by Nik Morton
Leaning on his pommel, Cash said, "Will you do it? Double fee, I said."
Showing reluctance that Cash knew was false, the undertaker finally nodded. "Very well. For two days, you say?"
"That's right. And afterwards, bury them cheap and do it quick."
* * *
When Cash reached the printer's shop, he found Esther Tolliver standing on an empty wooden crate, addressing a gathering—mainly women—outside.
Her face flushed and her eyes alight with enthusiasm, she said, "I've just returned from my home with a U.S. Marshal, and we brought the dead bodies of two men who intended to murder me and my son." She gestured at Danny, who stood next to a young blonde girl in a pretty bonnet, a sheepish grin on his face.
The crowd murmured. But no one heckled, Cash noted.
"I ask you," Esther went on, "is it just coincidence or was there something more sinister behind their evil intentions?"
"It's shameful, the goings on lately in this town!" shouted a middle-aged woman.
"The law's only there for the big businesses," shouted a short store-holder, still in his apron. "The rest of us can go hang! We need change!"
Esther nodded and held up a hand. Impressively, she got silence. "Tomorrow, I will return and begin my campaign in earnest to be your mayor." She pointed at one then another and another in the crowd. "I hope I can count on your votes. It's high time that certain coincidences stopped happening in our town!"
The women, and even some of the men, applauded.
A man at the back leaned down and picked up a sizeable rock.
Cash eased his horse to the man's side and nudged Paint's flank against him. "Sorry, Mister." The man's face twisted in anger then his eyes caught the U.S. Marshal badge. He dropped the rock. "Wise move, sir." Cash put a finger to the brim of his hat.
* * *
As they rode out of town, Cash said, "You seemed to be getting on with that young girl, Danny. What's her name?"
Esther chuckled. "You don't miss much, do you?"
Alongside her, Danny reddened. "Ada ... Well, she's called Adela but likes to be called Ada."
"She's a nice girl," Esther said. "Comes from a hardworking family."
"Yes. I like her very much," Danny said and glanced away, embarrassed.
Cash changed the subject. "And, Esther, it seems you connected with many in that crowd. Sounds like they're ready for change."
She bit her lip and then shrugged. "Maybe."
"You don't seem too pleased. I mean, apart from one fool stooping to pick up a rock, I didn't detect any animosity."
"A man picked up a rock?" she queried. Her complexion paled.
"He dropped it when I pointed out his error."
She smiled fleetingly, but her mood didn't lift.
"What's happened?" he asked.
"The printer said my posters would be ready today. But I can't have them, even though I've paid good money for them. They've been confiscated by the sheriff!"
"That lets us know where Sheriff Hain stands, I guess."
"It's so frustrating! They want me to fight this election with a hand tied behind my back! But they can't silence me—even if they send killers!" She glanced at him. "When I left the undertaker's, I overheard you making some arrangement with Mr. Peel. What was it?"
"A little advertising," Cash said. "Might bring in something of interest."
She wrinkled her brow. "You've grown more mysterious over the years, I see."
"I learned to gamble, Esther."
"Cards close to your chest, is that it?"
"Partly. Also, I gamble with lives—all the time."
She turned away, as if shaken by his cold response.
Their return journey was uneventful, though Cash never relaxed his wariness, and they hardly spoke. Cash guessed she was mulling over what to do next. If she was having second thoughts about contesting for mayor, he couldn't blame her. Though he never reckoned her for a quitter, either.
By the time they got back to the ranch, it was dark.
Cash told them both to stay with the buckboard while he dismounted, Colt drawn. He crossed over to the porch and lit the lantern hanging there, then checked inside the ranch house and the bunkhouse. Apparently, according to Esther, the two hands she'd employed upped and left about a week ago—without picking up their wages. She and Danny had been alone out here for seven days. Cash wondered why those against her waited so long.
"All clear!" he called, holstering his gun.
"Right, I'll get some food ready," Esther said, jumping down from the buckboard. "Danny, please see to the horses. Cash, you can bunk down in the spare room."
"Maybe I should sleep in the bunkhouse—seeing you might be mayor soon," he suggested.
