by Corba Sunman
‘Nothing yet, but it is early days. You seem concerned about Shorten.’
‘I am. He was due to deliver twenty remounts to the fort today. I’ve had lots of dealings with him over the past few years, and he’s always been straight with me. We need those remounts, and we need them now. That’s what concerns me.’
‘Send a detail from the fort to pick them up.’
‘I shall have to.’ Harmon turned away, and Moran saluted him.
Moran walked along the boardwalk. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Major Harmon going back the way he had come. Moran halted, and watched Harmon enter the hotel. After a few moments, Moran went in the same direction, entered the hotel, and strode into the restaurant. He saw Major Harmon seated at a table with a middle-aged man who was well dressed in good quality clothes and looked to be a man of business. Harmon saw Moran, and said something to his companion, who turned his head and studied Moran for some moments before resuming his meal. Harmon left the long room. Moran sat at a table by the door and waited for a waitress to approach him.
He ordered food, and ate hungrily when it arrived. He was aware that he was under close scrutiny by the man Harmon had spoken to, and when the waitress came to him with a plate of apple pie, Moran asked her the identity of the watching man. The girl looked around, frowning.
‘Do you mean the smartly dressed man?’ she asked.
Moran nodded.
‘That’s Bruno Reinhardt, the sutler at the fort. Don’t you know him?’
‘I arrived at the fort this morning,’ Moran replied. ‘I haven’t met anyone there except Major Harmon.’
Moran finished his meal, and sat considering the case. Nothing added up, but it was early days yet. He was about to get up and leave when Reinhardt arose from his table and came to the exit. He was tall and heavily built, but didn’t seem to be carrying much fat. He was wearing a light blue suit and a string tie. His face was smooth, his lips thin, a mere slash under his nose. His blue eyes were sharp and alert, like a horse trader’s. He paused beside Moran, who looked up at him. Reinhardt was smiling. He made a slight bow.
‘Please excuse me, Captain, I should like to introduce myself. I am Bruno Reinhardt, the sutler at the fort. Major Harmon told me you’re a military policeman, here to capture the deserter Clark. I hope you get him. He stole a quantity of merchandise from me before he deserted.’
‘I saw nothing about that in the summary of evidence, Mr Reinhardt. If you have a claim against Clark then see me at the fort and I’ll include it.’
‘Thank you, Captain. I’ll see you later.’ Reinhardt turned to leave but Moran spoke and stopped him.
‘Is there anything more you can tell me about Clark?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think he left the area after he deserted.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I thought I saw him here in town one night last week.’
‘Was it a definite sighting or could you have been mistaken?’
‘It was him all right. He was with another man, and when he spoke I recognized his voice.’
‘Did you report the sighting to Major Harmon?’
‘I try not to become involved with the daily working of the fort, Captain. But I’ve reported it to you now, and that should be sufficient.’
‘Can you tell me who the other man was? He could lead me to Clark.’
‘It was dark and I didn’t get a look at him. I wish now I had told the Major about it.’
‘And so do I! They might have caught Clark, and Bessemer might still be alive.’
‘I’m sorry about the sergeant. He was a fine soldier.’ Reinhardt lifted a forefinger to his hat and departed.
Moran sat for some moments, digesting the news about the sighting. He filed the fact away in the back of his mind as the waitress approached with the bill for his meal. He took the bill to the desk in the lobby where a young woman was seated, paid it and walked out to the street. When he paused to look around, he heard a sound like the crack of a bullwhip, and hurled himself off the sidewalk into the dust of the street. He had been shot at too many times in the past not to recognize the sound of a closely passing bullet, and his gun was in his hand as he looked around for gun smoke. The echoes of the shot faded slowly, hanging on the breeze, and no one on the street seemed to notice the disturbance.
A second shot was fired, and a spurt of dust sprang up a couple of inches from Moran’s left elbow. He judged that it was a long shot by the sound of the report, and he sprang up, turned and dashed into the doorway of the hotel before the gunman could reload. As he ducked into cover, a third shot sounded; a bullet ploughed into the woodwork surrounding the door and splinters flew.
