Crow Bait

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Bye, Kimmie,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Lancaster,” she said. “See you around, huh?”

  Fourteen

  Lancaster felt better walking the streets with the rifle in his hand, even though he wasn’t sure it would fire in its present condition. But he also needed a pistol and a holster. If the liveryman was the man to see for a used saddle, maybe he knew where to get a used handgun, as well. Or maybe Andy Black knew, but he was home and probably wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

  He went to the livery, and actually found the man brushing Crow Bait.

  “Told you I’d look out for him,” he said. “You didn’t have to come back and check.”

  “I’m not checking,” Lancaster said. “What’s your full name?”

  “Just Mal,” the man said. “What’s yours?”

  “Lancaster. You only got one name?”

  The man grinned, showed some gaps where there used to be teeth. “Men get to be our age, you realize one name’s enough, right?”

  “Okay.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m gonna need a rig,” Lancaster said. “Saddle, saddlebags.”

  “New I can’t help ya with, but used…”

  “Used is good.”

  “We can talk.”

  “I also need a gun.”

  Mal looked at the rifle in his hand.

  “A handgun,” Lancaster said, “and holster.”

  “New or used?”

  “Can’t afford new.”

  “We can talk.”

  Lancaster looked around. “Got ’em here?”

  “Let’s go in the office,” Mal said.

  “Lead the way.”

  Lancaster liked the way Mal stroked Crow Bait’s neck before walking away from him.

  Mal led him to a door in the back, which led to a small office with a rolltop desk and a trunk. In one corner were three saddles, stacked.

  “Sometimes folks don’t come back for their stuff,” Mal said. “Or they don’t pay their bill. Take your pick.”

  Lancaster walked to the saddles, separated them, and examined them. “This one looks like it’ll hold together. How much?”

  “Well,” Mal said, “it’s just sittin’ there gettin’ dusty…Twenty dollars?”

  “With saddlebags?”

  Mal walked to the chest, opened it, and pulled a worn pair of saddlebags. “Twenty-two, with the saddlebags.”

  “Deal.”

  Mal tossed the bags to him.

  “Now how about that gun?”

  Again, Mal reached into the trunk, came up with a rolled-up holster with a walnut grip of a pistol showing. He tossed it over. Lancaster deftly caught it, unrolled the leather. It was a Peacemaker with a worn grip, but it was generally clean and well cared for. So was the holster.

  “Somebody’s been oiling this leather,” Lancaster said.

  “The gun used to be mine,” Mal said. “I take care of it when I can.”

  Lancaster took it, checked the action on it, spun the cylinder. “How much?”

  “A hundred?”

  “I don’t have a hundred.”

  “A hundred for everything,” Mal said. “Saddle, saddlebags, and gun. But you gotta bring the gun back when you’re done.”

  Lancaster took out the money he had left. “I have sixty dollars left. Then I’m broke.”

  “You really need that gun, right?” Mal asked. “Rifle ain’t enough?”

  “I really need the gun.”

  “I tell you what,” Mal said. “Take it all, but when you’re done you gotta bring it all back.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want the horse, too.”

  “Crow Bait? Why?”

  “I’m already fond of him.”

  “What’s the real reason?”

  Mal scratched his nose.

  “I recognize your name,” he said finally. “You and me, we used to be in the same business.”

  “What business is that?”

  “The business that requires a handgun.”

  “I’m not in that business anymore.”

  Mal spread his arms and said, “Neither am I, as you can see. But you need a gun for somethin’, and I know the feelin’. So take it all, but bring it all back when you’re done.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Lancaster looked around at everything, then said, “Thanks.”

  “I’ll get back to your horse now.”

  “Your horse,” Lancaster said. “I’m just borrowing it.”

  “I forgot,” Mal said. “I’ll get the saddle in better shape for you. Gun, too, if you want.”

  “I’ll work on the gun myself,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”

  They walked back out to Crow Bait, and Mal picked up the brush.

  “I hope you get ’em,” he said.

  “Get who?”

  “Whoever gave you that limp, and the cuts and bruises,” Mal said.

  Lancaster strapped the holster on, slid the gun in and out a few times before settling it back in.

  “Feel better?” Mal asked.

  “Yeah,” Lancaster said, “suddenly, I’m feeling a lot better.”

  Fifteen

  Lancaster was thinking that since his last kick in the head his luck had turned. He’d found Crow Bait, who had taken him to Kimmie, who had driven him to town. His job wasn’t waiting for him, but Andy staked him to enough money to get him outfitted, and gave him a hotel room. Then he met Mal, who loaned him the rest of what he needed.

  Now he needed a drink.

  He went to his room to drop off the gun belt and gun. The rifle he kept with him as he walked to the K.O. Saloon as it was getting dark outside. The place was busy, but there were open spaces at the bar, so he claimed one.

  “What can I getcha?” the bartender asked. He was big, brawny, had the body and the face of an old prizefighter, which probably explained the name of the place.

