Margaret leaned toward him. “Was there? Did you find anything that might shed some light on what happened?”
“We might have, not sure yet.” He felt the mangled slug in his jeans’ pocket. He’d wait to examine it until she left.
Margaret asked, “What do you think happened there?”
Ike took his time. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell Margaret yet. He didn’t know how much of what he and Buster suspected was true. “We found some old horse track, but that could have been made by any manner of riders in the last six months.”
Margaret said, “There couldn’t have been that many riders who used that trail, could there?”
“Buster says there could have been enough to cover up who really was there with your husband when he got shot.” As Ike said that, a thought occurred to him. A flush spread up from his chest, and he wiped at his damp brow with a cloth napkin. “Mrs. Pinshaw, do you know if the doctor examined your husband’s body before the burial?”
“Why, I believe he did. He said he did. Why do you ask?”
“Don’t rightly know at this point,” he lied. He didn’t tell her Doc should know if Pinshaw was killed by a .36 slug or a .44. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pinshaw, but I’m pretty tired. Would you mind if I went back up to my room for a spell?” Ike slowly pushed himself up and away from the table.
“Please call me Margaret, Mr. Porter, and where are my manners? I’ve kept you here far too long in your condition. Let me help you back upstairs.” She put an arm around his waist.
“Then call me Ike, please.”
When they reached Ike’s room, Lorraine was in the midst of changing the bed sheets. She looked up at the two of them and dumped last night’s sheets on the floor at Margaret’s feet. Ike disengaged from Margaret as he lowered himself onto his bed. Darts flew from Lorraine’s light brown eyes as she ripped a clean old sheet apart to make bandages with. She leaned over Ike and unwrapped his bloody cloths as he caught his breath from the trip back upstairs. Margaret fanned herself with a hand, said a puny goodbye, and left the room with her other hand over her mouth.
Ike was fading, but before he passed out, the last thing he said to Lorraine was, “I’ve got to see the doctor, and ask him…” but it was lights out before he finished the thought.
Chapter Eighteen
A few days later, Ike, Buster, and the professor met at the dining room table for breakfast. Over his nose rim glasses, the professor said, “I see you are up and taking nourishment, Mr. Porter. I am happy to partake of the morning’s repast with you.”
Ike couldn’t figure out if Walnutt was egging him on for some reason or not. He let it pass. “Mornin’ to you, Professor.”
The professor sat forward. “I wanted to inform both of you that I will be involved in some research in Denver over the next few days, perhaps longer, so if you need to reach me, Mrs. Blanchard will know how to contact me.” He said it with a distinctive air of importance and glanced at Ike.
Ike sat hunched over his plate, trying to eat without his arm in the sling, yet still protecting his right side. With the bad arm pressed closely against his chest, he worked hard at forking up eggs with his left. He ignored the Englishman’s last remark until the length of the ensuing silence compelled him to look up at him. “Were you talking to me?”
Walnutt put his napkin down on the table. “I would appreciate it if you would bring a modicum of decorum to the table, please, Mr. Porter. Yes, I was speaking to you, as well as Buster and the lady of the house.” He nodded toward Lorraine.
“So, you’re going to be doing some research, are you?” Ike adopted as disinterested an air as he could. “Good for you. And thanks for lettin’ me know how to get hold of you if I need to. That’ll come in handy, I’m sure.” He nodded and went back to work on his plate. “Appreciate that.”
Buster sat digging at his nearly-empty plate with his fork.
Ike turned to him. “Buster, why don’t you give that plate a rest? I think Miss Lorraine’s gonna want to use it again, and the way you’re goin’ at it, there may be nothin’ left of it soon.”
The handyman stopped eating and rubbed his forehead a few times. “Reckon you’re right, Mr. Porter. I guess sometimes I do get a little too involved with my food.” He gave a short laugh and excused himself.
When Buster was gone, Ike said to no one in particular, “Now, what was that all about? I just made a suggestion is all.”
