Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  “See if Mr. Stratman will take a couple dollars for the bullet holes, Sergeant. Think you can get this lad tucked in tonight up at Mastersons’ with no more fuss?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll have no more trouble from Private Ledbetter tonight. It’s nigh onto nine, close to bedtime for these boys. I reckon we’ll be on our way after they’ve drained off all the beer they’ve been taking on. Thanks for not shooting him.”

  Monday tipped his hat as the sergeant took the trooper over to see Chet. He saw Quincannon bring his empty right hand back up to the table.

  “A nice piece of work. Never shoot nobody you don’t have to.”

  Monday finished the quotation he’d learned from Taggart. “‘So pay attention to everybody who might want to kill you.’ Thanks for backing me up.” Maybe Quincannon had been a lawman once.

  The big man drained the last of his whiskey and stood up.

  “Seems like you know a trick or two. Do you know how to watch for the border roll?” Quincannon drew his pistol with his right hand and reversed it, holding out the butt to Monday.

  The marshal scooted his chair back, stood up, and, leaning to his right, squinted at Quincannon’s gun hand.

  “Yep, I can see your finger’s through the trigger guard, so’s you could—”

  Quincannon spun the pistol up into his hand, pointing it away from Monday’s midriff.

  “Ah, but you had to lean out of position and squint to see it. Harder if there’s distance between you and some rowdy cowboy.” He holstered his pistol with another spin and held out his hand.

  “Reckon I’ll be getting back to the ranch, Marshal. Hope to see you again.”

  “I reckon you will, Mr. Quincannon, if you get to town regular.” Monday shook hands with him.

  “Make it John. Do you go by Sam?” Monday nodded and let go of the big man’s hand. Quincannon went out the back door just as the troopers finished the last of their beer, gathered up their poker stakes, and sorted out their hats. Some went to the privy out back.

  Monday came out onto the boards in front of the saloon a few minutes later to watch the last troopers form a ragged column and move off after Sergeant Wheeler. When the dust cleared, he saw Kate standing in the shadows at his office across the street. He went over, tipping his hat.

  “I heard shooting. Someone said you were in there. I waited to be sure you were all right.”

  “Right as rain,” he said, drawing his gun. “Didn’t have to fire a shot. Still five pills in the wheel.” He put his pistol on half-cock and rolled the cylinder down his left sleeve until the hammer rested on the empty chamber. Then he let the hammer down and holstered the weapon.

  “Five? I thought everyone carried ‘six-shooters’.”

  “No, Miss, hardly anybody does. I seen too many men shoot off a toe, or a foot, or bleed to death from letting their hammer rest on a live round. I was taught never to load all six.”

  “Well, what if you needed six shots?”

  “Miss Kate, if I was ever to get in a position where I needed more than five rounds, I probably shouldn’t be there in the first place.”

  “I see you’re wearing some of the clothes I brought over from Martha. The sleeves seem a bit short, but otherwise they’re a good fit.”

  “Yes, Miss. Thank you, and please thank Mrs. Haskell for me. They still smell a bit like mothballs, though.” Kate leaned in and sniffed the shirt sleeve.

  “Well,” she said, suddenly more distant. “I’m glad to see you’ve come to no harm. We really do need to talk. I’ll call on you tomorrow, Marshal. Until then, good night.” She breezed away down the street toward Haskells’. Damn. For a minute there, he thought she might have been concerned for him, then she smelled his shirt and turned cold. Maybe he’d never understand women. He sniffed the shirt himself. It smelled of cigar smoke and spilled beer.

  He was about to go into his office, when he became aware of someone just to his left. Joe stood there quietly. Kate must have seen him. Maybe that was the reason she left so suddenly.

  “Glad to see you’re all right, Marshal. Anybody hurt overt’ the saloon?”

  “No, but I should’ve sent word to Doc that he didn’t need to respond to those shots.” Doc Gertz walked up the other side of the street with his shirt-tail out and braces hanging off him. Doctors, soldiers, and lawmen rush to the sound of guns. And this doctor’s an old warhorse.

  “Thanks for coming to check on me, Joe. I had supper with Bull tonight. Tell me, do you recollect what you and he were doing last Sunday and Monday?”

