CHAPTER ONE

 

 

It was not long past daylight. The morning sun slanted low over the rooftops of the buildings, layering the town with its early light. Deputy Marshal Quint Croy sat at his desk in the marshal’s office—it had been a long night.

Quint was twenty-five years old, tall, with sandy hair and steady gray eyes. He had a prominent, beaklike nose—a frequent target for punches, but it had survived many assaults. His manner of dress and the way he carried himself indicated he had spent more time as a cowboy than a lawman.

And indeed he had. Quint Croy had worked as a drover for six years before he came to Wolf Creek. He had been on four trail drives from Texas to Kansas—the final one had ended tragically, for one of his best friends had been shot dead in a low class Abilene saloon, in a meaningless fracas.

Another saloon patron, insulted over an imagined slight, had drawn on the unfortunate cowboy. Quint had tried to intervene, but was struck from behind just before the shooting began. He had only a brief glimpse of the killer—the man’s face bore a dollar-sized birthmark beneath several days’ worth of whiskers. The beard over the birthmark showed white. Quint had implored the local law to go after the man, who left town in a hurry. His cries went unheeded. The killing was deemed self-defense, even though the victim’s gun never left its holster. Quint had done some investigating of his own—the lateness of the hour and the general intoxication of all the saloon patrons left memories hazy. Quint reluctantly left Abilene when his money ran out.

Sickened by his friend’s murder, and burned out on trail drives, Quint wandered into the growing town of Wolf Creek. It was a wide open place—the railroad brought herds up from Texas, which in turn brought an influx of hell raising drovers into town. In turn, the constabulary had to increase in order to handle the bedlam. When Quint learned of an opening for deputy marshal, he cleaned himself up, rundown boots and all, and applied for the job.

Marshal Sam Gardner had warmed to the idea of hiring a man from outside the area. That way, he later explained, there would be no favoritism, or appearance of it, when it was necessary to arrest men from any of the local ranches. The interview had gone well—Gardner seemed to like Quint’s demeanor, and though Quint had no previous experience, his knowledge and understanding of drovers would be a definite asset. The marshal explained he could teach the young man what he needed to get started, and the rest he could learn as he went—that was how Gardner had done it. He swore Quint in and gave him a badge.

For Quint, the job served two purposes. First, of course, he was broke and needed the job— he was near the point of having to sell his horse for eating money. Secondly, though, he would be in a perfect position to administer some delayed justice, should the man with the white-patched face show up in Wolf Creek.

Sam Gardner had taken Quint around town to introduce him to the various business owners soon after he had been sworn in that day, six months ago. The first stop had been Dab Henry, mayor of the town and owner of the Lucky Break Saloon. Quint later learned that Henry, who was around fifty and sported a thick black mustache, had grown up poor in the roughest part of Philadelphia. Nowadays Dab Henry comported himself like the businessman and politician he was—but when pushed, the volatile street youth in him came out with a vengeance.

The Lucky Break, as the named implied, was primarily a gambling establishment. It boasted a roulette wheel, three faro tables, two tables each for poker and monte, and a ninth table that was players’ choice, including twenty-one. Henry had several dealers on his payroll, as well as a house gambler—Samuel Jones, an enigmatic man with a sophisticated air who had drifted into town not long before Quint. Henry also had half-a-dozen prostitutes on hand, who serviced their customers upstairs.

After the introduction and handshakes, Quint realized there was a strange tension in the air. The mayor and the marshal watched each other like wolves sizing up who should lead the pack.

“How was business last night?” Sam asked.

Mayor Henry looked away and said, somewhat dismissively, “So-so. I’ll let you know all about it later. How’d Breedlove do?”

Sam seemed hesitant to answer, but did so as he walked toward the door. “I’ll let you know about that later, Dab. We’re just on our way over there now.”

From there they had gone to the Wolf’s Den Saloon, owned by Ira Breedlove. The Wolf’s Den was less genteel in its presentation than the Lucky Break—which in its turn was less genteel than the upscale Eldorado that was located right across the street from the marshal’s office. Breedlove had more soiled doves than Henry, and they were soiled harder, not to mention a lot more open about plying their trade. His place also featured gambling, but not as extensively—there were five tables and no roulette wheel, although the Wolf’s Den also had a house gambler. Breedlove’s was a willowy Virginian named Preston Vance, who presented himself as the consummate Southern gentleman but had a cruel streak a mile wide.

