By Lincoln Reed
Marshal Roland Chadwick pressed his nose to the desert floor and sniffed. A whiff of sulfur entered his nostrils, receded, and returned stronger. He snorted and coughed. The smell of hades wasn’t easily dismissed. But it came with the territory. Without it, he’d be out of a job.
He mounted his horse and rode, stopping when he reached the main street of a town where the stench of horse manure and unwashed villagers replaced the lingering sulfur. Bystanders watched as his hand brushed the Colt revolver at his hip—cold to the touch, fully loaded. He adjusted his brown Stetson, frowned at its briny aroma, and scratched the pink scar underneath his collar—a memento of his days in General Grant’s army.
Chadwick’s horse walked past a small courthouse where a hangman squatted beneath a rope and noose, hand on a lever, testing a trap door. Swish. Cu-dunk.
The marshal grimaced and dismounted. Aged boots hit the dirt and plodded the hard earth toward the sheriff’s office. He entered, shut the door, and sighed at the fragrance of strong coffee. Sheriff Tiller poured a cup. Chadwick sipped.
“How long you been rid’n?”
Chadwick grunted. After gulping the mug of joe, he wiped his mouth. “Heard you tied up the Kenton brothers.”
“Brought both of ’em in at gunpoint. Rancher caught one stealing cows. But the thief ran, so I arrested both of ’em.”
Chadwick refilled his coffee. “Come again?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Marshal. Them Kenton boys are twins. Identical. Spitt’n images of their momma. No way to tell guilty from innocent. Had to bring ’em both in to be sure.”
“You trust this rancher’s testimony?”
Tiller chuckled, stroking his mustache. “He’s son-in-law to the reverend. I’d say so.”
“And you’ll hang them?”
“Judge won’t hear the case. Not unless we decide which one did it. And neither is fessing up. Folks are getting antsy.”
“Leads?”
“I interrogated each. Not as cruel as the Rebs were to you and me at Andersonville, but I’ve been harsh all the same. And they still ain’t talk’n. Clammed up.”
“So, you want me to decide for you, that’s it?”
Tiller looked at his hands. “If you can’t, folks’ll hang both… just to be certain. Ranchers won’t tolerate a rustler walking around. You know how it is.”
Marshal Chadwick found the two men sitting on a bench behind iron bars. Each was dressed the same—denim pants, red button-up shirt, brown belt, and black boots. Tiller leaned over and explained that Olson wore the gray hat and Johnny the black.
Neither brother spoke. Both appeared mostly disinterested except for the faint strain of agitation around their eyes. Tiller had been right. Each brother had the same build and stature. One was the thief, the other a patsy.
“Johnny’s our guy, if I had to guess,” said the sheriff. “He’s got dung on his boots, sweat stains like he’s been runn’n, and ain’t had a bath. He reeks. Olson… well, he’s got the same colored shirt, but it’s pressed. And Sally over at the saloon says she was with him during the night. Johnny’s as guilty as sin, he is. I bet a silver dollar.”
Chadwick smirked, amused by the sheriff’s attempt at reverse psychology. It was unorthodox to discuss the details of a case in front of suspects, but the marshal was familiar with the tactic. Tiller was trying to provoke the twins and perhaps gain an admission of fault.
“You piece of filth!” Johnny stood, taking the bait, glaring at the sheriff. “Betting on us like we was animals. We didn’t do nothin’!”
Olson got to his feet and crossed his arms beside his brother. “Johnny can’t outrun a bullet. And like you said, I was at the saloon all night. You just cleared us both with your own words.”
“We got witnesses that saw one of you scuttl’n through the streets,” said the sheriff. “It was dark, but people say it was you… or you. Everybody knows y’all live in the stables out back with the horses, so don’t get me started on who—”
Marshal Chadwick raised his hand and called for silence.
“Tiller, unlock the cell. Let Johnny go.”
The sheriff’s mustache drooped. “You serious?”
Olson gripped his brother’s arm. “Don’t say nothin’. Remember. Both of us or neither of us. We’re innocent.”
“How you figure it, Chadwick?”
“It’s simple. The dung on Johnny’s boots is from horses, not cattle.”
Tiller’s eyes bulged. “How can you tell?”
Chadwick pointed to his nose.
“That don’t make me guilty.” Olson sneered.
“No, maybe not,” Chadwick said. “But you’re definitely lying. For one thing, there’s no scent of any womanly perfume on your skin. You may look clean, but you didn’t use soap—at least not the kind a saloon hotel room or communal tub would provide. You have clean boots. Johnny doesn’t. If you two lived in a stable behind the saloon, you’d have a fresh pair of duds around for Sunday service. Shoes too. I think you ran back to the stable, bathed in a trough, and changed while Johnny was in the saloon. You framed your brother when he’d done nothin’ but enjoy a card game and the company of a woman named Sally.”
Johnny balked. Olson cursed.
“Johnny smells like cigar smoke,” the marshal continued. “And there’s a hint of female musk about him, not to mention the stale whiskey on his breath.”
“Ain’t nobody got a nose like that unless he’s a dog.” Olson glared at Chadwick. “Is that what you are? A dog?”
“Even if I’d been blind, I could’ve smelled you out.” The marshal’s tone darkened. “Some things take another kind of nose… and I could sense the stench of hell on you the moment I entered this room.”
Tiller shook his head and dug into his pocket. “I better pay up.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cool concept!
Thanks, Joseph!
Clever dialog, mean brother lower than a snake.
Thanks for reading!
Lincoln’s stories always have a twist at the end. Great writer, thoughtful.
Niice!
Good use of smell – where everything is smelly but some things are distinct.
(I’m catching up on the Marshal Chadwick stories, which I seem to have missed!)