Twelve Dead Men Page 5

  Ace laughed. “I’m surprised he didn’t take his brother with him.”

  “Pete was too young at the time, barely more than a kid. Otis probably didn’t want to be saddled with taking care of him.” Howden leaned on the desk and went on in a confidential tone. “Although . . . I’ve wondered sometimes if he doesn’t send money back to Pete. The boy’s never held a job in his life, at least not an honest one, but he always seems to have funds.” The colonel straightened up. “Ah, listen to me go on, gossiping like a little old lady. My apologies if I bored you.”

  “Not at all,” Ace assured him.

  “Speaking of gossip . . . I believe I saw you talking to the lovely Miss Dupree when you left the town hall.”

  “That’s right. She was, uh, thanking us for sticking up for her against McLaren last night.” Chance didn’t want it getting around the settlement that Fontana had paid their fines and damages for them.

  Ace understood that and felt the same way, so he just nodded in agreement with what Chance had said.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do for you fellows . . .”

  “I think we’re fine,” Ace said. “I figured we’d go on up to the room and maybe get some rest.”

  “Yeah,” Chance said. “Those bunks in the jail aren’t the most comfortable place to sleep.”

  “That’s good,” Colonel Howden said with a smile. “I don’t need any more competition.”

  * * *

  Just after midday, both brothers woke up hungry. Since their breakfast in jail that morning had been so good, they went in search of the establishment that had provided it. Colonel Howden gave them directions to the Lone Pine Café.

  The place was run by a man named Lars Hilfstrom, with the able assistance of his wife and three daughters, all of them strapping blondes. The café was still open for lunch when Ace and Chance walked in, and they were soon enjoying bowls of hearty beef stew washed down by cups of strong black coffee. The meal was good. It was almost enough to make them forget about the unpleasant things that had happened since they rode into Lone Pine.

  Almost.

  Even if they had forgotten, it wouldn’t have lasted. Soon they were reminded of the previous night’s events by a tall, skinny gent in a well-worn suit who came into the café, looked around, and then started toward the table where Ace and Chance were sitting.

  “Looks like trouble headed this way,” Ace said quietly when he noticed the stranger approaching.

  “What makes you say that?” Chance asked.

  “Look at his fingers. Those are ink stains. That means he’s a newspaperman.”

  That deduction quickly proved to be correct. The newcomer, who wore spectacles and had brown hair, walked up to the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Am I correct in assuming that you’re the Jensen brothers?”

  “That’s right. I’m Ace. He’s Chance.”

  “My name is Lee Emory. I’m the editor and publisher of the Lone Pine Sentinel. Do you mind if I join you?”

  Ace and Chance were both too polite to say no.

  Chance nodded toward one of the empty chairs. “Help yourself.”

  Lee Emory sat down and told the buxom Hilfstrom girl wearing a gingham apron, “I’ll just have a cup of coffee, Ilsa.”

  “Yah, Mr. Emory. I be right back.”

  Emory smiled at Ace and Chance. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.”

  “Not really,” Ace said. “You probably want to interview us for your newspaper.”

  “How did you know that?” Emory asked, looking surprised.

  “We’ve been in a lot of settlements like this,” Chance said. “Couple strangers ride in, get in a big fight, and wind up being thrown in jail. That counts as news in a place like Lone Pine, I reckon. No offense to the town.”

  “It’s true, there’s not a lot of excitement here.” Emory let out a rueful chuckle. “Some weeks it’s a real struggle to fill up the pages. Once you get past the births and the deaths, not a lot happens most of the time. But then there’ll be a new strike at one of the mines, or a ranch will lose some cattle to rustlers—”

  “If it was me, I’d wonder where Pete McLaren was while that rustling was going on,” Chance said.

  Emory took a sip of the coffee Ilsa Hilfstrom brought to him, then leaned forward. “That’s exactly what many of us around here wonder. The same thought occurs to us every time some horses go missing, or a stagecoach is held up, or any other banditry takes place. So far, no one’s ever been able to prove anything along those lines.”

