Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale)
Page 1
Praise for Steve Dancy Titles
“You’ll find yourself lost in the book—the fast pace keeps it interesting.”
—Maritza Barone, Woman’s Day
“This is a fast-paced tale with an interesting hero … you’ll certainly find enough twists and turns to provide an entertaining and exciting story.”
—Western Writers of America, August, 2008
“The Shopkeeper is quick and fun to read, perfect for a vacation escape.”
—Diane Scearce, Nashville Examiner
“A great book; I do hope that The Shopkeeper gets the readership it richly deserves.”
—Simon Barrett, Blogger News Network
“Once again, Best has penned a fine read.”
—C. K. Crigger, Roundup Magazine
“I loved it! The story is told in such a classic, smooth tone—it’s really fast paced throughout.”
—Jonathon Lyons, Lyons Literary
“I enjoy Best’s style of writing, and it’s a quick read.”
—BookAdvice.net
“I would highly recommend these two westerns to anyone with an imagination and curiosity about the history of our country. And besides, they are just excellent reading.”
—Holgerson’s Book and Bookstore
“The Shopkeeper brings a hint of the ‘difference’ that is being called for in westerns, and the story moves along at a fast pace that provides a most enjoyable few hours of relaxation.”
—John H. Manhold, Fascinating Authors
“This is a great story. The Shopkeeper made me want to take a trip through the Old West.”
—Joe Cali, author, The Complete Guide to the Ultimate Family Road Trip
“The writing is clear and straightforward with plenty of action attached. For an entertaining read, The Shopkeeper draws high marks.”
—T. Akery, ’Bout Books
Murder at
Thumb Butte
Also by James D. Best
The Shopkeeper
Leadville
Tempest at Dawn
The Shut Mouth Society
The Digital Organization
Murder at
Thumb Butte
James D. Best
A Steve Dancy Tale
Murder at Thumb Butte
Copyright © 2011 James D. Best. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Wayne Best.
Published by Queen Beach
Print Edition Published by Wheatmark®
610 East Delano Street, Suite 104
Tucson, Arizona 85705 U.S.A.
www.wheatmark.com
Print Edition International Standard Book Number: 978-1-60494-631-4
Print Edition Library of Congress Control Number:
2011933484
For Luke, Charlotte, and Wyatt
Chapter 1
“Four.”
“I’m impressed,” Sharp said.
“Four thousand isn’t that much,” I said. “Mrs. Baker’s done better with our store in Leadville.”
“Yep, but she ain’t gonna be a literary giant like you.”
Jeff Sharp and I lounged on the porch of the St. Charles Hotel in Carson City, Nevada. While Sharp oversaw his mining operations in Belleville, I had spent the winter writing a novel about my adventures in the West. He had driven a buggy into town the previous evening, just in time to enjoy the first decent spring morning. It may have been the warmest day of 1880, but it remained chilly enough for us to wear heavy coats as we sipped our morning coffee.
I was pleased to see Sharp again, but not because we jointly owned a general store in Leadville, Colorado. The store was a minor investment, and Mrs. Baker ran it with very little direction from us. I was happy because Sharp’s timing was perfect. I had mailed my manuscript to a publisher two days earlier, and after spending the winter indoors with fictional characters, I was eager to sit outside and talk to breathing human beings.
Sharp shook his head. “I can’t believe they gave ya four grand, sight unseen.”
“They saw six chapters before settling on the amount. Besides, they won’t deposit the final part of the advance until they approve the complete manuscript.”
Sharp grinned. “Am I in it?”
“Jeff, I didn’t use real names … but you might recognize a gent named Jeffery Harper.”
“Damn it, Steve, ya know I hate Jeffery.”
Now I grinned. “I know.”
“Ya use Steve Dancy?”
“Of course not. I’m the author. Besides, I thought Dancy sounded citified.”
“What’d ya call yerself?”
“It’s fictional.”
“Okay, what’d ya call the hero?”
“Jeffery Harper.”
“Bull.”
I smiled. “Joseph Steele.”
Sharp laughed. “I s’pose Mr. Steele rid the West of outlaws without any help from Mr. Harper.”
I smiled. “It’ll cost you two bits to find out.”
“Whoa, ya gonna make me buy a copy?”
“No … I owe you more than a book, but I won’t tell you about it.” I threw Sharp a glance. “You’re going to have to read it.”
“Fair ’nough.” Sharp sipped his coffee and surveyed the street. After a long silence, he asked, “Ever think ’bout Sam?”
“Every day. Probably should have changed hotels, but it seemed disrespectful to run from memories.”
The previous summer, two hired killers had tried to ambush me in front of this very hotel. My quick-witted Pinkerton guards threw me to the boardwalk, and a gun battle raged for several minutes. Sam—a friend and a Pinkerton—had died from a shot to the gut. I had been the only one at his side in his last hours.
“Damn shame.”
“Damn shame,” I repeated.
“Too early for flowers. Like to stop by his grave, just the same.”
“On occasion, I go up there and share a whiskey with him.”
“Let’s take a bottle out there this evening.”
“He’d like that.”
