The Famous Flint Dogwood

Buffalo saloon came into view, with its faded sign that spelled out “Loon” instead of “Saloon”. Dogwood secretly wondered if it was a sign already as he approached. A handful of the painted ladies were cackling around a gangly blond haired man who was barely over twenty five. He was dusty and had fallen over drunk.

“We caught ourselves a live one ladies!” One of the painted ladies yelled. The other two standing close by to the man laughed in unison.

“A little fish outta water, ain’t cha boy?” One of the ladies chuckled as the blond haired man finally stood back onto his feet and dusted himself off. Dogwood’s eyes grew wide as he slung his horses reins against the hitching post. It was as though Abe Welch was standing out front, the two were nearly identical.

“Ladies,” the young man drawled, ruffling his shirt back as he finished dusting himself off and fixing his cowboy hat, “you ain’t gotta be so rough with me. Save that for upstairs.”

“Boy you ain’t got the gumption to giddy upstairs,” the first painted lady laughed, and again the others nodded, chuckling at the young man who clearly was out of place at the saloon.

“I got gumption,” the young man challenged, slurring slightly as the painted ladies were beginning to bore of him. At that, Sam Buchanan came down behind Dogwood to witness the scene. When he did so, the young man’s eyes spotted his old classmate and he grinned.

“Well if it ain’t deputy Buchanan,” the young man stepped forward to shake Sam’s hand. Sam grinned and shook his hand fervently. Dogwood was amazed momentarily at their interaction but as quickly as he had been amazed, his face went back to passiveness.

“I’m Fisher Welch,” the young man shook Dogwood’s hand and looked him up and down, “you must be Dogwood.”

“Guilty,” Dogwood shook his hand firmly and then glanced back towards the saloon, wanting to waste no more time. Before he could excuse himself, Fisher spoke.

“You at the scene of a crime?” Fisher whispered, observing Dogwood’s demeanor.

“There’s been—” Sam began but stopped short at the look on Dogwood’s face.

“We must be goin’,” Dogwood tried to extract himself once more from the drunken interaction. The painted ladies were nearby with their ears up to listen.

“You ain’t gonna find nothin’ here. This place is a back door…” Fisher glanced behind him at the painted ladies and then back to Dogwood without finishing his sentence. As he turned back, Dogwood was gone and Sam had left him standing there alone.

Dogwood entered the noisy bar and clacked up the back steps towards the rooms upstairs as the bartender called “Marshall!” behind him. He was tired of being slowed and planned to ignored anyone who stood in his way. The trail was fiery and he needed to continue to follow it. He pushed open the door where the man sat just as he had found the first man in the saloon earlier that evening. He shook his head and narrowed his eyebrows, hoping to find a shred of evidence or clue. Murderers always left things behind them despite all their careful planning. That’s one thing Marshall knew without a shadow of doubt, these murders were planned. Despite not knowing their names, their faces were all similar in the way men with money and who were more important than they let on to be always were. This man had a gold watch, his revolver was a Colt 45 and on his right finger was a pinky ring made of solid gold.

Silence filled the room as Sam stood behind Dogwood, taking mental notes on how Dogwood entered rooms and how he scanned with not just eyes but every sense. Dogwood’s sense was different than most dogs, sniffing things out without even a full trace of answers. It was built in, Sam reckoned, to him.

As he did so, Henry Dogwood appeared in the door jamb. He planned to cuss his father out for how he spoke to Holly only fifteen minutes before outside at the inn. But instead his eyes grew wide.

“Dad—” Henry began to cut into his father but stopped short.

Dogwood muttered under his breath and then strode past his son, leaving Sam and him standing at the scene of the crime. Dogwood rushed down the stairs into the smoke filled bar as one o’clock in the morning struck. He was fed up and though he had brought Sam, wanted to lose him and all that he was bringing to the case. Most of which Dogwood believed to be baggage. As he pulled his reins off the hitching post to saddle up onto his horse and go find the Sheriff in Denver, Henry rushed outside shouting for him. The streets were not as lively as the night was beginning to creep into the early hours of morning.

