Bury Them Deep in War Smoke Read online

  ‘What you reading there, Samuel?’ Heck asked as he stepped up under the porch overhang and felt the welcome relief of the shadows. ‘Must be plumb interesting the way you keep looking at them words.’

  Sam looked up at his friend and nodded in partial agreement with the statement.

  ‘It ain’t so much interesting as it is baffling, Heck,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  Heck had never read anything in his entire life. He rubbed his neck, leaned over and stared down at the letter. To him it was just like staring at ink scratches on the paper. A pained expression wrinkled up his weathered face as he rested his rear end on the sill of the window behind the hardback chair.

  ‘I thought you could read, Sam,’ Heck queried. ‘You should be able to figure out them marks.’

  Sam turned on his chair and looked up at the puzzled expression on his pal’s face. ‘Sure I can read it, you old fool. I’m just confused by it.’

  Heck grew no wiser.

  ‘Shall I go walk back across to the café and then come on back here so we can start again?’ he said in a high-pitched tone that few others could equal in War Smoke. ‘If’n you can read them words, you know what it says. That stands to reason, don’t it?’

  The undertaker stood up beside his scruffy pal and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I had this letter about a week ago,’ he started to explain. ‘It tells me to dig three graves up in Boot Hill. It had a fifty-dollar bill pinned to the letter to pay for the work.’

  Heck screwed up his eyes.

  ‘I still can’t figure out why you’re so baffled, Samuel,’ he stated with a wave of his hand. ‘It sounds pretty damn clear to me. Some hombre wanted three graves dug and paid you to have them dug.’

  Sam shook the sheet of paper under Heck’s nose.

  ‘That’s what’s bothering me, Heck,’ he snapped.

  Heck’s black bushy eyebrows rose up to his battered hat as he stared at the undertaker in utter confusion. He leaned forwards and looked up into the bald man’s face.

  ‘How can that bother you, Samuel?’ he asked. ‘Some dumb critter paid you to dig three graves. Even I can figure that out, and I can’t even read them fancy words.’

  Sam edged closer. ‘But why would anyone want three graves dug in Boot Hill, Heck? Three fresh dug holes and we ain’t got any bodies to plant in them.’

  Heck’s expression suddenly altered as he thought about the statement. He mumbled to himself and then his jaw dropped.

  ‘Well, whoever that critter is that penned the letter couldn’t have mailed the bodies as well, could he?’ he groaned as his mind vainly tried to solve the puzzle that had been troubling his friend. ‘He’d have needed a damn bigger envelope.’

  Totally frustrated, Sam marched into the funeral parlour with his friend tagging behind him. He rested his hands on the marble counter and stared at the letter placed between them, and then vigorously rubbed the paper flat. Yet no amount of flattening of it made it any clearer to comprehend.

  ‘I sent the boys up to the graveyard yesterday and they dug three deep graves just like the letter states,’ he told the baggy-panted Heck. ‘I took my buggy up there and checked the work a couple of hours back. The boys did a mighty neat job. Just as the letter specifies.’

  Heck rested his elbows on the marble and looked from under his droopy hat brim at the still perplexed undertaker. He tilted his head and jabbed the paper with his grubby index finger.

  ‘What’s the name of the varmint that sent you these instructions, Samuel?’ he asked. ‘If’n you know his name, I’ll go ambulate to wherever he is and ask him why he ordered three graves dug.’

  Sam fished the envelope out of his pocket and looked at it carefully. He then raised his eyes and looked at his friend.

  ‘There ain’t a return address, Heck,’ he stated as he looked closer at the signature at the foot of the written instructions. ‘And I can’t read the name either.’

  Heck adjusted his loose gunbelt and pushed his tongue into his whiskered cheek and shrugged. ‘Well, if that don’t beat all, Samuel. That critter must be awful trusting, or maybe he’s just plain dumb. He sends you fifty dollars and trusts you to do what he wants. For all he knows you might be a sly old critter who’d just spend that fifty dollars and not have any holes dug.’

  Sam look horrified. ‘I would never do anything so underhanded, Heck.’

  ‘I know that, Samuel,’ Heck nodded.

