby had vaguely noticed the man in the courtroom. Now, in one brief glance, hemade a quick but complete catalog. Pushing forty, medium height, clean-shaven exceptfor a well-trained mustache, wearing a deep outdoorsman's tan, dressed for cowcountry, but reasonably prosperous, unfaded flannel shirt under a tailored brown brushjacket, woolen trousers that didn't seem to be patched, serviceable riding boots, butpolished to a sheen that seldom went with a dirt-and-sweat cowhand. No gun belt, aman in Colby's profession noticed that right off. The High Plains hat identified him as anoutlander to Texas.
"Leaves a bad taste in a man's mouth," Colby muttered.
"Only one way to deal with that," the man was saying. "Come, let me buy you a drink."
In minutes, Colby had settled himself at a table against the rear wall of the AlamoSaloon while his new acquaintance visited the bar and picked up a bottle and twoglasses. "Double Anchor," Colby said appreciatively. "Good whiskey's a way to get aman's attention."
"This kind of miscarriage of justice happen often?" the man asked. "Having the goodson a killer and watching him walk free."
Colby eyeballed the man whose name he still didn't know. In his experience, what hedidn't say seldom got him in trouble.
"Got a good reputation, you have," the man continued when he saw his question wouldremain unanswered. "Skilled, competent, a conscientious lawman who always gets thejob done."
"Didn't get it done this time. Sometimes the law ..." Colby instantly regretted showingwhat was really in his mind.
The man buying the whiskey seemed to change the subject. "Looks to me like you'repushing thirty. Time a man starts fulfilling his ambitions. Looking down the trail, givenyour best hopes, where do you want to be in five years?"
"Always figured on having a small ranch someday."
"Takes money," the man told him. "Starting your own ranch, even a small one on freegrass. Twenty-five hundred to buy a small starter herd, more for gear and equipment,and enough to pay a couple of hands until your first shipment. I figure you need up tofour thousand to get set up, maybe more."
Colby had nothing to say. Starting his own ranch had been his dream since he threwhis first calf at another man's branding fire. More than ten years later, he was no closerand it seemed the dream was moving beyond him. But surrendering a man's dreamsmakes him a failure. Colby wasn't willing admit that to this stranger nor even to himself.
"Save much on a deputy's wages?"
Colby shifted resentfully in his seat. "Arrest fees don't add up very fast."
"Must be an opportunity for some nice bonuses in your pocket from time to time." Theman's comment seemed just a casual observation, but enunciated too deliberately forits meaning not to be clear.
"You're pushing hard, mister man-without-a-name. Like to tell me where you're going."
"Names Merv Hatcher. Come from Wyoming. Man I work for understands it's tough tostart a ranch. Likes to help young men along the way."
"All out of his spirit of generosity, no doubt," Colby replied. "All I'm hearing is air."
Hatcher paused thoughtfully, looking over Colby, as though judging whether he'd foundthe right man for his proposition. "Up in Wyoming, there's work for a someone whobelieves in law and order. And my boss is willing to pay."
Colby shifted uncomfortably. "I ain't someone's paid assassin. The men who ate mylead all had the choice of letting me bring them in."
"Living on principle is an admirable thing," Hatcher said. "It represents the world all ofus hope to see some day. Meanwhile, sometimes the law needs a little help to clean upa range. I guess you know that." While Colby reflected on Fred Allred, Hatcher added afinal inducement "Five hundred dollars in your pocket just to ride up to Wyoming withme and talk it over with my boss, Mike Ralston of the MR-Connected. You can makeyour decision, then."
"When opportunity knocks, only a fool don't answer the door."
A three day train ride, first on the Kansas Pacific north, a stopover to transfer to thewestbound, still on the Kansas Pacific to Denver, then the Denver Pacific to Cheyenne,and finally by spur line to Casper, Wyoming, leaves travelers with nothing to do butsleep, look out the window as the flatlands of Texas and Kansas clickity-clacked by.And talk. Over three days two men get used to each other, begin to understand eachother, and to form a deeper bond than a shared drink in a small Texas saloon canproduce.
