by Monty McCord
“Governor Hayes fought in the war and was wounded several times. I do not recall any such service, meritorious or other, on the part of that scalawag Tilden!” Evans said. “I do not believe he is the type of man we want as our president!”
“Why, Pastor, I do believe we found a subject outside of the Almighty that raises a rankle,” Gib said. The men laughed.
“Chortle to your hearts’ content, gentlemen, as I assure you, your joviality will become a rare commodity, indeed, with that one leading the country!” Evans said.
Before the last chuckle died out, a young boy ran into the saloon. “I found a man in the street. He looks dead! Come quick!” All faces turned to Joe as he stood and followed the boy.
“What the hell now?” Jarvis demanded for Joe’s benefit. The rest of the men followed Joe and the boy.
Straight north of the saloon, at the edge of the town’s boundary, a man lay face down in the middle of the street. The North Star group gathered around to look. It seemed to have cooled down even more after the sun came up, and the men’s breaths were visible.
“See, Marshal, I told you!” The wide-eyed boy stood pointing a sharp index finger.
Joe turned the rigid body over on its back. The blue skin and coating of frost made it obvious the man was dead. The massive blood stains on his shirt made it certain that he’d met a violent end. The mangled hands and several missing fingers indicated a futile attempt to block the attack. There was no blood or tissue of any kind on the road. The body had been dumped there. Joe recognized him immediately, but Siegler beat him to the announcement.
“Joe, isn’t that the man you had in jail. What was his name?”
“Yeah. Robert Carlson.” He squatted and looked over the body.
“Son, would you go fetch the undertaker for me?” Joe asked.
“Sure thing, Marshal, right away!” The boy turned and sprinted across the back lots.
Harvey Martin turned pale and stepped back. “I better be getting back to the hotel.”
“So, this would be the man you supposedly followed on your little trip out of town?” Jarvis’s tone was accusatory. “Did you decide you’d give him the justice you figured he wrangled out of? That it?”
“Budd, that’s enough jumping to conclusions. Joe didn’t kill this man. He followed him to a hideout, then rode to Gracie Flats and told Sheriff Canfield about it,” Siegler said.
“That’s what he said. Did you see him follow this man?” Jarvis said.
“You know I didn’t, and I won’t continue this conversation! Feel free to ask Canfield if you ever see him around.”
“How many times was he shot?” Hadley said.
“Shotgun, maybe just once,” Joe said. He was glad to ignore Jarvis’s ranting.
Except for Siegler, the men turned away, one by one, and walked back toward Main Street. Hadley turned back to take one last look. Christmas Evans had remained silent. Jarvis brought up the rear of the entourage.
Siegler glanced down the street to make sure the others were out of hearing distance. “Joe, look me in the eyes and tell me you had nothing to do with this man’s death, please.”
“You, too, Mister Siegler?” Joe said.
“The only reason I ask, if you remember, I was in your office the day you let him go. And . . . uh, you threatened to kill him! Did you mean it?”
“Don’t joke about somethin’ like that. But, I said I’d kill him if he came back to Taylorsville, and he didn’t. Not ’til now.” Joe stood up and looked directly at Siegler. “I didn’t kill him, Mister Siegler. Would have if he’d come back alive.”
“That’s good enough for me, Joe. I guess.” Siegler looked down the street again and saw the undertaker driving his wagon toward them. “Who do you suppose did him in? And why drop him here?”
“I’d guess his cronies weren’t happy with Robert drawing attention to themselves in town, and losing a man, I s’pose,” Joe said. “Why they dropped him here is a good question.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That afternoon Joe walked down to MacNab’s to see Robert Carlson’s corpse. The undertaker, Iain MacNab, was a tiny man with flaming red hair and beard. He’d started his business in Iowa before moving it to Taylorsville. As in many other towns, the business of furniture making and funeral directing were often a combined enterprise. The sign painted directly on the front of the building read FURNITURE MAKER, with UNDERTAKER below in smaller letters. It was the last building at the east end of Main Street. A coffin displayed in one of the front windows, along with a small table and chairs, made a somewhat curious offering for window shoppers.
