by Tim Champlin
Curt filled them in on our nearly fatal hunting trip. Even though he glossed over some of the details of the experience, I saw Cathy's face pale slightly as he spoke.
"But we're all healed up fine, and none the worse for it," I assured her. "And we did get a buffalo, even though I heard some of the people complaining that it was old and that the meat was tough and stringy. They even skinned him and made a good buffalo robe for me and Curt."
We all ordered another beer, and the conversation drifted on to other things. I noticed that Wiley was drinking strictly beer, and was leaving the hard liquor alone.
We told them of our suspicions about the stage robberies, and about Major George Zimmer's showing up in Deadwood.
"There was a lot about that battle in the papers," Wiley said. "And of course, they jumped on the scandal of Zimmer drinking on duty and really blew that up."
"What exactly happened?" Curt asked.
"As I remember the story, Zimmer ordered a charge against some Cheyenne braves who were entrenched in one end of the valley. His men were beaten back, and several of them were unnecessarily killed and wounded.
That's when Colonel MacKenzie discovered he was pretty well drunk. Zimmer claimed he'd just had a nip or two to ward off the extreme cold."
"What's happened since? We just found out about it this week from an old newspaper."
"I haven't really been following it, but I believe the court-martial hasn't been held yet. He requested a leave of absence and was granted it, and the court-martial was postponed—I think by some political string-pulling. Anyway, I believe I read where the trial will be later this summer, so he's still technically in the army. But it doesn't look good for him, from what I gather."
"He'll use every trick in the book to get out of this," Curt said. "The longer he can delay it, the better chance he's got. He may be here to make plans for the day he's kicked out of the army. There's plenty of money floating around this town and in the Hills."
"I guess I'd be doing the same thing if I were in his boots," I remarked. "I almost feel sorry for the man."
Curt gave me a peculiar look and started to say something, but Wiley cut in with, "Well, I don't. How many men do you suppose would be alive today if it weren't for him? How many do you reckon he's run crazy or caused to desert? I believe the old boy is finally getting a little dose of his own medicine. And I didn't even have to serve under him." We both looked at Curt, but he had apparently decided not to voice an opinion.
I noticed the sun had disappeared behind the hills and it was growing dark outside. The room was becoming crowded, and I could barely hear the sound of the hurdy-gurdy over the hum of voices.
Two billiard tables had just been added at the extreme rear of the deep room. Apparently ordered some months ago, they had arrived on one of the first bull trains from Pierre. The clicking of the ivory balls added to the noise of glassware and rattling poker chips. Every time someone opened the door, the draft stirred the heavy haze of smoke that hung below the high ceiling.
"I'm about to starve," Wiley said suddenly. "Haven't eaten a decent meal in three days. You know how the food is at those way stations."
"No sooner suggested than done," Curt agreed, pushing his chair back. "Let's go. The time just got away from me."
Just then the door opened, and in walked Floyd Mortimer, silver hair shining in the light of the oil lamps. He paused just inside to let his eyes adjust to the glare, and I saw him look quickly over the room. He was dressed in a natty coat and vest with a cravat. He wore no visible side arms.
"Coming, Matt?" I was suddenly aware that Curt was talking to me.
Wiley followed my stare. "Why, isn't that the snake-oil drummer?"
"Yes. You three go ahead. I'm not hungry just now. I'll meet you back here after supper. I want to talk to Mortimer a minute."
"Okay, see you in about an hour. We'll be down at the Grand Central if you decide to join us."
"Right."
Mortimer had elbowed his way up to the bar, and Burnett was drawing him a beer. He took a deep draft of it, then turned back toward the room and leaned back with his elbows on the bar.
"Mister Mortimer! Mister Mortimer! Over here." I waved him toward my table. I could see the puzzled look on his face as he drew up a chair.
"I believe you have the advantage of me, sir," he said, offering his hand. I gripped it in a firm handshake.
"Matt Tierney, Mister Mortimer. You looked as though you were looking for a place to sit."
"I am pretty tired. Spent a good part of the day at Crook City trying to peddle my wares. It's a shame I have to stoop to sleight-of-hand magician's tricks to draw a crowd. I'm afraid I'm getting a little old for this type of life. Too bad it took me so many years to discover my elixir."
I looked at him carefully. In spite of his claims of age and his wavy silver hair, his skin and hands belonged to a man no older than his early forties. I decided to gamble. I glanced around to be sure no one was overhearing us. But the din of conversations and background noise masked anything we said.
"What's your real game, Mortimer? You're no more a drummer than I am."
He looked up sharply at me and his florid complexion deepened several shades of red. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. Who are you, anyway?"
"In this country, a man calls another a liar at his own risk, Tierney. A man's background is always his own."
"No offense, but I just have you pegged as too intelligent to be a legitimate snake-oil drummer."
"Elixer."
"All right, elixir. I'm from Ireland, some years back, and I've heard some windy characters and tall tales in my time, but you somehow don't ring true to me. There's more to you than just another itinerant snake-oil quack. You may have been paying K.J. out of the goodness of your heart, but you've been doing a lot of strange snooping around. Besides, unless you have some other financing, I don't think you could live and dress and drive the rig you have on what you've sold here."
