Six-Gun Law

by Jory Sherman

  There was no reason for Wayne Smith to kill Jeff. Or if there was, Lew didn’t know what that reason might be. Could it be that Jeff had not told him all of the story about Wayne and Carol? And himself? Had there been trouble between Jeff and his son-in-law back in Missouri, trouble that Jeff had never mentioned?

  Lew did not know. But for a man to kill another, he ought to have a damned good reason. He wondered what Wayne’s reason was.

  After a fitful night of dozing and sleeping in the chair, Lew awoke with a stiff neck and numb feet. His mouth was dry and the lamp had burned out. Dawn light seeped through the shades over the windows. Jeff was a dark hulk on the bed, still lying on his back, his breathing labored.

  Lew walked over to the window and pulled up the shade. Light sprayed across part of the bed, enough for Lew to take a look at Jeff.

  Jeff’s face was pale, the redness all gone, as if the blood had drained out of it overnight.

  As he looked at Jeff more closely, Lew saw a small trickle of froth spittle at the corner of Jeff’s mouth. He felt the bandage. It was dry, but as he bent down to examine it, he detected a strong odor, and the odor was foul.

  Lew picked up the towel and wiped the corner of Jeff’s mouth. He touched his lips. They were dry. He got a glass and poured water in it, set it on the nightstand in case Jeff woke up and was thirsty. Then he stretched and ran his fingers over the faint stubble on his own chin.

  Jeff moaned and then his eyes opened, closed again.

  “Too bright for you, Jeff?” Lew said.

  “No. I heard water splash. Can you give me a drink of water?”

  “Sure.”

  Lew propped Jeff up, held the glass of water to his lips. He tipped it and Jeff began to drink. He choked on the first swallow, then as his tissues lost their dryness, he was able to drink half the water in the glass. He gasped when he was finished and looked down at his waist.

  “Trussed up, eh?”

  “The doc got the bullet out, Jeff.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s all right. Do you remember getting shot?”

  “Barely.”

  “You said last night that Wayne shot you. Did you see him?”

  “No, but it was Wayne Smith all right. That bastard.”

  “Why would he shoot you?”

  “Ahhhh,” Jeff said, and leaned back on the pillow.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  Jeff nodded.

  “Were you going there to kill Wayne last night? Is that why he shot you?”

  Jeff shook his head. “I went there to see if Wayne knew.”

  “If he knew what?”

  “Before Wayne took Carol away, there was a scandal in Bolivar. A large amount of money was found missing from the town treasury. No one knew who had taken it. But I saw Wayne hide a keg in the shed in back of my house. I looked inside the keg and found the money. I didn’t tell anyone until Carol told me that Wayne was taking her away. I told her about the keg, saying that she was leaving with a thief. She didn’t believe me until she got to Pueblo and found a keg among their belongings. It was full of stolen money. She wrote me and told me to expose Wayne as the thief. I said that I would, and that I would be a witness against him.”

  “So Carol must have shown Wayne that letter. Or else he read it without her knowing.”

  “She showed it to him. She wrote that he went into a rage and said he’d kill me if I ever told anyone that he had taken the money.”

  “Now I understand.”

  “I wrote Carol that it was too late. I had told the mayor and the chief of police and they had sworn out a warrant for Wayne’s arrest. I didn’t tell her that I had signed an affidavit about the stolen money in case anything ever happened to me.”

  “So Wayne thinks you’ll testify against him if he’s brought back to Bolivar?”

  “He knows I will, yes. But that’s not the worst part. Wayne is wanted for murder.”

  “Murder?” Lew said.

  “He took the money from a clerk who was auditing the city’s finances. He cut his throat and took the money. I found the bloody knife in the same shed where Wayne hid the money, and I gave it to the sheriff. He showed it to the owner of the hardware store, who remembered selling the knife to Wayne, and not only that, but Wayne had carved his initials in the bone handle of the knife. Plain as day.”

  “But Wayne got away with it. He’ll never go back to Bolivar on his own.”

  “Before I left, the mayor got a judge to issue a fugitive warrant for Wayne’s arrest. The federal government is looking for him now.”

