Gert’s mouth went dry. “That’s so. And Cyrus went with the posse.”
“Yes. He insisted on helping find the man who shot his old friend.” Isabel’s lips trembled, and she clamped them firmly shut.
Gert nodded. “I fear you’re right. If anyone is in danger tonight, it’s Mr. Fennel. So … what did those four men all do to cause such hatred?”
“There were a lot of gold strikes in the early years,” Orissa said, her eyes unfocused as she looked back over the years. “The first miners came here in 1862 or ‘63, I think. Charles heard about it, and we got here in the fall of ‘63. I’m not sure if Bert Thalen was already here, or if he came the next spring—there were a lot of rough men about, and I stayed close in our lodgings that winter. But Bert and Charles met by spring and became partners.”
Gert sat up straighter. “Business partners?”
“They had a claim together with …”
“Why, yes,” Libby said. “Now that you mention that, I recall my husband telling me about it once. Isaac was in on a mining claim with the mayor and Mr. Thalen. And Cyrus, too. Isn’t that right?”
Orissa nodded. “Yes. All four of them invested in a tract down the river. They thought they’d strike it rich. They sluiced out a fair amount of gold, but nowhere near as much as the few really rich claims you’d hear tell of. They each put away a stash and bought some land.”
“Who owns the claim now?” Gert asked.
“I don’t know.” Orissa looked blankly to Libby.
“They sold it, didn’t they?” Libby asked.
“Yes, I’m sure they did.”
“When Isaac died, the only property I found a deed for was the emporium building and the lot it’s standing on.” Libby met Gert’s gaze. “But if the four men owned a claim together and sold it, there must be a record of it.”
“My father might have something,” Isabel said, and all eyes swung her way. “He kept the assay office until business dropped so much they closed the one here. Now they go through Silver City, but he has old records in the safe at his office.”
“Now, hold on just a second,” Jessie Tinen said. “Arthur and I came here the year our son turned seven. Sixty-five. Right after Arthur got home from the army.”
Again the ladies fell silent. The Civil War had barely touched Idaho Territory, but those who came from points east remembered it well.
“Now, there was a big to-do, I recall, about a mining claim.” Jessie sucked in her ample cheeks and frowned. “Some fella made a big fuss over it. He’d bought a claim that was supposed to be a good one, but it turned out to be worthless. Arthur decided then and there not to try mining. We bought our ranch and started working it.”
A stir of excitement flickered in Gert’s stomach. She turned to the mayor’s wife. “Mrs. Walker, can’t you remember the name—”
Orissa’s face had turned ashen. She stared at the far parlor window and spoke a single word. “Morrell.”
CHAPTER 35
Morrell?” Libby and Gert locked gazes across the crowded parlor. Libby voiced what everyone was thinking. “There’s Jamin Morrell, but he only moved here last year.”
“The family …” Orissa spoke quietly in the stillness. “The man had a scrawny wife and a little boy thin as six o’clock.”
Gert’s eyes took on a resolve that made Libby shiver. “Did anyone see Jamin Morrell when the posse rode out?”
Goldie shook her head. “He could have stayed at the Nugget.”
Gert leaped to her feet. “I’m going over there.”
Libby gasped. “To the Nugget?”
“That’s right. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
“But my dear …” Apphia faltered.
“What will you do?” Myra asked.
“First, I’ll see if he rode out with the posse.”
“And if he’s still there?” Libby asked. “We haven’t any proof that he’s mixed up in this business. The name could be a coincidence.”
“I’ll ask him if he has anything to do with it.” Gert’s eyes flashed a stormy gray.
“I’ll go with you.” Goldie stood and eased past the knees of the other women.
“Me, too,” said Emmaline.
Myra began to rise, but her mother laid a restraining hand on her sleeve. “You’ll stay here,” Annie said, and Myra sank back into her chair, scowling.
Isabel stood and eyed Gert with a challenging air. “I shall come with you.”
Gert nodded. Without speaking, Libby got to her feet.
“We five,” Gert said. “That’s enough. The rest of you stay here with Mrs. Walker.”
