Silver Moon

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “No? I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mayor Crawford.”

  I pushed myself to my feet, took my cane, and slowly turned. The leg hurt, but Doc had been right in his prediction. Now the wound only felt like a deep, deep bruise.

  “Where are you going?” Crawford’s voice was tinged with the worry and suspicion that an innocent man would not have shown.

  “Newspaper office.” I took another slow step.

  “Why?” he called to my back.

  I stopped in the doorway of his office. Used the cane to make a tottering half turn so that I faced him again. “Why? Newspapers print news. I figure if you don’t want to answer to me here, soon enough you’ll have a good chance to do it public.”

  “Sit down, Marshal.”

  When I was comfortable in the chair I had just left, he leaned forward. Tried to give me a look of confidence. Didn’t work. Not with new sweat shiny on his forehead. Not with his face showing the appearance of a deer held by a lantern’s shine.

  “Marshal, I’d like the chance to straighten out your confusion.”

  “You’re a considerate man. Tell me about you and Eleanor.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  I began to push myself to my feet.

  “This ain’t fair, Marshal. In a small town like this, hearsay can kill a bank. Once people lose faith, there’s a run on their deposits. Any unsubstantiated rumor — and that’s what the newspaper would print — will squeeze the life blood from the First National.”

  I lowered myself again. “You have my sympathy,” I said. “Trouble is two men died in your bank, and I think you’re hiding something. If that’s all I have to take down the street, that’s what I’ll tell.”

  He jerked his head in surprise. “Two men dead? I thought you’d solved that. And what does this have to do with my dealings with Eleanor Ford?”

  My turn for surprise. Crawford was a poor poker player. If it hadn’t occurred to him that there was a connection, what exactly was he hiding?

  “Crawford, yesterday someone shot me from my horse. That someone hasn’t forgotten about the bank vault murders. Which means I won’t.”

  Crawford uncapped his pen. Capped it. Uncapped it again. The light clicks of his movements were the only noise in his office.

  “Start with Nichols,” I said. “You refused him a loan this summer. Why?”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Come on, Crawford. I’m close enough to all this that someone wants me dead. I will get the rest. If I get it without your help, I’ll do everything I can to substantiate as many rumors as it takes to shut you down.”

  Click. Click. Click. He was moving the cap faster. Unaware of it.

  I thought back to his nervousness during our first discussion in this office.

  “Who else had access to the vault?”

  “Just Calhoun.” He was too miserable to be believable.

  I tried another shot in the dark. “Eleanor Ford?”

  He stopped the clicking with his pen cap. Looked down at his desk. Nodded. “But it couldn’t be her,” Crawford said. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. She had no reason to steal any money.”

  “Anybody could have a reason,” I said. “Why is it that she could get into the vault at night?”

  “For the same reason she wouldn’t steal money from the First National.” Crawford raised his head. “She owns most of it.”

  “What?”

  “No one knows. She wants it to stay that way. So do I.”

  I understood his sentiment. If folks knew he was more an employee than banker, especially employee to a woman, he wouldn’t be able to convince them of his importance. It’d would take a lot of fun out of rolling those four names of his from those fat lips.

  “Eleanor Ford owns most of the First National.” I was musing aloud, but Crawford took it as doubt.

  “Leonard Phillips, her first husband, put most of the money into starting the bank,” Crawford said. “When Phillips died, his shares passed on to her.”

  “She spend much time overlooking your work?”

  “No need to,” Crawford said quickly. “She doesn’t know banking, and I do.”

  “Convenient, then, that Phillips passed on to give you full reins around here.”

  “Not for her,” Crawford said. I noticed the unspoken implication that it had been convenient for him. “She wanted his share in cash. She wanted to move back East.”

  “Why didn’t you oblige?”

  “It was impossible.”

