by Scott Connor
If the man were to run, it would be hard for Ben and his aging legs to catch up with him, but it would also be hard for the man to disappear quietly as he had done before.
‘I’m going to get you this time,’ Ben said to himself. He fixed his attention on the figure, ensuring he wouldn’t let him out of his sight until he had him. ‘We’re just going to take this one step at a time.’
Ben paced off the porch and took his first step towards the figure.
Hot fire punched him deep in the guts knocking him back a pace and into the porch post. He twisted round it, delayed shock letting him smell his own blood and hear the blast of the gunfire as he slid to the ground.
His vision was already darkening as he rolled onto his side, feeling the life-blood seep out of him. Even from the ground he could see the figure, looking at him.
He couldn’t have shot me from that distance, Ben thought to himself, his lawman’s mind turning to resolving the reason behind the unexpected turn of events even as he felt the unending sleep of the dead overcome him.
His last sight before his vision departed for ever was the figure turning away and heading for the river with his shoulders slumped.
Ben’s last, comforting thought was that he looked disappointed.
Chapter Two
‘Where did you find his body?’ US Marshal Lincoln Hawk asked.
‘Over there,’ Deputy Alan Curtis said. He took a pace off the porch and pointed to the ground. ‘He was on his back with his gun at his side.’
Lincoln turned to stand with his back to the wall so he could look away from the house, as Sheriff Ben Pringle would have done just before he’d been murdered.
It was a quiet location, ideal for a man who enjoyed his privacy, but making it unlikely that Lincoln would find any witnesses.
The sheriff had died a week ago and with the killer leaving no clues the investigation had stalled before it could make any progress. So Mayor Paul Ellison had called in Lincoln, a man with both the skills and the personal motivation to work out what had happened.
Lincoln had needed no encouragement to come to Independence and find out who had killed his old friend. Admittedly, he hadn’t seen Ben for several years, but the anguish he’d felt on hearing the news was as great as if he’d seen him only yesterday.
‘Any known enemies?’ he asked.
‘The sheriff was popular,’ Curtis said. ‘I’ve been his deputy for a year and in that time he never made a single enemy.’
Lincoln snorted in disbelief. Lawmen made plenty of enemies.
The fact he’d died with his gun drawn but not fired implied an organized assault from someone with a grudge who had sneaked up on him, but who had only alerted him at the last moment.
‘What about the town’s known troublemakers?’
Curtis rubbed his bristled chin. ‘Karl Humboldt and his brothers are behind most of the crime that goes on around here. Karl was the first one I pulled in to question, but he and his brothers were drinking in the Golden Star saloon when the news came in about someone hearing gunfire out here.’
‘Then whom did Ben arrest recently?’
‘Aside from Karl there weren’t many of them . . .’ Curtis sighed and leaned on the rail to look out beyond the porch. When he spoke his voice was clipped and irritated. ‘Sheriff Pringle had taken to drinking heavily recently. For the last few months he used to throw the whiskey down his throat until he passed out, as if he wanted to forget something.’
Lincoln joined Curtis in leaning on the rail.
‘I assume you have no idea what he was trying to forget?’
‘No. Most days he looked like a haunted man who’d seen a ghost, but the old whiskey hound didn’t want to talk about it.’
Lincoln snorted. ‘Don’t speak ill of Ben again. I remember him when he was a fine man. It doesn’t matter to me if his last months weren’t his best. I’ll find the man who killed him.’
With that promise made, Lincoln pushed himself from the rail. He looked at the chair by the door, remembering Ben sitting there, whistling contentedly as he enjoyed the last of the evening’s light.
That’s where he’d been the last time he’d seen him and Lincoln resolved to always remember him that way.
Lincoln stepped back to look for any details that Curtis had missed. Lincoln had known the deputy for only a few hours, but already he was getting the feeling he wasn’t enthusiastic or competent.
Before he could complete his search Curtis coughed to draw his attention. A rider was galloping through the scrub towards them.