“We shall be praying,” Apphia said.
They stepped out into the yard. A chilly breeze off the mountains fluttered Gert’s hair, and she regretted not grabbing her despised bonnet after she gave Hiram back his hat when he left to join the posse. She buttoned her jacket over the butt of Libby’s pistol, now tucked firmly in the waistband of her skirt. Libby, Emmaline, Isabel, and Goldie followed her out of the house.
The five of them spread out and strode side by side down the quiet street. Libby walked closest to Gert, between her and Emmaline. Uneasily, Gert wondered if they ought to have a better-defined plan.
The sound of distant hoofbeats brought her to a halt. The other women stopped and listened. As far away as she could see in the black tunnel of the street where it passed between the Nugget and the smithy, a white patch materialized.
Isabel let out a muffled squeak. They all stood still, staring and shivering.
The horse’s outline became apparent as it trotted nearer. Gert relaxed and walked forward, her hand extended toward it.
“Whoa, boy.” The paint horse stopped a few yards from her and snuffled. Gert walked up to him and caught one trailing rein. “There, now. Take it easy.” She stroked his neck, and the horse rubbed against her shoulder.
“Where did it come from?” Libby asked.
“This is Ralph Storrey’s horse,” Gert said. “The one the killer stole. I don’t know where he’s been, but he’s just moseying toward home. Good fella.”
“Should we hitch him up?” Emmaline asked.
Gert considered the options. “Ralph was here when the mayor was shot. Laura’s likely still at their house south of town, not knowing what happened. If the horse comes home with an empty saddle, it’ll scare her.”
“Let’s hitch him here,” Libby said. “When the posse comes back, maybe the sheriff will want to look him over for evidence.”
Gert nodded. A month ago, she’d have laughed at that idea. Now it seemed very reasonable.
After she’d secured the horse at the nearest hitching rail, the five women moved on down the street, past the telegraph office, the emporium, the feed store, the jail, and the boardinghouse.
Only two horses were tied up in front of the Nugget. At the steps, Gert hesitated a moment. Someone inside plinked out a spare rendition of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” Voices murmured, and glass clinked on glass, but for a Saturday night, the Nugget seemed pretty tame.
Gert lifted her foot and marched up the stairs to the double door, with Libby close behind her. The others followed in their wake.
When Gert shoved the door open, the four people inside stared at the women. All sounds ceased.
Gert tried to see everything at once. In the lantern light, rough tables and chairs filled the sawdust-covered floor. Spittoons sat in strategic corners. A cowboy leaned on the piano, and a raven-haired girl in frothy red and silver taffeta lace sat before it, gaping at the women in the doorway. A bearded old man sitting at a table to one side froze with a glass halfway to his lips and stared.
Straight ahead was the bar. Behind it stood a girl with golden hair, resplendent in flounces of shimmery blue satin, pouring whiskey into a glass. When she saw the women enter, her flaming red lips parted.
“M–Mrs. Adams. Ladies. May I help you?”
“Hello, Opal.” Libby walked toward the bar as though she habi
tually visited the saloon girls at the Nugget. “We wondered if Mr. Morrell is in tonight.”
“No, he … he went out some time ago. There was a ruckus at the Spur & Saddle, I understand.” Opal’s eyes flicked from Libby to Gert and beyond. When her gaze rested on Goldie, her lips flattened.
Gert edged up beside Libby. The cowboy came over and leaned on the bar, watching them.
“So Mr. Morrell rode out with the posse?” Gert asked. “Well …” Opal didn’t meet her gaze.
Gert looked over at the girl near the piano. “Was your boss here when you heard about the shooting?”
“Uh … I’m not sure.” The dark-haired girl glared at Opal as though blaming her for letting these disruptive women in.
“Ted was pouring,” Opal said quickly. “A cowboy came in shouting that the mayor was killed and the sheriff was raising a posse. Every man in here ran out. Including Ted.”
“And Mr. Morrell?” Gert asked again, pronouncing each word distinctly.
