“He had two, Longarm said. “He fired both at once. In the time it takes to drill one man and recock a single-action ‘74 the one left would have at least tried. And you’re right, neither made a move to defend him self. Look at how their boot heels line up so neat. They went down together, dead before they hit the rug.”
Nolan nodded. “A slug that size through the heart can blow your lights out sudden indeed. But who says they had to be shot with single-action?” he asked.
Longarm said, “Me. I met a sass who couldn’t be anyone but the killer no more than an hour or ago in the Parthenon saloon. He worn a brace of army-issue ‘74s, and to think I took him for a drunk kid on the prod!”
He went on to bring the others up to date on the one and original Black Jack Slade. They agreed that was crazy, too.
“The punk’s last name is Slade,” Nolan said. “After that he was full of pure bull. We’ve been canvassing the neighborhood. The killer turned twenty-two this June and looked younger. He went to Evans Grammar School less than a mile from here, but left in the fifth grade after losing some school time to the scarlet fever. He’s described by those who know him, including some as went to school with him, as a sickly, feeble-minded runt who’s never been able to hold a job. He was sponging off his kin here until about a year or more ago, when his sister’s husband told him it was time he supported himself and threw him out.”
“That sounds sensible. Where’s the brother-in-law right now?”
“Dead. Died last winter whilst the boy was in the army, trying to hold down the only job he could get, with the depression over. We figure he heard his big sister had become a widow and decided to move back in with her. The army must have figured the same way and, as you see, they’d have been better off calling it good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Longarm nodded and said, “Some officers can be sort of possessive about their favorite mounts. But you say the neighbors say he left the premises on his own two feet?”
Nolan looked uncomfortable. “One did. An old lady down near the corner who spends a lot of time leaning out her back window, watching out for apple-stealing kids or whatever. She spotted young Joe Slade in the alley out back earlier this evening. She knew who it was because not even the neighborhood kids who steal her apples dress so silly.”
“A neighbor would likely know him on sight, even in an alley,” Longarm said. “The question now is whether he left for that saloon before or after the shooting. What time did that old lady say she spotted him all dressed up for a Wild West show?”
Nolan looked pained. “Longarm, you know how hard it is for a witness to recall the exact time they witnessed something when they didn’t know it was important. All she knows is that she saw him leaving the neighborhood for parts unknown, any time you want her to swear to, as long as it was after sundown. What damn difference can it make?”
Longarm said, “If he gunned two men and then went to drink and pester folk in a nearby saloon, on foot, dressed wild as well, I fail to see how he could still be running loose.”
Nolan started to ask what Longarm meant. Then he said, “Yeah, we do have all our men looking for him and he’s said to have few if any friends in town. But what if that wild act he put on for you was a slicker? What if he wanted everyone to remember him all decked out like Buffalo Bill so’s that would be what we all went looking for?”
“That works, if we assume young Slade has just now grown more brains than he’s ever shown evidence of having before,” Longarm said. “We’d better have a look at his quarters. I, for one, will feel dumb as hell if we find a pair of goat-hair chaps hanging on a bed post. Do we need permission from the lady of the house?”
Nolan said, “No. She’s been cooperative as hell for a hysterical young widow woman. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
They passed down a dark hallway. Through an open doorway Longarm caught a glimpse of an ashen young brunette being rocked in the arms of an older, meaner-looking gal who glared at him as if she thought he was Attila the Hun. He supposed, from their point of view, he was. Lawmen were never too welcome in the house of a wanted murderer.
They went out the back door and crossed a well-tended garden to the carriage house opening on the back alley. The lower level was a cavernous expanse of brick-paved emptiness. Nolan said, “I already asked. Flora Banes, Slade, and her man didn’t keep live or rolling stock, even when he was alive. This close to the center of town, he walked to work. It didn’t pay, next to hiring a rig, on the occasions they went somewhere more important.”
“What about that army mount?”
“None of the neighbors recall seeing it. The kid showed up on foot in army blues a month or so back. They thought it sort of funny, later, when he commenced to wander about all dressed up like a cowboy, with no horse to chase cows with.”
Nolan lit a match and led the way up to the former hayloft. As he lit a wall lamp, Longarm saw that it had been fitted up as a sort of bedroom. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was a mess. The unmade cot was wedged against the sloping rafters, facing a wall that stood straighter, about ten feet away.
“It looks like they built in more than one room up here,” Longarm said.
Nolan said, “I asked the widow woman. Her husband used the room next to this as a workshop. He likely used all this space before his wife’s kid brother moved in to sponge off them. As it is, this is more space than I’d give my brother-in-law if he was a lazy idjet who wouldn’t even try to get a job.”
Longarm found a shabby army uniform and a tweed topcoat hanging in a wardrobe. There were some socks and underwear in the top drawer of the washstand. There was no other furniture. But at least a ton of old magazines, not too neatly stacked, took up six or eight feet of floor space, waist high. Longarm said, “He must have liked to read in bed.” He casually picked up a well-thumbed pulp magazine and added, “Oh, look at this.”
It was a copy of Deadwood Dick, published in London, England. Nolan peered over his shoulder. “I didn’t know Deadwood Dick had his own magazine. I knew Buffalo Bill did, but I didn’t think Deadwood Dick was that important.”
Longarm said, “Deadwood Dick don’t exist, even though I keep running into him in saloons. One time, up in Deadwood, I met two Deadwood Dicks at once.”
“I ain’t sure I follows your drift, Longarm. How in thunder could anyone meet a man who ain’t real?”
