“Yes.”
“Why’d they leave him alive?”
“He wonders that, too,” O’Connor said.
“What do you think?”
“Something doesn’t feel right,” O’Connor said.
“Why?”
“He’s too calm for a man who’s suffered such a loss,” O’Connor said.
“Where did he say it happened?” Waverly asked.
“He didn’t,” O’Connor said.
“Doesn’t he want somebody to go back there and bring the bodies here for a decent burial?”
“He says no,” O’Connor said. “He wants to leave them where they are.”
Waverly tapped his forefinger against the side of the glass he was holding.
“That does sound odd.”
O’Connor sipped his sherry. Waverly, a wealthy man, had the best of everything in his house. And he had chosen O’Connor as the best candidate for the job of mayor of Integrity, and gotten him elected. For that, O’Connor felt he owed the man, but Waverly felt he owned the mayor.
“We’re going to have to keep an eye on him,” Waverly said. “We’ll have to watch how he performs and wait and see if he’ll play along.”
“With what?” O’Connor asked.
Waverly gave the mayor a stone-faced look and said, “Whatever.”
* * *
* * *
When O’Connor came out, no one was near his buggy. He looked across the way at the corral, which was empty. He assumed the men were all in the barn, tending to the sick bull, or off somewhere else doing their jobs. He untied his horse, climbed into the seat of the buggy, and headed back to town.
* * *
* * *
Palmer was just about to begin his evening rounds when he saw the mayor driving back into town in his buggy. He stopped walking, and as the man drove by, they exchanged touches to their hat brims. He wondered what business the politician had been out of town taking care of.
But that really wasn’t his business, was it? He had a job to do, and he was going to start doing it and seeing how things progressed. He knew there was always the possibility that he’d have to leave town, especially if he got recognized, but at the moment, he was feeling fairly safe in his new identity.
After exchanging greetings with the mayor, he crossed the street and began walking. It was dusk and most of the shops were closed, except for a couple of cafés and the hotel and saloons.
So far the only saloons he had been in were the one connected to his hotel and the Palomino, so he decided that tonight he’d make an appearance at the others, however many there were.
The first one he came to was the Silver Spur. Just outside the batwing doors, he could hear piano music, chips striking chips, laughter from women, and shouts from men. It was obviously a busy place—one that a town marshal should pay attention to.
He went through the swinging doors and entered.
* * *
* * *
Lookee there,” Brazos Lane said to his three friends. They were all seated at a table with beer mugs and a bottle of whiskey in front of them. They had started drinking early, before the saloon got so crowded, before the piano player and the girls had come down, and they were very drunk at the moment.
“What?” Jelly Reynolds asked, looking around.
“There, at the door,” Lane said. “That look like a man wearin’ a badge to you?”
Jelly blinked and squinted and said, “Well, yeah, it does. A marshal’s badge, if I ain’t blind.”
“Wasn’t there a new marshal comin’ to town?” Lane asked.
“Seems I heard somethin’ about that,” Jelly said.
The other two men weren’t listening to the conversation. They were arguing about who was going to walk to the bar for more beers.
“Hey,” Lane said to them, “hey, shut the hell up!”
The two men shut their mouths and looked at Lane. They were all friends, but it was Lane who usually decided what they were going to do.
“I’ll get the beers,” Lane said. “You fellas just sit tight and follow my lead, ya hear?”
Jelly and the other two nodded and tried to get one last sip out of their glasses as Brazos Lane stood up and headed for the bar.
CHAPTER TEN
Palmer was aware he was drawing some looks as the new lawman in town. When he got to the crowded bar, a space opened for him and he bellied up. The bartender, a beefy man in his fifties, saw him and lumbered over.
“So you’re the new law?” he asked.
“That’s me,” Palmer said. “Marshal Cassidy.”
“Pleased to meetcha, Marshal,” the man said. “Folks around here just call me Skinny.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Because up until the time I turned fifty, I was skinny,” the man said. “That was a few years ago, and I been packin’ on the pounds ever since. What can I getcha?”
“A beer, thanks.”
“Comin’ up.”
When Skinny served him his beer, Palmer noticed more than a few eyes on him. He assumed they were going to judge him according to the way he drank it, so he proceeded to pour half of it down his gullet and then wipe his mouth on his shirtsleeve. That seemed to satisfy most that he was going to be one of them.
“Lively place,” Palmer said.
“Come back in a coupla nights,” Skinny said. “Saturdays are crazy here. This is just kinda a normal weeknight.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. What do you have in the way of house tables?”
“Just one for faro and one for blackjack.”
“No poker?”
“That’s up to the customers,” Skinny said. “If they wanna start up a game, they can go ahead.”
“You take a cut?”
“Just from the house games.”
“I see.”
