Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  “All right, young man. Once more.” Aaron made the first move this time, and Monday drew upon everything the Major and old Jesus Diaz had taught him over nearly ten winters, but Aaron still won.

  “You’re a caution, boy. I know a couple of old checker players who’da been downright flummoxed to be whipped by you three times running.”

  “His father and I are very proud of Aaron and what he can do. He’s only seven, but he knows his letters and can cipher some, too. I hear tell we got a new schoolteacher in town, and I hope he takes a cotton to her. He don’t talk much around strangers.”

  “Heck, Miss Kate won’t be no stranger to him after ten minutes. I reckon he’ll do just fine.” A baby cried from the next room. Anna went off to quiet the child.

  Aaron brought out some cards. “Young man, I hope you ain’t gonna try to teach me poker. I been learning that since I was smaller’n you.” But play they did and although they wagered nothing, Monday was surprised by how well the youngster knew when to fold, how many cards to draw, and when Monday was bluffing. Since the boy didn’t speak and seldom changed expression, he was a formidable bluffer himself.

  “Glad I didn’t bring any card money on this trip, son.”

  After an hour or so, big, blocky Dan Weir tromped up the front steps. Monday introduced himself and noted no reaction to his name or title. But the boy shook his head.

  “Aaron’s saying somethin’s not right. It’s not the marshal part, is it, son? He’s wearin’ the badge.” The boy shook his head. “Is it the name?” When the boy nodded, Dan grinned. “He picks up on some folks’ names. Sometimes, somebody don’t seem to fit their handle and Aaron notices that. He don’t mean nothin’ by it.” Monday looked at the boy uneasily.

  After dinner, Monday showed them the drawing and told them what he was looking for. Aaron began nodding. “Is he saying he knows about a man with a rifle and a big black horse?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dan said. “I think he’s agreein’ with what you’re doin’ and that you’re lookin’ for the right man. That so, son?” The boy shook his head then nodded again, more vigorously.

  “Looks like I was wrong. He mighta seen such a man. Did you see someone like that ride by, Aaron?” The boy nodded again. “This week?” No, came the head shake.

  “Well, at least he’s seen someone like that,” Monday said. “Tell me, Aaron, old poker buddy, did he ride through here north to south?” Nod. “Hmmm. And have you seen him more than once?” Nod again. “Well, maybe he uses Sloan’s Ford then. You see him in the daylight, Aaron?” Shake. “Oh, in the evening?” Nod. When Monday asked about a description, he got nothing. It must’ve been twilight and the man too far away.

  “I thank you folks. You, too, Aaron. This feller might be the man I need to talk to. Much obliged for the meal, Ma’am.”

  * * * * *

  Monday headed Lightning farther east. He had good directions from the Weirs and called at the first mine, a placer operation up Box Elder Creek, a long ways downstream from where the murder occurred and where he’d watched Kate bathe just three days ago. Seemed like he was living in a different world since then.

  Slim Whittaker was the grey-bearded foreman of a twelve-man placer box operation that was finally beginning to show some signs of gold. Slim said he rode pretty close herd on his men, partly to keep any talk of a lucky strike out of the ears of the town until he could be more certain how much gold lay in this stretch of the creek. Monday promised to keep the secret until Slim could inform the mine’s backers.

  Then he examined the miners’ rifles and animals. He didn’t find the rifle he sought and the four mules that pulled their wagons when the miners went to town were gray and brown. Nobody reacted to the name Taggart, and no one showed any response to Kate’s drawing.

  Monday asked about the other mine, which Slim said was a more ambitious operation. Hard rock tunneling, with drilling and blasting going on, and a larger contingent of miners.

  “We can sometimes hear ’em blastin’ from over here. Reckon old Zeb Jones is gettin’ a mite piqued about now. They been lookin’ for gold, same as us, but all they been finding so far is copper. Hope they find some paydirt soon. Since they’re working up in them hills above us, any luck they have might just wash down here to our end of the rainbow.” He grinned and shook Monday’s hand. “We’ll see ya in town, Marshal, at the saloon or one of them dances the ladies hold to raise money for a church.”

