CHAPTER THREE

 

 

Marshal Sam Gardner massaged his stiff leg and sighed.

“Well, there’s no getting around it, old hoss,” he said—partly to the appendage and partly to himself, although he supposed it really amounted to the same thing. “Doc Munro said I needed to be exercising you more. We have enough to occupy us for the rest of the day and into the evening, and it looks like we’re in for a hike all over Wolf Creek.”

Deputy Quint Croy had left the marshal’s office, after delivering his report, to finally turn in for the day so he could be fresh for his night shift duties—so there was no one around to hear Sam talking to his own leg. Witnesses might have thought he had already started on the day’s ration of whiskey—and, by his own reckoning, that auspicious moment was not far off—but no, it was just Samuel Horace Gardner and his bum limb. He had to admit, it was more of a conversationalist—and certainly listened better—than a good deal of the people he had to deal with in this town.

He stretched back in his chair, reaching into the corner, behind the coat-rack. He pulled out his new walking stick. It was made of fine mahogany, expertly crafted—and at the head, the best part of all. It was carved into the shape of a wolf. The bottom was capped with heavy steel, to protect it from wear as he tapped his way along the boardwalks, and, more importantly, to give it sufficient heft when he swung it through the air and used it to crack the skull of some ne’er-do-well or other. As he was certain he would, and probably before the week was out. He might even have the opportunity to whack a miscreant or two—he smiled again at his little joke to the annoying Frenchie a couple of hours earlier, and of how he had used the pretense of not knowing how to pronounce the man’s name as a way to take him down a peg in the eyes of Seamus. He wished he had thought to make the same joke to Hébert, and ruffle his feathers a bit more. The marshal hated being taken for an idiot.

He held it in his hands, once more admiring the workmanship and feeling the balance of it. The marshal had commissioned this fine tool soon after he had been shot by the Danby Gang, from Joseph Nash—the carpenter whose shop was near Doctor Munro’s. The man was a virtual magician with saw and lathe. Nash was very unprepossessing, and seemed to be interested only in the items he crafted in his shop, but he had a secret—one which he divulged to Sam some months ago, no doubt because he respected the marshal’s wartime reputation.

Joseph Nash, the quiet, shy carpenter, had been a sergeant in an Indiana infantry regiment, and had won the Medal of Honor. It seems he had braved enemy fire to pull several of his comrades to safety, receiving multiple wounds in the process. He swore the marshal to secrecy, for he did not want townsfolk crowding around him asking for details—but he wanted to tell someone, and he had chosen the one person in town that would both understand the fog of combat and who could resist the urge to engage in hero-worship. After all, the marshal had to admit, everyone knows that Sam Gardner can idolize only one person at a time—either a lady he is trying to woo or, more often, himself.

Sam had initially planned to send off for a walking stick, thinking of perhaps a silver-tip or a concealed sword, but had decided to send the business to Nash. It was the least he could do; despite his self-confessed vanity, Sam Gardner believed that Joseph Nash was a greater hero than he. Besides, he liked to give his business to good Union men, wherever possible.

Sam imagined he would have to use the stick with his left hand, keeping his main droit free for a fast draw if necessary. The staff—that word sounded so much better than cane—would also give him considerably more reach than his long-barreled Colt, for subduing miscreants. He took a few practice whacks through the air to get a feel for it.

The office door opened, and his new deputy Seamus O’Connor stepped in. Sam realized, with a bit of a start, that he was going to have to stop thinking of Quint as the “new deputy” now, and advance him to the rank of “veteran” in his mind. It was a sad thought. Quint was a very capable young man, if a bit of a bore, but he was not quite the veteran that Fred Garvey had been. Sam burned with anger when he thought about the Danbys and their rampage through his town, and the loss of a man who was the closest thing he’d had in years to a friend—and the fire blazed hotter still at the knowledge that Sam had been left too wounded to ride after the bastards and bring them to justice. These thoughts inspired Sam to take one more emphatic swing at the air with his new walking stick.

“I’m sorry to be bustin’ in on ye, Marshal,” O’Connor said, “and you playin’ with your shillelagh and all. But I found old Rupe, like you asked—he was fast asleep in Ben Tolliver’s hayloft.” O’Connor looked beside him, and realized he had entered alone. “Damn, he was right here.”

The big deputy stepped back outside, and a moment later he re-entered holding Rupe Tingley by the scruff of the neck like a wet puppy. The two men presented a stark contrast.

