Crow Bait (5 page)

“What happened?”

Lancaster was looking up at Mal’s face.

“You blacked out,” Mal said. “I caught you when you fell.”

“Fell?”

Lancaster pushed himself to a seated position and looked around. He was still in the livery, just outside Crow Bait’s stall.

“Maybe you shouldn’t get up yet,” Mal said.

“Give me a hand,” Lancaster said.

“Okay.”

Mal pulled Lancaster to his feet. There was a brief moment of dizziness, and then he stood solid.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lancaster said. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You just ain’t recovered from bein’ kicked in the head,” Mal said. “Gonna take a while.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Maybe you should go back to the doc.”

“I’ve been to see him a few times already,” Lancaster said. “He says I should recover. What I’m worried about is my memory. If that doesn’t come back, then I won’t be able to track down the three
men who bushwhacked me, and find out who hired them.”

“You think somebody hired them to do it?”

“That’s about the only thing I’m sure of,” Lancaster said.

“How can you be that sure?”

“I heard them talking. I didn’t hear everything, but one of them said that killing me wasn’t what they were supposed to do, or something like that. I’m sure they were hired.”

“Men like you and me,” Mal said, “we have a lot of people in our past who’d like to see us dead.”

“I know it.”

“You had a funny look on your face just before you fell,” Mal said. “You sure—”

“Wait a minute,” Lancaster said. “I remember…you said something just before…what was it?”

“We were talking about the apples,” Mal said. “You mean the apples?”

“Something about apples…”

“I said Crow Bait liked the sour ones, not the sweet ones.”

Sweet.

“That was it,” Lancaster said.

“What?”

“Sweet.”

“What about it?”

“Wait,” Lancaster said, “give me a minute.”

He went back into his patchy memory with the word
sweet,
trying to find a lace where it would fit…and there it was…

“I’ve got it!” he said. “Just before I got kicked in the head the last time, somebody said, ‘Sweet, don’t.’”

“So one of them was named Sweet,” Mal said. “Well, that’s a helluva lot more than you had before. You ever know a man named Sweet?”

“No,” Lancaster said, “but I’m going to.”

Lancaster went from the livery to the sheriff’s office, to see if the lawman knew anyone in the area named Sweet.

“Sweet?” the lawman asked. “That’s all you’ve got? No first name?”

“For all I know, that is his first name,” Lancaster said.

Sheriff Race sat back in his chair, took off his hat, and scratched his balding head.

“The name doesn’t sound familiar to me,” he said, replacing his hat. “I’ll take a look through some of the posters I have, though.”

“I’d be obliged, Sheriff,” Lancaster said.

“So your memory’s startin’ to come back?” Race asked.

“Not completely,” Lancaster said. “In fact, that’s all I have right now.”

“Well, a name is at least somethin’ to go on,” Race said. “I find anything in my paper and I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

Lancaster left the sheriff’s office and walked over to the Wells Fargo office. He found Andy Black seated behind his desk.

“Lancaster,” Andy said, “I was just wonderin’ about you.”

“Thought I’d check in with you, seeing as how you staked me,” Lancaster said.

“Have a seat. Coffee?”

Lancaster sat and said, “No, thanks. I actually came in to ask you a question.”

“Ask,” Andy said, sitting back in his chair.

“You ever heard of a man named Sweet?”

“I knew Hal Sweet, worked for Wells Fargo in San Francisco years ago. But he’s dead.”

“Nobody around here?”

Andy knitted those bushy brows. “Not that I can think of. Unless he’s come around lately and I just don’t know ’im.”

“Okay, then,” Lancaster said, preparing to stand.

“What’s this about?”

Lancaster took a few moments to explain to Andy how he recalled the name.

“Sounds like a breakthrough.”

“A small one,” Lancaster said. “Nothing else came through with it.”

“Well, this is a good sign, though,” Andy said. “Just give it some time.”

“That’s what I’m doing, Andy,” Lancaster said. “There ain’t much else to do.”

“Beer,” he said to the bartender.

“Cold, right?” the bartender asked with a grin.

Lancaster was back in the K.O. Saloon again, having a cold beer, but what he really wanted was to talk with the bartender.

“Exactly.”

“Comin’ up.”

The barman brought the beer, with a nice head on it, and asked, “Stayin’ in town a while?”

“Just long enough for my horse to heal,” Lancaster said. He didn’t bother to mention that he also had some healing to do.

“What’s your name?” the barman asked.

