by Rusty Davis
Fort Laramie was busy. The commander was willing to see the visitor from Rakeheart, but he was very busy.
“Good luck, Marshal,” said the bored private.
“Sheriff.”
The soldier sighed. “Counties have sheriffs. Rakeheart may think it is a county, but it is a town. Towns have marshals.”
Kane shrugged. “Need to use your telegraph.”
The private snorted.
“Army only,” the private smirked, then jumped as Kane slammed his hand on the table.
“The name is Kane,” he yelled. “You got told from army headquarters I was coming. Sherman said I have access, and I want to use the telegraph now!”
An officer with slick, black hair and a massive mustache emerged from behind a door. “I am Captain Mallory. You are the Mr. Kane General Sherman said would appear?”
Kane admitted it and was shown in.
“We expected someone more . . . ahem . . . military,” the officer said smoothly. “No offense meant. How can we help you? There is no need to bother the colonel. Back to your duties, Perkins.”
“Need a telegram sent to Sherman. Say, ‘Complicated. Investigating. Will advise.’ Got that?” The officer nodded. “Want to talk with whoever you sent to the Wilkins farm near Rakeheart when the fella there was found dead.”
“That was Lt. August Greene,” he said. “He is all of the everyone we have to investigate when something out there takes place that might become more than it seems. Would you like to talk to him here? We get very few visitors who have connections to the general, and although I have no idea who you are or why you are close to him, I want no black marks against me. Most of our job is to keep peace with the Indians, and if there is a problem with the settlers, we usually leave that for the territory.”
Honest at least. He even agreed to send coffee for his meeting with the lieutenant, who proved to be much older than his captain and not the least interested in whether Sherman was pleased with him or not. Kane told him his twin roles as Sherman’s investigator and Rakeheart’s new sheriff.
“Territory and us, we make sure when someone gets shot or killed that it’s not Indians and not connected to anything that will get bigger,” he said, boredom clear in his voice. “Territory wants to be a state, and it would look bad, they tell me. Wilkins was an old soldier; his wife is an Indian. That was why I had to go ask questions I could have answered without leaving here. ‘Indian wife kills soldier’ would be a terrible headline in one of those awful newspapers they now have. They write something about Rakeheart, then the solid citizens complain to the territory, and the territory scolds the army, and it lands on me. Now it lands on you, at least around Rakeheart. Good luck. Rakeheart had a sheriff for about a week last year before he got sick of them and they got sick of him.”
By the time Greene had reached the Wilkins ranch, the body had been moved, but it was clear from the blood the man was killed where the widow said he was. Rachel Wilkins said she thought she heard a shot but told him that, with coyotes prowling the way they did, it could have been her husband protecting the chickens. She told him it was not unusual for him to be up at night and that she did not know until morning, when he never answered her call, that he was the victim.
“Think she killed him?” Kane asked.
Greene’s shaggy, gray eyebrows knit together as the man rubbed the gray and brown stubble that spread across his face.
“Gone back and forth. He was dead four days when I got there and buried one day ahead of when I talked to her. Only God knows what she felt when she found him, but if she felt anything the day after he was buried, it was pretty well hidden,” he said. “But when I say that I can’t help but think it sounds harsh. I got the feeling she was in pain, and not only from the bruises.”
“Bruises?”
“She said she was thrown from a horse, but her face was all swollen, and she held her left hand oddly. She walked stiff and held herself funny. All in all, she acted as though she was in more pain than a fall from a horse ought to cause. I chopped some wood for her while I was there and helped with some chores. Yup, she was hurtin’ some, and sad. You in the war, Kane?”
“Around the tag end of it.”
