The Hanging of Samuel Ash

by Sheldon Russell

  Hook checked his watch: six o’clock. He put on his shoes and went to the park bathroom to wash up. Once back at the room, he checked the clip in his P.38, put on his coat, and stepped out into the evening. He took a deep breath of fresh air.

  Once in the alley across from the pool hall, he hunkered down. Music from the jukebox drifted into the evening, and he could smell hamburgers cooking from the café down the street. Too bad he didn’t have time to eat. Maybe later.

  He’d been there fifteen, twenty minutes, when he spotted Buck Steele’s pickup truck pulling in. Steele got out and cleared his jaw. He wore a western hat and a blue denim shirt. Pulling his shoulders back, he disappeared through the door.

  Hook struck out afoot for the orphanage. He’d considered calling Celia but thought better of it. If he screwed this up, she’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and she’d been too helpful for him to let that happen.

  By the time he reached the drive, night had fallen, and the orphanage windows lit the darkness. The sounds of cattle rose up from the barn, and the smell of smoke from the incinerator hung in the air. As he approached, he could hear the children inside the orphanage and the clinking of supper dishes.

  He made his way around to the barn, double-checking to make certain the gate had been secured and that no lights came from Steele’s room. He stepped into the barn, the smells of cattle and hay thick in the stillness, and closed the door behind him. Though nearly black inside the barn, he remembered the direction and worked his way to the back.

  When he reached Buck’s room, he paused, listened, and stared into the blackness for any signs of life. Some might say he broke in, though entering a barn could hardly be criminal, not seriously criminal at least. In any case, he’d be just as dead in the event someone shot him.

  When he opened Steele’s door, light bled through a small window in the back of the room. A single bunk had been pushed against the wall, and clothes hung from a shower rod jimmied in between the window frame. A half-empty whiskey bottle sat on a packing crate next to the bed, and Steele’s cattle whip leaned against the wall.

  Hook searched the room, looking for anything that might give him a clue to Buck Steele. Sometimes what he didn’t find gave him the best insight into a man. In this case, there were no books, no magazines, no newspapers, no signs of curiosity or interest in anything beyond a whiskey bottle and a cattle whip.

  Hook scanned the room again, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness. What did a man like Steele have in common with Bain Eagleman? What accounted for Eagleman’s willingness to hire an expensive lawyer to defend Buck’s brawl with the sheriff? Why would Eagleman jeopardize his position in the community for this guy? It didn’t click.

  He’d decided to leave when his eye caught something white sticking out of the pocket of one of Buck Steele’s jackets. He pulled out a letter and another piece of paper that had been shoved into the pocket. He started to read them when a light swept by the window from the driveway.

  Putting the material into his pocket, he worked his way out of the room, eased the door shut, and hid in the shadows of the stanchions.

  Within moments the barn door opened. A flashlight panned the area, and Buck Steele stepped in behind it. He opened the door to his room, belched, and clicked on the light. When he’d closed the door, Hook slipped out and headed down the drive. He’d gone only a few yards when something ran up beside him from out of the darkness. Chills raced down Hook’s spine as he struggled to see what or who came at him.

  “Damn it, Mixer,” he said, whispering. “Can’t you ever do what you’re told?”

  * * *

  Back at his room, Hook turned on his lamp, poured himself a Beam, and took out the items he’d borrowed from Steele’s coat pocket, an opened envelope that had been addressed to Lucy Barker, c/o The Spirit of Agape Orphanage, and a receipt for thirteen dollars made out to Bain Eagleman from Dr. Fred Betcher, Cherokee General Hospital.

  Hook took the letter from the envelope:

  Dear Lucy:

  I have been thinking about you ever since I ran away from Agape. You probably have heard by now what happened at the gas station in Cherokee, and I know you must be ashamed of me. I can’t explain why I did it, except to say that I had to get away from there before I went crazy. When I asked you to run away with me, and you said no, I figured there had to be someone else. I couldn’t take that.

