by John Hansen
Josh did not let on that he’d detected the bald man’s mistake, but it was becoming rapidly apparent that the bald man had realized his error too late—much like a coyote steps into a steel trap and hears the snap but hasn’t felt the full impact of the pain. He was caught.
“If ya’ll hear of anything that might help me,” said Josh calmly, “I’ll be stayin’ at the hotel just down the street.”
The bald man barely parted his lips and took a deep breath to calm himself before speaking. “Sure, Deputy, I’ll let you know if anything turns up here.”
“Much obliged,” replied Josh, and then turning he walked out. He was reasonably certain that the wheels had been set in motion by his visit. He could’ve called the bald man on his mention of “two fellars” but he didn’t want him to wiggle out of it on the spot. It’d be better, thought Josh, to let this mistake work on the bald man and see if that didn’t lead to an even bigger mistake. In the meantime, the aromas from a little café down the street were beckoning to Josh. His hands and his stomach were steady and supper sounded good; he doubted the bald man could say the same thing.
It wasn’t long after Josh left the assayer’s office that the bald man, whose name was Harold Jenkins, closed the office for the day. However, instead of going home to his wife, he headed for a boardinghouse on the far end of town in the direction opposite of the hotel where Josh was staying. The boardinghouse had two entrances—one at the front of the building for access from the street, and one at the rear to facilitate easy access to the privy behind the building. Jenkins stopped first at the privy and relieved himself and then entered through the rear of the building. It was suppertime and he knew that most of the guests would likely be in the dining room, but he didn’t dare show his face there and risk any more than he already had being associated with the Menagher brothers. Fortunately for Jenkins, the Menaghers’ room was the first one inside the back door. He knocked lightly on the door. No response. He knocked again, slightly louder. Still no response. They’re either eating or God only knows what saloon or whorehouse they’re in, thought Jenkins. He sighed deeply and was turning to leave when he heard familiar voices outside. Jenkins stepped to the back door. It was the Menaghers; they were drunk and playing grab-ass with one another. Jenkins stepped out the back door, which caused the Menaghers to instantly stop in their tracks. “What the hell are you doing here, Harold?” hissed Billy Menagher.
Jenkins put his finger to his lips and motioned for the brothers to follow him to a willow thicket behind the privy. The brothers followed Jenkins more out of curiosity than respect into the willows, where they were out of sight and, hopefully, hearing of anyone at the boardinghouse. “We got big trouble,” said Jenkins in a hushed but excited voice.
“Why’s that?” asked Jethro Menagher. “A deputy marshal from Boise was just in my office asking if I’d had anybody come in trying to sell fool’s gold. He knew all about Stevenson carrying fool’s gold. You boys been had.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Billy, sounding considerably more sober than he had been before coming into the willows. “What’d you tell him?”
Jenkins’ voice was shaking and he was glad that he’d gone to the privy before confronting the Menaghers. “I told’im that it’d been a long time back since I’d had anyone come in with fool’s gold.”
“Well, did he believe you?” asked Billy, getting more angry.
“I don’t know, maybe,” said Jenkins. “He was hard to read.”
“Long as you don’t say anything he don’t know shit,” replied Billy.
Jenkins was clearly fearful. “Well, I..,” he stammered, “I think I might have screwed up a little bit.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Billy angrily.
“Well I happened to let on that if these two guys come in to sell fool’s gold I’d let him know, just playing along with’im ya know.”
“So, he still don’t know anything,” said Billy, a little perplexed. Billy could see that Jenkins was hesitant to speak. “Alright, Jenkins, what’s the problem here?”
“The deputy never said anything about two guys—I did. It just slipped out. So if he caught it, he knows I’m lying.”
It took a moment for the Menaghers to process the consequences of this. “You dumbass,” snarled Billy. “You can bet he’s gonna be watching you like a hawk. And what’s the first thing you do but come straight to us. You’re dumber than a sack full of rocks.”
“Well, I figured our problem would be solved if you guys just took care of this deputy,” said Jenkins meekly.