She laughed. "I don't pay no mind to talk. You're my bodyguard. You're after villains, not my body." She smiled and patted his cheek. "Besides, my son's a good chaperone."
Cash returned her smile, thinking on those distant yet fond memories.
After a good supper of griddled pork, onions and potatoes, he retired to bed, his six-gun stuffed under his pillow. Niggling thoughts about dates, birthdays and timing nagged at him until he fell asleep.
* * *
Over a breakfast of ham, eggs and beans, washed down with hot black coffee, Cash listened as Esther filled in some blanks.
When she opted to run for mayor, it seemed that the town was divided. "To begin with, it was obvious that no one took me serious." She grinned. "But as the ballot day got nearer, I realized that against all so-called experts' predictions, I was becoming popular."
"Why was that?" Cash asked.
She shrugged. "I guess I was outspoken about the existing administration."
"I can imagine," he said with a smile. "Is that when you started receiving threatening letters?"
She nodded and waved a hand in dismissal. "All politicians get them. It's part of the deal, I suppose. Cranks, mostly."
"But some of them were a mite serious, right?"
"Yes. They turned dark and wrote like they knew how Dean died ..."
"So whoever killed your husband could write, at least."
"That's not remotely funny, Cash."
"I didn't mean it to be. But we've got to eliminate those who probably aren't responsible."
"Very well." She let out a short laugh. "I bet right now they wish they'd killed me when they shot Dean!"
Cash started. "You were there, at the killing?"
She nodded. "Yes. I gave Sheriff Hain a good description of the pair. The idiots even said their names as they gunned down Dean. One was called Jack, the other Vim."
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
She lowered her eyes and studied her hands, which rested on the tabletop. "Dean and I had just come out of the saloon. A lovely singer—Pearl Courtney—was passing through, and gave the town a rendition of some songs from Die Fledermaus." She made no move to wipe away the tears that streamed down her face. "She sang of love and loss, and injustice, would you believe?" She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose, still ignoring the tears.
She and Dean had stepped out of the side entrance, into the alley—the only way to leave without shoving their way through the packed and odoriferous audience.
"I thought it was just chance—that's what Sheriff Hain said, anyway."
Two ruffians accosted them, guns leveled. Demanded they give up their valuables. Dean protested, said when he was mayor, there'd be no place for the likes of them. One of them grabbed at Esther's pearl necklace and it broke, scattering pearls everywhere. Dean lunged forward, and shouted, "Leave my wife alone!"
Suddenly, they both fired at him.
"Got what you wanted, Mister—now she's alone—a widow!"
In that instant, Esther went wild, grabbing a discarded length of timber, and attacked them.
"I distinctly remember the tall thin one saying, 'Don't shoot her, Jack. We were told to leave her be!' The other one—he had an eye-patch—he said, 'Damn you, Vim,
I told you not to use my name ... Oh, hell, let's go.'" She shrugged. "They ran off, without even taking Dean's wallet."
"They weren't the brightest villains, were they?"
"No, but deadly enough. By the time I turned to Dean, he only had a few words for me ... Private words."
"So, Dean was killed by order, but you were deliberately left alone?"
"It was only afterwards that I wondered about that."
"What conclusions did you make?"
"I wasn't a threat to the mayoral campaign. I was a little woman, of no consequence."
Cash whistled. "Little did they know."
She dabbed at her eyes. "The townspeople were full of sympathy. Wanted to erect a fine marble headstone with statues of angels for Dean in Boot Hill. I declined, said I'd bury him at the ranch, where he belonged."
"What did Sheriff Hain do about the shooting?"
"Not a lot. He didn't press his enquiries too much."
"And the sheriff is hired by the mayor?"
"Oh, yes, in this town, that's how they go about it," she replied bitterly. "And now he's confiscated my posters."
* * *
Mayor Brett Nolan paced the floor in his ranch house. From time to time he glared sideways at Sheriff Hain, his insurance, and Lance Jacobson, his friend. "Having that Marshal here isn't good, Sheriff," he growled.
"You're stating the obvious, sir. But there isn't much I can do about it."
