Silver Moon

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Color began to return to his face, and to re-establish the authority he thought due to him, he searched for a way to continue to bluster. “Yesterday it was me that got hurt,” he said. “Who next? One of the womenfolk? How much asking do you have to do? Those rebs are easy to find.”

  His hand moved reflexively upward, and I wondered how often he jabbed people as he forced his words on them. It gave me satisfaction that he stopped his attempted jab and stared at his finger, then dropped his hand back down to his side.

  “Mr. Guthrie, my promise remains. I’ll keep asking until I run into the person or persons that bushwacked you. So far it don’t appear as if those rebs had much to do with it.”

  “But…” His mouth worked as he struggled to find more words to use as bludgeons. “This, this is…

  I stopped listening, for I had noticed the approach of a Brougham carriage — and a double-suspension one at that — pulled by a two-horse team of matching whites, each groomed as neatly as any boy readied for a Sunday picnic. Had there not been dust on the carriage, the wood paneling of the passenger compartment would have gleamed with the richness due to a carriage worth nearly five years of a cowboy’s wages. I was not the only one watching in admiration as it moved down the street.

  A hired hand was up front to handle the reins as the Brougham passed, I saw the outline of a woman passenger who sat alone, hands in her lap, in the compartment behind him. Sunlight flashed across the woman’s face, and I knew I should know her.

  “Marshal, are you paying attention to me?”

  “Nope.”

  The Brougham had stopped in front of the First National bank, so close to the sidewalk that its shadow darkened Crawford’s office window. The hired man stepped down from the Brougham and walked around to assist the woman as she disembarked.

  “Marshal!”

  The bonnet kept her face hidden, but from the trimness of her figure, and the wealth shown by the Brougham, I believed I could make a guess as to her identity.

  “Guthrie,” I said without taking my eyes from her, “I’ll stop by your house later. Probably after you’ve had your supper.”

  “I don’t see why we have to take something this sordid into my home.”

  Crawford was hurrying through the doors of the First National, stepping onto the sidewalk to bow to the woman.

  Eleanor Ford.

  Interesting, I told myself, that toad Crawford had probably jumped before the Brougham’s shadow had stopped moving across his window.

  “Marshal!”

  “Later, Guthrie.” I answered without looking at the store owner.

  “I’m a man of considerable influence,” he insisted. “Treat me this way for long, you won’t wear that badge.”

  I didn’t answer. I was already on my way back to Jake’s stable. I wanted two fast horses. One saddled, and one to follow behind so I could switch when the first one tired.

  Chapter 20

  Run a horse full out, you’ll get maybe ten minutes of gallop. Much longer, and it’ll be played out so bad you might not be able to run it again for a day. Much longer after that, and chances are good you’ll be falling from a horse whose heart has just exploded.

  While I was tempted to run that hard anyway, I forced myself to keep the horses to a brisk canter. Even with one hord tethered behind, a canter was pushing them both plenty hard if I intended to keep that pace for the entire distance to the Bar X Bar. I felt that urgency because I wanted as much time as possible there before Eleanor Ford and her hired hand returned to the ranch in the Brougham, and I had no assurances that she’d be long with Crawford, or that she had further business in town to keep her away from the ranch.

  Eleanor Ford.

  In the few days since the double murder, I had already connected her three times in three different ways to the men involved. Once, by her own admission to Lorne Calhoun. Once, by hearsay through Jake, to Bob Nichols. And once, by my own eyes, to Mayor Crawford. It had to be more than coincidence.

  But how could I follow all the strands to the core of the web I suspected her of weaving? Doc, for the moment, had chosen to remain silent about her. I wasn’t yet prepared to tip my hand by asking around town, for as Jake had shown me, word moved quickly through Laramie.

  That left me the ranch itself. At the least, I was hoping this might kick something loose to give me an excuse not to go to Denver.

