Simon looked over the saloon. Molly stood in the kitchen door, a white towel held to her face, eyes wide with fear. Half a dozen men peered over tabletops from their ridiculous hiding places. Amos, hands on hips in fatal resignation, stood away from Buell, shaking his head. Rosie, still transfixed and speechless, didn’t even blink. The smoke from the two pistol shots hung in the air, mute testimony to mayhem.
“It wasn’t loaded,” Buell said, his voice leaden.
“What? What’s not?” Simon heard Amos say. Buell’s face came sharply into focus and Simon studied it. The clear eyes, now sad, looked back.
“I unloaded his shotgun, Simon. Last night. Ya didn’t have to shoot.”
Tay’s words flashed through his head. “You run a whorehouse, Simon.” And his own response. “But I ain’t killed nobody.”
Then the sight of Buell filled his consciousness—the acrid bite of burned gunpowder, odorless; Molly sniffling in her dish towel, unheard; the grotesque display of Twiggs’s still body, unseen. Complete defeat twisted Buell’s features. Simon felt his friend’s soul reach out to him and felt his own recoil in revulsion. A shudder of disgust started in his head and rippled through his body. “I’ve become you,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’m just like you.” The pistol clunked to the floor and Simon slumped onto a chair.
“We’re gonna have a hard time explaining this to the army,” Amos said.
Buell looked at Amos and then at Simon. “I’ll help ya out on that score.” Buell said it as though he were simply offering to help unload some supplies.
Horrified, Simon watched Buell deliberately draw the long-barreled Remington, and coolly point it at the gray-white face of the dead bartender. Spellbound, and unable to avert his eyes, Simon watched Twiggs’s head erupt just below the hairline. It came apart under the brute force of the .44-caliber slug, and pink and red spattered the broken mirror. Simon’s brain did not register the roar of the heavy pistol.
“Aw, gawd,” Rosie said. He bolted from his chair and ran for the front door, hand clamped over his mouth.
“Tell the provost I did it,” Buell said. His voice carried no emotion. “He’ll believe ya.” He jammed his pistol into the holster, looked at Simon once, then slowly walked across the saloon and out into the night. Simon could do nothing, but stare at the jagged glass of the smashed mirror, the reflections as scrambled as his thoughts. He found himself marveling at the different colors, newly spread on his polished mahogany back bar.
CHAPTER 23
Simon felt a hand on his shoulder, then the sound of excited people penetrated the fog that held him spellbound.
“You all right now, Rosie?” he heard Amos say.
“Gawd, what a mess,” Rosie replied. “What a terrible mess this is. How’s Simon?”
“Ain’t said nothin’. Just keeps starin’ at the mirror. Ya see Bob?”
“Nope. His horse is gone. Expect he went home.”
“Simon? Ya okay?” Amos asked.
Simon felt the hand shake him, and Amos’s face drifted into focus, his brow furrowed. “Yeah, I’m okay. I shot Twiggs.” He didn’t recognize his own voice.
“No, Buell shot Twiggs, Simon,” Amos said. “Buell did it. Only thing that makes sense.”
“Here, Simon, drink some of this.” Lori handed him a half-full glass of brandy. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Simon took a sip of the heady drink, then looked at the bar—the center of the bar. “Where’s Max?”
“We laid him on the floor,” Amos said.
Simon peered over the edge of the table and saw a pair of boots, toes-up. The legs disappeared at mid thigh under the green felt top. “He dead?” Simon asked, vacantly.
“Yup. Buell hit ’im right in the heart.”
“How can this happen, Amos? I knew Buell was looking to get Quinn. I should have told you.”
“I knew it too. Weren’t no stoppin’ Buell if Quinn decided to try it again. Not yer fault.”
“How we gonna sort out that money?” It was Rosie.
“Money? Damn, Rosie.” Amos sounded slightly shocked.
“Well, we gotta do somethin’ with it. The army shows up, you know what’ll happen.”
