by J. T. Edson
‘Of course I am!’ Jennie snapped. ‘If there had been, Grandfather would have told me about them.’
‘It looks bad for the sal—’ Topham began.
‘Mister, that gal up there is one of the legatees for the Thackery will,’ Dusty cut in. ‘Let’s save this until morning.’
Topham watched Dusty’s face, wondering if the small Texan was joking about Joan having a share in the Thackery fortune. Nothing about Dusty said he exercised his cowhand sense of humour and so Topham concluded Dusty spoke the truth.
‘Undertaker’ll be here in the morning, and the doctor,’ he grunted, not saying what he thought. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d stay on for the inquest and trial Cap’n Fog.’
‘We’ll do that,’ Dusty replied. ‘Now let’s get some sleep. Lock the door of the library and keep the key, sheriff. Let’s go.’
Breakfast at Casa Thackery proved to be a sober meal, far different from dinner the previous night. At the head of the table a black dressed Claude Thackery moodily stirred a cup of coffee. He had been told of his wife’s death and while he looked shocked, he did not seem to be over-grieving. Mark, the Kid and Waco, the two girls, Gaunt and Topham shared the table. All looked towards the door as Dusty and Mamie entered. The old woman’s face showed the strain she was under, but she seemed to be steady enough.
‘I told Joan to stay in her room,’ Dusty said as he came to the table.
‘We thought it would be best,’ Mamie went on. ‘Where’s Vint?’
‘He’s not awake yet, Aunt Mamie,’ Jennie replied. ‘I sent one of the maids to call him.’
At that moment, the room door flew open and a terrified-looking Mexican girl burst in, ran to the table and began to babble in such rapid Spanish that only the Ysabel Kid could follow her words. The others could catch a word here and there, but not enough to make sense of what she said.
‘What is it, Lon?’ Dusty asked as the lean, Indian-dark youngster came to his feet.
‘The gal allows Borg’s lying on the floor in his room—with a gun in his hand and a pool of blood around his head.’
‘Go check, Mark, Waco,’ Dusty snapped, then realised that the county sheriff should be giving the orders.
‘Hold hard!’ Topham yelped, rising from his chair and looking around in a bewildered manner. ‘I’ll come with you.’
His words went to the departing backs of the two cowhands, for they had not waited around on hearing Dusty’s orders.
Turning, Dusty looked to where Mamie and the Kid had succeeded in quietening the girl. She sat rigid in a chair, shivering with fear, teeth chattering, but could speak clearly when Dusty asked her how she came to see Borg.
‘Did you go into his room?’ he asked.
‘N-no, senor,’ the girl replied. ‘I knock. I try the door. It is locked. Often before it has been locked and I go to the side window, where I make noise and wake Senor Vint. This morning his window she is fasten. I look in and see him. He lies on the floor with a—with a—’
‘All right, Rosita,’ Mamie said quietly, taking the girl into her arms.
Dusty threw a look at the two girls. Francine sat with eyes wide open and fear on her face, but Jennie showed no emotion, which was about what he expected.
‘Look after the women, Frank,’ he said to the lawyer. ‘I’ll go see what’s happening. Come on, Lon.’
Followed by the Kid, Dusty left the room. Thackery still sat at the head of the table and he thought what Borg’s death meant. Taken with Marlene’s demise, it meant over five hundred thousand extra dollars to be divided between the survivors. Then another thought struck him. Suppose one of the others intended to be the last survivor and take the lot? At that moment Claude Thackery started to think of getting out of Casa Thackery as soon as he could, or surrounding himself with bodyguards who would ensure his safety.
Borg’s quarters lay at the end of a passage on the ground floor. The room was as large as the one allocated to the Texans and furnished in much the same manner.
On arrival Dusty found the door had been burst in. He entered the room and saw Waco examining the window’s fastenings while Mark and Topham bent over the ranch foreman’s body. It lay sprawled out on the floor, face down and feet pointing towards the bed, a Colt Cavalry Peacemaker gripped ready for shooting in the right hand. On carrying Borg to bed the previous night, Mark and the others had not troubled to undress him, but laid him on his bed fully clothed, the body still had its clothes on. There was a small hole, blackened and burned by exploding gunpowder, in the centre of the back of the head. Dusty did not need to look at the front, he could imagine the hideous mess the bullet would have made when it shattered its way out.
