First Night on the Job
by RLB Hartmann

"I don't think you'll have any trouble." Sheriff Mitchell picked up his saddlebags from his desk. "But if you do, you know how to use that Colt."

"Yes, sir." The weight of the loaded forty-five against Morgan's thigh filled him with assurance. He'd been practicing with it for months.

Dan, Morgan's brother and Mitchell's only deputy, leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Don't shoot any peaceful citizens while we're gone."

"Aw, get outta here." Morgan struck the doorpost near his head with a wadded-up wanted poster, and they departed, laughing.

He stood on the plank walk, watching them swing into their saddles and lope leisurely out the east road. A buckboard delivering goods from the mercantile left an erratic trail along the wide, dusty street. Cane-bottom chairs in front of the barber shop stood empty under the noon sun.

"Sheriff's left you in charge awhile, has he?"

Morgan jumped at the words, unexpected behind him. He turned to face a wizened man dressed in a faded blue shirt with ragged sleeves, stained brown vest and trousers, and boots that must leak during the rainy season.

Greasy Tanner, a fixture in Indianbush, liked his whiskey; so Morgan neglected to tell him that Mitchell and Dan had gone to Mason and wouldn't be back for two days. No need for everybody to know he was holding the fort alone for the first time. Some of his friends weren't above playing jokes.

"Yeah," Morgan said. "I'm in charge."

"Quiet around town now," Greasy observed. "But, when I first come out here—"

Morgan had heard all the stories before. He started sidling away, saying, "I promised Ellen I'd join her for dinner."

Greasy called after him, "You two plannin' on marryin'?"

"I'm going to ask her the minute I'm on regular salary."

"Do a good job," Greasy advised, spitting tobacco juice into the street, "and Sheriff'll sign you on for sure."

Morgan hoped so. He was twenty-two, and law enforcement was more to his liking than riding herd on longhorns. Only one incident had marred the peace since Mitchell and a score of deputies cleaned out Kimble County ten years ago. Dan, he remembered, had wounded and captured an army deserter who went to prison for burning a sheepherder's tent and killing the man's wife and child. These musings were diverted by a cheery greeting.

Ellen came toward him, lovely in a flowered cotton dress. "Mister Jennings gave me an hour off." She kept the ledgers at the First Cattlemen's Bank, but Morgan knew she wanted to change her line of work. He wanted to change it, too, but first he must assure his own future.

He drew her into the shelter of the church doorway and kissed her. "I thought we'd lunch at Cora's. Mitchell gave me a little advance."

"Cora's for supper. I packed a picnic for lunch."

They spread their tablecloth under shade trees in the front yard of the Lawson place. Almost within calling distance of the court house, it was up for sale. Soon as Mitchell put him on payroll, he planned to buy it.

"Fried chicken, baked potato, biscuits, and chocolate cake for dessert." Ellen handed him a napkin. "All your favorites."

After they'd eaten, they strolled through the two-story house hand in hand. "Plenty of room for a piano," she commented. "And children?" he asked, his proposal hovering unspoken. He'd vowed not to ask until he could support a wife. She hugged him, and he breathed in the fragrance of her freshly-washed hair.

When he returned to the sheriff's office, he paused on the threshold to look around with satisfaction. Mitchell had left all his paperwork neatly filed away in the desk drawers. A railroad spike weighted down a thin sheaf of wanted posters. The single cell door stood open, the ring of keys hung on a nail behind the potbellied stove. He knew their routine inside out, from following Dan on the nightly rounds.

He killed an hour reading the statute book, but on top of his meal with Ellen, that activity made his eyelids grow heavy. Jumping up, he put on his hat and went out to visit the merchants along main street. Talk of crops, cattle, business, and a checker game lasting half a dozen sets took up his afternoon.

"Are you bored?" Ellen asked over supper at Cora's Cafe.

"Without Dan in the office to chew me out about something every minute, it's pretty dull," he admitted. Mitchell never gave him a hard time, but the corners of the older man's mouth often twitched in silent amusement, like he might be remembering Dan's youthful mishaps.

"Want me to come over and keep you company?"

"Better not." The offer was tempting, but reputation in a small town like Indianbush was something to be guarded. He walked her the long way home, leaving her on the porch after a few hungry kisses. "Good night," he whispered. He suspected at least three of her eight brothers and sisters peeked at them from between the curtains.

Returning to the office, he checked doors along the way, to be sure each merchant had remembered to lock up for the night. Some of them were careless about that. The saloon was open. Out of habit, he glanced over the bat wings. Since the gun ordinance had been put into effect, only lawmen were permitted to wear firearms, so differences of opinion were settled by arm wrestling or a trip to court. No one had started a brawl for as long as Morgan could remember.

A face at the Catamount bar made him take a step back for a second look. He couldn't recall where he'd seen this one, a dark haired, lean-jawed man whose name he didn't know.

