Disturbing the Peace, page 13
Hubbard sat back in his seat, breathing heavily. Zimmerman thought he might be having a heart attack and hoped that was not the case. Having to explain his plan to Hubbard’s replacement would be time consuming and might not go as well. He needed to put his plan in place now before word reached Battle Brook and someone tried to stop him.
Hubbard’s breathing leveled off and he patted his brow with a handkerchief he produced from an inside pocket. “I don’t think it’ll work. You’re an outlaw. The men with you are outlaws. The money is stolen.”
Zimmerman was waiting, just waiting for him to say he could not be part of something like this. He knew Hubbard had done business with worse men than him for much less money.
But the banker surprised him by saying, “If we do this, we must do it very carefully, gentlemen. Helena is distracted by coming statehood now, but once that’s over, they’ll have time to look at this closely. There will be questions.”
Mannes said, “I will be going to Helena on tomorrow’s train to make sure all of those concerns are satisfied. When I return, I’ll have all of the necessary documentation we require to conduct our business legally.”
Hubbard shook his head. “I know you have relatives in Helena, Mark, but this is something different.”
Zimmerman waved him off. “Let the lawyers worry about the particulars. You and I are going to make a lot of money together.”
Zimmerman got to his feet and stuck out his hand to Hubbard. “Shake on it, and I’ll see to it that the money is here in two hours. Mannes will draw up the papers in the meantime and by the time you lock your doors tonight, you’ll not only be a rich man, but a powerful one, too.”
Hubbard looked at the thick hand, then up at Zimmerman. “And if I refuse?”
“I’ll kill you, and your replacement will say yes.” He held out the hand anew. “What do you say?”
Hubbard feebly rose to his feet, steadying himself on his desk with his left hand and shaking the outlaw’s hand with his right. “Why do I feel like I’ve made a deal with the devil himself?”
Zimmerman threw back his head and laughed before slapping the banker on the shoulder. “Don’t be so dramatic, Hubby. Besides, you’ll soon learn old Satan’s got nothing on me and my bunch.”
Zimmerman looked down at Mannes, whose eyes were still beady and just as frightened as they had been when they had first met. “I want those papers drawn up and ready to sign by the time my men get here with the money. And remember, I know how to read, so if you put anything in there I don’t like, I’ll know it. And I won’t be happy.”
He watched his lawyer’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Don’t worry, Mr. Zimmerman. I won’t.”
The outlaw strode out of the office a proud man. “And when you’re done, go back to your place and pack a bag. You’re taking a trip to Battle Brook tonight. I want you to tend to some business for me before you head to Helena.”
The attorney took a fit of coughing before he gasped, “Battle Brook? But I thought I was going straight to Wellspring tomorrow morning to catch the train.”
“That’s still on,” Zimmerman told him as he opened the office door. “I need you to talk to someone in town first before I send you on your way. Don’t worry. It’s mostly legal.”
He almost laughed again as he watched Hubbard and Mannes look at each other as he shut the office door behind him. They looked absolutely terrified.
If they only knew, Zimmerman thought.
Not just any bank, he reminded himself. His bank.
* * *
Two hours later, Zimmerman remained on his horse while he watched Poe and Monk unload the canvas money bags from the mule and hand them to the chain of bank clerks who passed them along until they reached Hubbard in the vault. Brunet was already inside, making sure the money did not make any detours along the way. He would stay with them while they counted it and gave Mannes the deposit slip.
Blackfoot stood guard out front with his Winchester across his chest while some of Hard Scrabble’s rougher residents looked on from the boardwalks at all the bags of money being carried into the bank.
When Poe had handed off the last bag of money from the mule, he ambled over to Zimmerman, pulling at the uncomfortable city clothes the gang leader had given him to wear. “Looks like we’re pretty popular with the locals.”
Zimmerman did not bother to give them the satisfaction of looking at them. He could already see their reflections in the bank windows. They looked like vultures waiting for an old stag to die. He knew how to handle vultures.
He would handle them once the money was safely in the vault. Nothing else mattered.
Watching Poe pull on his new clothes was beginning to get on his nerves. “Something else on your mind?”
“I don’t want to sound like I’m complainin’ or nothin’, but how come I hafta go to Helena with Mannes? And how come I’ve gotta dress like this? The shirt itches something awful.”
Zimmerman kept himself from laughing at the outlaw’s unlikely appearance. He had made him trade in his buffalo skin and filthy clothes at Mr. Jappe’s general store for proper work pants and a shirt with buttons on it and a thick woolen coat that came just below his hips. Zimmerman had seen to it that the shapeless thing he had once called a hat had been replaced by a lightly used bowler Jappe had on sale. The store owner had insisted Poe get undressed in the lot behind his store so his clothes could be burned before the lice Poe had living off him infected the rest of his goods.
Zimmerman had allowed Poe to keep his boots as he did not want the outlaw to add blisters to his list of complaints. He had also ordered him to have a bath and a shave, which gave him a more acceptable appearance.
