The Last Days of Wolf Garnett (10 page)

Olsen looked at the package but did not touch it. Gault went on. "I'm not such a fool that I didn't realize it would be a dangerous proposition, me comin' back to New Boston with a dead posseman across his saddle. Common sense told me to roll him in a gully and pile rocks on top of him and put him out of my mind. That package he was carryin' made the difference. It's the reason I brought him back."

Olsen touched the parcel as he might have touched the clothing of a cholera patient. With thumb and forefinger he unfolded the flannel envelope. For some time he sat gazing at the gold watch and the string of milky pearls. His attention returned to the watch and he sat gazing bleakly at the curious inscription on the face cover.

At last the sheriff opened the buckskin pouch and emptied the contents on the table. He nudged the earrings with their glittering little diamonds over toward the pearls. The gold coins he counted and stacked neatly beside the greenbacks. When he had thoroughly memorized every detail of every article, he picked up the watch and studied it some more. "Is this all?"

"Except for this." Gault showed him the small band of gold. "I didn't think you'd mind if I kept it. It belonged to my wife."

The sheriff's mouth came open, but for the moment he did not speak. He slowly digested the meaning of the ring as a silent wall of hostility built up between them.

Doc Doolie appeared in the doorway, and the sheriff asked, "Did you look at Colly?"

"I looked at him. Been dead about a day, best I could tell. Skull busted in—looks like a horse kicked him." The little doc came into the room, took a kitchen chair and sat at the end of the sheriff's table. Gault stared at him so steadily and so hard that Doolie began to frown.

For a moment Gault had been startled to see the doc standing there. A small, slightly stooped figure. There was a shadow of such a figure still lodged in a back chamber of his mind. For the best part of three days he had been wondering about the man who had come to the Garnett farm with the sheriff on the night of the storm. That man had been Dr. Marvin Doolie.

The doc was beginning to be irritated by Gault's unblinking staring. "If you got somethin' in your craw, mister," he snapped, "spit it out."

"I was wonderin'," Gault said bluntly, "what you and the sheriff was doin' at the Garnett place in the middle of the night." Gault had to count back in his mind. How long had it been? "Three nights ago."

Doolie came stiffly erect and glanced at Olsen. But the sheriff folded his hands placidly and said, "Mr. Gault has got a suspicious mind, Doc. And I guess we can't blame him too much. For nearly a year he's been runnin' in hard luck, and then, to set things off, he went and got hisself shot by Shorty Pike. Accident, of course."

Doolie nodded. "Shorty told us about that. Misunderstandin' about some Garnett cows, wasn't it? Hard luck—but that's the kind of thing that happens when you stray on the other fellow's range."

"Maybe," Gault said dryly. "Whatever the reason, I did get myself shot. Now I'm wonderin' why you didn't bother to come and have a look at me, long as you was on the place anyway. You
are
a doc, ain't you?"

Doolie flushed pink and glanced at the sheriff for guidance. "And a first-class doc at that," Olsen said blandly. If you'd needed lookin' at, he would of looked at you. But Miss Esther said you was doin' fine and there wasn't no use botherin' you."

Gault smiled at them. "I see. But you still haven't said what you were doin' on the prairie in the middle of the night, in a thunderstorm."

Doolie smiled as though the effort pained him. "Maybe that's because it's none of your business, Mr. Gault. However…" He glanced at the sheriff, and Olsen nodded ever so slightly. "However, I don't mind tellin' you. A hand over at Circle-R headquarters got hisself busted up when a horse fell on him, and I was tendin' him. On the way back to town there was the thunderstorm, so we stopped by the Garnett place to dry out."

Gault looked at them. The little doc had, more or less, explained his own movements. Sheriff Grady Olsen, apparently, did not feel obligated to explain his movements to anyone. In a tone that was bland to the point of indifference, the lawman asked, "Doc, what do you make out of this?"

Doolie leaned forward and stared at the articles on the table. He picked up the gold watch and inspected it minutely. After a long silence he turned his attention to the pearls. "One of the passengers on the Fort Belknap stage that was held up—didn't she report losin' a string of beads like this?"

The sheriff's head dropped in a heavy nod. "I figgered the same thing when I seen it. I'll get a letter off to that express agent. What was his name?"

