Montana Revenge

by Dusty Richards

“Jealousy, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a long list of suspects, then?”

  He nodded and went on. “Did he dance much with Barbara Ann Kelly?”

  “You mean Earl Mannon’s girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Herschel, I can’t say. I’m not certain. No, not particularly. He danced with me and he sure did polka with Clare Scopes. Those two cleared the floor every time. He really knew how to do that dance.”

  “Must have learned how from his German in-laws down in Texas.”

  “I would bet so. Have you talked to Clare?”

  “Yes, she was taken aback by the news. He had proposed to her.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Actually, she declined his offer.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “She was very forthright about the matter, said he wouldn’t settle down, and it would be like taming a wild range horse, probably ruin him. She wanted a husband who would make her a place to live.”

  “Smart girl, not many her age are that smart. They all think they can tame them and they never do.” She wrinkled her nose at the notion.

  “You can’t think of a soul that wanted him dead that was at the dance?”

  She rose and took his cup. “One more cup of tea and I will twist my brain some more.”

  “Twist it hard. I have a reporter at the Herald that is on my backside for not solving who did this.”

  “Well, doesn’t he know the wicked crew that you replaced?” she called out from inside.

  “Folks’ memories are short.”

  “Short indeed. Here.” She handed him the cup, then administered two teaspoons of sugar to it. “More cream puffs?”

  “No. They are wonderful.”

  Taking a seat, she went on. “You think the Mannons are suspects?”

  “They brought me his saddle on a horse of theirs. They say he was taken from the school yard and eventually wandered home.”

  She thought for a moment. “I heard all the shouting and cussing he had at the boys in the school yard over some horse getting away.”

  “He admitted it.” Herschel dug in his pocket and handed her the arrowhead from his vest pocket. “Found that in the frog of Hanks’s horse.”

  “I never saw one like that before from around here. Strange-color flint.” With her fingers, she turned it over in her palm.

  “Barley says he’s never seen one like that, either. Don’t mean anything, I guess. But what are the chances a horse sticks that in his frog?”

  “Hmm,” she said, holding the point up to the sunlight.

  “This isn’t flint, it’s more like glass. No, it would be hard to do unless someone drove it into his hoof on purpose.”

  “Why cripple a good horse?”

  “Oh, my, Herschel, so they would make it look like he needed another horse and stole one.” She looked shocked at her own words.

  He turned, deep in thought, and gazed at the pines on the ridge and nodded slowly. “Half the folks there would have loaned him a horse if he needed one. I really believe the boy was murdered for revenge or it was over a woman.”

  “That leaves lots of speculation.”

  “Didn’t you teach at the school when you first came here?”

  “Yes, but no one thought it proper for a married woman to teach. So I only did it one semester, and they found Mary Ann Childs to teach.”

  “I recall her. She married a drover and went back to Texas in the spring.” He chuckled. “The note they pinned on him, I have it here. Look at it hard and tell me who wrote it.”

  “How can I do that?” A peeved expression swept over her face.

  “I’m teasing. Read it.” He handed the paper over.

  “Oh, my, the backward S’s.”

  “Seen them before?”

  “Yes, several students make them like that and think they’re right. In fact, I think they see them like that and reproduce them the same way in their writing.”

  “So I need to find someone that writes like that.”

  “This was the note pinned on him?”

  “Yes.”

  “It very well could be a grown-up.”

  “His spelling isn’t the best either.”

  “No.” She chuckled and handed him back the paper. “‘Steeler’ would get you a failing grade in spelling.”

  “Whoever wrote this went back, snuck in the schoolhouse after the dance, and wrote it on a tablet they found in there. I have the imprint on a second page.”

  Her eyelids narrowed and she cocked a suspicious eyebrow at him. “What else do you have?”

  “Four feet of hemp rope. Cove Tipton found him and cut him down.”

  “I wish I could help you more. I just have no idea who would do such a cruel thing.”

