Right between the Eyes Read online

  Bob nodded. “Okay then. Since everybody’s so danged happy you’re back, how about going to work? You can start by giving your legs a stretch and taking a turn around the town.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Once the brothers had taken leave, Bob turned to Fred and said, “How good is your memory when it comes to who was on that jury for Larkin’s trial? Can you put together a list for me?”

  Fred looked thoughtful for a minute and then said, “Yeah. Sure. Any blanks I got, I can ask around and get ’em filled in quick enough.”

  “Start putting it together, then. If Myron Poppe’s right about some others besides him being nervous over Larkin coming back—and you suggested the same thing, come to think of it—then I’d like a chance to see who else we might be hearing from . . . For that matter, who else we might need to keep an eye on if and when Larkin does show up.”

  “Okay. That’s a good idea. A couple are dead, a couple have left town. I can tell you that much right off. Oh, and one of the jury members was your pal Mike Bullock. You might want to check with him. If folks are buzzing about Larkin’s return, Mike likely has heard talk of it in his place.”

  “He probably has,” Bob allowed. “I’ve got an errand to run, then I’ll swing by and have a talk with him. In the meantime, you get started on that list.”

  “I’ll have it waiting when you get back.”

  * * *

  Before going home for his talk with Consuela the day before, Bob had stopped by the telegraph office for the purpose of sending a wire to Buford Morrison, whom he hoped would still be reachable at the U.S. Marshal’s headquarters in Cheyenne. His message read as follows:

  URGENT FOR INFO ON RANCE

  BRANNIGAN STOP MAYBE WANTED STOP

  LAST KNOWN AT CONCORDIA HOTEL

  IN DENVER STOP ANY NEW INFO

  GREATLY APPRECIATED

  He’d told Harold Feeney, the telegraph operator, not to deliver any reply that came in and not to hand it over to anybody else, to just hang on to it until he came by to check. That’s what he did now. The response waiting for him was this:

  NO WANTEDS ON BRANNIGAN STOP

  DEPARTED DENVER ONE DAY AGO STOP

  DESTINATION UNKNOWN STOP

  SORRY NOT MORE

  Bob wadded the response into a ball and shoved it in his pocket. He thanked Feeney for his time, cautioned him not to speak to anyone about the exchange, and left.

  An inquiry from one U.S. Marshal to another—Morrison in Cheyenne to a counterpart in Denver, for example—was bound to have gotten a quicker reply than if Bob had sent his inquiry directly to the Denver authorities. Trouble was, for all its promptness the answer was neither what Bob wanted to hear nor was it something that did him any good. “Departed one day ago” pretty much confirmed that Brannigan was on his way here. And the fact he had no Wanted papers on him meant that Bob couldn’t do anything when he showed up except wait for him to make a wrong move.

  Just like John Larkin.

  While the return of the ex-con posed less of a threat, in Bob’s opinion—and certainly less of a personal one—he was potential trouble all the same.

  Forewarned is forearmed, that’s what he’d told Fred. But knowing a double dose of trouble was likely on the way yet not being able to do anything about either one except wait . . . old adages aside, that was worse than having all hell just go ahead and bust loose.

  CHAPTER 13

  Even though he was a man seldom given to drink, Bullock’s Saloon was one of Bob’s favorite places. The prime reason for this was the friendship that had developed between him and owner/proprietor Mike Bullock over the years. Bullock was a bullet-headed, barrel-chested, gregarious Irishman, and his saloon was one of the oldest businesses in town. A boisterous good time could be had there, but the limits on behavior were firm and anybody who got out of line had to answer to Mike and his rock-hard, lightning-fast fists.