“I suppose yer right. You remember how it went?”
“Yeah. If he was cheatin’, everybody gets back to the ante. He was cheatin’ wasn’t he?”
“I ain’t looked.”
Amos reached across the table for the dead man’s cards.
“Sumbitch, four kings and an ace.” Amos laid the hand faceup on the table.
“How did Buell know?” Rosie asked. “I didn’t see anything wrong.”
“I really don’t know. Simon? He say anything to you?”
“He thought a marked deck was getting into play. He just didn’t know how. But Twiggs?”
“That’s a little hard fer me to believe,” Amos said. “He’s been with me a long time.”
“Well, he sure pulled down on Buell,” Rosie said, “like he knew he was caught. That has to be the worsest sight a man can see, the nasty end of a twelve-gauge.”
“Was Max’s shotgun loaded?” Simon glanced towards the bar.
“Wasn’t. It is now,” replied Amos. “Thought it might be best for the army.”
“I can’t let this fall on Buell,” Simon said. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know. But what he said is best. The army is gonna want to know why these men are dead, and everybody but Bob has agreed to what we saw.”
“But I shot Twiggs first.”
“With what?”
“My pocket gun. It’s right . . . where is it?”
“I don’t know what yer talkin’ about. Twiggs leveled his shotgun at the table. Had he pulled the triggers, he’d have killed more’n one or two. Buell shot him in self-defense. Same with Quinn. His pepperbox is still in his vest pocket, but it was plain as a runny nose he was goin’ for it.”
“Has the army been told?” Simon asked.
“They should know by now. I sent Fraser over to find Bob, and tell the provost that we’ve had a deal over here. They’ll either tell ’em to wait till mornin, or they’ll come right on out. I’m bettin’ they’ll come right out.”
“I thought the shotgun was loaded, Amos. It was always loaded. Twiggs counted on it.”
“I know he did, and ya did the right thing. Anybody would have done it. I’ve never seen Twiggs put it to his shoulder like that. He was serious gonna shoot us.”
“But all of us? He would have hit all of us.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’, Simon, ya did what anybody here would of done. Ain’t no sense in givin’ the army a reason to fix somethin’ that can’t be fixed. See what I mean?”
“But Buell shouldn’t take the blame.”
“He’s gonna take it for Quinn,” Rosie said. “He’s already taken it for Rankin. One more ain’t gonna hurt his reputation any. That’s the cold hard fact of the matter.”
“But we know he didn’t kill Twiggs.”
“And he knows it too. So who’s to gain or lose?”
“I don’t know if—”
“Ya can’t fix Twiggs, Simon.” Amos stood up. “Ya shot in self-defense. Ain’t nobody here will dispute that. But you ain’t never been involved in no shooting before, and ya don’t need to be branded like a shooter. When Buell gets back, he’ll tell you the same thing. I know what he said, and he’s right. The army will believe he did it, and ain’t no reason we should try to change their minds.”
Lori walked up to the table.
“You can go upstairs again if ya want, Lori,” Amos said. “You weren’t here when any of this happened. Ain’t no sense in the army botherin’ you. I’m gonna go take a look in Twiggs’s room, ’fore they get here.”
“You’ll find what you’re lookin’ for in the kitchen,” Lori said.
“What I’m lookin’ for?”
“Come on.” Lori cocked her head and gave him a half frown.
“Yer right. I k
now he kept an account book of his take from the bar, and there has to be something about where he banked his money, too.”
“He hid it in my kitchen. The sugar bin has a false bottom. Turn it around and . . . Never mind. I’ll show you.”
“How’d you know about it?”
“Only a man would try to hide something in a woman’s kitchen or her bedroom.”
Lori and Amos soon returned with two small books. Amos handed one to Simon. “Here, see if you can make sense of that.”
