Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale)

by James D. Best

  “Jeff?”

  After a long moment, Sharp slowly rolled over and peered at me with bloodshot eyes. “Is it morning?”

  I pulled out my pocket watch. “Almost seven.”

  “Damn.” He gently swung his legs off the cot and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Any chance of gettin’ coffee in this fine establishment?”

  “I’ll check.”

  When I turned, I saw George leaning against the wall in the office area. He held up a hand to stop me from walking toward him. “I heard. He’ll get coffee with his breakfast at eight o’clock. One mug.” Then he smiled. “For his information, this ain’t no fine establishment.”

  “But I can smell coffee,” I said.

  “Do yer talkin’. He’ll get coffee in short order.”

  I looked at Sharp, and he seemed miserable but awake. “Jeff, what happened?”

  “Not sure. But I know what didn’t happen. I sure as hell didn’t kill Campbell.”

  “I know that.” I took half a step forward, then remembered my instructions and retreated to the wall. “You need to explain what happened so I can get you out of here. Let’s start at the beginning: Why did you stay downstairs in the saloon? I thought you went down for a bottle to take back to your room.”

  “When I walked in, I was treated like a hero. Before I knew it, I had three full shot glasses in front of me. I’d blame others, but hell, I wanted to celebrate too.” Sharp looked at his hand and gave it a shake before rubbing it again. “I’d dreamed about punchin’ that cheatin’ bastard for years.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I was drinkin’ for a couple hours. By the time I walked out, I was lucky to move under my own power.” He alternated between rubbing his forehead and his hand. “I remember climbin’ those damn back stairs. I had to take each step careful-like while holdin’ tight to the handrail.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Not much. I recall a bunch of men roustin’ me out of bed. I was too drunk to resist, so I guess they just led me over here to this cell. Woke up pukin’ a few hours ago, an’ that jailer told me I was under arrest for the murder of Elisha Campbell—way out at this Thumb Butte, for God’s sake.”

  “Did you go to Thumb Butte last night?”

  “Hell, I don’t even know what it is.”

  “That big outcropping we saw on the way into town. It’s about a mile away.”

  “I couldn’t have traveled a mile. I barely made it out of the saloon.”

  “Jeff, it doesn’t look good. Your rifle was lying next to the body of a man you threatened to kill earlier in the evening. A bullet had been fired into the back of Elisha Campbell’s head.”

  “Shit.” Sharp looked worried, but I could see that his thinking was still muddled from over-drinking. He sat still for a time until he said, “I need three things. A damn good lawyer, an alibi, an’ a cup of hot coffee. Can ya get ’em for me, Steve?”

  I must have been mistaken about his mental state, because that list was anything but muddled. “I’ll get you the best lawyer in the territory, but the other two might be more difficult.”

  “Bribe that son-of-a-bitch jailer. I need to get a clear head. Then talk to people that were in the saloon last night. Ought to be plenty to testify I was fallin’-down drunk. I never could have gotten out to some butte.”

  “Jeff, did you lock your door when you went down to buy that bottle?”

  “Ya know I didn’t. Ya was standin’ right there. I meant to be right back.”

  “And your rifle?”

  “Yep, in my unlocked room the whole time I was drinkin’ myself under the table.”

  “I think someone wanted Campbell dead, and you provided a handy scapegoat.”

  “Handy an’ stupid.” Sharp leaned over the chamber pot as if to puke again, but then jerked back up straight.

  “I need a fourth thing: Can ya kindly pay someone to empty an’ clean this damn chamber pot?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  He looked up at me with forlorn eyes. “What d’ya think?”

  “I think we’re in a strange town. If this goes to trial fast, we may not have enough time to discover the real story. We need help.”

  “Joseph?”

  “Joseph.”

