by Ford Fargo
“Weatherby,” Sam said, and thought a moment. “Oh, yes. He was on that stagecoach that the Kiowas hit a few weeks back.”
The drummer nodded again. “I hear he quit and moved back East.”
“A good place for him, from what I saw,” Sam said. “Well, I wish you luck with Virgil.”
“Thank you, Marshal.”
“Long as I have you here, I wonder if I could ask you a question.”
“Why, certainly. I always like to be helpful to the law.”
“There’s a fellow that has been making the rounds of the saloons the last few nights—Laird Jenkins. Dressed like a cattle drover, had a pock-marked face.”
Offerman nodded. “Why, yes,” he said. “I remember the man. We spoke last night, very briefly, at the Lucky Break. Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“His troubles are pretty much over. Somebody shot him in the back down in Cribtown last night.”
“Oh, my,” Offerman said. “That’s terrible. I have been warned not to go down there too late at night, I hear it is crawling with cutthroats and robbers. No offense, Marshal, you can’t be everywhere at once, I suppose.”
“He wasn’t robbed,” Sam said, “that’s the peculiar part. He had a pocket full of cash when we found him.”
“Perhaps he offended someone?”
“Perhaps,” Sam said. “May I ask what you talked about with him?”
“Nothing, really,” Offerman said, “we barely spoke. He was rather far along in his cups, I’m afraid, and was soliciting my opinion about keno. I told him I was unfamiliar with the game. That was about the extent of it, apart from some drunken mumbling I couldn’t decipher.”
Sam nodded. “Thanks for your time, Mister Offerman. Bob, I believe I’ll amble over to the Wolf’s Den and see how they’ve been getting along today without my presence—I expect I’ll be back after supper. Good day, gentlemen.”
Sam headed south on Third Street, tapping the boardwalk jauntily with his walking stick as he went. He walked past Li Wong’s laundry shop, and caught a glimpse of Li’s beautiful daughter Jing Jing through the window. The marshal generally ignored the Chinese unless they were causing trouble—they were sort of in the background, from his perspective, rather like squirrels—but he could definitely see why so many of the men in town were panting after her. If Soo Chow ever did manage to recruit her for his stable, the marshal would make a point of giving her a try.
He turned left onto Grant Street, which the mostly-Texan cowboys preferred to call “Useless S. Grant.” Let them have their sour grapes, Sam figured, everyone knows who won the war and was sitting in the White House. He passed the artist, Reginald de Courcey, headed back to his studio—brushes and canvas under his arm—no doubt from one of his frequent sketching and painting expeditions in the countryside.
“Hello, Marshal,” the artist said amiably in his proper English accent. “Warm enough for you?”
“I suppose it’ll do,” Sam said. “How’s business?”
“A little slow right now—but I’m using the downtime to paint some landscapes that I suspect I can get a pretty penny for the next time I get to Wichita. Have a good evening!”
“Same to you.”
The Wolf’s Den was geographically not that far from the Eldorado, but it was worlds away. Everything about it felt different, even in the late afternoon. Where Tom Scroggins was friendly, and pleasant company on a slow evening, Breedlove’s house gambler Preston Vance radiated a taciturn, antisocial aura. Three or four toughs lounged around the bar at night, ready at a moment’s notice to subdue any serious troublemakers—one of them, a drifter named Wesley Quaid, was already present. Instead of Sven Larson’s jaunty piano, the young Texan Roscoe Parsons played Mexican tunes on a guitar.
And Ira Breedlove watched over it all from the end of the bar. Ira lived in an upstairs room, and almost never left the property—but his web extended all over town.
He stood there now, and Sam joined him.
“Ira,” the marshal said in greeting.
“Sam. I see you’re getting around well.” Ira did not look at the marshal directly—it was more a dismissive than an anxious gesture.
“Well enough. Better than Laird Jenkins.”
Sam watched Breedlove carefully, hoping for a reaction, but received none.
