The Killing Machine Read Free Page B

real thoughts or attitudes. Some strut like gunfighters; others kind of shuffle, trying to seem harmless; and some are crisp and curt, like bank managers who don’t plan to give you a loan.
    Then there is the grandfather school. When he came in the front door, several conversations paused, a couple of the waitresses froze in place momentarily, and the man you paid at the front counter put on a smile big enough to please a politician.
    He wore no hat. Wouldn’t want you to miss that head of long, pure white hair. Checkered shirt, somewhat wrinkled, the way a grandfather’s would be. An inexpensive leather vest. Cheap gray trousers of the kind laborers wear. He had blue, blue eyes and a youthful grin, and the left hand he raised to wave with—there was a hint of the papal wave in it—was twisted just slightly with arthritis.
    The badge he wore on the inexpensive vest was small. He wouldn’t, being a granddad, want to give the impression of vanity or undue pride.
    The corncob pipe was the nicest touch. No expensive briar for him. No, sir. Just a plain, ordinary, five-cent pipe, as befitted the good old trustworthy gramps that everybody knew and loved.
    After he shook a few hands, the blue, blue eyes narrowed and lost a bit of their friendliness. He was hunting somebody. He was hunting me.
    He fixed me with a gaze that would’ve made God tremble in his boots, and then he blessed the crowd with another sort of pope-like general wave (hell, he might have been absolving them of all their sins, the piss-elegant way he did it) and then he ambled over in my direction, pausing here and there for a few words with the men who worked hard at giving the impression that they were important, and probably were by town standards.
    When he finally reached me, he said, “You mind if I sit down? I hate to bother you, but these old feet of mine are killin’ me. And just about every table’s filled up.”
    There were four empty tables in plain sight. But I knew he was going to sit down here anyway and so did he.
    â€œBe happy for a little company,” I said.
    â€œNow that’s mighty nice of you, friend.”
    A serving woman with a wide waist and a face full of freckles appeared with a schooner of beer, setting it down in front of the town marshal as if she’d been chosen to serve royalty. What was interesting and impressive about her behavior was that she seemed taken with the marshal out of respect, not because of fear. Which was the general reaction. That was to his credit.
    When she left, he said, “Name’s Wickham. Charley Wickham. I’m the town marshal.”
    We shook hands. “You seem to have a lot of friends.”
    â€œI’m not a bully and I generally don’t holdgrudges. I give a lot of second chances, and if I get the opportunity to help a good man in bad trouble, I generally do it. I’m not a prude and I’m not a busybody. They’ve elected me to four two-year terms, and I expect they’ll elect me a couple more times before I take my badge off this old vest of mine.”
    Now how the hell were you going to come back to that? There wasn’t any brag in it, he was just stating what he saw were facts, and I had no doubt they were. If I lived here, I’d vote for him five or six times.
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    I hadn’t told him my name. He said, “Now, Mr. Ford, you know and I know that I’ve checked you out and know that you’re an investigator with the Army and that you’ve hired Tib Mason and James to go out to your brother’s place at sundown. Now the thing is, I can keep right on going with this cornball bumpkin bullshit or I can cut right to it and ask you why the hell you didn’t come to me before you looked up Tib. I could’ve gotten you a couple deputies and made it all legal.”
    â€œIt is all legal, Marshal. I had a year of law school in Washington as part of my job. When Tib and James are with me,