When he reached the river crossing that Frank Mosely had told him to look for, he stopped to rest his horses for a while before riding the short distance left to Ogallala. If he was on the right trail, he would leave the North Platte there and strike the South Platte in about ten miles and the town of Ogallala beside it.
While it was still early in the evening, he followed the trail up from the river. He could hear the noise of the wild cow town well before he reached it. It was late in the summer for cattle herds to still be arriving. He had not expected the town to be as busy as it apparently was.
Coming to the one short street of Ogallala, he turned Buck toward the Ogallala House, which was the last building on the street. He thought of Billy Fowler as he slow-walked Buck past the Cowboy’s Rest Saloon. One of the few people he knew in Ogallala, Billy was the bartender in the saloon, but Perley didn’t plan to stop to visit. He only wanted to stop in town long enough to enjoy a good meal, then be on his way and camp outside of town. There was no use taking any chances with the load he was packing on his horses.
He pulled Buck up before the hotel, looped his reins over the rail, and walked in the front door. The last time he and his brothers had delivered a herd to Ogallala, they had planned to dine at the hotel, but ended up eating supper at the Cowboy’s Rest instead. There was no one at the front desk, so instead of ringing the bell, he walked to a door he guessed might lead to the dining room. His hunch was correct. He stepped inside to make sure it was still open and was greeted by a pleasant-looking woman, who invited him in.
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t too late to get some supper. I’ll be right back.” His real purpose had been to locate any windows in the dining room.
Having done so, he went back outside and moved his horses around to the side of the building near a window. The short street was crowded with people, horses, wagons, even oxen, and the saloons were all plenty busy. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving his horses out of his sight for very long.
Back inside, he didn’t wait for the lady to show him to a table, but went directly to one by the window. Satisfied that he could enjoy his supper while keeping an eye on his horses, he waited to be served.
Assuming he was one of the cowhands from the last herd to hit town, Evelyn Rooney greeted him again. “You eating all by yourself or will someone be joining you?”
“Just me,” Perley answered. He looked around him at the few people in the room. “Looks like I mighta missed out if I had gotten here a few minutes later.”
“Plenty of time,” she said. “We stay open for another hour. What would you like to eat?”
“Whatever you’re servin’,” he answered, surprised by her question.
“You have a choice,” Evelyn said. “Tonight it’s beef stew or lamb. Maybe you didn’t notice it written on the board by the door.” She was not really surprised, accustomed as she was to so many cowhands who couldn’t read.
“Oh,” Perley replied. “You’re right. For a fact, I didn’t see it. I reckon I’m partial to beef stew.” He had been too intent upon seeing where the windows were to notice the board. In addition to that, he wasn’t accustomed to eating in dining rooms where you were given a choice of meals.
She left to get him some coffee, pausing on her way to the kitchen to say something to a man and woman seated at a table near the door. Moments later, the couple got up and left the dining room.
When Evelyn returned with his coffee, he saw fit to comment. “Looks like I’m your only customer left. I hope I didn’t run ’em all off.”
“Oh, no,” she said, forcing a laugh for his remark. “There’ll be one or two more before we’re closed. I’ll be right back with your supper.”
“Is that the cook?” Perley asked, when she returned, noticing another woman standing just inside the kitchen door. It seemed to him that both women tended to stare at him. “If she’s wonderin’ about the food, tell her it looks like a feast fit for a king.”
“I’ll tell her.” Evelyn returned to the kitchen, and the cook followed her back inside.
The stew was good, with generous chunks of beef and biscuits still warm from the oven. Perley gave it his full attention, barely glancing up when another patron came inside and took a seat at a table directly across the room from him. When his coffee cup was empty, it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Evelyn in a while, so he looked around the room in case she was cleaning tables near the front. He didn’t see her, but he noticed the man who had just come in wasn’t being served, either. “Don’t know what happened to the lady,” he said. “Maybe she’ll be back in a minute.”
“Maybe so,” the man replied.
Perley noticed he was wearing a badge on his vest. “I could use a little more coffee, myself,” he remarked before taking another glance out the window to make sure no one was snooping around his horses.
