“And no law?”
“No,” Craig said. “There’s just us.”
“Well,” Casey said, “let’s get down there. We got a killer to catch.”
THIRTY-THREE
It was raining by the time Clint reached the town of Forty Mile, and already the streets were turning muddy. If it continued to rain into the evening when the temperatures dropped, it would turn to snow.
He reached the row of whores’ tents, started at the first one. He knew he was waking up the hardworking girls, but for the most part they were cooperative once they realized he wasn’t looking for an early morning poke.
It wasn’t till he got to the fifth tent that he found the right girl.
“Christy,” she said. “My name’s Christy, and yeah, I know Ike. He comes to see me sometimes. Why? What happened?”
“I haven’t seen him this morning,” Clint said. “Was he with you last night?”
“Yeah, but just for a little while,” she said.
“Where did he say he was going when he left?”
“To the saloon.”
“Well, he never got there, and he never came back to camp,” Clint said. “I’ll have to keep looking.”
“I hope you find him,” she said. He thought she sounded concerned, until her next line. “I can’t really afford to lose regular customers.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”
She pulled her thin wrap tightly around her and withdrew into the warmth of her tent.
Clint talked to the rest of the girls, but none of them had seen Ike.
He walked the distance between the row of tents and the saloon, but didn’t come across him or anyone who had seen him.
He did come across something else, though. Two men riding tired-looking horses into town. He was surprised to see Marshal Casey and Trooper Craig.
They, however, were not surprised to see him as they reined in their horses in front of the saloon, which was always open.
“Adams,” Casey said, stepping down from his horse.
“You two rode all the way here from Skagway?” Clint asked.
“The trooper knew the way,” Casey said. “In fact, he says it was a shorter way than most, but it took a lot of ridin’.”
“Mr. Adams,” Craig said.
“Nice to see you, Trooper.”
“Does this saloon serve coffee?” Casey asked.
“It does all day, and if you don’t mind, I’ll join you.”
“Fine,” Casey said. “You can fill us in on the situation here.”
“And you can tell me what brought you all the way here from Skagway.”
“Agreed.”
The three men went into the saloon.
Bent Miller stopped short when he saw the two lawmen ride in. He secreted himself behind a tent and watched as they met with Clint Adams in front of the saloon. The men talked for a while, and then the three men went inside.
He came out from behind the tent and walked toward the saloon, wondering if Clint Adams had yet found the body of his friend, Ike Daly.
He stopped just outside the saloon and peered inside. The three men were standing at the bar, and he watched.
THIRTY-FOUR
Clint, Casey, and Craig all got coffee mugs from the bartender.
“So what brings you here?”
“Murder,” Trooper Craig said.
“Who was murdered?” Clint asked.
“A whore,” Marshal Casey said. “Poor girl was brutalized.”
“Her name was Francesca something,” Craig said. “They called her Frankie.”
“Frankie?” Clint asked, alarmed. “Frankie’s dead?”
“You knew her?” Casey asked.
“I came over on the boat with her,” Clint said. “A nice girl. I let her sleep in my cabin, so she wouldn’t have to sleep on deck.”
The two lawmen exchanged a glance, but Clint let them think whatever they liked.
“Did you see her at all in Skagway?” Casey asked.
“No,” Clint said. “In fact, I didn’t know she was a whore until we got to the dock and one of the other girls met her.”
“Well,” Casey said, “according to the madam, she’d only been with one man.”
“What man was that?”
“Bent Miller,” Craig said. “He has a reputation for brutality. The madam thinks he did it. She said he’d never killed a girl before, but he’d hurt them badly.”
“Do you know where he is?” Casey asked.
“He works out at the Parker mining operation,” Clint said. “I think he’s the foreman.”
“Never heard that Miller was a miner,” Craig said. “Mostly, he’s a gun for hire.”
“That’s what I thought,” Clint said, “but he’s apparently the number two to Parker’s man, Hector Tailor.”
“I suppose we’ll have to go out and question both of them, then,” Craig said.
“Maybe we can get something to eat first,” Casey said.
“There’s a tent just down the way from here serves pretty good food,” Clint said. “Just go out and turn left.”
“And what about a place to stay?” Casey asked.
“If you go to the mercantile tent, they’ll rent you a tent, any size you want. Then you’ll just have to find a place to pitch it.”
“No hotel?” Casey asked.
“No hotel,” Clint said.
Casey frowned into his coffee.
Craig put his empty mug down on the bar.
“Let’s see to our horses first,” he suggested to the U.S. marshal.
“Down at the end of the street is the livery,” Clint said. “This and the livery are really the only wooden structures in town so far.”
“Well,” Casey said, “at least the horses will be comfortable.”
Bent Miller saw all three men push away from the bar and turn toward the exit. He withdrew, found a place to hide himself as the three men came outside. From where he was, he could hear them now.
