Right between the Eyes

by William W. Johnstone

  Emory shot him a who’s side are you on? glare. “When we left the house today,” he argued, “I had no intention of visiting that damned butte. My sole purpose was finding the marshal and having a discussion with him. It was a last-minute decision to ride out there—made only after I saw what a fine afternoon, weather-wise, it was shaping up to be.”

  “Nevertheless,” Bob said, “your trips out there are enough of a pattern for somebody looking to gun you to consider as a possible opportunity for catching you under pretty vulnerable conditions.”

  “It still could be Larkin,” Emory insisted. “He could remember how my wife and I used to enjoy riding out that way and have taken a chance on me still doing so.”

  Starting to get impatient, Bob said, “With all due respect, sir, you’re being so mule-headed about wanting it to be Larkin that you’ve got blinders on to any other possibility. How would he even know you were taking a buggy ride of any kind today, let alone guess where you might be headed? If I were you, I’d start giving some consideration to those who are part of a tighter circle around you.”

  “And if I were you,” Emory snapped back, “I’d give some serious consideration to being less rude to well-established citizens of your community and concentrate instead on the known criminal element.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Bob told him. “As soon as we’re back in town, I’ll be sending out my two young deputies—who are as good trackers as any around—to examine that butte and see if they can pick up the trail of whoever the shooter was. While they’re doing that, I’ll be pinning down Larkin to see if he can prove his whereabouts over the past hour or so.”

  Bob paused for a moment, took a breath to try and calm himself some. But his teeth were still clenched when he continued. “That’s more of an explanation than I owe you or am in the habit of giving. But since you were involved in the shooting and you are a highly regarded citizen of our town, I’m making an exception. I’ll keep you posted if me or my men turn up anything pertinent. I expect you to do the same in return, in case you find out or think of anything useful. Now, all we’re accomplishing here is wasting time. Get us back into town, Graedon, and drop me off at the jail.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “So that’s the way it’s gonna be, eh? Every time somebody farts crossways in this town and the stink drifts in the direction of Emory, I’m gonna get hauled in for questioning. Is that it?”

  “Nobody’s hauling you anywhere,” Bob pointed out to an indignant and overly defensive John Larkin. “I came here without making a big fuss and put it to you straight, simply asking if you could account for your whereabouts the past couple of hours. I can’t help it if it ruffles your feathers—all things considered, it’s a logical inquiry for me to make.”

  “Well, you got your answer. I been right here all morning.”

  “And I can vouch for that, Marshal,” interjected Earl Hines. “John’s been working at my side the whole time. We haven’t even taken a break for lunch yet.”

  The three men were standing in Hines’s blacksmith shop. Both Hines and Larkin were clad in leather aprons and each bore streaks of sweat and soot on their faces. Larkin had shaved off his beard since Bob saw him last, and the flush in his cheeks stood out in sharp contrast to the paleness of his skin.

  When Bob had first entered the shop, Hines had been fashioning a piece of red-hot metal clamped in a pair of tongs while Larking was working a bellows to keep the forge superheated. Upon seeing this and comparing it to a mental calculation of how long it would take for someone to make it back from Massacre Butte, even riding full out, it seemed pretty clear that Larkin couldn’t have been the shooter out there. Nevertheless, Bob had felt it best to go ahead and make his inquiry in order to remove any doubt.

  “Reckon that gives me what I came to find out,” he said now, accepting Hines’s word as all the verification he needed. “I’ll go ahead and leave you fellas to your work.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Larkin. “What about the old man? Does he think I’m the one who did that shooting?”

  “Your name came up,” Bob confirmed. “With you fresh back in town, that shouldn’t really come as a surprise.”

  “That’s not fair, damn it! He can’t go around making accusations like that.”

  “It wasn’t exactly an accusation. Like I said, your name came up. Emory raised the question of the shooter possibly being you, that’s all.”

  “No offense, Marshal, but what about you?” Hines asked. “You’ve surely made some enemies in your time. Isn’t it possible—maybe even more likely—that shot could have been meant for you?”

