WHO DUN IT - IN THE WEST?

WHO DUN IT - IN THE WEST?

Western murder mystery

You would never guess Hardy Butler ever had a real name. Everybody just calls him “Wart.” It is on account of the big fat wart he has growing out of the side of his nose. Now ole Wart, besides fingering his now famous wart, also has his fingers in most of the money-making enterprises in Loco Weed, Texas. Maybe having The Albuquerque Kid as his personal sidekick and protector might have something to do with it, the Kid being a famous outlaw-turned-sheriff and all. Well now, among old Wart’s major successes are his fancy working girls. He had them imported from way over in New Orleans. Gol-darned finest saloon gals I ever did see.

Me? Well hell, I am Dick Gentry. I run the “Loco Weed Journal,” the town’s newspaper, such as it is. Did do some black smiting on the side to make ends meet; I could not make it selling papers in a town where the population can barely read. But the locals kept feeding me tales of the happenings in Loco Weed. That is when I got me a brainstorm. I hooked up with a publishing company back east and, now I am making money hand over fist putting out dime Western novels fast as I can write them. Here is the latest tale.

It was nearing midnight when I heard a knock on the back door. I had been burning the night oil, trying to finish my latest Western Novel. Come on in I got nothing to hide,” I yelled. The small wooden door creaked and opened ever so slightly.

“It is me Wiley, you know Wiley Jones from over at the Saloon.” Wiley was the town drunk of which I take some of the blame for—because I keep paying him for the gossip he brings me, that he hears at the Dangling Spur. Amazing at the things you can learn when nobody cares whether you overhear them or not. When I make enough money with my novels, I think I will send Wiley to some cure facility. I do not suppose he will go but at least I will try.

“Come on in Wiley, what you got for me?”

The disheveled wisp of a man entered the room. He was wide-eyed that is for a drunk that had not been sober for the last ten years. He saddled up to his longtime friend Gentry and explained.

“I got a good one for you this time Mr. Gentry, you got to come over to the Saloon, you got to come now. Frank Fanon the banker has been shot dead.

He was murdered while in Ms. Samantha’s arms.” Wiley blurted out the confusing details to Gentry. “Now can you stake me to a bottle of whiskey?” He quickly added.

“Get back to the story about the murder of Frank Fanon first. What happened over at the Saloon Wiley, and then we will see about getting you that bottle of whiskey.”

“Well Mr. Gentry, there I was minding my own business stationed in my favorite spot, on the floor under the gambling tables. I was hugging that one big leg on the roulette wheel. It has been lucky, because you know sometimes somebody drops a chip or two and forgets to pick them up, especially when there winning. Like I say I was minding my own business when ‘bam’ it happened. Now can I have my whiskey Mr. Gentry?”

I grabbed my crumpled hat knowing I was not going to get much more information out of Wiley. I checked my pockets to be sure I had my pen and pad. “There is a bottle nearly plum full of your favorite whiskey over in my top desk drawer Wiley, help yourself.” I said as I bounded out the door.

I wondered as I walked over to the saloon if a murder had really been perpetrated or if it was just the ramblings of a drunk looking to score another bottle of redeye?

On my way over to the Dangling Spur Saloon, I began to recollect and review the girls in Warts stable. The first one that came to mind was a gorgeous raven-haired beauty named Renee. But you had better know how much money you went in with when you were a visiting cause Renee sure knows how to make you part from it. I cannot say that I blame her much, money has always been hard to come by for a girl working in Loco Weed.

Then there’s Millie the Creole. She is of the demure, petite variety. I have my suspicions about whether she belongs in this type of entertainment profession; just a mite too gentle and refined, one might say.

Finally, there’s Sam, short for Samantha. Her looks rival even the famous Lily Langtry. This blonde-haired, blue-eyed, buxom beauty has the boys coming from near and far, had some even propose to her. But at two bits a feel and two dollars for the other, Sam is doing simply fine and salting away some big cash for her retirement. She decided pretty darn quick she was not going to be married to some local yokel in a forgotten hellhole like Loco Weed, Texas.

