by Lyle Brandt
“Funny thing,” said Rafferty. “I never took you for a worrier.”
“I’ve got more reason, lately. Did your townies tell you that the marshals talked to Percy Fawcett?”
“They did not. But I can’t say it comes as a surprise.”
“They’re one short step away from us,” said Sullivan. “If they crack Fawcett…”
“Once again, it’s your job to ensure they don’t. Stop by and visit Percy. We already know that he’s suggestible.”
“And yellow. Wouldn’t take much to persuade him he should give us up.”
“Then you must strengthen his resolve,” said Rafferty. “I leave the method to your own discretion, within limits.”
“Meanin’?”
“Meaning that I don’t want anything spectacular, bizarre, or even noteworthy. Try talking to him first.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” asked Sullivan.
“Be more creative. If it’s necessary to remove him, try to make it look as if he left town of his own volition.”
“Huh?”
“His own free will. Who knows, maybe the marshals frightened him enough that he took flight.”
“You think they’d buy it?”
“They’ll consider it, at least. Investigate the possibility. Whatever time they waste, we use in preparation.”
“So,” asked Sullivan, “you’re saying he should snuff it?”
“As a last resort,” said Rafferty. “If you decide he can’t be trusted to cooperate.”
“And make it seem like he lit out.”
“Which would require discretion on your part. No witnesses, of course.”
“Unless I need help packin’ up and movin’ him.”
“Use your most trusted men, in that case.”
“Can’t,” said Sullivan. “They’re over at the undertaker’s now.”
“You have my every confidence,” Rafferty lied. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that Grady might be showing fatal signs of strain, himself. Something to think about, once they’d resolved their more immediate concerns.
“All right, I’ll see to it.” Grady went out and closed the door behind him, leaving Rafferty alone to think about the trouble he was facing.
Clearly, Sullivan’s attempt to blame rogue Indians for the first marshal’s death had failed. It hadn’t been a bad idea, per se—in fact, Rafferty had approved it—but it hadn’t kept the new lawmen away from Stateline. Now, after the failed attempt to stop them on the trail, they’d be even more suspicious of the town and its inhabitants.
Goddamn that Percy Fawcett!
He’d been smart enough—greedy enough—to share the contents of the first deputy marshal’s telegram, but hadn’t thought to fake transmission in the first place, which might well have nipped their problem in the bud. For that alone, Rafferty wished him dead, but he could let it pass if Fawcett did as he was told from this point on.
If he did not…well, then, the fat man would have made his choice.
Rafferty had a thriving business to protect. An empire in the making, if he played his cards right. He was not prepared to pull up stakes and start from nothing in some other town, building his trade from the ground up. At forty-five, he didn’t have the patience to start over. Not when everything he’d ever dreamed of was within his grasp.
He would fight for what was coming to him—which meant fighting to the death.
8
Slade and Naylor tried the Grub Stake restaurant, a block from their hotel and on the Oklahoma side of Border Boulevard. They took a table at the window and both ordered steaks—Slade’s rare, Naylor’s well-done—with fried potatoes and a side of beans. The food was good and plentiful, the waitress who delivered it was cute, and the coffee that she brought along with it was strong and black.
“Must be a funny place to live,” said Naylor, talking with his mouth full. “Everything divided up the way it is.”
“Could get confusing,” Slade agreed. “The other side of that is if you break the law, you only have to walk across the street to make your getaway.”
“No lawman working this side,” Naylor noted.
“Makes you wonder.”
As he spoke, Slade glanced out through the window, toward the Kansas side, and saw a man of middle years, dressed in a three-piece suit and bowler hat, observing them. The watcher saw Slade looking back at him and raised a hand, fanning the air as if in greeting or farewell.
Naylor followed his gaze after a moment, frowned, and asked, “What’s that about?”
“Beats me.”
