“Smart, funny. Sort of rugged, too.”
“Did he seem like the type who could take care of himself?”
She was nodding as I asked the question. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned a little. “Yeah, definitely. He didn’t look like a historian.”
“More manly than me?”
She winked. “Almost, but not quite.”
“Did he seem the type who would get lost in the desert and run out of gas?”
“That’s asking a lot, he only came in for a Diet Coke. But, if I had to answer…”
“And you do,” I added.
“I would say he seemed the type to have a map on hand, but keep in mind I only met the guy for ten minutes.”
“They say he ran out of gas,” I said. “And I’m willing to bet he’s also the type to make sure he topped off his gas before heading out into the desert. Would be stupid not to, and everyone seems to agree Willie was pretty smart.”
She was nodding. “Maybe he ran out of gas while looking for a way out.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“But you don’t think so.”
“His truck was found close to the site. Which suggests he ran out shortly after leaving the others,” I said. “Did the two of you talk about anything else?”
She bit her lip. “He mentioned he’d been hired to look into Sylvester’s identity, and I asked if he had spoken to Jarred.”
There he was again. Jarred, Rawhide’s official town historian, and curator of the Rawhide Museum.
“Why?”
“Because Jarred thinks of himself as the world’s greatest expert on Sylvester the Mummy.”
“And had Willie?”
She nodded. “He said Jarred was being rude and unhelpful at best. Which sounds like Jarred. He takes his work entirely too seriously. Now he’s working on his magnum opus.”
“Magnum opus?”
“It’s the history of Rawhide. Jarred thinks it will help establish him as a serious historian. You know, make a name for him. That’s pretty important to Jarred.”
“And he picked Rawhide to make his name?”
She nodded, grinning. She picked up a towel and started wiping something behind the bar, below my eyesight. It was a habit all bartenders have: just wiping the hell out of things.
“He says Rawhide is untapped material. He’s going to put it on the map, so to speak.”
“Rawhide is on the map.”
She giggled.
I finished the rest of my beer in one swallow. I wanted eleven more for an even dozen. “Thank you for your time, you’ve been very helpful.”
“You don’t want another beer?”
“Duty calls.”
She looked sad. The bar was empty. I was her only entertainment. “So where you headed now?”
“Figure I might as well talk to Jarred before he goes making a name for himself and thinks he’s too important to talk to me.”
She grinned. “He’s four stores down. The adobe building.”
I tipped my hat. “Ma’am.”
Luckily, the swinging doors were just as much fun going as coming.
Chapter Fifteen
I stepped out of the saloon and onto the surface of Venus. Or close to it. Hell, I felt myself mummifying on the spot, and almost turned around for more beer.
I passed a leather shop, general store, and glass blowing shop, and soon came upon a smallish adobe building set back from the boardwalk. The sign out front read: Rawhide Museum, Free Admission.
Now we’re talking.
I paused, listening. From somewhere nearby I heard the sharp report of rifle shots. From my research, I knew there was a shooting range just outside of town.
Praying for air conditioning, I entered the museum.
My prayers were answered. Maybe I should be a priest.
Cool air blasted my face the moment I stepped into the small museum, itself nothing more than a converted frontier house, filled to overflowing with antique mining equipment. Hardhats, lanterns, pick axes, carts, stuff I didn’t recognize, stuff I did but didn’t know the names of. I had the general sense that mining in the days of yore took a lot of muscle, and probably a lot of nerve. Not to mention light. In one corner, a display let children pan for fool’s gold. Along the walls, dozens of black and white photographs showed the town in various stages of growth and decline. Many featured hardened men sporting thick handlebar mustaches.
A door was open to my right, leading into what might have once been a bedroom, but now was an office. Inside, a smallish young man with wire rim glasses and a goatee was working furiously on a computer, pounding the keyboard with a vengeance, oblivious to me. I studied him briefly, and concluded he would have looked better with a handlebar mustache.
I knocked on the door frame, and he jumped about six inches out of his seat, gasping, clutching his heart. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
Jumpy little fellow.
“Oops,” I said. “Of course, I could say I should have knocked, but that’s just what I did.”
“Oh, it’s not you,” he said, settling back in his chair, letting out a long stream of air. The brass nameplate on his desk read: Jarred Booker, Town Historian. “Just lost in my writing, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Oh, do you write?”
“No, I was just trying to be agreeable.”
“I see,” he said, frowning. “Anyway, I haven’t had anyone step in here for…oh, a few days.”
“Maybe the price scares them away,” I said.
“Any freer, and I would have to pay them.”
“It’s an idea.”
“Are you here for a tour?” he asked.
“Not exactly.”
I opened my wallet and showed him my license to detect, complete with my happy mug. A small grin, no teeth. Eyes bright, but hard. The picture was worth a thousand words, and one of them was roguish.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?”
I told him I was hired to investigate the death of Willie Clarke and that I was here to ask a few questions. Jarred stared at me for a moment, then got up and crossed the room and closed the door and went back and sat behind his desk again.
He said, “I was told not to talk to anyone about Willie Clarke.”
“Told by who?”
Jarred leaned back in his chair and studied me. The glow from his monitor reflected off his glasses. So nice it reflected twice.
“Tafford Barron?” I asked. Shot in the dark.