  I joined the army under the name of Samuel Ash and saw some really crazy things. They gave me a Bronze Star, but I don’t really know why. Most of the time I was just scared and homesick for you.

  I’ve been working on the signal gang for the Santa Fe out of Clovis. The boss has me painting stuff and by myself most of the time because of the strikes.

  Payday is only two days away, and I’ll have enough money together to come back. Even though I’ve done some bad things, I’ve changed a lot since being in the war. Maybe now you’ll see me as a grown man instead of just a dumb kid.

  My boss is sending me to the potash spur out of Carlsbad to paint the wigwag signal this week. I’ll see you soon because there is an important question I want to ask. Love, Bruce

  Bain Eagleman had personally paid for her pregnancy test, so he damn sure knew she was pregnant. Hook poured himself another Beam. Steel or someone had somehow intercepted this letter from Bruce Mason, so he knew not only that Bruce intended on coming back but also where to find him. Maybe Bruce Mason’s return to Agape was the last thing anyone wanted.

  Hook opened the door and let Mixer out. He went back in and studied the letter. Eagleman had been conducting a board meeting the same day Bruce Mason had been hung. He couldn’t have been the one who killed Mason, not personally anyway. On the other hand, Buck Steele, who claimed to have been in Nevada, could have been doing Eagleman’s handiwork for him, and the fact that Eagleman knew a body had been shipped to Carmen could well account for Hook’s string of bad luck as escort.

  Mixer scratched at the door, and Hook got up to let him in. He sat down and picked up the letter again. And Steele had the medical receipt. Where did he get it? Perhaps the same place he got the letter.

  He finished off his drink. Maybe Skink had it right. Maybe Steele had his reasons for riffling through Eagleman’s trash. With this kind of evidence, he definitely had Eagleman by the short hair.

  Hook folded the letter and put it in his pocket. At least now he knew what he needed, and he knew that Eagleman and Steele were ass-deep in the middle of it. But he couldn’t make an arrest, not yet, because the big question still remained unanswered: where the hell was Lucy Barker?

  38

  HOOK AWAKENED EARLY, his head cranking at full throttle. He made coffee and watched the sun come up. He opened the front door for Skink, who had come in late yet again.

  “How the hell you going to run a business if you can’t open up on time, Skink?”

  Skink rubbed at his eyes. “I didn’t get much sleep, Hook.”

  “You know what I told you about that,” Hook said, handing him his coffee.

  “Naw, that’s not it. Something woke me up, and I had trouble getting back to sleep. Then when I did, I dreamed Mr. Eagleman kicked me out of the orphanage, and I had no place to go. I just walked around looking for something to eat, but nobody would give me anything.”

  “That’s pretty rough, I mean, being abandoned on the streets of Carmen like that,” Hook said.

  “And then I just starved, see, my body lying out there on the sidewalk. People came by and spit on me for messing up their town.”

  “I gather being a railroad bull is no longer on your list of occupations?” Hook said.

  “I been hoping for something a little more exciting, Hook, no offense. If I wanted to hang around Carmen and sleep in a shoe shop, then I might just as well be what I am.”

  Hook sipped his coffee. “It’s a point, I guess,” he said. “Being a yard dog can get downright tedious.”

  “Maybe I should own my own orphanage. I know a lot about the
m. If my kids didn’t say ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ and do their chores on time, I’d make ’em walk the circle. I’d hire Buck Steele to keep watch and pop their earlobes off with his whip every time one of them stopped.”

  Hook poured himself another cup of coffee and studied Skink.

  “You really think Buck Steele watches the kids?”

  “All the time,” he said.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Just that once when he watched me,” he said.

  “Did he turn you in to Eagleman?”

  “Well, no, but what else would he be doing out there?”

  “I don’t know, Skink. I’ve got a call to make. Talk to you later.”

  * * *

  Hook called Popeye and waited for an answer. “Clovis,” Popeye said.

  “Popeye, Hook. Is that kid there yet?”

  “He’s eyeing my peanuts right now,” Popeye said.

