“It happened when I was younger. I did something foolish and that mark is the result.”
“Did a boy do it to you? Buxton tripped me once and I have a scar on my knee.”
“Not exactly. I did it to myself. I really don’t want to talk about it. I haven’t even discussed it with your mother.” Sally went for a broom to clean up the flour around Kate’s feet.
“Discussed what?” Martha asked as she came in with shelled lima beans and dropped them into a pot. “You should probably discuss tomorrow with me, Kate, while Sally’s gone for a moment. I can’t believe the marshal asked you to a picnic. And I can’t believe you accepted. He’s a married man. Think of what Jane Odom will say, and what others will say, fathers and mothers you’ve already met and some who don’t know you yet. They’ll form opinions of your character by what people say in the next few days.”
“I hadn’t thought, . . .” Kate began. And that was the trouble. She hadn’t thought. She was so anxious to talk to Monday, to share theories and findings, to see whether they could unmask the murderer and get justice for Sam Taggart and for his widow. She hadn’t remembered that the marshal was supposed to be married. Then she suddenly brightened.
“Martha, what if I took chaperones along? You’ve said you wished someone would take the children for an outing and give you a quiet afternoon some time. How about if I take Buxton and Sally for a picnic and the marshal just comes along to handle the buggy and protect us from Indians?” She was proud of her solution and her eyes shone.
Martha looked skeptical, but she was obviously thinking of an entire afternoon without the children.
“All right, Kate, you win. That would suit me. I know it will please the children. And I guess it will satisfy you. What about the marshal?”
“Oh, Marshal Taggart loves the children. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” He might be less than delighted. She needed to see him today or leave him a note.
Together, Kate and Sally struggled through the last pie. When she was sure the fire in the oven was just right, they placed all four on baking sheets. She untied her flour-covered apron and took it to the back door, where she shook it into the high plains wind that snapped the clothes on the line. Then she went to sit in the parlor where she could see the big clock on the mantelpiece.
Kate saw writing paper on the desk and had a sudden inspiration. She could write her letter to Emma Taggart while she waited for the pies. She gathered paper and an envelope, opened the ink bottle and thought about her opening sentences.
“Dear Mrs. Taggart, you don’t know me, but as the new school teacher here in
Warbonnet, I had the privilege of riding with your husband and another man from Laramie to Warbonnet last week. I regret to inform you, however, that your husband was. . . .”
She thought for a moment.
“Shot from ambush while protecting me, when we were only a day’s ride from the end of our journey.”
This was harder than she thought it would be. Perhaps the toughest letter she ever had to write.
“Although I’m a doctor’s daughter, I could do nothing for him. He died without regaining. . . .”
Consciousness? No. She ought to curb her tendency to use big words.
“Without regaining his senses. I’m dreadfully sorry to have to break this news to you, since I came to like and admire your husband in the short time I knew him.”
That was good. And true.
“The people here in Warbonnet send you their sincere sympathy. Through the efforts of the town council, an investigation is underway into this cowardly crime, and I feel certain the murderer will be apprehended shortly and justice will be meted out.”
Hmmm. Big words again.
“We held a funeral for Marshal Taggart on Tuesday last. He’s buried here in a lovely spot just above town, with a wide view of the Platte River and the town he came to defend. We have his things here, along with his horse. If you’ll inform me of how you wish them sent to you, I can dispatch them with our mail and freight some time in August.
“I have enclosed the unfinished letter he was writing to you, knowing you will cherish its sentiments. Please feel free to contact me whenever you wish. I remain your friend, as much as I was Marshal Taggart’s.
“Yours sincerely,
“Katherine Shaw.”
She glanced at the time, capped the ink, and carried the letter up to put in her reticule. It would be safe in her handbag from prying eyes until the freight wagon left on Tuesday.
Kate and Sally checked the pies, pulled two of them out, and set them to cool. They sang some songs while they waited a few extra minutes on the last two pies, then put them all up on high shelves, as safe as possible from Buxton and his “gang.” While Sally took first watch as “pie guard,” Kate went over to Hauser’s store.
