Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

Roper went to his hotel after that. He could have checked out and moved on, but it would be dark in a few hours, and that lamb he’d eaten didn’t qualify as a good meal to him. He was determined to have a steak before he hit the trail again—even if it was at breakfast.

He tried to read to kill the time—this time with a local newspaper, as he had finished his book on the train—but the things the sheriff had told him about Vincent McCord weighed on his mind. What had possessed Victoria to give him that name? Hadn’t her husband talked about McCord when he came home? Hadn’t he told her what a bad penny the man was? Why would she think a man like McCord would sign an affidavit to help her husband?

He thought about sending the woman a telegram but decided against it. Instead, he would move on to Vega, Texas, and see what he could find out from the next man on the list, Gerald Quinn. Maybe he’d know something about McCord, and Westover, and any relationship they may have had.

He went out to find himself a decent steak dinner a few hours later. There was a different desk clerk on duty, and Roper asked the man where to go if he didn’t want to eat in the hotel.

“Down the street, sir, you’ll find a place called Thad’s. They got right good steaks there.”

“Thank you.”

Thad’s turned out to be a small steak house with two waiters working the floor. One of them showed him to a table with a checkerboard tablecloth and a vase with one rose in the center.

“What can I get you, sir?”

“A steak dinner,” Roper said, “all the trimmings, and coffee.”

“Comin’ up.”

As the waiter walked away, Roper saw the sheriff come in the front door. The man spotted him and walked right over.

“I stopped by your hotel and the clerk told me you’d be here.”

“What can I do for you?” Roper asked. “Buy you dinner?”

Parnell sat down and considered the question, then smiled and said, “Why not?”

The waiter came with the coffee and Roper told him to bring two steak dinners.

“Comin’ up,” the man said.

“So what brings you here, other than steak?” Roper asked.

“I remembered somethin’.”

“What?”

“McCord had a woman here.”

“Before or after he went to war?”

“Both,” Parnell said. “She waited for him to get back, and they were together when he got killed.”

“Living together?”

“That’s right.”

“And how do you think this will help me, Sheriff?”

“Well,” Parnell said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, “she’s still in town. I thought maybe you’d like to talk to her.”

Clint studied the man. He didn’t know what he could learn from an old girlfriend of Vincent McCord, but he was still in town, so where was the harm in talking to her?

“Will you take me to her?”

“Sure.”

“No surprises?” Roper asked. “She’s still alive.”

The waiter came with their dinners, and as he set them down, Parnell sat back and said, “No surprises.”

26

Vincent McCord had lived, at the time of his death, in a small house just walking distance outside of town. It had once been a ranch, but the corral and barn had fallen into disrepair. So had the house, but the smoke from the chimney showed that it was still inhabited.

“What’s her name?” Roper asked.

“Tina.”

“Tina what? McCord?”

“Naw, she never took his name, but she’s used a few different ones. Been married a couple of times.”

“What happened to the husbands?”

“They both died.”

“Suspicious?”

“Naw,” Parnell said, “men just seem to die on Tina.”

“Starting with McCord?”

“I guess so.”

As they approached the house, Parnell said, “Let me do the talkin’ at first. Tina’s been known to answer her door with a rifle. She don’t like people.”

“She lives alone?”

“Yep, ever since her last husband died a few years ago.”

“Okay,” Roper said, “whatever you say. You know the lady.”

Parnell laughed. “Tina’s been called a lot of things, but never a lady.”

“Tina!” Parnell called when they got near the house. “Tina, it’s Sheriff Parnell!”

The front door opened, and a woman appeared holding a rifle. She was wearing a calico dress that hung on her bony frame. Both the dress and the woman had seen better days.

“Whataya want?”

“Got a fella here wants to talk to you about Vince McCord.”

“Why the hell would I wanna talk about Vince?” she demanded. “He’s been dead for twenty years. Who is this fella?”

“A detective from Denver,” Parnell said. “His name’s Roper.”

“I never heard of him,” Tina said. “Why I gotta talk to him?”

“I’ll pay,” Roper shouted.

The woman hesitated, then asked, “How much?”

“How much you want?”

More hesitation, then, “Twenty dollars?”

“Done,” Roper said, “but I get to come inside.”

She thought a moment, then lowered her rifle and said, “Come ahead, both of you.”

As they approached the house, she turned and went inside. They followed, closing the door behind them. The musty smell hit Roper first, and the smell of something she’d cooked recently.

“I can make coffee,” she said. “It’s all I have to offer you.”

“That’s fine,” Roper said.

She came up to him, an angular woman whose angles were more evident this close up. She extended her hand, the dirty palm face up.

“My twenty dollars.”

Roper handed it over.

“Sit,” she said.

He looked around. In the kitchen area was a pitted old table and a few rickety chairs. Several of the windows had broken panes that had never been repaired. He noticed, however, that the floors were swept clean and there were no spiderwebs anywhere. In her own way, to her own standards, she kept the house clean.

The furniture in the rest of the house—sofa, armchairs, tables—had seen better days, but in their day they had clearly been good stuff. Even her rifle, a Winchester ’73, hadn’t been cheap in its day.

The two men sat at the table. Roper had his doubts that the chair would hold him, so he sat very still.

Tina put the pot on, and the smell of coffee filled the house. They didn’t speak until she had it poured into three chipped mugs and joined them at the table.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Just some questions about Vincent McCord.”

“He was a violent, venal man,” she said.

“Then why were you with him?”

“Because a woman needs a man to protect her.”

“And now?” Roper asked. “You don’t have a man now.”

“A young woman needs a man,” she said. “A dried-up old woman like me doesn’t.”

He guessed she was about fifty. Not young, but certainly not an old woman.

“McCord served with several men in the war, one of which was Howard Westover. Do you know that name?”

“No.”

“Never heard it?”

“No.”

“Did McCord talk about the war?”

“Just some battles,” she said. “The killing he did. He thought that would impress me.”

“Did he talk about any of the other men he served with?” Roper asked. “Or anything else that he may have done?”

“No,” she said, “he only talked about killing.”

Roper looked at Parnell, who just shrugged.

“What is it you think he did?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Roper said. “I don’t know that he did anything. I’m trying to find out.”

“Well,” she said, “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

They finished their coffee and walked to the door with her. He noticed she picked up her rifle along the way. Obviously, she never went to the door without it.