Lincoln Hawk Series 1-3 Omnibus

by Scott Connor

  Lincoln hurried across the main drag and rounded the corner of the stables to be greeted with the sight of the person he’d followed hunched over a hole a few yards away. From the description Curtis had given him earlier he identified him as being Alex, the youngest brother of the Humboldt clan.

  ‘What are you doing, Alex?’ Lincoln said.

  Alex flinched and kicked out, knocking something that had been hidden behind his legs into the hole, the object landing with a clatter. He swirled round and offered a nervous smile.

  ‘Nothing, I’m not doing nothing.’

  Alex’s attempt to hide whatever he’d been about to bury was such an obvious and pathetic attempt at subterfuge that Lincoln couldn’t help but smile. Then his smile died when he noticed the top of the object poking out of the hole. It was a lamp.

  He joined Alex and looked down into the hole, seeing that the lamp was broken. A glance at Alex’s hands confirmed they were coated in oil.

  Lincoln gave a sorry shake of the head. Then with a casual gesture he reached out to Alex’s top pocket and removed the matches he was sure would be there.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ he said, clamping a firm hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What for?’

  Lincoln took a significant glance at the broken lamp, Alex’s oil-stained hands, and then the matches before sniffing at the acrid smoke that was spreading around town.

  ‘Arson, if Wesley lives. One hell of a lot worse if he doesn’t. Perhaps plenty more than that if you don’t co-operate.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who torched the saloon.’ Alex gave a pronounced shiver. ‘It was that man I followed from the saloon. The man with the skull for a face.’

  ‘The man with the skull for a face,’ Lincoln intoned, letting his skepticism show in his pronounced sneer.

  ‘Yeah. He had this face that . . .’ Alex trailed off as Lincoln fixed him with his disbelieving gaze. ‘I suppose you won’t believe me. You’ll just have to arrest me.’

  ‘I already have,’ Lincoln said as he dragged Alex off to the sheriff’s office. ‘The only question on my mind now is what else you and your brothers have been doing.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Lincoln asked.

  ‘Not good,’ Wesley Jameson croaked. ‘I just want to . . .’

  A coughing fit cut short his statement.

  It was early evening and although the townsfolk had stopped the fire spreading to the neighboring buildings, the saloon had burnt to the ground and the cloying reek of burning was permeating the town. Doc Thoreau had set up a bed in his living-room for Wesley to rest on as he had nowhere else to stay.

  Earlier, Lincoln had questioned Alex and tried to poke holes in his story, but the young man had kept resolutely to his version of events.

  Whether Alex was telling the truth or not, Lincoln had a hunch the fire was connected to the Humboldt brothers’ claim that they had been drinking there on the night of Ben’s murder.

  So Lincoln had discussed the arrest with Judge Murphy, but the judge had reckoned that unless he obtained better evidence that Alex couldn’t explain away he’d have no choice but to release him. With this in mind, Wesley was Lincoln’s last hope of keeping Alex in a cell.

  ‘That’s enough questions,’ Thoreau said, shaking his head. ‘He needs rest.’

  ‘He’ll get it, but I need information. Just tell me quickly, Wesley. Did you see who burnt down your saloon?’

  Wesley shook his head, the action making him wheeze and fall back on to the bed with pain contorting his face.

  ‘I . . .’ Wesley coughed and spluttered, his face going bright red with the effort of trying to talk.

  ‘Did you—?’

  ‘Enough!’ Thoreau said, raising his voice and shaking an admonishing finger at Lincoln.

  Whether Wesley was overemphasizing the amount of pain he was in to avoid answering or he was really that ill, Lincoln couldn’t tell. With Thoreau giving him no choice, he relented and left Wesley’s bedside, but at the door he stopped and slipped in one final question.

  ‘Did you see the Humboldt brothers in your saloon on the night Ben died?’

  ‘No,’ Wesley said, his quick response sounding confident before he looked aloft, his brow furrowing with thought. ‘At least I . . .’

  Another bout of coughing stopped him from continuing with his answer and with Thoreau muttering with displeasure and pointing at the door, Lincoln left. Thoreau stayed behind to check on Wesley, leaving Lincoln alone in the hall.