"Why don't you just get rid of him?" Jacobson said.
Nolan stopped pacing. "Because they'd send another damned pronto, that's why. Isn't that so, Sheriff?"
"I reckon, Mr. Mayor."
Mrs. Angelina Nolan entered with a silver tray of coffee and cups. She smiled, her strawberry-red painted lips and rouged cheeks more suitable to the dance-hall than the mayor's parlor. She leaned forward, offering a view of her décolletage that engaged her guests, and placed the tray on the coffee table between the men. "The good marshal could always meet up with an accident."
"Thanks, dear, for that insightful contribution," Nolan said, and sat at the sofa opposite the other two.
Angelina poured coffee into the cups. There was no milk—they all preferred it without. "It's the only black I hanker for, if you get my meaning," said Jacobson with a wink.
"You're too prejudiced for your own good, Lance," she replied, a hand patting her dark brown hair.
"Angelina isn't so fussy, she'll do business with anyone," Nolan said, "as long as she gets what she wants."
Husband and wife smiled at each other, suggesting marital harmony. Nolan reckoned both Hain and Jacobson were fooled, anyway. Truth was, of late Angelina had become bored with being wife to the mayor. She craved excitement. And he wondered if he didn't provide it, she'd stray somewhere else where she could obtain it, and he could go hang.
He sipped at the hot coffee. Things were looking black, indeed. He didn't understand it. He'd bought and paid for many votes, but word was out that the majority of voting women were against him and, according to Angelina, many of them were already starting to nag their husbands to vote their way too. Despite their rocky marriage arrangement, he had to credit her with political loyalty if not wifely constancy. Angelina was one of his staunchest supporters and just as ruthless as him.
Idly eyeing her now, he wondered with whom she dallied. He felt sure that it wasn't either of the two men in the room.
Rancher Jacobson hated women. As far as he was concerned, women should cook and get pregnant—and service a man's needs. That's all they were good for. He'd had two wives, overworked and buried both. He had two sons, Matt and Jerry, one from each wife, and both entirely different in temperament. He promised his support in the elections. No, Nolan dismissed the very thought of Jacobson being the man who cuckolded him.
Sheriff Hain owes his job to me, Nolan thought. Hain had too much to lose to dally with his sponsor's wife. Although Hain didn't know it, Nolan was aware of the sheriff's little extra earners—especially the protection racket he ran, fleecing the various immigrant shopkeepers. Yet Hain's money was never evident in his appearance. Maybe he was saving it for a rainy day, putting it in the bank.
Then there was the bank manager, Martin Plampin. That smooth bastard tended to sit on the political fence. More than once he told Nolan that he couldn't see the point of women owning a bank account, since very few ran businesses or put money in his bank. He allowed there was the occasional exception, such as Mrs. Tolliver and Ma Bartleby, the madam of the whorehouse. Plampin's business survived because of the men who banked with him. Nolan had a sneaking suspicion that Plampin had a soft spot for Ma Bartleby, which might not bode well, since that harridan was siding with Mrs. Tolliver. Mighty strange, that—Mrs. Bartleby used her women, all of them indentured to pay off their contracts, but was willing to give them a vote. Maybe he'd have to get Sheriff Hain to fine her for some moral transgression or other trifling misdemeanor; that would put her in her place.
He glanced at Hain. "Anything new to report?"
"I paid Horton Eldridge a visit." Hain smiled at remembering.
Up till now, Nolan thought he'd bought an ideal lawman—obedient and willing to turn a blind eye when asked. Hain's inability to deal with the U.S. Marshal caused him concern, however. For now, he'd give him the benefit of the doubt. "So, what did Eldridge have to say?"
"He had the posters all printed up for Mrs. Tolliver. She was due in to collect them today."
"Really?"
Hain nodded, evidently enjoying his moment in the limelight. "I told him I'd have to confiscate the lot." He shook his head and chuckled. "He wasn't too pleased about that. 'They're likely to inflame emotions,' I says, 'and cause a disturbance of the peace.' He argued that she'd paid for them—and he'd spent time and money printing them. 'Then, she's out of pocket,' I told him. 'Evidence of sedition,' I said."
