The Dead Town

by J. R. Roberts

  “Yes,” she said. “He said his name was Jerry Pettigrew.”

  TWELVE

  Clint was able to make himself a steak before turning in. He undid his bedroll by the fireplace and removed only his boots.

  Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, he wondered about the man named Pettigrew he’d been forced to kill. He hadn’t heard the name since he was in the ghost town of Jasper, Kansas, and he had heard it from Gloria—a young woman whose last name he had never learned.

  Coincidences. He hated them. There had to be a lot of men named Pettigrew. It didn’t mean that this one was from the same family of killers.

  He turned his back to the fire. Abusive though the man was, he felt badly about leaving him lying out in the snow. Some hungry critters were bound to get to him before Clint could bury him—if he could bury him in the frozen ground. He’d probably be better off taking him into the next town and dropping him off at the undertaker’s. Of course, he’d have to do some explaining to the local sheriff first.

  Clint woke some time later, drew his gun from his holster, then quickly turned. It was Lori. She had crept into the room, holding her robe closed with both hands. The room was well lit by the fire, and he could see that her hands were empty. He holstered his gun and got to his feet.

  “Are you all right, Lori?”

  “Thomas,” she said, “come to bed. It’s late.”

  “Thomas?”

  She must have thought he was her dead husband. Maybe she was sleepwalking. Or just in shock.

  “Lori,” he said, approaching her cautiously, “I’m not Thomas. I’m Clint. Remember?”

  She was looking at him, but her eyes weren’t focused.

  “Tommy,” she said, suddenly becoming coquettish. “Come to bed, Tommy. Keep me warm.”

  She moved her hands and the robe fell open. Her breasts were peach-sized, and he could see the bruises on them. He thought the best thing he could do for her was get her back into bed.

  “Okay, Lori,” he said, “let’s go to bed.”

  He took her by the arm, turned her toward the bedroom door, and moved her that way, using just the slightest bit of pressure. She went along willingly, right up to the bed.

  Clint got her to lie down, but she put her arms around his neck and wouldn’t let go.

  “Lie down with me, Tommy,” she pleaded, “make love to me. Make it all go away.”

  She held onto him tight, as if for dear life. He decided to help her get to sleep. He’d just lie down with her and hold her until she fell asleep.

  “All right, Lori,” he said. “Scoot over.”

  She moved over and let him get into bed with her. She snuggled against him, her robe wide open. He tried to close it, but it had gotten pinned under her and bunched. She might as well have been naked.

  “Thomas,” she said, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, “you came home.”

  “It’s all right, Lori,” Clint told her. “Go to sleep.”

  But sleep was not what this young woman had in mind. That was obvious from the way she started running her hands over Clint’s body. She started to unbutton his shirt, undo his jeans; she tried to put her hand down the front of his pants. He struggled with her a bit, but he really couldn’t move in any way that didn’t bring her bare flesh into play. Her skin was smooth, and very hot, and Clint was only human. He felt his body reacting to her nearness, her touch, her scent.

  “Lori, no—”

  “Please,” she said, “don’t make me beg. I need you to . . . clean me.”

  Clint felt bad for her, but he also knew he’d feel bad if he had sex with her. She was in shock and was not herself.

  “Lori, I . . . I can’t.”

  He slid from her grasp and from her bed, went back to the other room and his bedroll. He could hear her crying in her bedroom, but he turned a deaf ear to it—or tried to—and lay back down.

  He turned his back to the fire and closed his eyes. Before long the crying stopped and he was able to drift off to sleep . . .

  He was having a dream, and it was waking him up. He dreamt there was a woman down between his legs, using her mouth on him. When he looked down he saw the top of her head as she bobbed up and down. Then, fairly quickly, he realized it wasn’t a dream, and the one sucking him was Lori. Somehow, she’d gotten his pants off while he was asleep. If she’d been a man with a gun, he would have been dead. That made him angry, at himself.

  “Lori—” he said, reaching for her.

  She released him from her mouth and smiled lasciviously.

  “Just enjoy it, Thomas,” she said.

  “I’m not—” he started, but she cut him off by straddling him and quickly taking him inside her wet, steamy depths.

  “Oh God,” she said, riding him up and down. He was full awake now, and way past the point of resisting.

  “All right, damn it,” he growled.

  He grabbed her, turned her over, and started to fuck her hard.

  “This is what you wanted, right, Lori?”

  “Yes, Thomas,” she said, “yes. Oh, yes, clean me, please clean me . . .”

  If she thought sex with her husband was going to cleanse her from the days she had spent with Pettigrew, who was he to dissuade her?

  She wrapped her legs around him. She glowed as the light from the fire bathed her. She smiled, then she laughed, urging him on in every way she could—talking, touching, clutching him to her, rising up to meet the thrust of his hips with her own.

  Why should he feel bad about giving her what she wanted?