  Smiling with the thought that Karl’s alibi wasn’t as strong as Deputy Curtis had claimed, Lincoln was about to head outside. Then he noticed Wesley’s jacket lying over a chair.

  Poking out of a pocket was the corner of the burnt photograph Wesley had been clutching when he’d emerged from the burning saloon.

  Lincoln went over to the chair to remove the photograph. When he saw what it depicted he was pleased he’d let his curiosity get the better of him.

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ Thoreau said, coming through the door.

  Lincoln turned. ‘It confirms to me the fire is connected to Ben’s murder. Do you mind if I take it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. Wesley might, but I’ve given him something to make him sleep, so I doubt he’ll object.’ Thoreau pointed to the door. ‘You going to the meeting now?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then pass on my apologies.’ Thoreau turned to his surgery. ‘I’ve just received that body you fished out the river. I’ll see if I can find out anything about it before I come over.’

  Lincoln acknowledged Thoreau’s help with a curt nod and headed outside to find that Deputy Curtis was mooching around.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Lincoln asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Curtis said. He cast a significant glance down the main drag while rocking from foot to foot.

  ‘In that case, get back to the law office. Give Alex another hour to stew and then let him go, but follow him and see what he does.’

  Lincoln set off for the Rising Sun saloon, but Curtis shuffled to the side to block his way.

  ‘On my own?’ he bleated, his eyes opening wide with shock.

  Lincoln closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply to calm himself.

  ‘Sure,’ he said when he’d controlled his irritation. ‘Why not?’

  Curtis pointed with a shaking hand. ‘Because the Humboldt brothers are already here.’

  Lincoln leaned forward and he finally saw the reason for Curtis’s furtive behavior. Three surly-looking individuals were loitering on the other side of the main drag, eyeing the law office.

  ‘Don’t let them intimidate you. Follow Alex and if he rejoins his brothers, you can watch what they all do.’ Lincoln slapped a firm hand on Curtis’s shoulder. ‘If they confront you, it’ll give you a chance to check their alibi.’

  Curtis shrugged. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that Karl wasn’t in the Golden Star saloon on the night Ben died. You need to be more thorough when you check out people’s stories.’

  Curtis murmured a denial that didn’t sound convincing but Lincoln ignored him and headed off. From the corner of his eye he saw the brothers look his way and peel away from the wall to follow him.

  Lincoln walked slowly ensuring they could catch up with him before he reached the saloon.

  Steady footfalls filed in behind him. When he reached the batwings he stopped and turned.

  Karl stood at the front of the bunch with the other two brothers, Heinrich and Wilhelm, behind him.

  ‘Howdy, you’d be the older Humboldt brothers,’ Lincoln said. ‘Don’t leave town. I’ll be having a word with you later.’

  Karl opened his mouth as if to snap back a retort but then closed it, Lincoln’s unconcerned and direct approach probably bemusing him.

  ‘We’re the ones who want a word with you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got our brother in a cell and he hasn’t done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time worr
ying about him. He’ll have company soon enough.’

  Lincoln glared at Karl. Just as Karl started to snap back a threat, he turned on his heel and headed inside. Without looking back he went up to the private room upstairs.

  He didn’t hear them follow him in and he presumed they’d headed away to resume their loitering outside the sheriff’s office where they’d been goading each other on to do something.

  Aside from Doc Thoreau, Lincoln was the last to arrive for his important meeting, the other four men already having taken their positions around the table.

  When he’d sat down, Mayor Ellison gave a call for everyone to be quiet for a minute in remembrance of Sheriff Pringle, who couldn’t be here for the first time ever. Then he got the meeting under way.

  Two hours later Lincoln was fifteen dollars down and looking at yet another dull hand.

  ‘Damn,’ he said, as he fingered the useless three of diamonds Mayor Ellison had just dealt him.

  Ellison chuckled. ‘It sounds to me like you’re not enjoying taking Ben’s place tonight.’

  ‘I am.’ Lincoln leaned back from the table and snorted. ‘I’m just not enjoying the cards you’re dealing me.’

