Chapter 3 – A Tale Well Told

Sleeping was easier said than done. It was long after he'd gotten in bed before he fell asleep – and, as usual, morning came much too early. After washing his face he got dressed, this time in his traveling clothes, and went downstairs to try and drink a pot of coffee before Bess Dupree arrived. He was only on his third cup when she appeared in the doorway of the dining room, and he rose to escort her to the table.

"Good morning," she told him, and then reconsidered. "Not a good morning?"

"Morning's fine," he answered. "Last night was the problem."

"Oh, dear, I hope I wasn't the cause of your sleeplessness."

Her voice was so sincere that he almost believed her. What was it about this woman that kept him off balance? "Too much on my mind, I guess."

"Have you eaten yet?"

"No, ma'am, just drinkin' as much coffee as I could until you got here."

She nodded and smiled. "Good. Let's order. I'm starved!"

Just as they were finishing their meal, the town sheriff showed up and made his way to their table. He tipped his hat. "Bess, I see you got what you were after."

"I usually do, don't I, Pete? Pete Trainer, this is Bart Maverick. Bart, our sheriff. Pete might be able to provide you with information that I can't."

"Sheriff. I assume I can find you at the jail if I have questions?"

"That's where I'll be unless I get called away by those Ferris boys again."

Bess offered Bart an explanation. "The Ferris boys are the local hoodlums. There's three of them, and they're always making trouble about one thing or another. Their father's ranch is about ten miles from here."

"Right inside the county line. If I could just move 'em over about twenty feet . . . . . Well, that ain't gonna happen anytime soon. Good luck, Maverick. Dalton ain't gonna be easy to bring in."

"I've already had him slip through my fingers once, sheriff. Some time ago. Once is enough."

"Then you know what yer dealin' with. You folks have a good day. Bess. Maverick."

"Seems alright."

The woman nodded. "Sheriff Trainer's a good man. A decent man. But he can't follow Dalton everywhere, and that's what's needed. That's where you come in, Bart."

"Let's start at the beginning, Bess. Tell me everything you know about Dalton Dupree. And George Henry."

"Right here?" she asked.

"I got nowhere else to offer but my room," Bart explained. "And I don't think a lady wants to be up in a gentleman's room."

"Won't make a bit of difference. Everybody knows what you're here for anyway."

Bart shrugged his shoulders. "Alright, let's go then."

A few minutes later they were comfortably seated by the open windows in Bart's room. "Now. Let's try this again. Tell me about Dalton."

"Alright. I don't know when my father found out about Dalton, but I was around ten when he first made an appearance in our lives. I came home from school one day and Dalton was there. He was a man by that time, seventeen or eighteen years old, and he just stayed. My mother told me he was my brother, and they never explained anything else. For a while he helped my father with the ranch, then he started getting into trouble with the law – Sheriff Trainer's predecessor. One night he didn't come home, and when he showed up three days later my father threw him out and told him not to come back.

"I was almost twenty the next time I saw him. We'd heard stories about Dalton – always using a different name – and heard the rumors that he was a gun for hire. My mother died right before I turned eighteen and it was just my father and me living at the ranch. Dalton came back one day while I was in town and killed our father. I have no idea why. And then he ran. The sheriff tried to find him, with no luck. And with Hanford gone, everything became my responsibility.

"That's when I hired Jack Ford to run the ranch. And continued to hear stories about Dalton – now using the name George Henry – and the men he'd killed, the people he'd swindled. You among them. And when you showed up in town I felt like it was fate. I thought maybe I could convince you to go after Dalton and bring him in. After all, you had a personal stake in his arrest, too. But you wouldn't even talk to me about pursuing Dalton. So I waited, and here you are."

Bart sat and listened to the story, and never interrupted or asked a question. It was a good story alright. Maybe too good. Something about it all bothered him, and he still couldn't put his finger on it, not exactly. It seemed . . . perfect, pat, blame the bad seed brother for everything wrong . . . but why? If that wasn't the way it happened, why the elaborate story?

"Who was his mother, Bess?"

She shook her head. "I don't know for sure, but father was engaged before he met my mother. The girl broke it off for some reason. All I know is her name was Helene Mazant, and her parents were wealthy. Perhaps it was Helene?"

"Do you know what happened to your father's fiancée?"

"No, I've no idea. Mother told me that when she met father they fell in love almost immediately, and were married within six months. And when they first met he was no longer engaged to Helene."

"Where were they living at the time?"

"In New Orleans. Mother's last name was Baptiste. Gabriela Baptiste. She was born and raised in New Orleans. I have no idea how or why they ended up here in Delmont, but this is where I was born. I don't know about Dalton."

Bart shifted in his chair. "And you have no idea why your brother turned to the gun as a way to make a livin'?"

"Half-brother, Bart. Let's be very clear about that. Dalton is my half-brother."

That was definitely a sore point for Bess. "Sorry. Half-brother."

"No, I don't know. He used to practice out back for hours at a time. He got real good at it; after he started getting into trouble it seemed like he didn't want to work anymore. If I asked why he just laughed and said there were lots of ways to make money that didn't require breaking your back. You sounded just like him when we first met."

Bart got up and walked around the room. He pulled out a cigar and turned back to Bess Dupree. "Do you mind?" he asked. She shook her head 'no.' "That's the way I was raised. Pappy is a gambler. My brother Bret is a gambler. My cousin; my uncle. There's easier ways to make a livin' than physical labor. Killin' people ain't one of 'em. Neither is stealin'. Wasn't Dalton in the will? Didn't he inherit anything when Hanford died?"

"No. When Hanford threw him out, Dalton was disinherited. When father died, Dalton got nothing. He knew that." She paused for a moment, mulling something over. "I think he knew that. But I can't be sure."

Bart took a draw on the cigar and sat back down. As he blew the smoke out, he had one last question. "You said you knew exactly where he was two weeks ago. Where was that?"

"He was in Lake Charles, Louisiana. For all I know he might still be there. I heard rumors that he has a wife, and a son, that know nothing about George Henry or the life that George Henry leads. They think Dalton's a cotton broker. That's how he explains being absent for so long."

"If you knew where he was, why didn't you turn him into the law in Louisiana?"

"I tried. In the state of Louisiana, he's a law-abiding citizen. They don't seem interested in what he may have done in any other state."

He smoked the last of the cigar and put it out. "You're sure this is what you wanna spend your money on?"

She nodded vigorously, and there was a look on her face again, this time one of disdain, mixed with disgust and hate. And then, at last, a smile that indicated her certainty in the pursuit of her brother. Her half-brother.

"Absolutely, Mr. Maverick. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. That is precisely what I want to spend my money on."

Bart nodded. He knew exactly where to begin.