  Fitch scratched his head. “Well, Sunday morning, Bull had to go out on the trail west of town to repair a wagon. He stayed out all night and came back Monday afternoon to shoe some new Army horses from Fort Fetterman. Shoed the last of them yesterday and troops from the fort took ’em away yesterday evening. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just wondering what this town does on a Sunday. Guess I’ll find out for myself soon enough. Reckon I’ll turn in after I make my rounds a few more times. Night, Joe.”

  But Fitch didn’t move. “I seen you sniffin’ your shirt there, Marshal. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop none, but I saw Miss Shaw do the same. I know you’re just in off the trail. Martha Haskell don’t offer baths ’til tomorrow night, but I’m heatin’ water for Bull and me over at my place next to the livery. You interested? When was your last bath?”

  Monday thought of Kate’s promised visit tomorrow. Wouldn’t hurt to get cleaned up.

  “Oh, uh, ’bout a week ago in Laramie. Thanks, Joe. Reckon I will take you up on that offer. Let me get my soap and towel and I’ll come along after I walk my next round.”

  Monday stepped into the jail. He’d almost had to lock a man up tonight. Better get to work on that cell. Have to get the jail ready for whoever’s gonna be the real marshal around here. He collected his things and thought about Bull being out of town on Sunday and Monday and how to figure out whether Bull would’ve had reason to kill Sam Taggart. He was west of town, not south. He’d also have to find out where Bull was this afternoon when he’d been ambushed. Monday was sure there’d been at least two shooters at the rock arch. Kate was smarter than he was. Maybe she could figure this out.

  But not the ambush. He wouldn’t worry her about that.

  Chapter 15

  Friday

  Warbonnet

  Monday had the Mary Ellen dream again. He felt the burn of Lassiter’s bullet, saw Mary Ellen try to pull away from Lassiter, her mouth open and saying something. But there was no sound, not even gunshots. As he tumbled backward onto the dusty street, Monday could see Lassiter’s knife sink into Mary Ellen. Lassiter threw the knife down and aimed another shot at Monday.

  But the hammer always fell on that empty chamber. Lassiter stepped over Mary Ellen and mounted a horse tied across from the hotel. Monday half-rolled, half-crawled toward his sister. Sometimes in the dream he found his dropped pistol. As Lassiter moved to ride him down, Monday tried to fire one more shot as the horse jumped over him. But his gun was always empty, too, and Lassiter always rode away.

  At this point, the dream varied. Sometimes, Mary Ellen said something to him, but he could never hear the words. This time, she said nothing as she lay in his arms dying. She just looked at him, and her eyes didn’t close. The blood was bright on the front of her dress. He yelled at her to say something—not to go, not to go!

  Creak. Monday sat up quickly and remembered where he was. He drew the Colt from its holster on his bedpost, but it was only Kate standing in the doorway, one hand to her mouth, her eyes open wide.

  “Miss Kate, don’t you know a young lady shouldn’t enter a man’s bedroom without knocking?” He holstered the pistol, but made no move to get up.

  “I did knock. Twice. There was no answer. I thought perhaps you were already up and abroad, but then I heard you shouting. Who is Lassiter, and why were you telling him to stop?”

  “I was having a nightmare. You heard me? Nobody ever says nothin’ in my dream.”


  “I heard you calling Mary Ellen’s name, too. Are you reliving her murder in your dreams? How horrible.”

  Monday rubbed his eyes. “He He It comes on me sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes at daybreak. I ain’t had that dream in more than a month. How come you’re making a social call at this hour, anyway?”

  “Oh, I forgot. I left your breakfast on the porch. I told Martha Haskell. . . .” He couldn’t hear Kate until she stepped back in the door. “ . . . Thought it would be a perfect excuse for us to talk. I brought back your laundry.” A small basket over her wrist held his missing long johns and socks.

  Another mystery solved. But she was taking in how he’d thrown last night’s clothes on the floor. Guess he’d better chuck ‘em in the cell if he was going to have regular morning callers. Looked like Kate had been up a while. She was wearing her riding skirt and a checked blouse and looked clean and wonderful.

