Kilgore stared with contempt. “Explain? You don’t have to explain. You’re about to tell me some cock-and-bull story you devised during that year you spent in the pen. I’m willing to bet you’re out to claim some hotel dick caught you red-handed, probably wearing that coat—”
“Why, yes,” said Erskine, taken aback.
“—and you told him you bought it in good faith from some thief you met in a poolroom, and then— Sit down when I’m talking!” Kilgore bellowed, thrusting a meaty finger at the younger man’s chest. “Only you didn’t know the name of this thief, and the hotel clerk picked you out from working in the kitchen, and then you saw the jig was up and you broke down. Now, that’s the truth, ain’t it?”
“No, it ain’t!” shouted Erskine, flaming with anger. “You’ve got no right calling me a thief till you know the facts!”
“No right? Ain’t there a prior record of conviction?”
“Yes, but—”
“Ain’t that conclusive in law?”
“Yes—”
“Are you asking me to go behind the record just on the unsworn say-so of a senile old fool like Joe Anslinger?”
“Yes, I am,” said Erskine. “Mr. Anslinger’s no fool, and he’s not senile. He’s still the best conveyancer in Colorado. He sent me here because he felt you’d be understanding and sympathetic.”
“Now, why would I be sympathetic?”
“Because you once got the same raw deal yourself,” said Erskine hotly, “an’ you ought to know how a young boy might fall into a trap, and be conned by a smart detective into a false confession to suck up to the court! Everybody knows you got a record yourself—and how you got it!”
“Oh, they do?”
“Yes!”
Kilgore received the outburst with unusual mildness. He returned to the desk and opened a drawer. With deliberation, he took out a comb and a pot of perfumed grease, which he applied liberally to the thick black mane of his hair. When it gleamed in splendor, he faced the excited Erskine.
“If Kilgore’s the kind of lawyer that’s got a spotty and criminal past, will you kindly advise him why you’re so anxious to hitch onto his coattails?”
Erskine hesitated under the baleful scrutiny of the older man. “Well, Mr. Anslinger felt I didn’t have a chance in Colorado,” he muttered, lowering his eyes. “But aside from all that, he told me you were the finest trial lawyer in the whole country and the best all-round man this side of Arkansas.”
“He said that?”
“He sure did!”
Kilgore’s chest swelled visibly. “Well, it’s true enough,” he mused. “I’ll tell you what—”
The door opened with a bang. A bony woman of middle years strode into the room shaking her fist. “Kilgore! You son of a bitch! When I come down here to see you, I don’t want to be kept waiting like some cheap trollop! That woman of yours kept telling me to sit tight, but—”
Sarah Hilleboe appeared at the door, panting. “I’m sorry, Kilgore. I just turned my back for a minute—”
“It’s all right, Sarah. I don’t mind talking to Laurie, long as she’s here now.”
The secretary withdrew, muttering. Kilgore looked at Laurie Morgan. “Well, what’s so all-fired important, eh?”
Laurie Morgan was wearing a floppy bonnet and an ornate silk frock with white gloves and parasol to match. She had once been pretty, but the drooping pouches under her eyes showed the advance of the years.
Erskine rose uneasily and said, “I guess I’d better leave—”
Kilgore held up a paw. “I ain’t finished with you, Erskine. Stick around. This anything you wouldn’t want my young friend to hear, Laurie?”
She shrugged. “My daughter Honey’s missing,” she said simply.
“Honey missing?” Kilgore repeated. “Well, I’m not the constabulary, Laurie. When did you see her last?”
Laurie was twisting a handkerchief. “Not for about a month. That’s when she sneaked away to visit Dade Rawlins here in San Carlos and I’ve been writing and writing her to come home, I’ve been that worried. And finally I decided to come and fetch her. But she’s been gone three days.”
“What does Dade say?”
“That’s just it!” Laurie stood biting her thumb in distress. “Dade said she went off, and he didn’t think to worry when she didn’t come back at all. Somebody’s keeping her out of sight.”
“Who would you say?”