“There were men who had the look before a battle that said they were resigned to die. Like they knew there was a black cloud with their name on it. She had that look, I guess. Like she was born to lose. Don’t see that often in an Indian. Mostly, though, she put up a wall. No expression. Makes you wonder. Did she do it? Kane, she probably is the most likely person, but there’s no proof. Not one person can say she ever sent a mean look his way, far as I could tell. Bein’ odd ain’t a crime. Neither is bein’ an Indian. Those Rakeheart folks asked me, and I told them the same thing. Think they wanted her to be it because they want her land for something, but they haven’t quite worked themselves up to taking it yet. If she did it to get rid of him, she’s gonna end up the loser because she can’t run a ranch. Women don’t know how; Indians got no idea about more than livin’ wild. Sad, but it’s life.”
“Was there an answer in there?”
Greene smiled thinly. “ ’Spose I rode all around it. It could be that it happened that way, but I got nothing to show it did. Nothing to show it didn’t, mind. Mostly, I can’t see her killin’ unless she had her back against the wall defending her kids. Then, anyone would be fair game. She’s that kind. Would barely let me look at them, let alone talk to them. But this? Hard to believe.”
“So a man got killed that nobody disliked, and the most likely person to have done it had no reason to do it, and there’s no proof of anything.”
“Good luck telling that to ol’ Sherman. Heard he likes things his way and no other.” Greene had a wry smile. “Ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“There was talk that for years Sherman has had a man—a spy, a ghost no one wanted to admit existed—who spent time down in Texas and some other Reconstruction states. Rode with some outlaws and then put them down so far, so fast, they never saw it coming. That you?”
Kane smiled. “Never heard any profit from telling Cump Sherman’s secrets.”
“True that. Thought I should say that the Rakeheart bunch . . . well, I spent a couple days there, and I always felt the real men were hiding behind masks. Word to the wise. It’s a closed group that is out for themselves, first, last, and only. Not sure I’d want them at my back. Might feel real familiar, if that ol’ story was true.”
Kane thanked the grizzled lieutenant.
“Forgot. There more towns south and east of Rakeheart?”
“Towns all along the railroad, Kane,” Greene said. “Frost Springs is the closest east, maybe thirty miles. Then Grey Flats, about forty miles. West you have Pine Crossing first maybe twenty-five miles away and then Alder’s Mill, but that’s almost fifty miles. All about the size of Rakeheart; naw, I guess they’re probably smaller. All want to have ten thousand people in a week and be somethin’ anybody who likes Wyoming the way it is won’t want. They all compete.”
“For what?”
“Settlers. Railroad. Lot of timber, mines out north. Couple of these places are going to be junctions. The rest will fade away. None of ’em like losin’ to one of the others. Like a pack of little kids, and they act about the same, pushin’ and shovin’.”
Towns. Never understand ’em.
As he and Tecumseh loped back toward Rakeheart, he turned over what he knew, which didn’t take long, and what he wondered about, which was a lot.
Men in Eastern suits and flat shoes lied more than men who wore boots and rode the plains. He knew that. But no one had a good reason to kill Jared Wilkins.
The Rakeheart men seemed to get along with him; if anything, his death spoiled their plans, unless they were all playacting in front of him. Accident? Hard to have accidents in the middle of the night. Rachel? Hard to disagree with the logic, but not one soul could give a reason. He set the mess aside. Sooner or later, no matter how many coats of pa
int somebody put over it, the truth poked out.
For now, as he made camp about halfway between the fort and the town, there was the last of the real coffee Greene gave him at the fort to drink, bread that was still mostly fresh, and a sky with a dome of stars that made a man feel small, but somehow a part of something greater and grander than towns and ranches. He let all of it go, breathed in Wyoming, and leaned his head back on his saddle staring at it all until the fire died away and sleep overtook him.
Conroy seemed slightly surprised to see him, as though he half expected Kane to ride off and never come back.
The badge he handed Kane had the word Sheriff marked into it. Kane wondered. What dead lawman had that before him? Didn’t matter. He took it, put it on the coat that would have to be replaced if he was around for a Wyoming winter.
“Talked to the army about Wilkins.”
Conroy stopped what he was doing and raised his brows in anticipation.
