Crooked M Killings Read online

  He abruptly stopped speaking when the door opened and a tall, square jawed man strolled in. He was crisply dressed in what was clearly an expensive red shirt, leather waistcoat and well tailored black trousers. Sal noticed immediately that he wore twin pearl handled pistols slung low in leather holsters so that his hands naturally rested on the gun butts. On his chest was a silver star. He nodded at Sal and raised his Stetson. ‘Ma’am. Welcome to our little town. I’m Sheriff Jack Tucker. I heard you’d rode into town and I like to know who’s around. Kind of unusual, a woman riding alone. Especially in buckskins and carrying twin Colts. You here on business?’

  Sal was impressed by his quick observations and she smiled at the sheriff.

  ‘Indeed I am here on business, Sheriff. My husband ran off with a wildcat saloon girl and headed through Flintlock in this direction. I lost his trail about five miles from here. You obviously keep a close eye on things, Sheriff. Have you seen any sign of the cheating bastard? Tall man. ’Bout your height. Slim, with a droopy moustache. The whore is a brassy redhead with bad taste in clothes.’

  Sal glanced at the two men and their expressions didn’t indicate that they believed her story. Tucker struck a match on the doorpost, lit a cigarette and inhaled before speaking.

  ‘Not seen any couples, ma’am. You’re the first stranger this week ’cept fer the tall feller who rode through town today. Wondered if you might know who he is, being as how the both of you came on the same day.’ He paused to see if there was any sign of a reaction in Sal’s expression but there was none. ‘He’s tall, as I said and spare framed. Mebbe forty. Mebbe more. Wears his gun low, as if he’s used to using it. Just seemed strange that we get two newcomers on the same day.’ He paused, then stared at Dawson, who looked down at the counter and brushed off an imaginary speck of dust, then the sheriff fixed his unblinking stare on Sal. ‘You see, I don’t believe in coincidence, ma’am.’

  Sal began to feel out of her depth. This man was no fool and she determined to end the conversation. She smiled brightly.

  ‘Well, Sheriff, if you do see them, be sure to let me know. You sure as hell can’t miss her, with her mass of hair and her clingy dresses.’

  ‘Will do, ma’am. But my guess is that they’ve doubled back on themselves and headed back to Flintlock. Ain’t nothing much past here for a good fifty miles ’ceptin’ fer Ennerman.’

  ‘Ennerman?’

  ‘A ghost town these days. Last people left there five years and more ago. So unless you’ve got any business here in Redwood I’d advise you to turn around tomorrow and head back to Flintlock.’

  ‘Thank you kindly for your advice, Sheriff Tucker. The ride’s tired me out and I think I’ll ask around to see if anyone’s seen the lying bastard. Worst thing is he took $100 – my life savings – to spend on that whore. I’m damned if I’m going to let him get away with it. I want his hide hanging on the barn door.’

  ‘I see your reasoning, ma’am. I’ll be sure to let you know. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Sal. She thought that maybe there were details of her husband’s murder in the sheriff’s office and Tucker might put two and two together when he got talking to Cassidy. She said the first name which entered her head. ‘It was Carson. Ed Carson.’

  Tucker looked her up and down, noticing the rounded curves underneath the buckskin. For the first time he smiled appreciatively.

  ‘I’ll be sure to keep a look out, Mrs Carson. Good luck. I hope you find him. He must be a mighty foolish man to give up a woman like you for a saloon girl.’ He nodded at Sal and Dawson and left the shop.

  John Dawson looked sideways at Sal and she recognized a cool shrewdness in his eyes which worried her. He rubbed his stubbly chin and paused as he made a decision.

  ‘D’you mind if I give you some advice? Sort of advice for your good health?’

  ‘Go ahead, Mr Dawson.’ Sal’s voice betrayed uncertainty and she pursed her lips.

  ‘It seems a bit strange that you are called McIntyre and your husband is called Carson. If I was you I’d take a bit more care, lest Sheriff Tucker and Cassidy decide to do a bit of checking. They are mighty suspicious people and Tucker misses nothing.’ He paused for several seconds, and then he smiled a tired but friendly smile. ‘What do you want me to call you, ma’am?’

