Four passengers stirred inside. Good. Maybe the line would work its way out of the slump they’d had the last couple of years. More people were coming through Fergus this spring than usual.
“Mrs. Brice. Nice to see you back again.” Cyrus offered a hand to the woman exiting the coach. “Watch your step. I trust you had a good trip to Portland?”
“Good to be home, Mr. Fennel.”
“How is your daughter?”
“She’s well, thank you.” Mrs. Brice turned away to see to her luggage. By this time, two miners had climbed down. “Good day, gentlemen,” Cyrus said.
“Fennel,” one replied with a nod. They went toward the boot of the coach for their kits.
“Thank you for taking the stage.”
The last man out was a stranger. He eyed Cyrus as he straightened his jacket. “Is there an establishment in this town where I can get lunch?”
“We don’t have a restaurant as such, but there are a couple of places where you could get a sandwich,” Cyrus said. Again he thought of the abandoned boardinghouse. He wasn’t about to set up one of Morrell’s draggle-tails to run it, but maybe it was time to consider finding a couple or a respectable widow who could keep a few guest rooms open and serve lunch to the stagecoach passengers. To the customer at hand, he pointed down the street. “At the Spur & Saddle, they’re apt to have a pot of stew on the stove. Or at the other end of the street is the Nugget, where it’s strictly cold fare, and then only if you’re lucky.”
The man looked toward Bitsy’s, then toward Jamin’s.
“How long before the stage leaves?”
“Twenty minutes,” Cyrus said. Ned had unloaded all the disembarking passengers’ luggage. He signaled the driver, and Bill clucked to the team. He’d get the horses to the livery so Bane could swap them out. Then he and Ned would wolf down a biscuit or two with a beer at the Nugget and be ready to drive out again.
The passenger checked his pocket watch and marched toward the Spur & Saddle. Cyrus wasn’t sure he liked advertising the saloons. The men of the town had begun to polarize over Bert Thalen’s death. Those who drank at the Nugget on Saturday nights seemed to think Ethan Chapman wasn’t doing his job and should be replaced. Over at the Spur & Saddle, the men seemed more inclined to support Ethan and cooperate with him if he came up with a plan to catch the killer. Personally, Cyrus doubted the new sheriff had any desire to track down the murderer. But he seemed to be doing a fair job of keeping down the shooting and yelling at the Nugget.
Oscar Runnels approached along the boardwalk, carrying a leather satchel. “Am I too late for the stage?”
“Nope. They just went round to change the teams. You’ve got at least fifteen minutes. You buying a ticket?”
“That’s right. I’ve got to go to Silver City today.”
Cyrus went into his office and opened the drawer where he kept the ticket books. Oscar pulled out his wallet, and they made the exchange.
“Good day for traveling,” Cyrus noted.
Running footsteps thudded on the boardwalk outside. Ned Harmon caught the doorjamb and stood panting, blinking in at them.
“What is it, Ned?” Cyrus asked.
“Griffin Bane. He’s layin’ on the floor at the livery, out cold. We thought he was dead, but then he cussed, so he’s not. But someone chucked him on the head a good’un and maybe robbed him.”
“What’s that?” Runnels asked. “Someone’s hurt Bane?”
Ned nodded. “Bill’s with him. I misdoubt he’ll come to ‘fore Sunday.”
“What about the team?” Cyrus asked.
“Team ain’t ready. They’s still in the corral.”
“That’s not good.” Cyrus pushed his chair back and grabbed his hat. “We’ve got to keep the schedule.”
Oscar brought his fist down on Cyrus’s desk. “What are you frettin’ about the schedule for? Send that slacker to fetch the sheriff!”
Cyrus saw the good sense of that and barked at Ned as he strode for the door. “Go round to the jail and see if Sheriff Chapman’s there. If he’s not, check Hiram Dooley’s kitchen. Chapman’s over there at lunchtime some days.”
Ned bolted across the street. As Cyrus hurried toward the corner, he could hear Oscar panting along behind him. The stagecoach stood outside the livery, the tired team hanging their heads. Cyrus entered the big pole barn. Bill Stout was carrying a pail of water in through the back door.