  An additional attraction when it came to Bullock’s, and not just for Bob, was Mike’s right-hand gal, Maudie Sartain. She was a curvaceous eyeful who didn’t mind showing off her physical charms, usually in low-cut dresses that displayed enough cleavage to guarantee increased sales of cold beer in order to offset the dry throats she caused. At one time, Bob and Maudie had had a flirtation going on between them that hinted at perhaps turning into something more—until Bob came to his senses and realized his true love was Consuela and he’d better follow through on that rather than continue to hold off and risk losing her. Their marriage left his relationship with Maudie somewhat strained for a time, but that had gotten ironed out and now they were back to being good friends once again. (Although Bob had to be careful not to let it appear too good, inasmuch as Consuela had a jealous streak and a corresponding temper to match.)

  When he entered the saloon that morning, there wasn’t much of a crowd yet. It was more than an hour until noon, when things would really pick up. In preparation for that, a couple members of the kitchen staff were already putting out trays of cold cuts, sliced cheese, slabs of bread, and a big bowl of boiled eggs.

  Otherwise, there were only three elderly gents, all dressed in collarless white shirts and dark vests, puffing long cigars, earnestly playing dominoes at a round-topped table near the front door. Toward the back, Merlin Sweeney—the tall, wiry black accordion player Bob had first heard the night of the Silas shoot-out but who’d now become a regular, performing for tips—was quietly practicing some new songs on his instrument. In between, at the far end of the bar, awaiting the lunch rush, were Mike and Maudie. He was leaning on the bar from the back side, she was perched prettily on a stool in the front.

  First making a slight detour to spear a couple sweet pickles out of a jar just being added to the lunch spread by one of the kitchen helpers, Bob headed down the length of the bar toward the pair. “Here comes the party pooper now,” Bullock greeted.

  It took Bob a minute to catch his drift. “How’s that?”

  “Well, from what I hear, you broke up a perfectly good necktie party just yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Bob rolled his eyes and said to Maudie, “Anybody ever tell him his sense of humor is a mite twisted?”

  “Try being around him as much as I am each day,” she replied dryly.

  “I am but an observer of the human condition as seen through the filter of a wry Irish wit,” said Bullock.

  “You’re something, that’s for sure,” muttered Bob as he settled onto a stool next to Maudie.

  Bullock sighed. “Did you come here just to freeload pickles and run down my sense of humor, or are you going to buy something for a change?”

  “To prove once and for all that I’m not a freeloader, I’ll buy you a drink. And you, too, Maudie, if you’re in the market for one,” said Bob. “As for me, I’m hoping you’ve got some tea brewing in the back.”

  Maudie was a tea lover who was always experimenting with different blends and, whenever Bob stopped by, he liked to sample whatever her current one was. He liked some better than others, but it was a safe bet that the worst she served would be better than the jail coffee.

  “It’s a bit early for me to be in the mood, but it would be rude to turn down such a rare and generous offer,” said Bullock, reaching to pour a shot of redeye.

  “I’ll pass on that,” Maudie said. “But yes, I do have some tea brewing in the back. I’ll go get us each a cup.”

  As Maudie departed to fetch some tea, Bullock threw down his shot and then smacked his lips approvingly. When Bob reached to pull some coins out of his vest pocket, the saloonkeeper quickly waved him off. “Don’t you dare. If you start paying for anything when you come in here, it will take away all the fun of me giving you a hard time about not paying.”

  Bob grinned, leaving his money where it was. “I guess there’s some logic in there somewhere. But I’m not going to strain my brain trying to figure it out.”

  “Good enough then. Now, tell me about your run-in with Ed Wardell and his Rocking W boys.”

&nb
sp; “First you tell me how you even know anything about it.”

  It wasn’t like Bob meant for the incident to be a big secret. But nevertheless, he was genuinely curious how news of it had spread so quickly. If he hoped to keep any trouble tamped down when Rocking W riders came to town, it wouldn’t help if they immediately ran into grumblings and accusations about the attempted lynching.

  “Well, the two fellas you saved are put up over at Joe Peterson’s livery, ain’t they?”

  “That’s right. They needed a place to sleep and some short-term work while they healed up some. Deputy Fred took ’em over to Joe and they made the necessary arrangements.”