  ‘Just call me Sal. I’ll think of a way of explaining the name when I need to.’ She turned and walked towards the door, and then she paused, looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘And thanks, Mr Dawson. Thanks for everything.’

  Sal suddenly felt ravenously hungry. She remembered that there was a supper waiting for her and as she entered the house she was almost overcome by the smell of hot food being prepared by Margy.

  She poked her head round the door and sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Ready when you are, Sal!’

  ‘Thanks, Margy. I’ll be there in five seconds flat.’

  She sat down to a relaxed meal and, for the first time in a long while she felt clean and civilized. Margy had cooked an enormous stew with both bread and dumplings and they ate at a leisurely pace, exchanging stories; Frank and Margy extolling the many virtues of John Miles. After they had eaten their fill, Margy lit two oil lamps and they sat in front of the fire nursing mugs of strong coffee and talked about the current state of Redwood.

  ‘Darned shame,’ Frank mused. ‘It was a good town. Till Cassidy came.’

  ‘Shep Cassidy!’ Margy spat out the name with a venom which shocked Sal. ‘He’s a murderous wild dog and should be cut down. He’s killed some good men. . . .’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure, Margy. It’s just rumour and hearsay.’

  ‘Shha!’ Margy exhaled angrily. ‘You know as well as I do that he’s as guilty as hell . . . and hell’s where he’s going to rot!’

  Frank and Sal sat in silence, staring at the crackling log fire. Sal was in fact weighing up the situation in which she found herself. She knew that she was able to kill and she knew that there were at least three major adversaries and, she felt pretty certain, at least two others. That made it five trained and ruthless killers. At least. All were apparently devoid of compassion or conscience. Whereas Frank couldn’t prove that they were killers, she could. But could she exact revenge, justice or whatever it was she was after?

  One woman against five trained gunmen. One woman who’d made at least three bad mistakes but who had been about as lucky as a four leaf clover tied to a rabbit’s foot.

  Chapter Eight

  Reuben

  Reuben Kane raised himself to his feet then almost toppled over as he tried to pull his boots on.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me she’d gone after them? Damn fool woman’ll be killed sure as hell!’

  John Miles watched him but didn’t offer any help.

  ‘I didn’t tell you cos I know what you’re like and I know you’ll be after them. You just weren’t well enough.’

  Reuben was reaching for his gun belt and he snarled angrily.

  ‘Damn it, Miles! She’ll be a calf to the slaughter with those animals.’

  Eve Miles stood with her hands on her hips, facing Reuben with a solid determined expression. She reached for a large cast iron pan which hung from the wall.

  ‘Reuben Kane, get back in to bed this instance or, so help me, I’ll hit you with this pan till you see all the stars in the heavens! Just wait for a few days and John’ll be able to go with you.’

  Reuben raised his eyebrows and smiled a slight, nervous smile before speaking in a quiet, measured tone.

  ‘Eve, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. I can’t lie here knowing where she’s gone. There’s nowhere to go ’cept Redwood so that’s where I’m heading. If she’s doubled back then I can’t do anything. The trail will be cold so I’ve got to take the gamble. I’ll ride careful, Eve, and the doc will give me some dressings and ointment so I’ll be fine.’

  She looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were sad but she was resigned and she hung
the pan back on the hook.

  ‘I guess if you don’t go you’ll never forgive yourself. You’re a stubborn, stupid man, Reuben, but I can see that you’ve got to go.’

  They watched as Reuben fastened his gun belt and checked his weapons. John Miles went to fetch his friend’s horse and as Reuben ate a small meal with Eve, John led the animal to the door. Reuben tipped his hat forward against the sun and nodded at Miles. Miles nodded back. He wondered if his friend had finally taken on more than he could handle and he wondered if he would ever see him alive again.

  ‘Good luck, Reuben. Be careful, old friend.’

  ‘I will, John. I’ll see you when we get back.’

  ‘We?’

  Reuben looked a mite embarrassed, then he grinned.

