“Uh-huh,” McClew said noncommittally. He gestured at a crusty old pot-bellied stove in one corner. “Coffee’s hot, if you’re interested.”
“Thanks, no. What was it you wanted to see me about, Marshal?”
“Questions,” McClew said.
“Sir?”
“Questions. The ones you been asking all over town.”
“About Whistling Dixon, you mean.”
“Among other folks. Awful lot of questions for a snake oil drummer, seems like.”
“I am not a snake oil drummer,” Quincannon said in offended tones. “I am an authorized representative of Caldwell Associates of San Francisco, agents for Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts — a legitimate and highly respected patent medicine.”
McClew shrugged. “Still and all, you ask a lot of questions for any kind of drummer.”
“Whistling Dixon was a friend from many years ago. He worked for my father in Oregon when I was a boy.”
“Is that a fact.”
“Yes. Naturally I was upset when I learned he’d been murdered the very night I arrived in Silver City.”
“Naturally. So you figured you’d just ask around and see could you find out who done for him.”
“Yes.”
“How come you asked half the town but you never come and asked me? Seems the city marshal’s office’d be your first stop.”
“I tried several times to see you, Marshal,” Quincannon lied. “Our paths never seemed to cross.”
“Oh, come on now, Mr. Lyons,” McClew said mildly. “I ain’t all that hard to find. Most of the time I’m right here in my office.”
“Most of the time, perhaps. Not all the time. I’m sorry, but I did intend to talk to you. I would have come here this very morning, in fact, even if you hadn’t summoned me.”
“Well, I sure am happy to hear that,” McClew said without irony. He rummaged a plug of Rock Candy chewing tobacco out of his vest pocket, sliced off a chunk with a penknife, and popped the chunk into his mouth. He chewed in silence for several seconds, working the quid to a juiciness; then he leaned over, spat into a dented brass cuspidor, and said, “Nothing like a good chew after breakfast.”
“I prefer a pipe myself.”
“Pipes is all right, I guess.” The marshal spat again. “Tell me, Mr. Lyons, you find out anything about old Dixon’s murder I ought to know about?”
“No, nothing. I’ve been wasting my time, it seems.”
“Well, you must’ve found out something. You been seeing a lot of folks, asking about others besides Dixon. Jason Elder, for instance.”
“Elder was an acquaintance of Dixon’s and he seems to have disappeared. I thought perhaps there might be some connection between the two facts.”
“Such as maybe Elder shot that old waddy?”
“Such as that.”
“Where’d you hear them two was acquainted?”
“Here and there. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Never knew old Dixon to have any friends in town, least of all a tramp printer that smoked opium for a hobby.”
Quincannon spread his hands. “I only know what I heard. You don’t believe Elder might have murdered Dixon?”
“Nope.”
“Then who do you think did kill him?”
“Can’t say. Outlaws, maybe.”
“So then you haven’t learned anything definite, either.”
“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” McClew said evasively. “I’m working on it.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Yep, always working, that’s me. I’m a working fool. Too much crime these days — too damned much.”
Quincannon was silent.
“You take murder, now,” McClew said. “Up until old Dixon got himself shot, we hadn’t had a murder in or about Silver City in close to five months. Now all of a sudden we got us a regular slaughter.”
“Slaughter, Marshal?”
“Well, maybe that’s too strong a word.” McClew fired another stream of tobacco juice at the cuspidor; this one missed completely and he said, “Hell.” Then he said, “Chinaman got himself hung last night. Important fella in that bunch, name of Yum Wing. You ever heard of him?”
“Yes. Will Coffin mentioned his name on the stage the other night. I also read Coffin’s editorial in yesterday’s Volunteer.”
“You talk to him? Yum Wing, I mean.”
Quincannon hesitated, but only for a second. “I did, yes. I thought he might know what had happened to Jason Elder.”
“Because Elder was a dope fiend and old Yum Wing peddled the stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Did he know what had become of Elder?”
“If he did he wouldn’t tell me. Who do you think killed him, Marshal?”
“Can’t say yet. Figured maybe you’d have an idea.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Quincannon said. “Unless it was somebody who used Will Coffin’s editorial as an excuse to take the law into his own hands. A very inflammatory piece of writing, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would,” McClew agreed. “Could have happened that way, all right. Always a few damn fool hotheads looking to make trouble. And plenty of folks don’t like the Chinese because they got different ways and a different skin.” He paused. “What’s your feelings along them lines?”
“I think a man is a man, no matter what color his skin. I think he ought to be allowed to live his life as he sees fit, as long as he doesn’t harm anyone else.”
McClew seemed to approve of that. He had himself another spit, missed his target again, and then shook his head. “Three murders inside a week,” he said. “Yessir, that may not be enough to be called a slaughter, but it sure comes close enough in my book.”
“Three murders?”
“Didn’t I mention the third one? No, I guess I didn’t. Sam Morant, works out at the Whiskey Gulch mine, spotted the corpse yesterday afternoon, down in a canyon off an old road ain’t used much anymore. Too many rockslides. But Sam ain’t got much sense and he uses it as a short cut to town. Anyways, he rode in and told me and I rode back out there with him and had a look. Had to leave the body where it laid, though.”
“Why is that?”
“Couldn’t get all the way down to it. Sheer walls and no other way into that part of the canyon. But I got close enough so’s I could take a good look at him through my spyglass.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Might have, but the damned birds and coyotes had been at him and wasn’t much left of his face. Been down there close to a week, I’d say. Poor bastard. Looked like he’d been tortured some before he died.”
“Tortured? What makes you say that?”
“Burn marks all over what was left of him. Kind a cigar end or the like makes on a man’s flesh.”
Quincannon digested this before he spoke again. “Have you any idea who the man was?”
“Well, now, I know who he was. Whoever chucked him into that canyon didn’t pay enough attention to what he was doing. Or maybe it was night and he just didn’t see what happened. Anyhow, some things come out of the dead man’s pocket on his way down and a couple of ’em got caught up in some brush. Which is where I found ’em.”
McClew opened a drawer in his desk, took out a card, and slid it over to where Quincannon could read it. It was a torn and ink-stained union card — the International Typographical Union — and the name on it was Jason
