by Gary D. Svee
“What will Galt do now?”
“He’ll try to run, but it won’t be easy. I’ve got another deputy at the depot. So Galt will likely sneak out of town and wait for the milk train at one stop or another. I figure he’ll go east. I figure he’ll try to get at Catherine. I think he killed Frank so he could get to Catherine.”
The words blew over Mac like a cold wind.
The boy spoke in a whisper. “Before the inquest, he asked Sparks for Catherine’s address. He said he wanted to send her a letter saying how sorry he was about Frank.”
Thompson spat off the rock again. “I tried to talk her into staying, but she said she couldn’t spend the rest of her life seeing Frank in the eyes of the people she passed on the street.”
The Yellowstone County sheriff stirred in his chair. “I’m going inside and pray to God that Galt comes at me with that knife.”
The sheriff rose and gripped Mac’s shoulder. “You coming in?”
“No, I think I’ll go down and sit by the river for a while.”
“That’s good. You see him coming along the track, you let me know.”
The sheriff turned back as he reached the door. “Mac, knock three times before you come in so I’ll know it’s you.”
Mac nodded, the gesture lost to the growing darkness.
Jack Galt bustled around his shop, packing for his trip to Cincinnati. He would have to leave most of his tools. They were too heavy to take with him. He had his trunk packed and his knife. That was really all he needed—his knife.
Galt surveyed the shop, grinning a little as he looked at the dark stain on his floor where Frank Drinkwalter had fallen. Drinkwalter said it would stop here. The sheriff was right; it did stop here—for him. Galt laughed, an ugly, evil laugh.
Petty damn people thinking they could stop Jack Galt. Galt frowned. It looked bad when the Yellowstone County sheriff stepped into the courtroom. It looked real bad then, but the law had prevailed and Jack Galt had stepped free. There would be rumblings now in the bars about lynching Galt, but Thompson and his men would put a stop to that. That son of a bitch Thompson would protect Galt so he could make his getaway. Galt laughed at that joke, a high maniacal laugh that set the dog across the street to howling.
One of the doors to Galt’s smithy opened, and the blacksmith squinted into the night. “You can’t be here,” he gasped. “You’re d—”
The blow caught him in the belly, tossing him into the air. He twisted like a fish fighting the sting of a hook and fell belly first on the forge. The coals sizzled with pleasure as they ate into his flesh.
Mac stirred to the sound of voices outside in the kitchen. He lay a few more minutes on his cot. It must be daylight. The pantry was dark still, but there was a band of pale light under the door.
The boy rose, pulling on a pair of trousers and slipping into his shirt. He dropped to his knees then, fingers probing the floor for his socks and shoes. He tugged them on, fingers feeling for laces and pulling them snug. He pushed open the door and stepped toward the kitchen, stopping to take a deep breath before he stepped into the harsh electrical light.
Mary was by the sink, fussing with the coffeepot. Sheriff Thompson and Bert Edgar were at the table, hunched over and whispering to each other. Mac caught Bert’s words: “Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
Thompson looked up as Mac entered the room. “Galt’s dead, Mac.”
The boy braced himself against the back of one of the chairs.
“Dead?”
“As a doornail,” Bert said.
“How?”
“Don’t know. Charley … what did you say his name was, Bert?”
“Ismay. Charley Ismay.”
“Charley Ismay was bringing in some cream and eggs this morning. Said he smelled something burning at Galt’s place. He peeked in through the door. Galt was pitched over the forge. The top half of him was pretty well burnt up, but his head and legs were okay.”
“Looked like he was grinning,” Edgar said. “Looked like he had played a joke on somebody.”
Mac collapsed into a chair.
“Mort took him to the funeral chapel and put him on ice. Hell, he was still smoking when we slipped him in there.”
Mac gagged and ran for the front of the house, dropping to his knees on the edge of the porch and spewing the contents of his stomach on the prairie grass. When he returned to the table, his face was ashen.
“Maybe you’d best not listen to this, Mac.”
“No, I want to know.”
Mary set three cups of coffee on the table. Mac looked up at his mother. Never before had she offered him coffee. She nodded. “It might help settle your stomach.”
Bert continued. “Couldn’t find anything in there out of the order, just scuff marks where he …”
“You bring a buggy, Bert?”
“Yup.”
“Why don’t we go down there and take a look.”
Mary turned to face them. “Aren’t you going to have breakfast? I was just about to put some eggs on.”
“Might be better if we didn’t,” Thompson said.
Mac stood. “I want to go, too.”
“Mac, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ve got to go, Ma. I got to.”
Mary nodded, and the three rose and left the table, silent as wraiths.
A crowd had gathered at the smithy, some with handkerchiefs over their faces to kill the stench of burning flesh. Little circles had been rubbed in the dust that covered the windows, the crowd trying to peer into this mystery.
Thompson stepped down from the buggy, and the crowd parted.
“What do you figure happened, Sheriff?” one man called out from the back of the crowd.
“Don’t know yet. Haven’t had a chance to look around. Why don’t you all go home. Bert, here, will let you know what happened.”