  Monday followed wagon ruts up a winding road. As he crested the first hill, he saw, way off to his left, the wooden buildings and cooking smoke of Fort Fetterman. The mines were actually closer to the fort than they were to Warbonnet. Would he have to talk to every soldier, too?

  After cresting two more hills, Monday rounded a bend in the creek and stopped in amazement. The water flowed under a wide, flat arch. It looked like a piece broke off a mountain. Lightning didn’t shy away, and they rode through the opening, splashing up creek water as they did so. As he topped one last hill, Monday rode toward a mountain wall with a screen of a few trees. He began to hear clanging and banging. But when he got there, the mining camp looked deserted. Maybe they were all down in the mine.

  Boom! Lightning put his ears back and danced and trembled at the sound echoing off the rocks. Monday got him under control. He trotted Lightning forward, looking between the shacks for the mine opening.

  “Hey, dammit there! Get down. The second charge ain’t gone off yet!” Monday saw a group of men huddled by a stack of timbers. Taking their warning seriously, he spurred Lightning forward. He leaped out of the saddle, took Lightning by the reins, and put a calming hand on his nose. Just then, the ground shook and another blast went off. This time, he was close enough to see a shower of dirt, rock, and smoke only a hundred yards up the slope. Small rocks bounced down between the shacks, some banging off the roofs. Men stood up all around Monday.

  The man who’d called out turned to Monday. “Didn’t you hear the whistle we use to signal ‘fire in the hole,’ Mister? We even got that red flag flyin’ up there”—he waved an arm—“so folks can see we’re blastin’ up here. We’re gettin’ so used to it, I don’t think we can hear half what we used to.

  “Guess I’m prob’ly yellin’ at you a bit. I’m Zeb Jones. This here’s the La Prele Mine. Welcome to frustration, son.” He offered his callused hand and Monday took it.

  “I’m Sam Taggart,” he said, watching for a reaction. When he saw Zeb lean forward a little and turn his head, he said the name again, a little louder. “How many men work up here?”

  “Hmmpf. I got eighteen as eats our vittles. Dunno as I can say any more’n ten or twelve actually earn their keep.” He grinned. “Course, I been payin’ ’em in drips and drabs we earn from bringin’ out copper ore. Ain’t found no gold yet, but that’s what keeps most of ’em from runnin’ off.”

  “I’m the new marshal down in Warbonnet. Been visitin’ all the ranches, farms, and mines to see if anyone knows a man who got bushwhacked earlier this week farther up Box Elder Creek. Is this a good time for me to show this drawing to your men? Maybe somebody would recognize his face.” He brought out the drawing and showed it to Zeb, who concentrated on it, wrinkled his brow, and scratched his thin white hair.

  “Naw, ’fraid not,” he said. “Sorry. I meant I don’t know him. Didn’t mean you couldn’t talk to the men. Fact is, this is a good time. Every man jack of us will set to in order to clear the spoil from those blasts. Come on, I’ll introduce you around and you can wave that dog-eared paper under their noses.” Thanks to its having been crumpled the previous day and passed through many hands yesterday and today, it was starting to look a little ragged.

  The drawing was handed around and returned with no result—and no reactions to the name Taggart. Monday sighed and kicked a loose stone. He hadn’t seen any sudden shock of guilt in the faces on this trip, a reaction Kate told him was a real possibility. Here he saw more than a few hard-bitten men he wouldn’t want to see accost Kate on the
street. If they all descended on the Alamo Saloon at once, he was going to have his hands full, for a couple more weeks anyway.

  “Well, thanks, Zeb. Guess nobody recognized him. You got a herd of horses up here for this many men? I’m looking for a big black one.” He didn’t say why he was interested.

  “We got five horses and six mules, grays, browns, and one white to pull our wagons. Ore when we got it, and about half the men down to town, couple nights a week. Can’t all go down at once, of course. You never can tell. We might turn up somethin’ here worth protectin’.”

  Monday made his farewells, and the men went to move rocks and look over the spoil.

  Monday guided Lightning back down the track along the creek, mulling over his disappointment. Nothing to show for his efforts today but Aaron Weir’s spotting the rider on the big black horse some time ago. Yesterday’s results left him frustrated. He hadn’t been able to talk to all the hands at the X-Star, nor see any horses there. Bert Sundquist had been evasive about his jail time in Kansas. Vic Millbank had practically run him off his ranch. He was obviously protecting some secret there. Wearing a badge and being straightforward didn’t always work. Maybe he needed to become sneaky or be tougher on folks. Maybe both.

