The Cowboy's Crime

by Evelyn James

  “It is rash.”

  “No, it is pragmatic,” Clara was firm. “I know you have been gathering intelligence, doing all you can, but your hands are tied. A full force of policemen needs to be sent in to wrap up this gang and take them away. They will need to be armed and ready. That is something that requires more resources than you have. Inspector, to work alone, to try to deal with this without the support of your Chief Constable, is to put the lives of yourself and your men at risk. This gang, these people, will fight back and you need all the might the force can muster against them.”

  Park-Coombs was silent for a few paces, his moustache giving awkward twitches that reflected his conflicting inner thoughts. Clara gave him time, didn’t rush him. She wanted him to take full note of everything she had said.

  “But kidnapping?” Park-Coombs finally said.

  “What else? I’m not going to murder someone and a robbery of sufficient grandeur to be the work of this gang is too difficult to orchestrate. This way we can cause a panic without really endangering anyone. The earl is very keen.”

  “He would be,” Park-Coombs snorted. “These nobility types are always bored out of their minds and desperate for an adventure.”

  “It is bending the truth, of course. But once it is pinned on Leong’s gang, no one is going to believe their protests of innocence, are they? Especially when an earl was the victim. He will play his part, say his captors kept talking about Jao and so on.”

  The inspector closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

  “You know what the worst of this is? I can see it working and that makes me wonder about our justice system,” he muttered.

  “We both know the system is flawed, but sometimes justice works in a strange way. After all, though we will be convicting people for a crime they did not commit, they are hardly innocents. They have committed crimes we are unable to convict them for. It is a way of righting the balance.”

  Park-Coombs shook his head.

  “It goes against everything I stand for,” he groaned. “I am meant to uphold the law and prevent crime, not to manipulate the truth for my own ends.”

  “For the greater good, Inspector,” Clara said softly.

  They were silent again for a while. When Clara finally spoke, it was with a slight smile on her lips.

  “You know, I was not going to tell you. I wanted to keep you out of this. Chang insisted, however.”

  “So now I have Chang to be grateful to?” Park-Coombs rolled his eyes. “Delightful!”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  Park-Coombs came to a halt, ahead of them was the bus stop and a queue of people waiting.

  “I am going to go to the funfair and talk to Clark, I might have to arrest him for assault, though Maven doesn’t want any charges pressed.”

  “I meant about what I told you,” Clara nudged him, knowing he was deliberately avoiding answering her.

  “What can I do?” Park-Coombs asked her with a neutral expression on his face. “If I go to the earl and question him, he will deny all this, and if I offer him protection he will refuse. I could tail him, of course, but precisely what would I achieve?”

  Clara’s smile had broadened.

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  Park-Coombs muttered under his breath words she did not hear, but then the bus arrived, and they hurried aboard.

  “If Maven is not responsible, we are back to the drawing board,” Clara sighed. “I wish Clark could remember something, anything about this Buffalo Rock place.”

  “I have made a few enquiries across the pond,” the inspector said. “But without much success. There are so many little towns with sheriffs and only so much money for telegrams. Without knowing quite where to look, I am struggling.”

  “It all comes back to the reason Clark left America, I am sure of it,” Clara glanced out of the window of the bus, noticing that it had started to rain and relieved they had avoided getting wet.

  “You have to wonder what this assailant plans to do once he has worked through all of Clark’s friends,” the inspector said with such a solemn tone Clara actually shivered.

  “I am trying not to think about that,” she confessed.

  They arrived at the funfair in slight trepidation, not sure what they might come across next, but all seemed peaceful. Duncan was unloading his cart as usual, muttering about his back and how underappreciated he was. Gunther and Vladimir were prowling about, looking as if they were spoiling for a fight. Clara guessed their extra grim expressions were due to the bizarre incident with Maven the night before. They were probably wondering about their jobs.

