The Book of Murdock

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Where didn’t you? Your choice of weapons, that history you concocted for yourself, your deportment in general. If I let go of your wrist, will you agree to keep that hand in plain sight?”

  I nodded. I’d considered throwing my drink in his face to distract him while I went for the scabbard, but I hated to waste good sipping whiskey. He released his grip, poured for himself, and sat down.

  “A careful way of speaking and a veil of humility can’t obscure the habits of a lifetime,” he said. “This morning when you came to the church door, you glanced up and down the street and scanned the rooftops before you stepped outside. I doubt you were even aware you did it. A man who’s spent most of his life shut in with his mother feels no reason to take such precautions. Mind you, I suspected you before that. You have a whiff of brimstone about you. They haven’t developed a soap pious enough to scrub it off.”

  I drank. “I was pretty certain you’d had someone go through my things. I never said I’d been shut in with my mother or even that I had one. That was all in a letter I brought with me when I came.”

  “It never left the parsonage, only the salient details. I told you I don’t invest without investigation. My wife won’t remember, but she once made reference to a former acquaintance in law enforcement who had the look of a starved wolf. That’s the first impression I had of you, after disregarding the sackcloth and ashes and that collar. Excellent suggestion, that. Few people look beyond a thing so obvious.”

  “Thank you. It almost makes up for the heat rash.”

  “None of this was sufficient to leap to any conclusions, of course. Then I remembered reading of the conspicuous death of a deputy U.S. marshal of some reputation up in Montana Territory. Your choice of firearms settled the matter. Legends don’t overlook such crumbs. You really ought to have left it behind.”

  “I hadn’t time to break in a new one and keep up with my Bible studies.”

  “At least you’re not the kind that clings to a lie in the face of all evidence. It’s refreshing.”

  “I don’t ride a horse back into a burning stable.”

  “I wish we’d had this conversation Sunday. It would have saved me postage to Denver. Poor Cherry was right: The rates are confiscatory.”

  “I ran into Fielo at the freight office. I’d guessed he was there to track down Brother Bernard.”

  Freemason rolled liquor on his tongue and swallowed. “Really, I thought what happened between your Judge Blackthorne and me went to rest with the Grant administration. I wouldn’t have expected him to carry a grudge.”

  “Grudges aren’t like mule packs. The bigger they are, the longer you can carry them.”

  “Still, he’s an old political infighter. He knows when it’s time to cut your losses and get back to business.”

  “A lot of lawyers lost their case because they thought they could predict him.” My mouth was dry, but I resisted raising my glass because my hand might shake. I was close to an explanation of why I was in Texas.

  “Just what is he after? In ten years I’ve done nothing that would place me in his power. Or is it your mission to adjust that situation? I believe you said something a few moments ago about bearing false witness.”

  I shot from the hip. “Nothing like that. The law’s his lasso. He’ll take a couple of dallies on it, but he won’t break it. Some new evidence has come to light to make that old grudge a little easier to carry.”

  Fielo knocked, came in at his master’s invitation, and reported that Mrs. Freemason had returned. Freemason nodded and dismissed him. When we were alone again, the rancher sat back for the first time and steepled his hands. I knew then I’d misfired.

  “No new evidence can reverse a presidential pardon,” he said. “Blackthorne didn’t tell you anything about our history. I’d thought you were remarkably circumspect for a man of action. What’s your real purpose? I can have you locked up as an impostor, on suspicion of your intentions. With all this banditry about, and when information comes back from Denver casting doubt on the existence of a preacher named Sebastian, no one will question your incarceration for weeks.”

  “I’ve been in jail before.” I was making time to think. Whatever was in the Judge’s mind, it would collapse under its own weight while I was behind bars, and with no way to get in touch with him, I’d be stuck counting stones in the walls while the Blue Bandannas were free to hare around shooting cowhands and shotgun messengers and generally breaking the peace. I drank, no tremors, and set aside my glass. “Until I came here, I didn’t even know you and Blackthorne had a history. The first time I saw your name was when I read it on your telegram inviting Brother Bernard to serve as pastor. I was sent to investigate the panhandle robberies.”

  “That’s a tale. Every one of them took place outside his jurisdiction.”

  “Strictly speaking, his jurisdiction covers all crimes against the United States. Two of the robberies involved the mail. Also he’s concerned that left to its own devices this band will eventually expand their depredations to Montana Territory. He’d rather fight them on the High Plains than in Virginia City.”

  “He said that?”

  “He did.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “I wasn’t required to.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, then. For what crime were you pardoned by President Grant?”

  He checked that without blinking. “You said you knew nothing about my connection with Blackthorne until you came here. Who told you?”

  I was busy saying nothing when Colleen Freemason entered without knocking. Clearly she’d been listening outside the door. “I told him, Richard.”

  She was dressed fetchingly in a straw hat with a curled brim and feathers, a trim tweed suit over a plain shirtwaist, black-and-ivory patent-leather pumps, and black felt gloves with ivory buttons. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind. As she was naturally high-colored, she might have stepped out of a Renaissance painting and come there by way of a Victorian dress shop. She was staring at me; accusingly or not, I could never tell.

