Murder in Dogleg City

by Ford Fargo

  Western Fictioneers Presents:

  WOLF CREEK:

  Murder in Dogleg City

  By Ford Fargo

  WOLF CREEK: Murder in Dogleg City

  Smashwords Edition

  A Western Fictioneers Book published by arrangement with the authors

  Copyright © 2012 by Western Fictioneers

  Cover design by L. J. Washburn

  Western Fictioneers logo design by

  Jennifer Smith-Mayo

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual incidents or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Visit our website at www.westernfictioneers.com

  Beneath the mask, Ford Fargo is not one but a posse of America's leading western authors who have pooled their talents to create a series of rip-snortin', old fashioned sagebrush sagas. Saddle up. Read ‘em Cowboy! These are the legends of Wolf Creek.

  THE WRITERS OF WOLF CREEK, AND THEIR CHARACTERS

  Bill Crider - Cora Sloane, schoolmarm

  Phil Dunlap - Rattlesnake Jake, bounty hunter

  Wayne Dundee – Deputy Marshal Seamus O’Connor

  James J. Griffin - Bill Torrance, owner of the livery stable

  Jerry Guin - Deputy Marshal Quint Croy

  Douglas Hirt - Marcus Sublette, schoolteacher and headmaster

  L. J. Martin - Angus “Spike” Sweeney, blacksmith

  Matthew P. Mayo - Rupert "Rupe" Tingley, town drunk

  Kerry Newcomb - James Reginald de Courcey, artist with a secret

  Cheryl Pierson - Derrick McCain, farmer

  Robert J. Randisi - Dave Benteen, gunsmith

  James Reasoner - G.W. Satterlee, county sheriff

  Frank Roderus - John Nix, barber

  Troy D. Smith - Charley Blackfeather, scout; Sam Gardner, town marshal

  Clay More - Logan Munro, town doctor

  Chuck Tyrell - Billy Below, young cowboy; Sam Jones, gambler

  Jackson Lowry - Wilson “Wil” Marsh, photographer

  L. J. Washburn - Ira Breedlove, owner of the Wolf’s Den Saloon

  Matthew Pizzolato - Wesley Quaid, drifter

  Appearing as Ford Fargo in this episode:

  L. J. Washburn (Ira Breedlove)- Prologue, Chapter 4

  Jerry Guin (Deputy Quint Croy)- Chapter 1

  Chuck Tyrell (Samuel Jones / Philippe Beaumont)- Chapter 2, interlude

  Troy D. Smith (Marshal Sam Gardner)- Chapter 3

  Matthew P. Mayo (Rupe Tingley)- Chapter 5

  Phil Dunlap (Rattlesnake Jake)- Chapter 6

  INTRODUCTION

  In Wolf Creek, everyone has a secret.

  That includes our author, Ford Fargo—but we have decided to make his identity an open secret. Ford Fargo is the “house name” of Western Fictioneers—the only professional writers’ organization devoted exclusively to the traditional western, and which includes many of the top names working in the genre today.

  Wolf Creek is our playground.

  It is a fictional town in 1871 Kansas. Each WF member participating in our project has created his or her own “main character,” and each chapter in every volume of our series will be primarily written by a different writer, with their own townsperson serving as the principal point-of-view character for that chapter (or two, sometimes.) It will be sort of like a television series with a large ensemble cast; it will be like one of those Massive Multi-player Role-playing Games you can immerse yourself in online. And it is like nothing that has ever been done in the western genre before.

  You can explore our town and its citizens at our website if you wish:

  http://wolfcreekkansas.yolasite.com/

  Or you can simply turn this page, and step into the dusty streets of Wolf Creek.

  Just be careful. It’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to die there.

