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CHAPTER 7

      A LITTLE more than a mile east of Lincoln, Nebraska, Clarence Ottman was in his barn when he heard his two sons yelling for him. They had been rabbit hunting, and now, seeing them running toward him as fast as they could, he immediately feared the worst.

      He thought, "One or the other has either shot himself or his brother." Ottman had trained them and cautioned them about the use of their guns, but he knew that gun accidents had a way of happening when a jackrabbit or a pheasant jumped out of the grass a few feet away.

      He ran toward them, but he saw from the way they moved that they couldn't have been winged bad. And the closer they got the happier the yelling seemed to be. Elton, the oldest, was holding something close to his body with one arm. Winded, Ottman stopped running and waited for them.

      "Pop, we found a dead man," little Arnie yelled joyfully as he approached.

      "Lookit!" Elton cried. "He was just a skeleton, and I got his headbone!"

      Ottman stared at the skull his son pressed into his hand. "Well, well, well," he said. "Where'd you find this?"

      "Out by that big grove of trees by the Little Salt. We was lookin' for a fox we saw, and we came upon a bunch of bones with this skull layin' amidst 'em."

      Ottman paled. "You boys ain't desecrated an Indian grave, have you?" He figured all he needed was a visit from some Sioux chief complaining about vandalism. But when he held the skull and looked into the jawless face, he wiped dried mud from a different-looking upper front tooth and saw that it was capped in gold. Few Indians sported a handsome gold tooth like this skull wore, although gold teeth were in fashion now.

      Ottman thought it might have been some poor traveler, caught out in one of Nebraska's first class blizzards. Then he turned the skull over and saw the bullet hole in the back of the head.

      He scratched his beard "You boys know how to find the place again?"

      They both nodded.

      Ottman glanced up at the sun. It was 10 o'clock. He shook the skull and heard something rattling around in it, and he figured it was probably the bullet. At last he said, "All right, boys, we better harness up the buggy and go to town. I think the Sheriff will want to know about this. Elton, go tell your mother what you found and what we're doin'. See if she's got a shopping list; we can pick up stuff after we drop off our silent friend here."

      Within the hour, the three of them were striding through the imposing front door of the three-story red brick county court house, that included the Lancaster County Sheriff's office, and the U.S. Deputy Marshal's office, on the second floor, close to the county jail on the third floor. At the Sheriff's office, the Deputy on duty at the front desk stared blankly at the skull when Ottman put it down before him.

      "Where'd this come from?" the Deputy asked. He tried to put his finger through the bullethole but it wouldn't fit.

      "Boys found it when they were out rabbit hunting this morning," Ottman said.

      The deputy took out his revolver and drew a .45 bullet from the cylinder and fit the lead into the hole. "He must of got shot by a .45 caliber bullet, I'd say. You boys be able to find the spot where you found this again?"

      "Of course," Elton said. "We ain't stupid."

      Ottman smiled at the Deputy, and bent down and put his mouth close to Elton's ear and whispered. "Your fast mouth just got you a whupping when we get home, Sonny."

      Elton paled.

      The Deputy, who couldn't have cared less, said, "Why don't you all sit down while I take this in to Sheriff Beasley?" He picked up the skull and walked down a corridor and into the at the end of it.

      There was a yell of excitement, the clatter of a chair falling over, and Sheriff Buster Beasley came barreling through the door holding the skull.

      "Don't you folks move until I get back," he commanded as he rushed into the hallway.

      "What's goin' on?" Ottman asked.

      The deputy shrugged. "I don't know, I'm new at this job, but your skull there sure struck a nerve in Buster."

      Meanwhile, the Sheriff was bursting in on U.S. Deputy Marshal Whiskey-eyes Brandt, who'd been reading a stack of wanted posters that had been delivered in the morning mail. All of the men pictured were wanted for federal crimes, the only kind U.S. Deputy Marshals were supposed to be interested in.

      "Look what I got!" Beasley said, setting the skull down so Brandt could see the gold tooth.

      Asa Brandt was called Whiskey-eyes because his eyes were the same color as good bourbon whiskey. He had spent 34 years in the service, had shot 12 men and killed eight of them, and there was nothing he hadn't seen. He'd faced down killers and tricked counterfeiters into selling him phony money, for which he put them in prison. Word was that Whiskey-eyes was so tough he could kill a rabid dog by spitting on it. He was a slung-gutted, graying middle-age man made of quality steel, and people thought he had no more emotion in him than a turnip. Beasley, who knew him for six years, believed that was all true. Thus he was surprised when the deputy marshal's eyes filled with tears as he looked at the skull.

      "It's Ken Feeney," Whiskey-eyes said softly. "Hell, I was hoping he got tired of the work and took off for a new start."

      "He wouldn't have just upped and left Sarah and the kids," Beasley said.

      "I guess I knew that. He was too solid a man. Deep down I knew somebody got him." Brandt stood up. "Is the man who found it still here?"

      "Waiting in my office with his kids. They found it."

      Whiskey-eyes nailed the sheriff with a look. "I want this. Now technically, it's out of my jurisdiction, so — you gonna give me trouble over it?"

      Beasley shook his head. "You take it, marshall, I won't horn in."

      Brandt brushed his eyes with the back of hand. "All right. Let's go out there and see what we can find out. Then I'll go tell Sarah. She's already waited two years, another couple of hours won't matter much."

      "Maybe it's somebody else who had a gold tooth like that," Beasley offered lamely.

      "Naw, It's Ken all right. But we'll make sure when we find the rest of him. I'll recognize his snakeskin boots if they're there, and if his armbones are found, he busted the little bone in his left forearm, and it healed crooked."

      Whiskey-eyes put the skull on top of his bookcase. "Man was solid as a rock. No vanity in him except for the gold tooth and fancy boots — and he was so proud of his family. We'll go out there and see if we can find the rest of him."

      As they were walking down the corridor, he said. "You know how they say I always get my man? Well, the fact is, I've missed 'em a couple of times. But I'll tell you, Buster, I'm gonna get me the S.O.B. that killed Ken Feeney. I'll get this one for sure!"

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