The Mortal Alley
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“It’s a little after noon, Mr. Fletcher,” said the housekeeper to him over his shoulder as he was leaving the house. “You can’t be going out so soon.”
He smiled and nodded in response. He’d been at the hotel for only four days but already knew that the woman had no sense of timing whatsoever. And this afternoon was no exception. She’d asked the same question before lunch on Sunday; again Monday morning, and then Tuesday evening when she came around with a tray.
“I’ll go out later,” he assured her. The woman would have been perfectly satisfied if he never left the hotel or went outside until it was time to depart on Sunday. But it made little difference whether he walked down the street or rode his horse because he didn’t plan on being gone very long anyway. It was only an errand—just one more thing that needed doing.
As he reached for the door latch, he paused for just a moment, thinking how much he wished that Mary hadn’t given up her room. She could’ve come with him today. But even though she loved to ride as well as he did, there were other reasons why it wouldn’t work.
The last thing he wanted to do was make trouble for Mary and bring the sheriff’s men searching for him back here. He’d rather die than cause any unnecessary concern among their friends.
After checking to see that the door was locked, he mounted the steps and turned onto Main Street. It wasn’t quite a noon yet but there were already many people out walking around the streets. There weren’t nearly so many as there once had been.
Many businesses had closed down over the years, and most of those now standing on these empty streets belonged to saloons, gambling halls, or houses of ill repute. As a result, the number of customers seemed to have declined significantly.
The town’s reputation was spreading. In some ways, it was almost a blessing: No longer could anyone find refuge in Dodge City. That was something he had never expected to happen but found to be true nonetheless.
There was less activity at the end of the street where the hotel was located, but he still had to pass by two buildings to reach the corner. Both were occupied by a few small businesses: two stores and a butcher shop.
The first store looked like a general mercantile store while the second had a sign reading J. C. Davenport & Sons Butcher Shop. A couple of men who were carrying large slabs of meat between them stopped in front of the building for a quick bite to eat, which they apparently brought from home.
A few blocks farther east, there was a line forming along the sidewalk for the weekly auction sale at the bank. The crowd looked to be mostly men, but there were women mixed in. They were waiting patiently for the auctioneer to begin. This week’s offerings included everything from horses and cattle to wagons, furniture, clothing, saddles, harnesses, and all sorts of farming tools.
When he came within fifty feet of the auction block, a man stepped out to meet him. “Hello, Mr. Fletcher,” said the newcomer. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“How can I help?”
“I need some information,” answered the stranger, looking at him curiously. “I’m sure it will prove useful to you as well. You must come inside and have a drink with me.”
“That sounds good,” agreed Fletcher, nodding his head. “But not yet. Let us talk for just a moment before we do anything else.”
The man frowned but remained silent, which surprised Fletcher because he had never seen him without words pouring out like water from a leaky faucet. “Do you mind if I walk over to your side of the street for a minute? It won’t take long.”
“No,” said the man reluctantly.
Fletcher crossed to the opposite sidewalk, wondering what business it could possibly be that required secrecy. When he reached the other man, he was just able to catch a glimpse of him through the crowd. He seemed familiar somehow. And then it hit him. “Is that Joe McCoy, the marshal?” he asked the man.
The man nodded. “Yes, it is,” he replied.
McCoy had a thick black beard and was dressed in plain clothing. His gun belt appeared to be the only weapon he carried. He didn’t look as intimidating as most men did when armed with guns, especially since he kept his hat pulled low over his forehead.
Still, Fletcher knew firsthand that his appearance belied his strength of character and ability to handle himself in almost any situation. It was obvious that he was a man who could be trusted.
“Are you going to the auction?” he asked the marshal.
McCoy shook his head. “No, I couldn’t afford that this week.”
“You don’t own any livestock?”
“Not yet,” explained McCoy. “I’ve got plans in motion, but I haven’t quite completed my list of requirements. I need another ten thousand dollars. So far, I’ve collected half of what I need but there are still a few things left on the list.”
Fletcher smiled. “Then I’m glad I found you because I may be able to help you.”
“What do you mean?” asked McCoy suspiciously.
“You know how to read? Then let me ask you this,” said Fletcher. “Did you ever hear of a woman named Jennie Adams?”
McCoy frowned but said nothing, which made Fletcher realize that he wasn’t supposed to be talking about her. The marshal had obviously been told by others that there was a bounty hunter looking for her.
There was also no telling whether or not the people in town knew that the killer had killed a man in Denver. He decided he would better serve everyone’s interest if he simply left the marshal alone.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said aloud. “Let’s talk more inside.”
After they entered the saloon, Fletcher took a seat in a vacant chair near the bar. “So tell me what business you’re up to,” said Fletcher, leaning against the counter. “If you want someone put away, I can help you, too, if you’re willing to pay for it.
But it won’t be cheap. My price is double what other bounty hunters charge, and the only reason I work for less than them is that I’m willing to give you my honest opinion of their cases.”
“I think I can afford you,” replied McCoy. “Now, you mentioned an ‘honest opinion’ before I even sat down. What exactly does that mean?”