Initially, the suppressed tension of their first meeting continued unabated. Theirs was abusiness relationship only. And Colby wasn't sure he understood what Mr. Ralston hadin mind. Their trip wasn't about friendship. Don't need to like each other, Colby toldhimself. It can only get in the way.
Filling in long silences was easy. Just making conversation, Hatcher asked aboutDarnell, let Colby describe the vicious killing of Colby's friend and colleague FredAllred, the challenges of the three weeks he spent hunting the killer in the unfriendly country of Indian Territory, and the close escape when two of Darnell's gang near turned the tables and caught the hunter in their trap. "That sort of thing happen often?" Hatcher asked.
"Often enough that the judge is always hiring replacement deputies," Colby said. Then he went on to the frustration of the trial. "Lawyers," he nearly spit the word. "They getyou up on the witness chair and twist what you say and by the time they're through, you hardly believe yourself."
Hatcher's tone of commiseration started building a common bond between the twomen. "Guilty men get set free often?"
"We lay our lives on the line to bring them in. They get turned loose, and we have to goafter them and do it all over again." Colby was surprised at the bitterness in his ownwords, a bitterness he now realized had been building every time an outlaw he riskedhis life to arrest had walked smirking out of the courthouse.
"Just like Wyoming," Hatcher said. "Can't find a jury to convict a rustler, even when webring in a cowhide that shows the brand blotting."
By the end of the first day's travel, while they were overnighting to catch the westbound to Denver, Hatcher had learned the depth of commitment of Colby to what he hadalways believed the badge represented, an almost holy calling. "Law's what makes usbetter than wild animals in the jungle," Colby had told him. And that gave Hatcher a basis to get philosophical.
"You swore to uphold the law, isn't that right?" Hatcher said. "But what is the law? Is itthat an outlaw shouldn't kill a lawman? Or that a judge should turn the killer loose?"
Colby remembered the threat, the promise, he had given to Darnell as the killer left thecourtroom. He wasn't even conscious that he was muttering his private thoughts."Maybe there's a higher law."
Hatcher let that sit, at least for that night.
On the second day, as the train traveled west through the vastness of the Kansasprairie, Hatcher pointed to herds scattered in small clusters across the range. "Goodhonest work, ranching," Hatcher said. "Been at it eighteen years. Now riding for Mr.Ralston and the MR-Connected. Worked my way up to ranch Segundo."
Hatcher spoke about ranching, about the joys of riding the open range, about thecamaraderie around the round-up fire, about the good honest burn of muscles as aman throws a heifer to receive its brand. "Never seen a cow shoot back at me."
Just riding in the seat next to Hatcher, listening to him talk about the glories of ranching,revived and built Colby's dream. "If I like the work you got for me in Wyoming, won't belong before I'll be muscling my own cows to the branding fire."
"And building a good ranch if I read your strength and hardiness right."
Then Hatcher sighed regretfully. "Of course, that's what the world is like in Texas. Up at my parts, ranching's not what it used to be. From what I hear, Texas has its rangeunder control. We're fighting the lawless elements and it's getting worse. Not sure who's going to win."
"Rustlers?"
"Rustlers are a big problem," Hatcher told Colby, "bleeding an honest rancher of his property. Is the law nothing more than what bought-and-paid-for judges and corruptjuries say it is? Is that how they see the law in Texas?"
Colby said some words, but they didn't matter. Hatcher could see he was mouthing platitudes he no longer believed.
Colby had questions. Of course, he had questions. But Hatcher had answers. "Therustlers got the votes, and they got the law on their side."
Colby was outraged. "Texans know how to deal with that."
"That's why we need someone strong, someone with a Texan's understanding of thelaw and the right of a rancher to run his own business, someone who don't have notruck with outlaws."