Boon Ed Kurtz (the little red hen read aloud txt) 📖

Dirt cheap labor, work them ’til they drop dead. Even said he had more prurient business interests in Oriental women.”

“Slavery,” Boon said.

“Bragged about it, to tell the truth,” said Wadsworth. “Wouldn’t break my heart were someone to put a little lead in his skull. You don’t look Chinese to me, but I’m guessing he done you some measure of wrong.”

“He didn’t go to China,” Boon said. “Siam.”

Wadsworth nodded.

“Try San Marcos,” he said. “And good luck to you.”

And just like that, we weren’t heading east anymore. We did make it to San Marcos, and there was something that smelled a lot like a good old-fashioned range war brewing there, but if Stanley was ever there in the thick of it, he’d moved on by the time we got there. All the same, that was my first lesson in how changeable things were going to be for as long as I stuck with Boon. And it was why, sitting in that dingy cell in Revelation, New Mexico, I wasn’t willing to bet so much as a Confederate greyback on the fact that she was still doing exactly what she aimed to do before.

For all I knew, she was halfway to the Dakota Territory on her way to Canada, but the more I pondered it, the less it seemed to matter. I wasn’t going anywhere until the matter with the sheriff was settled, and the simple detail that it hadn’t been settled quickly was starting to weigh on me in the early morning hours after my night in jail. Of course, Les didn’t seem too fussed about it, but then again, I wasn’t any kin to Earl.

The next time I saw Earl sure drove that point home.

Chapter Twenty

He was cutting off a plug of tobacco with my knife when he meandered back to the cells late the next morning. The blade sliced through neatly, on account of I kept it sharp, and he raised it to his mouth to work it back into his cheek. After that, the sheriff just stood there and stared at me for a good while, letting the chaw soften and idly fiddling with my knife. Eventually, he spit on the floor, wiped his moustache on his sleeve, and said, “Guess I got paper on you, Splettstoesser.”

“Most folks don’t say it right,” I said.

“My dear departed mother came from Saxony, God rest her soul.”

“Mein Beileid,” I said.

Earl grinned. “Danke.”

He spit again. It was a bad habit.

“What’s this about a paper?” I asked.

“You can pretend ignorance if you want,” he said. “But if I know your name, then you can be damn sure I know what you done.”

“I’ll have to think on it,” I said. “I’m more than forty years old now. I done all kinds of things.”

“Okay,” said Earl. “You think on it. You got plenty of time.”

He grinned, spit again, and left.

“The hell kind of lingo was that?” Les said.

“German.”

“Sounds like a strangled cat,” he said.

Missus McKenzie, the preacher’s wife, came back ’round a little while later with two fresh baskets. As before, Les dug into his like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. I nodded my thanks to her and sat down on the cot to have a peek. Same as the last one, bread and salt beef, a bit of carrot that was cooked until it was soft. I ate all of it.

In the afternoon, about one full day after my arrest, Earl returned. He wasn’t chewing any tobacco and he didn’t have my knife this time. He did, however, have someone with him.

Marshal Tom Willocks.

“Hi, Tom,” I said.

“Fuck you,” Tom said.

He looked like hell. He looked like a man who had taken a beating, and then two or three more of them. One of his eyes had swollen shut but it was starting to open again. The white of it was blood-red. His lips were scabbed with splits and his right hand was bandaged up like a great big mitten. He caught me examining that particular aspect of his injuries and sneered at me.

“Two fingers,” he snarled.

“Of bourbon?” I said. “Why, that’s mighty kind of you, Marshal. I don’t mind it I do.”

“You lowdown son of a whore,” he said, and with his left hand he went for Earl’s sidearm. Earl sidestepped him and planted a hand on Tom’s chest to push him back.

“Now, Marshal,” Earl said.

“This son of a whore,” Willocks said.

“Now, Marshal.”

“Two fucking fingers,” Willocks seethed. He was looking at Earl but talking to me. “That half-breed Oriental bitch and her nigger friend cut off two of my fucking fingers.”

This was new information to me. For a moment I didn’t say anything at all. When I did, it was: “Those are terrible unkind words to speak about your fellow human beings, Marshal Willocks, and it is my suggestion to you that you set a spell and pray on it. I can speak to the preacher’s wife about it if you like.”

Willocks turned toward the sheriff. The sheriff heaved a sigh.

“Marshal Willocks will be escorting you back to Texas to stand trial,” Earl said. “He’ll read off the charges when it’s time to go.”

“When’s that going to be?” I said.

“Mornin’,” he said. “Murder, attempted murder, seems he said something about arson and abusin’ a corpse. Shit like that.”

“Must have me confused with somebody else.”

“That ain’t my business if you are or if you ain’t. Judge’ll sort that out. Just a damn good thing I thought to send word around about you, Splettstoesser. I had me an idea you might be somebody worth asking after, and you for sure and for certain was.”

He grinned like a cat who got his cream. I grinned back, wide and wild. That put an end to that.

“And the woman,” Willocks said. “The half-breed.”

“We’re looking,” Earl said. “Nothing yet. Probably long gone, Marshal.”

“Try Canada,” I said.

Willocks said, “You shut your fucking mouth.”

I shrugged.

“It’s your show, Marshal.”

“You’re God damned right it is,” he said. “And I’m sure going to enjoy watching you kick when they drop you.”

That was all Tom Willocks had