  “Possible, yes,” Bob admitted. “That’s why I mean to ask all the questions I can think of. Nobody’s singling out just you, Larkin. All I know for sure is that somebody took a shot at the buggy Emory and I were riding in, and I mean to get to the bottom of it. Hell, maybe they were aiming at Graedon, the driver. Before I’m through, I may be chasing that line of inquiry.”

  Larkin scowled. “When you talk to Emory again, tell him this: I got no grudge or any kind of hard feelings against him. He got flimflammed by that whole business four years ago same as me. With all the lies and the false evidence planted against me, I don’t blame him for believing I betrayed him . . . But I didn’t. You tell him that.”

  Bob started to turn away but then halted. “What about his daughter?” he asked.

  Larkin’s scowl deepened. “Victoria, you mean? What about her?”

  “Don’t you want to convince her of those same things as far as your innocence?”

  Larkin’s gaze dropped. “I’d like nothing better,” he muttered. “But I doubt I’ve got a chance of getting anywhere near her to tell her anything.”

  “No. Not if her father has his way, you don’t,” Bob said. “But that’s for you to work out. Nobody can stop you from trying to see her. While we’re on the subject, though, I may as well warn you that if she doesn’t want to see you and you push it too hard . . . well, me and you will probably need to have another chat.”

  “Okay. You’ve made yourself clear.” Larkin’s face lifted and his scowl was back. “Weren’t you on your way someplace else?”

  * * *

  Before returning to the jail, Bob swung by Peterson’s Livery to see if anyone with a horse boarded there had ridden out in the past two or three hours and, if so, had they returned yet? Or, he also asked, had anybody come in on a hard-ridden animal within the past half hour?

  “Been pretty dead around here all mornin’,” Joe Peterson told him, “except for your two deputies ridin’ out a little while ago. And they ain’t come back yet.”

  “No, I don’t expect ’em to return for a while.”

  “Some kind of trouble goin’ on, Marshal?” Joe asked. “I saw you rollin’ past at a pretty good clip with Jackson Emory in his buggy not too long ago. You usually see his driver movin’ the old fella around mighty slow and careful.”

  “I guess they were in a hurry to get me back to the jail,” said Bob, not exactly lying. “Listen, Joe, just keep your eyes peeled for anybody on a hard-ridden horse like I described, okay? Anybody like that comes around in the next half hour or so—or even if you just see ’em ridin’ by in the street, comin’ from the south—you let me know, okay?”

  * * *

  “Any luck?” Fred asked when Bob got back to the jail.

  Bob shook his head. “Not so’s you could notice it.”

  The marshal sank down in the chair behind his desk. Fred poured him a cup of coffee and brought it over.

  “There’s still hope that Peter and Vern might turn up something. They’re awful good trackers,” Fred said.

  “Yeah, they are. That’s why I sent ’em out.”

  Fred went back over to the stove and poured himself a half-cup of coffee. Turning back, he said, “So Larkin had a good alibi, eh?”

  “Pretty solid by my standards,” said Bob. “Earl Hines vouched that Larkin was with him in his shop all morning. Plus,
time-wise, there just plain wasn’t enough time for Larkin to have gotten back from the butte and be there in Earl’s shop when I walked in.”

  Fred took a drink of his coffee, then said, “I know this probably ain’t the right thing for me to say, being a law officer and all. But I’m kinda glad Larkin checked out okay.”

  Bob grinned wryly. “Yeah, I know. Because he’s so doggone likable. Right?”

  “You feel that way, too?” Fred asked, a little eagerly.

  “No, I can’t say as I do,” Bob answered. “To tell the truth, the times I’ve talked with him have been a little contentious. But I keep hearing this ‘likable’ business from so many other folks—with the exception of Jackson Emory, that is—it’s bound to rub off sooner or later.”

  “Well. One step at a time, I guess,” allowed Fred. “For now, like I said, I’m just glad it didn’t pan out there was any question Larkin might’ve been the one who took that shot.”

