Murder in Dogleg City

by Ford Fargo

  “Figures you’d have your hand out like the rest of them,” she said. “How do you take yours, deputy—in cash or by a free poke?”

  Quint was taken aback. “Oh no, ma’am. I get paid by the marshal’s office—no need for anything extra.”

  Abby’s face showed her astonishment, then the smile returned to her face. “Well I haven’t heard anything that refreshing in a long time. Quint, I can see that you and I are going to get along fine.” She winked. “There might even be an occasional free one in it for you, anyways.”

  Quint’s face flushed, and he muttered, “I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. If you have any trouble, just send someone out to the marshal’s office.”

  Quint had walked away, feeling a little disturbed. It seemed obvious that Abby Potter was making payouts to the marshal, probably in return for working her trade undisturbed. He realized that was probably also what had been going on with the owners of the Lucky Break and the Wolf’s Den. Sam’s bristly treatment of Asa Pepper and Soo Chow might mean they didn’t have such an agreement with him—or maybe it meant that they did, but since they weren’t white he didn’t feel the need to be deferential toward them. He also realized that, if Sam Gardner were corrupt, the marshal needn’t keep it a secret to protect his job—since the mayor was one of the people paying him off.

  Several months had gone by since that day, and not much had changed. Sam was spending more and more of his evening hours at the Wolf’s Den, the Eldorado, and the Lucky Break, especially since he had been shot in the leg a month or so back—leaving the affairs and patrolling of Wolf Creek and Dogleg City up to his deputies. Deputy Fred Garvey, a middle-aged Georgian who seemed to fit right in with Sam Gardner’s amoral approach to peacekeeping, had been killed in the Danby Gang’s bank raid, the same occasion on which Sam was wounded. A new man had been hired just a few days ago—a hulking bear of an Irishman named Seamus O’Connor, who had served as a policeman in the infamous Five Points neighborhood of New York City. Quint had already figured out that “experienced policeman,” in O’Connor’s case, meant he was experienced at taking graft and would also fit right in.

  Quint was content with his job and the pay that he received for it. Fifty dollars a month, together with room and meals, was more than he could make herding cattle. Quint didn’t attempt to find out the particulars of Sam Gardner’s arrangements with the shady business owners of Dogleg City. It seemed that under the table payouts—while not moral—were accepted as a matter of course by all concerned.

  And he had to admit, apart from that aspect of the marshal’s office, Sam Gardner really had shown himself to be an effective peacekeeper. He kept the rowdies in line, without scaring them and their spending money away from the town altogether. He stood up to bullies and mean drunks with nerves of steel, and was generally fair in his treatment of them. And when that small army of ex-guerrillas had raided the town and robbed the bank, Gardner and Garvey put themselves into the line of fire without a second thought. It cost the Georgia deputy his life, and cost the marshal a bullet in his leg. Quint did not doubt the new deputy, O’Connor, would prove to be just as brave.

  But Quint wanted nothing to do with their other activities. He minded his own business in that regard. Quint Croy was a simple man. His job was to keep peace in Dogleg City—and when that peace was broken he did something about it.

  * * *

  The deputy was shaken from his early morning reverie by the sound of faint footfalls on the outside boardwalk, and a moment later the front door opened. Quint looked up to see the owner of Li Wong’s Laundry standing in the doorway. The slight man had a blank, wide eyed expression on his face. Li Wong beckoned to Quint with his right arm. “You come!” he said.

  Quint wondered at the Chinese man’s action. He knew that Li Wong spoke little English, but was able to understand all that was said to him in that language.

  “Do you have a problem, Li Wong?”

  The little man motioned again. “You come, De-pu-tee,” he insisted. Quint stood and walked toward the door. Li Wong stepped away when Quint neared, motioning with his arm again. Quint trailed behind Li Wong, figuring to follow him to the laundry a block west on South street. Li Wong walked briskly ahead of Quint, cautiously turning his head from time to time to see if the deputy was still following him. Li Wong walked on past his laundry business on Third Street and on to Second Street. He turned left, then crossed over Grant Street into the rough side of town, the neighborhood which the locals called Dogleg City, then kept going.

