“Damn, I’m glad I seen him,” Crocker said to himself. “If I had’a missed him while I was takin’ a leak, that would have been one expensive pee.” He giggled at the thought.
Crocker moved back toward the street and watched until the man with the satchel got closer. Then, when he thought he was close enough, he stepped farther back in between the two buildings, and lit a match.
Kingsley saw the flare of the match, then stepped up to the corner of the building and pulled his gun from its holster. Turning it around, he grabbed the barrel of his pistol and waited.
He heard the sound of footfalls on the boardwalk, gauging by the sound how close Duff was coming. When he knew he was just about there, he raised his pistol and, as MacCallister passed by, he brought the butt of the pistol down on his head. MacCallister dropped to the boardwalk and didn’t move.
Quickly, Kingsley grabbed the briefcase and opened it, just as Crocker came running across the street.
“Did you kill ’im?” Crocker asked.
“I don’t know,” Kingsley said. He pulled out a little packet of bills, then closed the attaché case before Crocker got there. He counted off five twenties and handed them to Crocker.
“How much money is there?” Crocker asked.
“What does it matter to you? I promised you a hundred dollars, here it is. And all you had to do was tell me when he was comin’.”
“Yeah, I guess you are right,” Crocker said.
“Ain’t no guessin’ to it,” Kingsley said. “Here’s your money.”
With the briefcase firmly in his grasp, Kingsley hurried on down Dodge Street. Crocker watched until he disappeared in the darkness.
“Damn, I better get out of here my ownself,” Crocker said aloud. Just as he started to leave, he saw a piece of yellow ribbon lying on the sidewalk, some feet away from the man Kingsley had hit. Thinking it may have been dropped as someone was leaving Sheinberg’s Mercantile, he walked over to pick it up. When he did so, he noticed that it had a lock of hair attached to it. He could also smell perfume on it.
“Well, now, lookie here,” he said. “I wonder what woman dropped this.”
“Get up. Get up and get on out of here. I don’t need some drunk lyin’ up agin’ the front of my store. You’ll be runnin’ off my customers.”
Duff MacCallister opened his eyes and saw that he was, indeed, lying on the boardwalk. It was daylight, and he had no idea why he was lying here. The last thing he could remember was walking from the depot toward the hotel.
“Get up, I tell you,” the man said with an angry voice. He hit at Duff with the straw end of his broom. “Get up before I sweep you off this walk with the rest of the trash.”
Duff sat up, and when he did, he was so dizzy that when he tried to stand, he lost his balance and sat back down, hard.
“Look at you. You’re still drunk.”
Duff stood up, bracing himself against the wall of the store as he did so. What was he doing lying on the boardwalk? He put his hand around to the back of his head, then winced when he touched a knot. When he brought his hand back around, there was blood on his fingers.
“My money!” he said. Looking around for his briefcase, he saw that it was gone. “I’ve been robbed.”
“Mister, you mean you weren’t drunk last night?” the storekeeper asked.
“No,” Duff said. “I came in on the train and I was going to the hotel. I don’t remember anything after that. I must have been hit over the head, and whoever did it took my money.”
Duff reached around to his back pocket and felt his wallet. Taking it out he opened it and saw that the money there was untouched.
“Don’t look to me like they took your money,” the storekeeper said.
“Not this money,” Duff said. “The money I had in my briefcase. Where is the constable?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The police, or town marshal, or whatever law you have.”
“We have a town marshal. His office is right over there,” the store owner said, pointing across the street.
“Thank you.”
Duff started across the street, but again a wave of dizziness overtook him and he had to grab hold of the post that supported the overhanging roof.
“Are you going to be all right? Do you need help walking?” The tone of the storekeeper’s voice had changed from one of irritation to consideration.
“Thank you, I’ll be all right,” Duff said. He stood for just a moment until the dizziness passed, then he crossed the street and went into the marshal’s office. There were two men inside, both drinking coffee. One was sitting behind the desk with his feet on the desk, the other was sitting in a chair that was tipped back against the wall. Evidently, one of them had said something funny, because both men were laughing when Duff stepped inside.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” the man behind the desk asked. He didn’t take his feet down.
“Aye, or at least ’tis hoping I am, that you can be of help,” Duff answered. “I was robbed last night.”
“Where?”
Duff looked through the window toward the store where he had been when he regained consciousness. The storekeeper was still sweeping the porch and walk. He read the sign on the store.
“Watkins’ Mercantile,” he said.
“Wait a minute, you say you were robbed at Watkins’ Mercantile store last night? What time?”
“Just before midnight.”
“Mister, what were you doing in his store at midnight? I know for a fact that Billy closes his place at seven o’clock.”
“I did not say I was in the store. It was at the store, I was. I left the train at half-past eleven, and was walking to the hotel. I woke up but a moment ago, lying on the boardwalk in front of the store.”
“Hey, that’s right, Marshal Bivens, I was goin’ to say somethin’ about that only I forgot,” the man in the tipped chair said. “I seen him lyin’ over there this mornin’ when I come in to work, but I just figured he was drunk. I was goin’ to give him a chance to wake up on his own, only if he didn’t, I was goin’ to go over and wake him up myself and put him in jail. So, you’re sayin’ that was you I seen lyin’ drunk on the walk in front of Sheinberg’s?”