Breedlove was one of the “old guard” of Wolf Creek. He had come to the area with his rancher father in the early 1840s, when he was only a boy—more than a decade before there was even a town there. Tobias Breedlove, owner of the T-Bar-T, had sent his son to St. Louis for an education—but the company he fell in with there taught him a lot more than the classics. Ira disappointed his father when he returned to Wolf Creek—with no intention of taking over the ranch, and every intention of taking over the town.

Ira Breedlove was now in his mid-thirties, with prematurely balding brown hair and an unsettling smile. He dressed well—but wore a pistol on one hip and an Arkansas toothpick on the other.

Quint had immediately noted that the atmosphere between Gardner and Breedlove was very similar to that between the marshal and the mayor—very informal and familiar on the surface, almost like old friends, but also very forced and artificial

“We were busy last night, Sam,” Breedlove said. “I expect Dab was, too?”

Sam’s smile was as cool as the saloon owner’s. “I won’t know until things are tallied up, later.”

It seemed to Quint that competitors Henry and Breedlove kept close tabs on one another, and Sam Gardner was caught in the middle. Or had put himself there. The new deputy was disturbed by the marshal’s preoccupation with the saloons’ take for the night—he hoped it didn’t mean Gardner was taking a percentage, but kept his suspicions to himself.

Things were different at the south end of town, at the end of Second Street. Gardner and Quint stood in the street, with Asa’s Saloon on one side and the Red Chamber on the other. The marshal made no move to enter either one. Instead he yelled toward Asa’s open door.

“Asa Pepper! Get your wrinkled black ass out here!”

Then he turned toward the opium den. One of Tsu Chiao’s nephews was outside, emptying a slop bucket. Sam pointed at him.

“You there. Yes, you. Fetch your uncle out here, I need to talk to him.”

The young Chinese man froze in his tracks, obviously confused.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Sam said, frustrated. “You fetchee honorable goddamned Soo Chow, chop chop, you ignorant Celestial bastard.”

The youth nodded his understanding and disappeared inside. From across the street, Asa called out as he approached the lawmen.

“You called for me, suh?”

“Yes I did, and at least you came when I called you. You’re an ugly and untrustworthy little son of a bitch, Asa, but at least you’re a Christian that speaks English.”

“I reckon so, suh.”

Tsu Chiao had come outside as well. “Hello, Marshal,” he said. Sam did not return the greeting.

“All right,” the marshal said. “Now that I’ve got you both out here, I can make the introductions.” He gestured at Quint. “This is Deputy Marshal Quint Croy! What he says goes! If you give him any trouble, I’ll be down here like a bolt of lightning hitting the earth.”

Asa Pepper nodded. “We always do what you say, Marshal. We respect the law around here.”

“Respect the law, my ass,” Sam muttered.

“It is not necessary to be rude, Marshal,” Tsu Chiao said mildly. “We do not break any laws.” Sam glared at him.

Those were the only four establishments that Sam escorted Quint to on that first day on the job. He told the new deputy to introduce and familiarize himself with the rest of Wolf Creek on his own.

“Not much to it, Quint. Walk around and get to know everyone. Keep in mind that anything north of Grant Street is pretty mild compared to what goes on south of there in Dogleg City. Down there will be your territory, on the night shift. You need to rule it with an iron hand and let them know that you won’t put up with any horseshit. My other deputy, Fred Garvey—you’ll meet him soon enough—has been handling that part of town, but I‘m moving him to patrol the north end till things close up, and to be handy in the afternoons.”

Quint had been confident about his new responsibilities. The marshal and his deputies in Abilene had been lazy and inattentive—in Wolf Creek, so far as Quint was concerned, things would be just and fair, with all the evidence gathered before judgment was passed.

Quint got his first real clue as to how things were run in Wolf Creek when he knocked on the door of the building that folks around town jokingly called “Abby Potter’s School for Wayward Girls.” He’d already heard that it was actually a whore house for upper class clientele. A tiny woman a few years older than Quint, with a ready smile on her face, opened the door. She frowned suddenly when she saw Quint’s badge.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “My name is Quint Croy. I’m the new deputy marshal.”

“I’m Abby Potter—and if you’re the new deputy, I guess you know what I do.”

“Um, yes, ma’am. Marshal Gardner said I ought to go around town and get acquainted.”

“Figures you’d have your hand out like the rest of them,” she said. “How do you take yours, deputy—in cash or by a free poke?”

Quint was taken aback. “Oh no, ma’am. I get paid by the marshal’s office—no need for anything extra.”

