Murder in Dogleg City (17 page)

He pulled his .36-caliber Colt Navy
and checked to make sure he’d remembered to reload after the last
time he’d had to use it. He also needed to be certain all the
percussion caps were seated properly—they were, so he let it drop
back into the holster. He watched the lady walk out the front of
the saloon, turn right, and disappear down the
boardwalk.

He knew damned well this
job was going to be trouble. If he weren’t strapped for cash, he’d
have ignored her, or possibly tried to get her into bed. She was
one damned fine looking lady, not his usual type of overweight
whore or saloon queen. But once he came back with the bad news
about her husband–and he knew that’s what it would be, no matter
what–she’d turn her back on him because of her shame in having to
seek out a paid piece of pond scum to find the man she thought she
loved. She didn’t really, though, and he knew it. He could tell by
the look in her eyes and the way her lip curled when she said his
name. Oh, and those tears, they were phony. She wanted him back so
she could slap him down in front of everyone just one last time.
Rattlesnake’s imagination painted a picture as to what might lie in
store for Mr. Alexander Munder if he had to face his wife one more
time. The bounty hunter could already hear the explosion and smell
the cordite as the man’s blood spurted from his chest and he
crumpled to the ground. The comely Teresa Munder’s plea to the
court would go something like
He beat me
and called me monstrous names, drove me near to insanity! I had to
do it, don’t you see? It was him or me.

Rattlesnake doubted the validity of
any such claim, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t get away with it.
Courts tended to sympathize with grieving widows, whether they were
the cause of the poor man’s demise or not. Especially a pretty
widow who could conjure up a flood of tears on command.

Anyways, it was something to do. Of
course, Ira had potentially put him on the scent of a well-paying
prize in that gambler from the Lucky Break. Samuel Jones. He seemed
like a pretty competent man with a gun, even before this dueling
incident, but Jake had never really given him much thought before.
If there was a bounty for him, Jake would earn it—but he wasn’t
going to just call the man out on the off chance it could turn a
profit, no matter how bad Ira wanted him to do so. Jake had gone
over to the telegraph office as soon as they opened up, and sent
out some feelers on Jones. Any more action on that front would have
to wait till he got the information he needed.

Jake slid his beat-up,
flat-crowned, floppy-brimmed hat off the table, slapped it on his
leg—releasing a cloud of dust—pulled it low over his eyes, and went
to the door. Teresa Munder must have already ducked into one of the
stores down the street and could no longer be seen.
Good
, he thought,
I’d rather she not watch where I intend to start
my search.
He sauntered outside, looked
around, then slowly made his way around the building, down Fifth
Street to the back alleyway, then across to the rear of several
clapboard buildings. He planned to follow that route until he was
at least a block down before entering the rear of Miss Abby’s
cathouse. As he prepared to step up on the porch, he noticed a grey
gelding in the corral behind the place. He knocked first, then
entered. He was greeted by a short, petite lady who was probably
still in her twenties but had eyes much older. She was wearing too
much make up and penciled-on eyebrows. Miss Abby,
herself.

“
Well, I’ll be damned, if
it ain’t ol’ Rattlesnake Jake. Finally got enough together for a
poke?” She gave him a come-hither grin and attempted to take his
arm.

“
Got the money, Abby, but
not the inclination. Leastways not right now. I’m lookin’ for
someone.”

“
And just who would that
someone be?” She gave him a wink.

“
Alexander
Munder.”

Abby took a step back, swallowing hard
and nearly tripping on one of three overstuffed chairs that lined
the hallway, where gentlemen could wait their turn at one of her
girls. The look on her face suggested she was scared to death.
Rattlesnake knew that meant she either knew where Munder was or had
seen him recently.

“
Wh-why, er, what do you
want with him?”

“
So, you have seen
him?”

“
Maybe, maybe not. Can’t
rightly remember.”

“
Think on it, Abby, and
think real hard.” Rattlesnake let his hand drop to the butt of his
Colt.