‘That’s Malcolm Wilson,’ Curtis said. ‘He owns the Bar W downriver.’
Lincoln left the house to meet him and the first thing he noticed was Malcolm’s grim expression as he drew up his horse.
‘You be the marshal?’ Malcolm asked. When Lincoln nodded, he pointed to the river. ‘I’ve found a body.’
Lincoln glanced at Curtis, who muttered under his breath, his eyes squinting with what Lincoln reckoned was annoyance.
Twenty minutes later they stood on the side of the river, some three miles downstream from Pringle’s house.
‘From the state of him, I reckon he’s been in the water for some time,’ Lincoln said, wrinkling his nose with distaste.
‘With his face all eaten away like that, it’ll be hard to work out who he was,’ Curtis said while holding on to their horses.
The corpse had become entangled in a tree that had fallen into the river. A skeletal arm protruded above the head, bent backwards at an angle and caught amongst the branches.
The rest of the body was lying in the shallow water with the ragged clothes billowing on the surface and rippling in the current. During his fifteen years of being a lawman Lincoln had seen some terrible sights and this was one of the worst.
Lincoln also felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d hoped that the body and Ben’s murder might have an obvious link, but he was no longer sure.
The dead man didn’t appear to have fallen into the river, or to have been dumped there, but to have floated downstream, probably for some distance.
‘Come on, Curtis,’ he said. ‘I could do with some help getting him out of the water.’
Curtis shuddered and gripped the reins more tightly.
‘I’ll stay here and keep the horses under control.’ With a rare show of determination, he fixed his gaze on the horses using a slow swing of his head. ‘I don’t want them getting spooked.’
Lincoln frowned and then turned to Malcolm.
‘In that case, Malcolm, I could do with your help,’ he said.
Malcolm provided a pronounced gulp.
‘I was afraid you were going to ask me that,’ he said.
Ten minutes later the body, wrapped in a horse-blanket, was on the back of Curtis’s horse and the two lawmen were heading back to Independence, leaving a decidedly green-looking Malcolm behind them.
‘What do you reckon happened to him?’ Lincoln asked.
‘It’s not my problem,’ Curtis said, shrugging. ‘He’s been in the water for a while, so he might have come down from beyond Black Point and that’s out of my territory.’
‘Perhaps he did, but I reckon he died at least a week ago – around the same time that Ben died.’
The possibility of there being a link didn’t interest Curtis and he just delivered an irritated grunt. As they rode along he continued to grumble – as he had done since Lincoln had arrived in Independence.
Whether this was because he didn’t like his authority being usurped by Lincoln’s presence, or because that was his nature, Lincoln didn’t know. Although this time the wet and rotting smell coming from behind him gave him good cause for his complaints.
When they arrived back in town they drew up outside the undertaker’s.
‘The horses aren’t looking spooked now,’ Lincoln said. ‘Get the body inside.’
‘All on my own?’ Curtis said.
‘Yeah, on your . . .’ Lincoln trailed off, finally letting his irr
itation at Curtis’s surly attitude wear him down. ‘Just do as I say and quit complaining.’
‘I’ve not got to do what no US Marshal says,’ Curtis snapped back, waving his arms. ‘I was Sheriff Pringle’s deputy, but he isn’t around no more to tell me what to do.’
‘It’s my investigation.’ Lincoln lowered his voice to a growl. ‘You’ll respect Ben’s memory by following my orders.’
Curtis firmed his jaw, anger widening his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ he grunted. ‘It is your investigation. So you deal with the body.’
With that statement of defiance Curtis jumped down from his horse and headed off towards the law office.
‘This is my investigation,’ Lincoln said to himself as he watched him leave. ‘And the likes of you won’t stop me completing it.’
Chapter Three
When Lincoln had dealt with the body, he followed Curtis to the law office.
Curtis was sitting at his desk with his feet raised and his hat pulled down over his eyes. The deputy didn’t acknowledge him, but Lincoln reckoned he didn’t need his help right now and for the next few hours he searched through Sheriff Pringle’s records.
