Amos shot him a sharp look over the lip of his cup. “Do you know why?”
“I think so. Misappropriation of army property would be my guess.”
“And why would you guess that?”
“Because some of it came here.” Simon bit the inside of his lip.
Amos didn’t blink an eye. “And if they prove he was . . . misappropriating, as you call it, can they prove any of it came here?”
“Not unless someone involved comes forward and says so.”
“And do you think Adolph, Sergeant Barrschott, will say anything?”
“Not a chance,” Twiggs said.
Amos turned in his chair. “You sound pretty sure.”
“I am.” Twiggs came over to the table. “Adolph won’t tell. No reason for him to, and every reason not.”
“Maybe you better tell me what I don’t understand.”
“I can’t. For the same reason Adolph won’t. He and I had a business deal, with mutual assurances. He tells, he loses everything he’s saved for the last seven years. His retirement fund is forfeit, and I don’t mean that pittance the army will pay him in three years.”
“And you hold the key?”
“Like I said, I can’t discuss it.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“Same thing, Amos.” Twiggs met Amos’s cold stare, unblinking.
“So now what?” Amos tried to swallow, and reached for his coffee cup.
“So nothing,” Simon said. “Max told me from the start that you didn’t want to know anything about it. Therefore, you don’t. Your accounts are clean . . . I guarantee it. A good bookkeeper, which I am, keeps accurate books, crooked or otherwise. If anyone has to pay for this, I will.”
“You saying they can’t prove I knew anything about this?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And you’re willing to take the rope? They are going to want to hang someone, you know?”
“It won’t be you.” Simon stood.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Now I need to talk to Twiggs and Buell.” Simon nodded toward his office, and Buell and Twiggs followed him into it.
“All right, Max, I have to know as much as you can tell me.” Simon leaned against his desk, facing Buell and Twiggs, seated in the two chairs. Simon felt ready to collapse.
“Barrschott thought this was coming,” Twiggs said. “He’s taken care of the requisition forms from past shipments. Don’t ask me how. There was somebody sneakin’ around, and he took care of that too. We think Rankin sold us out, but can’t be sure.”
“But they’re going to get Barrschott on this last shipment. They caught him red-handed.”
“Did they? The requisitions are filled out properly, always have been. The supplies are still in army control. Maupin’s promotion to first lieutenant didn’t make him any smarter.” Twiggs snorted. “He jumped too soon. All they have is suspicions and circumstance.”
“Damn, yer right. We didn’t steal nothin’.” Buell grinned. “Ol’ Fuzznuts got an empty tote sack.” He chuckled out loud. “The dumb ass.”
“That’s about it,” Twiggs said. “We don’t have to say a thing. If the provost asks, we can tell him that anything dropped here by an army wagon is accounted for, right and proper.”
“That’s good,” Buell said. “I wasn’t lookin’ forward to hightailin’ it outta here. I’m gonna go have a nap. I’m beat.” He got up and left, closing the door.
“That had me worried,” Simon said. His face felt clammy and his voice not quite under control.
“I can see that,” Twiggs said. “Comes from not knowing the whole story.”
“Speaking of such, can you tell me what kind of arrangement you have with Barrschott?” Simon walked around his desk and wearily slumped into his chair.
“Ten minutes ago I would’ve never considered telling you anything. But what you said to Amos makes me think otherwise.”
“I was telling him the truth.”
“Not that. You’d take the blame, when you could easily turn it on us.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“I know that . . . now, and just between you and me, I’m not sure the reciprocal would be true.” Twiggs looked away for a few seconds, his brow furrowed. “I’d like to think so, but really, I’m not sure.”
“I’m responsible for what I do. I knew appro—stealing that stuff was wrong. And I figured if I got caught, I’d pay some sort of a price.”
“You’re not what I’m used to, Simon, put it that way. Now, about Adolph and me. We grew up together, two streets apart. He was married to my sister, Meighan.”
“Was?”