  ‘We . . . Me ’n’ Sal.’ Then he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Death of a Sheriff

  Sal McIntyre lay in her bed looking up at the sloping ceiling. Her mind was whirling and a small voice kept repeating that she was about to commit a catastrophic error. She kept wondering if what she was doing made any sense. Perhaps it would be better to leave things to the law? Then she remembered Frank reminding her that nothing had been proved and she knew deep down that the law would never catch Cassidy and his men.

  She needed to work out a strategy. She needed to take the battle to her enemies and somehow load the odds in her favour. In a straight fight she had no hope. Somehow she had to even the balance. Not for a moment did she consider that the odds were hopeless and that she was doomed to failure if she took on Cassidy.

  It was a long time before she fell into a disturbed and fitful sleep, assailed by nightmares in which she smelt Shep Cassidy’s hot breath on her face and felt his rough, unshaven face on her cheek. Then she was in a fast flowing river and Ed was being dragged away from her by the current. The Davies Brothers, although clearly dead and displaying the wounds which she had inflicted, were standing in front of her on the surface of the water and laughing as they prevented her from saving him. She tried desperately to get past them but they had immense strength and they blocked her way. She drew her guns and fired at point blank range, blasting them until she had emptied both guns . . . but they were still standing, laughing and shrieking obscenities at her. Then, as Ed finally disappeared from view and she climbed wearily on to the river bank, they walked towards her, two grinning death heads. She was rooted to the spot, paralysed by fear. Then they were on her.

  She woke with a start, drenched in sweat and shaking violently, then she got out of bed and peered out of the window. On the steps of the saloon, illuminated by the orange glow of the lights shining through the doorway, a small group of cowboys shared anecdotes and laughed amiably. Sheriff Tucker was talking to a man who sported a smart long black coat and a black hat. The man was swaying slightly and Sal assumed that he was very drunk. He turned and walked away from the sheriff.

  Tucker shouted at the man.

  ‘Turn and face me!’

  The man in black turned and faced him. Sal guessed that Tucker was going to arrest him, probably for being drunk. Instead, Tucker drew his gun, slowly and deliberately. The man in black stared at the revolver and his eyes widened in fear. He said something to the sheriff which Sal couldn’t hear but which, judging by his raised hands, was some sort of plea for mercy. Sheriff Tucker laughed and appeared to share a joke with the man in black, who lowered his hands and grinned in relief. Then Tucker pointed his revolver at the man in what appeared from Sal’s distance to be an almost casual manner and he squeezed the trigger. Flame spurted from the barrel and the man pitched backwards, clutching his chest. Tucker walked slowly to where the man lay, twitching in the dust. Once more, the man in black raised his hand to plead with his assassin but it was a fruitless request. Tucker smiled down at him and pumped three more bullets into his head.

  Sal’s hand flew to her mouth and she emitted a choked, deep throated gurgle. Tucker holstered his gun and walked calmly away, as if he had just exchanged pleasantries with the man, then he shouted something at the cowboys, ordering them to carry the crumpled body to the building marked Carpenter, Joiner and Undertaker. She could see that the cowboys were shocked and scared. One of them, realizing that his shirt was stained with the dead man’s blood, vomited in the street.

  Sal shut her curtains. It was several hours before she fell briefly into another horror filled doze. This time she dreamt that she was being chased by Sheriff Tucker. She tired of running and turned to face him. As he grinned confidently, she emptied her Winchester into him, watching him die and feeling elated and joyful as he crumpled to the dusty floor.

  Sal woke late the following morning. The sun was streaming through the curtains and she washed and dressed, half believing, or at least hoping that the nocturnal happenings on the street had been part of her nightmare. Indeed, when she looked out onto the street there was no sign of the drama of the previous night. Mr Dawson was brushing dust from the sidewalk outside his shop and the young cowboys who had witnessed the event were riding slowly out of town, probably hoping that they would never return to Redwood.

  She seriously wondered if the killing had really happened outside the confines of her own imagination.

  Sal was subdued over breakfast and as she absently prodded a slice of bacon, Margy sipped a coffee and looked at her over the rim of the cup.

  ‘Penny fer ’em?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your thoughts. Penny fer ’em. You were miles away.’

