The Unseen Servant forums

“Much obliged,” said Paladin, walking with McCullom. He made friendly small talk.

“How many acres?”

“Nice town San Marcos, though a group of cowboys got wild at Hoffman’s.”

“War injury, Mr. Oliver?”

As they neared the door, Paladin asked: “Is the missus about? The matter is sensitive, better spoken of among men.”

Inside, Paladin accepted the tea. He glanced about the house, seeing if there were signs of Virginia’s family wealth. Items a rancher wouldn’t be likely to own.

Mr. Oliver replies, Yeah, lost the arm at Shiloh. He has that slow, terse, way that Texas farm and ranch men talk, hardly opening their mouths. It's like they're concerned that a fly might get in.

160 acres, says McCollum. A quarter of an old 640-acres land grant. One of the ones arranged for settlers with the government of Mexico by Stephen F. Austin. Hoffman's got a wild bunch of goatropers at his place, huh? I suppose he can handle 'em. He was a ship captain in the Confederate Navy, you know. Blockade runner. He won't talk about it though. They say before he come to Texas he seen the whole world on merchant ships. Nobody knows what brought him to little ole San Marcos.

At the mention of McCollum's wife of the house, McCollum of tenses up. His father looks down at the table uncomfortably. Mr. Oliver is poker faced. No reaction can re read on his face at all.

Sweaty McCollum brings a glazed ceramic pitcher with blue and yellow irises and four glasses with fluted bases. Sorry for the rough hospitality, he says. The missus is.... not home. The table is made of finished dark oak and it has cotton doilies on it. It has carved wooden legs. Paladin glances around the room and sees that on one wall of the kitchen-dining room, there's a nice upright piano with a cherry wood finish. The boards of the otherwise modest floor sag a little under it. There's a tintype photo on the wall.


McCollum says, Well, Mr. Paladin, you haven't said yet what brought you to my place. If you're a cattle buyer, I'll tell you that I already signed a contract for selling 53 head. The cattle market is booming, as you might know. It seems that folk Back East got a taste for Texas steaks. A lot of buyers, not enough cowboys to get them to the railhead to in Dodge City, Kansas Territory. I don't have enough stock for another sales contract.

"Ah Shiloh... so many dead. I lost friends there," said Paladin to Oliver as they walked. "I served the Union myself in the 20th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry for a time before joining the 2nd Massachusetts Sharpshooters as part of the Army of the Potomac."

"I hope Hoffman can handle them and their horses in the saloon," Paladin smiled. "It seemed to be taking your sheriff a while to get there."

Inside the house...

"Thank you," said Paladin as he accepted the tea and noted the fancy stemware and others signs of Virginia's wealth. He was glad she wasn't here at the moment.

"She keeps a nice house. Is that her picture up there?" Paladin watched the three men for the reactions and looks.

"No, Mr. McCullom, I'm not a cattle buyer. My business is more unusual. I've been hired by a concerned family member to check in on Virginia. Now I'm not one to get involved in family affairs or pass any judgements. I'm purely gathering information. I'm to just make sure she is safe physically, sound of mind and body, and to inquire as to her happiness and station in life here in San Marcos."

Paladin paused, sipped his tea, eyeing reactions.

"Now I figure there is no one better suited to know that than her husband. I know Virginia can be... a handful, so don't hesitate to be truthful, and let me know if there is anything I can do to help."

McCollum replies, Yes, that's Virgie's picture. He considers it for a second and kind of twists his mouth.

At the mention of "Union" and "Massachusetts," McCollum and his father kind of start. Even Oliver's eyes widen for an instant, before his face goes back to its usual solemn deadpan. I knew you wasn't from Texas from your accent, McCollum says. Y'all in the Army of the Potomac really seen the elephant more than a few times, I know that. Well, at least you got out of the U.S. Army and aren't one of them officers down here telling Texans what and what not to do.

When Paladin discusses Virginia, Oliver stands up, says Excuse me, I have to go see a man about a dog, and heads out the front door. It seems that his dad considers doing the same, but decides to stay. McCollum considers his reply for minute. A concerned family member, huh? he says. That would be her rich daddy. Seems when he walked up the aisle and gave away the bride, he didn't give away all of her. He's always pokin around into another man's marriage.

Well, Mr. Paladin, I'll tell you flat out. Everybody knows about it anyway. If you want to inquire into Virgie's well-being, you best ask Hays County Sheriff John Behan. He's the one she's with. That's right, she run off. Then he loses his temper and stands up. His chair hits the floor and his glass overturns. splashing tea on Paladin's shirt. He shouts, And you better ask that crooked, thievin sheriff while... while he's still got breath to talk! He glares at Paladin, trembling with rage.


His old dad says to him, Easy, Daryl. You know yer trouble's with Behan. Not with this fella.