  “Indeed,” Freemason said. “The past becomes the present. That wasn’t our arrangement.”

  “Nothing’s changed. I made the same error you did. I assumed he was here to try to snare you in some way. From what I just overheard, you told him more than I did.”

  I turned my attention from her, which was always a chore. “Since you did, you might as well tell me the rest. I’ve been floundering in the dark since before I left Helena.”

  Freemason frowned, then pulled his hands apart and placed them on the arms of his chair. His mouth opened; Colleen stepped close and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder.

  “The past is not the present.” She was still looking at me. “We’ve made our home here. We’ve obeyed the law, and Richard has assisted it. You’re the one who’s sailing under false colors. We owe you nothing.”

  “A pretty speech,” said her husband. “I’d be more impressed if you’d told me his colors were false. Have you taken up where you left off?”

  She snatched away her hand as if he’d bitten it.

  I anted in. “She made it clear the last time we spoke in this room there’d be none of that. I swore my business here had nothing to do with you and Blackthorne and asked her to keep the secret. Too many people knew already, and there was no telling what someone else might guess if your attitude toward me was any different from what was expected between a church director and his parson. Not wanting to see a man murdered in the course of his work and having serious feelings for him aren’t the same thing.”

  “We both have secrets, Richard. We agreed we weren’t each other’s confessor.”

  “A fine match.” He swirled the contents of his glass, then tossed them back like any hand fresh off the trail. Then he got up to refill.

  “Pour me one as well.” Colleen stripped off her gloves and drew the pin from her hat.

  “I keep coming back to why those
bandits were waiting for us,” I said when we were all seated. “Until now, they’ve made no mistakes. Their sources have been too good.”

  Freemason still looked sour, and it had only a little to do with what had happened near his ranch. “Everyone puts a foot wrong sometimes. I married a woman I can’t trust.”

  “I don’t care. You’re forgetting I’m not really a minister. One mistake is possible, but this was also the first time they’ve struck this close to Owen. Their avoiding it is what brought me here in the first place. They must have had a compelling reason to break that cardinal rule. Whenever something like that happens, I ask myself what recent change might have brought it about.”

  “That would be you.” Colleen, informed of the day’s events, sat upright in a chintz-covered chair, the only remotely feminine object in the room and obviously kept for her use. She held her glass at bodice level with the surface of the liquid as flat as a sheltered pond. “You’re Owen’s newest resident.”

  “Just barely. Luther Cherry arrived just before me.”

  “You keep harping on Cherry,” Freemason said. “He’s dead.”

  “Another mistake. He made a grab for his briefcase when it slid off his lap. He was under the gun at the time, and when you have someone in that position the shooter’s nerves are right up there on top. Shooting him was a natural reaction on the part of the man with the Spencer.”

  “Also disastrous, if you insist on believing that Cherry was their Trojan horse. That makes three mistakes. What are the odds of that happening, given their record so far?”

  “Colleen’s the cardplayer,” I said.

  She shook her head and sipped. “I’d fold rather than bet against them. It was no accident.”

  I said, “I think it was. Killing him, I mean. Everything else was planned. They weren’t expecting a payroll wagon. That was just an excuse. Cherry was just settling in, and Freemason hadn’t made it a secret he suspected he had a traitor in his employ. What better way to raise their man inside above suspicion than to shoot him during an attempted robbery, right in front of his employer?”

  “By God.” Freemason flushed deep copper, his glass hovering beneath his chin. “By God.”

  “The man I’ll call Spencer meant to wing him,” I went on, “but that’s not an exact science when you’re on horseback and your target’s in motion. Either his aim was off or Cherry moved in the wrong direction. The bullet pierced a lung instead of just an arm.”

  The sheepman remembered his drink and took a long draught. “Are frontier brigands capable of such Machiavellian measures?”

  “The organized ones are,” I said. “We’re up against a bigger operation than any of us thought. If I’m right about that special delivery letter Cherry sent to St. Louis, it means he had a contact there who forwarded privileged information on to whoever the Blue Bandannas report to in this area. Someone’s out to break you, and he’s going to a hell of a lot of expense to do it.”

  “The cattle trade,” he said. “That fence-cutting bill has them scared. If they manage to destroy me, no one will ever enforce it, and there will be no sheep rancher safe in the state of Texas.”

  I emptied my glass and set it down. “Cattlemen are too busy running their own spreads to act in concert. Maybe they’ve appointed someone, but whoever’s behind the robberies has nothing else on his plate to distract him.”

  “I’ll trace that letter Cherry made so much fuss about.”

  “You can do that. Chances are he sent it to someone at the legal firm you got him from, who can claim it was just some unfinished business; certainly he’ll have destroyed the evidence, and all we’ll have is Cherry’s lie that he was writing his wife.”

  “Maybe his wife is the go-between.”

  Both of us looked at Colleen, whose chin elevated an inch in defense of her theory.

  “She isn’t,” I said.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Because when he confessed to conspiring against Freemason, he asked me to say nothing of it to her.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Freemason toyed with his glass. “Why didn’t you tell me what he said the first time I asked? What was the point of pretending to speculate he died as a result of his own manipulations?”

