by Ford Fargo
“Samuel,” he said, “why don’t you go around back and slip in the back way. He’ll likely have anyone he’s hired to back him up close-by, in case I show up before you do. I’m sure he knows by now that Abby has let it slip that I’m lookin’ to take him in for the murder of Alexander Munder. And he probably has figured out that his plot to get me hanged for killing Laird what’s-his-name has fallen short, since Marshal Gardner hasn’t put me in shackles, yet. He’ll be ready for a confrontation.”
“Give me a few minutes to get inside. Then, make your appearance. I’ll back you,” Sam said.
Jake waited briefly, knowing Sam wouldn’t dawdle on his way to get in on the action. As he pushed open the batwings, he saw Offerman sitting at a table with three other men. Although he’d never personally met Offerman, he knew instantly which one of the three he was. Malchius Offerman was a dead ringer for his deceased brother, the man Jake had killed in Missouri. He kept his hand on the butt of his Colt as he approached the table.
“Malchius Offerman?”
“That’s me,” the drummer said. Although he dressed like a salesman, he didn’t hold himself like one, somehow. He seemed very calm and confident, and dangerous. “I didn’t catch your name,” Offerman added.
“Oh, you know my name,” Jake said. “You’ve been doin’ your best to get me accused of a murder I didn’t commit.”
“I’ve got no idea what the hell you’re talking about, mister. Why don’t you just move on before my friends and I take umbrage at your accusations.” Offerman let his hand slip beneath the table.
One of his companions was a portly, unwashed man. The second was a Mexican with a thick beard. The third one Jake recognized from the Wolf’s Den, a lay-about named Randolph. They all slowly scooted their chairs back from the table. The other patrons had seen this show before; the chatter stopped. Boomduck Gentry, the vulture-faced piano player, ended his song abruptly with a single discordant chord.
“Why did you kill Alexander Munder, Offerman?”
“Who says I did?”
“Abby, the madam.”
Offerman chuckled, without mirth. “Well, since you ask, have you ever laid eyes on Munder’s widow? I figure to have myself a little romp with the lady, as soon as our business here is finished. I’d heard plenty of talk about how controlling she is—I figured when he didn’t come home she’d send someone to look for him, or for his killer, and that you’d be the first one folks would send her to. And then we’d have this very meeting—but I knew she wouldn’t do it right off, so I’d have time to prepare for you.”
“And pluggin’ Laird? That was to set me up to take the fall?”
“Of course. That was plan A. Then, if you wriggled out of that, plan B would still get your attention. But I figure you know what this is really all about by now, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. You’re upset that I had to put a bullet in that murderin’ pile of manure you called a brother. Right?”
The Mexican’s shoulder moved, just a hair, and Samuel Jones called out from the back of the room.
“Hold on, amigo,” the gambler said. “The odds aren’t as good as you think.”
Offerman scowled. “Jones,” he hissed. “I was wondering where you were. You’re an idiot, he can’t pay you half what I would’ve.”
“He already has,” Jones said.
The other customers had quickly made their way outside, and Rob Parker had set down his whiskey glasses and ducked behind the bar. Dab Henry stepped out of his office, saw what was happening, and quickly went back inside.
Rattlesnake Jake smiled coldly. “Go ahead, gents, yank those smoke wagons, if you’ve a mind to.”
Offerman’s hand shot to his revolver as he jumped up. His face was red with rage. He’d no more than gotten the six-shooter out of his holster than he saw a smoky blast coming his way. Malchius Offerman had but a split second to appraise his situation before falling back into his chair, a bloody bloom spreading across his white shirt, with a bullet hole in the center of it. As he dropped back with a thud, his gun went off, blowing a hole in his own boot. He was stone cold dead.
The other men had leapt to their feet and drawn as well. Randolph flipped the table over and dove to the ground behind it, pulling his Colt as he did so. The Mexican whirled around and raised his gun at Samuel Jones—the gambler stood sideways to make a harder target, his revolver leveled, and sent a bullet crashing into the Mexican’s forehead.