“Aye, ’twas me you saw, but I was not drunk.” He bent his head down to show them the lump.
“Look at this, Deputy Archer. He took quite a lick,” Bivens said.
“It’s no wonder you lay there ’til dawn,” Archer said. “In fact, it’s a wonder you wasn’t kilt.”
“Like as not, it was somebody that got drunk in the OK Saloon last night,” Marshal Bivens said. “Prob’ly got drunk and lost some money playin’ cards, so he figured to make it up by stealing a few bucks off someone that just got off the train. I’ll do some checkin’ around. How much money did he get?”
“Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars,” Duff said.
Archer’s chair came down with a bang on the floor at the same time Bivens swept his feet down off the desk. Both peace officers looked at Duff in openmouthed shock.
“Wait a minute. How much money did you say he got?” Bivens asked.
“Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars,” Duff repeated.
“Mister, uh, what is your name?”
“MacCallister. Duff Tavish MacCallister.”
“Mr. MacCallister, excuse me for askin’, but just what in hell were you a’ doin’ carryin’ so damn much money? Do you always carry that much with you?”
“I am a rancher in Chugwater, Wyoming. I was on my way to Kansas City to buy five hundred head of cattle. That’s why I was carrying so much money.”
“I see. Well, whoever stole it hit the jackpot, didn’t they? I mean, here they figured to get maybe twenty or thirty dollars and they got over fifteen thousand,” Bivens said. They got lucky.”
Duff shook his head. “No, ’twas not luck, I’m thinking. Not at all. Whoever did it knew I would have the money, and they knew I would be here in the m
iddle of the night last night, to change trains today to complete the trip to Kansas City.”
“You don’t say,” Bivens said. “Now would you like to tell me just how in the Sam Hill you come up with that idea?”
Duff pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it to show to the marshal. “I have two hundred thirty-seven dollars in my wallet. That’s exactly how much I had in my wallet when I stepped down from the train. If someone just happened to rob me, he would have gone directly to my wallet, and probably wouldn’t even have looked in the briefcase I was carrying.”
Marshal Bivens stroked his chin. “I don’t know,” he said. “You may have a point there. But how would anyone in Fremont know that? You don’t know anyone in town, do you?”
“I don’t know a soul. And I doubt that the person, or persons, who robbed me even live here.”
“All right, if what you say is true, if someone was lyin’ in wait for you here, how did they know about you?”
“That’s what I’m going to have to find out,” Duff said.
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Duff admitted. “I’ve got the what I need to do all figured out. What I don’t have figured out is how I’m going to do it.”
“I’ll give you what help I can,” Marshal Bivens said. “But you got to understand that if the fella that done this is outside the town limits, there really ain’t nothin’ I can do.”
“I know,” Duff said. “I need to get myself a hotel room, and I also need to send a couple of telegrams.”
“The telegraph office is in the depot,” Marshal Bivens said.
“Thank you.”
There was a train just pulling into the station when Duff stepped into the depot. The train was going west, and for a moment, Duff considered getting back on it. But only for a moment. He stood back against the depot with his arms folded across his chest, watching as the arriving passengers disembarked and the departing passengers boarded. A man and his wife got on the train. So did an attractive young woman, after a tearful good-bye to her parents. Duff overheard enough of their preboard-ing conversation to know that she was going farther west to teach school, and Duff thought of Meghan and how it must have been for her when she left her home to come west.
A young man, who had no one to see him off, got on the train. Duff watched him board, wondering if, perhaps, he might be the one who had robbed him last night.
Why couldn’t he remember anything? He had no memory at all between the time he left the train, and when he awoke this morning.
He wanted to go grab the young man before he boarded and search him to see if he had his money, but he knew that he couldn’t do that.
He felt a queasiness in his stomach, and it wasn’t all from the blow on his head. He had lost a lot of money, a year’s work in the mine, and perhaps the future of his ranch.
The engineer blew the whistle for two long blasts, signaling the conductor that the brakes had been released and he was about to proceed. The actuating cylinder puffed loudly, then there was a series of very quick hisses as the great driver wheels spun in place a couple of times before gaining traction. Then the train, with noisy, steady gushes of steam, moved forward, pulling out all the slack between the cars with a succession of rattles. Gradually, the train began increasing speed as it hurried out of the station.
Duff went inside and, locating the telegraph office, walked over to it.
“I would be for sending a telegram if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, sir, there’s the form,” the telegrapher said.
MR. JAY MONTGOMERY, KANSAS CITY CATTLE EXCHANGE
HAVE ENCOUNTERED UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTY. WILL BE DELAYED.
DUFF MACCALLISTER.
The second telegram he sent back to Chugwater to Elmer Gleason.
ELMER. HAVE RUN INTO A BIT OF A PROBLEM. PUT SKY ON THE TRAIN, SEND HIM TO ME IN FREMONT, NEBRASKA. DUFF.
