Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  The robber pulled Oliver to the side of the door and Marshal West hurried through the opening. He came back a minute later and waved at the gunman.

  "Get the hell out of here."

  The outlaw walked Oliver to the corral, let go of him a minute to step through the poles. The second the robber's six-gun swung away from Oliver, a rifle barked and the. 52 caliber slug plowed into the man's head. It hit just over his left eye and tore the top of his head off.

  Spur ran for the front door with two other marshals. Inside they found four men passed out on the floor. Oliver's naked wife lay on a bed built against the wall. She had been spread eagled and tied down.

  Oliver rushed in the door and covered his wife with a blanket, then he cut the cords tying her down.

  Marshals handcuffed the men on the floor and slapped them trying to awaken them. They threw cold water in their faces, then waited.

  Spur looked at Marshal West. "What about the deal you made with that dead man out there? You said he could go free."

  "I let him go. One of the other marshals shot him, not me. Hell, we don't make deals with these owlhoots."

  He shook his head looking at the men on the floor. Two of them lay in their own vomit. "Damn, we're stuck here until we can get them sobered up enough to walk," West said. "Then we'll handcuff them together and tie the first one to the back of the wagon. If these bastards can't walk, we'll drag them. I don't hold with rape."

  Marshal John came in with the saddlebag the dead outlaw had carried over his shoulder.

  "Money inside," John said.

  Marshal West emptied it on a table. Inside had been loose bills and one bound stack of tens. West counted it as they waited. Oliver vanished into a back room with his softly crying wife. Spur didn't see any of the children.

  "Two thousand, three hundred and forty seven dollars," West said. The marshals all stood around watching. West counted out seven stacks of $100 each.

  "Our commission," West said. He handed $100 to each of the men and pocketed one stack, then handed the last pile to Spur. "Your share," West said.

  Spur took it without comment. That way the marshals were covered. He couldn't turn them in without implicating himself as well. These men deserved the money. The bank would get most of it back, more than sixteen hundred dollars. They would be happy.

  Oliver came in a few minutes later.

  "Kids?" West asked.

  "Got away into the woods when we seen them coming. Bess and me couldn't go. My lady gonna be hurting for a while."

  West seemed to be thinking. He nodded. "We'll charge them all with rape, as well as the robbery. Since we're so close, we'll take them back to the fort. When their trial comes up, I'll send a man to bring you and your wife to the fort to testify. No sense you coming back now, you being so close."

  "Appreciate it, Marshal West," Oliver said. He combed fingers through his black hair. "Damn them. I'd live somewhere else, but black folks don't rightly cotton to us. The Indians say we're not some of them. No place else. Damn them. Guess we'll move deeper into the Territory. Way over on the far side and find a little valley where we can raise some cattle and chickens and maybe a little grain. Yeah, that would be nice. Keep away from these damn outlaws."

  The men on the floor were starting to stir. They were dragged outside and buckets of water dumped on them. In half an hour they were awake and sober enough to walk.

  Spur took Oliver inside and without a word passed the $100 to the man and turned to leave. Oliver grabbed his arm.

  "Suh," he said. Tears welled in his eyes and splashed over. "We...we thank you, suh. You not a marshal. Bess and me and the kids thank you. Now we can move. I ain't seen a hundred dollars cash money ever in my thirty-five years of living. We thanks you."

  Spur shook Oliver's hand and walked outside.

  Just before darkness they took the ferry back across the river and turned their prisoners into the jail under the big courthouse at Fort Smith.

  As they put their horses away, Marshal West touched Spur's shoulder.

  "Know you're a Federal officer and all, and you might not agree with our commission out there today. Don't happen often. Three times now in more'n five years service. Don't hurt nobody much, but means a lot to the men."

  "No problem," Spur said. "I took my hundred, too."

  West laughed softly. "Sure you did. I didn't see you, but I'd bet a year's ration of whiskey that you don't have that hundred on you right now. My bet is that Oliver suddenly came into some cash money so he can move west."

