Crow Bait

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Shut up, Wiley.”

  “Lemme take ’im, Mr. Atkins,” Wiley said. He was about thirty and anxious to die, apparently.

  Atkins studied Lancaster, as if he was considering letting his boy go, but in the end he just shook his head.

  “Son,” he said to Wiley, “this man would chew you up. You and the boys wait outside.”

  “But, boss—”

  “Just do like I say, boy!”

  Wiley gave Lancaster a hard look, which Lancaster returned with a languid look of his own. The other two men actually pushed Wiley out the door.

  “This ain’t over, Turner,” Atkins said.

  “I didn’t think it was, Mr. Atkins.”

  Atkins walked up to Lancaster and fronted him. They were eye-to-eye. As thick as the man was, he was taller than he had first looked.

  “You just get to town?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Tryin’ to earn your money already?”

  “I just came in to report to Mr. Turner,” Lancaster said. “You seemed to be makin’ an ass out of yourself, so I thought I’d save you from yourself.”

  “You got a mouth on you.”

  “My mother used to tell me that.”

  “Your mother should’ve warned you to stay out of other people’s business,” Atkins said. “Next time I see you, maybe I’ll let Wiley have a go at you.”

  “You were right,” Lancaster said. “I would chew him up, and you’d be minus a man.”

  “Oh, he won’t be alone.”

  “He wasn’t alone today, either,” Lancaster said.

  “Two cowpokes weren’t gonna back his play,” Atkins said. “Next time will be different.”

  “Time for you to leave, Mr. Atkins,” Lancaster said. “Me and Mr. Turner have official business.”

  Atkins glared at Lancaster for a few moments, then walked past him and out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Fifty-three

  Turner let out a breath as Lancaster approached his desk.

  “Most days like that?” Lancaster asked.

  “Pretty much,” Turner said, “but Atkins is one of the bigger mouths around here. Unfortunately, he’s also one of the richest men.”

  “Yeah, well, in my experience those two pretty much go hand in hand.” He stuck out his hand. “Lancaster.”

  “Bud Turner,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for the help.”

  “I thought you could’ve handled that character Wiley, but four-to-one odds is too much for any man to have to handle.”

  “He would’ve set them on me, too,” Turner said. “They wouldn’t have killed me, but I would have taken a beatin’. Thanks again.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Any word on Gerry Beck?” Turner asked, sitting down.

  “Well, I did hear that he was headed this way, but he could’ve been here and gone by now. I’m also tracking a man named Sweet.”

  “I heard. Somethin’ personal, right?”

  Lancaster touched the scar over his eye and said, “That’s right.”

  “Won’t let that get in the way of your Wells Fargo business, will you?”

  “I’ll do what I’m being paid to do.”

  “Speakin’ of which, you think Beck is around here? Or was?”

  “Possibly,” Lancaster said. “But I just trailed two men here who may be meeting with Sweet.”

  “Any chance Sweet is meetin’ up with Beck—or is that too much of a coincidence?”

  “That’s way too big a coincidence for me to even consider,” Lancaster said. “Bad enough I have to deal with the coincidence of both of them even coming here.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “Well, I was going to talk to the local sheriff, but I wanted you to fill me in on him.”

  “His name’s Jimmy Jacobs,” Turner said. “Career lawman on the way out. Be sixty next year. I think he’s gonna retire then.”

  “Honest?”

  “As the day is long.”

  “So I can trust what he says?”

  “Pretty much, although he may remember you from the old days, given his age.”

  “I’ll chance it,” Lancaster said. “If I need it will you vouch for me?”

  “Wells Fargo will.”

  “Good enough.”

  Lancaster stood up.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When you walked in,” Turner said, “you sized up the situation pretty good.”

  “Well,” Lancaster said, “I saw you facing four men, and didn’t think you were threatening them. It wasn’t that hard to pick a side.”

  “Well, thanks for pickin’ mine.”

  “No problem,” Lancaster said. “If you run into any more trouble while I’m in town, give me a holler and I’ll help if I can.”

  “Much obliged,” Turner said.

  As Lancaster reached the door, Turner called, “Come by the Red Ribbon Saloon later and I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Red Ribbon?”

  “It’s owned by a woman.”

  Lancaster nodded and went out.

  Fifty-four

  Lancaster made his way across the crowded street and found the sheriff’s office. Seemed like all he was doing of late was going from the Wells Fargo offices to the sheriff’s office every time he hit a new town. He wanted to have this job over with.

  “Sheriff Jacobs?”

  “The man behind the desk was tall and lean, gray haired with eyes to match, and a heavily lined face. He seemed to wear his career as a lawman on that face.

  “Help ya?”

  “I just came from the Wells Fargo office,” he said. “My name’s Lancaster.”

  “Lancaster.” It was as if he were tasting the name. “Seems familiar.”

  “Maybe I can save you some trouble,” Lancaster said. “The Chancellorville Revolt? That was me. The Fort Vincent War? Me.”

  “That Lancaster!” the man said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” the lawman said, “what war are you fighting around here?”