It was nearly noon when Kate picked up the completed stool. Kate got Roy to talk about his Ohio background and wormed out of him that the Hausers had lived the last few years in Iowa. Neither Roy nor the Hausers had ever lived in Kansas or Colorado. She still couldn’t prove Roy definitely hadn’t ambushed Sam Taggart.
After she left the stool in the jail, she saw three men ride in from the direction of the Platte River crossing and head for the saloon hitching rail. As they passed, the younger two stared at her in open-mouthed admiration. The older man, who sported a black mustache and wore a frock coat and tie, ran his eyes over her briefly, then tipped his hat. She could feel the eyes of the other two burning into her back and hear their gruff laughter as she made her way more quickly to the bank. Not so quickly as to make her skirt swish, however.
As she came out of the bank, Kate heard a piano next door, what Martha had indicated was the Crandalls’ house. She had an invitation to supper there tonight. She stopped to listen and smiled when she heard a student playing. After a moment, a firmer, surer hand began to play the same piece. When the second player stumbled badly on a couple notes, Kate bit her lip, went up and knocked.
She recognized Joey Crandall when he answered the door. He looked back over his shoulder and shouted, “It’s Miss Shaw.” Joey stepped back and Kate followed him to the parlor.
There she found Mrs. Crandall and Jeanie sitting on the bench of a plain black upright. Jeanie looked up from her keys. Mrs. Crandall was peering at the score through thick glasses. She took them off, abandoned her squint, and stood up to greet Kate.
She was a pretty woman in her late thirties, with a little white hair beginning to show in her reddish locks. They shook hands.
“Jean and Joseph have told me so much about you. I’m Elizabeth Crandall, but you ought to call me Liza.”
“And I may be Katherine to my mother when she’s angry, but my friends call me Kate. I’ve enjoyed meeting your children, and I’m so glad to meet you at last, Liza. I was drawn by the sound of the piano. I didn’t know there was one in town.”
“Well, it isn’t used as much as it was a year ago. I’m afraid my eyesight is failing me and I haven’t been able to keep up with the lessons I offered before. It’s all I can do to play at church services and dances. I was hoping to train Jean to take my place. I have to stick now to the few dozen arrangements I’ve memorized. Do you play, Kate?”
“Some, but I haven’t touched keys since I left home. My mother thought I should offer lessons in Wyoming, to augment my salary. Are you the only teacher in town?”
“Yes, and this is still the only piano. Chet Stratman would like it for his saloon. He knows my eyes are giving out. He’d like to get it at a bargain price. It would be so good if you could teach piano some afternoons and evenings. I used to have four pupils.”
“Well, I’ll think about that, but I’d have to practice a bit myself. I’ve never taught piano, but I remember some of the lessons my mother used.”
“I have to be honest with you. That’s not the only obligation that would come with this piano. We’d also need you to play for the church service once a month, for the weekly hymn sings, and for the dan
ces we use as fund raisers on the Saturday nights when Reverend Barnes is here. We have two good fiddlers and an occasional accordionist, but it would be so helpful to have someone to trade off with when my eyes get tired.”
“I could probably do that. I’ve been turning pages for my mother for as long as I can remember. I’ll likely know many of the hymns you use, and some dance tunes.”
“Wonderful. All this settled before you come for supper tonight. Come sit in back with me and have some lemonade. Jean, dear, go ahead and practice your scales. I’ll have Joseph bring you some lemonade in about ten minutes.”
After the children’s lesson, Kate and Liza talked a while longer. Kate learned the Crandalls had come from San Francisco. No Kansas or Colorado connection in this family. When Liza took their glasses to the kitchen, Kate noticed a wall clock. She should be getting back to relieve Sally and see if the pies had withstood Buxton’s depredations. There was a little plaque on the clock. It had been presented to Noah C. Randall by the board of the Maritime Property and Shipping Insurance Company in San Francisco in 1866.