“All right,” the marshal was saying, “we’ll deal with the horses, get something to eat, then go out to the Parker operation to talk to Tailor and Miller.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Clint said.
“What else is going on up here?” Craig asked.
“Well, nothing that requires a lawman,” Clint said, “except that I’m still trying to find my partner this morning.”
“The little guy?” Casey asked.
“Ike Daly,” Clint said. “Haven’t seen him since last night.”
“Well,” Craig said, “let us know if you need any help.”
“Not that we don’t have enough to do,” Casey added.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Clint said.
The two lawmen went to their horses and mounted up. As Clint watched them ride off, Bent Miller watched Clint. Once the lawmen were gone, Clint started walking in the direction of the whores’ tents.
Bent Miller decided to go ahead and get something to eat. He did not have any doubt that he could handle the two lawmen, and he wasn’t going to let their presence ruin his breakfast.
Clint went back toward the tents, intending to look around with more care. With the number of rounders and lowlifes in this kind of town, there was no telling what might have happened.
He walked along in front of the tents, then went around to the back. It was there he finally found his friend, facedown in a puddle. At that moment the rain began to come down even harder.
THIRTY-FIVE
Clint leaned down and turned his friend over. His face was pale. He’d been dead all night. He rolled him again, saw where the knife had gone in. Searching him, he found his friend’s poke gone. This would indicate a robbery, but there was no guarantee of that. However it had happened, though, his friend was dead. Murdered. Coincidentally on the day the two lawmen rode into town.
“Ah, Ike,” he said with his hand still on his friend.
He had come out of Christy’s tent, probably intending to go to the salo
on to meet Clint, and had, instead, met his end.
Well, since there was law in town, he figured he might as well let those lawmen know that they now had two killings—one in Skagway and the other in Forty Mile—to deal with. But he also needed to figure out where Ike’s body should be taken, and then find someone to pick him up and take him there.
He hated to leave his friend where he was, but it would only be for a little while longer.
He headed back toward town to find the lawmen.
Bent Miller was seated, eating his breakfast, when Marshal Casey and Trooper Craig entered. If they saw him, they didn’t let on. Instead, they went to an empty table and ordered some food for themselves.
“He’s here,” Craig said as they sat down.
“Who?” Casey asked.
“Miller,” Craig said, then added, “Don’t look.”
“I don’t know where to look,” Casey said. “And right now I’m more interested in some food. I don’t think Miller’s going anywhere, do you?”
“No,” Craig said. “There’s nowhere else to go.”
A waiter came over and they both ordered ham and eggs and coffee. The waiter promised the food would come quickly, and he didn’t lie. He was back in moments with two steaming plates, a pot of coffee, and a basket of fresh biscuits.
“This is good,” Craig said.
“If it was the soles of a boot cooked in grease, it would taste good after eating your cookin’ on the trail.”
“What’s wrong with my cooking?”
“It can’t even be called cookin’,” Casey said. He pointed to his plate with his fork. “This is cookin’.”
“I can’t argue with you there,” Craig said.
They were busily consuming their meals when Clint Adams came through the door.
Clint saw Bent Miller first, then the two lawmen at another table, wolfing down their food.
As Clint approached their table, Casey asked, “You have some news so soon?”
“I found Ike Daly,” Clint said. “He’s dead. He was stabbed sometime last night.”
“Was he robbed?” Craig asked.
“It looks like it,” Clint said.
“Looks like it?” Casey asked. “You think it was something else?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “All I know is, he’s dead. I thought I’d let you know.”
As Clint started walking away from the table, Casey said, “Now wait. Where are you off to?”
“I need to arrange to have his body taken out of the mud,” Clint said, “and then I’m going to find his killer.”
“You’re going to find his killer?” Craig asked. “What about us?”
“You fellas can help, if you like,” Clint said.
“I think you got this backwards, Adams,” Casey said. “Murder is our business, and if you want, you can help us find the killer.”
“Whichever way it goes,” Clint said, “I’ve got to get his body moved.”
“Wait,” Craig said, standing. “I’ll come with you. I want to see the body where you found it.”
Casey looked down at the remainder of his breakfast with distress.
“Marshal, you might as well stay here and finish your breakfast,” Craig said.
“But—”
“No, no,” Craig said, “this will only take one of us. Besides, maybe you can talk to Miller before you leave.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Casey said. “Okay, let’s meet at the mercantile in an hour.”
“Agreed,” Craig said. “Then he looked at Clint. “Come on, show me where you found your friend.”
“Daly,” Clint said. “His name is Ike Daly.”
“Yes,” Craig said, “my apologies. Show me where you found Mr. Daly.”
As they left, Casey looked across the table, then figured there was no point in the rest of the trooper’s breakfast going to waste. He picked up the plate and scraped the remaining food off onto his own, then continued eating.
THIRTY-SIX
Clint walked Trooper Craig around to where Ike’s body lay.