  Chapter 12

  Another two dollars secured Sharp an endless cup of coffee and a clean commode, so I ran over to the Western Union office to send a message to Captain Joseph McAllen of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

  My next stop was the second floor of the courthouse: the governor’s office. A secretary behind a carved mahogany desk guarded the governor’s closed office door. As I approached, he stood and raised a hand to stop my progress. He was a young man, probably early twenties, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that was obviously tailored in the East. I, of course, was dressed like a cleaned-up ranch hand.

  “Good morning. I’d like to see Governor Frémont. My name is Steve Dancy.”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet, and he’s booked the next few days. I’m Jonathon Winslow, his personal assistant. May I ask the subject of your business?”

  “Personal matter. I sent him a letter announcing my pending trip a few months ago. Could you please tell me where I can find him?”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” I wanted to verbally tear into this civic minion, but that would have made him even more impertinent. “I’m a personal family friend of John Frémont, recently arrived from New York City. My family was a major donor to his presidential bid. I’ve run into a bit of trouble, and I need to speak to the governor as soon as possible. Where can I find him at this hour of the morning?”

  “I’m under strict orders never to reveal the governor’s where­abouts … especially if the subject is personal. I can make you an appointment for next week or possibly the week after.” He leaned over a leather-bound appointment calendar. “Will fifteen minutes be sufficient?”

  “You won’t tell me where he lives, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s not a secret to townsfolk. Good day, sir.”

  He let me walk ten paces before adding in a quiet voice, “You won’t find him at home.”

  I stopped and slowly turned to face him. “Then I’ll speak with Jessie. She’ll tell me how to find her husband.”

  The sneer faded. “Perhaps it’s best if we don’t disturb Mrs. Frémont this morning. If you tell me what your problem is, I’m sure I can handle it. I do all sorts of tasks for the governor.”

  “I’m sure.” I pretended to contemplate his offer. “But I think this should be handled personally by the governor. You did understand that the Frémont and Dancy families are not only friendly but politically connected?”

  “Do you want money?”

  “What? No.”

  “Does the problem involve a woman?”

  “No.”

  “Just a moment.” He disappeared behind the closed door. After a moment, he reappeared and waved me into the office.

  John C. Frémont sat alone at a long committee table, eating breakfast. He wore a beard and a full head of unruly gray hair. He had grown old, and he looked beaten. I was struck by this inglorious end to a glorious career.

  I approached with an extended hand. “Governor, I’m Steve Dancy. I’m sure you don’t remember, but you once bounced me on your knee.”

  Frémont wiped his hands on a napkin and shook—not a politician’s handshake, but the gesture of an erstwhile hero resigned to mundane routine. It must be difficult to go from being nationally celebrated to holding an obscure posting on the frontier.

  “Steven Dancy? From New York City? I’m sure you’re correct, but I have no such recollection. How long ago was it?”

  “In 1855, twenty-five years ago. You were the Republican nominee for president. My father and you were friends and political allies.”

  “A heady time. Lots of gentlemen to greet, lots o
f wives to dance around the floor, lots of babies to kiss … and lots of children to bounce on my knee. It’s all just a blur, I’m afraid.”

  This wouldn’t do. “Governor, may I remind you, the Dancys were among the largest and earliest donors to your campaign. My family introduced you to New York society, which garnered additional large contributions. You bounced me on your knee, not at some political event but in our parlor, which you visited often to discuss political strategy with my father.”

  “Please excuse me. I lost a good friend last night. My mood is dark and my mind addled.”

  He still hadn’t acknowledged knowing us. Perhaps he was afraid I had come to collect a return favor—or money for some long-forgotten debt. I had originally hoped to use his influence to assist with my enterprises, but now I wanted his help to free Sharp.

  “I presume you are referring to the death of Elisha Campbell,” I said.

  “I am. Did you know him?”

  “No, but I traveled from Carson City to see if we could make a business arrangement together.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Nevada capital. I was sure he was assessing my political influence. I may have been dressed in trail clothes, but I had told him my family was consequential, and he surely had noticed my educated speech.

