The Only Man I Can Trust

Chapter 3

Great Bend was about eighty miles from Dodge. Matt had confidence that the big buckskin he rode could do the trip in two days if he got started early enough. Dillon rode well into the night on that first day, before stopping to make camp by a small creek. After taking care of his horse he spread his saddle blanket on the ground and settled in for a few hours' rest. He knew he wouldn't really sleep. Six years wearing the badge had taught him that it was never safe to close both eyes, even for a short while, when he was out on the trail. He had too many enemies out there.

Next morning, he packed up his bedroll, scattered the now cold ashes from the fire, then before mounting up and heading out, removed his badge and pushed it deep into his vest pocket. It was a tight fit and would be safe there. He figured he had a better chance of finding out what had happened to his friend John Hicks, if he went into town as a drifter or a cowboy looking for work. Many people despised the rule of law here on the frontier and, as a United States Marshal riding into town, he would get no help from anyone.

It was late afternoon when, at last, he saw the buildings of the town of Great Bend in the distance. Encouraging his mount to move forward at a brisk trot, it wasn't long before he stopped at a livery stable on the edge of town. He had never used this particular stable before. He doubted that anyone in town would recognize him anyway. It must be more than four years since he had last been here, but he knew that stable owners often had a long memory for horses, especially large buckskins. He gave a few brief instructions on the care of his mount then took his saddle bag, rifle, and canteen with him to go find a room at a boarding house just two buildings away. He found a small, fairly clean room where no one would notice him. It wasn't fancy, but would serve his needs well.

Having cleaned most of the trail dust from his clothes, he decided not to shave. A little dirt and a scruffy beard on his face would help him to blend in as a drifter. Like Dodge, this town had numerous saloons and bars. Selecting an establishment he hadn't visited before, he entered and walked up to the bar to order a beer. The barkeep was surly and not willing to start a conversation so he took his beer to an empty table. The place hardly warranted being called a saloon. The tables and chairs looked like they had been roughly repaired on too many occasions. The floor hadn't been mopped in a long time and he didn't have to look too hard to find stains that were probably dried blood. From the number of bullet holes in the walls, he figured that gunfights had been a regular occurrence here. There were three tables with poker games in progress, and in the back corner, a larger table with a roulette wheel. He hardly sat down before one man at a poker table stood up sharply, pulling a gun and yelling at the dealer, accusing him of cheating. Matt knew he couldn't do anything about it, although his instinct was to try to stop a killing. It was all he could do to look the other way. In a moment, two men appeared. Both looked like hired guns. They quickly grabbed the man and between them hauled him from the table and pushed him out the door into the street. He feared for the man's safety, but he had a job to do so couldn't get involved. It wasn't long before a hardened looking saloon girl came to join him. Girl was probably a compliment. This particular woman had probably been working in saloons for longer than he had been wearing a star.

"You want some company?" she asked as she laid a hand on his shoulder. She smelled like the bar itself - stale whisky, human sweat, and cheap cigars. Her dress was torn at one shoulder, revealing even more of her anatomy than the low cut bodice intended. Around her neck, a string of cheap glass beads did little to improve her appearance.

Dillon knew from experience that bars were often as good a source for information as they were for alcohol so, trying to play his part, he asked her if she'd like a beer. Of course, she said she'd prefer whisky. If she could tell him anything at all, the price of the liquor might be a worthwhile investment. He pulled a chair out from the table for her, and signaled to the barkeep to bring her a drink.

"Does that happen often?" he asked her, referring to the recent commotion at the nearby poker table.

"Oh yes, quite often." She smiled, only to reveal at least one missing tooth as she rubbed against his arm. "But we don't need to worry about that. Trent Carp's men will take care of any trouble."

"Is Carp the sheriff here?" he asked innocently, "Last time I was here, John Hicks was the law."

She hesitated for a moment, then changed the subject. "My name's Fleur. It's French for flower. Do you have a name?"

He thought for a moment. In some ways, he felt sorry for Fleur, or whatever her real name was. She had probably been a pretty girl a decade or so ago, but now she was definitely on the decline. From the way she had avoided answering his question, he thought she knew something. Maybe she could be useful to him.

"It's Matt," he answered.

"What are you doing here? Are you just passing through?"

"Pretty much. Thought I might find some work."

"Do you have a place to stay?" She smiled and batted her over-painted eye lids.

"I hadn't really thought about that," he lied.

"I have a room down the street a ways. Maybe we could get together after I finish work here."

He tried to act as if he was interested. "Maybe you should show me."

Several hours later Dillon waited outside the back door of the saloon for Fleur to appear. He had no intention of availing himself of this woman's services, but still had the feeling that she might be able to tell him more about Trent Carp.

She led him to a small one-room shack in what was almost certainly the wrong end of town. The inside, if possible, looked even worse than the outside. If this was the place where Fleur brought the men who paid for her professional services, she was probably not making much money.

He sat at the only table while she threw a log in the stove and brought two mugs from a cracked bowl that served as a sink. They were not particularly clean, but she filled them with what was probably straight corn liquor poured from a stone jug.

"Sorry I don't have anything better to offer you. Tell me what you want to do and I'll tell you how much it'll cost."

