The Book of Murdock

by Loren D. Estleman

  Cherry did a foolish thing. Startled by the feat of athletic horsemanship and the thud of the landing, he shifted on the seat and his briefcase slid from his lap. He lunged to catch it. The Spencer bellowed and there was one less lawyer in Texas.

  TWENTY

  Something hot and wet splashed the back of my left hand; it was Luther Cherry’s blood as he arched his back upon impact, then sagged against me with all his weight. He was breathing, but the nasty sucking sound meant a shot lung and a short life.

  For me, there was no harnessing my instincts. Bess tried to rear between the traces, occupying both of Freemason’s hands and all of his concentration. The Deane-Adams was in my right hand pointed at the man with the Spencer before I could give any thought to the action.

  Six hammers and the lever of the repeater crackled across the wind. Facing seven muzzles, I let the revolver fall to the floorboards and raised my palms to my shoulders.

  I was conscious of Freemason’s eyes on me, leveled across Cherry’s bent frame.

  For five minutes—it was more likely seconds—only the wind stirred. Then the man with the Spencer jerked his head at the rider nearest me, who nudged his mount alongside the buggy, leaned over to slide the Winchester off Freemason’s lap, and tossed it to another rider nearby, who caught it onehanded. He scooped up the Deane-Adams and examined it, then flipped it toward the man with the Spencer. The Helena baseball team could have used that bunch in the infield.

  “Check out the satchel.”

  The lawyer’s briefcase was opened and its contents dumped out. Papers fluttered in every direction like bats flushed from a cave. The rider shook his head and dropped it in the road.

  “Nice iron for a plug-hat preacher.” The man with the Spencer raised my weapon and sighted down the barrel at a point between my eyes. His voice carried above the wind with the ease of someone accustomed to raising it, with a West Texas accent as flat as the panhandle. I was convinced he was the man Charlie Sweet had heard giving the orders during the Overland robbery. “Too good anyway for potting snakes and such.”

  “He’s right handy with it, too.” The man who’d picked it up had marbles in his mouth, or more practically a cud in his cheek.

  I said nothing. I could feel the muzzle on me as if it were pressing against the bridge of my nose.

  At length the Spencer man lowered it, shook the shells out of the cylinder, and flipped the revolver back my way. That was a surprise, but I kept my hands where they were while it dropped at my feet with a clunk; it might have been a trick to make me grab for it and claim self-defense, with Freemason to furnish eyewitness testimony. Frontier courts didn’t always mess with complications like an unloaded firearm.

  “What do you want?” asked the rancher, speaking up for the first time. “I don’t have much cash on me, and you can’t break up my watch seven ways.”

  “We don’t want your money, sheepman. We thought you was a payroll wagon.”

  “You know me?”

  “I can smell you.” He nodded to the man who’d disarmed us, who jacked all the shells out of the Winchester and slid it across the buggy’s floorboards.

  “Why so generous?” Freemason asked.

  “Can’t use the weight. Comes a choice betwixt gold and iron, I choose gold.” He socked the Spencer into a scabbard slung from his saddle horn and gathered his reins. “You best get help for your friend, for what good it does. He was green or he’d know better than to jump like a jackrabbit when there’s guns about.”

  He backed his horse off the road, then wheeled, followed closely by the others, in the direction we’d been headed. They bent low, raking their spurs for speed, billows of dust erupting from their horses’ heels. We could see them a long time before they turned south away from the road and shrank from sight. Then a moan from Cherry brought us back to more urgent matter.

  “He’ll never make it to town,” Freemason said.

  “He won’t make it anyway.”

  “We have to do what we can. There’s a line shack in a mile.” He snatched the whip from its socket, wrapped the lines snugly around one wrist, and slashed at the mare’s hindquarters.