Slade watched the stranger for a moment longer, then beckoned him across the boulevard. The man stopped waving, frowned as if in consternation, then checked left and right for traffic before scurrying across the street. He slowed on reaching the restaurant’s sidewalk, delayed another moment on the threshold, then came in.
The waitress came to meet him, smiling. “Table, Mayor?” she asked him.
“Not today, Arlene,” the new arrival said, doffing his hat. He tipped a nod toward Slade and Naylor, saying, “I just need to have a word with these two gentlemen.”
“Alrighty, then.” She whirled away to deal with paying customers.
He approached the table, hat in hand. “Marshals, I apologize for interrupting you. I meant to wait until you’d finished and were on your way, but…well…”
“The lady called you ‘Mayor,’” Slade said.
“Um, yes…well, on the Kansas side, that is. Name’s Warren Jain.” He eyed the third chair at their table. “If you wouldn’t mind…?”
“Feel free,” Slade said. He introduced himself and Naylor, neither of them dropping forks or knives to shake the mayor’s hand.
“What brings you into Oklahoma, then?” Luke asked, wearing a half smile as he chewed a slice of steak.
“I heard that you’d arrived in town with some…ah…shall we say, unfortunates?”
“Unfortunate for them that they weren’t better shots,” said Naylor.
“Yes. Regrettably, we’re plagued by wicked elements. Thank heavens you were able to prevail.”
“Unlike a friend of ours who passed through Stateline recently,” said Slade.
Jain’s face took on a mournful cast. “I was informed of that, as well. Condolences. I understand he ran afoul of savages?”
“Some kind or other,” Slade replied.
“I’m not sure I follow,” said the mayor.
“We’re looking into it,” Slade said. “Also a moonshine racket.”
“Oh? In Stateline?”
“Wherever the evidence takes us.”
“Evidence? Um…what I mean to say is…may I—”
“We can’t talk about it,” Naylor interrupted.
“Ah. Of course.”
“About your two saloons,” Slade said.
“Not my saloons, Marshal.”
“The town’s saloons, then. Can you tell us who’s in charge of them?”
“Why…um…yes. Yes, I can. Sean Swagger runs the Swagger Inn. His name, you see? And at the Sunflower, the man in charge is Mr. Rafferty. Flynn Rafferty.”
“Big men in town, are they?” asked Naylor.
“They both make a decent living, I suppose,” Jain granted.
“Decent, as in profitable,” Slade suggested.
“Well…yes. I suppose some folk could argue that their business isn’t decent, in the strictest sense.”
“Church types,” said Naylor.
“Absolutely.”
“But you don’t appear to have a church in Stateline,” Slade observed. “At least, we didn’t see one, riding in.”
“Um…no. There is a gap in our community, where biblical instruction is concerned,” Jain said.
“Seems curious,” Slade said. “In my experience, most towns attract at least one preacher by the time they double up on bars, hotels, and such.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Jain replied.
“Just a point to ponder,” Sla
de suggested.
“Yes. Well…um…if I can be of any help to you while you’re in town—across the street, of course, not over here—don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Appreciate it, Mayor,” Slade said, as Jain rose from the table and made off, planting his derby squarely on his head.
“That’s one odd bird,” said Naylor. “Got the feeling he was pumpin’ us for information, ’stead of offering to help.”
“I wouldn’t contradict you,” Slade replied, watching Mayor Jain hurry across the street without a backward glance.
Stateline’s Western Union office was locked up tight when Grady Sullivan arrived. A hand-lettered sign dangled on string inside the glass front door, advising that the operator would be BACK AFTER LUNCH. With no idea of when the telegrapher had left his post, and nothing more important than ensuring Percy Fawcett’s silence at the moment, Sullivan set off to check the town’s three restaurants.
He tried the Grub Stake first and got a rude surprise. No sign of Fawcett, but Mayor Jain was seated at a window table, jawing with the marshals who had hauled Sullivan’s dead men back to town. That made him nervous, and he nearly doubled back to warn Flynn Rafferty, but then decided it could wait. For all Sullivan knew, Rafferty might have sent the mayor to see them, to feel out what they knew so far.
