She schooled her features and smiled back at the imposter, frantically trying to think of an intelligent response to put him off until she could get to the marshal’s office. “Uh, I’m sorry, but the position has been temporarily filled. I didn’t think you’d be here for another month.” Lame, but the best she could do considering she was sorely put upon.
He took off his hat and swiped his brow with his sleeve. “The telegram says June first, so here I am. A few days late, but I got held up.”
Rude as it was, she couldn’t help but study him. Something about him put her on edge, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it other than she suspected he’d shot the marshal. Maybe it was because his pleasant voice didn’t match his cold eyes. Still, she didn’t know that for sure—a hunch didn’t hold up as proof in court. She did know that she wanted this man away from her. “Why don’t you take a room at Mrs. Howard’s Boarding House and I’ll discuss your, er, appointment with the mayor.”
“Now listen here, miss, I came—”
The doorbell tinkled. Deputy Kunkle strutted in and took a licorice stick out of the candy jar. “How much?”
“A penny.” Daisy cocked her head toward the stranger, then shook her head, but Deputy Kunkle didn’t take the hint. She shrugged at the stranger in a more exaggerated way, and finally the light of understanding came to the deputy’s eyes.
He hooked his thumbs on his belt buckle, and glared at the man eyeball-to-eyeball. “You got business with Miss Daisy?” Without waiting for an answer, he addressed Daisy. “Is this here feller bothering you?”
The tenseness drained from her shoulders and she relaxed for the first time since the ominous stranger had walked through the mercantile door. Thanks heavens for Deputy Kunkle! “No, deputy, but will you please show Mr. Adler to Mrs. Howard’s Boarding House?”
“Mr. Adler?”
“Mr. Adler. Mr. Sidney Adler.”
The deputy winked at her, then nudged the stranger. “This way, buddy.”
Bosco knew danger when he smelled it, and this here feller stunk like a dead skunk that had cooked in the hot desert a day too long. He remembered the stranger’s face but didn’t know name. Bosco sure as shootin’ did know that this sonuvabitch wasn’t fit to keep company with Miss Daisy. No, sirree. And he damned well wasn’t Sidney Adler, no matter what lie he told. Bosco sent the rascal a scowl as they stepped off the boardwalk in front of Gardner’s Mercantile. Cole would know what to do. “C’mon, buddy. I think you’d better visit the marshal’s office on the way to your fancy digs at Mrs. Howard’s.”
The man stared down the street, unblinking. “Nope. I’d rather settle in first.”
Bosco had to think on that a minute, because he didn’t like the idea that this feller roaming around town telling people he was who he wasn’t. Not one bit. “All right, we’ll go to Mrs. Howard’s first, then to the marshal’s office.”
As they walked, the stranger studied the buildings, and Bosco cogitated on the days he and Cole had spent in Winnemucca, on account of he knew he’d seen this here feller down to Big Boned Bess’s—gambling and whoring. He’d throwed money around like it was dirt until ol’ Bess had bounced him out on his pockets. Empty pockets, more than likely.
Well, hell, he might as well just ask. “What’s yer name?”
“Adler,” the man said as he stopped and peered into the window of the bank. “Sidney Adler.”
Bosco opened his mouth and started to tell him he was full of shit, but decided not to. Cole wasn’t Sidney Adler, but neither was this man. Yup, the faster they got to the marshal’s office, the quicker Cole could get rid of this no-good drifter.
The stranger still had his nose plastered on the bank window.
Bosco gave him a nudge. “There ain’t one damned thing interesting in there, Adler. Let’s go.”
When they got to the boarding house, Bosco found Mrs. Howard in the kitchen, up to her elbows in bread dough. “Have you got a room?”
“Sure. Upstairs. First door to the right.” She cocked her head toward a board with keys hanging on it. “Take number three. I’ll get him registered after I’m done here.”
He grabbed the key and let the stranger in the room. As the imposter turned around, Bosco landed a good right hook on his jaw. The man went down like a hot rock, landing on the bed.
Bosco brushed his hands together. “That’s what you get for being a dirty liar.”