Seamus O’Connor stood six feet five in his socks. His height was augmented by the battered stovepipe hat he wore; his breadth was augmented by the great red walrus mustaches that flowed from under his oft-broken nose. He had faced danger aplenty in his time, from employment as a New York City constable in Five Points to service as a first sergeant in the 63rd New York Infantry, part of the celebrated Irish Brigade, during the war. He had made his way West as a railroad worker—when he heard that a constabulary position had opened up in Wolf Creek due to the death of Fred Garvey, O’Connor had drawn his wages from the AT&SF and applied at once.

The man who dangled from O’Connor’s massive paw could not have been more different. Rupe Tingley had the scrawny frame of a man who has been on a drunk for several years. There was no trace of the confidence that radiated from his Irish captor’s visage; if anything, when emotion passed over Rupe’s features it was most often shame. Unless thirst could be counted as an emotion, and in Rupe’s case it probably could be.

Rupe’s left arm was missing just below the elbow. No one knew how he had lost it, but it was a regrettably common sight—only six years since the war had ended—to see blind, crippled, and maimed men on the streets of most any town. Most people didn’t prod them for particulars, and most of them didn’t volunteer any. Still, Sam couldn’t help wondering if Rupe had crawled into a bottle because of the loss of his arm—the marshal knew many who had—or if some deeper, less visible injury had driven him there.

“What shall I do with the darlin’ man, sir?” O’Connor asked.

“Just dump him into that chair.”

The deputy did so, none too ceremoniously. Rupe still did not wake up.

“Did you look into that incident at the Lucky Break?” Sam asked his deputy.

O’Connor nodded. “That I did. This stranger—Hay Bear—just took a good look at the house dealer, Jones, and challenged him to a fancy old-fashioned duel, which they held out by the corral. Mister Jones came out on top. It plays that way with all the witnesses. Jones claims not to know the fella—said he was vaguely familiar, though, and figured he might have cleaned the man out on some river boat somewhere.”

Sam nodded. “I imagine that must happen a lot in his business. Oh well. I suppose, busy as this town is getting, we’ll be seeing more and more daylight shootings. But I’ll let Dab know that if this gambler of his starts making it a habit, he’ll have to move on. I aim to keep a lid on this pot and keep it from boiling over.”

“All right then, Marshal,” O’Connor announced. “I’ll be gettin’ back to my rounds, then.”

“Thanks, Seamus. I’ll most likely see you around town later this evening.”

O’Connor departed, and Sam climbed to his feet and walked around his desk, to stand over Rupe. He leaned down and gave the drunk a few mild smacks on the cheek until his eyes lolled open.

“Rise and shine, Rupe.”

The drunk sputtered. “Marshal—Marshal Gardner?”

“In the flesh,” Sam said.

Rupe looked around. “Is there—is there a mess needs cleanin’ up?” Rupe earned his drinking money by swamping the floors at various saloons, cleaning the livery stable, and sometimes sweeping up around the jail and the marshal’s office—wherever someone needed a hand. But only one hand.

Sam shook his head. “Oh, there’s a mess all right, and you can help me clean it up, but not like you think.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

Sam pulled his own chair around from behind his desk, so he could sit beside Rupe.

“Let me ask you something, Rupe. I’ve been good to you, haven’t I? Wouldn’t you say I’ve treated you fair?”

Rupe’s eyes seemed to clear after a moment, and he gained some focus. He nodded slowly.

“Oh, Lord, yes, Marshal. I reckon you’ve treated me better than anybody in this town. You were the first one took me in off the street, and gave me honest work—without laughing at me, or making sport. And you bein’ a famous lawman, that—that kinda made it mean even more. You didn’t have to be nice to me.”

The marshal reflected on Rupe’s words for a moment. “Well, I don’t know about that last part. The higher a man goes up, the more he knows how far a man can fall. And besides that, I know people, Rupe. You have to, in this job. And I’ve always seen a spark in you. I’m not quite sure what it is, but it’s there. There’s more to you than meets the eye.”

Rupe’s eyes misted for a moment, then he said, “Where’s that mess you wanted me to mop up, Marshal?”

Sam shook his head and smiled. “No, I need something else from you today, Rupe. I need you to tell me about last night—last night down in Cribtown. Quint found you passed out there this morning, and seems you’d been out for a good spell. What do you remember, from before you passed out? Do you know what time you got there?”

Rupe’s eyes lost their focus, and he seemed dizzy. He shook his head as if he were trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Rupe? Take your time, now. Just think.

A look of horror passed over the drunk’s face. He looked slowly up at Sam.

“I never—I never killed nobody, Marshal.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I know you didn’t, Rupe. I never said anything about killing anybody. Why did you say that?”

