“I don’t reckon we’ll ever know,” Scratch said. “Has any of our other gear shown up?”
“Now that’s something I don’t know a damned thing about. I didn’t mess with anything except those horses. You’ll have to take up the other with somebody else.”
“Like Luke and Thad?” Bo suggested.
“Thad’s already in jail,” Scratch added. “Maybe we could convince him to talk.”
Edgar glared at them. “You hurt that boy and you’ll regret it. He’s my son, and I won’t stand for him bein’ mistreated.”
“Yeah, I can tell how concerned you are about him by the fact that you ain’t even paid him a visit since he’s been locked up.”
Edgar looked uncomfortable, shifting his feet as he said, “I don’t much cotton to jails. Fact is, them iron bars give me the fantods.”
“Been on the wrong side of ’em before, have you?”
“That ain’t none of your business,” the liveryman snapped. “I’ll be by to see Thad sometime. You just make sure he’s fed and took care of proper-like, or you’ll answer to me.”
“He’ll be taken care of,” Bo said. “But it might go a little easier for him if he confessed to the other things he’s done that he shouldn’t have.”
“Talk to him, not me,” Edgar said, eyes downcast.
Bo took out one of the bills Lucinda had given them. He said, “Here, put this on our account, too. We’ll be in Mankiller for a while, so I suppose we might as well leave our horses here.”
Edgar stared in surprise at the money Bo was extending toward him. Without taking the bill, he said, “I figured you’d want to move them horses to one of the other stables.”
“You’ll feed and water them properly, won’t you?”
“Well, sure. I never mistreated an animal, not in my whole life.”
“There you go. Take the money, Edgar.”
The liveryman still hesitated, but after a moment he lifted his hand and took the bill from Bo. As he tucked it into a pocket of his overalls, he gave the Texans a surly nod and muttered, “Obliged.”
As they walked away, Scratch asked quietly, “What’d you do that for? I figured we’d take the horses down to Dabney’s place. He’d probably take care of ’em for free, since he’s one of the bunch who wanted us to be deputies.”
“I’m sure he would have,” Bo agreed. “But maybe by leaving them with Edgar, we’ve planted a seed that tells him we’re not as bad as he thinks we are.”
“We arrested his boy,” Scratch pointed out. “And I don’t reckon he’s ever gone against his brother in his life. You ain’t gonna turn him against Jackson, Bo.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t cost much to try.”
Scratch didn’t argue, but the way he shook his head made it clear that he thought Bo was wasting time and money on the effort.
They walked around the rest of the town. It was early enough in the day that the saloons, brothels, and gambling dens weren’t doing much business, although none of them were actually closed. The general stores owned by Abner Malden and Lionel Gaines had plenty of customers, though, and the Texans saw several men going into Wallace Kane’s assay office to have the ore they’d gouged out of the hillsides checked for gold.
Lyle Rushford stood on the porch of the Colorado Palace Saloon, smoking a cigar. He nodded to Bo and Scratch as they came along the boardwalk.
“Morning, deputies. Any more trouble last night after that shooting at the hotel?”
“No, it was quiet,” Bo said.
Rushford nodded. “I’m not surprised. Nobody kicked up a ruckus in my place, and since it’s the biggest saloon in Mankiller, some sort of hell-raising usually goes on. I haven’t even heard about anybody being found in an alley with his throat cut and his poke gone this morning.”
“Does that happen very often?” Scratch asked.
Rushford sighed and said, “More often than I’d like to think about. The murders here in town haven’t averaged one a night…but the number is too close to that for comfort.”
“I hope we can put a stop to that,” Bo said, “but there’s only two of us, and we can’t watch everywhere, all the time. What we may have to do is close some of the worst places down.”
“That won’t make you any friends,” Rushford warned.
“Well…we didn’t take the jobs to make friends.”
They moved on to the café, where they met blond Tess Bonner coming out the door with a tray in her hands. She smiled at them and said, “My mother asked me to take this food over to the jail for the prisoners.”