  “Were you able to make this business arrangement with Mr. Campbell?” he asked, seeming a bit more cautious.

  “Unfortunately, no. We arrived yesterday, and I didn’t have the opportunity to seek an introduction. I had intended to come to you in the hopes you might provide that service.”

  Frémont physically relaxed after hearing that I had been merely seeking an introduction to one of his associates. I assumed that he felt comfortable handling such simple matters.

  “Then this is your loss as well. Mr. Campbell was astute at business. In fact, he was helping me with a few issues.”

  I wondered how to ask him to help me free his friend’s murderer. I guessed that I’d need to find out as much as possible before he learned that fact.

  “Governor, I need a good lawyer. Can you make a recom­mendation?”

  “Of course.” He looked pleased. Politicians always want people beholden to them, and a recommendation was an easy way to curry favor. “George Blanchet is the best in the territory.”

  “What are his specialties?”

  “Government relations, deeds, claims, and business transactions. If you want to do business in the territory, you want Blanchet on your side of the table.”

  “Does he have any experience with criminal cases?”

  “Not really.” Frémont laughed. “Do you intend to commit a crime?”

  “No. My friend has been wrongly accused of a crime.”

  Frémont must have guessed, because he immediately stiffened. “What friend? What crime?”

  No use equivocating any longer. “Jeff Sharp has been accused of murdering Elisha Campbell.”

  The governor leaped to his feet, almost spilling the remainder of his breakfast. “Elisha was a friend of mine!”

  “Be that as it may, Jeff Sharp didn’t kill him.”

  “I can’t get involved with this. Please leave.”

  “Governor, I know it’s been many years, but the Dancy family was critical to furthering your political career. I only want a fair hearing.”

  “The Dancys furthered my political career? Do you see where I am?” Frémont reached into his pocket and threw a few coins on the table. “There, that ought to repay everything I owe for this grand posting.” He plopped into his chair and waved his fingers, dismissing me. “Please, go.”

  I started to leave the pathetic old man but stopped with one hand on the door. “Just one more question, and I’ll leave. Did Campbell ever mention the Edison Electric Light Company?”

  Frémont was back on his feet. “Get out before I call capitol troopers. Now!”

  I took that as a yes.

  Chapter 13

  After leaving the governor, I went to see Bob Brow at the Palace. I needed a lawyer, and in my experience, saloon owners knew all about the townspeople. I hoped that he could direct me to a lawyer who didn’t just trade favors with politicians. Saloon owners weren’t early risers, but he had come in while I was eating breakfast, so he might still be around. But when I entered the Palace, Brow was no longer in sight. I was about to ask the barkeep for his whereabouts when I spotted Doc Holliday eating alone. It was mid-morning, and gamblers seldom stirred before noon. The thought struck me that everyone got up early in this town.

  I ordered a cup of coffee from the bar and walked over to Holliday. “May I join you?”

  “No.” He gave me a curious look. He continued in his easy Southern drawl. “Ah’ll excuse your rudeness because you’re new to town, but Ah do not abide being interrupted at breakfast. Everybody else knows it. Now you do too.”

  I bowed slightly. “I apologize, Doctor. Is there a time I could see you?”

  “About what?” There was curiosity in his voice.

  “I need legal help for my friend.”

  “When you address someone as doctor, it means they’re most probably not in the legal profession.”

  “At present, if I’m not mistaken, you’re a gambler, and gamblers know people—or they don’t stay in the profession long. I thought you might direct me to a lawyer with skill and character.”

  I worried that I had overstayed his patience, but Holliday laughed instead of snarling at me. “A lawyer with character. Next, you’ll want me to find you a generous banker. Well hell, you might as well sit, sir.” He waved me into a seat across from him. As I sat, he bellowed out to the room in general, “Don’t none of you jackals get the idea you can bother me at breakfast. I’m likely to put a bullet in your fat yaps.”