He looked thoughtful but not upset, so the flattery had had some effect. When he spoke, his tone was not hostile.
"Who are you to be asking so many questions, Mister Tierney? If I'm to tell you anything about myself, I believe, sir, that you should return the favor."
"I'm just a transplanted Irishman from Chicago who was with the Third Cavalry on their campaign last year in the capacity of a reporter."
"Ahhh, a reporter. Now I remember you. You've been working as a reporter for a paper here in town. I've seen your by-line."
"I'm not working there anymore. But I guess you could say I have a reporter's instinct. It never leaves you, whether you're working or not." I smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. "And there are a lot of interesting people in this town. For instance, I'd like to know more about the banker, Jacob Stoudt."
He chose to ignore my remark. "There's an open table in the back. Care for a game of billiards?"
"Sure."
The table was next to the back door, and we reached it just before two other men. Mortimer said no more, and I didn't press the issue as we chalked our cues and started the game. Obviously, he was not talking, but from his attitude I knew my hunch was right about his not being a real drummer. I leaned against the back wall and watched him bend over the table in the light of the low-hanging lamp. The man was a real mystery, a challenge to me, and I was determined to find out more about him. I fancied that I still had the Gaelic gift of charm and gab that was every Irishman's birthright. The way I figured it, I had made some headway; he hadn't ignored me and walked away.
I took a shot, missed, and stepped back as he chalked his cue and leaned over the table, back to the door, to line up a shot.
I heard the muzzle blast and was showered with broken glass at the same instant. I ducked quickly and scrambled along the floor to get the table between me and the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mortimer also hit the floor. I finally got to cover and yanked my gun. The room behind me was in confusion as the m
en scrambled to their feet or dove for cover. I stared hard at the black, jagged hole where the glass in the back door had been. But there were no more shots.
"Hey, Floyd!"
No answer.
"Mortimer!" I crawled cautiously around the end of the pool table. He lay on the floor where he had fallen, his hand pressed to his left side. He looked up and moaned softly. Sweat beads were popping out on his face, and his face had gone white. Just as I looked, his jaw fell slack and he rolled over on his back, unconscious, on the shards of broken glass. His coat fell open, and his hand fell away from a bright, bloody spot on his vest.
CHAPTER 16
"How're you feeling?" I asked Floyd Mortimer as the doctor left the room, closing the door behind him.
"Sore as a boil," he grimaced, trying to prop himself higher on the pillows. The doctor had just checked, cleaned, and rebandaged the wound in Mortimer's side. It was late the next afternoon in my room at the Merchants Hotel.
"You say you didn't see anybody outside?" Mortimer asked.
"It was a minute or so before a few of us went out back. We didn't want to rush out there blind and maybe get ourselves gunned down. Whoever it was had plenty of time to get away. I had you carried up here."
"Thanks."
"You're mighty lucky."
"Lucky?" He arched his gray eyebrows over the long, straight nose. "Lucky to be shot?"
"Lucky it just barely clipped your side. Otherwise, we might be planning your funeral right now. That bullet went right through the muscle, the doctor said. Missed all vital organs and the intestines. The doctor says you'll be out of action for at least a couple of weeks. But if infection doesn't set in, you should be good as new after that."
He groaned and lay back, closing his eyes. "A couple of weeks. Oh, no!"
"You don't seem too grateful for a man who's just missed death by a few inches."
"Oh, I really appreciate what you did for me," he hastened to add. "It's just that I hate to be laid up that long."
"Don't worry. Your rig will be waiting for you. And if it's money you're worried about, I can lend you whatever you need until you get back on your feet. You can even cancel your room reservation at the Grand Central and stay here. I'll keep it rented; we're going out to our claim and won't need it."
"Thanks." He gave me a wan smile.
"Any idea who would want to shoot you?"
"Might have been an accident," he replied unconvincingly.
"You can't really believe that."
"He might have been shooting at you."
"When he fired, I was leaning against the wall. He couldn't have even seen me from outside the door."
"Could've been a stray shot from up on the hill behind the saloon. Maybe somebody hunting."
"In the dark? Nope. We dug the bullet out of the pool table. It was a slug from a forty-five. Besides, I heard the shot right outside the door when he fired." -
"He must have had mighty poor aim if he almost missed me from that range," Mortimer remarked.
"Either that, or the glass deflected the bullet slightly."
He didn't reply. He appeared to be distracted by something else. He glanced around the room and licked his dry lips.
"Would you pour me some water?"
I complied. After he had drunk, he asked, "Where are your friends?"
"They went down to eat supper. They should be back in about a half hour. They'll be bringing you something to eat."
"You're a reporter, aren't you?" he asked, pursuing his own line of thought.
"I was. I'm not now."
"You've been very kind to me and I feel I ought to tell you something. You've earned the right to know more about me, but I can't confide in you without your word that it will not be written up in any paper."
"You've got my word."
"Before I was shot last night, you were asking me questions about my background, and if I were really a medicine man. What made you suspect I wasn't?"
I told him about K.J. and the strange errands he told me he had done for Mortimer. "And I also suspected a man couldn't make as much money as you appeared to have by running a medicine show."