“You know,” Skinny said, “there’s gonna be them that wants to try you out.”
“I figure.”
“Especially when they’re drunk.”
“Are you trying to tell me not to be in saloons?” Palmer asked.
“No,” Skinny said, “I’m just tellin’ you it might be startin’ right now.”
Palmer looked in the mirror behind the bar and saw a man coming toward him.
“Thanks for the warning,” Palmer said.
Skinny moved on down the bar and Palmer turned to face the approaching man. He was in his thirties, dressed in work clothes, with a pistol tucked into his belt worn for a left-handed draw.
“So you’re the new marshal in town?” the man said.
“That’s right.”
“That’s interestin’,” he said. “My friends and me was just sayin’ how interestin’ that is.”
“Your friends?”
The man turned and pointed to a table with three men seated at it.
“Are they as drunk as you are?” Palmer asked.
“Nearly,” the man said.
“What’s your name?”
“They call me Brazos Lane.”
“Why Brazos?”
“Because I don’t like my real first name,” Lane said.
“What is it?”
Lane made a face and said, “George.”
“You’re right,” Palmer said. “That’s terrible.”
“Buy you a drink, Marshal?”
“Sorry,” Palmer said, holding up his half-filled mug. “One’s my limit while I’m making my rounds.”
“I see you wear your gun in one of them holsters,” Lane said.
“I like the way it feels,” Palmer said.
“Me, I prefer it right here,” Lane said, patting his weapon, “so I can feel it against my belly.”
“As long as you don’t draw it, we’ll be fine,” Palmer said. “In fact, I
’m thinking of starting a no-guns-within-the-city-limits law.”
Lane laughed.
“You think you can do that?” he asked.
“I’m the law, remember.”
“Yeah,” Lane said, “you’re the law as long as you do what they want you to do.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll find out what the deal is.”
“Who are you, anyway?” Palmer asked. “What do you do?”
“Me and my partners,” Lane said, “we’re for hire.”
“Guns?”
Lane shrugged.
“Guns, trackin’, buildin’ a barn, deliverin’ mail, whatever needs to be done. This town don’t run so good without us.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’ll find out, Marshal,” Lane said. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”
“And your partners?”
“Their names don’t matter,” Lane said. “Anybody needs us, they deal with me. In fact, if you ever need deputies—”
“I haven’t made up my mind about that yet,” Palmer said.
“Ah, well,” Lane said, “when ya do, just keep us in mind.”
“I’ll do that.”
Lane studied Palmer for a few moments, then asked, “You any good with that gun?”
“I’ve been known to hit what I’m aiming at,” Palmer said.
“Fast?”
“Not especially.”
Lane laughed.
“Why do I get the feelin’ you ain’t tellin’ the whole truth?” he asked.
“Who tells the whole truth?” Palmer asked.
“You got that right,” Lane said. “I’m just gonna get some fresh beers for me and my friends.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Skinny!” Lane called out. “Four more.”
Skinny set four full ones on the bar. Lane grabbed them and carried them to the table. Palmer watched, then turned back to the bar. But he made sure he could see the table in the mirror.
“Hired guns?” he asked Skinny.
“Sometimes,” Skinny said. “Mostly they do odd jobs around town, like he said. But they think they can handle anybody and anythin’. If I was you, I’d watch ’em. Sooner or later, they’re gonna wanna try you.”
“They all do what George tells them to do?”
Skinny laughed at Palmer’s use of Brazos Lane’s real name.
“Pretty much.”
“So he’s the one I need to watch.”
“You got it.”
Palmer finished his beer, set down the empty mug, and tossed a coin on the bar.
“What about the other saloons in town?”
“Not as big as this one,” Skinny said, “but we’re all pretty busy. Except the one in the hotel. That’s pretty much just for guests. You gonna check them all out?”
“I thought I’d at least take a look at them,” Palmer said.
“Well, you got the Palomino, the Last Chance, and the Little Dakota. They’re down the street. Ya can’t miss ’em.”
“Any smaller ones off the main street?” Palmer asked.
“Not really. But the town’s growin’. There’s gonna be more.”
“And the restaurants in town? They all serve liquor?”
“Beer with supper,” Skinny said. “No whiskey.”
“Good to know,” Palmer said. “Thanks, Skinny.”
“Anytime, Marshal.”
Palmer took one last look at the table with Lane and his partners; Lane looked over at him and nodded. Palmer nodded back and left.
One down, two to go . . .
* * *
* * *
He hit the Last Chance next.
It was smaller than the Silver Spur, but seemed to be doing as brisk a business. Once again he attracted attention as he entered and approached the bar.
“What brings you in, Marshal?” the tall, skinny bartender asked.
“Just making my rounds,” Palmer said.
“You gonna be doin’ that every night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Lookin’ for trouble?”