  “What about the county sheriff?” Ace asked.

  “There’s a deputy responsible for this part of the county, but to be blunt, he’s not worth much. I’m pretty sure he got the job because he’s somebody’s nephew or cousin.”

  Chance said, “If it’s help you want with your owlhoot problem, I’m afraid we’re not interested. We’re not lawmen or bounty hunters or range detectives.”

  Ace added, “We’re just a couple hombres on our way from where we’ve been to wherever it might be we’re going.”

  “Still, you clashed with McLaren and his bunch, and like you said, Mr. Jensen, that’s news.”

  “Call me Ace. Mr. Jensen’s my pa.” Wherever he was . . . if he was even still alive. “We never heard of Pete McLaren until yesterday evening, Mr. Emory. We can’t shed any light on his activities, and there’s really not much to say about what happened in the Melodian.”

  “McLaren was treating a woman badly,” Chance said, “and then he insulted another lady. My brother and I don’t take kindly to behavior like that.”

  “You’re talking about the lovely Miss Dupree,” Emory said.

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s quite an excellent singer, from what I’ve heard. Something of a mystery woman, though.”

  Chance hitched a shoulder up and down in a shrug. “A lady’s got a right to her secrets.”

  Emory smiled. “I have a sister. I know what you mean. But if I could ask a few more questions . . .”

  “Go ahead,” Ace told him.

  “Where are you gentlemen from?”

  “We were born in Denver, but you couldn’t say we’re from there, because we’ve lived all over, all our lives. Lately we’ve spent some time up in Montana and then in Colorado. We drifted south from there and wound up here.”

  “Where do you intend to go next?”

  “We haven’t made up our minds about that,” Chance said. “We don’t like to plan things too far in advance. Sort of takes the spice out of life, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve always stayed in one place for a good long time,” Emory said dryly, “so I wouldn’t really know. I’ve been here in Lone Pine for five years.”

  “Was it still called Buzzard’s Roost when you came here?” Ace asked.

  “Ah, you know something of the town’s history, then. No, the citizens had already started calling it Lone Pine. Things weren’t as settled then as they are now, but the town was starting to put its wild days behind it.”

  “Seems like Pete McLaren wouldn’t mind bringing those wild days back,” Ace said.

  “I don’t suppose he would. He probably feels like he has a legacy to live up to. Have you heard of Otis McLaren?”

  “Colonel Howden over at the hotel told us about him. Did you know him?”

  Emory shook his head. “No, he had already left town before my sister and I got here. His departure was recent enough, though, that I heard a lot about him. All the respectable citizens were glad to see him go. Actually, he’s supposed to have had such a hair-trigger temper that even many of the more disreputable characters in town were happy he was gone. Having Otis McLaren here was sort of like having a panther pacing around town. You never knew when he was going to go on a rampage.” The newspaperman leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I must be slipping. I think you two have interviewed me more than the other way around. I have another question.”

  “Shoot,” Chance said.

 
; “An appropriate choice of words, because I wanted to ask you about your last name. There’s a famous gunfighter named Jensen, and although they’re not as well known, he has a couple rather adventurous brothers, too.”

  Ace shook his head. “We’re not related . . . but as it happens, we are acquainted with Smoke, Matt, and Luke.”

  “Really? Do you have any interesting stories about them you might be able to share?”

  Ace thought about the dangers he and Chance had shared with the other Jensens, as well as the wildly exaggerated yarns that drink-addled scribblers spun about Smoke in dime novels. He shook his head and said, “No, the times we met up were all pretty boring. We just sort of sat around in rocking chairs and talked.”

  “Is that so?” Emory looked like he didn’t really believe Ace’s answer, but he didn’t press the issue. “Well, I suppose I have enough for a story. And of course it may not be over yet.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Chance said.

  “Pete McLaren is the sort who holds a grudge against anyone who defies him. Have you been warned about that?”

  “Several times,” Chance said.

  “Then you know to be on the lookout for more trouble.”

