by Cameron Judd
“But we do know he ain’t come back to his work, and that ain’t like Ben Keely.” The mayor shook his head and rubbed a hand across his chin. “Something’s wrong somewhere, Luke. Don’t you feel it?”
Luke slumped and sighed. “I do. I do.”
They didn’t talk much after that. When they parted, Luke turned before he walked away and said, “Thank you again, Mayor, for letting me hire Dewitt as a jailer.”
“I hope his presence makes your job a little easier. Has it?”
“It will. No question about it.”
They went their separate ways, both of them musing through dark wonderings about what might have happened to Ben Keely.
The next day Luke, not content with secondhand information from the mayor, went to the nearest telegraph office and had a wire sent to Ben Keely’s hometown in Kentucky, to be delivered to Bess Keely, asking for any information she might provide about her brother’s whereabouts.
The message he received in reply came back from the key operator on the other end, just as the mayor’s had done. It told Luke that Ben Keely had been in Kentucky but now was absent. The general belief was that he had traveled back to Kansas as had been his plan, but the railroad’s records showed nothing to indicate Keely had left by train. His arrival was on record and a return ticket had been purchased, too, along with space in a stable car to ship home the horse he’d brought with him, but the return ticket had not been used, nor the horse ever actually stabled and shipped.
This information merely confirmed for Luke what the mayor had already told him, but there was one additional piece of news. His telegram could not be sent to Bess Keely as Luke had requested. Bess Keely had vanished as well, and no one knew where she might have gone, or why.
No comfort in that information, certainly. If the sister had fled, she was doing so for a reason. Something to hide or something to hide from. Or perhaps she’d suffered the same lethal fate as her brother, if Ben in fact was dead.
Either way, Luke couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to see Ben Keely again. Ben’s marshaling days, probably his living days, were over. It was merely a suspicion, but one that shouted in Luke’s mind in a volume approaching that of full knowledge.
Luke walked the streets of his town, crumpled transcript of the key operator’s message in his hand. Cursing softly, he tossed it into the space below the nearest board sidewalk.
Time to go back to the jailhouse. There was a prisoner to see to. Young fellow who’d gotten into a fight and took it too far, leaving the other fighter with a cut that required stitching up by old Doc Murray.
Then Luke remembered: Dewitt was at the jail tonight. He had help. So he didn’t have to go back to his office after all.
Not that he could go home. He still had rounds to make. Town laws to enforce. Lord, it wore a man out sometimes.
Luke spoke softly to no one present. “Ben, maybe you ain’t dead. Maybe you just decided to throw it all away and just not come back. If so, I’m mad at you for it. But I understand why you done it. Lord knows I understand.”
He turned on his heel and headed back into the heart of town.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two days later, a broadly built, tall man with a mustache that hung half an inch over his lip and crawled over both sides of his leathery face rode into Wiles on a huge roan horse. On the man’s vest was a badge, tarnished so that it blended in with the vest’s leather and was hardly visible past ten feet away.
He turned down an alleyway and crossed over to Montague Street. There he paused, slumping in the saddle, and admired the most remarkable edifice in the little Kansas town: a three-story, gleaming white structure with a front porch worthy of a state capitol building. The man tipped back his hat and studied the building from bottom to top, noting the way the letters on the sign identifying the building stood out brightly in the sunlight.
The sign read:
MONTAGUE’S EMPORIUM
Fine Clothing, Dry Goods
Hardware, Notions, and Domestic Products for All Purposes
Founder and Proprietor: Campbell Montague
A figure strode from the boardwalk fronting the building and neared the man on horseback. “Good evening, Sheriff Crowe,” said the newcomer, Clara Ashworth.
Her voice startled him. He looked down at her sharply, his hand actually moving spasmodically in the direction of the Remington holstered high on his right hip. But he caught himself, relaxed, and smiled down on her.
“Good day, ma’am. Mrs. Ashworth, if I remember correctly? Wife of Howard Ashworth from down at the bank?”
