The Range Wolf Read Free Page B

the poker game were still in the left pocket of my trousers and the diamond ring and necklace around my throat.
    But the bastards had made off with the $500 and my initialed Morocco wallet.
    It’s strange, the thoughts that buzz through a body’s brain when that body has been disoriented by an unexpected concussion. Thoughts such as: what in the hell am I doing far from the trappings of civilized society in a benighted backwater called Baton Rouge, the victim of a series of scams and slams, perpetrated by female beauties and male beasties? And which and how many of those perpetrators were responsible for my current condition?
    The list of possible conspirators included: an amiable, portly loser at poker, one Gaylord Brisbane—a rather attractive, over made-up denizen of the saloon, who called herself Francine DuBois, and who might well have had a couple of accomplices in her nocturnal operations—a lady of quality and her distinguished forbearer, Flaxen and Reginald Brewster, respectively, who were not what they seemed—and much to my dismay, even a brace of oversized minions of the law, Sergeant Baker and Officer O’Bannion, one, or both of whom, well might employ the sort of sap with which to coerce criminals, or pick up a little side money on their rounds—and then there might be some anonymous observers, whom I did not observe, but who preyed on simpletons such as I, who were lucky at cards.
    After such random thoughts, after how long I lay there I do not know, I decided that the riddle was too complicated and not worthy of pursuit in the time I had left before the stagecoach departed for Houston in the morning.
    I would chalk up my losses to experience and the warning of the West, and get the hell out of Baton Rouge while the getting was good.
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    The next morning I was in no mood to make an entry in my journal. That would have to wait. After a hearty breakfast, I paid my hotel bill and made arrangements to have my baggage delivered to the stagecoach depot in time to board and continue my westward trek.
    To my great surprise, at the depot, standing beside the stagecoach, were two familiar individuals, Sergeant Baker and Officer O’Bannion.
    As I approached I saw another fellow passenger step into the carriage, but neither the lawmen nor I paid any attention to the traveler.
    â€œGood morning, gentlemen,” I greeted. “It was very nice of you to come see me off.”
    â€œGood morning,” Sergeant Baker said. “That’s not why we’re here, but”—he pointed to the bruise on my forehead—“what happened to you?”
    â€œOh, I ran into something.” I smiled. “Nothing serious.”
    â€œYou ought to be more careful,” Officer O’Bannion suggested.
    â€œGood advice.” I nodded, and as I did, I noticed two people standing across the street.
    I hadn’t noticed if they had arrived together or separately, but for the moment they stood like a pair of bookends—and those bookends were looking across the street at me.
    The bookends were Francine DuBois and the portly gentleman loser, Gaylord Brisbane.
    â€œGood luck, Mr. Guthrie,” said Sergeant Baker and offered me his hand.
    We shook hands, then I repeated the gesture with Officer O’Bannion. Both had hands befitting Paul Bunyan.
    At that point Miss DuBois and Mr. Brisbane parted company and moved away in separate directions, perhaps having ascertained that I was leaving town without further consort with the police.
    As I started for the stagecoach it occurred to me that the watchdog duo had told me why they weren’t there, but not why they were.
    So I thought I’d inquire of Sergeant Baker.
    â€œIf not to see me off, do you mind telling me why you’re at the stage depot?”
    Sergeant Baker pointed his thumb toward two other passengers who were already inside.
    Flaxen and Reginald Brewster were seated on the rear seat of the