"Sewell," Gault said without thinking. "Wirt Sewell."

Something happened behind the sheriff's eyes. "I didn't know you and Sewell was acquainted."

Now it was Gault's turn to act mysterious, and he took a grim pleasure in watching the lines of concern form around Olsen's eyes. "We met," he said shortly. He leaned forward and suddenly his voice came out harsh and angry. "You've worn a badge a long time, Sheriff. Long enough to know what this means." He pointed to the articles on the table. "These things tie Colly Fay to a stage robbery. And Shorty Pike ties to Colly, and both of them tie to your deputy who put them on his payroll. In one way or another, that connects the sheriff's office with Wolf Garnett… and the death of my wife."

Olsen made a rumbling sound in his throat. He kicked back his chair and stood up. "I know how you feel about your wife, but that don't give you any right to lay the blame on this office. I'm warnin' you, don't dip your horns in my business."

Gault pushed his own chair back and stood up. "This makes it my business," he said, showing the small gold ring. When he got to the doorway he turned for a moment and asked, "How about that .45 of mine?"

"I'll ask my deputy where he put it. When I see him."

Gault entered the Day and Night Bar with his Winchester cradled in the crook of his right arm. He paid for a schooner of sour beer and said, "I want to talk to Harry Wompler."

The barkeep, a fat, sleepy-eyed ex-muleskinner, looked him over carefully. Gault had learned early that Wompler was not an easy man to locate. For more than an hour he had been passed from saloon to saloon, and now he was at the end of the line, in the dirt-floored Day and Night.

"Take a beer for yourself," Gault said blandly. "And draw one for Harry." He put some silver on the bar.

"You a pal of Harry's?"

"Not a pal, exactly. But we may have the same enemies."

The barkeep grinned and drew himself a beer. It was clear that any enemy of Olsen's was a friend of the barkeep's. "There's Harry Wompler, over in the corner, but don't be surprised if he won't talk to you. Harry ain't been none too sociable since he lost his deputy's badge. Put great store in that nickel-plated star, Harry did, before Grady Olsen took it away from him."

The former deputy sheriff of Standard County lay facedown across the table, his head on his arms, snoring lustily. Gault put a beer on the table and pulled up a chair. "I want to talk to you, Wompler."

Harry snorted and grunted and went on with his snoring.

"About Grady Olsen." Gault shook him gently. Wompler's head dangled lifelessly on his scrawny neck. He snored on.

"And Wolf Garnett."

Harry didn't budge. Gault shoved the full schooner toward him and said, "I brought you a beer."

A muscle alongside the former deputy's neck began to twitch. He lifted his head and stared blearily at Gault. He pulled the beer to him, with all the tenderness of a new mother holding her first child, and he fumbled it to his mouth and drank steadily until the heavy glass mug was empty.

"Who are you?"

"Frank Gault. An old line rider called Yorty told me to look you up when I got to New Boston. I'm tryin' to find out about Wolf Garnett."

"Find out what?"

Gault couldn't bring himself to talk about Martha in a place like the Day and Night. "It's personal." Then, because Wompler seemed to be drifting back to sleep, he asked, "Can I buy you another beer?"

Harry nodded heavily, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on the back of his neck. "Make it whiskey."

The barkeep knew his customers well. He had already set two glasses and a full bottle on the table. The former deputy forced himself erect, sloshed some whiskey into a glass and downed it. "Nothin' to tell," he said haltingly, like a crippled man learning to walk. "About Wolf Garnett. He's dead."

"About the sheriff then?"

Wompler stared at him for a full minute without making a sound. He was a youngish man, still in his twenties. Once he might have been considered handsome, but a steady diet of the Day and Night's raw corn whiskey had taken care of that. His lower lip protruded curiously, giving him a pouting look. His face bristled with a week's growth of beard, but it was round and strangely youthful. He looked, Gault thought, to himself, like a sixty-year-old baby with pouchy eyes. "Why," he asked, "do you want to know about the sheriff?"

"I think he's mixed up somehow with the Wolf Garnett bunch. What's left of the bunch, anyway."

Wompler stared at him, blinking his watery eyes. Suddenly he began laughing. The sound was eerily hollow coming out of that bearded baby face.

