by Ford Fargo
“I-I just can’t fathom why he’d leave me.”
“Because, a man only leaves a beautiful lady if things aren’t goin’ the way he thinks they should at home. And forgive my boldness, ma’am, but you are a beautiful lady. Or, he leaves for perfectly legitimate reasons and gets himself robbed and killed, or he falls into a ravine and breaks his fool neck. If I find the second reason is what happened to him, do you want his body back, or will some identifiable object do?”
“Bring him back no matter what you find,” Mrs. Munder said curtly.
“As you wish,” he said. “Oh, one more thing—what color was the horse he rode out on?”
“His favorite, a grey gelding.”
He pulled his .36-caliber Colt Navy and checked to make sure he’d remembered to reload after the last time he’d had to use it. He also needed to be certain all the percussion caps were seated properly—they were, so he let it drop back into the holster. He watched the lady walk out the front of the saloon, turn right, and disappear down the boardwalk.
He knew damned well this job was going to be trouble. If he weren’t strapped for cash, he’d have ignored her, or possibly tried to get her into bed. She was one damned fine looking lady, not his usual type of overweight whore or saloon queen. But once he came back with the bad news about her husband–and he knew that’s what it would be, no matter what–she’d turn her back on him because of her shame in having to seek out a paid piece of pond scum to find the man she thought she loved. She didn’t really, though, and he knew it. He could tell by the look in her eyes and the way her lip curled when she said his name. Oh, and those tears, they were phony. She wanted him back so she could slap him down in front of everyone just one last time. Rattlesnake’s imagination painted a picture as to what might lie in store for Mr. Alexander Munder if he had to face his wife one more time. The bounty hunter could already hear the explosion and smell the cordite as the man’s blood spurted from his chest and he crumpled to the ground. The comely Teresa Munder’s plea to the court would go something like He beat me and called me monstrous names, drove me near to insanity! I had to do it, don’t you see? It was him or me.
Rattlesnake doubted the validity of any such claim, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t get away with it. Courts tended to sympathize with grieving widows, whether they were the cause of the poor man’s demise or not. Especially a pretty widow who could conjure up a flood of tears on command.
Anyways, it was something to do. Of course, Ira had potentially put him on the scent of a well-paying prize in that gambler from the Lucky Break. Samuel Jones. He seemed like a pretty competent man with a gun, even before this dueling incident, but Jake had never really given him much thought before. If there was a bounty for him, Jake would earn it—but he wasn’t going to just call the man out on the off chance it could turn a profit, no matter how bad Ira wanted him to do so. Jake had gone over to the telegraph office as soon as they opened up, and sent out some feelers on Jones. Any more action on that front would have to wait till he got the information he needed.
Jake slid his beat-up, flat-crowned, floppy-brimmed hat off the table, slapped it on his leg—releasing a cloud of dust—pulled it low over his eyes, and went to the door. Teresa Munder must have already ducked into one of the stores down the street and could no longer be seen. Good, he thought, I’d rather she not watch where I intend to start my search. He sauntered outside, looked around, then slowly made his way around the building, down Fifth Street to the back alleyway, then across to the rear of several clapboard buildings. He planned to follow that route until he was at least a block down before entering the rear of Miss Abby’s cathouse. As he prepared to step up on the porch, he noticed a grey gelding in the corral behind the place. He knocked first, then entered. He was greeted by a short, petite lady who was probably still in her twenties but had eyes much older. She was wearing too much make up and penciled-on eyebrows. Miss Abby, herself.
“Well, I’ll be damned, if it ain’t ol’ Rattlesnake Jake. Finally got enough together for a poke?” She gave him a come-hither grin and attempted to take his arm.
“Got the money, Abby, but not the inclination. Leastways not right now. I’m lookin’ for someone.”
“And just who would that someone be?” She gave him a wink.
“Alexander Munder.”
Abby took a step back, swallowing hard and nearly tripping on one of three overstuffed chairs that lined the hallway, where gentlemen could wait their turn at one of her girls. The look on her face suggested she was scared to death. Rattlesnake knew that meant she either knew where Munder was or had seen him recently.
