by S. L. Stoner
That’s not good news, Sage thought. “I guess that was why he was so quick to blame Fromm for Rayburn’s murder,” he said. “And, why he won’t make much of an effort to find justice for the old shepherd.” Siringo sounded weary and resigned. Sage looked at the detective surprised to hear defeat in his voice. He’d have thought Siringo was someone well used to such disappointment.
Siringo got hold of his feelings because his voice was more emphatic when he continued, “It’s still up to us get the information the Governor needs. We can’t do that until we clear up who murdered O’Dea and Rayburn because we now have a seven-day deadline for preventing an all-out range war. Things are heating up on the cattle side as well. Lots of sheep shooting talk in the saloons.
“‘Course, generally speaking, the more a man talks, the less likely he’ll ever do anything. Still, someone’s stirring things up. And, it can’t all be Meglit. A Silver Lake sheep flock was slaughtered a few days ago. A cowboy gang tied up the herder and then shot, clubbed and drove the critters off a cliff.”
“Where’s Silver Lake?” Sage asked, wondering how men could be driven to such cruelty to defenseless animals.
“About a hundred miles south. Not likely any of the folks up around here did it. Still, there’s too many folks celebrating the news to let me rest easy. People are winding themselves up. I don’t like it.”
“Well, my bringing in Campbell’s body definitely got the shepherds upset. They’re mad and fearful. That’s a dangerous combination. And, Twill’s acting really strange.”
Siringo’s lips tightened and he sounded angry as he said, “So, in seven days all hell is going to break loose.” Both of them contemplated the war that was about to rip apart the town and scourge the countryside.
“There is a bit of good news,” Siringo at last said. “A coded telegram was waiting for me when I got into town. Chamberlain says he’s hopeful that the Secretary of the Interior will agree to intervene. But, Adair, it will be too late to talk if the sheepmen retaliate first because we’ll be in a full-fledged war. It’d be nearly impossible for folks to back down once it starts up.”
Sage shifted position, winced, and said, “Then we better ‘get to cracking’ as my mother would say. The shepherds are going to start carrying guns and defending their flocks instead of running away. They’re bitter. Maybe the shepherds and ranchers are planning to launch a combined offensive.”
Siringo tilted his hat so that his eyes glittered in the faint light.“Wahl, one thing’s for double-darn sure,” he drawled, satisfaction in his voice, “We got it figured right. Somehow this range war mess is a’brewing right here in town because someone living here is a damn murderer. This will be where we’re going to find the answers. We can stop the range war only if we find O’Dea’s and Rayburn’s killer. ”
With that pronouncement, they proceeded to lay plans for trapping the killer. Once the plans were set, Siringo’s face turned grim once again. “Did it cross your mind that maybe two different men are trying to kill you?” he asked.
Sage started. “What makes you think that?”
“One fellow uses a gun. The other uses a club. You better be mighty careful from here on out. That fella could have smacked you dead with that big stick of his. Next time, I might not be around to save your hide.” With that, Siringo flashed his teeth, tapped a finger to his hat brim and strode away.
TWENTY SIX
With every turn, stabbing pain jerked him awake. A sure sign of rib damage. The morning’s frustration deepened his already glum mood. He dawdled over coffee in the hotel dining room but Lucinda never appeared. For all he knew, she was already on the stage heading toward the Shaniko railhead. Once she reached it, which direction would she go? Back East? Portland? Or was she out strolling Prineville’s streets with Siringo? Had the Dickensen agent talked to her about settling down on a ranch somewhere, like he’d talked of doing? Did she accept?
Sage decided it was time to shake himself loose from such fruitless thoughts. He opened the Crook County Journal. The legislature had finally passed a child labor law making education compulsory for children under fourteen. He smiled grimly. Of course, to learn, children needed food in their bellies. There’d been no legislation on that, he noted.
There was one interesting thing about the newspaper stories. Despite Prineville being a cattle town, there was an upbeat report on the sheep business. The story projected profits would be higher than usual. That good news was attributed to floods killing both Australian and South African sheep, a sharp rise in the purchase of woolen cloth, and the extraordinarily thick coats on this year’s sheep. The latter two circumstances, he read, were due to “colder weather worldwide.”
