He relaxed.
“What I’m asking is you for anything Calhoun might have said away from the doctor’s office. As a friend, not a patient.”
“About Eleanor Ford?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Nothing. Calhoun was a gentleman. She was a married woman. It is inconceivable that he would have had the opportunity or desire to do anything which might endanger her reputation. Nor would he talk about it. To anyone. ”
“But they knew each other.”
“I believe yes.”
I studied Doc. “You’re holding something back.”
He didn’t disagree. Nor was he now relaxed.
It dawned on me why he couldn’t tell me what he knew. “Eleanor Ford is a patient of yours.”
He didn’t disagree.
I realized if he did have something to tell me, it would tear at him, the choice. Duty. Or avenging a friend’s death.
I wouldn’t have wanted to face that dilemma, and decided to try to ease him from it. “Doc, you were only half right when you accused me of throwing smoke around. I truly did want whatever thoughts you might have on Crawford, of Barnes, or Denver.”
Doc’s shoulder’s dropped slightly, and the tension in his face eased. “I’ll study on it,” he said. “Remember, I want the killer hung as bad as anyone.”
“I know that.”
Doc pulled his watch loose from a vest pocket. I took the hint, pushed my hat brim low, and stood.
He rose with me.
As we reached the door, Doc stopped. His voice had the tone of an afterthought. “Benjamim Guthrie track you down last night?”
“Howling a storm.”
“Took a half hour to set his arm. He probably told you that.”
“He was more concerned that I gun down every stranger in town.”
“Any ideas who jumped him?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’d forgotten about it till now.”
Doc pushed through the door. He stumbled slightly, and I wondered if I heard a groan.
“Don’t ignore Guthrie,” Doc advised from ahead of me. I caught up to him and matched him, slow stride for slow stride. “He’s not a man you want against you.”
“One of the town fathers, I’ve gathered.”
Doc turned his head to me and gave another of those owlish gazes. “You can warm your socks in the oven, but that don’t make them biscuits.”
“You mean he shows pretty good,” I said. “Big, good looking, well dressed. But…”
“He’s not a man you want with you either.”
“I’ll remember that, Doc. Thanks.”
We reached the corner. Nearly nine o’clock. The day was warming. Another glorious blue sky above. Indian summer in Wyoming was a pleasant and gentle as the blizzards which followed were vicious.
I bid Doc goodbye, and headed down the street to open the marshal’s office and face what was becoming a morning ritual of revivalist hell. I wished the circuit judge would get here soon. Even if I did have to charge a man with something as ridiculous as attempted murder by snake-throwing.
“Samuel,” Doc called from behind me.
I retraced my steps back to him.
“Denver,” Doc said.
It was a place I preferred not to make a homecoming. But he didn’t have to know that.
“Denver,” I repeated.
“Think about Nichols trip in August. How’s a man get to Denver from here?” he asked.
“Train. Union Pacific to Cheyenne. From there, the Denver Pacific south.”
“Samuel, would any rancher walk into Laramie?”
“He’d rather be without boots than his horse.”
“So if you rode in from the Rocking N, where would you leave your horse? That is, if again you were headed out of Laramie by train?”
I snapped my fingers. “Jake Wilson.”
Chapter 18
As I waited for Jake Wilson in the coolness of the interior of his livery, Doc’s words echoed in my mind. It’s a mystery, Samuel, just like everything in life.
At the Chinaman’s, I’d stopped Doc’s list of what I didn’t know because I wanted to get on to asking him about Calhoun and Eleanor Ford. Here, however, in the silence broken only by the occasional horse’s snort, or by a rustling of straw as a horse shifted positions in one of the stalls, I could not push away Doc’s words.
It’s a mystery, Samuel, just like everything in life.
Everything?
I told myself to amuse Doc in his supposition, to look hard at the sparrow that had just flown in through the gap of the livery doors. I’d seen hundreds before. It was a sparrow. A brown sparrow. What more was there to know and how could there be mystery in a sparrow?
I could hear Doc asking me what caused it to fly.
I could hear myself telling Doc that I was a marshal, a tough man with guns, capable of riding for days without rest, and not only that, I was in pursuit of someone who had killed two people in a bank vault. Why should I waste my time on something as meaningless as what caused a sparrow to fly.
I could see Doc shrug as if I had to decide for myself the answer to my lack of curiousity.
And, against my will, I began to wonder what caused that stupid bird to fly.
Feeling ridiculous, and glad to be alone, I took several steps and picked up a fallen feather among several that rested on the dirt floor of the livery.
I could not look into the sunlight, so I turned my back to the gap between the doors and held the feather high so it would not be lost in shadow of my head. I looked at the feather closely, then eased apart its softness.
The feather was a marvel.
Its strands had released with reluctance, and I saw how silky smooth and tough each of those tiny strands was, how wonderfully made to be able to cling to the strand beside it. No matter where I looked at it close, I could not see where one color of the pigment began or ended. Yet when held at arms length, I saw again the mottled brown and black of a feather. So strong and tough, yet so light it almost did not exist. And how was a feather grown and constructed from the seeds and water that went into the sparrow? I could not conceive how something so perfectly made could be so common. And if something this common held so much mystery and wonder…
“Marshal, my bet is that it fell from a bird.”
