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Authors: Loren D. Estleman

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BOOK: The Murdock's Law
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Alone in the greater part of the house, I eventually wandered upstairs and saw light leaking out of a door standing open in a narrow hallway. Voices were raised in argument inside. I peered in and saw Dick Mather, in flannel trousers and gray underwear top, seated on the edge of a rumpled bed struggling into calf-high boots. A solid woman in a rust-colored dress took hold of his arms to stop him, but he shook her off. His face matched the dingy, many-times-washed color of his underwear and his eyes looked swollen. He was coughing, the sound hollow and bubbling in his throat.
“Let Abel handle it,” the woman pleaded. “That's what you pay him for.”
“I pay him to run cattle.” His words came in short bursts between wheezes as he tugged at the second boot. “I fought Indians for this land, or don't you
remember? I'm damn well not going to give it up to a Michigan cherry picker like Bob Terwilliger.”
“I remember,” she said coldly. “That boy the Blackfeet killed was my son too.”
He paused, then yanked the boot on the rest of the way and stomped his heel. “Anyway, I'm experienced at this kind of thing. Turk isn't.”
“Isn't he?”
The woman started and whirled to face me, one fist flying to her mouth. Mather glanced up quickly. His lank red hair flopped into his eyes. He jerked it back with a toss of his head and dived for something under a pillow.
“I wouldn't,” I said, without moving.
It made him hesitate. Arm still outstretched he said, “Just how fast are you?”
I snorted. “That again. When I came out here, fast meant women and horses. Thanks to the writers back East it's become a contest to see who can get his gun out first. I've lost that contest six or seven times. They're dead. I'm not.”
It was a hell of a speech, but I'll never know if it would have worked, because he resumed coughing suddenly. He doubled over and clawed a handkerchief from his hip pocket. Meanwhile his wife leaned over the bed and plucked his derringer from under the pillow. Holding it firmly by the butt, she tugged open the top drawer of the bedside table, dropped it in and pushed the drawer shut. Her amber eyes glared at me from a strong face.
“Now you can kill us.”
I looked from her to Mather, who had passed the
peak of his fit and was dry-hacking into the handkerchief, his sunken chest heaving.
“Why is it you skinny guys get all the best women?”
He mopped the corners of his mouth, sat for a moment breathing heavily with his hands dangling between his knees, then returned the handkerchief to his pocket after studying it for fresh spots. “What the hell do you want?” His voice was a raspy whisper.
“Answers to a few questions. Was Turk here all day today?”
“He was out supervising the spring roundup. Why?”
“Someone decorated a tree with Pardee's brother on land belonging to the Circle T. Pardee thinks it was your men did it.”
He had gotten up to take his shirt from the back of a chair. In the middle of drawing it on, he paused. “Pardee was here tonight?” Red fever-patches appeared on his cheeks.
“He's in jail, where I put him after his brother was brought into Fitch's undertaking parlor. What about the night Dale was mock-lynched by men wearing pillowcases? Or the other times night riders hit Terwilliger's spread? Was Turk around those times?”
Mather fastened the buttons. “He may be a lot of things, but he wouldn't do his killing from behind a mask. If I thought he was that kind, I'd shoot him where he stood.”
“That's the trouble. Men like you using the law
when it suits their convenience and throwing it away when it doesn't are what makes men like Turk possible.”
He said, “Get the hell out of here before I call him back.”
“It's your house.” I grasped the knob. “As someone you're throwing out I'm tempted not to give you the warning, but as peace officer for the time being I'm obliged to remind you that snakes don't always come when you call them, and when they do, they don't always bite who you want.”
He seemed about to say something in response when the screaming began downstairs.
“What in sweet Jesus—!” He clawed open the drawer containing the derringer. His wife held onto his arm.
“Snakebite,” I said and went out. The noise grew louder and more shrill as I descended the stairs, and soon I could make out the shouted obscenities. They were cut off with a gurgle. Someone had gagged Jim to keep him from distracting Tom Petit. But then I could hear the sawing. I barely reached the front porch in time to retch outside.
 
The ride back to town was quiet. Cross had trouble hanging on to the reins by which he was leading Earl's horse, but our offers of assistance were met with growls. The animal, white-eyed, its hackles standing, kept trying to bite through the ropes lashing the bundled corpse to its back and hurl it off. In front of Fitch's we dismounted to help Cross with the body. He struck away our hands, then
gathered it in his arms and carried it through the front door like a father bringing his oversize exhausted son home from a picnic. We stood in the street watching as the little undertaker hastened to close the door and attend to his latest customer.