Rupe looked confused. “I don’t—I ain’t sure why I said that. It just, sort of, come out.”

“What do you remember?”

“I don’t remember anything—honest, Marshal. I’d tell you if I did. I just—there’s something, I can’t tell what it is, there’s something in my mind.”

Rupe squeezed his eyes tight and concentrated. His hands shook with the effort.

“I’m sorry, Marshal. I’m—I just—I can’t remember.”

Sam sighed. “It’s all right, Rupe. I believe you. It’ll come to you directly. But just in case you did see something—something you were never meant to see—well, you’d best stay here for awhile, where it’s safe, while you finish sleeping it off.”

Rupe looked crestfallen—quite an accomplishment, considering how low he usually was to begin with. “Are you puttin’ me in jail, Sam?”

Sam stared at him for several seconds. “No, Rupe,” he finally said. “You can sleep it off on my cot, in the back room. I’m going to be out, probably pretty late, it won’t be an imposition to me.”

To Sam’s surprise, Rupe almost smiled. “Thank you, Marshal.” Then a shadow passed over his face. “I hope—I hope I don’t stink it up too much.”

“Don’t worry on that account. I’ll have it cleaned—and send Dab Henry the bill.” They both smiled at that.

“Get along then,” Sam said. “And stay put till I send for you.”

Rupe stumbled into the back room and collapsed onto the cot. In no time he was snoring deeply. He had bad dreams, dreams of terror and death, thinly disguised memories—but they had nothing to do with the previous night. They were about a previous life.

* * *

Sam decided to stop by the barber shop across the street and get a shave before he headed to the saloons. The town’s only barber, John Hix, knew his business—but he had a bad habit of disappearing from town for days on end with no explanation. Sam was content to take advantage of his presence when he was around—a man could shave himself, after all, but it just didn’t seem cultured.

Sam stepped inside the barber’s shop and was gratified to see that no one else was waiting—the only other customer was already in the chair.

“Hello, John,” Sam said. “Hello, Reverend Stone,” he added, once he recognized the customer. Obadiah Stone, preacher at Wolf Creek Community Church, was a bear of a man with a thick gray-and-red beard. The thought occurred to him that the reverend and Deputy O’Connor looked like kinsmen—but even if they were, it would not deflect the Reverend Stone from loathing the abomination of O’Connor’s papist beliefs.

“Howdy, Marshal,” Hix said. “I’ll be right with you, soon as I finish with the reverend here.”

“Hello, Marshal,” Stone said. “My, that is a lovely walking stick you have there!”

Sam sat down and removed his hat. “Thank you, Reverend. I know you for a man who appreciates a good walking stick.”

Stone chuckled. “Mine is leaned against the corner yonder, as you can see.”

Sam smiled. “Why, I did not recognize it as such; I thought it a small tree.”

“I prefer to think of it as a cudgel,” Stone said. “The Cudgel of the Lord, for smiting the occasional arrogant sinner.”

Stone’s words were not hyperbole. He was well known for rapping people lightly on the skull with his oaken cane when making a doctrinal point to them; and for rapping not-so-lightly if they got lippy. For especially extreme cases, the reverend carried a Walker Colt on his saddle and wore one of the new Smith & Wesson Model 3’s on his hip.

“Lean on the Lord thy God,” Reverend Stone said. “And when He needs a hand with His smiting of the wicked, why, lean into that, too, I say.”

“Amen,” Sam said.

“A-men,” the barber agreed emphatically.

“Say, Reverend,” Sam said, “maybe you and I can bring the quarterstaff back into style. Right out of Robin Hood. Of course, you could play Friar Tuck or Little John.”

The preacher chuckled amiably.

“The Reverend here was just telling me about his war-time service,” Hix said. “Sounds like he was a real curly wolf back then.”

“Oh, you exaggerate,” Stone demurred.

“You’d better get used to it, Reverend Stone,” Sam said. “When it comes to the late conflict, John here has more questions than a little kid. He rummages through everybody’s memories that pass by, I suspect he may be writing a military history in his spare time.”

“Oh, I’m just curious, is all,” Hix said. “I was out in California, around Frisco, when the war was goin’ on—I feel like I missed out on somethin’ important. My grandpa used to set on the front porch and talk about the War of 1812, and this was way bigger’n that’un was. So I like to hear all about it I can.”

“Were you out there panning for gold?” the preacher asked.

“Oh no. I was just barberin’ them that was.”

Sam smiled. “I see—you were on the Barber-y Coast!”

“Huh?” Hix said, but the preacher guffawed.