“Wh-why, er, what do you want with him?”
“So, you have seen him?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Can’t rightly remember.”
“Think on it, Abby, and think real hard.” Rattlesnake let his hand drop to the butt of his Colt.
“You been here plenty of times, yourself, and you know how things can get out of hand. Sometimes two fellas are lookin’ for the favor of the same girl at the same time. When a man is ready, he don’t show a lot of patience. You know that.”
“So, what happened when Munder and some other fella had the same hankerin’?”
“A-a big ol’ argument, that’s what. When tempers flare, uh, weapons show up almost outta nowhere.”
“Was Munder armed?”
“I, uh, don’t think so,” Abby said.
“And–?”
“And the other fella—he was touchy as hell, he sure didn’t look like the type—he grabbed Munder by the scruff of the neck and drug him downstairs and around back. The fella had one of them Arkansas toothpicks like you and Ira Breedlove carry and, maybe he took it out when they got out yonder—maybe Mister Munder lunged for him, and, uh, he mighta stuck hisself. I don’t know, didn’t nobody see, exactly. The damnedest thing is, that other fella never even came back in, after he got so worked up—it’s like he was lookin’ for an excuse to pick a fight.”
“Uh-huh. Was Munder alive when you last saw him?”
“Well, I couldn’t rightly tell. His face was turned away from me when they hauled him outta here. He was bleedin’ some, though.”
“Once more, Abby, was he alive? Don’t make me ask again.”
Abby’s head drooped and her chubby right hand shot to her throat and quickly grasped a silver cross that hung around her neck on a chain. “I’m thinkin’ it ain’t likely. He was bleedin’ from a slit in his throat.”
“Did anyone go for the sheriff or the marshal?”
Abby’s expression was one of incredulity.
“Are you serious? Why a thing like this could put me out of business. Couldn’t risk it.”
“What did you do with him?”
Abby shrugged meekly. “Sometimes, when stuff like that happens, we haul ’em down to Tent City and toss ’em in the creek. With rocks in their pockets. You know, to protect our business.”
“Who did it, Abby? Who had the pig sticker?”
She looked away and took a step further down the hall. He reached out a grabbed her arm. She muttered, “I-I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Don’t make no difference. A man is dead and I can’t bring him back. No matter who killed him, Alexander Munder ain’t of this world, no more. And now, it’s time for you to take your leave.”
“I’m goin’ nowhere until I get the name of the man who killed Munder. Either give him up or expect me to be sittin’ right here, makin’ sure no horny cowboy makes it past me. I figure you’ll be broke in three days. The mayor and the sheriff will still be expecting their cut of your haul each day, and I doubt they’ll buy your story of bein’ too damned poor to make their payoff all because of a little business downturn.”
Abby dropped into the first chair she came to, fanning her red face with her hand. Her eyes were glazed over as she contemplated the threat made to her by the bounty hunter. Rattlesnake turned the first chair around so it would face the
doorway. He plopped down, crossed his legs at the ankles, drew his Colt and began to whistle. It was no more than a few minutes before an anxious cowboy blew through the door hollering for Becky. Abby’s eyes shot open and her mouth fell open as she heard Rattlesnake’s words.
“Sorry, cowboy, Abby’s whorehouse is closed for business,” Jake said. “Try one of the cribs in back of Asa’s Saloon. They’re a little raunchy, but what the hell. When a man just has to have a little—”
“Some new fella, calls hisself Malchius Offerman! He’s a whiskey drummer, he just took over Lester Weatherby’s route,” Abby blurted out as she leaped up from her chair. “Now go, Rattlesnake, so’s I can show this fine young man to Becky’s room.”
Rattlesnake tipped his hat to Abby with a wry grin. “Thank you, ma’am. Most generous.”
He grunted to himself as he walked away. Damn peculiar behavior for a whiskey peddler.
* * *
The bounty hunter calmly strolled out the front door this time and turned down Grant Street to return to the Wolf’s Den. He was in serious need of a whiskey, or maybe two, and a place to sit. And think. And plan. The task before him presented a considerable risk. The town seemed to be bleeding a lot of late.