‘The windows are fastened on the inside,’ Waco announced. ‘And the key’s in the lock at this side, been turned.’
‘We didn’t lock the door,’ Mark stated. ‘But I remember seeing the key in the lock.’
‘What do you make of it, sheriff?’ Dusty asked.
‘Suicide, what else?’
Stepping forward, Dusty looked down at the body. A frown creased Dusty’s brow as he studied the gun. Then he turned to the sheriff and took out his left hand Colt, offering it to Topham butt first.
‘Show me how he did it.’
‘Huh?’ croaked the alarmed sheriff.
‘I don’t mean cock the hammer and shoot, just hold the gun and point it at the back of your head so that if you shot the bullet’d go through at the same angle as Borg’s.’
Determined to show that soft-spoken short cowhand once and for all who was sheriff in these danged parts, Topham took the gun and raised it towards his head. He held the gun normally, forefinger on the trigger, other three fingers and thumb curled around the butt. A snag became immediately obvious as he lifted the gun. No matter how he tried, Topham could not place the barrel of the Colt against his head in such a manner that it would send the bullet through at the same angle as the one which killed Borg took.
‘And that’s only a Civilian Model you’re holding,’ Dusty remarked as the baffled looking sheriff lowered the gun. ‘Borg’s gun has the Cavalry Model barrel.’
Handing back Dusty’s gun, Topham frowned in a pain-filled manner which indicated he was thinking. He looked around the room in a bewildered manner and shook his head as if the entire business was beyond him.
‘He couldn’t have shot his-self,’ was Topham’s brilliant deduction. ‘But who could have?’
‘That’s something we’ll have to find out,’ Dusty answered. Crossing the room, Dusty opened its cupboard door. Like the cupboard in his room, this one also had been built into the wall. Dusty examined the stone bricks, trying to find signs of a door leading into a secret passage. He saw nothing to tell that other than a solid wall backed the cupboard and the floor looked equally firm. Borg’s clothes hung on pegs, boots and other gear lay on the floor, and his gunbelt, its holster empty, hung on a hook behind the door.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the dining-room.’ The three cowhands followed Dusty from the room, Topham threw a final look around and followed them into the passage.
‘Wished I’d got me a deputy here to guard this room,’ he hinted.
His hint was not taken, the four cowhands carried on walking. With a sigh, Topham went back into the room to wait until the undertaker and doctor arrived from town.
Gaunt had the room to himself when the four Texans returned. Sitting at his table, his head resting on his hands, the lawyer looked bewildered and shocked by the events of the past few hours.
‘I asked Mamie to take the maid to her room, Frankie went with her,’ the lawyer said, lifting his head. ‘Claude’s gone to his room. I get the feeling he’s not as unhappy about his wife’s death as he might be.’
‘Where’s Jennie?’ Dustt asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe went to help her aunt. You never know with that girl, she flits about the house like a ghost,’ the lawyer replied. ‘What happened?’
‘Borg was murdered,’ Du
sty replied quietly.
‘Murdered!’ Gaunt gasped.
‘Yep. Made to look like suicide. Might have worked if only Topham’d been looking into it.’
‘Huh, huh!’ grunted the lawyer, having a low, if accurate, opinion of Topham as a sheriff. ‘But who—’
‘We don’t know,’ Dusty replied. ‘Or how. Frank, where’s Elmo Thackery’s grave?’
‘He’s not been buried.’
‘Why not?’
‘The ravine he fell into is right out of the way on the back range country. It’d’ve been risky, too risky, to try to get the body out; one slip and the man going down would have been impaled on needle-sharp rocks. There was a clause in the will which read, as near as I can remember, “I ask that if my death occurs on a place where my body will not endanger human health, or offend living people’s eyes, let it lie without burial, for I do not wish to be buried underground.” The ravine’s well clear of human beings, so we accepted his last wish and left him there. Had the local preacher out and he read the burial ceremony, then we left the body where it fell.’