“It’s a joke, son,” Stone explained. “A play on words. You know, the Barbary Coast—the infamous neighborhood in San Francisco?”

“Oh,” Hix said, and then laughed nervously. “I’m kinda slow with them kind of jokes.”

“No need to apologize, John,” Sam said, “it was a silly pun.”

Hix smiled. “Okay,” he said. “anyway—did you know, Marshal, that the reverend was a Union cavalry officer, just like you was?”

“Why, I was unaware of this.”

Stone smiled proudly. “Formerly Lieutenant-Colonel Obadiah Stone, Eighth Kentucky Cavalry, at your service, sirs.”

Sam gave him a playful salute. “Former Captain Gardner, Third Illinois Cavalry, reporting. Always a pleasure to meet another Union man, especially an old horse soldier.”

“I always thought it was peculiar,” Hix said, “Kentucky not joining the Confederacy. Them being a slave state and all.”

“I was no abolitionist, I assure you,” Stone said. “I fought to preserve this grand Union of ours—my grandfather gave his life at the Battle of King’s Mountain to help establish it, I did not intend to see it sundered by a motley crew of hotheaded fools.”

“Here, here,” Sam said in agreement.

“I hear there was a lot of guerrilla war in Kentucky, same as out here,” Hix said.

The preacher harrumphed. “Irregulars. Damned useless lot, if you ask me, on either side. Skulking snakes. Nothing gave me greater pleasure, sir, than shooting down Rebel bushwhackers like the dogs they were, and the Good Lord’s Arm was with me when I did it.”

Hix was standing with his back to Sam, having turned the preacher’s chair around to face the mirror while he finished his task. At Reverend Stone’s words, the barber stiffened—almost imperceptibly—and Sam saw a shadow seem to flit across the barber’s face in the mirror. In a heartbeat, though, it was gone. The marshal would have been tempted to ascribe it to squeamishness, had he not heard reports about the barber’s recent bravery when the stagecoach he was on was attacked by hostile Kiowa. He decided, then, that it was lingering embarrassment that he had not had the honor to serve, and put it out of his mind.

The marshal would have been surprised indeed at the true cause of the barber’s reaction. John Hix had never been to California, and had instead ridden with a band of Missouri Confederate guerrillas loosely affiliated with Quantrill—while he was absent at a prison camp, his family had paid a heavy price at the hands of Kansas Jayhawkers. He inquired about all his customers’ war service, hoping to find a few former Union guerrillas and exact a bit of revenge on them. He had come across a couple in the months he had been at Wolf Creek, and after they left his barbershop he tracked them down and gave them a much closer shave than they bargained for.

John Hix smiled amiably into the mirror and spoke to the preacher. “There we are, Reverend, all done!”

Stone admired the barber’s handiwork. “Very good,” he said.

The preacher stood up and paid. “I hope to see both of you gentlemen at the morning services come Sunday,” he said.

“I may surprise you and show up one day,” Sam said, as he took the preacher’s place in the barber’s chair.

“I might see you,” Hix said—that was always his reply, but he never meant it. On Sunday mornings, when most of his customers were in church, Hix went down to Cribtown to see a tiny but buxom whore named Haddie. She didn’t mind being slapped around a little, and after a full week of toadying to Yankee sumbitches like these he needed to blow off steam with a vengeance. Barber-y Coast my Rebel ass, he mused.

He draped a cloth around Sam Gardner’s neck, his smile still in place.

“You ready for me to cut off them pretty curls, Marshal?”

“You know better, John. My neck would be cooler in this damn heat, but the ladies about town would no doubt lynch you for depriving them of anything worthwhile to run their fingers through. No, I only ask that you trim my goatee and give my cheeks a nice smooth shave.”

“Yes, sir,” Hix said, and proceeded to lather up the marshal’s cheeks. Sam relaxed, closing his eyes, enjoying the sensation and the barbershop smells.

“Marshal Gardner!” a shrill voice interrupted. Sam’s head jerked up—he was fortunate Hix had not yet brought out his razor.

His heart fell. It was Edith Pettigrew, the town shrew. She and her husband Seth had been among the founders of the town, almost twenty years earlier. She had always been something of a busybody, and a prude, but folks who had lived in Wolf Creek a long time told the marshal she had gotten much worse after her husband died. Sam had known for some time that her decline involved more than just an increase in self-righteousness—the rest of the town was slowly figuring that part out, as well.

She stood uncertainly in the barbershop doorway. “I apologize for intruding into this—this masculine sanctuary,” she said. “But practically the only other place I can find you is in one of those foul saloons, and I refuse to even darken the doorway of one of those dens of Satan. And it’s not as though you ever actually show up at your office.”