He checked the stranger’s breathing which was fine, and shut the door. At least he’d bought a little time to figure out the buzzard’s game. This man was bad for Oreana and every lady in it. Bosco felt like popping him another one for good measure, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to kill the feller.
Cole would think of a way to get rid of him.
* * * * *
Cole leaned back in his chair and rubbed the stubble on his chin while a middle-aged woman dragged a screaming boy by his ear into the marshal’s office.
“I didn’t do it!” he squeaked.
“Shut up, young man.” She spun the boy around, held him by his shoulders and shoved him toward Cole. “This little scamp stole my…my unmentionables! Right off the clothesline, he did, and I want them back. I demand you put him in jail!”
Studying the boy’s taut, worried face, Cole suppressed a smile, remembering that he’d stolen a cherry pie from the town’s busybody at about the boy’s same age.
The woman puffed up in righteous indignation. “Well?”
Cole leaned back in the chair. “Let’s get all the facts straight first. When did this heinous crime happen?”
“I wouldn’t call it heinous, but most certainly malicious and disrespectful.”
He nodded. “Now that, I agree with.” He looked back at the boy. “Come over here by my chair, son.”
The boy shuffled forward, gaze glued to his bare toes.
Cole tipped the boy’s chin up until they made eye contact with each other. “What’s your name?”
The kid opened his mouth but nothing came out. He licked his lips. “Forrest.”
“What’s your last name?”
Hanging his head again and wringing his hands, he muttered a noise.
“I didn’t hear you, Forrest.” Cole kept his voice calm. This boy seemed nervous enough for both of them.
The lady stepped forward. “It’s Gardner,” she snapped.
Cole looked up at her and frowned. “Your name’s Gardner?” he asked, knowing full well she answered for the boy, and that irritated him.
“Of course not.” She pointed at Forrest. “His last name’s Gardner. My name is Mrs. Proctor. Mrs. Coriander Proctor, and I live three houses away from this little rapscallion.”
Cole would never get any information from the boy with the pious Mrs. Proctor hovering threateningly over him. “I see what you mean. You go on home now, Mrs. Proctor. I’ll take care of the boy and get your, uh, clothing back to you.”
“Absolutely not! I’ll stay—”
The door crashed open and two men tumbled through, one burly man with a blacksmith’s apron grasping a bedraggled dandy by a chokehold to his collar.
“Marshal, I want you to arrest this man!”
Cole glanced at Mrs. Proctor, who stood in the corner with her mouth gaping open. The boy dove under the desk.
Cole nodded toward the jail cell and said to the blacksmith, “Take your prisoner back to the cell and wait for me. I have other business to deal with.”
The blacksmith ushered the other poor fellow to the cell, while Mrs. Proctor sniffed. “Riff-raff in our community. It’s a travesty.”
Cole took the keys out of his desk and stood. “Excuse me, ma’am.” He walked to the jail cell where the fellow with the top hat looked a little peaked, no doubt to the lack of air. Cole shut the door and locked them both in.
The blacksmith ran to the bars and grabbed them with both hands, poking his face in between. “Hey, let me out of here!”
“Not until I get this other matter taken care of
.”
Woof!
Cole jumped nearly a foot. He whirled around to find an ugly yellow mongrel the size of a small horse. A cloth—suspiciously resembling Mrs. Proctor’s unmentionables—tied into a bag hung from the dog’s mouth. And the bag wiggled. Something alive wasn’t all that happy about being held captive.
Forrest jumped from his haven under the desk. “Winky, I told you to hide!”
“I said get me out of here!” the blacksmith yelled.
“Remove this monster from my person!” the dandy shouted.
But Cole’s attention riveted on those wiggling drawers. Lordy, he hoped a snake wasn’t in there.
“Just how did he come to be unconscious? Daisy asked.
Deputy Kunkle shook his head. “Funniest thing I ever seen. He ran right into that door. Guess he was in a hurry. Anyways, I put him on the bed and then got you because Mrs. Howard was busy making bread, and I didn’t know where Miss Sarah went.”
