Death at the Black Bull by Frank Hayes Page A

sitting here with you watching moss grow up that cottonwood.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Virgil pulled out of his driveway, heading to the Black Bull to walk in Buddy Hinton’s last footsteps.

9

    I t was a little after ten when Virgil pulled into the parking lot of the Black Bull. Early for a Saturday night, but looking around at the packed lot he knew he wouldn’t die of loneliness once he got inside. His pickup rolled to a stop at the end of a long line of pickups. Virgil couldn’t help noting that his truck was one of the oldest and one of the least attractive. He never competed with the good ole boys who saw horsepower or condition as a measure of their masculinity. In reality, he had never really fit in with that group and on this night, in any event, he was hoping for as much anonymity as possible. That’s why he was here in his civvies and driving his old beater.
    He pulled down the brim of the sweat-stained Stetson as he walked toward the front door, which was intermittently lit by the flashing oversized bull on the roof. The bull was still short one ear, which had been shot off ten years or so before, by a woman who was aiming at her husband after she’d found him giving mouth-to-mouth to an unknown young lady in the parking lot. Virgil remembered her comment after the incident that she was sorry about the bull, but she had stepped in a hole in the dark and had missed her mark.
    Virgil had some history with the place from his late adolescence, but for the last decade or so it was mostly in his official capacity that he came here. The place had changed hands three or four times, but it always thrived. This was more a testament to a lack of competition and the enduring thirst of the locals than any marketing savvy on the part of the series of owners.
    The crunch of stone under his boot coupled with the light from the one-eared bull on the roof brought a momentary reflection of his not-too-misspent youth.
    â€œCareful there, Sheriff. You don’t want to trip on that step.”
    Virgil glanced in the direction of the voice. Sitting on one of the rails that lined the porch, on the end of a lit cigarette, was Wade Travis. So much for anonymity.
    â€œThanks for the warning, Wade.” By the time Virgil reached the top step and his boot made contact with the wood floor of the porch, Wade had slipped off the railing and was waiting for him.
    â€œLittle bit off the beaten path aren’t you, Sheriff? Or is this a line-of-duty visit?”
    â€œNo, Wade. Unofficial. Just thought I’d step out for a beer or two.”
    â€œJust like a regular fella. Whaddya know. Enjoy yourself.”
    He stepped away and lit another cigarette as Virgil reached for the door.
    â€œJust make sure when you leave, Sheriff, that you’re able to walk that line. You know we don’t tolerate drinking and driving in this county.”
    â€œGlad you reminded me, Wade. Hope you do the same.”
    â€œDon’t you worry about me, Sheriff. I got a little designated driver just inside there. She takes good care of me.”
    Virgil nodded, pulled on the door, then stepped inside.
    The place looked pretty much like he remembered. The building actually had some history to it. It had been built in the early 1800s as a trading post and a way station along an old stagecoach route. Time had given it a certain cachet, so even though it was kind of remote from the center of town, the last roadhouse owner decided to incorporate as much of the original building as he could into his modernization. He actually went out of his way to construct the new as close as he could to the old. For his efforts, in the final act of construction, one of the ponderosa pine logs that hadn’t been firmly set fell on him, knocking him senseless. Virgil heard he spent the next two years sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair trying to remember his first name.
    The interior was laid out basically as one huge room