by Rusty Davis
“Mr. Pentle, the barber.”
“Get him,” he told the boy. “Tell him to find ice. Saloon might have it. Hurry.”
The boy was gone in a second.
Kane walked to where a knot of people had gathered.
“Nothin’ to see folks. Time to move on and let these folks get on with their lives. Bet everybody has somethin’ to do.”
“What happened, Sheriff?”
“Somebody’s life went off half-cocked. Now let’s give the folks some room here. Move along!”
Mae was still sitting where he had left her in the wreckage of her life.
“This been happening a lot, ma’am?”
She shook her head. “Bill was supposed to get a job with Frank Tully hauling freight. Frank gave it to his cousin or brother-in-law or something last week, and Bill’s been drinking ever since. He’s never . . . Donald’s ten, Sheriff, and Bill never did this before. He’s a good man. Don’t lock him up.”
Kane considered the size of the man he would have to drag out. He’d need help. He’d need handcuffs he did not have and a jail cell that didn’t exist. Maybe instead of trying to lock up the man, the woman and the boy could find a place to stay, although sendin’ a woman away for not doing anything wrong sounded wrong.
“Got kin?”
“In Kansas. We have been on our own for years.”
Kane thought. Nothing lower than a man taking life out on someone who couldn’t hit back. As he looked at Mae, something looked familiar. He had never seen her before, but there was something about the appearance of her face. An inner voice was screaming at him, but he could not make out what it was saying. Later. Later.
“Tell you what, Mae. When Bill wakes up, he and I are gonna have a talk. Part of that talk is that he’s gonna see a lot of me the next few days. I see your face isn’t healing, he is gonna learn about things I don’t tolerate and reasons I think a man can be shot right down. If he’s a good man, nothin’ more gets said, and life goes on its own way. If you don’t think you are going to be safe, then I will find a place to lock him up.”
She nodded as Donald and Jim Pentle came in. Pentle made clucking noises as he tended to her face, having been told clearly by Kane that whatever was wrong with Bill Cartwright was the man’s problem.
Kane walked outside with the boy.
“Hard when stuff like this happens,” he told him. The boy was silent. “Good folks sometimes do bad things. Stupid things. Things to people they love because the world treated ’em so bad, and they feel so alone, and there is no one else there but the folks that love ’em. Understand?”
The boy nodded.
“Didn’t want to hurt your dad. Not gonna let your dad hurt your mom. He comes around, he understands he done wrong, he never hurts her again, I got no problem with him. But, son, if you ever see him hurt her, you got to tell me, because in some people it’s a sickness, a twisted thing that nobody knows is there until it pops up, and it’s not ever gonna get better. Hope that’s not what happened with your pa. But if it is, you got to protect your ma. Nobody else gonna do it.” The boy nodded again.
Kane stuck out a hand, wondering what was really going on inside. Settler kids had to grow up fast, like it or not. The boy took it.
“Now you sit with your ma when we go back in. I got to talk to your pa, and he’s gonna feel like a fool if he’s any good at all, so it’s best if you aren’t right there.”
The man who had been so full of rage a short time ago was now deflated as he sagged against the wall of his shack. He eyed Kane, not quite sober, and not quite recovered from some hard blows to the head, but close enough.
“Done bein’ stupid?” Kane began. The man colored deep red.
“Won’t make this long. I could take you and find a chain to put you some place where you won’t hurt anyone. Your wife don’t want that. She’s the only reason you don’t get chained up or locked up or shot right down dead. Hear this: I see a mark on your son or your woman, I will shoot you dead that minute.” He held up his hands as the man began to speak. “Don’t make a difference it was the only time or the hunnerth time. It’s the last time. One more thing. You find work tomorrow. I don’t see you going to every last store, every last place, I’ll shoot you dead tomorrow night. Man doesn’t hit women when it goes bad. Not her fault. Man acts like a man.”