“You did the right thing, deputy.” She didn’t point out that he’d passed Sarah on the way to the mercantile. Daisy was just glad that the man was out of commission until she could find his true identity. The last thing she needed was a man posing as the marshal, especially since the real marshal hadn’t fully recovered from his wound yet.
Armed with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth, Sarah stood beside the bed while the deputy removed the stranger’s boots. She glanced at Daisy only briefly, acknowledging her presence; otherwise, her attention rested solely on the battered man on the bed.
“He certainly is handsome,” Sarah observed. “I wonder if he’s married.”
“Not likely, miss.” Deputy Kunkle stowed the stranger’s boots under the bed. “And I wouldn’t be making no eyes at him, neither.” He tipped his hat at her, then turned to Daisy. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I best be getting back to Cole—er, the marshal.”
“No, thank you. We can take care of it from here.” Or Sarah could. She seemed to be quite smitten with this man whom they knew nothing about. But Daisy knew not to trust him. He was not the marshal. And if he tried to pose as the marshal, that meant he had dishonorable intentions.
Or he needed a job. After all, he looked innocent enough. She agreed with Sarah’s observations—he was quite handsome. Not nearly as handsome as the marshal, though. Her heart fluttered a bit and she calmed herself before Sarah asked her any inopportune questions.
Sarah moistened the rag and dabbed at the man’s face.
“Do you need some help?”
“No. You should get back to the store—no one’s there, right?”
“Oh, darn!” Daisy snapped her fingers, having forgotten all about the store. “You’re right, I’d better get back.”
She ran down the stairs, burst out of the boarding house, but slowed to a ladylike pace once she hit the boardwalk. As she rounded the corner and passed the confectionery, a man ran from the mercantile with a pair of boots. She waved her arms and ran after him. “Stop!”
Instead, he scurried down the road. She recognized him as one of the two men Bosco was following when she’d made an untimely dive into the horse trough. Still, she didn’t know whether he’d stolen the boots or not. Her mother could have come back to the store, or he could have written his purchase in the account book. But this day had been off-kilter from the start, and she doubted it.
“How could you lock me up with this—this beast!”
Cole held his gaze on the wiggling bag hanging from the dog’s mouth. “I’ll take care of you in a minute,” he shouted toward the cell. “Forrest, put your dog in the other cell and shut the door.”
The little boy’s lip trembled. He blinked his eyes, looking determined not to cry.
Cole lowered his voice so only Forrest could hear. “Just put him in there until Mrs. Proctor takes her leave.” He winked.
Forrest perked right up. “Yes, marshal!” He grabbed the mongrel by the scruff of his neck. “C’mon, Winky.”
Cole turned his attention to Mrs. Proctor. “Ma’am, you best be getting on home.”
She sniffed, as she seemed to do nearly every time he addressed her. “Now that you’ve seen fit to jail the culprit, I’ll go.”
As she stepped out Cole called after her, “Do you want me to deliver your drawers, or send the boy over with them?”
“What insolence!” She turned on her heel and disappeared.
Cole tossed the keys in his hand and strolled to the cell housing the blacksmith and the dandy. “I’m letting you out of the cell, but you have to promise to stay in the office until we have your grievances worked out.”
They both nodded, and Cole unlocked the door.
He addressed the blacksmith first. “What’s your name?”
“Jonas Howard. I run the livery and do a little blacksmithing.” He pointed at the dandy. “This here fellow stabled his horse with me for a week, and I caught him sneaking out without settling his bill. I’d have taken care of it myself, but now that we got law in town, I brung him to you.”
“Good idea, Mr. Howard.” He turned to the dandy, who righted his vest. “Is what he’s saying true?”
“Of course not. I was merely going for a ride.”
“With your bedroll and supplies?” the blacksmith asked, clenching his fists.
Cole looked at the dandy and waited for an answer. The dandy seemed to squirm inside his own skin with no answer forthcoming, leading Cole to the conclusion that the blacksmith was in the right.
“How much do you charge?” Cole asked Mr. Howard.