Of course, women of any variety, either for entertainment purposes, or the marrying kind, are a precious commodity in this part of the country, them being in short supply and all. Dangling Spur Saloon, with all its diversities including a boudoir, gambling, and drinking saloon, has made ole Wart a big man, he is loved and hated by most of the meanest critters you ever did see. Cowboys, gamblers, and prospectors from all over the territory, even some respectable married ones, come to visit the Wart girls from New Orleans, at The Dangling Spur Saloon.

Each girl has her own room, upstairs over the bar, and each girl has her own say on who they will invite to visit. One thing I have to say about ole Wart; he has always demanded total respect for his lovelies. Once I saw him punch out two mean-spirited exceptionally large miners’ nearly killing one, when they disrespected one of his ladies. The Miners tried to run out without paying their tab, after having had their visit. If the Albuquerque Kid had not of stepped in Ole Wart might have been facing a hanging charge. I suspect some of the townsfolk, especially some of the town’s respectable women might have applauded that turn of events.

Across the way from the Saloon is the church run by Preacher Bill Williams. He has a perfectly understanding wife and a well-endowed daughter of legal sexual maturity.

Tom and Dale are Preacher Williams two teenage boys. They had been caught a couple of times before trying to climb the up the rear of the Saloon. The windows were always kept open. Of course, they knew that two dollars would get them something they had not experienced yet but also knew they were getting pretty darn close to learning all about.

As it happens this story of intrigue and murder, as it unraveled fits right in with the character and disposition of the Dangling Spur Saloon in Loco Weed Texas.

This night was not any different, for preacher William’s boys. They snuck out and shimmed up the rear of the saloon to peek into the bedroom windows where the girls were entertaining. The slats in some places had warped so wide the boys could climb up to get an unobstructed view better than if they had a ladder.

“Tom,” Dale whispered through the open window of their room.

“Yeah, Dale,” Tom answered, pulling up his worn overalls.

“It is time. I can hear some giggling coming out of the upstairs windows of the saloon. Tom crawled out and joined Dale already in the tween-way; that is what they called the space between the church and their house. Quietly and adeptly, like two alley cats, they crossed the street from the rear of the church directly kitty-cornered from the saloon. Cautiously, as they had done so many times before, they snuck around the back of the saloon and proceeded to shinny up the loose slats. However, on account of the lack of rain lately, the old dry boards on the back side of the building began to creak and groan a mite more than usual.

When they reached the second story window and barely got their heads in a look-see position, they realized their zeal had interrupted a sinister scenario. The deafening “Blaaam!” of a shotgun blast sent chunks and splinters of wood cutting and bursting out a hole at the rear of the building as big as Aunt Wilma’s butt, and right between the two would-be voyeurs. Their bodies now hard-pressed against the building. The shock loosening both their grips, and like two sacks of Grimley’s croaker sacked potatoes, they dropped twenty feet into the pig’s watering trough. Pigs were squealing to high heaven while the boys were sliding on the slick wood bottom and spitting muddy water. Tom and Dale finally composed themselves enough to slosh hurriedly off into the relative safety of the woods.

Back in the saloon, the blast caused a complete silence to fall over the crowd. At the shattering sound, all the patrons’ heads twisted in unison and stared at the stairway leading to the boudoirs. Then in a twinkle, as if nothing had happened, all their heads twisted back to the gambling tables, and the familiar saloon rumblings quickly resumed.

That is the way it is in Loco Weed; people have a sense of not becoming involved. Wart had the town in control; hell, he owned most of it. Some swore he even owned the local sheriff, Dan Murphy, once known as the famous outlaw, The Albuquerque Kid. But nobody announced their feelings in a public manner. It was mostly hearsay and innuendo. When push comes to shove Wart’s relationship with The Kid had never really been tested, although they did seem to somehow always be on the same page.

