A Knife in the Heart. William W. Johnstone
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for these guards, most of them no better, often a whole lot worse, than the men they’re keeping out of society. But there’s that one thing you haven’t been able to shake. Human decency. You thought you had lost it, but it comes back to haunt you. So you help the guards. Save their lives. And when the riot is over, the governor issues you a parole.
Up to Chicago, you’re told, room in a boardinghouse, work for a wheelwright—what the hell do you know about that?—and make sure you never break the terms of your parole, because if you do, they’ll ship your bruised hide back to Joliet to serve the rest of your sentence—ten years or so—in full.
But when the hack takes you to see Lake Michigan—just because you’re a partially free man and might as well do something free people can do—you’re hijacked by a hood who you arrested before, a hood called Aaron Holderman who now is an employee of the American Detective Agency, headquartered in Chicago, rival of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.
And that’s where Sean MacGregor, a little red-headed Scot who likes smoking bad cigars and intimidating everyone, tells you a story. He knows who killed your wife and child, and he’ll help you get revenge, or justice, but only if you help him out first. It’s just a little assignment. Go to Arizona Territory—fear not, the warden and his associates at Joliet will get nothing but positive reports on your progress as a parolee—get arrested, get sentenced to the territorial pen, make friends with a brutal felon who happened to steal a fortune and cached it somewhere south in Mexico. Break out of Yuma with the cold-blooded killer. Find the stolen loot, recapture or kill Monk Quinn, and let the American Detective Agency reap the glory.
You do your job. Mostly. Survive the hellhole that is Yuma. Break out of the joint. Travel to Mexico with a hard lot of hardened criminals. And wind up back in Chicago, only somehow—because you have a sense of poetic justice—you let the Pinkertons reap the glory of returning Quinn’s fortune to its rightful owners.
MacGregor gives you another assignment, and this one is tougher than Yuma. You wind up at the Missouri state pen, more than forty acres covered in blood, and discover the perfect murder-for-hire scheme. The warden and some associates have prisoners who they’ll let slip out to kill someone. Hey, who would ever suspect a man behind bars of killing people outside of the prison? And one of the men, now deranged, you realize is the hired killer who murdered your wife and daughter. But when that assignment is over, another riot has helped in the justice department, and all of the principles are dead. Including the Mole, the man who killed Rachel and Renee, but the man who also saved your life.
But there’s one more job you need to do. One more payoff Sean MacGregor owes you. The Mole did the murder. But someone hired the Jefferson City swine to see that murder done. And that takes you to Huntsville, the “Walls,” as nasty as a prison as you’d dream in your worst nightmare.
Inside the Walls, you learn another system, you deal with the leader of the inmates, the notorious John Wesley Hardin, and then you learn about another prison scheme. They send you to one of the farms that lease prisoners from the state to do labor. Cheap labor. And in this case, under the direction of a Confederate sympathizer, who, decades after the Rebellion, wants to start a new war, form a new Confederacy, and is using convicts to help him create an arsenal and an army.
This time, though, the American Detective Agency has given you some help. MacGregor’s son, Dan, is part of the operation. So is a female operative named Christina Whitney. She’ll be posing as your wife. And Aaron Holderman has been hired as a Huntsville guard, not that you can trust Holderman.
But you survive this one, too. And you see the fiend who betrayed you, who let you read law with him, who loved your wife and wanted her for his own—and when he couldn’t have her, he had your beautiful family killed.
You get more revenge, too. You see Sean MacGregor and Aaron Holderman sent to prison. You find yourself pardoned. Free. And appointed marshal of Wyoming. And when you’re sitting at the train depot in Chicago, waiting to start a new life for yourself, lovely Christina Whitney sits down beside you. She has a ticket to Cheyenne, too.
But happily ever after?
Not with those nightmares. But, well, you do have a job. And that, son, is how at least one man becomes a United States marshal.
Hell of a way to get there, boy, don’t you think?
CHAPTER FIVE
“In my case,” Fallon answered with a smile, “I owe my appointment to Adlai Stevenson. I’ve never met the former vice president, but he, as a former representative from Illinois, where I spent some time . . .” Fallon grinned, wondering if the students might ask him how and where he might have spent time in the great state of Illinois. “. . . he had heard and read a lot about me. Thus, he made the recommendation to then-President Grover Cleveland, who appointed me to the position here, and the United States Senate unanimously confirmed my appointment.”
He paused, smiled his politician smile, and added, “I have, by the way, briefly met our current vice president, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, and although the appointment of a federal marshal is political, I would like to think that, as a Western man and a brave man—as seen from his actions on San Juan Hill with his Rough Riders—Mr. Roosevelt might have recommended me to President McKinley, even though they are Republicans and Mr. Stevenson and President Cleveland were and are Democrats. We are all Americans, and we all seek justice.”
Damn, Hank, he thought, these kids can’t even vote. Tone it down. This isn’t a campaign speech.
Another hand shot toward the ceiling.
“Yes?”
A pimply-faced redhead, shaped like an oversized string bean, stood as though at attention in front of his desk. “Sir, how dangerous is it being a United States marshal?”
And before Fallon could thank him for that question, the boy had moved back into his desk.
“Well, son . . .” Fallon shook his head. As a U.S. marshal, you might eat bad chicken, get sick from that, or have to pretend you like some representatives, even the governor. He got asked that question a lot. Maybe one day, he’d answer it honestly. But today: “I’m glad you asked that question, son, because it gives me the chance to sing out praises for the real lawmen in Wyoming, those who risk their lives to keep you children, as well as Headmaster Hendricks and your outstanding teachers, Mr. Williams and Mr. Dietrich, safe. As the U.S. marshal, I have to hire deputies, and these deputies are bringing peace across our state. From our national park in Yellowstone to Rock Springs. Laramie. Buffalo. Rawlings. Casper. You might not know how big Wyoming is …”
“Ninety-seven thousand square miles,” one boy shouted.
“More than ninety-seven thousand and eight hundred square miles,” said another.
The blond in the desk just in front of Fallon said, “Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred and eighteen.” Turned and stuck out his tongue at his classmates.
“Well.” Fallon looked at the headmaster. “You certainly have an erudite group of young men here.” Clearing his throat, he hoped he wouldn’t have many more questions. “That’s a lot of country. My deputies are patrolling it, but they are not alone. We are responsible for only federal crimes. For local crimes, there are brave lawmen working as town constables, town marshals, and deputies, keeping the peace in our towns and cities. As well as our county sheriffs and their deputies, who have jurisdiction outside of the town or city limits. As a United States marshal, or a deputy U.S. marshal, we pursue bank and train robbers, mail thieves, kidnappers, and counterfeiters. But you boys could do me a favor, and the next time you see anyone wearing a badge, thank them for what they are doing for you. You should also thank the men working out of our fire stations. Me? I’m usually just behind a desk or in a meeting or talking to fine young people like yourselves.”
Another hand, another nod, another question.
“How many men have you killed?”
“Silas,” Mr. Dietrich scolded, but Fallon shook his head and said, “That’s all right, sir. I get