“We ain’t strangers,” Fargo said. “We’re Dooley’s brothers.”
“What? No, we ain’t,” Ford said.
“We are if we say we are,” Fargo said. “And who’s going to know the difference?”
“Oh,” Ford said. Then, as he understood what Fargo was saying, he smiled and nodded. “Oh!” he said again.
“Five hundred dollars?” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir,” Sheriff Fawcett said. “Turns out I was right. I had heard Dooley’s name before. There’s a reward poster on my wall right now offerin’ five hundred dollars for anyone who kills or captures him. By rights, that money should go to you. Unless you have something against taking bounty money.”
“No, believe me, I don’t have anything against it,” Smoke said.
“Well, then, if you hang around town for another twenty-four hours, I’ll have authorization from the governor’s office to pay you the reward,” the sheriff said.
“Thanks,” Smoke smiled. “You’ve got a nice, friendly town here. I don’t mind staying another twenty-four hours.”
Ford belched loudly as he finished eating. A plate filled with denuded chicken bones told the story of the meal he had just consumed. In addition to fried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and gravy, he had also eaten two large pieces of apple pie, each piece topped by melted cheese.
“Let’s go get drunk,” he suggested.
“Not yet,” Fargo said. “First things first.”
“Yeah? What could possibly come before getting drunk?”
“Finding the money,” Fargo said.
“Oh, yeah. So, where do we start?”
“We start at the hotel.”
“Will that be all, gentlemen?” the waiter asked, approaching their table then.
“Yeah.”
“And don’t you both look so nice now that you are all cleaned up?” the waiter said obsequiously. Using a towel, he bent over Ford and began to brush at his shirt.
“Here? What are you doing?” Ford said in an irritable tone of voice.
“I’m just brushing away a few of the crumbs,” the waiter said. “It is part of the service one performs when one is in a position to receive gratuities.”
“Receive what?” Ford asked.
“Gratuities.”
“What is that?”
“Tips?” the waiter tried.
Ford shook his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oh, well, then, let me explain, sir,” the waiter said. “It is customary in a place like this that when one provides a service that is satisfactory, the customer will leave a gratuity, that is, leave some money as a”—the waiter struggled for the word—“gift, as a token of his appreciation for that service.”
“What you are sayin’ is, you expect us to give you some money above the cost of the meal,” Fargo said. “Is that it?”
The waiter broke into a wide smile. “Yes, sir. I’m glad you understand, sir. Ten percent is customary.”
“A gratuity?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that’s not part of the bill, is it? I mean, if we don’t leave you anything, that’s not against the law?” Fargo asked.
“Oh, no, sir, not at all. That’s why it is called a gratuity.”
“Well, if the law don’t say I’ve got to, I ain’t goin’ to,” Fargo said. “Come on, Ford, we’ve got work to do,” he added.
“Good-bye, gentlemen,” the waiter said with a forced smile. He watched them until they stepped out into the street; then the smile left his face. “You cheap bastards,” he added under his breath.
Fargo and Ford were standing in front of the registration desk at the hotel.
“Would you tell me what room Mr. Ebenezer Dooley is a’stayin’ in?” Fargo asked. “He’s our brother.”
The clerk blinked a few times in surprise.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Who are you asking for?”
“Mr. Ebenezer Dooley,” Fargo said. “We was all supposed to meet up here in this hotel today, and we figured he’d be down here in the lobby waitin’ for us by now, but he ain’t here.” Fargo chuckled. “Course, as lazy as ole Eb is, like as not he’s lyin’ up there sleepin’ like a log.”
“Oh,” the clerk said. “Oh, dear, this is very awkward.”
“Ain’t nothin’ awkward about it,” Fargo said. “He’s our brother, and he’s expectin’ us. Tell you what, just give me the key and we’ll go wake him up our ownselves.”
“You haven’t heard, have you?”
“We ain’t heard what?” Fargo replied, playing out his role. “What are you talkin’ about? Look, just give us the key so we can go wake up our brother and then we can get on our way.”
The hotel clerk shook his head. “I’m talking about your br . . . uh, about Mr. Dooley. I can’t believe you haven’t heard yet.”
“What’s there to hear?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you gentlemen this, but Mr. Dooley was killed last night.”
“Kilt? Did you hear that, Ford? Our brother was kilt,” Fargo said, feigning shock and concern.
“That’s real bad,” Ford said, though neither the expression in his voice nor his face reflected his words.
“How was he kilt? What happened?” Fargo asked the hotel clerk.
“He was involved in a shoot-out,” the clerk answered. “It seems that your brother killed our deputy sheriff; then he was killed himself.”
Fargo pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Oh,” he said. “Mama ain’t going to like this, is she, Ford.”
“No,” Ford said, his voice still flat and expressionless. “She ain’t goin’ to like it.”
“You can, uh, view your brother down the street if you’d like,” the hotel clerk said. “His remains are on display in the window of the hardware store.”
“What? What kind of town is this that they would put our brother in the window for ever’one to gape at?” Fargo asked.