  “You played a dangerous game last night, Jeff. If Wayne killed for that money, he wouldn’t even blink to kill you.”

  “I wanted to tell him that there’s a federal warrant out for his arrest. It was dumb of me, I know.”

  “Dumb and dangerous. You’re probably not safe here, even.”

  “Well, if you’ll get my pistol and put it here by my side, I’ll shoot Wayne if he walks through that door.”

  Lew tried not to laugh. But he snickered at the idea that Jeff could get the drop on a wary man like Wayne Smith.

  “I’ll watch over you while you heal up,” Lew said. “You don’t need a pistol in your condition.”

  “I do feel pretty weak.”

  The talking had worn Jeff out. His pallor was waxen, and he was sweating again. He drank more water, then closed his eyes.

  Lew paced the room. He was hungry, and yet he didn’t know if he dared leave Jeff alone while he went out for something to eat. Jeff would be hungry, too, he thought.

  “Jeff,” Lew said as he stood over the wounded man, “I’m going out to get us some vittles. I’ll lock the door when I leave. If anyone knocks, you don’t say a word. Hear?”

  “I hear, Lew. I won’t say nothing.”

  “Just sit tight.”

  Jeff tried to laugh, but he winced in pain with the effort. He opened his eyes and closed them again. His breathing did not sound good to Lew.

  Lew left, locking the door to Jeff’s room behind him. He walked to the front desk and asked where he could get some food to take up to his room.

  “There’s a little Mexican café one block over that’s open early. They can give you a basket. You leave a deposit and they return your money when you bring the basket back. It’s called Lupe’s. Nice lady who runs it.”

  “Don’t let anyone in our rooms,” Lew said.

  “No, sir. Of course not.”

  “I mean nobody.”

  The clerk’s face turned ashen. He was a young, nervous fellow anyway, and his hands began to tremble as he stood at the counter.

  “No, sir, I won’t,” he said. “But I get off in a few minutes. John Bascomb is on the day shift. He’s my older brother. I’m Charlie Bascomb.”

  “Charlie, you tell your brother what I told you.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Lew left, walking with rapid steps down the deserted street. The sun was up, streaming through the streets, lighting up the sides of buildings, making shadows in between them. He hoped he was doing the right thing, leaving Jeff alone like that. His worry was probably needless, but Wayne sounded like a desperate man to him. A man who would stop at nothing to protect himself and his ill-gotten gains.

  And as Lew looked at the few people he passed, the bad thing was that he had no idea what Wayne Smith looked like. Would he be wearing a badge on his vest or did he keep it in his pocket? Was he tall, short, fat, skinny?

  When he got back to the hotel, Lew promised himself he’d ask Jeff for a description of Wayne Smith.

  As he turned the corner to go down to the next street, Lew felt a shadow fall over him. He started to turn, but it was too late. He saw an arm, part of a face, and then felt a crushing blow to his skull. Lights danced in his head, and then he felt himself falling, falling into blackness.

  Then, everything turned dark and his mind went blank.

  17

  SOMEONE SPLASHED WATER IN LEW�
�S FACE. HE AWOKE, SPLUTTERING, his head spinning, filled with cotton. He was dizzy, and it took him a few seconds to realize he was lying flat on his back, with people standing around, looking down at him. The fog in his brain lifted slowly, and he became aware of the pain in the back of his head. It felt as if an anvil had been dropped on it. He sat up and touched the sore spot. There was a knot there, and a small cut in the knot. Whoever had struck him had hit him very hard.

  “Mister, you ought not to drink so much,” a man said. “Not in this town. Looks like you got rolled.”

  Lew fixed his eyes on the man who had spoken. His face swam there like a balloon with eyes and hair and mouth, bobbing in and out of the fog, weaving as if it were on a tether.

  “Not drunk,” Lew said, his voice sounding far away, lost in the ringing of his ears.

  He looked down, saw that his pockets were turned inside out. He patted the gun in his holster, felt a sense of relief. But the keys to his and Jeff’s rooms were gone. He struggled to his feet, first pulling himself to his knees, then, extending both arms, pushing up until he broke free of the ground and was standing on two feet. His legs felt wobbly and it took him a few seconds to clear his head. He leaned against the wall of the building, one arm extended for support.