“Indeed, Sheriff,” she said, extending up her hand to let him gently shake it. “It is a pleasure to see the leading peace officer of our county making a visit to town. Nothing is amiss, I hope?”
“Just here on business, ma’am. Hoping to locate your town marshal to help me conduct it.”
She rolled her eyes to the clouds above. “Oh my, sir, don’t get me to talking on that subject! Our town marshal is someone you will not find. Marshal Keely has not graced our town with his presence for lo these many weeks now. We’ve been making do for law enforcement with our young deputy, Mr. Cable, while awaiting Marshal Keely’s overdue return.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m aware that Ben went away eastward to visit his kin owing to the death of his father. It’s Mr. Cable I’ve come to find.”
“Perhaps he is at his office, then.”
“I’m on my way over there. Just crossed over through the alley there to take a look at the emporium here. Remarkable that such a place exists in a town such as Wiles.”
Mrs. Ashworth frowned. “‘A town such as Wiles.’ What is the meaning of that phrase, sir? It seemed to have an overtone of insult…and given that I am a descendant of James Wiles, whose name this county and town bears, I cannot let such a comment pass without asking for clarification.”
Sheriff Harvey Crowe inwardly cursed at himself for having forgotten the uppity nature of this woman. He deplored having to pander to her prideful manner, but the fact was that her husband had been a strong supporter of his first bid for county sheriff years ago, and he felt a certain obligation.
“Ma’am, I was merely talking about the fine nature of the store in relation to the size of the town. No reference intended to any perceived deficiency in your town’s quality.” Like hell, he mentally added. Crowe had never liked this town, largely because of the social pretentiousness of some of its residents, foremost among them Mrs. Clara Ashworth.
“I accept your apology, then,” she said, although he’d apologized for nothing.
He held his tongue.
Clara inflated with pompousness. “In my own view, the fact that Mr. Montague chose our town for his notable establishment is indicative that he is insightful enough to recognize quality and potential when he sees it. He could have built his emporium anywhere he pleased. Wichita. Denver. Chicago. But he chose Wiles, Kansas.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve talked to him about that. He told me that he wanted to find a place where he could live out his later years peaceful and all, and where that idiot nephew of his wouldn’t be picked on as much as he would be in a big city.”
A look of disgust passed across the woman’s face. “Oh, yes…that nephew…the only negative aspect I can find regarding this institution’s presence in our town. It’s a public embarrassment to have that drooling fool out here sweeping these steps and singing in that horrible voice of his, day after day. I’m quite sure it turns away customers and drives people away from one of the commercial areas of our town, yet Mr. Montague allows it to go on.”
“I don’t think Mr. Montague cares as much about drawing customers as he does about having something to occupy his time and give his nephew something to do,” Crowe answered.
“Well, if that is so, then I am surprised at the success he has had in life. As Howard always says, a man of business must be unaffected by sentiment. Opening such a massive business as a pastime and working opportunity for an
idiot boy…that is hardly sound business reasoning.”
Crowe touched the front brim of his hat. “I have to move on, ma’am. Have yourself a pleasant—” He cut off abruptly, having glanced up at the upper front portion of the emporium building, where a window overlooked the street.
“What do you see, Sheriff?” Mrs. Ashworth asked.
“I…I’m not sure, ma’am,” he said. “Trick of the light on the window glass, probably. As I was saying, have a pleasant day.”
He took his leave of Clara Ashworth, glad to do so. When he was away from her, the woman looked up at the high window of the emporium, squinted, shrugged, and moved on.
Dewitt Stamps was dozing at the jailer’s desk when his unexpected visitor showed up at his office door. He came awake at the sound of the knock, stood so fast he bumped over his chair, and brushed down his rumpled hair and clothing as he called, “Hang on! Be right there!”
He was not pleased to see County Sheriff Harvey Crowe on the other side of the door. More than once he’d had encounters with the hard-edged lawman during his drinking days, and he didn’t anticipate that Crowe would be the kind to believe he’d really changed.