Laurie hesitated, and shot a glance of suspicion at Clem Erskine, who was watching the storm of mounting emotion with embarrassment. She drew a breath and answered, “Harry McCandless!”
Kilgore swung about and toyed a moment with a letter opener on the rolltop desk. The woman’s face, he saw, was dead white, and the patches of rouge were like flame.
“Why tell me?” he asked slowly.
“Because you’re that thick with his daddy,” Laurie replied. “You’d know! And you might be covering up for that boy.”
“You figure I’d do a thing like that?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you!”
“That kind of reasoning is ridiculous, Laurie,” said Kilgore with contempt. “I got better ways of spending time than participating in abductions. Kilgore’s reputation and character refute that charge eo instanti—and what’s more, you know it.”
“Reckon so,” Laurie said. “I didn’t really mean it, Kilgore. But I’m so panicky I don’t know what to do.”
“Harry McCandless is practically a stranger to me,” Kilgore said. “Just because I do legal work for his father don’t mean I’m an expert on the boy’s scrapes. What makes you so sure that Harry McCandless knows where she is? It might be any one of a hundred men, or women, in this town.”
Laurie shrugged bewilderedly. “I’m only guessing.”
“Did you get in touch with Harry?”
Laurie shook her head miserably. “You know what chance I stand to get on McCandless ground,” she muttered. “I been sending in messages, and begging, and using the telephone, but I can’t get any satisfaction out of any McCandless, there or here in town. Kilgore, I’m sick with worry.”
Kilgore rose. His expression was one of concern—both over the woman’s agitation as a mother, and because of the sudden stabbing pain lancing through his ear. He had some sort of infection in there, he figured. His gruff voice fell to a kindlier level as he motioned the woman to a chair and offered a tumbler of whisky. Erskine resumed his seat and tapped out a cigarette.
“Mind if I smoke, ma’am?” Erskine asked.
“Hell, no,” said Laurie, coughing on her liquor.
Kilgore made small talk of a reassuring nature. When the woman’s agitation had diminished, he said quietly, “Look here, Laurie. You get yourself back up to Santa Fe and go about your business. The police will find Honey, and if I have to I’ll light a firecracker under Police Chief Valdez myself. Don’t go off half-cocked about Harry McCandless. Honey could be off on a joy ride with anybody in town.”
“She’s a good girl,” Laurie muttered.
“She’ll turn up, in any case.” Kilgore assisted Laurie to the door. “I’ll be in touch with you. Maybe I’ll ride up to Santa Fe next week and pay your place a little visit, if I’m still welcome there.”
“Hell, Kilgore, I’m not holding a grudge.”
“Glad to hear that. And don’t worry about Honey.”
When Laurie was gone, Kilgore turned to the younger man. “Erskine,” he said solemnly, “that rolltop desk and that high-button sitting chair has just seen a morsel of the human drama that parades through a lawyer’s office. Laurie Morgan’s about as tough as they come in these parts—but I wouldn’t take the load of misery that’s in her heart for that little girl of her’n for all the tea in China.”
“How old is her daughter?” said Erskine.
“Eighteen,” said Kilgore. “A pretty little thing. Red hair and green eyes and a dancing little figure and the spirit of fun. Well!” he sighed. “She’s probably off to some ranch house
for the cold spell. Only way to keep warm this time of year.” He shook his head. “Honey Morgan’s bound to turn up with a new dress and a ribbon in her hair. Meantime, I’ve got to straighten out a legal argument in my mind. What about breakfast?” he concluded with feeling.
2.
TO THE HUNDREDS of campesinos, the mountain peasants who lived in the lands surrounding San Carlos, a single Catholic priest was assigned to bring the comforts of a faith that had supported them and their fathers in a hard life. He was a young man, tall, thin, with sharp and sensitive features. A cold wind whistled about him as he rode his mule through the steep hills to the settlements that made up his parish. A shawl was gathered about his shoulders and neck. His mule was a fair animal, a gift of the commanding officer of Fort George, several hundred miles to the north. The priest’s cassock sheltered the animal’s brown flesh against the cold.
