Dead Man
Darryl Matter
Dead Man
by Darryl Matter
Copyright 2016 by Darryl Matter
Dead Man
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
* * * * *
The year was 1903. It was almost midnight. Two high-stakes poker games were in progress at Sam's Saloon. Tensions ran high as the cards were being played. So intent were the patrons watching those games, that they likely wouldn't have paid any attention to the young man who shoved open the swinging doors and lurched toward the bar--had he not gasped out the startling question, "Is . . . Is the sheriff here? I . . . I need to see him right away."
"What's the trouble, son?" the bartender asked as the young man approached him, then added, "Partner, you look like you've seen a ghost."
"I . . . I wish it . . . wish it had been . . . a . . . a . . . ghost," the young man sputtered.
"Here." The bartender pushed a shot of whiskey across the bar toward the young man. "Now, son, calm down and tell us what you saw that you need to tell the sheriff about."
"Whew! Thanks." The young man's hands were shaking so hard he could hardly hold the glass, but he managed a taste of the whiskey. "I . . . I've got to find the sheriff. You see, I . . . I've just seen a dead man."
"A dead man, eh?" the bartender questioned.
"Yeah, a dead man! It was awful!"
The bar got quiet as people caught what the young man was talking about.
"Where'd you see him, son?"
"About six, maybe seven miles east of here. Down the trail, a piece. I . . . I kinda lost track of the distance." The young man gestured in the direction from which he'd come.
"Six or seven miles out east of here, you say?"
"Yeah. See, I've been ridin' most of the day, tryin' to get here before dark, and out east of here six miles or so there's what looks like an abandoned house. You know where I mean?"
"Yeah, I know where you mean. Is that where you saw the dead man?"
The bar was completely quiet now. Attention was focused on the young man. "Yes. Out there . . . Out there at that abandoned house. That's where I . . . I saw the dead man."
"Calm down now," the bartender admonished, "and tell us exactly where you saw the dead man."
"O . . . Okay. I looked over at that abandoned house. It was getting dark and I was thinkin' about camping for the night and ridin' on in here in the morning, 'cause I really didn't know just how far it was to town. That old house looked like it might be a good place for me to spend the night." The young man drank another drink of whiskey, then continued. "The door was standing wide open, and when I got closer, I could see this man's legs through the doorway. I thought maybe the man needed help, so I rode over to see, but he was sure enough dead. Shot in the chest it looked like to me. There was blood all over his shirt."
The bartender turned toward the kitchen. "Come out here, Johnny," he called.
Moments later, a young man who was working in the kitchen came out. "Whatcha need, boss?" he asked.
"Run over and get the sheriff," the bartender told him. "Got a feller here who needs to talk to him."
Johnny immediately started for the door and the bartender turned his attention back to the newcomer. "What did this dead guy look like?" he asked.
"I . . . I . . . I didn't . . . I didn't take much time lookin' at him, it scared me so, seein' all that blood an' all. It was gettin' real dark, too, even though the moon was mostly out. So, I . . . I covered him with my jacket 'cause I couldn't look at him. Anyway, I'll tell you somethin' that was mighty strange."
"Yeah? What's that?" the bartender inquired.
People were crowding around the young man now, eager to hear about what he'd seen--especially what had seemed mighty strange to him.
"Well," the young man continued, "he must not have died right away after he was shot 'cause there was an envelope or a piece of paper of some sort stickin' out from, well, it was clenched in his hand, and there was pencil writin' on that paper. I . . . I didn't look to see exactly what it was, 'cause I can't read, but I wondered if the man might have named his killer 'fore he died."
* * * * *
Nobody in the crowded saloon noticed as two men, Frank Thomas and Joe Cornwell, slipped quietly out the back door and into the alley.
"We gotta get that paper," Thomas growled.
"Yeah," echoed Cornwell, "We gotta get it before the sheriff gets out there. Who'd a thought that guy woulda known our names."
"Yeah, we gotta get that paper, but the sheriff ain't likely to go out there before morning," Thomas whispered, "and by then we'll have that paper and be on a roundabout way back here."
The two men then set off at a run for the livery barn where their horses were stabled. Once their horses were saddled, they set off for that abandoned house east of town where the young man had found the dead man. With any luck, they'd get that paper away from him and be back into town before anyone knew they were gone.
* * * * *
Sheriff Jack Riley arrived at Sam's Saloon a little later that night. He listened patiently as Tim Acker, for that was the young man's name, retold his story about finding the dead man with the paper clenched in his hand.
"Do you have a place where you're staying here tonight?" the sheriff asked, once Acker finished his story.
"No, sir. I've been campin' out, sleepin' out under the stars," Acker replied, then added, "I'm lookin' for work. Hope to get a job on a ranch just as soon as I can."
"Come with me, then," the sheriff invited the young man. "You can sleep in the jail, and we'll get a few hours rest before we start out to that abandoned house. We'll try to get there about the time the sun's comin' up."
* * * * *
Once Sheriff Riley and Tim Acker were outside and well away from the saloon, the sheriff turned to the young man. "We're not going to wait until morning to ride out there," he said. "We're going to get ready and ride out right now."
"Now?" Acker questioned.
