Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  “Um, I really came in here on a bit of business this morning. I’ve just been to the marshal’s office. I see he has a desk, but nothing to sit on. Do you build furniture, Mr. Butcher?”

  “Yes, Miss. Nothing fancy by Eastern standards, but I could probably put some sort of stool together for you.” They agreed on a dollar for Roy’s effort and Kate paid Ike for the materials. Roy promised to deliver it as soon as the varnish was dry.

  “Thank you, Mr. Butcher. I hear good things about your workmanship. Have you always been a carpenter?” She hoped keeping the conversation alive might lead to some way to probe Roy about his delay out on the trail. To her dismay, he sniffed a bit and hung his head.

  “Well, I been workin’ wood more’n forty years now. Butcher and Sons were well known in Cincinnati ten years ago. But both my boys were killed in the war, Caleb at Chickamauga and Josh at Cold Harbor. These old hands,” he held up his palms. “They do the best they can. But I think how much better my boys could have done.” He turned away to recover his composure.

  Kate murmured her regrets. She’d wanted information from Roy but not to trigger such emotion on his part. She decided on a hasty retreat.

  “I’ll see you both tomorrow then. I have a school to clean today, and I’ve recruited the Hauser children to help me. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

  Roy wiped his face with his sleeve as she left. Kate stopped on the walk outside and caught her breath. Why did some of her questions open such wounds?

  She thought of killers and timing. What if the killer drove a wagon and managed to stay ahead of them all day after the murder? They wouldn’t have heard the wagon drive away if he’d left it at some distance and ran to it when they were busy with Sam Taggart’s body. Roy looked kindly and grandfatherly, but Kate noted that first Len Odom, and now Roy might have been out of town before the shooting. Did one of them have the big rifle? Why would either of them want to kill Sam Taggart? She’d have to tell Monday about this.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday

  Warbonnet

  In late afternoon, Monday rode wearily into town with a cavalry patrol. He’d encountered the clattering contingent of K Troop of the Second Cavalry back at the ford when they stopped to water their horses. The troopers had been nowhere near the ambush site and hadn’t even heard the shots. If the bushwhackers had got ahead of him and crossed at Sloan’s Ford before he got there, no telling where they went.

  He’d shown Kate’s drawing to the soldiers and watched for reactions to the name Taggart, again without luck. Members of this patrol had been at Fort Fetterman when the marshal was murdered three days ago. Monday hoped he wouldn’t have to show the drawing to every soldier at the fort.

  The troopers reined in at the Alamo Saloon. Lieutenant Beamish spoke quietly with Sergeant Wheeler for a moment, then rode north by himself toward the Platte crossing. Monday grinned. Probably headed for the Masterson place. The troopers entered the saloon but didn’t whoop like cowboys. Maybe they thought their officer was still close enough to hear.

  Monday paused at the jail. Kate had put up the other drawing of Sam Taggart, without the mustache. Despite his weariness, he’d like to see Kate this evening. He thought briefly about going into the office first, but knew Lightning was probably more tired than he was, so he walked the horse down to Fitch’s livery. Monday unsaddled his mount, gave him some water and a bag of oats, then rubbed him down and brushed him. Bull came in as he was finishing.

  “Evening, Marshal. You just get back? Have any luck?”

  “Can’t swear to it. Evening to you, too. Joe around?”

  “No, he had an invite to eat with the Crandalls. You got any plans? I got some leftover chicken I was planning on whittling down tonight. Some cornbread, too.”

  Monday gratefully accepted the offer and followed the big man to his shack on the hillside above the stable, about halfway up to the cemetery. He paused on the doorstep and looked back; the river and the whole town was spread out below him.

  “Nice view you got up here.”

  “Yeah, I got a good eye for prime land, I suppose. I don’t own nothing up here but this shack and the garden out back, though. Everything grows better with horse manure.” He grinned.

  Bull and Monday washed up from a bucket and fell to the chicken and cornbread. All through the meal, Monday felt his host was sizing him up. Maybe he was still suspicious about the story of how he’d acquired Lightning. Bull’s shack was the closest dwelling to the wagon trail south to Laramie. He could come and go that way without being seen. Still, Monday didn’t think he should question Bull about his whereabouts last Sunday and Monday while he was a guest at the man’s table. Better ask Joe tomorrow.

