Turnback Creek (Widowmaker) Read online

  “Someone robbed her payroll?”

  Felix nodded.

  “They hit it when it was on its way up the mountain,” Felix said. “Her men ain’t been paid in months, and they’re about to quit on her.”

  “So she’s got another payroll coming in?”

  “Yep,” Felix said. “End of the week, and she’s gonna need somebody to deliver it up the mountain.”

  Locke sat back in his chair. “How much are we talking about?”

  “Well, the first one was more than ten thousand dollars. Now, since the men ain’t been paid in a while, they want more than they got comin’, so this one figures to be about five times that.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Maybe more.”

  “How do you know that?” Locke was wondering how a waiter knew so much about the woman’s business.

  “Hell, the whole town knows her business,” Felix said. “After all, a lot of the businesses in town depend on the miners’ havin’ money to spend, and she’s got the biggest mine and the most miners. Hell, it’s everybody’s business now, not just hers.”

  “So, with everybody knowing how much she’s bringing in …”

  “… It’s a sure bet this payroll’s gonna be hit as well,” Felix finished. “She needs somebody who can handle a gun to take it up there—and now she knows who you are.”

  Locke didn’t rise to that bait.

  “I mean … are you really John Locke … the Widow-maker?”

  “I’m John Locke,” he replied. “I don’t know how many John Lockes there are, though.”

  “Well,” Felix said, “if you’re him—you, that is—she’s definitely gonna want you to work for her. Probably pay you a pretty penny, too. If she loses another payroll, she’s in lots of trouble—and so is this town.”

  “So, what’d you mean about taking sides?”

  “She’s not a well-liked woman, is all,” Felix said. “There are them who feel the town could survive without her, but they ain’t in the majority, I can tell you that.”

  “Well,” Locke said, “it’s too bad I’m not looking for a job. What do I owe you?”

  “Seventy-five cents.”

  Locke gave the man a silver dollar and stood up.

  “Who was that man with her?” Locke asked, out of curiosity. “She called him George.”

  “That’s George Crowell.”

  “Husband?”

  “No, he’s her manager,” Felix said. “Or foreman. I ain’t sure what she calls him.”

  “Looks like she runs pretty rough-shod over him.”

  “That she does,” Felix said, “and he lets her, because he’s in love with her.”

  “And the whole town knows that, too?”

  “Yup.”

  When they reached the door, Felix said, “Actually, Molly—that’s Mrs. Shillstone, but everybody in town just calls her Molly—did hire somebody to take the payroll up the mountain.”

  “She did?” Locke asked. “Then why would she be looking to hire me to do the same thing?”

  “Well …” Felix said. “She ain’t all that sure she hired the right man for the job.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Well … he’s been sittin’ around waitin’ for the payroll to get to Kingdom Junction. Uh, that’s where the railhead is.”

  “He’s been waiting here or there?”

  “Oh, here.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that?” Locke asked. “What else has the man got to do but wait?”

  “I think she’s worried about where he’s doin’ his waitin’.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “The saloon.”

  “Drinking?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Felix said with a nod. “Supposed to be some big-time ex-lawman, too.”

  Locke stopped in his tracks, almost out the door.

  “And what would his name be?”

  “His name’s Marshal Cooper,” Felix said. “Dale Cooper. Ever heard of him?”

  THREE

  There were three saloons in Turnback Creek. According to Felix the waiter, Dale Cooper spent his days in the largest of the three. When he walked into the Three Aces Saloon, he spotted Cooper right away. He was sitting at a back table with his head down on it, one hand wrapped around a whiskey bottle. Locke decided not to approach his old friend right away, and instead went to the bar to get himself that beer. There were only three other men in the place, all of them standing at the bar.

  “Beer,” Locke said to the bartender, who was deep in conversation with two of the men.

  “Comin’ right up,” the barman said, but he did not go for the beer right away.

  “I’d like it now,” Locke said.

  The bartender, a young man in his thirties, turned his head and looked at Locke.

  “I’ll get it in a minute, old-timer,” the man said. “I’m finishin’ up a conversation here.”

  Locke reached across the bar and closed his left hand over the man’s forearm.

  “No,” Locke said. “You’re getting me a beer, and then you can go back to your conversation.”

  The bartender straightened up, and the two men he’d been talking to turned to face Locke, who stared back at the bartender while keeping the other two men in his peripheral vision.

  It was a tense moment, and Locke wondered if they valued their conversation enough to go for their guns, but the decision was made for all of them by the other man in the room.

  “Get him his beer, Al,” the man said, “and stop being such an asshole.”

  The man was standing at the far end of the bar, and Al the bartender turned to look at him.

  “Do it!” the man said wearily.

  “Yeah, okay, Mike,” the bartender said.

  He drew a beer, and as he went to set the mug down, Locke said, “Don’t spill it.”

  The man hesitated, then set the mug down gently and moved away to stand near his friends.

  Locke lifted the beer and gestured to the man at the end of the bar, who lifted his own beer in return and then straightened up and started toward Locke. The badge on his chest was in plain view now, and as he reached Locke, the word Sheriff became clear.

