Текст книги "Dead in the West"

Автор книги: Joe R. Lansdale

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"You do that," Caleb said. "Me, I'm going to sit right here and keep this bottle company."

"Good place for you. You might even catch a fresh fly or two. And Caleb, do me a favor.

Don't drink out of the bottle."

Matt went out.

Caleb picked up the bottle and took a long, deep swig.

VI

Standing in front of his office, Matt looked down the street. Caleb was right. For some odd reason this night did remind him of the night the Indian was hung. He should have killed Caleb that night. He couldn't understand what it was about the man that had him buffaloed. Why he even treated him like a friend. He was scum. Ate flies, had no manners—and what he had done to the Indian's woman.... He was glad he hadn't been there to see it. In fact, he had tried to stop it.

Matt squinted his eyes and looked down the street. That night came back to him clearly.

He was standing right there where he was standing now when they came for the Indian and his woman.

Caleb was in front of the pack, holding a bowie knife. "Let us by, Matt," he said. "This ain't none of your affair. We want that Indian and his nigger, and we aim to have them."

"I can't do that" he had said.

And that was when David Webb stepped forward. He looked a total wreck. He had been crying. "He killed my little girl," Webb screamed. "He's a murderer. You're supposed to be sheriff. Mud Creek's sheriff. If you know what justice is, let us have him."

And Matt had stood firm for a while, his hand on the butt of his revolver.

But then he had looked at Caleb and Caleb had said, '"You're protecting a murdering Indian and a nigger. Where's your guts, Matt? Step aside!" And he had.

They had entered the jail, taken the keys from the wall, and pulled the Indian and his mulatto wife from the cell.

And when the crowd came out of the jail, they were practically carrying the Indian and the woman, and the Indian, held tight as he was, turned his head toward Matt and said almost casually, "You'll not be forgotten."

The crowd pushed into the street, tossed the man and woman into a wagon, bound them hand and foot. The driver clucked to the horses, and the wagon was off, the crowd running behind it.

Except for Caleb. He walked over to Matt and tossed the keys at the lawman's feet. "You did the right thing, boy."

Then Caleb was off at a trot behind them.

…

The night of the hanging faded before him, and Matt stepped off the boardwalk and began his rounds.

VI

Matt liked the night rounds. It was his favorite part of the job. It made him feel as if he owned the town. He nodded at people he passed, though as usual, there were few out.

Most were home or at Molly McGuire's or The Dead Dog Saloon.

He came to the saloon and looked in over the bat wings. It was a small crowd. They all looked hot and tired.

Zack, the bartender, looked bored and crabby at the same time. There was a drunk asleep under the table at the back, and the Dead Dog's only saloon girl was leaning against another drunk at the bar. The bar drunk had his head on the counter and was asleep. The girl looked sleepy and downright sick of the whole mess. At a table, four men played a lackluster game of cards.

Zack saw Matt at the doorway, cupped his hands in a come-hither wave.

Matt smiled, shook his head, and went on.

Matt went down the street, checking locked doors, making sure everything was sound.

When he came to the alley that led back to Molly McGuire's, he hesitated. He heard a sound, like something meddling in the trash boxes out back.

Probably that damned dog again.

Matt pulled his revolver. This time, he'd get that bastard. He started to creep down the alley. A moon shadow became visible. It was the slanting shadow of a huge man wearing a broad-brimmed hat. It looked uncomfortably familiar.

Matt froze.

He cocked the revolver and stared at the shadow.

"Who's there?" he said. "This is the sheriff—Who's back there?"

Silence. But the shadow did not move.

Matt inched forward.

"You are not forgotten " came a voice. Or was it a voice? It had almost sounded like the wind.

But there was no wind.

"Who's there, I said?"

And then the shadow quivered and melted and reformed. It was no longer the silhouette of a big man with a broad-brimmed hat. It was the shadow of a wolf.

Matt blinked, started backing up the alley, holding the revolver before him. The shadow moved and swelled in size.

Matt broke and ran out of the alley, turning too quick to dart into Molly McGuire's, but going up the street as fast as his legs would carry him.

And then he felt stupid.

He stopped. He didn't look back. He just stood in the street. He had not heard a voice.

That had been the wind and his imagination. There was no man-shape becoming a wolf-shape. He had seen the shadow of the dog all along, the dog that had troubled the town for a year now. He was getting jumpy. Maybe Caleb was right. He was getting squeamish.

