Free Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden by J. Lee Butts Page B

short for a heavy, stout upper body—small, spindly, and ill suited for his rather bulky girth. Looked to me like a man who, as he grew older, had gained considerable weight—from the waist up. Know it sounds like an odd circumstance, but it did happen to some men back in those bygone days. Wasn’t unusual for men of prominence to have a kind of walking, barrel-like appearance.
    With some obvious difficulty, Wilton climbed the steep set of steps to my expansive covered porch. He swept a spotless, gray, felt hat off and extended his hand when I stood.
    â€œHayden, so good to see you looking well,” he said and smiled, then acknowledged Carl and Nate with a nod and equally gracious tilt of the head.
    Offered him the seat Carl had so recently vacated and a glass of the lemonade. In the manner of a fussy old maid, Wilton built himself something of an elaborate nest before finally becoming comfortable in the seat next to mine. Once settled in, he ceremoniously lit a cigar the color of his horse and the size of an ax handle. Daintily shook the still smoldering lucifer to death and dropped it into the glass ash tray atop the table between our chairs.
    He blew a smoke ring the size of wagon wheel, flashed a toothy grin, then said, “You gentlemen appear to have recovered nicely. Sincerely hope you’re all feeling as well as you look.”
    â€œDoing fine, thank you,” I said. Waved at my friends and added, “Figure we should be ready for something new by way of missions any day now.”
    â€œGood, very good. Glad to hear your collective recovery has gone well,” he said, then took another deep drag on the massive stogie. Unlike most who favored cigars, Wilton inhaled the potent smoke, held it in his lungs for a second or so, then expelled it in a long thin stream. And in the same manner I’d noticed about his ride, he appeared to genuinely enjoy himself.
    After a moment of self-imposed silence, he harrumphed a time or two before saying, “In point of fact, Marshal Tilden, you’ve hit upon the precise purpose of my visit today. Wanted to check in on Judge Parker’s most stalwart trio of deputies, of course. Make sure you were all on the mend, as it were. But I’m also here to offer the three of you a mission that should prove just the type of undertaking you might want to consider, given you’re all nearing the end of a somewhat lengthy convalescence.”
    Though oblique in the extreme, I recognized the hidden message from Judge Parker that it was time for us to get back to work. Offered a slight nod of the head, so as to encourage Wilton to continue. Happened to notice, for the first time, that the man’s hair had begun to go gray. The color of onyx, when first we met, it now formed a halolike frame for his handsome, ebony face.
    As if in deep contemplation, he sat in silence for a few more seconds. Took the time to examine the ash at the end of his smoke. Inhaled another long, satisfying puff, then said, “Are you aware of the terrible triple murder that took place up in Dutch Crossing some months ago?”
    Had to shake my head, but said, “Seems I did hear something about some horrible killings up that way. But must admit I’ve no definitive knowledge of the crime.”
    Nate stood, leaned a shoulder against the porch pillar, shoved both hands into the waist of his pants, then said, “I’ve heard about the carnage you’re talkin’ ’bout, sir. Way I got the story, authorities found the butchered bodies of a man, woman, and their young son. If memory serves, was a farm family name of Cassidy.”
    Wilton nodded. “Indeed. Indeed. Cassidy.”
    Nate scratched his head and continued. “Seems as how local authorities found the bullet-riddled body of Mr. Matthew Cassidy out in one of his sorghum fields. Then they discovered the corpses of his wife and son inside their house. Heard tell as how the woman and child died