by Noel Loomis
“Not on your tintype!” The ranger’s face twisted to a grimace. “I’ve got a strong stomach, but don’t forget I had plenty of opportunity to see that body while I was bringing it in. I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime.” Quist asked a question. Arbuckle answered, “Hell, it was just through luck I found Porter’s body. I’d taken a ride over near Shoulder Bluff, seeing if there was any sign to be picked up after that freight thieving business. No luck of course. The sign, if any, was too cold, and of course that rain had washed out all wagon tracks. When I’d first hit town, I’d heard that Porter had disappeared just about the time of the train business, so I’d got a hunch there might be some connection—”
“It hit me that way too,” Quist said.
The ranger smiled, “Somebody said once that great minds run in the same channels. I feel right flattered we think alike. Anyway, I started my horse through the foothills in the direction of the Rocking-T, figuring to ask a few questions. And then”—Arbuckle’s nose wrinkled—“some buzzards flew up right near and I looked around, and there was Porter. Didn’t know who he was of course.”
“How far from the Rocking-T were you at the time?”
“Three or four miles, but considering I was farther west than the ranch house, I suppose, roughly, I was about fourteen or fifteen miles from town.” He paused. “So I got that body loaded, and headed straight for Clarion City. I don’t want that sort of job again.”
“I can’t blame you. Well, I’ll see you later. You at the hotel?”
Arbuckle shook his head. “Ranger’s pay doesn’t allow for hotels, not the Clarion House, anyway, and the Drovers’ Rest Hotel looked like a flea-bag to me. So I unrolled my blankets at a rooming house over on Lamar Street. In case you want to find me, just ask at Mrs. Hepsabeth Perkins’ place.”
“I’ll do that,” Quist nodded. They talked a few minutes more, then Quist and Corliss departed and started west on Main Street. The stars were brighter than ever now. Fewer ponies waited at the hitchracks, and the thump-thump of the men’s boot-heels made hollow sounds on the plank sidewalks. Crossing the street at the corner of San Antonio, they paused a moment a few doors farther on, while Corliss stopped to glance into the Warbonnet Saloon. He returned, chuckling, to the sidewalk. “No sign of Deray and Lombardy in there,” he stated. “That ranger man must have made his talk stick, I reckon.” They walked on.
Two doors from Alamo Street, on the south side of the thoroughfare, they came to a two-storied building, with a double-doored entrance at one side and a wide window just beyond. A dim light burned in the window, displaying some varnish-shiny furniture and red plush upholstery. Black letters painted on the pane stood out plainly: MORT CROMLECH—UNDERTAKING PARLORS—STYLISH FURNITURE. Corliss tried the doors, found them unlocked and the men passed into a narrow hall with a closed door to the right which apparently led into the furniture store. The hall opened into what Quist judged was the “viewing room,” with folding chairs stacked against the walls, some decrepit artificial lilies in an ornate vase, and religious pictures on the walls. Overhead, an oil lamp turned low, was suspended from the ceiling.
Corliss crossed to another door, and the two stepped into a big barn-like room. To the right, a number of coffins rested on wooden horses. At the left wall was a sink with a pump at one end. Shelves held crocks of embalming fluid. There was a case with various shining instruments behind a glass door. Three men stood talking near the sink. One was Gene Thornton who appeared to have been putting up some sort of argument, and getting no place, with a tall spare man with thinning gray hair in citizen’s clothing, though he wore riding boots. Gene nodded to Quist, and introduced him to Doctor John Ingram, the man with the gray hair. The third man was Mort Cromlech, the undertaker, who was fat-bellied and wore rimless glasses before round eyes, with his hair sticking up in straggly tufts on either side of his head. One look at Cromlech, and Quist was reminded of nothing so much as an owl.
The doctor shook hands in perfunctory fashion with Quist then turned to the sheriff. “Look here, Lish, can’t you convince Gene that it’s necessary for Kate to appear at the inquest tomorrow morning, if she is able? It’s common sense. It’ll look better all around. You know how folks are. You talk to him, Lish. I’m sick of arguing with the young whelp.”
