Buzzards Circle Dogtown, Part 1 of 2
by Mark Mellon

Part One - Pargrew Comes To Dogtown

A mockingbird warbled joyously, happy and active in the mild winter weather. Jackrabbits darted among the cactus and lechuguilla. A mottled coyote grinned for an instant from a gap in the brush then disappeared. Heck ignored the pleasant scene. Anxious to reach Dogtown, he'd ridden through the night. Already tired when he found the dying man, he was exhausted when he hit town, tall in the saddle from habit alone.

Like most Texas towns in those days, Dogtown had only one street, lined with half a dozen saloons and gambling halls, quiet and empty in the early morning. The racetrack was at the other end, no crude frontier dirt track, but a carefully laid out oval with whitewashed wooden stands for spectators. The Queen Victoria Hotel, a three-story mansion with white fluted columns and a verandah on each floor, dominated the drag. The Dogtown National Bank stood opposite the hotel.

Despite the early hour, many people were up, taking advantage of the cool temperature. Mexican servants went about their masters' errands, stepping out of white people's way. Everyone stared at the body wrapped in a waterproof draped over Heck's pack mule. The Mexicans' faces became even more stonily impassive.

A man shouted from the hotel verandah, "Hold up there!"

Heck didn't like his tone, but reined Nike to a halt. The man walked onto the street. Tall, running to fat, he wore broken down boots and a brand new Boss of the Plains hat. A tarnished bronze badge was pinned to his vest.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Heck Pargrew."

"Wondered what to call someone dumb enough to drag a dead Meskin into town," the man laughed.

Heck's jaw set tightly.

"Relax, hoss, just funning. I'm Curg Brattle, town deputy."

"I figured by that badge."

"Thanks for fetching him. Saves trouble. I'll take him off your hands."

Curg yanked the body off the mule. He unrolled the waterproof, thumbed his hat's broad brim back, and admired his handiwork with a low whistle.

"Hoo-whee, that's one dead greaser."

"Do you know who shot him?"

"I did. Had to. Running from the law."

"If you say so. OK if I go to the hotel?"

"Go ahead. You here to race that big black? Be sure to have fun and spend plenty of money. Haw haw. Here's your waterproof."

Heck stabled the horse and mule at a livery and went to the hotel. Inside the lobby, a clockwork ceiling fan provided a breeze. Behind the mahogany counter, the bald clerk wore a boiled white shirt with new-fangled celluloid collar and cuffs. His waxed mustachios' curled tips rose in disdain upon sight of the dusty cowboy.

"This hotel don't take saddle tramps," he pronounced. "Just turn around, young fellow, and bunk in a livery or upstairs at a saloon because – "

Heck set his bags down. He reached into a vest pocket, pulled out a 20-dollar golden eagle, and slapped it onto the countertop. He laid his pistol next to the coin.

"Your pick," he said.

"Yes, sir. If you'll just sign the register," the clerk replied.

"The boy will fetch your bags. Room 212, best in the house, high enough from the dust but not too many stairs. Will that be bourbon or rye?"

"Bourbon."

Heck's room was a spacious affair with two windows, a kerosene lamp on a table with a flowered cloth, and a large four-poster bed with a canopy. He tipped the bellboy a dime. The bottle was brought up. He took a slug, pulled off his boots, got into bed, and slept. Late in the afternoon, he woke ravenously hungry. Heck pulled clean clothes from his warbag. After a bath, shave, and haircut at Eierbach's Tonsorial Parlor, he returned to the hotel to eat, his boots newly blacked.

The dining room was long and elegant, the tables covered with lace, and the food served on gold-edged china. Midway through a chicken-fried steak with white sauce, a commotion began.

"Mr. Mayor, Your Honor, the private room is ready . . . "

Bowing, the clerk ushered in two men. Both wore dark suits, one about Heck's age, thin, beady-eyed, mouth fixed in an apparently permanent smile, the other much older, heavy-set and bald, humorless, with a shambling gait and curious lopsided frown. They stopped next to Heck's table.

"How you doing, son?" the younger man asked. "Dogtown treating you right? That mule meat old Curlicues serves tender enough?"

"I've had worse," Heck answered.

"Know who I am?"

"The mayor?"

"Dern! You done gave it away, Baldie," said the man. He rubbed the clerk's smooth pate, a familiarity the clerk suffered in silence.

"Yeah, Bob Dalt, boss of the whole dern town. My daddy, Old Bob Dalt, was mayor before me, but that's history now. You here to see the races tomorrow?"