“Evelyn,” the man called loudly, “man out here needs some more coffee!”
In a minute, Evelyn appeared with the coffeepot.
“’Preciate it,” Perley said.
She responded with a brief nod, then returned to the kitchen without a word to the lawman.
Reckon he didn’t come in to eat, after all, Perley thought, while the lawman continued to sit there, evidently waiting for someone . . . or something. In a few minutes, another man came in the dining room and the lawman got up to meet him, then suddenly, they both approached Perley, guns drawn.
“Keep those hands up on the table where I can see ’em,” the second man ordered. “I’m Sheriff Dan Wheeler and I’m placin’ you under arrest. Cliff, take his pistol.”
The deputy walked behind Perley’s chair and drew the .44 from its holster.
“Now, get on your feet,” the sheriff commanded. “Make it easy on yourself. Just do like I tell you.”
Taken completely by surprise, Perley could only do as he was told. It was obvious that the sheriff meant business. “Hold up a minute, fellows. If I was supposed to leave my gun outside, I swear I didn’t see the sign. Hell, I didn’t even notice the sign about the choice of suppers, either. Ask that lady. She’ll tell you that.”
“I expect you’ll be Ben Mather,” the sheriff said, “and you’re under arrest for robbin’ this hotel and murderin’ Jim Goodman. By God, we heard you had a helluva lotta nerve, but I didn’t expect you to show up here again.”
“Whoa,” Perley responded. “I see what the trouble is. I ain’t this Ben Mather fellow you think I am. My name’s Perley Gates, and I sure ain’t ever robbed this hotel.”
There followed a moment of silence, then both lawmen laughed.
“Perley Gates, huh? Well, that’s a good one all right, ain’t it, Cliff?”
“Sure is,” Cliff replied. “What’s the matter, Mather? Didn’t you get enough the first time?”
“You’re makin’ a big mistake,” Perley protested. “I ain’t the man you’re lookin’ for. I’m Perley Gates and this is the first time I’ve ever set foot in this hotel.” He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, and with his horses standing outside, packed with just under twelve thousand dollars in gold dust. “You fellows gotta listen to me, I’m not your man,” he pleaded as the deputy clamped handcuffs around his wrists.
“Is that a fact?” Wheeler replied. He turned and yelled back toward the kitchen door. “Hey, Evelyn, come on in here. He’s under control.” When she came from the kitchen, he asked, “Is this the man who stuck a gun in your husband’s face and ran off with the cash box?”
Evelyn took a long look at the man handcuffed and standing in her dining room. She had been at the front desk, waiting for her husband to finish for the evening, when the holdup had taken place. Looking at Perley now, she was not certain. The robbery and the killing of Jim Goodman, who had attempted to stop the robber, had occurred over a week before.
“Well,” she hesitated, “it looks like the same man, and he’s got that red bandanna he wore over his face. It looked like it was prett
y new, just like that one he’s got around his neck now.” She studied Perley carefully. “He’s wearin’ the same flat-crowned hat. At least, it looks like the same hat. He was wearing a rain slicker, so I don’t know what kind of shirt or vest he mighta been wearing.”
“Well, there you go, Ben,” the sheriff crowed. “Too bad you kept that bay you’re ridin’ in Walter Bray’s stable. Else we wouldn’ta knowed your name. When we wired Omaha about you, we found out what a busy man you’ve been all summer.”
Perley could see that Evelyn was having second thoughts about her memory and he looked her straight in the eye. “Ma’am, you’re makin’ a big mistake. I might look like that fellow, but I never set foot in here before tonight.”
The sheriff noticed it as well, and decided to march Perley out of the diner before Evelyn might think to retract her identification. “Come on, Mather. You’re wastin’ my time.” He gave him a shove toward the door.
“Wait a minute, Sheriff,” Perley pleaded. “I’ve got my horses to take care of. Whaddaya gonna do with my horses?”
