Killing Time

by Paul Lederer

  FIVE

  It was a wide circle to skirt the Rafter T, but Fog didn’t seem to mind, and Tom was starting to believe that he had learned a lesson about letting himself be drawn into affairs he did not completely understand. He had time to think about it on the long trail.

  He and Art Royal had had a long conversation about the funny business taking place in the long valley, and Tom could not believe that Art had anything to do with it. He was missing many calves, he told Tom, ‘And you almost have to think it couldn’t be someone from outside the valley. Why would they come all the way up here to rustle a few dogies, then just disappear like they have? We haven’t been able to track the calves any farther than the fence line. I’m sorry, Tom, but it seems as if someone from the Rafter T has to be involved in this.’

  Which lent support to the tales Jeff Stottlemeyer had heard.

  What then? Ride back to the Rafter T and accuse Ray Fox of stealing cattle in front of Aurora, who believed that her foreman could do no wrong? What would that profit Tom himself? Nothing, except to lower Aurora’s estimation of him. Besides, Tom knew he was in no shape for a fight, which would likely be Fox’s reaction to any such accusation – the truth of which Tom had no proof at all. He could also accuse the foreman of actually being the robber Vance Wynn, demand that he remove his shirt to prove that he had a spider-shaped scar there. And if he did not? Tom felt boxed into a corner where the only result could be his humiliation and loss of favor in Aurora’s eyes.

  Brooding, Tom Dyce rode the long trail up Split Mountain and angled his horse toward the flats below. Like it or not, he was going to have to pay another visit to the doctor, if one, or someone resembling one could be found in Flapjack. The last one Tom could remember was a young physician with wild straw-colored hair named Coughlin. He had lasted almost a month in Flapjack. Wade Block had done as well as he could on Tom’s shoulder wound, swabbing it with carbolic and stitching it up roughly, but Wade was no doctor. Tom thought that there might even be a fragment of lead remaining in the wound. Whatever the reason, his shoulder was swollen, inflamed and aching. It obviously needed some attention.

  Fog dragged his hoofs along the empty main street of Flapjack as the sun began its lazy tilt toward the west. It was hot, dry. Tom made for Carrie’s Kitchen, in search of food and liquid. The first person he saw on alighting from Fog was Jeff Stottlemeyer, who was emerging from the restaurant. Jeff wore new jeans and a new green shirt, though his old straw hat was in place. He smiled at Tom, noticing his ripped shirt and pallid face.

  ‘Well, well, old friend,’ Jeff said approaching with his hand out. ‘It looks like you’ve done some hard riding since I last saw you.’

  Tom took his hand warmly. ‘You could say that – I got myself winged putting my nose into other people’s business.’

  ‘That’s always a bad idea,’ Jeff agreed. He was squinting away the sunlight which touched his eyes despite the low-tugged hat he wore. ‘The woman’s trouble was it? That Miss Aurora you talk about?’

  ‘That’s it, Jeff. I thought I was going to ride in and solve something – I didn’t, I just got myself near killed.’

  ‘Well,’ Jeff said not unsympathetically, ‘that seems to be the way it always goes – especially with a woman involved in your decision-making.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Tom said reluctantly. ‘Say, Jeff, you’ve been around and about, listening to talk. Is there any sort of doctor in Flapjack these days?’

  ‘No,’ Jeff wagged his head, ‘not that I’ve heard of. Though this town sure could use one, the way they are bent on shooting each other up.’

  ‘Oh? Has there been trouble?’

  ‘At the Foothill saloon last night, only a few hours after I got settled in. Over a gambling debt – that’s no surprise! No one ever believes he has lost and has to actually pay off the man who won. That’s one reason I don’t gamble myself.’

  ‘Who was it? Anyone I know?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I’m not sure, Tom. The man who done the killing was Lee Tremaine. You seen him but never were properly introduced – the man who wears a pistol stitched to his boot.’ Tom remembered the tall man with the pointed mustache and cold eyes well enough; he had struck both him and Jeff as a dangerous man to deal with.

