Jim backed up a bit. "My God!"
"Yeah…" Smitty nodded unable to look at the dead man hanging on the scarecrow's cross.
A sign was hung around his neck, "Good day for a Hanging!" It said.
Blood had oozed from the clothes but there was nothing on the ground. It didn't make any sense. Jim began looking around. Instantly his investigative mind began to work. The lack of footprints and lack of blood drippings had him puzzled. It was too clean a crime.
He wondered how he could so easily dismiss the death and concentrate on clues, but it had become old habit.
The tracks were dusted with a limb from a tree, from the looks of it. Or possibly the wind had carried all traces away in little rivets made into the soft soil. The body was stiff now that meant he'd been dead a day or so probably, and then he glanced at Smitty. "We got to get him down from there."
"Yes sir." Smitty nodded, the sweat still pouring from him.
"Look Smitty, I apologize if I gave you a rough time of it this morning. I had no idea…"
"I know…ain't your fault." Smitty acknowledged.
"This is gruesome." Jim stared up at the face that had been drawn on like a clown. Was this some kind of sick joke?
"Yes sir…" Smitty couldn't look up anymore. Jim understood, but it was his job to take care of things like this so he couldn't turn away. All the while his mind took notes of the scene around them. Bile roiled in Jim's stomach.
Smitty was right, he'd have never believed him.
When he reached up to take the body down, he realized quite suddenly that there were no arms on the body, nor legs. He moved backwards. No! He wasn't prepared for this. Somehow, he had to detach himself from the scene and investigate. But with his stomach wanting to pitch his breakfast it wasn't easy to concentrate.
The blood had dried on the shirt but there was none on the ground. There was none on the legs of the scarecrow overalls either. He backed off again and stared up at the corpse. This was not going well, a dead man on a scarecrow cross, with no arms or legs. Nothing could have prepared someone for something like this. It was pure horror.
He tried to think a little clearer. A Sheriff had to detach himself sometimes to do his job, and this was one of those times. But the sheer terror of the scene had Jim wishing he'd never rode out here. Even though he clearly knew he could never erase this day from his mind nor Smitty's.
He'd needed a ladder to unfasten him and get him down.
"He's nailed pretty well, Smitty. We better get some help out here and the doc to figure out what the cause of death was. I think I'll leave him be, let the council see this, witness it for me. They'd never believe it if I just told them." Jim's mind stirred now, keeping it working while the shock of what had taken place here began to sink in.
Nothing like this had ever happened in his quiet little town. The sick feeling inside Jim roiled and his face turned almost green as he tried to steady himself and concentrate on just the facts of Mr. Perkins death.
He had to admit he'd never in his life seen anything like this. It shocked him too. But he had learned that someone had to take control and take care of things, no matter what. But he'd have to quit shaking himself before he found any control.
This was his job. It had been a good job up until now.
He felt sorry for Smitty for discovering it, as he glanced at the mixed emotions running across his face.
Poor Smitty, he must have been scared out of his wits. He knew he hadn't said a word to anyone and for that he was thankful. He was a good deputy, a good man.
When the town got an earful of this though, there would be a ruckus.
Perkins was one of the biggest ranchers in the area. Arrogant and full of himself, not many liked the old ranch man. He'd lived here when there were only a handful of ranchers. He'd help to settle the land, and end the Indian wars. Everyone in Melville knew him. Most respected him, but few liked the man.
Naturally the townspeople would have to know about it. But maybe he could prolong that. At least not everyone had to know. And the ones that would know had to be quiet about it. How could he accomplish that? He needed some time to find some answers. Because the town council would want answers and fast.
"You want me to ride back into town, for the doc?"
"Yeah, that would be a good idea. Tell him to bring a buggy. Bring the doc out here and some from the town council. I want a few witnesses that can keep their mouths shut, Smitty. You pick the people, I trust you on that. I'll stay here, check things out in the house and barn to see if there are any clues to who did this. Did you touch anything, bother anything."
"No sir. I came straight back into town when I finally found Mr. Perkins. I been turnin' it over in my mind ever since I found him. I probably wouldn't have noticed if a dern black bird hadn't knocked the hat off" Smitty nodded. "I liked Mr. Perkins. He was a hard man, but a good rancher."
Jim glanced at Smitty and saw him wipe his eyes. "I know you did, Smitty. So did I. He was a contrary old fella, and had to do things his way. Could be that's what set this off. I wonder if the missing cattle had anything to do with this."
"It was only a few head, why would anyone bother doing something like this? Who could do such a thing?" Smitty asked, his voice wavering. "I mean…like that. I guess a lot of people are jealous of his spread but you know he worked hard for this place he had every right to make as much as he could off his cattle. And thirty head of cattle ain't enough to kill a man over. Is it?"
"I wouldn't think so, but look what it cost him. I don't know. Could be some kind of grudge or something. This is usually a pretty peaceful community, but lots of new people movin' in. People coming west to settle the land, especially since we done away with most of the Indian problems. It could be anyone. Oh, here…take this sign in with you and put it on my desk. I'll want to look it over later." Jim directed him.