Meanwhile as Sheriff Dan kept a tight grip on the town his two regular deputies, Bart, and Louie, kept a tight grip on each other. At times they were seen holding hands as they walked their assigned beat, a strange sight indeed. And Sheriff Dan would remark, “Don’t do that!”

The fastest on the draw was Louie, but his aim was suspect, once shooting his uncle Mayor Poke, in the leg while trying to kill a sidewinder rattler. Or what he thought was a rattler.

His brother Bart, being ambidextrous, had only one gun and could never remember to which side of his hips he had strapped it, invariably reaching for air at the most inopportune times. Together this unlikely duo was appointed by their uncle Poke, the Mayor, to help the sheriff tame the town.

Shortly after the shot rang-out through the saloon a scantily dressed Samantha runs screaming from her boudoir at the top of the stairs. Bellowing she shouts. “Fanon’s dead, he’s been shot!” She yells again. “Listen everybody Frank Fanon’s been shot.”

Frank Fanon owned the Frontier bank and held most of the mortgages on the local ranches. Recently, he had been serving foreclosures on many of the local spreads. Everybody knew the railroad was coming, and there was money to be made if you owned the right properties.

A voice yells out of the crowd, “Somebody get the Sheriff.”

Suddenly, the swinging saloon doors sprung opened and there, with pearl gripped, nickel-plated six shooters drawn stood Dan Murphy, an imposing figure of a man. He stood handsomely fifteen hands high with steel gray eyes, and a weather worn leathery face. Dan’s shoulders seemed wide enough to strap on an oxen’s yoke. Although the sheriff was formerly known for his miss-adventures; his life had taken a turn for the better, ever since that day he rode into Loco Weed with a hole in his side where a bullet had punctured his lung. There he had met Mellissa, Tom, and Dale’s older sister at Doc Lansing’s office. It was love at first sight and a chance of escaping a life he had been born into. Secretly, only he knew that his father was Black Bart the worst of all outlaws. The Kid now insisted, since romance had invaded his heart that everyone refer to him as Sheriff Dan.

The flickering gaslights of the saloon glistened tiny shiny reflections on the long pistol barrels. The awed patrons held their breath and backed away as the sheriff slowly made his way through the crowd and toward the stairs.

He spoke softly, and deliberately. “Send my deputies up when they get here.” The sheriff climbed to the top of the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder untrustingly. His silver spurs caught the flickering reflections of the lights, as his foot touched the top stair. A long sigh of relief emanated from the patrons, and again in unison they quickly shifted their attention to saloon rumblings of gambling and gaiety.

Gently taking Sam’s hand, Sheriff Dan helped the nipple exposed Samantha back into her room. In horror she pointed a manicured finger to a blood-soaked naked body lying on the floor beside the bed. “That’s Frank Fanon,” she said nervously. “He was about halfway through his two dollars when it happened.”

The sheriff walked around the four-poster bed and began his inspection. He carefully studied the position of the body. Fanon was lying on his back with the top of his head missing; the sheriff also noticed the obvious hole blown out of the wall between the two windows.

“Samantha,” Dan urged. “Try to remember exactly what happened. Even the smallest detail could be helpful. Do you think the shooter was after Frank, exclusively? Or do you think he might have been trying for you, even both of you?”

Samantha nestled her buttock gently on the edge of the bed, it creaked a familiar sound as it had countless times before. She had not considered that the killer might have meant to get her, too. What had she ever done to rile anyone to this extreme?

She began speaking after a short pensive silence. She was trying to get it right. “I remember the room suddenly filled with a deafening sound and the familiar thick smell of gunpowder. I could not see who fired the gun; the blast came from the doorway.

Wait…yes, now I remember; there was something. We heard a noise outside the window,” she said, pointing toward the hole made by the shotgun blast. “We thought it might have been a coon or a squirrel trying to break in to steal crumbs. We get a lot of that with the girls bringing food into the rooms.

