Pete (The Cowboys)

by Leigh Greenwood

  “We didn’t finish supper until sometime after nine o’clock,” Anne said, “because Pete and I were late getting back from Big Bend. I helped Dolores clean up, and the men went to Pete’s office to go over their plans for the roundup. Pete told me not to wait up because they’d probably be late, so I went to bed when we finished in the kitchen.”

  “When did he come to bed?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look at the clock.” Okay, it was a tiny lie, but she couldn’t tell this man the truth. If he found out Eddie had gone to bed long before Pete, he’d be sure Pete had killed Belser. “I do know that after he came to bed, he never left again.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m a light sleeper. I’d know if he got up during the night.”

  The sheriff didn’t look pleased. “What about you?” he said, turning to Dolores.

  “Pretty much the same thing,” Dolores responded. “I went to bed after we finished in the kitchen.”

  “When did you get to bed?” the sheriff asked Eddie.

  “About twelve-thirty.”

  “Did you see Pete go to his bedroom?”

  “No. I left him in the office.”

  “Did you see Eddie go to his bedroom?” the sheriff asked Pete.

  “No.”

  “How long did you stay in your office?”

  “Only long enough to put the maps up.”

  “When did Belser get back?” the sheriff asked.

  “After the women had gone to bed,” Pete said. “He was drunk. I wanted to throw him out of the house right then, but I didn’t because of Anne.”

  “And why was that?”

  “She felt sorry for him. She’d even asked if I didn’t think we ought to give him his job back.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we’d let him have his room for one more night, then he’d have to go. Now I’m sorry I didn’t throw him down the steps the minute I saw he was drunk.”

  “You didn’t like Belser.”

  “I wouldn’t like anybody who kept calling me an imposter. Would you?”

  “It’s not a question of what I would do,” the sheriff said. “Anybody recognize that knife?”

  “I think it’s from the kitchen,” Dolores said. “But with Cookie helping himself to anything he wants, it’s impossible to tell what’s missing.”

  “Have you checked Cookie’s knives?” the sheriff asked.

  “Are you crazy?” Dolores said. “You go asking to see what he’s got in his chuck wagon and see what kind of reception you get.”

  “I’ll ask, and I’ll find out.”

  Once more he fixed his gaze on Pete, and Anne’s chill of apprehension deepened. She was certain the sheriff was going to take Pete to jail.

  “Do you have any more questions?” Pete asked. “The ladies have suffered quite a shock. They’d probably like to lie down. I know Anne needs to rest.”

  He put his arm around her. She didn’t know how he could have so much strength.

  “I’m fine,” she said. Though she would dearly love to run to their room, close the door, jump into bed, and pull the covers over her head, she couldn’t leave Pete to face the sheriff alone. Besides, her future was at stake. She didn’t know what she’d do without Pete. She’d always liked him, but during recent days she’d decided that most likely her original feelings had been primarily thankfulness that he liked and accepted her as she was. No one else had.

  But what she felt for Pete now was something completely different. He was like a dream come true, and he was her dream. Not somebody she’d read or heard about. Her husband! She still found that hard to believe.

  It was just as hard to believe the way he felt about her. He thought she was beautiful, and she felt beautiful when she was with him. It wasn’t the dresses or the jewels or even the nice things he said about her. It was the way he looked at her, the way his gaze lingered on her shoulders, or her lips. The way his eyes grew warm, his expression heated. He not only liked her and thought she was beautiful, he desired her.

  It had frightened her when Cyrus McCaine desired her. It excited her to know Pete wanted her. She had no experience in love, but she knew instinctively that what the two men felt for her had nothing in common. Cyrus made her feel cheap, worthless. Pete made her feel cherished, like the most beautiful, the most valued woman in the world.

  “The ladies can go about their work or do anything else they want,” the sheriff said. “I want you men to stay here until I talk to your range cook.”

  “He’s gone,” Pete said. “They left for the roundup camp shortly after noon.”

