by Ron Schwab
“I hadn’t forgotten about Clete, but he doesn’t control the pocket book, does he?” Ethan asked. “And gunslingers don’t come cheap.”
“You’re right there,” Bridges agreed. “Gid learned the hard way a long time ago not to let loose of the money where that kid was concerned. But murder. I’d never buy that notion about Gid. He’s a good man. . . . A damn fine citizen of our county. I’ve got to admit though, a couple of things add up.”
“Like what?”
“For one, Gid’s got some gunslingers hanging around the Circle W. I wouldn’t rule out one of them types killed the Harpers over something—wouldn’t take much to rile somebody like that, I suppose.”
“What’s Webb doing with gunhands?”
“You’ve heard about his rustling problems?”
“Yeah, I’ve picked up some talk. Seems like nobody else has had any trouble.”
“Well, Gid’s been fightin’ this for better than a year, and he hadn’t been none too pleased with the progress I’d made, so he went out and hired his own help. We quarreled some about it, but it’s his right. Anyhow, there’s hired guns available on the Circle W right now, that’s for damn sure.”
“You said there were a couple of things that added up.”
“Well, you wondered how anybody could have found out what you and this gal had in mind, going up to Lame Buffalo’s camp. Hell, you know how cozy Gid Webb is with Kate Wyeth.”
“Miss Wyeth?” Ethan replied with genuine surprise. “Tell me about it.”
“Can’t understand how you never knew. Gid and your Miss Wyeth have been keeping company for more than a year now. Gid doesn’t put up at the hotel anymore when he stays in Lockwood. He drops his bedroll at Kate’s house. From all indications, I’d say there’s still a pretty hot fire burning in that sixty-five-year-old oven. He wouldn’t be staying the night if he was just stopping by for a cup of tea.”
“But Miss Wyeth? She seems so unlikely. I always thought of her being a confirmed old maid. Certainly not the shacking-up kind. I have to confess, though, she and I have never been very close.”
“Hell, Ethan, she’s only human. Abstinence just ain’t the natural way of things. I can’t believe anybody wants to go through life alone. Hell, look at me. I’m about as much of a loner as anybody you’ll find, but I’ve got my Sarah at home and I’d damn near die without her.” He paused. “You’ve been alone long enough, too, Ethan. It’s not good for a man to be alone. It’s time you were finding the right woman, somebody to settle down with.”
Ethan ignored the sheriff’s remarks. Will and Sarah had been matchmaking with a vengeance ever since he had come to Lockwood. A partnership like Will’s and Sarah’s was mighty enticing, but he would rather take on the whole Sioux nation than get caught up in a marriage war like some he’d seen.
Katherine Wyeth and Gideon Webb. He found it hard to believe. On the other hand, he supposed Gideon Webb was still a handsome, virile-looking man by most standards, and he wore that aura of strength and power that money seemed to give a man. And if you could overlook her occasional bitchiness, Miss Wyeth was not all that unattractive, either. He suddenly saw his secretary in another light. She was a human being, a woman, apparently with a woman’s needs.
“I’ll talk to Miss Wyeth, Will, when I get over to the office. If I find out anything, I’ll stop back here before I leave town. Now, what shall I do about Bear Killer? Can he stay out at the ranch with me until this blows over or until we need his testimony?”
“I don’t think so, Ethan. I think he ought to be brought into custody.”
“But, Will,” Ethan protested, “those Indian boys didn’t kill anybody. I know it. . . . You do, too.”
“Maybe,” the sheriff said, “but the folks around here are hot as hell. This town’s sitting on a load of dynamite just waiting for somebody to light the fuse. If it doesn’t look like something’s being done, pretty soon we’ll have a bunch of cowboys getting tanked up and heading for the hills for some good old Sioux hunting. They’ll either get themselves killed or slaughter some squaws and Indian kids. Either way, everybody loses. If we have the boy in jail here, it shows we’re doing something. It will keep folks home. We can hold off filing charges for a few days. I just have me a hunch that whatever’s going to happen is going to happen fast. . . . Damn fast, maybe.”