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Pettigrew?”

She looked around, conspiratorially, then spoke in a hushed tone.

“He’s at it again, Marshal!”

“Who?”

“That livery man, that’s who! Tolliver, or Torrance, or Tollison, or whatever he’s calling himself.”

“Ah,” Sam said. “Yes, it is hard to follow his name changes—I’ve come to just think of him as ‘B. T.’ to simplify things in my own mind. I presume, then, that our mighty stable-master is once more baring his hirsute torso, before God and tax-paying citizens, in flagrant disregard of all civilized rules of propriety?”

“Why—why yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

“He’s doing what?” Hix asked.

“Ben Tolliver is walking around without his shirt on again,” Sam explained.

“Oh,” Hix said. “Well—ain’t it mighty hot in there with them horses, though, it bein’ August?”

“It is mighty hot in Hell, Mister Hix,” Edith Pettigrew said. “Marshal, I demand you do something. I am tired of consulting Sheriff Satterlee—he keeps telling me it is not a county problem, it is a city problem.”

“Does he, now,” Sam said. Damn his eyes, I’ll get him for this.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Madam, it is a shame you weren’t here a few minutes earlier. Reverend Stone was in this very chair—I think this sort of damnable, sinful behavior is more his territory than mine.”

She sniffed the air haughtily. “Sir, I am a Methodist!”

Sam leaned forward, studying the woman’s face. Even from this distance he could tell that her eyes were glazed. She was chasing the dragon, all right.

“Was his shirt all the way off?” Sam asked.

“Of course!”

“The bastard!” Sam said.

“Marshal!” she gasped.

“Why, I bet he was perspiring—so heavily that his body shimmered, and his trousers dripped!”

She fanned herself. “Oh my!”

“And this took place in his stable, am I correct?”

“Of course!”

“Then, dear lady, how could you have known about it?”

“Because—because—oh!”

Sam leaned forward. “Fear not, madam,” he said. “I’ll take a hand in this, indeed I shall.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll shoot him if I have to. But I think a stern talking to will suffice.”

“I—thank you, Marshal.”

“No need to thank me, it is my job. And in fact, you have stung my conscience, Mrs. Pettigrew, by pointing out as you did how prodigal I have been in my duties. As soon as I straighten this renegade wrangler out, I’ll find something else productive to put my hand to—in fact, I might just get ambitious and take actions to stamp out the wicked opium trade that is going on in this city, under our very noses, and expose the criminals who are encouraging those godless Celestials by purchasing their vile wares. Thank you, madam, for inspiring me.”

“I really must be going, Marshal,” Edith Pettigrew said, and bustled away.

“That woman is cracked in the head,” John Hix said.

“At the very least.”

“Marshal—I shouldn’t be spreading tales, but most ever’body knows she sends that poor afflicted boy Dickie Dildine down to the Red Chamber to buy her dope. Or, when he ain’t around, that one-armed drunk.”

Sam nodded. “She hasn’t been pestering either of them lately, that I can tell. She must have some new way of procuring what she needs. And that’s good, in my opinion. She has no business getting either of those poor souls mixed up in her antics.”

“Are you really gonna close Soo Chow down, like you told her?”

“Hell, no. There’s no law against opium, any more than there is against whiskey or walking around in a stable with your shirt off. Besides, I wouldn’t want to cut her off. I’d be tempted to buy her supply out of my own salary, if I had to—if she’s this annoying on dope, I’d hate to see what she’s like without it.”

Sam leaned back. “Carry on, John. The dens of Satan are calling my name.”

John grinned. “Yes sir, Marshal.”

* * *

Sam stepped out of the barber shop. He paused a moment, looking up and down the street. He liked to be aware of his surroundings, a habit he had picked up as a cavalry officer. He had certainly not picked it up while growing up in his hometown of Danville, Illinois—there was nothing to see there but corn, and nothing to hear but his lawyer father’s boring platitudes.

He turned right and headed west down South Street. He intended to start his rounds, as he usually did, at the Eldorado. He planned to ask around about the mysterious Laird Jenkins, the fellow who’d gotten himself shot in the back while taking a piss outside Asa’s Saloon. Quint had done a thorough job earlier in the day, but there were certain townspeople who might open up more to the city marshal with the deadly reputation than to his straight-arrow deputy. And since it was now late afternoon, there might be more folks up and about who had seen Jenkins than there had been when Quint did his questioning.