  “Now why would you have them do that?” That suspicious look was back in the sheriff’s eyes. It was obvious he thought Pete had killed Belser and was trying to cover his tracks.

  “Because we’re starting a roundup tomorrow.”

  “It’s still summer.”

  “Late summer,” Pete corrected.

  “Still, nobody goes on roundup for another month or six weeks.”

  “The range is bare and overcrowded. The signs for winter are ominous.”

  “I haven’t seen any signs,” the sheriff asked.

  “I traveled up the Missouri River and came down from Montana. The Indians say the signs point to the worst winter in memory.”

  The sheriff snorted. “Nobody pays any attention to redskins.”

  “Why not? They occupied these plains long before we got here.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re starting roundup so soon. Your cows will be underweight. You won’t get much for them.”

  “I’ll get more than if they’re dead. The herd isn’t strong enough to stand a severe winter, and there’s not enough food to carry them over. I’m taking them to market while I still can.”

  “That’s a big gamble.”

  “If I lose, I won’t lose anybody’s money but my own.”

  The sheriff’s expression indicated he wasn’t at all sure it was Pete’s money. Or his ranch. His expression also indicated frustration.

  “I’m going to take Belser’s body back to town with me.”

  “I appreciate that,” Pete said. “Naturally we’ll pay for the funeral arrangements.”

  “Don’t be so forward. I don’t know when he’ll be buried.”

  “We’ll pay for the funeral, whenever it is.”

  The sheriff couldn’t argue with that.

  “I want all of you to stay here where I can find you.”

  Again his gaze fixed itself on Pete.

  “I don’t plan to leave Wyoming, if that’s what you’re saying,” Pete said, “but I have to go on the roundup.”

  The sheriff pointed an angry finger at Pete. “I want you in this house.”

  Much to Anne’s surprise, Pete actually smiled. She didn’t know where he found the courage.

  “I know you think I killed Belser, and you’re frustrated you can’t prove it,” Pete said, “but at least give me credit for a little intelligence. If I had wanted to kill Belser, I would never have done it in my own house, in the next bedroom, with a knife from my own kitchen. I certainly wouldn’t have done it in the house where my wife was bound to know I’d left the bed and any one of three people would hear Belser cry out if I didn’t get him in the heart with the first knife thrust.”

  Stated like that, it didn’t sound at all like anyone could believe Pete had killed Belser. Anne suddenly felt a whole lot better.

  “Okay, you can go on the roundup as long as I know where to find you if I need you,” the sheriff said, still not pleased.

  “I had Eddie draw up a map of my range. I plotted where I expect to be each day. If you need me, Anne will be happy to show you where I am.”

  Anne had never seen a map of the ranch. She had no idea how to read one, but it made her feel wonderful that Pete automatically assumed she’d know what to do. Uncle Carl had always assumed just the opposite.

  The sheriff turned to leave, then turned
back again. “Don’t think you’ve heard the end of this,” he said to Pete. “I’ll get you yet. We don’t like killers in Johnson County. We especially don’t like killers who aren’t who they say they are. You watch him, Eddie. If you see him trying to sneak off, shoot him. I’ll tell the judge you had my permission.”

  “I won’t try to sneak off,” Pete said. “And if anybody shoots me, it’ll be murder. Or have you forgotten somebody’s tried twice already?”

  “That’s what you say. Nobody saw it.”

  “I saw it,” Anne stated, furious at the sheriff. “I was in the wagon when the shots were fired. Are you going to call me a liar?” He wouldn’t dare. Pete would knock him down. “We all saw his wound when he got here. It was obvious it was quite recent.”

  “It could have been for other reasons,” the sheriff said. “Him being an imposter and all, you can never tell—”

  “Leave my house!” Anne ordered. “I have no intention of trying to impede the law, but I won’t have you calling my husband a murdering imposter and me a liar and a fool. Get out!” she said when he just stood there staring at her as though she’d gone berserk.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “You’d better have proof, not just prejudice and suspicion.”