Lorraine walked in from the kitchen as Buster passed her on his way out of the house. She gave Ike a hard look. “You oughta know by now that Buster gets real nervous real easy, Mr. Porter, unless you’re too blind to see how he fidgets at the table whenever there’s tension. And I can smell tension here.” She placed both hands on the table between the two men and said to Ike, “You and the professor were jawin’ at each other again, weren’t you?” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened back up and put a hand on one hip, the way she sometimes did.
Ike offered a feeble defense. “Well, Walnutt here was jabbin’ at me, and I was just jabbin’ back at him a little.” It was a foolish response, and he dropped his gaze back to his plate.
She turned and leveled her gaze at the professor. “And you. Don’t you be thinkin’ you’re free and clear of this—what with your fancy talk, like you’re better’n us. You ain’t better, ’cause if you were, we’d still be British subjects talkin’ with that silly accent, so get off your high horse!” Her loud voice echoed around the small room.
Walnutt started to reply, then clammed up.
“Why don’t you two muttonheads either go outside and fight, or kiss and make up?” Lorraine stared both of them down. “And give me those plates. Now. Both of you is done eatin’ this mornin’. Come back tonight, and I’ll let you know if you’re fit guests to eat dinner in my house or not.” She grabbed both plates and turned back to the kitchen.
Ike watched her disappearing form wide-eyed. He broke the silence. “Sorry, Professor, I been a hard case for a while. It ain’t nothin’ personal. I’m just off my feed lately.”
The professor said, “It’s my bad form, Mr. Porter. I have no right to judge you when I have so many failings myself. Truce?”
Ike nodded.
“Good. Please accept my hand in friendship, and my assurance that I meant no offense.”
Ike lifted his bad arm slightly, then put it back on the table. “Can’t shake yet, but we’re square.”
Walnutt got in the last word. “There, now, a new Atlantic alliance.”
Ike rolled his eyes and broke into a small grin. “Good luck on your research, Professor.” He got up and left the dining room. Back in his bedroom, he tried sweeping his wounded arm in a small circle, wincing as he did. He strapped his gunbelt on, put his arm back in the sling, and headed for Doc Early’s office. After a short visit there, he walked down to see the sheriff. Despite the cool morning, he was sweating.
When Ike walked in, Tucker was sleeping, head sagged forward on his chest. He closed the noisy door hard. Tucker gave a start and grabbed for the newspaper on his desk. Ike noticed it was upside down. “Sheriff, I got a question for you. Mind if I sit?”
Tucker brushed at an eye and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you sit? I was just thinkin’ about a case. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
Ike sat in the solitary wooden chair across from Tucker’s desk. It creaked ominously. “It’s about George Pinshaw and how he died. Me and Buster went out to where he was shot the other day to look around, and—”
“Say, how’s that arm of yours doing?”
Ike rubbed his shoulder to make a point. He thought about asking if Tucker had found out anything about the man who shot him, but didn’t. The sheriff was meeting his low expectations. “Shoulder’s fine. So, as I was sayin’, who do you think killed Pinshaw out there?”
“You mean on the old trail by the creek? Well, not that it’s any of your business,” Tucker said as he sat up straighter in his old wooden chair, “but I have my theories
.”
“I’ll bet you do, you bein’ a professional peace officer and all.” Ike feigned a schoolboy’s air of admiration for the sheriff. “I’ll bet you got it all figured out, don’t you,” he said with a big smile.
Before Tucker could answer, Ike wagged a finger at the sheriff and continued with a grin. “I knew it! I just knew you got the case all solved.”
“Well, I don’t want to brag, but if you know what you’re looking at, these things pretty well solve themselves.” Tucker leaned toward Ike now and spoke almost in a whisper.
Ike leaned in as well and shifted his gaze toward the two empty cells behind the sheriff before looking back at him. He lowered his voice even more and said in a conspiratorial tone, “You probably knew what happened as soon as you saw that little fire pit, didn’t you?”
“The fire pit? Why…yes…that was a dead giveaway.”