  "Could be, Marshal West. Could be. Leastwise you know I won't be turning you in or saying a word about what happened out there."

  Marshal West watched Spur closely. Then he grinned. "No, I reckon you won't. Sorry we didn't find your friends. We'll watch for them. My guess, they didn't go into the Territory." Marshal West touched the brim of his hat in a soft salute and walked away.

  Spur agreed. If they hadn't touched either of the two settlers on the main trial, they probably hadn't entered the Territory. Now he was ready for a big supper and then maybe some sleep unless Lillian, the hotel maid, remembered to come see him. She just might. Spur grinned.

  He'd change his room without telling the room clerk. He remembered the threat on his life. It had happened to him a lot and he found ways to deal with it. Tomorrow he'd worry more about that.

  Spur reconsidered. Maybe he wouldn't change rooms until after Lillian found him. Yeah, that would be good. Spur grinned thinking about the night ahead.

  After a big supper, Spur McCoy went back to room 212 in the Wentworth Hotel and tried to relax. He couldn't stop thinking about the case. There were too many threads to it, all right, they were more like heavy ropes pulling every which way.

  He had to follow down every lead, every chance that a man or woman might have something to do with the train robbery. He was finding out that this was a lot more than simply a smash and grab crime.

  Spur waited until ten o'clock. It looked as if Lillian wasn't coming tonight. He slipped across the hall into another room that was unoccupied, locked the door and put the straight backed chair back under the doorknob. Anyone breaking in would have to crush the chair. More than enough noise to wake him.

  Spur awoke the next morning alive and hungry. He had heard no noise or attack during the night. Good, maybe the letter threat was just a crank. He'd be watchful, as always.

  After a quick breakfast, Spur went to the post office in the Mallory General Store and asked for the Postal Inspector. Bret Hardy was finishing his work in the office. He looked worn and tired out.

  "McCoy. Figured it would be you. You're the last bit of trouble I need to convince me I should turn in my resignation. What now?"

  "Just a little information. I need to know the name of the person those bearer bonds were being sent to."

  "McCoy, you know I can't give you that information."

  "Oh, but I'm sure you can. This is a Federal criminal case. I can wire my boss, who will talk to the Secretary of the Treasury, who will call your boss-"

  Hardy held up one hand. "Enough. He'd probably tell me to do it. The man who launched a complaint about non-delivery of registered mail is Gregory Johnson Lowell. He's something of a legend around here. Rich man who came out of the shipping business down in Little Rock. Made his fortune and moved here to retire about ten years ago. Built a big mansion up the slope a ways and has been a fountain of good works and hard cash for public works and civic pride ever since."

  Hardy frowned. He rubbed one hand over his face and Spur caught the weariness there. "You don't think he's a suspect or anything like that?"

  "Right now everyone, including you, is a suspect, Mr. Hardy, until I get a handle on this case. I want to talk to this man and see what impression of him I come away with. It could be productive, and it might not be. That's what I get paid for."

  "I wish you good luck. I'm getting a lot of angry telegrams from the department. They want this robbery solved quickly."

  "So
do I.Oh, is registered mail also insured?"

  "Can be. This one wasn't. No postal clerk would insure it for its worth, $100,000 is what the man claims."

  "Guess it's about time I go see this gentleman."

  "Good luck. From my contact with him he's as rough as a new shelled corn cob."

  "I'll be on my guard."

  Fifteen minutes later, Spur stopped in front of a three story mansion he figured must have 30 or more rooms. It was painted white with a soft brown trim with windows all over the place. Around the front, was a ten-foot-wide covered porch. He strode up the walk of paving stones to the porch filled with pots of blooming flowers. Polished and varnished double doors with glass panels blocked his entry into the house. He twisted a bell knob on the outside of the wall that sent a ringing note through the inside of the house.

  Almost at once the door opened and a man in full butler livery stared down his thin nose at Spur. The man was as black as midnight in a coal mine, stood an inch taller than Spur and looked as if he could wrestle an alligator and a grizzly bear at the same time.