More and more the parts of the puzzle fell into place. Dusty could see almost everything. A visit to the ravine where Thackery met his end would either clear up the situation, or blow it up into the air.
‘Go get the cook to bring some food in, boy,’ Dusty ordered. ‘After we’ve ate, Mark, you, Lon and I’re taking a ride.’
‘How about me?’ Waco asked.
‘You stay here and guard the women.’
‘Do you think the killer might try again, in daylight, Dusty?’ Gaunt inquired, watching the young Texan and wondering if he had ever seen Dusty so grim and serious before.
‘I don’t know. All I know is I don’t aim to take any chances.’ After Waco left for the kitchen, Mark asked, ‘Where’re we riding?’
‘Out to where Elmo died. I figure we ought to show our respects. How do we find the place, Frank?’
With a meal under their belts, Dusty, Mark and the Kid took their horses and rode from Casa Thackery. Waco watched them go, wondering why Dusty borrowed a piece of his working equipment. Wishing he was riding with his amigos, Waco tended to his big paint stallion. He noticed a fast little grulla gelding which had been in one of the stalls was no longer there, but thought little about it. Possibly one of the hands took it out to graze.
Waco spent almost an hour with the horse, then headed to the house to find Gaunt in the company of the sheriff, doctor and undertaker. Turning to the young Texan, Gaunt said:
‘Can you collect the ladies and bring them to the dining-room, Waco?’
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Are they in their rooms?’
‘Mamie and Frankie are with Miss Shandley,’ answered Gaunt.
On delivering his message to the women, Waco found that Mamie had a will of her own.
‘Joan’s not leaving this bed. You tell Brendan Topham to come up here and ask any questions he has for us. Frankie, go and tell your cousin Jennie I want to see her here.’
‘Yes’m,’ Frankie answered, looking worried.
‘I’ll take you, short-stop,’ Waco smiled, ruffling her hair. At any other time his action and the name would have brought a wave of protest from the girl. But Frankie was so shaken by the events of the past hours that she did not feel like trying to flirt or have fun.
Her feelings did not improve when she and Waco arrived at Jennie’s door and, after knocking several times, tried the door to find it locked.
‘D-do you think—!’ Frankie gasped.
‘I don’t think anything,’ Waco replied. ‘But I’d sure like to look inside.’
Fumbling in her hair, Frankie extracted a bobby-pin and bent over the lock. Waco tried to see what she was doing, but could not. When Frankie straightened up, she turned the knob and the door opened.
‘Where in hell did you learn a trick like that?’ Waco growled.
‘Cohen taught us how to do it, for when we worked as maids in hotels.’
‘Let me go in first,’ he ordered.
To tell the truth Waco did rot relish what might be waiting for him in the room. However, he pushed open the door and entered. The room, without a doubt the best and most luxuriously furnished in the house, was empty.
‘She’s not here,’ Waco said and the little girl entered.
‘Th-that’s the hem of her dress under the bed!’ she gasped.
‘Easy there, short-stop. That’s the one she wore last night. She had another on this morning.’
Crossing the room, Waco bent and pulled the dress from under the bed. On seeing it to be only a dress, Frankie came forward to take it from his hands. It might make Jennie like her more if she folded the dress, so she started to do so.
‘What’s this on the front?’ she asked, her fingers feeling something which turned the cloth stiff and gritty to the touch.
‘Let me look,’ Waco replied, retrieving the dress and examining the spot.
‘Let’s go, Frankie,’ he said after his inspection.
‘What is it, Waco?’ she gasped.
‘Nothing. Jennie spilled something on her dress, that’s all.’ But that was not all. Even though he sounded truthful and kept his voice even, Waco had lied to the girl. The stiff patch on the front of Jennie’s dress had been caused by a lot of blood congealing.
CHAPTER TEN
CAPTAIN FOG PAYS HIS RESPECTS TO
ELMO THACKERY
FOLLOWING Gaunt’s instructions, Dusty, Mark and the Kid had little difficulty in finding their way across the range and to the bush-covered slope up which Elmo Thackery rode to his doom. There had been considerable coming and going in the area and the point where Thackery’s body went over was much flattened down by many feet.