Ike leaned in further. “And then the bullet that lodged in the cottonwood, that was probably the shot that killed George, right? You probably left it in there on purpose, didn’t you? To see if anybody came back after it.” Ike nodded encouragingly at the sheriff as he said it.
“…Uh, that’s right.” There was uncertainty all over Tucker’s face as he nodded back.
“Say, what caliber were the bullets that killed him, anyway?”
The sheriff brought a hand to his mouth. “Well, I think…it was just that…most likely it was…”
“So, after you examined the body, what did you think?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly…there didn’t seem to be no need…you know, it could have been that poor George shot himself, is what could have happened.” But before Ike could ask another leading question, Tucker straightened back up in his chair. “And just what is your interest in George Pinshaw’s death anyways? I thought you were here ’cause you were lookin’ for your sister?”
“I am, but I’ve begun to wonder if there might be a connection between Pinshaw’s death and my sister’s disappearance. But you probably are way ahead of me, and already thought of that too, didn’t you?” Tucker’s startled expression made it obvious Ike might have hit a nerve.
Tucker said, “There ain’t nothin’ to connect the two. And, what’s more, I never been too sure about why you’re here in Cottonwood in the first place, Mr. Porter, if that’s your real name.” Tucker drew himself up to his full portly height as he sat there.
Now it was Ike’s turn to be caught off guard. What did Tucker know about him? He leaned in further and pointed a finger directly in his face. “I can guarantee you one thing, Sheriff—if you really are one—and that is I’m going to find my sister. I came here this morning to try to enlist your help to do that, but it appears that’s something you’re not interested in. Have it your way. That little scrap of paper I found out at the murder scene will help me find out what happened to Sue. And if I find out who killed Pinshaw in the process, more’s the better.”
“What scrap of paper?”
Ike pushed his chair back so hard it left marks in the pine floorboards. He headed for the door.
Tucker rose also, his chair legs scraping backward against the wooden floor slats. “If you got somethin’ that sheds light on George’s murder, that’s evidence, and you turn it over to me, now.”
Ike opened the front door, then stopped. He put his left hand on his holster and turned back to the sheriff. “Stay out of my way from now on, Tucker.” He slammed the door shut on his way out. After he’d gone several store fronts down the street, Ike stopped, wiped his brow, and looked back toward the jail. He broke into a small smile as Tucker came out the front door and unhitched his horse from the wooden rail. That imaginary piece of paper had done its job. Ike had a notion who the so-called sheriff was going to see. He stepped back out of sight as Tucker galloped past him on his way south out of town. He limped toward the stables and saddled Ally, then rode south for the back trail he and Buster traveled on before.
As he overlooked the ranch from the wooded heights behind it, Ike spied the small trail down to his left that wound through the backside of the rise that surrounded the spread. He guided Ally along this uneven ground that he’d already traversed several times and pulled up at a secluded spot on the rocky game trail. The few juniper trees there provided just enough shelter to hide himself and his horse from view while he waited for Tucker to appear on the main trail below. He didn’t have to wait long. Tucker rounded the last bend in the road at a trot and pulled up at the main house. Tying his horse up at the railing quickly, he disappeared inside.
It was all falling into place.
Ike walked Ally out of the jumbled terrain, back up the hillside, and rode back toward town at a steady pace. At the boarding house, he collapsed into his bed and slept until Lorraine called him for dinner. That night, he tiptoed out of the house when the moon was at its highest and closed the squeaky front door on his way to the Wildfire. He detoured off the main street and walked carefully behind the stores toward the bar. When he got to the rear of the Wildfire, he searched for a way in. The back door was locked, and the rear window seemed to be also. He took his knife out to test it. Sliding the knife down into the small space where the window met the bottom sill, he pried the blade upward. The window frame began to move. It protested and squeaked as he forced it up first with the blade then with his hand, obliging him to stop and start several times to listen and catch his breath. When he’d raised the window high enough, he pulled himself through the opening and limped over creaky floorboards to the front of the place. The smell of stale beer was still strong, in stark contrast with the crisp nighttime air he’d just come in from.