  When I asked why, Crawford explained. He became animated as he spoke, and his sheen of fear evaporated. Whatever he was and however pompous outside of this office, I soon understood that he knew and loved the business of banking, especially because he began by outlining bank history, and much to my surprise, he was able to make it interesting.

  He said Congress had established two national banks by charter, one in the late 1700’s and one in the early 1800’s. Both charters had essentially failed, and without government restraints, many banks had collapsed because of greed, accepting too many risky loans against too little cash reserve. It was in 1863, Crawford told me, that the federal government started a system of chartering banks which required them to back their loan notes by government securities.

  It meant that prudence was enforced by law. For every thousand dollars deposited into Crawford’s, he could lend no more than nine hundred dollars; if he was caught with less than a ten percent reserve, he would lose his charter.

  Crawford went on to tell me that in a town as small as Laramie, that nine hundred dollars would be immediately spent at another local business, for why would someone borrow money unless they had a need for it. Whoever received that money would then redeposit the bulk of it at the First National. That would give Crawford a new deposit of, say, eight hundred dollars, of which he could turn around and lend ninety percent, or seven hundred and twenty, immediately spent at another business. He’d expect about six hundred of that to be redeposited, which left him five hundred and forty to lend. And so on. Crawford called it the fractional reserve system.

  I allowed as that seemed to mean that the original thousand dollar deposit could — despite the federal reserve policy of ten percent — be lent out so many times that he might end up with five or six thousand dollars in loans.

  Crawford smiled at that, told me in an ideal world, he’d be able to squeeze that original deposit into ten thousand dollars worth of business. Then he frowned and said that competion made it less than ideal, which meant he generally expected the deposit multiplier to be closer to two than ten.

  I whistled. “Not bad business. Start a bank with fifty grand, and make interest on a hundred grand worth of loans.”

  “Something like that,” he said. Now his smile was the indulgent humor of someone teaching a boy in school the ABC’s. “But when Leonard Phillips followed the rail into Laramie, he gambled most of what he owned from the East to start his ranch and charter this bank. It was a good investment, considering what the railroad has done for Laramie.”

  “How much did he invest in the First National?”

  “A quarter million,” Crawford said. Cool, as if those kinds of numbers didn’t rattle him.

  “A quarter million dollars,” I repeated slowly. A quarter of a million dollars when a cowhand made only a dollar a day. I could not fathom that much money owned by one man, pooled in one place, nor that much money dispersed in a complicated system of loans, bank accounts and bookkeeping. And this was Laramie, a dusty town tucked lonely on the plains between two mountain ranges. How much bigger and more complicated in Denver? New York? Washington?

  “Folks sit where you sit,” Crawford said. “They want one hundred, two hundred dollars. They can’t see the picture I do. To them, life’s no more than the house they want to build. Cattle they need to buy. They can’t understand why I’m so hard-hearted. A bank depends on the faith of its depositers. If they lose faith, or if I make too many bad loans, everything collapses
. Laramie could weather a failure of the First National, but a lot of people would be hurt bad along the way. ”

  I nodded. It did make it different, trying to see it from Crawford’s point of view. I hadn’t respected Crawford because he was short, fat and fearful of most of the things I’d learned to defeat. I hadn’t realized in his own territory, he was as tough and smart as the best bronc riders and quickest gunmen.

  “Crawford,” I said, “I came in here with a bur so far up my backend I was ready to cough it out. I’ll tell you square right now. If your hands are clean on these bank vault murders, I’ll do everything I can to make sure no dirt gets smeared on you or the First National.”

  He nodded. Vigorously.

  “If not,” I continued, “I’m going to consider every lie I hear from you as a personal insult. And treat you accordingly.”

  His adam apple bulged as he swallowed. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good. Part of that deal is that my new deputy is Jake Wilson.” I couldn’t avoid a sheepish grin. “And mayor, this time I’m asking, not telling.”