Edgar had locked the main door to the smithy. He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked it, pulling open the double doors and sending a shaft of light into the building. A murmur sifted through the gathering, and they pushed toward the door.
Thompson said only “Bert” and nodded toward the crowd. Bert stepped back, whispering to little knots of people, telling them he would let them know as soon as he had any information. They were reluctant to go, mysteries being rare in Eagles Nest, Montana. Galt’s death would be hashed and rehashed for months to come.
The stench of death was even stronger inside the smithy, and Mac thought he might gag again, but he choked the reflex and forced himself to look at the forge. The fire had sapped Galt’s body of its fat and muscle and bone, but in return, Galt’s body had sapped the fire of heat, leaving a discernible outline across the coals. Thompson stared at the forge, seeking clues to the mystery, brushing a burnt piece of Galt’s shirt on the floor.
“Lying faceup or -down?” Thompson asked Bert.
“Facedown.”
“But his head was on the other side of the forge?”
“Yeah, it was burnt up to about the bottom of his neck.”
Thompson cocked his head. “Doesn’t make sense.”
The sheriff cradled his chin in one hand. “Bert, you’re about the same height as Galt was. Come over here for a minute.”
The sheriff took Bert by the shoulders, turning him this way and that. “See, that’s what I thought. If you slipped and fell into the fire, you’d be burned from the face down. You’d have to jump to put your head on the other side of the forge.”
“Guess so,” Bert replied.
“I suspect Galt wouldn’t have jumped across the forge and then lain there while the fire burned his guts out.”
“Maybe somebody pushed him.”
“But if they pushed him, he would have been burned, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have stayed on those hot coals. He’d be down at Doc’s now, being treated for burns, but he wouldn’t be dead.”
Mac’s voice poked into the conversation. “Maybe somebody hit him on the head and threw him on the fire.�
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Thompson nodded. “Maybe. Bert, you just stand there for a minute.”
Thompson walked around the forge, considering that possibility.
“Mac, I don’t think he was hit and thrown across. He was a heavy man. I could probably toss him across the fire, but there aren’t many others who could. They would have had to drag him across the coals.”
“Skin peeled off his face, Bert?”
“Nope.”
“If he was pulled across the fire, his face would have been burned, and look here, Mac.”
Thompson pointed to the floor beside the forge. “No coals were pushed out on this side. If his body was dragged across, you’d think that it would have pushed some coals. See what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“So he had to have jumped. But what in the hell would drive a man to jump across a forge? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he was sorry for what he had done,” Mac whispered.
“Nah, Galt didn’t have a conscience. He had that drummed out of him a long time ago, and even if God had given him a fresh batch of remorse, he wouldn’t have decided to do himself in by lying on a bed of hot coals.”
Thompson turned back to Bert. “He ever have any seizures that you know about?”
Bert shook his head. “Didn’t know much about him, though.”
Thompson turned to Mac. “He lived in the back room?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go back there, while I let this simmer in my head for a while.”
The three stepped into the lean-to, Thompson ducking his head under the low ceiling. “Not much here.”
Thompson shook his head. He sure was a neat son of a bitch. “Well, what do we have here?”
Thompson knelt before a trunk, knuckles turning white as he twisted off the lock that held it shut.
“Not much in here that I can see.”
Thompson pawed through the clothing, his fingers feeling along the bottom of the trunk.
“Well, look at this,” he said, more to himself than to Mac.
“What is it?”
“A little slip of leather. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s one on the other side, too. Yeah, here it is.”
The bottom yielded to Thompson’s strength, and he lifted it out, Galt’s carefully packed clothing cascading to the floor. “I’ll be damned.”
Inside was Galt’s killer knife, oiled blade gleaming in the soft light from the window. Inside, too, was a map.
Thompson spread the map on the table. He took one look at it, then backed away, turning to stare out the lean-to’s dusty window.
“Take a look at that.”
Mac stepped up to the table.
“See, Glendive and Billings are circled in red. A lot of other towns are circled in red. Eagles Nest isn’t circled, though. You know why, Mac?”
“No.”
“Because he didn’t kill any women here. He only circled cities where he killed a woman. I’d bet my life on it. You notice anything else about the map?”
“No.”
“It tracks him west. From Missouri north and west. Just a single line, ending in Billings. But there’s something out of place, Mac. Do you see it?”
Mac leaned over the table. The discrepancy was obvious. “Cincinnati. He circled Cincinnati.”
“Yeah, Mac. He was going after Catherine. No doubt about it.”
Thompson turned to Bert. “How about you go to those houses across the street and see if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. Mac and I will finish in here.”
Thompson folded the map and put it into his pocket. “Think I’ll check this out.” Then he pulled the knife from the trunk, carrying it with two fingers into the smithy. Thompson lifted one anvil, muscles straining with the weight, and placed it about six inches from another. He laid the knife across the chasm and picked up a hammer. The blow sent the fragments of the blade spinning off, cutting slices from the pale light in the room. Thompson picked up shards from the handle and threw them into the forge where they smoked for a moment and then burst into flame.
“Now, Mac, let’s see if we can figure out how this son of a bitch died. He wasn’t slugged and dragged across the fire. We know that. So he had to have been pushed, but how?”