  Bess was lathered and broken-winded when we reached the nearest gate, and by the time Freemason drew rein before a swaybacked building constructed of local stone with a patchwork roof of mud and straw, she was used up for the week, and possibly for life. A pair of smudge-bearded line riders came out to greet us with rifles, and when they recognized their employer, laid them down and helped us carry the lawyer inside. The interior was a mulch of soot and grease and tobacco and the stench of burning dung from the pit at the base of the chimney where a two-gallon coffeepot simmered on its hook, with a heavy overlay of man.

  Line shacks are self-contained extensions of ranch headquarters. Because of their remoteness during heavy weather, they’re as well stocked as any center of civilization. One of the riders produced medical supplies from an oilcloth pouch, cut away Cherry’s blood-drenched shirt with scissors, cleaned the bubbling wound in his chest with alcohol, plucking away threads and pieces of lint with forceps, and discarded several yards of sopping red bandage in the tar bucket he and his partner used for a trash receptacle before the bleeding slowed enough to apply a patch. It was all to comfort the wounded man, like the jug whiskey they gave him from a tin cup, supporting his head with a hand while he drank; for his lungs were filling with blood and there was nothing else for it but to prop him up with pillows to slow the process and watch as he drowned on dry land.

  Soon he lapsed into unconsciousness, and at a signal from the rancher I accompanied him outside while the man who’d attended to Cherry kept an eye on him and his partner substituted a kettle for the coffeepot in the chimney and coaxed gravy from fatty chunks of mutton with a ladle. I wondered if one or both of them had been among the three hands the governor had pardoned for the murder of a fence cutter from cattle country. They’d looked more comfortable holding those rifles than they did looking after the domestic chores.

  Bess had been unhitched and stood motionless in the corral apart from the linemen’s mounts, head down and blowing. Freemason, athletic as slight men often are, swung himself over the top rail, seized an empty gunnysack off a nail next to the back door of the shack, and used it to rub the mare down. “I suppose we can console ourselves those road agents’ informants misled them for once,” he said. “I’ve made no new arrangements for a payroll delivery.”

  I said, “I see no reason to assume the virtue of truth on their behalf. Perhaps you were their target after all.”

  “For what purpose? They didn’t rob me.”

  “Maybe shooting Mr. Cherry unsettled them.”

  “Shooting that shotgun messenger didn’t dissuade them from going ahead and robbing the Overland.”

  “Maybe they wanted to shoot Cherry.”

  “Ludicrous. Granted there’s an open season on lawyers, especially with that fence-cutting bill out of committee, but they couldn’t have known he’d be with me. I didn’t know myself until I invited him last night.”

  “Who else knew?”

  “Apart from whomever Cherry might have spoken to? Only my wife.”

  I watched him, down on one knee scrubbing rivulets of lather from a foreleg. He stopped and looked up at me through the rails. “They made a good point about that weapon you carry. I suppose English revolvers are easier to obtain in Denver.”

  “I wouldn’t know. It’s the first revolver I’ve ever bought. The man who sold it to me said I’d need it for protection from wolves and red Indians.”

  “He must have shown you how to use it. I don’t believe any of the men I pay to protect my property could have produced it more quickly.”

  “My father told me it isn’t enough just to read Scripture. One must understand it as well. It occurred to me the same would hold true for a weapon. I practiced quite a bit.”

  “I’m surprised you had time left to contemplate the words of our Lord. Can you hit anything with it?”r />
  “Tins and bottles.”

  He rose, flicking dust from the knee of his trousers. “These bandits haven’t a history of making mistakes. Perhaps I was the target, but when they shot Cherry they decided it would carry the message as well. Killing me would accomplish nothing; Colleen would appoint someone to manage the ranch in my place, because the alternative would be bankruptcy. If they frighten me off, the fence bill would lose support in Austin, and Big Cattle will continue to dominate Texas. These are not garden-variety highwaymen. Goodnight and his cronies are paying them to harass me and clear the way to claim all the grazing land for themselves.”

  “It seems underhanded. They’ve never been shy about doing battle out in the open.”

