by A B Guthrie
“The dogs are howling again.”
“Old Mrs. Godsby, huh?”
“Good guess.”
“Invisible dogs, howls not howled. The poor, damned old soul. I’ll go by and tell her I put the run on the pack.”
He hung up and left me thinking about age and hallucinations and dogs barking from the fringes of death. He left me thinking about himself, too. Smart he wasn’t, kind he was.
An hour later Jimmy came in, smelling of pool-hall smoke. “For one goddamn dollar,” he said, “I walk six blocks and play a thousand hands, allow one or two either way. Get out from the phone, kid.”
“Big winner. What else is exciting?”
“Nothing, except I helped the tomfool start his barrel of bolts. Battery corroded, that was all. No contact.”
I asked, “What tomfool, Jimmy?”
“What do you think, we’re all nuts? You wouldn’t be so far off the mark at that. Luke McGluke, that’s who.”
“Where was he headed?”
“I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. He started down the street, prayin’ to get somewhere, I guess.”
“South?”
“Down the street is south.”
I said, “Thanks.” South was in the direction of Breedtown.
As I was about to take off, Charleston came in. “All day,” he said. “All the damn day. Fiddle and faddle, and we’ll get to you soon, Mr. Sheriff. And then the time comes and they say we have to think about the taxpayers, and they’re not very happy, not with a murderer loose and no progress to date.”
He was speaking as he moved to his inner office. I followed him. “And you know what they’d say if we solved the case quick? Sure. Why try to improve on perfection?”
He sat down in his chair and grinned and with his hand asked me to be seated. “Just spouting off, Jase,” he said. “We won out, though. Now quit your bitching. Hear me, you there?”
“Plain as day,” I answered. “Now could I ask a non-bitchy question?”
“Not unless you have to.”
“Yes, sir. Luke McGluke is out in his car, bound for Breedtown like as not.”
“Uh-huh!” he said. “But that’s not a question.”
“Here it is. Do I follow him now or later?”
He took time to think, then answered, “What could you get in daylight? What at night for that matter? Just who he sees, maybe. A piece of conversation, which is even more maybe. The odds say it’s a wild-goose chase, but when there’s nothing else to chase, what do you chase but the goose?”
There was only one answer to that, and I didn’t say it.
“Make it under cover of night,” he said.
In the month of June darkness holds off until ten o’clock and even later, so I didn’t set out for Breedtown until twilight was dying. I drove the unmarked office car.
Before I reached there, the sky had turned black. I felt enveloped in the close dark, with nothing to guide me but the twin tunnels my headlights bored. It would be easy, I thought, for a man to lose himself, to surrender himself to the blind world. Just turn out the lights and leave the car and be absorbed in the unseeing universe, breathing its breath, heart beating to its slow beat. Be a forever-night wanderer, lost and free.
Enough of tomfoolery on a tomfool’s trail.
Now what to do when I arrived? I could hardly break in on a social gathering. And if I did, what would I get? Only the knowledge that McGluke was in so-and-so’s shack, where it was his right to be, all men being equal. I could only sneak close and watch and listen, hoping for a betraying action or word.
I parked the car short of the turn-in and stumbled on in the dark. Somewhere ahead was a two-plank footbridge across the creek. A limb stung my cheek. I had blundered into a bush. I caught my toe on a stick and stooped and picked it up. It would do for a cane to poke ahead with and so make sure of my footing. I found the bridge.
The scattered glow of kerosene lamps began to help me. I counted six. Two came from the little cluster of buildings that housed Eagle Charlie and with him, I supposed, Rosa and the old squaw. One shone from the shack where Pambrun and Framboise lived. The others I couldn’t account for.
I could see now that some automobiles sagged close to the buildings, like worn-out horses. By squinting I could identify Luke McGluke’s car. It was parked some distance away, at a turn in the lane, which wasn’t a lane at all but only a trail worn by wheels. If Eagle Charlie’s machine was there, I couldn’t see it.
