Asa grunted.
“We have drawn attention to the cancers, as you call them. Exactly as you asked me to.”
Asa grunted.
“You didn’t want to stir up the townsfolk by actually robbing the stages and having posses out combing the countryside, and here we sit, with no posses to worry about.”
Noona laughed. “They don’t take us serious, is why. If we’d stolen their money and valuables, they’d be fit to lynch us.”
“What I’d like to know,” Byron said, “is how much more of this we have to do before we bed those cancers down, permanent?”
“Listen to you,” Asa said. “Since when did you become bloodthirsty?”
“Since I was beaten within an inch of my life,” Byron said.
“Paitence, son,” Asa said. “As I keep having to remind you, we have to do this so that when we get to the bedding down, no one puts the blame on us.”
“And no one knows it was us,” Noona amended.
“How many more stages do we pretend to rob, then?” Byron asked.
“We’re done with stages,” Asa said. “They were to get jaws wagging.”
“It’s too bad we can’t tame all our towns this way,” Noona said. “This is fun.”
“I’m happy you’re amused, daughter. But never forget that the opposition is taking this serious.”
“Don’t worry, Pa,” Noona said. “I’m fond of breathing.”
62
Everyone knew the carriage on sight. The grandest in Ordville, Arthur Studevant had imported it from Paris, France. Gossip had it that it was a popular model with the European rich.
The driver wore a purple uniform complete with a high hat. He sat straight and proud and handled the six horses in their fine livery with expert ease.
Marshal Pollard happened to be at his desk thumbing through circulars when the carriage came to a halt outside his office. He looked out the window and said, “Oh, hell.”
The driver scrambled down to lower the step and opened the door and even bowed slightly in the manner of a court retainer.
Arthur Studevant had a stately air about him. His slicked black hair with gray at the temples, his immaculate clothes tailored in the European style, his polished shoes and his cane with its gold knob set him apart from common humanity. He alighted and took a couple of steps and stopped so that the two men who emerged after him could flank him on either side.
Deputy Agar had gone to the window when the marshal swore, and he remarked, “His bodyguards are with him.”
“When aren’t they?” Pollard said.
“They’re spooky, those two.”
Rumor had it the bodyguards were cousins. They certainly looked enough alike. Both were tall and broad-shouldered and had a pantherish aspect when they moved. Both had mustaches and gray eyes, which was fitting since they both always dressed in gray. Gray short-brimmed hats. Gray suits. Gray slickers on occasion. Even gray gun belts and gray holsters. Two holsters apiece, for the cousins were a rarity. Both were two-gun men. They were equally proficient with either hand.
People liked to bestow nicknames, so it wasn’t unusual that the bodyguards had acquired a nickname of their own.
They were called the Gray Ghosts.
Arthur Studevant entered the jail and gave Deputy Agar a look that made Agar swallow.
The Gray Ghosts followed, each moving as silently as their namesakes. Their boots were made of soft leather with soft soles, and they never wore spurs. They made no more sound than Apaches.
Studevant had a folded newspaper under his arm. Opening it, he placed it on the marshal’s desk and said, “Where’s my kiss?” He wasn’t smiling. His blue eyes were ice and his jaw was granite.
Pollard stared at the Ordville Gazette in disgust. “I asked Fiske not to print that, but he said it was too newsworthy to pass up.”
“I’ll have a talk with our so-called journalist,” Arthur Studevant declared, and his tone implied Fiske wouldn’t like what he said. Leaning on his cane, Studevant regarded Pollard with his piercing blue eyes. “I was out of town when the first incident occurred. I heard about it, naturally, since it was all anyone was talking about when I returned.”
“Those damned outlaws,” the marshal said.
“I’m beginning to worry about you, Abel,” Studevant said.
Pollard sat up. “What for? I’ve always been ready and willing to do anything you want me to.”
“That’s not the issue here,” Studevant said. “The issue is outlaws who aren’t outlaws.”
“How’s that again?”
Studevant sat on the edge of the desk and rested the cane with the gold knob across his shoulder. “Yes, I definitely have need to be concerned. I took you for sharper.”
“I’m as sharp as the next hombre,” Pollard angrily replied.
“Then explain why you didn’t come see me after the first incident.”
Flushing, Pollard spat, “Because it was damned embarrassing, that’s why. Folks were laughing at me behind my back. That farmer outlaw sending his love. He made a fool of me.”
“There is no farmer outlaw. There are no outlaws, period.”
“How can you say that? The driver and the passengers saw the highwaymen with their own eyes.”
Studevant bent down so they were almost face-to-face. “Outlaws don’t send their love to marshals. Outlaws don’t ask marshals to give a town’s leading citizen a kiss.” He paused, and his voice vibrated with suppressed fury. “Outlaws don’t stop a stage to hold it up and then not take anything.”
Deputy Agar chimed in with, “They were fixing to rob it. The first time they wanted biscuits and the second time it was sugar.”
Arthur Studevant said without looking at him, “If you open your mouth again, Deputy, I’ll have Dray and Cray take you into a cell and pistol-whip you until you spit out teeth.”