  After the meal, they shook hands on the front steps. Monday went back to the stable to collect his gear. Before he left, he looked at the other horses. Still no big black one.

  When he put down his saddlebag, unloaded his rifle, and placed it in the rack, Monday noticed something different. He checked the desk drawer. Sam Taggart’s pistol and holster still there. His bunk was neatly made, not like he left it. But where were his socks and the spare long johns he’d tossed on the floor? Not under the bunk. Someone had been in here.

  The door to the back room stood ajar. Monday lit the desk lamp and went into the back. There on two shallow shelves were extra trousers, shirts, socks, and underwear rolled neatly.

  Hmmm. Musta been a woman in here. He checked the dust on the floor. Too many footprints, but here and there were swirl marks that suggested a skirt. Kate or Mrs. Haskell. Score one more for the great tracker. Must be hand-me-downs from Jack Haskell. He’d have to remember to thank Martha. Monday sniffed his own shirt and decided to put on new trousers and shirt before going out. Fresh long johns and socks, too. He changed quickly.

  Rowdy laughter from across the street reminded him of a lawman’s duties. Town marshals were supposed to show themselves in saloons and make rounds of shops and houses to show the law was on duty. He drew his pistol and checked his loads, replacing two percussion caps that had fallen off some time in the last two days. He’d better remember to check them more often, if he wanted to live long enough to finish this little charade. Sure would like to talk to Kate tonight and compare what they’d found out. First, the saloon.

  Evening shadows had lengthened considerably by the time he stepped into the street. Here came Doc Gertz up from his office, puffing on his pipe. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Monday.

  “Well, Odysseus returns from his travels. Heading for the saloon? I generally have a little something after supper to aid my digestion. I’ll go with you.” As they walked, Doc said, “I got back this afternoon from tendin’ Bert Sundquist’s broken leg. That was good work you did up there, but I do wish you’d get a medical license if you’re going to so much of my work for me.”

  “What’s the verdict on him? How long ’til he can get around?”

  “About four to six weeks. I put a better splint on that leg and told Clara she’d best try to keep him off it for a couple weeks before he dares crutches. Said I’d want to see that leg again before he does any hobbling around.”

  Chet Stratman looked up from wiping glasses when Monday and Doc entered the saloon. As the pair made their way to a table in the back, Monday saw Sergeant Wheeler at a table writing a letter with a beer in front of him. The soldiers were playing cards and drinking beer. Maybe whiskey was against Army regulations, or against Sergeant Wheeler’s rules. Perhaps it cost too much.

  Chet brought over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Not for me, thanks,” said Monday. “I promised none of the hard stuff while I’m on duty. You got any beer left, Chet, or has the Army soaked it all up?”

  “I got some barrels just this morning. I’m full up for a while. I’ll draw you a cool one.”

  “Good old Chet,” Doc offered. “Damn fine citizen and a friendly ear, too.”

  “Never knew a barkeep who wasn’t,” Monday said, flopping his hat onto the table
and running his hand through his sweaty hair. “How long you lived here, Doc?”

  “Nobody’s lived in this town more’n two years. I been here about eighteen months. Got elected to the town council by default. I think they figured a doctor could read, and that was qualification enough.” Doc got out his pipe and fiddled with the makings.

  “This used to be Deer Creek Station, a stock station half way between Fort Fetterman and Fort Caspar. Before that, the Pony Express used to come through here. You probably noticed some telegraph poles, too. ’Course, the Indians burned a lot of poles and cut the line two years ago, when the Army pulled out of Fort Caspar.

  “Main line runs along the rails now, through Laramie and Cheyenne. The Army’s in no hurry to extend the wire from Fort Fetterman to Warbonnet. This used to be a stage relay station, too, but they don’t run through here now. It’d be good to get regular stage service.” He sipped a little whiskey before continuing.