A stranger, but a familiar one. It puzzled him. Was he a rancher from neighboring Iron Hill? Menardville? Mason? He had an unsavory aspect which Morgan distrusted. The eyes were no more narrowed than those of waddies used to working in the elements. The skin was no more scarred than several unfortunate pockmarked—but law-abiding—townfolk. The hunched shoulders showed no more ill temper than did Greasy Tanner's when no one would buy him a drink.

What, then? That uncanny feeling of having seen the man in questionable circumstances. And a pallor uncommon even to bankers and merchants whose indoor work left them unburned by wind and sun. "Prison," he decided.

"Evenin,' Deputy."

He whirled, his hand falling to the butt of his Colt.

"Got the jitters?"

Two of the Rocking W riders stepped past him on the walk, on their way in for refreshment. The doors swung together and he heard one of them give a short laugh. It stung him. They thought he was a scared young fool who couldn't handle the job.

Hurrying back to the jail, he dug deep into a bottom desk drawer and brought out a handful of posters. Yellowed with age, most were voided, the men caught and sent up—or hanged—years ago. Then the sketch of a face halted his search.

Familiar. A stranger. The man at the Catamount bar. 'Roy Hardin, alias Rance Booker, alias Thomas North,' stated the faded, uneven print.

This was the man convicted of murdering the sheepherder's family. The man sent to prison by Morgan's older brother. "He's escaped!" Morgan cried softly. "He's here to get Dan!" The realization set his teeth to chattering. A good thing Dan was out of town. He might have been ambushed by now.

Morgan had to do something. But what? If he waltzed into the Catamount with his .45 drawn, the man might panic and shoot him. Or some innocent customer. Going in with the gun holstered could be even more dangerous. He favored Dan enough to be mistaken for him, by someone who hadn't seen either of them for ten years. He needed help. Who could he count on? No one came to mind. Cowhands were expert with rope and branding iron, not pistols.

He took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and cleared his throat as if preparing to give a speech. His teeth were clenched so hard his head hurt. "Loose," he muttered. "Gotta be loose." He did a few practice swipes with the gun, his fingers cold and stiff. Then he tied the holster tighter, leaving the leather hammer thong unfastened. He pinned the deputy's badge to the inside of his vest. No need to announce his authority with a target like that.

When he pushed open the saloon doors, the stranger was gone. Morgan blinked in the dim light. Had he been mistaken? "Give me a beer, George," he said, tossing a coin to the bar tender. Greasy Tanner appeared at his elbow. "I'm not buying a bottle," Morgan told him. "Just a beer."

Greasy made an impatient sound. "Not after a handout. Thought I'd better warn you—Roy Hardin is in town."

Then he wasn't seeing things. "I know. What do you think I should do?"

"Get on the telegraph. Find out if he's been pardoned."

Kicking himself for not thinking of that, Morgan left his beer and went to the telegraph office. If Hardin was free legally, there was no need for immediate action. All he had to do was warn Dan with a telegram to Mason. Forty-five minutes passed before he got his answer : 'Roy Hardin broke out last week. Armed and dangerous.'

"Oh, Lord," he groaned. "Where could he be now?"

Greasy scratched his frowzy head. "If he's lookin' for Dan, he might go out to the Flannagan."

That was the boarding house where Morgan and his brother lived. "If he hasn't found out Dan's not here."

"Who knowed that for sure but you and me?"

"Nobody. So he'll think Dan's still in town."

"You better find him, 'fore he finds you." Greasy squinted at him. "You sure as hell look a lot like Dan."

"Don't remind me."

He could hear his own heartbeat over the sound of barroom piano music as they walked up the alley toward the Flannagan. He checked the ponies at the hitching rails. As far as he could see, up and down the streets beneath flickering gaslights, he knew them all, several by name. "Where could he have gone?"

"You can bet he ain't left. Not with a grudge to settle."

Morgan halted so abruptly that Greasy bumped into him. "Why don't you go back to the Catamount? I can handle this all right."

"You crazy, or somethin'? You never shot at a man in your life. Rabbit huntin' ain't nothing like it. Why, when I was in—"

"Shhh!" He gripped the old man's bony arm. But it was only the restless stamp of a cowpony's hoof.

At the Flannagan, he peered through a window at the lighted kitchen, where Josie was clearing away after the boarders' meal. Rapping on the doorpost, he went inside. "Jo, has anyone been here looking for Dan?"

"No, but he wasn't here for supper."

"If a stranger comes asking about him, let me know."

"Oh, there's a stranger here now. He's in the parlor, with Ellen."

"Ellen!" he cried. "By heaven, what's she doing here?"

Josie's lips pouted at his brusque words. "Visiting me, of course. But she answered his knock, and now they're getting acquainted." She grinned, teasing, "Are you jealous? I still love you."

