* * *
“What’s this money for?” Marshal Witherspoon asked when he stepped back into the office a little later and saw the bills lying on his desk.
“Welch brought it here,” Calhoun replied. “He said that he found it in Critchlow’s pocket, and he figured he ought to turn it back in to the county.”
“Ha, imagine ’im doing that.” Witherspoon gave Calhoun twenty dollars and stuck the rest into his pocket.
“What are you doin’?”
“What’s it look like I’m doin’? I’m dividin’ up this money between us.”
“But don’t you think that money should go to the county, to pay for buryin’ someone that might need buryin’?”
“If that happens, the county will come up with the money. Of course, if you don’t want that twenty dollars, I’ll take it back.”
“No, I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I was just wonderin’ about it is all.”
“Well, you can quit wondering.”
“Marshal, do you think Critchlow just happened to find that poster somewhere, or do you think someone might of give it to him most especial so’s that he would come after Jensen ’n try ’n kill ’im?”
Marshal Witherspoon stared at his deputy through eyes narrowed. “Now, why would you suggest something like that?”
“Never mind,” Calhoun said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “There’s more’n likely nothin’ at all to it.” He turned to leave.
“No, hold up a minute,” Witherspoon called.
Calhoun stopped.
“You got somethin’ stickin’ in your craw, you might as well spit it out.”
“Well, think about it, Marshal. Critchlow had all that money in his pocket, and for all that he was a famous gunman, me ’n you both know he was most like to be dead broke.” Calhoun chuckled. “All right, so we finally catch him when he ain’t broke, but he is dead.”
“I think perhaps I should pay a visit to Mr. Atwood,” Witherspoon said.
* * *
“So Critchlow got himself killed, did he?” Atwood asked, as he lit the ever-present cigar. “Well,” he drew several puffs before he continued, “I can’t say that the world has lost much.”
“Did you pay Critchlow to kill Jensen?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He had a wanted poster in his pocket,” Witherspoon said. “There was only one copy printed, and I gave it to you, so this had to be the same reward poster.”
“All right, so what if I did pay him to kill Jensen? You haven’t been able to do anything to get him out of the way, have you?”
“I haven’t had any legal reason to go after him.”
“There is that reward poster.”
“Mr. Atwood, you and I both know that reward is bogus.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Atwood replied. “I mean, we didn’t find anything that said it had been withdrawn, did we?”
“No. But if you ask me, Critchlow got hisself kilt for a reward that wasn’t goin’ to be paid.”
Atwood smiled. “Well now, there’s an idea. Maybe the wanted poster you’ve got on Jensen is no good, but it was Jensen who killed Critchlow. It seems to me like you could use that to arrest him for murder.”
Witherspoon shook his head. “It wouldn’t hold up. Ever’one in the saloon says that it was Critchlow who drew first.”
“What difference does that make? They said the same thing about Rusty Abernathy, but we tried him for murder and got a conviction.”
“It’s not the same thing. There ain’t nobody outside of Etholen that’s ever even heard of Rusty Abernathy. Hell, people all over the country have heard of Jensen. Not even Judge Boykin could make it stick. Besides which, Jensen’s got some kind of connection with Judge Turner, and Turner can overrule anything Boykin might say.”
“We need to find some way to get Jensen out of the picture,” Atwood said. “He has become quite a complication.”
“Short of shooting the son of a bitch in the back, I don’t know how we’re goin’ to do that,” Witherspoon said. “I know I don’t want to face him, not even if I had two or three more men with me.”
“Then I’ll just have to find someone who will be willing to face him,” Atwood said.
“What makes you think you can find such a man?” Witherspoon asked. “Critchlow faced him, and you see what happened. I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Atwood, I’m not all that sure such a man even exists.”
“I may have someone in mind.”
“That’s what you thought about Critchlow, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but you know what they say. If at first you don’t succeed, try, and try again.”
Witherspoon chuckled. “Yeah, well, as long as it ain’t me who’s doin’ all the tryin’.”
After Witherspoon left, Atwood returned to the library to revisit an article he had read in the paper. It was a story that was reprinted from the Morning Star, a newspaper from the nearby town of Eagle Springs.
Gunfight in the Four Ten Saloon
Last Friday night, Milt Pounders, who has been making a name for himself through his prowess with a weapon, came to our fair city of Eagle Springs. His reason for coming soon became obvious, because he instigated a gunfight with Cain Conroy. Whatever their reason was, it was not well thought out because, while good, young Pounders was not good enough. All witnesses to the gunfight agreed that Pounders drew first, but even with that advantage, he could not prevail.
Cain Conroy drew his weapon with the speed of a flash of lightning, and as quick as one could think about it, Pounders was on his back on the saloon floor, his sightless eyes still expressing the shock of having been beaten. There are those who have made a study of such a thing, who insist that Conroy is the fastest, and most deadly, gunman ever to employ the pistol in its most baneful extreme.
Atwood smiled as he lay the paper aside. Critchlow had failed him, but he had an idea that Conroy wouldn’t. He decided to send for him.