  They walked past the Lucky Break saloon. The place was closed, as it ought to be at this hour. There were no boardwalks in front of the buildings in that part of town, so Quint and Li Wong walked down the middle of the somewhat rutted, dusty street. Quint was very familiar with the businesses down the street at the southernmost end of town, where nightly occurrences of violence were common. The business buildings and the shacks of Cribtown, south of Grant Street, carried an air of impermanence. Constructed of cheap pine lumber, they would have a short lifetime, most likely ending in fire or rot.

  At the very end, on the east side, was Asa’s saloon—a ramshackle building that housed the lowest class drinking spot in Wolf Creek. The owner and founder, Asa Pepper, had been born a slave sixty years ago. Few locals frequented the place; most of the customers were black cowboys and laborers that arrive with the cattle herds, along with some prairie hide hunters. Mexicans, Indians, and a few whites who did not prefer, or could not afford, the higher side of Wolf Creek’s establishments lined up as well. Asa would serve anyone that could put money on the bar. Men came here to escape the hardship of their lives, to guzzle the cheapest whiskey in town, or maybe to spend a little time with a dollar chippy. Women were readily available at Asa’s, or—more discreetly—in one of the dozen shacks that were scattered out back, where the women slept after hours.

  Quint glanced at the closed door of Asa’s as they walked past. It was dark behind the filth-streaked glass. The Red Chamber, an opium den directly across the street, was closed as well. The Red Chamber was owned by Tsu Chiao, another Chinese—everyone pronounced his name “Soo Chow.” Quint wondered if Li Wong and Soo Chow had a misunderstanding. Fortunately, Soo Chow spoke English fluently, so maybe they could get to the bottom of this quickly. Li Wong, however, walked on past the Red Chamber. He turned beside Asa’s Saloon and headed to the back, toward the whore shacks of Cribtown. As soon as Li Wong reached the back corner of Asa’s, he began speaking excitedly in Chinese and pointing.

  A man was crumpled on the ground. He lay on his back, open but sightless eyes fixed on the sky. He was dressed in cowboy garb—denim pants, cotton shirt and a cowhide vest. The fly of his pants was open and the end of his pecker, though shriveled, was visible; the whole front of the pants was piss stained. Quint dropped to one knee and touched the back of his hand to the man’s neck. It was cold, too cold to have been chilled by the night air alone. He lifted the man’s shoulder and looked at his back. He had been shot between the shoulder blades. The heart must have stopped right away as there was not a lot of blood. Quint lowered the body. There was no obvious exit wound. The man had most likely been shot with a pistol, and the ball was lodged somewhere inside. A rifle bullet would have gone clean through.

  Quint searched the man’s pockets and found $122.00 in bills and a few coins, all of which he stuffed into his own shirt pocket for accounting. He looked for any papers that might indicate who the victim was, but found nothing. The man had a .36 caliber Navy Colt still in its holster. It was fully loaded and unfired. Quint stuck it in his belt. It looked as if the man was most likely taking a leak when someone shot him in the back.

  Quint stood and studied the surrounding area, then turned to face Li Wong,

  “I suppose you found him while you were making your rounds to pick up some dirty laundry?”

  Li Wong nodded. “Miss Haddie say pick up clothes outside early.” The Miss Haddie in question, Quint knew, lived and whored in one of the
shacks nearby.

  Quint knew that Sam would assign him all the investigating leg work, particularly since the killing had taken place in Dogleg City—Quint’s unofficially assigned territory. Sam was most likely still in his quarters; the marshal liked to be most visible during the evening gambling hours. It would be up to Quint to notify Elijah Gravely the undertaker to pick up the body, then contact Doctor Munro for his assessment.

  Quint pointed toward the street and The Red Chamber. “We could walk over and talk a bit with Soo Chow, see if he has anything to add to this.”

  Li Wong bristled visibly. Quint knew there was a rift between the two Chinese men—Li Wong disapproved of Tsu Chiao’s abusive opium trade at The Red Chamber, and disapproved even more of his unwanted attentions towards Li Wong’s sixteen-year-old daughter. Tsu Chiao no doubt figured the nubile young girl would make a prized addition to the wing of his establishment he called “the Jade Chamber.”