  Sal related what she thought she had witnessed the night before, occasionally having to stop as her lips trembled. Margy sat in silence, listening intently and it was only when Sal had finished talking that she spoke.

  ‘Sheriff? Tucker ain’t no sheriff. Not in the way that you’d think anyhow. He’s just a killer wearing a star which Cassidy gave him after he hired him to do his dirty work. Do you know who the man was that he killed?’

  ‘Never seen him afore. Just a man dressed in black.’

  Margy looked thoughtful.’He wouldn’t have been wearing a long black coat, would he? Tall ’n’ thin with a foreign lookin’ black hat?’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  Margy shook her head sadly. Her mouth twitched slightly.

  ‘Jack Farrow. A good man. Owns . . . owned . . . the Crossed Snake ranch just out of town. Wife died about a year ago and since then he comes into town and gets drunk about once a week. Shep Cassidy wanted to buy the Crossed Snake but Farrow wouldn’t sell. He said the offer was about half of what it’s worth. Cassidy said he’d have the ranch one day and told Farrow he’d made a big mistake in not selling. Farrow upset him by saying things about him in the saloon when the whiskey had loosened his tongue. Guess he should’ve gone when he could. Poor Jack. Nice man. Honest, too.’

  She looked grimly at Sal and was about to say something else when there came a tap at the door. Sal heard voices in the hallway.

  Margy brushed some crumbs from her clothes, straightened her hair and went to answer the door. She found Sheriff John Tucker standing there, leaning against the veranda support post and chewing on a cheroot. He glanced at Margy and nodded, smiling politely.

  ‘Mornin’, Margy. How’re you?’

  ‘Fine, Sheriff.’ Margy’s voice was icy cold and she didn’t return the smile. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Just looking up our visitor. Coupla questions I need to ask her.’

  ‘She’s not feeling too good this morning, Sheriff. Seems that something happened in the night which disturbed her sleep. She ain’t well enough to receive visitors. What were the questions? Perhaps I can ask her,’ she said artfully.

  For a split second, Tucker looked nonplussed, then he smiled another broad, cold smile.

  ‘Sorry, Margy. I’d like to be able to tell you. I really would like to tell you but I can’t. Official sheriff’s business. Kinda confidential. So if you’d kindly ask her to come down. . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sheriff Tucker, but she really ain’t
in a fit state to be seeing anyone. Perhaps . . .’

  Tucker was trying to disguise his anger and there was nothing he would have liked more than to give this woman a good slapping but there were too many people around and even in Redwood, strong men didn’t beat up on old ladies unless it was necessary.

  He leaned forward and spoke in a mock conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Just tell her to be at my office at eleven sharp.’ He stared at Margy and although his mouth was still upturned in a smile, his eyes were cold and dead. ‘An’ tell her that if she’s late I’ll come lookin’ fer her.’ The threat in the statement was unmistakable but Margy, shaking inside, appeared calm and polite.

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell her, Sheriff.’

  Tucker nodded, moved his hat back an inch or so, tipped it politely then turned on his heel and left. As he walked through the door he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Bye, Margy. And thank you kindly for your cooperation. And don’t you go forgetting to tell her.’

  Margy leaned against the door and realized that her hands were shaking.

  Sal had been standing behind the kitchen door listening to every word. When she emerged Margy stared hard and long at her.

  ‘Sal. What are you really here for? You sure as hell seem to be making some powerful enemies.’

  Sal stood defiantly for a moment and was going to tell Margy that it was none of her business but even she realized how mean minded that would be and she thought – no, knew – that she could trust this woman. She rubbed her mouth and looked at the floor and when her eyes finally met Margy’s, she had made her decision.

  ‘I guess I owe it to you to be honest, Margy, as I seem to have involved you in this business, like it or no.’

  She looked at the floor again then Margy asked her to sit down. Starting from the murder of her husband Ed, Sal related her story in brutal, honest detail, ending with the murder of Jack Farrow by Sheriff Tucker the previous night. When she finished, both women had tears running down their cheeks and Margy embraced Sal and stroked her hair.