“You’re going because I need someone to go with Mannes to make sure he does what we tell him to do,” Zimmerman explained for the second time. “You’re the least wanted of the rest of us, so you won’t draw much attention. Besides, you know how to read and write, which will come in handy should Mannes try to get cute with anyone he meets with in Helena.”
Back in Silver Cloud, Zimmerman had learned a bitter lesson about sending men into a hostile situation one at a time. Zimmerman knew Poe could be counted on to make sure Mannes stayed in line.
Zimmerman decided to test Poe. “What are the rules on your journey?”
“Never let Mannes out of my sight, not even on the train. When he’s meeting with important people, write down who he’s meeting with. When he gets something signed, I take it from him and keep it on me at all times until I hand it to you at the station next week.”
It was good, but not good enough. “And?”
“And I’m to send you a wire to Wellspring as soon as I have the signed documents, but not before.”
“And what saloon will you be going to tonight before you get the stage to Wellspring?”
“The Hot Pepper Saloon,” Poe told him, “and see a man named Douglas Wycoff. He’ll come here to see you if he’s interested.”
“Excellent!” Zimmerman patted him on the back, causing Poe to cry out.
“Damn it, Ed. I told you this shirt itches like crazy.”
But Zimmerman would not let his man’s discomfort ruin his good mood. “If this plays out the way it should, we’ll all be wearing silk shirts real soon.”
“And my right name ain’t Poe,” the outlaw told him. “It’s Kurtzman.”
Zimmerman reached down and grabbed him by the collar. “You’ll be able to call yourself anything you want if you do your job right.” He pushed the new bowler down hard on the man’s head. “Now go find Mannes and tell him those papers better be ready for me and Hubbard to sign. I want to move the rest of you boys into Battle Brook before nightfall. We’ve got some busy days ahead of us.”
Poe fixed his hat and pointed down the street. “Looks like they’re already here, boss.”
Zimmerman ignored the men looking at him and turned his horse around to see the rest of The Spoilers riding into town.
Good, he thought. Might as well get this over with sooner rather than later.
He heeled the gray into the middle of the street and signaled for his men to remain where they were. They formed a jagged line that filled the width of the thoroughfare.
Zimmerman looked at the gaggle of disheveled men and women who lined every inch of boardwalk around the bank. They were a forgotten lot who called a forgotten town their home. Some were pulling on whiskey bottles, others looked hungover. All of them looked like they needed a bath. They were young and old and every age in between. He was surprised by the number of black men and Chinese in their ranks. Most were bearded. All of them looked like either the whiskey or the elements would kill them before the thaw. None of them looked like they cared.
Zimmerman was about to change all that. He looked each of them in the eye as he said, “As of today, this town is mine. It belongs to me and my men. I own the buildings you’re sleeping in, the places where you buy your whiskey from and where you eat. I own the dirt under your feet, the sky above your heads, and the very air you breathe. We’re going to clean up this place and make it fit for living again. I’m paying for all of that, too, and I’ll pay a good wage to any man, woman, or child who wants it. If you don’t help, you leave. You do what I say and don’t give me any sass, we’ll all get along just fine. Defy me and there’ll be consequences.”
He waited until the last echo of his voice died down before he asked, “I think that’s plain enough to understand. Anyone have any questions?”
To his right, a group of younger men were in front of the saloon. They had been giggling and elbowing each other throughout Zimmerman’s speech. They stifled their laughter as one of them sauntered forward with his hand raised. “Yeah, mister. I’ve got a question.”
Zimmerman drew his .44 from the saddle holster and shot the man in the head. His corpse fell back against his friends, who were no longer laughing. They were covered in their friend’s blood.
This time, it was only The Spoilers who laughed.
Zimmerman kept the .44 in his hand as he looked around at the vagabonds who called this town home. “Any other questions?”
Most of them shook their heads and went back to wherever they were living. Zimmerman holstered his pistol and called out to them as they left. “Some of my men will be coming around with work you’ll need to do. Your cooperation is expected and appreciated.”
He turned his gray around and rode over to Blackfoot.
“Hell of a speech, boss,” the outlaw told him.
“I’ll be setting myself up in the old jail over there. Tell the boys to come see me once they’ve gotten off their horses. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“I’ll bring them with me,” Blackfoot promised.
Zimmerman heeled his horse into an easy gait and rode over toward the old jailhouse. The animal did not seem to mind the blood still in the snow from the man he had shot just after noon.
It had not bothered Zimmerman, either.
Chapter 14
After a breakfast spent in the dining room of The Standard Hotel avoiding Sandborne’s questions about the shoot-out in The Wild Cat Saloon the night before, the two deputy marshals walked over to meet McBride in the jail.
But the change in scenery did not quell Sandborne’s curiosity.
“Guess Ringham’s not as slick as he thinks he is,” Sandborne said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have tipped you off to the two men behind you like he did.”
Halstead had never been one for reliving his kills. The dead were dead and posed no harm to the living. He had never shot a man unless it was out of necessity, save for the one time in El Paso and even that was debatable. Even the jury had sided with him that time.