Twiggs leaned forward in his chair, his brow creased. “She’s gone now, diphtheria. But their home is still there, in Philadelphia. And their two children are still alive, and live with their aunt and uncle. They refuse to let Adolph even write to them. They accused him of doing what they thought every nasty German did after losing a wife, consorting with prostitutes. The judge, a Philadelphia bluenose and friend of the family, saw what they wanted him to see.” His lips set in a straight line as he clenched his teeth. “He lost the children and the house. Adolph has two more years to retirement, and then he wants his girls and his good name back. And no, the irony of the situation is not lost on me. But he needs a good lawyer and he wants to educate his girls. Both cost money. So that’s Barrschott’s story.”
“And yours?”
Twiggs snorted. “Different, much different. I’m a black sheep. My father fought for and won me an appointment to West Point. I went and got caught up in a cheating scandal my second year. Being from a family that lived too close to the river, I took the lash for another man whose royal blood couldn’t possibly condone cheating. I was ejected in disgrace. My family, except for Meighan, rejected me as well. That scoundrel is now a congressman, and I intend to see him done. That’s Maxwell Twiggs’s story.”
Simon stared past Twiggs, seeing nothing. “A rush to conclusion risks missing a better outcome.”
“I haven’t heard that one.”
“A lawyer friend back home. Damn, he was smart. And he’d be so disappoi—” Twiggs came back into focus. “Anyway, you said Barrschott is all right financially?”
“Oh, indeed. He arrived here at Fort Laramie, and saw what was happening with the supplies. He wrote me and I came out. We’ve worked the system ever since. He’s worth thousands, all secure.”
“It looks like the cost of doing business is going to go up here.” Simon slumped back in his chair.
“Looks that way. It was nice while it lasted.”
“I’m going to get few a few hours of sleep.” Simon stood up. “What a night.”
The provost’s deputy and three troopers showed up four days later, and asked politely if the deputy could take a look at the inventory for the roadhouse. Simon, just as politely, gave them full run of the saloon and restaurant. Three hours later they left. Lori asked several questions that Simon satisfied with blatant lies.
Sergeant Adolph Barrschott and two corporals on the supply train were each fined one month’s pay for malingering—the specific charge, halting a column to avoid duty. A forfeiture of two months’ pay was assessed the quartermaster for malfeasance. The charges were several, and included poor record keeping, and not properly securing government equipment. The other soldiers on the detail were covertly encouraged to visit Evans’s place if they felt they had to leave the fort for recreation. The availability of the sutler’s store was pointed out, inflated prices notwithstanding.
Rosie made a hastily arranged supply run to Cheyenne, back in eight days with everything they had not received courtesy of the US Army. Simon could not accurately calculate the impact on his profit margin as yet, but he expected to see something less than ten percent, easily made up with some selective and modest price increases. It was now the end of July, and business had returned to normal, the stream of customers steady and spending freely.
&n
bsp; Amos stretched his arms over his head and flexed his neck muscles. He looked around the nearly empty saloon. “I’ve about had enough.” He yawned, then opened his purse and scooped the small stack of coins into it. The few bills he had, he folded and stuffed in his vest pocket.
Saint Louis Bob had left over two hours before, again losing more than he could afford, and the table had grown progressively less animated.
“I hate playing with less than five,” Zahn said. He slid his chair back and stood. “I’m gonna go out and breathe some unused air, and then I’m goin’ to bed.”
“Just about the time I start feelin’ lucky, you guys wanna quit,” Rosie groused.
“We’re doing you a favor, Rosie,” Buell said with a grin. He dropped the deck on the table.
Amos picked it up. “I’ll see Twiggs gets these in the morning.” He gave the group a nod and headed for the stairs.
“C’mon Spud, let’s go,” Simon said.
The dog uncurled and stood, back legs extended in a stretch so hard his belly nearly touched the floor. He gave his coat a good shaking and padded across the floor for the open door.
Outside the four men stood for a moment on the boardwalk, the air still and pleasantly warm.
“I love this time of year,” Simon said.
A low grumble started in the dog’s throat, and he pointed his nose at the stables, the hackles on his back standing. He let out a quiet woof sound.
