Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale)

by James D. Best

  I walked to the end of the building and then turned around. “All of this makes sense, except for one thing. Why would the Schmidts get involved in murder with Blanchet as an accomplice? Don’t tell me it’s for the money. I may not know them well, but I’ve watched them enough to know they love their work, live well on client money, and disdain men like Blanchet. It’s not their nature.” When McAllen’s expression didn’t change, I added, “Joseph, you’ve entrusted your daughter to this couple twice.”

  “They’re not afraid of working with Blanchet. They surely know he’s an escaped prisoner with a thousand-dollar reward on his head. What you say sounds logical, but it’s emotion. Four men tried to kill us. There’s no chance the attack was not connected to this case. The killers came from Wickenburg. Mary and Carl don’t want me to go there. What are they afraid I’ll find?”

  “Something feels wrong,” I said.

  The three of us stood there looking at the street traffic.

  “I know how to find out,” Maggie said.

  “How?” McAllen asked his daughter.

  “Mr. Dancy should leave for Wickenburg first thing in the morning. He can be there before tomorrow’s stage arrives and follow Mr. Schmidt.”

  “I’m not a detective. Besides, Wickenburg is small; he’d be sure to spot me.”

  “You can wear a disguise.” Maggie was getting excited.

  “Not necessary,” McAllen said. “If Carl investigates, he’ll see the marshal and visit all the saloons. But he won’t. If he hired those killers, he’ll stay around the hotel, catch the next day’s stage back to Prescott, and then give me some cock-and-bull story when he gets back. You only need to see if he stays put or really investigates. The hotel’s two front rooms have windows facing onto the town. If you can’t get one of those, bribe the innkeeper to knock on your door if Carl leaves the hotel. Observe him from the lobby window.”

  “How far?” I asked.

  “Sixty miles. You’ll need to leave before light. That stage moves fast and picks up fresh horses in Yarnell, so it’ll be a hard ride.”

  “The judge?”

  “Taken care of. There will be no inquest. Virg Earp gathered up a few more witnesses, and the judge ruled it self-defense.”

  A swift ride on Liberty might be fun, but I wasn’t confident about pretending to be a detective. It seemed like Schmidt would easily spot me. Even if I got one of the front rooms, I’d need to bribe the innkeeper to bring me food and drink. I hated to use chamber pots but would have no choice if I was stuck in the room.

  McAllen’s voice intruded on my thoughts. “After Carl leaves, see the marshal and learn what you can about those killers.”

  “Do you want me to talk to other people in town?”

  “Only if you can’t learn anything from the marshal.”

  “What am I trying to find out?”

  “Who hired those men.”

  Chapter 37

  I wanted get well ahead of the stage, so I left before dawn. At first, I rode slowly by nascent light. Once I could see clearly, I let Liberty run at his own pace, which was pretty quick. Chestnut, my previous horse, could outrun any horse for distance but wasn’t speedy. Liberty ran as smooth as oiled pistons in a steam engine. Except that he wasn’t an engine, and we had a long trip ahead of us, so after an hour I dismounted and walked alongside him so he could rest.

  Wickenburg was another mining camp, only this time it was gold instead of silver. I had learned about Wickenburg from Comstock miners while I was still in Carson City. Henry Wickenburg had discovered gold in the area and named his claim the Vulture Mine, and the town grew up as a supply center twelve miles away. It was a remote camp in a young territory. Only nine years previously, Henry Loring and his companions were brutally slain by Indians in what came to be known as the Wickenburg Massacre. As I remounted Liberty, I hoped the area was more civilized today.

  About mid-morning I arrived in Yarnell. It was no more than a stage stop, with a scattering of rough-hewn buildings. I paid a boy to water, groom, and feed Liberty while I did the same for myself. Outside the stage line building, I found a pump delivering surprisingly cool water that felt refreshing in my mouth and on my face. The operator for the stop appeared to be in his mid-twenties and talkative. He served up endless coffee, biscuits, and baconed beans for four bits. I learned I was nearly two hours ahead of the stage but ate hurriedly anyway. I wanted to arrive in Wickenburg with enough time to survey the town before having to hide in my room.