  In fact, it seemed there was an atmosphere of uncertainty lingering over everyone with Maven in hospital. The future of the funfair seemed in question, until they were sure their noble leader would recover and return to them.

  Clara and the inspector headed straight to Clark’s caravan, where they found the cowboy eating a late breakfast and talking with Mary. The painted lady gave Clara a nod as she entered and her whole demeanour spoke of her happiness. It seemed Clark’s heroics had mellowed her distrust of him and her memory of his betrayal. They appeared to be getting along like a house on fire.

  Clara wondered where poor Polly was.

  “Howdy folks, any news?” Clark turned serious at the sight of Park-Coombs.

  “Maven has woken up,” the inspector said, his demeanour telling everyone he was not here to impart pleasing news. “He denies he was intending to shoot Mary. He states he retrieved the gun from a thief who had snuck into the main tent. He was on his way to see Mary at the time and didn’t bother to put away the gun when he carried on to her tent.”

  Mary’s face paled and she turned to Clark.

  “Maven mentioned he wanted to talk to me,” she said. “It was earlier in the day. He said we had to talk, and he did not look pleased.”

  “He had received a complaint about your behaviour towards a gentleman who came to your tent the other day,” the inspector continued.

  Mary grunted.

  “I can guess who,” her face fell as understanding dawned. “Oh Clark, he was not going to shoot me. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  Clark had gone a strange colour, his eyes seemed to be bulging from his face and his hands had a distinctive tremble. He placed them firmly on the fold-down table between himself and Mary to mask the tremor.

  “Is he going to be all right?” He asked.

  “I spoke to the doctors. The wound was not serious. It will take a while for him to be able to use his arm and hand again properly, but aside from that he should be just fine,” the inspector tried to lighten his tone, to take the edge off his news. “Mr Maven does not want to press charges against you, he appreciates you are under a lot of strain and recent events have been very unsettling. I don’t intend to pursue the matter further, under the circumstances, but that does leave us with the problem that we are still oblivious to who is really behind these attacks.”

  Mary reached out and placed her hand over Clark’s. He looked in shock and the trembling had crept into his body. Clara wondered just how much more the man could take before he suffered a full-scale nervous breakdown. He seemed to be teetering on the precipice as it was.

  “What now, Inspector?” Mary asked.

  “I am continuing my enquiries,” Park-Coombs promised. “We just have to remain alert. This fellow will slip up soon enough.”

  He was about to something else, when there was another knock on the caravan door. Shuffling up closer to Clara, the inspector made room for Tommy to enter.

  “I hoped you would all be here,” Tommy said as he appeared. “I wasn’t expecting you, Inspector.”

  Park-Coombs gave him a smile.

  “Have you got something?” Clara asked. That morning, while she had headed to the police station, Tommy had headed to the Post Office to see if there was any news from America. He had intended to sit there and wait, hoping his telegram would receive a prompt response.

 
“I have,” Tommy replied, holding up a sheet of paper. “It isn’t much, but after I got the telegram response, I was able to persuade the Post Office to let me make an international telephone call.”

  “That will cost a bit,” Park-Coombs whistled.

  “It can go on the client’s bill,” Tommy grinned. “In any case, it was worth it. I had an interesting conversation with Sheriff Frankel of a small town called Coyote Creek.”

  “I’ve been there,” Clark said at once. “There was a man called Bison Ben, built like a mountain, who was molesting the womenfolk.”

  “Well, let me explain how I came to speak to Sheriff Frankel,” Tommy said. “You see, I sent a telegram yesterday to an American writer who had recently published a book on the Wild West, including several chapters on yourself, Clark.”

  Clark perked up.

  “I asked this writer about Buffalo Rock and the response I received by telegram told me to contact Sheriff Frankel at Coyote Creek, as he could explain what had happened there better than anyone else. And that is what I did,” Tommy paused dramatically, until he saw the look Clara gave him. “Sheriff Frankel explained to me that Buffalo Rock is just a formation of red stone that rather looks like, well, a buffalo. It’s a local landmark, but nothing more. When I asked if something had occurred there once involving Clark, he started to tell me the story of a bounty hunt gone wrong.