  ‘I paid the boys for the work,’ Sam uttered. ‘I’m the most honest undertaker in War Smoke. Ask anyone.’

  ‘You’re the only undertaker in War Smoke since old Vernon fell into a grave during a funeral and bust his neck last year, Samuel,’ Heck reminded his pal. Suddenly a notion came to Heck. He grinned and pointed at the undertaker.

  ‘That means he knows you, Samuel,’ he reasoned. ‘Whoever wrote that there letter must know of you. He must know that you’re as honest as they come. He figured he could trust you with his fifty bucks.’

  Sam straightened up and stared at the dishevelled man leaning on the marble counter, and nodded a few times in agreement. He then looked troubled again, and sighed.

  ‘But who is he?’

  Heck jolted upright and placed his fingertips against his mouth as his eyes darted in all directions. He then leaned closer to the thin bald man.

  ‘The question is, why does he want three fresh dug graves up there on Boot Hill, Samuel?’ he gulped nervously. ‘Who in tarnation does he figure on planting in them holes?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two hours had passed as Heck, the jack-of-all-trades, went about his various jobs around War Smoke. He had cleaned the horse stalls in the livery, helped skin and chop up a variety of animals for the butcher, and had then emptied the spittoons in the Longhorn saloon before scattering a fresh layer of sawdust over its wooden floor. Only as the sun finally began to set did the muttering Heck Longfellow remember that he ought to inform his friend, the marshal, about the strange dilemma that was troubling old Sam in the funeral parlour.

  After hitching up his pants and tightening his knotted rope belt, he moved down Front Street at his usual pace. He touched his hat brim to every single person he encountered, adding a few winks for good measure when he passed a female of any age, size or condition. Regardless of his own appearance, Heck drew more than his share of cordial smiles in return. He stomped on the boardwalk outside Marshal Matt Fallen’s office as though attempting to awaken a sleepy leg and then grabbed the door handle and entered.

  Fallen greeted his friend with a nod.

  Heck dried his nose on his shirt sleeve and grinned broadly at the seated figure of Marshal Matt Fallen as the lawman studied the full cup of coffee before him. The lawman used a pencil to stir the brew as Heck drew closer to him. Heck watched curiously as the marshal kept stirring the black contents of his cup, and his eyes wrinkled up as he wondered why the normally fearless lawman seemed hesitant to drink any of the cup’s contents.

  ‘What you doing there, Matthew?’ he asked eventually.

  Fallen sighed heavily and pointed at the cup.

  ‘What’s wrong with this coffee, Heck?’ Fallen asked his friend. ‘Look at it and tell me what you think.’

  Heck sniffed the unusual aroma, gave a suspicious frown and then raised an eyebrow.

  ‘If that was an outhouse I’d reckon it surely needs some lime, Matt,’ he whispered. ‘Are you sure it’s coffee?’

  ‘I’m reasonably sure that’s what it’s meant to be,’ Fallen shrugged doubtfully.

  ‘It don’t smell like any coffee I’ve ever had, Matt,’ Heck said before looking around the office the tensely. ‘Did Elmer make it?’

  Matt sighed, ‘Yep.’

  ‘You gonna drink it?’

  A pained expression came to the lawman. ‘I ain’t sure, Heck. That boy keeps experimenting with all sorts of things to put in my coffee. Trouble is, I hate upsetting him. He means well.’

  Heck scratched his whiskered chin. ‘Tha
t boy learned all his cooking skills from his Ma, Matt. That woman is the worst darn cook I ever done met. Starving hound dogs won’t eat the scraps she puts out.’

  Fallen grinned and pushed the cup into the middle of his ink blotter. ‘Coffee ain’t meant to have a shine on its surface, is it?’

  ‘Where is Elmer anyways, Matt?’ Heck rested a hip on the edge of the desk and stared at the lawman as Fallen kept stirring the black beverage with a pencil. ‘He’s usually closer than your darn shadow.’

  ‘I sent him home to find his gun,’ Fallen sighed. ‘That boy never remembers to wear the damn thing. It’s peaceful at the moment, but if trouble raises its ugly head, we need our guns. I’ve bin nagging him to always wear his six-shooter until I’m blue in the face, but he still turns up without it.’