Of a sudden dogs began barking. I planked myself flat on the ground. I had been a fool not to think about dogs. I lay quiet, cursing under my breath, expecting them to charge out. When they didn’t, I wet a finger and tested the wind. Whatever breeze seemed to blow seemed to blow my way. Then, ignored and unnoticed before, the bark-cry of a coyote sounded from somewhere out in the hills. The dogs barked back. I wouldn’t be smelled out at least.
I went ahead, crouching, feeling ahead with my stick, though the light had grown better. I lay down at the edge of the lane, thinking to crawl closer if need be. Voices muted by walls came to my ears. I couldn’t make out any words. Ground chill and night chill began penetrating my clothes. The coyote called again, and the dogs answered. For minutes I stayed where I was, debating what next to do, wondering just where to go if I crawled closer. It was while I figured that the damn moon sailed free of clouds and shone silver and bright on all the land. Away and away I could see the sharp lift of the mountains.
A door opened, letting out the walled voices, and the figure of Luke McGluke outlined itself in the doorway. The door closed, corralling the voices, and McGluke started moving away.
I did a stupid thing then. I did two stupid things.
I came to my feet and called out, “McGluke!”
His head turned my way, his eyes shining with moonlight. He stood for one instant, then started to run. I threw down my stick and took out after him.
I could run faster in spite of his stride. Like many big men, he was awkward and slow. His feet didn’t track. To the thud of our steps the dogs began clamoring. I tackled McGluke just short of his car. We both went down. A wailing cry came out of him, like the keening of a nanny jackrabbit I once shot in the guts.
It was like fighting a rail-and-wire fence—all posts, poles and spikes and stringy line. Master one, and another tormented you. Dogs circled us, yapping. One nipped my leg.
Just as I thought I’d brought him under control, I lost my senses in one quick dazzle of light.
“He’s coming around,” a voice said.
“Take him a while,” another said. “That’s one hell of a knot on his head.”
My hand come up, not that I’d ordered it to. It felt a damp cloth and moved it off my eyes and head. My eyes saw a plank ceiling. It moved in on me and drew back.
“Easy, man,” the second voice said. “Don’t rush it.” The cloth, gently replaced, closed me off again.
The voices came clearer. There were at least three of them. One asked, “Why was he chasing McGluke?”
“Only he knows.”
“Sorry he did, I bet, when he comes to.”
“Double sorry that McGluke found that rock.”
I heard myself say, “Take it off, please.”
A careful hand lifted it. The back of the hand was haired out and the bare forearm furred, both with red. The gentle hand put the cloth aside.
“Feeling better now?” The speaker was Red Fall. I moved my head and saw Framboise and Pambrun on either side of him. I realized then I was in their shack.
“Beginning to,” I answered. I managed to sit up. All eyes had questions in them. I didn’t answer, saying instead, “Fool business. If McGluke hadn’t run—”
Framboise said, “He was scared.”
“He’s always scared,” Pambrun added.
“Poor man.” Fall shook his head sadly. I wondered if he were troubled by the thought that God had failed man in one case at least. Or played a joke on him. “We can hope he didn’t wreck that old
car of his.”
“He took off like crazy,” Pambrun said.
“We didn’t think to hold him,” Framboise told me, and again all eyes were asking questions.
“You heard us, I guess?” I said.
“Heard you and the dogs and, oh, man, that—what you call it?—that blat, that wail of his,” Framboise answered.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told them. “My car’s down the road. I’m going home.”
They doubted that I was ready, but I made for the door. Pambrun and Framboise went along with me, making sure I got to the car.
I did and drove home with an ache in my head.
Chapter Eleven
I got up early to the ring of the alarm clock I had set. My father and mother would learn soon enough that I had been hit on the head. Why agitate them at breakfast and have to argue that the life of a deputy was not really dangerous in spite of appearances?
The mirror told me that the broken bruise on my head had seeped some blood during the night. The swelling had gone down, though, in proportion, it looked like, to the spread from it of black, blue and sickly yellow. I washed the blood off, shaved, used some talcum powder, dressed and went out, being careful to close the door quietly. For comfort I had to wear my hat at a considerable angle. Jaunty wasn’t word enough for it.
