for getting involved. Do you wish to hire the posse to enforce that law?”
“Yes, I do,” Kincaid said.
“Good, good,” Sherman said. “May I suggest that we go next door to the Palace Cafe and have our lunch? Afterward, we will come back to my office, reach some agreeable settlement as to terms, then sign a contract that authorizes us to come to your aid in seeking a just prosecution of the law.”
Chapter Twenty
For the ranchers and farmers who lived within a ten-mile radius of Medbury, Saturday was a big day. It was the day they came into town to get their business and shopping done, and just to visit with friends and neighbors. By mid-morning the town was crowded with people, horses, and conveyances. There was a parking yard near the livery, and it was filled with buckboards and wagons of all sizes and descriptions. The men tended to congregate in the feed and seed store or the leather goods store, while the women did their shopping at the mercantile and general stores. Children, excited over the prospect of getting their weekly prize of a piece of stick candy, ran up and down the boardwalks, laughing and playing.
It was into this atmosphere of happy commerce that Colonel Clay Sherman led his posse of Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers. They rode in, in military precision, a column of twos, eight rows deep, with Clay Sherman in the lead.
Their arrival captured the attention of nearly everyone, and people interrupted their weekly commerce in order to wonder at this strange parade through the center of their town.
“That’s Clay Sherman,” someone said, speaking quietly lest Sherman actually hear him.
“I know who it is,” another answered. “The question I got is, what in Sam Hill is he doin’ here?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. From all I’ve heard of him and his men, it means trouble of some sort.”
It was a magnificent looking body of men. All were wearing dark blue denim trousers and light gray shirts. All had shining brass stars pinned to their shirts. Sherman was dressed exactly as the other men, except that, on his collar, in metallic thread, was embroidered an eagle, the symbol of his rank as colonel.
One young boy was so excited by the sight that he dashed out into the street and ran alongside, shouting “Bang, bang, bang!” So disciplined were the riders that not one of the men looked at the boy, nor did they glance around when his mother ran out into the street after him.
“Joey! Joey! Come back here!”
Several of the men of the town, who standing alongside watching, laughed when the mother caught up with the boy and, grabbing him by the ear, pulled him back out of the street.
“That’ll teach you, Joey!” one man yelled.
“You better listen to your mama, boy!” another added.
When Clay Sherman and his riders reached the sheriff’s office, Sherman held up his hand and the men stopped.
“Dismount and stand by your horses,” Sherman ordered and, as one, the sixteen men swung down from the saddle. They stepped up to the front of their horse and held it by the halter. As Sherman went inside the sheriff’s office, several of the townspeople moved closer to the body of men.
“Hey!” someone called out to them. “What are you fellas doing here?”
Not one man answered.
“Are you chasin’ somebody?”
Like the first question, this one went unacknowledged.
“How come there won’t none of you answer?”
“They are like the army, George,” on of the other townspeople explained. “They are standin’ in formation, and that means they can’t talk or look around.”
“That don’t make no sense,” George said.
“That’s because you have never been in the army. I have, and I know what it’s like when you are standin’ in formation.”
“I just want to know what they are doin’ here,” George said. “I mean, ever’ one knows what these fellas are like. Whenever they get on somebody’s trail, there is most always shootin’.”
Like the others in town, Marshal Sparks had seen the posse arrive and he was now standing just inside his office, drinking coffee and looking through his front window as the riders halted in front of the building. He knew about the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, and he knew about its leader. He watched Clay Sherman dismount, order his men to stand by their horses, then come in. One of the other men came in with him.
Sherman pushed the door open and looked around. Because Marshal Sparks was standing over to one side by the window, and because the door opened toward him, temporarily blocking him from view, Sherman didn’t see him when he first came in.
“Anyone in here?” Sherman called loudly.
“I’m over here,” Marshal Sparks said from the front window. In contrast to Sherman’s shout, Marshal Sparks response was so quiet as to be conversational.
“Marshal, I’m—”
“Clay Sherman,” Sparks interrupted. “I know who you are, Mr. Sherman.”
“If you know who I am, then you know that I am more properly addressed as Colonel Sherman.”
“What can I do for you,