Cartwright nodded.
“Today, you patch that wall. You patch your family. I will be walking by later to see that you did.”
He turned and left.
Mae Cartwright was waiting outside.
“Gonna stop later, make sure you are well, ma’am,” Kane said, lifting his hat and speaking softly so his words did not carry. “Won’t make a big noise about it, and, if everything seems fine, I will keep walking so them nosy neighbors don’t get no more entertainment than what’s good for them, but I’m gonna do it.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. For coming. For not arresting Bill.”
“Hope I don’t regret it, Mae. Take care of that boy. Kids don’t say much when life goes south on a family, but they feel it deeper than they let on.”
He kept walking. When folks’ lives became a mess and someone saw it, the best thing to do was give them space to fix it, if they could.
On his way back to the stable, he ducked into Conroy’s store to ask Conroy if Cartwright was always drunk.
“Good man,” said Conroy. “Hard luck lately. He a problem, Sheriff?”
“Nothin’ a job won’t cure.”
“If he comes by, I think I can find something. Hauling stock is getting too much for me anyhow.”
Kane nodded and left. He supposed he had done his job.
As he walked, he was trying to reassemble a thought that shattered like a dropped plate while he was watching the Cartwrights ruin their lives. Gone. It would come back. He hoped.
For a moment he had a stray thought of Rachel Wilkins, but there was no reason to ride out there. Maybe one would come.
But not yet.
CHAPTER NINE
It was the kind of morning Kane agreed with the people who thought alcohol should be outlawed.
The Double J boys had been in town the day before and wrapped up their time after buying supplies by making sure they would have a night to remember. Kane figured most would forget everything after about the middle of the evening, except the ones who had new cuts and bruises from adventures and misadventures that led Kane to increase his collection of knives and guns taken from cowboys who were as likely to cause themselves harm as anyone else.
Not bad. Not evil. They were young, and they were wild, with some of them not very smart to begin with. Boys in the bodies of men. In a few hours, once they all woke up from wherever they had collapsed, they would ride whooping out of town as though life could not get any better. Four were in the stable. One snored loud enough to make Tecumseh’s ears twitch now and then.
Kane walked toward the Last Chance. It was early, but Mary Ellen knew he was an early riser and often made coffee before anything else got started. He could hope.
“Sheriff!”
That was a word he had come to dread. Coming at him across the street was Frank Brewer, the banker and the man who was, in fact if not in title, the leader of the town council of men that hired him and ran things around Rakeheart.
“Mr. Brewer.”
“I was hoping to catch you before the bank opened. They told me you are an early riser. I believe starting the day early is a habit of successful men.”
“Yup. On my way for breakfast.”
“Ah. I had mine at home. Domestic pleasures are important to a man’s routine. I will only keep you a few minutes. Let me unlock the bank, and we can talk in private.”
Kane had no choice but to follow along.
The bank was small. There was room for three teller windows. A door that Kane assumed led to the vault where money was kept was behind them. The door was protected by a gate made of metal bars.
Brewer had a big, fancy roll
top desk that filled some of the space between the teller windows and the door. A smaller desk was across the room. The banker moved behind his desk and pointed to a chair by the wall that Kane then dragged over.
Kane could smell something, like some scent from a woman, and then realized that it was coming from Brewer. He had read in some newspaper advertisement once that there was some kind of water that men put on their hair to make it smell, but he never had known a real person to use it. Why would a man want hair to smell like something awful? As much a mystery as why men wore flat shoes instead of boots.
The banker was in his late thirties or so, built strong, with long fingers Kane assumed were used to wrapping themselves around a fountain pen more than a .45. His black hair was perfectly in place with a part down the middle that was straight and broad. He was not handsome, but commanding, with a prominent nose, aggressive chin, and thin lips. The man’s brown eyes were trying to project warmth, but Kane had the feeling that whatever face Brewer showed to the world, it was not the one inside.