  “It seems, Clark, you were pursuing an outlaw known simple as The Mexican. He had been causing a lot of trouble in the district and there was a sizeable reward on his head. But you were not riding out after him alone, no, you had a companion, a lad who wanted to be a bounty hunter too and was acting like your apprentice, so to speak.

  “According to Sheriff Frankel, the lad was a recent immigrant to America and still had a strong accent, something European. He didn’t remember much more than that about him, though he did say that you, Clark, had laughingly stated you allowed the lad to ride with you because he made such good coffee.”

  Clark didn’t know whether to frown or smile at this information, it was obvious none of it was ringing a bell.

  “Anyway, one morning there was word that The Mexican was about. He had robbed a ranch nearby, defiled the women and shot a cattle hand. Clark, you went out after him, with your apprentice. You trailed him to Buffalo Rock, where The Mexican was cooking some food after his morning ‘adventures’. What followed was a shootout. The Mexican was killed, but the lad riding with you, he was shot as well.

  “You helped him back to Coyote Creek and the local doctor did his best, but before noon the lad was a goner. Sheriff Frankel said he never saw a man so broken that day as he did you, Clark. He thought you might shoot yourself or something. You were blaming yourself, cursing for letting him ride with you.

  “He says you were a changed man, and a few days later you rode out and disappeared. He didn’t know what had become of you, but we now know you boarded a ship and came to England, accompanied only by Gung-Ho. That horse you rode so hard to reach the coast, that its back was never the same.”

  Tommy stopped and the caravan filled with uneasy quiet. Clark was staring at the wood grain of the table, or at least that was where his gaze fell. It seemed just as likely to Clara that he was staring into the past, back to a time he could not quite recall.

  “I don’t remember,” he said in a frightened voice. “I don’t remember any of it.”

  “It seems someone does,” Park-Coombs’ sombre words broke the tension. “Someone is seeking revenge.”

  “Who?” Clark asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tommy admitted. “Sheriff Frankel did not recall the name of the lad.”

  “Someone remembers,” Mary said, and her tone was morbid. “Someone wants the lad avenged. They blame you, Clark, they blame you for his death.”

  Clark looked bleak; his face creased into anxious folds.

  “I don’t remember,” he kept repeating. “I don’t remember.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Clara walked across the funfair grounds with Tommy.

  “One step forward, and two back,” Tommy remarked.

  Clara was not listening, she was troubled by recent events, worried that they were failing to make progress and danger was looming over Mary. She was the last of Clark’s friends to still be unharmed and after her, what then? What did the assailant plan?

  They had wandered to the place where David had his coffee stall and found him warming his copper pots and pans. A deep bruise on his temple reminded them of what he had recently endured.

  “Good morning,” he said to them, smiling as usual. “Coffee? I have just made my first batch and I always think that is the best of the day.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup,” Tommy said. “I have never had coffee like this before.”

  “That is because it is European tradition blended with New World style,” David grinned, proud of his work. “My father makes exceptional coffee. He owned a café once, a very nice little place, very popular.”

  “Where is your family now?” Clara asked, slightly uneasy about the question, wondering what the answer might be.

  “Oh, they are well,” David said. “They are not in England, that is all.”

  “You said you came from Galicia, which is now Poland?” Tommy said conversationally as David handed him a cup of steaming black coffee.

  “Yes. Would you care for cream? Really, coffee is always best with cream. Never milk. The English way of adulterating coffee with milk is awful.”

  “I best have cream then,” Tommy said. “Are your family still in Galicia?”

  “No,” David said. “We all left. The old country is not what it once was. Yes, we are independent, but everything feels… too new, too unstable. It was worrying. My father and mother headed for America. Before I settled in England, I went to visit them, and there I learned how to make the finest coffee you ever tasted. My father runs a saloon now, over there.”