Herman Eich entered the dining room, interrupting Sage’s fruitless vigil. Sage gestured for the Jewish man to a take a seat. At this point, Sage didn’t care whether Prineville’s collective eyebrows shot skyward at the sight of them in friendly conversation. “Any news? Did the Gypsies know anything, see anything?” he asked Eich as soon as the waiter left them alone.
Eich sipped coffee as his brows knit. “Well, I’m not sure. You remember the night that young shepherd was murdered? Twill’s friend? It seems two Gypsy men were hunting that night. “They’d killed an elk but, after dressing it out, they decided it was too far and too dangerous to pack it back to their camp in the dark. They’d seen big cat tracks and heard cougar screams. So, they stayed put. Turns out, they hunkered down close to that military road. Just before dawn, they heard a horse trotting down the road. They couldn’t see who was riding, just his shape.”
“Oh darn,” Sage interjected. “Just one man though?”
“Yes, just one man. Thing is, they said they were certain he was a town man, not a cowboy. They said he wore a suit and derby and rode stiff on the horse. And, they said that the horse carried no saddle bags or bedroll.”
“Well, that is somewhat helpful,” Sage acknowledged. “Seems suspicious that there’d be a town man riding in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.”
Eich nodded in agreement and his eyes were twinkling as he leaned forward.“Thing is, Sage, I also ran into Mr. Henry, our Indian friend. You remember he said his son was away hunting deer when we were at their camp in Prineville? He returned and told his father that as he climbed out of the valley, he heard a shot and looked down. He didn’t see Rayburn getting hit or anything but he did observe a man, dressed in a suit and wearing a derby, rushing away from the river—heading toward town.”
Sage straightened. “So, it does sound like maybe the same man killed both O’Dea and Rayburn. What Henry’s son saw, proves the homesteader had nothing to do with Rayburn’s murder. Fromm came to town wearing a plaid shirt, wide-brimmed hat and leather jacket. And, I know for a fact that he was up near Willowdale when O’Dea was killed. I saw him there. He was meeting the stagecoach. I doubt he even knew O’Dea.”
Then the excitement drained out of him. “This just isn’t making any sense. Sure O’Dea and Rayburn were sheepmen. It’s logical that the killer is someone who doesn’t like sheep. But, near as I can tell, they had nothing to do with each other. Rayburn wasn’t even working in the sheep business when he got murdered. And, O’Dea was planning on starting his own homestead. If someone was deliberately trying to incite a range war, they’d maybe kill O’Dea but not Rayburn too.”
Eich’s lips twisted as he thought. “Seems like a range war would take place out on the range. Not in town like Rayburn’s murder. But, I do agree with you. Our Gypsy and Indian friends both describe a man dressed in suit and derby—a town man. It sounds like the fellow who killed O’Dea is the same fellow who shot Rayburn. And, that means that the murderer could be someone who lives here in town.”
Sage softly hit the table with his fist in frustration. “I agree. So does Charlie Siringo. He doubts that a cowboy killed O’Dea. But why would a townsman in a derby and suit ride all the way out to Gray’s Prairie to kill a sheepherder and then return to murder the town layabout? Ev
er since I got to Prineville, nothing has made sense,” he said, thinking that included Twill’s recent strange behavior and Lucinda’s baffling absence as well.
Sage heaved a sigh, his eyes staring unseeingly at the table cloth. When he looked up, he saw that Eich was studying him, his dark eyes curious.
“Something else is troubling you, isn’t it Sage?” Eich said.
The unexpectedly perceptive observation threw Sage into momentary confusion and he shifted his glance to the window while he debated on how to respond. Should he confide in Eich? How silly would that sound? “Mr. Eich, I think I love the parlor house madam who is going to marry the Dickensen detective— a man I should hate but instead find myself liking?” Nah, he couldn’t say that. So, he said nothing.
When Sage looked at his companion, he saw that compassion had replaced curiosity. That look embarrassed him. The last thing he wanted was pity but still, he asked, “How does a man go about letting go of feelings he shouldn’t have?”
