by Lee Clinton
Truth was, it would not be an easy day for Gus either.
CHAPTER 4
MADNESS
The Investigation Begins
Gus pulled Henry up short, before the gate to where the homestead had once stood. The small, now ridiculous fence still defined the outer perimeter of where there had once been life. To one side were the horse trough and the water pump, next to a tall grove of tamaracks that had been seared by the heat of the fire. The barn was also completely gone, like the homestead. It had once stood some fifty yards away and the bare ground between the two ruins clearly signalled that this was no accident. The two buildings had been deliberately torched separately, but for what purpose? If to destroy evidence then what evidence? What was the cause of this tragedy? Was it theft of goods or livestock? Was it vengeance against the settlers? Or was it something else?
‘Just wait,’ said the father to his son, signalling Henry to remain mounted. ‘I need you to point out to me where you went, so that I can distinguish your tracks from the others. We need to investigate carefully and just take one step at a time.’
Henry drew in a deep breath and started to speak, only to immediately stumble over his words. He stopped, looked down and his eyes filled with silent tears.
Gus sat quietly and waited, before saying, ‘Try again, Henry,’ as he reached across and placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder. ‘I know this is tough, but we have a job to do. Just take your time.’
Henry took a second breath and began to explain how he rode up to the fence, entered through the gate, and—
His eyes showed a flash of confusion. He wasn’t sure. Did he walk around the ruins? Yes, but was it to the right or was it to the left? He couldn’t remember.
‘Did you step into the ashes, Henry? Just think. Did you step into the ashes?’
No, he hadn’t. For some reason, it had seemed wrong to do so. He had just looked. He was stunned, he told his father. ‘I just couldn’t believe it.’ He eyes started to fill with tears again.
‘OK, we’ll start from here and you walk with me, but just behind. I want you to record notes. Take out your field book and lead pencil.’ Gus didn’t think Henry would manage the task, but it didn’t matter, it would keep him occupied.
Gus dismounted and motioned to Henry to do the same. Then slowly, he edged forward towards the gate, searching the ground, picking up the first signs of foot traffic before squatting. He glanced at Henry’s boots then looked ahead. He could clearly see his son’s fresh tracks and waited and watched as his eyes slowly started to decipher the numerous other marks, scuffs and prints that littered the ground. He stood, took two paces to the left and squatted again. He turned and looked back at their two horses ten paces back, then across to the right to pick up Henry’s original horse tracks before turning back to examine the ground near the gate, just to the left.
‘Three horses,’ he said. ‘Tethered to the fence, just here.’
Henry was in a daze and did not respond.
‘Henry, let’s get on the job. Note, three horses.’ Gus rose and stepped forward, slowly examining the ground as he went. When he had passed through the gate and down the path to where the porch and front door had once been, he stopped and squatted again.
He had been in this house on several occasions and cast his mind back to what once had been. To the right was the front room and he remembered how it had looked with its careful charm and comfort. There had been the furniture, which had once belonged to Agnes Mayfield, Abe’s mother, and bequeathed to Fanny. Abe had tanned some mule-deer skins and mounted the antlers that graced the wall above the fireplace.
To the left was the front bedroom. He had never been in that room, but had caught a glimpse from the hall of the large wooden bed. It was now gone. In its place, he could see two mounds in the ashes. He knew what they were; the remains of Abe and Fanny Mayfield. But they were not side by side where the bed had stood. They were towards the door. Had they been trying to escape?
Directly behind that room was the nursery where Abe’s mother, Agnes, and baby Ben slept. Gus now walked to the left, waving to Henry to follow, then turned to his right at what would have been the side of the homestead. He stopped where the small window to the nursery had once been. He could see the broken glass on the edge of the ashes. Gus knelt, lowered his head to examine a burnt mound immediately to his front. It was the remains of Agnes, and the small bundle against her was Ben. He had died in her arms.