Frank cursed, and then turned his head for a look-see. That is when I heard that God-awful noise. The next thing I knew Frank was on the floor and there was blood all over me.”

Downstairs in the Saloon, the deputies Louie and Bart finally made their appearance. They ran tripping and bumbling up the now familiar stairway to the murder scene. The sheriff presented them with instructions.

“I want you deputies to station yourselves at the front and back doors of the saloon; no one is allowed to enter or exit until I have had a chance to talk with them.”

“Yes sir, Sheriff, we are right on the job. I will take the front and Louie can guard the back.”

“No, popped-up Louie, “I will take the front and Bart can guard the back.”

After a short scuffle between the two deputies about which one, would guard which door Sheriff Dan intervened. Pulling the enthusiastic officers apart he assigned the front door to Bart and, the back door to Louie.

On his way back from interviewing Renee and Millie, who either had not seen anything or were secretly trying to protect someone, he met Wart in the hallway wearing his familiar red fur-lined, long-handled underwear.

“Well Dan, have you got it figured out yet, do you know who shot Frank?”

“No, not yet, Wart, but by the way, where were you when Frank Fanon was shot?”

“Me? I was in my room resting up for later tonight. You do remember that it is Friday night. Most all the cowhands will be coming into town, and it will be another all-nighter. Besides, you know Frank has been foreclosing on a lot of the ranches around here. I will bet one of them took out a little revenge.

“You don’t suspect me, do you?” He added cynically. Now do not be getting too big for your badge and do not you forget that I am the one that recommended you for the sheriff’s job.”

Sheriff Dan answered, “But it is my job now, and I am going to perform my duty, no matter who turns out to be the killer.”

Wart smiled knowingly. He was an expert manipulator; that is how he had come as far as he had. He advised the sheriff, cupping his hand as in a malicious whisper, “even if the murderer turns out to be the ‘William’s boys.’ You know who I mean, your sweetie-pie’s two younger brothers, Tom, and Dale. Someone seen them crawling up the back of the saloon about the same time the shot was fired. You know how taken they are with Samantha. The boys could have killed Frank out of jealousy. They could have climbed up the back of the saloon as we all know they do sometimes. Their Dad also owns a Mossberg single shot shotgun.

They could have crawled up with the preacher’s shotgun and one of them relieved Frank of his thinking facilities, while the other brother functioned as his lookout.

Sheriff Dan, suspected Wart could be right, it sounded darn reasonable.

Instantly, he thought about Melissa, the love of his life. “I might as well forget her if I arrest her brothers and lock them up in jail for murder. She would surely end up leaving me. I would be so heartbroken I would even lose my sheriff’s job. Eventually I would go back to hiring out my guns again for a living. That would keep me from ever getting Melissa back, she is the preacher’s daughter, quite a dilemma,” mumbled the Sheriff as he descended the stairs to assemble his troops.

Dan ordered “Bart, you and Louie go out and bring in the two Williams boys for questioning.” Just then preacher Williams and his wife Emma, along with Melissa, appeared at the front door of the saloon.

“The boys are missing, Sheriff. Both Tom and Dale are gone. They were last seen running off into the woods about the time the shot at the saloon was heard.” Ms. Williams worriedly squeezed Sheriff Dan’s arm.

“We’ll find your boys, Mrs. Williams.” the sheriff said reassuringly. “You and Mr. Williams go on home. I will come by when we have located them.” Dan’s mind thinking like a sheriff pondered, “The fact that they are missing is another nail in the boys’ coffin.”

Bart and Louie, the trusted deputies, finally mounted old Gulliver after several unsuccessful tries, falling off one side, then the other. The overweight old swayback Clydesdale with ponderous hooves was the only horse that would allow them to ride double. Clipity-clop, clipity-clop, the fearsome duo trotted out of town stopping to remount after several unsightly spills.