  Troy D. Smith

  President, Western Fictioneers

  Wolf Creek series editor

  MURDER IN DOGLEG CITY

  PROLOGUE

  Laird Jenkins had been in so many saloons, gambling dens, and houses of ill repute across the West that he couldn't even begin to remember all of them. Sometimes it seemed to him that he had spent his entire life breathing in the distinctive yet dubious perfume blended from tobacco smoke, stale beer, whiskey, piss, unwashed human flesh, bay rum, and cheap lilac water.

  One thing he knew: the dens of iniquity here in Dogleg City, the less savory area of the settlement known as Wolf Creek, weren't any different from the ones he had visited elsewhere, with one or two exceptions.

  The place he was in at the moment, Asa's Saloon, was one of those exceptions. It was owned by a black man, something you didn't see every day. Many of the clientele were black as well, but not all—there were a handful of Mexicans and a few white men who looked down on their luck. Not the sort of place Laird would normally choose to drink in, but he wasn’t really there to drink. He was there to do a little business with Asa Pepper. That business wasn't concluded yet, but Laird thought he had made a good start on it.

  Without saying good night to anyone – there wasn't anyone in here that he would want to strike up a social conversation with, as Asa’s customers tended to be the dregs of the town – Laird left the saloon. He paused on the boardwalk just outside to take a deep breath of the night air and clear some of the saloon fumes from his lungs. He was about to head toward the Imperial Hotel, ready to turn in for the night, when an overpowering urge struck him. He turned the other way, toward the nearby alley, and started fumbling with the buttons of his fly.

  Damn, he told himself, he wasn't old enough to be plagued like this. He ought to have a few years left, at least, before he started having to hurry these things or else he'd piss his britches.

  The darkness of the alley folded around him. He got himself set, ready to relieve his bladder. And then, wouldn't you know it, the blasted thing went balky on him and refused to do anything.

  With that to worry him, he almost didn't hear the faint noise of someone moving behind him. Laird didn't particularly like the idea of being disturbed at his personal business like this, and he knew as well that robbers often lurked in alleys near saloons, lying in wait for unwary drunks. His hand moved slightly toward the butt of the Colt on his hip.

  But maybe it was nothing. A cat or a rat. Or maybe Asa Pepper had followed him from the saloon, deciding that he wanted to hear more of what Laird had to say about how they could both make some money.

  “Mister Pepper?” Laird said without looking behind him. “Is that—”

  The muzzle flash split the darkness. A blink of orange flame, there and then gone, and as it lit up the alley something smashed into Laird's back, a hammer-blow almost perfectly centered between his shoulder blades. It drove him forward off his feet. His face smashed into the hard-packed dirt of the alley floor. A fierce pain expanded through him, followed by an even more terrifying numbness. In that brief moment while Laird's muscles still worked, he managed to roll onto his back. Dying in an alley behind a saloon was bad enough. Dying with his face in the dirt and shit and trash of that alley was worse.

  Laird tried and failed to draw air into his lungs. Everything was slipping away from him, and he wished he could breathe in that heady saloon fragrance once again, just one more time, just . . .

  CHAPTER O
NE

  It was not long past daylight. The morning sun slanted low over the rooftops of the buildings, layering the town with its early light. Deputy Marshal Quint Croy sat at his desk in the marshal’s office—it had been a long night.

  Quint was twenty-five years old, tall, with sandy hair and steady gray eyes. He had a prominent, beaklike nose—a frequent target for punches, but it had survived many assaults. His manner of dress and the way he carried himself indicated he had spent more time as a cowboy than a lawman.

  And indeed he had. Quint Croy had worked as a drover for six years before he came to Wolf Creek. He had been on four trail drives from Texas to Kansas—the final one had ended tragically, for one of his best friends had been shot dead in a low class Abilene saloon, in a meaningless fracas.

