Frontier of Violence
Page 29
“And we sure did,” confirmed a sling-wrapped Peter. “We turned up that war bag. And some of the contents in it opened up our eyes to a lot of things about Mr. Ben Eames—or leastways the fella calling himself that.”
“Take a look at the papers,” said Fred, gesturing.
Bob plucked up the largest of the somewhat crumpled sheets of paper and shook it out to full size. He found himself looking at an advertising page from one of the many so-called Wild West shows that toured to great popularity back East. This particular extravaganza appeared to have been built primarily around a renowned marksman and trick-shot artist billed as Benjamin “Eagle Eye” Emerson. The picture of Eagle Eye, though duded up with a good deal of rhinestones and fringe-cuffed gloves, was unmistakably a somewhat younger version of the man who’d shown up in Rattlesnake Wells calling himself Ben Eames.
“So he was a ringer,” Bob muttered. “A professional shooter looking to cash in on a bunch of boomtown suckers.”
“A ringer, for sure,” agreed Fred. “But not necessarily in it strictly for himself. Take a look at the telegram laying there.”
Bob picked up a second piece of paper, a telegram. It was dated six weeks earlier and had been sent from the telegraph office in Cheyenne. It was addressed to Emerson and signed Gafford. The message contained specific instructions for arriving in Rattlesnake Wells as one Ben Eames and adhering to the routine Eames had subsequently followed. It emphasized no contact outside the contest participation and, near the closing, reminded Emerson/Eames you know how much is riding on this.
“That conniving damned skunk!” Bob declared. “Gafford had the contest rigged right from the beginning. . . or thought he did.”
“Until Delaney came along and turned his plan on its ear by outshooting the ringer,” said Vern after scanning the message for himself. Then, cutting his gaze to his brother and Fred, he said, “So was Gafford also in on the plan to kill Delaney?”
“No doubt he was in on it to some degree. Hell, he may have been the one pushing for it the most,” Peter replied. “But we’ll never know that part for sure.”
“The final straw for Gafford,” said Fred, pointing, “was the skeleton key. We found it on Eames’s body. It fit all the second-floor locks at the Shirley House. When we took it to Draeger, the manager, he remembered loaning it to Gafford that morning because he claimed to have locked himself out of his room and had left his own key back at the Crystal Diamond. He was supposed to bring it right back. Obviously, he didn’t. And then Draeger got busy with other things and it slipped his mind . . . until we showed up asking about it.”
“That was supposed to be Eames’s insurance for getting to Delaney,” Bob said, starting to put all the pieces together. “If he hadn’t found Delaney present when he went to the room, he would have let himself in and waited.”
“That’s how we figured it, too,” said Fred. “So that’s when we went to Gafford and confronted him with everything. We were hoping we could get him to break down and confess. If not, we were ready to throw him in the clink anyway, until you got back.”
“What we weren’t ready for,” Peter said, “was for him to break down as bad as he did. To turn into a blubbering, sobbing, wailing mess. Repeating over and over how sorry he was and how his life was ruined and on and on. Right up to when he asked if he could reach into his pocket—for a hankie, he said.” Peter paused, his expression turning grim. “He brought out a hankie, all right. But wrapped in it was a big bore derringer that he stuck in his mouth when he raised the hankie to his face. If anybody cared to bother, they’d still be scraping his brains off the wall of his office.”
* * *
Once Bob and Vern had been brought up to speed on everything that transpired in town while they were gone, it was their turn to share all they’d encountered on their chase after the Shaws. What they revealed about Delaney and his gang showing up certainly raised some eyebrows, but at the same time it provided a measure of satisfaction for Fred and Peter about the suspicions they’d rightfully had over Delaney and his “business associates.” The revelation that came next, though, about the suicide note in the gun handle and the repercussions it could have, reaching all the way to the U.S. Congress, was the stunner of the whole discussion.
Luckily, McTeague not only had a good deal of familiarity with the incident, at least as far as the sanitized version of Mrs. Lorsby’s suicide, but he also had several high-ranking friends back in Illinois. As did, he added, banker Abraham Starbuck. Bob’s relief at hearing this was matched only by McTeague’s offer to set things in motion for seeing to it that the right people—people who could be trusted and were in significant positions of power—were made privy to this delicate information and would pursue it to the point of Senator Lorsby finally being held to account for his actions.
At that point, Bob called a halt to any further discussion. He knew full well that his involvement with these matters—the in-depth questioning and detailed testimony that lay ahead—was far from over.
But, for the time being, enough was enough.
He felt exhausted and sore and irritable and all he wanted to do in the hours directly ahead was to step away from all the thievery, double-dealing, and death and just spend some quiet time with Bucky and Consuela . . . his family.
He had a promise to keep.