Unfortunately, they were as incomplete and useless as Lincoln had feared.
Ben had made few arrests recently, although the petty crime that usually went on in small towns continued unabated. Despite the lack of leads, one name appeared frequently, that of Karl Humboldt.
This evening Lincoln was due to attend a meeting with the mayor and other important townsfolk where he’d be able to learn more about what had been happening in town recently. That left him with several hours free.
He headed over to Curtis’s desk and stood looking down at him. Curtis squirmed, suggesting he knew Lincoln was watching him, but he said nothing.
‘The two of us haven’t got on well so far,’ Lincoln said, ‘but we need to start working together on this.’
Curtis raised his hat with a finger and considered him while he flexed his jaw, making an obvious show of suppressing a yawn.
‘We haven’t got nothing to work on. We’ve got no clues, no leads, nothing.’
‘Then we find some. We’ll start with checking out Karl Humboldt’s story that he was elsewhere when Ben died, and the best person to start with is Wesley Jameson.’ Wesley was the owner of the Golden Star saloon. ‘Unless you already have a signed statement from him.’
‘I guess I forgot to talk to him,’ Curtis said, casting a guilty glance at his feet.
Lincoln limited himself to a mild admonishing sigh. He set off for the door and held it open for Curtis, who took his time in swinging his legs down to the floor, lumbering across the office, and following him out.
As they headed down the boardwalk, Curtis grumbled a litany of complaints. Lincoln ignored him, having already heard most of the complaints at least once before.
The saloon wasn’t open yet and so Lincoln peered through the window, cupping a hand beside his eyes to ward off the strong afternoon glare as he looked for signs of life inside. He flinched backwards, startled.
Inside, flickering flames were eating their way across the floor and heading towards the bar, the motion of the flames so swift that they appeared to be taking the path of gunpowder or perhaps spilt liquor.
At his side Curtis broke off from his complaints to bleat out a one-word cry.
‘Fire!’ Curtis turned on his heel and hurried off screaming. ‘Fire! Fire!’
Lincoln hurried to the door and kicked open the batwings, knocking one of them off its hinges. The rising heat from inside blasted his face, making him feel that his eyebrows were in danger of being singed.
Even so, he edged forward another pace, an arm raised to his brow to shield his eyes from the raging heat.
The flames were advancing across the floor towards him with dangerous intent, already blocking off his path into the building. Worse, they were now licking at the barrels of liquor on the bar, something that was sure to have a disastrous effect.
He backed away and out of the door, and pressed himself to the wall. Thankfully, Curtis had alerted a growing band of townsfolk who were hurrying closer.
Mayor Ellison joined the group and organized the townsfolk into lines to ferry and hurl water at the saloon. After a minute of frantic activity the water-carriers started to have an effect and killed the flames that had been licking around the doorway and windows.
Lincoln joined the mayor.
‘Paul, have you seen Wesley?’ he shouted over the rising hubbub of alarm from the assembled townsfolk.
‘Nope,’ Ellison said. He glanced around until he saw Billy Stone, a saloon regular. He beckoned for him to join them and asked him the same question.
‘Me neither,’ Billy said. He removed his hat and crumpled it before him. ‘I haven’t seen him all day.’
With a sickness invading his guts, Lincoln looked at the flames until the heat watered his eyes and forced him to look away.
From what he had heard of Wesley he was an obstinate man who was likely to have stayed inside in a futile attempt to save the building, even at the risk of the fire trapping him inside.
Lincoln located Deputy Curtis and patted his shoulder.
‘Come on, Alan,’ he said. ‘We have to try and get in there.’
Curtis provided a reluctant nod and trudged after Lincoln. As they fought their way through the gathering crowd of helpers, Lincoln noticed something he hadn’t seen before.
