Eagles Legacy: The Killing

Chapter Seventeen

Fremont, Nebraska

When Crack Kingsley arrived in Fremont, he told people that his name was Carl Butler, that he worked for the Kansas City Cattle Exchange, and was there to check out the local ranchers and farmers to ascertain for his employer whether or not they had any cattle for sale. He let it be known that he would be hanging out in the OK Saloon and would be willing to talk to any rancher or farmer who cared to come see him.

He was “inter viewing” now.

“So, let me get this straight,” Lloyd Evans was saying. “The Kansas City Cattle Exchange will buy ever’one of my cows, pay top dollar for ’em, an’ all I got to do is drive ’em in here to the railroad? They do the shippin’?”

“That’s right,” Kingsley said.

“Well, hell yes, I’d be willin’ to do that. What you’re sayin’ is I’ll be savin’ money on the shippin’ cost. Sign me up.”

Kingsley laughed and held out his hands. “Don’t be so quick. All I’m doin’ now is what is called makin’ a survey. The company wants to see if there will be enough people interested to actually make it worthwhile.”

“Well, you can definitely sign me up for bein’ interested,” Evans said. “I don’t know how anybody wouldn’t be.”

“Good, I’ll put your name down.”

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where at are you goin’ to put my name down? You ain’t got no book nor paper nor nothin’ like that with you.”

“Oh, I meant before I leave to go back to Kansas City,” Kingsley said.

In the last two days he had interviewed four farmers and two ranchers, promising all of them that the Kansas City Cattle Exchange would not only buy their stock at top dollar per head, but would also arrange and pay for all shipping. While he was waiting for the train on which his target would be riding to arrive, he decided that it might be good to have someone with him, just as a bit of insurance. During his two days, he’d watched the saloon customers as they came and went. On the evening of his first day in Fremont, he had also witnessed an exchange between the deputy town marshal, and a man named Clem Crocker.

“Crocker, where were you last night at about eight o’clock?” the deputy, whose name was Archer, asked.

“Why is it any business of your’n where I was?” Crocker replied.

“Because someone broke into Larry Thrower’s Grocery store and stole twenty-seven dollars.”

“What makes you think it was me?”

“You done it once before, that’s why I think it was you.”

“Iffen I was goin’ to break into another store, do you think I’d be dumb enough to break into the same one twicet? It wasn’t me. I was right here last night, from six o’clock ’til nigh midnight. An’ you can ask anyone here.”

“That’s right Deputy,” the bartender said. “Crocker was here the whole time.”

“Yeah, well,” Archer said. He pointed an accusing finger at Crocker. “You just keep yourself on the straight ’n narrow, Crocker, ’cause I’m goin’ to be keepin’ an eye on you.”

“I ain’t done nothin’, so you can just quit jawin’ on me,” Crocker replied.

Archer hitched up his gun belt, then looked around at the others in the saloon to see if anyone would dispute the story told by Crocker and the bartender, then he turned and left.

Kingsley had done nothing then, but this afternoon, seeing Crocker sitting at a table alone, he took a bottle of whiskey and his glass over to Crocker’s table, then sat down to join him. He refilled Crocker’s glass.

“What’s this for?” Crocker asked. “You’re wastin’ your time with me, Mr. Butler. I ain’t got no cows to sell.”

Kingsley smiled. “That’s all right. My name’s not Butler, it’s Kingsley. Crack Kingsley. And I’m not here to buy any cows.”

“What do you mean? Ain’t that what you been doin’ here these past two days? Talkin’ to folks about buyin’ their hogs ’n cows?”

“Yeah, that’s what I been doin’, but only because that’s what I’m wantin’ folks to think.”

“Then what are you doin’?”

Kingsley pulled out a Long-Nine cigar, though he did not offer one to Crocker. “I’m gettin’ set to make some money,” Kingsley said, as he struck the match. He took several puffs before he continued. “You can too, if you’re interested.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing you ain’t never done before, if the deputy was right yesterday,” Kingsley said, squinting at Crocker through the tobacco smoke.

Crocker held up his hand, palm out, and he shook his head. “I didn’t break into Thrower’s store the other night.”

“Not the other night, but you did do it before, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But I done served six months in jail for that.”

“How much money did you get?”

“Twelve dollars.”

“Was it worth serving six months for twelve dollars?”

“No. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Have you now? Tell me, Crocker, what lesson have you learned? Not to steal again? Or just not to steal such a small amount of money?”

Crocker drank his whiskey before he spoke again.

“What are you gettin’ at?”

“Suppose you was to get a hundred dollars?”

Crocker shook his head. “Ain’t no store in town keeps that much money overnight, except the bank. And I ain’t about to try an’ hold up the bank. Hell, I couldn’t get away with it anyway. Ever’one in town knows me.”

“The job I’m talking about has nothing to do with a local store. Or anyone local, for that matter. And you won’t have to be breaking in. In fact, the only thing you are going to have to do is spot my target, and be my lookout.”

“How am I supposed to spot your target, if it ain’t someone local? Like as not, I won’t have no idea who it is.”

“I’ll tell you how to spot him,” Crocker said.

“And I’ll get a hundred dollars for that? Just for spottin’ the man you’re goin’ to rob, and bein’ a lookout for you?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Yes.”

“All right. You got yourself a deal.”