  “We’ve grown a little since the town was founded in ’Sixty-eight, but I’ve seen nearly a dozen folks die in the last year and a half—counting the man you brought in—and I only delivered three babies in that time. Still too few women to keep me in the regular baby business. That’s why I’m grateful you brought young Miss Shaw up here safely, to add to our meager numbers.” He smiled and began to fill his pipe.

  Monday’s beer arrived, and he took a large grateful first swallow. “You figure she’ll be into the baby business soon, do you?”

  “Oh, in a year or two, I expect. First off, though, I reckon some of the smitten young men around here will bust each other up real good, fighting over her. Either way, she’ll be good for my business.”

  “If you don’t mind, Doc, I’d just as soon we don’t talk about Miss Kate in a saloon.”

  Doc lit his pipe, then looked at him seriously. “At my age, son, all a man can do for a woman is talk about her.” He grinned, sipped his whiskey, and smoothed his mustache.

  “What did you do before you came to Warbonnet?”

  “Well, I didn’t just finish medical school in ’Sixty-eight, if that’s what you mean. I’m at least as old as I look. Actually, I got my license in ’Forty-eight and headed out for the California gold fields after the first big strikes hit the papers. When I got to San Francisco and saw all the shooting and fighting that went on among the miners, I knew I’d found my calling. I’ve been right busy for the last twenty years. By comparison, this seems like a pretty peaceable town, sorta like retirement.” He lit his pipe and puffed contentedly.

  “Did you sit out the war in California?”

  Doc said nothing for a while. He held up his glass and contemplated it, but didn’t drink. He set it back down.

  “Wish to God I had. I got married to a right pretty gal in Frisco, but we went back East in late ’Sixty-one as news spread that the war wouldn’t be over quickly. Only made it as far as St. Louis. I signed up as an Army surgeon. Took off maybe a thousand legs, hundreds of arms, and assorted feet and hands by ‘Sixty-two. With Grant’s successes along the Mississippi, I got real busy and lost count of how much butchering I did the next two years.”

  He picked up his glass and drained it, then held it in both hands. Monday saw him watching the soldiers. The arms and legs he’d taken off had probably worn blue uniforms, too.

  “By early ’Sixty-five, the Mississippi theater was a backwater, and I had more sores, sprains, and other complaints to treat than wounds. Disease was our biggest killer then.”

  Doc poured himself a second glass. “One drink is medicinal, son. The second one is social. After that, what a man drinks is just to get himself intentionally codswalloped. Stick to your beer, Marshal.” He took a sip. They both looked up as a tall man in a black hat with blue shirt and trousers came in the front door, looked around, then went to an empty table over in the corner farthest from the door.

  “Who’s he, Doc?”

  “Not a patient, so I don’t know his name, but he’s one of them cowboys rides for the Logan outfit. Came here a few months ago.”

  Monday watched the man walk across the room. His boots were worn but well kept. No marks of spur straps on the insteps, unlike his own boots.

  After a while, Doc finished his second whiskey and stood to leave. “I see you’ve about killed that beer, or did it expire of old age? I’d buy you a round, and if that’s all you’re drinking, I’ll settle the tab with Chet and get him to send you another. Your social beer.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Monday stood up. “Maybe he’d bring it over there. I’d like to talk to that Logan man.” Doc picked up his hat and went to see Chet.

  Monday made his way past three tables of noisy soldiers. The tall man was smoking a cigar and watching the soldiers’ card games.

  “’Scuse me, Mister. I heard you work up at the X-Star Ranch. I met Red Tyler up your way yesterday morning. Mind if I join you?”

  The man blew out cigar smoke and indicated a chair where Monday could watch the room. “This would be a good seat, Marshal Taggart. Yeah, please join me.” Chet came over with another beer for Monday as he sat down.

  The tall man offered his hand. “I’m John Quincannon, and I ride for Mike Logan.” Monday appreciated Quincannon’s hard grip. The man had a small, neat beard and mustache, dark like his long, wavy hair. Monday released the hand. No rope calluses like his own.

  “Guess Tyler told you about my visit, and my name.” Monday was disappointed not to be able to gauge Quincannon’s reaction to the name Taggart.