“Better let me go with you,” Bo said. He didn’t want Tess anywhere near the prisoners with only Biscuits O’Brien around to keep an eye on things.
Scratch jerked a thumb at the door. “I’ll go on in and talk to Miz Bonner,” he said.
Bo nodded. “That’s fine. We need to start getting an election organized, and I’m sure she can be a big help with that.”
He started across the street with Tess. When they reached the sheriff’s office, he opened the door for her. As soon as it swung back, the sharp tang of whiskey hit Bo’s nose. He stiffened in surprise.
“Oh, my goodness,” the young woman said as she looked into the office.
Bo sighed. Biscuits was slumped forward on the desk again, out cold. An empty bottle lay near his hand. Obviously, they hadn’t searched hard enough, Bo thought. Biscuits had had an extra bottle squirreled away somewhere.
“Is the sheriff…all right?” Tess asked hesitantly.
“No, but he will be,” Bo replied, his voice grim with resolve. “Even if we have to kill him to make him that way.”
CHAPTER 21
Lucinda greeted Scratch with a smile as he came up to the counter and rested his hands on it. “Good morning again, Deputy Morton,” she said.
“Scratch,” he reminded her.
“Of course. Scratch. How in the world did you wind up with that name, anyway? Surely it’s not your real name.”
“Well…” He frowned. “You know, it’s been so long ago, I sort of disremember how come folks started called me Scratch. Seems like it’s always been that way, ever since me and Bo were boys back in Texas.”
“What about your real name?”
Scratch shook his head. “Nothin’ I’d want to claim.”
“Now you’ve made me curious,” Lucinda said with a laugh. “I’ll respect your privacy, though.” She paused. “Tess just left here with some meals for the prisoners. I assumed that you’d want me to feed them.”
Scratch grunted. “Your food’s a heap better’n what they deserve, ma’am. I reckon for now, though, that’ll be fine. Maybe the town can make a deal with one of the hash houses to provide meals that ain’t so good. You be sure and keep track of what you’re owed, too. Once the town council’s set up, maybe you can get paid back for it.”
“I’ll do that,” Lucinda said. “And speaking of the town council, I talked it over with Dr. Weathers and several of the local businessmen when they came in to eat breakfast this morning. They all think that the sooner we hold an election, the better.” A blush appeared on her face. “And I’m surprised to say that they were all in agreement with Bo’s suggestion that I run for mayor, too.”
Scratch grinned across the counter. “Those fellas know a good idea when they hear it. Got any idea who’s gonna run for town council?”
“Wallace Kane and Dr. Weathers agreed to. I think they’re good choices, because they don’t have any actual competition in their lines of work. I think I can get Sam Bradfield to say yes, too. We’ll need one more member. That way there’ll be four councilmen, and as mayor, I can cast the deciding vote in case of a tie.” Lucinda put her hand to her throat. “Oh, my. I just assumed that I’m going to be elected, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to sound so…so sure of myself. That’s arrogant.”
“Nothin’ arrogant about it,” Scratch assured her. “Havin’ an election’s just a formality, anyway. I don’t reckon anybody’s likely to run agai
nst any of you.”
“We’ll see. It wouldn’t be a proper election unless it was open to anybody who wanted to run, would it?”
“Reckon not,” Scratch agreed.
Lucinda half-turned to reach toward the coffeepot on the stove behind her. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“I sure—”
That was as far as Scratch got before he heard someone screaming outside.
“Why don’t you wait here, Miss Bonner?” Bo suggested as he and Tess stood in the doorway of the sheriff’s office. “I’ll help Sheriff O’Brien lie down on the cot in the back room.”
“That’s not necessary on my account, Mr. Creel,” Tess said. “You don’t have to protect my delicate sensibilities. I’ve seen men passed out from drinking before. We’ve lived in Mankiller for a while, and it’s really not that unusual a sight.”
