Murder in Dogleg City (6 page)

Samuel Jones was a professional
gambler, albeit an honest one. Herds of longhorns came up from
Texas along the Chisholm Trail. That meant cowboys with money to
spend, businessmen with money to buy beeves, drummers and saloons
and general stores and emporiums and opium dens and dirty dove
joints. Hébert checked the towns at trails end. Trains at Wolf
Creek, not far north of the Indian Nations, loaded nearly a hundred
thousand head of cattle bound for Chicago in 1870. To Hébert, that
many steers meant a pool of money that no professional gambler
could resist. Not as easy as the Mississippi, of course, but
undoubtedly lucrative.

Delacorte’s man Hébert stepped off the
Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe train at the railhead in Wolf
Creek. He checked into the Imperial Hotel, an imposing structure
for a town that had sprung from nothing but a few shacks in the
curve of Wolf Creek before the cattle had come. The room was more
than comfortable, too. As soon as he deposited his carpetbag in the
room, he went back down to the lobby.

The front desk clerk was all attention
as Hébert approached. “May I be of service, sir?” he
said.

“
If a man were to wish to
game a bit,” Hébert said, “where would he go in this
town?”

“
Game?”

“
Why games of chance, of
course. Roulette, for instance. Or monte.”

“
Ah, gambling. Yes, sir.
Well, you may wish to try the Eldorado on South Street. Further
down toward the creek, there’s the Wolf Den and the Lucky Break,
but they’re awful close to Dogleg City.

“
Dogleg City? There’s
another town close by, then?”

“
Oh no, sir. Across
Ulysses S. Grant Street, all the way to Wolf Creek itself, is what
we call Dogleg City. One who treasures his life would not venture
across Useless Grant Street. Er, that’s what the cowboys call it,
anyway.”

“
Thank you. Now, where do
I look for the sheriff or marshal or whomever passes for keepers of
the law in this city?”

“
The marshal of Wolf Creek
is Sam Gardner, and his office is on Fourth and South Street.” The
clerk waved in the general direction of the office. “Over that way.
You can’t miss it.”

“
Thank you. I’ll wander
over to see him, then.” Hébert started to leave, then turned to ask
one more question. “Which of these—Dogleg City—establishments is
closest?”

“
That’d be the Lucky
Break, Mister. If you just head down Second Street here you’ll run
smack into it.”

Hébert nodded and left the hotel. He
followed the clerk’s directions and headed for the Lucky Break. He
stuck his head inside briefly; workmen were installing a new
mirror, and the owner was directing the activity. Hébert heard
someone address the owner as “mayor”—he decided to come back later,
after he had checked with the constabulary. He made his way back to
South Street and headed east toward the marshal’s
office.

The marshal’s office stood on the
corner—the lots on either side were empty. Wolf Creek might be a
growing town, but it hadn’t grown enough to build boardwalks past
vacant lots; they ended abruptly at the corner. The building itself
had porches that ran around it, one fronting South Street, one
fronting Fourth. The entrance was at the corner of the building.
From the street, Hébert could see a wiry man with long black hair
bent over a desk, laboriously writing a document.

Hébert mounted the three steps to the
porch and tapped on the glass of the door. The black-haired man’s
right hand went to the ivory handle of a Remington .44. He looked
up as Hébert opened the door and walked in.

“
Good morning, Marshal. My
name is Valentine Hébert. I come from New Orleans, where I am
employed by the Delacorte family. Perhaps you have heard of
them.”

“
Sam Gardner,” the
long-haired man said. He stood and beckoned Hébert to a chair. “How
can I help you, Mister Hébert?”

“
Actually, I’m searching
for a miscreant.”

“
If you’re looking for
Miss Creeant, you’d better hoof it over to Miss Abby’s on Grant
Street.” Marshal Gardner’s face showed hard lines, and Hébert could
not tell if his comment was meant as a joke. If it were, the
marshal had a very dry sense of humor.

“
Unfortunately, sir, the
person is not a woman, but a man. A gambler. A professional, I am
told. His name, sir, is Philippe Beaumont. And he is a killer. I
also hear that he goes by the name of Samuel Jones.”