Eagle Springs, Texas
When Cain Conroy stepped into the Four Jacks Saloon, he moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room.
“Pedro,” the bartender said to the old man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Conroy is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”
“Sí,” Pedro said, and leaned the broom against the cold stove. He started toward the back at a shuffle.
“Hurry, man, hurry! Conroy don’t like to be kept waitin’.”
Pedro’s shuffle increased imperceptibly.
Conroy walked over and sat at an empty table. He didn’t have to say anything to anyone. He knew that his drink would be delivered, and he knew it would be what he wanted. A moment later the bartender approached with the drink in hand, and he poured a shot, then waited for Conroy’s nod of approval.
There was someone standing at the bar who saw how everyone was treating the man who had just come in.
“Who is that feller?” he asked the bartender.
“You’re new here, ain’t you? Yeah, I know you are, ’cause ever’one in town knows that that is Cain Conroy.”
“So that’s Cain Conroy? Well, I ain’t never met ’im, but I have heard of ’im.”
“I should think you’ve heard of him. Why he’s kilt hisself more’n forty men.”
“Forty, huh?”
“At least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he has kilt. He might’a kilt a lot more’n that.”
The questioner nodded. “Thanks,” he said, turning away from the bar and taking a step toward the table where Conroy was sitting.
“Here, mister! Are you crazy? You don’t want to go botherin’ him now!”
The curious one didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped boldly up to Conroy’s table.
“Mr. Conroy?”
“Yeah, I’m Conroy.”
“I’ve got a message for you.”
“What kind of mess
age?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t read it. I was just told to hand this envelope to you.” He held the envelope out.
Conroy snatched the envelope from the man’s hand, then opened it. A fifty-dollar bill fluttered out.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
The man who had delivered the note, obviously a cowboy, shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, all I was told to do was deliver this envelope to you, then wait ’n see what you said.”
Conroy grunted, then read the note that accompanied the fifty-dollar bill.
Conroy, this fifty dollars is just to get your attention. I wish to make a proposal and if you accept it, there is much more money for you. If you are interested, Bo Willis, the man who delivered this to you, will lead you back to see me. If you are not interested, tell him so, and you may keep this money as compensation for the intrusion into your time.
Conroy folded over the fifty dollars, then looked up at the cowboy. “Your name Bo Willis?”
“Yes.”
“It says here that you’re supposed to take me to see the man who wrote this note.”
“Yeah, that would be Mr. Atwood,” Willis said.
“Where is he?”
“He’s got a ranch near Etholen.”
Conroy tossed his drink down, then stood up.
“Take me to him.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“A thousand dollars?” Conroy said. “Am I hearing you right? You’re offerin’ to give me a thousand dollars to kill Smoke Jensen?”
“After you kill him,” Atwood said. “There’s also a ten-thousand-dollar reward for him. You can keep that money as well.”
“No, there ain’t,” Conroy said. “There was paper on ’im oncet, but that was pulled a long time ago.”
“How do you know?” Atwood asked, surprised that Conroy would know that.
“I know, ’cause I’ve done me some bounty huntin’ from time to time, ’n I know there ain’t nothin’ out on him.”
“Hmm, I heard that there was, but you may be right,” Atwood said, making no mention of the bogus flyer he had printed. “But the thousand dollars is good, and it’s coming from me.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Conroy said.
“Fifteen hundred? That’s asking a lot, isn’t it?”
“I know that Critchlow couldn’t take him.”
Atwood gasped in surprise. “You heard about that, did you?”
“Yeah. When you are in the business I am, you follow other folks who are in the same business. You hired Critchlow, did you?”
“Yes, but as you have pointed out, he was insufficient to the task.”
“He was what?”
“He didn’t get the job done.”
“Yeah, well, the truth is, I figured the day would come when me ’n Critchlow would go up ag’in each other. Only Jensen beat me to it. I figure that ups the risk enough so that askin’ for fifteen hunnert dollars ain’t too much. Besides which, you must really want Jensen dead, or you wouldn’ta hired Critchlow in the first place. And if you want Jensen killed, it’s going to cost you fifteen hunnert dollars, or you’ll have to find someone else. Wait a minute, there ain’t nobody else, is there?”
“All right, yes, I do want him killed,” Atwood said. “And I’ll meet your demand. But I would suggest that after you do the job, and I pay you, that you leave the area. With that much money you could go to some place like New Orleans, or Saint Louis, or even Chicago.”
“Why would I want to do that? If I kill Smoke Jensen, I’ll be about the most famous man in the whole West.”
“Is that really what you want? You would be a marked man. Can you imagine how many people would want to kill the man who killed Smoke Jensen? You’ll have them coming from everywhere, some who will want to avenge Jensen, and some who will just want the fame it will bring them.”
“Yeah, well, I guess there is that to think about.”
“I’m glad you understand. And of course, it will also be to my advantage for you to be gone, because that way, there will be less of a likelihood that I would be connected with it.”
