Tillman gestured toward the animal heads and said, “I apologize for that barbaric display, gentlemen. My cousin Rufus was quite the hunter, and he liked to have the heads of his prey mounted, I suppose so that he could brag about them to visitors. Rufus was quite the braggart too, I suspect, even though I never actually knew him.”
“You never met him?” Jackson asked.
“Not in person, no. His communications with the family back in Philadelphia were all by letter.”
A wave of Jackson’s hand took in not only their immediate surroundings but also the rest of the ranch. “Why did he leave all this to you then?”
“I was his closest relative. We were actually second cousins, but the rest of the family was even more removed from him. He was a lifelong bachelor, and I gather he didn’t have any close friends out here.” Tillman moved to a sideboard that held a decanter and several glasses. “Some lemonade before dinner, gentlemen?”
“No, thanks,” Jackson replied before Everett had a chance to say anything. “I’m not sure we’ll be staying for dinner either. We just rode out here to ask you some questions.”
Tillman turned back toward his visitors, curious but also a little annoyed. “What sort of questions?” he asked in a crisper, less friendly tone of voice.
“About Luther Berryhill and what happened to him.”
“He was killed in some grotesque fashion, that’s all I know. And while I regret any man’s death, of course,” Tillman added, “I have to say that whatever happened to Mr. Berryhill, he probably had it coming!”
Chapter 8
Jackson was going about this all wrong, Everett thought. The man was used to asking questions in a blunt fashion and expecting answers. Even though Everett was young and hadn’t been in the newspaper business for all that long, he already knew how to interview people and find out what he needed to know from them.
“I’d like a glass of lemonade, Mr. Tillman,” he said quickly. “After the long, dusty ride out here, I could use something to drink.”
“Of course.” Tillman seemed a little mollified as he poured lemonade into a glass and brought it over to Everett.
“Thank you.” Everett sipped the cool, tart beverage and went on. “It must have been quite an adjustment for you, living back East and then coming out here to the frontier.”
Tillman smiled. “You could even call it a shock.” He waved toward one of the heavy armchairs. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Howard.”
Everett sat down, and without being invited to do so, Jackson sank onto one of the divans. Jackson looked like he was willing to step back and let Everett handle things for the moment, so Everett went on. “Tell me about it.”
“About coming West, you mean?”
“That’s right. Surely just because you inherited this ranch, you didn’t have to come out here and run it yourself. From what I understand, many Eastern investors own ranches, but they employ managers to actually run them.”
Tillman sat down in another armchair, leaned forward, and clasped his hands together between his knees as he said, “Yes, and I suppose I could have done that too. I think poor Ned would have been happier with that arrangement. He tries not to show it, but I’m afraid he resents my interference with the day-to-day affairs of the Winged T.”
“You don’t have any experience running a ranch,” Jackson pointed out.
“No, but how is anyone supposed to learn without jumping right in and getting your hands dirty, so to speak?” Tillman leaned back and waved off Jackson’s comment. “Anyway, I needed a change of scenery. I’d been in school for a while, and when that didn’t work out, I decided it might be best to get out of Philadelphia.”
“You were attending one of the universities there?” Everett asked.
“I was a seminary student,” Tillman replied. “I know it’s unusual for someone from a wealthy family to enter the ministry, but that’s what I felt called to do.”
Everett made an effort not to arch his eyebrows in surprise. It was indeed unusual to find a wealthy preacher. Most men who followed that calling were more humble sorts. But there was nothing to prevent it, he supposed.
Tillman continued. “When I realized that I had made a mistake, I looked around for something else to do, and about that time I received word from Cousin Rufus’s attorney that he had passed away and left me this ranch. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to make the change in my life that I was looking for. Unfortunately, it hasn’t worked out all that well.”
“Why not?”
“Well, just look around you,” Tillman said with a faint laugh. “The lack of amenities, the isolation, the absolutely barren cultural atmosphere, the crudeness and vulgarity of the people who live here . . . At times I wish I had never left Philadelphia.”