The corners of Gardner’s eyes
tightened. He knew Samuel Jones. Hébert had no doubt.

“
If you’ll just tell me
where Jones is, Marshal, I’ll leave.”

“
Sorry, Hébert. Can’t say
as I recall any gamblers in this town named Jones. But that is an
awful common name. Didn’t recognize the other one—what did you say,
Beaumont?”

Hébert nodded. “You don’t mind if I
look around?”

“
Free country,” Gardner
said. “But if you shoot one of Wolf Creek’s citizens in the back,
I’ll sure as Hell string you up, if I don’t plug you first. You
have my word on it.”

Hébert gave the marshal a cold smile.
“I am somewhat disappointed that you would think a man of my
standing would stoop to shooting a man in the back.”

“
Mister, I don’t know what
you were back in the Louisiana swamp, but here you’re just one more
jasper I have to keep an eye on. And I’ll do just that.” The
marshal was still in a bad mood from his chat with Dab
Henry.

“
Very well, I will just
have to investigate for myself.”

“
You do that. Good day.”
Marshal Gardner sat back down in his chair and returned to his
paperwork. He didn’t look up when Hébert left. But when his new
deputy, Seamus O’Connor came to start his rounds, Gardner said,
“O’Conner, you hike over to the Lucky Break and tell Samuel Jones
that there’s a dude here from New Orleans who calls himself Hay
Bear, and that said dude is looking for him.”

“
Hay Bear? Some kinda
Injun?”

“
Hell, I don’t know.
Frenchie, maybe.” The marshal grinned to himself.

O’Connor got a sawed-off coach gun
from the rack and dropped a handful of shells in his pocket. “Sure
and I’ll amble on over, boss.”

* * *

Valentine Hébert left the marshal’s
office and went to the Eldorado Saloon, directly across the street.
He had no success there—employees and patrons alike developed
lockjaw when he described his quarry to them. He then made his way
to the Wolf’s Den, where he received the same response. He could
not help noticing, however, that the establishment’s owner—who had
introduced himself as Ira Breedlove—watched Hébert’s efforts with a
wry smile and a keen eye.

“
Sorry you didn’t find
your man here,” Breedlove said. “But I do wish you success. I do
indeed.”

“
I’ll find him,” Hébert
said. “The only place I haven’t asked for him is the Lucky
Break—that has to be where he is.”

“
It may well be,”
Breedlove agreed. “They’re a sordid bunch over there.”

* * *

The Lucky Break’s free lunch always
attracted a crowd. Today’s fare was a deep pot of pork and beans, a
mound of saleratus biscuits, a tureen of thick gravy, and a barrel
of pickles. Head bartender Rob Parker was directing the
activities.

Hal, the daytime bartender, wandered
over to the house gambler’s table. “You want something to eat,
Sam?” he asked.

Samuel shook his head. His mind was
still on Hébert, though the dandy had yet to show his face again.
Perhaps he’d seen Samuel in the mirror as the gambler had seen him.
He checked the Derringer in his sleeve. If he straightened his arm
just right, the little gun sprang into his hand already cocked. All
he had to do was pull the trigger.

Free lunch eaters were mostly beer
drinkers, so the rumble inside the Lucky Break was nothing like the
nighttime roar. Still, Samuel didn’t hear Deputy O’Connor come
through the front door—but as he was glancing into the new mirror
regularly, he caught sight of the deputy when he was two steps into
the saloon.

O’Connor walked straight to Samuel’s
table. “Marshal Gardner told me to tell you that some southern dude
that calls himself Hay Bear is looking for you. I reckon you Sams
must look out for each other.”

“
You mean
Hébert?”

“
That’s what I said. Hay
Bear.”

“
I saw him,” Samuel said.
“But he’s disappeared. However, he will return sooner or later. He
wants to kill me, I suppose.”

The deputy’s brow furrowed at the
latter remark. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed
it, probably figuring plenty of people might have reason to kill a
professional gambler. “Watch yerself, boyo,” O’Connor said then,
and walked from the Lucky Break, the sawed-off coach gun in the
crook of his arm.