“I already told him what you said before,” Corliss said helplessly. “I know how he feels—just the same—”
The undertaker broke in, appealing to Corliss too, “Doesn’t it seem sensible to let me fix that corpse up so it can be viewed? I been tellin’ Doc and Gene it would be more respectable. All’s I ask is a photygraft to follow. With some wax and rouge and stuff I can model a face on poor Lloyd like nobody can scarce tell the difference. Mr. Quist, I ask you, don’t that make sense? Folks like to line up and get a last look before the beloved goes to his final restin’ place—”
“Goddamit, no, Mort!” Gene snapped. “And if you come around Kate with any such ideas, I’ll tear off your right arm and beat you over the head with it. The sooner you get that—that body into a box and screw down the cover, the better for all concerned.”
“Don’t seem decent no how,” Cromlech half sniffled. His own eyes appealed to Quist for support, but Quist was too busy closing his nostrils to the queer smells of the undertaking establishment to pay the man much attention.
Doc Ingram said testily, “Mr. Quist, I understand you’ve seen Mrs. Porter. What’s your feeling about her testifying?”
Quist said, “Well, I can understand how Gene feels. At the same time I got the impression she was quite willing to help you in any way possible.”
Gene directed a look of anger at Quist, spun on his heel and left the building without another word. “Thank God, I don’t have to argue with him any more,” Ingram said testily.
“You’ve gone and went and made him mad,” Cromlech moaned. “Now I won’t never get no chance to build up that face. It would make my reputation in Clarion City too, if I coulda—”
“For God’s sake shut up, Mort,” Ingram snapped. “Nobody wants that face built up in wax, you—you—you damn’ ghoul.”
“I don’t take that kindly, Doc,” Cromlech half whimpered.
“I’ll stay awake all night worrying about it,” the doctor said caustically; then to Quist, “I understand you’re here to do some detective work. You craving to have a look at that body?”
“Not craving—no,” Quist smiled. “But I think I’d better.”
The doctor was rolling down his shirt sleeves now. He said, “Show him the corpse, Mort.”
Cromlech led the way where a long metal tank was filled with ice, containing the body. Burlap sacks filled with ice were piled on top around the dead Lloyd Porter. By the time Quist had turned higher the wick of the oil lamp suspended overhead, Cromlech had a couple of the ice sacks removed. Quist busied himself with the lamp, until all the sacks had been completely removed, then allowed his eyes to pass over the body. It wasn’t pleasant, and he gave the discolored mask that had been a face, but a brief glance. After a minute he said, “Cover it up, Mort.” And a minute later, “You got Porter’s clothing around here?”
Cromlech went to a hook, took down some clothing and dropped the garments on a table. Quist went over them carefully, but could find nothing outstanding. He next examined the riding boots and found them to be of excellent workmanship. Some reddish colored mud was caked between soles and uppers; the heels were only slightly run down. The undertaker said, “If you want Porter’s personal effects—you know, his papers and money and such—Lish Corliss has ’em locked up. Now, I ast you as man to man, Mister Quist, after seein’ that stark naked corpse, don’t you agree it would be better to use some wax and—”
“That’s not my problem,” Quist said shortly and crossed the room where the doctor stood cleaning up some instruments before putting them into a small black bag, while he conversed with the sheriff. The doctor glanced up, saying gruffly, “I guess you’re the first one who hasn’t gone green around th
e gills after a sight like that.”
“What happened to Porter’s right forefinger, Doc?” Quist asked.
Ingram looked sharply at Quist. “Well,” he said softly, and again, “Well. So you noticed that, eh?”
“Couldn’t very well help noticing it, the way it twisted off to one side.”
“You’re the first one that has noticed it, though,” Ingram said. “Lish, here, didn’t, until I mentioned it. Hell, I don’t know what happened to it. It’s broken, that’s all I can tell you. Don’t know how it got broken though.”
“You probed out some of the pellets?” Quist asked.
Ingram nodded, delved into his black bag and produced an envelope containing a number of small shot from a shotgun cartridge. Quist examined one of them, hefted it in his hand. “Number Two shot, I’d say,” Quist guessed.
“That’s what I figured,” Lish Corliss put in.
