Murder in Dogleg City Read Free

policeman,” in O’Connor’s case, meant he was
experienced at taking graft and would also fit right in.
    Quint was content with his job and the
pay that he received for it. Fifty dollars a month, together with
room and meals, was more than he could make herding cattle. Quint
didn’t attempt to find out the particulars of Sam Gardner’s
arrangements with the shady business owners of Dogleg City. It
seemed that under the table payouts—while not moral—were accepted
as a matter of course by all concerned.
    And he had to admit, apart from that
aspect of the marshal’s office, Sam Gardner really had shown
himself to be an effective peacekeeper. He kept the rowdies in
line, without scaring them and their spending money away from the
town altogether. He stood up to bullies and mean drunks with nerves
of steel, and was generally fair in his treatment of them. And when
that small army of ex-guerrillas had raided the town and robbed the
bank, Gardner and Garvey put themselves into the line of fire
without a second thought. It cost the Georgia deputy his life, and
cost the marshal a bullet in his leg. Quint did not doubt the new
deputy, O’Connor, would prove to be just as brave.
    But Quint wanted nothing to do with
their other activities. He minded his own business in that regard.
Quint Croy was a simple man. His job was to keep peace in Dogleg
City—and when that peace was broken he did something about
it.
    * * *
    The deputy was shaken from his early
morning reverie by the sound of faint footfalls on the outside
boardwalk, and a moment later the front door opened. Quint looked
up to see the owner of Li Wong’s Laundry standing in the doorway.
The slight man had a blank, wide eyed expression on his face. Li
Wong beckoned to Quint with his right arm. “You come!” he
said.
    Quint wondered at the Chinese man’s
action. He knew that Li Wong spoke little English, but was able to
understand all that was said to him in that language.
    “ Do you have a problem, Li
Wong?”
    The little man motioned again. “You
come, De-pu-tee,” he insisted. Quint stood and walked toward the
door. Li Wong stepped away when Quint neared, motioning with his
arm again. Quint trailed behind Li Wong, figuring to follow him to
the laundry a block west on South street. Li Wong walked briskly
ahead of Quint, cautiously turning his head from time to time to
see if the deputy was still following him. Li Wong walked on past
his laundry business on Third Street and on to Second Street. He
turned left, then crossed over Grant Street into the rough side of
town, the neighborhood which the locals called Dogleg City, then
kept going.
    They walked past the Lucky Break
saloon. The place was closed, as it ought to be at this hour. There
were no boardwalks in front of the buildings in that part of town,
so Quint and Li Wong walked down the middle of the somewhat rutted,
dusty street. Quint was very familiar with the businesses down the
street at the southernmost end of town, where nightly occurrences
of violence were common. The business buildings and the shacks of
Cribtown, south of Grant Street, carried an air of impermanence.
Constructed of cheap pine lumber, they would have a short lifetime,
most likely ending in fire or rot.
    At the very end, on the east side, was
Asa’s saloon—a ramshackle building that housed the lowest class
drinking spot in Wolf Creek. The owner and founder, Asa Pepper, had
been born a slave sixty years ago. Few locals frequented the place;
most of the customers were black cowboys and laborers that arrive
with the cattle herds, along with some prairie hide hunters.
Mexicans, Indians, and a few whites who did not prefer, or could
not afford, the higher side of Wolf Creek’s establishments lined up
as well. Asa would serve anyone that could put money on the bar.
Men came here to escape the hardship of their lives, to guzzle the
cheapest whiskey in town, or maybe to spend a little time with a
dollar chippy. Women were readily