Murder for Greenhorns

by Kresge, Robert

  The mashal figured taking Finnegan to see Bull would be the end of it. But the scout also reported some trouble out on the Cutoff—a murder done or about to happen.

  “Old Man Gunderson’s gunning for Ned Latrobe. Gunderson bought new wheels from Latrobe when he had a breakdown east of Ogallala a couple weeks ago. Now both wheels have come apart on him, and he’s fit to be tied. Latrobe’s about a day behind us. Gunderson’s been drinking and swearing to kill Ned.”

  The old scout had brought pieces of a ruined wheel with him. Bull laid them out on the ground like a jigsaw puzzle. He studied them for a few minutes, carefully measuring the hub in the center. Then he came back with two wheels, checked their centers against the one in pieces, and said, “You sure the other wheel has the same hub as this one?” Finnegan nodded.

  “All right. I’ll have to change one of these hubs some before I can make it fit Gunderson’s axle. Joe’ll hitch up the wagon so I can take these two wheels out there. I’ll get my tools and materials. Be about an hour ’til I’m ready.” He turned to Monday.

  “Why don’t you come with me, Marshal? I’ll take care of fixing the wheels, and you can have the easy job of keeping Mr. Gunderson from killing Mr. Latrobe.” He grinned.

  Monday went to get his rifle and fill a couple canteens. Finnegan declined to go along.

  “I had enough of drinkin’ water. The Alamo’s the last saloon for a long way.”

  Monday and Bull set out in late morning, crossed the Platte to the north side to pick up the Cutoff, then headed east. Bull managed the team, seeking less rutted ground. Monday sat next to him, holding on for dear life. A horse would have made for a gentler ride. After a while, Bull spoke up somberly, as if he regretted what he was going to say.

  “You know, I like you, Marshal. I hear good things about you from Doc and Joe and Miss Kate. But I’m worried about you. I seen how you ride that horse and how you walk, and I listen to you. The others ain’t too well acquainted with your way of talking, but you sound like some Texans I met when I was learning to be a wheelwright in Kansas City. Taggart wasn’t from Texas, as I recall Joe telling me.” So Taggart’s hiring had been no secret.

  Bull turned to look at Monday. “Joe likes you, and he believes in you. Joe’s more than a partner to me. He’s always made me feel like family. Marshal, I don’t think you are who you say. Whatever you’re playing at, I don’t want Joe to get hurt.”

  “I’m not playing at anything, Bull. I aim to do the job I was hired for.”

  “I seen the way you look at Miss Kate. Joe says you got a wife—Edna or something—back in Julesburg, but you sure don’t look at Miss Kate like you’re married. You look at her like a starving man looks at a steak. You may have her buffaloed and the council fooled, but I’ll bet you’re not the man they think they hired.” He stopped the wagon.

  “That’s what I wanted to say. You done steered a couple talks away from your age and your past, but there’s nobody out here to hear this. If I’m wrong, tell me so. Make me believe. But if I don’t, I’m fixin’ to thrash you good for fooling Joe the way you been doing.”

  Monday sighed and looked first at the mules, then back at Bull. Monday was seated on the left side of the wagon. His gun hand was closest to Bull, but the big man seemed to have no fear Monday would draw on him. Could he trust Bull? Could the black man account for the time he was away last Sunday and Monday? Monday pushed his hat back on his head.

  “All right, I’ll take a chance and tell you the story. Might as well get this team moving again. I ain’t gonna shoot you just because you figured out I ain’t been telling the whole truth.” They lurched into motion again, jouncing over a couple of ruts.

  “My real name’s Monday Malone, and you had me pegged right. I been a Texas cowboy all my life.” He told Bull how he came by his name, and of his leaving the Circle M at the end of this year’s trail drive to find work in Montana. Then he told the big man how he’d fallen in with Sam Taggart and Kate Shaw and about the murder at Box Elder Creek.

  “Miss Kate said she was gonna figure out who killed Marshal Taggart, no matter if I helped her or not. I couldn’t let her do something that dangerous all by herself. If the murderer’s still around, she’d be in danger just living here. So I agreed to become Taggart for a couple weeks. Miss Kate figured only the killer would know I ain’t the real marshal.” He paused and looked hard at Bull, who slowly smiled.