  I would ride up and politely ask after Eleanor Ford, show suitable surprise at her absence and express my disappointment at the same. Depending on who informed me of her absence, all it would take after that was easing into questions about her in such a way that it didn’t appear I was asking those questions. As long as I could figure what to ask before I reached the Bar X Bar.

  ********************

  “Howdy.” I doffed my hat, gave my friendliest grin. Here along the garden, I had to speak loudly above the creaking of the windmill. “This time ’round, I won’t be calling you Mrs. Ford.”

  My grin was rewarded with a courtsey from the same older woman who had offered me water on my first visit to the Bar X Bar. This visit, however, no horse-breaking activities filled the far corrals. It appeared we were alone among the array of ranch buildings.

  I swung down from my horse. Groaned. Stretched. Slapped my hat clear of dust.

  “Mrs. Ford isn’t here,” the woman informed me. She still held a small spade which she’d been using to dig in the garden on my approach. Piles of potatoes littered the broken ground in the small corral behind her.

  No sense in waiting to ease into my questions. I showed mock surprise and grinned again. “How’d you know I wasn’t here just to visit you?”

  “Mister,” she pointed at my horse, and the one tethered behind, “It’s been twenty-five years since someone lathered their horses that bad for the chance to see me.”

  I looked her up and down, letting her see me do it. She wore another plain dress, one that bulged out in lumps across her coarsened body. Despite her time-worn appearance, she’d spoken with a sauciness that let me understand she enjoyed banter.

  “Naw,” I said, giving her a final study, “I’d never believe twenty-five years since a man came calling.”

  She rolled her eyeballs at my blatant flattery.

  “Twenty-four, maybe,” I finished. “But not twenty-five.”

  A broad grin bunched her cheeks and deepened the cracks of her weathered face. “Mister, you said that just like Mr. Springer would have, bless his departed soul. He always knew how to catch me unexpected. It’s why I ended up accepting his proposal. I wasn’t expecting it.”

  She leaned the spade against the corral fence. “That’s me. Emma Springer.”

  “Samuel Keaton,” I said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She put her hands on her hips and studied me in the same deliberate manner I’d looked at her.

  “Samuel Keaton, you say. Why’s that name familiar?”

  “I’m the marshal, out of Laramie.”

  “Married?”

  “No ma’am.”

  Emma Springer gave me a sharp look. “It’s business that brought you here to see Mrs. Ford twice in the same week?”

  “You’re not shy with questions, ma’am.”

  “At my age, ain’t much time to waste.”

  “It’s business,” I conceded. “But now you got me curious. Why might you think it’d be anything but business?”

  She shrugged. “A woman shouldn’t gossip.”

  I’d long since figured out a declaration of that statement always meant the opposite.

  I invited her to find us some shade. We moved to a bench at the side of a bunkhouse.

  “I wouldn’t consider it gossip,” I told her as we eased ourselves onto the bench. “More like background. Two men are dead, and I’m trying to find out who was behind it.”

  “The bank vault murders? Nichols and a town fella? I heard they had a falling out and shot each other.”

  I nodded. “Maybe, maybe not. F
act is, there’s three little boys down the road who just watched their mama bury their father. I’m doing my best to make sure they’ll at least have a decent memory of him.”

  She shook her head and chuckled. “Shameless, attempting that sort of blackmail on an old woman. You even managed the right quaver in your voice and all.”

  I twisted my hat in my hands. Tried to hide a grin of admission.

  She patted my knee. “Samuel, we’ll get along just fine. I’d forgotten how much fun it is, having a fine looking man this interested in me.”

  She caught my sharp look in her direction.

  “You didn’t fool me at all,” she said. “Horses lathered that bad, like you was in a hurry, but you made a side stop to visit me before knocking on her door?” She patted my knee again and answered her own question. “Nope, when you came straight to me, I knew right then it wasn’t Mrs. Ford you had on your mind. At least, not first on your mind.”

  What could I say to that?

  “So how can I help?” she said with a grin.

  I thought that over, and gave her a grin in return. “Gossip.”

  “Background,” Emma said firmly.

