Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale)

by James D. Best

  He paused dramatically, wanting me to fill in the rest. So I did. “I presume the Pinkerton agency was engaged by his family in Boston. The swindle isn’t public yet, but if it makes the papers, our future congressman would look like someone who lacks judgment or is still too young to hold a weighty position. A trial has a way of exposing a lot of things besides the crime. So you’re thinking that a well-worded telegram to the parents can keep this engagement open, only now the assignment would be to keep young Jonathon’s name out of any proceedings or newspaper articles. Have I got that about right?”

  “Not about … exactly right.”

  “Let me explain something. Sharp didn’t kill Campbell. If you proceed along the path I just described, you’ll interfere with our best defense, which is that Campbell was killed by someone he swindled. Your goals will clash with mine. Sharp’s lawyer wants to use the stock scam to expose the real killer or at least sow doubt in a jury’s mind. Winslow’s name will likely surface because the other victims know that he also bought shares in the bogus company. So … extending the engagement could wreck my friend’s chances of going free. One last point: Jeff Sharp is a longtime friend of Captain Joseph McAllen.”

  “I think it will be a pleasant afternoon for a ride.”

  “You’re coming along.”

  “Of course. I take orders from my supervisor, not you.”

  With that settled, I asked, “Why’s Maggie here?”

  “It was the perfect excuse for her to see her father every day. She’s in no more danger than she would be walking the streets of Durango, and she gives us perfect cover.”

  “Joseph’s idea or hers?”

  Schmidt smiled as he got up to leave. “What do you think?”

  “Maggie’s. She’s a headstrong McAllen.”

  “I’m going upstairs to change. Are you riding like that?”

  “I am.” I marveled at how westernized I had become. In the East, I would never ride in street clothes. Of course, in the East, I wouldn’t be walking the streets in denim and boots.

  Chapter 18

  Schmidt led our party of four out of town toward Thumb Butte. As we came around a bend, I spotted a man sitting ramrod straight on a horse to the side of the road. Despite his jorongo and sombrero, I knew it was Captain McAllen even before Maggie spurred ahead.

  I guessed that McAllen was somewhere in his early forties, but he was not the type of man you asked personal questions. His no-nonsense demeanor was reinforced with terse conversation and a rigid sense of honor. Even from a distance, I could see that, despite his irregular wardrobe, he was clean-shaven and well-groomed. He also looked formidable, even when sitting perfectly still.

  I reined up Liberty to let Maggie say hello to her father before making my own greetings. I noticed that Carl and Mary Schmidt did the same.

  As we had ridden out of Prescott, Thumb Butte dominated the landscape. It was unusual and dramatic, but it didn’t look like a thumb to me: more like a rock outcropping extending up from the top of a hill. As we got closer, the angle changed, and it looked like an ordinary forested hill. It was probably my one-eyed accountant cast of mind that kept me from seeing the butte as anything other than a butte.

  The Schmidts hadn’t said a word, so I asked if they remembered Jeff Sharp.

  They looked at each other, and Carl responded. “Of course. Man in his fifties with little education, sturdy built, confident, no sidearm but carries a rifle, says whatever he thinks, and has big appetites. A rough sort.”

  I didn’t like the description. “He has little formal education, but he knows more than most college graduates, and I’m not talking about what he’s seen and experienced. The man reads everything.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.” The tone was dismissive.

  I turned in my saddle to look straight at Carl Schmidt. “Do you have a problem with Sharp … or me?”

  Schmidt looked as if he had been jerked out of a reverie. “I don’t really know you or Mr. Sharp. We met only briefly outside Leadville.”

  “You’re bullshitting me. You hunt con men, so you’ve got to be good at judging people right off.”

  Schmidt turned in his saddle to look me in the eye. “You’re correct on every count. I am bullshitting you. I am an expert at judging people, I don’t like Mr. Sharp, nor do I believe a self-educated man from the backwoods can achieve erudition or class. Mr. Sharp is the type of man who is fully capable of killing an enemy, and the evidence that he did so in this situation is substantial.”