Billy scoffed. “Why hell, Harold, why didn’t I think ah that? All I gotta do is kill this here deputy U.S. marshal and everything will be okay.”
“Well, it’s better than waitin’ for him to come knockin’ on our door and arrest us,” replied Jenkins in a surprisingly bold tone.
A devious smile came over Billy’s face. “We got another option, Harold, that you ain’t brought up.”
Jenkins knew all too well what Billy was talking about. “You know, Harold, I might not have even considered this option if you hadn’t of insisted on a third when we had real gold to sell to you.”
Jenkins became defiant. “You’re lucky that I even dealt with you what with all the robberies going on around here, and then you an’ Jethro come walzin’ in dressed like a coupla dandies and want to turn your hard-earned gold dust into coin—who do you think you’re kiddin’? Anybody else woulda put the sheriff on ya. Besides, I think Ira is wise to you guys so I’m not the only one who knows about our arrangement.”
Billy stepped close to Jenkins, face to face. Jenkins could smell the whiskey on his breath. A mean look came over Billy’s face. “Well, Harold,” he said in a mocking gay tone, “first things first.”
Jenkins gasped, and his eyes bulged as the six-inch blade of Billy’s knife entered his chest cavity just below the sternum. He began to sag as only a dying man would, his eyes begging Billy to release him from the hook that he seemed to be hanging from, and then just when there appeared to be not an ounce of compassion in Billy he quickly jerked the knife down and back, releasing Jenkins to fall to the ground in a lifeless heap. Billy stared at Jenkins for a moment, and then satisfied that he was dead, he bent over and wiped the blood from his knife and his hand on Jenkins’ clothes. Standing, he said to Jethro: “C’mon, let’s see if we can find Ira.”
Ira Moyer was seventy years old. He’d been a prospector most all his adult life, which for him had started at the age of fourteen after Indians killed his folks. He’d never struck it rich; mostly he’d just made wages and enough to get by. Prospecting was in his blood, and he’d never been able to let go of it until this past year when his body rebelled at wading in the cold streams and packing gravel to run through his sluice box. He was lucky that his mother had schooled him some. He could read, write, and cipher numbers. It was these abilities that had gotten him the job at the assayer’s office. It allowed him to make a living and still work on the periphery of the profession that he loved. He had a respect, almost a reverence for the determination and hard work that it took to dig out a good-sized poke of gold. It galled him that people like the Menaghers circumvented this entire process and just took other people’s hard-earned gold. He’d had enough, and so after checking at the hotel where Josh said he would be staying, he went to the next most logical and closest place that he might be: the Blue Bird Café.
Josh was sitting across the room against the far wall. He’d purposely picked that table, as it afforded him a fairly clear view of anyone coming in the front door. And so it was when Ira stepped inside the Blue Bird Café, he was momentarily silhouetted in the door frame. Josh, having the advantage of looking in only one place, spotted Ira right away through the after-dinner cigar smoke and the heads and shoulders of the seven or eight other patrons seated at the tables between him and the door. It was obvious that the old man was looking for someone as he stood motionless at the door and slowly scanned the room. Suddenly, that
instant awareness of having found who he was looking for came over his face and he started in Josh’s direction. As he neared the table Josh gestured towards an empty chair. “Have a seat, Ira,” he said in a friendly tone. And then he added: “I thought I might be seein’ ya’ll tonight.”
As he sat down, Ira looked once more at the people on either side of him. If he recognized anyone he didn’t let on.
“Buy ya’ll ah cup ah coffee?” offered Josh.
Ira shook his head. “I can’t stay long. I’ll lose my job if Jenkins was to see me talkin’ to ya.”
Playing along, Josh replied: “Why’s that?”
Ira glanced over at the door and the people in the room and then back to Josh. “Jenkins was lyin’ to ya ‘bout them boys that you was lookin’ for.”
“I figured as much,” said Josh calmly.