  THIRTEEN

  Clint walked Lori back to her bed, and this time the woman stayed there with no complaining or crying. In fact, he could hear her rhythmic breathing before he got back to his bedroll.

  In the morning he woke when she came out of her room, but he remained still and watched her awhile. She puttered around the kitchen and seemed about to begin cooking breakfast.

  The big question was, when she saw him, would she still think he was her husband, Thomas? Or would she remember it was him? Or would she have forgotten the whole thing completely?

  He rolled over, deliberately making noise.

  “Good, you’re awake,” she said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “That would be nice,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “There’s a bucket of water over there,” she said. “You can use it to wash up.”

  “Thanks.”

  He washed his hands, arms, and face, still wondering if she thought he was Thomas or himself.

  He dried off, turned, and walked to the table.

  “I can make some flapjacks,” she said.

  “Great.”

  “And coffee.”

  She came over with a cup and set it down in front of him. He looked up at her, but she never met his eyes.

  “Lori—”

  “Are you going to bury that man?” she asked. “Pettigrew?”

  Okay, she remembered last night, and knew he wasn’t Thomas. But did she remember anything else?

  “The ground’s too hard. I think I’ll just throw him over his saddle and take him to town.”

  “And what will you tell the sheriff?”

  “The truth.”

  “Will I . . . have to come with you?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I think I’ll be able to get the sheriff to come out here and listen to your story.”

  “That’s good.”

  He was starting to smell the flapjacks. Before long he had a stack of them in front of him. She sat across from him with a cup of coffee.

  “You’re not eating?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “I haven’t been hungry for days.”

  He couldn’t blame her for that.

  “Your appetite will come back,” he told her.

  “I hope so,” she said. “You haven’t told me what brought you here.”

  “Well, I saw your lights and they looked so warm—” he started.

  “No, I mean
to Minnesota.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Actually, I’m not going anywhere in particular. Just passing through.”

  “Why would you want to pass through here, in this weather?” she asked, shivering.

  “I’m asking myself the same question,” he said. “Lori, maybe you should come to town with me and see the doctor.”

  “When my husband was alive, I did all the mending,” she said. “It didn’t matter what it was—a shirt, a dress, or a broken bone. I don’t have any broken bones, Clint, just some bruises.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And once you talk to the sheriff, everyone in town will know what happened. I . . . I don’t want them all looking at me.”

  “You’ll have to go to town sometime.”

  “I know,” she said, “just not right now.”

  “It’s your choice.”

  She watched him while he ate, then sat back in her chair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I used to watch my husband eat.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

  She poured him a second cut of coffee.

  “When you introduced yourself last night, I didn’t realize . . . who you really were. I remembered when I woke up this morning.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m really in debt to you.”

  “You would be no matter who I am,” he said.

  “I . . . I know,” she said. “I just . . . appreciate what you did. Another man would have just kept going.”

  “A lot of men, but not all.”

  “Most.”

  She was probably right. Most men, looking in the window and seeing what was going on, would have moved on, or would have knocked instead of kicking the door in.

  “I’ll see about getting the body on the horse,” he said. “I’ll let you know before I leave.”

  “Will you . . . I mean, are you gonna come back?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “My plan was just drift for a while, but the snow and the cold are making me second-guess myself.”

  “But . . . if the sheriff comes back to question me . . . ,” she said.

  “But what, Lori?”

  “I’ll be . . . alone with him.”

  “Do you know the sheriff?”

  “No,” she said. “My husband knew him, though. He used to go into town all the time. I . . . hardly ever went in at all.”

  He thought a moment, then said, “All right, if he wants to come out here right away, I’ll come along with him.”

  “That would make me feel better,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Thanks for breakfast,” he said, standing up. “I better see to the body, and the horses.”

  He stood there a moment. She stared up at him, but said nothing. He couldn’t read anything in her eyes. She seemed to have no knowledge of what had transpired last night.

  He thought that was good—very good.

  FOURTEEN

  Joe Pettigrew smacked the ass of the girl who was crouched on her hands and knees in front of him. He smacked it again, left cheek, so that it glowed rosy red like the right cheek did.

  “Come on, baby,” she said, wiggling her big butt at him.

  “Shut up, whore!” he snapped.

  “I just want you so bad—”

  He slapped her ass, harder this time.

  “Hey!” she cried. “That hurt.”

  “Then shut the hell up!”

  He stroked his penis a few times, then drove it between her thighs and into her as hard as he could. She cried out once, but as soon as he started fucking, she got into the rhythm with him. She drove her ass back into him so he could go as deep as possible.

  “There, bitch!” he growled each time her flesh slapped his. “How’s that, bitch!”

  “Is that all you got?” she asked, making him mad.

  “Oh, you gotta learn, bitch,” he said. “When I’m finished fucking you, you gotta learn.”

  And she would . . .

  “Where’s Joe?” Lyle Pettigrew asked.

  “I think he’s with that whore,” their cousin, the one they called Nutty, said.

  “And where’s your brother?”

