“If I did, I’d sell the damn’ thing to you right now for a nickel.”
Finch reared back, startled by Ethan’s response. After a moment, he started to close the door, then pulled it open again. “Sheriff’s coming,” he announced in a subdued voice.
Ethan stood quietly to one side as Jeff came in and took a seat behind his desk. Glaring at Finch, he said: “Go over to the Occidental and get yourself a bite to eat. When you come back, Polly’ll have a couple of plates ready for our prisoners. Bring them with you.”
Finch nodded and headed for the door.
“Ralph,” the sheriff spoke sharply.
The deputy halted. “Yeah?”
“If I catch you spitting in their food again, I’ll make you eat it yourself.”
Finch’s cheeks turned beet red. He started to look at Ethan, then thought better of it and went out, slamming the door behind him.
Jeff motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “Can you write, Ethan?”
“Fair.”
Jeff set paper and a freshly sharpened pencil on the desk in front of him. “Write down what happened out there. I especially want as much detail as you can remember about the men’s descriptions. Clothing, height, hair color . . . anything and everything.”
Ethan nodded and pulled the paper close. It took almost an hour to complete the report—two pages filled in solidly, front and back. Jeff sat across from him the whole time but never spoke or tried to hurry him. Accepting the documents when Ethan passed them over, he grudgingly acknowledged: “I’ll say one thing for you, Ethan, you ain’t afraid of work.”
“I figure I’d rather dig a dozen post holes in rocky ground than do another one of those,” Ethan said, nodding toward the papers in the sheriff’s hands.
Jeff chuckled. “We share common ground in that regard. Why don’t you go talk to your brothers while I look at this? I’ll give you a shout when I’m finished.”
Ethan stood and unbuckled his gun belt, dropping it on the desk. As soon as he passed through the door to the tiny cell-block, Ben and Joel jumped to their feet.
“Ethan!” Ben shouted. “Are you gonna get us out?”
Joel’s cell was closer. Ethan stopped there first. “Howdy, Joel.”
“Eth.” There was a cocky grin on his brother’s face, contrasting sharply with hopelessness in his eyes. “Ben said you’d be in today.”
“I told him you were gonna get us out of here, Ethan, but Joel don’t believe me. You are, ain’t you?”
“Not today, Ben.”
His little brother’s expression crumbled. “Ethan,” he whispered in disbelief, knuckles whitening on the bars of his cell. “You said you was gonna get us out.”
“Let me talk to your brother,” Ethan said gently to Ben. “I want to hear his side of the story.”
“Have you heard Merrick’s yet?” Joel asked.
“Not yet, but the whole town seems to know what happened.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet it does,” Joel said bitterly.
“Is it true?”
“If you believe I beat Suzie Merrick, then you can go to hell,” Joel replied. He backed away from the bars, lean and sinewy in a cheap black suit and scuffed, dusty boots. His hair was combed straight back from his forehead, and there was a snippet of hair across his upper lip that hadn’t been there the last time Ethan had seen him. Joel’s eyes were the same vivid pale blue as their pa’s, but lacked the intensity of Jacob Wilder’s fiery gaze. Joel was scared, and it showed.
“I don’t know what to believe any more,” Ethan said. “I’m not back home a week and I’ve got two brothers in jail and another shot and barely hanging on. Pa’s dead and . . .”
“How’s Vic?” Joel interrupted.
Ethan hesitated. “He’s hanging on.”
“Joel didn’t hit that girl,” Ben said vehemently, “and I didn’t shoot Pa. Somebody’s out to get us.”
“Doing a mighty fine job of it, too,” Joel muttered. “Have you talked to Burke yet?”
“No, but I will before I leave. He’s reading the report I wrote about the shooting yesterday.”
“Ask him about Lou Merrick,” Joel said. “Then ask him about Nate Kestler.”
“What about Nate Kestler?”
“About how he’s been sniffing around Janey Handleman so much lately her pa’s had to run him off more than once. Ol’ Nate ain’t all that keen on Suzie Merrick, even if she is built like a saloon whore, and Charlie’s worried he’s going to end up with a half-breed for a daughter-in-law. That ain’t setting too well with the old man. Charlie’s got high ambitions for that boy of his, like maybe a seat in the territorial legislature, but, if Nate marries a ’breed, that’ll end it right there.”