  “I didn’t know there were any wars around here.”

  “Oh, several. Unfortunately for you, wars these days are fought less with guns and more with words. Actually, that’s unfortunate for you and me. See, we’re dinosaurs, Mr. Lancaster, as we head for a new century.”

  “Well, Sheriff, I can tell you I ain’t looking forward to a new century.”

  “You’re younger than me,” Jacobs said. “You’ll still be young enough to enjoy it. Me? I’m not even sure I’ll be around.”

  The two men stood there, several feet apart, alone with their own thoughts for a few seconds.

  “Well,” Jacobs said, breaking the silence, “what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’m doin’ some work for Wells Fargo,” Lancaster said. “Tracking Gerry Beck.”

  “Have a seat,” Jacobs invited. “Beck’s been hittin’ them hard, I hear.”

  “Hard enough to pay me to track him.”

  “And you’ve tracked him here?”

  “This direction, yeah,” Lancaster said. “And he might be meeting up with a few other men.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, I’ve only got one name. A man called Sweet. Ring a bell?”

  “Sweet.” Jacobs thought a moment. “Can’t say I recognize it.”

  “There’s two more. But I don’t know their names.”

  “And all trails have led you here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, feel free to look around,” Jacobs said. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. We have had some strangers in town lately, but then we always have strangers in town. It’s that kind of place.”

  “You have some deputies?”

  “Two,” he said. “Young, both of them, but I think one of them is gettin’ ready to run against me next election. Probably beat me, too.”

  “You don’t sound very confident.”

  “I’ve had
my time,” Jacobs said. “Might be time for some new blood.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Be sixty soon.”

  “That ain’t old, Sheriff.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lancaster,” Jacobs said. “It is.”

  Lancaster stood up.

  “If I find my man—or men—can I count on you for support?” he asked.

  “If they’ve broken the law, it would be my job to aid you. So yes, you can.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Before he could say any more, the door opened and two men walked in. Both were young—one in his late twenties, the other early thirties. Both were wearing deputy’s badges.

  “Sheriff,” one of them said.

  “Ah, boys,” Jacobs said. “This is Mr. Lancaster. He’s here tracking Gerry Beck for Wells Fargo. These are my deputies, Lyle and Bodeen.”

  Both men nodded at him, and Bodeen said, “The Chancellorville Revolt? That Lancaster?”

  “That was me,” Lancaster said.

  “Damn,” Lyle said.

  “I’ve promised Lancaster our support if he runs into his men here.”

  “Men?” Bodeen asked.

  “I’ll explain it to you both,” Jacobs said. “Lancaster was just leaving.”

  “Thanks for your help, Sheriff,” Lancaster said on his way out.

  “He’s trouble,” Bodeen said, when Lancaster left.

  “Whataya mean?” Lyle asked.

  “Wherever he goes there’s a war,” Bodeen said, “and if there ain’t, he finds one.”

  “You’re talkin’ about the old days, Bodeen,” Jacobs said.

  Bodeen was the deputy Jacobs thought wanted to be sheriff.

  “I hope you’re right, Sheriff,” Bodeen said, “but if you don’t mind, I’m gonna keep an eye on him.”

  “That’s your job, Bodeen,” the sheriff said.

  “Right.”

  Bodeen left and Lyle looked at Jacobs.

  “He wants your job, you know,” Lyle said.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Lyle.” Jacobs held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “I’m this close to tellin’ him he can have it.”

  Fifty-five

  Lancaster could feel the deputy behind him. It was the older one, Bodeen.

  He knew the young man was watching him to see what kind of trouble he might get into, but that suited him. If he ran into Sweet or the other two or—even better—Gerry Beck, he knew this deputy would take a hand. He was the ambitious one.

  Lancaster needed to find somebody in Amarillo who knew Beck or Sweet. Or he needed to find those two strangers.

  And then it hit him. Probably the one man who could tell him where to find those two.

  He turned a corner, then stepped into a doorway and waited. Moments later Deputy Bodeen came walking around the corner, and he stepped out. Bodeen stopped short, eyes wide.

  “Hey!” Bodeen said.

  “Buy you a drink, Deputy?” Lancaster asked.

  Bodeen agreed to the drink out of curiosity and took Lancaster to the Red Ribbon Saloon.

  They stopped in front and Lancaster looked up at the sign over the door, which had a red ribbon painted on it.

  They went inside. It was the middle of the afternoon and the place was full.

  “I’ll get a table,” Bodeen said, “unless you wanna talk someplace quieter?”

  “No, this’ll do,” Lancaster said. In a place this noisy, there was probably less chance of them being overheard.

  Lancaster waited by the door until Bodeen returned with two beers and said, “Come on.”

  He had actually gotten them a table in a small back room that was used for poker. He pulled the curtained doorway closed behind them.

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. Lancaster?” he asked as they sat.

  “The sheriff told me one of his deputies was getting ready to run against him for his office in the next election,” Lancaster said. “I figure that’s you.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You seem the ambitious type to me.”

  “Why not Lyle?”