  “Uh-huh. And don’t Joe stop over here each evening for a couple beers before he goes home to turn in for the night?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so.” Bullock shrugged. “So, when he stopped in last evening, Joe told us about the whole thing.”

  Maudie had returned with two cups of tea by that point. Placing one on the bar top in front of Bob, she said, “Were those Rocking W rowdies really going to hang those two men?”

  “That’s sure the way I saw it,” said Bob. “Ed Wardell tried to argue it was all just for show, to scare ’em. But it looked mighty intense and for real to me. And those fellas with the shadow of the noose dangling over ’em thought it was for real, too.”

  Maudie shook her head. “The audacity to try and pull off a lynching in this day and age. That’s almost too shocking to believe.”

  “Not so much when it’s Ed Wardell you’re talking about,” said Bullock. “He’s got a cold, mean streak in him that runs deep and is as solid as an iron bar. Especially when it comes to rustling beef that rightly belongs to him.”

  “He come in here much?” Bob asked.

  “Now and then. Fact is, he don’t come to town all that much. But when he does, he usually makes a stop here.”

  “And you’ve heard him complain about rustling?”

  “Not always. But that’s sure been his favorite theme the last few times.”

  “Ever since Carlos Vandez bought that land bordering Wardell’s,” Maudie said. “He hates Mexicans with what you can only call an obsession. The thought of the V-Slash range just touching up against his is too much. It’s like it’s making him insane.”

  “That might be closer than you think,” Bob allowed. He tried a sip of his tea. It was a blend he couldn’t remember having before, but a good one all the same. “I’m beginning to question if the rustling is even real—or if Wardell is mostly imagining it because he’s bound and determined that’s how a lousy greaser neighbor would act.”

  “You’ve looked into it?” Bullock said.

  “Very little. It’s out of my jurisdiction. That’s something else Wardell can’t seem to accept.”

  “And when Buford Morrison passed through the other day and failed to show any interest, either, that was really hard for him to accept,” said Bullock.

  “You heard about that?”

  “Hard not to. Wardell wailed it loud and clear, all over town.”

  Bob took another sip of his tea. He hadn’t come in here intending to talk about the situation with Wardell. But input from Mike and Maudie was always worthwhile.

  “During the course of his wailing, you happen to hear anything about him planning to bring in a hired gun?”

  Bullock scowled. “Yeah, he spouted some about that. I figured it just for hot air. You thinking it’s for real?”

  “Yeah. There’s pretty good indication that’s the case.”

  Maudie regarded him closely. “It’s understandable that’s not welcome news,” she said. “But we’ve all seen you handle gunnies plenty of times before. You look like you find the prospect of this one particularly troubling, though. Why is that?”

  “Somebody you know?” Bullock asked.

  “No,” Bob lied, the response coming a little too quick. Then he tried to smooth it over by adding, “Nobody anyone around here has ever heard of. But whether I know whoever it is or not, that don’t mean I’ve got to like it. What I especially don’t like is that damned Wardell and his Mexican-hating ways bringing in a gunny over something that may only exist in his twisted outlook on things. If him and his riders were already geared up enough to attempt a lynching, think what adding a fast gun to their mix might do. And especially when you stop and think that Vandez ain’t exactly the kind of man who’ll stand for much pushing or harassment. Just like a spark to a grass fire, the whole situation would become primed to flare into a range war.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to prevent it from getting to that stage?” said Maudie.

  “I don’t know what,” Bob said, grimacing. “I rode out to the Rocking W yesterday with a notion to try and calm things down. You heard how far I got with that. And if Vandez finds out Wardell is throwing around all kinds of accusations against him and is bringing in a hired gun, how willing do you figure he’ll be to stay peaceful and reasonable about the whole thing?”

  “Not very, I don’t suppose.”