  “We just saw you a-lyin’ here, stranger,” another man said. “Figured you was drunk. Sorry. Say, you got a nasty bump on your head.”

  “Somebody knocked me out,” Lew said. “Did you see what happened? Any of you?”

  There were two men and a woman standing there. They all shook their heads.

  “Nope,” the first man said. “We were just walking along and seen you lyin’ stretched out. Common sight here in Pueblo.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be all right.”

  Lew lurched away from the three people and headed back to the hotel. A sense of dread came over him as he thought about those missing keys.

  Charlie was not at the front desk. Nobody was.

  Lew took the stairs two at a time, rushed to Jeff’s hotel door. It was slightly ajar. He entered and saw two men standing by Jeff’s bed. He could not see Jeff. One of the men was standing at the foot of the bed, blocking Lew’s view.

  “Doctor,” Lew said, recognizing the other man.

  “Oh, there you are. I wondered where you were. Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  Lew’s heart plummeted in his chest.

  “Your friend, Mr. Stevens, is gone.”

  The man at the foot of the bed turned, and Lew saw the resemblance.

  “You Charlie’s brother?” Lew said.

  “Yes. Are you Mr. Zane?”

  “I am.”

  “Charlie said I was not to let anyone upstairs to this room, but the man who came up acted as if he had a room here, or was here on business. Besides, I knew him. I mean, I knew who he was. He was a deputy sheriff.”

  “Let me guess. Wayne Smith.” Lew felt the bottom go out of his stomach as if the floor had given way and he had fallen two stories.

  “Why, yes. Deputy Smith came down a few minutes later. I asked him if everything was all right and he said yes, that it was.”

  “Bascomb,” Lew said, “you’re not only stupid, you’re dumber than a sack full of dead possums. Smith probably murdered that man on the bed there.”

  Bascomb’s face drained to a washed-out roan color.

  “Doc, what happened to Jeff?”

  “Well, I’m just now looking, Mr. Zane. He’s dead. Been dead a half hour or so. There’s a bruise on his neck. I’m feeling for a possible fracture of the hyoid bone now.”

  “What’s that?” Lew asked.

  “If it’s broken, it could mean that Mr. Stevens was strangled to death.”

  Lew stepped in close.

  Jeff’s eyes were shut, his mouth open. He wasn’t breathing. Lew felt his stomach muscles tauten. Bands tightened around his chest, as if he were being smothered. The doctor was feeling Jeff’s neck with two fingers.

  “Yep. This man was strangled.”

  “What brought you to Jeff’s room?” Lew asked.

  “I was going to my office, thought I’d stop in and see how Jeff was doing. The door was open and I just walked in. When I saw that Jeff was dead, I summoned John here to witness the death certificate after I determined the cause of death.”

  “So have you done that?”

  “I’m going to rule this a homicide. Jeff was clearly strangled to death.”

  “Will there be an investigation?” Lew asked.

  “There’ll be a coroner’s inquest, yes.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The coroner will examine the body, verify a cause of death. If he determines that my diagnosis is correct, he’ll hold a hearing to determine who might have murdered Mr. Stevens.”

  “And then?” Lew asked.

  “The coroner will call witnesses, including John Bascomb here, possibly Sheriff Smith, and then a jury will decide who’s to be charged with Mr. Stevens’s murder, if anyone.”

  “That’s how it works, huh?”

  “That’s how it works in Pueblo,” the doctor said.

  “And if Wayne Smith is charged with Jeff’s murder, then what?”

  “The prosecuting attorney will swear out a warrant for his arrest before a judge. The judge will call a jury and Smith will go on trial.”

  “It happens that way every time, right?”

  “Well, it’s supposed to happen that way. Whether or not it does in this case, I couldn’t say.”

  Lew could feel his anger rising. None of this had happened with Fritz Canby and Wiley Pope. The judge had just looked the other way. Those boys had gone scot-free and they had killed the only witness against them. There had been no justice in that case, and he didn’t think he could expect any in this case, either. He looked at Bascomb, who stood there running a finger under his tight collar as if to loosen it so he could breathe better.

