Free the Iron Marshall (1979) by Louis L'amour Page A

is heated too much it becomes brittle and it will break, while iron has great strength, boy. Yet it can be shaped and changed by the proper hammering and the right amount of heat. A good man is like that." What had Rig Barrett been like?
    Shanaghy took a punch and made holes in a hinge, thinking about Barrett. The smith stopped, straightening up and putting a hand across the small of his back. "This man Barrett," Shanaghy said. "Tell me about him." The smith hesitated, thinking about it. "A small man," he said. "He rode with the Texas Rangers during the war with Mexico. Fought Comanches, drove a team over the Santa Fe Trail. As a boy, they tell me, he drove turkeys or pigs to market back east-drives that would go for more'n a hundred miles. "He's been over the trail a time or two and folks know him. They know he's an honest man who will stand for no nonsense. We figured if anybody could make Vince Patterson see the light, why, he was it." The smith glanced at him. "You're a good hand. Why don't you stay? What's back in New York that makes it so important?"
    "New York? Hell, man, that's my town! I ... " Shanaghy's voice trailed off. Who was he fooling? New York was not his town. Chances were, by now they'd forgotten all about him. In a country town like this if a man turned up missing, like Rig Barrett, for example, he left quite a hole. Back in New York, if one Irish slugger stepped out of line or got lost, somebody else stepped right into his place and nobody even remembered. McCarthy might remember. Morrissey might even give him a thought.
    "See here," the smith said suddenly. "You're a good man. If you didn't want to work for me, I could sell you a half-interest." Shanaghy smiled. "I think not, I'd not make light of your town, Smith, but I am a city man. I like the lights and the bustle. Besides, if this Vince Patterson is all you say he is, your town may not be here much longer. That man who was talking to that young woman ... I heard part of something this morning ... I got the impression he didn't expect Rig to ever get here." The smith had turned back to the forge, but now he turned sharply around.
    "What's that mean?"
    "Well," Shanaghy replied lamely, "I can't really say. Maybe they were talking about somebody else, but I got the idea they were talking about Rig. I also got the idea that steps had been taken to see that he never got here." The smith took off his apron. "You stay right here, Shanaghy. I've got to see a man."
    The smith left, almost running.
    "Now what the hell have you done?" Shanaghy asked himself. "You and your big mouth. You don't know anything, you're just surmising. And why should they care, anyway?"
    The fact remained that they did care. Whatever that girl had in mind she cared a lot, and so had the man with her. They had not wanted Rig Barrett to be around when Vince Patterson reached town. Shanaghy took out his big silver watch. It was still hours until train time.
    Well, this was the town's problem, if it could be called a town. He took up another set of hinges and placed them on the pile, then started all over again. He liked the feel of the hammer in his hand, checking the heat of the iron on which he worked by the color.
    He walked to the door and looked up and down the street. There were two buggies and a wagon standing at the hitching-rails. Several horses, saddled, were tied along the street, usual, he supposed, for this time of day. Suddenly the man called George appeared on the street. He glanced up and down, then strolled slowly along, lingering here and there as if to see into the various stores. When he reached the blacksmith shop he paused and taking a thin cigar from his pocket, he lighted it, glancing at Shanaghy. "Where's the smith?" he asked.
    "Around."
    "Back soon?"
    "Soon. Can I do something for you?"
    George smiled. His teeth were white, his smile pleasant. Yet only the lips smiled. The eyes were cool, calculating. "I didn't know the smith had a helper." "Occasionally."
    "You