by S. L. Stoner
When Siringo came back from tying up the horses he’d obviously reached a decision of some sort because his stride was purposeful. “I’m thinking I’ll follow you back into town. It sounds like you might need some help and I want to hook up with Heney and find out why he’s here. Maybe it has something to do with our mission. I also have to take my lumps for not protecting Rayburn.”
“It’d be good to have you around,” Sage said. “Much as I don’t like making myself a target, the only thing we have to go on right now is the fact that somebody’s trying to stop me from investigating Rayburn’s and, maybe O’Dea’s, murder. Why did Rayburn agree to cooperate with Heney, anyway?”
That question twisted Siringo’s lips. “Stupid fool put his name on papers associated with the phony entry men’s filings,” he said. “Heney had him stretched tight over the barrel. It was either testify or go to jail.”
The log at their feet collapsed into the fire.“We best turn in,” Siringo said, stretching out flat on his blanket pad. “Tomorrow’s going to come soon enough. It’ll be a long day.” With that, the cowboy pulled a blanket up to cover his shoulders. Just as Sage began settling into sleep, Siringo made a statement that jerked Sage wide awake.
“I’ve been thinking about giving up this life. It’s looking more and more like my paychecks are coming from a bunch of low-down, money-hungry scalawags. Maybe I’ll settle down on a ranch somewhere nearby, get married. This is mighty fine country.” The cowboy detective heaved a sigh and was soon snoring lightly.
The embers blackened as Sage lay staring upwards at the vastness with its glittering points of light. He tried to picture the elegant Lucinda living on a remote ranch. Maybe, Siringo hadn’t asked her yet. Maybe, there was still hope. An ache settled into his chest as did an overwhelming sense of loss.
TWENTY FIVE
Paddy Campbell lay buried beside the creek in a small glen where stately pine trees stood guard over lush grass gleaming in the sunlight. They dismounted, leaving the horses to graze.
The stone mound was conspicuous, out of place. Its rocks must have been carried from the stream because they were water-rounded. Sage wondered why a murderer would have gone to the trouble of burying the body in such a lovely spot, let alone make such an effort to cover him.
When he asked that question, Siringo ruefully shook his head saying, “We humans are funny animals. I’ve seen the worst of us show great kindness. Almost as though a remaining smidgen of humanity must break out now and again. Who knows? Maybe Meglit has it in him to feel guilt and picking this beautiful spot was his way to atone. Or, maybe the fellow who helped him insisted on it.”
Sage remembered the dying man and the guilt he’d expressed to Lucinda. Could be he was the one who’d insisted that the old shepherd’s body be treated with respect.
They walked over to the mound of stones. Its length and width suggested what lay beneath. Without saying anything both men began tossing the rocks aside. After a bit, Sage asked, “They did a good job covering up the body. What am I going to tell people about finding it?”
“The simplest story is best, I think,” said Siringo. “Just say you saw buzzards circling. Got curious and saw something beneath rocks wild animals had shifted. You moved the rocks and found a body. You discovered he’d been shot and figured the sheriff needed to know.”
As they uncovered the body, only their labored breathing, the thunk of tossed rocks and the echoing croak of ravens disturbed the quiet. At last the body lay exposed to the morning sunlight. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Meglit’s bullet had taken away part of Campbell’s skull. Time and insects destroyed even more of him. Sage was glad he’d skipped breakfast. He took the tarpaulin he’d bought to rig up a tent and spread it out. They lifted the dead shepherd onto the heavy canvas, rolled him up, then used hemp rope to secure it at each end and in the middle.
Sage took everything off Gaspar before covering the horse’s back with a thick blanket. He smoothed the white stripe running down the horse’s face. Looking into the animal’s huge brown eyes he said, “Sorry old boy, I know you don’t much like people on your back but this is an old fellow, just like you. We need to take him home.”
Sage looked around, expecting to find Siringo smirking at such sentimentality. Instead, the cowboy detective stood beside the wrapped body, hat in hand and head bowed as if in prayer. Sage led Gasper over and the two of them lifted the body onto the horse. Siringo silently anchored the bundle and, once done, the five of them left the glade with Rocky carrying both Sage and the prospecting equipment. A docile Gasper plodded steadily along behind.
