by Jake Logan
He dug. It took him longer than he’d expected to get down to the pine box and brush off the dirt. The odor of decay rose even with the lid closed, but Slocum knew what he had to do. He sucked in his breath, held it, and then pried open the coffin. A gust of grave fumes hit him although he had expected it and had closed his eyes. When his lungs felt like bursting, he exhaled slowly, pulled up his bandanna, and sucked in timid breaths through it.
Slocum dropped down, gripped the corpse’s arm, and tugged. It came off. Muttering a curse under his breath, he used the shovel to roll Emily Dawson’s remains to one side, exposing her right rib cage. The flesh was wrinkled and partly eaten by worms, but in the moonlight he saw a long scar running from her armpit down to her hip.
The Kansas City whore and Emily Dawson were one and the same. Slocum didn’t believe in coincidence, and the telegrapher had been too specific about the scar for there to be two women with similar disfigurement. Slocum closed the lid and shoveled back the dirt. Tamping it down so it looked as it had before he dug her up proved impossible, so he didn’t bother.
As he walked back to his horse, he saw something move within the shadows ahead of him. He drew and aimed, but the wavering shadow disappeared and left him only with the burden of what he had just done.
Slocum rode slowly back toward town, not sure how he could use any of the information he had unearthed. At that thought, he wiped his hands against his jeans, leaving dirty streaks. He had uncovered more than a few hidden facts about Emily Dawson and Philomena Bray. He wished he could have gone to the undertaker and gotten a decent answer but knew better than to ask. His question would be on everyone’s lips for fifty miles around.
He didn’t want the preacher to find out about his wife. But that thought rankled. He might not owe anything to the man or the memory of his wife, but Slocum wondered if Emily had killed herself. The reverend might have put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger because he had discovered everything that Slocum had.
It didn’t pay to think too long on such things. It made his head hurt—and without finishing off a pint of whiskey to get there.
He rode up to the house and dismounted, noting a buggy out front he didn’t recognize. Slocum went in the rear and walked softly to a point where he could listen in as Severigne talked to her late-night visitor.
“Is this something you would do?” Severigne asked.
Slocum stood a little straighter when he recognized Henry Dawson’s voice.
“It is unusual but I might see my way to doing as you ask. I would need more assurance that it would not become a mockery.”
“A moment, Reverend,” Severigne said. Louder, she called, “Mr. Slocum, you should be involved in our negotiation.”
Slocum went into the parlor. The pastor sat stiff as a board across the table from Severigne, holding a cup of tea. He looked as uncomfortable as . . . a preacher in a whorehouse.
“Good evening,” Slocum said, aware that the dirt on his shirt and hands had come from the grave of the man’s wife.
“Reverend Dawson has agreed to conduct a wedding service out front.”
“Who’s getting married?” Slocum stared at Severigne, wondering if she was playing some elaborate game that he wasn’t privy to.
“Since Catherine found herself a husband on a nearby ranch, the other girls have been chattering like magpies. Missy wants to marry the owner of the H Bar L and I have agreed.”
“It smacks of slavery, this way you’re dickering with the rancher,” muttered Dawson.
“Nonsense. It is traditional for a dowry to be offered.”
“The rancher wants only the best for his future wife. Missy wouldn’t feel right simply riding off.”
“Like Catherine,” Slocum said. He wondered if Severigne and Missy had conspired to take the owner of the H Bar L for some money and this was part of the hoax. Having the reverend involved would make it seem on the level.
“She was such a strong-headed girl. Not like Missy, who wants to observe the niceties of marital bliss.”
“You’ll perform the ceremony?” Slocum looked straight at Henry Dawson, who reluctantly nodded.
“I’m about the only one who can marry them, other than the circuit judge. He won’t be through Clabber Crossing for another month and there seems to be some urgency to the wedding.”
Things fell into place for Slocum. Missy was pregnant and had landed herself an honorable man, though who the father might be would always be open to question. This wasn’t something all that rare.