“What do ya hear, boy?” Buell said as he followed the dog’s stare.
The four men looked toward the stables. “Somebody’s got a light in there,” Buell said. “Wait right here a minute.” He went into the saloon and returned immediately with his Sharps carbine. “Let’s go see who’s visitin’.”
“Be quiet, Spud,” Simon said as he touched the dog’s head.
The rumbling sound quit, and the dog’s ears came erect again. They hustled to the barn. The front of the stable had a smaller front entrance door, and the four men stopped at it and listened.
“Someone’s moving around in there,” Simon whispered.
Buell put his head closer to the door for a moment, and then they all stepped back a little. “I can hear two of them,” he said. “I’m gonna go around to the west side, and come in through one of the manure holes. Give me about two minutes, then all three of you come in through here. Okay?”
“Two minutes,” Simon whispered.
Buell nodded and hurried around the corner. Moving around the side of the barn, he came to the first opening. It was clear of manure. He silently thanked his luck and stooped to climb through and into an empty stall. The pungent smell of pounded earth mixed with dung, sweat and urine rose to meet him. He moved slowly toward the front of the cubicle, the layer of fine dirt over the hard-packed floor silencing his footsteps. A kerosene lamp hung on a pillar.
The yellow glow cast an unsure light over the two men standing in the middle of the room—Rankin and an Indian. Heads together, they carried on a whispered conversation. Rankin held a bridle in his left hand. The Indian pointed at the Appaloosa, Rankin nodded his head, and then started toward the horse. Buell moved closer to the front of the stalls, leveled his carbine and waited.
The front door burst open and Simon burst into the room, followed by Zahn and Rosie. Rankin’s hand dropped to his holstered pistol.
“Touch it and I’ll cut ya in half,” Buell said quietly but distinctly.
The words punched the air out of Rankin’s scrawny chest. Slowly, he turned around and his gaze dropped to the Sharps carbine.
The rifle crackled to full cock. “Kinda hopin’ it was you,” Buell said. His words carried the cold, emotionless resolve he felt. “Always lookin’ for the narrow angle, aren’t ya?”
Rankin glanced at his partner, who stood two steps away to the right, and then he looked back at the shadows.
Buell could see him calculating his chances.
“We weren’t doin’ nothin’,” Rankin said. His tongue sought moisture in his mouth, and the pink tip tried to wet his lips. “Jist lookin’ for a place to put our horses.” His eyes blinked rapidly.
“Prob’ly been a good idea ta bring ’em in then, wouldn’t ya think?” Buell kept his voice steady, almost conversational. Slowly, he stepped out of the shadows and pointed the heavy rifle at Rankin’s chest. The ex-trooper’s body reacted to the called bluff, eyes open wide, a slight jerk of his head.
Rankin started to breathe more quickly.
“I want ya to drop the bridle. It’s mine,” Buell demanded, his voice now sharper.
Silence ensued, so total the air felt brittle. Rankin froze in place, his eyes blinking rapidly. The Sharps remained centered on his chest. Buell glanced at the Indian. “Finally get ta see my work, Injun.”
He took another step forward, and a flash of surprise winked into Knife’s eyes as he caught Buell studying the mangled hand. “Yeah, I’m the guy that messed that up. The one ya didn’t see in the dark by the river.” Buell glanced at Rosie, standing closest to the Indian. He pointed the carbine at the sheathed blade hanging by the Indian’s side. “Hand that knife to him.” He indicated Rosie with a nod.
Rankin swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple working up and down his neck. His eyes followed the movement of the Sharps toward the Indian. He glanced at the door.
“Give it up,” Buell said, his voice a warning hiss. His jaw muscles worked furiously as he eyed the Indian.
Rosie moved forward slightly to take the blade. Knife’s eyes followed like a cornered fox, darting to Simon, then to Zahn and then back to Rosie. Buell, his jaw now set in a rigid line, followed the Indian’s every move.