“Is Randy the kind to hold a grudge?” I asked Yardlinger.
“I don't know what kind he is. He doesn't talk much about himself or anything else for that matter. I don't even know where he came from originally or if Cross is his real name. But then I don't know that about half the fine citizens of Breen.”
“Well, keep an eye on him. Let's get these horses rubbed down and square things with the livery over that one the Major borrowed. Then we'll get a drink.”
“First right thing you said all night,” Brody put in. Yardlinger hung back.
“What about Turk? I thought we were going to secure fresh mounts and head out to the Circle T.”
“Why?” I asked. “Terwilliger's men dealt this hand.”
He yanked his horse along to catch up. The piebald grunted and dug in its heels, but it was too lathered up from the hard ride to offer much resistance. “You're a peace officer! It's your job to keep the peace.”
“That's only true when there's peace to keep.”
Pardee was asleep in his cell when we stopped in to lock up the rifles, with one beefy arm flung across his eyes and the other flopping off the cot onto the floor. Nature carries antidotes for its own poison.
The colored livery operator gave us hell about the Major's confiscated mount, but I shut him up by giving him twice what it was worth for the time it was out and wrote out a duplicate receipt for the regular amount so his boss wouldn't know that the help was holding out on him. Yardlinger lagged behind as we approached the Glory.
“I'm not thirsty. Besides, someone's got to watch Pardee to see he doesn't hang himself.”
I slid a hand under his arm. “He's too mad for that. If you don't want to drink with me, you don't have to. But I want to talk.”
He looked at me with murky eyes. “I don't suppose I'll like what you have to say.”
“I don't suppose so. But why start now?”
Alf, the flat-featured bartender from whom I'd taken the Schofield revolver the night before, was measuring whiskey into an ounce glass for a customer when we entered. He blanched when he saw us.
“Not again!”
I smiled and took his chin in one hand, turning his face toward the light. The mark I'd put on his cheek had turned purple and his right eye was a glistening crescent between puffed lids. “That's coming along nice. How's the gun?”
“Stinking.” He pulled back out of my reach. “The action's all gummed up with sand and soap. I gave it to Thorson to clean. Meantime all I got's a busted pool cue for protection.”
“Get a shotgun. I'll have some from that bottle. Major?”
“Hell, I'll have the bottle.”
The saloon was filling with cattle types and girls in balding feathers and tarnished spangles, probably from Martha's. A sad-faced dandy with a burning cigarette parked behind one ear was dragging “The Ballad of Jesse James” out of the upright piano next to the stairs. Beyond him, an arch led into a smaller room in which Colleen Bower sat dealing blackjack to a gaunt redhead with tired-amused eyes, trail stubble on his chin, and a worn slouch hat on the back of his head.
“That's new.” I jerked my thumb back over my shoulder as Alf pushed my drink toward me. He shrugged.
“She said she needed the money and I said all right, so long as she uses the side room. I got the Ladies' Temperance League on my back enough as it is. Anyway, she gives the place some class.”
“How much she kicking back to you?”
“House gets half.”
“That isn't what I asked, Alf.”
He glared at me, all wounded pride. I smiled again and flipped a coin onto the bar for the drink. It rolled, then wobbled over and buzzed to a rest.
“I'm not thinking of asking for a cut,” I assured him. “I'm just curious about the going rate here.”
“Two thirds,” he mumbled and mopped industriously with his rag at the bar. The top was spotless to begin with.
I laughed. “You must have a thing for petticoats. In Helena they'd let her keep a dime out of every dollar. Maybe.”
“This ain't Helena.”
“Alf,” I sighed, “I'm reminded of that every day.”
“What did you want to talk about?” Having ordered a drink after all, Yardlinger leaned on one elbow so that he could view the entire room without turning. I was leaning on the opposite elbow facing him. Drinking is uncomfortable for lawmen, but not so much they give it up in droves. Major Brody placed his trust in the advertising mirror in front of him and lapped at his whiskey with both elbows on the bar.
I recounted my conversation with Dick Mather, including my convictions about Abel Turk. While I was speaking, the saddle tramp who had been playing with Colleen unfolded his long frame from the chair with a weary smile and a shake of his head and went out past us, trailing the mingled odors of horse and dust. He wore unmatched six-guns high on his narrow hips.
“You think Turk's a gunman?” Yardlinger signaled to the bartender, who poured him a second shot.
“He feels like one.”