He’d no sooner taken up his same old chair at the same old table, the one which everybody in town knew was his and his alone, when Deputy Quint Croy peeked in and entered, crossing quickly to where Jake sat staring at the mound of cards in front of him.
“Jake, the marshal wants to see you. ‘You find that scoundrel and fetch him here and right now!’ he says to me. So, get your ass outta that chair and come along.”
Jake looked at the deputy with a ‘go-to-hell’ expression, beginning to reorganize his stack of pasteboards.
“Why couldn’t he come hisself?”
“Because he’s the marshal, that’s why, and he don’t chase down suspected killers on his own. He sends out his tougher-than-hell deputy, me. So, let’s get goin’.”
Jake smiled coldly at the deputy. “You sound a lot tougher’n you look, boy.”
“Try me and see,” Quint replied, and the bounty hunter shrugged.
“What’s all this shit about me bein’ a ‘suspected killer’? Who the hell am I supposed to have killed?”
“Reckon you’ll find out soon enough, tough guy. Now get the hell up.” Croy let his hand drop to his holstered revolver.
Jake made no move toward his own. Instead, he let out a groan as he struggled to his feet, faking a drunken attempt to regain his balance. In an instant, however, the deputy was staring down the barrel of Jake’s Navy Colt and into the narrowed eyes of a man with little patience.
“Now hold on, Jake. I—”
“Yeah, I know, you’re just doin’ what the marshal sent you to do. And he probably told you that young lawmen need to be especially tough with low types like me. You tell the marshal I’ll drop by as soon as I tend to a little business—and it’ll be in my own good time. But I’ll tell you this, and I’ll say it only once, if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll blow your damned head clean off. Now get the hell out of here.”
Croy backed slowly up, making certain to keep his hands far away from his hogleg. Perspiration slowly trickled down his cheeks and he swallowed hard as he stared into the steely eyes of a man he knew was capable of carrying out his threat. He had nearly lost his balance a couple of times bumping into chairs on his way to the door, and a look of relief came over him when he could feel the batwings behind him. He spun around and made a beeline for the boardwalk, his cheeks red with embarrassment. He was still retreating when Jake leaned out with a satisfied grin.
The bartender came up and said, “What the hell was all that about?”
“Don’t know. But I figure on finding out.” With that, Rattlesnake Jake left the saloon.
* * *
Jake was wondering if his conversation with Abby had already gotten back to the marshal, and an assumption had been made that he was somehow involved in Munder’s death. He was headed to the marshal’s office, for sure, mainly because he didn’t intend on getting a visit from more than one deputy. Marshal Gardner liked having several deputies hanging around, both so he could spend most of his time in saloons or with his feet up on his desk. But before Jake got there, he had a couple places he wanted to stop, first. One of those places was the saloon where this Offerman was rumored to hang out. And while he wouldn’t recognize the man if he was sitting right next to him, he figured he knew someone who could point him in the right direction: Mayor Dab Henry. Dab’s saloon, The Lucky Break, was the starting point for almost anyone looking for information. It was a place that never lacked for loose talk. And loose women. And men with bad attitudes.
Jake stood outside for a brief moment before entering, peering through the front window to get a lay of the land. Always cautious where guns and liquor were the most prevalent commodities, he hadn’t lived as long as he had without being careful. Seeing nothing suspicious, he eased through the front door and went straight for the bar.
“Dab here?” he asked Rob Parker, the burly bartender.
“Was, until a few minutes ago.”
“So, he left?”
“Ain’t that what I just said?” The bartender continued stacking glasses on the back bar in a pyramid shape, keeping his back to the bounty hunter. The man’s smartass mouth was going to get him in trouble, someday. Jake had a sudden impulse to make today that day.
Jake drew his Colt and cocked it. He snarled, and his eyes narrowed. Then he said, “Where did he go? And if I hear any more of your lip, jackass, they’ll be stackin’ those glasses on your coffin.”
The bartender got the picture quickly. He finally turned to face his inquisitor.