“Mister Jenkins got himself backshot last night,” Sam added.
“So I heard.”
“No one seems to know much about him,” Sam said. “Except Asa Pepper seems to think he was working for you.”
“Really.”
“Oh yes, really. Normally I wouldn’t trust Asa as far as I could throw his black ass—but he’s not stupid. He certainly wouldn’t kill somebody right outside his place and just leave him there. Though he may have had reason to—he thinks Jenkins was there to pressure him about paying back a loan you apparently floated him.”
Ira turned his head to stare at the marshal. “And what do you think, Sam?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t have enough facts to think anything. Dab seems to believe I’m wasting time and stirring up trouble even investigating this murder. Do you feel that way?”
Ira let out a small sigh. “Laird was an old friend of mine,” he said. “From my St. Louis days. He was a confidence man, for the most part—he didn’t pressure people, he didn’t need to. He convinced them, usually over a little time.”
Breedlove took a pre-rolled cigarette out of a silver case he kept in his vest pocket, and lit it. Sam remained silent, letting the saloon owner go through his ritual. After a few puffs of smoke, Ira continued.
“Laird came in here a few days ago, asking for work for old time’s sake. He wanted to get out to Santa Fe, and needed a stake—despite his avocation, he was not the sort of man who’d accept a loan as a favor, he’d want to earn it somehow.”
“So you sent him around Asa’s?”
Ira nodded. “It wasn’t to get the loan paid off, though. I had an offer for Asa—but I didn’t want to make it straight off, I wanted to soften him up a little first. Let him know I was watching him, give him something to think about.”
“But you didn’t want anyone else to know,” Sam said. “So your man Laird didn’t go straight to Asa. He spent a few days making the rounds of saloons, spending a little time in each, to throw your competitors off the trail. And he was perfect, because if you sent one of your regular cronies it would attract too much attention.”
“Something like that.”
Sam chuckled. “Must’ve been a hell of a plan you were cooking up, to take that much trouble in how you went about it.”
Ira half-smiled. “Laird was going to make the real offer to Asa tonight. In return for a cut of the profits, I was going to start directing our girls’ overflow customers to Asa. I wasn’t calling in the loan, I was going to offer him another one, to hire more whores. After awhile I would be willing to accept a half-interest in the place as repayment of the loans.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I’m still going to do it. And you have a stake in that sort of business, so it’ll affect you.”
Sam shook his head appreciatively. “Damn, Ira,” he said. “There’s only so many horny men in this town.”
Ira smiled. “The town is growing. There’ll be more.”
“And if you expand, and bring Asa’s operation into your own—that’ll give you the leverage to cut the others out. Abby Potter, Dab Henry, Soo Chow, even Virgil Calhoun, though he’s discreet about it. There’s a lot of people selling ass in this town.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler if there were fewer?” Ira said. “Abby would do fine, she caters to the more established business folk, not the drovers. And Soo Chow doesn’t have that many whores—it just makes sense to have a few Oriental girls around when you’re selling dope.”
“So it’s mostly Dab Henry and Virgil Calhoun you’d be trying to drive out of business.”
Ira shrugged. “You’d get the same cut, no matter wh
o gave it to you.”
“It’s not the money, Ira. The way I figure it, I’m entitled to a little bonus for keeping everything running smooth around here. But my real job is keeping the peace, and you and the others are edging closer and closer to a war. It’s already starting—this is just the kind of shit I don’t like. Somebody figured out what your amigo Laird was up to. Hell, I’ve had two shootings in one day. If that keeps up it hurts everybody.”
Ira nodded, and smiled. “I heard about that little duel at Dab’s place.”
Realization dawned on Sam’s face. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You had something to do with that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Ira’s brow furrowed. “Sam, do you know the real reason I’m telling you all this?”
“I’m sure you’re about to inform me.”
“Laird was my friend. And he died working for me. I do want you to get to the bottom of it.”
“So I can maybe put the heat on one of your rivals.”