Simon looked at the meticulous rows of entries filling the pages. Totals for bar receipts with a corresponding value representing six percent. Dollar amounts followed by names and dates. Larger amounts followed by the word “Deposit” and a date. All with running totals. Simon turned to the last entry.
56.00 Quinn July 9 488.75
“Look at this, Amos.” Simon handed him the book. “He was taking money from gamblers.”
Amos looked up and down the columns for several minutes. “He was making deposits to Taylor’s Bank in Omaha every four or five months. Good Lord, Simon, he has thousands listed here.”
“What’s the other book?”
“A diary, this year. Wonder if this is the only one? Can’t imagine so.”
“You shouldn’t read that,” Lori said. “Really.”
Amos studied her for a moment, then opened the first page. “Says here in the front, ‘In case of my demise, please forward to Percival H. Paine, Attorney at Law, Philadelphia. Substantial reward offered for this kind service.’ ”
“You know anything about that, Simon?”
“A little. Did you know that he had gone to West Point?”
“Twiggs? I knew he was educated, but military? He don’t . . . didn’t have much use for the military.”
“Yep, and there’s a reason. Got railroaded out. He was looking to clear his name. I think that’s what the lawyer’s for.”
“What do ya think’s in here?” Amos waved the book.
“Hard to tell.”
“It’s private, Amos,” Lori said quietly. “I know he wasn’t exactly honest, but that is very personal.”
“Might be something in here that could get us in hot water,” Amos said.
“Then burn it,” Lori said firmly. “And any others we find.”
“What do ya think, Simon?”
“I’m not sure I should have an opinion on anything moral. You do what you want.” Lori’s look of disapproval stung.
“And what about his good name?” Amos looked at Lori.
“I’m afraid that’s already been burned,” she said.
An hour later, Captain Van Dyke strode stiffly across the floor, back so straight it must have been uncomfortable. “I warned you, McCaffrey.” He barely glanced at the corpse of the gambler.
“We’ve left things pretty much as they were, Captain. Every witness is here except three, unless Fraser and Bob Pulver come back with you.”
“They did. Who else is missing?”
“Buell Lacey or Mace.”
“Which?”
“He uses both names.”
“His kind usually do.” He spoke now with a sneer. “I guess we can start with the obvious. Who shot these men?” He glanced around. “I was told there were two. Where’s the other one?”
“Behind the bar. It’s Twiggs, my barman.”
“Again. Who . . . shot . . . them?” He bit off each word and spit it at Amos.
Amos flushed. “Buell, but—”
“As if there was any doubt.” A look of sheer glee swarmed over Van Dyke’s face.
“And where is Mister Mace Lacey?”
“Out.” Amos said curtly.
“A little more precise if you please.”
“He rode off,” Simon said. “He does that. He’ll be back.”
“Ah, Mister Steele. My guess is, only if we drag him back.”
“No reason for him to run. Twelve men witnessed what happened.”
“Does that count Twiggs . . . and this one?” He pointed at Quinn.
Amos flushed again. “Now look here, Captain. It was self-defense. This gambler and Twiggs were in a cheatin’ deal together. We caught ’em, and when they went fer their guns, Buell shot. That’s what he was paid to do.”
“And how many of these witnesses are what you might call ‘regular’ customers?” His double meaning came across clearly.
“Regular does not mean dishonest, Captain,” Simon said.
“Your opinion, Mister Steele.” Van Dyke turned to the door and shouted. “Sergeant!”
Simon recognized the soldier who came through the door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take the names of everyone in here, and also get a location where they can be found later should I see the need.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know this man, McCaffrey?” The captain stepped over to Quinn.
“Only his name. He registered saying he was from Cheyenne. That was this time. He registered before as being from Omaha and New Orleans. He’s a gambler; that’s all I know.”
“Have you searched his body?”
“I have not.”