  Ace glanced at Chance. “That seems to be pretty much what we do all the time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The afternoon passed peacefully in Lone Pine, however. Ace and Chance went to the livery stable to check on their horses and spent quite a while jawing with Crackerjack Sawyer. The old liveryman wanted to know all the details of the brawl with Pete McLaren.

  When Ace and Chance finished filling him in on that, Crackerjack asked, “How’s that damn Yankee at the hotel treatin’ you fellas?”

  “Colonel Howden’s been very friendly and helpful so far,” Ace said. “Although he commented that he was surprised you recommended his hotel to us.”

  Crackerjack grunted. “Yeah, I’ll just bet he was. That ol’ blue belly’s got it in for ever’body from the South. He don’t believe nothin’ good can come from any of us.”

  “The war’s been over for quite a while,” Chance pointed out. “Most people have stopped holding grudges about it.”

  “Don’t you believe that, son. Folks may say they don’t hold any grudges, but deep down they do. ’Specially those who went back after it was all over and saw what the Yanks did to their homes. Don’t matter how bad they hated the South, they didn’t have to take it out on innocent families. I got no problem with soldiers fightin’ soldiers, but they made war on women and kids and even livestock, burnin’ and lootin’ and killin’ anybody who happened to be in their way.” Crackerjack shook his head. “No, sir, there ain’t no forgettin’ or forgivin’ that, and there never will be.”

  Having been born during the early days of the war, Ace and Chance were too young to have any memories of the great, nation-rending conflict. Ennis “Doc” Monday, the gambler who had raised them, hadn’t been of a particularly partisan bent, so he hadn’t supported or condemned either side. He was content to play cards and take anybody’s money, be they Yank or Reb.

  Because of those factors, the Jensen brothers were happy to let the war stay in the past. They left the livery stable soon after Crackerjack’s heartfelt speech.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon reading some of Colonel Howden’s month-old newspapers and getting caught up on the news of the world. Then, as dusk settled over the town, they strolled up to the Lone Pine Café for supper. The steak, potatoes, greens, biscuits, gravy, and deep-dish apple pie that Mrs. Hilfstrom and her daughters served up were just as good as the stew had been at lunch.

  As they stood in front of the café after the meal, pleasantly full, Chance rocked back and forth on his heels. “I reckon I could use a drink now.”

  “At the Melodian?” Ace asked.

  Chance grinned. “Where else?”

  They headed in the direction of Hank Muller’s saloon. On the way, Ace spotted a familiar figure headed toward them on the boardwalk.

  “Deputy Soriano,” he greeted the lawman as Miguel came up to them.

  “I heard you fellas were out of jail,” Miguel said. “Miss Dupree paid your fines and the damages, right?”

  “We’d just as soon keep that to ourselves,” Chance said, glancing around to see if anyone was within earshot. “And we’re going to pay her back.”

  “That was pretty nice of her, but I can understand why she did it. She doesn’t have any more use for Pete McLaren than most of the other folks around here.”

  “You haven’t seen McLaren around this evening, have you?” Ace asked.

  Miguel thought about it and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have. He and his friends either rode out of town, or they’re lying low somewhere. You boys worried about him jumping you?”

  “Everybody keeps warning us he’s liable to.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. You know, if McLaren and his friends were to attack you, that would give Marshal Dixon and me a good excuse to throw them in jail.”

  Chance said, “Hey, if they killed us, you could keep them locked up even longer.”

  “That’s right,” Miguel said, grinning. “I guess there’s some truth to that old saying about there being a silver lining in every cloud.”

  * * *

  At the far northern end of town stood a small building that was little more than a clapboard, tar-paper, and tin-roof shack. Inside the front room, which was lit only by a small lamp with a smoke-grimed chimney, were a few crude tables and a plank bar. A grossly fat man named José owned and ran the place, serving tequila as well as whiskey he made himself.

  Most men drank the tequila, since the whiskey had been known to give an hombre the blind staggers.