“Them boys was in the office just yesterday,” replied Ira. “The damn fools had a bunch ah iron pyrite all bagged up. You woulda thought they’d found the mother lode or something. They got right mad when Jenkins told’em they had fool’s gold and that it was worthless. Course when they saw me sittin’ at the back of the room, they went into some big production ‘bout how hard they’d worked to get all that. I knew it was a lot of phooey. Why hell, a man can just look at them two dudes and see that they ain’t never done a hard day’s labor in their life.”
“I suspect you’re right,” said Josh. “But tell me, why is your boss so willin’ to lie for these guys?”
“He’s pretty tight with them Menagher boys. They been comin’ in ever since I worked there. I never waited on’em. Jenkins always took care of them his self.”
“‘Menagher’ is what these two characters go by?” asked Josh rhetorically.
“Yeah, Billy and Jethro,” replied Ira. “Least ways that’s the names I heard.”
Josh pondered Ira’s words. It was all coming together. Jenkins had enabled the Menaghers to convert their stolen gold to coin or currency without drawing suspicion, undoubtedly for a cut of the proceeds. “Did ya’ll ever hear these Menaghers mention Sheep Springs or the name Stevenson?” asked Josh.
Ira was thoughtful for a brief moment. “No, I never heard any of those names, but like I told ya they dealt strictly with Jenkins. There was even one time when them two varmints came in that Jenkins told me to go across the street and have a cup of coffee.”
Josh took a sip of his coffee. “Ya know, Ira, I ain’t so sure it’s a good idea for you to go home tonight,” said Josh in a serious tone.
Ira looked at Josh a little fearfully. “Ya thinkin’ these two hooligans would wanna do something to me?” he asked as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Ya never know,” said Josh. “I’m thinkin’ my conversation with Jenkins this afternoon has probably gotten back to them guys by now. And the problem with hombres like this is when they feel threatened they get mean.”
Ira became quiet for a moment and then he said: “I got a friend, Willy, lives in a shack at the south edge of town. Guess I could go there tonight.”
Josh took some coins from his pocket and laid them on the table for his meal. “How ‘bout I escort you out there?”
There was mixed emotion written on Ira’s face. He didn’t want to show fear to these young, cocky pups, but there was no denying reality: he was an old man and he was afraid.
It was about a fifteen-minute walk to Willy’s cabin along the creek. “I’ll see ya in the morning,” said Josh to Ira. And with that Josh turned and began the short walk back to town.
Chapter Nineteen
Buster Kregg was not the fool that the Menagher brothers were. He’d sensed at Sheep Springs that something wasn’t quite right with the gold—it just didn’t have enough heft to it—but he’d kept quiet. And so when the Menaghers informed him they were going to Idaho City to sell their share of the gold dust, he declined to go. It was time to part company with the brothers. They were out of control; they had slaughtered Stevenson and his men even as they begged for their lives. Kregg knew that common, decent people would tolerate only so much before they would come together and take matters into their own hands. He’d seen vigilante justice before and it was not forgiving. The Menaghers had become truly evil; it was time, Kregg reasoned, to put distance between himself and the brothers. Besides, he had a pretty good idea where the real gold was at.
It was early evening when Kregg rode into Bear Creek. He intended to have a talk with Hollis, but it’d been a long day and he was in need of a drink. Hollis can wait a little while, he told himself as he reined in his horse at the hitching rail in front of the Gold Strike Saloon. Somewhat stiff from the ride, Kregg stepped down gingerly from his horse. He stood still for a moment while his walking legs came back and then he proceeded into the Gold Strike. It was a busy evening; tobacco smoke hung in the air like it belonged there, and there was a steady babbling of mostly indiscernible voices save for a word or two now and again. Occasionally, laughter or profanity rose above it all, causing only a few heads to turn.
“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender as Kregg stepped up to the bar.
“Beer,” replied Kregg.
The bartender drew a beer and set it in front of Kregg. “That’ll be a nickel,” he said.
Kregg tossed a nickel on the bar without speaking or even looking at the bartender. He then raised the mug and drank about half the beer without stopping. As he took the mug away from his mouth, he exhaled and inhaled noisily in rapid succession like a diver coming up for air might. “Damn, that tasted good,” he said to no one in particular. Momentarily, he belched loudly. The miners standing at the bar to either side of Kregg appeared to not notice his indiscretion—or if they did they had the good sense to ignore it. Kregg raised the mug to his lips once again and tilted his head back, finishing off the beer. He did not even set the mug on the bar before gesturing with it to the bartender for another.