We nursed our drinks for a while in silence. Suddenly the Major snickered. “This is getting downright interesting. Chris Shedwell coming, and a hot gun here already. Yes, sir, I'm sticking around for this one.”
“If Shedwell's coming,” said Yardlinger.
I said, “He's not coming. He's here.”
They looked at me. I drained my glass.
“That long drink of water who walked past us a minute ago?” I prompted.
Both deputies shifted their gaze to the front door, empty now.
“Well, well,” pronounced the Major, raising his glass to his lips. “Well, well.”
“Why'd you let him go?” Yardlinger's tone was accusing.
“Two reasons,” I said. “First, he'll be in town for a while and we'll have plenty of other chances. Breen isn't a place you stop at on your way somewhere else. Second—”
“—You're afraid he'll kill you.”
There it was, out in the open. He'd left his slouch and was standing facing me, the cloudiness gone from his eyes. I met his gaze, then caught Alf's attention and made a circular motion with my finger around the inside of my glass. He came forward to refill it.
“Not afraid. I know he'll kill me. He's dropped nine men that we know of, most of them looking at him. He's better than I am. Besides, whether you've noticed it or not, I'm not the most popular figure in
this town after last night. I've heard of three men holding off a roomful of angry citizens, but the reason I've heard of it is it doesn't happen often. The next time I see Shedwell I want him alone with his back to me and a shotgun in my hands.”
“Heroic.”
“What do you want, a shoot-out in the street?” I was facing him again. “I call him out with my gun in its holster and my hands at my sides? Lead flying every which way, stopping who knows where? Who told you we're supposed to be heroes?”
The piano player came to the end of his tune while I was still talking. My voice rang out across the room. Every eye in the place was on us. I tossed a silver dollar to the sad-looking musician, who caught it in one hand. “‘Buffalo Gals.'”
As the music started up again, Yardlinger said: “What you're suggesting would bring you down to Shedwell's level.”
“Since when was I ever above him?” I countered. “It's a game without rules and death is the only penalty. Ask the Major. How many men have you killed, Major?”
He swallowed his third drink. “Counting the war?”
“Let's say after, just to keep things manageable.”
Thoughtfully he dragged his coat sleeve across his mouth. “Thirteen or fourteen. I can't be sure that redleg I gutshot in Richmond ever come around to dying. I left in kind of a hurry.”
“Any of them facing you at the time?”
“Three, but two of them was unarmed and I surprised t'other. He's the one I gutshot.”
“How old are you?”
“Hell, I don't know,” he replied. “I never knew who my pa was, and my ma died when I was little. I raised myself. Hard on sixty, I reckon.”
“You made your point.” Yardlinger tossed off what was in his glass and paid for it. “I just don't happen to agree with it.”
“No law against that,” I said. “Just stay out of my way.”
I sent him to look after our prisoner and told the Major to get some sleep. When they'd gone, I settled up with the bartender and went into the side room where Colleen Bower was playing solitaire. She had on something silver-gray with a scooping neckline that showed the line between her breasts, and her auburn hair was arranged in a pompadour with curls like sausages hanging behind her left ear. The bruise on her jaw was fading.
Three stacks of chips stood on the table next to her left elbow. At her right elbow was the handbag, open and leaning to one side from a heavy weight within.
I took the chair Shedwell had vacated and sat looking at her. She played a card, went through the deck without success, then cleared away the layout. She didn't look up.
“You sit, you play,” she said. “That's Rule Number One.”
I got out the roll of bills. She shook her head.
“Rule Number Two: no cash on the table. Alf will take care of you.”
I went into the main room and bought twenty dollars in chips from the bartender. Back in my seat
I stacked them according to denomination and watched her shuffle the deck. I anted and she dealt us each two cards, one down, one up. I peeled up a corner of the down card, nodded. She dealt another.
“Eighteen.” I turned over the five-spot.
“Twenty.” She showed me a ten of hearts to go with the ten of clubs on her side and scooped up my chip along with the cards, depositing it atop one of her stacks. The cards went into deadwood, then I anted again and she dealt two more apiece. I peeped at the hole card.
“Do you know who you were playing with just now? Stand.”
She took a third card, the ace of diamonds. “I know. I met him in the Cherokee Strip and again in Fort Smith. Call.”
I turned up the ace of clubs. “Twenty.”
“Twenty-one.” She gave me a look at the four of spades and the six of diamonds and raked in the cards. Her pile grew. I anted again. She dealt.
“He say anything? Hit me.”