Randall? Kate couldn’t have misunderstood the name. Her acceptance letter and the class roster said Crandall. Did the engraver get it wrong? Or had the family changed their name for some reason? She’d never questioned whether Noah, the man who’d signed her and Taggart’s hiring letters, might have some reason to kill the marshal. She’d have to see if she could find anything out at supper this evening. If someone wanted to change his name, she guessed it would be easiest if he only changed it slightly.
Chapter 18
Sunday
Warbonnet
Kate woke up in darkness. Something was wrong.
Gunshots! Three or four more in rapid succession. She found a pair of slippers, grabbed a robe, and dashed into the hallway. Martha was going into Sally’s room. Buxton’s door was open, but Kate couldn’t see him. She hurried down the stairs and noted that the mantle clock said nearly two. She hurried out the front door and looked up the street. There was a big commotion in front of the saloon, loud voices, the whinnying of horses. Monday! She ran.
She came upon Buxton first. He’d climbed on a hitching rail and was holding onto a porch beam at Hauser’s store in order to look over heads in front of him. Kate helped him down.
“What are you doing here? Your mother will be beside herself.”
“Aw, I’m all right, Miss Kate. The last time there was gunfire at the saloon, Ma wouldn’t let me come. The shooting’s over. I just want to see what happened. I hope the marshal didn’t get hurt.”
Me, too, Kate thought.
Here came Monday now. She pulled her flimsy robe more tightly around her.
“Miss Kate, what are you doing up here?” Monday was barefoot, dressed only in long underwear and trousers, pistol in hand.
“I followed Buxton. We heard shooting. What happened? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, no harm to me. Probably some cowboys or miners letting off steam. The shots hit the jail, though, so I reckon I was somewhere near the line of fire. Whoever they were, I heard ’em ride off before I could get to the door. Had to put on my pants.” He grinned.
She meant to ask about damage to the jail, but Martha came up.
“There you are. What are you doing up here, Buxton? Shootings and saloons are no place for a son of mine.”
“He’s all right, Martha. I came out when I heard the shooting and saw him run up the street. I followed him and we stopped here. The marshal tells me no one was hurt, so there’s nothing upsetting to see. He didn’t get any closer than here at the hardware store.”
Martha whacked Buxton on the seat of his nightshirt to move him along home, loud enough so that others knew he wasn’t getting off scot-free.
Kate figured she’d better go back to bed, too. Plenty of time to ask about damage in the morning. She hadn’t seen Monday all day, hadn’t told him about the children going on the picnic. She tried to say something, but he was talking to Chet Stratman. She only had time for a quick “See you tomorrow.”
As Kate approached Martha’s alone, she noticed the open front door of the schoolhouse. There was no lock, but she kept the door closed. Who knew what creatures might wander in?
She was sure she’d latched the door securely. The attack on the jail must be making her jumpy. All the same, she looked around. No one else on the street. She stepped onto the porch cautiously and pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked.
Kate called out quietly, just in case. No answer and no sudden scurrying. In the wan moonlight, she could see a snake on the floor not three steps in front of her. She gasped and bit her fist.
But the snake didn’t move. One end looked bigger than it should have, so she summoned her courage and stepped forward.
It was the rope from the bell in the little steeple just inside the front door. She picked it up. It was a lot of rope. What was it doing on the floor? One end had been cut. She craned her neck to see the bell above her. Someone had cut this rope about eight feet from the floor. Who could have done it? If it was a prank, not even two boys on each other’s shoulders could have done that. A cold prickle moved up her spine. She tossed the rope aside. She’d have to stand on a bench and knot it tomorrow. She yawned. Later today.
As Kate turned to leave, a cloud moved away from the moon and she saw something at the front of the room that raised goosebumps. What looked like puddles of blood on the floor below the blackboard. She forced herself to walk closer, heartbeat hammering in her ears.
Not blood. The dark bits were too sharp and angular. She bent to touch one, then picked it up. A jagged piece of slate, like a big flake, nearly as large as a saucer. What now?