  “Maybe so. Trouble is, it still leaves the question of who did take it . . . and who it was meant for.”

  Fred frowned. “I got the impression you were kinda locked on the notion that it most likely was aimed at Emory.”

  “Most likely, yeah. But only because I can’t see how anybody gunning for me would know to be waiting for me out at that damned butte.”

  “Any chance they might’ve followed you out?”

  Bob shook his head. “Mighty slim. It’s wide open out that way. You can see for a mile in any direction. Even though I wasn’t necessarily looking for any sign of trouble, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed somebody fogging us.”

  “Hey,” said Fred, his eyebrows lifting. “It looks like we’ve got what’s shaping up to be a genuine mystery on our hands.”

  “For crying out loud,” Bob groaned. “Only you would find a cheerful side to something like this. Did it occur to you that the other end of your ‘mystery’—unless or until we get to the bottom of it—is the shooter making another try, only this time maybe not missing?”

  Fred spread his hands. “All the more reason for us to be clever enough to expose the mystery shooter before he strikes again.”

  Bob groaned some more.

  And then the front door opened and he had even added reason to groan when he saw who was entering.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Ah, Marshal. I’m glad I caught you in,” declared Owen Dutton, sweeping the door closed behind him. “And, of course, you too, Deputy Ordway.”

  “This ain’t a particularly good time,” Bob was quick to say. “We’re pretty busy with some things right now.”

  “I should expect so,” Dutton responded. “An ex-con returning to town with revenge on his mind, a fierce saloon brawl, the attempted murder of one of the town’s most prominent citizens—all within the space of less than twenty-four hours. Yes, I can well imagine how that qualifies for giving you a very busy agenda.”

  “Now wait a minute. You can’t—” Fred started to say before Bob cut him off.

  “We’ve already been through that vengeance-seeking ex-con crap,” Bob said through clenched teeth. “I thought we had it put behind us.”

  Dutton shook his head. “We may have placed it on hold. But it was never pushed out of the picture completely, not the way I saw it. And certainly not now that a veritable crime wave has erupted within minutes of Larkin’s arrival.”

  Bob couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dutton. A ‘crime wave’? A saloon scuffle and a potshot taken miles outside the city limits you call a crime wave?”

  “I ran into Jackson Emory and his driver a little while ago out on the street. No matter where that ‘potshot,’ as you call it, took place, it nevertheless had them rattled. And rightfully so, I would say.”

  “I’m not arguing the things you spouted off didn’t happen. I’m just saying it’s a pretty big stretch to call them a crime wave.”

  “Very well. For the time being, I’ll just call them facts,” Dutton replied rather haughtily. “But they are facts my readers deserve to hear—and will. And, after I’ve printed them, I’ll let said readers and the citizens of this town decide for themselves what to call them.”

  “Yeah. And you’ll be sure to help them make up their minds by cramming your reports with every sensational detail and insinuation you can come up with, won’t you?”

  “That may be the way you choose to see it, but I still call them facts,” Dutton insisted. “Now, if you’re still too busy to spare me any of your time, I’ll have no choice but to begin preparing my articles with the information I have. If you have anything to add that you think might alter my perceptions, then I’d suggest you make time to talk with me.”

  “Remember the other day when we were arguing about this little pipsqueak and I was defending him?” Fred said to Bob. “Okay, now I think I’m coming around to seeing things your way.”

  “About time,” Bob muttered.

  “So,” Fred continued, “you want me to hold the door open while you escort him out by the scruff of his neck? Or would you like me to just go ahead and take care of it for you?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” huffed Dutton.

  “Hold it,” said Bob as Fred started for the newspaperman. Then, pinning the latter with a distasteful look, he added, “I’m gonna go ahead and spare you some of our time. But for one reason only. I mean to set you straight on your so-called facts and see to it you don’t unjustly smear Larkin the way you’re setting out to do.”