Reaching the road into town, Siringo halted. “I’ll follow an hour behind. Let’s meet around ten tonight behind the power plant, like before.”
The journey west had been slow. The day was very hot so every once and awhile, Sage reined the procession to one side. There he dismounted to give the horses a rest and a drink of water from the canvas bucket. The sun was three finger-widths above the western rimrocks when they trailed into Prineville. Sage headed for the sheriff ’s office near the courthouse.
He’d seen Sheriff C. Sam Smith at Twill’s street fight. Smith’s round face and receding chin gave him a boyish look. A bushy mustache extending beyond a small mouth did little to add maturity. As Sage dismounted, the lawman was stepping out the door, key in hand. Probably heading home to his supper. Seeing Sage he paused, then his eyes widened at the sight of Gasper’s burden.“Is that a dead body you got there, Mr. Miner?” he asked. Sage wasn’t surprised that the sheriff already knew his alias.
By now, he’d accepted the idea that, in Prineville, everyone knew everything within minutes of it happening.
“I heard tell that the Kepler brothers are missing a shepherd,” Sage began, nodding in the direction of the body, “I suspect that the old fellow on Gasper might be him. He was shot and buried beside Scissors Creek.”
“I heard tell you were heading up that way. Left just yesterday, didn’t you?” Suspicion showed in the man’s face and slowed his words.
“Yes, that’s right. I headed out yesterday, got there last evening and found the poor fellow early this morning. Thought I should bring him in. If you take a look, you’ll see he’s been dead quite awhile,” he added, hoping that would allay the suspicion. It didn’t quite.
“Well now, I guess we’ll let Doc Belknap decide when Mr. Paddy Campbell met his Maker. Let’s mosey on over to the brewery. We’ll keep the body cool until the doc gets a chance to examine him.” With that, Sheriff Smith took up Gasper’s rope and started walking down the street. Sage grabbed Rocky’s reins and followed. “You planning on heading right back out again?” the sheriff asked.
That note of suspicion remained. “Nope, I found this a bit unsettling, a bad omen. I’m thinking I might stay in town for awhile.”
“Good.” The sheriff walked a few more steps before saying, “So, I understand you been talking to that homesteader, Fromm. He tell you where to find the body?”
Sage paused in surprise. He hadn’t expected the sheriff to make that connection. The sheriff stopped and turned to stare at him. “Good Lord, no!” Sage said, genuinely shocked at the thought. It had never occurred to him that anyone would think Fromm had anything to do with the old shepherd’s murder.
The sheriff seemed satisfied. “So, tell me how did you come to find a body, straightaway, in all that vastness?” he asked, gesturing toward the dark slopes of the distant Ochocos.
“Well, like I said, I got an early start this morning. I trailed up Scissors Creek, looking for a likely spot to start panning. Hadn’t got very far when I noticed three buzzard’s circling down low. I went to look. Someone had made a big pile of creek rocks. The pile was shaped just like a body. When I got closer, I saw that an animal had rolled away a few of the rocks. From the paw tracks, it looked like coyote. Anyways, I saw a cloth shirt and the shape of a man’s shoulder. It didn’t look like a proper burial. So, I just threw aside some rocks to get a better look-see. That’s
when I saw the bullet hole.” Sage took care to keep his voice matter of fact, letting just a tinge of excitement give it heft.
“Bullet hole?”
“Someone shot him in the head. Actually made a big hole. I figured it wasn’t a natural death and you needed to see him. So, here we are.”
The summons soon brought Dr. Belknap to the brewery. He took one look and cleared Sage of any involvement. “Looks like the poor fellow’s been dead for weeks,” he told the sheriff.
With that, the sheriff said Sage was free to “go about his business, but stick around town.”
So, Sage walked his tired horses to their stable. The sight of them dismayed the stable owner. “What, you returning Rocky and Gasper already? They cause trouble? I tell you, I don’t have any milder animals than those two old fellows,” he said, clearly agitated at the idea of losing the rent Sage had already paid.