A box of toys rode the mule’s back behind him—toy pistols, dolls, tops, jacks of Anglo manufacture—and in the same box, carefully wrapped, an inner box with bell and chalice for the ceremonials that lay ahead in small mountain villages that had been old when Coronado first came to the land. His breath came out in plumes, and his thoughts were inward, upon a young mother who had died a week earlier of pneumonia. He had had no medicines to give, only blessings, and she had died.
The dead mother was in the thoughts of young Father Enrique Crespin as he rode north into San Carlos to replenish his supplies. And because his thoughts were inward he failed to see the girl who lay supine on the ground, staring upward. Passing the body unknowingly, he rode on, thinking of the coarse hot food and straw pallet that he might expect for the night. He was deciding whether or not to press on to San Carlos when a boy came running barefoot, throwing pebbles at a mongrel dog. At the sight of the priest, the boy put a finger to his mouth and halted bashfully.
“God be with you, Manuelito,” said the priest with a tired, kindly smile. “Will you tell los padres that I would like to rest the night?”
The boy turned and ran off. Turning, the priest followed him with his eyes, and caught a glimpse of red in a thicket of brush near the road. “Ai de mí!” he groaned. “No es posible!”
But it was, he saw, entirely possible. The girl lay on a rise of the hill overlooking a turbulent, shallow river. She seemed entirely at peace. Her legs lay sprawled and apart; one arm was thrown back in a helpless gesture, the other crossed at her breast. Her dress was pulled up to her hips, exposing her body. Her tongue peeped from between bruised, purplish lips.
Automatically the young priest pulled down the dress to cover the nakedness before him. He brought his hand over the corpse and with pity began to intone the liturgy of death as the sun dropped behind the mountain. He became aware that a man and woman stood behind him, muttering to themselves.
A twinkling of lights appeared in the distant city, and a change of the freezing wind attracted a coyote. A howl arose in the night. The priest led the way toward the small cabin, his face a weary mask.
“Padre, let me bring her into the casa,” his peasant host pleaded. “It is not decent that she should lie out there like a beast.”
“No, Manuel. This is something that must be reported to the authorities. It is clear that the girl was brought here after her death for a purpose. She is not to be moved.”
“Will they suspect me?” asked the man fearfully.
“Of course not,” the priest replied, vexed. “If you were responsible, you would have hidden the body in some arroyo. You would not have left her to be found so near the road on your own land.”
“But they will question me,” the man wept.
“Indeed, they will question you,” the young priest agreed grimly. “Yo lo creo! But if you move the body, they will surely arrest you, or something worse.”
“Father?”
“Si?”
“Take the body with you?”
“Be quiet!” cried the priest. “And be sure of one thing, you foolish man. You are to watch the body for every moment of time until the authorities come.”
Something in the young priest’s tone was dangerous. The man bowed his head and swore the body would be guarded.
Suddenly his wife nudged him fiercely. “Di la verdad! Tell the truth!”
The priest glared suspiciously. “Qué verdad? What truth is this he is not telling?”
The man glanced venomously at his wife, then began to quiver in fright. Sternly, the priest pressed him with questions. Piecemeal, the true story emerged.
Three days before, a buckboard had appeared, driven through the night along the rutted road. Manuel Sanchez, the campesino, had observed and wondered at the distinctive sign painted on the buckboard—a brand in the form of the crux ansata, the looped cross, which told him that the buckboard came from the great rancho of the McCandless family, which stretched out below. That the crux ansata was an ancient symbol that went back to the Stone Age he had no idea. Nor would he have cared.
The buckboard had stopped not far from the Sanchez cabin. The driver, a man in sheepskins, had descended and taken out a bulky object wrapped in a woolen blanket of Navajo design, dragged it to a thicket of mountain laurel, then returned empty-handed to the buckboard and driven back toward the distant rancho. For two days the trembling Sanchez had avoided the thicket. On the third—no more than an hour or two before the priest’s arrival—he had gone to it, and had found the body. He had told his wife, but the simple people had not known what to do. And then the padre had arrived, and himself discovered the body.