  “Beer,” Lancaster said, “nice and cold.”

  The bartender laughed. “Only kind we sell, friend.”

  He placed the cold beer in front of Lancaster.

  “How about a shot of whiskey to go with it?” the man asked.

  “No, thanks,” Lancaster said. It wasn’t so long ago that he had crawled into a bottle, and crawled out again. He wasn’t about to start that slide all over again. A cold beer once in a while, that was all.

  Lancaster lingered over that one beer, trying to pull his thoughts—or his memories—together. Boots, he remembered boots. But what stood out about them? And what else was there? He’d gone in and out of consciousness. Had heard voices. Seen figures. Had he seen faces and was just not remembering them?

  Suddenly, he grew very tired. He finished off the beer, staggered back to his hotel, fell onto the bed fully dressed, and slept fitfully.

  In the morning he woke with a pounding headache. All night he’d had dreams. He was being chased, being beaten, and he heard voices—only were they dreams? Or was his brain trying to remember things?

  He decided to skip breakfast and go see the doctor. Maybe the doc could give him something for the headache and Lancaster could also ask him some questions. First, though, he unrolled the gun belt, took out the pistol, and made sure it was in working order. He cleaned it as well as he could with a rag, but that would have to do until he could get the right tools. The belt had cartridges on it, so after dry-firing it to make sure it would fire, he loaded the gun, put it back in the holster, and strapped the gun belt on. The rifle he propped up in a corner.

  Feeling fully dressed for the first time since coming to town, he left the room.

  “Back so soon?” Murphy asked, surprised. He was wiping his hands on a towel.

  “I feel like my head’s coming off, Doc,” Lancaster said.

  “Yeah, well, that’ll happen when somebody kicks you there. Let me give you somethi
ng.”

  He went into the other room, came back, and handed Lancaster an envelope.

  “It’s a powder, for the headache,” the doctor said. “You dissolve it in a glass of water.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Wait.”

  The doctor went into the other room again, came back with a glass of cloudy water.

  “Here, drink this,” he said. “I already put some in there.”

  Lancaster drank it and handed the glass back. “Thanks.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Well, yeah…can we talk a minute?”

  “Sure. Whataya want to talk about?”

  “My memory.”

  The doctor waved him to a chair and sat down himself at his desk.

  “You said my memory might or might not come back,” Lancaster said.

  “That’s true.”

  “So it’s possible I could’ve seen the faces of the men who ambushed me, and I’ll remember later?”

  “It’s possible,” the doctor said. “Why? Are you seeing faces?”

  “I’m seeing…flashes of things,” Lancaster said. “You know…the boots…the desert…some figures…hearing voices, but never seeing faces. I need to see some faces.”

  “Mr. Lancaster, I think you should prepare yourself for the possibility that these memories may never fill in for you. They may never come back.”

  “But they’ve got to come back,” Lancaster said. “How the hell am I ever gonna find these guys if it doesn’t come back?”

  “You may not find them,” the doctor said. “Or you may just have to use whatever information your memory is givin’ you.”

  “Boots,” Lancaster said.

  “What kind of boots?” the doctor asked. “What color? What style? What kind of stitching? How many? You can learn a lot from a man about his boots.”

  “I guess…”

  “I also suggest you don’t push it,” the doctor said. “If the memories are gonna come back, let them come back on their own.”

  Lancaster rubbed his head.

  “Better yet?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, it’s letting up. I think I’ll go get some breakfast.” He stood up. “Thanks, Doc. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothin’,” the doctor said. “Part of the service.”

  “Thanks, again,” Lancaster said, and left.

  Sixteen

  Lancaster finally decided he had time for a leisurely breakfast, but he spent the whole time still trying to plug the holes in his memory.

  He thought about what the doctor had said. What kind of boots? He’d never paid much attention to men’s boots before—unless they were heels up on the ground. What could a man’s boots tell you about him?

  He thought back to being kicked, staring off into space, trying to bring it into focus. What he remembered mostly were toes and heels. Heels. That meant he was not only kicked, but stomped. But still, they made no attempt to kill him, only to hurt him. And they could have done worse than that. They could have maimed him. What did that mean? That they wanted to make it difficult for him to survive, but not impossible?

  They wanted him to die in the desert, but not without a fighting chance?

  But he was thinking about this the wrong way.

  It wasn’t the three men who were making the decisions. He recalled a scrap of conversation that made him believe that they had been hired by somebody, and they must have had specific instructions.

  So who wanted him dead?

  The list was too damn long.

  In his days as a gun for hire, he’d killed a lot of people—people he didn’t know, people he was hired to kill. He always did it from the front, though, never from behind, never an ambush. Anybody he killed always had a fair chance to kill him first.

  But family members probably wouldn’t appreciate the distinction. There might be somebody out there who hated him enough to hire somebody to leave him alone in the desert to die.