Abby’s face showed her astonishment, then the smile returned to her face. “Well I haven’t heard anything that refreshing in a long time. Quint, I can see that you and I are going to get along fine.” She winked. “There might even be an occasional free one in it for you, anyways.”

Quint’s face flushed, and he muttered, “I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. If you have any trouble, just send someone out to the marshal’s office.”

Quint had walked away, feeling a little disturbed. It seemed obvious that Abby Potter was making payouts to the marshal, probably in return for working her trade undisturbed. He realized that was probably also what had been going on with the owners of the Lucky Break and the Wolf’s Den. Sam’s bristly treatment of Asa Pepper and Soo Chow might mean they didn’t have such an agreement with him—or maybe it meant that they did, but since they weren’t white he didn’t feel the need to be deferential toward them. He also realized that, if Sam Gardner were corrupt, the marshal needn’t keep it a secret to protect his job—since the mayor was one of the people paying him off.

Several months had gone by since that day, and not much had changed. Sam was spending more and more of his evening hours at the Wolf’s Den, the Eldorado, and the Lucky Break, especially since he had been shot in the leg a month or so back—leaving the affairs and patrolling of Wolf Creek and Dogleg City up to his deputies. Deputy Fred Garvey, a middle-aged Georgian who seemed to fit right in with Sam Gardner’s amoral approach to peacekeeping, had been killed in the Danby Gang’s bank raid, the same occasion on which Sam was wounded. A new man had been hired just a few days ago—a hulking bear of an Irishman named Seamus O’Connor, who had served as a policeman in the infamous Five Points neighborhood of New York City. Quint had already figured out that “experienced policeman,” in O’Connor’s case, meant he was experienced at taking graft and would also fit right in.

Quint was content with his job and the pay that he received for it. Fifty dollars a month, together with room and meals, was more than he could make herding cattle. Quint didn’t attempt to find out the particulars of Sam Gardner’s arrangements with the shady business owners of Dogleg City. It seemed that under the table payouts—while not moral—were accepted as a matter of course by all concerned.

And he had to admit, apart from that aspect of the marshal’s office, Sam Gardner really had shown himself to be an effective peacekeeper. He kept the rowdies in line, without scaring them and their spending money away from the town altogether. He stood up to bullies and mean drunks with nerves of steel, and was generally fair in his treatment of them. And when that small army of ex-guerrillas had raided the town and robbed the bank, Gardner and Garvey put themselves into the line of fire without a second thought. It cost the Georgia deputy his life, and cost the marshal a bullet in his leg. Quint did not doubt the new deputy, O’Connor, would prove to be just as brave.

But Quint wanted nothing to do with their other activities. He minded his own business in that regard. Quint Croy was a simple man. His job was to keep peace in Dogleg City—and when that peace was broken he did something about it.

* * *

The deputy was shaken from his early morning reverie by the sound of faint footfalls on the outside boardwalk, and a moment later the front door opened. Quint looked up to see the owner of Li Wong’s Laundry standing in the doorway. The slight man had a blank, wide eyed expression on his face. Li Wong beckoned to Quint with his right arm. “You come!” he said.

Quint wondered at the Chinese man’s action. He knew that Li Wong spoke little English, but was able to understand all that was said to him in that language.

“Do you have a problem, Li Wong?”

The little man motioned again. “You come, De-pu-tee,” he insisted. Quint stood and walked toward the door. Li Wong stepped away when Quint neared, motioning with his arm again. Quint trailed behind Li Wong, figuring to follow him to the laundry a block west on South street. Li Wong walked briskly ahead of Quint, cautiously turning his head from time to time to see if the deputy was still following him. Li Wong walked on past his laundry business on Third Street and on to Second Street. He turned left, then crossed over Grant Street into the rough side of town, the neighborhood which the locals called Dogleg City, then kept going.

They walked past the Lucky Break saloon. The place was closed, as it ought to be at this hour. There were no boardwalks in front of the buildings in that part of town, so Quint and Li Wong walked down the middle of the somewhat rutted, dusty street. Quint was very familiar with the businesses down the street at the southernmost end of town, where nightly occurrences of violence were common. The business buildings and the shacks of Cribtown, south of Grant Street, carried an air of impermanence. Constructed of cheap pine lumber, they would have a short lifetime, most likely ending in fire or rot.