In short order the bartender had refilled Kregg’s mug and set it in front of him, saying nothing. He stood with both hands on the bar looking at Kregg.
“I suppose you want another damned nickel,” said Kregg, half joking.
The bartender was not amused. “That’s the price a drinkin’, mister,” he said flatly.
Kregg gave the bartender a dirty look and tossed another nickel on the bar. He then took a long drink of his beer, and seeing an empty table at the back of the room he started towards it. He hadn’t eaten since early this morning and the beer was already giving him a bit of a buzz. But he didn’t care—hell, that’s why he’d gone into the Gold Strike in the first place.
Kregg had been drinking one beer after another for close to an hour and a half when Sheriff Hollis walked into the saloon. As drunk as he was, Kregg spotted Hollis first. There was that instant surge of drunken courage—something that he’d never been good at controlling. And then it was clear by the shocked expression on Hollis’ face that he’d seen Kregg. Hollis started slowly towards Kregg’s table, not knowing what kind of reception he would get. As he came next to the table, Kregg looked up at him. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, and his facial muscles lacked the rigor to form much of an expression. “Sit your ass down, Hollis,” slurred Kregg. “We need to talk.”
Hollis sat down only because he didn’t want his voice to project any further into the room than it was already likely to. “Don’t say anything,” whispered Hollis through clenched teeth. “We’ll go someplace else and talk.”
“What, so you can back-shoot me, you cheatin’ bastard,” hissed Kregg.
“Keep your voice down,” commanded Hollis. “We can talk but not here.”
Kregg paused a moment as if considering his options, and then he leaned toward Hollis. “Alright, we’ll do it your way, Hollis, but if you try an’ cross me up I’ll shoot you deader ‘an buffaler shit. And you know I can do it.”
Hollis looked Kregg in the eyes. He could tell even beyond the drunken façade that Kregg’s anger was genuine; something had set him off. “I’m gonna leave.
Wait about five minutes and then come over to my office.”
As Hollis walked to his office his anger grew. Buster Kregg showing up in Bear Creek drunk and mad was the last thing that he needed right now. He felt like the proverbial child that despite being warned, goes out onto the frozen pond to play and now the ice has cracked all around him; there are even places of open water. His survival is definitely in question. “Dammit,” said Hollis to himself, “I’m too close now to let some lowlife like Buster Kregg screw things up.” But what to do? He’d already left two bodies out in Chokecherry Canyon.
Hollis entered the sheriff’s office; it was empty as he knew it would be with both his deputies having the night off. He was in a quandary as to how to proceed; he was even undecided as to whether he should remain standing or sit behind his desk. “If this comes down to gunplay,” he reasoned, “I’ll be at a disadvantage sitting down, but if I’m standing—”
Suddenly the door opened and Kregg walked in, slamming the door behind him. He briefly took in his surroundings and laughed. “This is the first time I ever been in one ah these places and not been in irons of some sort.” He laughed again. “Yes siree, it sure helps to be partners with the sheriff,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
“Alright, Buster,” said Hollis in a deliberately calm voice, “what’s this all about?”
“Like you don’t know, you lyin’ sonovabitch,” snapped Kregg.
“I don’t. I just heard this afternoon that you boys saw fit to kill Stevenson and all his teamsters.”
“That wasn’t my doin’,” countered Kregg angrily. “Them damned Menagher boys was the ones that done up that little piece ah handiwork. Those dumb shits are outa control.”
Not wanting any surprises, Hollis asked: “So where are they now?”
“Hard tellin’,” said Kregg in an evasive tone. “When they figure out what I have they’ll probably come huntin’ your sorry ass.”
It was as Hollis had thought: the marshal had been carrying Stevenson’s gold. The only question now was, had Kregg and his boys figured that out too? And so Hollis said: “You wanna let me in on this big secret of yours?”
