Colorado Sam by Jim Woolard Page B

Tanner. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have a few questions for you.”
    Â Â  “Ask away, Constable. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
    Â Â  “Mr. Tanner, exactly what happened to you and Charlie Swain in that stable?”
    Â Â  “I don’t know. No matter how much I wrack my brain, I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything, not a solitary thing after I parted company with my aunt and Sam in front of the Payne store.”
    Â Â  The chunky constable shifted his weight from one ham to the other, disappointment bunching his bulldog features into a solid lump. “Mr. Tanner, that’s most unfortunate. Much as we’ve asked about we still have no witnesses. The scuffmarks they made indicate there were two of them. From what your aunt told us her dog there got his teeth into of one of them, which accounts for the splatters of blood that led through the rear door of the stable. We followed that trail of blood with a lantern until it petered out. Whoever it was probably wrapped his wound on the run, and once they gained the next street, the surface was too dry and hard for us to read their tracks.”
    Â Â  Constable Allred fingered the badge pinned to the breast of his high collared shirt. “Ain’t no sense beatin’ a dead horse, Mr. Tanner. You got any idea who it was tried to rob you and Charlie?”
    Â Â  Jack Allred’s query established the thinking of the Alamosa Police. Having no evidence to the contrary, they assumed those responsible had been intent on robbery, not murder. Nathan saw how correct Alana Birdsong had been earlier in the day: Groundless accusations wouldn’t alter the opinion of the Alamosa Police one iota.
    Â Â  “I’ve no idea who it was either,” Nathan said. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.
    Â Â  Constable Allred hitched his feet beneath him, stood, and slapped his uniform cap against his thigh before donning it. “If you should remember anything of importance, please send for me.” 
    Â Â  The constable tugged his police cap down to his ears.  “You know, it’s a goodly thing you young bucks have thick skulls. Even at that, I don’t know how the bastards missed killing you like they did Charlie Swain. Good day, Mr. Tanner.” 
    Â Â  Then the constable was gone into the hallway. Nathan lay frowning and thinking. 
    Â Â  Missed.
    Â Â  Young buck.
    Â Â  The constable’s parting words stuck in his mind like signs nailed to the wall of a building. He had a dim recollection of having heard them before, and recently to boot. He couldn’t fathom what, if any significance they might have. Tired and frustrated, exhaustion overwhelmed him and he drifted off again.
    Â 

    *     *     *
    Â 

   The electric light above his bed had been switched off for the night and he came awake in the dark. Someone was mumbling, talking gibberish. He looked about. He was alone except for the snoring Sam. He, not someone else, was the source of the mumbling gibberish.
    Â Â  Missed.
    Â Â  Young buck 
    Â Â  Now that he was fully awake, he realized that’s what he’d been saying over and over again.
    Â Â  He could never explain how or why it happened at that particular moment, but with the speed of a rushing torrent of water he was back in the Payne stable with Charlie Swain; pistol in hand, his palm slippery with sweat, reliving everything that had happened in stark detail.  
    Â Â  The stable reeked of fresh manure, floating dust, and fresh blood, a smell familiar to Nathan. He heard the scrape of his boot heels as he sidled toward the inert body of Charlie Swain. With a last glance roundabout he leaned over Charlie. His head seemed to explode, and then he was falling. 
    Â Â  He rolled onto his back and a hissing voice said, “Didn’t miss this time,