“Lancaster.”

“Mine’s Lucky.”

“Lucky?”

The man grinned, showing some gaps in his teeth. “I was pretty lucky my first five or six fights in the ring.”

“Then what happened?” Lancaster asked.

Lucky shrugged.

“Then I ran outta luck and ran into a guy who could fight,” he said. “I quit after that. Didn’t wanna get my brains bashed in.”

“Sounds like it was a good decision. This place yours?”

“It is. Well, at least I’ll know what you want when you come in now,” Lucky said, and moved on to another customer.

Lancaster nursed his beer and once again tried to force his memories to come together. When that didn’t work he started thinking about a man called Sweet. Andy was right. If Sweet had come to town with his cronies before, or after, the ambush, chances were nobody would know any of them.

Except maybe for one person.

Lancaster waved the bartender back over.

“Another one?”

“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. “Have you seen Sweet around lately?”

“Sweet?” The bartender looked confused.

“A man named Sweet.”

“First name? Last name?”

“Just Sweet.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“Never heard the name?”

The bartender gave it a thought, then shook his head and said, “No. Is he supposed to be from town?”

“I don’t know,” Lancaster said. “It’s more likely he was a stranger in town, had two other men with him.”

“Three strangers, one named Sweet,” the bartender repeated. “What do they look like?”

“Trail clothes,” Lancaster said, “thirties or forties, might’ve looked like they just rode in off the desert.” He was guessing at the ages.

“We get lots of men in here who rode in off the desert,” the bartender said. “But I don’t remember three together in the past week or so. That help?”

“Actually, it does,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”

“Other saloons in town,” the bartender said. “You might wanna check with the bartenders there. Maybe your guys just never came in here.”

“That’s good thinking,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”

He turned and looked around the saloon. It was still too early for business to pick up, and there were only a few men in the place. The other saloons in town would probably be the same. He left his unfinished beer on the bar, figuring he’d have to drink at least half of one in each saloon, trying to find a bartender who knew a man named Sweet.

Three saloons later Lancaster still didn’t know any more about Sweet than he did before, and he was starting to feel the effects of the beer. He knew he had to stop now, or he’d end up switching to whiskey, and then all the hard work he’d done crawling out of the bottle would be for nothing. He’d be a drunk again. It didn’t take much to go back down that road.

He had to accept the fact that Sweet—whoever he was—had either not come to Laughlin or had laid very low when he was there.

Lancaster had a name. And he had a horse—and himself—to nurse back to health. He hoped the rest of it would come to him.

It was early to turn in, but these weren’t normal circumstances. He needed the rest, and he needed to sleep off the beer. A short nap, and then a meal, should fix him up.

Twenty miles outside Kingman, Arizona

The three men reined in, looked at the three signs on the signpost. One of them said H
ENDERSON
, N
V. 77 MILES,
pointing north.

“That’s where I’m headed,” Adderly said. He looked at the other two men. “You comin’?”

Sweet shook his head. “I’m gettin’ away from here, not goin’ back into Nevada.”

The third man, Cardiff, laughed and said, “You really think Lancaster walked outta that desert?”

“I ain’t takin’ any chances,” Sweet said. “I’m headin’ for Flagstaff.”

Adderly looked at Cardiff. “Where ya goin’?”

“I got a girl in Peach Springs.”

Adderly looked at the signpost. There was nothing there for Peach Springs.

“Where the hell is that?” he asked.

“About forty miles northeast,” Cardiff said. He looked at Sweet. “I’ll ride a short way with you.”

“Fine with me.”

Sweet looked at Adderly. “You’re crazy to go back into Nevada.”

“Listen,” he said, “as long as we stay away from Laughlin and Desert Hills, we should be okay.”

“Suit yourself,” Sweet said. He looked at Cardiff. “You ready?”

“Ready.”

“See you fellas somewhere down the trail,” Adderly said.

As he rode off, Sweet said to Cardiff, “I don’t wanna work with him again.”

“No, me neither,” Cardiff said.

“You hear him say my name when we had Lancaster down?” Sweet asked.

“Is that what’s botherin’ you?” Cardiff asked. “I just don’t like the way he smells.”

“He said my name,” Sweet said. “What if Lancaster does walk out of that desert?”

“Then I guess he’ll be lookin’ for you,” Cardiff said.

“That’s why I’m headin’ for Flagstaff.”

And that’s why, Cardiff thought, I’m only ridin’ a short way with you.

