By the Neck

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  That was a phrase Chauncey had not heard nor thought of in some years. It was one his old Gran used when somebody died, or was about to. A fading memory of her wrinkled face gave him a quick smile as he shoved Delia’s pile of jumbled clothes from atop the crate. It was a crude trunk, much battered from use, but solid. He thumbed the latches and lifted the lid.

  Inside were few items—an oblong envelope of creamy paper with inky fingerprints along one edge. The end had been sliced open, and he peeked inside. It was filled with papers. He tucked that inside his coat and continued the search. In one corner of the bottom of the trunk was a small hat, one of those impractical hats women liked to wear, with a fan of colored flowers. In the dim light it was difficult to make out what the hat’s color was. Maybe green? A veil was rolled up along the top. He lifted the hat and beneath it saw a bulging buckskin pouch.

  He grunted, picked it up, and felt the familiar hefty, dead weight of a thing heavy with coins and perhaps more. He didn’t bother looking inside, but double knotted the drawstrings and slipped the pouch into his coat pocket. It pulled his coat down on the right side. He picked up her clothes—they smelled of sweat and faintly of perfume—and jammed them in a wad back on the closed lid of the crate.

  Once more at the door, he looked in on her and noticed he’d stepped in her blood and left boot prints all over the room—by the little kitchen area, over by the crate, and back to the door. He groaned and closed the door. There was no way such stains would clean up. Anyone he took there would see those stains and wonder what he’d been doing there. He would tell them something. He had the entire trip back to town to think of an excuse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was nearly five o’clock by the time Chauncey made it back to Boar Gulch proper. It had been years since he’d done that much walking in one day. His legs felt like they were filled with water, and his feet sore, and his best brogans were soiled and scuffed. He tried not to think of the blood on their soles.

  It didn’t help that he was lugging Delia’s sack of money hidden in his coat. He didn’t dare carry the sack in his hands, which would have been far more comfortable. He could have been seen. People were nosey, had to know other people’s business all the time. He’d stop at his house first. He had to change out of his trousers. Then he’d go to the bar.

  With each step toward his house, he could feel Delia’s blood touching his leg through his trouser leg. The money and the envelope were things he could investigate later. He must hide them. It wasn’t like he was stealing. She was his tenant and she had not yet paid him a dime of money toward rent. Other ways had been arranged, yes, but no one else knew what they were. It had been a business arrangement, pure and simple.

  He couldn’t help wondering how much money she had in the sack. And what if she had hidden even more somewhere? Maybe under a floorboard? Outside, buried under a rock? Those thoughts made him excited, and he wondered if that meant he was a heartless person.

  No, he told himself, this was nothing more than the death of a business acquaintance.

  In clean clothes, he stood outside The Last Drop. He summoned Rollie and Pops outside while Nosey tended bar. The mayor did his best to avoid the stares of the rest of the people in the place. He found them all suddenly irritating. Didn’t they have anything better to do with their time than spend every evening in the saloon?

  Not that it mattered. He’d thought of a good story on his long walk back to town. Something that might shed him in a favorable light, or at least keep folks from guessing that he’d been at Delia’s cabin. He didn’t think anybody saw him with her. If anybody said anything, he would say he merely went for an afternoon walk, to look at his various investment lands. He was entitled to do that, after all. He was the founder of the damn place.

  “What can we do for you, Mayor?” Rollie leaned down, closer to Chauncey’s face. “You okay?”

  Chauncey backed away. “Yes, why, why wouldn’t I look okay? Well no, if you must know, I’m . . . flustered. That’s it. Flustered.”

  Rollie and Pops exchanged looks of surprise. “Okay, then Chauncey. Maybe you better tell us why you’re flustered.”

  “Yes, yes I intend to do that.” He licked his lips.

  “I’m waiting. In case you hadn’t noticed, we have a full house tonight.”

  “Yes, yes, Finnegan, don’t rush me. Okay, here’s what I found. I . . . I found Delia Holsapple.”