Sullivan crossed the street, hoping Jain hadn’t seen him peering through the Grub Stake’s window. Next, he checked the Borderline Café, ducked in to scan the faces of its diners that he couldn’t make out from the street, and came out empty-handed. One to go, the Lone Star Barbecue, and if he missed out there, Sullivan guessed that Fawcett must have gone back home for lunch. Which helped him not at all, without the fat man’s address.
He was simmering as he approached the Lone Star—and saw Percy Fawcett eating alone at a table for two. The telegrapher was gnawing on a pork rib as Sullivan entered and moved toward his table, waving off the waitress who had tried to intercept him. Seeing Grady loom above him, Fawcett made a little choking sound that didn’t sound like “Howdy,” dropped the rib, and scrubbed his plump lips with a napkin.
“Mr. Sullivan,” he managed, when his mug was nearly clean. “W-w-would you care to join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Sullivan. He dropped into the empty chair and leaned toward Fawcett, kept his voice low-pitched for confidentiality. “You had a couple visitors today, I hear.”
“Y-yes, that’s true. A pair of U.S. m-m-marshals.”
“Let me guess. They asked about a certain telegram you sent a while back, for a friend of theirs.”
“That’s r-r-right.” The fat man’s eyes were darting here and there, as if in search of eavesdroppers. His own voice lowered almost to a whisper. “He was m-m-murdered!”
“By a pack of redskins, way I understand it,” Sullivan replied.
“I d-don’t know. They were s-s-suspicious.”
“That’s their job. If they can’t find who done it, they’ll just have to pin the rap on someone else.”
“Y-you d-d-don’t mean—”
“I had a word with Mr. Rafferty about this,” Sullivan cut in. “We think the smartest thing for you to do, right now, is take yourself a nice vacation. Get away from Stateline for a while, until this all blows over.”
“G-g-get away to where?” asked Fawcett, sounding anxious at the prospect.
“Anywhere you like,” said Sullivan. “On Mr. Rafferty, o’ course. Stay gone a week or two, at least, till they get fed up lookin’ for you. I can tip you when it’s safe to double back.”
“B-but…my d-d-duties…”
“Got you covered, Percy. Mr. Rafferty has his own man who can read and send Morse code. No one’ll know the difference, and you’ll draw your salary the same as always.”
“W-well…I just d-d-don’t know.”
“Or you can stick around and see what charge they hang on you. Thing is, in that case, you’d become a liability.”
Fawcett looked queasy, staring at the ribs in front of him as if they were his own torn-up remains. “W-when s-s-should I leave?” he asked.
“Tonight,” said Sullivan. “Finish your normal shift today, and just play dumb if they come back before you close the office. Give me your address and I’ll come by your place, help get you on your way. Say eight o’clock?”
“All r-right.” The fat man named a street, added a number. He kept his eyes downcast as Sullivan put money on the table for his ruined meal and left the restaurant.
The Swagger Inn had something like a dozen drinkers lined up at the bar when Slade and Naylor entered, not bad for an early afternoon. A pneumatic player piano tinkled away in one corner, competing with muttered conversation from the bar. One of the joint’s soiled doves was sitting at a table by herself, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and waiting for a customer to notice her. She sized up Slade and Naylor at a glance, dismissing them as soon as she saw their badges.
The barkeep was a redhead, six foot five or six and broad across the chest, whose biceps strained the fabric of his cambric shirt. He frowned at Slade and Naylor as they reached the bar. “I guess you’ll want a couple on the house,” he said.
“Is that the usual?” asked Naylor.
“Seems like.”
“We’ll take a minute with your boss, instead.”
“He may not have a minute for you.”
“Point us toward him,” Slade instructed. “We’ll find out.”
“I’ll need to tell him that you’re here.”
“We’ll come along,” Slade said and added, with a side glance at the drinkers who’d gone silent now, “These gentlemen can do without you for a second.”
