Murder in Dogleg City (4 page)

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.

CHAPTER TWO

Samuel Jones sat at his usual table in
the Lucky Break. It damn well better be his table, because he paid
Dab Henry a thousand a month for the right to deal his cards there.
Not yet noon, and Samuel dealt himself a hand of solitaire.
Sometimes he couldn’t even beat himself, but he never cheated. Lots
of gentlemen did. Three-card monte players did. Faro dealers did.
But Samuel Jones didn’t, and everyone in Dogleg City knew it. He
started lining up the cards.

A teamster pushed his way into the
Lucky Break and hollered. “Hey Mister Henry. Yer mirror’s
here.”

Dab burst from the back room—he had
only been back from his visit at the marshal’s office for a few
minutes. “You all be careful with that glass,” he hollered back.
“Cost a pretty piece, but it’ll put the Lucky Break up a notch or
two. People’re gonna flock right in here to look at themselves in
that big ol’ thing.”