  At the moment, only five customers—Pete McLaren, Perry Severs, Larry Dunn, Lew Merritt, and Vic Russell—were in José’s. That was enough to almost fill the place up. They had been in the squalid little bar all afternoon, ever since McLaren had snuck down the rear stairs of the Melodian and met the other four there.

  Merritt, Russell, and Dunn were drunk. Not falling-down snockered, but their words were slurry and their movements a little unsteady.

  McLaren and Severs had been drinking, too, but their tolerance was higher and they hadn’t put away as much tequila.

  “It’s gettin’ dark, Pete,” Severs said. “If you’re planning on doing anything before those bastards get to Muller’s place, we ought to be movin’ along.”

  McLaren tossed back the inch or so of tequila he still had in the dirty glass he clutched. “You’re right. We’ve stayed out of sight long enough. Damn it, we oughtn’t to have to hide in Lone Pine. This oughta be our town, by God! People have forgot this used to be Buzzard’s Roost, and my big brother was cock o’ the walk!”

  With his multiple chins wobbling, José said from the other side of the bar, “You are not Otis McLaren, amigo. These days, no one is.”

  Pete glared across the bar for a second before his arm shot out. He grabbed the front of José’s soiled apron and jerked him forward. It wasn’t easy to budge the man’s formidable bulk, but Pete was mad enough he didn’t care. “Listen, I know you used to ride with Otis before you got so fat and crippled up, but that don’t give you any right to talk bad about me.”

  “Señor Pete, I-I meant no offense!” José stammered. “I was just saying that your brother, he was a very special man. Tough and hard, the likes of which we no longer see.”

  “Yeah, well, Otis ain’t here and I am, which I reckon makes me the toughest man in these parts!”

  “No one would argue that with you, señor. No one with any sense.”

  Pete let go of José’s apron and gave him a shove back away from the bar. “That’s more like it. Vic, Lew, Larry . . . come on.”

  Lew Merritt lifted a bleary-eyed gaze. “Where’re we goin’?”

  “We talked about it earlier, you damn sot. We’re gonna teach those Jensen boys a lesson they’ll never forget.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Russe
ll said. “They got it comin’, don’t they, Pete?”

  “They damn sure do,” McLaren said. “And they’re gonna wish they never heard of Pete McLaren, let alone crossed him.”

  * * *

  After saying good evening to Deputy Soriano, Ace and Chance started toward the Melodian again, but they had gone less than a block when a familiar figure stepped out of one of the general stores ahead of them. The mercantile was still open and probably would be for a while yet.

  Lee Emory smiled as he saw them. “We meet again.” He wore a suit coat and a hat, which he hadn’t had on earlier.

  He wasn’t alone, either. An attractive young woman stood at his side. Ace recalled Emory mentioning a sister who had come to Lone Pine with him, and now that he looked closer, he could see the family resemblance between the two of them, even though Emory appeared to be considerably older.

  Ace’s hunch was confirmed when the newspaperman said, “I’d like to introduce my sister. Meredith, this is Ace and Chance Jensen. Fellows, my sister Meredith Emory.”

  She put her hand out in a forthright fashion. “I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen.” Like her brother, she had a bit of an accent that placed her origins as back east somewhere.

  She was a lot prettier than Lee Emory, though, Ace thought. Meredith was slender—coltish was a good word to describe her, he decided—and had raven hair that framed an appealing face highlighted by sharp, intelligent eyes. He shook hands with her and found that she had a good grip, too.

  A few ink stains on her fingers told him she worked alongside her brother at the newspaper press.

  Meredith shook hands with Chance as well, then said in a blunt but friendly tone, “Where are you fellows headed this evening?”

  “We, uh, thought we’d go down to the Melodian for a while,” Chance said.

  “An excellent choice. I’m told Miss Dupree has a beautiful singing voice, and even though I’ve seen her around town only a few times, I know she’s quite lovely. I’m sure she’s the main reason you intend to patronize the Melodian, but I’ve also heard that Mr. Muller serves fine libations.”