"Sure thing," Smitty nodded. "I'll be back soon. Don't it spook you a little bein' out here…alone."
"A little, but it's my job. Smitty, be sure and warn them that this is something I don't want spread right now. I need some time…"
"Yes sir."
Smitty shook his head and walked back to the yard. His head was hung in such a fashion that Jim could almost feel his tears.
Jim nodded and headed for the ranch house. He wasn't feeling very good about all this himself, and somehow he had to get over the shock before everyone got out here. Someone had to be in control of things. He kept telling himself that it was his job, to be here, to investigate. But his job never dealt with anything so bizarre.
The wind blew like a whispering ghost, leaving a lonely echo. he grimaced; listening to the sound of it was something he tried to avoid. It filled him with a loneliness he couldn't explain. The door was still banging as Smitty rode off. It was the end of October and the weather was turning colder now. The norther that blew in last night was making it miserable to be outside today. It probably wouldn't feel so cold, but the wind cut right through.
A norther could change the temperature in Texas in seconds, so no one was surprised when winter announced itself.
Searching the area for signs of blood, gun powder, and knives, whatever, the Sheriff tried to use logic, and reason. Whoever did this had sawed Mr. Perkins arms and legs off. He didn't want to tell Smitty that, didn't want to verbalize the horror of the scene. Maybe Smitty already knew…just didn't say so. Sometimes when things went so very wrong, it was best not to talk about it at all. Right now, the less he thought about it, the better. Somehow it seemed more real by not saying anything.
He knew he couldn't stop the gossips once this news spread. Everyone in town would be in a stir, and he couldn't blame them. Nothing like this had ever happened.
He sat on the porch step for a long while, looking about the grounds for some clue as to where the crime was committed, or if the murderer had left anything behind, but the wind had gotten up so much that anything that might have been left behind was probably blown out into the fields
by now. Besides, the murderer was long gone from here. He felt the void that left with the place.
Someone went to a lot of trouble.
Mr. Perkins only had a couple of hands on full time, and when roundup time came he hired more. But no one was about. A couple of chickens scurried the yard. A horse neighed from the barn. These were normal sounds, but today, they didn't seem normal at all. The place would never be normal again. Any time someone passed through town they'd hear about the terrible killing that happened here. No longer would Melville be thought of as a peaceful little town.
Jim grimaced, and firmed his lips.
He shut his eyes for a moment. Funny, but he thought the days of all the really bad guys were gone, but he was sadly mistaken, for whoever did this was a sick person, very sick.
He remembered a Texas Ranger riding into town once not too long ago, telling him about a crazy man he was chasing. He wondered if they could be connected. He also wondered if Wesley Collins had caught the man he was after. Could it be the same man? He had spent the night talking to Wesley about this…Victor Frank.
He rolled the words on the sign around in his head, "Good day for a hanging?" What did that mean? And why had they hung him like a scarecrow? Why not just string him up on the nearest tree. Was there some hidden message in the way it was done? It seemed almost childish.
Could the killer have a childish mind?
Whoever did this, went to an extreme amount of trouble.
Someone might have had a grudge, especially since Perkins refused to sell any cattle locally. Mr. Perkins had been a stingy man, never giving an inch for his neighbors. Often times families came on hard times and would beg a cow or two off a rancher, but not Perkins. He'd just as soon shoot them for thinking he'd give his cattle away. But he was honest and fair about anything else, he let half his neighbors use his water. And for that, he'd be remembered here. Maybe that was where he needed to concentrate his efforts.
At one time, water rights was the most important thing to ranchers, because of droughts. But Perkins had given in on that matter, Jim reflected. He shared his water with his neighbors.
Most of the ranchers pushed to Kansas to sell, at the railheads in Dodge City. But Perkins could have gotten greedy. He had to be selling to the big Montana ranchers for he was already gathering cattle and road branding them, and his herd was bigger than usual this year. It would be early April before he started his annual drive to the north. A drive that wouldn't happen this year. Then there was the question of who would inherit this place and the cattle. There were lots of unanswered questions.
Jim would have to look into exactly what Perkins had been doing with his cattle. That would take some court orders and a lot of snooping. People got edgy when he snooped into their business. Ranchers were particularly narrow minded about such things.
Another thing that bothered him, the words on the sign were written in blood, he would bet his life on that.
Everything about this spelled gruesome.
He began to recount the new people in the community, their faces, things they had said. But nothing led him to suspicion anyone. Still there was a crazy person running around in his town and he would have to find them. But what the heck was he supposed to do with them when he did catch them? The townspeople would want a hanging for sure. He'd worry about that later. Right now, he had to catch the one responsible.
There was also the slightest possibility that a stranger had done this and was long gone, too. But he'd have to prove that, and that would take some doing.
If this was a cattle problem then it meant all the ranchers could be in danger. He'd have to notify them and their families. Several of the ranchers had reported cattle thieving, but it never amounted to much, a few head here and there. Wasn't enough to launch a full-fledged investigation, Jim decided? Perkins reported thirty head stolen over the past year, not a lot considering the size of his herd. Wolves, Indians, and even weather could account for a few head every year. Perkins knew that.