“Son, I don’t have time for this,” Dogwood said wearily.

“You can’t stay at the inn anymore,” Henry was firm, brazen as he stood facing his father. Both men wore a look of disgust.

 “I was never plannin’ on it.”

“You ain’t makin’ plans? How unlike you,” Henry said sarcastically, shaking his head. Sam rushed from the saloon doors with a windswept look against his face. Dogwood’s face grew hard and he saddled up onto his horse. Sam stumbled as he followed him, quickly slinging his reins off the post and climbing up. Henry’s gray eyes penetrated Dogwood. His chin length light brown hair was slick with sweat as it cooled him in the evening breeze.

“Admit that you need my help. You are out of your bearin’s ole man!” Henry was loud as Fisher, who was still standing outside, tried to make heads and tails of who he was as he spoke so harshly to Dogwood. Dogwood was an expert at finding killers, hunting robbers, and bringing justice where it was due. So to hear anyone speak to him with such audacity was alarming.

“I may be old,” Dogwood retorted as his horse faced his son as he stood on the saloon steps, “but my bearin’s are still here. I see ya, your wife, and ya mischief you make at that so-called inn.”

“It’s cleaner than you. You look like you fell from a mudslide,” Henry lied. His father always looked as shiny as a penny, his badge shined, his boots shined, and he was a man of integrity. Henry loathed Dogwood’s example.

“Get on your horse and help or get out of my way. Because when I come back, the Sheriff will be with me and who knows what concerns he’ll have about this ‘loon’.”

“He’s a regular,” Henry laughed sarcastically, “Not every man is a man that shines his boots at nights and keeps his bed tucked into the wooden slats.”

“Henry, is it?” Fisher offered, trying to interrupt their very public argument. Henry turned towards him, finally pulled from all the people staring.

“Henry, yeah,” Henry merely nodded, embarrassment flashing against his cheeks. As Fisher pulled Henry back to reality, Dogwood moved his horse away and left his son standing on the steps of his wife’s saloon.

“You know,” Sam said as they made their way up the street to find the Sheriff, “he would make a good deputy.”

“If he thought less about his snake trying to lie down in the grass every night and more with his brain.” 

“The grass ain’t always bad if it’s the same kind… Holly can’t be all bad.”

Dogwood pursed his lips tight as he weaved through the street of horses, buggies, drunk patrons, and the sound of arguments and laughter. He left Sam to figure out what Henry should be because Dogwood could never quite understand it. They were too similar and yet could never see eye to eye.

Dogwood abruptly stopped his horse with Sam beside him. The smell of cigars wafted into his nostrils as a beautiful hotel stood with a doorman outside. Dogwood told Sam to wait for him. Sam wanted to argue but did as he was told despite feeling like a child over it.

“I thought we were goin’ to the Sheriff.”

“If I wanted help that hurts, I’d go there.”

Dogwood left Sam with those words and walked past the entrance, into the restaurant and to the back terrace where men in fancy suits were sitting around card tables smoking cigars.

“Mr. Albright?” Dogwood came up to the largest fur tycoon in all of Colorado, possibly even in the US.  Mr. Albright was a handsome man in a fine suit and he currently laughing amongst his friends. He glanced up to see Flint Dogwood. He grinned broadly, standing up and patting Dogwood on the back.

“Men,” Mr. Albright turned to the table of five men who were puffing on cigars, “this is the famous Flint Dogwood.”

“You’re in the papers,” one man pointed approvingly.

“I am,” Dogwood smiled politely and then turned toward Mr. Albright abruptly wanting none of their compliments, “Listen… we need a moment.”

“Now? Can’t you see, Dogwood?” Mr. Albright motioned to the table, the cards, and the waitresses moving through with whiskey on the terrace. There had to be five million dollars sitting on that very terrace as the men stood across from each other.

“I just met your son.”

“My son?” Mr. Albright raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice to turn his back on his friends to face Dogwood chuckling, “What has that boy done now?”

“He’s dead.”