“Allow me to be to the point with you, Sheriff. There are some concerns that have been raised about the extent of your activity at the Wilkins ranch.”
“Two men shot dead sounds like something that ought to concern the folks in the nearest town,” Kane countered.
“I can see your point,” Brewer said in the smooth tone men used when they were preparing to talk someone into doing what they wanted. “I think that any good sheriff trying to do his duty would feel bound to look into those. Do you have any idea who killed either Jared Wilkins or Clem Ferguson?”
Kane was instantly irked at the question for a reason he could not explain, other than the pure contrariness of a man who likes to be his own boss pushing back against anyone trying to tell him what to do.
“Haven’t found much yet,” he admitted.
“Exactly. Whatever has happened, or might be happening, at the Wilkins ranch is not a grave concern to those of us who are trying to make Rakeheart a growing and thriving town. I completely understand that you believe it is your job to look into these killings, and if it is possible to apprehend the person or persons responsible, the town council and I would fully support you,” Brewer said.
Kane waited for the rest.
“However, we believe that, given the history of this valley, in which the Wilkins family was not very connected to Rakeheart and had very little to do with anyone here in the town, any time spent there or trying to unravel whatever has been going on at that ranch should only come when the needs of the town are fully met.”
“You tellin’ me not to figger who killed them?”
“Not at all,” said Brewer. “We want to be sure that you understand our intention in hiring you was to provide protection for the town and its citizens and not to go off looking at what might have happened on some ranch that is miles away. If you are able to bring to justice someone who kills in the way those men were murdered, it is for everyone’s good, but I and the town council would expect you will spend most of your time here in town to be ready for any eventuality that should occur. We do not want you to leave the town unguarded for any significant length of time. I commend your motives, Sheriff, but as your employer, we are trying to direct you to focus your time on the job we have hired you to do.”
Kane wanted to argue. He also wanted to know what he could have learned at the Wilkins ranch that was so important he was now being told to leave it alone. If he knew something, it would have been nice if someone told him, because he had no idea what happened. He put his best subservient face on, though, because over time he had learned that when men gave pretty speeches, they were hiding what they really meant. The worst thing to do was let them know they had been seen through.
If Brewer wanted to lie to Kane about why they were having this little conversation, Kane felt fine lying back about whether he would listen to what was as plain an order as ever delivered in any army.
“Understood, Mr. Brewer.”
“Frank. We are all friends here, Kane.”
“Might need to go out and make sure the old Wilkins hands understand there’s not vigilante justice out there, Frank, because when they came to town there was some loose talk, but I understand what you want. I’ll protect the town. Probably a dead end out there anyhow.”
“Good,” Brewer said. He started to wave Kane off in a cursory dismissal now that their meeting was over but cut the gesture short. Kane still noticed. “I will let you go about your business, Sheriff.”
Kane offered a pleasantry that was as insincere as anything Brewer had told him and headed quickly for the Last Chance. Man needed a good cup of strong coffee to wash the taste of that meeting out of his throat.
As he walked the short distance, he could see the man from the depot, Halloran, moving at far too fast a pace for a man all reports claimed was a drunk who dove into a bottle years back and never came out.
“Halloran!” he called.
The man stopped.
“Ah, Friend Badge,” he called, Irish brogue so thick it would need a knife. Kane wondered how much of a front Halloran was putting on.
“You seem urgent in your business, Halloran.”
“Ah, ’tis urgent business, Friend Badge, or I would have time to talk. Sarah Lewis’s cat is having kittens, and I have been called to supervise the process.”
“Halloran, are you drunk? How does a man supervise a cat having kittens?”
“With great care, Friend Badge. With great care!” Cackling at his joke, Halloran sauntered away, leaving Kane feeling—again—that Rakeheart had played a joke on him.
There were times Kane did not know which was worse—the stupidity of the wild cowboys or the boredom of the hours when the little town looked so peaceful and drowsy, it was hard to imagine it had another side.
