Haxan by Kenneth Mark Hoover Page A

His smile came bright in his weathered face. One of his front teeth was chipped. “They’re just good men who are more interested in salt pork and sundown, but they want to see the elephant before we push on north.”
    “That’s fine, Mr. Short. By the way, have you a man named Connie Rand working for your outfit?” Since I was asking everyone I met about Rand I thought I might as well keep the trend going. Maybe someday I would get lucky. “I’m looking for him and I hear he drifts. Thought he might have hooked up with your outfit.”
    “Funny you should say,” Short replied. “There was one drifter who tagged with us from El Paso way. He worked for grub and was good with a handgun. Never saw one better. He dropped out five days ago and rode on for a big spread by the Gila. Lazy X, I think he called it.”
    “That a fact? What was his name?”
    “Called himself Ben Tack. Sounded like a summer name, but I didn’t push it. Long as a man does his job I don’t ask too many questions.”
    I felt my hands go cold. “Ben Tack.”
    “You know him, Mr. Marwood?” Jake asked.
    “Uh, no, Jake. I don’t think so. Anyway, he might not be the same man.”
    “He carried a Navy sixer,” Short kept on. “Beautiful silver-plated gun with a diamond set and pearl handle. Funny thing, he soaped his holster for a faster draw and had the front sight filed down so it wouldn’t snag leather. He even shaved the hammer for an easy trigger pull. Always looking for an edge, a way to get that extra fraction of a second on his draw. Didn’t need it. Could hit a bumblebee on the wing and never break stride.”
    Gideon Short tipped his hat. “Well, gentlemen, nice talking to you. Thanks for your time.” He returned to the bar and ordered a bottle of rye.
    Jake studied me closely. “Mr. Marwood, are you sure you don’t know that man he was talking about?”
    “I honestly don’t know, Jake.” Last I heard Ben Tack was in Pueblo. We had a history that went back a lot further than that, however.
    “Come on,” I said. “Let’s find Magra and have dinner.”
    We entered the cool lobby of the Haxan Hotel. A woman I took to be Hew’s wife, Alma Jean, was working behind the reception desk. She had a mean, pinched face. She was a buxom older woman with hazel-brown eyes, brittle red hair, and a wasp waist.
    “Good morning, Marshal,” she greeted us. “Mr. Strop, congratulations on your appointment as deputy. I’ve always said we need more law in Haxan. What can I do special for you two gentlemen today?”
    “Is Hew around?” I asked.
    “He’s away to Las Cruces on business. Can I help you?”
    “I’m looking for Magra Snowberry. Thought we might have dinner together.”
    Alma Jean’s face shut down with the finality of a guillotine on a gourd. “Miss Snowberry is in the stockroom. That’s where she sleeps.” A pale tongue darted and licked her thin lips. “Marshal, how much longer is that half-breed going to sleep in my hotel?”
    I held her eyes with mine. The air was thick between us.
    “As long as she needs to, Mrs. Clay. I made a deal with your husband.”
    “I know all about the deal you made with my husband, Marshal Marwood. However, this hotel was contracted by the War Department to provide room and board for a federal lawman, not a dirty squaw who had her shack burned out by outlaws.”
    “First of all, you wouldn’t call her that if you knew what the word meant. No woman would.”
    “Indians is Indians, Marshal, never you mind about that.”
    I took a calming breath. I had just met the woman but Alma Jean had a way of getting under your skin like bull nettle.
    “You’re making her sleep in the stockroom, so you’re not out any upstairs bed. Plus, I’m paying for all her meals. You haven’t lost one penny in room and board.”
    “That ain’t the point, Marshal. That ain’t the point at all.” Alma Jean tapped a sharp fingernail against the walnut counter. “I run a respectable establishment. What