“But I vouched for the boy’s safety,” Ethan said. “If anything happens to Bear Killer, Lockwood’s going to be a pile of ashes.”
“I know that, Ethan. Look, I’ll put the kid in the cell back there, feed him good. And I’ll move in here myself till this is over. I’ll see if I can hire some special deputies. We still got a few good men around that won’t go for lynching. . . . More than you might think. The big mouths have had their day so far. I’ve been here for ten years, Ethan, and I decided to stay because of the people. Don’t sell them short.”
“I’m nervous as hell about this, Will, but I’m also an officer of the court and have an obligation. We brought the boy back to face up to this thing and to prevent a war. He’ll come in.”
“Does anybody hereabouts know the boy came with you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Tell you what, then, let him stay at your place tonight. I’d guess you’ve got some palavering to do with that boy. I’ll come out first thing in the morning and ride into town with you and the Indian lad. No sense in taking any chances.”
“That’s a good idea, Will. I’d appreciate it.”
Ethan stood up to leave, and Will Bridges lifted himself out of his chair and offered his hand. The two shook hands with an iron grip. “Ethan,” Will said, “you’ve dealt square with me. I won’t forget that. Nobody’s going to get that Indian boy without going over my dead body.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ethan said as he moved to the door. “You watch out for yourself, Will. It took some damn tough hombres to nail Ben Dobbs.”
The sheriff’s face was grim. “I know, and I will watch out. We’d all better. I’ll walk down the street a ways with you, Ethan. I’d better go down and break up the Enos Fletcher Show. I’ll see what I can find out about the dead man. Maybe I’ll have something for you if you stop back.” He shook his head in disbelief as he followed Ethan out the door. “You say that woman shot this buzzard? God damn, what next? She must be one hell of a woman.”
“She’s one hell of a something, all right,” Ethan agreed.
He had glossed over Skye dePaul’s role in the mountain massacre; he wondered what Will would say if he knew how cold bloodedly Skye had cut a man’s throat. That would be a tale for another day; maybe after Skye dePaul had exited from his life.
Skye dePaul leaving. Suddenly, he felt unexplainably lonely.
13
KATHERINE WYETH DID not seem surprised when Ethan walked through the door, but on the other hand, why should she? If she thought he was dead, there would be no reason to open the office; there would be no boss to pay her salary. She did not look pleased to see him, but that was nothing new—she never did. He did not think it was because she disliked him so much as she disapproved of him. She had ruled the roost in his predecessor’s office. Weatherby's bouts with the bottle had required that someone else be in charge, and Miss Wyeth who had filled that void had relished the task. Ethan could not imagine the milquetoast Weatherby challenging the woman’s authority once he had surrendered it.
“Good morning, Mr. Ramsey,” Miss Wyeth said coldly as he closed the door behind him. “I was wondering when you would return. Several people have been asking to see you. Mrs. Thomsen is terribly anxious to go over her will with you. I think she’s upset that you haven’t been available.”
“I’m sorry, but she may have to wait another few days. I have to give priority to another client right now.”
Miss Wyeth raised her eyebrows and her lips tightened with obvious disapproval.
“Skye dePaul,” he added for good measure.
“I thought as much,” she said haug
htily.
“Miss Wyeth,” Ethan said, “I’d like you to come in my office a minute. We have something to talk about.”
“Very well, Mr. Ramsey,” she said, getting up from her chair and following him into his office.
She seemed not the least defensive or concerned, Ethan noted. She was miffed, probably over the neglect of his other clients and his attention to Skye dePaul’s case.
When they were seated in Ethan’s office, he got right to the point. “Miss Wyeth, did you tell anyone I was taking the bodies of those Indian boys to Lame Buffalo’s village?”
She was silent a moment. “I’m not certain I understand.”
“It’s not a complicated question, but if you want me to be more specific—did you tell Gideon Webb about my trip into the mountains?”
She fidgeted in her chair and nervously twisted the amethyst ring on her finger. “I’m not sure. I may have said something.”