  The sheriff turned and stalked out, muttering “crazy redskin” under his breath. Anne grabbed hold of Pete when he started after the man.

  “I don’t care what he says. What you think is all that matters.”

  “I think you’re a mighty classy lady,” Pete said. “I don’t know why everybody’s yammering about me changing so much when you’re changing just as much right before their eyes.”

  “That’s right,” Dolores said. “She’d never have had the courage to do that a month ago.”

  She hadn’t had any courage at all a month ago. Or any confidence. Pete’s belief in her had been responsible for the change. It had given her the courage to believe in herself. She loved him for that, too.

  Anne moved restlessly about the sitting room. She looked out the window, but the brown landscape was unchanged from the last time she’d looked out. She listened, but silence shrouded the house. With just the two of them at home, the quiet was eerie.

  “If you don’t stop fidgeting, you’re going to stick yourself with that needle,” Dolores warned.

  Anne put her work aside. “I can’t concentrate on sewing, not when I’m wondering what the sheriff is going to do next. He’s certain Pete killed Belser.”

  “Like Pete said, as long as you’ll swear he never left the bed, there’s no way he can pin it on him.”

  Anne had told herself that over and over again, but she had never known men to let logic and facts get in their way when they were determined to do something. And the sheriff was determined to hang Pete for Belser’s murder. She wouldn’t be able to rest easy until the real murderer was caught.

  “I’m afraid the sheriff will never find out who killed Belser,” Anne said to Dolores. “Then everybody will spend the rest of their lives being certain Pete did it. I couldn’t stand that.”

  “I’m sure Pete will think of something. He seems like a very resourceful man.”

  “Yes, but even he can’t conjure killers out of thin air.”

  And that was the problem. The killer had disappeared into thin air, something Anne knew was impossible. Yet the only other explanation was that someone in the house had killed Belser. She knew that was impossible.

  “Listen.”

  Anne stopped her pacing. “It sounds like a buckboard,” she said.

  “Who would be using a buckboard?”

  Both women hurried from the room, down the hall, and to the front door. They flung open the door and ran out to the porch. Both stopped dead in their tracks, stunned by what they saw. A buckboard had come to a halt in front of the house. The driver jumped out to help Mrs. Horace Dean down.

  “I’ve come to support you in your hour of trial,” she announced. “No young woman should have to watch her imposter of a husband be hauled away to the gallows without the support of friends.”

  Fear clutched at Anne’s heart. She looked down the trail to see if the sheriff was following Mrs. Dean. The emptiness of the landscape provided little reassurance. He could have gone straight to the roundup.

  “Has the sheriff found any evidence?” She couldn’t believe she could control her voice enough to speak.

  “No, but he soon will,” Mrs. Dean said as she climbed the steps to the porch. “Bring my trunk in,” she directed the driver. “Dolores will show you where to put it. And now, my dear, you must allow me to comfort you. You must be near fainting from thinking of your near escape.”

  “How could we have escaped? You just said the sheriff was going to hang Pete.”

  “I mean your escape from a murderer who took advantage of your ignorance to claim to be your husband. I certainly hope you’re not carrying his child. That would be a tragedy.”

  Anne had never understood how anyone could be angry enough to commit murder, but she was beginning to.

  “My husband is not an imposter and he’s not a murderer. If you’ve come here to say so, you can turn right around and go back to Big Bend. I will not have a guest in my house slandering my husband.”

  Anne didn’t know where those words had come from. When she opened her mouth, she hadn’t intended to throw down a challenge to Mrs. Dean, but she would not allow anyone to say such things about Pete.

  “As to that, my dear, the future will tell. Now direct your servant to show this man where to stow my trunk. I’m exhausted and want to lie down before dinner. Afterward we’ll talk.”

  “Dolores is not a servant. She’s my friend.”

  “One should never make a friend of servants, child. It’s a mistake.”