Leaving the three stallions standing free, for none would stray far, Dusty and the other two walked cautiously to the edge of the ravine and looked down at the shape on the rocks. One glance told them why nobody had attempted to bring up the body for burial. The walls fell sheer and down below the jagged rocks spread over the bottom so that a single slip would mean death for the man who went down to try and bring out the body. Nothing about the body had changed, no animals could get down into the ravine to worry at it and the turkey buzzards appeared to have missed locating the feed which lay in the dark and gloomy bottom of the ravine.
‘Looks like him,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Way I remember him.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘Collect those ropes and let’s make a start.’
In addition to their own ropes, Dusty had borrowed Waco’s before leaving the ranch. Each rope was forty foot long, made of three strand, hard-plaited Manila fibre, and strong enough to halt the rush of a fleeing longhorn steer. Although the ravine was not more than a hundred foot deep, Dusty brought Waco’s rope to ensure they had sufficient for their purpose.
‘Let me go down instead of you, Dusty,’ suggested the Kid. ‘And I’m only asking because I know you’ll say no.’
‘I’m lighter than you,’ Dusty replied. ‘Every ounce’ll count when I get to the bottom, there’ll be the weight of rope above me adding to the strain then.’
‘Allus wanted to die young,’ grinned the Kid. ‘You make sure of them knots, Mark. Dusty’s got my makings in his pocket.’
‘You never take them out and offer them round anyway,’ Mark answered, fastening two of the ropes together.
For all his light-hearted reply, Mark made sure the ropes were securely knotted and would not pull apart at their joining place. A sailor could teach a cowhand little or nothing about tying knots, and Mark was exceptionally skilled at the art.
‘All done,’ he said, after setting his foot on one rope and tugging on the other to test its knot. Crossing to the edge of the ravine, he looked down then raised his eyes to Dusty’s face. ‘Whooee! That’s a mean looking spot for a man to drop into.’
‘If you get any more happy thoughts like that,’ Dusty replied, ‘do us both a favour and keep them to yourself.’
With that Dusty picke
d the end of the first rope and slid the honda down to form a loop into which he placed his right foot. Dusty tested the honda—a spliced, leather-wrapped eyelet at the end of the rope and used for making the loop—to ensure it would hold firm. Satisfied it would, he stood at the edge of the ravine, placed his foot into the loop and drew tight, took the rope up between his crotch, twisted it around his body and gripped firmly with his hands.
‘All set?’ asked Mark.
‘Ten or fifteen years ago’d be better,’ Dusty answered.
Sitting on the rough edge of the ravine, Dusty looked to Mark, nodded, and eased himself off. Mark braced his feet apart and took the strain, paying the rope out slowly and evenly. Below Dusty lay a hundred foot drop and sharp rocks just waiting to claim another victim. He could see skeletons of cattle, antelope and other animals which had blundered into the death trap. No wonder the coroner’s inquest found Thackery’s death tragic but not unexpected. The old man’s horse had been frightened by something, reared and threw him from the saddle to fall to his death. If Mark made a slip, the ravine would claim another human victim.
Standing close to the edge of the ravine, Mark allowed the rope to slide through his fingers slowly, letting Dusty sink down into the murky depths below. The strain would get worse, for he could not let the rope slide down over the edge of the ravine.
It was so jagged that the fibres might be cut or weakened so as to break and send Dusty plunging to his death. That was why the lowering could not be done by their horses, only Mark’s giant strength could handle the chore in safety.
While Mark worked, the Ysabel Kid kept a watch on the ropes, ready to warn when a knot came, for it would take careful handling to slip one past Mark’s grip without losing his hold on the even running rope. Pure instinct caused the Kid to draw and hold his rifle, and his senses stayed alert all the time. A man did not spend his formative years as the Kid had without developing the caution of a much-hunted lobo wolf.
‘Watch that knot, Mark!’ he said.
‘Got it,’ Mark replied a moment after.