  The morning had been cold, but about noon I pulled off my heavy coat and tied it across my saddlebags. Despite my remaining four layers, the air felt refreshingly crisp and clean as I let Liberty race down the easy slope. We were making exceptional time. The road was really two parallel ruts carved by the hoofs and wheels of countless stages, but all I had to do was pick one and give Liberty free rein. About four in the afternoon, I saw a cluster of buildings nestled between small rises barren of anything taller than a man’s waist. I had descended three thousand feet. Prescott had been green, but now everything was desert brown. All I could see was dirt, rock, and sagebrush, with a scattering of cacti.

  There wasn’t much to Wickenburg. The biggest building was the hotel, and it looked like a strong gust would blow its wood planks around the surrounding hills. As usual, I found the livery at the edge of town, where the odor wouldn’t overwhelm the already smelly residents. I had begun to think of the ramshackle camp as penniless until the liveryman insisted on two dollars to board Liberty for a day. I forgot that mining camps made New York City appear reasonably priced.

  The hotel wasn’t any better on the inside. Everything was unfinished. The floors were worn smooth by boot leather along general pathways, but the outside edges had never seen a lick of sandpaper or even a plane. The walls were raw lumber, the burlap curtains hung lopsided, and the lobby furniture was beaten and threadbare. I had expected more, because the Vulture Mine had been producing at high yields for over fifteen years. A grisly man behind a makeshift counter was lost in a book and didn’t look up until I spoke.

  “A room, please.”

  “How long?”

  “One night.”

  “Two dollars … in advance.”

  The same price as Liberty, except my horse got food and drink too.

  “Do you have a front room available?”

  “All our rooms is available ’cuz the stage ain’t arrived yet. But a front room’ll cost you four dollars.”

  Since I had no choice, I laid four silver certificates on the counter. Now I understood the shoddy appearance. Stage stops were notoriously bad. The stage delivered bone-weary passengers who just wanted a quick meal and a bed. Innkeepers never expected to see them again. I had previously stayed in one only in inclement weather. I found my bedroll more comfortable, a can of beans more digestible, and dirt cleaner.

  “I’ll put ya in room twelve, top of stairs to the front. Recently done up nice.” He slid a key across the counter. “Entertainment?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed at a framed photograph behind him on the wall. “Either one, ten dollars. She can be in your room in ten minutes.”

  The photograph showed two women in dresses that would be appropriate for Easter services. They were young and pretty—very young and demurely pretty. They would have to be pretty to charge ten dollars.

  Since I hadn’t responded, the innkeeper said, “Men come from all over the territory for a taste of one of those.” I must have looked puzzled because he added, “The men who ask for room twelve usually partake.”

  I grabbed the key. “Thank you, just the room.”

  At the top of the stairs was a central hall with the same unfinished look. I found my room and opened the door to a surprise: It was nice. The clean yellow bed cover showed no visible lumps, the dark brown Roman shades looked like they would keep the morning light out, and the furniture looked substantial and new. I immediately went over to the window and was pleased that I could see most o
f the small town. Perfect.

  I had almost two hours before the stage arrived, so I walked around Wickenburg. I discovered that the only buildings outside my hotel view were private homes. I ate a meal and drank beer in one saloon and peeked inside two others. They were all fairly empty at this time of day. I spotted the tiny marshal’s office next to the livery. Most of my time was spent in the sole general store. I bought a saw, hardtack, jerky, hard candy, a tin cup, and a used set of Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift. I had read the four books before but had no books with me, so I considered them a great find. Returning to the hotel, I had one more task before the stage arrived. I ran up to my room, grabbed the pitcher of water, and took it outside. I poured it out and then rinsed it thoroughly at the town pump before refilling it. I wasn’t sure the water had been done up as recently as the room.