"No. I'm here to win a race tomorrow."

"Whoo! This boy's got sand, ain't he, Buck?" Dalt said to the older man.

"Mr. Mayor," he replied, a low, deep murmur, difficult to hear, "there are significant matters, if you will, we must discuss. It's best done in private."

"Of course, Buck. See you around. If things don't work out tomorrow, maybe you can get work swamping the saloons out."

He left with a laugh and a wave.

Rested, washed, and full, Heck decided to drink at each saloon until one struck him as congenial. His first stop was the White Elephant, a wide room with a long mahogany bar in the center with brass fittings. A mirrored back bar was adorned with gas light fixtures, onyx columns, and shelves crammed full of bottles and decanters. Hand-lettered signs listed prices for various liquors, wines and cordials, and also imported and domestic cigars. There was a considerable crowd, cowboys and ranchers, along with sporting gentlemen anxious to separate them from their money.

Heck bellied up to the bar and ordered beer with a shot of 12-year old bourbon. The liquor was incredibly smooth, scarcely a burn as it slid down his throat. He greedily drank his beer, getting it down before it went flat.

A loud, heavily accented voice shattered Heck's tranquility.

"You men know there is a problem. You also know what we must be doing about it!"

A tall, beer-bellied, older man in a dark suit with a string tie held forth from one corner of the saloon. A large silver badge was pinned to his frock coat. Spectacles gave him a scholarly air. His lank, steel-gray hair was carefully combed back.

"That black rascal, Cortina, plots against us even now. Gott damn, his men cross the Rio Grande every night to new trouble make, steal cattle, burn down barns – "

Rather than ignore his harangue, most were attentive. Many nodded their heads in agreement. Some yelled, "Yes, sir! Get them Meskin sumbitches!"

Heck turned to a man and said, "Who's that Dutchie squawking over there?"

"Keep your voice down, young man," the man replied. "That's Sheriff Arschkopf."

"Just yesterday, my deputy Brattle, ja, he did right with those schweinehunden. He caught one sneaking brown thief, shot him in the chest before he break into Widow Bauer's house to rape and kill the good woman!"

"If he means the man I brought in today, he don't know what he's talking about," Heck said. "That man was shot in the back."

Powerful enough to be heard over a stampede, Heck's voice carried to the sheriff. He looked around accusingly.

"Gott damn, is some verdamnt scheisskopf calling me Gott damned liar?"

Heck was about to tartly respond when the man next to him gently took his elbow and murmured, "You're new. Let's go to the Iron Front. I'll buy a round, fill you in some how things work here."

Heck looked the man full in the face: lean and wrinkled from life outdoors, soup-strainer mustache more flecked with salt than pepper, brown eyes open and honest.

"I reckon so. That's the first friendly offer I've had." Heck introduced himself.

"Name's Ed Bee. Think I've heard of you. Ain't you got a spread with your brother in the Hill Country near San Marcos?"

"That's me," Heck answered. They pushed through the saloon's swinging batwing doors. "Just got back from a drive with the cuss."

The Iron Front was on the other side of the drag. Simpler, less pretentious, it had a plain wood bar and sawdust strewn on the floor. Bee asked for a bottle and two glasses and picked a table away from other patrons with little chance of being overheard. He poured two shots. Heck knocked his back.

"That's sweet stuff. Thanks."

"Always glad to do a real cowboy a favor. Here for the races, Pargrew?"

"Yup. Got me a new horse in Dodge City. I brought him down to see how he does."

Bee refilled their glasses. "Long as you got money and keep your mouth shut, you won't have problems in Dogtown. Racing made this town rich. They want sporting men. There's still some folks you need to watch for, though. Arschkopf's one, mean as a snake and full of piss and vinegar. His deputy Brattle's another."

"I met him," Heck snorted. "Smart aleck sumbitch!"

"A cold killer too," Ed whispered. "He guns men down and claims they ran when he tried to arrest them."

"Like the Mexican I found?"

"You said he was shot in the back. Arschkopf and his deputy like to kill Mexicans now and then. Makes folks think they're tough on law. They squawk about a raid to get the bandits, but that's just talk. No more guts than a pissant, any of 'em."

"What about one snot-nosed little shit, calls himself mayor, and the fat old man that wipes his nose for him?"

Bee chuckled. "You met the Boy Mayor and his keeper, I take it?"

"They spoiled my meal on the way to theirs."