Crowe immediately fulfilled Dewitt’s expectation. “Well, Stamps, I see the tales are really true,” he said, flinty eyes boring into the disheveled jailer. Crowe scanned Dewitt up and down. “They’ve hired an egg-sucking dog to guard the henhouse. Hell, you look like you just woke up, man. Does the acting marshal know you’ve been snoozing on the job?”
“I’m wide awake, Sheriff. You want to come in?”
Crowe grunted and entered, giving Dewitt a sniff as he did so. “Well, you don’t smell like whiskey, anyway, so that’s good.”
“I’ve give up the stuff,” Dewitt said proudly. “The good Lord runs my life now.”
“Yeah, I heard somewhere you’d gone religious on us, Stamps,” Crowe replied. “Good for you, then. Hope it sticks.”
“Four years now,” Dewitt said.
Crowe gave a dismissive shake of the head. “For most I’ve known, being a drunk is a lifetime matter. You got plenty of time and opportunity to fall off that wagon, Dewitt.”
“I won’t. I’m riding that wagon from here on out. Lord’s wagon.”
“We’ll see. I hope you’re right. But even the Lord’s wagon hits bumps that can jar a man off his seat sometimes. Hey, where’s the town marshal?”
“Ben’s been gone off to Kentucky now for a good while,” Dewitt said. “I thought you knew that.”
“I do know that,” Crowe returned with irritation. “I’m asking for Luke, not Ben. Acting Marshal Cable.”
“Well, I ain’t sure where Luke is just now,” said Dewitt. “Probably out making some rounds. He does that most of the time if he ain’t here in the office.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to have to track him down, then,” Crowe growled. “If he comes back in here in the next little while, you tell him I’m looking for him. If I don’t find him I’ll check back here and see if he’s come back.”
“I’ll do it, Sheriff. Is there something wrong?”
“Mostly just something strange. I got a wire this morning from over near the Doggett community. You know Charlie Bays, who’s got that little ranch out that way? Well, one of Charlie’s boys, the one with the big knot on the side of his head that looks like a brown egg growing hair, has found a leg out by the railroad track.”
Dewitt paled. “A leg? Like a cut-off leg?”
“Exactly. Leg, still in a trouser leg, boot still on the foot. Lying there beside the tracks.”
“Oh my,” muttered Dewitt, slumping weakly back toward his chair at the desk. “Oh my!”
“You look a little green, Stamps. This kind of thing make you squeamish?”
“It’s just that…that…you know what I’m thinking about.”
“Yep. You’re thinking back on all the times you passed out drunk by the railroad tracks, and how some of them times you probably had a leg or an arm lying over the rail, and how but for the grace of God and good luck you never were lying there like that when the train actually came along. You’re thinking how easy it could have been your leg somebody was finding by the railroad.”
Dewitt nodded weakly, staring at the top of the desk.
“That’s what it’ll prove to be, you know,” Crowe said. “Some old drunk’s leg. Some poor guzzling bastard who had the ill fortune to pass out while he was walking the tracks and drinking. What is it about you drunks that makes you walk on railroad tracks, anyhow? It’s always that way with you people…moth to the flame. Moth to the flame. Every drunk I’ve ever known ends up passed out along a railroad track sometime or another, when he could just as easy have walked up a road or a footpath instead of a railroad track.” Crowe paused, cleared his throat, and began speaking in a mocking, higherpitched voice. “Oh, I’m so drunk I’m going to fall over and pass out any second now…I think I’ll run down and straddle the railroad tracks.” Then Crowe laughed derisively.
Dewitt had nothing to say.
Crowe found a chair in the corner and dragged it over near the desk. Dewitt did a poor job of disguising his displeasure at this. Crowe was not pleasant company to have close at hand. Too many memories of past arrests.
“I wonder if Wilton Brand is in town?” Crowe said. “If he is, it might be worth taking him along, too, him being coroner.”
“Why you need a coroner for just a leg? A leg ain’t a dead man.”
“No. But Wilton knows how to read the flesh, so to speak. He can probably tell me how long ago that leg got cut off, how big a man it belonged to, all that kind of thing.”