  ‘The subject was a trailsman from down south. Had too much to drink and too little to spend. Upshot was, he challenged Lee Tremaine, and we both know that was a bad idea. Tremaine shot him from where he sat as the stranger tried to rise and grab for his pistol.’

  Jeff continued, ‘You know, Tom, Tremaine isn’t such a bad sort. He even offered to pay for the stranger’s funeral. I’ve heard some talk around town this morning that a few of the more substantial citizens are saying it’s time for a change. They’re even thinking about finding a marshal for Flapjack. Tom, you—’

  ‘I haven’t any interest,’ Tom Dyce said firmly. ‘I’m through with all of that.’

  ‘Don’t get angry,’ Jeff replied. ‘It’s just that I know you have some experience and don’t have a situation right now. I sort of mentioned your name to Mr Jefferson and a few of the men in town. Most of them know you from other times, of course. The job is yours for the taking.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Tom said, making his way toward Carrie’s door. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘There is one other thing,’ Jeff persisted.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Some people were talking – they have the idea that the man Lee Tremaine shot was really Vance Wynn.’

  Carrie’s Kitchen was close, smoky, already familiar. Tom eased himself down on a chair at a corner table. Carrie approached him with concern in her eyes.

  ‘Now what have you done, Tom?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was watching you from across the room. You looked like an old invalid trying to settle your bones into that chair.’ She was studying the ripped shirt, seeing the bandaging beneath it on his shoulder. ‘You’re just a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?’ she scolded.

  ‘I suppose,’ Tom said wearily. The pain in his shoulder had began to flare up violently. His ribs were still protesting their abuse. Tom lowered his face to his hands.

  ‘You’d know, Carrie: is there anyone around who pretends to be a doctor?’

  ‘Only Laura,’ Carrie answered. ‘She was studying to be a nurse for a year or so before she ran out of money and had to come out here.’

  ‘I wonder if she’d look at my shoulder?’

  ‘I don’t know. I imagine so. Meantime, what can I get you, Tom?’

  ‘Water? Coffee? Maybe a slab of apple pie.’

  ‘Coming right up,’ she said, resting a hand on Tom’s good shoulder. Then she waddled away toward another table.

  Tom kept his face buried in his hands, his eyes shut tightly. When the rustling of garments caused him to open them again, it was to find Laura at his table with a coffee pot and a wedge of cinnamonspiced apple pie. The young red-haired girl with the changeable aspect was smiling just now, showing even rows of pearl-white teeth.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Tom kept his eyes down as Laura poured.

  She said: ‘I’m sorry I was in a grouch the other day when I talked to you.’

  ‘No need to apologize,’ Tom said. ‘We all have our bad moments.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m usually not like that. I let things get to me sometimes.’

  ‘What’s changed?’ Tom asked, sipping at his hot coffee.

  ‘Nothing! Just the page of my calendar. Why, it’s Thursday already.’

  ‘And you’re still planning on leaving on the Saturday stagecoach?’

  ‘That I am,’ she said positively.

  ‘Any idea where you’re heading?’

  ‘Well, first to Rincon, I guess. That’s where the stage makes its next stop. I understand that I might have to lie over there for a day. Do you know Rincon?’

  ‘Quite well,’ Tom told her. ‘I was deputy marshal there for a while.’

>   Laura’s eyes had changed. Tom saw her studying his badly bandaged arm through the tear in his sleeve. ‘That doesn’t look good,’ she said. Tom had forgotten that Laura had studied nursing. ‘Those red streaks creeping down your arm. How was it treated?’

  ‘Range style – rough stitching and a lot of carbolic.’

  ‘You’d better let me have a look at it – after work. I get off at four o’clock. I have one of the little cottages out back of the restaurant: Cabin C.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you,’ Tom said.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Laura said cheerfully. ‘Maybe it will get me back in the frame of mind to resume my nursing studies.’

  ‘That’s what you plan on doing?’

  ‘It is. That’s about all I ever wanted to do.’

  With that she was gone, walking to another table where an old-time prospector was gesturing for more coffee. Probably his first restaurant coffee in months. Tom had tried prospecting, too, summoned by news of a gold strike. He didn’t care for perching on mountain tops for day after day, panning in icy water for dust that wasn’t enough to pay for his next grubstake.