“So you can do what’s right,” Ira said.
Sam sighed. “I probably should just drop the whole thing. It’s going to be nothing but trouble.”
“But you won’t,” Ira said. “Because you’re not that sort of man. Your young deputy wanders around Dogleg City, acting like Sir Lancelot, well meaning but naïve as a church mouse. You’re more worldly, but you have a streak of the same thing in you.”
Ira smiled at him, but not with his eyes.
Sam stared back. “You may be right,” he said. “But that streak, as you call it, applies to how I treat everybody. You’d best not forget it.”
“Oh, I won’t. I never forget anything, Sam, you know that.”
“It’s time for me to go procure my supper,” Sam said, after a few uncomfortable moments. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“I’ll be here.”
Sam left the saloon, headed for Isabella’s restaurant. Ira Breedlove turned to face the bar, cupped his chin in his right hand, and was soon lost in thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
Some men were born to step in shit as they went about the business of earning their daily bread.
Ira Breedlove was not one of them.
Ira had come to that realization at an early age. He had been so young when his father Tobias came west from Missouri to establish a cattle spread that Ira didn't remember any childhood home other than the T Bar B. He didn't remember his mother at all, since she had died giving birth to him.
Because of that loss, Ira had been raised by a crusty old cattleman and a crew of wild young cowhands, and he had seen with his own eyes how hard they worked—from dawn to dusk, from can to can't, most days—and how dirty and smelly they always were. He hadn't been very old when he realized that such a life was not for him. When his father suggested sending him to St. Louis to complete his education, Ira had agreed to the idea without hesitation. He knew what Tobias had in mind. The old man figured Ira would come back to the ranch when his schooling was done and take over running the T Bar B, and he would be able to do a better job of that if he knew more things.
Ira had learned plenty of things in St. Louis, but how to run a ranch successfully hadn't been included in his chosen curriculum.
“You want a drink, boss?”
The question broke into Ira's musings. It came from Mack, the bartender on duty at the moment, who had seen the owner of the Wolf's Den leaning on the bar and figured maybe he was thirsty. It was a reasonable assumption.
Ira straightened from his casual pose and shook his head. “Not right now.”
“Couple of the girls ain't busy. You could take one of ’em up to your room if you was of a mind to.”
Anger surged through Ira. He put both hands on the bar, glared at the bartender, and said, “Of course I can take one of those whores upstairs if I want to. They work for me, after all.”
“Sure, boss, sure,” Mack said, quick to try to soothe Ira's ruffled feelings. Everybody who worked at the Wolf's Den knew it was a good idea not to get Ira Breedlove mad. “I just thought you looked a mite . . . pensive, is all.”
“Pensive?” Ira's anger evaporated, at least the momentary annoyance he had felt at the bartender, and was replaced by curiosity. “Where did you learn a word like that?”
“Read it in a book, boss. Fella went off and left it in here one day, and I started to throw it away but then I thought, hell, I might as well read it. I had a little schoolin' when I was a kid, but I don't get to put it to much use workin' here, you know.”
“No, the Wolf's Den isn't exactly what you'd call a bastion of culture, is it?”
“I wouldn't call it any sort of a name like that, boss. I like workin' here.”
“Good, good.” Ira lightly slapped a palm on the hardwood. “If anybody's looking for me, I'll be in the office.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Ira went through a door at the end of the bar. Behind it was a short passage with another door on each side. The one on the right led into a storage room where crates of liquor and other supplies were stacked. The left-hand door opened into the small office where Ira kept a desk. He had another desk upstairs in his living quarters and did most of his accounting up there, but he liked having a place down here where he could get away from the barroom for a few minutes without having to climb all the way to the second floor.
The room had a single window covered by a yellow curtain. The pane was open a few inches at the moment, but there wasn't much breeze. The curtain stirred every now and then, but only a little.