“
You been here plenty of
times, yourself, and you know how things can get out of hand.
Sometimes two fellas are lookin’ for the favor of the same girl at
the same time. When a man is ready, he don’t show a lot of
patience. You know that.”

“
So, what happened when
Munder and some other fella had the same hankerin’?”

“
A-a big ol’ argument,
that’s what. When tempers flare, uh, weapons show up almost outta
nowhere.”

“
Was Munder
armed?”

“
I, uh, don’t think so,”
Abby said.

“
And–?”

“
And the other fella—he
was touchy as hell, he sure didn’t look like the type—he grabbed
Munder by the scruff of the neck and drug him downstairs and around
back. The fella had one of them Arkansas toothpicks like you and
Ira Breedlove carry and, maybe he took it out when they got out
yonder—maybe Mister Munder lunged for him, and, uh, he mighta stuck
hisself. I don’t know, didn’t nobody see, exactly. The damnedest
thing is, that other fella never even came back in, after he got so
worked up—it’s like he was lookin’ for an excuse to pick a
fight.”

“
Uh-huh. Was Munder alive
when you last saw him?”

“
Well, I couldn’t rightly
tell. His face was turned away from me when they hauled him outta
here. He was bleedin’ some, though.”

“
Once more, Abby, was he
alive? Don’t make me ask again.”

Abby’s head drooped and her chubby
right hand shot to her throat and quickly grasped a silver cross
that hung around her neck on a chain. “I’m thinkin’ it ain’t
likely. He was bleedin’ from a slit in his throat.”

“
Did anyone go for the
sheriff or the marshal?”

Abby’s expression was one of
incredulity.

“
Are you serious? Why a
thing like this could put me out of business. Couldn’t risk
it.”

“
What did you do with
him?”

Abby shrugged meekly. “Sometimes, when
stuff like that happens, we haul ’em down to Tent City and toss ’em
in the creek. With rocks in their pockets. You know, to protect our
business.”

“
Who did it, Abby? Who had
the pig sticker?”

She looked away and took a step
further down the hall. He reached out a grabbed her arm. She
muttered, “I-I can’t tell you.”

“
Can’t or
won’t?”

“
Don’t make no difference.
A man is dead and I can’t bring him back. No matter who killed him,
Alexander Munder ain’t of this world, no more. And now, it’s time
for you to take your leave.”

“
I’m goin’ nowhere until I
get the name of the man who killed Munder. Either give him up or
expect me to be sittin’ right here, makin’ sure no horny cowboy
makes it past me. I figure you’ll be broke in three days. The mayor
and the sheriff will still be expecting their cut of your haul each
day, and I doubt they’ll buy your story of bein’ too damned poor to
make their payoff all because of a little business
downturn.”

Abby dropped into the first chair she
came to, fanning her red face with her hand. Her eyes were glazed
over as she contemplated the threat made to her by the bounty
hunter. Rattlesnake turned the first chair around so it would face
the doorway. He plopped down, crossed his legs at the ankles, drew
his Colt and began to whistle. It was no more than a few minutes
before an anxious cowboy blew through the door hollering for Becky.
Abby’s eyes shot open and her mouth fell open as she heard
Rattlesnake’s words.

“
Sorry, cowboy, Abby’s
whorehouse is closed for business,” Jake said. “Try one of the
cribs in back of Asa’s Saloon. They’re a little raunchy, but what
the hell. When a man just has to have a little—”

“
Some new fella, calls
hisself Malchius Offerman! He’s a whiskey drummer, he just took
over Lester Weatherby’s route,” Abby blurted out as she leaped up
from her chair. “Now go, Rattlesnake, so’s I can show this fine
young man to Becky’s room.”

Rattlesnake tipped his hat to Abby
with a wry grin. “Thank you, ma’am. Most generous.”

He grunted to himself as he walked
away. Damn peculiar behavior for a whiskey peddler.