  He was so lost in thought, he almost didn’t notice when Lightning stopped just short of the stone arch in the stream. When he leaned a bit to urge the horse forward, a bullet struck the rock next to Monday’s head and showered him with stone chips. He leaped sideways out of the saddle, jerking his rifle from the scabbard as he hit the shallow water and splashed into the shelter of the arch. Lightning skittered sideways but stayed in cover.

  Bullets fell thick and fast around the archway. Monday levered a round into his rifle and fired at puffs of gunsmoke rising above the steep hillside back across the creek, then levered and fired, levered and fired. Too many shots coming at him for this to be just one man. These were rifles, but they sounded like Henrys and they were firing fast. Somewhere up there above him. At least two. He fired a few more times, more for effect than for hope of hitting anything.

  All at once, the firing ceased and Monday heard the clink of horseshoes as riders fled down the far side of the hill. Lightning, knee-deep in the creek, just looked at him as if to ask, Can we go now? The bushwhackers had picked a spot upstream from the arch, so all he’d have to do was collect Lightning and let the arch and the hillside block any more shots as they headed downstream. He wasn’t about to climb up there on foot to look for his attackers.

  What did this ambush mean? Two shooters with repeaters. Were they tied in some way to the lone killer with his special rifle or had Monday already made some enemies in the last two days? The hail of bullets was a sure sign he must have struck a nerve somewhere.

  Monday waded over to Lightning, took a long drink from his canteen, and refilled it. Who could have done this? He must have told a few people he’d be here today. The miners at the placer operation, certainly. Dan Weir. Had he told the Sundquists, Millbanks, or Oberdorfs? What about Red Tyler back at the X-Star? Maybe Monday had set himself up for this. Were these just bandits looking for easy prey? Claim jumpers?

  Monday hoisted himself back into the saddle. He reloaded, but kept the rifle out and rode warily down toward the Platte, stopping frequently to listen. He figured the best way to proceed was to give Lightning his head and trust his judgment. After all, the horse must have heard the bushwhackers lever their rifles before they fired those first shots.

  As he approached Sloan’s Ford an hour later, Monday was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of many horsemen coming toward the ford from the north bank. He reined in Lightning in the shade of a willow and held his rifle with both hands. This time, he’d be ready. Let them come.

  Chapter 13

  Thursday

  Warbonnet

  Kate dodged puddles and carried her clothes basket through Martha’s back door with one hand. A male detective wouldn’t have to do washing and ironing.

  “I thought you were gonna bring me the marshal’s laundry. You come back empty?”

  “I guess he traveled with even less clothing than I imagined. I found just a pair of socks and this threadbare long underwear. He doesn’t seem to have borrowed any clothes since he got here. Perhaps he took the rest of his ‘wardrobe’ with him to ride to the ranches.”

  “Hmmpf! Men don’t pay much heed to their clothes. I had to watch my Jack constantly to get him into clean clothes more than once a week. Say, that might do it. Come upstairs. You rode in with the marshal. You’d have a good idea whether any of Jack’s things would fit him.”

  Martha led the way to the attic. Together they hauled out a humpbacked trunk. Martha handed her shirt after shirt and a half-dozen pairs of trousers. They finally settled on three shirts and two pairs of trousers, some socks, and two more sets of underwear.

  “I’ll do what little laundry he had along with your things today. You take these items to his office. Has he got a bureau or something over there?”

  “No, not even a basket. But he has some shelves back in what must be the cell area. I’ll put the clean clothes there. If he’s at all like my brother, he’ll probably just throw his dirty clothes on the floor.” They shared a chuckle and compared other manly traits as Kate filled her basket.

  Kate went back up the street to the marshal’s office. She paused to admire her work, the portrait of Sam Taggart without his mustache. She should be doing something for the real marshal. Then she realized everything she was doing for Monday was actually for Taggart.