Everett surprised himself by thinking that the people who had to deal with Benjamin Tillman probably felt the same way about him. They probably wished he was still back in Philadelphia too.
“What did you mean about Berryhill getting what was coming to him?” Jackson asked.
Tillman lifted a finger. “You see, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Luther Berryhill was a drunkard and a whoremonger. He was always riding off to Death Head Crossing—and that’s a terrible name for a town, isn’t it?—to guzzle rotgut whiskey in the saloons and degrade himself with the painted women who frequent such places. If he hadn’t been prone to doing such things . . . well, he’d still be alive, wouldn’t he?”
Everett couldn’t argue that point, but he wasn’t sure he agreed that Berryhill’s habits had actually been responsible for his death.
“Do you know anyone who had a grudge against him? Anyone who might have followed him to town or ambushed him on the way back?”
“Why are you asking all these questions about Mr. Berryhill?” Tillman wanted to know. “No offense, Mr. Howard, but what business is it of yours how and why he died?” But before Everett could answer, Tillman went on. “Ah, now I understand! You want to write about what happened for your newspaper.”
“I hate to say it,” Everett admitted, “but the bizarre manner of Berryhill’s death would be of interest to my readers.”
Tillman’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “I daresay you’re right. Common people have an insatiable appetite for sensation.”
“Seems like you’d want to know what happened too,” Jackson drawled. “Berryhill rode for you, after all. Or doesn’t loyalty count for anything where you come from?”
“Of course it does,” Tillman snapped. “I plan to pay for Mr. Berryhill’s funeral and see to it that he’s buried properly. But I just don’t know anything about what happened to him, and to tell you the truth, I don’t really care.”
He might have said more, but at that moment a footstep sounded on the stairs leading up to the ranch house’s second floor, and the three men turned their heads as a woman’s voice said, “Benjamin, you didn’t tell me we had company.”
She came down the stairs gracefully, a smile on her pretty, slightly rounded face. She had long, light brown hair, the same shade as Tillman’s but straight instead of wavy. Everett thought she was about twenty years old.
All three men stood up as she reached the bottom of the stairs and came toward them. Jackson and Everett took off their hats. Tillman moved to take the young woman’s arm and said, “Gentlemen, allow me to present my cousin Deborah, also one of the Philadelphia Tillmans. She’s come out here to visit with me this summer. Deborah, this is Mr. Everett Sidney Howard of the New York Universe and his friend and associate, Mr. Jackson.”
Deborah Tillman smiled at them. “Hello, gentlemen. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure and honor is ours, Miss Tillman,” Everett said. He hoped he wasn’t being impolite and staring. But Deborah was only a few years younger than he was, and she was very pretty.
Jackson just nodded and said, “Ma’am.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Deborah said. “Please go on with your conversation.”
> “It was nothing important,” Tillman said. “We were just discussing Mr. Berryhill’s unfortunate death.”
Deborah’s smile disappeared. “Yes, that was terrible. I didn’t see the poor man’s body, you understand. Benjamin wouldn’t allow that. He always tries to protect me from anything that might disturb me. But I heard the men talking about it, and I’m sure it was simply awful.”
“It certainly was,” Everett agreed.
“You saw him, Mr. Howard?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It was a sight I won’t forget any time soon.”
Tillman’s arm was still linked with Deborah’s. She disengaged from him gently and said, “I was just on my way to speak to Hiram about supper. Shall I tell him we’ll be having two guests?”
Jackson shook his head before Everett could reply. “No, ma’am, Mr. Howard and I have to be getting back to town. But we appreciate the offer.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” She looked and sounded genuinely disappointed, which made Everett’s pulse jump a little. He hoped that while he was in these parts, there would be another opportunity for him to sit down to dinner with Deborah Tillman.