  Mrs. Dean sailed right past them into the house as if Anne hadn’t spoken. The woman was impervious to hints, even openly stated prohibitions.

  “Put her in my old room,” Anne said to Dolores. “No matter what you do, don’t show her our room. She’s liable to move right in.”

  “Not if I tell her Pete’s likely to come home in the middle of the night and crawl into bed expecting to make love to his wife.”

  The two women broke into giggles.

  “I don’t know what you can find to laugh about in such a situation as this,” Mrs. Dean intoned from inside the house.

  Dolores rolled her eyes, and Anne recaptured her dignity.

  “I ought to put her in Belser’s bed and hope the killer comes back,” Dolores said.

  “Don’t say that, not even in fun. Now go before she comes out demanding to know why I haven’t learned to exercise better control over my servants.”

  “I know you don’t like to think about it, my dear,” Mrs. Dean said to Anne as they sat over supper, “but you’ve got to consider all possibilities. There’s something very wrong about this whole affair, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

  After getting up from her nap, Mrs. Dean had refrained from mentioning Pete or Belser’s murder. Instead, she’d taken Anne over the entire house, inch by inch, telling her how she should redecorate it now she was mistress. Irritated by the constant stream of criticism, Anne had asked her how she could be mistress of the house if her husband was an imposter about to be hanged.

  Mrs. Dean had ignored the question.

  Having exhausted Anne’s patience and prevented her from helping Dolores with the supper preparations, she led Anne to the table with the aplomb of a queen in her own home. Once at the table, however, she’d reversed herself and concentrated on Pete’s guilt.

  “You have to consider every possibility.” That was her reply every time Anne objected to one of her presumptions, or assertions, or out-and-out fabrications. “This thing is a great mystery. The solution may be something quite beyond even my powers of imagination.”

  Anne didn’t believe that was possible. Mrs. Dean seemed capable of imagining anything, regardless of how absurd it might be. Such as the scena
rio she was propounding just now.

  “Even you have to admit it covers all the particulars,” she was saying. “This man who calls himself Pete meets up with the real Peter Warren on his way here. Peter was such a dolt he’d tell anybody anything and not suspect a thing. It would have been child’s play for this man to have pumped him for as much information as possible, then murdered him in his sleep.”

  “Pete was never that bad, not even as a boy.”

  Mrs. Dean ignored her interruption.

  “Then that man shows up here pretending to be your husband. It’s entirely understandable how you could be fooled, my dear. I’m the first to admit he’s more handsome than poor Peter would ever have been.”

  “He looks just like what I thought Peter would look like as a grown man,” Anne insisted.

  “You overlook the bone structure,” Mrs. Dean said. “Never overlook bones. They don’t lie.”

  Anne didn’t know how she could forget about the bones, as much as she would like to, with Mrs. Dean forever flinging them in her face. Nobody could tell what a boy’s face was going to look like at maturity, not even Mrs. Dean.

  “It’s perfectly logical he should want to put an end to Belser’s insisting he was an imposter,” Mrs. Dean continued. “I imagine he would have liked to murder me as well if he dared do such a thing.”

  Anne was beginning to wonder if there weren’t a lot of people who would like to murder Mrs. Dean.

  “And if all the things I’ve said were true, there’d be nothing easier than to steal into poor Belser’s room in the dead of night and kill him. Being drunk, he couldn’t offer any resistance.”

  “I’ve told you repeatedly, Pete didn’t leave again after he came to bed,” Anne said.

  “You were asleep. How could you tell?”

  “I’m a light sleeper. I would have woken up.”

  “You’d had a long trip from town, my dear. You were exhausted. I’m sure you slept like the dead.”

  “Not quite. I did wake up when Pete came to bed. And he was tiptoeing in his stocking feet so he wouldn’t wake me. I heard him outside the door.” Mrs. Dean didn’t need to know she had already been awake. “He couldn’t possibly have gotten out of bed and into it again without waking me.”