Blood Trail (2 page)

The body was a bloody mess.

It had been found in a clearing near town by two young boys who were supposed to be in school. Horrified, they had run to school and told their teacher what they'd found.

“What the hell did this?” Ray Bullet said.

“I don't know.”

The body had been eviscerated, blood spread out everywhere. Clint got closer, crouched down to take a good look.

“It looks like he got his throat ripped out,” he said. “Maybe that was first, and the feast came later.”

“You ever see a wolf do this?” Bullet asked.

“No,” Clint said, “I've seen cleaner kills by wolves. But maybe a wolf did it, and some other animals came by later and did the rest.”

“Only one problem,” Bullet said.

“What's that?”

“There haven't been any wolves around here in a long time.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe you've got one now.”

Clint stood up.

“We should go back to town and get somebody out here to clean this up,” Bullet said. “We don't want anybody else seein' it.”

Ray Bullet was in his early fifties, with steel gray hair and face that looked chiseled out of rock. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his physique showing no signs of aging. He still stood a good six-foot-three.

“Wait,” Clint said.

He walked around the area a few minutes, checking the ground, looking for sign of man or beast.

“See anything?” Bullet asked.

Clint came back to the body, was about to say that he saw nothing when he spotted something.

“Look.”

“What?” Bullet asked.

“There. In the blood.”

Bullet squinted.

“What is that? A boot print?”

“Sure looks like one,” Clint said. “But . . . only one?”

“Why aren't there bloody tracks leading away?” Bullet asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Is there anybody in town who can read sign?”

“I thought you were reading it.”

“We need somebody who can read it better than I can,” Clint told him.

“Lemme think,” Bullet said. “Like I said, we ain't had any wolves around here in a while, so we haven't needed any hunters.”

“Then I suggest we move this body, but we don't clean the area up,” Clint said. “Not yet anyway. Not until we can find somebody to read the sign.”

“Okay.”

“We need somebody to pick up the body without trampling all over the area,” Clint said.

“I can talk to the undertaker,” Bullet said. “He can have his men come out, and they'll be careful.”

“You better be here to make sure they're careful.”

“No,” Bullet said, “we've got to start looking for whoever did this.”

“We?” Clint asked. “How did I get roped into this problem?”

“I told you,” Bullet said. “I don't have a deputy. I need you.”

“Ray—”

“Clint.”

“Let's just get back to town,” Clint said. “We can talk about it later.”

“Okay,” Bullet said. “Okay.”

With a last look at the destroyed body, they turned and headed back.

Clint sat in front of the sheriff's desk, drinking coffee from a chipped white mug. The sheriff poured himself a cup and sat behind the desk.

“Okay,” he said. “The undertaker's gonna be real careful about moving the body. He'll try not to disturb the surrounding area too much.”

“What about a tracker?”

“Nothing yet,” Bullet said.

“So where do you want to start?”

“I can't see that the murderer is anybody from this town,” Bullet said.

“Do we know who the victim is?”

“No.”

“Then how can you say that?”

“These are good people, Clint,” Bullet said. “I can't see anyone from this town killin' somebody that way.”

“It looked to me like there was a lot of anger involved, Ray,” Clint said. “That, or a lot of passion.”

“I'm thinkin' a stranger.”

“Any strangers in town?”

“Strictly speakin',” Bullet said. “One.”

“Who's that?”

“You.”

“Nobody else has ridden into town?”

“Not in the past few days,” Bullet said, “except . . .”

“Except what?”

“There's a wagon train camped right outside of town,” Bullet said.

“Wagon train?” Clint said. “There are no more wagon trains, Ray.”

“Not like there used to be,” Bullet said, “but this is a bunch of folks traveling from east to west together in wagons. What would you call it?”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “How many wagons are we talking about?”

“About ten, I think.”

“Have you been out there?”

“No,” he said, “but they've been here in town, buying supplies.”

“What kind of people are they?”

“Foreign,” Bullet said.

“From where?”

“Europe,” Bullet said. “Germany, I think. Poland. Some other countries I've never heard of.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “so I suppose we should go out and talk to them.”

“That's the plan.”

“But we should go to the undertaker's first.”

“For what?”

“To look at the body once he has it cleaned up,” Clint said. “And to look at the victim's clothes.”

“His clothes?”

“Might give us an idea of where he's from,” Clint said. “Or if he's local.”

“Well,” Bullet said, “I couldn't tell from lookin' at him if he was local or not. Too much blood coverin' his face.”

“All the more reason for us to look at him when he's cleaned up.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “Exactly when do you want to do that?”

“The sooner the better,” Bullet said. He took a bottle of whiskey from his drawer and poured some into their cups. “As soon as we finish our coffee.”

