The E.R. Slade Western Omnibus No.1

by E. R. Slade

  “See what things more clearly?”

  “The problem is, Mr. Gordon, I need advice on what to do about the store.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She hesitated. “Mr. Clauson says he’s taking control of it for me.”

  “Clauson?” Ben realized he’d spoken louder than he’d needed to. He made an effort to make his tone low and reasonable. “By what right does he think he can do that?”

  “He says I’m not capable of running the store myself and it’s his job to see I’m taken care of.”

  Ben remembered the way Clauson had looked, barging into the store, what he’d seen in the man’s eyes.

  “If you’ve come way out here to get advice from a complete stranger,” he said carefully, “I assume you don’t necessarily approve of Clauson’s chivalry.”

  “Mr. Gordon, I’m afraid of Mr. Clauson. My father said he was the worst kind of man and should be removed from office. There are people on the town Council who agree, but they would never do anything about it for fear of him.”

  “So you hoped I’d have advice on how to keep Clauson’s hands off your store?”

  “Mr. Gordon, I think it doesn’t matter. The way things are now, I could not run the store without help.”

  So that was it. Suddenly her trip out here might make sense.

  “Your father didn’t have any clerks?”

  “Oh, yes. But ...”

  “But none of them will stand up to Clauson.”

  “No.”

  “And you thought I would.”

  After a moment, she said, “Yes. But I’m not going to ask you to, now. It’s not right.”

  He had found the extra cup and poured it full of coffee and handed it to her.

  “Why not?”

  “What right do I have to ask a man to risk his life for my sake?”

  “You think I wouldn’t be smart enough to say no if I thought I couldn’t back Clauson down and would end up dead, and then you’d be responsible.”

  “Mr. Gordon, I think you know exactly what you can do, and I doubt very much you lack for intelligence. But I think you are the kind of man who would never refuse to help a woman, even if it cost you your life. It would not be morally right for me to ask so much of your good nature just so I can keep the store.”

  She looked at him steadily over the brim of the tin cup as she sipped from it, and Ben thought he’d never seen such a beautiful—or determined—face.

  “I’m probably not quite so noble as you think,” he said, looking back into the fire in the hope of being able to reason more clearly.

  “But I’m certain you are,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at her, then away, convinced she meant it and wasn’t just trying to manipulate him.

  He tried to concentrate his attention on the problem at hand. He said, “Is there anybody in town who might be willing to buy the store at a fair price?”

  “I don’t believe so. Not now that Mr. Clauson has decided to take it over.”

  “Exactly what is the deal Clauson has offered you?”

  “He hasn’t offered me anything,” she said, with asperity. “He has simply informed me that he has taken possession of the store for my own good.”

  “Has he said he will give you any sort of income from it?”

  “He has promised nothing.”

  “That sounds like theft to me.”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “And you’re telling me that there’s no one in town who would take up for you and see you get a fair return from your inheritance?”

  “I don’t know of anyone.”

  “There isn’t a lawyer you might hire to protect your interests?”

  “The only lawyer in town has made it a point to be best friends with Mr. Clauson. I do not think I would trust him very far.”

  Ben poured himself some coffee and sipped it a moment in an attempt to prevent himself from saying something rash. He glared into the fire, but all he could see was the look in Clauson’s eyes and remember men he’d seen gunned down senselessly by killers like Clauson. And remember the way they had treated women, especially women they took their kind of interest in.

  “Suppose I were to undertake to help you find a buyer for your property and see to it you get a fair price?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gordon, but no. I’m going to go back to town and get whatever money my father had in the bank and whatever other valuables I can carry, and I’m going to buy a train ticket and leave. It’s only sensible, under the circumstances.”

  “Will you be able to get the money? Won’t the estate have to go through probate?”

  “I don’t know what will happen there. Clauson shot the judge a little while after he took over. I’m hoping my father’s banker will let me have the money in the bank. He knows me, of course, and he agreed with my father about Clauson—quietly. But if he won’t let me have it, I’ll leave without it. I know there is money enough in a strongbox in the house to take me as far as I want to go on a train.”

  “I hate to see a man like Clauson get away with stealing your property.”

  “I’ve made up my mind, Mr. Gordon. You needn’t trouble yourself about it any further. I do thank you for helping me get my thoughts in order. You’ve been a bigger help to me than you can imagine.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want,” he said. “But I’m going with you back to town and see you get off safely on the train.”

  “That’s foolish, and completely unnecessary.”

  “I’ve made up my mind, too, Miss Bailey.”

  Chapter Three

  Mid morning the next day they rode into town, passing the water tower. From a heavy cross beam Buddy Winston hung by the neck, head cocked to the side, soaking wet from a leak in the tank above. The other end of the rope was tied off to one of the posts, where rope ends from previous similar events remained, and the tracks of the men who had hauled him up were plain in the mud.

  In one of her many efforts to convince Ben not to come back to town, Nancy Bailey had described how Winston and the men listening to him had been marched straight down to the water tower by Clauson and how Clauson made Winston’s friends hang him.

