Free The Killing Machine by Ed Gorman

sounded a lot friendlier. He knew that he should never demand too much, because that would just lead to trouble. But he’d kind of sidle up to you and whisper a few sentences about what he’d overheard you say, and then soon enough you’d be giving him monthly “favors” like some of your friends.
    He might hear you say something about the lady you saw on the side, or he might hear you say something about how you were cheating your business partner, or he might hear you say something about the arson fire you set because you were in dire need of insurance cash.
    Tib, Gwen said, was fascinated by James. The way Gwen explained it, Tib had always wanted to be a rogue like the ones you read about in dime novels. Men who dazzled rich, beautiful women with their charms and then later broke into fancy boudoirs to steal jewels and diamonds. The trouble was, Tib was your basic plow jockey who didn’t have the pluck or the imagination it took to steal a stick of licorice from Mr. Adler’s candy counter over to the general store.
    So he sort of lived through James. James was better than reading a book, according to Tib. Every dayof the week, James would do something—never anything big, except for the occasional horse stealing, because he didn’t want to go to prison—but something interesting.
    The one thing she resented about James was that he had secrets he wouldn’t share with her. Even when she begged him sometimes he wouldn’t tell her. He always said that if anything bad happened, she wouldn’t be involved in any way.
    One night, several months back, James got drunk and did tell her that he’d learned something important out to David Ford’s ranch. That’s all he would say. Soon after that he came into a lot of money. A lot by their standards, anyway. They bought the Sears house and put it up. This took all their money. James had to work as hard as ever to support them.
    But it was about that time that somebody tried to kill him. Once, twice, three times. For the first time ever, she saw her husband afraid. But he wouldn’t tell her anything more than he had that one drunken night.
    Then the trouble at David’s ranch, and James, Tib, and David were dead.
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    â€œEverybody thinks this was about the gun, but I’m not sure it was.”
    The good ones take every path pointed out to them. I’m talking here about any kind of investigative man or woman you care to name. Unless it involves ghosties or goblins or spheres in the sky (all of which you hear about more frequently than you might imagine), the good investigator follows everypath pointed out to him. He does not, however, always hold out much hope that he’ll find much on any given path.
    You have a man, my own brother, with an experimental weapon much sought around the world. You have four men of varying reputations trying to possess that gun. There is a shootout. Brother is killed. Gun vanishes.
    One of the men who died in the shootout came into some unexpected money a few months back. Tempting to think that this might have some bearing on the shootout. But here you have a man, James, who by all accounts was a thief and likely a blackmailer. There could be many other explanations than the gun as to how he came into the windfall.
    But, if you’re good, you don’t dismiss it. Because there’s just enough of a vague connection to making traveling that path worthwhile—if you are a serious investigator.
    â€œHow about this?” I said. “How about if I check out what I think happened and at the same time check out what you think happened?”
    â€œYou’d really do that?”
    â€œSure. Why not?”
    â€œWell, James—a Cree.”
    â€œHe died helping me. I owe him that much, at least.”
    She took my hand. She was, as I’d guessed, strong and vital. The grip confirmed that. You take a pioneer woman, this being a theory I’ve had for years,