“You mean them three you tied up beside the buildin’?” Cliff responded. “The ones you’ve been peepin’ at through the window? I’m kinda interested in seein’ what you’re carryin’ on them two packhorses, ain’t you, Dan?”
“I’d have to say so,” Wheeler agreed. Then to Perley, he said, “We’ll take your horses to the stable and Walter Bray will take care of ’em till the judge decides what to do with you. If I was you, I wouldn’t worry too much about your horses ’cause you’ll be swingin’ on a rope for killin’ Jim Goodman.”
Surely he was in a dream. That just could not be happening, but the cuffs on his wrists felt very real, and the two gruff lawmen were deadly serious about their business. If he didn’t wake up from the nightmare pretty soon, he was going to jail and the fortune in gold riding on his packhorses would be lost. He started to protest again, but the deputy gave him a hard shove toward the door and he felt the barrel of a pistol between his shoulder blades. Evelyn and the cook watched anxiously as he was hustled out the door. Evelyn looked as if about to apologize, but turned away.
Outside, Sheriff Wheeler marched Perley around beside the building where his horses were waiting. “I’ll lock Mr. Mather up,” he told his deputy. “You take these horses down to Walter’s stable. Tell Walter to take care of ’em and I’ll handle the bill. Remind him that everything in the packs and saddlebags belongs to the court and isn’t to be tampered with till the court says what to do with ’em after the hangin’.” He glanced at Perley and smiled. “I mean, trial.”
Cliff nodded and took the bay gelding’s reins in hand.
When he started to place his foot in the stirrup, Perley warned him. “You’d best lead him down to the stable.”
The deputy paused. “Oh? Why is that?”
“Buck won’t let anybody ride him but me,” Perley said.
“Is that so?” Cliff responded, not at all concerned. “He looks peaceful enough to me.”
His comment caused the sheriff to chuckle. “Maybe you’d best listen to the man, Cliff,” he joked.
“Damn,” Cliff scoffed and proceeded to step up in the stirrup, swung his leg over, and settled his considerable bulk in the saddle.
The sheriff then handed him the lead rope for the two packhorses. The deputy gave Perley a smug grin before giving Buck a kick with his heels.
The bay took about half a dozen steps before erupting like a four-legged volcano to rid itself of its rider. Cliff found himself sitting in midair, about ten feet above the ground, with no horse under him. Seconds later, he landed rudely on his backside, and to his credit, still holding the lead rope in his hand. He remained sitting there for a long moment, unable to utter a word, with the two packhorses staring at him patiently.
He finally forced out a painful grunt. “Damn!”
“You all right, Cliff?” Wheeler asked, not sure whether to laugh or not.
“Damn!” Cliff repeated, still sitting there. “Damn! I think I broke my back.”
“Like I said,” Perley advised, “it’ll go easier if you lead him.”
Free of his rider, Buck padded softly back to stand beside Perley.
“Better listen to the man,” Wheeler said to Cliff. “Best lead the horses down to Walter’s.” He paused before adding, “If you can still walk.” He waited to see that his deputy was able to get on his feet and take Buck’s reins again.
When he walked away, leading all three horses, Wheeler tapped Perley on the shoulder with his pistol barrel. “Now we’ll walk up the street to my office and put you in a cell. Make no mistake. One wrong move from you and I’ll shoot you down right here in the street. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sheriff, I ain’t the man that robbed the hotel,” Perley said. “Evidently, the only thing I’m guilty of is lookin’ like some fellow named Ben Mather. That don’t hardly sound like a hangin’ offense to me.”
For a brief moment, Wheeler almost believed him. Nothing about his prisoner even resembled the rough-edged sinister bearing of a man who would wantonly commit murder. A thin smile crossed his lips then as he reminded himself that vicious men come in all shapes and forms. “If you don’t give me any trouble,” he informed him, “you’ll get your chance in court.”
* * *
Perley looked out the one small window in his jail cell at the busy street that never seemed to settle down, even with night rapidly approaching. It had been almost an hour since Cliff had led his horses to the stable. Picturing him ripping open his packs to find what was hidden inside made Perley feel sick. His anxiety was intensified when he heard the deputy come into the sheriff’s office downstairs.