At the very end, on the east side, was Asa’s saloon—a ramshackle building that housed the lowest class drinking spot in Wolf Creek. The owner and founder, Asa Pepper, had been born a slave sixty years ago. Few locals frequented the place; most of the customers were black cowboys and laborers that arrive with the cattle herds, along with some prairie hide hunters. Mexicans, Indians, and a few whites who did not prefer, or could not afford, the higher side of Wolf Creek’s establishments lined up as well. Asa would serve anyone that could put money on the bar. Men came here to escape the hardship of their lives, to guzzle the cheapest whiskey in town, or maybe to spend a little time with a dollar chippy. Women were readily available at Asa’s, or—more discreetly—in one of the dozen shacks that were scattered out back, where the women slept after hours.

Quint glanced at the closed door of Asa’s as they walked past. It was dark behind the filth-streaked glass. The Red Chamber, an opium den directly across the street, was closed as well. The Red Chamber was owned by Tsu Chiao, another Chinese—everyone pronounced his name “Soo Chow.” Quint wondered if Li Wong and Soo Chow had a misunderstanding. Fortunately, Soo Chow spoke English fluently, so maybe they could get to the bottom of this quickly. Li Wong, however, walked on past the Red Chamber. He turned beside Asa’s Saloon and headed to the back, toward the whore shacks of Cribtown. As soon as Li Wong reached the back corner of Asa’s, he began speaking excitedly in Chinese and pointing.

A man was crumpled on the ground. He lay on his back, open but sightless eyes fixed on the sky. He was dressed in cowboy garb—denim pants, cotton shirt and a cowhide vest. The fly of his pants was open and the end of his pecker, though shriveled, was visible; the whole front of the pants was piss stained. Quint dropped to one knee and touched the back of his hand to the man’s neck. It was cold, too cold to have been chilled by the night air alone. He lifted the man’s shoulder and looked at his back. He had been shot between the shoulder blades. The heart must have stopped right away as there was not a lot of blood. Quint lowered the body. There was no obvious exit wound. The man had most likely been shot with a pistol, and the ball was lodged somewhere inside. A rifle bullet would have gone clean through.

Quint searched the man’s pockets and found $122.00 in bills and a few coins, all of which he stuffed into his own shirt pocket for accounting. He looked for any papers that might indicate who the victim was, but found nothing. The man had a .36 caliber Navy Colt still in its holster. It was fully loaded and unfired. Quint stuck it in his belt. It looked as if the man was most likely taking a leak when someone shot him in the back.

Quint stood and studied the surrounding area, then turned to face Li Wong,

“I suppose you found him while you were making your rounds to pick up some dirty laundry?”

Li Wong nodded. “Miss Haddie say pick up clothes outside early.” The Miss Haddie in question, Quint knew, lived and whored in one of the shacks nearby.

Quint knew that Sam would assign him all the investigating leg work, particularly since the killing had taken place in Dogleg City—Quint’s unofficially assigned territory. Sam was most likely still in his quarters; the marshal liked to be most visible during the evening gambling hours. It would be up to Quint to notify Elijah Gravely the undertaker to pick up the body, then contact Doctor Munro for his assessment.

Quint pointed toward the street and The Red Chamber. “We could walk over and talk a bit with Soo Chow, see if he has anything to add to this.”

Li Wong bristled visibly. Quint knew there was a rift between the two Chinese men—Li Wong disapproved of Tsu Chiao’s abusive opium trade at The Red Chamber, and disapproved even more of his unwanted attentions towards Li Wong’s sixteen-year-old daughter. Tsu Chiao no doubt figured the nubile young girl would make a prized addition to the wing of his establishment he called “the Jade Chamber.”

“You can take your cart and go on back to the laundry, Li Wong, I’ll speak with Soo Chow later on,” Quint said. The relief was evident in Li Wong’s face. “You can save me a trip if you would stop by Gravely’s Funeral Home and tell Elijah that I need him to come down and pick the body up, I’d appreciate it.” Li Wong nodded, then wasted no time in leaving.

Quint turned back to the body to study it for clues. He noticed the man’s boots were not new, but were well cared for and recently blacked. The tops of the toes were not worn or scored by stirrups as a drover’s boots would be. He picked up one of the man’s hands, noting the long slender fingers and the uncallused palms. Despite the man’s attire, he was no cowboy.

Quint examined the man’s pistol. The Navy Colt had been converted to cartridges from cap and ball. He looked more closely at the finely-tooled, belted holster—the Colt’s handle had been facing forward on the left side, available for a convenient draw with the right hand while seated. The man seemed out of place in this cheap part of town—just what was he doing here?

While he waited for Gravely’s carriage to show up, Quint walked back between the shacks of Cribtown that sat directly behind Asa’s. There was a stench of hastily emptied douche pans and chamber pots about the debris littered place; old clothes, empty bottles, smashed crates and a broken chair were lying about. If the night time revelers ever saw this mess in the light of a sober day, perhaps they would change their mind about ever coming back again.