Joe entered the narrow store and walked past the completed furniture, through a shop area, and into a back room. Inside, Carlson’s body lay on a wooden table stained over the years by body fluids. Without his clothes, and with the blood washed away, the body was an odd combination of colors. The torso, legs, and arms were lily white, while his face, neck, and hands were dark-toned. His mouth was partially open, and Joe could see several broken and missing teeth, on the top as well as the bottom row. Some dried blood was still evident around his mouth. Carlson’s chest area looked like it was caved in. It had large chunks of skin missing, and semicircular edges could be seen at the border of the largest wound. A couple of pellets had spread out, making their own holes. It was a shotgun blast all right, at fairly close range. Death would have been quick. The final week of Robert Carlson’s life had been a tough one.
MacNab told Joe that he had agreed with Siegler’s request to use the cheapest pine box he had, since the town was paying for the burial. The funeral would take place the next day in the small cemetery behind the church, and Pastor Evans had insisted on saying a few words.
Joe was glad that Carlson hadn’t been killed in town, because then he would have been obligated to try and find his killer. Still, he was a lawman, and a murder had been committed somewhere. The best guess was still that Carlson’s buddies at the hideout did him in. With any luck, Sheriff Canfield and his posse may have them locked away in his jail by now. Joe would send word to him and see if any of his prisoners would ’fess up to killing Carlson. That would be a good chore for Adam.
Joe wrote a letter to Sheriff Canfield that Carlson’s body had been dumped, that a shotgun had killed him, and asked him to see if he could get the dead man’s associates to confess. Adam left for Gracie Flats on Siegler’s Appaloosa in the early afternoon with the letter. He was expected back by ten o’clock.
That done, Joe walked the town, saw Sarah for a few minutes, and headed to the North Star. Gib Hadley usually had beans and bacon available if folks wanted something to eat with their drinks, but on this night he was offering fried liver and bacon. Joe had a plate with some beer.
After finishing dinner, Joe headed to the Palace. He walked to the end of the bar and leaned an elbow on it as usual. Smiley gave Joe a withering look when he came in and continued wiping off the whiskey bottles he was pulling from a crate. Most of the tables were occupied, two with poker games in progress. Joe glanced again at Smiley, who now was looking at the crowd. Smiley’s grin showed up on his mouth but not on the rest of his face. When he chuckled, Joe looked back over at the tables and saw Lucy picking herself up from the floor. Joe had seen her sitting at a table when he came in. After getting to her feet, she walked between the tables, bumping into each chair back as she went. She had a hard time keeping her balance and forced a smile with each step. The flimsy low-cut dress exposed most of her breasts. She tripped on a chair leg and almost fell again. One of the few cowhands who wasn’t laughing caught her arm and kept her from falling.
“How much has she had to drink?” Joe asked.
Smiley’s grin ceased when he heard Joe’s question. “Why, Marshal, she ain’t had a drop all day.” Part of his grin reappeared. “That’s the God’s honest truth, too. She’s a bit wobbly on her feet, but as luck would have it, she’s steady on her back.” He stepped away from the bar and out of reach as he said it.
“You son-of-
a-bitch.” As Joe left the bar and headed toward Lucy, he heard Smiley again.
“You ain’t got no call to curse me like that!” Smiley was grinning again.
“Lucy, come and sit down with me a minute, like to talk to you.” Joe took her arm, and they walked to an empty table. She bumped into three chairs as they went.
“Want to do some business, Marshal?” Lucy asked. “Only a buck. But I owe you, I’d do you for free if ya’ want?” She looked hopeful.
“No, Lucy, no thanks. I wanted to see how you were gettin’ along.You know, how you’re feelin’,” Joe said.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked down. “I’m doin’ better all the time, Marshal. On a good day, I don’t fall down but twice.” Her voice was thick with emotion. She raised her head and looked at Joe. The tears streaked down both cheeks.
“Have you talked to Doc Sullivan lately?” Joe said.
“This mornin’, a checkup, down there, ya’ know.” Lucy pointed to her lap and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.
“Did he say anything about the dizziness or your eyesight?”