  “That what you think? Since I figured out you wasn’t really the marshal, maybe I could be this killer on the big black horse? If I was, reckon I’d kill you now, while we’re out here, just the two of us alone.”

  “That’s what I thought, Bull. If you was the killer, that’s what I figure you’d do.” They looked at each other without blinking for so long that they weren’t prepared when the wagon jolted hard over a rut. Monday fell back over the seat into the wagon bed. Bull lurched to the right and almost slipped off the seat. After some heated cussing, they figured somebody’d better watch where they were going.

  “So, OK. I ain’t your killer. The wagon I fixed that Sunday is long gone now, so I can’t prove I was out there. You’re just gonna have to take my word for it. I took a wheel out there and didn’t bring it back with me. But I can’t tell you any more now than I told you when you was Sam Taggart.”

  “I need you to keep calling me Taggart for another week or so, Bull. We’ll either find the killer by then, or he’ll kill me, or I’ll just admit who I really am and ride on. I promise not to hurt Joe or Doc or anybody else who’s trusted me. Well, not any more’n I have already.”

  “Hmmm. I can see why you’d need to pretend to be the marshal, so you could ask everybody questions. Guess I’ll have to keep quiet for a while. Have you figured out how to keep folks from minding Miss Kate’s part in all this?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t say I was already pretending to be Sam Taggart when I met her.”

  “I can see your problem there, too. You like Miss Kate and can’t let her know it or let anybody else know. Everybody can’t read you as plain as me.” He grinned again and slapped the team’s rumps with the reins. “Course, not everybody’s been lied to as often as a slave. Makes it easier to see through a lie when I hear one. So how come you left Texas in the first place?”

  Monday told him about the cattle drives and the Major’s worsening condition and eventual death last year. But Bull pressed him. Why hadn’t he married the sweetheart he’d mentioned, Mary Ellen? He explained to Bull how he’d been taken in by the Malones and she wasn’t really his sister.

  “I never told anyone the whole story. Folks in Texas know some of the story, but nobody knows it all.” He remembered waking from the dream yesterday and finding Kate there.

  “I told Kate that Mary Ellen and the Major had gone into town to go to church. That wasn’t true. They really went in to see the doctor. Mary Ellen thought she was gonna have a baby—our baby. We had to tell the Major. He wasn’t mad or nothing. He said Ma would have wanted us to get married, even if it was this way. They went into town to see how far along she was, and to see the preacher about setting a date.” He handed a canteen to Bull, taking the reins for a minute so the other man could drink.

  Monday told Bull the rest of the story and ended with facing Lassiter in the street. “He shot me and knifed Mary Ellen. She died. I didn’t.” Monday traded the reins for the canteen and drank.

  “If she hadn’t been carrying my baby, she and Pa wouldn’t have gone to town that day. Ever since then, I have this dream sometimes, and I try to do things different, so Mary Ellen doesn’t die. But I can’t ever change that happening. The only thing I can come up with after all this time is I probably should’ve stood more square to Lassiter when he shot me. That way, he’d have killed me clean, and I wouldn’ta had to see what he did to Mary Ellen.”

  Bull looked over at Monday. After a while the big black man spoke.

  “Lincoln set all us folks free. Weren’t any good jobs for us in North Carolina, so after my Ma
ma died, I went west in Sixty-six with a wagon train of black folks. Put down my first real roots in Kansas City.

  “Used this head and these arms to learn a trade. Made some money there, met Joe Fitch, and we come out here two years ago. Figured a place like this on the Oregon Trail would keep a blacksmith, a wheelwright, and a horse trader busy, maybe even prosperous. We been doing all right since the Army got the Sioux and Cheyenne to settle down some.”

  He pulled to a halt and stood up in the wagon. “Whoa. Looks like a couple wagons stopped up ahead, Marshal.”

  “Yeah,” Monday said, dipping his hat brim and shielding his eyes. “There’s folks walking about. Least one’s a woman. I can see a skirt. Let’s just go in easy-like. I’m gonna make sure my vest covers my badge, ’til I see how things are.”