The Eldorado was the most upscale drinking establishment in Wolf Creek. Its South Street location was on the border between the “respectable” part of town and the rowdy neighborhood called Dogleg City that had sprung up in the last couple of years, since the railroad arrived. It was the sort of place that local businessmen, or those passing through on the AT & SF, could feel safe frequenting, sipping a drink on cushioned barstools or doing a little gambling without the fear of being murdered if they won two hands in a row, or robbed as soon as they got out the door.

A handbill pasted on the front door advertised that the Du Pree Players would be returning next weekend. That was another marker of the sort of place Virgil Calhoun ran; Howard Du Pree and his troupe made a circuit through southern Kansas, appearing in Wolf Creek every month or so. They performed comedy skits, song and dance routines, and excerpts from Shakespeare. They didn’t get booked in Dogleg City; Sam sometimes mused about how amusing it might be to see them do Hamlet or Julius Caesar at the Wolf’s Den. It would be the first time they’d done the murder scenes with audience participation.

Sam opened the door and stepped inside. The house gambler—and bouncer, on the rare occasion one was required—sat at the lonely poker table, waiting for the gamblers to wake up and start stirring. The faro and monte stations—the Eldorado only ran three tables—sat empty. The dealer, Tom Scroggins, was a rough-looking character with long black hair and a grizzled goatee—one could argue he was an unkempt version of the marshal, at least in appearance.

“Looks like the place is getting a slow start today, eh, Tom?” Sam said as he walked past.

Scroggins shrugged. “It’s okay, Marshal. I’m a bit of a slow starter myself, anyhow.”

Sam chuckled. “Things’ll pick up when the dance hall girls get started. A little flash of female leg gets folks’ blood flowing.”

The piano player had arrived, and was limbering his fingers up at the keyboard. Sven Larson was the best piano man in town; Sam didn’t bother asking him any questions, the Minnesotan got completely lost in his music once he got started, and would not likely have noticed if the whole place collapsed around his ears.

Instead, he bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer. Head bartender Robert Sutton set a foamy mug before him. The marshal and Sutton got along quite well, being fellow Illinois escapees. The bartender—a thin man around sixty with a snow white beard and a toothy grin—hailed from Urbana, and had spent the war years as a guard at the Rock Island prison camp. Affable as he was, he had no compunction about using the shotgun hidden behind the bar if it were necessary. Gardner joked that having a bartender named Robert at the Eldorado, when there was a bartender named Rob at the Lucky Break, was far too confusing for the simple folk of Wolf Creek, so the marshal sometimes referred to them as Smilin’ Bob and Burly Rob.

“How’s that leg doing, Sam?” Smilin’ Bob Sutton asked.

The marshal set his mug down. “The doc says it’s coming along well. I shouldn’t need this walking stick for long, now that I’m finally on my feet—but it’s so dandy and handy, I may just make it a permanent part of my arsenal. Joseph Nash does good work.”

“Hey, that’s a beaut,” Sutton said. “Can I see it?”

Sam handed it over and the bartender appraised it with an approving smile.

“Say, Bob,” the marshal said. “I guess you heard about the fellow who got shot down in Cribtown last night.”

Sutton nodded. “Quint was asking about him this morning. I really can’t tell you much—he just came in here a few times in the early evening, had a couple of drinks and moved on.”

“I hear he was a bit of a talker.”

Sutton shook his head. “Not so’s I’d notice, not in here. I’d say this was where he started his evening’s festivities, and he hadn’t drunk enough yet to loosen his tongue till somewhere farther down the line.”

Sam nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to pester your customers about him just the same.”

Sutton handed the cane back. “Sure thing, Sam.”

There weren’t that many customers to pester, not at this hour. Sam knew most of them—and they proved as unhelpful as Sutton—but then a man entered who was a stranger to him. He was in his forties, wearing a cheap, rumpled suit and a dusty bowler. He carried a leather case. The man headed straight to the bar, and Sam excused himself from the conversation he was having with a local cattleman to go join him.

“Robert,” the man said to the bartender, “has Mister Calhoun come in yet?”

Sutton shook his head. “Afraid not. He should be along soon, though.”

The man seemed disappointed. “Do you know if he’s given any thought to my offer?”

Sutton smiled. “I’m just the hired help, you’ll have to ask him about that.”

Sam approached the man. “Virgil keeps the hours of a raccoon,” he said, “much like the rest of us. My name is Sam Gardner, I’m the marshal around here.”

“Have I done something, Marshal?”

Sam smiled. “Not that I’m aware of. I just like to make new acquaintances.”