“I hope not.”
“Well, there ain’t any in here,” the man said. “Most of these are repeat customers, and they know I don’t stand for no trouble.”
“That’s good to know,” Palmer said.
“You want a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Palmer said. “Like I said, just came in for a look-see.”
He turned his back to the bar, saw that most of the tables were taken. There were a couple of girls in brightly colored gowns working the floor, but unlike the Spur, no piano, no music.
Palmer turned back to the bartender.
“You run any house games?”
“No, sir,” the bartender said. “I leave the gamblin’ up to the customers.”
“Understood,” Palmer said.
“You been to the other saloons?”
“The Palomino and the Spur,” Palmer said. “I’m going to the Little Dakota after this.”
“Well, watch out for that one.”
“Why’s that?”
“Let’s just say they cater to more of the undesirables in town.”
“Undesirables?” Palmer repeated. “That’s a pretty big word for a bartender.”
“When I first came here,” the man said, “I was a schoolteacher.”
“What happened?”
“No more school.”
“This town,” Palmer said, “that’s supposed to be growing, has no school?”
“It does now, but by the time they opened it, I was working here.”
“So?”
The man shrugged.
“I like it. And they hired themselves a schoolmarm.”
“What’s your name?”
The man grinned.
“What’s that matter?” he asked. “Folks in here just call me Bartender.”
“Well, Bartender,” Palmer said, “I’m Marshal Cassidy.”
“Pleased to know you, Marshal.”
“How do things usually go in here?”
“Peaceful. Like I said, the place you’ve got to look out for is the Dakota.”
“I’ll have to go over there and find out for myself,” Palmer said.
“You do that,” the bartender said. “Just be careful. If you can handle yourself, you should be all right.”
“I’ve lived this long,” Palmer said.
“Well, let’s hope being the lawman here, you live a lot longer.”
“I’m going to do my best,” Palmer said. “Thanks, Bartender.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He walked to the Little Dakota.
As he entered he noticed several things. First, it wasn’t as clean as the other two places. Second, it wasn’t as busy. Third, there were no girls working the floor. Maybe that was part of the reason why it wasn’t as busy.
As he walked in, the energy level noticeably lowered. There were men sitting at tables with their heads bowed, almost resting on their drinks. For that reason he didn’t have as many eyes on him when he approached the bar, except for the tired-looking bartender, who seemed as if he had been behind the bar for forty years.
“Evenin’,” Palmer greeted the old barman.
Rheumy, faded eyes squinted at the badge on his chest.
“Is that for real?” he asked in a scratchy voice.
“It is,” Palmer said. “I’m Marshal Cassidy.”
“Since when?” the bartender asked.
“Well,” Palmer answered, “let’s say starting now.”
“So you want a beer?”
“No, thanks,” Palmer said. “I’m making my rounds, is all.”
“So you’ll be in here every n
ight at this time?” the bartender asked.
“Let’s say every night,” Palmer said, “but not necessarily at the same time. I wouldn’t want to become predictable.”
The bartender snickered.
“Stay alive longer if ya don’t,” he agreed.
“Is this how business usually is here?” Palmer asked.
“Pretty much, ’cept maybe Saturday night.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been hearing,” Palmer said. “Well, I’ll be through here on Saturday night, just to have a look-see.”
“And you’ll be welcome,” the bartender said. “I got nothin’ a-gin the law.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“’Course, I can’t say the same for them’s that drink in here.”
“That’s what I figured,” Palmer said. “You have a good night.”
“Thanks, Marshal.”
Palmer left the Little Dakota and continued his rounds.
* * *
* * *
He finished checking the doors of all the closed businesses to make sure they were firmly locked, then went back down the main street one more time.
As he approached the mercantile, he decided to try the door again. When he did, he became aware of somebody in the shadows sitting in a chair.
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” Ken Henderson greeted him.
“Mr. Henderson,” Palmer said. “Didn’t notice you there at first. Do you usually sit out here in front of your store?”
“Only when I think somebody might be interested in my wife,” Henderson said.
“And who might that be?” Palmer asked.
Henderson stood up. He was a tall man, but Palmer wasn’t too concerned since he wasn’t armed.
“You usually check the same place more than once when you’re makin’ your rounds, Marshal?” the man asked. “Maybe you thought the door would be . . . unlocked for you?”
“Let me get this straight,” Palmer said. “You think I’m interested in your wife?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Henderson asked. “She’s a good-lookin’ woman.”
“Mr. Henderson,” Palmer said, “there might be some men in this town who are interested in her, but I’m not one of them. I just came here to start my new job, and in case you haven’t heard, I lost my wife and family to Indians on the way here. So I’m not looking for a new woman right now.”
The Wrong Side of the Law Page 6