Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale)

by James D. Best

  By the time I tied up Liberty outside the light-green clapboard house, I still hadn’t come up with a good answer. As I trudged up the three steps, I decided to claim I was a distant relative and come for his effects. The woman who answered my knock was younger than I expected. She was trim, neatly dressed in a polka-dot blouse and a pale yellow skirt. Her brown hair pulled back in a tight bun showed off an attractive face unadorned with makeup.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. I’m Steve Dancy, here to collect a few things from your deceased boarder, Elisha Campbell.”

  “No. You may not take a few things. Take it all or nothing. I need to rent that room. Anything in that room tomorrow morning will be donated to my church.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gave me an appraising look. “My name is Mrs. Cunningham. Follow me.”

  She led me upstairs without requiring further explanation. At the landing, she said, “You’ll need help. My son’s available for two bits an hour, plus tip.”

  Was this a request for a small sweetener? I couldn’t imagine that I’d need help emptying a single room. Then she opened the door. I had never seen such clutter. Stuff was strewn everywhere, even across the bed. It would be difficult to find enough space to even lie on the bed.

  “Did someone make this mess searching the room?” I asked.

  She gave me a quizzical look. “Did you know Mr. Campbell?”

  “Only through correspondence,” I lied.

  She held her arm out, palm up. “Well, this is how he lived. Can you get all this stuff out of here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Today?”

  “With the help of your son. Would it be okay if I put some of this stuff in boxes for your church?”

  “Of course. My son’s name is John. I’ll send him right up. He’ll know where to stack the boxes out back.” She gave me another stern look. “I need this room rented immediately.”

  “I understand.”

  She started out of the room but stopped. “What’s your relationship to Mr. Campbell?”

  “I’m also from New York, and we have common friends. I promised to ship his personal effects.”

  She looked disappointed. “Should have guessed. Mr. Campbell was three weeks behind in his rent. I was hoping you were family and would make good on his chalk.”

  “No, ma’am. But if I run across anything of value that’s not personal, I’ll set it aside. Perhaps you can sell it to settle the account.”

  “Good luck.” She flicked her head at the room. “I looked through this mess and found only stuff that even my church will probably throw away.”

  “Did you find any legal papers? I’m been requested to look for a will.”

  She pointed to the corner. “There’s a satchel over there. If Mr. Campbell has any assets, he owes me twenty-one dollars. City statutes say I get paid first.” She gave me yet another stern look to make sure I understood. “I’ll send John right up. Pay him four bits in advance.”

  I nodded, and she disappeared into the hall. I suppressed irritation that she was asking me to pay her son—in advance—for work he would have had to do for free if I hadn’t shown up. I reminded myself that for a few coins, I would get to rummage through Campbell’s room. This was a stroke of luck.

  I investigated the satchel first, but it contained only receipts, telegrams, letters, a pocketknife, and ink. I was about to set the satchel aside when I noticed a narrow inside pocket that contained two black tubes. I recognized the tubes. One was a Cross stylographic pen and the other, a Cross propel-repel mechanical pencil. I recognized them because I owned two sets of these writing instruments. I had bought the A. T. Cross sets thinking they would help me write a great novel. That reminded me that my book would be published in a few months. For some reason, that thought made me more excited than the potential of a license for Edison’s inventions. I rolled the pen in my hand. It felt good and familiar, but I had other things to do. I shoved both instruments into my pocket.

  Not finding what I was looking for in the satchel, I threw everything off the bed and lifted the mattress. Nothing. Next, I peeked behind the headboard. Again nothing.

  “What are you looking for?”

  The boy looked to be about fifteen, maybe older. It surprised me, because his mother looked to be well under thirty.

  “John?”

  “Yep. What are you looking for?”

  “A will.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A written statement that tells people what to do with a person’s belongings after they die.”

  “If Mr. Campbell has any valuable belongings, my ma gets paid first. She says it doesn’t matter what any piece of paper says.”

  Evidently Mrs. Cunningham had given her son clear instructions before she sent him upstairs.

  “Understood,” I answered. “Do you know where to get boxes?”

  “Yep. At any one of the forty saloons along Whiskey Row, but they charge a nickel for each wood box. You got money?”

  John was definitely Mrs. Cunningham’s son. I reached into my pocket and handed him a silver dollar. He flipped it in the air with his thumb and deftly caught it. As he slipped it into his pocket, he said, “Four bits for me and ten boxes. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “It’ll take five trips, so I better get at it.” He disappeared before he finished the sentence.

  While he was gone, I searched the room. There was no stock certificate, either for the genuine Edison company or the fake. Mrs. Cunningham had been right: except for a few items of expensive, but threadbare, clothing, the room was filled with worthless odds and ends. It looked as if Campbell had been too lazy to throw anything away, or perhaps he took comfort in being surrounded by stuff he had accumulated.

  By the time John had completed his five trips, I had separated the true trash from the things a church might sell at a bazaar. As we worked together to clear the room, two questions nagged me: Where were the stock certificates, and what had Campbell done with his ill-gotten gains?