  “One-Arm Wilson? But he’s—”

  “Jake Wilson’s a good man. Could you see to it that town council approves his salary? Shouldn’t be a problem. Until I got here, they had a petty thief named Smickles for deputy and seemed happy enough to have him around.”

  “Jake Wilson, then,” Crawford said with reluctance. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  With Jake, yes. With just about everything else, no. Which is why I needed Crawford to answer the questions he avoided so far.

  “Start with Bob Nichols,” I suggested. “Why’d you refuse him a loan this year? Why’d you keep that fact from me?”

  Crawford took a deep breath. “I’m telling you this because I’m going to trust you. I refused him the loan because the First National was low on cash reserves. I didn’t tell you first time around for the same reason I didn’t explain my decision to Nichols. Do I want that kind of information getting around town? No. A bank is built on faith and —”

  I laughed admiration at Crawford’s singlemindedness. “I see where you’re leading that herd,” I said. “Tell me about Eleanor Ford. Why’s she still in Laramie?”

  “That original quarter million is buried so deeply in loans, there’s no way she can draw it back out. Leonard Phillip’s fortune, which turned to her on his death, is cattle and bank shares. Not much cash. I don’t have enough money that I can buy her out myself. We’ve been trying to find a buyer for a couple of years now. And that’s another thing. Word gets out she’s trying to sell, a lot of folks get nervous, and when they get nervous, they lose faith in the bank and when that happens…”

  I waved him silent. He smiled shyly, understanding the humor in my mock disgust.

  “How could you find a buyer with that kind of money in Laramie?” I asked. “Or expect to keep it secret?”

  “Laramie! I couldn’t think of anything worse! Laramie’s the last place we’d try to find a major stockholder in the First National.”

  I remembered the train ticket stubs.

  “Don’t tell me,” I guessed. “Denver.”

  He gave me a strange look. That told me enough. But he confirmed it anyway.

  “Denver? How’d you possibly know?”

  I wondered how much I should tell Crawford about what I knew. Maybe he‘d be able to shed some light on why Eleanor Ford had directed Calhoun to Denver on her behalf.

  On the other hand, I still wasn’t sure that Crawford had told me everything. What he had told me, I believed in my bones, was truth. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more. His banking world was a complicated one, and I couldn’t hope to understand enough to beat him at that game.

  “How’d you possibly guess?” he repeated.

  “More than one reason,” I replied. I’d just decided to ask Crawford to take me on faith with that answer, when a loud rap of knuckles on door took both our attentions from the conversation.

  It was Jake. “Mayor Crawf—”

  “Jake, Mayor Crawford has just appointed you deputy.” I’d just learned a good lesson about the politics of honey versus vinegar. Jake and I would talk about Mayor Crawfish as soon as convenient. “So whatever business you’re reporting is now official.”

  With his good hand, Jake tipped his hat at Mayor Crawford. He then looked anxiously in my direction.

  “Yes, Jake?”

  “Marshal…” He looked at Crawford again, back at me. He was hopping on his toes so bad, it appeared he wanted to ask permission to visit the privy.

  “You’ll excuse me?” I asked Crawford.

  Crawford nodded.

  I led Jake out to the sidewalk in front of the First National.

  We both tipped our hats at the two ladies we’d nearly bumped as we stepped into the sunshine.

  “Yes, Jake.”

  “I arranged for extra help to do my chores in the livery. Then I moved the horse out of the cell, like you asked.”

  “Probably took some work, if it was as lazy as you told me.”

  “It hasn’t kicked in years. Your preacher man don’t know that, of course, and I have a good feeling he won’t be raising his voice much, not when he knows he can have that horse back with him any time he gets lonely.”

  “Did you get the photograghs, too?” I asked.

  “First thing. Just as you figured, Keller keeps all the negatives of his portraits.”

  “Good. What’s the real news?”

  He grinned. “This deputy work is real soft. Beats shovelling all that—”

  “Same stuff you’re throwing in my direction now. What’s the real news.”