Moran moved to the front window of the building and peered out cautiously, aware that the bullets could only have been fired from almost across the street. He listened to the fading echoes while his keen gaze swept the roofs of the buildings opposite, and he lifted his pistol when he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure peering around the wooden façade of the butcher’s shop. His finger tightened on the trigger but he held his fire – the figure had vanished.
He went outside the hotel and ran across the street; entered an alley to gain the back lot. He turned and scanned the rooftops again, and saw a figure carrying a rifle scrambling hurriedly along the apex of the roof of the bank. He ran along the back lot, content to follow the figure until it jumped onto a flat part of the roof, which was out of sight to Moran. He waited, but the figure did not reappear.
Moran continued to wait and moments fled by. He suddenly got the idea that the figure had reached his point of leaving the roof area. He ran along the nearest alley to the street and emerged beside the bank, his gun still in his hand. He went into the bank; saw a man dressed in a town suit standing beside an office door, conversing with a smaller man, and confronted them. Both men stared at him, their expressions changing when they saw the drawn gun in his hand.
‘Which of you is the banker?’ Moran demanded.
The smaller man pointed to his companion, who said, simultaneously, ‘I’m Henry Maxwell, the banker.’
‘Is there a way up to your roof from inside here?’ Moran said. ‘I was shot at by someone from up there.’
‘That’s impossible.’ Maxwell shook his head. He was short and fleshy, with a florid face and dark eyes. ‘The trap door leading to the roof is in the cupboard in my office and I’ve been here for the past hour. No one could get to the roof unnoticed.’
‘Can you prove that?’ Moran said.
‘Prove it?’ Anger showed in Maxwell’s face and he seemed to swell with indignation. ‘Who are you to come rushing in here waving a gun and demanding to search the bank?’
‘I’m Captain Moran, Military Provost. I’m in the area to investigate a deserter and various other crimes that have been committed by troops.’
‘I have a witness,’ Maxwell said. He glanced at his companion. ‘This is Vernon Mallory, the lawyer. He’s been in my office with me since I got back from my meal at the hotel. Perhaps you’ll take his word that no one has been up to our roof in the past hour.’
Moran looked at Mallory, smartly dressed and of handsome appearance; looking every inch a lawyer. His blue eyes were fearless as he gazed at Moran.
‘Mr Maxwell told you the truth, Captain,’ said Mallory as if he were standing in front of a judge in a courtroom. ‘You can take my word for that, and there’s no one in this town who would doubt anything I utter.’
‘I need to go onto your roof and check it out for myself,’ Moran said to Maxwell.
‘This way,’ Maxwell replied, and led the way into his office.
A desk was set beside the window overlooking the street and a large safe, as tall as a man and four times as wide, was set into the wall on the right, with a cupboard door on its left. Maxwell went to the cupboard and opened it. He motioned for Moran to enter.
‘There’s the ladder. Unbolt the trapdoor at the top. You can climb through the trap and get out on
the roof. Just don’t ask me to accompany you – I don’t have a head for heights.’
Moran entered and went swiftly up the ladder. He drew back a couple of iron bolts and threw the trap back on its hinges. It crashed back on the roof and Moran climbed the last few rungs and stepped out on to the roof. His gun covered the area as he turned to survey it, and he started in shock when he saw a man sitting on the roof just yards from where he stood.
‘Help me,’ the man called. ‘I was in the dress shop, which my wife owns, and heard feet thudding overhead. I came up to investigate, and my left foot plunged through a rotten piece of board. My right leg twisted awkwardly as I went down, and I think I’ve done some serious damage to it. The pain is pretty bad, and I can’t move.’
‘Have you got a gun on you?’ Moran demanded.
‘I never carry a gun.’
‘What would you have done if you’d found a man up here, one who had fired several shots at me as I emerged from the hotel?’
