by Travis Ford
CHAPTER TWELVE
When I went back to the apartment, Jaquan was reading an old newspaper. He looked up at me. "You think the one who killed that man was the same one who’s been shooting at the door?"
"No. There isn’t a chance of it. The person who killed Aileen wouldn’t have wasted led. He would’ve laid out and waited for that perfect shot. And at fairly close up range."
"Jaquan, we got to face it. We’re up against sure enough killers. You see anybody riding slow, creepy and spooky, don’t you turn your back, no matter what."
He got quiet for a spell. And then he asked, "You going to take the body in?"
"Uh huh. And I may have to stay for an investigation. Looks to me you’re going to be maybe a week or more on your own."
"Don’t worry about me. You just ride along about your business."
There were people standing along Main Street when I rode in with Aileen's body. One of the first men I saw was Grandville McNamara, another was Johnny Santini.
Johnny was surprised when I named the dead man. "Aileen Enrique. The last I heard of Aileen, he was hitting it off with some lady friend."
Breefly I went over of how I found his dead body. And as I talked, several men gathered around listening. Standing on the walk some distance, but within earshot, was a man who looked familiar, but I couldn’t make out who he was. McNamara asked me a question an after I answered him, I looked around, but the man was gone.
Suddenly it came to me who he looked like. There’d been something about him that made me think of Karl Kellen.
The next day, the investigation. In my own mine, I was sure whoever rode in that drive by was the guilty party. Aileen Enrique was obviously shot by somebody he knew and had talked with. That he was shot down without warning at fairly close range. One thing I didn’t say were, I and Jaquan’ll find whoever was responsible and severely end the responsible life of that drive by and visit their funerals.
One thing I did say, that I was immediately sorry for, they asked me could I identify the track of the killer if I saw it again, and I said I believe I could.
And with those words I stood myself up right in the target rack of a shooting gallery.
There were two of three strangers at the back of the room where the investigation was held, and I didn’t get a good look at them. And there was somebody else in the room who was no stranger. Price Hilmore was there.
The place I got for myself was a one room hotel room, where they had a few rooms for rent. That night, on a hunch, I shifted the bed as quietly as I could, moving it to the opposite side of the room. No more that a cot it was, and it was no trick to just pick it up and move it. I had pulled off my boots and was getting undressed when I thought of those strangers at the inquest, and it came to me that one of them was Jarez Claymount in Jimtown, the man who was supposed to be Hobes Izumi's representative.
If I hadn’t been so hog on tired, I’d have gathered up and lit out for the hills right then.
I’d been carrying both a revolver and a .30-06. When I finally stretched out on the cot, I had both of them in my hand.
The night noises slowly died away. Boots sounded on the boardwalk, a door down the street slammed, then somebody tripped over a board and swore. At last all was quiet and I drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly the night exploded with gunfire and I jerked up to a sitting position, gun in hand. Even as I sat up, I heard the ugly smash of another bullet that came through the wall, and promptly I fired through the wall in return.
Then there was a moment of stillness followed by a sudden uproar of voices. In the hall angry questions were called out followed by a pounding on my door. I swung my feet to the floor and went over an opened up the door. The proprietor was there, and the night personnel? Behind them crowded half a dozen people.
"What happened?" The night personnel guard asked.
"Somebody shot at me," I said, "an I jerked up out of a sleep and fired back."
They walked across the room, holding a flashlight high. Two bullets had come through the thin wall, an if I hadn’t moved the bed, both of them would have hit me.
"You moved the bed," the proprietor said. "Did you figure on this?"
"The person on the other side of the room snores," I said, "so I moved over here."
Funny thing were, they believed me.
After they left, I moved the bed back across the room and went to sleep, but before I dozed off, I laid there thinking that maybe this was my time to see California. Somehow I always wanted to go there, and they say it can be right pleasant in the winter.
Only this was, I left Jaquan Vessey out there at the spot, and he would need help to get through the winter.
The more I thought of it, the madder I got, and I never been one to back up from trouble. Maybe I would’ve been better off I had.
Came daybreak, I went up the street to the Macqueen House and ate a first rate breakfast with the works.
I was still there when Johnny Santini came in and sat down with me.
"What’s up?" He asked. "I mean, how’s your family?"
"They’re breathing," I said.
We talked family for a few minutes and the Grandville McNamara came in and walked over to the table. He said good morning to us and sat down.
"Mussolini," he said, "there are some of us believed it is about time to make a clean up of state."
Me, I just looked at him, although I was pretty sure I knew what was coming.
"You’ve got the reputation of being a fighter."
"Maybe."
"A fighter is a fighter. I want a few good men, Mussolini, and we’ve got a few." He named a couple and when he did I looked at him and shook my head, Grandville McNamara was a fine man and a good sharpshooter, and he was on the map, but I’ll never put much stock in vigilantes.
"I’m not good with a peashooter," I said. "And when it comes to the cleanliness, it’s an obliteration. You’ve best to know what you’re up against."