The lawman lowered his head and spat upon the ground. ‘Christ,’ he said under his breath, before standing to continue his slow passage around the ashes, frequently stopping to crouch and search inch by inch with his eyes. His last stop was the remnants of the room directly behind the front room. This was the girls’ room which Grace shared with younger sister Christine, or Chrissy to all who knew her. He began the ritual again, bending low and running his eyes over the ashes, and there, just to his left, was the black tell-tale pile. It was one of the girls, but which one? Could anyone ever tell? He doubted it. The fire here had been intense as the room backed onto the storeroom where the lamp oil and cooking grease were kept. He continued looking. But no matter how hard his observations or positions he chose from which to view the site, he could not find the remains of a second body in the girls’ room. Why?
He retraced his steps back to Henry who was standing near the water pump. He seemed frozen to the spot, as if in a daze, with his field notebook in hand and pencil poised, ready to write in an instant.
Gus took him by the arm and walked him back to the horses. ‘Just stay here,’ he said to Henry. ‘I need to look around.’
He then returned to the ruins and circled counterclockwise, searching for the sixth body. Could one of the girls have perished in another room? He looked and he looked, but there was no sign. He then walked slowly over to the barn to examine the ruins and while the odd item, mostly metal, like the hubs and springs from the remains of the buckboard, and the anvil near the small forge, were clear to see, there was no sign of deceased life, not even livestock. By the barn door, now marked by the bracket hinges upon the ground on the edge of the ashes, he could see the remains of a kerosene lamp at an easy arm’s throw from the entrance.
Gus turned and retraced his steps back towards the homestead fence. Some twenty paces back and looking towards the stockyard, he began slowly to inch forward, searching the ground as he went. It was just before the very corner of the fence that he saw it. An imprint, not the whole foot, just the ball of a bare foot where toes had dug into the dirt to gain purchase for the runner. He walked on slowly and picked up the second print, more pronounced this time where the runner had leapt over the water trough. Then a third imprint clearly marked upon the soft damp ground on the other side of the trough.
Gus looked up in the direction it was heading, towards the cattle yard. ‘Henry.’
No reply.
‘Henry, come here, quick, son. One of the girls is missing.’
Henry arrived in an amble, notebook and pencil still held in front of him.
‘Henry, listen to me.’ He shook his son’s shoulder. ‘One of the girls managed to escape.’
Finally, Henry seemed to come alive. ‘Grace!’ he said.
‘Not sure. But you need to collect your thoughts. We need to get a search party out here, but it will be dark before I can get back to Laramie and get one raised. I want you to start the search now, on your own, from here. Can you do that?’
Henry was nodding.
‘Let me hear it, Henry. Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, his focus and confidence slowly returning. ‘Yes, I can.’
‘Good boy, good boy. Now, start nice and easy, looking for any sign. Take it slow. Walk your horse and mark where you go. Camp up when you can no longer see, and listen up. Call out both Grace and Chrissy’s names as you go, and be back here no later than two hours after sunup tomorrow. By then I’ll be back with the search party.’ Gus paused. ‘Got that, Henry?’
; ‘Call Grace’s name as I go.’
Gus went to correct him, but paused and thought it best just to leave it at Grace’s name. ‘Right, Grace.’ He didn’t want to complicate matters any further. His son was already having trouble coping. Gus then added, ‘If Cheyenne did this, they’ll be long gone. Still, best to keep your rifle loaded and close at all times, just in case. I’ll stay for a little to help get you started before I head back. Remember, we’ve got a job to do, so stay keen and alert.’
Henry nodded.
Gus wanted more from Henry, but it was the best he could hope for at this moment, under these circumstances. Besides, he also had much to do and much to think about, as a voice inside kept asking, what the hell has happened here? What has caused this madness?
CHAPTER 5
REMAINS
Talk of Cheyenne
When Gus returned with a search party of twelve the following morning, Henry was waiting, alone. He confirmed, with a shake of the head to his father, that nothing had been found of the missing Mayfield girl, either dead or alive. Each man dismounted and walked over to Henry to offer their condolences with a comforting handshake. Then under the gaze of the men who had volunteered their time to search, Henry listed the steps he had taken. From time to time he referred to his field notebook on distance and direction and advised on how he had marked his trail.