  “He didn’t know who I am,” Lancaster said. “You did.”

  “Well, I pay attention.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Lancaster said. “And I’ll bet you pay attention to what’s going on in town.”

  “I try to.”

  “Then you know when strangers ride in.”

  Bodeen smiled. He had good looks, which wouldn’t hurt him in an election. “I saw you ride in.”

  “So you’re making my point even stronger for me,” Lancaster said. “You know when strangers come to town, so you’ve seen the ones I’m looking for.”

  “I can’t get to them all,” Bodeen said. “That’s the sheriff’s job.”

  “So when Gerry Beck came through here, you either did or didn’t see him.”

  “I may have seen him and not known his name.”

  Lancaster took the time to describe Beck. According to Andy Black’s description, Beck hadn’t changed very much since he’d last seen him.

  “Guess that could be a lot of people,” Bodeen said. He seemed annoyed to have to admit that Beck might have been in town without him knowing it.

  “What about a man named Sweet? My description of him isn’t so good.”

  “Sweet was here.”

  Lancaster sat forward. “You sure?”

  “It ain’t a common name.”

  “When?”

  “A week, maybe ten days ago.”

  “With anybody?”

  “No, he was alone.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I braced him when he rode in,” Bodeen said. “I could see he was trouble.”

  “How did he react to being braced?”

  “Took it in stride,” Bodeen said. “Seemed real calm. We talked in one of the other saloons. He didn’t break a sweat.”

  “Did he say anything about waiting to meet anybody else?”

  “No. I asked him what he was up to, but he said he was just passing through.”

  “And how long did he stay?”

  “About six days, maybe a full week.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “Sat in front of his hotel, walked around town, drank, gambled…”

  “He was killing time.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Bodeen said. “Like he was waitin’ for somebody, but they never showed up.”

  “And he finally left?”

  “Just up and rode out,” Bodeen said. “Never made any trouble.”

  “Could he have left a message for anyone?”

  “Might’ve, but I don’t know who.”

  “Where’d he stay?”

  “Fifth Street Hotel, down the block.”

  “Do you know where he left his horse?”

  “Livery over on South Street.”

  “Any place else?”

  “Like where?”

  “Whorehouse?”

  Bodeen scratched his head, drank some beer. “I never saw him go to a whorehouse.”

  “Okay,” Lancaster said. “When I got here I was trailing two riders. I figure they got here about three days ahead of me.”

  “What’d they look like?”

  “Not sure,” Lancaster said. “Just a couple of cowpokes who’d been in a fight recently—although any cuts or bruises might have healed by bow.”

  “Like the one over your eye?”

  “This was compliments of a kick to the head by Sweet,” Lancaster said. “I owe him.”

  “So you’re huntin’ Beck for Wells Fargo, but Sweet’s personal?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “And these other two?”

  “They seem to know Sweet,” Lancaster said. “I thought they might lead me to him.”

  “And they led you here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I might be able to help you with those two,” Bodeen said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Drink up,�
� Bodeen said. “I’ll show you.”

  Lancaster pushed away his half-finished beer and said, “I’m ready now.”

  Fifty-six

  Bodeen led Lancaster to a rooming house down the street from the South Street Livery.

  “They left their horses there,” he said when they passed the livery.

  “Same place as Sweet,” Lancaster observed.

  “That could be a coincidence,” Bodeen said. “Most people use that one, or—where’d you leave your horse?”

  Lancaster told him.

  “Yeah, or that one.”

  When they got to the rooming house, Bodeen stopped across the street.

  “Two men rode in three days ago, got a room there,” he said.

  “If we go to the livery and I look at their horses, I’ll know,” Lancaster said. “The liveryman in Flagstaff told me their horses need new shoes.”

  “Oh, they’re the ones, all right.”

  “What makes you think they’re the ones I followed?” Lancaster asked.

  “Because when they got here, the first thing they did was start askin’ around for Sweet.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  Bodeen shrugged. “I wanted to talk for a while.”

  “They in there now?”

  Bodeen shrugged again. “I doubt it,” he said. “They’re usually out during the day.”

  “They go to one saloon over another?”

  “They hit them all,” Bodeen said.

  “They must still be looking for Sweet,” Lancaster said. “That means if Sweet did leave a message for them, they haven’t gotten it yet.”

  “We could go lookin’ for them.”

  “Or wait here for them to come back.”

  “That sounds boring,” Bodeen said. “’Sides, I got rounds to make.”

  “Okay,” Lancaster said, “you have a point. It might be better for me to come back at night, when they’re in their rooms. Who owns this place?”

  “Feller named Winston.”

  Lancaster looked at him.

  “I know, these places are usually run by women, widows.”

  “Older man?”

  “Yeah, in his sixties. In fact…”

  “What?”

  “He’s friends with the sheriff.”

  The two men who had tried to beat up Ray the bartender were in the Whiskey River Saloon, sulking over a couple of beers.

  “The man tells us to meet him here, and then when we get here he ain’t nowhere,” Rafe Fielding complained.