  “You musta paid some attention to Sam Taggart while you were riding up from Laramie.” Bull grinned and slapped reins on rumps. “Come on, you two, get up. Got to go a little farther.”

  The people around the wagons seemed glad to see them. Two boys and a dog ran up. One wagon was in the middle of the trail, the other beside it a few feet away. The one in the ruts leaned toward the nearby Platte River. A bearded man with a long rifle came around the lopsided wagon and approached them. He held the rifle at the ready, rather than casually in one hand.

  “You there, you from town? That Warbonnet up ahead?”

  “Yes, sir, Sam Taggart’s my name, and this here’s—”

  “You ain’t the law, are you?” he said, bringing the rifle to his shoulder. “Sean Finnegan said he was gonna bring the law to keep me from drillin’ Ned Latrobe.”

  “Uh, no, sir. I’m, uh, I own the livery stable in town. Bull Devoe here, he does the blacksmithing and fixes wheels and axles.” He glanced at Bull, who probably didn’t favor being pulled into another lie, but that rifle was pointed right between them.

  “Yes, sir,” said Bull, looking down the rifle barrel. “Marshal didn’t come with us, but he won’t be far behind. We just come to fix your wheels. Get you back on the trail.”

  “All right, then,” the man said, lowering the rifle, but still eyeing them suspiciously. “Let’s get to it. But I’m in no hurry to get going. I aim to kill Ned Latrobe when he gets here later today or tomorrow. That son of a bitch.”

  Monday and Bull got down on opposite sides of the wagon. He looked across at Bull, who nodded. They each picked up a wheel and pulled it over the sides of the wagon. Monday had to set his down and roll it toward the other wagon, but Bull carried his in one massive hand.

  “I’ll get the pry bar from the wagon, Mr. Taggart,” Bull said. “That other wagon’s in a good position for us to get the lift we’ll need.” As Bull walked back to the wagon, Monday thought of a way to disarm Gunderson, but he’d have to wait for his chance.

  Bull set the pry bar down by Gunderson’s wagon. “Let’s set up a wagon tongue to get some extra lift. I’m sorry, sir. Didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t hand it to you. It’s Gunderson. You want to use the other wagon tongue? Might as well. I got half my goods unloaded to lighten the rear of my wagon.” They took the tongue around between the two wagons. Bull set it in place and dragged a trunk over to help with leverage.

  “All right, Mr. Taggart. If you and Mr. Gunderson’ll push down on the tongue now, I think you can lift the hub enough for me to slide this wheel on.” They moved into position. Gunderson set down his rifle. He and Monday pushed the tongue down and raised the wagon. Bull grunted with the wheel. “A little higher, please.” They pushed harder, then felt the new wheel take up the strain. “That’ll do.” Bull called. “I see it’s a good fit. I’ll get my spacers and chock it into place. It’ll make doing the other side much easier.”

  As Bull moved back to his wagon, Gunderson bent to pick up his rifle. It wasn’t where he’d leaned it. Monday was holding it now.

  “Sorry, Mr. Gunderson. Reckon you’ll have to put off shooting Mr. Latrobe for a while.” He pulled back his vest, showing his six-pointed star. “I’m the new marshal of Warbonnet. If you’ve got a quarrel, you can settle it with the help of our justice of the peace or wait ’til you get out of Albany County. Now I want to unload this here rifle. How do I do that without firing it?”

  “Damn you. Ned Latrobe cost me good money on those flimsy wheels, and I spent a whole extra day stuck here. I aim to have a piece of his hide or a piece of his wallet. Oh, there, you thumb that little thing to the side.”

  Monday did, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise at the bullet that ejected onto the ground. “Bull,” he called, picking it up, “hold on for a minute. Take a look at this.” He dropped the new bullet into Bull’s big hand, then fished in his vest pocket and held up a tarnished brass cartridge case. “Look what I found. Don’t this shell match Mr. Gunderson’s bullet?”

  Bull held up the cartridge and the shell at arm’s length and squinted from one to the other. Then he brought the base of each together to compare their diameters. “Looks like a match. But what’s that mean, Marshal? I don’t figure Mr. Gunderson here was a day’s ride south of town nearly a week ago.”