  “Background.”

  “You don’t believe Mrs. Ford had a hand in this.”

  “Do you?” I responded.

  Emma thought for a few seconds. “I believe she’s been guilty of poor judgement once or twice. But killing a man? That’s a harsh accusation to lay on a body.”

  You don’t have to pull the trigger to be responsible for a man’s death, but I didn’t say that aloud.

  “You let on like I might not be here on business,” I said. “That the poor judgement you mean?”

  Emma nodded. “People talk. No matter how proper it is when a man sits for tea, if he shows up once every month or so, people talk. Then when Mr. Phillips died…”

  “Mr. Phillips?”

  “Leonard Phillips. A nice man. Much older than Eleanor. He established this ranch. She moved here with him just after the rail reached Laramie. Couple years later, a horse threw him, broke his neck. His body was barely cold when she married the man that had been calling.”

  I searched my memory. “Cyrus?”

  “Cyrus Ford.”

  “I haven’t met him,” I said.

  “No surprise. The man’s away more than he’s here.”

  “In Cheyenne, now, as I recall from my last conversation with Mrs. Ford.”

  “Plenty of financial interests elsewhere, I’m told. Leaves her with too much time on her hands.”

  “And she’s had other callers…” I was thinking of Lorne Calhoun. Maybe Eleanor meets him at the bank one day, they strike up conversation, leads to more than a casual aquaintance, especially if Lorne gets starstruck by the attentions of a beautiful woman like her, and maybe she has a reason for leading him on, a reason that leads to his death…

  “Latest caller was a hard-looking man, Marshal.”

  “Hard looking?” Death will soften a man’s features, take a lot of mean out of his face. But try as I might, from my memory of Calhoun lying on the floor in the bank vault, I couldn’t stretch myself to believe anyone would call him hard-looking.

  “Hard-looking?” I repeated. “Maybe in a suit and tie? Like the banker type?”

  “No sir.” She shook her head for emphasis. “This man had tied-down guns and wore rebel gray.”

  Chapter 21

  It seemed everytime I learned something new, it led to more puzzlement.

  I had plenty of time to ponder the implications of a rebel visitor as I headed directly east of the Bar X Bar, trusting Emma Springer’s directions on how to find Clayton Barnes and the rest of a small crew working on fall roundup.

  With at least five hours of daylight remaining, I enjoyed the slower pace. I imagine the horses did too; I’d given them the chance to take water at the Bar X Bar, and I’d brushed them down before saddling up again.

  A breeze carried the smell of sage and the slight whisperings of bent grass. The sky’s infinite blue became pale, almost white at the mountain edges of the horizon. The peace of this aloneness felt good, and I smiled to recall advice I’d received long ago from a gray-bearded, short old cowboy. He’d taken a deep breath on a day just like this, and said that when you worked a plow, all you see is a mule’s hind end, but working from a horse, no matter how bad the pay, you can see across country for as far as your eye is good.

  I wondered what advice he’d give me here.

  I couldn’t even begin to string together the bits and pieces I’d already learned. Nichols had called on Calhoun and escorted him to the bank. Someone there had been waiting to kill them. This someone couldn’t have been a stranger, for Nichols and Calhoun had fallen like sheep, and I couldn’t see both of them entering that bank vault and going to their slaughter without a mistaken trust in their executioner. Nichols had gone somewhere for at least three days before knocking on Calhoun’s door that fateful night, and this somewhere was not anyplace that he’d anticipated the need for his usual grubstake. Calhoun had been puzzling about accounting errors in the weeks before his death. Nichols and Calhoun had both known Eleanor Ford, for reasons I still didn’t know. Crawford, who also knew Ford, had strangely — at Eleanor’s request? — denied a loan to Nichols.

  And now, as if I needed a whirlwind to come from nowhere and scatter these bits and pieces even further, it appeared one of the Christopher brothers had been visiting Eleanor Ford in the absence of her husband. Worse, as Emma had established for me, this rebel stranger had visited the Bar X Bar at least three times in the weeks before now renting a suite at the Union Pacific Hotel with the rest of his brothers.