"Yeah, Dalt likes pissing on people and passing it off as a joke. He thinks he runs things, but Buck Casey's the real Big Auger. Owns the bank, hotel, dry goods store, and a big piece of the track. Sick as he is, you'd think the old coot would curl up in a rocking chair, but folks say he wants all South Texas, make himself even bigger than King Fisher."

"As if that'll happen."

Both men laughed.

Bee grew serious again. "Neither one worth a buffalo fart but that don't make 'em any less dangerous. They're used to getting their way. Anyone gets in the way, gets trampled. Stay clear."

Heck grinned, an open, boyish smile, slightly marred by the hard glint of his green eyes. "Thanks, Ed. Appreciate the advice, but nobody messes with a Pargrew. Now whyn't you tell a cowboy where to get a shot of leg in this town?"

Bee said, "There's Tia Rosa's parlor house, if you got the money."

"I'm loaded with scratch. Just point me and unloose the lariat."

"Turn left at the far end of the drag. Keep on 'til you hear music. You'll see the lights about a quarter-mile off. Used to be right on the drag, but Casey moved it to please his wife. He owns that too, dern hypocrite."

Heck drank another shot. "Thanks for the liquor. Care to come along?"

Bee smiled and shook his head. "My missus is waiting. Reckon I'll see you tomorrow in the races. You be careful, Heck Pargrew."

"Sure enough, Ed. Thanks again."

Heck walked down the drag. Nightlife was in full swing: saloon gaslights flared while music blared to screams and whoops of laughter. Drunks staggered past, some propped up by whores who rifled their pockets as they helped them along. Small black boys on one corner cakewalked to the music of a kazoo for pennies tossed in a hat by passersby.

Disdainful like all cowboys at having to walk anywhere, he grumbled at the distance until he heard a piano tinkle. The parlor house was well built with a verandah. A very large, very fat man sat smoking a cigar on the verandah with a shotgun on his knees, but he smiled pleasantly and said nothing when Heck came up the stairs and went inside.

The front parlor was elegantly furnished with velvet drapes, oil paintings, hand carved mahogany furniture, and Oriental rugs. An elderly black man played a Chopin waltz on a piano with gentle precision. A butler and maid served punch and champagne from silver trays to the men on the couches and chairs, all of a certain age and substantial girth, and the young women in underwear who kept them company. A heavyset, middle-aged Mexican woman in a too tight, low cut, purple dress smiled and approached him.

"Buenas noches, senora," Heck said.

"Caballero! I am Tia Rosa" she said in unaccented English. "Would you like to meet some of the other guests? Or would you rather meet Aura?"

"That the girl you picked out?"

"Exacto. I knew when I laid eyes on you. She loves red-haired cowboys."

"Take me on up, Tia."

She led him up the stairs to an empty room with a brass bed, dresser, full-length mirror, an armoire, and a washstand and basin.

"Pull off your boots. Stretch out on the bed, macho," she said. "I'll fetch Aura."

Heck tugged off his tight boots and sank into the luxuriant folds of the thick eiderdown mattress draped with purple satin. A wisp of a girl entered the room, delicate and beautiful as a bird, jet-black hair pinned up with a silver comb. She smiled: two curved rows of perfect gleaming pearls, and got into bed with him.

"Puedo servir?" she asked.

Heck reached up and tenderly pulled the comb from her hair. A long fall of dark locks partly veiled her sloe eyes. She bent low and kissed him . . . .

Next morning, Heck ate two cowboy breakfasts washed down with a pot of coffee, picked up his horse from the livery, and went to the racetrack. Virtually everyone was there with the exception of the town's "respectable" women. A brass band played marching music. Touts in plug hats shouted odds. Part of the stands were set aside for the Cyprians. They attended decked in their finest ruffles and bows, protected from the blazing sun by tiny parasols. Heck looked for Aura but didn't see her.

"Come to race that big black?" asked a friendly gambler. "See Bart over there."

Several men were lined up before a desk where a swell in a gold-laced waistcoat and shiny silk plug hat wrote down their names with a fountain pen in an accounts register without blotting a drop.

"Howdy, yonker," he said to Heck when his turn arose. "Give me you and your horse's name and ten dollars, greenback or hard coin, all one."

Heck handed over the money and said, "Heck Pargrew with Nike."

"Nike, huh," Bart snorted. "Fancy yourself a learned man?" He chuckled as he wrote the information down.

"That was my brother's idea. Who do I see about betting?"

"You're looking at him. The house holds all riders' bets and makes sure they get their winnings, minus five percent for overhead."