“I will get the money from the rancher and we will put on a fine wedding,” Severigne said, as if everything was settled.
“There will be details,” Henry Dawson said. His uneasiness with the arrangements was evident. He stood to leave.
Out of the corner of his eye, Slocum caught movement at the window. He turned and drew, not intending to let Molinari’s gunmen cut him down from ambush.
“Wait!” Dawson said, holding out his hand. “That’s my son. He came with me. Don’t shoot, Mr. Slocum. Please.”
“He is a fine boy. Perhaps he can be the ring bearer at the wedding,” Severigne said.
Slocum slipped his six-shooter back into the holster. Edgar Dawson had a habit of looking through windows all over town. What had he seen? Slocum would have to ask—when his father wasn’t around.
15
Tracking Edgar Dawson proved harder than Slocum had anticipated. The boy was fast, and he knew the woods around town better than Slocum ever could. Twice Slocum found likely spots where the boy had stopped, possibly to rest. He found partially eaten bread in the crook of a tree and small, shiny stones polished by a running creek in the bole of another tree. But the boy might as well have turned into a rabbit and hopped into his burrow for all the luck Slocum had finding him.
Slocum ended up near the cabin where he had found Emily Dawson’s body. He had gone through the debris there several times and hadn’t come up with any likely killer. The more he thought on it, the more likely it seemed that Emily had killed herself rather than submit to Molinari’s blackmail. As a pastor’s wife, she didn’t have anywhere near the financial resources that Philomena Bray had.
He ought to tell Bray he had discovered the embezzler but couldn’t find it in his heart to do so—not yet. What would it gain having Martin Bray kill his wife, and Slocum knew that would be the outcome. Bray wasn’t a man who took financial loss easily. Coming to Slocum for help proved that. Slocum didn’t owe any of them a plugged nickel, but what stuck in his craw was the way Molinari worked. Blackmailing women trying to make their lives outside a whorehouse was about as despicable as it got.
After poking through the cabin again, he finally sat in the chair where Emily had died. He stared ahead as she must have. Why had she given him that note if all she wanted to do was kill herself? A hardness seized his heart and rage mounted as he thought it through. He was new in town and was obviously of low moral character since he had been sent out to a whorehouse to work off a gambling debt.
Emily had wanted it to look as if he had killed her. Suicide caused too many questions to be asked, and answers were what she wanted to avoid. But if a drifter shot her, it might appear that she had tried to defend herself against his unwanted sexual advances. It didn’t matter if he was hanged for the crime. Her reputation would be intact. She wouldn’t be a whore blackmailed by an unscrupulous photographer. She would be the preacher’s wife defending her honor—her family—against a sexual predator. Emily Dawson would be a hero, not a woman trying to run from a sordid past that was rapidly overtaking her.
That also explained why Marshal Dunbar had been so close. Although he had never said, Emily must have sent him a note, too, so that the lawman would find Slocum by her body and seal his guilt. Her timing had been off and she had killed herself before either Slocum or the marshal could hear the killing gunshot.
Slocum didn’t like it but had to admit she was clever. Protecting her husband and son mattered more than an innocent m
an getting his neck stretched.
He wondered what Molinari would have done if her plan had succeeded. As far as Slocum could tell, the photographer would have done nothing. Emily would have won. There was no reason Molinari would come forward with his photographs because it might give Slocum an argument to present to the jury: she was nothing but a whore. On the other hand, if Molinari came forward with the photographs, he would have had to explain how he had come by them. Worse, the leverage he held over Philomena Bray might vanish.
Pushing out of the rickety chair, Slocum left the cabin, never wanting to return here again. He had worked out part of the secrets flowing just under the calm surface of Clabber Crossing. Others were still hidden from him, but he knew they all had a common source.
Andrew Molinari.
He returned to Severigne’s house to find it bustling with activity. He was not in the mood to deal with the madam or her clients but found he had no choice.
“Slocum, come here. Now.” Severigne motioned imperiously. When he got to the foot of the kitchen steps, she came down and said in a low voice, “I need your experience.”