"They aren’t peashooters," McNamara said.
"You’re right in the middle of the storm," McNamara said, showing his irritation. "You’ve got them all around you out there." He paused. "You ever been shot at?"
"Looked like it," I agreed. "And we got to get the fuckers. I’ll fight for any I’m riding with, an I’ll do as good a job as I know how, but I’m not a man hunter."
After that, they left me. I finished my meal and ordered more coffee.
I was paying no attention to anything around me when suddenly a girl spoke to me.
Well, I’ve been so occupied with listening to McNamara and Santini, that I hadn’t noticed that girl before. She had come in after I had and was sitting at the next table. Now I saw that she was a right pretty girl.
"I beg your pardon Sir. Could you tell me how to get to Otter Street?"
"Where? Otter? That’s a long stretch from here Ma’am." And then I said, "And nothing out there a lady could go to."
"I want to go to Arnold Dowel’s place."
She was slender, and got up mighty stylish, and she had the look of a thoroughbred
"Are you kin?" I asked.
"Kin?" She looked puzzled, but then her face cleared. "Oh yes! He is my brother."
Turning around in my chair, I said, carefully as I could, "That isn’t much of a place, Ma’am. I mean, Dowel is doing alright…or was last I saw him, maybe a year ago.
"He needs help." The way she said it was matter-of-fact, no nonsense about it. "If I can help him, I shall." And then she added, "There is no one else."
"Is he expecting you?"
"No. I knew he would tell me not to come, so I just came anyway."
"I’m going that way, Ma’am. I can take you out there, but I suggest you stay here in town instead, and let me ride over and tell him."
"That’s rather silly, isn’t it? Why should you make a trip there for me? If he needs help, that would be time lost. An I am sure time is important to him."
Now when a woman gets that look on her face, there’s not m
uch point in arguing with her, but I made one last attempt to get the straight of things.
"Did he tell you he was in trouble?"
"No. But from the tone of his last letter, I knew he needed help."
She did not have to convince me of that. Arnold Dowel was a slim young Irishman from the old country, a good man too. He had been a soldier on the northwest frontier of Ireland. He had came to the United States four of five years ago.
And after looking around, had packed that site near after and stayed there. And he had trouble.
There were a couple of them over that way that didn’t take favorably to nesters of any kind. And then there were a stream war through of young bucks who had decided he was fair game.
The Khyber apparently had taught him a few things. And the Sioux lost a warrior and two with another buck wounded, before they decided to let him alone.
As for them, they had done nothing, but I knew they weren’t taking kindly to his staying there, and they had made the usual comments about loosing product. Such comments were occasionally based on fact, but often as not they were just preliminary to some action against the nester. What had followed, I had no idea, for I’d been gone from the city for some time.
I left the girl in the restaurant and went on the sidewalk.
Johnny Santini was there, talking to Romen Bohlen.
Bohlen was a big pusher, a rough, hard man, too autocratic for me to work for, although I’d worked beside him on round up crews. He was a good hand, fed his organization well, paid top wages, but he was a brusque, short spoken man whom I never enjoyed. However, he was probably the most successful pusher around and he carried a lot of weight.
He looked at me, a straight hard look. "Didn’t know you were a ladies’ man, Mussolini. Who is she?"
Sort of reluctantly, I told him, "She wants to go out to her brother’s place." It wasn’t until I said it, that I remembered Bohlen had been one of the men who had said a lot about Dowel. In fact, he had done everything but flatly accuse him of rustling.
"Don’t take her out there," he said. And then that brusque way of his fired me up. Anyway, he wasn’t my boss.
"She asked me and I’m taking her," I said.
Roman Bohlen’s eyes turned mean. "By game, Mussolini, I told you…"
"I heard you," I interrupted, "and what I do is none of your damn business!"
For a minute there, I though he were going to take a punch at me, but he just shrugged and said, "Take her and be damned."
As I turned away I heard him say, "If he worked for me Santini, I’d fire him."
"I’d pay hell getting anybody else for that spot. And you damn well know it. Besides, he’s a good man."
"Maybe. I just wonder why he’s so willing to take the job. And he must be kind of thick with Dowel to be taking that woman out there."
Whatever was said after that I didn’t hear and didn’t want to hear. I was afraid I’d go back and take a punch at Roman Bohlen. And if I did, I’d have too cripple him and explain to the authorities.
Bohlen was a big Quirk Zainuddin, but a whole lot faster, but he were no match for me. Fact was, he had whipped Zainuddin a year or so back, and whipped him beautifully. I’d seen the fight.
When we rode out of town, I wasn’t completely thinking about the woman beside me. I was worrying some about what Roman Bohlen had said about Dowel. Bohlen was a good hater. And when he made up his mind to believe something, there was no changing him.
Bree Dowel drew a deep breath. "Oh, this air!" She exclaimed. "It’s no wonder Arnold loves it. It’s such a beautiful city."
"Yes sexy," I said. But I wasn’t thinking about the air or the city just then. I was thinking about her.