Chapter 12: Tension At Silver Dunes

One minute to noon. Mark Fairburn set down his pen and shoved his chair back from the desk over which he’d been bent for two hours. He hauled his lanky hundred and seventy pound frame up to its full six-foot-one, stretched his arms high and wide to uncramp his shoulders, then looked down at the report he’d been writing. A further short session in the afternoon would see it finished.

Fifty yards down the street, Ma Collins would be expecting Fairburn to turn up for the beef stew he invariably ate around midday. The elderly Irish widow didn’t offer much variety in her cooking but what she provided was good and the portions were substantial.

Rounding the desk, Fairburn took his hat from its peg. Before leaving, he paused for five minutes to take stock of his situation. At just turned thirty-two, he’d been marshal of the small New Mexico town of Silver Dunes for three and a half years. When he was appointed by the council, some townspeople took the view that a man of his age could hardly be mature enough for the job. In fact he had done it well. The only controversial step he’d taken was to ban the carrying of handguns in town. Several visiting cowpokes had shown some resistance, but after Fairburn had lectured and disarmed one of them, the rest had fallen into line.

In addition to being respected for doing his work satisfactorily, Mark Fairburn was well liked in the town because he frequently entertained people, especially the children, with his repertoire of conjuring tricks and associated feats, performed on festive occasions.

Apart from initially enforcing the firearm ordinance, the young marshal had had very little trouble. His modest pay reflected the generally light duties. Normally the most onerous task he faced was using his one-cell jail to accommodate the odd Saturday night drunk. He concluded that, all things considered, he was well pleased with his largely uneventful life. But it is sometimes tempting providence to entertain such thoughts. As he moved to the door, Fairburn heard feet pounding on the sidewalk and a moment later the hardware storekeeper, Edgar Simms arrived, red-faced and breathless. “Oh, Mark,” he gasped, “I’m sure glad you’re here.”

Fairburn’s eyes widened. “You seem excited, Edgar. What’s up?”

“Well, you know that I usually call in at Al’s saloon on the way home for my noon meal? Just one beer.”

“I guess everybody knows that. And as for the beer, you’re probably the only one who’s counting. Anyway, you didn’t come here in such a rush to report that, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I came to tell you that there’s trouble brewing.”

“In what way?”

“Three strangers in there, father and two sons from they way they talk. They’re all wearing sixguns and they keep making nasty remarks about the town and the saloon. One of them just said something about livening the place up with a little hot lead.”

“All right, Edgar. I’ll look into it.”

“Be careful, Mark. Do you want any help from me?” Simms’ manner and tone suggested that he was hoping for a negative answer.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m the one who gets paid to deal with things like this. You’d better get on home and I’ll let you know what happens.”

Simms needed no second bidding to go about his business. Fairburn picked up his gun belt, strapped it on, checked his forty-five and walked out. His office was at one corner of the main thoroughfare and the side street where Al Glover’s place was located. On sighting the saloon, he stood rubbing his chin for two minutes. He was trying to devise a way of doing his duty without getting killed. He crossed the street, stepped up onto the sidewalk and peered over the swing doors. Glover was in his usual rest position, sitting on a stool behind the east end of the bar. There were no drinkers other than the three newcomers, who were lined up along the bar at the west end.

Moving to the right side of the doors, Fairburn waved an arm, trying to attract Glover’s attention. That didn’t take long because the saloonkeeper was constantly on the lookout, hoping that someone would turn up.

Fairburn put a forefinger to his lips in the hush signal, then drew away along the wall, trying to decide what to do. He considered walking in upon the three men with his gun drawn but rejected the idea. They might be reckless enough ignore his advantage and start shooting. Creeping in surreptitiously was impossible because Al Glover hadn’t oiled his door hinges for years and they emitted loud squeaks when anyone entered or left the place. There was the further factor that one of the visitors was facing the end of the backbar mirror and kept glancing into it.

One way or another, Fairburn would have to confront the three men, but he needed an edge of some kind. It took him a few minutes to come up with an idea. He didn’t have much confidence in it, but it was the best he could think of. From time to time, the townsfolk cleared the streets and when they did that, stones were often swept under the sidewalks. Fairburn quickly found a fist-sized one. He stepped back onto the sidewalk, again attracted Glover’s attention. Peeping over the doors once more, he waited until the man in line with the mirror wasn’t looking at it.