McCollum gets control of himself and takes a breath or two. Sorry, mister. That was impolite. I'll get ya a tea towel for your shirt. And that's what he does.

“No offense,” said Paladin. “I can understand your frustration.”

Paladin had walked into a messy situation. He wondered how deep he wanted to get into it. His employer had paid only for information, so at this point Paladin wasn’t keen to cross the line beyond that. Yet his own sense of justice prompted his next question.

“I’m sorry for your situation. You say the sheriff is corrupt. Do you have proof of that?”

Paladin realized McCullom was biased at best, but he was curious what the rancher would say.

McCollum replies, Nah, there's no proof of it.
Him and his buddy Judge Campbell make sure of that. But everbody knows both if them is crooked. When it comes re-election time, both of em provide all kinds of detailed information about all the great things they done for San Marcos and Hays County. This number of arrests, this number of convictions , this number of hangins, like that.

But if you ask to see the books about the county and state taxes, it's "No sir, that would require a writ of something or other from Austin." And everbody knows that everbody in Austin always got a palm under the table waitin to be greased.

Same thing with fines. Them two are alway finin' anyone who passes through town or the county. You watch, Mr. Paladin, you'll lucky to get out of the county without paying a fine too. Them two do plainly say that fines go to "maintaining the county court and the office of the sheriff." But nobody knows how much the fine amounts come up to. That's another somethin that can't be disclosed.


His dad says, He's talking straight, Mr. Paladin. Everbody in Hays County knows they're skimmin the cream of the bucket. With their friends in Austin protectin em. Sometimes I even wish a U.S. government judge would take a look at them books. Through it would mean meddlin in Hays County's business.

Paladin sighed and nodded his head. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of corrupt lawmen, be they sheriffs or judges. Fighting that was more than what he signed up for. Unless…

“Well, thank you for the tea and your honesty,” Paladin said as he got up from the table. “I’ll be getting along now.”

As he was walking out the door, Paladin said: “One other thing Mr. McCullom, I’m suppose to deliver a message to a pair of brothers, Lucas and Clyde. Can’t recall their last names at the moment. Do you happen to know where they live?”

At Paladin's question, McCollum thinks with kind of a dense expression on his face. Paladin maybe can see why the barber said that he wasn't the brightest kid in school. Nah, I don't know of anybody by those names, Mr. Paladin. His dad says, I know a fella named Harold Wiley has sons named Clyde and Luke. I don't know if Luke is the boy's baptized name or that's just what they call him. Wiley has a place west of town, about halfway to Fredericksburg.
Lot of rattlesnakes around that part of the country. Wiley had a dog what thought he'd fight one and got bit on the snout. The skin died away and left a hole, so now you can see a lot of that dog's teeth all the time. It's a wonder it survived that bite.

Mr. Oliver returns from outside, looks for just a second, and then sits down at the table with his usual inscrutable demeanor. That cattle chute's lookin pretty good. Those are good cedar posts you got, Mr. McCollum. They ought last a good 20 years or more.

“Well thanks again,” Paladin said. He mounted his horse and rode back to town.

Along the way Paladin thought things over. He had a good sense of Virginia’s situation, but needed to talk to the girl herself to be certain.

As to the corrupt sheriff, that was beyond Paladin’s assignment. His own sense of justice had him pondering whether to take action anyway, but this was a faceless town. He hadn’t witnessed abuse or injustice done to the good people. Only here-say, and a disgruntled jail prisoner who asked for his help and threatened him in the same breath. But Paladin would keep an eye open nonetheless.

Paladin wondered how the fight at Hoffman’s turned out. He had fell in a few days ago with an interesting group of men. Hopefully none of them were dead.

Back in San Marcos, Paladin stopped in at the general store. He glanced around on the off chance they carried a derringer. Otherwise he bought some candy and engaged the clerk.

“Good afternoon. Quite a day today with that shoot-out in Hoffman’s.”

The storekeeper looks at Paladin like the stranger to San Marcos he is, then says. Afternoon, sir. Yes, two trail drive cowboys dead, another all shot up, and another wounded. And the man they were fightin shot up pretty good, too. Every time a group of cowboys come ridin in, the whole town holds its breath.
Just waitin for em to start caterwauling and git rambunctious.

The storekeeper takes out keys and unlocks a cabinet on the wall. Behind its doors are three rifles, a couple of shotguns, and three pistols. This being Texas, this store in a town of something over 700 people does have a derringer for sale. The storekeeper takes a little pasteboard box out of the cabinet and opens it. There's a tiny single-barrel derringer lying on old off-white cotton. Its steel has some rust spots that could use some filing and bluing. It's used, sir. And I don't have a cleaning rod for it. But I suppose you can rig up somethin. A problem is it only has three rounds of ammunition. I used one testing it. It will fire, sir. It'll knock down a chicken, but I wouldn't go buffalo huntin with it. He chuckles at his joke.