  Clara pricked up her ears.

  “Really? Where in America?” She asked. “Somewhere like New York, perhaps?”

  “Oh no,” David chuckled with amusement at her thinking. “My father prefers humbler surroundings. It is just a little desert town on a good trade route. They call it Blue Sands. A very odd name, no? Ah, you want sugar!”

  He had noticed Tommy taking a hesitant first sip of the coffee. He bent down and pulled out a wooden box marked ‘coffee’ from which he drew a blue bag of sugar.

  “I only ever use brown sugar. It is better,” David offered a spoonful of sugar to Tommy, who gladly accepted.

  Clara frowned.

  “Isn’t it confusing to keep your sugar in a coffee box?” She asked.

  David grinned.

  “No, I know this stall perfectly. See? My coffee beans are kept in bags,” he pulled back a curtain at the bottom of his stall, revealing an inner compartment, a cupboard where he kept all his supplies. “This old wooden box keeps my sugar dry from the damp.”

  David placed the box back beneath the stall. Clara had not taken her eyes off it. Information was coming together in her head. Lines of thought suddenly making sense. Though she could not see the whole pattern just yet, she had her first true idea of the design.

  Just then she spotted the inspector on his way to leave the funfair and she excused herself to hurry over to him.

  “Inspector!” She called out.

  Park-Coombs came to a halt.

  “Clara?”

  “I think I know who is behind all this,” Clara said. “Only, there remain questions… But I can see most of it. Look, if we were to gather everyone together, I think we could figure this out.”

  Park-Coombs frowned.

  “Why don’t I just arrest the fellow for common assault and question him at the station?” He said.

  Clara shook her head.

  “This is a sensitive matter, Inspector. If you do that, I don’t think you will get anything, and I rather think everyone needs to hear what has gone on and the reasons for it
. Especially Clark,” Clara paused. “Clark is a man carrying deep scars and I hope this might ease some of them. If he could face the truth, face the pieces of his past, then maybe he can move beyond them.”

  Park-Coombs sighed, not looking impressed.

  “Well, if you think it will help…”

  “I do,” Clara said, though she had to admit she was not as sure as she sounded.

  The inspector merely nodded.

  “All right, let’s gather everyone. Where do you want to bring them?”

  “The food tent,” Clara said. “I have one last piece of information to check, and then I shall be ready.”

  ~~~*~~~

  A short time later, Clark, Mary, Polly, David, Gunther, Vladimir, Tommy and the inspector were all in the food tent looking baffled as to what was going on. Maven was the only one absent from the group, seeing as he was still confined to his hospital bed.

  Clara walked in from the back of the tent, where the cook was beginning his daily preparations. She checked everyone was there and then headed to the front to stand before them.

  “Thank you for all coming, sorry to drag you here in the cold,” she cast her apology mainly at Polly who still looked weak from her assault. It didn’t help her mood that Clark had opted to sit with Mary, away from her.

  Clara could do nothing about that, so she started to explain herself.

  “We all know what has been happening at the funfair, but the reason for it, the reason people have been attacked has been difficult to pin down. Naturally, we all assumed it was to do with Clark, but there could have been other reasons; maybe the attacker wanted the funfair ruined or forced to leave town? The choice of victims and their links to Clark might have been a coincidence,” Clara paused to take a good look at the faces before her, wanting to see their reactions. So far, everyone seemed puzzled by this sudden meeting, which was worrying. She braced herself and carried on.

  “It was not a coincidence; of that I am certain. We were correct from the start that Clark was the intended target. The question was – why? The tools of the attacks – the lasso, gun and knife – clearly linked to Clark, but what was their meaning? With Clark unable to remember what happened the night Gung-Ho died, nor anything relating to his life in England, it was rather a struggle to figure out what was going on.”