Read Online Murder in Dogleg City by Ford Fargo - Free Book Online Page A

you,” Stone said. “I fought to preserve this grand Union of
ours—my grandfather gave his life at the Battle of King’s Mountain
to help establish it, I did not intend to see it sundered by a
motley crew of hotheaded fools.”
    “ Here, here,” Sam said in
agreement.
    “ I hear there was a lot of
guerrilla war in Kentucky, same as out here,” Hix said.
    The preacher harrumphed. “Irregulars.
Damned useless lot, if you ask me, on either side. Skulking snakes.
Nothing gave me greater pleasure, sir, than shooting down Rebel
bushwhackers like the dogs they were, and the Good Lord’s Arm was
with me when I did it.”
    Hix was standing with his back to Sam,
having turned the preacher’s chair around to face the mirror while
he finished his task. At Reverend Stone’s words, the barber
stiffened—almost imperceptibly—and Sam saw a shadow seem to flit
across the barber’s face in the mirror. In a heartbeat, though, it
was gone. The marshal would have been tempted to ascribe it to
squeamishness, had he not heard reports about the barber’s recent
bravery when the stagecoach he was on was attacked by hostile
Kiowa. He decided, then, that it was lingering embarrassment that
he had not had the honor to serve, and put it out of his
mind.
    The marshal would have been surprised
indeed at the true cause of the barber’s reaction. John Hix had
never been to California, and had instead ridden with a band of
Missouri Confederate guerrillas loosely affiliated with
Quantrill—while he was absent at a prison camp, his family had paid
a heavy price at the hands of Kansas Jayhawkers. He inquired about
all his customers’ war service, hoping to find a few former Union
guerrillas and exact a bit of revenge on them. He had come across a
couple in the months he had been at Wolf Creek, and after they left
his barbershop he tracked them down and gave them a much closer
shave than they bargained for.
    John Hix smiled amiably into the
mirror and spoke to the preacher. “There we are, Reverend, all
done!”
    Stone admired the barber’s handiwork.
“Very good,” he said.
    The preacher stood up and paid. “I
hope to see both of you gentlemen at the morning services come
Sunday,” he said.
    “ I may surprise you and
show up one day,” Sam said, as he took the preacher’s place in the
barber’s chair.
    “ I might see you,” Hix
said—that was always his reply, but he never meant it. On Sunday
mornings, when most of his customers were in church, Hix went down
to Cribtown to see a tiny but buxom whore named Haddie. She didn’t
mind being slapped around a little, and after a full week of
toadying to Yankee sumbitches like these he needed to blow off
steam with a vengeance. Barber-y Coast my
Rebel ass , he mused.
    He draped a cloth around Sam Gardner’s
neck, his smile still in place.
    “ You ready for me to cut
off them pretty curls, Marshal?”
    “ You know better, John. My
neck would be cooler in this damn heat, but the ladies about town
would no doubt lynch you for depriving them of anything worthwhile
to run their fingers through. No, I only ask that you trim my
goatee and give my cheeks a nice smooth shave.”
    “ Yes, sir,” Hix said, and
proceeded to lather up the marshal’s cheeks. Sam relaxed, closing
his eyes, enjoying the sensation and the barbershop
smells.
    “ Marshal Gardner!” a
shrill voice interrupted. Sam’s head jerked up—he was fortunate Hix
had not yet brought out his razor.
    His heart fell. It was Edith
Pettigrew, the town shrew. She and her husband Seth had been among
the founders of the town, almost twenty years earlier. She had
always been something of a busybody, and a prude, but folks who had
lived in Wolf Creek a long time told the marshal she had gotten
much worse after her husband died. Sam had known for some time that
her decline involved more than just an increase in
self-righteousness—the rest of the town was slowly figuring that
part out, as well.
    She stood uncertainly in