  Rollie nodded.

  Pops pulled his pipe from his mouth. “From what I hear, lots of folks are finding her these days.”

  “No, no. I mean I found her dead.”

  “What?” Rollie looked shocked

  That’s good, thought Chauncey. “Yes, you see, I . . . as you know, she lives in a cabin I rent to her for a nominal fee.”

  “Yeah, I have heard about your nominal fee, Mayor.”

  “Balderdash! It’s a business arrangement, pure and simple. Now where was I?”

  “You found her dead.”

  “Yes, she’s in a pitiful state, I’m afraid. Naked, blood everywhere. As I say, I . . . ah, I found her that way. I doubt it was an accident.”

  “What makes you say that, Chauncey?” Rollie stared at him right in the eye.

  The mayor looked away and shrugged. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? She was naked, still is, I mean, and well, the place looks to have been rummaged through, as if someone were . . . were looking for something, yes, that’s it.” He looked Rollie in the eye, did his best to not look away. “You wouldn’t have any idea of what may have happened to her, would you, Mr. Finnegan?”

  Rollie folded his arms and looked down at the chubby man. “What is it you’re driving at, Mayor?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not accusing you of anything,”

  “That’s good, because I’d hate to think what that might mean, Mayor.”

  Chauncey held his smile, but neither of the three men spoke. He wasn’t certain what Rollie had meant by that, but it might have been a threat. “What I meant was that you and Miss Holsapple have a history, more so than she did with anyone else in this town. And as we all know, it wasn’t a savory history, now was it, Mr. Finnegan?”

  “Am I on trial here, Mayor?”

  “No, no. I am merely stating the facts of the situation. Potentially crucial facts, I might add, in determining how she died, and at whose hands.”

  “Why are you here, Chauncey?”

  “Well, I should think that’s obvious. As the town’s appointed lawman, I think it’s your obligation to—”

  “Hold right there, Mayor. I never accepted any official or unofficial appointment. Did you, Pops?”

  Pops tapped his chin and looked up at the evening sky. “No, no can’t say I have.”

  “Oh fine, then as unofficial whatever it is you call yourself—”

  “A saloon owner, Mayor. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Fine.” Chauncey sighed. “Look, I need help, gentlemen. I need someone to bring her back to the town cemetery. This . . . this situation can’t remain as it is. I have an investment to protect. And we have to protect the town. If it should get out that something bad has happened to the town’s one . . .”

  “Prostitute, Mayor. The word you’re looking for is prostitute.”

  “Yes, well, I wouldn’t have put it in such an uncouth manner, but then again, I am not you.”

  “That’s a blessing, Mayor.”

  “You should go fetch her before others find out.”

  “Only way either of us is going out there is accompanied by you. For obvious reasons.”

  Chauncey thought of what those reasons might be. Maybe he meant that without him he could accuse them of doing something untoward. The notion was a good one. After all, with Finnegan and Pops out of the way, Chauncey felt certain he could figure out a way to once more resume control of the bar. That was an especially promising thought, as Rollie had done a fine job with the place, and made it into a spot people liked to visit for more than liquor.

 
; He didn’t know how much money the man made, but he’d added more gaming tables, and he’d been told that Rollie and Pops were looking to expand, which was promising. If he could own that, oh the money would flow.

  But he could think of no way to pin the woman’s death on Finnegan or his partner, though the notion of implicating Pops was a good one. Who would believe a former slave in the death of a pretty white woman? Chauncey had to make a decision right then and there, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to do that.

  “Fine,” he finally said with a long sigh. “I’ll go with you. But we’d better leave now.”

  “What’s the rush, Mayor? You said so yourself she’s dead. If you’re certain of that, then she’s not going anywhere.”

  “Please, we need to go fetch her.”

  Rollie turned to Pops. “You mind going? We’re swamped in there and . . . well I don’t think it would be wise for me to go there, you know.”

