are killed, that's your own affair."
"Who the hell you think you're talking to here?" Lauters snapped, taking a step forward.
Longtree stood up, pushing aside his coat and resting his hand on the butt of a Colt. They all saw this and he wanted them to. "I think I'm talking to a man with a strong like of himself."
Lauters' face went slack and then tight in the blink of an eye. "Listen, you sonofabitch!" he barked. "I don't need your goddamn help! I'm the law in this town! Not you, not the U.S. Marshals Office! If you're coming into my town, then you do what I say when I say to do it! Understand?"
Longtree remained impassive. "All I understand, Sheriff, is that you've got five dead men on your hands and if you keep this up, you'll have more." Longtree let that sink in. "Maybe if we work together, we can stop these killings."
There was no arguing with that.
"You just keep out of my way, Longtree. I don't need your damn help."
Longtree nodded. "That's fine, Sheriff. That's just fine. I'll do my own investigation. But I sure would appreciate your help."
Lauters gave him an evil stare. "Forget it. We don't need outsiders making any more of a mess of this."
"Sheriff," the one called Dewey said calmly. "We got six murders, here, for the love of God. If he can help--"
"Shut up, Dewey." Lauters turned his back on all of them and started up out of the gully.
"Who's the sixth?" Longtree asked.
"Nate Segaris," one of the men replied. "Got killed right in his house."
"Ripped to shreds," another said.
Longtree took a drag off his cigar. "Before you boys head back," he said, "you ought to know there's a seventh."
Everyone stared at him.
And in the distance, a low mournful howling rose up and died away.
PART II
Old Red Eyes
1
----
The good Reverend Claussen, scarf wrapped around his throat, fought through the biting wind to the undertaking parlor. He paused in the street outside of a peeling gray building. A wooden, weathered sign read: J. SPENCE, UNDERTAKER. It was barely readable. Too many seasons of harsh winters and blistering summers had faded the black lettering to a drab leaden color.
Clenching his teeth against the elements, Claussen went in.
He went directly into the back rooms where the bodies were prepared.
In there were Wynona Spence, Sheriff Lauters, and Dr. Perry.
The reverend eyed them all suspiciously. "Why is it," he said in his New England twang, "that I wasn't told of another death? Why must I learn these things by word of mouth, by rumor?"
"Keep your shirt on, Father," Lauters said. "I--"
"I'm not a Catholic, sir. Please address me accordingly."
Lauters scowled, fished a plug of tobacco from his pouch and inserted it in his cheek. "What I was trying to say, Reverend, was that this here is Curly Del Vecchio. Or what there's left of him. Curly wasn't what you'd call a religious man."
Claussen, his close-cut steel-gray hair bristling, said, "The dead are granted certain considerations, Sheriff. By the grace of God let me give this poor man spiritual absolution."
Dr. Perry, standing next to the sheeted form on the table shrugged and pulled the sheet away.
Reverend Claussen paled and averted his eyes.
"Not very pretty, is it?" Wynona Spence said, her pursed lips pulled into a thin purple line which might have been a smile. "But beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Claussen glared at her. He saw no humor in death.
Wynona Spence inherited the business from her ailing father. Being a female, she was a rarity in the business. But truth be told, she was the perfect undertaker. God molds men and women for certain tasks in life, the reverend knew, and she could have been nothing but what she was. Cadaverous, tall, bony with tight colorless flesh and bulging watery eyes, she was the very image of her father. Only the drab gray dresses and the tight bun her colorless hair was drawn into marked her as a woman. Her voice was deep and velvety, her face hard and narrow. Unmarried, she lived in
"Who the hell you think you're talking to here?" Lauters snapped, taking a step forward.
Longtree stood up, pushing aside his coat and resting his hand on the butt of a Colt. They all saw this and he wanted them to. "I think I'm talking to a man with a strong like of himself."
Lauters' face went slack and then tight in the blink of an eye. "Listen, you sonofabitch!" he barked. "I don't need your goddamn help! I'm the law in this town! Not you, not the U.S. Marshals Office! If you're coming into my town, then you do what I say when I say to do it! Understand?"
Longtree remained impassive. "All I understand, Sheriff, is that you've got five dead men on your hands and if you keep this up, you'll have more." Longtree let that sink in. "Maybe if we work together, we can stop these killings."
There was no arguing with that.
"You just keep out of my way, Longtree. I don't need your damn help."
Longtree nodded. "That's fine, Sheriff. That's just fine. I'll do my own investigation. But I sure would appreciate your help."
Lauters gave him an evil stare. "Forget it. We don't need outsiders making any more of a mess of this."
"Sheriff," the one called Dewey said calmly. "We got six murders, here, for the love of God. If he can help--"
"Shut up, Dewey." Lauters turned his back on all of them and started up out of the gully.
"Who's the sixth?" Longtree asked.
"Nate Segaris," one of the men replied. "Got killed right in his house."
"Ripped to shreds," another said.
Longtree took a drag off his cigar. "Before you boys head back," he said, "you ought to know there's a seventh."
Everyone stared at him.
And in the distance, a low mournful howling rose up and died away.
PART II
Old Red Eyes
1
----
The good Reverend Claussen, scarf wrapped around his throat, fought through the biting wind to the undertaking parlor. He paused in the street outside of a peeling gray building. A wooden, weathered sign read: J. SPENCE, UNDERTAKER. It was barely readable. Too many seasons of harsh winters and blistering summers had faded the black lettering to a drab leaden color.
Clenching his teeth against the elements, Claussen went in.
He went directly into the back rooms where the bodies were prepared.
In there were Wynona Spence, Sheriff Lauters, and Dr. Perry.
The reverend eyed them all suspiciously. "Why is it," he said in his New England twang, "that I wasn't told of another death? Why must I learn these things by word of mouth, by rumor?"
"Keep your shirt on, Father," Lauters said. "I--"
"I'm not a Catholic, sir. Please address me accordingly."
Lauters scowled, fished a plug of tobacco from his pouch and inserted it in his cheek. "What I was trying to say, Reverend, was that this here is Curly Del Vecchio. Or what there's left of him. Curly wasn't what you'd call a religious man."
Claussen, his close-cut steel-gray hair bristling, said, "The dead are granted certain considerations, Sheriff. By the grace of God let me give this poor man spiritual absolution."
Dr. Perry, standing next to the sheeted form on the table shrugged and pulled the sheet away.
Reverend Claussen paled and averted his eyes.
"Not very pretty, is it?" Wynona Spence said, her pursed lips pulled into a thin purple line which might have been a smile. "But beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Claussen glared at her. He saw no humor in death.
Wynona Spence inherited the business from her ailing father. Being a female, she was a rarity in the business. But truth be told, she was the perfect undertaker. God molds men and women for certain tasks in life, the reverend knew, and she could have been nothing but what she was. Cadaverous, tall, bony with tight colorless flesh and bulging watery eyes, she was the very image of her father. Only the drab gray dresses and the tight bun her colorless hair was drawn into marked her as a woman. Her voice was deep and velvety, her face hard and narrow. Unmarried, she lived in
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