Chapter 3: Getting The Point

“So, gentlemen, to echo Julius Caesar’s words, the die is cast. I don’t know any more than the rest of you how this will work out, but we’re committed now.” The speaker was George Wilkinson, chairman of the town council. He was addressing his three fellow councillors and had just concluded his report on the assignment he’d been given at the last meeting, a week earlier.

The town didn’t boast anything as grand as a mayor. Indeed, it had the small council only because of the initiative of Jonas Harper, who owned the hardware store. He did not want formal civic responsibilities himself, but had organised a vote and suggested how many people should be elected. His idea had been received with enthusiasm and the institution was now enjoying its third year of existence, with another election coming soon and few people expecting any of the incumbents to be unseated. So far, all council meetings had been held in the dining room of the chairman’s home.

Wilkinson had been speaking on the topic that had become a serious local issue. For some years, the nearby Circle M ranch, under its elderly and philanthropic bachelor owner, had been a beneficial influence in the town. When the old man died, the spread was inherited by his only living relative, a nephew, who promptly sold it to a group of Bostonians, none of whom even came to see their investment. They’d appointed a foreman named Ray Stockwell, a stranger to the area, and that was when the trouble started.

There had always been a little rowdiness in the town once a month, when the cowboys came to spend their wages, but things had never got out of hand. Barely a week after arriving at the ranch, Stockwell had sacked several of the longer-serving hands and hired replacements more to his liking. He took another step, which had proved extremely unpopular with the townspeople. Instead of restricting his men to their monthly outing, he allowed them to ride in every Saturday evening, and he accompanied them.

Had the cattlemen controlled themselves, as their predecessors had done, their frequent presence would not have caused many raised eyebrows. After all, they put money into the local coffers. However, their conduct became increasingly rowdy and within a short time, they were terrorising the town. No Saturday evening passed without a bunch of them swaggering around drunk, blasting volleys of gunfire into the air and sometimes into buildings. It seemed increasingly likely that sooner or later somebody would get in the way of one of their bullets.

There was no official law enforcement in the town, and until the cowboys started misbehaving, none had been necessary. The nearest lawman was eighty miles away and on being approached had curtly dismissed a request for his intervention. That rebuff had led the council to decide that a less conventional solution was needed. It was then that chairman Wilkinson had been delegated to make contact with Cole Rankin.

It wasn’t an everyday occurrence for a community to employ a town-tamer, so there were not many men in that line of work. From what the council had been able to establish, Cole Rankin was as effective as they came. According to reports picked up by George Wilkinson, Rankin had cleared troublemakers out of at least five towns. Moreover, it seemed that once having agreed to take on a job, he had always carried it out successfully.

The council meeting was dealing with only one item and Wilkinson was coming to the end of his report. “So there you have it,” he said. “I got in touch with Rankin through a middleman who explained our proposal and conveyed the message that we can put up three thousand dollars. Rankin said that’s well below his usual charge for this kind of job, but he claims he once spent a little time in this area, got to like it and is sympathetic to us. I sent word that we were meeting here this evening. He replied that he’d be with us at seven o’clock and it’s almost that now. I understand he has a reputation for punctuality, so I suggest we have a drink and wait.”

The councilmen didn’t get their drink immediately. Wilkinson had just finished speaking when a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Cole Rankin, who was shown into the room by the chairman’s wife. He was about five-nine in height, slim and sallow-faced, with black eyes that gave no indication of what went on behind them. He accepted the invitation to take a seat and after a few introductory words, Wilkinson asked him how he intended to act and what arrangements he expected with regard to payment.

“There’s only one way to do a thing like this,” the town-tamer answered. “Fast and firm. I’ll do what I have to do right away. You pay me as soon as I’ve done it, and you have my word that I’ll hang around for a little while to make sure there’s no comeback.”

George Wilkinson’s investigation had convinced him that Rankin’s word was good with respect to remaining in town to ensure that his work didn’t have adverse repercussions. “Very well, Mr Rankin,” he said. “Now, I asked you to arrive today because it’s Saturday, so you’ll be able to see at once what we’re up against. It’s only shortly after seven and you probably heard the noise coming from Dexter’s saloon, where the cowmen go to get their fill of drink before they start scaring the townsfolk half to death.”

Rankin nodded. “I heard them. Now, your message said that a fellow named Stockwell’s their boss. Where is he?”

“In there with the rest of them.”

“And he’s the one who lets it all happen, right?”

“He’s the worst of them. He provokes the others.”

The town-tamer got to his feet. “Okay. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He sauntered off.

The councillors began muttering to each other, speculating about what Rankin had in mind. They didn’t have to wait long. Being out of earshot of the din emanating from Dexter’s saloon, they were not aware that the place had suddenly fallen silent. Five minutes after he’d left the house, Rankin was back, strolling in as casually as could be. Placing his hands on the back of the chair he had occupied earlier, he said: “Stockwell won’t trouble you any more. He’s dead.”

The councillors stared at Rankin, astounded by his statement. Wilkinson was the first to recover the power of speech. “You mean you just went in there and killed him?”

“That’s right. One head shot. I gave his men five minutes to get out of town if they want to avoid more bloodshed, and I made it clear that they’d better not come back. I pointed out that there’s another little settlement thirty-odd miles west of here where they can go and make a nuisance of themselves. They’re already pulling out. I’ll take my pay now and stay around for a while, but those boys won’t bother you again.”