“Oh,” the man said, but he did not seem relieved. “My name is Malchius Offerman.” He offered his hand, and the marshal shook it.

“Mister Offerman is a whiskey drummer,” Sutton offered. “He’s trying to convince Virgil to change suppliers.”

“I thought I knew all the whiskey drummers who come through,” Sam said, and then added, “I like whiskey, you see.”

Offerman nodded. “I’m new,” he said. “Well, not new to the trade, just new to this territory. I replaced Lester Weatherby.”

“Weatherby,” Sam said, and thought a moment. “Oh, yes. He was on that stagecoach that the Kiowas hit a few weeks back.”

The drummer nodded again. “I hear he quit and moved back East.”

“A good place for him, from what I saw,” Sam said. “Well, I wish you luck with Virgil.”

“Thank you, Marshal.”

“Long as I have you here, I wonder if I could ask you a question.”

“Why, certainly. I always like to be helpful to the law.”

“There’s a fellow that has been making the rounds of the saloons the last few nights—Laird Jenkins. Dressed like a cattle drover, had a pock-marked face.”

Offerman nodded. “Why, yes,” he said. “I remember the man. We spoke last night, very briefly, at the Lucky Break. Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“His troubles are pretty much over. Somebody shot him in the back down in Cribtown last night.”

“Oh, my,” Offerman said. “That’s terrible. I have been warned not to go down there too late at night, I hear it is crawling with cutthroats and robbers. No offense, Marshal, you can’t be everywhere at once, I suppose.”

“He wasn’t robbed,” Sam said, “that’s the peculiar part. He had a pocket full of cash when we found him.”

“Perhaps he offended someone?”

“Perhaps,” Sam said. “May I ask what you talked about with him?”

“Nothing, really,” Offerman said, “we barely spoke. He was rather far along in his cups, I’m afraid, and was soliciting my opinion about keno. I told him I was unfamiliar with the game. That was about the extent of it, apart from some drunken mumbling I couldn’t decipher.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks for your time, Mister Offerman. Bob, I believe I’ll amble over to the Wolf’s Den and see how they’ve been getting along today without my presence—I expect I’ll be back after supper. Good day, gentlemen.”

Sam headed south on Third Street, tapping the boardwalk jauntily with his walking stick as he went. He walked past Li Wong’s laundry shop, and caught a glimpse of Li’s beautiful daughter Jing Jing through the window. The marshal generally ignored the Chinese unless they were causing trouble—they were sort of in the background, from his perspective, rather like squirrels—but he could definitely see why so many of the men in town were panting after her. If Soo Chow ever did manage to recruit her for his stable, the marshal would make a point of giving her a try.

He turned left onto Grant Street, which the mostly-Texan cowboys preferred to call “Useless S. Grant.” Let them have their sour grapes, Sam figured, everyone knows who won the war and was sitting in the White House. He passed the artist, Reginald de Courcey, headed back to his studio—brushes and canvas under his arm—no doubt from one of his frequent sketching and painting expeditions in the countryside.

“Hello, Marshal,” the artist said amiably in his proper English accent. “Warm enough for you?”

“I suppose it’ll do,” Sam said. “How’s business?”

“A little slow right now—but I’m using the downtime to paint some landscapes that I suspect I can get a pretty penny for the next time I get to Wichita. Have a good evening!”

“Same to you.”

The Wolf’s Den was geographically not that far from the Eldorado, but it was worlds away. Everything about it felt different, even in the late afternoon. Where Tom Scroggins was friendly, and pleasant company on a slow evening, Breedlove’s house gambler Preston Vance radiated a taciturn, antisocial aura. Three or four toughs lounged around the bar at night, ready at a moment’s notice to subdue any serious troublemakers—one of them, a drifter named Wesley Quaid, was already present. Instead of Sven Larson’s jaunty piano, the young Texan Roscoe Parsons played Mexican tunes on a guitar.

And Ira Breedlove watched over it all from the end of the bar. Ira lived in an upstairs room, and almost never left the property—but his web extended all over town.

He stood there now, and Sam joined him.

“Ira,” the marshal said in greeting.

“Sam. I see you’re getting around well.” Ira did not look at the marshal directly—it was more a dismissive than an anxious gesture.

“Well enough. Better than Laird Jenkins.”

Sam watched Breedlove carefully, hoping for a reaction, but received none.

“Mister Jenkins got himself backshot last night,” Sam added.

“So I heard.”

“No one seems to know much about him,” Sam said. “Except Asa Pepper seems to think he was working for you.”

“Really.”