The fat man snapped off a shot at Jake, terrified, and the bullet whizzed past the bounty hunter’s ear. Jake pumped three bullets rapidly into the man’s chest, and he whimpered as he collapsed on the saloon floor.
Randolph fired at Samuel Jones, and the slug clipped the gambler’s jacket. Jones returned fire, hitting the crouching gunman in the gut. Randolph struggled to lift his gun for another shot, and a second bullet from Jones punched into his heart. He sagged into a heap with a final gasp.
It was over. Ten shots had been fired. Six seconds had passed. Four men lay dead in pools of blood on the floor around the overturned table. Gun smoke hung thick in the air, and curled from the pistol barrels of Rattlesnake Jake and Samuel Jones. Rob Parker slowly raised his head above the bar.
Jake heard deliberate footsteps behind him, and he turned slowly.
Marshal Sam Gardner stood in the doorway, leaning on the cane in his left hand, his right hand resting on his revolver’s butt. His deputies, Quint Croy and Seamus O’Connor, flanked him.
A moment passed in silence, then the marshal spoke.
“Well, then,” he said. “Are you boys about finished here, or did you plan to shoot one another a few times while you’re at it?”
“That’s up to Jake, I guess,” Jones said. Then, to the bounty hunter, he added, “Now we’re square. If you want to take Ira up on his offer.”
Rattlesnake Jake slowly lowered his weapon and eased it into his holster.
“No,” he said, “we ain’t square. Now it’s swung back to you. If some other New Orleans dandy shows up sniffin’ around, I reckon I’ll be backin’ you up. It may be hard for you to believe, but I do know something about honor myself.”
“There’s not any wanted posters on Mister Jones here down at the sheriff’s office,” Gardner offered. “So he’s not wanted in Kansas. What some rich family in New Orleans wants is none of my business, unless it causes trouble in my town.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Jake said. He had privately decided to tell Dave Maynard at the telegraph office to just thrown away whatever answers he received to his inquiries about Samuel Jones.
Jones holstered his own weapon. “Much obliged, I believe, is the appropriate response.”
Jake shrugged. “I figure it’s in my best interests to just keep you around—if there’re any private bounties on you, I’ll have you handy if I ever have a dry month and need some quick cash.”
They nodded politely at one another, then Jake turned to the sheriff. “You need to question us, or any of that?”
Gardner shook his head. “No, boys, I guess I have a pretty good idea what happened. You’re free to go.”
“Good,” Jake said. “I have business.”
“Where are you headed?” Samuel Jones asked.
“On a sad mission, I’m afraid,” Jake said with a wry smile. “I have to go out to the Munder ranch to let the widow know we got her husband’s killer. Then, I’ll probably have to hang around awhile consoling the poor, distraught thing. Could take a spell.”
Jake walked through the door. Gardner spoke to his deputies.
“Quint, go fetch Gravely. Tell him to bring his wagon. Seamus, grab some of those yay-hoos out there and stack these bodies up in the street.”
Jones took a seat at his regular table.
Dab Henry’s door cautiously opened once more, and His Honor stuck his head out.
“It’s safe, Dab,” Gardner said, “but let’s just step into your office and have a conversation, shall we?”
Dab nodded absentl
y, and Gardner walked in and closed the door behind him.
“Dab,” he said, “looks like you’re gonna have to get a new whiskey representative. We seem to go through ’em quick around here.”
“I—yeah, I guess so.”
“I also think you’re gonna have to level with me for once,” the marshal said. “About your pal Mister Offerman.”
Dab sighed. “Hell, Sam,” he said. “I didn’t know all of this was gonna happen. Hell.”
Gardner sat down in the mayor’s guest chair, and put his bad leg up on Dab’s desk.
“Keep talkin’,” he said.
“Well,” Dab said nervously, “I’m not sure where to start.” He sounded like a child caught at the cookie jar.
“Just jump in anywhere,” Gardner said.
Dab sighed. “It all started when that Laird Jenkins character started coming around. He was in here Monday night, drinkin’ maybe a little more than he planned on, and he started talking to Offerman. He told the drummer about how him and Ira Breedlove was compadres from way back, and how good Ira had been to him, givin’ him work and all when he came into town.”