‘So there was someone up here. Can you get my leg out of this hole?’
Moran holstered his pistol and approached the man, took him under the arms, and lifted him. The man cried out in agony and motioned for Moran to desist. Moran noted that as he raised the man, the piece of wood that had broken under his weight was pulled up by the movement of the leg and had jammed itself against his boot. He lowered the man to his former position, snapped the piece of wood, and lifted the man again. The foot came out of the jagged hole without causing more trouble, and Moran sat the man on the roof.
‘Who are you and where did you come out on the roof?’ Moran asked. He noted that the man was ashen-faced; tall and heavy, and too old to be crawling around on a roof.
‘I’m Dan Archer. Like I said, my wife owns the dress shop.’
‘Did you see anyone up here?’
‘No. My foot went through the roof before I had time to look around. Can you get me down from here? I can’t use my right leg.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Moran went back to the trap door and called to Maxwell. ‘There’s a man up here. Says his name is Dan Archer. Do you know him?’
Maxwell was standing at the foot of the ladder, his face upturned to Moran. ‘Of course I know Dan. He owns the dress shop his wife runs. He’s also the town mayor. What’s he doing up there?’
‘We’ll get him down before asking questions,’ Moran replied. ‘Get a man to ascend the ladder and help me to get Archer down. He’s going to need a doctor. He’s done himself a serious injury.’
Maxwell called the teller, a younger man, who ascended the ladder until he was close to the trap door, and Moran eased Archer through the aperture. Between them they moved Archer to Maxwell’s office, and the teller was sent to fetch the town doctor.
Moran stood over Archer, studying the man, wondering if his explanation of events was true. He contained his impatience and waited for the doctor to arrive. But the town marshal put in an appearance, attracted by the shooting¸ and Moran stood back, aware that his time would come.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bowtell bullied Archer, but could not shake his story. When Bowtell suggested that Archer was telling lies, the town mayor became indignant and began to shout.
‘I don’t need this aggravation right now,’ he declared. ‘Get the hell out of here, Bowtell, and see me later. The only man I need to see right now is Doc Arnott. Where in hell has he got to? I’m suffering here. I want something to kill the pain.’
‘You’ve got no one to blame for what happened but yourself,’ said Maxwell unsympathetically. ‘You didn’t have to go climbing on my roof. I could have told you there was a rotten board up there but I didn’t think you would be fool enough to go up there and walk around.’
Bowtell took his leave when the doctor arrived, departing swiftly, as if he had just remembered something important which needed attention. Arnott examined Archer’s injuries, put a bandage on the lacerated flesh of the leg and then picked up his medical bag.
‘That’s all I can do for you here,’ Arnott said. ‘I’ll get some men to carry you over to my office.’
Moran grew impatient and left the bank. He walked to the dress shop and entered. A tall, slim woman of some thirty-five years emerged from a room at the back of the shop. She was smartly dressed, and looked out of place in a cow town like Cactusville. Her long black hair framed her face, and when she smiled it was as if the sun had come out unexpectedly on a rainy day. Her dark eyes gleamed as she regarded Moran.
‘I’m Corinne Archer. Do you need a new dress, Captain?’
Moran smiled. ‘It’s been a long time since I wore a dress,’ he replied. ‘That was in the days when I was a baby. Folks used to put a boy in a dress until he started running around. I’m here on a different matter, Mrs Archer. I’m Captain Slade Moran, military police, and I’m in this area to deal with soldiers who have broken the law. A few minutes ago I met your husband on the roof of the bank. He put his foot through a rotten board and injured his leg.’
‘I’ve been wondering where Dan had got to,’ she said. ‘We heard the sound of someone moving around on the roof, and Dan insisted on checking it out. Where is he now? Is he seriously hurt?’ She went to the door. ‘I must go to him.’
‘Not at the moment,’ Moran said. ‘He’s in the bank having his leg dressed by the doctor. Tell me about the noise up on the roof. Was it a man moving around?’