She had come up behind him and begun to massage his neck and shoulders. Kitty had done that a time or two after he had had a long, hard ride and it helped relax him and ease the stiffness in his muscles. But this felt all wrong. He spun around, a little too abruptly. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but was not liking that much physical contact.

"I just want to talk," he said pulling some money from his pocket and putting it on the table.

She stared at him for a moment. "Nobody comes here to talk," she said, reluctantly removing her hands from his muscled shoulders.

"I really came here to visit with John Hicks, and now I hear he's dead. I want to know what happened," he explained.

She stared at him for a moment. She looked almost frightened. "I don't know anything." Her reply was too fast; Matt knew she was lying. He put a few more dollars on the table.

"He was a really good friend of mine, and I'm going to find out what happened to him from someone. You might as well get paid for the information as anyone else."

She paced the floor, wringing her hands, then moved an old sack cloth hanging over a window so she could look outside.

"They'll kill me if I tell you anything. No one is supposed to talk about what happened. Carp has men everywhere."

Dillon didn't want to tell her who he was, or promise to protect her from Carp, but he wanted to know what happened. She came back to the table and looked at the money he had placed there. It was a lot more than she would earn at that seedy saloon in a whole week.

"You sure that all you wanna do is talk?" she asked again. "I could give you a really good time for all that money."

"All I'm looking for is information."

She paced the floor a few more times, then picked up one of the mugs of corn liquor and chugged it back in one swallow. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and took a big breath. Matt waited while she sat herself in the other chair, and stared around the room as if waiting for someone to jump out from a dark corner. Eventually she began.

"About six months ago, a gambler named Tad Holcombe came to town. I was working at The Painted Lady at the time. It was the fanciest place in town." She said that as if she was proud of the fact. "Holcombe started a Faro table but there were many complaints that he was cheating. You know how men are, they'd keep playing anyway because sometimes one of them would win." She had been staring at her now empty mug, but lifted her head to look at him. "Eventually your friend Hicks decided it was time to close it down and threw Holcombe out of town, but Holcombe retuned and brought Carp and some of his friends with him. Next thing I knew, Hicks and his deputy were found dead in an alley. Holcombe had a whole new game going, and several more like him arrived in town." She got up from the table and paced the floor anxiously for a minute or two before continuing. "Pretty soon the Painted Lady became the Aces High, and roulette wheels, crap tables, and high stakes poker games were moved in. Carp didn't want a lot of saloon girls in there taking money from the customers, so I moved over to that place you met me in tonight. Now, I expect you noticed, there are card tables in every saloon and I think they are all crooked. Carp and his men take a big share of the profits and anyone who objects gets thrown out of town, or killed. Most of the other businesses run normally, but I think Carp gets a cut from those too, I know he does from me. I hear he has several of the local homesteaders so scared that they pay him a cut of anything they make. Some of the larger ranches around are left alone - I think Carp is probably scared of facing someone who has fifteen or twenty hired hands to back him up. I also heard that a stage was robbed, after the bank here tried to send a big cash box to Wichita, but I don't know for sure. People are scared to talk much about it." She stopped for a moment, looking at him with pleading eyes, "I think I have already said too much." She sank back into the chair, propping her arms on the table and sinking her face into her hands as if in despair.

He pushed the money across the table to her.

"One more thing. Tell me about this Tad Holcombe."

"What's to tell? He's a gambler. Smooth talking, fancy dresser, carries a small pistol in an inside pocket. Rumor has it he has a brother who he bought out of prison, I think he will be here soon."

Matt was thinking back to two years ago. He had arrested a man by the name of Spike Holcombe who had robbed a bank in Pueblo. The man had been tried and sentenced to fifteen years' hard labor. All the while Holcombe had been in the jail, he threatened that his brother would find a way to set him free, and then he'd come back and kill Dillon. It could just be coincidence, but he didn't believe too much in coincidence. Spike Holcombe had been as handy with a deck of cards as a gunslinger was with a pistol. He carried one with him everywhere he went, and even in the jail he would play solitaire or shuffle the deck constantly until it nearly drove Chester to distraction.

He picked up his hat and put it on his head.

"Thanks for your help, Fleur. I'll leave you in peace now. It might be wise not to mention our talk tonight to anyone else."

"Wait!" She had jumped up and gone to stand by the door, "Are you sure you don't want anything else?" She had thought to herself earlier how this man was very different to the usual drunken rabble that came to the Red Slipper where she now worked. There was something almost decent about him, and she would like to get to know him better.

"I'm sure," he said putting his hat firmly on his head.

She opened the door and looked outside. Everything seemed quiet and no one was about. She signaled for him to come on.

As Matt stepped out into the darkness he had a strange feeling. Somehow he felt sorry for the woman he had just left, but he also felt uneasy. If the gambler she talked about was connected to the Spike Holcombe he knew, this could turn out to be a bad situation.

Fleur stood watching him leave until his shadow got absorbed into the darkness, then she turned to go back inside the shack that served as her home and place of business. She was thinking how at one time she had had something much nicer. It had been clean, and fancy curtains had hung at the windows. Her dresses had been pretty, and she didn't have to wear this fake jewelry. She was trying to close the door and lock it for the night, but something was in the way. She looked down and a boot was preventing it from closing. The next thing she knew the door flew open and hit her in the face, and a strong arm was around her neck, trying to choke the life out of her.

TBC