A few early birds were feeding at the Commercial Cafe. Their morning gloom kept them from noticing me, blue being blue, inside or out. Jessie Lou wasn’t on shift. The fry cook, a new man and fat, asked me what I’d have. He saw my bruise but said nothing, in the manner of one accustomed to carnage. I ordered a short stack and coffee. The pancakes were light and lightened my spirits.
I whiled away a half-hour or so on the street while the town came to life. At a little before eight o’clock I entered the office.
Jimmy lifted his eyes from the telephone, saw me and said, “Jumpin’ Jesus! Hold on. I’ll find a Purple Heart. Or was it a door you ran into like everyone else?”
“Mine was different,” I answered. “It was rock.”
“What in hell happened? You ain’t fit for duty.”
“I’m fit, Jimmy, but let the rest lie for a while. I made a fool of myself and feel extra delicate.”
“Seen Doc Yak, Jase?”
“No need to. I’m curing up.”
The outer door opened, letting in Charleston. His face sobered into questions when he saw me. He didn’t speak them. He just motioned me into the inner office. The first thing he asked was not what had happened, as might be expected from another man, but “Are you all right, Jase?”
“I’m sure. Don’t go by my looks.”
We sat down, and I told him about last night, omitting nothing that I remembered. He nodded a couple of times while I talked. “A damn sorry thing,” he said, his eyes sympathetic as they re-examined the bruise. “Glad it wasn’t more serious, though. It might have killed you.” His gaze met mine. “The question is: Why did McGluke run from you? What’s he got to hide? I aim to find out.”
“I don’t know how important that is,” I said. “He spooks easy. What’s first in my mind is those red hairs on Fall’s hands and arms. You ought to have a look. They’re thick, and they’re long.”
“All in time, Jase,” he answered as if brushing the subject aside. “All in good time. Now we have to have a talk with McGluke. You didn’t happen to see him this morning?”
“He’s probably still asleep in that lean-to back of the Bar Star.”
“I’ll rout him out.” The trace of a smile came on his mouth. “I doubt you’re the proper man for it.” He moved as if to go.
“Neither are you,” I said, feeling a little stung though common sense told me he hadn’t meant to sting. “I’m sorry, but I would send Jimmy.”
“Send Jimmy?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a reason. Yesterday Jimmy helped McGluke start his old car. How many men would have done that? McGluke will remember. What’s more, Jimmy has a way about him when he wants to use it.”
“We’ll try it.” Charleston called out, “Hey, Jimmy.”
Jimmy poked his head in the door and followed it inside as he spoke. “That’s my name.”
“Jase, here, has a job for you.”
With his eyes turned to me Jimmy asked, “He the high sheriff all of a sudden?”
“Don’t bristle, Jimmy. You know I always take good advice, from you or anyone else. Jase says it’s a job only you can do. I’m with him.”
“Well, now,” Jimmy said, “if you put it that way—”
“We want to talk to Luke McGluke. Jase believes if any man can bring him in without a fight or a chase, that man’s you. What about it?”
“I can sure as hell try.” Jimmy was smiling now. “No rough stuff. Gentle is the ticket, kind of soothing, you might say.”
“Soothe him in. Jase will take any calls. Fix the jack, will you?”
We didn’t have a switchboard, though we called it a board, but three phones and a jack on Jimmy’s desk that was used to switch calls.
Jimmy left, and Charleston began fingering slips on his desk. “I wonder if I have time to go to the bank.”
For an instant he was quiet. He lifted his head and studied a bare wall, his hands still. “The bank,” he said. “Yeah, the bank. Jase, when all else fails, visit your friendly banker.”
The phone rang, and I answered it. Halvor was checking in. I had hardly hung up when it rang again. On the line was the deputy sheriff stationed at Petroleum. He wanted to talk to Charleston. They talked for quite a while, though I doubted that Charleston paid full attention. He wore an absent-minded smile during the conversation and kept tapping with a pencil. At any rate nothing urgent appeared to have come up.
