Book Cover  •  Table of Contents  •  < PREV Chapter  •  NEXT Chapter >

CHAPTER 29

      DEPUTY MARSHAL Asa Brandt was a big man with graying hair combed straight back.

      Back in Nebraska, all the lawmen and most of the outlaws called him "Whiskey Eyes," because his eyes were the exact light amber color of good bourbon seen through a clean one-ounce glass. Those eyes, people said, could look right through a man to his soul.

      Brandt liked the nickname and reputation, and because of it he'd stared a lot of men down. But he never once believed he could learn anything about a man just by looking at him. People were too complicated for that. Brandt was 55 years old, and he knew a thing or two about people.

      When Brandt came to the office and saw that the night clerk had answered a telegraphed message about Feeney from a Sheriff named Amhearst sent from Central City, Colorado, Brandt immediately wired Sheriff Amhearst at Central City to set up a meeting. An hour later he got back an answer from some sheriff named Tull. It said he never heard of a man named Amhearst.

      Brandt knew every sheriff in his region, attended meetings with them, and had poured many an eye-colored drink into himself in their company. They all knew each other. He found it hard to believe that Sheriff Tull had never heard of Sheriff Amhearst.

      Surely the U.S. Marshal's office in Denver knew Amhearst. But a telegraph to Deputy U.S. Marshal Ezra Cook drew the same response. There was no sheriff named Amhearst in the books, although with new towns cropping up all over and people calling the same counties by different names, he wouldn't rule anything out.

      In his long career, Brandt never wanted to catch anybody as much as he wanted to get the person who had gunned down Ken Feeney. He wanted to catch him for Feeney's wife Sarah — and for those four children. And if some hick sheriff named Amhearst in one of the multitude of mining camps that sprang up every few months in Colorado thought he knew anything at all about who killed Feeney, then Brandt wanted to find him and learn what it was.

      Brandt was on the train to Denver by noon.

      But it had been easier thought of than done. Now Asa Brandt sat glumly in the Marshal's office in Denver; he had been treated hospitably by the Denver police force, the Sheriff's Department, and the men in the Marshal's office. Ezra Cook had taken him home for dinner and personally matched up Brandt's eyes with several glasses of Kentucky's finest, and declared that he was rightly named. Then they had gone back to the office and worked for hours going through lists of law people in the counties. Even the people down at The Rocky Mountain Daily News, where he had gone inquiring about Amhearst, had let him shut himself in a room with their big book of back issues so he could search for the name.

      But everywhere he looked there was a dead end. Nobody had ever heard of Amhearst. Brandt's lead had evaporated into the Mile High City's thin air like the steam from horse piss on a cold day.

      Then, while Brandt was getting ready to head for Central City to talk to the night telegraph man there, police detective Bobby Thigpen came in and eased his bulk into a chair next to Brandt's. After rolling a cigarette to his satisfaction, Thigpen said, "Ain't that the damndest thing about Amhearst?"

      "What about him?"

      Thigpen looked puzzled. "Ain't you heard? He's dead. He killed a banker and his clerk, but drew a bullet himself."

      Brandt sat bolt upright. "How long ago?"

      "About an hour. I thought you'd already know about it."

      "Now why would you think that?"

      "I thought your friend from Nebraska would have told you by now."

      Brandt's whisky eyes grew even more alert. "What friend of mine from Nebraska?"

      "Deputy Marshal Feeney. He came into the bank while I was investigating it."

      Later, Thigpen said he'd never seen a man come out of a chair so fast in his life.

      Brandt got to the bank minutes later. The bodies and the crowd were gone, but the door stood open and when he walked in he saw a man who knew about banking practices going over a pile of ledgers and other paperwork while a detective and a uniformed policeman stood by.

      Brandt showed his identification. "That man Amhearst who was wearing the badge — did he have any connection with the banker he killed?" he asked the detective.

      The detective looked astonished. "As a matter of fact, he did. We just located the papers. He had an account here."

      Brandt grunted. "Figure out what happened?"

      "Looks like a robbery. Amhearst was holding the shotgun that killed the banker and the clerk — and although he was wearing a badge, there was nothing on him saying he's a real sheriff. The gun that shot him was on the floor by the banker. I thought for a time that it could of been a robbery, but since finding out about the account, I'm beginning to think they could of been acquaintances having a fight."

      Brandt stared at him benignly. "Ever thought it could have been a triple murder?"

      The detective shook his head. "Nothing to indicate that."

      "Well, think about it. I think the man who killed them was carrying the papers of a Nebraska U.S. Deputy Marshal who was killed two years ago. Marshal named Feeney. And a man claiming to be Feeney was showing his papers in this bank today, a little after the killings. If you run into anybody with that name, you shoot first, then ask the questions."

      He turned and started out the door, than paused. "Any of you men know where that banker lives?"

      "Out east of town, near Cherry Creek."

      "Did he have a wife? Family?"

      "A wife."

      "Anybody told her yet?"

      "I doubt it. This only happened an hour or so ago."

      Brandt squinted his whiskey eyes. "Draw me a map how to get there, and tell me where I can get a horse for a few hours."

Cover  •  Contents  •  < PREV Chapter  •  NEXT Chapter >  •  Page Top