  “Put him on, will you?”

  Hook waited for him to come on. “Junior Monroe,” Junior said.

  “Junior, I want you to go to the Waynoka machine shop and check on my caboose. Eddie says it’s ready to move. See if you can’t line up someone to tow it back to Clovis.”

  “But, Hook, I just got here.”

  “You’re a yard dog, Junior. Yard dogs are on the move. It’s how we solve crimes. You’re not supposed to sit around drinking coffee all day like an operator.”

  “Alright, Hook. How am I supposed to get back there?”

  “Just like you got to Clovis. There’s a westbound at six in the evening and an eastbound at two in the morning, when they’re on time, which isn’t that often. First, you jump on the eastbound, and then when you get to Waynoka, jump off. I swear, how hard can it be?”

  “That westbound dragged me halfway across the state, Hook, and then I had to sleep in the elevator. I found a wheat seed up my nose this morning. Another day or two and the thing might have sprouted and killed me.”

  “When you get there, check on my books. Those machinists been hanging around my caboose.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about a machinist stealing your books, Hook.”

  “Just do it, Junior. If I wanted a lecture, I’d call Eddie Preston.”

  * * *

  Hook hung up just as Patch came in the front door. “Morning, Patch,” he said.

  “I guess you’ve had your coffee and made your phone calls?” he said.

  “That would be correct.”

  “And I guess Skink here has had his morning nap?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Hook said. “I’ve been busy conducting business.”

  “Been at the pool hall, they tell me,” Patch said. “How is it a man can draw a salary while shooting pool?”

  “Some people get paid for doing, some for thinking,” Hook said. “I get paid for thinking.”

  Patch looked at Skink, who had searched out the broom and was busy sweeping the floor. “And some for sleeping,” he said.

  “I’d like to stay and schmooze, Patch, but there’s crime in this world that needs solving. By the way, there’s a cricket in my room the size of a small dog, and it cuts into my thinking time.”

  “Well, I’ll ask it to please leave so that it doesn’t disturb your thinking. We wouldn’t want to set off a crime wave in Carmen, would we?”

  Hook went out the back way, leaving the road-rail parked across the street, and struck out for the Spirit of Agape Cemetery. Mixer followed behind, stopping now and again to chew at something lodged between his toes.

  The sun bore down hot by the time he reached the cemetery gate. Heat ribbons spiraled up from the rows of stones. Hook waited for Mixer to come in.

  The wheat fields surrounding the little cemetery had been plowed, and they stretched off to the horizon like a red blanket. Dust devils, born from the heat, rose up and danced over the fields, disappearing into the blue distance.

  Hook whistled Mixer in. “Come on,” he said, pulling his ears. “Let’s walk the circle.”

  On the far side of the cemetery, Hook stopped while Mixer marked a fence post to his liking. Hook moved to the shade of an old juniper and sat down. From there he could see the mound of cemetery fill dirt, grass growing on its top.

  Mixer circled the mound to sniff out past traffic and then stopped in the weeds just beyond. He circled back to where he’d started and kicked dirt between his back legs.

  Hook went over to him and knelt down. The grass had grown tall in the loosened soil, and he could see a sunken place in the earth.

  “What is it, boy?” Hook asked.

  Mixer dug at the ground, barked, and then dug again.

  Hook sat back on his heels. Mixer, as undisciplined an animal that ever lived, could drive a man to distraction with his antics, but this much Hook knew: his nose never lied.

  39

  HOOK SAT IN the office while the sheriff washed his hands in the back. When he came out, he’d taken off his hat, exposing the sunburn line across his forehead.

  He sat down at his desk. “Okay, now what is it you wanted to see me about?”

  Hook started with Bruce Mason and how the body had never been Samuel Ash at all and how Lucy Barker had never run away with him like everyone had thought.

  The sheriff leaned in on his elbows. “For Christ’s sake, Bruce Mason is over at the funeral home now?”

  “That’s right,” Hook said.