  “Thanks for the tea, those dandy cream puffs, and the conversation. I better get back to Billings and see what else fell down today. And all your ideas.”

  “Heavens, I have done little.”

  “Yes, you have. That arrowhead is made of obsidian and I hadn’t thought of it until now.”

  “Volcanic glass, yes, that’s what it is.”

  “Now all I have to find is who packed it up here.” He stepped off the porch. Then he turned back and saluted her.

  “Tell Marsha and the girls I said hi,” she said.

  “I will, and I am certain they would have sent the same to you had they known I was coming up here. The girls are busy today riding a new pony called Chico, and if they haven’t mauled each other over who rides next, I’ll be surprised.”

  Her warm smile and wave sent him homeward bound.

  EIGHT

  ART sent you a note from Miles City,” Phil said when Herschel walked into the office.

  “So soon?”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  Herschel began to read it.

  Money will be on the Thursday stage. I want you to meet the stage about nine AM at Carson Station just across the county line. Argle will stop and pick us up there.

  “What do you need to do?” Phil asked.

  “Meet him day after tomorrow. Maybe catch us some stage robbers.” He held his finger to his mouth and shared a nod with his deputy. “Secret.”

  “Oh, I know. Will you be home tonight?”

  “I reckon. Why?”

  “Kate said you had to make the music so we could, ah—dance.”

  “Oh, sure, we can do that after seven.”

  “Good,” Phil said, looking relieved.

  “Well, no trouble today, then?”

  “Me and Dave Allen, the town marshal, brought in a drunk kid that was making a ruckus and stuck him in the jail.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Egger-stone?”

  “Danny Egelstone?”

  “You know him?”

  “I met him out at Melloncamp’s store. Is he passed out?”

  “He was a while ago.”

  “Go get him and bring him in my office.”

  Phil frowned. “He was really drunk.”

  “I know. I have a test for him.”

  “Well, all right, Sheriff, but—”

  “Get him, then we’ll see.”

  He took a seat behind his desk, drew out a pad and pencil. In a short while, Phil was back with Egelstone, who still looked drunk.

  “What’cha yah want—” Egelstone put both hands on the desk, and the only thing that saved him from being jerked away was Herschel’s hand signal for Phil to let him be. Herschel shoved a piece of paper across the desk. “Print ‘horse rustler’ on this.”

  Egelstone blinked. “This a trick?”

  “Print it or else.”

  The kid held up his hand. “I ain’t got nuffin to hide.” He took the pencil and began to print in shaky letters. The S’s were all right and despite the tremble in his hand, the words were spelled right. Egelstone raised his smarmy gaze. “What next?”

  “Put your name on it.”

  “I did that at the store. I never r
ustled no horses.”

  “Never said you did.”

  He finished writing his name and looked at Herschel. “What now?”

  “Phil’s going to take you back to your bedroom. Sweet dreams.”

  “Aw, hell, I thought I was getting out of cheer.”

  Herschel shook his head in disgust as his deputy took the kid away. Not the same printing for sure, and he’d never flinched spelling “rustler.” That was one down, and he still had an army more to test. Good idea, but working alone would take some time. Maybe if he looked at the list of names that bunch had left at Mike’s store, there might be a clue on it.

  He’d get the list on his way to Carson Station. His mind was more on the stage robbers than the lynching. He wondered how many men Casey Ford had recruited for his next heist, and if he’d be able to find the one who was feeding the outlaw the information. He went back to his expense figures for the jail. Holding criminals over for trial had doubled his budget. Of course, the little four-eyed fellow from the treasurer’s office said his costs were considerably under those of his predecessor, who, he mentioned, might have been padding them. Herschel went to the open window and studied the traffic in the street below. It would soon be roundup time. Breaking a few fresh horses for a string sounded so much better than doing book work in his spacious office, but he’d chosen this new career and better get to liking it. When he’d finished with Casey Ford, he needed to go down to Marsha’s place and see how the new help was doing. There would not only be a roundup, but haying as well.