  Schmidt looked taken aback when I started laughing.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “Harvard, Yale, or Princeton?”

  He looked wary. “I graduated from Harvard. Why is that amusing?”

  “Only a Harvard man could take a playacting job and still feel superior.”

  “Our work is important,” Mary Schmidt protested from the other side of her husband.

  “I wasn’t addressing the job; I was addressing the haughty attitude.”

  “Who made you an expert on Harvard graduates?”

  “Columbia University.”

  Carl Schmidt tipped his hat in mock homage. “I never would have guessed.”

  “I know. Perhaps you’re not as good at judging people as you suppose. For example, you’re right that Jeff Sharp is the kind of man that’s capable of killing an enemy, but you missed the most important part of his character … he would never shoot a man in the back.”

  “He was falling-down drunk.”

  “Drunk or sober, Jeff would fight fair.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.” Again, the tone was dismissive.

  I was about to argue further, but McAllen waved us over. It was just as well. I was growing to dislike Carl Schmidt. I also understood that he resented my interfering with his work. I presumed that was the reason he took pleasure in needling me.

  As we drew near, McAllen stood in his stirrups, leaned across his saddle, and shook my hand.

  “Good afternoon, Captain,” I said. “Thank you for responding so fast to my telegram.”

  McAllen smiled with closed lips. “I suppose that means you sent me a telegram after Jeff got himself arrested.”

  “I did.”

  The smile faded. “We usually ride the trail around the base of Thumb Butte.” He tugged his reins and wheeled his horse around. “Best to be off the road.”

  For about fifteen minutes, McAllen rode along a well-used trail, chatting with his daughter. As we approached a small glen, he pulled up and dismounted. We all followed suit.

  We let the horses graze and gathered in a rough circle. It was so quiet, I heard a lizard or snake slither in the brush thirty feet away. The day was sunny but still crisp enough that I felt comfortable in a sheepskin coat over a wool shirt and long johns.

  “I was surprised to learn you were in Prescott,” I said.

  “Been here almost two months. Routine until now. What the hell are you and Jeff doin’ here?”

  “We’re looking for mining investments.”

  “In Prescott? Mines around here would be tiny for an operator like Jeff.”

  I noticed that last sentence caught Carl Schmidt’s attention. Harvard men were always impressed by money.

  “I insisted we stop to see Frémont. At one time, he was a family friend, but …” I shrugged, “he seems to have forgotten.” I wanted to get away from McAllen’s line of questioning, so I asked, “What do you know about the murder and Jeff’s arrest?”

  “Everythin’.”

  “Everything?”

  “At least everythin’ there is to know at the moment. Jeff and you arrived in town about this time yesterday. Jeff hit Campbell in the jaw and threatened to kill him in front of witnesses. Later that evenin’, he got drunk at the Palace. You were nowhere in sight. He left before midnight. Campbell was killed with a single shot in the back of the head from Jeff’s Winchester, which was dropped next to the body. Two shots had been fired from the rif
le. All of this was discovered by the constable and me. Pine needles were found on the stairs at the Palace and stuck to Jeff’s boot heel.” McAllen swung his arm around to point out the pine trees that circled the glen. “This afternoon, Jeff hired Mac Castle to defend him.” McAllen looked thoughtful and then added, “Last, and most damnin’, Campbell destroyed Jeff’s business and reputation in New York City.” He paused again. “That about it?”

  “Wait a minute. How do you know the last part?”

  “Constable Earp asked Jeff why he slugged Campbell. Jeff foolishly told him.”

  “Virgil Earp talks to you about this case?”

  “I live in his home, not far from where we stand.”

  I was surprised to hear that McAllen lived a short distance from the murder. “Did you hear a shot last night?”

  McAllen hesitated, trying to figure out how much to tell me. “Yes. The Earp home is a quarter mile from the murder. I was with Earp when he went to investigate the noise. After inspectin’ the site, I suspected Campbell wasn’t murdered there. Too little blood around the body, and it looks like someone covered up tracks by brushin’ the dirt—tracks that might have been caused by draggin’ a body.”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd that a man barely capable of exiting a saloon could drag a body all the way out here?”