Eich responded thoughtfully, “I think that is impossible. We cannot control our feelings, only our actions.” Changing the subject he asked, “Does that Siringo fellow have any ideas about what we should do next?” Before Sage could answer, another thought occurred to Eich, “And does he know about me?”
Back on safe ground Sage leaned forward. “Oh yes, I had to tell him about you. We have a plan and we need your help.”
Caution narrowed Eich’s eyes and stilled his face. He said, “You know, as I boarded the train in Portland, your mother told me that I should watch your left eyebrow.”
“My left eyebrow?” Sage parroted back, mystified.
Eich smiled, “Yes, she said that whenever one of your schemes was going to expose you to danger, your left eyebrow would raise a fraction of an inch.”
Sage laughed. That sounded just like Mae Clemens. “Oh, really,” he said derisively. “Sometimes Mother is a little crazy where I’m concerned.”
One side of Eich’s lip twitched upward. “Well, that remains to be seen. Your left eyebrow shot skyward when you mentioned having a ‘plan.’ Are you going to tell me there’s absolutely no danger attached to this scheme you and Siringo cooked up?”
Distant coyote yips weren’t the only reason Sage’s shoulders tried to crawl up to meet his ears. To be honest, if only to himself, the dismissal he’d given Mae’s concerns was more bluff than fact. Of course, this was dangerous and his whole body knew it. The plan was simple. Once it grew dark, Sage was to visit various saloons to be seen by all and sundry. They wanted his attacker to make his move in those empty dark stretches between the cowboys’ watering holes. Siringo and Eich planned to shadow his every move and pounce on any attacker. It was exactly the type of plan certain to make Mae Clemens anxious. “Good thing she’s not here,” Sage muttered to himself, as he darted furtive looks into gaps between buildings. “She’d probably be sneakily trailing all three of us.”
So far, nothing had happened. His congenial conversations with saloon customers ranged from his discovering Paddy Campbell’s body to the likelihood of finding gold in the Ochocos. He’d strolled from one drinking establishment after another without incident. The Rimrock was his last port of call. Since this was the sheepmen’s hangout, he wouldn’t be in danger here. They’d just have to try again tomorrow night.
Inside, hesitation slowed his steps when he saw Twill lounging against the bar in his customary place. Given the Irishman’s peculiar behavior of late, Sage wondered whether he should even approach the shepherd. Then Twill saw him and waved an arm. As Sage reached the long bar, the Irishman shouted, “Hey barkeep! Whiskey for my friend here.”
The glass was set before Sage, he raised it and swallowed, saying nothing as burn flowed into belly. Then he asked, “You still working on Van Ostrand’s little project?”
Twill laughed, his blue eyes glittering. “That I am, boyo. I expect that little job will soon be wrapped up tight as butcher’s twine around a rib roast.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. You plan on heading out to herd once you’re done?”
This question sent a sober look washing over the Irishman’s face. He downed the last of his whiskey before answering vaguely, “I guess that depends. It just depends.”
Sage cocked an inquiring eyebrow but Twill changed the subject. “So, will you be heading out soon to pan the Scissors? Hey, I don’t suppose you found Paddy Campbell’s dog?”
Sage took another sip, the image of that sunlit glade filling his mind. The sun, the sound, the colors, all bright. “Nope, no dog. And, like I said, the sheriff ordered me to stay in town. That’s okay. I need to follow up on the Rayburn murder because I promised the homesteader’s wife I’d help. I didn’t get to talk to the Fromm’s neighbor about Rayburn while I was up in the Ochocos. Finding Paddy Campbell’s body put a kibosh on that idea. So, I’m staying here for a few more days until Smith says I’m free to leave. Then I plan on going back to talk to the neighbor.”
A crafty look crossed the Irishman’s face as he looked around the room. Although the saloon was crowded, nobody seemed to be giving them notice.“I might know a wee bit about the Rayburn murder but I’m a tad shy about mentioning it here. How about we mosey on out back like we’re going to relieve ourselves?”