Clint and Bullet entered the undertaker's office.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” a tall, slender man said. Not painfully thin, as undertakers were expected to be, and not as old as Clint had expected. This man seemed to be in his thirties, and looked more like a doctor or a lawyer than an undertaker.

“The body here, Zeke?” Bullet asked.

“In the back,” the undertaker, Zeke Taylor, said. “The doc is with him.”

“The doctor?” Clint asked. “What for? He's dead, isn't he?”

“The doctor was curious about the way the man died,” Taylor said. “He asked to be allowed to examine the body. I didn't think you'd mind, Sheriff.”

“I don't,” Bullet said. He looked at Clint. “We can use his comments.” He looked back at Taylor. “Did you clean him up?”

“I did.”

“His face?”

“Washed it clean.”

“Do you know him, Zeke?” Bullet asked. “Is he from town?”

“Never saw him before, Ray.”

“Where are his clothes?” Clint asked.

“In the corner of the same room.”

“Anything in his pockets?”

“I didn't go through the pockets,” the man said. “I left that for the sheriff.”

“All right, Zeke,” the sheriff said. “Can we see the body?”

“Right back here.”

Taylor led them to a curtain, swept it aside, and let them enter, then closed the curtain in case someone should enter the establishment.

The body was laid out on a table, and hovering over it was a man who looked more like an undertaker than a doctor. In his fifties, he was tall, painfully thin, with hollowed-out eyes and cheeks.

“Doc,” Bullet said.

“Sheriff.”

“This is Clint Adams.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the doctor said.

“Clint, Doc Miller.”

Clint nodded.

“What can you tell me, Doc?” Bullet asked.

The doctor's hands were bloody as he pointed with his little finger.

“Looks to me like his throat was torn out first, and then they went to work on his torso. They tore open his chest and his belly. Some of his organs are missing.”

“They took them away?” Bullet asked.

“Or ate them,” the doc said.

“All right,” Bullet said, “let us have a look, will you?”

“He's been cleaned up,” Doc said, “but it's still not pretty.”

He stepped aside, stood next to the undertaker. Clint was struck by the contrast between the two men, whose physical appearances seemed to fit the other's occupation.

The body was naked, the face scrubbed clean, the rest of him still somewhat bloody. The ravaged chest and belly had been spread open even more for examination. Clint had seen a lot of things in his time, but never that.

Despite the fact that the throat had been torn out, his face seemed serene in death.

“You know him, Doc?” Bullet asked.

“Never saw him.”

“Me neither,” Bullet said. “Clint?”

“Not me.”

“Ever see anythin' like this before in an animal attack?”

“No,” Clint said. “And I've seen wolf kills, cat kills, bears . . . nothing like this.”

“Doc,” Bullet said, “that throat wound. That would've killed him, right?”

“Oh, yes,” the doctor said. “The other wounds would have been postmortem.”

“Huh?” Bullet said.

“After death,” the doctor said.

“Oh.”

“Where are the clothes?” Clint asked.

The undertaker pointed to a wadded-up bundle in a corner. Clint walked over, tried to spread the bloody clothes out without getting too much blood on him.

“Pockets?” Bullet asked, looking over his shoulder.

Clint prodded the trousers and said, “They seem to be empty.”

“Clothes don't look store bought,” Sheriff Bullet said.

“That's what I thought, too,” the undertaker commented.

“Yes,” Clint said, looking closely, “the sewing looks homemade.”

“Not a man with money, then,” Bullet said. “Robbery is probably out of the question.”

“Looks young,” the doc said.

They all turned and looked at him. He was once again peering at the body.

“Might even have been under twenty.”

They all walked back to the table.

“He's right,” Clint said. “This is a kid.”

“Was,” Taylor said.

“What?” Bullet asked.

“The deceased,” the undertaker said. “We say ‘was,' not ‘is.'”

Clint ignored him.

“Who would want to kill this kid in this way?” he wondered aloud.

“Someone angry,” the doctor said.

Clint looked at Bullet.

“We better ride out and talk to those people.”

“The wagon train?” the doc asked.

“Yes,” Bullet said.

“Why them?”

“They're strangers,” Bullet said. “The only strangers in town.”

“They seem like nice people,” Doc Miller said.

“What kind of contact have you had with them?” Clint asked.

“A few of them brought their kids in to see me,” Miller said.

“They sick?” Bullet asked.

“A couple of colds,” Miller said. “One broken arm. That's about it.”

“What do you know about them?” Clint asked.

“Very old world,” Miller said, “looking for a new one.”

“German? Polish, like the sheriff says?” Clint asked.

“Romanian, too.”

“Where's that?” Bullet asked. “Roman-y-what?”

“Romania,” Miller said. “Not sure where it is.”

“Well,” Bullet said, “we better get out there.”

“Do they speak English?” Clint asked Miller.

“Most of them,” the doc said.

