Murder in Dogleg City (16 page)

INTERLUDE

Samuel Jones liked to take his
breakfast at Isabella’s Restaurant. Most folks in town who could
afford to eat away from home preferred Ma’s Café, or Joe’s
Whistle-stop up by the depot—they were less pricey, and served up
more familiar fare. Jones, though, could afford to splurge, and
Isabella’s was worth splurging on—especially to him. Samuel Jones
might have been a wayward cardsharp, but he had spent most of his
life in New Orleans as Philippe Beaumont.

Antonio Isabella was a cheerful
Italian in his early fifties. As a young sailor he had fallen in
love with New Orleans, and married a girl from there—they now had a
houseful of kids, and a kitchen whose savory aromas were a mix of
Italian, Spanish, and French. The smells of the Crescent City, in
other words. And whichever name he used, breakfast was not
breakfast to the gambler unless it included andouille
sausage.

It was surprising, and a little
unnerving, how many people with New Orleans connections lived in
Wolf Creek. There were the Isabellas, Spike Sweeney the blacksmith,
and of course Jones himself. Fortunately, the other former New
Orleans dwellers had not moved in the same circles as Jones, and
thus had not recognized him. It was safe, therefore, for him to
occasionally get a taste of home without answering any questions
about his own past life. People in Wolf Creek didn’t ask questions,
anyhow. Most of them had their own secrets to keep.

His reverie—and his meal—were
interrupted by an unexpected visitor. A man in a cheap, rumpled
suit sat across from Jones. He was about forty-five years old,
balding, and carried a weathered carpetbag. After a moment Jones
placed him—it was the new whiskey peddler, the one who’d replaced
Lester Weatherby after the recent Kiowa incident.

“
We haven’t officially
met, sir,” the drummer said. “My name is Malchius
Offerman.”

Jones nodded. “Whiskey
peddler.”

“
Yes indeed.”

“
It’s a mite early for me,
Mister Offerman.”

The drummer smiled, but it was a cold
smile. “I’m not here in that capacity, Mister Jones. And yes, I
know your name, even though we haven’t met—you were the talk of the
town last night, after that duel.”

Jones popped the last bite of sausage
into his mouth. “Which is better than being the talk of the town
because one is dead,” he said, then polished off his
eggs.

“
No doubt, Mister Jones,
no doubt. And I’ve asked around—Valentine Hébert wasn’t the first
man you’ve killed in Wolf Creek. You’ve outdrawn a couple of people
who tried to protest your poker skills with bullets.”

Samuel Jones put down his coffee cup,
and his eyes narrowed. “I recall now,” he said, “that the marshal
was asking after you at the Lucky Break yesterday
evening.”

Offerman shrugged. “That’s neither
here nor there.”

Jones leaned forward. “Let me guess,
Mister Offerman. My gunplay has impressed you, and you’ve thought
of some angle to use it to attract customers and sell
drinks.”

The cold smile returned. “Oh, no,
Mister Jones,” the drummer replied. Then he looked around to make
sure no one was sitting nearby, and continued in a soft voice. “I
want you to help me kill someone.”

Samuel Jones was not often surprised
anymore, but this had done it.

“
I know, I know,” the
drummer said, “you are a professional gambler. But I know a gunman
when I see one. I’ve been around enough, believe me. I can pay you
very well.”

“
Keep talking.”

“
I assume you know the
bounty hunter who hangs around this town from time to time, the one
they call Rattlesnake Jake?”

“
I know him. Not well, but
I know him. And I know he didn’t get that nickname because he
shakes a rattle. He is a very dangerous man.”

“
I’m well aware of that,”
Offerman said. “That’s why I haven’t tried to accomplish this goal
by myself—believe me, I would like nothing better, but I wouldn’t
have a chance. Even trying to bushwhack a man like that by yourself
is too risky. That’s why I need help. And that’s why the marshal
couldn’t find me last night—I was down in Tent City, trying to
recruit some helpers. I got three men, but I need a real
professional to seal the deal.”

“
I see. So you’re not
really a whiskey drummer at all.”

Offerman chuckled. “That’s the funny
part,” he said. “I really am. I’ve had my eye on this town for
awhile, trying to work out the best angle to get at him—and when
that blithering coward Weatherby quit, I jumped at the chance to
take over his route. It’s the perfect cover, because it’s not a
cover. And I do have a little money, mostly from selling my
father’s house and hardware store down in Austin when he passed
away.”

“
What business does a
whiskey drummer have with a hard-case bounty hunter?” Jones
asked.

“
That’s my affair,”
Offerman said, and Jones shook his head.

“
I’m afraid not,” Jones
said. “If you’re asking me to go up against someone that I know to
be a dangerous gunfighter, I want to know what your stake
is.”

Offerman bit his lip and considered
his reply for a moment. “All right, I’ll tell you. He murdered my
little brother in St. Joe two years ago. He was only my
half-brother, and he was an idiot, but I loved him. Clyde robbed a
bank in Austin and took to the outlaw trail, but he didn’t kill
anybody. Someone else in the gang shot the tellers. He didn’t
deserve to die for it. Clyde’s death broke our father’s heart, and
I believe that’s what killed him.”

Samuel Jones could read faces, it was
his job. Offerman’s eyes were equal parts fury and grief. He could
tell that the drummer’s story was true—at least from his
perspective. Although his love for his kid brother was definitely
obscuring his objectivity; someone who robs a bank in which a
teller gets killed would be guilty of second degree murder in most
states whether they pulled the trigger or not. The gambler deemed
it unwise to point that out under the circumstances, though. When a
man loses a brother, especially a younger one, reason often goes
out the window.

Jones nodded his
understanding.

“
What do I have to do?” he
asked.