She nodded and went on. “Please come back to see us any time, gentlemen.” Then she left the room through another door. Everett watched her go and hoped he wasn’t being too obvious about it.
When he turned back to Tillman, he said, “Your cousin is charming.”
“Yes, she certainly is. I’m glad she came to visit.”
“How is she taking to the West?”
Tillman chuckled. “Better than me, to tell you the truth. She goes riding nearly every day. I’m not comfortable on horseback myself. I prefer a good buggy.”
Everett didn’t care much for riding either, but the prospect of it had suddenly become more appealing. He could imagine taking a ride through the hills and running into Deborah. It would be quite pleasant to ride alongside her and talk. He thought she would be a charming conversationalist.
Jackson settled his hat on his head and said, “Let’s go.”
“You don’t have any more questions for me?” Tillman said.
“You’ve told us everything you know about Berryhill’s death, haven’t you?”
Tillman nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry it happened, but I’m not surprised. The man’s immorality was bound to catch up to him sooner or later.”
Jackson didn’t say anything. Everett put his hat on and shook hands with Tillman again. “Thank you for your hospitality. And say good-bye to your cousin for me, if you would.”
“Certainly. A gentleman such as yourself is welcome on the Winged T any time, Mr. Howard.”
Everett noticed that Tillman didn’t extend the same invitation to Jackson.
They left the house and reclaimed their horses from the hitching post where they had left them earlier. Nothing was said as they mounted up and rode off, heading away from the ranch house and back toward Death Head Crossing. Everett waited until they were well out of earshot of the house before asking, “What did you think of Benjamin Tillman, Mr. Jackson?”
“Thought he was a pompous, arrogant, holier-than-thou little son of a bitch,” Jackson answered. “Most of the time I felt like giving him a swift kick in the ass.”
“He was rather full of himself, wasn’t he? And yet, he claimed to have studied for the ministry.”
Jackson scraped a thumbnail along his jaw and frowned in thought. “Yeah, that struck me as a mite strange too. And he didn’t seem all that bothered by Berryhill getting killed.”
Everett looked over at his companion and said, “You don’t think he had anything to do with Berryhill’s death, do you?”
“Seems like a mighty far-fetched idea. I don’t reckon we can rule it out, but I’d be more inclined to think that somebody who actually knew what he was doing was responsible for that. Tillman’s head is so far up his rear end, I can’t see him being able to pull off any kind of killing.”
“Unless, of course, that was exactly the sort of impression he was trying to give.”
Jackson laughed. “I’m starting to like the way you think, Everett. Nice and suspicious. Come on, let’s get back to town and have some supper.”
Chapter 9
Luther Berryhill’s funeral was held the next day at the Baptist church in Death Head Crossing, the Reverend Martin Driscoll presiding. The coffin made by Cecil Greenwood had already been nailed shut. Given the condition of Berryhill’s body, there was nothing the undertaker could do to make it presentable for public viewing.
The crowd in attendance at the funeral wasn’t a large one. Sheriff Brennan was there along with a few townspeople. Benjamin Tillman and his cousin Deborah, dressed in their Eastern finest, came into town in a buggy, accompanied by Ned Dawson and several of the Winged T hands. The editor of the local newspaper, Malcolm Graham, showed up, unobtrusively taking notes on a pad of paper.
Jackson and Everett were in attendance too, seated on one of the church’s rear pews.
Everett had been able to get a room in the same boardinghouse where Jackson was staying. At breakfast that morning—which had been served by Philomena—they hadn’t had a chance to talk about what had happened the day before. The other boarders had been there around the big table, and Jackson didn’t want to discuss it. But now, as Reverend Driscoll played the pipe organ before the service got under way, Jackson leaned over toward Everett and said, “Looks like everybody who had much to do with Berryhill is here.”
“What do you mean by that?” Everett asked. His derby was perched on his knee.
“Could be whoever killed him is in this room.”
Everett’s eyes widened as he looked around the church. “You really think so?” he asked in a half whisper.
