by Jake Logan
“He was putting up the American flag, and the kids were inside the building. Bang! They heard the shot, and he was on the ground. They rushed to the doorway, then scampered back inside—afraid they’d be next. Finally one of the older boys went out to check on the teacher. He came back and told the rest of them that Mr. Taylor was dead. They ain’t found a new teacher yet.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got a real killer, one with a grudge against somebody or something.”
“You want a badge?” Garner offered.
“No, but I want to investigate Farley’s death some more.”
“I’d love for you to do that. I want that killer off my back too.”
“Did Farley ever complain about being pressured by a large rancher?”
“Not formally, like swore out a warrant or anything. Him and Barr had words over some water rights. In court the judge gave the water rights to Farley. But that’s not a real reason to kill a man—at least, I couldn’t see accusing Barr of Farley’s death when Barr had an alibi for that whole day and solid witnesses.”
“I guess I need to meet this Barr. Farley referred to him in his letter.”
“Barr’s a Texan, in his thirties. Came up here with some money a few years ago and made some money on his cattle deals. He’s a shrewd trader. I think he wants an empire in this grass. He’s also an arrogant SOB, but I’ve never caught him stepping over the law.”
“So you’re stuck with him?”
“I guess. Andy, bring some coffee for me and Slocum,” he said to his clerk outside the door.
“Black?” the man asked from the doorway.
“Fine,” Slocum said. “Where can I start? I don’t know Farley’s wife.”
“She’s from Texas. I’m certain from her drawl. Minnie Farley—nice lady—was with her former husband, and they were bringing a herd up here, two years ago, I’d say. Somewhere on or near the Colorado line, her husband was killed in a horse wreck, and when she arrived in North Platte, Farley offered to help her. That struck up a wedding.”
Slocum sat back in the chair and soon sipped the strong, hot coffee. “The West as we know it will soon be taken up by God-fearing folks.”
“You know, with every dozen God-fearing families that come in here,” Garner said, “at least one worthless lot arrives. Horse stealing is so bad north of here that folks can’t keep stock. I don’t have enough deputies to cover half this new land, and no money to pay them either.”
“I saw your business from last night out in the hall.”
Garner pursed his lips and shook his head. “That’s only a small part of it.”
The coffee tasted good and opened Slocum’s mind, which had been numbed by his overactive night madness in bed with Leta. He could still recall the flavor of her mouth, even with his own filled with Garner’s rich brew. Last night it had brought back a crystal clear memory of the last time he’d seen her, some time ago now.
After the round of refreshment, the lawman drew Slocum a map to Farley’s place and Slocum thanked him, promising to be around if Garner needed him.
Garner walked him to the door to see him off. “I may need you. My chief deputy, Sam Welch, can answer any questions about the murder. He was out there.”
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” Someone driving a buckboard with lathered horses was standing up, shouting for the sheriff as he fought the traffic to reach him.
“What is it?” Garner asked, sharing a puzzled look with Slocum, who also came into the street to see what was wrong.
“That damn sniper has shot another man this morning,” the excited farmer shouted, indicating the body in the back of his buckboard.
The corpse in the back was a tall man in overalls. Under his black beard his face was snow-white, and his eyes were closed. The massive wound in his chest and the dark blood dried on the overall bib told Slocum a high-powered bullet had torn out part of his lungs.
“Everyone get back,” the sheriff shouted. “All of you!”
A murmur ran through the crowd. Slocum heard it. It was nothing he hadn’t been exposed to before under similar circumstances—We need to hang the sumbitch who did this dastardly crime.
“Who is he, Norman?” Garner asked.
“Name’s Kennedy, Howard Kennedy. Got a wife and a mess of kids. They were going to settle near me on Hungry Boy Creek.”
In disgust, Garner dropped his head, until at last he looked up. “I better go investigate. You want to ride along?” he asked Slocum.
“I guess. Don’t know what I can do, but sure, I’ll go.”
“Take him to Dr. Schmidt, then have them get him ready for the funeral. What about his wife and family?”
“She’s coming behind me. And got a boy of fifteen who’s driving the whole family into town with their rig.”
“Where did this happen?”
“At the Hatcher Spring.”
“I’ll get a few things and tell my staff, Slocum. Meet you at the livery in five minutes.”
Slocum excused the lawman and led Buck up to the livery to wait for the sheriff. Lots of things happening—another man shot, and as odd a one as the list of past victims; this killer must have a hard-on against everybody in this land.Who in hell could it be?
A sunbeam shone on the swirling dust particles in the column of light coming through the bank’s high window. Barr sat in the captain’s chair across from Amos Toothacker, the president of the institution. Toothacker was a short man with a bushy gray beard who reminded Barr of a fat old ground-hog perched on a rise. At times, Toothacker even held his hands like a rodent standing up did.
“Money is very short nationwide,” Toothacker lamented. “Conditions on the stock market are bad right now. We may have to charge very high interest for any loans we can arrange for you. Things are serious these days.”
“Every time I have a chance to make some real money, it’s always the economy that screws me up.”
“I know. I know what you mean. Volatile times. It’s volatile times, my boy.”