“Believe me, sir, it wasn’t my doing,” the clerk said, frightened. He held up his hands and backed away, as if distancing himself from the issue.
“Where at’s our brother’s things?” Fargo asked. “We’ll just get them and be on our way.”
“Your brother’s things?”
“His saddlebags, or suitcase, or anything he might have had with him. I want to take ’em back to Mama. You got ’em down here?”
“No, they are still in the room. I’m waiting for the sheriff to tell me it is all right to take them out.”
“What’s the sheriff got to do with it? I told you, we’re his brothers. If Brother Eb’s still got some things in his room, then we’re the ones should get them, not the sheriff.”
“Well, I don’t know,” the clerk said. “I’m not sure about this.”
“Just give me the key to his room,” Fargo said, more forcefully this time. “We’ll go up there and have a look around our ownselves.”
“Sir, how do I know you are his brother?”
“How do you know? ’Cause I told you I am his brother.”
“Just the fact that you tell me that doesn’t validate it.”
“Doesn’t what?”
“Doesn’t prove it.”
“Well, hell, why didn’t you say you needed proof? Ford, tell him I’m Dooley’s brother.”
“Yes, sir, he’s Dooley’s brother all right,” Ford said.
“And Ford is his brother too,” Fargo said. “So there, you’ve got all the proof you need.”
“That’s not really proof, that’s just the two of you vouching for each other,” the clerk said. “Maybe we should wait for the sheriff. I could send for him if you like.”
“Tell you what,” Fargo said. “My brother had a drooping eye right here.” Fargo put his hand over his right eye. “Now, how would I know that if I wasn’t actual his brother?”
The clerk sighed. The two men were getting a little belligerent with him and they were frightening-looking to begin with. W
hat was he protecting anyway? As far as he knew, there was nothing up there but a set of saddlebags anyway.
The clerk took a key from the board and handed it to Fargo. “Very well, Mr. Dooley. This goes against my better judgment, but go on up there and look around if you must.”
“Thanks,” Fargo said.
Fargo took the key; then he and Ford went up to the room. Dooley’s saddlebags were hanging over a hook that stuck out from the wall.
Fargo grabbed the bags and dumped the contents onto the bed. One shirt, one pair of denim trousers, a pair of socks, and a pair of long underwear tumbled out.
“You pull out all them drawers and have a look,” Fargo ordered, and Ford started pulling out the drawers from the single chest.
Finding nothing, Fargo stripped the bed, then turned the straw-stuffed mattress upside down.
“Nothin’ here,” Fargo said angrily. “Not a damn thing!”
Ford started to put the drawers back in the chest.
“What are you doin’?”
“Puttin’ these back.”
“To hell with ’em, just leave ’em,” Fargo said. “We can’t be wastin’ no more time here.”
When the two men came back downstairs, the clerk looked up. He was surprised to see that they weren’t carrying anything with them.
“You didn’t find his saddlebags?” he asked.
“We found ’em, but there weren’t nothin’ there that Mama would want,” Fargo said as they left.
“What’ll we do now?” Ford asked when the two men went out into the street.
“I don’t know,” Fargo said, taking his hat off and running his hand through his hair. “I figured for sure he would have had the money hid out in his room somewhere,” Fargo said.
“Maybe he had it with him, and the undertaker took it,” Ford suggested.
“Good idea. Let’s go down there and talk to him,” Fargo said.
“You think the undertaker would keep the money if he found it?” Ford asked.
“We’ll soon find out.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gene Prufrock, the undertaker, had done nothing to prepare the outlaw’s body but wash the shirt, then put him in a pine box. He didn’t like the idea of making a public show of the dead, no matter how despicable a person he might have been. So when the sheriff asked him to stand Dooley’s body up in the hardware store window, Prufrock tried to talk him out of it. But the sheriff prevailed, and Dooley’s body was now on display.
It was a different story with Gideon Clayton, though. The young deputy had been very popular among the citizens of the town, and Prufrock was taking his time to do as good a job as he possibly could. Several of the merchants had gotten together to buy a special coffin for Clayton. It was finished with a highly polished black lacquer and fitted with silver adornments. Those same merchants had also bought him a suit, so that Gideon Clayton’s body lay on Prufrock’s preparation table, dressed in a suit and tie that he had never worn in life. The undertaker made the final touches, combing Clayton’s hair and powdering and rouging his cheeks.
Prufrock had just stepped back to admire his work when he was suddenly surprised by the entry of two men.
“Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?” Prufrock asked.
“Yeah, we want to ask you some questions,” Fargo said.
“Could the questions wait? As you can see, I’m working on a subject.”
“Is that what you call them? Subjects? Why don’t you just call them what they are? Dead meat?” Ford asked with a laugh.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I do not find your joke at all funny. I believe, very strongly, in maintaining the dignity of the departed,” Prufrock said.
“I hear that when somebody dies, you take all the blood out of them,” Ford said. “Is that true.”
“Yes.”
“What do you do that for?”
“So we can replace the blood with embalming flood. It preserves the body.”
“What do you do with the blood?”