Jackson nodded toward one of the townsmen sitting a couple of pews in front of them. “That’s Jasper Whitten, the owner of the Big Bend Saloon. The girls with him all work there. I don’t imagine Driscoll’s too happy about having them in his church. But from what I’ve heard, that was Berryhill’s favorite place to drink and gamble when he came to town. Chances are if he got in trouble with anybody in Death Head Crossing, it happened while he was in the Big Bend.”
“Nothing’s been mentioned about him getting into an argument with anyone on the night he was killed,” Everett pointed out.
“Maybe the trouble happened sometime earlier. Folks have been known to hold a grudge for a long time before ever doing anything about it.”
Everett nodded slowly, knowing that Jackson was right about that.
“Then there’s the Tillmans, and Dawson and the other fellas who ride for the Winged T,” Jackson continued.
“You can’t seriously think that Benjamin Tillman had anything to do with what happened,” Everett said. “We already talked about that yesterday afternoon on the way back to town. And as for the possibility that Miss Tillman could be involved, why, that’s just ludicrous!”
“Maybe. But Dawson and the rest of that crew are a pretty salty bunch.”
“Luther Berryhill was one of them. He was their friend.”
“Friends have been known to have a falling-out.”
Everett’s expression made it clear he thought Jackson was grasping at straws. Jackson saw it as trying to consider all the possibilities.
Driscoll brought the hymn to a close and got up from the pipe organ. Carrying his Bible, he walked over to the pulpit, in front of which sat the pine box containing the mortal remains of Luther Berryhill. He motioned for the mourners to stand and said, “Let us pray.”
Jackson wasn’t surprised that Driscoll was long-winded about it. The prayer was interminable, and so was the sermon that followed it. Unlike some funerals, nobody cried at this one, but there was plenty of foot-shifting and squirming around on the pews before Driscoll was finished. The sense of relief in the church was palpable when the minister finally launched into his closing prayer.
As soon as the service was over, Jackson and Everett were the first ones out the door. They stood un
der the tree that shaded the church’s entrance, Everett with his back ramrod straight, Jackson leaning a shoulder casually against the trunk. They watched the mourners come out, followed by stout Cecil Greenwood and three equally stout younger men who looked like his sons. They carried the coffin and placed it in the back of the undertaker’s wagon. The cemetery was behind the church, only a short distance, but too far to carry an occupied coffin in this heat.
Ned Dawson strolled over into the shade where Jackson and Everett waited. His fingers were already busy with the makin’s, rolling a quirly. He licked the paper, sealed it, and lipped the cigarette. Around it, he asked, “What are you two doin’ here? You didn’t even know Lute.”
“Just figured we’d pay our respects to the deceased,” Jackson said. “A fella can’t have too many folks at his send-off, now can he?”
“Reckon not,” Dawson said. He fished a lucifer from his pocket, snapped it into life with his thumbnail, and set fire to the gasper. As he ground out the match under his boot, he went on. “But some might say it’s a little nosy to attend the funeral of a gent you didn’t even know.”
Jackson ignored that and asked, “Where’s the rest of your crew? The Winged T has to have a lot more hands than the ones who rode in today.”
“Of course there’s more of us,” Dawson snapped. “But you don’t think we’d go off and leave the spread deserted, do you? Most of the boys are out on the range where they’re supposed to be, ridin’ the boundary lines and keepin’ the boss from gettin’ robbed blind.”
“Been losing some stock, have you?” Jackson’s question sounded like idle curiosity, but actually he was very interested in the answer.
Dawson shrugged. “Some. It ain’t that unusual. Drifters pass through and lift a few head on their way out of this part of the country. And the border ain’t that far away either. We get some bandidos comin’ across every now and then, not to mention a few bands of Bronco Apaches who’re still holed up in the mountains in Mexico.”
“Sounds like you might have trouble from time to time, all right.”
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