  Another saloon patron, insulted over an imagined slight, had drawn on the unfortunate cowboy. Quint had tried to intervene, but was struck from behind just before the shooting began. He had only a brief glimpse of the killer—the man’s face bore a dollar-sized birthmark beneath several days’ worth of whiskers. The beard over the birthmark showed white. Quint had implored the local law to go after the man, who left town in a hurry. His cries went unheeded. The killing was deemed self-defense, even though the victim’s gun never left its holster. Quint had done some investigating of his own—the lateness of the hour and the general intoxication of all the saloon patrons left memories hazy. Quint reluctantly left Abilene when his money ran out.

  Sickened by his friend’s murder, and burned out on trail drives, Quint wandered into the growing town of Wolf Creek. It was a wide open place—the railroad brought herds up from Texas, which in turn brought an influx of hell raising drovers into town. In turn, the constabulary had to increase in order to handle the bedlam. When Quint learned of an opening for deputy marshal, he cleaned himself up, rundown boots and all, and applied for the job.

  Marshal Sam Gardner had warmed to the idea of hiring a man from outside the area. That way, he later explained, there would be no favoritism, or appearance of it, when it was necessary to arrest men from any of the local ranches. The interview had gone well—Gardner seemed to like Quint’s demeanor, and though Quint had no previous experience, his knowledge and understanding of drovers would be a definite asset. The marshal explained he could teach the young man what he needed to get started, and the rest he could learn as he went—that was how Gardner had done it. He swore Quint in and gave him a badge.

  For Quint, the job served two purposes. First, of course, he was broke and needed the job— he was near the point of having to sell his horse for eating money. Secondly, though, he would be in a perfect position to administer some delayed justice, should the man with the white-patched face show up in Wolf Creek.

  Sam Gardner had taken Quint around town to introduce him to the various business owners soon after he had been sworn in that day, six months ago. The first stop had been Dab Henry, mayor of the town and owner of the Lucky Break Saloon. Quint later learned that Henry, who was around fifty and sported a thick black mustache, had grown up poor in the roughest part of Philadelphia. Nowadays Dab Henry comported himself like the businessman and politician he was—but when pushed, the volatile street youth in him came out with a vengeance.

  The Lucky Break, as the named implied, was primarily a gambling establishment. It boasted a roulette wheel, three faro tables, two tables each for poker and monte, and a ninth table that was players’ choice, including twenty-one. Henry had several dealers on his payroll, as well as a house gambler—Samuel Jones, an enigmatic man with a sophisticated air who had drifted into town not long before Quint. Henry also had half-a-dozen prostitutes on hand, who serviced their customers upstairs.

  After the introduction and handshakes, Quint realized there was a strange tension in the air. The mayor and the marshal watched each other like wolves sizing up who should lead the pack.

  “How was business last night?” Sam asked.

  Mayor Henry looked away and said, somewhat dismissively, “So-so. I’ll let you know all about it later. How’d Breedlove do?”

  Sam seemed hesitant to answer, but did so as he walked toward the door. “I’ll let you know about that later, Dab. We’re just on our way over there now.”

  From there they had gone to the Wolf’s Den Saloon, owned by Ira Breedlove. The Wolf’s Den was less genteel in its presentation than the Lucky Break—which in its turn was less genteel than the upscale Eldorado that was located right across the street from the marshal’s office. Breedlove had more soiled doves than Henry, and they were soiled harder, not to mention a lot more open about plying their trade. His place also featured gambling, but not as extensively—there were five tables and no roulette wheel, although the Wolf’s Den also had a house gambler. Breedlove’s was a willowy Virginian named Preston Vance, who presented himself as the consummate Southern gentleman but had a cruel streak a mile wide.

  Breedlove was one of the “old guard” of Wolf Creek. He had come to the area with his rancher father in the early 1840s, when he was only a boy—more than a decade before there was even a town there. Tobias Breedlove, owner of the T-Bar-T, had sent his son to St. Louis for an education—but the company he fell in with there taught him a lot more than the classics. Ira disappointed his father when he returned to Wolf Creek—with no intention of taking over the ranch, and every intention of taking over the town.