The day passed uneventfully. Mae Cartwright had no new injuries. Bill had a job with Conroy, as promised. Not much money, but he could rebuild his pride. Cartwright avoided his glance. Kane did not press it.
His stroll took him down to the church. He walked to the rows of headstones. Ferguson had a wad of lead. Lead that looked like it had come out of something or gone through something—most likely a man.
The preacher was soon beside him.
“Did you want to see Mr. Wilkins?”
“Nope.”
“I thought you were his friend?” Word travels fast.
“In a minute. Who was the last person killed before him?”
“Lester Boneharvest,” replied Siegel. “He fell off a roof.”
“Last person shot.”
“Ahh. Frank Kruger. Very odd. Came in to town about oh, let’s see, September, and he was found shot dead around the end of October. No, November. About first snow time. An unpleasant man. I don’t think anyone was ever found to have shot him. The town was particularly callous about that, but he was not a very nice man, and it came right before we were buried in a foot or more of snow.”
“Where did he get shot?”
“In the chest. It was quite a wound, from what I was told. Some massive round, not like the bullets in a normal gun, or so they kept saying.”
“No, Preacher, where around here?”
“They found him not far from Noonan’s. There’s a small ravine about fifty yards behind the place. He was in it. Some boys found him. At first, they claimed they did it as if it was something to be proud about. Terrible influence, the guns and the liquor . . .”
“Nobody knows why or who?”
“This is a raw and violent place, Mr. Kane. He was not a nice man. I recall that he asked a lot of questions and seemed to want everyone to get a different idea of what he was doing. He may have been one of those Pinkerton men. He offended someone who was drunk or said or did the wrong thing. The boys who bragged would not have done so if they thought they would be condemned for saying that.”
Siegel looked over the graves.
“Life is so cheap here, Sheriff. So cheap.”
They came to W
ilkins’s stone. Kane thought about a spent slug and wondered where—and who—it came from. He walked as he thought. The cemetery was still small. There was one communal stone for tiny ones who died young of disease. One name he did not see. He asked.
“Halloran? I think I heard he had a wife, but I don’t know anything about it. I have only been here for four years, so if she died, it might have been before my time.”
Kane thought about that. Stones had dates on them going back a lot farther than that. But if talk was right and the woman’s death made the man fall apart, who knows what he did? It was Wyoming. It was the frontier. Nothing was as common as death.
Conroy looked displeased at the interruption. He was talking to a pretty young woman about flour and did not want to be taken away from his conversation.
“Got a question, sir,” Kane asked. Groveling always helped.
“Glad to help, Sheriff.”
“Most boys around here use Colts, don’t they? I was thinking if we need ammunition for a posse, you understand.”
“Oh, yes. Cowboys and Colts! Now Mr. Brewer. He has a LeMat, you know. So does Silas Noonan. I think they both have them for show, you know. Terrible for accuracy. But they were both Virginia-born, even if they made their money out here. You know, Jeb Stuart? They both want to be the dashing cavalier. It takes me forever to get their ammunition, so I stock well ahead. Some of those new Smith & Wesson guns are out here. I have one of those new Remington pistols for sale, but no takers yet. I think it may be too expensive. Rifles are different, though. We have a lot of the boys with old Sharps rifles and Remingtons as well as the Winchesters, and every so often someone comes in with a relic from the War between the States, so I have some musket shot and powder. I tried once to keep up with what everyone needed for their shotguns, but now I have given up. There are too many of those.”
Conroy went on for about fifteen more minutes describing who shot what. Kane wanted to leave, but the shopkeeper had rarely been this talkative. When the flow of words hit a pause, Kane excused himself, smiling as he realized Conroy, who might never have fired a gun, was fascinated by them. He also realized the young woman watching appeared enthralled at Conroy’s knowledge. What a pretty face does to a man at any age.