“Did you move him?”
“I rolled him over to make sure it was him.”
Craig crouched near the body.
“Search him?”
“Yeah,” Clint said. “That’s how I know his poke is gone.”
“Looks like a stab wound,” Craig said, touching the body right near the wound. “Only one apparently. None in front?”
“No.”
Craig stood up.
“He was with a whore last night?”
“Yes, Christy. I spoke with her. She said she thought he was going to the saloon when he left her.”
“Some of these whores partner with the thieves,” Craig said. “They pass the word about who’s got a good-sized poke.”
“That’s possible,” Clint said. “Ike wasn’t shy about taking his out of his pocket.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Craig said. “You might as well go ahead and arrange for the body to be picked up.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to look around, ask some questions.” Craig said. “If you like, you can meet the marshal and me over at the mercantile in an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” Clint said.
The two men parted company there.
Casey was still eating when Bent Miller stood up and started to leave.
“Mr. Miller.”
Bent stopped and looked around.
“Sean Casey, U.S, marshal,” Casey introduced himself. “You mind if we have a word?”
“About what?”
“A dead whore in Skagway.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Why don’t you have a seat,” Casey suggested, “and we’ll talk about it.”
“Why not?” Miller said, sitting down.
“How much time do you spend with whores, Mr. Miller?” Casey asked.
“About as much time as anybody, I guess,” Bent said. “What about you, Marshal? You like whores?”
“I like women,” Casey said, “but I don’t particularly like whores.”
“I like ’em because they do what you pay ’em to do,” Bent said. “That saves a lot of time and argument, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t call that any kind of relationship with a woman,” Casey said.
“I don’t want a relationship,” Bent said, “I just want ’em to do what I say.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they don’t get paid.”
“That’s it?” Casey asked.
“Whataya mean?”
“I mean, if they don’t do what you say, is that all you do to them? Not pay them?”
“Ah, you been hearin’ stories about me,” Bent said. “You can’t believe stories that you hear, Marshal.”
“So you don’t have a reputation for brutalizing whores?”
“I may have a reputation,” Bent said, “but I ain’t earned it. Maybe I slapped one or two of ’em around, but that ain’t brutalizin’ them.”
“What would you call it?”
“Just givin’ ’em a little…discipline. Ain’t that what married men do with their wives? Keep ’em in line?”
“By hitting them?”
Bent Miller shrugged and said, “That’s what my pa used to do when my ma got outta line. One little slap usually did it. There was no reason to do anything more. Not like what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry about the girl who got killed, I really am,” Bent said, “but that’s just a waste of a whore.”
“What about Ike Daly?”
“What about him?”
“Did you hear that he got killed last night?”
“Naw,” Bent said, “really? That’s too bad. What happened? He get robbed or somethin’?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, a lot of that goes around in a place like this,” Bent said. “You know, some fellas just don’t wanna do the h
ard work of gettin’ the gold outta the ground. They wait ’til somebody else gets it, and then steal it away.”
“We’re not sure exactly what happened,” Casey said. “But if that’s what did happen, then somebody went a bit too far this time.”
“Sounds like they did,” Bent said. “And I’m sorry to hear about that.”
“I’m sure Mr. Adams will be glad to hear that,” Casey said. “You wouldn’t have any ideas about who might have done it, would you?”
“Nope, sorry,” Bent said. “Like I said, I know it goes on, but I don’t know who’s doin’ it.”
“Okay, then,” Casey said. “Thanks for talkin’ to me, Mr. Miller.”
“Sure thing, Marshal,” Bent said, standing up. “You have a nice day.”
As Miller went out the door, Casey wondered why the man had not been surprised to see him in Forty Mile, and why he hadn’t asked him when he’d arrived. It seemed as if Miller had already known that he was in town.
He paid his bill, put his hat on, and stepped outside. He still had some time before he had to meet Craig at the mercantile. Maybe he could find something out by asking questions around town.
He headed out into the rain.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Clint couldn’t find anyone who would help with Ike’s body. And apparently, there was no undertaker to take it to. There was a boot hill cemetery right outside of town, and it seemed that folks just took the dead directly out there and buried the bodies themselves.
Clint went to the livery and rented a buckboard and horse, then drove it over to where Ike’s body lay. He picked his friend up and laid him on the buckboard, then drove him to their camp.
“What happened?” Dallas asked.
“Somebody killed him last night,” Clint said.
The men crowded around and looked at Ike’s body on the buckboard.
“Anybody see anything last night?” Clint said. “Anything that might help?”
“Didn’t even see him last night,” Jud said. “I just thought he found himself a real good whore.”
“Me, too,” Dallas said.
“Well, it was after he left the whore that he was killed,” Clint said. “And robbed.”
“Aw, poor Ike,” Dallas said. “He never hurt anybody.”
Forty Mile River Page 9