The deputies shortly dismounted down by Tucker’s Pond. They had traveled far enough; their backsides needed cooling by the still waters. While Bart and Louie discussed each other’s injured pride, the Williams boys Tom and Dale showed up unexpectedly, catching the deputies with their pants down.

The startled sheriffs reached for their guns. Their arms locked and became hopelessly entangled, in mass confusion. Guns went a-flying straight into the murky waters of Tucker’s Pond.

“What do we do now, Bart?” asked Louie.

“I don’t know, Louie,” said Bart.

“Maybe they’ll just give up,” Louie added.

“Well, go ahead and ask them,” Bart replied.

“Wait a minute, deputies, we didn’t do anything wrong, nothing but climb up the rear of the saloon and peek in on the girls.” The Williams boys interrupted each other excitedly.

The deputies were relieved to find the boys so cooperative. “You will have to come back to town and tell the sheriff your story, besides your folks are all worried about you.”

Back at the saloon Sheriff Dan was still investigating. He had interviewed everyone that could have had a hand in the shooting. Melissa sat quietly in the rear of the saloon. Glances between the two told a story of a love denied if her brothers were to be arrested for the crime. The sheriff continued trying to find someone that had it in for Frank Fanon or Samantha, someone other than the boys, someone who might have had enough motive and opportunity to want them harmed.

It was late when the deputies finally arrived back at the saloon with the Williams boys. Renee, Samantha, and Millie had all joined Melissa at the round table in the rear of the saloon. Soon Sheriff Dan and the two Williams boys joined the congregation.

Sheriff Dan looked seriously at the two boys and began the interrogation, “Well boys, you know the mess you are in. Do you have anything to say for yourselves? Did you crawl up the back of the saloon and shoot Frank Fanon?”

Tom and Dale looked around the table nervously, and then hung their heads, refusing to talk.

Melissa faced her brothers, holding back tears. “What about Mom and Dad? How do you think they will ever live this down, him being a man of God and all? With one swoop you boys have managed to ruin all our lives in this town, not to mention the fact that you could hang.”

Millie the Creole, sitting quietly according to her demure nature, suddenly rose with an uncharacteristic shout. “I did it!” Uncontrollably sobbing, she confessed to being the one who had shot Frank Fanon dead.

“I did it! I shot Frank, he swore that he loved me. We were going to get married; he was going to take me back to New Orleans and buy us a fancy house down on Bayou Street. I walked by Samantha’s door and saw them making love. I could not stand it, so I grabbed the shotgun Wart keeps at the top of the stairs for unexpected trouble. I shot Frank Fanon and replaced the gun. The Williams boys had nothing to do with it, except for the fact that they saw me shoot Frank while they were looking in at the window. They would not talk because they were trying to protect me. I cannot let them take the blame for something I have done.”

With the shooting of Frank Fanon solved it is time to put all the facts down in my newest ten cent novel and get it off to the publishers. Think I will call this one “Lilies of The Frontier.”

Now let me see, the last I heard, Millie was sent to the county seat for trial. Of course, she was acquitted for lack of evidence once she retracted her confession. It is strange how she ended up marrying the judge that acquitted her, and them running off to New Orleans together.

And if you are wondering what ever happened to The Albuquerque Kid; I mean Sheriff Dan. Well, he finally did marry Melissa, and he and Wart are now partnering in the Dangling Spur Saloon, among other enterprises.

Preacher Williams is still preaching the devil out of his parishioners, and Bart and Louie were both appointed as the new City Marshals. The town may be in real trouble now!

Samantha and Renee are still working their profession at the saloon with the addition of Roxie, a new local girl learning the trade.

I ended up with the Williams’s boys, Tom, and Dale. They are working for me here at the ‘Loco Weed Journal’. I just handed them their first week’s pay, two whole dollars each. “Look, there they go now, scurrying down to the Dangling Spur Saloon…” I am just a-wondering… What are those two rascal boys planning to spend their two earned dollars on?

Ta-ta, Lad