On the Wrong Track Read Free

mine.

Two
    LOCKHART
    Or, A Close Shave Leads to a Hairy Predicament
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    I hadn’t just put my foot in my mouth—I’d dipped it in arsenic first. Burl Lockhart was famous for his quick temper and even quicker draw, and it looked like I was about to be on the receiving end of both.
    “Oop,” I croaked, so discombobulated by my blunder my usually velvet tongue was choking me like a mouthful of sawdust. “Uhhhh.”
    Fortunately, my tight-lipped brother was able to loosen those lips of his quick.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Lockhart—Otto here don’t mean no offense. It’s just that his brain and his mouth ain’t always on speakin’ terms, if you know what I mean. We’d be mighty pleased if you’d sit and let us buy you a drink.”
    “That’s right, sir,” I managed to throw in. My hand was still held out to Lockhart, offering a shake he didn’t take, so I flipped the palm up and offered the man a chair instead. “It’d truly be an honor to wet your whistle.”
    Whether a simple apology would have done the trick, I don’t know. But an apology marinated in alcohol Lockhart was happy to accept.

    “Well … no harm done,” he said, dropping into the empty chair beside me. His smile returned, though it was smaller and more rueful now. “Who’d expect to see ol’ Burl Lockhart kitted out like this?”
    Indeed, with his rumpled dress clothes (not to mention his stubble-covered face and bleary eyes), Lockhart looked nothing like the gallant cowboy detective the newspapers and magazines made him out to be. But seeing as dime-novel sleuths are ever passing themselves off as salty peg-legged sea dogs or blind beggars or what have you, I figured he might be in the midst of some such masquerade himself.
    “Say, Mr. Lockhart.” I leaned close and dropped my voice down low. “Are you in disguise?”
    Lockhart cocked a wispy, salt-and-peppered eyebrow at me, apparently searching for any sign I was guying him again.
    “I suppose you could say I am,” he conceded with a bitter chuckle when he saw I was sincere. “We’re in a new age, boys. Gunpowder and nerve just ain’t enough anymore—not with all this pansy talk of ‘clues’ and ‘dee-deductions’ and what all. Nowadays, a proper dee-tective’s gotta have more tricks up his sleeve than a goddamn sideshow magician. Disguises, magnifilizin’ glasses, beakers and burners and all that Tom Edison crap. Ya gotta be ‘modern.’ Ya gotta be ‘ scientific .’”
    Lockhart showed us what he thought of “modern,” “scientific” detectives by spitting on the floor.
    “Lavender-ass bullshit,” he said, just in case we needed a translation. “Now … where’s that drink?”
    Though I could practically see the steam from my brother’s boiling blood puffing out his ears, Old Red let the insult to Mr. Holmes slide by without a reply in kind.
    “What’ll you have?” he said.
    “Whiskey. With a whiskey chaser.”
    Gustav turned to me and nodded at the bar. “You heard the man.”
    Under normal circumstances, I might’ve leaned back, planted my heels on the table, and said, “I surely did … and I’ll have the same.” But seeing as the circumstances were neither normal nor particularly comfortable, I chose not to fan the flames with any sass.

    “Two whiskeys, comin’ up,” I announced cheerfully, hopping up and heading for the bar.
    The saloon’s sweaty, tub-gutted bartender was gawking at our table as I walked up, so after putting in my order I asked if I really was fetching drinks for the great Burl Lockhart.
    “That’s Lockhart, alright—though I can’t vouch for the ‘great.’” The bartender produced two dirty glasses and filled them with the peppery, brownish liquid he so shamelessly sold as “whiskey.” “First came in yesterday afternoon with two other Pinks. Local fellers. He would’ve spent the night here, too—on the floor—if they hadn’t dragged him out.”
    “He say what he was in town