“You would’ve done the same thing had you been there,” Halstead told him. “A man tries to point a gun at you, your instincts go to work. Not much thought goes into it. At least it shouldn’t. Thinking can get you killed at a time like that.”
“‘Thinking can get you killed,’” Sandborne repeated. “I like that.”
Halstead closed his eyes. “Thinking in that kind of situation, I mean. If you think too much, you might miss or you might not shoot at all.” The entire subject was beginning to annoy him. “It’s always best to not find yourself in that kind of situation in the first place. Having to shoot a man, I mean.”
“Then why didn’t you let me go into the saloon with you to watch your back instead of sending me off with the horses?”
Halstead knew he had him there. “Because I guess I was trying to make a point. To Ringham and to anyone else who was thinking about collecting Zimmerman’s bounty on me.”
“I guess that’s where the thinking part of it comes in,” Sandborne pressed. “Before it happens.”
“Something like that.” Halstead tried to think of something, anything to change the subject. There were plenty of other aspects of being a deputy besides gunning down men. He wanted the younger man to learn that before he got caught up in the violence of the job.
The hammering and sawing of all of the new buildings going up all over town provided a good distraction, and he decided to focus on that. “Looks like this town isn’t done growing.”
“Kind of exciting if you ask me,” Sandborne said. “Guess that’s what happens when they move a town from one place to the other. Get to rename it and everything. Start fresh. Kinda like what they tried to do in Dover Station, only this time I hope it ends a whole lot better.”
Halstead could not believe the things Sandborne said sometimes. “You know, you’ve got a knack for ruining a good mood better than anyone I’ve ever met. Here I am, talking about something nice and you go and bring that up.”
“I’m sorry,” Sandborne said. “Just crossed my mind is all.”
Halstead knew he had not meant it. Besides, Joshua Sandborne made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. “I know you didn’t. I’m just crabby is all.”
“Can’t say as I blame you. The coffee wasn’t very good this morning.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
He stopped walking when he saw a group of people standing outside a building on their side of the street that he remembered as being The Battle Brook Town Hall. He did not recognize any of them, not that he had spent much time getting to know the locals since coming to town.
That was when he remembered Jack McBride had told him about the Town Committee meeting the night before. He had completely forgotten about it, probably because he’d wanted to.
He motioned for Sandborne to stand with him in the doorway of a bakery while they waited to see what would happen next.
They did not have a long wait. Jack McBride walked across the thoroughfare with a ring of keys in his hand. The people out front were complaining about the cold, and he spoke over them. “Hold your horses, everyone. They just put the new lock on last week and I’ve got the only copy. I’ll get you in there in a minute.”
The tall man waded through the crowd and opened the door, holding it open for the men and women who were all too eager to rush inside to avoid the chilly morning.
When the last citizen entered, McBride spotted Halstead and Sandborne in the bakery doorway and beckoned them to come over. “Might as well join us, as they’ll be telling me to fetch you boys sooner or later.”
Halstead and Sandborne walked over to him. “Guess that’s our firing squad, isn’t it?”
McBride shook his head. “Nope. Just the Town Committee I told you about. And judging by their mood after having to wait so long for me to fetch the keys, I’d say they’re not in a cheerful mood.”
This was the part of the job Halstead hated most. The same part Mackey had always hated. The political part. The glad-handing part. Put him up against a saloon full of drunks and he could clear out the troublemakers in no time flat. Put him up in front of a room full of civilians with questions and complaints and he was helpless. The same temperament that helped him scare a man into a cell was the same that crippled him in situations like these.
A lawman could not tell the town elders to simply go to Hell and expect to keep his badge. Mackey had managed to do it in Dover Station, but that was because he had grown up there. He was a favorite son. A hero at that. Halstead knew he would not be able to do that now that he was responsible for an entire territory.
Halstead could not do it here in Battle Brook because, like it or not, he was a representative of the federal government.
He tried one last tactic with McBride. “Guess you couldn’t just tell them you can’t find us.”
McBride shook his head. “Afraid I can’t do that, Jeremiah, but I’m also not responsible for keeping you here. If things get too hot for you in there, my advice is to just leave before you lose that temper of yours. If you jaw at them, they’ll cause you plenty of trouble back in Helena.”
Halstead suddenly found himself wishing he was back in Helena. Or back at the pass dodging bullets. But wishing did not make something so, and, with a deep breath, he walked into the town hall. Sandborne and McBride followed him in.
* * *
Halstead took a seat down front, and Sandborne sat next to him.
He thought it was a nice building as far as town halls went. It was far from the ornate stone and marble monstrosity James Grant had built for himself in Dover Station, and it was not as elegant as the capital building in Helena. It smelled of new pine and fresh paint and lacquer. The five members of the town council sat on a stage that was elevated about four feet off the ground. Most of the chairs in the hall were filled with groups of citizens engaged in their own separate conversations.
A squat, angry looking man with white hair sat in the middle of the five members of the council. Halstead took him to be the mayor or whatever they called the head of the town here in Battle Brook.
He banged his gavel like a judge in a court of law until all the attendees stopped talking.