“Where’s Bane?” Cyrus called.
“Yonder.” Bill didn’t stop walking, and Cyrus met him beside the prone figure of the blacksmith. Without another word, Bill tipped the bucket and poured a quart or so of cold water in Griffin’s face.
Griffin sat up spluttering and waving his arms. “Wha … wha—Hey!”
“You all right, Bane?” Cyrus asked.
The big man blinked up at him and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. “My head.” He clutched it and moaned.
Bill tipped the bucket again. When the first splash hit Griffin’s head, he dodged to the side and swiped at Bill’s kneecap.
“Quit that! I’m awake.”
Cyrus extended a hand. Griffin grasped it and rose with a groan.
“What’s going on?”
Cyrus turned toward the door, where Oscar had paused. Ethan Chapman and Hiram Dooley pushed past Runnels and skidded to a stop beside the three at the back of the barn.
“What happened, Griff?” Ethan put his hand on Bane’s arm. “Are you hurt?”
“My head is killing me.” Griffin put his hand up to the top of his head and pulled it away, holding his fingers up in the light that streamed through the back door.
“You’re bleeding.” Bill set the bucket down.
“I was attacked. Someone was hiding back there near the grain barrels. He jumped out at me and whacked me on the head with something.” Griffin swayed on his feet.
“You’d best sit down,” Ethan said.
“He needs to get the team ready.” Cyrus cringed at the anger in Ethan’s eyes. “I suppose Bill and Ned can do that.” Ned had arrived behind the sheriff and Hiram and now stood panting between Cyrus and the timid Oscar Runnels, who edged closer to the group.
Hiram touched Ethan’s sleeve then jerked his head toward the corral behind the livery. He marched outside.
“Go with Hiram, boys. He’ll help you get the teams switched.” Ethan looked toward Cyrus. “Is Bill driving the next leg?”
“Yes. He and Ned are taking the coach as far as Silver City.”
Ethan nodded. “All right, Griffin, what say you sit down and tell me what happened? See if you can remember anything else.” He pulled a keg over, and Griffin plopped down on it.
“Too bad we ain’t got a doctor,” Oscar muttered.
“I couldn’t see him very good.” Griffin puckered up his face. “He musta been a big fella though. He hit me powerful hard.”
“Bane must have been out cold for half an hour or more,” Cyrus said to Ethan. “He hadn’t even started to get the replacement team ready for the coach.”
“I woulda.” A belligerent gleam flashed in Griffin’s eyes as he scowled at Cyrus. “If that robber hadn’t jumped me, I’da had ‘em ready and waitin’ when your boys got here.”
“Robber?” Ethan asked.
“Well, why else would he have attacked me?”
Ethan lifted his hat and scratched his head. “Maybe you’d best look around and see if anything’s been stolen.”
“That’s a good idea.” Griffin started to rise and sank back down on the keg. “Hoo, boy, I’m a little woozy.”
“How many horses did you have in the corral?” Ethan asked.
“Horses?” Griffin swiveled to look out the back door and groaned again, putting both hands to his head. “Uh … the team of four in the corral on the west side and five saddle horses on the east. And old Sal in the front stall yonder, in case someone came in wanting a mount right away.”
The men looked toward the stall nearest the front door of the livery, where the
y could see the back end of a chestnut horse. The mare stood placidly, swinging her tail now and then to brush off the flies.
Ethan walked to the rear door and perused the corrals. “Looks like all the horses are accounted for.”
He stepped aside as Hiram came in, leading a big sorrel gelding.
“Hitch him right there, Hi.” Griffin pointed to an eyebolt in the wall with a rope dangling from it.
“I’d best get back to the office and tell the passengers the stagecoach will be delayed a few minutes,” Cyrus said.
He and Oscar walked across the barn floor and out into the sunshine.
“Crazy thing,” Oscar said.
“Yes.”
“Makes me a little skittish, what with old Bert being killed in broad daylight a couple weeks ago.”