Thompson stared at the coals glowing still with heat, and then he whispered, “He was shot, Mac. The shock of a rifle bullet would have thrown him across the forge. That’s got to be it.”
Thompson swiveled his head. “Most likely the bullet would have gone through him. Should be able to find a hole over there on the wall.”
The two spent most of the next ten minutes examining the wall opposite the smithy’s main door, seeking splintered wood where the bullet passed through.
Thompson stopped, hands on hips as his mind worked through the possibilities.
“Small bullet,” he muttered. “Small bullet at high velocity would have shoved him across the forge, but it might not have gone through the body. That’s got to be it.
“While Galt was cooking, the bullet dropped into the forge. But we won’t find it. Those high velocity bullets explode when they hit. Whatever else was left of it would have melted into the coals.”
Thompson took a poker from beside the forge and stirred through the coals where Galt’s body had been found.
“Small caliber. Something like that .25-35 Deak used to have.”
Thompson jerked upright. He turned to stare Mac full in the eye.
“Nothing there,” he said. “Guess we might as well call it quits. No one is ever going to find out what happened to Galt. You can bet your life on that, Mac.”
Thompson stared at the floor. “I should have killed him when I had the chance. All of this is my fault, Mac. Do you understand that? All of this is my fault.”
Mac sat on a rock beside the Yellowstone River. He was watching a cottonwood rolling in the current. The tree twisted and turned as though to free itself from the river’s grip, but the Yellowstone rolled on, carrying the tree with it.
It was a year since Frank Drinkwalter had been killed and Catherine Lang had moved back to Cincinnati. She had written to Mac and Mary over the year, trying to hide the pain she felt, but it had shone through her letters.
Now someone else was writing for Catherine. Her attorney, Murray Clavedatcher, had written to inform the McPhersons of Catherine’s “untimely passing.” Doctors were unable to determine the cause of her death, the letter said.
Mac stood. Catherine had died of a broken heart. He knew that. He didn’t know why the doctors didn’t. For some time he thought he might die of the same affliction. He walked toward home then, the letter rustling in his pocket.
He passed Nelly’s house. It was closed now, the people of Eagles Nest needed to find someone to blame for the tragedy, so they had sent the girls packing. One of the Jones boys had married Beulah. They had a hard time until all the preachers in town got together and unloaded two Sundays of Mary Magdalene sermons. The two had a baby on the way, and the town’s ladies had gotten together to do a shower for her.
Blackbirds had reclaimed the cattails in the swamp just west of the house. They chattered at Mac as he passed. “Intruder. Watch out for the two-legged intruder.”
Mac paused at the bridge over Keyser Creek. He turned then, walking north on the west bank above the stream. The sego lilies were there, nodding at him in the gentle breeze as though to welcome a good friend. He knelt at the flowers, remembering what Frank Drinkwalter had said that first day when they were sighting in their rifles.
“You’ll do, Mac. You’ll do.”
A tear fell from his eye into the gold center of the lily, shining there. Mac jerked back, not wanting to sully the flower.
After Mac had hit his first target dead center, the sheriff had said that Mac was a natural. Mac stood, shaking his head as though to free himself of that thought. He walked toward the west hill, walking into the sun until he reached the hill’s shadow.
He stepped up the sandst
one road then. It was a beautiful road, just as the sheriff had said it would be.
His mother was sitting on the porch, a swath of wool taking shape as a shirt. She smiled as Mac stepped on the porch.
Mac dropped his gaze, staring at his shoes as though he had never seen them before.
“I … her attorney … I …” Mac stood unable to speak. Mary jumped to her feet, her project falling to the floor.
“What, Mac? What happened?”
“Catherine died.”
Mary’s face twisted into disbelief. “No. No.”
“The doctor said he couldn’t determine the cause of death, but we know, don’t we, Ma.”
Mary wrapped her arms around her son. Her words squeezed between sobs. “Yes, we know, Mac. We know.”
When the shuddering stopped, Mac stepped back from his mother and handed her the letter. “She left us everything, Ma. It’s … college and … whatever else we want it to be. Why do you suppose she did that, Ma?”
Mary’s eyes widened as she looked at the letter. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Mac took his mother’s hand then and led her to the top of the rock beside their home. They sat down on the bench. The Yellowstone, muddied now with the spring runoff, ran through cottonwood trees adorned with the soft green leaves of spring, the soft green of the gown Catherine had been wearing when she had stepped off the train.
The Stillwater ran sparkling into the Yellowstone. What was it that Catherine had called it? The Silver River; she said she would have named it the Silver River, Mac thought of it as a string of diamonds, running into the string of emeralds that the Yellowstone would be later this summer.
Mary reached over and took Mac’s hand. “You don’t remember your father, do you?”
Mac shook his head. “Sometimes I think of something, but…”
“I hurt terribly when he left. I felt as though someone had pulled my heart from me. Do you know what that hurt is like, Mac?”
Mac nodded, turning his face away from his mother so she wouldn’t see his tears.
“Does it hurt so bad that you wish you’d never known Frank and Catherine?”