The captain knelt beside the dead man and quickly found his wallet and a purse, a pistol in a hideout holster under his vest, and another in a holster in his boot top, along with a dirk knife. Opening the wallet, he thumbed through what appeared to be several bills and various pieces of paper. The purse contained a considerable amount in gold and silver coins. “He was sitting where he fell?”
“Yup.”
“And the money on the table is his?”
“All of it. Everybody else got theirs.”
The captain started to say something, then shut his mouth. He took a linen bag out of his blouse pocket, and dropped the weapons and the money into it. “I’ll see this is disposed of properly. You did know Twiggs well though, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He’s worked for me almost from the start. He’s from Philadelphia. I even have an address of some of his kin.”
Van Dyke walked around the end of the bar, then down it to where Twiggs lay stretched out on the floor. “Good Gawd,” he gasped, and turned to look at Amos. “What was he shot with?”
“Buell shoots a Remington forty-four, and he’s very good with it.”
The captain stooped down, and almost immediately rose again. “There’s nothing on his person. Because you know him, I am going to charge you with burying him, and sending his effects to his family. Do you have any objections?”
“No. I can do that.”
“Very well.” The captain glanced down, and with a grimace, came around the end of the bar. “Make sure the sergeant gets your names on his list. I’ll decide if an inquest is needed, and if so, you’ll be called to attend. At the very least, I will want to see Mister Mace. You will inform him of such as soon as he makes his presence known. Am I clear on that?”
“I’ll tell him, Captain,” Amos said.
“Sergeant, put this man on the wagon and take him to the morgue. I’m leaving.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a final curt nod to Lori, he wheeled around and left.
CHAPTER 24
Buell did not return the next day or the next. Simon hired four women from the civilian community at the fort to clean the bar, and by noon of the second day, everything was more or less back in order. One of Twiggs’s regular helpers, Seth Martindale, jumped at the chance to be head barman. Simon went into the saloon about two o’clock in the afternoon.
Amos came into the office a few minutes later. “Haven’t heard a word from the army,” he said, settling into a soft chair. “I was hopin’ Van Dyke would see the obvious, and it looks like he has.”
“They’re not known for quick decisions,” Simon said. “I still expect we’ll have to face him.”
“Buell showed yet?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t want to press, but have ya looked at his stuff?”
“Like his clothes and things?”<
br />
“Yeah. How about his saddlebags? Still there?”
“I haven’t looked. I’m a little afraid to.”
“Ya should. If he’s gone, it’s best if we know.”
“I don’t want to think he’d just leave.”
“Me, either, but I think ya should look.” Amos got out of the chair. “Just a suggestion.” He left the office.
“You’ve missed him, too, haven’t you, Spud? Should we go see?”
The dog stood up at the word “go” and wagged his tail. Simon headed out of the saloon.
Opening the wardrobe, Simon confirmed what he had hoped would not be true. Buell’s two extra shirts and his slicker were missing. Simon opened the bottom drawer—empty. He checked the top drawer of the dresser for the half dozen letters that Buell kept there. All gone—like Buell.
A feeling of abysmal emptiness came over him and his chest felt light. An unfamiliar pulsing sensation surged through his head. In a daze, he went into the front room, and sat by the little table. Spud lay down and put his muzzle across Simon’s foot. Simon fought in vain to contain the sobs that welled up out of his empty soul, and he cried like he hadn’t since he was a boy, head down on his arms.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” The words were spoken quietly and gently. Lori.
“I knew it that night.” Simon could not bear to lift his head and face her. He sniffed his nose.
“I understand what you feel, Simon. I left my two sisters when I came here. I thought I would bust. Can you take comfort that he went because he thought it best?”
Simon raised his head and looked at her through blurry eyes. “I drove him away. I’ve never appreciated him for what he was until now. Tay must’ve told me that a dozen times, and I wouldn’t listen. Now he’s gone. Where?”
“I don’t know, Simon. We don’t know if he’s gone for good either. He just may have needed to be alone for a while. Just like you were doing here.”
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