  “I have no problem with that,” Dutton replied as he settled onto the chair in front of Bob’s desk and took out his pencil and pad of paper. “If you can make a convincing case, then that’s the way I’ll write it. No matter what you think, I’m not predisposed to smearing Larkin. But surely you can see where the man’s arrival followed almost immediately by these other incidents makes for an awfully strong dose of coincidence to try and swallow.”

  Bob nodded. “I’ll grant you that. Nobody distrusts coincidences more than lawmen. But suspicion about them can’t be taken for fact, either.” From the middle drawer of his desk, the marshal pulled a rectangular log bound in cheap imitation leather. This pushed across the desktop toward Dutton, saying, “There’s the log my deputies and I keep on the various things that happen around town—the ones that amount to anything, I should say—where we get involved. If you open it to the ribbon marker, you’ll see the most recent entries.

  “The near-lynching I broke up out at the Rocking W is there. Also the run-in I had the following day, here in town, with Smoky Barnett and a couple other Rocking W men. And then there are the details on the fight—and I say ‘fight,’ not a ‘fierce brawl’—that took place at the Grand last night involving Larkin and three McT miners. But you’ll note that Larkin is only mentioned in passing and was not held overnight on disorderly conduct charges like the others. That’s because, based on the testimony of Grand owner Roy Cormier as well as the miners themselves, it was determined that Larkin was only defending himself and had nothing to do with starting the trouble.”

  As he scanned the log entries open before him, Dutton’s heavy brows furrowed above the spectacles that had slid down to teeter precariously on the tip of his nose.

  “You won’t find any entry for the shooting that occurred just a little while ago,” Bob went on, “because I haven’t had the chance to make one yet. The way things stand right now, the only thing I could write down is that persons unknown took two shots at Jackson Emory and me while we were riding in his buggy out south of town, near a spot known as Massacre Butte . . . Oh, yeah, the one thing more I could add is that I’ve determined the shooter wasn’t John Larkin. I found him working with Earl Hines in the blacksmith shop right after I returned to town—too soon for him to have made it back from the butte if he’d been the one who took those shots. Plus Hines vouched for Larkin having been with him in the shop all morning.”

  “If not Larkin, then who would have had reason to try and shoot Emory?” Dutton asked.

  �
��That’s a good question,” Bob replied. “Unfortunately, at this point I have no good answer—not even a decent guess.”

  “And,” Fred interjected, “we can’t even say for certain that Emory’s who the shot was meant for.”

  Dutton’s eyebrows lifted. “I never thought of that. No doubt someone in your position has made enemies, Marshal. But none in particular come to mind?”

  “None that seem likely.”

  “What about the gunman Ed Wardell supposedly has hired?”

  Bob shook his head. “I can’t see that as a fit. Number one, it’s awful soon for anybody he sent for to even have arrived in the area yet. Number two, even though Wardell has some differences with me and might get around to siccing his gunny on me eventually, the main reason he’s bringing a man is for his alleged rustling problem. Seems like that’d be his first priority.”

  “So what does that leave?” Dutton wanted to know. “With no idea who the shooter was and not even knowing for sure who he was aiming at, do you just wait for him to try again?”

  “It might come to that,” Bob admitted. “I’ve got two deputies out now trying to pick up any sign the ambusher might have left when he came or went from the butte. Barring any luck with that, we don’t really have much else to go on.”

  Dutton closed the report log and leaned back in his chair. He reached up and readjusted his glasses. In a more subdued tone than before, he said, “It appears you once again have saved me from my hastiness to jump to some wrong—or at least premature—conclusions, Marshal.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Dutton tapped the log. “Seems like this would be a worthwhile thing for me to check from time to time, to make sure I’ve got my facts straight. Going forward, can I presume it will be made available to me again?”

  “It’s a matter of public record,” Fred answered. “We got nothing to hide.”

  Dutton put away his notepad and pencil, then placed the report log back on the desk. Standing, he said, “Speaking of hiding,” he said to Bob, “with the shooter unidentified and neither you nor Mr. Emory certain which of you was the target, I trust you will be taking some very strict precautions in the days ahead?”