  “That part was speculation,” I said. “He didn’t live long enough to get around to it. As for the rest, I wasn’t sure he was alone. I’m still not, but based on this conversation I’m reasonably satisfied it isn’t your wife.”

  Colleen appeared unmoved; but so does the outside of a volcano. “What did I say to convince you I’m not?”

  “Nothing. If you had, you’d still be under suspicion. It’s never easy to tell when you’re bluffing, but the higher the stakes, the harder you push a pair of deuces. You didn’t say a word when your husband said he couldn’t trust you. If ever there was a time for a traitor to prove herself loyal, that was it.”

  “God, but you’re a bastard.”

  “I’ve worked for Blackthorne a long time. Some of it was bound to rub off.” A clock outside the door chimed the hour; we’d been locked up most of the day. I looked at Freemason. “You’ll see to Cherry’s arrangements, I suppose. No doubt his wife will want to bury him in St. Louis.”

  “I ought to throw his carcass into the creek, but I’ve become a respectable man. I’ll play the generous benefactor. The damage is done; nothing can be gained by blackening his memory. And what will you be about meanwhile?”

  “Sunday is Easter. I’ve a sermon to prepare.” I rose. Two pairs of eyes followed me.

  Freemason said, “You intend to continue as Brother Bernard? Why? Without Cherry, the Bandannas have no hole card. The first time they act on their own they’ll blunder into the hands of the Rangers as like as not.”

  “I said I’m not sure he was alone. In any case my orders are to break them up or bring them to justice. Also the church needs a pastor.”

  “Where will you start?” he asked.

  “Matthew, twenty-six.”

  “You’re trying my patience, Deputy.”

  “Brother,” I said. “Let’s not slip into any bad habits. I’m going to start by tracing that star brand. They’ve got as good an eye for horseflesh as any outlaw gang. The trader who sold seven premium mounts at a crack will remember who he sold them to.”

  He said, “The brand might not be registered. Smaller ranches crop up all the time. The ranchers are too busy getting established to bother right away, and the registrars can’t keep up with the rest.”

  “You don’t get animals like that from a start-up outfit. Someone had time to breed them. The brand has to be on file somewhere.”

  “Still, that’s a lot of legwork for one man.”

  “If you’re trying to find out how I operate, you’re wasting my time as well as yours.”

  He flushed again. “You don’t care who you insult, do you?”

  Colleen said, “He has rules about which questions to answer honestly when he’s playing a role, Richard. He likes to keep his lies in a separate pile, and he doesn’t trust anyone.”

  I shook my head. “You can trust everyone and be betrayed, or no one and betray yourself. My policy is to shoot straight down the middle.”

  “Even so,” Freemason said. “Not trusting is a quality a man can do worse than to acquire.”

  The old Mexican came in after knocking, hesitated when he saw we were all standing, and spoke in a low tone to Freemason, who bent his head to listen. “Tell him to come in.”

  Fielo ghosted out, leaving the door open for the visitor. Captain Jordan of the Texas Rangers stood taller than he sat, despite bowed legs and a slight shoulder stoop. He wore what appeared to be the same faded blue flannel shirt, its pockets stuffed with smoking material, with leather-reinforced riding trousers stuffed into the tops of tall stovepipe boots, long-roweled Mexican spurs jingling behind the heels. He took off his pinch hat, revealing a bald crown cream-colored to the line where the hat ended and his tan began. He smelled of the swea
t of horse and man. The steel-shot eyes looked tired and a stubble had sprouted on his chin, as white as his handlebars.

  He introduced himself, grasped the sheepman’s hand, and nodded to Colleen. When Freemason presented me, the Ranger showed no recognition. His grip would be the last thing about him to give out.

  “What luck?” Freemason asked.

  “Same as at White Horse,” Jordan said. “Tracks turned into the creek and got lost in the tangle from the last herd that crossed. They know this country, all right. Can’t figure out what made them steer so wide of it before this.”

  “Brother Bernard has a theory about that,” began Freemason, only to abandon the rest at a look from me.

  “I’m always open to spiritual guidance.” Jordan nailed me with his gaze.

  I smiled an apology. “That’s the only kind I can offer. I just suggested that poor Mr. Cherry may have been the reason the gang singled us out.”

  “Any special reason, or does God speak just to you?”

  It was an experience new to me, that moment: Two men working overtime to keep a third from knowing the full truth about one of them while the third pretended not to know it already. The frontier was no longer the simple place it used to be.

  I told him of the lawyer’s last words, and my thought that he’d engineered his own wounding in order to lift suspicion from himself. Jordan took it all in without comment. Colleen excused herself as a nonwitness and left us. The captain declined a drink, stuffed and lit his pipe, and gave us a detailed account of his quest beginning with the message Freemason had sent him in Wichita Falls by way of the rider from the ranch: He and his small command had traded their lathered mounts for fresh ones Freemason had made available for them at the line shack and followed the trail to extinction. He’d left his men to rest in town while he came to the house to report and gather information.

  “What encouragement can you offer that I won’t end up fighting this band over my last dollar?” asked the rancher.