“When do I get the money?”
“I told you, you’ll get it after you do the job. I didn’t give Critchlow what I had agreed to pay him before the job, and it’s a good thing I didn’t. If I had, I would have been out the money. I didn’t get where I am today by paying for failure.”
“You just have the money ready when I come back,” Conroy said.
“It’ll be here for you.”
“If it ain’t, there’ll be another killin’ that I won’t be paid for. But I’ll be doin’ that killin’ for me . . . if you know what I mean.”
“I fully understand what you mean, Mr. Conroy. You just do your job, and the money will be here for you.”
Atwood walked out onto the front porch and watched Conroy until he rode away. Then Atwood sent for Al Booker, one of his men. But, like Willis, Booker couldn’t exactly be called a cowboy. He was one of the nearly dozen or so men that Atwood referred to as his special cadre.
As soon as Booker arrived, Atwood gave him fifty dollars. “I want you to do a little job for me,” he said.
Booker looked at the money. “It must be more than a little job if you’re willing to pay fifty dollars for it.”
“There’s not that much to it. I want you to go into town and keep an eye on a man named Cain Conroy.”
“Conroy?” Booker replied nervously. “That’s the feller you sent Willis after, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Willis tells me that Conroy has kilt more’n fifty men.”
“I really don’t care how many he has killed,” Atwood said. “I’m only interested in who he is going to kill.”
“Yeah, well, what do you mean by ‘keep an eye on ’im’? On account of I don’t plan on me bein’ the next man that he kills.”
“Good, then that means you’ll be very careful around him, doesn’t it?”
“When you say around him, what exactly do you mean? I mean, how close do I have to get to him?”
“It would be better for you, and for me, if he doesn’t even know you are around. If you can, keep an eye on him from some distance.”
Booker smiled. “I don’t mind keepin’ my distance from him. But what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?”
“I’ve hired him to do a job for me, and I want you to tell me whether or not he does it.”
“What is the job?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Mr. Atwood, I don’t understand. If I don’t know what his job is supposed to be, how will I know whether or not he has done it?”
“If he does his job, you’ll know what it is. Everyone in town will know. And if nothing at all happens, oh, say within the next day or two, then you come back and tell me that nothing has happened. That’s all you need to do.”
“All right,” Booker said. “That sounds like an easy enough job.”
Etholen
Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal were in the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon when Sally and Kate returned from an impromptu shopping trip. Sally was carrying a package.
“Did you find something you liked?” Smoke asked.
“That isn’t the question you ask,” Kate said. “The question is, will you like it? Surely you know by now that women buy clothes, not to please themselves but to please the men in their lives. Is that not true, Sally?”
Sally laughed. “Now, Kate, don’t you go giving away all our secrets.”
“I know I will like it,” Smoke said. “Anything Sally chooses, I will like.”
“Ha, way to go, Smoke. That was exactly the correct answer,” Pearlie said.
“Smoke, I didn’t have lunch,” Sally said. “Why don’t you take me out?”
“We could get something here if you’re hungry,” Smoke said.
“I believe you said you were going to take me out.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Smoke replied.
“Katie and I ate at the Palace Café the other day, and it was a most pleasant experience.”
“Oh, yeah,” Pearlie said. “The food is real good there, I’ll vouch for it.”
Smoke laughed. “Your endorsement would carry some weight with me, Pearlie, if I didn’t know that you had never found any place to eat that you didn’t think was really good.”
“Well, you tell ’em, Katie. I mean, you live here. I’m sure you know the place,” Pearlie said.
“Yes, I’ve eaten there many times, and the food is quite good,” Kate said, her words validating Pearlie’s stamp of approval.
“All right, you’ve sold me on it. Let’s go,” Smoke said.
“Good, I’m starving,” Cal said.
Until that moment there had been no mention that Cal was to be a part of the visit to the café, but after his comment, there was no way he would be excluded.
Pearlie cleared his throat. “Cal, if you’re that hungry, we could just eat here,” Pearlie suggested. The suggestion was pointed enough that Cal understood.
“Oh, uh, yeah, that’s right. We could eat here, couldn’t we?” Cal replied. “Maybe you two had better go on without me.”
“The lack of your company leaves me bereft,” Sally said.
“It leaves you what?”
Sally chuckled. “Never mind. Enjoy your lunch with Pearlie.”
“Yes, ma’am, I expect I will.”
“Smoke, can we stop by the hotel room so I can change clothes?” Sally asked as they left the saloon. “I’d like to wear my new dress.”
“Sure,” Smoke agreed.
* * *
Half an hour later, with Sally now wearing her new dress, she and Smoke approached the Palace Café, which was just down Waling Street a short distance from the saloon. They were assailed by delicious-smelling aromas as they approached.
“Well, if it tastes as good as it smells, I’d say the food is going to be very good,” Smoke said.
There was a counter to the left as they entered, then eight smaller tables spread out through the dining room, and one long, banquet table at the back of the room.
Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Page 13