“You two gentlemen should know,” Ingram said. “All I know is they did a hell of a lot of damage.” He put the shot away again.
Quist asked, “How long ago do you figure Porter was killed, Doc? What I mean is—well from the looks—well—I sort of get an idea it didn’t just happen today or yesterday, even.”
“You’re correct,” Ingram nodded. “The condition of the body makes the exact time difficult to judge, but offhand I’d say he was killed about four days ago—say last Thursday. This is Monday. I could be wrong a half day—mebbe a full day—either way. That’s as close as I can hit it.”
Quist said thanks. The doctor asked if he’d be at the inquest the following morning. Quist said yes, if necessary, though there was little he could say, as he saw it. The doctor was getting into his coat now. “Well, I’m going to have me a long drink and then go home to bed. It’s been a long day.” The three men left the undertaker’s, followed by disappointed words from Cromlech regarding the fine work he could do with wax. On the street, the sheriff said he’d take a last walk around town before hitting the cot in his office, and started toward the west end of town. Ingram and Quist started east. Reaching the Amber Cup, the doctor invited Quist to have a night-cap with him, and the two men pushed through the swinging doors and entered the barroom. There were only two customers at the bar now, both strangers to Quist. Mickey Kurtz sat on a stool at the far end, reading a newspaper beneath the light of one of his oil-lamps. He folded his paper and got to his feet when Ingram and Quist entered.
“H’are you, Doc? Glad to see you back again, Mr. Quist.”
Quist nodded. “What happened to all your clients?”
“Fred Arbuckle allowed he was heading for the hay, shortly after you left. I guess the idea must have caught on. What you drinking?”
Ingram looked at Quist. Quist ordered a bottle of beer. “I’ll take a bottle of bourbon over to a table,” Ingram said. “Been on my feet too much today. They feel as though they were worn down to the hocks.” Mickey put bottles and glasses on the bar, and the two men sat down at a table near the wall, Ingram heaving a long sigh as he settled to his chair. Mickey rounded the table with a pitcher of water and placed it down before the doctor. Ingram poured a tumbler two-thirds full of Old Crow, then filled the remainder with water. The process was a regular thing with Ingram, Quist judged as he poured beer into his own glass. The doctor lifted his glass, “Well, here’s alluvial deposit in your optic.”
“Mud in your eye,” Quist said. They drank deeply, and again the doctor heaved a long sigh of contentment. They drank again, and this time Ingram emptied his glass and prepared another tumbler with whisky and water.
This last he left untouched for a time. Quist rolled a cigarette and Ingram borrowed the “makin’s” and did likewise. A match was struck, and the doctor leaned back in his chair, blew two smoke rings and said, “Go ahead, ask ’em.”
“Ask ’em?” Quist looked puzzled.
Ingram nodded. “The town doctor’s supposed to know everybody’s personal affairs. I figured you wanted to pick up some information. Shoot with your questions. So long as I don’t have to violate any confidences, I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“You win, Doc. All right, what’s bitten Kate Porter—what makes her so hard? Why does she insist on trying to play a man’s part?”
“And why did she ever marry Porter, I suppose?” Ingram said crustily. “I suppose you’ve asked Gene that—”
“And he told me I’d better ask Kate—as did Lish Corliss. Lish was inclined to tell me to mind my own business, but he didn’t. He suggested I ask Kate too.”
“Lish would. Maybe you’d act the same way in his boots. I’ll tell you why Kate is trying to act the man’s part. Because she’s waging a one-man war against Clarion City for one thing—and because she’s doing a man’s job running the Rocking-T.”
“That waging a war thing doesn’t sound reasonable,” Quist said.
“It’s not!” Ingram snapped. “Damdest fool thing I ever heard of, but there’s folks in town got their knives out for Kate. And for no good reason. That’s why I want her to testify at my inquest tomorrow—so certain gossipy cats—male and female—won’t get a chance to say she’s afraid to testify to what she knows.”
“And what does she know about Porter’s death?”