  Nancy rode by with her jaw set, not looking at any of it. The thought of her having to witness such doings made the anger rise in him to the point he didn’t trust his judgment should one of the Clausons appear in front of them.

  Fortunately, that didn’t happen during the time it took to ride to the other end of town where her house was.

  “I didn’t leave the door open,” Nancy said, her voice tight. “I know I didn’t.”

  “Maybe I should go in first,” Ben said, as they got down from their horses. “Just hang onto these critters a minute. May be better to keep them handy until we see what this is all about.”

  He drew his solid old Remington conversion, automatically checked the load, cocked it, and stepped through the door.

  The place looked as though it had been invaded by a herd of outlaw steers. Furniture was upturned, lamps and mirrors smashed, drawers pulled out and dumped.

  Quickly he checked the rest of the house, which wasn’t large, and it was the same story in every room.

  “Nobody in there,” he said, coming back out. “But ...”

  “It’s all like what I can see from here?” she asked, her voice tightly controlled.

  “Yes.”

  They went in together. She stopped just inside the door and her lower lip quivered. But she kept control of herself and lifted her skirts to walk through the room and into the kitchen in the rear. Then she went into a smaller pantry behind that and suddenly she bit her lip and sank to her knees. She turned over a metal box that sat mangled in the middle of the floor. The lid had been pried off. There was nothing inside.

  “It’s all gone,” she said, and she put her face in her hands. “Everything’s gone.”

  Ben crouched beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. She sobbed, her whole body shaking.<
br />
  “The money you talked about was in there?” he asked.

  “The money, some heirloom jewelry my mother had, pictures ...”

  “Here,” he said, as she started to sob again, and helped her up. She mustered her courage and straightened, then pulled out a white linen handkerchief. For several moments she dabbed at tear water and then sucked in a great breath and put the handkerchief away and up went her chin.

  “We had better get to the bank,” she said. “I have to know ...”

  “Any idea who might have done this?”

  “I can guess, but what does it matter? There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “What is your guess?”

  “Mr. Clauson’s younger brother. He’s the only one who’d dare try such a thing.”

  “Whoever it is won’t get away with it,” Ben said.

  “It appears he already has, Mr. Gordon. No use to cry over spilt milk.”

  Again she lifted her skirts and marched resolutely outside. She ignored the horses and crossed the street, picking her way through the mud, Ben walking beside her, thong off his pistol, just in case.

  Once they made the board sidewalk, she walked fast enough that Ben had to consciously lengthen his stride to keep up. She was one determined young lady, and the few people coming the other way saw the look in her eye and got well out of her path, sometimes touching their hats and murmuring, “Mornin’, Miss Bailey,” very respectfully.

  The bank was a few doors along, one of the two brick buildings in town—the other, Ben later found out, was Clauson’s gambling house. The bank had a tall, ornate false front, with the words, “TAYLORVILLE NATIONAL BANK” in big, gold-outlined black letters over the second-story windows. It even had marble steps and a pair of fluted columns holding up a small, thick, ornate roof too high over the steps to be much use except in a straight-down rain. But it wasn’t for rain: it was for style.

  As Nancy went briskly up the steps, Ben stopped and ran his eye carefully from one end of the street to the other. Neither of the Clausons was in sight. He turned and followed Nancy inside.

  For such an imposing building, the bank itself seemed small, with as much mahogany as a high-toned saloon, but in a more confined space. Behind a window directly across from the door stood a pale-faced man with a tall flat forehead topped by thin sandy hair. His eyebrows went up at the sight of Nancy Bailey.

  “I should like to speak to Mr. McHenry,” she said to him.

  Before the clerk could answer her, a mahogany door opened to the right and a man about sixty, bald and with an imposing gray beard, called, “Oh, Miss Bailey, how nice to see you. Won’t you come right in?” And as she started purposefully toward him, he asked, “And how are you doing after the dreadful tragedy? Do you need anything? My wife wants me to be sure to tell you that if there’s something you need, just ask.”

  As they went into the office, the man attempted to close the door against Ben, so as to allow only Nancy inside, but Ben stopped that with a hand, and Nancy said, “This is Mr. Gordon, Mr. McHenry. He is a friend.”

  “As you wish,” McHenry said, not looking particularly pleased.

  Ben closed the door after himself and they all sat down, McHenry across the desk—more mahogany—from them.

  “I have come to get whatever is in my father’s account,” she told McHenry. “You know, of course, that I am my father’s sole heir.”

  McHenry glanced uncomfortably away from her, then even more uncomfortably away from Ben’s direct gaze.

  “Of course,” he said. “But naturally there is probate—you understand.”

  “I want the money now so I can leave,” she told him, “I do not intend to stay in this town past the departure of the next train.”

  “I understand,” McHenry said. “But the money belongs to the estate, not to you.”

  “And how long until the will is probated?” Ben asked.

  “That would be hard to say,” the banker said judiciously.

  “How much money is there?”