“I’ve never noticed lapses in your memory before. You’ve always prided yourself on your good memory, so try to know for certain. It’s important. Very important.”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, her voice near a whisper. “I told him.”
“And did you also tell him I was planning to bring back the Indian boy?”
“Yes.”
He got up and began to pace slowly back and forth, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he stopped and turned back to Katherine Wyeth. “I can’t believe it. What else did you tell him?”
She stared at him, an uncomprehending expression on her face. “Only that you agreed to represent Miss dePaul and that you were going to try to prove that the Indians didn’t kill the Harpers. I really didn’t think—”
“Miss Wyeth, I understand that you and Gideon Webb are friends. Good friends. That’s ordinarily none of my business. But it becomes my business when it almost gets me killed. And I have reason to believe that the things you told Mr Webb did just that.”
The woman paled. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”
“I can’t say for certain, but you can help me with some honest answers. Will your loyalty to Gideon Webb interfere with that?”
She hesitated. “No. Gideon Webb, uh . . . helps erase some of my loneliness, and I do the same for him. We are not in love; there is no marriage in our future. Besides, Mr. Ramsey, I broke a client’s confidence, and yours. There’s no excuse for that. I’ll do what I can to help make it right.”
In spite of himself, Ethan found that Katherine Wyeth was earning his grudging respect. “I appreciate that. Miss Wyeth, did Gideon Webb seem more than casually interested in my whereabouts when you saw him?”
She thought about it. “Yes, there’s no question about that. He came into the office just before noon after you left town with the Indian boys. He asked me to dine with him. Now that I think about it, I’ve never been out to lunch with him before. He . . . he always comes to my house for supper.”
“I see.”
“He brought up the subject of your trip,” she said. “He asked where you were going with the ‘dead redskins,’ as he called them. I told him. I told him everything I knew. I had looked in the file after you left the office; I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but I was angry and upset. Frankly, Mr. Ramsey, I don’t like Indians, and I didn’t like the idea of this office representing any.”
“I’m curious. A lot of people out here don’t like Indians, but you seem to have a special dislike for them. There must be a reason for your feeling so strongly. Am I right?”
“Yes, Mr. Ramsey, your assumption is correct.”
“Would you mind telling me why?”
Her eyes took on a distant look and she took a deep breath as if trying to summon up the right words. “I came west to marry an officer garrisoned at Fort Laramie; he was killed in the Fetterman Massacre. My dreams died with him. I had worked as a legal secretary with a firm in New York. I had planned to return East, but our stage made a stopover in Lockwood. Mr. Weatherby had a sign in his window and I inquired. He asked me to take the job, and I never left. I’ve come to know other men, but none ever quite measured up to my lieutenant. I finally resigned myself to being an old maid. But when Gideon Webb came along, I didn’t feel like an old maid anymore. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about such personal matters. My problems aren’t your concern.”
“Or haven’t been,” Ethan said gently. “But that’s going to change. . . . I promise. Tell me, Miss Wyeth, did Gideon Webb seem tense or upset about anything when you talked to him?”
“I didn’t think much about it at the time . . . but, yes, I’d have to say he was. Very upset. He didn’t even stay to finish lunch with me. He said he’d forgotten an appointment he had. He was very apologetic about having to leave me alone in the saloon, but I understood. He’s a busy man with a lot on his mind.”
“Yes, it would seem so,” Ethan said, with a tinge of sarcasm. “What about Cletus Webb, Gideon’s boy? What do you know about him?”
“Not a great deal, except that he’s Gideon’s greatest heartache. Cletus is his only heir, and like too many ranchers I’ve seen, Gideon built everything for his son. It was like he was going to have eternal life on that ranch through Cletus. He was so concerned about the next generation, Mr. Ramsey, that Gideon forgot to live for himself. Have you ever noticed how many people we see in our business do that? Worry so much about building and saving property for children who won’t appreciate it anyway, and forget how to enjoy the fruits of what they’ve accumulated? Some people call it generosity, unselfishness. I call it sickness.”
