Free Murder in Dogleg City by Ford Fargo Page A

years as a guard at the Rock Island prison camp.
Affable as he was, he had no compunction about using the shotgun
hidden behind the bar if it were necessary. Gardner joked that
having a bartender named Robert at the Eldorado, when there was a
bartender named Rob at the Lucky Break, was far too confusing for
the simple folk of Wolf Creek, so the marshal sometimes referred to
them as Smilin’ Bob and Burly Rob.
    “ How’s that leg doing,
Sam?” Smilin’ Bob Sutton asked.
    The marshal set his mug down. “The doc
says it’s coming along well. I shouldn’t need this walking stick
for long, now that I’m finally on my feet—but it’s so dandy and
handy, I may just make it a permanent part of my arsenal. Joseph
Nash does good work.”
    “ Hey, that’s a beaut,”
Sutton said. “Can I see it?”
    Sam handed it over and the bartender
appraised it with an approving smile.
    “ Say, Bob,” the marshal
said. “I guess you heard about the fellow who got shot down in
Cribtown last night.”
    Sutton nodded. “Quint was asking about
him this morning. I really can’t tell you much—he just came in here
a few times in the early evening, had a couple of drinks and moved
on.”
    “ I hear he was a bit of a
talker.”
    Sutton shook his head. “Not so’s I’d
notice, not in here. I’d say this was where he started his
evening’s festivities, and he hadn’t drunk enough yet to loosen his
tongue till somewhere farther down the line.”
    Sam nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’m
going to pester your customers about him just the same.”
    Sutton handed the cane back. “Sure
thing, Sam.”
    There weren’t that many customers to
pester, not at this hour. Sam knew most of them—and they proved as
unhelpful as Sutton—but then a man entered who was a stranger to
him. He was in his forties, wearing a cheap, rumpled suit and a
dusty bowler. He carried a leather case. The man headed straight to
the bar, and Sam excused himself from the conversation he was
having with a local cattleman to go join him.
    “ Robert,” the man said to
the bartender, “has Mister Calhoun come in yet?”
    Sutton shook his head. “Afraid not. He
should be along soon, though.”
    The man seemed disappointed. “Do you
know if he’s given any thought to my offer?”
    Sutton smiled. “I’m just the hired
help, you’ll have to ask him about that.”
    Sam approached the man. “Virgil keeps
the hours of a raccoon,” he said, “much like the rest of us. My
name is Sam Gardner, I’m the marshal around here.”
    “ Have I done something,
Marshal?”
    Sam smiled. “Not that I’m aware of. I
just like to make new acquaintances.”
    “ Oh,” the man said, but he
did not seem relieved. “My name is Malchius Offerman.” He offered
his hand, and the marshal shook it.
    “ Mister Offerman is a
whiskey drummer,” Sutton offered. “He’s trying to convince Virgil
to change suppliers.”
    “ I thought I knew all the
whiskey drummers who come through,” Sam said, and then added, “I
like whiskey, you see.”
    Offerman nodded. “I’m new,” he said.
“Well, not new to the trade, just new to this territory. I replaced
Lester Weatherby.”
    “ Weatherby,” Sam said, and
thought a moment. “Oh, yes. He was on that stagecoach that the
Kiowas hit a few weeks back.”
    The drummer nodded again. “I hear he
quit and moved back East.”
    “ A good place for him,
from what I saw,” Sam said. “Well, I wish you luck with
Virgil.”
    “ Thank you,
Marshal.”
    “ Long as I have you here,
I wonder if I could ask you a question.”
    “ Why, certainly. I always
like to be helpful to the law.”
    “ There’s a fellow that has
been making the rounds of the saloons the last few nights—Laird
Jenkins. Dressed like a cattle drover, had a pock-marked
face.”
    Offerman nodded. “Why, yes,” he said.
“I remember the man. We spoke last night, very briefly, at the
Lucky Break. Is he in some sort of trouble?”
    “ His troubles are pretty
much over.