“I, uh, don’t know exactly,” Parker said, “but he and that Offerman fella left in kind of a hurry.”
That piece of unexpected information hit Jake like a low punch. What connection could there possibly be between a piece of scum like Offerman and Wolf Creek’s erstwhile mayor? While Offerman was known to hang around The Lucky Break, Jake had never heard anything to suggest Mayor Henry cavorted with his customers on any kind of regular basis. Then he remembered that Offerman was a whiskey drummer—Dab would hang out with a drummer sure enough, there might be money in it somewhere.
Maybe he shouldn’t put off seeing the marshal any longer. Could be there were answers in that unlikely place that need following up on. The bartender hadn’t moved an inch, as Jake seemed to take his sweet time chewing on what he’d heard. There was an audible sigh coming from behind the bar as Jake suddenly spun around and headed for the door.
The marshal’s office was at the corner of Fourth and Second Streets, three blocks from The Lucky Break. A short three minutes would have him pushing through Marshal Sam Gardner’s office door. The second place he’d wanted to stop by would just have to wait.
When he walked in, Marshal Gardner was reading a newspaper, feet up on his desk. Quint Croy was nowhere to be seen, nor was the other deputy. Gardner looked over the top of his paper, eyeing Jake warily.
“Good to see you could tear yourself away from whatever shady scheme you were cooking up in order to drop by, Jake,” Gardner said.
“Yeah, well, your errand boy made it clear you were pretty lathered up about somethin’. So, let’s get to it.”
“Don’t get all tangled up in your spurs, Jake, this is complicated business. And I figure you’re right in the middle of it.”
“And just what business might that be, Marshal?”
“Murder, Jake. Plain and simple.”
“Who was murdered?”
“I figured you’d know, since the evidence is pointed straight your way.” The marshal pulled a cigar from his vest pocket, reached for a sulfur from a tin box, pulled one out and dragged it across the desktop. He lit the cigar, leaned back, and blew smoke across the room.
If the marshal was calling him a murderer, why was the bastard taking his own sweet time getting on with it? Tha
t’s what struck Jake as odd. He’d known Gardner for a couple of years and he seemed to be a no-nonsense lawman, if a tad tight with paying out bounties. But generally a decent sort. That’s what made Jake willing to come to Gardner’s office of his own accord. It seemed to him that if he were going to be dragged in, accused of a crime for which there must be ample evidence he’d done it, Quint Croy would’ve already tried to do the dragging, and would’ve brought plenty of back-up. Since that hadn’t happened, Jake figured the marshal was just pulling his line through the water hoping to get a bite.
“Just what evidence are you yakkin’ about? Let’s get on with details, here, Gardner. I’ve got things to attend to.”
“Fair enough. You likely heard about the body that was found down near the river, back of Asa Pepper’s Saloon. A fellow named Laird Jenkins. Ever heard of him?”
“No. What makes you think I might have?”
“We found ourselves some evidence nearby. And like I said, it points directly at you.”
“What evidence would that be?”
“Foot prints. The kind those brogans of yours make. You been back of Pepper’s place recently?”
“Hell, no! I wouldn’t frequent that joint if you paid me. Pepper’s the kind of slime I steer clear of. And what makes you think I’m the only soul in town that wears brogans?”
Gardner thought about that for a minute, blowing the most inept smoke rings Jake had ever seen. He was tempted to ask for a cigar of his own just to show the marshal how it was done. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat quietly, studying the lawman, and wondering who this Laird fellow was and why anyone thought Jake would want to kill him.
Jake was shaken from his woolgathering when Gardner said, “You’re not. But you are the only one who pounds an S-shaped nail into his soles, to look like a snake. At least, so far as I know, you are. But I had to be sure. So I went to the cobbler and asked him. Know what I found out?”
“No. But I’ll bet you’re fixin’ to tell me.”
“I am. He told me he sells ten to twelve pairs every year to all sorts of folks. But you are in fact the only one who asks for that special mark. In fact, he told me to tell you he’s anxious to order your next pair because he figures the ones you’ve worn for two years are surely worn down to nothing. So that got me to thinking.”