We barely heard the outer door open. Not until the inner one swung could we make out words. Jimmy was saying, “Just be calm there, Luke. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I swear to that. Take my word. I’m your friend, boy.”
He entered with McGluke while still talking. “Mr. Sheriff,” he went on, “I’m here to see that nobody hurts Mr. McGluke.”
McGluke’s eyes were scared. His Adam’s apple bobbed as if to words he couldn’t say.
Charleston said, “Why, come in, Luke. Take a chair. No harm in us. Be easy.”
McGluke was letting Jimmy steer him toward a chair when he caught sight of me. A shout that was half scream came from him. His long arm reached out, and a long, shaky finger pointed at me. “No! Not him! Not him! He’s bad. He’s bad to me.”
He wheeled around to run and collided with Jimmy. For his age Jimmy was strong. His hands closed on McGluke’s arms. “Hold it, Luke. Hold it, boy. We won’t let him hurt you. If he’s bad to you, we’ll make it damn bad for him. There, now.”
Charleston added, “Whoa, Luke. We promised no one would hurt you. No one will.”
McGluke allowed Jimmy to turn him back, facing inside. In spite of the assurances he looked as terrified as a bronc under first saddle. He pointed that shaky finger at me again. “It was him. A joke, maybe, he thinks.”
Charleston swung in his chair so as to face me. His voice was loud and rough with accusation. “What’s this all about, Mr. Beard? Tell us! I want the truth. You heard Mr. McGluke.”
McGluke couldn’t wait for me to speak. His voice was still high. “No lie. He has a lightning stick. He pokes me with it. It jumps you. Oh, by God, anyone jumps.”
“Where did he poke you?” Charleston asked.
“In the ass. I shit almost.”
Charleston put a hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean that. I mean where were you?”
“In the saloon, and last night he wants to poke me again.”
Two and two came together in my mind and made a neat four. McGluke had seen me in the Bar Star, holding the cattle prod I had taken from Chuck Cleaver. And last night, when I called to him, I had in my hand a length of tree limb that I used as a cane. In the moonlight it could have been taken for an electrified goad.
“You got me wrong, Luke,�
� I said. “It’s all a mistake.”
I explained then while they listened. McGluke, if he understood, still appeared less than satisfied. His Adam’s apple kept bobbing.
“So you can see it wasn’t Mr. Beard,” Charleston said after I’d finished. “He wouldn’t torment you. Natural mistake, but he wouldn’t. Now that that’s settled, Luke, let’s see if you can help us. That’s why you’re here, to help if you can. Please tell me. You go to Breedtown pretty often. What do you do there?”
“Visit, sit, maybe eat. They treat me good. That’s all.”
“Better than you get treated in town?”
“Sure. Better. Real good.”
“I understand. Now we’re trying to find out who killed F. Y. Grimsley. You’ve heard about that.”
The phone rang, and Jimmy, in order not to interrupt, went to the outer office to answer, saying as he left, “Just call out if you need me, Luke.”
McGluke said, “He was a no-good man, that Grimsley.” He looked in the direction Jimmy had gone as if to assure himself a friend was in reach. “He was bad to me.”
“Someone was bad to him, too, bad enough to kill him. Did you get any ideas from the talk at Breedtown, any ideas about who knocked him in the head?”
“Talk is all. Nobody felt sorry. Oh, maybe Eagle Charlie a little.”
“You didn’t pick up anything that would help us? Nothing from Eagle Charlie, Rosa, Mrs. Gray Wolf, Red Fall, anybody?”
“Nobody. They’re all right. Red Fall, too.”
“What made you mention him, Luke? Why pick him out?”
“He doesn’t live there. He comes, and he goes, just like me. He talks to the old woman.”
“Through Rosa?”
“Sure. Different talk, you know.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“About Breedtown, that’s all.”
Charleston leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “If you hear anything, will you let us know? All right, and thanks, Luke. You can go now.”
After he’d gone, Jimmy came back into the room.
“One thing’s explained,” Charleston told us. “At Breedtown they treat him like a human being, maybe more so. The Indians have a special attitude, a sort of kind and hands-off attitude toward people not right in the head.”