  “You can take your cart and go on back to the laundry, Li Wong, I’ll speak with Soo Chow later on,” Quint said. The relief was evident in Li Wong’s face. “You can save me a trip if you would stop by Gravely’s Funeral Home and tell Elijah that I need him to come down and pick the body up, I’d appreciate it.” Li Wong nodded, then wasted no time in leaving.

  Quint turned back to the body to study it for clues. He noticed the man’s boots were not new, but were well cared for and recently blacked. The tops of the toes were not worn or scored by stirrups as a drover’s boots would be. He picked up one of the man’s hands, noting the long slender fingers and the uncallused palms. Despite the man’s attire, he was no cowboy.

  Quint examined the man’s pistol. The Navy Colt had been converted to cartridges from cap and ball. He looked more closely at the finely-tooled, belted holster—the Colt’s handle had been facing forward on the left side, available for a convenient draw with the right hand while seated. The man seemed out of place in this cheap part of town—just what was he doing here?

  While he waited for Gravely’s carriage to show up, Quint walked back between the shacks of Cribtown that sat directly behind Asa’s. There was a stench of hastily emptied douche pans and chamber pots about the debris littered place; old clothes, empty bottles, smashed crates and a broken chair were lying about. If the night time revelers ever saw this mess in the light of a sober day, perhaps they would change their mind about ever coming back again.

  Quint was looking around, not at anything in particular, when he spotted a pair of legs behind an empty crate. His first thought was that he had discovered another body —but when he walked up, the slight form of Rupe Tingley, the one-armed saloon swamper, began to move. He was just waking up. Quint noticed an empty whisky bottle lying close to the matted grass where the man had been lying.

  “What are you doing here, Rupe?”

  The man sat up, then rolled around to his knees and stood, using his good arm for support. Rupe looked around through bleary eyes, swaying a little before steadying himself. Quint could smell the foul odor of his whiskey breath. Rupe shook his head a little, as if to clear the cobwebs.

  “I don’t know, it was dark. I musta fell asleep.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Rupe shook his head from side to side again. “It was late.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone shooting behind Asa’s last night?”

  Rupe dabbed the back of his hand across his reddened eyes. “I can’t say,” was all he managed before going into a coughing spell.

  Quint waited until Rupe had finished gasping for breath, “Are you going to be able to do the cleanup today, Rupe?”

  Rupe straightened up a little, pulling his shoulders back. “Damn, sometimes I just cain’t drink that stuff like I used to,” he said, then coughed again. “I was just heading up to the Lucky Break, Quint.”

  Rupe stared at Quint as if noticing him for the first time. “Say, deputy, you wouldn’t happen to be willing to spot a man an eye opener, would ya?”

  Quint reached in his pocket and handed Rupe a nickel; it would cover the price of a beer. Then Quint heard the rumbling of the funeral carriage pulling up behind Asa’s to retrieve the body.

  Quint wanted to question Rupe further, but not here. He would look him up later when the man was fully functional and take him to the marshal’s office. There, just maybe, Rupe might remember something and open up if he got out of his familiar surroundings. At least eliminating the fear of listening ears, which Quint figured were all around this place, might help loosen his tongue.

  Quint needed to locate Marshal Sam Gardner and advise him of the killing. He already knew what Sam would most likely say to him, once he heard the news. He would say, “You need to answer the five W’s—who, what, where, when and why. When you can answer all of those, you’ll have solved the case.” Sam had served as captain of an Illinois cavalry company during the war, and had developed a reputation as an efficient lawman in the years since. He was a sharp dresser, and more than a tad vain, but he carried himself with an easy, confident authority. The man had his faults, but he had been very patient in training his young deputy.

  * * *

  When Quint got to Ma’s Café he found Sam at his usual corner table. Ten in the morning was Sam’s breakfast hour; he had finished his meal and was sipping coffee. When Quint walked in, Sam knew something was up—he rarely saw his deputy before noon.

  Sam swept a hand toward the pot. “Coffee?”

  Quint helped himself.

  “What have you got, Quint?”