I dropped it and spun around.
“Durn it Jake! Decent men knock to announce themselves.”
“Not at their own livery. Not when they can’t figure out why the town marshal’s holding a feather above his head and mumbling to hisself.”
I glared at him. “If you’d be here like any other man doing an honest day’s work, I wouldn’t have to look for ways to entertain myself while I waited.”
Jake laughed. “Now I gotta explain my whereabouts?”
He didn’t wait for me to answer but instead threw the double doors open wide.
I saw where he’d been. Loading feed onto the wagon that stood directly outside.
Jake unhitched his horse from the wagon and led it into a stall. He returned to the rear of the wagon and began to push it inside. I moved beside him and threw my weight against the wagon. It took several minutes to reach the back of the livery, and I could feel sweat begin to trickle down between my shoulder blades.
Jake grinned at my hard breathing. He reached for the top of the wagon with his good hand, and with a single smooth hop, pulled himself up to the top of the wagon wheel and from there sprung onto the bags of feed.
He pointed me to stand nearby a small pile of feedbags.
I did.
Without warning, he reached down with that good arm, hoisted a feed bag into the crook of his arm, juggled it to get a grip, then threw it at me.
I barely managed to hold my grunt inside at the impact of that bag. I set it atop the pile beside me. By the time I turned, another bag was already in mid-air.
It continued that way for the next quarter hour, and as Jake threw down the last bag of feed, I was huffing bad an
d blowing sweat spray with every breath.
“You were saying something about an honest day’s work, Marshal?”
“As I recall,” I managed to say, “I was asking about water.”
Jake returned a minute later with a jar of cool water.
“I appreciate your help,” Jake said. “Usually I have to walk it over. Throwing bags down with no one to catch busts them open.”
I wiped my face with my bandanna. “Help’s no problem. Beats sitting in the office and listening to Brother Lewis. I got a feeling the man talks so good about hell because he has a firsthand acquaintance with the devil.”
“That explains why you didn’t mind wasting time with a feather? That you’d rather be anywhere but there?”
I gave him a look as if I’d just tasted sour milk. Feather. Jake, it appeared, liked throwing as much rile as possible into the people around him.
I didn’t mention that my other reason for waiting was that I had little stomach for the others I needed to visit — Crawford for one, Benjamin Guthrie later in the day for another. I didn’t mention I’d been hoping that Jake might be able to tell me something to give me an excuse to delay both those visits.
Jake continued as if my worst look had been a benevolent smile. “So how long you intend to keep that preacher man in your jail.”
“Until the circuit judge comes by.”
“Some folks say you oughta let him go. Some say you oughta arrest Doc. He was the one that caused it.”
“Some folks say a lot.” I favored Jake with another sour glance. “How often do you listen to them?”
Jake grinned. “Not often. Like about them rebs. Guthrie’s started a whispering campaign. Rumours about them being trouble, and why isn’t the marshal doing something about it.”
“Enough folks believe those rebs are trouble,” I said without blinking, “they will be trouble.”
Jake grinned again. “And you’ve got them in town for at least a couple weeks.”
“Glad you find it amusing.” I frowned. “How’d you know anyway?”
“Got their horses stabled here. Paid in advance. And they ride some fine horseflesh, Marshal. Expensive new saddles, too. Tooled by Pete Marlo, and if he ain’t the best saddlemaker in Colorado, he’s certainly the best in Denver. These boys ain’t had to keep the same pair of boots so long they’s down on their heels.”
I gulped some more water. Tried not to think about all the little bugs that Doc had promised were swimming in it.
“Jake,” I said between gulps. “You’re a fountain of information. You oughta be a deputy sheriff.”
He grinned more. It was a catching grin. “So, Marshal, what else do you want to know? You didn’t come here to get your horse, otherwise you’d have saddled and gone already.” A pause and a widening of his grin. “And you can find feathers lots of other places.”
“Nichols.” I refused to let Jake enjoy any reaction to his feather remark. “What was your read on him?”
“Good man,” Jake said without hesitation. “Honest. Square. Always paid his way. And I’m not saying that just to speak good of the dead. Ask anyone in town. They’ll tell you the same.”
“That’s what I heard. I also heard he went to Denver in August. He leave his horse here?”
“That was just before the town hired you on, Marshal. And yup, he did leave his horse with me.”
I took another gulp of water. Tried to ease into the next question casual-like. “How about a few days before he died. He leave his horse here then?”
Jake’s grin turned into a squint of speculation. “I heard you and Crawford already decided it was them two of them shooting each other dead.”
I shrugged.
“You’re playing this hand close to the chest, Marshal.”
“You volunteering for a deputy badge?”
“Nope.”
I smiled.
It didn’t take him long to understand. “Right, Marshal,” he laughed. “No badge. No deal.”
I continued to smile.
“We’ll do it your way,” he sighed. “No, Nichols did not leave his horse here in the week before he died.”
My slumped shoulders must have shown disappointment. So this was a dead end.