  The other poker-players laughed.

  Since the founding of Independence, every month a poker-game had taken place in a private room at the back of the Golden Star saloon. The game attracted Independence’s premier people: Wesley Jameson, Billy Stone, Judge Daniel Murphy, Doc Thoreau, Mayor Paul Ellison, and Sheriff Ben Pringle.

  The stakes were low and the enthusiasm for the game of poker was equally low. But, from the tales Ellison had told Lincoln, the conversation was ripe, the drinking was heavy, and late into the night many important items of town politics had been decided upon and many new business opportunities had been discussed.

  With the fire having destroyed the Golden Star saloon, the game was now taking place in the Rising Sun saloon at the opposite end of town.

  Lincoln had taken Sheriff Pringle’s place and as Wesley Jameson wasn’t well enough to attend an opportunity had opened up and had gone to a dour traveler Jack Porter. He was a quiet man who had what Lincoln reckoned was a studied routine of fingering his chin whenever he received a bad hand.

  ‘It’s important to keep up the tradition of always having a lawman present,’ Judge Murphy said. ‘It’s a double benefit that you’re an old friend of Ben’s.’

  Lincoln smiled, pleased that the judge had provided him with an opportunity to discuss the only subject on his mind, and the only reason he’d decided to spend a night playing poker when he had a killer to find.

  ‘It must be hard on you all not to have Ben here.’ Lincoln paused while everyone offered their agreements. ‘But I don’t intend to be around this time next month. You’ll have to find another lawman to take my place, like Deputy Alan Curtis.’

  This comment raised several laughs.

  ‘He isn’t suitable for this evening,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Or for anything else,’ Thoreau said, smiling.

  Murmured support for this opinion drifted around the table.

  ‘Ben thought him suitable enough to be his deputy,’ Lincoln said.

  ‘The reason why he thought that is a mystery to us all,’ Thoreau said. ‘In the three months he’s been in town, he’s done nothing good.’

  ‘Three months? Curtis said he’d been here for a year.’

  ‘That is precisely the sort of pointless lie that proves he wasn’t fit to be a deputy to a man like Sheriff Ben Pringle.’

  Lincoln waited while Ellison dealt out the remaining cards before speaking again.

  ‘Anyone know why Ben was so depressed recently?’

  Everyone but Jack shook their heads.

  ‘He was worried about something, that’s for sure,’ Ellison said. ‘And speaking of being depressed, maybe Alex’s arrest will cheer up Wesley.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Murphy said. ‘There no evidence he burnt down the saloon. I’ve already advised Lincoln to release him.’

  ‘What about the lamp he was trying to bury?’

  ‘It proves nothing. He could have found it like he said.’

  Lincoln watched Ellison and Murphy knock the subject back and forth. The facts surrounding Alex’s arrest ought to have been a private matter that only got an airing in the courthouse, but in a small town news traveled fast no matter how private.

  Lincoln took note of what everyone said during their unguarded chatter, trying to understand the politics and personalities. He became intrigued when Ellison veered the conversation away from the fire.

  ‘Is Wesley still mooning over that photograph?’ he asked, turning to Thoreau.

  ‘What photograph?’ Billy Stone asked before Thoreau could answer.

  Ellison considered Billy. ‘I’ve heard he risked staying in the saloon to save a picture.’

  Billy lowered his head, his narrowed eyes registering some emotion, perhaps surprise, while everyone else darted significant glances at each other. So Lincoln placed his cards on the table and slipped the photograph from his pocket.

  ‘While Wesley was getting himself some rest, I borrowed it,’ he said, with a smile and a wink to Thoreau.

  Lincoln passed the photograph to Ellison, who jerked his head down to consider it over the top of his glasses. Murphy craned his neck to see it, but Billy and Jack didn’t move.

  Only half the picture remained and on that half three men stood before a saloon, its sign not visible. There were no clues as to its location.

  One of the men was Wesley Jameson. The other man was Sheriff Pringle. Lincoln didn’t recognize the third man.

  ‘I have no idea where and when this was taken,’ Ellison said, shrugging. ‘It might have been when Ben and I were running for office. Why are you so interested in it?’