  After the last box had been carried downstairs, I realized that this room was large and had good furnishings. A dollar a day for room and board seemed a bargain, and there was enough space for Jeff’s things until he got released. Maybe I would talk to Mrs. Cunningham.

  I trotted down the staircase just as John came bursting back into the house.

  “Mr. Dancy, I guess it’s time for that tip.”

  “What makes you think you earned a tip?”

  “Because I was fast, I carried all the boxes, and I didn’t bore you with idle chatter.”

  I had to smile. “Well said.” I handed over another four bits.

  “John, since you’ve been paid handsomely, start carrying those boxes over to the church.” Mrs. Cunningham had entered the hall from behind us.

  “Ma?”

  “No back talk. When you’ve got a job in front of you, it’s better to do it today than tomorrow. You can get four of them over there before washing up for supper.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked dejected, but I saw him rubbing the two coins together as he went out the door.

  “Supper smells good,” I said.

  “Mr. Dancy, I appreciate your help, but I’m not in a position to offer free meals.”

  “Is that room let?”

  “No, would you be interested?”

  “I am at a dollar a day.”

  “Then it’s yours.” She held out a hand. “I require one week in advance.”

  I handed her a ten-dollar silver certificate. She started for a sideboard, but I stopped her progress by saying, “I should be here at least ten days, so no need for change.”

  “Thank you. I’ll give you a day’s notice when the next week is due.”

  “What time is supper?”

  “Excuse me, one dollar buys the room. It costs another dollar for board.”

  “You told me Mr. Campbell owed you twenty-one dollars for three weeks. I assumed that was for roo
m and board.”

  “Mr. Campbell mooched his meals elsewhere.” She looked highly disappointed. “Do you want your money back?”

  My room at the Palace didn’t include meals, so two dollars a day was still fair—unless Mrs. Cunningham was a lousy cook. But bargaining was in my nature. “Keep the ten for one week’s room and board. If we’re happy with each other by the end of the week, I’ll pay two dollars a day.”

  She looked indignant, and I thought she was going to show me the door, but then she looked down at the ten dollars in her hand. “All right, Mr. Dancy, but if you pull this again, I’ll send you packing. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the black tubes and handed them to her. “These are the only things of value I found in Mr. Campbell’s belongings. They’re an A. T. Cross pen and pencil. Not one of their gold models but recently invented and very fine instruments. My guess is that someone in the courthouse would pay five or six dollars for them … perhaps more if they’re a novelty in Arizona.”

  Her reaction surprised me. She looked like she might cry. “Mr. Dancy, I apologize. I was so mad at myself for letting Mr. Campbell get the better of me that I was rude to you.” She held the pens up in her fist. “This means more than you know. It’s not the money; it’s my pride. I run a good house, but there’s very little room for error, so I get angry when I make a mistake.”

  “Mr. Campbell took much greater advantage of others … some prominent citizens.” With that comment, a thought struck me. “Ma’am, before we settle this fully, I should inform you that I’m friends with the man accused of killing Mr. Campbell.”

  She lifted her chin. “I … Did he do it?”

  “No, ma’am. But someone in this town did, and some important people might get pretty mad as I try to uncover the real murderer. You could come under some pressure because I board here.”

  “Mr. Dancy, as long as you pay in advance and don’t disturb my other boarders, you are welcome in my house.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  As I left my new lodgings to go visit Sharp, I wondered about her second condition.

  Chapter 20

  When I stepped out of Mrs. Cunningham’s house, it was dusk. Where had this day gone? Had it been only one day? It had started with a calm breakfast, a visit to Sharp in jail, my interview with Castle, lunch with Blanchet and his cronies, another visit with Sharp, the discovery of Maggie, and the ride to meet her father, and had ended with my search of Campbell’s room. I suddenly felt exhausted.

  Damn. I had forgotten I was supposed to be at Earp’s for supper, and I still had things to do. I ran around the side of the house to find John. After a quick negotiation, he accepted one dollar to move our belongings from the Palace to my new room. I told him to stack Sharp’s stuff neatly in a corner. Then I rode the half block to the Palace. Luckily, newly arrived in town, we had bought our rooms for only one night.

  I found Brow at the bar, watching over the gaming tables. He gave me a friendly nod as I approached, but kept his eyes on a couple gamblers at the faro table.

  “Mr. Brow, I want to thank you for the hospitality, but I’ve taken a room at Mrs. Cunningham’s.”

  He threw me a glance, then said offhandedly, “I heard a room recently became available in her house.” Evidently satisfied with the play at the faro table, he turned toward me. “I hope you’ll still honor us with your business in the saloon.”

  “Of course.” I signaled to the barman for a beer. “Mrs. Cunningham’s son will be over shortly to move our stuff out. Any charge for the delay?”

  “Naw. Any news about your friend?”

  “Only that Castle has agreed to defend him. Did Earp question the customers that were here last night?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he learn anything?”

  “The constable doesn’t share his work with me.”

  My beer arrived and I took a healthy swallow. It tasted good after an hour of cleaning up Campbell’s mess. “Mr. Brow, you mentioned that Campbell was suing you. What for?”