  Or had it been another tie-down man in rebel gray paying visits on Eleanor Ford? Was it mere coincidence that Dehlia had arrived shortly after with her brothers in their rebel gray and tied-down guns? If not a coincidence, what was the significance of a man in snakeskin boots hidden behind a wardrobe? If a coincidence, who was that other rebel, and why was Dehlia and gang in town? And, did the attack on Guthrie figure in any of this, or was that merely another headache arriving at an inopportune time?

  I nearly groaned aloud as I spun those bits and pieces through my head.

  Finally, I gave up thinking, and tried to lose myself in the solitude of my ride. That took a certain concentration that I’d been able to do with ease in the days before meeting the woman who had left me a Moon Basket along with the haunting distraction of her memeory.

  I settled into the slow ride and focused on what each of my senses brought me. I listened as hard as I could for every sound — crunch of horse’s hooves, brush of chaps against tall grass, cry of prairie birds. I breathed deep and took in and sorted every scent, letting my skin tingle with every sensation — the coolness of the breeze across my face, the trickle of sweat on my back, the heat of sun on my shoulders, the sway in my saddle. I opened my eyes and looked, really looked for every detail within range of my vision — the dark green of Spruce girdling the mountain, and the edges of those mountains against the sky, the rolling brown and faded green of the land that stretched to mountains, gulleys and the draws immediately ahead, the jumble of tumbleweed beneath, the wheeling of an occasional bird across the sky. It was a process that froze the future and past, and put me nowhere but in the very moment.

  It took some doing, to bump all the other thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the simple joy of what it meant to be alive and riding across the plains.

  And just when I reached that timelessness, the bawling of cattle reached me.

  *****************

  This appeared no different from dozens of other fall roundups I’d seen. In the bowl of a small valley, hundreds of cattle were milling in a large, dusty circle, the result of a a week’s hard work by a couple dozen ranch hands.

  Spring or fall, the roundup process was the same. Ranch hands fanned out to all points of a compass, gathering steers, bulls, cows and yearling calves, then driving the cattle in small bunches to th
is common meeting place.

  Once here, when the cattle were moving in a tight circle, the frenzied bawling of the calves and the bellowing of the bulls would subside some, and it only took a few men riding the outer edges of the circle to keep the herd grazing together as more cattle were driven in from the outer edges of the range.

  In the spring, it was a time to separate new calves from their mothers for branding, to rope and castrate and dehorn, to sort one ranch’s cattle from another. In the fall roundup, the marketable steers were cut from the herd and readied for a drive to the railhead.

  As I rode down the small hill into the center of the valley, a maverick yearling broke loose from the herd. Within seconds, a cowhand began to gallop in pursuit, making sure to keep the yearling between his horse and the herd. He matched his horse’s speed to the yearling’s, and galloped alongside, edging closer and closer until it forced the maverick back to the herd. It was something that happened more than occasionally, and exhausted not only the horses, but the men.

  I looked for the trail boss, and decided he was the man sitting on a horse nearby the remuda, the three or four horses per man that the outfit would supply to keep the cowboys on fresh animals. If this man wasn’t the boss, he was at least far enough away from the herd that I wouldn’t have to chew dust as I talked.

  I drew near, and he acknowledged me with a nod of the head.

  “Afternoon,” I said, speaking loudly to be heard above the bawling of cattle. “You mind directing me to the whereabouts of Clayton Barnes?”

  “Not at all,” he said. His dirt-smeared face was drawn. Cowboys took what little sleep they could snatch between guard duty, and any foreman worth his salt didn’t make exceptions for himself. “You won’t mind me asking the reason? I ain’t a prying man, but he is part of this outfit, and I can’t afford trouble.”

  “No trouble,” I said. “He turned in a dead man’s horse a few days ago. As marshal, I’d like to ask him a few questions, is all.”