Crow Bait

Twelve

Andy Black took Lancaster to a steak house a few streets away and ordered two steak dinners with everything.

“Eat up,” he said. “Your horse isn’t the only one who needs to eat.”

“I was only in the desert for a couple of days,” Lancaster said. “I was beaten, but not starved.”

“And you were at the Castle place for a few days,” Andy said. “I bet you lost a little weight.”

“Kimmie Castle is a great cook,” Lancaster said. “I don’t think so.”

“Kimmie Castle,” Andy said. “Haven’t seen her in a long time. Still pretty?”

“Very.”

“And her brothers?”

“Not so pretty. Zack wasn’t happy that she was nursing me back to health.”

“Zack’s never happy,” Andy said. “They in town?”

“They all brought me here.”

“All of them? Her, too?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s an event.”

The waiter brought the steak dinners and they each dug in. Andy ate as ravenously as Lancaster did.

Halfway through Andy said, “How’s your memory?”

Lancaster frowned. “Three men rode me down. Shot my horse. Before I knew it, they were on me, putting the boots to me. I went in and out of consciousness. Whenever I came to they knocked me out again.”

“See anything? Faces?”

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

“Boots,” Lancaster said. “And I heard voices.”

“Saying?”

Lancaster frowned again. “I think I heard one saying they should kill me, and another saying…”

“What?”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“What plan?”

“I don’t know that,” Lancaster said.

“So they were paid to ambush you and leave you in the desert to die?”

“That’s how it sounded,” Lancaster said.

“So,” Andy said, “all you need is to think of who wants you dead that badly.”

“That much I can remember.”

“Good. Who?”

Lancaster took a bite of potato and said, “Lots of people.”

After supper Andy Black went home to a small house he had on the edge of town. No wife. He was married to his job. He didn’t gamble, didn’t drink excessively. And he liked his time alone.

Lancaster decided to go and see the local sheriff. Maybe if he talked out his attack with the law, one of them would come up with something.

He found the sheriff’s office and entered without knocking because the door was unlocked. The room was odd, L-shaped, with a desk to his right. At the end of the shorter stretch of the room was a door to the cell blocks. The man seated behind the desk looked up at him with interest.

“Help ya?” he asked.

“Sheriff?”

“That’s right.” The man straightened in his chair, bringing the badge pinned to his chest into view. “Sheriff Harlan Race.”

“My name’s Lancaster. I just came to town today. I was supposed to be doing a job for Wells Fargo, but I got waylaid in the desert on the way here and left for dead.”

The sheriff pointed to the chair opposite him and said, “Have a seat and tell me about it.”

Lancaster sat down and started talking.

“Three men, you said?” the sheriff asked when Lancaster finished.

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t see their faces?”

“Not that I can remember,” Lancaster said. “The doc says my memory of the incident should come back, and maybe it is, but it’s still got…holes.”

“So you might’ve seen their faces and don’t remember?” the sheriff asked.

“No,” Lancaster said. “I don’t think I ever saw their faces clearly.”

“What did you see?”

“Boots,” Lancaster said. “Mostly boots.”

“Anythin’ about them you can remember?”

Lancaster thought for a moment, tried to bring back into focus the boots that were inflicting pain on him.

“What?” the sheriff asked. “What’s that look?”

“Something…” Lancaster said. “Something about the boots.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The stitching, maybe?”

“Somethin’…distinctive?”

“Maybe,” Lancaster said. “I’m not sure.”

Suddenly, he had a brutal headache.

“You okay?” the sheriff asked.

“Headache. I’ll be okay. Were there any strangers in town last week?”

“A few,” Race said. “I didn’t see three together, though.”

“Maybe they stayed away from each other,” Lancaster said, “didn’t want to be seen together.”

“Maybe,” Race said. “Let me think about it. Where are you stayin’?”

“The Laughlin House.”

“Okay, if I think of anything I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Lancaster,” the sheriff said as he started to leave.

“Yes?”

“Are you plannin’ on hunting for these men?”

“That’s the general idea,” Lancaster said. “If I can somehow figure out who they are—or, at least, who one of them is.”

“From their boots?”

“From something,” Lancaster said. “Anything.”

“A man’s boots, that’s not much to base killing him on.”

“Hopefully,” Lancaster said, “I’ll have more to go on.”