"You fellows make money coming and going, don't you?"

"The mark of an efficient enterprise, young man. Come, come, we don't have all day. Show us the color of your money. Do you think you can place?"

Heck slapped a moneybag down, so heavy the desk rocked from the weight.

"Five hundred in gold I win."

"I'll bet against that," said one gambler, throwing down three gold eagles.

"Me too," said another.

"Him and that black horse will eat dust."

In a few moments, Heck's pot was matched, doubled, and doubled again. Word spread throughout the crowd of a cowboy betting big on himself. More money was wagered in private bets. Heck and the other riders mounted up and rode their horses onto the track to fanfares from the band while the crowd wildly cheered and cowhands fired pistols into the air.

They lined up along a rope stretched taut across the track. Heck faced a motley crew: a raw-boned backcountry man on a gray mare that looked to be a direct descendant of Steel Dust himself; a Kickapoo on a specially bred fleet-footed pony; a grinning Mexican vaquero on a biting, half-broken mustang; and a Limey in racing silks on an English racer, out West on a lark.

Bart climbed to the grandstand. He removed his hat and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to announce this race, a mile and a half course run by these five brave contestants. All you old boys out there holster your pistols and sit quiet while we count off the race, iffen you please. Gents, on your marks. Get ready. Go!"

A shotgun fired. The rope fell.

Keyed to breaking point, horses and riders surged forward. They tore down the track. The Kickapoo's short-coupled pony took a narrow lead, closely shadowed by the Mexican. Heck trailed, bunched with the other two. The race belonged to the light and quick at the onset, but as laps wore away, Nike's sheer brute strength overcame any initial lead. Relentlessly, without sign of strain, the black horse charged on at the same punishing pace, wild-eyed, great nostrils flared. Heck stood in the stirrups in two-point position, his weight off the delicate back, giving Nike his head.

At the last lap, Nike surged past the mustang and caught up with the Kickapoo. The Indian bent low over the saddle and urged the pony on with his quirt, but the horse had long ago given his best. Heck flicked the reins. The black horse shouldered past. The finish line loomed ahead.

"Nike by two full lengths!" Bart shouted.

Cowhands roared approval. Soiled doves squealed. Gamblers threw plug hats on the ground and stamped on them in frustrated fury at their losses. The band struck up "The Yellow Rose of Texas".

The Limey rode up and remarked: "I say, Mr. Pargrew, well challenged indeed!"

Heck was surrounded by well-wishers who shouted congratulations and strained to shake his hand. He dismounted and went to the reviewing stand.

"Congratulations, yonker!" said Bart.

"Thank you, Mr. Bart," Heck replied.

"You got my money?"

Bart's smile grew even broader. Heck's guard went up.

"The very point I wanted to raise with you, Pargrew. You won considerable, twenty-five hundred dollars. When there's a really big purse, Mayor Dalt likes to give the money himself."

"Is he around? He can hand it over and congratulate me just as much as he likes."

Bart shook his head. "The mayor prefers to handle such matters in private at his office at home. More dignified, you know? The house is a treat to see, the most elegant home in South Texas. You're lucky to be invited. Curg'll take you."

The deputy grinned, his new hat tilted back.

"No thanks. I'll go alone. Reckon I'd worry about that itchy trigger finger."

Curg said, "Don't get your feathers in a fuss. We got off on the wrong foot. I meant to tell you how grateful I am. That Mex brought a twenty dollar bounty."

"That's good to know. Let me know next time you got a backshot Mexican you need hunting up."

"Ha ha, ain't he a card," laughed Curg. Bart loudly joined in.

Curg pointed to a nearby buckboard and said, "Mayor don't like to wait."

There was little point in arguing. Heck climbed onto the buckboard. Curg got on the bench and whipped the horses into motion. They left Dogtown and went down a road that paralleled the river. The mansion was two miles outside of town, a two-story white affair fronted by triple columns topped by a pediment.

Curg stopped by the front door.

"Mayor's inside."

Heck opened the glass-paneled door and walked into a high-ceilinged hall, wonderfully shadowy and cool.

"Who do you think you are, coming in the front?" a woman snapped, her voice sharp, disapproving, used to command.

She emerged into the weak light: thin, young, black, in a gray dress and white apron with her hair in a kerchief. The large whites of her eyes gleamed baleful rage. Her wide mouth twisted open to reveal a disdainful gap-toothed sneer.