“He said hello and that my luck had improved since Fort Smith.” A card flew to each side of the table.
“I'm over.” I pushed the cards away from me. They disappeared, accompanied by another chip. I lost the next two hands and said, “Let's raise the ante to five.”
She shrugged and replaced the dollar chip she had in the center of the table with a five-dollar piece to match mine. I accepted two cards.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“You standing?”
I nodded.
“Call,” she said.
“Seventeen.”
“Nineteen.” She turned her hole card. “Anything else such as what?” She claimed the dead cards and her booty, dealt again when I fed the pot.
“Such as, ‘Your hair looks nice done like that. By the way, the Marquis de Périgueux hired me to kill Bob Terwilliger.' Or vice versa.”
I lost that hand and had started to play another before she spoke again. “What he does when he's not sitting in that chair is no business of mine. Stand?”
I ignored the question, looking at her. “Withholding information from a peace officer is a misdemeanor. If he kills someone and you know about it, you'd be guilty of accessory before the fact.”
Her eyes met mine. The gold flecks glittered hard as metal filings. They changed suddenly, but I was too busy playing the steel-jawed lawman to read the change. A cold snout nuzzled the nape of my neck.
“You first,” said a familiar voice behind me. “Then Turk.”
Both my hands were on the table. The Deane-Adams was grasped by a third and slid from its holster.
“You better move, lady. His head may not stop this bullet.”
“My handbag—” she began.
“Grab it and go!” The shout stopped the piano in the main room.
She reached out as if to snatch up the bag. Her hand disappeared inside.
A bee buzzed just below my right ear and stopped with a hollow thump, simultaneous with the hoarse roar. The answering shot was so loud I didn't hear it or anything that came immediately after; it was a sudden, shocking silence that swallowed up lesser noises in a gulp. Something hot scorched the side of my head. By that time I was already in motion.
I had launched my chair over the instant her hand went into the bag. To this day I don't remember if I caught my gun as Pardee dropped it or if I scooped it up after it landed. But it was in my hand as I rolled, and with my back up against one of the table legs I felt the gun pulse and saw a black hole with a purple rim open where the foreman's left eye had been. It would have been a chest shot except that he was already sinking when it struck, his back sliding down the wall and leaving a bloody slick from the spot where Colleen's bullet had pierced the plaster after passing through his heart. His shot had been pure reflex.
He was slumped in a sitting position at the base of the wall when I scrambled to my feet, his mouth and remaining eye open and Oren Yardlinger's Navy Colt lying loose in his right hand on the floor. The room was thick with smoke. I turned to Colleen.
“Any wounds?”
“Not me.” Still seated, she waved a quaking hand in the direction of the shattered plaster behind her. “I can't say the same for my handbag.” She showed me the barrel of her Smith & Wesson, still smoking, protruding through a smoldering hole in the material.
Yardlinger pushed his way through the crowd
gathered around the arch. He wasn't wearing his hat and his hair was in his eyes. He gaped at the corpse.
“I thought he was still asleep,” he stammered. “I turned my back and he jumped me and brained me with the chamber pot. I guess he'd flattened it to get it between the bars. I woke up with my keys and my gun gone.”
“Get him out of here.”
He commandeered Alf and a customer and the three of them lifted the dead weight from the floor. The crowd made a path for them. Byron C. Fitch was having a big day.
Before the path could close I seized Colleen by the arm, snatched her wrap from the back of her chair, and pulled her toward the door. “Pardee has friends,” I whispered, “and gunsmoke is contagious. Let's talk in my room.”
She didn't resist. The clerk at the Freestone, a seedy ex-gambler in a cravat and dusty tailcoat, hardly glanced up from the desk as we passed him and continued up the stairs. I closed the door behind us and locked it.
“Every time we meet you sail a bullet past my ear.” I could hardly hear myself for the whining in my skull. “Why'd you take the chance?”
She shrugged, exposing the soft valley in the U of her bodice when her wrap slipped from her shoulders. Her composure had returned. I wondered who had really killed those two half-breeds down in Yankton. “I had nothing to lose,” she said. “The odds are always with the dealer.” She set aside what was left of her handbag. “Is it true what you said before?”
I stared. She looked away, pretending interest in the room's furnishings.
“My hair. Do you really think it looks nice like this, or were you just being clever as usual?”
When I didn't answer she tried to outstare me, then drew the wrap tight and started past. I blocked her with my arm.
“Twenty-one.” I drew her to me.
BOOK: The Murdock's Law
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