The free lunch crowd left. No one came
to Samuel’s table. Hardcore gamblers would show up as the day wore
on. They always did. He played solitaire. It helped to keep
handling the cards, even if no one was at the table. The roulette
wheel clicked. The faro dealer’s box flapped out its cards. Samuel
dealt himself another card.

“
Hey, Samuel! What’s the
chance of me and Howie getting a game going?”

Samuel recognized Billy Below’s
high-pitched voice. “Welcome gentlemen,” he said without looking
up. “Have a seat.” He then glanced at Billy and his cohort Howie.
Cowboys to the core. Not enough pocket money to play more than
penny ante poker.

The two cowboys sat down, shit-eating
grins on their faces. “Today’s my lucky day,” Billy said. “I feel
it in my bones.”

“
One’s bones are often
wrong,” Samuel said, matching their grins. How could a man not
smile with such good-natured cowboys wanting to play his
game?

For an instant, his eyes went from
Billy’s smiling face to the mirror behind the bar. There stood
Valentine Hébert.

Hébert wore a tiny smile on his face,
and he carried a wooden case beneath his arm. He nodded a bow in
Samuel’s direction, and started across the saloon toward Samuel’s
table.

“
Billy. Howie. You’d
better stand up and get away. Do me a favor and move over by the
bar until this is over, will you?

“
Wha—”

“
Move!” Samuel’s order cut
the air, and Billy and Howie scraped their chairs back and
scrambled over to the bar. Samuel stood and turned to meet Hébert,
his sword-cane leaning against the table within easy
reach.

Hébert stopped two paces
from the table. “
Bonjour,
Monsieur
Beaumont. Or,
should I say, Mister Jones?”

“
Valentine.” Samuel’s
hands hung naturally by his sides.

“
I came to challenge you,
Beaumont, Jones, or whoever you are.” Hébert stepped closer and put
the wooden box on the table. “The pistols you and Andre Larouche
used at City Park.”

He opened the box. The Belgian pistols
looked burnished and well cared-for. “Take your pick,” he said.
“Twenty paces at sundown.”

“
Why wait,” Samuel said.
“Billy,” he called.

“
Yeah, Sam.”

“
Run over to the smithy
and ask Angus to come over here, please.”

Billy Below read the serious
expression on Samuel’s face, left his beer on the bar, and sped
from the Lucky Break on the run.

“
Please take a seat,
Valentine. We should do this correctly.” Samuel took his
seat.

Hébert sat in the chair opposite
Samuel. Neither man spoke.

Billy Below came pounding back.
“Angus’ll be here’n a jif,” he said.

“
Thank you, Billy.” Samuel
raised his voice. “Hal, give Billy and Howie another beer on
me.”

Angus Sweeney strode in, his butternut
kepi low over his eyes. He scanned the room, fastened his gaze on
Samuel, and walked to the table. “What do you need,
Samuel?”

“
Angus, this is Valentine
Hébert from New Orleans. He has challenged me. Pistols—” he pointed
at the Belgian dueling flintlocks “–at twenty paces. You’re a
southern gentleman and a son of the Crescent City, Angus. Would you
please measure the twenty paces and count down for us?”

Sweeney nodded. “I can do that fer
y’all. Where?”

“
Over on the far side of
the livery corral on North Street,” Samuel said. “Pace it off north
and south so no one is bothered by the sun. Oh, and make sure it’s
outside the town limits. No need to get Sam Gardner involved.
”

“
Okay. Give me a few
minutes.” Sweeney rushed out.

“
I assume the pistols are
loaded and primed.”

“
They are,” Hébert
said.

“
Then let us repair to the
field of honor,” Samuel said. He stood, flicked his Derringer from
its clip and laid it on the table. “After you, Valentine,” he
said.

The two men, so alike in bearing and
mien, walked out of the Lucky Break. Hébert carried the box of
dueling pistols under his arm. The Lucky Break’s patrons mumbled to
each other. People began to follow them. The crowd grew. The two
men paid no attention, nor did they converse with each other. They
merely walked up Second Street, turned left on North, and went past
the livery stable and the corrals. At least fifty people followed,
whispering, making bets, ogling Samuel and Hébert.