Free Murder in Dogleg City by Ford Fargo

against whiskey or walking
around in a stable with your shirt off. Besides, I wouldn’t want to
cut her off. I’d be tempted to buy her supply out of my own salary,
if I had to—if she’s this annoying on dope, I’d hate to see what
she’s like without it.”
    Sam leaned back. “Carry on, John. The
dens of Satan are calling my name.”
    John grinned. “Yes sir,
Marshal.”
    * * *
    Sam stepped out of the barber shop. He
paused a moment, looking up and down the street. He liked to be
aware of his surroundings, a habit he had picked up as a cavalry
officer. He had certainly not picked it up while growing up in his
hometown of Danville, Illinois—there was nothing to see there but
corn, and nothing to hear but his lawyer father’s boring
platitudes.
    He turned right and headed west down
South Street. He intended to start his rounds, as he usually did,
at the Eldorado. He planned to ask around about the mysterious
Laird Jenkins, the fellow who’d gotten himself shot in the back
while taking a piss outside Asa’s Saloon. Quint had done a thorough
job earlier in the day, but there were certain townspeople who
might open up more to the city marshal with the deadly reputation
than to his straight-arrow deputy. And since it was now late
afternoon, there might be more folks up and about who had seen
Jenkins than there had been when Quint did his
questioning.
    The Eldorado was the most upscale
drinking establishment in Wolf Creek. Its South Street location was
on the border between the “respectable” part of town and the rowdy
neighborhood called Dogleg City that had sprung up in the last
couple of years, since the railroad arrived. It was the sort of
place that local businessmen, or those passing through on the AT
& SF, could feel safe frequenting, sipping a drink on cushioned
barstools or doing a little gambling without the fear of being
murdered if they won two hands in a row, or robbed as soon as they
got out the door.
    A handbill pasted on the
front door advertised that the Du Pree Players would be returning
next weekend. That was another marker of the sort of place Virgil
Calhoun ran; Howard Du Pree and his troupe made a circuit through
southern Kansas, appearing in Wolf Creek every month or so. They
performed comedy skits, song and dance routines, and excerpts from
Shakespeare. They didn’t get booked in Dogleg City; Sam sometimes
mused about how amusing it might be to see them do Hamlet or Julius Caesar at the
Wolf’s Den. It would be the first time they’d done the murder
scenes with audience participation.
    Sam opened the door and stepped
inside. The house gambler—and bouncer, on the rare occasion one was
required—sat at the lonely poker table, waiting for the gamblers to
wake up and start stirring. The faro and monte stations—the
Eldorado only ran three tables—sat empty. The dealer, Tom
Scroggins, was a rough-looking character with long black hair and a
grizzled goatee—one could argue he was an unkempt version of the
marshal, at least in appearance.
    “ Looks like the place is
getting a slow start today, eh, Tom?” Sam said as he walked
past.
    Scroggins shrugged. “It’s okay,
Marshal. I’m a bit of a slow starter myself, anyhow.”
    Sam chuckled. “Things’ll pick up when
the dance hall girls get started. A little flash of female leg gets
folks’ blood flowing.”
    The piano player had arrived, and was
limbering his fingers up at the keyboard. Sven Larson was the best
piano man in town; Sam didn’t bother asking him any questions, the
Minnesotan got completely lost in his music once he got started,
and would not likely have noticed if the whole place collapsed
around his ears.
    Instead, he bellied up to the bar and
ordered a beer. Head bartender Robert Sutton set a foamy mug before
him. The marshal and Sutton got along quite well, being fellow
Illinois escapees. The bartender—a thin man around sixty with a
snow white beard and a toothy grin—hailed from Urbana, and had
spent the war