Five dollars for everthing, sir. If you need more ammunition, I can order it from Austin. I can git it for ya by train within one-two weeks.

“That’ll do for now,” said Paladin, handing over $5. He had lost his double-barreled derringer a month ago, and with his light wallet hadn’t been able to replace it. The easily concealed pea-shooter had gotten him out of a number of scrapes when he had been disarmed in the past, to the surprise of his opponents.

With Virginia apparently moved out of her husband's house, she was probably shacked up with Sheriff Behan. If Behan wasn’t in his office, Paladin would need to find out where he lived.

Paladin stopped by the sheriff’s office. If Behan wasn’t in, Paladin walked down Main street toward Hoffman’s, looking for his teenage spy.

Paladin walked down Main St. looking for his teenage eyes and ears. The gun-slinger was hoping the boy may know some locations in town.

Paladin buys a derringer and rides to the saloon. The teenage boy and his younger brother come up to him. Mister, he says, here's what we seen. He relates the story of the gunfight/brawl, the sheriff and deputy arriving and taking everyone's weapons, the man with the accent like Hoffman's not putting his hands on his hat, the doctor arriving, the handcuffing, the wounded going to the doctor's office, and the fit being lead out of town to the old stockade. Then the undertaker coming with a wagon and he, Mr. Hoffman, and Rolf Hoffman loading the bodies on it. Then all of the Hoffmans, including Mr. Hoffman, throwing buckets of water on the floor of the saloon and scrubbing it with brushes and lye soap.

(He doesn't relate about the wounded being taken to the stockade. That happens around 6:00 PM, and it's now around 3:00 PM)

Paladin nodded at the boy’s account then tossed him a dime.

“Do you know where Sheriff Behan lives?” he asked the boy. “Not the office, but his place.”

After the answer, Paladin followed up. “If you happen to see Mrs. Virginia McCullom, send someone to get me right away at the rooming house. Keep a tail on her, send for me. Another dime for you and nickel for your runner.”

If Paladin gets address of Behan, he’ll go there. If not, he goes to the sheriff’s office.

The boy's eyes widen and his mouth pops open at the mention of Virginia McCollum's name. But he says, Yes sir, Mister, I know where Sheriff Behan's house is. We'll take you there. But me and Caleb have evening chores to do at home. Our daddy might give us permission to skip em one time if the amount was a little more.

The boys take Paladin to Sheriff John Behan's house. It's a nice house with whitewashed planks, an oak door with a little window, and glass windows that can be slid open from the bottom. It looks like the sheriff is doing pretty well for himself.

If Paladin approaches the house or knocks on the door, please roll an Observation roll.

“Thanks boys,” said Paladin, giving them an extra nickel. “You have a future as Pinkerton men.”

Paladin walked around Behan’s house to see the back, then knocked on the front door.

The boys look at each other. The younger one says, You gonna take a whuppin for a nickel, Bill? The older one says, Nah. You're gonna take it fer me fer 3 cents, Caleb. Even you know that's six candy sticks from the jars at the store. Run home and tell Daddy and Mama what we're doin. And git back here quick. If they won't let ya come... make somethin up. He leans in the way the bigger of two brothers who often wrestle and fight do. You don't be no chicken about it. Git back here and don't be no l'il girl.

As Paladin is talking to the boys, he sees a curtain behind a window of the house slowly and maybe stealthily being pulled just a little to the side. Not at a window closest to the front door, but the one farthest off to the right. It holds that way for long couple of seconds, then smoothly goes back to hanging straight.

At the back of the house, there's an outhouse in good condition that appears to have been recently fixed up with a new door. And newly whitewashed-- it's practically blinding-white in the bright central Texas sun. There's also the usual toolshed that about every house has. A doorway with no door on the front wall. A dirt floor and tools hanging around the walls to avoid rust. A side is open with no wall, for getting bigger items in and out. Just a long post in the center to support the roof's center ridgepole. A common arrangement, nothing special about it. But it has that look about as if it's been sitting on its own for a long time, the way structures get when there isn't regular foot traffic in them and all of nature is beginning to slowly move in.

Throughout this quick examination of Sheriff John Behan's house and back yard, Paladin had noted that he was being similarly and surreptitiously observed from behind a window, this time one at the back of the house. With some peeping interest, curiosity, and appraising. Or so it seems to him. But he could be wrong. All he knows for sure is that he has been watched from inside the house, and he's still being watched. And that it took his eyes to adjust from screening out light in the bright daylight sun, to being able to look into Behan's toolshed. If he turns around, his eyes will probably some blind instants to go back to seeing clearly in the bright yellow light of the regular strong June Texas sun.

Paladin was nonchalant in his stroll around the house, not acknowledging his watcher, nor poking about in anything. Back in front of the house, he knocked on the front door.