  I bought a bucket of cool beer and carried it along with the fresh water to my room. When I got back, I adjusted the Roman shades down to four inches above the sill. Pulling a chair over, I tested the view. As I had suspected, the chair was too high. I was staring right into the dark brown material. I flipped the chair upside down and sawed about four inches off the legs. Now it was perfect. Except the window wouldn’t open. My plan had been to lie on the bed reading until I heard the ruckus of the arriving stage through the open window.

  I poured beer into my new tin cup and contemplated the window. It had been painted shut. In about fifteen minutes, I had the window open by using my knife to scratch through the paint. Just as I was congratulating myself, I heard the stage. Damn.

  The stage pulled directly below my window. Schmidt was the last passenger to disembark. Clutching a small valise, he didn’t wait for any bags to be thrown down from the top of the stage. After he disappeared inside the hotel, I used the opportunity to pour another cup of beer and then settled onto my truncated chair to watch the other passengers collect their belongings and disappear into the hotel as well. After the driver climbed back aboard and drove off, dusk settled over the brown hills and clapboard buildings. The street grew quiet, but I heard muffled voices through the floorboards as passengers jostled for room.

  Now was the part I dreaded. In the dark, I might not recognize Schmidt. Suddenly, I saw a spill of light as a lantern was lit at the front desk. I’d have to watch carefully, because the light was weak and didn’t extend beyond the narrow boardwalk.

  Three hours later, I was sure Schmidt had either decided to stay in his room or do his drinking in the small bar in the lobby. Besides, if he went out this late, I’d have no idea whether he was investigating or carousing. Jonathan Swift beckoned, so I went to bed.

  I rose early. I couldn’t leave the room, so I had hardtack and water for breakfast as I sat in my Lilliputian chair, watching the street. About nine o’clock, Schmidt left the hotel and walked over to the general store. He was in there almost an hour. Next he visited the livery. I hoped he didn’t nose around the stalls, but the only time he had seen Liberty was the first time we had ridden out to meet McAllen. Since Schmidt didn’t seem to care about horseflesh, I didn’t worry too much. After no more than ten minutes, he walked over to the marshal’s office. Schmidt stayed inside for a while, and then he and someone I assumed was the marshal walked over to one of the three saloons. When the two of them came out, they proceeded directly to another saloon. There was no doubt about it, Schmidt was investigating. He was talking to all the business owners, and he had sought the marshal’s help. I was more relieved than I had expected. Blanchet was our man.

  In another hour, Schmidt and the marshal had completed the rounds. I watched as they energetically shook hands, and Schmidt lazily walked back across the street to the hotel. I was feeling good, when I saw something that gave me pause. It was quick, but I was sure I saw Schmidt glance up at my window. I was sitting well back in the shadows, so I didn’t believe he saw me, but I had seen a tiny smirk on his face. Damn.

  Chapter 38

  The next morning, I stayed cooped up in my room until Schmidt boarded the stage, and I saw it leave. I bounded down the stairs while the sound of the driver’s snapping whip still reverberated in the cool morning air. I was hungry and desperately needed a cup of hot coffee.

  The innkeeper was still slouching behind his counter. “Where can I get a good breakfast?”

  He pointed across the room. “Right there.”

  “I want a better meal than you serve the stage passengers. Where do the locals eat?”

  He pointed across the room. “Right there. Food’s better after the stage departs. Folks’ll get here soon.”

  “Did any of the passengers ask about me?”

  “Who’re you?”

  This was frustrating. “Do you remember the first man off yesterday’s stage, a sharply dressed gent?”

  “What if I do?”

  Obviously, the man was asking me to jog his memory. I slid a silver dollar across the counter. He didn’t even look at it, so I took out a five-dollar certificate, folded it neatly and laid it on the counter. When I went to slide the silver dollar back, the innkeeper said, “Leave it.”

  “How’s your memory now.”

  “’Bout like it was. What’d you want to know?”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “I do.”

  “What did he say when he first came to the counter?”

  “Howdy.”

  “What next?”