Simon could feel the animus radiating from Buell. His heart sped up, and he realized he’d stopped breathing. Spud, rigid with anticipation, leaned against his leg and Simon glanced down. Don’t do it, Buell, he silently prayed. He’d no sooner finished the thought than Knife’s blade flashed from the sheath, the point aimed for Rosie’s huge belly. The Indian’s arm shot out, like a snake striking a gopher. Buell’s Sharps blurted fire and powder in a ferocious gout, and the minié ball ripped into Knife’s arm halfway down from the shoulder. The streaking gray bullet smashed through, ripping bone, muscle and nerves as it went into his chest, leaving a horribly mangled wound where his elbow had been. Knife shrieked, and spun half around, already dead as he fell against a saddle rack. The terror-stricken horses in their stalls slammed against the rails.
The blast of the fifty-caliber rifle made Rankin turn his head, and Simon saw the black powder pepper his face and neck. Half hidden by the cloud of smoke, Rankin clawed at his pistol and found the grip. Buell dropped the Sharps, and drew his pistol in the space of a heartbeat. The revolver spit fire, and a bullet hit Rankin just below the ear. His eyes bulged out like a stomped frog’s, one making it back into his head, the other not. Without a sound, he slumped to the ground, the braided bridle still clutched in his hand.
In two strides, Buell stood over Knife. “You’re owed this, ya filthy bastard.” The cocked pistol steadied on the dead man’s head and exploded in a blast of smoke and sparks.
“Buell, don’t!” Simon shouted and he started forward.
Zahn caught his arm in a vise-like grip. “Stay away.” His whispered warning carried both fear and revulsion.
The Remington roared again, and again, three more times, as Buell emptied the pistol into the Indian’s head. Then, he stepped away from the shattered body, and calmly returned his gun to the holster.
“Jesus,” whispered Rosie as he stared at the gory sight. He sat on the ground, legs splayed, and rubbed the sides of his head. “What’n hell happened? I can’t hear.” He dug his thumbs into his ears.
Buell walked over to him. “That’ll clear in a day or two.”
“What’s this?” shouted Rosie as he saw blood on his shirt. “Oh shit, I’m cut.” He tugged frantically at the buttons, finally ripping the bottom three loose.
“Just nicked ya. You’ll be all right.” Buell turned to f
ace Simon and Zahn.
Spud, ears laid back, flashed his teeth once and started a low warning growl.
“Spud, quit it.” Simon bumped the dog in the side with his knee.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Buell looked at the tense dog.
“What’s wrong with you?” Simon nearly shouted. “My God, Buell, you didn’t have ta do that. I saw he was dead before he hit the ground. Wasn’t any call to . . . to mutilate him.”
“We made a promise, remember? And now it’s done.”
Buell picked up the bridle and hung it by his horse’s stall. The spotted animal looked around and announced its tension with a lip-fluttering snort. Walking back toward the door, Buell glanced at Rosie, still on the ground, glassy eyed and rubbing his ears. A little trickle of blood seeped out of the right one and ran onto his collar.
“Might be more than a day or two before they stop ringin’,” Buell said matter-of-factly. He pushed past Simon and was nearly run over by Amos who came rushing through the door.
“What’n hell’s go—Holy Mother.” He stared at the grisly mess to his left, and then hurried over to Rankin’s prone body. His head jerked back forcefully when he saw the man’s face. He looked at Buell. “Oh. My. God. What happened?”
“They were stealin’ horses. The Injun there stuck Rosie, and Rankin went for his gun. I shot ’em both.”
“I’d say.” Amos turned to Simon and Zahn, his ashen face asking a question he couldn’t manage to speak.
“Happened the way he says,” Zahn said. “So quick, I never saw his pistol come out.”
Amos wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Well, we better get ’em out a here.” He nodded at the two dead men. “These horses ain’t gonna stand for much more of this. Stick ’em in the buckboard, and see if we can keep the night critters off ’em. We’ll have to report this to the fort provost.” He puffed a long sigh. “What a mess.”
Simon and Zahn wrapped the dead men’s heads in feed sacks, and then laid the bodies side by side in the wagon outside the stable. Buell had announced his intention to go to bed and left.
Laramie Page 19
