Bam! Bam! Alex Faraday glanced up from his desk as the knocker slammed against the huge oak door that led to his study.
“Come in!” “Please come in!” he shouted.
Clive pushed the door open; his barrel chest bumped the door as he hurried into the study. The door clicked shut behind him.
Faraday stuck his pipe between his teeth, he bit down gently; his long narrow fingers pushed the Scottish Blend tightly into the bowl. He struck a match on the bottom of his riding boot and lit up. His cheeks pruned as he took several drags, the curling smoke floated to the ceiling. He looked up at Cook as he approached his desk.
“Good morning, Alex.”
“Top of the morning to you, Clive. Please, please be seated.” Alex gestured toward one of the two chairs that sat in front of his large desk. “We need to talk.
“Web just got back from town. I guess our friend, Mr. Stoudenmire, and his young cohort from the livery stable just rode out to Jed Orton’s place. I’m sure they’re doing a lot of snooping around. I need your opinion about this, Clive, it makes me nervous.” Puffs of smoke drifted to the ceiling from Alex’s pipe.
“I assure you they won’t find anything, Sir,” Clive said nervously. “We left Jed’s body in woods near Little Bear’s cabin. The bloody tomahawk Canady used to beat him to death is broken and lying next to his body. We hightailed it over to Jed’s chicken farm, picked up some Bantam chickens, ran over to Little Bear’s hut and stuck them in his pen. It looks like Little Bear was stealing broilers from Jed. They had a big argument, a horrible fight ensued, and Little Bear beat him to death with his tomahawk and then dropped the busted tomahawk next to the body.”
“Hmmm, okay, okay. What about the Indian, uh....”
“Little Bear?” Clive replied.
“Yes, yes, where is he now?”
“Well uh, he knew too much! Zing shot him in the back of the head. We took the body and threw it into Dead Man’s Canyon.”
“He’s dead too?” Faraday seemed surprised.
“I guess so.” Cook chuckled. “But don’t worry. Web tells me that nobody has ever been to the bottom of that canyon, the walls are too steep.” Clive sat still in his chair as he talked of the two murders.
“Hmmm! Well that’s good, that’s good. Everybody will think Little Bear killed him and then ran off,” Alex mumbled.. He stood up and began pacing the room. He knew there had been killings, but hearing the details was another thing.
“What about the hoof prints, my dear man? There must be hoof prints all over the place.” Alex was unnerved, alarmed by his own revelation. He continued to pace.
“No problem Boss! We swept all the tracks away with a couple a big tree limbs. If there was a chance we missed any, the big rain yesterday took care of that!” Clive grinned smugly.
“Yes, yes, the rain! I guess we got lucky there,” Alex replied.
“Guess so.”
Alex walked back to his desk and dropped into the leather chair. He leaned forward, plucked the ink pen from its holder and punched it in the ink bottle. He scribbled some notes on a piece of paper and handed it to Clive.
“Get Zing and ride into town. Pick up those supplies.” Alex pointed at the note. “While you’re there, stay awhile and have a drink, nose around a little. See what you can find out. Hopefully the sheriff will be back from Jed’s place. Find out what he knows.” Alex’s thin lips turned up into an evil smile. “We have our chance now to take this town over.” He gestured toward the large oak doors sending Cook on his way.
* * *
Babe’s ears perked up. The beautiful Palomino came to a sudden stop on the edge of Jed Orton’s farm. Big Jon sat up in the saddle, “What is it, girl?” Jon gently rubbed her neck. Babe whinnied, her head jerked backwards. Downwind, the crafty horse had picked up a scent.
Jon spurred her hindquarter. “Take me there girl,” Jon whispered, as she galloped forward. Just a few hundred yards down the rode, she came to an abrupt stop. The whites of her eyes were huge as the frightened horse stared into the woods next to the road.
Jon grabbed the saddle horn and jumped down; his feet hit the ground running. He charged into the woods, pushing low lying limbs out of his way. Leaves and twigs from the desert ironwoods crunched under his feet as he stormed ahead. Suddenly he stopped; he saw something up ahead. It was a body. The stench was awful; his stomach started to turn as he moved ahead. He reached the large, swollen body and looked down. He saw the terribly battered remains of Jed Orton. A bloody, broken tomahawk lay nearby.
Jon slid his gun out of its holster and pointed it toward the sky, his thick index finger squeezed the trigger. The loud noise—a signal for Camp to come over--reverberated through the dense woods. Soon Jon could hear hoof beats as Camp rushed toward the gunshot.
He jumped off his charging steed; stumbled for a second then righted himself. Gun in hand he charged into the thick woods.
“Over here!” Jon shouted.
Camp’s eyes moved toward the sound of Jon’s voice. He struggled to see through the thick brush. A beam of sunlight broke through the trees, the bright sun reflected off Jon’s gun barrel. Camp saw the light and raised his hand over his eyes as he rushed toward Jon.
“Oh my--”
“Yea, it’s pretty ugly,” Jon interrupted. “Somebody beat the poor bastard to a pulp and left him here to die. It isn’t right,” Jon whispered. His anger was palpable as he looked down at the mutilated face of the friendly commissioner. Jon’s mood was beginning to darken.
“Some Injun must of got him,” Camp said as he stepped over and picked up the bloody tomahawk.
Jon frowned.
“What’s that over there in that clearing, Jon? Looks like a little house or something.”
“Let’s check it out,” Jon ordered. The two men pushed through the thick brush toward the clearing.
Jon stopped at the edge of the clearing, his eyes examined the area. The only sounds were a few “buk, buk, baacks!” coming from a small pen next to the hut.
Jon stepped into the clearing; he walked over to the hut, gun in hand. Camp was close behind. The barrel of Jon’s Colt 45 pushed up on the metal latch, the rickety wooden door fell open. Jon peered into the empty cabin; there was no sign of life. Jon’s head dipped down and leaned through the opening, he stepped into the small room. Camp was right behind.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Jon exclaimed. “This is Little Bear’s cabin!” His fingers slid through the handle on the old metal coffee pot setting on the stove. “This old coffee pot’s the one I gave him for cleaning the cells awhile back.” He lifted it toward Camp.
“Yea,” Camp replied. “Over there’s the hammer I gave him for helping me out at the stables.”
“Hmmm!” Jon said softly. He turned and stepped out of the hut. He laid his hand on the metal fence post next to the hut.
Camp stepped out of the hut and looked over at the bantam chickens in the fenced area. “Looks like Little Bear’s been stealin’ chickens from Jed.”
“Sure looks that way,” Jon replied.
Camp continued. “Maybe Jed got suspicious and came over to check things out. He and Little Bear got in an argument. Little Bear whacked him a few times with the tomahawk and then flew the coop.”
“Maybe so, but something just doesn’t smell right.” Jon grimaced. “Get a pack horse out here and pick up the body. I’m going to look around a little bit.”
“Okay, Boss.”