“I …” Opal glanced sideways to the other girl, but she was no help. She’d come over nearer the bar and stood caressing the cowboy’s mustache and smiling at him. “I’m pretty sure he went, too. I haven’t seen any of them since.” Opal nodded toward old Pan Rideout, the miner sitting alone in the corner, and threw another glance at the cowboy down the bar. “These two came in later. I figured we were done having customers tonight, but I guess these fellas live south of town and hadn’t heard about the killing.”
“The mayor’s not dead,” Gert said.
Opal’s eyes widened. “Oh? Well, that’s fine then. Guess we won’t need to hold an election for a while.”
Libby smiled graciously. “Rumors do get around, don’t they? Mr. Walker is very much alive.”
Gert squeezed close to the bar and leaned over toward Opal. “What was Mr. Morrell wearing tonight?”
Opal blinked at her. “Wearing? You want to know what the boss was wearing?”
“That’s right.”
“Uh …”
A curtain shielding a doorway behind the bar fluttered, and Jamin Morrell stepped through it. “Ladies. I’m speechless.”
Gert straightened. Behind her, the other women caught a collective breath.
Morrell walked forward to Opal’s side. “Pour me a drink, sweetheart.”
Opal finished filling the glass she’d set down earlier and handed it to him. Gert wondered if she’d been fixing it for him all along. Had he been hiding in the back room, listening to every word? If so, why had Opal lied?
Morrell tossed back a big swallow of whiskey and set the glass on the bar.
“Now then, ladies. To what do I owe the dubious honor?” His dark suede waistcoat hung open, and his black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, held wrinkles and smudges of dust. His stubbly jaw clenched as he watched them. His hard gaze slid past Gert and assessed her four companions.
Goldie stepped forward before Gert could speak. “This here’s a contingent of the Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus, mister. And Deputy Gert Dooley has a few questions for you.”
Morrell’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his chin a tad. “Don’t you belong at the other end of the street? If you’re looking for different employment, I’m not hiring.”
“I ain’t looking. I wouldn’t work here if you paid me double.”
“Hush, Goldie,” said Emmaline.
Morrell’s gaze shifted back to Gert. She tried not to squirm as he studied her with a bit of speculation in his dark eyes. The other club members moved in around her. She felt stronger with them at her back.
“Would you care for a drink, Miss Dooley?” he asked.
“No. I want to know why you’re not with the posse.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Nothing like getting to the point, is there?”
“No, sir, there’s not.”
“My bartender and every customer who was in the place an hour ago charged out of here to ride with the sheriff. Someone had to stay and guard my business and my … other employees.”
Gert’s anger nearly choked her. She didn’t take her eyes off him. “Opal said you went with the sheriff and the rest, but it seems she was wrong.”
“She must have forgotten that I was out back going over the accounts. Or maybe she just didn’t tell you.” He shot a glance Opal’s way. “My employees guard me from frivolous interruptions.”
Libby gasped at his rudeness, but Gert let out a short chuckle. “However you want to paint the picture, my friends and I want to know where you were when Mayor Walker was shot.”
“Thank you for being so concerned about my activities.” Morrell tipped the bottle up and poured himself another hefty drink. “Sure you won’t join me?”
“Answer the question, Mr. Morrell,” Gert said stonily.
“I’ve already told you. I’ve been here since suppertime. Ask Flora.” He nodded vaguely toward the dark-haired girl who still stood next to the young cowpoke.
Gert glared at him across the bar. A hot mass churned in her chest, making it hard to inhale. “You’re a liar.”
“Am I?” Morrell took a swallow of the whiskey.
“Your family came here twenty years ago,” Gert said with certainty. “Your pa bought a claim that was worthless. You and your folks suffered. And now you’ve come back, aiming to hurt the people who took your pa’s money and make them hurt worse than you did.”
His face hardened as she spoke. Gert’s pulse accelerated, and the air in the saloon thickened.
“You don’t know anything about me. I came here a year ago to start a business. I’ve tried to be an upstanding citizen of the community. I’ve made contributions to the town coffers. I influenced a preacher to come here, even though I knew it might hurt my enterprise. I even offered to serve on the school board, but the town councilors didn’t think I was good enough.”