Nolan laughed while Angelina clapped her hands, her red nails quite pointed. "Well done, Sheriff, that's marvelous!"
"Thanks kindly, Mayor, Ma'am. The posters are in the jail outhouse, the best use I could think of for them."
"Brilliant!" Nolan turned to his wife. "Dear, I think our coffees would benefit from a little stiffening—the best whiskey, perhaps?"
Obediently, she rose and with a swish of skirts walked over to the sideboard and opened a bottle. With utmost finesse, she moved among them, dispensing liquor into their cups.
Nolan raised his cup. "Here's to the election, gentlemen."
Angelina poured her whiskey direct into a tumbler and swigged it back, her pert nose raised. "And may the Devil confound the Tolliver woman at every turn!"
"Amen to that, my dear," Mayor Nolan said.
* * *
The two hired ruffians—Jack Wexler and Vim Portland—were paid off by Nolan and told to get out of town, since the widow could identify them. After their departure, Nolan had pushed his luck by hiring Ash Devlin and Tiny Pucket. They were supposed to do away with Tolliver and her son, maybe burn them in a fire that could look like an accident. Instead, they got themselves killed by that damned marshal.
Nolan realized he could not afford to hire any more killers. He'd watched Mrs. Tolliver haranguing that crowd. If she met an untimely end now, suspicion would fall on him. With a U.S. Marshal around, it wouldn't pay to mess up. Especially as he knew there were moves afoot to make Wyoming a state. That could be the beginning of something really big for him.
He must think of something else to ensure Mrs. Tolliver came second in the two-horse race for mayor.
-THREE-
Making an Impression
Bear Ridge was twenty miles southeast of Bear Pines, and about the same size. Cash had been reluctant to leave Esther and Danny, but she dismissed his concerns with ease. "Your journey's most necessary to my campaign, Cash, and you know it. Danny'll look out for me, be sure." She promised that they'd be vigilant and always keep loaded guns to hand.
"I'll be back in a couple of days, at the most," he promised.
For a m
oment, she hesitated, as if about to give him a peck on the cheek, then she smiled and waved him off.
As he rode away, he was tempted to look back at the mother and son—but he didn't. His back itched some. He wondered if he was being watched. Maybe the mayor was just waiting for him to ride off?
No, surely he wouldn't be so stupid as to try killing Esther a third time. Then again, most villains were stupid.
Within an hour, he'd dismissed the Tollivers from his mind. He hoped there might be some useful information to glean from the people in Bear Ridge. He reckoned that Dean Tolliver's killers wouldn't run far, particularly if they were paid. They'd be tempted to blackmail their employer or maybe wait for similar work. Of course, they could have gone in a totally different direction.
His first stop was the sheriff's office.
Ed Kaye was in his fifties but seemed capable enough. His two young deputies were in their twenties and did all the patrolling of the town. "I do the gun work, my deputies do the police work." He shrugged. "It seems to suit. My town's quiet, even on weekends."
"Glad to hear it," Cash said. "I'm looking for two men suspected of murder." He gave Esther's description of Jack and Vim. "Don't know their surnames."
Kaye nodded. "Sounds like Jack Wexler and Vim Portland."
Cash could hardly believe his luck: pay-dirt on his first try. "Where can I find them?"
Sheriff Kaye stood up. "I'll give you a hand. Wexler's a mean son of a bitch."
"No, Sheriff. I'd like to talk to them by myself, if that's all right with you."
Kaye sat back. "Okay. So long as you don't go shooting my town full of holes while you do your talking."
"I'll tread easy."
"Well ..." Kaye squinted at the large clock above the entrance door to the cells. "About this time of day, you'll find Jack Wexler in the saloon—two blocks down, the Plugged Nickel. For two or three weeks now he's been spending money like it was going out of fashion."
"For him, it just might be true," Cash said.
"Yeah, I suppose there's a shortage of the green stuff in prison ... Well, now, Vim Portland's a different sort altogether. He's a hard worker who tends to get led astray. You'll find him out at the Maddison place, helping with a new build, a stone ranch house."