  As I sipped some scalding coffee, Holliday gave me a sly wink before asking, “What are you looking for?”

  “The best lawyer in the territory. One with experience defending criminals but also savvy in delaying trials. I have money.”

  “That’s always handy.”

  I shrugged.

  “Why do you want a delay?”

  “I have a detective en route, but it will take him a while to get here.”

  “You believe your friend’s innocent?”

  “I know he is.”

  Holliday seemed to mull that over. “Lots of people are happy Campbell’s dead … including your friend. What makes you think he’s not the one who did it?”

  Now I thought. Sowing a little worry around town about what we might know or what evidence we might possess could be advantageous. “I can’t disclose that at the moment, but we need time. I need a lawyer who knows how to tie the proceedings in knots that’ll take weeks to untangle.”

  “You want Mac Castle.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “A rarity—an honest lawyer. If he distrusts you, he’ll send you on your way. But if he accepts you as a client, he’s the best around. That boy’s clever as a saloon gal sizing up the clientele. When he’s in court, everybody comes to watch because he’s entertaining, sarcastic, and irreverent.” Holliday chuckled. “A man after my own heart. But somehow his cranky style appeals to juries as well as the grandstands.”

  Castle seemed like my man, but I had to ask, “What do you think of George Blanchet?”

  Holliday jerked back like I had shown him a photograph of a circus freak. “If you steal a claim or commit fraud, Blanchet will gladly defend you. He’s as shifty as they come, but Ah wouldn’t hire him to defend your friend.”

  I nodded. “Just checking. Someone else recommended him.”

  “You trust this person’s judgment?” He sounded incredulous.

  “I wouldn’t be interrupting your breakfast if I did.”

  He gave me an odd look. “You trust me?”

  I tried a friendly smile. “I trust your judgment.” I stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Mr. Castle.”

  “Not hard. His office is next door. G
ood day, Mr. Dancy.”

  I left the Palace, pleased that Doc Holliday had remembered my name.

  Chapter 14

  I climbed to the second floor of the narrow building and saw a long hall with a series of mahogany doors painted with gold lettering. The third one read, “Mac Castle, Attorney at Law.”

  I knocked, and a male voice yelled at me to enter.

  When I opened the door, a man in shirtsleeves sat in a leather chair reading what looked to be a legal brief.

  I walked over. “Mr. Castle, my name is Steve Dancy.”

  Without attempting to get up, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a lawyer experienced in defending tough criminal cases. I was hoping for a few moments of your time to interview you.”

  “Usually the client is the supplicant.” His amused expression told me I hadn’t offended him.

  “This case is so important to me that I must hire not only the best but also the most experienced in cases similar to mine.”

  “And what type of case would that be?”

  “Murder.”

  “The Elisha Campbell murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said, ‘in cases similar to mine.’ My understanding is that another man has been arrested for that crime.”

  “My friend, Jeff Sharp. This morning, he asked me to find him an attorney. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Take a seat.” He pointed at a leather chair.

  Mac Castle had an almost typical law office: cluttered rolltop desk, dark wainscoting, framed portraits, and bookshelves of law books arranged with exquisite neatness. That is where the similarity ended. Castle appeared to be in his thirties and wore an open-neck shirt, without coat or tie, and slippers. The opposing leather chairs, like those at my father’s club, put the client and Castle on equal footing.

  “Tell me about yourself and your friend.”

  “We rode into town yesterday afternoon and got rooms at the Palace. After a bath, we had drinks in the saloon. We were tired from a long ride and left early, but about eight o’clock, Jeff went back downstairs. I retired. He stayed in the saloon drinking until about eleven and then returned drunk to his room. While he was gone, he left his door unlocked with his rifle inside. Sometime before one o’clock, Campbell was discovered dead at the base of Thumb Butte, shot with Jeff’s rifle. The rifle was found beside the body.”