“Or what he was doing here?”
Price gave a disgusted snort. “Doing the same thing as every other damn fool in these parts, I reckon. Hunting that monster.” Price turned toward Frank again. “Or maybe I should say, that’s what they were doing until you came along, Morgan. You’ve sort of taken over that job, haven’t you?”
“I just figured it would be a good idea if the woods weren’t full of men shooting at anything that moves.”
“Yeah. And if you earn yourself ten thousand dollars in the process, then so much the better, eh?”
Frank knew the lawman didn’t like him. Fortunately, he didn’t care one way or the other about Gene Price’s opinion of him. He said, “I’m going to take the body on down to the undertaking parlor and spread the word that folks should go by there and see if they can identify it. Maybe somebody will claim the body.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Hardcases like that usually don’t have many friends.”
That was true enough, Frank thought, and there was another angle to consider, too. If the dead man was part of the group that had attacked the logging camp, the men who had been with him weren’t likely to come forward and identify him, let alone claim the body and give it a proper burial. They would want to keep any connection with the dead man concealed, to avoid any awkward questions from the law.
In fact, Frank would have been willing to bet that any time the gang got together here in town, they would do so in secret if possible, so people wouldn’t get the idea they were working together. If Emmett Bosworth actually was behind the atrocity at the logging camp, as Frank suspected, he would want to avoid as much suspicion as possible, so he wouldn’t want his men to be noticed.
Frank took up Goldy’s reins and began leading the horse along the street. Price walked alongside him, and as they went toward the undertaker’s place, the marshal shooed away the curious townsmen who wanted to gawk at the corpse.
“I don’t see why it matters to you who he is,” Price commented to Frank.
“Just curious, I guess,” Frank replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t think there’s any connection between the Terror’s victims. They’re just hombres who were unlucky to run into the thing. But you never know. I might find out something that would help me track it down.”
Price glanced over at Frank, his eyes narrowing. “Seems to me that you’ve been mighty close to the thing several times now, and it hasn’t come after
“You’re barking up the wrong redwood, Marshal,” Frank said with a smile. “I’d never even heard of the Terror until yesterday. I don’t know what it is. I just want to put a stop to the killing.”
“A gunfighter, wanting to put a stop to killing.” Sarcasm dripped from Price’s voice. “If that don’t beat all.”
Frank suppressed the flash of annoyance he felt at the marshal’s attitude. Price was just trying to put a burr under his saddle, and Frank wasn’t going to let him do that.
They reached the undertaking parlor and found the proprietor, a fat man with a round, unaccountably jolly face, waiting for them. “Take the deceased around back,” the undertaker told Frank. “I heard about you bringing a body into town, Mr. Morgan, so I have a couple of my assistants waiting back there to take charge of the remains.”
“Before I do that,” Frank said, “do you recognize this hombre?”
The undertaker studied the dead man’s face for a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. But then, I don’t pay much attention to what folks look like until I see them under these circumstances, when they’re never at their best.”
Frank turned the dead man over the undertaker’s assistants. As they left the place, Marshal Price asked, “What are you going to do now, Morgan?”
“I thought I’d get some lunch, and then I plan to go out and try to pick up the Terror’s trail again.”
“How do you figure to kill a thing that can do”—Price jerked his head toward the undertaking parlor to indicate the corpse they had just left there—
“Reckon I’ll figure that out when the time comes,” Frank said. He didn’t mention the fact that he didn’t plan to kill the Terror as long as there was a chance the thing was really Ben Chamberlain. He had given his word to Nancy Chamberlain.
So what he really had to figure out was a way to trap a creature that could tear a man limb from limb and move through the woods with the speed and stealth of a ghost.
That was all.
Chapter 15
Grimshaw looked around as he went into the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon. His men were scattered around the establishment’s big main room, drinking in groups of two or three, but not clustered together so it was obvious that they knew each other. That was the way Emmett Bosworth wanted it. The timber magnate didn’t want anyone in Eureka suspecting that he had assembled a gang of hired killers.
As Grimshaw went to the bar, he caught the eye of the man on the other side of the hardwood. He gave the bartender a tiny nod and then said, “Give me a beer, Harry.”
The drink juggler drew the beer, wiped the bar in front of Grimshaw with his rag, and then set down the foaming mug. When Grimshaw picked up the mug, his other hand moved smoothly to rest on the spot where the beer had been. That move with the rag had allowed Harry the bartender to slip a key under the mug, and now Grimshaw’s hand rested on it without anyone being the wiser. When he moved his hand, the key went with it.
The key unlocked a door that opened from the alley behind the Bull o’ the Woods into the saloon’s back room. There was nothing in that room except a table and some chairs. From time to time, private poker games took place there. Months ago, Grimshaw had slipped Harry a tidy little sum to insure that he and the other men working for Bosworth would have a place to meet where no one could observe them together.
Grimshaw drank about half the beer, then left the rest and walked out of the saloon after tossing a coin on the