“When will you know about the money? Any stranded herds up here will be available for a quick sale when the first cold draft comes out of the Dakotas.”
“I have wires out. Money is simply damn tight. I am working as hard as I can on the matter. This entire country is in a serious recession.”
“I’ll check back with you.” Barr rose and put on his hat. Times like these he’d like to strangle that little weasel to death. He’d better go have a drink and find himself a piece of pussy. Maybe then he could forget Toothacker for a little while.
“I’m working on it. Working hard.” The banker stood up and accompanied him to the door of his office.
Damn sure not hard enough.
4
Slocum and Sheriff Garner headed out of town across the Platte River bridge. The lawman rode a big black horse that looked stout. On the road, Garner exchanged casual pleasantries with the many people who knew him—it was part of a politician’s job. There was lots of traffic, and many people camped alongside the road were hitching up after having breakfast to head north in search of land. Some families with as little as a handcart were on the road. How would they ever survive the coming winter? Slocum wondered.
They weren’t his worry—but he’d be niggled all day thinking about their welfare in the future. It was too late in the year to start any garden.... Hell, he’d forget them—if he could.
“Like you said, things are changing,” Garner said. “Only thing I ever recall on this road a few years ago were cattle and freighters headed for the army forts.”
“And changing fast.” Slocum nudged Buck to trot a little faster to keep up.
On the road, they met the family of the dead man, with the boy driving their loaded farm wagon. The red-faced woman wearing a bonnet, who’d no doubt been crying, held a small youngster in her arms. Four other children surrounded the seat.
Garner introduced himself and dismounted.
They all climbed down, and Mrs. Kennedy, between her sobs, told
of how she’d been cooking breakfast and her husband had bolted forward—hit hard in the chest. Then she heard the report of the rifle, and her husband had spilled on the ground.
“He never said a word.” She sniffed in a rag. “Howard was dead like that. We have no enemies. We were merely moving through.... Why did they do that?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Did you see anyone?”
“No. I don’t even know what direction the bullet came from.”
“You saw no one?”
“Nothing. It came like a thunderbolt out of nowhere.”
“Slocum and I are going to ride up there and look for clues. You were camped at those springs?”
“Yes, sir,” the youth said. “I never saw a thing either. I was hitching the team at the time.”
“There had to be someone at the trigger.” Garner folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Which direction was your husband facing?”
“West,” she said. “Why?”
“He was shot in the back?”
“Yes.”
“Then the shooter was east of your camp.”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. Mrs. Kennedy, your husband’s body will be at the Burns Funeral Home. They’ll handle things. I’m sorry, but we need to ride up there and look for some clues.”
“I understand.” She herded her small children back, so they could leave.
“You’re doing a nice job,” Garner said to the young man.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of them.”
Slocum agreed and helped Mrs. Kennedy back up on the wagon seat, then handed up the children too small to climb up.
When they were mounted and on the road again, Garner looked back to check to be sure that he and Slocum were alone. “I get sick thinking how they’ll exist without a man.”
“You aren’t the only one.”
At the springs, though the camp was tramped up, they did find a place where Kennedy’s dark blood stained the ground, and they took an aim at the coverage on the hill-side. Enough cedars up there to cover a shooter, Slocum decided. He gave a head toss to Garner, mounted up and rode east. He dismounted and let Buck graze. Knowing the distance of most sniper rifles, he felt he was close to the spot.
Then he found some fresh bent grass and a heel print—only the back rim, but it was a sloping boot heel. Circling wide, he spotted the side of a sole indent in the ground. Slocum squatted down, and Garner joined him.
“Find something?”
“Someone in boots was up here earlier.” Slocum rose and moved east, looking hard at the ground between the knee-high grass for more tracks. “Here’s another heel print.”
“Damn,” Garner swore. “I’ve hired Indians couldn’t have found them.”
“We ain’t found the boot wearer yet. He kept a horse in this area. It was shod too.” Slocum pointed out the signs.
“Where did he go next?”
“I’d say east.”
They followed the horse’s tracks until they spotted the line shack.
“Whose place is that?” Slocum reined up his dun.
“I imagine Barr’s. The shooter go there?”
“I guess we’ll know in a short while.”
Inside the shack, there was nothing disturbed that they could find.
“He didn’t stay here long or eat anything,” Slocum said, standing in the open doorway and looking across the rolling grassy hills. There had to be some reason for the shooter to stop over at this place, but it damn sure wasn’t obvious to him at the moment.
“But he stopped here. Why?”
“I guess we’ll have to ask him that when we find him.”
Garner chuckled. “Well, any more prints that we can track?”
“I think he went to the road from here and on into North Platte.”
“All we need is a face, huh?” Garner led the way down to the hitched horses.
Mounted up, they rode for town.
“I appreciate your tracking,” Garner said when they reached the road again. “Not much chance we can find that pony by looking at all the shoes, is there?”
“It would have to be pretty unusual shoes.” Slocum looked over his shoulder. Nothing back there. “I guess I’ll go find Farley’s widow in the morning.” Either the hit man had a reason to go back to that shack or there was something there that drew him to this place. Maybe Slocum needed to make a better search of that shack? The next time, he’d look it over in less of a hurry.