We drank our coffee and watched the traffic wheel by for a few minutes. Carson City was the capital of Nevada and close to Virginia City’s Comstock Lode. The traffic in front of our hotel was dominated by politicians and silver barons—and the crafty who had grown wealthy supplying the needs of the other two. The exclusive St. Charles Hotel was only a few blocks away from the sandstone capitol, and the traffic this spring morning—whether on foot, hoof, or wheels—strutted like each and every one of them was the cock of the walk.
“The book’s done.” I shook my head at the parade in front of me. “I want to get out of here.”
“I’m ready to git too. Been thinkin’ ’bout returnin’ to Leadville.”
“Mrs. Baker’s doing a fine job. I was thinking south.”
“I like to check on my investments.”
I laughed at Sharp’s lame excuse. “Hell, that store’s a small operation for you. You want to entice Mrs. Baker into your bed.”
“Hadn’t entered my mind, but I’ll convey yer suggestion to her.”
“Jeff, it’s cold in Leadville. The town won’t thaw for months. Let’s go to Arizona. It’s warm and there’s plenty of silver.”
“Ain’t America.”
“Hell, we own it.”
“Things are different below the border. There ain’t nothin’ but Apaches an’ outlaws down there … an’ territorial law can’t be trusted to protect ya.”
“That’s why I want to go to Prescott. John C. Frémont’s the te
rritorial governor. I can get him to grease wheels for us.”
“Ya know him?”
I laughed. “Not really, but I’ve sat on his knee.”
“Hope that weren’t recent.”
“Twenty-five years ago. I was six. Still too old to be bounced on someone’s knee, but the ol’ Pathfinder insisted.”
“Ya think he’ll remember yer bony derrière?”
“He’ll remember how my family helped his bid for the presidency. The Republican Party was new, and he needed New York money and publicity. Horace Greeley provided the ink, and my family showed him the money.”
“I met Greeley in Colorado,” Sharp mused. “Hated the little rooster. He said, ‘Go west, young man,’ but he wanted ’em to build some sort of Garden of Eden out of this wilderness. Don’t ’xpect that’s what Frémont’s doin’ in Arizona.”
“Doubt it. Frémont was down to someone else’s last dollar when he begged President Hayes for a position. Hayes knew he was a pain in the ass, so he gave Frémont a useless job as far away from the capital as he could send him.”
“That man has failed at everything. What makes ya think he can help us?”
“Jeff, that’s too harsh. He was a great explorer.”
“Then maybe he belongs in a desert wilderness.” Sharp waved at a passerby he recognized. “I say we head for Leadville. Lots of money to be made in that town. By the way, rail line’s finished, so no need to ride horses.”
“There’s more opportunity in Arizona, and a man can move between buildings without taking fifteen minutes to bundle up.”
“Steve, I set my mind on Leadville. I’m leavin’ in a couple of days, an’ I came to Carson City to fetch ya. Spring’s the best time to find good claims.” He turned his head to catch my eye. “Ya with me?”
I sipped the last remnants of my coffee to stall. I had grown up in New York City, and lived there until a little over a year ago, when I had sold my investments, including my gun shop, and ventured west to see and experience the frontier. Jeff and I had been in Leadville together last autumn. I wanted to see more of the West, not revisit places I had already been. Sharp was the biggest private mine operator in Nevada, and it appeared he wanted to extend his silver holdings to Colorado. I was tired of Carson City and wanted to venture away from Nevada. Damn. I couldn’t imagine riding off into the wilderness without my friend.
I sighed and set my empty coffee mug down. “Will you go to Arizona with me after we explore investment opportunities?”
“Yep.”
“Then I’ll go with you, but I’m taking Liberty.”
“Hell, yes, I’ll take my horse as well. Transportin’ our horses on the train’ll be a lot cheaper than buyin’ animals in Leadville.” Something must have shown on my face, because he quickly added, “Steve, that buggy lets me carry a comfortable bedroll and food I don’t need to gnaw a half hour before swallowin’. Must be gettin’ old, ’cuz I’m gettin’ to like them comforts. But don’t get uppity, I still mainly ride a horse.”
To disguise his embarrassment, Sharp picked up our coffee mugs to go inside for refills. He stopped at the door. “Steve, ya might as well know … I’m sellin’ all of my silver interests in Nevada. That’s why I’m goin’ to Leadville. New start.”
“Claims drying up?”
“Best to sell while they’re still producin’. I don’t like what’s happenin’ here. Lot of it yer fault.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“That whippersnapper ya put in charge of the bank in Pickhandle has turned greedier than Washburn ever was, and those dunderheads at the statehouse won’t support free silver … and Richard’s the worst of ’em.”
Sharp disappeared into the hotel, apparently to give me time to ponder my sins.
The U.S. government had demonetized silver in 1873, and the Free Silver Movement wanted silver coinage reinstated. Silver men would grow richer, but I feared it would cause inflation that would erode my paper investments. Richard was my friend, one I had been proud to help elect to the state senate. Despite Sharp’s criticism, I had no regrets on that score. The whippersnapper Sharp referred to was another matter altogether. Peter had been a skittish law clerk when I met him. I set him up as an assistant manager at a bank I had once owned in Pickhandle Gulch, Nevada. When I sold the bank to Commerce, he was made manager, and—away from the prying eyes of the parent bank—had built his deposits and profits using dubious means.