When he finished, one of the men said with authority, ‘Cheyenne.’
‘Maybe,’ cut in Gus, ‘but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We will conduct a methodical search for a young woman on foot in a state of distress, who may be hiding or unable to find her way back.’ Before anyone could butt in, Gus continued. ‘We’ll conduct a fan search to the left and right of Henry’s initial line of search. Don’t rush, as you may miss tracks or signs. Five men to each of Henry’s flanks as he moves forward to show where he searched yesterday and early this morning. The two remaining men are to act as outriders. One north, the other south for one mile each, then west for five miles. They will mark the limit of the search for today and look out for any sign where riders may have entered or left the range. Depending on what’s found, the search will then be extended as necessary. Henry will be in charge.’
‘What about you, sheriff?’ came the call.
‘I’ll assist the undertaker. He’s due here within the hour.’
It was a sober reminder of what had to be done and seemed to subdue those who may have wished to waste time. They all looked at the ruins with the realization that there were bodies within those ashes. None would want the job that Gus and the undertaker were about to do, so they got about dividing the tasks that had been issued, each man willing to be employed as was best.
Gus led Hyrum Barrows, the son of J. B. Barrows, who had titled his family business as Laramie Undertakers of Distinction, over to where the front door of the homestead had once stood. He pointed out each of the charred mounds to the undertaker and advised him as to who he believed them to be.
Hyrum accepted Gus’s deductions without question and the two started with the remains of Abe and Fanny. What was left of each rigid body was disfigured beyond recognition. The two men gently lifted each corpse on to a well-worn wooden stretcher, marked with the faded stencilled words ‘Property U.S. Army Field Hospital’. When taking up the stretcher with the second body, it tilted to one side and the burnt remains slid off and back into the ashes.
Gus apologized. ‘My fault,’ he said, ‘I got distracted.’
Hyrum silently lowered his end of the stretcher and began to roll the cadaver back on to it, briefly stopping to look more closely at what was left of a blackened hand pressed across the body. ‘This one is Fanny Mayfield. I can see her wedding ring.’
As Gus bent in to look, the smell of burnt flesh caught in his throat. He could just make out the dark gold band upon the stump of a blackened finger with a white protruding bone.
‘My Lucy said that Fanny was most proud of that,’ said Hyrum. ‘It had belonged to Abe’s grandmother, and been given to her by Agnes.’
Gus looked again at the small engraved band with its fine pattern.
‘Valuable,’ the undertaker added.
Valuable, thought Gus and lifted his head to get some fresh air from a slight breeze that brushed past the side of his face. ‘Valuable to no one now,’ he said, not knowing what else to say.
‘It will be valuable to the missing Mayfield girl, if she is found.’ It was said as a matter of fact.
Gus repented. ‘Of course,’ he said, feeling unsettled, and wondered why this was so difficult. He’d been exposed to the sight of slain bodies on the battlefield and later as a sheriff, but this was different. Was it just because these were people he knew personally – a family that was soon to join with his? Or was it because they were innocent? They were not soldiers who’d died in battle, or hot-headed cowboys who thought they were fast with a gun. These were just settlers – God-fearing, hard-working, settlers. ‘Of course,’ he said again, ‘the missing Mayfield girl.’
The bodies of Agnes and Ben could be identified not just by their location within the ruins, but also by their physical size and weight. They were glued together at first, until Hyrum prised them apart, exposing a patch of unburnt clothing. It was Agnes’s nightdress and light blue in colour.
When it came to where the girls’ room had stood not even Hyrum could confirm if it was Grace or Chrissy who had escaped the inferno. The limbs below the knees and the elbows were missing, due the intensity of the fire, and the head was little more than a skull.
When they respectfully placed the remains of the unknown Mayfield girl on to the undertaker’s buckboard, Gus asked, ‘Do you ever get used to this?’