* * *

The bounty hunter calmly strolled out
the front door this time and turned down Grant Street to return to
the Wolf’s Den. He was in serious need of a whiskey, or maybe two,
and a place to sit. And think. And plan. The task before him
presented a considerable risk. The town seemed to be bleeding a lot
of late.

He’d no sooner taken up his same old
chair at the same old table, the one which everybody in town knew
was his and his alone, when Deputy Quint Croy peeked in and
entered, crossing quickly to where Jake sat staring at the mound of
cards in front of him.

“
Jake, the marshal wants
to see you. ‘You find that scoundrel and fetch him here and right
now!’ he says to me. So, get your ass outta that chair and come
along.”

Jake looked at the deputy with a
‘go-to-hell’ expression, beginning to reorganize his stack of
pasteboards.

“
Why couldn’t he come
hisself?”

“
Because he’s the marshal,
that’s why, and he don’t chase down suspected killers on his own.
He sends out his tougher-than-hell deputy, me. So, let’s get
goin’.”

Jake smiled coldly at the deputy. “You
sound a lot tougher’n you look, boy.”

“
Try me and see,” Quint
replied, and the bounty hunter shrugged.

“
What’s all this shit
about me bein’ a ‘suspected killer’? Who the hell am I supposed to
have killed?”

“
Reckon you’ll find out
soon enough, tough guy. Now get the hell up.” Croy let his hand
drop to his holstered revolver.

Jake made no move toward his own.
Instead, he let out a groan as he struggled to his feet, faking a
drunken attempt to regain his balance. In an instant, however, the
deputy was staring down the barrel of Jake’s Navy Colt and into the
narrowed eyes of a man with little patience.

“
Now hold on, Jake.
I—”

“
Yeah, I know, you’re just
doin’ what the marshal sent you to do. And he probably told you
that young lawmen need to be especially tough with low types like
me. You tell the marshal I’ll drop by as soon as I tend to a little
business—and it’ll be in my own good time. But I’ll tell you this,
and I’ll say it only once, if you ever talk to me like that again,
I’ll blow your damned head clean off. Now get the hell out of
here.”

Croy backed slowly up, making certain
to keep his hands far away from his hogleg. Perspiration slowly
trickled down his cheeks and he swallowed hard as he stared into
the steely eyes of a man he knew was capable of carrying out his
threat. He had nearly lost his balance a couple of times bumping
into chairs on his way to the door, and a look of relief came over
him when he could feel the batwings behind him. He spun around and
made a beeline for the boardwalk, his cheeks red with
embarrassment. He was still retreating when Jake leaned out with a
satisfied grin.

The bartender came up and said, “What
the hell was all that about?”

“
Don’t know. But I figure
on finding out.” With that, Rattlesnake Jake left the
saloon.

* * *

Jake was wondering if his conversation
with Abby had already gotten back to the marshal, and an assumption
had been made that he was somehow involved in Munder’s death. He
was headed to the marshal’s office, for sure, mainly because he
didn’t intend on getting a visit from more than one deputy. Marshal
Gardner liked having several deputies hanging around, both so he
could spend most of his time in saloons or with his feet up on his
desk. But before Jake got there, he had a couple places he wanted
to stop, first. One of those places was the saloon where this
Offerman was rumored to hang out. And while he wouldn’t recognize
the man if he was sitting right next to him, he figured he knew
someone who could point him in the right direction: Mayor Dab
Henry. Dab’s saloon, The Lucky Break, was the starting point for
almost anyone looking for information. It was a place that never
lacked for loose talk. And loose women. And men with bad
attitudes.

Jake stood outside for a brief moment
before entering, peering through the front window to get a lay of
the land. Always cautious where guns and liquor were the most
prevalent commodities, he hadn’t lived as long as he had without
being careful. Seeing nothing suspicious, he eased through the
front door and went straight for the bar.

“
Dab here?” he asked Rob
Parker, the burly bartender.

“
Was, until a few minutes
ago.”

“
So, he left?”