"Go out that door and come in through the back like all the other dirty cowhands. You hear me?"

Before Heck could respond, Dalt entered from a side door, fidgeting with his cravat.

"Dilsey, can you do anything with this dern – Hold on, what we got here? Old Flaming Red himself, big winner at the race. You done real good there!" He stepped forward, right hand extended, face lit by a rare sincere smile.

"I always like me a winner," Dalt enthused as they shook hands.

Whiskey was on his breath.

"Come on upstairs where we can take care of you."

"Does that mean getting paid?"

The fixed grin grew wider. "Sure enough, Red. The victor, he's the one that gets them spoils."

Dalt led Heck down the hall. Dilsey flashed him a sharp, mistrustful look. Heck smiled pleasantly and winked. The men walked up a wide carpeted staircase.

"I'd introduce you to the wife but she's having one of her afternoon megrims." Dalt held tightly to the banister with one hand, steadying himself while he gestured extravagantly at various paintings hung from the walls. "See that picture there? Old Bob paid over a thousand dollars for it! Can you believe that? Reckon that's more money than you've ever seen, huh, cowhand?"

"My brother and I run 10,000 head of cattle to Dodge City every year, more than half of it our own stock. You do the math, Mr. Mayor."

Startled, Dalt glared at Heck, intensely irritated, until he caught himself and resumed his smile. "That so? There I go with my big mouth again. You're a regular Tartar, Red."

Dalt took Heck down another lofty hall. He knocked on an oak door. "Buck? You ready to see him now?" Dalt inquired.

"Yes. Send him in," Casey barked from behind the door.

Dalt pointed to the Delft china doorknob. "Buck's waiting."

"What in Sam Hill is going on! I'm starting to think this is some sort of bunco game. Do I get my winnings or what?"

"Now don't get in your dander, Red. You'll get your money. Buck'll fix you up!"

Heck shrugged and entered the room. Casey sat at a desk in an opulent office like a king on his throne, eyes shielded by thick glasses, clean bald dome fringed by white hair, mouth set in a lopsided smile.

"Mr. Pargrew, let me congratulate upon your big win, if you will, in today's races. Sit down."

Heck sat in a comfortable leather chair that faced the desk.

Casey continued, "Gaming is the lifeblood of our local economy. A notable race, if you will, like the one you ran can only attract gamers and more business. For that, we are indeed grateful. I have instructed the First Bank of Dogtown to wire the monies due you to any bank in Texas you might name. That will lessen the risk of anything untoward, if you will, occurring upon your return home."

That made sense. A man riding alone through Texas with money ran a considerable risk. He warmed to Casey. His evident competence, the air of a man with decades of successful experience behind him, reassured Heck.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Casey. I appreciate that."

"Not at all. It is rather an early hour, but could you do with a drop of refreshment, to celebrate your victory, if you will? Napoleon brandy, the very finest."

"A taste wouldn't be amiss, Mr. Casey."

"Call me Buck."

Casey reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle with two shot glasses. He filled both glasses, handed one to Heck and took an appreciative taste from the other.

"What do you think, Heck?"

"A sipping dream."

"I quite agree. Cigar?"

Casey handed a pure Cuban leaf black cigar to Heck and lit it with a bronze lion with a flaming wick for a tongue. They drank and smoked in companionable silence.

"I take it you plan to return home without delay, Heck?"

"That's right, Buck. Nice as y'all have been, I'll head back tomorrow. Virge is sure to throw a hissy about handling all my chores along with his own."

Casey nodded. "Understandable. Nonetheless, I hope you might allow me to sketch out a certain business proposition, if you will, that might be of interest to you."

Heck blew a perfect, blue smoke ring and said, "Have at it, Buck. I always listen about making money."

Casey leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his expansive, soft stomach. "We know your credentials from the war, twice mentioned in dispatches. You also have extensive experience handling cattle on trail drives. You rode for Maximilian in Mexico after the war?"

Heck laughed and said, "Boning up on me? Yeah, me and Virge got in a passel of trouble down Mexico way."

"So you're familiar with the country?"

"Depends. Mexico's kind of a big old place. I reckon I can find my way around Nuevo Leon and Tamaulipas OK. This got to do with your business proposition?"

"You know Juan Cortina?"

Heck said, "Boss of Tamaulipas. Big landowner."

"He is a liar and a thief, a man of infamous character even for a Mexican, an insurrectionary, just waiting for the day he can bring fire and sword to Texas and take bloody revenge."