Cyrus stopped and eyed Oscar for a moment. Bert Thalen and Griffin Bane had both been whacked on the head. What if the women were right, and the killer was still in Fergus? “You go back and see if they find out anything’s missing. I’ll tell the other passengers the coach will be right along. But don’t you say anything on the ride. You hear me, Oscar? Folks will get unstrung if you spread rumors about killers attacking people all over Fergus.”
“I wouldn’t say anything like that.”
Cyrus nodded. “I think we’d best keep this quiet if we can. Go back and see if the sheriff’s found out anything.”
After Bill and Ned rumbled off with the stagecoach, complaining loudly that they’d had no lunch and taking Oscar along inside the coach, Ethan turned to his friends.
“Now, Griffin, think carefully. How tall was the man who hit you?”
Griffin winced and scratched his chin through his beard. “He was hiding till I got right up close. Then he jumped out. I don’t rightly know.”
“You think he was as tall as you?”
“Could be. I was facing the light from the doorway, and he was over there in the dark.” Griffin looked up at him suddenly. “He smelled.”
“Smelled how?” Ethan asked.
“Like a bear. Foul.”
Ethan considered that. Maybe a trapper had come down out of the hills and thought to find some easy money in town. “You said your knife was taken. Anything else?”
“I keep a little cash in a box over near the feed barrels.”
“What’s it look like?” Ethan asked.
“It’s a biscuit box. Green and gold.”
Hiram had stood by in silence, but now he scurried to the corner stall and returned a moment later with the biscuit tin. Griffin took it and raised the lid. He grunted, staring at the contents.
“Looks like your money’s there.” Ethan nodded at the wad of greenbacks in the tin.
“No, there were some coins in the bottom.” Griffin took out the small bundle of bills and frowned. “I had some change.”
“How much?”
The big man shrugged. “Four bits at least. Not more’n a dollar all told.”
“That’s not much.” Ethan scanned his face, wondering how seriously Griffin took the loss of a few coins.
“Why’d he take the change and not the dollar bills?” Hiram asked.
“Good question,” Ethan said. He hated to imply that Griffin’s memory was spotty, but it did seem odd. “You sure you didn’t take them out?”
Griffin nodded. “I just put them in there yesterday. And a horse-blanket pin.” He looked down into the box again.
“Horse-blanket pin?” Ethan leaned over the tin once more. “Where is it?” He looked at Hiram, but he only shrugged. It seemed a strange item for anyone to steal. Ethan almost said as much but clamped his mouth shut. Griff might think he doubted his word. But it was odd. Deep down, Ethan figured he was mistaken. The pin would turn up, jumbled in the straw or tucked onto a shelf, forgotten.
Griffin stood slowly. “I sure don’t feel like doing much this afternoon.”
Without speaking, Hiram walked over to the half-cleaned stall where Griffin had left his wheelbarrow. He picked up the shovel and began to work.
“He’s a good friend. You take it easy and let Hi help you out.” Ethan looked up at Griffin. “You want me to do anything about this?”
“Not much you can do, I guess. I want you to find the robber, but I don’t guess that will be easy.”
Ethan looked down at the metal box again. “You don’t have a safe, do you?”
“Naw. I don’t have that much money lying around. I never have more than five or ten bucks. But still, if someone’s sneaking around town stealing and killing people …”
“Some folks are scared,” Ethan acknowledged.
“Those women who are shooting all the time,” Griffin said. “You oughta put a stop to that, Eth.”
“Why? If it makes them feel safer …”
“Someone’s going to get hurt. Next thing you know, one of those ladies will get shot during one of their practice meets.”
Ethan ran a hand through his thick hair. “I been meaning to ask Gert about that. I’ve heard folks talking, and I wondered how many women are involved. So far as I know, it’s only a few.”
“A few is too many.”
Ethan noted that Hiram paused in his shoveling and looked toward them. He must have heard his sister’s name mentioned. First there was the conversation Ethan had overheard at the emporium. Then Ted Hire at the Nugget had said Gert was rallying some women to learn how to shoot, and Ethan had wondered if it was so.