Sage put his glass on the bar. How wonderfully ironic if Twill had heard something useful. Maybe some fact that would help them identify the twice-seen, derby-wearing man in the suit. Sage straightened and looked at Twill. “I think that’d be a fine idea,” he said, clapping a hand on the Irishman’s rock-hard shoulder.
Twill tossed a few coins on the counter before staggering toward the back door. Sage trailed behind, knowing he was deviating from the agreement that he’d never exit out the rear of a saloon. Having such a large companion by his side would surely discourage any would-be attacker. Besides, since it was the sheepmen who were the murder victims, the shepherds themselves posed no threat. Once outside, the Irishman turned cautious and less drunk.
He stayed within the building’s shadow, leading them away from the privy and toward the Rimrock’s farthest corner. At last he halted beneath the outside stairs to the second floor. There, he turned around to face Sage. It was dark under the staircase, but not so dark that Sage missed seeing the pistol barrel’s silver glint aimed at his belly.
“This is the end of the trail for you, you lying bastard,” snarled Twill.
Shock paralyzed Sage. His frantic mind found no answers—just the realization that Twill’s Shakespeare quotes about betrayal had been aimed at him. “Why?” spurted from Sage’s mouth even before he’d framed the question in his mind.
“Why?” the word coming from Twill’s throat sparked with outrage. “Why?” the Irishman repeated before answering his own question.“Because you killed Timothy and Felan. Because Timothy was a good man, and Felan was a fine dog. Because neither one of those dear creatures ever hurt a single soul in their entire life.”
“I killed Timothy O’Dea?” Sage repeated, stalling for time as his mind scrabbled for an explanation. “But Twill, I wasn’t anywhere near Prineville when he was killed,” he protested.
“Yah, I figured a lying bastard like you would say something like that. You don’t even have the guts to tell the truth before I send you straight to Hell. Get your god damned hands up in the air. Now!” That last word was a snarl.
Sage raised his hands. He had to keep the Irishman talking until he could spot an opening. He needed just one chance to either launch himself at Twill or run away.
His frantic brain settled on the obvious question. “I don’t understand. Why do you think I was in Prineville when O’Dea died?” Sage asked, stepping back in favor of the run away plan.
Twill shook his head saying, “You killed O’Dea, you sorry excuse for a human being. You stood there, giving me sympathy, drinking my whiskey—all the time knowing you’d killed my friend. It’s going to be damn fine pleasure to permanently shut your lying mouth.” Twill raised his gun. The metallic cocking
of the pistol sounded loud in the windless night.
Sage opened his mouth to protest, knowing it was too late. Though they stood in deep gloom, he could see hatred blazing in the Irishman’s eyes. Between that hate and the many drinks, there’d be no diverting Twilleran Robert McGinnis from his determination to end John Miner’s life. Right there and then.
As the gun barrel steadied, Sage frantically calculated whether he could throw himself to one side and avoid the bullet about to explode from that black hole. Too late and he’d be dead. Too soon and that barrel would follow his path and still find his heart. Once on the ground, how could he avoid a second shot?
Sudden movement flashed behind the Irishman just before he made an “uh” sound. Then his knees buckled and the gun dropped from his limp fingers. Sage sprang forward and snatched up the gun. Then he turned toward his rescuer who still held a stout stick aloft, ready to strike again.
What Sage saw made no sense. It wasn’t the tall rangy figure of Siringo. Nor was it the solid figure of Herman Eich. Instead, it was a short, slender man. Sage stepped closer to peer down into the face shadowed by the wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
What he saw made him step back in surprise.“Lucinda!” he gasped. Sure enough, she stood there, legs encased in trousers, a loose coat concealing those unmistakable curves.
“What?” was the only word that escaped his lips.
She let the stick fall to the ground. Her voice was soft as she explained, “I was helping Xenobia with cleaning her house when Siringo told me what you two had planned. I figured Mae would never forgive me if anything happened to you. While Siringo and that other fellow waited out front, I hid behind every saloon you entered. Just in case something like this happened. Why’d you come out here with him anyway?”
Still stunned Sage could only say, “I thought he was my friend. He said he had helpful information.”