“Sorry,” Jake added. “And August was the last time I seen him, when he returned from Denver and took his horse here from the stable.”
I nodded. I hadn’t really expected anything about this double killing to be simple.
“For what it’s worth, Marshal, Nichols did seem different somehow that day.”
“Yeah?” I wasn’t hoping for much.
“Well, I joshed him about not seeming in a hurry. Folks knew he doted on his wife. I commented that a man without his woman for as long as he‘d been gone should be in a all-fired hurry to stampede back to the ranch.”
“I have noticed you do like sticking the knife,” I said mildly. “And twisting it.”
He grinned as if I had complimented him. “Feathers?”
I nodded.
“That’s why it sorely disappointed me that I couldn’t get Nichols’ goat. A few other times, I mention how much woman she must be, he fairly busted, not knowing whether to be proud or whop me upside the head.”
“And the day he returned from Denver?”
“He hardly heard what I said. He mumbled something about Eleanor Ford. I asked him what he’d meant, and he just shook his head.”
Eleanor Ford? Why was another line of the web pointing back to her?
“You sure you didn’t hear what Nichols said?”
Jake scratched his chin. “Maybe something like he didn’t know whether or not he should stop at the Bar X Bar to see her first. That’s the closest I can guess. And I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Thanks Jake.”
He walked me into the sunshine. Instead of shaking my hand in farewell, he faced me squarely, good hand on his hip, the other arm dangling loose.
“Marshal, I’ve been having my fun with you. Passing on how folks talk, seeing how you’d take it.”
I looked him in the eyes. And listened.
“Thanks to Guthrie — Lewis the preacher man too — there’s been more than a few whispers about you. Worse, for folks in a small town like this, no one knows much about you. All they know is you killed the marshal you then replaced. It appears like you’re taking Brother Lewis personal, when lots others who enjoyed his revival don’t see that he done too much wrong.”
Jake wasn’t grinning now, and he kept on going. “Suzie, well she’s one of the best dance hall girls in town and more than one in town is upset how she don’t show interest in them no more and how she moons over you all the time. But word goes around you appear to have your mind fixed on a halfbreed Sioux, which don’t do no good among the sizeable camp of folks who figure Injuns oughta be poisoned just like wolves, ’specially now that treaty trouble’s on the horizon. Guthrie says you’re not man enough to face down the rebs — and of course you already took their side against Old Charlie, even when folks can’t figure why you treat Old Charlie so good instead of throwing cold water on him whenever he gets too much into the snake poison.”
Jake shook his head. “And atop of all this, you’re friends with a Chinaman, for crying out loud.”
“You keeping notes for a newspaper article?”
His grin returned. “Relax, Marshal. You asked me earlier, do I listen to other folks. The answer is no, I don’t. I listen to what’s behind their talk and decide things for myself.”
He stuck out his good arm, waiting for me to shake his hand.
“What I’m saying is,” he finished, “were you serious about ever needing a deputy, and you don’t mind someone who can only draw one gun at a time, I’m your man.”
Chapter 19
Mayor Charles William George Benedict Crawford was my next destination. Even that disagreeable task could not dim the whistling mood that had taken me as a result of Jake’s offer. Except on my way to the First National, I made the mis
take walking Main Street on the same side as Guthrie Dry Goods and Clothing.
My good spirits lasted exactly ten steps past that storefront.
“Marshal,” Benjamin Gurthrie called from his doorway before I could complete the eleventh step, “Marshal Keaton, I want words with you.”
I took on a good case of deafness and lengthened my stride.
“Keaton!” Guthrie hurried along the sidewalk, calling so loudly that I could no longer ignore him.
I stopped but did not turn.
He reached me and glared. “Marshal, you’ve made no arrests.”
He wore a different suit today, just as fine as any others I’d seen him wear. His shoes were polished black, his derby brushed and clean. A broken arm hadn’t slowed his grooming at all.
“Furthermore, ” he continued in the same demanding tone, “you did not report back to me.”
“Hardly appears to be a need,” I said almost with a drawl, “what with you knowing everything already.”
He lifted his free hand and made a move to jab me in the shoulder with his forefinger to emphasize his next words.
I’d expected something, by the way his face had darkened in immediate fury to be backtalked, so I was ready. I did it simply and cleanly. Drew my Colt in a sweeping motion so that before his finger had made contact with my shoulder, revolver barrel was jammed firmly into his stomach.
He froze as the hammer clicked back.
His face whitened and his hand dropped away from me. We both looked down at the revolver, then back up at each other. I withheld the information that my firing pin was poised above the empty chamber I always kept that way to cut the odds of an accidental shooting.
We stayed like that for a couple of heartbeats. Long enough for me to make my point. Not so long he’d realize how much I was enjoying this.
I then smiled apology and withdrew the barrel.
“Sorry, Mr. Guthrie. Bad nerves.” I slid the Colt back into my holster and eased the hammer down. “It just happens that way when I’m surprised by sudden movement.”
He removed a hanky from an inner pocket and delicately wiped his brow.
I took advantage of his silence. “I’m still asking around, Mr. Guthrie. You’ll be the first to know if I learn anything new.”
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