Read Online the Iron Marshall (1979) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L'amour
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Drako had been marshal. Hence it was possible that this girl was somehow connected with Patterson, or hoped somehow to profit from his arrival in town. Too bad he was leaving for New York. He would like to see what happened.
He got up, paid for his meal and walked down the street to the blacksmith shop. The smith was using the bellows on his fire. "Couple of wheels to be fitted with tires," he commented. "Hank Drako's wagon. He brought it in last week and was mad when I wouldn't fit the tires right off. Now I know Hank. He fords three little streams coming in here, and in one of them he always pulls up in midstream to let his horses drink. So while he's settin' there those tires and wheels are soaking up water. You can't fit a tire unless the wheel is all dried out and I told him he'd have to leave it. He was mighty put out about it." He pointed with his hammer. "There's the wheels. I made the tires. You go ahead and fit them."
Shanaghy took off his coat and shirt and hung them on nails inside the smithy. Then he built a circular fire outside in the yard at a place where such fires had been built before. When he had a small fire going, he laid the tire in it and put some of the burning sticks on top to get a more uniform heat. After a few minutes he tried the iron with a small stick and, after a few more minutes, tried it again. This time the stick slipped easily along the tire as if oiled, and a thin wisp of smoke arose from it.
In the meantime he had placed the wheel to be fitted on a millstone, fitting the hub into the center hole. Putting the tire in position, Shanaghy pried it over the wheel with a tiredog, aided with a few hefty blows from a six-pound sledge. The tire went into place, the wood smoking from the heat of the iron tire, the wood of the wheel cracking and groaning as the tire contracted. The smith had a rack with a trough in which the wheel could be turned until the tire could be contracted to a tight fit. The cool water in the trough sloshed as he turned. Shanaghy was busy with the second wheel when he heard a horseman ride up. He worked on, conscious of scrutiny, and when he finished driving the tire into place he added a few taps for good measure and then turned. A thin, stoop-shouldered man with a drooping mustache sat on a buckskin horse, watching him. The man wore an old blue shirt, homespun pants tucked into boots, and a six-shooter. He also carried a rifle in his hands. His hat was narrow-brimmed and battered.
"Ain't seen you before," he said.
"Good reason for it."
"What's that?" The man sat up a little, not liking Shanaghy's tone.
"I haven't been here before."
The man stared at him and Shanaghy went on about his work. He had some strap-hinges to make, and he went about it.
"You the pilgrim had the run-in with my son?"
Shanaghy looked up. He was aware that the smith was watching. So were a couple of men on the boardwalk across the street.
"If that was your son," Shanaghy suggested, "you'd better advise him not to try to take in too much territory. I was minding my own affairs." "My son's my deputy. So was the man you shot."
"Deputy? You need deputies to handle a town this size?" Shanaghy straightened up from the anvil. "A man who couldn't handle a town this size by himself must be pretty small potatoes."
"What's that?" Drako reined his horse around threateningly. "You sayin' I don't amount to much?"
"Mister," Shanaghy said, "if I couldn't handle a town this size without deputies, I'd quit. Also, if I were you I'd advise your son that hanging a man without a trial is murder, no matter who does it." Shanaghy thought he had Drako pegged, yet he knew he was taking a chance. For that he was prepared. Since childhood he had been facing boys and men, some of whom were tough, some who just believed they were. He did not like this Drako any more than he had liked his arrogant son, but it had never been his way to dodge a fight. He had discovered long since that such men accept dodging as
He got up, paid for his meal and walked down the street to the blacksmith shop. The smith was using the bellows on his fire. "Couple of wheels to be fitted with tires," he commented. "Hank Drako's wagon. He brought it in last week and was mad when I wouldn't fit the tires right off. Now I know Hank. He fords three little streams coming in here, and in one of them he always pulls up in midstream to let his horses drink. So while he's settin' there those tires and wheels are soaking up water. You can't fit a tire unless the wheel is all dried out and I told him he'd have to leave it. He was mighty put out about it." He pointed with his hammer. "There's the wheels. I made the tires. You go ahead and fit them."
Shanaghy took off his coat and shirt and hung them on nails inside the smithy. Then he built a circular fire outside in the yard at a place where such fires had been built before. When he had a small fire going, he laid the tire in it and put some of the burning sticks on top to get a more uniform heat. After a few minutes he tried the iron with a small stick and, after a few more minutes, tried it again. This time the stick slipped easily along the tire as if oiled, and a thin wisp of smoke arose from it.
In the meantime he had placed the wheel to be fitted on a millstone, fitting the hub into the center hole. Putting the tire in position, Shanaghy pried it over the wheel with a tiredog, aided with a few hefty blows from a six-pound sledge. The tire went into place, the wood smoking from the heat of the iron tire, the wood of the wheel cracking and groaning as the tire contracted. The smith had a rack with a trough in which the wheel could be turned until the tire could be contracted to a tight fit. The cool water in the trough sloshed as he turned. Shanaghy was busy with the second wheel when he heard a horseman ride up. He worked on, conscious of scrutiny, and when he finished driving the tire into place he added a few taps for good measure and then turned. A thin, stoop-shouldered man with a drooping mustache sat on a buckskin horse, watching him. The man wore an old blue shirt, homespun pants tucked into boots, and a six-shooter. He also carried a rifle in his hands. His hat was narrow-brimmed and battered.
"Ain't seen you before," he said.
"Good reason for it."
"What's that?" The man sat up a little, not liking Shanaghy's tone.
"I haven't been here before."
The man stared at him and Shanaghy went on about his work. He had some strap-hinges to make, and he went about it.
"You the pilgrim had the run-in with my son?"
Shanaghy looked up. He was aware that the smith was watching. So were a couple of men on the boardwalk across the street.
"If that was your son," Shanaghy suggested, "you'd better advise him not to try to take in too much territory. I was minding my own affairs." "My son's my deputy. So was the man you shot."
"Deputy? You need deputies to handle a town this size?" Shanaghy straightened up from the anvil. "A man who couldn't handle a town this size by himself must be pretty small potatoes."
"What's that?" Drako reined his horse around threateningly. "You sayin' I don't amount to much?"
"Mister," Shanaghy said, "if I couldn't handle a town this size without deputies, I'd quit. Also, if I were you I'd advise your son that hanging a man without a trial is murder, no matter who does it." Shanaghy thought he had Drako pegged, yet he knew he was taking a chance. For that he was prepared. Since childhood he had been facing boys and men, some of whom were tough, some who just believed they were. He did not like this Drako any more than he had liked his arrogant son, but it had never been his way to dodge a fight. He had discovered long since that such men accept dodging as
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