His voice dripped bitterness and Gert shivered, watching him toss back the rest of the whiskey.
“That upset you, didn’t it? That people didn’t think a saloon keeper should be on the school board. This town owes you a lot, doesn’t it? You’ve been paying back the men who sold your father that mining claim, making them suffer.”
“You have no idea how much I suffered,” Morrell said in a deadly quiet voice. “My father worked himself to the bone and died of pneumonia. If my mother’s heart hadn’t given out, she’d have starved to death. You have no idea what we went through because of the fine leaders of this town. Now get out of here.”
Gert held his stare. “No, sir. Mr. Morrell, I’m afraid we’re going to have to arrest you for the murders of Bert Thalen and Millicent Peart, and the attempted murder of Charles Walker.”
“And the fires,” Emmaline said in her ear. “Don’t forget the fires.”
Gert nodded. “The fires at the Paragon Emporium and the Walker Feed Company, too.”
Morrell let out a short laugh. “Oh, ladies. How exactly do you intend to take me into custody?”
Gert put her hand to her jacket’s top button. She ought to have prepared for this before they set foot inside the Nugget. Seeing only the saloon girls and two customers inside had thrown her off her guard. She pulled in a deep breath as she quickly undid her jacket’s buttons and reached inside for the Peacemaker. Before she had the pistol out, Morrell had stooped behind the bar and straightened again with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands.
“All right, ladies. Don’t move. Miss Dooley, I suggest you put that thing on the bar and back up a few paces. This shotgun can kill you and three or four other women quicker than you can spit.” His gaze roved over the women. “Uh-uh.” He moved the shotgun a hair, so that his sights covered Goldie. “Just leave that peashooter alone. I must admit, that’s a shapely leg it’s strapped to. Maybe I could find a place for you here.”
Gert caught a glimpse of Goldie’s chagrined face as she let the flounce of skirt fall back over her garter with its little holster. She wouldn’t be able to use her weapon either. Libby’s gun was no doubt still in the botto
m of her handbag. Gert doubted Emmaline or Isabel was armed tonight. It was up to her.
“I’m sure we can end this peaceably, Mr. Morrell,” she said. “Put the shotgun away.”
“You’re the sharpshooter, aren’t you? Put your gun on the bar, Miss Dooley. Let’s see your hands up high.”
Gert shot a sidelong glance at Libby. She stood still, her shoulders squared, but her lips trembled.
“Come on,” Morrell coaxed. “If I let loose with this load of buckshot, every one of you will be killed or maimed. You know what it can do. Now all of you get your hands up where I can see them.”
Gert couldn’t swallow the painful lump at the back of her throat. Libby raised her hands slowly. Others stirred behind her. Oh, Lord, what have I gotten us into? We could have done this so much better. “Couldn’t we sit down and talk about this?” Her voice quivered, and he smiled.
“I think we’re beyond chitchat. Hands up.”
Gert lifted her hands.
Without looking away, Morrell called, “Flora, take Miss Dooley’s weapon.”
The girl walked over hesitantly and squinted at Gert. She touched Gert’s dark jacket, found the pistol, and yanked it out. Stepping back, she laid it on the bar before Morrell.
“Thank you. And now the one this little dove has under her skirt.” He nodded toward Goldie. Flora lifted Goldie’s hem and retrieved the small pistol.
Morrell walked around the end of the bar and skirted the group, still holding the shotgun pointed at them. “Get out, Pan. The Nugget’s closed for the evening.”
Pan Rideout stared at him. “But I ain’t finished.”
“Get out!”
Pan’s face crumpled into his bushy beard. He slid out of the chair and staggered toward the door, muttering, “Man can’t have a few drinks …”
“You, too, Jake.”
The cowboy turned and stalked toward the door without another word.
“All right, now.” Morrell had worked his way around the group so that he stood between them and the door. He waved the gun’s barrel, indicating that the women should separate. “Mrs. Adams, please step over there, near that table.”
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