  “Much obliged, Sheriff,” Locke said.

  “John Locke, isn’t it?” the man asked.

  Locke hesitated long enough to study the man. He was forty or so, about six foot, heavy through the shoulders and chest, thick in the waist. Not a man to go hand-to-hand with. The gun on his hip was worn but cared for.

  “Do I know you, Sheriff?”

  “No,” the lawman said, “but I know you. I saw you once, a few years ago—in Laramie, I think.”

  “I’ve been in Laramie.”

  Locke looked over at Cooper, who hadn’t moved. He identified his friend from the bald spot on the crown of his head, which had spread but was still recognizable. It had been a sore spot with Cooper when he was in his forties. Apparently, now that he was almost sixty, it didn’t matter much to him, for his hat was on the floor next to him.

  “My name is Mike Hammet,” the lawman said. “Been sheriff here about two years.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Not really,” Hammet said, “but it’s a job. And as part of my job, I’ve got to ask you what brings you to Turnback Creek.”

  Locke looked away from Cooper at the lawman.

  “I’m here to meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend.”

  “Anybody I’d know?”

  “Maybe.”

  The lawman remained silent and waited. Locke gave him some credit for that.

  “Dale Cooper.”

  Hammet looked over at the slumped man.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Locke said.

  “I didn’t know,” Hammet said. “Marshal Dale Cooper.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s not wearin’ a badge now.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Friend of yours?”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” Locke said. “For a long time.”

  “He’s not in very good shape,” Hammet said. “Been here a few days, spends every day in here. What brought him here?”

  “A job, I think.”

  “Workin’ for who?” the lawman asked, then answered his own question. “Wait a minute … he ain’t the one Molly Shillstone hired to transport her payroll, is he?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff,” Locke said. “I won’t know what the job is until I talk to him.”

  “You’ll have to wake him up first,” Hammet said. “Sober him up. Either one might be hard to do.”

  “I guess.”

  Hammet’s beer mug was almost empty. He set it down on the bar and said, “Good luck.”

  “Yeah,” Locke said. “Thanks.”

  He carried his beer with him to Dale Cooper’s table.

  Sheriff Mike Hammet watched as Locke walked over to the table the older man was slumped on. He hadn’t known he had a man with a reputation like Dale Cooper’s in town, and now he had two men with reputations in Turnback Creek. He was going to have to keep an eye on them.

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  Hammet turned and looked at the bartender, whose voice was a whisper in his ear.

  “What?”

  “Is that really him?”

  “Who?”

  “The Widowmaker,” Al said. “I’m askin’ is that really John Locke the Widowmaker?”

  “I guess it is,” Hammet said.

  “They say nobody knows which one the Widowmaker is,” Al said, “him or the gun.”

  “So?”

  “Do you know the answer?”

  Hammet turned and looked at the bartender.

  “What’s it matter, Al?” he asked. “Either way, you’re just as dead, ain’t you?”

  The bartender was thinking about that as the sheriff walked out the door.

  FOUR

  Locke walked to the table, put his beer down, and sat across from Dale Cooper. This close, he could see his friend clearly. He looked bad, old. His skin was more weathered than he’d ever seen it, his hair—what there was of it—wispy and gray.

  He reached over and removed the whiskey bottle from his friend’s clutch, and it was a strong clutch. He had to pull a couple of times to get it away from him. It wasn’t until he freed the bottle from Cooper’s hand that the man stirred, lifted his head, and looked across the table at him, bleary-eyed.

  “That you, John?” Cooper rasped.

  “It’s me, Dale.”

  Cooper groaned and pushed himself up from the table to an upright position.

  “I need a drink,” he said.

  “Think so?”

  “To clear my throat.”

  Locke hesitated, then pushed his beer mug across to his friend. Cooper hesitated for just a moment, picked it up, and took a healthy swallow. When he was done, he cleared his throat some more, loudly, and pushed the mug back to Locke.

  He could smell his friend’s foul scent from across the table—whiskey-soaked sweat coming out of his pores.

  “Did you ask me to meet you here to see you like this, old friend?” Locke asked.

  Cooper cleared his throat one more time, a harsh growl, and then said, “No.” He rubbed both hands vigorously over his face. “Christ, John, I need a drink.”

  “You need some coffee,” Locke said, “some food, and a bath, and not in that order.”

  “A drink first.”

  “If you take a drink before you do any of those things,” Locke said, “I’m going to saddle up and ride out.”

  “No, no,” Cooper said. “Wait. I need you … for a job.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Dale.”

  “Wh-What?”

  “I don’t want to hear another word until you’re cleaned up and sober,” Locke said. “You got any other clothes?”

  “Uh, no, no other clothes,” the older man said.

  “A place to stay?”

  “I’m, uh, staying at a roomin’ house.”

  “Been there in a while?”

  “Not—not since last night … I think.”

  “Okay,” Locke said. “We’re going to go over to my hotel and get you cleaned up—and I mean a bath—then we’ll go to the general store, and I’ll buy you some clothes.”