  The man didn’t contradict him, but absently tapped ash off his cigar. Then he reached into a shirt pocket.

  “Cigar, Marshal?” he asked. They were easier to master than rolling his own cigarettes, so Monday accepted. Quincannon struck a match and held it for him. “Yes, Red did say you’d been by. Something about investigating a killing. Said you had a drawing.” He waved out the match, then picked up his glass and sipped a little whiskey.

  Monday took the drawing from his pocket and spread it out. Quincannon glanced at it.

  “Do you know who this man was?”

  “Malone was his name,” Monday said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “He was looking for work here or in Montana.”

  “Who did the drawing? Shows a mighty fine hand.”

  “Miss Shaw, the new schoolteacher. She did another one, too, of this man without his mustache, in case somebody might recognize him that way.”

  “Ahhh, that’s what you must have posted over in front of your office. I saw that as I rode in. Thought it might be a wanted dodger, but there’s no name nor reward numbers.”

  “Putting it up there was Miss Shaw’s idea. She thought it might help to have a drawing here in town while I was out riding. Red probably told you we saw this man shot from ambush Monday morning. About a day’s ride south of here, on our way up from Laramie. Upset Miss Shaw considerable.”

  “I can well imagine her distress. Sorry I can’t help you, but I never met this man.” Monday folded the drawing and put it away.

  “Thanks for looking, anyway. Red Tyler didn’t recognize him either.” They were both distracted by sudden bitter words from one table of soldiers. Heads turned in that direction.

  “Might be some need for a peace officer in here soon,” Quincannon said. “Hope you’re more experienced than your years would indicate.”

  “Thanks,” Monday said, shoving back his chair, so he could stand if he needed to. He recalled some advice from Sam Taggart. “I learned some things along the way. To count a man’s shots, to stay out of the light when you enter a place where somebody’s shooting, and to keep your gun hand out of sight if you ain’t filled it yet.”

  He watched as one trooper stood up and threw his cards at another. Sergeant Wheeler moved toward the young man, but the latter drew his pistol and waved it around the room. He fired a shot into the ceiling and swore at another soldier. He seemed a little unsteady, as if he’d had too many beers. Monday stood up silently, keeping his left shoulder toward the s
oldier. The soldier wobbled a little and fired a second shot upward.

  “I hope you also learned it’s all right to take your time in a gunfight, Marshal, just so long as you get off the first shot.” Quincannon pushed his chair back from the table and put his right hand down in his lap, out of sight.

  Monday drew his pistol, but kept it pointed down, along his right leg, and didn’t cock it yet. He moved quietly toward the young trooper, who fired a third shot into the ceiling and leveled the gun at another soldier.

  “Tom, you done cheated me for the last time.” He suddenly became aware of Monday standing nearby, left side toward him.

  “Who’re you, and what the hell do you want?”

  “Remember me? I’m the new marshal here. I rode in with you today. I want you to put that pistol away. You already damaged Mr. Stratman’s ceiling and he isn’t gonna like having to use his spittoons for rain buckets.” Monday spoke softly and didn’t move a muscle.

  The trooper swayed a bit. “Well, dammit, I’m glad to see the law step up here. I want you to throw that bastard in jail or by God, I’ll put him in the bone orchard!” His friends tried to get him to put the gun down, but he waved it around again and they backed off.

  “Son, you been a soldier long?”

  “’Bout a year. Why?”

  “When you go into a fight, you know it’s important to cock your pistol, don’t you?”

  The young soldier’s pistol was already cocked, but he’d forgotten that. When he looked down to see if it was cocked, Monday reached out his left hand and placed his forefinger under the boy’s hammer as he smoothly brought up his own pistol and cocked it under the soldier’s nose. The click sounded loud in the sudden silence.

  “Now, how ’bout you turn loose that gun, and we’ll see about Mr. Stratman’s damages?” The wind seemed to go out of the trooper, and he sagged against his chair. He let go of his pistol, and Monday held it around the middle. He released his own hammer and holstered his gun. Then he let the trooper’s weapon off cock and handed it to Sergeant Wheeler.