  The banker pursed his lips a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you that.” He opened a drawer and got out a ledger, opened it, ran his thumb down. “Seven hundred ninety-two dollars, twenty-six cents. You really shouldn’t carry that amount of money with you, anyway, Miss Bailey. Perhaps when everything is straightened out, and you have a bank in your new location, I can transfer the money there. Once the estate has gone through probate, of course.”

  “Where is the money now?” Ben asked, watching McHenry closely.

  McHenry drew a short audible breath as he returned Ben’s gaze. Then he let the breath out and blinked.

  He sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “The money is in a special, sealed box here in the vault. I have express instructions from Marshal Clauson that the money is not to be touched by anyone without his permission, except that accrued interest can be added to it.”

  “Until the estate is probated?”

  “He did not mention anything about probate. He said he was impounding it.”

  “Just exactly what right does Clauson have to impound money belonging to Miss Bailey?” Ben’s voice was quiet, even.

  McHenry leaned forward on his elbows, and Ben noticed how sunken his eyes looked.

  “It’s within his authority,” he said noncommittally.

  “Did he give a reason?”

  “No.”

  “Can you think of a reason?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe his authority is legitimate?”

  McHenry shot him a look. The fear was fleeting, but unmistakable. There was enough silence in the room to fill a morgue.

  “That’s a hard question to answer,” McHenry said at last, trying to give the impression of detachment. “Technically, it would be a gray area. But he does keep a clean town.”

  “I know that’s not what you told my father,” Nancy said, and he winced.

  “I’m sorry,” McHenry said. “There’s really not much I can do. However, your idea of leaving town is a good one. Do you have enough money to buy a ticket?”

  “I have nothing much beyond the clothes on my back,” she told him, and described the mess they’d found in the house. He seemed to shrink back into his chair as she talked.

  “That’s horrible,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t know. You really would be smart to leave. I’ll buy you a ticket for wherever you would like to go, and give you another twenty dollars for the trip. But you must not tell anybody else what you plan to do.”

  “In case Clauson were to take exception to your actions, is that it?” Ben said.

  “Just what are you implying?” McHenry demanded.

  “Come on, Miss Bailey,” Ben said, “I’ll buy you a ticket. That way this fellow won’t have to take any risks.”

  Nancy glanced at him and momentarily touched his arm, then turned on the banker, her determination redoubled.

  “Mr. McHenry,” she said crisply, “I came here to get what belongs to me. You knew my father. You know me. You know there are no other heirs. You know my father never believed in borrowing from anybody for anything and has no debts. And you know Mr. Clauson has no right to anything belonging to either my father or me. You know there is no legitimate law in this town and any talk of waiting for probate is just that, talk. The question is who has the most right to the money you are holding here. You are not going to say either you or Mr. Clauson has more right to it than I, are you, Mr. McHenry?”

  “But that is not the question,” he said lamely, spreading his hands.

  “Maybe you’d like to tell us what the question is, then, McHenry?” asked Ben, in a mild tone.

  “We’ve been over that. The question is probate.”

  “It is, is it,” Ben said dryly. “You really mean to sit there and tell us you believe the estate will actually be probated? With Clauson still calling himself marshal? And having taken over the store, and having allowed the house to be ransacked? And havin
g impounded the money Mr. Bailey had in this bank?”

  McHenry looked at the table in front of him. “You can’t blame the house being ransacked on Clauson, and it may well be true that Clauson believes he’s doing the right thing in taking over Miss Bailey’s affairs. I think you need to give this situation time and see how it develops. With Miss Bailey safe in another town, of course, since we don’t know for sure just what is going on.”

  “So you have confidence in Clauson?”

  McHenry gave Nancy a quick look before saying, “It’s true I have had reservations about Clauson, but I can’t see why he would want to hurt Miss Bailey here.”

  “Do you disagree with Miss Bailey that her father had no debts to speak of? You were his banker and his friend. You ought to be in a position to know.”

  “There’s no way I could know for certain ...” McHenry began warily, but Ben interrupted.

  “Let me put it another way. Do you think there’s any possibility her father’s debts could amount to more than his house and store are worth?”

  McHenry scratched his nose, stroked his mustache, regarded Ben distantly. He was businessman enough to sense when he might be getting backed into a corner and was planning his way out.

  “I really don’t see what your point is,” he said, meaning, Ben guessed, that he thought he did.

  “The point is,” Ben said, “that if you are confident that Otis Bailey left no debts that cannot be recovered from the sale of his house and business, and if you have enough confidence in Clauson to believe he won’t try to interfere with Mr. Bailey’s estate being probated, you should be willing to give Miss Bailey her money out of other cash you have and be confident that after probate you’ll get it back. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, wouldn’t you say, McHenry?”

  McHenry wouldn’t meet Ben’s eye.

  “You wouldn’t do that for the daughter of a friend?” Ben pressed him. “You know she will need more than twenty dollars to live on while all this is sorted out. You don’t have to tell anybody what you’ve done, the impounded money will stay right where it is, and certainly neither Miss Bailey nor I is going to advertise she has any money. Much better if Clauson assumes she leaves penniless.”