Quint was looking around, not at anything in particular, when he spotted a pair of legs behind an empty crate. His first thought was that he had discovered another body —but when he walked up, the slight form of Rupe Tingley, the one-armed saloon swamper, began to move. He was just waking up. Quint noticed an empty whisky bottle lying close to the matted grass where the man had been lying.

“What are you doing here, Rupe?”

The man sat up, then rolled around to his knees and stood, using his good arm for support. Rupe looked around through bleary eyes, swaying a little before steadying himself. Quint could smell the foul odor of his whiskey breath. Rupe shook his head a little, as if to clear the cobwebs.

“I don’t know, it was dark. I musta fell asleep.”

“How long have you been here?”

Rupe shook his head from side to side again. “It was late.”

“Did you see or hear anyone shooting behind Asa’s last night?”

Rupe dabbed the back of his hand across his reddened eyes. “I can’t say,” was all he managed before going into a coughing spell.

Quint waited until Rupe had finished gasping for breath, “Are you going to be able to do the cleanup today, Rupe?”

Rupe straightened up a little, pulling his shoulders back. “Damn, sometimes I just cain’t drink that stuff like I used to,” he said, then coughed again. “I was just heading up to the Lucky Break, Quint.”

Rupe stared at Quint as if noticing him for the first time. “Say, deputy, you wouldn’t happen to be willing to spot a man an eye opener, would ya?”

Quint reached in his pocket and handed Rupe a nickel; it would cover the price of a beer. Then Quint heard the rumbling of the funeral carriage pulling up behind Asa’s to retrieve the body.

Quint wanted to question Rupe further, but not here. He would look him up later when the man was fully functional and take him to the marshal’s office. There, just maybe, Rupe might remember something and open up if he got out of his familiar surroundings. At least eliminating the fear of listening ears, which Quint figured were all around this place, might help loosen his tongue.

Quint needed to locate Marshal Sam Gardner and advise him of the killing. He already knew what Sam would most likely say to him, once he heard the news. He would say, “You need to answer the five W’s—who, what, where, when and why. When you can answer all of those, you’ll have solved the case.” Sam had served as captain of an Illinois cavalry company during the war, and had developed a reputation as an efficient lawman in the years since. He was a sharp dresser, and more than a tad vain, but he carried himself with an easy, confident authority. The man had his faults, but he had been very patient in training his young deputy.

* * *

When Quint got to Ma’s Café he found Sam at his usual corner table. Ten in the morning was Sam’s breakfast hour; he had finished his meal and was sipping coffee. When Quint walked in, Sam knew something was up—he rarely saw his deputy before noon.

Sam swept a hand toward the pot. “Coffee?”

Quint helped himself.

“What have you got, Quint?”

Quint settled into a chair across from Sam. “There was a killing last night, down in Cribtown, right behind Asa’s. The victim was dressed like a working drover but the evidence suggested otherwise.”

Quint told of the boots, the soft hands and the money on the man’s person.

Sam’s eyebrows went up, “Asa’s Saloon is the asshole of Wolf Creek. The worst scum frequent that place. A killing anywhere around there is no surprise —but it sounds like your man drifted out of bounds. Any idea as to who he was?”

Quint leaned back in his chair, “I didn’t find any papers on him, just $122.00 in bills and change. He had an unfired but fully loaded .36 Colt, still in its holster. It looked to me like the fella didn’t want to walk an extra fifty feet to the outhouse, so he stopped in the shadows and was taking a piss when someone shot him in the back. Doc says he figures it happened sometime around midnight.”

The marshal’s eyebrows went up even further. “Now this is a new wrinkle. While shooting a stranger in Cribtown is not that unusual, not robbing him afterwards is dumbfounding. Hell, it’s mildly astonishing the corpse hadn’t been robbed of all clothing and dental fillings. Were there any witnesses?”

“I haven’t been able to interview anyone from the saloons because all the night people are still sleeping. I did find Rupe Tingley sleeping on the ground behind one of the shacks in Cribtown. He looked to be in pretty rough shape. I figure we ought to talk to him later, when he’s fully awake. He may have seen something, but I don’t know how we’d get him to talk about it. When I asked him if he saw a shooting, he just said that he couldn’t say.”