Ira sat down at the desk and unlocked one of the drawers. He made sure there was always a bottle of decent whiskey behind the bar for his personal use, but when he really wanted something better to drink he came here. He was the only one who knew about the bottle of cognac in the drawer. He took out a glass along with it and poured a couple of fingers of the smooth, fiery liquor. After replacing the cork in the bottle, he lifted the glass, and even though he was alone in the office, he spoke aloud as he said, “Here's to you, Laird . . . and to St. Louis.”
* * *
—Twelve years earlier—
The Birdcage was the fanciest whorehouse in town, catering to men who had plenty of money to spend. That suited Ira, because his father provided him with a generous allowance, and it suited his friend Laird Jenkins because men with money were Laird's favorite targets for his schemes.
Some confidence men liked to prey on lonely women, but as Laird had explained to Ira, that didn't hardly seem fair to him. A woman aching for the touch of a man just couldn't think straight enough to watch out for her own best interests.
Ira suspected that such women didn't provide enough of a challenge for his friend. To Laird Jenkins, bilking folks out of their hard-earned cash wasn't just a way of earning a living. It was also a game.
At the moment, Laird had a carpetbag full of phony stock certificates he was selling, but his actual stock in trade was his ability to convince people to believe whatever he told them about how rich he was going to make them. Eventually his marks would catch on and realize he was selling a lot more certificates than there was stock to go around, but by the time that happened he would be long gone from St. Louis.
“Knowing when the hand is played out,” Laird had said to Ira more than once. “Developing an instinct for that awareness is the most important skill a man can learn. Whether it's romancing a woman or skinning a mark, know when it's time to take your leave.”
Of course, they didn't have to worry about that here at the Birdcage, Ira thought. Laird wasn't working tonight, and romance didn't apply in a whorehouse. The two young men were out for an evening's entertainment, that's all.
A stocky, gray-haired Negro in servant's livery met them just inside the door and took their hats. “Good evening, Mister Breedlove, Mister Jenkins," he said in a deep, cultured voice. "I trust you young gentlemen are doing well.”
“We're doing splendidly,
Thaddeus,” Laird said, grinning. “But I expect to be doing even better soon if Mademoiselle Jessica is available.”
“She is unaccompanied at the moment, I believe,” the butler replied.
“How about Marcelline?” Ira asked. She was a particular favorite of his, a lithe, blond-haired beauty who was blessed with the ability to bend and twist her body in all sorts of intriguing ways.
Thaddeus winced slightly at Ira's question. “Sad to say, Mister Ira, Marcelline is with a guest at the moment. If you'd care to wait—”
A man who bedded down with whores, even the most high-class ones, didn't have any business getting upset with the idea of them being with other men. Ira knew that, but he felt a flash of annoyance, anyway. It was more a matter of impatience than fastidiousness. When he wanted something, he didn't like to wait for it, and it had been a while since he'd visited Marcelline.
“Or perhaps if you'd prefer the company of one of the other young ladies—” Thaddeus continued.
Ira shook his head. “I'll wait,” he said. “Bring me something to drink in the parlor. Cognac.”
“Of course, sir,” Thaddeus murmured.
The two young men went into the elegantly furnished parlor, which was lit by two crystal chandeliers that cast their warm glow over plush red curtains, walls covered with brocaded paper, several spindly-legged tables, and a number of heavy, comfortable divans and armchairs. A massive stone fireplace with a gleaming mahogany mantle took up almost one entire wall of the room, and a pianoforte sat against the other wall. No one had ever played the musical instrument while Ira was here, but he presumed it was for more than just show.
Several attractive young women in various forms of skimpy attire that left little of their beauty to the imagination lounged around the parlor. One of them, a tall, slender, but well-endowed redhead stood up when Ira and Laird entered the room and came over to them. “Laird,” she said as she held out both hands, “it's so good to see you again.”
Laird took her hands, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He smacked her bottom through the thin, translucent shift she wore, and that prompted a laugh from her as they broke the kiss.