  After looking over the figures, he gave Phil the ledger and told him he was going to check on some things. He planned to drop by the mayor’s office and see if he had found a chief of police to hire. Billings was growing fast in anticipation of the railroad arriving in a year or so, to the detriment of other communities that had wanted it for themselves. The die was cast and right-of-way staked despite tons of political wrangling—Billings would be the railroad town. He noticed three familiar riders coming down Main. The hat no doubt belonged to Rath Mannon, his eldest son, Earl, was on his left, and the youngest, Harry, in his teens, rode on his right.

  Herschel stepped outside and waited for them.

  “Morning,” he said, seeing the sharp distrust fill the older man’s gaze.

  “Morning yourself,” Rath said.

  “I am starting a list of everyone involved in the Hanks case. If you three would swing by and sign in at my office, I’d sure appreciate it.”

  “What’s the meaning?” Rath shook his head to cut off his boys from speaking.

  “I am making a list of everyone involved in the case. Now, if stopping by my office and signing in is too much work, I’ll go get some paper and you can sign it right here.”

  “I told you—”

  “Rath, if I ever accuse you of his murder, I’ll damn sure look you in the eye and tell you so.”

  “I don’t like you acting like we done it.”

  “Trust me, when I have the proof, I’ll be after whoever done it. There won’t be no pussyfooting around, either.”

  “We’re going to Wheeler’s.” Rath nodded toward the store. “We can sign your list there.”

  “Fine.”

  Herschel stepped back and let them pass. Wheeler’s sign hung a half block down the street. He didn’t miss Rath’s wolflike look at him as the man booted his horse past. Harry’s freckled face looked innocent and a little uncomfortable. Earl’s stern nod toward him was like his father’s. A tough bunch who lived under harsh circumstances, matched against the large ranches they caught lots of ire from the big outfits, guilty or innocent of using a running iron. The stigma remained, little outfits were all rustlers in the eyes of those big ones. That attitude made men like Rath defensive, too.

  Herschel arrived at Wheeler’s and followed them inside the spice-and-harness oil-smelling store. He walked to the counter and borrowed a pad from the clerk. With a pencil from his coat pocket, he handed pad and pencil to Rath, who’d been talking in low tones to his boys. No doubt giving his orders how to handle the situation.

  “I can’t see any reason to—”

  Herschel waved Rath’s complaint aside. The rancher put the left elbow of his brown suit coat on the counter and concentrated on putting down his signature.

  “There.”

  “Print ‘horse rustler’ on the next page.”

  “Listen—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think. Print it.”

  For a long moment Rath looked ready to rebel. Then he growled under his breath and turned to the next page. “Spell it, Harry.”

  “H-o-r-s-e-r-u-s-t-l . . . e-r.”

  Rath nodded with a grin when he finished. “Good thing one of them boys went to school anyway.”

  “Didn’t hurt him none,” Herschel said as Earl came up to write next.

  Finally, Harry signed his page. The task completed, Herschel gathered the sheets and thanked the Mannons.

  “You got any more leads on who done it?” Rath asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m looking. You all know any more?”

  “We do, we’ll tell you,” Rath said, raising his hackles again.

  “Oh, I had a man by the office looking for some good arrowheads to buy. You all collect them?”

  Rath shook his head, and the other two followed his lead. “Couple of million out there. What does he pay?”

  “Certain good ones, a dollar.”

  “Hell, boys, we’ve been walking on millions of dollars.” Rath laughed and waved at his entourage to follow him out.

  Herschel put the papers inside his coat pocket. He liked the arrowhead idea. It was a long shot, but he couldn’t see how one got in a horse’s frog without being driven into it. That made no sense, except it forced a man with a crippled horse to beg, borrow, or steal. Or else it was done to make the crime look real. In that case, the one who planned the lynching might be much smarter than Herschel had been giving him credit for.