“For what?”
“The rancher is here. He negotiates, but I find I cannot understand all he says. You are a cowboy. You know these things.”
“I can’t negotiate for a woman’s hand in marriage. That’s between Missy and the rancher.”
“His name is Lehrer, and I must know if he is, how do you say it, on the up-and-up.”
“Folks in town must know if he owns a ranch anywhere nearby. Ask them.”
“I . . . I trust you.” The words were almost as if they burned Severigne’s tongue to say. “Those in town look down their big noses at me and what I do here. You do not.”
“Sometimes I’ve taken a dip in a pond like this and gotten more than my toes wet. Maybe not as fancy, but I’m not going to deny it.”
“You must ask him of cow things. You know this. Do it for my sake. Do it for Missy.”
“Either she loves him or she doesn’t. That goes for this Lehrer. The number of head he runs or how big the spread shouldn’t matter.”
“As long as her spread is big enough for him, eh?”
“I’ll talk to him. Might be I can get a job when I finish here.” He followed Severigne into the house, knowing a job would be the last thing he’d ever ask Lehrer for. He couldn’t imagine working for Missy. She was conniving and almost as much a moneygrubber as Severigne, only lacking the madam’s finesse.
“This the gent you told me about?” A whipcord thin man stood and thrust out his hand. Slocum wasn’t surprised at the powerful grip or the calluses. This wasn’t a rancher who sat in a fancy house and let his cowboys do the work. He got out and rode herd with them. He was an inch or two shorter than Slocum’s six feet and his sandy hair was already going thin, although he couldn’t have been thirty. His face was like tanned leather, and his pale gray eyes weren’t missing a thing.
“He is. Mr. Lehrer.”
“Call me Hans. All my boys do.”
“Hans, such a fine Old World name.” Severigne told some meaningless story about France.
Lehrer smiled politely and said, “You got me about that, Miss Severigne. I was born down in New Braunfals and sorta made my way north.”
“Been here long?” Slocum asked. He had no idea what Severigne wanted him to find out.
“A couple years. Gets mighty lonely up here. I run a thousand head of cattle, and even with a dozen cowboys workin’ the herd, it gets lonely, if you know what I mean.”
“Reckon so,” Slocum said. “You visit Missy often?”
“Not as often as I’d like, which is why I asked her to marry me.”
“You don’t have any problem with her being a whore?”
“Slocum!” Severigne sounded outraged, but her shrewd eyes took in Lehrer’s every twitch and tic and expression. Slocum vowed never to play poker with her. With the luck he’d had since coming to Clabber Crossing, he ought to swear off gambling altogether.
“Please, Miss Severigne, that’s a fair question. My people aren’t the most law-abiding down in Texas, which is one reason I came to Wyoming. But I put that life behind me, and Missy says she can put this behind her, too.”
“Not everything I’ve learned here, Hans.” Missy giggled like a schoolgirl. “And I won’t forget all the things you taught me.”
“See? She’s a frisky little filly and the best damned liar this side of the Tetons.”
“Hans!” Missy feigned outrage, but Slocum saw she was pleased. It came as something of a surprise to him, but he thought the two of them might actually be in love.
A sharp rap at the front door caused Severigne to look irritated, then she hurried over and opened it. Slocum saw past her to one of Molinari’s gunman. He shot to his feet, hand going to his six-shooter, but Severigne had already closed the door and was coming back.
Slocum passed her, threw open the door, and saw the man riding off at a gallop. He considered going after him, but what was the point?
He closed the door as Severigne handed Missy a note. Her face went pale, then she flushed.
“I have to go. Just for a moment,” she said.
“Is there something wrong?” Slocum asked. She pushed past him without looking at him. She looked as if she might cry at any instant or perhaps kill someone.
“Slocum, here,” Severigne said, patting the chair he had vacated. He returned but wondered what was in the note Missy had taken with her, clutched in her fist.
