CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Well, Clay was shot, all right,” said Doc, “but from the
meat of the wound and the quagginess of the blood, I’d say it happened sometime
the day before yesterday – the day of the robbery. I’d say the cashier’s bullet
didn’t go wild after all.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Doc, how could a dead man gallop
away?” I asked.
Doc held up a hand. “But the wound wasn’t what killed Clay.
The ball hit the ribcase and bounced off. Twenty-two caliber, it was. What did
kill him was the stab in the back, right through the spine, inflicted sometime
early the next morning. Now, near as I can tell, by a small blade – oh, two,
three inches long. It could have been a Barlow knife.”
“A knife.” I stood up from my desk and started to pace. I
remembered the Dutchman saying he didn’t even own a gun. I suppose he could’ve
knifed Clay – but Pete Ziegler didn’t seem the sort to stab a man in the back,
no matter how desperate he was for the reward. A shooting, maybe. But a knife?
A knife takes work, a knife takes will. No, the more I thought about Clay, the
less I liked Pete for the killing.
There was also Francie and the lie. Clay had been celebrating
something two days before he’d shot two men while trying to steal a hefty chunk
of cash. Then he’d been stabbed in the back. It all added up to something I
didn’t like.
The Doc watched me as I paced the room. “You call the inquest
any time you’re ready, Marshal,” he said.
“Yeah, Doc,” I said absently. “Thanks.”
“Marshal, you’re giving yourself a case of nerves. Prob’ly
been shot at too many times.”
I stopped and smiled. “You think so?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Doc. “You’re getting’ to act like a spooky
old horse that’s jumpy ‘n gun-shy. Now you take me. I don’t rant and rave
against Fate. I just sit back and take what comes.”
“Yeah, sure Doc. Sure you do.”
“I do! If I get a patient I steal ‘im blind, and if I don’t,
well, I keep my hand in, settin’ a broken leg on a dog or a broken arm on a
bartender or something.”
“How is Sam?” I asked.
“He’s fine, Marshal. Clean break. He can still pour from a bottle.”
I nodded. “Well, as you’ve already pointed out, Doc, you
aren’t doing so poorly this week.”
“Oh, I can use another fee or two – I owe some money over at
the Oasis. Not plannin’ to shoot anybody else, are you, Marshal?”
From another man – Mr. Hightower, for instance – I’d’ve
knocked him down. But Doc just sat there grinning at me. I grinned back and
tugged at the collar of my shirt. “If this drought doesn’t break, I’m in the
mood to shoot myself.”
Doc nodded. “It’s a bad one, all right. I don’t think I’ve
ever seen the prairie as dry as it is this year.”
Chester came running into the room. “We got trouble, Mr.
Dillon.”
“Rance or Ziegler?”
“Neither, Mr. Dillon. Ol’ man Howard just sent a rider in.
Another trail drive’s pulled in from around the Big Bend. They’re threatenin’
to cut his fences so they can water the cattle at Cottonwood pond.”
“Well, there’s a fine blow up,” said Doc, “a real head-on
smash. A thirsty herd against that skinflint Howard.”
“That’s all I need,” I said, “more trouble with cowboys.”
Doc rubbed his hands together. “Ah, maybe I can get myself a
few more fees out of this before it’s over.”
Chester looked at me. “Good ol’ Doc,” I told him, “always
hoping for the best. Come on, Chester, let’s ride out to Cottonwood.”