Flames were licking at the front of the building, yet the back was relatively unscathed. Lincoln turned to pass this information on to Curtis, but Curtis had taken the opportunity of Lincoln’s being temporarily distracted to slink away and was loitering before the nearest window where the water-throwers had fought back the flames.
A gout of flame burst through the door as a liquor barrel exploded, crashing the remaining burning batwing to the ground. Curtis scampered away, knocking over the two men behind him.
As all three men scurried away to a safer distance, Lincoln judged that if Wesley were inside, explaining his thoughts would take up time that Wesley just didn’t have.
So Lincoln ran in a wide half-circle around the saloon to reach the back. Sure enough, the rear exit was still free from flames, although huge swathes of smoke were spewing out of the door and windows.
Lincoln drew a kerchief from his pocket and wrapped it over his mouth. He looked around, judging the best way of approaching the building, and to the side a man was running away.
Lincoln watched his fleeing form, wondering if it were Wesley, but then another barrel in the saloon exploded, blasting a ball of flame through the back window.
In self-preservation, Lincoln dived to the ground with his arms over his head. Then inch by inch he looked up.
He waited while he judged whether that explosion might herald a series of blasts and when several seconds had passed without a second explosion coming he jumped to his feet.
The blast had also knocked the running man to the ground. He righted himself, thrust his head down, and sped away, disappearing down the alley between the bank and Billy Stone’s mercantile.
Then movement in the saloon’s back doorway drew Lincoln’s attention. He blinked, clearing his watery gaze.
He realized that he was seeing someone stagger into the doorway and then fall to his knees. The man was plump and was clearly Wesley Jameson.
Lincoln set off and sprinted to the doorway. He skidded to a halt beside Wesley, who was conscious enough to mutter something, although his words were inaudible.
Wesley was clutching a burnt photograph to his chest and he kept his eyes tightly closed as smoke spiraled away from his clothing.
Wesley collapsed, but Lincoln grabbed him before he hit the ground. Then he shoved his hands under Wesley’s armpits and walking backwards dragged him away from the saloon.
Only when he was fifty yards away did Lincoln decide they were far enough away to be safe and lowered Wesley to the ground.
L
incoln batted Wesley’s jacket, knocking the glowing embers from his clothing. Then he rolled back on his haunches to watch Curtis hurry around the side of the saloon. He hailed the deputy with a wave and pointed down at Wesley.
With his face wreathed in the first smile Lincoln had seen, Curtis joined him and slapped him on the back. Then Curtis knelt beside Wesley.
‘You all right?’ he said.
Wesley rolled himself to his knees and cracked his watering eyes open to look at the burning saloon. He staggered on to all-fours, dragged himself a clawed foot nearer, and slumped to the ground.
‘Everything I had is gone,’ he whined between coughs.
He raised a hand. Clutched in it was the photograph. Half of it had blackened to ashes and as Lincoln watched the burnt half crumbled and fell away.
Wesley pressed his forehead to the ground and spluttered out a bout of hacking coughs.
‘At least you’ve still got your life,’ Lincoln said.
He placed a comforting hand Wesley’s back, but Wesley flinched away from him. Then he lay on his side and curled up into a ball as he watched the flames and smoke spiral up into the sky. His chest heaved with barely suppressed coughs.
‘I’ve lost everything,’ he croaked and lowered the photograph.
Lincoln joined Wesley in looking at the burning building and although Wesley had clearly been talking about his saloon, Lincoln had the impression he had meant the photograph.
‘Curtis, get him to Doc Thoreau,’ he said.
‘On my own?’ Curtis grumbled.
Lincoln nodded and headed away. As someone had been running away from the fire, he hurried on to the alley beside the bank.
Nobody was in the alley and so Lincoln headed down it to come out on the main drag beyond. To his right the townsfolk were helping out with the bucket-ferrying operation, and to his left a man was hurrying behind the stables, the last building on this side of town.
The person was slim and possibly the man he’d seen earlier. With every person in town gravitating towards the fire, someone going in the opposite direction was intriguing.