Then she saw it, only a foot from her nose. Someone had taken a hammer to the blackboard and cracked it in several places. And he—or they—hadn’t picked just any place to do it. She recognized fragments of a drawing of her that the children had chalked up yesterday. The face wasn’t recognizable any more.
Kate ran her fingers over the cracks. At least one hammer, maybe two. Who would do such a thing? A big piece of slate like this was so hard to come by out here. This couldn’t be a childish prank either. Even Jane Odom wouldn’t stoop to this. Was someone sending her a message? Someone who was upset at her part in the investigation?
She didn’t want anyone to make that connection when the hymn sing was held here in the morning. She picked up the pieces and brushed away the remains of her picture with a rag. Should she tell Monday?
* * * * *
There was plenty to do on a Sunday morning, Kate found, even with no preacher this week. It took a lot of preparation for the hymn sing each Sunday. She watched Joe, Bull, and Monday bring Liza’s piano down to the school in a wagon and unload it carefully. Kate played, and nearly everyone chose a favorite hymn. To her relief, no one asked for “Amazing Grace.” After the singing, Monday went with the others to return the piano. Kate still hadn’t been able to speak to him privately. She went to get Sally, Buxton, and the food ready.
A little after noon, Monday pulled up to the boarding house in a one-horse rig. For some reason, he had Lightning tied to the rear of the buggy. As he came up the front walk, Kate stepped down and handed him a large basket.
“We need to talk a moment, Monday. I haven’t had a chance to speak with you since Friday. Plans have changed. We won’t be alone after all. I had to—” She broke off as Buxton dashed out the door and leaped past the porch steps to the ground.
“Gee, Marshal, thanks for letting me and Sally go on this picnic, too. I see you brung your horse. Can I maybe ride him later?”
Monday seemed stunned. Kate went on quickly, “Mrs. Haskell felt that it would be best for my reputation—and yours as a married man—if we took the children with us.”
“Married man,” Monday said in a low voice. “That’s right. Emma. Mrs. Haskell’s probably right. We’ll need these young folks with us to keep people from talking.”
Sally skipped down the steps. Mon
day helped her to the left side of the seat, pointed Buxton to the center, and helped Kate up into the right side.
“You did say you’d driven a rig before, Miss Kate?”
“Actually, a buggy a little smaller than this, what we in the East call a dog cart. I haven’t handled a team yet; perhaps I shall graduate to that.” She was enjoying this. Like playing a role in front of an audience of two. Monday handed her the reins and went to the rear for his horse.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
“I had in mind Sloan’s Ford, Miss Kate. We’ll head east on the Mormon Cutoff on the north side of the river. That be all right with you? It’s shallow at the ford and there’s a good gravel bar where these young folks can play. Some willows and cottonwoods for shade, too.”
It took nearly two hours at a slow pace. Monday showed Kate where to drive to avoid the worst ruts. They could have taken the Oregon Trail on the south side, but he appeared to have some reason for taking this route. If they were careful, they found they could talk around some subjects in front of the children. He rode to the right of the buggy, near her.
“Was there any damage to the jail last night?”
“Not as much damage as there was to your drawing. Whoever ventilated the jail put two bullets into your picture. Right through the eyes. It was real good shooting, since they only had a little light from the saloon across the street.”
“Oh, how awful! They? Why they? Who do you think could have done such a thing?” The killer? But then why more than one?
“I thought maybe it mighta been our killer, but this was pistol work, not rifle fire. I figure more than one shooter, from the number of shots and the hoofbeats of more than one horse right after. Plenty of folks in town on a Saturday night.” He tilted his hat back on his head and sighed.
“There was miners from both camps, off-duty soldiers from Fort Fetterman, a couple hands from the X-Star Ranch, and that mean Old Man Gunderson I met yesterday. I went to bed about one-thirty. Chet Stratman couldn’t recollect who left just before the shooting, but he reckoned everybody emptied out of the place to see what the commotion was. I couldn’t talk to everybody, so I guess whoever did it got away with it, at least for now.”
Murder for Greenhorns Page 16