But then he heard something behind him like the padding of feet.

All I have to do, he told himself, is turn, and there will be that big yellow dog, and I will shoot his brains out, and it will be over.

But he found he could not turn. He was afraid of what he would see—and deep down, he knew it would not be the big yellow dog, or for that matter a true wolf. It would be something else.

He started walking briskly up the street toward the church.

The padding behind him had stopped momentarily, as if examining him, but now it had picked up again. Whatever it was, it was big. And he could hear the sound of breathing.

Matt broke into a run.

The street was empty, not a soul in sight. There was only the church at the end of the street, calling to him as if it were a beacon, its white cross standing high on its roof peak, throwing a black-shadow cross into the street.

Matt's breath was coming in bursts now, and so was that of whatever was behind him, and he could sense that it was almost on him, ready to leap and take him down, and he found a second wind and ran harder, and then his side felt as if it were about to burst, but he still ran, and he thought he could feel the hot, damp breath of his pursuer on the back of his neck.

His hat came off. His breath was coming in gasps now. He was almost to the church.

The buildings on either side of him seemed to lean out and push—hang at strange angles over his head. And there didn't seem to be as much light as usual, and no sounds, other than his own breathing, and the breathing of whatever was at his heels.

And then he was in the shadow of the cross, and it was as if he had been struck by a warm wind. He ran up the church steps, and when he was at the church door, he wheeled—the revolver held before him—and he saw—

–nothing.

Just the empty street with his hat in its center. There was nothing wrong with the buildings. They grew at proper angles and did not hang over the street, and there were just as many lights as usual, and in the distance he could hear the buzz of voices at Molly McGuire's, and someone had finally decided to play the piano at The Dead Dog Saloon.

Matt leaned against the church door and got his breath. His face became less tense and finally turned humorous. He collapsed on the top church stoop and laughed at himself. He slipped the revolver back into its holster.

"Nothing," he said. "Not a goddamned thing."

But at that moment there came a long, haunted howl that filled the street, and the howl gradually began to sound like a hoarse and hateful laugh.

VII

After a little while, the sheriff cautiously walked away from the church and picked up his hat. When he was about to put it on his head, an involuntary cry escaped his lips.

The crown was bitten neatly out of it.

Hat in hand, the sheriff ran back to the jail.

VIII

The dead gambler was the best walker, but Millie was no slouch—even though she had lost a shoe.

The others were doing their best, and Millie was doing better, but the gambler had long legs and a good stiff stride.

He was moving way out ahead, as if he were trying to win a race.

As the night moved on and the sky lightened, the others slowed down, but not the gambler.

He walked faster.

Millie veered off into the woods and out into a field until she saw the shape of a house.

She no longer truly recognized that it was the house where she lived with her sister, Buela, nor did she guess that Buela was worried sick about her, wondering what had happened to her and the stage. In Millie's mind there was only a reptilian pattern, and she followed it.

No lamps burned in the house. It was silent. The sun was easing up over the horizon like a sneaky, blond baby raising its head.

The woman with one shoe came to the root cellar. She looked at the house and sensed the human warmth there and felt hungry.

She looked to the horizon. The blond head was coming up faster, strands of light, like fine lines of hair, were lightening the lower edge of the sky.

She opened the root cellar door, climbed down the short length of steps, closing the lid behind her.

It was not root cellar country. Too much ground wetness, and it had been abandoned and allowed to fill up with brackish water.

Millie didn't mind. She didn't mind anything but the rays of the sun and the gnawing agony in her brain that told her she must eat—and soon.

She lowered herself slowly into the water until it swirled over her head. A water moccasin swished quickly out of the way. Dirt and maggots washed from her hair and flesh and floated to the top as she kept sinking, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, until she resided at the bottom of the cellar, and there was not even a dark ripple.

…

A short time before dawn, the others stopped altogether and scrambled for the soft dirt alongside the stage trail. They began frantically digging shallow graves with their bare hands.

They crawled into their little holes and began raking the leaf mold over themselves, finally pulling it over their faces and squirming their hands inside.

But not the gambler. He had long since left them behind and had passed the sign that read:

MUD CREEK.

IX

Just before sunrise, the livery doors flapped open like great bat wings spreading—the padlock spinning to the dirt.

A chill wind blew inside, and the doors closed shut after it. The padlock was back in place.

II

THE GATHERING

AND CLOSE YOUR EYES WITH HOLY DREAD/FOR HE ON HONEY-DEW

HATH FED/AND DRUNK THE MILK OF PARADISE.

