Leaving Epitaph: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

69

Shaye rode into Red Cloud on a tired horse. He didn’t even know if he’d ruined the animal, but he’d find that out later. There were other, more important things to worry about.

He encountered the livery as soon as he rode in, and decided not only to leave his horse there, but get his questions answered. The local lawman might take up too much of his time.

“Help ya?” the liveryman asked. He was long and lean, with a spring in his step. He wore sixty years on his frame real well. “Lawman, are ya?”

“That’s right,” Shaye said, “from Texas. Looking for a man. A man with two sets of saddlebags.”

“You talkin’ about Aaron Langer?”

“You know him?”

“I seen him before,” the man said. “Knew somebody’d come lookin’ for him when he rode in.”

“What’s your name?”

“Amos.”

“Do you know where he is, Amos?”

“Everybody in town knows where he is,” the man said. “Over to the saloon.”

“Which one?”

“Ain’t got but one.”

“Got a lawman here?”

“Not much of one,” the man replied. “He’s been hidin’ in his office since Langer arrived.”

“Okay,” Shaye said. “Thanks.”

“You gonna arrest ’im?”

“That’s the plan.”

“He’s been upstairs with Trudy all day,” Amos said. “Havin’ bottles of whiskey sent up, and some food. Guess mebbe they’re wearin’ each other out up there.”

“I’m much obliged for the information, Amos.”

“Just doin’ my part for law and order,” Amos said. “That sumbitch been ridin’ roughshod over these parts for years, ain’t he?”

“That he has.”

“He wanted in Nebraska? I ain’t heard.”

“I don’t know,” Shaye said, “but that doesn’t really matter.”

Amos’s eyebrows went up. “You ain’t gonna arrest him,” the older man said, “yer gonna kill ’im. You got no authority here.”

“Amos,” Shaye said, touching his gun, “I got all the authority I need right here.”

Shaye walked through town and found the only saloon with no trouble. It didn’t even have a name. Folks gave him curious looks as he went, for his stride was purposeful and the look on his face said he meant business.

He entered the saloon and found it about half full. In a town that size, that was about as full as it got.

“What’ll ya ha—” the bartender started to ask him, but Shaye cut him off.

“Which room are they in?”

“Who?”

“Aaron Langer and Trudy.”

The man frowned. “Well, Trudy’s had a fella up there with her the whole day, but I didn’t know—”

“Oh, shut up, Ed,” another man at the bar said. “By now everybody knows that’s Langer.”

“Which room?” Shaye asked again.

“Head of the stairs,” the bartender said. “First room. You gonna kill ’im?”

Shaye turned and headed for the stairs without another word.

“If you kill him, don’t make a mess!” the bartender shouted after him.