“Wait,” Ethan said, holding up a hand. “Where’d you hear all this?”
“From Suzie Merrick . . . last week.” Joel came back to the bars. “She wasn’t beat up the last time I saw her, Ethan.”
“They’re saying Lou caught you in the act.”
“Lou Merrick is a lying son-of-a-bitch. I went there looking for Suzie, sure, but I never even saw her. Lou caught me leading my horse into his barn, and threw down on me with a rifle.”
“So what does Nate’s interest in Janey Handleman have to do with Suzie Merrick?”
“You tell me.”
Ethan didn’t reply right away. Janey’s father was Tom Handleman, another of the old-timers who had settled in the breaks when the buffalo disappeared. He’d married a Sarcee woman named Swan’s Wing in the manner of the plains, meaning he’d more or less bought her from the girl’s father for some horses, a rifle, powder, and lead. They’d had a girl they named Janey and three boys who were all quite a bit younger than her. Ethan hadn’t been to the Handlemans’ cabin in several years, but he recalled that, even then, little Janey had been growing into a beautiful young woman. It didn’t surprise him that Nate Kestler would take a shine to her. It didn’t surprise him that Nate’s father would be against it, either.
“Are you saying it was Nate who beat up Suzie Merrick?” Ethan asked.
“She’s a clingy one, Eth, and she wants a piece of Kestler’s spread. She as much as told me that. She’ll get it, too, if she can corner Nate into marrying her.”
Ethan shook his head. He’d hoped talking to Joel would clear up some of his confusion, but he felt as muddled now as he had that morning.
“Ethan!” Jeff called from the front office.
Joel glanced at the cell-block door and sneered. “Better go see what that tub of bull’s dung wants,” he said. “While you’re at it, ask him what he knows about Nate Kestler. I’d like to know where that boy was the night Suzie got beat to hell.”
“I’ll ask him,” Ethan said. “Do either of you need anything?”
“I need to get outta here,” Ben said fervently.
“I’m doing what I can,” Ethan promised. “What about you, Joel?”
“See if you can slip me a bottle of whiskey the next time you come in. Being closed in like this is clawing on my nerves.”
“Me, too,” Ben said. “Bring me a bottle, too.”
“You’re too young to drink whiskey,” Ethan said.
Tears sprang to Ben’s eyes. “I ain’t, either. Not if they’re plannin’ to hang me. That ain’t something I’d want to do sober.”
“Bring him a bottle,” Joel said irritably. “He’s snuck enough of Pa’s whiskey over the years to know what he’s getting in to.”
“All right,” Ethan surrendered. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jeff was still at his desk when Ethan returned, leaning back in a wooden swivel chair. He looked sleepy in the warm, still air of the office. Only his eyes betrayed his alertness, the wary edge of anticipation. Jeff Burke was a man caught in the middle, and, recalling his conversation with the young barber at Jenkins that morning, Ethan wondered how much of a problem that was going to be when Charlie Kestler and his men rode into Sundance.
Jeff inclined his head toward the repor
t Ethan had written. “A good description of what happened, but lacking in important details. A red shirt, a brown hat. That’s not much to go on.”
“Everybody was keeping their heads down. Including me.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“What about the man Doc treated? The one with the mangled hand?”
“If I see anyone around town with freshly amputated fingers, I’ll ask him about it, but so far I haven’t seen anyone who fits that bill.”
“You checked the hotel?”
Jeff acted mildly annoyed by the question. “I will, when I get time.”
“What about those men at the Bullshead? Are they suspects?”
“Should they be?”
Ethan could feel his anger stirring. “Dammit, Jeff, somebody shot Vic, and somebody killed Pa. Considering the bandage on that fella’s face, I’d think you’d be interested in talking to him.”
“There’s a thousand reasons a man can cut his face that doesn’t involve breaking the law, Wilder. Find me the guy Doc treated, then I’ll be interested.”