– COLERIDGE

Shiftless, the Reverend stood before the broken mirror dipping his hands into the washbasin. He scrubbed them, washed his face, toweled dry.

He walked over to the window and looked out.

It was almost sunup. The gray sky had been severely ruptured with pink and red.

A man was coming down the street. He walked fast, but oddly. As if he had a case of rickets. He reached the saloon, grabbed the door that closed over the bat wings, and tugged. It was locked.

…

The sun was fully up now, and a wave of light washed down the street. When it struck the man at the saloon door, he let out a little shriek. Wisps of smoke curled up from the top of his head and hands.

The man tugged harder at the door latch.

His arm came off at the shoulder and out of his sleeve. The hand still clutched the latch firmly, and the arm jutted out—bloodless and white.

The man stood looking at it for a moment, then he pried it loose with his free hand and put it in the deep pocket of his coat. It stuck out of the pocket from elbow to nub.

The man began to hasten up the street. He tried every door he came to.

Finally he moved into the middle of the street and fell face down.

The Reverend raced downstairs.

II

The Reverend ran over to the fallen man and bent down. The body was smoking. The arm that was sticking out of the coat pocket was wilting like a limp dick. It finally puddled into the coat pocket and onto the street.

The Reverend, not eager about it, reached out and touched the gambler's neck for a pulse.

There wasn't any. The Reverend startled at how strange the flesh felt. He pulled his hand back and looked at it. Putrid smelling flesh clung to his fingertips like mold. He quickly wiped it off in the dirt.

A hand reached down and grabbed the Reverend by the shoulder, surprising him.

The Reverend wheeled, standing as he did. His hand went for his constant companion: the Navy revolver in his sash.

The revolver was suddenly out, cocked, and planted against the nose of the elderly man he had seen in the cafe with the beautiful woman who reminded him of his sister. And the woman herself stood nearby, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Whoa!" the elderly man said. "We're good Samaritans like yourself. We saw him fall.

Lord, but you're fast."

The Reverend lifted the gun from the old man's face and uncocked it. As the old man dipped from view to examine the body, the Reverend had a full look at the woman. She was even more beautiful than he had thought. The Lord just kept throwing her at him.

He turned to look at the old man, who, like the Reverend, had touched the body and was wiping his fingers in the dirt.

"Damndest thing I've seen," the old man said. "He smells as if he's been dead a week."

"He was walking," the Reverend said crisply.

"Don't mess yourself, son. I know that. I said we saw him fall."

The body had gone to hell now. It was smoking and parts of it had collapsed inside the clothes. The head had lost a lot of flesh but was mostly intact. But now the skull itself was starting to bubble.

The old man stood up. "Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back." He ran across the street to the doctor's office.

"A little late for that," the Reverend called, but the old man ignored him.

"He's the doctor," the woman said.

The Reverend glanced at her, then back to the old man who was unlocking the doctor's office and going inside.

"He's also my father."

The Reverend turned around—found he could only say, "Oh." He was staring at the woman, and he could not help it. It seemed impossible for him to make his eyes look away.

The doctor returned. He was pushing a wheelbarrow, and handed one shovel to the Reverend.

"What's this for?" the Reverend said, pushing his Navy into his waistband and holding the shovel with his other hand.

"Shovel him into the wheelbarrow, fellow—and try not to get too much dirt with him,"

the doctor said.

The doctor scooped up a shovelful of the flesh that had oozed out of the dead man's collar—flesh that had once been a neck. The body was really in bad shape now, and only the skull remained solid, though it was now devoid of hair and flesh—that lay in a prickly puddle about the skull. Flies swarmed all over the gooey stuff like raisins on pudding.

The Reverend, hesitating only slightly, began to scoop up the dead man and toss him into the wheelbarrow.

III

The doctor waved the flies off the mess and wheeled the wheelbarrow full of globby man-parts and stained suit into his office. Behind him came the Reverend and his daughter.

They moved through a waiting room, down a short hall, and turned right. Inside it was dark. The doctor lit a lamp and turned up the wick. The room was a lab. There was a long table in its center. There were racks on the walls, and the racks were filled with glass canisters, test tubes, and the like. Some of the glassware contained colorful liquids. On a table next to the wall was a microscope and all manner of instruments. The windows were curtained with dark blue cloth. You couldn't tell if it was day or night outside.

The doctor saw the Reverend looking around.