  Quint settled into a chair across from Sam. “There was a killing last night, down in Cribtown, right behind Asa’s. The victim was dressed like a working drover but the evidence suggested otherwise.”

  Quint told of the boots, the soft hands and the money on the man’s person.

  Sam’s eyebrows went up, “Asa’s Saloon is the asshole of Wolf Creek. The worst scum frequent that place. A killing anywhere around there is no surprise —but it sounds like your man drifted out of bounds. Any idea as to who he was?”

  Quint leaned back in his chair, “I didn’t find any papers on him, just $122.00 in bills and change. He had an unfired but fully loaded .36 Colt, still in its holster. It looked to me like the fella didn’t want to walk an extra fifty feet to the outhouse, so he stopped in the shadows and was taking a piss when someone shot him in the back. Doc says he figures it happened sometime around midnight.”

  The marshal’s eyebrows went up even further. “Now this is a new wrinkle. While shooting a stranger in Cribtown is not that unusual, not robbing him afterwards is dumbfounding. Hell, it’s mildly astonishing the corpse hadn’t been robbed of all clothing and dental fillings. Were there any witnesses?”

  “I haven’t been able to interview anyone from the saloons because all the night people are still sleeping. I did find Rupe Tingley sleeping on the ground behind one of the shacks in Cribtown. He looked to be in pretty rough shape. I figure we ought to talk to him later, when he’s fully awake. He may have seen something, but I don’t know how we’d get him to talk about it. When I asked him if he saw a shooting, he just said that he couldn’t say.”

  Sam nodded. “Could be that Rupe was seeing elephants last night—but like you say, we’ll talk with him later. You’ve sure enough been busy this morning Quint, but as you know, there’s more to do. The objective right now is to find out who the fellow was. You need to go over and let the Sheriff’s office know about the killing—see if Sheriff Satterlee has any reward dodgers on the man.”

  Quint nodded. Sam picked up the coffeepot and waved it in the deputy’s direction—Quint declined, so the marshal poured himself another cup. Then he continued his instructions.

  “After that you can go on over to the livery, see if there’s an unclaimed horse. Check with Richard Wilhite over at the Imperial Hotel—maybe he remembers something about the stranger, and for sure he’ll have a signature on the registry. Then you’ll need to go down to Dogleg City and grill the hell out of Asa Pepper.
I find it hard to believe somebody can get shot outside Asa’s place and him know nothing about it. See Soo Chow over at the Red Chamber too, while you’re at it. I don’t know if it’ll do any good going very far into Cribtown—those women that work the area aren’t apt to say much even if they know anything. You might talk to Haddie, that whore that lives in the first shack on the left, though, she’s always been cooperative.”

  “All right, Sam,” Quint said. “After I go to the Sheriff, the hotel, and see Ben Tolliver at the livery, I’ll start off at the high end of town and work on down to the worst places—the way a working cowboy would drink his way through town.”

  Sam Gardner nodded his approval. “You’ve got a full plate, then, Quint. I’ll help out as much as I can. When we leave here, I’ll go by Gravely’s and have a look at the corpse, get his description in my mind, the clothes he was wearing and such. I’ll let Mayor Henry know over at the Lucky Break, and I was going to see Ira Breedlove at the Wolf’s Den anyway so I’ll ask around there. This afternoon, when they all wake up, I’ll venture into Abby Potter’s whore house and see if she or any of the girls knew of the man. Let’s meet back here around noon and compare notes.”

  * * *

  Quint took it upon himself to stop in at the Lucky Break, even though Sam had said he was going by the place as well. Quint wanted to do some digging around of his own, and see if he could figure out a motive for the killing.

  Rob Parker, the Lucky Break’s head bartender, was bleary-eyed—he had not been awake long. The burly, bearded man yawned heavily as he washed glasses.

  “Mornin’, Rob,” Quint said. “Boy, you look like hell this time of day.”

  Rob shrugged. “You look like hell ever’ time of day.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Say, we found a fresh corpse down by Cribtown this morning—I was wondering if you saw him in here at any time last night.”

  “Ever’body I saw was alive, or close to it. Anything particular I’m supposed to be remembering?”