  Heck looked knowingly at the lawman.

  ‘I hear that his Ma don’t like him wearing a six-shooter, Matthew,’ Heck said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I reckon she hides it.’

  Matt sighed and then leaned back, and looked at the grizzled man perched on the edge of his desk. He placed his hands behind his head, and stared hard and long at him.

  ‘What brings you to my office, Heck?’ he grinned in a bid to change the subject.

  ‘I’m just visiting, Matt,’ Heck answered. ‘Can’t a critter pay a visitation to his best friend?’

  Fallen smiled wider.

  ‘Everyone is your best friend, Heck!’ he noted.

  ‘Not everybody,’ Heck argued. ‘It so happens that there are some folks that I hardly think of as my friends, let alone my best friends, Matt.’

  The marshal nodded and then noticed the wall clock. Time was marching on and he had things to do. He stared at Heck.

  ‘What exactly do you want, you old galoot?’ Fallen asked. ‘I’ve got to go out on my rounds soon. What the hell do you want?’

  Heck crossed his legs and looked seriously down at the seated marshal. He sighed, and then scratched his whiskers again as he gathered his thoughts together.

  ‘Why’d I come here?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Oh yeah, I recall the reason. Old Sam has a real problem that’s driving him plumb loco.’

  Matt Fallen sat forward. ‘Sam the undertaker? What’s eating him?’

  Heck slowly nodded. ‘He’s all mixed up down there in his fancy parlour. It seems that some critter wrote him a letter asking him to have three graves dug, up on Boot Hill. Paid him fifty bucks to do it.’

  The marshal frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Who wrote him, Heck?’ he enquired.

  Heck raised his hands and gave a fruitless gesture.

  ‘I don’t know, Matthew,’ he sighed. ‘Sam don’t know either.’

  ‘Has Sam dug the graves?’ Fallen stood up, moved round his desk and plucked his Stetson off the hat stand. He flattened his dark hair and then put the hat on as he moved to the door and stared up at the darkening sky.

  Heck adjusted his oversized boots, then dropped down from the edge of the desk and trailed the tall lawman to the wide open door.

  ‘Sam got two of his boys to dig the holes yesterday, Matt,’ he said as he chewed his bottom lip. ‘The thing is, he’s plumb scared. He’s troubled that he’s dug three graves and there ain’t anybody to put in the damn things.’

  The tall lawman looked down from under the brim of his hat at the far shorter man. He patted Heck on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m obliged that you come and told me about that, Heck,’ he said as he continued to study Front Street. ‘That is kinda unnerving for the old coot, but there ain’t nothing I can do about it.’

  Heck winked at Fallen. ‘There surely is something you can do, Matthew. You being a law officer, you can investigate.’

  ‘Investigate what exactly?’ Fallen sighed as he tucked his thumbs into his belt.

  ‘The grave holes,’ Heck suggested with a smile.

  Fallen raised an eyebrow as he looked down at his friend.

  ‘You want me to go take a look at three holes up on Boot Hill, Heck? Are you serious?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t have to go up there yourself, Matt boy,’ Heck gave a toothy smile. ‘I could go up there and see if anyone shows up.’

  The marshal was prepared to agree to anything to get rid of the man with more jobs than anyone else in War Smoke. He rubbed his jaw.

  ‘You just might have something there, Heck,’ Fallen said.

  ‘So do you want me to head on up to Boot Hill and keep a lookout around them graves for you, Matt?’ Heck asked. ‘The varmint that ordered them holes dug might show up. I bet it’s someone we know. What do you reckon?’

  ‘You might be right, Heck,’ Matt Fallen nodded in acquiescence to his persistent friend. ‘Somebody up to no good might have had them graves dug, and he could decide to go and check that Sam has followed his instructions. That could be mighty useful. Yep, you can act as my eyes and ears up at the graveyard.’

  Heck Longfellow suddenly beamed with pride and excitement, and clapped his hands together like a child.

  ‘You want me to be like a special deputy?’ Heck patted his gun as the holster slid along the well-worn belt until it was hanging like a Scotsman’s sporran between his legs. ‘A real rootin’ tootin’ special deputy?’