"I like it cozy," the doctor said. "I didn't get your name."

"Reverend Jebidiah Mercer. Pardon me if I don't shake hands."

"I feel the same. You can wash over at that basin. This is my daughter, Abby, and I'm Doc Peekner. Most folks just call me Doc."

"Good to meet you," the Reverend said, then thought of the circumstances of their meeting and felt silly. "You ever see anything like this before, Doc?"

Doc shook his head.

"Could it be some form of leprosy, Dad?" Abby asked.

"No. Nothing like that.... God, will you look at this mess? This man looks to have been dead for weeks, but we know better. We all saw him walking."

"If it's some kind of disease," the Reverend said, "we could all have it."

"Not me," Abby said. "You touched him—you and Dad—not me."

"Concerned, isn't she?" Doc said. "Here, wash your hands over there. I've got some chemicals I can pour on them too."

The Reverend did as he was told. Abby poured fresh water from a pitcher into a basin for him. When he finished and toweled dry, Doc poured the chemicals over his hands and he let them air dry.

"All right," Doc said. "Why don't you two make yourself comfortable in the office there.

Have some coffee. I'm going to put this mess on the table, wash up, and join you."

"Sure you won't need any help, Dad?" Abby asked.

"I'm sure."

Abby and the Reverend left the room and went to the front where Abby built a small fire in the wood stove for coffee. She opened the office door to neutralize the heat with the outside air, but even though it was early morning, it was already hot and didn't help much.

As she poured water and scooped coffee, the Reverend noticed that, for all her aplomb, her hand was shaking ever so slightly. He mentioned it.

"You found me out," she said. "I thought I had a constant professional air."

The Reverend held up his hand. It quivered ever so slightly. "You're not the only one."

She smiled. It was a very nice smile.

"I've been around death since I was a child " Abby said. "It was inevitable with my father, a doctor, that I would be exposed to it. I've been his nurse since I was in my teens. I was on hand when my mother caught the fever, and we labored to save her and couldn't—but I've never seen anything like today."

"Me either."

When the coffee was ready, she got cups out of a desk drawer and poured for herself and the Reverend. When she handed the Reverend his cup, he noted the aroma of her, and he felt the damnable fire in his loins.

He was both disappointed and relieved when she moved away.

She sat down on the desktop, crossing her legs casually beneath her long skirt. The Reverend thought it was the sexiest movement he had ever witnessed. She picked up her coffee and sipped, looked at the Reverend over the top of her cup.

The Reverend found he could not take his eyes off of her again.

"You got something on your mind besides coffee, Reverend?" she asked.

"I'm sorry. You're a very attractive woman."

"I know. Every man in town has told me. I thought maybe you'd have a fresh approach."

"I suppose not."

"You never did answer my question, not really. Do you have something on your mind, Reverend?"

"Maybe. But I'm not sure it's proper to mention it."

"Don't be such a stuffed shirt, Reverend."

"Calling me Jeb would help."

"Jeb then."

"I think I'd best be going."

"You haven't finished your coffee, Jeb. And Dad will want to speak to you."

The Reverend sipped his coffee almost frantically. "I really should run." And then he remembered he had a legitimate excuse. He was supposed to give David a shooting lesson. In all the excitement he had forgotten about it. He told her about his and David's plans.

"Sounds wonderful. What say I invite myself along? We can have a picnic." She smiled at him. "I just love to see a grown man sweat, and it looks to be a hot day."

The Reverend didn't know what to make of Abby. He was considering some sort of reply when Doc stepped into the room.

"More coffee?" Doc asked.

Abby smiled and said, "Sure." She put her cup down and poured Doc a cup. Doc sat behind his desk and sipped. He looked thoughtful.

"Never saw anything like that," he said. "Never. I don't think it's a disease of any kind."

"What could it be then?" the Reverend asked.

"I don't know" Doc said. "I've got some ideas—but they're just ideas."

"Well, what are they?" Abby asked.

"I'd rather not say right now. Might make me seem more foolish than I am."

"I doubt that," Abby said with a grin.

Doc grinned back at her. "Not a word until I've consulted some books."

"Dad, the Reverend and I were just discussing going on a picnic—weren't we Reverend?"

The Reverend didn't know what to say. He hadn't been discussing anything. Abby had brought it up, and the subject had not been properly mined out when Doc stepped into the room. Yet, there seemed no getting away from Abby. It was as if the Lord was throwing her at him. And if that was the case, there would be no escape. And lastly, he had been alone too much of late. Maybe David and Abby's company was what he needed to clear the air.