  The fourth Pettigrew was Deacon.

  “I think he’s asleep.”

  “Still in bed?”

  “What do we got to do while we’re waitin’ on Jerry?” Nutty Pettigrew asked. “Sleep, or go find a whore. Either one means you’re in bed.”

  Lyle and Nutty were sitting in the saloon, nursing beers while they waited for Jerry, who was five days late, to arrive.

  “What the hell is holdin’ Jerry up?” Nutty asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lyle said. He had more patience than his brothers and cousins, but even he was starting to wonder. “At least there’s no law lookin’ for us in this state,” he said.

  Lyle thought all the other Pettigrews were stupid and, without him, would all probably be in jail. “He better not damage that whore,” he said, referring to his brother Joe.

  “What’s the difference?” Nutty said. “There’s no sheriff in this mud puddle.”

  Lyle dry-washed his face with both hands.

  “And we don’t need to be, Nutty,” he said. “Understand?”

  “Lyle,” Nutty admitted, “I only ever understand half of what you say.”

  Nutty Pettigrew was the enforcer of the gang. He was quick with his fists, faster still with a gun. Lyle’s brain tried to keep his family out of trouble, and when they finally found it, it was Nutty who got them out—following Lyle’s directions.

  “Maybe I’ll use the whore after Joe’s finished,” Nutty said.

  “Never mind,” Lyle said. “You don’t need no whore. Besides, by the time Joe’s done with her she probably won’t be good to nobody for a while.”

  “Why does he like to do that?”

  “Hurt women?”

  Nutty nodded.

  “Because he likes it,” Lyle said. “In fact, he likes it just a little too much.”

  FIFTEEN

  The nearest town was Bedford.

  Clint got the now frozen body of Jerry Pettigrew draped over his horse, then saddled Eclipse. He went back to the house to tell Lori he was ready to go.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

  “No,” she said, hugging herself. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Do you have a gun in the house?”

  “Yes, my husband’s rifle.”

  “Well, carry it with you when you answer the door from now on.”

  “That was my plan.”

  “All right, then. You said the next town is Bedford, right?”

  “That’s where my husband used to go for supplies.”

  “Stay here and wait, Lori, okay?” Clint said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I’ve got nowhere to go, Clint,” she told him. “No friends.”

  He was tempted to force her to come with him, but in the end he mounted up and left, leading Pettigrew’s horse.

  Bedford turned out to be a small town, just a stop in the road for a drink and supplies. It was late afternoon when Clint arrived. They’d had to move slowly in the snow, mainly moving at the body-laden horse’s pace.

  He rode the length of the street and did not see a sheriff’s office. He did, however, spot the undertaker’s, so he went there. He reined Eclipse in, tied off the dead man’s horse, and stepped up to the front door. Written on the glass of the door was the name “WALTER DEADLY.”

  He stepped inside and stomped his feet to get snow off his boots.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  He turned and saw a man of medium height, wearing a suit a banker would be proud of.

  “Are you the undertaker?

  “That’s me.”

  “Walter Deadly?” Clint asked.

  “That is my name.”

  “That’s kind of . . .”

  “Odd?” the man asked. “Yes, many people comment on it.”

  “S
o is that why you became an undertaker?” Clint asked. “Because of your name?”

  The man frowned and said, “I don’t follow.”

  “Never mind. I have a dead man outside.”

  “How did the poor deceased fellow die?” the man asked.

  “I shot him.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “It was self-defense. I notice you don’t have a sheriff in town?”

  “We do, kind of,” Deadly said.

  “But I didn’t see any office.”

  “Yes, well, we haven’t gotten around to building one yet.

  “So where’s the sheriff hang his hat?”

  The undertaker waved his hands and said, “Right here.”

  “You share the office with him?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” The man pushed back his jacket, revealing a tin star pinned to his vest.

  “I share the office, and the job.”

  “Huh,” Clint said, “I’ve never run into anyone who held both those jobs before.”

  “First time for everything,” Deadly said. “So tell me again how you came to shoot this man.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Since you’re the sheriff,” Clint said, after telling Deadly his story, “I expect you’ll want to ride out and question . . . Lori.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Gregory will back up your story, Mr. Adams,” Walter Deadly said.

  “So you’re not going to go out?”

  “I don’t think I need to. Besides, I’m more like the honorary sheriff, you know? Until they can find somebody permanent.”

  “So you’re really the undertaker.”

  “That is my calling, yes sir. I can take the body from you and prepare it for burial. Would you like to pick out a casket?”

  “No,” Clint said, “since I killed him, I guess I might as well pay to have him buried, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend a lot of money. Just . . . wrap him in something.”

  “Very well,” Deadly said. “That will be two dollars, please.”

  “Is that the cheapest you’ve got?”

  “The two-dollar burial is the cheapest, yes.”

  Clint took the money out and handed it over.

  “Come on,” he said. “The body’s a little stiff. I’ll help you bring it in.”