bedroom door off the kitchen, and in the last rays of light coming in the window, saw her bloody naked body sprawled facedown on the bed.
NO—no—no. He fell on his knees beside the bed. But already, her flesh was cold to his touch. Some madman had carved her up. It was the cruelest thing he’d ever seen outside of Comanche handiwork. Then he rose and saw where she’d written a name in her own blood on the sheet. Kenny R—it was plain as day. That could only be one person. He buried his face in his hands and wept.
What should he do? Get stoned drunk. No, he needed to go and find Jake. After all, she was his wife. Then Bob Trent—there was a strong case here. Good enough to swing a man legally. He paced the floor wanting to cover her up, but yet not wanting to disturb the evidence.
He picked up a page of stationery stained with a bloody boot print from the floor under the edge of the bed.
Dear Jake ,
You have soiled my reputation long enough. I want out and I want a divorce. Your open affair in Mason with Madam Leubow has come back to me from repeated sources. I will be packing to leave .
Damn. He folded it up. She was finally going to leave him. She knew all along about his infidelity. But no doubt one of the Reynolds clan must have followed him here. Oh, damn, what next? The grisly murder scene made him go outside and puke. He braced his shoulder against the porch post for support, the sour vomit fumes burning the lining of his nose. No matter the pain he felt, he still had an obligation to her. He’d ride to Mayfield, find Porter, and then Justice of the Peace Gunner Barr.
It was past ten o’clock when he located Porter playing poker in the Red Horse Saloon. He waved him over to the bar. Peter came across and frowned at his interruption. “What’s wrong?”
“Brace yourself. I’ve got some tough news.”
“Go ahead. What is it?”
“Sometime after you left the ranch today someone murdered your wife. I was passing through and stopped. The front door was wide-open. I found her inside all cut up by some maniac.”
“You see anyone?” Porter looked powerfully upset.
“I hated to be the one told you about this. No, they were long gone when I got there. But she left a name written in blood.”
“Who?”
Chet shook his head. “We need to get Doc and Barr to go up there. I never disturbed a thing.”
“Who was it, man?”
“You’ll see. I’ll go get Doc. You go get Barr.”
“Give me a whiskey,” Porter said to the bartender. “Someone has murdered my wife.”
Doc and Barr rode in Doc’s buggy. The word was out, and a handful of locals accompanied them in the frosty starlight. It was two in the morning when they reached the ranch.
Barr asked Chet to describe how he’d found her.
“Front door wide-open made me suspicious. I knocked, no answer. I found there had been a struggle in the kitchen. You will see that. She’s in the bedroom. But I must warn you—it made me puke.”
“Where is the name of the killer you said she’d written in her own blood?”
“On the sheet by her right hand.”
Jake Porter went in the bedroom with Doc and Barr, and came right out to collapse on the kitchen floor. Chet brought him a chair and helped him get up and seated on it. The man’s face was blanched snow white.
“Oh, dear God, how could someone be that cruel?”
Chet wanted to know the exact same thing. He sent one of the men after a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags.
Looking sick to his stomach, Barr came out shaking his head. “They raped her, too, Doc said.”
“Judge, tell us who she named as her murderer,” said Jake.
“Kenny R.”
“That has to be Kenny Reynolds.”
Barr never nodded to agree; instead, he pushed his way out the back door to puke off the back stoop. He vomited and vomited until he was racked by the dry heaves.
He came back in bleary-eyed. Wiping his mouth on a crumpled-up handkerchief. “I’ll have the hearing day after tomorrow. I’ll need you there,
NO—no—no. He fell on his knees beside the bed. But already, her flesh was cold to his touch. Some madman had carved her up. It was the cruelest thing he’d ever seen outside of Comanche handiwork. Then he rose and saw where she’d written a name in her own blood on the sheet. Kenny R—it was plain as day. That could only be one person. He buried his face in his hands and wept.
What should he do? Get stoned drunk. No, he needed to go and find Jake. After all, she was his wife. Then Bob Trent—there was a strong case here. Good enough to swing a man legally. He paced the floor wanting to cover her up, but yet not wanting to disturb the evidence.
He picked up a page of stationery stained with a bloody boot print from the floor under the edge of the bed.
Dear Jake ,
You have soiled my reputation long enough. I want out and I want a divorce. Your open affair in Mason with Madam Leubow has come back to me from repeated sources. I will be packing to leave .
Damn. He folded it up. She was finally going to leave him. She knew all along about his infidelity. But no doubt one of the Reynolds clan must have followed him here. Oh, damn, what next? The grisly murder scene made him go outside and puke. He braced his shoulder against the porch post for support, the sour vomit fumes burning the lining of his nose. No matter the pain he felt, he still had an obligation to her. He’d ride to Mayfield, find Porter, and then Justice of the Peace Gunner Barr.
It was past ten o’clock when he located Porter playing poker in the Red Horse Saloon. He waved him over to the bar. Peter came across and frowned at his interruption. “What’s wrong?”
“Brace yourself. I’ve got some tough news.”
“Go ahead. What is it?”
“Sometime after you left the ranch today someone murdered your wife. I was passing through and stopped. The front door was wide-open. I found her inside all cut up by some maniac.”
“You see anyone?” Porter looked powerfully upset.
“I hated to be the one told you about this. No, they were long gone when I got there. But she left a name written in blood.”
“Who?”
Chet shook his head. “We need to get Doc and Barr to go up there. I never disturbed a thing.”
“Who was it, man?”
“You’ll see. I’ll go get Doc. You go get Barr.”
“Give me a whiskey,” Porter said to the bartender. “Someone has murdered my wife.”
Doc and Barr rode in Doc’s buggy. The word was out, and a handful of locals accompanied them in the frosty starlight. It was two in the morning when they reached the ranch.
Barr asked Chet to describe how he’d found her.
“Front door wide-open made me suspicious. I knocked, no answer. I found there had been a struggle in the kitchen. You will see that. She’s in the bedroom. But I must warn you—it made me puke.”
“Where is the name of the killer you said she’d written in her own blood?”
“On the sheet by her right hand.”
Jake Porter went in the bedroom with Doc and Barr, and came right out to collapse on the kitchen floor. Chet brought him a chair and helped him get up and seated on it. The man’s face was blanched snow white.
“Oh, dear God, how could someone be that cruel?”
Chet wanted to know the exact same thing. He sent one of the men after a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags.
Looking sick to his stomach, Barr came out shaking his head. “They raped her, too, Doc said.”
“Judge, tell us who she named as her murderer,” said Jake.
“Kenny R.”
“That has to be Kenny Reynolds.”
Barr never nodded to agree; instead, he pushed his way out the back door to puke off the back stoop. He vomited and vomited until he was racked by the dry heaves.
He came back in bleary-eyed. Wiping his mouth on a crumpled-up handkerchief. “I’ll have the hearing day after tomorrow. I’ll need you there,
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