  It would be impossible for him to figure out who it was, though. There were just too many. And who knew how many he’d forgotten during the few years he’d been a drunk?

  And now, getting kicked in the head hadn’t done his memory much good, either.

  He’d gone to the doctor to talk, for either solace or advice. Maybe what he should do was take the doctor’s advice, and let the memories come back on their own.

  Meanwhile, there was the horse to consider. And he still had to come up with a way to make some money.

  From breakfast he went right to the livery to see Mal.

  “Mornin’, Lancaster.”

  “Mal.” They shook hands. “How’s he’s going?”

  “Crow Bait?” Mal asked. “He’s already surprised me.”

  “How?”

  “The way he eats,” Mal said. “Horse eats like an animal twice his size.”

  “Yeah? That’s good, right?”

  “It’s good if he puts on weight,” Mal said. “If he eats like that and he don’t put on weight, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Well, like I said yesterday,” Lancaster replied, “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “You wanna take a look at him?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Go on back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s that gun feel?”

  Lancaster stopped and looked down at the gun on his hip.

  “It feels good,” he said. “I just need to clean it a little better.”

  “I’ve got a kit for that,” Mal said. “I’ll give it to you before you leave.”

  “I’ll pay you—”

  Mal waved away any mention of payment.

  “Just bring it back when you return everything else,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Lancaster walked to the stall where Crow Bait stood, head in. The horse’s rear end was probably the only part of it that looked normal. Maybe that big rump was where his stamina came from.

  Lancaster patted the rump, walked farther into the stall, and held the horse’s head, patted his nose.

  “How you doin’, boy?” he asked. “Man, you are ugly but you saved my life, so to me you’re the most beautiful horse alive.”

  Crow Bait nodded his head and poked at Lancaster’s hand.

  “You want a treat? I got nothing for you, but I’ll make sure I do from now on.”

  “Here,” he heard from behind him. He turned and Mal was holding out a couple of green apples. “He likes ’em.”

  “They sour?”

  “Yeah,” Mal said. “I found out he doesn’t like sweet.”

  Sweet?

  Suddenly, it went dark.

  Seventeen

  “What happened?”

  Lancaster was looking up at Mal’s face.

  “You blacked out,” Mal said. “I caught you when you fell.”

  “Fell?”

  Lancaster pushed himself to a seated position and looked around. He was still in the livery, just outside Crow Bait’s stall.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t get up yet,” Mal said.

  “Give me a hand,” Lancaster said.

  “Okay.”

  Mal pulled Lancaster to his feet. There was a brief moment of dizziness, and then he stood solid.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lancaster said. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “You just ain’t recovered from bein’ kicked in the head,” Mal said. “Gonna take a while.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “Maybe you should go back to the doc.”

  “I’ve been to see him a few times already,” Lancaster said. “He says I should recover. What I’m worried about is my memory. If that doesn’t come back, then I won’t be able to track down the three men who bushwhacked me, and find out who hired them.”

  “You think somebody hired them to do it?”

  “That’s about the only thing I’m sure of,” Lancaster said.


  “How can you be that sure?”

  “I heard them talking. I didn’t hear everything, but one of them said that killing me wasn’t what they were supposed to do, or something like that. I’m sure they were hired.”

  “Men like you and me,” Mal said, “we have a lot of people in our past who’d like to see us dead.”

  “I know it.”

  “You had a funny look on your face just before you fell,” Mal said. “You sure—”

  “Wait a minute,” Lancaster said. “I remember…you said something just before…what was it?”

  “We were talking about the apples,” Mal said. “You mean the apples?”

  “Something about apples…”

  “I said Crow Bait liked the sour ones, not the sweet ones.”

  Sweet.

  “That was it,” Lancaster said.

  “What?”

  “Sweet.”

  “What about it?”

  “Wait,” Lancaster said, “give me a minute.”

  He went back into his patchy memory with the word sweet, trying to find a lace where it would fit…and there it was…

  “I’ve got it!” he said. “Just before I got kicked in the head the last time, somebody said, ‘Sweet, don’t.’”

  “So one of them was named Sweet,” Mal said. “Well, that’s a helluva lot more than you had before. You ever know a man named Sweet?”

  “No,” Lancaster said, “but I’m going to.”

  Lancaster went from the livery to the sheriff’s office, to see if the lawman knew anyone in the area named Sweet.

  “Sweet?” the lawman asked. “That’s all you’ve got? No first name?”

  “For all I know, that is his first name,” Lancaster said.

  Sheriff Race sat back in his chair, took off his hat, and scratched his balding head.

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar to me,” he said, replacing his hat. “I’ll take a look through some of the posters I have, though.”

  “I’d be obliged, Sheriff,” Lancaster said.

  “So your memory’s startin’ to come back?” Race asked.

  “Not completely,” Lancaster said. “In fact, that’s all I have right now.”

  “Well, a name is at least somethin’ to go on,” Race said. “I find anything in my paper and I’ll let you know.”