Chapter 8

            The second floor of Vanderwood’s Store, a simple clapboard structure with an outside staircase and balcony, was given over to the town of Malad City for use as the district courthouse of Oneida County.  When Sheriff Morgan stepped out of the courtroom and leaned on the railing of the balcony, he could see not only the length of Main Street but also, over the buildings across the street, the Samaria Mountains shouldering their way into the cloud-dappled sky.  Samaria Mountain itself rose in the west; Elkhorn Peak and Malad Summit below it were north of town, to the right.

            As mountains went they were not especially imposing, hummocks of brown and grey stone still dusted with snow higher up this early in April; they would stay snow-capped deep into June some years.  At this distance, the gentle rounded slopes reminded Morgan of a sleeping man hunkered into his quilt for just a few more minutes sleep.  The idea made Morgan smile at his own whimsy and he cocked his head, listening, half expecting to hear the sleeping giant snore.  Sometimes in spring the mountains would grumble and moan; no one knew why.

            If the hills groaned today, though, the noise in the courtroom drowned it out.  Morgan sighed at the sound of angry voices carrying through the open door behind him.  He had come outside in the first place for some respite from the arguments within, arguments he had heard for months, but which were now reaching fruition.  Since last fall the county commissioners had talked about reducing the rates on the toll roads north of Malad, and at last they were ready to do it.  Only Bill Murphy stood in their way, but if the commissioners were the irresistible force then “Red” Bill Murphy was the immovable object.

            Morgan looked right, up Main Street.  Some twenty miles that way, the road curved around Malad Summit, and came to Murphy’s Bridge over Marsh Creek.  Far beyond that lay the rich gold fields of Montana, which made the bridge and the road a vital part of the route to Salt Lake City.  Morgan turned his head the opposite direction, as though he could see south down Main, past the saloons and dance halls, past the imposing stone edifice of the Co-op on the corner of Bannock Street, past the Salt Works all the way to the railheads in Ogden and Salt Lake.

            Instead he watched the normal ebb and flow of activity on the street.  The wagons by the Co-op were farmers in town for supplies.  The team of pack animals heading north, heavily laden, was one of B. F. White’s freight shipments headed for the gold camps; they would pay a heavy toll at Murphy’s Bridge unless White sent them the long way over the Turkey Trail and through Arbon Valley.  Of course, if White and the commissioners had their way today, the way over Marsh Creek would cost a lot less dear.  And those three riders, just passing the Salt Works were…what? 

            Morgan squinted at the men coming in to town from the south, trying to make out details.  In the first place, their mounts were an odd lot, two of them meant for riding and one that looked more like a plow horse.  As they got closer, Morgan could see that the men themselves did not run to type either, wearing an assortment of clothes but still well-armed.  The one on the farm horse looked somehow familiar, but he couldn’t think why.  He watched them pull up in front of Owens and Price Saloon, though it was early in the day yet for ranch hands to start drinking.  Craning his neck for a better view, he turned toward the staircase, of half a mind to go and give the newcomers the once-over, face to face.

            A furious shout from within the courtroom brought him up short, and he peered through the door into the gloom to see what was going on.  He made out the powerful form of Bill Murphy, standing with his arm outstretched, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of the commissioner’s table.  “You can’t cut my tolls by half!” Murphy said, and his face was florid with rage.  “You haven’t the right!”

            Morgan stepped inside, taking in the room at a glance.  The tension had not dissipated during his brief absence; rather, the hostility had grown almost palpable.  All around Murphy sat farmers, businessmen, and freight haulers who paid the tolls on Murphy’s road and bridge.  They sat with their arms folded and scowls directed at the big Irishman.  At the front of the room sat the three commissioners in their dark suits and high collars, doing their best to appear unperturbed, but Murphy’s temper was famous, and like most men he wore a revolver on his belt.

            George Ruddy, the senior commissioner, spoke in patient tones.  “In fact, Mr. Murphy, we do have the right, granted by the Territorial Legislature, to set tolls on roads and bridges.  We have deferred that decision until now, since traffic during the winter months is light, but…”

            “But now these bastards,” Murphy waved his arms at the men around him, “want to use my bridge again, but they don’t want to pay.  What have they promised you if you’ll cut my throat for them, eh?”

            Tom Daniels, on Ruddy’s right, bestirred himself.  “Here, that’s not the way of it at all,” he said.  He pushed himself upright in his chair, running a hand through his untidy, thinning hair.   “You’ve profited handsomely from your business over the years, Mr. Murphy…”

            “Mr. Murphy, is it?  When you shared a drink at my table, ‘Bill’ was good enough for you, Daniels!”