“We dispose of it,” Prufrock said impatiently. “Gentlemen, please, I don’t like people back here. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Who is this fella you’re workin’ on here?” Fargo asked, pointing to the body on the table. “Was he rich or somethin’?”
“No. Why would you think he is rich?”
“Well, look at him. He’s all decked out in a new suit. And I’m lookin’ at that real pretty coffin over there and figurin’ you’re about to put him in it. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he must’a been rich.”
“He wasn’t rich, he was just well respected. He was our deputy sheriff.”
“Your deputy sheriff, huh? So what you are saying is that this is the man our brother killed.”
Prufrock gasped. “Good heavens! Mr. Dooley is your brother?”
“Yeah,” Fargo said.
The mortuary was in the same building as the hardware store, but behind it. Fargo pointed toward the front. “The man you have standin’ up in that window out there, showin’ him off like a trussed-up hog, is our brother. Is that what you mean when you say you like to maintain the dignity of the departed? Our brother is a departed, ain’t he? Where at’s his dignity?”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t think anyone knew that he had kin in town.”
“We just come into town this mornin’,” Fargo said, indicating himself and Ford. “Didn’t find out about our brother until we saw him standin’ there in that store window for all the world to see.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Prufrock said.
“Yes, well, like I say, he was our brother. So that means that anything you found on him is rightly our’n.”
“I beg your pardon?” Prufrock said, surprised by the sudden change in the direction of the conversation.
“His belongin’s,” Fargo said. “Ever’thin’ he had on him is rightly our’n now. Well, ’cept he can keep them clothes on he’s a’wearin’. Wouldn’t want him to have to show up in hell butt naked.”
Both Fargo and Ford laughed.
“That’d be funny all right,” Ford said. “Ole Dooley walkin’ around in hell naked as a jaybird.”
“Dooley?” Prufrock said.
“What?”
“You called him Dooley.”
“Well, hell, that’s his name,” Ford said. “What else am I supposed to call him?”
“It’s just that, within the family, people normally use first names.”
“Yeah, well, Eb, bein’ the oldest, was just always called Dooley,” Fargo said, trying to smooth over Ford’s mistake. “Now what about his belongings? Do you have any of’em here?”
“Well, of course there’s his gun and his boots,” Prufrock said. “Only other thing he had was the clothes he is wearing. But of course, you have already indicated that you don’t want those.”
“What about the money?”
“Yes, I’m glad you brought that up,” Prufrock said. “That will be five dollars.”
“Five dollars? That’s all he had on ’im, was five dollars?” Fargo asked.
“Oh, no, you misunderstand. He had less than one dollar on him. The five dollars is what you owe me.”
Fargo looked confused. “Why the hell should I owe you anything?”
“You did say that he was your brother, did you not? That means that someone owes me for the preparation of his body. As you two gentlemen are his next of kin, you are responsible for his funeral.”
“Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t goin’ to have no funeral,” Fargo said. “We may be his next of kin, but you ain’t goin’ to get no money from us.”
“Then, what do you propose that I do about burying your brother?”
“What would you do about buryin’ him if I hadn’t’a come along today?”
“He would be declared an indigent, and I would collect the fee from the town council. Of course, that would also mean that he will be buried in a pauper
’s grave.”
“That’s fine with me. Go ahead and get your money from the town,” Fargo said. “Come on, Ford, let’s go.”
“Aren’t you even interested in when and where he is to be buried?” Prufrock called out as Fargo and Ford left the mortuary.
“No,” Fargo yelled back over his shoulder.
“My word,” Prufrock said quietly as the men left.
“The only place we ain’t looked yet is the stable,” Ford said. “Are we goin’ to tell the fella watchin’ the stable that Dooley was our brother?”
“No,” Fargo said. “If Dooley owes any money for boardin’ his horse, the son of a bitch might try to make us pay.”
“Then how are we goin’ to look?”
“We’ll just have to find another way,” Fargo replied.
Fargo and Ford hung around the stable until they saw the stable attendant go into the corral to start putting out feed for the outside horses. Then the men slipped into the barn.
“How will we find what stall he was in?” Ford asked.
“You know his horse, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure I know his horse.”
“We’ll just look around until we see whichever horse is his.”
The two men started looking into the stalls. Then, at the fifth stall they examined, Ford said, “There he is. I’d recognize that horse just about anywhere.”
Opening the door, they stepped inside; then Fargo picked up a pitchfork and handed it Ford. “Get to work,” he said.
“Get to work doin’ what? What’s this here pitchfork for?”
“Start muckin’ around in the straw, make sure he don’t have it hid there.”
“Yeah, well, while I’m shovelin’ straw and shit, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to look at his saddle and blanket roll.”
“How come you get to look in his saddle, while I have to muck around in the straw and horseshit?”
“That’s just the way it is,” Fargo said.
Grumbling, Ford began tossing the straw aside while Fargo examined the saddle. Finding nothing there, he unrolled the blanket. When his search of the blanket turned up nothing, he stuck his hand down into the empty rifle sheath.
Betrayal of the Mountain Man Page 16