  Pops nodded. “Good thinking. I’ll go.” He looked at the mayor. “We’ll need a horse. Trail out that way’s too narrow for a wagon, not like the road out to the diggings.”

  “Take Cap,” said Rollie. “He’s calm enough.”

  “Okay, let’s go, Mayor,” said Pops, lighting his pipe and walking toward the little stable they’d built out back of the saloon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The walk out to the cabin was a quiet one. Pops led Cap and Chauncey lugged an unlit lantern. Pops had tried to converse with the mayor, and asked him all manner of questions about the girl and how he found her, but Chauncey kept his mouth closed.

  Halfway there, the mayor said, “Are you planning on staying in Boar Gulch, Mister . . .”

  Pops didn’t reply at once, but puffed his pipe for a few more steps. Then he said, “Way I look at it, Mister Mayor, a man has to be somewhere in life, doing something useful each and every day. I am in Boar Gulch right at this time and I believe I am being of use, at least to Rollie. That’s enough for now. We none of us knows what waking up tomorrow will bring us, now do we?”

  It was Chauncey’s turn to be silent. He’d be damned if he was going to respond to an impertinent former slave. Some whites he knew would do that, but not him. They continued threading their way through the trees and reached the cabin ten minutes later.

  Pops tied Cap to a close tree and saw the pail set by the cabin. “Did she have to haul her water far, living here?”

  “No farther than most,” said Chauncey, as if defending the practice.

  Pops thumbed the crude wooden lift latch and pushed open the door. He peeked in, then opened it wider and peered into the darkened little cabin. “Bring that lantern over here, will you, Mayor?”

  Chauncey hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of this man telling him what to do. But this situation was different, so he decided he’d let it slide this one time. He puffed up his chest, jutted his bottom jaw, and held up the lantern out of reach.

  Pops looked at him, then at the lantern, and made the extra step toward it. “Obliged, Mayor.” He lit it, then looked at Chauncey. “Let’s get something straight betwixt us, Mayor. You called on me. I didn’t stumble on this little mess you made.”

  Chauncey began to speak, but Pops held up a hand. “No, I ain’t through. I’d much rather be back at The Last Drop playing poker. I had a hand going that you wouldn’t believe. Expect I could have won Nosey’s trousers this time”—he smiled and shook his head—“but I’m here instead. So a little more help and a little less baby play would be much appreciated.”

  Chauncey felt his face redden. He gritted his teeth but didn’t speak. Pops was right, of course. He had gone to the bar looking for help. But that didn’t mean he had to like the situation. It would go quicker if he made the best of it.

  Pops lit the lantern and nudged the door open as wide as it would go. He took a breath and walked in. “Come on, Mayor,” he said, waiting inside.

  Chauncey followed. He looked over Pops’ shoulder and there was Delia as he’d left her—sprawled on her back, her head bent at that bad angle as if she were trying to bite her own shoulder. Her eyes were half-open, her naked body exposed.

  “You didn’t have the decency in your head to put her up on the bed? Or at least cover her? What is wrong with you, Mayor?” Pops shook his head and gritted his teeth as he looked the scene over. He touched the back of his hand to her near arm. It was cold. “Yeah, she’s dead all right. Seen enough death in my time to know.”

  He looked closer at her, closed her eyes, then used both hands to pull her head up off the floor. “Looks to have hit her head on the stove there.” He nodded at the low woodstove within arm’s reach. There was a spot on the front edge that looked like it could be bloody.

  “Straighten that bed, spread out blankets wide so we can lay her on there and cover her up for her last ride.” Pops set the lantern on the little table, caught sight of the mayor in the mirror, staring down at the dead woman. “Mayor!”

  The man jerked his gaze upward as if he’d been awakened. “Yes, the blankets, yes, okay.”

  Pops held her under her armpits, Chauncey held her ankles, and they lifted the woman onto the bed, her body stiffening but soft enough that they had to grip her tight. Pops had no choice but to step in the blood, though he tried to cover much of the thickening puddle with extra bedding. They laid her on the sagged, broken bed and Pops covered her with the rest of the quilt. Then he wrapped her with a coil of rope he’d brought.