Duff considered sending another one to Meghan, but knew that Elmer would tell, not only Meghan, but Biff and Fred as well.
“That will be sixty-six cents,” the telegrapher said.
Duff paid the fee, then, getting his luggage, went outside and hired a buckboard to take him and his luggage to the hotel. There he secured a room where he washed the wound on his head. It wasn’t until then, that he realized he had lost the yellow ribbon Meghan had given him. Compared to the loss of all his money, losing the ribbon was an insignificant thing, but he found it upsetting, nevertheless.
Chapter Twenty
After taking his lunch in the hotel restaurant, Duff walked down to the OK Saloon.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, coming down to stand in front of Duff. He took a towel from his shoulder, wiped the bar, then flipped the towel back over his shoulder.
“Would you be for havin’ Scotch whiskey?” Duff asked.
“Beer and Old Overholt.”
“I’ll have a beer,” Duff said, putting a nickel on the bar.
The bartender drew a mug of beer from the barrel behind the bar, then set it in front of him.
“I’ve not seen you before. Just get off the train, did you?”
“Aye, last night,” Duff said. Picking up the beer, Duff turned his back to the bar and looked out over the customers. There was a game of cards going on at one of the tables and one man seemed to be the big winner. The winner let out a whoop as he raked in the pot.
“Whooee, boys, that’s the third hand I’ve won today!”
“What’s got into you, Crocker? You ain’t never won three hands in one game.”
“He ain’t winnin’ these. He’s buyin’ ’em,” one of the players around the table said.
“Yeah, and what I want to know is, where did he get the money to buy the hands? Hell, most of the time the son of a bitch is here beggin’ for drinks. Yesterday he didn’t have two pennies to rub together.”
“I got the money from beating people like you in poker,” Crocker replied, arrogantly. “Yes, sir, I’m ridin’ a lucky streak now.” Crocker picked up a yellow ribbon and held it to his nose. “And this is my lucky charm.”
Before Crocker could even put the ribbon back down on the table, Duff closed the distance between them. He grabbed the front of Crocker’s shirt with both hands and lifted him from his chair, knocking the chair over in the process as he literally carried a protesting Crocker over to the bar.
“Here! What’s goin’ on here?” one of the other players shouted in alarm. All the other players leaped up from the table.
Paying no attention to the shouts of surprise and alarm, Duff slammed Crocker back against the bar. Then, reaching over to grab a whiskey bottle, he broke it on the bar with a spray of whiskey, shattered pieces of glass flying from the point of impact. What he had remaining in his hand was the neck of the bottle and several wicked shards. He placed those shards against Crocker’s neck, then pushed the bottle hard enough to break the skin.
“Where did you get it?” Duff asked.
“Where did I get what? What are you talking about?” Crocker cried out in alarm.
Duff shoved the sharp edges of the bottle just a little deeper into Crocker’s neck, enough to be painful, and to start bleeding—though not enough to really harm him.
“Oww!” Crocker called out. He started to raise his hands in protest.
“Don’t be for movin’ now, you lowlife scoundrel, or so help me God, I’ll open up your throat like I’m gutting a swine,” Duff said. “Now, I’ll ask you again. Where did you get that yellow ribbon?”
“I found it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Mr. MacCallister, you want to pull that bottle out of Crocker’s neck?”
Duff recognized Deputy Archer’s voice, so he pulled the bottle out, then stepped back, still glaring at Crocker.
Crocker put his hands to his throat. There was some blood, but not much.
“MacCallister? You are MacCallister?” Crocker asked.
“Aye. And how is it that you k
now my name?” Duff replied.
“I don’t know—I,” Crocker started, then he stopped in mid-sentence. “I just now heard the deputy call you that.”
“You are lying. You spoke the name as if you had heard it before. Where have you heard it? How did you know I was carrying the money?”
“What is all this about, MacCallister?” Deputy Archer asked.
Duff walked over to the card table. Meghan’s yellow ribbon was lying there by the pile of money in front of where Crocker had been sitting. He picked it up, then showed it to the deputy.
“Whoever robbed me last night took this from me,” he said.
“I didn’t take it offen you. It was was just layin’ there on the porch,” Crocker said.
“It was laying by me?”
“Yeah, it was just ...” Crocker started, then he put his hand over his mouth. “I mean, no, I didn’t say it was layin’ by you, all I said was it was just layin’ there on the porch.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“What money?”
“I heard one of the players say that yesterday you didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Today you seem to be flush. Where did you get the money?”
“Yeah, Crocker, that’s a good question,” Deputy Archer said. “Where did you get the money?”
“I earned it.”
“How?”
“I just earned it, that’s all.”
“You’re lying,” Duff said again. Duff stepped up to Crocker, pulled his pistol, and stuck the barrel into Crocker’s mouth. He pulled the hammer back.
Crocker tried to protest, but with the pistol in his mouth, he couldn’t say one word.
“Take your gun out of his mouth, MacCallister,” the deputy said. “He can’t talk as long as you have that pistol shoved halfway down his throat.”
Duff pulled his pistol out, and Crocker gagged and coughed, coughing up blood from where the gunsight had bloodied the top of his mouth.
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Page 17