Lancaster woke refreshed and ready for a steak. There was a small dining room in the hotel, but he decided to go out and find out if Laughlin had a good steak house.

As he hit the street, dusk was nudging its way in. He’d slept for almost an hour, and while he still had aches and pains and a slight headache, he felt better than he had in days.

He started walking, keeping an eye out for a likely café or restaurant, when suddenly a man appeared in front of him. Actually, he didn’t just appear, he stepped out from an alley. Lancaster put his hand on his gun and eyed the man warily.

“You Lancaster?”

“Who wants to know?”

The man was in his thirties, thin and trembling, had black stubble on his face that gleamed with sweat. He licked his lips, then wiped them with the back of his hand. He was not wearing a gun.

“I heard you were lookin’ fer a man called Sweet?” the man said.

“Are you Sweet?”

“N-no, naw, not me,” the man said. “B-but I kn-know him.”

“Where is he?”

“Um, wh-what’s it worth to ya?”

“I don’t have any money.”

The man frowned, looked like he was about to cry. “N-nothin’?”

“No.”

“Wh-what about a drink?” the man asked. “One drink?”

“Look, friend,” Lancaster said, “Sweet and his two friends almost killed me, left me stranded in the desert to die. That’s why I’m looking for them. Now, what do you think I’m gonna do when I find him?”

“Um, k-kill ’im?”

“So what do you think I’ll do to you for the information?”

“Jeez, mister, I’m j-just tryin’ ta get a drink,” the drunk said.

“Is this information good?” Lancaster asked. “Because if you’re lyin’ to me—”

“I—I ain’t lyin’, mister,” the man said. “Ask anybody, Bud Stall don’t lie. I’m a drunk, but I ain’t a liar.”

“Okay,” Lancaster said, “okay, Stall, come with me.”

They walked into the saloon and were ignored as they walked to the bar. Lancaster found a space, used his elbows to make it big enough for two. The men on either side misinterpreted and thought that Stall had been elbowing them.

“Goddamnit, Bud!” one of them said. “You elbow me again I’m gonna stomp you into a mud puddle.”

The speaker was shorter than Stall, but much
bulkier. He was, however, shorter than Lancaster, who stared down at him.

“That was me, friend,” he said. “You want to try stomping me into a mud puddle?”

The man eyed Lancaster and backed off.

“Hey, friend, no harm,” he said. “I just thought this drunk was pushin’ me.”

“This drunk happens to be a friend of mine and I’m buying him a drink. Got a problem with that?”

“Nossir,” the man said. “No problem. In fact, I—I’ll give ya some more space.”

The man then walked quickly to the batwing doors and out.

“Step up, Bud,” Lancaster said.

“Thank you, Mr. Lancaster.”

Lucky came along and asked, “He with you, Lancaster?”

“He is, Lucky. Give him a drink.”

“Whiskey,” Stall said.

“Beer for you?” Lucky asked.

“No, nothing for me.”

“Whiskey,” Lucky said. He got a shot glass and a bottle and filled it.

Stall reached for the glass, but Lancaster stopped him.

“The information first, Stall,” he said, “then the drink.”

Stall licked his lips and stared at the drink. Again, he looked like he was going to cry.

“S-Sweet came to town with two other men a few days ago,” he said. “Th-they drank at a small saloon on the edge of town, stayed in a run-down hotel there, and then left before you got to town.”

So they had come to town after leaving him in the desert.

“How many days ago did they leave?”

“’Bout five, I guess.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“I—I was drinkin’ in the saloon when they was there,” Stall said. “Heard one of them say something about Henderson.”

“Henderson?”

“Town some north of here,” Stall said.

“Was it Sweet?” Lancaster asked. “Did he say he was going to Henderson?”

“I was pretty drunk,” Stall said, “but I don’t think it was him.”

“What were the names of the other two men?”

“I dunno,” Stall said, “but you could get that from the hotel they stayed in, or from the bartender in that saloon. He s-seemed to know them.”

“What’s the name of the saloon?”

“Ain’t got a name.”

“What about the hotel?”

“D-down the street from the saloon. Called the Autry House Hotel.”

“That it?” Lancaster asked. “That all you got?”

“That’s all I can remember now, but a drink might help,” Stall said.

Lancaster removed his hand from Stall’s arm and said, “Go ahead.”

Stall’s hand was trembling, but he managed to get the glass to his lips without spilling a drop. There was a noticeable lessening to the tremble as he set the glass down and breathed a sigh of relief.