"You're right. I'm a special agent for Wells Fargo. I was sent here to see if I could somehow put a stop to all these stage robberies. The company is losing a lot of money and a lot of its reputation. I thought my guise as a drummer would allow me to talk to everyone and mingle freely without being suspected."
"Ah, so that's it." I pulled a straight-backed chair near the bed and sat down. "Who else knows who you are?"
"Well, Chuck Bundy, of course. But as far as I know, he's the only one. And now you. But the more people who find out, the less effective I'll be. I'm only telling you now because I owe you a debt."
"I realize that. I'd like your permission to tell my partners. They're completely trustworthy, and I believe we might be of some help to you."
"If you really mean that, I may take you up on your offer. Looks like I'll be laid up here for a while."
"You say Bundy's the only one who knows your real identity?"
"I thought so until last night. Whoever shot me apparently knows who I am. So, I guess it doesn't really matter who knows now, if my enemies are on to me."
"Any idea who's back of all this?"
"Not really. But all the leads I've traced so far point to a character known as Cassius 'Stumpy' McCoy and his gang."
"Name sounds vaguely familiar."
"It should. He and his boys have made themselves the terror of every boomtown and mining camp since the war. Their style is to let prospectors and miners sweat for gold so they can lift it. Occasionally, they'll jump a lone prospector on his claim, but their specialty is hitting stage lines with coin and currency, payrolls, bullion shipments, and the like. The gang has varied in number from five to a dozen over the years, and various members have been caught or killed, but Stumpy just keeps going."
"He's never been caught?"
"Once. But he escaped while he was being taken by train to court in Denver. That was three years ago. He had all but dropped out of sight until last year, when all the robberies on stages going out of the Hills began to smell like his operation again."
"Why's he called Stumpy?"
"Lost four fingers and half of the thumb off his left hand in an explosion. He was setting charges in a mine at the time. Story has it that when he recovered, he swore he would never work for wages again. His few defenders claim that's what set him on a life of crime. Figured to get his gold the easy way."
"Sounds like quite an opponent. He must be pretty smart to have been caught only once."
"Smart? I don't really think so. Slippery, maybe. Canny, wily, instinctively cunning perhaps. But I've tracked him and studied his habits long enough over the years to believe he's not all that intelligent:"
"Well," I remarked with a slight smile, leaning back and crossing my legs, "whatever he's got apparently works; he's managed to elude you so far."
He yawned widely as the sedative the doctor had given him began to take effect. "Luck. Incredible luck. You wouldn't believe the number of times we've almost had him, and he's managed through some unexpected stroke of sheer luck, to get away. That's what bothers me about these robberies."
"What's that?"
"I get the feeling that someone else is on the inside of this case—someone tipping the gang about these treasure coaches. It's my theory the gang is robbing the passenger coaches at random just for loose change. But I really feel there is some smarter organizer behind the big robberies. They show too much finesse for Stumpy. The wheels of the machinery are too well oiled. Every possible problem appears to have been thought out in advance: the place, the time of day or night, which robber does what—and they disappear so completely afterward. The only way this much planning can be done in advance is for the gang to know exactly what and who they are attacking. Those coaches we've had outriders on have either been allowed to go by, or the outriding guards have been intercepted and kil
led, or stripped and set walking in their long johns."
As he spoke, I felt as if I were listening to another man in Mortimer's body. Gone was the red-faced, bombastic medicine show drummer. This man was cool, collected, and businesslike.
"What were you going to do?" I asked.
"I had that kid, K.J., do some snooping for me," he replied without answering my question directly, "and found that at least two men who are known members of Stumpy's gang were here in Deadwood recently. In fact, they were staying at the Grand Central. But they've gone now. I tried to trail one of them, but lost him in the rocks after we'd gone about ten miles. . I stayed out a couple more days trying to pick up his tracks or some sign, but no deal."
He paused for another drink of water, and I could see he was growing noticeably weaker and sleepier. I quickly filled him in on the reasons for my suspicion of the banker. And without involving Wilder, I told him of Major Zimmer.
"That only confirms my suspicions of Jacob Stoudt," he replied, nodding. "I didn't have any suspects except McCoy when I first came here. But it's really amazing what information you can pick up by casual conversation. People don't realize they're telling you anything, but little tidbits gathered here and there add up. But this Major Zimmer—I don't know." He shrugged. "Probably just a business associate. No reason to suspect him. Stoudt deals with a lot of high-ranking people in his line of work."
"Are you sure Bundy is above suspicion?"
"Absolutely. Not a finer man in the company. I'd trust him with my life—and have a couple of times in the past."
"What about that man who was shot in the holdup attempt yesterday?"
"I rode out with Sheriff Pierce to see the body just after the stage came in with the news. We recognized him from some Wanted posters as a suspected member of Stumpy's gang. But his pockets were turned inside out and his horse was missing. Of course, his horse just might have wandered off, or headed back to where he came from. We weren't able to track him more than half a mile. But there were tracks of another horse, too. Someone definitely got to the body and removed any and all additional evidence we might have picked up from it, including weapons. They just left the body for us to bury."