  "Yes, sir?" the butler asked.

  "Spur McCoy. I'd like to see Mr. Gregory Lowell, on United States government business."

  "Oh, step this way, sir. Would you please wait here so I can see if he is receiving?"

  "Tell him it's about his lost bearer bonds."

  The big black man didn't react, he turned and walked out of the entryway which was as big as most people's living room. The walls had original oil paintings, most three-by-four feet or larger. Spur had seen the style before but didn't know the artist.

  Red upholstered couches stood in front of two of the walls. The third had a window that opened on a garden.

  Before Spur had seen enough of the garden, the butler returned.

  "Right this way, Mr. McCoy."

  They went down a long hall with a soft carpet underfoot. Every ten-feet another oil painting brightened the passage. They passed several doors, then the butler opened another and stepped back.

  Spur entered the room and saw that it was a library, with hundreds of leather bound volumes on wall shelves behind glass doors. The centerpiece was a flat desk of free form design made from remarkably beautiful quarter cut oak burls that had been glued together in an eye stopping pattern.

  One window slightly to the right and in back of the desk was shaded with floor to ceiling drapes of some rich brocade. Behind the desk sat a man in his seventies. He had a full head of starkly white hair, a sturdy white moustache and mutton chop sideburns of the same texture and color.

  He stood and held out his hand across the polished surface.

  "Mr. McCoy, United States Secret Service. Yes, I heard you were in town. My name is Gregory Lowell. Please, sit down."

  Spur shook the offered soft hand, then looked at the roundbacked early Quaker chair and hesitated. It was an antique from a hundred years ago or more and must be worth more than the average working man's wages for a year.

  "Early Quaker?" Spur asked.

  Lowell lifted his brows in surprise. "Close. Actually that's a Pennsylvania Dutch pastor's chair from about 1680. However, it is sturdy and in excellent condition."

  Spur sat gently and looked up at an inquisitive Gregory Lowell.

  "You said something about my missing bonds."

  "I have no new information on the loss. Just wanted to chat with you a minute to see if it might help me to solve the puzzle of the robbery of the express car."

  The wealthy man's face reflected his disappointment. "Certainly, anything that I can do."

  "The bonds were mailed by registered mail in a package from Kansas City, as I understand."

  "Yes, that's where my broker is. I wore out the financial men in my native Little Rock. Some mis understandings. This particular type of investment I would rather have in hand, than in the safe of some brokerage house. I imagine some experts would tell me that's the end product of a bitter and poverty ridden childhood. At any rate, I do like to have my convertible instruments close at hand."

  "So you have a safe of your own? Or do you use the local bank?"

  Lowell chuckled. "Oh, my, no. I wouldn't use the safe at either of the two banks. Mine, as a matter of fact, is much better than theirs."

  "Any special reason your bonds were on that particular train, Mr. Lowell?"

  "None whatsoever. I wanted them. I told my broker to send them by registered mail and he did. We've done this dozens of times over the years with no problems. He sent them on the train that those terrible outlaws chose to rob."

  "How do you suppose the robbers recognized the value of the bonds? Speaking for myself, I've never owned or even seen a bearer bond. I wouldn't know one from a stock certificate or any other type of a certificate on fancy printed paper."

  "Yes, yes. I did do some thinking on that one. My theory is that one of the men had some education and some familiarity with stocks and bonds. Actually, they are quite simple to tell apart by reading what the fancy lettering says. I can show you if you would like."

  Spur waved the idea away. "Thanks, but I don't have time to educate myself on bonds right now. My job is to find them, not to be an expert on them. How many individual certificates are there?"

  "Eleven, as I recall. I can check my records if you would like."

  "That would be most helpful. I had no idea if they were in amounts of a hundred dollars, or of fifty thousand dollars."

  Lowell stood and took a leather bound record book from a shelf on the wall behind his desk and leafed through it, then took a wooden pencil from his desk and ticked them off down a column.