“No more clue than I have.”
Conroy seemed relieved.
“Guess the question I got for you is, with all of you concerned about the railroad and all, does it look bad to have a man killed a few miles away?”
“Not really, son,” Conroy replied. “Almost everyone figures the squaw did it, but when folks kill each other out there, there’s not a lot we can do about it. Ranch’ll go belly up, and maybe then she’ll get justice. It takes its time, but it comes around. Could even have been an accident, and she doesn’t want to admit it. Wilkins was not very close to any of us here; maybe that’s why we don’t act as upset as maybe you think we should. Men die out here a lot, you know. Truth is, Kane, folks out here find ways to get themselves killed so often I sometimes wonder there are any of us left.”
Kane shrugged. “This sheriff job. Night’s the time you want me visible the most or when the cowboys ride in?”
Conroy nodded. “Most times, the town is quiet. You staying in the stable still?”
“Found a cabin. Deserted. A mile east or so. Anybody own it?”
“Ken Tompkins’s ranch. No one lives there now. Ken’s wife died suddenly last year from the fever, and he left. I think he lives in Cheyenne now. Wherever he went, don’t worry. He won’t be coming back. There is not much land if you plan to run a lot of stock, but it is all yours far as I know. It’s a place to sleep.”
“All I want. Stable’s nice for now, but I hear winter stories.”
Conroy smiled. “Forgot. You’re a Texas fella. Something to get used to. The snow is so thick when it falls you can’t see the man next to you, and if you go out to travel in it, sometimes it gets flat and white and not a mark on it for as far as you can see. It can be deadly, too, Kane. The winter wind up here can freeze you to death crossing the street if you take your time. Deadly. Beautiful, too. Grew up in Ohio; never tire of seeing this land. Never.”
A large-bonneted woman entered, needing Conroy’s assistance. Kane left.
He walked Tecumseh to the stable. Clanging said Pete was at work.
“You came back!” Janie. The smile disturbed him even as it enticed him. No one cared when he came and went. That was how the world worked. She was young.
“Janie, my old stall still vacant?”
“Nope, but your horse’s is!”
“You are happy this day.”
“Pa’s back working. He says he won’t drink no more.”
“He ever promise that before?”
Her face fell.
“That’s right! Ride in here and ruin a girl’s day!” She stalked off into the far dim reaches of the stable.
Kane stood with Tecumseh’s reins in his hand. All he wanted to do was mount the animal and ride as far away from all the things he didn’t want to do and all the people he didn’t want to see.
The horse shifted. Kane reached up. Stroked the mane. Walked to the end stall he liked. She’d get over it. Or not.
He looked absently out the doorway. A week. He’d give it a week. Then wire Sherman it could not be done and head for Montana. Problem solved.
The smith was busy forging a horseshoe when he saw Kane. “You that gunman?”
“Sheriff Gunman.”
“Congratulations.”
“Must have known Jared Wilkins.”
“I did.”
“Want to tell me about him?”
“Why?”
“Ain’t sheriffs supposed to find out why people get killed?”
“Let me finish.”
Kane watched as the metal went into the fire, back to the anvil for more pounding, and then into a barrel of water. The hissing cloud of steam slowly dissipated as Pete Haliburton set the shoe on the anvil to cool, took off his leather apron and reached out a hand.
“Janie summed you up pretty good,” he said.
“Don’t figure she misses much. Wilkins?”
“The dead are dead,” said Haliburton.
“Somebody living killed him.”
“Something off about the man since the fall. Never liked him, understand? Seemed to think because he had an Indian wife, he had to have a chip on his shoulder. Distant one day. Best friends the next. Didn’t want to be part of things. Wanted to be important. Who’s to care? Felt sorry for her, married to him. Know the type? So noble they want you to know they are noble.”
“Who were his friends? Brewer and them?”