Anxious to hear the conversation between Cliff and Wheeler, Perley got on his knees and held his ear to the floor. He found he could almost hear them, enough to realize someone else was with them, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
In a few minutes, he heard footsteps on the stairs, then the door opened and Wheeler, his deputy, and another man walked into the cell room. They stood before his locked cell, still talking.
“You say he’s carryin’ somethin’ interestin’ in those packs?” Wheeler asked. “Money?”
“It ain’t money,” Cliff answered. “There was some money in his saddlebags, about ninety dollars, but no money in his packs.”
“Well, what was in the packs?” Wheeler asked, impatient with Cliff’s stalling.
Cliff chuckled. “Corn. Ain’t that right, Walter?”
Busy staring at the man inside the cell, Walter said that it was.
Cliff continued. “He’s got supplies and ammunition, a good Winchester rifle, and some other things anybody would need. But he’s got four sacks he’s totin’ on his packhorses. I opened every one of ’em and they’re full of corn.”
“Corn?” Wheeler asked. “You mean corn whiskey?”
“No,” Cliff answered, still finding it amusing. “I mean corn.”
“Seed corn,” Perley quickly explained. “It’s a special seed corn. I was takin’ it back to Texas to try plantin’ it down there.”
“Seed corn,” the sheriff repeated, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He was about to ask another question when Walter Bray interrupted.
“That ain’t the man who told me his name was Ben Mather,” Walter announced, which immediately caught their attention. “And those three horses Cliff brought me, ain’t any one of ’em like that gray Mather rode.” His proclamation left the two lawmen speechless, stunned.
Wheeler finally spoke. “Are you sure, Walter? I thought you said Mather was ridin’ a bay. You sure this ain’t the man callin’ himself Ben Mather?”
“That’s what I’m tellin’ you,” Walter answered calmly. “I ain’t ever seen this man before, and like I said, Mather was ridin’ a gray.”
“Thank you, sir,” Perley said. “I’ve been tryin’ to tell him that.” He looked toward the sheriff. “Now, how ’bout lettin’ me outta here?”
“Just hold your horses,” Wheeler replied, not yet ready to accept the fact that he had locked up an innocent man. He still had a witness that identified Perley as the man she had seen hold up the hotel. “Evelyn Rooney said you’re the man that took the cash box and shot Jim Goodman on your way outta the hotel.”
“She just made a mistake,” Perley argued. “I don’t think she’s dead sure of what she saw in the first place.”
“I’m gonna get to the bottom of this,” Wheeler insisted. “We can start by you tellin’ me what your real name is.”
“Perley Gates,” he answered.
“If you’re really innocent,” Wheeler came back right away, “you’re just makin’ it hard on yourself if you don’t tell me your name.”
With his frustration rising to a boiling point, Perley became desperate to think of some way to convince Wheeler he had the wrong man. He had nothing but his word to prove his name and that obviously was not enough to satisfy the sheriff. Then a thought occurred to him. “Sheriff, my brothers and I brought a herd of cattle up from Texas a few weeks back. We spent some time in the Cattleman’s Rest. I think the bartender might remember me from then. We talked for a pretty good while that night.”
“Cliff, go get Billy Fowler,” Wheeler said at once, eager to get any information he might have. “Bring him up here and don’t tell him the prisoner’s name.” When Cliff went out the door, Wheeler turned back to Perley. “It still might not prove you didn’t kill Jim Goodman, even if Billy does know you.”
It was obvious that the sheriff was more concerned about letting a guilty man go free than he was about hanging an innocent man. So Perley was still unable to gain much confidence in how much good it would do if Billy remembered him. With the number of cowhands that drank whiskey at the saloon, it was unlikely Billy could remember them all. Wheeler and Walter went back downstairs, leaving Perley to worry about his fate until Cliff returned with Billy.
Interested in how it was all going to turn out, Walter remained to talk to Wheeler. They headed downstairs to wait until Cliff returned with the bartender.
A Reason to Die Page 9