‘It was, and it’s not the first time I’ve heard those noises. They’ve been going on for weeks. At first I thought it was someone fixing the roof, but when I made enquiries, no one seemed to know anything about it. I complained to Dan several times. He put it down to my nerves and didn’t take me seriously. But he was here in the shop today and heard the noises too. That’s why he went up on the roof.’
‘He should have called the town marshal.’
‘That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t listen to me.’
Moran shrugged, as if to say that was how it was with men. He turned to leave, his mind filled with conjecture about a man on the roof of the bank. He stood on the sidewalk considering the problem. Had the man gone up to the roof merely to shoot at someone down at street level? And how had he disappeared so quickly? Archer had gone up to the roof as soon as he heard movements above his head, and Moran had not wasted time getting to the scene, but the unknown man had disappeared.
Moran went back to the bank. Maxwell was alone in his office, and he looked up impatiently from a ledger he was scrutinizing. He sighed heavily and threw down his pen.
‘What is it now, Captain?’ he demanded.
Moran advanced to the desk and stood over the banker. ‘I don’t like the tone in your voice, Maxwell,’ he said harshly. ‘It may be inconvenient for you to have people interfering with your daily life, but that’s the way it goes when the law has been broken. You may not know it but I have the power to enter any place in the course of my investigations and question anyone who might know something that might help me to ferret out the truth. What I want to do right now is go out on your roof again and take a closer look around. Have you any objection to that?’
‘No!’ Maxwell got hurriedly to his feet and came around the desk. ‘Please forgive my show of impatience. It’s been a bad day so far. Did you know that the bank was robbed this morning?’
‘I heard about it.’
‘Four men walked in just after opening time and cleaned out the big safe – and if that was not enough, you turned up saying a man was on my roof and had shot at you.’
‘That’s why I want to carry out another check up there.’ Moran followed Maxwell to the cupboard. He paused as he was about to pass the banker and gazed into the man’s eyes. ‘I have a feeling about this,’ he said. ‘Someone could be hiding up there permanently. His movements have been heard on more than one occasion lately.’
‘That’s preposterous! No one could hide up there. There’s nothing up there to hide in or under. We don’t store things up there because of the fire risk.’
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p; ‘I’ll soon find out.’ Moran began to climb the ladder. ‘I may not come back down this way so don’t worry if I do find something interesting up there and it leads me away.’
‘I can think of better things to do than crawl around a rooftop,’ Maxwell declared.
Moran went up the ladder to the trap door, opened it, and climbed out onto the roof. Looking around, he could see that Maxwell had told the truth about there being nothing lying around which could be used as cover. He walked around the area, watching where he placed his feet, and finished on the edge overlooking an alley. He judged the distance to the building across the alley to be about five feet.
He walked along the roof to the alley on the other side of the bank, tested it, and decided it was solid enough to take his weight on the run. Moving back in the direction of the trap, he started to run, and launched himself over the alley. He landed safely on the other side with a couple of feet to spare, and subjected the roof to a search, but soon changed his mind about searching. There was absolutely nothing on the roofs that could be used as cover.
He returned to the roof of the bank and gazed over the front edge at the street. His mind was busy. Questions arose from his subconscious mind, all clamouring to be answered. Who had taken shots at him? Someone who wanted him dead? But who knew him? And what had Dan Archer been doing on the roof of the bank?
Moran was getting a feeling that there was a set-up here in Cactusville which involved a faction of the community making a play for illegal profits. He decided to sit back and watch points. If his hunch was right then someone was certain to give himself away. He used his experience to gain headway, and had some leads to work on. First on his list was Shorten, whose actions at the horse ranch were highly suspect, and Sergeant Bessemer had died as a result. So there had to be connections between Shorten – and whom? Dan Archer? If Archer had not stepped on a piece of faulty board, no one would have known he had been on the roof. Had the town mayor fired the shots from up there? If so, where was his rifle? There had been no sign of a weapon when Moran found him. Had he thrown it off the roof when he became trapped by his leg?