  “That was when they were winning, and no one in authority would oppose them. I should flatter myself that I’ve at least driven them to cover.”

  “It does help to explain why you’ve suffered from these robberies more than anyone,” I said. “What did you make of the brand on their horses?”

  “I saw no brand. I was too busy looking at their weapons.”

  “I got a close look when the one who disarmed us came alongside.” I looked around for a stick, but good luck finding one in that country. Instead I used the toe of my shoe to trace the following symbol in the dust at my feet:

  Freemason draped the sweat-soaked gunnysack over the top fence rail and leaned on it as he studied the mark, which disintegrated before our eyes in the incessant wind; in a moment, it was as if it had never existed.

  “A Star of David,” he said. “Do you think they’re Jews?”

  “If so, they’d be foolish to advertise it during robberies, given their history. I think it’s more likely whoever owns the brand calls it the Double Triangle or something like that. Have you never seen it?”

  “Never. I know some people with the Stock-Raisers Association; they won’t let me in, but a band like this is bad business for everyone. If the brand is registered, we’ll trace them.”

  The man we’d left with Luther Cherry opened the back door. Freemason looked a question at him, but he turned my way. “He’s awake, preacher, but not for long. He wants you.”

  I found the lawyer propped into a half-sitting position. He’d bled through his bandages again, draining his face of all color. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. I took off my hat and bent close enough to feel his moist breath on my ear. Freemason and the man who’d come to fetch me stood at the foot of the bed. The other hand continued stirring the kettle over the fire.

  “My mother was Catholic.” It took Cherry twice as long to say the words as it takes to write them. “My father wouldn’t have it, but she smuggled it in to me. Will you hear my confession?”

  I said, “I haven’t the authority to forgive you on behalf of God.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t believe a priest does either. I have some things that need saying. I don’t care if you pass them on, though I’d take it a kindness if you’d spare my wife.”

  “I can promise that.”

  He spoke for several moments, drawing whistling breaths between words. The men at the foot of the bed leaned forward, but I could barely hear him with his lips nearly touching my ear. His breath seemed to be cooling as I listened, like embers fading in a hearth. At length he stopped talking in mid-sentence. I turned my head to face him. His eyes grew soft, softer; a cloud passed between them and what lay behind. I lifted my hand and kneaded them shut.

  My Bible rode in the side pocket of my coat. I took it out, but I didn’t open it.

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd,’”I said; “‘I shall not want … .’”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “I fail to see why you won’t tell me what he told you,” Freemason said. “You said yourself he didn’t care so long as you kept it from his wife.”

  I said, “Because I can doesn’t mean I should.”

  “But you’re not a priest.”

  “I avoid discussions of the relative merits and deficiencies of other denominations. However, I hold the seal of the confessional to be the mainstay of the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “I think you’re forgetting I belong to the board that employs you.”

  “If you want to put it on that basis, it’s my Christian duty to spare you the ordeal of dismissing me. I’ll submit my resignation.”

  “Let’s not go off half-cocked, Brother. You must understand my concerns are professional as well as personal. If you know something about Cherry’s behavior during the time he was representing me, it’s only natural I’d press you for details.”

  We were in the sheepman’s paneled study, where we’d retired after delivering Luther Cherry’s body to the undertaking parlor that held the contract with the town council in cases of death by misadventure. Freemason had sent one of the line riders to ranch headquarters for a wagon to carry the remains. At the same time he’d sent the other man to Wichita Falls to report the incident to Captain Jordan at Texas Rangers headquarters. That day’s Overland stage had come and gone, but a good man on a horse would overtake and pass it. Thought of the Overland reminded me of something I’d forgotten.

  “Your interests are no more personal than Cherry’s,” I said. “I can tell you of a thing I saw yesterday morning at the freight office.” I recounted the lawyer’s argument with the clerk over the rate required to send a special delivery letter to St. Louis.