Ethan started to fire back a retort, then abruptly shut his mouth. He needed Burke on his side, not antagonized to the point of turning his back on them. Pulling his eyes away from the sheriff’s glowering stare, he noticed the big, framed map on the wall above Jeff’s desk. He eyed it with distracted curiosity. Sundance was underlined with a red pencil, not too many miles below the Canadian border. Idly Ethan’s gaze traveled along the Marias to where Gerard Turcotte’s cabin was located, then on through the draws and side cañons to where Ian McMillan and his wife had been hung, where Emile Rodale was missing yet. On a hunch, he said: “What do you know about Westminster Cattle and Mining?”
If the question caught Jeff off guard, he didn’t show it. “Not much. I’d never heard of them until Nolan Andrews rode in here a few weeks ago claiming to be an agent for the company.”
“Andrews told me Westminster was headquartered out of Bismarck. Isn’t Kirk Weller a marshal in Bismarck?”
Jeff cut him a shrewd look. “I’ve already telegraphed Kirk.” After a pause, he added: “Westminster is owned by a corporation out of New York. Frankly I doubt if they’d be interested in a man like your father.”
“Or much give a damn if he or one of his sons got shot for standing in their way.”
“That’s a box cañon, Ethan,” Jeff said gently. “You’d easier rope a bolt of lightning as tie your pa’s murder to one of Westminster’s bigwigs.”
“What about Andrews?”
“You stay away from Nolan Andrews. He’s bad medicine.”
“I’ve already met him once. He didn’t seem so tough to me.”
“Yeah, I can see he was a real kitten by the cuts and bruises on your face. I mean it, Ethan, shy clear of that one.”
“You know, Jeff, no one’s ever told me who brought Ben in.”
Burke shifted uncomfortably. “Some fellas.”
“Was Nolan Andrews one of them?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“How about those boys at the Bullshead this morning?”
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “You stay away from them, too. They’re hardcases if ever I saw one, and I’ve seen plenty in my time.”
“Ira said Nolan was talking to them last night.”
“There’s no law against talking to men in a saloon.” Jeff leaned forward, jaw thrust stubbornly forward. “Dammit, Ethan, stay out of it. I’ll take care of looking for your pa’s killer.”
“Does that mean you don’t think Ben did it?”
“It means,” Jeff said testily, “that I’m still investigating the case. Or will be when people quit pestering me with questions I don’t have answers for.”
Remembering what Joel had told him, Ethan said: “Did you know Nate Kestler’s been seeing Tom Handleman’s daughter?”
“Uhn-huh, I did. Your brother’s got a big mouth when he’s drunk, and he was pretty tipsy when Lou herded him in here yesterday.” Jeff stood and tugged at his gun belt as if he wished he could take it off. “Go on back to the Bar-Five, Ethan. You being here is only going to cause more trouble.”
“I think I’ll hang and rattle a while, Jeff. You might need some help later on.”
“Don’t even think about that. The more distance you keep between yourself and the rest of the factions in town today, the less my chances of having to haul your carcass over to Manson’s.”
Ethan shrugged and buckled on his belt. He had no intention of leaving Sundance today. They both knew that. He paused when he reached the door, glanced back a final time at the map on the wall above Jeff’s desk, all the little cañons where so many of his friends were either dying or disappearing. Something about the map was tugging at him, but he couldn’t see it. Not yet, anyway.
Pulling open the door, Ethan walked outside just as Ralph Finch stepped onto the boardwalk, a cloth-covered tray balanced on one arm. He stopped when he saw Ethan, his gaze dropping guiltily to the steaming cloth, then up again, defiantly.
Stepping close to the deputy, Ethan smiled and said: “If Jeff catches you spitting in that food, he’ll make you eat it. If I catch you doing it, I’ll bust out every damn’ tooth in your mouth.”
Finch’s face turned deep red, but he didn’t reply. He slipped past Ethan and ducked inside, heeling the door shut behind him with a bang.
Chapter Ten
Leaving the sheriff’s office, Ethan returned to Carver’s snug little home on the edge of town.
Claudia met him at the door, ushered him inside with a finger to her lips. “The doctor is sleeping,” she whispered.