“We can settle this matter,” Hans Lehrer said. “What’ll it take for you to agree to let me and Missy get hitched?”
Severigne smiled, but before she could say a word, Slocum interrupted. “You go on. I’ll be back in a minute.” He had caught sight of Missy riding off in the direction taken by Molinari’s henchman. Ignoring Severigne’s protest, he got to his horse and rode after Missy. She had a few minutes’ head start but was galloping hard enough to tire her mount within a mile. Slocum maintained a more sedate pace, trotting along as he kept a sharp lookout. Molinari’s men had tried to ambush him twice. He didn’t intend to let them have a third shot at him.
Missy must have realized she was killing her horse because she slowed but kept moving faster than Slocum wanted to push his own horse. She knew where she was headed and he didn’t, though the dark allowed him to ride closer than he could have in the daytime. Something told him that she would veer away from her rendezvous if she thought she was being trailed.
That she didn’t bother to look behind told Slocum she was in a powerful hurry, and all because of the note.
He kept riding, then stopped abruptly because he no longer heard the woman’s horse ahead. Slocum turned slowly and caught faint voices drifting on the night air. He rode slowly in that direction, moving through a ravine and up into a wooded area until he caught sight of two figures silhouetted by the moonlight. Only then did he dismount and advance on foot, straining to hear what was being said.
“You stop meddling. This is none of your business!” Missy came within an inch of shouting.
“I’m not meddling. I want to offer the groom a fine picture of his betrothed.”
Slocum recognized Molinari’s voice even if he couldn’t make out the man’s face. The moonlight reflected off a shiny photograph as the photographer moved closer to Missy. The woman recoiled as if she had been struck.
“Go on. Look at it and tell me if this isn’t what a fine, upstanding rancher would frame and hang on the wall to commemorate his nuptials.”
Missy snatched the photograph from Molinari and held it up to study it. All Slocum saw was the back of the photograph. At more than twenty feet, he wouldn’t have been able to make out the details even in broad daylight.
“No, you—you’re a horrible man! You wouldn’t show Hans this!” Missy ripped up the photo and threw it at Molinari’s feet. The photographer knelt and carefully picked up the pieces and tucked them into his coat pocket.
“We wouldn’t wa
nt some curious cowboy to see the pieces. Why, even the torn sections are so—”
“I’ll kill you!”
“My assistants have orders to show this photo and quite a few others of you to anyone in town who’d like to see them. Kill me and you’ll be exposed.” Molinari chuckled. “I’d say you’ll be exposed more than you are in that photograph.”
“Go to hell!”
“You know what I want,” Molinari called after her as Missy rushed off, mounted, and rode into the night.
Slocum hesitated. He could trail Molinari, probably back to his office, and find what that photograph was by either stealing it or beating the information out of the photographer. Since Lehrer knew what his bride-to-be did for a living, what could Molinari have shown Missy to upset her so? Slocum believed the photographer when he said he had more copies—as many copies as he wanted. From what Slocum knew of the photographic process, as long as Molinari had the original plate, he could make all the photographs he liked. The process was something akin to magic as far as Slocum could tell, but the photographer didn’t need any single printed photograph when he could flood the town with hundreds of copies.
Slocum had no doubt Molinari would carry through with his threat. If what he had figured out about Emily was right, Molinari had driven her to suicide. And there was no doubt about him blackmailing Philomena Bray. But what could Molinari possibly have photographed with Missy in the picture to make her react the way she had?
He came to a quick decision. Molinari’s henchmen probably waited not far off to protect their boss. Taking on all three in the dark of the night, even with the moon to help him a mite, wasn’t smart. He had the advantage of surprise, but that would only bring down one of the men and then he would be pitted against two.
If either got away, Missy’s photograph would be spread around town. Slocum wanted to keep that from happening.
He backed away, then got his horse and rode at an angle to the way he had approached the meeting. His tactic worked. Missy had swung about in a wide circle before heading back to Severigne’s. He spotted her only a little bit ahead and yelled.