Sam nodded. “Could be that Rupe was seeing elephants last night—but like you say, we’ll talk with him later. You’ve sure enough been busy this morning Quint, but as you know, there’s more to do. The objective right now is to find out who the fellow was. You need to go over and let the Sheriff’s office know about the killing—see if Sheriff Satterlee has any reward dodgers on the man.”

Quint nodded. Sam picked up the coffeepot and waved it in the deputy’s direction—Quint declined, so the marshal poured himself another cup. Then he continued his instructions.

“After that you can go on over to the livery, see if there’s an unclaimed horse. Check with Richard Wilhite over at the Imperial Hotel—maybe he remembers something about the stranger, and for sure he’ll have a signature on the registry. Then you’ll need to go down to Dogleg City and grill the hell out of Asa Pepper. I find it hard to believe somebody can get shot outside Asa’s place and him know nothing about it. See Soo Chow over at the Red Chamber too, while you’re at it. I don’t know if it’ll do any good going very far into Cribtown—those women that work the area aren’t apt to say much even if they know anything. You might talk to Haddie, that whore that lives in the first shack on the left, though, she’s always been cooperative.”

“All right, Sam,” Quint said. “After I go to the Sheriff, the hotel, and see Ben Tolliver at the livery, I’ll start off at the high end of town and work on down to the worst places—the way a working cowboy would drink his way through town.”

Sam Gardner nodded his approval. “You’ve got a full plate, then, Quint. I’ll help out as much as I can. When we leave here, I’ll go by Gravely’s and have a look at the corpse, get his description in my mind, the clothes he was wearing and such. I’ll let Mayor Henry know over at the Lucky Break, and I was going to see Ira Breedlove at the Wolf’s Den anyway so I’ll ask around there. This afternoon, when they all wake up, I’ll venture into Abby Potter’s whore house and see if she or any of the girls knew of the man. Let’s meet back here around noon and compare notes.”

* * *

Quint took it upon himself to stop in at the Lucky Break, even though Sam had said he was going by the place as well. Quint wanted to do some digging around of his own, and see if he could figure out a motive for the killing.

Rob Parker, the Lucky Break’s head bartender, was bleary-eyed—he had not been awake long. The burly, bearded man yawned heavily as he washed glasses.

“Mornin’, Rob,” Quint said. “Boy, you look like hell this time of day.”

Rob shrugged. “You look like hell ever’ time of day.”

“I can’t argue with that. Say, we found a fresh corpse down by Cribtown this morning—I was wondering if you saw him in here at any time last night.”

“Ever’body I saw was alive, or close to it. Anything particular I’m supposed to be remembering?”

“This fella was a tall man, in his mid-thirties. Brown hair, pock-marked face—dressed like a drover.”

Rob’s eyes shifted from his polishing cloth to Quint. “Pock-marked, huh. I do remember seeing a man of that description in here.”

“You say you talked to this fella last night?” Quint asked.

“No, I said that I saw a man of that description in here last night. I didn’t get a name. He liked to talk, I know that. Seems like he was gabbing to anyone who would listen the whole time he was here–until he came across Alexander Munder, anyways. Munder is immune to other people’s voices—he gave Pock-Marks an earful about his cold-hearted wife, until Munder found someone else to glom onto.”

Quint nodded; everyone in town knew to avoid Alexander Munder when he was drinking, which was most of the time. He owned a spread a few miles outside town, and had a beautiful wife, but they apparently made each other miserable. When the rancher wasn’t drinking he was throwing his money away on whores—it was none of Quint’s business, but he suspected that sort of behavior, and the attendant expense, didn’t make the man’s domestic situation any better.

“Pock tried to shoot the breeze with me, too,” the bartender said. “I didn’t have time to talk, but I remember getting him a couple beers at the bar—then, later on, he left. It was pretty busy last night, but I think it might have been around midnight. It was late, that’s all I know.”

“A stranger comes in, has a couple drinks, but he didn’t do any gambling, huh?” Quint pried.

Rob Parker worried a cloth in an effort to polish a glass. He paused for a moment, setting the glass down. “I didn’t see him gambling—but like I said, we were busy.” Rob was getting unsettled by the questions and was becoming evasive, choosing his words carefully.

“What the hell am I supposed to do, Quint, know everything about everybody?”

Quint did not flinch nor turn his gaze from the much larger man, “No, Rob, you don’t have to know everything. It’s just that I don’t see anyone coming in here to have a social drink—if they wanted that, they’d stay up to the Eldorado. People come to the Lucky Break to gamble, pure and simple.”

Rob glared at him. Quint pushed a little further.

“That is,” he said, “unless he was here on Mister Henry’s behalf.”