“Don't worry,” Bullet said, “their captain and their guide are Americans.”

“They're nice people, Sheriff,” the doctor said.

“Nice people kill, too, Doc,” Sheriff Bullet said. “I've seen it too many times.”

“Riders!”

Talbot and Gerhardt looked up from what they were doing to see the two riders approaching.

“Who are they?” Talbot asked.

“Looks like they're from town,” Captain Parker said.

“I think I see a badge,” Dave Barrett, the guide, said.

“Ah,” Parker said, “the sheriff.”

“What can he want?” Abel Zonofsky asked.

“Well,” Parker said, “sometimes the town sheriff suspects strangers of petty thefts that take place in town.” He turned and looked at the assembled members of the train. “If anyone took anything while they were in town, now's the time to tell us.”

“We are not thieves,” Gerhardt said.

Parker looked around.

“So say you all?”

They all nodded, men, women, and children alike.

“All right, then,” Parker said, “just let me do the talking.”

* * *

“That's Parker,” Bullet said as they approached. “He's the captain.”

“Of a ten-wagon train?” Clint asked.

“And they have a guide.”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“Fella's name is Barrett.”

“Don't know him.”

“What about Parker?” Bullet asked. “Captain Sean Parker?”

“Him neither.”

“Okay.”

By the time they reached the camp, the people had all gathered around.

“Captain,” Bullet said, reining in.

“Sheriff.”

“This is my friend, Clint Adams. He's my . . . acting deputy.”

“I know Mr. Adams's reputation,” Parker said. “What brings you out here?”

“Murder, I'm afraid,” Bullet said.

“Murder? Who?”

“We're not sure yet,” Bullet said. “We found a man just outside of town who had been murdered in a way that made it impossible to identify him.”

“All right,” Parker said. “But why come to us?”

“Well,” the sheriff said, “first to see if any of your party is missing.”

Parker looked around.

“Anyone missing?” he asked.

Everybody exchanged glances and looked around, then looked back at Parker.

Parker turned back to Bullet.

“No one is missing,” he said. “What else?”

“Has anyone been away from camp for an extended period of time since last night?”

“No,” Parker said.

“You don't have to ask?”

“No.”

“Well,” Bullet said, “let me tell you that the man who was killed was . . . ripped apart, as if by a wolf, or some other animal.”

That got a rise out of the assembled people. The woman grabbed their children and held them close.

“Ripped apart?” Talbot asked.

“That's right.”

Talbot stepped forward.

“As if by a wolf?”

“Yes,” Bullet said.

“Was . . . was the throat ripped out?” Talbot asked.

“Yeah, it was,” Bullet said. He frowned. “Who are you, sir?”

“This is Mr. Talbot,” Parker said.

“Well, Mr. Talbot,” Bullet said, “what would you know about this?”

“I know nothing about it,” Talbot said, “but I believe I might be able to help.”

“How?” Clint asked. “How could you help?”

“I am a hunter.”

“Can you track?” Clint asked.

“Indeed I can.”

Clint looked at Bullet and raised his eyebrows.

“Sir,” Bullet said, “do you have a horse?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Would you come along with us and take a look at the scene?”

“And the body?” Clint asked.

“Yes,” Talbot said. “Let me saddle my horse.”

Clint and Bullet remained mounted and waited, while the assembled crowd stared at them.

* * *

“Papa,” Sarah said as her father saddled his horse, “what are you doing?”

“I am trying to be helpful, child.”

“But this is not for you to do.”

“I am a hunter,” he reminded her.

“Yes,” she said, “but you did not tell the men what you hunt.”

“They did not ask.”

“And if they do?”

“I will tell them.”

“They will think you are crazy,” she said. “The men in this country do not understand.”

Talbot turned to his daughter and said, “Perhaps this body will make them understand.”

“Papa—”

“I have to go, child,” he said. “You stay close to the wagon, do you hear?”

“I hear you, Papa,” she said. “Please be careful.”

“I will.”

“I mean,” she said, “be careful of what you say to these men.”

He put his hand on his daughter's shoulders, then walked away with his horse.

* * *

Clint saw the man approaching them, leading a worn, old mare.

“That's a horse?” Bullet said, aloud.

Talbot heard him.

“She is a fine animal,” he said. “I have had her a long time.”

“Can she keep up?” Bullet asked.

Talbot mounted up.

“Do not worry,” he said, “she will keep up.”

“You want me to come along, Sheriff?” Parker asked.

“I think you'd better stay close to your people, Captain,” Bullet said. “Don't worry, we'll bring Mr. Talbot back to you.”

Talbot's daughter came and stood next to the captain. The older man put his arm around her, which did not please Talbot one bit.

“Sarah,” he said, “stay close to the wagon.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He looked at Bullet and Clint.

“Shall we go?”