There was no point rebuking the people for their attempt to conceal the story. Father Crespin said regretfully, “You should not have let her lie there these days. If the weather were not so cold she would have changed and become hideous. And the law should be told.”
“We fear the law,” Sanchez said hollowly.
The young priest retired. Before dawn he arose, said his prayers, ate the corn-meal preparation offered by the woman, and washed it down with hot coffee. He gave the shivering mule its head and followed the main road deeper into the valley. Sometime toward noon, he looked up to find himself before the brick building that housed the offices and lockup of San Carlos County.
It was a building he knew well. Almost as well as the courtyard in which twice he had mounted a scaffold with desperate men who had accepted his offices with resignation and defiance. Almost as well as the tall, hulking, cold-faced man who received his report.
Sheriff Mike Duer listened without a change of expression on his stony face. “Sanchez said there was the looped cross on the buckboard?”
“Yes. The McCandless brand.”
“That’s real interesting,” Duer mused. “Yeah.”
“The girl is from San Carlos, I am sure,” the young priest said. “The hands are too soft for a girl from any rancho or farm out there. The nails have been cared for, and the dress is silk. I am sure she is from the city.”
The sheriff made no direct reply. “The country ends a few miles past Sanchez’ place. Maybe she was brought across the line from Croghan County.”
The priest frowned in perplexity. The long ride had tired him, and even now, the warmth of a stove blazing with piñon logs, the wine and sweet biscuits and hot coffee brought by Pepita Duer, the sheriff’s wife, had not brought ease of strain. He could not understand the sheriff’s odd reluctance to take action.
“This is all nonsense,” he said. “It does not matter where the girl came from, whether from Croghan or not. I am reporting this matter to your office, and the fact remains that the body was found within your jurisdiction. It is important to take action as soon as possible.” He paused under the stare of cold, expressionless eyes. “I will tell you another reason why I think that girl came from this city.”
“Yeah?”
“Her cheeks were painted with rouge. I cannot imagine where she might have come from except the American section of San Carlos. One more point. If she were Spanish, I would have recognized her. I did not. Now, how s
oon will you ride out?”
“I’m arranging for a buckboard,” said the sheriff. “Given this cold snap, it don’t matter how long that takes. She’s been there awhile already, and she’ll be waiting when we get there.”
The priest arose. “I have told you whatever I know. Have you any idea who this girl was?”
“Mebbe,” said the sheriff after a pause. He added, “But until I’m positive, I don’t want to say more. This ain’t the first body that’s been dumped out in the hills, and it ain’t the last. But I’ll ask you to keep this to yourself until I notify you. I don’t even want it known that the body was found. Or anything about that looped cross on the buckboard. Keep shut till I’m ready to move. Is that too much to ask, Padre?”
“No, it is not. Perhaps. In any case, I am on my way to Santa Fe, where I can be reached through the Archbishopric. I will be at your service. Remain with God, Sheriff Duer.”
The young priest left, wrapping his shawl about his neck. Dry snow crystals swirled stingingly through the streets of San Carlos as he trudged across to the mission grounds.
San Carlos had a telephone system, one of the earliest installed in the Territory, and when Duer had finally put his thoughts in order he made a call to the police station in High Street. The phone rang half a dozen times. A poker game would be in progress, the sheriff knew, and his brother-in-law, Police Chief Valdez, would be reluctant to throw in his hand and come to the phone. On the seventh ring someone picked up.
“This is Joe Valdez.”
“Mike.”
“What can I do for you, eh?”
“You still got a feeler out for the Morgan girl?”
“Naturalmente. Kilgore told me yesterday that he wanted to see the girl back. He will keep bothering me. Why?”
“I might have a line on her.”
“So?”
“You don’t sound interested. I thought you just said Kilgore was personally bothering you about the disappearance.”
“He is, and I don’t go out of my way to cross him,” Valdez said. “Nor to please him. It ain’t the first time Honey’s lit out. She’ll come back. I figure she’s warming her toes someplace out in the country. Or someone else’s toes. What kind of line you think you have?”
Frontier Lawyer Page 2