“No; he started getting close to Noonan. He’s a snake. Nothing in a snake den but snakes. I do not know why they became friends. Back around then, I had to stop Janie from riding off with one of those Company Riders. I do not want her living that life. She didn’t forgive me for a long time. I think she understands now that when a man loses his wife, he holds tighter to his daughter.”
Haliburton cleared his throat and leaned against a table heaped with tools.
“Wilkins. He started drinking a lot. I drank when I was hurting, Sheriff, after Annie, Janie’s ma, passed on. Wilkins was different. He would get mean, like he had to take something out on everyone else. Maybe he pushed somebody too far some night out there, and they pushed back. When we heard, everybody pointed their fingers at his widow, but that’s not so much because we know her as there’s nobody else who would have cared that much. Nobody really knew him, nobody liked him, and nobody misses him. We might like to know who killed him, but it don’t matter as much as whether it rains enough to keep the dirt from turning to dust.”
He pushed off of the table.
“That’s what I know. I got to get back to work. Janie don’t tolerate slackers!” Haliburton smiled, poked the bellows into the fire, and revived the flames.
Kane watched absently as Haliburton’s summary of what could be his life echoed. He wondered how well Sherman really knew the man. Everyone knew Cump believed every man on the March to the Sea was somehow better than any other kind of man. Man may have been good. Maybe not. But he was dead, and it was Kane’s job to find out how and why. And who. That, too. Sherman would demand that, above all.
Kane spent some time walking Rakeheart. Nod and sort of smile. Some of them seemed to know who he was; others not. In time, all the faces and all the activities would be part of a pattern, but for now he had to learn what that pattern was. Watch and wait. That was the secret to most of life. Sure the secret to survival.
Brewer had told him that since they never had a lawman, they didn’t know what the hours were but hinted that Kane ought to know when things would go bad and be sure to be there in time. Kane figured he’d do what he pleased, since his real purpose was to find out who killed Jared Wilkins. If they fired him, they fired him. Rakeheart would have to protect its own self for a while. He had work to do.
CHAPTER SIX
The Wilkins ranch was much the same as it was the last time Kane was there. No one responded when he called. This time it felt empty. Different.
Barn had three horses. Bunkhouse empty. He knocked. Called again. He opened the door to the house, half expecting Rachel to be there with a shotgun. Some wet footprints on the fl
oor. Nothing else. He heard the noise.
Then he caught the smell. Drew the gun. Hammer back. Wait and listen. Softly walking on the soles of his boots but not the heels, he approached the doorway to the big room. He entered aiming at a dead man.
Ferguson was on the floor, a hard red crust across half of his face.
Kane knelt over him. Long gone. Hours dead. There was dried blood on the floor. He swatted the flies. Ferguson had fallen with his feet toward the window. Shutters wide open. Kane’s eyes pictured a line from the dead man to the window. Maybe. Dead folks don’t drop straight, though. Maybe not.
There were horses approaching hard. Rachel and some hands. No kids. Good.
He went out to meet them.
“How did you know?” she challenged.
“Didn’t. How’d it happen?”
She claimed ignorance.
“Clem rode in early. I did not expect him. He wanted to talk about something. I promised Libby I would take her fishing. He said it was important but that he would wait. We were not gone very long, not even an hour if you were using a watch. When we came back, he was there. I got the children out; Libby saw Jared and I don’t want her seeing another dead man. The closest men were in the east pasture, so I rode over there and left the children there for now.”
Another death. No one to tell the tale but her.
“Whoa up!” he called to the men who were going to move Ferguson’s corpse. “Got this badge, so that means I get to figure this out, so don’t go movin’ nothin’ ’til I say so.”
Those detective instructions Sherman’s clerk sent along said people left clues by dead bodies. He hadn’t seen any, but he was going to look.
“What did Ferguson want?” he pressed her.
She shook her teary-eyed head. “It was something about the Company Riders or Jared or that filthy town.”
He had heard the term before and would have to find out what it meant.