“Rocky and Gasper are fine animals. I’ve got no complaints,” Sage assured the stableman. “And I don’t want a refund.” Then he told him the reason for his brief trip out to the mountains and back.
“I sure don’t like all them sheep ruining the range,” Hamilton said. A splat of tobacco juice onto the dirt emphasized his disgust. “But, killing a man, especially a harmless old man, I can’t agree with at all.”
Sage could only nod. The toil and strain of the last two days had finally hit him. All he wanted to do was check back into the Poindexter, have a bath and a meal and go to sleep for a few hours.
After Hamilton said he’d be willing to store the prospecting gear, Sage gave the fellow coins for an extra measure of oats and patted each horse goodbye. Reaching the hotel, he paused in the dining room archway just long enough to scan the room. Lucinda was nowhere in sight. A low growl of frustration tickled his throat.
A clean body, full stomach and a few hours of sleep put an alert Sage back on the street. He had two hours to kill before it would be time to meet Siringo. He headed toward the Rimrock, hoping to find Twill there and in a better mood than the last time he’d seen him.
“Are my eyes deceiving me or has our prospector returned from the hills after being absent but less than two days? You already strike it rich?” the Irishman greeted, raising his glass in apparent friendliness. Sage cautiously edged up to Twill, again sensing that inexplicable shift in his attitude.
“How’ve you been?” Sage asked. If Twill was part of the group planning retaliation against the cattlemen, this change in him made sense. That must be it.
“Fair to middling. Can’t complain. Nobody’d listen,” came the response.
Well, that was a less than revealing answer, Sage thought. He ordered a beer and drank deeply. It felt like he’d been gone for at least a week, instead of just forty-eight hours. “Hear any more about Rayburn’s murder?” he asked.
“Folks are pretty certain that homesteader sent Rayburn off to meet his Maker. I’ve not heard a whisper of anything different.” Sage cleared his throat. Might as well give things a poke. “You know, with the killing of Timothy O’Dea, the barn burning and the sheep shooting that’s been going on, it’s surprising that the sheep ranchers and herders haven’t retaliated,” he commented before swallowing more of his beer.
“Ha,” Twill snorted in derision. “Lily-livered, that’s what they are. Keep thinking talking’s going to help. Bunch of gobdaws, every one of them. I’m damn tired of talking to ‘em.” Seeing Sage’s quizzical look, Twill added, “‘Gobdaw’ is Irishspeak for a ‘foolish idiot’.”
They drank in silence after that—Sage sad with the realization Twill no longer trusted him. With his own ears he’d heard the shepherds talking. They were definitely preparing to move beyond talking. And so were the sheep ranchers. Oh, well. The Irishman might not trust him, but Twill was a good man. Sage and Siringo had to catch the murderers before Twill and the other shepherds got themselves into serious trouble.
Twill ordered another beer and a shot of whiskey. “We hear tell you didn’t return to town by yourself,” the Irishman commented loudly and fixed Sage with a discomforting stare.
Around them the saloon fell completely silent. Sage repeated the same story he’d given Sheriff Smith. Twill’s face stayed expressionless during the telling.
His story told, the men in the saloon turned surly with a strong dose of boast. “Ain’t nobody going to shoot me, my dog or my sheep and get away with it!” came a shout that garnered loud whoops of support. “Only a damnable coward would kill an old man!” brought another burst of angry agreement.
“You still working for Van Ostrand and Thomas?” Sage finally asked, wondering why the Irish shepherd still remained in Prineville.
“Oh, that be the case all right. They have me doing a special little job right here in town.”
When Twill didn’t elaborate, Sage prodded. “Special job?”
“Van Ostrand thinks Timothy’s killer might be around
town. So, I’ve been checking into things.”
“Wonder why he thinks that?” Sage was interested. Did the surly dentist have some information that might lead to O’Dea’s killer?
“Well, now. Van Ostrand’s a smart man. He’s been doing some figuring, asking some questions. Even sent a telegram or two. He’s waiting on some confirming information from out of town,” Twill said, leaning forward in an exaggerated show of confidentiality. Then Twill straightened and there was a challenging glint in his eye. “Enough of my business. You planning on heading back out tomorrow?”