  “Lots of things ain’t right about this case.”

  Maggie wore a broad grin. “Does that mean we stay? Can you move into town?”

  “I thought you liked all the secret doings,” McAllen said noncommittally.

  “At first, but now they’re boring, Pa. If you board at Prescott House, I can help you solve this mystery.”

  “What makes you think it’s a mystery?” Mary Schmidt asked.

  “Mr. Sharp didn’t kill Mr. Campbell, so it’s a mystery.” She said this so matter-of-factly that I smiled.

  “Maggie, dear, sometimes things don’t work out the way we want.” Mary Schmidt gave her a condescending look. “If you want to be a detective someday, you need to follow the evidence, not your heart.”

  Maggie struck a defiant pose with hands on both hips. “My statement does not come from my heart. Lots of men in this town had a grudge against Mr. Campbell. Any one of them could have taken advantage of Mr. Sharp’s drunkenness. You forget, I know Mr. Sharp, and that rifle was like his arm. He’d no more drop it in the woods than I would leave a shop without my purse. Someone else left it to make him look guilty.”

  I was impressed. She was right. I had never questioned the incongruity of the Winchester being left with the body. Carrying that rifle was such an ingrained habit that even drunk, Sharp would never leave it behind.

  “Mag, if I moved into town, I wouldn’t have any more private talks with Constable Earp,” McAllen said. “But with this turn of events, I can see you more—come into town.”

  “Captain, if I may,” Mary Schmidt said. “If you show the town that Maggie’s your daughter, they’ll know we’re Pinkertons. It may be a bit early to make that decision.”

  “You’re right, Mary. Let’s keep things the same for a few days.” He put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Mag, I’m sorry, but you need to play the dutiful daughter to the Schmidts a bit longer.”

  “But Pa, I can help. No one pays me any never-mind. I can go anywhere, overhear conversations, watch people.”

  McAllen lifted his hand away from his daughter. “Mag, you do exactly as the Schmidts say, or you’ll find yourself on a coach home. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  I watched her face. It was firm and resolute. I had seen that expression on her father. My guess was that her I do conceded only understanding, not obedience.

  Carl Schmidt spoke for the first time. “Captain, I came with Mary because questions are being raised about this entire engagement.”

  “Who’s raisin’ questions?”

  Carl Schmidt nodded in my direction. That got me a stern glance from McAllen.

  “Jonathon Winslow is the one questioning this engagement,” I said in defense. “I believe he fired your team. Mr. Schmidt wants to wire Boston and beg Winslow’s father to keep working on a case that no longer exists.”

  Carl Schmidt became indignant. “Begging is a highly inaccurate term. And we weren’t fired. We were engaged by Jonathon’s father. Only he can terminate our agreement. I’m sure he’ll want us to remain on the case to protect the family name.”

  Harvard men generally weren’t smarter or better educated, but they were successful because they helped each other, and if the situation warranted, they would protect each other from impolite assaults from lesser beings. In truth, the same was somewhat true of Columbia, but moving up the rungs of society by using family connections was one of the reasons I had left the city for the frontier. Out here, a man made it on his own—or he didn’t make it.

  McAllen’s next words surprised me. “Carl, send Mr. Winslow a telegram to inform him that it is likely that their son’s business dealin’s with Campbell will come out at trial. If he authorizes another retainer, we’ll try to keep the worst of it out of the newspapers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Without a further word, Carl Schmidt walked over to his horse, mounted up, and rode away.

  “Captain, I won’t pull back on Jeff’s defense to protect that doltish assistant to the governor. Continuing this engagement puts Jeff in jeopardy.”

  “No it doesn’t. We can do both. More important, protectin’ Winslow allows me to stay in Prescott so I can help Jeff.”

  “I can hire you and your team.”

  McAllen gave me one of his stares that brooked no further discussion. “Steve, I would consider it an insult for you to offer me money. Jeff’s my friend, and someone made it look like he committed murder. We’ll work together to get to the bottom of this, but I can do my job at the same time.”