They followed the redhead upstairs, to an office fronting on a gallery that overlooked the barroom. Slade surveyed the layout from that new perspective while the giant knocked and got a call back from within. He ducked inside, closing the door behind him, then emerged a moment later, saying, “Come ahead.”
Sean Swagger was a man of average size, whose personality had patently outgrown his body. He wore his black hair long, combed straight back from his suntanned face and brightly oiled, to match his waxed mustache. The vest he wore without a jacket over it had seemingly been fabricated from a Union Jack, made doubly garish by his plain white linen shirt and gray trousers. The ensemble was completed by a small revolver in a shoulder holster, worn beneath his right armpit.
The introductions took no more than twenty seconds. Settled in a reasonably comfortable wooden chair facing the boss man’s desk, with Naylor seated to his left, Slade said, “We’re running an investigation on the murder of another deputy.”
“Bill Tanner.”
“So, you knew him?”
“Only from the talk we had while he was here in town. I’ve got a head for names,” said Swagger. “Helps my business if I recognize the customers.”
“What did you talk to him about?” asked Naylor.
“Moonshine,” Swagger said. “He reckoned someone in the neighborhood was cooking it and selling on the reservations. Figured maybe I’d been offered some, as well.”
“And were you?” Slade inquired.
“I wish. The red-eye they ship down to me from Wichita comes dear. I’d like a better profit margin, but alas, no one’s come peddling any ’shine my way.”
“And what about your opposition there, across the street?” asked Slade.
“Flynn Rafferty? Call him a friendly rival,” Swagger said. “I couldn’t tell you where he gets his whiskey.”
“Even though you’re friends? In the same business?” Naylor prodded.
“With the key word being business,” Swagger answered. “Neither one of us leaks anything to help the other get ahead, you understand.”
“But if you knew that he was up to something on the shady side…” Slade left it hanging, letting Swagger fill the gap.
“I’m not a nark, and never will be. If you want the dirt on Rafferty, you’ll have to dig it somewhere else.”
“You think h
e’ll show you the same courtesy?” asked Slade.
“There’s only one way to find out. If we’re all finished here, I need to buy the house a round. Help prime the pump, you know?”
Grady Sullivan stood in the recessed doorway of O’Malley’s barbershop and watched the two new marshals from the Swagger Inn. He’d spotted them by chance, as they went in, and close to twenty minutes had elapsed since then, stalling his plan to tell the big man that their plan for Percy Fawcett was in progress.
Sullivan supposed it made sense for the lawmen to drop in and question Swagger. They were looking into moonshine and he did run a saloon. Also, they’d want to check on every step their fellow deputy had made in Stateline, sniffing after leads. The question now was, what had Swagger told them?
Likely nothing, but the big man didn’t pay Grady to speculate. When he asked questions, answers were required, not guesswork. A miscalculation could rebound and cost him dearly—at the very least, his job. At worst…
He didn’t even want to think about it.
On the Oklahoma side of Border Boulevard, the marshals stood and talked together, peering up and down the street suspiciously. Sullivan couldn’t hear what they were saying, wished that he could read their lips. Frustration made him raise a hand and gnaw a fingernail before he caught himself and dropped the hand back to his side.
Tim O’Malley came out of his shop, distracted Sullivan by saying, “Grady, you could use a shave.” Maybe a joke, or he was trying to drum up some business.
“Not today,” said Sullivan, dismissively.
Instead of going back inside, the barber lingered at his elbow, looking off across the street. “More marshals, eh?”
“Looks like.”
“First one, now two.”
“Don’t miss much, do you?” Sullivan replied.
“I keep my eyes open,” O’Malley said, missing the jibe.
“And what about your ears?”
“I hear all right,” the barber said.
“You still shave Swagger regular?” asked Sullivan.
“Sure do. He’s just across the street.”
“Same time each day?”
“If nothin’ interrupts it.”
“And what time would that be?”