  “Damn right I wasn’t. A week ago, we were all at Fort Laramie. I got witnesses.”

  “No, I don’t reckon he did it either. But I reckon our man might’ve used a rifle just like this. What do you make of these, Bull?” He pointed to two small blocks on top of the rifle with little screws sticking out.

  “Looks like places you’d attach a long sight. I seen a couple buffalo guns with long sights and the tube touched the top of the barrel at two points like that.”

  Monday handed the empty rifle back. “Do me a favor, Mr. Gunderson. Don’t reload that. We got some work to do here to get you back on the trail. Let’s go do what Bull tells us to.” Monday took off his hat, walked back to their wagon and laid it on the seat. Then he stripped off his vest and unbuttoned his shirt. Bull stripped off his shirt and Gunderson grudgingly did the same. But Monday suddenly stiffened when he looked east just over Gunderson’s head.

  “Bull, from where you’re standing, you see a man on a horse up on top of that ridge?”

  Bull moved next to the wagon. “Where? Oh, up over there?” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “I think I see him. Wearing a white duster. Looks like he might be watching us. You think maybe it’s that Ned Latrobe?”

  Monday put his hat back on to shade his eyes. “I hope it is. It looks like somebody on a big black horse, but it’s hard to tell size and color from this distance. What do you think, quarter mile or closer to half?”

  “A half, easy,” contributed Gunderson. “Why does that man worry you, Marshal?”

  “I’m not—wait, see that?”

  “That flash?” asked Bull. “Is he using a sight of some kind?”

  “Maybe that special sight, Bull. He may be able to see us a whole lot clearer than we can see him.” As they watched, Monday noticed a little dancing light on the side of Gunderson’s wagon, like you’d sometimes see on a wall when you opened a pocket watch. Then the light shifted and settled on Bull’s chest. Must be afternoon sunlight reflecting from the gunsight. After a moment, the dancing light settled just below Monday’s chin, then moved on.

  The rider slowly turned his horse and rode away over the top of the ridge.

  “Damn!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’d like to follow him, but I didn’t bring my horse. Got nothing but your wagon.”

  “Well if he’s as good a shot as you make out, you shouldn’t try to catch him. I reckon I’d never see this wagon and team again. Why don’t you just mark where we are right now? Then you can come back here later. See if you can pick up his trail.”

  “Good idea.” Monday stepped around the wagon and found some fair-sized stones. Keeping his eye on where the rider had disappeared, he placed three stones on a nearby flat rock. Then he backed away from this little cairn, sighted carefully over the top rock, and placed another stack of stones at his feet. He’d marked t
he point of the rider’s disappearance from this spot. When he stepped back onto the trail, he stooped and tied a sheaf of tall buffalo grass into a knot, to help him find these cairns again.

  “There, that’ll do. Now I can find this place later. Let’s get Mr. Gunderson under way.” He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the wagon seat. But he wasn’t as calm inside as he tried to sound. That man could have killed him easily just now. Why hadn’t he? Was he waiting for fewer witnesses? Monday might find out when he came back here tomorrow.

  Chapter 17

  Saturday

  Warbonnet

  Kate stopped thinking about the next step in her investigation. She blew back a stray tendril of hair and concentrated on rolling a uniform pie crust. Her mother had taught her how to do this. Martha’s recipe looked just like her mother’s. Sally worked on fillings next to her.

  “Mama says if it sticks to the rolling pin like that, you should use a pinch more flour.”

  “That’s what my mother said, too. You’ve seen me use pinch after pinch. There must be an entire fistful of extra flour out here now—not counting what I’ve put on my apron, and on the floor and my shoes.” The kitchen floor resembled a snowy Buffalo winter.

  Kate almost swore as bits of the crust came up with the rolling pin yet again. But Sally was watching her and she was determined to make this work. The first three pies were flawless, waiting to be baked. She wanted a pie for the picnic with Monday tomorrow, and she needed to finish the ones Martha would serve for Sunday supper as well. Sally had helped her pinch the rims of the crusts. She’d done a better job with her smaller fingers. The only awkward moment came when Sally asked about the scar on Kate’s hand.