  Carl Schmidt seemed to know the right thing to say when McAllen gave an order, so I followed his example. “Yes, sir.”

  McAllen’s eyes flamed briefly, but he let my impertinence go. “Have you found any evidence that helps Jeff?”

  “No, but it didn’t take long to find several people who might want Campbell dead.”

  “Who’s on your list?”

  “Lew Davis, Jonathon Winslow, and Herb Locklear were all victims of Campbell’s scam. Blanchet and even the governor may also have been victims, but I think it more likely that Blanchet was a partner.”

  Mary Schmidt spoke up, “The governor, his assistant, the leader of the Republicans in the Council, a highly connected lawyer, and the day manager of the Palace. That’s a list of most of the important people in Prescott. We can’t shove aside the obvious suspect, Jeff Sharp.”

  “Jeff didn’t kill Campbell,” I responded a bit too sharply.

  “Take it easy, Steve. Pinkertons are trained to never discard a suspect until hard evidence proves them innocent. Mary is right to keep him on her list.” He turned his eyes from me to Mary Schmidt. “Did you suspect any other victims of this fraud?”

  Her eyes twinkled with humor, and I guessed she could play coy better than a barroom hussy. “I presume you mean beyond Carl and me. Actually, we hadn’t closed the deal yet, or we would have put Campbell in jail.” She dropped her coy act. “Captain, in answer to your question, we haven’t run across anyone else in town. There was a rancher down south, but we haven’t seen him in Prescott. That doesn’t mean there aren’t others who have hidden their involvement due to embarrassment.”

  “What about Bob Brow?” I asked.

  “Why would you suspect him?” She looked puzzled.

  “Brow told me he was being sued by Campbell. He also mentioned that there were several women that he romanced out of money … and other valuables.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head no. “Brow’s unlikely, but I want to learn about these women.”

  “Why are you dismissing Brow?” I asked.

  “He can spot a cheat from twenty paces, and Castle would’ve han
dled any legal issues for Brow. I think he’s doubtful.”

  “Is there any chance Mac Castle should be on the list?” McAllen asked. “It wouldn’t be good if Jeff’s lawyer was the murderer.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, and I looked at Mary Schmidt to hear her answer. “Not a chance. Castle would never buy stock without telegramming New York.” Again, the twinkling eyes. “That man has checked every term and condition in the Bible.”

  I chuckled to make light of my next comment. “I might as well mention that Castle has me on his list. Campbell and I were both New Yorkers. He says I knew that Jeff’s door was unlocked and that his name was carved in the stock of his Winchester. He also accused me of being a man who solves problems with a gun.”

  “I think I’ll like Mr. Castle,” McAllen said, with his closed-mouth smile. “I’ll put you on my list as well.”

  His expression turned serious again. “Mary, talk to Winslow. See where he was last night. Ask him if he told anyone you were Pinkertons. If not, caution him to keep it quiet. Check Locklear’s whereabouts too, but be discreet. Steve, go see Jeff and let him know I’m here. See if he remembers anything more.”

  “I need to see Castle as well.”

  “Fine, but meet me at Earp’s for dinner at seven.”

  I looked McAllen up and down. “Should I dress as a Mexican bandit?”

  No smile. “Steve, come however you damn please.” He snuggled the sombrero on his head. “A jorongo is warm and allows access to my gun. Great for ridin’. And a sombrero shades the harsh Arizona sun. Now, if we’re done, may I spend some time with my daughter?”

  McAllen and Maggie swung easily into their saddles and were gone. I guessed that last sentence wasn’t really a question.

  Chapter 19

  I was in a hurry to get back, so I left it to Mary Schmidt to escort Maggie back to town. I had learned from Carl Schmidt that Campbell had a room at a boardinghouse on Goodwin Street. I wanted to search for the genuine stock certificate before anyone else rummaged through the room. I scolded myself for being concerned about personal affairs when Sharp was in trouble—but not for long. After all, this was a short detour, and Sharp would be my partner in this enterprise. As I rode, I tried to figure out how I would get access to Campbell’s room.