“Not much. He doesn’t know if it will ever get better.” She forced a smile and looked at Joe. “I know, you’re probably mad because I didn’t go through with charges—”
“Don’t worry about that,” Joe interrupted.
“No, let me finish. I know it was the right thing to do, but I don’t have anywhere to go. Smiley would have fired me. He told me.”
“It’s okay, Lucy. Both those animals got their comeuppance, after a fashion. The other one is laying out at MacNab’s,” Joe informed her.
She looked him in the eye. “Did you . . . ?”
“Did I kill him? No. But both of ’em are dead now, so you can put that behind you.”
“Can’t put all of it behind me, can I? I better get back to work.”
“Where you from Lucy?” Joe asked.
This brought more tears and she wiped them away with the back of each hand. “Small town in Mississippi, just below Memphis.”
“Any family there?”
“My daddy and brothers drowned in the big river when their raft broke up. Momma died havin’ me. Ain’t nobody else left.”
Joe had hoped that he could figure out someone to take Lucy and care for her. Now he regretted asking.
“Here, for your time. Give Smiley one, and you keep the rest,” Joe said. He slid four silver dollars across the table.
Lucy looked at him and started to say something.
“Gotta finish my rounds. Let me know if you need anything.” Joe watched her squint and paw repeatedly near each coin before she found them and picked them up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“He the one, Luther? In the black hat and coat with the whore? Can’t see no badge on him. Is that him?”
“Keep your voice down, Cookie,” Luther warned. “Yeah, that’s him. Seen him once before when I was playing cards at the North Star. I was bilkin’ some dumb farmer real good ’til he got mad. The marshal buffaloed ’im and we had to haul ’im down to the jail.” Luther grinned. He sipped beer from his mug and watched Joe and Lucy three tables away.
“We friends, ain’t we, Luther? I been thinkin’, listen to me, just listen and see if I don’t make sense,” Cookie said in a low voice. Luther looked at him and waited.
“Maybe the boss won’t be mad at us no longer if we kilt the marshal, but that’s odds I ain’t particular fond of. I don’t want the boss or his damned deputy shootin’ me for no reason like they done Carlson. Instead of killin’ this tin star, let’s go tell ’im we saw them kill Carlson right in front of us. That way, he’d go arrest them for murderin’ Bob, and we won’t have to worry about ’em no more.”
“Cookie, are you drunk? You think that tin star could arrest Canfield and his deputy? And besides that, we’d have to testify on what we seen.”
“I thought about that, too,” Cookie said. “Listen, if we kilt the marshal, the law would be after us, maybe not the sheriff, but somebody would come after us, since it’d be a lawman we kilt. But, instead of doin’ that, the two of us could testify, and they’d hang them two, and our worries would be over. Hell, the marshal cain’t pin any thievin’ on us without proof.”
Luther stared at his friend and took a long swig of beer. He lowered his head and looked at the table top. “Sure wish I had some of your corn dodgers right about now.” He rubbed his chin whiskers. “Might make sense. I sure don’t like thinkin’ about watchin’ my backside all the time, expectin’ the law to catch up.”
“It does make sense, Luther. Why in hell ya’ think Tyler lit out and went back to Montana where he come from? Tell me that,” Cookie said. “He lit out ’cuz he didn’t want to get shot for no reason by the boss, neither.”
Luther chewed at the stub of a fingernail and watched Joe walk out of the saloon.
“Okay, but we’ll stay here ’til nine or so. There’s an outhouse behind the marshal’s office. We’ll hide out in it ’til there ain’t no folks movin’ around. Then we’ll knock on the back door of the office and go in without bein’ seen and tell him what we know.”
“That’s fine, jus’ fine. I know’d you’d see it my way,” Cookie said with a triumphant grin.
“Right now, I’m gonna go have me one with Lucy. Got this dollar I swiped from Tyler ’fore he left.” Luther held it up and grinned.
It had only been ten minutes when Luther came back downstairs and returned to their table.
“Wooeee! That was a quick one!” Cookie laughed.
“Shut the hell up, will ya’?” Luther said.