  Once in the café, he spread the sheets out. No backward S’s. Rath’s printing looked very shaky, but didn’t resemble anything on the note that Cove had found.

  “You hungry?” Maude Corey asked with a big smile, standing above him in an apron.

  “No, is Buster busy? Oh, I need some of your good coffee.”

  “Coffee’s coming. He’s always glad to escape work back there. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Buster shuffled into view from the kitchen door, spotted Herschel, and came over in his carpet slippers. He removed a toothpick from his white-whisker-bristled mouth and smiled. “How’s the sheriff doing?”

  “Depends who you listen to.”

  The ex-cowboy scratched his dark spot-blotched cheek and nodded. “You’ve been making headlines.”

  “Oh, yes. Have a seat.”

  “I will.” Buster sat down and fetched the makings out from under the soiled apron. With his gnarled fingers, he began to roll a smoke. “Folks were pleased you got the money back. That Yankee boy at the paper is crazy.”

  “I’ll get Ford, too. What have you heard about the lynching?”

  Buster put the twisted, licked-shut cigarette in his sun-whitened lips and struck a match. Small puffs of smoke began to issue out the side of his mouth, and he drew it away between his forefinger and thumb. “Not much. Mannons are mentioned.”

  Herschel nodded. “What about Bert Ralston’s bunch?”

  “I wouldn’t put nothing past them. Been several things they’ve been involved in that were shady.”

  “But there isn’t any word out that I’ve missed.”

  Buster shook his head. “Not a thing, but I’ll go to listening.”

  “I don’t think Hanks stole any horse.”

  “Why did they lynch him, then?”

  “I had that answer, I’d have the killer.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Good.” Herschel lifted the thick cup to his lips and blew on the steam. “You ever see an arrowhead like this?” From his ves
t, he fetched the stone point and set it on the table.

  Buster took it and fingered the edge examining it, then shook his head. “No, never seen anything like that. Looks like it’s made of glass. Where did it come from?”

  “The frog of Hanks’s horse when we found him.”

  “Hmm, I’ve seen some small rocks and sticks jabbed in frogs, but never got an arrowhead out of one. Guess they can step on anything.”

  “Or they can be drove in on purpose.”

  Buster nodded slowly as Herschel drank some more coffee. “I sure liked that boy. He was me a hundred years ago, I reckon. Devil-may-care, rode bucking horses like he just knowed they couldn’t throw him. He was a sight on one.”

  “Yes, and he didn’t need to die. I have to see the mayor next. You learn anything, let me know.”

  “I sure will, and thanks for thinking of me. I get plumb lonesome back there wrangling dishes and peeling spuds.” Buster laughed, then puffed on his smoke.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Buster waved off the dime Herschel put on the tabletop. “Coffee’s on me.”

  “Thanks.” Herschel left with a wave for Maude.

  Mayor George McKay wasn’t in. His secretary, a young man named Winston at McKay’s law office, said he’d taken the stage to Miles City earlier for law business and to talk to the railroad officials who were supposed to be coming up there.

  Back on the street, Herschel recognized a big red-faced man on the seat of a wagon, Nels Hansen from down on Horse Creek by Herschel’s old place. Nels reined up at the sight of him.

  “What brings you to town?” Herschel stepped off the boardwalk to speak to his ex-neighbor.

  “Order some mower parts. Get some things the wife needs and to shake your hand.” He bailed off the seat and stuck out a large ham of a hand.

  “How’s things up on Horse Creek?”

  “Smells like dead cattle like the rest of Montana. We had a few workdays, and finally got all the carcasses out of the stream, but they sure ain’t going away very fast. Damn wolves and magpies are so fat they can’t move to get out of the way. I shot a gyp last week, and she never ran she was so fat.”

  “Be all summer getting rid of them.”

  “We will be. We heard you got the stage robber single-handed.”

  “And the reporter at the Herald didn’t like it.”