The Hangings Read Free

battered. All in all, the belongings of a man down on his luck— a drifter who had never been anywhere much and who was on his way to more of the same. On his way to a grave, now, if he was the man lying on Obe Spencer's embalming table.
    Pike said, "I'll untie that bag for you, Mr. Evans," and started into the stall.
    "No, you won't," I said. "I'll do it."
    He gave me a look and backed off. He didn't like me any more than I did him.
    The rawhide strings came off with no trouble. I lifted the bag down and carried it back to the front doors, where the light was better and there was a table to put it on. The others followed, grouping around while I opened the bag. Inside there were two changes of clothing, both old and worn; a rain slicker; a Colt Dragoon revolver, unloaded, the barrel speckled with rust spots; shaving tackle; and a woman's garter, soiled, the elastic broken. I commenced a search of the clothing, and that was when I found the letter—folded up in the pocket of one of the shirts.
    It was in its envelope, and the envelope was addressed to Jeremy Bodeen, care of General Delivery, Marysville. In the upper left-hand corner was a return address: E. Bodeen, Delta Hotel, Stockton. I pinched the letter out and opened it. Single page of notepaper, dated three weeks ago yesterday, the words on it written in a bold, untidy hand. It said:

     
    Dear Brother,
    I am now in Stockton and trust you are still in Marysville, as you said you would be stopping there until the thirty-first of the month.
    I am onto something here which I believe will pay big money, and I mean BIG. I am not exaggerating. There is more than enough for both of us, if you are interested in giving up the nomad life for the lap of luxury.
    Write to me at the Delta Hotel, downtown, and let me know if you will be coming here and when.
    Emmett

     
    Boze had been reading over my shoulder. He said, "Sounds kind of mysterious, don't it?"
    "Not necessarily," I said, but it did.
    "Well, at least we know the dead man's name. Jeremy Bodeen."
    "So it would seem."
    I asked Morton if he would board the roan at city expense; he said he would. Then Boze and I took the carpetbag over to Obe Spencer's to put with the rest of the hanged man's belongings. I would have liked Boze to join me in asking around about this Jeremy Bodeen, if that was his name, but a pair of grain barges were due upstream from San Francisco at eleven, for unloading and return, and Boze was expected at Far West Milling to help with the work. His job at Far West paid more than his position as deputy constable, and he had a wife and two kids to support. So I let him go. I could make inquiries on my own, once I was finished with a couple of things that needed doing first.
    There were none of those newfangled telephones in Tule Bend yet, though there probably would be before much longer. Mayor Gladstone was talking of having poles and wires strung in and telephones installed in the city offices. When that finally happened, Ivy would be the first private citizen in line for one of the things. Then she wouldn't have to leave the house to do her tongue-wagging.
    Until Mr. Bell's invention arrived, our main line of communication with the rest of the world would continue to be Western Union. So I walked on down to their office and composed a wire to Emmett Bodeen, care of the Delta Hotel in Stockton:

     
    REGRET TO INFORM YOU MAN FOUND DEAD HERE TODAY UNDER SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES MAY BE YOUR BROTHER JEREMY STOP POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION NECESSARY STOP PLEASE CONTACT UNDERSIGNED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
    LINCOLN EVANS
    TOWN CONSTABLE
    TULE BEND

     
    I gave the yellow sheet of paper to the day telegrapher, Elmer Davies. "Send it right away, will you, Elmer. And if there's a reply, let me know as soon as it comes in."
    "Will do, Linc ."
    I probably should have sent a second wire, to the county sheriff's office in Santa Rosa, informing Joe Perkins of what had happened here this morning. But I didn't do it. Perkins