Agar glanced at the Gray Ghosts, and shivered.
“Now, then,” Studevant said to Pollard, “I admit that when I heard about the first incident, I, too, assumed it was someone out to humiliate you. But this latest”—he tapped the newspaper—“is intended to humiliate both of us.”
“Why these jackasses are going to so much trouble to annoy us has me stumped.”
“Are you puzzled?” Studevant asked.
“I am.”
“Are you confused?”
“I reckon I’m that, too.”
“Are you mystified?”
“I’m not rightly sure what that means, but if it has anything to do with puzzled and confused, I am.”
Arthur Studevant stood and moved to the window and stared out. “In Wyoming you showed great promise, Abel. It’s why I sent for you when I needed someone to carry out my wishes here in Ordville.”
“I’m obliged,” Pollard said.
“You should be. But if you desire to go on serving me, you mustn’t be as stupid as everyone else.”
“Sorry?”
“There is more going on here than meets our eyes. Whoever these men are, they’re up to something. Their purpose isn’t clear yet. But what to do about it is.”
“I’m listening,” Pollard said.
“Twice now they’ve stopped the stage from Denver at the last grade. It’s likely, if not certain, that they’ll stop it a third time. You must have men lying in wait for them.”
“But the stage comes four times a week, and we don’t know which day they’ll pick.”
Studevant turned. “So send out deputies each and every time until these outlaws who aren’t outlaws show up.”
“I suppose I could,” Pollard said.
“No, you will. And once you have them behind bars, you’re to send for me and I’ll question them personally. And Abel?”
“Mr. Studevant?”
“I don’t like having to solve your pr
oblems for you. Especially a problem as simple as this. Use your head as well as your revolver and your fists. Prove to me that my trust in you is justified, or I’ll find someone else to wear that badge.”
“Don’t you worry,” Pollard said. “I’ll catch those three if it’s the last thing I do.”
63
It was common knowledge that every Friday night Arthur Studevant attended the theater. Just as it was that the Gray Ghosts always went with him, and that he always had a new pretty lady on his arm.
Studevant had a mansion on the outskirts of Ordville, but he spent more time at the Studevant Hotel. His suite comprised the entire top floor.
On this particular Friday, three figures stood in the shadows of a recessed doorway and watched Studevant’s fancy carriage clatter off down the street.
“There he goes,” Noona said. “It’s too bad we can’t just shoot him and be done with it.”
“And wind up at the end of a rope?” Asa said. “No thank you, girl.” He moved out of the doorway, the Winchester at his side, hidden by the Macintosh.
Byron came last, saying, “We might be recognized without our masks.”
“You took off your straw hat and have a jacket on,” Asa said. “Keep your chin down and your head low until we get there.”
They crossed where the street was darkest and walked around to the rear of the hotel. The back door had a sign that read STAFF ONLY.
The desk clerk was reading and didn’t hear them start up the stairs. They encountered no one until the fourth floor, when a man dressed for a night on the town hurried past without so much as a glance.
Two lamps lit the top floor hallway. Asa had Noona extinguish one while Byron blew out the other.
“Masks,” Asa said, and they donned them.
“Remember, gal,” Asa said to Noona. “Not a word out of you or they’ll know you’re not male.”
“I know what to do, Pa.”
Asa knocked, and when a balding gent in a starched black uniform answered, Asa pointed the shotgun at his face.
“One yell, and you’re dead.”
“My word,” the man blurted.
“You are?”
“The butler, sir. Jeems is my name.”
“Back up,” Asa said. “Arms high.”
Jeems dutifully obeyed. “You’ve only just missed Mr. Studevant. I’m afraid if you’re here to rob him, you won’t find much of value.”
“Liar,” Asa said. He pressed the muzzle against Jeems’s chest and forced him back until he bumped into a chair. “Sit.”
Jeems sat.
“You know what to do,” Asa said to the others. “I’ll keep our friend company.”
Byron and Noona each drew knives from hip sheaths and went into different rooms. Shortly, from out of the rooms came ripping and tearing sounds.
“What are you up to, if I might inquire?” Jeems asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Asa said.
“You’re those highwaymen I read about, aren’t you?” Jeems said. “The ones Mr. Studevant has taken a personal interest in.”
“Has he, now?”
“I should point out he’ll be incensed by this intrusion. I’ve been in his employ for fifteen years and know him well.”
“You might want to go to work for someone else.”
“I couldn’t do that. No one else would pay as handsomely.”
“Were you here the night he raped that girl?”
“I’m aware of her accusation, and he did no such thing,” Jeems said indignantly. “But no, I wasn’t. He’d given me the night off.”
“Wonder why,” Asa said.
“It’s a shame about the young lady,” Jeems continued. “Doing herself in like that.”
“She did what?”
“It was in the newspaper.” Jeems motioned at several on a polished mahogany stand. “That Miss Baker hanged herself. Tied a rope to a rafter in her house. Her poor mother found the body.”