“You’d have to ask Dab about that,” Rob was quick to answer.

Dab Henry was in his office, but the door was open—he clearly overheard Quint’s questioning his bartender in the almost empty saloon. He walked behind the bar to stand beside Rob Parker, then directed a question to Quint.

“Why all the fuss over a dead drifter?”

Quint raised his eyes to the mayor and said, “If I was a drifter from out of town and caught a bullet, I’d want someone to be curious enough to at least find out my name and why I was shot. Wouldn’t you want to know?”

Dab Henry looked at Quint Croy for a studied moment, and spoke softly. “I’ve seen plenty of drifters come to town with the thought they was going to beat the house gamblers and walk away flush. Most of them leave broke. Hell, the man was most likely a criminal anyway, and was running from something in his past. Somebody caught up to him and finished the job. That’s how I see it.”

Quint smiled politely, but his eyes darkened. “That may be true, but a man’s dead and I aim to find out who he was and why somebody killed him.”

Dab watched Quint until he had disappeared out the door. Then he went to his office for his coat and hat.

* * *

When Sam Gardner entered the marshal’s office a half-hour before noon, Dab Henry stepped in right behind him. Sam slid into the chair behind his desk. Dab, his face flushed from the walk, took a chair beside him. He got right to the point of the visit.

“That baby faced deputy you got is poking his nose a little too deeply into things that are not of public record.”

Sam was unmoved, indicating so with his flat reply. “Quint is investigating a murder.”

“That, I am painfully aware of,” Dab said sourly. “He came into the Lucky Break, grilled Rob Parker and made insinuations that the dead man might be working for me. That’s ludicrous! From the description, I didn’t know the man. I never laid eyes on him. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Ira Breedlove isn’t behind this—trying to put me and the Lucky Break in a bad light, making folks afraid to go there, so that he can get a bigger cut of the town business.”

Sam looked at Dab for a moment. “The Wolf’s Den sells more whiskey than the Lucky Break, but you get more of the gambling. The whores at both places charge about the same. So I don’t see where either place is getting one up on the other.”

“If it was up to Breedlove, I’d be out of business!” Dab said sourly.

When Sam didn’t reply, Dab said, “I think it would be wise if you put a leash on your boy Quint before he causes some real problems.”

Sam sat silently for a moment, allowing the intended effect of Dab’s remarks to soften. “Somebody got killed in his territory on his watch, and he needs to investigate. It’s what he gets paid to do.”

Dab leaned forward.

“Sam,” Dab said with a low-toned seriousness, “men like you are necessary for the safety of our citizens. Someone that’s strong with authority, for the folks to look up to and call on when there is trouble. That doesn’t make you a creator, though. It takes someone like me, with a certain ruthlessness, to be a creator, to see things through, even if it means stepping on a few toes. People respect you and your office. Me, I never gave a tinker’s damn what some of these low life folks think of me. I’ve pushed a few around, when they got out of line, because they are not creators. If I hadn’t done it, then others would have. Everyone depends on me to come through, because I create jobs and wealth. You yourself are one of the beneficiaries of that creation—on a regular and unofficial basis.”

Sam sat silently, waiting for Dab to finish his rant. He had never particularly liked Dab personally, and didn’t care for the mayor reminding him of the extra payment that had been arranged between them. He would not allow Dab’s snide reminders or harsh words, however, to influence the job he was to do.

“Most folks figure that those in charge of the gambling and the running of a few whores are expected to be a little one-sided in favor of the house,” Sam said. “But murder is different—otherwise, folks would just do as their mood dictated. Some of your gaming tables are a bit tilted, and so are Ira Breedlove’s—to the benefit of us all—but that doesn’t entitle anyone to buy this badge.”

Dab’s face flushed a little, but he did not have a ready reply.

Sam stood up. “Dab, I’ve got to get back on the street and give Quint a hand in this. Besides, I expect you have a sight of creating to do this afternoon, and I hate to hold you back from it.”

Dab stood and put his hat on. “Would you at least speak to Quint, and have him ease off just a bit?”

Sam nodded as he escorted Dab to the door. Once the mayor was out of sight, the marshal limped back to his desk and sat down again.

* * *

After Quint left the Lucky Break, he figured it was time to talk to Asa Pepper. Quint got along well with Asa, despite Sam’s attitude and rough treatment of the man. Quint had chosen a more genial approach to Asa after Sam’s rude introduction. He had returned to the saloon shortly afterward and engaged Asa in a long conversation, resulting in the two shaking hands and vowing to get along together fairly.