"Yes," he said. "We thought that might be a nice idea."

"Sounds capital to me " Doc said.

"And maybe afterwards, the Reverend would like to drop by the house for a cup of coffee," Abby said. "Then you could tell us what you found in those books you're going to consult."

Doc looked at Abby and grinned. "I may not have anything to say then, but," he turned to the Reverend, "I'd enjoy having your company, Reverend. Why don't you come by. I'd have a chance to talk to someone besides the townsfolk. We're all talked out with each other. There isn't even a decent corn crop to discuss this time of year, nothing but the weather. And that can be done in a word—hot. Maybe you and I can find something new to talk about."

"Maybe," the Reverend said. "And I'll give your invitation some thought. I'm not exactly sure when we'll be back. This is sort of a work picnic for me—if that's all right with Abby."

"Fine," she said. "Long as I don't have to work."

"You don't," the Reverend said.

"That's good," she said, then winked at Doc. "My old man works me hard enough."

"I have a young man to meet," the Reverend said, and he told Doc about David and the tent poles.

"Never keep a young man waiting, I always say," said Abby. "I'll get the picnic things, but first, let me walk you outside.

IV

Abby walked the Reverend out to the street.

"I really do hope you'll come for coffee later," Abby said.

"After today you may have your fill of me," the Reverend said.

"I doubt it."

The Reverend was beginning to feel comfortable with Abby, as well as attracted to her.

He even found himself smiling a lot. It was something he had done so little of in the last few years, it made his face hurt.

They looked up. Across the street, in front of the hotel, a wagon was parked. David was sitting on the seat looking at them. The boy looked as if he had swallowed a bug.

"I'll get the picnic lunch," Abby said, and she touched the Reverend's arm before turning away and heading down the alley by the doctor's office.

The Reverend walked over to David and looked up at him on the seat.

"She's going, ain't she?" David said.

"If it's okay with you," the Reverend said.

"Even if it ain't okay, right?"

The Reverend considered a moment. "I thought, if she didn't work out, you and me could use her for target practice."

Though he tried not to, David smiled.

V

When Abby returned with the picnic basket and they loaded up, David relaxed. It was hard not to around Abby. She was comfortably disarming and in constant high spirits.

Something the Reverend and David were not. It did their pessimistic souls good to have her around. As the Reverend drove the wagon out of town, he could not help but feel slightly like a family man taking his wife and son on an outing. It was a nice and disturbing feeling all at once.

They took the stage trail and followed it out three or four miles and pulled over to the edge of the road. The Reverend examined the woods.

"Hope you brought a sharp axe?" the Reverend said.

David said, "I brought two of them. One for you. One for me."

"Good," the Reverend said. "I'll show you how it's done."

"That'll be the day," David said.

"Boys, boys," Abby said.

…

The Reverend and David chopped, skinned, and loaded trees until noon. Abby sat in the shade and read a dime novel that made her chuckle out loud from time to time.

For lunch—they spread a checked blanket on the ground, and Abby got out the picnic basket. They ate fried chicken, home cooked bread, and drank from a jug of tea in which most of the chipped ice had melted. It was all very good.

The Reverend was surprised that things went so well. He and Abby had much to talk about. Books for one. They had both read a lot, though she had a taste for dime novels which he did not care for. David also fit in, but not from the book angle. He had read little to nothing. But he had a ready wit and knew all the dirt on the townsfolk, and Abby encouraged as much of it out of him as she could.

The whole thing was pleasing, and the Reverend found that he was wishing he could make this trio permanent. But then he didn't wish too hard. Most things he wanted out of life turned to dust in his hands. He felt as if he were some sort of Jonah, and that everything and everyone he touched and cared for would be soured or destroyed. If he got his wish, it would merely be for as long as it took him to make it all go bad.

It was a hell of a curse for a man whose life was based on bringing happiness and salvation to others. He himself never got to taste of the well-water he poured. And if he stayed about too long after pouring, then he would somehow taint the well. Never failed.

"Now" David said, "how about that shooting lesson."

"What's the hurry?" the Reverend said.

"I'd just like to shoot that damn gun," David said.

"I guess that's reason enough," the Reverend said. "One more glass of tea and then we'll start."

"You told him that already," Abby said.

"So I did," the Reverend, said pouring a glass of tea, "but I have to do it this time. This is the last in the jug."