“What kind of work?” the marshal asked, although he knew.
“He was workin’ on Asa Pepper,” Dab said. “Ira was gonna float that old bastard a loan, in order to get a piece of his action and start squeezin’ me out. That made me mad as hell, I don’t mind sayin’—it’s just not honest business.”
“In other words, you didn’t think of it first,” the marshal said, and the mayor shrugged.
“Anyways,” Dab continued, “the drummer came to me right away with this information. And he said he could help me—if I promised to give him my exclusive whiskey buyin’ business, he’d throw a wrench in Ira’s little plan. So I thought, sure, why not.”
Gardner took out a cigar and lit it. “Naturally, you never inquired into how he was going to disrupt Ira’s operation. Or whether those methods would be legal.”
“I sure didn’t think he would shoot Jenkins in the back while he was takin’ a leak,” the mayor said ruefully.
“Not that you cared,” Gardner pointed out, and Dab shrugged again.
“All right, then,” the marshal said. “Let me see if I have all this straight. You authorize a whiskey drummer to gum up Ira’s plan to convince Asa Pepper to help him drive you and the other saloons out of the whore business. The whiskey drummer accomplishes this by murdering the joker who is probably the closest thing Ira has ever had to a friend, including his dog. Am I right so far?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but basically, yeah.”
“So then Ira is very unhappy. This Frenchman Hébert comes along looking for your house gambler, gets himself shot, and Ira figures Samuel Jones must have a price on his head. So—from what those boys were saying outside—Ira puts our local bounty hunter on Jones, mostly as a way to send you a message.”
“Message?”
“That he knows you were behind his friend’s murder, and he was going to make you pay. Probably a piece at a time.”
“Well, that seems childish on his part,” Dab said. Gardner ignored him.
“But the joke was on you and Ira,” the marshal continued, “because the whiskey drummer was playing you both, and everybody else—all to get at Rattlesnake Jake. Which he got his chance at, but he didn’t do so good. Offerman was pretty slick, but criminal enterprise seemed to be a little harder than he thought it would be.”
Gardner puffed on the cigar and blew a smoke ring, then said, “I have to admit, though, he did pretty damn good at the selling part. He sold all you sons of bitches, and good. The facing down two gunfighters, that he didn’t handle well at all. There’s a lesson to be learned in there somewhere, Dab, if we can figure out what it is.”
“You really think so?” Dab said, a little confused.
“Nah, not really. But here’s what I do think. Our murderer is dead as hell, so that’s a positive outcome. As for everything else I’ve said, well, most of it is conjecture and not one whit of it would hold up in court. So here’s the situation I’m left with—you and Ira Breedlove are pulling people’s strings, and sending people to kill each other, all so you can prove which one’s got the biggest horns.”
He puffed again, then turned his head and blew smoke straight at the mayor.
“Not much I can do about it, I guess,” Gardner said. “Not this time. But you idiots are gonna keep pushing each other, harder and harder, till you blow the lid off this town. And when it gets to that point, percentages or not, if I have to I’ll just shoot you both.”
Gardner stood up, with some difficulty—his leg had stiffened on him. He cocked his head, listening to the muffled noise from the main room.
“Sounds like your business is pickin’ up, Dab,” he said. “And that’s damn good news. I don’t want to cut my own purse, not if I can help it. You have a good night, now. I’m headed over to the Wolf’s Den to tell Ira the same thing I just told you.”
“You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t really do that, would you?”
“Wouldn’t what, tell Ira for sure that you were behind his friend Laird’s murder?”
“No,” Dab said. “I mean, you wouldn’t really shoot me, would you?”
Sam Gardner smiled. “I suppose I’d probably shoot Ira first, if that makes you feel better.”
Dab paused a moment. “It does, kinda,” he said.
Gardner opened the door and stepped into the saloon. Quint Croy was waiting for him.
“We got those bodies over to Gravely’s,” Quint said.
“Good, good. Let them soak his floorboards for awhile.”
“Marshal?” Quint said.
“Yeah?”
Quint looked confused. “Marshal, I’m not sure I understand everything that has happened this week.”
Gardner put an arm on his deputy’s shoulder as they passed through the batwings and into the Kansas night.