Something caught my attention in the street traffic. Speak of the devil. It was Richard hurrying directly toward me. What did he want?
He clambered up the porch steps and plopped into the seat Sharp had vacated. Without preamble, he blurted, “Steve, we need your help.”
“Who’s we, Senator?” I had no inclination to get involved in state politics.
“The Whist Club.”
“I’m listening.” These were people I cared about.
“Peter has taken over our hotel and Jeremiah’s store.”
“How?”
Jeremiah was another friend from my days in Pickhandle Gulch. When I left the mining encampment, I owned the sole hotel in town. In a gesture of friendship, I had deeded one quarter of the hotel to each of the members of our nightly whist club, which included a quarter share for me. The other partners were Richard, Jeremiah, and Dr. Dooley, who now resided in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Since Jeremiah was the only one remaining in Pickhandle, he ran the hotel for us, along with his general store.
“Peter controls the county, and he boosted taxes on both properties … seven thousand a year for the hotel alone.”
I almost jumped to my feet. “That’s outrageous!”
“No, it’s thievery.”
“The town owns the hotel?”
“The county … and Peter is the county.” With an embarrassed expression, he added, “You created this monster.”
Because I was in a hurry, I had casually selected Peter to run my small bank. At the time, my main concern had been that he wasn’t tough enough for a lawless outpost. I certainly never expected him to become a petty tyrant. I was wealthy, with most of my investments in Wall Street. I hadn’t taken my small stake in this hotel seriously, except as a way of thanking my friends for helping me out of a tough situation.
“I’ll talk to Commerce Bank,” I said.
“No! You gotta go down there. I’ve already talked to Commerce. They said this is local politics and has nothing to do with them. They refuse to intervene.”
“I can’t go to Pickhandle. I promised Jeff to go with him to Leadville.”
“That’s right.” I heard Sharp’s voice behind me. “Nothin’ Steve can do anyway.”
I whipped my head around to see Sharp with a mug of coffee in each hand. “You know about this?” I asked.
“Yep. Reason I’m sellin’. This state’s too corrupt. Knock down one crook, and another just pops up like those little creatures at a carnival shooting gallery.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded.
Sharp smiled and waved his arm, encompassing the whole street. “Didn’t want to spoil this gorgeous mornin’. Life’s what it is down south. Nothin’ gonna change for decades.”
“You can change it, Steve,” Richard insisted. “You can put Peter in his place.”
Something occurred to me. “Is the sheriff part of this?”
“Clive? Of course. Peter couldn’t handle this by himself. But Clive’s been pushed aside. Now he’s town marshal. There’s a new sheriff, and I hear he makes Clive look like a schoolmarm.”
I had been sympathetic up to this point, but now I had to bring this conversation to a halt. I was not going to get into another gun battle.
“Richard, I’m leaving for Colorado. Soon.”
“It’s your property they stole … and they beat the hell out of Jeremiah.”
“What? How bad’s he hurt?
“Not sure, but I heard he lost sight in one eye. Might be dead. Can’t get a telegram out
of that hellhole since the incident.”
I gave Jeff an angry stare. “Didn’t want to spoil a gorgeous morning, huh?”
Jeff shrugged. “Nothin’ to be done ’bout it now.”
I stood. “We’ll see. I’m going to Pickhandle.”
Chapter 2
Pickhandle Gulch hadn’t changed. The stamp mill still spewed dust everywhere, and the miners’ scattered rock hovels proved that only rough, untidy men resided in this woebegone encampment. The miner dwellings were made of rocks because trees were a long way off, and lumber that made it this far into the southern Nevada desert was more valuable shoring up mine tunnels. Leadville last autumn had been a beehive of frenzied construction, but I could see nothing new in Pickhandle. Materials were scarce, but more to the point, time was better spent clawing silver out of the ground.
Jeff Sharp rode beside me. He had suddenly claimed to have unfinished business at his mining headquarters in Belleville, twenty miles north of Pickhandle, but I suspected he felt guilty about convincing me to go to Leadville without telling me about Jeremiah. Whatever the reason, I welcomed his presence. I also welcomed the two guards he had picked up at his mining operation the night before. They were hard-looking men, which I liked. I’d much rather resolve this issue with intimidation than with guns.
I had renamed the Grand Hotel the Whist Hotel after I got full ownership, but as we approached, I noticed the sign over the porch once again read Grand Hotel. Now I understood how a rancher felt when he discovered his cows with an altered brand.
I only knew the sheriff by the name of Clive. He was a big, heavy-gutted man who made a comfortable living as a bully. In fact, he had four thousand dollars of mine, money I had paid him for his half of the hotel. Come to think of it, he probably again owned the hotel that used to belong to my partners and me. Then I remembered that he had been booted out of the sheriff’s job and was now town marshal. I found that disappointing. The new sheriff might not be as easy to handle.