“Well, you see, I’ve already looked at the case, so it won’t take long to tell you whether or not it’s worth pursuing,” said Fletcher. “I’ll tell you right now: I believe it isn’t. I can only guess that the marshal was sent to arrest her for stealing.”
McCoy laughed bitterly. “You don’t say!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Of course, she stole something! She was a thief before she met me.”
“I meant that in the sense of robbery and murder,” corrected Fletcher. “She robbed men while they were sleeping and killed anyone who stood in her way. Now I’m certain you can find a lot of crimes to put someone away for, but I doubt very much that she murdered any rancher.”
“What makes you so certain?” demanded McCoy, narrowing his eyes. “I mean, after all, she confessed to it. Isn’t that enough to put a woman away for life?”
“Not necessarily,” said Fletcher quietly. “You see, I was in Denver recently. I saw the body of one of the men she robbed, and I also heard that she had a man killed.”
McCoy stared at him blankly. “Why would I kill anyone?”
“Maybe you didn’t kill him, but she certainly did,” replied Fletcher. “He was a gambler who owed her money, and she shot him while he was sitting at the card table.”
McCoy shook his head. “That’s not true. If that had happened, the sheriff would have arrested her.”
“I thought so, too,” replied Fletcher. “But apparently he didn’t. Why? Because he knew what kind of woman you’d married and realized that there was nothing he could do to stop her from committing such acts unless you gave him the authority to lock her away for good.”
The marshal frowned. “I never told anyone what she could do or not do!”
Fletcher nodded. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. You probably just assumed that everyone knew. After all, you were living with a criminal so why wouldn’t everybody else in the community have known?”
“But I’ve got proof she confessed to everything,” said McCoy defensively. “She did rob and kill those two men.”
Fletcher held out his hands palms-up. “You don’t seem to understand. It doesn’t matter what your wife confessed to; I’m the one who’s going to look at the evidence first, then decide whether or not to pursue the charges.”
“What if you decide it’s a waste of time?” asked McCoy. “Or what if you decide you don’t want to take the case?”
Fletcher laughed. “If I didn’t want to work for you, I wouldn’t take the job.”
“Then we’re wasting each other’s time,” said McCoy angrily. He reached for his whiskey glass, but Fletcher waved his hand to keep McCoy from filling it. “Look, I want my money back. Give me back what you charged me, and I’ll go back home without a fuss.”
“How much did you pay me?” asked Fletcher.
McCoy shrugged. “A hundred dollars.”
“And how much is my fee?”
“Double that, plus expenses,” replied McCoy. “I paid for my own hotel room last night, so I figure you should pay for mine tonight.”
Fletcher shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that wasn’t part of the contract. You agreed to pay me for helping you, and that’s what I’m going to do, but it won’t come out of your account.”
McCoy looked as though he wanted to argue, but instead, he threw his whiskey glass on the counter and stormed out of the saloon. The bartender watched McCoy leave and then turned to Fletcher.
“You know, I’ve heard of some really strange customers who came here over the years,” said the bartender. “But he takes the cake. Why I don’t know what you said, but he seemed like a reasonable man most of the evening. Maybe you should talk to the marshal.”
“I will,” said Fletcher. “In fact, I may ask you to help me out, too. I’ll tell you more about it later, but let me give you this advice: Don’t be so quick to judge him. Sometimes we tend to lump criminals together because we assume all of them are alike.”
***
Fletcher went into the saloon alone, wondering if McCoy had already found himself another lawyer who was willing to take his case. But the bartender was still watching McCoy as he left. Then the marshal walked toward the door, glanced at Fletcher, and then headed for the stairs to the second floor.
Fletcher waited until McCoy passed through the swinging doors leading upstairs and then followed him up. The marshal stepped out onto the balcony and stopped, staring down at the street below. A few people were walking by on Main Street and talking among themselves.
After a minute, McCoy started down the steps. Fletcher went around to the front door, locked it, then followed him.
McCoy led the way back across the street and into the bank building. Fletcher paused in the doorway and studied the marshal carefully. McCoy seemed tense, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he felt under constant watch. His face was grim, and he appeared distracted, even irritated with everything. He looked tired—worn out, almost.
Fletcher took a step inside the lobby, then stopped. The interior looked exactly the same as the day before. No dust on the wood floors or on the furniture. The marble walls glistened. Everything looked immaculate; the only signs of wear were scratches and dents on the chairs and desks.
“This place isn’t so bad,” remarked McCoy.
Fletcher shrugged. “It certainly suits your needs. Your wife seems to be an organized woman, and I doubt that you’d find her anywhere else. Besides, if you ever did have any trouble getting here, she has a private entrance to your office. How’s that for security?”
“You’ve got me there,” said McCoy.
There was no point in arguing with the marshal; it would do little good to remind him of his wife’s abilities, especially when McCoy couldn’t see how important they were to the success of his business. Fletcher sighed.
This was a job that he was unlikely to complete. He had no desire to get involved with the marshal’s personal affairs, and judging by his demeanor, McCoy didn’t feel much like sharing. But Fletcher had no choice, not unless he wanted to spend every waking hour searching for his wife. “Well, let’s go into the office.”