He sighed and got up and went inside the house.
There was a dirty coffee cup on the table, as though Mr. Perkins had a cup before it happened. The cup was upright, as though there were no struggles around it. No coffee stains on the table where it might have spilled if there had been a ruckus. At first that was reassuring, but as he prowled the house like a cat looking for a string, he realized nothing was out of place, and so everything was out of place. What kind of killer would clean up messes before he left? Whoever it was took their time, wasn't in a hurry.
That angered Jim. It was as though they knew they wouldn't be caught, or didn't really care if they were caught.
He couldn't think straight, the site of the scarecrow shook him just as deeply as it had Smitty. This murderer was sick.
If it were a grudge killing Mr. Perkins would be hanging on a tree, probably in his front yard for all to see. But this was different, this was disguised. Perhaps that was the way the killer got away without being seen. He took the time to disguise his victim. The body itself had started rotting from the looks of it. Mr. Perkins throat had been slashed then sewn. That was a puzzle.
But the house looked like the yard, like no one had been here. There were no boot prints, or horse tracks, nor wagon tracks. The house was barely disturbed. He went to the bedroom, and saw that Mr. Perkins had made his bed. He hadn't known Mr. Perkins well, as he was always busy here at his ranch and didn't get into town much. He didn't know the hands at all, maybe they had seen something, heard something.
He definitely needed to talk to them. Why weren't they about?
Funny how you could miss someone you didn't know that much, but now that he was dead, even he missed Mr. Perkins, somehow it left a dull void.
A void Melville would have a hard time dealing with.
He looked through the things in the bedroom once more, checked the floor, the roof, and front room as though he might have missed something. Killers usually left some sort of sign. But so far, he couldn't find one.
Then he went outside and checked the barn. Sure enough Mr. Perkins horse was still stabled all the tools were put away and neat. Nothing looked disturbed. However, this disturbed him a bit. A man alone on his ranch, with no females to nag him about how he kept house, wouldn't have made his bed, nor necessarily had all his tools put away. He did remember coming out here a while back and at that time the barn was in chaos. But today it was neat as a pin. That didn't figure. A working man didn't put his tools away if he was going to use them the next day. And as far as he could tell, Mr. Perkins wasn't that neat, at least not until now.
The murderer did it. He had too.
But did this tell him anything about who it could be?
He racked his brain. Obviously the murderer didn't know much about Perkins or he would have left the place a little messier. So the murderer was either hired to kill him, or just didn't know him that well. That left it wide open for the newcomers in the area. A year ago Melville had about two hundred and fifty people. Today there was three hundred and ninety. It had grown despite the fact that no railroad ran through it.
He checked the small bunk house but even though the beds weren't made, no one was about either.
They could be out on the range, tending the cattle. More than likely Mr. Perkins would put them in the south pasture since it was turning cold. He'd hang around to see if anyone was here.
He sat on the porch again, staring out. He should be doing something. He should be finding the murderer, but where did he start. This was no ordinary killing. The killer was meticulous, that was the only clue he had.
The small hint of clues stuck out in Jim's head. The person that killed him was clean and neat. Not much of a clue in Jim's thinking.
Melville had been a quiet little town, and he liked it that way. Even the minor problems he'd had weren't like a lot of towns. It was miles from the railroad, had no lakes about it, just a few creeks and springs. Everyone knew everyone in town. And he'd made a point of introducing himsel
f to newcomers. It's was about the only reason he attended church every Sunday so he could meet the new people coming into the community.
Still, he'd let someone slip through his hands. Unless this was a total stranger, he had to suspect everyone until he could prove something. And he really didn't want to suspect everyone.
Could a stranger have wandered in, and done this and moved on? It was possible and if it were true, then Jim might never solve this.
The only good thing about that conclusion was that if it was a stranger, they probably wouldn't be back through again.
The blood hadn't dripped to soak into the ground. Why hadn't it?
Had the murderer killed Perkins somewhere else and brought him here? Why would he go to so much trouble? Was there any reasoning to his madness?
Why hang a sign like that, written in blood?
Was it a grudge killing? Was it a stranger? Was the murderer trying to say something? Was the grudge just against Perkins, or all ranchers?
Questions and no answers, Jim felt helpless. His analytical mind always came up with some kind of answers, but right now, he had none.
He thought about Smitty who was so upset, and how badly he'd treated him this morning. Poor Smitty must have been scared witless. Bravery wasn't one of his stronger points. But Smitty was priceless when it came to small errands around the place. And he could always depend on him to tell him the truth.
A cloud of dust stirred toward the north and he knew it was Smitty and some of the town folk come to help.
What could he say to them? He had no idea where to look for someone like this? His mind had never turned to the insane.
But there were no boot prints in the cornfield, so had they deliberately covered them up. They had to; some kind of signs would be on the ground as he was putting the body on the wooden cross. Where was all the blood? Nothing added up.
Okay the wind had gotten up last night. Had it blown everything away?
Good Day for a Hanging (Book Two of the Western Serial Killers series) Page 2