"Yeah," the sheriff replied. "The moon will give us enough light to see the trail 'till it starts to get light."
"You . . . You want me to go along?" Acker asked.
"Yeah."
"My horse is awfully tired," Acker said, shaking his head. "I've been riding him all day. Several days, actually."
"I'll get a fresh horse for you," the sheriff replied. "Now, let's you 'n' me get going."
"You don't want to get a little sleep before we leave?"
"Nope."
Sheriff Riley and Tim Acker hurried to the livery barn. There, Acker left his horse with the liveryman, and the sheriff got him another mount. Acker saddled up while the sheriff saddled his horse. Then they were on their way, headed out east out of town toward the abandoned house where Acker had found the dead man several hours before.
A couple of miles down the trail, the sheriff reined in his horse and rode in close to his young companion. "You and me are going to be right cautious from here on," the sheriff told Acker.
Tim Acker cringed. "You think there's gonna be trouble?" he asked.
"Don't know, but we're going to be ready if there is." The sheriff retrieved his carbine from it's scabbard and placed it across his saddle.
"What . . . What are we gettin' into?" Acker asked.
"Remember how you told that crowd at the saloon about the paper you saw in the dead man's hand? The one with writin' on it?"
"Yeah?"
"Suppose the killer was in that saloon. Don't you think he might just like to get out there ahead of us and get that paper, just in case it did name him or say somethin' that might lead me to him?" the sheriff replied. "Come on, now. Let's go. Just be cautious and keep
an eye out, just in case the killer might try to ambush you 'n' me."
* * * * *
Frank Thomas and Joe Cornwell headed straight down the trail toward that abandoned house. Neither man said a word. Both men knew that getting that paper from the dead man's hand was top priority.
The eastern sky was beginning to lighten as the two men paused on a little rise above that abandoned house where they'd left Matt Shipley--dead or dying. A quick glance around the area and over their shoulders assured them they were alone. "Let's get that paper," Thomas growled, "an' then we'll get outta here." Moments later, they rode directly toward the abandoned house, where they could see Shipley's legs in the doorway.
* * * * *
Matt Shipley lay in the doorway of that abandoned house and watched the trail that led into town six or seven miles away. He was dying, and he knew that, was almost dead as a matter of fact, but he hoped that he'd stay alert just a little longer. Hoped his killers would come looking for him. Looking for that paper in his hand.
The young man who'd stopped by had made him more comfortable by rolling up his jacket and placing it under his head. Then he'd covered him with his own jacket to help him keep warm as the night grew colder. Gave him a drink from his canteen, too. There wasn't much else he could have done.
* * * * *
Frank Thomas dismounted from his horse and looked through the doorway. Matt Shipley was there, all right, just a few feet from where they'd left him. He must have been able to crawl part way into that old house. The kid who'd been in Sam's Saloon must have covered him with a jacket like he'd said, but his left hand was sticking out--and in that hand was a crumpled piece of paper.
Joe Cornwell sat on his horse and looked cautiously around the countryside as Thomas made his way toward the dead man. "Ain't nobody around, pard," he called to Thomas. Thomas nodded. "Good," he replied.
Just as Thomas bent over Shipley and reached for the paper in his hand, he saw movement under the jacket. Then the jacket fell away from the man's arm and Thomas was looking directly down the barrel of Shipley's .45 Colt revolver.
Thomas cursed as he lurched back and went for his own gun. Too late.
BANG!
The big gun in Shipley's right hand roared, and Frank Thomas staggered backward, a bullet in his head, dead before he hit the ground.
BANG!
The big Colt roared again, and Joe Cornwell toppled from his horse as a slug tore through his chest. He, too, was dead before he hit the ground.
Matt Shipley pushed his hat back and managed to lift himself up enough to see that both Thomas and Cornwell were dead. Then he dropped back to the floor of the old house where he'd taken shelter--dead.
* * * * *
Sheriff Jack Riley and Tim Acker heard the shots while they were some distance away. They paused on the slight rise a little distance from the house and looked around at the scene. Saw the two dead men just outside that abandoned house. That was when the sheriff turned to Acker. "Did he put you up to taking that message about the paper in his hand into town?" he asked.
"Yep. You see, I couldn't really do anything to save his life, but I made him as comfortable as I could, and gave him a drink from my canteen." The young man grinned. "And I could take a message into town for him--and I did."
"I thought maybe something like that was going on," the sheriff replied. "Thanks to you, it looks like justice got served."
The sheriff and Acker rode down to the abandoned house then, keeping a watchful eye out to be sure there weren't any more killers around. "You stay mounted, and keep an eye out for trouble," Sheriff Riley told his young companion. Then the sheriff dismounted. He checked to determine that all three men were dead, then retrieved Acker's jacket, and handed it up to him.
"Now, let's see that paper," the sheriff said. He bent over and took the paper from Matt Shipley's cold hand, looked at it, and then smiled. "It's blank, kid," he told Acker.
"Yep, I know it is," Acker replied. "I put it in his hand. He told me to ask for you at Sam's Saloon, and to tell everyone about that paper. You see, he didn't know the names of the men who'd shot him, but we both thought that paper just might lure his killers back out here--just like it did."
The End
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