Within the next three days there were two burials, but only one funeral. Bart Evans was put in the ground on the very afternoon of the day he was killed, with only the two grave diggers present. They dug the hole, lowered the plain, unadorned pine box into the ground, then shoveled the dirt back in. He lay next to Julius Jackson, Al Short, and Jim Blunt, and like their graves, his was marked only by a board on which his name, and nothing else, had been painted.
Three days later, the entire town turned out for the funeral of Deputy Frank J. Mullins. His mother and father lived in town, where his father owned and operated Mullins Meat Market. Harold Mullins was a former Texas Ranger and his background had been the inspiration for Frank to become a law officer.
Deputy Mullins had been engaged to Jennie Guthrie, and she was at the graveside now, wearing a black dress and veil as she stood next to Frank Mullins’s mother.
At the request of Harold Mullins, Duff had agreed to play “Amazing Grace” on the pipes, and when he showed up at the cemetery he was wearing the kilt of the Black Watch, complete with the sgian dubh, and the Victoria Cross. The long, drawn-out, plaintive notes of the music drifted over the cemetery and into the town, so that even the very few who had not turned out for the funeral could hear the mournful chords.
When the music was completed, the Episcopal priest committed Frank Mullins’s remains to the ground.
“Thou only art immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return. For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying, ‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’
“Receive our brother Frank Mullins into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.”
At the invitation of Deputy Mullins’s parents, a tearful Jennie Guthrie dropped the first handful of dirt onto the casket.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Here’s another one,” the mail clerk said to the postmaster. “It has the same handwriting, going to the same person up in Bordeaux—Andrew McCloud. And this one is just like all the others. It don’t have no return address either.”
“Why does that make you curious?” the postmaster asked.
“First of all, because in all the time I been here, there ain’t been no more than three or four letters a month that go up to Bordeaux. But since this person started writing to Andrew McCloud, why, we been sending one or two a week up there.”
“You should be glad postage has picked up. That’s what pays our salary,” the postmaster replied.
“Yeah, but here is the thing. There has never, in all the time these here letters have been goin’ up there, been one letter that has ever come back from this McCloud person.”
The postmaster laughed. “Corey, I don’t know if you’re playing detective or planning on writing a book about it. Don’t you know we’re not supposed to get personally involved with the mail? Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay us from the swift completion of our appointed rounds.”
Corey put the mysterious letter in the bag that the mail courier would deliver north when he left on his route today.
Johnny Taylor was in Marshal C.F. Cline’s office, and he wasn’t happy.
“I thought you said Elmer Gleason was a friend of yours, that we could trust him.”
“I never said you could trust him. All I said was that we had done some business together in the past.”
“He’s the son of a bitch that betrayed us,” Johnny said. “He was workin’ with the law all the time. I should have expected something when he stopped to take care of his lame horse. That horse wasn’t no more lame than I was.”
“How do you know he was one of the ones who ambushed you? Did you see him?”
“No, it was too dark.”
“Then how do you know that he was one of them? It could be that the town is just postin’ guards now, after the killin’ of those two men last week.”
“I know because I just picked up a letter at the post office. We have a friend in Chugwater who has been keeping us posted.”
“That’s sort of risky, isn’t it? Getting mail from Chugwater? You are a wanted man, Johnny. You need to be careful about doing things like that. I would think the post office would get on to that and tell the sheriff.”
“The letter don’t come to me, personal. It’s addressed to Andrew McCloud. I got me a box down at the post office under that name.”
“Ha,” Cline said. “That’s pretty smart. You got someone in Chugwater, huh? Who is he?”
“I ain’t goin’ to tell you,” Johnny said. “Like you said, I’ve got to be careful. Especially after you set me up with Gleason, like you done.”
“I didn’t set you up.”
“Whether you did or didn’t, I don’t trust you anymore.”
Cline laughed. “It don’t seem to me like you got much choice in the matter. As long as you are living here in Bordeaux, you have to trust me.”
“That’s just it. After gettin’ this letter today, I don’t trust anybody anymore. We’re pullin’ out of here today.”
“It’s probably just as well,” Cline said. “You and the others are getting too dangerous, even for Bordeaux. And when it gets dangerous for you, then it gets even more dangerous for me. You just have your own crimes to deal with. I got the crimes of ever’ damn body in Bordeaux weighing down on me.”
“You get paid well enough. Most city marshals make what? Fifty, sixty dollars a month? You’re makin’ two hundred dollars a month.”
“It ain’t like I’m not earnin’ it. Most of the time I can keep the outside law out of here, by throwin’ them a bone ever’ now an’ ag’in. But you boys have done killed how many now? Three? Four? Five?”
“Four. One in the bank, two last week, and one night before last.”
“How do you know you kilt one night before last? I thought you said it was too dark to see.”
“It was in the letter.”
When Johnny returned to the Red Eye Saloon, the only one sitting at the table was Clay Calhoun.
“Where are the others?”
“They’re gettin’ ready to leave,” Calhoun said. “You did say we was goin’ to be leavin’ today, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Listen, uh, Johnny, me ’n’ you is the only two left from the bank robbery.”