VI

While the Reverend, Abby, and David were so engaged, Cecil—one of the cooks for Molly McGuire's—went out back to toss the morning grease, and saw a pair of feet in shiny shoes sticking straight up out of the big, wooden trash box.

He put the grease on the ground and looked into the box. The trash that belonged there was all over the alley. There was just a man and a big yellow dog—the one that had been such a nuisance all year.

Cecil was two hundred pounds on a six-foot frame. He wrapped his bulging arms—both tattooed with anchors from his time in the navy—and pulled. The body wouldn't come free.

The blood in the box bottom had congealed and stuck to the top of the corpse's head. The body was also wedged in with the dog.

Cecil got a fresh grip, grunted, and pulled.

This time the body came free, leaving a mess of its scalp and hair in the bottom of the box.

Cecil tossed the body to the ground. Other than the neck which lolled loosely, the body was as stiff as a board. The tongue hung out of its mouth, and it seemed a foot long, and it was as dark as a razor strop.

"That's who I thought you was," Cecil said, looking at the corpse. "Morning Banker—you being dead ain't nothing personal."

This was a variation of what Nate had told Cecil when he foreclosed on his farm last year.

His words had been more like, "You being broke ain't nothing personal. Just doing what I have to do."

"You look good as I've seen you," Cecil said absently. "In fact, you look better than I've ever seen you, you old fart."

Cecil, sensitive as he was, scratched his balls and looked in the box again. He could see the dog more clearly. It looked as if it had been wadded up into a ball. Its muzzle was mashed like a squeeze box into its head, and both its eyes were sticking out on tendons like strange insects. The dog and Cecil stunk of shit.

Cecil got a cigar out of his white shirt pocket-occasionally the ash from his stogies revealed itself in the cafe's chili—and lit up. He usually waited for the evening to smoke the one cigar he bought a day, but hell, this was kind of a celebration. That damned mutt had turned over his last trash box, and good old Nate Foster—resident banker, drunk and full-time horse's ass—had foreclosed on his last farm.

Cecil went back to the cafe, had himself a drink of cooking sherry, then went out front to tell the sheriff (who was having lunch with Caleb) about poor old Nate.

VII

The dog stayed in the box, but they took Nate over to the undertakers and sent for Doc.

When Doc got there, Nate didn't look any better. The sheriff, the undertaker Steve Mertz, and Caleb stood looking down at the corpse.

"Think he's dead, Doc?" Mertz said with his usual mirth.

"I reckon he's just holding his breath," Caleb said. "But that trick with his tongue out like that will throw you."

"Oh for Christsakes," Matt said, and walked out of the room.

"I tell you," Caleb said, "that boy is getting squeamish."

Doc paid no attention. He bent to look at Nate's face. An ant crawled across Nate's left eye. Doc brushed it away. He gripped the man's head and turned it.

"Neck's broken, ain't it?" Caleb said.

"Yep," Doc said. He looked at the bruise on Nate's neck and a deep, jagged wound just under it.

"Guess the dog did that," Mertz said.

"Right" Caleb said. "Then old Foster smashed the dog's muzzle halfway through his skull, wadded him up, tossed him in the trash, jumped in after him, landed on his head, and broke his neck,"

"Well," Mertz said. "The dog could have bitten him."

"Shut up, both of you, will you?" Doc said. "I can't hear myself think. Maybe the dog bit him after he was dead."

"How'd he get his neck broke," Mertz said.

"It could have been a big man done it," Doc said. "Only he'd have to have been a really big man, and the strongest man I've ever seen to do what he did to that dog's body.

Anyone that knew how could have broken Foster's neck."

"I seen a big nigger who fought bare-knuckle once, and he could have done that" Caleb said. "No trouble."

"Don't suppose he lives around here?" Doc said.

Caleb smiled. "Kansas City."

"And I thought we were going to save Matt a lot of work. Do me a favor, Caleb, take a walk. You're stinking the whole place up."

Caleb grinned again and lifted his hat in mock salute. "Glad to oblige, Doc, and I'll remember you."

"In your prayers, I hope," Doc said.

When Caleb was gone, Mertz said, "It don't do to piss Caleb off. He's onery and he don't forget."

"To hell with Caleb."

Doc looked the neck over some more. "What gets me is the rip," he said. "I suppose a crazy man might have done that."

"A man?"

"Ever seen a man with rabies, Mertz?"