  ‘Two people in that photograph have had bad fortune recently and I’m asking myself why.’

  ‘If you’re doing that,’ Thoreau said, ‘you should note that two members of this poker-group have also had bad luck.’

  Lincoln had already considered this possibility. He had also wondered whether other members of the group might be in the half of the picture that had been burnt away.

  Ellison held out the picture to Murphy.

  ‘I don’t reckon it’s important, and none of us like to hear of bad luck being contagious when we’re playing poker.’

  Lincoln looked at Murphy. ‘Do you know who the other man is?’

  The judge and the mayor shot quick glances at each other before the judge replied.

  ‘No.’

  Thoreau leaned over to take the photograph. He stabbed a finger against the leg and partially displayed torso of a fourth figure that was protruding into the picture, the main bulk of his form being on the missing half.

  ‘That looks like you, Billy,’ he said.

  Billy snorted and snatched the picture from Thoreau’s grasp. He glanced at it and then threw it on the table.

  ‘That isn’t me,’ he said, sneering. ‘Now, if our lawman has finished distracting us, I reckon it’s my bet, and I raise fifty.’

  Several grumbles sounded around the table, as Lincoln slipped the photograph back into his pocket.

  ‘As you know, the house limit is five dollars,’ Ellison said, fingering his cards and glaring at Billy over the top of his glasses. ‘You can’t raise fifty.’

  ‘I just did.’ Billy licked his lips. ‘If you haven’t got the guts to match me, you can carry on hiding behind your precious rules.’

  Several people complained at once, shaking their heads or fingers as they registered their irritation. With Billy’s outburst making everyone forget they’d been talking about Ben’s death, the fire, and the photograph, Ellison snorted and slammed his cards to the table.

  ‘Damn it, Billy. It’s always the same when you get a few whiskeys inside you. You get serious and our friendly game of poker comes to its usual argumentative end.’

  Murphy muttered with irritation, but just as he had done al
l evening, the newcomer Jack Porter sat quietly and steadily shuffled his cards back and forth. Murphy glanced at Jack, and then at Lincoln.

  ‘What do you reckon, Marshal?’ he asked. ‘Do we stop Billy breaking the house limit or should one of us teach him the lesson he so richly deserves?’

  ‘I reckon arrogance should always be beaten down,’ Lincoln said. He twitched a smile, but then hurled his cards on the table. ‘But I haven’t got the cards to teach anyone a lesson.’

  Billy grunted with contentment. ‘Ellison, if you’re not man enough to match me either, throw your cards in, too.’

  Ellison smiled and placed his cards on the edge of the table. He stood up and from the bottle on the cabinet behind him poured himself a good measure of whiskey.

  ‘That’s the difference between you and me, Billy.’ He returned to the table. ‘I don’t play poker to win. I play to enjoy everyone’s company.’

  Prolonged laughter and guffaws emerged from every man, even the newcomer.

  ‘In my experience, anyone who says they’re not playing to win is only playing to win.’ Billy set his lips into a thin smile and peered at Ellison over the top of his cards. ‘You in?’

  Ellison prized up the corners of his cards to consider them. He shook his head and hurled them on top of Lincoln’s.

  ‘Nope. I’ve got the same problem as Lincoln has.’

  Billy looked at Murphy. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve got the cards, but I’m not locking horns with you if you’re getting serious.’ Murphy threw his cards on the pile. ‘The five dollar limit is fine by me.’

  With Thoreau also throwing his cards in, Billy looked at Jack.

  ‘And you, new man?’

  Jack considered Billy with his jaw set firm and jutting. A finger rose to touch his chin, but then veered away as he gathered up a tangle of bills from his stash and patted them into a neat pile.

  ‘So you’re saying the five dollar limit no longer applies, are you?’

  ‘Yep, for this one hand,’ Billy said.

  ‘In that case, I’m in.’ Jack threw the bills in the pot, receiving a wide grin from Billy. Then with his gaze set on Billy he reached into his pocket and extracted a billfold. ‘And I’ll raise you two hundred.’