  “What about you, Bascomb? Will you testify that you saw Smith come up to this room?”

  “Well, I actually didn’t see where Sheriff Smith went when he came upstairs. He could have gone to any of the rooms.”

  “But you know where he went, don’t you?”

  “Not at all. I can’t testify to what I didn’t see, Mr. Zane.”

  “No, I suppose not. The ostrich can’t see when it buries its head in the sand, either, can it?”

  “I don’t know,” Bascomb said.

  “Mr. Zane,” Doc Renfrew said, “I’ll arrange to have the body taken to the coroner’s office. He’s the local funeral director. Let me take a look at that bump on your head.”

  “Fine,” Lew said as the doctor examined his wound, “I’ll pay all expenses for Jeff’s burial.”

  “I’ll tell Dean that.”

  “Dean?”

  “Dean Vollmer. He’s the undertaker and the coroner. You’ve got a bad bruise but you’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll be at the front desk if you need me, Mr. Zane. I’m sorry for your friend’s death. The hotel assumes no liability whatsoever, of course. You understand that. We have no control over the behavior of our guests or their visitors.”

  “Yeah, I understand it, Bascomb. The ostrich.”

  Bascomb coughed and started for the door. The doctor put his stethoscope back in the bag and closed it. He started to leave, too, but he stopped and put a hand on Lew’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Zane. I hope it works out for you and Mr. Stevens. If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he would have lived out the week, though.”

  “Oh? What makes you say that, Doc?”

  “I think that bullet tore through his large intestine. Without an operation, I think he would have developed an infection and died. He might have died anyway. His age, the severity of the wound.”

  “You didn’t say that last night.”

  “I’m always hopeful.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. You know, it doesn’t make any difference now how Jeff died. One man killed him, either way. Wayne Smith.”

&nbs
p; “I can’t speculate on such matters, Mr. Zane.”

  Lew watched them go and then sat down on the bed. He and Jeff had come a long way together. They had gotten to be friends. Now, Jeff was dead. His daughter would never see him again.

  He reached down and pulled off Jeff’s boots. In one of them, there was an oilcloth filled with money. He counted out the bills. There was a total of 245 dollars. At the bottom of the bills, there was a folded piece of paper.

  Lew opened it and read it.

  “Dear Carol: If you get this money from Lew Zane, then you will know I am dead. Lew is my friend. I told him to give you the money. I leave you all my worldly goods. You take good care of those kids. Your loving old dad.”

  Lew sighed. Now, he was truly obligated to find Carol Smith and give her the money her father had left her. It was an obligation and a duty he could not deny. He wrapped the packet back up, along with the note, and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I’ll see to it that Carol gets this, Jeff,” he said, feeling a little foolish speaking to a dead man.

  But then, maybe his words hadn’t sounded that foolish. Maybe Jeff could hear him, wherever he was. Maybe he was looking down on him in some other form.

  “I’ll get the bastard who killed you, too,” Lew said, and since this was said mostly to himself, he did not feel foolish in saying it. He looked down at the floor and saw something that looked familiar. He reached down and picked it up, knowing then what it was. His room key. Jeff’s was probably still in the door.

  Wayne must have followed him out of the hotel and seen his chance to do away with Jeff. Wayne waited, probably knowing where he was headed, then struck him over the head, taken the keys, come back to the hotel, and strangled Jeff. But could Lew prove it? And if he did prove it, did that guarantee that justice would be done?

  He put Jeff’s boots back on and left the room to go to his own. He closed Jeff’s door behind him, saw the key in it, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. He would give it only to the coroner when he came for Jeff’s body.

  Later that afternoon, after Jeff’s body had been removed from the hotel, Lew walked over to the Double Eagle. It was open, but quiet. He walked in, saw a lone bartender behind the bar. A few patrons sat at tables, some playing cards, others smoking and talking. He ordered a whiskey and then looked up, saw the black boards on the second story. There were long slits cut out of them that he could barely see.