by Scott Connor
‘Is it possible that Lenox or even this other man killed Ben?’
She raised her eyebrows, appearing shocked at the idea.
‘No.’
‘I believe your story, but the problem is it’s full of missing details and assumptions.’ He lowered his voice to a serious tone. ‘To end this I need some facts. I’ll only get those if I find your friend. I need a name.’
She lowered her head, sighing. She didn’t move again for almost a minute, but then with a shrug, as if she’d reached a decision, she looked up, and she was smiling.
She leaned forward and licked her lips, her former flirtatious mood returning.
‘What would you do to get that name?’
‘I would be grateful.’
‘How grateful?’ She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward a little more. ‘It’s been two long weeks since my friend left and I’ve been starved of affection, if you know what I mean.’
Lincoln frowned, but the last week had been tough.
‘I believe I do,’ he said. He placed a hand behind her neck and drew her closer. ‘Perhaps I should show you how grateful I can be. Then we can talk about this man.’
Several hours later Lincoln lay on her bed, sprawled and sated. The shutters were open and the moon was out casting warming light over their entwined bodies.
Lincoln had avoided mentioning again the reason he had come here, waiting for her to volunteer the information.
For the last half-hour she had been quiet aside from her shallow breathing, suggesting she was dozing, and so Lincoln was drifting into a pleasant sleep when she spoke and gave him the name he wanted.
Her voice was low as she whispered the name and as he’d already considered the possibility of this man being involved, for a moment he wasn’t sure she was answering his question.
‘This is the man who stayed with you on his way to see Sheriff Pringle?’ he asked, formally stating the situation to be sure he hadn’t misunderstood.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sheckley Dolby killed my husband.’
‘And you don’t know why Ben had written to him?’
‘Other than he wanted . . . he wanted his help, no.’
Lincoln caught the caution in her tone. He reached off the bed to his jacket and withdrew the photograph from his pocket.
‘This is faded and it’ll be hard to see in the moonlight.’
‘Sheckley had a photograph,’ she mused, peering over his shoulder. ‘From here it looks like it was the same one.’
She took it from him and peered at it, squinting in the poor light. She nodded.
‘Did Sheckley say anything about it?’
‘No. I only found it in his jacket after he left – he did leave in a hurry. He even left in some of Lenox’s clothes, but I still have the picture.’
Lincoln sighed with relief. ‘Show it to me.’
She giggled, her former good mood returning.
‘I will, but first you’ll have to show me just how grateful you can be.’
Chapter Eleven
Lincoln sat outside on a bench by the door, enjoying the warmth of the morning along with a mug of coffee.
Sarah was inside the post pottering around. He hadn’t mentioned the photograph since awakening, being content to let her provide it voluntarily.
Sure enough, before he’d finished his drink, she came outside with a picture clutched to her chest.
‘Before I give you this tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Did you come here to find out who killed Lenox, or because of this picture?’
Sarah’s perceptive question made Lincoln smile.
‘It was a bit of both. Several of the people in that picture have been murdered recently and I’m trying to work out why.’
‘Understood.’ She held out the picture for him to take and then headed inside, leaving him to finally see it for himself.
He looked at the reverse side, steeling himself before he saw the actual picture. This let him see that someone, presumably Sheckley, had written a date on the back of the picture, May 8, 1872, possibly the date of the hanging. Then he turned it over.
Before coming to Independence he had seen several photographs before, but they had always been posed pictures. Often they were of people sitting and looking at the camera.
When he’d worked for the railroad, he’d seen ones that had depicted people working on the tracks or standing before a train. No matter how posed those pictures had been, they were always depictions of welcome events.
That was not the case with this picture, a picture that was as Curtis had described it to him.
Seven men stood before a saloon, each man standing with a belligerent stance, some with guns drawn, others with rifles held aloft. All the men had stern glares that reached out of the picture and transfixed their attitude into the viewer.
Sheriff Ben Pringle stood at one end of the line of men. He had folded his arms and was the only man who was not brandishing a weapon.
From most of the men Lincoln detected arrogance, perhaps even delight, but not from Ben. Lincoln understood the reason behind his stern expression because the feelings he would have been having were the same as his own would be in the same situation – disgust.
Ben would have drawn in Lincoln’s gaze and kept it if it hadn’t have been for the object of his disgust. Behind them and dangling from the saloon sign was a hanging man.
Although the other men had their features clearly presented, this man’s face was blurred. Perhaps it was a trick of the light that made his face appear as if it were a mask, a skull even.
Lincoln leaned forward, searching for more information in the picture. He didn’t recognize the saloon and he was sure it hadn’t been taken in Independence.
He also surmised that the men lining up before the camera had all had a part to play in bringing this man to his grisly end.
Aside from the line of men the only thing to look at was the dead man. He peered at him but he couldn’t decide whether the man was wearing a mask or not.
He hoped he had been because then that would provide a possible clue as to what was happening. Maybe a friend or relative of the dead man had obtained the mask and was wearing it while getting his revenge on the men in the picture.
