by Paul Lederer
‘That’s right – Irma told me that you have a game leg.’ Joe noticed he said ‘Irma’, referring to her, not ‘Miss Tate’. It wasn’t surprising that they should know each other. That told Joe where the marshal had gotten his information. But what exactly were the two of them to each other? Was Joe only a stray dog? He didn’t wish to believe that, He needed to know, but now was not the time to ask.
‘I suppose Brad is long gone,’ the marshal said, standing and putting his hat on again. ‘Probably living it up somewhere, quite pleased with himself.’
‘I doubt it,’ Joe said. ‘I don’t think that particular money will ever bring happiness to anyone. It carries a lot of darkness and a little blood with it.’
The marshal and Irma both looked at Joe as if he were a little mad. He didn’t seem to notice. The money was traveling again, this time carried by Brad Tabor and not by Joe. He somehow doubted that Tabor would have any more luck than he had.
Irma and Hugh Donnely exchanged a few whispered words and then the lawman was gone again. Joe watched Irma as she turned back towards him. Was Donnely the man of her dreams or just a friend?
She put on a serious face. ‘I’m late for work, Joe. Lock up when you leave, would you?’ She added apologetically, ‘I’m sorry if you’re angry with me for telling the marshal all about you, but he is my cousin, after all.’
’Irma—’
‘I forgot my shop key!’ she said, hurrying back toward her bedroom. Joe moved out on to the porch to enjoy the morning, which suddenly seemed brighter and fresher. Through the garden gate came a specter in ragged clothes, whiskered and filthy with travel. It was Frank Singleton.
‘Damn you, Sample,’ he croaked, reaching shakily for his holstered gun. ‘Where is my money!’
‘The money isn’t yours, and never was, Frank.’
‘Where is it? I need it!’
‘How’d you find me, Frank?’ Joe asked, moving to one side of the door so that he could pull it shut if Irma decided to come out.
‘I asked at the stable. The man there recognized that gray horse and told me who it belonged to. Now quit talking, and cough up that money before I blow your head off!’
Joe moved forward until he was standing just above the steps. He was going to have to shoot it out and he knew it. Frank Singleton looked as if he had crawled all the way across the desert to find the green box. His eyes were glazed. His hand trembled, but he growled.
‘Never mind,’ Singleton said. ‘I’ll go in the house and find it myself!’
‘No you won’t,’ Joe said warningly.
‘The hell you say!’ Frank Singleton bellowed.
Joe had been bracing himself for the impact of a bullet when his bum leg buckled beneath him, and he went sliding down the steps on his back as Frank Singleton fired, the bullet whipping past Joe to slam into the cottage’s siding. On his back, Joe drew and fired only one shot, but one was all it took this time. Frank Singleton staggered back, clutching his bloody throat with both hands and then collapsed in the gateway to the little cottage.
The door behind Joe thudded open and Irma rushed out. From up the street he saw Marshal Donnely returning on the run, gun in his hand.
Irma lifted Joe’s head and placed it on her lap as she sat beside him on the steps. ‘Are you shot, Joe?’ she asked, gently petting his head. He tried to smile.
‘No. That damned leg of mine just gave out again.’
Donnely arrived and surveyed the scene: his cousin sitting on the steps cradling Joe Sample’s head; a dead man crumpled on the path. ‘Are there any more around?’ he asked Joe.
‘Just him,’ Joe said and the marshal holstered his gun.
‘I saw him walking this way and I didn’t like the looks of him. Who is he?’
‘His name’s Frank Singleton,’ Joe said, sitting up.
‘Frank Singleton who rode with the Malloy gang?’
‘That’s him,’ Joe answered.
Marshal Donnely tilted back his hat and crouched to examine the dead man. ‘He’s seen better days.’
‘So have we all,’ Joe said, managing to stand upright and hobble forward. Irma held his hand tightly.
Donnely looked up at Joe. ‘There’s a $500 reward posted for Singleton, Sample. I saw the shooting, I’ll be your witness.’
‘I don’t know …’ Joe said, suddenly weary of everything. Irma interrupted him.
‘When can we get it?’ In response to Joe’s curious expression she said, ‘Five hundred dollars can buy a lot of boots, Joe.’
Donnely said, ‘I’ll have somebody bring a wagon over and get rid of him for you. Reward money will probably take two weeks.’
‘Thank you, Hugh,’ Irma said. Donnely noticed that she still clung to Joe Sample’s hand. He tipped his hat to them and strode away.
‘Let’s get away from this,’ Irma said, indicating Frank Singleton’s body. ‘Come in the house and I’ll make you some breakfast. I believe I’ll just skip work today. We have too much to talk about.’
They did, and the conversation concerned itself with more than just boots.
About the Author
Paul Lederer spent much of his childhood and young adult life in Texas. He worked for years in Asia and the Middle East for a military intelligence arm. Under his own name, he is best known for Tecumseh and the Indian Heritage Series, which focuses on American Indian life. He believes that the finest Westerns reflect ordinary people caught in unusual and dangerous circumstances, trying their best to act with honor.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Logan Winters
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8817-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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