  What was he going to do, he wondered? Everyone else had plans: Laura and her nursing; Aurora and her growing ranch. Jeff, Ray Fox, Art Royal – they all had plans. Tom hadn’t an idea. He could, he supposed, take the opening for the new town marshal of Flapjack, but was that really gaining him any ground? He rose and left the restaurant, paying the same painfully slow Mexican cashier.

  There was still a great deal of sunlight left when Tom walked out into the day. His shoulder ached, his ribs ached. The light of the sun caused an ache behind his eyes. He stopped the first man he saw.

  ‘Can you tell me who does the mortician’s work in town?’

  ‘Are you planning on needing one?’ the stranger asked with a half-smile.

  ‘Not just yet. Can you tell me, please?’

  The man removed his hat and scratched at his head. ‘These days it seems to me that Bridgeport, the blacksmith, is taking care of those things. You might try his place.’

  Tom thanked the man and walked away. He knew where the blacksmith’s had been, although he had never heard the name Bridgeport before. Flapjack continued to change. There were few familiar faces to be seen around town.

  Tom found the smith at his forge, his forehead beaded with sweat. He walked through the shed, and the smith turned as Tom introduced himself. The blacksmith wiped his hand on the front of his leather apron and shook hands with him.

  Bridgeport was a short, wiry man who had muscles in his arms that looked as if he had forged them himself. That sort of work has a way of shaping a man – and of wearing him out quickly. ‘I understand you are attending to burials these days.’

  ‘As a sideline,’ Bridgeport said with distaste. ‘A man does what he can to make a few extra dollars.’

  ‘Yes, well I wanted to see the body of the man who was killed in the Foothill saloon last night – if you haven’t planted him yet.’ At Bridgeport’s uncertain look, Tom embellished a little. ‘I’m a deputy marshal out of Rincon. I think I might be able to identify him. And if it is him, he was a wanted fugitive. There could even be some reward money attached to him.’

  ‘Is that so?’ the blacksmith said, placing his tongs aside. ‘I’m not the one who got him, you know?’

  ‘I know – that was Lee Tremaine, I’ve been told.’

  ‘So they are saying,’ Bridgeport answered carefully.

  ‘No one’s in any trouble about the killing,’ Tom assured him. ‘It’s just that if he’s my man I can quit chasing him and go home.’

  ‘I understand. He’s in the back – it’s cooler there. I was planning on digging a hole for him near sundown. Come on; I’ll show you.’

  Tom followed Bridgeport to the rear of the building which held half a dozen horses waiting for new shoes, and unfinished projects of iron, a plow and metal hitch rail included. There was slag underfoot everywhere. Bridgeport might have been a fine craftsman, but he was a slovenly housekeeper. They came to an unlocked side door, no larger than a pantry and Bridgeport gestured.

  ‘There he is. Tremaine … whoever it was … got him right through the heart,’ Bridgeport stuttered. It was obvious that Bridgeport didn’t want to get involved in legalities or get on Lee Tremaine’s bad side.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said. He had no interest at all in Lee Tremaine’s legal position. He only wanted to know if this, as Jeff had suggested, was Vance Wynn. Of similar height and weight, he might have been. The waxen figure had lost all resemblance to a human being. Tom noticed that the man’s boots were missing, but said nothing. As Bridgeport had said, a man does what he can to make a few extra dollars.

  It wasn’t Vance Wynn.

  Tom lifted the body by the hip and searched for but did not discover the spider-shaped scar the robber was reported to have on the small of his back. He shook his head.

  ‘Not your man?’ Bridgeport asked.

  ‘No. I guess I’ll just have to keep looking,’ Tom said with false unhappiness. He could not have cared less about Vance Wynn, except concerning the man’s possible involvement with Aurora Tyne under the identity of Ray Fox. He walked out of the smith’s shop as Bridgeport returned to his forge, pumping his bellows with deliberate strength.

  Now what?

