A Good Man Read Online Free

But the body stuffed into those clothes was not the body of a pen driver; it was a block of solid flesh hammered into the notch of the saddle. Face cut square, jaw nearly as wide as the broad forehead, small, neat ears laid flat to the temples as if pinned there by tacks. The eyes, almost colourless, pale as rainwater in a pan, flat, depthless.
    “My name is Case. Constable Wesley Case,” I said. His eyes slid away, a furtive movement, as if the name had pushed them off me and turned them to the whitewashed walls of the fort. Stupidly, I said, “You are at Fort Walsh.”
    His head swivelled back to me. The mute found his voice and it was unequivocally rude. “Is Major Walsh back?”
    “He returned several days ago. Do you bring a message to him?”
    “Why would I have a message for Walsh?”
    “Because most men with a scrap of common sense know better than to go traipsing about in the wilds putting their hair on offer to any Sioux warrior who happens along,” I said, irritably. “I presumed only important business would bring you here. And that would be business with Walsh.”
    “Looking for a man name of Gobbler Johnson is my business. You know a fellow called Gobbler Johnson?”
    “The name means nothing to me.”
    “Well, maybe he found it convenient to trade that name for another. But he can’t lose a turnip-size goitre.” A huge fist went up, pressed itself to his throat. “That ring a bell?”
    “No.”
    He shifted his weight in the saddle, causing the leather to gasp a complaint. “I guess I’ll have a look-see round here. Turn a few rocks over, see what’s under them.”
    “If you’re looking to make trouble with this Gobbler Johnson – think twice. Major Walsh knows how to deal with mischief-makers. Fair warning,” I said.
    “Fair warning,” he repeated. “Don’t concern yourself on account of me. I’m mild as milk.”
    “Maybe, but give me your name. For Walsh.”
    “That’s very policeman-like of you.” He ran his pale eyes up and down me. Then he said, “Michael Anthony Sebastian Dunne.” He pointed to the journal that hung forgotten in my hand. “Last name ends in an e. Maybe you’d like to write it down for the Major.”
    “I’ll remember.” I blew out the candle and went to step around his horse. Dunne pulled his foot from the stirrup and thrust out his leg, barring my way.
    “Put your damn leg down,” I said.
    He eased his boot back into the stirrup. “I do hope Major Walsh found relief for the St. Anthony’s fire in those hot springs down in Arkansas. I hear it’s a most plaguing condition. What he’s facing, he’ll need to be fit as a fiddle.”
    “The state of his erysipelas is no concern of yours.”
    “Sundays we pray for the health of the Queen. And Walsh is as good as a prince in these parts. Ain’t it natural to ask?”
    I tapped the insignia of rank on my sleeve. “Walsh does not confide personal information to a mere sub-constable.”
    “Oh, I don’t think you’re no mere constable, Wesley Case. Far from it.”
    His impudence was irksome. “Do you pretend to know me, sir?” I said.
    Dunne looked past me down to the settlement’s wan lights. He remarked, “Somebody in Fort Benton give me the name of a fellow who rents beds hereabouts. It just went and lost itself. Maybe you know it.”
    “Claggett,” I said.
    He nodded. “That’s it.”
    “I put you a question, Dunne. I want an answer. Do you pretend to know me?”
    Gravely, he shook his head from side to side. It was like watching a boulder teeter. “No, I don’t know you from Adam,” he replied, giving a twitch to the reins. His horse gave a crow hop of surprise, brushed my shoulder with its flank, and broke into a shambling trot. I watched Dunne roll down the hill, broad shoulders tossing about like the gunwales of a barge in a heavy sea. Then horse and rider dissolved back into the liquid blackness from which they had emerged.
    Midnight has come and gone hours ago. I have missed