  “Well, I’m glad you got around to telling me,” he said. “Just ’cause I paint houses don’t mean I ain’t the sheriff, Runyon.”

  “You’re right about that, and I apologize. I just didn’t have enough of this put together for it to make sense.”

  “And you do now?”

  Hook took out the letter from Bruce and the payment receipt showing where Bain Eagleman had sprung for the pregnancy test. The sheriff read them over and laid them on the desk in front of him.

  “Are you suggesting that Lucy Barker was carrying Bain Eagleman’s baby?”

  “That’s what I believe to be true,” Hook said.

  “And what about this letter?” he asked.

  “When Eagleman intercepted Bruce’s letter, he realized he was about to be exposed, that everyone would know Lucy had never run away at all. He had to do something about it.”

  The sheriff took out his bandanna and dabbed the perspiration out of the ding in his head.

  “And so you think he killed Bruce?”

  “Had him killed. That letter has been in the possession of Buck Steele. I believe Buck killed Bruce Mason and then stole this letter and the receipt from Eagleman for insurance.

  “Later, Eagleman found out from Juice Dawson at the mortuary about Bruce’s body being delivered back here to Carmen. He sent Buck Steele on vacation to try to stop me.”

  “And how did you wind up with this letter?” He shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know. Clearly, this suggests that Bain Eagleman might have taken advantage of a girl in his charge, but, if your information is correct, she was of consenting age at the time. It’s shit, I admit, but hardly evidence of murder. Without a body, all this is speculation. Without a body, there’s just no crime.”

  “And that’s why I’m here,” Hook said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think I know where Lucy Barker is buried.”

  The sheriff reached for his pocketknife and peeled a layer of paint off his thumbnail.

  He looked up at Hook. “And just where would that be, if I may ask?”

  “In the Spirit of Agape Cemetery.”

  The sheriff closed up his knife and dropped it into his pocket.

  “Now that’s convenient, ain’t it?” he said. “I take it you’ve seen her body?”

  “Not exactly, but my dog, Mixer, caught the scent of something buried out there.”

  “I hate to bring this up, but there are a number of folks buried out there.”

  “Eight feet down, embalmed, and in caskets. Skink says he saw Buck out there the very same nig
ht Bruce and Lucy were to have run away. It’s possible that Buck killed her and buried her in a shallow grave, figuring it would be the last place someone would look.”

  The sheriff put his feet up on the desk, exposing the holes in the bottoms of his boots.

  “That’s one hell of an idea, Hook. Now, I don’t mean to be too wary about all this, but Bain Eagleman dragged my ass up and down Main over that foreman of his. I’m not anxious to stir something up I can’t prove.”

  Hook lit a cigarette. “There’s only one way to know, Sheriff.”

  “And what if that dog of yours is just hot for badger holes? What then?”

  “I’ll shoot him and swear the whole crazy notion came from me alone.”

  The sheriff dropped his feet and walked to the window, looking out toward the Agape cemetery.

  “I’ll make a call, see if I can’t get a warrant. You go get the digger, and I’ll meet the two of you out there.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said.

  “You and that dog better be right about this, Runyon.”

  * * *

  Hook picked up the road-rail and drove over to the mortuary. Juice Dawson led him into the waiting room. He had on an apron and smelled of formaldehyde and cigarette smoke.

  “Thought you might be one of Mable Engle’s family,” he said. “She fell out of her porch swing and broke her leg. Died this morning.”

  “They didn’t shoot her, did they?” Hook asked.

  Juice looked at him. “It’s rare we shoot people with a broken leg in Carmen. Now what brings you here? You figure out where you want that boy buried?”

  Hook sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs and laid out the story.

  “I’ll be damned,” Juice said. “Bain Eagleman?”

  “The sheriff wants us to meet him out at the cemetery.”

  “Are you certain it’s a body?”

  “That’s what my dog claims. If he’s wrong, he’s going the way of Mable Engle.”

  “That body would have been there for a spell, if it’s there at all,” he said.

  “Ever since Bruce Mason robbed that station,” Hook said.