Murder in Dogleg City by Ford Fargo Page A

Sam to take one more emphatic swing at the air with his
new walking stick.
    “ I’m sorry to be bustin’
in on ye, Marshal,” O’Connor said, “and you playin’ with your
shillelagh and all. But I found old Rupe, like you asked—he was
fast asleep in Ben Tolliver’s hayloft.” O’Connor looked beside him,
and realized he had entered alone. “Damn, he was right
here.”
    The big deputy stepped back outside,
and a moment later he re-entered holding Rupe Tingley by the scruff
of the neck like a wet puppy. The two men presented a stark
contrast.
    Seamus O’Connor stood six feet five in
his socks. His height was augmented by the battered stovepipe hat
he wore; his breadth was augmented by the great red walrus
mustaches that flowed from under his oft-broken nose. He had faced
danger aplenty in his time, from employment as a New York City
constable in Five Points to service as a first sergeant in the 63rd
New York Infantry, part of the celebrated Irish Brigade, during the
war. He had made his way West as a railroad worker—when he heard
that a constabulary position had opened up in Wolf Creek due to the
death of Fred Garvey, O’Connor had drawn his wages from the
AT&SF and applied at once.
    The man who dangled from O’Connor’s
massive paw could not have been more different. Rupe Tingley had
the scrawny frame of a man who has been on a drunk for several
years. There was no trace of the confidence that radiated from his
Irish captor’s visage; if anything, when emotion passed over Rupe’s
features it was most often shame. Unless thirst could be counted as
an emotion, and in Rupe’s case it probably could be.
    Rupe’s left arm was missing just below
the elbow. No one knew how he had lost it, but it was a regrettably
common sight—only six years since the war had ended—to see blind,
crippled, and maimed men on the streets of most any town. Most
people didn’t prod them for particulars, and most of them didn’t
volunteer any. Still, Sam couldn’t help wondering if Rupe had
crawled into a bottle because of the loss of his arm—the marshal
knew many who had—or if some deeper, less visible injury had driven
him there.
    “ What shall I do with the
darlin’ man, sir?” O’Connor asked.
    “ Just dump him into that
chair.”
    The deputy did so, none too
ceremoniously. Rupe still did not wake up.
    “ Did you look into that
incident at the Lucky Break?” Sam asked his deputy.
    O’Connor nodded. “That I did. This
stranger—Hay Bear—just took a good look at the house dealer, Jones,
and challenged him to a fancy old-fashioned duel, which they held
out by the corral. Mister Jones came out on top. It plays that way
with all the witnesses. Jones claims not to know the fella—said he
was vaguely familiar, though, and figured he might have cleaned the
man out on some river boat somewhere.”
    Sam nodded. “I imagine that must
happen a lot in his business. Oh well. I suppose, busy as this town
is getting, we’ll be seeing more and more daylight shootings. But
I’ll let Dab know that if this gambler of his starts making it a
habit, he’ll have to move on. I aim to keep a lid on this pot and
keep it from boiling over.”
    “ All right then, Marshal,”
O’Connor announced. “I’ll be gettin’ back to my rounds,
then.”
    “ Thanks, Seamus. I’ll most
likely see you around town later this evening.”
    O’Connor departed, and Sam climbed to
his feet and walked around his desk, to stand over Rupe. He leaned
down and gave the drunk a few mild smacks on the cheek until his
eyes lolled open.
    “ Rise and shine,
Rupe.”
    The drunk sputtered. “Marshal—Marshal
Gardner?”
    “ In the flesh,” Sam
said.
    Rupe looked around. “Is there—is there
a mess needs cleanin’ up?” Rupe earned his drinking money by
swamping the floors at various saloons, cleaning the livery stable,
and sometimes sweeping up around the jail and the marshal’s
office—wherever someone needed a hand. But only one
hand.
    Sam