            The third commissioner was William Jones, thin, aged, trembling, but clear of eye and voice.  He said, “Mr. Murphy, we do not arrive at this decision lightly, nor in ignorance of the facts.”  His hands shook as he unfolded a sheet of paper before him and held it up to show the columns of figures written on it.  “I have here a memorial detailing the profits and expenses involved in the operation of your bridge.  It shows that over the years you have earned $50,000 more from tolls than you have spent maintaining it.  Is that not a handsome profit, sir?”

            Murphy went from beet red to dead white.  His hands, strong and callused from his lifetime of work, gripped the back of the bench in front of him as though he would tear it in two, and he said, “The man who wrote that memorial is both a god-damned liar and a dirty thief.”

            Silence fell upon the courtroom as suddenly as if every man there had been struck dumb.  Sheriff Morgan felt the weight of his own revolver on his hip; only an effort of will kept his hand away from it.  On the other side of the room from Murphy, a man got to his feet—B. F. White, owner of the Cariboo Salt Works and Freighting Company, and an unctuous son of a bitch if ever Morgan saw one.  He wore a clean dark suit of the latest cut and his shoes were shined, no small feat in a town as dusty as Malad City.  His thick grey hair was neatly barbered and his round face clean-shaven.  He gave a tight smile that did not touch his small brown eyes as he looked Bill Murphy full in the face.

            Morgan knew White to be cunning in his business dealings, but he never credited the man with courage until now, as he said, “I am the man who wrote that memorial, and I will not stand for such language, sir.”  He stepped forward, sweeping back the tail of his jacket with both hands.  From where he stood, Morgan couldn’t tell whether White wore a gunbelt, but he could see that Murphy wasn’t waiting to find out.  The Irishman grabbed for his pistol and Morgan lunged forward, seizing Murphy by the wrist with both hands and keeping the weapon pointed at the floor.

            “No, Bill, don’t,” he said, but Murphy kept moving.  He pulled Morgan back with him, still struggling to raise his arm and aim.  All around them the courtroom erupted in confusion, men shouting and bolting up from their seats, the benches sliding and overturning as they were vacated.  One of the commissioners, or maybe all of them, were banging on the table and yelling for calm.  Of B. F. White, Morgan could see and hear nothing; he had been jostled so that he stood face to face with Murphy.   He thought Murphy could see his antagonist, though, because he kept his eyes fixed on something over Morgan’s right shoulder and shouting curses.

            Morgan concentrated on the gun in Murphy’s hand.  The man lunged against him and the muscles in his arm were hard as cables.  Morgan moved one hand down, feeling the cold metal of the revolver and he clutched it, trying to twist it free from Murphy’s fist.  Murphy lunged again and there was a loud report.  Pain exploded in Morgan’s right leg and right hand, and he knew he had been shot.  All at once Murphy was gone, leaving the still-hot revolver.  The sudden departure of the big Irishman left Morgan nothing to lean on, and he fell over, catching himself on his outstretched left arm before he slammed into the floor.

            For a moment he lay stunned, the shouting of the men in the courtroom nothing but a welter of sound.  Then he gathered himself and rose up on his left knee.  Fire seemed to run up and down his right leg, and his right hand stung fiercely, but he ignored them and looked about him, yelling, “Bill!”  Hands reached out of the crowd, hoisting him to his feet.  Despite the pain, his legs held him upright and he hobbled to the door of the courtroom, the only exit, and back out onto the balcony.

            He could hear the clatter of boots on the staircase and lurched to the railing that overlooked Main Street.  He had no more eye for the mountains, the buildings, or even the people of Malad who stood frozen in the streets, staring at Vanderwood’s Store and wondering what the hubbub was about.  Morgan’s gaze fixed instead on Red Bill Murphy, running down Main Street toward the Co-op.  He shouted, “Murphy!  Bill!  Stop!”

            Murphy slowed and looked back, catching sight of Morgan at the rail of the courtroom balcony.  He called back, “Don’t shoot, Morgan!”

            At that moment Morgan realized he still held Murphy’s revolver.  In one motion he cocked it, and pointed it at the fleeing man.  He aimed low, toward Murphy’s legs, and shouted again, “Stop, Murphy!”

            Murphy, seeing the gun, broke into a run once more, still yelling for Morgan not to shoot.  Morgan fired.  The gun bucked, kicking high with more force than Morgan expected.  He brought it down and trained it again on Murphy, knowing he had missed.  But Murphy staggered, slowed, then fell face-first into the dust of Main Street and didn’t move again.  Morgan slumped on the balcony rail as men converged on the fallen man and rolled him over, but he didn’t need to hear their shouts to know that Murphy was dead.

            His leg could hold him no more, and it folded under him, dropping him heavily to the plank floor of the balcony.  Morgan gave thanks that he turned as he fell, so he didn’t have to look at Murphy any more.