  "Yes, eleven bonds in total."

  "Good. Now, do you know of anyone other than your broker who knew that you were receiving those bonds, and who knew on which train they would be sent?"

  Lowell held the pencil like a saber for a moment, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes hooded under the bushy brows. Slowly he shook his head.

  "One or two others in the brokerage house in Kansas City would know they were going to be sent by registered mail. Those in the mail room, perhaps another clerk or another broker. They would have to be retrieved from my file in the basement safe, of course. Perhaps four or five individuals might have known they were being sent."

  He shook his head. "But they would have no idea which train they would be sent on. I'm not sure that's possible to find out from the sending end. I don't see how anyone, not even I, could know exactly which train that registered mail would be on."

  Spur leaned forward then relaxed and stood. He held out his hand. "All right, that is one element I'm concerned with. Thanks for your cooperation. We're doing our best to track down those bonds for you and to catch the perpetrators." Spur turned and looked at the chair again.

  "That's a beautiful piece of furniture. Hand crafted in the old manner. I'd imagine that it will be in excellent condition in another five or six hundred years."

  Lowell smiled. "Indeed. Unless someone becomes tired of it and it winds up in a fireplace some chilly evening."

  They both smiled and Lowell walked him to the front door. This time he noticed that along the hall there were some spots where paintings had once hung but now were gone. He filed the detail for possible use later.

  Outside, he walked down the incline to the rest of the town. The house had a fine view of the surrounding area and the town. The Arkansas River flowed by not too far away. He was surprised by the size of the river and the boat traffic it carried.

  Spur remembered the letter threat, and now stopped and watched behind him. He thought he saw a shape slide in back of a buggy parked on the dirt street but he couldn't be sure. He walked on, waited until he figured anyone following him would have to be in an open area behind him, and he whirled around.

  A man in range clothes and wearing a gun on his hip turned down a side street away from Spur. He had been the right distance behind and caught in the open.

  Spur walked a little faster now. Someone was following him and didn't want him t
o know it.

  Amy Lowell Hellman sat in the only comfortable chair in the small house's living room and stared at the magazine without seeing it. She was unhappy. Amy had been unhappy for the past five days cooped up in this house in Fort Smith. The kidnapping off the train had been a hoot. She had enjoyed that more than anything she had done in years.

  Amy grinned as she remembered the strong one, Knute, picking her up out of her seat on the train, throwing her over his shoulder head down and walking out of the train with her bellowing and pounding on his back with her fists. It had been so grand!

  They had horses then and she rode in on Knute's mount. Her thighs got all chafed and she was so hot and excited with her cunnie right on the horse that she wanted to mount Knute right there as he rode. She grinned wondering if it could be done while riding a horse. She'd have to try it sometime.

  Doug was supposed to meet her there the first night, but he sent a note saying he had some other business he had to get settled first. What could be more important than her... and the twenty thousand dollars they had stolen from the train.

  Damn! She'd never seen so much money all in one place in her life. Then they ripped open the registered mail in those two mail sacks and found some more money and those stocks or bonds or whatever they were. Russ had found them and hadn't let them out of his sight ever since. She had no idea how much they were worth but it must be a lot.

  Doug had come once the second day, and kissed her a dozen times and played with her tits, and told her to be patient. One more little item he had to take care of.

  She felt a little strange. She'd been in this house with the three robbers for five days and hadn't even seen one of them naked. They told her Doug had warned them away from her. Nobody could diddle her or he'd get his balls shot off.

  Who was he to order something like that? If she wanted a man, she had him. Doug's shit was coming to an end in a rush. She stood from where she had been sitting and saw Russ first. He was the best looking of the bunch and looked like he was hung like a stud horse. She almost giggled thinking of a stallion she had seen in heat. His whanger had been two-feet long when it got hard. Could that horse make it work on that little mare he mounted! Damn! She'd never seen humping and fucking like that in her life.