“I suppose not.” Bo reached for the tray. “I’ll just take this to the prisoners. I’ll bring the tray and the plates back later. You don’t have to come in.”
“Again, not necessary.” Without waiting any longer, Tess marched into the office.
Bo shrugged and went around her to unlock the cell block door. As it swung open, one of the prisoners in the cell to the right said loudly, “Damn it, it’s about time you bastards fed us!”
Bo stepped into the aisle between the cells and drew his Colt. He pointed it at Reuben and Simeon and said, “I don’t know which of you men said that, but there’s a lady present and you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head. You understand?”
They flinched back from the menacing muzzle of the gun. “Sure, Deputy,” Reuben muttered. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
The stink from Thad fouling himself the night before still lingered in the air. Bo looked over at the other cell and saw Thad sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with a dull, dispirited look on his face. Bo knew they’d have to clean him up and get some clean clothes on him somehow. Thad’s father ought to be the one to handle that, Bo decided, whether jails gave him the fantods or not.
“Miss Bonner, just put that tray down on the desk,” Bo called into the front room. “You don’t want to come back here, and I mean it.”
Simeon Devery nudged his brother with an elbow, leered, and said, “They got one of them pretty Bonner girls to bring us breakfast.”
Bo glanced sharply at him. “Forget it,” he said under his breath. “She’s not coming back here, and you’re not going to say one word to her.”
“You’re a cruel man, Deputy,” Simeon said.
Bo went out into the office, where Tess had placed the tray on the desk. “You’re sure you don’t want me to take it to them?” she asked.
“I’m positive,” Bo said. “Thank you, though, and thank your mother for me as well for providing the food.” He went to the still-open front door. “Now, if you want to head back over to the café—”
The sound of a terrified scream coming from somewhere down the street cut the suggestion short.
Bo bit back a surprised exclamation. He didn’t know what was going on, but it occurred to him that Tess might be safer here in the sheriff’s office than she would be out on the street. He looked back at her and snapped, “Stay here!” then stepped out onto the boardwalk and took off quickly toward the sound of the screaming, which hadn’t stopped.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Scratch emerging from the café and knew that his old friend had heard the screams, too. The silver-haired Texan loped across the street to join Bo.
“Got any idea what that commotion’s about?” Scratch asked.
Bo shook his head. “Not one.” He drew his Colt. “I think it’s coming from that alley up there, though.”
The cries echoed from the walls of the buildings on either side of the narrow passage. As Bo and Scratch reached the alley mouth, they saw that it ran all the way through to Grand Street on the other end, where the unknown trouble was taking place. As the Texans started through the alley, Bo saw a woman on her knees next to a huddled, shapeless figure. She had her hands clamped to her cheeks and was swaying back and forth a little as she screamed.
Bo and Scratch came up to her as a crowd began to gather in Grand Street near the alley mouth. Bo saw that the shape on the ground was a man lying on his back. A dark pool of blood surrounded his head. The blood had come from his throat, which had been slashed deeply from one side to the other in a wound that resembled a hideous, grinning mouth.
Scratch reached down to take hold of the screaming woman’s arms. “Ma’am, come on away from there,” he told her, raising his voice to be heard over the cries. “You got to settle down now.”
She tried to pull away from him, but he was too strong. He lifted her to her feet. She turned abruptly and clutched at him, pressing her face against his chest as she began to sob.
Bo looked at the people in the street. “Anybody know who these folks are or what happened here?”
A man pointed at the corpse. “That…that’s Duke Mayo. He’s a gambler, plays at the Fan-Tan most of the time.”
Bo nodded grimly. He and Scratch had passed by the Fan-Tan while they were making their rounds, and he’d heard about the place. It was a dive, a gambling den in a particularly squalid stretch of such establishments along Grand Street, which hardly lived up to its name in places.
“What about the woman?”
“I think she’s a whore. Janey, Jenny, something like that,” the townsman said. “I wouldn’t know for sure. I don’t have no truck with women like that.”
