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

from around here?"
    Shanaghy shrugged. "Who is? This is a new town, mister. Everybody here is from somewhere else. Like you ... Where do you come from?" George threw him a sharp, hard look. "I thought that was a question that wasn't asked out here."
    "You asked me."
    "Ah? So I did. Well, I'm from Natchez, on the Mississippi." "Gambling town," Shanaghy commented. "At least Natchez-Under-the-Hill is. They tell me there are a lot of shysters and con men around there ... and more crooked gamblers than anywhere."
    George's eyes took on a hard, ugly look. "It seems to me you know a good deal about Natchez. You've been there?"
    "Heard about it."
    "You hear too much."
    Shanaghy suddenly felt good. He did not know why he felt so good, but he did. Maybe it was the prospect of a fight, or maybe it was because he simply did not like George.
    He looked at George, and he smiled.
    Angered, George turned sharply away, yet he had not taken two steps before Shanaghy spoke.
    Why he said what he did he would never know. It would have been wiser to let well enough alone, yet the words came out uncalled for. "Really doesn't make much difference whether Rig comes or not," he said.
    "Everything's ready."

    Chapter Six.
    George stopped so abruptly it was a wonder he didn't fall on his face. He turned slowly and for a moment they stared at each other. George, Shanaghy reflected, did not like him. He didn't like him at all. Yet George's tone was even. "Who was that you mentioned? Rig, did you say?" "Rig Barrett," Shanaghy said, "a careful man. Leaves nothing to chance." He didn't know what he was talking about, but he didn't like George any better than the gambler, or whatever he was, liked him, and he spoke merely to irritate him. Yet there was more, for the townspeople were worried about Vince Patterson and George, he knew, was somehow connected with all that might happen. Most of the people he had known made crime a profession, and there were many such around the Bowery, the Five Points and lower Broadway. Many believed all honest men to be stupid, and usually were overly optimistic about their own plans, believing they couldn't fail. Nor did they ever seem to realize they were risking their lives or, at the very least, several years of their lives against sums of money that could in no way pay for the time they were losing or the pleasures they would be missing.
    The man called George was such a one, sure that he was much smarter than those with whom he dealt. And even when he was being used, he would be certain he was using them. But who was the girl? What was her part in all this? "Rig Barrett? I don't believe I know him." George's left hand unbuttoned his coat. "Is he from around here?"
    "Figured you knew him," Shanaghy replied blandly. "Everybody's talking about him. Folks seem to be expecting trouble when the cattle come up the trail, and they're figuring on Rig to handle it. If he gets here, that is. Personally, I think he's just keeping out of sight until the right moment, as he's not the kind of man to let people down."
    George shrugged and turned away. "Sometimes a man can't help it," he suggested. Shanaghy picked up his hammer again and went to the forge. He looked at the iron heating there. He put down the hammer, took the tongs and lifted the iron from the fire.
    "A man like that," he said, "if he couldn't make it, would surely send somebody in his place."
    George walked away, ignoring him, and Shanaghy chuckled, continuing with his work. He was punching holes in a hinge when a man came from across the street and stopped in the door.
    "Where's Carpenter?"
    "Carpenter?"
    "The smith."
    "Oh? I didn't know his name. Just called him Smith." The man nodded. "Many do. Where is he?" He stepped forward, holding out his hand. "I'm Holstrum."
    Shanaghy held up his. It was black with soot. "Sorry. I'm Tom Shanaghy. I've just been lending a hand here for a few hours." "Glad to have you. We need good men."
    "Drako still the marshal?"
    "He is."
    "Best