On Deadly Ground by Michael Norman

“Thanks, Rusty. How have you been? I don’t think I’ve seen you and Dixie since Mom’s funeral.”
    â€œThink you’re right. Oh, for a couple of old geezers, we’re gettin’ along just fine. About my only complaint these days are these arthritic old knees. Some days they just ache like hell, but that’s mostly during the winter months.”
    â€œYou know the old saying, Rusty. Getting old isn’t for sissies.”
    â€œAin’t that the truth.”
    Rusty stayed long enough to drop a menu in front of him, pour his coffee, and take his order. He then shuffled back to the other end of the counter and resumed his conversation. It was loud enough to overhear. No mention of the murder, but plenty of complaints about the price of hay and other commodities.
    A few minutes later, Rusty brought him a plate of huevos rancheros and tortillas and refilled the coffee.
    â€œWhat’s the local gossip about the murder, Rusty?”
    â€œMining for information, are you, J.D.?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€œReally haven’t heard much of anything. Everybody’s being pretty tight-lipped about it. That said, you’d have to be a moron not to have a pretty good idea who the authorities are going to come looking for, don’t you think?”
    â€œWhat makes you say that, Rusty?”
    â€œIt’s no secret that most people outside of the Greens hated the guy and his organization—no tears being spilled over his demise, that’s for sure. But it’s still hard for me to swallow the notion that anybody in this town hated the man enough to bushwhack him.” Steed glanced up and slid down the counter muttering, “Speaking of morons……”
    The strong hand of Tommy McClain gripped Books’ right shoulder and squeezed hard. Would Trees prefer to use those beefy hands around his neck? McClain stood on one side with Fatso on the other. Both wore silly-assed grins.
    â€œWell, if it isn’t Beavis and Butthead,” said Books. “Do you mind removing your hand from my shoulder? I think you forgot the Right Guard this morning. What brings you boys to town anyway—run out of glue to sniff?”
    The stupid grins disappeared. “No reason to act hostile, Ranger Books. We just came by to say hello and welcome you back to town. We were also hopin’ we might run across that pretty young widow of Greenbriar’s so that we can extend our personal condolences—and I do mean personal, right, Chase?” McClain said, slapping Chase on the shoulder. Both men laughed.
    Still grinning, McClain continued. “Now if there’s anything I can do to help catch this nasty criminal, Ranger Books, you don’t hesitate to ask, ya hear?”
    â€œI’ll remember that. There is one thing you can do to help me out.”
    â€œYeah, what’s that?”
    â€œYou can confess to the murder right now and save me the time and trouble of hunting down the lowlife bushwhacker who did this. And if your friend here helped you out, there’s plenty of room in the jail for him too.”
    McClain frowned and headed to the door. Without breaking stride, he said, “Be seein you real soon, Ranger Books.”
    â€œSooner than you think, moron,” said Books.
    McClain stopped and turned. His friend Chase grabbed him by the arm and pushed him out the door, muttering, “Leave it, Trees. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up with him later.”

Chapter Nine
    As Books crossed the restaurant parking lot, he heard the unmistakable sound of a cat-call whistle, followed by a distinctly female voice saying, “What’s your hurry, cowboy?” Certain that the whistle and suggestive tone weren’t directed at him, he continued without turning.
    Then he heard the same female voice again, closer this time, “I’m talkin’ to you, cowboy.” Embarrassed, Books glanced tentatively over his