“Two bits a day. This fellow owes me a buck-seventy-five, by my count.”
After thinking a moment, Cole looked at his pocket watch. “It’s five o’clock. I’m thinking this man’s horse will need some oats for the trip he’s about to take, so Mr. Howard, give him one night’s ration.”
“Now wait…”
Cole held up his hand to silence the blacksmith and addressed the dandy. “You pay Mr. Howard two bucks, and you’re fined another two bits.”
“That’s highway robbery!”
“Yup,” Cole answered. “And you started it. Now pay up. I’m sure Mr. Howard will hold up his end of the deal.”
The dandy pulled some coins from his vest pocket, handed two dollars to the blacksmith, and tossed a quarter onto the marshal’s desk. “I hope you’re satisfied.” He jutted out his chin. “I’ll never come to this god-forsaken town again.”
“That’s the idea.”
Mr. Howard grinned and shook Cole’s hand. “Well, I best be getting back to work.” He paused at the door and said, “Oh, and call me ‘Jonas.’ Everybody does.”
With three of his four—five, rather—problems gone, Cole walked back to the cell housing the boy and the dog, both standing at the bars with forlorn expressions. The bag lay in the corner, forgotten by all but the writhing creature inside it. And Cole.
He pointed to the bag. “What do you have there, son?”
“A horny toad. It’s a present for my sister.”
Cole, downright thankful it wasn’t a snake, felt the tenseness drained from his shoulders. “Your sister likes horny toads?”
“‘Course she does. Everyone likes horny toads.”
“And just why did you use Mrs. Proctor’s unmentionables for gift wrapping?”
Forrest’s gaze dropped to his feet. “Well, that part was sort of an accident.”
Cole could only imagine. “I want you to return it, then come back here for your sentencing.”
“Sentencing?”
“It means what you have to do to make up for what you did.”
“Oh.”
The boy, the dog, Mrs. Proctor’s drawers, and the horny toad all departed the office in a flurry. Cole leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and smiled. He’d helped people today, and it felt good. Beat the hell out of punching cows from dawn to dusk.
The throbbing in his leg reminded him of the doctor’s orders, so he propped his foot on the desk. As soon as hi
s heel hit the desktop, Miss Daisy flounced in.
“Where’s the telegram I sent you?”
He stared at her determined expression. “Huh?”
She stood with her hands on her hips and her green eyes flashing. “The telegram. The one I sent you when I hired you.”
His stomach tied in a knot.
He’d been found out, sure as hell.
Chapter 5
Daisy wanted to squeal and dance around the room. Her first real, live detective case! All she needed to know was how the man who claimed to be Sidney Adler got the telegram. But the marshal hadn’t moved a muscle. In fact, he looked rather pale—but that could be because of his suffering. After all, the doctor had ordered bedrest which the marshal had ignored as soon as Doc climbed into the stagecoach.
“Well?” She tapped her toe. Certainly when she revealed what she was about to, the new marshal would see the sense in proposing to a woman who had such excellent deductive reasoning skills. “The telegram?”
He moved his foot from the desk and sat forward. “I don’t rightly remember much after the shooting.”
Exactly! The man who had the telegram was the one and the same who’d shot the marshal. She just knew it, and his answer only bolstered her resolve to prove it. All she needed was a little time to show that the stranger had removed it from the marshal’s person at the time of the shooting. “Who shot you?”
The marshal looked at the ceiling, then brought his attention to her. “Don’t know.” His gaze washed over her, giving her that funny jittery feeling she always had when in his presence, making her wish he’d touch her again. Or kiss her. But no, she needed her sensibility, and kissing him had proven to make her stupid as a fence post.
“I suppose you were bushwhacked,” she prompted.
He shrugged. “I never saw it coming.”
It didn’t take a close study of his drawn expression to know that he’d overextended himself. His wound must be hurting him something fierce. She made a note to bring him some laudanum—just as soon as she made sure the imposter was out of the way. She’d think of something. Right then, the vile outlaw lay in Mrs. Howard’s house, unconscious. But he’d regain his wits anytime.
Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) Page 5