  He scratched his head like it was a difficult question. Before he answered, he put the six dollars in his vest pocket. “Asked for the room you was in.”

  That told me a lot. “What happened after you told him it was taken?”

  He scratched his head again and then laid both hands flat on the counter.

  “No more money,” I said as I also laid both of my hands flat on the counter and stared across at him.

  Eventually, he said, “Asked when you arrived. What kind a’ horse you had.”

  “Next.”

  “Asked how you looked.”

  “And?”

  “Asked how long you was stayin’.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.” This time he scratched more private parts. “At least nothing for six dollars.”

  My frustration grew to anger. Reminding myself to remain calm, I pulled out my wallet and threw another five dollars onto the counter. It seemed to disappear faster than I could draw my gun.

  “He asked about your doin’s in town. I told him you bought some goods, ate, and drank a bit. Said I heard you sawin’. If you harmed something in that room, it’ll be an added charge.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Naw. Coffee?”

  “How much?”

  “Two bits. Full breakfast six bits. Dollar total.”

  “You have a customer.”

  He smiled for the first time. “Had one for several minutes.”

  I sat at one of the rough plank tables and had no sooner received a mug of coffee when several men entered the hotel and took seats around me. As the minutes went by, a few couples came in as well. Everyone knew each other. The innkeeper had not lied. The locals came here for breakfast.

  A man I wished looked cleaner plopped a plate down in front of me. It smelled great and looked appetizing. There were fried eggs with dark yellow yolks; thick, crispy bacon; beans; and steaming biscuits. The previous day, I hadn’t eaten a solid meal, so I dug in with gusto.

  After I wolfed down the entire plate, a thin, middle-aged man came in wearing a badge. I stood. “Marshal, may I buy you breakfast?”

  He looked at me oddly and then asked, “Mr. Steve Dancy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He took a seat across from me. Before he could scoot his chair up to the table, the not-so-clean cook placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He extended his hand. “Marshal Lewis.”

  After shaking, I said, “Did Captain McAllen wire you about my coming to Wickenburg?”

  “No. Carl Schmidt told me to expect you at breakfast this mornin
g.”

  I shook off the surprise. But this confirmed that he had glanced up at my room yesterday. If Schmidt knew I was watching him, I learned nothing except that he was a better detective than me. He either came down here to do an honest investigation, or he mimicked one for my benefit.

  “Good. Carl and I are working together on this.”

  “Why’d you hole up in your room yesterday?”

  “What did Carl tell you?”

  “Nothing. He laughed and said you’d explain.”

  I tried to act embarrassed. “I couldn’t be far from a chamber pot. He thought it was funny.”

  “Yep. Had that problem. Ain’t funny.”

  “I presume Carl told you that two days ago, four men stopped McAllen and me on the street and tried to gun us down. Constable Earp said they came from Wickenburg.”

  “Mr. Schmidt only saw the men dead … and he said he didn’t take a good look. What’d they look like?”

  “Rough. About normal height and stout. Not bearded so much as unshaven. In need of haircuts. One wore a plaid wool coat, the other three sheepskin. All carried Winchester ’73 carbines.”

  “Sounds like the Cody bunch, just like I told the other gent. Two brothers and a couple friends. Suspected of killing on occasion, but mostly they just scare people off claims. If they got dead in Prescott, they won’t be missed ’round here.”

  The marshal sipped his coffee as the cook laid a breakfast plate in front of him. Without my asking, the cook placed a plate of hotcakes in front of me. I was going to say I was full, but they looked too good to turn back.

  As we began eating again, I said, “We’re here to find out who hired them.”

  “No telling. Stage comes and goes, and it’s always filled with strangers.”

  “Would they be expensive?’

  “Those boys? Hell, no. Might even do it for the fun of it.” The marshal cut a big piece of fried egg with his fork edge and laid it on top of the biscuit he held in his other hand. He bit it quick, before the egg slipped into his lap. After he swallowed, he asked, “You and McAllen killed all four?”