“I’ll buy you supper when we get back to town,” Garner said.
“I never turn down a meal, especially a free one.” They both laughed.
Barr had picked her out. She was some short slut working in the Lucky Horse who flirted around him like a bumble-bee. Called herself Henny.
“Will you do it for two bits?” he asked, whispering in her hair, which stank of stale smoke.
“Hell, I’ve got to pay rent,” she complained. “How about six bits?”
“Why, darling, you’ll still have all evening to catch the dumb ones.”
“Six bits.”
“All right, but you better be hotter than a fox bitch in heat.”
“I won’t disappoint ya.”
He looked around. “Where’s your pen?”
“Across the alley.”
“Lead the way.”
He watched the crowd closely as they slid to the back. This wasn’t going to be some quick fix and then him getting robbed. First, he wasn’t drunk, and she knew it. Second, he didn’t wear a gun for looks. It better not be no fiasco, or she’d end up in the Platte facedown. No one ever investigated the murders of whores; they were expendable.
In her small room, which smelled of women’s piss, cheap perfume and sour sweat, he hung his gun belt on the chair rung. He watched her undress as he undid his pants. She wasn’t that bad, kind of potbellied, and her breasts sagged. Soon undressed, she came over to him as he finished stepping out of his long johns.
“You got a big tool, mister.” She nodded at his pecker.
“I bet it ain’t too big for your hole.”
“If I’d known it was that big, I’d of charged you more.” She dropped on her ass on the bed when he shooed her that direction.
“Get on your back and spread them knees. This ain’t going to be no dick dipping like you get by with from them dumb farm boys.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“I know your kind. You let them stick their pecker in a little ways and then you drop your legs so they ain’t hardly got their pecker inside. And they get their rocks off.”
He kneeled on the bed and gathered her legs in the crooks of his arms. She cut off a cry. He hunched at her until at last he nosed his half-full erection into her gates. With a great effort, he finally drove his dick halfway home and took her breath away. Then he went to pounding her ass until he was hammering on the bottom with the head of his swollen rod.
Out of breath, she was tossing her head and moaning. He grinned to himself; it wasn’t easy to get a slut like her wound up. Then he felt the tingling in his balls and he came hard.
“Whew,” she said when he disengaged from her and let her legs drop. “That was something.”
He found the money in his pants pocket and slapped it on the small dresser. “You ain’t half bad, bitch. Next time, take a bath and I’ll pay you a buck.”
“Huh?” She scratched her frizzy hair.
Dressed at last, he buckled on his gun. She didn’t get it. The dumb bitch didn’t understand what he meant. Maybe he ought to drag her ass down and hold her underwater in the river awhile. It would take a real stiff brush to ever get even her ass clean. Hell, he didn’t have time for that.
“Remember me. My name’s Henny,” she shouted after him.
But he never acknowledged her as he went on out.
Barr headed up the shadowy alley. It would be dark soon. His snitch, Hooker, would meet him at the back of the stables. Any news he needed to know, his man wou
ld have the information or would find it out.
He saw a match light and nodded to himself. Hooker was there, back in the deep shadows. Barr joined him.
“What’s happened?” Barr looked all around.
“Some farmer got shot. The sniper got him, I heard.”
“What else?”
“Some tough hand named Slocum rode up there with Garner.”
“Who’s he? Slocum.”
“He helped Garner break up a horse rustling gang three years ago.”
“He some kinda federal law?”
“Naw,” Hooker said. “Just some guy drifting through that Garner knows.”
“I’ll have to look for him.”
“Big guy. Tough too.”
“But you don’t know why he’s here?”
They both went quiet as an old drunk stumbled past, muttering all the way, and never saw them. They waited till he was gone.
“Charley Farley sent for him.”
“When?”
“Damned if I know. But it had to be before he got shot.”
Barr shook his head. “What’ll he do about it?”
Hooker shrugged. “I figure he’s going to dig some.”
Maybe he should stop the plan to gang-rape Farley’s widow. No, she needed it—and what the hell could one man do anyway, even one who was a buddy of the damn sheriff? But he’d have to watch for him. “Slocum, huh?”
“That’s the only name I caught.”
He’d never heard of this guy before. Maybe one of his crew had heard of him. One thing he knew—he’d damn sure go to checking around about him.
“What about the farmer who got shot?”
“Kennedy. He got buried this afternoon.”
“Good riddance. I’ll see you in a few days.” Barr paid him five dollars. Cheap for all the information he got off the old guy. Sumbitch knew everything that happened in North Platte, or found it out. He was worth all that Barr gave him.
Barr went between the two buildings and then inside the Texas Moon Saloon, where he bought two bottles of good whiskey. The barkeep wrapped each one in a Turkish towel and then tied them with string so they’d nest in his saddlebags. It’d be after midnight before he got back to the ranch. That was all right. He had jerky to chew on; he wouldn’t starve. Besides, Erma’s cunt would be waiting for him.