  “Unpleasant, but hardly unusual,” Freemason said. “The rates are outrageous, but they’re the price of free enterprise. Still, everyone has the right to complain.”

  “Nevertheless, he paid the amount, refusing the lower rate for regular delivery because it would take a few days longer. He made change from a pocketbook.”

  “That’s what it’s for. It’s also called a change purse.”

  “Perhaps things are different in Texas, but where I come from, a man who goes to that length to corral every penny is considered parsimonious.”

  “They’re not different. I don’t use one myself, lest the men I do business with get the impression I’m hard up for cash. Cherry was cheese-paring; I admire that in someone I appoint to help handle my affairs. I fail to see why he should be condemned for it.”

  I looked humble, or made the effort. “It’s not my place to save or condemn. I merely mentioned the episode because he was so quick to decide in favor of paying more for the sake of expediency. He said the letter was for his wife. Surely there was nothing in it so urgent it couldn’t wait a few more days.”

  “I begin to understand you.” He frowned, drumming his slim, well-kept fingers on a leaf of his towering desk. “It strikes me someone should ask the clerk in the freight office about the address on the envelope.”

  “He’d be violating the law if he disclosed it.”

  He didn’t appear to be listening. “You raise the suggestion that Cherry was the squirrel chewing holes in my wall, providing details of my business arrangements to some factotum in St. Louis, who forwarded them on to that gang of pirates.”

  “I wouldn’t bear false witness.”

  “With good reason. Cherry was new to Owen. My problem predates his arrival by months.”

  “You told me he’d been active in the firm that represents you a long time before you retained him personally. That would put him in possession of a great deal of privileged information.”

  Fielo, the aged manservant, knocked and entered, carrying a tea set on a tray. His master asked him if Mrs. Freemason had returned from her errands.

  “Not yet, sir. Shall I pour?”

  “No. Set it down and return to your other duties. Let me know when she’s back.”

  When the door drew shut, Freemason looked at me.

  “This isn’t a discussion to be conducted over tea. Where do you stand on spirits?”

  “I wouldn’t presume. I’m told they’re an ecclesiastical invention.”

  “Good man.” He stood and used a key attached to his watch chain to unlock the hidden wall cabinet. I pretended
curiosity, as if I hadn’t seen it before. “Colleen thinks the old man is a drinker on the sly,” he said. “I haven’t seen any evidence myself, but she’s far more attuned to the domestic arrangements than I, and her attention to detail is impressive. She has a man’s brain. I think that’s what attracted me to her. She maintains all the books on the ranch. If something were to happen to me, I’m quite certain she could manage the place quite well on her own.”

  “You must trust her very much.”

  “A wise man told me you can trust no one or trust everyone and take the same chances. I prefer to err on the side of conservatism.” He poured from the bottle of Hermitage. “I was instrumental in preventing Colleen from serving a jail sentence in Waco. She dealt cards there, which is a profession admirably suited to accounting. Between the morning she was freed and the day I proposed marriage, I had her thoroughly investigated by the Pinkertons, who confirmed everything she’d disclosed to me about her past and a number of things she neglected to mention. I’m a businessman, Brother, not a gambler. I never enter into a proposition until I’ve studied it from all sides and isolated the risk.”

  Turning from the cabinet, he held out one of the cut-crystal glasses. When I reached for it, his free hand lashed out and enclosed my wrist in his iron grip. It was my gun hand.

  “That’s a pistoleer’s weapon you carry,” he said. “It’s been well kept. In order to complete the performance, if you armed yourself at all you’d lug around some ancient cap-and-ball cannon with rust on the cylinder; but that wouldn’t do if you were forced to use it. That’s the flaw in any masquerade: To put it over properly one must become what one appears, rendering the exercise useless.” He smiled in his neat beard. “Wouldn’t you agree, Marshal?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Deputy,” I corrected. “I’m not political enough for a presidential appointment. Where’d I tip my hand?”