  “Soft work, like I tried to say. It was a real pleasure keeping an eye on that lady friend of yours.”

  “And? Quit dragging this out, Jake. You were fit to be busted back in the bank.”

  “She spent some time in the Red Rose, talking quiet-like to her brothers.” He grinned wolfishly. “I put my beer on your account, being as I was there official.”

  “Sure,” I said with little enthusiasm. “‘Cause if you weren’t drinking beer, she’d wonder why you were there.”

  Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled bank notes. “Keep your crying hanky in your pocket, Sam. I played poker in there too, just to blend in as good as possible. Here’s half the money I made on a full house, queens high.”

  He gave me the notes. Caught the surprise on my face. “This ain’t charity. Had I lost, you’d have covered the pot.”

  “Wonderful, Jake.”

  “I reckon.”

  Good man, he was, but I’d have to train him to recognize sarcasm.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “Dehlia’s next stop was the train depot. Left her brothers behind, and marched right down the street. Easy woman to follow, wearing pants like that. Marshal, there’s a certain beauty when all a woman’s parts move together that smooth. Why—”

  “How much time do I have, Jake?”

  “What?”

  “No passenger train this morning. She wasn’t headed there to find someone. Only reason could be she wants a ticket. And I imagine you enquired as soon as was convenient.”

  I gave him a wolfish grin to match his best. “So when’s she leave for Denver?”

  Jake shook his head. “Marshal, you know something you ain’t let on. Or you’re just plain spooky smart. Either way, remind me to stay on your good side.”

  “This afternoon’s train?”

  “Yup.”

  So that was it. Denver. Now I didn’t have a choice.

  “Jake,” I said, “you take care whilst I’m gone.”

  Chapter 27

  Had it only been two months since I rode this same passenger train from Laramie, east to Cheyenne? Then, I thought a woman was hidden on the train, following me. Now, I was hidden, following a woman. Then, the plains that led to the mountain hills were dry, but not burned brown, the tops of the occasional cottonwood a dusty green, not the oranges a
nd reds of fall.

  I gazed out the window of my sleeping compartment at the fall colors as the train chugged slowly upward into the divide that would lead down again into Cheyenne.

  A sleeping compartment guaranteed me privacy, guaranteed that Dehlia Christopher would not see me either before Cheyenne or before she stepped down onto the train platform in Denver.

  What I would do from there, I didn’t know with certainty.

  I’d wired ahead to Denver to have a Pinkerton man follow Dehlia when she left the train.

  I’d visit the lawyer that Helen Nichols had mentioned.

  I also had the photos of Nichols and Calhoun that Jake had procured from Keller’s Photo Portraits; I’d ask around at hotels on the hope I might meet someone who remembered one or the other. Denver was big, but not that big it would be a hopeless task.

  I could not guess what all of this might accomplish. My job until then was to remain unseen in the sleeping compartment.

  The train swayed as it clicked along the tracks, and I decided a nap would not be a poor idea. My leg still pained me and it could use the rest. Dehlia would not be leaving the train for sometime anyway. And my gritty eyeballs reminded me of how little sleep I’d received the night before.

  I stretched out on the cramped bunk. Naturally, with the luxury of so much leisure in front of me, I could not sleep. I ended up thinking about the late morning conversation I’d had with Mayor Crawford.

  It had opened my eyes to a world I’d never considered. It astounded me that — even in Laramie barely beyond its frontier days — money shifted and turned at the demand of a complexity of documents and regulations which reached invisibly all those miles across the Great Plains from Washington. Here a man’s life and death still often depended on his brains and guts and quickness, yet, unless he lived completely off the land, and whether he acknowledged it or not, the lawmakers two thousand miles east still determined the direction of his life, because the supply of money affected every occupation we used to carve out our livings.

  Doc‘s voice reached me again. I could hear him pointing out how I was a fool to be surprised at my surprise to learn something new.