  “Thanks, Miss Kate. I could use a better breakfast than I make myself. If you’ll just turn around while I find my trousers. . . .”

  “Since I washed your drawers yesterday, Monday Malone, you won’t shock me if you stand up in them today.”

  “Suit yourself,” Monday said, calling her bluff. He stood up suddenly, and Kate gasped. But he kept the blanket wrapped around him. He picked his pants up off the floor and stalked back to the cell, closing the door with a bump. In a moment, he was back with his pants on. He tossed the blanket onto the bunk, pulled his braces up over his shoulders, and took the napkin off the breakfast tray. “Eggs, bacon, coffee—even toasted bread. Smells mighty nice, Miss Kate. You already eat?”

  “Yes, thank you. I hope the coffee’s still warm. I wanted to ask what you found out on your ride. And I can tell you some things.” She clasped both hands in front of her as she talked. Right hand over that scarred left, he noticed.

  “Maybe you’d like to fill me in while I eat. Then I’ll do some talking.”

  Kate told him about the suspects she’d identified, Len Odom and Roy Butcher. She’d cleared Doc and Ike Hauser, she said. Since they were on the town council, she didn’t see how they could be suspects. She returned to Odom.

  “I don’t like him, or his wife. He told me he watched the way you walk and how you call cans ‘airtights.’ He thinks you must have been a cowboy at one time. I don’t know whether he suspects the truth, but you’ll have to be careful around him.”

  “He can’t be our bushwhacker, can he? He wears them glasses.”

  “I’ve seen him twice with glasses on and once without, so I’m not certain he needs to wear them at all times. He told me he’d lived in Kansas. Ellsworth. It’s not a town Marshal Taggart mentioned. I still think the reason for the marshal’s murder must lie in his past somehow.”

  Monday finished his breakfast and downed the coffee. Really good. Generally, the prettier the gal, the worse her coffee. He wondered if Kate or Martha had made it.

  He held up his left hand and counted off on his fingers the four ranches he’d gone to on Tuesday and Wednesday and described the people he met. He mentioned Bert Sundquist’s reluctance to talk about being jailed in Kansas and told her about Vic Millbank’s hostility. He saw no reason to mention Becky Masterson. Best to hold that card close to his vest.

  “Hmmm. Basques, you say. I vaguely remember reading something about them, perhaps in school last year, but I can’t recall anything. Perhaps when my books get here—”

  “Books? How in blazes can we find anything about Marshal Taggart’s killing in a book?” Kate looked taken aback.

  “Sorry. Maybe we should just try something a little more direct and see what people in town know about Millbank and his hands. He’s a fairly new arrival.” He told her of his inability to meet all the hands at the X-Star, but said he’d made a good start with Quincannon last night.

  Monday held up his hand again and began counting off fingers for the Oberdorf and Weir farms, the placer mine and the La Prele. He didn’t tell her about the ambush. That would only scare her. Hell, it’d scared him. He finished up by counting the cavalry patrol on his thumb. He spent some time on little Aaron Weir’s story of the man on the big black horse.

  “What can that mean? Does our killer cross the Platte there? Does he live on the north side?”

  “Maybe. The Weirs can’t see Sloan’s Ford from their house. He could’ve turned east and gone to the mines, or on to Fort Fetterman, or rode back into town on the south bank and not used the ford at all.”

  Monday pulled on clean socks and stomped into his boots. “I checked up on Bull and Joe last night. Bull was supposed to be out west on the Trail seeing to some wagon that Sunday and he didn’t come back ’til Monday. But going west would rule him out. Whoever our killer is, he had to spend Sunday riding south and the next day riding back here, staying wide of us on that wagon track. Maybe you can try to pin down the length of time Len Odom was gone. I’ll be working with Bull and Roy on the jail. I’ll see if I can get any more outta them.”

  Kate told him Roy’s story about coming in from Laramie a half day late. In a wagon, like Bull. He didn’t see how anybody in a wagon could have killed the marshal and got back here before he and Kate arrived.

  He put on last night’s shirt and turned his back to tuck it in.

