The Waters of Change Chapter 6, Part 4
“Things are a-changin’! Folks ain’t gonna be tolerant of his soft justice. We’ve got
families movin’ in."
What in the Hell?” These were the first words Herberger spoke as he resumed consciousness. He had been knocked out by a swift blow from a shotgun stock during Henderson’s escape. The dust was still settling from the the horses of the posse tearing out after him. Callum had already inspected the formerly tiny gap in the stone wall that Henderson had widened just enough to squeeze through. Now, Callum and Obadiah Niles rested on tree stumps in front of the jail while they observed Herberger’s attempts to grasp the reality he was slowly awakening to.
“Thirsty?” Callum tossed a canteen of water at Herberger, but it fell and was ignored. “Henderson and your boys let out to the south, but you ain’t gonna catch up with them. You might as well nurse your head and wait this one out.”
Herberger, still dazed, started to push himself to standing, then slipped and settled for sitting up straight. He shook his head, trying to gather his wits, but offered no response. Staring at the canteen for a moment, he finally took a drink.
“Ya know where you are?” Niles was more taunting than concerned.
Herberger’s dirt-covered expression began to turn from bewilderment to anger. His faculties were returning, and he was able to carefully climb to his feet. He stomped around for a few paces, then reached for his missing gun.
“It’s in the answered the unasked question. “You can have it back tomorrow, after things have settled.”
“Ennis, you son of a—” Herberger growled before he was interrupted by Niles standing up - his shotgun at the ready.
“Sit down, Mr. Herberger.” Niles motioned to a third stump. “Now, who knows if they’re gonna catch up with Henderson, but we need to sort out law and order. Let’s start with something easy. Until an election says different, Mr. Ennis here is our lawman. It’s his job to enforce the law, and it’s yourn to obey it. Tonight, you have failed this arrangement.”
Herberger wouldn’t sit. When Niles finished, Herberger shouted back in defiance, “Things are a-changin’! Folks ain’t gonna be tolerant of his soft justice. We’ve got families movin’ in. If’n Maxwell’s water’s a-comin’, this town’ll be too big for some kid constable. He’ll be a joke, and outlaws like Henderson will know it. Now, give me back my—”
Herberger started to lunge at Callum, who had been clamly listening to his insults, but Niles stepped into his path with a reminding pat on his shotgun. Still seated, Callum spoke plainly.
“Let the change come, Mr. Herberger. I don’t want to be the law anyhow. But until change happens, I am. Now, you can sit here and wait for your men to return with or without Henderson, or you can go on home. Either way, you won’t be getting your gun back until tomorrow.”
Trembling with anger, Herberger pointed his finger at Callum in some kind of silent, frustrated protest. Then he turned back toward town and stomped off, yelling back, “I’m gonna see to it that we get those elections! Me and my boys will be the law after that. You can bet on it!”
Both men dozed off and drifted in and out of sleep for the remainder of the night, keeping a half-hearted vigil for any sign of resolution to the chase.
Well after dawn, Callum and Niles were awakened, not by any returning posse but the off-key blasts of a loosely held-together brass band. Neither Callum nor Niles could figure out why there was this awful attempt at fanfare, and in between the irregular drumbeats and tonedeaf oompahs of the tuba, curiosity propelled them both into the commotion of the busy streets.
Froelick and Thor caught up with them as they passed Froelick’s store. As the men neared the edges of the gathering crowd, the band gave up their march and parted to reveal a pitchman standing atop a wagon platform, covered in banners, and backed up by several seriousfaced men in fancy suits, and cigars. With all of the pizzazz of a circus barker, the pitchman screamed his announcement.
“Good people of Elizabethtown! Gentlemen of this golden bounty! The rumors are approaching your city gates. Every pan, every sluice box, every claim will be rich in abundant ore. How, you ask? With water, friends! Hydro mining, as some folks call it! Lucien B. Maxwell and his associates have been working just up the way,” he pointed to the north, “and they are prepared to offer you fine folks a powerful wave of…”
Callum, Thor, Niles, and Froelick looked at one another, dumbfounded by the spectacle. Thor suspected there would hardly be a trickle of water, considering the distance of the rickety aqueduct that he and Callum had observed a few days before. Froelick questioned what difference this would actually make to commerce. And Niles was sure it would whip up a political frenzy. All four men predicted a mess.
Sure enough, the pitchman wrapped up his spiel about the miracle of Maxwell’s water and then introduced three gentlemen wearing ill-fitting suits and ridiculously tall stovepipe hats. The three all made their best speeches about government, but their fiftycent words were betrayed by a mixture of frontier slang that they couldn’t disguise. One man by the name of Calhoun gave a nod to Herberger as he spoke of the need for a local sheriff. Another, Mr. Russell, made a case for incorporating as a town or starting a new county, as did another speaker after him by the name of Wheelock. All made a point to mention the ballot box, looking forward to the elections.
“Would ya look at that?” Froelick exclaimed. “We aren’t even a town yet, and these fools are already politicking for votes. And folks are listening to ‘em to boot!”
His companions were all shaking their heads when Ellie strode up and asked, “What are they talking about? We haven’t had a soul in the store for an hour!”
“Progress,” scoffed Thor. “I think they call it progress. I haven’t got the patience. I’m going to the assay office in Ute Creek to sell our gold.” He shuffled off in disapproval. ■