  Ira Breedlove was now in his mid-thirties, with prematurely balding brown hair and an unsettling smile. He dressed well—but wore a pistol on one hip and an Arkansas toothpick on the other.

  Quint had immediately noted that the atmosphere between Gardner and Breedlove was very similar to that between the marshal and the mayor—very informal and familiar on the surface, almost like old friends, but also very forced and artificial

  “We were busy last night, Sam,” Breedlove said. “I expect Dab was, too?”

  Sam’s smile was as cool as the saloon owner’s. “I won’t know until things are tallied up, later.”

  It seemed to Quint that competitors Henry and Breedlove kept close tabs on one another, and Sam Gardner was caught in the middle. Or had put himself there. The new deputy was disturbed by the marshal’s preoccupation with the saloons’ take for the night—he hoped it didn’t mean Gardner was taking a percentage, but kept his suspicions to himself.

  Things were different at the south end of town, at the end of Second Street. Gardner and Quint stood in the street, with Asa’s Saloon on one side and the Red Chamber on the other. The marshal made no move to enter either one. Instead he yelled toward Asa’s open door.

  “Asa Pepper! Get your wrinkled black ass out here!”

  Then he turned toward the opium den. One of Tsu Chiao’s nephews was outside, emptying a slop bucket. Sam pointed at him.

  “You there. Yes, you. Fetch your uncle out here, I need to talk to him.”

  The young Chinese man froze in his tracks, obviously confused.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Sam said, frustrated. “You fetchee honorable goddamned Soo Chow, chop chop, you ignorant Celestial bastard.”

  The youth nodded his understanding and disappeared inside. From across the street, Asa called out as he approached the lawmen.

  “You called for me, suh?”

  “Yes I did, and at least you came when I called you. You’re an ugly and untrustworthy little son of a bitch, Asa, but at least you’re a Christian that speaks English.”

  “I reckon so, suh.”

  Tsu Chiao had come outside as well. “Hello, Marshal,” he said. Sam did not return the greeting.

  “All right,” the marshal said. “Now that I’ve got you both out here, I can make the introductions.” He gestured at Quint. “This is Deputy Marshal Quint Croy! What he says goes! If you give him any trouble, I’ll be down here like a bolt of lightning hitting the earth.”

  Asa Pepper nodded. “We always do what you say, Marshal. We respect the law around here.”

  “Respect the law, my ass,” Sam muttere
d.

  “It is not necessary to be rude, Marshal,” Tsu Chiao said mildly. “We do not break any laws.” Sam glared at him.

  Those were the only four establishments that Sam escorted Quint to on that first day on the job. He told the new deputy to introduce and familiarize himself with the rest of Wolf Creek on his own.

  “Not much to it, Quint. Walk around and get to know everyone. Keep in mind that anything north of Grant Street is pretty mild compared to what goes on south of there in Dogleg City. Down there will be your territory, on the night shift. You need to rule it with an iron hand and let them know that you won’t put up with any horseshit. My other deputy, Fred Garvey—you’ll meet him soon enough—has been handling that part of town, but I‘m moving him to patrol the north end till things close up, and to be handy in the afternoons.”

  Quint had been confident about his new responsibilities. The marshal and his deputies in Abilene had been lazy and inattentive—in Wolf Creek, so far as Quint was concerned, things would be just and fair, with all the evidence gathered before judgment was passed.

  Quint got his first real clue as to how things were run in Wolf Creek when he knocked on the door of the building that folks around town jokingly called “Abby Potter’s School for Wayward Girls.” He’d already heard that it was actually a whore house for upper class clientele. A tiny woman a few years older than Quint, with a ready smile on her face, opened the door. She frowned suddenly when she saw Quint’s badge.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “My name is Quint Croy. I’m the new deputy marshal.”

  “I’m Abby Potter—and if you’re the new deputy, I guess you know what I do.”

  “Um, yes, ma’am. Marshal Gardner said I ought to go around town and get acquainted.”