‘Did it help?’ Sarah asked from the doorway, breaking him out of his reverie.
‘Some.’
‘Was that working out why people are dying in Independence, or how you might find Sheckley?’
‘The first.’ Lincoln watched her sigh with relief. Despite the intimacy they’d shared last night and her feelings for Ben, he gathered she still cared for Sheckley. ‘I’ve promised you I’ll be fair when I question him about why he had to kill Lenox, but I now reckon he’s also in danger. If you can tell me anything about him, now would be the time to do it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head.
Lincoln believed her, but he couldn’t dismiss the thought that Sheckley might help him find the masked man because Sheckley could be that man.
‘Do you know anyone who might know anything about this photograph?’
She smiled. ‘In fact, I do.’
Lincoln returned the smile, but then shook his head and raised a hand.
‘I can’t make you talk like I did last night. I have to act quickly.’
‘A pity,’ she said and then told him a name.
Five minutes later Lincoln was riding away from the trading post and heading for Black Point, after having promised to return later and help her bury Lenox.
When he arrived in town he found that it was a bustling settlement, about half the size of Independence.
Lincoln soon located the mercantile Sarah had directed him to and dismounted outside. He stopped with a hand still holding on to his horse’s reins.
Outside a saloon were three horses he recognized – the Humboldt brothers were in town.
Lincoln had stopped worrying about them. They knew of his destination, but he’d expected them to have become bored with looking f
or him and so to have returned to Independence by now. But he had a mission to complete and so he headed into the mercantile.
The place had a wide range of merchandise along with a prominent advertisement for a service that nobody in Independence provided: RUFUS WAINWRIGHT’S PHOTOGRAPHIC EMPORIUM.
‘Come in,’ Rufus, a man with a bristling moustache and a cheery demeanor, said. ‘I have no doubt such a fine upstanding man as yourself will make a fine subject.’
‘Obliged,’ Lincoln said and then introduced himself.
Rufus rocked back on his heels to appraise Lincoln.
‘I’ve always thought the lawmen I’ve captured have looked so dignified, but it’s been a great sorrow for me that until now a subject as noble as yourself hasn’t come into my little emporium.’
Lincoln gritted his teeth in irritation.
‘Quit the flattery.’
‘I like a man who doesn’t waste time.’ Rufus raised a finger and winked. ‘You’ll like my competitive rates and are sure to enjoy a memento you’ll want to treasure for ever. Now, what pose would—?’
‘Don’t get too hopeful. I’m not interested in having my picture taken. I’m more interested in a photograph you took some time ago.’
Lincoln withdrew the picture and held it out to Rufus, who took it, his face wreathed in a smile that died as soon as his eyes had focussed on the picture. Rufus sighed and walked over to the window to consider the picture in full light.
‘Ah, that photograph,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know about it?’
‘Seven men are in that picture. One is the mayor of Independence, one is the judge, one just lost his business, one might be wanted for murder, the other three are dead.’
‘Three? I’d heard about Wesley Jameson and Sheriff Pringle.’
‘Lenox Devere died last week. For some reason a picture taken ten years ago is now leading to a spate of murders and I want to know why. So we’ll start with the simplest question – who is the dead man?’
‘The person hanging from the saloon sign was Quincy Allen.’
Lincoln shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of him. What did he do, and where did he do it?’
Rufus didn’t reply as he looked through the window, only a sigh and his hunched shoulders betraying his feelings. Then he turned to Lincoln, handed the picture back to him, and went to the door.
‘Perhaps it’d be more useful if I just showed you,’ he said.
Lincoln followed him outside. He glanced at the saloon and confirmed the Humboldt brothers’ horses were still there. Then they headed out of town, going south broadly towards Independence.
Two hours later they stood amidst the remnants of a town that, according to the moldering sign which dangled from a rusty nail on a leaning post, had once been called Destitution.
According to Rufus, when the original homesteaders had settled the area, they’d set up here, but the town had soon outgrown the limited resources. So they’d either headed north to the fertile land around Black Point, or south towards the railroad and Independence, leaving Destitution to become another soon-to-be-forgotten collection of rotting shacks that could have become a town if it’d had better luck.
Only five identifiable buildings remained and one of those was the original trading post. Its frame stood at an angle, only the saloon beside it stopping it from falling over as it awaited a kindly wind to come along and flatten it.
The low sun cast long shadows behind the skeletal remains of the other buildings, decay ensuring Lincoln couldn’t work out what purpose they had once served.
If the saloon had had a sign, Lincoln couldn’t see it, but despite the rotted timber, this was clearly the place in the photograph.
‘What happened here?’ Lincoln asked.
‘Quincy Allen happened,’ Rufus said.
Rufus led him from the saloon. He counted his paces until he came to a scrappy patch of grass and within that patch there were three overgrown mounds.
‘Graves?’ Lincoln watched Rufus nod. Then he knelt to look for any sign of who these people had been, but time had eroded away any inscribed names. He could just make out a date on one of the markers of June 14, 1872. ‘This is when they died?’