“Shit, Luther, my mood is usually improved afterward. What the hell’s wrong?”
“She uses that middle room,” Luther said and pointed. “Soon as we walks in, I see a chunk of the wall busted, and there’s a big stain. Looks like it’s been scrubbed some, but the stain is still there.”
“What are ya’ talkin’ about, Luther? Ya’ do your business or not?”
“Hell, no, I didn’t! I tried, but once it hit me what that stain was, my wood was limper’n a cooked noodle,” Luther said, and downed his warm beer.
“Oh.” A look of realization had crossed Cookie’s face.
Joe returned to the office after finishing his rounds and relaxed at the desk with a glass of whiskey. The Regulator said 9:30, and he expected Adam to return at any time.
Rereading Charlie’s letter served two purposes. First, to consider Lute Kinney, but most of all, it seemed that he found comfort in reading his old friend’s letter. His former boss was the only man Joe could remember that he both trusted and respected, other than his father. His commanding officer at Shiloh came close, but Charlie Oster filled the entire bill. It wouldn’t be bad to have him at my side these days, that’s for sure. Until Kinney was dealt with at least.
It was a few minutes before ten o’clock when Joe heard a light knocking at the back door. He slid the cavalry Colt into the front of his trousers and stopped to listen. Whoever it was knocked again. Joe couldn’t imagine Lute Kinney precipitating an attack this way, knocking on the back door of the office late at night, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He grabbed two brass shells from the desk and pulled down the ten-gauge. After glancing up and down the street through the front windows, he walked to the back door.
“Who’s out there?”
“Uh, uh, name’s Luther, Marshal. We need to talk to you private, why we came to the back door.” The voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Who’s we, how many?” Joe said.
“There’s jus’ me and Cookie, that’s all. Can we come in Marshal, ’fore someone sees us?”
“What is it ya’ want?” Joe hadn’t heard Kinney talk enough to recognize his voice.
“Uh, we know who kilt Bob Carlson, Marshal. We don’t want nobody seein’ us talkin’ to you. Can we come in?”
Joe wondered if this was a trap of some kind. But he was tired of playing games. If these folks, whoever they were, cam
e looking for trouble, they’d find it. He lifted the crossbar from the door, leaned it against the wall, and stepped back. Joe cocked both hammers, and with the ten-gauge at his shoulder, he spoke. “It’s unlocked. Come in slowly with your hands out front where I can see ’em. If I don’t see ’em, the ball will open!”
The latch snapped, and the door gradually opened. Two hands came through first and then the large grubby-looking man who was connected to them. “Jeesus!” His head ducked reflexively when he saw the shotgun.
“Keep them hands high. They go below shoulder level, this’ll be the last thing you ever see,” Joe said. The man stepped aside so his friend could enter.
“I’m Luther, Luther Brennan. This is Cookie Jones.”
Cookie gasped when he stepped into view of the shotgun. “Marshal, them look like two well pipes stuck together!”
“You boys heeled?” Joe said.
“Oh uh, Marshal, we are. Plum forgot about ’em.”
“You first, Luther, slowly with your fingers, drop it in that bucket, then you, Cookie.”
They did as they were told and noticed Joe wrinkle his nose and sniff the air.
“Oh, uh, sorry about the smell, we been waitin’ in the privy ’til there weren’t no one movin’ about,” Luther explained.
“That the gun you blasted Darnell with, Marshal?” Cookie asked.
“If you mean the cur upstairs at the Palace Saloon, it is. There’s chairs over here, sit,” Joe said, and motioned them over in front of his desk.
“If ya’ wouldn’t mind considerable, Marshal, could we stay back here behind the cage, out of sight?” Luther said.
Joe lowered the shotgun and uncocked it. “Okay. What is it you want to tell me?”
Apparently Luther had agreed to be the speaker. “We know who kilt Carlson, but first we want your word on somethin’.”
“What?” Joe said.
“We’ll testify whenever you call on us, but we don’t want to be locked up in a cage. Be too easy gettin’ kilt bein’ caged like a chicken. We can stay hid right here in town, but nobody ’cept you knows where.Your word?”