  They lugged her outside, and Pops hefted her up, then laid her on Cap’s back and secured her. The horse flinched, then stood still as Pops spoke in low, soothing tones to him.

  Chauncey cleared his throat. “I’ll pay for the coffin. And I can speak words over her grave. It’s the least I can do.”

  “I’ll say.” Pops looked at Chauncey until the man looked away. “We both need to go back in there, make certain we each see what the other’s doing. You understand?”

  The mayor nodded, his face drawn tight as if he might throw up, but didn’t make a move toward the door.

  Pops sighed and swung the lantern. “Let’s go, Mayor. The night’s not getting any younger.”

  Pops waited for the mayor to enter before him, then he entered the cabin. The yellow light cast their shadows long on the close walls and low ceiling. “We should bring some of her frocks. Maybe we can get Mrs. Pulaski at the Lucky Strike to clean her up, dress her for burying.” He held the lantern down low to the floor. “Hoo boy. What a mess. Someone walked all over this place after stomping in the blood.”

  “Oh, oh, I’m afraid that was me. I . . . I wanted to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows, you see.” The man did not look at Pops, but concentrated on studying the bed, the wall, the doorway.

  “Uh-huh,” said Pops eyeing the mayor. He found a cloth rucksack, vaguely recalled it as the one Miss Holsapple had lugged with her when she arrived in town, and stuffed in what clothes he could find. Beneath the clothes stood a wooden crate, like a traveling trunk of sorts. “You happen to know if there’s anything in here?”

  The mayor looked about to answer, then shrugged and looked away again. Pops lifted the lid and held the lantern low. He saw an odd little flowery hat. He pulled it out and looked it over. “Might be she liked this hat.” He laid it on top in the rucksack. “I can’t say I like it, but then again, I’m not the best judge of a lady’s finery. Hope she liked it enough to spend eternity wearing it.”

  He squinted about the place but saw nothing else that might be of use in laying Delia Holsapple to rest. “Okay then, Mayor, I’d say we’re done here. I’ll tie this bag on the horse, you lock up the cabin so no critters get in. And as you’re the owner, I recommend you clean it out soon. Even at that, the blood might be too soaked in to come up. You never know.”

  The mayor put a hand over his mouth. “Oh, I never thought of that.” He peeked in once more, though he could see little beyond dark shapes. Shapes that seemed to beckon and leer. He slammed the door tight and tugged th
e latch, though he knew the crude lever was as set as it could be.

  They began walking back to town, Pops leading the horse, Chauncey walking behind, carrying the lantern.

  “’Course,” said Pops, “you could always set fire to the cabin. Quickest way of getting rid of anything you don’t want others to see.”

  The mayor heard him, then stopped walking. He looked up the trail at the man’s back, less visible with each step in the gloom.

  Say what he will, thought Chauncey, it was not a bad idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Delia Holsapple’s funeral drew everybody in town. She was carried up to Boot Hill by four men from the downstairs back room of the partially built hotel where Mrs. Pulaski and Camp Sal had tended to her, in what the men regarded as that mysterious way women had among their kind.

  Rollie doubted that Delia in life was well-regarded among the few other women in town, in part for her profession, in part because she was a fiery sort who kept to herself when not entertaining her customers.

  Though he admitted not knowing much about women, at times he’d seen that given a shared cause women could be more than kind and generous with each other, to the point of squint-eyed suspicion of any men at their fringes. What a difference from men, he mused. Men in a group were generally more apt to get drunk and shoot each other.

  There were a few quivering lips and red eyes in the assemblage, most among the men. From the number of brute miners holding back their tears, it appeared Delia was one popular gal. Hell, until he’d learned who she was, he was all worked up about her, too. But not after. No, thank you.

  He felt bad about the way her life had turned out. While he didn’t feel responsible for much of it, a spark of guilt flickered in him for his role in the rotten mess her family had become.