Rufus furrowed his brow as he pondered and then shrugged.
‘I guess it must have been.’
Lincoln didn’t comment on the fact that this date was a month after the date on the back of the photograph.
‘Which one is Quincy Allen’s grave?’
‘He isn’t buried here – not after he killed these men. Stanley, James and Luke Allen died in that very saloon. They were playing poker when the saloon owner left them—’
‘Wesley Jameson by any chance?’
‘Sure. They were enjoying themselves until Quincy joined them. Quincy always cheated, even when playing with his own brothers.’ Rufus tipped back his hat while displaying a sorrowful expression. 'When Wesley returned later, the three men lay around a half-dealt hand and Quincy had hightailed it out of there.’
‘I assume he didn’t get away with it for long?’
Rufus frowned. ‘Nope. Sheriff Pringle couldn’t find him, but Paul Ellison had just become mayor in Independence and he promised he wouldn’t rest until he brought Quincy to justice. The men in the picture all had a hand in catching him, and everybody rejoiced when he was swinging from the saloon sign.’
‘Why take a picture of it?’
‘It was Ellison’s first victory of his administration and he put the picture up everywhere as a deterrent to show what would happen to anyone who broke the law. You can agree or disagree with what he did, but everyone got the message and the place was law-abiding afterwards.’
Lincoln nodded. ‘What did each of the men do?’
‘The mayor organized the hunt. The judge found Quincy guilty. The sheriff ran the case. Billy bankrolled the reward money. Wesley was the nearest they had to a witness.’
‘And the other two, Sheckley and Lenox?’
‘Sheckley was the bounty hunter who brought Quincy in.’ Rufus sighed. ‘Lenox was the only one who enjoyed his task. He was the executioner.’
‘Now the men in that picture are dying. Any idea who could be killing them?’
‘I find it hard to believe someone could have a grudge against them. Quincy didn’t make any friends with what he did here.’
Lincoln thanked him, but before mounting up to ride back to Independence, he withdrew the picture from his jacket and looked at it again. Then he paced to the spot where the people in the picture would have stood.
He judged that they had been twenty yards from the saloon. Then he looked towards the graves.
‘I haven’t got much experience with taking photographs, but I reckon you’d have had to have stood right in the middle of those graves to take this picture.’
Rufus shrugged. ‘I can’t remember exactly, but perhaps they hadn’t been buried yet.’
‘Did Quincy wear a mask?’
Rufus smiled. ‘I can see you’re intrigued by the new science of photography. The subject has to stand still when I capture his image or the representation gets distorted, but Quincy wasn’t exactly brave at the end. No matter what anyone says about him, that’s the truth of his death.’
Lincoln nodded and then turned away from facing the graves to take in the scene for one final time before he returned to the trading post.
A gunshot rang out, the slug clattering into the saloon behind him. Then he saw movement ahead in the bushes beyond the graves and heard the rustling of several people advancing on him.
If he tried to leave, he would be too obvious a target. So he batted Rufus’s arm to get his attention and pointed to the saloon.
They set off, but the assailants had got themselves organized and a volley of bullets whined around them and encouraged them to run as fast as they could before they dived through the open doorway.
Lincoln rolled to the side and then crouched and looked around, gauging his chances of making a stand. The sa
loon was derelict but the rotting wood provided some cover.
‘Keep your head down,’ Lincoln ordered before he glanced through the window himself. He again saw movement, this time seeing three people moving to positions closer to the saloon.
He appraised the opposition he faced until gunshots scythed through the window and forced him to duck. From the variety of angles at which the slugs cannoned through the window and thudded into the walls, Lincoln judged that his assailants had spread out.
‘Who are they?’ Rufus asked.
‘It’s the Humboldt brothers from Independence,’ Lincoln said.
Chapter Twelve
‘The brothers sound like trouble,’ Rufus said.
‘They are,’ Lincoln said. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Rufus frowned. ‘What a pity I left my camera back in Black Point. This situation would make a fine picture.’
Lincoln acknowledged Rufus’s humorous comment with a grunt and then edged along below the window. He stood at the side.
He ventured out and fired twice. Then he darted back when the expected gunfire blasted into the wall around the window.
Again he’d seen the brothers and again they were closer to the saloon, now aiming to come at him from several directions.
‘So you finally got the courage to take me on,’ Lincoln shouted, more to hear their responses and judge their positions than to taunt them.
‘Yeah,’ Karl shouted, from around twenty yards away and to the left of the window, perhaps as he sought to come around the side of the saloon. ‘You’ll pay for what you did to our brother.’
With the front wall of the saloon being the only available cover, Lincoln gestured for Rufus to join him. Then they crawled away from the front wall and beyond the extent of the rotting saloon floor to the scrubby ground beyond.
Lincoln saw little in the way of cover, but he gestured for Rufus to lie on his belly and make himself as small a target as possible. Then he joined him, lying a few yards to his side.