  “Reckon we both got some more folks to meet and questions to ask. Quincannon talked like Sam Taggart last night. He mighta been a lawman once. Maybe he’ll be some help. Sure hope the killer ain’t none of the folks I’ve met; I like nearly all of ’em, ’cept maybe Millbank and his men. What’ll you do today, Miss Kate?”

  “Well, I have to meet some of the mothers and my pupils at ten o’clock to wash the outside of our windows. I’ll write to Marshal Taggart’s wife Emma as soon as I can. Roy will make a run down to Laramie with mail on Tuesday. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to write a letter to the sheriff there and ask for some information from the county land records. Most people who buy land or take out business licenses back East register their deeds at the county seat, in this case Laramie. Those documents may show us who used to live in Kansas or Colorado.”

  “Both them letter ideas are right smart. When you write to Sheriff Boswell, act as if Marshal Taggart was saying it and you wrote it down for him. Taggart called him Nate; reckon we can, too.”

  As she went to the door with the tray, Monday cleared his throat.

  “Say, Miss Kate, I hear we don’t get a preacher here ’til next Sunday. If we can get Mrs. Haskell to put up some food for us, would you go on a picnic with me this Sunday afternoon? Doc has a nice little buggy.”

  To his delight, she beamed at him. “I’d like that very much. I’ll speak to Martha about chicken and some other things, if you see to the buggy. Shall we say noon?”

  Kate took the tray and laundry basket with her. As he appreciated her retreating form, Monday rubbed his chin. Ought not to put off shaving today. Maybe he ought to start shaving regular if he was going to be around pretty women like Kate and Becky.

  Monday gathered some more kindling and asked a boy he didn’t know to bring him a barrow of firewood.

  “Firewood? Mister, why don’t you do like the rest of us? The coal miners east of town, across Deer Creek,” he waved an arm. “They bring a wagon or two every week to the coal yard.”

  Coal? Monday always thought that was something only folks back East used. He went to his stove and heated water in the little coffee pot using the last of his kindling and tumbleweed. He put some of the warm water in a shaving basin, then added coffee to the pot. When he finished scraping his face, the coffee was ready. As he sipped, someone knocked at the door. Roy stuck his head in.

  “Mornin’, Marshal. Ike sent me over to see about helping you turn that back room into a cell.” Monday lit the desk lamp and they went into the dim back room.

  “Ideally, you’d oughta have two cells with a little space on this side in front of the doors.”

  “Yeah, ideally. But what will the town council pay for?”


  “Well, I reckon we could build these cells in steps. First thing, I’d put a window in the middle back here, set high. Town’d have to pay for bars in it. Bull could cut some iron outta that bar stock I bring him to make horseshoes.

  “Then at least you’d have a cell. When the town council’s ready to pay for more, I’d set your front bars and doors right about here. That would do you for a while again, but it’d still be just one big cell. Last expense, I figure, would be bars down the middle to split it into two cells. A wooden wall between would be cheaper, of course.”

  “Reckon I’d best get the council to let me have a bunk or two back here, as well.”

  “Good luck squeezing that out of ’em. Maybe somebody’d give ya a worn-out mattress.”

  Yeah, like my own, thought Monday.

  “Before I go cuttin’ a window in that perfectly good wall, guess we oughta see how many bars Bull would use and what it’d cost. I can get the window cut and framed today; Ike already said the council’d pay for that. Reckon we’d better get Bull’s advice before we bring Ike a bill for the ironmongery.”

  At least with a barred window, Monday felt the jail could be considered open for business. He figured he had to go through these motions like Sam Taggart would. He wouldn’t be around when Bull got to work on the second and third steps. But he wondered if he’d be missed or if he’d be thrown out of town when the truth became known. Guess he’d better catch that killer if he wanted a friendly send-off.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday

  The Mormon Cutoff

  Monday grumbled, but he supposed nursemaiding was part of a marshal’s job, too. A gray-bearded scout, Sean Finnegan, came into town an hour ago and told him about a wagon that broke down on the Mormon Cutoff between Warbonnet and Sloan’s Ford, the north side of the river. Monday took him to Bull, who saw to wagon troubles like a doctor making house calls. With Warbonnet nearly a day’s ride west of Fort Fetterman and nearly a day’s ride east of the ruins of old Fort Caspar, Bull got lots of business.