CHAPTER SIX

“
That’s him over there in
the corner, at the back. But, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I just
have to ask, have you given sufficient thought to seekin’ out a
bounty hunter to track your husband? You’re likely to end up
without your money or your husband,” Mack, the bartender of the
Wolf’s Den, said, with a wizened leer as he wiped a wet spot on the
polished bar for the fifth time. “Now, for the right
price–”

“
You let me worry about
whether I get my husband back, or not. I’ll thank you to mind your
own business,” the petite lady answered curtly, spinning around and
walking away. She had hair black as night and eyes green as
emeralds

The bartender, red-faced at being
dressed-down by a lady in front of his other customers–all two of
them–went back to wiping the same spot for the sixth and seventh
times. The lady sashayed over to the table of a man with a face
that looked like a well-traveled road, ruts and all. He was
shuffling and reshuffling a badly worn deck of cards, bent,
cracked, and dirty.

“
You the man they call
Rattlesnake Jake? The bounty hunter?” she asked.

“
Maybe. Who’s
askin’?”

“
I’m Teresa Munder and my
husband is missing. I want him back.”

Jake recognized the last name.
Alexander Munder was a pain in the ass—he made the rounds of every
saloon in town about once a week, crying in his beer and everyone
else’s about what a bitch his wife was. Jake had always figured
anyone who had to put up with that whining bastard was justified in
treating him like shit.

“
Why?” Jake
asked.

“
Why did he go missing or
why do I want him back?”

“
Take your pick.” The man
spread the cards out in front of him then flipped the whole row
with the one card still in his hand.

“
Well, to start with, I’m
unwilling to believe he just up and abandoned me. He’s not that
kind. And I doubt he’s taken up with another woman.”

“
Why?”

“
Because he’s a
hard-working, honorable man and he wouldn’t let himself be caught
up on a whim by another pretty face.”

“
When did he go
missing?”

“
Two days ago.”

Jake grinned. “Hell, that’s not even
long enough for a good drunk. He’s probably sleepin’ it off
somewhere.”

“
He is not. Alexander
always comes home by dawn—he did not, not dawn yesterday and not
dawn today. And he is not, as you say, sleeping it off—I have been
to every bar in town and no one has seen him since Monday night.
Today is Wednesday, in case you don’t keep track.”

“
What was the last thing
he said before he left?”

“
He said, ‘Damn you woman,
I’m a man with needs and…’ Oh never mind. It’s not important what
he said. I want to know how much you need to be paid to find
him.”

“
How much is he worth to
you?”

“
I have, er, a
thou…uh…about five hundred dollars saved up.”

“
Uh-huh.” He reshuffled
the deck again, peeling off the top four cards and turning them
over. Four aces.

“
Well, will you do
it?”

“
I’ll give you some damned
good advice. And it won’t cost you one red cent.”

“
What’s that?”

“
Give it up. When a man
like Alexander Munder goes on the scout, it’s because he don’t want
to be found.”

“
H-how did you know my
husband’s name?”

“
Hell, lady, everybody in
Wolf Creek knows Alexander Munder. They all know he’s got a
beautiful wife whose colder’n an icicle.”

“
Wha-what did you call
me?”

“
A beautiful ice queen,
that’s all. Deny it.” He put the aces back in the deck, reshuffled
three or four times, then peeled the top four off again. And, once
more, turned up four aces.

Tears flooded the lady’s eyes as she
looked around, obviously embarrassed by what this crude man had
said. She started to reply, but instead, dropped into one of the
captain’s chairs across the table from Rattlesnake. She put her
face in her hands and began to sob.

Rattlesnake said nothing. He did,
however, continue to do card tricks, repeatedly flipping over aces.
After several minutes, with tears still streaming down her face,
she fixed a sad gaze on him. Her voice had turned from strong woman
to helpless child.

“
Please. I need help and
don’t know who else to turn to. Won’t you help me?”

Ever the sucker for a sobbing female,
Rattlesnake tossed the deck of cards down on the table, revealing
that every card in the deck was an ace, and pushed his chair back,
stood, and snapped his suspenders.

“
Aw, hell, why not. I
could use the money. Up front, of course,” he said, as though it
were neither a statement nor a question. He cocked his head and
raised one eyebrow. He expected a reluctance to let go of five
hundred dollars without some guarantee of success. He was surprised
by her response.

“
Of course,” she said,
pulling a small, embroidered purse from one of her pockets. She
peeled off five one hundred dollar bills and handed them to him.
“Do I get a receipt?”

“
Me findin’ your husband
will be all the receipt you’ll need. If I don’t, then you’re just
out the money. Findin’ a wayward husband is always a
gamble.”

“
That’s not a very
honorable way to do business if you want people to feel comfortable
in the arrangement,” she said, having regained her composure and
her stiffness.

“
Reckon you’re right. But
them’s the terms. Your choice.”

She looked at the floor
for a moment, twisting a dainty foot left and right. Jake figured
his cavalier attitude had turned her off and she would say
forget it, I’ll find someone
else
. He was surprised by her next words
and they had nothing to do with money or rewards or
receipts.

“
I-I just can’t fathom why
he’d leave me.”

“
Because, a man only
leaves a beautiful lady if things aren’t goin’ the way he thinks
they should at home. And forgive my boldness, ma’am, but you are a
beautiful lady. Or, he leaves for perfectly legitimate reasons and
gets himself robbed and killed, or he falls into a ravine and
breaks his fool neck. If I find the second reason is what happened
to him, do you want his body back, or will some identifiable object
do?”

“
Bring him back no matter
what you find,” Mrs. Munder said curtly.

“
As you wish,” he said.
“Oh, one more thing—what color was the horse he rode out
on?”

“
His favorite, a grey
gelding.”