Heck was thrown by the ferocity of Casey's denunciation. His anger was palpable.

"Right this minute, Heck, as we sit here, enjoying cigars and whiskey, behind the border Cortina builds an army, if you will, of half-breeds and Yaqui savages equipped with Winchesters, funded by the sale of enormous herds of cattle. Once his bandits are armed, they'll stream across the Rio Grande, bent on terrorizing innocent whites. A patriot like you, Heck, a veteran of the Sacred Cause, could never permit that. You'll agree?"

"How am I supposed to stop them?"

Casey leaned forward. "I have devised a bold plan to sabotage Cortina's wicked scheme, nip the whole thing in the bud. A raiding party, well manned and strongly armed, will travel in secret across the border and in a single audacious move, drive off the whole of Cortina's main herd, twenty thousand head. The expedition needs a man like you, someone with military and cattle-driving experience who's familiar with the country. Will you do it, Heck? Help stop a madman?"

Heck gazed wide-eyed, too aghast at Casey's wild freebooter scheme to even answer.

At last he said, "Sounds like a pretty tall order, Buck. Cortina may be the devil like you say, but he's a right rough old cob. Anyone takes something of his can figure on him coming after it and not in no laughing mood either."

"Once back in Texas, the Rangers and the Army will protect us from retaliation. Any attempt by Cortina to recover his property will be tied up in court for years."

"What guarantee is there of even getting out of Mexico? Takes time to drive cattle, Buck, specially a herd that size. A hardcase like Cortina wouldn't have much trouble running us down. The Yaquis would skin us slow after that."

"But think of the financial reward. Why the hides alone are worth at least a hundred thousand!"

Heck finished his brandy and said. "Reckon my hide's worth more. Anyways, I ain't never thrown a long rope . No sir, Buck, sorry. I ain't interested."

Casey's mouth grew more lopsided.

"If money doesn't motivate you, what about patriotism? I explained the threat that Cortina poses. Don't you want to end that?"

"Ask me when he crosses the Rio Grande. I'll tie a knot in his tail then. For now, Cortina's done nothing to me."

Casey philosophically shook his head. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this. Heck, at times a man in my position of responsibility has to take, well, distasteful measures, if you will, to bring people to the right course of action."

"What do you mean, Buck? Nothing unfriendly, I hope."

"If I could trouble you, Heck, to go to that window, you'll see what I mean."

The window looked down on a barn and corral behind the house. Curg was inside the corral, Aura the prostitute pinned against him hard with one arm. He held a razor sharp, gleaming Bowie knife in his free hand against her perfect brown cheek. She saw Heck and sobbed.

Heck threw the window open and shouted, "Let her go, Curg Brattle, you sorry sumbitch, or I'll pecos you."

"Go ahead," laughed Curg. "Skin your gun. I'll cut this Mex whore's damn head off before you even fire a round."

"As I said," Casey continued, "sometimes unpleasant things must be done to achieve important goals. I hardly relish these things, but I will do what is required. Will you reconsider your decision?"

"God damn you, no, Casey! What's some Mex whore to me? Hell, I only saw her once the night before."

Casey raised his arm to signal Curg from the window.

Heck knocked the arm down. His eyes blazed rage as he said through clenched teeth, "All right, you low bastard, you got me over a barrel. Turn that poor girl loose and I'll go on your damn wild goose chase. Loose her now, you hear me?"

"Right away," said Casey. "All right, Curg," he called. "Take her back to Tia's. Tell Tia to keep a close eye on her." Turning back to Heck, Casey said, "She'll be in complete safety."

"You'd best hope so. Casey, you and your crowd are the lowest pack of skunks I ever saw."

"I've had other business relationships that also started on an acrimonious basis that worked out beneficially for all sides in the end. I'm certain that this partnership, if you will, shall end similarly. You'll excuse me, I have other matters. You yourself should prepare for the expedition. Draw supplies from the dry goods store, within reasonable limits."

Up to his eyeballs in disgust and impotent fury, Heck's throat choked too thick to speak. He jammed his hat onto his head and stomped out of the room. Heck went down the stairs and into the hall. There was giggling and a high-pitched squeal from behind a door, Dilsey's voice. The door opened and Dalt stuck his head out, cravat gone, shirt buttons undone.

"Buck straighten you out? Well, good on you! Pleasure having you with us for a while. See you, Red. Mayoring's hard work, you know!" Dalt shut the door. The squealing recommenced.

Heck walked back to town, ignoring the river and the fine weather, his mood foul.