Gert was an odd girl. She wasn’t all soft and stylish like Libby Adams, but she had a kind soul. She’d left her folks back in Maine to come help her brother and his family when they needed her. She fed a crusty cowpoke-turned-sheriff every time he showed up on her back stoop. And he’d seen her feed stray cats and give a man who couldn’t afford to pay for Hiram’s work a chance to split wood in exchange for a gunsmithing job. If she really had started teaching women to shoot, her motives were honorable. But he should talk to her about safety, if nothing else. The livery owner wasn’t the only man in town grousing about it.
Hiram pushed a wheelbarrow full of manure out of the stall and trundled it past them. He stopped just inside the back door and stepped to the side near the grain barrels. In the shadows, he stooped and lifted a long wagon tongue and stood it up against the wall. He picked up a horse collar, which he hung on a peg.
Ethan brought his attention back to the injured man. “I’ll look into it, Griff.”
CHAPTER 12
Libby was aware when Milzie Peart entered the emporium. She didn’t like to have Milzie come in and loiter. Customers didn’t like it. At least it was warm enough now that they didn’t have to keep the stove hot. The heat always magnified Milzie’s stench.
But Libby couldn’t run her off the way some did. She felt sorry for the old woman. As she measured out coffee for one of the rancher’s wives, she tried to keep an eye on the stooped figure. Milzie had asked for seeds last time she was here. Libby wasn’t sure she hadn’t walked out with anything else. Usually she gave the old woman a little something to nibble on, figuring it might keep her from pilfering. If the other customers cleared out, she’d give Milzie the last few crackers from the nearly empty case beside the counter.
When the rancher’s wife left, another woman stepped up to the counter. Libby smiled but again wished she could choose her clientele. One of the girls who worked for Bitsy at the Spur & Saddle smiled shyly back at her.
“Vashti.” If that was really her name, which Libby doubted.
“Yes’m. Miss Bitsy said it’s a good idea if we girls get ourselves a sidearm. She said you could help us.”
“Oh. Uh …” Libby glanced around the store. Milzie was only a few steps away. “I have some small handguns.” She took three from beneath the counter and laid them out for the girl to see, wondering if she shouldn’t ask Vashti to come back Monday before she opened the store—or even tomorrow while the emporium was closed. But she hated to do business on the Sabbath. The shipment of pistols had arrived only yesterday with one of
Oscar’s mule teams, and she still could barely believe she was selling them like this. But what did it matter if the whole town knew she had stocked some handguns and would sell them to women? Word of mouth would probably bring her more business.
Vashti picked up the smallest one. Its pearl grips seemed to ripple as the light struck it. “I like this one.”
“All right.” Libby reached for the roll of brown paper. “Let me wrap it for you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll put it in my bag.”
Libby cleared her throat and glanced toward the door. Jamin Morrell was just entering. He nodded at her, smiling as he removed his hat.
“Good day,” Libby said. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Morrell?”
“Carpet tacks,” he said.
“Oh yes. Right over there near the nails.” Libby pointed toward the hardware. She glanced around and saw that Florence was busy measuring ribbon for Mrs. Ingram “If you can’t find them, I’ll be over in just a minute.”
Jamin nodded and headed for the hardware.
Vashti seemed to have shrunk into her silk shawl. She studiously avoided looking around toward the rival saloon’s owner.
“Now you’ll want some ammunition,” Libby said in what she hoped was a smooth, professional tone.
“Is that the same size as Miss Bitsy’s?” the girl asked.
“No, it’s a smaller caliber, but it’s a good piece.”
Vashti leaned close and whispered, “I’m hoping Miss Dooley will teach me to use it.”
“Oh.” Libby tried not to let the smile slip. What had she started? When she’d gone to shoot with Gert on Thursday afternoon, they’d been joined by Emmaline Landry, Bitsy, and two other women. Word was getting around Fergus, and women were responding eagerly. She stooped and pulled out a box of cartridges. “It’s fifty cents extra for the ammunition.”
While Libby wrapped the box, Vashti dug into the ridiculously small satin pouch that dangled from her wrist. “My friend Goldie wants a gun, too. I’ll tell her you’ve got some left.”
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