Nodding acknowledgment, Ethan asked softly: “How’s Vic?”
“The same, which gives us hope.”
It wasn’t much, Ethan reflected, yet he felt more relief than he would have expected at her words. Vic was still alive. He’d half anticipated a different answer.
“If you’d like to see him, you may, although the doctor prefers that he not be disturbed.”
“Then I won’t,” Ethan said. “I’ll come back later to check on him.”
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“I had some breakfast at the Occidental, and I’m not hungry. I expect I’d better go talk to Roy Manson now. I need to ask him about burying Pa, since I don’t figure I’ll get back to the Bar-Five anytime soon.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you for everything, ma’am.”
Claudia pursed her lips in reproach. “How many times must I ask you to address me by my given name, Mister Wilder?”
“I’ll work on that . . . Claudia.”
The woman smiled, gray eyes twinkling with amusement. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Ethan?”
“No, ma’am, it wasn’t,” he replied, stepping through the door. “I’ll be back later to see Vic.”
Most of Sundance’s business district was stretched out along Hide Street, but a few smaller shops ran west down Culver. Roy Manson’s Cabinet Shop and Mortuary was one of them, a narrow building of ship-lapped lumber half a block down from the sheriff’s office. A thumb-sized bell over the door tinkled pleasantly as Ethan entered a nearly empty front room smelling strongly of freshly planed wood and varnish. There was a dusty desk in one corner, a file cabinet beside it; a full-length curtain in the rear wall shielded the rest of the building from outside curiosity. Ethan had barely closed the door when Manson pushed through the curtain, a stocky man of middling age, curly gray hair, bald on top. His expression sobered professionally when he recognized Ethan.
“I’ve been expecting you, Mister Wilder,” Roy said. “I assume you’ve come to make arrangements for your father?”
“I have.”
“Doctor Carver asked me to prepare the deceased yesterday. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous?”
Ethan shrugged, feeling suddenly as awkward as he had the first time he’d viewed his pa’s body, back in Doc’s office. “Where is he?” he asked.
“This way.” Roy held the curtain aside.
Ethan
stepped into a large back room. To the left, a corner had been set apart with ornate curtains hanging from the wall, an Oriental rug on the floor. There was a small table with a potted plant, its leaves curled and brown, and a settee upholstered in red and beige paisley. A simple, cherry-stained pine coffin sat on a wooden platform in front of the settee, while an overhead lamp cast forgiving light over the somber nook. Ethan’s puzzled glance took in the rest of the room—a standard carpenter’s shop, carpeted in wood shavings.
“Very few people hold their wakes here,” Roy explained apologetically. “Most feel the home is more appropriate.”
“I expect it is under normal circumstances,” Ethan agreed.
“Would you like to view the deceased?”
“Naw, I can see just fine from here.” In afterthought, Ethan removed his hat. “Where’d he get his clothes?”
“Doctor Carver authorized a new set of work clothing to be billed to his account,” Roy said. “In appreciation of all your father did for Sundance.”
“You mean when the whole damn’ town nearly starved and froze to death that first winter?” Ethan asked, the words tumbling out harsher than he meant for them to.
Stoically Roy replied: “I assume. I wasn’t here then.”
Ethan sighed and brought his feelings back under control. “What do we do now?”
“We can do whatever you wish . . . although, with the unusual heat we’ve been experiencing recently, I’d suggest a quick decision.”
“Can we bury him in the Sundance cemetery until things slow down?”
“Of course. Do you need to purchase a plot?”
“Roy, I don’t know what the hell I need. Just tell me what it’ll cost to put my old man underground, those new clothes included, and when you’ll have him ready.”
Roy’s expression softened. “I’m not sure how much Doc spent on the clothes, but they don’t look expensive. Total costs for a simple service, including coffin and wooden headboard, is twelve dollars. Figure another three to have the grave dug, then covered again, will bring the total to fifteen dollars. I’m afraid you’ll have to take up the cost of the clothes with Doctor Carver.” He hesitated as if embarrassed. “Normally I’d wait until after the services to present a bill, but . . .”
Wild Side of the River Page 10