  “I’d tell you it was none of your business, but everybody already knows. Campbell stayed in one of my rooms at first. He got behind, so I sent Lew to take his trunk as collateral. He was suing to get it back.”

  I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Do you still have it?”

  “Campbell never paid his bill. What do you think?”

  “Can I buy it?”

  “For his tally, plus five dollars. That’s a good price. It’s a Saratoga trunk.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “How the hell would I know? I never broke the lock.”

  I would have paid more. A locked steamer trunk might hold the stock certificate and maybe even some evidence about who had committed the murder. After I gave Brow the money, he promised to have it delivered to Mrs. Cunningham’s.

  I finished my beer and ran up to Sharp’s room. I wanted to retrieve his wallet. No sense putting temptation in front of John. In no time at all, I was back in the saloon, buying beer in a tin pail for Sharp.

  When I got to the jail, the night man was already on duty. Before I was allowed to walk down the aisle to Sharp’s cell, the jailer swirled his pistol barrel around in the beer to make sure I wasn’t hiding something beneath the brew. Instead of being insulted, I admired Earp’s selection and training of men.

  Sharp heard my steps and was at the jailhouse bars as I approached. “Good evening, Jeff. I brought you beer.”

  “That’s neighborly, but can ya get me out?”

  “Not yet, but I have good news. McAllen’s already in town.”

  “In Prescott? Here?”

  I nodded too enthusiastically to retain any poise. “He was supervising the Schmidts on a case. Guess which one.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Gotta be Campbell.”

  “He’s been here setting up the Schmidts as ideal victims. Maggie’s here too.” I handed the pail through an opening in the bars meant to pass food trays to prisoners.

  After a healthy swallow, Sharp said, “Thanks. That’s the best news I’ve had since they dragged me to jail. Tell Joseph to look hard at Blanchet. That man’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

  “What’d you learn from your talk?”

  “Nothin’ specific. He just kept talkin’ on an’ on ’bout how connected he was. That ain’t the way good lawyers talk. That sleazy bastard really wanted to defend me. He just kept at me. Took it hard when I finally told him to go pound tar. I wasn’t gonna string him on.” Sharp gulped down more beer. After he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he added, “Steve, he talked ’bout Campbell like he admired him … and knew him a good while. Be just like that pettifogger to murder Campbell, then weasel his way into bein’ my attorney. My butt’d be hangin’ out in the wind.”

  “Could they have been partners, and maybe Campbell tried a double cross?”

  “Who knows? Just tell Joseph to look hard at that son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll tell him tonight. Jeff, I need to hurry. We’re having dinner together, and McAllen gets testy when a person’s late for an appointment.”

  “All right, but do me a favor an’ take care of that jailer before ya go. I’d like to have decent meals, coffee when I call for it, an’ my chamber pot changed twice a day. An’ next time, bring a book an’ newspaper. Might as well read what they got to say ’bout me.”

  “Damn, I should’ve thought about that already. Sorry, Jeff. I’ll bring back issues of the newspaper as well. Maybe you can learn something. Writing material?”

  “Nope.” He nodded behind him with his head. “Castle already brought me writin’ paper an’ one of them newfangled pencils that push the lead on out whenever ya want.” Sharp laughed. “Castle said that for some damn reason they won’t allow me a knife so I can sharpen a wood pencil.”

  “Did he ask you to write down what you remember?”

  “Yep, but it ain’t much. He stopped
by ’bout an hour ago to pick it up. Smart fella, asked good questions after he read it.”

  “Jeff, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Bring Joseph.”

  “If I can. He sets his own agenda.”

  I turned to leave, when Sharp added, “Tell Joseph that there’s somethin’ else that ties Campbell an’ Blanchet together. They’re both good buddies with yer friend John Frémont.”

  With that jab, I hurried out of the basement jail. I was late for my supper appointment, but the real reason I took the stairs two at a time was that Sharp’s last comment reminded me that I had coerced him into coming to Arizona. As a result, my friend was in trouble, and my guilt went well beyond a twinge. I had to get him out of there. Not only because it was partly my fault, but because I knew he would do the same for me.

  Chapter 21

  Virgil Earp lived in a log house within sight of his lumber mill. I thought of it as a house rather than a cabin because it appeared to have four rooms, and the roof was shingled. It looked similar to what locals called the Old Governor’s Mansion. I assumed the name was a joke until I learned that when the eight-room log house served as the governor’s home, it was the biggest and best house in the territory.

  Before I dismounted, McAllen stepped onto the porch. He lifted a whiskey glass in salute, leading me to expect a cordial greeting. Instead, I got a McAllen greeting.

  “You’re late.”

  “Business.”

  “We have business here.” Without a further word, he turned around and reentered the house.

  I tied up Liberty, removed my saddle, and cleaned my boots with a brush that was lying on the porch. Earp’s house surprised me. It looked homey, with a large oval hooked rug, family photographs on the wall, comfortable furniture, and a table set with matching china that belied the rustic exterior.