“Not much to understand, really,” Sam said. “Just another night in Dogleg City, that’s all.”
Marshal Sam Gardner paused and looked around the dark street, smiling almost sadly. “Just another night in Dogleg City.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PHIL DUNLAP
I am the author of nine published Westerns, with three more in the “chute”. I’ve contributed to three anthologies, and published numerous short stories. I write chiefly in the Western genre, although I confess to harboring a soft spot for mysteries. Most of my Westerns are also mysteries as a number of reviewers have pointed out. Saving Mattie (Treble Heart Books) won the EPPIE Award for the Best Traditional Western 2009. Blood on the Rimrock (Avalon Books, now AmazonEncore) was a finalist in the 2009 Best Books of Indiana competition sponsored by the Indiana State Library and the Library of Congress.
I am a longtime journalist and freelance writer living in Carmel, IN. I was a newspaper correspondent for several years for a large daily newspaper before turning to writing novels full-time.
JERRY GUIN
I was born in Arkansas then migrated to the high country in Idaho and now live on the edge of Big Foot country in Northern California. My wife Ginny proofreads and coaches everything I write. I’ve always lived in or near the woods, so it was no surprise to friends and family when my first book, Matsutake Mushroom, a nature guidebook, was printed in 1997. Since then I have written 28 articles and western short stories for various magazines such as Western Digest, The Shootist, Roundup and others. I have stories in several western anthologies and my novel Drover’s Vendetta was released in 2011.
After I became a member of Western Fictioneers, the organization provided plenty of new opportunities for me to write alongside some of the best western authors in the business. I now have stories in The Traditional West, Six-Guns and Slay Bells, A Creepy Cowboy Christmas and the first chapter of Wolf Creek book 3, Murder in Dogleg City.
MATTHEW P. MAYO
My short stories have been nominated for the Spur Awa
rd and Peacemaker Award, and appear in a variety of anthologies, including Six-Guns and Slay Bells, Beat to a Pulp, Out of the Gutter, Moonstone Books anthologies, and the DAW Books anthologies Timeshares and Steampunk’d.
My novels include the Westerns Winters’ War; Wrong Town (Roamer, Book 1); Hot Lead, Cold Heart; Dead Man’s Ranch; and Tucker’s Reckoning, and I write for a popular series of “all-action” Westerns. My critically acclaimed non-fiction books include Cowboys, Mountain Men & Grizzly Bears; Bootleggers, Lobstermen & Lumberjacks; Sourdoughs, Claim Jumpers & Dry Gulchers; and Haunted Old West.
My wife, photographer Jennifer Smith-Mayo, and I operate Gritty Press (www.GrittyPress.com), the flying spin-kick of the publishing world, and can frequently be found roving the highways and byways of the West with our wee pup, Nessie. Drop by my e-ranch for a cuppa mud and a chinwag at www.MatthewMayo.com.
CHUCK TYRELL
I was born and raised in Arizona and worked stock and farmed until I ran away to college and never went back. I decided I wanted to make my living as a writer in 1975. Up until that time, I’d been a marketing and advertising person. I took a correspondence course on writing for magazines, and sold my first article in 1976, when I was working at a newspaper and DJ-ing on nighttime radio at the same time. Since that first sale, I’ve had very few articles turned down. Now, of course, I write them only on assignment. Also in 1976, I won the Editor and Publisher Magazine award for the best direct mail campaign for a small newspaper in the United States.By 1977, I earned my entire living with my typewriter, writing ads, annual reports, newsletters, magazine articles, and sometimes a newspaper article.
I’ve read westerns all my life. The first one I remember was Smokey, by Will James. I read everything I could find, living far away from the west in Japan. In 1979, I wrote a western novel for a Louis L’Amour write-alike contest. Didn’t win. Decided I could not write fiction. The typewritten manuscript occupied a bottom desk drawer until 2000. I dusted it off and edited it as I input it into a computer file. Sent it off to a publisher, Robert Hale Ltd., in London. They bought it providing I’d cut it down to 40,000 words. The novel is now known as Vulture Gold, the first of the Havelock novels.