“Oh yes, really. Normally I wouldn’t trust Asa as far as I could throw his black ass—but he’s not stupid. He certainly wouldn’t kill somebody right outside his place and just leave him there. Though he may have had reason to—he thinks Jenkins was there to pressure him about paying back a loan you apparently floated him.”

Ira turned his head to stare at the marshal. “And what do you think, Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t have enough facts to think anything. Dab seems to believe I’m wasting time and stirring up trouble even investigating this murder. Do you feel that way?”

Ira let out a small sigh. “Laird was an old friend of mine,” he said. “From my St. Louis days. He was a confidence man, for the most part—he didn’t pressure people, he didn’t need to. He convinced them, usually over a little time.”

Breedlove took a pre-rolled cigarette out of a silver case he kept in his vest pocket, and lit it. Sam remained silent, letting the saloon owner go through his ritual. After a few puffs of smoke, Ira continued.

“Laird came in here a few days ago, asking for work for old time’s sake. He wanted to get out to Santa Fe, and needed a stake—despite his avocation, he was not the sort of man who’d accept a loan as a favor, he’d want to earn it somehow.”

“So you sent him around Asa’s?”

Ira nodded. “It wasn’t to get the loan paid off, though. I had an offer for Asa—but I didn’t want to make it straight off, I wanted to soften him up a little first. Let him know I was watching him, give him something to think about.”

“But you didn’t want anyone else to know,” Sam said. “So your man Laird didn’t go straight to Asa. He spent a few days making the rounds of saloons, spending a little time in each, to throw your competitors off the trail. And he was perfect, because if you sent one of your regular cronies it would attract too much attention.”

“Something like that.”

Sam chuckled. “Must’ve been a hell of a plan you were cooking up, to take that much trouble in how you went about it.”

Ira half-smiled. “Laird was going to make the real offer to Asa tonight. In return for a cut of the profits, I was going to start directing our girls’ overflow customers to Asa. I wasn’t calling in the loan, I was going to offer him another one, to hire more whores. After awhile I would be willing to accept a half-interest in the place as repayment of the loans.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I’m still going to do it. And you have a stake in that sort of business, so it’ll affect you.”

Sam shook his head appreciatively. “Damn, Ira,” he said. “There’s only so many horny men in this town.”

Ira smiled. “The town is growing. There’ll be more.”

“And if you expand, and bring Asa’s operation into your own—that’ll give you the leverage to cut the others out. Abby Potter, Dab Henry, Soo Chow, even Virgil Calhoun, though he’s discreet about it. There’s a lot of people selling ass in this town.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if there were fewer?” Ira said. “Abby would do fine, she caters to the more established business folk, not the drovers. And Soo Chow doesn’t have that many whores—it just makes sense to have a few Oriental girls around when you’re selling dope.”

“So it’s mostly Dab Henry and Virgil Calhoun you’d be trying to drive out of business.”

Ira shrugged. “You’d get the same cut, no matter who gave it to you.”

“It’s not the money, Ira. The way I figure it, I’m entitled to a little bonus for keeping everything running smooth around here. But my real job is keeping the peace, and you and the others are edging closer and closer to a war. It’s already starting—this is just the kind of shit I don’t like. Somebody figured out what your amigo Laird was up to. Hell, I’ve had two shootings in one day. If that keeps up it hurts everybody.”

Ira nodded, and smiled. “I heard about that little duel at Dab’s place.”

Realization dawned on Sam’s face. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You had something to do with that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Ira’s brow furrowed. “Sam, do you know the real reason I’m telling you all this?”

“I’m sure you’re about to inform me.”

“Laird was my friend. And he died working for me. I do want you to get to the bottom of it.”

“So I can maybe put the heat on one of your rivals.”

“So you can do what’s right,” Ira said.

Sam sighed. “I probably should just drop the whole thing. It’s going to be nothing but trouble.”

“But you won’t,” Ira said. “Because you’re not that sort of man. Your young deputy wanders around Dogleg City, acting like Sir Lancelot, well meaning but naïve as a church mouse. You’re more worldly, but you have a streak of the same thing in you.”

Ira smiled at him, but not with his eyes.

Sam stared back. “You may be right,” he said. “But that streak, as you call it, applies to how I treat everybody. You’d best not forget it.”

“Oh, I won’t. I never forget anything, Sam, you know that.”

“It’s time for me to go procure my supper,” Sam said, after a few uncomfortable moments. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“I’ll be here.”

Sam left the saloon, headed for Isabella’s restaurant. Ira Breedlove turned to face the bar, cupped his chin in his right hand, and was soon lost in thought.