“Yes.”
“What I’m saying is, what about Al, Bart, and Julius’s share of the robbery money? I mean it’s still buried out there with the rest of the money, ain’t it?”
“It’s still there.”
What’s goin’ to happen to it now?”
“What do you say that me and you split that money even between us?” Johnny asked with a smile.
Calhoun returned the smile. “Now that’s an idea I like.”
“I thought you would.”
“What about Blunt or Thomas or Harper? You don’t plan to give them none of it?”
“Why should I? They wasn’t a part of the bank robbery, was they?”
“You’re right,” Calhoun said. “They wasn’t none of them with us. Well, I’d better get ready to pull out of here. I just wanted to talk to you about this.”
“You’re a good and loyal man, Clay,” Johnny said. “And I like to reward men that are good and loyal.”
When Calhoun left, Johnny pulled out the letter and began reading it again. He paid particular attention to the letter, because it seemed to offer a suggestion as to what to do next.
I suppose that you did not know that Vi Winslow was Elmer Gleason’s special girlfriend. Now Gleason is a hero in town for warning the marshal that you were coming, and for shooting at you all as you rode into town.
I don’t think killing Vi Winslow would have made the marshal let Emile go, anyway. There is only one person in town who has that much sway with the marshal. He is the only person who could sway Marshal Ferrell to free Emile. That person would be D
uff MacCallister, and I know this is true because I have seen, with my own eyes, the influence Duff MacCallister is able to exert over the marshal.
Don’t kill MacCallister as you have been trying to do. Killing him would be the wrong thing to do, for then you would lose the only source of persuasion you might have to be able to manipulate. If you want my idea, you will stop trying to kill MacCallister and take his girlfriend instead. His girlfriend is Meagan Parker, the woman that owns the dress-making shop. If you was to take and hold her, and threaten to kill her if he don’t make the marshal turn Emile loose, Emile would be turned loose.
“Do me a favor,” Marshal Ferrell told Duff, when Duff told him that he was about to ride up to Bordeaux to have a look around.
“And what would that be?”
“Don’t go ridin’ in there with your badge pinned to your shirt, shining in the sun. The word is that there is a one-hundred-dollar reward to anyone who kills a visiting lawmen. I don’t know if it’s true, or if that is just something that has been put out to discourage lawmen from visiting.”
“Good advice,” Duff said. “Before I leave, I’m going to have a visit with Biff Johnson. I’ll be for passing myself off as a purveyor of spirits.”
“The first thing you have to learn is, you aren’t a purveyor of spirits,” Biff said with a laugh. “You are a whiskey drummer. You got that?”
“Aye, a whiskey drummer.”
“You’ll need a sample satchel,” Biff said. “I’ve got two or three here, and I’ll get one all fixed up for you.”
“Scotch,” Duff said. “If I’m to be a purveyor of spirits, then I’ll be promoting the virtues of Scotch.”
“What are you going to be?” Biff challenged.
“Aye, I forgot. I’ll not be purveying spirits, I’ll be drumming whiskey.”‘
Biff looked at Elmer and groaned. “He’s hopeless,” he said.
“Here now, frien’, I ain’t no kind of a purveyor, no how. I’m a whiskey drummer, and tha’s a fac’ pure ’n’ simple,” Duff said, perfectly duplicating the Western slang and accent.
“Damn, Duff,” Elmer said. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Sure now ’n’ haven’t I been listening to you for three years now?”
Elmer laughed. “It sounds like I learned you just real good.”
“Elmer, the man that’s running the Red Eye. Is he a real skinny man, dark hair slicked back, a little moustache, and a prominent Adam’s apple?” Biff asked.
“You nailed him,” Elmer said. “That’s exactly what he looks like.”
“What kind of hat does he wear?”
“Damndest kind of hat I’ve ever seen. Ain’t no ordinary hat. It’s a little round thing, ain’t got no crown a’tall to speak of. Ain’t got no brim either.”
“Sounds like a beret,” Duff said.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Biff said. “His name is Scooter Carmody.”
“Scooter, yeah, I he’ered some folks call him that,” Elmer said.
“Good,” Biff said. “Duff, here are a few things you might want to know about Scooter. First of all, don’t trust him. He will always sell out to the highest bidder, so he has to believe that you are a whiskey drummer. You also might want to know that he carries a small holdout pistol clamped inside his beret. So if he takes it off and starts to fiddle with it, be very aware.”
“Good information, thank you.”
“I ain’t all that sure about Duff goin’ over there as a whiskey drummer though,” Elmer said. “I asked Carmody for the cheapest whiskey he had and he told me that the cheapest was also the most expensive that he had.”
“That’s ’cause he ain’t seen what I got to offer him,” Duff said, once again falling into the vernacular.”
Again Elmer and Biff laughed.
“Elmer, my friend, would you be for giving me a quick and easy description of Johnny Taylor?”