‘This?’ questioned the undertaker as he pulled the tarpaulin over the remains. ‘If I did, there’d be no need for me to look into the bottom of a whiskey glass.’ And once again it was said as a matter of fact.
Gus drew in another deep breath of fresh air. ‘This was harder than I thought it was going to be.’
‘How’s your boy holding up?’ asked Hyrum.
‘Better today,’ replied Gus. ‘Well, at least for the moment. He’s hoping that it is Grace out there.’
The undertaker nodded as he tucked the tarp into the sides of the buckboard. ‘Do you think it was Cheyenne?’ he queried.
Gus hunched his shoulders, ‘Looks that way, but I need to talk to the agent and see what he has to say.’
‘Some in town are already saying it’s Cheyenne.’
‘Who in particular?’ asked Gus, expecting to hear of some vague tittle-tat from gossips unnamed.
‘Rufus Cole and the Moy brothers were telling all who would listen to them in The Blood last night. Said it was renegades from up north and that they must have been after white women.’
He was a little surprised to hear names. ‘Did they say how they knew this?’
‘Nope. It was just saloon talk as far as I could tell.’
‘In their saloon?’
The undertaker jumped down from the back of the buckboard. ‘That’s right, in The Blood.’
Gus knew the undertaker was a drinker, but after today he would no longer pass judgement on this habit to imbibe. How else could he be expected to cope in this line of work? ‘I’ll talk to the Indian agent first and see what he has to say,’ said Gus.
‘Good idea. I can’t see how those brothers would know any more than you or me. I’ve never trusted them. Do you?’
‘I trust the evidence, I have to. That’s my job as a lawman.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Hyrum. He gave a grunt and climbed up on to the seat of the buckboard. ‘I see the stock is still yarded.’
Gus glanced across to see cattle standing around the gate of the stockyard and more heading up the slope behind them.
‘They’re looking for water,’ observed Hyrum.
‘I’ll check the troughs,’ responded Gus.
‘If it was Cheyenne the fences over there would be down and the stock go
ne.’ With that the undertaker flicked the reins, nodded a farewell to Gus and departed with his pitiful cargo of burnt human remains.
Gus gave the undertaker a wave as he stood pondering. No, he did not trust Rufus Cole or his two younger half-brothers either. Their saloon, The Red Blood, was aptly named. On a Saturday night, it could sometimes turn into a fighting pit and had earned the reputation that more blood had been spilt there than at the Bulls Head Market in Chicago. Colourful words, but with an element of truth. At least once a month, Gus and his deputies had to attend to a pay-night brawl that spilt over into the street. He’d spoken to Rufus regarding his responsibilities not to break the peace, but his point of view was one of casual care at best. He said he was providing a service to the railroad men and cattlemen who worked hard and needed a place to let off a little steam. In reality, Rufus added to the steam. If the crowd got too rowdy and looked like trouble, he’d cut off the liquor and throw them out onto the street.
But that’s not where the trust had been lost between Gus and Rufus.
Cole and his half-brothers had lied to him about the character of a young woman who had died on their premises from a fall out of an upstairs window. The body had been carried back inside and laid on the floor of the vestibule by the time Gus arrived to investigate. They said she was a dove touting for trade without their knowledge, who had accidently fallen while calling out to would-be customers in the street below. Yet the evidence proved that she had no prior convictions of any kind, and had arrived on the Union Pacific the previous day from Omaha City with an ongoing ticket to Salt Lake City for the following morning. The doctor confirmed that her neck had been severely broken from the fall and apart from bruises to the left upper arm, no other marks or lacerations were on the body. The whole affair left Gus with suspicion and resulted in a sort of Mexican standoff where he waited for their next move, which was yet to come. Maybe they weren’t directly involved, considered Gus a little later, but he also knew that sometimes he was often too quick to give the benefit of the doubt. Such charity was an unfortunate part of his nature and not always compatible with being a lawman.
