the smouldering debris. “They trampled the corn and shot Larsen’s pig. Why would a person do a thing like that, John?”
I dismounted and scraped my boot heel across parallel lines in the dirt.
“Buckboard.” I scrambled down the crumbling bank of the ravine. I turned the men over and examined their faces.
“Frank.”
He slid down the ravine by my side. Loose dirt piled around our boots. “Yeah?”
“These men were dead long before they were shot.”
“How do you know?” Polgar asked.
“There’s not enough blood on their shirts, even though their throats were cut. Their clothes are burned and singed in one spot from the hot powder of a gun. Which means they were also shot point-blank. I want you to take these bodies back to Doc Toland so he can do an autopsy right away.”
“Rex Toland?” Polgar snorted. “Have to sober him up first.”
“I’ve already talked to him about that,” I snapped. I took my hat off and ran my fingers through my hair. “Sorry, Frank. I want to know what killed them, that’s all.”
I stood over the bodies. There was an unusual, yet familiar, odour coming from them. I couldn’t place it because the morning air was filled with dust and swirling wood smoke that stung my eyes.
I frowned, my mind working like a lathe while I listened to the doves cooing on the morning air.
“What’s wrong, John?”
“These men aren’t hired killers.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I ran these two buffalo hunters out of Haxan early this morning. They aren’t the kind of men who would nail another man to a tree.”
“I don’t see—”
“These men were killed to throw us off the scent. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time and got cut short. That’s all.”
“What are you saying?”
My stomach writhed like a ball of snakes. “This was a dodge to get me out here. Connie Rand is going after Magra.”
When I reached Haxan I knew the worst had happened. The street outside my office milled with excited people. I rode in among them.
They watched me with stoic faces.
“What happened?” I asked.
An elderly man in the crowd took it upon himself to answer. “They grabbed that little boy, Piebald, and held a Barlow to his throat. Said if Magra didn’t come out they would kill the kid. She laid down her gun and then they tried to take her away.”
I sat upright in my saddle as if a bolt had gone through me. “What do you mean, ‘tried’?”
“This here cowboy pulled his pistol and started firing over their heads.” A few hands in the crowd tried to push the man in question out front, but he was reticent. The older man continued telling his story. “They let the little boy loose when everyone started running out of their houses to see what the commotion was about.”
“What man are you talking about?”
“I guess’n he means me, Marshal.” He stood back in the crowd, wearing striped pants and green suspenders. He held his crumpled sombrero between his hands like a penitent schoolboy.
“I was sleeping behind that cantina over yonder because I didn’t have money for a bunk,” he explained. “I was washing my face in a trough when I saw them grab that little boy. I didn’t know what was happening, so I unloaded over their heads from behind a clump of chaparral. Spooked one of their horses, I guess. The little boy picked up a stone and smacked one of the horses in the flank so it started kicking. The men got scared and rode off when people started coming into the street.”
“Maybe they thought they were in a crossfire,” another man said. “Sounded like it, what with the echoes bouncing off these false fronts.”
The man who fired at Rand pointed down the street. “They rode away down Front Street. I don’t know where they turned but they might have gone south toward Las Cruces or Mesilla.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I know you from last night, don’t I?”
“That’s sure, Marshal. I’m Jake Strop. I was Fancer Bell’s
I dismounted and scraped my boot heel across parallel lines in the dirt.
“Buckboard.” I scrambled down the crumbling bank of the ravine. I turned the men over and examined their faces.
“Frank.”
He slid down the ravine by my side. Loose dirt piled around our boots. “Yeah?”
“These men were dead long before they were shot.”
“How do you know?” Polgar asked.
“There’s not enough blood on their shirts, even though their throats were cut. Their clothes are burned and singed in one spot from the hot powder of a gun. Which means they were also shot point-blank. I want you to take these bodies back to Doc Toland so he can do an autopsy right away.”
“Rex Toland?” Polgar snorted. “Have to sober him up first.”
“I’ve already talked to him about that,” I snapped. I took my hat off and ran my fingers through my hair. “Sorry, Frank. I want to know what killed them, that’s all.”
I stood over the bodies. There was an unusual, yet familiar, odour coming from them. I couldn’t place it because the morning air was filled with dust and swirling wood smoke that stung my eyes.
I frowned, my mind working like a lathe while I listened to the doves cooing on the morning air.
“What’s wrong, John?”
“These men aren’t hired killers.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I ran these two buffalo hunters out of Haxan early this morning. They aren’t the kind of men who would nail another man to a tree.”
“I don’t see—”
“These men were killed to throw us off the scent. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time and got cut short. That’s all.”
“What are you saying?”
My stomach writhed like a ball of snakes. “This was a dodge to get me out here. Connie Rand is going after Magra.”
When I reached Haxan I knew the worst had happened. The street outside my office milled with excited people. I rode in among them.
They watched me with stoic faces.
“What happened?” I asked.
An elderly man in the crowd took it upon himself to answer. “They grabbed that little boy, Piebald, and held a Barlow to his throat. Said if Magra didn’t come out they would kill the kid. She laid down her gun and then they tried to take her away.”
I sat upright in my saddle as if a bolt had gone through me. “What do you mean, ‘tried’?”
“This here cowboy pulled his pistol and started firing over their heads.” A few hands in the crowd tried to push the man in question out front, but he was reticent. The older man continued telling his story. “They let the little boy loose when everyone started running out of their houses to see what the commotion was about.”
“What man are you talking about?”
“I guess’n he means me, Marshal.” He stood back in the crowd, wearing striped pants and green suspenders. He held his crumpled sombrero between his hands like a penitent schoolboy.
“I was sleeping behind that cantina over yonder because I didn’t have money for a bunk,” he explained. “I was washing my face in a trough when I saw them grab that little boy. I didn’t know what was happening, so I unloaded over their heads from behind a clump of chaparral. Spooked one of their horses, I guess. The little boy picked up a stone and smacked one of the horses in the flank so it started kicking. The men got scared and rode off when people started coming into the street.”
“Maybe they thought they were in a crossfire,” another man said. “Sounded like it, what with the echoes bouncing off these false fronts.”
The man who fired at Rand pointed down the street. “They rode away down Front Street. I don’t know where they turned but they might have gone south toward Las Cruces or Mesilla.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I know you from last night, don’t I?”
“That’s sure, Marshal. I’m Jake Strop. I was Fancer Bell’s
Similar Books