  Tom pondered that as he walked the hot dusty street of Flapjack. His arm was filled with jagged pain, his ribs not much better after all the extra riding he had been doing. If he had any sense, he decided, he would simply leave Flapjack for good and all and quit his probably pointless worrying over Aurora’s future. Those range disputes had a way of getting worked out, usually the rough way.

  He walked Fog back to Angel Lopez’s stable. Whatever he decided to do, Tom would need Fog healthy and well-rested. He watched the dumb brute as Angel led it away. The way the white hairs swirled along his gray coat, like … fog. He was very fond of the big dolt. With nowhere else to go, Tom crossed the street and went to the big yellow building, the Foothill saloon. He saw no sign of Jeff, nor of the owner, Mr Jefferson. He did, however, see Lee Tremaine at a corner table listlessly playing a game of solitaire. The only other men in the place were the old prospector Tom had seen earlier at Carrie’s Kitchen, a ranch hand Tom did not recognize, and a pot-bellied red-faced man in the last stages of dissolution. No one was speaking. Tom wandered toward the bar.

  ‘Seen Jeff around?’ he asked the bartender who was slight, had his dark hair slicked back with oil and wore German silver armbands.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The new-hire swamper.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t run into him on my shift. What’ll you have?’

  ‘How’s the beer here?’

  ‘Green and kind of sawdusty-tasting. But we keep it cool,’ the bartender said with a faint smile.

  ‘Believe I’ll have a beer.’ Tom waited for the man to return with a mug of pale beer and then asked casually. ‘I hear there was a disturbance here last night.’

  ‘It’s an odd night that we don’t have a disturbance,’ the barkeep said, planting his elbows on his side of the counter.

  ‘This was a killing disturbance,’ Tom said, keeping his voice low. He saw the bartender’s eyes flicker toward the table where Lee Tremaine sat.

  ‘You a relative or a friend of the departed?’

  ‘No. Just curious.’

  ‘Save your curiosity for something worth being curious about,’ the bar man recommended, turning away.

  It was probably good advice. Tom had no need to know anything about last night’s occurrences, and it was obvious that Lee Tremaine instilled either friendship or fear or both in the people of Flapjack. No one wanted to see the gambler in any trouble if they could avoid it.

  Tom had a bare half-inch of beer left in his mug when the doors to the Foothill swung open and three men traipsed in. One of them he recognized as the bald owner of the saloon, Horace Jefferson. The other two looked prosperous and self-important. All three dress
ed well. To Tom’s surprise the three walked directly toward him.

  ‘Tom Dyce?’ Jefferson said, stretching out a chubby hand. Tom nodded, accepted what seemed to be a bunch of cool sausages in his grip and waited expectantly. ‘Can we sit at one of the tables? We have some business we’d like to discuss with you.’

  SIX

  The three, who turned out to be, besides Jefferson, a man named Walt Paulsen who owned a feed-and-grain store and William Asher, who owned the dry-goods store and several plots of land around the center of town. What they wanted to talk about became obvious as soon as the four sat down at a corner table.

  ‘We hear you used to live around here,’ Asher said slowly. He was a man with a turkey neck whose hands trembled as he spoke.

  ‘I used to be ramrod on the Rafter T up along the high valley of the Thibido.’

  ‘Then, we understand, you went into law enforcement,’ Walt Paulsen, an over-assured man said, leaning forward across the table.

  ‘Deputy marshal in Rincon for about a year,’ Tom answered uneasily. He already had a bad feeling about this conversation.

  ‘You see,’ Jefferson said, running his hand across the hairless scalp. ‘For some time now we have been considering establishing local law enforcement in Flapjack. Frankly, we have attracted a rather rough breed of men lately.’ Tom thought the saloon owner’s eyes flickered briefly in the direction of the gambler, Lee Tremaine, whose own eyes remained fixed on his arranged cards.

  ‘We can’t have the town descend into lawlessness,’ the jerky voice of William Asher said a little too loudly, ‘just when it’s showing signs of revitalization.’

  ‘We each have wives and children,’ Asher said in a tone that suggested he was responsible for all of it. ‘We hope to have a school built here by next year, and we are looking into starting a fire brigade. However, the town cannot grow without first establishing law and order.’