Bo thought the fella was protesting a mite too much, but he didn’t say anything about that. Instead, he asked the woman who was crying, “Ma’am, do you know anything about what happened here?”
She took her face away from Scratch’s tear-streaked shirtfront and stopped wailing long enough to shake her head and say, “N-no. Duke and I…we were supposed to get together for breakfast…like we always do…before we turned in for the day.”
Bo understood what she meant. Gamblers and soiled doves lived their lives mostly at night and slept away the days.
“But he…he didn’t show up,” the woman went on. “So I…I went looking for him…” Her voice trailed off in a series of sobs.
Bo gave her a moment, then said, “And I reckon you found him like this?”
Her head bobbed up and down wordlessly.
“You and him were…friends?”
“He was my…my…husband!”
She went back to wailing.
Bo and Scratch looked at each other, and Bo shrugged. Gamblers and prostitutes could be married just like anybody else, he supposed.
Bo said to the townie who had identified the dead man, “You say he played at the Fan-Tan?”
“Most of the time,” the man replied, adding hastily, “Or so I’ve heard. I don’t frequent places like that, either.”
“Oh, stop worryin’ so much,” Scratch told him. “We’re not gonna go tell your old lady what you been doin’.”
The man started to edge away. “I better be going now…”
Bo let the man go. He said to the other bystanders, “Somebody needs to help this lady.”
That caused the crowd to break up even faster. Bo muttered in disgust. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do with Janey, or Jenny, or whatever her name was.
“Let me take her.”
The Texans turned and looked back along the alley. They saw Lucinda Bonner standing there, trailed by her daughters. Holding out a hand, Lucinda came closer and went on, “We’ll take her back over to the café and see if we can’t calm her down.”
“I don’t know if you want to do that,” Bo said.
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want to do, Bo Creel,” Lucinda said. “I’m sure that you and Scratch have business to attend to, so let me help.”
Scratch gently disengaged himself from the soiled dove and turned her around, steering her toward Lucinda. He was obviously glad to be free from the responsibility. “We’re much obliged, ma�
��am,” he told Lucinda. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you see to it that somebody fetches the undertaker? We got to find out what happened to this fella.”
“We’ve got a pretty good idea what happened,” Bo said. “What we need to do now is find out who did it.”
Lucinda got an arm around the woman’s shoulders and led her away, helped by Callie and Tess. Bo and Scratch went the other way, stepping out onto Grand Street.
“We gonna have a talk with folks at the Fan-Tan?” Scratch asked.
“That’s where we’ll start,” Bo said grimly.
CHAPTER 22
The Fan-Tan was a smallish building made of chunks of red sandstone, with a red slate roof. It was located between a couple of larger buildings, a whorehouse much less fancy than Bella’s Place to the right and a barn with a wagon yard behind it to the left. The door to the Fan-Tan was painted a surprising shade of green. It stood a couple of inches ajar, indicating that the place was open. There were no windows in the front wall. As far as Bo and Scratch could tell, it didn’t have any windows at all, but that was all right because the people who frequented the gambling den weren’t really interested in seeing the light of day.
Bo pushed the door back and went inside. Scratch followed close behind him. Both men had their hands near their guns, ready to hook and draw.
The air inside the Fan-Tan was stale with a mixture of smells. Tobacco smoke, beer, bay rum, and unwashed human flesh were dominant, under-laid with the mingled reek of vomit and piss. The place was dimly lit by a couple of hanging lanterns that flickered as the open door made the air stir sluggishly. Bo saw poker tables, a roulette wheel, faro and keno layouts. A short bar ran along the left wall. The chunky, bald-headed man behind the bar wore a dirty apron and stifled a yawn as he looked at the two newcomers.
“Somethin’ I can do for you?” the bartender asked.
The poker tables were empty, except for one where a pair of men in seedy suits sat playing a desultory game of showdown. They weren’t betting, just turning over cards, and neither man seemed to give a damn whether he won or lost each hand.
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