“Nah, the sheriff wants me to hang around town for a bit,” Sage said.
That information only seemed to increase the Irishman’s morose mood. “People think they can kill us shepherds and escape the consequences because this here is cattle country.” Twill leaned toward Sage, his hot breath a mix of beer, whiskey and free saloon sausage. “There’ll be consequences,” he promised. “Just like there is for betrayal.”
Sage’s head reared back. He tried to make sense of the Irishman’s somewhat menacing response. Of course, Twill was pretty drunk and that could explain the drama behind his threatening tone. Still, Sage felt the need to probe, parroting, “Betrayal?”
“Whomever put the ‘dangerous stone a-rolling’ will find
it falling on himself,” paraphrased the Irishman, heavy portent weighing his words.
“Henry the VIII, Duke of Suffolk,” Sage responded automatically, before tossing down the last of his beer. It was time to meet Siringo. Besides, he was in no mood to put up with Twill’s dramatics. Sage felt uneasy at the absence of the Irishman’s prior friendliness.
Still, now wasn’t the time to ponder on the change in Twill. It had been a long, hard day, starting with the senseless death of a harmless old man. Sage hadn’t known the shepherd but that didn’t stop his outrage at the cowardly taking of an inoffensive life. He said goodbye to Twill and headed for the door.
Once outside, he paused. Behind him, he heard the murmurs and intermittent shouts of the saloon’s drunken patrons. But beyond the Rimrock, a lowering sky made the way darker than usual. Hands shoved in his trousers, Sage turned toward the power plant. Away from the saloon, the night sounds quieted. Neighboring houses were dark. He passed before a residence under construction, wondering what it would be like to live in such a small town. Next, he paused before a darkened
storefront—a candy store. He used to take Lucinda candy and flowers. She liked the flowers best of all. “Stop it,” he ordered himself. Dwelling on memories only made it worse.
Stepping off the boardwalk onto the street, he heard a scuffling sound and the heavy breathing of a man moving quickly. He started to whirl around only to find himself falling forward as a sharp blow to his back knocked the wind out of him.
“Hey!” came a distant shout. “Drop it or I’ll shoot!” It was Siringo’s voice from at least a block ahead. This was followed by the sound of a stout board being dropped to the ground and the thudding boots of someone fleeing.
Sage pushed himself up onto his knees. Si
ringo’s hand appeared before his face and he gratefully grabbed hold so the cowboy could haul him up.
“Did you see who it was?” Sage gasped. It hurt to breathe. Gingerly reaching back to feel his ribs, he winced when his fingers encountered a tender spot.
“Nope, I was too far away and it’s too dark. Big fellow is the best I can tell you. You gonna be okay?” he asked.
Sage cautiously took a deep breath, wincing again at the pain. Still, the ache was already easing. He looked down at the board. A short length of two-by-four. His attacker probably snatched it up back there at the construction site. “Lucky for me he hit me with the flat side, instead of the edge. I’m going to hurt for a while but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He bent over to retrieve his hat and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Siringo didn’t spend any time conveying sympathy. “I suspect it feels like getting bronc-tossed onto a fence rail. Let’s get off the street. Too many people might see us together and wonder.”
Once they’d found seats on the power plant’s cordwood stacks, Siringo asked, “What happened with Sheriff Smith?”
“At first, he was suspicious. Then he seemed to think Fromm told me where to find the body. I fed him our story and he backed away from those ideas, especially once the doc said the shepherd had been dead for some time.”
During this explanation, Siringo had been nodding. “I doubt that Smith is going to be very concerned about tracking down Campbell’s killer.”
“Why?” Sage would have thought a murder would spur the sheriff into acting.
“Tonight, I downed a few beers in a cowboy saloon,” Siringo said. “I learned that Smith’s not just sympathetic to the cattlemen, he’s a member of the cattlemen’s association that’s running those dead lines everywhere. In fact, he’s one of their leaders. He has a powerful hatred of sheep. And, he’s also none too fond of homesteaders, either.”