  Fallen knew that there was nothing that the scruffy man desired more than being a deputy. He chuckled and then cleared his throat. He nodded firmly.

  ‘Go grab a tin star out of my desk drawer and pin it on, you old galoot,’ he drawled. ‘I’ll pay you fifty cents to keep a lookout for trouble tonight. I reckon there ain’t anyone around here that knows them woods around Boot Hill better than you do.’

  Heck clapped his hands together. He knew exactly where the lawman kept his tin stars, and had one pinned to his baggy vest within seconds. He strode back to the marshal and gave a nod of his head, and then saluted with his left hand.

  ‘You won’t regret this, Matthew,’ he declared, as he polished the star with his bandanna tails. ‘I ain’t lost none of my cunning. I’m still the best there is when it comes to looking out for bad folks.’

  ‘I know there ain’t no better, Heck,’ Fallen said.

  ‘Whoever that horn-toad is, I’ll ferret him out,’ Heck said with narrowed eyes.

  Fallen closed the office door. The towering frame of the lawman stood on the boardwalk, and watched as Heck scurried toward his saddled mule outside the Longhorn saloon. Fallen shook his head and then locked his office.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ he muttered, dropping the key into his vest pocket. ‘I’d best go get me a cup of real coffee in the café and wait for Elmer so we can do our rounds.’

  As he turned back and stepped down on to the sandy street he observed his newly appointed deputy riding his mule towards Boot Hill. With every stride of his long legs, the marshal thought about what Heck had told him. The more he considered the few facts he knew, the more intrigued he became. Why would anyone want three fresh graves dug? Who was the mysterious writer of the letter? Did he live in War Smoke, or was he somewhere else?

  Fallen was filled with questions – questions to which he had no answers. And the more he thought about it, the less clear it became. They say that curiosity killed the cat, but there were times when it was impossible to ignore curious things, and this was one of those times.

  He was about to place his pointed boot on the boardwalk outside the café when he paused and glanced over his muscular shoulder at the funeral parlour on the opposite corner of Front Street. It was indeed a strange story, and one that intrigued the tall lawman – and there were few things that Fallen hated more than unsolved puzzles. He knew it would keep gnawing at his craw until he got to the bottom of it. He scratched his chin, and then swung round and proceeded towards the bald old man seated outside the highly elaborate windows, still reading the puzzling letter.

  Elmer suddenly appeared and sprinted to the side of the lawman.

  ‘Where we going, Marshal Fallen?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to have me a chin
wag with old Sam,’ he said firmly; then looking down at his still unarmed deputy, said ‘And you’re going to the office to get a scattergun.’

  ‘Why do I need me a scattergun for?’ Elmer asked fearfully. Fallen narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Because you forgot your six-gun again,’ he said firmly, ‘That’s why.’ Elmer was about to say something else when he felt the marshal’s large hand clip him behind his ear. He halted his progress and whined ‘What you do that for, Marshal Fallen?’ as he vigorously rubbed the back of his head. Fallen grinned at his hapless deputy.

  ‘I’ll tell you later, Elmer,’ he said, as he continued on towards the funeral parlour. ‘I ain’t had time to think of a reason yet.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sprawling township of War Smoke was eerily quiet as it turned midnight. The countless saloons and gambling houses were still busy, as were the various dwellings of ill repute that were scattered around the moonlit settlement. Trade was ticking along at its usual pace as Marshal Matt Fallen and his deputy Elmer Hook turned into Front Street and walked back to their office set halfway along the wide thoroughfare.

  As the six-and-a-half-foot tall marshal strode purposely through the lantern light and shadows, Elmer shuffled nervously beside him, toting a scattergun across his lean belly. Fallen was tired and looking forward to a few hours shuteye on a cot inside one of his empty jail cells, while Elmer thought about a tall glass or two of suds, drooling in anticipation.

  ‘It sure is darn peaceful tonight, Marshal Fallen,’ he noted as they crossed a side street and then continued their walk. ‘Makes a man thirsty.’

  Fallen glanced down at his much shorter companion and smiled as he adjusted his hat. ‘What does, Elmer?’