“I haven’t the least idea—if she knows anything. But I’ve got a lot of faith in Kate Porter. Look here, Quist, I’d best go back a few years when everything was running smooth on the Rocking-T and her mother was alive. Ol’ Wyatt Thornton wanted his kids to have the best education possible, so he sent ’em off to college. Kate was the belle of Clarin County those days I tell you. She went up to the university at Austin. Gene went to Chicago—”
“Chicago?”
“There’s some sort of art school there that’s supposed to be extra good. Gene wanted to be an artist and paint pictures. The trouble is, he still does. Oh, he makes a good enough hand when he sets his mind to it, but he’d rather paint cows and horses than work ’em. He’s got his head set on some fool notion of making a big name for himself. Thinks he has to do that on Ellen’s account, I suppose.”
“Ellen?” Quist asked.
“Ellen Bristol. She runs a store here. On Main, just a short way beyond the Clarion House. Sells women’s fixin’s—doodads, dresses, bonnets and such.”
“I hadn’t heard about her,” Quist stated.
“You would have—sooner or later,” Ingram said shortly. “She’s had her own little war to wage too—only she’s been fighting on the defensive. Kate Porter believes that a strong attack is the best defense.”
“Could be she’s right.”
Ingram twisted in his chair to signal Mickey. The barkeep brought Quist a fresh bottle of beer and removed the empty one. Ingram went on: “Just when Wyatt Thornton thought he had his family running on smooth tracks, Mrs. Thornton was taken sick and died. Bad heart. That brought Kate and Gene home from their schooling, of course. About the time they went back, Thornton’s foreman quit. Bought a place of his own in the next county. Thornton hired another man—Chan Yount. Yount’s a good man, hard worker, but he’s the type that has to have someone always telling him what to do. No initiative. Give him an order and he’ll carry it out to the letter, but otherwise…”
Ingram paused and swallowed a long draught from his glass. “As a consequence, Thornton began to supervise things himself. Horse took a tumble with him one night and Thornton’s back come unglued—”
“Gene told me he was a cripple.”
Ingram nodded, dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and stepped on it. “I did what I could for Wyatt, but it was a pretty hopeless job. To satisfy the family I brought in specialists. They confirmed my diagnosis. Thornton’s back and legs will never be the same again. Oh, he can make to walk some, and once he’s in the saddle he can ride pretty well, but the pain won’t let him stand it for long. Kate and Gene had their schooling interrupted again. When they were convinced nothing much more could be done for Wyatt Thornton, Gene went back to Chicago. From that point on, Kate st
arted to take over. It wasn’t long before she was running the ranch like a veteran cowman, giving it all her time.”
The doctor added more water to his glass, but no more liquor. “Got to taper off a mite,” he smiled, then went on, “Things were going all right on the Rocking-T. Different men were getting pretty attentive to Kate—”
“Who?” Quist asked. “If you’ll give me names now I won’t have to ask later.”
Ingram pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, now, there were several calling at the ranch Sunday nights, taking her to bailes and so on, church potlucks and entertainments at the schoolhouse. Lemme see, there was Jarvis Fanchon, of the Jar-F. Morley Harper who runs the Golden Wheel here—gambling house. One or two others. I reckon Lish Corliss had the inside track, though—enough so that one or two busybodies around town—you know how some women are—got to saying it was a pity Gene didn’t come home from that school where he spent his time painting nekkid models, and operate the ranch, so’s Kate and Lish could get married decent. That’s just the way it was put.”
“Some people,” Quist said tersely, “never can mind their own business.”
“That’s the truth. Kate heard about it of course. At first she just laughed it off and suggested that certain gossips ‘tend to their knitting.’ And that riled ‘certain gossips,’ and the talk increased. Then she really put her foot in it. There was a bunch of pure blood cows to be delivered to a man in the county east of here. High grade animals. Expensive. Kate wanted to be sure they were delivered safely. She didn’t want to trust them to the foreman, so she went along with the hands herself. It was an all night drive.” Ingram’s voice grew sarcastic. “My, can you imagine anything so terrible? A girl alone out all night with three cowhands! It ain’t decent!” He resumed his normal tone of voice. “That really started the tongues to wagging. Certain old harpies said that now she’d have to marry Lish Corliss in a hurry, while she could still get a husband.”
“Some nice people in Clarion City,” Quist commented.