Ignoring her statement, though he knew it was more true than not, he ruffled his hair in exasperation. "Go get her out of there." He grabbed her arm above the elbow and launched her toward the door. "But don't make him suspicious."

She flounced away, rubbing her arm where his grasp had hurt.

When the girls returned, he said, "You and Josie stay in the kitchen until I come back."

"Why?" they both demanded together. Josie added, "What's going—" but Morgan didn't hear the rest.

Circling the Flannagan, he saw the man's horse tied to the porch post. Edging up to a window, he could see two elderly gents dozing by the stove, which was unfired at this time of year and bore a pot of geraniums. Mrs. Flannagan herself sat in her rocker with her lap full of quilting. The stranger was no longer in the parlor.

Hurriedly tiptoeing across the porch, he drew his .45 and opened the front screen, laying one finger to his lips to shush the widow Flannagan's startled questions. In spite of his care, the stairs creaked under his weight, and the thrumming of his heart in his ears sounded loud enough to alert an enemy to his approach.

He checked Dan's room, and the other three bedrooms upstairs, and found nothing amiss. He checked all the rooms downstairs. Nothing. When he went through the dining room, then the kitchen, the girls sitting at the table solemnly watched him without speaking.

Stepping into the dark night, he wondered where Greasy had gone. "Damned old idiot," he muttered. "Liable to get himself shot, wandering around out here."

Eyes searched the back yard, ears strained to hear the clop of hooves in the street. He leaned against the rough boards of the privy and detected the scrape of a boot on the floor. Flinging open the door, he jammed his pistol barrel into a soft stomach, and nearly wet his trousers when Greasy cried, "Don't shoot!"

Fumbling with his clothes, the old man stepped out, peevish. "Can't have a minute's privacy anywhere these days." In a whisper, he added, "I think he's in the barn."

"Go in the house," Morgan said quietly. "No argument."

Greasy Tanner obeyed, leaving him to walk the short distance alone. The wide barn door hung ajar. Hardin had to be inside, in the dark, waiting for Dan to come home and stable his horse.

Morgan knew if he stormed the place, he was likely to take a slug. He wondered whether Ellen would marry Jeff Sigmon if he ended up with a bullet hole or two in his gut.

Standing well back, he decided to ask for a surrender. "You there—in the barn. You are trespassing. Come out peaceable."

No answer. If he let this man get away, there'd be no promotion, and he'd never hear the end of it. And those were the least serious consequences. "I said, come out. With your hands over your head."

There was a sudden almost simultaneous report-whine-thud, and a bullet implanted itself in the corner of the privy about a foot over his head. From the house came girls' excited chatter. "Keep away from the window!" he ordered, and sprinted zig-zag across the back yard. Gripping the Colt, he dived through the doorway, scraping his arm, banging his knees, kicking up dirt with his boot heels.

Resting against the front wall, he made himself breathe slowly, softly. In the darkness, sounds were magnified.

"You took your sweet time finding me, Danny."

"I'm not Dan," he said. "You better throw out your gun."

The man laughed. "I'll throw lead—your way, Dan. You can't fool me. I know your voice."

Another slug splintered the wall above him. He clamped his teeth tight and, crouching, cat-walked toward the first stall partition. He had often stabled Dan's horse and knew the layout. From the position of Hardin's voice, and the pistol shots, the outlaw must be hiding there, inches away.

Holding his breath, Morgan lay down on his back, prone along the base of the stall, and felt the boards with his free hand. No room between them to stick a gun barrel through. He didn't dare stand up and shoot blindly. If he was wrong, a move like that would draw the man's fire.

Muscles tense, arms steadied against his ribs and holding the gun in both hands, he pointed it toward the rafters. He pulled back the hammer. The click was loud. A silent shadow leaped up, towering over him. He squeezed the trigger.

A flash of light, the blast of two pistols, the Colt's recoil, an engulfing mist of smoke and black powder—and Hardin tumbled over the stall and sprawled on top of him. He scrambled from under the limber body, losing the Colt, bruising his shoulder on a plowshare.

Shaken, he located his gun, managed to reholster it, and walked outside. Three torches carried by men coming toward him. Screaming in the house. "Ellen—?" he asked, fearing she might have been hit.

"Josie," explained one of the men. "She's just upset." The men went on toward the barn, their lights casting his shadow ahead of him as he hurried to the house.

Entering the kitchen, he was nearly knocked off his feet by arms thrown around his neck. "Morgan! Thank God!" Josie sobbed against his chest. Knowing how emotional his future sister-in-law could be, he looked over her head at his sweetheart, who stood pale and straight, but smiling. In proving himself tonight, he knew he'd earned Dan's gratitude and Mitchell's trust, and the promotion that he'd been waiting for.

He asked, "Ellen, will you marry me?"

"Of course," she answered. "Deputy."