“I’d say he’s about five-feet-six, or maybe five-feet-seven-inches tall. He’s a little bit taller ’n his brother, Emile, but not much. He has dark hair. He don’t have a beard, but he don’t shave all that much neither. But the easiest way to recognize him is his ears. He’s got near half of one of ’em bit off.”
“Which ear? Right, or left?”
“Right. No, left. Well, truth is, I don’t exactly remember, but how many folks you plannin’ on runnin’ into that’s got half a ear bit off?”
Duff chuckled. “You have a point,” he said.
Over the next few minutes Biff identified the various whiskeys in his sample case, giving Duff a few words of description for each of them, until Duff thought he was ready.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Biff said. “I know you can lose your Scottish accent. But can you talk like an Englishman?”
“Hoot, mon, ye’d have a Scot speak as a bloody Englishman?”
“Can you?”
“But of course, my good man, if the occasion warrants,” Duff said. “The question is, why the bloody ’ell would I want to do such a thing?”
Elmer and Biff both laughed.
“Because most whiskey drummers I’ve met act like their shit doesn’t stink. And the only Englishmen I’ve ever met act the same way.”
“You’re a good judge of character,” Duff said. “For in my opinion, they are all like that.”
“In which case, perhaps you are a purveyor of spirits, rather than a whiskey drummer.”
“I’ve only one worry,” Duff said.
“What is that?”
“There’s nae a better salesman in the world than a Scotsman. What will I do when I take an order for two hundred dollars’ worth of whiskey?”
“Don’t worry about it. If that actually happens, I’ll come up with enough to fill the order.”
Duff looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. At first glance he looked no different from any other rancher, or even cowboy for that matter, perhaps excepting that his denims and shirts were always clean.
“If I’m going to play the role of a bloody Englishman, I had best look like one,” he said.
When Duff rode into Bordeaux later that afternoon, he was wearing a brown tweed suit, with a red satin vest. He was also wearing a bowler hat with a small red feather in the hatband. Although Duff was deadly accurate with a pistol or a rifle, he had never mastered the art of the quick draw. Because of that, he actually wore his pistol in a holster that had a flap that snapped down over it. And though that would make his draw even slower, should he actually attempt one, it also had the effect of putting a potential adversary off guard.
Though Duff didn’t realize it, he arrived in Bordeaux almost two hours after Johnny and the others in his gang had left. They were the only ones who would have recognized him, and of that group, only Johnny and Calhoun had ever seen him at close enough quarters to be able to identify him. Though, given his disguise, perhaps even they would not have recognized him today.
Because none of Johnny’s men were in town, and because Duff presented a most unprepossessing appearance as he rode in, most gave him little notice. As he was dismounting in front of the Red Eye Saloon, someone called out to him.
“Who are you, mister, and what are you doing in Bordeaux?”
Duff turned toward the man who had called out to him. Even if the man had not been wearing a badge, Duff would have recognized him as Marshal Cline from the description Elmer had given of a pockmarked face and a scarred upper lip.
“Ahh, how fortunate for me to encounter a representative of the local constabulary,” Duff said in his best English accent. “Tell me, my good man, what would be the name of the gentleman who manages this pub?”
“I’m askin’ the questions here,” Cline said.
“Oh, yes, you did inquire as to my name, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I didn’t respond. My name is Richard Plantagenet, Esquire. I represent the Royal Distilleries of Great Britain, and I am making a tour through the American West to introduce our fine line of spirits. And I ask you again, s
ir, if you could tell me the name of the gentleman who runs the—” Duff paused and looked at the name painted on the window of the saloon, then read it aloud, not as the name of the establishment but as two separate words. “Red . . . Eye.”
“His name is Carmody. Scooter Carmody. But he won’t be buying anything from you. My cousin furnishes him with everything he needs.”
“Oh, dear,” Duff said. “Well, a bit of competition would be good for all three of us, your cousin, Mr. Carmody, and myself.”
Duff took his case down, then walked into the saloon.
“Haw! Look at this, boys!” someone said, pointing at Duff. “You boys ever seen anyone dressed like this?”
“Thank you, I do try and turn out with my best when I am working,” Duff said. Carrying his case over to the bar, he opened it up to display its contents.
“Now, gentlemen, if you will allow me to provide each of you with a sample of my wares.”
“Hold on here!” the bartender said, angrily. “You can’t come into my place and start giving away whiskey!”
“Not to worry, sir,” Duff said. “You establish a price per drink, and even though these are my samples, I will pay you for each drink that is consumed.”
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that you are going to give away this whiskey to my customers, but you are going to pay me for each drink you give away?”
“That is exactly what I am going to do. I am afraid that I must impose upon you for the glasses, though. I have the whiskey, I do not have the glasses.”
Carmody smiled and nodded. “Yeah, okay. And I’ll have the first drink.”
“For you, Mr. Carmody, my best, a glass of Gle-navon Special.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The sun had set and it was almost time to close. Meagan had no customers in the store, so she was sorting patterns when she heard the tinkling bell. The bell was attached to the front door and, by its ringing, announced that someone had come in. Laying a bolt of cloth over the patterns to keep them from blowing away, she started toward the front.
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