Murder in Dogleg City (2 page)

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.