Murder in Dogleg City by Ford Fargo

already started on the day’s
ration of whiskey—and, by his own reckoning, that auspicious moment
was not far off—but no, it was just Samuel Horace Gardner and his
bum limb. He had to admit, it was more of a conversationalist—and
certainly listened better—than a good deal of the people he had to
deal with in this town.
    He stretched back in his chair,
reaching into the corner, behind the coat-rack. He pulled out his
new walking stick. It was made of fine mahogany, expertly
crafted—and at the head, the best part of all. It was carved into
the shape of a wolf. The bottom was capped with heavy steel, to
protect it from wear as he tapped his way along the boardwalks,
and, more importantly, to give it sufficient heft when he swung it
through the air and used it to crack the skull of some
ne’er-do-well or other. As he was certain he would, and probably
before the week was out. He might even have the opportunity to
whack a miscreant or two—he smiled again at his little joke to the
annoying Frenchie a couple of hours earlier, and of how he had used
the pretense of not knowing how to pronounce the man’s name as a
way to take him down a peg in the eyes of Seamus. He wished he had
thought to make the same joke to Hébert, and ruffle his feathers a
bit more. The marshal hated being taken for an idiot.
    He held it in his hands, once more
admiring the workmanship and feeling the balance of it. The marshal
had commissioned this fine tool soon after he had been shot by the
Danby Gang, from Joseph Nash—the carpenter whose shop was near
Doctor Munro’s. The man was a virtual magician with saw and lathe.
Nash was very unprepossessing, and seemed to be interested only in
the items he crafted in his shop, but he had a secret—one which he
divulged to Sam some months ago, no doubt because he respected the
marshal’s wartime reputation.
    Joseph Nash, the quiet, shy carpenter,
had been a sergeant in an Indiana infantry regiment, and had won
the Medal of Honor. It seems he had braved enemy fire to pull
several of his comrades to safety, receiving multiple wounds in the
process. He swore the marshal to secrecy, for he did not want
townsfolk crowding around him asking for details—but he wanted to
tell someone, and he had chosen the one person in town that would
both understand the fog of combat and who could resist the urge to
engage in hero-worship. After all, the marshal had to admit,
everyone knows that Sam Gardner can idolize only one person at a
time—either a lady he is trying to woo or, more often,
himself.
    Sam had initially planned to send off
for a walking stick, thinking of perhaps a silver-tip or a
concealed sword, but had decided to send the business to Nash. It
was the least he could do; despite his self-confessed vanity, Sam
Gardner believed that Joseph Nash was a greater hero than he.
Besides, he liked to give his business to good Union men, wherever
possible.
    Sam imagined he would have
to use the stick with his left hand, keeping his main droit free for a
fast draw if necessary. The staff—that word sounded so much better
than cane —would
also give him considerably more reach than his long-barreled Colt,
for subduing miscreants. He took a few practice whacks through the
air to get a feel for it.
    The office door opened, and his new
deputy Seamus O’Connor stepped in. Sam realized, with a bit of a
start, that he was going to have to stop thinking of Quint as the
“new deputy” now, and advance him to the rank of “veteran” in his
mind. It was a sad thought. Quint was a very capable young man, if
a bit of a bore, but he was not quite the veteran that Fred Garvey
had been. Sam burned with anger when he thought about the Danbys
and their rampage through his town, and the loss of a man who was
the closest thing he’d had in years to a friend—and the fire blazed
hotter still at the knowledge that Sam had been left too wounded to
ride after the bastards and bring them to justice. These thoughts
inspired