One evening, two weeks after the deputy had first met the black saloonkeeper, while on a routine patrol, Quint walked into the saloon to see a drunken black cowboy waving an eight-inch knife in Asa’s face. The cowboy had Asa backed up to a wall, and said, “I’ll cut your guts out!” Quint didn’t waste any time—he rushed close and whacked the cowboy over the head with the butt of his pistol, then dragged him off to jail. Since that incident, Quint and Asa’s relationship had grown into a respectful alliance between the two men. Quint visited Asa daily and the two would talk about the troubles of the night before—and occasionally of fishing, which both men held an affinity for.

Inside the dank interior of Asa’s, two cowboys sat at a table and a tall swarthy Mexican vaquero with a drooping mustache was standing at the far end of the bar talking to a skinny woman dressed in a flimsy red dress. The vaquero was wearing a long barreled six-gun, the nose of the holster strapped to his leg. When he saw the badge on Quint’s shirt, he moved his hand close to the butt of his six-gun and offered a stern faced, squinty-eyed stare. Quint was used to such behavior by the patrons of Dogleg City. A good many were on the dodge. Quint paid the man no mind, and walked up to face Asa Pepper.

“Mornin’, deputy,” Asa offered.

Quint spent the next few minutes telling Asa about the body behind the saloon, giving the dead man’s description.

“Was there a ruckus in here last night, Asa?”

“They’s a ruckus in here most every night, Quint, you know that,” Asa said.

“Do you remember if the man I described was in here?”

“Yeah, I remember the pock-faced man. He’s been in two nights in a row. Comes in late, has a beer or so, then leaves. I don’t know where he come from or where he goes.”

“Was there anything unusual about him?” Quint asked.

“Jes’ his mouth. He say he’d like to put me on the right track. Send more business my way. I think he works for Ira Breedlove.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Ira loaned me some money, a while back, when the saloon was having a tough time. Sometimes I’ve been a little late making my payments. When this fella comes in, all he talks about is paying a little money. So I figure he’s working for Breedlove.”

“Did he ever say so?” Quint asked.

“No, he kept saying a little now will get me a lot later. I ain’t sorry that the man is gone, but I don’t know anything about who went and shot him.”

When Quint walked into the marshal’s office at five minutes to noon, Sam Gardner was seated at his desk. “What did you get for me, Quint?”

Quint started talking before he sat down.

“The man’s name is Laird Jenkins, according to the Imperial’s register. I don’t believe he was just a drifter—there were no saddle bags and no horse at the livery. According to Clay Willard the stationmaster, the said Jenkins came in on the westbound train three days ago from St. Louis. I looked through his room at the Imperial—I found only a change of work clothes, and a set of fancier traveling clothes in a carpetbag. He must have been planning on staying a while, because I didn’t locate a return ticket or any kind of papers. He spent his afternoons gambling at the Eldorado, then evenings at The Lucky Break, and lastly Asa’s. I haven’t talked to anyone at the Wolf’s Den, but I assume that he stopped in there, too. He took his meals at Isabella’s restaurant. Everybody has seen him but nobody knows him. Except whoever he was working for, of course.”

“You believe he was working for someone?” Sam asked.

“When I asked Asa Pepper who he thought the fella was, he said that he thinks he might work for Ira Breedlove. Asa said that he owes Breedlove some money, and maybe Breedlove sent the guy to pressure him.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, “That could be so. I believe that Ira Breedlove is almost as grubbing as Dab Henry, when it comes to money.”

“I think it goes a little deeper than that,” Quint replied. “Asa said he didn’t know of, or have anything to do with, the shooting—and I believe him. And it wouldn’t make any sense for Breedlove to kill off his own man, if that’s what Laird was. So I figure it was maybe a random killing, perhaps a mistaken identity, or else someone sending a message to Ira Breedlove.”

“You say you haven’t been to the Wolf’s Den?” Sam asked.

“No, you said you were going there,” Quint said.

“I did, but Ira wasn’t there. I did go to The Lucky Break, but that was before you went there, too.” Sam sounded annoyed.

“I thought it was important to talk to Rob Parker, to see if he remembered the man,” Quint said quietly.

Sam nodded, “Dab Henry showed up here to complain about your questioning. Dab can be scornful at times—it might be best if I handle him and Ira Breedlove.”

Quint was happy to let him. The deputy intended to go to his room at Rose Cotton’s boarding house and hit the mattress. The only good thing about staying up this long past his bedtime was that he would be too tired to dream he was still making his rounds in Dogleg City.