Forty Times a Killer Read Online Free PDF

Glee said. “He ain’t likely to give a loan to a ranny he don’t know.”
    â€œI don’t want to borry money,” Wes said. “I’m looking for business partners.”
    I read the question on Glee’s face and said, “John Wesley plans to start up a Wild West show.”
    A second question overlaid the first on Glee’s face, but then he articulated his puzzlement. “What the hell is a Wild West show?”
    Wes said, “We’ll tour the country and bring the frontier to the folks—drovers, Indians, cavalry rough riders, settlers, pretty saloon gals, shootin’, scalpin’—you name it. Folks will sit in grandstands and watch.”
    â€œAnd the folks will pay good money for this?” Glee said.
    â€œSure they will,” Wes said. “I’ll get rich and so will my partners.”
    â€œHell, boy, all folks have to do is walk into the street to see a Wild West show the likes of what you’re talking about. There’s one in Longview every damn night of the week.”
    Wes could look pompous at times.
    He puffed up and said, “This is why you’ll never be great, Mr. Glee. You don’t see the big picture. My show will tour the east where folks walk into the street and all they see is high buildings and trolley cars. They’ll pay through the nose to see the Wild West right in their hometown of Boston or New York or wherever.”
    â€œYou’re serious about this, ain’t you?” Glee said.
    â€œDamn right I am,” Wes said.
    â€œDamn right he is,” I said.
    â€œDamn stupid if you ask me,” Glee said.
    â€œWell, I’m not asking you,” Wes said. “Now I’m gonna see that black man and hope he’s got a heap more business savvy than you.”
    Glee shook his head and walked away. Then he stopped and said over his shoulder, “Think about the stew, huh?”

CHAPTER FIVE
The Mark of Cain
    The Excelsior Hotel was a two story building with a generous porch supplied with bamboo and rattan rockers and wooden side tables. Swallows had built their nests in the corners and ollas, beaded with condensation, hung from the rafters to cool the sitters.
    â€œNice place,” I said as we stepped onto the porch. “It looks expensive.”
    â€œWhere else would a damned carpetbagger lunch?” Wes asked.
    We stepped out of the day’s intolerable heat into the shaded coolness of the hotel lobby.
    A clerk stood behind the front desk talking with a plumed, beautiful officer resplendent in the blue, silver, and gold dress uniform of the U.S. Cavalry. The fussy, bespectacled man shifted his attention from the officer to us, as dusty, shabby and trail-worn a pair as ever was. “What can I do for you”—he gave a moment’s pause—“gentlemen?”
    â€œI’m here to see Sam Luck.” Wes would not put Mister in front of a black man’s name.
    The uppity clerk did. “Mr. Luck is lunching.” He had a funny left eye that turned inward toward the bridge of his nose.
    â€œI know.” Wes could see that the dining room opened onto the lobby and he stepped toward the door.
    â€œWait. You can’t go in there,” the clerk said.
    The beautiful officer stroked the blond, dragoon mustache that fell in waves to the corners of his mouth and his nose wrinkled as he regarded us.
    Perhaps he believed that we’d spent the night in a pigsty somewhere.
    Wes ignored the clerk and strode quickly into the dining room, me limping after him.
    The place was full of big-bellied men in broadcloth, their women in silk, and cigar smoke hung in the air like a blue fog. I identified the fragrances of steak, lamb chops, and sizzling bacon and my hollow stomach rumbled.
    Wes stood still for a moment, looked around, then yelled, “Sam’l Luck! Show yourself, Sam’l!”
    I cringed with embarrassment as every face in the room turned to us. A few