  She hoped they’d find out who killed the marshal soon, but this detecting wasn’t as straightforward as Poe made it seem for his sleuth Dupin. Nor was it anything like what she’d read in that British yellowback she’d loved, The Female Detective. She’d told Monday that book had given her enough confidence to try this adventure. If only she’d listened to her friend Anna Green and read those French policiers. But she’d never been good at French. She couldn’t concentrate on the story when she had to look up every fourth or fifth word.

  Kate shook off her sadness and went directly to the shelves in the back room of the jail. They were too shallow to hold folded laundry, so she rolled clean clothes and lined items up on the shelves. She’d have to tell Monday where these clothes came from and what happened to his own things.

  Back in the outer office, she looked at what Monday had inherited. No chair at the desk. She found Taggart’s pistol and holster in the desk, noticed a rifle in the wall rack, and checked the two lamps. Only the one on the desk had oil. She’d send Buxton to fix that. Monday would have to sweep the floor himself and wash his own windows, since she had so many more to keep clean over at the school.

  Monday’s lack of a chair made her think of the hardware store. She hadn’t been in there and needed an excuse to see if Ike Hauser or his clerk had been out of town Sunday and Monday. She crossed to the hardware store and went in.

  Ike Hauser and an older man were distributing nails from a half dozen kegs into small bins along one wall. The walls were decorated higher up with a few hammers and saws. The place smelled of freshly cut pine. A bench under the front window looked new.

  “Good morning, Miss Shaw,” Ike said. “’Fraid I can’t shake your hand right now. I’ve been sorting nails, and my hands smell like iron.” They looked reddish.

  “Good morning, Mayor Hauser. That’s all right. Much as we often shake hands back East, I don’t believe we need to follow that custom every time we meet.” She turned to the older man. “And good morning to you, too, sir.” The other man took his hat off, revealing a few strands of wispy gray hair. His muttonchop whiskers and mustache were the same color.

  “I’m Roy Butcher, Miss. Ike tells me you’re the new schoolteacher what came in by train just after I left Laramie. I saw you up at the funeral t’other day. I sure am sorry to have missed you in Laramie. I would’ve loved to ride you up here in the wagon, ’stead of you having to spend three days on a horse with the marshal.” H
e didn’t extend his hand either.

  “Yes, Mr. Butcher, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to ride up here together.” She’d seen this man drive the wagon containing Taggart’s coffin up to the cemetery Tuesday afternoon. Then a terrible thought occurred to her. “Did you meet the marshal while he was in Laramie? He told me he stopped there for nearly a week waiting on my train.”

  “I meant to meet him there, but I only went lookin’ when I was ready to pull out Friday morning. He was taking a bath. So I never laid eyes on him ’til just before the funeral.”

  Kate let out the breath she’d been holding. “I see you brought up more stock for Mr. Hauser. If you left early Friday, did you get up here Sunday evening, a day ahead of us?”

  “Well, actually, Miss Shaw,” said Ike. “Roy had wheel trouble about noon on Sunday and was delayed by carving and fitting himself a new spoke. He didn’t get in until noon the next day.”

  That set Kate’s heart racing. She’d finally found someone who’d been out of town during the time of the murder. He would have been at the Box Elder Creek campsite just a day before them. She fanned herself and tried to appear calm. “Did you have to spend an extra night on the trail?”

  “Yes, Miss. And it was a dry camp, too, ’bout twelve miles southeast of here. I’da rather broke that spoke back at Box Elder Creek, where there’s plenty of water. My breakdown was only about a half day from here and I had lots of dead wood to carve a new spoke from. Nothing I haven’t had to do before. Beats dickerin’ with Injuns. Had to do that a time or two.”

  Indians. Kate shivered. She wasn’t ready to meet Indians yet. She expressed her sympathy for Roy’s accident, but wondered whether Monday could tell if one of his wagon spokes had been re-made recently. Could she trust Bull Devoe enough to ask him? She’d better try to eliminate one other potential suspect this morning.

  “I trust you had a far less eventful Sunday, Mr. Mayor.”

  Ike admitted to sleeping late on Sunday and having his children and wife drag him to the hymn sing still unshaven and with his tie flapping. For Ike to have been at the camp on Box Elder Creek Sunday evening, he’d have had to leave town early that morning. Kate breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if Monday had a surfeit of suspects by this time.