They crossed to the rear of the bank, which opened into a large, high-ceilinged room filled with bookshelves on both sides. The shelves were lined with bound volumes dating back to the early 1800s. It seemed strange to think that such old, outdated materials could hold any clues about his missing wife. “Why do you keep those? What are they for?”
McCoy stopped short as if surprised by Fletcher’s question. “The law library,” he finally said. “My law practice keeps growing, so I keep adding to it. There must be thousands of volumes in here.”
“What kind of cases do you handle?” asked Fletcher.
“I specialize in criminal defense,” said McCoy, “but I dabble in civil law too.”
McCoy pulled open the wooden desk and sat down behind it, then motioned for Fletcher to join him. “Let me show you the safe first.” He pushed a button, and an ornate metal safe rolled forward on two brass rails. “That’s where I keep my valuables.”
“Your wife has a key,” said Fletcher, “and she’s the one who opens it. She’s always been very protective of the contents.”
McCoy smiled as he unlocked the door and reached inside, then turned a dial on top of the safe. Fletcher watched closely to see what McCoy would pull out. The marshal took an envelope out of his pocket and slid it across the desk. “Read this, then leave me alone,” he said. “It’s time to talk to the marshal again.”
Fletcher unfolded the paper, his heart pounding as he skimmed the contents. A single sheet of typed stationery, written in clear, crisp handwriting. “Mrs. Molly McCoy is dead,” read Fletcher aloud.
McCoy looked up sharply. “You haven’t seen this before?”
“No. Why do you assume your wife wrote it?”
“I found it stuffed in her purse,” replied McCoy. “She usually leaves it at home when she goes off to work. So, naturally, I wondered why she carried it to her job. I figured something happened to frighten her enough to cause her to write this letter. And it turns out that something did happen.”
“But nothing happened to your wife,” argued Fletcher. “So don’t make up a story about someone murdering her and then burying the body somewhere.”
“I don’t know anything more than you do. I only know that Molly left this note in her purse and never came home.”
Fletcher hesitated, then said, “You’re sure your wife was killed?”
McCoy nodded. “I found her purse beside her bed.” He leaned forward in his chair. “And I know for certain that she wasn’t murdered. Someone shot her through the head.”
Fletcher felt sick; his mouth dried out. “Then you’re right—she probably wrote this letter to cover herself.” Fletcher folded the paper and tucked it away. “Did you ask anyone in town about your wife? Did you speak to the neighbors?”
“Of course not,” said McCoy. “I didn’t want them asking questions. I knew they’d tell somebody, and I didn’t need anyone talking to anyone else. Not until I made some sense of everything. If people knew Molly was dead, they might suspect that someone else is involved in her disappearance. Now I can’t afford to have that rumor circulating around town.”
McCoy had no idea what to think. His wife was gone, but it appeared she hadn’t left him a note because of any suspicions that he might harbor about her murder. Instead, Fletcher thought that the letter was meant for Molly, not him.
After all, if Molly were going to leave a message for her husband, she wouldn’t use words like “murder.” And the letter certainly wasn’t addressed to anyone, so it wasn’t as though McCoy should worry that someone could read his wife’s thoughts.
“I’ll look into it,” said Fletcher, “but you know how it is—people talk. Before we start asking questions, there may be others who will want to hear our answers first. We could have a full-blown scandal on our hands before long, and nobody wants that.”
“I don’t either,” said McCoy. “But if you ask me, I think it would be best to put it all behind us.”
“I’ll keep quiet, but don’t expect me to help with a search,” added Fletcher. “Someone will take care of that.”
“I hope so. But even if they find Molly, how do you figure it’s possible for me to forgive her for leaving me?”
“If she was murdered, why are you still searching for her body?” asked Fletcher.
McCoy shrugged. “It’s part of the investigation.”
“There’s something wrong here,” said Fletcher. “Something doesn’t add up.”
McCoy stood up from his chair. “Let’s stop wasting time and get on with our business, shall we? We’ve got to talk about my wife being found dead.” He walked toward the front door and opened it to see if anyone was standing outside, but the street remained empty. “I’m surprised you were able to find yourself another investigator.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Fletcher, then stopped himself. “I mean, I know that the last person working for you was murdered. But I doubt anyone would kill me unless they wanted to protect your wife and their involvement.”
“I told you I hired a new man. You’re just lucky.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an accountant by day and a detective by night.”
“Sounds like a real catch,” muttered Fletcher, feeling like an outsider again. But that wasn’t what bothered him; instead, Fletcher felt sorry for McCoy. He couldn’t imagine what McCoy must feel now that he lost both his wife and the ability to continue his ranch.
He also knew that McCoy was too proud to let someone else handle his problems. “All right. Let’s talk about my wife being found dead.”
McCoy led the way back to the front room of his house, where he picked up his hat and followed Fletcher out the door. McCoy stepped onto the porch, glanced down the deserted sidewalk, then closed the door and locked it.
The End