  “Uh-huh. I suppose the same. Plus—and Wardell was mighty quick to remind me of this—there’s the problem of my actual jurisdiction only reaching as far as the city limits. By rights, even if it did break into a range war, I wouldn’t have any legal say in it.”

  Bullock said, “But if feelings get too raw between the two brands, you know damn well it’d be just a matter of time before some of the trouble spills into town.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” said Bob. “It still don’t give me a way to step in before it comes to that.”

  “What about your pal Morrison, the U.S. Marshal? If he didn’t feel he had cause to go out and see Wardell when he was here last, how about now? The attempted lynching, a hired gun coming in . . . I’d say that changes the situation quite a bit, wouldn’t you?”

  “I reckon,” Bob allowed. He’d already thought about notifying Morrison. But, number one, he was reluctant to ask for help with a situation that basically was right in his backyard. More than that, he was worried about having the federal man on hand if Rance Brannigan showed up and started laying down accusations about Bob’s past as the Devil’s River Kid. Bob had already made up his mind that, if given no choice, he’d fight his way clear of any attempt to take him back to Texas as the result of anything Brannigan had to say, but Buford Morrison was about the last person he could think of that he’d want to make that fight against.

  “I’ve already been in contact with Buford,” Bob added, not exactly telling another lie. “I’ll have to see what else he’s got going on when he gets back to me.”

  CHAPTER 14

  When Maudie left to get more tea, Bob said to Bullock, “Look, before you start getting busy with your lunch crowd, there’s something else I want to talk to you about. Actually, it’s what I came in here for.”

  “Let ’er rip. What’s on your mind?”

  “Fella by the name of John Larkin. I got reason to believe you’re familiar with him, right?”

  Bullock pursed his lips. “Yep. Know—or knew, I guess I should say—him real well.”

  “So you know he’s supposed to be on his way back to town after his prison hitch.”

  “Saw it in the paper. Heard talk of it . . . been hearing a fair amount of talk about it, as a matter of fact.”

  “So have I. You were there at the trial, I understand. On the jury. You got any feel for whether or not Larkin might be coming back with some revenge in mind for the town that sent him away?”

  Bullock poured himself another shot of redeye before answering. While he was doing that, Maudie returned with freshly filled cups of tea for her and Bob.

  “Whoa. What’s going on?” she asked. “You two look even grimmer than when I left.”

  “I was asking Mike about John Larkin,” Bob explained.

  Maudie’s own expression tensed. “Oh. Him.”

  “What to expect out of Larkin if and when he returns.” said Bullock, staring down into his drink
without lifting it to his lips. He lifted his gaze, still without taking a drink. “The truth is, Bob, I’m damned if I know. The John Larkin I knew—or thought I knew before he got convicted—didn’t seem like the type who’d come around seeking vengeance. But then, neither did he seem like a thief. And we all know how prison can change a man.”

  “A good man is a good man,” Maudie said with somewhat surprising firmness. “Everybody all over town knows John Larkin was a decent man until he got caught up in that mess. Earl says he’s coming back that same person. Looking to restart his life, not make trouble.”

  Bob didn’t know for sure, but he had to guess that the “Earl” she was referring to was Earl Hines, the town blacksmith. Hines had long harbored feelings for Maudie that everybody else could see but he’d been too shy to make known to her; in recent months she’d finally become aware of the fact and they’d begun spending a good deal of time together.

  In response to the puzzled look on Bob’s face, Maudie said, “Earl and Larkin were good friends before the trouble happened. Earl believed at the time, and still does, that Larkin was innocent of the things he was charged with. They’ve corresponded while Larkin was in prison, and I think Earl even went to visit him a time or two.”

  “A lot of folks around town wanted to believe Larkin was innocent,” Bullock said. He finally threw back his drink, then added, “But doggone it, the evidence presented at the trial didn’t leave any choice but to find him guilty.”

  “When you say Larkin is coming back to restart his life,” Bob said to Maudie, “what does that mean exactly? Does he have family here?”

  She shook her head. “No. None.”