She had said our business, and now that she had let down some of the barrier between them, he saw perceptiveness and sensitivity in the woman that he had never dreamed was there. But had he ever taken the time to know her or try to understand her?
“Miss Wyeth, you say Cletus was Gideon’s greatest heartache. In what way?”
“Oh, nothing specific. Gideon never liked to talk about it, but sometimes when he was especially upset he’d let things slip. He worried about the young man’s drinking and the tough crowd he ran with. Cletus also has a hot temper; I gather he is prone to fits of rage when he doesn’t get his way. Tantrums, Gideon called them. On top of all those things, Cletus . . . how should I say it? He doesn’t have much upstairs. The worst combination, Mr. Ramsey—quick temper, slow mind. Gideon would get terribly depressed when he was having problems with Cletus. It’s a little ironic, I guess. I think the only problem in his whole life that Gideon hasn’t been able to handle is his own son. The way Cletus has turned out is Gideon’s one defeat.”
“He’s not the first man to have that kind of disappointment. Only a fool builds his future on someone else’s life. And it’s not fair to the person who has to carry that burden.”
“But he’s lost everything, really, because Cletus is everything to him. In spite of it all, he loves that young man and there’s no room in his heart to love anyone else. He still holds out hope that somehow Cletus will turn out all right and carry on the family name, build on the empire Gideon’s started. He’ll die with that hope, Mr. Ramsey.” She caught her breath and her eyes met Ethan’s as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ramsey. Sorrier than you’ll ever know. I assume you’ll be wanting me to leave.”
Ethan did not hesitate. “No, not necessarily. Let’s give this some time and see how things work out. This is going to be Wyoming’s biggest and best law firm someday, but it will take people with brains, talent and loyalty to make it that way. I need someone like you here. If it’s all right with you, let’s just start fresh.”
She smiled nervously. She actually smiled. “I’d like to stay, Mr. Ramsey. I will, if you want me to.”
“I do,” he affirmed, “and as part of our fresh start, I’d like you to start calling me ‘Ethan’ if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine Mr. . . .” she smiled, “Ethan. And I’d be pleased to have you call me Kate.”
14
IT WAS MID-afternoon when Ethan tur
ned Patch up the road that led to the ranch house. He had learned a lot in the trip to town. Gideon Webb’s Circle W held the key to the Harper killings; he was certain of that. Add Ben Dobbs to that list, and a couple of innocent Indian boys. How many more before it was all over?
The bushwhacker Skye had killed had been identified by the sheriff as a hired gun—Darby Slate, who had built up his reputation in Abilene and then set up business in Cheyenne. Slate’s gun had been for hire to the highest bidder, but he always stayed one step ahead of the law.
Slate’s partner was Ramon Sanchez—Race as he was called in Cheyenne. It was uncertain whether ‘Race’ was a perversion of his name or a reference to his quickness with a gun.
While Ethan was checking in at his law office, Bridges had visited with Enos Fletcher at the livery and learned that Sanchez had shown up in Lockwood with Slate a few weeks earlier. The sheriff had also talked to a drifter in the saloon who had heard of both men. According to the man, Race was fast as a rattlesnake to strike, but unlike the reptile, hit without warning. He never gave a man an edge, and rarely an even break, according to Will’s informant, but it had not hurt his reputation.
Darby Slate had killed for money. Race, evidently, killed for the love of killing and the notoriety that came with it. That helped explain why their partnership, in contrast to most gunfighting tandems, had been successful for several years.
Yes, some of the pieces were starting to fit together, but there were still a lot of unanswered questions. What did happen the night of the Harper massacre and how did the Circle W fit in? What had become of the Harper bodies? Where was Red Horse, Skye’s Pawnee friend, who presumably had been with Ben Dobbs when the Harper bodies were exhumed—again assuming that Ben and Red Horse had gotten that far? Of course, it was possible that Red Horse was dead, too, his body rotting somewhere in the foothills. On a scorching day like this one, the buzzards would be picking his bones clean, and by the time the Pawnee’s remains were found, there would be nothing left to prove the cause of his death.