Asa sidled to the stand. Covering the butler, he picked up the top Gazette. He didn’t have to look any farther than the first page.
“Did you know her?” Jeems asked.
Without thinking, Asa answered, “Met her once.”
He folded the newspaper and slid it into a pocket.
Byron emerged, laughing. “Done with this room,” he said. “It’s too bad we can’t burn the whole hotel to the ground.”
“A lot of other people stay here,” Asa said.
“We could go door to door and warn them to leave.”
“No.”
Byron gestured at the room he’d just vacated. “This doesn’t hardly seem enough.”
“There’ll be more,” Asa said. He had partly turned and wasn’t covering the butler.
“Might I interject a comment, sir?” Jeems asked.
“What is it?” Asa said. He’d just as soon the man be quiet.
“I’d very much like both of you to drop your guns,” Jeems said, “or else.”
The “or else” became apparent when Asa glanced over his shoulder and discovered a derringer trained on him.
64
Asa wanted to kick himself. He’d been careless, and now look.
“I’d put that down were I you,” Byron said. “You’ll only get one of us before the other gets you.”
Jeems kept the derringer pointed on Asa. “But who is to die and who is to live? That’s the question.”
“You’re a butler, not a gun hand,” Byron said. “Why are you doing this?”
Asa slowly slid his right foot along the floor. If his son could keep Jeems talking, he might get close enough to club him with the shotgun. Better that than a shot, which would bring the management and others on the run.
Jeems surprised him by noticing. “Stand perfectly still, sir. I’m an able shot.”
“Why die for an animal like Studevant?” Byron asked.
Jeems didn’t answer. Instead he stood and said, “I’ll have to ask the two of you to place your rifles to the floor. Nice and easy, if you please.”
“Don’t do this,” Asa said.
“I’m afraid I have to,” Jeems said. “Mr. Studevant might fire me if I do nothing, and I do so like this job.”
Asa looked past the butler and gave the slightest of nods. He tried one more time. “We have no wish to harm you. It’s Mr. High-and-Mighty who has a reckoning coming.”
“Is that why you’re doing this? It’s part of some vendetta?”
“The derringer,” Asa said. “Hand it over.”
“Not in a million years.”
“Very well,” Asa said. “Do it.”
“Do what?” Jeems asked.
By then Noona was behind him. She’d crept out of the other room unnoticed and as silently as a Comanche slunk up. Now, without any warning, she raised her Spencer over Jeems’ head and brought it crashing down.
The butler stiffened and gasped as his eyelids fluttered. The derringer fell from fingers gone limp, and a moment later Jeems lay on the floor next to it.
“You did good,” Asa said.
“I felt sort of sorry doing it,” Noona said. “It’s not him we’re after.”
“He made his choice.” Asa helped himself to the derringer. “Now let’s finish up. Destroy everything you can without making much noise.”
Noona stepped to a painting of an aristocratic woman from perhaps a century ago. Drawing her knife, she slashed the canvas from top to bottom and side to side. “I’d sure like to see his face when he sees what we’ve done.”
“He’ll be fit to be tied,” Asa predicted.
They spent the next fifteen minutes cutting and ripping. More paintings, the furniture, even the huge four-poster bed that Arthur Studevant slept in. Byron took particular delight in slashing the canopy to ribbons.
>
In one room Asa found a writing desk and paper and ink. It gave him an idea. He sat down and called Byron over. Together they crafted a short letter that began with, Dear Editor.
A groan from Jeems prompted Asa to bind and gag him, and they were done.
They stepped to the door and admired their handiwork, with Noona saying, “He’ll take this like a bear takes being poked with a stick.”
“We want him to,” Asa said.
“The important thing now is that the rest of the town finds out,” Byron said.
“Let’s skedaddle,” Asa said. “Masks off.” He removed his and poked his head out. The hallway was empty. Holding the shotgun under his Macintosh, he hurried to the stairs.
On the third floor they encountered a couple going up, but the man and woman were arm in arm, fondling, and only had eyes for each other.
Once outside, they hugged the shadows. Half a dozen side streets and two alleys brought them to their next stop.
The Ordville Gazette operated out of a brick building that fronted on Main Street. The press was on the bottom floor, the offices above.
“Look at him,” Noona said when they peered in the wide window. “He sure is dedicated.”
Richard Fiske was setting type. He wore an apron and a visor and his fingers were stained with ink.
“Preparing tomorrow’s edition,” Byron guessed.
“Let’s give him something for the front page.” Asa had cut a slit in the note he’d written so that all he had to do was slide the paper over the knob and it would hang there. He knocked and quickly retreated around the corner.
They heard the door open and a voice call out, “Yes? Who’s out here?”
A few heartbeats more, and, “What’s this?”
Asa grinned, and he and his pride and joys melted into the night.
65
Marshal Abel Pollard was summoned to the Studevant Hotel the next morning shortly before eight. He had barely settled into his desk with his usual cup of coffee. when one of the Gray Ghosts showed up and said that Arthur Studevant demanded to see him now. He took Agar along.
Town Tamers Page 19