Gault's own voice turned cold. "I didn't know I'd said somethin' funny."

"You did, though. I didn't think there was a man in Standard County—or Texas, for that matter—that didn't know about Grady Olsen and the Garnetts." He poured himself another drink and Gault noticed that his hands were steadier now.

"Tell me about them."

"Simplest thing in the world. For four years Olsen's been makin' moon eyes at Esther Garnett. Him old enough to be her pa. And then some."

Gault stared at the derelict in amazement. Since the night of the thunderstorm he had often tried to explain the sheriff's odd behavior—but this possibility had not occurred to him. "Olsen's in love with Miss Garnett?"

"Like a moon-eyed calf." Harry helped himself to another drink. "It's the reason he fired me."

The story was taking some unexpected turns. Grinning loosely, Wompler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Me and Esther—I guess ever'body in the county knowed she took a shine to me. That's why he had to get me out of the way. Took away my badge." The old baby face turned ugly. "I guess that ain't the way you heard it, though."

"I heard that Olsen let you go for bein' too thick with a gang of rustlers."

Wompler's eyes were losing their focus. "Believe anything you please. It's all the same to me."

Gault sat for a moment digesting what he had heard. "Do you know a stock detective named Del Torgason?"

"Torgason?" Wompler's tongue was beginning to thicken. "Torgason and me are the only ones in Standard County that'll talk back to Olsen."

"Why would Torgason want to make an enemy of the sheriff?"

"It ain't that he wants to. He just don't give a damn. The big men in this part of Texas are the cowmen, and they're the ones that pay his salary. Not even Olsen would go out of his way to rile a cowman."

"I was beginning to get the feelin' that everybody in the county kowtowed to Olsen. The cowmen don't?"

"Cowmen," the former lawman smiled slackly, "don't kowtow to anybody."

"Where can I find Torgason?"

Wompler sensed that the period of free liquor was about to end. Quickly, he sloshed himself another drink. "In the Association office, if he's in town. At the far end of the street, over the bath house."

The bath house occupied a space in the broad back alley behind the New Boston Gentlemen's Barber Shop. The county office of the cattlemen's association was a boxlike structure atop the bath house, sitting alongside a metal hot water tank. It was reached by an outside stairway, as were most second story establishments in New Boston.

Gault climbed the stairs and stepped through the open doorway. There was a rolltop desk, a battered oak chair. On the plank wall there was a large calendar for the year 1882, an advertisement for Dr. J. J. Simpson's Electric Bitters. Beside the calendar, dangling from a length of bit chain, was a North Texas Stock Raisers' Brand Book. There was no sign of stock detective Del Torgason.

A handyman from the bath house came up the stairway with an armload of cowchips and dumped them into the firebox beneath the hot water tank. Gault stepped out to the landing and asked, "Can you tell me where to find Torgason?"

The handyman looked him over. "Who's askin'?"

"My name's Frank Gault."

That was all the handyman needed to know. "Nope," he said shortly, and stumped back down the stairs. It was clear that the sheriff had not been pleased by Gault's return to New Boston, and it hadn't taken long for the word to get around. Gault picked up the buckskin and moved on to the wagon yard.

The hostler, Abe Tricer, was waiting for him with a vindictive grin. "Sorry, Gault, I just rented out the last of my camp shacks."

The shacks stood against the livery barn with their doors wide open and obviously vacant. "How about I throw my bed in the loft."

"Town passed an ordinance against that."

"Ordinance?"

"Drifters sleepin' in the loft like to burn the place down."

Gault knew it would be useless to argue the matter. "Do you think you could feed and water the buckskin?"

The hostler shrugged. "Price of oats has gone up since the last time you was through here."

"Somehow," Gault told him, "I figgered it would." He stripped the buckskin and put the animal in a stall. Then he returned to the Day and Night.

Wompler was at the same table, staring into space. Only after Gault set a full bottle in front of him did he begin to look alive. "Torgason ain't in his office," Gault said. "I tried askin' some New Boston citizens about him, but it didn't get me anywhere."

Wompler downed a drink and chuckled. "They know the sheriff wouldn't like it. And what Sheriff Olsen don't like we don't get much of here in Standard County."

"You know where I might find Torgason?"