“He’s probably over at his shop.”
“I’ll find him. Meantime, you keep an eye out for Luke. I want to take him with me, too.”
“Why you want Luke? He ain’t got no authority over in Doggett. He’s just the marshal here in Wiles.”
“He’s also deputized to work with me in the county, just like I help him out here in town. Cooperation, Dewitt. Helps us both. And besides, I have a funny feeling about this whole thing. Charlie Bays says that he don’t believe that leg was cut off by a train, even though it was lying beside the tracks and the first thing you think of in that kind of situation is that it had to be a train accident.”
“Why’s Charlie think otherwise?”
“Something about the way it looks, I guess. That’s why I want the coroner with me. He ought to be able to render a good judgment.”
Dewitt said, “I’m glad I ain’t no coroner. I ain’t good with dead things and blood and such.”
“Nobody’s ‘good with’ that kind of thing, Dewitt. But when something’s your job, you learn to deal with it. So you want to come along, too?”
Dewitt shook his head firmly. “No, sir. I was told by Luke to mind the jail office and keep an eye on our prisoner. That’s what I’m going to do. My job here is deputy jailer, not deputy cut-off-leg looker.”
“Who you got back there? Anybody I know?”
“Stu Curtis.”
“Drunk as usual?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hopeless case.”
“No, sir. Ain’t no hopeless cases. I’m proof of that.”
“Time will tell. Though I’ll admit to you, Dewitt, that four years off the bottle is right impressive, given how you used to be.”
“Power of the Lord, Sheriff. That’s all it is.”
Crowe wasn’t listening. He’d just spotted someone across the street, and headed out the door without another word to Dewitt.
The person he’d spotted was the local physician, Dr. Bill Artemus, who had retired from medicine in Boston, headed west to settle into a private, relaxed life in a small Kansas town, and there had found himself busier than he’d been in the city. Sheriff Crowe called him down, crossed the street to him, and talked to him animatedly while Dewitt Stamps, standing by his desk, watched it all through the jail office window. When Crowe walked off, the aged but nimble doctor went with him. They hea
ded toward Cross Street, where Coroner Wilton Brand maintained his furniture shop at the times he wasn’t dealing with the dead of Wiles County.
“Going to go see that leg, the whole gang of them, I guess,” Dewitt muttered aloud to himself. Then he shuddered, hoping he’d never have to go look at such a gruesome thing in the course of his humble law enforcement duties.
Dewitt was about to sit down again when he noticed Crowe grinning and waving at someone down the street. Dewitt shifted his angle of view and saw that the person Crowe had seen was Luke Cable.
“Going to have a regular parade to go out to Charlie Bays’s ranch,” Dewitt said to himself, then sat down.
CHAPTER FIVE
The severed leg had been moved into Charlie Bays’s shed by the time the delegation from Wiles got to the Bays Ranch at Doggett. Because of his hounds, Charlie Bays explained. Had to move it for fear of the dogs treating it like found food. Funny thing, though, he added: the dogs that had sniffed the leg out in the first place had not seemed nearly as interested in it as canines normally would be.
“Maybe they just weren’t hungry,” Luke speculated with a shrug as he followed Sheriff Crowe toward the shed. At the door he paused and took a deep breath, expecting that the smell of the leg might be hard to tolerate, depending on how long it had been severed.
The air in the shed, though, smelled only slightly musty. No smell of decay at all. Evidence, Luke figured, that the leg had not been long separated from its former possessor.
When he saw the limb, however, he rethought that notion. The leg was lying on a rugged shed table, bare, Bays having slipped off the trouser leg that had apparently been cut off with it.
The boot, worn and dirty, was still on the foot. The flesh of the leg was quite pale, somewhat hirsute but lacking freckles, blemishes, and the like. The violence of dismemberment had not marred the leg in any very noticeable way.
Coroner Wilton Brand moved to the severed, thigh portion of the leg, leaned over, and examined the cut flesh closely. He waved Dr. Artemus over. “Take a look, Bill. You see what I see?”