Ike grabbed a chair and carried it to the front door. After several attempts, he got up on it and drew his knife. Feeling in the darkness, he ran his hands over the thick wooden top of the doorframe. Rough surface greeted his touch until, just to the right of center, he felt a small hole. He carved wood away around the hole until he felt the end of a bullet lodged inside. He levered the knife around it and began to free the bullet from its hiding place. When he’d retrieved it, he got down and replaced the chair. On his way to the back of the saloon, he fingered the deformed slug but couldn’t tell much about it in the darkness. He climbed out the rear window, pulled it closed again, and stuck to the shadows on his way back to the boarding house. Soon, he was back in his own room, exhausted. He lit a candle and examined the bullet. The marks Kelly’s gun left on this slug and the one he pried out of the cottonwood looked the same. So Buster was right, there might be a connection. He doused the candle, lay back on the bed, and stared sleeplessly at the shadowy ceiling.
Chapter Nineteen
Margaret Pinshaw walked Doc Early to the door of The Sew Pretty. “Thank you, Sam, for telling me that.”
“You’re welcome, Margaret. I just thought you should know.” The doctor doffed his hat and stepped out into the brilliant morning sunshine that bathed Cottonwood’s main street. As Margaret watched him walk away, she puzzled on what the doctor had just told her. George was killed by an unusual caliber bullet, and Ike Porter had been asking about it. She didn’t know what that meant and why it might be important.
Her thoughts switched to Ike. She still didn’t know why he was looking into George’s death. How does doing that help him find his sister? It didn’t add up. She grabbed her shawl to fortify her for the walk over to the boarding house.
Knock knock. A tired face peeked out of the front bay window after the second knock. Lorraine opened her front door. “Margaret? What brings you out here this early? My, but two visits in the space of a few days. And me up to my nose in my morning cleaning. Well, come on in, you didn’t come here to hear me jaw at you.” She opened the door wide and ushered Margaret into the parlor.
“Why, thank you, Lorraine, I just wondered if Mr. Porter was here, that’s all.” Her new purple brocade dress and matching hat stood in stark contrast to Lorraine’s dowdy attire.
“Sit down, please, Margaret. He’s not here right now, left
after breakfast, and I never know when he’s gonna show up again. He’s kinda mysterious and quiet—just goes about his ‘business,’ as he says. If I was a man, I don’t know as I’d want to cross him.”
Margaret sat up straight in the faded red velvet upholstered chair, feet tapping out a nervous rhythm on the bare wood floor. She said, “I don’t know what to make of him either. Sometimes I wish he’d just find out what happened to Sue and then leave.” She scrunched the white lace hanky in her lap into an unrecognizable wad. “I’d just started coming to grips with George’s death, and here he comes, stirring everything up again. I want to know about George, but at the same time, I don’t. Knowing won’t change anything. Oh, I don’t seem to know much about anything these days.”
“You too?” Lorraine came over and sat by Margaret and patted her hand gently. “I don’t have any good words, Margaret. I’m just sorry you’re all torn up inside.”
Tears fell from Margaret’s eyes. The wadded up hanky resumed its original shape as she dabbed at her face.
Lorraine said, “Come on into the kitchen, and we’ll have a good old coffee sitaround,” then led the way.
After Lorraine poured them each a steaming mug of black coffee, Margaret said, “I guess I should have pushed the sheriff to look into Sue’s disappearance harder when it happened. The last I saw her was when she left in the buckboard to deliver two hats to Emerald Tompkins at the ranch. When she didn’t come back that night, I just assumed Emerald had invited her to stay over and didn’t give it a second thought.”
Lorraine pursed her lips. “Me too. When she didn’t come back that afternoon, I was concerned but didn’t want to face the thought that she could have been in real trouble. The next morning, though, I went to see Tucker. He told me not to worry about her, that young women sometimes went missing for their own reasons. In hindsight, I should’ve made him go look into her whereabouts.”
The Reckoning Page 14