  “I’ve got money,” Cooper said, sounding almost indignant.

  Locke stood, walked around the table, and took his friend’s arm. He helped him to his feet that way, noticing at the same time that Cooper was wearing a gun. It wasn’t much of a gun—an old Navy Colt—but it was a gun. He bent down to retrieve Cooper’s hat and slapped it down on his head.

  “Let’s go, Dale,” he said, starting for the door.

  Abruptly, Cooper pulled his arm away, staggered, and almost fell, but he kept to his feet. “I can walk!”

  Locke heard some laughter from the other men, but when he looked over at them, they stopped and looked away.

  “Then walk, damn it!” he said. “I didn’t come all this way to find out you’re a washed-up old drunk.”

  “Ol’ drunk,” Cooper muttered. “I’ll show you who’s an old drunk. Got a job for us, a good one. Good pay.”

  “I hear from you after ten years of silence because you got a job for us?” Locke asked.

  “I need you, John,” Cooper said. “I can’t do it alone. I need you.”

  “Fine, Dale,” Locke said. “Let’s get you that bath and those clothes, and we’ll talk about it over a cup of coffee.”

  “Okay,” Cooper said, “okay … but I can walk.”

  “Sure you can,” Locke said, and took his arm again.

  FIVE

  When Dale Cooper was bathed, dressed in new, clean clothes, and reasonably sober, Locke took him to the small café where he’d first met Molly Shillstone.

  “Hungry already?” Felix asked.

  “My friend could use some coffee,” Locke told him, “and I didn’t have dessert.”

  “Pie?”

  “Apple,” Locke said with a nod. “When’s the last time you ate something, Dale?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Bring two slices,” Locke told the waiter.

  “Gotcha.”

  Several tables were occupied, but Locke was able to grab the same table he’d had earlier in the day. Cooper was morose as Locke seated him and then sat across from him.

  “You’re not making me feel very good about coming all this way to see you, Dale,” Locke said. “I dropped what I was doing, even though your telegram said very little, in the name of our friendship. Tell me if you’re a hopeless drunk and I’m wasting my time here.”

  After a moment, Cooper looked across the table at Locke and said, “I’m not hopeless.”

  “So, you’re a drunk.”

  Cooper said, “My life hasn’t been easy since we last saw each other, John.”

  “And that’s why you’re a drunk?”

  Cooper waited a moment, then said, “I don’t remember you being such a harsh judge.”

  Felix came over with the coffee and pie, saw that something was going on between the two men, and withdrew without saying a word.

  “John,” Cooper said. “Yes, I am a drunk—or I have been—but I’m trying to quit.”

  “Didn’t look that way to me today, Dale. Looked to me like you spent a few days inside a bottle.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten drunk.”

  Locke had his own problems with drinking, which had cost him his one and only job as a lawman in Tombstone years ago, but that wasn’t the point.

  Of course, it had something to do with his being so judgmental when it came to others.

  “All right, Dale,” Locke said. “The past ten years have been hard on you—so hard that you disappeared from sight. I assume it all stems from that day in Ellsworth?”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Cooper said.

  “You were the marshal,” Locke said. “Your fault or not, you took the blame.” Much the same thing
had happened to Locke in Tombstone, only to a certain extent that was his fault. He wasn’t willing to discuss that with Cooper, though. “That was part of the job.”

  “It wasn’t fair,” Cooper muttered.

  “Eat some pie,” Locke said.

  “I can’t eat.”

  “Drink some coffee.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Drink some damn coffee, Dale!”

  Cooper lifted the cup to his lips and took a small, grudging sip. Locke ate a bite of apple pie and washed it down with some coffee while continuing to stare across the table at his friend. Cooper’s pallor was bad, his eyes were moist, and even the bath had not washed away the smell of whiskey as it continued to leak from his pores.

  The man needed help.

  “All right, Dale,” Locke said. “Why don’t you tell me why you asked me to come here?”

  SIX

  Dale Cooper ate the rest of his pie as he talked, and he had some more coffee.

  “The job is delivering a payroll,” he explained. He went on to tell Locke what he already knew about Molly Shillstone and her mine. Locke allowed him to go on, though, without telling him that he knew most of the story. As Cooper talked, he seemed to sober up and become animated. He also asked for another slice of pie.

  “This is a chance to get back on my feet, John,” Cooper said. “They’re willing to pay me and whoever I get to help me five hundred dollars apiece. That’s more money than I’ve ever seen, John.”

  Locke wondered how secure this offer was if Molly Shill-stone had approached him—a stranger—about the job.

  “This is a done deal?” he asked.

  “Completely.”

  “You don’t think that sitting around in the bar the past few days might have put Mrs. Shillstone off a bit?”

  Cooper shrugged. “What does she care what I do in my off time, as long as I get the payroll delivered?”

  “What exactly is the job?”

  “Pick the payroll up from the train, bring it up the mountain, and deliver it to the manager up there so he can pay the men. It’s simple.”

  “So, the payroll could be hit on the train before it gets here, at the train while we’re picking it up, or on the way up the mountain, which is how it was hit last time, right?”